Chapter 7 - The Needle and the Seawater
The tunnel sloped steeply downward for three hundred yards until the sound of roaring waves echoed against raw bedrock.
They emerged onto a concealed wooden boat landing hidden inside a natural sea cave along the jagged Long Island bluffs.
A thirty-eight-foot black tactical commuter boat with twin outboards bobbed against the wooden pilings, tied with heavy braided marine line.
Marco collapsed onto the splintered planks of the pier, his breathing turning into a wet, rattling wheeze that made Sarah’s surgical instincts flare in alarm.
Dante dropped beside his man, but when Sarah stepped closer, she saw the dark crimson stain spreading rapidly across Dante’s white dress shirt beneath his open jacket.
He had taken a rifle round to the upper right quadrant of his abdomen during the corridor firefight, his dark wool vest having slowed the bullet without stopping the cavitation damage.
"Papa!" Isabella cried, trying to reach for him, but Sarah caught the child firmly by the shoulders.
"Bella, listen to my voice," Sarah said, her voice dropping into the calm, authoritative tone she used with terrified families in the trauma ward.
"Your father needs me to help him right now."
"I need you to climb into the cabin of that boat, sit on the bench, and count to one hundred out loud."
"Can you be my brave little helper and do that for your Papa?"
Isabella wiped her wet cheeks with the sleeve of her coat, swallowed hard, and gave a solemn, resolute nod.
The child climbed aboard the vessel, her small voice immediately beginning the count: "One...
two...
three..."
Sarah turned to Dante, ripping open his shirt with both hands, sending mother-of-pearl buttons scattering across the wet dock.
The entrance wound was clean, but the abdomen was already rigid, the skin surrounding the puncture turning a deep, dangerous purple under her touch.
"Internal bleeding," Sarah said, looking into Dante’s pale face.
"Your liver is grazed or the mesenteric artery is leaking."
"If I don’t decompress this hematoma and pack the wound within twenty minutes, you will go into hemorrhagic shock and die on this water."
"There’s an offshore medical kit in the boat’s forward locker," Dante managed to gasp, beads of cold sweat gathering on his brow.
"Morphine...
sterile clamps...
vascular suture packs."
"Marco kept it stocked for maritime transport operations."
Sarah sprinted onto the boat, retrieved the heavy waterproof orange medical case, and dragged it onto the wooden dock beside him.
She snapped on sterile latex gloves, dousing the wound with iodine that stained Dante’s bronze skin a bright, medicinal orange.
She had no anesthesia, no surgical lighting, and no sterile operating theater; she had only the salt wind, the rising tide, and her own two hands.
"This is going to hurt more than the bullet," Sarah warned, looking straight into Dante’s amber eyes.
"Do it, Doctor," Dante whispered through clenched teeth, his jaw muscles bulging against the pain.
"I survived you cutting lead out of me once; I can take it twice."
Sarah made a two-inch incision with a disposable scalpel, working by the harsh white beam of Marco’s tactical penlight.
Blood welled up immediately, warm and thick against her fingers.
She located the bleeding branch off the epigastric artery, clamped it with a curved hemostat, and threw a tight silk ligature with the blinding speed of a master surgeon.
Dante’s back arched off the wooden planks, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the dock, but not a single cry escaped his throat.
Sarah packed the wound cavity with specialized clotting sponge, stitched the dermal layer closed with five interrupted nylon sutures, and sealed it with waterproof surgical tape.
She collapsed back onto her heels, her chest heaving, her hands trembling as the adrenaline washed out of her system.
Beside them, Marco managed to start the boat’s twin outboards, their low, muffled throbbing humming through the hull like a deep heartbeat.
"Coast guard radar will pick up the fire from the house in less than eight minutes," Marco said, holding his side as he cast off the bowline.
Dante reached up with a blood-stained hand, his fingers catching Sarah’s wrist right where her dime-sized scar burned in the cold air.
"You pulled me out of the grave again, Elena," he murmured, his voice faint but anchored by terrifying conviction.
"My name is Sarah Mitchell," she replied, her eyes stinging with unshed tears as she helped him stand.
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"Sarah Mitchell was a ghost," Dante said softly, leaning his weight against her shoulder as they stepped onto the deck of the moving boat.
"Tonight, you become the woman who takes my family back from the devil."
