The door opened and closed behind him. Since Mason was standing watch out in the hallway, his incoming guest had to be an ally.
“If you bleed on the floor, you clean it up.” The voice belonged to Sam, their field medic. Good times. Gray didn’t get to bleed alone anymore.
Dropping the bloody T-shirt on the floor, he swabbed it around with his foot, ignoring Sam’s bark of laughter. “Cleanup’s a snap.”
“Says you.” Levi didn’t move from his position leaning against the wall.
“How did you get shot?” Sam asked as he dropped his med kit on the bed. Too bad they couldn’t fast-forward to the next part of the night.
“The usual way,” he snorted. “Someone aimed and pulled the trigger. I failed to move in time.”
“Lucky for you his aim was off.” Sam patted the bed. “Sit. The doctor is in.”
If he sat, he wouldn’t get back up. He gripped the edge of the sink. “I’m good here.”
“The medical equivalent of a drive-through. Excellent.” Sam moved up behind him, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. “Are you planning on dying on me?”
“Not tonight,” he gritted out. Even the most superficial bullet wounds hurt like a bitch. He always forgot how much.
“Good to know.” Sam carefully prodded, and Gray’s breath hissed out through his teeth. The key to dealing with an injury was to patch it up and ignore it. Too bad the patching part was so unpleasant.
“Slap a Band-Aid on it and call it good.” The second SEAL team was moving Marcos’s advance team to an American vessel as they spoke, and he wanted to keep an eye on the transfer.
Before Sam could answer—and undoubtedly protest—the door opened and closed again.
“Is this a goddamned party?” Gray knew the question came out more growl than not, but now he felt like a sideshow. He’d shake this off, but it would be easier if he were alone.
“If it is, it’s the worst party I’ve ever been to.” Ashley strode toward him and eyed Gray’s side as if he was a painting in a freaking art gallery. Not that her camo and boots were opening-night attire, but Gray had a bad feeling he wasn’t thinking clearly. “Wow. You need to move faster.”
She looked at Sam. “How bad is it?”
He shrugged. “I’m a field medic. It looks fairly superficial to me, but we’re in the tropics. The possibility for infection is high.”
“I’m not pulling out.” Tight timeline aside, he wasn’t sending his unit in against Marcos alone. They needed every man. The advance team hadn’t gone down easily, and security would be tighter around Marcos.
Ashley cursed. For a pretty girl, she sure had a potty mouth. It was no wonder she fit in so well with the SEAL unit. They weren’t pretty, either.
“Laney’s a doctor,” she suggested. “Get her to fix you.”
Laney was also a civilian. Under no circumstances was he dragging her into his operation.
“Not an option,” he snapped. “Give me a shot of antibiotic and bandage up the damage. Think you can do that?”
Sam growled right back, but he also moved away and grabbed his bag and started sorting out supplies, which meant Gray got his way tonight.
Ashley wouldn’t let it go. “Laney’s a trauma surgeon. She’s one of the best there is, and you want Sam to patch you up, instead? No offense, Sam.”
“None taken.” The medic added a roll of gauze to his stack of supplies. The gauze was harmless. The scissors, however, were one more item in a pile of sharp, pointy objects Gray had no desire to examine too closely. This was going to hurt.
“She’s a civilian.” And that was certainly part of the truth.
Laney wasn’t part of the SEAL unit. She didn’t have combat training, and he wanted to keep her far, far away from Marcos and his goons. So, yeah, she was a doctor. And she had undoubtedly patched up far worse in the ER chutes, but he didn’t want to be one more gunshot victim asking for help. Hell. He didn’t ask for help period, plus, looking helpless in front of Laney was the last thing he ever wanted to do.
“She’s a trauma surgeon,” Ashley repeated. “She’s seen worse, and if anyone can get you back up and running quickly, it’s Laney.”
“Laney stays out of this.” He sucked in a breath, tightening his grip on the sink as Sam began to explore the wound.
“At least lie down.” Ashley sounded impatient. “Do you have an aversion to mattresses, as well?”
Not at all. If he lay down, however, he wouldn’t be getting back up in the near future. He’d also make one hell of a mess on the sheets and that would be harder to conceal.
“Sam’s going to be quick.” Please God. The medic did something that sent fire blazing through his side, and Gray started counting. Get to ten and then reassess. He could do that.
Sam grunted, focused on his work. “Take an aspirin. You’ll live.”
Good news, because hell would freeze over before he went knocking at Laney’s door with this kind of trouble.
9
THE PERSISTENT SOUND of rain hammering the palm trees and then Laney’s umbrella almost drowned out the sound of the ocean. According to the weather report that resort staff had slipped under her door last night, a small tropical storm had moved into the area for the next couple of days. Booking massages by the pool would be off-limits. The surrounding jungle was damp and wet, the early-morning sky dull.
The walk to the employee housing was a ten-minute exercise in second-guessing herself. The employees occupied a neat, two-story apartment building tucked behind a discreet screen of palm trees. A watery sun rose over the ocean, almost entirely concealed by the falling rain. Those people who compared tropical rain to drops of pineapple juice? They were dead wrong.
She spotted few lights on in the building. Please let Ashley be right about which room was Gray’s. She had a second fantasy to try on him. So, if the mountain wouldn’t come to Mohammed...she’d go to him. She liked walking in the rain, but cozying up in bed with Gray seemed like the better choice right now. Especially since the constant rain had soaked her running shoes and kicked mud up the back of her legs. Romantic. Not.
When she stepped into the hallway, however, a dark shadow moved to intercept her, and she tried to remember how to breathe. It was just one of the resort employees. Who apparently had a thing for camo gear in his off hours. He paired military-grade boots, BDU pants and a damp T-shirt stretched over his powerful chest. And...was that a gun?
“Can I help you with something?” The deep, smoky voice that came out of the darkness meant business. While the voice’s owner waited for her answer, he angled his body between hers and the hallway, cutting off her view of the gun tucked in the waistband of his pants.
In some ways he reminded her of the gangbangers she’d patched up in the San Francisco ER. He wore the same easy confidence and animal-like awareness as the tattooed, low-rider men who’d prowled the inner-city streets, flashing gang signs and inking their allegiances into their skin. In other ways he resembled private security. He moved with lazy grace, as if it was simply a given he was bigger, badder and armed. Dangerous. She recognized the physical confidence of a man who knew he could take down anyone who got in his way. She posed no threat to him.
“I’m looking for Gray.” She’d have bet this guy, whoever he was, knew about the two of them even before she spoke the words, and his nod confirmed her suspicions.
“I’ll tell him you stopped by.” He didn’t move from his position in the middle of the hallway.
“No need. I’ll tell him myself.” She took a step forward, testing him. The man was built like a brick wall. There would be no getting through him.
“Gray’s busy right now.”
What the hell did that mean? It was practically dark o’clock and the spa wasn’t open for business yet. She peered over the guy’s shoulders—the man was roughly the size of an ox—and, sure enough, that was Gray’s room right there. Her sneakers touched boots, her body very much in his personal space. And he didn’t budge. Damn it.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
He gave her a half smile. “I’m Mason. I’m a cook.”
No. He wasn’t. A low groan reached her through the door. Gray’s voice. She recognized the sound as easily as she recognized the rough note of pain, the smell of antiseptic and, beneath that, blood.
“Now would be a good time to leave.” Mason nodded toward the exit. A black harness crisscrossed his chest, and a lethal-looking knife hung from his waist. Definitely not a cook.
Nothing on Fantasy Island was what it seemed. The resort was staffed by a group of rough, scarred men and Mason was packing? Any number of scenarios ran through her head, none of them good, but then a second groan issued from Gray’s bedroom, abruptly cut off.
She swallowed. What was going on here? “I’m a doctor.”
“Yeah.” Mason curled his hands around her upper arms. Gently, as if he knew just how badly he could hurt her and he was being extra careful. Or maybe she was imagining things. She stared at the door, debating.
“You know what the Hippocratic Oath is?”
Mason stared down at her, eyes hooded. “I’m aware of it.”