The Heroic Surgeon

Dante started. English. Clear, American-accented English. The last thing he’d ever thought to hear here. And from her.

He snapped his eyes up, found her lips hanging open. OK. He had needed communication with a fellow human being for too long, finding local languages too hard to grasp, that he was starting to hear things.

He resumed his task, got out sealed, pre-sterilized scissors, clamps, scalpels…

“What am I saying? I know what you said!” There she went again! Speaking in almost accent-free English, in those same hot-caress tones. “But you’re speaking English. Why? How?”

It had only been thirty-six hours since he’d last eaten. He couldn’t be hallucinating with hypoglycemia already, could he? He looked at her again, into those incredible green irises. “Why and how yourself? And so well? Even the highest officials here speak such broken English I haven’t been able to explain my business with the militants or anything else. Beyond flashing my Global Aid Organization credentials…”

“You’re with GAO?” She couldn’t have been more incredulous if he’d said he was with the fairy godmother.

“Yeah. Any problems with that?”

Full, dimpled lips thinned into a wrathful line. “Yeah, just one. You’re lying. I’ve been with GAO in this region for seven years, and I’ve never seen you!”

“So you’ve seen every GAO operative in the Caucasus?”

“What’s your name?”

He blinked at her imperative tone. His lips twitched. “Dante Guerriero, at your service.”

Auburn eyebrows rose. “Never heard of you either. And I’ve at least heard of everyone of theirs here. There aren’t that many international operatives in the area—as anyone knows who’s really with GAO.”

His patience was running out fast. She was keeping him from his job, dammit. “If you were really with GAO, you’d know nothing matters but the victims.”

“Exactly. So if you’ll just let me tend to them…?”

He ignored her, spread out his instruments on a layer of sterile gauze. He stopped her again from reaching for gloves, put them on himself, and she blurted out, “Why don’t you flash me your GAO credentials?”

“Why should I? Neither GAO nor the Azernian officials told me they have an operative on the inside I had to report to. Tell you what, why don’t you go sit in your corner again, nurse your concussion and I’ll take care of that man here?”

“His name is Mikhael! I’ve already lost too many people and I’m damned if I’m going to lose him now, too—when I don’t have to.”

“You won’t lose him. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“Besides having GAO’s emergency supplies, what are your qualifications? If you’ve just joined GAO, you must be new to the field, but I’m a surgical and emergency nurse trained extensively in field injuries and mass casualty situations—”

“And I’m a trauma and reconstructive surgeon.” That silenced her, thank God. “And since I’ve probably been putting people back together since you were in middle school, that makes me the triage officer in charge here.”

Those unbelievable eyes flashed every shade of green, with—what? Hope? More suspicion? From her next words, both, it seemed. “You’re a surgeon?”

He gave his mismatched, miserable garments a cursory grimace. “I admit I don’t look the part.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn the trappings

of his profession. He turned his focus to appraising her appearance. Not a good idea. There was no way he could give her neutral scrutiny. He cleared his throat. “But, then, I’ve got nothing on you. Let’s just agree we’re not catching each other at our best, hmm?”

“Are you telling me the truth?”

His gaze moved heavenwards. He exhaled. “You have a name?”

She blinked at his sudden twist in subject. “Gulnar.”

A name as laden with sensuality as its bearer. Which was a ridiculous thing to note in their circumstances. “Gulnar, cross my heart, I’m a surgeon. So if you are really a nurse…”

“If? Look closely, Dr. Gur—Gue—Dr. Dante!” She pointed at Mikhael. “You think this is the handiwork of his fellow clerks?”

A closer look validated her point. Mikhael had abdominal and upper-thigh gunshot wounds. And he was still alive after three days. The pressure bandages on his upper thigh were highly professional, ingenious even, made from clothes donated by others. Not soaked through, indicating they’d been applied with pressure adequate enough to stop his hemorrhage, yet not too much to block venous blood return and cause gangrene. An even more creative splint kept his leg immobile, guarding against compounding the injury, and extended, guarding against muscle contracture. The blood flow from his abdominal wound had been as meticulously stemmed. She’d definitely saved the man’s life and limb so far.

He nodded his concession, yet couldn’t resist making a point of his own. “See how annoying it is to have your credentials and intentions disputed? When you’re risking a bullet in the head every moment to get your job done?”