He kicked through the clinic door, only to be stopped short by the press of walking wounded. Blood streamed down the groundskeeper's face. A secretary cradled his mangled arm to his chest.
Where the hell was a doctor, nurse, anyone? Or a medevac helicopter out would be damn welcome right about now. He opened his mouth to bark an order—but a medic acknowledged him from across the room, leaning to whisper to the overworked doc.
Lucas spotted an empty gurney in a far corner, tucked sideways through the mass of people and lowered her, carefully, slowly. As she peeled away from his chest, fresh blood pumped from her side onto the sheet.
"Doc! Speed it up," Lucas shouted as he sealed his hands to her wound, speaking while searching over his shoulder. "Hang in there, Sara. You're going to be fine. By the end of the week, I'll be giving you bed baths that will drive us both crazy."
"Senor," called the overworked doctor. He slid between Lucas and Sara, rolling the tray of medical supplies to a stop by the gurney. A medic trailed behind with IV bags. "If you will step aside, porfavor."
Quade clasped her fingers in his, moving closer to her head, their hands slick and red with the same blood oozing from her side as the medic cut away her blouse.
"Swear to me." She clasped Quade's hand tighter. "Swear you'll take Tomas out of here. Don't let Tio Ramon near him."
Ramon Chavez, her father's best friend rather than an actual relation. Chavez was a slimy bastard with enough money to buy invulnerability in this corrupt country.
Damn stubborn woman. "I won't let anything happen to your brother."
"You'll take him with you when you leave." She insisted on nailing him to a specific promise even as she winced at the jab of an IV needle.
"We'll take him with us."
"Of course we will." Her accent grew thicker, the normal perfection of her multilingual skills seeping away in time with her blood. "But to be safe, marry me now, so you are his legal guardian."
Lucas sliced away the thought of a world without Sara as effectively as he blocked the clipped orders of the doctor probing her side. She'd painted his stark life with bold strokes the first time she'd swished in to translate for a press conference.
He would take her any way he could have her.
Pivoting, he barked to the Marine sergeant standing guard at the door. "Find a priest."
"We already have, sir. Anyone who requests it will have last rites."
Last rites? Denial howled through him. Not to mention rage.
Lucas eased from the gurney, strode across the room, his face right in the sergeant's, his voice low. "To perform a marriage ceremony."
The seasoned Marine's eyes radiated a pity Lucas hadn't seen since a teacher slipped him an extra apple in elementary school. "Of course, Major, I'll see if I can hurry him up."
"Lucas?" Sara's weak voice pierced through the pandemonium.
"I'm here." He took her hand again.
"I want you to know, just in case—"
"Damn it, Sara, quit wasting energy talking."
Another blast outside echoed his command. Plaster rained from the ceiling.
Way to go, grouching at a bleeding woman. Of course he'd never been much for pretty words or flowery sentiments. His emotions were too raw, especially for a guy who preferred to keep life even, unemotional. Objective.
Sara blew his objectivity right out of the sky on a daily basis. Who knew what she saw in him, enough to be his friend, then his lover.
He wrestled his emotions and tone to softer levels. "You're going to be fine. You're a tough lady, Sarafina Tesoro. You'll be chewing me out for being a grouchy SOB before sunrise."
"I look forward to it."
The door flung open, slamming against the wall. Lucas reached for his M9 strapped to his waist, ready to fling himself over Sara again if necessary. She wouldn't shed one more drop of blood on his watch today.
The sergeant raced through the door with a young man in jeans, a black shirt—and thank God—a priest's collar.