Niro (Henchmen MC Next Generation 1)

"You heard lil' mama, get some fucking flashlights or some shit," the leader said, leaning back against the island, crossing his arms over his chest, almost alarmingly calm about all of this.

Meanwhile, my hands were shaking almost violently and when the guys around me turned their phones' flashlights on, it made it even clearer how badly I was handling this.

But my life very likely hung in the balance, so I took a steadying breath, thanking whatever higher power there might be for the man's unconsciousness, and dug the tweezers into the wound.

I swear I felt the pain of it myself even as the unconscious man jolted violently as I twisted the tweezers, digging, then finally finding the bullet. Saying another prayer that it wasn't doing more good than harm right where it was, I pulled it out, dropping the tweezers on the table, watching in a bit of horror as the bullet slid off the jaw of the tweezers and slowly—hindered by the blood—off the table then onto the floor.

"Yo, lady," one of the men with the phone flashlights called, snapping me out of my own mind.

"Right. Um. I need something to apply pressure with," I said, looking up at them, watching as one went to grab one of the kitchen dish towels. "Thanks," I mumbled, balling it up, then pressing it hard against the wound.

"You gonna stitch it up or what?" another of the men asked.

"You got a fucking medical degree now?" another shot back at him.

"What? You think it's in her best interest to save one of us?" the first one said back.

"Enough," the leader snapped, voice like a whip in the open space, making me jolt. "Can't stitch it when you can't see through the blood, idiota." There was a pause, then a snap, making my head lift, finding another of the leader's men move in at his side, both talking in hushed whispers, but the leader's eyes were on me, penetrating. I felt almost naked under his inspection.

"Can you put your hand here?" I asked the man at my side, motioning to the wound. "I, ah, I need to check his pulse," I said, hoping it was okay, that he would pull through this. Because I was pretty sure I wouldn't if he didn't.

"What's the verdict, lil' mama?" the leader asked, moving closer.

"Um, I need to stitch it. But his pulse is okay, considering. He's lost a lot of blood. But I think... I think he will be alright. I mean, some antibiotics would be good. None of this was sterile," I added, waving at the table and the items gathered.

"We can figure that out," he said, nodding his head at one of the men. "This sewing kit good enough?" he asked, waving toward it.

Honestly? It sucked.

But it was all we had.

"I will make it work," I told him, nodding.

"You better," he said, the words light, but there was no denying the threat in them.

"Ah, I might need someone to hold him down for this," I told them a few minutes later when the bleeding started to slow. Hands grabbed at shoulders and legs as I threaded the needle.

Then, taking a steadying breath, I cleaned the wound with the alcohol before leaning down and sinking the tip of the needle into his flesh.

The roar sent me flying backward, caught off-guard, as my patient gained consciousness, fighting against his friends as they struggled to hold him down.

"Get your ass back here and finish your job, mama," the leader demanded, voice calm, tone dry, completely unbothered by his man screaming in pain even as the sounds seemed to ricochet through my skull.

I had done stitches countless times in my life. But always on an unconscious patient.

My heart lodged firmly up into my throat as I moved forward again, grabbing my needle, and sticking it into his flesh once again.

By the time I was done, my ears were ringing, my whole body trembling, but the patient was unconscious again, and the sutures looked, well, ugly, but adequate.

"Sit, lil' mama," the leader said, kicking out a chair toward me.

I didn't even hesitate, just fell backward with every ounce of exhausted weight in me. I wasn't sure my legs would have held me for another minute.

"So, what's the prognosis?" he asked, looking down at his man's body.

"I don't know. I think he will be okay. With some antibiotics especially. The bullet, ah, it was lodged in the fat. So the damage wasn't too bad."

"What I'm hearing is it's a good thing this fucker loves his tamales?"

"I, ah, yeah, I guess," I agreed, feeling like my vocal cords were shaking along with the rest of me, making my words come out wobbly.

"Good. We'll get the antibiotics. You stay here and watch your patient like a good doctor, yeah?" he asked, turning and walking away, one of his men following, leaving me with three others who kept casting uncertain glances in my general direction.