The cellar's silence was no longer thick; it was suffocating. Dante's breathing, shallow and wet, rasped like sandpaper on stone. The rhythmic sound, punctuated by choked, painful coughs that sent fresh spasms through his broken body, filled the damp, cold space. Kara sat propped against the crates, her own arm a throbbing counterpoint, watching the dim light from the high window fade from grey to deep twilight. Ramón hadn't returned. Hours had bled away, each one stretching Dante's survival thinner.
The whiskey Ramón had forced down Dante's throat had only dulled the edges; it hadn't touched the core of the damage. Fever had set in, painting Dante's face a sickly grey, beading sweat on his brow despite the cellar's chill. When he coughed now, it wasn't just pain – it was a gurgling, liquid sound deep in his chest. His skin felt clammy and hot beneath Kara's tentative touch when she checked his forehead. Ramón's grim diagnosis echoed: *If infection doesn't kill him first.*
The debt ledger Kara had etched in charcoal felt cold and heavy in her pocket. *Dante Vázquez: For the debt. For the mountain. For the storm.* Paying it couldn't mean watching him drown in his own fluids on a cot in a damp cellar. The cold resolve that had steadied her hand in the chapel hardened into a different kind of imperative. Action.
She pushed herself up, ignoring the protest from her bandaged arm, and began methodically searching the cellar. Ramón's bolt-hole was spartan, but not devoid of resources. Among the tools and discarded machine parts, she found a relatively clean metal basin, more rags, and a jug of water. She filled the basin, adding a splash of the harsh antiseptic Ramón had used on her arm, the sharp smell cutting through the miasma of sickness.
Kara moved to the cot. Dante's eye flickered open as she approached, glassy with fever, barely registering her. "Kara?" His voice was a threadbare whisper, lost in another wet cough.
"Lie still," she commanded, her voice flat, devoid of the earlier conflict. This wasn't about anger or debt anymore; it was about triage. She soaked a rag in the antiseptic water. "Need to clean you up. Try to bring the fever down."
He didn't resist. The fight had bled out of him, leaving only the raw struggle for breath. Kara worked with a detached efficiency that surprised her. She wiped the sweat and grime from his face and neck, the cloth coming away stained with dirt and dried blood. She carefully peeled back the blood-soaked, makeshift bandage around his ribs, revealing the horrific bruising beneath – a landscape of deep purple and angry red, the skin taut and hot. The binding cloth Ramón had used was soaked through with sweat and something darker, more ominous. Infection.
Kara cleaned the area as best she could with the antiseptic rag, her movements precise, clinical. Dante flinched but remained silent, his jaw clenched, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. She found a roll of cleaner, though still rough, bandage material and rebound his ribs, tighter than Ramón had, trying to stabilize the broken bones, though she knew it was futile against the deeper threat. She soaked another rag in cool water and laid it across his burning forehead.
It felt like applying a bandage to a volcano. The fever raged. The wet rattle in his chest deepened. Kara sat back on her heels, the basin of pink-tinged water beside her. Despair threatened to swamp her. She wasn't a medic. She was a seventeen-year-old girl with a gun and a head full of trauma, playing nurse in a concrete tomb. They needed a doctor. Antibiotics. A sterile room. Things utterly beyond reach.
The heavy bolt on the cellar door scraped open. Kara snatched the revolver from her waistband, aiming it shakily at the stairs. Ramón's large frame filled the doorway, silhouetted against the dim light from above. He looked grim, exhausted, carrying a large, worn duffel bag.
"Alive?" he grunted, descending the stairs quickly and bolting the door behind him. His eyes scanned Dante, then Kara, noting the fresh bandages, the basin. "Looks worse."
"He's worse," Kara stated flatly, lowering the revolver. "Fever. Coughing up fluid. Infection's set in deep."
Ramón cursed softly, fluently. He dropped the duffel bag with a thud. "Heat's on. Full city alert. Lorenzo's face is plastered everywhere – wanted for assault, attempted murder, prison break orchestration. Conveniently omitting who actually shot him." He gestured towards Kara's arm. "They've got your description too. Hooded female, injured arm. And Dante's. Obviously." He ran a hand over his face. "Van's scrapped. Dumped in the river. Patrols are thick. They'll be checking known associates. My place… my shop… they'll be watched."
He moved to Dante's side, pressing a hand to his forehead, then listening to his chest with a grimace. "Pneumonia. Or close to it. He needs a hospital. Now. Or he dies in this hole."
A hospital. Surrounded by police hunting them, potentially staffed by Lorenzo's bought hands. It was suicide. Kara met Ramón's gaze. "How?"
Ramón unzipped the duffel bag. Inside were clothes – a neat, dark suit slightly too large for him, a simple but clean dress, a nurse's uniform, and two white lab coats. "Distraction," he said. "And disguise." He pulled out two laminated ID cards on lanyards – crude forgeries, but passable at a glance. Dr. Antonio Mendez. Nurse Elena Vargas. "Granada General. Busy place. Night shift. Chaos is cover."
He handed the nurse's uniform and the 'Elena Vargas' ID to Kara. "You're the nurse. I'm the doctor. He's our critical patient, just admitted from a rural clinic, records lost in transit. Severe trauma, pneumonia suspected. We need the ICU. Fast." He pointed to the lab coats. "Wear these over the clothes. Hide the arm bandage as best you can." He tossed the dress towards Kara. "Get changed. Quickly."
Kara didn't hesitate. Survival was stripping away modesty. She turned her back, shedding the bloodstained poncho and her torn shirt, wincing as the movement tugged at her stitches. She pulled on the simple dress, then the slightly-too-big nurse's uniform over it, buttoning it high to conceal her neck. The white lab coat went on last, bulky but obscuring her figure. She clipped the forged ID to the lapel. Ramón was already changing into the suit and his own lab coat, transforming from a laundromat owner into a harried, middle-aged physician.
Dante watched them through slitted, fever-bright eyes, a flicker of understanding amidst the delirium. "Stupid…" he rasped, another cough wracking him. "Suicide…"
"Quiet, patient," Ramón ordered, his voice adopting a clipped, professional tone that was surprisingly convincing. He pulled a collapsible stretcher from the duffel bag – another item from his seemingly bottomless stash of underworld utilities. "Help me get him on this."
Moving Dante was agony. He cried out, a raw, animal sound, as they carefully lifted his broken body onto the canvas stretcher. Kara gritted her teeth against the pain in her own arm, focusing solely on the task. They secured him with straps, Ramón covering him with a thin blanket pulled from the cot, hiding his battered face as much as possible.
"Ready?" Ramón asked, hefting one end of the stretcher. Kara nodded, gripping the other end, her knuckles white. The weight was immense, the angle awkward with her injury. Ramón met her gaze. "Remember: Nurse Vargas. Calm. Efficient. We belong there. We have a critical patient. No hesitation. Eyes forward."
He led the way up the stairs. Kara followed, the stretcher between them, Dante's ragged breathing loud in the sudden openness of the warehouse. Ramón navigated the shadows to a side door, emerging into a dimly lit service alley. Parked nearby was an old, unmarked panel van, back doors open. They loaded Dante inside as gently as possible, Kara climbing in after him. Ramón slammed the doors shut, plunging them into near darkness, then got into the driver's seat. The engine coughed to life.
The drive to Granada General was a nerve-shredding exercise in controlled terror. Ramón drove with deliberate calm, avoiding main roads where possible, merging smoothly with late-night traffic. Kara crouched beside Dante in the back, monitoring his breathing, wiping the sweat from his brow with a damp cloth from the duffel bag. Every siren, every police car they passed, sent her heart into her throat. Dante drifted in and out of consciousness, muttering incoherently, his hand weakly gripping the edge of the stretcher.
They pulled into the chaotic Emergency Department bay. Ambulances disgorged patients; harried staff rushed back and forth under the harsh fluorescent lights. Ramón jumped out, slamming the driver's door with authority. He yanked open the back doors. "Nurse Vargas! Stat! We have a critical pneumothorax, possible sepsis, incoming from Almendralejo! Move!"
His voice, loud, commanding, laced with urgent concern, cut through the ED din. Heads turned. A harried-looking orderly rushed over with a gurney. Ramón and Kara maneuvered Dante onto it with practiced urgency, Ramón barking orders. "Page Respiratory! Stat bloods! Chest X-ray en route to ICU! Go, go, go!"
Kara fell into step beside the gurney, one hand resting lightly on the blanket covering Dante, the other clutching the side rail, her posture rigid with the effort of projecting calm competence. Her heart hammered against her ribs. *Nurse Vargas. Calm. Efficient. We belong.* She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, ignoring the curious or indifferent glances of other staff, focusing on Ramón's broad back in the white coat as he cleared a path.
They swept through the automatic doors into the bright, sterile chaos of the Emergency Department. The smell of antiseptic, sickness, and fear was overwhelming. Ramón navigated the maze of curtained cubicles and bustling nurses' stations with unnerving certainty, heading straight for the elevators marked 'ICU / Surgical'.
"Hold the elevator!" Ramón commanded as the doors started to close. A young doctor inside instinctively hit the button. Ramón pushed the gurney in, Kara squeezing in beside it. The doctor, looking exhausted, glanced at the covered figure on the gurney, then at Ramón's ID. "Dr. Mendez? What've you got?"
"Trauma transfer," Ramón snapped, punching the button for the ICU floor. "RTC. Multiple rib fractures, suspected hemopneumothorax, spiking fever. Rural clinic botched the stabilization." He shook his head, the picture of frustrated professionalism. "Need a chest tube, stat ABX, the works."
The young doctor nodded sympathetically. "Busy night. Good luck." The elevator dinged, opening onto the quieter, more intense atmosphere of the Intensive Care Unit corridor. Ramón pushed the gurney out, Kara following like a silent shadow.
The ICU was a world of hushed urgency, blinking monitors, and the rhythmic sounds of ventilators. Nurses moved with quiet efficiency. Ramón steered the gurney towards an empty bay near the nurses' station. "Prep Bay 4!" he called out, his voice still authoritative, but slightly lower now. "Critical trauma incoming!"
A senior nurse looked up from her charting, frowning slightly. "We weren't notified of a transfer, Doctor…?"
"Comms down in Almendralejo," Ramón waved a dismissive hand, already pulling back the blanket slightly to expose Dante's bruised face and the tight binding around his ribs. "Look at him. He's crashing. Page Dr. Ruiz. Now!" The urgency in his voice, the visual evidence of Dante's dire state, overrode procedure. The nurse grabbed a phone.
Ramón began barking orders to Kara, playing his role perfectly. "Nurse Vargas, get me vitals! BP, SpO2, temp! Set up O2, high flow! Prep for chest tube insertion!" He rattled off medical terms with chilling accuracy, pulling equipment from nearby carts.
Kara moved, mimicking the efficient motions she'd seen the real nurses use. She fumbled slightly with the blood pressure cuff, her injured arm protesting, but managed to get it on Dante's good arm. She attached the pulse oximeter to his finger. The readings flashed on the monitor – blood pressure dangerously low, oxygen saturation plummeting, temperature sky-high. She hooked up the oxygen mask, adjusting the flow. Her hands trembled, but she kept them low, hidden by the gurney.
A tall, lean doctor with a harried expression hurried over, tying a surgical mask. "Dr. Ruiz. What do we have, Mendez?" He glanced at Ramón's forged ID.
Ramón launched into a rapid, technical summary, pointing to Dante's chest, describing non-existent accident details, inventing plausible clinical findings. Dr. Ruiz listened intently, his eyes scanning Dante, the monitors. "Get him to Imaging for a portable X-ray, stat," Ruiz ordered a nurse. "Then straight back. I want him tubed immediately. Start Vancomycin and Piperacillin-Tazobactam IV. Stat." He rattled off dosages. "And get me a full panel – CBC, chem, cultures, the works."
The machinery of the hospital swung into action around them. Nurses descended, starting IV lines, drawing blood, prepping equipment. Ramón remained at Dante's side, issuing orders, playing the concerned attending physician. Kara faded into the background, a dutiful nurse, fetching supplies, adjusting the oxygen, her eyes constantly scanning the periphery. Every uniformed officer passing the ICU doors made her breath catch. Every overhead page was a potential alarm.
As they prepped Dante for the swift journey to Imaging, Ramón caught Kara's eye. He gave an almost imperceptible nod towards the hallway. *Be ready.* The charade couldn't last forever. They needed to vanish before anyone looked too closely at Dr. Antonio Mendez or Nurse Elena Vargas. Before Lorenzo's network within the hospital woke up.
Dante moaned softly, delirious, his hand twitching. Kara reached out, instinctively, and covered it with hers for a fleeting second. It was burning hot. The debt wasn't paid. The storm wasn't over. But for now, in the glaring light of the ICU, amidst the life-saving machinery and the oblivious staff, the weapon and the protector were momentarily safe. The knife was sheathed, the mask firmly in place. But beneath the surgeon's coat, Kara Kecent felt the cold weight of the revolver, and knew the reckoning was only postponed. The hospital was sanctuary, and the most dangerous trap yet.