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“Where to ma’am?” the man behind the wheel asked.
“Hang on a minute.” The signal inside the van was choppy. Just like everything else in this country, it was half-arsed, if she allowed herself to be liberal with the litany.
The Headquarters must be updated about her recent encounter. When she was sent to the American Chapter House of the Men of Letters, she did not expect it to be a dingy, underground, barely operational facility, let alone inhabited by one of the American monkeys that dared to call themselves Men of Letters or Hunters. Her lip twitched at the last word. A rather poor excuse for one, really.
The driver cleared his throat. Toni ignored him and focused on drafting the email to Dr. Hess supplying her with the full details of her encounter at Lebanon, Kansas. Another gruff from the driver disturbed her. This time it was intentional.
“What it is, Mr. Rowan?” She seethed.
“None of my business but what do you wanna do about that.. err.. cargo of yours?”
Toni looked up from her tablet, her glacial gaze meeting the driver’s troubled ones in the rearview mirror. “That is right, it is none of your business.”
“Look, lady, it is my business when I have to explain the blood in the back of my van when he bleeds to death. What you do with him after is better you and him.”
Ah yes.
Part of her interrogation required her to shoot the tall man in the leg in order to get him to co-operate, forcibly.
Sam’s first impression on her was quite distasteful. His first mistake was underestimating her to not shoot. That lack of judgement was enough for her to evaluate his membership to the legacy. It remained unclear as to how an hairy ape like him had come to acquire the key to that Chapter House. The research team had done an excellent job of putting together a thick dossier on the Winchesters. As per that, the last member of the Men of Letters was one Henry Winchester who was killed by Abaddon back in 1958 along with all the active members at that time. A glaring gap the London Chapter House had was how had the Winchesters come into possession of the key only a couple of years ago when it was never passed on to John by Henry. It was established that Henry was long dead. Otherwise, John wouldn’t have spent years on the road trying to learn a basic Devil’s trap.
She grimaced. The thought of Sam Winchester left a bitter taste in her mouth. Dead, he was of no use to her. Toni did not like wasting a bullet or her time and Sam dying would be exactly that. Sighing she said, “Find me a doctor.”
Mr. Rowan nodded and turned on the navigation on the tiny screen on the dashboard. For most parts, he was pleasantly quiet unlike the loud and rowdy reputation Americans had in her own country.
“Ugh, ma’am”, he called after a couple of pings on the map. “There’s no doctor for another two hundred miles, except…”
“Finish your statement, Mr. Rowan. There is no applause for mystery.”
“There’s no doctor… except a veterinarian in the outskirts of Kermit.”
Toni’s inbox showed twenty seven unread emails. The latest one was from Ms. Watt updating her regarding the abandoned apple farm she managed to rent and equip with necessary tools for her interrogation. The rest of them were progress reports from her team working on their individual cases. Just as she about to turn off her tablet, a new email popped on her screen that grabbed her attention. It was from a reputable colleague Mick Davies offering to extend his support to Lady Bevell in her American assignment. But Toni Bevell preferred working alone. Even if it came to requiring additional manpower, she would not work with Davies because Arthur Ketch came attached to him.
That psychopath.
Shrugging off the uneasy feeling that Ketch always brought on, she continued typing her email to Dr. Hess.
“Ma’am?” The driver interrupted her email response.
“What is it this time?” She asked, eyes focused on the words carefully drafted on the screen.
“There’s no doctor—”
“—I heard you the first time.” She cut in, tapping the stylus on the screen. “We shall visit the doctor.”
“But, it’s a veterinarian.” He emphasized at her reflection in the rearview mirror.
“The perfect doctor to treat our animal, wouldn’t you agree?” She smiled.
By now, Mr. Rowan was sure of two things: one, when one of her questions was a rhetorical and two, this British lady was not to be messed with.
The buzzer of her alarm continued to ring even after she slapped the clock off the table. When it landed on the wooden floor with a loud clatter, she realized, it wasn’t the alarm but the door bell. Looking over the edge of the bed, the tipped clock’s face up to read the time.
5.38 AM.
Grabbing her robe, she dragged herself, half sleepy to the door. She wondered who bothered coming around this early in the morning.
The sun wasn’t up yet, so the only light outside was from the overhead light bulb with a muted buzz.
“Doctor Richardson, I presume”, a pale, blonde woman stated in a thick english accent. The man next to her was American. She didn’t know how she knew it, she just did.
“Yes,” Amelia pressed her hand to her mouth to hide the yawn.
“Your expert services are required.” She said with a thin smile that never reached her eyes. Then opening her expensive looking purse, she flashed bundles of Benjamin Franklins at her.
Amelia frowned. That was a lot of money.
Who was this lady?
“You can put that away. Bring your pet in.”
“I think it’s best if you see him first. He is rather larger for your regular operating table.”
Amelia had treated larger breeds before and never had any problems with her workspace. But she followed her to the van parked in her driveway. The man who had accompanied the woman pulled out a pair of keys and clicked a button. The trunk swung open.
Why was the pet in the trunk?—
“Oh my God, Sam!” Amelia cried, scrambling to reach him but the man held her back.
Sam Winchester was lying on his side, bound at ankles and wrist. Body covered in sweat and blood—from the horribly torniqueted bullet wound in his left thigh—his eyes carried the ache and fear.
“I see you have prior acquaintances.” The blonde woman said smugly. “This shouldn’t be too tough then.”
“Who are you?” Amelia demanded.
“If we must put the niceties behind us, I am Toni Bevell”, She offered, “Lady Bevell to you.”
Amelia struggled in the man’s grip who she now knew to be just a driver. Turning to Sam, her heart ached. She wanted to see him again but not like this. Not like this. “Sam…”
But his eyes fell to the bloodstained floor of the van.
Oh, there was so much blood. “He needs a real doctor. I am veterinarian.”
Lady Bevell’s eyes narrowed, a cruel smile twisting her thin lips to her eyes. “Animals, humans, all flesh and blood.”
Amelia glared. This was not how it worked. Surely, she knew that. To her disappointment, Lady Bevell stayed rooted to the ground.
“Please, just let me call 911.”
Just as Amelia rushed to the door, Lady Bevell planted herself in the way, blocking her path. A gun aimed at the center of her chest. The driver grabbed her wrist. There was no where to run.
Over her shoulder, Sam’s muffled shouts filled the otherwise quiet morning. There was anger in those soft eyes.
“He is not some animal!” The last word came out in a broken sob. “I can't do this.”
“Very well then,” Toni said, stepping aside, “Clearly, you need the right incentive.”
A shot whistled through the dewy, early morning air. Sam screamed into the gag as the second bullet hit his other leg. White hot pain bloomed from his thigh, blazing dangerous network of fire through his entire body. Eyes screwed tight, he panted through his nose as the waves of pain wore his strength down. Shudders wrecked his whole body threatening to push it into shock.
Amelia slapped a hand to her mouth, suppressing her own scream. Breaking free from the other man’s hold, she ran to Sam. Awkwardly, climbing into the van next to him, she pressed one hand on the fresh wound that was leaking blood. The other hand, carded through his sweat-soaked hair. “Sam, I am so sorry.”
Sam was writhing, swimming in and out of pain. His moist eyes fluttering, vision unstable. She pulled the tie from her robe and tied a torniquet above the wound.
“I would hate to put another one in him. But if I have to, the next one goes through his pretty head.” Lady Bevell made a promise. She seemed like a woman of her word. Amelia stared daggers at her but she remained unfazed. More blood seeped through the vet’s fingers. “Unless you want to pick three bullets out of him, I suggest we treat this animal proper.”
“Now, step aside, Ms. Richardson”, she signaled the man who roughly yanked Sam to his feet. But as soon as his legs touched the ground, they folded like Bambi beneath him, drawing a painful cry out of him.
“Please—” Amelia slipped her arm under his. They were cuffed behind his back, making it challenging to support his weight from under his shoulder. Sam was by no means light but she could tell he was trying not to lean too much on her. But he could only put so much pressure on his legs for so long. Twice, his knees buckled pulling Amelia down with him. The man, whose name she learnt was Mr. Rowan, hauled him to his feet, not caring much for his pained cries.
The distance from her driveway to the in-house clinic at the backend of her house seemed to stretch for miles. Sam’s skin paled two shades lighter, the walk already taking a toll on his body. As soon as they entered the clinic, Amelia mentally slapped herself for not seeing the issue behorehand. The operating table was tad bit smaller to accomodate Sam. As much as she hated to admit it, that bitch was right.
“I need to set the table,” she announced. Mr. Rowan let go of Sam who instantly sank to the floor, dragging Amelia with him, blood splattering on the cold, porcelain tiles from the fresh bullet wound.
“Sam!”, she shouted. Seeing neither Mr. Rowan, nor the stuck up Brit lady was going to offer help, she gently propped Sam up against the wall. His head lolled but his eyes fluttered open struggling to stay conscious.
Not wanting to but having to leave him there, she cleared the metal station where she kept all sterile tools. Pushing it against the operating table, she snapped it in place. Then she rushed to Sam who was sliding down to the floor.
“Hey, hey, Sam.” She called patting his sunken cheek, “Stay with me, please.”
“Help me move him to the table!” Amelia yelled at Mr. Rowan.
Sam moaned as Mr. Rowan forced him to his feet, shuffling him to the table. Her legs wobbled and shook all the way.
“Take off the cuffs.” Amelia demanded, wishing her voice came out stronger than a broken sob.
Lady Bevell watched the event unfold with curiosity. “I hope you are aware that you are not in any position to make demands.”
Amelia’s eyebrows furrowed. “I need him on his back to treat the wound and I can’t do it if his hands are cuffed behind his back.”
Toni’s beady eyes darted to the table. Sighing she marched to Sam, her heels clicked against the floor, the sound echoing off the white walls. Bending down to his ears she threatened, “Do not be absurd and try anything funny. I’d hate to lose a bullet in her brain.”
Sam flinched at her words. With whatever little strength he had, he used it to nod at her.
The soft click released the circle of metal ring around his wrist. The relief was short-lived. Because, somebody—Mr. Rowan—slammed his body back on the cold table while Toni pulled his hand overhead slapping the open cuff to the base of the table. From somewhere in her pocket, she retrived a second pair and secured his other hand, leaving him spread out on the table.
Sam moaned, his head moving from side to side, pulling weakly against his restraints. He had lost quite a lot of blood in the journey from the driveway to her clinic. The dark trail from the driveway to the table were proof of that. Not to mention, the blood lost in the back of the van.
Amelia quickly began inspecting the injuries. Though sloppy, the ragged cloth tied to the first bullet wound had slowed down the bleeding. But the fresh one however was gushing blood fast. Gently, she swiped her hand underneath his legs. No exit wounds. Shot at this proximity, the fresh wound was more dangerous. It needed tending urgently.
From the island behind her, she grabbed some gauze, a couple of syringes, forceps and a few bottles of medicine. For the very first time, the blue gloves slipped in easily. Turning to Sam, she noticed his hazel greens were on her. The emotion behind them clear: he was sorry.
“Sam,” she whispered reaching to take the dirty rag out of his mouth.
Lady Bevell clamped a cold hand around Amelia’s wrist. “He is dangerous. I suggest you leave—”
“—and I suggest you let me do my damn job!” Amelia snarled wrigging her wrist free.
Lady Bevell scowled but sauntered to the stool by the window and settled on it with a distasteful frown. The gun stayed loaded on her crossed-over knees, the muzzle still pointed at Sam’s trembling form on the table. Mr. Rowan stood closer to the pair of them. Between hauling Sam to the table and restraining him, he had produced his own gun which was also trained on Sam. Prominently on his chest.
Who the hell were these?
What did they want with Sam?
These were the questions, Amelia had no answers to. Her husband, Don—who was in Kandahar for his current assignment—ran with a tough crowd that came with his military background. Amelia was no stranger to the kind. But this? This was something else.
Softening her gaze at Sam, she slipped the rag off his mouth, tracing a delicate finger around the torn corners of his lips. Sam swallowed, what must have been the first bit of hydration for his parched throat. “Amelia, I am so sorry”, he croaked, his voice hoarse.
“Shhh. Don’t speak.”
“I haven’t gotten all day.”
Amelia ignored Bevell. Instead, she focused on pressing wads of kitchen towels to Sam’s open wound. A sharp inhale from Sam broke something in her. For someone who had two bullets lodged in his legs, Sam was handling the pain a little too well. It made her wonder how high was his pain threshold. Moreover, what experiences led to such high pain threshold?
She brought the tray of surgical tools closer to the table, the contents in the tray clattering around. Reaching on the top cabinet behind, she grabbed a bag of medical cotton. She ripped open the packet and pulled a handful of those in a bowl set inside the tray.
Grabbing one of those thick cotton balls, she dabbed away the blood oozing from his bullet hole.
“Stay strong, Amy”, she mumbled to herself, then to Sam she lied half-heartedly, “this will sting a little but it should do.”
The liquid sitting a couple of centimeters above the bottom of the bottle was the only anesthesia available in her facility. Certainly, not the required dosage of local anesthesia to treat two gunshot wounds. But she would work with what she had.
Scissoring the blood-soaked denim, she wiped the blood clean. Rubbing some alcohol on the skin, she pushed the needle all the way into his skin. It should cover the area of pain. She hoped.
“Not too much”, Bevell suggested lightly. “I need him awake for a little Q&A later.”
Paying no to attention to her, Amelia cleaned the rest of the blood coating Sam’s thigh. The twitch in his leg as she dabbed the torn tissues around the wound suggested the anesthesia had not entirely taken effect.
“We need to stop meeting over blood and stitches.” Amelia joked hoping to distract Sam from the fast approaching pain.
Sam forced a pained smile, his eyes soaking in her aghast form.
Not just blood and stitches but loss too. Sam thought, his mind wandering to Dean sacrificing himself to save the world from Amara.
“I-I,” he tried to speak, “I wish it wasn’t like this.”
Amelia nodded, tears welling up in her eyes, lips quaking into a nervous smile. She wished for a lot of things and not just how they crossed paths. If only, Sam had met her at the motel that night, he would be here, not on this table, but next to her.
“H-how are you-u?” He asked, each word depleting his strength.
“Are you really asking me that when you are here, like this?” When she met his red rimmed eyes, she realized he really was. But that was Sam. Always cared about putting his needs on the back burner.
“Okay, I guess.” Frowning, she warned. “This might hurt a bit.”
Sam felt the familiar ends of a cold forceps invading his flesh before the pain ripped a gasped from him. He was no stranger to being shot on cases. Hell, Dean had extracted a few bullets from his body with only a drainage of the cheapest alcohol they could find. But bullet extractions always hurt like a bitch.
“It’s okay, Sam”, Amelia cooed. Like Dean used to. “Got it, got it. Just hold on.”
Sam’s gasps quickly turned into pained screams as Amelia dug for the bullet that was nestled deep between the muscle and tissues. Blood welled up from the gaping wound. She pressed her hand down on his thigh to stop it from shaking too much. He whimpered pitifully, pulling at his cuffs, chaffing his wrists bloody.
“I know, Sam.” Amelia whispered but her eyes were focused on the bullet mocking her. “Almost there.”
“Gaahh.. please stop!” He wailed, his eyes scrunched up tightly. “Amelia…”
Any other time, she would have loved hearing her name spill from his lips but not like this, damnit! She threw a dirty glance at Toni who sat smug, eyes and gun trained on Sam just like the last time.
“Yes, Sam, I am here.” She reached with a bloody, gloved hand, to brush the sweat soaked hair away from his forehead. “We are going to play a game, ok?”
Sam moaned but nodded. He knew this technique. Dean did it to distract him from the pain often.
“You cut your hair?”
He laughed in response. A pained chortle but she would take it. “Occupational h-hazard.”
“You still have to tell me what is it that you do.” Twice the bullet slipped from the grip of the forceps.
“It’s better I don’t.”
Amelia paused. Her gaze shifted from the bleeding wound to Sam’s eyes which were locked on Toni.
Wanting to change the subject, she said, “Riot misses you.”
At the mention of Riot, the dog Sam had rescued which led him to her, some of the hardness washed away from his face.
“So do I”, she confessed.
“You have a life now.” Sam said, eyes looking up at the ceiling.
“A life without you.”
“A life worth living.” Sam pressed his lips together, ending that discussion.
Amelia reached for another set of forceps. Eyeing Sam meaninfully, she dove in and pushed the second forceps deeper in the wound, illiciting another moan from Sam. “Making room, that’s all. Just hold on, Sam.”
Sam ground his teeth fighting hard against the scream that was forcing itself out but failed when the tip of that second pair of forceps forced the soft tissues apart.
“Got it!” She cried bringing up the bloody bullet, “we should keep this as a momento.”
But Sam had gone still, his eyes closed and lips parted.
“Sam?” she gently patted his cheek, smearing some bloody prints in the wake. “Please, please, come back to me.”
Toni rose from her seat. “Check his pulse.”
Before Amelia could register, the driver of the van, pressed two thick fingers against Sam’s neck checking his pulse. “Still with us.”
Amelia sighed in relief and Toni composed herself back on the little stool.
“Sam,” she whispered, shaking him a little. To her relief, he whimpered, his consciousness floating in and out. “Sam, please stay with me.”
Without wasting another minute, she poured antiseptics inside the opening and stitched the wound close. She worked fast and skillfully not wanting to spare the precious effect of the anesthesia. If Sam was in pain, he didn’t show but his limbs twitched every now and then as the suture pulled the hole close. Discarding her bloody gloves, she slipped on a fresh pair before wrapping a clean gauze over the stitches.
Now, to the next one.
If she thought the first bullet wound was bad, this was even worse. The area around the cavity was swollen and the wound itself was dirty. Cutting a patch open of other leg of the jeans and tucking a thick wad of wash cloth under his thigh, she squirted the wound with saline solution. Sam moaned, his leg trembling. The solution was meant to burn. Red rivulets spilled and absorbed into the cloth turning it into a lighter shade of pink. She followed with a second flush of the solution but mixed with antiseptic.
Sam’s eyes, wet with tears, fluttered open. They remained glazed as he mumbled a quiet, “hurts.”
“I know baby, I promise I’ll make it go away,” she crooned, “but you need to stay awake.”
His empty eyes roved over her face. They carried so much pain, it shattered her heart into pieces. The last time she had seen those green orbs swimming in despair was when he came to her clinic with Riot. For a moment, she was shocked to learn that the dog didn’t belong to him. Because the pain in his eyes was real. Back then, she made him a silent promise to make of his pain disappear. And for a brief moment it had. But all that changed when she got that call one night telling her, her husband was alive. Sam left shortly after that. Now, here he was, lying half-conscious on her table, the pain was ten times deeper.
What happened to you Sam?
Who are these people?
What do they want with you?
She knew better than to ask those questions. Sam would never tell her and his current state had nothing to do with it.
A buzz from Bevell’s phone brought her back to the present. She squinted at her phone and then gracefully stood up. Looking menacingly in their direction she commanded, “if either of them try anything, shoot them both.” Amelia briefly caught her say ‘Ms. Watt’ before she strutted outside her in-house clinic to answer the call. Given Sam’s condition and a gun trained at him, Amelia knew that Bevell knew they were going nowhere.
Sighing in defeat, she turned back to Sam. The wound was clean enough so she tore open a fresh syringe, squeezed out the last of local anesthesia. She wiped the area clean once again before injecting the anesthesia. Sam hissed in response.
Glancing back at Sam, she pleaded, “Sam, I am going to remove the second bullet. Please stay focused on me, alright? It will be okay.”
He nodded, trying with whatever energy he had left in him to train his eyes on her. He failed the moment the metal invaded his raw wound. Scrunching his eyes shut, he rasped, tears flowing unbridled on either side of his face.
“I know, Sam, just hold on.” Amelia’s voice trembled but thankfully her hands remained stable enough to extract the bullet. With the bullet, came a gush of blood that stained his jeans a shade darker. She dabbed wads after wads of cotton, soaking up all that blood. Her bin was already half full from the pile of blood-stained cotton from cleaning the first wound. The second one was rapidly causing the pile to grow bigger and overflow.
Despite the swelling, the bullet was fairly quick retrieve but the bits of fabric and dirt from the van took some more time and probing into the inflammed wound to extract. She drained the cavity with saline and antiseptic solution once more, ignoring Sam’s writhing body and the clinking of his cuffs.
It was starting to look clean enough. Just as she reached for the needle and sutures, a thought crossed her mind. Once this dressing was done, they will take Sam away from her and cause him more pain and suffering. She had to do something. Anything, to help the man she loves.
Bevell was still talking on the phone in the other room. In her peripheral vision, the gun pointed at Sam’s wheezing chest taunted her. She wasn’t going to beat them when it was two against one. The best she had on hand were her surgical tools. But that meant she was literally bringing a knife to a gun fight. She was specialized in handling feral animals not armed humans.
Sam still needed saving though. More than suturing bullet wounds.
“Sam,” she called swifty.
His eyes opened, taking a second to focus on her.
“I am going to stitch the second wound. Stay with me, will you?” She said, gently tapping his right thigh that was already stitched and dressed. His eyebrows pulled into a brief frown. Amelia nodded meaninfully, hoping he would be vigilant for the next few minutes.
“Hey you!” she called Mr. Rowan, “Can you grab me that packet of suture?”
Mr. Rowan narrowed his eyes as if trying to guess her intentions. “What’s wrong with the one you used earlier?”
Amelia fumed. “This one is injected, you idiot. I need the antibacterial threads.”
He still eyed her and Sam suspiciously and then behind him in the direction of the shelf lined with more medical supplies. “Grab them yourself.” He gestured at her with the gun.
She exhaled as if he was getting on her nerves. In all honesty, he really was. “Well, in case you can’t see, my hands are full.” She glanced in the direction of her hand pressing down on Sam's wound, while the other one was dabbing the free flowing blood. “I want him alive and I suppose your boss wants that too. Though for arguable reasons. So why don’t you save us both the trouble of having him shot dead and grab me those damn sutures.”
“If I see any funny—” but he was already lowering his gun and Amelia counted that a win.
“—ya, you’ll shoot us. We heard it the first time that bitch said it.”
Grimacing, Mr. Rowan walked backward to the shelf not trusting the animal doctor. Then, he reached with one hand behind him, uselessly trying to grab the spools.
“You’re going to have to read them.” Amelia pointed, “The label should say antibacterial.”
Mr. Rowan tried to outsmart her by picking up one spool at a time, reading and discarding them when their labels didn’t read antibacterial.
“At this rate, I might as well let him bleed to death on my table.”
Sam, who was delirious but still focused on Amelia, nodded in her direction. “Keep calm,” his eyes conveyed.
Amelia was worried her plan was not going to work but then, after four failed attempts, he turned towards the shelf. Seizing the opportunity, Amelia deftly picked up the smallest pair of scissors. She held them up for Sam to see and then quickly slipped them into the gauze, under his right thigh. Pressing the cold metal, against his warm skin, she waited for Sam to acknowledge. He blinked once.
“This one?” Mr. Rowan held up a spool Amelia knew very well would take him longer to find than she would.
“Bring it over.”
He dropped the item in the tray and took his position near Sam head, the gun’s muzzle aimed back on the target.
Bevell walked in just as Amelia threaded the suture through the needle. “No troubles, I presume?” The question was clearly meant for Mr. Rowan.
“No, ma’am.”
“Well then, let’s see doctor’s handiwork.” She came over to the table, carefully eyeing everything.
“Do you mind?” Amelia reprimanded, “you are obstructing the light.”
Toni Bevell retreated a few spaces back but did not claim her spot on the stool again. Under her watchful eyes, Amelia quickly stitched the wound close, leaving a small gap open. “This wound is infected, so it will have to drain.”
Like the first one, this too was wrapped with a gauze. “And the dressing should be changed every day.”
“Step away from him.” Toni commanded raising her gun.
Amelia knew better than to engage with her. She feared any wrong move on her part would cost Sam his life. She couldn’t have that so she did as she was told.
“He will need some antibiotics and painkillers. Let me pack those.”
Toni responsed with a frigid smile but didn’t oppose.
Amelia quickly tucked in some of the quick relief medications and extra rolls of gauze. Just in case this bitch didn’t have one handy and decided a dirty rag was close enough to do the job. She handed out the kit to Toni who remained as still as stone. Disgusted, Amelia dropped the packet in Mr. Rowan’s hand. “Twice a day, preferably after he has had something to eat.”
Mr. Rowan pocketed the packet then shoved Amelia into the shelf behind. Her body crashed into the furniture throwing stuff on the floor.
“Amelia!” Sam shouted. “Leave her alone.”
Bevell pulled a gun to Amelia’s temple and waited for Mr. Rowan to uncuff Sam. Hooking the gun in his waistband, Mr. Rowan opened the cuffs locked around the table. Amelia watched in horror as he then roughly yanked Sam by his jacket, forcing him to sit so he could cuff his wrists behind his back.
Sam was exhausted but he put up a fight. Sadly, he was no match to Mr. Rowan, especially not when Toni played dirty by jabbing her thumb into his freshly sutured wound.
Sam collapsed to the floor, howling in pain.
“Stop it!” Amelia screamed, scrambling to him but Mr. Rowan grabbed her by her hair. She felt the cold tip of the gun digging into her temple.
Lady Bevell had dug her knee into Sam’s back. Her gun was aimed, ready and pressed into Sam’s hair. “One move and you will wipe his brain off the floor.”
When she hauled Sam on his feet, he gasped, feet shaking, his bandages already soaked in blood. “You don’t want her to die, do you?”
“Y-you leave her out of this.” He threatened.
Something hard struck Amelia on the side of her head making her vision go dark. Mr. Rowan crossed over her body. With fading vision, she saw him force a dirty rag between his lips, effectively gagging him. Next she heard the electric buzz as Mr. Rowan tased Sam who yelped crashing to his knees. The last thing she saw as her body slumped to the floor was Toni kicking Sam's frail form in the stomach before Mr. Rowan forced him to his feet and pushed him out of the door.
“Sam…”