THE GROUP WENT to one of the rooms in the mansion, where there was a single bed, properly made up to receive the young man, and laid him down on it. Robinson remained standing still, sometimes looking at the unconscious boy, sometimes staring at Benedetti.
— What are you waiting for? — the old mobster shouted. — What's your problem? Is it money?
Having said this, he took Martin's backpack and pulled out a wad of notes, throwing it violently at the corrupt doctor. The man picked up the wad from the floor, dirty at the edges with the blood that was running through the old man's fingers, and looked at the notes, sighed and placed them on a corner table that was in the place.
He turned his gaze to Benedetti and said gravely:
— This just pays for the boy's treatment.
— This will pay for your burial if he dies, — Carl replied.
The others just watched the situation eagerly.
—What's his blood type? — Robinson asked.
— Oh, it's like "O". Positive. — said Clooney who had already checked his documents.
The doctor went to a compartment in the room and opened a kind of refrigerator, where there were numerous bags of blood, which gave the impression that the place had always been prepared for Tony's emergencies.
— This should do the trick. — said the doctor, beginning the procedure.
Martin was already pale, almost cadaverous, due to the lack of blood and his condition was critical.
The poor man, the driver of the car that the group had hijacked for the getaway, tried to leave without being noticed with silent steps, but Benedetti saw him. The old man picked up the backpack and threw it to Clooney saying:
— Solve the problem with the boy there. I'll stay and try to get these razors out of his arm while Jekyll here takes care of keeping the boy alive.
Clooney nodded and followed the man out. Arriving at the car with the stranger, he took another wad of bills and pulled out half of them, handing them to him, who was hesitant to take them.
The man was shaking from the nervousness he still felt. He stared at him with a look of great fear and stuttered with each syllable that came out of his mouth.
— This should be enough to clean the car and buy some sedatives for the scare. I think there's still a little left to help you not remember anything you saw here. Am I right? — he asked, looking at the poor guy with a demanding expression.
With wide eyes, the man agreed and got into the vehicle.
— Don't worry, man, we're the good guys... — Clooney tried to explain himself to the stranger.
The man nodded, started the car and disappeared from their sight.
WITH A SURGICAL PLIER from the doctor, Benedetti tried to pull the bullet shrapnel out of his arm, which was covered in blood and morphine.
Damn dundum bullets!
Robinson, meanwhile, had already completed basic procedures with Martin, administering sedatives and stabilizing his condition, when Clooney returned.
— This guy is down on his luck, — Clooney said of Martin.
— I look like your nanny... — Benedetti grumbled between groans and efforts to look for the shrapnel in his own flesh.
Dr. Robinson adjusted some bandages on Martin's belly and said to them:
— I think that's enough. His injuries have gotten a little worse since I saw him, but nothing fatal. The problem was the massive blood loss. He should recover. As soon as he does, you'll take him away from here.