"Sit still. Let me check."
Toru quickly moved to Vermouth's side, helped her sit down on the battered sofa, and pulled out a tourniquet.
He thought she'd been shot, so his first move was to stop the bleeding, then send her to the hospital as fast as possible.
Many people who get shot don't feel pain at first due to the adrenaline. They might not even realize they've been hit.
Toru figured Vermouth was the same. The firefight earlier had been intense and chaotic, and it was easy to overlook a wound.
But once that adrenaline wore off, pain and exhaustion would come crashing in.
"No, I don't think I was shot. My leg doesn't hurt that much."
Pinned to the sofa by Toru's urgency, Vermouth tried to speak up.
But when she saw him pull a first-aid kit from the hotel room and cut her pant leg open with a pair of scissors, his face serious, she swallowed her words.
How long had it been since someone cared for her like this?
Too long. So long that even Vermouth couldn't remember.
She thought her heart had long since gone cold. But now, unexpectedly, it had bloomed again, like something buried for years finally seeing light.
"Boy, you seem to care about me quite a bit."
She looked at him softly as he worked.
Toru glanced at her, didn't answer, and just examined the wound.
Her calf was smooth and slender. Unblemished.
Wrapped around his waist, those legs had been quite the experience. He'd confirmed that personally last night.
But now, on that fair skin, a bloody gash stood out.
After examining it, he said, "You weren't hit directly. You're lucky. It just grazed you."
Then he pulled out disinfectant and muttered, "Bear with it."
The sting of the antiseptic made Vermouth tremble. She clenched her teeth, body tensing.
Toru applied the medicine, then wrapped the wound in a clean bandage.
"It's not deep. Since we treated it quickly, it probably won't scar."
He stood up, tossed the used supplies aside, and looked at her again.
"Can you walk?"
Vermouth stood with practiced ease, giving him a faint, charming smile. "This little scratch won't slow me down."
Toru nodded. He picked up the UMP9 off the floor and tossed one to her.
"Based on what I know about Mossad, that ambush won't be their only move. We've got more trouble coming."
Vermouth caught the weapon with ease, checked the mag and chamber. She was quick and calm.
"Boy, how are we getting out of here?"
"Underground parking lot. Driving's safer than walking."
Toru pulled out his phone and sent a coded message. It was time to call for backup.
Maybe Mossad's target had only been Vermouth. But now that he was involved, there was no reason to hold back. He would report this directly to his superiors.
This was U.S. soil.
Even if America and Jerusalem were practically family, they couldn't be allowed to pull stunts like this.
"The CIA doesn't have domestic law enforcement authority. We'll need FBI or SWAT for that."
"But we can't just sit here waiting for support."
He and Vermouth left the room and moved cautiously into the hallway.
Vermouth was a pro. The two of them moved one behind the other, weapons ready, carefully scanning both ends of the corridor as they moved toward the elevator.
The hotel was in chaos.
Even though the shootout had taken place on a high floor, the sounds had reached lower levels.
All the room doors were shut tight. Guests down in the lobby were screaming and fleeing. In the distance, police sirens and ambulances wailed through the city streets.
Toru and Vermouth weren't dumb enough to take the elevator straight to the underground parking.
If someone was waiting for them at the doors, it would be suicide.
They took the elevator to the fifth floor instead, then used the emergency staircase.
He didn't know how many Mossad operatives were involved, but one thing was certain, they weren't amateurs.
Until he became truly bulletproof, he had to play it smart.
A single bullet was enough to end a life.
They reached a silver-white Porsche 911 in the parking garage. Toru quickly checked the vehicle. No bomb.
He gave Vermouth a nod.
They got in, Toru in the driver's seat, Vermouth in the passenger seat.
He started the engine, and the Porsche roared to life, speeding out of the garage and onto the city streets.
"Are we safe?"
Vermouth shifted slightly. Her wounded leg ached from the walk, the pain creeping back in.
Toru glanced over, reached into his jacket, and tossed her a compact morphine injector.
"If it gets unbearable, use that."
Then he looked into the rear-view mirror.
Behind them, two black Chevy SUVs had locked onto their tail.
"We've been made. We've got company."
He tightened his grip on the wheel.
"Hang on tight."
(To be continued.)
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