Abigail kept her hands under Khait’s shoulders, carrying him by his armpits while Bridget got his legs. Together they lifted him onto her bed and laid him down. “Alright.” Bridget took a few deep breaths. “Alright.” She swallowed. “Alright.”
“Is it?” Abigail stared down at Khait.
“He’s breathing, so…” Bridget put her hand on his forehead as if to check his temperature. “Maybe we should call an ambulance.”
“And tell them…” Abigail sat down on the side of the bed. “What would we tell them? We don’t even…” She hung her head. “He got food poisoning from bad Italians?”
Bridget barked a laugh, then put her hands over her mouth. “Abby.”
“Yeah?” Abigail took Khait’s hand.
“I’m not sure, but uh…” She exhaled. “I think I strangled a man.”
“Either that or you beat him to death, because he didn’t move a hell of a lot while I was cutting off…” Abigail trailed off. “Bridget I cut off a man’s finger.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, god, Bridget, your hand.”
“Yeah it’s…” Bridget looked down at the blisters on her hand. “Okay, adrenaline is starting to wear off and I think I might need some ice and some vodka and some dilaudid and some prozac.” She swallowed. “Maybe not in that order.”
“I have ice and vodka.” Abigail stood.
“Okay. Let’s start with those.” Bridget started toward the kitchen.
She got halfway down the hall when a horrible thought struck her. “Bridget, do any of those guys know where you live?”
“Well they…” Bridget gave her a horrified look. “They knew who I was and tracked me down in…” Her voice became small and hopeful. “In Rome, and we aren’t in Rome right now so maybe they can’t find us here?”
“We will have some time at…” Abigail made a growling sound, then went back to her closet.
“Abbey, what are you doing?” Bridget followed.
“I am…” Abigail yanked the box off the top shelf and typed in the combination. Then she picked up the handgun and started looking it over. She caught Bridget staring, and raised an eyebrow. “Come on, sugar. You aren’t the only one whose daddy was a soldier.”
“I’ve got a 45 and a shotgun.” Bridget nodded. Then she tilted her head. “Maybe we should skip the vodka.”
“But not the ice.” Abigail gave the hand a pointed look.
“No.” Bridget turned for the kitchen again. “Definitely not the ice.”