Degrees of Wrong

Dedication

For Lisa B., who put up with my incessant chatter about writing day in and out. And for being there for me in general, in all things.

Chapter One

2053 A.D.

Pacific Island of Peleliu

I was too tired for his charm to be charming. In fact, since I’d already bludgeoned the medical code of ethics today, overdosing him to shut him up seemed an acceptable degree of wrong.

Fortunately—and unfortunately—I lacked the morphine to do it. This last injection wouldn’t shut him up, wouldn’t impair him beyond silliness—but it just might take the bite out of stitches. Possibly it would make him drool too.

I tightened the tourniquet around his leg. The blood oozed from his nicked artery, an improvement from the pulsating rush it had been moments before. “This is morphine,” I told him as I injected it, breaking another rule. After all, if he was lucid enough to flirt, then he was lucid enough to ask for permission.

He shrugged, his composure bordering on disinterest. Sitting against one of the wooden beams holding up the makeshift hut, he shifted often, ending each almost-grimace with a smile. Though well played, I knew he was in pain—and if he wasn’t, we had bigger problems.

“You’re the doc,” he drawled. Apparently he’d run out of wisecracks. That only solved one of our issues. An explosion outside rattled the hut and my nerves as I slid on clean gloves and pulled the makings of stitches out of my kit.

“We’re winning,” he said. “We always win.”

“That’s good.” By “we” I assumed he meant the other black-clad soldiers littering the field and aiming their guns at Team Khaki. Whether that really was good, I couldn’t say. I didn’t know who these people were, why they were here or why they chose this island as the setting for their disagreement. I also found it difficult to care. This inconsequential dirt mound had been inhabited in peace for decades, and now the fields marinated in the blood of its people. While I still valued this man’s life, I couldn’t curb my irritation at his obvious contribution to the melee.

“I’ve got to stitch your leg. You’ve lost some blood.” Lots and lots of blood. That he was coherent enough to annoy me seemed impossible. “Swallow this.” I pushed the pill through his lips, not even flinching with that particular rule. The antibiotic would ward off the most virulent infections for up to ten days—and upset his stomach for most of them. This I didn’t disclose.
Acceptable degree of wrong.

Each rule sounded like glass shattering in my head.

“I can’t wait for the morphine,” I told him. “You want something to bite down on?”

He nodded, the action flooding the tiny tributaries of sweat on his forehead, his blond hair now dark and sopping. The black grime on his face accentuated the bluest eyes I’d ever seen—eyes that entertained pain and humor as company.

I retrieved a wooden stick from my kit, barely suppressing the inappropriate smile. I’d been teased throughout medical school for including this caveman tool on my list of essentials, the butt of endless jokes. I didn’t think my colleagues would be laughing right now.

He bit down with a nod of thanks. Should’ve thought about the stick sooner. Would’ve spared me the guilt I’d feel later for contemplating his overdose.

As I stitched, I heard the screaming, the discharging of guns and of life. Each explosive blast shook the hut, seasoning us with dust. The sweltering air strafed us with the mingling scent of smoke and death. My patient for his part held still, fixating his glare on what was left of the palm roof, his teeth grinding an impression into the wood. He grimaced sometimes but never verbalized the pain.

I finished, saturating the wound with antiseptic, wrapping it with gauze. “This is just the beginning.” I snapped off my gloves. “As soon as you can, get follow-up treatment. It’ll need to be examined to make sure it healed correctly and has no infection. And it needs to be cleaned and re-dressed often.” He might need surgery too. This I also didn’t disclose.
Acceptable degree of wrong
.

He relaxed, pulling the stick from his mouth and discarding it with a toss. For the first time since the initial stitch, he looked at me, his posture less rigid. And incredibly, he grinned. It was the laziest smile I’d ever seen—only one corner of his mouth bothered to participate. “Now you owe
me
a favor,” he said. Moving his arm behind his head for support, he all but sprawled out in front of me. He looked
comfortable
.

Perhaps the morphine had worked better than I’d anticipated.

Although his declaration was cousin to ridiculous, I humored him and the narcotic. “Really? For what?”

If he needed a diversion from the pain, I could understand. I made a display of relaxing, moving from my heels to sit on the earthen floor, even as I reminded myself of the others who still needed me. I’d leave him here as soon as I ascertained he wouldn’t go into shock.

“I let you poke and prod my innards.” He referred incorrectly to the area. “I believe that entitles me to a repayment of some sort.”

“What can I do for you, soldier?” I waited for the punch line of my own joke. It came.

“Lots of things, Doc. But the one I want most is…” his wicked grin widened, both corners of his mouth working together in a smile that reached those devilish blue eyes as he finished, “…a date.”

I expected the occasional flirtatious patient—it came with the territory—and I always took it in stride, adjusting my bedside manner as needed. But this wasn’t the occasional patient. Confidence was transparent on his filthy face. This man knew what he was doing. His definition of bedside manner had to be different than mine.

I allowed myself to look at him as a woman instead of a doctor. Of course, there were those impressive eyes, fertile with mischief, and the blond hair that seemed to pay tribute to his baby-face features. I guessed him to be around my age, twenty-four. His black uniform—what was left of it, anyway—fit his body as if hand tailored to accentuate it. It was absurd to think any military would accommodate each soldier in this way—and impossible not to feel sorry for the countless men who must look and feel inadequate in this uniform designed for his perfect build.

He did appeal to the eye—and he knew it.

“A date? You live around here?” I kept the rhetorical question cordial, noting I could no longer hear gunfire.

His grin faltered with the geography. “No. But I’m sure we could make it work. I could pick you up at your office.”

I didn’t bother telling him
this
was my office—wherever my patient was—because the clarity in his voice troubled me. The morphine and blood loss should have teamed up against him by now, commencing with the drool and slurred speech. Had it even taken effect yet? For his sake, I hoped so.

“What’s your name, soldier?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

Not rolling my eyes was almost physically painful. “Well, should I call you soldier all the time? You get many dates that way?”

“What’s
your
name, Doc?”

I would have answered—none of the secrets
I
kept had anything to do with my name—but I swallowed the response as a stampede of soldiers charged into the hut in a whirlwind of weapons, boots and dirt. At least six barrels pinpointed my head, marking me for dead with their lasers. The shuffling behind me hinted that looking back would be both pointless and dangerous. Instead, I eased up, stifling an almost overwhelming reflex to run.

As the hut reached maximum capacity, it collapsed around us in a pile of palm, exposing us to the sunlight—and the devastation of the battlefield. When the dust settled and my eyes adjusted, I took in a full view of the destruction, as best a statue could.

This five-square-mile speck would never be the same. Was my home still standing? Did my lab still have four walls? I couldn’t convince myself of it.

The apparent leader stepped forward, and I forgot about my home. In a fraction of a second, he inspected my blue-eyed patient, taking in the bandages and my open medical kit.

“Identify yourself, woman,” he barked. His black mask allowed a teasing view of his dark eyes. He sported an intact version of the black regimentals my patient wore.

“I was just getting to that, Geoffrey,” said my still-very-lucid invalid. “You interrupt everything.” Two of the other masked soldiers helped him to his feet. He cut off my objections with a dismissive wave. “I’ll be fine.”

I clenched my jaw.
Who exactly is the physician here?
Hoping to find an ally in the leader, I said, “He is not fine. He was bleeding to death, and I just stitched him up five minutes ago. The morphine will be wearing off soon, and he’ll wish he didn’t just stand.”
Or the morphine will just be kicking in
.

He proved to be my friend—well, the blue-eyed womanizer’s friend, anyway. The leader nodded without losing eye contact with me, and the twin-like soldiers whisked my patient away, amid his protests. To make him aware of my disapproval of his stunt, I huffed aloud, stomping my foot. Blue Eyes never looked back.

I felt betrayed. Used and betrayed. Unappreciated, used and betrayed. I resolved to send him a bill, if I ever found out who he was.

The leader recaptured my attention by taking a step toward me. “Your name, Doctor.”

His abrasive tone chiseled at my backbone. I bit my lip in contemplation. Well, in anxiety too, but
mostly
contemplation. I almost told Blue Eyes my name, but it felt different, like a casual introduction. This…
this
felt like an intrusion. Common sense screamed at me to resist. To withhold it, to keep it safe, to use it for negotiating. But for what? I wasn’t wealthy or famous, had no political ties and no friends gracing those categories. Still, if the man with the gun thought my name was valuable, then
I
ought to consider it priceless. I lifted my chin.

Surprise flickered in his eyes before he shifted back to business as usual. He lowered his gun then swept it behind his back before clasping his hands in front of him. Confidence and ease—neither of which belonged to me—filled the air between us like a vapor.

I tried to gulp in a way that didn’t seem cowardly. I also tried to remember why I’d decided to be difficult in the first place. Something about negotiating came to mind but didn’t seem quite as important as before. No doubt these men were well trained in the art of Information Extraction—how far would I let it go? Was it worth pain? Was it worth suffering?

“Dr. Elyse Morgan,” he said.

I tried to rein in the shock before it reached my face but could tell by his triumphant glare how poorly I’d succeeded. I’d been handed over like a gift. Might as well have been wearing a bow.

“We’ve been looking for you. You’ll need to come with us.”

The sharp pain at my neck catapulted me into the long, black tunnel of unconsciousness. As coherency slipped from my grasp, as I struggled against the detachment, one last thought broke the surface—I forgot to lock the front door this morning.

I hated being tazed.

“Dr. Morgan? Can you hear me?”

Yes, vaguely
. My eyes were open but registered inky nothingness. A hand shook my shoulder, then disappeared.

“Dr. Morgan, if you can hear me, please acknowledge.”

Acknowledge what? And was someone holding me down? My thoughts felt uncatchable, circling in my head like agitated bees. And then the buzzing stopped. My memory came back like the bursting of a dam—a slow trickle at first and then the final, violent rupture, flooding me with images and sounds and smells. Then the pain. Rage worked through my body, reanimating my arms and legs through the numbness.

I hated being tazed.

After a few seconds of unproductive blinking, my vision returned, albeit a little blurred. A lone light fixture hung from the ceiling by its own cord. I was strapped to a metal chair with hands bound behind me, my neck stiff from the weight of my head hanging limply while I slept. It was chilly. Or my neurons were misfiring from the trauma.

I hated being tazed.

The leader from the hut stood before me. He’d ditched the mask, but I recognized his sentient dark eyes. I guessed him to be about my height, stocky and of Native American descent. It was impossible to tell if the straight line across his face was a frown or a smile.

This must be the Information Extraction Room
. Pushing back fear, I examined my surroundings, searched for the torture devices. The concrete walls were a stark, institutional white. No tools or straps hung from the ceiling, no eerie hooks protruded from anywhere. Of course, I couldn’t see behind me—maybe everything was placed out of sight, in case they could get me to talk without torture. I had, after all, confirmed my name without so much as a paper-rock-scissors.