enough to fill the day with five-minute mini-matches. I heard the CIA faceman's voice. The OGA men were flashing ID at a group of riders with stunned, disbelieving faces. The riders were all officers, though, and should be able to take care of themselves.
Oscar startled me by heading down a tight alleyway, one built for ambush. His mare broke a trot.
I could follow, or I could head back into the crowd and look for Mike. Given the number of uniforms, shemaghs, and horses, the chances of finding Mike and Echo were pretty slim. So I put my heels in the mare's flanks and leaned forward.
We emerged from the alley at the edge of a bazaar.
Sullen, deeply lined faces looked up at us from the closest booths. Not a hand showed. A metallic rattle punctuated by many hard clacks echoed off the scarred buildings, safeties being taken off dozens of unseen weapons.
Our mares slowed to step carefully, avoiding insult and assault by what felt like a breath here and a few inches there. The wind whistled through ropes and cables and up my sleeves and down my collar, finding all the sweat from the game and chilling it.
I shivered and didn't bother to hide the fact. I was too busy watching for the slightest signal, the rise of a leader who would cry for the death of the infidel, the foreigner, the invader.
Two horsemen waited at the far edge of the bazaar: Mike and Echo. We joined up without a word and stopped half a mile later to rearrange the baggage. Then we quietly rode east to rendezvous with Golf and his trailer.
Only after we stopped in a parking lot did I notice Echo's reins tied loosely and lying on his lap. His gun hand was fine, but the other had swollen so much his fingers looked like meat balloons. The two on the pinkie edge of his hand stood out at the wrong angles.
"You did have the option of requesting medical attention at any time,” I scolded.
"Yeah.” He dismounted gingerly, holding the hand out. “Can you still fix it?"
Rapid swelling was a bad sign, but some of it might be attributable to his excitement level. I pulled down my medical kit. “Did you feel or hear anything snap?"
"No, sir."
Sir ? He was in pain, then. He hissed as I touched each finger, feeling out the injury, but didn't jerk away. I couldn't be certain with this much swelling, but it felt like a simple dislocation of his pinkie and ring finger. A little jab of morphine would help, but I didn't know if any had been packed, did I? And every moment's delay would increase the severity of the swelling, the chance of complications.
"You're not going to yank on it, are you, Doc?"
"No. I'm going to assume you're an adult and can cooperate in your own treatment. Pull very slowly and smoothly against my pull, okay?"
I laid his hand across my thigh, took a grip, and pulled the digits straight out, stretching the tendons to maximum and using my other hand and thigh to press the butt ends of the two dislocated bones into place. One slid smoothly into place but the other gave a little snap.
" Fuck !” He spasmed against my shoulder.
I held pressure a moment, for pain control, then eased up. I'd never done two fingers together before, but the most cooperative patient wasn't likely to hold still twice.
Out here I couldn't send him through ultrasound to make sure everything had gone back in place, and that no bones had chipped or cracked lengthwise. But from what I'd seen, the degree of swelling he maintained tomorrow would be a reasonably accurate indicator.
If he couldn't use the hand tomorrow, I'd send him home for surgery. I may not be a physician, but I'm a doc, and I can do that.
Meanwhile, there were consequences to address, and if that medical kit didn't have some splints at the very least, it wasn't worth carrying. I moved Echo's hand to his own lap. “Don't move."
Mashallah , splints of all kinds. I selected two glorified Popsicle sticks and a roll of self-adhesive stretchy tape. Another section of the kit had ibuprofen, Decadron, and
Oscar startled me by heading down a tight alleyway, one built for ambush. His mare broke a trot.
I could follow, or I could head back into the crowd and look for Mike. Given the number of uniforms, shemaghs, and horses, the chances of finding Mike and Echo were pretty slim. So I put my heels in the mare's flanks and leaned forward.
We emerged from the alley at the edge of a bazaar.
Sullen, deeply lined faces looked up at us from the closest booths. Not a hand showed. A metallic rattle punctuated by many hard clacks echoed off the scarred buildings, safeties being taken off dozens of unseen weapons.
Our mares slowed to step carefully, avoiding insult and assault by what felt like a breath here and a few inches there. The wind whistled through ropes and cables and up my sleeves and down my collar, finding all the sweat from the game and chilling it.
I shivered and didn't bother to hide the fact. I was too busy watching for the slightest signal, the rise of a leader who would cry for the death of the infidel, the foreigner, the invader.
Two horsemen waited at the far edge of the bazaar: Mike and Echo. We joined up without a word and stopped half a mile later to rearrange the baggage. Then we quietly rode east to rendezvous with Golf and his trailer.
Only after we stopped in a parking lot did I notice Echo's reins tied loosely and lying on his lap. His gun hand was fine, but the other had swollen so much his fingers looked like meat balloons. The two on the pinkie edge of his hand stood out at the wrong angles.
"You did have the option of requesting medical attention at any time,” I scolded.
"Yeah.” He dismounted gingerly, holding the hand out. “Can you still fix it?"
Rapid swelling was a bad sign, but some of it might be attributable to his excitement level. I pulled down my medical kit. “Did you feel or hear anything snap?"
"No, sir."
Sir ? He was in pain, then. He hissed as I touched each finger, feeling out the injury, but didn't jerk away. I couldn't be certain with this much swelling, but it felt like a simple dislocation of his pinkie and ring finger. A little jab of morphine would help, but I didn't know if any had been packed, did I? And every moment's delay would increase the severity of the swelling, the chance of complications.
"You're not going to yank on it, are you, Doc?"
"No. I'm going to assume you're an adult and can cooperate in your own treatment. Pull very slowly and smoothly against my pull, okay?"
I laid his hand across my thigh, took a grip, and pulled the digits straight out, stretching the tendons to maximum and using my other hand and thigh to press the butt ends of the two dislocated bones into place. One slid smoothly into place but the other gave a little snap.
" Fuck !” He spasmed against my shoulder.
I held pressure a moment, for pain control, then eased up. I'd never done two fingers together before, but the most cooperative patient wasn't likely to hold still twice.
Out here I couldn't send him through ultrasound to make sure everything had gone back in place, and that no bones had chipped or cracked lengthwise. But from what I'd seen, the degree of swelling he maintained tomorrow would be a reasonably accurate indicator.
If he couldn't use the hand tomorrow, I'd send him home for surgery. I may not be a physician, but I'm a doc, and I can do that.
Meanwhile, there were consequences to address, and if that medical kit didn't have some splints at the very least, it wasn't worth carrying. I moved Echo's hand to his own lap. “Don't move."
Mashallah , splints of all kinds. I selected two glorified Popsicle sticks and a roll of self-adhesive stretchy tape. Another section of the kit had ibuprofen, Decadron, and
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