So, by coming to the rescue, by doing the predictable thing, Marco had put them all in danger. He cursed mentally. What an idiot. And he’d thought he’d been so clever, devising the rescue plan.
The first Jeep hadn’t stood a chance. It had driven right over the bomb, setting it off. The pieces would be scattered everywhere, along with the remains of its occupants. There hadn’t even been the usual warnings of large rocks or whatever blocking the narrow road; at least in those circumstances they knew that any possible alternative route was likely to be rigged and could check it out. The insurgents had been one step ahead, meaning that Marco’s team had driven straight over a buried explosive device.
‘Pedro? We need to get out. Now.’
‘Uh …’ came the response.
Concussion, probably. But Marco didn’t have time to be sympathetic. ‘We have to take cover,’ he said urgently. ‘Look, I’ll come and get you out.’ He raised his voice. ‘Everyone in the back, be prepared to evacuate and take cover.’
His hand hurt. It felt like a thousand needles burning into his skin. But he’d deal with that later. First of all, he needed to get his men to safety. What was left of them.
It took an effort to shoulder the door open, but he did it. He went round to the other side of the Jeep to pull the passenger door open and help Pedro out when he realised that something was wrong. He couldn’t bend the fingers on his left hand.
Which meant it was useless; he couldn’t even hold a gun, much less fire one, in this state.
Blood was oozing out of his hand, leaving a trail that just about anyone could follow. He swore, ripped a bit off his shirt and wrapped it round his hand to stanch the bleeding, and used his other hand to yank the door open.
Pedro was still groaning, but Marco was able to get him out of the Jeep, then move to the back and help the rest of his men out. Once he’d got them hidden in nearby vegetation, he used his elbows to propel himself to a better vantage position. Hopefully they’d been near enough to the camp for the blast to have been spotted on surveillance equipment, and help would arrive before things got really sticky.
He could see insurgents swarming all over the Jeep, and Marco prayed to the God he’d stopped believing in that something would happen before they searched the area and found his team.
Amazingly, his prayers were answered: screeching tyres and rapid bursts of fire drove the insurgents off.
‘Thank you,’ he whispered.
He could hear people calling. Knowing it was safe to do so, he yelled back. Got their attention. Help was on its way.
And finally the pain in his hand made him pass out.
MARCO CAME TO in unfamiliar surroundings, and tried to sit up. An arm held him down. ‘Stay there, Capitán.’
‘Where am I?’ he asked.
‘Back at base. In the hospital.’
Marco forced himself to focus. He recognised the medic from times when he’d treated some of Marco’s team. ‘Dr Herrera. How are my men?’
‘We need to talk about you,’ Dr Herrera said.
‘We need to talk about my men,’ Marco corrected. ‘Were there any survivors from the first Jeep?’
‘No, but all of those from your vehicle are safe. Some of them have impact trauma from the crash, but nothing too serious.’
Marco absorbed the information. ‘OK. I need to talk to their families. The dead soldiers’. Tell them what happened. Apologise for not keeping them safe.’
‘You need to listen to me,’ Dr Herrera said, ‘unless you want to lose the use of your hand permanently and be invalided out of the army.’
That got Marco’s attention. Stop being a soldier? His mother would be ecstatic, he knew; but in his own view it was unthinkable. This was what he was born to do. ‘Give me the bottom line,’ he said.
‘You have a flexor tendon injury.’
At Marco’s blank look, Dr Herrera explained, ‘The flexor tendons connect the muscles of your forearm to the bones of your thumb and fingers. They let you bend your fingers, and the extensor tendons let you straighten them again.’
Remembering what had happened when he’d tried to open the door of the Jeep, Marco tried to bend his fingers. His index and middle finger wouldn’t move, and his hand hurt like hell.
Dr Herrera rolled his eyes. ‘Well, you can see that for yourself. I take it the window came in and you put your hand up to shield your eyes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Some glass shards must have severed the tendons. They won’t heal themselves, because the tension in the tendons causes them to pull apart when they’re broken—think of them working like a bicycle brake cable.’
‘So I need surgery?’
‘Microsurgery. And it needs to happen within twelve hours. Twenty-four at most. The longer it takes, the more likely it will be that scarring develops on the ends of the severed tendons.’
‘Which means?’ Marco prompted.
‘Bottom line: you’ll get less movement back in your hand.’
It was enough to convince Marco. ‘OK. Do what you have to.’
Dr Herrera shook his head. ‘I won’t be the one operating. You’re going to need specialist plastic surgery as well, once the tendons have been stitched and the wound has healed. We have a twelve-hour window from when it happened to getting you into theatre. Say two hours getting you back here from the site of the bomb, seven hours between here and London and an hour’s transfer between the airport and hospital …’ He grimaced. ‘I need you on a plane to London now.’
Marco frowned. ‘My men need me.’
‘You wanted the bottom line, yes? Right now you’re not much use to them, and you’ll be even less use if you don’t get your hand fixed,’ Dr Herrera pointed out. ‘I want you on a plane to London so they can operate.’
Marco’s boss, Comandante Molina, came striding in and clearly overheard the last bit. ‘You know the rules, Marco. Medical orders outrank military ones.’
Royal ones, too, Marco thought grimly.
‘Get on that plane and get fixed up,’ Comandante Molina ordered.
‘What about my men?’ Marco demanded.
‘I’ll sort out the medical side and fix them up again, good as new,’ Dr Herrera promised.
‘And I’ll talk to the families,’ Comandante Molina said.
‘You seriously want me to go London?’ Marco asked with a grimace.
‘To the Hunter Clinic. Leo and Ethan Hunter. They have an excellent reputation for treating injured soldiers. One of them used to be an army doctor,’ Comandante Molina said.
The Hunter Clinic. Marco had heard that name before. Marianna—his older brother Ferdinand’s fiancée—had visited the clinic earlier this year for a blepharoplasty. And she’d had other work done there, too. ‘I thought they just did cosmetic stuff.’
‘They specialise in reconstructive surgery as well as cosmetic surgery. Burns, microsurgery.’ Comandante Molina folded his arms. ‘They have hand specialists. Which is what you need.’
Well, if his boss was insistent on it, it didn’t look as if Marco was going to have much choice in the matter. Even so, for the sake of his