by DV Berkom
“Not if I get that clotting agent, you won’t.”
“I must get message to my father. Information is there.” He dipped his chin toward a medallion he wore around his neck.
Janice touched the bronze figurine of a saint. “This?”
He nodded. “Da. Is flash drive. Please to send message to him? His contact information is there. Anatoly Sakharov. Tell him I am alive.”
“Of course.” She pulled the necklace over his head and studied the medallion. The two ends came apart, revealing a USB connector. She snapped it closed and put it in her pocket. “I’ll do it later this morning. We’ll have satellite hookup then.”
“If I am alive in morning, please to give back?”
“Of course.” Janice straightened and started for the door. “The QuikClot is in the supply unit. I’ll be right back.”
Mikhail closed his eyes, pain evident in the white, straight line of his mouth, the pinched eyes, the deep V of his brows. Janice slung the Kalashnikov over her shoulder and hurried from the tent, headed for Dr. Evans’s quarters. It didn’t matter if the man was Russian or Izz Al-Din, he needed a doctor, now.
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