“Trust me. I will be fine as long as you can be brave and dig the bullets out.”
Charlotte gulped audibly. “Dig them out?”
With a few hobbling steps toward her, he took the first-aid kit from her and tossed it onto the sink counter. From his jacket he pulled out a Leatherman multitool that unfolded into a set of pliers, which also held various knives, screwdrivers, and even a small ratchet. Useful for most bikers, but not exactly meant for surgery. It would have to do.
“The bullets didn’t go deep. Here.” He handed her the Leatherman and braced himself against the sink, head lowered.
Charlotte shook as she came up behind him. She rubbed alcohol swabs on the wounds on his back, and he uttered a string of Russian curses that would have made his father box his ears had the old dragon been a
