“No thanks.” He opened his eyes again as she listened to his heartbeat. “What happened? Last thing I remember was getting Ozzy into your exam room.”

She noted his pulse rate on the chart and said, “I talked to you some last night, but you were just coming out of anesthesia. You got shot.” She carefully lifted his arm and prodded the bullet entrance. She didn’t like the angry look of the skin around the sutures. “Bullet went in here and lodged itself right next to your pericardium. If you had sneezed, it probably would have penetrated your heart. I can tell you that you’re alive today because God wants it that way. I can’t imagine how you lived.”

“Well,” he drawled, “I’m a special little snowflake. Ask anyone.”

“How’s the pain?”

“Not bad, actually. It only hurts when I breathe.”

She chuckled and slipped the blood pressure cuff on his arm. “You’re not due for another dose of pain meds for a while yet.” She frowned as she measured the high blood pressure. When she got a bead on his systolic, she asked, “Think you can sleep some more?”

“Probably.”

She double-checked his chart. “Okay. I’m going to go ahead and have someone make the broth in case you wake up hungry. Try to sleep.”

Swanson and McBride stepped into the clearing carrying a tough box between them. As soon as they set it down, Rick broke the seal and opened it. Among the food packets, called MREs, and the ammunition to replace what they’d used yesterday, he found the medical supplies requested by Doctor Myers.

“I’m going to go check on Drumstick and Ozzy,” he said, stashing the medical supplies in his rucksack. “Peña, you’re with me.” He set his weapon against a tree. “Leave your weapon. Apparently, firearms are bad, even when they’re used to shoot the bad guys.”

Peña snorted. “There’s all sorts of ways to get rid of bad guys. I don’t need no stinkin’ gun.”

“I tried to tell her.” He looked over at Swanson and McBride. “I know you’re tired from ten klicks of wilderness. But stay alert. Chukuwereije is going to have scouts all over this jungle looking for his son.”

“Roger.” McBride grabbed an MRE and read the packet. “Mmm. Pasta in tomato sauce. Just like Mama used to make.”

“No wonder you left home,” Swanson said. He sat on a camp stool and looked at Fisher. “Hey, Trout, got any more of that hot sauce?”

Fisher dug into his cargo pocket and pulled out a thin bottle of Louisiana hot sauce. “This’ll fix anything.” He tossed it toward Swanson, who smoothly caught it in the air.