Neither was a big bullet hole. Both through-and-through. Little more than grazes. He’d had worse. Hell, his own father had done a lot worse with a sharpened belt buckle. In those days his mother had made him a poultice, crushing herbs with her mortar and pestle and boiling them, mixing them with flour and covering them with cheesecloth.

He didn’t have any of those things here in the old pedo’s house. All he had was a bottle of antibiotics that turned out to be expired and a tube of over-the-counter antibiotic cream he’d bought when he’d ventured into a drugstore after ditching Evelyn’s mobile grooming salon and stealing another minivan.

Into which he’d stowed Evelyn and Junior and brought them here. He hadn’t let them go. He’d never intended to let them go.

But he hadn’t eliminated Michael Rowland as he’d intended. Instead, he’d created an even bigger mess. He was going to need to make a break for the border. A hostage might be the difference between safe passage and prison.

Or another firefight, because he wasn’t being taken away without one. If they were hauling his ass to prison, he’d take out as many of them as he could.

He briefly wondered if Evelyn knew how to make a poultice, then rejected the idea. She’d made her opinions very clear when he’d dumped her and Junior in the basement cell with Andrew McNab, the still-unconscious interpreter. She wished Cade would die. I’ll take my chances with WebMD.

He powered up his tablet, needing to know if he should cover the wounds or leave them open to the air to dry out, because they were red and oozing. And they fucking hurt.

Goddamn Feds. Cade wished he’d killed them when he had the ch—

He froze. Motherfucking bitch. His browser had opened to the last page he’d been watching—the local news. Which now featured Millicent, the nursing home receptionist who’d tried to lure him with the offer of free hockey tickets.

When was that? Saturday?

He clicked on the video, scowling at the woman, who was reveling in her fifteen minutes of fame. Less, actually. It was only a ninety-second clip.

“He seemed so nice.” Millicent shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself. She was wearing a dress that was cut low in the front and high at the thigh. Her crossed arms plumped up her already outstanding cleavage, and the cameraman could not get enough. The lens nearly took her head off, trying to zoom in on her boobs.

Bitch.

“His name isn’t Scott King, though,” she went on, and Cade’s blood ran cold. “He’s Cade Kaiser. His father is a retired lawyer, a patient at the nursing home where I work.”

“Where you used to work, bitch,” Cade corrected with a snarl. The woman had broken so many HIPAA laws, revealing information about patients.