But he sat down, and Antonia rummaged around under the sink and produced the roll of duct tape. Hank saw the blood on her arm but didn’t say anything until they finished tying up their prisoner. She had a surgical approach to the duct tape, and he saw her examining Prancer for injuries. She would treat the patient in front of her, even if it was someone who had just tried to kill her.

Finally, she sank shakily onto a chair at the end of the table. “A bullet grazed my arm. I think—” She made a face, obviously not relishing what she had to say. “I might need your help patching it up.”

Hank smiled at her. “Don’t pass out, Doc. You’ll need to tell me what to do.”

CHAPTER 11

Hank didn’t need as much help treating her wound as Antonia had anticipated. He’d flown scores of search-and-rescue missions in his military career and knew medical basics, never mind that he was a pilot, not a pararescue-man like Tyler North. But none of them could prescribe medications, she thought, feeling a little woozy and defensive—she was a doctor, so she could write prescriptions. She wished she had something for the pain.

The bullet hadn’t lodged, but it was a nastier gash than what Prancer had done to Hank with the knife.

“Why were you in the doorway?”

“I wasn’t. The bullet—I don’t know how it hit me.”

“The police can figure it out.”

The police. It had come to that, after all.

Robert, tied securely to his chair with duct tape, looked on silently. He was wide-eyed, fuming, soaked and in pain himself, although there wasn’t a lot Antonia could do for him. She sat on the couch and focused on what Hank was doing as he cleaned and bandaged her wound.

“You’re going to watch?” he asked.

“Of course.”

He worked quickly, efficiently, no visible tremble to his hands. She admired his ability to concentrate. “You need stitches,” he pronounced, applying the last bit of the ancient first-aid tape to hold her bandage in place.

It was true. The bullet had torn a gash in her upper arm, but at least it had gone right out again—she hadn’t relished the idea of walking Hank through digging a bullet out of her. But her wound did need stitches, if not surgery. She sighed. “I don’t think we’ll be off the island in time. But it’ll be okay. You’ve done a nice job.”

He looked troubled. “Antonia—”

“There’s nothing more we can do. How’s our prisoner?”