My pain was still relentlessly pounding away at my sanity by the time we reached the small home on the edge of the city in a small suburban neighbourhood. I could see the anticipation building on Ashton's face though his creased brow as he purposefully positioned his gun in the front of his waistband and banged on the wooden door loudly. The house was dark inside but it took less than a minute for someone's figure to flash past the picture front window. A majority of my weight rested on Ashton's shoulders to my left while my hand remained tightly pressed against my bleeding wound. I could feel my heart beating in my chest as the wood stained door unlocked with a click and the porch light dipped on briefly. As the door opened, a woman in her fifties appeared, her light blue hijab looking like she had just fastened it in a rush for unexpected company.
Her kind brown eyes suddenly filled with fear as they zeroed in on my bleeding torso and the gun positioned right next to the wound. Immediately, she started to frantically speak in a Dutch tone I couldn't understand. Ashton completely ignored her protests, simply commanding, "help her," in English. His French dialect seemed even more pronounced now. Ashton had assumed she spoke English like the remaining ninety-three percent of the Dutch population. He must have been right, because she timidly moved in the doorway to let us in, her eyes never leaving his weapon as she did so.
She quickly shut the heavy wooden front door behind us and flicked the porch light off. Diligently her feet lead us to her kitchen where she gestured for me to lay on a marble island in the small but modern cooking area. "I do not speak good English," she hesitated to get out, standing a few feet away from us like we were poison. I suppose we were.
Ashton helped me lay on the counter, taking off my blood-stained shirt to reveal the packed wound. It was close enough to the edge of my side that maybe I would get away without damage, but there was almost no such thing as 'just' a flesh wound. "It's fine," Ashton replied in Arabic. "Fix her and we will leave as fast as possible." There was no familiarity in his commanding tone, making me question if this really was who I think it is. That would certainly explain his standoffishness.
"If treatment is all you seek, leave your weapons over there," she responded in a surprised tone, most likely not expecting the seemingly native Frenchman to know her language so well. Ashton didn't argue, just glanced at me with his ocean eyes. It was the same look he gave me during missions when he wanted my opinion. Right now my opinion was that we had no other choice.
With a look of reluctance, Ashton reached behind me and dislodged my gun from my waistband before taking the two silenced pistols from his waistband and jacket pocket respectively. The woman watched from the doorway of her cozy kitchen with a look of horror painting her features. When he put the weapons down on the cool counter, he returned to my side and looked at the woman. "It's a nine-millimeter bullet shot point-blank, straight through. I don't know if it hit an intestine, but it's close enough to the edge that she might not have."
She bit her lip for a moment before responding because of fear that her silence would cost her her life. "I can try and stop the bleeding and maybe repair an intestine but it's risky. Lay her down." Ashton did as he was told, gently helping my torso relax on the counter. A glistening sweat was starting to appear on my forehead as the pain refused to numb, instead only more blood leaving my body. A few feet away I heard the tap water turn on as the dark-eyed woman washed her hands and then dried them, turning the tap back off.
"I need to get some supplies from my bathroom," she said in as firm a tone she could manage. I glanced at her nonchalantly before looking back at Ashton. His large hand squeezed mine briefly before letting go.
"Let's go, then," he nodded with his chin. Ashton had to make sure she didn't do something stupid like try to call the police. I counted the seconds as the two pairs of feet mounted a wood staircase, the sound echoing through the house. They weren't squeaky, instead, they sounded brand new and solid. The house was small but extremely well kept and high quality. Ashton hadn't left his mother to struggle, and I'm sure her medical job helped pay the bills.
