Chapter 11

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I stood behind Red, my eyes fixed on the scene unfolding in front of us. The pregnant refugee laid on the filthy floor, the crimson liquid gushing out of her like a fucking slaughtered pig.

Red got down in the mess and swallowed hard. She grasped the edges of the woman’s skirt and yanked it up, exposing her bloodied underwear.

“Oh, fuck,” she mumbled, a shocked expression crossing her face as she quickly removed the woman’s drenched underwear.

The stench of iron and sweat choked me, making me want to gag. Hell, I could taste that shit in the back of my throat.

“Do you have any towels? Water? A flashlight?” Red demanded from the other refugees, her eyes scanning the room for any available resources.

They scrambled around like headless chickens, eventually handing her a couple of dirty-ass towels, a half-empty water bottle, and a flickering flashlight. Real top-notch supplies.

“Rogue, get over here and hold the light,” she called out, pointing to the area between the woman’s legs. “I need to see what’s going on there.”

I grabbed that flashlight and aimed it at the bloody mess, positioning the light to give her the best visibility. The sight was a warzone of blood, sweat, and God knows what else.

Red leaned in close to the woman and asked, “What’s your name?”

She managed to gasp out a response, “Farida,” beads of sweat dripping down her face.

Red nodded, her eyes locked on the refugee’s. “Alright, Farida. I need you to push, okay?”

A man crouched behind her—another refugee, his shirt stained and threadbare, hands trembling slightly as he pressed his palm to the woman’s shoulder. He muttered something in their language, low and guttural, probably telling her the same thing Harper was saying. I didn’t understand it, but the tone, that urgency, was clear as day.

He might’ve been translating, though hell, it was anybody’s guess. They usually got the gist of English, but I’d learned not to expect them to use it back. Maybe they didn’t trust it, or maybe they just wanted to stick with what felt real to them. Didn't matter.

“Push, goddammit!” Red barked again, looking back at me, and the man echoed her, his voice gruff, probably saying whatever the hell it was in her language to make it stick.

The chick gritted her teeth, her body trembling with effort. She pushed with a primal scream, her face contorting in pain as she fought to bring this baby into the world.

The baby’s head started to show, slick with all kinds of crap. This shit was primal, raw as hell. But then, like some sick joke, the baby got stuck, wedged in the birth canal. I could see it, plain as day, the little fucker refusing to come out.

I didn’t blame the kid. If it were me, I wouldn’t want to be born into this shitty place either, especially not in the middle of a damn war, abandoned building for a nursery, half-starved refugees huddling in corners like rats. Who’d want that? Who’d willingly crawl out into a life like this?

“We need to reposition the baby,” Red said handling the situation like a champ.

She sprang into action, reaching inside the woman, her hands coated in blood and bodily fluids. She went in, gripping that slippery little fucker, twisting and pulling with a force that made my stomach churn.

“I need your hands,” she requested, her voice tight with worry. “Help me push on the mother’s abdomen.”

I leaned in closer, my gaze fixated on the gruesome sight. Blood mixed with amniotic fluid, creating a fucking mess that seemed to defy description. I saw the strain on the woman’s face, the beads of sweat rolling down her forehead as she fought through the pain.

I reached down, feeling the warm, slippery mess of blood and tissue. With a forceful grip, I applied pressure, trying to maneuver the baby’s head out of that tight spot.

Red did the same and we both managed to reposition the baby, shifting it into a better position. Then her voice cut through the air like a chainsaw, commanding the woman to push. And push she did, her face contorted in agony as her body strained with each exertion.

One more push and maybe I would finally get a decent night’s sleep.

I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking we were in the clear. But then, like a cruel fucking joke, the umbilical cord wrapped tightly around the baby’s neck, its little face turning purple from the pressure. Panic welled up inside me as I realized we didn’t have any medical instruments to cut that cord.

“Shit, we don’t have any scissors or clamps,” she said, turning to me.

As Red and I racked our brains for a solution, the mother’s screaming hit a new level of hysteria. She was on the verge of delivering now, and her pain was reaching a fever pitch. We’ve got nothing to cut this umbilical cord, and time was running out.

Red’s voice betrayed her anxiety as she frantically searched for something to help with the delivery. “Think, think, think...”

Her voice betrayed her anxiety as she frantically searched for a solution. And then, her gaze landed on me, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “Rogue, your penknife!” she demanded.

I reached into my pocket, retrieving the small blade, and tossed it to her. She snatched the penknife from my hand, her fingers trembling as she positioned it near the baby’s delicate neck.

Carefully, like it was her last fucking option, she sliced through the umbilical cord, freeing the kid from what could’ve been a death sentence. And then, with a rush of blood and fluids, the baby slipped out, its tiny body covered in a bloody, slippery mess.

The little thing gasped, its face shifting from a sickly blue to something resembling human.

But his mother’s bleeding didn’t stop. It was bad—like, holy shit, really bad. Crimson kept flowing from her torn-up cunt like a fucking river. Jesus Christ, we were about to lose her.

I grabbed whatever the fuck I could find—towels, torn pieces of fabric, dusty but seemingly clean enough, at this point anything—and pressed them against the woman’s bleeding cunt, trying to staunch the flow.

But the blood kept pouring out.

“She is bleeding like a fucking waterfall,” I grumbled, watching as her blood continued to flow freely and without any sign of slowing the fuck down.

Red’s face paled, her gaze shifting to the woman. Without missing a beat, she handed the newborn boy to one of the nearby refugees, making sure the little fucker was safe.

I assumed it was the father, though at this point, who fucking knows.

“Take care of him,” she said, handing over the bloody little thing like it was made of glass.

The guy, barely keeping his shit together, nodded and clutched the baby to his chest. His eyes darted between the blood-stained floor and the woman he knocked up, pale and sweating like death was knocking at the door.

He knew, just like we did—this was Russian roulette, and the odds weren’t looking great for his woman.

Red crouched next to the mom, who let out this weak-ass moan, her eyes fluttering as she barely clung to consciousness.

“Stay with me, Farida!” she shouted, her voice breaking as she tried to keep the woman awake and alert. “We’re not letting you go.”

But hell, she was already halfway there.

We fought against time, against biology, against the odds. Red was working to get the placenta out, but everything was coated in red, her hands slipping. I knew enough to understand that the whole mess inside of her had to come out, every last bit, or she’d end up infected or worse. But the blood kept coming, pouring out in thick waves that made the baby’s cries seem small.

“Spread her legs,” Red ordered, brooking no disobedience. “I need to stop the haemorrhage.”

I obeyed her command without question. I knelt down, keeping my shit together. I wasn’t too worried about being gentle at this point, so I just jammed my hands in and pushed the refugee woman’s legs apart, exposing her ravaged womb like it was just another Tuesday afternoon.

Her flesh was torn and bloody, her inner thighs slick with crimson. I could see the raw, gaping wound where her vagina had been torn open.

What a wonderful time to be alive.

Red positioned herself between those spread legs, her hands coated in blood as she massaged the woman’s uterus and applied pressure in a desperate attempt to stop the flood.

But no matter how hard she massaged, the bleeding didn’t seem to stop. The woman’s eyes rolled back into her head, and she passed out, her body going limp in my arms.

Red reapplied pressure, her fingers digging into the woman’s flesh like knives in meat.

After what felt like a fucking eternity, her efforts paid off. The bleeding began to slow, but it wasn’t enough. The chick’s pulse remained weak as hell.

“Is she gonna make it?” I asked, my words sharp and direct.

The thought of that bitch dying sent a chill down my spine. If she kicked the bucket, those other refugees might not give two shits about leading us out of this city.

Red took a moment to catch her breath before responding.

“I did all I could, Rogue. The rest is up to her,” she said, her voice heavy with defeat.

I felt a knot tighten in my gut as I stared at her—covered in blood and sweat, barely holding herself together. Her body was shaking, her shoulders slumped from the sheer weight of the hell we’ve been through.

She spotted a bottle of water near the unconscious woman and dragged herself over to it. She uncapped it, poured the water over her bloody hands, scrubbing them like she was trying to wash away all the fucked-up shit we’d just seen.

I scanned the room. The other refugees were just standing there, eyes glued to the scene, waiting for some miracle to happen. The only sound cutting through the silence was the baby’s cries. They were praying she’d pull through, that this woman wouldn’t die right in front of them. If she didn’t make it, things were gonna get a hell of a lot worse for us.

But for now, I pushed those thoughts aside. The priority was getting out of this city, and if that bitch survival meant securing our escape, then that was what I would focus on.

The refugee woman was slipping in and out of consciousness as her body, weakened from the brutal childbirth and the severe blood loss, struggled to hold on.

Red was busting her ass trying to keep her alive, dabbing her with damp towels to soak up the fever, giving her sips of water like it was gonna make any real difference.

At one point, the woman managed to crack her eyes open, staring up at Red with those glassy, pitiful eyes. She reached out, fingers barely grazing Red’s cheek, and of course, Red’s expression softened like she was dealing with a damn kitten.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered softly, her voice full of compassion as she gently patted the woman on the head.

The refugee gave this pathetic little smile, tears in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she breathed, like she wasn’t about to bleed out on the floor.

Then her eyes fluttered shut again, slipping right back into unconsciousness.

Damn it.

My blood was fucking boiling. Jaw clenched so tight I thought my teeth would crack. I had no goddamn right to feel like this—jealous, pissed off—but there it was, rearing its ugly head. I wanted to be the one she touched, the one Red turned soft for, not this half-dead chick.

My hands balled into fists and I had to remind myself to breathe. I felt like a jealous moron. I was angry at some random woman for touching Red . How fucking pathetic was that? Red didn’t belong to me, never did, but I couldn’t shake this possessiveness. It was eating me alive.

I wanted to smash something, punch a hole in the damn wall, maybe even break a few bones just to feel anything but this jealousy. The metallic taste of restraint was thick in my mouth as I gritted my teeth, fighting the urge to rip Red away from that refugee before I did something real fucking stupid. My head was spinning with how badly I needed to keep it together. I had to contain myself, to act like a adult and not lash out like a brat.

I stood there, cold as ice, watching as Red finally turned toward me. She could tell something was off, but I wasn’t about to spill my guts.

“Farida’s doing a bit better,” she said, nodding towards the woman.

“Good. Keep an eye on her,” I muttered, my voice curt and cold. “We need to get her out of here as soon as possible.”

I leaned against the wall, watching as Red joined me, absently rubbing her fingers along the spot where the necklace used to be. She seemed lost in thought, eyes locked on that empty space between her tits. Losing something that meant so much, especially from her old man, I assumed that shit cut deep.

But in my world, emotions were for pussies who couldn’t handle their shit. So, I pushed down that feeling of sorry and shove it deep into the recesses of my mind.

I cleared my throat and spoke in a rough voice, my accent thickening slightly.

“You did a hell of a job back there,” I blurted out of nowhere, surprising even myself. “You should be proud of yourself.”

I knew it was a feeble attempt, a pitiful band-aid on a gaping wound.

Her fingers paused their tracing of her bare throat, and she turned to stare at me with a look of surprise. It was not often that I got all sentimental and shit, but this felt like the right moment.

“Yeah, I guess,” she murmured, tucking a strand of flame-kissed hair behind her ear. “Thanks.”

She looked up at me, her eyes searching for something. Maybe safety, maybe validation. Fuck knows. Whatever it was, I couldn’t give it to her, not the way she needed.

Instead, I nodded, my gaze cast downward. “We make a good team, Red.”

“We do,” she whispered, a shy smile spreading across her cheeks.

I resisted the urge to reach out and pull her into a hug. That was not who I was. It had been so long since I had felt the touch of a woman like that, and my body craved it. But I held back.

As I sat near Red, trying to catch my damn breath and scrape together some energy, this grimy-ass refugee shuffled up like a walking dumpster fire. The guy looked like he hadn’t touched a shower in weeks—filth caked on him from head to toe. He spoke English like he had a sock in his mouth, his busted-up words barely making sense as he shoved some crumpled piece of shit paper in my face.

“You go. Fast. Many dangers,” he stuttered, rough and slurred. “Follow. Safe from talibans.”

I raised an eyebrow, impressed that this poor bastard has managed to navigate the chaotic streets and survive long enough to offer us an escape route.

“Good work, mate,” I said, not really caring. "You got a name?"

I don’t usually do names. Never gave a fuck about them, honestly. Names were a waste of time when you were in my line of work. People die, they disappear, they turn on you. The less personal you make it, the easier it is to move on when shit hits the fan. But something told me I needed this filthy bastard to trust me.

He hesitated for a moment, then responded, “Aziz.”

It felt awkward in my mouth, like I was chewing on rocks. My brain stumbled over it, too. Azeeez...Azazz? Whatever. Close enough.

I nodded, more out of habit than gratitude. “Thanks, man. We appreciate the help, Aziz,” I mumbled, probably butchered it.

But that wasn’t the point. Names set up some kind of intimate connection —or at least, that’s what they say. And in this fucked-up situation, I needed that connection. Needed this greasy motherfucker to think I gave a shit, to trust me enough to lead us out of this hellhole.

He pointed to some route on the ratty map like he was giving us gold. “This way. Avoid checkpoints.”

Thank fuck.

I grabbed the nasty-ass paper from his dirty hands, giving it a once-over. The map looked like a toddler’s finger painting, a mess of lines and squiggles, but it was all we had.

Just as I was about to take a closer look, another idiot came barreling towards us, shouting in Pashto like a maniac. Every panicked word out of his mouth made my skin crawl.

The other refugee, being the only one with a halfway functioning brain, translated quick enough. “Talibans found us. We run!”

Everyone around us lost their shit, scrambling like roaches when the lights come on, grabbing their crap and trying to get the hell out.

Red’s eyes darted to the refugee woman sprawled on the ground, barely clinging to life. Her voice shook as she muttered, “Farida can’t move; she’s lost too much blood.”

I glanced over at the woman, her husband standing there like a brick wall, clutching their kid while some other bastard tried to drag them away. But that stubborn son of a bitch wasn’t budging and I couldn’t blame him. Love, loyalty, and all that shit.

“Red, we need to move” I shouted over the chaos as I pushed her up and away from the wall.

I wasn’t about to waste time reasoning with her. I grabbed her hand, gripping it hard enough to make sure she’d feel it tomorrow, using my body to bulldoze through the sea of desperate motherfuckers.

And then, as shit couldn’t get any worse, out of the blue, a single gunshot rang out, loud and jarring.

It wasn’t the Talis pulling the trigger this time.

No, this was something much more fucked-up.