"I'm not gonna lie, dude. This is way beyond the realm of my capabilities."

Chance hissed, wincing, as Guerrero probed the wound and located the bullet, which was lodged deep in the big muscle of the blond man's thigh. Blood seeped from the hole and stained the shirt Guerrero had wrapped around Chance's leg as a tourniquet.

"I'm not going in there. Don't wanna hamstring you, dude."

"Yeah. Please don't do that," Chance groaned. Winston looked back at him in the rearview mirror, dark eyes tense. "Tell me you have somebody, Guerrero."

"I know a guy in Riga who's really good with gunshot wounds."

"'Riga'? As in Latvia?" Chance cast a despairing glance at Winston in the front. The big man had his cell out and was dialing with his thumb, one eye on the road.

Guerrero raised his eyebrows doubtfully. "Miroslav's good, dude. He's an artist. Did I ever show you that stab wound on my hip? Barely a scar."

The blond thumped the driver's side headrest demandingly.

"Yeah, yeah. I got someone," his partner muttered as the phone on the other end of the line rang. "Maybe."

The security guard at the gate surveyed the two men in the back seat warily, even going so far as to tip the brim of his hat up so he could see better. His almond-shaped eyes narrowed. Guerrero sucked his tongue in annoyance and tried not to look so much as if he was grasping another man's thigh.

"Hi, how are you? We're here to see Dr. Birdsall," Winston announced over the descending car window in his patented friendly yet business-like manner.

The guard nodded absently and circled the vehicle. "Dr. Birdsall called ahead to say that you would be coming. Said to let you through."

"Then just let us on through," Winston muttered through his grin. Chance smiled gamely as the guard passed his window and raised two fingers to his brow in a mini-salute. Guerrero, meanwhile, was eyeing the Walther PPK holstered on the guard's hip. The guard was on the short side, but he had the air about him of a man who knows what he is doing. His face was broad and tan; Guerrero guessed that he was Vietnamese. He glanced down as the dark eyes peered into his window to assess him. He felt moisture on his fingers: blood was oozing through the cloth they had wadded into Chance's wound. Guerrero applied more pressure and received an answering grunt from the blond.

At last the guard nodded at Winston and said, "Go ahead, sir." He made a whirling motion with one finger pointed up in the air, a gesture that caused Chance's eyebrows to shoot up.

"Ex-military?" the veteran guessed as Winston pulled into the lot and around the low building.

"These people are not messing around," Guerrero concurred, scanning the property curiously: non-descript facility, not much parking.

"They can't, if they want to stay alive." Winston parked the car on the far side of a dumpster and emerged to help Chance out. The blond hobbled along, balanced between Winston's bulk and Guerrero's slighter frame, toward the rear entrance of the facility. The door opened as they approached.

"Hi, Zahra," Winston called. "Good to see you."

The petite woman in the doorway shot him a bemused grin, then stepped aside to allow the men passage inside. "My office," she indicated sotto voce. "Second door on the right." She followed them into the small room, where Winston and Guerrero plopped their charge unceremoniously on one of the two chairs positioned in front of the desk. Kneeling at Chance's side, she bent her dark head to explore the side of his thigh with gentle fingertips. " Are you infected with any blood-borne diseases? HIV? Hepatitis?"

Chance shook his head.

"Taking any medications?"

"Unh-unh."

"Are you experiencing any numbness in the limb?"

"Nope," Chance hissed as she probed the wound.

"Is there any chance someone followed you here? Anyone coming after you? If so, I need to get my people out immediately. I won't put them in harm's way." She raised assertive eyebrows questioningly at Winston.

"Those guys…won't be traveling anytime soon," the big man replied diplomatically.

"Except on the astral plane," Guerrero muttered.

Dr. Birdsall glanced at Guerrero, then back to Winston, and sighed. "I knew there'd be an ask someday, Win, but you couldn't have brought me an easier one?"

"I can take care of the easy ones," Guerrero drawled.

She shot him an appraising look. Her dark eyes seemed like the traits of an ancient race, the sort of eyes that had inspired Solomon's song. He tilted one hip down to sit on the edge of her desk to demonstrate insouciance. She looked back at Chance. "I have to get rid of my nurses, then we can move you to the O.R. Wait here." Then she was nothing but a lab coat and heels clicking away down the corridor. Winston pulled the door shut behind her.

"She seems nice," Chance groaned, shifting his buttock to a more comfortable position.

Guerrero was looking around the office. Thick books, colorful diagrams, framed degrees…Kevlar? "What's with the body armor, dude?"

Winston pursed his lips, impressed. "I'm glad to see she's still wearing that. There should be a nice little Glock in there." He indicated a small safe nestled in the base of a bookshelf. "That's how I met her, you know. S.F.P.D. was called in because of threats against the doctors in this clinic, Zahra included. Some of the doctors hired armed drivers to bring them to and from work. But Zahra…" He grinned. "She decided to arm herself."