A Man Alone. Lindsay McKenna

to continue his recovery at a stateside hospital?”

      “Of course. He is stable now. You have a doctor on board to monitor him?”

      Morgan nodded. “A trauma-trained emergency room physician. Yes.”

      “Then my suggestion would be to wait another twelve hours. He just came out of surgery three hours ago. We have him in a private room, as you ordered. He has just come out of anesthesia and is semiconscious. Give him time to adjust first.”

      “Would you suggest a bone specialist for him?”

      “Of course. The infection in his bone, if it spreads, must be aggressively followed with antibiotics. And if the antibiotics do not oust it, then the infected part of the bone must be amputated. Otherwise, the infection will spread up his leg and eventually kill him.”

      Morgan nodded and sighed. Then he straightened and looked down at the prim doctor. “If he were your patient, what would you do for him?” When Morgan saw the doctor’s blue eyes twinkle with laughter, he wondered what he’d said that was so amusing.

      Del Prado’s thin mouth puckered. “How we practice medicine here in Peru is a little different than what my colleagues practice in the U.S.A., señor.”

      “Humor me, Doctor. What would you prescribe? They say you’re the best hereabouts, so I’m very interested in your opinion and any ongoing therapy you’d recommend for Captain Hamilton. I’d like to see the man keep his leg. What’s your secret to doing just that?”

      With a flourish, Del Prado said, “I would combine standard medical treatment with alternative intervention. Maggots will eat away any gangrenous flesh that is bound to occur, create new blood vessel beds and bring oxygen into the tissue so it will live instead of die. Here in Peru we also utilize homeopathy, an alternative medicine widely known in Europe as well. I would, if he were to stay here, call in one of our staff homeopaths to work with me on the captain’s behalf. We have found that homeopathy is an excellent support to traditional drug treatment, and the patient receives the best of both worlds. I would also suggest physical therapy along with massage. I know in your country that homeopathy and massage are not part of normal protocol for treating such a patient.” He shrugged his thin, proud shoulders, his eyes gleaming. “But you did ask me what I would do, señor.”

      “So I did. Thank you, Doctor. You gave me the information I needed. I want Captain Hamilton to have the best chance of saving his leg.”

      “Would you care for a referral to one of my norte americana colleagues who studied for a year down here with me on just such cases?”

      Again, Morgan saw the twinkle in the man’s eyes. Realizing now that the doctor wasn’t laughing at him, but rather introducing him to knowledge he knew to be foreign to most Americans, Morgan grinned a little in turn. “Absolutely. Who do you suggest?”

      “Dr. Jonathan Briggs, a doctor of osteopathy in Arizona who studied with our department a number of years ago. He’s familiar with our protocols in a case such as your friend Captain Hamilton. He is a miracle worker of sorts in complex cases such as this. I can give you his address, Señor Trayhern. He practices out of the Red Rock Hospital in Sedona, Arizona.”

      Nodding, Morgan said, “This Dr. Briggs—will he use the same protocols you use?”

      “Si.”

      “You’re sure?”

      With a terse laugh, Dr. Del Prado said, “Dr. Briggs is the man who created this protocol for us in the first place.”

      Grin widening, Morgan said, “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll see to it that Captain Hamilton ends up in Dr. Briggs’s hospital.”

      “Bueno. Good. You can go see Captain Hamilton now, señor. When you are ready, come to me and I will sign the captain’s release forms.” Del Prado escorted him out of the X ray room and into the hall. “Captain Hamilton is on floor four, post-op. You will find him in room 404.”

      Morgan shook his hand and thanked him. Turning, he strode down the hall to the elevators carefully dodging swiftly moving nurses and orderlies.

      Damn. Losing his leg will force Hamilton out of the Corps….

      Morgan knew Hamilton’s personnel jacket by rote. He made it his business to know the background of any person working on one of his operations. Morgan had never met the captain personally, or any of his Recon team, which had come out of Camp Reed, California, but that didn’t matter. He knew the officer was a hard charger with an exceptional record of success on behind-the-lines missions. A man of action. Despite the fact that he was only twenty-seven years old, Hamilton was a marine of incredible accomplishment. And he was up for early promotion—major’s leaves, too. As Morgan got off the elevator on the fourth floor, he wrinkled his nose. The smell of antiseptic was strong here. Almost overpowering. The scent always got to him, reminding him of the time he had spent healing in a hospital in a foreign country.

      Fueled by that miserable memory, Morgan swore to get Hamilton out of here and somewhere familiar—somewhere he could heal surrounded by those who supported and loved him, if possible. As he walked down the empty hall and viewed the brass numbers on each wooden door he passed, memory of his injuries and the difficult time he’d had dealing with them alone convinced him that he did not want the same scenario for Hamilton.

      Finding the correct door, he quietly nudged it open. The private room was small, whitewashed, the blinds on the one window closed giving the room a grayish, depressing look. He saw the young Marine Corps officer lying on a bed covered with white blankets, his face almost matching the material that surrounded him. His eyes were closed. His right leg was in a removable cast, lifted up by a series of pulleys and hung about a foot off the bed.

      The odor of antiseptic made Morgan’s throat tighten. Closing the door, he went over to the window, pulled open the blinds and swung the window outward. Fresh air from the city drifted in, though there was a hint of car pollution in it. He could hear the endless honking of horns below, but the sound was muted because the room was on the fourth floor. Despite everything, Morgan preferred a little fresh air to the choking smell of the hospital.

      Turning, Morgan saw IVs in each of the officer’s limp arms. As he moved toward the marine’s bed, he saw his dark, spiky lashes flutter, his lids barely lifting to reveal murky green eyes with huge black pupils. From the way his eyes appeared, Hamilton was still coming out of the surgery anesthesia.

      “Take it easy, Captain Hamilton,” Morgan said as he approached the bed. “I’m your contact, Morgan Trayhern. I got down here as soon as I could when I found out you’d survived the mission.” He lifted his hand and gently placed it against the white gown across the officer’s shoulder. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Son. You’re in Cusco, Peru, and you’ve just come out of surgery, three hours ago. How are you feeling? Any pain?”

      Thane stared up at the tall man, noting vaguely the concern written across his broad, tense features. The silver gray at his temples shouted of his age, but to Thane, he looked a lot younger and very fit in the charcoal-gray pinstripe suit, impeccably pressed white shirt and conservative, dark blue silk tie. His brain still slow at processing, it took long moments for Thane to understand everything the man had said. The warm grip of the man’s hand on his shoulder, though, translated instantly, and Thane felt genuine care radiating from this stranger.

      Opening his mouth, he realized it felt dry, like the Bolivian desert itself.

      “Thirsty?”

      He nodded slightly, feeling incredibly weak.

      Morgan reached for a pitcher of water on the nearby stand, poured some into a cup and placed a straw into it. “Nurses been by to check on you yet?”

      Thane sucked noisily on the straw. His mouth wasn’t exactly in working order. Grogginess and a floating feeling made his thoughts tumble loosely. Whispering his thanks for the glass of water, he lay back, exhausted by the simple act of drinking and swallowing.

      “Don’t—remember…sir….” he said, his voice hoarse. His