James Rodriguez

The younger medic, a Fidean woman with quick eyes, glanced at me.

You require medical attention as well, sir.

I assessed my condition dehydration, fatigue, minor cuts across my hands and forearms from vegetation.

Nothing requiring immediate intervention.

I'm functional.

Focus on her.

The harper mister approached with a clipboard as they loaded Emily into a waiting ambulance.

His weathered face showed professional concern.

Your aircraft needs refueling, sir.

Later, I nodded toward the plane.

Security watch until I return.

No one accesses the cargo.

He made a note.

Customs officials will need to contact Spencer Wilson's office.

All arrangements pre-cleared through diplomatic channels.

I handed him the expedition documentation for my waterproof pack.

I need transportation to Notty General Hospital.

37 minutes later, I sat in a molded plaster chair in the hospital's waiting area.

The antiseptic smell mixed with the lingering jungle scent still embedded in my clothing.

I'd washed my face and hands in the restroom, creating pink-tinked water in the basin from dried blood and dirt.