Manny forced his lids to open. His vision was wonky as hell, but it was amazing what you could pull out of your ass if you had to—and as the man in front of him came into focus, he found himself staring up at the goateed motherfucker who had . . .
On a fresh wave of fucking-OW, his eyes rolled back and he nearly threw up.
“You’ve got to release the memories,” he heard Jane say.
There was some conversating at that point, his former colleague’s voice mixing with the deep tones of that man with the tattoos at his temple.
“It’s killing him—”
“There’s too much risk—”
“How the hell is he going to operate like this?”
There was a long silence. And then all of a sudden, the pain lifted as if it were a veil drawn back, all that pressure gone within the blink of an eye. In its place, memories flooded his mind.
Jane’s patient. From back at St. Francis. The man with the goatee and . . . the six-chambered heart. Who had shown up in Manny’s office and taken the files on that cardiac anomaly of his.
Manny popped open his lids and lasered in on that nasty-looking face. “I know you.”
“You get him out of the car,” was the only response from Goatee. “I don’t trust myself to touch him.”
Hell of a welcome wagon.
And there was someone else behind the big bastard. A man Manny was one hundred percent sure he’d seen before . . . Must have been only in passing, though, because he couldn’t call up a name or remember where they’d met.
“Let’s go,” Jane said.
Yeah. Great idea. At this point, he needed something to focus on other than all this say-what?.
As Manny’s brain struggled to process what was happening, at least his feet and legs got with the program. After Jane helped him out of the car and onto the vertical, he followed her and the Goateed Hater into a facility that was as nondescript and clean as any hospital: Corridors were uncluttered, fluorescent lights were in panels on the ceiling, everything smelled like Lysol.
And there were also the bubbled fixtures of security cameras at regular intervals, like the building was a monster with many eyes.
While they walked along, he knew better than to ask any questions. Well, that and his head was so scrambled, he was pretty fucking sure ambulation was the extent of his capabilities at this point. And then there was Goatee and his death stare—not exactly an opening for chitchat.
Doors. They passed many doors. All of which were closed and no doubt locked.
Happy little words like undisclosed location and national security hopscotched through his cranial park, and that helped a lot, making him think maybe he could forgive Jane for ghosting out on him—eventually.
When she stopped outside a pair of double flappers, her hands fidgeted with the lapels of her white coat and then the stethoscope in her pocket. And didn’t that make him feel like he had a gun to his head: In the OR, in countless trauma messes, she’d always kept her cool. It was her trademark.
This was personal, though, he thought. Somehow, whatever was on the other side of these doors hit close to home for her.
“I’ve got good equipment here,” she said, “but not everything. No MRI. Just CAT scans and X-rays. The OR should be adequate, however, and not only can I assist, but I’ve got an excellent nurse.”
Manny took a breath and reached down deep, pulling himself together. By force of will, he shut off all the questions and the lingering ow-ow-ow in his head and the strangeness of this descent into 007-land.
First thing on his to-do list? Ditch the pissed-off peanut gallery.
He glanced over his shoulder at Goatee. “You need to back off, my man. I want you out in the hall.”
The response he got in return was . . . just fang-tastic: The bastard bared a pair of canines as long as his arm and growled, natch, like a dog.
“Fine,” Jane said, getting in between them. “That’s fine. Vishous will wait out here.”
Vishous? Had he heard that right?
Then again, this boy’s baby mama sure hit the nail on the head, considering that little dental show. But whatever. Manny had a job to do, and maybe the bastard could go chew on a rawhide or something.