Lawrence nodded. “He had me shackle you up in the first place, when they brung you in.”
“Give it to me,” Bob said. “When I throw the door open and run in, you take Terry out along the left side of the room, which is mostly clear. Take him directly out the door on the other side, and get him out of here.”
“Man… you’re pushing this favor thing a whole long way, ordering me to do shit,” Lawrence muttered. “I’m trying to do right here, but…”
“I’ll apologize properly later, when we have time,” Bob said. “But for now, he has a wife and kids, and he’s pathetic, not evil.”
“You’re going to handle them two on your own?” Lawrence sounded doubtful.
“I’ll manage,” Bob said. “Ready? Okay. We go on three. One… two…”
47
The door flew open, slamming into the near wall as they burst into the cook room. Bob ran straight ahead, towards Diego.
The noise drew everyone’s attention, the cooks looking up. Diego turned quickly. He drew a pistol from the back of his waistband.
The gun had the predicted effect; a cook nearby screamed, and suddenly the room was a madhouse, people panicking, fleeing past the bodyguard and pushing around Merry, who clung to one of the tables with his fingertips.
Diego tried to aim over the group, but Bob ducked low, using the fleeing mob as cover.
The sea of bodies parted enough for Diego to sight him. Bob glanced around quickly, his hand going for a large glass flask, grasping it by its long, skinny neck and flinging it, backhanded, towards the guard.
Diego raised his hands to protect his face, the glass bouncing off him and shattering on the ground.
He lifted the pistol again, but Bob was on him, driving a palm punch at his elbow joint, pushing the gun wide, the shots skewing off target.
Diego tried to regain his balance, swinging the gun back towards Bob, even as the ex-agent lashed out with a low sidekick, driving the ball of his foot through the big man’s knee joint. Bob felt a crunch and Diego screamed, collapsing to his other knee, the gun dropped in a moment of agonizing pain.
Bob scrambled to retrieve it. The weight came down on his back unexpectedly, a sharp pain stabbing at Bob’s shoulder blade as Merry plunged the knife in once, twice, three times in quick succession.
Bob half turned at the waist, grabbing the heavier man’s jacket and waistband, pivoting at the hip and using his thigh to trip Merry, the judo throw tossing him near-effortlessly to the ground, the drug dealer’s weight doing most of the work. Adrenaline was firing, the pain in his ribs temporarily forgotten.
Merry slammed to the ground, the switchblade skittering away. Bob crouched down quickly and hammered the man in the side of the chin, where the mental nerve resides. It compressed, Merry losing consciousness, his eyes rolling back even as he blacked out.
The gun. Bob rose and turned in time to see Diego, on one knee, reach down to an ankle holster.
Bob threw himself forward, skidding across the slick tile floor, his hand reaching the Glock. He turned as Diego’s snub-nosed revolver came free, aimed directly at him.
Bob fired four shots center mass, the bodyguard going over backwards.
Diego lay unmoving. Bob got up, keeping an eye on Merry while walking over to the bodyguard. Diego was coughing up mouthfuls of blood, one of the bullets having pierced a lung.
Damn it. A year. More than a year without having to… He looked down at the man choking on his own blood. One of the wounds was pumping fluid in irregular gasps, an artery hit somewhere, possibly the heart.
A haunted sensation struck Bob, memories of being young, alone in the woods, watching a deer he’d trapped accidentally suffering.
No chance he makes it.
Do it quickly, Bobby, don’t let him suffer.
He shot Diego twice through the head.
Merry woke suddenly, his arm twitching several times before his eyes snapped open, the Operation board he’d been carrying upside down on the floor beside him.
“Who–?” he mumbled bleakly.
“Me.” Bob reached down and snapped a quick jab from the shoulder, knocking the man out again.
He looked up. On the far side of the room, Merry’s surgeon was frozen in place, one hand against the wall, bracing himself and shocked.
“It’s okay,” Bob said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The man stared, unblinking, unmoving, terrified.
“But I need your help. First, you’re going to patch the stab wounds in my back. Then, the dolly in the corner… bring it over here.” Merry weighed more than he could handle alone, Bob knew. “Help me move this useless tub of shit, then I’ll let you go.”
Time to get Mr. Merry Michelsen talking. And I have just the right incentive in mind.
Bob threw the flask of cold water into Merry’s face. He woke with a start, shaking his head, trying to expel the droplets, unsure of what was happening.
“Where–?” He tried to lift his head and look around. Then he tried to raise his arms, feeling the shackles bite at his wrists. “Fuck.”
“Appropriate,” Bob said.
“You! You…” His rage was flaring, his face flushed and contorted into a snarl.
“I strapped you to the same table as you did me,” Bob said. “I had to get help getting you in here, and even then we needed a dolly. I’m not one to judge, but you ever think about laying off the burgers for a week?”
