"Easy, now. We're nearly there. Just hang on, Skeeter. Soon you'll be asleep again, mending faster than you realize." When he furrowed his brow, worried about money, she correctly guessed the cause. "Don't worry about the bill, Skeeter. Someone's already agreed to pay it. "
"Who?" he croaked through his still-tight voice.
Rachel chuckled and tickled his nose. "Kit Carson."
Skeeter's eyes widened. "Kit? But....ut why?"
Rachel laughed warmly this time. "Who ever understands why Kit does any of the things he does? He's an original. Like you."
Then the back doors opened and his gurney was untied, slid backwards, and the wheels lowered. Skeeter closed his eyes against the dizziness of the moving ceiling overhead and pondered Rachel's revelation. Why would Kit Carson, of all people, agree to pay for Skeeter's medical bills? He couldn't understand it. Still didn't when they injected something incredibly potent into his IV's heplock. The room swam in dizzy circles for just a second or two, then darkness closed around him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
When Skeeter, aware of a new inner strength, coldcocked and then mopped up the floor with Mike Benson, the big cop didn't even press charges. "Rotten bastard," Skeeter growled. "Bad enough you tortured me for hours-I might actually have deserved it, given my reputation" another punch sent Benson reeling into the wall, whereupon he slid comically to the floor like a wrung out cartoon, "-but no, you had to do the same thing to Marcus, who's never done a goddamned thing wrong in his life. This one's for Marcus." And he slammed the flat of his hand against Benson's nose, with just enough force to break it, but not enough to drive a sliver of bone fatally back into the brain. Blood poured in streams. His eyes lost all focus. He was still sitting there, unable to move so much as one arm, as Skeeter stormed through the astonished crowd of onlookers.
He'd found the Security Chief near Primary, which was due to cycle soon. Montgomery Wilkes, with his red hair, black uniform, and steel-cold eyes, routinely prowled the whole area. When Wilkes deliberately put himself in Skeeter's way, growling out, "You are under arrest, you filthy little rat," a collective gasp went up.
Skeeter said dangerously, "No way, Herr Hitler. Way outside your jurisdiction."
"Nothing's outside my jurisdiction. And people like you are a danger to peace in our time. And I'm the one who's going to take you off the streets." When Wilkes actually grabbed Skeeter by the arm, he slammed his other fist into Monty's solar plexus. Monty doubled over with a gasp of shock, letting go of Skeeter's arm to hold his middle. Skeeter, coldly enraged, took advantage of Wilkes' doubled-up condition and added a nice chop to the back of his neck. Skeeter then kicked him to the floor. That felt good. Wilkes had been begging it for years. He said loudly enough for Wilkes to hear, "Look, I haven't broken any of your laws. And you just assaulted me. Just remember, I'm hell and gone outside your jurisdiction, Nazi. Or do you really want to spend another couple of weeks in Mike Benson's lockup?"
Wilkes, too winded to reply, glared coldly up at him, eyes promising retaliation.
Skeeter gave out a harsh bark of laughter that startled Wilkes into widening his eyes. "Forget it, Monty You do and I'll press charges so serious, you'll end rotting in a cell forever. l grew up as a living god in the yurt of Genghis Khan. I could kill you in so many different ways, not even your lurid imagination could come up with all of 'em. So take some advice. Go hassle taxes out of honest tourists who can't or won't fight back."
He spat, the wad of saliva landing right next to Monty's chin. The head ATF agent didn't bat so much as an eyelash. "Face it, Wilkes. You're no better than I am. You've just got a badge to hide behind when you swindle people and pocket the stuff you skim off the top, before it's ever recorded where government accountants might find it. So cut the Mr.-Up-holding-Law-and-Order-Good-Guy crap. I ain't buyin' it and I ain't scared of you or any of your underhanded tricks. Got that, Monty?"
Monty looked cold and pale on the floor. He nodded stiffly, his face nearly cracking with the movement. Skeeter had him dead-to-rights and they both knew it.
"Good. You leave me the hell alone and I'll leave you the hell alone."
God, that felt good.
When he stalked away, anger palpably radiating from him, everyone got out of his way. Even ATF agents. It reminded Skeeter of that Charlton Heston movie, where the sea had peeled back for the Israelites to flee Pharaoh's wrath.
So far, so good. Two thrashings down, one yelling match to come. Next stop: Kit Carson's office.
He shoved impatiently past the Neo Edo's front desk, grabbed an elevator, pressed the unmarked button, and rose swiftly upward into Kit's private domain. When he stormed into the office, not bothering to remove his shoes, Kit's brows knotted above a deeply disproving frown. Skeeter didn't care. He knew Kit would put him down in about two seconds if he started anything physical, so he gritted his teeth, leaned his palms on the enormous desk, and said, "All, right, Carson. Let's hear it. Why?"
Kit hadn't moved. The stillness scared Skeeter, despite his momentum and the fire in his blood.
"Sit down, Skeeter." It was not an invitation. It was an order and a fairly forceful one at that.
Skeeter sat.
Kit finally moved, back slightly in his chair and observing Skeeter closely for several silent moments. His clothes were disarranged slightly from the knock-down, drag-out with Benson and his knuckles were a scraped-up mess from bringing Monty the Monster down a peg or two. Kit finally pointed to the wall-sized rank of monitors to Skeeter's right. He turned cautiously, wondering why Kit wanted him to look at them, then understood in a single flash of understanding. One of the screens showed live feed directly from a security camera at Primary. He. saw Mike Benson staggering to his feet, still bleeding, with the help of two of his men. The sway in his knees warmed Skeeter's heart. Yesukai would have approved: honor avenged.
"That, Skeeter, was quite a performance." Kit's voice came out dry as a Mongolian sandstorm.
"I wasn't performing," Skeeter growled. "And you haven't answered me yet." He ignored the monitors and glared at Kit, whose abrupt bark of laughter startled him so deeply he almost forgot why he'd come up here. "Do you have any idea," Kit said, actually wiping tears, "how long I've wanted someone to put that overbearing ass on the floor so hard his brains rattled? Of course, this is going to start another round of battle between ATF and Station Management. Oh, don't look so scared, boy. I just got off the phone with Bull Morgan, who was laughing so hard he just about couldn't talk." That world-famous grin came and went. "No need to worry about charges being pressed or getting thrown off station. Both of those idiots got what they richly deserved."
Word traveled fast in La-La Land. Skeeter sighed. "Okay. So everybody's cheering my fight of honor. Big deal. But you still haven't answered my question."
Kit studied him some more. Then rose and walked barefooted except for black tabi socks to a sumptuous bar. He chose an ancient-looking bottle, handled it with the greatest reverence, and found two shot glasses. He poured carefully, not wasting a drop, then put the bottle cautiously back into the depths of the bar. Skeeter realized he was being granted some special privilege and didn't know why.
Kit returned and set a shot glass in front of him then resumed his chair. His brown eyes were steady as they met Skeeter's. "Marcus is a friend," he said softly. "I couldn't go after him, which damn near broke my heart. I've watched that boy grow from a terrified slave into a strong and self-confident young man. I've offered him jobs dozens of times, but he always shakes his head and says he prefers friendship over charity."