CHAPTER THREE

The two men came in the night, entering his room sometime after three A.M.

Kurtz had nothing to defend himself with—he would have stolen a knife and hidden it under his pillows if the hospital had provided him with a dinner, but they hadn't fed him, so he was still handcuffed and defenseless. He readied himself the only way be could think of—sliding the long intravenous needle on its flexible tube down into his left hand and focusing his energy to swing it into an attacker's eye if he got close enough. But if one or both of these men pulled a gun, Kurtz's only hope was to throw himself to his left and try to tip the entire hospital bed onto himself while screaming bloody murder.

Squinting through his headache pain at the two shadows in the doorway, Kurtz wasn't sure he'd have the strength to tip the bed over. Besides, mattresses, even hospital mattresses, were notoriously poor armor against bullets.

There was a nurse-call button clipped to his pillow above Kurtz's head, but his right hand couldn't reach it because of the handcuffs and he wasn't about to release or reveal the IV needle in his left hand.

Kurtz could see the two men silhouetted in the doorway in the minute before they entered the room, and then the dim glow from medical monitors illuminated them. One man was tall, very thin, and Asian; his black hair was combed straight back and he was wearing an expensive dark suit. His hands were empty. The closer man was in a wheelchair, wheeling himself toward Kurtz's bed with thrusts of his powerful arms.

Kurtz didn't pretend he was asleep. He watched the man in the wheelchair come in. Any hopes that it was an errant hospital patient out of his bed at three A.M. disappeared as Kurtz saw that this man was also wearing a suit and tie. He was old—Kurtz saw the thinning gray hair cut in a buzz cut and the lines and scars on the man's tanned face, but his eyebrows were jet black, his chin strong, and his expression fierce. The old man's upper body looked large and powerful, his hands huge, but even in the dim light, Kurtz could see that his trousers were covering wasted sticks.

The Asian man's expression was neutral and he stayed two feet behind the big man in the chair.

The wheels of the chair squeeked on tile until the wasted legs bumped into Kurtz's bed. Working to focus, Kurtz stared past his own handcuffed wrist and into the old man's cold, blue eyes. All Kurtz could do now was hope that the visit was a friendly one.

"You miserable low-life useless scumbag piece of shit," hissed the old man. "It should've been you who got the bullet in the brain."

So much for the friendly visit theory.

The big man in the wheelchair raised his huge hand and slapped Kurtz in the side of the head, right where the bandages and tape were massed above the wound.

Riding the pain for the next few seconds was probably a lot like riding the old roller coaster at Crystal Beach while standing up. Kurtz wanted to throw up and pass out, in that order, but he forced himself to do neither. He opened his eyes and slipped the long IV needle between the third and fourth fingers of his left hand the way he'd learned how to grip a handleless shank-blade in Attica.

"You worthless fuck," said the man in the chair, his voice loud now. "If she dies, I'll kill you with my bare hands." He slapped Kurtz again, a powerful, open-handed smash across the mouth, but this wasn't nearly so painful. Kurtz turned his head back and watched the old man's eyes and the Asian's hands.

"Major," the Asian said softly. The tall man gently put his hands on the grips of the wheelchair and pulled the old man three feet back. "We have to go."

The Major's mad, blue-eyed stare never left Kurtz's face. Kurtz didn't mind this. He'd been hate-stared at by experts. But he had to admit that this old man was a finalist in that contest.

"Major," whispered the tall man and the man in the chair finally broke the gaze, but not before lifting his huge, blunt forefinger and shaking it at Kurtz as if to make a promise. Kurtz saw that the finger was bloody a second before he felt the blood flowing down his right temple.

The Asian wheeled the old man around and pushed him out the door into the dimly lighted hallway. Neither man looked back.

Kurtz didn't think he'd go to sleep after that—or, rather, lose consciousness, since real sleep wasn't an option above this baseline of pain—but he must have, because he woke up with James Bond looking down at him in the early morning light.

This wasn't the real James Bond—Sean Connery—but that newest guy: dark hair blowdried and combed back, sardonic smile, impeccable suit from Saville Row or somewhere—Kurtz had no idea what a Saville Row suit looked like—plus a gleaming white shirt with spread collar, tasteful paisley tie sporting a Windsor knot, pocket square ruffled perfectly and not so gauche as to match the tie, tasteful Rolex just visible beneath the perfectly shot starched cuff.

"Mr. Kurtz?" said James Bond, "My name is Kennedy. Brian Kennedy."

Kurtz thought that he did also look a bit like that Kennedy scion who'd flown his plane and passengers upside-down into the sea.

Brian Kennedy started to offer Kurtz a heavy cream business card, noticed the handcuffs, and without interrupting his motion, set the card on the bedside table.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Kurtz?" asked Kennedy.

"Who are you?" managed Kurtz. He thought he must be feeling better. These three syllables had made his vision dance with pain, but hadn't made him want to puke.

The handsome man touched his card. "I own and run Empire State Security and Executive Protection. Our Buffalo branch provided security cameras for the parking garage in which yesterday's shooting took place."

Every other light had been knocked out when we came into the garage, thought Kurtz. That tipped me. The memory of the shooting was seeping back into his bruised brain like sludge under a closed door.

He said nothing to Kennedy-Bond. Was the man here because of some lawsuit potential to his company? Kurtz was having trouble working this out through the pain so he stared and let Kennedy keep talking.

"We've given the police the original surveillance tape from the garage," continued Kennedy. "The footage doesn't show the shooters, but it's obvious that your actions—and Officer O'Toole's—are visible and clearly above suspicion."

Then why am I still cuffed? thought Kurtz. Instead, he managed to say, "How is she? O'Toole?"

Brian Kennedy's face was James-Bond cool as he said, "She was hit three times. All twenty-two slugs. One broke a left rib. Another passed through her upper arm, ricocheted, and hit you. But one caught her in the temple and lodged in her brain, left frontal lobe. They got it out after five hours of surgery and had to take some of the damaged brain tissue out as well. She's in a partially induced coma—whatever that means—but it looks as if she has a chance for survival, none for total recovery."

"I want to see the tape," said Kurtz. "You said you gave the cops the original, which means you made a copy."

Kennedy cocked his head. "Why do you… oh, you don't remember the attack, do you? You were telling the detectives the truth."

Kurtz waited.

"All right," said Kennedy. "Give me a call at the Buffalo number on the card whenever you're ready to…"

"Today," said Kurtz. "This afternoon."

Kennedy paused at the door and smiled that cynical, bemused James Bond smile. "I don't think you'll be…" he began and then paused to look at Kurtz. "All right, Mr. Kurtz," he said, "it certainly won't please the investigating officers if they ever discover I've done this, but we'll have the tape ready to show you when you stop by our offices this afternoon. I guess you've earned the right to see it."