Forced to Kill

effective tool to use against spineless subjects, while humiliation tended to be most effective against the strong- willed. Obstinate, stubborn subjects were without doubt the most challenging, but at the same time, the most rewarding.

He shook his head. Now wasn’t the time for this self-indulgence.

Control remained his. He had Dalton’s family securely guarded in a secret location, and they’d stay that way for as long as he needed them. And when they weren’t needed anymore?

He took another hit of beer and smiled.

Chapter 21

Where was he?

Daylight filtered in through vertical blinds. A hospital room.

Nathan sensed a presence in the room and tried to focus. Slowly, the image materialized into a woman with graying blond hair and blue eyes behind glasses. Grangeland? No, she didn’t wear glasses and the hair wasn’t right.

“I’m Dr. Rosson. You’re in a hospital room recovering from surgery. How do you feel, Mr. McBride?”

“Thirsty. Please, call me Nathan.”

She handed him a cup of water with a straw. “Not too much, okay?”

He took a sip. “Thank you. How long have I been out?”

“Off and on for eight hours.”

“Eight hours.”

“The first half was mostly from anesthesia recovery. We kept waking you for neurological tests.”

“They kept asking me questions and looking at my eyes.”

“It’s part of monitoring your level of consciousness. The bullet missed your skull by an eyelash, but it carved a three-inch groove through your scalp. I cut clean edges and stapled the two margins together. It’s similar to a brow lift that a plastic surgeon performs. Your left sideburn will be a little higher than the right, but it won’t be that noticeable. You also sustained a simple concussion, but there’s nothing simple about it. Do you feel any nausea?”

“Not at all. Good thing the bullet hit me in the head, I could’ve been seriously injured.”

She half laughed. “You are seriously injured. I’ve seen my share of gunshot wounds. You’re fortunate to be alive. Guardian angel?”

“Dumb luck.”

“Let me know if you begin to experience any nausea, dizziness, visual problems, or prolonged headaches, okay?”

He stared at the ceiling while she listened to his heart and lungs.

“Deep breath, please…. Again…. One more time….” She tucked the stethoscope into her coat pocket.

“You have some unusual scars on your body. May I assume you didn’t get them learning to eat with a knife and fork?”

He managed a smiled. “Yes, that’s a fair assumption.”

She waited for more.

“I lost a bet.”

“Naturally. You have visitors. Feel up to having some company? I get the distinct impression they’re pretty important. One of them is a United States senator from New Mexico.”

“No kidding?”

“He seemed quite concerned when I spoke to him a few minutes ago. He must have grilled me for five minutes about your condition.”

“What makes you think the others are VIPs?”

“Let’s just say this hospital looks as though the president’s here to take a tour. Lots of business suits with bulges, if you catch my drift.”

“I’m intrigued.”

“You must be a very important person yourself.”

“Nope, just an everyday joe.”

“Right….”

“Trust me, I’m nobody special.”

Dr. Rosson smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. “Well, Mr. Nobody Special, I’m going to bring in your guests.”

“You’ve got nice bedside manner, Doctor.”

“Thank you. Think you can avoid any gunfights for the next few weeks?”

“Absolutely.”

“You sure about the visitors?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because that senator I mentioned? He’s extremely worried about you. Like a father might be about his son.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Your eyes.”

“It’s not common knowledge. Will you keep it that way?”

“Of course.”

“Is Harvey out there too?”

“Mr. Fontana? He’s done everything but pitch a tent outside your door.”

“Yeah, that’s Harv, all right. How’s Holly Simpson doing?”

“She’ll be fine. She’s outside with Mr. Fontana.”

“I need to use the head.” He swung his legs out of the bed and sat up. The world spun.

“Slowly, please.”

“I’m okay.”

“Navy or Marines?”

“What makes you think I was in the service?”

“You said head, not ‘bathroom.’”

“Marines.”

“I’ll bet you could tell a few campfire stories.”

“A few.”

Dr. Rosson grasped his arm firmly as he stood. “Any dizziness?”

“I’m okay.” It wasn’t entirely true, but he wasn’t going to say anything that might prolong his stay.

“I want you sit down when you use the toilet. Use the rails to steady yourself. I’ll be right out here, okay?”

“No problem, Doctor.”

Inside the bathroom he used the mirror to examine the wound. It looked just as Dr. Rosson had described. A three-inch long incision-closed with a dozen, quarter-inch-long staples-marred his head just forward of his left ear. Surprisingly, his hair wasn’t shaved around the wound. He’d have to ask about that sometime. Overall, it didn’t look too bad. Then again, compared to his scarred face, what would?

As instructed, he sat down to relieve himself and sighed. In hindsight, it had been foolish, perhaps even reckless, to spend the night in his Clairemont house. He should’ve stayed in La Jolla with Holly. Whoever attacked him probably knew about his La Jolla home as well. The end result would’ve been the same, except that his La Jolla home would be trashed rather than Clairemont. All things being equal, he preferred the latter. The thought of armed thugs breaking into his La Jolla home one really frosted him. They would’ve had to kill Grant and Sherman-there’d be no other way to get past his dogs. Maybe they had killed his dogs. What if they’d gone there first?

“You okay in there?”