7:38 a.m.
There had been no time for threats. No time to dazzle two hospital rent-a-cops with nifty holographic eagles. Not with his face bleeding, his right wrist throbbing, and his right leg screaming.
So Kowalski had thrust his palm out to the closest guard’s chest. It was a blow sharp enough to stun, but not enough to chip the bone of the breastplate, driving calcium daggers into the heart. The man jolted, lost control of his limbs. Probably thought he was having a heart attack. Which is what that blow was designed to do.
The other guard caught the flat of Kowalski’s palm in his throat. Again, the blow hadn’t been hard enough to kill; merely discourage. The man dropped to his knees, put his fingers to his throat, as if he could somehow fix what was wrong there.
Kowalski hobbled past them, threw open the door, limped like a sorry fuck over to the bed, damn near crashed into it. And then he fell. Those two moves had taken more energy than he realized. His body screamed,
When I’m dead.
Kowalski reached up and clutched sheets. Then a bed rail. Pulled himself up.
“Hi, there,” he said, staggering to his feet. He looked down at Kelly, who had a strangely bemused expression on her face. Farther down the bed was the gym bag containing Ed’s head.
In the exact place Ed had probably hoped he’d end up last night.
There you go, buddy. Mission accomplished.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve gotta go catch your boyfriend.”
“No worries,” Kelly said, her words grotesquely slurred.
But Kowalski understood. He looked at the table near the sink, saw what he needed. “Hope you two aren’t close.”
He uncapped a sterile syringe, then unzipped the bag. Looked for the right spot—part of the neck stump—and slammed it home. Drew back the plunger.
“I’m going to zip this back up, and I want you to promise me you won’t look. And that you’ll keep this bag right here. Trust me on this.”
Kelly reached up. Her fingertips found his chin. She squinted her eyes, as if to say, Oooh, that looks like it hurts.
“You’re sweet. But I’ll be right back.”
7:39 a.m.
Jack Eisley was in the exact position he thought he’d be this morning: on his knees, clutching his testicles, feeling the worst pain of his life.
But instead of kneeling before Donovan Piatt, he was standing in front of some beefy, thin-haired jackass. Someone who could tell him what this whole thing was about. The Mary Kates. The fake poison. His eleven-hour nightmare.
And even though Jack considered himself a reasonably nonviolent man, someone who preferred an honest conversation to physical blows—despite the fact that he’d punched a pretty woman in the stomach earlier this morning—he’d come to a philosophical breaking point. Before him was not a man for conversation. He was a man, clearly, who preferred the language of pain.
So Jack made a fist and nailed him in the lower part of his stomach—right where Kelly had stabbed him.
Oh, how he howled.
Jack liked the sound so much, he punched him in the same place again. The man had protected the area with his hands; Jack’s second blow landed on knuckles. Still, it had an appreciable effect. The man cried out, stumbled back, fell on his ass. Jack tried to stand up, but the pain in his balls was too intense, too crippling.
“Nice, Jack,” said a voice behind him. Kowalski. “Score one for the home team.”
Kowalski limped past him down the hall, toward the man with the thinning hair. He had one arm behind his back, syringe in hand, thumb stretched out and on the plunger. In the tube was a dark red fluid.
Jack almost felt sorry for the thin-haired man.
7:40 a.m. and 10 seconds
First, Kowalski threw a sloppy chop to the throat. Something the bastard could see coming from around the corner.
As expected, Thinny dropped, kicked, and swept Kowalski’s leg out from under him. Then he was on top of him like a college sophomore.
And Kowalski plunged the needle into Thinny’s neck.
Thumbed the plunger.
Confusion washed over the man’s face. He’d felt the stick, but didn’t know the source. He rolled back. Reached up. Felt the syringe. Widened his eyes.
Kowalski could have said one of a thousand things, but he figured the silence was worse.
Just a smile. A small, quiet smile.
And a look. A telepathic exchange, more accurately: You know what that is, don’t you, big boy?
Thinny yanked the syringe out of his neck. A thin ribbon of blood spurted from his neck. Then he raised the syringe up and behind him. Bared his teeth. Prepared to put every once of his weight behind a blow that would drive the dirty needle into Kowalski’s face, past skin and bone, deep into his brain cavity.
Kowalski anchored himself with his good arm and bad leg.
The needle plunged downward.
Thinny’s descent was blocked by Kowalski’s foot, thrown up at the last moment and stretched back to its limit. He could almost kiss his knee.
Then Kowalski performed the one-legged press of his lifetime.
Thinny was hurled backward.
Shattered the window behind him.
Toppled backward out of the jagged frame.
7:41 a.m. and 45 seconds
H
Kowalski wanted nothing more than to lie still, catch his breath, give his muscles and bones a moment to adjust to the multiple shocks. Then he heard the laughter. The shrill, mocking laughter of a school bully who’d just made it through puberty but lapsed back every once in awhile.
Was Jackie Boy catching this? Kowalski rolled over and raised his head, and yeah, it looked like Jack heard it,
