Hard as Nails

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 di

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 thi

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 Co

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

Kurtz thought that he did also look a bit like that Ke

Brian Ke

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

"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 Ke

"We've given the police the original surveillance tape from the garage," continued Ke

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

Brian Ke

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

Ke

Kurtz waited.

"All right," said Ke

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

Ke