Hitman vs Hitman - L.A. Witt Page 0,91
was the good shit, and she casually added, “Then we’ll have you get up and take a walk.”
Ricardo blinked. “A… A walk?”
“Mmhmm.” She smiled, somehow managing to look both cheery and apologetic. “It’s best to get you up and moving as soon as possible.”
“Says who?”
“Says people with letters after their names who have all kinds of stories about bedsores, infections, gangrene, muscle atrophy, and—”
“Fine,” he grumbled.
She flashed another cheerful smile, then left Ricardo to ponder if he could hijack a wheelchair and get the hell out of here before they made him walk. Except he’d have to walk to the wheelchair. And they probably wouldn’t let him take a bottle of the good stuff with him. Son of a bitch.
Someone brought him some water and a cup of foul-tasting Jell-O that was such a bright orange it looked like it was radioactive. At least the water rinsed the gross taste out of his mouth—both from the Jell-O and from whatever he’d been tasting since he woke up.
Some time later—damn, that was some good stuff—a plump, middle-aged doctor with her graying blonde hair in a bun strolled in with a tablet on her arm. “Mr. Torralba. It’s good to see you awake.”
“I think I was enjoying sleeping a lot more than this.”
“Oh, I’m sure. But the healing has to begin eventually.”
“Uh-huh. So what exactly am I healing from?”
She rattled off some medical jargon that he probably knew on a good day, but just sounded like garbled Welsh or some shit right now. He stared at her blankly. She paused, then, “You’re very lucky, Mr. Torralba. We removed a single forty-five caliber round from your abdomen, and though it nicked a few organs and chipped a rib, it missed anything vital. And I would suggest you send a fruit basket and a handwritten thank-you note to the company that makes QuikClot sponges, since they’re the only reason you lived long enough to land on my operating table.”
Ricardo swallowed.
“Augustus,” he remembered a stranger’s voice saying. “Step on it.”
The doctor glanced over her shoulder. “As soon as security sends someone up, I’ll have one of the nurses get you up and walking.”
“Security? What—” But then Ricardo noticed for the first time why he could only move his right hand a little bit: his wrist was cuffed to the bedrail. He tugged at it as if it might be a novelty set that would snap under the lightest strain, but the chain and the bracelets held. Eyes wide, he stared up at the doctor. “What’s going on?”
She pressed her lips together. “I’m just here to update you on your condition. I’m not privy to the rest of the information.”
That sounded an awful lot like a canned answer. Like she knew exactly what was going on, but she wasn’t about to be the one to say it out loud.
Ricardo let his hand fall to his side as the doctor left the room. Now that he was aware of the cuff, it was annoying, digging into his wrist and prodding at one of the half a billion bruises all over his body.
He didn’t know the details, but he could piece together enough. He’d shown up at the hospital in tactical gear and sporting a bullet hole. That was an automatic call to the police. The cops had probably gone through his vest and pockets, discovering any number of highly illegal devices and weapons that he hadn’t used or otherwise lost during the extraction. Even if they had no idea where he’d been and what he was doing, the next bed he’d be sleeping in after this one would be in a jail cell. No doubt about it.
No wonder August wasn’t here. If August was smart—and Ricardo had to admit that, at least part of the time, he was—he’d dropped Ricardo at the ER and then bolted for the hills. Depending on how long it had been since Ricardo had arrived here, August could very well already be on that tropical island with his dick down someone’s throat.
Jealousy twinged in Ricardo’s tender stomach. He was jealous that August had gotten away, and of whoever would be keeping him “entertained” on whatever island he’d taken off to. He wanted to be pissed, but could he even blame the guy? What was the point of both of them going to jail if one didn’t have to?
He sighed and closed his eyes. Well, shit.
Minutes later—he wasn’t sure how many minutes later—sharp footsteps came down the hall, moving with purpose. Great. That