“Denver?” he bellowed.
“You’re all right,” said a guy holding his gurney. “Just hold on. We’ll get some pain meds into you shortly.”
“No.” Heath struggled to sit up. “Where’s Denver? Anya?” he called. Snow and wind hit his face, and a gray day came into focus.
Flashes went off, and he closed his eyes. Voices rumbled, all shouting questions. There were reporters? What was going on?
Seconds later, he was loaded into the back of an ambulance. The door shut, and they started to move. Something pierced his arm, and hands started working on him.
Pain exploded in his shoulder, and he passed out.
He came to in a hospital bed and sat straight up. His shoulder burned like hot iron rods poked him from inside, and his chest felt like he’d filled his lungs with needles. He blew out and tried to control the pain. Machinery beeped behind him, and liquid dropped into him through an IV.
“Ah, you’re up.” A forty-something male doctor with bushy brown hair strode into the room in Reeboks, his eyes twinkling behind thick glasses. “You have three cracked ribs, a concussion, multiple contusions, and several healing wounds that required stitches. I also removed some home-made looking stitches from you. That wound is healed.” The guy glanced at a tablet in his hands. “We have you on morphine and a saline solution. The irritation in your lungs from the gas should dissipate in a day or so.”
Heath shook his head to focus and then winced as agony slammed through his temples. “Where’s my brother?”
“The next room. He required stitches as well, but he’s a little better off than you are, so long as he stops fighting his nurses.” The doctor let the tablet hang loosely in his hands. “Agents from the FBI are interviewing him now, and I believe they’ll be in to see you next.”
“Anya?” Heath asked, his gut aching.
The doctor shook his head. “I don’t know but am sure the FBI will update you.”
“Great.” Heath reached for the IV and yanked it out.
“Whoa.” The doctor held out a hand. “What are you doing?”
Getting his woman back. “Where are my clothes?” Heath glanced around the room, chilled in the hospital gown.
“The FBI took them for evidence,” the doctor said, his eyes wide behind the glasses.
Great. Heath turned and planted his bare feet on the freezing floor. The room twirled around him.
“I have to advise you to get back into bed,” the doctor said. “You have a concussion, Mr. Jones.”
“I’ve had worse.” God, he had to get to Anya. Where was she? “Reese?” he bellowed.
Detective Malloy hurried into the room, his trench coat flying behind him. He flashed his badge, his brown eyes serious. “Need a minute, Doc.”
The doctor pushed his glasses up his nose. “I’ll go check on my other patient.” He hustled from the room.
“Malloy? Where the hell is Anya?” Heath shoved off the bed and instantly went down.
Malloy caught him under the armpits and hauled him back onto the bed. “We have a problem. A serious one.” The cop looked frantically around. “Where are your clothes?”
“FBI took them.” Heath sucked in air. He needed to go find Anya. “Does he have Anya? The Copper Killer?”
“Yeah.” Malloy shoved an arm beneath Heath’s good shoulder. “We have to get out of here. Now.”
As Heath stood, dizziness grabbed him around the throat and took his vision. “To get Anya.”
“That too.”
Heath tried to focus. “What the fuck is going on?”
“I’ll explain in the car.” Malloy all but carried him to the door and poked his head out into the hallway. “I’m risking my job and possible freedom here, buddy. I owe your brother Shane, and I trust him. But if you’re a bad guy, I’ll hunt you down and shoot you myself.”
Heath leaned on the cop, not having a choice. He needed to get out of the hospital, so he went along with the guy. “Fine. We need to get Denver.”
