“You talk too much.” Wolfe swung with his knife, drew back, and side-kicked Gary in the ribs.
Something crunched.
Gary hissed and edged to the side, dodging and weaving, looking for a weakness. “It wasn’t nice of you to blow up my heroin.”
“I was bored and needed a hobby.” Wolfe matched his movements.
Gary swiped with the knife, and Wolfe ducked, not seeing the punch to the temple coming. Gary landed the punch, and lightning exploded through Wolfe’s head. He flew into the television set, smashing the screen. Gary rushed for him, and Wolfe pivoted and connected with an uppercut that ricocheted up his arm and down to his bruised ribs.
Gary’s teeth snapped together and he went down, his shoulders hitting the ground. He used the ground to push off, flipping all the way over and landing on his feet.
Wolfe charged, blocking and striking, seeking to draw blood. He fought hard, methodically, countering every strike with one of his own. He refused to feel pain, looking for any opening. A kick to the knee caught him unaware, and he twisted, going down to his other knee.
Gary jump-kicked and nailed Wolfe’s wrist; his knife went flying across the room.
“Wolfe!” Dana yelled.
He went from his knees to his feet, his hands out and ready. Gary attacked, knife slashing rapidly, steadily advancing. Wolfe blocked each slash, trying to protect his face and neck while sacrificing his forearms. Pain cut into him sharper than the blade.
Gary kicked him in the knee again, sending Wolfe onto the other one. Smiling with bloody teeth, Gary flipped the knife around, grabbed the handle and struck.
Wolfe drew on all of his strength, spun on his knee, launched up and side-kicked Gary in the ribs. Gary emitted a shockedoof, and bent over. Bellowing, Wolfe landed on his feet and instantly kicked up, catching the bastard beneath the jaw and throwing him across the room.
Gary yelled as he impacted the front window, which instantly exploded.
Wolfe turned away, but the blast hit him, blowing him into the kitchen, where he smashed the table into bits. His ears rang. He coughed out dust and chalk, rolling over to spit out blood. “Dana?” he gasped.
She was on her knees with the dog’s head in her lap, protected from the blast. Tears slid in dirty rivulets down her face while debris fell on her. “We have to get you to a hospital.”
Force came through the front window first, followed by the rest of the team, all with guns out.
Wolfe reached for a damaged kitchen chair and forced himself to his unsteady feet. He wavered and then stood. “I’m fine. Roscoe needs help.”
Force dropped into a slide, reached the dog, and picked him up, running toward the broken window again. Malcolm followed him, while Raider reached Dana and helped her up.
“Gary?” she croaked.
“Dead,” Raider affirmed. “Very.” He looked over at Wolfe. “You need help walking?”
Wolfe shook his head, and it almost exploded faster than the window had. He wrapped a towel around his hand.
“You need a doctor,” Raider said, shoving a shoulder beneath his arm while also keeping hold of Dana. “Let’s get you to the hospital.”
“No,” Wolfe said, allowing Raider to help him to the front window. “If Dana’s okay, I want to go to the vet’s or wherever they took Roscoe.”
“Me, too,” Dana said, grabbing Wolfe’s hand. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” Wolfe winced and limped toward the sill. Roscoe hadn’t looked good.
Chapter Forty-Four
Dana accepted the bottle of water from Pippa, and seated herself on the wide padded bench next to Wolfe at the Cottage Grove emergency veterinarian hospital. The Deep Ops team took up the entire small waiting room with Raider and Brigid in seats by the fish tank, Mal, Pippa, and Nari near the door, Serena and Millie on a couch by the wall. Angus paced back and forth at the reception desk, his face hard and unreachable. Kat was under Mal’s chair, watching everything with wide eyes.
Wolfe’s head was back against the wall, his legs were extended and crossed at the ankles, and his eyes were closed. Fresh bruises from his fight with Gary mingled with older bruises along his neck and face. He’d bandaged his hand.
“It has been two hours,” Dana whispered, reaching out to rub his forearm. “Shouldn’t they be done?”
His eyelids opened.
