“Eight months after he left the Rangers.” He folded his hands loosely in front of him. “He was doing inventory. Counting stock for a company that didn’t require any of the skills he had.” He paused. “He had a go-bag in his car in the parking lot. Already packed. Rotated on the same schedule as the one he keeps now.”
“He told me about the mission,” I said. “The civilians.”
“He made the right call. The institutional protectors didn’t agree. He accepted that, because Thiago is not the kind of man who expects institutions to reward the right call. He’s the man who makes the right decision anyway and then deals with the cost.”
He looked toward the surgical doors. “I asked him one question. He answered it. I knew in about thirty seconds that I wanted to hire him.”
I waited.
“The part that took longer,” Eamon said, “was convincing him that wanting the work wasn’t the same as having somewhere to land.” He was quiet for a moment. “He’s been protecting people his entire life, and he’s exceptionally skilled at it.” Eamon looked at me directly. “He has less practice allowing anyone to protect him back.”
I said nothing.
“I’m not telling you something you don’t know,” Eamon said.
“No,” I said. “You’re not.”
He picked up his phone again and returned to whatever he’d been reading.
The surgeon came through the double doors at twenty past two. He crossed toward me without hesitation.
“Mr. Moreau. I’m Dr. Larkin. The bullet passed cleanly through the deltoid. No vascular damage or nerve impairment. We’ve irrigated and closed. He’ll recover fully.”
My father gave a slow, approving nod.
My mother said, “Thank you.”
Dr. Larkin paused. “He was asking for you,” he said to me. “We’re moving him to recovery now. Give us five minutes.”
He turned back toward the corridor. My father stood and placed one hand briefly on my shoulder.
“Go,” he said.
I pushed through the double doors. The corridor was bright and antiseptically clean, with a floor polished to a hard gleam. A supply cart stood against one wall. To my left, a monitor beeped at steady intervals.
I stopped just past the doors.
I kept seeing it: Thiago against the wing’s brick wall, with blood running between his fingers and my hands on either side of his face. I heard him say, “I’m here.”
I straightened my jacket and kept walking. Bridget’s chair was empty.
The recovery room was quieter than the corridor. It held curtained bays and monitor tones overlapping at low volume. The nurse met me at the entrance and pulled back the third curtain.
They’d immobilized Thiago’s left arm in a sling, with a bandage covering the upper shoulder, and an IV line running to the stand beside the bed. His eyes opened when I pulled a chair close.
“Hey,” he said. His voice was rough but present.
“Hey.”
He studied my face. Then, “Did the concert finish?”
“Yes.”
He closed his eyes briefly and exhaled. When he opened them again, he looked at me.
“You’re not bleeding.”
“No.”
