The gunshot echoed in the narrow hallway and Kurt fell backward, twisting awkwardly. He landed on his side and lay there not moving.
Surprised, but born with quick reflexes that he’d honed in the boxing ring for half his life, Joe lunged forward. His gloved hand knocked the man’s arm to the side and caused the next two gunshots to bury themselves in the wall. A headbutt, assisted by the steel diving helmet, sent the gunman sprawling and the weapon flew from his hand and slid along the scuffed white floor of the hallway.
Both men scrambled for the gun. Joe reached it first, grabbing it and standing, but the gloves got in the way and he couldn’t get his finger on the trigger. The wiry assailant tackled him and they crashed through a door marked Caution MRI.
They landed hard on the floor and were separated by the impact. Hindered by the limited visibility from the helmet, Joe momentarily lost track of both the gun and his opponent. When he looked around, the gun was nowhere to be seen, but the man who’d attacked them was lying twenty feet away. He seemed to be unconscious.
Joe got to his feet and took a step forward. He felt a tremendous sense of vertigo, as if he were being pulled over backward. Before he could take another step, he found his sense of balance failing. His first thought was that the toxin had affected him, but it wasn’t his imagination, he was actually being pulled backward, like someone had attached a rope between his shoulder blades.
The reason dawned on him quickly. They’d crashed through the door into the hospital’s MRI lab. Twenty feet behind him stood a machine the size of a small car. It was filled with powerful, supercooled magnets that had no off mode. Having worked in a hospital for a summer, Joe was familiar with the danger of MRI machines, a
nything made of ferrous metal that got too close would be drawn in like a tractor beam. And Joe had a steel tank on his back and a steel helmet on his head.
He leaned forward at a thirty-degree angle, fighting the magnetic force, trying to prevent it from lifting him off his feet. He took a few steps in that posture, like a man walking into the brunt of a hurricane, but his progress was agonizingly slow.
His injured opponent was only ten feet away, still recovering from hitting the floor, but, despite every effort, Joe could not reach him.
Joe leaned farther, pushed harder, and put his foot down on a slick spot on the floor. His foot slipped and came out from under him, the traction suddenly gone. That was all it took. In the next instant, he was yanked off his feet and flying through the air.
His back slammed against the curved face of the machine, his head whiplashing against another section and knocking against it with a resounding clang.
The magnets held him in place and he hung there at an odd angle. Even his feet were held up, thanks to the steel shanks in his boots, and his left arm, thanks to the steel in his watch. He managed to pull his right arm away from the machine but was unable to free anything else.
In the meantime, the assailant had regained consciousness. He got to his feet, looked over at Joe and then shook his head as if seeing things. He began to laugh and raised the pistol only to have it fly from his hand and slam against the MRI’s housing beside Joe.
Joe twisted his body and stretched for it, but the gun remained stuck to the machine and just beyond his reach.
The thug seemed surprised but quickly got over it. He switched to a second weapon, a short triangular knife connected to brass knuckles. He slid his fingers into the holes, clenched his fist in a ball and began moving toward Joe.
“Maybe we can talk about this,” Joe said. “I’m thinking you need some help, right? Maybe a better medical plan. Perhaps something with mental health coverage.”
“You might as well accept the inevitable,” the man said. “It will be easier that way.”
“Easier for you, maybe.”
The man lunged, but Joe wrenched one foot from the machine and kicked, catching the man in the side of the face.
The blow stunned the assailant, knocking him backward. He reacted with rage, raising his arm and preparing to punch a deadly hole in Joe’s chest, when the door behind them opened. Kurt stood there with an IV stand in his hand. He released it and the metal rod flew toward them. It pierced the assailant’s body like a javelin, pinning him to the machine beside Joe.
Joe watched as the light went out of the man’s eyes and then turned his attention to Kurt. “About time you got here. For a minute, I thought you were going to impersonate an upside-down beetle all day long.”
Joe could see a sharp dent gouged into the top of Kurt’s helmet and blood running down his face behind the cracked acrylic face shield.
“I was out cold,” Kurt said. “But I figured there was no hurry. I knew I’d find you hanging around somewhere.”
A smirk crossed Joe’s face. “Couldn’t resist, could you?”
“It was too easy.”
“Well, you’d better not come in any farther or you’ll end up impersonating a refrigerator magnet right alongside me.”
Kurt stayed by the doorway with his hands against the doorjamb to prevent him from being pulled forward. He looked around. To the left, behind a Plexiglas wall, the MRI control room stood empty. “How do I turn it off?”
“You can’t,” Joe said. “The magnets are always on. At the hospital I worked at in El Paso, they got a wheelchair stuck in one of these. It took six guys to pull it out.”
Kurt nodded and held his ground. His attention was on the man who’d tried to kill them both. “What do you think his problem is?”
“Aside from the spear sticking out of his chest?”