He sways forward. Losing consciousness. The truck heads for the shoulder.
I grab the wheel. Still slowing. I crawl over him, sitting partly on his lap. I kick around, trying to find the brake, jamming it on as I navigate to the shoulder.
I heave out a breath once it’s finally in park, sitting there on this unconscious feral man’s lap. Then he wraps his arms around me, whispering something that sounds like “mine.”
I push and coax him over into the passenger seat. Luckily, he cooperates, climbing over. I rip off his shirt. Still bleeding. I use my phone light to inspect the wound. I rip strips of his shirt and bandage the wound as best as I can. It’s a gash in his shoulder. Not so bad. His pulse seems okay. I think the drugs are pulling him back under, like he used all the adrenaline he had. I put my hand on his neck, his cheek. “Kiro,” I say.
He mumbles.
I get behind the wheel, jerk the thing into drive, and pull out, hands shaking. What am I doing? I should run. Save myself. But then I look over at him, slumped in the seat, and I feel this surge of crazy affection.
He just wants to go home. He wants to get back to the woods. And then there’s the matter of his story. Who is he? Why are they trying to kill him?
“Kiro!”
No response.
I shove at his arm. He’s out cold. I reach over in the dark and take his wrist. His pulse feels strong. It’s no wonder he’s out. What with the drugs and two fights to the death.
I try not to think of that.
I drive at exactly the speed limit and quietly pull out my phone and text my editor, Murray. I send him the photos I got of the men who attacked Fancher Institute. A few minutes later I make the call.
“Ann!” That’s the sum total of Murray’s breathless answer. “Ann Ann Ann! The Fancher attack is just now hitting the wire. Talk. Go.”
I give him the story down and dirty, pyramid style. His pleasure knows no bounds when I inform him the attack was connected to 34—that what appeared to be professional criminals were specifically hunting for Patient 34.
“Fuck yes. Thank you, Jesus,” he says. “Savage Adonis, hunted by Albanian mafia.”
“Excuse me?”
“The lion tattoo in one of the images you got. One of your nylon-stocking guys? Have you looked at these pictures?”
“I was busy staying alive, dude.”
“Research just identified it as Albanian mob. What did 34 say about the attack?”
“He doesn’t seem to know who they are. But they definitely knew him.”
“Are you sure he doesn’t know? You sure he wasn’t shitting you?”
I touch his hair. “He wasn’t shitting me.” I don’t know much about 34—Kiro—but he’s not a bullshitter. He really didn’t seem to know them.
I’m different. They all see it.
I don’t tell Murray that part. Is it possible he truly thinks they want to kill him just because he’s some sort of abomination? It breaks my heart a little that he would think it, but he’s never had a reason to trust anyone. Of course he’d think it.
“It could be a blood feud, I don’t know,” Murray says. “I mean, maybe. The Albanian mob definitely gets into that shit. Did you know when one family member is killed, vengeance extends toallthe male members of the of the killer’s family? Those fucking Albanian mobsters are psychos.”
“Wait, send a team into a high-security psych ward just to carry out a blood feud?” I say. “Risking a dozen guys like that? Even a psychotic organization doesn’t do that. No. There’s something else going on. It’s all connected. Savage Adonis. This hit. There’re more pieces out there. Something bigger’s going on.”
“What’s going on is this story just got twice as dangerous. Sure you don’t want me to send Garrick?” He really wants to send slimy Garrick.
“I got this.”
“Okay. Dump that vehicle. I’ll send a rental car.”
I give him my location; we talk plans. He gives me an update on the Fancher attack from the wire. Rumors of escaped prisoners. Some staff unaccounted for. “They don’t know a lot at this point in time,” he says.