Fear

THIRTY-TWO

‘You hit, sir?’ the guard asked.

‘He missed me,’ Sorenson said. ‘Barely.’ He imagined he could feel the heat where the bullet had just missed his ankle.

‘I think I hit one,’ the guard said, huffing for breath. He was the one who’d taken the blow to the guts. ‘The window, I got him, we should-’

‘You should have aimed for the tires.’ He’d emptied his own clip too soon and was furious with himself. ‘Is the alarm system keyed to the police?’

‘Absolutely not,’ the guard said. ‘We’re under orders not to call the police. Ever. Mr. Quantrill doesn’t want them around.’

Not calling the cops made sense. Sorenson had no desire to bring unwelcome, official attention to the hospital; it had served its purpose. He turned from the guards without another word and headed toward his car.

‘Hey! Mister, wait a goddamn second…’ One of the guards caught him by the arm and Sorenson swiftly stopped, levered his arm free, brought his elbow back into the guard’s face. The nose gave way with a sickening crack and the man collapsed with a howl.

Sorenson glanced at the other guard, who’d raised his gun. ‘Your clip’s empty. So’s mine.’ He grabbed the broken-nose guard by the throat. ‘He’s a big boy but I can break the neck with a strong twist before you take two steps. So drop the gun, and I drive away, and then you go get your friend a doctor.’

The second guard looked into Sorenson’s eyes. He slowly set the gun down, kicked it away without being told.

Sorenson kept his grip on the guard’s throat until he reached his car, then he shoved the man to the asphalt in contempt. Groote knew he was an enemy now. And Nathan remained a threat, and he was with Miles Kendrick who, despite being mentally ill, had the skills and apparent guts to fight back.

Sorenson wheeled out hard into the night. Kendrick’s car was gone.

He had to find Kendrick and Ruiz. Now. Or failing that, set a trap for them. One that they wouldn’t see coming.