Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(98)

Gently, Sara removed the tape. She scowled. “This was no accident.”

“We fell in with the wrong crowd.”

Her gaze went from Cohen to me. “There’s a story I probably don’t want to hear.”

She gave him acetaminophen, apologized that she couldn’t give him something stronger, then applied ointment to his wound and rewrapped the fingers with gauze and tape. “Have you had a tetanus shot in the last five years?”

He nodded.

“Okay, good. You need to see your doctor. I suspect you’ve cracked a couple of ribs, and you need to make sure there aren’t any internal injuries. Plus, you’ll want something stronger for the pain. You’ll be hurting for a while.” She turned to me. “Your turn.”

I took Cohen’s place on the examination table and stripped off my filthy shirt. She clicked her tongue as she had with Cohen while she cleaned and bandaged the wounds on my face and arm, then peeled off the now-filthy bandage on my ribs that Dougie had applied earlier. She examined the assorted other injuries, shone a light in my eyes, announced that I should get a tetanus booster, then gave both of us lab coats to wear in lieu of our shirts.

I slipped on the coat, grateful for something clean. “How are things going in the other room?”

She finished washing her hands. “I’ll check for you.”

After she left, Cohen sat and leaned his head back against the wall. I pulled out my phone and dialed. If Sarge turned on his phone as soon as the plane landed, he should pick up.

The connection went through.

“Sydney Parnell,” said a voice I didn’t recognize. “I’ve been told to expect your call.”

The hair on the back of my neck rose. I put the call on speakerphone.

Cohen opened his eyes.

I said, “Who is this?”

“Wrong question, Ms. Parnell.”

“Where’s Sarge? Put him on.”

“That’s more like it. But I’m afraid I have bad news.”

I started shaking. Couldn’t stop. I set the phone on the examination table and shoved my hands under my arms.

“Do you want to hear what it is?” the man asked.

Cohen got to his feet.

“You fucker,” I said. “Put Sarge on.”

“Sarge,” the man said, “has a communication problem right now. Hard to talk when you’re at the bottom of a river. But thanks for locating that video for us. You’ve been most helpful.”

“I will find you,” I said. “And when I do, I’ll—”

“Oh, you won’t need to find us, Ms. Parnell. We’ll come to you.”

The connection went dead.

I backed away from the phone as if it could keep hurting me. As if it would deliver the terrible news over and over like a viral tweetstorm. I barely felt it when Cohen put his arms around me and turned me so that I could press my face to his shoulder.

In my mind, I saw Sarge as he headed out that morning.

For a man who tried to kill me, you’re not a complete asshole.

For a woman who kicked my ass twice, you aren’t too shabby yourself.

My knees gave way. Cohen half carried me to a chair.

I couldn’t feel my body. Not my hands or my feet. Neither legs nor arms. I couldn’t feel anything at all except a vile, bitter lump in my mouth that wanted to slide down my throat, to close off my air and stop my heart.

I shut my eyes for a moment and saw Sarge’s hand clasped in mine. His grin.

Eyes in the back of my head.

“Here’s some water,” Cohen said.

I looked at his face, tried to see him through the watery film smeared across my eyes.

The door opened, and Dougie came in. He took one look at me and stopped as if he’d run into an invisible wall. I saw the despair in my mind reflected in his eyes.

“They killed Sarge,” I said. Even though he already knew.





CHAPTER 28

It is not over until God says it is over.

—Avi Harel. Private conversation.

We sat around a table in Avi’s shaded courtyard.

Avi had created the patio as an oasis inside the industrial complex of warehouses, alleyways, and parking lots. Trees lined the slate-floored space. A fountain played in the corner. This time of year, terracotta pots of geraniums and marigolds lined the cement-block walls.

The table was loaded with what Avi called the food of Jerusalem. Kofta b’siniya—lamb-and-beef meatballs in tahini sauce. Pita bread. A tomato-and-cucumber salad. And, on ice, a bowl of milk pudding—muhallabieh.

It was all beautiful and smelled fabulous.

But none of us ate.

Clyde had come through the surgery with flying colors. The wound involved only soft tissue—no skeletal injuries—and no damage to the sciatic nerve. Avi predicted Clyde would be mostly healed within three weeks and would enjoy a full recovery by eight. While the others gathered on the patio, I’d slipped in to see him.

He lay in an ICU crate, the IV still dripping fluid into him and three ECG leads clipped into place. His fur was shaved, and a Penrose drain drew blood and fluids from beneath the incision. He wore an e-collar to keep him from chewing on the surgical site. The cone of shame, we called it.

It used to make me laugh.

I pulled a chair over to his crate and sat with him, just the two of us. He opened his eyes and watched me sleepily. The room was cool, the lights dim, our mingled breathing and the beep of machines the only sounds. I held his paw and apologized. Promised it wouldn’t happen again. I thanked him for being the best partner anyone could have and told him that if he wanted to go with Dougie, I’d understand. But that if he didn’t, it would make me very happy.