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THE LOCAL HOSPITAL was located in Tower Junction, thirty miles away. It was a four-story building with off-white paint and hunter green trim which had been dulled by many harsh winters of snow blasting down from the sky. In the parking lot was one emergency vehicle and one police cruiser, the employees’ cars, and a Ford King Ranch painted gray, with thick black tires. The registration in the glove box said it was owned by Carlos George Rodrigo III. It was a Mexican name, but the guy who had been driving Mr. Rodrigo’s truck wasn’t Mexican. Not by blood. Not by birth. Not even by distant cousins.
The guy who had commandeered the truck and parked it in the hospital’s parking lot was a tall man with one fierce blue eye and one grayed-out eye. He had a jagged scar that ran down his face and replaced part of his nose with a tiny pyramid-shaped hole.
The man with the scar stood next to the two federal agents in a hospital room. One was bandaged across his face and had a nose splint on a severely broken nose, and the second was awake but staring blankly at his surroundings. One minute, he had been standing facing Amita Red Cloud, the cop from the reservation, and the next minute, he was waking up in a hospital with no memory of the seconds and minutes in between.
The guy with the jagged scar scowled at the two agents with a look they had seen before and feared greatly. He asked, “How many guys attacked the two of you?”
The guy with the broken nose said in a nasally voice, “It was one...one guy.”
The guy with the jagged scar said, “One. One?”
“Yes.”
The man with the scar turned to look at the other agent and asked, “Did you see him?”
“I don’t remember.”
The man with scar stayed quiet for a long minute. He looked back over his shoulder at the door to the room. No one entered, and there was little noise from the outer hallway. No nurses or patients or doctors were walking up and down the halls. He turned back to the two agents and said, “Get up.”
“Why?” asked the one with the broken nose.
The guy with the jagged scar pulled out a Kimber Custom Model 1911, a standard .45 ACP, and let his hand fall to his side—the weapon obvious to both agents.
They jumped up out of their beds, and the guy with the broken nose said, “Hold on a second. We’re sorry.”
The guy with the scar asked, “You said that one guy attacked the two of you. One guy?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah.”
“Was he armed?”
The two agents were standing in the middle of the room, staring at the gun in his hand. They looked at each other, not knowing what to think. They had no idea what their boss was going to do. Fear and confusion flashed across their faces.
“Relax. Now answer the question. Was the guy armed?”
“No,” said the guy with the broken nose.
“I don’t believe it. No way did an unarmed man attack the two of you and get the best of you. Two trained agents of the best intelligence agency and military in the world?” He took his gun and tossed it onto the nearest bed and then turned his body to show the two agents he was unarmed. He moved in closer to the one with the broken nose and said, “Now I’m unarmed, right?”
“Yes, sir,” the guy responded.
In a sudden flurry of powerful and skilled blows, the guy with the scar punched the guy with the broken nose.
Once. Twice. In the gut. Once. Twice. Three times in the left rib cage. The agent spilled forward and onto his knees. He started to scream, but then he was hit straight in the face—a brutal blow. The agent’s nose splint snapped, and shards of metal pierced through the tape on his face. Blood erupted from his wound like a geyser.
Then the guy with the scar looked back at the other agent and said, “Remember that? You got that?”
The agent held up his hands in a defensive position. He said, “No. I’m sorry. We’re sorry. The guy must’ve been specially trained to get the drop on us like that.”
“That’s the good news. Good for you. That cop looked him up after you two left.” He clenched his fists then said, “He’s got a completely clean record.”
“How’s that good?”
“It encouraged me to look beneath the surface, and I found that he had a classified record. He’s former undercover NCIS. He was deployed with the SEALs. That’s why I’m going to let you, two idiots, off.”
The guy with the jagged scar dropped his fists and relaxed. He didn’t pound on the other agent but instead turned, bent down, and popped the other guy twice more in the face—once right in the broken nose and then a second time in the forehead. The guy fell back and was knocked completely unconscious.
The guy with the scar rose back up and glanced over his shoulder at the other agent and said, “Now he’s been knocked out, too. If you mess up again, the next time I’ll have to even you out with him. I don’t think you want a broken nose, not like the one he’s got. Now turn him over, so he doesn’t drown in his own blood. I’ll send the nurse in to reset his nose.”
The guy with the scar stopped at the bed, picked up his Kimber Custom 1911 and holstered it, and walked out of the hospital room. The door shut slowly behind him, hissing on its arc to a fully closed position.