Page 3 of Shield
As I walked into the clinic, I immediately felt at home. There was a warmth and bustle to the place, volunteers chatting, trying to make a difference, kids crying, parents in groups. I waved to Lazlo at reception. He’d changed the color of his hair again—now blue from green—and he grinned at me.
“Yo, Cowboy,” he called.
I headed that way. “Hey, Lazlo, is Joe in?”
Lazlo frowned, leaned closer, and lowered his voice. “He’s gone all do-not-disturb, not seeing patients, and he’s losing his shit with everyone who knocks on his door.”
That didn’t sound good. Joe was former military, a medic, and the guy who ran this place on nothing but fluff and buttons. He was ruthless at recruiting volunteers doctors and nurses, and an expert at guilting big pharma to donate. He might be rough and ready, but he was dragging this entire community to good health one case at a time. But he was also a gentle giant, loved people as much as they loved him, and losing his shit didn’t sound like him at all. Maybe it was a money thing? I could help with that. I saved money every year for my girls, a trust fund that would see them happy and settled with a good start, but after that and my sole luxury—the Ducati—everything else I gave away.
Not that anyone knew, and they never would.
“Had a couple of referrals for you,” Lazlo said, slapping some files down. “Why don’t you take a coffee and see if you can cheer Joe up before you read them?”
Referrals were about moms with breast cancer—the same cruel disease that had taken Melissa—or those newly diagnosed with diabetes. In fact, any families who struggled where Lazlo thought I could help. I picked up the files, headed through the door to the consultation rooms, passing walls adorned with handmade posters and kids’ art, and finally, through the last door, markedstaff only, with my key card.
I knocked on the door, juggling paperwork and the coffee, using my elbow on the handle, and tumbling inside with a grin on my face, all ready to cheer Mr. Grumpy up.
Only to find him at the wrong end of a gun, bleeding from a head wound and barely able to move.
The man with the gun—skinny and scarred—pointed the weapon at me, gestured for me to come in, the door closing behind me, then waved the gun at the other chair in the room. My gaze flew to the small, but bright yellow, smiley face on the back of the hand holding the pistol.
I tried to put my hands up, but I had the coffee and files. “Hey, whatever this is?—”
“You! Shut the fuck up,” the man snapped, then waved the gun wildly before turning it on Joe, who paled. “Get the fucking codes!” the man snarled, then left the room, leaving behind the smell of smoke and body odor.
I immediately went to Joe as he slid sideways out of the chair, catching him before he fell, blood smearing the desk and down my shirt. He was unconscious, and I couldn’t think what to do.
The coffee had spilled, the files landed in a heap on the floor, and I yanked out my cell and called 911.
What the hell?
ChapterTwo
Jackson
“…then she started asking me about my piles. I mean, who rightfully asks their son-in-law such a personal question? Do I ask her about her varicose veins?”
“God, I hope not,” I replied as I stared into the vast emptiness of an empty Minnie Mouse thermos. “Fuck. I’m out. How long are we planning to wait for your contact to show up, Mack?”
“We’ve been here literally ten minutes, Jackson,” my partner replied. “Maybe buy a bigger thermos that will carry the gallons of dark roast your addiction requires.”
“Nope, I got this one at Disneyland two years ago when I took Leo. He picked it out. It’s perfectly serviceable.”
“Whatever. So, back to my piles,” my partner said.
“Must we?”
“Yeah, because this is going somewhere. So, I asked Elena, after we cleared the table, if that was normal. Her family members being so into the personal lives and ailments of their new son-in-law, and she was like, ‘oh, honey, you don’t even know.’ So I asked her why in God’s sweet temperament she even told her mother that I had anal issues.”
“Mack, honestly, this is past bordering on too fucking much information,” I grunted, wiggled up, and tried to straighten my legs. “This car sucks.”
“Don’t talk that way about Penelope.” He rubbed the steering wheel of the tiny ten-year-old Honda Civic as if it were his wife’s breasts. “It’s not her fault you’re the same height as Shaq.”
“Okay, no, I am not. Shaq is seven-one, and I’m only six-five.” My back popped as I moved to try to get some feeling back into my lower extremities. “And you hate this car as much as I do. You admitted it just two weeks ago when you’d had that one extra beer after work. So why not trade it in for something that’s not a fucking clown car so anyone over Hobbit-size might have some fucking leg room?”
He stared at me with those cornflower-blue eyes of his. “You are incredibly pissy today. I mean even more pissy than your usual pissy, which is, you know, damn pissy.”
“We’ve been sitting here in the sun for over two hours waiting for this Twiggy dude to show up with some information. I’m out of coffee. And my fucking nicotine patch wore off.”
