Page 6
Probably from a lifetime of throwing punches and doing God only knows what else with those hands.
Whoever fixed him up like that should get fired, I think, before it hits me.
Shadow men don’t hang around ERs, nicely waiting their turn for normal pain meds and a note for their boss.
He probably sewed it up himself in a hurry, without clean materials.
I wince at the thought.
So what are these men doing here, whaling on one of our best surgeons?
On the other side, the third man looks different. He’s thinner, fit and kinda rangy, puffing out his chest to seem bigger than he actually is.
His short beard is a chestnut brown, but when he turns to the side, I see faint red streaks. He looks like he could be an overworked waiter, just your average Minnesota bro who goes on long runs every time there’s decent weather, except the company he keeps instantly makes him look infinitely more dangerous.
Then my heart stops.
I realize the tall one—the shadow freak who projects authority—has a very sharp knife in his hand with a black handle. Some kind of switchblade, I think. The same color as the brutal silver ring on his right hand with more pointy symbols on it. Possibly knives.
His piercing blue eyes flick to me.
My soul leaves my body.
I can’t decide whether to scream or grab my phone and try to call someone, anyone.
But I can’t do much with those frosted death eyes locked on, drilling holes through my sanity.
So I stand there, numb, knowing any attempt to run will be useless anyway.
These guys aren’t playing.
And I’m in deep doo-doo.
The big man, the bull, he doesn’t wait around. He glares at me for two seconds with the darkest emotionless brown eyes I’ve ever seen.
He moves faster than I’d guess, snatching me off the ground before I can breathe. My feet go airborne as he mashes his thick, heavy hand over my mouth.
My bag falls on the concrete, its contents exploding out and scattering across the ground.
I whimper around my heart, now lodged in my throat, trying desperately to breathe.
“Fuckin’ mouse,” the guy growls. “What now, Luca?”
The eyes of the tall one flick back to Grubert, boiling with murder.
“This is your fault. Your whining drew a fucking bystander into this. Look at her!” He snarls, his voice so low it seems inhuman. “You and your shitty habits.”
He spits at the floor.
Grubert’s eyes bulge, shining in the shadows.
He tries scrambling to his feet, clasping his hands like he still has a prayer.
“Mister—uhm—sir!” The normally smarmy surgeon babbles like a baby.
No ego left in him, just desperation.
Tall Shadow gazes down at him like he’s found a wilted cigarette stuck to the bottom of one of his expensive, reflective shoes.
