Last round. I fired.
The SUV snarled and sped up Franklin Street.
Rogan.
“Drop your weapon!” someone roared behind me.
I raised my hands in the air, slowly lowered my gun, and let it fall from my fingers. Something bit me from behind, right between the shoulder blades. My body locked up, as if I’d jumped under an ice-cold shower and every muscle had gone rigid at once and stayed that way, numb, hot, and painfully itchy. I fell on my side. My head bounced off the pavement. Three men in marshal uniforms jumped on top of me.
Tased, I realized. They’d Tased me.
The men wrenched me up. Someone forced my hands behind my back, and I felt the cold metal of cuffs on my wrists.
Ahead I could see Lenora Jordan stopped by a pile of metal. Where was Rogan?
Four people in uniform dragged Troy forward. He was bent over, his skin scraped bloody from falling on the asphalt.
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, please don’t let Rogan be dead.
The metal heap shivered.
The marshals dropped me, and I went down on my knees, hard. There were cops and marshals and bailiffs everywhere I could see, and every gun was pointed at the metal heap.
The pile of pipes and chains exploded. Rogan staggered up. His expression was terrible.
“Stand down,” Lenora ordered.
Two dozen people simultaneously lowered their firearms. Rogan turned to her, his face contorted by dark rage. For a second, I thought he might kill her.
“Issue a fucking alert, Lenora,” Mad Rogan growled.
Chapter 14
“He probably has two broken ribs,” the female paramedic told me. “It’s likely an incomplete fracture, but the only way to find out for sure is to take an X-ray. We’ve relocated his shoulder to its proper place, but he’s refusing further treatment.”
She glanced at Mad Rogan sitting on a stretcher. He had what could only be described as the Look of Rage on his face. The first responders were giving him a wide berth.
“He really should go to the hospital,” the female paramedic said. “Really.”
“Have you told him that?”
“Yes, but . . .”
I waited.
The female paramedic leaned closer. “He’s Mad Rogan. The DA said I should talk to you about it. She said you could make him see reason.”
If the clouds split open and an archangel descended onto the street in all of his heavenly glory and tried to make Rogan see reason, he would fail miserably and have to pack up his flaming sword and go back to Heaven in shame. I had no idea what gave Lenora the idea that I could do any better.
Well, if none of them could scrape enough courage to explain to the Scourge of Mexico that he needed to go to the emergency room, I guess I’d have to do my best. “Thank you so much. I’ll take care of it.”
I walked over to Mad Rogan. The female paramedic trailed me.
“Your ribs are broken,” I informed him.
“You heard her,” he said. “It’s an incomplete fracture.”
I held out my hand.
Mad Rogan looked at it.
“Give me your keys, Mr. Rogan. I’m taking you to the hospital.”
I became aware of the sudden quiet around us.
“This is ridiculous,” Mad Rogan growled.
“Broken ribs can be life-threatening.” I cleared my throat. “I need you to function, so let’s fix this. Which part of going to the hospital is upsetting?”
His eyes narrowed. “It will take forever. I’ll get there, sit for two hours, then someone will X-ray me and tell me, ‘You have broken ribs.’ Then they’ll give me two ibuprofens and send me home.”
“This is almost the same argument, word for word, Leon used last year after he decided it would be a grand idea to ride his bike down the stairs.”
“It’s a perfectly good argument.” Mad Rogan bristled. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Leon is fifteen years old. You’re twice his age.”
“Are you implying that I am elderly and decrepit?”
“I’m implying that you should know better. You were hit by an armored vehicle going at least twenty-five miles per hour. Before that you were compressed by half a junkyard’s worth of metal. You could be bleeding internally. You could have a concussion. You are supposed to have more sense than a fifteen-year-old boy who wanted to get on YouTube.”
“I’ve been injured before. I know it’s not serious.”
“I’m sorry, was your official designation sixty-two-alpha in the Army? Were you an emergency physician?”
“I’ve had training.”
I nodded. “Do you know who else had training? All these paramedics around you.” I nodded to the first responders. “Raise your hand if you don’t think Mr. Rogan should go to the hospital.”
Nobody moved.
“See? Please let them do their job.”
Mad Rogan leaned forward. A muscle in his face jerked. He caught it, but it was too late. I saw it. He pronounced every word with quiet menace. “I’m not going to the hospital.”
“Okay,” I said. “Is there another place with X-ray equipment and medical personnel where you would be willing to go?”
“Yes. You can take me to my family physician.” He reached for his pocket, slowly and gingerly pulled out the keys, and put them in my hand.
“Thank you for your cooperation.”
Three minutes later I was driving an Audi through the crowded streets of Houston. Mad Rogan sat in the passenger seat. His breathing was shallow. Troy shifted in the backseat. His left leg was broken when the Escalade hit him during its final escape. He also refused to go to the emergency room.
I changed lanes, sliding the Audi neatly in the short space between two cars. It handled like a dream.
“Maybe I should drive,” Troy said.
“She knows what she’s doing,” Mad Rogan said.
I sniffed.
“What?”
“The fragrance of a genuine compliment from Mad Rogan. So rare and sweet.”
The radio came on. “This is an emergency broadcast. The Secretary of Homeland Security received credible evidence of a possible terrorist attack on the city of Houston . . .”
Lenora had issued the alert. Hopefully downtown and the other business centers would begin to empty.
“Take the exit in two miles,” Mad Rogan said. “Did Leon make it down the stairs?”
“Yes, he did. He rode the bike straight into the wall and the handlebar cracked his ribs. He also managed to hit his head and get himself a serious concussion for his trouble.”