“There’re four of you, and you came here by yourself?” Gesturing around the building they were in.
“T, I don’t need interrogation right now.”
“No, you need some sense knocked into you. We’ve gotta get out. They could come up from the south, that arroyo.”
Matt took a fast look out the window. He hadn’t seen the gulley apparently. In his face was a curious look — disappointment. Tony had an idea: retreating meant he wouldn’t have a chance to take out some of the bad guys. That was Matt, all over. “Shit. Okay. You first, I’ll cover. Then you and the Feddies lay down covering fire for me.”
“Fuck that, M. You go first.”
“Excuse me. Who’s the better shot?”
Tony conceded with a nod.
“So, go!”
Tony sighed, spit dust and started for the door, as Matt lifted his Glock and turned toward the window facing the factory.
It was then that two dark objects about the size of apples flew into the room.
“M! Grenades!”
But before either man could move, one detonated with a huge crack and brilliant flash, like lightning striking feet away. Another explosion followed seconds later.
Tony went down hard on the concrete floor, deaf and blind. But he could smell and he was inhaling smoke and fumes. The grenades hadn’t killed them outright but had set the building on fire.
Get up, he raged to himself. Find Matt. Get out!
He tried to rise but couldn’t.
“M! Matt!” Was his voice shouting or whispering? “Out! Now! There’s a... fire.” Choking on the smoke, suffocating. Everything going dark. He debated: Fresh air outside. Should get outside... But it was so much effort. He lowered his head to the floor. I’ll just rest for a minute. That’s all. Just a minute.
What could be the harm in that?
Two
The headache. The dry throat, searing.
Was he going to puke?
No.
Yes.
The nursing staff had apparently figured this was a likelihood and had left beside him in bed several plastic containers, like something that housewives would buy in triplicate at the Tupperware parties Tony’s mother hosted.
He seized the gray plastic, bent forward and evacuated until his gut screamed. He set the container on a metallic tray attached to a set of wheels beside the bed, then pushed the repugnant thing as far as he could. Tony collapsed onto his back, gasping.
White room. A hospital room filled with hospital things, all those gadgets and electronic panels and outlets and machines sprouting wires and armatures — accessories that managed to fill you with dread, even while you knew they were tools of healing. Signs too, with weird capitalization.
Ugly and unsettling but, thank God, cool.
He looked up. He was half surrounded by a beige curtain hanging from a U-shaped rod mounted to the ceiling.
And Matt. Where was Matt?
Was he alive?
Oh, let him be alive. Please.
Tony observed no decorations on the wall. This was a functional place, minimal, matter of fact. He soon understood why. Through the sealed window he could see an army Humvee, painted in desert camo. Just past were two flags on poles: one an American and one with an army unit designation. So, a military hospital, not civilian. Explained the stark room; no government money would be wasted on décor.
He coughed hard.
Which brought back memories of the incident.
The grenades.
Tony kneaded various body parts, in descending order of importance, of course, probing for shrapnel wounds. He was relieved to find none. A bandage on his palm. When he peeked it was only a scrape, Betadined to brown. The worst pain was in his ankle, maybe a sprain, twisted when he face-planted on the warehouse floor. But other than those minor injuries, the pain was minimal. Was he on drugs?
Then he realized in horror that Matt must’ve taken the brunt of the explosion. M was the sort who would be awarded the Medal of Honor — posthumously — after diving on a grenade to save his fellow soldiers. He imagined Matt’s shattered body.
Or had he actually seen it?
No, no...
Then he thought: I’m going to puke again.
I won’t.
He did.
Finally he controlled the retching, and set the second Tupperware on the bedside table. He was thinking, Where the hell’s the nurse to get rid of these things, when he heard a voice: “Could you fucking stop that? Makes me want to puke.”
Matt’s voice.
Tony barked a laugh. “Oh, man, Jesus. There you are.” The laughing started a coughing spasm.
With a clatter and rustle, Matt swept the curtain back. The two men were six feet apart.
Matt looked him over. “How are you?” He coughed too.
“Jesus, I thought you got blown up.” More spasms in his lungs. “Damn smoke. You okay?”
Matt, shrugging. His bandages were minimal. Wrist and a patch on his forehead. “Hit the floor hard. That’s all. You?”
“Ankle.”
The men’s eyes swiveled to the door, as a round Latina in blue scrubs decorated with pictures of tiny pandas stepped inside. “You hit the call button?” She looked mildly irritated.
“I wanted to know where he was.” A gesture toward Tony. Often edgy and impatient, Matt was presently polite. In hospitals patients exist at the bottom of the food chain. Best to be nice to those higher up. Even the lower higher up. Maybe especially.
She stared, not sure how to answer. “Someone will be in, see you soon.”
Tony asked, “Could you...” He gestured toward the Tupperware containers. Without reaction, she collected them and left.
Matt said, “I’m not leaving a tip.” Then: “Where are we?”
Tony nodded to the window beside him. Matt learned forward and saw the Humvee. “Hendrix. Probably.” The army base closest to El Paso.
Matt did the probing thing, then coughed hard too. When the bout was over he said, “No shrapnel. You?”
“No, just the fucked-up ankle.”
“What the hell kind of grenades were they? Smoke?”
Another voice, from the door: “Incendiary. They wanted to burn the place down.”
The man was big. Bald, six four or so, stocky but muscle bulk, not fat bulk. He wore a suit that he’d have bought for price, not fit. The sort that was in Tony’s closet. Around his neck was a chain lanyard holding a DEA badge.
“Officers... I’m Bill Holmes, regional district supervisor from Dallas.”
So, a top gun.
He squinted at Tony. “I think I met you once. While ago. Rio Grande operation.”
“Could’ve been.”
“How are you doing?” Holmes asked.
“The others on the team?” Matt asked bluntly.
Tony was ashamed he hadn’t thought to ask that question, he was so happy to be alive. Matt had a more fatalistic view of life. As if he assumed death was around every corner and didn’t bother to waste any effort describing how he was feeling or doing or getting along. And the way Matt lived, death could very well be waiting.
We all know Matt...
Holmes’s face shadowed.
“Who was it?” Tony asked, heart thumping.
“Jonny.”
“Christ,” Tony muttered. He closed his eyes momentarily, as anger and dismay flowed in.
Matt asked, “What happened?”
“Sniper got him.”
Tony fought down another urge to throw up. He seized a covered water glass and sucked from a straw. He noted he had only one plastic pan left.
Matt said grimly, “Anybody ID the shooter?”