Teeples’s face darkened. “What are you talking about? What did you give me?”
“You’ll be fine,” Elton said. “As long as we get you treated right away.”
“What do you mean treated?” Teeples rubbed his arm. He’d knocked the syringe to the floor and now stared at the bent thing where it lay empty on the carpet. “Treated for what?”
Elton turned to Brandy, gambling that Teeples spent his time fighting in bars rather than watching reruns of House and Chicago Hope. “I need you to get me ten milligrams of midazolam right away.”
Brandy was a good PA and a smart lady, but the stress of the situation had her a little slow on the uptake. “But Doc—”
Elton cut her off. “Just do it before this man goes into anaphylactic shock.”
Teeples nodded his big head. “Just do it,” he parroted.
“I’m sorry, Brody,” Elton said. “You startled me, so I defended myself with what I had in my hand.”
“If you made me sick I’m gonna kick your ass!”
“Let’s get you treated first,” Elton said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “Then we can talk about ass kicking.”
“Here you go, Doctor,” Brandy said. She handed him the syringe. “This should do the trick.”
Ten minutes later, they had Brody Teeples strapped to a wheelchair in the waiting room with an oxygen mask over his face. His head lolled, but he was a big man and it would take a lot of any drug to put him under completely.
Sheriff Monte Young had come to take him into custody for criminal trespass once his breathing had stabilized.
“What’d you use to knock him out?” The sheriff asked.
“Versed.” Elton sighed. “We use it during colonoscopies…”
“Fittin’ ”—Young chuckled—“considering the patient.”
“I feel all weird,” Teeples said, blinking as if he couldn’t quite get anything to focus. “I think that doc gave me some bad stuff.”
“Hmmm.” The sheriff chuckled. “You know when your last tetanus shot was?”
Teeples shook his big head. “Nope,” he said.
“About fifteen minutes ago…”
CHAPTER 47
By one in the morning Quinn and Ayako had put an exhausted Miyu on the first train they could find going back to her parents north of Tokyo. Quinn was soaked with rain and limping badly by the time they returned to the apartment. A sickening ache crawled up his spine from his left kidney.
“I insist you take the bed,” Ayako said, using the screen of her cell phone to illuminate the door so she could find the lock with the key.
A familiar but almost imperceptible flutter hit Quinn low in the gut. Without taking time to process, he grabbed Emiko’s shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. Index finger to his lips, he forgot about the pain and stepped to the side of the door. He took Ayako’s hand and pointed the light from her phone at the threshold below. Flecks of mud and grime from the street formed the partial outline of a footprint on the scuffed metal. The yakuza boss had not wasted any time sending someone for his drugs once Watanabe had passed on the message. Ayako had thought no one knew where she lived, but there were too many eyes in a country as crowded as Japan. Information was easy to find, particularly for an organized crime boss with Tanaka’s reach.
Quinn eased the pistol out of his waistband, pulling Ayako away from the door as he spoke.
“No, I’ll take the couch,” he said, keeping up appearances. “I couldn’t sleep if I knew I’d kicked you out of your own bed.” He leaned in close to whisper something in Ayako’s ear. She nodded in the dim light, understanding. Behind her, over the rail of the balcony, a heavy rain fell through the blackness like silver bullets under the bright glow of a streetlamp.
Rather than walk straight into an ambush, Quinn pushed the door open and counted to three. He’d returned the pistol to his waistband so he’d have both hands free. Ayako stood beside him. On three, he gave her a pat on the small of her back.
“Something is wrong,” she said at the signal, loud enough anyone inside would be able to hear. Quinn nodded and she ran as fast as she could, passing in front of the open door with a scrambling shuffle of feet on wet concrete. Quinn stood fast, just outside in the darkness.
He didn’t have long to wait before three men poured out of the door like bees from a bothered hive, hot on Ayako’s trail. The first in line was an older, broad-shouldered man in a red leather blazer. Quinn had seen him earlier at the boxing match, sitting up beside the bookie. The other two were young heavies, probably from the same gym, in need of a little street cred with the local yakuza boss.
“Hey!” Quinn yelled, getting the men’s attention. Lightning flashed, illuminating his face for a split second before he ducked into the open apartment.
All three pulled up short, piling into each other like a Japanese version of Keystone Cops before turning back.
Once inside the door, Quinn grabbed Ayako’s bowling pin off the shelf — a tool of opportunity — and sidestepped like a matador. He gave the lead boxer a snoot full of the wooden pin as he barged in, dislocating his jaw and pulling him past to make room for his friends. Quinn caught the next man under the chin with the heavy pin, snapping his head up, then bringing the pin back down to drive him to the floor. It was a devastating blow, and the guy would be lucky if it didn’t kill him. Quinn didn’t have time to care. It was better than what the men had planned for him.
Finally, the older man with the red jacket charged through the door with his pistol out and ready to shoot. Quinn knocked the weapon to the side with a swipe of the bowling pin, but the man kept coming, shouldering his way inside Quinn’s swing before he could hit him again.
The man bellowed a bone-chilling cry. A wicked left hook came out of nowhere, sending a fountain of stars exploding behind Quinn’s eyes. His elbow ached from the police dog attack, and the earlier pounding to his kidneys slowed him down. He stumbled, crashing into the coatrack before he caught himself.
The guy in the red jacket hit him when he spun, this time with two straight jabs to the chin. Quinn let his head snap back, blocking the second jab and countering with a right uppercut to the guy’s jaw. It was a glancing blow and Quinn’s fist slid by with little effect. Not worried about any Marquess of Queensberry rules, Quinn brought his forearm across his opponent’s face on the backswing, snapping his head sideways and stunning the man long enough for Quinn to send an elbow strike into the bridge of the bad guy’s nose, pushing him toward the bed.
Rather than fight, the man pedaled backward, reaching behind him for what Quinn supposed was a second gun. Quinn rolled, grabbing the large pillow from Ayako’s love seat. He shoved it against the other man’s chest as he drew his own pistol, pressing it in tight and pulling the trigger twice in rapid succession. The shots were muffled by the thick foam of the pillow.
Ayako’s voice was breathless behind him.
“Oh my…” she said softly. “Tanaka-san will soon run out of men.”
Quinn let the dead man slump to the ground.
“We can’t stay here. He’s sure to send more thugs once these don’t report back.”
Ayako knelt beside her bed and began to stuff clothes into a small duffel. Satisfied she had what she needed, she stood and grabbed a soft-sided guitar case that leaned against the wall.
“A guitar?” Quinn looked at the case.
“You’ll see.” She slung the case over her shoulder.
Quinn nodded, gritting his teeth. The rush of the fight subsiding, he had to lean against the wall to steady himself amid waves of nausea and pain.