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'Shit,
what a stupid move.'
Adrenalin still burned hot in his veins. Martin could feel the
effects now that there was no other physical release - his hands shook
and his knees felt like water. He glanced at Danny again to assure
himself that the dealer was still in handcuffs. Appeased, he paced again
and waited for the zing coursing though his veins to recede. His
knuckles began to throb from hitting the dirtbag.
"Martin,
you okay?" Danny's voice sounded far away.
"I'm fine," he heard himself reply. A few seconds later, the
first wash of pain hit him, finally able to be registered by his
hyper-stimulated system.
The first thrust of it came from his hip as weight settled on his right
leg; his hand immediately pressed on the area, knuckles forgotten.
'Must have bruised it in the
fall,' he reasoned as he paced. Then his head began to throb as his
mind's eye relived the swing of the board in his peripheral vision. 'The
bastard hit me with a board!' he raged to himself. After that, the
tumble down the stairs was a spotty memory but he clearly recalled
hitting the bottom and hearing his gun skitter away in the darkness. 'Shit!'
he thought again when he realized the simplicity of the ambush; 'Shit!' he spat yet again
to himself.
It was incredibly stupid to go up those stairs alone. The bad guy had
taken full advantage and caught him flat footed. Jack would be furious .
. . again. Martin still cringed at the tongue lashing he'd received the
last time he'd gone it alone and was cold cocked, again flat footed, but
that time with a baseball bat.
Jack
had every right to reprimand him then.
And he had every right to do it again.
Suddenly, Martin's attention abruptly and painfully centered on his hip
and he stumbled. Lurching to the side, he barely had time to slap his
hand against the building to keep from falling.
'Damn,' he thought woozily as
an unbelievable burning pain flared, blinding him and causing him to
slouch against the wall. He pressed his hand on his hip as he sank to
the ground. His head throbbed, the injury there finally making itself
known as the stimulant in his blood disappeared.
"Martin!"
The voice came from a far distance as consciousness trickled away at an
alarming rate. He felt hands on his cheeks and blinked - his voice
didn't seem to work. Sam's blurry face appeared before his eyes and he
tried to smile but the exquisite agony that flared suddenly stole him
away.
"Get the medics -" he heard as darkness veiled everything.
oooooOOOOOooooo
Beep
. . . Beep . . . Beep . . .
The noise brought forth the vision of a hospital. All those wires .
. .
Beep . . .beep . . . beep . . .
He noticed the
noise echoed the pounding in his head.
Beep
. . . beep . . beep . . .
This did not
bring up good memories.
"He's
waking up, Doctor," he heard a feminine voice say through the
buzzing in his head. Something clicked and he felt pressure on his back.
"There," the voice said softly. "That should be more
comfortable.
Martin forced his eyes open and found fuzzy brightness. He groaned and
squinted.
"Martin, can you hear me?" The masculine voice sounded very
close. "You'll feel pain in your head and hip. You have some
injuries."
The information helped to bring order to his scattered thoughts.
Gunshots? No . . . a tumble down the stairs . . . losing his gun . . . 'that
bastard hit me!'
His eyes shot open at the realization and he paid the price with a
lightning shot of agony that laced from the back of his head. He felt
his body react automatically, his back arching as the pain from his head
and hip merged.
"Morphine . . ." a voice barked.
Immediately reaching out to grab something . . .
anything . . . when he felt hands subdue his arm and soon a warm
wash of comfort raced through his veins. He relaxed into the mattress as
his vision cleared a little.
"That should help, Martin."
"Yeah," he croaked. "Where . . ."
A face came into focus. - a man in scrubs. "You've injured your hip
and you have a concussion. We're still waiting for the x-rays to see how
bad your hip is. Meanwhile, you need to stay still. You're at
Memorial
Hospital
. We'll be taking you to a room now."
Martin thought he nodded but wasn't sure. Metallic clicks and murmurs
preceded the feeling of motion as the gurney was rolled out of a room
and into a hallway. He noticed the march of florescent light panels in
the ceiling as he was rolled along. Another face entered his line of
sight.
"Samantha,"
he whispered hoarsely.
"Yeah,
Martin, it's me. You get better, okay? Everything's under control. I'll
see you soon."
"Sure,
sure," he heard himself mumble, the easy warmth of the morphine
cloaking everything. There was something he needed to know . . . what
was it? "My gun," he blurted with sudden realization.
"Where's . . ."
"We have
it, Martin," Samantha's voice soothed. "You're safe.
Everything's all right. Trust me."
'Always,'
he thought. 'I can always trust
you, I know.' With that
thought, he found it difficult to keep his eyes open any longer.
'Jack is going to have my head on
a platter,' Agent Fitzgerald noted glumly as he gave in to sleep.
The End |