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Strategic Moves (Stone Barrington 19)

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The Harley Hog and its driver had parted company for reasons he did not understand. The driver was doing flips and rolls in the grassy median, and the Hog was skidding along on its side, making sparks. There was a truck to his right and two cars to his left, so he was left with no alternative but to drive over the big machine, braking as hard as he could. His car struck the bike and became airborne.

Everything happened very fast after that; the car was turning end over end, and Stone was straining against his seat belt, his face full of airbags. Then the lights went out.

SIXTY-ONE

People were shouting at one another as Stone slowly came to, upside down, suspended from his seat belt, his arms below his head, deflated airbags everywhere.

The voices seemed to come from a great distance. “He’s coming to!” a man shouted. “We can’t move the car, and I can’t break the window. Get that thing going!”

Stone saw the man kneeling outside his window, the thick glass muffling his voice. Some sort of engine started, something like a chain saw. Stone found the window switches and pressed one. To his surprise his window slid down—or, rather, up. The machine noise became deafening.

The man was shouting something at him, but he couldn’t understand over the noise. Stone thought it better that he take a nap.

When he opened his eyes again they were filled with blue sky, then a man in a uniform leaned over him.

“Is your name Barrington?”

“Yes,” Stone managed to say.

“We’re getting you to a hospital right away,” the cop said. “Is there anybody you want us to call?”

Stone thought. Not Lance. “Mike Freeman, Strategic Services, New York.” He felt himself being lifted, then he went to sleep again.

Stone woke in a darkened room.

“Ah, there you are,” Mike’s voice said from somewhere.

Stone took a deep breath, and it didn’t hurt much. “Turn on the lights,” he said softly.

The blinds opened and sunlight flooded the room. Mike was silhouetted against the window. “There’s nothing wrong with you, you know. You’re woozy because some EMT gave you morphine; I’m not sure why.”

“Well,” Stone said, “it’s pretty rosy in here where I am.”

The electric bed moved Stone into a sitting position. “I could use a drink,” Stone said.

“Later, my friend.”

“Did I break anything?”

“Not even a rib. No head injury, either. I saw a picture of your car; it’s a mess. You’re a very lucky guy. They had to cut you out with that Jaws of Life thing.”

“Can I have some water?” Stone asked.

Mike poured some from a bedside flask and handed it to him. There was ice in it; it tasted wonderful.

A man in a white coat came into the room. “I see the morphine is wearing off,” he said. “The EMT said he gave you the morphine because he figured you must hurt all over.”

Stone tried moving things. “Everything seems to work,” he said.

The doctor gave him a neurological examination, then patted him on the shoulder. “I want you to stay here overnight for observation. If you don’t die before morning, you can go home.” He walked out.

“We’re at Danbury Hospital,” Mike said. “I’ll stay at your place in Washington tonight and drive you home in the morning. Get some rest.” He tucked something cold under the covers and held a finger to his lips, then he left.

Stone sat the bed up a bit farther and felt for the cold object. It was half a bottle of Knob Creek, with a straw taped to it. He smiled.

The following morning they wheeled Stone out of the hospital through a side door, where Mike was waiting with one of his big black SUVs. The two of them settled into the backseat, and the driver drove them away.

Mike handed him a plastic bag with a lot of stuff in it. “They cleaned out the glove compartment and found your cell phone on the ceiling,” he said, “but your car is not coming home. By this time, it’s probably a small cube in a junkyard.”



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