Axel didn’t budge. “You gonna try to rip the IV lines out again?”
The idea was tempting, but he knew if he did, the straps would come back. He wanted to be in control of his body.
“No,” he said grudgingly.
MacNamara deftly released him, then pressed the button that raised the head of the bed. Morgan got dizzy for a minute, but he took deep breaths and willed himself not to show any sissy-assed weakness such as passing out. He’d never live that down.
“You up to answering questions?” MacNamara asked in that abrupt way of his, no time wasted in pleasantries or even asking how Morgan was feeling.
Morgan kind of half-glared from bleary eyes, mainly because his default mood was that deep and festering rage. “Ask,” he said, reaching again—this time with results—for the foam cup, which he sincerely hoped held some water. The movement was just short of agonizing; his chest felt as if someone were hacking at it with a cleaver. He ground his teeth together and kept stretching his arm out, partly because he was damned if he’d give in to the pain and partly because he really wanted that water.
Anyone else would have gotten the cup for him, but not MacNamara. Right now, Morgan appreciated the lack of sympathy; he wanted to do it himself. He closed his shaking hand around the cup and lifted it. There were a couple of inches of water in the cup and he sucked it dry, then fumbled the cup back onto the table. He sank back against the pillow, as exhausted as if he’d just finished a twenty-mile run.
“Do you remember what happened?”
“Yeah.” Maybe he was mentally fuzzy, but he wasn’t amnesiac.
MacNamara pulled a chair around and dropped into it. He was lean to the point of spareness, just a little above average height, but no one would ever mistake his lack of size as a lack of power. He was intense and ruthless, just the kind of guy the GO-Teams needed to watch their backs.
“Do you know who shot you?”
“No.” Morgan drew a breath. “Do you?”
“He was Russian mob.”
Morgan blinked, flummoxed as much as he was capable of being flummoxed. Russian? Mob? What the hell? He didn’t have anything to do with the Russian mob. “No shit?”
“No shit.”
“I don’t know . . . anyone in the Russian mob.” He’d started to say he didn’t know any Russians, but remembered that he did in fact know a number of Russians—none of them in the mob, though. “What’s his name?”
“Albert Rykov. Was. He’s dead.”
Good, Morgan thought. He didn’t have a lot of forgiveness for people who shot him . . . none, in fact. “I’ve never heard of him.” A sluggish thought occurred: “Maybe he was after someone else?”
“No.” Axel’s tone was flat, certain. He wasn’t entertaining any doubt whatsoever.
“Why would the Russian mob target me?” That didn’t make any sense at all. He scrubbed his hand over his face, felt the rasp of whiskers even though he had a vague memory of one of the nurses shaving him at one time or another . . . maybe. Then he stared in shock at his own hand, at how thin and almost translucent it was, not like his hand at all though he knew it was because it was attached to the end of his arm . . . which also looked freakishly thin. For a minute he fought a sense of disconnection, fought to bring his thoughts back on track. What had they been talking about? Right—the Russians.
“They didn’t. Rykov was attached to the mob, but this looks like an independent hit. Someone outside hired it done.”
In that case, the possibilities were legion because he still couldn’t think why anyone would want him dead, which theoretically left the world’s entire population in play.
“Walk me through everything that happened after you reached stateside,” Axel said, leaning back and crossing his arms.
“I debriefed”—he figured that was already known, given that Axel would have all the paperwork—“grabbed a bite to eat at a McDonald’s, went home, took a shower, and went to sleep. Slept a full twenty-four. Then I worked on my gear, took a run in the dark, came home, went back to sleep.” The simple statements were punctuated by pauses to catch his breath.
“Anything happen at the McDonald’s? Or during your run? Who did you talk to?”
“No, no, and no one, other than the cashier who handed my order out the drive-through window.”
“Did you recognize the cashier?”
“No. It was some kid.”
“Did you see anything inside the restaurant?”
“No.” He was sure of that because he remembered being a little uneasy by his restricted line of sight. After a mission, it always took a while to decompress and ease out of combat mode.
“Then what?”
Morgan blew out a breath, tried to whip up his rapidly flagging energy—not that he’d had much to begin with. He was so weak he didn’t recognize his own body, which made him feel even more disconnected than maybe was accounted for by the drugs. “When I woke up, I wanted to go fishing. I called Kodak but he was otherwise occupied, so I went alone.”
Axel nodded. Morgan figured he already knew that, just as he’d known about the debriefing. “Did you talk to anyone?”
“Congresswoman Kingsley and her husband. They were on the river.”
“Anyone with them?”
“No, they were by themselves.”
“Anyone else?”
“Not to talk to.” A memory niggled at him. “Brawley—the marina manager—said hello.”