Blood Debt

agonizing pain in his left wrist cut off the rest of the thought and brought involuntary tears.
    "Weren't you listening when I said I wasn't in the mood for this kind of crap?"
    The pain painted red starbursts on the inside of Cel-luci's eyes. He didn't think the wrist was broken, but at the moment, that belief gave him very little actual comfort. Only the left. I won't need the left.
    Christ, couldn't I have come up with a plan that hurt a little less? If it had only meant the loss of a kidney, he'd have been tempted to just lie there and let it happen. Preventing loss of life however—his life—had to be worth a bit of discomfort.
    As the last restraint fell away, he tried to lunge off the bed. This time, he rocked back with the blow so that Sullivan's hand impacted against his cheek with slightly less force than previously. Slightly.
    What was that plan again. Let him beat you senseless, then escape in the confusion? With any luck, the pounding in his temple was his pulse, not pieces breaking off the inside of his skull. Oh, good plan.
    The room spun as Sullivan dragged him up onto his feet, muttering,
    "I should just leave you there to piss yourself."
    Breathing heavily, the dizziness as much from the earlier blood loss as from the double contact with Sullivan's fist, Celluci managed to twist his split lip into a close approximation of a sneer. "You'd have…
    to clean it up, but maybe… you'd like that."
    Sullivan blinked mild eyes and smiled. The smile held all the petty cruelty the eyes did not. "Yeah? Well, I'm gonna enjoy this."
    The first punch drove all the air out of Celluci's lungs. He'd have fallen had Sullivan not maintained a grip on his shirt. Seams cut into his armpits as the fabric stretched to its limit and beyond. He took a wild swing while he tried to get his feet back under him but had no success at either.
    He didn't feel the second punch connect, only the result. One minute he was more-or-less standing, the next, he was flat on his face on the floor. Which was where he wanted to be. Unfortunately, he'd intended to be just a bit more functional.
    "You know what I keep forgetting?"
    The words seemed to come from a very long way away.
    "That you're a cop."
    Oh, shit.

    The sudden flurry of kicks that followed pounded out a rhythm along hip and thigh. They hurt, but nowhere near as much as they would've had Sullivan not been in sneakers or had he been able to reach more delicate targets. Or, for that matter, had the doctor not wanted his kidneys intact. Exaggerating the effect, Celluci tried to rise and fell, only partially faking as he'd forgotten that his left wrist was essentially unusable. Whimpering—and ignoring how good it felt to let some of it out—he squirmed frantically forward on his belly until his shoulder slammed into one leg of the dresser hard enough to rock the heavy furniture.
    "Bet that hurt." Sullivan was breathing as heavily, but not from exertion.
    Lying with his right arm stretched out under the dresser, Celluci walked his fingers over the floor. Just when he thought he'd made an unsurvivable mistake, they closed around metal. He didn't have strength to spare for a smile.
    "I got the other guys when the doctor was done, but since you're not gonna survive the operation, I'm glad we had this time together."
    Sullivan bent over and grabbed the waistband of Celluci's jeans, jerking the heavy cotton up into the air. "Now, get back on your fucking feet."
    Celluci went limp, neither hindering nor helping, conserving his strength. He kept his right arm stretched out, out of sight for as long as possible. The moment his hand cleared the edge of the dresser, he spent all his hoarded strength on one blow, swinging up and around and slamming the length of stainless steel pipe from the fallen IV
    tower between Sullivan's legs.
    The mild eyes widened. Mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, Sullivan sank slowly to his knees, both hands clutching his crotch.
    Hauling himself to his feet on the edge of the bed, Celluci half turned, intending to smash the pipe against the back of Sullivan's head. To his astonishment, the big man got a hand up and intercepted the blow. The pipe spun off across the room.
    All things being equal, the two men were about evenly matched but, as it was—as they were—Celluci didn't stand a chance without a weapon and he knew it.
    Injured arm cradled tightly against his chest, he staggered out of the bedroom and through the room beyond. As he