Deadline (Sandra Brown)

wee hours, when few people are around.”
    Standing behind the chair in Headly’s room, he braced his hands on the back of it and looked meaningfully at his godfather. “I assume you gave them orders not to kill him.”
    “If it could be avoided.”
    “He was bleeding pretty bad.”
    “One bullet went through his right shoulder, grazed a lung, causing partial but significant collapse. They put in a chest tube. He caught another bullet in the back of his knee. His age is a factor, of course, but I’m told he came through the surgery fine. When he’s well enough, he’ll be turned over to the judicial system.”
    Seconds ticked by as they held each other’s stare.
    Finally Dawson said, “We can’t leave it at that.”
    “You can. I can’t.”
    “I can’t either.”
    “Dawson—”
    “Let me rephrase. I won’t .”
    He must have sensed Dawson’s resolve, because he said, “I’ve been trying to figure out how we can do it. He’s got marshals guarding him. They’re not going to let us in there with a weapon. But I have an idea.”
    Dawson listened while Headly laid it out. He nodded somberly. “I can do that.”
    “We won’t get away with it, you know.”
    “Probably not.”
    Headly studied him for several long moments, then, mind made up, looked down at the IV taped to the back of his hand. “First thing you gotta do is pull this friggin’ thing out.”
    Five minutes later, Dawson pushed the wheelchair into the elevator. He had successfully gotten Headly disconnected from the IV, out of the bed, and into the wheelchair, but it hadn’t been easy. Headly was rapidly regaining sensation and some muscle control in his arms, shoulders, and hands, but for all practical purposes, they were useless.
    In the confines of the elevator his breathing sounded labored and uneven. He looked pale beneath the fluorescent glare, and his face was moist with sweat. Dawson asked if he was in pain.
    “I’m fine.”
    “We could wait.”
    “I don’t know when they’ll move him. We may not have another chance.”
    The elevator doors opened onto a dimly lighted hallway. “Leave the marshals to me.”
    The two, seated outside Carl’s room, looked at them curiously as they approached. “Evening, gentlemen,” Headly said in his most authoritative tone. “I’m Special Agent Gary Headly, here to question the prisoner.”
    The two marshals looked at each other, then at Dawson, finally back to Headly. One said, “He’s still in serious condition.”
    “Right. He could die. Which is precisely why I need to question him now.”
    “Where’s Agent Knutz?”
    “Probably up to his earlobes in paperwork, which is why I’m handling this interrogation.”
    “With all due respect, sir, you don’t look all that well. Are you up to it?”
    Headly glowered.
    The marshal, discomfited, cleared his throat and gave a nod toward Dawson. “What about him?”
    “This is Dawson Scott. He’s the one Wingert held at gunpoint yesterday afternoon.”
    “I know who he is. Why’s he here?”
    “To dispel any of Wingert’s bullshit.”
    The two marshals exchanged another uneasy glance, then one worked up enough courage to challenge him. “Sorry, sir. I can’t let you go in without—”
    “Authorization?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Fine.” His cell phone was lying in his lap. He nodded down to it. “The AG’s number is programmed under the numeral eight. Wake up our boss and tell him that you’re denying me access to a fugitive that I and the entire Department of Justice have been chasing down for nearly forty years.” Smiling benignly, he added, “He’ll probably be tickled to hear from you.”
    It took the marshal about three seconds to decide. He left the phone where it was. “Are you armed, sir?”
    “Yes. With a catheter up my dick and the bag into which my bladder is draining. You’re welcome to check.” Again he nodded down at his lap, covered only by the flimsy hospital gown.
    The marshal said, “I don’t think that will be necessary.”
    “Son, even if I had a weapon, I can’t move my hands.”
    Meanwhile the other marshal had been patting down Dawson. “He’s good.”
    One of them held open the door as Dawson wheeled Headly into the room where Carl Wingert was strapped to the bed not only by restraints but also by a network of medical paraphernalia.
    Dawson pushed the wheelchair to the bedside. Carl’s eyes were closed. Headly said his name, and when he failed to respond, he told Dawson to poke him.