Dragonfury 02 - Fury of Ice

exit. The instant she cleared the door frame, she yelled, “Doctor! I need a doctor over here!”
    “Goddamn it.” Guess his leather coat would have to wait.
    But he couldn’t. The nurse would be back with reinforcements. And as much as his job called for it, he didn’t like knocking people around unless they left him no other choice.
    Moving like an enemy tank, Mac rounded the end of the bed and headed for the door. Rooted between the steel doorjambs, Conan the Brilliant jacked up his pants. The security guard’s badge winked in the bright light, flashing silver against the navy-blue uniform. Mac wanted to roll his eyes. He made twin fists instead and, without slowing, met the baby rent-a-cop’s gaze. “You really wanna fuck with me?”
    Yup. That did it. Mr. Tough Guy moved, just slid right out of his way. As Mac passed, he nodded at the guard, acknowledging the crappy position he was putting him in. The kid would probably lose his job over letting him go. Or at the very least end up with a reprimand in his file.
    “Sorry, man. My partner’s in trouble.”
    Conan nodded. “Go left…out through the loading docks. I’ll tell ’em you went the other way.”
    “You’re a peach.”
    “With an ulterior motive.” Putting his feet in gear, the kid trailed him down the double-wide corridor. As they dodged patients on gurneys and medical personnel, he raised his voice to be heard over the din of the ER. “I want a recommendation that’ll get me into the academy this spring.”
    Pausing at a bustling hallway intersection, Mac’s mouth curved. Well, well, well. Maybe the kid wasn’t so dumb, after all. “Bring your creds to my office…I’ll consider it.”
    “That way.” Right on his ass, the kid pointed to a set of doors dead-ending one of the corridors. “Laundry’s through there. It’ll lead you straight out. Good luck, man.”
    Without looking back, Mac punched through the double doors. Five minutes later, he was outside and around the side of the building. Chilly autumn air washed over him. He clenched his teeth, trying to keep them from chattering, and rubbed his bare arms. But the cold persisted, sinking deep, rattling his bones until…
    Jesus. Where was he? Canada?
    It sure felt like he’d landed in his northern neighbor’s playground. The only thing missing? About three feet of snow. Not that he had time to be grateful for the lack of thick-white-and-fluffy. He needed to get across town, to the shipyard where he moored his boat. The hospital wouldn’t keep Captain Hobbs in the dark for long. When hospital staff couldn’t find him inside the facility, a phone call would be made and…boom! His boss’s temper would explode.
    So, home first to grab his backup weapon, then he’d get good and ghost. After all, his captain couldn’t give him hell if he couldn’t find him.
    A cab ride—and the world record for dry heaving—later, Mac crossed the deserted parking lot and approached the shipyard’s entrance. Surrounded by a twelve-foot chain-link fence, he got within ten feet before the motion sensors went live. Industrial-grade halogens clicked on, flooding the security gate with light.
    Mac flinched and, turning his face away, stumbled sideways. God, that hurt. Which was beyond strange.
    Normally, the light-bright routine didn’t bother him. Tonight, the brilliance tunneled into the back of his brain, making his head scream. Gravel crunched beneath his boots as Mac’s shoulder bumped the warehouse wall flanking the walkway. Using it to prop himself up, he spread one hand against the cold steel, planted the other on his knee, and doubled over, fighting another case of the gags.
    Frickin’ hell.
    The nausea was killing him. And as the pain got worse, his muscles cramped, knotting so tight he couldn’t catch his breath. Sucking air in through his nose, he blew it out his mouth, trying to unlock his lungs. The in-and-out routine helped and, after a minute, he pushed himself upright and squinted at the keypad mounted next to the gate.
    Seven feet. Just seven more feet and he’d be inside, walking into the place he called home.
    Slamming his internal gearshift, Mac put himself in drive, forcing one foot in front of the other. He punched his password into the keypad. A motor hummed and chains clanked as the gate retreated, sliding sideways. Not waiting for it to open fully, he slipped through and staggered down the concrete steps, each footfall quiet even though his body was in riot