James Grippando - Need You Now

“Sure thing, Father. I’ll be right here if you need me.”

Mongoose tucked the Bible under his arm and entered the room alone. He stopped at the bed rail and cast his gaze downward at the man now known as Carlson. His face was thin, his hair was gone, and his pallor was more suitable for a corpse. Cancer had left him a mere shell of his former self, but Mongoose immediately recognized him as Tony Mandretti.

Some things from his days with the agency Mongoose would never forget.

Mongoose laid the Bible and his beads on the table, his gaze sweeping the room. Breakfast was on the tray table; Mandretti hadn’t touched the scrambled eggs or the burned wheat toast. An IV hung from a pole beside the bed. A steady drip from three separate bags mixed to become a pharmaceutical cocktail that flowed through a single plastic tube, which fed into the veins of Mandretti’s forearm. An even longer tube from a second IV pole disappeared beneath the sheets, presumably feeding into his leg or abdomen.

Mongoose hated hospitals. They brought back bad memories-or perhaps “memory” was the right term, since he’d been unconscious for most of his four-week stay in intensive care. He had no recollection of the triage in the emergency room, the rush to the OR, the surgery to stop the bleeding and repair the damage to internal organs. Luckily, it had not been hollow-point ammunition, which would have taken the internal injuries to another level. Even so, no one had expected him to survive-least of all the man who had shot him: Manu Robledo.

His supervisory agent hadn’t sold the assignment to him as a particularly dangerous one, as far as undercover operations went. The blue eyes and fair skin that made Mongoose believable as an Irish priest tonight had also made it easy for him to play a German financier named Niklas Konig, a European mover and shaker in the nebulous international circles of Miami money. He would live on a confiscated yacht, a customized Hatteras Convertible that was fit for the lifestyle of the Colombian drug lord who had forfeited it to the DEA. Konig would introduce Manu Robledo to Gerry Collins and get Robledo to move his clients’ money to a numbered account at BOS/Singapore, after which Collins would steer it through a maze of other banks on its way to Abe Cushman. Weird thing was, for a time he had actually liked Collins. Robledo, too. As Gerry used to say, online dating may be the trend, but nothing will ever replace plunking down a stack of Benjamins for thousand-dollar bottles of Crystal as the way to meet women. He was having a good time, totally outclassing those two jerk-offs. Until that night on the yacht.

He could still see the expression on Robledo’s face. The way Robledo had raised his arm. The way the gun had suddenly found its way into his hand from inside the sleeve of his peacoat. He’d faced down gunmen before, but never unarmed, never so certain that the son of a bitch was actually going to pull the trigger. He would never forget the anger in those dark eyes, hooded by those thick brows, and then the flash from the muzzle. After that, there was a gaping black hole. His next memory-and he could see it clearly now, standing at Mandretti’s bedside in this cold and sterile room-was waking up on his back in a hospital bed, looking up into the eyes of his supervisory agent.

“W hatthe hell happened?” asked Mongoose. They weren’t his first words, but he had no memory of the earlier mutterings that had marked his return from a coma.

His supervisory agent was at the bed rail. A doctor came quickly. Several doctors. Maybe some nurses, too. Mongoose wasn’t sure who they were. The questions they asked seemed silly. How old are you? Where did you grow up? The pointless jabber was wearing him out. He wasn’t sure how long it went on. It could have been minutes, could have been an hour or more. At some point, his mind cleared. He reached over the side rail and grabbed his supervisor by the arm.

“Get me out of here,” he said.

The doctor stopped him. “Try to be still,” she said. “It’s important that you not make sudden movements.”

Mongoose tried to sit up and protest, but the sharp pain in his back choked off his speech. It was as if someone had heated the blade of a steak knife and jabbed him in the spine.

“Holy shit,” he said as he settled back onto the mattress. He overheard the doctor speaking to a nurse.

“We may need to increase the medication,” she said.

“What is wrong with me?” asked Mongoose.

“You were shot.”

“I know that, damn it. What is this pain in my back?”

The doctor leaned closer, speaking to him in a calm, even tone. “You were hit in the chest. Fortunately, we were able to repair all damage to your organs. But the exit wound was more problematic. The projectile fractured the left pedicle of the thoracic five vertebra in your spine. The spinal cord was indirectly damaged by what we call ‘cavitation.’ ”

“Spinal cord injury?” That was not the news Mongoose wanted to hear.

“The good news is that the surgery was successful. We did a microscopically assisted posterior revision at T-four/five.”

“Can you speak English, please?”

“Your motor function should be fine.”

That hot knife was suddenly jabbing him in the spine again. He got through it with clenched teeth. “What about the pain?”

The doctor hesitated, then said, “There are some limitations there.”

“Limitations?”

“The damage to the vertebrae can be addressed surgically only if we were to remove your internal organs. That’s high risk. I recommend that we wait and see.”

Another wave of pain took his breath away. “Wait and see what?”

“See if the pain subsides with time. It could.”

“Could? Or should?”

“We’ll just have to wait and see.”

His supervisor gestured toward the doctors and nurses, and they left the two men alone. It was just Mongoose and his boss, who was speaking in a hushed voice. “Don’t worry, Manu Robledo will get his. Cushman is going down before Christmas. Robledo’s investors will take care of him once they find out he lost their money.”

“You’re not going to arrest him?”

“No. If we do that, all you worked for will be for nothing. Operation BAQ fails.”

Mongoose closed his eyes, trying to absorb the pain shooting down his spine. “This is ridiculous.”

“Listen to the doctor. Rest, and it should go away.”

“Robledo will pay for this.”

“Like I said: just let it play out. The FBI is all over Collins to find out if he was also part of the setup.”

“Collins is alive ?”

“Yes.”

“Was he shot?”

“No. Robledo spared him.”

“Spared him, my ass. If Collins is alive, he’s in with Robledo.”

“We’re looking at that.”

Mongoose grabbed him by the arm. “Robledo had a source. He came to the boat with a report, some kind of proof that Cushman was a fraud.”

“A report?”

“An analysis, he called it. He was saying something about it right before he started shooting.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“Collins didn’t tell you?” asked Mongoose.

“No.”

Mongoose blinked hard, trying to contain his anger. “It’s the three of them. Collins, Robledo, and somebody who tipped off Robledo with that report. It’s no coincidence that the only guy who got shot is the federal agent.”

“Just concentrate on getting well.”

“I want to know who tipped off Robledo.”

“I want you to concentrate on getting better.”

Mongoose propped himself up on an elbow, ignoring the pain, and looked his supervisor in the eye. “Get me that fucker’s name,” he said, “and then I’ll get well.”