Larger Than Life by Alison Kent (read the beginning after the end novel .txt) 📕

Ed was all business now doing his thing, and Mick let him, submitting to the thermometer, the light up his nose, the poking and prodding of what felt like kidneys and liver and spleen, not to mention every bruised rib and patch of scraped skin along the way. He gritted his teeth, sucked back a sharp breath or two, until Jekyll finished his mad torture.

"You're good to go," the other man said, releasing the air from the blood pressure cuff, "but check in with your own doctor for a complete physical when you get home. Which, by the way, better be soon." His level gaze held the unmistakable warning that he didn't like breaking rules or appreciate the insistence that he take shortcuts.

Mick nodded. He would leave, but not to seek more medical treatment. After his last stint in the Middle East, he was well aware that his body could stand more punishment than this and heal. His mental state, now that was another story. The exhaustion was catching up and bloody well serious about taking its toll.

A man could only hunt down and kill so many others before blowing a fuse or two dozen.

"Listen, mate. I don't suppose you could take a lunch break and give me a lift out to see if my ride's where I left it? The cash I had with me might still be stashed away under the hood. I'd like to pay you for your services before I check out of town."

"It's a little late for lunch. In fact, I was just heading home for supper." At Mick's obvious confusion, the doctor ndded, "You've been sleeping for about six hours. It was ten or so when Neva brought you in this morning. And by the way, she took your dog home with her."

That would've been damn inconvenient except for the fact that she already had his gun. He prayed like hell she hadn't managed to lose F's collar. Or that she hadn't replaced it with something she thought more fashionably chic from out of those boxes she'd been hauling. "Hope she didn't lock him in a kennel. Even if he's too banged up to run, he would hate being cooped up."

"Something he gets from his owner?" the doc asked while washing and drying his hands.

"It might be, sure." Gingerly, Mick climbed down from the table for the second time, dropped the sheet, and reached for the boxers. He stepped into them before speaking again. "What makes you ask?"

The doc turned then and tossed another bundle toward the chair. Tucked inside Mick's hat, his sunglasses, ankle holster, and knife still in its sheath landed on top of the clothes. "That's military gear. Maybe mercenary. Call me psychic, but I'm guessing you and cages don't get along."

Mick stared for a minute, then shook off the déjà vu and reached for the T-shirt, losing the sling long enough to pull the shirt over his head and down, grimacing as the cotton hit raw patches of skin. "If you can just get me to my ride so I can get my dog, you won't have to worry about seeing me or my gear again."

"Just making sure we're on the same page." The doctor hesitated, scrubbing a hand back over his short-cropped silvered hair and finally adding, "Especially when it comes to Nevada Case."

Mick wasn't about to be lured into a pissing match, to make any sort of ominous or menacing impression that would have anyone looking for him once he was gone. So he transferred his things to the table and sat to pull on the socks, to strap on his knife and empty holster, leaving the doc standing taller, looming larger, hovering above.

A tactical move. "I'm not after your woman, mate. I only want my dog."

"She's not my woman," the doctor said, deflating as he did so, emphasizing Mick's suspicion that that particular truth didn't sit well with the other man. "I just want to make sure no more trouble ends up out her way. She's had a rough patch since moving here."

What kind of rough patch? Mick opened and closed his mouth. He abso-bloody-lutely would not ask. "I told you, Doc. I don't plan to do anything more than—"

"—get your dog and go. So you said." This time the doc let a smile through to his face. "How 'bout a plate of meat loaf and mashed potatoes before we hit the road?"

Jeans on, but not without a whole lot of gritting and grinding of teeth, Mick sat again to lace up his boots. He was just about ready to go naked; the clothes he was wearing hurt him that bad. "You cooking?"

"Oh, hell no." The doc laughed. "Patsy Cline does the cooking. And, no. She's not related. She owns the only decent restaurant for miles is all."

Food and water wouldn't hurt now that he had the clothes part taken care of. All that was left was the plan and to pick up his gun and his dog. "Since the last thing I ate was an energy bar, I could go for a plate, sure."

"I'll lock up. Unless you want to use the phone in the office first?" Dr. Hill gestured behind him. "Let anyone looking for you know you're up and around?"

Mick needed to call Hank or the ops center but he wasn't going to do it from this man's phone. The SG-5 emergency locator line was only to be used should an operative need to be lifted from an escalation, or have help brought in.

This situation required neither. As had been the case for so much of his life, he was on his own. He got to his feet slowly, wincing nonetheless. "No one to phone, mate. I'm good to go."

Jeanne Munroe liberally sprinkled Comet powder over her kitchen sink, which she'd already spent ten minutes scrubbing. Cooking and cleaning, the only things that seemed to define her these days, also served as