Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay by Gordon Carroll (good books to read for beginners TXT) 📕

waiting for me, licking his scrotum as if he hadn’t just killed two men. I handcuffed the unconscious thug to the pole railing at the front of the stage. I loaded Tom and Pilgrim into the Escalade and raced down the mountain. Amber was my biggest concern, but I knew how to get to Mr. Spock. I just had to pray he wouldn’t kill her before I could get to him.

The closest hospital was Lutheran. I took C-470 at a hundred and ten, screamed off onto I-70 going east, passing cars and trucks, ignoring the honks and dirty looks and obscene gestures that faded in my wake. I got off at Kipling and tooled back to 38th hooking east. Stopping in front of the Emergency Room, it was a close bet as to which was smoking worse, my brakes or my tires. I ran in, grabbed the first gurney I saw and ran it back to my car. I loaded Tom on and hauled him inside. Grabbing another gurney I ran back out, loaded Pilgrim on and pushed him into the Emergency Room where a doctor, dressed in surgical blues, stopped me with upraised hands.

“Whoa — whoa — whoa there. Where do you think you’re going with that animal?”

“He’s hurt. You need to help him.”

“This is a hospital, not a vet clinic. You wheel him right on back out to your car there. We have sanitation standards here for crying out loud.”

I moved to the side and started around him. He jumped in front of the gurney. I saw two armed security guards coming toward us in a hurry.

“Look,” I said, “I don’t have time for this.”

“Well you’re going to have to make some time here, fella. That man you brought in has a bullet wound. The police are going to want to talk to you. And as for this animal, he needs to be out of here right now.”

The two guards came up alongside the gurney. One was average build, young, with a scar on his cheek like the original G.I. Joe. The other guy was in his fifties, balding with a good sized pot belly.

“What’s going on here?” asked Pot Belly.

The doctor didn’t even look at him as he spoke. “This man is trying to bring a dog in here. And he dropped off a man with a gunshot wound.”

Pot Belly put his hands in his pockets and pursed his lips. “Is that right?”

The young kid with the scar pulled out his service weapon in one smooth move and pointed it at me.

“What are you doing?” asked Pot Belly.

“Did you just hear the doctor?” said The Kid. “He said this guy just brought in a shot guy. He might be the shooter.”

The Kid impressed me. His hand was steady, the barrel of his weapon aimed right at my chest. I figured him for a former soldier and by the cut of him he’d seen some action. He made me feel old. I changed his name in my mind from Kid to Scar Face.

“Look,” said Scar Face, indicating my chest with the gun, “those are bullet holes in his shirt.” Yup, Scar Face was impressive. But he was young and he was standing way too close to me for his own good.

Pot Belly, his hands still in his pockets, looked close at my shirt. His expression changed. He started to pull his hands from his pockets.

I really didn’t have time for this. Amber was in danger. I put my hands up in the universal gesture for surrender, took one step to the side, slanting my body as I did, shoved out with my left palm, moving Scar Face’s wrist to the outside, gripped the top of his weapon over the slide, curved it in toward his wrist, pulled back and slipped the gun into my own hand. The kid stepped back, hands empty, face white.

Pot Belly’s eyes got real big.

“Just keep your hands in your pockets, pal,” I said, “and no one will get hurt.” I looked at the doctor. “First off, I didn’t shoot these two, they’re my friends. Second, I’m one of the good guys. And third,” I looked at the doctor, “you are going to take care of my dog here, his name is Pilgrim, and if you don’t, or if you try and ship him out of here and he dies because of it, I will come back here and you will be sorry. Do you understand me?”

He nodded.

I stopped smiling and let him see my dog eyes. “Do you believe me?”

He gulped, loud and with effort, the way you do when your mouth has gone all dry. He nodded again.

I backed out of the Emergency Room doors, keeping the gun aimed at Scar Face. I wouldn’t put it past him to have a backup weapon, and youth has a certain misconception of its own invulnerability. “You get this back when I’m sure I don’t need it for the good doctor over there.” The automatic doors closed in front of me and I hopped in the car and started for Colorado Springs.

45

I scouted the building, looking for the Mercedes Mr. Spock drove off in. I circled the building three times but it wasn’t there. The building was large, modern and new, packed with reflective windows that mirrored the perfectly manicured lawns and fountains and bronzed statues that decorated the landscape. I should have a plan, but I didn’t. I decided on the direct approach.

The receptionist at the front desk looked up from her computer as I stepped up. She was gorgeous, with long, silky, brown hair, high cheeks, perfectly formed lips and gun-metal blue eyes. Those eyes took me in, and dark thin eyebrows, as perfectly manicured as the lawns outside, rose in surprise. I looked a mess.

I smiled. “What floor is Mr. Doors’ office on?”

She regained her composure quickly, the sign of a real pro. “Is he expecting you?”

“Not exactly. It’s sort of a surprise.”

She reached under the counter, very naturally, as