Page 24 of The Witness

“So far. No visitors.”

“Good.”

Smith and I slipped inside Wright’s room and Brooks returned to his post.

The FBI agent had IV tubes in one arm, and the leads from four different monitors snaked out from under the sheets tucked around his chest. One upper arm and one exposed leg were heavily bandaged. A constant beep, beep counted his heartbeats.

Wright slowly turned his head as it lay on the pillow. He blinked, taking a few moments to focus on Smith and me.

“Do you have her?” Wright’s raspy voice was sandpaper on the ears.

I poured water from a plastic pitcher into a paper cup with a straw that sat on the table next to his bed. Wright’s gaze landed on me, his eyes going wide. The scrutiny made my skin feel too tight and too loose all at the same time. I wasn’t anything like most Smith Agency employees with their clean-cut military appearances. I looked more like the men Wright put in jail. No way he was comfortable lying prone in his sickbed before me.

It was running into Coyote that had me thinking like this. Nothing more. Wright hadn’t just shot me the hairy eyeball; I’d probably imagined it. Fuck, one chance meeting with The Rogues and I was rattled.

I held the cup out, the straw angled to his lips. After a brief hesitation, he took a greedy sip. And my discomfort eased at his grateful smile.

“Yes, the witness is with us,” Smith answered.

“Sabrina is a good woman. Doesn’t deserve to be involved in this.”

I nodded in agreement and focused on why we were here before I asked a stupid question about how Wright knew Sabrina, a question that had nothing to do with keeping her safe and everything to do with my growing attraction to her.

“I was at her place this morning. A few of your colleagues showed up.” I pulled out my phone and showed him the photo of the men in Sabrina’s driveway.

“Wells and Lopez.” He tried to shrug and grimaced in pain.

“There were two others in a car watching.” I flipped to that image.

“Not FBI.”

“But somehow I think all four are playing on the same team, don’t you?” Smith rubbed out Wright’s name on the patient information dry erase board on the wall.

“Yeah. It took two bullets, but I believe you and your damn conspiracy theory about Sandoval and my office. It's dirty fromtop to bottom.” Wright closed his eyes; his head sank into the pillow.

“You were the last good man in that office.” Smith had found a marker and was printing a new name in bold block letters on the board.

“Thanks.” Wright didn’t open his eyes. He sounded exhausted.

“Your cooperation will make this much simpler. I’m having you moved. It will be safer. I can’t protect you here. Too many people are taking money from Sandoval in this city.” Smith was all business. If he had a shred of compassion for the FBI agent’s injury or situation, it wasn’t apparent. But I expected nothing else. Smith solved problems expeditiously, not with finesse.

“Moved? I just got shot. I’m having a second surgery tomorrow.” Wright lifted his head as far as he was able and glared at Smith in disbelief.

“Yes. At the University of Florida’s Shands Hospital in Gainesville. The doctor there is the best. He is the foremost expert in a new robotic assisted surgery that speeds healing after gunshots. The medical helicopter will be here within the hour to transfer you.” Smith produced a small, deadly, sharp-looking switchblade and sliced the barcoded hospital bracelet off Wright’s wrist, then replaced it with a new one.

Wright twisted back his wrist and read the name on the bracelet. “Joesph Tidewater?”

It was the same name Smith had printed on the patient information board.

“Here is your date of birth and social security number.” Smith put a scrap of paper in Wright's hand. “Memorize it.”

“Do you think all this is necessary?”

“I do. Sandoval doesn’t leave loose ends.” The look Smith gave Wright implied that he would be on the clean-up list. “You know, the beautiful thing about big hospitals is they rely on bar codes and social security numbers for everything. When you land inGainesville no one will have the faintest clue you are actually Lewis Wright.”

“What about my insurance and—”

“It’s handled.” The command in Smith's voice cut off Wright’s protests and seemed to hammer home the danger in a way nothing else had. Wright looked from the ID bracelet to the scrap of paper and nodded.

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