Page 3 of Blood Money

“Fuck you,” Gray said, thankful his partner was alive and seemingly uninjured.

“Not a chance.” Dom chuckled. “You’re too good-looking for my taste.”

Gray hazarded a glance to where the FBI agent lay sprawled on his back on the far side of the room. The agent’s chest was covered with blood, his suit jacket and shirt torn to shreds. A piece of metal stuck out of the man’s forehead. His eyes were open, unseeing. Gray had seen it too many times before.

The agent had been killed instantly.

Gray exhaled slowly, trying to clear his head.

Medics who’d been on standby outside the building poured into the room. One put her hand to the agent’s carotid then shook her head. She and the other medic began checking on Pete, whose face was contorted with pain.

Gray struggled to get to his feet.

“Sit your ass down.” Dom increased the pressure on Gray’s shoulder.

“No way.” Gray shoved Dom’s hand away. He struggled to his feet and was nearly overcome with dizziness and nausea.

Gray leaned heavily on Dom’s arm while he regained his bearings. With Dom’s aid, he staggered to the gurney where Pete now lay and clasped the other man’s hand.

The FBI agent’s body lay on the floor beside the gurney. Even though the dumb shit had triggered the blast, Gray felt a deep sense of loss.

Ironically, the agent’s body had probably taken the brunt of the blast, shielding the rest of them from most of the shrapnel.

Pete took a shallow breath. “Nothing there,” he gasped, his breath fogging up the oxygen mask. “It would have pegged…the meter. Had to be…epoxy.”

“The lab will check it out.” Gray gave Pete’s hand a squeeze just before the medics rolled him out the door. To Dom, he said, “I’d bet my ass he’s right. The bomb was probably encased in epoxy. Undetectable by standard methods.”

“Could have been a bad sensor,” Dom suggested. “A technical fritz or one of those fuzzy gremlins. Shit happens.”

“Not to Pete.” Gray let Dom lead him to a sofa in the adjoining room. “Pete Miller doesn’t make mistakes. If that agent hadn’t pulled the blinds, Pete would have found something. Guaranteed.”

“Yeah, copy that.” Dom glanced through the doorway to where the agent’s body still lay.

Shafts of sunlight poked through the holes in the wall, and clouds of dust hung in the air. Gray and Dom both coughed to rid their lungs of contaminants. With every cough Gray’s head pounded as if someone had taken a hammer to his skull.

The female medic set her supply box on the floor at his feet and practically pushed Gray onto the sofa, then began examining the back of his head. He flinched as she jostled whatever piece of shrapnel had lodged itself in his skull.

“Don’t be such a baby, detective,” she said.

“Smart-ass.” He glared first at her then at Dom when his partner chuckled.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” she asked.

“Three,” Gray answered.

“Who do you work for?”

“The NYPD,” he said, knowing these were standard questions meant to ascertain the severity of his head injury.

“What’s your name and rank?”

“Gray Yates. Detective.”

“What’s this guy’s name?” She hooked a finger in Dom’s direction.

“Detective Dominick Carew.” Gray gritted his teeth, starting to get annoyed. He really wanted to get this examination over with so he could get back to finding out what the hell had happened.

The medic began feeling the sides of his neck for neck and spinal injury. “What year is it?” she asked in a calm voice, totally unfazed and clearly not intimidated by Gray’s pissy attitude.