A flash outside the Venetian blinds sent a crazy striped parallelogram of flickering orange light splashing across the wall of Clark Thatcher's room. The plastic IV bag hanging at the head of his bed caught some of the light and reflected it onto his legs, a bright orange amoeba that danced and jiggled for a moment until the crash of the explosion frightened it away. Then he heard sirens, and shouting.
Thatcher craned his neck, straining against the straps that held him to the bed, but all he could see outside was a pale yellow flicker and moving shadows. Through the small window in his door, nothing but the same hospital-sterile light he'd seen since he'd been here.
How long was that? Hours. Maybe a day. Ironic, for a Knight not to know the time. But something soft filled his mouth, and no matter how hard he bit down his system would not activate.
He heard gunshots. More shouting. Was it getting closer? Hard to concentrate. The cold fluid seeping into his arm turned his muscles to putty and his brain to jelly. He pulled again against the straps. If he could get loose, maybe he could escape in the chaos of--whatever was happening out there.
If he couldn't get loose, this was the end of the line. They would cut him open, take out the central stabilizer and a few other expensive and delicate parts, and let him die on the table. They probably wouldn't even bother sewing him up again.
Knowing Duke--knowing what he knew now about Duke--they might not even put him under first.
Duke, you bastard, he thought, you used to be my hero.
Movement outside the door. Voices. Thatcher held his breath, listened with his whole body.
"Halt!" A pause, then: "This area's restricted, ma'am."
"Thank God I found someone!" A woman's voice, torn with panic. "They came through the window! They're in the staff lounge on the third floor!"
"Shit! Preston, stay here with the nurse."
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