Later that afternoon Bryce tried to get comfortable in his hospital bed in his private room. He’d had two breathing treatments since that morning and a battery of tests. His chest ached, his lungs burned, and he felt exhausted even though he hadn’t done anything strenuous. He wanted to lie flat but his doctor was allegedly due at any moment and he intended to face the man from a position of strength. Never let the other guy see vulnerability. He’d learned that lesson well.
He needed to get out of here and in order to do that he had to convince his doctor he was well. Damn this weakness. At least they’d given him a hospital gown. He ran his palm down his chest feeling the well-laundered cotton, not the fine starched linen or silk he usually wore. His hand brushed the EKG leads and he grimaced, looking up to where the monitor displayed his vital signs for anyone to see. He still felt exposed.
Instead of an oxygen mask, he wore a thin nasal cannula. He hated it, hated what it told other people about his condition.
A knock preceded his personal physician, Dr. Marc Robbins, and the pulmonologist he’d met today, Dr. Hany Khalil. Robbins was forty-two, dark-haired, and trim. Bryce had met him at his gym and liked the other man’s drive. Dr. Khalil was in his fifties, his graying dark hair looked distinguished against his swarthy skin. Both men wore serious expressions. Not good.
Bryce braced himself. Pain shot through his chest.
“Bryce.” Dr. Robbins gripped his hand, brief but firm. Bryce had liked that about the man. “Don’t talk too much. We know you’re worn out from the tests.”
How the hell did they know that? Bryce had thought he’d managed a cool façade of languorous ease, despite the unsightly gown.
“Mr. Gannon,” Dr. Khalil spoke briskly with an accent. “I have analyzed your test results. You’ve lost thirty-seven percent of your lung capacity.”
God. No wonder it was hard to breathe.
“I’m afraid the damage is irreparable. There’s scarring in the lung tissue already.”
Bryce tried to control rising panic
. Irreparable damage
. He tried to calm his breathing, but the monitor betrayed him.
Dr. Khalil continued with his efficient onslaught. “What this means for you is that you’ll experience shortness of breath, especially with exercise, possibly wheezing, coughing, and chest tightness.”
“Bryce,” Dr. Robbins added, “You probably won’t be able to run anymore.”
God. He’d run track since boarding school. He prided himself on being fit and fast. Now, because of some sick bastard, he was going to be benched. He pressed his lips together to keep from blistering the air with curses.
Dr. Khalil took up the account once more. “I’ll prescribe a bronchodilator — an inhaler — to relax your lung muscles. It’ll make breathing easier.”
“Like an asthma inhaler?” Bryce croaked. There was no strength in his voice.
Dr. Khalil nodded. “Yes, like that. You’ll have a long-acting bronchodilator for the first few months.”
Months.
“And a short-acting one for periods of stress.”
God, two drugs when he’d never had to take any. Bryce saw Dr. Robbins more at the gym than he did in his medical office. They were on a first-name basis.
“You’ll need pulmonary rehab … ” Dr. Khalil continued.
“Rehab?” Like drug rehab? God, no. He wasn’t staying here for that.
“Breathing exercises with a respiratory therapist.”
Now they thought he had to be taught how to breathe. Bryce would have laughed or scoffed if he’d had the breath.
“And you’ll have a portable oxygen tank.”
The rest of Dr. Khalil’s words faded at the vision of Bryce in court wearing oxygen. He’d seen people with them and pitied them. His fist tightened. That wouldn’t be
him
.
“No oxygen tank,” he growled. He would not be pitied — worse, scorned — or made a target to be victimized.
“For emergencies, Bryce,” Marc explained. “For when you’ve overexerted or for ozone action days, things like that. At first, you’ll need it daily, but gradually you’ll need the oxygen less and less.”
It was suddenly too much to take. Despite his years of training as a lawyer, Bryce turned away from the doctors — a sign of weakness in itself. His eyes burned. He would not disgrace himself.
In a way, the letter bomb had crippled him, robbed him of his perfect health and his perfect control. It had made him less than he’d been, now drug dependent. Drugs were for weak people. He was strong … had been strong. His body had been pure — no cigarettes, no illegal drugs, no tattoos — just healthy and fit. He was thirty-nine years old and had looked forward to turning forty this fall in good shape.
“Bryce, I know it’s hard to accept right now,” Marc tried to soothe. “But you’re alive. The ricin could easily have killed you. This is a small hardship when you think of it that way.”
A small hardship. Right. Robbins wouldn’t be saying that if
he
were the one lying in this bed. Bryce turned back to them; his anger and bitterness helping him control his other feelings once more.
“Thanks, doctors.”
“If you need to talk to a professional about this — ” Marc began.
“I have Sean Bergman,” Bryce interrupted in a rasp.
Dr. Robbins brightened. “That’s right, he’s a psychiatrist. Do you want him updated on today’s findings? You were unconscious when you were admitted, so we gave Dr. Bergman professional courtesy as your friend.”
“Please update him.” Bryce wet his dry lips and breathed in some oxygen. “When can I go home?”
Marc frowned at him. “Bryce, you nearly died. You were unconscious for three days. You couldn’t walk as far as the door right now if you wanted to. You’re going to be in here at least a week.”
A week.
“I’m due in court.”
“I heard you’re defending Adam Steele.” Marc’s lips pursed in disapproval. “You might want to turn your cases over to an associate.”
Bryce frowned and shifted with discomfort. He had no associates. He’d been a star attorney for years. All he had was a staff of assistants, researchers mostly.
Robbins must have read Bryce’s resistance in his expression. “Bryce, this is your life we’re talking about. If you don’t take the time to recuperate, you may not get your strength back.”
Bryce drilled Marc with a glare. There was no way he’d want to stay in this condition. Malingering wasn’t his thing.
The other doctor took Bryce’s silence for assent. “I’ll put together your rehab plan and go over it with you tomorrow.” He turned towards the door.
Marc gripped Bryce’s arm briefly. “Save your energy for the fight to get better and let the hospital staff take care of you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Then Bryce was alone, just him and his debilitation. Against Marc’s advice, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. Runner’s legs with smoothly muscled calves and thighs. He couldn’t accept that he wouldn’t run again. He gathered his strength and pushed himself to a standing position, then gripped the cold metal bed rail for support when his legs trembled. His chest and lungs ached from that single exertion.
He firmed his stance and forced his fingers to let go of the rail. Belatedly, tugs on his body made him remember he was tied to the monitors, the IV pole, and the oxygen. With a yank he ripped the monitor leads from his chest enduring the sharp pain of uprooted chest hair. The monitor squawked an alarm in an annoying blare. He lifted the oxygen tube over his head, gripped the smooth metal of the wheeled IV pole, and forced one foot in front of the other. He could do this. The doctors were wrong. He didn’t have permanent lung damage. He moved the next foot, then the other again. He’d show them he didn’t need rehab.
Sweat beaded on his forehead. His breaths were shallow and he couldn’t seem to make them deeper.
Two more steps brought him closer to the door. The waxed floor was cool against his bare feet. He wondered where his five hundred dollar, hand-stitched Italian leather shoes were.
His vision seemed hazy at the edges. He focused desperately on the chair closest to the door as a midpoint. His breath burned in his lungs as it did when he sprinted. See, this was nothing new. The doctors didn’t know what they were talking about.
The door burst inward and a woman in white scrubs nearly plowed into him. Her wide eyes took him in as he reached for the chair.
“Mr. Gannon, what are you doing out of bed?”
Someone else entered behind her, but Bryce couldn’t see who it was. He seemed to be sinking. It was all he could do to control the downward motion towards the chair. With relief he sank onto the seat. His breath whistled in and out. His chest felt like an iron band constricted it.
Bryce tried to tell her some facile lie, but he couldn’t get breath to speak.
“Get the portable oxygen tank,” the nurse said to whoever was behind her.
Bryce didn’t need the damn oxygen. He tried to wave her off but she gripped his wrist. Probing for his pulse, he finally realized. He couldn’t shake her loose.
The other staff member — a stocky, dark-haired man — slipped an oxygen mask over Bryce’s nose and mouth. Bryce wanted to growl and rant at them, but the sweet rush of oxygen cooled the burning in his lungs.
“Just relax and inhale,” the nurse instructed, releasing his wrist at last.
They both looked at him like he’d been a bad boy, when all he’d wanted was to take back control of his life. God, he couldn’t even cross a room without getting winded, just as Marc had predicted.
“Are you feeling better?” Her nametag read Nancie.
Bryce nodded.
“You’re not supposed to be up and around yet. You’re that fancy lawyer who’s going to defend that mobster.” Again he heard the hint of disapproval. “Well in the courtroom you might be king, but here you do as the doctor orders and he wants bed rest.”
He had other battles to fight and at the moment he’d used up what little energy he had. His body shook with the effort he’d expended.
Bryce let them help him back to bed, hating to admit how much he needed their assistance.
Sometime later the phone’s jangle roused him from a doze. He reached automatically for it and had it in his hand before he remembered where he was.
“Gannon,” he croaked.
“Mr. Gannon, it’s Adam Steele. I’m so glad to hear your voice. I was worried when I heard about the letter bomb.”
Yeah, worried about whether he’d get off on the federal racketeering charges. Here was the perfect opportunity to drop the suspected mobster’s case.
“They tell me I have lung damage. I’ll be awhile recovering.” Bryce didn’t have to fake his gasping breath. “I recommend you find another lawyer.”
“I’m sure the judge will understand our request for a delay. I’m happy with the lawyer I have. So you’ll stay on the case.”
Anger spurted through Bryce. The man didn’t seem to care that Bryce’s recovery might take months — not that he intended for it to. “I can’t say whether I’ll practice defense law when I get well.”
“Mr. Gannon, you thrive against an opponent. You and I are alike in that respect. And we’re very successful at it. I need the best defending me, Mr. Gannon, and you’re it. There’s no question you’ll defend me. None at all.
“I understand your day nurse is Nancie. Is she taking good care of you?”
Bryce’s heart stuttered. My God, Steele had a pipeline into the hospital.
“I’d hate for you to have any painful setbacks in your care. I’m very interested in your treatments so you’ll have a speedy recovery. I’d really like for you to recover.”
The veiled threat made Bryce’s breath stop. Right now he couldn’t run, he couldn’t hide, and he could only protect himself one way.
“I understand, Mr. Steele.”
“I knew you would. And after you get me out of my little legal jam, I’ll see to it you get that judgeship you were thinking about. It would be mutually beneficial to have a friend on the bench, don’t you agree?”
“I can see that it would.” Bryce’s voice was fading.
“I’m tiring you when I want just the opposite. Please don’t worry about anything but getting well. I’ll be interested in updates on your condition, and when you’re ready to get back to work, I’ll help in any way possible.”
“Thanks.”
Steele said good-bye and Bryce dropped the phone back into the cradle. As he lay back against the pillow, a huge weight settled on him. He’d have to defend a man he thought was guilty and get the man acquitted so Steele could continue his mob activities. Bryce could do it. He’d done it dozens of times before. But he didn’t want to this time.
The only way to reclaim his younger, less contaminated self was to steer clear of the Adam Steeles of this world. But Steele had made it plain what would happen if Bryce did. And a connection to Steele now would become a life-long connection.
Bryce groaned. What the ricin had begun, Steele would finish. For a second Bryce wondered if Steele had sent the letter bomb. Had Bryce tipped his hand that he was thinking about abandoning the case? No, ricin was too lethal a substance to be certain of attaining Bryce’s cooperation without accidentally killing him.
No, Steele wanted him alive and in court. At least Steele wanted him alive — for now.
Bryce closed his eyes. His future looked pretty bleak at the moment.
• • •
Bryce should have been used to cops by now, but he’d never been a victim before — well, not that the cops knew about. He hadn’t reported the hazing incident. These Feds were investigating the federal crime of the letter bomb. He was glad Sean had brought his clothes. Dressed in a navy blue jogging suit and with an afternoon nap and hours of oxygen behind him, Bryce felt armored enough to deal with FBI agents Garrison and Pollack. Garrison reminded him of a street fighter, all dark and wiry. Pollack was stick straight, dirty blonde, and bland.
They’d questioned Bryce about everyone he knew to figure out who might’ve sent him the letter bomb. He just didn’t understand why he’d been the target. He told them he’d received no threatening letters or phone calls.
“I’m a defense attorney.” Bryce sucked in needed air. “And I usually win. My former clients have no reason to hurt me.”
“You’re defending Adam Steele,” Garrison said, referring to his notebook. “Are you aware someone’s making a move on his organization?”