Lethal Dose (33 page)

“Bruce Andrews is finished. You know it and I know it. He's going to jail for manipulating his company's stocks, terrorism, and murder. He'll never see freedom again in his life. Not from the second we take him out of this house. He's ruined, Gordon. There's no reason to kill him.”

“He was responsible for my brother's death and now Jennifer's. Letting this prick live is wrong. He deserves this bullet.”

“Gordon, wait for one minute. Just one minute. Let me check with the hospital in Washington to see if Jennifer is alive or dead.” He nodded to one of the men behind him, who was immediately on the phone. “What have you got to lose, Gordon? If she died, we're still faced with the same problem we have now. But if she's alive, that changes things.”

Gordon didn't take his eyes off Andrews. “You've got one minute,” he said. The gun trembled slightly in his hand, and he shifted slightly to take the pressure off his injured arm. The motion almost caused the gun to fire.

“Thirty seconds,” Gordon said, perspiration dripping from his brow. “Fifteen.”

“I've got the hospital on the line,” the agent said, handing the phone to Rothery.

Rothery introduced himself to the person on the other end of the line and made sure they understood the urgency in finding out Jennifer Pearce's condition. He waited, making an occasional motion with his hand for Gordon to hold on. A voice came on the line, and he responded by saying “okay” a couple of times. Then he said, “I'm going to put someone on the line, and I want you to tell them exactly what you just told me.” He set the cell phone on the hardwood floor and gave it a good push. It slid over to Gordon. He managed to pick it up with his wounded arm.

“Go ahead,” he said.

“This is Dr. Anne Archer at the George Washington University Hospital. Jennifer Pearce was admitted to the Level-One trauma center with a bullet wound about two hours ago. She underwent emergency surgery, and although she is still in extremely serious condition, we do expect her to live.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Gordon said, the tears spilling freely. He dropped the phone and loosened his grip on the trigger. He looked up at Rothery. “Thanks,” he said, lifting the gun from Andrews's head. He stared at Andrews and said, “I always thought there was nothing on earth more useless than burnt timber, but I was wrong.” His words were filled with loathing. “You are.”

He stood up and staggered to the couch and sat down, his head spinning. The two agents rushed to grab Andrews and handcuff him, and Rothery took the pistol from Gordon. Simms picked up the Colt from the floor.

“The beavertail safety is still on this one,” he said to Rothery.

“What?” Gordon said. He felt unconsciousness slipping over him. The last thing he heard before blacking out was Craig Simms saying something about the Colt 1911 having a double safety: an ambidextrous thumb safety, which was off, and a beavertail, which allowed the gun to fire only if the shooter applied sufficient pressure. Unless Andrews knew about the beavertail safety, he wouldn't have squeezed the handle with enough pressure to cause the gun to fire. Lucky Andrews wasn't a gun lover.

Then blackness consumed him.

71

“Hi, you,” Jennifer said weakly. She had been unable to see visitors for almost seventy-two hours, and when they had finally given the go-ahead, Gordon Buchanan was first in line, walking with a slight limp and his left arm in a sling. “What happened to your arm?”

“Nothing too serious. I'm okay.” Gordon smiled and held up some flowers. Roses and lilies. “You look great.”

“How can I help but look good with these tubes up my nose and four or five IVs in my arms?” The sentence tired her and she took a few deep breaths to recover.

“Dr. Archer says you're doing really well. She said if the bullet had hit a fraction of an inch to the left, you'd have died in Rothery's office.”

“Well, thanks to Jim Allenby for being a rotten shot.”

“Yeah, thanks for that.”

“Did she tell you how long I have to stay in here? The food sucks.”

“Just until you're well enough to travel. Then you can go home, providing you have someone to come in and take care of you.”

She managed a slight nod. “What's going to happen to Bruce Andrews?”

“He's been charged with numerous securities violations and complicity in Kenga and Albert's murders. But the most serious charge is treason. They're going to nail him to the wall on the virus thing. That really got in someone's craw in D.C., and they're after him with a vengeance.”

“So he's toast,” she said lightly.

“Yeah.” He grinned at her stab at humor. “He's toast.”

“When are you going back to Montana?” she asked.

“Thought I'd wait until you were able to go home. I'd hate to leave you alone in this big hospital.”

“And what am I going to do at home all alone, Mr. Buchanan? I hardly know a soul in Richmond.”

Gordon looked down at the sheets that covered her and said, “You could always come back to Montana. You're welcome at my house.”

“Really?” she said.

“Yeah, really,” he answered, leaning over and kissing her on the forehead.

“For how long?” she asked.

He cocked his head slightly and smiled. “I'm kind of cheap. I was thinking of buying you a one-way ticket.”

She smiled, her eyes closing as sleep overtook her. “That would be fine,” she said, drifting off.