Run to Ground by Don Pendleton Read Free Book Online

nothing she could do to help his wife in '81; the burns from a propane explosion had been too extensive, too severe, and she had died before the ambulance was twenty miles from town. Two years later, though, when Bud's son Rick was choking on a piece of chili dog and Bud had run him to the clinic, literally, with the angry, helpless tears still streaming down his face, a tracheotomy had done the trick and saved Rick's life. He was starting quarterback for Ajo's varsity team, and every time Bud spoke his name or saw the boy, pride lit his face up like a neon sign.
    There were rewards, yes. The occasional bout of loneliness was worth it, if you waited for the shining moments, when you had the opportunity to make a difference. When your efforts counted, and you knew that you had done your best in the pursuit of something very much worthwhile.
    Rebecca Kent was on the porch with key in hand before she saw the door. It stood ajar, perhaps two inches, and she could see brand-new scratches on the locking mechanism from where she stood. She thought of Grant, his badge and uniform, and wished that he was here, beside her now, to throw the door back and step inside with perfect confidence. She could retreat, drive back to Stancell's and report the break-in, but she could not bring herself to leave without examining the damage first.
    And if the burglar was inside?
    It was preposterous. No one broke into offices in broad daylight, with the business hours clearly posted right out front. Someone — a tramp, some kids, whoever — had already come and gone under cover of darkness. Seeking drugs, most likely, or her small reserve of petty cash. There would be nothing else inside to interest anyone, unless their aim was vandalism. Sudden anger crowded out her apprehension and she took a bold step forward, fuming at the thought of strangers pawing through her personal belongings, damaging her medical equipment.
    Braced to run at any sign of the intruder, suddenly aware that she was very much afraid, Rebecca Kent was startled to discover an unconscious figure stretched out on the floor. A man, all bruised and dusty, but his trench coat was not something that a hobo off the freights would wear. Beneath it, he appeared to wear some kind of close-fitting black garment, but now her eyes were focused on the blood. So much of it, some crusty brown, as if the wound were hours old but had refused to close.
    She knelt beside him, drew the trench coat back and saw the holstered weapon on his hip. She dared not touch it, frightened that it might go off, so she unbuckled the web belt, slipped it from underneath him and pushed it away out of reach. The wound was in his side, but she would have to get him on the table before she could begin an adequate examination. And for that she would require his help.
    He was a stranger. She had never seen his face before, and she would definitely have remembered this one. She had never seen a pistol like the one he carried, either, and she wondered if he was some kind of soldier, possibly a spy. It seemed absurd; there were no secrets to be kept in Santa Rosa, except perhaps her own.
    She cracked a vial of smelling salts and passed it back and forth beneath his nose. He shuddered, grumbling back to semiconsciousness, and his ice-blue eyes began to roll. With soothing words and firm, insistent hands, she got the patient on his feet, one arm around his shoulders. Staggering beneath his weight, she led him through a narrow door to the adjacent operating room and propped him against the table while she worked the trench coat off his shoulders, down his arms. She tossed the garment toward a chair and missed, surprised by the metallic thud it made on impact with the floor.
    She got him on the table, somehow, and he was already fading fast before she had a chance to wash her hands, select the scissors she would need to cut away his blacksuit. The normal antiseptic smell of the clinic was overpowered now by sweat and blood,