Free Double Cross (Hard Target Book 1) by Silver James

beard. But no bandages. How long had he been in this fucking bed?
    The beeps that had been part of his consciousness for what seemed like eternity set up a squawk. Squashing the desire to pound the machines until they shut up, he waited for his head to clear. He wasn’t stupid enough to try to stand up. Yet.
    First things first. A pair of pants. The date. And was the princess real or just a dream? His ears picked up a heavy tread coming closer. Metal rattled on metal and disturbed air brushed against his bare skin.
    “Damn, boss. Look at you, sittin’ up and everything.”
    Duke almost passed out. That voice hadn’t been his imagination. “Tank?”
    “Yeah?”
    “What the fuck, man?”
    “Let me get you a wheelchair. We’ll get out of here for a little bit.” The footsteps moved away, leaving the meaning of Tank’s words stretching in the silence.
    Thirty minutes later, Duke had pants—of a sort. Scrub bottoms and a tee shirt were a damn sight better than a hospital gown. A nurse had checked the site of his IV and agreed that he no longer needed constant fluids, so long as he ate and drank sparingly until his stomach adjusted. How long had he been out of it?
    She fussed about him getting out of bed, much less going outside, but Duke bullied her into agreeing. He was sick and fucking tired of the damn bed, of the drugs, of being sick. The nurse called the ward doctor who reluctantly agreed to a foray outside.
    Tank pushed the chair, keeping up a running travelogue about the ward, nurses, doctors, direction of travel and all other pertinent information to get Duke acclimatized. Changes in air pressure, level of noise. Scents. Rather than overloading, his brain clung to the stimuli, separating and processing each one like a drowning man clinging to a life jacket.
    Ding
    Elevator. Change in air again. Greased cable creaking as the car descended. People got on. Got off. Floors slipped by, and then Tank pushed him out. Duke expanded his senses to match the open area. Atrium, he guessed. The brush of rubber wheels against hard flooring scraped the outer edges of his hearing, muffled by the voices rising and falling in the wide space surrounding him.
    Automatic doors opened with a whoosh, and then sunshine fell on his face. He tilted his head back, soaking up the warmth.
    “How bad is it?”
    Tank continued pushing him along a sidewalk. In the distance, traffic sang a siren song he ignored.
    “You almost died, Duke. More than once.”
    “How long?”
    “Almost three months. You…man, you’ve lost almost seventy pounds, and you can guess at your muscle mass. They did PT while you were out, but…fuck, Duke. Not good.”
    “What happened, Tank?”
    “How much do you remember?”
    “Most of it. The village. Dr. Prince.”
    Tank’s hand clamped on his shoulder. “Shhh.”
    “What?”
    “That’s not a name you know. Capisce?” The words barely registered in his range of sound, and that said something given how sensitive his ears had become.
    “Yeah.” What the hell was up with that? He remembered Dr. Prince. Remembered taking her into the river and going downstream after the missile attack. He’d find out the truth eventually.
    “How’s your hearing?”
    Ah. Unfriendly ears. “S’good.”
    “I don’t want to keep you out in the sun too long, boss. You look like a ghost, and you don’t need sunburn on top of everything else.”
    “Tough shit. I need the fresh air.”
    Pounding footsteps rushed up from behind them. Duke tensed, waiting for an attack.
    “Dammit, Tank. You were supposed to wait until I got here.”
    Dalton. Duke’s bowels almost loosened in relief. He hadn’t dreamed their voices, there in the weird nothing in between unconsciousness and waking. A hand brushed his shoulder, paused for a squeeze then moved off.
    “Good to see you, boss.”
    “Cali Boy. Thought you were dead. Tank too.” Duke’s voice cracked as he said the words. Emotion welled in his chest, choking off his