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Talia knew Andrew Phillips to be kind, but he was also brusque. “Come with me.”
Without further ado, he turned away. They followed him through the door from which he’d entered and headed toward a bank of elevators. He jabbed the up button. “Mr. Lewis presented with a lacerated liver that required immediate surgery.”
Talia covered her mouth with her hand. “Heavens.”
“Knife?” Drex asked as they boarded the elevator.
“Blunt trauma.”
“He took a blow to the gut?” Mike asked.
The surgeon placed his fist in the wedge where his rib cage came together. “Right here. Vulnerable spot. Ask any boxer. You catch a blow there, you’ll likely go to the mat. Hurts like a mother. Excuse me, Talia. Renders you unable to move, breathe. Blood pressure tanks. Here we are.”
The surgeon alighted from the elevator first and led them to a much smaller waiting room, which was unoccupied. “Whoever hit him knew what he was doing,” he said. “The blow was perfectly placed and done with harmful intent. I wouldn’t rule out brass knuckles or some other object. In any case, it was hard enough to cause a sizeable tear. Good news, your friend got here before catastrophic blood loss, and he had an excellent trauma team working on him. The tear has been repaired. He seems
overall healthy. Barring any complications, which aren’t anticipated, he’ll live.”
While Mike and Talia expressed their relief, Drex turned away from them and placed one hand on the back of his neck, indicating to Talia that anxiety and tension had concentrated there. Likely he also needed a moment to suppress his emotions.
“When I got your call, they were closing him up,” the surgeon was saying. “So if he’s not already out of surgery, it shouldn’t be much longer. I’ll be sure someone lets you know.”
Drex came around. “Can I see him?”
“He’ll be in recovery ICU for several hours.”
“Can I see him?” Drex repeated.
“He’ll be out of it. But if you—”
“I do.”
Dr. Phillips eyed him as though he warranted his reputation for rudeness, but also with respect for a man who didn’t mince words. “I’ll tell the staff to grant you a minute as soon as possible.”
“Thank you. For everything. I mean it.”
The surgeon acknowledged Drex’s appreciation with a curt nod, then reached for Talia’s hand and patted it. “This business with Jasper…” He let that trail. “Margaret and I are here for you, whenever.”
“You certainly have been tonight. Thank you.”
He gave her hand a final pat, turned to Drex and Mike, and said, “I have utmost respect for the FBI. Good luck to your friend.” Then he left them as though already late to the next emergency.
“Friends in high places,” Mike wheezed as he lowered his bulk onto an upholstered love seat.
Talia said, “I’m glad I could be of some use.”
“Well, thanks,” Mike said.
Drex didn’t thank her verbally. He simply pulled her into a tight hug.
Drex had paced miles, it seemed, before he was summoned by a nurse and told he could see Gif. He followed her to one of the ICU rooms, where she left him. Under the loose hospital gown, Gif looked fragile and pale and, if Drex didn’t know better, dead. The rhythmic blinks and blips on the machines to which he was connected were reassurance that his systems were functioning.
When the nurse returned to escort him out, she emphasized that Gif was doing well, that his vitals were strong, and that she predicted a full recovery.
“Take good care of him,” he said.
“I will.”
“He’ll complain, but don’t listen. Do what’s needed to get him well.”
