Clean Kill by Jack Coughlin, Donald A. Davis Page B

man?”
    “I’ve been worse. Cannot feel my legs and the rest of my body is not much better. Got some kind of hole in my head. Been beaten up harder than this in a rugby scrum.” The frail smile returned.
    “Sure you have. I understand they are gonna open your skull tomorrow morning and poke around inside. God knows what they might find. Bats, maybe.”
    There was a slow nod. “No choice. The neurosurgeon says I may sail right through the operation without a problem. He also says I may die on the table or become a vegetable. After that, they will play with my spine.”
    “You can’t believe doctors. We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t sew a glove up inside you.”
    Jeff chuckled and laid his head back further onto the soft pillow. Winced. “Yes. Quite. I’ll make it fine, to be sure.”
    Lady Pat put her finger to her lips, signaling Kyle to back down. She recognized that the joy of the reunion was sapping up Jeff’s strength. “We need to discuss something with you, Kyle,” she said.
    He raised an eyebrow as Jeff and Pat exchanged looks, and she proceeded. “We have been talking about the future.”
    Jeff put pressure on his hand. “You must take care of Pat if I don’t make it.”
    “Of course I will take care of her. Always.” Their relationship had begun years ago when Kyle had been loaned by the Marines to Cornwell as a technical advisor. The initial casual relationship had grown into a strong friendship and then beyond that, until it had almost reached a family situation.
    Lady Pat said. “We believe the time has come to bring you directly into Excalibur Enterprises.”
    “What? You know I can’t do that!” Swanson protested, feeling as if a bucket of water had just been poured over him. “Damn, you saved this bombshell for a hospital bed? I’m cornered like a rat here. You know I don’t want to leave the Marines, and I can’t have a conflict of interests by working for you at the same time.”
    “Clever, aren’t we,” Jeff grunted.
    Pat looked at Kyle with cool eyes. “Oh, do not panic. Jeff is going to be fine, but this incident has demanded that we firm up some planning. When you finally leave the Marines, which you must do some day whether you like it or not, we want to add you to the board of directors. It is not hard work: You would attend meetings in London twice a year.”
    “Look, guys. We have gone through your job offers before and my answer has never changed. I love you both, but I’m a gunnery sergeant in the Corps, not a businessman. I don’t have a college degree and, anyway, I’m American, not British.”
    Pat batted away the protests with a flip of her fingers. “Kyle, the university degree is meaningless compared to your life experience and your loyalty. Our lawyers tell us the nationality makes no difference, because we are an international company.”
    Swanson wanted to shout that he was a killer, not an accountant, but they both already knew that. He had spent a long military career weighing battlefield options in emergency situations, believing there was always hope, always a way out, always something that he could do to tilt a situation in his favor. This time, there was nothing at all he could do except rely upon the skills of the surgeons to bring Jeff through safely. Rejecting the offer outright might demoralize this man who meant so much to him.
    Jeff managed another hand squeeze. “For now, you stay in the Marines and remain our best friend. When the time comes, that position will be waiting for you. Generals and admirals go to work for defense contractors all the time, Kyle, and most of them work out their deals unofficially before they retire from the military. So why can’t a gunnery sergeant do the same?”
    Pat fussed over her husband for a minute until she was certain that he was not exerting himself too much. All of the monitors read normal numbers and lines. She continued the discussion. “Excalibur posted a 34.1 percent growth last year with more