Rogue-ARC by Michael Z. Williamson Page B

stirred and twisted in my side. With focus, I dulled the pain down to mere trauma rather than a sword on a jackhammer. It was an impressive kick. I’d make the dogfucker pay for that.
    The officer said, “Sir, I am directed to ask you for information on your activities.”
    I said nothing. I didn’t think he’d try force in a moving ambulance with a medic at hand, but I was morally prepared for it if he did.
    Nothing happened.
    They rolled me into a hospital, and then into a secluded area. At least, being in a nicer area of the city, they didn’t have an actual detention ward.
    I didn’t wait long, whether due to triage or police interest. They had the ID I’d been carrying, and it would read as valid without offering anything useful. I feigned disorientation and unconsciousness. I hoped that would work with all the monitors on me. To make it work, I focused on the throb to exclusion. It might limit my alphas.
    I alerted slightly as I was rolled into an exam room. A doctor was waiting, southern Asian in ancestry, middle aged, good shape.
    The doctor barely looked at me. “Ribs, no obvious sign of pneumothorax. Administer a neural block. We need to take care of that other case. Sir,” he finally looked in my general direction, “there are accident victims we must treat ASAP. We’ll be a little while getting to you, but you are in no danger.”
    I said, “I understand. Thank you.” The cooperative angle would be my best defense at this point, and if I was in no immediate danger, I wanted them gone so I could depart.
    I was still restrained, though, and there was a policeman in the chair next to me.
    I couldn’t think of an easy way to distract him, nor to wiggle out without alerting him. So I waited. Something would present itself shortly. I studied him with peripheral glances. Constable patrolman. Decent shape. Young. Quivers of eagerness. This was a low-skill tasking, but for an important suspect. He hoped for some small fallout for his career.
    He didn’t ask anything, likely because they wanted to have gear, professionals, and me in prime shape so nothing I said could be excluded. They were losing time, though. Perhaps they had traces on Randall? If so, we’d need to get that information, too.
    The something I needed presented itself in about twenty minutes.
    Silver walked into the room, in a suit.
    She strode in, flipped open an ID folder, and said, “Jeanette Ash, Home Office. I need to interview this detainee, please.”
    She used just enough sergeant poise to make it work.
    The young constable stiffened and I could see his perturbed expression as he stood.
    “Uh, madam, I was—”
    “It’s fine,” she said with a smile. “He’s restrained, and injured. I just need a few minutes. I’d suggest tea and a sandwich. You’ll be here for a while after I’m done.”
    That was hilarious. Indeed he would.
    “Yes, thank you, madam,” he said, as he hesitated, grabbed his coat, and left in a polite hurry.
    As soon as he cleared the door, she hit buttons to secure it and opaque the screen.
    She flipped open her doccase, tossed a suit coat and lab coat on the bed with two other IDs, slapped a patch on my neck and started pulling restraints.
    I gingerly turned and stood with some pain. Whatever she gave me worked fast. I reached for the coat and almost passed out.
    She had to pull it up my left arm and help me shrug into it, then repeated that with the lab coat. She snapped the ID badge onto my pocket, and slipped another over her neck. According to those, she was an executive, I was a care nurse.
    We slipped out the door, toward the rear of the building, and looked to make a clean escape. My leg wasn’t as bad as my chest, but I had to force myself not to limp. We took an elevator down, then turned through another corridor. Everything was signed of course, and we could have asked for a guide light, but she seemed to have familiarized herself with the map.
    It was quiet back here, with only occasional