The Man of Bronze Read Online Free

the stairwell. That route was out of the question . . . at least until I’d reduced the opposition to a manageable number.
    We left the stairs and dashed into the corridor. (I dashed; Reuben managed a wobbly shuffle.) As I’ve mentioned, this level of the clinic housed patients: three windowless rooms on either side, their doorways staggered so that no two were directly opposite each other. (Privacy is important in Dr. J.’s line of work.)
    The first room we passed contained an ice-pale young woman with a plasma drip in her arm and prominent bite marks on her throat. Friday nights in Warsaw always produce a few of those. The next two rooms were empty, but the one after that held a man with his leg in plaster, suspended by one of those traction slings one sees in Three Stooges films but nowhere else. The man must have heard the shooting because he asked in Russian, “What’s going on?”
    “The clinic is being invaded,” I told him in the same language.
    “By police? Or the Sicilians?”
    “Whoever they are, they aren’t after you.”
    “How do you know?”
    “Oh. Er.”
    The man raised a valid point. Reuben might not be the only one in the clinic targeted by gun-toting thugs. This chap with the broken leg, for example—he had the look and aroma of the Russian Mafia, in which case he’d probably committed violence against rival gangsters during squabbles to control Warsaw’s underbelly. The Russian man’s victims might well seek revenge, especially if they knew their enemy lay helpless in a hospital bed.
    But I didn’t think Warsaw’s local villains would invade Dr. Jacek’s. Gangsters needed this clinic; they depended on its services. The premises were therefore regarded as neutral ground, not to be used as a war zone. A single crook might still barge in with mayhem on his mind—criminals are famous for poor impulse control—but a massed assault by sixteen attackers sounded more like out of towners who didn’t care if Dr. Jacek remained in business after they were gone.
    The rental-car bombers had shown the same attitude—no concern if their actions filled Warsaw with law enforcement agents. My gut instincts told me the bombers and assault teams both had the same target: whatever Reuben carried in his attaché case.
    “No time to chat,” I told the Russian. “If I were you, I’d pretend to be unconscious. Maybe the shooters will leave you alone.” Also, if he was pretending to be unconscious, he’d be less likely to tell the attack squad where Reuben and I had gone . . . but I didn’t mention that, for fear of putting ideas into his head.
    I dragged Reuben farther down the hall, past another empty room and to the doorway of one where a motionless figure lay wrapped in gauze. No way to tell if the patient was male or female; the only distinguishing feature was a breathing tube protruding from his or her mouth. The tube connected to respirator equipment, complete with a tank of oxygen . . . and there were two additional oxygen tanks for when the first tank ran out. The room also held a waist-high cart loaded with bandaging materials, plus a spray can of disinfectant and a good-sized bottle of rubbing alcohol. I could even see a pair of sharp scissors for cutting lengths of dressing.
    “Lovely,” I said.
    “What?” Reuben asked.
    “You’re about to get a lesson in wise financial management. We start with a small nest egg.” I picked up the scissors. “Then with careful planning and prudent use of our original investment, we make our assets grow.” I tossed him some gauze off the cart. “Wrap your head in that, if you please . . . and be quick about it.”
    Downstairs there were shouts and screams but no further gunfire. Good. I’d worried the assault teams might just kill every person in the clinic . . . but it sounded as if the invaders were merely rounding up captives. They’d gather the prisoners in some suitable location—perhaps the OR, the largest room in the clinic—then some