Heat Gauge

Chapter Seven

Nikki's brow twitched over her closed eyes. The sharp reek of bleach clung to the inside of her nostrils. A scratchy woollen blanket rested under her bare forearms. Something nearby hummed and beeped rhythmically.

She opened her eyes slowly, tentatively. The room was gloomy. The only light came from the machines on either side of her which threw long shadows on the opposite wall. Nikki turned her head and saw a figure sitting in the ever-present visitor's chair. The broad shoulders and strong jaw were enough to convince her it was Rook, even though he sat just outside the glow.

“Jamie,” she croaked. The silhouette didn't stir. She squinted and realised that he was slumped in his chair, quietly sleeping.

She rolled her head back and stared up at the roof. She was in hospital, why? The attack. The Russian, what was his name? Sidorov. She remembered the cold pressure of his fingers on her throat and swallowed reflexively. Her neck was stiff. Nikki rose a hand snaked with an IV line and gingerly felt the tender bruises below her jaw.

She was getting real sick of being whaled on.

Heat lay still for a few minutes, taking stock of the soreness in her body. Aside from her stiff neck, the back of her head throbbed something terrible. She hoped the fall hadn't done too much damage. Her right hand was in a cast so she deduced she'd broken the finger in the struggle and not just dislocated it. But other than that the rest of her body felt fine, a few sore muscles but nothing else major.

Rook began to snore softly. The familiar sound spiked Heat's heart rate, upping the frequency of beeps. He started at the sudden change and jerked awake, looking around wildly.

“Jamie,” Nikki called again, stretching her fingers towards him and smiling.

He yawned and ran a hand through his hair, which was unusually messy and spiky. Nikki wondered how long he had been waiting there as he returned her smile and reached to wrap his hand around hers, careful of the IV line. “Hey, you're awake.”

“How long have I been out?” she wanted to know.

“A few days,” he replied. “The doctors were concerned about your head and put you in a mini-coma.”

“Great,” she said bitterly, watching the reflection of the monitors in his eyes.

He shrugged, almost apologetically.

“How are you?” she asked, concerned. “Did you get knocked out in the fight?”

A look of uneasiness came over his rugged features. “Sort of,” he replied, vaguely. Nikki sensed he was being evasive and watched him for a moment, then decided not to press the issue.

“Where's Sidorov?” she said, instead.

“He got away after … after the attack,” Rook answered, still in that odd tone. “But Roach picked him up yesterday afternoon in a dealer's basement.”

“Good,” Nikki said. “I need to ask him a few more questions.”

“You're not going anywhere,” Rook replied harshly.

Nikki bristled. “Bullshit, I'm not. That scumbag tried to throttle me. I'm going to have his nuts on a silver platter.”

“Nikki, I'm asking you as a friend, stay out of this.”

Heat stared at him in disbelief. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I don't want to see you get hurt again!” he said forcefully.

“I'm a cop, that's my job,” she snarled, hauling herself up against the thick pillow and glaring daggers at him.

“No, your job is to catch killers, not get killed!”