He touched the bandages all over his body. "Isn't this a bit much?" he protested. "I only have a concussion. Why am I wrapped up like a mummy?!"
The ward door creaked open.
A striking, coolly professional blonde woman with glasses walked in, her heels clicking. "The doctors found no fewer than thirty pieces of rock and debris inside your body," she said. "Frankly, you have your bulletproof vest to thank for being alive and making it to the hospital!"
"Who are you?" Harry stepped in front of the woman.
Her arrival was too coincidental. Recalling that the 'Source of Pain' organization had attacked them, killing or injuring dozens of innocent residents with explosives, Harry couldn't help but be cautious.
The woman expressionlessly pulled out an ID. "FBI," she said. "For the sake of public calm, the community explosion three days ago was pinned on a small gang. But behind the scenes, we've designated 'Source of Pain' as a terrorist organization. We're taking over this case now."
"So, you show up the moment I wake up?" Dean licked his chapped lips, picked up a nearby apple, and said to Harry, "Buddy, relax. There's surveillance here. Get me a fruit knife. I'll talk to this lady myself."
Hearing this, Harry's pupils constricted. His first instinct was to reach for his gun, but fearing he'd misunderstood, he feigned annoyance, moved closer to Dean, and snatched the apple from his hand. "You're the patient. I'll do it for you."
Impatience flashed in the woman's eyes. "Those people are lunatics," she snapped. "Handing the case over to us is for your own protection. If you don't want retaliation, cooperate with my questioning. You can eat that damn apple later!"
"Fuck! What did you say, you bitch?!" Anger flared on Harry's face. He was about to turn and confront her when Dean pulled him back. "That's enough, Harry," Dean said. "She's right. You should go out first. I really don't want to deal with that case anymore."
Harry's nostrils flared as he snorted heavily. After confirming Dean wasn't giving him any hidden signals, he shot the woman a fierce glare before leaving the ward, clearly dissatisfied.
The corners of the woman's lips curled up. She adjusted her gold-rimmed glasses, her expressionless face breaking into a professional smile. "I appreciate your cooperation, Detective Dean," she said. "We'd like to know if you discovered anything before you lost consciousness."
Dean struggled to sit up, leaning against the metal bed frame. He looked as if he were trying to remember, but his expression was pained. He shook his head. "Sorry," he said, "right now, whenever I try to recall what happened, my head stings. I can't remember clearly."
"Are you sure? At the scene, we found nothing except the body of an unidentifiable man!"
Dean was shocked to hear the man was dead. He shook his head. "Sorry, I really can't recall. Maybe in a few days, when I'm feeling better, I'll remember something."
"That would be... great." A look of regret appeared on the woman's face, but her professional smile twisted into a sinister one. "Too bad you won't get the chance, Detective!"
As her words ended, a gunshot rang out, ripping a large hole in Dean's blanket. The air in the ward instantly filled with flying lint and the smell of gunpowder!
Harry heard the gunshot. His expression changed drastically. He burst through the door, reaching for his gun and bellowing, "You bitch! Hands up!"
But he never reached his gun. Instead, he tripped over something.
Harry looked back. The woman who claimed to be FBI was screaming and clutching her hand. And Dean, the one he'd been worried about, was casually toying with the revolver that should have been on Harry's own hip.
That bastard! He'd somehow swiped my prized possession!