“Not even a rib. No head injury, either. I saw a picture of your car; it’s a mess. You’re a very lucky guy. They had to cut you out with that Jaws of Life thing.”

“Can I have some water?” Stone asked.

Mike poured some from a bedside flask and handed it to him. There was ice in it; it tasted wonderful.

A man in a white coat came into the room. “I see the morphine is wearing off,” he said. “The EMT said he gave you the morphine because he figured you must hurt all over.”

Stone tried moving things. “Everything seems to work,” he said.

The doctor gave him a neurological examination, then patted him on the shoulder. “I want you to stay here overnight for observation. If you don’t die before morning, you can go home.” He walked out.

“We’re at Danbury Hospital,” Mike said. “I’ll stay at your place in Washington tonight and drive you home in the morning. Get some rest.” He tucked something cold under the covers and held a finger to his lips, then he left.

Stone sat the bed up a bit farther and felt for the cold object. It was half a bottle of Knob Creek, with a straw taped to it. He smiled.

The following morning they wheeled Stone out of the hospital through a side door, where Mike was waiting with one of his big black SUVs. The two of them settled into the backseat, and the driver drove them away.

Mike handed him a plastic bag with a lot of stuff in it. “They cleaned out the glove compartment and found your cell phone on the ceiling,” he said, “but your car is not coming home. By this time, it’s probably a small cube in a junkyard.”

“Well, that’s what insurance is for,” Stone said.

“Don’t worry about it; I’ve found you something of ours to drive until you buy something new.”

“Thanks, Mike. What happened to the guys in the gray van?”

“They rolled it half a mile behind where you hit the Harley. Cuts and bruises. The four of them are in a special part of the Danbury Federal Prison, where Lance’s people are questioning them. Turns out they’re four guys from Waterbury who are partners in a car-painting business, all radical Muslims from a storefront mosque. One of them has a history of raising money for some sort of charity that sounds like a front.”

“How did the guy on the Harley do?”

“The rider is banged up a bit, but the Harley is history. It blew a front tire and threw him off; nothing to do with your being behind him. How are you feeling?”

“Sore and stiff, but okay. The bourbon hit the spot. I finished it last night.”

Mike dropped him at his house and held out a car key. “There’s something armored in the garage. Drive it for as long as you like.”