Jordan stopped before him. “Does this mean we’re friends now?”
He gestured to their surroundings. “Different setting, different rules.”
“How’s my brother?”
“A little riled up. Mostly pissed about the stretcher.” He pointed to the door behind him. “The doctor is checking him out now. You can go in if you want,” he said with a kinder tone than usual.
“Thank you.” Jordan paused, thinking she saw a spark of knowing in Mr. Cranky’s eyes. She wondered how much the prison guard knew about her deal with the FBI, and if that had anything to do with his sudden change in attitude. She tabled that issue and pushed open the door to Kyle’s room.
Her brother was sitting upright on an examination bed, with the orange jumpsuit pushed down around his waist and a bandage on his forearm. His other hand was handcuffed to the side of the bed. He argued with the doctor who hovered over him with a needle.
“A tetanus shot? You guys carried me in here like an invalid for a tetanus shot?” He scowled.
“Ignore him. He’s always been a baby about shots,” Jordan said from the doorway.
Kyle looked over and grinned. “Jordo.”
The doctor seized on the distraction and promptly stuck him in the shoulder with the needle.
“Son of a—” Kyle half shouted in surprise. “That hurt more than the damn fork.”
“You’ll probably have some soreness at the injection site for a couple days,” the doctor said, not looking sorry at all. He stuck a Band-Aid on Kyle’s shoulder. Jordan smiled when she saw that it had Elmo faces on it. Such a tough guy, her brother.
She walked over to the table, thinking she must’ve heard him wrong. “Did you just say that you were stabbed with a fork?”
“Yes, I was stabbed with a fork,” Kyle grumbled.
The corners of Jordan’s mouth twitched. “I see.”
Kyle beckoned with his hand. “All right. Let’s just get it over with.”
“Salad or regular?”
“You know, I didn’t stop to measure it as it was going into my arm,” Kyle said sarcastically. “Fucking Puchalski.”
Jordan’s mouth dropped open, and she barely noticed as the doctor left the room. “Puchalski? The harmless bald guy with the snake tattoo?” He was the undercover agent on the inside?
Inconceivable.
Kyle threw out his free hand in exasperation. “I know—he and I always got along fine. Then tonight during lock-down, we were in line heading back to our cells and he starts up again with the Sawyer crap. So I told him to drop it, like I’ve told him a hundred times before, and he just loses it. Grabs me by the collar, tackles me to the ground, and starts yelling that he can call me whatever the hell he wants. Then he pulls a fork out of his shoe and does this.”
He shifted and lifted the bandage with his handcuffed hand, revealing four red—and pretty damn tiny—puncture wounds. Jordan squinted. “Is there something I’m supposed to be looking at there?”
Kyle made a face. “Very funny. It stung like a bitch. For at least . . . two or three minutes.” He saw her staring at him and cocked his head. “What?”
Jordan said nothing. Instead, she reached out and did something she hadn’t been able to do in four months. She hugged her brother hard and held on for as long as she wanted. “I’m just glad to see you’re okay.”
“Don’t be getting all mushy on me now. You know the rules,” Kyle growled. But he squeezed her back tightly with his free arm.
She felt tears of relief spring into her eyes. “Different setting, different rules.” She pulled back, and quickly brushed at her eyes. “Mr. Cranky the prison guard told me that.”
“Did he also happen to tell you why they brought me to this hospital?” Kyle asked. “Because I sure as hell can’t figure it out.”
There was a voice to their left.
“They brought you here because I asked them to.”
An attractive woman with long brown hair and wearing a gray pin-striped suit stood in the doorway. She walked over and shook hands with Jordan and Kyle.
“Cameron Lynde, U.S. attorney,” she said in introduction. She folded her arms across her chest and studied Kyle. “So what do we do with you now, Mr. Rhodes? I’ve been getting all sorts of reports that you’re having problems at MCC.”
Kyle brushed his hair off his face defensively. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Six fights in the last four months—and now this attack. You’re a PR disaster waiting to happen,” Cameron said.
Jordan threw Kyle a look. “You only told me about four fights.”
“It’s nothing,” Kyle said to both of them.
The U.S. attorney appeared to mull this over. “I don’t like it. With the media’s interest in your case, if something happened to you at MCC, my office would take a lot of heat.”
“Your office didn’t seem too concerned about my wellbeing four months ago,” Kyle said.
“I think it’s safe to say that the former U.S. attorney had a very different agenda than I do,” Cameron said. “You’ve served four months of hard time—harder than many others. Perhaps we can look into an alternate arrangement.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t want to be shipped off to another prison—the same thing will just happen there.” Kyle pointed begrudgingly to Jordan. “Plus, if you take me out of Chicago, I’d miss my annoying sister’s cheery visits.”