“Webb’s people decided to try to shoot it out,” Alastair replied before Mars could, while helping Mars to the sofa.
“Shoot? It looks like they took a baseball bat to him.” Dylan turned to Mars, asking, “How the hell did you manage to ride up here in your condition?”
“It’s not as bad as it seems,” Mars said. “Mr. Smith took exception to the fact they were being busted for arms dealing. I happened to be in his line of fire when he made a run for it. The guy has hands the size of hams, and the ability to use them effectively.”
“I’d say so,” Alastair said dryly. “I hope you or someone finally got him.” When Mars nodded, Alastair said, “Take off your shirt and let me see how bad it is.”
“One of the EMTs checked me out before I left,” Mars protested, although he did take off his shirt.
Dylan sucked in a breath. Besides the bruises on Mars face and hands, there were several livid ones on the parts of his chest that weren’t wrapped with tape.
“Fractured or broken?” Alastair asked.