Sig crossed his arms, regarding Burgess in the hospital bed without a single trace of sympathy. More like disgust. And even in his rock-solid state of self-pity and misery, Burgess felt a spark of appreciation for that. “You remember why we’re here, golf man. Tell him.” “Ah. That’s right.” Wells swept off his hat and slapped it to the center of his chest. “Welcome to your intervention.” “Intervention, my ass.” The roar burned his throat. “Get the hell out.”
