Another check of Nick’s carotid artery reveals a sludgy pulse, but a quick scan of the alley reveals no open doors, no entryways, nothing to hide behind, nowhere to take him, though even if I could take him somewhere, I’m terrified of moving him again. The blood loss is slowing, but I don’t know if that’s a good thing. More of the helpful numbness drifts away.
“Roly,” Nick says calmly. “You need to leave me here. You need to go to safety. That’s an order.”
I raise my eyebrow, challenging him. There’s no way in the world that he could possibly think that I’d abandon him in an alley in some no-name town 7,500 miles from home. I wouldn’t have abandoned anyone on my team, let alone the one man who is like a brother to me. I don’t even dignify his request with a response, merely going over his tourniquets again, feeling around for a stick or something to help me wrench the knot tighter.
Any remaining numbness is burned away at the sound of tires crunching on gravel, the whine of overtaxed brakes slowing the vehicle to a stop at the other end of the alley.
Instinctively I grab my rifle, holding it up with shaking hands as two armed men get out of an old, busted-up Dodge Caravan and we rush each other. I recognize them from the party but have no idea what that means. I get off a shot before they reach us, winging the big guy, but they overwhelm me before I can do any further damage. I shove more fear down into that box and focus on keeping them away from Nick.
The bigger guy grabs my rifle, and the shorter guy grabs me, shoving me toward the van, my boots digging trenches in the gravelly dirt. The unmistakable purr of the armored vehicle’s engine echoes from the other side of the alley, but I know it’s too late for me. They can’t fit into the alley, and they can’t shoot with Nick and me in the space. I look back and meet Nick’s eyes, horror playing out in them as his calculations catch up with mine.
I brace my hands and feet against the frame of the van, trying to squirm away from them, trying to give myself some time, willing to break my bones to avoid whatever’s next.
“He’s bleeding out!” I yell over my shoulder. “Don’t follow me!”
Billy Boy is screaming at me to hold on, and the vibration of his regulation boots pounding on the dirt road makes its way up the vehicle. I can practically feel his heartbeat through the metal frame, and I have a moment of pathetic hope before the bigger asshole bashes my temple with the butt of my own rifle.
The world goes slo-mo and black around the edges, a dreamy panic racing out along my synapses. Arty is picking up Nick in a bridal carry while Billy Boy is in a full-out sprint, fingers outstretched, nearly there as the van door is slammed shut, and the lights go out for good.
* * *
Oh… well… maybe the lights haven’t gone out for good. Unless I am dead, and hell is a headache the size of Wyoming. I have no concept of time. It feels like hours have passed, and when I recon the dusty space with the dirt floor and the spare beam of light that may be the sun or maybe a bare lightbulb in another room, I startle when I recognize the man tied to the chair across the way from me.
Asadi.
We’d met at the party, and I have a disquieting suspicion that I know why he’s here.
At least I gave my cousin a fighting chance.
And silently, in the sweltering darkness, I pray. I pray for Nick, and I prepare for death, for surely it is coming.
* * *
I wake up with a start and see the sun setting over Lake Travis in a washed-out orange and magenta glow, and realize that the shoreline is on the other side of the boat, which means we’re heading back in. I go to stretch and catch the bottle of beer in my lap before it spills. At the high-pitched sound of joy, I crane my neck around the corner and see Evie laughing with Scout as Heath smiles fondly at his friends.
I wish I knew how to make him do that. God, just stealing glances of that smile aimed at someone else is a healing.
I remember my promise to a man named Asadi, and know that there has to besomeway I can be helpful.
Chapter Eight
Heath
Ronan is a US Marshal, and, among other things, that means he provides witness security through the US Federal Witness Protection Program. That is relevant right now because I’m wondering if he might help a brother out.
We had the boat party a few days ago, and Roly seemed content to give me space, but the peephole in my door reveals that he’s no longer doing that. Not only that, he’s holding two coffees in his hands. My still-aching toe throbs at the sight of him, but the better angels of my nature, and my dick, remind me that he’s a goddamn, real-life war hero.
PS—Not sure why my dick is trying to Kool-Aid man this situation. Not. Helpful.
Opening the door, I ask, sarcasm at about a seven, “Seriously, Roly. Do you really expect me to accept coffee from you ever again?”
His eyes go round, and he clears his throat. “I understand that it’s a leap of faith. You don’t have to take the coffee, it’s just a peace offering. But I wanted to find out a way to meaningfully make up for the fact that I nearly killed you the other day. I see now that forcing my way in to your house and trying to make you dinner was probably not the best strategy. But I wanted to see if you had a few moments today,or whenever, when we could sit down and I could find out from you how I might be helpful.”
Swear to the little baby Jesus, I’mnotgoing to hug this man just because he looks pitiful.
“You’re one of those people who can’t stand it when other people don’t like them, aren’t you?” I ask, proud of myself for holding it together.
He pulls in his upper lip for just a second. “Well, I don’t think anybody likes that.”
