How the fuck was she here?
“Was it bad? Whathappened!” She repeated, borderline desperate, Ghost trying to calm her down as she began sobbing harshly.
Aberlour watched, feeling like he’d stumbled into a parallel universe. She shouldn’t be allowed into this US military facility. She had no right to be here. Not now. Not when—
The door to the medical suites opened, and Team Specter turned to see a female doctor enter the waiting room. Aberlour had never seen her before. She hadn’t been one of the four trauma surgeons who’d taken over the treatment of Oliver as soon as he’d arrived.
“Staff Sergeant Darling is alive,” she stated first thing.
Aberlour collapsed into the nearest chair. He’d have fallen to the floor if he hadn’t been standing right next to a chair. The doctor scrutinized him for a moment before she continued.
“He’s lucky to be alive. There was a lot of internal bleeding along with a collapsed lung. He’ll be out of action for a while, but he’ll make a complete recovery.”
Aberlour’s head felt like he was under water, trying to reach the surface of murky, dark waves, and failing. He was weak, confused, and overwhelmed.
He’d be fine. Oliver would be fine.
Aberlour wanted to cry, with relief, with fear, with—
Fuck.
“When can I see him,” Abby asked, her voice shrill in the quiet room. “I’m his emergency contact. I want to see him first—”
Then Aberlour wasn’t drowning anymore, he was burning. He was the flame of a crematorium, eradicating everything.
Abigail Dudson was Oliver’s emergency contact. Of course she was. Why was he so surprised? He’d changed his own contact form to list Marcus, after all, but he’d never considered that Oli might have done the same and chosenher.
The same raw exhaustion that had forced everything out of his stomach earlier now seized control of his hands. They balled into tight fists, urging him to stand and grab her by the back of the neck. Urging him to encircle her pretty little neck with his blood-stained hands andsqueeze. Squeeze until she was nothing but a bad memory, and a terrible joke.
A souvenir.
A very dead one.
“He should be awake in a couple of hours. You can see him then,” the surgeon replied, politely.
Aberlour stood suddenly, and without sparing any of them another look, walked out of the waiting room, his fists still balled, his angerscreamingat him to turn back and finish her off. He needed to kill his fire. Needed to drown it somehow, and Aberlour only knew of one way to do it.
“Danke,” Aberlour told the bartender as she dropped yet another shot of ridiculously overpriced Tennessee whiskey in front of him. The bar was starting to look blurry, and he struggled to focus.
If he’d been stateside, the bartender would have cut him off, but this was Germany. As long as you paid your tab, you were allowed to get as shitfaced as you wanted. Even if it was well before noon.
He knocked back half of the double shot in one go, reserving what was left so he could nurse it along for awhile. He could pretend all he wanted; alcohol wouldn’t numb this pain, but it had given his hands something to do other than ball up and find purchase in a wall—or a face. It was also a nice distraction when he felt the slow burn work its magic down his throat and then the nice warming sensation when the elixir hit his gut. Another point in his favor in choosing to spend his time at this fine establishment.
“This ain’t where you’re supposed to be.”
Aberlour rolled his shoulders and pointedly ignored Marcus as he sat down on the next bar stool.
“Nothing else to do but wait,” Abe replied tonelessly, staring in apparent fascination at the amber liquid in his glass.
“And get shit-faced.” Marcus frowned with disapproval at the row of empty whiskey glasses setting in front of him.
“Either join me or fuck right the hell off,” Abe warned, not in the mood to hear any of Marcus’ paternal advice.
Marcus lifted both hands in surrender.
He was being unfair. He kind of knew that. Marcus wasn’t responsible for his sour mood, nor did he deserve his anger, but Aberlour—Aberlour had knocked back quite a few shots in rapid succession, so the lines of justice were blurring into circles of hell.
He waited silently, patiently, for Marcus to spit out whatever it was that had sent him chasing after Aberlour. It wouldn’t take long. It never did.
