She bit her lip, as if that possibility hadn’t occurred to her. “Maybe I don’t want to talk to you.”
He clenched his jaw, biting back the retort that sprang to mind. It was his fault she was so jumpy, and snapping at her for it would get him nowhere.
“Fair enough. But we’re going to be stuck together for the foreseeable future, so I thought it might be nice if we were on speaking terms. Unless you think you can ignore me for the next few days?” He raised a brow in challenge.
“Days?”
The color drained from her face and for a second he thought she was going to faint. Alarmed, he half rose from the bed, but she held up her hand to keep him in place.
“No, it’s fine. Stay there. I just... I need to go to the bathroom.” She bolted up and dashed off before he could do so much as nod.
Poor thing. He’d worked with guys who threw up before an op, the stress and nervous energy settling in their stomach where it couldn’t do any good. He’d never had that problem himself, but he knew she’d be fine once she got it out of her system.
Wanting to give her a bit of privacy, he stood and stepped closer to Tony’s bed. The medical supplies were still strewed across the other half of the mattress, a jumbled mess of syringes, gauze and glass bottles. He could tidy this up, at least, so she wouldn’t think he’d been sitting here listening to her the whole time.
He tossed the wrappers from the supplies they’d used and then set about collecting the items and putting them back in the paper bag. He moved methodically, gathering all the supplies of one type at a time in an effort to keep the bag somewhat organized, to make it easier to find what was needed in case there was another emergency. He hoped they were done for the night, but he couldn’t be sure.
His hand paused as he began collecting the vials of medication. There were only two bottles on the bed. He closed his eyes, thinking back to his frantic search through the cabinets of the vet clinic. Most of the medication had been locked away, but he distinctly remembered finding three bottles that had been left out. He’d grabbed them along with fistfuls of other supplies and run, not bothering to stop to read the labels of what he’d taken.
Where was the third bottle? He felt along the bed, checking to make sure it hadn’t rolled against Tony. It wasn’t under the pillows, and a quick search of the floor didn’t turn up anything. He paused, suspicion making the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Had she taken it?
He silently moved to the bathroom door, listening for any noise that would indicate what she was doing in there. It had been disturbingly quiet since she’d entered the bathroom, with no sounds of retching or water running. Almost as if she was trying to be too quiet, so he wouldn’t suspect anything.
Alex grasped the door handle, hesitating only a second. If he interrupted a private moment, he’d apologize. But he doubted she was in there trying to regain her composure.
With a twist and a tug the door opened, making her shriek. She jumped and he heard the musical tinkling of breaking glass as the third vial of medication hit the tiled floor. Just as he’d thought—she had taken it. Probably thought to drug him and make her escape. It wasn’t a bad plan, all things considered, and a small spark of admiration flared to life in his chest.
He leaned a shoulder against the door jamb, crossing his arms and legs as he studied her. She glowered at him, a half-filled syringe in one hand, her other clenched in a tight fist.
“I’m curious, Doctor,” he said conversationally, striving to keep the amusement from his tone. “What would you have done if the first dose didn’t knock me out?”
He wasn’t dead.
The bastard must have been born under a lucky star, because by all rights, he should have been killed tonight. That had been the plan. That was how things should have gone.
Alexander Malcom, former golden boy of the Bureau, turned traitor and killed by the very gang he had infiltrated. Pity the Bureau hadn’t gotten to bring him to trial, but everyone knew you didn’t cross an organization like the 3 Star Killers. Street justice was bloody and swift.
Or at least it should have been.
Dan Pryde pasted on a somber expression, shaking his head over the loss of life. Yes, it was a shame that so many promising young men and women had been injured or killed tonight. Even more shameful that they had died in vain, since the primary target was still alive.
He’d checked and double-checked the identity of the bodies, called all the hospitals to make sure Alex hadn’t slipped through the cracks. There was no sign of him. While some of the casualties were still being collected, he knew in his gut that Malcom wouldn’t be among them. The man had vanished like a ghost.
Nodding to the other agents around the table, he wheeled out of the room and down to his office. Let them point fingers at each other and rant about operational security—he had bigger things to deal with.
Such as finding Malcom before the man had a chance to expose him as a double agent.
Dan paused just inside his office to shut the door behind him. He needed privacy for this call, and although it was late and the halls were empty, he couldn’t take a chance that someone walking by would hear him. He motored to his desk, the whir of his wheelchair a soft hum in the otherwise silent room. It was a nice chair, provided by the Bureau, but after all, they owed it to him to provide the best in wheelchair technology, seeing as how it was their fault he was in the damn chair in the first place.
No, he corrected silently, not their fault. Not the faceless entity that was the FBI. One man was responsible for the paralysis that had rendered his legs useless and made him a prisoner in this chair, and now, after too many years, Dan had decided to enact his revenge.
I set the wheels in motion.
Shaking his head at the awful pun, he dug into his jacket pocket and retrieved his burn phone. Time to check in with his friends on the other side; find out just what the hell had happened out there tonight.
He hesitated a brief second, debating who to call. That punk kid Tony or someone a little higher on the food chain? Tony was his eyes and ears on the ground, but he was always a little too brash, too cocky for Dan’s liking. Although he provided good intel, he was still just a seventeen-year-old kid with a big mouth and a hot head. Like all teenage boys, Tony thought he was immortal, a testament to the power of denial, since he saw his friends gunned down on a regular basis. He was on his way to a gang leadership position, but he wasn’t there yet. If he’d managed to keep himself alive during tonight’s fiasco, he’d be one step closer to the position he craved.
No, Tony wouldn’t provide him with the information he sought. If he really wanted to know what had happened tonight, he needed to go all the way to the top.
He dialed quickly, loosening his tie as he waited for someone to pick up on the other end of the line. Hopefully his contact hadn’t been killed in the shootout. He frowned at the thought, but dismissed it quickly. Despite their reputation, the leaders of the 3 Star Killers were not brainless thugs. They were too smart to get in the middle of a firefight between the government and the gangbangers. But as the phone continued to ring, cracks of doubt began to mar
