Two bullets found their marks in the left side of Chambers’ chest.
The third struck him in the forehead.
A look of surprise came over Chambers’ face in the split second before his brain processed that it was no longer functioning. Then he toppled backward, dragging Ashton with him, colliding with the conference table before collapsing to the floor.
Zachariah froze, pistol still raised, waiting to see if Chambers was going to move. When the man continued to lay there, motionless, Zachariah lowered his pistol and raced forward, dropping to the carpet beside Ashton, hoping he hadn’t just accidentally killed him.
“Oh, Jesus, Ash, tell me you’re not dead,” Zachariah said, grasping the man’s left shoulder and rolling him onto his back.
Ashton opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling high above their heads. Blood still oozed from the wounds in his shoulder, and he bled steadily from the bullet wound Zachariah had just put in him. But he was breathing, though winded, and looked a little shocked at the fact he was still alive.
“Next time you want to play the hero card,” Ashton said, his voice low and filled with pain, “please try to avoid putting a bullet in me, yeah?”
Zachariah let out a low laugh. “I make no guarantees,” he said. He offered Ashton a hand and helped him to his feet. “What do you say we get the fuck out of here?”
“I say that sounds like a brilliant idea.”
* * *
Ashton was in a serious amount of pain as he and Zachariah left the building through the correctly assumed exit door and stood in the humid Bolivian air. He was surprised by the daylight when the sun felt like it smacked him in the face, and he wanted to shield his eyes, but he couldn’t get his right hand lifted enough to shade against the sun. Zachariah had his hand on his left arm, as if he were trying to lend some support or strength through osmosis, and Ashton accepted it wordlessly.
Zachariah was searching the grounds, hopefully for either the arrival of more of Chambers’ people or for a means of transportation. Ashton thought the latter was more important than the former; if they had no way to get out of there, then they were screwed, one way or the other.
“Car,” Ashton told him. “We need a car.”
“I’m looking,” Zachariah said. He dug into the duffel bag over his left shoulder and took out a pistol, made sure it was loaded, and offered it to him. “I’m going to check around the building. Will you be okay to stay here?”
“I’ll be fine,” Ashton assured him, even though he wasn’t sure exactly how true that was. He took the pistol in his left hand and let Zachariah steer him back against the side of the building, where he sagged against the steel. “Go. I’ll wait here.”
Zachariah gave him an uncertain look but did as he’d ordered, setting the bag down beside him and ducking around the corner of the building. Ashton bit back a groan as he sagged more fully against the side of the building, feeling every ache and pain in his body radiating through him, compounding the sharp pain in his right shoulder. He was ready to get out of there, to get out of Bolivia, and he hoped that Zachariah found a car quickly.
When the younger man returned from his search, his expression was one of grudging disappointment. “No car,” he reported, stopping beside Ashton. “I’m guessing Chambers must have been dropped off here. Maybe it’s a security thing. Can’t bug or steal a car or plant a bomb in it if it’s not here.”
“So I guess we’re walking,” Ashton said. The prospect seemed daunting, but there was nothing he could do about it. It was either walk or stay here and die. The second option wasn’t a real one.
Ashton pushed himself away from the wall and started toward the road, and Zachariah scrambled for the duffel bag and followed, rushing to catch up with him and take his left arm again. Ashton once more let him do it, if only because he knew he was going to need the help later.
After thirty minutes of walking, that prediction had held true. Ashton’s head was hurting, the sun making it ache even worse, and he felt dizzy and lightheaded and incredibly thirsty. Blood still oozed from his wounds, despite the dressings Zachariah had made from the sleeves of the shirt he’d found buried in the duffel, which he’d ripped off and tried to bandage them with. The fabric was already partially soaked through.
“You okay?” Zachariah asked, and Ashton figured it was about the eighteenth time he’d asked that since they’d left the warehouse.
“I’m as well as can be expected considering I have multiple holes in me that don’t belong there,” Ashton said. His voice was hoarse and weary, and he cleared his throat. “But we need to get somewhere soon before I end up face down on the road.” He paused, examining the long stretch of road ahead and wondering how much farther it was to the resort town they were staying in, then added, “Maybe you should go ahead of me and try to find help. We could always tell people that I got mugged or something.”
“I am not leaving you behind to fend for yourself,” Zachariah snapped. “We’re sticking together, and that’s final.”
“Don’t be stubborn—”
“I’m not being stubborn,” Zachariah protested.
“Yes, you are,” he replied. “You have no obligation to help me. You need to get out of here while you can, before someone finds Chambers dead back there and comes after us. I’m not doing anything but slowing you down.”
“Then you’re just going to have to slow me down,” Zachariah bit out. “I’m not ditching you while you’re injured. I know you think I have no obligation to help you out, but I’m going to do it, because that’s what people do for their friends.”
They walked in silence for five more minutes, and Ashton spent most of the time focusing on staying on his feet. When he spoke and broke the silence, his voice was hoarse again. “You’re a very loyal person, aren’t you?”
“I’ve been accused of that a time or two,” Zachariah said with a shrug.
“You don’t consider that a negative?”
“Not at all,” Zachariah said. “It’s a good thing to know where you stand with people, and it’s always good to have people you can count on.”
“And you feel like you can count on me,” Ashton commented. It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t intend for the other man to answer. His head was spinning even more than before, and he knew if he didn’t get some medical care soon, he was probably going to pass out. He glanced at his shoulder and saw that the improvised bandage Zachariah had put there had soaked completely through, and blood was starting to ooze down his skin again. He grimaced at the sight and squeezed Zachariah’s arm tighter than he already was. “I’m just hoping I can count on you,” he said, blinking hard as fuzziness started to assert itself in the edges of his vision, “because I think I’m about to go down.”
He barely got the words out of his mouth before he felt his knees weaken, and he managed two more steps before he felt himself start to tumble toward the ground. His world went black before he even hit the dirt.
Twenty-One
Zachariah had been pacing along the waiting room in the Agency’s medical ward ever since he’d arrived, waiting impatiently for some news—any news—of Ashton’s condition. The past eighteen hours had been a whirlwind of activity, and he could barely remember everything that had happened. As he made another pass along the stretch of the waiting room, he rehashed everything mentally, trying to piece it all together, just so he’d have his thoughts organized for when he had to sit down and write up his report on all of this.
After Ashton had collapsed on the roadway in Bolivia, Zachariah had wasted no time springing into action. He’d dragged Ashton into the shadows of the trees and plants on the side of the road, making sure he wasn’t visible, then left him there with the duffel bag and literally ran all the way to town. Somehow—he still wasn’t clear on exactly how—he’d managed to find the resort, get into the parking lot, and retrieve the rental car they’d picked up at the airstrip. He’d been terrified that when he got back to Ashton, he’d find him dead, but he’d
still been breathing, and it hadn’t taken him long to stuff him into the car and drive him to the airstrip where his pilot friend still waited. They’d gotten in the air within an hour, and over the following sixteen hours, they’d hopped across the United States, making their way to the Agency headquarters one small airstrip at a time until they reached a point close enough for Zachariah to call in the cavalry.
The cavalry sent by the Agency had involved an ambulance, two paramedics, and a nurse that all immediately got to work on Ashton, who’d been barely conscious and slightly delirious for the entire trip from Bolivia to Washington, D.C. Zachariah had hitched a ride in the ambulance with them, chewing his thumbnails worriedly, the heavy bag of silvered weaponry resting on his lap the entire way.
And that brought him to where he was at that moment, pacing in the medical ward’s waiting room, anxiously awaiting any news he could get.
The entry door squeaked open as he made another pass across the room, and he half turned to see Director Hartley coming into the waiting room. He paused in mid-step then shook it off and continued pacing, barely paying attention to the director as he came into the room and chose a chair that afforded him a clear view of Zachariah’s anxiety.
“I’m surprised you’re still here,” Director Hartley commented as Zachariah turned on his heel to go back the other way.
“Where else would I be?” he asked, not bothering to look at his boss as he responded.
“Maybe at your apartment, resting,” Director Hartley suggested. “You just went through a particularly rough assignment. You should be relaxing.”
Zachariah gave him a short shake of his head. “I’m not going anywhere until I know for sure that he’s okay,” he said firmly.
“I could call you once the doctors finish with him,” Director Hartley offered.
“Not good enough,” Zachariah said without even a second’s consideration.
There was silence in the waiting room, the only sound Zachariah’s shoes against the tile as he tried to wear a hole in the floor. His head was starting to hurt, the strain of anxiety over Ashton’s current condition enough to make his blood pressure go up. Director Hartley sat and watched him as he stressed and fretted, and it was only after thirty minutes had passed that he got up and smoothed his suit jacket down.
“I want to meet with the two of you as soon as Ashton is up,” he said. “Please call me as soon as you know something.”
Zachariah barely noticed when the director left. He just continued pacing, occasionally pausing to look out the window or at the clock, watching the time tick by. Brandon stopped by at one point and gave him a new cellphone to replace the one he’d lost in Bolivia, and he periodically took it out of his pocket to check the time or his email or text messages.
The sun had begun to color the horizon of the following morning by the time one of the doctors entered the waiting room and signaled to Zachariah. Zachariah nearly dropped his phone in his haste to rise from the chair he’d been sitting in for the past several hours, and he strode across the room toward the doctor, his expression one of anxiety and concern.
“How is he?” he asked. “Is he okay?”
“Ashton will be fine,” the doctor assured him. “The bullet has been removed, the damage to his shoulder has been repaired, and he’s been given a few units of blood to replace what he lost. He’s on some painkillers, but he’s awake and almost completely alert.”
“Thank God,” Zachariah said, relief surging through him. “I was worried I’d finished him off with that bullet.”
The doctor chuckled. “I can assure you he isn’t the worst patient I’ve ever had,” he said. “He got off lightly, considering the little I’ve been told.” He motioned toward the door he’d entered through. “How about I take you back to see him?”
“I think I’d like that,” Zachariah said. Not that he’d let the doctor do otherwise. If he’d been told he couldn’t go back to see Ashton, he’d have been the first one breaking the door down and letting himself into the back. At least this way he could do it without the risk of property damage.
Ashton was sitting up in one of the hospital beds in a small private room, a rough white blanket pulled up to his waist and a somewhat flat pillow behind his head. He had three different IVs in his left arm, and Zachariah followed the IV tubing to the pole, where he saw a bag of saline, a bag of what appeared to be antibiotics, and the last of a bag of blood hanging. Ashton looked tired, his blue eyes shadowed by dark circles, and his skin a little paler than normal. But he was alive and awake, and he had that familiar expression of crankiness on his face that suggested he was displeased that things weren’t going his way.
His face lit up when Zachariah walked into the room, though, and he sat up a fraction of an inch straighter, though he immediately relaxed back again. “Hey,” he greeted, and his voice sounded as tired as he looked. “You made it.”
“Of course I made it,” Zachariah said with a scoffing laugh. “It’s why you’re here. Was there any question that I wouldn’t?”
Ashton chuckled. “I guess not, huh?” He paused and looked at the blanket across his lap. “I’d probably be dead right now if it wasn’t for you. Thank you.”
“No need to thank me,” Zachariah replied. He found a chair in the corner of the room and moved it to the side of the bed, settling onto the edge of it. “I told you I was loyal. I also told you I wasn’t leaving you behind. I meant both of those things. You earned that when you came into Bolivia by yourself and saved my life. The least I could have done was return the favor.”
Ashton gave him a slight smile and said, “That loyalty is going to get you into trouble one of these days.”
“Yeah, probably so, but it’s worth it.”
They sat silently for a few minutes, Ashton spending the time fiddling with the nap on his blanket and Zachariah staring down at the floor, unsure what to say. There had been so much happen between them over the past four months, and it was all coming to an end; he didn’t know where to even start with deciding on the conversation’s direction in light of that. He cleared his throat uncertainly and looked up at Ashton, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear as he said, “So, ah, this whole assignment partner thing has been…fun. Enlightening.”
“Did you at least learn anything?” Ashton asked.
Zachariah shrugged. “A few things,” he said. “Nothing of any significance. We didn’t really work together long enough for that.”
“I learned a few things, too,” Ashton acknowledged. “None of it insignificant.” His voice sounded heavy and thick, and Zachariah looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. Ashton wasn’t looking at him, instead staring out across the room. He seemed to sense Zachariah looking at him, and he swiped his left hand across his face and said, “Sorry. The painkillers have got me all messed up.”
Zachariah gave him a crooked smile. “If you say so,” he said. It was obvious Ashton was torn between addressing their interactions on a non-assignment front and completely avoiding it. He decided to take his cues from Ashton rather than make the man uncomfortable. He was already a bit altered on painkillers and recuperating from blood loss, a gunshot wound, and a werewolf’s claws nearly ripping his collarbone out. “So, ah, Director Hartley wants us to meet with him as soon as you’re feeling up for it,” he told him, changing the subject.
“About what?” Ashton asked.
“I’d assume the assignment we just completed,” he said. “Maybe he wants us to debrief with him or something.”
Ashton stared at him for a second then nodded slowly and started to disconnect his IV lines. “Let’s get it over with, then,” he suggested. “No sense in dragging shit out, is there?”
“Ash, you need to take it easy,” Zachariah argued. “You just had surgery. You shouldn’t be up walking around.”
“I’m fine,” Ashton said, throwing the blankets off and swinging his legs off the edge of the bed. He was wearing one of those silly hospital gowns, and the fabric rode up to show en
tirely too much skin. He jerked it back down and pushed off the bed, nearly toppling to the floor the minute he put some weight on his legs. Zachariah lurched out of his chair and around the bed to lend him some support, and Ashton scowled at him. “I’m fine,” he said again.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Zachariah snarked back. “You’re out of bed too soon. You need to rest.”
Ashton growled under his breath but let Zachariah guide him back onto the hospital bed without complaint. Zachariah helped him get the blankets back over his bare legs and circled the bed to find the end of the IV tubing so he could reconnect them to the heparin locks on the ends of his IV catheters.
“Maybe, if you’re so impatient to get to the debriefing, I can call Director Hartley and have him come here,” Zachariah suggested. He bowed his head, focusing on reconnecting the IVs and getting the drugs and fluids flowing again. “We could just have the debriefing here in your room. That way you won’t get up and fall on your face.”
“Yeah, let’s just do that,” Ashton agreed.
Zachariah nodded and retreated to make the call.
* * *
Anxiety was buzzing through Ashton’s veins as he waited for Damon to make his grand entrance into his medical room. Zachariah sat in the chair he’d commandeered when he’d come into the room, reclining back with his feet propped on the corner of Ashton’s bed. He looked completely unconcerned with whatever Damon had to speak to them about, which surprised Ashton; he’d figured that Zachariah would be completely strung out over an impending meeting with the Agency’s director. Instead, the situation was oddly reversed. Ashton put it down to the painkillers he was on.
The door leading into Ashton’s room swished open on nearly silent hinges, and Damon entered the room, looking like he’d just walked off a cover of a men’s magazine. He was wearing his platinum cuff links again, Ashton noted as he saw the light reflect off one of them; he must have really been mildly high off his prescribed painkillers if shiny things were distracting him.
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