Author's Note: Sorry for such a long delay between the first chapter and this one, I promise I won't keep you waiting this long for the next chapter! (I know, I said it'd be two chapters, but it turns out there's more to this story than I realised.) Thanks for the reviews, they really are appreciated. And thank you to Buckeye am I for giving me a much needed nudge.
Chapter Two
Wordy kept his hands steady and focussed on slowing his breathing. His eyes roamed the small dank room: yellowed wallpaper peeling from the walls, bare wooden floor boards that were succumbing to rot. Rodent droppings lined the edge of the room, and the plaster board had been chewed right through in several places. A soiled sheet covered the window, blocking out most of the light. A naked bulb hung from the ceiling but was dark – the electricity would have been shut off when the building was condemned. The air was heavy with the scent of damp and rodent urine, and Wordy's breath hung in a cloud as he exhaled.
A makeshift bed and a pile of thread-bare blankets occupied the corner of the room. His eyes softened, and he wondered how these two young men had been reduced to squatting in a building not fit to house animals. Where were their families?
He let his eyes drift back to the blond subject in front of him. His clothes were grubby, and a dark, wet strain marked his hoody, with a rip in the centre. Too small to be a knife wound, it was almost certainly a bullet hole. He started as a hand grasped his Heckler from behind, and forced himself to relax. The second subject was disarming him, and he could feel the tension leaking from the two men as they anticipated resistance. The blond subject's finger was inside the trigger guard of the pistol pointed at him, and from this distance Wordy could see the safety was off.
He felt the sling of his own weapon being manoeuvred over his arms. He kept very still, ignoring the dark haired gunman's proximity, acutely aware that so much as a twitch could provoke a violent reaction from his accomplice. He watched from the corner of his eye as the man removed the magazine and dropped it on the floor, then tossed the sub-machine gun aside.
Something was niggling at Wordy – none of this added up. One of the subjects was injured, but they were armed, not innocent bystanders. Judging by their clothes and their makeshift accommodation, neither were they dealers or gang bangers. There was no hostility between them – they hadn't shot each other. So who had? There had to be another gunman in the building, but why were these guys targets?
A hand grasped his collar, distracting him momentarily, and the barrel of a gun pressed into the back of his neck. He felt his heart accelerate, and reminded himself that if they wanted to kill him they could easily have done it by now. The fact that they were disarming him meant they wanted him alive, as a bargaining chip. Which meant they had to negotiate.
"What now?" a voice behind him hissed.
"Take him with us," the blond man answered. "We can use him to clear a path – from the cops at least."
"Are the people who did this to you still in the building?" Wordy asked him. He felt the man behind him tighten his grip on his collar and fell silent.
"Grab the bag. We've got to go. Now."
"Jules, Spike, keep sweeping the rooms. There may be other subjects in the building," came Greg's calm voice over the headset.
"Your friend looks like he needs some help," Wordy said, twisting his head slightly to look at the man behind him.
"He's fine."
"He's bleeding a lot for someone who's fine."
"Winnie, get me EMS," Greg instructed.
"EMS en route," Winnie replied. "Sarg, witnesses report two men leaving the scene, unis are in pursuit."
"Copy that, Winnie. Advise caution, they may be armed," Greg replied. "Wordy, we're outside, but if we come in they're going to panic. You need to talk them down."
"I understand that you're scared. But my team is out there looking for the guys who did this to you right now. We can keep you safe. Just put the guns down and we'll get you out of here."
"No. They'll lock us up, separate us." He looked at the injured man with tenderness and added softly, "I can't think of anything worse."
"He needs perspective," Greg advised.
"Dead would be worse," Wordy insisted, "and that's what he's going to be unless you let me get him some help."
"Ignore him, I'm fine," the other man said, stooping to pick up a rucksack from the improvised bed. He hissed in pain and his hand shot to his wound.
"Does he look fine to you?" the cop pressed. "Whatever you've done that you think is so bad, I guarantee you it's nothing compared to what's going to happen to him if we don't stop the bleeding."
Wordy slowly lowered his hands, relieving the ache running across his shoulders.
"You know what I think?" he asked. "You guys got caught up in the middle of this. You weren't looking for trouble. But you saw us, and you panicked, and no-one's going to blame you for that."
"Unis have apprehended two subjects," Winnie reported. "Darcy Mitchell and Anthony Oakes. Neither have any priors."
"Copy that, Winnie. Leah, get over there and find out what this is all about. Wordy, you've got their attention. Keep talking."
"You're just trying to protect each other, I get it. But what you're doing right here, this is making it worse."
His eyes drifted to the backpack
"Is it the bag?" Wordy probed. "Is that why these guys are coming after you?"
"None of your business."
"Ok, well let me ask you this then: is it worth dying for?"
The injured man grabbed Wordy's tac vest and jammed the gun under his chin.
"You're the one who's going to die if you don't SHUT UP!"
He shoved the cop hard, sending him crashing into the wall, and then gasped, gripping his side, the exertion draining the blood from his face.
"Stop, just stop!" his friend implored him. "You've been shot, Tristan. You need a doctor."
"He's just messing with your head," Tristan insisted, but his assurance was undermined by his pale, clammy face and his blood-stained hand.
"Please, I can't do this without you."
"I'm not leaving you, Jesse," Tristan promised, closing the gap between them, the hostage cop forgotten for the moment. He raised his hand and caressed Jesse's face tenderly, his fingertips leaving a trail of blood in their wake. He drew back, swaying on his feet, and then his legs gave way beneath him, sending him crashing to the floor.
"Tristan!" Jesse fell to his knees beside him, grasping his hand. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." He looked up at Wordy with anger blazing in his red-rimmed eyes.
"Help him!"
Wordy's eyes flicked to the weapon hanging loosely in Jesse's hand, sensing an opportunity to end the crisis.
"My team are outside this room with an ambulance crew. Just put your gun down and they'll come inside."
"No! We're not leaving!"
"Jesse buddy, I'll stay with you for as long as you want, but Tristan doesn't have much time. He needs to go to a hospital."
Greg's voice filtered through Wordy's ear piece. "EMTs are willing to extract."
"The medics can come in and take him, we'll stay right here."
"No cops?"
"No cops," Wordy mirrored, his face sincere.
"Yeah, alright," Jesse agreed.
"Copy that," Greg responded. "Standby."