CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Walter could hear Cabe calling his name as his cell slipped from his hand, landing on the grey foam inside the crate.
"Hands up. Turn 'round."
"You're not going to shoot me," Walter said as he did as instructed.
Ivan Darbinian, aka Darby, stood in front of him, wearing one of his outdated polyester suits and a sheen of sweat on his broad forehead. He'd been the owner of the phone Paige had accidentally cloned. Grateful she was far away at the moment, Walter kept his eyes trained on the manager/gun smuggler.
"How you know I not shoot you?"
"Because we're standing inside a structure with acoustics engineered specifically for music and theater productions," stated Walter with a confidence he wasn't feeling. "The sound of a gunshot will reverberate throughout the building, attracting attention I don't think you want.
"Also, I could be wrong but I doubt it, I don't believe you could shoot anyone. You could have killed those ATF agents instead of planting drugs on them in Dallas. Plus, the way you're sweating, the way your hand is shaking. . . There's a 57% chance you'd miss me even if you did work up the nerve to pull the trigger."
"How you. . .? Who are you?" The other man adjusted his grip on his pistol. "You talk too much. Maybe I shoot you so you shut up."
"Like I said, that would be a mistake." Taking a deep breath, he continued. "Who I am doesn't matter. The Feds are on their way." He'd left his call to Cabe connected, hoping he was right and the Homeland agent was still listening to his conversation with the manager while simultaneously contacting law enforcement.
"I shoulda guess you were spy," said Darby. "You stupidest roadie I ever see."
Walter would liked to have argued that point but thought better of it. "You should have known you would get caught. What you were attempting to do. . . It would not have ended well."
"What you know?" the manager replied defiantly. "We Samatovans have just as much right to be free as you Americans."
He snorted derisively. Like any person or country was truly free. But now wasn't the time for that debate. "You need to put down the gun and. . ."
"Walter?"
His heart leapt into his throat as Paige came into view behind the manager. Dammit, she was supposed to be back at the hotel, waiting for the band's afternoon flight north. Not wandering around backstage looking for him. Not putting herself into danger.
"Paige. . . Get out of here!" he shouted, staring into her panic-stricken eyes.
Darby turned to see the liaison behind him. "Do as he say, girlie," he growled. "Or I shoot." He waved his pistol threateningly in Walter's direction.
Doing a quick calculation of the odds, which were only slightly in his favor, yet better than the chance Paige would be injured, he lunged forward as soon as the other man's attention was diverted. As if he were moving in slow motion, he grabbed Darby's arm and forced it downward. The manager sluggishly swung his head back around, an almost comical expression on his face.
Walter tried to wrapped his hand around the gun but Darby shoved him sideways, nearly knocking him off his feet. Regaining his balance, Walter dove for the pistol again, trying to wrest it from the other man's grip.
A bright flash blinded him for a split second, followed by a deafening blast. Something bit the upper calf of his right leg as an eerie silence surrounded him. Then, from what sounded like a great distance, he could hear Paige screaming his name, Darby shouting something in Russian, the pounding of footsteps. The clatter of the weapon falling to the floor snapped him out of his dream-like state.
Glancing around, he found Paige standing behind Darby, her mouth hanging open, her expression a mixture of shock and fear. Relief swept over him as he realized she was still on her feet, no holes or visible bleeding anywhere on her person.
The manager appeared to be in one piece, and Walter was thankful for that as well. Sirens grew closer, more than likely the federal agents he'd promised were on their way. He kicked the pistol out of reach, a searing pain darting through his leg. Looking down, he was surprised to see a growing blood stain on his jeans.
"Oh, God, Walter." Paige took a step toward him as members of the band and crew rushed up behind her, coming to a halt.
"What the fuck?" Yuri pushed his way to the front of the crowd. "What is going on?"
"He's been smuggling weapons out of the US," Walter replied, pointing at Darby. "To start a rebellion in Samatov against the Russian government."
"You fucking bastard!" The lead singer launched himself at the manager. "You risk Zhalo's reputation for some stupid ideological bullshit?"
Walter, astonished Yuri could use words with two syllables let alone six, stepped in between the two men, pushing the lead singer back. "Let the authorities handle this," he said firmly. Behind him, he once again heard the sound of a pistol being cocked. He turned around to see Nazar now pointing the weapon at Darby.
"You son of bitch," said the roadie. "You're the one who planted drugs on Mila. I know something was wrong, she only smoke weed, not do heroin." The gun was shaking in his hand and Walter was afraid it was going to accidentally go off. "She find out about your smuggling, no?"
"Da, she did," said the manager. "She was gonna spill milk. I had to stop her."
"She's been locked up for over week now," Nazar said. "They won't let me talk to her. You ruined all our plans. We were gonna defect when we get to Canada. . . Get married." He made a wild gesture with his free hand. "You fuck it all up!" He then aimed more squarely at Darby.
"Don't do it, Nazar," cautioned Walter, holding out his arm. "I work with Homeland. They can get the charges against Mila dropped."
"And you two can be together again," Paige chimed in, smiling so brightly even he could tell it was false and that underneath her cheerfulness, she was scared to death.
"So put the gun down and back away." When the roadie hesitated, Walter added, "You have to decide which is more important, shooting him or being with the woman you love. If you kill him, you'll probably never see her again."
Nazar bowed his head and lowered the gun. Walter moved forward, wincing when he put pressure on his right leg. He took the pistol from the other man as law enforcement personnel from seemingly every level of government swarmed the area, telling everyone to freeze.
"Homeland Security," a familiar voice called out amid the others shouting their affiliations. Walter spun around to see Cabe flashing his badge as he headed their way. He lifted a walkie-talkie to his mouth. "Get a medic in here. We got a gunshot victim."
Walter looked around, wondering who'd been shot. He took a step forward, grimacing as pain burned through his leg, something warm pooling around his ankle. It dawned on him then he was the one who'd been shot.
"Smart move, son," said the older man, watching as other agents handcuffed Zhalo's manager. "Leaving your cell phone on, that is. We heard every word."
Walter grinned as he handed the other man the gun. "Well, he didn't say to turn it off."
Cabe glanced downward, and Walter followed his gaze to the torn and bloody leg of his jeans. "This, however. . ." The Homeland agent shook his head as he pointed at the still bleeding wound. "You tried to grab his weapon, didn't you?"
Running an agitated hand through his hair, Walter stared at the floor. "Yeah. Not one of my more brilliant ideas."
The older man heaved a weary sigh. "Come on, let's find you somewhere to sit down." As Walter limped with Cabe toward a nearby folding chair, he saw Darby being led away by a couple of ATF agents.
It hit him then, like a ton of bricks. They'd caught the gun smuggler, hopefully stopping the loss of innocent lives. . . They could go home. It was over.
ooooo
Less than fifteen minutes later, Walter had his injured leg propped up on an overturned wastebasket Cabe had found. An EMT had slit open the seam of his jeans so he could clean out the bullet graze on his upper right calf. Gritting his teeth as the antiseptic stung, Walter glanced around, spotting Paige several feet away, appearing to be giving a statement to a LA police officer.
"You okay?"
He flinched as he recognized the Russian accented female voice accompanied by its overpowering scent. Zalina. Her appearance by his side was an unwelcome role reversal of less than ten hours earlier, when he'd been the one standing next to her while her injuries were attended to.
Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath as panic began to bubble up inside him. "Yeah," he said through gritted teeth, his hands clenching into fists. God, he hated this. His reaction to her. This visceral, illogical response which left him feeling ashamed and unclean.
"So, what," she said, taking her hand from the pocket of her ratty fur jacket, "you secret agent man like Bond James Bond?"
He only had a passing awareness of the popular spy movies so he just shook his head. "No."
She reached out in the direction of his thigh and he almost fell off the chair cringing away from her touch. He wished she would leave him alone. The memories of what had happened between them. . . Another knot twisted in his gut.
"So you only pretend to like me?" A surreptitious peek at her face told him she was upset with him, which he didn't understand. She certainly hadn't taken his feelings into account when she'd coerced him into having sex with her. He saw no reason to spare hers.
"I was undercover. Everything was pretend." He deliberately kept his gaze focused on the white gaze being wound around his leg.
"You asshole." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her raise her hand as if she intended to slap him.
"Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to step away from the patient." The paramedic glared at the singer, who let her arm drop back done to her side.
"You really need to back off, witch." Walter jerked his gaze upward at the sound of Paige's voice.
"What's it to you?" Zalina took a step toward the liaison who came up to stand beside him. "He's not who he say he is. He lie to both of us."
Paige glanced over at Walter, pressing her lips together but still not quite suppressing a smirk. "I know exactly who he is," she replied, looking the other woman up and down, "and I know exactly what you are. An amoral harpy."
"Fuck you," snarled the blonde singer. "You lucky I not kick your ass."
"I'd like to see you try." Putting her hands on her hips, Paige stared challengingly at Zalina. Walter worried she was going punch the Russian again.
"Paige," he warned quietly. The backstage area was still crawling with law enforcement. If the two women started brawling, they would more than likely be arrested.
"You can have him, bitch," Zalina sneered after a few tense moments, waving her hand at him. "He's lousy fuck anyway."
Paige laughed knowingly as she moved closer to the other woman. "Just leave him the hell alone. . .bitch."
"Fuck you," the singer hissed before spinning around and flouncing off. Walter watched her go, thankful he'd probably never have to see her in person ever again. In his head, however. . . Queasiness threatened to overtake him once more as images he'd yet to bury began to flash through his mind.
"Hey."
He lifted his head to see Paige staring at him, an uncertain smile on her face. "Hey," he parroted back, grateful for the disruption.
"That was a stupid thing you did," she said, pointing at his leg.
"I know." He ran his hand through his hair. "Better me than you though."
"Oh, God, Walter." Tears welled up in her eyes.
"Paige, I'm sorry. It's just a graze. Please, please don't cry." Please don't let her be crying because she was on the verge of telling him it was over. That it had been pretend between them as well. That once they were back at the garage, they'd go back to the impasse they'd been stuck in since the interloper's departure.
His own eyes started to grow damp at the thought of having to pretend he'd never told her he loved her. Of having to pretend he'd never been intimate with her. He didn't think he could.
"Dammit, Walter, you could have been killed," she scolded. "He could have. . .have killed you. . .and. . ." A sob broke free from her throat.
"There was only a 18% chance I would have been. . ." he began to say.
"I don't care about your stupid odds," she snapped. "You. . ." Whatever else she'd been about it say came out as a sob. She threw her arms around his neck and buried her face into his shoulder.
"Ma'am. . . Ma'am. . ." The EMT scowled at Walter, who just shrugged before slipping his hands around her waist. He certainly wasn't going to push her away. She was threading her fingers through his hair, sending shivers of desire down his spine.
"Oh, God, I'm sorry," she said, straightening up and wiping at her damp cheeks. "He's going to be all right, isn't he?" She directed her question to the paramedic.
"He'll need to stay off it for a few days," the man said as he put away the roll of gauze. "And follow up with his regular doctor to make sure there isn't any nerve damage or infection."
"Okay, we can do that," Paige said, smiling at Walter.
'We.' He liked the sound of that.
Someone started shouting as Paige and the EMT helped him to his feet. Yuri was several feet away, whining to several police officers. "You can't just leave us here. What the fuck are we supposed to do now?"
"Don't be such perverted assholes," Walter muttered under his breath. Any sympathy he'd felt for the band and crew (which had never been much to be honest) had disappeared when he'd found the crate of weapons.
Paige giggled at his remark, and he grinned at her. "You ready to go home?" she asked.
Fighting a losing battle to contain his excitement, he replied with an enthusiastic, "Yes."
ooooo
Author's note: I had hoped to finish this story up with this chapter (I have a thing about multiples of 5). But alas, there will be at least one more.