"Ah, a man of the bar," Josiah commented as he glanced at the card before casually tucking it away. He was not surprised to learn the man was a lawyer; the expensive clothes and the mint-condition classic car bespoke of one who had a well-paying job. "Shall we go inside?"
"Lead the way," Adams responded with an exaggerated arm flourish that vaguely reminded Josiah of Ezra Standish. The two men proceeded inside the busy Saloon and made their through the gauntlet of occupied tables and chairs to the crowded but slightly less occupied bar area. Josiah, jostling a patron or two, managed to squeeze his considerable bulk into a space at the end of the bar containing two empty stools. Adams settled himself upon the stool next to Sanchez and waited to catch the eye of the bartender.
Josiah turned around when he felt a hand on the back of his shoulder.
"Senior Sanchez, are you back for more chicken wings?" asked a Spanish-accented voice asked in joking disbelief.
Josiah turned to see the petite form of Inez looking back at him with a twinkle in her eyes. Josiah felt his face flush slightly, but he grinned and shook his head. "Well if I am, I can hardly be blamed for it, can I? You only have the best wings of any bar on this street," he flattered.
Inez chuckled with gusto then clicked her tongue with mock reprove. "We had better! We are the only bar on this street! She glanced sideways at Josiah's companion, but turned her gaze back to Josiah without addressing his companion. "Can I get a beer for you and your friend?"
"That would be appreciated," Adams spoke up. "Put them on my tab please, I owe my friend here some compensation."
Inez quirked a dark-colored eyebrow but did not inquire as to the man's meaning. "Very well, then gentlemen. I'll send those beers right on down," she said before sauntering off.
Amongst the noise of the clinking glasses, chatter and frequent bouts of raucous laughter surrounding the bar, Josiah and Adams waited in companionable silence. The beers arrived a few minutes later and Josiah had taken several sips from his before breaking the silence. "So, what kind of law do you practice?" Josiah asked out of polite curiosity.
"I dabble in a variety of civil cases, but my specialty is labor law.'' Adams shook his head. "You wouldn't believe what some government agencies try to get away with."
Labor law? Josiah's eyebrow furrowed as a mental spark touched on kindling and a little flame of an idea began to burn. This man was an expert in issues of government employee/employer relations. Ezra Standish was facing the legal employment fight of his life in an idea began to burn. This man was an expert in issues of government employee/employer relations. Ezra Standish was facing the legal employment fight of his life in an administrative process that Josiah neither understood nor believed would be entirely fair. What if this man could help? As far as Josiah knew, Ezra was still reeling from the news that he would almost immediately face a board that would most likely end his career. Ezra had not even thought about having legal representation, he was certain. Josiah was very much a man who believed that things happened for a reason. Had the good Lord seen fit to bring an experienced government labor law attorney in his path? Josiah's heart leaped within his chest. All through Ezra's ordeal Josiah had mostly chafed under feelings of uselessness while his teammates had played key roles in helping Ezra survive his medical crisis. Nathan had skillfully applied his medical knowledge to save Ezra's life. Chris had, by the force of command alone, willed Ezra to live. Buck and Vin had offered stalwart emotional support and young JD, encouragement and a thoughtful means for Ezra to communicate. As for himself, what had he done, but make a phone call to track down Ezra's mother, after which the woman had cut and run without even a word to her son? What Maude had done still turned Josiah's soul and it sickened him to think of how he had fawned over the woman who Josiah believed had acted so callously. Had Josiah known that Ezra treasured the visit to the extent that he did, and did not in any way assign any blame to Josiah, the big man most likely would have a different view of his contributions to Ezra's recovery.
"You must have had some interesting cases," Josiah eventually remarked, fishing for information.
Adam winked. "Well my job would be pretty boring if I didn't. There was this one time…"
Two beers and an order of sliders and a dozen stories later, Josiah was convinced that this was the attorney who could best help his friend fight the ATF and win.
Now all he had to do was see if the attorney was available and interested in the case. "You've been mighty blessed with success, and you sound pretty passionate about your work," Josiah commented.
Adam grinned half-apologetically. "Uh, sorry about that. I didn't mean to hog the conversation."
"No need to apologize," Josiah assured. "You see, I have a friend in need of an attorney…"
Ezra closed the door of his condominium, and from the inside, leaned wearily with his back against the wood. He sighed with relief as he savored the comfort and safety of his home on the other side of the door that stood between him and the outside world. The slight quirking of his lips upwards was an expression sustained by the lingering warmth of an uplifted heart. Days ago when he'd been fighting for his life in ICU, Ezra never imagined that he would ever again sit around the familiar table at the Saloon with his teammates, yet that is exactly what he had
done. Tonight he'd laughed at J.D's jokes, eaten most of grilled shrimp salad for dinner, and sat at a table surrounded by his closest friends who were more like family, then mere teammates. Ezra Standish had felt like he was at home…almost. Socially, he felt as though he had turned a corner, yet the night had not been without its moments of awkwardness. Standish had still found extended attempts at communications mentally and physically taxing.
He was home now and not reluctant to admit that he was exhausted and much too tired to attempt anymore of his speech exercises tonight. Bed and the ensuing morning's meet with the informant were the next things on his agenda. Ezra took a deep breath, gave himself a push-off from the door and made his way slowly to his bedroom. He changed into his pajamas, and then walked over to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face. When he finished his ablutions, he walked back to the bedroom and got into bed. Without thinking about his earlier decision to forego a practice session, Ezra took his speech therapy flash cards off his nightstand and he tracked them with his eyes as his dexterous fingers began flipping through them. Ezra found the repetitive motion soothing, at the same time as his tired mind rebelled at the attempt to focus on the actual therapeutic purpose of the cards. Before long, his eyes blinked and began to close. His limbs relaxed and the finely-shaped hand that held the cards gradually lowered and relaxed its hold upon the cards.
Ezra never notice the scattered cards that lay across the down quilt or the ones that had escaped and dropped down to the floor.
The still recuperating agent had fallen into a dead sleep.
He was hanging by sore arms in a room that was cold, poorly-lit, and had a vaguely familiar feel to Ezra with its sterile, green tiled-walls and wide, double doors and holding trays of tools resembling medical implements. From where he hung, Ezra could see that in the center of the room was a metal table with leather restraints over which was suspended, the room's sole source of light. The illumination afforded by the industrial light was mostly confined to the table, plus a foot or two around it. This left the corners of the room in disquieting shadows. Ezra thought he knew this place, and yet not. Slowly, it occurred to Ezra that this room reminded him of the hospital where he had been wheeled for the transesphageal echocardiogram procedure. Vague those his memories were, Ezra clearly remembered that there had been pain in that room. Pain and unmitigated fear. Something impossibly wide and foreign had snaked its way down his protesting throat and what had followed was far worse. Searing agony as currents of electricity had been directed into his body. He'd longed for an end to his torment, but in the recesses of his mind, he remembered that he had not been there alone. This could not be that place. Standish licked his dry lips and shivered at the jumble of confused memories that suddenly assaulted his mind.
Ezra's arms where stretched uncomfortably above his head and secured to the wall behind him with bindings so tight his hands had grown numb. He hung in his bonds and contemplated both his position and the state of his finely tailored shirt dangling in torn shreds around his waist, leaving his bare chest cold and exposed. He was alone. Why was he alone? Where was Robert, the undercover agent from Team Three? Hadn't the two of them gone to a meet with an informant in the early afternoon hours today? Ezra closed his eyes and tried desperately to recall what had happened. His shouts for Robert went unanswered and he was unsure of exactly what had come out of his mouth.
Suddenly the heavy double doors parted and the beaten, broken body of Robert was dragged in, courtesy of two heavily- muscled, hard-core King Street Boyz. The two gang members unceremoniously dumped Robert's unmoving body and stalked over to Standish in a menacing manner. One man was stocky, bearded and bald, while his miscreant companion was tall and had long hair tied back. Both were heavily tattooed and sported the colors of the King Street Boyz. The long-haired man got into Ezra's personal space and the bound man was treated to a close-up whiff of bad breath and eyes that suggested frequent narcotics indulgence.
The gang member's grin was dangerous, cruel and filled with a tad too much gold Ezra absurdly thought. When he looked down he saw the blade of a long knife as if it had magically appeared in the man's big, heavily-knuckle hand coming up towards his face. "Game's up, Hombre. I think you lost something, si?"
The stocky one kicked at Robert's lifeless body and the crunching sound of ribs breaking sent the gorge rising up Ezra's throat. Ezra was hard pressed to keep from vomiting, but he held on. The blade Ezra thought was heading towards his face to slice it open flesh and bone, instead sliced through the bonds holding his arms over his head. Ezra's arms flopped down and the rest of his body followed suit. An iron grip forced Ezra up and started dragging him towards the metal table.
Oh god! Robert looked dead. Ezra's mouth went dry. What the hell had gone wrong and why couldn't he remember?
Tuesday Morning
The loud noise of the alarm, sounding like a jarring klaxon of doom, barely reached the conscious mind of one deeply-sleeping Ezra Standish. Ezra's form, including his head, was cocooned underneath his warm, down quit. Exhausted from the mental and physical exertions of the previous day's activities, the still recovering agent had fallen into an exhausted sleep from which he had yet to stir. The blaring sound of the alarm begun to sound seemingly increasingly annoyed at being ignored. The sound was starting to penetrate the walls of Era's unconscious state and contrary to his wishes, the alarm did not quiet on it's own as the sleepy man sincerely wished. The alarm grew in intensity until the sound of it filled Ezra's mind. Ezra groaned and he cracked the lid of one eye open. Finally, he snaked an arm out from underneath the covers and his hand fumbled around for the off switch. It took a minute for him to locate it and by the time he did, the blank slate feeling in his mind was rapidly waning as reality and the upcoming day's events begun to flood in. For a minute, Standish wavered on the edge of stark terror and despair. How was he supposed to successfully pull of a meet when he had little to no ability to string two coherent sentences together?
He wouldn't just be responsible for himself at this meet, either. Robert, from Team Three would be there, trusting Standish to do his job and get Bulldog to accept the hand off of Robert as his new ATF contact. A meet such as this would normally have raised not even can ounce of trepidation within the undercover agent's heart, but that was before his ability to communicate clearly had been so egregiously compromised.
Ezra was nervous. He could admit that in the privacy of his own thoughts. He was no longer the same undercover agent, yet at the same time, he was a master of improvisation. When needs must, he could transform himself and become who he needed to be to get the job done, to save an innocent, or stay alive. But no matter the change in persona, dress, or mannerism, Ezra's skills remained sharp and ready. The aphasia had not changed that.
Ezra pushed back to thick quilt and arose from his bed. One hour later, he finished consuming a glass of orange juice along with a bagel and gourmet-brand cream cheese and was staring at the bottle containing the anticoagulant medication Dr. Peterson had prescribed for him. for an additional four weeks to up to six months."
Ezra was ready to depart his abode for the office. He was nearly to the front door when he stopped and looked at his image in the decorative mirror that hung on the wall in the foyer. The visage that starred back at him still had vestiges of hollow cheeks and fading, dark circles under the eyes – but the mercurial green eyes were the same ones that looked out at the world with quick-wit and laser-sharp focus.
You've got this, Ezra Standish.
TBC
AN: This story was started before the ATF was changed to ATFE. Someday, I may update it.
