IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING
"Please," Debi's voice echoed in his ear. It changed from pleading to pouting, "Mom always lets me get some if I pass the exams."
Kincaid kept his smile carefully hidden. He had every intention of taking Debi for ice cream but giving in too soon would cut down on his kidding. And kidding the young teen was becoming one of his favorite things to do.
"Now, Debi," he said blandly, over his shoulder. "It's late; you're tired and I'm not even sure Gunther would be..."
"He's open until dark," Debi said, cutting off his protest.
"Harrison and your mom would worry if we were late."
From the corner of his eye he watched her lip sink. She leaned back against the curved seat, crossed her arms.
"Of course," Kincaid continued, raising his voice to be heard over the bike's roar. "They probably won't worry too much since I said we'd be stopping for ice cream."
"You...!" Debi punched him in the arm.
He eased the motorcycle off the short stretch of usable expressway. Dusk was just blurring the light, marking the end of an enjoyable day. When Suzanne had asked him to take Debi to her exams, he had balked. But the day had been pleasant. They had driven into the better section of the city to the test center. Debi had passed all the tests with flying colors, something which hadn't surprised Kincaid. On the way home he'd even taken the long route to show Debi the small wooded area that still existed at the edge of the metro area. Smiling to himself, he made a note to volunteer for the next semesters trip.
"Wow!" Debbie said with a blissful expression as she licked the cone. "This is better than usual."
"Yeah," Kincaid agreed with equal enthusiasm. "Gaunter must have scored some real milk to go with the powdered stuff."
Debi smiled, enjoying the quiet walk back to their ride. She was well aware of Kincaid's alert gaze checking the area, so much like the Colonel, especially later, when things had gotten bad. At first she had resented the constant watching, now it was normal.
"I can't believe you always get vanilla," she complained. "He had three other flavors today."
"I like vanilla," Kincaid defended. "Just because..."
Debi barely stifled a yelp as Kincaid pushed her sideways into the alley's shadow. "Quiet," he warned.
She knew better than to argue, eased further into the shadows, ice cream forgotten in her hand. Kincaid walked non-chalantly around the corner to where the bike was parked. Muffled voices sounded out of the growing dark. Nervously, Debi squatted, making herself a smaller target, knowing that people missed things lower than eyelevel. She lay the ice cream down and peeked around the rough brick.
Twenty five feet away, Kincaid was calmly confronting four men who had obviously been trying to steal their bike. He had his coat pushed back to reveal the heavy pistol but he was still licking the ice cream. His four opponents appeared to be unarmed.
"I don't want any trouble," Kincaid said calmly. His slight accent was stronger in tense situations.
"No trouble, fucker," the tallest of the gang said, stepping closer. "We're just going to take this off your hands."
Kincaid fell back three feet, ice cream tossed away, gun coming out, double-handed in front of him. "Move away," he ordered.
Debi held her breath, the world suddenly cold and still around her. The men stared first at Kincaid then at their tall leader. Very slowly, the leather clad man raised his hands, holding them away from his sides and stepping back. Kincaid came out of his crouch, switched to one hand on the gun. And things went wrong.
The man to Kincaid's left went for a gun under his jacket. Kincaid shot him, dropped to a roll and fired two more rounds; one hit the leader in the arm, but the third went wide, slammed into the bike. One of the remaining two men grabbed the wounded one, while the other ducked behind a burned out car, returning fire. Kincaid threw himself toward the protection of a doorway. Bullets raised sparks off the dirty brick. He gesture to Debi to retreat. Fear and concern held her in place.
Kincaid brought down the third man. A shot hit the wall next to him, showering chips into his face. He swiped at his eyes. The wounded leader and the last member took his distraction to charge his position. Kincaid let out a war cry, rolling full into the alley. The leader was thrown back by Kincaid's bullets, dead before he hit the ground. The last man staggered back wounded, but his finger tightened on the automatic weapon, spraying the alley with bullets. Debi watched in horror as Kincaid was hit, slammed backwards by the force of the shots. He hit the wall, slid slowly down to the damp cement, shock and pain registering on his face.
Debi started forward, stopped, slid back into the shadows as the final man came in for the kill. Desperate fear grabbed her. She scrambled, frantically searching for any kind of weapon. The man closed with Kincaid, slowly bringing his gun up. Debi couldn't control her scream as a shot rang out. But instead of Kincaid's blood straining the alley, the gang member fell back, taken out by a man he thought too wounded to raise his gun.
The echoes hadn't died before Debi was moving, scrambling around the body to Kincaid's side.
The enemy went down and Kincaid let the pain claim him, sagging back, nearly doubling over. Someone touched his arm and he fought to bring the gun up.
"John?"
The small frightened voice cut through his pain. Taking a short breath, he forced his eyes open. Debi's pale face came slowly into focus; she was kneeling next to him, looking lost and helpless. Agony swept over him, and he bit his lip hard to keep from crying out.
"Okay?" he managed to whisper.
"Yeah," she said shakily.
The wave of pain could not be stifled and he whimpered. His hand clutched at the wound in his side. He could feel the blood flowing down his back; it was hard to breath.
Strong hands pulled his fingers away. Unwrapping her scarf, Debi carefully but firmly shoved the material down into the gapping hole. He gasped, holding on to the gun so tight that he was sure he'd bend the metal.
"Where's the phone?" she asked.
Her tone was steady, reassuring and he took strength from her sureness. "Behind me.." he panted.
Very gently, she reached under him, feeling along his back, pausing only a second at the feel of blood soaking his coat. When she pulled out the small unit her lips tightened.
"What?" Kincaid demanded.
She held out the shattered unit, broken when he'd slammed into the wall.
"What should I do?" she whispered, certainty broken.
He centered his mind, counting, slowing his breathing, willing the pain to a manageable level. Debi's hands were still pressed tight against his side. The wound was bad, but experience told him it was not immediately life threatening. The only safe thing was to get back home, let Suzanne tend him. He didn't trust the hospitals, even if they could get someone to come get him.
"Debi," he said softly. "Can you drive... if I hang on to you?"
"Yes," she answered immediately.
"Help me..."
She braced herself against the wall. "Ready."
He took the small offered hand, nodding his readiness. It took two tries before he was able to prop himself between Debi and the wall. Every ounce of strength he processed centered on getting one foot in front of the other.
"Lean on me," Debi insisted.
That almost made him laugh. "If I do... we'll both end up on... the ground."
But he had to admit that she was holding him upright more than he was. As they reached the end of the alley, Kincaid shifted his eyes from the ground to the target. The bike was only a few yards away. He sighed thankfully - then spotted the tire.
"Goddamn!" he uttered.
Debi stiffened under his arm as she too spotted the bullet flattened tire. Kincaid wanted to curse again just on general principle but the pain that washed through him took any breath he had. He keep moving, knowing once he stopped he wouldn't be able to get started again. Reaching out, he leaned one bloody hand against the seat, twisted out of Debi's gasp and sagged back against the cold, damp metal.
"Gunther's," Debi said suddenly. "I can go get help there."
Blinking against the fog that was threatening his vision, Kincaid nodded, having been thinking exactly that. While he didn't like the idea of Debi on her own, even for the six blocks, it was their only option.
"Good idea," he agreed, shocked at how drunk he sounded. "Help me... alley...safer."
He heard the deep breath she took, wondered vaguely if it was because she knew it would hurt or whether it was to steady herself. It was the only sound she made, offering her shoulder without hesitation. Slowly, strength ebbing he followed her back down the alley, into the boarded up doorway she had taken refuge in. Using the wall and Debi's guiding hand, Kincaid let himself sink to the cold cement. A shiver went up his back, amplified the pain. He closed his eyes fighting both. Something heavy settled over his chest.
Through slitted eyes, he watched Debi carefully tuck her coat around him. He pushed it away.
"No.. too cold... you'll need it."
She ignored him. "I'll be running. It'll just be in my way." Looking grim and suddenly older, she squeezed his hand. "I'll hurry."
Inching his hand into his coat pocket, he handed her the .357. "Here."
She gave it one quick look before taking it. Forcing a tiny smile at him, she turned and sprinted down the alley, leaving him alone with the pain.
"Gunther!" She pounded the door again, unable to control her fears.
She had run as fast as she could, dodging street people just coming out for a night's scavenge, only to find the door to the small shop locked tight.
"Gunther!"
The night people were building around her, she could feel their gazes on her, and on the door she was begging to open. Debi knew the door was doing to stay closed. No one opened their door in this area at night, not even for a friend. Guilt at pushing Kincaid into the situation warred with frantic thoughts of what to do next. A few shadowy figures moved a little closer. Pushing away from the chained door, she sprinted back toward the alley.
She was two blocks back before slowing to a stop. In the year they had been fugitives she'd learned a lot, not the least of which was about gunshot wounds. Kincaid's was serious, not deadly, not immediately, but it would become fatal if he didn't get help soon, more help than she could give with a scarf. Stepping back into the shadows, she considered her options. Gunther's was the only friendly place in this area of town; it was just over twelve miles home; the loose computer network would not be on-line this late.
Pushing away from the wall, she started back toward where Kincaid was hidden. The best plan was to start toward home and hope to find a working phone between here and there. With a slight smile, she could visualize the response her plan would gain from Kincaid.
Debi barely controlled her gasp of dismay as she rounded the corner. Kincaid was paler than before, covered with sweat and shaking. But the dark eyes were clear and the gun came up as she came around the corner.
"Debi," he sighed. Her solitary status became clear to him. "Where's Gunther?"
"He'd already left," she informed him.
She lifted his long, heavy coat, put her hand on the wound. He stiffened under her touch. The hasty bandage was soaked through. She grimaced, pulling her hand back and staring sadly at the blood. His hand came up to cover hers.
"It's okay," he said breathlessly. "We'll think of... something."
His breath hissed between his teeth and his hand tightened, becoming almost painful; she didn't flinch. "I have thought of something."
She lay his hand down, tucked her coat back around him. She took a few steps back, suddenly stuck with an almost panicked need to hurry.
Her move gained his attention. "What?"
"I'm going for help," she explained levelly. "I'll start toward home and see if I can find a vid-phone or a regular phone or a computer connection."
Kincaid's eyes, darker than normal in the pale face, widened further. "You can't!" he managed to gasp. "It's too dangerous."
Debi bit her lip. She didn't need to be reminded of that. "I know. But..."
"Wait... for morning. Suzanne and Harrison... they'll find us then."
For just a minute she wanted to give in, wanted very much to stay safe and warm next to him instead of facing the dark alone. But she looked down at the blood that had stained her hand. Taking a deep breath, she locked gazes with her friend.
"And if I want until morning you'll bleed to death."
She saw Kincaid flinch at the adult tone in her voice, and the truth in her words. He sagged back, giving into her.
"Okay," he whispered. "Water jug...on the bike... leave it."
With a nod, she trotted to the bike. Returning with the water, she held it for him as he took a careful sip. His eyes connected with hers again, and she saw him think of holding her, saw him realize how useless it was. Sitting the water within reach, she tried to smile at him.
"Be careful," he said softly.
"I will." She stood, started off, pausing only long enough to give him the thumbs up sign.
The first couple of miles disappeared rapidly. Debi knew she couldn't run the entire distance, it was too far and too dangerous charging blinding around corners. So, she walked the corners and cross streets, sprinted when the way was open.
Slowing for a corner, she peered carefully around, jerking back at the sight of a large group of scruffy bikers within the next block. They were moving her way. Chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip, she pulled back into the shadows of a doorway, deciding to wait them out. It seemed an eternity before the taillights of the last bike faded around the next street. With an impatient sigh, she sprinted across the street and down the next block.
"Look what I found!"
Kincaid was instantly alert at the too close voice. His hand tightened around the rubberized grip. Blinking cleared some of the haze. The wound had become his single searing reality, made worse by the shivering that he couldn't control.
A tall figure moved closer and for a single instant he hoped it was Harrison. Another man joined the first, dispelling any hope Kincaid held of rescue.
"Think he's dead?" the first voice asked.
"Close enough so that it doesn't matter," the second man explained.
They moved closer. Kincaid stiffened. He had two options, play dead and let them take everything or hope to scare them off until help came. The man reached for the top coat, and the gun came out.
"I wouldn't, if I were you," Kincaid said with more force than he would have thought possible.
The man leapt back as if he'd touched hot steel. Both of them spread their hands wide. "Easy... easy, mister. We didn't mean nothing, honest. We thought..."
"I know what you thought." He kept the sentences short, hoping to cover the effort of breathing. "Not the case, is it? Now go away. I'm trying to sleep."
The two men moved away but didn't leave, stood a few feet away, waiting, judging. Kincaid could hear the whispered discussion of his state of health, of whether he would carry out the threat.
Gritting his teeth, Kincaid forced himself into a sitting position. He raised the gun, held it steady. "If you two aren't gone by the time I count to ten."
The move seemed to settle the matter, the two men turned and ran. Kincaid held his position, just in case they returned, fighting to stay up and conscious. After a few long minutes he let the gun fall into his lap, let himself sag back. The move had re-started the steady flow of warm blood down his back, sending it to join the cold pool he was already resting in.
With an effort he raised his wrist to eye level, squinted at his watch. An hour since he'd been shot, at best another three before Debi reached help. He let his arm drop. It was a long time till morning.
Time and distance blended together. She passed three phones, all out of order. She pounded on Scogg's door but there was no answer. After that, she settled into just moving as fast as she could. The night melded into moments of tense hiding and blocks of pain as her legs started to cramp. Her luck held and she made the half way point without incident. Breathing hard she sagged down behind a pile of garbage, forcing herself to rest.
Something moved at the edge of her vision, sent the hairs on the back of her neck up. Very slowly, she pushed up, eased the gun out of her pocket. A deep throated growl sounded.
She backed into the streetlight, the shadow followed, took shape. A massive black dog bared its teeth at her, hackles raised. Two more dogs closed with the pack leader. Debi took aim at the first one, sizing up the distance to the other two. The packs usually followed one leader but they would attack anything if they were hungry enough. She wasn't fast enough to get all three. A fourth growled from the alley.
Whirling, she ran full speed down the street, desperately searching for an open door, a gate or a fence. The dogs barked after her, the sound of their claws on the cement driving her on. The leader grabbed her pants and she screamed, jerked it away from the hungry mouth. She flew around a corner and a rusted fire escape loomed a few feet ahead. With a kick and a jump she grabbed the bottom rung.
As her hands closed around the abrasive rusted steel one of the dogs grabbed the heel of her boot, dragging back on it. Locking her arms around the rung, she twisted and kicked, felt the satisfying thump of her bootheel on bone. The dog yelped and dropped. Another leaped for her as she scrambled up the ancient metal, praying it would hold.
Debi made the first landing and collapsed back against the brick building, panting. Below the dogs circled, baying their loss. She only sat for a moment, felt again the press of time. The dogs, five strong now, were circling below, leaping up toward the narrow ladder. Glancing up through the dark she took a deep breath, wondering about the condition of the rest of the ancient firestairs. Carefully, she started up.
The ladder creaked, rained rusty flakes down on the street, on the circling dogs. She crept carefully up, clearing the last landing before the ominous sound of stressed metal filled the night. Twisting, she screamed, grabbing the edge of the roof as her support vanished, falling into a useless heap of metal on the ground. The dogs scattered into the dark.
Terror tightened her hold on the edge. She hung, blinking through tears of fear, too scared to move. Her fingers started to cramp, panicking her into action. Lifting one hand as if it were made of lead, she inched it forward, searching for a better hold. When her elbow touched cold metal edging, she repeated the action with the other hand. Digging her elbows into the unforgiving cement, Debi swung her left leg up, straining the muscle but catching the edge. She stalled, waiting for her breath to return. With a final surge of fear-fed strength, she threw herself over the edge and onto the gravel covered roof.
Wrapping her arms around her middle, she lay there, too tried to move. The bruises on her elbows and the cuts her hands started to throb. She sat up, looked at the bloody gloves. Tears welled in her eyes. She blinked furiously, refusing to cry. But the fear of failure and the near fall was more than she could handle. For just a minute she gave into her turmoil, wrapping her arms around her legs and crying long and hard.
Minutes later, she pulled her head up and wiped her eyes. Sniffling a little, she climbed to her feet, took a deep breath.
"I've got a job to do," she said firmly.
If she had learned a lot about survival from Kincaid, she had also learned from Harrison how to take advantage of a situation. She was on the roof, away from the dogs and the bikers. Looking across the row of buildings only a few feet apart, Debi almost smiled. She'd take the high road.
Unfortunately, the high road only lasted six blocks before she was forced to confront another fire escape. This one was newer, still showed a few spatterings of red paint mixed with the blood-colored rust. She moved toward it but her legs refused to cooperate, freezing in place, inches short of the metal stairs. Closing her eyes, she thought about Kincaid, about the night growing cold and old around him. She was half-way down before she opened her eyes.
Nothing moved on the streets around her, so she dropped the final few feet from the bottom of the ladder to the cracked sidewalk. Pausing to get her bearings she suddenly realized that she had come only a little over half-way in her journey. Several words, favorites of both Kincaid and Ironhorse, came to mind. She uttered the whole list under her breath as she moved.
It was far enough after their ETA that Harrison and her mom would know something was wrong. While they had not established a route, there were only two or three ways they could travel. Harrison would know that, would start his search along those routes. The way she was going was not on any of the routes, was a more direct way by foot. But if Harrison were looking she would stand a better chance of being found if she switched routes. She slowed almost to a stop, chewed on her lip as she considered what Kincaid would do, of what Harrison would do, of what Ironhorse would have done.
Picking up a jog, she took a left at the next corner. She offered a silent pray to whoever was listening that Kincaid would not pay for her decision.
He had never been so cold. Kincaid tried to raise his hands, tried to rub them together but his arms wouldn't co-operate. He shifted, desperate to relieve the agony in his side, a wave of pain swept over him, dimming his vision. When the light faded slowly back in there was a figure standing in front of him. He blinked, trying to bring it into focus.
"Harrison?" he pleaded.
The figure moved closer, became clearer. Kincaid felt his stomach tighten. "Max?"
"Who else?" His brother said blandly.
"Max... I'm sorry," Kincaid blurted.
Max only shook his head, frowning. "Yeah, you fucked that one up just like you're fucking this one up, brother. You never could get things right. And who was it always had to come in and fix your messes?"
The words hurt and Kincaid tried to find voice to deny them. "Wasn't my fault... isn't a mess..."
The older man knelt. "What would you call sending a little girl out to do your job?" The appratrition reached for Kincaid's side. "And all you can do is lay here bleeding. That's a hell of a mess if you ask me."
Kincaid flinched away, afraid of the vision's touch. The move was too much and the world disappeared into red-tinged darkness.
Every dim glow of headlights down the narrow street sent a flare of hope up Debi's chest, and every vehicle that crept by killed a little more of her determination. Not even the fact that she had traveled more than two-thirds of the way helped her flagging strength and growing despair. She took the next turn a little less cautiously - and the glare of a working phone booth shone out of the darkness light a morning star. Nearly crying in relief she staggered toward it. A figure appeared in front of her.
She came to a quick stop, stared up. The man was tall, thin with a tight black cap pulled down over his graying hair. Frowning, Debi tried to go around him. He moved to block her way.
Too tired to be scared, she politely said, "I need to use the phone."
Not moving out of the way, the man glanced over his shoulder. "That phone?" Looking back down, he smiled with even dark teeth. "That would be fine, but that's my phone and I'm afraid I'll have to charge you for it's use."
Anger swept through her and she touched the gun in her pocket, wanting very much to pull it. She took a deep breath, remembering how often Kincaid had told her to never shoot in anger.
"How much?" she questioned suspiciously.
"Well," the man stroked his chin. "I wasn't thinking of hard cash."
For a second she didn't understand, then realization of his request sent a wave of revulsion into her stomach. Fear joined the disgust and the allure of the gun turned even stronger. She could almost hear Harrison urging her to think, and for a moment it was as if her thoughts kicked into overdrive. The idea came immediately, and with it waves of doubt. Still, she had been trained by two of the best; with a smile to herself, she decided three, if she counted Harrison.
Looking out from under long lashes, she said, "A single call isn't worth getting undressed for." She turned away, then with a sigh turned back, closing with the man. Almost casually, she let her hand graze his crotch. "But it might be worth a mouthful."
The offer seemed to satisfy the problem. He smiled, reached for the belt of his too large, patched pants.
"Wait!" Debi snapped, barely controlling her panic. "Not out here."
That struck the man as funny. Laughing he pointed toward to several others lounging in a doorway half a block away. "They're too drunk to care, pretty lady."
"Yeah, well, they might. And I don't have time for everyone." In as sexy a voice as she could manage, she added, "The alley over there will be more private."
He tried for a kiss, which she deftly avoided by ducking and grabbing his hand. As they entered the darkness of the alley, Debi's fright vanished. She remembered hearing Ironhorse and Harrison talking late one night about their feelings on battle. Harrison had confessed his fear but had added, almost in shamed, of how it vanished in a kind of rush, once things were underway. In a soft voice, like he used for telling stories, Ironhorse had confessed the same thing. Now she understood, knew why all three of the men in her short life hated and craved the fighting. She felt a twinge of sorrow at this discovery, as if knowing somehow meant she'd lost another piece of childhood too soon. Shoving the thoughts away, she turned to business.
"This is good," she announced.
With a leering smile of approval, the man leaned back against the slimy wall and in a quick move dropped his pants. He wasn't wearing any shorts and his cock stood out in front of him. For a second, Debi only stared. Except for once walking in on a showering and highly embarrassed Harrison, she had never seen a man nude. A insane urge to laugh grabbed her but she fought it off, moved closer.
"Come on, pretty," the man urged, "how about a little kiss?"
"Look," she snapped, "you want a blow job or a romance novel?"
She had heard the line on one of Kincaid's questionable videos but it seemed to do the job. The man merely shrugged and leaned back, ready to enjoy the experience. Debi took a deep breath, moved closer, started to kneel. When her head was level with the man's chest, she went into action.
Pushing up and forward from the knees, she hit her street Romeo directly under the nose with the top of her head. Only at the last minute did the she pull the blow enough to merely knock him down and not kill him. At the same time as his head snapped back against the rough bricks, she grabbed his balls and twisted, hard. Too stunned by both moves to even whimper, the man sagged down to the ground. Debi whirled and sprinted back to the phone.
Sliding inside and slamming the chain-link enforced door closed, she pulled the gun and lay it beside her on the counter in case anyone else wanted to argue over ownership of the device. Twice the number wouldn't go through, twice she fought down her curses at the phone company. On the third try, there was a ring, then another; on the third ring her mother's voice carried worriedly down the line.
"Mom..." her voice cracked. For a moment all she could think about was being cold, tired and scared. Then she thought of Kincaid. "Mom, Kincaid's been shot, bad. We need help. I'm at the corner of Limebaght and 122nd. In the phone booth. I love you."
She hung up quickly to clear the line so her mother could call Harrison. As she had guessed, he was already on the streets searching for them. It would only be a matter of minutes now. Suddenly exhausted, she let herself sink to the bottom of the booth, holding the gun tight in one hand.
He had recited the times tables are high as fifteen; he then gone through the Ranger training manual, followed, strangely enough by the Ten Commandants. Despite his strongest resolve by the time he reached the one about killing, the darkness was building. He was afraid of it now; it was too alluring, too easy to let the darkness take him, relieve the pain and cold.
"Come on..." he urged himself quietly. "Stay..."
Something moved at the edge of his vision and reflexes alone tightened his hand around the gun. He blinked trying to get a closer look. Kincaid whimpered as chills not caused by the cold went down his spine.
Ironhorse knelt beside him, a pale, haggard version of the once vibrant colonel. Blood shone on his throat, glittered dully in his hair. Kincaid was swamped with emotions; regret, guilt, fear, anger.
"Colonel," he finally managed.
"Have you forgotten your promise to watch out for them?" Ironhorse asked quietly.
"No..." Kincaid protested. But the promise of the darkness called to him again. "Debi'll... come..."
But even as he said it, his eyes drifted closed for a moment. "Cold..."
"I know," Ironhorse's voice told him from far away.
"I'm sorry, Colonel." He got his eyes opened again. "I wish I could have stopped you."
Ironhorse smiled at him, the soft, half-smile that Kincaid sometimes remembered late at night.
"It's okay, John," Ironhorse said quietly. "It was suppose to happen. But you have to hold on."
"I don't want to leave..," Kincaid agreed quietly. "Tired though..."
"Just a little longer now."
His eyes slid shut. "Okay, Colonel..."
A strong hand touched his arm. "John?"
His eyes opened somehow and he found himself staring into deep concern on Harrison's face. Over his shoulder, blurrily, he saw Debi leaning close.
"Harrison?"
"Yes, John." Harrison confirmed with a weak smile. "You're going to be okay. The van is right here. We're going to get you to the hospital."
Vaguely, Kincaid nodded. He stared passed Harrison into Debi's pale, dirty face. "Knew you'd make it," he confirmed. "Told them, both of them."
He knew he wasn't making sense but it didn't matter. Once more they had cheated the odds. He was going home.
Debi stood out of the way as Harrison helped settle Kincaid into the small bunk. For three days, they had sat with him round the clock in the crowded, dark hospital, not willing to leave him alone there after some of the things they had seen in places like that. Their worries had been for nothing. The staff had taken good care of him. But they had still brought him home sooner than the doctor had wanted and not nearly soon enough for Kincaid.
"Harrison..." he panted. "I can do..."
Harrison very pointedly ignored him, turning to Debi instead. "Keep an eye on him," he ordered. "I'm going to get the medicine from your Mom. I'll be right back."
"I'll get it," Debi said quickly, suddenly not wanting to be alone with the young soldier.
"Let Harrison get it," Kincaid said quietly.
She looked nervously at him. Glancing up, she saw the question in Harrison's light eyes. But the tall scientist nodded.
"Okay. I'll only be few minutes though," he warned. Pointing at Kincaid he said firmly, "You need to sleep."
"Yeah, yeah," Kincaid muttered.
Debi sat down, hoping her unease didn't show. A hesitate hand touched her arm, gained her attention. She looked down into clear brown eyes. Kincaid smiled.
The tightness n her chest loosened, broke free, tears coming. Suddenly she was holding him hard around the neck. "I'm sorry. I tried to hurry. I went as fast..."
"Hey, hey. Stop that."
Kincaid gripped her chin, raised her face until she met his eyes. "I am very proud of you."
Wiping the telltale traces of distress away, she stared at him. "You nearly died and I was the one who wanted to stop for something silly."
"Ice cream is never silly," he said lightly. He released her chin and tugged playfully on her braid. "And I didn't die. You brought help. And you did it without getting hurt. Or hurting anyone."
That statement brought a guilty smile to her face. "From the look on his face, I don't think that one guy would agree with you."
Kincaid chuckled, holding his side as he did. "You know what I mean." His look turned serious. "I knew you'd do it. Thank you."
Debi shrugged, embarrassed. In the hospital she had cried as she repeated the whole misadventure to her mother. But as she had told the tale she had felt a sense of pride about it; over the fact that she had not panicked, had found the phone, had never had to resort to the gun. Smiling a little shyly, she looked up at Kincaid.
"You're welcome."
"Ready?" Harrison called, pushing through the curtain at the same time. He was carrying a vial in one hand and a glass of water in the other.
Kincaid's pale face tightened in stubborn lines. "Harrison, I don't need..."
"Shut up, Kincaid," Harrison ordered.
"But I feel..."
Harrison sat down on the bunk. "Now, John, let's behave like adults here. If you take your medicine..."
"I don't need any..."
Debi giggled, gaining glares from both men. Harrison turned, held the water and pills out to him. Kincaid drew back. Harrison leaned forward. "Look, John, I've had the two worlds worst patients, Ironhorse and Suzanne, so don't even think about giving me trouble."
Kincaid peered over Harrison's shoulder, winked at her. "You may think you've had bad patients, Harrison," he warned. "But you haven't seen anything yet."
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