I know you can't remember how to shine
Your heart, a bird without the wings to fly
Is anybody out there?
Can you take this weight of mine?
- Carry You, Ruelle (feat Fleurie)
Thomas
Thomas Sullivan Magnum was not a reckless man.
He'd done reckless things, sure, but all in the name of a greater plan. And always with a trust in the men at his side, watching his back. It was because of those men he was still alive; therefore, recklessness was not an option. He owed it to them to be thoughtful.
Which meant researching this next job a bit more thoroughly than he had the previous one.
When he'd woken up after an afternoon spent scouring mud and blood and grease paint from Robin's Ferrari, Rick had been by his side, slumped against the headboard of the bed, snoring loudly. It had taken him several befuddled minutes to realize that it was mid-afternoon the next day and that his friend had spent the entire time next to him, calming him with his presence so that he didn't spiral into memories that took him to dark places inside his mind.
Rick had, of course, acted like it was not a big deal, that he'd do it again in a heartbeat, but Thomas felt ashamed. He wasn't the only one who'd been through hell. He wasn't the only one who had boxes inside his head. And he needed to not burden his friends when those boxes wouldn't stay shut. Rick and TC had their own demons to battle; they didn't need to take his on.
So, he swam, and he surfed, and he worked the soreness from his ribs and put frozen peas on his swollen eyebrow, and he teased the dogs, and said things that made Higgins roll her eyes in exasperation. He stretched the days out until Rick was grinning like a teenager again and TC was bouncing his shoulders to a Marvin Gaye song and they breathed easier around him. He locked the lids on the boxes inside of him, he let his bruises heal, and he looked into his next case.
A nice, easy cheating husband, just like TC had requested.
Meghan Iona was a forty-year-old realtor on the big island, married for twenty years to an investment banker—a fact which had Thomas grimacing and rubbing at his still-healing ribs—with two children, both in high school. After seeing odd charges appear on their bank account—a fact which her husband explained was due to unexpected work travel—and having him not come home several nights, she became suspicious of her husband's behavior and decided to hire a private investigator.
To be thorough, Thomas asked Meghan to come to the estate and talk with him further before he agreed to take on the case. This time, Higgins let her in without her usual complaints about his endless parade of women—which he never understood anyway. The only women he'd had visit the guest house had all been clients. He couldn't imagine a woman wanting to take on the mess that was Thomas Magnum, but Higgins didn't know that. Clearly.
"Can I get you something to drink?" Thomas offered as he let Meghan into the now-clean living room.
"Water would be great," Meghan smiled, sitting down in the chair he offered.
She was very attractive, with olive-toned skin, dark brown eyes, and long black hair that was twisted up in a knot on top of her head. Her smile didn't hit her eyes, Thomas noticed. There was a sadness there, yes, but also something else. Tension in the delicate skin pulling at the edges, accentuated by the darting glances into the far corners of the room.
Thomas sat across from her, handing her a glass of water, not missing the way her hand trembled slightly as she took it from him.
"Mrs. Iona—"
"Meghan, please," she corrected.
"Meghan," Thomas smiled at her, softening his gaze in an effort to put her at ease. "You said you started to notice this change of behavior in your husband a few weeks ago?"
Nodding, she set the glass down on the coffee table and rubbed her thin hands together. He noticed that she wore a rather large diamond wedding band on her left and a silver ring on her right—four interlocking circles that symbolized strength in the Hawaiian culture. Rick had gotten a tattoo just like it when they first reached the island.
"Yes," she finally replied. "Though, when I think back…there's always been something…off about Dev."
Devlin Iona, son of a Hawaiian businessman and an Irish singer, established himself in the Honolulu banking industry in his mid-twenties and had grown in power and prestige regularly since then. At least, according to the Google search Thomas was able to do on his phone. He could have gotten more had he asked Higgins for help, but he'd decided to lay low for a bit. He didn't want to press his luck after the whole Ferrari fiasco last week.
"Off how?" Thomas pressed.
Meghan hesitated, rubbing her hands together nervously.
"Meghan," Thomas dropped his chin, looking at her steadily. "I can't help you if I don't have all the information."
"Mr. Magnum," Meghan said, her voice catching on a sob. "I'm afraid of my husband."
That much was clear. The woman was strung as tight as a bow. Thomas couldn't see any visible bruising or signs of physical abuse, but there were plenty of ways to strike terror into another person. He knew that intimately.
"I have a friend at HPD—"
Meghan shook her head before he finished his sentence.
"No, I can't. He doesn't know, and my children…they…." With a shaking hand, she picked up the water once more, taking a sip. "That's why I called you."
Thomas held up one hand in a gesture of peace. "Okay, it's okay. How about you walk me through it?"
"My father wanted me to marry well," Meghan began. "I had fallen in love with a boy…a-a surfer. But my father," she shook her head. "So, he arranged a match with a friend of his whose son—Devlin—was accomplishing great things in the banking industry. He felt it would be good for me." She looked at him, her eyes beseeching. "I know it sounds incredibly traditional and old-fashioned, but…I was twenty years old and I had nothing without my father, and I—"
"Hey, hey," Thomas waved his hand slowly, "it's okay. No judgement. We do what we have to in order to survive."
Meghan nodded, her shoulders lowering slightly in relief. "At first…it was okay. Our boys were born, and I spent their childhood just…being a mom. Whatever Dev did…it didn't matter, really. I had the boys to focus on. But…they've gotten older and they have their own friends, so…I became a realtor."
Thomas nodded, encouraging her to continue, a sinking feeling in his gut telling him this wasn't going to be that easy case TC had pleaded he take.
"And that's when things got…well, it's just that," she looked out through the opened doorway toward the ocean. "Dev would take clients to some of my show houses, claiming that it would be a way to promote the properties. And he would ask me to list houses I'd never seen for his clients. Just trust him on this, he'd say. And I couldn't…I couldn't go against him."
"I understand," Thomas nodded carefully, keeping his eyes on her. Watching her body language, the way she rubbed at the ring symbolizing strength as she spoke. The woman was on edge. "What made you think he was cheating?"
She exhaled slowly. "He's never really been interested in me," she confessed, color blossoming on her cheeks. "It was more my father's money that attracted him. And he adores our sons. But me…he could honestly do without. And recently, I've seen too many signs to believe the work trip excuses. The houses he wants me to list without seeing are way off the beaten path, where no one will easily find them. And he comes home from long business trips with a strange smell on his clothes…."
Thomas nodded. "And you can't talk to him about this? Ask him what it all means?"
"Mr. Magnum," Meghan looked at him with tears in her eyes. "I want to leave him, but in order to do so and not have my father completely cut me off—and therefore my boys—I have to have proof that he is unfaithful to me. If I confront him…and he is able to explain it away, then my credibility is shot."
It was on the tip of his tongue to counter that she was working as a realtor and didn't really need her father's money, but he knew that part of the story wasn't any of his business. People had all sorts of reasons for why they made the choices they did; he was the last person to stand in judgement of another.
Thomas leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and folded his fingers together.
"Meghan, if I find what you think I will, it may not be easy to see," he warned her. "People think they're ready for it, but…betrayal is a tough, tough pill to swallow."
Meghan Iona's hands suddenly became rock steady and she drew herself up, shoulders squaring. "Mr. Magnum, I was betrayed twenty years ago when my father made me marry a man I didn't love. There is nothing you can show me that will top that."
Thomas nodded once. "Okay. Then all I need are some locations you expect him to be, and I'll get you what you need."
With a relieved sigh, Meghan smiled and stuck out her hand for him to shake. She handed him an envelope of cash, saying she didn't want her husband to be able to trace his name on a check and know what she was up to, and then a list of several out-of-the-way houses she was selling on Devlin's behalf. Information in hand, Thomas escorted Meghan off the estate, tossing Higgins a friendly wave as she frowned at him from her yoga pagoda.
She was always frowning at him these days. But it wasn't her usual frown of disapproval, he noticed. It was more…concern. And he had no idea what to do with that.
He moved on, grabbed his camera, phone, and keys, and headed to the car park to jump into the Ferrari. The first house on the list was a bit close to the main thoroughfare and his gut told him that wasn't going to be the place Devlin would be doing anything that would get him cut off from Meghan's father's money via divorce. He needed to go deeper.
He'd learned to listen to his gut—it was a little voice in his head that guided him through this job, and had kept him alive, kept him sane, while in the camp. Of course, some might say hearing voices was a sure sign of insanity, but for Thomas it had been the voice of his father, his friends, his commanding officer, someone he trusted, someone he knew, someone who always had his back.
Without that voice, it would have been utterly silent for days at a time in the hole, and that would have driven him insane.
So, he listened to the voice, pulling the Ferrari off the side of the road near the address of the third house on the list as daylight began to fade. He was miles away from the city, well into a more rain forest area, plush undergrowth, and a deep canopy of trees. The road leading to this location had been filled with switchbacks and hair-pin turns, nothing someone would easily follow without GPS or specific directions. This was as out-of-the-way as one gets.
As he walked quietly up a densely covered path, the little voice was nagging him for not at least mentioning to someone where he was going, but it was a bit late for that now. He didn't even have cell reception now. All he needed were a few pictures catching Devlin Iona in the act and he could get back to Meghan and call this job done. And maybe not take a cheating husband case for a bit; they always seemed to screw with his faith in humanity.
About a half mile up the road, he finally saw the house. Several cars—large SUVs—were parked off to the side of the lot and lights were on inside what appeared to be the main room. He could hear music and low voices slipping through the cracked windows. Approaching from the side, Thomas pulled out his camera and positioned himself near one of the windows where the curtains were blowing open, offering a partially unobstructed view of the interior.
He'd learned long ago that grabbing evidence wasn't a matter of the perfect shot, but rather a series of images that assembled a bigger picture. A story could be told from a picture that had nothing to do with what was taking place—but when enough pictures were strung together, the story unfolded in stark truth.
Resting the camera lens on the windowsill, Thomas opened the shutter and let the camera run even before he peered into the room himself. By the sounds and smells wafting through the window, he suspected at least a pretty heavy party. When he glanced away from his camera sight into the room, however, he found himself stilling with shock.
Devlin Iona was indeed in the room, but he wasn't cheating on his wife—at least not in the strictest sense of the word. Two other men were in the room as well, both inhaling lines of cocaine from small mirrors. Stacks of the drug adorned a table. In the corner of the room, a young woman was tied to the wall, the vacant look on her face telling Thomas that she was either traumatized or drugged.
And his client's husband was inventorying a case of military-issue weapons from a wooden strong box.
"What the hell…?" Magnum whispered to himself.
He couldn't decide what to capture first—drugs, weapons, human trafficking…Devlin got a hat trick with one photograph. He needed to get out of there, call Katsumoto. This was not the case he needed right now; it was much more than he was equipped to handle.
Pulling the camera from the windowsill, he started to take a step back when the woman suddenly looked over at the window, meeting his eyes. Thomas froze. He didn't want to leave her there, but how was he going to—
"Narc!" The woman suddenly screamed. "At the window! Narc!"
All three men looked his way.
"Shit," Thomas muttered, turning to run toward the lot where he'd seen the SUVs parked.
He hadn't gotten more than half a dozen strides when he was hit with a flying tackle that took him to the ground, hard. The air rushed from his lungs and he lost his grip on the camera. Gasping, he brought his arms up protectively as he was flipped to his back.
"How the hell'd you find this place?" one of the men growled.
"Look, fellas," Thomas started. "I'm lost. Was just going to—"
A hard kick to his ribs broke off his sentence, his excuse evaporating.
"With a camera?" Devlin Iona crouched down by his head, the camera held out in front of his eyes. "Try again, chief."
"You got this all wrong—"
Another kick, and this time Thomas felt something give inside his chest.
"Look, if you want an explanation, you're gonna have to stop—"
They didn't stop. Instead, they tag-teamed.
He lost track of who kicked, who punched, and who just stood by and laughed. At one point he felt his phone, keys, and wallet pulled from his pocket. At another he heard the crack of his camera being stomped on. His body thrummed with reactive pain, his head screamed at him to escape, evade.
But there were too many of them, and they came at him too fast.
"Dude ain't a narc," one of them finally said, as Thomas curled up on his side, gasping for air, his arms up around his head. "He's some kind of P.I."
"Fuck," Devlin muttered. He reached down and grabbed Thomas by the hair, jerking his head up and out of the protective cocoon of his arms. "Who hired you?"
"It…it was an…an anonymous…tip," Thomas gasped, the salty tang of blood on his tongue. "'bout the…the w-weapons."
"A tip, huh?" Devlin released his hair and Thomas' head bounced once against the dirt. "Had to be that asshole Arens."
"Your contact from the base?"
"Had to be. He's pissed we cut the price."
As they debated who'd betrayed them, Thomas took advantage of their lack of attention and started to pull himself toward the trees flanking the edges of the driveway.
"Ah, no you don't," Devlin barked, his foot coming down hard between Thomas' shoulder blades and shoving his face into the dirt. "You saw too much, there, Private Dick."
Thomas grunted, wedging his hands beneath him in an instinctive move to push up and unseat the guy's foot. "I…prefer Private…Investigator."
Devlin laughed and, in that moment, Thomas flung himself over to his back, grabbing the man's leg and twisting as he rolled. Devlin cried out in pain as Thomas felt something snap, then fell to the dirt. The other two were apparently too surprised by Thomas' unexpected move to react until he'd managed to get to his feet, wavering as he tried to get his bearings and figure out which way was out.
"Don't just stand there, you idiots!" Devlin shouted; pain clear in his voice. "Get him!"
But Thomas wasn't waiting for their coked-out brains to catch up to necessary action. He ran down the long, dirt driveway, his ribs licking fire up his sides and a spike of pain crashing through his skull. His vision swam, bending the trees in twisted nightmares across the rapidly darkening path.
He had one thought: escape.
If he didn't stop moving, they couldn't catch him. They couldn't put him back in that hole. They couldn't keep him silent and scared. He just had to keep moving.
When he hit the road, he staggered to a halt, momentarily confused by sight of blacktop and white lines instead of barren sand and jagged rocks.
"What…? How did—"
Not there. He wasn't there, not anymore. He was in Hawaii.
"Get ahold of yourself, Thomas," he whispered. "You're free. You're safe."
A shot echoed behind him.
"Well, safe might be stretching it a bit," he grunted as he took off for where he'd parked the Ferrari, suddenly thankful that Rick had taught him to hotwire a vehicle. Higgins was going to be pissed…but she'd be angrier if he didn't bring the car back at all.
He found the car, ripped the door open and climbed inside, ducking underneath the dash to pull the wires loose. It was only then he realized he had nothing on him to strip the outer casing.
"Shit," he growled, closing his eyes to think.
"There he is!"
The voices were far enough away that if the car was running, he would be able to escape without problem. As it was—
An errant shot hit the side mirror causing Thomas to flinch violently as the glass shattered. Moving on pure instinct, he grabbed one of the glass shards from the gravel just outside the opened door and hurriedly used it to cut the wires, ducking again as another bullet narrowly missed hitting the car, ricocheting off the pavement near the front tire.
After several agonizing seconds, the Ferrari sputtered and sparked, then roared to life.
Thomas pulled himself inside as one of the men reached the car, grabbing for the opened door. Throwing the car into gear and slamming his foot on the gas, Thomas let inertia swing the door shut as he pulled away from the two gunmen, breathing hard as he tried to keep his eyes focused on the road.
"TC's gonna kill me," he muttered, shifting into fifth and keeping the accelerator planted.
Adrenalin was an incredible thing. It took until he was seeing the lights of the city again before the beating he'd taken began to catch up with him. A blare of a car horn shook him aware as he began to drift across the center line.
"Dammit," he muttered.
He wasn't going to make it back to Robin's like this. His instinct was to call Rick, but he had to figure out what to do about the Ferrari before he called anyone. He was already on thin ice with Higgins as it was from the last infraction.
Looking around at the rapidly passing scenery, he tried to get his bearings. Suddenly he remembered a case he'd worked on a few months back for a guy who owned a body shop. He'd been paid through exchange of favors. All he had to do was make it to the lot….
"What was his name?" Thomas muttered to himself, his voice pitched low so they wouldn't hear.
He couldn't afford for them to hear—wait. No. He shook his head. There was no one listening. Not anymore.
Jesus, what was the matter with him?
His head swam, and the spike of constant pain that ran from the base of his skull out through his eye was enough to make him nauseous. At this point, he was moving on muscle memory alone.
"Shep!" he said out loud, and then because he could, he repeated, "Shep! That was the guy. Shep's Automotive. Or…something like that."
He reached to GPS the location of Shep's place, except—shit—he didn't have his phone! This was bad. This was very, very bad.
"Holy shit, there it is," he exclaimed as he saw the large sign off the side of the main road. Maybe God didn't hate him after all.
Pulling over into the empty lot outside of Shep's Automotive, he stopped the car under a light, disengaged the wires, and let the vehicle tremble to stillness around him. He felt his body ticking down in time with the cooling engine. Twisting the rearview mirror, he looked at his reflection, running his tongue over a split lower lip and gingerly pressing on the cut beneath his left eye. The blood had dried, giving him the effect of ghoulish tears.
"Not hiding this one, Magnum," he muttered, an arm wrapping around his middle. He slowly exhaled. What a mess.
Looking at his watch, he realized that Katsumoto was off shift, but the man was a work horse. He could still call—
"Shit!" Thomas pounded the steering wheel.
Not having his phone was really starting to piss him off.
Breathing slowly, he gripped the bridge of his nose with trembling fingers. If he could just get his head to stop hurting, just for a minute, maybe he could make a plan…he just needed to think, but it was so hard with pain slipping across him like a living thing, blanketing him in a bone-deep misery and pulling a recalcitrant groan from his gut.
Without realizing it, he slid sideways in his seat, his hands coming up to grip the sides of his head, trying to press back the pain. He didn't register slipping away from consciousness. It was more of a stumbling into darkness where images of a dirt hole waited for him.
A place where he had two buckets and the clothes on his back. A place where he named the rats that found their way through the dirt walls. A place where the only way to mark time was a sliver of sunlight crossing the opening like a sundial in the sky.
"Magnum?"
Thomas gasped, jerking awake, sweat coating his skin.
He looked out through the windshield of the Ferrari, completely disoriented, and shivered in the cool air. Dawn scraped the edge of the horizon, pushing the low-lying clouds west and south, but the usual sound of birds that greeted the sun were vacant from the morning.
"Dude, you okay?"
Thomas blinked over at the man standing next to him. He seemed familiar, but where-?
"You look like you got jumped, man."
The night before rushed back to him like a tsunami leaving him dizzy and nauseous once more. Or hell…maybe that was just his head.
"I did," he rasped, his voice sounding like he'd plucked it from a box full of thorns. "Need your help, Shep."
Shep was a short, slightly rotund man with a halo of graying hair and what appeared to be a permanent wad of chewing tobacco in his lower lip. Thomas had liked him instantly. At Thomas' plea, Shep opened the damaged driver's side door and reached gingerly for his arm, easing him out of the car and to his feet as if he were made of glass.
"Need me to call the cops?"
Thomas shook his head carefully; he had a very real fear that it might topple off his neck and roll down the street if he moved too quickly.
"I need to do that—but, uh…can I borrow your phone?"
"Sure," Shep nodded, spitting off to the side. "The guys who did this to you take yours?"
"Yeah," Thomas nodded. "Think you can help me get the mirror fixed?"
"Absolutely," Shep replied. "Been waiting for you to cash in on what I owe you."
"Had to hotwire it, too," Thomas revealed, rolling his stiff shoulders. There was nothing fun about getting his ass kicked and then sleeping in his car all night. "Think you can fix that?"
"I can get this baby purring like a kitten in no time," Shep grinned, his tobacco-stained lip stretching across slightly yellowed teeth. "You gonna need a ride?"
Thomas grinned back at him. "You're good people, Shep."
"You did me a solid, kid," Shep lifted a shoulder. "Not gonna forget that anytime soon. C'mon, I'll fix you some coffee while you call the fuzz."
Thomas followed the stocky man into the small office, the smell of oil, grease, and stale cigarette smoke hitting him like a punch to the jaw. He staggered back slightly, bracing a hand on the door frame and closing his eyes to get his balance.
"You're not gonna pass out on me, are you?"
Shep's voice was much closer than Thomas anticipated. He jerked, eyes flying open. Shep's hand came up to grasp his shoulder immediately, steadying him. Thomas took a shaky breath and gave Shep a smile meant to reassure.
"'m good," he promised. Then frowned. "You maybe got some aspirin I can take with that coffee?"
Shep nodded, wild gray eyebrows pulled low over muddy brown eyes. "Phone's there. How 'bout you take a load off while I get the coffee?"
Thomas nodded, dropping heavily into the desk chair and picking up the office phone. It took him a moment to remember Katsumoto's number. He didn't even think to check the time of day until he heard the other man's voice.
"Detective Katsumoto."
"Katsumoto," Thomas repeated, feeling a strange sense of relief wash over him.
"Magnum?" Katsumoto's voice was caught between confusion and irritation. As it typically was whenever Thomas called him, come to think of it. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"
Thomas blinked. The sun was up; that was basically all he knew. "Not really," he replied honestly. "Listen, I need your help—"
"What makes you think I have any interest in helping you?" Katsumoto's voice was tired; Thomas wondered fleetingly if the man had pulled a late shift.
"Okay, well, how about this?" Thomas sighed. He was pretty damn tired himself. "I need to report a crime."
"Did you cause this crime?"
Thomas almost smiled; he might have deserved that. "Not this time."
He reported what he'd seen and where the house was located.
"And this was last night?" Katsumoto's voice was hard now, focused.
Shep showed up with a mug of black coffee and some aspirin. Thomas inhaled the scent of the coffee and quickly swallowed the pain meds before answering.
"Yes, that's right," he said, rubbing his forehead. The spike of pain had dulled overnight, but he was still aching.
"Why are you just calling me now?" Katsumoto demanded.
Thomas didn't have the energy to banter with the man. "Because they kicked my ass and took my phone," he replied. "Are you going to go check it out?"
"Yes," Katsumoto replied. "Wait, Magnum are you saying they have your phone?"
Thomas closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Mmmhmm."
"I'm sending a security detail—"
"That's not necessary," Thomas protested. "I'm heading back to Robin's Nest; plenty of security there."
"What's wrong with you?" Katsumoto suddenly demanded, forcing Thomas' eyes open with the unexpected concern.
"Nothing."
"You're lying."
"Well, I mean…it's never fun getting your ass handed to you by a couple of thugs, but it's nothing I can't handle."
"You sure?"
Thomas brought his head up, smiling into the phone. "Wow, Gordie. It's almost like you might care about what happens to me."
"Don't push your luck," Katsumoto muttered, then hung up.
Thomas stared at the phone for several seconds before hitting the off button. He needed to get back to Robin's, get Meghan's number, warn her. He looked up at Shep, smiling weakly in the face of the older man's concern.
"You still good for a ride?"
Thomas had Shep drop him at the gate—not looking to raise the suspicion of a certain hyper-vigilant majordomo who would no doubt be eyeing the security cameras over her morning coffee. Or tea. Wait…did Higgins even drink tea? And why the hell was he worrying about that now?
Pulling in a slow breath to re-center his focus, Thomas got Shep's promise to call when the car was ready, then punched in the code to open the main gate and headed to the guest house. It was still early; Higgins hadn't yet ventured to her pagoda for yoga, so he was able to slip into the house undetected. He found Meghan's number in his notebook and called her before he did anything else.
"You need to get your boys and get away from him," Thomas told her. "Say you're going to visit relatives or something."
"I have been wanting to see my favorite aunt on the mainland," Meghan ventured, her voice trembling slightly with unease. "Mr. Magnum…are you sure? Devlin didn't even come home last night."
Thomas huffed. "He was probably going to get his leg checked out. Pretty sure I dislocated his knee."
"Jesus."
"Yeah, look," Thomas continued, pressing the base of his hand into the hollow of his eye. His head was relentless at the moment. "The cops are going to be checking out the house, and they may have some questions for you. I'll have them call this number, but you need to get out of there for now."
"Okay," Meghan agreed. "Thank you, Mr. Magnum."
"And Meghan?" Thomas sighed. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't the outcome you were looking for."
"Strange as it sounds, this could be better," she weakly laughed. "Getting arrested for drugs and weapons beats cheating any day in my father's book."
Thomas hung up the phone, then gripped the kitchen counter for balance as the room spun slowly around him. Closing his eyes briefly, he pulled in a long, slow breath through his nose, then blew it out on a four count through parted lips. Control your breathing…. He could almost hear Nuzo's voice coaching him.
Maybe if he were to lie down for a bit he could kick this damn headache.
Making his way to the bathroom, he winced when he saw the bruises gathered around his occipital bone and along his jaw. The cut along his cheek bone was puffy and red, too. Of course, the fuckers had to wear rings. Splashing cold water on his face, he cleaned off the blood and smudges of dirt, gripping the edge of the sink and letting his head hang low to stretch his neck.
Sleep. That's all he needed. Sleep for a few hours and then he could handle everything else.
Stumbling to the bed, Thomas tried to ignore the quiet of the guest house pressing against him. He fell into the pile of sheets and blankets—not even bothering to remove his shoes—and sank into sleep almost instantly.
Korengal, 2015, Thomas
The dust smelled different here.
It was one of the first things he'd noticed when they'd initially dropped him into the hole—and it was a hole, twice as deep as he was tall, and only wide enough for him to take one stride across its diameter before his nose hit a dirt wall. They dropped a metal grate over the top after him, giving him just enough room to stand hunched over, but not enough room to straighten up. And they altered their methods for hauling him out again, depending on their plans for him: if he was lucky it was a ladder; if he wasn't, it was a rope…sometimes for him to climb, sometimes around his neck.
The dust in the hole smelled different than back at the base. Heavier, somehow. Like each grain of sand held the anguish of too many souls.
The cave smelled like mildew.
Old rock and stale exhales. A temperate time capsule of unwashed bodies, blood, and misery. It was dark, save the overhead bulb in the center of the maze of cage doors, the light a garish mockery of day. The guards enjoyed causing the bulb to swing loosely when they came in to haul one of them away for questioning, or bring in their daily food allotment, the shadows teasing and taunting them like specters.
The hole, though, it was outside of the cave. They hauled him out of the cage, out of the cave, away from his friends. They interrogated him, beat him, then dragged him outside where for just a moment he was teased with light, with fresh air, with hope…and then they dropped him in the hole, the metal grate clanging down on top of him.
The first time was because of water.
They were all dehydrated, but it was hitting Rick the hardest. He'd started to hallucinate one morning, and Thomas knew he had to do something soon or they were going to lose him. So, he'd tackled a guard when their food was delivered, pulled out the man's belt knife and held it against the soft underside of his chin until a bucket of water was brought in.
That had earned him a rifle butt to the temple and an unceremonious deposit in the hole. But Rick got water, and that was all that had mattered. Everything that happened after was just details. The threats, the insults, the beatings, the pain.
It wasn't difficult to discern what they shouted at him, looming above him as they were. Primarily because Thomas spoke several languages.
He grew up with his mother speaking Spanish and was fluent in both it and English by the age of three. Because of that, it had been easy to pick up on many others—French and Italian, casually. Japanese and Korean for a short time in school. He'd made himself learn Dari and Pashtu when he joined the SEALs.
He knew what the guards were saying; he just didn't want them to think they got the best of him. Ever.
Even when he was bleeding to death. Which came later.
That first time in the hole, he learned quickly that shouting back at them—not to mention crying out in pain—earned swift and brutal reprisals. He was pulled from the hole only to be beaten unconscious and wake back at the bottom again—and they didn't even ask him any questions. He could see his own blood splattered on the sand, a rat scurrying from a crack in the dirt wall near his head to gather a clump of bloody sand and carry it back to whatever little nest it was creating.
He watched that rat for days, talking to it in his head, creating responses for it, an entire storyline for the rat's life worthy of Walt Fucking Disney himself. Until at last they hauled him up and returned him to the cage with his friends.
He'd been away nine days. Or so Nuzo had told him. Nuzo, their timekeeper. Their watcher.
They'd thought he was dead. If he were honest with himself, he'd been wondering that himself for a little while there.
He didn't think Rick was going to let go of him that first time.
The blond man's arms had wrapped around him and he'd felt his friend's body tremble against him as he'd sobbed, "I thought we'd lost you, man. I thought they'd won."
Thomas
By the time he registered that the pounding he heard was here, now—present day and not the butts of rifles against the metal bars of their cages—Thomas had sweated through his T-shirt and soaked the sheet beneath him.
He sat forward in a rush, breath hammering through his dry, parted lips, and rubbed his short, black hair with the flat of his hand. He blinked sweat from his eyes, looking around his dimly lit bedroom, trying to bring it into focus.
"Magnum open the bloody door," he heard Higgins bellow, her accent somehow even more pronounced in its irritation. "I do not have time to play the messenger."
Frowning, Magnum climbed from his bed, reaching back between his shoulder blades and pulled off his sweat-soaked T-shirt, dropping it into a pile on the floor. He untwisted his cargo shorts, then spied a semi-clean button-up Hawaiian shirt hanging on the back of a chair and grabbed it as he made his way toward the door. Despite the mental trip down nightmare lane, the sleep had done him a bit of good: the spike in his head had turned into more of a dull roar, surpassed only by the irate woman currently slapping the flat of her hand against his door.
He wondered briefly why she bothered waiting for him to open this time when before she'd managed to simply let herself in and woke him up. As he closed his hand around the doorknob, he realized he'd answered his own question.
"It's about time!" Higgins exclaimed when he opened the door, not even bothering to look at him as she stormed past and dropped an overstuffed envelope on the kitchen counter. "You do have an address, Magnum," she continued. "I do not appreciate having to stop my work to sign special delivery packages for—" She froze as she turned to glare at him, the ice in her eyes cracking and turning to naked surprise. "What the hell happened to you?!"
Thomas quickly buttoned his shirt the rest of the way, then shoved a hand through his sleep-matted hair.
"Nothing."
He moved past her, ignoring the way the air around her practically shimmered with emotions ranging from utter irritation to confused worry. He grabbed up the envelope.
"Who did you say dropped this off?" He looked back over his shoulder at her.
"It came by special delivery," she crossed one arm over her stomach and rested the elbow of the other on her wrist waving her hand at him, "and don't think you're going to explain away all of this with a sullen 'nothing'."
Thomas just shook his head. He really didn't feel up to explaining it all to her in that moment—and he didn't want her probing too closely and realizing the Ferrari hadn't come home with him. He gave her a nonchalant shrug as he opened the envelope.
"Got bit roughed up by—" He froze. It was his wallet and phone.
"Magnum?"
"What delivery service?" he asked, his voice breaking off at the edges. When she didn't reply, he looked up at her sharply. "Higgins. What delivery service?"
"I didn't make note—"
"Was it legit?"
"I'm sorry?"
He took a step toward her and saw her square her shoulders in surprise. "The service—was it a legit service? Did they do anything else? Touch anything? Say anything to you?"
Juliet swallowed, the expression on her face defrosting into a realization that he was absolutely serious. "No, they didn't touch anything else, nor did they actually enter the house. The only thing they said was for me to sign on a clipboard, and then handed me the package. I believe it was Quicksilver—that bike service that's all over the island."
Thomas nodded, dumping his wallet on the counter and turning on his phone. He could feel his heart pounding at the base of his throat as he scrolled through the information. It didn't appear as though anything was changed, however….
He immediately dialed Meghan Iona's number.
"Magnum, what—"
He held up a hand to silence Higgins when Meghan answered.
"Are you and your boys okay?" he asked without bothering with a greeting. If Devlin Iona had his phone all this time, he knew Meghan hired him.
"Y-yes," Meghan's stutter was one of surprise, not fear, and Thomas felt his shoulders relax by a slim margin. "We are at the airport. I left a note for Dev that we were going to my Aunt's."
"Go somewhere else," Thomas ordered.
"Where?"
"I don't care," Thomas shook his head, gripping the back of his neck as he paced. He'd almost forgotten Higgins was still in the room and nearly ran into her before rotating away. "He took my phone, Meghan, and he just returned it to me, which means—"
He heard Meghan's gasp through the line. "He knows."
"Can you go to your father for protection?"
"Not without proof," Meghan lamented. "He'll just push me to reconcile."
Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'd have you come here, but—"
"He knows where you live," Meghan finished for him.
"Kumu," Higgins suddenly said. Thomas looked up, expecting to see the woman entering the guest house. "No one knows she's affiliated with you or with Robin Masters. Your friend can go there."
Thomas nodded, gratitude washing over him. "Meghan, I'm going to send you to a friend, okay? You need to stay there until Detective Gordon Katsumoto contacts you that it's safe. Can you do that?"
"Y-yes," Meghan agreed. "Mr. Magnum, I'm so sorry—"
But Thomas was already shaking his head. "Don't apologize. You did nothing wrong. You hear me on that?"
"Yes, I hear you," Meghan replied.
"I'll text you the location," Thomas told her, listening as Juliet called Kumu from the house land line to let her know that she was about to have guests.
With Meghan squared away, Thomas looked through his wallet, but couldn't see anything missing. He heard Juliet hang up with Kumu and felt her eyes on him, but stayed staring at the counter, resolutely unwilling to go into a long-winded explanation.
"You're really not going to tell me what happened?" Juliet exclaimed. "Or why I just helped you?"
Thomas turned to face her, forcing himself not to run his tongue over his split lip. "You didn't help me; you helped a family on the run from a dangerous man."
"Oh, brilliant, Magnum," Juliet tossed her hands in the air. "And now we've put Kumu in danger."
"She's fine," Thomas reassured, moving to the opened doorway leading to the lanai. "I've already called Katsumoto."
"So, that's it then, is it?" He heard Juliet's hand come down against her leg once more. "You're just going to shut me out?"
"I'm not shutting you out," Thomas protested. He half turned toward her. "I'm handling my own business—isn't that what you keep insisting I do?"
He could see her eyebrows bounce up at that and she exhaled sharply, then moved toward the front door.
"Better late than never, I suppose," she muttered, pulling the door shut behind her.
Thomas let out a breath. He needed to call Katsumoto to find out what they discovered at the house. When he glanced at the clock, he was surprised to find that it was the middle of the afternoon. His little nap had eaten up quite a few hours.
With a vocal groan of frustration, he rubbed at his bruised face, then turned on his heel and headed for his bathroom and the shower. He needed to get rid of the remnants of that dream and get ready to face what came next. Twenty minutes later, he was in clean clothes and heading back out to the kitchen where he left his phone.
Picking it up to call Katsumoto, he frowned at a text message from an unfamiliar number. When he opened it, his blood seemed to still in his veins.
It was a picture of Rick talking to a customer at the club. It was clearly from a telephoto lens—or the site of a sniper rifle. He swallowed hard, staring at his phone in shock and confusion. Just then, it buzzed in his hand and another text from the same number came through, this one of TC shoulder-deep in the engine of his Island Hopper helicopter.
"You son of a bitch," Thomas muttered.
When the phone buzzed again, he was already moving. This time, it was of Juliet, in one of her impossible yoga poses under the pagoda. Thomas yanked open the door of the guest house and stepped out onto the lawn. He looked over, already knowing what he would see: Juliet doing yoga in the pagoda.
His eyes scanned the surrounding area, trying to pinpoint where someone might be set up to site in on her quite that well. It could be from a yacht out in the ocean for all he knew—it was entirely possible to site in from that far.
"Higgins!" he called. She resolutely ignored him. "Higgy, time to come inside."
At that she looked over at him, a fierce frown pulling her eyebrows low. "I will not be summoned like a recalcitrant child late for dinner, thank you very much."
Thomas began to stalk toward her. Until he could find where that sniper's nest was, she goddamn better stay inside.
"Juliet, I'm not joking around," he said, his voice harsher than he'd ever used with her…on purpose.
"You'll find I don't care one way or the other, Magnum," she snapped back at him, pressing her hands flat against the wood and arching her back.
Thomas' phone buzzed again. This time, not only could he see himself in the image—clearly taken from just moments ago—but also the crosshairs of a rifle. He moved on instinct, running for the pagoda and leaping onto the platform, scooping Higgins up around the waist and pulling her with him to the ground on the other side of the pagoda in one swift move, her yelp of protest reverberating in his ear.
"What in the bloody hell do you think you are doing?"
"Stay down," he ordered, keeping his arm across her shoulder.
"I most certainly will not," she shot back, hooking her leg around his and slamming the heel of her hand against his ribs, flipping him over.
The breath left his body as her punch crashed against his already bruised torso. Thankfully, she didn't stand right away, staying in a perfectly balanced crouch and staring at him with an unreadable expression.
"What is going on with you?"
"Noth—" he started to wheeze, but she cut him off.
"Do you want me to tell you what I think is happening?" She asked, not waiting for an answer. "I think you are caught in an emotional riptide stemming not only from having never dealt with the loss of your friend, but also being recently reminded of your time in the Korengal Valley, thanks to the Amanda Sato case, and as a result you are behaving recklessly and blowing situations out of proportion."
Thomas gaped at her. How she could be so right and so wrong at the same time was astounding to him. He pulled in a trembling breath.
"That's not it," he tried, his hand pressed against his bruised side. "There's a case—"
"Oh, like the case where you came home with the Ferrari looking as though you drove it through a tar pit?"
He winced. She frowned.
"Wait…where is the Ferrari?"
Thomas sat up, looking at his phone, then looking around. It hadn't buzzed again, which meant, he thought, that they felt their message had gotten through: we know what you care about and we can get to it at any time.
"It's getting repaired," he managed, finally getting his breath back.
She pushed to her feet and Thomas stood up quickly, eyes darting along the edge of the beach, into the trees, trying to see the glint of sun off a barrel or a scope. There was nothing.
"Repaired…from what, Magnum?"
He waved her off, moving around so that he was between her and what felt like way too much open space.
"Nothing major," he replied. "I have a friend of mine on it."
"Does this friend have a name?" She arched an eyebrow at him. She was rather particular about who serviced Robin's cars.
"Shep," Thomas said, moving toward her and miraculously managing to herd her toward the house, distracted as she was by the idea that someone she hadn't personally vetted was repairing the Ferrari. "Don't worry—he's good people."
"Yes, but is he a good mechanic?" She muttered heading toward the main house.
Thomas followed her. "The car will be fine, Higgy."
She pulled a water bottle from the fridge, paused, then grabbed another one and handed it to him. "But will you?"
Before he could answer, his phone rang. He flinched so hard he crunched the water bottle in his hand. Ignoring Higgins' arched eyebrow, he answered the call.
"Magnum."
"I don't know what your game is, but I don't appreciate getting played."
Thomas blinked, frowning at the tone of Katsumoto's voice.
"What are you talking about?"
"I had a crew go to that house you told me about," Katsumoto informed him. "Was thinking by your description it could be this group both HPD and 5-0 have been chasing for a few months. Pulled out all the stops, even called 5-0. On a maybe."
Thomas' frown deepened. He could already tell he wasn't going to like this story. "And? What'd you find?"
"Nothing."
"Wait—what? What do you mean 'nothing'?"
"Not many ways to define that word, Magnum," Katsumoto snapped at him. "House was clean. CSU didn't even pick up any trace evidence that anything had even been there."
"That's not possible."
"Thought maybe you got the house number wrong, so we checked out two others located nearby also listed by the same realtor—both empty, both clean."
"I'm telling you," Thomas began to pace again, rubbing the back of his neck distractedly. He moved around Higgins, his whole focus on what Katsumoto was saying. "They had a crate of rifles—I saw at least one M27 IAR and maybe an HK417. Did you check the wall? The girl was strapped to the wall!"
"We checked everything," Katsumoto said, sounding more tired, less pissed. Thomas could hear distraction in his voice, then, "Look…maybe you thought you saw something. You said you were jumped. Maybe with a concussion—"
Thomas looked sharply at Juliet and saw that she was texting someone.
"I'm not making this shit up," Thomas barked, speaking to both. "I know what I saw, dammit. And now a woman and her kids are in danger."
"Look, Magnum," Katsumoto sighed. "Get some rest. Heal up. Go…talk to someone. Just…don't call me unless you really got something going on."
Thomas didn't wait for Katsumoto to hang on up on him this time—he disconnected the call and advanced on Higgins. The blonde lowered her phone and calmly looked up at him, unintimidated by his anger.
"What are you texting him?"
Juliet looked blandly back at him. "I simply told him that you were going through a rough time and had been beaten up—"
"I'm not crazy," Thomas practically growled, curling his hands into fists at his sides. He felt like he was holding himself back—not from striking her, he'd never do that, but from a primal scream that would have left her cowering.
"I didn't say you were," Juliet replied calmly. "But you're acting…unlike yourself."
Thomas rubbed at his short hair, turning away from her in frustration. "Just because I'm not asking you guys for favors doesn't mean I'm acting unlike myself."
Juliet tilted her head. "It does, actually, when that's all I've known of you since the day we met."
Thomas stared at her for several seconds, eyes narrowed as he tried to see around the Master Spy persona she was suddenly showing him. After a beat, he realized he didn't care. She was going to think what she wanted, and it was on him if anything happened to Meghan Iona or her sons—or for that matter Rick, TC, and Higgins—because of Devlin Iona's crew.
Katsumoto wanted something real? He'd give him something real.
"Fine, then," he said, narrowed eyes still on her face. "I need a favor. Keys to another car and a camera."
"You have to be insane if you think I'm going to let you—"
Thomas tilted his head slightly, crossing his arms over his chest. "I was actually just asking as a courtesy. I am going to take one of the other cars and borrow Robin's camera."
That got her back up. She crossed her arms, her posture matching his. "What's wrong with your camera?"
"The imaginary bad guys who are dealing pretend drugs and fake beat me up took it," he fired back.
At that, she sighed, shoulders sagging a little, "Look, Magnum, I'm not saying nothing happened to you—the evidence is written all over your face—"
"Well, thanks for giving me that," he grumbled, moving away from her and toward the main door, before pausing and half-turning back toward her. "Y'know, if you didn't believe me, how come you helped me get Meghan and her kids to Kumu?"
The question stumped her slightly. He watched her search for a corner of solid ground before answering. "Because whatever else you are, Magnum, you are a good man, and you care about people. I could tell there was genuine worry in your voice as you spoke to your friend."
"She's not a friend," he corrected, "she's a client, and because of me, her husband knows she hired a private investigator." He sighed, rubbing his neck and turned back to the door. "And if I don't get some hard evidence for Katsumoto, she's going to be in a world of trouble."
He tugged open the door.
"Where are you going?" Juliet demanded.
"Don't worry about it," he shot back.
"I thought you needed a camera?" she started toward the door.
He glanced back at her. "I'll just use my phone."
"Magnum—"
He paused in the doorway, half-turning toward her. "Look, I get it. You have doubts. It's fine. But I've been a SEAL for a long time, and I know when something feels dangerous."
"You were a SEAL," Juliet said softly.
He blinked at her. "What?"
"You were a SEAL," she repeated. "You're not anymore."
He shook his head at her, brows furrowed. What did that have to do with anything? "Whatever, it doesn't matter. What matters is that a lot of people are going to get hurt because of me and I can't let that happen again."
"Magnum, you need to take a moment—"
At that he turned to face her, a finger pointed toward her face, heat and pain shimmering just beneath his skin. He was two heartbeats from grabbing her narrow wrist and shaking her for lack of the ability to affect any other kind of change.
"Don't tell me what I need to do, Juliet," he stated, his voice clipped and controlled. "I know you were MI6 and that gives you some kind of sixth sense when it comes to situations, but I know people. I've seen them as evil as they come. I've seen their darkness and cruelty and I know when they're a powder keg about to blow."
Juliet seemed to sink back into her heels, and he saw a look settle into her eyes that said she was about to regain control of a situation that had quickly gotten out of her control. Fuck that. He wasn't about to be controlled, not now. Not when some asshole had his sniper sights on his friends. Not when a woman and her kids could get killed by a douchebag in a tailored suit.
He wasn't going to be the reason for any more pain.
No mas.
"Too many people have been hurt because of me," he said, dropping his hand, "and I'm not going to let this guy add red to my ledger."
He turned on his heel and walked away, shutting the door behind him, uncaring if it was in her face or not. He headed to the guest house and found one of his spare weapons, checked to make sure the clip was full, then secured it in his back waistband. Next, he grabbed a knife his mother had given him when he graduated from BUD/s and slid that into the pocket of his cargo shorts.
Strapping his father's watch around his wrist, he slipped his phone into his back pocket and headed from the guest house to the garage. Making his way to what Robin had affectionately called the corral, he scanned the keys hanging in the lock box and selected ones for the most unobtrusive vehicle he could find: a navy-blue Lamborghini SUV.
"You do love your toys," he murmured affectionately about his benefactor.
Locating the car, he headed toward the gate, glancing once in his rear-view mirror, fully expecting to see an irate Brit standing in the lot, hands on hips, cloaked in disapproval. It was almost a let-down to see nothing at all behind him.
Katsumoto had gone to the house that was third on Meghan's list—and said they checked out two others. But Thomas had four more houses on his list. And he was ready to scour each one.
Anger narrowed his focus—at Higgins, at Iona…at himself. He wasn't sure. He was just angry and it seemed to burn just beneath his skin like a white-hot fuel, masking any lingering aches and pain from the beating he took yesterday.
He was tired of being the reason others were hurt—getting his friends caught and tortured by the Taliban had been bad enough. He had to be vigilant from now on. He tightened his grip on the SUV's steering wheel as he drove up a rather sharp series of switchbacks, reminding himself that he wasn't driving the Ferrari and needed to stay aware.
He couldn't get lost in his head; he might not come back out again.
The first of the unchecked houses was a bust—at most it looked like some kids had broken in and used it as a hot box at one point. Thomas mapped out the locations of the final three on his GPS and decided to go to the one furthest out first and work his way back. The road ran along a mountain, one side hugging a cliff face, the other a steep drop-off he wouldn't want to encounter in the dark. It reminded him that he definitely wasn't a native of this island—there was a lot out here he didn't know, and it could all kill him before he could remind nature that he was a Navy SEAL.
Parking along the roadside, keeping the SUV pointed downhill with the driver's side door easily accessible if he needed another quick escape, Thomas got out of the car and headed down another long, winding driveway. His gut kicked up a warning just before he saw the lights in the house.
"Jackpot."
He pulled out his cell phone; one bar.
He texted the address—no message—to Katsumoto, then cursed when the red exclamation point and the dreaded not delivered warning showed up. He'd have to try again. Pulling his weapon, and keeping his phone out, he opened the message to Katsumoto again, then crept up to where a group of black SUVs were parked. He took pictures of the license plates as he made his way toward the front of the house.
Fully expecting to see a guard out front after what happened the last time, he shook his head at the audacity of this guy when he saw the front porch clear and two of the front windows open. Moving with practiced stealth, he made his way to the window and edged up until he could just barely see inside.
Drugs, weapons—no traumatized girl this time, but, hey, it'd been an off week.
Making sure his phone was silenced, Thomas angled it over the windowsill and snapped as many images as he could, all of them inserted into the text to Katsumoto. He hit send again but got the red error once more. Afraid the pictures wouldn't be enough, Thomas moved around to the back of the house thinking to grab some video at least.
He pulled up short when he smelled cigarette smoke. Darting a look around the corner of the house, he realized this is where the guard went—he'd just gotten extremely lucky ealier. A voice broke in over a walkie-talkie strapped to the guy's belt.
Thomas pressed himself against the wall as flat as possible and held his breath.
"Got a parked vehicle here, boss."
"Plates?"
"Says Robin 5."
Thomas closed his eyes.
"What like the Ferrari?"
"That was Robin 2."
The man at the back of the house was silent just long enough.
"But…uh, yeah. Like the Ferrari."
"That little fucker's around here somewhere. Spread out, boys."
"What you want me to do with this SUV?"
"Shove it off the cliff—that bastard won't need it when we're done with him."
"Roger that."
Thomas tucked his phone into his back pocket, then lifted his weapon in ready position. The backyard guard headed inside and shouted for Devlin. He heard weapons—several of them, by the sound of it—being grabbed, loaded, with ammo being chambered.
He was going to have to run for it.
Darting his eyes around the densely covered surroundings, he knew the quickest way to the road was to the west, but there were at least two armed men that way. Several more were seconds from piling out of the house. To the south was the mountain, which left north or east and all he could see was jungle and trees.
It's not like you ain't done this before, amigo, Nuzo's voice suddenly whispered in his ear. You just survived two days in that jungle, you can do it again.
With that encouragement, Thomas broke for the trees. He heard shouts following him, then the whistle and crack of weapons fired. He turned as he ran and fired back, three quick bursts, just to let them know he wasn't messing around this time. Rotating forward once more he lifted an arm to ward off the low-hanging palm leaves and web-like vines as he ran.
Bullets burned the air around him, whistling and smacking against the trees. He heard shouts and orders, but kept running, zigzagging through the foliage, jumping over fallen trees and thick roots. He almost didn't feel the punch at his back, the tug at his side.
Almost.
As it was, it spun him just enough he lost his footing and crashed, hard, against the jungle floor, skidding along his shoulder a bit before scrambling once more to his feet and moving forward. His breath hitched, his eyes blurred, but he ran on until the burn of bullets had faded, and the voices were dim echoes.
They were still after him—he knew that—but for now, at least, he'd lost them. He pressed his back against a large Banyan tree, trying desperately to catch his breath. His legs shook and he looked back around the trunk. Not seeing anyone immediately, he allowed himself to sink to the ground, his side shooting a surprising, fresh pain up to his shoulder and into his jaw.
"Ahh…son of a bitch," he muttered, looking down at his side.
There was an alarming amount of red staining his shirt. Gingerly, he felt around to his back and realized by the wetness there it was a through-and-through.
"Okay, good news…," he gasped softly, "no bullet. Bad news…lots of blood."
Tucking his weapon into his shorts, he pulled out his cell phone with a shaking, blood-covered hand. No reception.
"Fuck," he whispered. "Now what, Nuzo?"
Focus on what can kill you now, he heard his friend's New York accent reply, so clear he was tempted to look around for him.
Swallowing, he shrugged out of his button-up shirt, biting his lip to keep the cry of pain limited to a muted whimper.
"Son of a bitch this hurts," he gasped.
Digging his knife out of his pocket, he cut two strips from one side of his shirt and then wadding the rest up into as much of a pressure bandage as a Hawaiian shirt could become. Tying the strips around his waist, he collapsed back against the Banyan, the bark of the tree digging into this now-bare skin.
If he could get to the road, get reception, he'd be okay.
"Found blood, boss!
"Shit," Thomas muttered when the voice of Backyard Bad Guy reached his ears much too close for his comfort.
Using the tree to pull himself to his feet, Thomas pressed a hand to his bleeding side and looked around for an escape route. When the trees started to blur together, he closed his eyes, trying to breathe as deeply as his wound would allow.
"Broken branches here."
"He's around here somewhere, boys."
Thomas staggered forward, two things crystal clear in his mind: he had to stay ahead of those voices, and he was in a lot of trouble.