The Angel

By

Michelle Naylor

Part 2

He would never recall the drive from the hospital to his house. From the moment the doctor delivered the news to the time he opened his front door, Ezra Standish remained in a daze.

His long, black trench coat fell from his shoulders and pooled on the floor at the entryway. He dropped his keys on the small table beside him as he made his way over to the sidebar that would provide him with numbing liquids. He would drink. He would drink until he didn't care anymore.

He should never have cared, should have never let himself care. Caring would always lead to heartbreak. Hadn't he learned that by now?

He pulled a bottle of brandy out of the line up of fine liquors and grabbed one of the cut crystal glasses from the shelf above. With a shaking hand he poured, managing to splash some over the side of the glass. A river of expensive brandy spread across the mahogany bar. Something inside of him knew he should be upset about that, but he couldn't bring himself to get a rag to wipe it up. It was just a bar, a thing, a stupid inconsequential thing. It had no thoughts and no feelings. I could not breathe or bleed.

Blood. Chris's blood.

The sound of shattering glass brought him out of his daze. Looking across the room, he realized he must have thrown the glass, brandy and all, and it hit the wall, shattering and staining his cream colored walls with the amber liquid.

"Damn." He began to laugh a laugh akin to the ones emitted by the psychotic clowns of children's nightmares. He laughed until his body dissolved to the floor and the gut busting laughter turned to heart wrenching sobs.

"No." He pulled himself into a sitting position, using the wall for support. He repeated the denial over and over, his voice rising with each syllable. "No, no, no, no, NO!" His head banged against the wall each time; once, twice, three times then four. The fifth hit caused the plaster to crack. He wished it where his skull. "Should have been different. Shouldn't have happened."

It was supposed to be a routine bust. Team 7 was not even in the lead on this one; they where only there as back up for Team 2.

Gregory Hansford was small-time, not even worth the cost of arresting him, but his capture could lead to some bigger fish in the ocean of arms trafficking.

How where they supposed to know Hansford was ready from them?

First the exploding door when Micheals, Torry, and Keil of Team 2 kicked it in. The explosion was merely a diversion for Hansford and his men to attack by gunfire.

The men dived for cover. Ezra could hear Chris and Team 2's leader, Erik Parson, screaming into their mics for more backup.

He then heard his own name being shouted out. He turned at the sound of Chris's voice, and in a split second felt himself being shoved to the side as a shot rang out close to him. He didn't remember how it all ended. The fact that several of the bad guys where dead, and more now under lock and key, was completely irrelevant to him. Chris had been shot. Chris had taken a bullet meant for Ezra. Not Chris's. Him. Ezra.

And now…it just couldn't be. It wasn't right. It just didn't feel like it was supposed to be.

"It's not right." He repeated his thoughts out loud. "It shouldn't have happened."

"That, sir, is correct."

Ezra yelled, the sound of the female voice almost stopping his heart. He sprang to his feet and his eyes met the sight of a young woman sitting on his antique wingback chair. She was wearing light blue jeans and a bright red shirt that was untucked. One leg was crossed over the other, and she was swinging her foot back and forth.

"Who the hell are you?"

She made a 'tsk-tsk- sound and shook her head. "You really shouldn't use that word around me."

Ezra stared at her, his mouth open in astonishment. "What?"

"That 'word'. You know, the H-E-double hockey sticks word. Those in my line of work don't really it."

Ezra shut his eyes and rubbed at them with his fingers, thinking doing so would clear the obvious hallucination he was having.

He opened his eyes again. Nope. Didn't work. She was still sitting there, grinning at him.

"Who are you?" He asked again. "And how did you get in here?"

"That's better." She stood up and walked toward him. Ezra stepped back, his hand going to his side to grab the gun from his shoulder holster. His fingers grasped only empty air.

"Looking for this?" She held his gun out to him, handle pointed outward. Ezra's eyes darkened. What was the meaning of this? Was she here to rob him or something? Well, he wasn't in the mood.

"Look lady, I don't know what you want, but in case it has slipped your notice, I'm grieving a recent loss. So I would appreciate your going and leaving me the HELL alone."

She sighed. "Ezra, we're really going to have to do something about that temper of yours."

"Who are you!?" He demanded.

"Really Ezra, it hurts me that you don't remember. But I suppose its understandable, we really haven't met in this particular time frame, have we? Well, I suppose I should re-introduce myself." She held one hand out to him. Ezra took notice of the short, clean nails, and the gold ring in the shape of a cross on her fourth fingers. "Hello, Ezra, I'm Sirena, your guardian angel."