Episode One: Killer

Chapter Nine

"Grant! Get out of there! Get out now!" Jim's voice boomed over Grant's communicator.

He wasted no time complying. Doing a job well was one thing—being stupid was another.

He'd barely made it to the door when he felt the explosion swell behind him. Time seemed to slow down and speed up all at once, sound catching up with him somewhere on the back end. The door in front of him flew off its hinges, yanked magically open by an invisible hand. Seconds later he was crashing into it, slamming hard onto where the door came to rest at a lean against the far corridor wall.

He landed in a crumpled heap at its base.

Displacement seized him, confusing his sense of equilibrium so completely he couldn't figure out which way was up. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard Nicholas pounding toward him—heard the shout of his own name cutting through the haze.

"Grant!"

Grant felt Nicholas's grip around his arms and tried unsuccessfully to answer.

"Grant!" Nicholas repeated, with such force and worry Grant felt he ought to be flattered. He tried to pull himself together, tried to get his mouth to work and his brain to function. On an innate level he realized the team needed to know he was okay. More pointedly, he needed Jim to know he was okay—worse than their leader seeing him as a ten-year-old boy, he decided, would be their leader seeing him as an injured ten-year-old boy.

He struggled to pull himself upright but Nicholas's forceful hands wouldn't let go. He was holding Grant back against the angled door he'd been blown up with, and was attempting to see into Grant's eyes.

Grant blinked carefully, shifting without realizing it. Nicholas didn't move, grip holding him tight. "Grant, are you okay?"

Grant coughed, working his throat. "I'm alright!" he finally croaked, trying again to move himself upward or, at the least, shift away from the piece of wood digging into his back. He tested the other sensations in his body as he did so, hoping to find that what he was telling Nicholas was really true.

"Are you sure?" Nicholas didn't sound convinced and his grip hadn't lessened in the slightest.

"I'm okay!" Grant insisted again. Either the annoyance in his voice finally prompted Nicholas to let go or Grant had actually been convincing in his insistence, because Nicholas's strong hands were suddenly gone—

"Jim! Yeah, Grant seems okay."

—or maybe Nicholas was just reaching for his communicator.

As he listened to the short conversation, a steadying hand returned to his arm. A careful hold, just above his elbow. As insistent as Grant had felt only moments before, he was grateful for the firm grip. The anchoring touch reduced the ringing in his ears and the tingling spinning out from the back of his head.

It gave him a focal point to lean into as he checked the rest of his body, discovering—thankfully—that nothing felt detached. Starting to believe he really was fine, he released a lungful of air and felt the tightness in his chest level out.

Already, the smoke was clearing and the air he drew into himself felt fresher and cleaner than he'd expected. Relaxing, he leaned back against the door and closed his eyes, savoring the close victory.

Above him, he heard Nicholas sigh, sounding relieved.

"Good," Grant heard Jim say, and the conversation going on over his head no longer felt so far away. They were still in the game, way ahead of Scorpio, even if it didn't feel like it.

"Alright, it's still working," Jim said next. "We are one step away from Scorpio."

Max heard Nicholas tell Jim that Grant seemed okay, but the smoke streaming from the windows above only added to the worry in his gut. The callous, too casual demeanor of Drake as he exited the hotel and moved to the river walk fed his anger. "Jim, I think Drake is heading back to the gardens. Do you want me to stay on him? Or do you need my help back here?"

Max felt torn. He didn't want to chance loosing Drake again, but he knew if Grant were injured, the other agents would need his help. He also wanted to visibly see that Grant was okay.

"You'd better stay on him," answered Jim, sounding breathless. Max surmised that Jim was in rout to the fifth floor via the stairs. "Nicholas and I can handle things here," Jim further assured. "And you'd better inform our London agents to pull the cabs back. We don't want Drake to somehow end up at the real Raeburn."

"Gotcha. I'm on it. Jim—"

"I'm sure Grant is okay," Jim cut his question short, aptly reading his mind. "You heard what Nicholas said. We figured it out in time. We did good work." Max heard, and was grateful for, the hidden subtext in Jim's statement. Things hadn't gone according to plan but they'd pulled together as a team.

Grant was okay. Grant was okay.

They'd made it work and Max could bear no blame.

"Thanks Jim," he finished simply.

"Max?"

"Yeah?"

"You'd better give Casey a head's up. I'm sure she's back at the hotel by now, and she'll be worried."

"On it, Jim." He paused to punch a different button on his communicator, never taking his eyes from Drake's casual stroll. "Casey," he said when she answered, "We should be on our way back to the hotel soon. Hopefully the others will beat Drake there, but if not, you've got to be ready."

By the time Jim made it to the fifth floor, Nicholas was having a hard time keeping Grant stationary and sirens were blaring in the distance. The hotel personnel had already called the police. Both were reasons Jim wanted to get them out of there as soon as possible.

After speaking with Max, he'd radioed Tim Conner at their base of operations, asking the London agent to come deal with the local authorities. Tim confirmed that he was already on his way—ready and willing to do whatever they needed.

The third reason they needed to leave quickly was Casey. If Drake went straight back to the hotel, even if returning via the botanical gardens, there was a strong likelihood he'd beat them back to their Raeburn. Casey was capable of handling things alone, but Jim would rather she didn't have to. He already had one team member potentially wounded. He wouldn't risk another.

As he made his way down the hall, he could hear the tones of disagreement going on between his agents. He couldn't tell what was being said, but he could imagine, and he hoped Grant was as okay as he was claiming.

"Is he alright?" Jim asked Nicholas as he drew close.

Grant was sitting with his back to the wall, low voice making an intent case to the other agent. He looked pale, and a little shaky.

"Seems to be," Nicholas answered, releasing Grant's shoulder and rising from his crouch. He took an added step back to allow Jim room, looking relieved at his presence.

"He is fine," Grant carefully enunciated, throwing a glare at Nicholas before starting to get up again. To his obvious annoyance Jim clamped a hand on his shoulder, keeping him floor-bound while taking over Nicholas's previous position of squatting in front of him.

Grant met his eyes immediately. The pupil's were even and his eyes full of clarity. Jim looked up at Nicholas for anything else he might need to know.

"Just banged up with a few scratches I think," Nicholas answered, "but he's bruised his back pretty close to the kidney."

"But that's all it is," Grant cut in. "A bruise. I'll let you know if anything else seems wrong."

Jim, again, peered intently into Grant's eyes, then looked back up at Nicholas with a quirked eyebrow, clearly—though no words were spoken—asking the agent's opinion on the matter.

Nicholas pursed his lips.

"Besides," Grant cut through the silent exchange, pointedly trying to direct the flow of their thoughts, "If we don't get back to our hotel soon, we won't be there to back up Casey."

That statement seemed to get them moving. After trading more looks, Nicholas nodded at Jim decisively. Jim returned a nod of his own. Together they reached out to help Grant stand, neither letting go until they were sure of his ability to walk steadily on his own.

Max followed Drake vigilantly as he strolled down the river walk, looking like any overworked businessman anxious to enjoy some fresh air at the close of a hectic workday. As they got closer to the gardens Max asked the London dispatcher to redirect the taxi cabs away from his location—and to send in one of their agent's cabs instead. When the river walk ended, that precaution paid off. Drake stepped into the only cab on the street and was shortly after returned to the fake Raeburn Hotel.

Max relaxed, watching him go, the franticness eating his stomach receding to memory. Of course, he still had one reason to worry—they'd set Casey up in a position where Drake would surely try to kill her—he hoped her performance tonight was as good as it had been that afternoon.

By the time they exited the hotel's grand lobby, Grant was certain he'd finally convinced the others his injuries were minimal. The three of them double-timed it back, arriving just as dusk was seizing the city. They found Casey waiting for them in the control room.

"How'd it go?" she asked.

"Smooth as butter," Grant lied, shooting Nicholas a dark look before the other agent could speak.

During the ride back from Breton's, Grant had very carefully tried to maneuver Jim and Nicholas past any discussion relating to his painful—but insignificant—bruises and he currently didn't want any part of the explosion to be brought up again.

Jim frowned as Nicholas rolled his eyes but Max's current signal over their communicators cut off anything more they might have said, prompting Grant to mouth a silent "thank you" to the absent agent.

"Go ahead, Max," Jim answered the call.

"Drake's on his way," Max told them. "He'll be there in less than five."

"Are we all set?" Jim looked at Casey then back to Grant. They both nodded. "Alright, you'd better head up," Jim told Casey.

With a deep breath and a confident smile, she started up the stairs.

"And you'd better get some ice on your back if you don't want to wake up tomorrow to discover you can't move," Jim chided Grant, who was already deeply focused on his computer monitor.

"There's an icepack in the brown supply box," informed Nicholas helpfully as he moved up the stairs after Casey.

"I know," Grant acknowledged dryly, completely annoyed with the unnecessary fussing, "I packed it."

It was dark by the time Drake made it back to his hotel room. He was still feeling the satisfied elation he often felt after flawless jobs, and this time he was allowing himself to enjoy the success just a little more. All that remained was arranging the payoff. After that he could be gone, if he wanted to be.

That was something else to consider. The payment arrangement would give him a chance to see Scorpio's redhead again. Maybe, if things went well he really would contemplate staying. He'd earned it this time.

A new deskman was manning the counter when he walked in and he aptly surmised the Raeburn's staff had traded to the night shift. The man barely acknowledged him as he passed. Drake was okay with that. Hotel night shifters were never as observant as the day staff.

The stairs and hallway were well lit and as he opened the lock on his hotel room door he had to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He shut the door behind him and felt around the wall for the light switch. He found it easily, flipping on the entryway light before moving further into the room, preparing to relax a bit before he decided whether or not to leave.

He reached out to flip on the main light at the edge of the entry hall and was pleasantly surprised by the sight that greeted him.

"Welcome home." Scorpio's redhead was standing on the far side of his room, looking sly and inviting.

"Well, well, well," he said, setting his briefcase on the floor, smiling lightly, but when he looked up again she was pointing a gun at his heart.

He froze, then shifted. Acting unbothered by the gun, he graced the woman with an enigmatic smile while tossing his keys onto the bed in front of her. The minute her eyes flickered toward them, he bolted back down the entryway, hearing the gun—complete with silencer—strike a bullet into the wall behind him.

Another bullet hit the hallway lamp to his left, sending a shower of sparks over his head, plunging the entryway to dark. By that point he was sure her next bullet wouldn't miss.

"Step away from the door!" she ordered.

He slammed the barely opened door angrily before turning to face her, following her signal to move back into the main part of the room while evaluating her, looking for an opening to outmaneuver whatever she intended. "Alright, let's settle down here," he calmed, holding his hands up in a reassuring gesture. "Now, who are you?"

"I guess you could say I'm your replacement," she smiled. "I told you, you were becoming too famous. Scorpio doesn't like that."

"Scorpio sent you?" The shock wasn't feigned. He didn't think it possible. Scorpio should know better than to do something like this.

"The old company loyalty isn't what it used to be," she answered, nearly laughing. She was enjoying this. How could he have read her so wrong? "I guess the proverbial gold watch looks pretty good right now, doesn't it."

Drake saw his opportunity and took it. Flipping off the room's main light with his already upraised hand, he ducked and leapt for her at the same time. He found he was stronger than her by far and it took almost nothing for him to overpower her and take away the gun.

Next door, in room number eight, Nicholas listened to Casey and Drake's confrontation—transmitted to him by Grant over his communicator. Down in the control room, the others were listening as well.

Like him, Nicholas knew none of them would hesitate to act if Casey got in over her head. So far, Casey was taking the subtle, protective stance of the guys around her with a bit of amusement.

She could take care of herself, Nicholas knew, but when he heard Drake start to overpower her, he cursed the fact that he couldn't see what was going on. "Can you see?" he asked Grant. "Did he get the gun?"

"It's too dark to tell, but I think so," Grant answered.

"Ahh," they both heard her cry out. "No. No, please!" she said next.

Nicholas tensed.

"Loyalty," Drake's sneer was crystal clear over his communicator. It was followed by the unmistakable sound of a muted gun discharging twice in quick succession.

Nicholas winced with the sounds, Pressing close to the door, he peered carefully into the hallway—holding his breath as he lifted his communicator to his ear to listen.

Drake dropped his final sentence disdainfully into the quiet, "I'll teach Scorpio about loyalty."

Sighing, Nicholas put his hand on the doorknob.

"Wait, Nicholas," Grant reminded. Nicholas realized the other agent had already come to know him too well if he could perceive his intentions without even seeing him. Following the command, he waited, staying hidden until he saw Drake pass his door and take to the stairs with fervor.

Certain then that Drake was gone, he wasted no more time. "Casey?" he called, walking into the room's dark interior. He spotted her on the floor near the bed and moved to help her up, tightly grasping the hand she stretched toward him. "You alright?" he asked.

"For someone who just got hit by a train?" she answered lightly, indicating the exploding packets of blood rigged under her shirt. "Fine—just fine." The packets had broken open perfectly when Drake fired the blanks at her chest—but it still hurt, he knew from experience.

Nicholas grinned at her sarcasm. She'd done well.

Jim was next into the room, his pace hurried and his look sufficiently worried. He was visibly relieved to see the young woman standing and laughing. "Nice work, Casey."

She nodded, pleased.

"Drake's on his way to Heathrow," Jim informed them next. "Max is following."

The agents nodded. This was what they'd been waiting for.

"Next stop, Scorpio."

tbc