A Family Affair
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. Mores the pity.
Chapter 36.
Sara Pezzini heard voices echoing weirdly from somewhere above her. Whoever they were, they were not speaking English. 'Could be Russian,' she thought, as she slowly picked her way over the uneven, debris-strewn floor of the warehouse's basement. But whatever the language, Sara knew commands when she heard them, and from the sound of booted feet pounding the floor overhead, the troops were following orders.
After stumbling over an unseen object for the third time, she decided to risk turning on her maglite. The glow cast by the Witchblade's pulsing red stone was insufficient to penetrate the inky darkness, and she didn't want to twist an ankle or take a nasty fall. Several extremely large rats skittered for cover as the flashlight's beam played over the frigid, cavernous room. She spotted stairs, and headed for them. A sagging metal door was at the top, and Sara eased it open, wincing as the hinges creaked loudly. It was minimally brighter here on the first floor of the abandoned warehouse, and she flicked off her maglite.
Remembering the sentry at the back door, Sara headed toward the rear of the building with the intent of neutralizing him. She didn't want to chance the man surprising her later. She saw his silhouette in the open doorway and crept up behind him.
"Hey," she said, and when he turned to gape at her, she smashed her suddenly metal-clad right fist into his face. He dropped like a stone. 'Now he won't alert his comrades when the cavalry shows up,' she thought, hoping this wouldn't happen until Nottingham could get away. She didn't want to think about the consequences should he be taken into custody by the NYPD. She had turned the volume way down on her headset, but she could hear the excited babble of voices, as well as her name being called repeatedly. There wasn't much time before reinforcements arrived, and she realized that the fact that she had broken contact had lent added urgency to the situation. But somehow she would just have to come up with a plausible explanation for her disappearance later.
She headed further back inside the warehouse and had started up to the second floor, when she heard footsteps pounding down the stairs toward her.
"Hello, boys," she said as several soldiers came into view, "meet my little friend!" She willed the Witchblade into the mace form and used it to knock the first man into the second, who fell against the third. Leaping over the tangle of men, she agilely ducked the blows of the fourth man, dealing him a vicious backhand before holding up the gauntlet to deflect the bullets that a fifth mercenary opened fire with from further up the stairs. The man's eyes widened as he noticed her metal-encased hand and forearm. Sara used that moment of surprise to will the gauntlet into the broadsword form before running him through.
At this first taste of blood, the Witchblade's red stone eye flared bright, casting an eerie glow over the gloomy interior, eliciting gasps of amazement from the remaining men.
'Special effects! Cool!' Sara thought, but then the bloodlust rose in her, and she had to struggle to keep a berserker rage from consuming her.
Because of their proximity and the narrowness of the stairs, the men couldn't open fire without hitting each other, which worked to Sara's advantage. Pulling the sword from the body of the shooter, she advanced on the three men behind him, an anticipatory grin on her face. One of them pulled a knife and threw it at her, and metal clanged on metal as she effortlessly deflected it, as she did the bullets that the man desperately fired at her from his automatic pistol. When she kept coming, the men finally decided to beat a hasty retreat back up the stairs. Sara sensed movement behind her, and lashed out with her foot. One of the two men she had knocked down on the stairs below her had finally managed to extricate himself from his unconscious comrade's body and had drawn his pistol but she knocked it from his hand and then kicked him in the head, sending him tumbling down the steps. The other mercenary also regained his feet and pointed his rifle at her, but cursed as it jammed.
Sara solemnly shook her head at him. "That's why you should always buy American, Comrade," she said before clubbing him over the head with the Witchblade.
She turned and started up the stairs in pursuit of the other soldiers, but all of a sudden a tremendous explosion shook the building.
'Holy shit! That sounded like a grenade or maybe even a missile!' she thought. 'I hope Nottingham didn't just get blown to smithereens.' The sound of booted feet rapidly descending the stairs reached her, and then a small metal object came bouncing down the stairwell.
'Tear gas canister,' Sara instantly recognized, 'I'm outta here!' She leapt over the railing, landing at a run, and had almost reached the back door when the canister exploded, releasing a billowing noxious cloud. Darting outside, she jumped over the unconscious guard, scrambled down the stairs, and dashed around the corner of the building. But she skidded to a stop, her heart sinking, as she saw a crumpled, black-clad form lying motionless on the pavement.
****
Ian Nottingham had jumped from a height of six stories successfully only once before in his life, and that had been a carefully controlled descent. Now, however, he was hurtling toward the unforgiving concrete below at tremendous speed. Catlike, he twisted his body in midair and reached out with his gloved left hand, somehow managing to grab hold of the very bottom rung of the metal ladder that was attached to the building. His left shoulder screamed in protest as it was abruptly forced to bear his entire weight, and he crashed into the side of the warehouse with bruising force. He hung there for a moment, stunned, before letting go, and dropping the rest of the way to the ground. His powerful legs took the brunt of the landing, but his injured right leg buckled, and he was forced to do a shoulder roll -- on his already damaged shoulder, naturally. He lay sprawled there on the cold pavement of the alley, simultaneously trying to catalog his injuries and temporarily banish the pain of them as he'd been taught to do, so that he could continue to fight if need be, or flee if the odds were too heavily stacked against him.
Dislocated left shoulder, he identified, which, although excruciatingly painful, was not terribly debilitating, especially once the joint was popped back in. There were also cracked, possibly broken ribs, again on the left side. He took a deep breath and from the sharp pain this caused, he suspected at least one fracture. Not good, but, again, not insurmountable utilizing the pain-control techniques that even now were compartmentalizing the suffering. Oh, yes, and the bullet graze to the right thigh. It was bleeding profusely, but the blood loss was acceptable. Not bad for having been outnumbered nearly 30-to-1 as well as blown off a six-story building. But he was definitely in flee mode. There were at least 19 Russians still unaccounted for, and he was in no condition to fight them.
'I should probably get up now and run away,' Ian thought dreamily, cognizant of the fact that he'd already wasted precious seconds lying there. Vaguely, he realized that his raging fever had something to do with the lack of urgency he felt. 'Sword fighting and hand-to-hand combat were probably not what Dr. Immo had in mind when he said I should try to remain as calm and still as possible,' he mused.
"Oh my God, Nottingham! Can you hear me?" Sara ran over to the prone assassin and knelt beside him.
"Yes, Sara, I can," he surprised her by responding almost conversationally.
"Can you get up? 'Cause I think we're about to have company."
"I think so." Far too slowly for her liking, the black-clad man rolled over onto his right side and got to his feet.
"Which way? Which way?" Sara murmured, examining Nottingham's face worriedly. Even in the dimness of the alley, she could see how pale he was and that his eyes had a glazed, disjointed quality to them.
"This way," Ian said, heading toward the back of the warehouse.
"But they're gonna be coming out the back door any second!" she protested.
"That will be difficult for them to do if there is no exit," he murmured, removing something from his coat.
Pulling the pin with his teeth, Ian lobbed a grenade into the open doorway, hearing panicky shouts as the soldiers that had been heading for the door realized what the object was. "Run, Sara!" Ian said, tossing another grenade under the delivery trucks, before turning and dashing down the cobblestone street hard on the heels of the fleeing Wielder. Seconds later, two explosions rocked the warehouse scant moments apart.
Where are we going?" Sara asked, glancing behind them at the blazing trucks.
"My car is in a garage only a few blocks from here," Ian said, holding his left arm tightly against body. Every step sent jolts of agony through his abused body, but he forced himself to keep up the brisk pace.
The Witchblade suddenly pulsed hotly, and Sara stopped short, glancing around the dark street for any sign of danger. In the near distance, they heard the distinctive roar of a helicopter. Within seconds, it came to hover almost directly overhead, and a bright, white spotlight lit up the cobblestones only about 30 yards from them.
"Quick, let's duck in here!" Sara grabbed Nottingham's sleeve, dragging him toward a gaping doorway, failing to notice the way he flinched in pain. Moments later, the spotlight swept the street where they had been, before continuing up the passageway.
"I don't think they spotted us," Sara said, poking her head out and peering up at the sky after a couple of minutes. She glanced at the Witchblade's stone and saw that it had become dark again. "Let's keep going. They're probably gonna do another sweep," she told Ian.
They ran down the street for another two blocks and then headed north, keeping to the alleys for as long as possible. When they were forced to take to a more busily traveled street, they slowed to a walk in an effort to blend in with the other pedestrians.
"How much further?" Sara asked Nottingham, who had not spoken for some time. She glanced at the street nervously as a squad car went zooming by, lights flashing and siren whooping.
"Another block," he said, and she saw that his face was a sickly grayish color except for bright flags of red along his high cheekbones.
"How bad are you hurt?" she whispered, noticing for the first time the hitch in his stride and how rigidly he held his left arm against his body.
"My injuries are not life-threatening," he said. "My car is in here. The door is unlocked but you are going to have to lift it," he said, indicating the private garage.
"Nice," Sara murmured, after raising the door and looking around. "What would you have done if the people who live here had come back?" she asked curiously.
"Offered them an apology for using their garage without their permission and a lot of money for their trouble," he murmured. "Close the door for a few minutes. I need you to do something before we leave."
Sara did as he asked and then looked expectantly at him.
"My left shoulder is dislocated. I need you to relocate the joint," he told her.
"Just tell me what to do," Sara said, wincing sympathetically.
"Grab my wrist with both hands, tightly. When I say 'go,' I want you to yank on my arm as hard as you can. Do you understand?"
"Yeah." She took hold of his left wrist in a firm grip. "I'm ready."
Heedless of his injured ribs, he took a deep breath. "Go!"
Sara pulled hard on his arm, and Ian's world grayed with agony. 'Hmmm, broken left clavicle,' a small part of his brain identified, as one jagged suffering was supplanted by another. The fracture's existence had been masked by the pain of the dislocated shoulder, but now it was making itself known with a vengeance. It took a tremendous effort, but he finally managed to distance himself from the pain utilizing techniques he'd spent years learning. He opened his eyes to find the Wielder staring at him in concern.
"Okay?" she asked gently.
"Yes, but I must immobilize my arm." He handed the SUV's keys to her. "There is a first-aid kit in the trunk. In it, you will find a sling. Could you get it for me, please?"
"Sure," she said, taking the keys and disarming the car's alarm. "Who were those guys back there and what the hell did you do to piss them off, Nottingham?" she asked as she went around to the rear of the vehicle.
"They are Russians, from one of the breakaway republics. However, their grievance is with my master. I believe I was merely an obstacle that they decided to try to eliminate first."
"Figures. Freakin' Irons!" Sara muttered, opening the trunk. She found the first-aid kit, which was the size of a large briefcase, and brought it out, setting it on the hood of the car. "Well, what did he do to deserve this? And knowing him, he definitely had it coming."
"Mr. Irons deliberately sold them a large cache of shoddily made weapons," he told her.
"And now they want revenge." Sara shook her head, then gave a low whistle. "This is some first-aid kit, Nottingham. It's practically a mobile hospital. Here's your sling." After watching him fumble with it for a couple of minutes, she said "Here, let me help you put it on."
Out of necessity, she had to lean very close to him and reach around him as she adjusted the sling's straps.
"You always smell so good," he murmured, inhaling the clean scent of her gleaming, chestnut hair.
"Uh, thank you," she said, pulling back to look at his flushed face. She reached up to touch his forehead, and he turned his face into the coolness of her hand, closing his eyes.
"You're burning up, Nottingham. We've got to get you to Westchester right away," she said softly, alarmed by how hot he was.
He shook his head. "We cannot go there. It is too dangerous. Some of the Russians might have escaped or been held in reserve for an attack on my master. The estate is the next logical target, and I am in no condition to battle them."
"But you need that antidote right now, Nottingham!" Sara protested. "Call Irons and tell him what happened. Ask him to meet you at my place with the antidote."
Again Ian shook his head. "The Russians were following you, Sara. They obviously had intel on you and had been informed of the fact that I would be shadowing you."
Sara stared at him. "But who gave them --?" Then it dawned on her, and her face became stormy. "Kenny's gonna get a good talking to, I can promise you that," she growled. "Not only did he poison you, but he sicced angry Russians on you! Nobody does that to my Protector, damn it!"
"I first noticed those delivery trucks this morning, when they drove past the 11th Precinct," Ian told her, inordinately pleased by her words. "Then, earlier this evening, Gabriel called to tell me that he saw them parked a few blocks from there. However, they did not follow me here, of that I am certain, so that means they must have followed you. They most likely have your home address, too."
Reluctantly, Sara nodded. "Gabriel tried to warn me, too, but I dismissed it as the product of an overactive imagination. Then I noticed two of the trucks behind us on the way over here, but when they turned off onto a side street, I thought I was imagining things, too."
"The Russians must have been monitoring the police band," Ian postulated. "When they discovered the location of the drug bust operation and realized you were taking part in it, they knew I would be nearby. One of their scouts must have spotted me on the roof of the warehouse, and amidst all of the noise of the drug bust, the mercenaries were able to get into position without me noticing. By the time I realized something was wrong, they had cut off my escape routes. I managed to take out eight of them, but then they fired a stinger missile at me from an adjacent building. I barely made it off that roof alive."
"Well, I'm glad you did, but unless you receive that antidote soon, it's not gonna matter," Sara told him. "By the way, I eliminated five men inside the warehouse. And that grenade of yours probably did some damage, too. Plus, by now, the NYPD, bomb squad, and FBI are on the scene. I highly doubt the rest of the men in that warehouse managed to escape, especially since you destroyed their getaway vehicles. Now, we've got to figure out a way to hook up with Irons, and soon. Is there any place you can think of that might be safe for us to hide out, someplace close? Then we can call him and tell him to meet us there with the antidote."
The buzz of fever in his brain had risen to nearly deafening levels, and Ian was finding it more and more difficult to think clearly. He was also uncertain how long he could keep the pain of his injuries at bay, but he knew he could not afford to let his control lapse until they found a refuge.
"Wait, I've got an idea. Let's get going," Sara said, opening the garage door. "We can be there in less than an hour. You can call Irons on the way, and I'll call Jake and let him know I'm okay," she told him. "I'll drive."
"Where are we going?" Ian asked.
"You'll see," was all Sara would say.
More to come. Thanks for your feedback everybody! I'm extremely grateful! Keep it coming!
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. Mores the pity.
Chapter 36.
Sara Pezzini heard voices echoing weirdly from somewhere above her. Whoever they were, they were not speaking English. 'Could be Russian,' she thought, as she slowly picked her way over the uneven, debris-strewn floor of the warehouse's basement. But whatever the language, Sara knew commands when she heard them, and from the sound of booted feet pounding the floor overhead, the troops were following orders.
After stumbling over an unseen object for the third time, she decided to risk turning on her maglite. The glow cast by the Witchblade's pulsing red stone was insufficient to penetrate the inky darkness, and she didn't want to twist an ankle or take a nasty fall. Several extremely large rats skittered for cover as the flashlight's beam played over the frigid, cavernous room. She spotted stairs, and headed for them. A sagging metal door was at the top, and Sara eased it open, wincing as the hinges creaked loudly. It was minimally brighter here on the first floor of the abandoned warehouse, and she flicked off her maglite.
Remembering the sentry at the back door, Sara headed toward the rear of the building with the intent of neutralizing him. She didn't want to chance the man surprising her later. She saw his silhouette in the open doorway and crept up behind him.
"Hey," she said, and when he turned to gape at her, she smashed her suddenly metal-clad right fist into his face. He dropped like a stone. 'Now he won't alert his comrades when the cavalry shows up,' she thought, hoping this wouldn't happen until Nottingham could get away. She didn't want to think about the consequences should he be taken into custody by the NYPD. She had turned the volume way down on her headset, but she could hear the excited babble of voices, as well as her name being called repeatedly. There wasn't much time before reinforcements arrived, and she realized that the fact that she had broken contact had lent added urgency to the situation. But somehow she would just have to come up with a plausible explanation for her disappearance later.
She headed further back inside the warehouse and had started up to the second floor, when she heard footsteps pounding down the stairs toward her.
"Hello, boys," she said as several soldiers came into view, "meet my little friend!" She willed the Witchblade into the mace form and used it to knock the first man into the second, who fell against the third. Leaping over the tangle of men, she agilely ducked the blows of the fourth man, dealing him a vicious backhand before holding up the gauntlet to deflect the bullets that a fifth mercenary opened fire with from further up the stairs. The man's eyes widened as he noticed her metal-encased hand and forearm. Sara used that moment of surprise to will the gauntlet into the broadsword form before running him through.
At this first taste of blood, the Witchblade's red stone eye flared bright, casting an eerie glow over the gloomy interior, eliciting gasps of amazement from the remaining men.
'Special effects! Cool!' Sara thought, but then the bloodlust rose in her, and she had to struggle to keep a berserker rage from consuming her.
Because of their proximity and the narrowness of the stairs, the men couldn't open fire without hitting each other, which worked to Sara's advantage. Pulling the sword from the body of the shooter, she advanced on the three men behind him, an anticipatory grin on her face. One of them pulled a knife and threw it at her, and metal clanged on metal as she effortlessly deflected it, as she did the bullets that the man desperately fired at her from his automatic pistol. When she kept coming, the men finally decided to beat a hasty retreat back up the stairs. Sara sensed movement behind her, and lashed out with her foot. One of the two men she had knocked down on the stairs below her had finally managed to extricate himself from his unconscious comrade's body and had drawn his pistol but she knocked it from his hand and then kicked him in the head, sending him tumbling down the steps. The other mercenary also regained his feet and pointed his rifle at her, but cursed as it jammed.
Sara solemnly shook her head at him. "That's why you should always buy American, Comrade," she said before clubbing him over the head with the Witchblade.
She turned and started up the stairs in pursuit of the other soldiers, but all of a sudden a tremendous explosion shook the building.
'Holy shit! That sounded like a grenade or maybe even a missile!' she thought. 'I hope Nottingham didn't just get blown to smithereens.' The sound of booted feet rapidly descending the stairs reached her, and then a small metal object came bouncing down the stairwell.
'Tear gas canister,' Sara instantly recognized, 'I'm outta here!' She leapt over the railing, landing at a run, and had almost reached the back door when the canister exploded, releasing a billowing noxious cloud. Darting outside, she jumped over the unconscious guard, scrambled down the stairs, and dashed around the corner of the building. But she skidded to a stop, her heart sinking, as she saw a crumpled, black-clad form lying motionless on the pavement.
****
Ian Nottingham had jumped from a height of six stories successfully only once before in his life, and that had been a carefully controlled descent. Now, however, he was hurtling toward the unforgiving concrete below at tremendous speed. Catlike, he twisted his body in midair and reached out with his gloved left hand, somehow managing to grab hold of the very bottom rung of the metal ladder that was attached to the building. His left shoulder screamed in protest as it was abruptly forced to bear his entire weight, and he crashed into the side of the warehouse with bruising force. He hung there for a moment, stunned, before letting go, and dropping the rest of the way to the ground. His powerful legs took the brunt of the landing, but his injured right leg buckled, and he was forced to do a shoulder roll -- on his already damaged shoulder, naturally. He lay sprawled there on the cold pavement of the alley, simultaneously trying to catalog his injuries and temporarily banish the pain of them as he'd been taught to do, so that he could continue to fight if need be, or flee if the odds were too heavily stacked against him.
Dislocated left shoulder, he identified, which, although excruciatingly painful, was not terribly debilitating, especially once the joint was popped back in. There were also cracked, possibly broken ribs, again on the left side. He took a deep breath and from the sharp pain this caused, he suspected at least one fracture. Not good, but, again, not insurmountable utilizing the pain-control techniques that even now were compartmentalizing the suffering. Oh, yes, and the bullet graze to the right thigh. It was bleeding profusely, but the blood loss was acceptable. Not bad for having been outnumbered nearly 30-to-1 as well as blown off a six-story building. But he was definitely in flee mode. There were at least 19 Russians still unaccounted for, and he was in no condition to fight them.
'I should probably get up now and run away,' Ian thought dreamily, cognizant of the fact that he'd already wasted precious seconds lying there. Vaguely, he realized that his raging fever had something to do with the lack of urgency he felt. 'Sword fighting and hand-to-hand combat were probably not what Dr. Immo had in mind when he said I should try to remain as calm and still as possible,' he mused.
"Oh my God, Nottingham! Can you hear me?" Sara ran over to the prone assassin and knelt beside him.
"Yes, Sara, I can," he surprised her by responding almost conversationally.
"Can you get up? 'Cause I think we're about to have company."
"I think so." Far too slowly for her liking, the black-clad man rolled over onto his right side and got to his feet.
"Which way? Which way?" Sara murmured, examining Nottingham's face worriedly. Even in the dimness of the alley, she could see how pale he was and that his eyes had a glazed, disjointed quality to them.
"This way," Ian said, heading toward the back of the warehouse.
"But they're gonna be coming out the back door any second!" she protested.
"That will be difficult for them to do if there is no exit," he murmured, removing something from his coat.
Pulling the pin with his teeth, Ian lobbed a grenade into the open doorway, hearing panicky shouts as the soldiers that had been heading for the door realized what the object was. "Run, Sara!" Ian said, tossing another grenade under the delivery trucks, before turning and dashing down the cobblestone street hard on the heels of the fleeing Wielder. Seconds later, two explosions rocked the warehouse scant moments apart.
Where are we going?" Sara asked, glancing behind them at the blazing trucks.
"My car is in a garage only a few blocks from here," Ian said, holding his left arm tightly against body. Every step sent jolts of agony through his abused body, but he forced himself to keep up the brisk pace.
The Witchblade suddenly pulsed hotly, and Sara stopped short, glancing around the dark street for any sign of danger. In the near distance, they heard the distinctive roar of a helicopter. Within seconds, it came to hover almost directly overhead, and a bright, white spotlight lit up the cobblestones only about 30 yards from them.
"Quick, let's duck in here!" Sara grabbed Nottingham's sleeve, dragging him toward a gaping doorway, failing to notice the way he flinched in pain. Moments later, the spotlight swept the street where they had been, before continuing up the passageway.
"I don't think they spotted us," Sara said, poking her head out and peering up at the sky after a couple of minutes. She glanced at the Witchblade's stone and saw that it had become dark again. "Let's keep going. They're probably gonna do another sweep," she told Ian.
They ran down the street for another two blocks and then headed north, keeping to the alleys for as long as possible. When they were forced to take to a more busily traveled street, they slowed to a walk in an effort to blend in with the other pedestrians.
"How much further?" Sara asked Nottingham, who had not spoken for some time. She glanced at the street nervously as a squad car went zooming by, lights flashing and siren whooping.
"Another block," he said, and she saw that his face was a sickly grayish color except for bright flags of red along his high cheekbones.
"How bad are you hurt?" she whispered, noticing for the first time the hitch in his stride and how rigidly he held his left arm against his body.
"My injuries are not life-threatening," he said. "My car is in here. The door is unlocked but you are going to have to lift it," he said, indicating the private garage.
"Nice," Sara murmured, after raising the door and looking around. "What would you have done if the people who live here had come back?" she asked curiously.
"Offered them an apology for using their garage without their permission and a lot of money for their trouble," he murmured. "Close the door for a few minutes. I need you to do something before we leave."
Sara did as he asked and then looked expectantly at him.
"My left shoulder is dislocated. I need you to relocate the joint," he told her.
"Just tell me what to do," Sara said, wincing sympathetically.
"Grab my wrist with both hands, tightly. When I say 'go,' I want you to yank on my arm as hard as you can. Do you understand?"
"Yeah." She took hold of his left wrist in a firm grip. "I'm ready."
Heedless of his injured ribs, he took a deep breath. "Go!"
Sara pulled hard on his arm, and Ian's world grayed with agony. 'Hmmm, broken left clavicle,' a small part of his brain identified, as one jagged suffering was supplanted by another. The fracture's existence had been masked by the pain of the dislocated shoulder, but now it was making itself known with a vengeance. It took a tremendous effort, but he finally managed to distance himself from the pain utilizing techniques he'd spent years learning. He opened his eyes to find the Wielder staring at him in concern.
"Okay?" she asked gently.
"Yes, but I must immobilize my arm." He handed the SUV's keys to her. "There is a first-aid kit in the trunk. In it, you will find a sling. Could you get it for me, please?"
"Sure," she said, taking the keys and disarming the car's alarm. "Who were those guys back there and what the hell did you do to piss them off, Nottingham?" she asked as she went around to the rear of the vehicle.
"They are Russians, from one of the breakaway republics. However, their grievance is with my master. I believe I was merely an obstacle that they decided to try to eliminate first."
"Figures. Freakin' Irons!" Sara muttered, opening the trunk. She found the first-aid kit, which was the size of a large briefcase, and brought it out, setting it on the hood of the car. "Well, what did he do to deserve this? And knowing him, he definitely had it coming."
"Mr. Irons deliberately sold them a large cache of shoddily made weapons," he told her.
"And now they want revenge." Sara shook her head, then gave a low whistle. "This is some first-aid kit, Nottingham. It's practically a mobile hospital. Here's your sling." After watching him fumble with it for a couple of minutes, she said "Here, let me help you put it on."
Out of necessity, she had to lean very close to him and reach around him as she adjusted the sling's straps.
"You always smell so good," he murmured, inhaling the clean scent of her gleaming, chestnut hair.
"Uh, thank you," she said, pulling back to look at his flushed face. She reached up to touch his forehead, and he turned his face into the coolness of her hand, closing his eyes.
"You're burning up, Nottingham. We've got to get you to Westchester right away," she said softly, alarmed by how hot he was.
He shook his head. "We cannot go there. It is too dangerous. Some of the Russians might have escaped or been held in reserve for an attack on my master. The estate is the next logical target, and I am in no condition to battle them."
"But you need that antidote right now, Nottingham!" Sara protested. "Call Irons and tell him what happened. Ask him to meet you at my place with the antidote."
Again Ian shook his head. "The Russians were following you, Sara. They obviously had intel on you and had been informed of the fact that I would be shadowing you."
Sara stared at him. "But who gave them --?" Then it dawned on her, and her face became stormy. "Kenny's gonna get a good talking to, I can promise you that," she growled. "Not only did he poison you, but he sicced angry Russians on you! Nobody does that to my Protector, damn it!"
"I first noticed those delivery trucks this morning, when they drove past the 11th Precinct," Ian told her, inordinately pleased by her words. "Then, earlier this evening, Gabriel called to tell me that he saw them parked a few blocks from there. However, they did not follow me here, of that I am certain, so that means they must have followed you. They most likely have your home address, too."
Reluctantly, Sara nodded. "Gabriel tried to warn me, too, but I dismissed it as the product of an overactive imagination. Then I noticed two of the trucks behind us on the way over here, but when they turned off onto a side street, I thought I was imagining things, too."
"The Russians must have been monitoring the police band," Ian postulated. "When they discovered the location of the drug bust operation and realized you were taking part in it, they knew I would be nearby. One of their scouts must have spotted me on the roof of the warehouse, and amidst all of the noise of the drug bust, the mercenaries were able to get into position without me noticing. By the time I realized something was wrong, they had cut off my escape routes. I managed to take out eight of them, but then they fired a stinger missile at me from an adjacent building. I barely made it off that roof alive."
"Well, I'm glad you did, but unless you receive that antidote soon, it's not gonna matter," Sara told him. "By the way, I eliminated five men inside the warehouse. And that grenade of yours probably did some damage, too. Plus, by now, the NYPD, bomb squad, and FBI are on the scene. I highly doubt the rest of the men in that warehouse managed to escape, especially since you destroyed their getaway vehicles. Now, we've got to figure out a way to hook up with Irons, and soon. Is there any place you can think of that might be safe for us to hide out, someplace close? Then we can call him and tell him to meet us there with the antidote."
The buzz of fever in his brain had risen to nearly deafening levels, and Ian was finding it more and more difficult to think clearly. He was also uncertain how long he could keep the pain of his injuries at bay, but he knew he could not afford to let his control lapse until they found a refuge.
"Wait, I've got an idea. Let's get going," Sara said, opening the garage door. "We can be there in less than an hour. You can call Irons on the way, and I'll call Jake and let him know I'm okay," she told him. "I'll drive."
"Where are we going?" Ian asked.
"You'll see," was all Sara would say.
More to come. Thanks for your feedback everybody! I'm extremely grateful! Keep it coming!