Part 24
Ezra stirred, consciousness flooding back, as hard as he tried to stop it. Slipping into the darkness was better, easier. The darkness was quiet and warm and safe. Reality was cold and terrifying, lanced with the agony of too many wounds, too many injuries.
How long had it been? Ezra wondered. Days or weeks, or merely hours? He remembered what had happened, being on the road near Chris' place, but he couldn't remember why he had been there or even what day. Fuzzily, as if through the bottom of an old Coke bottle, he could see the smoke billowing from the car, see another car, a white Mustang, parked on the other side of the road. And then the man, coming to help him, he had thought.
'Fool, you stupid fool!' he railed at himself, unaware if he could actually say the words or not. Wherever had he come by this inane belief that someone would actually come to save him? That went against all of Maude Standish's teachings, everything she had taught her baby boy to survive and prosper in the world.
But he had turned away from his mother's teachings, hadn't he? Slapped her in the face and smote her breast, as she said sometimes when she was over-emoting about the situation. Chosen a career in law enforcement - not only a reckless and potentially suicidal move but also one in which the expectation of financial recoup was notoriously small.
And there had been a time, when, battered and blistered and thrown to the wolves by his former "brothers" in the FBI, that Ezra had believed her, and acknowledged, in his heart if not by voice, that she was right. No one cared about him enough to stand up for him, no one ever would. Why should they? He wasn't worth it.
But then something had happened to change that. He'd ended up in Denver, in the company of men who weren't refined, weren't affluent, cultured, or even particularly polite - but who cared about him. First just because he was one of them, and later because of who he was, and because he was their brother.
At thirty years old, Ezra found himself a member of a family. Maybe not the kind of family the average American thought of - a laugh caught in Ezra's burning throat as he visualized Chris Larabee in a gray flannel suit and hat, smoking a pipe while throwing out a ball so that "little brothers" Vin and JD could practice batting. And was that Mr. Wilmington there, in a ballooning blue skirt, discreet pearls and heels, doing the vacuuming? No - Buck Wilmington was more like the protective older brother who came home from college on the weekends wearing a letterman's jacket and went out to scare all the bullies in the neighborhood away from his brothers.
That would make Nathan the mother figure. He sure could nag like one, especially when he was promoting safety and good health. Besides, his legs looked better in high heels.
But then whom would that make Josiah? Grandfather, uncle? Crazy second cousin locked up in the attic?
Really, Ezra, your mind is wandering. Pull yourself together - think about getting out of this mess.
He really had no doubts his friends would come. They would, he knew, turn Denver, Colorado, the whole planet, upside down and shake until he was back amongst them.
"But will they get here in time?" That annoying voice in his head that sounded much too much like Maude asked the question in triumph.
Time. Time. How much time? How long had he been here - wherever here was? How much longer did he have?
"Hey there, Mr. ATF agent." The voice of his captor swirled around his ears, pushing away the darkness.
No! Ezra fought, turning his head away, trying to hang onto the shreds of his blackness. But it was too late, harsh words and frigid air swirled in, pushing back the curtains of warmth and safety.
He opened his eyes, bracing himself for the shrieking torrent of pain that had overwhelmed him every time he'd come back to consciousness. But the pain was less now, muted. 'That's a good thing,' Ezra thought, relieved, even though, somewhere in the back of his mind, he could almost hear Nathan saying it wasn't such a good thing after all. And had it gotten warmer in here? He didn't seem to be feeling the cold so much...maybe his captor, Steven...no, Steven was the one he'd killed. This was Daniel...no David...that's right, David Wyerly. That name was so familiar...his mind drifted off as the blackness neared again.
"No!" It was a demon shriek. "I know you're awake, Fed. Open your damn eyes!"
"And to think I always had you pegged as the weak sniveling also-ran," Ezra muttered, forcing his eyes open. Burning light from the lantern nearby seared through them like hot tongs.
He was repaid for his words by a hard kick to the solar plexus.
"That's what you thought, huh?" Wyerly ranted as Ezra tried desperately to drag in oxygen to his lungs.
"That's...what I thought-" Ezra wheezed. "That's what I - still think. You – voided your bladder - as your - cousin lay...bleeding to death..."
For God's sake, Ezra, SHUT UP!
Ezra looked around. Who said that? Certainly not David, who - after he'd figured out what Ezra had said - was raging and spitting in his fury. Ezra had to laugh a little at the sight of the man's face. 'I may die but I'll do it on my terms...'
He pulled in another gasp of air. The blackness was closer, coming closer...bringing relief from the pain-
Pain?
A cold fear gripped Ezra then, locked tight in the delicate flesh of this throat. He couldn't feel any pain...well, none except for the pounding headache. His arms, legs, feet...he knew there had been pain before. Horrible, overwhelming pain, searing agony that caused him to vomit and heave until there was nothing left but the pain...
And he didn't feel anything now. He realized, cold sweat forming on his brow and dripping into his hair, that he didn't even feel his limbs. He looked to one side in the murky brown darkness of the room, saw his fingers and tried to move them...
The bastard had broken him. Broken his back, his neck...he was paralyzed...
And then he heard it, over Wyerly's rants...the sound of crashing glass and two soft "plops". Sounds he recognized even as the acrid fumes of tear gas billowed over him and into him, cutting off his air...
One tiny last thought wormed its way into his mind before everything shut down.
"They came for me..."
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David Wyerly staggered to his feet and looked hastily around the room. Tear gas! Damn it, that could only mean one thing. How the hell had they found him so fast?
The first acrid fumes wrapped around him, invading his nostrils, his open eyes. He knew from experience he had some resistance to the gas. If he got out now, he might still be in possession of his faculties...maybe he could do something, get himself out of this.
He looked down at his captive. The man obviously didn't have the same endurance that David had; he was already gasping and struggling to raise his head. Pretty amazing, that he had enough energy to try. Needing to breathe is a pretty powerful stimulus, though.
Man shouldn't be breathing. Man should be dead. He killed Steven, he should be dead himself.
Tears were starting to blur his vision. He reached for the pistol he'd left on the couch, pointed it at the agent. Just one shot, right in the forehead, in the back of the head...then he'd be dead and Steven would be avenged and Uncle Arthur's weird game would be over.
His hand trembled. He tightened his fingers around the trigger. 'Kill him. It's over. Kill him.'
'Kill him now and you'll get the needle for killing a Fed...' His uncle would pass him over, give the business to Monica or Nina, or more likely marry them off to someone more suited for the job.
Did that matter?
The Fed really hadn't suffered enough for his crimes...
There was a crash, the door flying open and the last beams of the setting sun penetrating the murky room. Beings flowed in, men, dressed in Kevlar over ski clothes and wearing cumbersome air-masks. Words - distorted by the masks - but still clear enough, echoed off the walls. "Federal Agents. Drop your weapon!"
He spun around, still not sure what he was going to do, but before he could do anything, there was a cracking noise and a burning pain in his chest, spinning him around. The gun flew from his suddenly nerve-less fingers and disappeared from sight.
Then everything went black.
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University Hospital
Dr. Culver was waiting when Dan Kruse came out of the locker room after having changed his clothes. The two men were close friends, even separated by years and experience. Kruse knew full well there had been at least a dozen candidates for his job, but that for some reason Culver chose him. Even though Kruse tried to pretend he had the surgeon's ego, he never stopped trying to figure out why he had been hired.
"Damn good work, Dan," Culver praised. "I don't know how you managed it, the way that lung tissue was collapsing."
With anyone else, Kruse would have made some egocentric comment but he knew better than to try that on his mentor. "That man either has a guardian angel working overtime or an incredible will to live." He paused. "Have you seen him?"
"He's back in ICU. He's breathing on his own, we didn't put him back on the ventilator." Culver sounded a little tentative when he said that. They'd argued about it-weighing the risks of further damaging the lung tissue with the chance the lungs would be unable to function at all.
"We'd better find a cure for that damn poison in his system or it won't make any difference," Kruse grumbled. "The labs have any ideas?"
Culver shook his head. "Last I heard they'd sent samples and requests for help everywhere. FBI lab in Washington, UCLA, CDC in Atlanta. Somebody has to know what the hell that stuff is."
Without another word, the two doctors made their way to ICU, coming to a halt just inside the double doors. There were two uniformed policemen at the entrance, and two men wearing nylon windbreakers with the yellow legend ATF on the back, standing in front of the door to Buck's room.
"Larabee and his guys aren't back yet?"
Culver nodded at the man standing outside Buck's door quietly murmuring into a radio clipped to his shoulder. "If they were, he wouldn't be here."
The guard nodded at the doctors, moving slightly away from the opening. Kruse, followed more slowly by Culver, entered to check on his patient.
A nurse was in the cubicle with Buck, noting the readings on the monitors. She looked up when the doctors entered. After exchanging a few words, she proffered the chart to Kruse and slipped out of the room.
Kruse didn't bother looking at the chart; instead he handed it to Culver and went to the bedside. A quick glance over the monitors revealed what he had feared: his patient's vital signs were dropping steadily. He shook his head, catching Culver's eye. "He can't stand another round of surgery," he said quietly. "If he starts hemorrhaging again-"
Culver sighed, but before he could say anything, they heard quick footsteps in the hallway and the nurse appeared again. The guard quickly stepped to block her from the room.
"Oh for God's sake!" Culver snapped in a rare burst of temper. "She's a nurse, damn it! The same nurse that left this room not two minutes ago!"
The lines around the ATF agent's mouth tightened but he stepped back, making sure everyone realized his hand was on his weapon. The nurse - Kim - ignored him as she had grown used to doing. "The lab just called," she said breathlessly. "They just got a fax from Riverside Pharmaceuticals. Dr. Hastings thinks she knows what the poison is!"
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JD watched as the helicopter rose from the snow-packed ground, turned into the night-dark sky, destined for Denver. The helicopter carried the pilot, Nathan, Chris, Ezra, and Ezra's captor, David Wyerly. No one had been very happy about putting both captor and victim on the same helicopter; the pilot - a wild man named Stan Lewis - had announced rather violently they were putting too much weight in his chopper, but both Ezra and Wyerly were critical and needed to get to the hospital as quickly as possible. The paramedics - and for a few minutes it seemed like there were a dozen of them around the cabin - had all insisted on a "wrap and run" for both patients. Nathan had to go along as a medic. Chris had no intention of letting Wyerly - bleeding heavily from the chest or not - anywhere near Ezra without himself in between them - so they'd all gone. Fortunately there was little wind - even overburdened the helicopter should manage the relatively short trip into Denver.
JD wasn't worried about the chopper crashing. He simply couldn't believe he wasn't on it.
JD had started toward the chopper, thinking of nothing about getting back to the hospital as quickly as he could. He had to know about Buck. He had to get to Buck, be by his side. Everything was spinning crazily out of control; he needed his big brother to make it all right again. For hours he'd had to force thoughts of Buck from his mind, focus on Ezra, finding him and bringing him safely home.
But now Ezra was wrapped up in blankets with an IV trailing from one hand and Nathan right by his side to make sure he made the trip safely. Now JD's mind turned back to Buck. He had to get back there, had to check on Buck, had to make sure his big brother had made it through the surgery. But Chris had caught his shoulder as he headed for the helicopter.
"JD. You head back down the mountain with Josiah and Vin. I'll call you at the office when I know something."
JD had just stared at the team leader. Chris couldn't be serious. He started to say something but Chris' attention had shifted to Vin. "You'll stay with him?"
It was a question, but not really a question. Vin just nodded. Chris went on, "You or Josiah stay with him at all times. I don't want the OPR guys talking to him without one of you there, understand?"
"I've got it, Chris. Don't worry, we'll take care of JD." Vin had reached forward and locked hands with Larabee. "You take care of Ez and Buck. Call us when...when you know anything. We'll get there as fast as we can."
Chris had nodded, then met JD's anguished gaze. "It was a righteous shoot, JD. He was going to kill Ezra. That's all OPR has to know."
"Chris! Come on!" Nathan's voice rose above the noisy helicopter. Chris nodded at Vin and JD and turned run to get in the craft before it rose from the snow-covered ground.
And JD still couldn't believe it. He wanted to get to the hospital, right away. He needed to know about Ezra. Needed to know that Buck...that Buck was still alive.
He needed to see Buck.
Oh, JD knew it was his bullet in David Wyerly - the man who'd tried to kill Ezra. JD couldn't even remember, wasn't even sure he knew, what the man looked like. He just knew, through the distorted Plexiglas of his gas mask, he'd seen the man aim a gun, ready to shoot Ezra. And he'd stopped him. The only way he could.
It just seemed so right and simple and...clean. A perp was threatening his teammate, he took the guy out.
And then the enormity of it all sank in.
'God, what is happening to me? What am I turning into? I just shot a man, maybe killed him-and I don't even care?'
Vin must have sensed what he was thinking. Suddenly the sharpshooter's face filled his vision. "JD? JD! Snap out of it."
JD blinked. He licked chapped lips. God he was so tired, taking a step seemed to be an enormous undertaking, much less gearing up for a session with the ATF version of Internal Affairs. "Vin-" he started, hearing his voice trail off. He latched onto Vin's arm. "Buck," he said urgently. "How's Buck!"
Vin shook his head, blue eyes shadowed with exhaustion and concern. "I don't know any more than you do, Kid," he said gently. "He's still in surgery, far as I know." Surprisingly, for Vin was not a "touchy feely" kind of guy, he gave JD a quick hug. "Just hold it together, JD, just for a while longer. We'll get you done with the investigators and then we'll go to the hospital and check on both the guys."
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No sooner had the chopper touched down on the helipad than everyone was moving. A medic, dressed in scrubs, flung the door open. "Gunshot victim first," he ordered.
"Like Hell," Chris growled.
Nathan caught him by the arm. "It's okay, Chris. Ezra's vitals are stable. This other guy isn't doing so well."
Chris hesitated, then jumped out of the copter, standing out of the way as first Wyerly, then Ezra's gurneys were hefted out. He followed as the crowd surged forward, into the trauma unit. For just a minute he was reminded of that day weeks ago when Vin's phone call had sent him racing to this same place, hoping desperately Buck would still be alive when he got here. The, only days later, Ezra had been the patient as the doctors had feverishly fought to save him from the poison in his system.
And now, Ezra's life hung in the balance again. And Buck-
His head shot up as someone grabbed his arm. It took a second for him to recognize the tall blond man as Dan Kruse, the surgeon who'd operated on Buck. The man's mouth was moving, words were coming out - "What did you say?"
"We've been waiting for you to get back. Go on upstairs. Dr. Culver has some good news for you!"
Kruse turned and quickly vanished behind the double doors leading to the exam room. Chris started after him but Nathan caught his arm. "Chris. Go!" the paramedic urged.
"But – Ezra -" Chris was torn, his heart forcing him to go to Buck but his mind insisting he stay with Ezra.
"Go! I'll wait for news on Ezra. Go check on Buck!"
Without another word, Chris turned and raced for the elevators.
tbc...