A/n: Close to the end here. Sorry I'm a little late! One more to go after this.
SECTION SIX
PRESENT DAY – Panama
-o-
Rick had learned to expect the unexpected with the ODS, but this—
This was so far beyond unexpected. It was downright impossible. It was one of the things that he'd felt safe in assuming would never happen because there was no way to predict this would happen.
There was no way this could happen.
And yet, here he was.
Standing at gunpoint, Ernesto Salazar unconscious at his feet. Outside, the compound was burning and in a state of uncontrolled chaos. Michael and Casey were out there – somewhere – and the man who would probably cost Rick his job had just come in from nowhere to save Rick's ass, despite the fact that Rick was the one who was supposed to be doing the rescuing.
All that was what it was.
But the person holding the gun?
Carson Simms.
Carson Simms.
Someone Rick had trusted, someone Rick had thought he'd known. Someone he hadn't doubted, someone he'd come back for.
Someone Billy was accusing of being a traitor.
Carson's face was taut, a mix of rage and resignation. He shook his head. "It's not that simple," he said.
Billy had approached, was standing next to Rick now. "No?" he asked. "So you're not the one who compromised the mission three years ago?"
Rick's mind raced, swallowing as he tried to understand. The mission three years ago. North Africa, where they'd first met Salazar. Where they'd lost Billy.
Carson shook his head, face twisting even further, his gun not wavering. "I'm telling you, it's not that simple."
"I've had a lot of time to think about that mission," Billy said, his words quiet but unapologetic. "Not much else to fill my time, you see. And I thought, how was it that Salazar had the entire place rigged to go up, just like that. We're spies; we know there's no such thing as coincidence."
Carson laughed, a bitter, cruel sound. "Salazar figured that out all on his own," he said. "He had us pegged probably from the start, you just didn't know it."
Rick's hair stood up on end. It wasn't an overt admission of guilt, but its meaning was clear. Simms had known something. Given that Simms was in Salazar's office, trying to murder him, he knew a hell of a lot more.
Billy didn't flinch. Instead he nodded. "But you did," he concluded.
Something gave in Simms' expression, something broken and desperate. "Son of a bitch nabbed me on our last pass," he said.
"And what did he offer you?" Billy pressed.
Carson's face turned to rage again. "Nothing, man!" he said, the gun flailing a little bit. Rick found himself trembling, virtually defenseless with the pistol trained on him at this range. "Is that what you think I did? That I took cash to let the rest of you walk into a trap?"
"You have to admit, mate, it looks a bit damning," Billy said, shrugging just a little. "Michael and Casey were on the other side of the compound where the explosion was. When I came to, you were gone. When I went to find you, I found two guards instead. I told you my theory on coincidences. You wouldn't leave me behind—"
"Unless it was the only way to save you," Carson snapped. "You really think I wanted this to happen? You think I didn't think of any way I could to save all of you? Salazar didn't offer me money; he told me if I didn't come with the file we had on him, he'd kill you."
Rick found it difficult to breathe, his mind still struggling with understanding the gun waving in his face. Rick hadn't been on the mission three years ago – he barely knew anything about it – but this was as much emotion as he'd ever seen from his teammate. It was raw; it was honest.
It explained more than Rick wanted to admit.
Carson wasn't indifferent.
He'd sold out.
"So why not tell us?" Billy asked. "We would have helped—"
"And Salazar would have turned our photos and covers over to the highest bidder," Simms said. "He had us cornered. We were screwed either way."
"So you agreed to give him the file," Billy said.
Carson sighed. "I agreed to do what was best for all of us," he retorted.
But it wasn't that simple, and they all knew it. Because Billy had gone missing, and the ODS never recovered, and here Rick was at gunpoint trying to clean up a mess that he couldn't even begin to understand.
"And I followed you," Billy realized. "I messed up the plan."
There was a moment of real pain on Carson's face, eyes bright. "I tried to talk him out of it," he said. "Hell, I begged him. But he was going to kill me, man. He was going to kill us both if I stayed. I thought..."
His voice trailed off, his shoulders slumping.
Rick gaped, heart thundering, not wanting to finish the sentence in his head.
But Billy said it for all of them. "But you thought there was no point in both of us dying."
It was harsh, and Rick realized how human it sounded. He tried to imagine what it'd be like, to know the choice was to stay and die for a friend or to leave and save his own life. This was what Carson meant, how you always save yourself.
Most people did.
But not all people.
His team hadn't left him to die in South America. They hadn't left him behind in Russia. And Billy hadn't left him alone in an enemy's house.
Yet here Simms was, holding a gun on him.
It was human.
It was wrong.
Carson's face looked pained and he swallowed with difficulty. "I wasn't a traitor, man," he said, shaking his head. "You have to believe me. I wasn't a traitor."
Billy didn't move, not forward or backward, and his expression softened just slightly even as his shoulders squared, pressing just slightly closer to Rick "I know that," he said. "You were in a position that had no good solution. That doesn't make you a traitor. But this, right here – if you pull that trigger – then you'll be a traitor."
Rick sucked in a breath and held it, watching as Carson's expression wavered, tinged with grief. The older man took a shuddering breath. "I have to fix it," he said. "Salazar knows too much. If he still has the file, then we're all still in jeopardy. We need to kill him and torch the place, that's the only way—"
"And what if he has it somewhere else?" Billy asked.
"And how will we explain it to the CIA?" Rick said, finding his voice.
The gun came up again, more erratic now. "Who the hell cares about the CIA?" he said. "Screw the CIA! This is bigger than Langley."
Rick shook his head. "We could be arrested—"
"And Salazar could get us killed!" Simms said. "If we bring him back alive, he'll roll on me, just that fast—"
And that was one of the most critical elements of this. If Salazar lived, then Carson Simms would be outed. There was no telling what the repercussions would be. At the least, he'd be kicked out of the Agency. At the worst, there would be criminal charges.
Simms had never lied to him. In the end, he always chose himself.
Rick's conscience flared and his sense of duty overcame his shock. "We can't kill him," he said. "We have a duty—"
"So, what, you're going to throw me to the wolves, kid?" Carson asked, jabbing the gun toward him.
Billy edged closer to him, hands out, disarming. "He's just telling you the truth," Billy said.
Carson's eyes darted between them, his stance tense as he shifted his weight from foot to foot.
"You made a mistake three years ago," Billy said. "No one will fault you for it. You had no choice. But you do have a choice now."
Carson's brow furrowed. "I left you for dead, man," he said, almost whining now. "I destroyed us all. If Langley doesn't throw me in prison, Michael and Casey will kill me."
"They won't," Billy said. "We can figure it out. We're a team. Isn't that what we do?"
A team. They'd do anything for each other. Anything.
Simms was human; he was selfish. He'd left Billy to die once, and Rick could see the temptation to do it again.
But Billy wasn't offering him a way out.
He was offering absolution.
And Rick didn't know a lot, but he knew now that that was the thing that Carson Simms needed more than anything else.
Carson stood stiffly, gun still up, position unchanged. His face wavered, his expression broke, and his hand started to drop.
Then, from the hallway, there was a commotion.
Carson lifted his gun again, eyes going wide.
Rick turned just in time to see the flash of movement before something exploded from the back of the house. Rick rocked on his feet, lurching unsteadily forward toward Simms.
Right as the gun went off.
-o-
Rick hit the ground hard, the contact reverberating through his backside and sending sharp pain up his arm. There was already a haze of smoke in the room, a muffled sound of voices and the rat-a-tat of gunfire being exchanged.
Rick blinked, mouth open. He could still hear the shot from Simms' gun. Close range, too close to miss. He could smell the discharge, almost taste it.
But when he looked down, there was no blood.
Not his chest, his stomach. Not his arms or his legs or anywhere.
He wasn't hit.
He almost laughed, giddy with relief. Somehow, Simms had missed. Maybe it was the force of the explosion, maybe it was just Simms' distraction; maybe it was just luck for once.
Sitting up, still gaping, Rick looked around. Carson was on the floor, pushing his way back up. Salazar was still unconscious, apparently oblivious to this turn of events. And Billy…
Billy was sprawled next to Rick on his back, head tilted up as he looked down the length of his body. Rick frowned for a second, trying to make sense of the image.
Sitting up now, he scooted closer to get a better look. And that's when he saw Billy's hands, lifting up from his stomach, wet and stained dark red.
Blood, Rick realized.
It was all over Billy's fingers, staining his tattered shirt.
And suddenly Rick understood. It wasn't the explosion; it wasn't Simms' distraction. And it sure as hell wasn't luck.
Simms hadn't missed at all.
Billy had just shoved Rick out of the way and taken the shot.
For a second, Rick could only stare.
Then, Billy's breath caught, hitching with a shuddering gasp, his entire body starting to tremble, and Rick's sense came back to him. Billy had been shot. Billy had been shot for Rick.
On his hands and knees, Rick crossed the distance, pushing away Billy's hands and pulling at the ruined shirt. Beneath him, Billy bucked weakly.
"'s not so bad," Billy said, blood-stained fingers leaving dark streaks on the floor.
Rick gritted his teeth, lifting up the fabric to get a look. At first it was hard to see with all the blood, but the small, puckered wound was high in Billy's abdomen, leaking fresh red blood with every beat of the Scot's frantically pounding heart.
Billy took another uneven breath. "Though, it feels a mite—" he cut off with a grimace, "—uncomfortable."
Rick froze for a moment, just looking at it. He thought about Billy's desk and the poetry. Billy was a man who was willing to die for his friends. For people he hardly knew. He was willing to give a second chance to the person who had nearly cost him everything.
He didn't deserve this. They'd found Billy, alive and okay, and he didn't deserve this. To be bleeding and shot and—
Rick found his resolve and locked his jaw. Shrugging out of his jacket, he balled it up, pressing it down hard on the wound, wincing as Billy cried out with fresh pain. His head dropped back, his body trembling harder now, fingers clenched into bloody fists as tears sprung to his eyes.
"You were chained to a bed for three years," Rick reminded him in a feeble attempt to joke. "This is nothing."
Billy rolled his gaze back to Rick, smiling weakly. "Aye," he said. "I'd rather—" He cut off, his breath leaving him for a moment. His pallor went gray but he swallowed hard. "I'd rather die free."
Something painful twisted in Rick's gut. He shook his head, ignoring the sting of tears behind his eyes. "You're not dying at all," Rick promised. "That'd be a pretty crappy rescue, wouldn't it?"
Billy looked ready to speak, but a curse distracted them both. Rick looked up, surprised to see Carson standing above him. He was still holding the gun, hair disarrayed and a cut trickling blood down his face.
Carson swore again, face blank before breaking with a bereft sob. "What did you do, you idiot?" he asked, voice broken.
Billy was shaking, but his voice was still clear. "Couldn't let you shoot him," he said. "You'd never – never forgive yourself—"
His voice trailed off, his body stiffening with pain as he squeezed his eyes shut and tears leaked out.
Carson nearly doubled over, hovering just above Rick now. "And you think I'll be able to forgive myself for this?" he asked. He swore again. "Man, I never meant – I never thought – I just never…"
With obvious effort, Billy opened his eyes, a sweat breaking out across his forehead now, hot blood still welling up beneath Rick's fingers. "I know, mate," Billy said, the words strained and hard to hear now. "I know."
From the hallway, there were voices closer now – indistinct chatter in Spanish lost in a barrage of gunfire.
Rick glanced up and Billy cried out again, this time his body going limp, face slack as unconsciousness claimed him. The smoke was getting hard to breathe in now – they were running out of time.
And options.
Rick looked up to Simms. "You have to help me with him."
Carson looked back at him, expression blank again.
Rick didn't waver. "We need to get him and Salazar out of here."
Carson stiffened, the horror still written all over his shellshocked features.
"Carson!" Rick snapped, hoping to jar the other man. "We need to move. With this much smoke, we may be running out of time."
Carson stared at him for a moment, indecision in his expression. There was fear and horror, lost and tragic. He hadn't meant for any of this. He hadn't meant to shoot Billy any more than he'd meant to leave him behind three years ago.
Choices.
It all came down to choices.
Simms could redeem himself. He could help Rick. Finish the mission, save Billy's life.
But Simms shook his head. "I…I can't."
Rick's stomach hardened and something like rage welled up. He used one hand to reach up, grabbing the lapel of Simms' coat and shaking him, Billy's blood smearing. "You have to," he said. "You owe him this."
But Simms shook his head again, breath catching. He took another erratic breath, face ghostly white in the haze. "I shot him," he said, quietly now. "Ishot him."
"Yeah," Rick snapped. "You did. So now let's do something about it—"
Simms' eyes were hollow, expression almost vacant in shock. He hitched with a sob, and he brought his free had up, running it through his hair and his face crumpled. "I shot him," he said. "If he dies—"
"He doesn't have to die!" Rick said, because he had to believe it. He had to believe Billy could be saved. His fingers tightened, looking up, almost pleading now. "Please."
Simms looked at him, eyes wet. Apologetic. Broken.
Decided.
He shook his head, pulling away. Rick's fingers went lax, and Rick could see his bloody handprint on Carson's shirtfront.
Carson looked at Billy, taking another step back.
"Carson," Rick said, louder now, feeling desperation start to creep in.
Simms took another step, body tensely strung, his entire being precariously lilting.
Decided.
You always choose yourself. Always.
Carson Simms had made this choice three years ago.
Three years later, everything had changed.
And nothing.
"They'll string me up alive," Simms said, voice haunted and eyes bleak. "I won't even make it to the States—"
"Simms…" Rick felt like there was something more he should say. Something more he could do. But there was nothing. He was out of words; he was out of pleas. He was out of everything.
Because it was too late.
Simms took one more look at Billy before he turned away and ran, leaving Rick pressing a hand against Billy's stomach while the house burned and the enemy closed in.
And Carson Simms didn't look back.
-o-
It was a long moment while Rick could only stare. Simms was gone and the fire was picking up. It was hard to see in the haze now, and the sound of gunfire was closer. He glanced over to Salazar, who was still unconscious, before he looked down at Billy.
The Scottish operative was lax under Rick's pressure, his face pale under the scruffy beard. Without Simms, Rick was the one who was responsible now. For the mission.
For Billy.
Wetting his lips, Rick looked over at Salazar again. Bringing Salazar back with them was one of the critical components of Michael's plan to avoid any prosecution. Getting him killed or leaving him behind to potentially be rescued by his own would be a disaster in terms of their own freedom and the long term success of bringing down the counterfeiting operation. They needed Salazar.
He looked at Billy again. Over the growing cacophony, Rick could hear if he was breathing, but either way, Rick knew he was running out of time. The gunshot was high in the abdomen, which could be suggestive of a whole range of injuries. The stomach, the liver, the kidneys. The intestines. Not to mention all the veins and arteries in the region.
Billy had waited three years for rescue; he didn't have more than three hours now.
And Rick realized he had a choice. Just like Carson Simms, it came down to a simple decision. If he pulled out Salazar first, he could guarantee his own safe passage back to the States. He could have a long and productive career. He could make a real difference
If he chose Billy, there was a good chance he'd be arrested, tried and convicted. His career would be in shambles, and he'd likely spend the foreseeable future in a jail cell. Everything he'd worked for would be for nothing.
But then he thought about a line in Billy's poetry.
There's worse fates than to be
A star engraved upon a wall.
Leaving behind a teammate was one of those fates, worse than death. If Rick had any doubts, he just had to look at what it did to Carson Simms. What it had done to the ODS.
Rick wouldn't wish that on anyone. He wouldn't choose it for himself.
And he wouldn't let Billy die, not after suffering so much. Not after Billy had come back for him.
Billy deserved better.
Rick would give him better.
Mind made up, Rick hoisted Billy up, wincing as fresh blood spilled from the wound. It was hard negotiating the Scot's taller height and he nearly stumbled, his burden tipping, but he worked to find his feet. A fireman's carry would be dangerous with the bullet still in Billy, but Rick didn't have a lot of options. He couldn't carry Billy quickly any other way – and if he took much longer, he'd never get them out alive with the smoke filling the room as fast as it was.
Gritting his teeth, Rick slung the unconscious operative up, feeling the weight on his shoulders a moment before the wetness of blood started to soak into his shoulders. It turned his stomach, but he didn't let it bother him – couldn't.
He sucked in, and hacked out with a cough. Grimacing, he put one foot in front of the other, steadying Billy with one hand on the man's wrist, the other wrapped around his thigh.
It took a few paces to get up some speed, but when he reached the doorway, he was moving fast enough. From there, it wouldn't be far. He could still see the layout in his mind, the long upstairs hallway and the grand staircase, which led straight to the front door. He just had to make it there.
Stepping out, the smoke was thicker, stinging his eyes. He held his breath as best he could, determined to keep moving, to finish what mattered.
But the sight of a gun pointed straight at his chest stopped him in his tracks.
-o-
Rick froze.
As this was the second time today he'd been held at gunpoint, he would have thought it might have lost some of its impact. But the sight still made his heart stutter and his mind go blank.
Then, he heard a familiar voice. "If this is your idea of being right back, then I think we need to have a team meeting when we get home."
Michael.
Somehow, that made sense. First Simms, now Dorset. Knowing Rick's luck, Casey would come barging up and tried to put him in a chokehold.
But Michael dropped the gun, stepping closer, face taut with worry as he realized who Rick was carrying. "Is that-?"
"Billy," Rick confirmed. "He's been shot."
It was hard to tell in the sooty hallway, but Rick was pretty sure Michael's face paled. "Is he-?"
"It's bad," Rick said. "We need to get him out of here."
Michael nodded gravely, swallowing with obvious effort. "Did you find Simms?"
This time, it was Rick's turn to pale. He set his face stonily. "He's gone."
Just like that, Michael's face went blank, some emotion wrenching deep inside him. "Gone?"
Rick blinked and realized the implication. "Yeah, gone," he snapped. "He ran off. I told him to stay, but he didn't listen."
"To get more evidence?" Michael asked, glancing down the hall. "We still have time to go after him—"
Rick's frustration mounted and he shook his head. "No, we don't," he said emphatically, hoping Billy's dead weight might prove his point.
"Casey's coming," Michael said. "You can take off with him—"
"No," Rick said, almost seething now. "I don't even know if he's in the house."
Michael's face screwed up in confusion, the tendrils of a protest imminent.
"We can talk about it later," Rick said, because he was tired and trying to explain everything right now, right here would get them all killed. He still didn't know what to make of Simms' betrayal, and he'd been there to witness it. If he told Michael, Rick wasn't sure what would happen, but he knew it might end up getting more people killed. Right now, Rick wanted to save some lives. Starting with Billy. "We need to get Billy out of here. And if you want to salvage the mission, Salazar is back in the room, still out cold."
Michael still looked confused, but he seemed to recognize the fresh determination in Rick's voice. Rick was certain and sure; and for the first time in his entire tenure with the ODS, Michael didn't question his judgment. It was hard to explain, harder still to understand, but the shift was clear.
Suddenly, he wasn't just the new guy. He was the guy. One of them, in all the ways that mattered. He trusted them; they trusted him. All the pieces fit, right and sure and good.
Or, it would be good - once they got the hell out.
At that moment, Casey came running up. He was slightly breathless, hair a little disheveled. "The immediate threat is neutralized," he reported. "But the fire is out of control. I suggest we move if we want to have a shot at getting out of here." Then he saw Rick, and the body slung over his shoulder. His face went blank.
Michael took a breath, interjecting himself before the human weapon could formulate another thought. "Billy's been hit, Simms is gone," he said. He nodded inside. "I need you to go collect Salazar and then we're getting the hell out."
Casey lifted his eyebrows. "Without Carson?"
Michael's eyes settled on Rick, who didn't even blink. Michael looked reluctant, but he still nodded. "Without Carson," he said.
If Casey wanted to question that, one look from Rick and then to Billy's unconscious form silenced him. He inclined his head, pursing his lips. "Don't wait up," he muttered, darting past them.
"Okay, Martinez," he said, taking a deep breath and nodding forward. "Follow me, and don't drop him."
Rick adjusted his grip, jaw tight. "Not a chance," he said, following close as Michael lifted his gun and started out again.
-o-
In the hallway, it was hard to see. Rick's lungs had started to hurt, each wheezing breath a trial. He stumbled, nearly tripping over the bodies on the staircase, but staying close to Michael he made his way into the grand foyer.
His shoulders started to ache, and his entire back felt sticky and hot. But he adjusted his grip and kept running, not sparing a look at the flames licking their way through the opulent living room not far away.
Michael didn't hesitate either, crossing the last of the distance and throwing open the front door with force.
At a run, Rick broke the threshold, almost blinded by the light. In the brightness, he found himself disoriented, the fresh oxygen exacerbating the tightness in his lungs. He choked for a moment, his head going light as he wavered on his feet, knees starting to buckle.
He was about to go down and take Billy with him, but as his stance gave way Michael was there, steadying him with one hand and stabilizing Billy with the other.
Still struggling to breathe, Rick tried to get his bearings, and found himself only marginally successful. When Billy's weight was lifted from his shoulders he wanted to object, but he found himself coughing too hard to formulate the words.
He didn't have to, though. Because Michael was there, laying Billy out and grimacing as he gave him a once over. The Scot didn't move, his pallor even more haggard in the sunlight, mouth open as he drew fast, weak breaths. Michael didn't say anything, but removed his outer shirt, ripping it promptly in two and tying a wadded up portion into place over the gunshot in Billy's gut.
When Casey came up beside them, Salazar firmly in tow, Rick was propped up on his elbows, still gasping for air as he watched Michael finish his ministrations. Casey lingered, face devoid of emotion, as he looked down at them all. "So I take it we have a new plan?"
Michael sat back on his heels, sighing, wiping his bloody hands on his pants absently. "Well, a new-new plan, anyway," he said. Then he looked at Rick, curious and critical all at once. "First, we need to find Simms."
Rick shook his head, wincing at the movement. "Simms is gone," he said. "Not hurt; not getting evidence. Gone."
"So we think he's still inside?" Casey asked pointedly.
"No. Maybe. I don't know," Rick told them, swallowing with difficulty.
Casey's expression darkened. "I didn't come all this way to make the same mistake twice," he growled. "You two can take Billy—"
"No," Rick interjected roughly. "Look, I don't even know if I understand it, but he left. When I say he's gone, I mean it. He left me alone with Billy bleeding out, so right now I don't know if we owe him anything. He's gone, and that was his choice, not mine."
And not Billy's.
"We can't just leave him," Michael said – or started to. But before the words left his mouth, an explosion shook the house as the fire picked up with a fresh burst of speed, exhaling larger puffs of smoke into the Panama sky.
It wasn't a choice anymore.
Rick pushed to his feet. His vision tunneled for a moment, but he steadied himself by sheer force of will. He looked at Billy, then to Michael. "So," he said, voice gruff and husky. "What was that about a new-new plan?"
-o-
Michael's new-new plan wasn't exactly any better than the last new plan. Or the original plan, for that matter.
Not that Rick could even remember the original plan anymore. Too much had changed, and Rick would be okay with anything that involved finally getting Billy out.
"Most of Salazar's men have read the writing on the wall – they've scattered," Michael said.
"No honor among thieves," Casey grunted.
"And we took care of the loyalist back inside the house," Michael continued.
Suddenly, a new burst of gunfire broke out and Rick ducked, throwing himself protectively over Billy instinctively. Michael turned, stepping in front, gun up as he fired off a few shots, forcing their pursuers down behind an abandoned car in the driveway.
"Mostly!" Michael amended.
Gunfire chipped the cement and Rick curled up, drawing closer to Billy. "So that plan?"
Michael grunted, firing a few more times. "Can you carry him?"
Rick squinted up, nodding. "Yeah."
"Good," Michael said. "Then we run."
-o-
It wasn't an in depth plan, but Rick found he kind of liked the simplicity of it for once.
He was less fond of being shot at, but at this point he was getting a bit used to it.
In the past, Rick would need details, would want explanations. But somehow, this time, he just knew. He understood Michael's lead, could follow Casey's frank logic. Michael was at the rear, firing off shots intermittently to keep their assailants at bay. Casey followed, Salazar over his shoulder, because if someone was going to get shot, Salazar was still the most acceptable loss.
And Rick led. Billy was heavy over his shoulder, but it was a weight that Rick gladly carried. For as long as necessary. Until this was over.
Michael hadn't given him specific directions, but Rick still knew where to go. He made a straight line toward the fence until he came across the truck. It was abandoned, driver's door opened and Rick ran to the far side, fumbling to pull open the back door.
Without words, Rick swiftly put Billy inside, spreading him out on the seat even as Casey scrambled in the other side, throwing Salazar roughly to the floor before closing the door as a hail of bullets pinged just outside.
Rick stayed close to Billy, covering him as best he could even as Michael slid into the driver's seat and started the engine.
"We all good back there?" Michael called back.
Gunfire continued outside, shattering one of the windows.
"Just go!" Rick yelled.
"Preferably before we end up full of holes!" Casey added.
Michael steeled himself visibly, putting the car in gear and pressing down on the gas. Rick just barely had time to brace Billy on the seat as the truck lurched forward and they were off.
Looking at Billy's worn, slack face, Rick knew it couldn't be soon enough.
-o-
Michael had always been the default driver, and he always got the job done. But as he bounced along roughly in the back of the truck, Rick had to admit, the man lacked finesse.
But what he lacked in finesse, he made up for in speed.
And apparent fearlessness.
Michael jerked the wheel but didn't seem to brake, and it was all Rick could do to keep himself upright and Billy still as the truck rocked precariously on the rutted ground. On the ground, Casey was hogtying Salazar, and the criminal grunted, flailing a little as he came to in the chaos.
Despite all this, Billy didn't move, not even when Rick pressed a hand back down on the makeshift bandage, still wincing when fresh blood continued to well up between his fingers.
He stole a glance at Billy's face. Unmoving. Almost gray.
They didn't leave Billy behind this time, but they might lose him all the same. After everything, it seemed wrong. It was wrong. Billy couldn't die. Hecouldn't.
The truck turned hard again, and then picked up speed. "You might want to hold onto something!" Michael called from the front, eyes narrowed and arms straight as he bore down on the gas and didn't yield.
Rick stole a glance out and saw the approaching fence. The checkpoint had been choked off, but it was abandoned, but there wasn't time to stop and open it.
They were out of time.
And by the look on Michael's face, he was out of patience.
Rick knew the impact was coming, but when the truck jolted, the fence flying at the windshield and cracking it before tumbling wildly over the top, he was still unprepared. The force rocked him back, and as he flew forward, he couldn't stop himself as his face smashed into the seat. Below him, Salazar yelped, and Rick felt his knee grind into something fleshy.
He couldn't worry about that, though, not with Billy's body rolling up against him, flopping limply. Rick fumbled blindly for a moment, and when his vision cleared, he could see open space outside the window.
On the far end of the backseat, Casey was crouched, braced. His face was twisted with barely controlled rage. From the front, Michael called back. "That last bump was harder than I expected," he said with unreasonable understatement. "Everyone okay?"
"No permanent damage here," Casey said. He looked down at Salazar. "Unfortunately for some."
"I'm okay," Rick added, his voice sounding a little strained. Then he looked at Billy. The Scot had rolled onto his side, long arms dangling limply off the seat. Rick pressed one hand back to the wound, using the other to run along his face, pausing to feel for the pulse point at his throat. He swallowed in relief. "Billy's still alive."
"Good," Michael said, veering the car back toward the road with more skill now but still at full speed. "Make sure he stays that way. Understood?"
The order was superfluous. It was the one Michael had given back when things started to go wrong. The one Rick had taken upon himself. The one that had been growing since he first opened the drop bottom of the desk, since he joined the team and sat in Billy Collins' desk.
It was time for Billy Collins to go home.
Determined, Rick pressed down harder, eyes trained on Billy's face, and refused to believe in failure.
Yet, there was doubt. Niggling, deep in the back of his mind. What if he was too late. What if this cost him everything. What if Carson Simms was right.
At the thought of Simms, Rick's had to grit his teeth, holding back the urge to swear. This wasn't exactly Carson's fault, but it felt like it. He hadn't meant to pull the trigger, but he'd pointed the gun.
And he'd walked away.
He ran away.
Rick didn't know where he'd have gone, if he'd gotten out alive.
As they raced away from Salazar's compound, Rick couldn't help himself from looking back one last time.
The compound was a speck in the distance and when Michael turned onto the road, taking a sharp left onto a main highway, Rick couldn't see it anymore at all.
-o-
On the open road, Michael's hand steadied and Rick found a position to keep the pressure taut, pressing down with unyielding strength. They were free now; they were safe.
Yet, looking down at Billy, it didn't seem so free or safe after all. Because Billy's pallor got worse, his skin clammy and his complexion ghastly as he took shallow breaths, mouth open and panting.
Then, about two miles out, he started trembling. It was a fine movement at first, but after another mile, it was getting pronounced.
Rick wet his lips and tried to contain his fear. He was no doctor, but he knew what shock looked like. Worse, he knew what it meant.
"How are we looking back there?" Michael's voice interrupted his thoughts.
Rick shifted stiffly. "Getting worse," he reported.
"I think Salazar's fine, though," Casey added.
Next to Rick, bound and gagged, Salazar made a yelping protest. Casey cuffed him on the back of the head.
"But if we don't put him in official custody soon, I can't guarantee that it stays that way," Casey added, even as Salazar gave him an indignant look.
Michael glanced toward Rick. "How bad is worse?" he asked, making eye contract through the mirror. "Do we have time to drop off Salazar first? If we drag him along, we're going to have questions."
Rick's eyes went back to Billy. The Scot hadn't roused once, and even with the pressure, the blood was still flowing. It coated the seat, smeared brightly over the entire back seat.
He forced himself to look away, turning his head to meet Michael's eyes again. Before this mission, he might have doubted speaking up. Not just his own confidence, but that his opinion would have held equal weight. But that doubt was gone now. Or, at any rate, it didn't matter.
He shook his head. "He's losing too much blood," he said. "He's already in shock, and with a gut shot, I think we need to worry about sepsis."
Michael held his gaze a moment longer before nodded resolutely in reply. "Okay," he said. "Once we get to the city, we'll make a straight line for the hospital. Rick, you'll stay with Billy—"
"We're forgetting that Billy technically isn't here at all," Casey said. "No cover; not even a passport."
"I'll get on the phone with Fay and figure it out," Michael said. "Until then, Rick plays the dumb tourist who is too shell shocked to know what's what." He paused until Rick looked back at him. "Can you do that?"
It was something – to be trusted. To be given a part to play, equal and important. No doubts.
No doubts.
Rick nodded. "Yeah," he said.
"Good," Michael replied, eyes back on the road as they raced onward. "Casey and I will take Salazar to a secure location and figure out what to do with him. I'm hoping Fay can come through for us on this one."
"And if she can't?" Casey asked. "We are probably still wanted criminals, if you recall."
"We have the plates," Michael said. "We have Salazar. And most important, we have Billy. I say we call it in and dare Higgins to abandon us now."
Casey inclined an eyebrow. "But Carson—"
Rick flattened his lips into a line. "Made his choice," he said. "Trust me."
"If he needs a rescue, you need to tell us now, Martinez," Michael said evenly.
Rick shook his head. "He was alive."
"So we left a teammate inside a burning building?" he asked. "Again?"
The grief was there, still raw but barely controlled. "I don't think so," Rick said. "He was on his way out when I last saw him."
"On a compound of frantic criminals with guns," Casey reminded him.
"Exactly. Simms made his choice; we made a choice for Billy," Rick insisted. "Besides, if Simms is capable of anything, it's surviving no matter what."
Casey turned his look to Michael. Michael grimaced. Neither disagreed.
Rick shot a glance between him both. "It's a long story," he snapped. "And last I checked, time was one of the things we didn't have."
Casey snuffled, settling back gruffly. "Touché."
"Just keep Billy alive," Michael ordered.
Rick's eyes settled back on Billy, whose breathing was faintly wheezing now as he labored for air.
It was just one order, but as Billy's blood slipped between his fingers, Rick knew that it was easier said than done.
-o-
Rick lost sense of time.
It didn't matter, anyway. He measured life in the stuttering beats of Billy's heart, marking existence with each grating breath. The blood was everywhere, but Rick didn't move his arms. They ached and then they went numb, but he didn't dare move. For Billy.
For Billy.
The man who carved patterns into his desk. The man whose large shoes scuffed the bottom. The man who made a drop bottom to hide tokens of a life Rick couldn't even begin to understand.
But he wanted to find out.
He pressed harder, he didn't waver, because he wanted to find out. No matter what it cost.
Michael drove faster; Casey glowered. Rick pressed hard.
Somewhere, Simms was still running.
And Billy fought to stay alive.
Time would only tell if it was a fight any of them would win.
-o-
At the hospital, things happened quickly. Michael pulled them up to the door, and had run around to Rick's door before he even had a chance to realize they'd stopped.
Then there were voices – yelling and movement – and Billy was pulled from the car, Rick's arms numbly falling away as the Scot was negotiated onto a stretcher.
Then, Rick found himself pulled out into the light, the door slamming behind him. He was bombarded by voices, jabbering fast in Spanish, and he blinked, swaying slightly on his feet at the shock of it all.
Michael's hand gripped his arm, and he pressed closer. "Keep it together," he said. "We need you to take care of Billy. Can you do that?"
Rick wasn't sure if he could stand, much less do anything of value. He was lightheaded and numb and tired and—
The medical team was moving, Billy lost among them, his long limbs limp on the gurney as they pushed him inside.
"Rick," Michael hissed.
It was tempting to give in. To cave. To just let go.
But not yet.
Not now.
Without another look back, he moved forward, catching up to the gurney and leaving Michael and Casey to take care of the rest.
-o-
If anyone doubted Rick's meek cover story of a mugging gone very, very wrong on holiday, they didn't have time to give voice to it. Of course, with Billy's vitals tanking and Rick covered in blood, the medical staff probably had other things to think about.
Still, Rick answered their questions sparsely, telling them that Billy's ID had been lost, that Rick didn't know what had happened exactly and he didn't know what to do.
He didn't know.
As he watched them treat Billy, he just wished that it was more of a lie than it actually was.
They made short work of Billy's clothes. The blood had disguised how tired and worn the garments were, and when Billy's wound was exposed Rick could still see the small hole. It looked too small to be so dangerous, but the blood around it told a much different story. It coated his stomach, smearing up his chest and across his forearms. It was stained down his legs, soaking the boxers, which were all that covered the Scot.
Rick's Spanish was almost as good as his English, so picking up the medical jargon wasn't hard. Someone said something about a rapid infuser; someone else noted his oxygen levels were dropping. An IV was started and when the heart monitor went live, the erratic beat was hardly reassuring.
Something bleated plaintively, and someone hung a second IV, this one dark with blood. The machine blared again, and Rick found himself pushed out of the way.
The dialogue picked up, the overlapping voices hard to distinguish as someone probed the wound before pressing down a fresh bandage. Billy started trembling again – more noticeably now – and the heart monitor registered an increased beat and Billy's blood pressure started to drop.
And then someone was hauling him out, telling him about protocol and paperwork and how they needed him to fill out some forms.
Rick shook his head, starting to protest, tripping over his own feet as the nurse started to force him away.
Billy was his responsibility.
But he'd done everything he could for Billy.
As the nurse dragged him to the hallway, Rick caught one last look at the Scot, unmoving on the gurney as the doctors worked, and told himself it was enough.
And if he was starting to lie as much as his teammates, now was no time to start admitting that.
-o-
Rick wasn't sure how long he sat in the hospital, staring blankly at the stack of paperwork he'd been handed. It was in Spanish, which really wasn't a problem, but he was more than content to let the hospital think it was. While they tried to find him a translator, he stared listlessly at the wall, the pen barely clasped in his blood-stained hands.
Looking down, he thought they'd have to get him all new forms anyway; these were now smudged with red.
Billy's blood.
The thought made his stomach clench and he looked away again, eyes darting uncertainly around the room. He felt conspicuous. Which, drenched in blood, he did stand out, and was probably why the hospital had put him in a private waiting room. It could have been for his own comfort, but he suspected that his appearance would be unsettling to other people milling about. He thought he should clean up, but he didn't have any clothes. And he didn't know what he was supposed to do. He'd gotten Billy to the hospital, and Michael had said he'd take care of the rest…
And then, there he was.
Michael's sudden appearance was so well timed that for a second, Rick thought he was actually imagining it. It wouldn't have surprised him; he still felt a bit off kilter after everything. But when Michael's eyes locked with his, Rick knew this was real.
Blood stained hands, shaky covers and possible charges back home kind of real.
Michael started over, unflinching, Casey a step behind him. They both looked grim, faces taut with worry, aging them more than Rick had ever seen. Between finding Billy and almost losing Billy, between reuniting the team and losing Simms, Rick couldn't blame them.
Though suddenly, Rick realized their presence wasn't so comforting.
Because they might have taken care of what they could, but there were still questions to ask. Questions that only Rick could answer.
Questions that Rick was still trying to figure out himself.
Still, Rick wasn't going to run. Not now; not ever.
Michael settled in the chair next to him, glancing at the bloodstained paperwork while Casey sat stiffly on Michael's other side. "Any news?"
Rick shook his head. "I think they took him up to surgery, but they've been too busy bothering me about paperwork to tell me anything else."
Michael made a face. "We've got Fay working on paperwork of our own," he said. "We should be able to get a fake passport via the American Embassy soon enough. That should expedite the process."
"So it's taken care of?" Rick asked, daring to hope just a little that something might go right for once. "Billy's got an identity?"
"It was a bit of a hassle to figure out how to get around the fact that he never technically entered the country, but we burned a few favors," Michael replied.
Casey snorted.
Michael shrugged. "Or more than a few," he amended. "The fact that we got Salazar and the plates helped, though."
"It also helped clear up our potential legal troubles," Casey added.
"The Secret Service boys weren't happy, but the fact that we tidied up their case faster and better than they could have means something," he said.
"Though I still object to those yahoos getting all the credit when they effectively sat on their asses and did nothing," Casey said.
"As long as we get home, I think it's a win," Rick said, sinking back in his chair slightly, his adrenaline faltering with the promise of his job and Billy's passage back home taken care of.
Next to him, Michael didn't relax, though. He hesitated a moment, eyes keen as he looked at Rick steadily. "We've taken care of our end," he said. "And the doctors are taking care of Billy. Which means we've still got one issue we need to clear up."
Just like that, the tension built again, and Rick swallowed convulsively. His frayed nerves flared up again, and he ground his teeth together to keep his expression impassive. Because Rick knew what was coming. And it wasn't just that Rick didn't want to talk about what had happened back in Salazar's office; it was that he didn't even know if he could explain it if he tried.
Michael showed no signs of backing down, however. "I went against every instinct I had back there and left an operative behind," he said. "And I need to know why."
Michael's voice was steady, but the emotion was roiling just beneath the surface. It struck Rick again, more clearly now, just what a risk Michael had taken. Leaving without Simms – leaving without any of them – wasn't something Michael would take lightly. On this mission, more than the rest. And yet, Michael had. Michael had listened to Rick and trusted Rick, and no matter how hard it was, Rick owed him an explanation.
"You didn't leave him," he said finally, trying to keep his voice even despite the emotion threatening to choke him. A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed around it, forcing out the words with such control that it hurt. "He left us behind."
To that, Michael had no reaction. Next to him, Casey's dour expression darkened even further. "That's a nice sound byte," Michael said, head inclined, "but I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific this time."
Rick sighed, and it came back to him. He could still see Simms, the gun to Salazar's head. The desperate, panicked, rage that solidified when the gun turned on Rick. "When I went after Simms, I found him in Salazar's office with a gun to his head."
Michael didn't seem surprised. "Well, the man did kidnap one of our teammates and hold him hostage for three years," he said.
"If you had found me alone with Salazar, chances are that you wouldn't have found him alive," Casey said.
"That's not true, and you know it," Rick said.
"Well, you wouldn't have found him conscious," Casey allowed tersely.
"Exactly," Rick said. "You wouldn't have killed him."
"I'm still not seeing how this leads to us running out with Simms not with us," Michael said.
Rick looked at his hands, bloodstained and worn. He gestured helplessly. "I tried to talk him out of it, thought like you that he'd just gotten carried away," he explained. Then he remembered Salazar's knowing tone, Mr. Simms. Rick looked up, meeting Michael's gaze again unrepentantly. "Simms knew Salazar."
"We all know Salazar," Michael said. "We studied his file for months prepping for North Africa and we studied it for a year afterward looking for any clue where he might have gone."
"No," Rick said, shaking his head, adamant now. The shock of the situation was giving way to exhaustion, and with exhaustion, he was finding his patience thin. "He knew him. And Salazar knew Simms. I don't know what your mission was three years ago, but it didn't end the way you think it did."
Michael's posture went stiff, but he belied no other sign of concern. "You're still lobbing vague statements and not backing them up."
Rick blew out a breath, willing himself to retain control. It wasn't that he couldn't see Michael's point of view – because he did — but how was he about to explain what happened? That Simms had been compromised? Not just on this mission, but for three years.
Michael prided himself on knowing everything, and he'd missed this. But it made sense. Looking back now, everything made sense.
And yet, nothing made sense at all. "Simms was the last one to see Billy, right?"
Michael nodded. "They were together in the compound," he said. "Their job was to find Salazar."
"And Simms came back alone?" Rick prompted.
"Yeah," Michael said, face going a little whiter. "He said he couldn't get to Billy with the debris and when I turned to go back, the entire place went up."
That might have been hard to envision, once. Now, it was too damn easy.
"Salazar blackmailed Simms," Rick blurted finally, not knowing any other way to say it. "Forced him to turn over the intel from the mission by threatening to kill him and expose all of you. Simms gave him the intel, and when Billy came after Simms, Salazar took him, too. He told Simms he'd kill them both if he stayed." Rick shrugged, the futility of it all almost overwhelming him. "So Simms walked away."
It wasn't a long explanation, but it was long enough to leave Rick feeling winded. His chest ached and his stomach felt queasy, the blood on his fingers making his skin feel tight. He'd always believed the truth mattered, that the truth would make things right, but these truths didn't help anything.
These truths were difficult and wrong, painful and unrelenting.
Simms had chosen himself.
Over his team. Over Billy. Over his job. Over everything.
Casey had gone utterly still, eyes unblinking as he stared at Rick. Michael breathed in steady inhalations, studying Rick with unyielding scrutiny. They were looking for a sign – that he was lying, that he was mistaken, that maybe the smoke had gone to his head and muddled everything up. They were looking for a way for him to be wrong.
"That's quite a story," Michael said.
"And one hell of an accusation," Casey rejoined.
Rick couldn't back down now. "I know," he said. "I didn't want to believe it either, but he said it himself. And Billy – I think he suspected all along. And even then, I thought maybe I misunderstood but then he turned the gun on me."
Michael cocked his head. "He what?"
"He turned the gun on me," Rick repeated, struggling to keep his momentum when everything inside of him wanted to stop. To just make it not be this way anymore. "I had my gun up, to make him stop. I thought he'd see sense, but instead he threatened to kill me first."
Michael Dorset had always been in cold command of the facts as long as Rick had known him. He was cynical and jaded and paranoid as hell, but he'd never been one to shy away from the truth.
But at the admission of Simms' choice to turn the gun on Rick, he was plainly conflicted, and Rick recognized the telltale signs of denial fighting against the facts as Rick explained.
Rick wanted to stop. He wished he could. But after three years, Michael and Casey deserved the truth.
Billy deserved the truth.
Even Rick deserved it. "Salazar had him backed into a corner, and Simms decided to fight his way out."
"That doesn't mean we should cut him out," Michael said. "He's still our teammate—"
Rick threw up his hands. He didn't blame Michael or Casey, but he had no other answers to give them. He had no way of sugarcoating this. He only had the raw and horrible truth, no matter how much any of them wanted to deny it. "You think I wanted it to go down like this?" he exploded. "I knew I couldn't pull the trigger, no matter what. And then Billy showed up, and he wouldn't even listen to Billy. Billy forgave him for everything and Simms was still too focused on saving his own skin to listen."
"Carson Simms isn't a traitor," Michael retorted without hesitation. The plaintive statement carried as much conviction as Michael could muster.
It wasn't enough.
Rick stared him back down. "No, but he is a compromised operative," he said, and there was a difference. Rick might not have thought so once, but he wasn't the naïve rookie anymore. He knew more than he wanted to. "That's why he was going to kill Salazar. That's why he turned the gun on me. That's why he ran off after shooting Billy—"
The minute he said it, Rick knew it'd come out wrong. Not that it wasn't true, but it was too plain, too forceful. The accusation of guilt was hard enough; that Simms was the one who shot Billy…
Rick didn't want to believe it. Wouldn't have believed it, but he'd been there. He'd heard the shot; he's seen Carson's guilt; he'd held Billy while he bled.
Michael froze. Casey turned white, fingers clenched into fists so hard that it looked like his skin on his knuckles might split from the force alone.
For a moment, the words hung there, Rick's mouth still open, half horrified that he'd said it, but too terrified to take it back.
"It was an accident," Rick amended, throwing it on half-heartedly. In everything, that much was true. Simms wouldn't have shot Billy, otherwise. Rick found himself questioning a lot of truth, but he didn't question that. It was Simms' fault, without a doubt, but it had still been an accident. "We heard the noise in the hall, and Simms slipped—"
Rick could still hear the bang. Could still remember seeing Billy lying on the floor, blood covering his dirty shirt.
"—It was an accident," he said again, too aware of how feeble it sounded.
"How can you be sure?" Michael demanded.
Rick wet his lips. "My gun was down. Billy didn't have his pulled. Salazar was unconscious."
Another long moment passed where no one seemed to breathe. Rick's eyes darted uncertainly between Michael and Casey, but neither of them would look at him now. There were no more questions; there were no more clarifications.
Just slow, certain acceptance.
Just critical, unrelenting understanding.
"I think it broke Simms," Rick said, because he could still see the visceral pain that left Simms doubled over. "He didn't mean—"
"He shot Billy," Casey clarified, voice sharp like glass.
"And then he left while Billy was bleeding," Michael said, traces of anger rising to the top now.
Rick felt his confidence waver for some reason, not because it wasn't true but because he wasn't sure how they would react. What this would do to Michael and Casey. What this would mean for the team. If any of them could recover from this.
But denying it wasn't possible, and it wouldn't help. Not in the long run. It was plain what Simms' denial had done to the team already; it was time to rectify that.
No matter how much it hurt.
"It was a no-win situation," Rick said, trying to shrug, trying to make sense of it. For all his anger and indignation regarding Simms' choice, he suddenly felt a pang of sympathy for the man. Three years he carried a secret. Three years knowing he'd made a choice to live while someone else died. It had destroyed him more than the rest, hollowed him out and left him desperate and meager.
Simms had saved his life and condemned it all at once. It was hard not to feel sorry for him. Simms had always been the one to teach him about shades of gray. Now, more than ever.
Michael pressed his lips together for a moment. Then, he laughed. "That's not true," he said. "Maybe we couldn't win everything, but Simms made sure he came out on top."
"He made a mistake," Rick said. "He never meant—"
Michael shook his head. "Go," he said, voice so low it was hardly audible.
Rick blinked, wondering if he'd misheard.
Michael looked up, eyes flashing as they met Rick's. "Go," he said again, the order gruff and harsh, unlike Rick had ever heard from the man before.
Rick was at a loss. He'd been prepared for anger, for denial, for violence, for tears. "But—"
"If you don't want us to forcibly remove you from the room and place you unconscious in a hospital bed, go," Casey said.
Rick blinked again.
"Check on Billy," Michael said, cold and certain now.
"But what are you going to do?" he asked. "About Simms?"
"That's our business," Michael said.
"But I'm part of this team—" Rick began to protest.
"You are," Michael agreed. "But Simms isn't anymore. If this was about Panama, it'd be different. But this is about North Africa, and when I say you need to leave that to us, I mean you need to leave it to us."
Part of Rick knew it was a mistake. The news Michael and Casey had just been told – it was too much to let them process alone. It was too much to trust them to process alone. Rick wasn't sure what they would do – what they even could do – but he had a sneaking suspicion he might not want to find out.
Still, they were right, somehow. Simms hadn't betrayed Rick; not really. He'd betrayed Michael and Casey. He'd betrayed Billy.
His team had given him their trust. It was Rick's turn to return the favor.
Because these were good men. The best men he'd ever known. He trusted them.
Nodding, he got to his feet. "Okay," he said. Then he hesitated. "The paperwork…"
"Check with the desk," Michael said. "Fay was having it transferred."
Rick nodded, but lingered again. "You're not leaving, are you?"
Michael looked at Rick, Casey's gaze following along. "We know you need us, kid," he said. "And Billy needs all of us. We won't be far."
Rick nodded again. "Okay," he said, feeling awkward, like the puzzle piece out of place again, trying to fit in but the grooves never matching up. "So, uh. I guess I'll see you."
Neither of his teammates made any reply. They didn't watch as Rick left. Outside, Rick let the door shut, pausing. He looked back through the glass.
Casey was sitting, straight and stiff. His lips were moving, even if his face remained expressionless. In reply, Michael took a ragged breath, head dropping down into his hands.
With all the strength he could muster, Rick walked away.
-o-
At the desk, Rick found a nurse. He tried to show her his unfilled forms, but she seemed to know something he didn't. "No, no," she said in accented English. "Paperwork has been faxed over from the Embassy."
"So I'm good?"
She took the bloodstained forms and put them aside. "Good, good," she said. "And you are, ah, one of the medical contacts?"
Rick blinked, and realized that Fay must have pulled more strings than he'd expected. Not only had she taken care of Billy's identity, but she'd linked them all together. Though considering that Billy was an operative that the CIA had lost for three years, he supposed they owed him that.
Whatever favors Fay had pulled, the entire attitude of the staff shifted. Suddenly Rick wasn't some wayward tourist struggling to speak English; he was somehow a VIP that the staff knew by name. They escorted him upstairs to a surgical waiting room where he was immediately greeted by a nurse.
She offered him platitudes and sparing answers, telling him that Billy was in surgery to fix the damage to his stomach and stop the bleeding, before letting him settle down to wait.
Rick was used to waiting. He'd waited for years to become a CIA agent. He'd waited for his fiancée to finally marry him. He'd waited to become part of the ODS. He'd waited to find the mystery man who'd shared his desk.
He'd achieved some of that, others not so much. But the things that mattered came through.
Sitting there, alone, Rick could only hope that would prove to be the case again.
-o-
After an hour, an orderly found him, and offered him some clean clothes and something to eat. Rick was too tired to disagree. In the bathroom, he threw his soiled clothes into the bag that had been provided, scrunching his nose as the blood started flaking to the floor.
Washing his hands was a laborious process, and no matter how he scrubbed, he couldn't quite whittle away the remnants of red stuck deep beneath his fingernails and dried into his cuticles. He used up an entire roll of paper towels, and it still took him most of the second roll before he felt mostly clean. He felt unsettled leaving the bloody towels in the trashcan like that, but he didn't know what else to do.
Which seemed to be a common theme for this mission.
Weary, he trudged back to the waiting area he'd been left in, nibbling on an apple before half heartedly eating a cookie. After another hour, he found himself almost dozing, head lolled back against the wall despite his better efforts.
He couldn't let go entirely, though, no matter how tired he was. Because Michael and Casey were coping – probably poorly – and Billy was in surgery – possibly dying – and Carson was on the run – maybe never to be seen again.
If Rick let go, he might never get it back. After everything, that wasn't something he was willing to risk.
At this point, he didn't have another choice.
-o-
When the doctor finally came, Rick realized he'd been asleep. Coming to, he found himself badly disoriented, not sure what country he was in or what name he was going by.
The confusion passed quickly, though, when she started talking in staccato English that was surprisingly clear.
"First let me apologize for any inconvenience when you first came in," she said. "We were not aware of your special affiliations with the Embassy. You have our apologies for the extra hassles you encountered upon your arrival with your friend."
Rick got to his feet, teetering for a moment while his head finished clearing. He worked to focus his eyes, nodding intently. "That's perfectly alright," he said. "I was pretty out of it."
"Understandably, given the shock," she said with a polite nod.
"So how is he?" Rick prompted, unwilling to endure further small talk.
Her carefully crafted mask faltered for a moment, but she smiled. "He made it through surgery and is currently being observed in recovery while we wait for him to be stable enough to move to the ICU."
That wasn't so bad, Rick thought. After all the waiting and the worry, Billy being alive didn't sound bad at all.
Except that there was more to it than that. He braced himself for the inevitable but.
She gathered a breath, forcing her smile even more than before. "The bullet fortunately missed the majority of the small intestines, but it still nicked his liver and damaged several of the hepatic veins and arteries, resulting in extreme blood loss. We have transfused him with several liters to help combat his hypovolemia, but his condition is still very guarded. The risk of infection remains high, despite preventative antibiotics."
The explanation was clear and to the point, but Rick found himself struggling to keep up. Not because he didn't understand, but because he was still trying to figure out just what it meant. Knowing the damage to the internal organs was one thing, but Rick still needed to know one simple truth. "Will he be okay?"
Her smile fell and she pressed her lips together, looking at him seriously. "If we can fend off the worst of the infection and continue to help his vitals rebound, then yes, he may be okay. However, that much blood loss takes time to recover from, and with his weakened system, it may be more than he can handle. If he starts bleeding again, or if an infection takes root, it could compromise his chances at recovery."
Rick felt the lump reform in his throat, and he tried to swallow it, feeling almost like he was choking.
This time, her smile was sympathetic. "We'll know more in a few hours," she said as reassuringly as possible. "And you will be allowed to sit with him while he recovers."
Rick nodded numbly.
She gave a small shrug. "I know it's hard," she said. "But right now, it's just a waiting game."
After everything, Rick thought that should be something he was used to, but as he followed the doctor back to Billy, he knew he wasn't used to it at all.
-o-
When he was finally left alone with Billy, Rick's first instinct was to be relieved. Thanks to Fay and the crew back at Langley, it seemed his credentials and Billy's identity were infallible now, which certainly reduced his stress level.
But standing there, looking at Billy, it was anything but a relief.
Billy was still alive, that was true, but the slack figure was hardly recognizable. The thought suddenly struck him as odd: after all, Rick had only know Billy Collins for a day. The too-thin features could have been any stranger to Rick, and the thick beard might have been his everyday appearance as far as Rick knew. Save from one photo in a file, Rick had never seen the man before.
But that wasn't what was so hard to recognize. It was the stillness, the utter lack of expression. Ever since Rick had met Billy Collins, he hadn't stopped. He'd been effusive and upbeat, always thinking and plotting. There had been a hollow darkness there – something Rick had only glanced briefly – but despite what he'd been through, Billy showed more life and vitality than the rest of the ODS combined.
Even though they'd just met, Rick had appreciated that. Hell, he'd practically come alive with it. Billy's enthusiasm had made him thrive; it had dramatically improved the team dynamic, revitalizing it from the inside out.
Yet, there he was. Hooked up to machine, eyes closed; unconscious and injured. A shadow of the operative Rick had met.
More than that, a ghost of the person he'd come to know through his poetry and his desk. There had been such hope, such dogged optimism; Billy Collins had never been idle. He was always moving, scratching things into his desk, scribbling poetry in his free time. That was Billy Collins.
This…
This wasn't right.
After three years they'd found Billy, only he had rescued Rick as much as Rick had rescued him. He deserved better.
And Rick couldn't do anything.
But he had to.
Michael and Casey were gone; Carson was never coming back. This was Rick's responsibility now.
This was Rick's only mission.
Standing there, lingering close, it seemed like the most important one yet.
-o-
Rick waited.
The truth was, he wasn't sure what he was waiting for. The nurse had explained that Billy was deeply sedated; even if his vital did rebound enough, the medication wouldn't let him come close to rousing.
But still, Rick waited.
Because that was what he'd been ordered to do.
As the time passed, though, he thought it was more than that. This wasn't just a responsibility. Billy wasn't a burden.
Studying Billy, he wasn't sure what the Scotsman was to him.
He was more than his predecessor. He was more than a legend. He was more than a victim, a good operative, one of the CIA's best.
He was…
He was the ODS. The soul of it, the very essence of it. He made everything make sense.
He was the kind of man who took a bullet for a stranger. A hero.
Someone Rick wanted to know. Maybe someone he'd known all along, but someone he wanted to know better. A teammate. Maybe a friend.
Maybe.
Billy breathed; his heart beat. Rick waited; for as long as it took.
-o-
Whatever Fay had arranged, Rick knew he'd owe her more than a little when they got back. Not only were the doctors and nurses suddenly deferential and patient, but they hardly even asked him to leave. Visiting hours apparently didn't exist for him, and he found himself dozing in Billy's small room.
Billy didn't change – he seemed no better and no worse – and he hovered in a perpetual state of what seemed like near-death to Rick. The doctors were polite but not particularly encouraging, and the sympathetic looks from the nurses were beginning to set Rick's nerves on end.
Sleeping was probably inevitable, but when he roused the next morning at the nurse's shift change, he still felt as though he'd let someone down.
But Billy didn't flicker on the hospital bed; medicated and unconscious.
Billy's obliviousness only made him feel worse.
"Pardon me, sir," the nurse said, offering him up that forcefully courteous smile all the nurses seemed to have perfected. "This message was left for you."
Bleary-eyed, Rick took it and he was still blinking his way back to full awareness as the nurse started about the room, making notes and taking vitals, putting her name on the white board before updating other pertinent information that Rick had tried to look at but failed to comprehend.
When she finally left, he squinted to make out the handwriting – clearly someone who wasn't a native English speaker – and put together the message.
At the hotel – catch us before noon or we'll see you in a week.
–M
Sparse as it was, Rick had no uncertainty as to who it was from. Michael often operated on a need-to-know basis; he preferred to dispense details sparingly, and Rick was often on the receiving end of such scarcity. While Rick could appreciate such brevity in an unsecured method of communication, he had to admit, the vagueness of it left him unsettled.
Not that it was actually vague. Michael and Casey had clearly gone back to the hotel – the same one they'd started in, since Michael hadn't specified otherwise. And obviously, Michael and Casey were getting ready to leave.
Squinting, Rick looked up at the clock. It was already 9 AM.
Michael and Casey were getting ready to leave soon.
Either they expected Rick to drop everything and do their bidding, or they hoped Rick wouldn't have time to show up at all.
Which, of course, meant that Rick probably needed to show up more than ever.
Because where could Michael and Casey be going? At a time like this? They had Salazar; they had dismantled his operation. They had scored big in every element of the mission. There were no loose ends to tie up – because they'd left the entire place burning.
More than all that, they'd found Billy, which was really what this had been about from the beginning. Hell, that was what it had been about for the last three years even if Rick hadn't known it and none of them had bothered to acknowledge it. Billy was the missing link of the ODS, and he was here. Alive, if not well, and he needed them now more than ever.
And Michael and Casey were in a hotel room, ready to leave.
There was only one possible reason. One explanation that made any sense.
Because if one wayward member of the ODS was in a hospital bed, another was now at large. Michael and Casey had risked everything to bring one home; Rick had to only think they'd do the same for the other.
Where Billy was a hero, innocent and lauded, Rick couldn't imagine what fate Carson would await. Not just for North Africa, not just for leaving Billy behind once; but for doing it again.
Rick's stomach turned a little, and he looked up blankly for a moment before his eyes settled on Billy. Rick had seen one teammate walk away. Maybe Casey and Michael had better reasons, maybe they intended on coming back but if Billy Collins was a textbook case of the unexpected.
It wouldn't be worth it.
Justice wasn't worth it.
Billy Collins was.
Getting up, Rick moved close, squeezing the recumbent Scotsman on the arm. "I know this whole walking away thing is getting a bit overdone, but when I tell you that I'll be back, I mean it," he said. He lingered, trying to smile. "After all, we need to talk about the condition of your desk. So you can count on it."
He squeezed once more, forcing himself to swallow.
Then he walked away.
Not for the first time. But he hoped for the last.
-o-
Getting to the motel was harder than Rick had anticipated. He walked out of the hospital with his head high and the best of intentions.
Then he realized he didn't have a car.
Then he realized he didn't have more than 10 dollars.
Then he realized the motel was on the other side of town.
Discouraged and embarrassed, he found his way back to the main desk. He had only managed to start spinning his tail when the receptionist had a cab on the phone and she was telling him not to worry about payment.
Rick wasn't about to let his pride stand in the way of what he needed, especially when it involved keeping his team together.
Or rather, keeping what was left of his team together.
He checked his watch nervously throughout the car ride, trying not to think of the look on Carson's face when he walked away, the stillness of Billy's features in the hospital room. This could still be salvaged. Rick had to believe that.
When the driver pulled up outside the hotel, Rick was somewhat less certain. Still, he thanked the man, who told him to have a wonderful day. Rick loitered awkwardly for a moment, waiting for the man to pull away before he headed in.
It was a nice hotel with a tropical feel. It clearly catered to Americans, and Rick nodded congenially at the reception staff as he slinked through the front doors and across the lobby. Their room had been on the third floor, large enough to sleep all of them with a comfortable breeze off its included balcony. With the four of them it had been a tight fit, but none of them had been particularly concerned about sleeping on this mission.
Even with everything that had happened, that much hadn't changed. The sleep Rick had gotten sitting next to Billy's hospital bed hadn't done him much good, and as he pulled out his hotel key card, he felt more sluggish and tired than he remembered.
Or maybe he just really wasn't looking forward to whatever Michael and Casey had planned.
At any rate, Rick wasn't one to quit, especially not now. The lock flashed green and Rick pushed it open, putting his card back in his pocket as he shuffled inside.
And then someone grabbed his arm, wrenching it behind his back before turning him violently and slamming him against the wall, bracing him there by pushing roughly on his opposite shoulder.
Wide-eyed, Rick yelped, frantically trying to remember some type of self-defense before he was ruthlessly murdered.
"Casey!" Michael's voice came. "Stand down!"
The person behind him gave a heavy breath, his grip still tight. "You should know better than to walk into a room unprepared," Casey seethed into his ear.
Rick looked over his shoulder, trying not to whimper as pain lanced through his arm at the precarious position. "Noted," he said.
Casey seemed to scowl, but he eased his grip, letting Rick go.
Rick tried to calm his racing heart, straightening his clothes in a vain attempt to look presentable. The clothing he'd been given yesterday had been clean, but they were a little too big and more casual than he normally preferred on a mission. "Though you did tell me to come," Rick said, just a touch petulant.
Casey snorted, going back over to the bed, packing his things.
Michael shrugged coolly, putting a file folder down on the table. "We weren't sure you'd come," he said.
Rick resisted the urge to laugh, because he could read between the lines. More like they were hoping he wouldn't show up in time.
Then, Rick really looked around. The hotel room was in a state of disarray. The beds were rumpled but not unmade, and there were papers everywhere with an open laptop next to the file Michael had put down. Someone had tacked up a map, and there was an array of pushpins punched through, connecting strings to various points around the globe.
It might have been amusing, but Rick knew better. To some, it might have looked like a child's version of spycraft, but the frenetic, unkempt nature of it was hardly child's play. Michael had always been a paranoid bastard with a mind that wouldn't quit, but usually his plotting was controlled and orderly.
This…was anything but.
This was personal.
Rick swallowed. "You're going after Simms."
Casey didn't look up from his work. Michael pursed his lips, but notably didn't deny it.
Rick kept his temper. "Do you think you found him?"
At that, Michael took a breath. He hesitated, as if he might withhold this information, but then he nodded. "We think so," he said.
"Or, at the very least, we have a good idea of where he might have gone," Casey added shortly.
"We know Simms," Michael explained. "We know his habits and his connections."
Casey sighed, zipping his bag and looking at Rick plainly. "What he means is that the only advantage to working with a traitor for all these years is that we know how to betray him right back," he said. "So I guess there is a bright side to all this."
"We think we have a solid lead," Michael continued, more diplomatically. "But if we don't go after him now, his trail's going to dry up quickly. He's good at making connections, so it won't be long until he gets out of the predictable hiding places and finds something a bit more permanent."
Michael was right about that; Carson Simms was good at surviving. To the man's credit, he'd told Rick that in the beginning. Rick had just never thought…
He'd never thought a lot of things.
But that wasn't the point.
"So that's it, then?" Rick prompted. "You're just going after him?"
"He shot Billy," Casey interjected roughly. "Not to mention the fact that he left him to die. Twice. I know I'm not the best when it comes to being a good person, but even I can see some things as moral absolutes."
Rick's brow furrowed. "You just found out about this a day ago," he protested. "And you've already tried and convicted him!"
"Are you saying you lied?" Michael asked.
Rick shrank back. "No—"
"We also did some looking into North Africa," Michael said. "We had never considered an inside job before, but once we did everything made sense."
"Not to mention this explains his behavior over the years," Casey said crossly.
"I didn't want to believe it, but the evidence is there," Michael said, holding out the file. "Once we looked for it…"
Reluctant, Rick took the file. He flipped it open, surprised to see that it was a detailed analysis of the North Africa mission. He shook his head. "That still doesn't explain why."
"Reasons are sentimental," Casey said sharply.
"And it doesn't make it less wrong," Michael added. "He left Billy to die. He was ready to kill you to cover this up."
Rick knew that. He'd been there. But…
He shook his head again. "He deserves to be held accountable, but it has to be fair," Rick said. "And you two are running off for vigilante justice."
Michael inclined his head. "I thought you were onboard with the unsanctioned missions."
"For the greater good," Rick said. He tossed the file on the bed. "This isn't the greater good. This is revenge."
"And I'm not seeing the problem," Casey said.
"We deal with our own, Martinez," Michael said. "Carson made a choice, and now he needs to live with it."
Rick could still see the brokenness, the desperation on Simms' face. He was living with it, and no matter how far he ran or how close to ground he went, he'd never escape it. He hadn't escaped North Africa; he'd never escape Panama.
But that wasn't the point, because that wasn't the priority. Simms had made his choice for himself at Billy's expense. And now Michael and Casey wanted to do the same thing.
And that wasn't okay.
Face set, Rick lifted his chin in determination. "So you're making a choice, too," he said. "You're choosing a personal vendetta over being there for Billy."
Casey's brow darkened and Michael's eyes narrowed. "It's not the same thing and you know it," Michael said, voice low, a little dangerous.
Rick refused to be cowed. He held his head high, maintained eye contact. "Billy's in the hospital right now," he reminded them. "Recovering from a gunshot wound after being presumed dead and held hostage for three years."
"That's why you're there," Michael said.
"And why you should go back," Casey added.
Rick shook his head, more adamant now. "We're a team," he said. "We're there for each other. Billy barely knows me; it's you he's going to look for. It's you he needs. He already had one teammate leave him, he doesn't need two more to walk away, no matter what the reasons."
"It's a week, Martinez," Michael said, and Rick detected a hint of pleading.
But Rick wouldn't budge. "Yeah, and it was just three years," he said. "Isn't it what you just said? The reasons don't matter? The action does? All Billy's going to know when he wakes up is that you're not there. Just like you weren't there for three years."
It was a low blow, and Rick knew it. Emotional blackmail at its finest. But someone needed to hit the nail right on the head and drive the point home. Simms didn't deserve a free pass, but this wasn't about Simms anymore. They could track him down later; they could stalk him and arrest him and turn him into Higgins for a right and proper investigation. If that resulted in charges then Rick wouldn't object.
But it wasn't his decision. It wasn't his primary concern.
This was about the team. About Michael and Casey and Rick and…Billy. The ODS. Now that they were finally together, Rick realized how much he never wanted to think of them breaking up again. It wasn't right, to disrupt the big picture right when things made sense. Not for revenge.
And definitely not for Carson Simms. Traitor, confused man, whatever he was. He wasn't worth it.
Billy was.
This team was.
"And if something happened to him now?" Rick pushed. "I mean, if you walked away now and something happened? You haven't even asked how he is."
Casey's face was painfully blank, but Michael was stiff. "We've been kind of busy," Michael said.
"Yeah, so have I," Rick said. "Sitting by Billy's bedside, watching a machine breathe for him."
Casey didn't flinch, but Michael's frame shook just slightly, his expression wavering.
Rick didn't back down. "And you know who's doing the most work right now?" he prodded. "Billy. Trying to live. So you can spare me your stories about revenge or justice or whatever. We look after our own. So do it."
Michael's expression flickered again, and he finally sighed. "Damn it," he muttered.
"Should I tell you about how many IVs he has?" Rick said.
Michael shook his head. "Your point is made, kid."
Casey glowered. "We're still going after him," he said.
"Fine," Rick agreed. "When Billy is awake, we can talk about that. Together."
"We will talk about that," Casey said pointedly.
"Among other things," Michael said.
Casey held up one finger. "And I make no promises of restraint when we do find Simms," he said. "My fuse can burn long and it can burn hard. Asking me to simmer is never a good idea."
Rick nodded. "Noted."
Michael sighed again, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck. Then he eyed Rick. "That wasn't really fair, you know."
"It's a testament to how tired I am that an emotional appeal would have any weight," Casey muttered.
At that, Rick finally smiled. "That's why we're a team," he said. "We need each other."
Casey shook his head crossly, moving toward the door without looking at Rick in total exasperation.
Michael gave him a critical look, frowning a bit.
Rick made a face. "Too much?"
"Yeah, just a bit," he said. Then he cocked his head thoughtfully. "I think Billy's rubbing off on you already."
Michael moved past him to the door, and Rick stood for a minute to smile. Because he certainly hoped so.
Following his teammates, he hoped a lot of things.
And for the first time in his CIA tenure, he believed maybe – just maybe – it would be enough.
-o-
This time, they came back together.
The nurses gave them a strange look, one of them positively scowling, but no one stopped them as they crowded into Billy's room. Whatever Fay had told the hospital staff, it was good for a lot. Which made sense to Rick. The ODS was good in and of itself, but it was better with a support system at home.
At least, that was how it had been with Simms. Now, Simms was gone, and everything was different.
Simms was gone, and Billy was here.
Simms had chosen to leave, but Rick had stayed. Rick had stayed, and Michael and Casey had chosen to stay, too. Now it was just up to Billy.
Rick sat close. Michael hovered. Even Casey watched nearby while Billy lay stilly on the bed, breathing, fighting, living.
"Just stay," Rick whispered, a quiet benediction at his bedside. "Stay, and we'll stay, too."
It was a promise.
It was the truth.
In everything, it was probably the only truth that mattered.
-o-
The team had a quiet resolve. It was like back at the office in Langley, they all approached things in their own way. Michael dealt with the medical staff, overseeing Billy's condition and orchestrating things back at the Agency. Casey brooded silently, alternating between stoic stillness and restless pacing. Sometimes Rick caught him humming under his breath, and in his mind he could still hear the haunting tune from Bolivia, when Rick had nearly bled out in the back of the van.
Rick had always wondered about his place in all this; he'd tried to figure out where he fit in. Sometimes he still didn't know what to say to Michael, and Casey's looks often left him feeling awkward and uncomfortable. But there was something different now, a shared understanding in the quiet between them.
They worked around each other, moving in understated harmony. When one of them left, the other took his place, and they brought coffee and doughnuts to share in turn. Rick knew that Michael liked salads for lunch and that Casey always loaded with protein, and one day Michael brought Rick his favorite kind of burger, and that was the way it was.
It wasn't so different, maybe, but somehow so much better. Together, they rallied. Together, they made sure that Billy knew where he belonged – right there with them.
Because Michael was the leader of the ODS. Casey was the strong man. Rick was the new guy. And Billy…
Time would tell, Rick knew as he sat and waited.
He had to believe that time would tell.
-o-
After two days, Billy's vitals improved. Michael picked up on this before the rest of them, noting the changes in the nurse's checkup and sitting up straighter during rounds with the doctor. When the doctor confirmed that Billy seemed to be rebounding, Casey perked up, and Rick found himself inching forward with wide eyes.
"So he's going to be okay?" he asked, not able to contain the hope welling up in him.
The doctor nodded, looking genuinely pleased. "He has a significant recovery period ahead, and the risk of infection remains high, but he's rapidly improving," she said. "I'm going to order that we reduce his medication and see if we can get him to start waking up in the next few days."
Rick stared, and then he looked at Billy. The Scotsman still looked pale, still looked a little gaunt, but he was alive. He was getting better. He was going to be okay.
Casey snorted and moved closer. Michael clapped Rick on the shoulder.
They were all going to be okay.
-o-
Billy Collins was missing for three years.
He was unconscious for nearly a week.
During the three years, the ODS had assumed he was dead. They had had no idea; they'd grieved and tried to move on.
During the week, the ODS never left his side. Because now they knew; they'd never make those mistakes again.
Then, Billy woke up.
The doctor had been expecting it all morning, but Billy seemed to take his time about it. It started with small movements, and then infinitesimal murmurs of what could have been pain. His eyes moved beneath his lids, and sometimes they found him looking blankly around the room before he shuffled back off to sleep.
Rick began to get impatient, fussing about the room. Casey's breathing was harsher, the traces of a song being pushed through under every exhale. Michael tapped his foot, staring and unmoving.
Waiting.
Three years.
One week.
And then Billy opened his eyes and looked at them.
It took a moment, a long painful moment as the ODS gathered anxiously around, for Billy to blink once, and then twice, eyes focusing on each of them in turn. He swallowed, wincing at the movement, and then moistened his lips in vain.
"I thought I already had this hallucination," he said, voice scratchy with disuse and ragged with exhaustion, "Or has my rescue truly arrived again?"
Casey sucked in a breath and held it, and Michael seemed to waver precariously at Rick's side. But suddenly, Rick felt unusually secure. More secure than he ever had before.
He smiled. "Yeah," he said, leaning forward to squeeze Billy's arm. "We're here now."
Michael and Casey edged closer.
Rick held Billy's gaze. "And we're not going anywhere."
-o-
Michael and Casey had kept their word, and now Rick knew it was time to keep his. Casey had started showing signs of recklessness around the hospital, stalking the corridors and unsettling the nurses. Rick caught Michael tucking files into his suit jacket when he thought no one was looking, checking his phone for updates with a newfound persistence.
Part of Rick wanted to scold them, to ask them why it wasn't enough to just be there for Billy, to appreciate the fact that their missing teammate was alive and if not well, getting better. They'd lost three years, surely that was enough.
But Rick had to admit, he was starting to feel restless, too. Because as right as everything seemed, he knew Carson Simms was still out there, and he could still see the look on Carson's face before he turned away and left.
If Billy was their priority, that didn't mean that finding Simms wasn't important. Because Simms was their teammate, too. He'd made more mistakes than the rest of them, but they couldn't just forget him, even if Rick wanted to. There was a lot that Simms needed to answer to. Rick still didn't understand everything that had happened – not back at Salazar's compound and certainly not in North Africa.
Besides, as happy as Higgins was to have the plates and Salazar, Simms going AWOL was still a bit of a conundrum and although their boss had given them leeway for now, it wouldn't be long before they had to formally explain Simms' betrayal.
An explanation, Rick had to admit, that would be a lot easier with Carson Simms in tow. As it was, Michael's vague answers regarding Simms' whereabouts were being met with increasing skepticism. They were running out of time.
Billy was at PT for the day when Rick finally brought the issue to the foreground.
"Okay," he said. "You can go find Simms."
Casey stared at him as if he were speaking Swahili. Michael lifted his eyebrows. "I didn't realize we were looking for your permission," Michael noted cagily.
Rick blushed despite himself. "I know you're trying to hide it from me," he said. "But I also know you've picked up your search for Simms again."
Michael didn't deny it. Instead, he shrugged diffidently. "It's all well and good that we're bringing Billy back alive, but sooner or later, we're going to have to account for Carson."
"Apparently the Agency doesn't take well to its operatives going on the lam," Casey snerked. "National security being what it is and all."
Rick nodded readily. "How much blowback are we going to get for it?"
Michael looked vaguely impressed at the question, as if he hadn't thought Rick would be thinking about it that much. "Hard to say," he said. "The plates and Salazar got the Secret Service off our backs, and bringing Billy home will boost morale around the Agency, so Higgins would be inclined to write off our escapade down here, but without a concrete answer regarding Simms, it's going to look a little weird."
"You mean, we might be implicated," Rick realized.
"Guilt by association," Casey confirmed. "Sometimes we're not that different than the KGB."
Rick frowned, considering this for the first time. Simms had been part of their team – and integral part of their team. It was an obvious question: how didn't they know?
But how could they have known? Maybe they could have suspected, but they were spies, and the best damn spies at that. Simms had buried his secret so deep that Rick doubted anything would have dragged it out except the possible exposure of someone bringing his past to light for him.
"It doesn't help that we barely know the whole story," Michael said. "Casey and I have put together as much as we can, but Simms knew what he was doing when he ran. He incriminated himself, but the damning evidence is gone."
"Billy knows more," Rick replied. "I mean, he seemed to have a lot more of it figured out. If we talk to him…"
Rick trailed off. Billy had been held prisoner, assumed dead and shot. He'd been through enough. To ask him to relive it…
"Yeah," Michael said. "That's sort of what we thought, too. So really, finding Simms is our best bet."
Rick collected a breath and creased his brow. "So what leads do you have?"
Michael glanced at Casey, who looked a little impressed. He produced a piece of paper, holding it out.
Rick took it, looking at it curiously. "What's this?"
"A heating bill from a safe house we run off the books in Poland," Michael explained.
Rick scanned the numbers and the charges. "So?"
"So, you'll notice that most months we only incur enough of a payment to keep the pipes from freezing."
Rick saw the latest bill. "Someone's been using it."
Casey inclined his head. "Someone give the kid a cookie," he said pointedly.
Michael ignored the snide comment. "It was just a slight uptick, but we think it's enough for a night or two," he said. "Chances are he's already left by now."
"But these charges are recent," Casey said.
"So Simms can't be far," Rick said, feeling a twinge of hope.
"That's our thought," Michael said. "If we can get a plane out of here, we can be in Europe by tomorrow. We still have some unofficial assets in the area, and if Simms is around, he's probably burned through a few. If we're lucky, we might get enough intel to piece together his next move."
"Then we can apprehend him, take him into custody, and serve his slimy little head on a platter to Higgins," Casey said with earnest vitriol.
"Or at least hope that he can find his conscience enough to clear us of any wrongdoing," Michael said. "And if he comes willingly, we may be able to spin it to get him a little leeway."
"I'm not sure I agree with that course of action," Casey growled.
Michael shot Casey a look. "Well, we can cross that bridge when we get to it."
Rick could only nod. "It looks good," he said, holding the paper back out as Michael took it. He looked at his teammates again. "It sounds good."
"We thought so," Michael said, tucking the paper into his suit. He hesitated. "You can stall here with Billy for another week or so until he's fully recovered. If we're not back by then, you'll have to go back to the States—"
"Whoa," Rick interrupted. "Without you?"
Michael shrugged. "I'm hoping it doesn't take that long—"
"But Billy—"
"Will have you," Casey said tersely.
"But Higgins—"
Michael gave Rick a disapproving look. "You're good enough to be able to handle Higgins."
Rick frowned, then took a breath. "Okay," he said.
Michael actually looked relieved.
Then Rick added, "But you have to tell Billy."
"Well, we did plan on saying goodbye," Michael said.
Rick shook his head. "You have to tell him what you're doing and why," he said.
Michael's expression shifted slightly, and Casey's face set into a deep scowl.
"He deserves to know," Rick said. "Or do we have to go over the whole three years thing?"
Michael rolled his head. "No, you don't have to browbeat us into submission again," he said. "We'll tell him."
Casey held up a finger. "We'll tell him for his sake," he clarified. "Not because you insist on using inane emotional appeals to attempt to make your point."
Rick couldn't help but grin a little. "That's how teams work."
"Using emotional manipulation to get their way?" Casey asked.
"No," Rick said. "They hold each other accountable."
Michael snorted. "I guess Simms missed that memo, huh."
"Not if we can find him and make him do the right thing," Rick said.
Casey shook his head, brushing past them. "Somehow I'm not holding my breath."
Following after him, Rick hated to agree.
-o-
They waited until after dinner. Billy usually slept after PT, having thoroughly exhausted himself. He was recovering fairly well, according to the doctor, although his weakened overall condition had not helped him any. The doctors didn't say much about that, but there were obviously some lingering questions in their eyes about just who this patient was and just what he'd been through.
Billy, thankfully, was their best defense against any skepticism, though. The Scot, though weak and hurting, was effervescent, charming everyone on staff within a day of waking up. He was upbeat and friendly, cracking jokes and telling stories. He didn't talk about three years of incarceration or how he'd been chained to a bed and left to his own boredom for endless hours. He didn't talk about minimal human contact and poor living conditions.
Sometimes, Rick thought he caught a glimpse of sadness in the other man's eyes, but Billy always hid it well. That worried Rick some – he knew PTSD was a serious and real thing, and he knew Billy would be a prime candidate – but if anyone could survive three years in captivity with their spirit intact, it was Billy Collins.
Besides, Rick knew there'd be time for talking and time for healing once they got back home.
Billy ate the dinner heartily, even though Rick had found it barely palatable. Rested and fed, the Scot settled back in his bed with a sigh. "Comfortable as this is, I have to admit, I think I'm ready to go home," he murmured with an air of contentment.
"I think we all are," Rick said.
Michael hesitated, glancing at Rick and Casey.
Billy sat up straighter, eyes narrowing in on his teammates. "That's not quite true, is it?"
It probably shouldn't have been surprising; Billy had an uncanny sense of his teammates. It made sense, Rick figured, but Billy's ability to read him like a book was still a bit startling at times.
Michael sighed in resignation. "We're more than ready to go home," he said. "We just have to tie up a few loose ends first."
Billy frowned. "You said Higgins was quite pleased at the outcome of this mission," he said. "You deconstructed a counterfeiting monopoly and even got the ring leader in CIA custody alive, prime for interrogation. Plus, you're bringing home a prodigal son. What more could Higgins and his ilk ask for?"
Michael hesitated again, swallowing.
Realization settled over Billy's face. "Simms."
Michael gathered a breath, shrugging a little. "He's got a lot to answer for," he said. "I'm not sure we can convince HR he's on an impromptu vacation."
Billy's expression wavered for a moment, his brow knitting. "So he's made no contact then."
Casey grunted. "Not a sound," he muttered. "Bastard."
Billy's mouth drew closed and he nodded seriously. "He's not a traitor, you know."
Michael shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and Rick felt his stomach ache a little. It was one thing to say it himself, but to hear Billy say it…after what Carson had done to him…
Pursing his lips, Michael said, "He gave Salazar enough intel three years ago to put the man on top of the business. Even if it was extortion, it's a serious breach, and the Agency's going to want to deal with that."
"I know Simms, and I know Salazar," Billy told them. "This wasn't voluntary."
"Maybe," Michael said.
"But not telling us for three years and letting us think you were dead was," Casey said sharply.
Rick winced, but it was true. Even as much as he wanted to understand Simms, it was true.
"That's not fair," Billy said quietly.
"No," Michael said. "But neither is the fact that you spent three years in Salazar's outhouse so Simms could cover his backside."
"Not to mention the fact that he shot you," Casey pointed out.
Billy worked his jaw, looking down at his hands. For a moment, the buoyant personality was gone, and Rick saw the man beneath the guise. Older, tired, and worn. Billy Collins was a damaged man, holding more pain than anyone should. What had been done to him – by his captors, by his own teammate – it was more than Rick could even imagine carrying.
He wasn't larger than life – Billy was holding himself together with all the strength he had left.
Rick felt his resolve harden; maybe Michael and Casey were right. Maybe Simms deserved every punishment the Agency could dole out – and then some.
But then Billy looked up. His blue eyes were clear and determined. His shoulders were squared, his head high. "We've all made mistakes," he said. "Some of us more than others, and you both know it. You all gave me a second chance, and I expect you to afford the same grace to Carson."
Michael inhaled, gritting his teeth. "It's different—"
"Oh?" Billy asked. "You're talking to the man who only avoided a conviction of treason by taking a plea deal that exiled me from my homeland. Or have you both forgotten that salient little detail with your warpath against Simms?"
Rick blinked, surprised, trying to make sense of this new information. He knew Billy was from Scotland – that much was obvious. But he'd figured maybe the man had dual citizenship, maybe he'd just grew up overseas.
But then he remembered the poetry. The story of a man cast away from home, finding a place to belong amongst strangers who would become his family.
This was why Billy had forgiven Simms so readily; this was why he'd understood. Sometimes you saved yourself because it was all you had. You could learn from that, though; you could do better the next time.
Like Billy.
Or you could keep running, like Simms.
Casey had grown painfully stiff and silent, while Michael was clearly working to retain a sense of composure. "I thought you said that was a misunderstanding."
"It depends on who you talk to," Billy said. "It's all about perspective in these kinds of things, and I think we ought to think about Carson's point of view."
"He shot you," Casey interjected roughly, his still exterior bursting for a moment as pure rage pulsated through him. "He fired a bullet into your body and left you to die."
"And that was the second time he did that," Michael reminded him. "We would have understood in North Africa if he'd had to leave you behind. We would have understood if he told us. He didn't."
Billy's shoulders slumped, and he looked ragged again. "I know what he's done," he said quietly. "And I know I'm ready to let go. If I work to hold Simms accountable, if we hold onto the past…"
Then it could destroy them, Rick realized. Starting with Billy.
The Scot was weak; he was barely holding it together. He didn't need justice. He certainly didn't need revenge.
He needed his team.
"We're going to need a story to tell to Higgins," Rick said, piping up for the first time.
They all looked at him.
Rick shrugged. "Without Simms in custody, there's going to be a lot of questions."
"And I have answers," Billy said readily. "Lots of them."
Michael clucked his tongue a bit, shaking his head. "I don't think—"
Billy waved his hand through the air. "Pshaw," he said. "If I want to get back in the field, I'm going to be debrief and psychoanalyzed anyway. I might as well make it worth something to all of us."
"Wait," Casey said, indignant. "We're actually thinking about letting him go?"
"No," Billy said. "We're talking about letting him make his choice. And then we're talking about making our own."
Casey's anger seemed to simmer with that, settling on something more like moderate dislike. Michael sighed, but Rick found himself smiling.
Billy looked at them each, eyes brightening. "It's not quite the old gang, I reckon, but it's not so bad," he said. "Young Rick here seems to have the makings of quite the operative if I do say so myself. And his upbeat personality is well suited to balance out all the negativity from the older half of this enterprise."
Casey's dislike turned to annoyance, and Michael scoffed. "We only rescued you a few weeks ago, and you're already insulting us?" he asked.
Billy shrugged. "It's not an insult," he said. "Just…pointing out the reality. We complement each other quite nicely, don't you think?"
And Rick had to admit, they did. Michael had the brains; Casey had the brawn. Rick had the heart, and Billy had the spirit.
They fit together, like they were meant to be that way. Like this was how it should have been from the beginning.
Like this was how it'd be from here on out.
And Rick couldn't wait to find out.
