Chapter 4

Friday, May 8

''Your feelings are never invalid,'' Mark repeated. ''So talk to me. What's going on, Steve?''

''I shouldn't feel this way,'' he acknowledged. ''Jaime passed every test we threw at her with flying colors - she exceeded every spec - and she worked several missions before she had Becca. Quite successfully, I should add. And while I didn't like knowing she was out there then, and potentially in danger, it didn't grab me the way it's grabbing me now.''

''The way what is grabbing you?'' Mark asked.

''Fear,'' Steve told him. ''Raw, cold, stab-you-in-the-belly fear. For absolutely no good reason. I don't suppose...one drink - just to quiet my nerves?''

Mark shook his head. ''You know my answer to that. And by asking, you're telling me there's a bottle still squirreled away somewhere in this house. So let's have it.''

''Aw, c'mon, Doc. Need to have one here...for company...''

''Nonsense. Give it to me.''

Steve handed the baby to Mark and headed into the bedroom where he scrounged around in the back of his closet, behind the suitcases, the hanging suits and various boxes, until he found it. Grudgingly, he turned the bottle of brandy over to Mark.

''And this is the last one? Not even an airline sample hidden in your sock drawer?'' Mark probed. ''At least the seal isn't broken; kudos for that. Now...back to today. What is it that has you so worried?''

Jaime never heard the shot...and even though her eyes were still open, she didn't see her shooter beat a hasty retreat (or his henchmen, a slower one). Strange that she felt no pain; hadn't she just been...shot? Was she already dead? There hadn't been a 'bright tunnel of light' and she didn't see any relatives who'd 'gone on' before her...but Jaime wasn't aware of her surroundings anymore, either. What she did see, as though through a hazy, gauze-like veil...Steve and Becca. They needed her! She had to hang on, had to somehow find help...but Jaime couldn't move.

She didn't see the small squadron of OSI men flood into the office, followed by the building's guards - the same guards who had just acted as henchmen - who explained they'd been downstairs on a break. She didn't hear the first OSI man on the scene radio for an ambulance...didn't see their worried, stricken faces as they leaned over her while they waited for help. All she saw was Steve and Becca.

All of that changed when Russ hurried in, arriving even before the medics to kneel at her side. Jaime flinched from him (without actually moving), suddenly didn't want him - or anyone else - to touch her. His face and his urgent demand for her attention and response brought Jaime slamming back to reality...and a swirling mass of confusion and pain.

Shot...she'd been shot. So many faces, all of them looking at her as if she were already dead. Someone in a red jacket snapped his fingers in front of her face and Jaime blinked. The snapping moved off to the side and although she could hear it (and blinked again) she was unable to turn toward the sound. 'Nod if you can hear me' became 'blink if you can hear me'...and Jaime blinked again. She heard someone moaning softly in pain but didn't know where the sound might be coming from as she, herself, still felt nothing. Shot...she'd been shot.

Strong, gentle hands lifted her onto a stretcher, repeatedly asking her to wriggle her toes, nod her head, move her hands...but the best Jaime could manage was an occasional blink in acknowledgment. She wondered if she should feel frightened, angry or agonized but all she felt was sadness and a strange sense of curious detachment.

She'd...been...shot...

Saturday, May 9

His freedom?! ''It's not that simple,'' Oscar stalled.

''For you?'' Michael scoffed. ''Of course it is.''

''I don't want to make you a promise that I'm forced to go back on later,'' Oscar told him.

''Then I guess we're done here...aren't we? Guard!'' Michael called.

''Michael...wait,'' Steve pleaded. As a former doctor, surely there was a shred of compassion, of basic human decency, left in him somewhere...wasn't there?

''Shoe's on the other foot now, isn't it?'' Michael taunted. ''You're the one who stands to lose Jaime. Forever. Hurts, doesn't it - right down to the core of that teflon soul of yours? And with all of your so-called 'strength' - all of your muscle-bound glory - you can't do a thing to save her this time...can you? Can you? You need me. After calling me an attempted murderer and even worse things than that, you need me.''

''Yes; I need your help. Please, Michael,'' Steve begged softly.

''And your wife needs me. Seems there's something you can't give her, after all.''

Steve had to choke back his anger. Jaime was dying - and this monster was intent on rubbing their noses in the past! There was nothing he could do but go along...on Michael's terms. Steve turned to look pleadingly at his boss, trying to say everything with just one helpless glance. ''Oscar...?''