This chapter is rated M for sexual content and adult themes.
Only Shadows Ahead
Chapter Forty
The humid Florida weather does little to curb the shaking. Her dress is sticking to her skin, sweat breaking out across her face and chest but she barely notices. She blunders through the dimly-lit car park, sniffling quietly.
The streetlights emit an electronic hum, casting shadows across the asphalt. Her dress swishes around her calves, heels clicking in a monotonous manner.
She's in a hurry; arms crossed and her eyes trained on the ground. Relying on her stress-addled brain to get her where she needs to go.
Washington is all but a blur in her mind. Flashes of time. Segments that have played over and over, but the outcome (or consequences) don't improve no matter how many times she replays them.
The boardroom. The faces. The promises, the assurances. Her own pleading and begging — falling on deaf ears, as per usual. Because they know better. That smug sense of self-righteousness.
That final key stroke that shattered whatever control she thought she held over the situation.
Fury courses through her and she pushes it back, wiping her eyes. Those stiff, suited goons are just nameless, faceless men with no tangible connection to the unstable, obsessive woman who has already pinned everything squarely on Linka's shoulders.
The decision was an easy one. Grabbing her purse and storming from the offices, away from the congratulatory pats on the back. Away from the hand-shaking. Away from the arrogant smirk levelled at her from the chief analyst.
They have a great deal to gain. She has everything to lose.
And now it's done.
She hopes the payload fails spectacularly.
She's supposed to be heading back to the apartment. Back to the four walls. Back to the waiting around by day and the arguments and repetitive discussions centred around their future by night. But the apartment feels empty; devoid of laughter and joy.
They're one person down and it's just not the same without him.
She hurries on, seeking out the one person who always puts things into perspective. Perspective is what she needs. Craving that daily dose of bubbly optimism and positivity now more than ever.
The main entrance looms. The automatic doors slide open and she trudges through. Passing the front desk and making her way through the corridor towards the elevators. The smell of disinfectant is strong and the only person she passes is a cleaner pushing a trolley filled with cleaning supplies. She presses the button and waits, stepping inside, barely looking up at the reflection in the mirrored walls.
She makes her way up to the third floor and steps out; blonde hair tangled and curling from the humidity. Her long hair frames her face, swishing with each hurried step. A nurse eyes her curiously, probably wondering what she's doing here so late at night when visiting hours are well and truly over.
With the mood she's in, anyone who questions her is likely to receive a mouthful of Russian expletives, followed by a gust of wind to the face.
Luckily for her, no one does.
His room is at the end of the darkened corridor. She moves past the empty nurses station, staying close to the wall and darting behind a linen trolley. Three more strides and she reaches his door, turning the handle and slipping in unnoticed.
The anxiety fades away as soon as she closes the door behind her. The scent of flowers is strong. More bouquets have been delivered since the last time she visited him.
He's a large lump on the bed; his form swathed in a mass of hospital-issue cotton-weave blankets. Facing away from her, his back rises and falls steadily and she hesitates, stepping back — feeling guilty for intruding at this ungodly hour.
Wondering if he'll be mad.
She fingers the chain hanging around her throat, suddenly unsure. She debates leaving for a moment: rooted to the ground. Ready to flee. Not wanting to bother him with her own problems when he's still so —
"Got any decent food on ya, babe?"
The voice is muffled and low. She breathes a sigh of relief, sinking into the seat beside the bed as he rolls over slowly to greet her.
"How did you know it was me?"
"Perfume," he croaks. Just his eyes and hair are visible and she attempts a smile, stroking his forehead with her fingers.
"Social visit?"
She shrugs, looking away, staring at the monitors beeping on the equipment on the other side. "Maybe."
He's groggy and disoriented, still on heavy pain relief at night when the pain effects him the most. He rubs a hand over his face, reaching blindly for his phone. He locates it on the fourth fumbling attempt and the glow from the cell lights his face up further. He blinks, as through not trusting his own eyes.
"Jesus, babe," he rasps. "It's two in the mornin'?"
"I'm sorry," she whispers, guilt hitting her hard. "I was… I just —"
"You okay? Has somethin' happened?" he asks, trying to sit up and wincing in pain; having forgotten about his predicament. "Ow, shit."
"Stay down, Yankee," she says, pushing him gently back onto the pillows again. Rising to her feet, she looks around nervously. "I should not have come, I was selfish. I will return in the morning."
"What happened?" He's alarmed now, trying to sit up again and grabbing her hand to prevent her from leaving. "What's the matter?"
"They uploaded the virus," she whispers. She's defeated and scared — emotions she's not overly familiar with.
"They what?" Wheeler looks stunned. "Whaddya mean? They've —"
"It is done. There is nothing I could do. I begged them not to. So did the field officer, but they did not listen. They just went ahead anyway." She's rambling now, the words blurting between soft gasps and sniffles. "They ignored us. What if it destroys MAL? What if Blight —"
"Hang on," he says, squeezing her hand. "Slow down. You're jumpin' ahead of yourself. Let's just —"
"I did not want this! I am not going to be the scapedog, I am not going to —"
"Scapegoat."
"Whatever!" she cries, her voice rising. "Radi boga! Blight sent me a bunch of dead flowers last week! I told them this! They do not care. I would never have agreed —"
"Just relax, babe. Calm down."
"Do not tell me to calm down," she retorts. She pinches the bridge of her nose. "I never wanted this."
He tugs her gently back towards him. She's still on her feet, knees bumping the steel bed frame and staring down at her hand still clutched tightly within his own.
"I just needed to come," she whispers, at a loss to explain how she's feeling. "I do not know what to do."
"All right," he says. " Look, we'll —"
"Gi and Kwame have been fighting a lot. Ma-Ti is never around." She shrugs miserably, blinking back tears. "Everything is falling apart. I do not know… I cannot —"
"Okay." He shuffles over gingerly and pats the spot on the mattress he's just cleared. She removes her shoes and climbs in, settling herself onto the mattress. "Let's not go straight to panic mode."
"I am already there," she mumbles as she lies down, settling into the crook of his arm. The air conditioning is pumping cool air into the room but his bed is warm and cosy under the covers. He pulls the blankets over her, wincing slightly with the movement.
"Sure you're okay?"
"Nyet," she replies tersely. "Not really. How are you?"
"Feelin' all right," he says. "Glad to be gettin' home tomorrow."
His good arm settles around her waist and they lie in a companionable silence, listening to the beeps of the monitors. The distant footsteps of the night staff can be heard along the corridor outside his room. She sighs, tracing her fingertips back and forth over his chest through the thin cotton of his t-shirt.
"This is becomin' a habit," he says after a while. She nods, feeling his legs brush against hers. "Not the first time you've snuck into my bed lately."
"Da," she says; her cheeks flushing pink. "Sorry."
"No complaints from me," he chuckles, giving her a squeeze. "Never say no to cuddlin' with a pretty lady."
"Really?" she remarks, peering up at him with an eyebrow raised. "Put a girl in your bed, a pizza and a basketball game on the television and you would have your ultimate evening, Yankee."
"Pretty decent trifecta." His fingers stroke back and forth along her waist absently. "Might need to add a fourth option to make it a grand slam."
"A fourth option? And what would that be?"
He smirks but doesn't elaborate any further; pressing his cheek gently against her forehead. "How long? I mean, the virus —"
"I found out a few hours ago."
He shakes his head. "Nah, how long until you know if it's worked?"
"Maybe a week?"
"I thought these things were faster?"
"We designed it to be a slow release virus. It will take time. It needs to break through the firewalls and encrypted files. Isolate MAL's mainframe."
"Might not even work, babe."
"For all I know, they may have altered the original file anyway. They were talking about acquiring the technology. Studying and adapting it. Cyber warfare or something," she mumbles tiredly. "I would not be surprised if the original virus we developed has been modified."
"Doubt they know how to tie their own shoes, babe." His thumb rubs lazy circles through the fabric of her dress. "Stop stressin'. It'll be fine."
"I hope so."
He squeezes her again, nuzzling the top of her head. She sighs, splaying her fingers against his chest and listening to the muffled footsteps and sounds from outside in the corridor.
"They were celebrating," she murmurs after a while, unable to contain the note of worry in her voice. "They were clonking glasses and drinking champagne. It is easy to celebrate when they do not have such a close personal connection to the —"
"To the psychotic bitch who made all this possible?"
"Da," she says. "I am scared."
"Nothin's gonna happen. And if it does, MAL will end up with a few infected files. Blight'll shake her fist at us. Same as usual." He sighs, scratching his head. "Besides, doesn't sound like we'll be havin' much to do with 'em from here on in anyway."
"Nyet," she says faintly. This recent development has brought up a host of new and just as concerning implications. The prospect of moving on without the Planeteers by her side seems to be drawing closer. "It will be strange not to be chasing down Plunder and his fellow polluters."
"Whole lot of 'em can become someone else's problem now."
She nods; relaxed and weary now. "What if MAL is destroyed, Wheeler?"
"Then you can watch Blight carry on about it from the comfort of your television," he says. "And if she's still pissed, I'll send her a muffin basket."
"That is very considerate of you," she says, unable to hide her smile. "Blueberry?"
"Fuck no. You kiddin'? I'll go for week-old stale muffins with weird combinations like carrot and sauerkraut."
She giggles. "Why would you —"
"Beetroot and bacon. Pumpkin and oregano," he says, eliciting more giggles from Linka. "You know, all those shit flavors that people make but nobody actually likes."
"I like savoury muffins, Yankee," she says, pushing herself up onto her elbow and smiling down at him. Her concerns are fading, just as she knew they would. She feels better. Clearer. Seeing things in a more positive light. "There is nothing wrong with savoury muffins."
"Yuck."
She leans in, sweeping the hair off his forehead and tracing the faint sleep lines embedded down his cheek and temple. "What about a fruit basket? That would be a nice gift for supposedly ruining one's life's work?"
"Yeah… nah. I'm nice but I'm not that nice."
"You are nice," she says softly. He reaches out; his thumb skating over her cheek and down her neck, coming to rest in the dip at the base of her throat. She tips her head forward with a contented sigh as his fingers stroke loosely through her hair.
"I am?"
"You are very nice, Yankee."
She feels a fluttering from deep within the pit of her stomach; a fierce pull of affection. Leaning forward with trembling nerves, she presses a soft kiss to his forehead. She nuzzles his cheek, aware of the way his breathing falters with each sweep of her mouth.
She bends lower; her breath hushed and close to his ear. "I think I have you figured out."
"Figured out what?" he says gruffly, grabbing her by the waist and lifting her on top of him. She flattens her elbows against the mattress as her knees fall either side of his hips. She's sitting astride Wheeler on the narrow bed now, crouched low over him.
Her hair falls in soft curls. He smiles up at her, and she can feel his satin boxers gliding between her thighs. Her eyes sweep over him, his fingers tracing a gentle path down the side of her face.
"Think you know all my secrets?"
All she can do is nod. Her heart is thumping hard in her chest; recirculated air cooling her skin and causing goosebumps to break out. She's never found herself in such close physical contact with him.
There's a quiet intimacy between them. It's always been there, yet this is different. She's aware that they've passed the point of no return. Their relationship is finally evolving into something else. She welcomes it. The knowledge leaves her breathless with anticipation.
He shifts between her legs, grabbing her hands and raising them in the air. She threads her fingers through his, jostling for control; an almost playful push and pull game that mirrors their own complicated relationship over the years.
The fact she's straddling Wheeler at two in the morning in an Orlando hospital room has become redundant. The distinct possibility of a nurse entering the room and finding them locked in this compromising position doesn't even enter her mind. She doesn't care and the knowledge is liberating.
"Lin?" he says, and she shakes her head slightly, ridding herself of the slack-jawed fog she's found herself in. "Said you'd figured me out?"
She clears her throat and tries again. "Da."
"What have you figured out?" he asks quietly.
"You are not as tough as you think you are," she whispers.
He raises his eyebrows. "Care to elaborate?"
"Do I need to?"
Strong arms wrap around her body, guiding her forward until she's pressed firmly against his chest. He hugs her fiercely, nuzzling into the curve of her neck with a heavy sigh; warm breath prickling her skin. She turns her face inward, her lips stopping just short of his mouth.
Eyes half-lidded, she rocks slightly against him. He groans, and she does her best to ignore the dull throb pulsing through her own body.
"You have everyone else fooled… but not me."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"Nyet." She shakes her head, brushing her lips against his. "I see you."
"Uh, huh," he says. "What do ya see?"
"People see the tough-talking man from Brooklyn who is not afraid of anything," she says. The corner of her lips curl as she smiles down at him fondly. "But I see a teddy bear. Big old, soft teddy bear."
"Tell anyone that and I'll be forced to take drastic action," he growls; nuzzling her neck again, and she sighs with pleasure. "Gotta maintain my reputation."
"Nyet," she says. She cradles his cheek, watching the way his eyes scan her face. "All of the jokes. Being confident all of the time. Taking charge. Acting like you are invincible. Nothing can touch you. Looking after everyone else's needs before your own."
"I can take care of myself," he says. He touches her lips with the pad of his thumb. "Always have."
"You take good care of me," she whispers.
"Pretty good at takin' care of yourself, babe," he says. "Don't need me to —"
"You look after me," she says; her voice thick with emotion. "You always have."
"Always will."
She rocks her hips again, feeling the hard heat of him through the layers of satin and cotton separating their bodies. She leans back, parting her legs further until she's flush against him; watching the way he bites down on his lip, knowing he's as aroused as she is.
The thought hits her — that she desperately wishes they were curled up alone on the couch right now in a darkened room. Free to touch and explore.
She wonders (not for the first time) what it would be like with him. Stretched out beneath him. Limbs curled around his waist, focusing on her breathing and the feel of his mouth and hands on her body.
She lowers her forehead onto his good shoulder as his hands skate up her calves, coming to rest on her hips. He caresses her slowly through the thin fabric of her dress, fingers tracing back and forth along her upper thighs; sending tiny ripples of pleasure through her. Without warning he tightens his grip, pulling her down and grinding her against him.
She's not expecting it, sobbing into his shirt. The sensations stirring within her body are overwhelming. The friction feels incredible. Her breath hitches as he continues the intimate, rocking movements.
"Wheeler?" she whispers longingly, squirming as his hands continue their exploration; tracing a slow path along the line of her spine, then slipping underneath the thin straps of her dress as he guides them off her shoulders, smoothing his palms over silken skin. His fingers tangle into her hair, but she continues rubbing herself against him, panting softly. Wondering how comfort and reassurance evolved so quickly into this writhing, silent parody of what they both have been gradually heading towards for the past nine years.
She falls forward, pressing her body to his and winding her arms around his neck, face to face now, overcome with an intense longing that frightens her. "Wheeler, I —"
The rest of her sentence is drowned out as he raises his head and kisses her deeply. She gasps as he cradles her face in his hands, holding her firmly to him.
It's tender and sweet, almost teasing. She caresses his face lovingly; surrendering to the moment rather than fighting it; the doubts and insecurities replaced by nothing but the feel of his hands and the light press of his mouth on hers.
She makes a soft noise, eyelashes fluttering as his mouth seeks out her throat. Her head tilts sideways; her breathing slow and ragged, fingers twisting into his hair as she reacts to the heat of his lips and tongue on her skin.
He moves to claim her mouth again, fiery and demanding as his hands slip under her dress, his fingers caressing her bare thighs. She gives another soft sigh against his mouth, wanting nothing more than for him to roll her over and —
A low voice is audible outside the door and Linka's body stiffens. Wheeler's hands clamp down again and she breaks away in fright, twisting and staring at the door as the handle starts to turn. Her dress is hiked up around her hips and she quickly rearranges it.
"Shit," Wheeler mutters, pulling the blankets up as Linka scrambles off the bed, barely avoiding tumbling to the floor when her foot gets tangled in the sheets. She half falls into the chair as a nurse steps inside carrying a blood-pressure sleeve and a small tray.
Linka runs a shaky hand across her face, hoping she doesn't look anywhere near as flustered as she feels. The nurse halts as her eyes settle on the frazzled blonde sitting lopsided in the chair.
"What are you doing here?" she asks, placing the tray on the end of the bed and staring at Linka disapprovingly. "You shouldn't be here. Visiting hours are —"
"I… uh," she squeaks, glancing at Wheeler who seems a great deal more calm and collected. He sits up, running a hand through his hair. His face is flushed though and he doesn't look too happy at the interruption. She turns her attention back to the nurse. "I —"
"Lin's just popped in to update me on the shooting," he says smoothly and Linka is suddenly relieved at his ability to lie so calmly and convincingly. "She was drivin' through."
"Da," she says, because nothing else intelligent is springing to mind. "Driving."
"I'm really sorry but you're gonna have to leave." The nurse frowns, attaching the cuff and squeezing the bulb, her eyes on the monitor. "You can come back tomorrow."
"Okay," she says, nodding vigorously . "I'm so sor —"
The nurse frowns, flicking the gauge and glancing at Wheeler. "Blood pressure's a little higher than usual."
"Really?" Wheeler mutters, glancing at Linka knowingly and she can barely meet his eyes. "Wonder why that is?"
"Uh. I will go, Wheeler," she says, standing and giving him an awkward wave. "I will see you later."
"Babe?" She's halfway towards the door as she turns and looks at him questioningly. He gestures towards the floor. "Purse."
She mutters something under her breath, reaching down and scooping it up as the nurse bustles around him. Waving again, she clutches it to her chest and hurries out, striding back through the corridor and towards the elevator.
She steps inside and as soon as the doors close, a wide grin breaks out on her face. The mirrored walls reveal her tousled hair and flushed cheeks. The straps of her dress still hang from her shoulders and she's still breathing heavily. She smiles to herself, leaning against the panels. Still in a sensory haze.
Her phone beeps and she burrows into the bottom of her purse to retrieve it, stepping out onto the ground floor.
She's barefoot — padding quietly through the main foyer and it finally occurs to her that she's forgotten her shoes. Pushing through the front doors, the heat hits her as she stops to read the message, already knowing it will be from Wheeler.
Stop stressing.
Blight's a fucking moron.
Everything will be fine.
Planning on finishing what we started when I'm home.
x
She grins happily, swinging her bag as she wanders towards the rental car. Her worries from earlier in the evening are already forgotten.
Everything is going to be all right.
"I don't think we're meant to be here," Grace observed, peering at Bleak with her arms crossed. "What if someone catches us?"
He jerked his thumb in Gi's direction. "Then dolphin-girl can use her ring."
"We're in the desert, Argos," Gi said, rolling her eyes. Not much I can do out here."
"Fat lot of good you are, then," he muttered. Gi stepped away, leaning against a rusted ladder and watching Bleak poke around the shed on the perimeter of the property. "Gotta do somethin' while we wait for the rest of the brat-brigade."
"You know, I'm noticin' a pattern with you," Grace said. "Know what a kleptomaniac is?"
"Fear of clapping?"
"Oh God," Gi said under her breath. "How you and Plunder concocted all those schemes is beyond me."
"He was the brains, I was the brawn."
"What are you looking for?" Grace frowned, watching Bleak climb the shelves and peer inside a large container. He rifled through the contents. "You realise you can't take any of this shit home with you?"
"Never know what might come in handy," he said, grunting as he hauled himself up further. "Like to know what's available. In case I need it."
"Uh huh," Grace replied. She folded her arms, stepping aside as a wrench was tossed to the ground. "You a hoarder back at home, too."
"Only car parts."
"I'm imagining a little filthy weatherboard house with burnt-out cars and engines littering the front yard," Grace said. "Neighbours complaining about the mess and —"
"I live in an apartment."
"Where do you keep your cars?"
"On the street and in a storage locker."
"Storage locker," Grace mused. "Any dead bodies in there?"
"No," he muttered, pausing to glare down at Grace. He thrust a hammer in her direction. "But now that you mention it, I'm tempted to track your annoying little ass down when I'm back. You can be the first."
"Kinky," she said, giving him a lopsided grin. "I'll still be in junior high."
"Jesus," he spat, incredulous. "Movin' on."
"Linka and Wheeler are taking a while." Gi slipped her hands into her pockets, shuffling her feet in the dirt and dust covering the floor of the shed. "Hope they're okay."
"Ma-Ti said they're fine," Grace said. "You reckon they're falling back into old habits?"
"Wouldn't put it past them," Gi said, smiling. She shrugged, gazing out the small ventilation window. "Those two were always a lost cause."
"Might be a hidden blessing, her being back. Way to reconnect you guys again."
"Yeah," Gi said, ignoring Bleak as he rolled his eyes from the top shelf. "Really miss both of them."
"I know," Grace said. She jumped back as another make-shift weapon was tossed from the top shelf. "Geez. Watch it, moron."
"Shut up, freckles."
"You know —" Grace started but Gi pinched her arm, nodding towards the door and stepping back. A bearded man stood framed in the doorway, carrying a rifle and glaring at the trio.
Bleak had also noticed him, but carried on his avid searching regardless.
"Um... shit," Grace whispered.
"Bleak?" Gi said warningly as two more armed men became visible beyond the doorway. The second man carried a large knife. The third brandished another rifle — chest puffed out and his over-sized trousers hiked up to his stomach. A length of rope was tied around his skinny middle, evidently to stop his clothing from falling around his ankles.
Bleak turned and grabbed the edge of the shelving; hanging off with one arm dangling, still clutching the hammer in his hand.
"Drop it," the stranger said gruffly. Bleak swore under his breath but did what he was asked. "Move."
The girls were ushered out and pushed towards the fence. Bleak dropped down to the floor and he felt the rifle between his shoulder blades. He was shoved towards the women.
"Now would be a good time to try out that ring," he muttered to Gi.
She shook her head. "Already have. Nothing."
"Shit."
"Who are you?" the first man barked and Grace recoiled, hiding behind Gi and Bleak. "Identify yourselves."
"Larry, Curly and Moe," Bleak replied smartly. The rifle butt slammed into his ribs and he doubled over, winded but without losing his trademark hateful sneer.
"Think you're funny?" the man sneered. "Regular comedian? Just wait until you find out what the old lady does to freaks who —"
Bleak looked away, ignoring the furious tirade. He glanced over at Grace who was staring open-mouthed at the other two guys. He soon saw what was drawing her attention.
The second man's cap was aflame atop his head and the third's rifle had begin to glow red. Harry High-Pants gasped, flinging it to the ground and screeching in agony.
Bleak saw the opportunity and he took it. He ducked his head and barged into the jerk who had bruised his ribs. Distracted by the flames and noise, the bearded guy didn't see what was coming. Bleak tackled him heavily to the ground and kicked the rifle from his hands.
"Grab it," Bleak bellowed at Grace, and she lurched forward, skidding to her knees and fumbling for the rifle. She tossed it to Bleak who trained the weapon on the two who remained, writhing on the ground in pain. The third had already taken off.
They regained their breath for a moment, looking around in surprise, adrenaline still pumping. No-one else was visible but Bleak knew without a doubt who had arrived. He'd been on the receiving end far too many times over the years.
"Where are you, Pyro," Gi called sharply. She was scanning beyond the fence line, looking for the source. "Thank you!"
"Hey!" A head popped out from behind the shed, smirking. "Get a little hot for 'em?"
"Yeah," Gi replied, helping Grace to her feet. "Nice one. Linka with you?"
"Da," came the reply as she followed Wheeler out. Bleak nodded towards her, and she gave him a tight smile back.
"That is what happens when you wander away." Ma-Ti was also with them. He approached them, passing his hand over the two struggling captives and they dropped to the ground, unconscious. "You guys disappeared on us."
"He made us do it," Grace said, pointing at Bleak. "Blame him."
"Shut up, Freckles," he hissed again. "You're really beginnin' to —"
"Klepto."
Bleak sighed, grabbing a body and dragging him towards the shed as Wheeler grabbed the other. "What about the other guy?"
"Linka sent him skyward. No idea where she's landed him."
"Nice," Grace grinned.
"I couldn't get Kwame out," Wheeler said, nodding towards Linka. She stood quietly by his side, clutching his hand and keeping him close. "Barely made it out with this one."
"We know," Gi said. "We'll find him."
"They will be expecting us," Ma-Ti said. He wiped his brow, glancing around. "They'll be prepared. Do we have a plan?"
"I have an idea," Bleak said, crouching down in the long grass and settling himself on the ground. The others joined him. "It's not much but it's the best I have."
"What are you thinkin'."
Bleak nodded towards Linka. "We'll need bait."