Chapter 22 - Recovery
Mac paced. Until she was sure the danger had passed and Harm had finally fallen into a deep sleep, she paced.
Thankfully the wound wasn't life threatening and had stopped bleeding once she pulled the piece of wood out of his side, inspected there was nothing left and used dressings to keep it covered. He wasn't hot or feverish but, as a precaution, he swallowed down antibiotics that were in the kit and then fell asleep.
Now there was nothing left to do but wait and so she busied herself tidying up the small loft. Hard surfaces were wiped down, the bathroom and kitchen cleaned. Once she was satisfied, Mac walked down the steps to the hangar which she inspected top to bottom making sure all points of entry were secure and the inside locks were in place.
Finally, Mac opened the closet and rummaged through the small chest of drawers. It held clothing that was too big but cleaner than her uniform that she'd begun to sweat through. After a quick shower, Mac emerged with her hair slicked back, wearing a pair of his shorts that were rolled up at the waist and an old Harley Davidson t-shirt that had seen better days.
The sofa was old but cozy, long enough to stretch out and get some rest. She didn't know what lay ahead or what lies had been fed to him since leaving the boathouse. Mac's own query led to nothing, the passports she found in Harm's bag were all issued by the agency in preparation for two assignments that never came.
Kershaw confirmed his death and suggested that Mac's attention fully turn to Clayton Webb. She wasn't told what that meant or what to expect but something in the director's undertone made her stomach churn. Not even in the name of national security would she sleep with Webb.
Besides her lack of interest in that department, Mac couldn't live with herself after such an act. She knew there were officers that did, some that paid the ultimate price for what was referred to as "honey pot" operations. Mac couldn't. She wouldn't but she could lead him on.
The problem was that the last year of dangling herself on a stick had led to nothing. Webb hadn't shown his cards, hadn't done anything other than try to "protect" her from the big, bad, former aviator that was obsessed with her. She snorted and rolled her eyes, the man was inept as a spy how he plotted these mastermind projects was still a surprise.
In her meeting with the director, the term Oligarch was thrown around as the answer to the Webb family's incredible wealth. She was shown pictures of the Webb men during various wars and finally landed on an image of Clay with a man that gave her an odd feeling.
"Sir, who is that?" Mac asked Kershaw because whoever stood next to Clay didn't like him. It was obvious in his posture, expression, a sneer that hadn't yet manifested fully.
The director rolled his eyes and placed his index finger over the man she'd pointed out. "Ah, our 'rival.' MI6 is supposed to work together with Central Intelligence. They're simply a thorn at our side at this point."
"MI6?" Why did that make a chill run down her spine? Why did she instantly think of Alan Blaisdale or whatever the hell his name really was?
"They didn't agree on how we handled things after 9/11. Or the fact that we outed a few of their own who helped fund Russian interests."
"Do you know his name?" She pointed again at the man closest to Webb although she didn't need an answer to that question. Mac knew.
"Kitcher. Michael…No…Will, yes. William Kitcher. He and Clay were close friends until 2002 and our involvement in Libya." Kershaw walked to the corner of his office where a large globe sat in a circular stand. He pulled at a recessed handle, lifted the top and exposed a small bar. Whiskey sat in a crystal decanter, bourbon in another with glasses in wooden holders that were just as elegant.
Two fingers worth of whiskey went into one glass and the other that Mac politely declined much to Kershaw's chagrin. "I was taught not to trust people that don't drink, Colonel."
"You've seen my file, you know I'm an alcoholic. I'm no good to you if I'm sopping drunk."
Harrison shrugged and placed the glass on his desk. "How do you know about Kitcher from MI6? And does it have to do with questions about Rabb's Russian passport?"
"I'm honestly not sure." Mac lied. William Kitcher's image had been shown to her by Harm when they were in the houseboat in case the man ever showed his face around JAG. "Webb ransacked Harm's apartment and I salvaged what I could. That man, I've seen him before."
"He's the same as Clay, Colonel. They have contacts, wealth and belong to no one, no country. They're both in Russia's back pocket and…Damnit, I'm afraid that Rabb was a pawn between the two of them."
"Harm would never…"
"He didn't know. The missions he flew at the end were used to get information through Canada so that none of it appeared to come from the CIA. I know he passed intel along to Kitcher and I know that Kitcher was posing as Alan Blaisdale."
"You knew?"
"I let it happen."
"Why?"
Kershaw tossed back his drink and then wrapped his hands around the other, cradling the glass in his hands. His face fell, his expression pained. "I was hoping one would cancel out the other. I didn't mean for Rabb to get killed over it and for that, I'm sorry."
Mac stood straight, her breath coming out shaky as she let it out in a rush. "What now? What exactly do you need me to do?"
"Stay on Webb. Lean on him, be his friend. Be…whatever he needs. He's fond of you, Colonel and I'm convinced that, with Rabb gone, he'll trust a little more. As for Kitcher, Rabb had a laptop…If you find it, bring it to me."
"Understood."
At first Harm couldn't tell where he was. The loft had only been in his possession for a few months and it was actually Frank who suggested he have a place no one knew about. Although Harm never discussed his assignments with anyone, his step-father was always intuitive and could sense something on the horizon.
Which was why he'd supplied his son with untraceable cash, a back up plan should anything go South. Harm was grateful, if not pained by the kindness Frank showed time and time again to the ungrateful son of the woman he married.
Time healed some of those wounds but Harm would always carry that guilt inside.
It was daytime although the gloomy, overcast day gave the loft that sort of cozy feel despite his confusion. His side hurt like hell and as his senses awakened the faint scent of antiseptic and dry blood made his nose scrunch. Lifting his body to a sitting position made him wince as the sharp stab of pain at his side reminded him of the night.
He'd broken into Mac's apartment hell bent on murder. The information Will had given him fueled that fire as did the inter-state drive where Harm convinced himself that Mac had betrayed him for years.
It all went back to Russia. She was quick to follow the first time around and easily criss-crossed war torn regions to reach him and Sergei. Kitcher explained that Sarah MacKenzie had many contacts, that she'd been hand picked for specific assignments that most on the inside were not aware of. She was smart, charming and beautiful - a lethal combination in the CIA's arsenal.
As he got his bearings and was able to sit up, he was surprised to find her asleep on the sofa with a throw that barely covered her. The pistol was on the nightstand next to him and his fingers itched as he reached across to grab it.
Something made him stop. His eyes focused back to the living room and the woman who sat up and stared right at him. Mac's lips parted as she silently stared between Harm and the gun. Her eyes were sad. Not shocked or scared or surprised, just sad and as Harm brought his hand down to his lap, a voice that didn't sound like his own spoke, "You're still here."
She didn't acknowledge his question right away, choosing instead to toy with the hose clamp on her finger. For some reason it felt like an anchor now - weighing her down although Mac didn't want to focus on the why nor the little voice inside that dared her to throw it at him.
Instead, she shook her head. "Where would I go?"
"Anywhere." He snorted and motioned toward the door with his chin. "There's two cars downstairs. You could have left…You should have left and contacted your…partner."
The last word was said with such scorn it left little to her imagination. "Webb's not my partner. Kershaw put me on his case."
"And me?"
Mac stood and carefully began to walk his way making sure to keep an ample amount of space when Harm's expression turned to fear. "You've never been anything more than what you are."
"In English?"
"You were my partner. My friend and my lover. Nothing else." He seemed doubtful and when Mac twisted his ring off and placed it on the edge of the bed an odd expression fell across his face. "I guess we're none of those things anymore."
Harm focused on the ring, the one he stupidly created from a hose clamp that he filed down and polished so that it would not hurt her finger. That was barely two weeks earlier when things made sense even if they didn't. He would have given his life for her then and now…
Now he stared between the woman and the ring, his mind trying to find the truth in either Mac or Will's lies. His head hurt from trying and it was his heart that eventually won. "I made that for you."
"Would you have shot me? Last night? At my apartment? Would you?"
Harm still felt the metal of the gun digging into his palm, the weight of it like carrying a hundred pound anchor right in his hand. He should have shot her, it was an order and one that he betrayed by sitting down to 'talk.' He could have shot her on the ride over or after Mac patched his wounds but…but… he still loved her and nothing that Kitcher said made sense anymore. "Yes and likely shot myself when I came to my senses."
"Harm-"
"Mac, I'm tired. I'm so fucking tired. I-I don't want to do this." He flopped back onto the pillows, wincing when his side ached sharply. "Go. Run. Tell them I took you. Tell them where I am…I give up."
His head rolled on the pillow and after a few more seconds, Harm had fallen asleep again. Mac watched over him for nearly an hour until her own exhaustion won over.
With tears in her eyes, Mac returned to the couch and fell into a restless sleep.
…..
Webb sat in his home office propped on the edge of his desk chair that nearly toppled over when he heard of his men's fate. "All three? Dead?"
He knew now that Harm was alive and the savage son of a bitch had likely taken Sarah hostage, a warning he tried to drill into her time and time again. A warning that landed on deaf ears. Only snippets of their conversation came in through the listening devices but it was enough to prompt his men into action - three of his best and none of them survived. "Clearly MI6 taught him a few tricks." Or maybe Rabb was always that able?
There was more bad news, the tracking - all of the trackers on Sarah had been useless. Her cell phone was found in her purse that was left hanging on the coat rack by the door in her apartment.
At one point he'd managed to place tiny listening devices on her uniforms but those too seemed to disappear along with her. Rabb had reappeared like some spectre and Clay felt like a failure. All of his safeguards, all the promises to keep her safe disappeared the moment he'd let down his guard.
Webb still had a nagging feeling that Mac willingly left although the dead men and the destruction of her apartment said otherwise. She would have taken her purse, her keys and even clothing but, everything was still in place except for her. He knew the woman stupidly loved her ex and perhaps Rabb used their past to convince Sarah to join him. Perhaps…
No. He sighed and shook his head. The scenarios were too many and they were making his head spin wildly. "So Rabb just dropped off the radar?" Webb angrily yelled into the phone.
As the voice on the other end spoke fast and scattered, Webb pinched the bridge of his nose to stop an impending headache. "Stop, stop! I don't want excuses. This wasn't part of the plan. If anything, anything happens to Sarah there isn't a rock you could crawl under…I'll find you. I'll end you."
The phone went flying against the wall, shattering to pieces when he threw it with all of his might. The force made his body waver, the effects of Sadik's torture would live with him permenantly and as Webb used the desk to steady himself, he let out a wild scream. "Fuck!"
Slowly he began moving, his body craving to lose itself in the bottle of caña he had in the kitchen. Liquor solved little but at least it would help ease some of the pain he felt. As he meandered across the apartment, something made him stop.
He wasn't alone.
The man sitting on the couch wasn't welcomed. Friends who betrayed friends deserved little respect and this particular acquaintance was nothing but a thorn at his side.
"I want to ask how you got in but given our profession-"
"You mean my profession, don't you?" He pointed at Webb's cane and a sly smile spread across his lips. "Only one of us is still whole, the other is a shell of who he once was."
"Fuck you, Kitcher!"
William Kitcher stood from the sofa, one hand holding a glass of amber liquid that he procured from Clay's kitchen. He was never much of a rum drinker but it gave him something to do while he waited. "It's true and rumor has it you served yourself up on a platter."
Webb glared at the intruder, his fists shaking in anger. "Why are you here?"
"Harmon Rabb, his death was faked by MI6. We needed him and he needed us. And now…well, he's taken something that belongs to me and I believe you can help me find it."