Chapter 3
Something's wrong...
The last thing Eliot could recall was him riding his bike down a dirt track, heading to meet the team's latest mark at almost a quarter to midnight. Somewhere along the way, he picked up a small coffee to keep him awake through the night, and the poor taste of gas station caffeine still lingered on his lips as drove down the long winding road. It was meant to be a simple con, one that he and his team had pulled off a number of times before, but obviously, something went wrong. Because, as mentioned, it was nearing on midnight the last the hitter knew, and he was traveling alone toward the meeting point at the edge of an abandoned lumber mill, but after that there was nothing.
And now he isn't sure where he is, but he was pretty sure that the loud noise he was hearing was from a chopper, it was a very distinctive sound, and given the amount of pain he was feeling, it would make sense that this was an air ambulance.
But that still left him with a lot of questions.
Like, why am I being taken to a hospital in a helicopter? Why couldn't a normal ambulance take me? Does the team know what's happening? Are they safe? How bad is it this time? Did I screw up the con? And why does my right side feel so numb when my left is killin' me?
Too many questions, they were giving him a headache.
Trying to distract himself from the ongoing list of queries and concerns, the hitter's thoughts turned quickly to his physical condition, trying to take note of anything that would need immediate medical attention, that he might want to bring up to the team working around him.
The first thing Eliot noticed was the bone-deep, but very numbed, pain that was spread across almost the entirety of his body. It seemed to affect pretty much every joint, bone, and organ he could think of indiscriminately, however, one area seemed to dominate them all.
With the raging inferno that was currently spreading through his midsection, the hitter couldn't help but squirm as the slowly rising heat climbed until it reached his chest.
Yet despite this flame that was growing inside of him, Eliot still realized that he was in fact freezing, and his skin was starting to get clammy in a way that just made him feel even colder.
To his left, there was a younger-looking man trying to talk to him, but he couldn't make out a single word he was saying through the thick muggy fog that was clouding his brain. He should probably warn her, he thought, but when he tried, nothing came out right. It was like his brain and his mouth was no longer communicating, or they were but it was like a game of Chinese whispers, where the players were all half-deaf. He tried again a moment later, but either it was the same jumble nonsense, or the woman just wasn't paying him attention as she looked away to what Eliot assumed was her colleague.
It didn't matter anyway, because she seemed to get the message. And just in the nick of time too it would seem because right at that moment the hitter's heart started beating erratically, and soon enough, he was falling backward, down into the never-ending night.
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"Happy Birthday Spencer!" As the early morning sun drifted past the living room window, a short woman with blonde hair and familiar blue eyes handed a small curly-haired boy a present. "This one's from me an' daddy. Hope you like it."
With a huge grin on his face, the kid ripped into the brightly wrapped gift, throwing small scraps of paper into the air in absolute glee. And the smile only grew wider when his eyes met the ball and helmet his parents had got him. "Thanks, ma, they're perfect." A warmth spread around the small living room as the boy lunged at his mother, embracing her in a tight but comforting hug.
Eliot remembered this day. It was his eleventh birthday and along with excitement at finally being allowed to play football, (after his parent's many failed attempts at getting him into baseball) the young boy was also looking forward to the special tea he would be having later that night with his entire family.
As he slowly unwrapped his arms from around his mother's waist, another boy walked into the small but cozy living area and settled himself down onto a worn fabric couch. Unlike Spencer, this lad had short blonde hair and brown eyes, and he was also a lot taller despite only being a couple of years older.
"Hey pipsqueak, you gonna start growin' yet." The older boy laughed mercilessly, as he wrapped his arm around his younger brother's neck and gave him a harsh nuggy. "You ain't gonna be much use in the store if you can't reach the shelves."
"That don't matter." Spencer shook his head vigorously, trying to neaten out his messed-up hair. "Cuz I ain't gonna be workin' in the store. I'm gonna be playin' football in college. Just you watch." He then stuck out his tongue for good measure.
Ha, you always did dream big kid.
"That's fine by me. I'll happily take on dad's store, I ain't never seen the point of leavin' this town, unlike some dreamers we know." He shot a glare at the bouncing pre-teen, before rolling his eyes once he saw that his glower had no effect. "Dad's been teachin' me everythin' I need to know about our trade. I've got my future set, not wastin' my time on pipe dreams.
Spencer didn't like the way his brother laughed at his dreams, and he was about to show him that, gearing himself up to throw a punch, when his mother stepped in. "Will you quit rilin' him up and give him his present already?" She huffed before throwing herself back into the chair.
"Fine. Here you go pipsqueak, happy birthday."
It had been a while since El had thought about that day, and the joy he felt, getting to spend it with his loving family. Despite what most people assumed, the hitter had quite a normal upbringing. Most of his time consisted of playing with friends, cooking with his ma, picking fights with his brother, and playing catch with his daddy. Just normal kid stuff.
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.
It was weird.
Apart from that memory that had just flashed at him from out of nowhere, the hitter had been floating in a sea of darkness, with not a sound, scent, or feeling to accompany him on this long and endless voyage. even his body felt distant, kind of like when your limbs fall asleep, and you can't move them more than a couple of centimeters, as if they weren't even a part of you anymore.
Well, at least he didn't feel any pain now, must be giving him the good stuff.
Wait, no, that's bad. Morphine means a hospital, means vulnerable, means he really needs to wake his ass up.
Sedatives didn't normally last this long, (at least not for him, too many encounters with very strong drugs in very dark prisons) so, the fact that he's still under means that he's being kept that way. Must be in surgery, great, that always comes with recovery time.
He hated this.
If there was one place he would rather not be, it was trapped inside his own head. The mind of an ex-assassin with a huge guilt problem was an awful holiday destination. At the moment it was just boring, lying alone in the dark. But other times, well let's just say, his brain had two ways of torturing itself. It was either showing him the absolute worse things he'd ever done, or it was showing the happy childhood he could never get back.
Please God, let this be just a sedative. If he's in a coma, just shut him off now. No way did he want days of this.
He wondered what his team was doing. They were probably crowded around a waiting room, picking out an alias.
"Hope they don't use Jack Jacobs; that guy's an ass."
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The pain was back.
It wasn't as bad as before, but it was definitely back.
Still nothing on his right side though.
Shit!
Scratch that two-week recovery time, he was going to be here at least a month at this rate.
At least he was waking up.
People in comas tend not to do that.
Not quite awake yet, just hovering around the edges. Sometimes he would pick up the odd sound. He was pretty sure that was Nate's voice he was hearing. He sounds sad.
"Am I dying or somethin'."
No, he's been near death before and this ain't it.
Maybe Nate's just freaking out because it's a hospital. Probably reminding him of his son. Plus, if his pain levels are telling him anything, it's that he's in really bad shape.
"God, they best not have me wrapped up like the cast of 'the mummy'. The fight scenes in that film were horrendous."
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The first thing he recognized as he slowly drifted toward consciousness, was the incessant beeping and how it matched perfectly with the rhythm of his heart. It always annoyed Eliot how loud those machines could get, with each little chirp going straight to his already frayed nerves, but it also calmed him slightly, to know at least one part of him was functioning normally.
After that, the hitter noticed a smell. Aftershave, Nate's brand of aftershave to be precise, too strong to be just lingering, so it must mean that mastermind was still here.
Guess that covers who's playing next of kin.
Now knowing where he was and who he was accompanied by, Eliot gradually opened his eyes, fully aware of the possible headache it may cause. Luckily, the room was dark with just a small reading light near his head, and blinds that had been closed against the early dawing sun.
Next to the hitter, Nate was slumped over in his chair, having dozed off at some point in the night after almost a day and a half of restless waiting.
As he twisted his head minutely to the side, using what little energy he could muster, Eliot tried to gain the mastermind's attention, "N-Nate." His voice was extremely horse, and he only just noticed the breathing mask that further muffled the sound, before trying to reach up and push it down off his face. But to the hitter's dismay, his arms failed to respond, only managing to move about half a centimeter before giving up the ghost entirely. "Nate." He tried again, straining to make his voice louder.
Wondering what had startled him out of his sleep, the mastermind turned his head sharply to see the pleading eyes of his hitter. "Oh! Thank God!" He then ran to Eliot's bedside, gently clutching the younger man's hand as he brushed a few stray hairs from his face. "How are you feeling? Do you need anything, water, more pain meds?"
The hitter could use pretty much all of that, plus a lot more, but other than a soft shake of his head, he couldn't really respond to his friend and boss.
"I'll grab your doctor; he'll want to know you're awake."
Eliot tried to reach out again, but couldn't so he used his brittle voice despite the pain. "Wait, Nate!" The mastermind then turned and looked at him, worry woven into his brow. "Alias?"
"Oh yeah, Your Eliot Krane, and I'm your brother Nate."