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This is a short chapter as the action heats up. Thanks to midnightandahalf for the beta help.
Chapter 15
Chlorophyllum molybdites. The most commonly misidentified and accidentally ingested mushroom in North America. Easy to find and guaranteed to produce gastro-intestinal distress in one to three hours. The information Steph found online proved accurate after the fungi were dumped into the Rangeman soup by Carissa Williams and ingested by more than half of the on duty staff.
How the fuck did we miss this? Not we, me. My company, my people, my responsibility.
Carson Lewis. Also my responsibility. Knowing I couldn't have saved those men doesn't lessen the guilt of not being able to save them. I should have followed up on him once we got him home. Would I have been able to live with the guilt? I'm not sure.
"Knock knock." Christ, how long has she been standing in the open door to my office? You're losing it, Manoso.
"Babe."
"I'll assume that means come in," she says with a slight smirk.
Instead of replying, I silently track her as she moves around my desk, slides my chair back, and perches her ass almost on my keyboard so she is directly in front of me.
"You okay?" she asks, leaning forward so we are eye to eye.
"I didn't eat the soup," I reply. Not what she meant, but I'm not ready to answer her real question. No, as a matter of fact, I'm not okay; I'm fucking pissed.
"I'll take that to mean no, you're not okay. My guess is you're mad and you're blaming yourself for everything Carissa is responsible for." She knows me too well. "Anyway, I was wondering if I could help with patrols. I know you're short-handed even with contract workers. I thought if I went out with one of the regular guys that would free up someone."
My initial thought is no, I want you tucked safely away from another lunatic that may try to use you to get to me. But that won't go over well with her. I decide to hedge my bets as much as I can.
"Thanks, that would be helpful. You can ride with Tank."
My cock twitches as she leans forward to rest her hands on the armrests of my chair and slowly lowers her mouth to mine. No surprise that her kiss tastes of something sweet.
She ends the kiss and whispers, "Don't go crazy."
"Don't get shot," I respond as she walks out the door. With anyone else, I would appreciate the irony. The fact both were a possibility made it a little less humorous.
I hate knowing this time I'm most useful behind a desk. I'm accustomed to a more physical response when there is a threat. I swallow the urge to sigh as I pick up the phone and start working through my long list of contacts.
The process is the same for each call. In my line of work, having someone owe you is more valuable than any amount of currency. Everyone is willing to share information, for a price. That price is a future favor. Having Ranger Manoso owe you is priceless. They know I always pay my debts.
Unfortunately for them, and for me, no one seems to have any more information on Carson Lewis or Carissa Williams. I've been working the phones for over an hour and I'm still as ignorant as when I started.
My cell phone rings and I glance at the display before answering.
"Babe?"
"Sorry, Babe is a little busy right now. She's trying to figure out how to get herself free so she can apply pressure to the gunshot wound in Tank's chest."
"Where are you, Carissa?" I ask, fingers flying over the keyboard to bring up the location of Steph's phone.
"I'm not in the mood for games, Ranger." Hatred in her voice as she says my name. "You've already got the phone's location up by now. Come alone. Don't send someone to die in your place. But you better hurry. Without pressure on that wound, I can't guarantee Tank won't beat you to Hell."
I text as I move toward the stairwell. Shit, who the hell is still upright? Bobby, Hal, and Ram.
On my location. No comms. Do not engage. Maintain perimeter. Have EMT on standby for possible GSW.
How the hell did an accountant take down a trained mercenary and his back-up? I hit speed dial 5 for the control room.
"Rangeman control." I don't recognize the voice of the contract worker who answers.
"What was the last communication you had with unit 2?" I ask as I double-time it down the stairs.
Obviously he recognizes my voice. "Sir, unit 2 was responding to an alarm at a warehouse on the waterfront 20 minutes ago. They reported signs of vandalism - a couple of windows had been broken and a door had been pried open. They were entering the building to make sure the perps weren't inside doing more damage."
"Which back-up unit was dispatched?" I ask as the stairway door slams against the side of the garage.
"Backup unit, sir?" Uncertainty in his voice. Yes, fuckwad, backup unit. They've been out of contact for 20 goddamn minutes. "Um, no one, sir. I'll do that now."
"Negative control. Standby for further instructions." And your walking papers.