Chapter Text
The Sunday afternoon sun had reached its apex in the sky, casting its rays over the tireless firefighters who continued their efforts at extricating the officers still stuck under the debris. Another body had been found a couple of hours ago – Officer Stone’s; his partner, Clarkson, had been pulled out about ten minutes later, shaken but alive. Angela had to break the news to him that Stone was dead. Clarkson had buried his face into Angela’s shoulder, pulling away only when one of the medics kindly asked him if he wanted to ride to the hospital with his deceased partner.
Angela watched Clarkson pull himself into the ambulance - Who would be the one to break the news to-
“Detective!” Morales snapped Angela out of her spiralling thoughts, and she trudged back towards the command unit, tired. Tim had been trapped under the debris for close to fifteen hours now, his status unknown. The firefighters had managed to clear out a substantial number of debris, but the discovery of an unexploded piece of ordinance just an hour after the discovery of Stone and Clarkson had halted the progress of the first responders, as they waited for the bomb techs to carefully move the find away from the debris, letting the firefighters get back to work.
“Are you okay?” Morales asked, and Angela was confused why Morales would be asking her that question. What kind of-
“Do you want a hug, Detective? You look like you need one, and I’m in a giving mood,” Morales pointed out. Angela just nodded, and Morales approached her, wrapping her arms around the Detective, the dust from her overcoat smudging onto Angela’s shirt.
“I have good news, Detective. We think we’ve managed to locate where your Sergeant is under the debris.”
“You have? How long until -”
“By sundown today, I estimate. It looks like the debris in that area managed to withstand the blast much better – that or there is more unexploded ordinance in that area – and so much of the debris is larger. I suspect your Sergeant and his partner are trapped in a pocket of sorts. And if so, they’re lucky. Extremely lucky. We’re going to see if we can pull the debris apart just enough to pull them out if we can, rather than moving it all.”
“You’ve done this before?” Angela asked.
“Yes, yes, I have.”
Angela didn’t ask how many times she’d done it successfully.
*
“Special Agent Sarah Whittler?” An officer asked, coming out of their squad car.
“Yes, Officer -”
“Jan? Grey sent you and… Smitty?” Celina asked, her hand tight around Lucas’. The young man had complained about everything in the fifteen minutes it had taken for them to take the elevator down to the ER entrance, and Celina had wished she’d slept longer and anyone else but her had to listen to him whinge.
“Everyone else is busy dealing with, well, everything post-quake, Juarez. And, well, Whittler here wanted this transfer done ASAP, so we volunteered.”
“Yes, I did want this done ASAP. Consider him in your custody, Officers. Please send Sergeant Grey my thanks, and could I please be informed as soon as you reach the station?”
“Of course. Juarez, you hitching a ride back with us?” Jan asked, and Celina nodded. She was ready to get the hell out of the hospital.
Whittler watched as they bundled the young man into the back of their patrol car and shot out onto the main road, making good use of their lights and sirens.
One less thing to worry about – at least for now. Ninety-nine problems still remain.
She took a deep breath as she headed back upstairs, waiting for an update from Helen. She was still at least an hour out with the injured Agent Cole, who, according to her, was hanging by a thread.
“Doctor!” She exclaimed, spotting the doc who’d asked to see Knight and had mentioned to Juarez the possibility of Noah being woken up from his coma.
“Special Agent. Has Helen Knight arrived yet?”
“She’s on her way in as we speak with another injured Agent. I wanted to know if you’re still going ahead with your plan to wake Detective Foster up.”
“Well -”
“We’re debating on that matter, Miss,” another doctor, older, more stern-looking, approached them, cutting off whatever the other doctor was going to say.
“Debating? I thought you were liking the look of his vitals.”
“Doctor Jones wasn’t wrong about that – his vitals are looking fine, and for most other patients, I’d agree that we could try to wean him off, but the patient has sustained a lot of damage to his internal organs, and he's severely underweight. My medical opinion is that he should be kept sedated until his body has had the chance to recover. You bought him two nights ago. I suggest at least another three days, if not four, before we attempt to wean him off.”
“You disagree with your colleague, Doctor Jones?” Whittler asked, noticing Jones shaking his head at times.
“Doctor Karim is not necessarily wrong. But, I don’t see any reason why we can’t wean him off now and let him recover when he’s conscious. Besides, if our patient himself can tell us what happened to him, we can treat him better. And, as I’ve mentioned, is vitals are far, far better – in fact, Doctor Yasmine and I both agree that we can wake the Detective up, and not harm his recovery.”
“Doctor Karim, please, listen to this. I’m no Doctor, but what Detective Foster, your patient, knows is important. I cannot explain why or how, but what he knows could be the difference between you having to deal with a preventative mass casualty incident down the line. If you can safely wake him from his coma, can you please do so?”
“Are you his medical proxy?” Karim asked, and Whittler shook her head.
“Helen Knight, his proxy, is on her way. But I can get her on the phone now if this is something she needs to consent to on Foster’s behalf. Hell, I’ll text her now,” Whittler said, tapping away on her FBI-issued phone.
“Can you get her on the phone? She needs to understand the risks involved, and once I hear her verbal consent on the patient’s behalf, I will cautiously agree to Jones’ treatment plan, and encourage the group of medics assembled upstairs to do so.”
That was all Whittler had to hear as she dialled Knight, handing the phone over to the docs as she stood by and watched the two doctors interject over one another, but all-in-all explaining to Knight what would happen.
Seven minutes later, Helen had given the go-ahead, and both Jones and Karim headed towards Foster’s room, asking Whittler to wait outside as they did what they needed to do. Whittler took that opportunity to check the current officers on duty in the hospital, happy to see a somewhat familiar name still on.
“Officer Thorsen, could I trouble you for a couple of hours?” Whittler asked, finding him chugging down a coffee in their makeshift conference room – with Lucas now in Mid-Wilshire custody and a couple of FBI subordinates Sarah trusted keeping an eye on Dara, she had sent him to take some well-deserved rest.
“Of course, ma’am. Where’d you like me?”
“Doctors have agreed on waking up Noah Foster. Would you be happy to be in the room, keep an eye on him, and contact me as soon as he wakes?”
“Of course, consider it done.”
“Thank you, Officer. I hope Sergeant Grey knows what an asset he has in you.”
“I hope he does too, ma’am, but I guess a reminder never hurt,” he added cheekily, and Whittler managed to crack a small smile.
“Your work will be reflected in my report once, well, all of this ends, Officer Thorsen.”
She walked out of the room.
*
Lucy had woken up suddenly, a large clang causing her to jolt up. Whatever was left of her blouse and jeans had stuck to the dried blood that was no doubt visible more than her own skin, and she winced when she sat up, the fabric – now rough due to the dried blood – scratching against her itchy skin. She resisted itching, scared to make herself bleed.
She’d lost enough blood as is because of Mateo. And with Oliver nowhere to be seen, she doubted Mateo would bother, or even know, how to replenish her blood.
Her shoes and socks had disappeared soon after Foster was gone, and she hadn’t bothered asking where they were; it was harder to run barefoot, after all.
She scanned her surroundings, a tad disappointed to not find Jackson still sitting across from her.
He wasn’t real, Lucy. Focus on what’s real.
She closed her eyes, struggling to take in a deep breath, pressing her palms against the wall behind her, feeling its rough texture.
That’s real. You, captive god knows where, subject to the whims of the third Molina brother, who nobody seemed to know existed.
She opened her eyes, scanning her surroundings, surprised to see another bottle of water and… an empty plate. Well, something was on it before, but now? Just breadcrumbs.
Lucy’s stomach grumbled at the mere sight of those crumbs, but she forced herself to push the plate away. She was not going to give Mateo the satisfaction of watching her try to satisfy her hunger by struggling to grab at the crumbs – no.
As for the water? Well, with this one, there was no discussion. Lucy knew that this was not just water – it was never just water – but she didn’t want to hold out. The last time she refused to drink the water, Mateo had threatened to force it down her throat, and that threat was enough. She wouldn’t give Mateo any more reasons to hurt her.
She struggled to open it, but once she did, chugged the bottle down in one, falling back onto the tattered mattress, closing her eyes again.
She was tired – she hadn’t had any nightmares, no, and Lucy mumbled a silent thank you to her best friend for that – but those couple of hours didn’t come anywhere close to replenishing her energy. She closed her eyes, forcing her mind to drift far away from here, to think of anything but her current predicament.
She settled on the memory of her last dinner with Tim.
Tim.
I miss you.
They weren’t celebrating anything special, but every dinner with him was special. She tried to replay the conversations they had, her mouth upturning into the faintest of smiles.
“Let’s see how much you’ll be smiling later,” Mateo mumbled as he watched Lucy on the screen, the various papers long forgotten.
He hadn’t tried this familiar concoction in a while – getting the ingredients was a real pain – and was frustrated that the Detective hadn’t been able to get a taste for it. At least Lucy would.
He leaned in his chair, waiting, watching…
*
The drug kicked in less than ten minutes later. Lucy had opened her eyes, another slam in the distance forcing her up. She looked around the room, surprised to see the door unlocked, open so that she could see out of the four walls that she’d memorised every inch of.
What was this? A trick? A test? Was she being rescued?
Cautiously, she attempted to force herself to her feet but resolved to crawl when she felt her head spin.
“Hello?” she tried to yell out, but all that came out was a pitiful hoarse cry of the vowels of the word.
She managed to make her way to the door, her hands barely catching her face from crashing into the cement.
A figure came out of the dark, and Lucy squinted, her mind trying to comprehend that it was.
“Tim?” she questioned, the figure getting closer, her mind telling her that, yes, it was him.
“You’re here?” she asked, and he didn’t answer, but nodded.
She was fine, she was –
That’s not him.
Not. Him.
Mateo had all but told her Tim was stuck under some building. That was what, yesterday, before that? He couldn’t be here.
A trick. That’s what this was.
She closed her eyes, twisting onto her back, trying to ground herself, digging her palms into the floor, relishing the pain that flooded her, because that? That was real.
She opened her eyes again, closing them almost instantly as her mind continued to cruelly conjure up Tim.
“I’ve got you,” his voice echoed in her mind, and she somehow let out a scream of agony, forcing this phantom voice out of her mind.
He wasn’t here.
This wasn’t Tim.
And as her final test of confirmation, she awkwardly reached her hand up, and it passed right through the phantom Tim, his image crumbling around her hand.
The fucking water, Lucy managed to think as she opened her eyes, this time, Mateo’s face in front of hers.
Please let him be a fucking phantom, she hoped, pushing up the other hand, but Mateo grabbed it before she could touch his face, yanking her up to her feet roughly by that hand, throwing her over his shoulder like a rag doll and depositing her back into the small room, her small frame bouncing slightly off the bloodied mattress.
“Even high and hallucinating, you find a way to be fucking stubborn. You’re the first to clock it, Lucy. How did you do it?” Mateo asked, curious. They’d used it on Clarisse, and it took her falling unconscious to pull herself out of the conjurings of her mind.
When Lucy didn’t answer, he picked up the plate she’d shoved to the side and launched it into the wall beside her, the shattering causing Lucy to jump.
“You will break, Lucy. Whether now, with me, or later, when they’ll no doubt find you, you’ll break.”
He slammed the door shut, furious. There were other days dealing with the Officer, but they were… distasteful. He knew that Jorge used such methods, whilst Eduardo had shared the opinion with him that even such acts were far too much. Every man had his limits, and those were his.
Besides, how could he ever be with his wife and family if he succumbed to… that?
He dialled Dante, happy to hear the man’s update, informing him that he would be paying a visit to them later today.
He took a final look at Lucy, who was lying on her back on that stupid mattress.
He hoped she enjoyed it for a couple more hours; he’d only left there at Oliver’s request, and well, it was all too unfortunate that his time with Lucy was coming to an end. With his men ahead of schedule, he needed to switch his focus entirely to what all of this was building up to.
On the meaning of his life for the last four years.
Sure, he could keep her longer, but those pesky federal agents and LAPD were pulling out all the stops with her, and he was not going to risk the entire plan blowing up because of Officer Chen.
This would be the final place he’d have his fun with her. Better to leave her be and let the officers focus a little longer on finding her, whilst he shuffled the final pieces and made his escape unscathed.
*
“Jefe, didn’t expect you here so soon,” Dante pointed out as Mateo paced across the hustle and bustle of the warehouse, equipment carefully moved around before being piled into the back of smaller trucks, ready to be scattered across the city.
All those alphabet agencies had absolutely zero clue what awaited the city in less than a month’s time. After he’d targeted what looked like a decoy meeting that had prematurely revealed his intent, he had planned for multiple scenarios, as well as multiple decoy attacks. Better, he’d found himself people who had loyalty to nothing but money. Money that he now had a lot of, mostly thanks to Officer Chen – hmm, maybe an encore would bode well for his finances.
The point was, he was ready. After the hiccups caused by Lucas, all was looking up for him.
“Just checking on a couple of things, Dante. You won’t even notice I’m here.”
He wasn’t necessarily wrong – only Dante and two other men knew that he was running the entire enchilada, and he liked it kept that way. He did all his business online or through his inner circle.
Good luck finding me, he chuckled, thinking about the agencies struggling to put a face to his name.
He popped into his office, locking the door behind him, unfurling the blueprints of the most likely candidates the agency heads would be meeting at, committing them to memory. He would be on the ground again. He wanted to be there, up close and personal, watching the light fade from their eyes.
And once that was done, he would seek his wife and children – the last month or so had only solidified his belief that his wife and kids weren’t dead. He would find them, and he could leave the US knowing that his life’s work was done.
They could go back home as a family.
*
Hours away from Mateo, the firefighters carried on working on freeing the remaining trapped LEOs, making steady progress, just meters diagonally down. They knew that at least two more officers were trapped, and at least one of them was still alive, still moving. Morales had given the firefighters the go-ahead to use whatever methods they deemed necessary, no matter how orthodox, to reach them.
Angela and Nyla were back in the mobile command centre, keeping an eye out at a distance.
“So, your contact have anything?” Angela asked, breaking the silence.
“She’s aware of this shitshow, and turns out NSA has her on their own task force that’s dealing with that big four-year meeting Whittler mentioned. They’re monitoring a lot of chatter, but she says nothing is sticking out – just the usual kooks. I asked her if the NSA had anything on Mateo, the Molinas, anything Whittler told me, and she told me she’d send me everything she could without, you know, going to prison herself. I told her about Lucy, and she says she’s aware – turns out she knows Sarah Whittler too, and Whittler asked her to keep an eye out for any mentions of her.”
“She… she found something?” Angela asked her partner, noticing the change in demeanour.
“Videos… of Lucy. I… I stopped watching thirty seconds in. Couldn’t watch anymore. It’s bad, Ange. We need to find her.”
“Your contact able to glean any info from the video?”
“She told me it was like working against one of her colleagues – someone very tech savvy is covering the tracks, and she says it might take a while to pinpoint anything that could help us. But she is pulling all the stops.”
“Good. We need all the help we can get,” Angela explained, as the ground began to shake again, this time less intensely, but for the destroyed warehouse… any small shift could be deadly.
“Aftershock. Everyone, fall back now!” Morales called over the radio as the rescuers scrambled back, all eyes on the deconstructed warehouse.
By some sheer fucking miracle, the whole thing did not fall like a house of cards, but a crash echoing from below betrayed the fact that some shift had occurred below the visible top layer.
Fuck.
“Everyone alright?” Morales asked over the radio, two firefighters reporting mild injuries.
Work quickly resumed – another shock of any kind, and they’d not be so lucky.
Metres below one of the firefighters who’d slipped and sustained, the aftershock had shifted a handful of rocks from their precarious position, raining through the small cracks between the debris, and down into the air pocket that Tim and Reynolds were still trapped in.
Unlucky for him, Tim had pulled off his helmet for just a couple of minutes as he wiped off the sweat accumulating under it when the shocks had hit, and a rock half the size of his head bounced off the crown of his head. He clutched it with his right hand, vision darkening.
No. No.
He couldn’t black out. That was not an option.
He gritted his teeth, forcing his eyes open, blinking rapidly, lying down, trying to steady his breathing.
He looked straight forward, noticing a new gap, and… was that someone else? Someone peeking through the gap. He squinted, and for a second, he could have sworn the face looking back was… Jackson West?
Get your shit together, Bradford. Officer West is dead. You are not.
He rubbed his eyes with his good hand, and when he looked back, there was no face anymore. Just another rock. A rock with a humanoid shape. His mind was filling in blanks that just weren’t there.
“Rock must have hit me harder than I thought,” he mumbled under his breath, hoping that it wouldn’t cause him to see any more of the deceased. He was done being haunted by them.
Hell, he was done being stuck here. Pushing himself up, ignoring the pain from his head, his purple arm, and his stomach, he reached his hand up, tracing it over the rocks above his head.
Surely we aren’t too far from the surface. If I just…
NO!
Tim jerked his hand back as he heard the command echo in the space, shouted with such clarity, he was sure if his head injury was far more serious, he would have actually thought it was actually Lucy who’d yelled it into his ear.
She’s not here.
And yet, he heeded the order that echoed in her voice, shirking back to his original, now uncomfortable, position, checking back in on Reynolds, a pulse still present, thankfully. His leg was a goner, though, Tim thought – below the tourniquet, it was pale, cold to the touch. If Reynolds made it, this raid was his last act as a sworn officer.
Lucy would have taken it as a sign, had their positions been reversed, that much he knew. He didn’t believe much in them, but there was just something about this one… the intensity of the warning was all he could think of, and as soon as he thought back to his injury, he realised that, for the last thirty seconds, he didn’t feel any of the pain – just the tension of the warning.
Hope you’re right about this one, he silently quipped, focusing back on Reynolds. Lucy would have all of his attention as soon as he was out of here.
“Sergeant?” A male voice croaked, and Tim opened his eyes to see Reynolds looking back at him, the young officer finally conscious.
“Welcome back, Reynolds,” he got out, letting out a sigh of relief.
One less death was already a victory.
*
Thorsen was mindlessly flicking through the magazines the nurse had kindly dropped off to him, surprised that they still existed. He hated magazines – after the publicity of his own case, they’d plastered his face everywhere, spreading lies and gossip and in general turning his life hell. He hadn’t picked one up since but after an hour of mindless scrolling, he decided to see what kind of slop they were peddling.
He had gotten through his third when movement caught the side of his eye, and he dropped the mags, pacing towards the bed, the Detective attempting to clench his hand into a fist. The Detective’s eyes (well, more so the right eye – the left was sluggishly following) shot towards Thorsen, the terrified look in his eyes subsiding when they shifted downwards, and Thorsen assumed Noah had clocked the LAPD uniform.
“Detective Foster, you’re in St. Stephen’s hospital. In LA. Don’t, don’t try to move,” Thorsen responded, reacting to Noah trying to push himself up. Aaron hit the call button, carrying on talking to Noah, who opened his mouth, evidently trying to say something. Thorsen leaned over, trying to catch the faint sound Noah was making.
“Lu…cy…” he got out, that single word throwing him into a coughing fit. Aaron reached for the water, watching as Noah took a tiny sip before trying to say something else.
“Noah, Lucy’s not here,” he began, and Noah blinked rapidly, trying to say something else.
“Need… Ser,” he coughed, continuing,”…geant… Bradford…”
“Detective, Tim isn’t here. There was an earthquake, and he’s under rubble. But Helen Knight is on her way in,” he told Noah, watching realisation cross Foster’s face, well, as much face as he could see under the bandages.
Half a dozen doctors took the opportunity to swarm in, and Thorsen stayed in the room at a respectable distance, watching them work, side-eyeing one of the doctors who asked him to leave, shutting down that request wordlessly.
Ten minutes later, they all left, leaving Foster’s only company to once again be Thorsen.
“What… what happ…ened?” Foster managed to whisper out, and Thorsen pulled a chair, explaining to Foster everything since they’d pulled over Washington and found him bleeding out in the car, up to just before he’d woken up. Foster listened attentively, but it was clear that keeping focus for such a long time was taking up a lot of his energy.
“Detective Foster, I’m not going to go anywhere. And both Helen and Sarah Whittler could explain this in much greater depth. If you need to sleep, sleep. Whatever you need to say, I’m sure it could wait.”
It can’t, Noah thought, but the word sleep coming out of the officer’s mouth was latched onto by his body, and he closed his eyes, for the first time in months, drifting off to sleep without pain.
“Whittler, this is Officer Thorsen,” Aaron reached for his phone, realising Sarah hadn’t responded to his texts informing her that Noah was up.
“He’s up,” he informed.
*
“I don’t recall having this much energy when I was their age,” James commented as Jack and Leah messed around in the centre of the Evers’ living room, the two of them now forgetting that just an hour ago, they’d been terrified by the aftershock that jolted the city.
“I believe I gave my nanny hell,” Wes chuckled as he offered James a coffee.
“Just what I need, Wes. Thank you, by the way, for inviting us over. Leah keeps asking when Nyla is coming home.”
“Jack’s been asking, too. I managed to get a text through to Angela – the LAFD captain thinks they should be done by tonight latest. I mean, I understand why she doesn’t want to leave… I just don’t want her to get hurt too.”
“I think they might be ironically safer out there, Wes. Out in the middle of who knows where, and Nyla tells me the Captain’s been doing her best to confine them to the command unit.”
“Good. Knowing Angela, she’s probably volunteered a half dozen times to go and dig the rubble herself.”
“Oh, don’t put that picture in my head, Wesley. Half of me is tempted to grab my car and drive out there just to make sure I can see her safe.”
“Well, if you do decide, feel free to let Leah stay. I’ve set up the guest bedroom, and we have a spare cot in Jack’s room.”
“Oh, you guys…” James asked, and Wes nodded.
“Well, we’re a little behind schedule, but Angela and I agreed it’s time to go for a second round. Angela keeps mentioning how she wants Jack to have a handful of siblings, and, well, I am more than happy to play my part.”
“That’s fantastic to hear, Wes. I’d drink to that properly, but I think we save the celebrations for once this is all over?”
“That might be a while. DA has just told me that on top of the federal charges against Lucas Scholl, the state is also going to try him.”
“You’re working on it?”
“The DA, me, and two other ADAs. Highest priority for our office.”
“Well, consider this an open invite – Jack is welcome to stay over anytime. I can see how much this case means to everyone, and, well, at the moment, I feel like I’m doing absolutely nothing to help. You’re going to deal with the legal side, Nyla and all the other officers are looking for her, and I’m just…”
“James, you may not feel like you’re helping, but you are. In your own way. You’re Nyla’s rock, and look, she’s able to work on finding Lucy and doing everything else because she knows you’re keeping the fort here.”
“Cheers to that, I guess,” James replied, the two clanking their coffee mugs together.
*
The helicopter had barely touched down when the medics rushed to pull the injured Agent Cole onto a gurney. Helen jumped out straight after, making a beeline towards Whittler, who was standing outside, fixing her hair from the gust that the chopper had kicked up.
“What’s the status on Cole?”
“Had to shock him about ten minutes ago, but got him back. Medics said nothing else. Anything on Foster?”
“Thorsen reached out twenty minutes ago – Noah woke up and said a couple of words, and Thorsen caught him up to speed. He’s sleeping it off.”
“Good. Let’s not wake him,” Helen said, catching Whittler surprised – the SAC thought Helen would want to know what Noah knew ASAP.
“Last thing we need is for him to slip back into a coma or die,” Helen added, noticing a hint of perplexity on the other agent’s face.
*
Noah woke up about an hour later from the nurse prodding him, checking his vitals.
“I’m sorry, Detective,” she apologised, “I’ll be out of your hair in just a minute.”
His eyes darted to the right, more relaxed to see the familiar face of the Officer who’d spoken to him before – Thorsen, and then…
Helen.
“Hey, Foster. Am I glad to see you alive!” she said, and Noah noticed she hadn’t added and in one piece.
Hell, he felt as far from one piece as possible.
He tried to move his fingers, watching his index finger slowly rise, the mangled state of his hand horrifying him. The harsh hospital light didn’t help.
“Hel…en,” Noah acknowledged her, coughing again, and Helen reached for the ice chips the doctor had left, giving him one.
“Foster, Noah, don’t speak if you can’t…”
“I… I have to… I,” he began, “ask me…” he said, watching as an unknown woman stood beside Helen.
“Noah, this is SAC Sarah Whittler. She’s cleared to hear everything, as is Officer Thorsen. I’m going to let her ask some questions first.”
Whittler switched places with Helen, hoping to make it easier for Noah to see her. Noah squinted, trying to focus on the details of the SAC’s face, but whilst his right eye was working fine, she was nothing but a dull blob in his left, just like Officer Thorsen was.
He listened attentively, Whittler kindly sticking predominantly to yes and no questions, letting him rest his voice. He couldn’t feel any pain yet, but he knew that that was the work of whatever heavy drugs they’d put him on; if he hurt himself further now, he wouldn’t be able to feel it.
Noah managed ten minutes of conversation before the questions turned towards Lucy, and his heart rate spiked dramatically, leading a nurse and a doctor to rush into the room, pushing the officers and agents aside, telling them that they were going to sedate the patient.
Lucy.
He was here, safe in this hospital, and Lucy was…
Dead? Near death? He was certain when he left her that she was, but the way Helen and the new agent – Sarah, was it? – talked about her, it was clear that they were operating on the assumption that Lucy was still alive.
Alive, and he’d left her with him.
Alone.
Fuck, he’d rather feel all that physical pain than the guilt that was threatening to end him, and this time for good.
He’s taking it all out on her, was the last thing he thought before the sedatives kicked in.
“Agents, he’s in a fragile state. I know you’ve got something going on, but now that the Detective has managed to miraculously climb out of his coma, I’d like to keep him that way. Please, next time, take it easy. Or I will revoke the already generous privileges and exceptions you’ve been granted. And any judge would side with me,” the doctor told them.
*
Tim stuffed his hands into his pockets, the cold finally getting to him, overriding the throbbing headache and the stabbing he felt each time he breathed or moved his hand – had he fucked up his ribs too?
He looked at his watch, noting the hour. He could push it and survive another night, but Reynolds? A whole other story.
The young man was conscious, sure, and Tim was keeping conversation with him, trying to keep him that way, but he wasn’t… entirely making sense. He repeats himself a lot.
Not good.
The hum of machinery that had been the background to his predicament suddenly grew louder, and the harsh white light of a flashlight shone down at him, illuminating the state of Reynolds. Tim cocked up his head, hand over his eyes.
Seconds later, the flashlight was gone, replaced by an all too familiar voice.
“How’d you feel about getting outta here, bestie?” Angela’s voice rang out, before adding, “CATCH!”, and Tim had just enough time to react to prevent worsening his head injury, catching the water and the radio Angela had flung down.
“It’s about time. What’s the plan?” he radioed.
“About that… how do you feel about some more explosions?”