Fonduing Fathers (32 page)

A crimson puddle began to grow beneath his midsection. I screamed, “Gav!”

He didn’t answer.

“Gav!”

Linka turned to me. “Now tell me what Michael Fitch told you.”

I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t wrench my eyes away. Still pinned by two men, Gav wasn’t moving. Not even a little. The pool of blood on the floor was growing wider by the moment.

“No,” I said, as though hearing my cries from outside myself.

“Suit yourself,” he said. “Your boyfriend is bleeding out. I give him twenty minutes, tops.”

I had no breath. I had nothing left.

To the men holding Gav, he ordered, “Finish him.”

They stopped at my scream. Linka turned to me. “Change of heart?”

I knew there was no hope anymore, but a spark inside me refused to let go. Not while we were still alive. Not if there was still a slim chance that I could help Gav.

I didn’t know what kind of information Linka was looking for, nor how telling him any of it could save us, except to buy time. For a miracle? There were no other options. “Get Gav medical help and I’ll tell you everything.”

“You are joking,” Linka said with a calm that made me want to rip his heart out. “He can’t survive a wound like that. Tell me what Fitch told you or you’ll be next.”

“No,” I said.

“This is your last chance.”

“For what? To live for an extra fifteen minutes? Get him help.” I folded my arms to show him I was determined, but in truth my whole body was shaking so badly I needed to hold myself tight. “Or not another word.”

He smiled again, an ugly showing of teeth. “You’re just like your father. So noble. So strong. So dead.”

I tried to rush him, but the guy behind me was too fast, snagging me by the waist so that I dangled like a rag doll. I shouted, “You can’t do this.”

I knew I was grasping for final moments, but what else could I do?

“You’re just making it harder on yourself.”

Linka chuckled. His mirthless laugh echoed in the otherwise still room, mocking our futile efforts, stealing every last hope from my heart.

And then, the room exploded.

Glass crashed amid shouts and popping blasts that could have been gunshots. I was aware of heavy treads, loud voices, and being thrown to the ground. Roberta landed next to me, screaming and covering her head. A man in black shielded Vaughn. My mind registered each sound, each movement slowly, reasoning that knives shouldn’t make that much noise, and wondering why I could still feel the wood against my knees. And where did that smell of gunpowder come from?

I couldn’t make sense of it, but the man who’d been holding me had let go. I crawled on all fours toward Gav, keeping my head down, not knowing how I’d fight off the two men surrounding him, but knowing I had to try. I ducked past running legs, around furniture, and had just made it to Gav’s side when I was lifted to my feet by a pair of meaty hands. “Out of the way, Ms. Paras,” Yablonski said. He shouted to someone else, “Get the paramedics in here. Now!”

“PLEASE, STOP THE BLEEDING,” I BEGGED THE paramedics who worked on Gav. “Please.” They were too busy to answer.

Kneeling behind the professionals’ efficient circle of care, I tried talking to him directly, “Gav, it’s okay.” No response. The paramedics’ expressions were grim as they exchanged looks that ripped hope from my heart. “It’s okay,” I said again, praying it would be so. “You’re going to be okay.”

I was aware of activity behind me. Other medics were taking care of Eugene and Roberta. Agents were making arrests. Sarah Byrne was handcuffing Linka. In the center of it all, Yablonski stood, issuing orders about evidence and protocols and other things I couldn’t care less about right now.

“Gav, please,” I said, watching as they started an IV line,
hating that the crimson pool beneath him seemed wider than ever. “Don’t give up. You can’t give up.”

I stayed out of the experts’ way, slowly becoming aware that commotion had settled down and that I had company. From my perch on the floor, Yablonski looked bigger than ever. “Will he live?” I asked.

The gurney arrived as Gav was being prepped for transport. Yablonski offered me his hand and helped me to my feet. His voice was rough. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“I want to ride with Gav.”

“You can’t. You’re with me.”

That was it. No argument. Gav was rolled out one door as Yablonski nudged me the opposite direction.

Sarah Byrne sent me a sad smile. “Stay strong,” she said as we passed.

I swallowed, unable to answer.

Yablonski turned to her. “You have this, Agent Byrne?”

“Yes, sir.”

Yablonski took my arm. “This way.”

I was ushered into the backseat of a car, next to Yablonski. Quinn was at the wheel. I didn’t even acknowledge him. I held my hands to my face, head down, not speaking until Quinn had us back on a main road. “Are we going to the hospital?”

“We are,” Yablonski said. “You need to be looked at.”

I picked my head up. “I mean Gav’s hospital.”

I didn’t miss the two men’s exchange in Quinn’s rearview mirror.

“He is still alive, isn’t he?”

Again, the look.

Yablonski stared out the window. “We don’t expect him to make it.”

I pulled myself into a ball against the door.

WE ARRIVED AT A HOSPITAL I DIDN’T KNOW existed. Small and secured by armed guards, we were
required to stop at the gate before being allowed access. A black-and-white striped mechanical arm, like those in front of railroad tracks, rose after Yablonski barked orders, and I was rushed into a tiny yet extremely well-outfitted emergency room where a doctor examined the bump on my head.

Yablonski didn’t leave my side. “Go to Gav,” I said. “Please, he can’t be alone.”

My entreaties fell on deaf ears. “He’s being prepped for surgery,” he said.

“Surgery?”

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

Too late. “I need to see him.”

“Not possible. Not now. Cooperate, Ms. Paras.”

The doc diagnosed a concussion. No surprise there. I was given strict orders to take it easy and to report any nausea, blurred vision, or any of fifty other problems they tried to explain to me. I wasn’t hearing any of it. I turned to Yablonski. “Get me out of here,” I said. “Please.”

For once, he seemed to take pity on me. “Let’s go.” He gripped my arm and led me down a vibrant blue hallway to a quiet waiting room far from where we’d first come in. “Leonard is in surgery in there,” he said, indicating a set of double doors. “We will wait.”

My stomach jiggled, having nothing to do with the concussion and everything to do with imagining doctors stepping through those doors with sad expressions on their faces and “I’m sorry,” on their lips. I lowered myself onto one of the hard plastic chairs and sat, elbows on my knees and hands folded, tight with worry and prayer.

“Can I get you anything?” Yablonski asked.

I shook my head.

I DON’T KNOW HOW LONG WE WERE THERE. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. We were the only two people in a waiting room that had no
attendant, no television, no families wandering in and out. I eventually found my voice. “Is this some secret military hospital?” I asked.

“Something like that.”

I had to ask. “How did you know? How did Gav know to come?”

“Leonard called me. He told us you were in trouble. He asked me for backup.”

“But…” That made no sense. “If you were his backup, why did he come in by himself?”

“I couldn’t assemble a team as fast as he could get to you. He knew he was walking into an ambush. He did it to buy time for us to get there.” Yablonski’s eyes were glassy. “I warned you,” he said. “I told you he would give his life for you.”

“He can’t,” I said, my voice cracking. “He’s going to be okay.”

Yablonski said nothing.

A few minutes passed. “They followed me,” I said, not as an excuse, but simply to share what I’d learned. “They’d been following me ever since we visited Linka the first time. After Michael Fitch imploded at Pluto, they decided to grab me to find out what we knew.” I cleared my throat. “They think we have some information, but…” I held out my hands, “I don’t know what it is.”

“No,” he said, “you don’t.”

“But
you
do.” I wasn’t asking a question.

He didn’t answer.

Hours later, I heard the sound of the doors
whoosh
ing open before I caught sight of the doctor coming toward us, pulling his surgical mask from his face. I jumped to my feet, head and heart pounding fear. “How is he?” I asked, unable to deduce anything from the medic’s expression. “How is he?”

Yablonski steadied me with an arm around my shoulders.
The doctor must have been instructed to answer to him only because he didn’t say a word until Yablonski said, “Tell us.”

“We’ve repaired what we can, but he lost a lot of blood. If he makes it through the night, he might have a chance.”

I SLEPT FITFULLY IN A CHAIR NEXT TO GAV’S BED in the intensive care unit all night. Yablonski stayed with me, occasionally nodding off in the other chair across the glass-walled room. I took great comfort in the monitors’ regular beeps and sighs. I watched fluids drip, drip, drip, into Gav’s veins and tried not to cry when I looked at his poor, battered face. He didn’t move, didn’t react to noises in the room, not even Yablonski’s random snores. Gav’s right hand lay open on the sheet next to him. I held his fingers, softly, reveling in their warmth, desperately wanting to let him know that I was there.

At about six the next morning, I came awake with my head next to Gav’s arm, my fingers still entwined with his. I lifted my head, not knowing what had roused me, except possibly the crick in the back of my neck. “Olivia,” Yablonski was saying. He shook my shoulder, very gently. “Wake up.”

I blinked, then rubbed my eyes with my free hand.

“Look,” Yablonski said.

I did. Gav’s lids were struggling to open and he seemed to be attempting to mouth words.

“I’ll get the nurse,” he said.

Gav settled down again, almost as though relaxing back into slumber. I squeezed his fingers, very gently. “Gav,” I whispered, “I’m here.”

Yablonski returned with the nurse and a doctor just as Gav’s eyes fluttered open. “Ollie?” he rasped. “You’re okay?”

My throat went white-hot, but I managed to answer. “I’m okay.”

His fingers tried to squeeze back. “Good,” he said, then fell unconscious once again.

Yablonski managed to talk me into taking a break. I needed to use the washroom anyway, and to splash water on my face. When I emerged, he pressed a hot cup of coffee in my shaking hands as he sat me at a utilitarian table in the middle of a staff break room.

“I don’t know how much I’m going to be able to tell you,” he began gruffly, “if I’m able to ever tell you anything at all. You understand?”

I nodded. “How is Eugene? And Roberta?”

“They’re both doing well. Roberta is being debriefed and admonished to keep quiet about what went on in that house. From what Sarah has been able to tell me, she has absolutely no idea of Linka’s identity. That’s good.”

“What about Eugene?”

I thought Yablonski might have almost smiled. “He’s fully informed. Always has been. Eugene Vaughn is not a security risk. By the way, he sends his kudos to you for coming up with that ‘He’s a former professor’ lie. That was good thinking on your feet.”

I didn’t really care about compliments right now. “Has your team told you how Gav knew to come out to Eugene’s? He was supposed to be in training all day.”

“I believe Leonard would prefer to tell you that story himself.” Yablonski took a sip of coffee, then gave me a genuine smile this time. “When he’s feeling up to it.”

GAV HAD SUFFERED A LACERATED LIVER AND spleen, which had resulted in his emergency splenectomy, but with plenty of blood transfusions, he was upgraded to a normal room within a couple of days. Faster than anyone expected, he was up and on his feet, walking around his floor with minimal help. I stayed with him as much as I could, Yablonski arranging for me to come and go as I pleased via his personal car and credentials that allowed me through the guard gate. I worried about taking time away from my duties at the White House, but Yablonski assured me that Quinn had everything handled. I believed him.