Page 83 of Red Rooster

But his left sidewasweak, trembling, rippling with pain.

He’d sweated through his t-shirt, the sheets glued to his arms, sticky-damp all around him. He shivered; realized his teeth were chattering.

“Hey,” Red said, frowning, brows tucked together. She edged in closer and put her hand on his forehead; it felt cool and he leaned into it with a shameful little choked-off sound. “Hey,” she repeated, softly, like he did for her when she was upset. “It’s okay. I think you just had a bad dream.”

He tried to laugh – because what a fucking understatement – but it came out sounding like a cough instead. “I…” It felt like he really did have a mouthful of desert, dry as bone and metallic with old, bad memories. “I…it hurts,” he managed, gritting his teeth, hating himself for this weakness.

Her frown deepened. She pushed his hair back and ran her fingers through it, light, barely-there touches that made him shiver even harder. Her touch moved down his neck, to his bad shoulder, and even that was too much contact, his damaged nerves screaming.

He hissed. “Don’t…maybe just some aspirin….”

Her mouth twisted to the side, a strikingly grownup display of annoyance. “Yeah. Sure. Hold on.”

“Red–”

But she was already moving, peeling back the sweat-soaked sheets and sliding into bed beside him, facing him, wriggling in close, her small arms going around his shoulders.

It felt obscene, this closeness, after he’d dreamed of it. Vulgar. He wanted to shift back from her, but he couldn’t, too alive with pain.

“I don’t…get it.” He breathed in harsh little panting rushes, shallow and through his teeth. “I’m sorry…shit…”

“Shh, shh.” She cupped the back of his neck with one cool hand and brought their foreheads together.

Rooster shut his eyes.

“Ready?” she said, and sent her power flowing into him, the familiar hot shockwave blasting him immediately, blessedly free of pain.

Being painless was its own kind of staggering; as the pain bled out of his muscles, so too did all his tension and strength, leaving him limp and exhausted.

Red breathed out a tired sound, moved her hands to his shoulders, and cut off the flow of power. Her face was so close he could feel her fluttering lashes tickling his own; her breath against his mouth, though now he was too worn out to let himself feel guilty for noticing.

“Okay?” she asked, voice drowsy.

“Okay.”

Sleep returned, dreamless this time, and Red stayed curled against him, the steadiness of the pulse in her wrist against his shoulder a lullaby that sent him under.

~*~

At first blush, the apartment above the garage looked like any other of its kind: a bachelor pad furnished in dated plaid couches, its front door bracketed by piles of work boots, the fridge stocked with domestic beer and diner takeout. But the kitchen table held three expensive laptops, a printer, and scanner, and the components of Ramirez’s Glock 9 as she methodically cleaned every piece of it, fingers moving with the surety of long practice. The three laptops faced Jake, where he sat wincing in their fierce glow, willing away a headache that started in his eyes and wrapped all the way around his temples, one that the whiskey he was nursing wouldn’t touch. One laptop showed him a digitized version of Rooster Palmer’s service record; another a satellite map of Farley; the center one was open to Skype, and Dr. Talbot’s bespectacled face smiled at him all the way from Virginia.

“Major Treadwell,” he greeted. “How goes the mission?”

Jake searched for a sinister undertone to the question, but could detect none. “Well, sir. The ruse has worked so far.”

“Corporal Palmer hasn’t pegged you for an operative? Excellent.”

Jake made a face before he could help himself.

“What?” Dr. Talbot asked.

“I wouldn’t exactly say he hasn’t pegged me,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. It was an obvious tell of nerves, one his mother had always reprimanded him for growing up, but he’d never been able to shake it. Suppress it, sure, when he was on active duty. But now, after the accident, it was creeping back into his daily life.

“Oh?”

“He knew I was military straight off,” Jake explained. “I told him I was Army – lying would have only made him more suspicious. But I don’t think he knows I’m here on your orders, sir.”

“Oh. Well. That’s good, then.” The doctor looked and sounded relieved. “Have you made contact with the target yet?”