Page 83 of Under Cover
“Help ya land,” Crosby repeated. “’S wha’ we do. Swear. But your dad fin’s out—he’ll kill ya, Junior. Don’t wan’ ya dead. Jus’ a baby. Swee’ swee’ lil kid.”
God, whatever was going on in his head it was getting worse. His heart was building up in his ears again, and he wondered if he needed another dose of Narcan. Fuck. Fuck—he hadn’t brought one.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and when he looked, he realized it had taken him nearly fifteen minutes to get this far.
I’m walking up behind you, Cowboy. Don’t panic.
And then suddenly, oh God. Calix’s arm around his waist, strong and capable, and his shoulder under Crosby’s arm. A firm hand took Crosby’s phone from him, and the next thing Crosby knew, a department issue was up on the curb, and Garcia and Junior were helping him into the back.
“Junior’s gotta come with,” Crosby managed before falling into comfort—and unconsciousness. “Compromised. Dad’ll kill him. Needs protection.”
“Gotcha.”
Something was weird with Garcia’s voice—something off. Choked and clogged and rough, and Crosby thought,Don’t cry, baby. I’ve got three days to spend at gnome, before all communication between his brain and his body stopped completely, and he was out.
Landing Zone
GARCIA WASasleep in the chair next to his bed when Crosby sat up yelling his name.
“Here!” he exclaimed, standing in his stockinged feet, clutching his fleece blanket around his shoulders. “Here! Crosby, I’m here!”
Crosby fell back against the sheets and started tugging at the needle taped to the back of his hand. “Wha’s this?” he asked. “It stings!”
“Leave it in!” Garcia grabbed his fingers to stop him from pulling the IV out. “It’s fluids and stuff to counteract the three different drugs rabbiting through your system. And painkillers and antibiotics for your stitches and your bruises and your ribs and your scrawny, underfed ass. Jesus God, Crosby, those guys tried to kill you!”
Crosby grunted and glanced around the bedroom, looking befuddled and almost dear. “Lots of fuckin’ times,” he said, a little bit of outrage tinging his voice. “I mean, stabbed and beaten and drugged—holy crap, what a fuckin’ day!”
Garcia let out a cracked laugh and, disregarding all social boundaries, pulled Crosby’s covers back so he could climb into his own bed next to him.
“Jesus, Cowboy, you scared me.”
He’d stopped breathing just as Swan had gotten the SUV into the hospital ambulance bay. Gail had sat on his chest and slapped his bruised face, screaming at him, while Garcia…. Garcia had heard of people disassociating before, but never in his life had he thought it was something he’d do. Crosby had been dying, his head in Garcia’s lap, eyes wide and vacant, and Garcia had been floating, far, far away, waiting for the knife that would come from nowhere and rip out his heart, leaving him in blissful darkness.
Crosby’s first breath had brought him back to himself, and the knife was right where he’d known it would be, still in his heart, but he’d forced himself back into his body, back into the car, because the boy he loved was breathing now, and he could live through the pain of survival like he didn’t think he could live through the pain of loss.
Crosby drew him closer, bringing him back to himself, and Garcia went. Crosby’s arm—no longer weighty with muscle--tightened to the point of discomfort, but Garcia wasn’t going to argue. “How’d I get here?” Crosby asked rustily. “With… doctor stuff in my arm?”
“That was all Harding.” Which was good, because Garcia’s and Gail’s brains had not been functioning at the time. “He didn’t want you in a hospital—didn’t want a soul to know you were in such bad shape. He had us haul you to a medical bay where the paramedics and a doctor treated you. He met us there. Then we shoved you back in the SUV and brought you home.”
Crosby frowned. “I’m not in the guest room.”
Garcia gave a short, barking laugh. “I tried, Crosby. I swear. Harding and me were dragging your sorry ass through the house, and I was like, ‘Guest room’s here—’ and he just grunted and rolled his eyes, and we kept going to here.” Garcia’s next laugh was saner, if broken. “We set you up, and the doctor showed up again. I think he was a friend of Harding’s, ’cause they seemed tight. Anyway, he set up the bag and put all the medications in it and made sure your wounds and your bandages were okay.” He let out a little sigh. “Lucky you. They just left. Chadwick and Carlyle spent an hour outfitting Nana and Pop-Pop’s old house with lots of fun surveillance toys. I think we’re safe here.”
“Mm.” Crosby let out a sigh, but Garcia could tell he was still exhausted. “Junior? Where’d the kid go?”
Garcia shook his head. “Harding wanted him in protective custody, and I guess Junior was pretty scared of his old man. I….” He grimaced and hoped he’d made the right call. “He was looking at you like it was love, man. I asked him if he’d mind rooming with… you remember Jesse and Kurt?”
Crosby tried to open his eyes, but the attempt obviously failed. “First case?” he asked, voice blurry.
“Yeah. Anyway, they’re rooming together in the city now. Not boyfriends, just friends. And I thought… you know. Sort of redneck debriefing 101, being in the city with two guys who arealsogay and who are not entirely white.”
Crosby’s lips tilted at the corners, although his eyes stayed closed. “God, you’re good. Good thinking. But still—feds are watching them?”
“Yeah, we put Henderson and Doba, the two guys from the Twenty Fourth, on them. They’ve both been vetted and tested and shit in the last month. No security clearance per se, but we trust them on this. I think your guy Junior’s going to land.”
“How long’m I gonna be down?” Crosby asked next.
“I wanted a month,” Garcia said bitterly. “But Harding wants you to go back in if you can—at least as Rick Young at the Forty Third. Carlyle and Chadwick are going through your apartment right now, checking for bugs, more drugged waters, getting your laptop—that sort of thing. We’re having a debrief in two days, so you gotta get your sleep now.”