Dan & Tyler 2 - Wintergreen (16 page)

Now
.

Tyler brought his fist up, clenched tightly enough to hurt, and struck her squarely on the temple. What followed blurred in his memory, though it was clear enough when he was doing it: his hand slashing down on her wrist in a hard chop that made her drop her gun, kicking it far away and calling Dan's name as he did it. Paula staggered, and he punched her again, this time in the throat. He meant to kill her, but the angle was off and he didn't have enough power behind the blow. Her hands flew up to her neck, odd, garbled sounds emerging from her mouth, and then she had the sense to back away from him, out of reach, and fuck, she was going for her gun-

Dan rolled over and began to scramble across the ground to where a gun lay, small, innocuous, overlooked; Tyler's gun, not Paula's. Oh, good boy, Tyler thought, willing him to succeed.

 

He'd thrown the gun close to Dan, and even weak and dizzy as Dan had to be, Dan was going to reach it before Paula, staggering, disoriented, could pick up hers.

 

Dan's hand closed on metal, and he got to his knees and pointed Tyler's gun at Paula. "Stay where you are!"

Dan's voice was rusty, rough, but if his hand was wavering, he was close enough to Paula that he couldn't miss. Tyler had never seen Dan fire a gun, but he was a country boy who'd probably grown up shooting tin cans off a fence and then graduated to hunting. At least, Tyler hoped so.

Paula gave Dan a contemptuous, dismissive look and ignored his command, making for her gun, which had landed in a bush beside the porch -- a bush that at this time of the year was a naked tangle of branches, the gun visible, caught in the twigs. Fuck. Tyler spun around and kicked at the door. If he couldn't get the second cuff off his wrist, maybe he could break the handle off the door… He slammed his boot against solid wood, pulling back as hard as he could at the same time, and got absolutely nowhere. Whoever had built the cabin had done a good job; the plate was screwed in firmly.

He glanced around for anything he could use to break the cuff and saw a piece of rock on the railing around the porch, a hand-sized lump that had been there all winter. Dan had brought it home with him, a keepsake from the first beach he'd walked on. It had gleamed like oil in the ocean and dried to an unremarkable dark gray, but Dan had clung to it stubbornly.

Tyler lunged for it, grabbed it, and used it as a hammer. That didn't work, either, and after three swift blows that dented the cuffs and gouged chunks out of the door, he gave up, keenly aware that Dan was on his feet but looking unsteady and that Paula was reaching into the bush.

"Don't do it," Dan said, and fired a warning shot that left Tyler's ears ringing and didn't come close to Paula.

 

Paula jerked, but didn't stop. She wouldn't, Tyler knew. Dan should have fired at her legs, should have wounded her, slowed her down.

 

Hell, Dan should have just shot her in the back.

Tyler didn't have the best of angles, but he weighed the stone in his hand and was preparing to throw it at Paula when she turned, her gun in her hand, armed again, which meant that they were both about to die.

"Dan! Shoot her!"

 

Dan looked anguished, panicked, but he raised the gun obediently, his finger on the trigger. Paula smiled and shook her head.

"I don't think so," she said thickly, and brought her hand up. Tyler threw the rock with everything he had and watched it smash into Paula's skull even as a shot rang out. Dan screamed, high and shocked, rocked back by a bullet that had struck him in the left arm, from what Tyler could see. He knew that Paula had been aiming for the heart; it was the target he would have chosen.

Paula raised her hand to her head, where blood was seeping through her hair, and gave Dan an uncomprehending glare.

 

"Dan! Shoot her!" Tyler said again. "Shoot her, damn it!"

Dan gave him a look of pure misery and raised the gun. Paula jerked as a bullet drove into her thigh, and crumpled to the ground, dropping her gun, thank God. She was writhing in pain, her hands clamped to her thigh, keening moans of agony spilling from her mouth.

"Okay, now grab her gun and come here," Tyler said, keeping the urgency in his voice but trying not to spook Dan by screaming at him. "Come and get this cuff off me, boy."

As Tyler had hoped, the nickname jolted Dan out of his daze. He walked over to Paula and picked up her gun after stuffing his own into his jacket pocket, and had the sense to back away right after. Paula, despite being wounded, wasn't safe, and Tyler was glad that even in shock Dan appreciated that she might have a backup weapon.

"Shouldn't we help her?" Dan asked, sounding uncertain, his voice shaking.

Tyler bit back an angry snarl and repeated, "My cuff, Dan. I need your gun to get it off." Paula would have the key, but there was no way, in the state he was in, that Dan would be able to take it from her without getting hurt.

"What? Oh… right."

Dan was moving too slowly, reacting in a blurred, distant way. Concussed? Maybe. Tyler didn't let himself think about that. Not yet. Time for that later.
Dan came close, his injured arm hanging loose at his side as if it didn't belong to his body, an involuntary moan accompanying each step as movement jarred it. Tyler reached up to cup Dan's ice-cold face. "Good boy," he said. He could smell Dan's blood, see it wet on Dan's sleeve, and it made him feel protective and ready to kill, the conflicting emotions difficult to deal with. "Give me her gun and go inside."

"I'm not leaving you," Dan said as he held out the gun in a hand that was trembling.

 

"Fine," Tyler said, and took it from him. He spoke slowly, using short sentences. "Your arm, Dan. Put some pressure on it with your hand. It'll help stop the bleeding."

 

Dan swallowed and pressed his hand against his arm, crying out softly, his teeth biting into his lip, but keeping his hand where it needed to be.

 

"Good. Now don't jump. I'm going to get this cuff off. Stand clear."

It took two bullets to free the cuff from the door, and it cost him some more blood and skin from a ricocheting sliver of wood, but being able to move, even with metal hanging from his wrists, was worth it.

He strode past Dan to where Paula lay, moaning softly now, her face gray with pain and blood loss. She'd tried to crawl to his truck and covered about a yard. Tyler never ceased to be amazed by the strength of the survival instinct. If she'd reached it, there was no way she'd have been able to get in, let alone drive away, but she'd still tried.

It didn't mean that he felt any admiration for her; he'd have done the same.

 

"Paula. What was your other job? Who was the hit?"

 

"Go to hell."

He couldn't just shoot her. Not if there was another agent about to walk into a trap. Dan had drifted over to stand a few yards away, looking as if a strong breeze would send him to his knees. Damn. Tyler really didn't want Dan to see this, but there didn't seem to be a way to get him to leave.

He kicked Paula's leg, driving the toe of his boot into blood-soaked fabric over shattered bone. Paula screamed, full-throated and raw.

 

"Tyler, God, no!" Dan ran over to him, horror lending what Tyler knew would be a fleeting strength at best, and grabbed at Tyler's arm with a bloody hand. "She's hurt. I -- I shot her."

 

Yeah, he knew. "What target?" Tyler repeated, shaking free of Dan's grip.

Paula smiled up at him, a twisted travesty of a smile. She'd bitten through her lip, and blood was trickling down her chin. "You're so good at investigating; find out yourself."
"You think I'm going to turn you in," Tyler said slowly. "Think you'll be in a nice hospital bed while your leg heals and then a prison you'll escape from after pulling some strings and calling in some favors. Maybe you think you'll buy a fancy lawyer who'll get you off -- hell, maybe you'll sue us for shooting you."

The gleam of mockery in her eyes told him he'd gotten most of that part right. People like Paula didn't go to prison, or if they did, it wasn't for long.

"Not going to happen," he told her. The world was sharp and clear around him, his breathing even and slow. Just like a hit, with his focus narrowing to his target, except he wasn't usually this close to them when he shot them. She'd put lipstick on when she'd dressed that morning, a soft rose, patches of it showing like smudges against her bone-pale lips. He watched her breathe, in and out, choppy, shallow gasps. She didn't have many of them left to take.

"You should have left me alone, Paula. And you really shouldn't have shot Dan. You're dead, remember? You don't exist. I can do whatever the hell I like to you and no one will ever know or care. Tell me who the target is, or I shoot you."

"Tyler, you can't," Dan said anxiously. "Cole -- he'll know what to do, he'll -- no!"

Dan was stronger than Tyler had expected him to be. Wounded, concussed, he still managed to pull Tyler's arm so that the bullet intended for Paula's other leg went into the ground, sending up a spurt of stone and dirt.

Tyler set his teeth, turned, and punched Dan hard, the metal cuff swinging up with his fist and gouging Dan's cheek open, scarlet blood welling up.

 

"Steven Langley," Paula said, and wasn't it ironic that it was hurting Dan that had convinced her Tyler was serious. "It's Langley, now get me some help, you sick little fuck, before I bleed out!"

"I'm sorry," Tyler said, and even if he was looking at Paula when he said it, the words weren't for her. He pulled the trigger, emptying the gun into her, and watched her die with a choke of disbelief, her eyes wide, a bubble of blood staining her lips. "I'm sorry."

Chapter Ten
"I need a clean-up crew, Cole," Tyler said. "Paula Ryan wasn't as dead as we thought she was, but she sure as hell is now. I've got a body, bullets fired, and Dan's hurt."

Dan saw the words as well as hearing them, floating in balloons as if Tyler was in a cartoon or something, the speech bubbles moving around the cabin slowly, bumping into things, the words getting confused. He stared up at the ceiling and watched the words shift and reform.

Clean-up-crew-Cole.

That wouldn't split up, and he found himself murmuring it to himself as he rubbed his cheek against the worn velvet couch. The blanket over him had been packed away in a box for a few days, that was all, but it already smelled musty.

Warm, though, and he did feel cold, so very shivery… He clutched the hot water bottle that Tyler had given him and whimpered as his arm reminded him how much it hurt.

Tyler had looked at his eyes, muttered a curse, and told him that he had a concussion. Dan had tried nodding to show that he understood, but that had hurt, too, and speaking was worst of all. His throat felt swollen, and he couldn't breathe, which scared him so much that his heart began to pound and that made his throat close up more. Tyler had held him, a cool hand on his bare skin, over his heart, and Tyler had told him that he was going to be fine and said it so quietly that Dan believed the assurance.

"So send in someone right the hell now, and a medic. Dan's been shot -- no, he's not. Christ, if he was, do you think-- It's not too bad. The bullet nicked his upper arm, took a chunk of muscle -Me? I'm fine."

Dan imagined Cole's bubbles popping out, the question marks puncturing the balloons. Tyler sounded tired and angry; Cole wasn't calming him down.

"I want to get the local doctor to see him, but if I do, she'll need to be told -- Well, then, you'd better get that fucking medic here, you hear me? He's hurt and he's concussed; I can't give him anything for the pain, and he lost blood, too."

Blood wasn't something you could pick up and put back in. His blood had sprayed into the air, had soaked into his clothes and down into the earth he lay on. It was gone. Seemed like a waste, but it wasn't his fault it'd gotten lost. At least… He couldn't remember everything that had happened, not very well, but he wasn't trying very hard. Something told him that he didn't want to remember all of it.
"Debriefing? Oh, you better believe I'm up for that, Cole. I want answers. But
you
can come to
us.
Dan's not going to be fit to travel far for a few days, I don't plan to leave him, and you're going to want to speak to him, too. That's not negotiable. And before I forget, the Langley hit is compromised and God knows how many others. Bring your people in or get them to stand down."

Tyler sounded scary. His voice cold and remorseless. Dan closed his eyes and felt tears, hot and wet, seep out. He was remembering. God, it hurt to do that; hurt worse than all of the rest put together.

***

It took just over an hour for the crew to arrive, and by the time they did, Dan's headache was epic and his stomach churning. He lay on the couch, shivering despite the fire that Tyler had kindled in the swept-clean grate, and catalogued his injuries.

The headache. His throat, swollen and bruised. His cheek, cut and competing with his throat for best bruise. His arm… he didn't want to think about his arm.

Tyler had boiled water and lit a fire, undoing all the work he'd put into closing the cabin down, and produced a medical kit from his truck. What Tyler had done to Dan with its contents had hurt like hell, but after the raw agony of being touched had faded and Dan had stopped swallowing hard at the sight of so much blood, he felt a little better.

Seeing the mess Tyler's wrists were in hadn't helped, but Tyler had seemed genuinely indifferent to his own injuries.

Tyler left him on the couch and went outside, an old blanket in one hand and some black plastic trash bags flapping wildly, like wings. Dan heard the drag of something heavy and knew without being told that Paula's bagged-up body was being moved to somewhere less visible. The soft, thick sound a dragged body made almost had him using the bucket that Tyler had placed by the couch, just in case, but he held back the nausea. She'd been just about the nastiest, scariest person he'd ever met, ever, but the thought of her in a trash bag turned his stomach.

The body, the guns, the bullets… Dan had watched too many crime shows not to know that anything could be reconstructed, but you had to know that there was something to look for first, and something told him that Cole could give orders that would make people look the other way.