Walking Wounded

by Lee Rowan

  “Why not drive back?”

  “Can’t get through until they get a wrecker in. I’d like to know for certain that we’ve got him.”

  John nodded, smiling as his lover trotted off. As the emergency vehicle sirens began Dopplering closer, he considered how easily Kevin had slipped back into his command identity. John hoped he wouldn’t miss this life too much. For himself, he wanted this to be the end of the adventure. The pistol on his belt, hidden under his long jacket, could go back to the Army without so much as a twinge of regret.

  He climbed out of the car and followed at a distance. He didn’t need to inspect the bodies. He had never met Blackwell in life, and he’d seen enough corpses to last a dozen lifetimes.

  He could hear a siren coming up on him from behind and moved aside when he saw it was an ambulance. Odd, that. He’d have expected it to come from the Queen Alexandria hospital, off to the north. Perhaps they’d just been waiting along the road somewhere? Admirable response time, at any rate, but you couldn’t say much for the driver’s sense of caution. The driver was scowling. The driver—what?

  John’s body reacted before his mind could make sense of what he saw through the ambulance windscreen, and his sense of time went into crisis slow motion. As the screaming vehicle swept alongside and past him, Carl Blackwell at the wheel, John was already fumbling his pistol out of its holster, clicking the safety off, aiming for the tires of the vehicle that was swiftly closing in on his lover’s unprotected back.

  He squeezed off a shot, then another, then emptied the clip, screaming “Kevin!” as he fired. He knew at least one shot went home. He knew. He hoped.

  For a long, terrible moment, nothing changed; the ambulance hurtled on. Kevin stopped and began to turn, moving too slowly to save himself even if he’d realized what was happening.

  Then one of the tires blew out with a pop and another tire shredded, the steel-reinforced rubber peeling off in strips as the vehicle lurched, scraped along the roadway with a painful screech of wheel rim on pavement, and finally flipped over onto the driver’s side, skidding off the road and into a ditch.

  “It’s Blackwell!” John shouted to Washburn, who was running toward the wreck. “Stay back!”

  His hands shaking with adrenaline reaction, John found a second clip for the pistol and slapped it in to replace the empty one. He didn’t think Blackwell would be conscious, but the rest of the team was too far away to help if he came out shooting.

  “Johnny!” Kevin was suddenly beside him, mobile phone at his ear while he pulled John into a fierce hug with his free hand. “My God, I thought you’d run amok! Yes!” he said into the phone. “I don’t know who you’ve got there, Sergeant, but send a few men over here if you can spare ’em. Blackwell was in the ambulance. I don’t know what shape he’s in, but if he’s breathing, he’s dangerous.” He dropped the phone into his pocket and gave John a crooked, sidelong grin. “I don’t ever want to hear you say you aren’t the man I want watching my back.”

  If this had been a film, they’d have gone into a clinch, and the end credits would have rolled—but the job wasn’t over yet. There was no sound or movement coming from the vehicle. That meant nothing; all three of them approached it with extreme caution, taking advantage of the blind-spot cover provided by the enclosed van’s hull.

  “There might be others in back,” John said. “No one in the front passenger seat, though.” And in hindsight, he realized that had been part of what had caught his attention—what was wrong with the picture. You never saw just one person in an empty ambulance. There were always two—the driver and an EMT. The mental snapshot was still sharp as a knife, that soulless killer’s stare behind the wheel, focused on Kevin. Blackwell must have been so furious over his dismissal that he didn’t care if he survived this attack. It was axiomatic—the hardest assassin to stop is one who is willing to die.

  But maybe he hadn’t intended suicide. Maybe he’d just meant to kill Kevin, drive off in the confusion, and abandon the vehicle, trusting to his luck to escape once again.

  But his luck had run out. It was over.

  “I can’t believe I could’ve been that stupid,” Kevin said as they closed on the van’s back door. “He did what I knew he’d do—waited till I dropped my guard. I knew it. And I did it anyway.”

  “We knew he’d used a stolen car, love,” John said. “Who in their right mind would expect a stolen ambulance?”

  “And who was it telling you to watch for the vehicles nobody ever sees? You should kick my arse. Emergency services—the last thing anyone would think of.” He dropped to his knees at the outside edge of the van and picked up a shard of the broken rearview mirror, angling it to check the cargo compartment. “Empty,” he said, and risked a look through the window that had broken out. “No one back here.”

  “I don’t want to kick your arse,” John said under his breath, as he leaned down to confirm Kevin’s observation.

  Kevin looked up, blue eyes like a lighthouse beacon. “I wish I could kiss you,” he answered, too low for Washburn to hear. His voice tingled all the way down to John’s toes.

  “Not in front of the children,” John chided. “We don’t want to alarm them—they’re heavily armed.”

  He gave Kevin a hand up as they both edged around to the passenger door at the front of the van. Kevin tossed the bit of mirror to Washburn, on the van’s other side, and he used it to check the front compartment through the windscreen.

  “I think he’s unconscious, sir,” he reported. “Possibly dead.”

  “Keep him covered,” Kevin said. “Door locked?”

  It was, and before they could do anything by way of breaking through the windscreen or shooting open the lock, Jones and two of his men had arrived. The road-blocking accident had been a sham; both cars were drivable, and Jones’s men had cleared them out of the road. The civilians, specifically Mr. Kendrick and Mr. Hanson, were politely but firmly encouraged to return to their vehicle and go home.

  John was happy to comply and was perfectly willing to remind Kevin that the only place he was seriously needed was at his partner’s side. There was no way he was going to kiss Kev in front of all those commandos, but no way he was going to make it back home without a minute or two of privacy.

  He tossed his helmet into the backseat. “Wait,” he said, as Kevin put the key in the ignition. “And take that stupid thing off your head.”

  The first touch of Kevin’s lips hit him like an electric shock. John forgot about breathing, didn’t care. They couldn’t get close enough with all the clothing and the damned vests, and it was a little car and the bloody gearshift console stuck up between them. It was the gearshift giving him a nasty jab in the balls that convinced John they just couldn’t shag in the front seat of a compact car.

  “Home,” Kevin gasped. “Let’s go home.”

  “Good.”

  “And don’t touch me, or we’ll wind up in a ditch.”

  “Then get us home fast.”

  Chapter 17

  THEY’D GOT themselves under tenuous control by the time they reached home and put the car away. By way of distraction, Kevin explained that he’d recognized the casualties from the ambush—they were the three other members of Blackwell’s original squad who had also dropped out of sight. How they’d managed to get into the country was anyone’s guess, but figuring that out was Immigration’s headache.

  John blinked when Kevin rang the doorbell instead of simply using his key, but understood when the door was opened by a soldier wearing the coveralls of a carpet-installation firm. Kevin introduced them both, asked whether the team had been informed of developments—they had—then thanked them and shut the door behind them with a look of unbelievable relief.

  John wrapped his lover in the kind of whole-body embrace he hadn’t dared attempt in public, and Kevin relaxed against him. The feeling was almost beyond words. Safe, whole, free of the sense of impending disaster. “It’s over,” he said.

  Kevin nodded, turni
ng his face to kiss the side of John’s neck. “Yes.” His hands slipped under John’s sweater and began undoing the straps of the bulky body armor. “Now, what was it you wanted to do to my arse? ‘Not kicking’ is a little vague. Can you be more specific?”

  “Come upstairs and I’ll show you.” John’s legs were a little longer, and that gave him the advantage in getting upstairs in a hurry. But Kevin was right behind him, and in thirty seconds, they were on the bed, a trail of shed clothing marking their progress down the hall.

  John rolled onto his back, pulling Kevin over on top of him, delighting in the solid heat of skin against naked skin. He held Kev close as they kissed, Kevin’s arm supporting his head as he let his hands down over his lover’s back and lower, to that beautiful, tight little rear. He didn’t have room in his head for a thought of what he was going to do about that, though, because their bodies pressed so tightly together that his overheated cock was trapped against Kevin’s. It was like that first night, only better; he couldn’t ask for more. And from the way Kevin was beginning to thrust against him, they were on the same wavelength.

  What did he want to do? Silly question. Squeeze, and thrust, and savor the sweet mouth joined so deeply to his own, the intensity of pleasure running through his body like a spring tide. So good, so wonderful, and he’d come so close to losing it all—

  He squeezed hard, maybe too hard, but Kevin only gasped and writhed against him, breaking the kiss to pull in a huge shuddering breath. John slid a finger between his cheeks, sliding inside, and Kev arched wildly, crying out. That sound, as always, pushed John over the top as well.

  Kevin rolled off to one side, his blue eyes slightly unfocused, and John pulled him close as they both relaxed into the afterglow.

  “Excellent answer,” Kevin said when he got his breath back.

  “That—actually, that wasn’t what I’d had in mind,” John admitted.

  Kevin started to laugh.

  “No, really—” Apparently that was just as funny and set off another round of chuckles. “Well, all right, then.” He reached out a foot, hooked his T-shirt off the corner of the bed, and used it to wipe them off. By that time Kevin’s mirth had subsided. “I’m glad to make you so happy,” John said finally. “Would you like a shower, or shall we just stay here for a bit?”

  Kevin pulled him back down. “This for now,” he said. “Though I think we should think about something to eat before too long.”

  “Mmm. You mean actual food, or going for seconds?”

  “You randy devil,” Kevin said affectionately. “I meant actual food, but not just yet.” He pulled the duvet back up onto the bed—somehow it had been kicked aside—and over them both. But he didn’t seem able to rest contentedly. After shifting position three times, he finally raised up on one elbow. “Johnny.”

  “What?”

  “It’s too quiet. We need to go get the cats.”

  “Now? Today?”

  “Why not?”

  John let his head drop back on the pillow for what he suspected was the last bit of downtime he’d have for the rest of the day. “Well, it’s nearly four in the afternoon, we’ll hit the worst of the evening traffic, and it’ll take hours to reach your parents’ house. And once we’re there, your mother isn’t going to let us leave until she’s tried some new recipe—” He stopped and reconsidered what he’d just said.

  “You see my point?” Kevin asked. “It would be different if Mum were one of those horror cooks who never gets anything right, but she almost never gets anything wrong. And if we go tonight, we won’t have to deal with my father—he’s off to Scotland about some golf resort and won’t be home until Saturday. But he’s bound to be pleased to come home and find our cats out of his hair.” He settled against John’s shoulder and made himself comfortable. “Still, it’s up to you. I just thought you’d like to have everything sorted.”

  John rested his chin against Kevin’s hair and sighed. This was so good. Nearly perfect.

  But Kevin was right. It was too damned quiet.

  IT WAS two in the morning by the time they made it back home. Kevin had endured several hours of cat opera, which had gone a long way toward making him reconsider the wisdom of his idea. He had forgotten how much the kittens hated to travel—and how loudly they voiced their objections.

  He had received a follow-up call from the Colonel on their way back that answered their few remaining questions, and he took a perverse delight in his former superior’s complaints about the audio interference. Though with the cat-racket going on, he hadn’t tried to relay the information to John until they were home and soaking in a scented, bubbling tub.

  Blackwell had survived the crash with only minor injuries. Believing himself to be above legal prosecution, the mercenary had been willing to explain to the Colonel how he had managed to find the house in Portsmouth so quickly.

  He had followed the men of Kevin’s former troop.

  “I don’t think the old man has ever been so embarrassed,” Kevin said, scooping Emma off the edge of the tub and handing Johnny a towel. “All that cloak-and-dagger bullshit about our security, and the bastard followed Jones here when he delivered all those toys to keep us safe.”

  “Well, it was a time-saver, wasn’t it?” John toweled himself dry. “God knows how long we’d have been stuck here otherwise.”

  “I know, Johnny, but… wouldn’t you expect people who deal with military intelligence to have just a little common sense?”

  “No. They get distracted by their own drama. Turn around. I’ll dry your back.”

  Kevin leaned against the shower wall and enjoyed the pampering. “Now, a question for you,” John said. “What do you want rubbed first? Feet? Back? Other parts?”

  “Everything?” Kevin said hopefully as the cats followed them back to the bedroom.

  “Greedy bugger. But all right—if you tell me what they’ve done with this Blackwell bastard. Does he really know where so many bodies are buried that the law can’t touch him?”

  “That depends on what you mean by ‘the law.’” Kevin stretched out and propped his feet up on John’s lap. “The US doesn’t want him back—too embarrassing, particularly since he’d have to be tried for murdering a British Army officer, and serve whatever sentence he’d get, before we would extradite him. They know he’s probably responsible for the murder over there, but they don’t have any evidence. And the British Army doesn’t want to drag him out and uncork the cesspool all over again. Fine with me—I would have to testify against him, and I’ve had my fill of the spotlight.”

  “So…?” John prompted.

  “So, there is another jurisdiction that has a previous claim on extradition. That claim is going to be honored, very discreetly, so instead of the deportation Blackwell expects, he’s going to be sent back to a little town in the Middle East where he’s wanted for murder.”

  John whistled. “That’s going to be a short trial.”

  “And no need to consider extradition afterwards. The Colonel asked me for a deposition when I declined to go back and testify. I don’t know if the other men will go—probably not. I expect the government wants to keep a very low profile on the whole affair. But he’ll get a trial, and the family will get justice. I saw Blackwell commit that murder—there’s no doubt of his guilt.”

  John hesitated, and Kevin knew what he was going to say. “Do you want to go testify in person?”

  “Christ, no, Johnny. I never want to go back there again. And before you start worrying, it’s not because you don’t want me to. I’m sick of the whole damned thing. I’m just glad it’s over.”

  John poured sandalwood oil into his palm and began working it into one of Kevin’s very clean feet. “Thanks, love. And what about this consulting contract? Any further obligations?”

  It was very difficult to think with Johnny making him feel so good. “None. In lieu of a fee, they’re letting us keep the alarms they installed. I may do clearance-level translating as an independent contractor�
��there’s always a shortage of reliable translators—but no more field work.”

  “Even better. I think you know how much I appreciate that.”

  John switched to the other foot, and Kevin felt himself melting into a puddle. “It can’t be as much as I appreciate this. You have golden hands.”

  “And they go so well with your silver tongue.”

  “Johnny, put the cap on the bottle and lie down, would you?”

  “What about the rest of your massage?”

  “I want to massage your parts with my parts. And if I don’t do it soon, I’m going to fall asleep.”

  “Love, you’re already falling asleep. And so am I.”

  “Mm. I think you’re right.” He wanted to look at the clock, but his eyelids were incredibly heavy. “What time is it, anyway?”

  “Three a.m.”

  “First thing in the morning, then.”

  “Fair enough.” He felt Johnny reach across him to switch off the light, pull the covers over them both, and snuggle down beside him. A small furry body parked itself just under his chin and started to buzz. The other kitten marched up his leg, purred in his ear for a few seconds, then wandered off to nest somewhere on John’s side of the blanket.

  He felt one more thing—a kiss on the back of his neck—and then fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  The years go by. The world moves forward.

  2014

  “CALLING THE old man?”

  Caught in the act with his hand on the phone, there was nothing Kevin could do but nod and say, “Yes. That is, if I can get up the nerve to actually do it.” Did he need to tell John that he had been at this point at least a dozen times already, only to have his nerve fail? No, he did not.

  He was enveloped in warmth as Johnny wrapped both arms around him from behind. “I’m glad,” he said. “I understand why you left it this long, but—”