14. Walt
FOURTEEN
Walt
My wheelchair scrapes against broken asphalt as Forest pushes me across the restaurant parking lot. Every tiny bump sends shockwaves of agony through my chest, but I welcome the pain.
The lot looks different in the harsh glare of police floodlights—alien and wrong, like seeing a familiar face distorted in a funhouse mirror.
Just hours ago, Malia walked through here on my arm, her silk dress whispering against my skin, her body warm and trusting against mine.
Now, crime scene tape flutters in the pre-dawn breeze, yellow plastic stark against the bloodstained pavement where I fell.
My blood stains the pavement black under the artificial lights, a grotesque Rorschach that spreads wider than seems possible.
Did I really lose that much blood?
The thought swims through my head, made fuzzy by whatever cocktail of painkillers Doc Summers pumped into me before allowing this excursion.
I hate how the drugs blur my edges and dampen my reactions. I need to be sharp. Need to remember every detail of where that drive fell. Need to focus past the way the world keeps tilting sideways when I move too quickly.
“Take it slow,” Forest rumbles from behind me, his massive hands steady on the wheelchair’s handles. “Skye’s already planning how to lecture you when those stitches tear.”
I grunt in acknowledgment, but my attention fixes on the massive concrete planter looming ahead.
Memory assaults me—hits like a physical blow: Malia’s scream as they dragged her toward the van. The terror in her eyes. The way she fought them even as they forced her inside. Her brother’s defeated slump as he watched it happen.
My hands clench on the wheelchair’s arms, ignoring how the movement pulls at my wounds. The IV line in my arm tugs uncomfortably, the portable drip stand rattling as Forest navigates another uneven patch of pavement. More drugs. More things dulling my edge when I need to be razor-sharp.
“Hard right,” I grit out as we near the planter. “It fell somewhere along this side. I remember?—”
The world suddenly tilts sideways, darkness creeping in at the edges of my vision. My grip on consciousness feels tenuous, like trying to hold smoke.
When did it get so hard to breathe?
“That’s enough.” Doc Summers materializes beside me, her small frame radiating authority despite barely reaching my shoulder. “O2 sats are dropping. I need to check those bandages before you end up back in surgery.”
“I’m fine.” The lie comes automatically, but she’s already pulling supplies from her medical bag.
Her movements are precise and efficient—the same way she’s patched up countless Guardian operators over the years.
“You took two rounds to the chest less than six hours ago,” she reminds me, her voice carrying that blend of steel and compassion I’ve never heard from anyone else. “The only reason you’re here and not still in ICU is because I know you’d try to leave AMA if we didn’t help. So you’re going to let me check these bandages, and you’re going to tell me if you feel lightheaded or short of breath.”
“We don’t have time?—”
“Make time.” She cuts me off with a look that could freeze hell. “Because if you pass out from blood loss or respiratory distress, you’re no good to Malia.”
Malia’s name hits like another bullet. Six hours. They’ve had her for six hours while I lay unconscious in surgery. For six hours, she’s been in the hands of men who see her as nothing but leverage against her brother.
My resistance crumbles as Doc Summers eases my shirt aside, her gloved fingers gentle despite her stern expression. The bandages are already showing spots of red—not major bleeding, but enough to concern her, judging by the tight line of her mouth.
“You’re going to need another chest X-ray after this …”
I tune out her medical litany, focusing instead on the planter. Trying to reconstruct those frantic moments through the haze of blood loss and fading adrenaline.
The metallic glint as Malikai tried to press something into my hands. The soft scrape as it skittered across the pavement. The raw terror in his eyes when it disappeared beneath the concrete monster looming before us.
Whatever’s on that drive, it was worth sending a professional hit team to retrieve. Worth taking Malia as collateral. The thought sends fresh fire through my veins, burning away some of the drug-induced fog.
Worth him handing it to me, a virtual stranger.
“Pain level?” Doc Summers asks, intruding on my thoughts.
“Manageable.” Another lie, but she lets it slide. She knows me too well—knows I’ll push through anything to find Malia. To undo my failure to protect her.
“You’re a horrible liar.” Doc Summers gives me a look that could slice through solid granite, but she doesn’t force me to stop.
She knows I won’t listen.
The rich aroma of coffee drifts from the restaurant’s kitchen vents. The combination turns my stomach, reminding me of Malia’s smile as she crafted my ridiculous custom drinks. The way her eyes lit up when she talked about her coffee creations. The softness in her voice when she confessed she was saving herself for someone who mattered.
For me.
And I let them take her.
“Walt.” Doc Summers’ voice carries warning as she finishes checking my bandages. “I know that look. Whatever you’re planning?—”
“Just get me closer to that planter.” I cut her off, unable to handle her concern right now. “Please.”
She studies me for a long moment, her dark eyes seeing too much. Finally, she nods to Forest. “Ten minutes. That’s all I’m giving you before these bandages need changing. And if you try to get out of that chair?—”
“You’ll sedate me into next week.” I manage a ghost of a smile. “I remember the speech.”
“Good.” She starts repacking her medical bag, every movement precise and controlled. “Because I mean every word. The only reason you’re alive is pure dumb luck. That chest round barely missed your heart. The shoulder shot nicked your subclavian artery. You shouldn’t even be conscious right now, let alone?—”
“Doc.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “I know. But I have to find that drive. Have to find her.” The words catch in my throat. “I promised to protect her.”
Her expression softens slightly. “I know you did, but you can’t protect her if you’re dead.” She shoulders her medical bag, gloved fingers leaving bloody prints on the strap. “So let us help. Let us be your strength until you get yours back.”
The words hit harder than I expect, cracking something in my chest that has nothing to do with bullet wounds. I manage a short nod, not trusting my voice.
Doc takes position beside my wheelchair, medical supplies at the ready, silent support radiating from her small frame. She’s seen me through worse—patched me up after missions gone sideways, put me back together when the job tried to tear me apart.
But this isn’t just a mission gone wrong.
It’s Malia.
And nothing—not bullets, not blood loss, not even the Doc’s threats of sedation—will stop me from finding her.
The same images flash in my mind.
The glint of metal as Malikai tried to press something into my hands.
The soft scrape as it skittered across pavement.
The raw terror in his eyes when it disappeared beneath the planter.
“Here.” My voice comes rough, barely recognizable. “It went under here.”
I grip the wheelchair’s arms, ready to stand, but Forest’s massive hand clamps down on my shoulder.
“Not yet.” His ice-blue eyes scan the scene with tactical precision.
Being Guardian operatives comes with certain advantages—we’re also deputized as federal marshals, our badges giving us access to crime scenes that would normally be off-limits to a private security firm. “Ethan—deal with the cops. Blake, Rigel—clear the perimeter. Hank, Gabe—get ready to move this thing. Skye?—”
“Already prepped for when he rips those stitches,” she cuts in, medical bag at her feet. “Which he will, because he’s an idiot.”
“An idiot who’s going to find that drive.” I push against Forest’s restraining hand. Fire rips through my chest, but I grit my teeth against it. “Whatever Malikai tried to give me, it was worth killing for. Worth taking his sister over.”
Worth taking Malia.
Her name burns in my throat. Six hours since they took her. Six hours she’s been in the hands of men who view her as nothing but leverage.
“Ethan?” Forest calls.
“On it.” Our team leader strides toward the approaching police, badge already out to buy us time and give us a chance to find whatever Malikai risked his sister’s life to protect.
Forest positions my wheelchair near the planter, his movements precise despite his bulk.
I force myself up despite Forest’s growl of protest. The world tilts dangerously, but I lock my knees. I won’t fail her again. Won’t collapse until we find what we need to track her down.
Hank and Gabe position themselves around the planter, a massive concrete structure with thick, weathered sides.
The base rests on short, sturdy feet, creating a narrow gap beneath it—just wide enough for a flash drive to slip through but far too small for a hand to reach under.
“Ready?” Gabe asks, hands braced against the concrete.
“Always with the heavy lifting.” Hank’s complaint carries no real heat as he and Gabe take position. “We had plans tonight, you know. Leggy brunette, sexy lips, very?—”
“Flexible,” Gabe finishes with a grin. “Don’t forget flexible.”
My legs wobble, and my knees threaten to give out as the edges of my vision blur. The concrete feels uneven beneath my boots, though I know it’s not—the weakness is in me.
Blood loss and whatever the hell they pumped into my system earlier are dragging me down, making every step feel like wading through quicksand. I fight a battle to stay upright.
I’ve never understood their dynamic—two straight men sharing women, threesomes, whatever they’re into.
The thought of sharing a woman doesn’t sit right with me. I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. But hey, to each their own. Some guys find camaraderie in the weirdest places.
“Less talking, more lifting,” Forest rumbles, his voice steady as granite. His hand clamps down on my shoulder, the grip firm enough to root me in place. “More sitting for you,” he adds, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I tense, ready to argue anyway, but the sudden pressure pushes me backward. Before I can react, Forest forces me back into the wheelchair. The chair creaks under my reluctant weight, and I glare at him, but he’s already moving, his broad shoulders lowering as he drops to his hands and knees.
“Let’s do this.” Shaking his head, Forest mutters under his breath.
Doc Summers drops to her knees beside him, her braid swinging over her shoulder as she pushes aside a handful of loose gravel.
“Skye.” Forest’s voice carries warning as she examines the tiny gap beneath the planter. “Don’t even think about?—”
“About what?” She doesn’t look up. She looks under the planter, pulling out her phone to shine a light under the concrete monster. Her nimble fingers already probe the edges of the narrow space. “Using my small, surgically-trained hands to retrieve something without having to move this entire concrete monster? Because that seems a lot smarter than letting these two meatheads try to lift it.”
“Hey!” Hank protests. “We’re very coordinated meatheads.”
“When we want to be,” Gabe adds with a wink.
“Skye.” Forest drops to one knee beside her, his bulk shadowing her smaller frame. “Your hands?—”
“Are exactly what we need right now.” She cuts him off, shifting to get a better angle. “Unless you think those bear paws of yours will fit under there?”
“If anything happens to those surgeon hands?—”
“Nothing will happen except me retrieving this drive.” Her voice softens slightly. “I know what I’m doing, big brother. Let me work.”
Forest grumbles something under his breath, his jaw tightening as his focus shifts upward. His piercing glare fixes on Hank and Gabe, who are braced on either side of the planter.
“They’re getting impatient,” Ethan warns through comms.
“Stall them.” Forest shifts his attention to Gabe and Hank. “You two,” he warns, his voice low and dangerous, “if you so much as twitch wrong and this thing comes down on my sister, your lives won’t be worth a damn.”
Gabe snorts, his hands curling tighter under the planter. “Relax, big guy. We’ve got it.”
“Yeah, we’re not dumb enough to drop this on Doc,” Hank adds, though there’s a flicker of tension in his jaw as he glances at the planter’s edge.
Forest doesn’t look convinced. His gaze lingers on them for a beat longer, sharp and assessing, before he returns his focus to the ground.
“Just remember,” he growls, “I’m close enough to make good on my promise.”
“You’re always so dramatic, Forest.” Skye shakes her head as she shifts a small pile of gravel aside.
“Yeah? And you’re reckless.” Forest nudges her aside with his shoulder, his larger hands taking over the space she’s clearing.
“If you’re so worried, why don’t you help Hank and Gabe?”
“I would, but there’s no room?—”
“Then stop bitching and let’s do this,” she cuts him off. “I’ve got this.”
Forest mutters a string of curses under his breath, clearly torn between pulling her back and letting her do her thing.
He glances up at Gabe and Hank. “If you drop it?—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Gabe interrupts, his voice strained from holding the weight. “We’re dead men walking. We got it, Forest. Chill.”
Gabe and Hank position themselves on either side of the planter. “On three,” Gabe says, fingers curling under the edge.
“Two,” Hank grunts, his muscles bunching in preparation.
The planter groans as they lift, its weight making the strain on their faces evident.
Doc Summers reaches beneath the planter, her hands moving with surgical precision, brushing aside loose gravel and dirt.
“Nothing,” she reports as Hank and Walt expose the ground beneath the planter. “Just dirt and cigarette butts.”
“It’s here.” The words come out harsher than intended. “I saw it fall. Right at the edge, near the base?—”
“Walt.” Forest’s voice carries warning as I stand.
Fresh blood seeps through my bandages. “You need to sit down before you fall down.”
I ignore him, stumbling forward. The movement sends daggers through my chest, but I barely notice. All I can see is Malia’s face as they dragged her away. The terror in her eyes. The way she screamed my name.
I drop to my knees, ignoring Doc’s curse and Forest’s aborted grab for my arm. Fire explodes through my chest as stitches tear, but I don’t care. My fingers scrabble at the crack, brushing metal. Blood drips onto concrete—mine, again—but I barely notice.
“There!” Metal glints from a crack where the planter meets the pavement. Small. Barely visible. Easy to miss if you weren’t looking for exactly the right thing.
“Got it.” The words come out triumphant as my fingers close around a small metallic object—a quantum storage drive that looks military-grade. “What the hell was Malikai doing with hardware like this?” My voice is steady as I lift a small, dark device.
It’s cracked, but functional—I hope.
Voices carry from the entrance—Ethan smooth-talking local law enforcement won’t last long. They want their crime scene back and don’t understand what’s at stake.
“Dammit, Walt.” Doc Summers springs to her feet. With the help of Forest, they lift me back into the wheelchair.
Gabe and Hank lower the planter, their faces flushed with the exertion of lifting the heavy structure.
Doc Summers fusses over me. “What did I say about not bleeding out?” Doc demands, already pressing fresh gauze against my chest.
I barely hear her.
I clutch the drive tight as they wheel me toward our waiting vehicle, letting Doc fuss over my bleeding bandages. Hank and Gabe fall into flanking positions while Rigel and Blake converge from the perimeter.
My phone’s already in my hand, Mitzy’s number dialing before we reach the car.
“Need you to crack this drive,” I rasp as Forest helps load me into the vehicle.“Whatever’s on it?—”
“Is worth killing for,” she finishes. “Worth taking Malia over. I know. Get it to me fast. And, Walt?” Her voice softens with rare emotion. “We’ll find her.”
Suddenly, the drive hums to life in my palm, cracked but functional.
“Um, is this normal?”
“What?” Mitzy asks.
I change to a video call and show her the drive. A single line of text scrolls across its surface: Protocol Echo. If compromised, destroy immediately. Authorization: Lazarus
“No. That’s not normal.”
I let them load me back into the vehicle, the drive clutched tight in my bloody fingers.
I stare at the cracked drive as we pull away, police lights reflecting off its surface. Whatever secrets Malikai tried to protect, whatever made him risk his sister’s life—it better be worth it.