22. Walt
TWENTY-TWO
Walt
Ten days after the shooting, I sit on the edge of the hospital bed, struggling to button my shirt without wincing. Each movement sends fire through my chest, a constant reminder of the bullets that nearly ended me.
Doc Summers stands in the doorway, her small frame radiating authority as she watches my struggle. Her inquisitive eyes miss nothing—like how my hands shake, and I pause between each button to catch my breath.
“Two months,” she announces, her tone brooking no argument. “Minimum. And that’s only if you follow the recovery plan exactly.”
“Two months?” The words come out sharper than intended. “Doc, I can’t?—”
“You can and you will.” She steps forward, helping me with the last button when my fingers refuse to cooperate. “Unless you want permanent damage. You’re lucky to be alive, let alone able to move.”
I protest, but she cuts me off with a look that could freeze hell.
“Two paths, Walt.” She begins checking my vitals one final time. “Follow the plan—intensive physical therapy, gradually increasing activity—and you’ll return to full strength in two months. Maybe sooner if you don’t push too hard.” Her hands are gentle but clinical as she examines my healing wounds. “Or be a blockhead about it, try to rush things, and risk never regaining full function. Your choice.”
The threat of permanent disability hits harder than the bullets did. I force myself to take a careful breath, ignoring how it pulls at my stitches.
“Walk me through it.”
“Piper will give you the specifics of her physical therapy rehabilitation plan.” Doc Summers’ approval shows in the slight softening of her expression. “Week one is basic mobility—getting your range of motion back without tearing anything. In week two, you start gentle strength training. We’ll look at modified combat drills if you haven’t done anything stupid by week four.”
“And if I follow all your rules?”
“Then, by eight weeks, you should be cleared for full duty.” She steps back, crossing her arms. “But only if you listen to Piper. Push too hard too fast, and you’ll set yourself back months. Maybe permanently.”
The words settle like lead in my stomach. Two months of recovery while Malia is in enemy hands. Two months of healing while God knows what happens to her.
But Doc’s right. I’m no good to anyone if I cripple myself trying to rush back into action.
“Fine.” I carefully stand, testing my balance. “Two months.”
“Deal.” She hands me my discharge papers. “And Walt?” Her voice softens slightly. “We’ll find Malia, and when we do, she needs you at full strength. Not half-healed and a liability in the field.”
I nod, unable to trust my voice. Two months. I can do this. Have to do this.
The alternative—never being strong enough to save Malia—is unthinkable.
It feels like winning a battle when Doc Summers finally hands me my release papers. Until I try standing on my own for more than five minutes, and the room tilts like I’ve been on a week-long bender. It’s humbling, infuriating, and exactly the fuel I need to push harder.
The next few weeks are a grind. Physical therapy has become my new mission; every session a war between my body and my will. Piper, the persistently perky therapist, is practically legendary among the Guardians.
She once dragged Bent, Angel Fire’s brooding bassist, back from the edge after a debilitating accident, helping him regain full use of his arm. And when Bravo team’s leader, Brady, faced a devastating recovery from horrific burns, she got him back to full operational status. If she could break through their stubborn walls… I’m doomed—or maybe saved. Depends on the day—and how much I’m cursing her by the end of each session.
The team converts my apartment’s living room into a Command Center. While I do PT exercises, Mitzy’s intel streams across multiple screens. Shipping manifests, power grid data, satellite imagery—a digital trail leading east. But we still have no confirmation on a location.
By the end of the first week, I’m walking laps around the gym, sweat dripping down my back as the ache in my chest dulls to something manageable. By the second week, I’m hitting the weights, testing my endurance with light sparring against Rigel. Every punch and every kick is a step forward and brings me closer to being ready.
The briefings continue, but we’re stalled.
“You need to see this,” Mitzy taps her tablet. She pulls up satellite imagery showing convoy movements across Eastern Europe. “Sentinel Three’s deuterium stockpiles are being relocated. All of them.”
“Where?” I ask.
“That’s just it,” she swipes through more images. “They’re moving everything east. Toward Kazakhstan. The timing can’t be a coincidence.”
“It’s not.” Forest enters, his massive frame filling the doorway. “Mia’s sources confirm it. The deuterium and the quantum research are all connected. Malfor’s been planning this for years.”
“Planning, what?” The frustration in my voice mirrors what we’re all feeling. Always one step behind, always reacting instead of acting.
“That’s the million-dollar question,” Forest says grimly. “But I bet Malia’s brother is being forced to build the answer.”
“Here. Three more deuterium shipments traced to Kazakhstan,” Mitzy reports.
“Is that where we think they were taken? To Kazakhstan?” I ask.
“We’re hamstrung looking into North Korea, but I’m not ready to rule it out just yet.”
By week three, I can manage the climbing wall—barely five feet up before my shoulder screams in protest. Slowly, my body grows stronger, and my movements feel fluid again. The scar on my chest pulls slightly when I stretch; it’s a faint tug, a reminder of what I survived. My reflection in the mirror isn’t the same man from the hospital bed.
He’s gone, and I’m back.
I step through the doors of HQ, the fluorescent lights harsh compared to the hospital’s muted tones. My steps are slower than I’d like, and my chest is tight when I push too hard. Today’s briefing is to go over surveillance of the facility in Kazakhstan.”
“There are three main entry points,” Sam briefs us, his image clear on the tablet propped by my exercise mat. There are underground access tunnels from the Soviet era, a loading dock for supplies, and the main entrance. All are heavily guarded.”
“Have we given up on the North Korean facility?” I massage my chest, trying to loosen up the scar tissue.
“Not entirely,” Mitzy says. “ Smaug continues to perform flyovers. We’re not seeing the same level of activity there. Our best bet is Kazakhstan, but I’d like to be certain before putting together a mission packet.”
Week four marks my return to modified training. I stand in front of a punching bag, sweat dripping down my face. My fists slam into the bag with an almost mechanical rhythm—jab, cross, hook, repeat. The dull ache in my chest reminds me to hold back, but I push through the pain. Between treadmill sessions, I join the others for tactical updates as we piece together the facility’s layout.
By week six, I’m cleared for light sparring. It’s not full contact, but it’s enough to keep me from climbing the walls. The mats feel familiar under my bare feet. I roll my shoulders, the scar on my chest pulling faintly, a reminder of how far I’ve come—and how much further I still need to go.
“Two on one,” Hank announces with a wicked grin, tossing his towel onto a bench. “We’ll take it easy on you.”
Gabe snorts, adjusting his wraps. “Sure we will.”
I narrow my eyes, squaring up. “You both against me? Real fair.”
“Life’s not fair,” Hank shoots back, circling me. “Thought you’d know that by now.”
Hank lunges, drawing my attention, and before I can counter, Gabe sweeps in from the side, his movements fluid and precise. I block one strike, but the other lands square on my shoulder, forcing me back. Hank seizes the opportunity as I stumble, closing in with a powerful grip on my arm. Gabe mirrors the move, grabbing my other arm, their hands intertwining as they pin me between them.
Their synchronized movements are impressive and intimidating. It’s like they can read each other’s minds, anticipating every step and every punch. I struggle to keep up.
My muscles scream in protest as I sidestep, deflecting Gabe’s jab with my forearm. The impact stings, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. Before I can reset, Hank charges from the opposite side, a freight train of muscle and speed.
His powerful blows land with precision, each strike carefully timed to complement Gabe’s quick, darting movements. They’re a well-oiled machine, working together with a seamless rhythm that’s both beautiful and terrifying to behold.
I pivot, my breath catching as I twist to block his strike. My chest protests, a sharp reminder of my limitations, but I grit my teeth and push through. Hank’s forearm collides with mine, the force jolting through me, but I hold my ground.
“Still standing,” I grunt, shoving him back a step.
“Not for long,” Gabe quips, slipping behind me. His foot sweeps low, aiming for my legs, but I sidestep at the last moment. Sweat drips down my temple as I twist to face him, keeping both of them in my line of sight.
They’re relentless, coming at me from every angle. Hank’s brute strength pairs seamlessly with Gabe’s quick, calculated strikes, like two parts of the same machine. It’s unnerving how well they move together—Hank charging like a battering ram while Gabe darts in to exploit the openings Hank creates. It’s not just coordination; it’s instinctual like they know what the other thinks before a move is made.
Hank lunges, drawing my attention, and before I can counter, Gabe sweeps in from the side, his movements fluid and precise. I block one strike, but the other lands square on my shoulder, forcing me back.
“You two always fight like this?” I growl, sidestepping a brutal hook from Hank.
“Like, what?” Hank smirks, ducking low as Gabe moves in above him.
“Like you’re one damn person,” I snap, managing to deflect Gabe’s jab.
Hank’s fist barrels toward me again, forcing me to shift focus. I catch Gabe’s wrist mid-strike, twisting just enough to send him off balance, but Hank’s already there, a heavy hand shoving me backward. My feet slide on the mat, but I plant myself, bracing for the next hit.
“You’re slowing down, old man,” Hank taunts, his grin wide and infuriating.
“You talk too much,” I growl, lunging forward. My fist connects with his shoulder, the satisfying thud cutting his laughter short.
“Good,” he grunts, shaking it off. “Better.”
Gabe sweeps in again, and I sidestep, turning his momentum against him. He stumbles but recovers fast, his grin sharp. “Still got it, huh?”
“More than you,” I snap, a small smirk tugging at my lips despite the ache in my chest.
They come at me again, and I know they’re holding back just enough to keep me from breaking—but not enough to make it easy. Each hit, each dodge, and each stumble builds my strength. They push me to my limits, testing me, forcing me to adapt, and I can feel it—day by day, fight by fight—I’m getting stronger.
Hank calls a halt with a sharp whistle, signaling the end of the session. My muscles scream in protest, every breath burning like fire in my lungs. Gabe claps me on the back, nearly sending me forward, his grin wide and unapologetic.
“Not bad,” he says, clearly enjoying my exhaustion a little too much.
I straighten, rolling out my shoulders despite the ache settling deep into my bones. My chest heaves, my hands rest on my knees, and sweat pours down my back, but I’m standing. Barely, but standing. Hank and Gabe exchange a look, their grins approving.
“You’ll be ready,” Gabe says, tossing me a water bottle.
I chug the water, the ache settling deep into my bones.
Gabe’s phone buzzes from where he left it near the edge of the mats. He wipes his face with a towel before checking the screen. His easy grin slips into something sharper, more focused.
“We’ve got a briefing. An update just came through.”
Hank tosses me a clean towel. “Let’s hit the showers first.”
The exhaustion dragging at my limbs suddenly feels distant, replaced by a familiar edge of anticipation. It’s been too long without a solid lead—weeks of chasing shadows, debating whether the hostages are being held in Kazakhstan or North Korea. Every dead end frustrates me.
But maybe something’s shifted. Whatever update came through… It could be the break we’ve been waiting for.