Chapter 6 #4
“Not … planning to.” But his body was shutting down, systems failing one by one. He could feel it happening. His consciousness was slipping, pain fading to distant noise, the world going soft at the edges.
Behind them, another explosion. Smaller. Maybe ammunition was cooking off in the fire. The guards were still shouting, still shooting, but the sounds were getting farther away. Or maybe he was just fading out.
Willow was half-carrying, half-dragging him through the jungle. Each step jolted through his injuries, but he couldn’t feel it anymore. Couldn’t feel much of anything except the fever burning through him like wildfire.
“Stay awake,” she ordered, voice sharp. “Talk to me.”
“About what?”
“Anything. Everything. Your favorite color. I don’t care.”
“Blue.” The word came automatically. “Like … like the ocean. Clean waves. No blood.”
“Good. What else?”
“Hate … mushrooms. Slimy little bastards.” He was rambling now, fever-thoughts spilling out uncensored. “Con makes fun of me. Says I blow up buildings but won’t eat fungus.”
“Who?”
Shit. Classified. Shouldn’t have said that.
“Nobody,” he managed. “Forget it.”
“Z, man, I’m sending help.” Con’s voice was dancing in his head.
“Nope. We’re good.”
“Yeah, we are,” she said. “You’ve got this, big boy. Come on. One foot in front of the other.”
He looked down at her. He knew that even through the fog. She was too smart, too observant. She’d catalog every detail, every slip-up, build a profile of who he really was.
The man sent to kill the target she was supposed to locate.
“Almost there. Damn it, Levi, move!” Willow said. Her voice sounded far away now, like she was shouting from the bottom of a well. “Just a little farther.”
He tried to help, tried to make his legs work, but they’d stopped taking orders. His body was done. Finished. It had given him what he needed. Three explosions, enough chaos for her to do whatever she needed to do, and now, it was cashing out.
Darkness crept in from the edges, warm and inviting. Sleep sounded good. Sleep sounded perfect.
“Levi!” Willow’s voice cracked like a whip. “Don’t you fucking dare!”
But he was already falling, the world tilting sideways, mud rushing up to meet him. His last coherent thought was that she’d gotten the supplies, that the mission was still viable, that he’d done his job.
And then nothing.
When consciousness returned, it came in pieces.
Pain first. Radiating from his leg, his chest, his head. Everywhere, all at once, a symphony of injury that made him wish for unconsciousness again.
Then sound. The roar of an engine, rough and uneven. Metal rattling. Rain hammering against … what? Roof? Windows?
Smell. Oil, gasoline, and antiseptic. It was sharp and medicinal, and cut through everything else.
He tried to open his eyes. Failed. Tried again. His eyelids felt like they weighed a thousand pounds, but he finally got them open, squinting against light that was too bright, too harsh.
A ceiling. Corrugated metal, rusted at the edges, leaking in three places. Rain dripped through, creating puddles on a concrete floor.
The hangar. They were back at the hangar.
He turned his head slowly because fast movements made everything spin and found Willow crouched beside him. She'd stripped off his vest and shirt and was doing something to his leg that involved a lot of blood and a disturbing amount of metal instruments.
“You're awake,” she said without looking up. Her hands were steady, focused, and covered in his blood up to the wrists. “Good. Means you're not dead.”
“Disappointing,” he croaked.
“For you, maybe.” She pulled something from his leg. He felt the tug and heard the wet sound of it coming free, and whatever it was dropped into a metal pan with a clang. Shrapnel. “For me, it would've been a logistical nightmare. Bodies are heavy.”
He tried to laugh, but it came out as a cough that tasted like ass. “Got the supplies?”
“Got everything on the list, plus some extras.” She gestured to a pile of supplies stacked near the Cessna. “Antibiotics, painkillers, surgical equipment, IV fluids. Enough to stock a field hospital.”
“Overachiever.”
“I was motivated.” She finally looked at him, and her eyes were darker than he remembered. Fuck, she was exhausted, worried, and … angry. “You blew up half the compound.”
Oh, well, that explained the angry part. “Controlled explosions.”
“You blew up three things. That's not controlled. That's … enthusiastic.”
“Tomato, tomahto.” He watched her work, watched the precise movements of her hands as she cleaned his wound. “You mad?”
“Furious.” But her touch was gentle as she started stitching. “You almost died. Again.”
“Habit.”
“Bad habit.” She pulled a stitch tight, and he hissed through his teeth. “You need to stop it.”
“I’ll work on that.”
Silence fell, filled only by the rain and the whisper of thread through flesh. Levi watched her face. Her concentration, the competence, the way she bit her lower lip when she was focused. She'd saved his life. Twice now, if he were counting. Which meant he owed her.
“I’ve been listening, Z. She’s talked to you the entire time. Cussed you out a lot. She wants you alive.”
“Thank you,” he said quietly. It was meant for both Con and for her. Two people watching over him. That was a record, right? That was something.
She didn't stop working. “For what?”
“Not leaving me. It would've been smarter to cut your losses.”
“Probably.” She tied off the last stitch, then cleaned the wound with an antiseptic that burned like hellfire. “But then I'd have to fix that plane alone, and I hate working alone.”
“You told me that.”
She smiled. It was small but tired and real. “I did, and you told me you liked control.”
She reached for an IV bag, and he realized she'd already set up a portable stand using what looked like parts from the old Beaver. The needle slid into his arm with practiced ease, and cool fluid started flowing. Antibiotics. Saline. The good stuff.
“You're going to sleep now,” Willow said. It wasn't a question.
“Don't want to.”
“Don't care.” She pulled a blanket over him. Where the hell had she gotten a blanket? Her hand took his wrist and checked his pulse. “You've got a fever of 103. Your body needs rest.”
“The mission—”
“Will still be there when you wake up.” Her hand rested on his shoulder, warm and solid. “Sleep, Levi. I've got the watch.”
He wanted to argue. Wanted to stay awake, stay alert, because sleeping meant vulnerability, and vulnerability got you killed.
But his body was already shutting down, pulling him under despite his protests. The last thing he saw was Willow sitting beside him, cleaning her hands with methodical precision, silhouetted against the rain-streaked light.
Guard duty. She was standing guard.
Over him.
The thought should’ve bothered him. Assassins shouldn’t need protection or help. He shouldn’t trust anyone enough to sleep in their presence.
“Sleep, Z. I trust her, and I have her profile. She’s good people.”
“Okay,” he answered—or thought he did. As darkness claimed him again, Levi realized something that would've terrified him if he'd been conscious enough to process it properly.
He trusted her.