Page 87 of The Bait

He remembered that sick fuck Radovic jabbing him like a fucking pin cushion. Maybe a knife block was more apt.

Now that there was light in the room, he could see he had blood over most of his body.

“We got a punctured lung here,” the medic said.

“We’ve got two here,” the other medic said, working on Lucas. Harry’s gaze drew over to where Lucas was. He couldn’t see much with the people crowded around him. Just his feet. And with the light coming into the room, Harry could see they were red with blood and dark purple.

They lifted Lucas onto a stretcher, carrying him out of the room, leaving a Lucas-shaped pool of dark blood, congealed and dried at the edges on the floor.

Jesus fucking Christ.

What had they done to him?

Then there were more men in front of Harry. The first man’s face was back. “We need to get you up and out of here, sir.”

“Need to find Asher,” Harry agreed, trying to push himself up.

“He’s not here,” the guy said.

Harry’s eyes met his. “Then I need to leave,” Harry bit out, pushing himself up with more determination this time.

Then he had a man on either side of him, helping him. Harry wanted to shake them off, declare loudly he didn’t need no help. But when he almost fell face first, his knee crumpling under his weight, the two men at his side held him up.

They ambled him out of the room, the medic alongside him, still holding the IV.

The air was cleaner out here, breathing easier. He’d never been more grateful for air. But he hurt. My god, how he hurt, every-fucking-where.

They got him up the stairs into the warehouse. Harry barely remembering them coming here. But the Jeep they’d driven was still parked by the large doors.

This place had been crawling with soldiers in army fatigues before...

And now... now there were different soldiers, dressed in black combat gear. Different helicopters. Wildcats.

Different accents.

Australian. English.

As they all but carried Harry a few metres from the stairs, one of the helicopter’s rotors whirred to life in a familiar thumping sound but before it took off, a man came in to stop right in front of him.

He was tall, almost as tall as Harry but not as broad. He wore all black, from his helmet and face guard down to his boots. He had a EF88 strapped to his chest, his finger on the trigger guard. Harry could only see his eyes, nothing else. They were blue-grey, hard at first, then flickered with brief softness before hardening again.

“Harry Harrigan,” he said. “It’s an honour to meet you.”

Accent Australian.

“He needs to be on the next chopper to a hospital,” the medic said. Harry shot him a glare, but he glared right back, undeterred. Brave, for a medic. “You need medical?—”

Harry growled, wrestling out of the hold of the two men who’d helped him up the stairs. “What I need is to find Asher,” Harry bit out. “And I need to know what the fuck’s going on. What division are you?” He asked grey eyes. “And what the fuck are you doing here?”

Grey eyes stared at him, unblinking for a long second. “My name’s Captain,” he said. No names, and Harry understood that. He’d been lucky to get a rank. “And we are the Milvus Division.”

EIGHTEEN

Asher’s headsmacked back as Radovic punched him. Pain spiked down his cheekbone, in his neck.

So laughing hadn’t been the appropriate response when Radovic had asked if the funds transfer would be enough, and Yixing had snorted and said, “Two hundred and fifty is perfect for you,” in English. Then added, “Èr bai wu,” quietly.

Radovic clearly didn’t know what that meant, but Yunho did, and he’d had laughed at him, sending Radovic into a murderous rage. It was bad enough that he was Istomin’s lackey, but now the genius kid had taken over as his favourite.

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