Page 23 of Ruined

Bobby shakes a wheelchair open, one of the ones that can fold up all nice and tidy out of the way. It has the name of a local hospital stenciled on the back. Obviously stolen.

* * *

Bobby takes me to a basketball court, wheels me into the center of the pitch, drops a quick kiss on the top of my head, and leaves. He can’t risk staying. I know the plan is that he’ll call the agency and let them know where I am.

I hear sirens and see lights about five minutes later. Big black vehicles pull up around the court and agents come leaping out. Ambulances and a couple of cop cars follow in their wake. I feel a sudden bolt of fear at the sight of them and the memory of the last time a plethora of agents came at me like this.

It’s different this time, of course. Amid the swarm of dark armored people, Angelo Vitali’s tall and elegant frame emerges from the back of a vehicle. He is cuffed, but those cuffs are removed almost immediately. They’re satisfied that I’ve been brought, and now Angelo walks free again.

“We’ve got you, agent!” The excited tones of someone I don’t know come breathily in my ear as lawful hands take control of my chair and my life.

Angelo walks right past me as I am wheeled toward the waiting ambulance. Time seems to slow as he passes me, his tall, powerful figure seemingly unaffected by captivity. I know they would have been rough on him. No tenderness is spared on a man like Angelo. Professional detachment goes out the window when law enforcement handles a target they have long suspected of causing the deaths of many of their number.

His dark eyes meet what I now realize is a hopeful gaze. There is just the barest nod, a slight flicker of acknowledgement, and then he is behind me and I am being taken into the embrace of my colleagues.

9

“I’ve told you everything.”

I’ve told them everything at least a dozen times.

I am sitting in an interrogation room with an IV drip feeding me fluids and a touch of pain relief and whatever else they’ve decided to prescribe. I’ve been in the hospital for several days, mostly under observation, but being assessed for what happened to me in the Vitali field hospital. The news is not good.

The agency doesn’t really care, because I’m alive.

I’ve been discharged for the purposes of being what they’re calling debriefing, and what I know is interrogation.

Kurt is sitting in front of me, across the table. I’ve been on his side of it a thousand times, and I know he’s the best interrogator we have. His presence, as congenial as it appears, means I am being treated effectively like a suspect.

“I know this is tiresome. We’re just trying to get all the information you have before you start to forget. Tell me what happened. From the top.”

“I was observing the location and I was discovered. Angelo Vitali kidnapped me and took me back to the house.”

“And you were in the house until we rescued you, or rather until you were exchanged.”

“Until some fucking idiot put a bullet in my gut.”

I don’t even bother not to sound bitter. Friendly fire happens, but it still feels as though the friendly fire that has maimed me forever was intentional. Someone wanted me dead. Or worse, someone wanted me broken.

In an instant, the agency I pledged my life to did more reckless damage to me than Angelo and Bobby ever did in the two and a bit days they had me in their custody. I was safer with ruthless, lawless criminals than I feel I am right now.

“Alright. Well, you go on home and you get better,” Kurt says after glancing at the one-way mirror. Someone’s said something in his ear. Either they’re finally satisfied, or they’re going to try another angle later. For reasons I can’t quite explain, I feel guilty. Or more specifically, I feel like I’m a suspect.

Kurt sticks his hand out to shake mine.

“It’s good to have you back, Agent Cooper.”

“It’s good to be back,” I lie.

* * *

Days later…

A fruit basket sits on the table in the center of my apartment, attracting flies. There’s a Get Well Soon card perched in it. My name is spelled incorrectly on the interior. Apparently, one of my colleagues thinks my name is Rally.

I do a lot of field work and sure, I haven’t made a lot of friends at the office, but still. I’d almost rather they’d gifted me an actual bag of dicks and told me to suck them than this insipid offering.

I sit on my couch. It’s an old orange thing that I used to think was cheerful, but now seems a little too loud, the way some people who secretly want to die but instead keep throwing pizza parties are.

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