Page 3 of Rogue Survivor
I look like shit. The right side of my face is purple, my eye bloody, and my arm held tight in a sling. My entire chest is covered in bruises. And that’s just from the waist up. Surgery on my knee is scheduled for tomorrow. Total reconstruction. I can’t hold a thought in my head for longer than five minutes, and the headaches…fuck. It’s like someone’s splitting my skull in two. But Quinton’s safe and, much to my shock,wantsto talk to me.
“Ain’t letting him see me…like this.”
AJ gives me the side eye. “Like what?”
“Fucked.” With a heavy sigh, I pull the blankets higher. Can’t exactly put on a shirt with a partially separated shoulder. “In the head.”
“You have a concussion,” he says like it’s the most obvious fact in the world.
I give him my best “no shit, Sherlock” glare, but with how swollen my face is, I have no idea if it’s effective. “Hard to think. Quinton…will worry.”
“He knows what happened, dude. And of course he’s gonna worry. He’s your brother.” AJ sinks into the chair and props the tablet on the table spanning the width of the bed.
“We’re not close.” My words are slow, like I have a mouthful of peanut butter. The admission drives all my failures home, and I drop my gaze to my right hand. Two broken fingers. Can’t hold a pen. The splints are uncomfortable as fuck, but they’re nothing compared to the brace on my leg. Or the contraption holding my broken right arm tight to my torso. Velcro and rough, scratchy fabric.
AJ snorts. “I know what that’s like. You met Jasper.”
Jasper. Who…? For a few endless moments, the name rattles around in my addled brain until I remember his words whispered so only I could hear.“That asshole fucked with the wrong people. The guys who did a number on you? They won’t be talkin’—or breathin’—again.”
“Yeah. So?” I ask.
“The only time we talk is when we’re workin’ a case. Sombitch nearly died last year and still wouldn’t pick up the damn phone.” After a dry chuckle, AJ shakes his head. “Then again, I didn’t either. He’s still my brother. I still love him. I’d still die for him. Even if I can’t stand him most of the time.”
“Quinton’s hurt…because of me.” The guilt pains me more than any of my injuries. If my brother hadn’t started seeing some mercenary named Graham a few weeks ago, he’d be dead by now—and so would I.
AJ brings up a FaceTime window and pulls a Post-it note from his back pocket. “Bullshit. He’s hurt because that no-good asswipe was fucked in the head. You’re both alive. Nut up. I’m dialin’, then I’ll wait outside. But if I see you hang up in the next two minutes, my next call is gonna be to your mama.”
Fuck. That’s just what I need.
With a careful nod—my head hasn’t stopped pounding all day—I give in, and when Quinton’s face appears, the relief in his eyes? Maybe we’ll both be all right. Eventually.
Chapter One
Connor
“Son of a bitch!”My left knee buckles, my foot missing the second step entirely, and I end up in a heap on the concrete landing of the FBI’s Austin field office. Halos of light flash in my periphery, a side effect of the beating that almost took my life three months ago. When they hit, my equilibrium goes to shit.
As if this day weren’t bad enough already.
“Connor!” My supervisor, Senior Field Agent Brent Wilder, rushes over to me, but I shake off his hand when he tries to help me up. “What the hell happened?”
With a grunt, I use the handrail to pull myself to my feet. “Wasn’t watchin’ where I was going.”
Brent glares at me with the power of twenty years at the Bureau behind his eyes. “Bullshit. You want to try that again?”
“Nope.” After almost a full minute of silence—a minute where I’m trying desperately not to rub at the bone-deep ache in my right arm or shift my weight onto the leg that just betrayed me—I tighten my hold on the railing and meet Brent’s gaze. “You read my medical report.”
“I did.” He ticks off my various temporary andpermanentdisabilities on his fingers. “Vision loss in your right eye. Rebuilt knee, traumatic brain injury with occasional aphasia and post-concussion syndrome, shattered right ulna with nerve damage, and lasting migraines.”
Hearing someone enumerate my failings does nothing for my mood. I’d tell him to go fuck himself, but that would get me shitcanned in zero point two seconds, and I need this job. For ten years, Brent has been my mentor, my supervisor, even my friend. When he transferred to Austin from Dallas two months ago, I put in my paperwork as well—even though I was still on medical leave. I can’t lie to him. Even if I want to.
“Flashes. Halos. In my field of vision. Took me by surprise. Then my knee gave out.” I stare through the glass doors to the lobby, the building nondescript save for the Bureau insignia inlaid in the stone tile.
“Shit. How the hell did you get the doctors to clear you for desk duty? Blackmail?” He shakes his head and gives me the side eye.
“Maybe.” I crack a smile, but he’s not amused. “I haven’t had a flare in two weeks. Thought I might be done with them.”
“Come on inside. We need to talk.”
