Twenty-three
Whatsoever I've feared has
Come to life
Whatsoever I've fought off
Became my life
Just when everyday
Seemed to greet
Me with a smile
Sunspots have faded
And now I'm doing time
Cause I fell on
Black days
Whomsoever I've cured
I've sickened now
Whomsoever I've cradled
I've put you down
I'm a search light soul
They say but I can't
See it in the night
I'm only faking
When I get it right
Cause I fell on
Black days
How would I know
That this could be my fate
So what you wanted to
See good has made you blind
And what you wanted to
Be yours has made it
Mine
So don't you lock up
Something that you
Wanted to see fly
Hands are for shaking
No not tying
I sure don't
Mind a change
But I fell on black
Days
How would I know
That this could be
My fate
Cursing violently under his breath, Will ducked back behind the flimsy curtain and glanced down at Buffy.
There was no way out. Cordelia and Faith – of all people– no doubt with more than one back-up soldier, were systematically searching the emergency room and he had no one to call to create a diversion. No one to back him up, although the six cops were still within shouting distance. But he couldn’t rely on them. Not with Alanna still needing protection. Will’s mind raced with possibilities, with probabilities and nothing, short of picking Buffy up and making a futile run for it, crossing his mind as a reasonable plan.
But maybe. . . if Faith didn’t get a decent look at his face, maybe he could bluster his way through, since he’d changed his looks – at least superficially. Will shook his head, knowing that he couldn’t risk the same ploy twice. Gunn knew where he was, knew he had Buffy with him and if it was Gunn who’d betrayed him, William knew there was no escape. They more than likely had his description, and it wouldn’t matter how far he tried to go.
Harris, McDonald, and the rest of the goons would find him.
Inhaling deeply, he brushed a hand over Buffy’s arm and whispered softly, “I’m so sorry, kitten. I tried.”
He stepped away from her, sliding out between the curtain and the wall, his weapon in hand and a grim determination flooding his body.
“Nah, you guys can go. I’m gonna call my brother and he’ll come get me.” Alanna looked from one concerned face to another, her dark eyes clear despite the drugs injected into her system.
“Not happening.” The sergeant motioned three of the officers from the room. “You know the rules. Someone gets shot, we gotta stick around. Orders and paperwork. Besides, IAB will be here shortly to question everyone involved in the shooting. You know that.”
Alanna rolled her eyes, trying for patience that wasn’t coming. “I know. But there’s no reason why anyone has to wait with me.”
“No can do, sweetheart.” His tone was both professional and condescending. “Those are the rules. And I ain’t breaking ’em for you.”
“Whatever.” She fidgeted on the gurney, trying and failing to get more comfortable. Her arm was starting to throb and Alanna knew there wasn’t much time before she would be out for the count. She wanted to at least be awake until IAB showed, because she had a few things to say. And she did know that the sergeant was right. The rat squad would want to question all of them, and then the bullet removed from her arm would be tested against all the weapons . . . and then, only after they deemed it a clean and necessary shooting, would she be out from under their scrutiny. This was exactly the kind of shit she didn’t need or want.
Knowing when a woman dismissed him, the sergeant shook his head and exited the cubicle.
He was still standing at the curtain opening when a wounded Xander Harris was wheeled past him, bleeding profusely from his leg and shoulder. Will barely glanced at his face before averting his. The last thing he wanted was a revenge-driven Xander Harris recognizing him. Even if he was injured, Harris was a dangerous man to have as an enemy. Especially when he was injured.
But how was . . . Harris hadn’t been one of the shooters, that much Will knew. They were flunkies, not big fish. At least not by Reilly’s standards. So who shot Harris?
And why bring him here, to this hospital?
It all stank of conspiracy. Harris just happens to get shot in the same area that a gunfight breaks out? Upper Manhattan wasn’t the usual stomping grounds of the Reilly organization, so what had brought them all here?
Who had tipped them off? And who was systematically trying to kill them all?
So far, the only faction not heard from were those backing Lindsey McDonald.
Circumstances certainly seemed to indicate a coup was taking place, and that McDonald was finally making his play to take over Reilly’s organization. But that only explained Harris’ injuries, not Reilly’s murder. . . unless. . .
Will looked over his shoulder at Buffy, his eyes losing their customary hard glint. If McDonald had plotted Reilly’s murder and arranged to have it done, using Buffy as the fall, then who was the other person – woman – in Reilly’s suite that night. Buffy could only remember dark eyes and a husky voice. . . which might describe more than half the women in New York. She couldn’t remember anything else. There could have been half a dozen people in that suite, and given the amount of drugs in her system, she wouldn’t remember any of them.
So he had to do the thinking for her. It couldn’t have been Darla, because her breathy, little-girl voice didn’t fit. Cordelia had the dark eyes, but her relationship with Reilly precluded the evidence of sexual play. Faith, with her dark eyes and deeper voice, fit the bill perfectly. But would she have done that? Could she have cold-bloodedly murdered the target? And not just murdered, but mutilated his corpse? Unlikely. The damage done to Angelus wasn’t random. Wasn’t impersonal. It was deeply personal.
Which brought him back to Darla. Dark contact lenses and a deliberate effort to change her voice would bring her right back into the field of suspects. He’d always thought she harbored a dark streak that echoed in her husband. She hadn’t struck him as the typical wife that ignored her husband’s illegal and immoral lifestyle. No, rather, she seemed to revel in it.
Could it be that Darla and Lindsey McDonald had joined forces? Would it be that difficult to believe?
No. William could see the alliance forming in his mind. Darla, angered by her husband’s recent infidelities, foolish business dealings, and recent reduction in income, would definitely reach out to one of his top generals. Harris was too close to the Reilly family, which left him out in the cold. McDonald had never hidden his ambition or his ruthlessness. He’d worked his way up through the ranks, starting out as just an errand boy and eventually making his way into Angelus’ inner circle.
Has to be the two of them.
But who’d they manage to get to?
Which one of his team had betrayed him?
“Sir?” Giles barely acknowledged the voice calling out to him, in his haste to depart the embassy. “Giles, sir?”
He snapped his head up, and clenched his jaw in anticipation of an unnecessary delay. “What is it, Tennyson?”
The efficient blond woman glanced sideways, then pulled her superior to the side. “Our surveillance on McDonald picked up some chatter, sir.”
“What sort of chatter?” Giles shifted his credentials from one pocket to the other, then removed his glasses from his face.
“Nearest we can decipher is that someone took out Xander Harris, evidently on McDonald’s orders.” She paused, watching his reaction. “We are unable to determine if Harris’ injuries are fatal.”
“Bloody hell.” Giles grimaced. “What else?”
“They’ve also increased their surveillance on Pratt, and,” Tennyson delivered the bad news sotto voce, “they’ve managed to discover the witness he’s protecting.”
Giles replaced his glasses. “Is there anything else?”
“We believe we’ve narrowed down the list of possible moles.” Before he could ask, she pressed a piece of paper into his hands. “This should help the Americans.”
He glanced down and nodded. “Very good, Tennyson.”
“Thank you, sir.” She started to walk away, aware that his eyes followed her. “Your car’s ready.”
“Yes. Yes.” Giles shook his head and refocused his attention on Pratt and his latest headache. As he was making his way to the driveway entrance, he paused. “Tennyson? Keep me apprised of any new developments.”
“Sir.” She nodded once, then continued on her way back to the security offices.
Emitting a deep sigh, Giles left the embassy.
Spike was still standing at the curtain, his eyes scanning the emergency room. The confusion brought about by Harris’ arrival was still ongoing, and he watched with wary eyes the comings and goings of several doctors and nurses. Any one of them could be another assassin, and he wasn’t taking his chances. The moment Buffy was cleared, he was taking her away from this place, and getting her straight to the British Embassy. The unease about which of his team had been compromised was gnawing away, tightening his belly and the spot between his shoulders. It had to be someone he knew. Someone with an axe to grind against him.
Shaking his head, Spike eased back inside the curtains, smiling slightly as Buffy shifted with restlessness. Whatever drug they gave her wasn’t working as well as it should and she gasped in pain when she rolled to her side. He was about to help her, when a discordant noise from behind him caught his attention. Reeling about, Spike pushed aside the curtain.
Standing at the nurses’ station was Lindsay McDonald.
There was another rustle behind him and Spike half-turned. It took him more than a moment to register what his eyes were seeing. Alannah had her arm wrapped around Buffy’s shoulders, a gun pressed to her temple. Buffy’s eyes were wide and panicked, her fingers scrabbling to pull the arm away from her. “Don’t.”
Alannah glanced for a second at the gun in his hand. “I said, don’t.”
It wasn’t her voice, though, that made him stop. It was the one from behind him. “You should listen.”
Spike relaxed his shoulders, then turned to face the second speaker. “Take it slow, Pratt. Wouldn’t want to do anything to hurt all these nice people, would you?”
McDonald’s voice was deceptively soft, his tone mild and bland. He smiled. “Just ease back, away from the ladies.”
He waited, poised to move either way, should an opening present itself. His gaze met Buffy’s and he watched while Alannah slipped her hold to a choke. It was only then that he took a step backward, away from where the girls were.
“That’s good.” Lindsay eased away from the counter, his gun trained on Spike’s head. “One more step.”
“Not the best idea you’ve ever had, Texas.” Spike didn’t dare let out a breath of relief, not when he wasn’t sure who was playing by a different set of rules, but he was grateful to hear Faith’s voice nonetheless. “You’ve got a real Mexican stand-off going on.”
Spike could hear the shifting behind him, but he kept his eyes trained on Buffy. “So now what are you gonna do? You’re surrounded by cops.”
Ignoring McDonald for a moment, Faith addressed her question to Spike, without shifting her gaze. “You okay there, Spike?”
“We’re good.” He raised his gun, training it on Alannah’s forehead. It was the only shot he had, since she was now using Buffy as a shield. “Drop it, Alannah. Let her go.”
He could see the tension in the arms holding Buffy, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Alannah would either listen or she wouldn’t. He had to focus on her, and not on the hazel green eyes boring into his. “You really wanna throw away your life for this piece of shite?”
She didn’t answer him, which was exactly what he expected.
The situation couldn’t last. Spike took a step closer to the girls, ignoring the stand-off behind him. His priority was Buffy, and only Buffy. Faith could take out McDonald, and the others could handle the clean-up. But he’d made a promise to her, and he was going to keep it. He shifted his gun to one hand, holding out the other. “C’mon, Alannah, let her go. She’s done nothing.”
A bitter laugh ripped from her. “Right. She’s just Little Miss Innocent.” She tightened her hold, moving the gun from Buffy’s temple down to her side. “She’s just a ten-dollar hooker. What the fuck do you care?”
“I care about both of you. Don’t do this, Alannah.” Spike took another step closer, motioning with his free hand. “Just gimme the gun.”
“Don’t move, Pratt.” McDonald’s voice was tense.
Ignoring him, Spike moved forward again. He didn’t realize his mistake until Buffy’s eyes widened, and she started wriggling in Alannah’s hold. The bullet slammed into his side, just under his upraised arm, and he reflexively reacted, his shot going just a bit wide, grazing Alannah’s head. It knocked her back and away from Buffy, who dropped to the floor. Shots fired behind him, and Spike rolled to his back, his gun fixed on the last location of Lindsay McDonald.
Buffy scuttled forward, her fingers reaching out for him and Spike half sat, shielding her with his body. “Keep down, kitten. Don’t move.”
Lindsay was slumped over the counter, unmoving. Faith moved quickly, grasping the gun away from his hand. Two uniformed officers hovered behind her, waiting orders, but with guns drawn. She checked McDonald for a pulse, then stepped back. Emergency personnel watched warily, but she nodded them forward. “He’s still breathing.”
She looked at the uniforms. “Make sure he doesn’t leave this building.” She eased over to where Spike was on the floor. “Get him up.”
Two more cops appeared at the opposite end of the nurses’ station. “Check out the girl.”
Faith crouched down at Spike’s side. “You okay?”
He removed his hand from his wounded side, grimacing. “Should be. What the fuck just happened?”
“Your mole wasn’t me. Never was.” She stood up, reaching for Buffy to help her up. “Been in constant touch with G-man.”
“What?” With the help of two orderlies, Spike got on a gurney. “Yeah, blondie. Been working with him all along.” The brunette shrugged.
“Your girl there is outta her fucking mind.” She motioned to Alannah. “She’s been sniffing after Reilly for months. Apparently, she’s got a taste for the wild side.”
Faith looked at Buffy. “She’s gotta go to into the system, you know that.”
He started to protest, but the words wouldn’t come. He grabbed for Faith’s arm, trying to keep her attention, though he suddenly had no strength. He tried again, but the pain in his chest was too much. Spike coughed, struggling harder to sit up, hoping that would ease the pain, then slipped into unconsciousness.
His last thought was for Buffy.
I know I don't deserve any kindness or anything, but I hope you can find it within you to leave a review, especially if you haven't done so already. I'd love to hear what you're thinking about this story, whether you love it, hate it, or think it's utter tripe, any feedback is better than no feedback at all. And believe me, I can take the critiques. I'm a big girl, after all. Won't hurt me, and who knows, it just might make me a better writer. So spare some love this time around, and let me know. Happy Holidays, one and all. I'll try to get the epilogue up before the new year. Slainte, Nia