Another sniffle. Dammit. “Where do I fitin?”
Payson sighed, wondering how to answer.Honesty was likely the best policy. “You’re right, you’re neither.You’re Grandma. Not Granny, but Mom’s mom. You have Grandma’sanxiety and fear of making mistakes, but you also have herdetermination to do it all, and do it right. I’m sure you don’tremember her very well, but you even look like her.”
“I like that. Thanks.”
“Goodnight. Get some rest and don’t worry,you’ll figure it out. Like you always do. Have some faith inyourself.”
One more fire extinguished, Payson picked herwine and her book back up and relaxed into her favorite chair. Carawas going to be just fine; she just needed a little reassurance. Ithad taken her long enough to figure that out for herself.
3
Putrid, fleshy odor filled Ronan’s nostrils; mangledbodies reached out to pull him into their decaying pile oflimbs.
The scene changed, and the sharp report ofthree shots ricocheted in his skull.
Ronan’s eyes opened in a flash, breath comingfast and sweat dripping from everywhere. Damn nightmares were worsethan ever. Getting shot wasn’t good for a body or a mind.
Stretching out his legs in the crampedhospital bed, Ronan groaned. He still hurt. Everywhere. Asshole hadshot him three fucking times; left thigh, right abdomen, rightshoulder. Several surgeries later, he was damn lucky to be alive.He just didn’t feel particularly pleased by the miracle at themoment.
Skin pinched where his wounds were stillhealing; Ronan guarded his movements as he lowered himself out ofthe hospital bed. He winced as his feet touched the ice-cold floor.Where were those grippy socks they’d given him? Nowhere insight.
Whatever. Hobbling across the yellow linoleumfloor, he made it to the bathroom before his bladder exploded. Feltlike he was still peeing out IV fluids even though he’d beenhydrating orally for days now.
In the small mirror over the sink, he cringedwhen he saw the state of his gnarly beard and knotted long hair.Bandages long gone, strength returning, he managed to take a slow,cautious shower without assistance. Hot steam soothed his crampedmuscles.
As he had awoken every night since he'd comeacross the mangled corpses, he felt overwhelmingly devastated,disgusted, his soul shredded to pieces. Failing as he did everymorning, he tried to scour the images from his memory.
Struggling to lift his arm high enough toscrub his mangey locks, he debated asking for help. Not that he'dget any help around here, even in this rehabilitative nursingfacility. The techs had refused to help him bathe after they’dgotten sick of his piss-poor attitude.
His own damn fault. In his frustration, he’dgrowled at the simpering candy striper that he could wash his ownballs. Poor thing had only been trying to help, but he was sick ofbeing waited on, of being pitied.
With difficulty, he dried off the bulk of hisbody and long hair with the crusty institutional towel that wassupplied fresh daily. He pulled on some cargo pants and a blackt-shirt, forgoing socks and underwear. Too much effort.
A knock at the door was a welcome distractionfrom his mental diatribe. “Hey Cole, ready to get out of here?” Dr.Singh asked as she calmly sauntered in, attired in her typicalwhite coat with her stethoscope tucked in the pocket.
“About bloody time,” Ronan grunted back.
“I’m going to miss your cheerful banter,” sheteased. He attempted to crack a smile. After he’d recovered in thehospital and was sent here for rehab, he’d been ready to crumble.Career over.
Although he’d disconnected months ago, now itwas official. No friends to speak of. A family who loved him, buthe had never made much of an effort to connect where his family wasconcerned. Mistakes. A lot of them.
He wasn’t suicidal, just fuckingdone.When Dr. Singh, the physician assigned to his care at the rehabfacility, had first walked into his room and looked over hisinjuries, he’d asked her why the fuck he was still here. Whycouldn’t that asshole have had decent aim?
Ronan would have had better aim; he hated thejob, but he was a damn good sniper when the mission called for it.Unofficially and extremely judiciously of course; murder was murderno matter how much of a threat the target may be.
Dr. Singh had stuck with him. She’dchallenged him, saying, “Well, you’re either really lucky or reallyunlucky. I guess you’ll have to stick around to find out which.” Hestill wasn’t sure which it was.
“Get me out of here, doc,” he asked in hisperfect West Country accent, maintaining his current ruse as astruggling writer named Cole from Devon.
“I’m processing your discharge paperwork now;I’ll have you out of here first thing tomorrow morning.” She smiledas she performed her final exam. His bandages were gone, scarshealing, body sore. “Keep up with your home exercises. You ok onpain management?”
“I got it. Thanks for not pushing any ofthose bloody pain pills.” They’d had him pretty drugged upinitially. As soon as he was coherent enough, he’d put a stop tothe damn pain pills. Muddled his brain, and he was still in deepcover.
He had no doubt he could maintain his covereven in the drugged delirium, but he still wanted to keep a clearhead. Max Kennedy had been declared killed in action by the CIA.Sara’s attempts to convince the anyone interested, particularly theassassin, that he was dead.
“You’re very welcome. Not being nagged forpain meds was a welcome request compared to the norm. Stay out oftrouble, ok?”
He nodded with a crooked half-smile. Sheshook his hand and left him to his dark thoughts.
