Terrorbyte (20 page)

“That's not how it's done,” I reminded him.

Praskovya said, “Ridiculous! Get them now.”

“Wait.” I didn't care how pretty his Russian accent was: I wasn't about to have orders barked at me!

In an open display of anger, he slammed a heavy sticky-tape dispenser onto the desk, “For what?”

My voice was firm and polite. “Either you wait and shut up, or you leave. This is my case.”

“You are wasting time.” He banged the dispenser onto the desktop again, the force making the monitor shake. “We must stop her.”

“I hate to burst your bubble … but she is not my main concern.”

“She is the best lead you have to your killer, and I know how she thinks.”

“Shut up.” I couldn't think with his incessant autocratic interruptions. How could someone so annoying have such a sexy voice? Guess there's always a redeeming quality.

I didn't care what he knew about the woman or the Unsub. How did Caine think he was a good fit for our team? Maybe he'd had one too many blows to the head. Okay, so I did care what Mr. Tall Dark and Hunky knows about the Unsub: shoot me. Damn him and his Mills & Boon ways!

Very carefully and properly, I said, “Mac, please call in the Computer Analysis and Response Team. Use the case number; we have Priority Request Status for this case.”

Not that it actually meant anything: Priority Request Status or, as we liked to call it, Probably Really Slow.

Mac nodded and walked to the far wall with his phone.

I turned my attention to Lee, “Did you get the warrant?” He didn't seem to be far behind us, and I knew how difficult Rubenstein liked to be.

“Sure did. He was in a good mood and I got off lightly.” Lee's face beamed. “I'd say he was a man who'd had a good night.” He winked. “His friend looked like he-she would be right at home in a Vegas chorus line.”

Not something I wanted to think about in relation to one of our judges; good work regardless. “Good job. Execute the warrant as soon as we're done here.”

It didn't matter how hard I tried to ignore Praskovya. I could feel my blood boil every time he moved, which was often. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, impatiently. I hoped he'd misjudge and his feet would somehow slip out from under him. It might have happened if I'd accidentally pushed something under his feet. I looked around but couldn't find anything to do the job. Disappointing.

Mac returned. “Ellie?”

“Mac.” I tried not to snarl. I failed. “They coming?”

“Yep, CART said to touch nothing.”

I looked at Praskovya. “You hear that? Touch nothing.”

“Yes,” he replied, kicking the desk leg. He dropped the sticky tape dispenser and picked up a staple gun. He tapped it on the desk and fiddled about with it.

“Praskovya, who is the woman you are after?”

“Selena Vadbolski.”

Again with the familiar first name. “And she is who?”

“A terrorist.”

I knew that already. I wanted to slam the staple gun into his head. I could feel my hands shaking as I forced them not to react to the instructions coming from my irritated nervous system.

“Why would she be comfortable here?” Being comfortable and being able to borrow an identity to get into a defense department building were two different things in my mind.

“She is ex-special forces.”

Lee whispered, “
Spetsnaz
.”

“How does someone who is ex-Spetsnaz become a terrorist who is chasing a serial killer to recruit him?” My hands shook even more; I really had to fight to keep myself from smacking Praskovya for being such damn hard work. “How does that happen?” I jammed my hands into my jeans' pockets to try to stop the trembling. I had a feeling I was being shoveled the biggest load of manure yet. With so much shit falling off the shovel, my roses should be exceptional this year. My mind was spinning another thread and it wasn't something I wanted to say aloud
: ‘
What does it have to do with me?'

Mac grabbed my arm and whispered, “Something wrong?”

“Oh, no, nothing.” Mac squeezed my arm. I glared at him. “Nothing is wrong, I need some air.”

I curbed the urge to flounce off screaming obscenities and slamming doors in my wake. Instead, I skulked away hoping no one else noticed my annoyance. Mac knew me well enough to leave me be for a few minutes.

No one was around. I checked the intersecting corridor: empty. There was a courtyard in front of me and the door stood open. I escaped out into the fresh air. I walked around the garden. Tattered flowers struggled to bloom despite the storm's ferociousness. The grass underfoot was sodden and squelchy. Everything had suffered in the persistent rain; at least the courtyard offered some protection from the gale-force winds. A piece of paper twirled by my feet. Why couldn't people pick up their trash? Did they have to crap on everything? I stomped on the candy wrapper, trapping it under my boot. I picked it up, scrunched it and threw it into a trash can three feet away. Lazy fucks. I could feel profound anger rising. Why was a terrorist in a forum, communicating with a young mother in Richmond? Who the fuck killed her; who killed Dakota's mom? Fuck! I never had a chance to read those emails.

Damn, I was sick of sickos taking a shine to me and sick of this godforsaken headache. Maybe Hawkeye was right and there was something wrong with me. I really didn't feel well.

Think, Ellie. Stop and think: anger, faint headache, feeling generally off: you know this. Oh crap. Everything began to blur and not in a good way. My hands were still trembling. I couldn't get my phone out of my pocket. Something poked annoying holes in my vision – black holes – no matter how I moved my head, I couldn't see around them. Infuriating! The voice came back, ‘Brilliant, Ellie, you flounce off and now look what happens. I saw the ground floating and wobbling around me.

A thought manifested. I could see it in a speech bubble, ‘This is going to hurt.' I fell backwards, unexpectedly grateful for the dark and the peace that came with the fall into blackness.

Surprising things happen in that muddled place between wakefulness and sleep. Ideas that helped break cases floated in that space. Sometimes seemingly random links that offered hope and direction broke through and stayed with me. I hoped something helpful would materialize this time.

A familiar, worried face swam in and out of focus. When it disappeared altogether, I realized he was shaking my arm and calling my name.

A distant whisper. “Ellie.”

“Go away, I'm sleeping.”

“Ellie, you're not asleep.”

How did he know what I was doing? Get out of my head. I'm tired. A sharp pressure on my arm hurt.

“Come on; wakey, wakey.” I could hear him clearly now. I even knew I was in a strange place and there was an earthy smell. Wet earth. I didn't much like that turn of events.

My eyes opened. Mac was in my face.

“You pinched me!” I accused.

“Sit up.”

Mac helped me into a sitting position.

I looked around, delighted that the holes in my vision were gone and mumbled a soft, “Sorry.”

“How's your head?”

“Okay.”

Mac guffawed like a dumbass. “I rest my friggin' case!”

“You what?” I was so lost.

Another voice laughed before speaking, “I owe you five bucks,” Lee said.

Now what was he doing? Wasn't Lee supposed to be waking up Judge Rubinstein and searching for files?

“What?” I was still lost.

“Nothing, sweets,” Mac replied; he had one hand on the back of my head.

“What are you doing?”

“Despite you being okay, I'm not fussed about your blood running out of your head.”

“My blood doing what?” I must've heard wrong. Mac waited for my mind to catch up. “I hit my head?” I really didn't want to hear that.

MRI and CAT scan here I come. I couldn't afford another head injury, even one that wouldn't bother most people. My glass skull and I were fast becoming liabilities. It was bad enough that I'd failed to explain the extent of the optical events, associated with the migraines I experienced, to my doctor and Mac.

Lee smiled. “You still okay?”

“Yes,” I replied with a scowl.

His smile widened.

“Quit it! What did I hit?” Please don't let it be stone, concrete or anything else hard.

Mac replied, “There was a piece of broken glass in the grass.”

“How freaking typical. Is it in my head?”

“No. You need this checked out though and maybe a few stitches.”

I grabbed his arm. “Help me up.”

“You feel sick or dizzy?” he asked.

Absolutely. But I wasn't admitting to anything. It would pass; it always does. “Nope. I'm wet and muddy and feel like a freaking fool. Will that do?”

I tried hard not to say that I was okay.

He nodded and pulled me up, holding me by the shoulders while he made sure I was steady.

“Thanks, how much time have I wasted? Are the computer boys here?”

Lee and Mac looked at each other. I sensed a conspiracy.

“Not as much as you're going to; we're getting you checked out.” Mac replied, “And yes, they're here, they were here,” he corrected himself, “They've removed the computer and taken it back to the lab.”

They'd moved a lot faster than expected. But once in the lab things tended to grind to a halt. The computer they'd taken would be added to the end of the queue.

I could feel my jeans clinging to my legs. My butt was wet and muddy. I imagined that the back of me looked like a swamp, complete with twigs and leaves stuck to my hair and clothing. I wondered if I could opt out of the whole checkup process, “I need to clean up before you get me checked out.”

There it was again, that knowing look they gave each other. It would be more annoying if my head weren't so cotton-wool-like. They weren't going to let me go home.

Then things rapidly turned a whole hell of a lot worse. My legs turned to Jell-O, black swirled in front of my eyes, vomit sprayed onto the ground in front of me.

Mac cursed as he grabbed me. My vision cleared. My head throbbed. I heard voices and knew Lee was talking to someone but it wasn't Mac.

Mac whispered in my ear, “We're taking you to the emergency room.”

Everything in front of me swam in a fine mist. I thought I heard Hawkeye but the accent was all wrong. I had no idea why I thought it was Hawkeye. It was obviously Doctor Luka Kovac. It wasn't Korea. It was some modern American hospital, in Chicago. At first it seemed absurd but that feeling subsided as I listened to Luka Kovac talking to John Carter. I listened, expecting to hear Abbey's voice join the conversation but all I heard was running feet and wheels clicking on linoleum.

At that moment I realized I'd gone from
MASH
to
ER
. At least
ER
was a recent TV show. I should've been relieved; I thought it was way better than
MASH
. I'd take Kovac and Carter over Hawkeye and Trapper any day. There was a good chance George Clooney would appear any second: he trumped them all.

How could it get worse? I wondered. Like this: the next voice I heard said, “Christ, Mac. You want to explain this to me?” Caine. Yep, that was worse.

I looked into Caine's steely eyes. “You're standing in my puke.”

A paramedic took my arm. “Watch your step, ma'am.” He escorted me to a gurney.

We were going to leave the courtyard and I couldn't see any way out of a hospital visit. I glared at him. “No way! I'll go with you but I'll be walking!” I swept my arm to encompass the gurney and equipment bag, “This is all unnecessary.”

Caine's voice bellowed from behind me, “You will do as you are told.”

I yelled back, “Not in this lifetime.”

“Conway!”

“Grafton! I am capable of walking.”  I knew his blood pressure would soar and it made me feel better.

The accent spoke from somewhere close to me: Luka. “Gabrielle, let them help you.”

There was an audible collective intake of breath as a cone of silence dropped over the area. No one breathed, not even the paramedics. I turned to face Mac, Lee, Caine and the hunky Luka.

“I'm sorry, for a minute I thought you said Gabrielle.” With an intense, cautionary tone, I continued. “We. Don't. Use. The. G. Word.”

Mac and Lee were motionless. Caine's mouth twitched just at one corner.

Luka's eyes sparkled, he disarmed me with a smile, “I'm so sorry, Ellie. Please forgive me.”

Oh God! Unfair! He looks like that and he apologizes. He closed the ground between us and the next thing I knew, I was laying on the gurney. Mr. Tall Dark and Hunky had tricked me. Mac was talking to him. Surely Luka would come with us; after all he is an
ER
doctor. Damn, I had to be insane. The corridors moved past me, or I moved through them; either way something moved. It felt peculiar. When everything stopped, Mac touched my arm, “Ellie, what's up?”

I noted he didn't ask if I was okay.

“What's his name, the guy who looks like Luka from
ER
?”

Mac smiled. “At least it's not
MASH
this time. His name is Misha, Officer Misha Praskovya.”

I was okay: he wasn't really Luka, which was groovy. Part of me was a little sorry though. I almost enjoyed the
ER
sequence. Mac was right about one thing, it was better than
MASH
. And both were way better than the Mills & Boon romance that wouldn't quit.

I wondered what Praskovya's agenda was. It seemed an astonishing coincidence that he would arrive in our world. Yet another Russian connection. Yet another Selena connection.

I discharged myself as soon as the doctor had glued the small cut on the back of my head. No big deal. I convinced them that I had already scheduled an MRI and CAT scan, so no point getting all bent out of shape trying to set up an emergency MRI. It wasn't a lie. I had several unheard voicemail messages and one of those would be from my doctor's office about the tests. Just because I chose not to listen to them didn't make the appointment any less real. I wasn't in the right space to deal with that yet. Dr. Kapowski was bound to have some kind of aneurism when news of this latest debacle reached him. He'd get over it. The killer wasn't going to wait until I felt better.