Despite It All by Reese Knightley

 

Forest

Jerking his wool coat, he straightened his collar, careful to not look back, and jogged through the slight rain across the street.

The water soaked his feet, but that was what he got for wearing socks outside. Would the fucking weather ever let up? Of course, it eventually would. It was So Cal, after all. The rain never lasted for long.

He dashed a hand at his eyes, swallowed around the tight knot in his throat, and when he reached the sidewalk, he chanced a glance over his shoulder, but the street remained wet, dark, and empty.

What did you expect? Him to be following you? Hunting you down, wanting your love? No chance of that. He knew this was going to happen. You saw the writing on the wall. He’d laid it all on the line and bared his soul and for what? A broken heart and empty arms.

Greene felt something for him, he was sure of it. As sure as he knew there was something keeping Greene from admitting it.

In another time, maybe in another life where the soldier wasn’t so wounded, they might have stood a chance.

It didn’t matter.

Greene was gone and he had a job to do. At least, he’d made a decision. After arresting the mole, he was going to put Greene in his past and join Mason with Giovanni Rossi’s team. They called themselves Phoenix. He thought it was a stellar name. He only hoped they didn’t fly overseas much.

He flipped his key card on the lock and the doors opened. The quiet inside the building engulfed him, shutting out the hiss of tires on the wet pavement.

“Agent Taylor,” the security guard, Aaron Clark, smiled up from his newspaper.

“Quiet night?”

“Parish came in with some suits about fifteen minutes ago, but other than that, yeah.”

“That’s good.”

“You lose your shoes?”

“Gave them away as a gift.”

Clark snorted, flipped his paper, and went back to reading.

He walked through the deserted hallway and headed quietly through the bull pen and into his office.

Parish was here? Maybe his boss and the suits could back him up at Kellogg Park. It wasn’t far from the building. He could admit he might need help with whoever was on the end of that robotic muffled voice.

You could call Greene.

“No, let him go,” he whispered. He pulled off his soaked socks and slid bare feet into the black dress shoes beneath his desk. Grabbing his spare gun holster from the coat tree, he slipped it on. Opening the safe, he took out his spare weapon, an extra clip, and several rounds. Tucking those into his pockets, he shoved a fresh clip into his weapon and tucked it into his holster.

Threading through the desks in the bullpen, he cut across to the other side and headed down the hallway that took him to the elevators up to the top floor.

The soft ping of the elevator followed him into the wide hallway, the city lights winking in the darkness beyond the distant windows. The faint running lights along the wall illuminated his way. His steps were soundless, any noise swallowed by the carpet.

No light filtered from the lone office down the hall. Parish’s office was dark.

That was odd.

Maybe Clark had been wrong.

A noise or perhaps a sixth sense slowed him and he flattened along the hallway, creeping closer to the end of the hallway where it ended and then spilled into the glass of Parish’s office.

There, hidden behind the wall, he eased his head around the edge just far enough to glance through the glass and inside the office.

Shadows cast by yellow nightlights along the ceiling sent a glow over a darkly dressed figure. The man crouched on the floor near the desk. Partially hidden by the desk, the black, round arch of the stranger’s back hunched over the lump of a body on the floor.

A body. Fucking hell, his pulse jumped when the shadow’s head snapped around and Forest ducked back.

He’d threatened the mole when they’d called him at the hospital and he knew better than to do it, but the hot words had spilled from his mouth. Hot on the heels of Greene’s rejection, he’d been itching to hurt something.

But he knew, when you threaten a criminal, they would do one of two things: hire someone to kill you or do it themselves.

He never thought they’d come here, though. He figured the fucker would meet him at the park as arranged.

Curling his hand around the butt of his weapon, he drew. When the leather of his holster creaked, he clenched his jaw and tugged it all the way free.

A sudden wind whipped through the patio doors, sending the cold air through the office and into the hallway. Fuck! Had they climbed up the side of the building? Back in the day, it was what he would have done.

Crouching, he ducked out again and took a quick look around.

Snick, snick. Bullets shattered the glass and took out several chunks of the wall near his head.

At the count of two, he dove out on the floor. Sliding out on his side, he shot at the only figure he could see in the room.

The guy was fast and slid over the top of Parish’s desk. The lamp, laptop, and papers went flying. His bullet splintered wood with a loud crack.

Shoving to his hands and knees, he crawled into the dark office. A shadow darted toward the patio door and Forest lined up the sight on his nine-millimeter, aiming at the moving figure.

“FBI!” he gritted out. “Stop or I’ll shoot.”

Pain splintered the back of his head, and the room went white. The blow knocked him forward and he smacked the carpet face first, taking the hit on the chin. His teeth cleaved into his lip, hurting like a son of a bitch, and his shoulder hit one of the wide leather chairs.

“Get him over the railing,” a woman snarled.

“Just shoot him,” a man snapped.

“No more shooting. You’ll alert the guard!” she hissed.

He hung onto his weapon. He wasn’t opposed to shooting. Rolling, he fired off another shot, but there was nothing there. He flipped over and crawled between the large visitor desk chairs, his thinking fogged up by the pain in his head.

A hand gripped his ankle and pulled. Twisting sideways, he lifted his weapon, but a blow to his arm sent his gun flying, spinning away in the darkness. He lost sight of his weapon. That unexpected blow meant there were three of them.

Cocking his knee, he slammed his foot into the guy who held his ankle, his hard dress shoe hitting flesh with a low thud. Movement came from his right and he jerked his arm up, shielding his face.

Something hard, he was pretty sure it had been metal, cracked against his forearm and glanced off his temple. Excruciating pain sliced through his head and that time, the room really did waver. Warmth ran down his face and the taste of copper pooled in his mouth.

The suspect he’d kicked in the head moaned and tried to roll over, tried to follow directions and get to his feet.

As if moving through mud, he sent his foot back at the fucker’s head, but it was a glancing blow at best. He swiped at the stickiness on his face, and he blinked it from his haze-filled eyes.

Yanked around and dragged, his head smacked the carpet. He clawed at and caught one of the wide desk chairs with his hand and brought it with him. It cracked against the patio door. Sucking in lungfuls of air, the room wobbled, like vertigo or an earthquake was shaking the ground.

Hands fisted in his jacket and yanked him, and the rainswept patio floor smacked his cheek, taking skin. The cold air engulfed his arms and head, just as the chair was wrenched from his one-handed grasp.

Twisting, he repeatedly kicked his free foot into any body part he could reach. The man grunted, lurched, and then the side of his head exploded when the guy’s fist punched his cheek.

Suddenly airborne, he clawed at anything, finding purchase in the guy’s shoulder holster, hooking his right arm through the sturdy leather.

You go, I go, you motherfucker!

The smell of blood and sweat seared his nostrils.

A commotion sounded from the office.

Snick, snick.

A guttural roar boomed through the room and echoed out onto the balcony. The sound so savage that the guy attempting to toss him over the railing hesitated.

The primal cry echoed through the chamber behind them.

It sounded like a wounded bear.

He knew that sound.

Snick, snick, snick.

The man holding him grunted and stumbled. Half of the man’s head was gone, blown off by several bullets.

Blood sprayed.

Brains flew outward and covered the railing.

The guy lurched forward over the railing, taking him and his latched arm with him. Launched over the side by the sheer force, he squeezed his eyes closed.

It was only a matter of impact now. If he could swing it, he could land on top of the fucker, but that was a big fucking if.

His downward motion was yanked to a halt. Yanked hard and he was jerked to a stop, dangling by his arm through the holster. Gasping for air, he blinked through the thick wetness, trying to focus upward.

Someone grabbed beneath his armpits.

“You got that fucker,” Greene’s voice snarled.

He wanted to bawl his fucking eyes out at the sound of that rough, guttural growl.

“Yeah, they’re not going anywhere.” That was Holden’s calm voice.

“Hurry,” Beckett said from somewhere nearby.

Forest blinked up into the face of Greene, barely visible.

Using every ounce of energy he had left, Forest swung his free hand upward, reaching for Greene.

He needn’t have bothered reaching upward. Greene, leaning half over the railing, slid one beefy arm around his waist, holding him tight while the soldier’s free hand gently untangled his right arm the from the holster.

Another moment and he was free and lifted over the railing as if he weighed nothing.

With his heart thundering in his ears, he gasped, harsh sounds ripping up from his chest and throat.

Greene’s hand completely cupped the back of his head and pressed his face into his shirt. He drew in a shaky, ragged breath of leather, smoke, and Greene, the best fucking scent on the face of the earth.

“I’ve got you,” Greene’s baritone rumbled. The man’s chest shook with a ragged breath.

Forest pressed his cheek against Greene’s chest and beneath his ear, his heart thundered.

He struggled for composure, but could find none.

“I’ve got you,” Greene whispered over and over as if he didn’t quite believe he’d arrived in time.

He had a hard time believing it too.

A sudden pain pierced inside his head and Greene’s voice was the last thing he heard.

His arms, the last thing he felt.