“Now we wait.”

Daniel didn’t look up from Stavros’ pale face as Boyd spoke. He’d been sure the Greek would not survive the infection. But so far he had. He’d fought, and Daniel had found himself right there helping his captive fight.

He no longer knew what he stood for. Nothing made sense anymore. When he’d had Boyd brought in, the man had been shocked to see Stavros still in Daniel’s possession. Still shackled. Boyd knew better than to say anything, but from his expression Daniel understood Boyd’s confusion.

He shared that confusion now.

Why wasn’t Stavros dead yet? Why had he nursed the bullet wounds Henan had been brave enough to deliver?

Stavros moaned in his sleep, head thrashing back and forth on the pillows, fingers reflexively grasping at the thin sheet Boyd had thrown over his naked body after he’d stripped him of his sweat-soaked clothes earlier. Boyd had injected him with something to get him to rest, and also given him medicine for the infection.

Daniel had been the one to wipe Stavros’ brow with a cool cloth. He’d been the one to force the man’s mouth open and pour thin broth down his throat.

Why?

Just days prior he’d been looking forward to the Greek’s death. He’d been making plans for it. Salivating at the thought of it. And now?

He stared down at his right hand, held it up and fisted it. He’d touched Stavros. Not out of anger. Not out of revenge. To help him. To heal him. He hadn’t known he’d had it in him. But he’d stood next to the bed and stared down at Stavros crying out in his feverish state, calling for Annika. Calling for his father.

He’d wanted Stavros broken. This was the most vulnerable he’d ever get. And instead of wrapping his hands around Stavros’ throat and squeezing the life out of him, Daniel had instead held water to his lips and encouraged the man who killed his wife to drink.

He’d encouraged him to fight.

He squeezed his fist tighter.

What was happening?

He was pulled to Stavros, making Daniel the helpless one. Watching himself edge closer and closer to the brink of that cliff. Betrayal and guilt awaited him at the bottom, yet sometimes that fall didn’t seem so bad.

That scared him. Fear resided in the heart that had somehow become lodged in his throat. He was afraid of Stavros. Afraid of himself, of what he might do the next time they got close enough for Daniel to feel Stavros’ body heat. Close enough for him to put hands on Stavros.

It wouldn’t all be in anger.

It wouldn’t all be in rage.

“Keep feeding him the soup,” Boyd instructed. “Lots of fluids, and keep an eye on the wounds.” He paused. “Sir.”

Daniel didn’t answer and Boyd eventually exited the room. When the door clicked closed behind him, Daniel went to his knees right there.

“Petra.” He tilted his face upward, eyes closed. “Perdóname.” His throat worked. “Perdóname, por favor.” Forgive me, please.

It was foreign to him, everything he’d done since he’d walked into the bunker to find Henan standing over a bleeding Stavros, a gun in his hand. He should have thanked Henan for doing what Daniel somehow could not. He should have finished the job Henan started for him, and ended Stavros’ life.

A life for a life.

Blood for blood.

Stavros for Petra’s.

How could he justify not delivering on the promise he’d made to his wife the night he put her in the ground? How could he justify the panic he’d experienced as Stavros bled out on that cold floor? Was there a way to explain what he felt at the sight of Stavros so pale and delirious, frail and vulnerable on that bed?

His chest squeezed, seemingly instantly too small to contain his heart as it pounded furiously.

He felt for Stavros Konstantinou, and it wasn’t all about revenge and retribution.

“Perdóname,” he begged his dead wife. Because he’d never be able to forgive himself. What he’d done. The way he’d betrayed Petra and their love, there was no excuse. He touched the rosary beads wrapped around his wrist, caressing it as he took a deep breath and got to his feet.

Things couldn’t remain as they were. He glanced at a sleeping Stavros. He was still now, face lax. Daniel didn’t allow himself to linger. He couldn’t afford to. Instead he left the room and went in search of Henan.

He found Henan down in the bunker, smoking a cigarette while staring at his phone. At the sight of Daniel he jumped to his feet.

“Jefe.”

“Explicaté.” Explain yourself.

Henan’s jaw ticked. “He killed Petra,” he said in rapid Spanish. “And you’re keeping him here, why? You’re feeding him. Keeping him alive? He should be dead.”

Daniel backhanded him hard enough that Henan staggered a couple steps backward. “Two things.” He kept his tone even and his expression calm as he held up two fingers. “You don’t question me. Ever. And you follow my orders.” He grabbed Henan by the chin, forcing him to look him in the eye when the other man would have glanced away. “Every single time.”

The other man weighed more than him. Was taller than him. To some that might mean Henan would be the one with the advantage. Henan had always been a follower, better at taking orders than giving them. Never one to take the initiative, which was how Daniel ended up with Petra even though Henan knew and loved her longer.

“He killed her,” Henan spat. “He took her from us, and you’re protecting him?”

So Henan had a sudden death wish. With the one hand on his chin, Daniel slammed the heel of his other hand into Henan’s windpipe, pushing him back against the cage when he doubled over. “You haven’t lost anything, because you never had her. She was my wife. Mine,” he said softly. “I lost her, and the people who took her from me will pay. You don’t have to tell me what Stavros did. I was there. I wear the scars.” He banged Henan’s head into the cage one final time before dropping his hands and stepping back.

The other man coughed and sagged against the cage. “Jefe.”

“Not your boss, am I?” Daniel removed his trusty blade from his pocket.

Henan’s eyes went wide, and he held up both hands. “Jefe, por favor.”

“You don’t really expect to question me, disobey me, and live, do you?” He stabbed Henan in the chest, in the heart. Once. “Pendejo.” He twisted the knife.

The other man froze, mouth dropping open as he grabbed at Daniel’s lapels. Daniel pushed him off, pulling out the blade slowly, as Henan made a high, painful sound. He stepped back, and Henan crumbled to the floor.

* * *

She rested stiffly in his arms, staring off into nothing. The cocktail of drugs she took on a daily basis seemed to keep her even more confused. Way past the time she should be asleep, but she remained awake, legs twitching against the bed, fingers plucking at the sheets in obvious agitation.

“I am here,” he muttered against her forehead in Spanish. “I am here.”

But she didn’t know him. Didn’t know where here was.

At the sound of his voice, she tilted her head back, staring up at his face, wide eyes searching, lips trembling.

“Todo está bien.” Everything is okay. Her illness turned him into a liar overnight as he issued weak assurances and promised things he’d never be able to deliver. But those words, no matter how empty, kept her calm.

The clock over in the corner chimed gently. 1 a.m. She pulled away from him then, as though that sound was her cue, struggling to escape his arms.

“No. Stay here. Stay with me.”

Her gaze locked on the bedroom door and didn’t budge. Like every other night, she gave in to that compulsion, getting off the bed when he eased his hold on her. He sat up, taking it all in as she bent, sliding on shoes. The left, a white furry bedroom slipper. The right, a black leather sandal.

When she grabbed her coat, he stood, following her out the door. Down the stairs which she navigated slowly, holding on to the banister, and finally into the kitchen. He was the one to flip on the lights and when she made her way to the stove, he grabbed her.

“I cannot let you do that.” He held her against his chest, his chin pressed to the top of her head. Her frailty hit him low, a punch to the gut that knocked the breath out of him.

All his weakness surrounded him tonight, pulling him down. All that emotion, he suffocated in it slowly, holding on even as she slid through his fingers like grains of sand. Soon she’d be all gone.

Soon there would be nothing left.

Not that he had anything substantial to hold on to at the moment.

In his arms, she didn’t move, standing so still. But she spoke into his chest, muffled words of weak, halting Spanish, warning children of danger. He guided her into the living room and onto the couch, helping her to lie down. Pulling a large blanket over her. Bright and multi-colored, it was one she’d made herself.

Pre-illness.

Something more than duty kept him sitting on the floor next to the couch, watching her watch him in silence. He sought comfort even as he gave it. He hungered for familiarity when he knew she’d never provide it. And he struggled to understand something no one quite understood.

How could she be there with him, but gone all the same?

How could she be a stranger while wearing the face of a woman he’d loved all his life?

Even after she’d fallen softly asleep sometime before dawn, he remained at her side.

Waiting for the answers.