They burst from the front door, out into the wintry cold, and it was the first fresh air she’d had in days. Killian had grabbed Rocco’s duffel bag, and she’d slipped on her ballerina flats, grabbed her stuffed tiger. Rocco carried it in his pack all over the Middle East, she wasn't about to leave it now. Left everything else behind, running in panties and her lover’s flannel.

Down the short walkway, onto the sidewalk, he ran to the right and she ran to the left. She yelled to him, “He said to meet him in the subway.”

He skidded to a stop. He put his hand out again, “We're going to him now, come with me...”

“Are you sure?” she said, standing on the snowy sidewalk with bare legs, a bitter wind raking across her and up under the shirt.

“Daniella, I would meet you there but I already have you...”

She looked at his face, his emerald eyes twinkling in the daylight. She could hear the shrill repetitive sonance of the smoke detector in the house, sirens were in the distance making their way this way now, she was sure what with the gunfight she'd just been a part of, the explosion...

“Where?” she asked him.

“Where what? Girl, come on, we have to get to him...”

This guy could be taking her to the man who wanted her dead, maybe this was a trick, maybe the man wanted to torture her himself. Brand her with a heated wire...

“Where were we supposed to meet?” she said, her arms clutching at her front, bundling her shirt around her neck as she began to shiver and tremble from the cold.

“Between the Asian Gourmet and the Orange Julius, the food court under the—”

“Okay,” she said, and she moved toward him, “just go...”

“That’s my girl,” he laughed, and he ran. Ahead of them, on the opposite side, was a silver muscle car. Something from the sixties, squat, muscular, fat tires. It had pulled over in a hurry, bumped up the curb and onto the sidewalk on the wrong side of the road. The driver’s side door was left open.

It was a stupid thought, she laughed as she followed him—he’d killed those men without thinking. No debate. Rocco had sent him.

“Is he okay?” she yelled ahead.

“I don’t know...”

“You don’t know?”

“I just got here,” he said as they both made it to the car at the same time and she slid six feet in the slush and thumped into its rear.

“You okay?” he said, turned to put himself in the driver’s seat.

“Go,” she yelled and she slipped through the slush and yanked the passenger door open, wet and ice splashing her legs and soaking her shoes. She threw herself into the seat and reefed the door.

He had the car in reverse already and then he was slamming the shifter and the car’s back end came around in a screaming crescent, throwing up a rooster tail of snow slush and wet. Then they were roaring down the street the way he'd come in. It was a narrow road with parking on both sides and oncoming cars swerved and nosedived to make way for them. The motor growled and roared as he clunked through gears and they hit unbelievable speeds. She snatched her seatbelt and struggled to get it on. Above the wood grain glove compartment was a leather wrapped handle set in chrome lugs, and she gripped it tight. They ripped through an interlock brick-paved turnaround, blasted over an empty sidewalk, could see another street ahead. Launched off a curb, squeezing between two concrete bollards without scraping them and then they were racing along another residential street, houses on the right side and a massive stone church towering over them on the left.

“Where is he?” she yelled over the growling motor.

“South.”

“Where are we?”

“I don't know,” he laughed, “north.”

Ahead she could see the narrow street they were on came to an intersection with a main thoroughfare. There was a stop sign. Four lanes of traffic whisked left and right. He throttled to it, slowed to make the turn but didn't stop, and they went through the stop sign sideways. He slammed the shifter and the car got traction, the tires shredding the pavement, then they were launching down the wide busy street. Banners fluttered from the lampposts they were hurtling past. She read them.

“Old Town? We're in the Gold Coast?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Rocco’s waiting for us. He’s...”

“Is he okay? Did they come for him too?”

“They might have.”

“Did he...is he shot?”

He shifted up into fourth and the parked cars at the side of the road began to blur and honking receded quickly behind them.

She said, “Tell me the truth, please, tell me...” She grabbed a fistful of his jacket, bunching up the nylon on his forearm.

“He...yeah, he...maybe he got shot...”

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh no...”

“He's okay, Daniella. I've seen him shot before. Bullets don't have much effect on him.”

“Ah wait,” she yelled, so loud it made Kilian flinch. Her hands scrambled to her pocket where she’d tucked her phone, whisked it out, tugging the shirt away with it as it snagged on her pocket flap.

“Hello? Hello?” She yelled, the phone jammed against her ear. “Shit,” she hissed. It was dead.

“Ever seen a grizzly bear shot with a handgun?” he asked her as she hit the redial button.

“No,” she cried.

“Doesn't stop em,” he laughed. “Makes em mad.”

“Then why didn't he come for me?” she said, pressing the phone to her other ear.

“Didn't want to lead them to you,” he said.

The phone was ringing as he took another wild turn, this time going hard left and she was thrown against the passenger door, her cheek pressed against the cold of the glass. “Mmph,” she grunted, squinting, listening to the ringing, desperately wanting her Rocco to answer it.

He got the car going straight again, but he slowed and now he was looking out her side of the car, bent low, eyebrows and gaze up, looking at the stores.

The phone rang, and rang. He sped up, he slowed down. Then there was a click on the line and she yelled, “Rocco? Rocco? ...”

She heard her name, strained to hear it, wanted him to say it again, then the car screeched to a halt and if she didn't have her belt on she would have hit her face on the dash.

“What the f—” she said, the belt scoring between her breasts. Then, yelled into the phone again, “Rocco?”

Killian was out, door left open and she looked out her window saw him running to an alley between a Faith Ministry and a liquor store. She threw the phone down and tumbled out of the car and followed, running so fast she could feel her heels kick water up her back.

Killian got there first. It was Rocco. He was alive. He was standing. He was covered in blood but he was fucking alive. Her heart burst from her chest, her eyes swelled and strained her sockets. The tears came. The vision of him warbled, standing weakly, bleeding at his middle, leaning against a dumpster, shoulders slumped, head ducked but eyes up and staring. She ran to him and she grabbed him and threw her arms around him. “Rocco,” she cried.

“Daniella,” he grunted. She’d pressed him back against the green metal garbage bin but it was on wheels and when it moved they both fell against the brick wall. His arms went around her too and he squeezed her tightly. He was strong still. She felt his warm blood dropping on her legs and trickling.

“Oh baby, mm, oh, they hurt you?” she grunted around their kisses.

Rocco pulled back, showed her a pallid smile. But there was a raging fire in those black eyes. He would be fine. Confident as fuck with a bullet in his belly.

Killian’s hands were on her then, gentle, but they attempted to pull her from him and she fought a strange desire to growl.

“Hey, okay, that's all right,” Killian softly sang and he eased her from him. “We can throw him a party when we're home, how’s that? Come, come,” he said, still tugging at her to give him some room.

“How many?” he said to Rocco.

Rocco said, “Two. Leg and back.”

“You were shot twice?” she cried, standing close, holding his arm.

“Help me get him to the car,” he said to Daniella. “Not bad,” he said to Rocco then, looking him over, and she noticed that his thigh had been wrapped with cloth. As they walked Killian lifted up the jacket and looked at the small of Rocco's back.

He said, “What did you pack that with?”

“T-shirt,” he grunted.

“Was it clean?” Killian said, shaking his head.

“Pretty clean,” Rocco said.

Daniella said, “We have to get him to the hospital.”

“No, we can't do that,” Killian said.

“But he—”

“Killian’s a doctor,” Rocco growled, feeling some pain as he stumbled down the alley towards the idling muscle car. “He treats all my gunshots.”

“He’s all mine,” Killian laughed. “I wouldn't let another doctor even look at him.”

* * *

A ball of torn cotton was stuffed into the hole in his back. His thigh was tied so tight with strips of his shredded shirt that he couldn't feel his foot. His back throbbed, and now that the adrenalin was burned off, the pain was rising to dreadful levels. But his Daniella was here and she was safe. He’d dipped at the knees when he saw her jumping out of the car and bounding down the alley toward him. Her legs bare, wearing his shirt, wearing the slippers he’d bought her when he was planning on saving her life. And when she put her arms around him? ...When he felt her body in his arms? ...Well, shit, it was like fireworks had gone off in his head and his heart.

They walked him through the alley, one on either side. He’d shrugged the two of them off by the time he got to the car, determined to walk on his own. She would never see him suffer. Now that the pain had come, and it was acute, he was convinced the bullet hadn’t even gone into his abdominal cavity. Probably wedged in the muscle somewhere. He’d lost a lot of blood but he’d staunched it and his blood pressure didn’t seem to have fallen. His head was clear.

Killian had shown up in a rumbling steel-gray Camaro, sitting now blocking the thoroughfare, angry commuters swerving around it and honking. Its door was open, the engine running, blue-white smoke chugging from the exhaust.

Daniella got ahead and she yanked the door open.

Killian said, “You’re going to bleed all over my car, ain’t ye?”

“You’re going to make me climb down into this thing? Can’t you drive a truck?” He wrenched the front seat forward and climbed into the back bench, falling to a hip and kicking his feet on the floor so his back was shoved into the corner behind the driver’s seat.

Killian was in now and he slammed his door and said, “I like my car...course I’m human-sized.”

Then Daniella was climbing on him, not taking the passenger seat, instead squishing herself in the back with him and closing the door behind her. He put his arms out and she got herself carefully into his lap. “Are you okay?” she said, looking down to make sure she wasn’t bumping where he’d been hit.

“You can’t hurt me,” he said, and he pulled her to his lips and they kissed. He breathed her in. It was the longest day of his life, though it had only been a few hours. He held her face in his hands and she didn’t care that he was bloody, she took his tongue and she caressed his shoulders.

Her kisses went down his neck, smacking and sucking on him and his eyes rolled back in his head. Her touch was like heaven.

“Where were you?” she whispered. “Where did you go?”

He laughed, said, “To get you flowers.”

“Now?” she laughed, her eyes wet and trembling, staring into his. “Flowers?”

“Yeah. Long story.” His hand went through his pocket, his shoulder coming up high and making him wince. He withdrew a yellow petal, folded and torn. “This was all I could afford.”

“It’s beautiful,” she laughed, her nails scratching through the hair behind his ears.

He let the petal flutter to the floor and he ran his hands up her back, up underneath the flannel shirt, feeling her cold skin.

Killian darted a shaggy glance behind the seat, took them in, an eyebrow cocked. Eyes on the road he hollered back, “The man needs help, Daniella, go easy on him.”

“Never,” she said, pulling her lips from his and licking them, staring down into his eyes.

“You smell like turpentine,” he said.

“I was painting.”

“Hey,” he said, “You got my paints?”

“Thank you,” she said and her lips were back on his. Through a squinted eye he saw Killian throw another look back. He laughed now, his deep and wheezy laugh that had got Rocco through some of the toughest times when they served together.

Killian shouted back, “Now I know why you love her—first time I met her she was in a gunfight.”

“A gunfight? Daniella...” He gripped her by her upper arms, pulled her back from his kiss so he could look in her eyes. “A gunfight,” he repeated in disbelief, “Daniella, are you okay?”

She bit her lower lip and she nodded, but she lowered her eyes.

Killian said, “All right? She got one of em twice in the belly and she had the other two looking for cover.”

“Oh no, Daniella, did they hurt you?”

“No,” she said, her voice a quiet sound under the cabin’s ambient hiss and the roaring motor. She pulled her hair around her neck, like she was bashful. He took her hands away and looked under her hanging hair. Her neck and her collar were caked with dried blood.

“Daniella...is this...is this your blood?”

“It’s just paint,” she said.

“That's not paint, Daniella...did you get hurt?”

“I’m all right.”

“Who did this to you?” A rage swelled within him, a bubbling red cauldron of lava, flowing over, hissing white blobs splashing. “Who fucking did this to you?” he growled.

“They're dead,” she said. “They're all dead.”

“Come here,” he said and he pulled her so she lay on him. It hurt his back like hell, it was engulfed now in an omnipresent throbbing. He didn't care. She lay on him, her weight felt so incredible against him. “You cold?” he said.

“Yeah,” she said. “You're cold?”

“Yeah,” he said. He lifted the edge of his jacket and she snuggled against him and he closed her up behind the leather with him. They shared their body heat and felt each other breathe.

* * *

Daniella lifted her head again when the car slowed. The absence of the intense excitement of the morning dumped chemicals out of her body and it had made her so sleepy. She might have drifted off against her lover’s chest.

She could see out the window that they were in what looked like another residential neighborhood. The trees were bare, their jagged branches like claws above them. He slowed and turned right and now she could see they were in a very narrow alley way that ran behind little post-war homes. One side of the alley was lined with the blank rectangles of metal doors set in garages behind the homes they belonged to. The other side was chain link and the brick sides of houses, and snowy backyards.

“Rocco,” she said, and she smoothed her palm over his roughly stubbled cheek. A sudden worry crept through her that he was unconscious but her warm touch made his eyelashes flutter and slowly those beautiful black eyes came awake.

She whispered, “Baby, you okay?”

He grunted an affirmation and sat up a little, his hand on the small of her back to brace her. “Where are we?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

Killian said, “The house in Sunnyside.”

Rocco grunted and nodded again.

The car slowed to a stop and Killian got out, trotted to the narrow battered single door of a small clapboard sided garage. He turned the chrome handle and swung the door out, then lifted it over his head and scissored it backward. Then he was back in the car and they were grumbling inside, the loud motor even louder in the tight enclosed space of the garage.

When Killian was out and had slid the driver’s seat all the way forward he held a hand to Rocco to help him out but Rocco growled and waved his help away.

“You stubborn idjit,” Killian mumbled.

Daniella followed behind Rocco as he squeezed between the folded driver seat and the frame of the door, her hands out to support him in case he fell back, though she would be no help—he’d probably just crush her. She saw that he had bled more while they were asleep, slick wet red pooling in the creases of Killian’s leather back seat, getting all over her knees as she tumbled out behind Rocco.

Killian took his arm when he was out and standing but Rocco pulled it away.

“I can walk. Just get your kit.”

Daniella asked, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Killian said, “He’s the hardest cunt I know. He’s gonna be fine.” Then he left Rocco to walk on his own. As she went alongside Rocco, towards the single door at the grill of the car, she saw Killian go to his trunk.

She got ahead of Rocco and up a concrete step to the door, opened it and stood out in the snow, held a hand out for him if he needed but he didn’t.

By the time they’d crossed the yard and made it to the back door of the house Killian caught up with them and now he had a nylon bag at his hip, a strap over his shoulder. He used two long iron levers to pick the lock while Rocco weaved from side to side. Popped the lock open then they were walking into the kitchen. The house was an aged bungalow cottage, the narrow kitchen with outdated cabinets and Formica counters. Without being asked Rocco pulled a chrome-legged chair out from under the kitchen table and he straddled it backwards, his big arms draping over the back.

Killian threw his bag on the table and he zipped it open and she could see it was a medical kit full of small zippered cases, pouches, and gauze and towels and rolls of white tape.

He said, “Would you be a love, Daniella, and boil us a kettle?”

She rummaged through cupboards, distracted, looking back at Killian while he wordlessly helped Rocco’s jacket and shirt off, then examined where he’d been shot. He pulled out the rag Rocco had stuffed the bullet hole with, a ragged bloody strip of the shirt he’d been wearing over his T-shirt. He threw it to the floor with a wet plop. She found the kettle, a cheap plastic one and she plugged it in and switched it on, went to join them at the table.

Killian didn’t look like any doctor she’d ever seen. He looked homeless with his bushy beard and his long hair. She’d seen him kill three men without the slightest shake to his hand. But here he was, very confident in his actions, latex gloves peeled on, his fingers moving expertly, brow furrowed in concentration. He had one index finger inside Rocco’s bullet hole and her knees went a little wobbly at the sight. She moved to Rocco’s front so she wouldn’t faint. Rocco waved her to him and she hugged his head and leaned against the back of the chair while his big hands stroked her waist.

She asked, “What kind of doctor are you?”

Killian’s eyes remained on his hands, he held stainless forceps now and he was digging into Rocco who made no sound of displeasure. His breaths were a little ragged.

“ER doctor, Daniella. For a time. Til I got bored. Wanted a life of adventure so I enlisted, next thing, wouldn't you know it, I’m in the thick of it, jumping out of planes, living in the desert...you’re looking good, Rocco,” he said. “Not even in your guts, old friend.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“I could leave it in if I want, but it’s not doing any good. I think I can get it.”

“Get it,” Rocco grunted.

“Yeah, you don’t want to set off those metal detectors do ye? Although, I thought you like those special TSA patdowns...”

“Would you just dig it out...”

“I’m doing it,” he said, smiling wide in his beard and winking at Daniella. “You know, he’s made of different stuff than humans. I think it hit his leather, took a left turn—right near your spine by the way—but it just went in about four inches, tumbled sideways. He’s built like a bull.”

“I know,” she said, rocking Rocco’s head against her bosom, swaying with him.

Killian winked again, his eyes going up and down her, said, “I bet you do, you dirty bird.”

She laughed and felt herself blush, felt her cheeks go hot. God, when was the last time she blushed? The kettle rumbled and steamed behind her, then clicked itself off. She said, “You want your boiling water now?”

“Not yet,” he said, elbow bouncing up and down, hand holding the forceps twisting and bobbing.

Rocco grunted and flinched as the forceps dug deep. Probably to take his mind off it he grunted, “What did you find out? You learn anything about who wants her dead?”

Killian was down low, eyes peering into the bullet wound, elbows high, digging the metal tongs into the hole to retrieve the bullet. “Nope. So odd. I don’t know who’s lyin’ and who’s tellin’ the truth, but I feel like...no one knows where the hit came from...”

“Shit,” she blurted. “I forgot. Oh shit...” she said. “Italian, they spoke Italian. Real Italian too, like they were from Sicily...”

Killian stayed motionless, posed with his tongs buried inside Rocco, eyes rolled up to the ceiling as he considered it. “Huh. Isn’t that interesting. That means something...”

“Who in Italy could possibly want you dead?” Rocco said, rubbing an itch on his forehead against her collarbone.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“And how the fuck did they find us? That’s what I want to know first.”

Daniella murmured, “Yeah. Don’t know.” But she thought of the music app she used to keep herself company while she cooked but didn’t mention it. Killian’s eyes glanced up to hers and then away and she wondered if maybe he knew it was her who brought them.

At last Killian sang, “There’s the little bugger.” He laughed and there was a clunk on the linoleum and she watched a gray metal blob bounce, splatter a wet dollop of blood then roll in an indolent semicircle, drawing a red line before it plopped to its side and came to rest.

“Feel better?” Killian said, threw the forceps on the table and slapped Rocco’s broad shoulder.

“No. Worse,” he said.

After Killian bandaged his back, he said, “Want me to look at the one in your leg? ...Take your pants off.”

“It’s fine. I’ll clean it myself. He heaved himself up out of the chair, his hands gripping the back of it. He kissed Daniella on the lips and she pat his chest.

Killian shrugged, said, “You don’t need to be shy around me. I’ve seen it already.”

Rocco shook his head and she could see the twist of a reluctant smile. “I’ll be right back,” he said and he waved to them as he left the kitchen under an archway and he went down the hall and closed himself in a bathroom.

“He’s got some swingers, your man.”

“He does,” she said.

“Well, let’s find us some tea bags,” he said, going past her and snapping off his bloody gloves and throwing them in the sink.

She looked to the kettle and chuckled. “I thought you needed something sterilized.”

“No. I wanted a brew. You join me?” he said, pulling down a box of Lipton’s from the cupboard above the stove.

“Sure,” she said and leaned on the counter next to him while he located mugs and set them down. He tossed a couple bags in and poured.

She said, “You were in the army with him?”

He nodded, rolled his head idly from side to side as he considered it. “Sort of,” he said. “Not American...”

“I can tell by your accent.”

“Yeah,” he grinned. “He not tell you?”

“No. Tell me what?”

“Maybe I shouldn’t.”

“What’s the big secret?”

He shrugged again, looking reluctant. Then he said, “We were in a CT unit.”

“What’s that?”

“Counter-terror. Made up of Special Forces from different countries.”

“Sounds like a spy novel. Or a video game.”

“Aye. It’s no game though...” He took a spoon and fished their bags from the mugs, threw them in the sink with his gloves. He glanced over his shoulder, found her staring at him. He said, “Let me see your scalp. You might need a stitch.”

She folded her arms up and rolled her eyes, stepped to him and let him run his fingers through her scalp. He poked and prodded, hummed. They brought their tea to the table and she sat like Rocco on the same chair and he stood and stitched her. Her head throbbed, her eyes pounded like there was an oncoming migraine. Her neck was stiff and her body ached all over from being thrown down the stairs. She was more injured by the What ifs right now. The prospect of what could have happened to her frightened her enormously. Burned, beaten, set on fire, maybe—probably—violated...then, finally, executed. That was what was supposed to happen. She shivered suddenly and Killian laughed.

She shook her head, shook away the badness, said, “This your house too?” She looked around the old home, simple and well-tended, like seniors had been living here recently.

“My house? ...Oh, these aren’t my houses...”

“Who do they belong too?”

Killian was cleaning up, putting away his tools and gathering up the cord he’d stitched her with. He said, “He doesn’t tell you anything?”

She just looked at him blankly.

He picked up his mug and sipped his tea. “I guess he worries about you.”

“What’s there to worry?”

He lifted his shoulders and eyebrows high and smiled. He said, “He talked about you, you know?”

“Did he?”

“Yeah, he had it for you. He had it bad.”

“Who owns the houses, Killian?” she said, trying to stay on topic but her heart somehow soaring just the same.

“We don’t own them. They’re not ours. They’re government houses...”

“Like the projects?” she said sarcastically, one brow raised.

He said, “Safe houses. CIA.”

“You’re in the CIA?”

“Technically no. Kind of yes. We’re in part of it.”

“Part of it.”

“Disavowed, you’d call it. The part no one will admit to. We are...but no one would say we are. We get into trouble and we’re on our own...”

“From one mob to another,” she sighed.

“Aye,” he nodded and took another sip of tea. “You hurt anywhere else?”

She shook her head.

“Need some painkillers?”

She shook her head again. She wanted the pain right now. The pain came with many lessons and she needed to be taught.

“I should go out,” he said. “We’ll need supplies.”

“You can’t go out there,” she said. “It’s not safe...”

“They don’t know me. They don’t know my face...”

She slumped, made a long exhalatory breeze from her puffed cheeks. “We don’t know his face either.”

He nodded, said, “But we will. We will soon.” He motioned down the hall where Rocco had gone, said, “Then that man will put a bullet in it.”