It was the next morning, and Jason, having been cleared for takeoff by Dr. Taggert, was hobbling slowly and painfully around his hospital room as he prepared to be officially discharged.
Sam said, “Hear me out.”
Jason squared his jaw. “I heard you. The answer is no way.”
“Maybe you heard, but you’re sure as hell not listening.”
“No? Then maybe you should try listening to me for once.”
Yep, what they had there was a failure to communicate, that was for sure.
Sam opened Jason’s carry-all and handed over Jason’s shirt, watching grimly as Jason slipped on the shirt and slowly did up the buttons. Sam handed over his jeans. Jason had to sit down for those. He wriggled awkwardly, wincing his way into the soft denim, trying not to open any cuts or tear any stitches. Lying in bed, he hadn’t quite realized how banged up he was. He hurt. A lot.
His mood was not improved by the suspicion that Sam was letting him get a good feel for just how limited his mobility was—how difficult it would be to protect himself if simply getting dressed required this much effort.
Sam produced his brown leather belt, which Jason shakily fed through the loops of his jeans. He fastened the buckle with a pretense of briskness. Then he stared down at his feet. His right ankle was still too swollen for shoes. Bending, stretching, squatting were all excruciating, so maybe he’d be walking—rolling—out of the hospital in bare feet.
“You’re on sick leave,” Sam said. “That’s nonnegoti—”
“I can be on sick leave at home. That’s what home is for.” Jason managed not to yelp reaching for his sock, and reconsidered the best angle of approach. Maybe if he lay back and lifted his leg à la chorus-girl kick?
Sam made a sound of exasperation, took the sock from him, and knelt. He lifted Jason’s good foot on his knee, rolled up the sock, and pulled it over Jason’s foot. He slipped the left of Jason’s Converse Chucks on and laced it up.
Jason made a sound in the back of his throat that was supposed to be…well, who knows. It was hard to stay irritated with a guy who was willing to do up your shoes as if you were nine years old.
The thing was, he’d had a horrible night. The pain meds had failed to work their magic, and he had slept badly. Which meant Sam, who had insisted on staying with him, had also slept badly. When Jason woke freezing in the middle of the night, Sam had gone in search of extra blankets. When Jason woke thirsty, Sam had been there to pour water and steady the cup. And when Jason woke gulping and gasping in the wake of a dream where Dr. Taggert had turned out to be Jeremy Kyser, Sam had been there, quiet and calm and steady as a rock. He hadn’t even laughed at the idea of Dr. Taggert—who was short, squat, and resembled a cartoon genie—as an alias for Jeremy Kyser.
Sam was a candidate for sainthood after the night he’d spent, but if he thought imminent canonization meant Jason was simply going to fall in with all his plans, he was in for a rude awakening. Another rude awakening.
Sam lifted Jason’s swollen foot to his knee and gently, very gently eased the sock over Jason’s discolored and puffy toes, smoothing the soft cotton over the elastic ankle brace.
“Thanks,” Jason muttered. There was nothing erotic in Sam’s actions, but it still gave him a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Sam lowered Jason’s injured foot to the floor and rose. “Consider the Bureau’s perspective. We’ve got an unsub out there brazen enough—or crazy enough—to attack a federal agent, not just in a public parking lot, but within a stone’s throw of Quantico.”
That would be quite a throw. Quantico was about fifteen miles from Stafford. But, okay, close enough. Stafford was essentially a bedroom community for Quantico, populated with military personnel and various employees of the FBI.
“I remember. I was there. I’m not going into hiding. The idea is ridiculous!”
“But that’s the problem,” Sam returned. “You don’t remember. You don’t remember most of what happened, and you don’t remember who came after you.”
“I’m missing a couple of minutes. At most.”
“Crucial minutes.”
“Okay. Say they are crucial minutes. There’s no guarantee when I’m getting those minutes back—or if I’m getting them back. I can’t hang out in a safe house indefinitely.”
“Of course not.”
“I’m not the first agent to have threats made against him. For God’s sake, I’m not the first agent to have an attempt made on his life.”
“No, unfortunatel
y you’re not. And in those cases, the endangered agents were offered protection for themselves and their families.”
Jason smiled sardonically. “And how many of those agents accepted protection for themselves? How many agents went to the safe house with their families?”
“You’re the one who keeps talking about safe houses. I’m suggesting something different. Something I would think you’d like.”