Just Like in the Movies Page 2

  * * * *

  “Bailey? Can you hear me?”

  The voice beside me caught me unawares. I think I’d pretty much accepted I’d lost the Hollywood plot completely by this time. My forehead felt clammy and my fingers were numb on the left side. Whoever said blood was warm? It was cold and sticky under my armpit. There was a sour taste in my mouth and a hissing noise in my ears. I’d certainly never heard anyone approaching—let alone him.

  “How bad is it, Bailey?”

  I sighed. “Fletcher. Hi. It’s nothing.” Damned if I was going to give into the humiliation of passing out. The hero always chatters on in the face of agony, doesn’t he? I would have shrugged if it didn’t hurt so badly. “Is it all over, then? Mad, Hungry Guy dead?”

  A bottle of water appeared at my lips and I took a grateful swig. There were reassuringly familiar sounds in the background, like sirens and the assertive cries of police and paramedics. Was I hallucinating again?

  “No, he’s not dead.” Fletcher’s voice was very calm, but there was a sharp edge to it. He hunkered down beside me, his face close to mine. “I think you scared the shit out of him, leaping at him like some lunatic rugby forward. And he was so shocked when he actually shot you with that ancient old thing he stole from his uncle’s attic, he dropped it and surrendered to us immediately. He’s due back in the secure facility as we speak; apparently he only escaped yesterday. Borderline psychotic. Local boy gone mad.”

  “There but for the grace of God…” I burbled.

  “Shut up, Bailey,” Fletcher snapped. “You shouldn’t have come in after me. What the hell have I taught you about following the plan?”

  “Someone has to cover your back.”

  “I can cover the whole of me, thanks.”

  “Alone?”

  He hesitated very slightly. “Yes.”

  “Yeah, maybe not. He was aiming at you just when I caught his eye.”

  Fletcher snorted and the water bottle wobbled a little. “You more than caught his eye, you stupid bastard. I never wanted you on this call in the first place.”

  That hurt, though I suppose my behaviour today wasn’t going to look good on my file. “Because I haven’t got the grades?”

  He shook his head. “Because it’s your neighbourhood, Bailey. You grew up around here, didn’t you? They’re your people. Your kind of causes.”

  I was puzzled. “I’m surprised you know that. I suppose it’s your job to read up on the files of all the new kids.”

  “That’s not always the reason I do it.”

  I tutted, still a bit bemused. “Anyway, that’s a plus point here, far as I see it. Makes it easier for me to empathise with them…”

  He snapped back. “Makes it harder for you to stay objective! Puts you in unnecessary danger.”

  I smiled very slightly, the water having moistened my lips. Through the large glass entrance doors to the bank, I saw people dashing around, plenty of them in uniform and shouting orders. “Hey, look here, man. He only got my arm, right? I made sure he never had anything larger in his sights. Lesson 7 point 4—minimise target. Distract aim. Must get me a ‘B’ grade in that paper, surely?”

  That may have been a soft laugh from the man himself. “Yes, that’s true. Maybe you put that theory to good practice after all.”

  “Sounds like only a ‘C’ comment to me.” I sighed. My head rested back on the cool wall. “You really expect a lot of your men.”

  “I do,” he said shortly. “Why shouldn’t I expect the best from you? Your success is a reflection on my training. Besides, you have the potential to be very good, unlike most of the others. And it’s critical if you’re going to be my partner.”

  Partner? “Is that like a co-star?”

  “What the hell?” He sighed wearily, tipping the water to my lips again. “You’re the most difficult recruit I’ve ever trained.”

  I chuckled, though it sounded a bit hoarse. “Me? I’m a challenge, is all. A challenge to all your excellent methods.” The last few words came out on a groan. My superbly athletic, masculine arm was throbbing with pain where it shouldn’t, and someone seemed to be trying to rip their way out of my head with blunt machetes. “You think I’ll ever make the end of it? Training?”

  Fletcher grunted. I was surprised to realise his arm was around my shoulders. It wasn’t part of his standard tuition technique. In fact, he was holding me quite firmly. “You’re lucky you’ll make the end of the day,” he said gruffly. “My best student—bleeding all over the floor of the local bank. You’re still a stupid bastard. Too rash.”

  “Sometimes you have to take risks…”

  “Calculated ones. That’s what I teach.”

  I sighed. The arm around the shoulders thing was very comforting. “Everything’s calculated with you, right? No melodrama, no last minute leap for freedom, no sudden rush of passion to the head.”

  He was quiet for a long moment. I could hear the rattle of a wheeled stretcher bursting through the door and smell a scent that always surrounds medics. Fletcher’s arm got tighter around me.

  “Sudden rush of passion, eh?” Then he leaned over and kissed me.

  Whoa. The cold numbness down my left side was counteracted by the warm glow all up the right side. His mouth was warm and forceful, and his tongue teased impatiently at my lips until they opened to let him in.

  Which they did. And, despite my injury, I showed indecent eagerness.

  He tasted very fierce, very angry, and very worried. But very, very tasty. I must say, it helped take my mind off the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. It helped soothe the fear from that so-very-stupid manoeuvre of mine in the bank.

  It made me think I might not be so far off that ‘B’ grade, after all.