This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or
are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,
locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the
publisher.

Hell Dogs Squadron

TOP SHELF
An imprint of Torquere Press Publishers
PO Box 2545
Round Rock, TX 78680
Copyright © 2008 by AR Moler
Cover illustration by Alessia Brio
Published with permission
ISBN: 978-1-61040-291-0

www.torquerepress.com

All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this
book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as
provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address
Torquere Press. Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680.
First Torquere Press Printing: August 2011
Printed in the USA

Hell Dogs Squadron

By A.R. Moler

Part one- Touch and Go

Chapter 1

FCLP -- Field Carrier Landing Practice is also

known as doing “touch and go’s”, or “bouncing” by the
pilots. Every navy F/A-18 Pilot who ever landed on an
aircraft carrier had to be pretty damn close to letter
perfect. Getting it wrong on the ship could be fatal;
hence, many practice sessions on an airfield prior to the
real thing. Hit the runway in exactly the right spot.
Don’t stop. Take off. Go around and do it again. Lt.
Cameron Bradshaw gunned it and climbed out for the
next pass. He glanced at his watch. 13:14. He had three
more to do. With a little luck, he’d be done by maybe
1400. Beneath him, he noticed highway 264 had barely
any traffic. Then again, early afternoon was between
rush hours. The large divided highway ran from Norfolk
to the oceanfront of Virginia Beach.

His focus was drifting. Yesterday had been filled

with meetings. Over at Naval Operations Base, he’d
endured fourteen people all crammed around a
conference table. Two men from Naval Intelligence
were couriering a highly experimental missile prototype
from DC to White Sands. They were fourteen hours late
for a check-in, but it was still uncertain if they were
compromised, in danger or already dead. And that was
part of his job. The weird part of his job. His split-life:
part-time pilot, part-time “finder.” Okay, to be more
honest -- psychic.

He and hundreds of other government employees had

been through a battery of screening tests. Tests he now
knew were for psychic talents. He had always been good
at finding things and people, illogically good. It was just

a thing he did. The same thing that made him antsy in
crowds over long periods of time. The same thing that
made handshakes and slaps on the back uncomfortable.
So he was recruited -- by Division P.

Division P, the black ops group of psychics on the

government payroll. Not a team per se, not even a group
exactly. They were an organization. If you passed the
screening process, and less than 0.1% did, you were sent
on for more testing. Each round was harder, with a near
100% failure rate. They only recruited a handful of
people each year. He still wasn’t sure what made him
stand out among the rest. They had trained him and he
was assigned. Nearly all the Division P people juggled
two jobs: a normal average government career linked
job, and then the job they did for Division P.

So, he had sat in the meeting, listening to the bigwigs

hashing through all the available data. Someone had
provided him with a bare bones personnel file for the
two men and two personal items -- a wristwatch and a
set of keys. These items might facilitate his search skills.
In the end, a decision was made to wait a while longer.
Apparently some very sensitive issues were at stake, and
he was simply told that he was on stand-by.

“304, your state” said the LSO over the radio. The

LSO was the Landing Safety Officer. His function
during these practices was basically to “grade” your
landing. No sugar coating for landing grades, a nice pass
was graded as “OK.” Hell, a perfect pass was an “OK
underline.”

“304 ... Hornet ball… 4.3,” replied Bradshaw as he

rolled his plane into the groove, that last half mile of the
approach on the runway centerline.

“304… Come left.” Bradshaw dipped his left wing,

adjusting his angle of attack. Back to meatball and
lineup. The F/A-18 hit the runway with the usual

slightly bone jarring impact. Kicking the jet back into
full power, he hurtled down past the arresting gear and
took off again.

Over the radio he heard the LSO, “304, watch the

settle on lineup in close.” Well, shit, thought Bradshaw,
another fair pass, he was definitely letting the thoughts
of the previous day get in the way of his concentration.
Anything less than an “OK” was heading in the
direction of what even a civilian would probably call a
pretty crappy landing. He would have to make sure the
last two were letter perfect.

The last pass was a full stop; he taxied in the

direction of the hangar and parked his jet on the line
outside, alongside ten others. Unstrapping, he had one
main goal in mind -- get on his motorcycle and get off
the base, Oceana Naval Air Station. He needed to get
away from people. Maybe he’d head toward the beach.
But all that would have to wait for at least an hour,
because next on the agenda was sitting through the
debrief. Oh, the infinite joys of protocol, procedure and
the infamous LSO debrief.

***

A short man with dark hair graying at the

temples slid into the black BMW. He handed a slip of
paper to the driver. It had the words Hell Dogs Squadron
and two names on it.

“They’re considering sending one of the Division P

people out looking for it,” the older man said. “One of
these two men is the operative.”

“Which one?” asked the powerfully built man behind

the wheel.

“We don’t know.”
“All right. It’ll be dealt with,” the driver replied.

***

One hip replacement: check. One ACL repair:

check. Rounds: check. Office hours: check. Orthopedic
surgeon, Dr. Mason Flynn, was on his way home from
work. It had been a long day, especially since it had
started at five am and was now five pm. Chalk up yet
another twelve hour work day. Nothing had gone
particularly badly, it was just the grind. He had
tomorrow off. Amazing. Maybe he’d go running on the
beach, weather permitting and all that. Traffic was
mercifully light on Shore Drive. He lived on the north
end of the beach.

The tourist season was still a few weeks away. By the

time Memorial Day passed, traffic would be much
worse. There was a red light ahead. He pulled up behind
a motorcycle, waiting on the light. When the light
changed to green, the motorcycle began to pull away.
And his world suddenly went into slow motion.

He saw the glint of reflected sunlight off the

windshield of a pickup truck, speeding toward the
intersection. His brain insisted that it was going to brake
to a halt any second. It didn’t. It blew straight through
the intersection and plowed into the motorcycle, sending
both bike and rider cartwheeling across the intersection.
And then the truck pulled out of the half spin it was in
and kept right on going. Mason was bolting out of the
car before he even realized it, sprinting toward the rider.

The motorcyclist was sprawled limply on the

pavement, on his side. Even from yards away, Mason
could tell the man’s leg was broken. Legs weren’t
supposed to bend a hand span below the knee. Mason
fell to his knees beside the man and carefully slid his
fingers under the lower edge of his helmet, seeking a

pulse. He found it: weak and fast. He dug his cell phone
out of his pocket and dialed 911.

“I need an ambulance on Shore Drive near

Sandalwood Road. Hit and run. A pickup truck struck a
motorcycle. He’s in pretty bad shape. My name is Dr.
Mason Flynn. I’m a surgeon at Norfolk General. You
might want to consider sending Nightingale.”
Nightingale was the Hampton Roads area air ambulance,
used frequently for the transport of critically injured
patients.

He gave a few more bits of information to the

dispatcher while he ran his hands along the rider’s body.
Blood was rapidly staining the road where the broken
bones on the man’s lower leg had ripped through both
skin and the fabric of his jeans. Mason yanked off his
dress shirt and wadded it up, pressing it firmly against
the wound. That should slow the blood loss a bit. The
man moaned as he began to regain consciousness,
writhing weakly in pain.

“Easy. Don’t be moving around. An ambulance is on

the way,” he said. He eased the face shield of the helmet
up one-handed so he could see his patient’s face. The
rider’s eyes fluttered open, but he looked hopelessly
disoriented and his face scrunched in agony. Mason took
one of the man’s hands in his and squeezed. The thin
black leather gloves he wore had been torn and bloodied
by his impact with the road.

“Help’s coming. Just stick with me,” said Mason,

trying to reassure the guy. He let go of the man’s fingers
and unzipped the leather jacket. The coat was scuffed
and ripped but that meant less skin and tissue damage to
its wearer. One less problem to deal with. He felt
carefully across the motorcyclist’s chest and his fingers
encountered the faint ridge of dog tags, beneath thin t-
shirt fabric. This guy was military. It figured, given the

area. The largest navy base on the planet was less than
ten miles away. And that didn’t even count the handful
of other bases scattered through the Hampton Roads
area. Skimming his hand lightly down the soldier’s side,
he heard a whimpering moan as he crossed one side of
the man’s rib cage.

“Sorry. Bear with me. I’m a doctor. I’m trying to

figure out how badly you’re hurt,” Mason apologized.
He reached around beneath the jacket to run a gentle
finger down the man’s spine. No obvious depressions.
Not that that meant the guy was necessarily free of
spinal cord damage. The rider moaned a little and
clutched at Mason’s arm, eyes squeezing shut.

“I know you’re in a lot of pain. Just try to keep as

still as possible. … My name’s Mason. What’s yours?”
he coaxed. Keeping the man focused on some questions
would be helpful. The cyclist opened his eyes and met
Mason’s gaze.

“C-c –cam,” he whispered. “Lieutenant Cameron

Bradshaw….” His eyelids were squeezing shut again.
Mason wished he had some idea how long it would take
the ambulance. The blood from the leg injury was
soaking the fabric of the shirt pressed against it. He was
going to have to do something or this guy probably
wasn’t going to make it. Something he was probably
going to regret. He touched his fingers to the man’s
cheek, and slid the other up under Cam’s T-shirt.

“Look at me Cam. I need you to focus on me. We’re

going to spend a few minutes checking to see what else
is damaged besides your leg. You have to talk to me,
okay?”

“Yeah….”
“Top down then.” And he mentally crossed his

fingers that he could stabilize Cam’s heart and breathing
while he did the rest at the same time.

“Head first.” Mason blinked slowly and extended his

healing Talent, seeking head trauma. He mentally traced
lightly across the top of Cam’s head, and down the back
of his skull. The man was rattled, disoriented, and in a
lot of pain, but thank the god that invented helmets,
there didn’t appear to be anything major there, just a bit
of a concussion. But Cam was going into shock. Not
good. Mason concentrated on his other hand for a
moment, reinforcing his patient’s pulse a little. “How
bad does your head hurt? A little? A lot?”

“A little.”
“Wiggle your fingers for me. Just your fingers,

nothing else,” said Mason. Cam managed to waggle the
fingers of his left hand. “Other hand too.” That one
barely moved, but then again, the shoulder it was
attached to seemed damaged. Mason plunged his healing
sense toward the shoulder. The scapula was cracked, not
badly, but enough to trigger the beginnings of the
inflammation response. His first impression seemed to
be holding true, though, there was probably no serious
spinal damage. He threw his senses wide open and ran a
quick “systems check” of the man’s vitals. Not good,
and Cam was fading into unconsciousness again.

“Try to focus on your breathing for a minute,” Mason

said, one hand sliding cautiously across the skin of
Cam’s chest. He detected a couple of cracked ribs and
there was internal bleeding, too. “Can you do that?”

“Uh-huh.” It was as much a groan as a response.

Mason cursed under his breath and focused his Talent on
the bleeding. He had to get a handle on that. There was a
damaged spleen, bruised kidneys, and some lesser
damage to the liver. Cam was slipping, literally dying
beneath his hands. Mason “reached out” and, getting a
grip on the faltering life force, forcibly yanked it toward
him. He poured out a vast amount of energy through his

hands, feeling spleen and liver lacerations beginning to
mend, feeling the texture of this man’s essence within
his grip. Was he defying death by doing this? Damn
straight. Nobody was going to die on his shift if he could
prevent it. He blinked hard and shook his head. The
amount of energy he was putting out was leaving
dizziness in its wake. Keep going, Cam’s not out of
danger yet, he told himself. He turned his attention to
the leg. He wasn’t going to be able to fix the broken
bone, not out here on the highway, but the bleeding he
could do something about.

In the background, Flynn heard a couple of cars

slowing to a stop. Traffic was beginning to back up a
little as the morbidly curious stopped to gawk.

He adjusted the hand he was using to keep pressure

on the open wound and turned half his attention back to
keeping Cam conscious.

“Talk to me, Cam. Tell me where you work.”
“Oceana.”
“You a pilot?”
“Uh-huh.”
Mason let his Talent seal one blood vessel at a time,

slowly, carefully “What do you fly?”

“F/A-18.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Your hands…..” Cam whispered.
“Don’t worry. I’m here. You’re not alone. I’m just

trying to stop the bleeding.”

“They’re hot.”
“Hmmm? What’s hot?” Truthfully Mason was only

half listening to his patient, too busy trying to juggle
keeping Cam stable and slow the blood loss at the same
time.

“Your hands…. You’re psi….” Cam mumbled.

Oh, that caught Mason’s attention. How did Cam

know? How could he know? Cam’s breath hitched
weakly and Mason could feel the body beneath his
hands still trying to shut down. In the distance, he
thought he could hear a siren.

“I’m just a doctor, trying to make sure you hang on

till the ambulance gets here.” Mason glanced at the leg.
The blood flow had slowed to a bare trickle. He lifted
his hand and brushed it along Cam’s face, trying to calm
the man. He was mystified. No one had ever made the
connection between what they might feel and the reason
behind it.

“Look at me, Cam. I know it hurts a lot. Just try to

breathe slow and steady,” he said.

Cam’s gaze slowly met his. Beautiful deep blue-grey

eyes. Mason felt like he had been sucker punched as
another mind brushed lightly across his. Oh fuck. That’s
how the guy knew. He was psi, too. And then the touch
fell away. There was just too much pain to sustain the
contact.

Mason realized he had left a smear of blood across

Cam’s cheek by touching him with blood stained
fingers. It was one of those meaningless, irrelevant
thoughts that cropped up when stress took over. He was
going to have to leave the rest of it until he could get
Cam to the OR. So, he turned his Talent back to keeping
Cam reasonably stable. The pilot was still in deep shock.

“‘M c-cold… hands so… warm,” Cam muttered.
“Yeah, I know. You’re in shock. I think I hear the

siren. We’ll get you warm soon,” he said soothingly, and
poured more energy into Cam’s body. “You know, this
is your lucky day. I could have been just some bank
clerk on my way home. But I happen to be an orthopedic
surgeon. And I’m going to make sure you get put back
together just fine.”

“Tell Div’n P ‘ll help…” he mumbled.

***

The pain came in waves. Cam wasn’t sure if the

excruciating surges were in time with his pulse or his
breathing. Not that it mattered. His hearing seemed to be
fading in and out. No, maybe that was the approaching
sirens. The electric thrum of warmth from the hands
touching him was all that was holding the chilly
terrifying darkness at bay. The man was psi. Nothing
else produced that sensation, maybe short of sticking
your finger in a light socket. Light. Lights. Red lights.
His awareness was drifting, but he could hear the throaty
rumble of the fire truck. Oh, that’s for me, he thought.

“Cam, look at me,” said the doctor. Cam strained to

focus his eyes on the face above him. “The EMTs are
here. There’s going to be a lot of stuff going on. Try to
stick with us.”

One set of hands gripped his neck and jaw while his

helmet was pulled off with one slow motion. Someone
else was putting a cervical collar on him and slitting his
jacket up the sleeve. There was a squeeze from a blood
pressure cuff. A sharp prick in his arm drew his
attention for a moment

“We’re going to put you on a backboard. Try to take

deep breaths. This is probably going to hurt,” said one of
the paramedics. Cam felt many hands touching him,
lifting him, easing him onto his back. A tide of agony
swept through him and his vision grayed out.

Chapter 2

“Hey Cam, open your eyes. The hard part’s done.

You’re on the back board. The rest won’t hurt so bad,”
Mason said. He brushed a careful finger along the pilot’s
cheek. Cam’s face contorted in a grimace as he drew in
a tortured breath. One of the paramedics placed an
oxygen mask over his face. Mason hoped that would
ease his breathing a little.

“I’m going to the hospital with him,” Mason said.

This was followed by a hard swallow that only
intensified the icy knot developing in his stomach. He
was borderline terrified of flying, but if he didn’t go... he
wasn’t sure Lt. Bradshaw was going to survive.

“Okay. Is that your car?” asked the paramedics,

jerking a thumb in the direction of his royal blue
Mustang.

“Oh, yeah. I guess I should pull it off the road,”

Mason realized. He looked down at his patient. “Hang
tight. I’ll be back in a couple minutes.” As he pulled his
car off onto the shoulder and locked it, he could hear the
thup-thup of the chopper of the distance. Walking back
in the direction of his patient he spared a moment to
glance at the badly mangled hulk of the motorcycle. A
number of pieces lay strewn across the pavement.

While they waited for the chopper, he stood beside

the navy man lying on the stretcher. He took hold of
Cam’s hand again, squeezing his fingers. The man
looked somehow relieved that Mason had returned.
Physical contact was a necessity for the healing part of
his Talent. Mason took a deep breath and pushed energy
through the link. The Lieutenant had started
deteriorating again while he’d been moving the car. But
then he had been peripherally aware of that even without
touching Cam. Mason knew that once he was connected

this strongly to someone he was healing, it could take
hours before he stopped feeling their presence. It was
yet another reason why he seldom did this sort of thing.
But fuck it all, he’d just have to suck it up and deal with
the consequences. He’d had a few people die under his
hands over the past decade, and it had been traumatic,
way, way more shattering than an average normal
surgeon ever experienced. He wasn’t going to let it
happen this time. The chopper landed and there was
another spate of activity as Cam was loaded in and
Mason climbed in beside him.

***

The downwash from the rotors blew across Cam’s

body as he lay on the stretcher. Despite the fact he was
covered by a blanket, it made him feel even colder. A
shiver ran through him and the motion triggered another
clench of pain. He gulped at the oxygen flowing across
his face. The doctor was still holding his hand. His
riding glove been pulled off and he could feel the warm
skin of the other man’s palm against his own. That
thrumming heat was flowing into his body, holding the
pain at bay just a little. It would be nice not to die alone.
He had always though he’d get shot out of the sky. His
pulse pounded a little harder. He didn’t want to die.
Fuck, he was only thirty one.

His body was jolted again as the stretcher slid into

the helicopter. More pain. The healer said something to
him, but the sound was drowned by the noise. He tried
to focus on the man’s face. The guy’s face was calm, but
through the link of their hands, Cam felt a deep worry.
He could sense emotions, they helped with the “finding”
thing, but actual thoughts tended to elude him.

***

The chopper lifted off and headed for the hospital.

Mason knelt on the floor of the chopper beside Cam,
talking to him. He was fading in and out of the edge of
consciousness, his fingers clutching Mason’s tightly. He
was obviously scared and confused and in extreme pain.
Mason’s left hand stroked through Cam’s short hair.

Getting him to the hospital and up to the OR was

Mason’s primary goal. Hopefully the trauma surgeon on
duty would be ready. But Mason worried. Every time he
let go of Cam’s hand, his breathing became erratic and
his pulse wavered. Mason stroked his thumb across
Cam’s fingers, talking to him.

“Hey, Cam, don’t fade out on me. Tell me where you

were headed on your motorcycle,” he prompted.

“Base.”
“Where had you been?”
“Beach.”
“Shore Drive’s kind of the wrong direction to get

back to Oceana.”

“Takin’ long way… just riding…”
The helicopter settled on the landing pad. Cam

sucked in a shallow breath of pain as the jolt from
landing shook his body.

“Hang tight, man, you’re almost there,” Mason

reassured him.

***

In the ER, Mason gave the trauma surgeon a quick

heads up on what he suspected while the rest of Cam’s
clothing was cut off and X-rays were taken. Another
orthopedic surgeon was called to deal with the broken
leg. Mason almost insisted that he would scrub-in and
help put this guy back together, and then thought the
better of it. He had put out so much energy trying to

make sure Cam hung on that his muscles were
beginning to shake in exhaustion. That kind of fatigue
was apt to make him sloppy in the OR. He was relieved
when the orthopedic guy on call turned out to be Steve
Villetti, one of the other partners in his practice. Villetti
was a short muscular man with jet black hair and a dark
complexion. He gave Mason a hairy eyeball look when
he hurried into the ER.

“Mas’! You look like shit! You okay?” Villetti

gestured at Mason’s blood stained clothing.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I was the first one on the scene.

Fuck, I watched this poor guy get hit by a pickup truck
that ran the red light,” said Mason, running a hand back
through his hair. That probably wasn’t a brilliant
maneuver considering the dried blood on his fingers, but
he really didn’t care at that point.

“They done with X-rays?” asked Villetti.
“Being developed right now. I’m pretty sure he’s got

a tibial plateau fracture and the fibula’s probably
cracked in a couple places, too. Oh, and it’s an open
one.” He held up his bloodstained hand in support of the
information.

“Guess there’s going to be some hardware involved

in putting it all back together,” speculated Villetti.

“Oh yeah. And this guy’s a navy pilot, so even if the

fracture pattern didn’t already suggest it, I think an
Ilizarov would be a good idea.” An Ilizarov device often
went by the slang term of “dinosaur cast”. It was a rod
and steel ring system drilled directly into the bones and
bolted together on the outside of the limb. It was
incredibly useful for severe and open breaks, no
traditional plaster or fiberglass involved.

“Mmm, let me look at the X-rays first, but I think I’ll

probably agree,” replied Villetti. “You going home?”

“No… I… I think I’m going to hang around until you

and the trauma guy are done. I think I’d sleep better
knowing this guy made it through surgery,” Mason
admitted. Villetti nodded and headed toward the OR.

***

Mason headed for the locker room. The plan: shower

away the blood, scrounge a set of clean scrubs, and hit
the cafeteria for food. If he lay down, he’d probably
sleep for twelve hours, he was that tired. But he was also
still very worried about Cameron.

He scrubbed the dried blood out from under his

fingernails and stood under the water letting it hit him
across the back of his neck. If he concentrated, he could
still detect Cam’s presence, distant, faint, but still alive.
Hopefully, Cam would stay that way.

***

Mason lingered over a second cup of truly mediocre

coffee in the hospital cafeteria. He had eaten and felt a
little less wiped out now, but the exhaustion was still
lingering in the background. When he finally let himself
crash, there was going to be big time sleeping involved.
He glanced at his watch for probably the fortieth time,
mentally trying to estimate how long it would take for
the surgery. Two hours had crawled by. They might be
getting done about now if there weren’t any nasty,
unforeseen complications. He drained the last the coffee
and headed in the direction of OR.

Villetti and the trauma surgeon, a guy by the name of

Craig Stephenson, were stripping off gowns and gloves
as Mason reached the OR.

“So, give me a play by play. How’d it go?” Mason

prompted.

“Partial splenectomy, and repaired a few liver

lacerations. I noticed one of his kidneys was bruised and
I was expecting worse bleeding there, but he lucked
out,” said the trauma surgeon.

“What about the leg? And did any other major breaks

show up?” Mason asked Villetti.

“The usual screws and plates on the leg. And yeah, I

did the external fixation especially since the tibia had
come through the skin. You did an awesome job
controlling the bleeding and all out there in the field. I’m
almost surprised this guy didn’t bleed out on the road.
Oh, and there’s a couple of hair cracks along his right
scapula. Nothing that needed fixing, they’ll heal in four
to six weeks, I suspect.”

Mason gave himself an internal thank-you to his

healing Talent

“Is he in ICU?” Mason asked.
“Yep. We went through six units of blood, and even

so, his B.P,’s running kind of low,” replied Stephenson.

“Do you mind if I go have a look at him?” asked

Mason.

“Not at all. I think he was one lucky bastard to have

someone with medical training see the accident happen.
It’s gotta be a bit of system shock to you to actually see
something like that happen.”

“It was. Seriously. I kept thinking the truck was

gonna stop. Even after it hit him, it kept on going. I hope
the police find him and throw the book at him.”

***

Mason walked into the ICU cubicle. Cameron

Bradshaw lay under a sheet that had been pulled up to

mid-chest. All the usual lines and tubes protruded from
his body, IV’s, EKG lines, catheter, drainage and the
oxygen mask that covered the lower part of his face. His
skin had that gray-white pallor that the critically ill often
seemed to get. Mason grabbed a stool from the corner
and sat down next to Cam, chart open in one hand. But
he wasn’t really reading the chart. He reached out and
touched a couple of fingers to Cam’s wrist. He let his
extra senses do a hasty scan to check and see if anything
jumped out at him that the other surgeons hadn’t picked
up. Nothing immediately drew his attention, but then he
didn’t really have the time for a full and complete exam
if he didn’t want to draw unwanted attention.

***

One of the ICU nurses walked into the cubicle to

check on her patient.

“Hey, Dr. Flynn. You don’t usually hang around

waiting for them to come round,” said the nurse. “If you
want we can page you when he does.”

“That’s okay. I’ll stay. Technically speaking, I’m off

duty.”

“Something specific about this one? Well, besides the

fact he’s in ICU.”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
“Something we need to watch for ?”
“No… no… I… I saw the pickup truck hit him. I held

him together while we waited on the ambulance. I
suppose I’m a bit wierded out by the whole thing.”

“Wow, that’s kind of epic,” said the nurse. Mason

gave her a half-smile and nodded.

***

Dim sounds broke through the darkness. And pain.

Cam clawed his way back toward consciousness. His
breath sounded harsh and airy and every inhalation
brought a dull, tight wave of agony. He needed to get
away from the pain, needed to move, needed to run, but
his body refused to cooperate. Even his eyelids were
pressed shut by a leaden weight. Move your fingers.
Move your God damn fingers, he raged at himself, and
panic began to set in.

A staccato beeping noise was getting louder. He

made a concerted effort to clench his fist. If he could
just move, maybe the pain would die down. Somebody’s
fingers scooped up his hand and squeezed it. The hand
was warm and reassuring. He felt a wondrous soft thrum
of energy flowing into his hand and through his body,
easing the pain. Someone was talking: male voice and
then a female voice. The words made no sense, just
noise. The pain dropped back a fraction at a time.
Breathing was easier and that beeping thing was
slowing. Heart rate, he slowly realized, the beeping
sound was in sync with his pulse.

“…might need… Setting… morphine pump…

breakthrough…” Certain words from the male voice
actually began to make some kind of vague sense. Well,
at least they were real words. He finally managed to
force his eyes open. It didn’t help much. Most of what
he saw was a white blur. And he was cold. Meat locker,
his brain supplied helpfully. That didn’t make sense.

“Cam?” Someone said his name: the male voice.
“Cam? Can you look at me?” Something touched his

right temple. Turn your head, you moron, look at the
person talking to you. You need to know who the hell
they are, he told himself. His head rolled a little in the
direction of the touch. A man. That man. The one who’d
talked to him while he was dying. The one’d who held

some of the pain back. Did that mean he was dead now?
That didn’t make sense either.

“Cam. You’re in the hospital. You had a motorcycle

accident,” the man said. Cam’s entire body jerked, and
pain mixed with the images that washed through him.
Helicopter, impact, shiny, weightlessness, sirens, wheel
above him, pain. “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re alive.
You’re safe. There are people taking care of you.” The
words faded toward meaningless sounds for a moment,
before starting to register again. He felt his fingers
tighten slightly around the other man’s hand. Even
though the information only half made sense, the warm
buzz of energy was a lifeline.

“Ok, I gave him a bolus of six and reset the baseline

to ten an hour,” said the female voice.

“Good. I think the internal injuries in combination

with the broken bones are just pegging his pain limits.”
Cam’s vision cleared enough that he could look at the
man again, but the mental fog of the morphine sucked
away his comprehension of the situation. He slid back
into unconsciousness.

***

Mason held Cameron Bradshaw’s hand as he waited

for the heavy dose of morphine to hit Cam’s system. To
the nurse, he was certain it looked like he was being
incredibly kind and supportive to the patient. In reality,
he was squashing down as much of the rampant pain
Cam was experiencing as possible, while he waited for
the narcotic to do its job. If he hadn’t been so dead
exhausted, he probably could have blocked it entirely,
but some was better than none.

The beep of the EKG settled into a slow, steady

rhythm as Cam slipped into unconsciousness. The tense,

weak hold Cameron’s hand had on his own relaxed into
limpness and Cam’s breathing eased into something
gentler. Mason’s thumb stroked across the back of the
slack hand. There was nothing else he could do right
now.

Mason practically stumbled out the door of ICU. He

pulled his cell phone out and called a taxi. His car was
still parked on Shore Dr. He’d have to retrieve it
sometime tomorrow.

***

Cam woke several times during the night. It had to be

night; the lights above him were dim, even if the level of
background noise didn’t seem to alter. Night, hospital,
pain, that much he managed to fully comprehend,
everything else seemed tangled. Sometimes he saw a
nurse, touching him, checking on him, often he was
alone. There were other people, too many people, some
of those were in pain, and some were dying. He could
feel their presences. His psychic shielding was gone,
nothing was protecting him from the minds of those
around him. It was a horribly garbled. distracting
confusion that only seemed to fuel his pain. Sometimes
the pain lessened, and it was somehow tied to the
presence of the nurse. It took him three tries to make the
connection that she was probably giving him something
to dull the agony. Sometimes he slept. Sometimes he
drifted. If he had had enough energy, he would have
screamed.

Chapter 3

Dr. Mason Flynn slept for twelve hours. Lying

sprawled across the bed, squinting in the direction of the
clock, he really wasn’t surprised. It had probably been at
least a couple years since he put out that much energy
for healing. He wasn’t supposed to work today, but a
little internal voice, that probably ought to go by the
name ‘conscience’ kept telling him that he needed to
check on Cameron.

Shower, shave, breakfast. Mason stuffed his ID

badge in his pocket and called a cab, again. He needed
to retrieve his car from where he’d left it.

There was actually some paperwork he needed to do

at the hospital, though nothing pressing. He probably
ought to stop by to check on Maggie, the seventy eight
year old woman he’d done the hip replacement on the
day before, too. Then he could swing by the ICU and
check on Cameron.

***

The executive officer of the Hell Dogs Strike Fighter

Squadron, Rochester, stood in the ICU cubicle looking
down at the pilot under his command. He had received a
five am phone call from a CACO notifying him that one
of his men had been airlifted to Norfolk General after a
serious motorcycle accident the previous night. Lt.
Cameron Bradshaw had a brother listed as next-of-kin.
Rochester had left two messages on an answering
machine already, without any response. He looked down
at the man lying in the ICU bed. Wires, tubes, monitors,
hardware… sweet mother of God, Bradshaw looked
absolutely awful. One of the hospital staff had read him
what sounded like a horrendous number of injuries.

Damaged spleen, lacerated liver, cracked ribs, cracked
shoulder blade, shattered lower right leg. He wondered
if his pilot would ever recover enough to fly again.

A nurse came into the cubicle. She started checking

vitals and monitors. Rochester glanced at her in silence.

“You can talk to him, sir. Even if he’s asleep, a

familiar voice can be comforting,” she said. He nodded,
but had to wrack his brain for something to say.

“Um… Bradshaw… This is Commander Rochester.

I… We… The squadron would like you to know that
we’re all worried about you,” said Rochester. He shoved
his hands in his pockets, and stood in silence for another
few minutes, uncertain if he should stay or go.

Another man walked in and looked directly at the

nurse. He was wearing a dark suit and tie with his
sunglasses dangling from the breast pocket of his jacket.
Rochester decided his appearance basically screamed
“fed.”

“Ms. Ringold?” the man said to the nurse, peering at

her name tag.

“Yes?”
“Daniel Valentine. Federal Agent. Division P. I need

the name of Bradshaw’s attending physician,” he said as
he flashed his ID. The nurse carefully eyeballed the
proffered ID.

“Dr. Steven Villetti,” she said. Rochester watched the

agent with considerable interest. He knew that Lt.
Bradshaw had an additional duty commitment.
Bradshaw’s personnel file was red-flagged with it.
Division P was some sort of covert ops thing. Bradshaw
only ever got pulled away from his normal duties on rare
occasions, but when it happened, there was no warning,
no explanation afterward, and Division P orders
superseded anything else Bradshaw might have been
slated to do.

“I’m Bradshaw’s XO, Commander Rochester. Did

his accident have something to do with Division P?”
Rochester said. The man gave him a level gaze.

“No. It didn’t,” was the reply. Geezus, that struck

Rochester as plausible denial if he’d ever heard it. “Ms.
Ringold,” the man continued, “How do I get in touch
with Dr. Villetti? And can you tell me what the
Lieutenant’s current status is?”

The nurse looked at the agent with something that

approached suspicion.

“He’s been upgraded from critical to serious

condition. Dr. Villetti’s office number can be obtained
from the information desk in the front lobby,” she said.

Rochester smiled to himself a little. The nurse had

told the man almost nothing.

“Are you planning on having him transferred?”

Rochester fished.

“Doubtful. My superiors are just assuring that he’s

being adequately cared for.” With that, the agent walked
out of the cubicle.

***

It was almost mid-morning by the time Mason made

it to the ICU. He stood at the nurses’ station for a long
moment, staring at the pilot from the raised platform in
the center of the complex. Cam had dark hair, in the
military haircut, currently with skin pale enough to
nearly match the sheets. And the guy was gorgeous.
Well, in as much as anyone could be in ICU. Why the
hell hadn’t he noticed that before? Maybe ‘cause I was
too busy trying to keep him alive, Mason mentally
kicked himself. Cam’s eyes were open and he was
vaguely watching the activity going on in the area.

Mason picked up Cam’s chart and glanced through it.

His vitals had stabilized out pretty well. He appeared to
have had a fairly quiet night after the massive trauma his
body had been through. Mason walked into the cubicle.
Cam turned his head to look at Mason. His eyes focused
a little more as he seemed to recognize Mason, but there
was still a heavy glaze of pain mixed with the drugs.

“I don’t even know your name,” Cam said hoarsely.

Mason smiled.

“I did actually tell you but I’m sure you don’t

remember. I’m Dr. Flynn.”

“Got a first name ?”
“Mason,” he replied. “You’re looking a little bit

better. A little less like death warmed over.”

“Still hurts like hell. One of the nurses seems to think

I was very lucky not to be dead.”

“I tend to agree. It was definite luck to have a doctor

in the car behind you. Not so lucky to get plowed into
by the pickup,” commented Mason. Cam looked at him
for a long moment.

“I only remember pieces of that,” he said slowly.
“I’m not surprised. I think I should have a look at the

fixation.” Mason eased the blankets away from Cam’s
leg. His lower leg was heavily bandaged where the
plates had been put in. Metal bars ran down both sides
of his leg, from a little above the knee down to the
ankle. Metal pins threaded through bone secured the
bars to steel circles.

“What’s with all the hardware?” Cam asked. “When I

actually got around to looking at it, I thought I would
see a cast.”

“It’s called an external fixation. But, most people

tend to refer to it as a dinosaur cast, because it looks like
the bars they use to put dinosaur skeletons together in a
museum.”

“Yeah, I guess it does.”
“You’re unfortunately going to be in it for eight to

ten weeks or so. It promotes stronger healing. It’ll let
you get to physical therapy a whole lot sooner. And --
number one advantage -- you get to take a shower a few
days from now.”

“Ten weeks?”
“The bones were broken in eight places. It’s going to

take some healing time.”

“How long am I going to spend in here?”
“In ICU or in the hospital?” Mason asked.
“Both, I guess.”
“If everything’s calm, for the rest of the day. They

may send you up to a regular room tonight. Then three,
maybe, four days till you’re out. Followed by therapy
three times a week for the next couple of months.”

“Just great.”
“I know. It’s not going to be easy.”
Cameron suddenly looked thoroughly exhausted. The

hand without the IV in it fiddled listlessly with the
blanket and he stared blankly at the wall.

Mason gazed at him. Cam had that lost little boy

look. Oh God, it was about to break his heart. Mason
just wanted to wrap his arms around the guy and hold
him and comfort him and tell him he would heal. And
maybe kiss the guy senseless. Oh damn, don’t go there.
What was wrong with him? He’d had hundreds of
patients, who ranged in age from toddlers to nearly a
hundred years old, from every race and every social
stratum, including his fair share of really buff delicious
athletics types, eye candy for the gay man that he was.
And he gave himself another mental kick in the head,
because he suddenly realized Cam was in pain.

Mason laid a hand on Cam’s, trying to assess just

how bad it was. It was definitely ramping up in the
direction of grit-your-teeth level.

“Did the nurse show you how to activate the PCA?”
“Huh?”
“No, I guess not. Never mind. We’ll worry about that

later.” Mason realized that Cam was still too incoherent
to really make use of the function on the morphine pump
that would allow him to receive a small dose of the
painkiller on his command by pushing a button that lay
on the bed beside him. His conscious attention span was
too short at the moment. Mason rubbed his thumb
against the skin of Cam’s wrist, sending Cam a soothing
flow of energy, damping down the pain. While he was at
it, he focused on a minute amount of active healing,
further repairing the injuries to the spleen and liver.

Cam’s eyes widened a little and he stared at Mason.

Mason felt a fumbling brush of presence against his
thoughts. It was raw and vaguely desperate.

“You’re psi. You’re a healer,” Cam whispered.

Mason suddenly had the desire to bolt and run far away.
No one could know. The ramifications were too high.
He’d spend the rest of his life locked in some lab,
running through a metaphorical maze. But it was
obvious that Cameron Bradshaw had something extra in
his mental wiring, too. How much did he understand it?
The number of other psi that Mason had run across in
his life could be counted on his fingers, and the majority
of those tended to fall in the “new age/fringe culture”
category.

“I can’t talk about it. Not here… not now,” Mason

murmured. Cam nodded a little.

“Got it,” he whispered. “Maybe later.” Cam’s eyes

were drifting shut. Mason stood beside the bed for
several more minutes. He picked up the button that

triggered a dose of morphine and pushed it. When he left
in a few minutes, it would keep Cam asleep for a while
after he stopped actively blocking Cam’s pain.

Something nagged at him. Why wasn’t the usual pain

control regimen working very well? Was the pilot a drug
user? Long term substance abuse could lead to
extremely elevated narcotic tolerance. But none of the
information he had gathered from touching Cam seemed
to support that idea. He had read a couple of papers on
endorphin production and narcotic tolerance. The guy
was a pilot, who flew jets for a living, if that didn’t
classify as an adrenaline junkie, nothing did. The other
option was that there was something deeply damaged by
the accident, that wasn’t presenting any other symptoms.
With his healing talent he might be able to track it down,
but it would take time, significantly more time than five
or ten minutes of standing by Cam’s bed. Then again,
people had different pain thresholds; he’d seen a few
professional athletes in tears from a simple fracture and
some little old ladies who were absolutely tougher than
nails. Mason stood chewing his lip, watching Cam
slowly fall asleep. He had already done so very much
more for this patient than any since med school. Why
did it seem so insufficient?

***

It must be doctor visit day, Cam thought. He blinked

wearily as he watched Dr. Villetti leave. The trauma
surgeon whose name, he had totally forgotten now, had
been by in the morning. Mason Flynn was next, and then
the orthopedic surgeon who had fixed his leg. The nurse
had mentioned that his XO had also been by, while he
was asleep. Only Mason Flynn had been outright
pleasant and had lingered for more than the necessary

three minutes to check charts and ask a question or two.
Mason had taken away the pain for awhile. Cam was
still trying to wrap his head around that one. Based on
his training time with Division P, he remembered some
commentary that healers were the rarest of all psychic
talents. And of those, most had limited skill. There was
exactly one at Division P who was the full, real deal.
Peter Vithoulkas. Cam had only met the guy once.
Vithoulkas was one of the few who actually lived at the
Suffolk based complex. He didn’t do field work, and
didn’t have a “day job” like most other Division P
operatives.

The nurse came through again. Cam rolled his head a

little to look at her.

“How’re you doing, honey?” she asked.
“Okay. M’ thirsty,” he whispered.
“I can get you some ice chips. Does that sound like a

good thing?”

“Yeah.”
“I’ll be back in a minute then,” she said and vanished

briefly. She returned with a cup in her hand and gave
him a little bit of ice at a time. “You have family?” she
asked.

“A brother.”
“I just wondered. One of the other nurses said a

couple of men came by to see you. Guys in uniform. I
guess they were people you work with.”

“Squadron guys.”
“I suppose. You were asleep. They only stayed for a

few minutes.”

“I keep fading out,” murmured Cam. It was

frustrating to only be able to hold onto a set of thoughts
for a few minutes.

“It’ll get better. Your body’s been through a rough

time.” She patted his hand and he was ambushed by her

flicker of interest. She thought he was really cute. It was
flattering, but it was also uncomfortable to be that aware
of someone else’s feelings. What the hell had happened
to the shielding that he had learned at Division P? Had it
been damaged along with his body? In frustration his
muscles clenched. Oh fuck. Bad idea. He sucked in a
sharp breath of agony.

“Guess it’s time to top up your meds,” the nurse said

and proceeded to fiddle with his IV. In another minute,
he felt consciousness beginning to slide away.

Chapter 4

A quick stop by the ICU confirmed that Cameron

Bradshaw had been moved to a regular room. Mason
hadn’t managed to pry himself away from regular work
commitments until the end of the day. Five minutes, he
told himself. Five minutes for a quick check on
Bradshaw to make sure things were going okay. He
wondered if he was being obsessive about the whole
situation. The man wasn’t really even his patient. It had
to be the whole combination: watching the accident
happen, keeping Cameron alive, the apparently mutual
awareness that they both bore psi talents. All of it
tangled together into intense curiosity mixed with
concern and a touch of attraction. Just how lame was
that? The poor guy was recovering from nearly lethal
injuries and here he was idly wondering about trying to
date the pilot. Pilot. Military. Oh yeah, like that was
going to happen.

Mason jogged down the stairs to the other floor and

walked up the hall toward Cam’s room. He opened up
his senses to the faint hint of connection that still
lingered between them. A knot formed in his stomach.
There was something wrong. His steps became a little
more hurried. He forced himself to open the door
slowly.

Inside, a nurse stood at the bedside. She had curly

blond hair and a very shapely body. She held a cloth in
one hand; the other hand lay against Cam’s side trying
to gently restrain him. He was struggling to push her
away.

“Honey, you need to hold still. We have to do this.

You need to have a bath,” she softly reprimanded him.

“No, no please… no.” Cam was whimpering. The

nurse looked up at the open door. She looked

somewhere between embarrassed and faintly annoyed at
the appearance of a doctor.

“I have orders to give him a bath. I’m afraid he’s

being rather uncooperative,” she said carefully.

“Mmm, I need to have a look at the fixation anyway.

I’ll finish for you,” said Mason.

The nurse looked positively startled. Doctors seldom

stooped to do such mundane things for patients, but then
again Mason Flynn knew he already had a reputation for
being far more hands on than most surgeons.

“It’s no problem. I can finish when you’re done,” she

offered. Her hand was still on Cam, firmly holding him
mostly motionless, and being this close, Mason could
tell the man was nearing outright hysteria.

“It may take a while. I also need to discuss PT

options with him. I’ll finish,” said Mason evenly with a
tone that left no room for discussion. She nodded and
laid the cloth on the open package of bathing supplies
and walked out, not shutting the door. Mason glared
slightly at her departing back. It must have been a tiny
and deliberate objection. The door was never left open if
a patient was being bathed. He walked over and pushed
it shut.

He turned his attention back to Cam. The pilot was

curled on his side, eyes squeezed shut, not quite
hyperventilating. Mason walked over to the bed and bent
down a little.

“Cameron? Cam?” he spoke softly. “She’s gone.”

Cam’s eyes opened slowly and gave a look of guarded
fear. He relaxed somewhat when he saw Mason. “Did
she hurt you?” Mason asked.

“N-not …physically,” Cam mumbled. Mason wasn’t

so sure.

“Can I touch you?” he asked.
“Yeah.”

Mason laid his fingertips on Cam’s arm. There was

some physical pain, not a huge amount. He could tell
there was still a very heavy load of narcotics in Cam’s
body. The discomfort that bordered on terror seemed to
have come from the touch of the nurse. It had flooded
Cam with adrenaline and somewhat overwhelmed his
nervous system. Mason could feel the pounding heart
rate finally beginning to slow a little. He stroked a
thumb across Cam’s skin, mentally soothingly the
jangled nerves back a little toward normal.

There was a gentle flit of Cameron’s mind against his

own. Raw, uncomfortable, as if Cam were trying to both
hide and peek at the same time. Mason looked at him for
a long moment. There was something missing, almost as
if Cam was as mentally naked as he was physically.
Defenses, Mason realized. Although his encounters with
other psi had been few, he realized that he was used to
noticing a sort of mental defense system. Even regular
people had very light ones, Cam had none.

“The people who trained me called it shielding,”

whispered Cam with a shaky breath.

Mason’s eyebrows rose. He was slightly surprised at

the comment. “Are you a telepath?” Mason asked.

“Not exactly; it’s complicated.” Cam didn’t offer any

more. Mason was aware there was more: much, much
more.

“Do you, um, usually have shielding?” he asked.

God, this was a freaking awkward conversation.

“Yeah, I do. But not since the accident.”
“Do you think that means it was damaged? You only

had a minor concussion. Thank God for good helmets.”

“I don’t know.”
“Maybe as the rest of your injuries heal?” Mason

suggested.

“Maybe.” They both lapsed into silence.

Mason realized his own hand was still on Cam’s arm.

There was no indication his own touch was causing any
sort of discomfort.

“You’re not hurting me,” Cam said. “She... I know it

wasn’t her fault. It just…” he was fumbling for words.

“It’s okay. I sort of get it. I wasn’t just distracting

her. I do want to have a look at your leg. And I can
finish cleaning you up, if that’s better for you.”

Cam gave him a somewhat pleading look. “Not her,”

he whispered.

Mason nodded. He spent a couple of minutes

checking all the pin sites that were drilled into Cam’s
leg. They were seeping just a little, but showed no sign
of infection. Then he turned his attention to the stack of
cloths. Judging from the way the sheets were arranged,
the nurse had only made it partway down Cam’s torso.
As he reached for one of the cloths, he noticed a syringe
and vial of morphine under the edge of the package.
Weird, he supposed she meant to top of the PCA pump
when she was done.

Mason folded the sheet down to Cam’s hips, and

began to gently work his way down across Cam’s
stomach. The incision made to fix Cam’s internal
injuries was covered by a dressing. Mason carefully
removed it and examined the line of staples. The skin
was beginning to heal. He grazed a fingertip along the
incision, directing some energy toward it and the
repaired organs underneath. Cam’s breath hitched just a
little.

“You okay?” Mason asked.
“Yeah. I can just feel the warmth…” he sort of trailed

off.

Mason gave Cam a half smile. He redressed the

wound and continued his task. There were massive
bruises down Cam’s side where the ribs were cracked,

and along his hip, up his back where the scapula was
slightly broken and all along one wrist. As Mason’s
hands skimmed carefully along the battered body, he
touched the damage as lightly as feasible, actively
suppressing any pain he might be causing as he went.

He glanced at the setting on the morphine pump. It

was high, very high. And that brought his thoughts back
to why Cam’s pain was so poorly controlled. At some
point, he was probably going to have to find out why.
He suspected there had to be a reason.

***

Cam could feel Mason’s hands on his skin. Mason

was gentle and efficient, but then again maybe anything
felt better than that nurse. He supposed in actuality it
wasn’t her fault. It was just that her touch was like
sandpaper on sunburn and it made him want to crawl
away. And crawling would be about the extent of his
movement, because he could barely even sit up
unassisted. He wasn’t used to being helpless. He wasn’t
used to having people touch him much either.

“Guess I won’t get to take a shower any time soon,”

said Cam.

“Not for at least a few more days. They feed you

yet?”

“Ice chips and juice.”
“They’ll probably bring you Jell-O and soup for

dinner.”

“Eww.”
“Yeah well, gotta make sure you can handle liquids

before they bring you solid food,” Mason smiled at him
a little. “You tired?” Cam nodded. “Your body still has
an awful lot of recovery to do. You want me to help you
get to sleep?”

Cam thought about it for a moment. It wasn’t like he

had anything better to do, and he still basically felt like
shit. He nodded again. Mason’s hand cupped the side of
his neck, thumb stroking softly across the pulse point.
Cam fought reflexively against his leaden eyelids for a
moment. The touch was almost a caress. The thought
drifted through Cam’s head that maybe he should
somehow object to the slight intimacy of the motion, but
it was the most caring gesture he had felt since the
accident. It shouldn’t matter that it came from another
man.

Chapter 5

Mason managed to swing by to see Cam for about

five minutes each of the following the days, wedged in
between his usual responsibilities. He couldn’t decide if
it was the lingering hint of connection due to his healing
talent, or innate weirdness of actually seeing the
accident, or the deep curiosity about Cam’s own psi
talents, that drew him to keep tabs on the pilot. On
Friday, he noticed that Villetti had discharged Cameron,
with orders for a follow up visit to the office on
Monday. Well, at least he’d be able to have a peek at the
pilot’s progress by snagging a look at records while he
was at work.

***

Friday, they let him go home. Over the past three

days, Cam had managed to decipher that the narcotics
they were giving him were somehow tied to the whole
lack of shielding issue. The morphine pump had been
removed and they had started giving him tablets instead.
He spit one of them out when the nurse’s back was
turned. The incredible pain in his leg had started
creeping back within an hour, but the usual shielding
that he had been trained to do had also begun a tentative
comeback. What a bitch of a trade off, teeth gritting pain
in his shattered leg or that sandpaper inside his brain
feeling that made him want to either scream or hit
something.

His roommate, Keith Haverty, came to pick him up

from the hospital. Keith was another pilot in his
squadron, and they shared an apartment not too far from
the base. All the people, who had been reluctant to visit
him in the hospital, were suddenly descending upon him

to have a peek and see that he was still alive and ask for
all the gruesome details. Guys from the squadron
showed up at random intervals to chat. He decided the
pain was easier to cope with than the psi issues and
threw the bottle of Demerol in his nightstand drawer. It
was a very rough weekend. Monday wasn’t much better.

Being nowhere near capable of walking, much less

driving, Cam had to rely on Keith to give him a lift to
Dr. Villetti’s office. His roommate helped him out of the
car and into the wheelchair.

“You’ve got your cell, right?” asked Haverty.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, gimme a call when you’re done. I’ll swing

back by and pick you up.”

“Okay,” replied Cam and watched the other pilot

depart.

Once Cam finally got to the exam room, a nurse took

his blood pressure and pulse. She made a face but made
no comment, and then she left him to wait. Villetti sailed
in after a while.

“Mr. Bradshaw. How’re you doing ?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Let me have a look at your leg and then we’ll start

thinking about scheduling some physical therapy.” He
gave Cam a hand to get up on the exam table and
frowned a little when Cam sucked in a harsh breath.
“Still hurting pretty bad?”

“Uh, yeah,” Cam managed to choke out. Villetti

glanced at the chart.

“Says you’ve been taking Demerol. Maybe we

should switch you over to Percocet. Might work better.”
Villetti was examining his leg and then did a brief check
on his shoulder blade. “Might hold off on the PT until
Friday. Mmm, I forgot my scrip pad; I’ll be back in a
couple of minutes.” With that he charged out the door.

Cam felt sort of dazed. Although he didn’t really

intend to admit to not taking the painkillers he had been
given, he had hoped to maybe get a suggestion or two on
alternatives. It didn’t seem like he was actually going to
get a chance to even ask a question. Villetti darted back
in a moment later and handed him a prescription slip.

“Here, try these. Might work better. Get the front

desk to set you up for a PT assessment on Friday,” the
surgeon said and was gone.

Cam felt like he’d been buzzed by one of the jets he

usually flew. He was still sitting on the exam table and
wasn’t even entirely sure he could get back to the
wheelchair without falling on his face. The door was
still hanging open.

***

Mason walked up the hallway between exam rooms,

reading a chart from his previous patient. He made a few
notes. A nurse named Tyra cruised by.

“Dr. Flynn, Ernie Riebold is waiting in four,” she

said.

“Okay, thanks,” Mason said absently. As he walked

past the open door to exam room three, a familiar face
caught his attention. Cameron Bradshaw was sliding off
the exam table, gripping it tightly with one hand,
attempting to ease himself into the wheelchair in front of
him. His face was a white mask of pain and he looked
like he was about fall. Mason dropped the folder in his
hands and lunged forward to grab Cam.

“Hey, easy! You should have asked someone to

help,” he snapped, wrapping both arms around the other
man. Cam floundered against Mason, trying to regain
his balance. “It’s ok, I’ve got you.” Mason assured him
and gently lowered him into the wheelchair.

Mason dropped to one knee in front of Cameron. His

face was gray-white and filmed in sweat. Mason took
hold of his wrist. His heart rate was racing and Mason
had to swallow hard to choke down the pain radiating
from Cam. A part of his brain wondered if Cam was
going to scream or just pass out. The latter seemed more
likely. Mason slammed a set of pain blocks in place and
placed his other hand against Cam’s chest to make sure
he didn’t fall out of the wheelchair.

“Cam, just breathe slowly,” he said evenly. Cam’s

face was still ash pale. Mason closed his eyes for a
moment and calmed Cam’s racing heart a little. Behind
him, Tyra came halfway into the room.

“Mr. Bradshaw… Oh God!” she gasped.
“Tyra, tell Mr. Riebold he’ll have to wait a few

minutes. I have a patient emergency,” said Mason.
“Then bring me a blanket and ten mg of Fentenyl.”

The nurse left hastily. Cam’s eyes opened slowly and

he gave Mason a completely dazed look.

“You gonna pass out on me?” asked Mason.
“Huh-uh,” Cam mumbled, gulping air.
Mason put a firm hand on Cam’s chest. He could

have forced the issue and boosted Cam’s crashing blood
pressure, but that was a risky thing. Tyra came back,
looking slightly scared.

“Help me get him back up on the exam table. I want

him flat,” Mason ordered.

They lifted Cam onto the table and Mason jabbed the

syringe containing the Fentenyl into Cam’s hip. Tyra
spread the blanket over the stricken man.

“Did Villetti leave him without bothering to tell

anyone to help him off the table?” snarled Mason.

“I d-don’t know,” said Tyra.
“I’m gonna rip him a new one,” said Mason. Steve

Villetti might be an excellent surgeon, but he could

sometimes be an arrogant asshole with conscious
patients. Some of the color was beginning to return to
Cam’s face. “I need to go deal with Ernie Riebold. Stay
with him. Do not leave him alone. I should be back in
less than ten minutes.”

Mason walked down the hallway cursing under his

breath.

***

The moment Mason Flynn’s hand left his body, the

pain began surging again, but not as badly. Cam knew
that whatever had been injected into his hip had been a
narcotic painkiller. His psychic shielding had started to
fade within a minute or two. But fuck, at this point he
didn’t care. His foot had hit the floor as he had tried to
slide off the exam table. What had already been teeth
gritting pain had instantly turned into blinding agony.
Then trying to catch himself had strained his barely
healing cracked ribs and damaged shoulder. He would
have ended up as a sobbing heap on the floor, if Mason
hadn’t showed up. Jesus Christ, the guy had timing.

***

It did take nearly ten minutes for Mason to see Ernie

Riebold. He was an eighty-one year old man who had
undergone a hip replacement a few months earlier.
Riebold was making slow but steady progress. On the
way back up the hallway, Mason grabbed Bradshaw’s
file from the to-be-billed pile. He looked at Villetti’s
brief, cryptic notes. Pin site healing adequate, change in
meds for pain, scheduling for PT to be initiated. Then he
looked at the initial vitals taken by the nurse. Heart rate
close to one hundred, blood pressure significantly

elevated. Signs that pain was severe and uncontrolled.
Arrogant rat bastard. Switching meds without even
bothering to consider looking for the source of the
problem was sloppy medicine.

Mason walked back into the exam room where Cam

was. Tyra was standing beside the table, keeping a
careful eye on the patient.

“I’ll take it from here,” said Mason. He shut the door

behind her as she left. He leaned his hip against the table
and gazed down at Cam. The guy looked like absolute
shit. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days and had lost
even more weight since leaving the hospital.

“You know, if the pain meds that Villetti prescribed

when you left the hospital weren’t cutting it, you could
have called the answering service over the weekend.”
Mason laid a hand on Cam’s arm. He could sense a
moderate amount of lingering pain despite the Fentenyl.
Cam stared at the ceiling for several seconds.

“I stopped taking them,” Cam whispered.
Mason drew a breath to berate the man for sheer

stupidity then changed his mind. “Why?” he asked.
Nobody wanted that kind of pain. It was incapacitating.

“I figured out it rips down my shields,” Cam

murmured. His eyes met Mason’s only for a moment.

Mason finally understood a little. Cam had traded one

form of pain for another. “You sure about that?” Mason
asked.

“Whatever you gave me a few minutes ago is

dissolving them. I think it’s anything narcotic. They
more or less came back once I was home and stopped
taking the stuff.”

“Okay, at least I get your reasons, but… You can’t do

this. Your blood pressure is way too high, your pulse
rate is up and you are stressing your body. It can kill
you. Give you a stroke, cause a heart attack. The human

body doesn’t cope with that kind of pain without a very
high price.” Cam looked at him in silence. “I’m
guessing you haven’t been eating or sleeping much?”

“Not much.” Cam looked a bit guilty.
“Who’s taking care of you?”
Cam looked vaguely mystified at the question. “My

room mate. And some of my squadron guys. They’ve
been kind of dropping by, helping make sure I can get
up and dressed and just general stuff.”

“Preparing food for you?”
“If I ask them to.”
“But basically not making sure you eat or sleep or

anything like that.”

“No, guess not,” Cam whispered.
Mason rubbed fingers across his eyes. He had a

limited number of choices. He could send Cam back to
the hospital, but that came with a set of very specific and
unusual problems apparently. He could try to arrange for
some sort of in home care, but that sort of thing usually
took a number of days. Or he could do it himself. Would
Cam go for that? Even a few hours, to make he sure he
actually ate and slept, would help.

“No girlfriend?”
“Not since the last one dumped me.” That was

accompanied by an eye roll.

“How ‘bout I drag you home with me and kick your

butt about taking care of yourself?” suggested Mason.
Cam looked very uncertain, but equally desperate. “I can
turn off the pain for a while without the drugs,” Mason
said.

“Okay.”

***

Cam called Keith while Mason drove. He told Keith

he was going to a friend’s house for dinner and not to
worry about picking him up.

He held his breath for a moment as Mason helped

him out of the car and into the wheelchair. He was
expecting pain, but apparently the doctor was holding it
back. Mason had a small ranch style house on 63

rd

Street, a couple of blocks from the oceanfront of
Virginia Beach. This end of the beach was a couple of
miles past the resort strip with its accompanying
boardwalk.

Inside the house, Mason pushed the wheelchair into

the kitchen and began digging in cabinets.

“What have you eaten today?” Mason asked.
“Uh, coffee, some cereal, an apple, some popcorn… I

guess that’s about it,” said Cam, not elaborating that he
hadn’t managed to choke down more than a few
mouthfuls of anything. The pain caused some sort of
nausea response.

“No protein, very little calcium. Your broken bones

and all the other damage are not going to heal without
supplies to build new bone and muscle. You ever do the
protein shake thing?”

“No, I don’t like raw eggs.”
“No eggs. Milk, whey protein, yogurt and

strawberries if you like them.”

“Strawberries are okay,” replied Cam. He watched

Mason throwing ingredients into the blender. After a
few minutes, he was handed a tall glass of the thick
liquid. Mason pulled out a kitchen chair and turned it
backward and sat down behind Cam. He laid a hand on
Cam’s shoulder, thumb on the nape of his neck. It was
like magic. The pain only partially masked by the drugs
just evaporated.

“Drink. I can do many things, but replacing the

nutrient molecules in your body isn’t one of them,” said
Mason softly. Cam began to drink. “Does it irritate your,
um, psychic stuff when I touch you?”

“No. Definitely not.”
“Because I’m sort of the same?”
“That I don’t know. Maybe.” He drained the rest of

the glass and rested his elbow on the arm of the
wheelchair. Without the unrelenting agony, sheer
exhaustion was over whelming him.

“You need sleep,” said Mason.
“Unh, yeah.”
“But we need to, maybe that should be I, need to

have a try at figuring out why your pain is so bad. Yes,
you have a number of broken bones and some organ
damage, but the pain in your leg is way out of
proportion. Fentenyl should have you in happy happy
lala land, not be just barely making it tolerable. Level
with me, do you use drugs?”

“You mean like illegal stuff?” Cam twisted his head a

little to glance at Mason. The question was annoying,
but he supposed it was a valid one. “No way. I only even
average a couple of beers a week. The guys in the
squadron think I’m way too straight laced.”

“Okay. Sorry, I needed to ask. That leaves the

possible reasons at -- you have a low pain threshold,
which doesn’t really seem to be the case, or there’s some
underlying problem. Now that we’re not at the hospital,
if you’re up for it I can have a go at looking for it.”

Cam could feel Mason’s thumb rubbing gently along

the back of his neck. It was a subtle motion, deliciously
comforting and he wanted it to keep going. That was
odd. He shouldn’t want that touch so badly. He shook
his head a little to clear it.

“What does looking for it involve?” he asked.

“Mostly you just being still and being willing to let

my hands do the walking, so to speak. Everything I do is
touch oriented.” Mason scooted his chair around to the
side so Cam could see him easier. There was something
he wasn’t saying, that much Cam could sense. It was
something embarrassing, personal, and Cam could feel a
hint of desire. Say what? Desire. From the man facing
him. Oh.

***

Mason saw the comprehension register. If Cam

hadn’t been psychic, Mason probably could have bluffed
his way through the process. No need for the patient to
know the doctor was gay. But the level of concentration
and the complete dropping of his own defenses to find
the hidden damage, would almost inevitably allow his
thoughts to bleed through. He was attracted to Cam,
broken body and all. How much was a by-product of the
healing he already done and how much was just lust,
was highly debatable.

“I’m gay and I’m attracted to you. If I do this, that

won’t be a secret. I’m pretty sure you’d notice. If this is
going to creep you out, we’ll try to figure out some other
way,” he blurted out.

A hint of a smile tugged at Cam’s mouth. “I’m

straight, but I’m open-minded. It doesn’t bother me,”
replied Cam.

“It would be easiest to have you strip down to your

underwear and lie on the bed. I know that sounds way
fishy, but I can’t do this standing up and clothing makes
it… more difficult.” Mason could feel his face flushing
with embarrassment. God, it sounded like he was trying
to seduce the guy, and much as a little part of his libido

liked entertaining that thought, that really wasn’t the
idea.

“You gave me a bath in the hospital. There isn’t an

inch of me you haven’t seen, so you know I’m still
pretty much a complete wreck.” Cam smiled a little.

“You sure you’re okay with this?” Mason pressed.
“Yeah, it’s fine.”

Chapter 6

Mason pushed the wheelchair back to the bedroom

and carefully helped Cam undress. He was easing Cam’s
T-shirt up over his head, taking great care not to pull his
damaged shoulder too much. Cam was sitting on the
edge of the bed. He looked up at Mason. There was an
unspoken gratitude in his eyes.

“You didn’t ask your roommate to help you dress or

undress, did you?” Mason asked.

“No. I asked him to get some stuff out of the drawer

for me. We’re buds, but…” It was apparently Cam’s
turn to look embarrassed.

“Uh-huh. You can martyr yourself later. This week

you need to be an invalid and let your body try to play
catch-up,” said Mason.

He pulled Cam to his feet long enough to push his

jeans down over his hips, before lowering him back
down. The side seam of the jeans had been slit from hem
to knee to accommodate the bulky metal rods of the
fixation.

Mason had Cam stretch out on the bed and blocked

him up on his side with a couple of pillows. The
horrendous bruising had begun to yellow at the edges,
combined with the scars and scabbing, stripped almost
naked, Cam definitely had a sort of death camp survivor
look. Mason kicked off his own shoes and sat on the bed
behind Cam.

“Just try to relax. If you fall asleep, that’s fine. This

is probably going to take quite a while. I’m going to
start with the back of your neck. Sometimes leg pain
actually starts somewhere else. I just want to make sure I
don’t miss anything,” Mason explained.

“Okay. Do whatever you need to,” replied Cam.

Within minutes, fatigue had overpowered Cam and

he drifted to sleep. It took half an hour just to find the
problem. One of the peroneal nerves that ran down
Cam’s lower leg had been damaged, badly. Not severed,
more like filleted. It was probably a by-product of the
multiple breaks in the nearby bone. It wouldn’t have
been obvious during the repair surgery, not without a
microscope. On its own, healing would probably take
months, maybe even a couple years. Nerves were
notoriously hard to heal. There was no way Cam would
be able to tolerate the kind of pain it generated for that
length of time. In a normal patient, long term high dose
narcotics would be the best option. Mason decided he
needed to do what he could to accelerate that process.

This would probably take a number of days. He spent

the next hour and half delicately pouring energy into
Cam’s body. This was a finesse job, not unlike
microsurgery. Exhausted by the process, he eventually
lay down next to Cam. He made sure one hand lay
draped over Cam’s hip.

***

Warmth. Comforting delicious warmth. The pain in

his leg and chest and shoulder was only a dull annoying
ache. A pulse beat slow and steady beneath his cheek.
Huh? His head was cradled on someone’s shoulder, his
uninjured leg draped over strong thighs, his arm flung
across a hard chest. Cam dragged his leaden eyelids
open. Mason. Oh Christ, he was in bed with Mason, all
snuggled up to him like a lover. He was in bed with
another guy. He couldn’t do this, he was military. He
could get kicked out. And. oh God, the pain level was
low enough that waking up didn’t make him want to just
slit his own throat to get away from it.

Last night Mason had bullied him into eating a little,

undressed him, and coaxed him to sleep. He had fallen
to sleep lulled by the thrum of warm energy imparted by
Mason’s hand on his skin. This was just so wrong,
wasn’t it? He thought about rolling away and shifted a
little, preparing to do so. Mason’s hand stroked down
his spine and the pain dwindled to almost nothing. His
eyelids drooped and his body went slack as exhaustion
pulled him under again.

Chapter 7

Mason woke slowly and a smile curved his lips. Cam

was cuddled up tight to his side, asleep. Thank God. The
guy was running on empty, exhausted. Several days of
what must have been unrelenting pain, stressing an
already traumatized body was bad news. Yesterday he
had been about ready to smack the guy up beside the
head for stupidly believing that he could manage to get
through this by sheer willpower.

He twisted his head a little to glance at the clock. Six

fifteen. Technically, he should be getting up for work
fairly soon, but he was beat. He had woken numerous
times in the night, making sure his hands stayed in
contact with Cam, holding the pain at bay. Active
healing took more concentration and energy. Simply
damping down the pain to a background level, he could
manage even half asleep. Even so, he was dead tired. He
almost never used his sick days. Hadn’t Tyra been
ragging on him just last week that he had forty-one on
the books, and maybe he should go spend a month in
Europe?

He groped for cell phone he had tossed on the

nightstand and pressed the numbers to dial the office.

“This is Mason. I’m taking a personal day. I feel like

shit.” That part was at least halfway true. “Get Steve and
Mark to cover for me. Reschedule anything that’s just
follow up stuff. I’ll call you later.” He thumbed off the
phone and tossed it back on the nightstand.

Cam let out a vague noise. He glanced down at the

pilot. Cam’s face was still far too pale and dark shadows
lingered beneath his eyes. One night of halfway decent
sleep could only help so much. Mason stretched a little
and yawned. He had put out an awful lot of energy

himself, last night. Did he look like he’d been on an all
night bender? Mmm, maybe. More sleep.

***

The sunshine was showing bright under the edge of

the curtains in the bedroom when Cam woke again. He
was still wrapped halfway over top Mason. He rolled
carefully away and forced himself upright. His shoulder
and chest still ached, but not quite as intensely. He set
his foot on the floor. Before Villetti had discharged him
from the hospital, the doctor had told him he was
allowed to walk on his broken leg a little, enough to get
in and out of the wheelchair and such. In practice, it was
abject agony. He clenched his teeth and pushed himself
to his feet, putting most of his weight on his good leg to
lever himself into the wheelchair. It was only a dozen
feet or so to the bathroom from there.

By the time he returned to the bedroom, the pain had

returned pretty damn close to its usual level, making his
stomach clench in nausea from the sheer strength of it.
Mason was sitting up on the bed. He apparently had
never bothered to undress any further than taking off his
shoes and socks and untucking his shirt. His hair was
tousled and he looked immensely tired.

“I see you’re still trying to bull your way through,”

he said. “You could’ve woken me up to help you.”

“Yeah, well… you managed to allow me to sleep all

night. I figured I could give you a few more minutes,”
said Cam. Mason just glared at him. “Don’t you have to
go to work?”

“I called in sick.” Now Cam felt guilty. He reached

down to pick up his jeans off the floor, and had to
swallow hard against the wave of agony the extra

pressure on his leg caused. Mason crawled across the
bed and grabbed his hand.

“You aren’t going anywhere, so you don’t need

clothes yet,” he said. Cam was panting slightly with the
small exertion. Mason’s hand wrapped around his wrist
and the pain died back to an ache. The abrupt cessation
caused his muscles to go almost limp with relief.
“You’re getting back into bed. You’re going to eat
something for breakfast, in bed and then I will help you
get dressed.”

Cam let out a slow breath and nodded. “Did you ever

figure out what the problem with my leg is, or does it
classify as one of those -- no idea -- things?”

“You have nerve damage. It’s called the peroneal

nerve. It runs down the center of your leg.”

“Can you fix it?”
“Yeah, I think so. I made a little bit of progress last

night. Fixing nerves is tough going. They resist and if I
screw it up, I could make things worse. It’ll take time.
Lots of time.” Mason tightened the grip on his wrist and
helped him to stand long enough to get out of the
wheelchair and sit on the bed.

Mason went off to do something about breakfast.

Cam leaned back against a pillow jammed up by the
headboard. He noticed that if he was absolutely still, the
pain was bearable. That was an improvement.

***

Mason fired up the coffee pot and blearily pulled

eggs out of the refrigerator. Protein, calcium, and some
carbs, his brain suggested for Cam. The caffeine was
mostly for himself.

He carried a plate containing eggs and toast and a

glass of milk back to the bedroom. Cam was still sitting

up. He had picked up a magazine from the floor near the
bed and was looking at a set of moderately gruesome
pictures.

“Does Frontiers in Orthopedic Surgery qualify as

light bedtime reading?” he asked. Mason grinned a little.

“I’m not exactly the type to keep Playboy under the

bed,” he said. Cam had the grace to grimace a little.
“Eat. I’m going to take a shower,” Mason said as he
walked toward the bathroom.

When he came out, Cam was poking idly at the food

on the plate. He had eaten very little. Mason dressed in a
pair of jeans and a T-shirt and sat down on the edge of
the bed.

“I will feed you if I have to,” he said. It was a thinly

veiled threat.

“It makes me feel like I’m going to puke,” muttered

Cam.

“That’s a side effect of the pain,” replied Mason. He

put his hand on Cam’s leg and damped down the torture.
He could feel the pounding rhythm of Cam’s heart beat
under the skin. “Now eat. Afterward we’ll get you
dressed and go back to your place to pick up some
clothes and your meds and stuff.”

“I don’t want the pain killers. If there are people

around, they make me feel like I’m both schizophrenic
and stoned!”

“Does ‘people’ include me?”
“No.”
“Good. Then here’s the plan. I have to touch you to

do this.” Mason gestured to his hand on Cam’s leg.
“Much as I don’t mind holding your hand, there’s
feasibility issues involved. You need to take enough
meds that the pain doesn’t overwhelm you when I stop
touching you. Your body is still trying to do the off the
scale stress response thing. The more I can I heal the

damaged nerve, the less meds you’ll need. But it’s going
to take time.” He watched Cam nibble a little at the food
on the plate. He wanted to wrap both arms around Cam
and hold him and assure him that things would improve.

***

Cam’s eyes flickered from the plate up to Mason. He

was picking up notes of deep worry mixed with heavy,
anguished desire to offer comfort. The doctor wanted to
offer more than just his fingers on the skin of Cam’s leg.
Damn, it was overwhelming to be the focus of all that
intensity, somehow awe-inspiring to be on the receiving
end of that kind of care. Cam drank a little of the milk,
cursing internally at his own mental argument. It wasn’t
like he hadn’t ever touched other men. He wasn’t quite
as dead straight as he had implied. There had been a
little experimenting.

He set the glass on the table beside the bed and

looked at Mason. He took hold of the Mason’s hand and
laced his fingers between the long tapered ones and met
Mason’s eyes.

“Kiss me,” he whispered.
Mason raised an eyebrow. “Thought you said you

didn’t do guys,” Mason replied.

“I … have messed around a couple times. I’m

military, so it was seriously on the sly and nowhere on
base,” Cam blurted out. Keep going, be honest, he told
himself. “I jerked off a guy I knew at a party. I wanted
to watch his face. I swapped blowjobs with someone in
a bathroom at a club. I didn’t even ever find out his
name.” Cam could feel his face flame with
embarrassment. “I like women. I really do, but I…” He
had to swallow hard again. “I’ve never kissed a guy.”

Mason gave a slight snort of amusement. Cam

relaxed a fraction. At least Mason had a sense of humor.
Cam watched Mason’s eyes and wondered what it
would be like to watch him come.

“You sure that’s what you want?” Mason asked.
“Yeah, I am,” responded Cam.
Mason scooted forward and leaned in toward Cam’s

face. Cam could feel Mason’s breath ghosting softly on
his skin, lips hovering an inch from his own. Then
Mason’s mouth pressed softly against his. He felt
warmth, caring, the prickle of beard stubble, and the
underlying sensation of Mason’s energy signature. It
started out very chastely. Then he could feel the tip of
Mason’s tongue tracing along his lower lip and he
opened his mouth, wanting to taste Mason. His hand
fisted into the hair at the back of Mason’s head, holding
the man close, as his mouth was softly plundered and
their tongues dueled and explored. They slowly pulled
apart. Cam was amazed. He’d kissed a few women who
were good at it. Very good. Somehow it wasn’t even the
male-female difference that intrigued him and revved his
engine in ways he hadn’t thought possible. It was the
person. It was Mason. Did that make gender irrelevant?

He had once had what had come across as a very

hypothetical and slightly twisted conversation with one
of the people who trained him at Division P. The woman
had postulated that for most psi, gender was a non-issue
in the game of attraction and compatibility. Identity was
key. And when you found the right person, be it for an
emotional relationship or a working one, male or female
was merely an issue of plumbing. It had seemed like one
of those weird no-answer type arguments at the time.
Now he wasn’t so sure, especially since half the blood in
his body seemed to rushing south toward his groin.

He could feel Mason’s pulse racing where Mason’s

wrist was pressed along the side of his neck. His fingers
were still tangled in the doctor’s hair. Mason’s face
pulled back far enough to focus his eyes on Cam’s face.

“That satisfy your curiosity?” he asked. His voice

was a low husky whisper.

“Uh … yeah,” Cam managed to get out.

***

Mason drew a long shuddering breath. The kiss had

affected him far more than he’d thought it would. His
jeans felt way too tight, and he could still taste Cam on
his lips. Cam’s request had thrown him. As had the
admission that Cam had fooled around just a little with
some other guys. Most hetero guys would sooner die
than admit they had ever even so much as looked at
another man. Okay, get a grip, he told himself, it was
kiss. There were more important issues at hand.

“Let’s get you dressed, and go by your place,” Mason

said. Cam gave him a somewhat questioning look. “And
then showered and medicated and let me have another
go at working on the nerve damage.”

Chapter 8

Mason drove toward Chick’s beach, a subdivision of

Virginia Beach. Cam said he shared an apartment there
with another pilot. In the parking lot, Mason helped him
into the wheelchair.

“Never thought I’d be so amazingly glad, I have a

ground floor apartment,” Cam said.

“Definitely makes things easier.” Cam unlocked the

door and Mason pushed him inside. They made it about
three feet into the room, when the smell hit Mason like a
slap. Blood. Fresh blood.

Then he saw it. In the middle of the den area, a man

lay sprawled on a light colored sofa. He lay with his
arms splayed wide, eyes staring sightlessly, blood
soaking his T-shirt. A horrific wound gaped open across
his throat.

Mason forced himself to walk toward the man. If

there was even the slightest chance he was still alive…
He touched a hand to the wrist nearest him. The skin had
already started cooling and there was no sensation of life
at all. He brushed his fingers down over the open eyes,
closing the lids, a tiny gesture of dignity. Then he
realized perhaps he shouldn’t have. Forensics and all
that. Belatedly he looked back at Cam. He was
absolutely frozen in the chair. Mason wasn’t even sure
Cam was breathing. He had to get the guy out of there.
He hurried back to Cam and pushed him out the
apartment door, pulling it shut behind him. He yanked
his cell phone from his pocket and dialed 911.

***

A herd of police, EMS and technicians flowed in and

out of the apartment doorway. Cam was attempting to

answer the questions put to him by a detective. Yes, he
lived here. No, he hadn’t been there since yesterday. He
hadn’t seen Keith since the previous afternoon. He had
talked to Keith on the phone around five thirty, to tell
his room mate that he was going to dinner with a friend
and didn’t need to be picked up. No, he hadn’t argued
with Keith. No, he didn’t know of anyone who would
specifically want to harm his roommate.

He glanced across the sidewalk to the edge of the

parking lot. Mason was apparently getting the third
degree from another detective.

“Mr. Bradshaw, are you able to stand?” the detective

facing him asked.

“Yes.”
“Can you walk?”
“About two steps in a pinch.”
“I’d like you to stand so one of my tech’s can

examine your clothes for blood.” Cam glared slightly at
the detective. They couldn’t possibly believe he had
anything to do with Keith’s death, could they? He
slowly hauled himself to his feet, balancing primarily on
his good leg. A technician in a coverall came over and
proceeded to check him over. He had to turn a little and
the shuffling step put pressure on his injured leg. A bolt
of agony shot up through him and he sucked in a sharp
breath. In another minute, he was sweating with the
pain.

“Ok, you can sit,” said the tech and Cam sank back

into the wheelchair, but sitting did very little to abate the
pain.

***

Mason observed Cam while answering his own

interrogator. The detective had seemed only grudgingly

willing to believe that Mason had touched the dead man
for the purpose of confirming he was dead. He had quite
cooperatively displayed that he had a trace of blood on
one finger from the touch. He was questioned in detail
about his movements over the past day.

“And your purpose for coming to the apartment

was?” the detective prompted.

“To get clean clothes and medication for Cameron.

Speaking of which, look at him. He’s in a lot of pain. He
needs the meds. He’s only been out of the hospital for a
four days, and his leg is broken is eight places. Can you
please send someone inside to get the medication?”

“I’ll look into it. Stay right where you are,” said the

detective, and he turned to talk to an officer. Mason
frowned and leaned against his car. A few dozen feet
away, he could see Cam. His face was white and slicked
with sweat. He was rocking and twisting slightly in the
wheelchair, lips pressed together. Forget his healing
talents, as a doctor this was an unacceptable situation.

“Hey,” he called to the detective. The man swiveled

back to look at him.

“Yes?”
“If you don’t send someone to get his meds soon,

you’re going to be transporting him to the hospital,”
Mason said with heat.

“Great. Lewis, go find Mr. Bradshaw’s medicine.”

The officer went into the apartment. He came out
several minutes later with a number of prescription
bottles and boxes in his hands. He handed it to the
detective, commenting, “It’s all narcotic sort of stuff.”

“Yes, it is!” snapped Mason. “Lieutenant Bradshaw

has a shattered lower leg, broken ribs, a broken shoulder
blade and recently had surgery for internal injuries!
Advil and Tylenol are NOT going to cut it!”

“What exactly am I supposed to give him?” asked

Lewis. The question seemed to be directed at the
detective.

“That,” said Mason pointing at a narrow box labeled

Actiq -- Transmucosal Fentanyl Citrate.

“Isn’t that that ‘perco-pop’ thing?” asked the officer

suspiciously.

“Yes it is. Note it has been prescribed by a licensed

physician for a man with severe pain!” Mason was
pissed. This was dragging on forever and in the
background he could see Cam rocking in absolute
torture. Mason was about ready to punch someone out.

“Okay, give it to him,” the detective said.
Lewis walked to Cam and handed him the box. Cam

looked sort of blank as he took it. His fingers fumbled
with the cardboard. The box had never been opened
before.

“Please. Let me help him,” Mason pleaded, trying to

reign in his anger. The detective glared at him, and then
finally nodded.

Mason hurried toward Cam and dropped to one knee

in front of him. Cam looked at him with glazed eyes.

“Here, let me,” Mason said softly and quickly peeled

the box and the inner package open. “Open your
mouth,” he said and put a thumb against Cam’s lower
lip to encourage him. The intensity of the pain washed
through the skin contact and Mason had to take a deep
breath to steady his hands. “It goes between your gums
and the inside of your cheek, so the drug soaks through
into your bloodstream. Okay?” Cam nodded slightly. He
had clearly passed any point of true comprehension.
Mason pushed the stick that had a cough drop looking
block on the end of it into Cam’s mouth. It should only
be a few minutes before it started to take effect.

What Mason really wanted to do was take both of

Cam’s hands and slam down the blocks he could place
between his friend and the pain. But any strange instant
response by Cam would raise too many questions. The
best he could do was to scale back the agony just a little
while he waited on the drug to kick in. His fingers rested
against Cam’s wrist and he glanced at his watch, both
checking Cam’s pulse and taking advantage of the
touch.

The minutes ticked by as people flowed around them.

Cam’s head jerked up as a stretcher bearing a black
body bag was brought out.

“I’m sorry,” said Mason. “I guess you were friends.”
“Yeah, we got along. Not something I’m very good

at,” mumbled Cam. His heart rate had finally slowed to
something closer to normal.

Another half an hour trickled by before the police

were willing to let Mason and Cam leave. This was
accompanied by terse instructions that sounded
suspiciously like “don’t leave town.” Mason ground his
teeth as he drove away. He wondered if it was worth
filing an official complaint against the police for their
harsh treatment of the injured Cameron.

Chapter 9

Cam stared out the window of the car, but all he saw

was Keith’s bloody body flopped on the sofa, throat slit.
Keith wasn’t family, but he had been a friend. Cam
couldn’t even begin to fathom who might have done
such a thing. The TV and the iPod dock hadn’t been
touched, so robbery had apparently not been a motive.
All his narcotic prescriptions had been similarly
untouched.

Back near the oceanfront, Mason helped him out of

the car and into the house, grabbing a duffle bag of
clothes. Thank God Mason was rational enough to have
demanded that he needed to get some clothing for Cam.
There was no way he could stay in that apartment, even
if it hadn’t been declared off limits as a crime scene.

“Earth to Cameron. Which do you want first, food or

sleep?” asked Mason. Cam snapped back to awareness,
realizing that Mason had probably been trying to get his
attention for at least a minute. He was sitting on the
sofa, more comfortable than the wheelchair, with his
hands clenched against the upholstery.

“Oh, um, just something to drink,” he answered. His

brain was fogged over from the stuff that Mason had
given him. He understood the reason; he loathed the side
effects. His shielding had dropped back to nil. He was
thankful that Mason was the only other person in the
house.

Mason returned a few minutes later with a plastic

bottle in his hand. The label read Ensure. Wasn’t that the
stuff they gave elderly people? Shit, right at the moment
he felt about five hundred years old.

“You need the protein and the other stuff. Don’t

complain,” Mason said.

Cam merely nodded. It was too much trouble to

object. He forced himself to drink it. It wasn’t as nasty
as he thought it would be. Mason sat down beside him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.
“No,” was Cam’s flat reply. He wanted to forget it.

He wanted to scrub the image out of his head. “Distract
me,” he said. Mason picked up the remote to the TV and
turned it on and handed it him.

“Surf away. And while you’re at it, put your leg in

my lap.” What the fuck? Cam looked at him in
incomprehension, then glanced at the metal bars
encasing his lower leg. Oh yeah, the healing thing. God,
the drugs were making his brain into mush. He twisted
sideways on the sofa and set his leg across Mason’s
thighs. Mason pushed the fabric of the jeans off to one
side, as it was split up the seam, and slid his fingers in
between the metal support struts. Cam felt the warm
buzz of energy creeping along his skin and into the
muscles.

Cam set the TV to CNN and dropped the remote in

his lap. Somewhere in California there was a wildfire.
Wall Street was doing normal things. Some female
celebrity had given birth. It wasn’t holding his attention.
He looked at Mason. The doctor’s eyes were closed, his
lower lip between his teeth. He was obviously focused
on the tiny motions of his fingers.

He wanted that mouth against his own. The kiss had

been amazing. Mason was admittedly gay. That gave
Cam pause. That probably meant he’d done things Cam
hadn’t: intense things, intimate things. Cam swallowed
hard. He was an adult. He had a fairly good idea what
two male bodies together were capable of. Was that
something he wanted? No. Yes. Maybe? He knew two
gay guys on the base. One he knew from a party where
the man had blurted out that he didn’t do women, and

then promptly shut the hell up. The other was a trace
more up front. Off base one time, he had been seen
kissing another man. When asked about it, he had
acknowledged it but been no more forthcoming. “Don’t
ask, don’t tell” sort of worked, but not exactly. It all
depended on who you served with and just how
homophobic they were.

On the TV, the commentator started discussing a

murder that had occurred in New York, and Cam flashed
on the vision of Keith dead staring face and the gaping
wound in his throat and…

Mason’s hand closed around his wrist.
“You okay?” Mason asked. Cam shook his head

trying to dislodge the image. “Maybe the news is not
such a good idea,” said Mason, picking up the remote
and changing the channel to some miscellaneous sitcom.

“Just turn it off,” muttered Cam. He squeezed his

eyes shut for a long moment, then opened them again.
Mason was looking at him with concern. They sat
immobile in an awkward silence.

Cam slowly reached out his hand and brushed his

fingers along Mason’s cheek. Mason hadn’t shaved
today, but then again neither had Cam. It was odd to feel
the rough texture of someone else’s beard. Cam traced
down the line of the other man’s jaw, and then across his
mouth. The contrast of the softness of his lips was
alluring. And Cam knew what that mouth felt like
against his own. He met Mason’s eyes. Mason’s pupils
were dilated and Cam realized that if he sorted through
the fog of the meds he could feel hints of desire. Mason
was very still.

Cam stuck his hand behind himself and pushed,

scooting forward so his butt was against Mason’s thigh
and his knees flexed over Mason’s legs. His hands
clasped Mason’s face and Cam kissed him. It was

aggressive and needy and the angle was awkward. He
pushed his tongue against Mason’s teeth and Mason’s
mouth opened. Cam swiped his tongue along his
partner’s, sucking on his lower lip, nipping at the side of
his mouth.

He twisted, trying to wind his arms around Mason’s

body and the motion sent a spasm of pain wrenching
through his partially healed ribs. He sagged against
Mason with a frustrated snarl and punched the back of
the sofa with his fist. Mason had begun to damp down
the pain almost as soon as it started, which left an odd
echo effect. Cam’s body tensed, subconsciously
expecting the pain to flood through him in a second
wave.

Mason’s hand was cupped around his neck, the other

arm carefully placed around his back, supporting him
slightly.

“If you’re that intent on distraction, the bed would be

a hell of a lot more comfortable for you,” said Mason.
“If you’re sure that’s what you want…”

Cam leaned back, lying with his back flat on the sofa

cushions. He scrubbed his hand down over his face.

“I don’t know what the fuck I want,” he growled.

“How ‘bout lack of pain! How ‘bout being able to walk
! Or maybe for Keith to not be dead!” His hands were
clenched into fists and he crossed his arms over his
chest, breathing hard, eyes screwed shut.

“Trying on the first and second ones. And I’m so

sorry about Keith,” Mason replied softly.

“Shit, I didn’t mean to imply… If you weren’t taking

care of me, I’d be back in the hospital doped to the
eyeballs, and them trying to figure out the nerve damage
thing, right?”

“Probably.”

“Thank you… Really. I owe you a hell of a lot.” Cam

opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. He struggled
into a sitting position again. “Take me to bed,” he said.
Mason’s eyes narrowed a little.

“Cam, offering yourself up is not what I’m looking

for,” he said.

Cam gave him a lopsided smile. “Being altruistic has

nothing to do with it. I want to stop seeing his dead body
and the couch all covered in blood. I want a distraction,
even if it’s only for a few minutes.”

Mason regarded him for a long moment. “Okay.”
Cam slowly swiveled around to place his feet on the

floor, and pushed himself to his feet. He sank into the
wheelchair. “I will be so fucking glad when I can walk
more than two steps,” he griped

***

In the bedroom, Cam leaned against the headboard.

Mason crawled onto the bed next to him. Mason gave
Cam a questioning look, then said, “So were you
planning on picking up where you left off?”

“Yeah, that was kind of my intention,” Cam replied.

He reached for Mason somewhat tentatively. Their
mouths met… carefully. A soft brush of lips. Little
nibbles. Mason’s thumb traced along Cam’s cheekbone.
It was a caress. Cam’s breath hitched. His few previous
experiences had been hard and aggressive fumbles, all
about getting off as fast as possible. He’d failed to
realize two guys could do slow.

He slid his hand up under Mason’s T-shirt. His palm

against warm skin, he could feel the thrum of his energy.

“Are you turned on?” he mumbled against Mason’s

mouth.

“Getting there,” Mason said. His teeth grazed at the

corner of Cam’s mouth.

Cam snickered. “Not exactly what I meant. I meant

your healing stuff.”

Mason pulled back a little and studied Cam’s face.

“Yes. Unless I actively suppress it, it responds
automatically at a real base level to anything I perceive
as pain or injury.”

“Me and my messed up body.”
“Yeah.”
“I can feel it .”
“Mmm, good.”
Cam’s other hand joined the first under the fabric of

Mason’s T-shirt. He could feel the smooth resilience of
muscles beneath the skin. Mason reached backward and
grabbed a handful of the shirt and pulled it off over his
head, dropping it over the edge of the bed. Cam’s hand
skimmed down across Mason’s bare chest to the crotch
of his jeans. Mason was very definitely turned on, in
more ways than one. He could feel the hard length
underneath the material.

His own response didn’t seem to be anywhere near as

dramatic. Yeah, he was about half hard, but it didn’t
seem to be heading in the direction of finishing the idea.
In frustration, he grabbed Mason’s hand and pulled it
against his own groin. Mason’s fingers stroked him
lightly. It felt good, very good, nothing changed. God,
had he broken something down there? A thread of panic
coursed through him.

“Cam. Look at me,” Mason said gently. Cam glanced

at Mason’s face. “You’re okay. You’ve barely been
eating or sleeping. There’s still a hefty load of Fentanyl
in your system from a couple of hours ago. And you are
stressed to the max. Your body’s overwhelmed. It’ll

come back. It might take a couple more days, but
believe me it’s okay.”

Cam sucked in a shaky breath and blew it back out.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Mason’s voice was calm and

rational and Cam could feel the trickle of caring concern
everywhere they touched.

“I want to get you off,” Cam said.
“It’s okay. I’m fine.”
“Mason, I want to. I want to watch you. I want to do

it for more than mere curiosity. I want to do it for
someone who actually gives a crap about me.” He
watched the internal debate reflected in Mason’s eyes.
Mason still had some obvious reservations about
whether there was an element of “debt owed” involved.

“Okay,” Mason said slowly.
Cam’s hands returned to their original pursuit, tracing

the planes of Mason’s chest. He pressed his face to the
side of Mason’s neck and nipped carefully at the skin.
Mason groaned a little. Cam pushed Mason flat onto the
bed and brushed his lips along Mason’s collar bone,
across to the hollow at the base of the warm throat, and
down the center line of his chest. It was an exploration.
The fine curls of dark chest hair trailing toward the
waistband of Mason’s jeans were wiry soft against his
fingertips. There was something slightly weird about
exploring another man’s body this way, and yet it was
unmistakably arousing.

He pressed his palm against the bulge in Mason’s

jeans and his partner squirmed slightly. He watched the
way Mason’s lips parted slightly as he drew in a deep
breath and then closed as he swallowed. Cam twisted a
little to bring his head back up toward Mason’s, and
looked down into his face. His pupils were blown wide.
Cam smiled a little and stroked his hand down across

Mason’s crotch again. Mason squirmed under the
pressure. Cam raised his hand and slipped it inside the
front of Mason’s jeans, wiggling his fingers under the
band of Mason’s briefs. He could feel a trace of
slickness over the tip and heat of the hard cock on his
hand. And the steady subtle buzz of energy from Mason.
He pulled his hand out. Mason gave him a quizzical and
wary look.

“I need two hands for the fly,” Cam said. Mason

grinned a little. It took a moment to pull down the zipper
and push down Mason’s clothing a few inches. His
erection bobbed, hard and tight against the lower edge of
his stomach. Cam’s hand closed around it and stroked
him. Mason groaned again and bucked slightly into the
motion.

Cam eyes flickered between the hard length in his

hand and Mason’s face. The slightly flushed skin, the
pant of breath between Mason’s lips and the stronger
thrum of energy told him Mason was very definitely
enjoying this. Cam drew the tip of his tongue across a
nipple and Mason shivered beneath him, clenching his
hands into the sheets. Cam continued the slow pace,
pausing a moment to drag his palm across the now
leaking tip of Mason’s cock. Mason’s breath was going
ragged and he thrust shallowly into every stroke. Cam
was entranced. To watch Mason come undone under his
touch was amazing.

“Unh… God… close… Cam.” The last syllable was a

heavy moan and Mason came hard in spurts that
splattered across his stomach and Cam’s hand. Cam
could feel the bright wash of ecstasy crash through him
like sticking all his fingers in an electrical socket. It was
adrenaline and lust and a head rush all tangled together.
Mason sagged bonelessly on the bed, struggling to
breathe evenly.

“Wow,” Mason gasped.
Cam kissed him, thoroughly enjoying the soft energy

after burn that bled from Mason’s skin.

***

Mason cupped his hand against the back of Cam’s

head, deepening the kiss. It had been a while since any
hands other than his own had touched him. He didn’t
really “do” casual. It certainly wasn’t like he was
looking for undying love and permanent commitment,
but… There really had to be some emotion, something
more than just satisfying an itch. And there was an
awful lot of emotion charging through the man in his
arms. Passion probably topped the list, but there was
also wonder and curiosity and uncertainty.

They finally parted, mostly for lack of oxygen.

Mason stared up into Cam’s face. There was so much
intensity in those blue-gray eyes. Cam’s body was
pressed along his side, and he could feel the bolts and
rods from the metal fixation lightly jammed against his
own leg. Cam’s uninjured leg was draped halfway over
his and he was grinding himself on Mason’s hip. Mason
curled his hand around the curve of Cam’s behind,
pulling Cam in a little tighter.

“Looks like the rest of my body finally got it in

gear,” Cam said, with a bit of a smirk. Mason hooked a
finger through one of Cam’s belt loops and tugged a
little.

“We could get rid of these,” Mason proposed. He

didn’t want to push too hard. There was still an
underlying hesitancy in the pilot. Cam’s breath hitched a
little unevenly.

“I, uh, I’d need a little help,” replied Cam.

“I can do that.” Mason sat up and eased Cam’s jeans

off and shimmied out of his own. Lying back down
beside Cam, he wrapped an arm carefully around Cam’s
waist. “Tell me what you want?” he whispered. Cam
looked at him, pupils blown, lips parted. “Hands?
Mouth? Both? Something different?”

“B-both? God I don’t care. Just do something!” Cam

pleaded.

Mason gave a light snort of amusement.
“You sound awfully desperate for a supposedly

straight guy,” Mason said. His thumb brushed lightly
along Cam’s hipbone. He could sense the raw want. His
fingers gripped Cam’s hard length and he stroked Cam
as he began to kiss the man again. He pushed his tongue
into Cam’s mouth, devouring him. Cam’s hand clenched
in the hair at the back of Mason’s head.

Mason could feel the tickle of tension from Cam’s

mind as his body ached for release. His heart rate
climbed as he thrust into the firm grip of Mason’s hand.
His breath was an irregular pant. Mason ran his mouth
down Cam’s body, pausing to suck on a nipple. Cam let
out a whimpering moan. Mason continued on down
along his lover’s ribs, with light grazes of teeth and
sucks at skin. Cam was rocking harder into Mason’s
stroking hand. Mason could feel the build-up. He
scooted at little further down the bed. The tip of the cock
in his hand was damp and slick. He opened his mouth
and licked across the moisture. Cam’s breathing became
a gasp and Mason deep throated him.

“Ohgodohgodohgod!” Cam half screamed as the

climax tore through him. His body arched up off the
bed. Mason quickly slid his arms under Cam’s back,
holding him as tightly as he dared while the final spasms
of the orgasm dwindled away. He held the pain down to

an echo that zinged its way through his lover’s nervous
system like the after image of fireworks.

A couple of minutes passed before Cam opened his

eyes.

“I’m gonna seriously regret that later aren’t I?” Cam

whispered.

“Maybe,” replied Mason. He gave Cam a soft smile.
His lover’s body sagged heavy and limp in his arms,

and he withdrew an arm to brush sweat damp hair back
off Cam’s forehead. It was obvious that the exertions
had thoroughly exhausted Cam. Mason could feel his
own fatigue warring with the need to keep his partner’s
pain at bay. He sat up long enough to pull the blankets
over them, and then gently folded Cam in his arms,
cradling Cam’s head against his shoulder.

He could do this. He could catch a little more sleep

and let his healing talent run on a sort of low level
autopilot again. It wouldn’t speed the healing of the
damaged nerve, but truthfully, he was more worried
about Cam’s mental state right at this moment.

Nose buried in the warm sweaty male scent of Cam’s

hair, Mason let his hand trace slow circles on Cam’s
skin as they both drifted into sleep.

Chapter 10

Showering involved a plastic chair swiped from

Mason’s patio and quite a bit of assistance from Mason
himself. Afterward, Cam decided it was the best he had
felt physically since the accident. Well, barring the
really intimate stuff with Mason. He was still trying to
sort out how he felt about that. The military had some
definite opinions against same sex relationships. If he
pursued this, it would take an extreme amount of
discretion and restraint to prevent it from destroying his
career. Could he do that? He didn’t know. He wasn’t
even sure exactly what Mason wanted out of this. It was
obvious he cared, a lot. But how much of that was a
product of being both a doctor and a healer?

In the kitchen, Mason was throwing together some

dinner. Cam sat with his wheelchair pulled up to the
table, idly trying to force his brain to focus on the
Sudoku puzzle in the newspaper.

The sound of the doorbell broke the silence.

***

Mason opened the door. A blond man in a dark suit

was standing on the doorstep. The first thought that
jumped to mind was -- police.

“I’m looking for Lieutenant Cameron Bradshaw,” the

man said.

“And you are?” asked Mason. His tone was polite but

wary. Cam didn’t really need another round with the
police only a handful of hours after the last one. The
man flipped open an ID.

“Federal agent, Division P. My name is Daniel

Valentine,” he replied.

Behind Mason, there was a slight noise, wheels on

wood. Cam had pushed his wheelchair out of the
kitchen.

“Danny? What are you doing here?” Cam demanded.
“You know this guy?” asked Mason.
“Yeah, I do. We’ve done some work together,” Cam

said. Mason stepped back and motioned for the agent to
come in. “So, back to the first part, what are you doing
here?”

“Looking for you. You’re in danger.”
“Why?”
“Division P ops.”
“I haven’t done anything for you guys for like two

months.”

“Yeah, you have. Or at least you started to. The

meeting on the 18

th

.”

“That was a do nothing, hold your breath while we

try to get our collective bureaucratic asses in gear non-
event.”

“Apparently that’s how it started out.”
“Why do I not like the sound of that?”
“We’re pretty sure you were targeted for your

involvement. The accident most likely wasn’t. Neither
was Lieutenant Commander Haverty,” finished
Valentine.

All the blood drained from Cam’s face. Mason

quickly laid a hand on Cam’s shoulder wondering if
Cam was about to pass out.

“Oh fuck. They thought he was me?” Cam

whispered.

“Possibly. The details are still under investigation.”
“Oh God!” Cam hugged his arms around his body

and hunched forward.

“You need to come to the compound until we sort

this out. If those people realize you’re our guy there’s a
really good bet, they’ll try to finish the job.”

“Uh, okay. It’s not like I’m busy flying at the

moment,” Cam said. He glanced up at Mason. Mason
could see the grief stricken misery in Cam’s eyes. “Can
you grab my bag?” Cam asked.

Mason brushed his thumb very slightly along the side

of Cam’s neck. There was no fear emanating from the
Navy man, just stress and raw guilt.

“Okay,” replied Mason and walked toward the

bedroom. Who exactly was Division P? It sounded very
black ops. He picked up Cam’s duffle bag and saw the
sneakers lying beside the bed. He was still trying to
wrap his brain around what Valentine had said. The
motorcycle accident that Mason had watched happen
had possibly been intentional? Keith Haverty, Cam’s
friend and room mate, had probably been murdered
because someone thought he was Cam? Mason’s gut
promptly tied itself in a hard knot. This Valentine guy
was implying that someone was actively out to kill Cam.
Mason flashed back to kneeling beside the motorcyclist,
holding him together, keeping him alive until the EMS
people could get there. If he hadn’t been there, Cam
would already be dead.

With shaking hands, he picked up the sneakers, then

walked slowly back down the hall where the other two
men waited. He laid the sneakers in Cam’s lap.
Valentine held out his hand for the bag.

“Can you give me a couple of minutes with him,”

Cam asked Valentine.

“Yeah. Official secrets act, remember?” Valentine

said. Cam nodded. “If you could please bring him out to
the car when you’re done,” Valentine said to Mason, and
then walked out the door.

***

Cam looked up at Mason. The man radiated a wary

concern laced with tension.

“I know you have questions. Fuck, I have questions,

too. This is suddenly all pointing toward an op going
very bad,” Cam said. He ran his hands back through his
hair. “I’m not just a pilot. I also work for Division P. It’s
a kind of part-time, when they need you sort of gig.”

“Will they protect you?”
“Yeah. I’m guessing Danny’s going to take me out to

the complex in Suffolk. I shouldn’t be saying anything
more but… Division P is what essentially amounts to a
group of psi. Recruited from government employees,
trained by them and then farmed out on specific
assignments.” Mason gave him a look with one raised
eyebrow. “Yeah I know, it sounds very… off the wall.”

“You do… psi stuff for them?” asked Mason.
“Yeah, now and then. If you ever think about quitting

the orthopedic practice, they would welcome you with
open arms.”

“And spend the rest of my life locked in a cage,

getting poked and prodded.”

“No. Do I look like I spend my life being a lab rat?

Okay, there are some down sides, but probably not the
ones you would think.”

“Did you volunteer for this?”
“I was recruited.”
“Conscripted?”
“No. I was already in the Navy when they screened

me. It was an opportunity to do something very unique.”

“What exactly do you do for them?”

“Find things, and people. That’s really all I can tell

you, and that probably ten times more than they would
want me to.”

“Will they take care of you? Help you dress, make

sure you eat, do something to manage your pain?”

“If they’ve taken the trouble to actually send

someone to collect me, I suspect I’ll have round the
clock company for a while.”

“That’s not what I asked.”
“I… I don’t know. I guess so,” Cam said.
Mason dropped to a knee in front of him and

wrapped his hand around Cam’s. “You need someone to
kick your butt, and you need someone to take care of
you. It’s probably going to be a couple weeks until you
can do it yourself.”

Cam didn’t need his extra senses to see the pure

worry in Mason’s face.

“I’ll call you in a couple days, and let you know how

things are going.” Cam’s chest hurt and it had nothing to
do with his injuries. He had given Mason as much of an
explanation as he dared. Probably way more than he
should have. He didn’t really want to leave, but if what
Danny had said was true, staying might put Mason in
danger.

He watched Mason nod, expression tight. Cam

wanted to beg Mason to kiss him, but that would
probably make things even more awkward.

***

Mason stood on the front step of his house and

watched the car drive away. His arms were crossed on
his chest and he felt like it was hard to breathe. He sat
down on the concrete with his back against the front
door.

Was he watching this man walk out his life? It wasn’t

like they exactly had a relationship. A handful of mini-
conversations in the hospital, a pair of days spent mostly
taking care of Cam’s broken body. So why the hell did
he feel like someone had torn a chunk of his soul away?
Shit, he’d had a few lovers over the years. Those
relationships had lasted from a few weeks to nearly a
year. The breakups had ranged from just drifting apart to
one memorable screaming match. Even that one didn’t
feel like this. Cam had said he would call, but Mason
wasn’t going to hold his breath on that one.

He slowly picked himself up off the ground and

walked back inside.

***

The short man with the graying hair walked down the

concrete of the boardwalk. He glanced at the beach and
ocean beyond. The surface of the ocean was getting a
little choppier despite the pleasant warmth of the setting
sun behind him. It probably meant a storm was brewing
out to sea.

He walked toward the tall heavily muscled man who

leaned on the railing, facing the ocean. There was a
Styrofoam coffee cup in his hand.

“Bradshaw’s out of the hospital,” said the taller man.
“I heard.”
“Does it make a difference?”
“Yes. He was seen with a person of interest. It would

appear that he’s the one we originally suspected.”

“Is he pursuing the item?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he accessible?”

“No.”

“Suggestions?”
“Bradshaw was also seen at the home of an

orthopedic surgeon.”

“Professional interest?”
“Perhaps. They may be friends.”
“Do you think this surgeon guy is P?”
“I don’t know. It seems unlikely, but I’d like

someone to keep an eye on him.”

“Consider it done.” His fingers fiddled with his

coffee cup.

The older man stared out at the water. “I’ll be in

touch,” he said and walked away. There was a great deal
at stake. Buyers were expressing interest in the missile
prototype. One courier had been dealt with, the other
bought. The missile was currently in a secure but very
awkward location. If Bradshaw was sent after the item,
the whole plan would go to hell in a basket mighty fast.
However, at the moment everything was in a holding
pattern

They were playing a waiting game.

Part 2- Angle of Attack

Chapter 11

TGIF. Dr. Mason Flynn flipped the light switch and

shut the front door of his house behind him. It was seven
P.M., and he had been going pretty much non-stop since
before six that morning. This was one of those days
when he wondered why the hell orthopedic surgery had
sounded like such an incredible career choice. At least
he wasn’t on call this weekend. Wandering into the
kitchen, he noticed that the coffeemaker carafe was
sitting on the burner. He could’ve sworn he’d left it in
the sink, since it was beginning to develop brown scum
on the inside. The intention had been to put it in the
dishwasher tonight. He pulled it off the burner and put it
in the sink. Maybe he had only intended to do it, and just
spaced on the actual doing.

He snagged a beer out of the refrigerator and walked

back out into the den. Maybe there was something
remotely interesting on TV. He could use a good
distraction right now. Distraction. God, the word alone
brought a whole set of images with it. Cameron
Bradshaw, the Navy pilot whose life he’d saved, the
man who he was hopelessly attracted to, the man who
had shared his bed, both literally and figuratively.

Mason sank onto the sofa and took a long drink of the

beer in his hand. Had it really only been three days since
that government agent guy had come to retrieve
Cameron? The agent had more or less said that Cam’s
motorcycle accident had been a murder attempt, and that
the death of his roommate had essentially been a sequel.
Christ, that was a scary set of thoughts.

The surgeon looked down at his hands. Healer’s

hands, and not just by the fact there was an M.D. after

his name. He was psi. His grandmother had called it
“touched by the Lady.” Yeah, capital “L” there. His
paternal grandmother had lived in Louisiana and he had
spent exactly one unforgettable summer there. That was
the summer right after he had watched his German
shepherd get struck by a car. He had picked her up in his
arms and, sobbing over her broken, barely-alive body,
had “willed” her back to be okay again. She had
miraculously recovered. He had then promptly passed
out and ended up spending the next seven hours
unconscious in a hospital. Afterward, his father had
informed him that he would be spending his summer
vacation with Grandma Flynn.

His parents had driven him all the way to Louisiana

and told him they would pick him up the weekend
before his freshman year in high school. End of
explanation. And they drove away.

Grandma Flynn had been both sympathetic and

mightily pissed that his parents had been so closed
mouthed about the reason for the extended visit. And
then she explained. She herself was “touched by the
Lady,” known to some of the people in the area as a
faith healer and to others as “that witch.” In practice, she
was a healer like him, and she taught him amazing
things. He hoped for a return visit the following
summer, but she had died. He grieved, not only for the
loss of the grandmother he had come to adore, but also
for the rest of the knowledge he would never learn from
her.

Mason’s thoughts circled back to Cam again. How

was he coping? Was he taking the pain meds and
dealing with the lack of shielding or was he slowly
killing himself trying to deal with the pain on his own?
If only Mason had had more time. He had only really
begun the repair on the nerve damage in Cam’s shattered

leg. If Grandma Flynn could have taught him more,
maybe he would be more adept at that sort of thing.
Everything he did these days in terms of healing was
trial and error; self taught fumbling until he figured out
what seemed to work. Mason wanted to hold Cam and
keep his pain at bay and offer him comfort, but that was
all just a hopelessly romantic delusion.

Mason hadn’t heard a single word from Cam in three

days. Obviously, whatever had happened between them
was just a passing thing based on trauma, shock and
desperation.

Mason slugged back some more of the beer, and

reached for the TV remote. It wasn’t on the coffee table.
He glanced across the sofa cushions. Nothing. He
usually chucked it on the table, so where was the stupid
thing? He finally saw it, sitting on top of the bulky
entertainment center across the room. Huh? Weird. He
set the beer bottle on the table and walked over to get it.
A framed photo of himself with an old med school
buddy was sitting directly in front of the CD rack on the
top of the cabinet. It was right in the way of grabbing
any of the CDs out. That was just one too many subtly
weird things out of place.

He began walking through the house, flipping on

lights as he went. His TV was obviously still there, as
was his computer, stereo equipment, and a set of
Waterford crystal tumblers on a shelf along with a bottle
of brandy. There was nothing to really even suggest he
had been robbed, because nothing seemed to be missing.
Well, unless you counted his watch, but he wasn’t sure
he hadn’t left it in his locker at the hospital after surgery.
Maybe he was just flat out losing his mind, over-tired or
something.

He rubbed his hand down over his face. This was just

sort of creeping him out. He took a second tour of the

house. There were a couple of extra things that drew his
attention. The plastic box where he stuffed his unpaid
bills was sitting on top of an ink pen, and his bed was
made with the sheets tucked under a whole lot further
than he ever did it. Oh yeah, that would fly real well.
Yes officer, somebody broke into my house and secretly
remade my bed. He needed more beer, job stress or
something was apparently making him crack up.

***

Lieutenant Cameron Bradshaw clomped across the

floor on his crutches. The tan wall-to-wall carpeting
muffled the sound. The quarters that he had been
assigned had all the ambience of a motel room. A bed, a
nightstand and dresser in bland medium brown wood
occupied a bedroom. A sofa, TV, desk, and coffee table
finished out the second room of the suite. A little
kitchenette was tucked into one corner. He had been on
the Division P compound grounds for three days now.

Division P was the black ops group of psychics on

the government payroll. Not a team per se, not even a
group exactly -- it was more an organization. If you
passed the screening process, and less than 0.1% did,
you were sent on for more testing. Each round was
harder, a near 100% failure rate. They only recruited a
handful of people per year. Cam still wasn’t sure what
made him stand out among the rest. They had trained
him. And he was assigned. Nearly all the Division P
people juggled two jobs. A normal average government
career linked job, and then the job they did for Division
P.

A couple hours of each of the past three days had

been spent under the careful care of Peter Vithoulkas,
the healer. A quiet reserved but incredibly Talented psi,

Vithoulkas performed impossible logic defying tasks on
a near daily basis. In just this short amount of time,
Cam’s cracked shoulder blade and broken ribs were
healed enough to stand up to a little use of crutches. The
shattered bones in his leg were going to take more time.

He sat on the chair in front of the desk and picked up

the bottle of goop he was supposed to drink. A creation
of Peter’s; it was a concentrated amalgam of calcium
compounds and proteins to provide the building blocks
for repairing his broken bones. It tasted like chalk stirred
into glue, thinly disguised with a chocolate flavor. He
choked down another couple of mouthfuls. This was
shortly going to be followed a handful of meds: 1600
mg of ibuprofen, one Tylenol III, a muscle relaxant, and
some odd new drug that affected some sort of pain
perception thing in the brain. Again, this wondrous
mish-mash of drugs was something that Peter had
created, the object being adequate pain control and
minimal psi shielding interference from the narcotics. It
worked okay and was only supposed to be a stop-gap
anyway, until Peter could finish healing the nerve
damage in his leg.

Debriefing seemed to be occurring in segments. He

had only been asked a handful of questions by Daniel
Valentine, one of Division P’s head field operatives, the
first evening at the compound. Since then, he had been
to see Valentine three more times, been grilled by a
Naval intelligence man, somebody from the defense
department, and the head of Division P, Andrew
Bottman. And now he had to go see the shrink. He
chugged the rest of the nasty stuff in the bottle and
grabbed for his crutches.

It took Cam ten minutes to make his way down

through the halls of the main building. Stephen Benford
welcomed him into an office tastefully done in discrete

dark furniture. Cam sank onto the sofa along the wall,
and Benford sat across from him in an upholstered chair,
with a legal pad in his lap.

“How are you holding up, Cameron?” the man asked.

Cam gazed at him coolly. Benford was average height,
with medium brown hair and dark eyes. Everything
about his demeanor was unremarkable, and very, very
deceptive.

“Fair, I guess.”
“You know I want more than that. You had a very

serious motorcycle accident, which we’re now pretty
sure was no accident at all. Your roommate was
murdered. We think the two events are somewhat likely
to be connected. And Peter told me that you have serious
pain management issues that he is actively trying to
resolve. That’s an awful lot on your plate.” Benford
waited in silence for Cam to respond.

The mention of the whole pain issue brought a sharp

image to Cam’s mind: Mason Flynn -- the short dark
hair, the intensity of his blue eyes, the feel of his hands
against Cam’s skin, the warmth of his kiss.

The psychologist raised an eyebrow in question and

Cam hastily slammed his psychic shielding tightly shut.
It wasn’t like it would actually keep Benford out of his
head if the psychologist really wanted to press the issue,
but it would at least get the point across. Benford was no
less Talented than any of the other core staff of Division
P. He was an extremely powerful telepath with a flair for
mental dominance. In other words, he was capable of
ramming his way into another’s mind and forcing
cooperation. In another setting or from another man it
might have bordered on a version of rape. But when the
suicide rate of Division P was an astronomical 8%, he
had been known to violate of few ethics in order to save
a life.

“Who is he?” Benford asked.
“A friend.”
“His image evokes strong emotions.”
“Yeah, well, he saved my life. He’s scraped me off

the highway and held me together till the ambulance
could get there.”

“Ah. And you feel you owe him?”
“No… yes… not the way you mean…”
“Your file says Daniel picked you up from this man’s

house.”

“Yeah, after I found Keith dead in the apartment, I

needed a place to stay.” It was a half-truth, and Cam
knew it. He wondered if Benford would call him on it.
But the psychologist followed a different line.

“Describe your relationship with Lieutenant

Commander Keith Haverty,” prompted Benford.

***

Another rather uncomfortable half an hour inched by

as Cam was asked about the depth of his guilt regarding
Keith’s death, his own brush with mortality, and his
stubborn reticence about accepting help in dealing with
his physical recovery issues. Peter had been busily
kicking his ass on that front, too.

After the end of the session, Cam went back to his

quarters. He was tired and annoyed and felt like he had
been put through an emotional wringer, but then he
guessed that was sort of the point. He flung himself onto
the bed, and closed his eyes. He hadn’t called Mason
since he got here. It wasn’t like they had a relationship.
A slightly less than straight hetero Navy flyboy
buddying up with a gay orthopedic surgeon. Oh yeah,
that was recipe for disaster. But his gut was trying to tell
him otherwise. The guy had cared far more than the

situation seemed to warrant. He had taken Cam into his
home and into his bed and cared for him, physically and
emotionally, as Cam had fallen from one disaster into
another.

Cam scrubbed his hand across his eyes. Just call the

guy, let him know you’re doing okay, and move on,
Cam told himself. He hauled his body up off the bed and
went out to the desk in the other room. There was a
laptop on it and he did a quick internet search to find
Mason’s number. He was subtly amused that Mason’s
phone number wasn’t even unlisted to the public. That
just fit his personality so thoroughly, to leave himself so
accessible.

He picked up his cell phone and dialed the number. It

rang several times before it picked up.

“Hello,” said Mason.
“Hey. It’s Cam Bradshaw.”
“It’s been a few days. I wasn’t really expecting to

hear from you again,” replied Flynn. Oh, ouch, that
stung, and he deserved it.

“Sorry, I um… should’ve called sooner, to let you

know I’m okay. Things are a little chaotic around here.
Debriefing stuff and all.”

“How’re you coping with the pain?” the doctor

asked.

“Fair. It’s being… handled.” Cam wanted so badly to

tell Mason that he was being treated by another healer,
one that fully comprehended the narcotics and lack of
shielding link. Peter was good, obscenely good, but it
was all about healing his body, nothing else, no
emotional connection.

“They sending you back to the base any time soon?”
“No, not yet. The other stuff is… ongoing,” Cam

said. There was really so very little he could tell Mason
about the missing pair of operatives and the equally

missing missile prototype. Or the apparent fact that
someone knew he had been assigned to help recover it
and was very willing to commit murder to short circuit
the process.

“Mmm, way cloak and dagger,” commented Mason.
“I wish I could tell you more, but there are security

issues.”

“Listening to you almost makes me paranoid enough

to believe somebody really was in my house.”

Cam’s hand clenched on the phone. “Say that again.”
“Listening to you makes me paranoid?”
“No, the part about somebody in your house.”
“Forget it, it’s been a really busy couple of days.”
“What happened? Did they take anything?”
“No, no, I’m just hallucinating. I thought somebody

moved some of my stuff around and remade my bed.
How’s that for really losing my mind?”

“Shit. Shit. Shit,” said Cam. “Do you own a gun?”
“No. I’m a doctor. What the hell would I do with a

gun?”

“You could be in danger. If they saw you with me at

the murder scene, they might assume you were helping
me. Not medically, I mean classified stuff. Lock your
doors. Don’t let anyone in. I’ll call you back in about
half an hour. Okay?”

“Cam…I’m sure it’s…” Mason began.
“Visualize Keith in my apartment,” growled Cam,

cutting him off. “It’s a pretty sure thing he was killed
because of his link to me. You’re linked to me. And you
have no fucking idea how to defend yourself. Stay put.
Stay by the phone. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.”
Cam hung up, and dialed the internal number.

Comeoncomeoncomeon pick up, his brain demanded.

“Valentine,” the field agent answered.

“Dan. I have a situation.”
“Here?”
“No. In Virginia Beach. Remember the doctor whose

house I was at when you picked me up? He thinks
somebody’s been in his house.”

“He got robbed?”
“No, no, more like cased. Subtle stuff.”
“Don’t you think he’s over reacting?”
“No. He thinks he’s probably imagining it, but since

somebody executed my roommate I don’t think he is. He
could be next.

“From what little we know for sure, Lieutenant

Commander Haverty’s death is due to his connection to
your squadron. Apparently a piece of information was
leaked as to the whereabouts of our contact, but we’re
not sure they got a name to go along with the squadron
designation. “

“It doesn’t matter. If these people think I talked to

Mason… Please. Go with me to see him. I can probably
drive, just barely, but I’m trying to be sane about this.
I’m not in great shape to protect him.” There was a long
silence at the other end of the line. Cam tapped his fist
against the desk top, trying to decide if he should play
one last card to try a convince Valentine of the urgency.
“If I’m wrong, all we’re out is a couple of hours and
some gas.”

“Cam, we’re trying to keep this whole thing as low

profile as possible.” Valentine said.

“He’s psi,” Cam blurted out. “He’s a strong psi… and

he’s a healer.” Now there was dead silence on the line.

“If you’re lying…”
“Damn it, Valentine! He’s a healer. I’m pretty damn

sure that having him at the accident scene is the only
fucking reason the attempt on my life wasn’t a success.

And he helped me with the pain issues. He’s good.
Really good.”

“Okay, we’ll drive to Virginia Beach and talk to him.

And along the way you can give me the run-down on his
psi Talents.”

Chapter 12

Mason paced the floor of his den, beer bottle in his

hand. Cam had seemed very worried. The phone rang
and he thumbed the answering button.

“Flynn.”
“Hey Mason, it’s Cam. I’m heading in your direction.

Stay put, okay? I’m also bringing Valentine with me.
The guy who picked me up a couple of days ago.
Remember?”

“Yeah, I remember him. I know you’re wigged out

about this, but honestly I think it’s probably my
imagination.”

“If it is, it is. But too much wicked shit has happened

in past couple weeks not to check it out. We’ll be there
in about forty-five or fifty minutes.”

“I’ll be here.” He hung up. From Suffolk to the ocean

front of Virginia Beach, yeah, that probably was close to
an hour’s drive. He glanced out the window. The drapes
were hanging open. The sun had set, and it was fading
toward full dark. He was tired, but this whole maybe
somebody broke in deal was making him restless. He
paced some more, thinking.

How did one go about setting up an “accident”? He

had watched the pickup truck hit Cam. It wasn’t like the
guy was sitting still, just waiting for the right motorcycle
to come by. Maybe there had been multiple people
involved? He supposed that would make more sense. He
still had no real clue as to why someone would want
Cam dead, but the pilot had implied that it had to do
with this Division P bunch of people.

Mason flopped down on the sofa and surfed through

dozens of channels. There was nothing on that caught
his interest. He got up and wandered around the room
some more, eventually finishing his beer. He set his

empty beer bottle on the coffee table. A small red flash
caught his eye. It glinted slightly off the polished wood
of the coffee table and jiggled along the arm of the sofa.
It reminded him of a laser pointer used during seminars
to point at things on the screen. He turned to look out
the window. There was probably some kid getting his
cheap thrills running around in the dark pointing it
through people’s windows, like a gun sight.... Oh fuck.

The window of his den exploded in a shower of glass

as Mason flung himself sideways. He rolled across the
floor, arms up in front of his head, trying to protect his
face. He scrambled up and darted into the kitchen,
putting a wall between himself and the broken window.
Away, was the only coherent thought in his head. Heart
pounding hard enough to hurt, he edged toward the door
that led out onto the patio. He fumbled with the dead
bolt, trying to open it with shaking hands. Mason
thought he might have seen a shadow through the
gaping opening surrounded by shattered glass. He
finally wrenched the door open and ran.

It was a mad sprint across the concrete patio and over

the low fence at the side of the yard. He fell trying to
clear the four foot wooden border and skidded palms
and knees across the grass of his neighbor’s lawn. He
staggered back to his feet and took off running again,
expecting a bullet in the back any second. He cut down
the next street toward Atlantic Avenue and hid behind a
parked car as a moving car headed up the road.

That car pulled serenely into a driveway and a

woman and a child got out. Gasping for breath, Mason
knelt there for another couple of minutes. His side hurt.
He glanced down and saw his shirt was soaked in blood
all along the right side of his ribs. Gritting his teeth, he
fingered what seemed to be the wettest spot. There was a
deep gouge in the flesh, and it was bleeding freely. But

it didn’t feel like a hole. The doctor part of his brain
kicked into gear and he assumed that he must have been
grazed by the bullet. The edges of the wound felt too
irregular to be a slice from flying glass. The exploding
glass had nicked and scraped his hands and arms in
multiple places and left a myriad of little bloody gashes
in his slacks.

A man in dark clothing carrying a duffle bag walked

from between two houses. The bag said N& R
Plumbing. There was something peculiar about the way
the man’s hand rested near the top seam of the bag. Oh
God, I’m so freaking paranoid, thought Mason. It’s
probably just some guy finishing up a service call, and
not really a guy with a gun out to kill me. He twisted a
little to peer up over the edge of the parked car and the
pain in his side made him let out a thin whimper. Oh
God, what if the guy heard him?

He sank back down with his back against the wheel,

and tried to pull his thoughts together. Go someplace
with a lot of people, and get someone to call the police,
because knocking on the door of someone’s house
wearing blood drenched clothes was apt to get him shot
by a skittish home owner. That, and turn off his pain.

Mason knew he could block off his own perception

of pain. It didn’t actually make it stop, it just wouldn’t
be noticeable. He couldn’t heal himself. It was too close
to “robbing Peter to pay Paul.” Maybe there was some
way around it, but he had never figured it out. He closed
his eyes for a moment and dragged down the blocks that
would allow him to ignore the pain in his side and the
collection of other lesser agonies. It would come back to
bite him in the ass big time, but he couldn’t really see
another option. He had done something similar one time
after injuring his ankle while hiking. By continuing to

walk on it for six more miles, he had ended up damaging
it badly enough to put him on crutches for seven weeks.

He peeked above the edge of the car again. The man

had walked down the street in the direction of the main
road. Mason decided he needed to go in the other
direction.

***

Valentine and Bradshaw pulled up in front of

Mason’s house. One look at the shattered window and
they both knew things were going very bad, very fast.
Valentine bolted out of the car, gun drawn. Cam’s gut
clenched. Were they too late? Was Mason already dead?
He threw his psychic shielding wide open and formed a
mental image of Mason, searching for his presence.
Nothing immediate drew his attention. No presence, but
no film of empty death either. He grabbed his crutches
and got out of the car, heading toward the house. Daniel
leaned out the front door.

“All clear,” he said. Cam went inside.
Only the den was in disarray. Broken glass strewn

across the carpet and a fist sized stain of blood was
obvious. Other lesser flecks of blood led toward the
kitchen.

“You think he’s alive?” asked Valentine. “I haven’t

found a body yet.”

Cam bent down and touched a finger to the blood on

the carpet. Mason’s blood. He knew it was Mason’s the
moment his hand made contact. It was far more than just
drops. Mason was hurt. Cam went toward the kitchen.
On the wall was a blotch of blood. He touched that, too.
Mason had leaned against the wall before going through
the door in that room.

“So? Opinions?” asked Valentine. Cam glanced at

him, where he stood in the doorway between the kitchen
and den. Cam took a deep breath.

“I don’t think he’s dead,” Cam replied. There was no

empty void when he groped inside his head for those
impressions he associated with Mason. None of the gray
blank nothings that he knew indicated death.

“Can you find him?”
“I will. I have to.” Cam looked around the kitchen.

On the counter lay a bottle opener. He picked it up.
Mason had held it sometime on the past hour or so. It
was a common item, but held a good impression of its
user. Cam stared for a moment at the object in his hand.
It had a line of writing embossed on it. “Virginia is for
Lovers.” His throat tightened and he mentally begged
the powers that be to keep Mason alive until Cam could
find him. Shoving the bottle opener in his pocket, he
headed for the exterior door. The knob was smeared
with more blood.

“You do your thing. I’ll follow. I’m also going to call

HQ and let them know things are escalating again,” said
Valentine. Cam nodded.

He went outside and stood on the patio. Come on,

lock on, he berated himself. Search for the pull. He
closed his eyes and waited for his mind to settle just a
little. There. It was a bit of a cross between using a
compass and running a stud finder over a wall, waiting
for that subtle magnetic indication that you were aiming
at the right thing. He followed the sensation to the low
fence at the far side of the yard. With crutches, there was
no way for him to easily get over it. He had to backtrack
to a gate. Outside he slowly followed a path across a
lawn to the next street. Most of a block down, he
stopped beside a car. There was blood smeared along the
edge of the wheel well. Daniel was a few steps behind.

“Headquarters has been alerted. If we don’t find him

within the hour, they’ll send some extra manpower. You
still have a lock on him?” asked Valentine.

“Yes.”
“Is he ok?”
“I’m not sure. Seeing more blood is kind of coloring

my assessment on that.”

“How far?”
“Less than a mile. More than a couple blocks.”
“Okay, keep going. You doing all right?” Valentine

gestured to Cam’s crutches.

“I’m fine. Slow and clumsy but fine,” Cam said. It

was fairly close to the truth. Tomorrow he would be sore
as hell, but that was pretty irrelevant at this point.

Chapter 13

Mason was hiding like a terrified child, which was a

damn good description, he decided. Except the monster
he was hiding from was all too real and had a gun. His
original intention had been to head for the high rise hotel
along the north end of the beach. But he had seen the
man with the duffle bag three times before managing to
make it to the beach side of Atlantic Avenue. He was
further down the beach than he had thought he would be,
in the wrong direction.

Mason was currently hiding between some fencing

and a huge clump of pampas grass near the slope of the
dunes that led to the beach. He could hear the sound of
breaking waves and the wind was blowing in erratic
little gusts. Mason had sprinted down the street after a
car had driven past and darted into the first reasonable
hiding place he saw. It was small piece of government
property rented out to military and their dependents for
parties and similar events. His heart was still thudding
hard in his chest as he attempted to slow his breathing.
No one lived there. It was just a large enclosure full of
table and chairs and beach equipment and the like. There
would be no barking dogs and no homeowners to betray
his presence. Sliding ungracefully down the fence, he
hugged his arms around his chest. Wet. Oh hell, he was
still bleeding. In the shadowy combination of moonlight
and reflected streetlights, he pressed his hand against his
side and then looked at it. The blood looked nearly black
in the semi-darkness.

An adult could lose a full pint of blood without much

in the way of ill effects. After all, that was how much
you gave when you donated blood. Even a few
teaspoons always seemed to look like a vast amount.
Mason tried to convince himself as he shivered. It really

wasn’t all that cold out. It was early May. Now you
begin to pay the price, his brain suggested. Your body is
starting to go into shock. He let the pain blocks fall free
and his vision went starry white as the pain hit him. He
panted for several minutes trying to regain control, and
only the fact that he was sitting still, leaning on the wall
of the structure made it a halfway doable prospect.

***

Cameron Bradshaw knew he was getting close. The

draw was tugging on him, telling him to go this way.
And hurry.

He had crossed the main drag from the side of

Atlantic Avenue where Mason lived to the side closer to
the beach. He had never been so amazingly glad that his
psychic Talents ran to finding things and more
specifically, people. The street ended at a wide sandy
path that led up over the dune to the beach beyond. No,
not the beach -- left. Cam turned. There was a high
privacy fence that ran for half a block, enclosing a
government owned spot to hold parties and other
functions held by the military. He recognized the place.
He had been to a Hail and Farewell here sometime last
summer.

There. He could feel the subtle pull of Mason’s

proximity.

“Mason?” he called softly. All he could hear was the

surf. The doctor was near, near enough that Cam caught
hints of pain and fear. He swallowed hard. “Mason, it’s
Cam,” he said. There was no response.

“You sure he’s here?” asked Valentine.
“Yes. I’m sure,” Cam snapped. The fence that led up

around the area was bordered by heavy soft sand. That
was going to be a bitch on crutches. Cam carefully

maneuvered his way around the corner. He thought he
could make out a dark form along the wall, half covered
by some bushy plant. He shuffled his way closer.

“Mason?” he said. The man was huddled against the

fence, arms wrapped around his body, knees drawn up,
and head down. Cam leaned down and touched a hand to
Mason’s shoulder. The doctor’s head jerked up and he
sucked in a sharp gasp of pure terror as he raised an arm
to try to protect himself. “Easy! You’re safe!” Cam said,
squeezing Mason’s shoulder.

“Oh shit, I thought you were… him,” Mason replied

in a hoarse whisper. Cam sat down beside Mason,
dropping the crutches. He put one hand on Mason’s arm
and the other cupped against the side of Mason’s neck.
He could feel the hammering pulse beneath the clammy
skin. Weak relief mixed with pain filtered through the
connection.

“How bad are you hurt?” Cam asked. “There was

blood in your house and a couple other places, too.”

“’Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church

door…” Mason muttered.

“Say what?”
“Forget it. I think I got clipped by a bullet. It tore

through the muscles along my ribs. I know I’ve lost
some blood, but I don’t really know how much.”

“Can you walk?” asked Daniel. He was standing at

the corner of the enclosure, weapon out, scanning the
area.

“Yeah, I think so,” Mason replied.
Cam awkwardly got to his feet and, bracing himself

on his crutches, offered a hand to the injured man.
Mason unfolded himself a little and levered himself up
with one hand on the wall. Mason made it about four
steps before he fell to his knees, one hand on the ground

and the other pressed to his side. He was gasping for
breath.

“Okay, we’re not going to make it back to car like

that,” said Daniel. “Cam, you stay with him? I’ll go get
the car. Cocked and locked?”

“Yeah,” said Cam. He popped the snap on the holster

on his belt and pulled out his 9mm.

“I’ll be back as fast as I can.” Daniel jogged back the

way they had come. Cam sat back down beside Mason.

“You have a gun,” Mason said.
“Yeah, I do.”
“I’m supposing you know how to use it.”
“Yes.”
“Good, because I certainly don’t.” Mason sat back on

his heels, his hand still holding his side. He clenched his
teeth and stared up at the night sky. “Am I safe?”

“No guarantees until we get back to the compound.”

Cam wasn’t willing to lie to the man beside him. “Are
you still bleeding?”

“Yes.”
“You can’t… you know, fix yourself?”
“No, it doesn’t work that way,” Mason whispered.

Cam pulled off his T-shirt and folded it into a rough
square.

“Lean up against the wall again. I’ll try to put some

pressure on it,” suggested Cam.

Mason scooted back a little and rested his head and

shoulder on the wall. Cam sat in front of him, so he had
an adequate view in either direction and held the fabric
pad against the wound. Mason sucked in a hissing breath
at the pressure. They sat nearly immobile for a number
of minutes. Cam could feel the burning pain leaking
through the physical connection between them. A thread
of fear trickled through Cam. The wound wasn’t huge,
but Mason had been running and scrambling. How much

blood could an adult male lose before it became a life-
threatening issue? Mason seemed to be breathing just a
little too fast, considering they weren’t even standing up.

“This is romantic. I’m bleeding and you have a gun

in your hand and we’re hoping your buddy gets back
before the guy who shot me finds us,” said Mason.

“Yeah, that about sums it up. For what it’s worth, I’m

sorry. I never meant to put you in danger. God… he
could’ve killed you.”

“Unh… yeah.” Mason’s head was drooping.
Cam used his wrist to tip the doctor’s head back to

lean on his shoulder, because there was no way he was
laying down his gun.

“Come on stick with me, Mas’,” he whispered. More

minutes ticked by.

***

All the adrenaline that had kept him going had very

definitely burnt out of his system, Mason decided. The
mad run, the hiding, more running… now he was just
sitting. Even the fear was sort of fading into a kind of
cold blankness. If the wall hadn’t been there for him to
lean on, he’d probably be sprawled in the sand. Guns,
and bullet wounds and assassins, oh my. And don’t
forget the secret spy stuff.

He shivered. God that hurt. The irrational part of his

brain suggested he was going to die, here behind a dune
on the beach. But then that same part has made
approximately the same suggestion about forty times in
past hour, and so far he was still breathing.

“You get shot at often?” he asked.
“Um, no. And most of the few times it’s happened, I

was in a nice multi-million dollar piece of flying
hardware.”

“That has really big weapons.”
“Yeah, you could say that,” replied Cam. Mason

could feel the gentle heat of the pilot’s breath on his
face.

There was a slight sound at the far end of the wall.

Cam raised his gun, and Mason felt Cam’s body go
tense for several seconds. Mason gulped hard and
prayed it wasn’t the guy who had shot him. After a few
more moments Cam lowered the gun and Daniel came
toward them.

“I parked the car as close as I could,” Valentine said.

He helped Mason to stand and hauled Mason’s arm over
his shoulder. A wave of nauseating pain swept through
Mason as he staggered along beside Valentine.

***

Cam was a few steps behind them, floundering

slightly in the sand with his crutches. At least luck had
been with them in Daniel getting back to them swiftly.
Cam did his best to hurry around the car as Valentine
eased Mason into the back seat, and then noticed the
agent had vanished momentarily around to the trunk.
Cam slid into the back seat from the opposite side,
letting out a few choices curses as he banged the metal
struts of his “cast” on the door frame. Valentine shoved
a blanket and a first aid kit into his hands.

“I take it we’re not heading for Virginia Beach

General,” said Cam.

Valentine had darted back around to the driver’s side

and jumped in, quickly starting the car and backing into
a turn. “He’s alive, conscious and breathing. We have no
clue who or where the hit man is. P is the only place
that’s gonna be guaranteed secure. I called Peter, on my
way back to get the car. He knows we’re going to be

arriving with a casualty. Keep him together, I’m going
to break a few speed limits as soon as I hit the
highway,” Valentine said.

Cam glanced at Mason. The injured man was

partially curled against the seat. His teeth were clenched
and his lips drawn tight. Cam dug into the first aid kit
and pulled out some bandage scissors and packs of
gauze, tape and a penlight. He cupped his hand around
Mason’s neck and ran a thumb along the lower edge of
his jaw. Mason squinted at him.

“I’m going to cut your shirt off and try to get a look.

Then you’re going to have to clue me in as to what you
want me do,” said Cam. Mason nodded a little.

Cam pulled Mason’s shirt loose at the waist and slit it

near the seam and up the sleeve. He peeled the blood
soaked fabric away and dropped it on the floor. Holding
the penlight in his teeth, Cam could see a furrow along
Mason’s ribs, about as deep and wide as one of his
fingers. Although the blood had clotted somewhat near
the ends, the center portion was still actively seeping.

“Am I supposed to try to clean it?” asked Cam.
“No. Not here. It’ll have to wait till we get…

wherever the hell you’re taking me,” said Mason. “Just
layer a batch of 4x4’s together and tape it all down and
put some pressure on it again. It’s in a spot where every
time I move it pulls on it, and starts the bleeding again.”

“Okay. Guess this is going to hurt.” Cam was as

gentle as possible in taping the thick gauze layers over
the wound. He also draped the blanket over the majority
of Mason’s body.

“Okay, just like out by the wall, lean back against

me. It’ll be easier for me to do the pressure thing and
keep you still, too,” said Cam.

Mason let out a heavy groan as he twisted a little in

the seat. Cam wrapped his arm around Mason’s chest

and put his palm flat over the bandage. Reluctantly he
increased the pressure. Mason’s breathing went from
slightly fast to gasping pants.

“Sorry,” whispered Cam. He put his other arm

around the front of Mason’s shoulders, and hugged the
man carefully against his own body. Mason’s back was
damp and chilly where it pressed to his own skin. Shock,
thought Cam. Fucking hell, he’s going into shock.

It also dawned on him that he was holding onto

Mason like a lover. He almost pulled away, and then
realized, it didn’t matter. Daniel Valentine wouldn’t
care. To say that Division P was flexible was kind of an
understatement. And right now, it definitely didn’t
matter because he was too damn worried. Cam could tell
from the blurry quality of Mason’s presence and the
sheer tension of his body that he was fighting to stay
conscious.

***

The motion of the car, the feeling of approximate

safety and sheer exhaustion from blood loss was warring
with the pain that surged with every breath. Pass out or
fall asleep? Was there an actual difference? Mason
wondered if he tried to re-assert the pain blocks again,
would it help him stay conscious or make it just that
much easier to slide into unconsciousness? The car
banked into a turn and he unthinkingly stiffened a little
in response. That was a bad idea, and the argument
became a moot point as the pain washed him into
blackness.

Chapter 14

Cam felt Mason’s body go stiff, and then limp. Heart

in his throat, he pressed fingers to Mason’s neck. The
pulse beat weak and fast beneath the skin. He glanced
out the window. They were only a couple of miles from
the compound. Thank God.

“Valentine. Mason just passed out. I don’t think we

have time for the usual routine at the gate.”

“Okay, I’ll call ahead.”Cam listened to Valentine’s

end of the brief phone conversation. “They’ll hold the
gate open, but there’s also gonna be four armed guards
on point. Understand?”

“Yeah, I got it.” The usual mode for entrance to the

multi-acre complex usually involved a checkpoint, a
pass code, a fingerprint scan and a visual ID. Not
exactly speedy.

The car slowed in another few minutes, long enough

to pass through a retracted metal fence and by a guard
house into the center court in front of the main building.
A cluster of people waited: Peter Vithoulkas and the
trauma team with a gurney, and four men with M-16’s.
The car ground to a halt and the back doors were
immediately opened, the trauma team easing Mason’s
limp body out of the back onto the gurney.

“Follow as soon as you can,” said one of the

corpsmen and he darted off. Cam hauled himself out of
the back seat and clomped across the concrete. Mason
was in good hands, he told himself, probably just about
the best there were.

Valentine nodded at Cam and made a gesture that he

was to go ahead and enter the building. Cam went down
a wide hallway to the infirmary. By the time he got
there, the rest of the Mason’s clothes had already been

cut off, and Vithoulkas was starting to check the injured
man out.

Mason was beginning to rouse a little with all the

activity and the many hands that touched him. Peter
glanced up. He was busy loosening the bandages across
Mason’s ribs as a nurse took Mason’s blood pressure.

“Get over here and get your hands on him. I can feel

him beginning to freak. I can’t kill off the pain and deal
with hysteria at the same time,” ordered Peter. Cam
stood at the head of the gurney and laid one hand on
Mason’s shoulder, the other he brushed through
Mason’s hair.

“Easy, it’s okay. These people are going to help

you,” Cam said. He could keenly sense the rising panic
within Mason. Disoriented, groggy and injured, it had to
be a real bitch to wake up to half a dozen different
people you didn’t know touching you. Cam hung
forward over the tops of his crutches. He watched Peter
carefully begin cleaning the brutal wound along
Mason’s ribs, while a nurse inserted an IV. Mason gave
no sign that either action caused him pain, but his eyes
rolled and blinked as he clawed his way back toward
consciousness. Peter drew up a stool and sat down with
both hands against Mason’s body. The wound had
stopped bleeding.

Mason gasped slightly and his free hand groped in

the direction of Cam’s.

“It’s okay. You’re safe,” said Cam softly. A nurse

slipped an oxygen mask over Mason’s face. Cam took
hold of Mason’s hand and gently squeezed his fingers.
“You’re being taken care of. You’ll be okay.” He looked
at Peter, hoping for agreement.

The senior healer nodded. “He lost a fair bit of blood

and there’s a cracked rib under this mess, but he’ll be
fine. I’m going to do a partial repair job tonight. And

we’ll do a clean up job, to make sure we get all the
broken glass off his body. Tomorrow, I’ll worry about
the rest,” explained Peter. “Miranda, grab a wheelchair
for Cam. He shouldn’t be standing.”

Mason looked down along his body to where

Vithoulkas was sitting. Peter gave him a smile.

“Don’t mind the heat. It’s a perception thing. Have

you ever been on the receiving end of healing?” Peter
asked.

“My grandmother,” Mason mumbled.
“Ah, so you have a genetic lineage gift. We’ll have to

talk about it when you’re feeling better. For right now,
just relax and let me do the driving, okay?”

Mason nodded a little and his eyes drifted shut again.

Cam wondered if that was of their own accord or with a
hefty nudge from Peter.

Cam sat heavily in the wheelchair that had been

brought for him. The meds he’d taken earlier were
beginning to wear off. All the mad desperate rush to find
Mason was catching up to him. He watched the
organized bustle of the people in the infirmary, and
wondered why he hadn’t been duly shuffled out of the
way. Not that he was complaining, sitting out in the
hallway waiting would have been nothing but angst. He
was still holding Mason’s hand where Mason’s arm lay
folded limply across his chest. Nobody told him to let go
and get out of the way. He was disconcerted by that.
Had Benford told them he was involved with Mason? If
one could even go so far as to call it “involved.”

After a long number of minutes, Peter told one of the

nurses to start cleaning Mason up a little, so that they
could think about moving him to a room. Peter swiveled
on the stool to look at Cam. Cam hastily withdrew his
hand from Mason’s.

“Don’t,” said Peter.” He needs someone familiar.”

Cam gave him a dubious and confused look. “I’m
assuming you guys are friends at least.” Cam felt
himself flush in embarrassment. Peter continued.
”You’re the only person in this place he knows. I know
you spent the requisite training period here, but it’s
probably unlikely anyone ever talked to you about all
the odd medical issues of all of us psi. You and I talked
a bit about the whole narcotics messes with your
shielding issue, but there’s an awful lot of other stuff,
too. When Division P first got put together, before my
time, a whole handful of the injured died when
medically they shouldn’t have. Then we had a batch of
near misses over the next few years. It took me and
Stephen and a couple of others a while to put all the
pieces together.

“Really good psi aren’t wired like the rest of the

population. But you already know that. We finally
figured out that it extends to how our bodies process
damage, too. If you’re hurt badly enough to need ER
care, or worse, that generally involves an awful lot of
total strangers touching you. It’s weird and traumatic
enough for the average John Doe off the street, but for
most psi, it’s so much worse. Best description we can
come up with is the body mounts a massive stress
response, which of course makes anything already going
wrong that much worse. Anyway, we finally realized
that if the victim has physical contact with a family
member or a loved one or even a close friend, it
significantly reduces that problem. So in a way holding
his hand is rather literally helping to keep him stable.
Does that make a certain amount of sense?”

Cam nodded, and then a continuation of the idea

occurred to him. “Does that mean if we had taken him to

the hospital he wouldn’t have survived?” It was a hard
question to ask.

“No, he probably would have done okay. I know the

damage looks nasty and he did lose a good deal of
blood, but as long as he got medical treatment, it
probably would have worked out. However, that’s not to
say there’s a guarantee. I don’t know him. I don’t know
anything about the extent of his Talent. This is one of
the reasons we’re so careful about this sort of thing now.
I read a case file on an early member of P that was in a
car accident. She was taken to a local hospital, and none
of her actual injuries were life-threatening. But she was
an extremely sensitive telepath, with only some training.
She coded four times in the ER, and wasn’t stabilized
until her brother managed to make it to the hospital and
see her. That was actually one of the first pieces that
helped us start to make the connection.”

Chapter 15

Mason drew in a sudden breath, eyes blinking open.

It was semi-dark and there was a slight warmth on his
wrist. Familiar warmth. Cam.

He glanced around. He was in a rather clinical

looking room in a hospital bed. An IV line protruded
from his arm and an oxygen cannula trailed under his
nose. A gurney had been pushed up close to the edge of
the bed, and Cameron Bradshaw lay sprawled on it. The
pilot had one hand draped over the rail, fingers curled
around Mason’s wrist. Memories from the previous
hours came rushing back. Getting shot, running for his
life, bleeding, hiding, being found by Cam, the car ride,
and… blurred, disjointed images of a man in scrubs and
bright fluorescent lighting and heat and way too many
people… and Cam.

Mason shifted a little in the bed. His side ached, but

similar to a bad bruise, without the sharp intensity that it
had before.

“Shh, s’okay, y’r safe,” Cam mumbled, thumb

stroking along Mason’s wrist. His eyes dragged open
and he squinted at Mason. “Hey, you’re awake,” said
Cam with a little more coherence.

“Mmm, yeah.”
“You doing okay?”
“I think. I’m kind of sore.”
“Peter spent some time putting you back together.

He’s a healer, too. He’s good. Really good.”

“Where are we?”
“Medical wing, at Division P in Suffolk. Do you

remember the drive at all?” Cam asked.

Mason scoured his somewhat fragmented memories.

“Most of it, I think.”

“You passed out before we got here. About scared

me shitless.”

“So did you punch somebody out to let you stay with

me?”

“No, it’s actually SOP around here. They always put

someone who knows the patient in physical contact. It
supposed to prevent some sort of stress response thing.
God, ask me again, when I’m actually awake.” Cam
glanced at his watch. Mason could see it said 0231.
”Better yet, ask Peter. I’m sure he’s going to wanna talk
to you.”

Mason watched Cam stifle an enormous yawn. The

pilot’s fingers were making little strokes on his wrist
and he was fairly sure Cam wasn’t even aware he was
doing it. It was a comforting sensation.

“Go back to sleep,” muttered Cam.
Mason relaxed back against the pillows, and closed

his eyes.

***

Movement in the hallway woke Cam. Judging from

the lighting he figured it must be morning. He glanced at
the hospital bed next him. Mason was still sleeping. His
face was pale, especially in contrast to the darkness of
his beard stubble, but he looked a little better than he
had the night before. Thank God, that had been way too
close. Cam sat up and scooted down to the end of the
gurney. His crutches lay on the floor. The metal strut of
his leg fixation pinged against the leg of the gurney as
he slid off. Mason’s eyes opened, and he blinked hard.

“I’m going to go track Peter down and find out

what’s going on. Will you be okay here for a while?”
asked Cam.

“Yeah, I guess… Bathroom?” Mason said.

Cam pointed at a door near the corner of the room.
“Can you handle it on your own? Or should I get a

nurse?”

“I’ll be fine.”
Cam wasn’t certain if that was really true or just an

automatic response from Mason.

“Okay, I’ll be back.”

***

Sore muscles and the ache in Mason’s side made the

short trip a bit of a shuffling stumble, not to mention that
fact that he was dragging an IV stand along with him.
God, he would about kill for a long, hot shower. After
he took care of business in the bathroom, he noticed a
set of scrubs and an institutional style bathrobe folded
on the low cabinet beside the sink. Somebody had had
the forethought to realize that since all his clothes had
been cut off, he had nothing to wear, unless you wanted
to count the hospital gown.

He contemplated the IV for a long moment. The bag

was labeled as being the standard saline and dextrose
mix. He’d argue with the medical staff later if they
protested too much about him removing it. All he had to
do was undo the tape, use his thumb to hold the skin still
and pull. The needle slid out with little difficulty. He
held a washcloth against the spot where he had pulled it
loose for a couple minutes to stop the bleeding.

He put on the scrubs. No underwear. He guessed he

was going commando today. His heart rate spiked and
his hands clenched on the edge of the sink for a moment.
Christ, that word evoked thoughts of the previous night.
He stood motionless, fighting to control his emotions. It
may have been sixty seconds, maybe more, before his

pulse and breathing slowed enough to come close to
normal. He shuffled back out into the main room.

A medium height man with sandy blond hair came

into the room, carrying a plastic tote of medical supplies.
He raised an eyebrow at Mason.

“It might have been a better idea to let someone help

you get up,” the man said. His tone was even as Mason
sat on the edge of the bed. “My name is Peter
Vithoulkas. We met last night, though I suspect you may
not remember that.”

Mason watched him. There was a slight familiarity to

the other man.

“I’m the senior healer around here. I’d like to have a

look at the wound if you don’t mind.”

“Are you a doctor?” asked Mason.
“No. If you’re asking about my actual degree, I have

a BSN. But around here what I do with my hands is a lot
more valuable. Can you lie down for me?” Peter asked
as he sat the tote on the end of the bed. Mason lay back
on the bed. Vithoulkas pushed up Mason’s scrub shirt
and peeled the tape away from the wound dressing.

Mason twisted sideways a little to look at the

damage. The wound was a good seven inches or so long
and ran roughly horizontally near the bottom of his rib
cage. It was about three quarters of an inch wide and the
muscle tissue looked almost chewed. But he also noticed
that the scab development and pinkness at the edges
implied the injury was three to four days old. His brain
began to make all the connections. The man had said he
was a healer. Cam said he worked for a group of
government psychics. Did that make this man a healer
just like him?

Vithoulkas pulled a stool away from the wall and

dragged it over to the bed. He sat down and put his hand
against the wound. Mason immediately felt the warm

buzz of energy flowing across the injury. After a minute
or so, the other healer looked up at him.

“Lieutenant Bradshaw said you do this sort of thing,

too,” Peter said.

Mason was uneasy. It was a secret only five other

people knew about him. This man seemed rather open
and up front about his own Talent.

“Don’t worry. No one’s going to stick you in a cage

like a lab rat. We have a rather unusual skill set in the
people around here.”

“And if I can?” said Mason cautiously.
“I was hoping for a little demo after breakfast. Mmm,

I really wished you’d asked before yanking out the IV.”

“I’m a doctor. I do have a clue on how to put in and

take out an IV.”

“Orthopedic surgeon, if I remember correctly from

your file. I know it’s a little irritating, but you’re the
patient at the moment.” Mason glared at him a little.
“Don’t give me attitude, Dr. Flynn. My infirmary, my
rules.” Vithoulkas lifted his hand away. The scab was
peeling away at the edges now and the ends had the
bright pink shininess of new skin. The injury would pass
as more than a week old. Mason was impressed. It was
probably better than even he could do.

“I… it looks good. Thank you,” he said.
“You can take a shower if you like. Just don’t pick at

it. The brass and some of the field people will be
debriefing you this afternoon. I’ll get someone to bring
you some breakfast. Oh, and this. Drink it.” Vithoulkas
handed Mason a plastic pint sized container of thick
liquid.

“What is it?”
“Soy protein, couple hundred milligrams of ferrous

sulfate, some extra electrolytes and some other vitamins.
You lost probably close to two units of blood. I can kick

start your body into producing RBC’s a bit faster, but
you have to consume the raw materials to make them
from. That’s one law of physics we haven’t managed to
figure out how to violate yet.” Vithoulkas stood up and
walked toward the door. “I’ll be back in awhile,” he
said.

Mason was curious and somewhat disconcerted.

Vithoulkas was quite obviously a psychic healer and
operated without any attempt at disguising what he did.

***

Cam showered and changed in his quarters and

grabbed some coffee from the cafeteria intending to
head back toward Mason. Peter Vithoulkas had assured
him he would be looking in on Mason and discussing a
few things. Halfway back, Cam was diverted by Daniel
Valentine.

“We’ll be debriefing Mr. Flynn in a few hours. I also

thought you’d like to get a little warning that the Naval
Intelligence brass is heading our way. I think they want
you to restart the task of finding those two missing
men,” said Daniel.

“Okay, it’s not like I’m overwhelming surprised

about that. It’s what spawned this whole cluster fuck
isn’t it?” Cam replied.

“As far as I know… yes.”
“Do they have any clue how this all went so very

wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

***

Eggs, bacon, toast and juice. Mason supposed it was

a fairly traditional sort of thing to have for breakfast.

Personally, he was a cereal and three cups of coffee kind
of guy; it was just one more thing out of his control.
Peter reappeared a few minutes after he had finished.

“I hope you’re ready to give me a little demo of what

you do,” said Vithoulkas.

“Exactly what did you have in mind?” asked Mason.
“Oh, nothing too epic.” Vithoulkas pulled a

disposable scalpel out of his pocket and slipped off the
protective cover. Mason watched him with a little
nervousness. The man held the blade like he was going
to peel an apple and promptly drew it across the ball of
his own thumb. Bright blood welled up from the gash.
Vithoulkas held out his bloody hand to Mason.

“Fix it,” he said.
Mason gaped. He was still in shock at watching the

other man injure himself intentionally. Mason grabbed
up the napkin that lay on his tray and pressed it against
the dripping wound. He was angry. Slashing your hand
open with a scalpel was a damn stupid thing to do. He
hastily sandwiched the bleeding finger between his
palms and hesitated. Cam was the only person he had
done any healing on in years who’d had the slightest
clue what was happening. He gritted his teeth a little and
flared his Talent. The idiot wanted a demonstration.
Fine.

Mason poured energy into the small, vicious wound.

He sealed the blood vessels, repaired tissue, and mended
the torn skin. He dropped his hands away; Peter’s thumb
was now coated with sticky partial dried blood.
Vithoulkas picked up a wet nap from the breakfast tray
and used it to clean off his hand. There was a faint pink
line where the slash had been, nothing more. Mason felt
dizzy and he rubbed his eyes.

“Oh, I’m impressed. Very impressed. You’re

decently good,” said Peter.

“If I wasn’t, you’d be needing stitches,” said Mason.
“No, I’d have fixed it myself.”
Mason stared at him. “You can do that?”
“It’s not as easy as doing someone else, and it takes a

little longer. But yeah, no problem… You… don’t know
how?” The question was gentle. “I wondered why you
let the bleeding go on so long if you were a healer. I
mean, I know personal trauma makes detail work really
hard, but…” Peter regarded him with a long gaze.

“I know how to block off pain in myself… but

healing myself… I haven’t got a clue.”

“Bet you could learn.”
“How long did it take you?”
“Better part of six months.”
“Unh, sounds difficult.” Mason rubbed his temples.

The dizzy feeling was still lingering.

“Sorry to push you so hard. I would have waited a

couple of days for the demo. But the powers that be are
chomping at the bit to try and resolve this whole thing
with the job Cam is doing for Naval Intelligence. It
doesn’t actually involve me except that I seem to be
assigned to patching up the collateral damage.” Peter
sounded annoyed. “I have to go. I think someone’s
coming by to debrief you in a bit.”

Chapter 16

There was an ammo box with a padlock sitting on the

table in front of Cam, along with two personnel folders.
He had been redirected yet again on his way back to the
infirmary. Two Naval Intelligence men and one from the
NSA sat across the table.

“Unlock it, sign the chain of custody, and remove the

contents,” instructed Commander Rymal.

Cam did as he was told. Inside the box were a watch

and a set of keys, the same items he had been shown
nearly two weeks before. They were double bagged in
plastic evidence bags. “You attended the original
briefing. At that time it was uncertain as to whether the
mission had been compromised. Sean Bennett and
Adrian Davis have not been in contact in any form since
that briefing. Nor have we managed to learn the
whereabouts of the missile prototype they were
transporting. We’d like you find our people and the
device.”

Cam gazed at the bags lying before him, not touching

them.

“You do realize that finding the people may be easier

than the missile. Especially since you haven’t given me
anything to reference the prototype. A picture? A
packing crate? Schematics?” Cam said.

The two Intelligence men exchanged a glance with

the NSA man.

“We’re waiting on clearance from the Navy before

we’re allowed to give you that,” said the NSA man.
Cam heaved a sigh.

“Okay. Could you all leave the room or at least two

of you leave? It would improve the chances that I can do
something productive with this stuff,” said Cam. He
would have preferred to filter all this through Daniel or

one of the other Division P people who had an infinitely
better clue on the difficulty on the whole task, but c’est
la vie. The Navy people got up and left.

Cam carefully undid the fastenings on the two bags,

but didn’t touch the contents. Next he thumbed his way
through the very meager contents of the folders. They
contained ID photos and bare bones information about
the two missing men. He already had a sort of sinking
feeling.

Dumping the keys out of the bag, he let them rest in

his hand. Car, home, gym locker, bicycle lock… gray,
empty, void, chill flat blankness. Mr. Davis, the owner
of the keys was no longer in the land of the living. Cam
might be able to find the body. He’d found corpses a
couple of times before. It was a decidedly unpleasant
experience. He laid the keys on top of the empty bag.
And stared at the ceiling for a moment.

“Does that indicate you had no success?” asked the

NSA man carefully.

“No. It means the guy is dead.”
“Which one?”
“Davis.”
“And Bennett?”
“Haven’t got there yet,” growled Cam. The NSA man

fell silent. Cam plucked the watch out of the second bag.
To look at there was nothing magnificent about it.
Neither a cheap department store version nor anything
as pricey as a Rolex, but Cam had the definite
impression it had been worn fairly frequently. He closed
his eyes for a moment. It didn’t have the same empty
texture that the keys held. He glanced back at the small
photo in the personnel file. Sandy blond hair, a sort of
hawkish nose, thin lips… Cigarette. Huh? He didn’t
smoke. It didn’t say whether Bennett was a smoker or
not. So why was he getting the distinct impression of a

cigarette held between nervous fingers, blowing out
smoke through slightly crooked teeth. Holding the watch
in his hand, Cam got up and paced the length of the
room. A name popped into his head. Little Rock. Did
that mean the city?

“Davis and Bennett were driving from DC to New

Mexico right?” Cam asked.
“Yes. Why?”

“I am moderately sure they only made it as far as

Little Rock.”

“Does that mean Bennett is alive?”
“He seems to be. I’m not sure I’d even say he was

harmed in any way. Just stressed.” Cam wasn’t sure
exactly what that implied. Had Bennett sold out? He
could tell that was probably conjecture on his part. His
Talent didn’t usually provide that sort of information.

“Is he is still in Little Rock?”
“I don’t know. I know this frustrates you, but

sometimes I have to think about this sort of thing for a
while. If he was close, say within fifty miles, I’d say just
start driving and I’d feel around ‘til we hit the right
direction. But he’s not close, so I have to let my brain
kind of cook the information.”

“How long will that take?”
“Probably at least a couple hours. In the mean time, it

won’t hurt to get in touch with whatever people you
have out in Arkansas. I have a suspicion you might be
able to find the truck they were using.” Cam sat down at
the table again and laid the watch down.

“And what do you intend to do for the next couple of

hours?” pressed the NSA man.

“Check on my friend who got shot last night to start

with.”

“He’s being interviewed.”

“You do realize he’s a civilian and has absolutely no

experience with this sort of operation. I still haven’t
figured why these people are going after anyone
connected with me with such a vengeance.” Cam ran his
hands down over his face.

“It was an unexpected development.”
Cam let his hands fall and gazed narrowly at the man

across the table. What exactly did that mean? He could
sense there was something specific he wasn’t being told,
but he didn’t know what to ask.

***

“And you managed to lose your pursuer because you

know the neighborhood?” said a thin balding man.

“Yes, I think so. I’ve lived there for six years. I know

the area pretty well.” Mason wiped his sweating palms
on the scrubs he was still wearing. He had spent the last
hour being questioned extensively on every single detail
of the events from the previous night. Reliving the
terrifying experience was making his heart pound, and
he was sure his blood pressure was in the red zone. He
felt like they were examining his every word under a
microscope. In the corner of the room, a man with a
laptop was currently using some sort of graphic arts
program to produce a picture of the gunman from
Mason’s description.

The man named Valentine who he’d met before, had

put in a brief appearance earlier and brought him a bottle
of water.

“Peter was impressed by your Talents. When this

thing is over, we need to have a discussion,” Valentine
had said. He had squeezed Mason’s shoulder and
departed. That comment had probably been the only

moderately kind thing that had been said to him since
this whole interrogation thing had started.

Mason rubbed his hand along his side. Sitting still in

the hard metal chair was aggravating the partially healed
injury. And he was exhausted. The little display for the
other healer had really sucked what little energy he had
recouped from a few hours sleep right out of him.

“I’d like to return to your description of the

assailant,” said balding man. He had introduced himself
and said he was from Naval Intelligence. Mason was
totally spacing on the guy’s name. The man got up and
walked behind him. Mason swallowed hard. There was
some sort of aggression emanating from the man, and it
was completely creeping Mason out. And then the man
laid his hand on the back of Mason’s neck. Too much.

Run. Hide. Die.

***

The crutches skidded on the tile floor when the

sudden spike of terror hit Cam. He had finally been
heading back toward the infirmary, hoping to find
Mason. He stumbled. It was pure naked fear and all
coming from Mason. Cam dropped the crutches and
began to run. A bolt of pain shot up his leg with every
other step. Find him. Now.

He rounded the corner of the second floor hall and

nearly wiped out. Cam burst into the room. One of the
Naval Intelligence guys was bending over slightly and
looking under the edge of the rectangular metal table
near one side of the room. He could see the blue fabric
of scrubs under the edge of the table. The intelligence
man was about to reach under the table.

“Back off! Don’t touch him!” Cam shouted and

hobbled the last few feet to the table. He shoved the

other man to one side. “Get the fuck away from him! Go
get medical help! Now!” The man hesitated then hurried
away. Cam knelt down in front of Mason. The man’s six
foot two frame was drawn in a tight as possible against
one of the table legs and he was shaking violently.

“Mason?” he said softly. “It’s okay. You’re all right.

Nobody can get you here. You’re safe.” Cam was
uncertain about touching Mason. He wondered if the
doctor would lash out thinking he was trying to protect
himself. Was this a part of the stress response thing
Peter had been talking about? Cam gingerly touched his
fingertips to Mason’s arm. No response. He laid his
entire hand on Mason’s arm. No response.

“Mason? Can you look at me?” he asked. Cam

wasn’t sure he had ever seen any adult so utterly
paralyzed in fear. He kept his hand on Mason’s arm. He
wasn’t sure what else to do.

Peter came practically skidding into the room. He

slowed as he saw Cam sitting on the floor next to his
now catatonic patient.

“Well… shit,” Peter muttered. Cam looked up at

Vithoulkas. “What the hell happened?” asked Peter.

“I have no idea. Ask Commander Rymal. He was the

one in here with him,” snarled Cam. The technician who
had been sitting silently with his laptop in the corner,
finally spoke.

“The commander was asking him more questions. He

touched Mr. Flynn and he just… well… freaked.”

“When are you fucking morons going to learn? You

don’t ever touch Division P people without their
consent! Not unless it’s a life threatening situation,”
shouted Peter. Cam could tell the healer was just
absolutely furious.

“What are you going to do?” Cam asked.

“Nothing. Nothing unless I have to,” said Peter. “If I

touch him, the only thing I can really do for him is force
him into unconsciousness. Not an ideal solution.” Peter
glanced back at the technician. “Leave. The fewer
people near him at the moment, the better.” The
technician hastily folded up his laptop and left. Peter
gave Cam a long appraising look. “Hold him.”

“Huh?” Cam blinked at the request.
“You’re the only one he knows here. If he had a wife

or girlfriend, I’d be on the phone in a heartbeat. He
needs skin contact. Someone to pattern from. Someone
who cares about him. You’re the closest thing he’s got at
this moment.”

Cam’s face burned with heat. It could destroy his

military career. Division P, on the other hand, didn’t
give a rat’s ass about his sexual orientation. He edged
back to lean on the wall and carefully wrapped his arms
around Mason’s body. The doctor was still rigid. Cam
pressed his forehead to Mason’s temple, letting his
breath brush along the side of Mason’s face. He traced
slow circles on Mason’s back and shoulders, and let his
mind skim the fringes of Mason’s, seeking
acknowledgement. All he could sense was a kind of
locked fear. He wished he was capable of telepathy, but
all he had was the empathy that came with his finding
skills. He began to leave light little butterfly kisses along
the side of Mason’s face.

“Come on Mas’, relax okay? You’re safe. I’ve got

you. I’ll protect you. I know I got you into this. I’ll fix
it. I’ll make it right. Please stop doing this. I’ll take care
of you.” Cam whispered little promises and pleas into
Mason’s ear. After several minutes, he felt Mason’s
body begin to unwind a little. Peter had retreated to the
doorway, keeping watch, but offering them a faint
illusion of privacy.

It took twenty more minutes for Mason’s body to go

nearly limp in his arms. His head lay cradled against
Cam’s shoulder and he finally looked up Cam, blue eyes
infinitely vulnerable. Cam rubbed his thumb across
Mason’s mouth, that mouth he knew was capable of
deliciously passionate kisses.

“Are you back online?” Cam asked. Mason

swallowed and nodded.

“He was going to…” Mason began and couldn’t get

any more words out.

“Shh, it’s all right. I understand. Last night was…

traumatic. It’s going to haunt you for a while. You need
to let Peter check you out. Is that okay?”

Mason nodded, but his fingers tightened on Cam’s

leg. Cam crooked a finger at Peter.

Vithoulkas ran light fingers along the length of

Mason’s body, doing a psychic version of a thorough
exam.

“It’s been less than 24 hours since you went through

hell. I knew it was too damn soon to put you through
something like this. Cam, you stay with him. I’m going
to go get a wheelchair for him. Oh, and where the hell
are your crutches?”

Cam gave him a guilty half smile, “I dropped them

somewhere down the other hallway.”

Peter rolled his eyes a little.

“Jesus… I ought to

tie both of you to a bed. I’ll be back in a few minutes.
Stay put,” said Vithoulkas as he walked out the door.

Peter returned in a few minutes, pushing a wheelchair

that had the crutches laid over the arms. The healer
handed the crutches to Cam.

“Use ‘em okay? There’s only so much stress newly

regenerated bone is willing to take,” he gently
reprimanded Cam. Then he helped Mason into the
wheelchair.

“I … I can walk,” said Mason.
“Yes, I’m sure you can and I’d rather you didn’t,”

replied Peter. He looked at Cam as he pushed the
wheelchair out into the hallway. “I want him away from
people as much as possible for at least the next few
hours. Do you mind keeping him in your quarters for a
while? Just watch some TV or something.”

“I never did get to take a shower or shave,” muttered

Mason. He was beginning to sound a little closer to
normal, Cam thought.

“Excellent idea. I want you to have some time to get

your head back in gear. I know we haven’t had much of
a chance to talk details but all our research tells us
people with psi have more difficulty dealing the
psychological impact of trauma. So cut yourself a break.
In the mean time, I’m going to rip Naval Intel a new
one. We let them use our people on our terms.
Something I think they’ve forgotten,” said Peter.

They crossed to one of the residential buildings,

where Cam’s quarters were located. Mason was pushed
inside. Peter drew Cam back out into the hallway for a
moment.

“Touch him frequently, okay? He’s way out of his

depth, even though he’s trying really hard to pretend it’s
not so. And I’m worried about him,” Peter said. Cam
nodded. “If you care about him, tell him, or at least be
honest. He needs some serious emotional support. Got
it?”

“Um… yeah,” Cam replied. He knew Peter liked to

severely downplay the fact that he was nearly as gifted a
telepath as he was a healer, but every now and then he
stopped pulling his punches.

“I’ll check on you two in three or four hours,” said

Vithoulkas, and departed.

Cam went back into the suite. Mason was sitting on

the sofa, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees
and his face in his hands. Cam’s stomach clenched as he
wondered for a moment if Mason was going to the
catatonic withdrawal thing again.

“Even if I take a shower, I haven’t got any clean

clothes to put on. Wonder if I can get some clean
scrubs,” said Mason. He dragged his fingernails down
through the heavy beard stubble along his jaw. Cam
thought he looked frazzled.

“You’re skinnier than me by a little. If you don’t

mind the fact that my jeans are gonna look like high
waters on you, you can borrow some of my stuff,” Cam
suggested.

“You sure?”
“Yeah, it’s kind of a new take on letting you get into

my pants,” Cam deadpanned. This drew a hint of a smile
from Mason.

“Right now, I’d settle for your shower.”

Chapter 17

As the water pounded against his shoulders, Mason

looked down the length of his body. There was a host of
small bruises and scrapes. Knees, elbows, hip, all the
little marks that were yet another reminder of the
previous night. He pressed a hand against the tile wall of
the shower. I will not freak out again, he told himself.
He still wasn’t entirely sure what had happened during
the interrogation. He had a blank spot in his memory of
some unknown number of minutes after… after… The
last thing he could remember before the empty place
was that Intelligence guy circling around behind him.

Cam came into the bathroom. There was only a glass

partition between the stall and the rest of the bathroom
and Mason could see him lean on the sink.

“You doing okay?” Cam asked.
“Yeah. Can I… how long was I… well… out of it,

there in that room?”

“Somewhere between fifteen and twenty minutes.”
“Oh.”
“I’m guessing you really don’t remember much about

it.”

“No… I wonder if that makes it kind of like having a

seizure. Epileptic patients don’t often remember what
goes on from a couple minutes before it really happens
up through a few minutes after.” Mason finished rinsing
off the soap and stepped out, grabbing a towel. “The
clean part’s taken care of. You have a razor I can use?”
He wrapped the towel around his waist.

“In the medicine cabinet,” said Cam. Mason opened

it and pulled out a can of shaving cream and a
disposable razor. He set them down on the edge of the
sink and looked at his hand. It was shaking. Maybe
shaving was not such a good idea at the moment. Cam’s

hand came to rest between his shoulder blades. It was a
welcome touch.

“Forget the shaving thing for the moment. Let’s go

see if I can find something to fit you,” Cam suggested.

Back out in the bedroom, Mason sat on the bed. The

shower had helped, but the exhaustion thing was
slamming him hard. The medical training part of his
brain offered up the blood loss as a partial reason. Cam
tossed him a T-shirt and a pair of boxer-briefs. He really
ought to put them on, but instead he sat motionless,
feeling the muscles in his arms and legs twitch. That
whole rattled and out of control feeling was creeping up
on him again. I’m an adult, I’m a doctor, I will not
behave like a wigged out teenage girl, Mason told
himself.

Cam sat on the bed beside him and wrapped an arm

around his shoulders. Cam felt warm and solid and real,
and Mason longed to just curl up in the man’s embrace.
He must have been broadcasting pretty hard, because
Cam pushed him down to lie on the bed and stretched
out beside him.

“Are you about to do that zone out thing on me

again?” Cam asked. His hands were kneading gently at
Mason’s back. Mason met his eyes. They reflected the
anxious concern he felt from Cam’s mind where it
brushed along the edge of his own.

“No… I don’t think so. I… Damn, I feel like some

scared kid trying to pretend he’s got it under control,”
said Mason. He closed his eyes. The room wasn’t
particularly cold, but his body wanted to shiver. He
fought the feeling, and concentrated on Cam’s hands on
his skin. He could tell that a fairly intense ache had
returned to Cam’s leg, but with nowhere near the same
incapacitating level as before. He laid a hand on Cam’s
chest, letting his own Talent damp down the pain.

“Hey, don’t do that,” said Cam. “It’s not that bad.

Peter’s been doing some big time healing on it the past
few days. However, running down the hallway like a
maniac without the crutches kind of… annoyed it.
Anyway, I don’t think you have the energy to spare.”

“I’m fine,” said Mason, but it was just words, that

automatic thing you say. Cam pulled him closer,
cradling Mason’s head to his shoulder.

“Just hang out and relax. Peter wants you away from

everybody for a while anyway.”

Mason let himself lean more fully against Cam’s

body. He could feel the steady thud of Cam’s pulse and
the strong hands tracing slow patterns on his skin. It was
comforting, grounding, and also beginning to arouse
him. Underneath the towel still wrapped around his hips,
he could feel his cock was already half hard. His breath
hitched as Cam’s fingers ran down his spine.

Cam lifted Mason’s hand and sucked on two of the

fingertips of Mason’s hand. It was tentative and yet a
very definite turn on. Mason had to swallow hard. He
wanted to rub himself on the side of Cam’s hip where
their bodies met. Cam let his hand fall and moved to curl
his own hand around the back of Mason’s neck, drawing
him into a kiss. Cam nibbled at his lower lip and his
tongue ran along his teeth, Mason’s mouth opened to the
gentle assault. It was hot and slow and the sensations
crept down to his groin. He was so hard it ached.

***

Cam pried himself out of the embrace long enough to

yank off his shirt. He wanted Mason’s hands on his skin.
Pulling the other man close, he smirked just a little at the
fact the towel was doing very little to hide Mason’s
jutting erection. He wasn’t doing a whole lot better. The

front of his jeans had a noticeable bulge. Cam kissed his
way down the side of Mason’s throat to the little hollow
at the base. It just begged to be tasted. He swiped his
tongue across the little dip in the skin. This drew a moan
from Mason. Cam ran his teeth along the diagonal of his
partner’s collar bone and down to a nipple. As he licked
it, it tightened into a hard nub. Cam continued down the
side of Mason body, pausing at the long scabbed wound.
He looked back up at Mason’s face.

“It’s healing,” said Mason softly. “More than a

week’s worth in a single day.”

“Will it leave a scar?”
“I’m not sure.”
Cam caressed it with his thumb. A scar would forever

be a reminder of just how much danger he had put
Mason in. He kissed the injury. The crusty hardness of
the scabbing was bordered by peeling bits of dried skin.
Mason inhaled a slow breath as Cam’s mouth headed
toward the center of his stomach. Muscles twitched and
his cock bobbed as Cam blew across the tip. There was
something absolutely intoxicating knowing that he was
the reason for Mason’s desire. He lapped at the leaking
tip, tasting the salty slickness. His hand cupped his
partner’s balls, rolling them carefully with his fingers.
Mason was bucking slightly in shallow thrusts. Cam
licked along the hard length.

“Oh God, please just fuck me,” Mason panted. Cam

rose up on his hands and knees straddling Mason and
looking down in his face.

“I’ve never… I think I have a condom in my wallet,

but… don’t we need…well, KY or something?” Cam
was completely uncertain. He definitely didn’t want to
hurt his lover.

“Uh… yeah… ‘kay. Use your fingers,” said Mason.

Cam was amused. He could tell Mason was having

trouble stringing an intelligible thought together.

“I might need… um, some suggestions,” replied

Cam.

Mason nodded. Something approaching control was

returning, judging from his expression.

“Hand lotion if you have any. Can’t really use it with

a condom, but with fingers it’ll do. A demonstration
might be more… enjoyable,” said Mason.

Cam smiled. It took him a couple of minutes to

struggle out of his jeans. Getting the right leg off over
the metal bars always presented a bit of a challenge.
Once he was as naked as Mason, he stretched out next to
his lover, flat on his back. Mason had retrieved a sample
size bottle of hand lotion from the bathroom.

“Bend your knee,” said Mason, gesturing to the one

without the external fixation. Cam flexed his leg and put
his foot flat on the bed. Mason curled against him,
licking across the front of his hipbone toward the base of
his own hard length. Mason’s mouth encircled the head.
It was a delicious heat. Mason’s hand stroked him a
couple of times then was gone. He poured the lotion
over his fingers, coating them.

“Tell me to quit, if you don’t like it,” said Mason

solemnly. Cam nodded. A cool slick finger was pressing
between his butt cheeks, circling his opening, pushing in
with a gentle pressure. His body tightened for a moment
unsure of the intrusion, then relaxed and he could feel it
sliding in a little further.

“You okay?” Mason asked.
Cam huffed out a breath. “Uh-huh.”
Mason’s head descended and he could feel the hot

wet suck of his lover’s mouth on his cock. Mason’s
finger was slipping out a little and then back in. Ungh,
he wasn’t sure if he wanted to thrust forward into

Mason’s willing mouth or scrunch backward to increase
the pressure. Mason’s finger was pistoning slowly in
and out. Cam’s brain was short circuiting. Further,
further, hitting that spot inside his body. He came with a
guttural groan, pumping his semen into the slick heat of
Mason’s mouth.

After another minute or so, he regained enough

awareness to pull Mason’s body over on top of him,
kissing Mason again. The stubble from Mason’s beard
was a light abrasion on his own face. The contrast with
the soft heat of Mason’s mouth was just incredible. In
the background, he could still feel the faint underlying
buzz of the healer’s energy.

“Hey, I thought you were going to turn off the

healing stuff,” Cam said.

“’s’off as it gets. Th’ rest is jus’ me,” replied Mason.

His teeth were nipping at the underside of Cam’s jaw.
Cam could also feel his lover’s hard cock trapped
between their bodies.

“Your turn,” he said. “You’re going to have to give

me some instructions though. I’m not sure any of what
you did for me actually reached my brain.” Mason
snickered a little.

“Use the lotion, so it’s good and slippery, then just

one finger at a time. I’ll let you know if it hurts.”

“I don’t think I can suck you off at the same time…”

Cam felt the flush of embarrassment heat his face and he
closed his eyes. Mason placed a kiss on his forehead.

“Cam, look at me.” Cam opened his eyes. Mason’s

gaze was both intense and serious. “It’s okay to be kind
of clueless. Bet the first girl you had, you were done
before she was even getting hot.”

“Unh, yeah, sort of.”

“Being an adult has its advantages, including the

willingness to take your time and figure stuff out. And I
don’t mean the just us having sex part. Okay?”

Cam nodded. His throat was tight. God in heaven,

every time he thought he had the attraction between him
and Mason pegged as just a physical thing, something
wrenched his heart and told it him it was so much more.

Both arms around his lover’s body, he rolled Mason

back onto the bed. Mason obligingly bent his legs as
Cam fumbled with the lotion bottle. He watched
Mason’s face as he rubbed his index finger across the
tight crinkle of skin. His lover gave him a smile. He
pushed his finger inside, trying to mimic what Mason
had done to him. The tight heat drew snug then relaxed.
He moved his hand, and Mason slid downward, driving
himself further onto Cam.

“More,” whispered Mason. His tone had dropped and

his pupils were blown wide.

Cam increased the pace a little.
“Two… fingers… then three,” Mason panted.
Cam obeyed with some uncertainty, but it only lasted

seconds. Mason was rocking against the sensation, lips
parted, face slightly flushed. His cock was bobbing on
the front of his groin, slowly leaving a smeared puddle.
Cam could feel the tense build toward release. That
thrum of energy was heading for a fever pitch. He
pushed his fingers a little deeper, grazing past… oh
that… He curled his fingers a bit, to increase the
friction. Mason came with a groaning shout all over his
stomach, back arching and hands clenching.

Cam fished the towel off the end of the bed and used

it to clean up the mess. Mason was sprawled limply
across the blankets, looking at a Cam with a certain
amount of glaze to his expression. Cam pulled Mason
into his arms.

“Do that thing the women always make into an

accusation, go to sleep,” said Cam. Mason’s fingers
trailed across Cam’s lips.

“Will you be here when I wake up?” Mason asked.

The look in his eyes was infinitely vulnerable.

“Yeah, I will.”
Mason watched him for a long minute, eyelids

drooping, fluttering, and falling shut.

Cam lay there, just looking at Mason. What drew him

so hard to this man? Cam had spent his adult life in the
Navy. If someone had asked him a couple of months ago
where his life was going, he would have answered keep
flying, do his twenty, try to find a woman he cared about
and have a family. Now… he just flat out didn’t know.

Rumor had it his squadron might be going on

deployment in about five months. If he pursued this
thing with Mason, there wouldn’t be any tearful kisses
on the pier. There wouldn’t be anyone waiting with
balloons when he got back. He wasn’t even sure if they
would be able to manage email more than once in a
while. He knew damn well there were at least a couple
dozen same sex relationships held by people on the base.
How did they cope? Jesus Christ, one problem at a time.
Right now, the next couple of days, the goal had to be
doing his job for Division P, and keeping Mason safe.

***
The short man with the graying hair walked across

the parking lot of the naval base. He drew no attention.
He belonged. He unlocked a dark blue Ford and slid into
the driver’s seat. A plain white envelope lay on the
passenger seat. He slit it open with his car key. Inside
was a single sheet of paper. It read:

Associate two is still in place. She is awaiting further

orders. The primary operative is currently untouchable,
but may become accessible in the next forty-eight hours.

The item of note will be moved from Little Rock to the
next location.

A string of curses flew through the man’s head.

Division P was apparently pulling out all the stops to
protect their “magical finding man.” If that pilot located
the missile before they could arrange the sale, the whole
operation would go to hell awfully fast. The prototype
was being moved to Meridian Naval Air Station. Where
better to hide a missile than with a batch of other ones?

Chapter 18

When Mason woke he saw… feet. It took his brain a

second to process that Cam was lying across the bed on
his stomach, oriented in the opposite direction. He was
chewing on the end of an ink pen and there were some
sheets of paper laid out on the blankets in front of him.

“You look deep in thought,” said Mason.
Cam twisted around to look at him. “Mmm, yeah.

Work stuff for Division P, sort of.”

“Any chance you can tell me about it? I’d really like

to have a clue why somebody thinks I make good target
practice.”

Cam stared off at the wall for a minute or so before

apparently reaching some sort of a decision. Then he
proceeded to tell Mason about the current assignment.
“So if you were a missile where would you be?”
quipped Cam.

“Blowing something up?”
“Nah, you’re a valuable missile because you’re one

of kind. The idea being that someone could take you
apart and build another one.”

“Because they don’t have blueprints?”
“Bingo. Those are supposedly still all nice and safe.”
“Abandoned warehouse? Somebody’s basement? In

the woods under one of those camouflage tarp thingys?
How big is this thing anyway?”

“I’m not exactly sure. Too big to fit in a car trunk.

They were driving a fair size panel van apparently… Go
back to the woods thing.”

“Under one of those looks like bushes from the air

tarps that the military uses.”

“No… I’ve got it. Where do you hide a tree? In a

forest,” Cam grinned.

“I’m not making the connection.”

“You hide a missile someplace where they store other

ones. Nobody notices much if you bring it on base or
move it around. I got out some jeans for you. Get
dressed. Go out in the main room and Google naval air
bases. I’m going to want you to read me the list. I’m
going to go see if I can get a large size map to eyeball.”

***

“Meridian Naval Air Station” said Cam. He tossed a

folded map on the table in front of Commander Rymal.
The NSA man was in the conference room, too.

“This is where Bennett is?” the man asked.
“I’m not sure about that yet, but I’m fairly sure that’s

where the missile is.”

“How do we know for sure” said Rymal.
“We don’t. I don’t. It’s a gut feeling -- this is what I

do. Can you institute an inventory of base ordinance?”

“We could, but there’s a high chance that would tip

off whoever is pulling the strings on this before we
could actually locate it,” Rymal said.

“You think this is an internal job?” asked Cam. His

expression was wary.

“Yes.”
“How long have you known?” Cam wasn’t sure he

liked where this seemed to be heading.

“We suspected it the moment we lost contact with

Bennett and Davis.”

“That was before I was brought in.”
“We still aren’t certain. And we don’t know where

the leak is.”

“I was bait, wasn’t I?” snarled Cam.
“Not intentionally.”
“With all due respect… sir… Fuck you! You should

have warned me! You got Keith Haverty killed! You

nearly got me killed! And Mason Flynn, who’s only link
was the fact he scraped me off the highway and pasted
me back together. Sir, fuck you, sir ! You hung me out
to dry!” Cam was screaming at this point. He was so
pissed he could barely think.

“Lieutenant! We had no idea that these people would

go to such lengths.”

“You could’ve made a wild guess! How much do you

think they’re going to sell that prototype for? Fifty mil?
A hundred mil? Jesus H. Christ, people kill for a whole
hell of a lot less. Not including the fact that treason is
probably involved.”

“Lieutenant Bradshaw, could you go grab a cup of

coffee or something and come back in about fifteen
minutes? I need to discuss some options with the
Commander,” said the NSA agent, speaking for the first
time.

“Yeah, whatever!” snapped Cam and grabbed his

crutches, making for the door.

***

“Feeling a little more grounded?” asked Peter as

Mason sat down in a seat in the cafeteria.

“I suppose. I still don’t really understand what

happened. I’ve seen patients have panic attacks a few
times… but I never quite imagined myself on the
‘having one’ end,” replied Mason. He was slightly
uncomfortable talking about it but he felt like he
desperately needed whatever information the other
healer could provide. It was past seven and the large
room was close to deserted.

“I think maybe you could call getting shot and

running for your life, a precipitating event,” said Peter
with a slight smile.

“Yeah. But why the… extreme response? I mean I

can kind of understand elevated heart rate, and
hyperventilation and the like, but the whole bit with me
blanking out?”

“Psi aren’t wired like the rest of the world. We

already deal with something like two to ten times the
sensory input. Trauma often just pegs the meter, but
sometimes it’s delayed. The proverbial straw and camel
thing. You could learn an awful from Division P.”

“Why does that sound like an invitation?” asked

Mason.

“You may be an excellent surgeon, but there are only

three healers in all of Division P currently. The other
two are decidedly less Talented than me. That sounds
egotistical, doesn’t it?’ Peter said with a grin.

Chapter 19

Cam was beckoned back inside. Rymal was standing

with his arms crossed.

“We want you to go to Meridian. We think it’s our

best shot at finding the missile. And maybe Bennett, too,
if we’re lucky. Here’s the basic plan: drive to Oceana,
there should be a Gulfstream waiting for us by the time
we get there, fueled and ready to go. The flight to
Mississippi should take less than two hours. Someone
from Naval intelligence will meet us. You do your thing
and we secure the missile.”

“Specify the ‘we’ part,” said Cam.
“You, me, Valentine, and Simpson.” Rymal jerked a

thumb in the direction of the NSA man. Cam pondered
the game plan. There was something about leaving
Mason behind that bugged him. He couldn’t put his
finger on it. He ought to be perfectly safe at the Division
P compound, but… he had an uneasy feeling about the
unknown leak of information. It had to be somebody,
obviously, but in what organization? NSA? Naval
intelligence? He supposed it could even be within
Division P, but somehow that seemed a less likely
scenario. Too many of the psi tended to “eavesdrop” a
little on each other for that to be particularly viable.
Valentine was a telepath of middling Talent, but his vast
field experience with NCIS gave him a level of shrewd
discernment.

Cam trusted Valentine far more than he trusted

Rymal or the NSA guy, Simpson. He needed Mason to
come with them. It was the only way to keep Mason
safe. He couldn’t even begin to say exactly why, but it
was the same sort of gut feeling he often got at the
beginning of the hunt for something. Once upon a time,
he used to discount those feelings as just his brain

playing tricks, but training at Division P had taught him
a hell of lot about trusting those subtle little whispers of
information.

“And Mason Flynn,” said Cam.
“Who?” asked Simpson.
“The orthopedic surgeon who’s been taking care of

Bradshaw. He’s apparently a psychic healer, too. And no
way, he’s a civilian,” said Rymal.

“I still have eight steel pins drilled into my leg, and

I’ve only been out of the hospital a little over a week.
Vithoulkas has done a certain amount of repair work,
but when the pain starts to get out of control, I need a
healer. Drugs mess up my psi stuff.”

“Why not Vithoulkas then?” said Rymal. “He’s got

adequate security clearance.”

“Peter doesn’t do ops, period. He’s too valuable to

risk. Just ask Daniel.” Cam knew this wasn’t strictly
true, but he was gambling on Valentine to back him on a
hunch. “Where is Daniel anyway?”

“Coordinating with Bottman before we leave,”

replied Rymal.

“I am not taking a civilian. He’s an unknown

quantity,” said Simpson.

“Then I’m not going. You screwed me over already.

My way or the highway!” Cam shouted. There was a
possibility this could turn into a real pissing contest
between agencies, but he just flat out didn’t give a fuck.

“Get Valentine down here. I want a personal

guarantee that this surgeon will do as he’s told if we
drag him along,” said Simpson

***

In the back of a fifteen person van driving them from

Suffolk to Oceana, Mason sat beside Cam, with a back

pack well stocked with medical supplies. Why on God’s
earth he was being sent to Meridian Mississippi with a
batch of military men on a covert operation totally
defied comprehension. Cam had drawn him aside for a
moment, while gear was being loaded.

“Don’t ask questions. Just trust me, please,” Cam had

whispered. “If you stay here, I’m afraid someone’s
going to have another go at you.” His hand was resting
on Mason’s shoulder and he brushed a thumb along
Mason’s neck. Mason could tell the plea was very real.
He swallowed hard and nodded.

Valentine was sitting in front of him, stabbing the

stylus against the screen of his PDA. After a few
minutes, he twisted around to face Cam.

“When this is done… I want details,” said Valentine.
“Yeah, got it.”

***

As soon as they made it through the gate on the base,

they were tracked directly to the airfield. A sleek little
Gulfstream was waiting with the engines running. The
van pulled to a stop a few dozen feet from the plane.
Four people waited outside the plane, three men, one
woman.

All the passengers of the van got out. Everyone but

Cam grabbed gear bags. He picked up his crutches and
slid his arms through his own backpack. Rymal crossed
to speak with the woman. She was blond and wore a
leather mini-skirt and a gray blouse. She handed a
briefcase to Rymal.

Cam paused for a moment, while Simpson and

Valentine got in the plane. There was something familiar
about the woman, and something vaguely disconcerting.
Perhaps he had met her when he went for the initial

briefing at the beginning of this whole fiasco.
Awkwardly, he made his way up the steps into the
plane. Mason was following him. Trust the orthopedic
surgeon to be keeping an eye on the guy on crutches.
The woman and one of the men remained behind on the
ground.

***

Getting on a plane under any circumstances qualified

at one of his least favorite experiences. Mason clenched
his teeth a little and told himself to stop acting like an
idiot. He was definitely a white-knuckle flier and he
avoided it whenever possible. He glanced over at the
few people who hadn’t boarded yet. That Navy
intelligence guy. Cam had said he was Commander
somebody-or-other. And the woman he was talking to
seemed familiar. Blond, built like an athlete, she must be
Naval intelligence also, he assumed. So why did he keep
thinking she should be wearing a nurse’s uniform? He
must have her confused with someone else. She
reminded him of someone from the hospital, he just
couldn’t remember who. And there was something tense
and aggressive about her stance. Maybe that was just a
product of this entire situation. Anyway, it didn’t look
like she was going with them, so he dismissed her from
his mind. He looked back up the steps. Cam was passing
through the doorway.

Time to get moving.

Part 3- Cut Pass

Chapter 20

The whine of the Gulfstream engines grew louder as

the plane taxied toward the runway. Lt. Cameron
Bradshaw let out a small sigh. He’d rather be the one
flying the plane - preferably an F/A-18. He leaned his
head back against the seat and glanced out the window.
Oceana Naval Air Station to Meridian NAS: it ought to
take a bit less than two hours for the flight. If things
went according to plan, they’d be able to locate the
stolen missile, secure it, find out who orchestrated the
plot and round up the people who executed it. Executed
it. Oh, that was a good description. Cam himself had had
a very near miss, a carefully carried out “accident” that
had almost become a fatal motorcycle crash. His
roommate, Lt. Keith Haverty, had been murdered in the
apartment they shared. Then the orthopedic surgeon and
psychic healer who had saved his life, and was rapidly
falling into the role of friend and lover, had been the
target of another assassination attempt.

Cam shifted in his seat. The meds he'd taken earlier

were wearing off and the bone deep ache of his damaged
leg was creeping back. He'd done far too much walking
on it today. The healing that Peter Vithoulkas, resident
healer for Division P, had accomplished in just a few
days was unbelievably amazing. The shattered bones
had mended as much as if six weeks had passed, rather
than the two that had, but that still left another six to
eight weeks worth of healing to go. And it was a
separate issue from the nerve damage that accompanied
the original injury.

Maybe he should get Mason to damp it down while

they were flying. He glanced at the surgeon seated next
to him. The man’s entire body was tense and one hand

was clenched around the arm of the seat. Cam laid his
hand on top of Mason’s. The word anxiety leaped to
mind.

“You all right?” asked Cam.
“Fine,” said Mason from between clenched teeth.

Cam frowned. He curled his fingers around the healer’s
hand. Was Mason headed for a second one of those
catatonic panic attacks that he had experienced near the
beginning of the day? Maybe bringing him along had
been asking too much of a man who had no field
training. But Cam felt leaving him behind would have
been far more dangerous.

“Hey, talk to me,” Cam prompted. They were seated

at a small conference table facing the front of the plane.
The other four men sat further forward around another
set of smaller tables: Valentine, Simpson, Rymal, and
another Naval Intelligence man that Cam had missed the
name of. The others were deep in conversation and
paying no attention to Cam or Mason.

“I don’t like flying,” muttered Mason. He was staring

at the floor.

“It’s a short flight. Less than a thousand miles.”
“I don’t give a fuck how short it is! I hate flying!”

Mason snapped.

Cam could feel the tension just winding Mason in

knots, and it was getting worse as the plane picked up
speed for take-off. Mason’s lips were a tight line and his
head was pressed back against the seat. Cam squeezed
Mason’s hand.

“In ten minutes, we’ll be up and it’ll be fine,” he said.

He was finding it hard to comprehend that flying could
stress a grown man out this much. Cam loved the feel of
power with a throttle in his hand. Thirty million dollars
worth of high tech government hardware in the palm of
his hand was a serious rush. Mason’s pulse absolutely

pounded beneath his fingers as the Gulfstream left the
ground and continued upward at a relatively sharp
incline.

“Mason?”
“What!”
“Kill off the pain in my leg for me. Please,” said

Cam.

Mason gave him a hostile glare, but relaxed just a

little.

***

It took Mason a moment to realize that Cam was

trying to get his mind off the fact they were in the air.
He flipped his hand over and threaded his fingers
through the pilot’s, easily damping the ache in his
lover's leg to almost nothing. He could tell that beyond
the pain, Cam was almost perfectly calm. But something
lingered in the background, an uneasiness? But it wasn’t
about where they were. Mason suspected it had more to
do with the whole missing weapon thing.

“Figures I would get into something with a guy who

likes to fly,” Mason said.

Cam gave him a little smile. “You might learn to like

it.”

“Nope. Some comedian said there’s something

inherently wrong with a mode of transportation where
when the engine craps out, you die.”

“I’ve known some guys that’ve landed dead stick.”
“Oh, God...”
“Mas’ Chill, ok? I need you relatively calm and sane

when we get to Meridian.”

“Unh.” He could feel the plane tilting a little and he

had to swallow hard. It must mean they were turning,
and he had these uncomfortable mental images of them

continuing to flip right on over to upside down. There
was some name for that. Rolling?

“Give it a few more minutes. We’ll be at cruising

altitude and everything will settle down,” said Cam. “I
have an idea, too.”

“Single malt. Preferably a fifth.”
“Huh? Oh, uh, not on this flight.”
“Shit.”
“Is that your usual mode?”
“My usual mode is NOT to fly!”
“Okay, okay, calm down. Focus on me.” Cam twisted

a little and pulled down the window shade behind him.

The sun was sinking toward the horizon. About this

time yesterday someone had been shooting at Mason as
he ran for his life through the streets at the ocean front.
Damn, it felt like days, thought Mason. It had been a
really long twenty four hours. He squeezed his eyes
shut, wishing he could curl up somewhere and pretend it
was all just a bad dream. Cam’s fingers flexed a little in
between his own. Mason forced himself to concentrate
on Cam's physical presence. The ache in his leg was
being well suppressed. Now was not the time to work on
the nerve damage. There was fatigue in his lover’s body.
It had been a fairly long day for Cam, too.

Mason rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. The

plane must be leveling off, the weird angle to the floor
now was gone now.

“You look beat,” said Cam. “How’s your side?”
“It aches a little.”
“In the back there are a couple of sofas. Let me go

tell Danny that we’re going to crash for a while 'til we
get close.”

“You would have to say the word crash…” muttered

Mason. Cam grinned at him, hauled himself up off the
seat and grabbed his crutches.

***

Cam made his way toward the front of the main

cabin. The other four men were deep in conversation.
The topic was what they might expect to find or not find
when they reached Meridian Mississippi and the naval
air station located there. Cam caught Valentine’s
attention.

“Flynn and I are going to try to catch a little sleep or

at least stretch out before the next phase. Okay?” Cam
said.

“Yeah, good idea. Is he coping?” asked Valentine.
“More or less.”
“Do what you have to.”
Cam nodded. He guessed that Peter had briefed

Valentine about Mason’s earlier psi response to trauma
and stress. Cam returned to where Mason was sitting.

“Come on. Back this way.”
Mason slowly got up and followed. There was a

second compartment in the back, separated by a pocket
door. Each side of the area held a long leather sofa built
into the bulkhead. Cam pulled the door shut behind
them.

“You want the lights on or off?” he asked.
“Um, off I guess,” said Mason. Cam laid a hand on

Mason’s shoulder. His lover had calmed somewhat but
he was still incredibly tense. Cam flicked off the light. A
small amount of light still remained, seeping in around
the window shades. Mason sank onto one of the sofas
and rested his elbows on his knees, face in his hands.
Cam sat beside him. Cam's hands kneaded Mason’s
shoulders. Jesus, he was wound tight, with every reason,
decided Cam. Tossing a guy who was phobic about

flying onto a plane with almost no warning, was
undoubtedly bordering on the last straw.

Cam glanced toward the flimsy door separating the

parts of the plane. Hopefully nobody would bother them
for at least an hour. He drew his thumb down the back
of Mason’s neck, pressing against the tense muscles.
Mason sat very still for a minute or more, then put his
hand on Cam’s leg. He could feel the trickling thrum of
energy, muted by the fabric of his jeans, soothing the
tight ache of his injured leg.

“Just enough to block it,” whispered Cam. “I don’t

want you burning energy you haven’t got.” He could’ve
probably managed without the help from Mason but he
was still trying to keep the man focused on something
other than the flight.

Cam slid back into the corner of the sofa and pulled

Mason with him. The sofa was sort of narrow. Cam
spread his legs, the damaged one lying along the back of
the sofa and the other braced on the floor. Mason was
slumped sideways between his thighs, head on his
shoulder. Cam dipped his head to kiss Mason, slowly,
softly, lingeringly. Damn, every time he touched this
man, it felt so very right. And not thirty feet away sat
two Naval Intelligence guys and one NSA agent who
were probably quite capable of destroying his career.
Division P on the other hand, officially didn’t give a
shit. He’d heard some commentary during his training
that they encouraged relationships of any kind. The
supposed reason being that psi were so isolated, usually
so self isolated for reasons of pure sanity, that any
consensual attachment was viewed as beneficial.

The kiss became hunger. He scrunched the T-shirt

Mason had on, up his lover's body, exposing skin. Hands
on skin were what he wanted. Naked and wrapped

around his lover as tightly as two bodies could get
would have been better; not an option.

Tangled on the narrow couch, Mason’s leg was flung

over Cam’s, so he could rub himself on the inside of
Cam's thigh. Lips and teeth conducted a war of hot slick
tongues. Cam ground his own hard cock against
Mason’s hip. He jammed his hand between his leg and
his lover’s crotch, cupping Mason, stroking him through
the fabric of his jeans. Mason let out a heavy breath that
was almost a groan, exhaling against Cam’s open
mouth. The intense white noise of the plane covered the
sound of Cam’s hand fumbling with his lover’s belt
buckle.

He wormed his hand down the front of Mason’s

jeans, inside Mason's underwear. A light trail of slippery
wetness slicked his hand. In the near darkness, he
rubbed his palm harder on the hot length beneath it,
fingertips rolling the balls lower down. Mason’s face
was against his throat; Mason panting. The tension in his
lover’s body now had nothing to do with his anxiety
over flying. Mason was making shallow thrusts against
Cam's hand.

“God... faster...” Mason whispered. His lips sucked

on the pulse point at the corner of Cam’s jaw. Mason's
entire body shuddered hard in Cam’s arms and thick
warmth spurted up the inside of his wrist.

Cam could feel the bright wash of ecstasy

everywhere they touched, a sharp echo of pleasure. It
tipped him over the edge. His own orgasm ripped
through him and he hugged Mason’s body tight to his
own, straining to keep silent.

Struggling to catch his breath, Cam eased his hand

out of Mason’s jeans and then realized that wasn’t the
only part of him that was sticky. He remembered some
of these planes had blankets and such stored in a drawer

under the sofa. He hooked the toe of his shoe in what
seemed to be a handle and levered it open. Bingo. He
reached inside and dragged out a blanket, and he and
Mason did a hasty, if less than thorough, cleanup job.
He jammed the blanket back into the drawer.

“Do they clean these planes after every run?” Mason

asked softly.

“I doubt it.”
“How long before someone finds that and wonders

who got lucky?”

“Could be tomorrow, could be weeks,” said Cam.

Mason had returned to his previous position slouched up
against Cam’s body, his muscles now loose and relaxed.
Cam stoked his fingers through his lover’s short dark
hair and ran them down across Mason's face. Mason had
some serious five o’clock shadow going at this point.
Feeling the soft abrasion of that stubble on his
fingertips, Cam remembered that Mason’s hands had
been shaking too hard earlier that day to comfortably
wield a razor without doing any damage.

“What happens when we get there?” Mason asked.
“We go on a bear hunt.”
“Say what?”
“Just an expression... We should try to get some

actual sleep, ya know,” said Cam. Mason made a non-
committal sound. Cam sighed a little. Mason’s body
might be fairly relaxed at this point, but apparently his
mind was having none of it.

Chapter 21

Mason let out a heartfelt sigh of relief when the plane

rolled to a halt. Maybe they would let him take a train
back to Virginia when this was all over. Yeah, right. He
rummaged through the backpack that Peter had sent with
him. It held bandages and suturing equipment and a
bundle of packages labeled HemeCon, and what looked
like enough other gear to nearly stock an ambulance.
Wow, what the hell was the other healer expecting? A
war?

He looked up when Cam laid a hand on his arm. The

pilot was handing him a gun in a holster.

“Take it,” said Cam.
“No. I don’t even have a clue on how to fire it.” He

didn’t want anything to do with it. From a physician’s
point of view, he knew all too well just how much
damage a bullet could do. And yesterday he’d had some
first hand experience.

Cam took the gun out of the holster, pulled back the

slide and let it go. It snapped forward with an ominous
sound.

“It’s a Glock 9mm. No safety. Point it and pull the

trigger. It’s that simple,” he said.

“It’s not that fucking simple! I’m not carrying a

gun!” snapped Mason. Cam grabbed him by the jaw.

“You will carry a weapon. I’m not having you

involved in this without some way to defend yourself.”
They glared at each other.

Behind Cam, Daniel stopped for a moment as he

made his way toward the front of the plane. “We good to
go?” he asked.

“Yeah, in a few. Are you driving?” asked Cam.
“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll meet you outside in a couple minutes.”

Valentine nodded and continued on to the door. Cam
took Mason’s hand and put the gun and holster in it.
“Just do it and don’t argue with it.” Mason was really
tempted to tell him exactly where he could shove the
damn gun. “Thread your belt through the holster. If you
never have the need to even pull it, I’ll be perfectly
happy. But if people are shooting at you, I want you to
have the option.” Cam turned awkwardly on his crutches
and headed for the door.

Muttering every curse he could think of about mule

stubborn pilots, Mason did as he was told and yanked
his belt buckle loose. Sliding the belt through the slits in
the holster and rebuckling, he grabbed up the backpack
and went toward the exit.

***

“Um, turn left,” said Cam. Daniel swung the car left

at the intersection. In the dusk, they were creeping
slowly along the roads of Meridian NAS. Cam was in
the passenger seat. Rymal and Simpson sat in the back.

“Can’t we make this a little faster?” demanded

Simpson.

“No,” replied Valentine flatly.
Cam rubbed his hands down over his face. In some

ways it would be easier to do the driving himself, not
that that was very viable with his leg still so messed up.
And doing the driving himself wasn’t always a bright
idea either. If he got too focused on following the subtle
pull of whatever he was trying to find... he did stupid
things, like hitting that light pole in Savannah. He blew
out a breath and tried to ignore the two men in the back
seat. The building ahead: oh yeah. That was the one.

“There,” Cam said. “The big place off to the left.”

“That’s one of the smaller munitions and supply

storage sites,” said Rymal. “Can you locate it once we’re
inside?”

“Probably,” replied Cam. It was heading toward full

dark when the two cars pulled up. The second car held
Hibbert -- who was also from Naval Intelligence,
Gilmerton -- the head of security for the base, another
NSA man, and Mason Flynn. Everyone got out.
Headsets were handed out and guns checked. Cam
noticed that Mason pointedly didn’t even touch the one
that had been given to him.

“Should we be expecting anyone to be with the

missile?” Rymal asked Valentine.

“I don’t know.”
“Isn’t that your thing?” said the Commander.
“Sort of. It’s more complicated than that. And with

seven other people standing almost within arm’s length,
I wouldn’t be able to tell anyway.” Valentine looked
annoyed.

“Okay, then let’s get this done,” replied Rymal. The

group moved toward the building.

Off to one side of the huge overhead door was a

standard size personnel door. Gilmerton entered a code
into the keypad beside it and proceeded to unlock it. The
men filed in.

“If it’s here, someone signed it in, presumably as

some sort of recent ordinance shipment. I’ll go check the
logs to see what’s come in the past twenty-four hours,”
said Gilmerton.

“Take the doctor with you. I don’t want him running

around by himself,” replied Rymal. Cam saw Mason roll
his eyes. Obviously he thought he was being treated like
a two year old. Gilmerton headed off in the direction of
the office for the building, Flynn trailing along behind
him.

“Okay, find it,” said Rymal softly, turning to Cam.
Cam once again cursed the fact that he needed the

crutches. He made his way along the first aisle. There
was warehouse style shelving on either side of him,
filled with wooden crates and huge shrink wrapped
bundles of items, all towering at least thirty feet high.
Despite the late hour, there was a sort of quiet, stuffy
warmth in the building.

***

“On your left, you will find the ark stored between

the bombs and the MREs,” muttered Mason. He still
hadn’t quite figured out exactly what he was supposed
to be doing in all this. Walking behind the base security
guy, he was basically doing little more than playing
follow the leader. Only about half the lights in the
building were turned on, every second one, high up on
the ceiling. If it wasn’t for the endless shades of gray
and olive drab on the stored materials, he could almost
have been in some alternate version of CostCo, after
hours.

Gilmerton led him to a glass walled office tucked into

the corner of the building. There were the obligatory
metal desks and shelving of a military office and a
whole set of computers. Gilmerton sat at one of the
desks and brought up what Mason guessed must be
some sort of log-in manifest on one of the computers.

“I see five deliveries and two pickups over the past

day. Nothing really jumps out at me as out of the
ordinary, but then I guess they wouldn’t label it stolen
government property would they?” said Gilmerton.
“Any idea exactly how big this thing is?”

“Big enough to need a truck. That’s all I know.”

Mason leaned on the edge of one the desks. He heard the
printer fire up on a neighboring desk.

“No offense, but what’s your part in this?” asked the

security man.

“It’s... complicated,” said Mason. What on earth was

he supposed to tell the guy? I got dragged into all this
kind of by accident and now I think my lover is too
paranoid to let me be more than a few hundred yards
away from him? “I’m the medical back-up,” he finally
said. It was at least a plausible explanation.

The printer began to spit out sheets of paper.

***

Cam’s crutches made a faint creak-thump on the

concrete floor. He paused for a moment and closed his
eyes, feeling for that gentle pull of what he was hunting
for. Off to the right, next aisle. Daniel and Rymal trailed
only a couple of steps behind him. The two NSA men
and Hibbert had fanned out to check adjoining aisles.
Something about this whole thing was giving him a very
uneasy feeling. He glanced back at Daniel. Valentine
nodded. Apparently whatever it was, he was aware of it,
too.

Somewhere ahead there was the sound of a motor, a

kind of hydraulic whine. The first image that came to
mind given the location he was in was -- forklift. As
Cam came around the end of the stacked boxes, he saw
three men and the forklift, about to commence loading a
large crate. Three men: one driving the forklift and the
other two preparing to guide the crate on to it. The man
driving the forklift was Bennett.

The other two grabbed the machine pistols slung over

their shoulders and started firing. Cam hurled himself

backward behind the cover of the boxes at the end of the
aisle, hitting the floor, his crutches skittering across the
concrete. The noise from the gunfire was deafening.
Sharp bursts from the machine guns and single cracks
from his people. Oh shit, if someone hit the crate with
the missile the wrong way... Please God, let it be very
securely packed, or they were all apt to get spread across
the building in very small pieces. After roughly sixty
seconds, there was silence, then one last shot from
somebody. Cam pulled his own 9mm and belly crawled
to the corner of the boxes, peeking carefully around the
edge.

“Drop the weapon! Both hands on your head!! ”

shouted Simpson. The NSA man slammed the only
gunman still moving to the floor, and rammed a knee
between his shoulder blades. His gun was jammed
against the back of the man’s head. Cam glanced
around. Bennett was slumped motionless over the
controls of the forklift. The third man lay slumped
against the crate containing the missile, a distinct bullet
hole in the side of his skull.

Valentine was scraping himself slowly off the floor,

one arm dangling limply at his side, blood dripping from
his fingertips. He staggered a dozen feet across the aisle
to another body sprawled in bloody heap. Rymal. Cam
limped toward them, almost oblivious to the pain in his
leg, and dropped beside the Commander. Rymal was
breathing in slow sucking gasps. There was bullet
wound in the left side of his chest and another in his left
arm. Valentine smacked the send button of his headset.

“We have a man down. Critically injured. Get Flynn

down here ASAP! South corner!” Daniel yelled. Cam
ripped the front of Rymal’s shirt open, trying to get a
better look at the wound.

Chapter 22

The sounds of gunfire startled Mason and he was

roughly shoved to the floor by Gilmerton. The noise
went on somewhere between mere seconds and forever.
When it stopped, there was ringing silence, punctuated
by the hard thud of his pulse. Fucking hell! What was it
with these people and the guns? And then he heard
Daniel’s shout through the headset and he thought his
heart was going to stop. Cam.

He scrambled to his feet, yanked the backpack up

from the floor and followed Gilmerton at a dead run.

It took them at least five minutes to get to the far end

of the warehouse. Mason saw Cam kneeling beside
someone else, T-shirt off, blood on his hands, but
looking otherwise unharmed. He gave a mental "thank
you" to the powers that be.

Mason dropped his backpack beside the injured man

and yanked it open, digging for supplies. Cam had
wadded up his T-shirt and was holding it against the
wound in Rymal’s chest, trying to control the bleeding.

“Help him. Anyway you can,” said Valentine. Mason

glanced at Daniel’s face as he pressed his fingers against
Rymal’s throat. One touch told him that the bullet
wound had collapsed the man’s left lung. Rymal was
bleeding both internally and externally from the chest
wound and the one in his arm. It took a moment for
Mason to realize that for the first time in his life the
people around him both knew of his healing talent and
expected him to use it.

“Let me have a look,” he said to Cam. Bradshaw let

go of the fabric and Mason peeled it back to see the
damage. “Help me roll him over. I think it went all the
way through.” Cam slid his hands under Rymal’s body
and helped Mason ease him up onto his side. The pilot

gave him a look of blind panic when he saw the sheer
volume of blood that had pooled under the Commader’s
body.

“Oh, God...” Cam whispered.
“Look in the backpack. Get stuff out for me.

HemeCon, an occlusive bandage, the biggest needle you
see and I think I saw a bag of saline,” ordered Mason.
He put one hand on the exit wound and immediately
began to pour energy in to slow the bleeding.

“What do you want first?” asked Cam.
“Give me the HemeCon. I’ve never used this stuff

before. I hope it lives up to the hype.” He stuck out his
free hand toward Cam and grabbed the 4x4 bandage. He
pressed it against the wound. Trying to control the
internal bleeding at the same time slowed his
movements.

“Next?”
“Put your hand here. Hold it in place. It’s supposed to

take two to five minutes.”

Rymal coughed weakly, blood dribbling from

between his lips, lips that were slowly darkening to
blue-gray as he fought to breathe. Mason spent a
moment boosting the dilation of the bronchi on the still
functioning lung and then got to work putting the one
way occlusive dressing on the front wound. He tore
open the package for the large bore needle and plunged
it carefully between the man’s second and third ribs.
There was faint hiss of escaping air. Bull’s eye, that
should give the badly damaged lung more room to
expand. Mason squeezed his eyes shut for a moment,
letting his Talent do the impossible. He sealed the tiny
puncture shut as he withdrew the needle, preventing any
air from leaking back in. The man was still in critical
condition. He got an IV started and went back to
concentrating on stabilizing the patient’s vitals. Christ, it

was like pouring water into a leaky bucket. Mason was
putting out so much energy it was making him dizzy.
Somewhere behind him, he heard Valentine.

“Base paramedics should be here in less than five

minutes,” the Division P man said. Mason spared a
second to look up at him. He was pale but composed.
Somebody else had had the presence of mind to put a
pressure bandage on his far less severe injury.

“Good. I’m keeping him together, but he needs an

OR soon,” replied Mason.

***

Cam watched his lover from the opposite side of the

injured man. Every motion was efficient. There was
worry but no sign of fear. Mason knew exactly what he
needed to do and then did it with absolute calm. Mason
might be terrified and panic-stricken when the bullets
were flying, but damn... he was good when there was a
life on the line. A team of paramedics arrived with a
stretcher in tow, as well as oxygen and other equipment.
Rymal was swiftly stabilized as much as feasible and
rushed from the building toward a helipad, where he
would be taken to the closest trauma center.

Mason was left standing in the wide aisle a few

dozen feet from the infamous crated missile they had
come to retrieve. The NSA agents and the other Naval
Intelligence man had opened the crate and were busily
checking out the contents. Gilmerton had radioed for a
team of SEALs to be sent over for security purposes.
Valentine was being bandaged by a second set of
paramedics.

The floor was littered with bullet casings and blood

and the detritus of bandage packaging and such. The
specialized backpack that Mason had been carrying at

one point lay completely opened, the medical contents
strewn across its surface.

Cam laid a hand on Mason’s arm. His skin was hot,

fever hot, and Cam noticed that his short dark hair was
damp with sweat.

“Hey, Mas’, look at me. Are you okay?” asked Cam.
Mason gave what was no doubt his standard knee-

jerk response. “Yeah. ‘m fine.”

“Uh-huh. Come sit down. You’re absolutely burning

up.” Cam made his way over toward the end cap on one
aisle. He had finally retrieved his crutches after the
whole disaster had been brought under some sort of
control. His leg was aching like all hell, but he figured it
was his penance for escaping the rest without a scratch.
He sat down with his back leaned up against the
enormous stack of boxes. Mason followed, slowly.

The doctor dropped heavily next to Cam and leaned

his head back against the wall. His face had gone ash-
pale. Cam cupped a hand around Mason’s neck. His skin
had gone from scorching hot and sweaty to cold and
clammy in the span of just a few minutes. He was
starting to shake.

“Mason! Talk to me. What’s happening to you?”

demanded Cam.

“Too fas’... N-need’d so much...” Mason’s words

were slurring together. Cam grabbed him by the
shoulders.

“Are you gonna pass out on me? You look like

absolutely shit,” Cam said. Mason gave him a blank
look like the words weren’t reaching his brain.

“He’s crashing bad,” said Valentine. Cam looked

over at where the agent was digging one handed through
the contents of the medical kit. He pulled out a long tube
of flat tablets, hurried over and shoved the tube into
Cam’s hand.

“Open it. It’s glucose tablets. He needs them now,”

said Valentine. “Keep him upright so he doesn’t choke.”
Cam hastily peeled the tube open and shook out a couple
of the flat tablets. He grabbed Mason’s jaw and forced
his mouth open, pushing in one of the tablets.

“Chew it, Flynn. It’ll help,” ordered Valentine.

Mason made a face but did so. “I’ll get him some water.
Stay with him. See if you can get him to eat a few
more.” Valentine stood up and walked away. Cam
coaxed Mason into consuming three more tablets before
Valentine returned with a bottle of water. He handed it
to Cam and sat down beside the two men. Mason was
still deathly pale, his skin filmed in cold sweat, but the
shaking had calmed down somewhat.

“You act like you have some clue what’s wrong with

him,” said Cam.

“Only cause I’ve seen it happen to Peter a couple

times. He told me that intense amounts of healing can
cause his blood sugar to drop through the floor because
he’s burning through energy so fast. It causes some kind
of hypoglycemic shock thing. If this doesn’t help, we
need to think about letting the paramedics take him to
the base infirmary. I’d really rather avoid that, though. I
doubt he’s really up to having six more people he
doesn’t know touch him at this point.”

“Um, true.” Cam put the water bottle in Mason’s

hand and helped him to drink some. A little of the color
was beginning to return to the doctor’s face. “Any
better?”

“Yeah, some.”
“I’ve seen Peter crunch through an entire tube of

those things a few times.” Valentine gestured at the tube
of glucose tablets. “One particularly bad op in Kosovo
comes to mind. I thought he was going to kill himself
trying to put our people back together...” he trailed off.

It was obviously a pretty bad memory. “So anyway, take
a few more and just sit tight while the rest of us try to
decide how to sort out this cluster fuck.” He hauled
himself to his feet and walked back in the direction of
the forklift. Bennett’s body was being lifted down.

***

Mason held his hand out in front of him. It was still

shaking just a little. Jesus, he hadn’t been this
completely wiped out from healing someone in years.
Not even when he had kept Cam alive after the
motorcycle accident. But then again, he hadn’t been shot
at, run for his life, had some sort of damn panic attack,
and been stuffed onto the plane as the prelude to that day
either. He had the intense desire to just curl up in a ball
and sleep for about twenty-four hours. Preferably in
Cam’s arms.

Most of the bad guys were dead. The missile was

found. End of story, except for the clean-up and the
casualties. And the fact he was stuck in Mississippi for
the moment. Oh God, that meant he had to get on a
plane to go back home.

“Don’t suppose they’d let me rent a car and drive

back to Virginia?” he said. Cam gave a light snort of
laughter.

“Nope. The op is never done until both the debriefing

and the paperwork are finished, too.”

“How long is all this likely to take?” Mason pointed a

finger at the group of people re-crating the missile.

“At least a couple of hours, probably.”
“Any place around here where we could take a

shower, maybe snag some clean clothes and eat some
real food?” Mason looked down at the clothes he had

borrowed from Cam. They were horrendously blood
stained.

“Let me ask Danny,” replied Cam. He got up,

grabbed his crutches and clomped off toward the group
of people. Mason closed his eyes and leaned his head
against the boxes behind him again. He could feel his
muscles still trembling slightly and a shiver ran through
him. Damn, just how far had his blood glucose fallen?
Half a dozen of those things later, and he still pretty
much felt like shit. One more thing he needed to pick
Peter Vithoulkas’ brain for when they got back. Cam
returned.

“They’re sending us to the commissary for clothes.

It’ll get charged to Division P. We can shower and
change back at the plane,” said Cam.

“It’s ten o’clock at night. Isn’t the commissary

closed?”

“Well, yeah, but we’re special. Besides we’re getting

an escort. Three SEALs.”

“Why? They think we’re going to steal something?”
“Not exactly. They’re not sure these three guys were

the sum total of whole event.”

Mason stared at Cam, trying hard to process the idea

that there was still possibly more shit yet to come.

***

Cam and Mason acquired a change of clothing and

some food they could throw in the microwave that was
back on the Gulfstream. The three SEALs assumed
guard duty around the plane when they got back.

“Which do you want first? Shower, food or sleep?”

asked Cam. Mason was definitely looking dead on his
feet, Cam thought. And he seemed to be starting to
shake again.

“Food. Very definitely food,” Mason replied.
“You eat. I’ll shower. Then we’ll swap.” Mason

merely nodded and picked up a couple of the thing-in-a-
box meals. Cam went toward the back of the plane.
Thank God for the whole corporate style jet idea that
came with a shower in the almost claustrophobically
small bathroom.

Cam stripped out of his blood stained clothes and

ditched them in a heap on the floor. Under the spray of
the shower, Cam scrubbed Rymal’s blood from his
hands and arms. Jesus, it was even dried on his knees
where he'd knelt in that horrendous pool of blood
beneath the Commander’s body. Mason had been just
absolutely amazing. Cam had been so sure that Rymal
was going to just stop breathing any second. Fuck.
Blood, blood and more blood. He didn’t really entirely
understand the way Mason’s healing talents worked, but
man, did they. He had been on the receiving end of that
blissfully delicious heat, wondering if he was going to
die. And he thought about the heat again. Obviously,
healing took a serious, possibly life threatening toll on
the doctor. Cam would have to keep the bit of
information about the hypoglycemia problem filed in his
brain. Next time Mason was involved in some serious
emergency healing, he’d have to get the man to take
those glucose things right away. Next time, yeah... there
would undoubtedly be next time. There was no way
Division P was going to let someone that Talented say
no.

Cam sighed and grabbed a towel from a narrow

cabinet under the sink. Working for Division P wasn’t
bad. It also wasn’t usually this fucking dangerous either.
Most of what he'd done for them in the past had been
low key, hush-hush and very safe: finding a crashed
plane, locating a body for the FBI, finding a kidnapped

child. Um, okay, that one had involved lots of shooting
in the end, but not by him. He struggled into the clean
clothes. The drawstring on the bottom of the cuff of the
BDU pants just barely fit over the rods and steel rings in
his leg.

He limped back out into the sofa lined compartment

that led to the bathroom. Mason was stretched out on the
left hand one, on his stomach, one arm dangling onto the
floor, eyes closed. A flicker of irrational concern danced
through Cam’s mind. Mason was just asleep and not
dying, wasn’t he? Cam touched fingers to his throat.
Mason’s pulse beat slow and steady. The shower could
wait. Sleep was apparently taking priority.

Chapter 23

A rattling whine slowly cut through the fog of sleep,

followed by a sort of ka-thunk. The air conditioning was
turned up way too high, thought Mason, because most of
what he heard was whooshing white noise, vibration. He
rubbed a hand down over his face. Man, he really
needed a shave.

“Hey, you woke up just in time for landing,” said

Cam. Mason jerked a little and squinted at Cam, who
was sitting on the opposite sofa.

“Landing?” said Mason.
“You’ve been asleep for ten hours. We sat around

Meridian for most of the night before leaving. You
totally missed take off and pretty much the entire flight.
Lucky you. Next time we have to fly, I’ll just make sure
you’re drop dead exhausted.”

“Unh. Please tell me that thud wasn’t something

hitting us.”

“Just the landing gear coming down, dude,” Cam said

with a smile.

“Are we going back to Suffolk after we land, or do I

actually get a chance to go home?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m betting on not home. We

haven’t been debriefed yet.”

“Unh, okay.” Mason made a quick trip to the

bathroom, then returned to the sofa. His hands gripped
the leather at the edge of the couch.

“You’re just not going to unwind about flying unless

you’re unconscious, are you?” Cam teased.

Mason made a face at him.

***

The Gulfstream taxied to a stop on the Oceana

tarmac. All the men who had returned to the Virginia
Beach based air station slowly gathered gear and began
to exit the plane. Rymal was in ICU in a hospital in
Mississippi. Valentine had remained there also,
primarily so he could give updates on the Commander’s
status. Simpson and the other Naval Intelligence man,
who Cam finally remembered was named Hibbert, had
returned to Oceana with Cam and Mason. The missile
was still at Meridian, under guard by a SEAL team and
six people from Naval Intelligence who had arrived at
midnight. The surviving terrorist was being held in the
brig on the Mississippi air base. Cam had no clue what
the game plan was for the item, but then again, that
wasn’t his problem any more. He hoped whatever
debriefing they were all about to go through was
mercifully short, as much for Mason’s sake as his own.

There were two cars and three people waiting at the

hangar. Cam glanced at them as he eased down the short
flight of steps from the plane. Wiping out on the stairs
would hurt. He halfway recognized yet another Naval
Intelligence man from the original meeting about the
missile, weeks ago. The woman who was Rymal’s
executive assistant, Eileen Wakefield, was there, too.
Blond and leggy, she always seemed to be wearing
something that wasn’t quite exactly unprofessional, but
made you think twice. He wondered if anyone had told
her that her boss had been shot? Probably.

Cam headed toward her. The third man was...

Bottman, head of Division P. Interesting. A few feet
from the trio Cam was suddenly aware of anger. Fury so
hot and so intense, it was like a smack across the side of
his head. He blinked. What the? And then there was
recognition. He knew why she was familiar and where
he had seen her and it just flat out didn’t make sense.

She had been a nurse when he was in the hospital. The
supremely obnoxious one who just creeped him out
when she started to give him a bath. Why the hell would
a woman from Navy Intel be masquerading as a nurse?
Oh, shit. She was the leak.

He took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. It

was too late. She lunged at him, knocking him back
against the side of the plane, a gun in her hand. Jamming
the muzzle up under his jaw, Eileen screamed in his
face.

“Why the fuck won’t you die! You screwed

everything up! It was supposed to go smooth and easy.
We just take it, and maybe Davis plays along and maybe
he doesn’t. Nobody was supposed to be able to track it!”
Cam sucked in a slow gasp of air. She had one hand
clenched in his hair. He was afraid if he did anything
other than breathe that she would pull the trigger.
Behind her, Cam could see all the other people; most
had drawn weapons and aimed them at her. But she was
so close, her body tight to his, the gun at his throat. A
shot taken by any one of them would be likely to hit
him.

“I was only following orders,” Cam whispered. The

plane was at his back. There was no way to get a clear
shot at her without probably killing him, too.

***

Mason was about halfway out the door of the plane

when a woman’s body slammed Cam against the side of
the plane. He froze. What the hell was going on? He
stood paralyzed as he watched her ram a handgun up
under the edge of Cam’s jaw. Who the hell was she? As
she snarled something in Cam’s face, she turned just a
little. She should be wearing a nurse’s uniform. Huh?

Mason’s brain rifled through mental images. Cam’s
hospital room. The nurse giving him a bath. The attitude
she had given him. The bottle of morphine under the
cleaning wipes. Oh God, she had been there to kill Cam
because the motorcycle accident had failed. And now
she was intent on finishing the job. Pure rage was
boiling off her like toxic smoke and it made Mason want
to cringe. His hands fisted in fear and struck something:
the holster on his belt.

He looked across the tarmac toward the cars parked

there. The other men were spread apart with weapons
drawn, waiting for a shot. But she was so close to Cam,
her body pushing him back against the skin of the
airplane. Any shot by one of the others was almost sure
to pass through her body and strike Cam. Mason was
almost directly to her side and several feet above her
because he was still standing on the top step. A shot
from him would pass in front of Cam. What the fuck
was he thinking? He’d never fired a gun in his life. He
was more likely to hit Cam than her.

“You killed Sean! He was just the middle man. I

loved him. He wasn’t supposed to get hurt! You shot
him!” she yelled. Mason could feel the blind seething
anger from her. She was so far past reasoning that he
wasn’t even sure anyone could talk her down. He found
himself pulling the snap on the holster loose. Point the
gun and pull the trigger. Those had been Cam’s words.
She was going to kill Cam. It was all a matter of minutes
-- or maybe just seconds. Her body language was
psychotic fury. He pulled the gun carefully out of the
holster. It was heavy, heavier than he expected. He
didn’t know why he thought that. He’d been dragging
the stupid thing around on his belt for most of a day.
Point and shoot.

She wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to

him. What if he shot her, and she pulled the trigger by
reflex. He had to do something to get her to pull the gun
at least a few inches away from Cam’s throat. If he
yelled at her, would she turn and look at him? Would
she ignore him? Would she aim the gun at him instead?
Cam was saying something he couldn’t hear, just a few
words.

“I don’t care if you weren’t the one with the gun! It’s

your fault!” she screamed. Mason saw the flexors in her
arm begin to contract. She was squeezing the trigger. He
was out of time.

“Hey, Bitch!” Mason shouted. The woman jerked her

head to look at him. The barrel of the gun tipped back
and pointed straight up. Mason pulled the trigger.

***

Cam heard the shout and the deafening bang of the

gun. Eileen’s head rocked sideways and blood and brain
matter sprayed over him. Then she fell to the ground in a
boneless slump. No longer pinned by her, Cam skidded
down the side of the plane and hit the ground. He looked
up to see where the shot had come from, expecting to
see an MP or a SEAL. He saw Mason.

Standing frozen and wide eyed on the top step of the

stairs from the plane, the doctor looked... stunned. The
gun was still pointed in the direction he had fired.
Slowly he started turning the gun back toward himself
as if to peer down the barrel. Hibbert lunged up the steps
and grabbed Flynn’s hand, pushing it down.

“Shit! Don’t do that!” the man yelled at Mason. He

pulled the gun from the doctor’s hand. Mason gave the
Intelligence man a blank look, and then turned his gaze
back to the body of the woman. Cam was scrambling to

get to his feet. Where the hell had his crutches fallen?
Oh, just fuck it.

He limped the handful of steps to the foot of the

stairs. Mason had sunk to his knees in the open
doorway, arms hugged around his body. Cam sat down
on the step beside him. Hibbert gave him an odd look
and went down from the plane, toward where the rest of
the group was looking at the body. Mason was bent
forward, gasping like he couldn’t breathe.

“I killed her. Oh God, I killed her,” he whispered,

rocking back and forth.

“If you hadn’t...” Cam reached out a hand to touch

Mason’s face. His lover let out a yelp and made a mad
scramble backward, stopping when he hit the bulkhead
inside the plane.

“Don’t fucking touch me! I killed her! I killed

someone. I shot her!” Mason was drawn into a tight ball,
face buried against a knee. His breathing was a tortured
pant as his voice dwindled into a barely audible chant of
“I killed her. I killed her.”

Cam was terrified. Mason had saved his life, but at

what cost? He sat there for several minutes desperately
trying to figure out to help his lover. He dug out his cell
phone and dialed Peter.

“Peter, it’s Cam. I need you. Something’s happened

to Mason,” said Cam. He spent a couple of minutes
explaining as best he could what had just occurred.

“Just stay with him. Don’t let him hurt himself,

otherwise just plain stay with him. I’ll be there as soon
as I can. Don’t let anyone else touch him. I may have to
sedate him. Okay?”

“Yeah... I understand.” Cam stuffed the phone back

in his pocket and looked at the plane door which was
folded open. He scooted forward and yanked it shut.
Damn it, his leg hurt. He was probably undoing at least

half the healing that Mason and Peter had done. He
pushed himself back to sit beside Mason. He wanted to
touch Mason. Fuck it all, he wanted to wrap his arms
around Mason and tell his lover everything would be
okay, but he wasn’t even sure putting a hand on Mason
would be tolerated. Cam rubbed his leg and flexed his
knee trying to blunt the pain.

Mason’s hand reached out and rested on top of his

own, the pain dropping down to a bare background
level. Reflex. Cam sat very still.

“Listen to me, Mason. Even though you think you’ve

done something unforgivable, your first response, your
don’t-even-think-about-it response, is to help me. To get
rid of my pain. One act of... supreme desperation that
saved my life, is understandable... If you hadn’t pulled
the trigger, she would have. She had already started to. I
felt her decision. I was going to be very, very dead in the
next couple of seconds. You had a choice. You chose
me. And there is no way I can ever thank you enough for
that.” He laid his free hand on top of Mason’s, carefully
sandwiching his lover’s hand between his own.

Mason’s breathing had finally slowed from a ragged

gasp and his head was resting on the arm propped on his
knees. Gingerly, Cam reached up and laid his hand
against the back of his lover’s neck. Mason flinched just
a little.

“I took a life,” Mason whispered.
“And you saved a life. More than one. Ethan Rymal

would be dead if it weren’t for you. And so would I.
More than once.” Cam edged closer. He wrapped an arm
around Mason’s shoulders, still unsure if he was going
to be shoved away. His lover slowly leaned into the
embrace, tipping into Cam’s arms, leaning on Cam’s
chest and began to sob.

***

Peter Vithoulkas rapped his knuckles lightly on the

door of the plane. It was shut but the gap around the
edges told him it hadn’t been locked. He was very
uncertain what he would find.

“Hey, it’s Peter,” he called out.
“Just push it. It’s not locked,” he heard Cam’s voice

say.

He opened it. The two men were seated on the floor.

Both looked somewhat worse for wear. Mason’s eyes
were red and his face tear-streaked, but it was a far
better situation than Vithoulkas had feared. Crying was a
frequent step in processing emotional trauma, and a
much less dangerous coping mechanism than the whole
catatonic withdrawal he often saw in his psi patients. He
squatted down in front of them.

“Have things calmed down a little?” he asked. Cam

nodded. His arms were still around Mason, hugging the
man to his chest.

“How long are they going to keep us on base?” asked

Cam.

“They’re not. Bottman’s raising some holy hell on

our behalf. I’m taking you back to P as soon as you’re
ready.”

“I’m... surprised.”
“Don’t be. If they had let us actively screen the

people involved in this whole fubar event, half this stuff
would have never happened.”

“Are they going to debrief us out at the complex?”
“In about twenty-four hours. I want you both under

medical lock-down until then. I’d do it to Danny, too, if
the damn fool hadn’t stayed in Mississippi.” The
comment brought a bit of a grin to Cam’s face.

“Yeah, he always thinks he’s pretty damn close to

invincible.”

“But not bullet proof. Come let’s get you two out of

here.” Peter held out a hand to help Cam up as Mason
slowly got up. “I see you lost your crutches again.”

“They’re outside on the ground, somewhere,” replied

Cam.

“You’re going to end up back in the wheelchair for a

while at the rate you’re going.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll deal.”

***

Medical lock-down consisted of a thorough physical

exam followed by instructions to report to quarters and
stay there until further notice. Essentially the same thing
Peter had done after Mason’s panic attack.

Somebody had been sent to Mason’s house to

retrieve clothing and arrange for repair of his broken
window. Mason wasn’t sure if he thought that was a
magnificent idea or just a little too creepy and invasive
to suit him. On the other hand, it meant that as soon he
managed to take a shower he’d have some of his own
clothes to put on. He stood in the bathroom of Cam’s
quarters at Division P and looked in the mirror. He was
still wearing the same blood stained clothes from the
day before, there was blood under his fingernails,
despite the fact he’d washed his hands on the plane a
couple of times.

In the shower, he scrubbed himself, feeling like he’d

never get clean again. Shit, it wasn’t like he’d never
been blood splattered before. He’d been on call for some
god-awful trauma cases a few times. Cam ducked his
head into the bathroom a couple times to check on him.

Finally finished, Mason stood in front of the mirror

with the razor in his hand. The light above the sink
created a spot of bright reflection on the little twin
blades of the disposable razor. Hypnotized, he pressed
his thumb against the blades and watched a fat drop of
ruby red blood well up on the skin. It would be so easy
to pop the blades loose and draw them across his skin
and see the blood hit the cold white porcelain of the
sink.

“Don’t you even dare fucking think about it!” Cam

snarled, his mouth an inch from Mason’s ear. Cam
reached around Mason’s body and yanked the razor
from his hand. Their eyes met in the mirror. Cam’s arm
had snaked around Mason’s torso, pulling him back
tight to Cam's body. “I will not let you do that to
yourself. Sit down. I’ll shave you.”

Mason gazed at Cam in the reflection. There was a

fierce angry fear in Cam’s blue-gray eyes. He pushed
Mason down to sit on the lid of the toilet and squirted
shaving cream in his palm.

Mason sat still while Cam shaved him. There was

something sensual about having someone else do it for
you. Such a mundane action, something he did for
himself nearly everyday, something that was vaguely
inherently dangerous, and he was trusting someone else
to do it.

***

Cam grabbed a hand towel off the sink and wiped the

traces of shaving cream from Mason’s face.

“Okay, you’re done,” he said. His thumb brushed

across Mason’s lips. “Please, please, promise me you
won’t hurt yourself,” he pleaded. “I... I’m not sure I
could stand losing you.” Half of Cam's brain wanted to

grab Mason by the shoulders and shake him hard and
tell him it wasn’t worth grieving over a murderous
traitor to the US Government. The other half was
absolutely terrified that his lover would actually do
something suicidal rather than try to cope with the guilt.
He found his fingers stroking Mason’s cheek. The
smoothness was a contrast after a couple of days in a
row of feeling the roughness of beard stubble. Kiss him,
you moron.

Cam leaned down and kissed Mason. The soapy

clean scent of the shaving cream and shampoo on skin
was fabulous. Mason’s hands clenched around his hips
and his lover made a low desperate sound. Mason's
tongue swiped across Cam’s teeth and pressed for
entrance, body arching against Cam's legs. Cam could
sense Mason's frantic need to feel like he was in control
of something, anything.

“Bed?” said Mason, a one word plea that implied so

much more. Cam nodded and grabbed his crutches from
where they were leaning on the doorframe.

In the bedroom, Cam undressed and dumped his

clothes on the floor beside the bed. Mason pushed him
back onto the mattress, lying about halfway on top of
him, looking down into his face. They were both
completely naked, and every place they touched, Cam
could feel the subtle warm hum of his lover’s energy.
They were motionless for a long moment.

“I want...” Mason whispered, and then stopped. Cam

clasped his hands around his partner’s head.

“I know. Do it. I want you to.” He could feel

Mason’s hard cock trapped against his hip between their
bodies and his own was rapidly heading in the same
direction.

“We don’t have any lube.” Mason's voice was a low

husky growl of frustration.

“Yeah, we do. I swiped some from the infirmary.”

Mason gave him an odd look and Cam pointed a thumb
toward the night stand. “Did it while Peter was checking
you out. I figured we might need it at some point.”

Mason pulled a tube of KY and a pack of condoms

out of the drawer. He dropped them on the blanket. He
met Cam’s eyes.

“Are you sure about this?” he whispered. God, that

look, all raw desire and need, and still Mason was giving
Cam the option of changing his mind. Control, self-
control, it was all about iron-fisted internal control. Cam
was beginning to understand why the events of the day
were so close to destroying his lover.

“Fuck me. I want to know what you feel like when

you come inside me,” Cam said. He pulled Mason down
into a hot open mouth kiss.

They clung together for several minutes, grinding

against each other. Hands wandered across firm muscles
and teeth nipped at skin. Mason hooked a hand under
Cam’s knee and drew it up. He pressed a slick finger
into Cam, working it in and out. Bright little zings of
pleasure sparked through Cam’s nervous system. More
fingers pushed into him, scissoring, stretching. It was
borderline uncomfortable for a moment, then very
definitely not.

Mason slid his arm under Cam’s leg, bending it

closer to his chest. There was the faint crinkle of tearing
foil and then a much bigger pressure. Cam gulped
against the faint burn of the penetration. Mason’s mouth
descended against Cam's own, taking possession,
ravaging the depths with his tongue while the rest of his
body was motionless. Cam was breathing hard against
his lover’s open mouth, riding that knife edge as his
body threatened to explode any second. After a minute,
the sensation scaled back somewhat. Mason slid out a

fraction and thrust back in. Unh. Again. Unh, oh God.
Again. Harder. His fingers dug into Mason’s arms. The
tension in his body was building and every thrust was
drawing him closer. He forced his eyes open. Mason’s
face was gorgeous. Lips parted by panting breaths.
Cheeks flushed. Pupils blown wide.

The climax hit him so hard his vision grayed away, as

his body convulsed in pure pleasure. He heard Mason’s
heavy groan and could feel the wave of his lover’s
orgasm rip through him like a hard pulsing bolt of
electricity. A few last reflex driven thrusts came from
Mason as his body sagged on top of Cam’s. The thunder
of Cam's pulse was gradually calming. He traced his
finger down the sweat slick dip of his lover’s spine and
across the rough scab of the bullet score on Mason's rib
cage. Truly, if he lost the lover in his arms, he wasn’t
sure if he’d survive.

***

Mason sat across the desk from Andrew Bottman,

director of Division P. Bottman was a man who would
never draw a second look: average height, average build,
dark hair, in his forties, the quintessential bureaucrat,
and, according to Cam, absolutely head-blind -- a man
with no psychic Talent.

“We’d like you to come work for us. You have an

exceptionally rare skill set,” said Bottman.

“I have a job. I’m an orthopedic surgeon,” replied

Mason.

“Yes, I’m aware of that. Working for Division P is

not a replacement job. It’s a bit more like being an
active reservist. We call you when we need you.
Although, as a healer, we would welcome you with open
arms as a full time staff member quite happily.”

“What do I get out of this? A paycheck?”
“Well, yes. But I was under the assumption you had

expressed an interest in honing your healing skills in an
environment that was openly receptive to their use. Peter
Vithoulkas would be quite pleased to have you as a
colleague.”

“If I were to say yes, how does this work?”
“We have a training program. Our usual recruitment

policies are both rigorous and lengthy, but you don’t
need to worry about that. The program lasts ten weeks.
In your case, after the initial basics, most of your
training would be handled by Vithoulkas.”

“I have no intention of up and quitting my

partnership in the orthopedic practice. I can’t just leave
them hanging for close to three months. I had to make
some really creative excuses as to why I’ve been totally
out of touch for the past couple days.”

“We would be willing to give you a couple of weeks

to make arrangements for a leave of absence.”

“Could we do this on a part-time basis? Say maybe

two days a week over a longer period of time?”
proposed Mason. He was still very uncertain if he was
comfortable with the whole idea at all.

“Um... I... don’t know. We have a relatively

standardized procedure. I’d really need to consult with
my full-time staff on that,” Bottman said.

“I’m a surgeon. I already make a hundred thirty

thousand dollars a year. More money is not going to
tempt me. If I say yes, I want it to be on my terms. I
have no intention of being treated like a lab rat.”

Bottman chuckled a little. “Dr. Flynn, believe me,

that’s not how it works around here. It’s a not perfect
system, and I won’t tell you there aren’t some flaws in
how we handle things occasionally. These past few
weeks and Lieutenant Bradshaw’s assignment

unfortunately being a rather painful case in point.
However, I am very determined to find a way to tempt
you into accepting our offer. Let me get back to you
tomorrow, after I discuss training options with my
people. Okay?”

“All right.” They shook hands.

***

Lt. Cameron walked across the concrete toward his

plane. He was about to get back in the cockpit for the
first time in ten weeks. The flight surgeon was still a
little baffled by his recovery in roughly half the expected
time. In truth, he probably would have qualified three
weeks ago, but there was a limit to how much attention
he wanted to draw. And he’d been busy. He’d finally
gone through an exhaustive multi-day debriefing by
Naval Intelligence, but only after a week of closely
guarded downtime at Division P. The week at Division
P had been as much for Mason’s benefit and safety as
his own.

Mason had been encouraged, bordering on coerced,

into a series of therapy sessions with Stephen Benford,
for which Cam was very glad. He worried extensively
about the long term psychological effects of the whole
set of events on his lover. He was equally glad that
Mason had come to an agreement with Bottman
regarding his training with Division P. Even spending
only two days a week at the complex would allow
people who were aware of what he went through to keep
tabs on him.

Cam climbed up the ladder to the cockpit and the

plane captain helped him strap in. He flipped on the
battery switch to warm up the auxiliary power unit
before initiating the automated cycle for firing up the

engines. Running through the preflight checklist, he
listened to the building whine of the turbines. It was
ramping up to a reassuring roar. He taxied toward the
runway and concentrating on the final adjustments to
trim and flaps.

“304, you are cleared for takeoff,” said the radio.
“304 acknowledge.” He pushed the button for the

after burners and thundered down the runway, pulling
back on the stick as he hit takeoff velocity. The jet
obligingly lifted and he was airborne. The op of the day
was a practice dogfight with several other members of
Hell Dogs Squadron. This was going to be fun. And
when he was all done for the day, he had a date with a
seriously hot orthopedic surgeon. Steak and beer at
Mason’s house followed by... dessert.

End.

If you liked this book you might like: Seeking the

Balance, Braided Lives, And Hell Itself Breathes Out