Title: Not Alone
Author: Lena7142
Genre: H/C, Action, Angst
Characters: Billy, Michael, Casey, OC
Rating: T for violence
A/N: This was written as a birthday present for the fabulous and brilliant Faye Dartmouth for her birthday. Also, a big thank you to penless for betaing!

Billy looked down at his watch, angling the slightly scratched watch face so it caught the light and he could read the position of the hands. It told him what he already knew:

Petrov was late.

It was true that Varna was a safer city to be out in at night than it had been ten years ago, but Billy wasn't exactly crazy about hanging around in an alleyway late at night waiting for a potential asset. Not when the ODS was up to its eyeballs in the Bulgarian mafia and not when Petrov had picked a less-than-charming neighborhood near the docks for their rendezvous.

He checked his watch again and chewed his lip.

Ten more minutes. He'd give Petrov ten more minutes, then check in with Michael and Casey. He leaned back against the brick wall of the alleyway and exhaled...

-o-

"So the good news is, Petrov might be willing to flip."

They'd been in the hotel, going over intel and surveillance and comparing notes. Michael was seated at the desk, Casey was sitting on the floor with paper spread out across the coffee table in front of him, and Billy had flopped on the bed, kicking his shoes off and lying on his stomach with a laptop open in front of him.

"Which one is Petrov again?" Casey asked.

"The one with the bad teeth," Michael reminded him, pulling one of the files and tossing it over. "He's in pretty deep; Hristov's right hand man, handles half his accounts."

"And what makes you reckon he'd be willing to turn on his bosses, risking life and limb?" Billy asked, raising an eyebrow.

Michael hesitated, then grimaced. "We had a... conversation."

Casey's eyes narrowed. "A conversation in which your cover was compromised?"

Michael tried to look nonchalant, shrugging. "He may have connected a few dots, but nothing solid. And if he defects, he's on our side anyhow. Even with all the intel we can gather, Petrov's inside information will be priceless for shutting down the Mutri's trafficking ring in Varna."

"And in return?" Casey still looked skeptical. "I'm assuming he isn't doing this out of a sudden desire to be a better person."

Michael shook his head. "Apparently he's been cooking the books for years, and this is his chance to get out before he's made. We still need to negotiate terms, but he'll probably want a new identity and relocation with full amnesty."

"He does know we're the CIA and not the Witness Protection Program, right?" Billy asked with a smirk.

"You can make him think we're his goddamn personal secret service so long as you can get him to turn that intel," Michael answered.

Billy's brow furrowed. "Me?"

Michael unfolded the schematics they'd acquired earlier that day. "Petrov or no Petrov, the mission is still a go. We can do it with just two men, so Casey and I will infiltrate the Securities building and wire it all. You'll be meeting Petrov down by the docks."

"Alone?" Casey interjected, frowning. "Running a meet and mission simultaneously is going to leave someone without back-up."

Michael sighed, rubbing his brow. "We have a limited window of opportunity tonight when Hristov is going to be indisposed. We need that intel and can't count on getting it all from an asset, so we need to infiltrate the building. I'm the only one with a cover within the Mutri to get us inside, and if things go south, I'm going to need you to get us out of there, Malick."

"So we do the mission tonight, and Petrov after," Casey said.

Michael began to shake his head again, but Billy cut in instead: "Sit on it too long, and Petrov could spook. If anything goes south with the mission, we might not have another opportunity," he pointed out, pushing himself up off his stomach and sitting up properly, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. "It makes sense."

Casey scowled. "I don't like it."

Michael sighed. "Billy's the smooth talker. If anyone's going to charm Petrov into defecting without spooking, it'll be him."

Casey's expression remained dark, but he made no further protest. Billy buttoned his vest back up, straightened his tie, then smiled at Michael. "So where is this meeting again?"

-o-

Nine minutes had passed.

Billy was getting a bit antsy. The team had gone radio dark two hours ago, so he had no way of knowing what was happening with the other end of the mission. Had Michael and Casey been nabbed? Was the mission blown? Had Petrov's defection been discovered? If so, he was more likely to turn up in a dumpster somewhere than at the meet, and Billy could be waiting for a dead man. He took a deep breath to steady himself and calm his racing mind; panic solved nothing. He'd wait one more minute, then he'd reassess his options and go from there. One minute at a time.

The noise to his left made Billy startle slightly, but he quickly recovered his composure as he recognized the silhouette at the end of the alley, moving towards him.

Billy flashed a bright smile. "Ah, there you are! I was beginning to worry I'd got the wrong time written down."

Petrov had finally showed up; alive, intact, and showing no signs of having been discovered. Billy's anxieties had been unfounded, and Petrov was okay.

And...not alone.

A large SUV had pulled up to the mouth of the alley, headlights blindingly bright, obscuring the large figured clambering out of the vehicle. The hairs on the back of Billy's neck stood on end, but he took a breath and continued smiling. Because panic solved nothing. "And I see you've brought friends with you...?"

Petrov smirked, lip curling back to reveal crooked teeth. "Yes. But it doesn't look like you brought any of yours."

Billy tried not to watch as the men from the SUV fanned out, methodically surrounding him. He didn't need to look away from Petrov to realize that this was not how the meet was supposed to go. The pit of his stomach began to go cold. "Well, you know what they say. Two's company, three's a crowd. Not sure what that makes a dozen blokes in a narrow alley, but..."

The first blow caught him off guard. It came from behind, catching him squarely in the kidney and driving the breath out of him as he arched in pain. A hand reached beneath his jacket and pulled his gun free from his waistband, disarming him before he'd recovered enough to stop it.

Petrov stepped forward, getting right up in Billy's face so he could smell the other man's breath. "Where are your friends?" he demanded, as two other men grabbed Billy solidly by the shoulders, keeping him steady.

"Not entirely sure who you're referring to, mate," Billy answered, even as he felt his pulse quicken. Counting the dozen or so goons around him – all Mutri thugs, some of whom he recognized from their files – he could do enough basic arithmetic to know that he was well and truly buggered if he didn't find a way to talk himself out of this. "As it happens, I'm quite popular and therefore have quite a multitude of friends, which I–"

He was cut off as Petrov reached up and punched him across the face. It wasn't a particularly well-placed punch – he'd had worse off from Casey during sparring sessions – but it still hurt like hell. "Your friends in the CIA!" Petrov hissed, his smirk now replaced with an expression of annoyance.

And this was what they'd been afraid of. If Petrov flipped on the Bulgarian mob, then he'd be a terrific asset. If, instead, he flipped on the ODS, their covers would be blown to kingdom come. And right now, it appeared that the latter had come to pass with Billy in the very wrong place at the very wrong time.

Billy worked his jaw around, aware of the slight taste of blood where the inside of his cheek had split against his teeth. "I'm afraid I can't help you there," he answered, working to keep his voice even, despite the cold and certain dread pooling in his gut. If it had just been Petrov alone, armed or otherwise, this would be no contest. Even if he'd brought a friend or two, Billy might have stood a chance. But this...Billy wasn't walking out of this. But at least now he wasn't quite sure how it could get worse.

For a second, he thought Petrov would hit him again. Then the anger on the other man's face eased. "No. I imagine you won't, will you?" He sneered again. "Unless, of course, you have use as a message..."

"I do make a rather good messenger," Billy agreed. "Anything particular you'd like me to convey?"

"Not messanger," Petrov corrected, taking a step back. "Message."

Billy's stomach sank. "Oh. I see."

Petrov turned to the goon to his left, then nodded. "Dump the body when you're finished."

And as the man stepped closer, cracking his knuckles, Billy realized it had, in fact, gotten worse.

Then the overwhelming desire to survive kicked in. Billy began to struggle, pulling and trying to tear himself free from the iron grips of the two men holding him. Hands clamped down on his arms and shoulders, but when he lashed out with a foot he was rewarded with the sensation of his shoe connecting with flesh, joined by a grunt. One of the hands loosened enough for Billy to yank his arm free –

– but not in time to block a punch that caught him in the jaw and sent him reeling, stars exploding in his vision as pain coursed through his face. He blinked several times, eyes watering involuntarily as he tried to remember how to fight back.

The second punch caught him in the gut, driving the breath out of him and doubling him over. Then another to the face, and he could swear he heard bone grind as he gasped in pain.

Pain that was just beginning.

He was unarmed in an alleyway surrounded by a dozen rather large and violent men. Men who were going to kill him. And Billy damn well didn't want to die; not here and not like this. Not when Michael and Casey could be in danger from their covers being blown, nor when Billy still had anything left to fight with.

He shouted and charged at the nearest thug, barreling into the man at waist height and knocking him off balance. From there he jumped over the fallen assailant and made a break for the alley mouth.

He got about three steps before a strike to the back sent him sprawling, his chin connecting painfully with the pavement as laughter boomed all around him. Someone hoisted him upright by the back of his jacket as he struggled to get his legs to cooperate; then he was being flanked and held up by two thugs once more as the man with the cracking knuckles approached with a wicked grin on his face.

And Billy tried to pull away, but he couldn't. So he braced himself instead.

The first punch hit and he knew his nose was broken. His eyes stung and the pain spiked back through his head, blinding white at first before subsiding to a vicious throb, blood spilling down his lips and chin in a fountain.

The second punch was a bit higher, and he knew his eye would be blackened and likely to swell shut soon within minutes.

The third punch was the nose again. The fourth went lower, catching him in the stomach again, then the ribs. He was a human punching bag now, soaking blow after blow as fists mercilessly pummeled into his body. Idly, he wondered if this was how meat felt when being tenderized...

Something in his side shifted agonizingly under the next blow and despite himself, Billy screamed. The next blow caught him in the mouth – an instruction to shut the hell up, perhaps – and he choked as he almost swallowed one of his own teeth, coughing and desperately spitting out mouthfuls of blood.

Michael had trusted him with this job, he thought, vision graying for a minute. Michael had trusted him to go alone, without back-up. But he'd gone and cocked it up, hadn't he? If it had been Casey alone, he probably could have mopped the floor with a dozen goons, or at least given them a good fight. If it had been Michael, he'd probably have seen Petrov's betrayal coming a mile away and would have gotten the hell out before it was too late. But Billy had gone instead, and now...

Now he was being beaten to death. Broken and bloodied in an alley as some sort of grisly warning. Though considering how much of Billy's life had been a cautionary tale, it was perhaps rather fitting.

Then a fist hit him in the temple and Billy didn't think much of anything as his vision swam and the world exploded, then shrunk in on itself. He must have blacked out for a moment, because when he came to, the two goons that had been holding him up had let go and he was lying on his side on the ground.

Mutri gang members – their faces all blurred together and indistinguishable – stood over him, chuckling and talking amongst themselves in Bulgarian. Billy tried to push himself up, but a foot lashed out and struck him in the back, making him cry out and fall back to the ground, twisting in pain. Still, he needed to get up. Needed to fight back, needed to escape, to survive. He desperately pulled together his strength and lurched unsteadily up into a crouch, lashing out with a fist at the nearest target – the groin of an assailant.

He was rewarded briefly with a shriek of pain and a string of curses. Then a strong pair of hands grabbed Billy's outstretched forearm.

And bent.

The scream that tore through Billy's throat reverberated in the alleyway, but failed to drown out the sound of grinding and snapping bones. Hot tears streamed down his face, mixing with the hot blood that covered him as he fell back to the ground, curling protectively around his arm, clutching it to his chest.

He needed to fight. To escape. To survive.

But he couldn't. He couldn't fight. He could barely move. And as a foot drove into him – then another, and another, kicking him viciously in the back, the legs, the chest – he knew that survival was a diminishing outcome.

Pain flared up his spine. Pain coursed through his arm, radiating up to his shoulder as a boot connected with it. Pain throbbed through his entire body as the onslaught continued, unyielding.

He'd stopped fighting. He'd stopped trying to get up. He only curled in, pulling his beaten and broken body into the fetal position, trying in futility to shield himself, praying that they'd perhaps just lose interest in him, or that he'd black out soon. Anything for a reprieve from this... anything for it to stop...

Then a boot caught him in the head and Billy's vision dimmed, his world finally fading away to merciful blackness.

-o-

It all went off without a hitch.

In Michael's experience, that was a rare outcome, and one that left him simultaneously elated and unsettled as he and Casey ditched their gear, scrubbed all evidence of their presence, and made their way back to the bar previously picked out as a rendezvous point. Their entry into the private securities firm that was a well-known front for the Bulgarian mafia hadn't been questioned; their infiltration had been thorough, and their getaway had been clean. Michael was good at planning, he knew, but that was usually because he made all his plans flexible and prepared for contingencies when everything went wrong. And when nothing went wrong -

- Well, it was just a bit odd. Not unwelcome, of course; he was due a flawless mission, he figured, sticking his hands in his pockets and looking unobtrusive as he and Casey slid through the door into the dim and noisy bar.

He scanned the room for Billy, expecting to find the Scot at the bar, chatting up some pretty thing, or possible lounging in a booth, a satisfied grin on his face. But a quick look around revealed that the Scot hadn't yet arrived. Michael frowned. The meet with Petrov ought to have been fairly short; even with everything going smoothly on Michael and Casey's end, he didn't expect them to beat Billy to the rendezvous.

He glanced over at Casey, whose brow was similarly furrowed. "I'll get a table," he growled, moving to the side of the room. Michael nodded and reached into his pocket, pulling out his burner phone, which had been powered off during the infiltration, and turning it on. No new messages.

Of course, it was possible Petrov was just being difficult. Or that Billy had gotten distracted or was carousing or maybe he was just in the men's room. So far everything in the mission was going according to plan and nothing had gone wrong.

Yet.

He went up to the bar and, in broken Bulgarian, ordered two beers. He brought them back to the table Casey had staked out by the wall, halfway between the front door and the back exit, and sat down.

"Where the hell is he?" Casey growled.

"Not sure," Michael answered, holding his beer but not drinking it. He pulled out his cell again and dialed Billy's number.

It went straight to voicemail.

"We did say radio dark," he pointed out in response to Casey's anxious glare.

"We also said to meet up here, and he's late," Casey snapped back.

Michael was searching for a reasonable explanation when the door swung open and the noise level in the bar leapt up by several decibels. A group of burly men pushed into the bar, their rowdy laughter drowning out all conversation. Michael didn't turn his head, but let his eyes flicker toward the door. He felt his hackles rise; he recognized at least three of the men right away as Hristov's goons.

"They've been in a fight," Casey murmured, leaning forward slightly. "Blond guy at seven o'clock is walking funny and the one in the front has split knuckles. Blood on the shirt cuff, too."

Michael didn't quite dare to look closer, lest he draw attention for staring, but he took Casey's word for it. The thought made him uneasy. Though if Mutri thugs had been out carousing and fighting, they'd probably be dead-set on getting drunk now, and unlikely to notice Michael and Casey.

This was a distraction, but not a problem. They just had to keep their heads down until Billy showed up.

Then, Casey tensed. "Michael..."

Michael turned his head, then froze –

– Right as Petrov walked in, looked over to Michael and Casey's table, and smiled right at them.

Michael's stomach bottomed out.

Petrov was here. Petrov was here. Petrov was supposed to be with Billy, but Billy was missing and Petrov was here with the Mutri, and the Mutri had just been in a fight. If Petrov hadn't rolled on the mob – if he'd backed out of the arrangement – then Michael and Casey were blown sky high and they needed to get out. And if Billy wasn't here...

There had just been a fight.

"We need to go," Michael murmured, though Casey was already standing and moving out from the table. Michael's head was reeling as they snuck out the back, bracing himself for Petrov to sound the alarm. But the man just kept smirking at them until they were out the back door and in the quiet of the alley.

"What the hell was that?" Casey demanded. "What's Petrov doing here?"

Michael took a deep breath. "I don't know." Petrov should have flipped. He should have been on his way to American protective custody. But instead, he was in a bar with Hristov's thugs. But if he'd betrayed the ODS, then why hadn't he blown the whistle on them then and there, when they were outnumbered and clearly at a disadvantage? Why had he been smiling?

The implications chilled Michael.

"We need to find Billy," Casey said, worry etched into his features. "This is going south. I can tell."

Michael grimaced. "Agreed."

If it hadn't gone south already.

-o-

It didn't take long to get to the docks and the meet point where Billy had been set to meet Petrov. Public transportation at that late hour would have been a nightmare, but fortunately they'd rented a car on arriving in Bulgaria, vastly expediting the trip through the city.

As they pulled up and Casey put the car in park, Michael half-hoped to see Billy slouching in the mouth of the alleyway, looking bored and put out. But there was no such luck, and when he and Casey got out and scoped the area there was no sign of anyone. The alley was empty; the docks deserted. They were the only living souls around.

"I've got blood."

Casey was crouched on the ground a few yards into the alley, face creased in consternation as he lifted fingers slicked with a dark substance. "It hasn't had time to dry yet."

Michael's heart was beating faster. Blood was bad. Though it was possible that it wasn't Billy's, he reminded himself. "Any other signs?"

Casey moved to the left, standing slowly, then inching further down the alley. "I've got a trail..."

His eyes adjusting to the gloom, Michael could now make out the dark puddle on the ground. The large puddle. His stomach turned slightly, and his eyes tracked the trail that Casey was now following, noting the smear where something – or someone – had been dragged through the blood.

"I've got more drips this way," Casey called out, picking up speed as he turned down another side alley. Michael followed, silently praying that the blood wasn't Billy's. That whatever they found at the end of the trail wouldn't confirm his worst fears. His heart was hammering against his chest when Casey stopped ahead of him.

"I found something..." The human weapon took a few hesitant steps forward, but Michael kept going, brushing past him. He needed to see, needed to know that whatever lay at the end of the grisly path wasn't Billy.

Then, there was a body. He saw the feet first, protruding from the heap of discarded garbage filling the space between two overfilled dumpsters; he felt his stomach flip, his spine prickling in apprehension. Stepping closer, Michael braced himself, leaning in to get a better look–

– And even as his inside rebelled and the gruesome sight made him recoil, Michael felt a twisted surge of relief. Whoever the poor bastard was that they'd found was, he wasn't Billy. Clothes torn and stained, face purple and swollen, he looked nothing like Billy. Michael may have sent the Scot out without backup, but he hadn't sent him to his death...

"It's not him," he breathed, lightheaded, stepping back even as Casey crouched down beside the body. "We should keep looking–"

"Michael," Casey broke in, voice strained.

"–He might have gone back to the hotel, so we can call the conciergerie and–"

"Michael!" Casey looked up at him, and the anguished look on the older operative's face stopped Michael short. "It's him, Michael."

Michael swallowed. He looked again.

He thought of Billy in the hotel when they'd parted ways; the Scot had been wearing a suit, per usual, neat and dapper, though with his hair typically spiked and mussy. He'd been a bit tired, but apart from the slight shadows beneath his eyes, he'd been fine.

It was an impossible image to reconcile with the body in front of him.

The suit – and it took a minute for him to even tell it was a suit, torn and filthy as it was – was still there, though the buttons were torn open in a few places and the tie was gone. One arm lay at an impossible, sickening angle, the other limbs all sprawled like a puppet with its strings cut. But glinting on the wrist was a watch – a cheap rolex knock-off, with a scuffed face – that he couldn't fail to recognize. Forcing his gaze upward, Michael choked at the maimed and bloody face, skin swollen and split beyond recognition, caked in dried blood.

Beaten and bloody and broken.

But still Billy.

"Oh God," he breathed, stepping backward, hand flying to his mouth as he struggled to control the rising surge of nausea. Billy.

Casey carefully and tenderly reached forward and arranged Billy's arms, pulling his jacket closed, then hesitating. "Michael..."

"God dammit," Michael whispered, taking another pace back as he tried unsuccessfully to pull himself together. He felt sick, and his eyes were stinging.

"Michael, call an ambulance."

Those words stopped him. Michael blinked a few times. Ambulance. That meant–

"He's alive?" he croaked, terrified to even hope.

Casey looked up, eyes wide. "For now. But we need to hurry."

And that was all Michael needed.

-o-

The ambulance didn't take long to arrive, though each second nonetheless felt like an eternity. Casey ministrated to Billy with surprising tenderness in the interim, gently adjusting the Scot and holding him, monitoring his pulse and shallow breathing while Michael watched uselessly. When the wailing sirens finally grew close and the paramedics came running in, Michael stood back and looked on in a daze as they loaded Billy onto a backboard and strapped his neck into a brace. Then they were loading the stretcher into the ambulance and Michael realized at the last minute that he needed to get in now if he wanted to stay with Billy... He cast a look over at Casey, who worked his jaw then nodded stiffly. Michael then clambered into the ambulance, perching in the corner as the doors swung shut and the sirens wailed back to life.

Billy was motionless, the barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest the only indication of life. The paramedics were lightly probing his chest and head, talking to each other in Bulgarian too quickly for Michael to follow. Then they were tearing away Billy's soiled shirt and tattered jacket, exposing his chest, which was horribly patterned with livid bruises. Then there were electrodes and wires being hooked up, and one of the paramedics frowned and shouted something at the other, who pressed a rubber oxygen mask over Billy's mouth.

Michael's palms itched as he sat idly by and watched, powerless to do anything about it. He could send Billy into danger; but he couldn't do a thing now to help save him. It was out of his control.

Though he was starting to realize the mission had been out of his control from the start.

Then the ambulance doors were opening again and Michael realized with a start that they were at the hospital. Billy's stretcher was rolled out and Michael had to scramble to follow, running to keep up as the EMTs met up with a gaggle of orderlies who had just rushed out of the hospital doors to wheel Billy in.

Inside the doors, Billy was already being hooked up to fresh instruments and monitors, even as the stretcher continued to roll. A young woman in a white coat ran over and began calling out orders, taking charge even as the instruments began to blare. Michael's heart leapt into his mouth; he didn't know what a damn one of those monitors meant, but he knew enough that he could tell Billy's stats couldn't be good. He was crashing.

And then he was gone as the stretcher was rushed through another set of doors. Michael moved to follow, but a large orderly stepped in front of him with arms crossed and shook his head.

"What happened?" a voice asked behind him.

Michael turned to see Casey standing there, brow knit in distress. He wasn't sure how the other operative had managed to get to the hospital so fast in the rental car; he wasn't sure he cared. "I don't know," he answered, throat painfully tight around the words. "They wheeled him out..." He swallowed hard, taking a deep breath and making an effort to pull himself together. He was team leader. He couldn't lose it. Not like this. "His stats started going haywire as soon as we got here. My best guess is he's in surgery now," he said, fighting to keep his voice even.

Casey merely grunted by reply, staring pointedly at the doors.

"He's still hanging on, though," Michael added, feeling the need to keep talking, though he wasn't sure at this point who he was trying to reassure. "He's made it through worse."

Casey didn't look at him. Didn't acknowledge him.

And Michael realized with a sinking feeling that he couldn't blame him. Casey had been the one to argue against sending Billy in without backup. Michael had dismissed him, arguing that Billy was the smooth one, that he could handle it.

But even if Billy was the smooth talker, he hadn't been able to talk his way out of a set-up. And Michael was the one to put him there, alone. He'd been so eager for Petrov's intel, he'd placed trust where it didn't belong. In doing so, he may have gotten one of his men killed. A momentary lapse in his customary paranoia could end up costing him Billy's life.

Paranoid Bastard, he thought grimly.

Except when it counted.

-o-

Michael's sanity was salvaged by the fact that suddenly now, with the mission in the tank and Billy in surgery and everything gone to hell, he had things to do. He had to make contact with Langley and apprise them of the situation, arguing with Higgins' aide for nearly half an hour before managing to set up a remote data transfer for the intel he and Casey had recovered during their infiltration. He had to then talk to Higgins, and admit that once of his operatives was now in critical condition, getting confirmation that the CIA would provide the necessary resources for Billy's treatment and recovery. Following those calls, there was countless paperwork to be filled out and nurses and orderlies to talk to as Michael lied in broken Bulgarian that he was Billy's brother.

He and Casey were ushered out of the emergency room shortly after their arrival and into a private 'family waiting area' with faded wallpaper and old magazines. Michael stepped frequently out into the hall, supposedly to make calls, but largely due to the tension of sharing a small space with Casey. The older operative's anger was a quietly simmering thing, and it had Michael so close to the edge, he could feel himself teetering on the brink.

Still, he held it together. He slowly translated the forms enough to fill them out, handing them back and asking, with atrocious grammar, how Billy was doing.

Not that he got any answer worth a damn.

Of course, when he stopped, just for a moment, the image of Billy's swollen, blood-covered face began to haunt him. If Casey hadn't been there to check for a pulse...

It was a good thing, Michael reflected, that he hadn't eaten much that day.

And Casey still wasn't talking to him. Wasn't looking at him. The tension and the silence in the waiting room grew miserably thick, until the door finally swung open and a doctor walked in.

Michael stood up immediately. He recognized the slim, dark-haired woman as the doctor who had taken charge in the emergency room. At the time he'd thought her young, but closer up. he could see the heavy circles under her eyes and the careworn look to her face (though whether this was age or exhaustion, he couldn't quite determine). She was in scrubs and a labcoat, and untucked the chart from under her arm as she adjusted her wire framed glasses on her long, pointed nose. "My name is Doctor Nikolova. You are the family of William Conolly?" she asked, and it took Michael a second to realize she was speaking in merciful English.

"Er, yes," he answered, not looking at Casey. "Is he...?" he stopped. "How is he?"

She sighed, brushing a frizzy bit of hair from her face. "Alive. His condition is still critical, but he came through surgery." She flipped a page in the chart, though Michael noticed that she didn't seem to be reading the words so much as relying on it as a prop to avoid eye contact. "The damage was... extensive. We've set the worst of the breaks and repaired much of the bleeding, but I have him scheduled for additional surgeries once he's more stable."

Michael let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. "But he's going to be okay?"

The doctor pursed her lips together. "As I said. He is still critical." Her voice was slightly accented, but still clear. Her meaning, even more painfully so.

Billy wasn't out of the woods yet. (If he made it out at all).

Michael ground his teeth together. "What are we looking at?"

This time, she referred to the chart honestly. "His forearm was broken in two places and had to be reset. Three of his ribs were broken, an additional six were cracked. There was a minor skull fracture that we are monitoring, and he suffered a broken jaw as well as a fracture to his zygomatic arch," she rattled off. "The cartilage in his nose is badly broken, and will require further intervention. He is very badly concussed. We are doing what we can to lower the pressure, but we will not know the extent of the damage until the swelling recedes."

Michael closed his eyes for a moment. "Damn." That many breaks, and the head trauma to boot...

He opened his eyes to see the doctor staring at him over the rims of her glasses. "Shall I continue?"

He swallowed hard. "There's more?"

The doctor winced. "The broken ribs led to a number of internal contusions throughout his thorax. He is at high risk of internal bleeding until his ribs heal. And in surgery... we had to repair a rupture in Mr. Conolly's spleen. "

Michael bit down hard to keep from swearing. "What's his prognosis?"

The doctor – Nikolova – tucked the chart back under her arm and then removed her glasses, wiping them off on the label of her coat, blinking tiredly. "We'll be monitoring him closely. If he makes it through the next twenty four hours, I'll be optimistic. But nothing is certain until he comes out of his coma."

Coma. Of course, Michael had known... Billy had been unconscious when they found him, and with that level of trauma, it made sense. But it was still a harsh concept to come at head on. That Billy was in a coma. That not all people who went into comas came out of them. "Thank you," he finally managed to say. "If there's-"

He paused as the door clicked and looked over in time to see Casey slipping out into the hall and shutting the door behind him. Michael frowned.

The doctor looked over her shoulder at the door. "He is... family also?"

Michael sighed, the exhaustion catching up with him. He was nowhere near a window, but given how late it was when they'd found Billy, it had to be nearly, if not past dawn now. "Yeah. He's not taking it very well."

The doctor's jaw worked for a few moments. "I'm doing everything I can. I promise."

Michael nodded.

She hesitated, chewed her lip, then put her glasses back on. "Is there... anything you can tell me about what happened to Mr. Conolly?"

What had happened was that Billy had been sent into a set-up with no backup in radio darkness. He'd been left on his own through Michael's oversight, then beaten to within an inch of his life. Michael looked down, then made himself look her in the eyes. "No."

For a second she looked ready to press the issue, but then stopped and pressed her mouth into a narrow line, nodding. "I will keep you informed of his progress."

"Thank you." Michael watched her leave, hoping Billy's life was safe in her hands.

Because it sure as hell hadn't been safe in his.

-o-

Michael didn't remember falling asleep.

He supposed it had to happen at some point, of course. They'd been up and moving for well over a day, and while he didn't consider himself past his prime, the truth was that Michael wasn't exactly a young man anymore. He might have had a God complex, true, but his body was mortal and succumbed to weakness as easily as any other. So at some point during the arduous wait, he'd apparently dozed off on the waiting room couch.

He only knew this, though, from the fact that Casey was now shaking him awake.

He blinked, jerking awake and getting his bearings within a matter of seconds. "Billy?" he asked, heart jumping into his throat. Had something happened?

Casey's expression was blank. "Billy's stable. They've moved him to a private room in the ICU, but the last time the doc came in, she said he was improving."

Michael took a breath and closed his eyes as he sat up, fighting to slow down his racing pulse. This was good. Stable was good.

He opened his eyes, looked at Malick, then frowned. "You didn't wake me for that, though," he observed. Casey hadn't spoken to him since they got the hospital. If he'd been willing to go out of his way to wake Michael up...

Casey grimaced, his expression pained. "We have another problem."

Michael snorted. "Of course we do," he said with a sigh, running a hand through his hair and wishing he had mouthwash or a clean shirt or something. "What is it?"

"Petrov."

He froze. "What about him?"

Casey was grim. "I was in the lobby fighting with a receptionist a few minutes ago and I saw him."

Michael stood up immediately. "Where? What was he doing?" Had Petrov sought them out for protection? Did he still intend to defect, but hadn't been able to before?

"Ducking into a stairwell. I followed him," Casey answered, posture painfully stiff. "I cornered him so we could have... a discussion–" Michael didn't miss the way Casey's hand balled into a fist at the word, "–And then I realized the sonofabitch was wired."

Michael cursed as his hopes were dashed and suspicions confirmed. "So it was a triple-cross."

"Billy walked right into a trap," Casey confirmed darkly.

Reaching up to rub his temples, Michael's tired mind raced to process. Petrov had never intended to defect; he knew Michael's identity, and he'd seen Billy and Casey now. All their covers were blown sky high. Closing his eyes, Michael could see that smirk on Petrov's face as he'd entered the bar, looking over at Casey and Michael but not outing them. Not yet...

"They wanted us to find Billy," Michael realized, gut clenching, not in fear this time but in rage. "That's why Petrov didn't sic Hristov's goons on us at the bar."

A muscle in Casey's jaw twitched. "They left him as a message?"

"No..." Michael swallowed, the hair on his neck prickling. "As bait."

They'd found Billy. And they'd taken the logical course of action and taken him to a hospital. Now they were all collected in one place; tired, injured, and vulnerable. And Petrov knew exactly who they were and where they were.

"We need to get out," Michael affirmed, heading for the door.

"And Billy?" Casey demanded.

Michael turned. "He's coming with us."

-o-

Racing through the halls to the ICU, Michael half-feared his heart would pound right out of his chest. Casey had run into Petrov mere minutes ago. But a lot could happen in a few minutes. What if the Mutri had gone to finish the job they'd started in the alley? What if Michael and Casey were too late again?

Much of Michael's survival in the spy game could be attributed to his tendency to predict the worst case scenario. So when he finally found Billy's door, the rising dread was all but crippling. Fearing the worst, he burst through the door–

"Kakvo pravish?!" Doctor Nikolova straightened in shock from where she'd been poised at Billy's bedside, eyes wide and mouth open. "You- You cannot be in here!" she sputtered.

Michael stopped short at the sight of Billy. They hadn't been allowed to see him yet. They'd only known the room number because Casey had all but accosted a nurse for the information earlier.

Billy had been hospitalized before. Michael had seen his teammates injured in the past, had been down this road more than once.

It didn't make it any easier.

Some of the blood had been wiped away, and Billy's tattered clothing was gone, replaced by an untied hospital gown draped over his torso and a thin blanket pulled up to his waist. But it didn't make for much of an improvement; if anything, the bright hospital lights made his appearance all the more ghastly. And as for all the equipment surrounding him, keeping him alive...

Behind him, Michael heard Casey swear softly.

The doctor recovered herself before either of them did and glared at Casey and Michael both. "I understand you are anxious to see your brother, but at this point–"

"He's in danger," Michael interjected. "He can't stay here. None of us can."

"Don't be absurd," she retorted, checking Billy's chart once more and scribbling something in it. "His condition is very fragile! He is not going anywhere. Now please, return to the designated waiting area before I am forced to call security!"

Michael crossed the room in two quick steps, taking hold of her wrist and stopping her pen, looking at her meaningfully. Nikolova's head jerked upward, her eyes glinting dangerously. "If you do not let go right now–"

"The people who did this to him are here," Michael said, quickly and quietly. "They know where we are and they are in this hospital. If he stays here, he will die."

She opened her mouth, expression of annoyance still furrowing her brow, but then hesitated.

"Please," Michael added. "You said you'd do everything you could for him. What you can do now is let us get him somewhere safe."

She looked back at where Billy lay in the bed – curiously small, despite his height – then back at Michael, indecision clear in her eyes. "I... I can call security. Have them get the police to station someone outside his door–"

Michael shook his head. "No time. And no good." Getting the police involved would put Billy in every bit as much danger as he'd been in at the hands of the Bulgarian mob.

Nikolova chewed her lip and breathed out her nose in frustration, pulling her glasses off again. "I'm not going to allow you to illegally–"

She stopped and Michael spun around at the sound of the door clicking open. Casey's posture immediately went into a combat pose – then just as immediately relaxed as an orderly in familiar blue-green scrubs shuffled in with a tray.

He murmured something in Bulgarian and the doctor waved her hand dismissively, answering in turn. Michael was fairly sure he caught the words "wrong room."

"As I was saying," Nikolova continued, dropping her voice to a hiss "I will not allow– hold on–" She paused with a frown. Rather than leaving, the orderly had moved to the corner of the room, putting the tray down clumsily.

Michael and Casey exchanged looks. Casey tensed.

Nikolova called out to the orderly again, demanding what he thought he was doing; she hadn't ordered those dosages and was in the middle of a consult and what–

She stopped dead and shrieked as the orderly turned around with a gun in hand.

But Casey was already moving, lunging in and tackling the orderly just as the gun went off with a muffled bang, the report softened by the silencer attached to the barrel. Michael grabbed the doctor and hit the ground, shielding her with his own body out of instinct.

Instruments clattered to the ground, accompanied by the meaty sound of flesh hitting flesh. Then there was a strangled cry followed by silence. A body hit the floor, and Michael dared look up.

Casey's face was flushed as he straightened out his jacket. On the ground, the orderly who was likely not an orderly at all lay motionless on his back, eyes wide in permanent surprise at the scalpel embedded in his chest.

"I think we've overstayed our welcome already," the older operative stated. "There will be more where he came from."

Michael looked at Nikolova. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," she replied numbly, eyes glued to the body as Malick knelt down and recovered the gun, tucking it into his waistband.

Michael helped her to her feet. "You see now why we need to move him? It isn't safe. And they'll keep coming."

Nikolova was pale; she tore her eyes from the orderly and stared at Michael for a few long seconds. Then, she put her glasses back on and nodded. "Very well. I will go get a gurney and the necessary supplies. There is a small clinic on the edge of the city where we can take him–"

"Hold up now," Casey interrupted. "What 'we' is this?"

Something clicked through the shock, and the dangerous gleam reappeared in Nikolova's tired eyes as she jutted her chin forward stubbornly. "Mr. Conolly is my patient and my responsibility, in or out of this hospital. If I let you remove him, then it will only be with my supervision."

"This isn't your fight. This is dangerous," Michael broke in.

"I was just shot at; I am aware," she replied dryly. "And it is dangerous to move a patient this fragile; if he does not have medical supervision, he will likely die," she snapped back. "I said I would do everything I could. And I intend to do so. Besides, you will never get out the doors with him without my help."

Michael and Casey exchanged glances. She did, of course, have a point.

Casey shrugged. Michael sighed.

"Okay. So, what's the plan?"

-o-

Michael knew that doctors tended not to last in their field if they couldn't handle pressure. But even with that knowledge, he was pleasantly surprised by how capable Billy's physician was proving in a crisis.

Nikolova ducked out and then returned ten minutes later with a gurney and two sets of scrubs, which she tossed to Michael and Casey with instructions to put them on. She moved back into the hall to let them change, and Michael felt his heart skip when, minutes later, a distant alarm went off and a voice echoed over the intercom. But when Nikolova reappeared, she seemed unfazed. "I've given us a diversion. Most of the nurses will be out of the corridor now, so we will have a clear run to the elevator banks. Now, I will need your help moving him..."

Watching Nikolova detach Billy from the equipment surrounding him made Michael nervous, despite her assurances that he'd be fine without most of it for a short period of time. The most important thing, she pointed out, would be keeping Billy's breathing sufficient; the medical ventilator would not be able to come with them, so one of them would have to use the bag valve mask she'd gotten from storage to manually ventilate Billy in the interim. The chore fell to Michael, who stepped in with the Ambu bag as soon as the doctor removed the breathing and feeding tubes from Billy's mouth, gingerly covering his mouth and battered nose with the rubber mask while Casey secured Billy to the gurney.

They moved into the corridor, which, true to Nikolova's prediction, was deserted in response to the false code over the intercom. Nikolova led, a large bag of medications and supplies slung over her shoulder, while Michael followed, holding the stand with Billy's IVs in the crook of his elbow and manually squeezing air into Billy's damaged lungs as Malick brought up the rear, pushing the stretcher along at a quick clip.

They made it from Billy's room in the ICU to the elevator bank with no incident. In the elevator, watching the numbers tick downward, Michael blew out a lengthy breath.
"Unhook the IV bags from the stand and slip them on to the gurney," Nikolova instructed, breaking the silence.

Michael frowned. "They won't be effective at that height..."

"Yes, but no one hooks IVs up to a corpse," she pointed out, reaching into her bag and pulling out a white sheet which she unfolded and spread over Billy in one swooping motion.

Michael felt himself pale a little, though he could still feel the warmth radiating from Billy's skin reassuring him that he was alive. "Corpse?"

Nikolova nodded. "When we get to the ground floor, we will split up. There are a few more things I need from the pharmacy. You will take a left down the corridor, followed by two rights. You will be headed toward the mortuary, so no one will look twice if you are rolling a body and not a patient," she explained. "Cut past the loading bay, then take another left. You'll find the maintenance garage where they keep the off-duty ambulances. I will meet you there. Understood?"

"What about the Ambu bag?" Casey asked. "No one puts a respirator on a corpse either."

She sighed. "His breathing is compromised enough to warrant mechanical ventilation, but Mr. Conolly is capable of some breathing on his own. For the brief period of time where you are in sight of hospital personnel, he should be alright."

"How–" Michael was cut off as the elevator pinged and the doors slid open.

"Good luck," Nikolova whispered, then turned right out the doors and disappeared.

-o-

They followed the doctor's instructions, and no one looked twice. If anything, as soon as their eyes rested on the form covered by the sterile sheet, anyone they encountered made a point to look away, taking as little notice as possible of the two orderlies pushing a body toward the morgue. As they took a turn into an empty stretch of hall and he reached under the sheet to give the Ambu-bag a couple of squeezes, Michael nearly felt optimistic that they might pull this off and get Billy out with no further incident.

Which went to prove that Michael really had no business being an optimist.

"Wait, was that supposed to be one right or two?" Casey asked, slowing down.

Michael hesitated. "Damn. I'm not..." he trailed off, looking around. There was the sign for the morgue, and a sign indicating the loading bay. "I think it's this way," he said, nodding toward the loading bay. He gave the bag another squeeze, then quickly let go and slid his hand out from under the sheet as the industrial door swung open and two men stepped into the hallway –

– Two of Hristov's thugs, to be specific.

Michael's eyes widened and for a second he prayed that their disguise would hold.

The men looked right at him and Casey.

No such luck.

"Crap," Michael murmured.

"Catch," Casey said.

Michael turned in time to catch the gun as Casey tossed it to him, catching sight in his peripheral vision of the thugs pulling their own weapons out and a third man came through the door.

Three on two, and Michael and Casey had just the one gun between them. Not the best odds, granted, but neither were they the worst...

Michael turned and pulled the trigger, diving aside and pushing the gurney away in a combined movement as bullets ripped through the air.

The shot caught one of the goons in the shoulder, sending him reeling back. Michael crashed into the wall, his momentum carrying him too far. He grunted in pain, then lifted the gun again, stealing a sideways glance at Billy's covered form.

Before he could get a second shot off, however, Casey had leapt into the fray, tackling the second thug with a feral snarl; he rammed his shoulder into the man's gut, using his opponent's greater height and mass against him by targeting his center of balance and toppling him. The two men went down in a mess of flailing limbs, just as the third goon raised his gun to bear.

He didn't get a chance to shoot.

Michael didn't let him.

He pulled the trigger - once, twice, three times - and the man jerked and fell to the ground, gun skittering across the linoleum floor.

Casey looked up from his now-unmoving target. Michael smiled at him, but felt the smile fade as Casey's eyes widened. "Behind you–!" the human weapon began, but before Michael could react he felt something metallic jam into the side of his skull as an arm snaked around his throat.

"Stay where you are," a heavily accented voice growled, breath hot against Michael's ear. "Or I take his head off. Now drop the gun."

The pistol clattered from his fingertips. Mentally, Michael cursed himself out. There had been three men. Michael had shot one to hell. Casey had taken down the other. Michael had shot the third... in the shoulder. Non-fatal, and not entirely incapacitating, apparently. Of course, a wounded shoulder meant weakness – his assailant was hurting, and had an injury that could be used to Michael's advantage. Only the fact that he had a gun barrel jammed up against his temple negated pretty much every advantage Michael could have.

Still kneeling over his unconscious opponent, Casey was frozen. Michael knew Malick well enough to recognize when he was going through all the options and processing a potential fight in his mind.

He also knew him well enough to spot the small downward tick of his mouth and curl of his lip that indicated things weren't good.

"You are very stupid Americans," the first thug growled, pulling his arm slightly tighter around Michael's neck. Without thinking, Michael reached up to claw at it ineffectually, the edges of his vision graying a bit as the arm applied pressure, cutting off the blood supply to his brain.

Casey's eyes darted to one of the discarded guns, in the middle of the hall. Michael would have shook his head, if he could move his head at all. It felt like it was spinning as it was, the world beginning to go blurry. "Get... Billy... out..." he choked, grunting as the arm tightened even more.

Casey said something, but Michael couldn't make it out over the roar of blood in his ears as his oxygen-starved brain began to falter.

Then, something happened.

The arm let go. Michael staggered forward, gasping. The thug cried out, and a second later there was the meaty sound of a body hitting the ground.

Blinking, Michael stared at Casey... who hadn't moved. "How...?" He turned, and blinked some more, still stunned.

Doctor Nikolova looked back at him in an expression of equal shock, the bloody syringe still in her hand.

"Don't you doctors have some sort of rule about doing no harm?" Casey inquired, standing up and recovering the gun.

"It's more of a guideline," she answered numbly, staring down at the body for a moment before looking back up. "We need to go. He'll wake up shortly and the gunfire will have been heard. Where is my patient?"

Michael turned and ran for the gurney, recovering it and pulling the sheet back to make sure Billy was okay and hadn't been hit by an errant bullet. The Scot was still a mess – Michael winced each time he saw the damage – but appeared unharmed from the most recent altercation. Giving the bag a few squeezes, Michael propelled the gurney toward the door to the maintenance garage. "I'm with you, doc. Let's get out of here."

-o-

Normally Billy was the one to take the wheel, but in this instance, Casey was the one who took the keys from the peg on the wall, lamenting the poor security as he clambered into the driver's seat. Nikolova and Michael loaded Billy into the back, Michael immediately returning to the task of keeping Billy ventilated (and hoping that the time in which Billy'd been neglected during the fight proved insignificant). Nikolova began pulling supplies out of her bag and switching on a few of the on-board monitors, pulling out wires and electrodes. The engine growled to life, and then Michael was bracing himself with one hand and Billy with the other as Casey floored it.

"How far is this clinic?" Casey called from the front as Nikolova checked Billy's vitals.

"Far enough," she answered. "For now, just head north-east!"

"' 'Far enough' is not a helpful answer," Casey grumbled, taking a turn, then cursing.

"What, is there traffic?" Michael asked sourly, still squeezing air into Billy's lungs and watching the weak rise and fall of Billy's chest.

"Let's just say our friends at the hospital didn't walk here."

It took Michael a second. Then he swore too. "Please tell me we didn't pick up a tail."

"Black sedan, tinted windows, and some recent body work, if I'm any judge," Casey replied. The vehicle lurched to the right and Michael held on to Billy to keep him steady. "They must have gotten suspicious when their guys didn't check back in, then saw us pull out."

"There are more?" Nikolova asked with alarm.

"These bastards just don't give up, do they?" Michael said. "Can you lose them?"

"It's an ambulance, Michael, it's not exactly built for high-speed chases," Casey snapped back. "But I can try," he then added ruefully.

Michael exchanged a worried look with the doctor. Lips pressed into a white line, she reached forward and took hold of the Ambu-bag from Michael, fingers brushing over his. "I can take it from here. Do whatever it is you need to do," she said, the even quality of her voice a contrast to her frazzled appearance.

Michael hesitated, then nodded gratefully. "Malick, you still have a gun?"

"I'm not your personal quartermaster," Casey sniffed, but held a gun aloft by the barrel for Michael to grab as he stepped over toward the front of the ambulance.

"You're going to shoot at them from here?" Nikolova demanded, brows raised.

"As soon as they realize we're trying to shake them, there's a possibility they'll just open fire," he answered, checking the clip. "If that happens, I plan for us to give as good as we get."

Nikolova looked down at Billy. "You're going to have to give an awful lot, I think," she said softly.

Michael ground his teeth together to the point of pain, then nodded.

Which was when the first shot hit.

The bang was accompanied by the screeching of brakes and the honking of several horns; a part of the ambulance's rear door buckled. There were two more bangs, then Casey turned so hard Michael was pretty sure two of the wheels briefly departed from the ground. He lurched aside, barely keeping hold of the gun.

"Right on cue!" Casey announced, gunning the engine and hitting the siren.

"You think that's going to help?" Michael asked, gritting his teeth.

"It'll get the rest of the numbskulls on the road out of my way," Casey replied.

Michael's retort was cut off by another gunshot, this one cracking the glass on the window of one of the rear doors. Crossing over to it, Michael used his elbow to break out the rest of the window, aiming through the fresh gap at the black car in pursuit.

He pulled the trigger a few times, taking out one of the headlights and forcing the shooter in the passenger side to duck back into the car. The windshield, however, appeared bulletproof. "We're gonna need to go faster if we wanna lose these guys," he shouted over his shoulder.

"Oh really? Thanks for telling me, I intended to slow down," Casey drawled. "I know Billy's the tactical driver, but please, give me a little credit."

"You shake these sons of bitches and I will give you all the credit there is!" Michael barked back, ducking as a bullet pinged off the metal above him.

The ambulance lurched violently again, resulting in a chorus of blaring car horns and someone shrieking. Michael staggered, but managed to keep his gun level, using the brief change in angle to get another shot in. Not that it appeared to do much good.

Something beeped loudly and Nikolova said something in Bulgarian. Michael didn't know the word; the inflection, however, did not require translation. His stomach knotted up. "Doc, we okay?"

"Give me a moment..."

Something else blared, but then several shots rocked the back of the ambulance. Casey swerved in response, the vehicle shuddering as they collided glancingly with something, then another shot buckled in the door's handle mechanism. With the next swerve, Michael watched in horror as the door swung wildly open.

"Down!" He shouted, and in the corner of his vision saw Nikolova, wide-eyed, throw herself over Billy, grabbing the gurney's rail to hold it in place.

The Mutri assassin in the car chasing them didn't neglect his opportunity. Bullets now pinged off the inside of the ambulance, and Michael grunted as something struck his arm, nearly knocking him off balance. He teetered for a moment, horribly aware of the pavement rushing by beneath him, but recovered in a crouch and returned fire.

The open door meant the assassin had a clear shot.

But it also afforded one to Michael.

He pulled the trigger twice before it clicked on empty. But two shots proved enough to take out the front tire. The car swerved as the driver fought for control – and failed – then spun out into the oncoming lane. The resulting cacophony of breaking glass and rending metal made Michael wince, but simultaneously filled him with a deep sense of satisfaction.

"He's crashing!"

"You can say that again," Michael murmured, moving out of the way just in time to avoid getting hit by the ambulance door as it swung back shut on Casey's next turn.

"No, he's crashing!" Nikolova repeated urgently, and then the blaring of one of the monitors drove the realization home.

Michael immediately dropped to his knees beside the stretcher, the high of his victory gone as panic flooded over him. "What's happening?"

Nikolova met his gaze, eyes wide and bright. "Hemothorax. I must have... one of his ribs must have torn the pleural tissue."

Michael stared down at Billy, lifeless under the mask. His bruised chest barely shifted now, and the implications were painfully clear. "His lungs are collapsing," he stated, the words like ash in his mouth.

"Unless we do something," Nikolova replied, chewing on her lip. "We need to drain the blood and relieve the pressure so his lungs can inflate. I need to cut into his chest."

Michael balked. "Are you sure–"

"He's not breathing, his blood pressure is tanking, and he's cyanotic. He will die if we don't," she pointed out, reaching into her bag of supplies and digging through until she produced a small bottle of iodine, which she tossed at Michael. "Here. Swab his chest with this. Left side, around the seventh rib."

Michael caught it with a wince, fumbling as the pain in his arm made him almost lose his grip. He kept focused, however; Billy was priority. Keeping Billy alive –

– Well, that was Michael's only priority.

He liberally applied orangy swaths of iodine to Billy's purplish skin, gingerly brushing it over the mottled bruising as the doctor procured a scalpel, a length of tube, and a fresh pair of rubber gloves which she snapped on with an air of determined efficiency. "We need him still," she said, looking at Michael meaningfully.

"Malick, are we on a straight stretch of road?" Michael shouted forward over the frenetic beeping of the monitors.

"I'll keep her steady," Casey growled. "Just keep him alive, okay?"

Michael looked at the doctor and nodded. She took a deep breath, then leaned forward and made the cut.

It was a good thing, Michael reflected, that Billy was unconscious, in some ways. The Scot was the most squeamish of the team, and the sight of the scalpel cutting into the soft flesh of his side like putty would have probably made him faint. As it was, Michael had to look away when Nikolova stuck a finger into the hole she'd made. "What the hell–"

"Digital confirmation of diagnosis. Definite pulmonary contusion," she answered, pulling her finger out and then taking hold of the tube and threading it into the incision. A moment later, thick, dark blood began to flow out of the tubing, draining from Billy's chest.

An eternity later, Billy's chest rose.

And Michael nearly wept with relief as the beeping of the monitors slowed to calmer intervals and the Ambu-bag filled Billy's lungs with air.

Across from him, Nikolova adjusted her glasses, leaving a smudge of blood on her nose. "Well. That went well," she said, voice trembling slightly, even as she offered Michael a tiny smile.

"Could have gone worse," he agreed, sinking back in exhaustion.

Billy was still alive. But he wasn't out of the woods yet.

-o-

Michael barely realized it when they arrived at the clinic. The doctor borrowing his cell phone once Billy was showing signs of stabilizing in order to call ahead, and when they arrived, several nurses were there to help unload Billy. Nikolova spoke rapidly with them in a low voice, handing over Billy's chart and an armload of paperwork. When she nodded toward Michael and Casey, Michael felt himself fixed with several glances ranging from scrutinizing to pitying, but they were all short-lived as everyone resumed giving Billy their full attention and wheeling him in to the clinic.

Then, abruptly, Michael, Casey and Nikolova were alone in the parking lot.

"It is only a clinic, not a hospital, so they aren't as well outfitted. But I know the on-call doctor, and he's very good. And the lead nurse is a cousin of mine," Nikolova offered by way of reassurance. "He will be taken care of here. And he should be safe..." she trailed off, gaze drifting toward the bullet-ridden back of the ambulance.

"Safe is relative in our line of work," Michael admitted with a wince, sitting back down on the ambulance's bumper as a wave of lightheadedness hit him.

Nikolova frowned, stepped over and reached for Michael's arm. "You're hurt."

Casey's head whipped around at that statement, brow furrowed deeply.

"It's just a graze," Michael grunted, though he didn't pull away as he pulled his sleeve back to inspect the wound. "You've done enough."

She clucked her tongue. "That's going to get infected if we don't wash it out."

"When did that happen?" Casey demanded.

Michael shrugged with one shoulder. "One of the times when the bad guys were shooting at us, maybe?"

Casey glared at him.

And Michael sighed, watching as Nikolova pulled supplies from the ambulance with a sort of rote competence. He submitted to her ministrations without complaint; he was too tired. And from the looks of it, he wasn't the only one. The adrenaline rush of the escape had worn off now, and it was hitting them all. Casey was haggard and looked uncharacteristically small. Nikolova had seemed tired when they'd first met, and right now she looked ready to drop. Michael idly wondered how many shifts she'd pulled and how long she'd been awake for. Hell, even with his nap in the waiting room, Michael was feeling drained.

As if reading his thoughts, Nikolova said, "You should rest. They have beds in the back of the clinic."

Michael hissed as she disinfected the hole in his arm, trying not to flinch. "Someone's got to watch out in case they track us here," he said around clenched teeth.

Casey shrugged. "I'll take first watch."

Michael hesitated, wincing as gauze was pressed against the wound. "You've been awake longer than me," he said, shaking his head. "I got this."

Casey seemed to consider it, then finally nodded, wordlessly heading toward the clinic.

Nikolova watched him retreat and raised an eyebrow. "You're not really related, are you?"

Michael snorted. "No."

"And Mr. Conolly is not your brother?"

"Brother in arms," Michael confessed. Considering she now knew they were involved in a war with the Bulgarian mafia, it seemed like a small concern to cop to. "He hasn't got any other family."

She tied the bandage firmly into place, then inspected her handiwork. "That should hold," she deemed.

Michael tentatively raised his arm, eying the bandage. "Thanks, doc."

"Anna."

"Hm?"

"My name is Anna. I just helped you break a man out of the ICU, murder several men, and violate every traffic law in the country..." she shrugged. "I think it warrants a first-name basis."

Michael chuckled. "I'm Michael."

She smiled wanly. "Well, Michael, I'm going to go inside and check on-"

"-Billy," he supplied.

"Billy," she repeated. "Do try not to kill anyone in the meantime, yes?"

Michael smiled, leaning back against the ambulance in exhaustion. "No promises," he said. "But I'll try."

-o-

Michael woke up in a bed. He blinked lazily for a few moments, groaning at the persistent ache settling into his muscles, then rolled over, pulling the scratchy blanket up a little higher.

Then Michael remembered, and with a sharp draw of breath, sat bolt upright.

The world spun and Michael moaned, squeezing his eyes shut against the sudden pain and vertigo. When his head stopped reeling and the room quit spinning, he cautiously opened his eyes, breathing through his nose.

Casey sat in a chair beside the small clinic cot, eying Michael dubiously. "You're a crappy lookout, you know."

"What-"

"I came out to relieve you and you were passed out against the bumper," Casey said dryly. "I brought you in. You've been out for a solid eight hours."

Michael reached up and rubbed at his temple, wincing as he jostled his injured arm. The ache had been dull and distant before, but was throbbing rather viciously now. "Sorry about that. I take it from the fact we're still alive that we haven't been followed?"

Casey snorted. "After all that? Hristov's probably out of guys to throw at us." His lip curled in disgust and loathing, and for a second Michael caught a glimpse of the darkness Casey usually kept buried brimming upward. But then the other operative remembered himself and the impassive mask returned. He reached over to the small counter beside him and picked up a small cup, handing it to Michael. "Here. Nurse left these for you when you woke up."

Michael looked at the pills in the cup suspiciously. "What are they?"

"Antibiotics and painkillers for the arm," said Casey. "I checked."

Despite his unease at popping strange pills, Michael acquiesced and swallowed the medication. That Casey was talking to him now, despite the lack of imminent peril... well, it was a good sign. Not that he'd have blamed the other operative for never speaking to him again considering how badly the mission had gone down. He grimaced. "Billy?"

Casey's expression fell. "Still out. But they tell me he's improving. He still looks like hell, but he's stable and the pressure from the concussion is dropping. No complications so far."

It was the best news Michael could have realistically hoped for. But it still left him feeling hollow. Because Billy's road to recovery would be long and painful, and that was on Michael's head. "You've been in to see him?"

Casey nodded. "I just came back here to check on you a minute or two before you woke up."

Michael swallowed. "Will they let...?"

"Yeah." Casey stood and jerked his head toward the door. "Follow the hall down to the end and take a right. He's in the third room down," he said stiffly.

Carefully, Michael stood up, ignoring the stiffness settling into his joints. Eight hours of sleep had done him a world of good, but what Michael really needed was a shower, a change of clothes, and a hot meal.

And to bring his whole team home.

He followed Casey's directions, noticing that the other agent didn't accompany him. That Casey had forgiven him enough to break his vigil at Billy's bedside in order to check on Michael as he slept spoke volumes. But Michael wondered how long it would be before Casey would forgive him fully. Before Michael would even forgive himself.

Stepping into Billy's room and looking down at Collins, he wondered if he even could.

-o-

Michael wasn't sure how long he sat next to Billy for. The Scot looked worse, if possible, than he had before, as the bruises had had time to darken and discolor further. But by all accounts, Billy was getting better. His vitals were improving, and while he remained hooked up to a number of machines – many of them brought in from the ambulance into the clinic examination room which had been hastily jury-rigged into a makeshift ICU – he was now breathing unassisted, an oxygen mask covering his mouth but no tubes down his throat.

Billy was breathing. His heart was beating. And, in time, he would wake up.

For now, that simply had to be enough.

"He's surprised all of us," a familiar voice said from the doorway.

Michael turned. Doctor Nikolova – Anna, he reminded himself – had changed her clothes and apparently made some attempt to brush her flyaway hair, but the tiredness that hung about her hadn't dissipated. "I would prefer it if we had access to an MRI, but we took xrays a little while ago and he is recovering admirably."

Michael smiled weakly and looked back at Billy. "About time we had some good luck."

She shrugged. "At this rate, I think you've used up all the bad."

"Yeah, well..." Michael reached up and scratched the back of his neck. "At least we had one hell of a doctor helping us out."

She looked down sheepishly. "Well, they say you have to be insane to go to medical school... I guess I'm a bit crazier than I thought."

"You were pretty terrific under pressure," Michael assured her. "And you saved Billy's life. I..." he paused. "I owe you."

She blushed slightly, taking off her glasses to clean them of imaginary dust. "I did my job."

"You did more than that," said Michael. "The thing I can't quite figure out is why."

Nikolova paused, then moved to Billy's bedside, checking on his chart. "I've had many people come into my Emergency Room. And I've seen many more go right to the morgue," she said quietly. "And many of them... it doesn't take a genius to know who put them there."

"The Mutri," Michael said.

She nodded, jaw clenching. "It gets covered up. Now and then people will see it in the news. But they don't see what I see. They don't see the blood and the broken bones and the bodies." She turned and looked at Michael. "You are trying to stop them, yes?"

Michael swallowed hard. According to their cover, they were just some consultants on a business trip with no connections to organized crime to speak of. But given everything that had happened...

"Yes. We're trying to shut down Ivan Hristov's operation in Varna," he answered. Looking at Billy, he felt his expression harden. "One way or another."

Nikolova adjusted her glasses again, then nodded. "And that is why I've been helping you. Well..." She paused and grinned. "That and I have a soft spot for Americans."

"Is that so?" Michael raised an eyebrow.

"I did my undergraduate work at Johns Hopkins," she said. "I've always meant to go back to Baltimore someday."

"No wonder your English is so good," Michael replied. "Though I'm pretty sure you could do better than Baltimore if you visited the States."

"The only place I should be visiting now is the hospital for my rounds," she said, making a face at her watch. "Assuming I'm not already fired."

Michael frowned. "You don't think..."

She shrugged. "I risked getting shot at by the mob. Losing a job isn't so bad, really. I'll be back at the end of my shift to check on his progress."

She headed for the door, but Michael reached out to stop her. "Thank you, Anna," he said, making eye contact.

She blushed a bit and looked away. "Thank me when he wakes up," she said, then left.

-o-

Michael called Higgins to keep him apprised of the more recent developments in the mission. But beyond that, he did little but sit at Billy's side. One of the nurses brought him a bottle of water and some chips that must've come from a nearby convenience store, and which he thanked her for profusely. The chips were stale, but he didn't remember eating in the last twenty-four hours, so he ate them anyway.

The better part of a day had passed when Casey finally re-entered the room. For the first several minutes he simply stood and stared at Billy, watching the methodical rise and fall of the Scot's chest and listening to the steady, reassuring beep of the heart monitor.

Michael finally broke the silence. "There hasn't been much change."

Casey grunted.

Michael looked at him sideways; Malick's expression was stony.

He swallowed, hard. "You were right."

Casey finally looked at him, one eyebrow raised.

"It was a bad plan," Michael said, the admission almost physically painful. "I shouldn't have sent Billy in without backup. You said we should have waited and you were right." He sank back into the chair he'd been perched in for hours now, strangely spent by those words. "I'm sorry."

Casey sniffed. "I'm not the one in need of an apology."

Michael flinched. "I know. But right now you're the only one who can hear me make one."

Casey seemed to contemplate this for a while. Then he nodded.

Michael took a breath. "When we get back, I'm putting a requisition in for a fourth man."

Casey turned abruptly, brow furrowed and mouth opening in protest.

"–The ODS was always meant to be a four man team," Michael quickly added. It hadn't been since Simms, and they'd gotten along all right since then. But not as well as they should have. "This would never have happened if we had an extra body. With another person on the team, no one will ever go anywhere without backup again."

A moment passed. "Higgins will never approve it in the budget," Casey finally said. "Not with departmental cutbacks across the board."

Michael's shoulders slumped. "I know. But right now it's the best I can do."

Silence reigned for several seconds.

"Okay," Casey finally said.

Michael looked up. "Okay?"

"Okay."

Casey nodded. Michael took a deep breath.

And it almost was okay. There was a tacit agreement. Forgiveness. Absolution.

It wasn't okay yet. But as Michael turned his gaze back to Billy, lying motionless in the bed, he could hope that maybe, someday, it may be.

-o-

It had been a matter of days, but it felt like an eternity since the moment when Michael and Casey found Billy half-dead in the alley, thrown out like garbage and left to die.

Not that eternity would have been long enough to purge that memory from Michael's mind.

But when Billy finally groaned and twitched in his bed, Michael felt relief like he hadn't in days.

-o-

Billy came out of the coma slowly. He twitched and kicked a foot restlessly, whimpering faintly. This repeated a few times, with him sinking back into stillness in between, leaving Michael perched on the edge of his chair in agonizing anticipation.

It wasn't until that evening that Billy's blue eyes drifted open.

Well, one blue eye, at any rate. The left was still swollen nearly shut, the cheekbone beneath it puffy and nearly black with bruising.

"Hey," Michael said softly, reaching forward and gently placing a hand on Billy's knee.

Billy blinked a few times, eye unfocused. Michael felt his chest tighten. Billy had taken several blows to the head, he remembered Nikolova saying. Up until now, Michael had dismissed the possibility of brain damage, and he still didn't want to consider it now, but–

Billy's gaze flickered over to him. "M'chl?" he slurred, split lips barely able to part around the word what with the wiring in his jaw.

"Yeah," Michael said, grinning so wide it hurt. Billy was alive, Billy was awake, and Billy recognized him.

Billy's breath hitched. "P'trov..." he moaned and almost whined, eyes suddenly darting back and forth, prompting a spike in the monitor.

"Hey, hey easy!" Michael reached forward to touch him reassuringly, but then drew away when he realized that there was hardly anywhere he could lay a hand that wouldn't cause Billy more pain. "Petrov was a rat – he sold us out. But we're okay. You're safe now. You're gonna be okay. Okay?"

Billy's breathing gradually slowed at he met Michael's gaze. "Srry," he said, eyes bright and brimming.

Michael shook his head. "No... I'm sorry, Collins," he said. "I screwed up."

Billy blinked, and although it was hard to read his expression with all the bruises and swelling, he almost looked briefly perplexed. "M'ssion?"

"Your mission is to get better," Michael told him. "Now relax, okay?"

Billy shivered slightly, then inclined his head almost imperceptibly. "K," he murmured, eyes drifting back shut.

Michael watched him until his breathing slowed and evened out; this time it wasn't unconsciousness that Billy had slipped into, but merely sleep.

And that was a start.

-o-

"I've arranged for an off-the-books medical transfer to Sofia," Nikolova told them while they sat outside Billy's room. The operative hadn't woken up for more than a few moments at a time for the rest of the day, but the doctor had been very happy about the development nonetheless. And with pressure coming from Higgins to get them all out of Bulgaria as soon as possible, Michael had broached the topic of moving Billy.

"How much of your soul did you have to sell to swing that?" Casey asked, raising an eyebrow.

She shrugged, a hint of smugness in her smile. "I had some favors to call in. And where the medical director at the hospital was too busy dealing with a mysterious shooting to worry about firing me for missing my rounds, I didn't have to call them all in just to keep my job."

Michael cringed. "Again, I'm really sorry about–"

She waved a hand dismissively. "It's fine. Just...come back at some point and finish what you started here, yes?"

"We will," Casey assured her, something hard in his eyes. "Believe me."

She nodded, then handed Michael a card. "My work number and extension are here. You have his charts and files, but if his doctors need any other information–"

"–We'll call, and we'll let you know how he's doing," Michael reassured her, taking the card with a grateful smile. "Thanks again."

She glanced through the glass in the door at Billy. "Your friend is very lucky," she said.

"Yeah," Michael agreed. "But he's pulled through worse odds."

"I meant that he's lucky to have such dedicated friends," she clarified, adjusting her bag on her shoulder and heading for the door. "Good luck, Michael. Casey."

"Good luck, Anna," Michael said with a respectful nod.

Then she was gone, and they were one step closer to bringing Billy home.

-o-

Billy was marginally lucid at a few points during the trip home from Bulgaria, but remained largely out of it until after they'd settled him into a hospital back in the States. And then he was in and out of surgeries and consults so often that whenever Michael was allowed to see him, the Scot was exhausted or already asleep.

Still, he was recovering. Right after their return, he went into surgery for his nose, as the damage to his septum was inhibiting his breathing. Further cosmetic surgeries would potentially be required, Michael had been warned, but at least Billy could breathe through his nose now. A dental consult had led to further work with his jaw and an appointment to have his missing teeth replaced with artificial ones. His broken cheekbone was one the mend and the swelling was finally beginning to go down. Xrays showed his ribs were mending well and by all accounts the internal damage was healing without any signs of infection. The head trauma had no lasting damage, a neurologist who'd been brought in for consult had assured them, and in time, it was projected that Billy could return to duty.

'Could' wasn't as definite or as promising as Michael wanted. The fact that Billy was still being rolled everywhere in a wheelchair and that he had pins holding his arm together and that he still hissed in pain whenever he sat up bothered him. It bothered him because these were the long-term repercussions of Michael's overconfidence. This was his fault, and if Billy never returned to active duty that would be his fault, too. The doctors' reports were all promising, but Michael had been taken in by false promises before, and the penalty had been his teammate nearly dying in an alleyway.

What bothered Billy the most, though, wasn't the wheelchair, or the pain, or even the fact that Michael had sent him into a trap without any backup.

"I'm all lumpy!" he cried in protest when their held the mirror up for him to see his reflection for the first time after his most recent surgery.

"The swelling will go down," the nurse assured him on her way out. "Give it a few days."

"Why did the bloody buggers have to go for the face?" Billy mourned, reaching up and gingerly touching his profile. "My nose is all wrong now."

"You almost died, and you're stressing out about your looks?" Michael said..

"They're one of my better assets," Billy replied, slumping back into his hospital bed sulkily.

"The guy they have playing James Bond these days is kinda lumpy looking," Casey pointed out from the corner, where he was flipping through a newspaper. "Guy's got a face like a strangely chiselled potato."

"Admittedly, Daniel Craig does make it work," Billy conceded, though his expression remained wistful. "But I always considered myself more of a Brosnan-era Bond."

Michael peered at him, squinting and turning his head to the side. "You know, you actually kinda look like Clive Owen now."

Casey raised an eyebrow at him.

Michael shrugged. "We watched a movie with him in it once. Fay says he's, ah..." he paused, feeling his cheeks flush. "She says he's an attractive individual," he concluded half under his breath, coughing into his hand.

Billy sighed. "I suppose I could give 'ruggedly handsome' a go."

"It's all about charisma, anyhow," Casey remarked, folding the paper over to the crossword section.

At that, Billy brightened a bit. "There is that. I mean, if Malick here can make unconventional looks work-"

Casey glared at him from over the crossword and Michael couldn't help but chuckle.

"Right," Billy said, "so, are there any cute nurses about for me to practice on?"

"Not as much, here. Ella's married, Birdie could be your grandmother, and I somehow don't think Jim is your type," Michael said.

"Though you missed out on a not-unattractive doctor in Bulgaria," Casey added, smiling thinly.

"A smart and attractive lady of exotic eastern european origins?" Billy exclaimed, looking as if he might cry. "And I wasn't even cognizant enough to make an impression?"

"Oh, I think you made an impression," Michael assured him.

"'Invalid' is not the first impression one strives for," Billy grumbled.

Michael rolled his eyes, though his sarcasm only did so much to mask the genuine relief he felt at having Billy back and being Billy. "Well, if you're desperate to follow up and make a second impression, we do have her work number," he remarked.

"And her cell number," Casey added.

Michael paused, then frowned. "Wait... when did you get her cell number?"

Casey smiled enigmatically.

"You know what? Nevermind, I don't want to know," Michael said with a sigh, shaking his head.

"I do!" Billy piped in. "So besides the pretty doctor, did I miss anything?"

"Well, there was the assassination attempt–" Michael began.

"–And the shootout in the hospital–" Casey interjected.

"–And the high-speed chase–"

"–With another shootout through the streets–"

And on it went, with the two of them alternately filling Billy in, as the Scot stared in awe and cursed his misfortune at not being conscious for the more alarming portions of their escapades.

And as the three of them sat in the hospital room, safe on American soil, Michael let himself believe that though things weren't perfect, they were, perhaps, okay. His team wasn't entirely in one piece, but they were safe and they were home. And that was the most important part of any mission.

Admittedly, the mission could have gone better. Michael had screwed up. He hadn't been able to predict the disasters of the mission, and his paranoia had lapsed at the worst possible time. He hadn't listened to Casey, and Billy had paid the price.

But Casey had forgiven him. And Billy never blamed him in the first place.

And if neither of them held a grudge against him for it, Michael supposed he couldn't hold one against himself either. Ultimately, he'd have to let go, move on, and learn from the mistakes that were made.

He'd already put a request for additional staff on Higgins' desk that morning. He figured that had to be a start.

Though as much as could be said for moving on and letting go...

... There was also something to be said for getting even.

And if the Securities office building that served as a front for all of Ivan Hristov's operations in Varna developed a mysterious gas leak which led to a disastrous explosion, all the survivors of which were conveniently arrested based on anonymous tips and intelligence delivered to the local police, well... Michael didn't lose sleep over it. And if money went missing from the mob's accounts – accounts managed by one recently-vanished Dimitar Petrov – and somehow ended up in a large donation to a clinic outside of Varna, well, what would the ODS possibly know about that?

Sitting with his team, laughing and telling stories, Michael smiled.

They were all here.

They were all healing.

And sooner or later, they would all be okay.