Well fuck, Noah thought. No more social drinking. He’d only downed the whiskey to get in good with Will Little, but it wasn’t the right thing. Here he was, trapped and about to get killed and it hadn’t been worth it.
None of this suited him—not that Miami Dade had really been any better. But there had been something about this assignment that, for a moment, he’d liked. Something felt right about being asked to employ every talent he had, rather than hide what he was. That had seemed good and right and purposeful… for about three days.
Somehow, in the course of one afternoon, he’d likely become unemployed. He also seemed to have picked up a new partner—who was also likely about to become unemployed—and managed to drink a little bit too much. And now he had his arm wrapped up enough to stop him from adequately defending himself.
The liquor in his system made him want to sigh and just give up. Luckily, his training railed against that inaction. So he assessed his attacker.
She was smart—she'd gone for the hand controlling the gun. He was not smart—he’d made poor choices and hadn’t drawn quite fast enough.
When her grip pressed at his wrist, activating a pressure point, he almost gave up again. If he could have, he would have just tossed the gun to her in surrender. The pressure point method worked because it hurt.
Her short stature and slim build gave him an advantage. So he did it: He flung his fingers open and let his weapon fall dramatically, clattering to the floor.
“Fuck. Shhhh!”
The words came from over near Christina. Noah wondered what the hell was going on.
Even as he swung his arm up and around, lifting her ever-so-slightly, she countered. His move was usually effective on a larger person. He should have had the advantage, but she hadn't flipped over or let go quite as easily as he had hoped. At least he now had her in an awkward position.
She hadn’t hurt him, though she’d had the opportunity. Still, Noah wasn’t going to let himself be controlled like this.
He went for an elbow strike and felt his momentum send him right past the point where he should have made contact. He’d completely missed. He managed to strike her shoulder with the heel of his palm, but she spun a little and managed to put more pressure on the hand she still controlled. His own fault. Shit.
From the corner of his eye, he saw that Christina was getting locked up, too. That only made things worse. She was his hope for rescue. But that was now a wash. Though no help was coming from that quarter, it also felt a little good to know that he wasn't the only one getting taken out.
“Jesus, Noah. Stop!” Christina yelled at him as he began to spin away, trying once more to reclaim his arm as his own.
“Noah! Stop!”
Despite the fact that her arm was twisted up in her face, Christina was reaching out with her hand. Not in a punch, or in a move to strike with an elbow. Her feet were planted, but she was bringing her arm in closer as if to hug her attacker.
And then she said loudly to the woman in front of her, “Walter!”
Okay, Noah thought. He had definitely had too much to drink.
Even as he thought that, a whisper came at his ear. “I'm an agent. Please, stop fighting me.”
So he did. His shoulder went lax and she dropped his arm and stepped back, even as she whispered, “Shhh. We’re trying to not alert anyone.”
She said it with a sigh, as though Noah had messed up his own abduction by not being quiet. But that might not be the worst of it.
He realized Westerfield had probably sent another agent to reclaim both him and Christina, the moment Noah’s phone had stopped pinging. That, in turn, only meant that Christina was right—he’d been thoroughly tracked by Westerfield. After all, his new boss had already been very clear that if Noah dialed him and then said he didn't know why he had called, Westerfield would assume it was Christina overriding his brain. Whatever this protocol was, it had likely been enacted when his phone stopped pinging. Noah wondered if these new NightShade agents were familiar with the de Gottardi/Little property. They’d managed to find the one burned-out house that he was at, even without his phone giving them handy-dandy coordinates. Lovely.
He waited to be cuffed. The tightening of his chest had nothing to do with the liquor and everything to do with the fact that he'd lost another job.
But their new visitor didn't lock up his wrists, didn't grab him and twist his forearms and press them together behind his back or shove his face into the wall.
Instead, she stepped back and allowed him his freedom. As he watched, Christina hugged the dark-haired woman who’d just attacked her.
There were two newcomers. They were dressed in shadow, almost like Marks’ people had been, but their clothing was different enough to distinguish them from the army that had been sent to take out the wolves. Christina turned then to the smaller agent—Jesus, Noah thought, she looks sixteen!—and gave her a hug. “GJ!”
But when Christina let go, the words that Noah had been thinking all along fell out of her mouth. “Oh, dear God, Westerfield sent you to take us in, didn't he?”
Walter answered, “Of course he did.”