Page 73 of Business vs. Pleasure

In his right hand—the one held firmly to his side by uncomfortable bandages—the morphine pump waited. One gentle press of his thumb, and merciful oblivion wouldn’t be far behind. The pain, the fear, even the ever-present irritation from where that fucking scorpion had stung him, which the bandage was irritating. It would all just… go away.

Tempting. So fucking tempting.

He had to stay sharp… but did he really? Because what good was he in a fight? What did it matter if he knew what was happening since he could do fuck all to change it? At least the morphine might save him from knowing what hit him if NightRaven found him. And it would stop him from helplessly listening to something terrible happening to August.

Ricardo swallowed past nausea that had nothing to do with drugs or injuries. He’d dragged August out of retirement and into this mess. And now something could happen to him, and there was nothing Ricardo could do.

Beside him under the covers was another path to oblivion. One much more permanent than the morphine. He wasn’t sure he could even lift the pistol at this point; he’d managed to tuck it beneath the covers beside his hip so a nurse coming to check on him wouldn’t take it away, and even that exertion had made him break out in a sweat.

Movement beyond his door made Ricardo freeze. He held his breath, staring at the ceiling as he listened.

Footsteps. Quiet ones. Not the sharp, distinct snaps of someone on a mission. Not the lazy scuff of casual motion.

Slow. Methodical. Cautious. Long pauses. Slight backtracks.

More adrenaline trickled into Ricardo’s veins.

That was the movement of someone in a place they knew they didn’t belong.

And it had stopped right outside Ricardo’s door.

There was a near-silent rustle of papers, not unlike when a doctor or nurse checked his chart before entering the room. They’d shuffled through some papers, then the folder would thunk into the plastic holder, and there’d be a quiet tap on the door before they came inside.

The folder thunked back into the holder. There was no tap on the door. It just opened.

Ricardo held his breath.

The door closed again.

“Well, Mr. Torralba.” NightRaven’s voice made Ricardo’s spine prickle and his stomach turn. His footsteps, more deliberate now, came closer. “Looks like you’re at a bit of a disadvantage, aren’t you?”

Ricardo struggled to swallow. Mouth dry, he croaked, “So you can only win a fight against a man in a hospital bed, eh, NightChicken?”

The asshole bristled so hard, Ricardo felt it. If he could’ve laughed without being overwhelmed by white-hot pain, he would have. He was a sitting duck, so he might as well go down with the satisfaction of taking a few chunks out of the guy’s ego.

“I’m not winning a fight against a man in a hospital bed,” came the pointed, pissed-off retort. NightRaven came closer, entering Ricard’s field of vision. “I’m finishing what I started down by the lake.” He quirked his lips as if he were coming up with something profound. “Putting a dying animal out of its misery, really.”

“You could just leave the fucking room,” Ricardo muttered, “and my misery would drop by half.”

The jackass snorted. “Your reputation for being a dick really is accurate, isn’t it?”

Ricardo shifted his hand around as much as he could with the IV, the scorpion sting, and the morphine pump, and he gave NightRaven the finger.

“Mmhmm. I figured. Anyway, I⁠—”

“Would you just kill me or something?” Ricardo demanded. “Because this has to be… Has to be against the Geneva Conventions.”

In the back of his mind, he heard August huffing sharply and replying, “Rude.”

God, August. He was never going to see his husband again, was he? Was August even alive? Had this asshole…

“Where is August?” He regretted it as soon as he said it, because he knew the fucker would just use it to taunt him.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” The question was almost gleeful. “And no, I’m not going to kill you quite yet, Torralba.” NightRaven leaned over him, looking right in his eyes, and he smirked down at him as he covered Ricardo’s hand with his. “First, I want you to hear me killing your husband.” A second too late, Ricardo realized what he was doing, and as the fucker pressed his thumb onto the morphine pump, horror flooded through him faster than the morphine ever would. Still smirking, NightRaven said, “And now you won’t have the pain to distract you from my handiwork, will you?”

Elsewhere on the floor, a door opened. Even as the drugs were starting to liquify his thoughts, Ricardo recognized those footsteps, too—the slightly hitched gait of August moving as fast as he could on his damaged feet.

NightRaven must’ve heard it too, because he glanced over his shoulder. Facing Ricardo again, he grinned even bigger. “Perfect timing. You just lay there and enjoy the morphine.” He started to stand. “I’ll go take care of August.”