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She shifted in her seat, her eyes darting in Joe’s direction.
Scowling, he pushed a cheap pen at me. "It means you’re not going to sue the government or Agent Ramirez for anything that happened today." Folding his arms across his chest, his scowl deepened. "Or press charges."
Staring at Joe, I forgot to breathe for a few seconds. Did he know? My gaze darted to Hollman. Did she? How goddamn much? Eyes growing moist, I blinked.
Hollman put one hand on the pen, the other reaching across the table to rest lightly on my wrist. "You don’t have to sign this. It won’t affect your acceptance into WITSEC the slightest bit if you don’t. You certainly don’t have to sign it today. You should at least think it over."
"Bullshit!" Joe pointed a finger at me. "You sign it. I can still?—"
"Leave us, now!" Hollman rose up, anger staining her cheeks as she pointed at the opposite end of the building. "You don’t have any authority to do jack shit. She’s mine."
I sat there, fuming, while they continued to argue over what could or could not be done to or with me. Hollman called another marshal in, confirming my suspicion that there were more people in the building. Dean, or whatever his name was, had to be there too unless he had left on foot, which I couldn’t imagine. As quiet as the building had been, I would have heard the sound of any engine.
In the end, Hollman and her reinforcement cleared Joe from the area, leaving me alone with her.
"I don’t belong to anyone." Doing my best to look her in the eye, I picked up the pen. "And I want to sign—Ramirez saved my life."
I looked at Hollman, uncertain what name I should use. "Do I still sign as Garnet?"
She nodded. "I’m sorry about what I said. Cohen just pissed me off too damn much."
"Yeah." I smiled for the first time since leaving Chucky’s apartment. "I’m betting he has that effect on a lot of people."
Finished signing the paper, I hesitated in pushing it towards her. "Is Ramirez still in the building?"
As the last word left my mouth, I heard the dull rumble of an engine starting and recognized the sound as belonging to the van. Confirming my suspicion that it was Dean pulling away, Hollman shook her head.
I bit at my bottom lip for a few seconds until I was sure I could ask the next question without my voice trembling. "Can you tell me his first name?"
"Adrian." Reaching across the table once more, she gave my hand a sympathetic squeeze. "Adrian Ramirez."
CHAPTER 9
DEAN
On your feet, chico!
Peeling one swollen eye open, I listened to the raspy voice of Drill Instructor Theodore Bayhune as it echoed through my memory.
You have three seconds to stand up or I’ll send your ass back to the barrio.
High noon in the Everglades, the sunlight pierced my skull. Trying to move my left arm, pain surged through me. So did the memory of being shot.
Still, I was alive and no one was standing over me with a gun or knife ready to remedy that condition. Tucking my right arm under my torso, I pushed up as Bayhune's ghost began to bellow once again.
One, Ramirez! You missing your mama’s beans and rice? You want to go home, is that it, chico?
A body’s length in front of me, a turkey vulture pulled its head from the chest of Herman Gaetz, tearing at the man’s heart with its hooked ivory-colored beak. I crawled toward the corpse, my knees and one good hand scraping and dragging over fallen cypress branches and wet, sucking ground.
Two! This aint no fucking siesta, recruit. Get your ass up, now!
Gaetz had cowered, cane in hand, behind his remaining gunman as the last bullets had been fired. Locked in a death grip, his fingers clutched at the silver rooster head. I jerked the end of the cane, causing the giant bird to dance in agitation.
Lifting the cane, I smashed it down, the sound of Gaetz's lifeless fingers breaking no more than a whisper on the wind. A quick ransacking of the body secured the man's wallet and phone. Then, with my hand wrapped around the center of the cane in a death grip, I jabbed its silver-tipped end into the ground.
A pint or more of blood stained my clothing, all of it mine. My arm shook like an old man trying to rise from a rocking chair as I pushed on the cane. Legs wobbling, my feet slid away from one another on the slick ground. Then my left knee gave out, hitting a fist-sized rock and threatening to send me sprawling face first into the bloody, gaping hole that had once housed Gaetz's cold heart.
Three! I’m kicking your ass all the way back to East Los Angeles if you don’t get on your feet right fucking?—
