I could feel, but I couldn't see. I could hear, but it was more like a blur of background noise. I was too exhausted to open my eyes, though my conscience was shouting at me to wake up. I was drifting in and out of consciousness. My whole body, every limb, every muscle, every finger feeling too heavy to move even an inch. My head felt too heavy to lift. And there was a stinging pain in my upper right arm, near my shoulder.
I could feel something soft beneath me. A mattress or a sofa, perhaps. I could feel a tightness around my arm where the pain radiated, almost like there was a bandage wrapped around it. But there couldn't be. I hadn't had a chance to doctor myself.
What the hell happened? I mentally asked myself, desperately trying to remember where I'd been, what I'd been doing, and why my arm was hurting.
Then I remembered gunshots in the distance. The sting of tree branches scraping against my skin and tearing at my clothes. I remembered voices – shouting in German and Italian. The escape from the hotel. The chase by the police. Sirens. And then... The most vivid thing I remembered was hazel eyes looking deeply into my own.
Dallas. Was he really there? Had it all been some fucked up dream? Had I been hallucinating after all?
The throbbing in my head was enough to prevent me from opening my eyes. I knew I needed to get up, needed to survey my location and determine how bad off I was, but my body felt so heavy, like there were barbells lying on top of me, weighing me down.
I could hear something – shuffling around, movement, boots on a wood floor. I tried to open my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Exhaustion was taking over and I was quickly succumbing to its death grip. I could feel myself drifting back into a state of unconsciousness, the minimal amount of light I could see through my eyelids fading. Everything was going black again. Everything but the memories that arose of four years ago in Washington, post-incident.
I sat in a chilly, dark interrogation room at the Alpha Reconnaissance Taskforce headquarters, still wearing my vest and gear from the previous night in Bellucci's warehouse. My clothes and hands were still bloodstained. The distinct metallic smell was nauseating. There was a trashcan beside the table where I'd vomited probably twelve times. I couldn't see through the window in the wall, but I knew there were people standing on the other side, studying my body language, tearing apart my answers to every question I'd been asked. And fuck, had they asked a lot of questions!
The Taskforce had been dissecting my every move, breath, blink, and word since they'd dragged me back to headquarters, kicking, screaming, cursing, and throwing punches. I'd been so riled up, they'd had to handcuff me, and when that didn't work, they'd resorted to restraining me to a chair that'd been bolted to the floor until I settled down. But settling down and calmly discussing the situation with my superiors was the last thing on my mind. I'd just watched the love of my life, the most important person in the world to me, die in a puddle of his own blood, and I'd been the one to pull the trigger. How could anyone in their right mind expect me settle the fuck down?
I'd been in interrogation since before the ass crack of dawn, as had Matt. Our superiors wanted to know every fucking detail right down to how many bullets were fired and how many breaths we took during the raid. I'd answered the same questions over and over, each time my interrogators searching for the slightest variation in my story, looking for any opportunity to pin federal charges on me.
I'd broken protocol. I knew that. It was a common sense rule that you don't fire if you can't see what you're shooting at. But I'd been so sure that Matt and I were the only agents left alive, and that Bellucci was the only enemy left, aside from his one last cohort. It only made sense that the person in the shadows would be a minion of Bellucci's. That's why I'd taken the shot. But I'd made a stupid, costly mistake. A mistake that I'd have to live with the guilt of for the rest of my life.
The door slammed open and I looked up to see Leon Jordan, the man who controlled all of A.R.T. internationally. He was the biggest of big wigs, the last person an agent wanted to meet in an interrogation room – or anywhere, for that matter. He stared a hole through me, sizing me up, and I could see the gears turning in his head as he was deciding what to do about me.
"I have every goddamn reason in the book to strip you of your employment, as well as prevent you from ever working in intel or law enforcement again, here or abroad," Director Jordan said in a stern, almost terrifying voice, as he stood there, arms crossed, glaring down at me like he ruled the entire world and I was a pesky little gnat in his way. "But I'm not going to do that. I'd assume shooting your significant other is likely punishment enough."
I cringed at the mention of Dallas. We'd spent years seeing each other in secret and assisting each other on solo missions in the U.S., Australia, and Europe. We'd found every opportunity between work responsibilities to sneak off and conduct our affair in private. It had made me physically ill to disclose this information to my interrogators over the last several hours.
It was against the rules for agents to be romantically involved, as it could cloud their judgment and get them killed. There was always the potential for an enemy to discover a romance between agents and use that against them, too. It was even more frowned upon if the agents romantically involved were from rival organizations. Each organization had a strict rule that their business was theirs alone, and there were to be no communications between agents of separate organizations, regardless of if they were on the same side of the law.
I'd crossed so many lines and broken so many rules, I couldn't even count them all. My superiors had taken half a notepad's worth of bullet points about both the shooting and Dallas's and my affair. There had been no doubt in my mind that my status as an agent would be terminated. I'd just been waiting for someone to say it.
"So what happens now?" I forced myself to ask him, shocked to the core that he'd said he wasn't going to fire me.
Director Jordan finally sat down across from me, his frustrated stare clawing at my nerves as I awaited his response.
"I'm pissed as hell over your complete disregard for the rules, Dobreva. In fact, I would love to boot your ass out the door right this second," he said with penetrating eyes. "I've never come across an agent who has fucked up quite like this before, and it astounds me! It absolutely astounds me! And yet, despite your long list of breaches in protocol and mindboggling fuck-ups, you've still managed to outperform ninety percent of your fellow agents in dozens of missions. Your record, though now tainted, is still one of the most impressive in our organization's history. For that reason alone, I am not ceasing your status as an agent. You're too much of an asset to A.R.T."
Anyone else would've probably been thrilled, but to me, the idea of continuing with A.R.T. sounded more like torture. My job would be a daily reminder of the night in the warehouse. I would have to face my fellow agents and superiors and see the judgment in their eyes now that the secret was out and everyone knew of Dallas's and my affair. I wished Director Jordan would terminate my status. At least then I could resign to self-loathing in private, away from judgmental eyes.
A knock came at the door and in walked Mark Bartley, the director of International Defense Alliance, Dallas's agency. He wore the same angry look as Director Jordan and he took a moment to study me before speaking.
"Leon," he acknowledged Jordan with a curt nod and then turned his attention to me. "Agent Dobreva, is it?"
I mimicked him with a nod and waited for him to light into me about murdering his best agent. Surely, that was the reason for his appearance.
"Agent David is dead," he said flatly, reinstating my nausea. "I've read the report on last night's events. Don't bother explaining yourself."
Bartley took a seat beside Jordan and both directors eyed me like I was a caged animal about to go on a city-wide tirade like Godzilla. Quite frankly, that sounded better than being cooped up in interrogation for sixteen straight hours.
"Director Bartley and I have come to a mutual agreement," Jordan said. "Given the severity of the situation at hand, we are denying you access to Agent David's funeral, nor will you be able to visit a gravesite, as that information will be classified and undisclosed to you or anyone on your team."
My heart sank at the idea that I'd never be able to visit Dallas's grave. That could be the only way for me to get closure. I needed to attend his funeral. I needed to cry at his grave and tell him how sorry I was and how much I loved him. I needed that!
I started to protest when Bartley continued the explanation.
"We've decided this in order to minimize the damage done by yours and Agent David's actions. It is likely, by now, that you have enemies who are aware of your romantic involvement. If anyone were to witness you attending his funeral or visiting his gravesite, they would observe a weakness and likely use that to obscure your judgment on a mission, which would put both yourself and your teammates in jeopardy."
So they just expected me to act as though I didn't care? As if Dallas David had meant nothing to me? As if killing the man I was in love with hadn't ripped out my very soul and shredded it to pieces right in front of me? They expected me to pretend I wasn't fazed?
"You have a reputation to uphold. You're a strong, tough agent, Dobreva," Jordan chimed back in. "We can't afford to let you display any weaknesses to the enemy. Surely, you can understand."
I did understand, and that only infuriated me more so. Enemies and weaknesses be damned! I didn't care who saw me crying on ground in front of the headstone of the man I loved. I didn't care if I was showing a weakness to my enemies. I didn't care if someone would try to use that against me. None of it mattered.
"As of this moment, I am placing you on mandatory probation with limited security access," Director Jordan continued. "You will not be granted access to any files. You will not be allowed to participate in any missions. You will be denied travel outside of the District of Columbia. Your life will be confined to this building and the A.R.T. bunkhouse until I approve otherwise. Are we clear?"
My blood boiled at the realization that I would be stuck at a desk or performing janitorial duties at A.R.T. headquarters for likely months, if not longer, until Director Jordan decided I was fit for the job again. I despised the idea. I would probably go stir-crazy.
It wasn't worth arguing with the directors over, though. I was a lowly agent with no control over anything that happened at A.R.T. There was no use trying to change anyone's mind.
"Crystal," I replied dully, my glare emphasized to make sure both men knew I disagreed wholeheartedly.
The nauseating memories were stripped away at the sound of a man calling my name.
I could feel a hand holding mine and a deep, concerned voice speaking to me, trying to wake me. I felt a gentle shaking, like someone was softly rocking me back and forth to make me stir. Then I caught a whiff of that familiar cologne and I could sense that someone was right beside me, hovering over me, staring down at me.
"Tali," the voice came again and I managed a groan in response.
The light was starting to filter back in, and though my eyes were still closed, I could tell I was in a room with a light on nearby.
"Tali, wake up, please," he said again, gently shaking my uninjured side.
It still felt like my body was being weighed down, but I didn't feel as weak as before. My eyelids felt heavy, and lifting them was a struggle, the exhaustion still in control. I knew I had to wake up, had to get up, had to fucking move. I didn't know where I was or who I was with, and that was the worst possible scenario for an agent.
Slowly, I opened my eyes. The light seemed too bright at first, like I was staring into blinding headlights on a dark highway. As my vision started to become clearer and my eyes adjusted to the light, I could make out the silhouette of the man sitting beside me, still holding my hand. His figure was a blur, but gradually came into focus until I could see all of him, every little detail, everything right down to those same fiery hazel eyes.
"Welcome back, Natalia," he said with relief in his voice. "How do you feel?"
My pulse kicked up at the realization that it hadn't been a crazy dream and I hadn't been hallucinating. He was there. He was real. I could touch him and see him and talk to him. Dallas was alive.
"Like I got run over by an eighteen wheeler," I answered, though my voice sounded weaker than I remembered.
"You blacked out in front of my car," he told me, and I realized his hand still had yet to leave mine.
Every nerve felt ablaze where he was touching me.
I blinked up at the man who had just saved my life. The same man I'd believed to have been dead for four long, miserable years. The same man I'd uncontrollably sobbed over, night after night. The man I had nightmares about nearly every time I laid down to sleep.
He was alive. Dallas David was alive. How was this possible?
"You're real," I gasped, studying his face and remembering every detail and every laugh line like it was four years ago and he'd never left. "How are you real? You're supposed to be dead. They told me you were dead. You're supposed to be dead!"
What little control I'd had was gone now, washed away with the tears as I burst into a suffocating sob in front of him.
"You're supposed to be dead! I thought you were dead!" I repeatedly wailed.
He lifted me up into his arms and pulled me against his chest. I cried and nearly screamed against his shirt for so long, it seemed like days. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. I could only bawl into his chest, his shirt gripped in my fist, as it hit me like a freight train that everything I'd been lead to believe for the last four years had all been a lie.