"That was a close one there, pal," one of the agents said, and I nodded numbly. I glanced over at him, aware that it was the wanna-be screenwriter. "Good thing, Agent D'mallo is so fast, right?"
We were driving up Spadina, away from the chaos, and I really had no idea where they were taking me. I was just going with it for the moment. My wounds had already scabbed over and were on their way to healing, but they still hurt like a sonofabitch. D'mallo had stayed behind while the other two agents had shoved me into the waiting car and sped away as if I was someone famous or something. It was quite a weird feeling.
I wondered if Agent D'mallo had gotten Michél under control or if he'd had his arm ripped off. Either seemed entirely possible at that very moment.
"I've died twice in the past year," I said with false bravado. "It's no big deal when we get to come right back, right fellas?"
Agent Screenwriter looked a little more cautious, which was strange coming from such a massive mountain of a man. "You seeing a therapist or anything? That sounds really traumatic."
Did it take being close to death to make these guys go over all friendly and talkative? Then it occurred to me that I had gone from being captive to being protected by them.
I shrugged and tried a grin for my two new buddies, but it felt wrong, so I let the grin fade away. "I'm over it," I said, trying hard not to think about the nightmares that still popped up from time to time. "First time I got shot in the head
(blam!)
and woke up three days later. The last time was a little more... fucked up. You know how it is, right? You guys have got to have died a few times in your line of work."
Agent Screenwriter shook his head. "I've been shot a couple of times and took a stake through the heart once, but I never actually died. Agent Khan has never even been shot in all of his twenty-two years."
"Oh, "I said, but that wasn't enough to really explain how I felt.
We rode in silence for a while, and all I could think of was those horrible teeth and how bad his breath had stunk. I had really not wanted to die, not like that. The memory brought a rush of bile to the back of my throat, and for a minute there, I thought I was going to totally hurl. It passed after a moment.
"You really should see someone. You might be suffering from PTSD and not even know it."
I looked down at my hands, realizing for the first time that they were shaking. I realized then that I was sweating and that my heart was hammering away in my chest. I breathed out slowly, trying hard to stay calm and not flip out. I stared at my hands until they stopped shaking.
"I'm okay," I lied and looked out the window; looked anywhere but at the agents.