Cut and Run 1 - Cut and Run

with its hint of fragrant cigar smoke. He sat with his bare feet propped on the railing, nothing but a worn pair of sweatpants protecting him from the chill, and he watched the sun rise silently.
    It had been almost four months since his medical leave had been granted. He had been evaluated—both for his injuries and for what had been deemed severe exhaustion and shock—observed, treated, treated again, observed some more, and finally given three weeks of vacation to “get his head back on straight.” He had another thirteen days of nothing to do but barmaids. He might actually go crazy before then.
    * * * *
    Zane pulled off his jacket and threw it to the floor, stamping up the steps to the loft and making for the bathroom. He flipped on the light and turned toward the mirror to look at the angry, bloody gash across the meat of his upper arm.
    He muttered in harsh Spanish. Fuckers. Taking potshots at him like that when he'd delivered what they wanted and more. He'd taken more satisfaction than usual beating the shit out of a couple of them before he called in the cavalry to arrest the whole lot of them.
    He hissed angrily as he poured peroxide liberally over the gunshot wound, covered it messily with antibiotic cream, ignoring that it was still gaping and bleeding, and wrapped it up. He walked toward the kitchen, still muttering angrily as he slid a cigarette between his lips.
    Walking by the answering machine, he turned up his nose at the blinking red light and lit up. The only person who called him here was the Bureau contact, and he definitely didn't want to talk to her. Cursing under his breath, he hit the button and pulled out his guns, checking them as he disarmed.
    "Special Agent Garrett, this is Assistant Director Richard Burns.” Zane's head shot around so he could stare at the machine. “Don't you dare ignore me. Call me. It doesn't matter what time.” He left an unfamiliar return number and hung up.
    Hitting the erase button, Zane frowned and tapped the ashes from his cigarette. It was odd to hear English not made rapid-fire by an accent. “What's he want?” he murmured to himself, the Spanish flowing easily. He tapped his fingers on the phone for a long moment before picking up and dialing the number he had easily memorized.
    Two minutes later, he was connected to Burns, presumably at home, since it was the middle of the night.
    "Special Agent Garrett. Thank you for returning my call so promptly,” Burns said by way of greeting, no hint of censure or sleep in his voice.
    Zane walked with the handset over to the couch and pulled out a bottle of painkillers. “What do you want, Burns?” Zane muttered in his well-practiced accented English, setting his cigarette in an overfull ashtray. He poured a handful of pills into his hand and popped three into his mouth, sitting on the edge of the couch and holding his arm out to look at it.
    "Ever the conversationalist. Nice accent, by the way. Have you been following the Tri-State murders?"
    Zane's jaw set. “No,” he said shortly.
    "Good. Get to DC. I want you here by three-thirty tomorrow."
    "DC?” Zane objected. “I'm in the middle of all kinds of shit here, Burns. I can't just drop it!"
    "You will turn over all information and material to Special Agent Black, who is waiting quite patiently right outside your door. Be here, and don't be late."
    Burns hung up, leaving Zane staring at the handset. After a long moment, he hurled it at the wall, foreign expletives flowing off his tongue as it shattered.
    * * * *
    Ty didn't sleep at night. He never had, even as a child. While the military had forced him to change that, the subsequent years of working undercover mostly at night had hardwired his body once more to sleep during the day and prowl restlessly during the late hours when he had nothing else to keep him busy. And so, when his phone rang at roughly two in the afternoon, it sent Ty straight up and into a full-out panic before he was able to track down the vibrating cell phone and growl at it.
    "What?” he answered in a huff, rubbing sleepy eyes and shaking his head to wake himself fully.
    "Special Agent Grady,” a familiar voice greeted warmly.
    "Dick?” Ty responded in shock. “I didn't do it,” he said immediately. “Whatever it was, I didn't do it. I'm on vacation,” he insisted defensively.
    There was a chuckle in response. “I know you're on vacation, Ty. That's why I'm calling. How do you feel?"
    "Uhh...."
    "I need you to cut it