Rage

Disclaimer:  I do not own either of the Mission: Impossible series or any of the characters therein.  I receive no compensation or any other tangible benefit from this story.  I am just a fan who enjoys taking the team out for an adventure every now and then.  🙂

Summary:  The danger is not just physical after an unexpected encounter during a mission.

For Zai

*******

"Can't this thing go any faster?" asked Grant impatiently, as he guided the black Range Rover along the mountain road.

The team's latest mission had taken them to West Virginia, where they'd learned that a corrupt state Senator had forged a dangerous connection with a group of overseas terrorists. There were concerns that the Senator was selling them sensitive government information. Jim had managed to arrange a meeting with Senator Bob Anderson; Grant and Nicholas would only have an hour or so to look around the Senator's home, while Max checked out his office.

But there was one thing about the West Virginia terrain that Grant hadn't counted on. The roads were narrow, often with only a single lane going in each direction, and curvy as hell.

"I'm not sure we need to go any faster, Grant," Nicholas was saying through clenched teeth, his fingers gripping the dashboard tightly. "This road is rough enough as it is."

"We don't have much time," Grant reminded his teammate. "Jim won't be able to keep Anderson busy for long."

Grant cursed aloud and whipped the steering wheel around a steep curve that seemed to come out of nowhere. "Where the hell does this guy live, anyway?" he asked rhetorically.

Suddenly, a pickup truck -- likely bright red at one time but now faded with the sun to the color of rust -- appeared a hundred yards in front of the Range Rover. And judging by the speed with which Grant was approaching it, it was traveling at least ten miles an hour slower than Grant was.

"Great, this is all we need right now," the Black agent muttered. Keeping his right hand on the wheel, he pressed the horn button firmly with his left. "Go on!" he yelled.

The man behind the wheel of the truck, and his male passenger, couldn't hear Grant's voice since the Range Rover's windows were up. But there was no way they hadn't heard the horn. And in response, the driver slowed down even more, causing Grant to have to stomp his brake hard to keep from hitting the truck. Grant cursed again.

"Grant, settle down, okay?" Nicholas pleaded, his voice quiet but tense. "We'll be there soon enough."

By this time, the truck in front of them had slowed to below forty miles per hour. The speed limit on the two-lane road was fifty-five. Up ahead was a straight section of road, a dashed line, and no approaching cars in sight. Nicholas sighed deeply, for he knew what Grant was about to do.

"I'm gonna pass this guy," Grant vowed, his jaw set, at the same time that he jerked the Range Rover to the left and pressed down on the gas pedal. Instantly, the driver of the rusty pickup mashed his own gas pedal and matched Grant's speed.

"What is he doing?" Grant demanded. He cast a lightning-quick glance at the pickup. The driver and his passenger were both sneering at them.

"Slow down, Grant! Drop back!" Nicholas urged, and Grant complied, only to watch the pickup driver match Grant's speed once again.

Grant did his best to keep his eyes on the road ahead while occasionally glaring toward his right. The pickup driver now had his window down, though Nicholas had not yet followed suit.

"What the hell is your problem?" Grant yelled, his lips deliberately forming the words, leaving no doubt about what he had said despite the closed window.

For the first time, the pickup driver responded, and the word he said was crystal clear.

It was the worst kind of racial slur.

The blood rushed to Grant's face and he glared even longer at the pickup driver -- so long, in fact, that he didn't see the approaching sedan at first. By the time he and Nicholas turned their eyes back to the road ahead, the car was less than a hundred yards away and headed straight at them.

"Grant, look out!" Nicholas screamed.

There was nowhere to go. In desperation, Grant jerked the Range Rover to the left, narrowly missing the sedan.

"Hang on!" the Black agent managed to yell, and in the next second the Range Rover was racing down the embankment, shearing away small branches and rolling over once before finally coming to rest on its wheels at the bottom of the hill.

*******

Nicholas felt his head and his right arm whack the passenger side door as the Range Rover completed its solitary revolution, despite his best efforts to brace himself. A stabbing pain shot through both, and he was vaguely aware of the Range Rover coming to a bouncy upright stop.

A sudden wave of dizziness hit him like a Mack truck and he saw his vision darken around the edges, but he forced himself to stay awake.

Grant!

Nicholas turned his head slowly to check on his friend -- and his breath shut off in his chest. The whole left side of Grant's body was nothing but blood.

He looked dead.

"Grant! Oh, God!"

The dark-haired agent hastily placed two fingers aside Grant's neck, praying he'd find a pulse. And so he did, but it was far faster than it should have been. He couldn't tell where the blood was coming from, and he couldn't reach across the console of the Range Rover. So he jerked open the passenger side door -- screaming involuntarily as fresh pain gripped his arm -- and jumped out of the SUV.

Immediately, he regretted moving so quickly. The dizziness returned with a vengeance, bringing nausea along with it, and the bile rose up in his throat, threatening to spill out onto the grass. But Nicholas didn't have time for that right now. Stuffing the horrible taste for the moment, and clinging to the hood for support, he made his way around the front of the Rover as fast as he dared.

When he got to the driver's side, he opened the door carefully amid the broken glass of the car window and realized that the blood was coming from Grant's upper left arm. Nicholas could see the gaping puncture wound through the long-sleeve flannel shirt Grant was wearing. Instinctively, he grabbed Grant's arm with both hands and squeezed, putting as much pressure on the bleeding wound as he physically could, without regard to how much his own arm was throbbing with the effort.

Semi-conscious, the Black agent did not open his eyes but winced in pain, sucking his breath in forcefully through his clenched teeth.

"I'm sorry, Grant," Nicholas said softly, his voice trembling, "but I've got to stop this bleeding."

"Tourniquet," Grant whispered, as if the word took all the effort he had.

It took a moment for Nicholas's fuzzy brain to register the word. When he did, his stomach lurched violently, threatening to bring the nasty bile back up again. Tourniquets meant things were serious. Deathly so. Nicholas' face turned even paler.

Grant opened his eyes. "First aid kit," he stammered. "Glove box."

Grant slowly lifted his right hand and placed it over the gaping wound, and in so doing gently pushed Nicholas' own hands out of the way. "Hurry."

Nicholas raced back to the right side of the vehicle as fast as he could. He jerked open the glove box, found the first aid kit, and popped open the lid, retrieving the long rubber strip. As he made his way back to Grant, it occurred to him that he didn't have any idea what to do with this, other than having seen the lab lady use one when she drew his blood at the doctor's office a few weeks ago. He knew that the band had to go above the wound, at least a couple of inches, and that it had to be tight.

And he sensed that Grant's life hung in the balance if he didn't get this right.

Quickly, and fighting the throbbing pain in his own arm, Nicholas looped the band above the gaping, bleeding hole and tied it tightly. Grant cried out in pain, prompting Nicholas to apologize once again while he waited for the bleeding to stop.

But the pool of blood continued to spread, and Grant could feel it.

"Tighter," he urged, his voice fading. He wanted to teach Nicholas about using a windlass, to tighten the tourniquet once it was fastened securely and help it do its job, but he didn't have the strength or the time. He knew he was bleeding out, and without a miracle it would all be over in a matter of minutes.

"I don't want to hurt you," Nicholas protested.

"Brachial...artery."

Grant's words stopped him cold. Nicholas didn't know biology the way that Grant did, but he recognized the brachial artery as one of the major blood vessels in the body. If that was what was bleeding, that rubber strip would have to be tight enough to press muscle to bone -- and, even then, there was still a chance that Grant wouldn't survive.

With renewed resolve, Nicholas summoned all his strength and pulled for dear life -- Grant's dear life -- on the two ends of the rubber strip. Horrible pain shot through Grant's arm, and he lost consciousness before he could even cry out.

Terrified, Nicholas quickly checked for a pulse. It was still racing, perhaps a few beats slower than before. And it seemed as if the bleeding was slowing -- or was hope causing him to imagine things?

Maybe Grant was dying.

The thought made the dark-haired agent's stomach churn violently once again, and this time when the nasty liquid came up in his throat he was powerless to stop it from pouring out onto the grassy plain.

Once he was finished, Nicholas came to a horrific realization: He hadn't called anyone. Not his team, not emergency services. There hadn't been time. But this meant that no one was coming to help.

Overwhelmed, terrified, his head spinning wildly, torn between needing his communicator and not wanting to leave his friend's side, Nicholas was making his way back to the right side of the SUV when he heard sirens in the distance. They were coming closer.

They were coming to help Grant.

The wave of relief and hope that hit the pit of his stomach, combined with everything else he was already feeling, proved to be too much for the dark-haired agent to bear. He collapsed to the ground beside his friend.

*******

As Nicholas slowly made his way back to consciousness, he felt a strong, warm hand on his left forearm and heard a familiar baritone voice in his ear.

"Hey, buddy," Max greeted, as the dark-haired agent opened his eyes. "Welcome back."

"Hi, Max," replied Nicholas, smiling slightly, realizing he was in a hospital but not yet thinking to ask how Max had known where he was. Or even how he'd gotten here, for that matter. The last thing he remembered, he'd been down an embankment with....

"Grant!" he suddenly remembered, and Max's grip on his forearm tightened slightly.

"Take it easy," the blond soothed. "Grant's in surgery, but he's going to be okay. Jim and Shannon are supposed to let us know when he's out."

Nicholas's breath came out in a heavy sigh. "He's alive."

"Thanks to you, pal," Max said fondly. "That tourniquet did the trick. The medics said without it he wouldn't have made it."

"He helped me," Nicholas remembered. "I didn't really know what to do."

"But you did it," his friend insisted, "even though your own arm was a mess."

For the first time, Nicholas noticed the elastic bandage on his right forearm. He raised an eyebrow and looked back at Max.

"Not broken, thankfully," Max assured him. "Just a bad sprain. And, of course, a concussion."

"Severe?"

"Well, you did lose consciousness," he reminded his dark-haired friend, a twinge of concern crossing his face. "How are you feeling now?"

"Not so bad," Nicholas responded. "Still a little nauseous, which I guess is normal." He paused to take further stock of his symptoms. "Headache and dizziness are pretty much gone, at least for the moment." He smiled wryly at his teammate. "Wonder how it will be when I sit up?"

"Ready to find out?" Max questioned, returning his smile, and Nicholas nodded. "Okay. Here we go."

Max kept a worried eye on Nicholas as he pushed a button on the hospital bed. The mechanical gears churned as the upper half of the mattress slowly raised. After a moment, Max stopped abruptly, having watched the color drain from Nicholas' face.

"You okay?" he asked quickly.

Nicholas closed his eyes for a few seconds, drawing a breath, and then opened them again. "A bit dizzy for a moment," he replied, "but I'm good now."

"You sure?"

Nicholas nodded.

"All right, but let's just leave this here for the time being."

Nicholas nodded again. "So how'd you find us?"

"Jim and I finished our work and checked in with Shannon," Max explained. "Nobody had heard from you guys. I kept an eye out coming back from Anderson's office and just happened to spot the Rover." The blond shuddered slightly, remembering the bolt of fear that had shot through his chest at the sight. "But you guys weren't down there, and there were signs that rescue had already picked you up. This is the closest hospital to the crash site, so we guessed they'd bring you here."

"You guessed right," smiled Nicholas.

"What happened, anyway?" Max questioned. "Car trouble?"

Nicholas shook his head. "Some racist bastards forced us off the road," he explained, watching his protective friend's eyes briefly flash fire.

Just then, Max's communicator beeped, and he quickly retrieved it from his shirt pocket. "Yeah, Jim?"

"Grant's out of surgery," Jim advised, "and he did just fine. Still waking up in recovery. He'll be there another twenty minutes or so and then sent to a room for overnight observation. How's Nicholas?"

Max pushed the button and held the device close to his teammate's lips. "I'm okay, Jim," Nicholas replied.

"That's good to hear," the team leader smiled. "We're going to see if the doctor will let Grant be your roommate for tonight."

"That would be great," grinned Max.

Less than an hour later, the two friends gave silent thanks at the sight of Grant being wheeled into Nicholas' room, followed closely by Jim and Shannon. For the first few minutes, the five teammates greeted one another with handshakes, hugs, and expressions of relief that everyone was safe. Grant shrugged off Jim's insistence that he lie down on the bed, choosing instead to take a seat in the recliner beside Nicholas' bed. The Black agent reached out with his uninjured arm to squeeze his friend's shoulder fondly.

"Thanks for the save, Nicholas," Grant said softly. "I'm glad you're all right."

"Ditto," smiled Nicholas, knowing the two men would have a chance to talk more once the others had left for the evening. "And you're welcome."

Then the dark-haired agent turned to Jim. "I'm sorry we didn't make it to Anderson's place," he said apologetically.

"Don't worry about that," Jim answered dismissively, patting the younger agent's arm. "We'll take care of that tomorrow. Based on the information Max found at his office-"

"Or lack of information," Max quipped.

"-it seems as if whatever the Senator is selling to the terrorists is either at his home or he has it with him. So Max and Shannon will check things out tomorrow."

"Jim," Grant said carefully, "Nicholas and I both expect to be out of here in the morning. We can help with the mission."

Jim's blue eyes darted from Grant to Nicholas, who was nodding enthusiastically. But Jim's face was troubled.

"There is no doubt that you two were extremely lucky, considering."

"Thank God for seatbelts," Nicholas interjected softly.

"But you have a pretty severe concussion, plus an injured arm, and you just had major surgery and a blood transfusion because you almost died," Jim finished, his gaze pointing at first Nicholas, then Grant, as he spoke. "Maybe you all should just stay at headquarters and rest."

"I agree with Jim," Max added, earning himself a hateful look from Nicholas.

"Me too," echoed Shannon.

"Come on, guys, there must be something we can do to help," pleaded Nicholas.

There were a few moments of silence, as if Jim were thinking things over. Finally, he sighed heavily. "There is one thing," he admitted, turning to Grant. "How do you feel about driving again?" he asked, his voice low.

"I can handle it, Jim."

"I don't mind driving, you know," offered Nicholas, even though the team knew he really didn't care for it much and that during missions he almost always deferred driving duties to Max or Grant or even Jim.

"We're both right handed, Nicholas," Grant reminded him, "and that's the arm you sprained. It's my left one that's butchered up, so driving shouldn't be too tough." Grant smiled faintly. "What do you need us to do?"

"The Senator is scheduled to appear at a political event in the morning," Jim responded. "You guys can keep an eye on him while Max and Shannon visit his home, and let us know when he leaves so that we can make sure they're clear."

As Grant and Nicholas nodded eagerly, Jim's eyes narrowed, and he pointed his finger at the two of them. "But surveillance, and that's it. Then it's back to headquarters for the both of you, understood? The rest of us will hopefully wrap up the mission and join you later in the evening."

The two injured agents nodded again, realizing that was the best they were going to do.

The five friends and teammates spent the rest of the evening making small talk and enjoying a meal together until visiting hours were over. Then Jim, Max, and Shannon bid good night to Grant and Nicholas and left them alone together in their hospital room.

******

After saying goodbye to their friends, Grant returned to the recliner beside Nicholas' bed, where he had been for the past few hours.

"Don't you think you should lie down and rest a while?" the dark-haired agent asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

"I'm fine," Grant answered.

At that exact moment, a stabbing pain rippled through his arm — his medication having worn off almost an hour ago — and Nicholas did not miss the tension on his friend's face as he tried to hide his discomfort.

"You're not fine," he scolded gently, hopping off his bed and grasping Grant's right arm with his left hand and leading him towards his bed. "Come on over here and lie down," he commanded. "I'll call the nurse."

Grant had little choice but to comply with his persistent teammate, who lingered to make sure Grant was comfortable and called for his pain medication before scooting the recliner closer to Grant's bed and taking a seat.

Once the nurse had left the room, Grant smiled at his dark-haired friend. "Thank you for taking care of me," he said sincerely, reaching out to lay his right hand on Nicholas' left. "Both now, and earlier today."

"You don't have to keep thanking me," Nicholas assured him, returning his smile. "Besides, I couldn't have done it without your help."

"Must've hurt like hell tying that tourniquet," the Black agent said sympathetically, nodding toward Nicholas' still-bandaged arm.

"Mostly I was trying to keep from throwing up on you," Nicholas chuckled.

The concussion. Of course. Jim had even mentioned it earlier. How could Grant have forgotten?

"I almost forgot about your concussion," Grant admitted sheepishly, and his face paled slightly. "Are you feeling all right now?"

"I'm okay, Grant, I promise," Nicholas responded, squeezing Grant's hand for emphasis and finding it trembling slightly. He looked up at Grant, raising an eyebrow. "You want to tell me what's bothering you?"

Grant didn't answer for a moment, causing his friend to squeeze his hand a second time. Finally, he spoke.

"You were hurt in that crash, too," he said softly, "but I never bothered to ask you how you were."

"You were busy trying to stay alive, Grant," Nicholas reminded him. "I thought nothing of it."

"I don't want you to think I didn't care."

"I know better than that," Nicholas said reassuringly, his voice barely audible.

"I'd never let anything happen to you, if I could help it." Grant's voice was equally quiet.

"Likewise."

Nicholas tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn, but Grant saw it and immediately followed suit, causing both men to laugh out loud.

"Time for bed, partner," Grant advised, as he adjusted the blankets on his hospital bed. "It's been a long day."

Nicholas rose from his chair, pausing to give his teammate an affectionate shoulder pat. "Sleep well, my friend. I'll see you in the morning."

The dark-haired agent paused to switch off the overhead light before crawling into his own bed. Within ten minutes, both men were sleeping soundly.

*******

There were no issues or problems during the night, so the next morning brought an early visit by the doctor, followed by a pronouncement that both Grant and Nicholas were well enough to leave the hospital. By the time the usual discharge protocol was concluded, they would have less than an hour before the Senator's event was scheduled to begin.

Nicholas updated Jim, and a little while later Max's tall frame appeared at the door. He greeted each of his friends warmly, and then handed Grant a key.

"Black Buick in the red parking lot," he advised. As the Black agent reached for the key, Max held on to it an extra second. "Are you sure you're up to this?" he asked, the concern palpable in his voice.

"We'll be fine, Max," Grant promised.

Max then let go of the key completely and punctuated the gesture with an affectionate slap on Grant's uninjured shoulder. "Just be careful. And remember what Jim said." The blond cast an authoritative but affectionate glance at Nicholas. "Make sure he listens, will you?"

"I'll take care of it," Nicholas smiled.

Then Max bid his goodbyes, and within the hour Grant and Nicholas had left the hospital, located the Buick, and were on their way to the capitol.

*******

The two agents made small talk as they waited inconspicuously near a grove of trees on the edge of the capitol parking lot. Occasionally, one of the other team members would check in and update them about the mission's progress elsewhere.

Max and Shannon had intercepted an old but thankfully not deleted message on the Senator's phone from a known terrorist, providing details about a rendezvous scheduled for later that day. Max also located a manila envelope with the highly sensitive information they had anticipated. The blond agent swapped the documents for similar (but fake) information prepared in advance, safely securing the classified material, and transmitted the meeting details to Jim. Jim then contacted the proper authorities.

From there, the Senator's fate was sealed.

Eventually, Grant and Nicholas were watching as people began to file out of the capitol. Nicholas trained his field glasses on the crowd and quickly spotted Senator Anderson.

"The mark is getting into his car now, Jim," Grant advised.

Jim glanced at his watch. "Good," he replied. "Max and Shannon are clear and waiting to follow him to the rendezvous point. He'll have just enough time to pick up the fake documents and get to the meeting place. The authorities will take it from there." A slight pause, and when the team leader spoke again his voice was stern. "Good work, gentlemen. Now get back to headquarters and rest. That's an order."

"Right, Jim."

Grant started the car, eased it into gear, and merged into the crowd of vehicles headed west, toward the team's headquarters. Nicholas was absently looking out the passenger side window, paying little attention to Grant's driving, when suddenly his teammate let out a loud curse.

Nicholas, startled, snapped to attention, the sudden movement prompting a momentary wave of nausea that he forced himself to stifle. He closed his eyes and took a deep steadying breath.

Grant did not notice.

"Hang on!" he bellowed, leaving Nicholas just enough time to brace himself before jerking the car into a U-turn in the middle of the road. Thankfully, the crowd of traffic had all but dissipated.

"Grant!" Nicholas yelled. "What are you doing?"

The Black agent did not answer. He stared straight ahead, his frozen stare somewhere between laser focus and white-hot anger, his right hand gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white. Nicholas followed his gaze, and instantly he realized what had caught Grant's attention.

The rust colored pickup that had led to their accident was dead ahead.

"Bloody hell," he swore.

Nicholas could feel their car going faster, could see the distance between the vehicles closing rapidly with every second. He shot a look at his teammate, whose expression had not wavered.

"Grant!" he yelled again, nervously. "Don't do this!"

Nicholas grasped Grant's arm, perhaps in an effort to ground him and bring him back to some sense of reality. But Grant held tightly to the wheel, lifting his still-bandaged left arm to wrench his friend's fingers free. If the gesture had caused him any pain, he showed no signs of it.

"I'm gonna make them pay," he growled, turning the nose of the Buick slightly toward the right and inching ever closer to the truck.

"Please, Grant!"

Nicholas' pleadings were futile. He watched in horror as Grant skillfully maneuvered their car into position, its front bumper to the right and just past the truck's rear one. Then, expertly, Grant turned the wheel slightly left, and the pickup began to spin wildly and harmlessly into the open field on the right side of the highway.

Grant quickly brought the sedan to a stop on the wide right shoulder, and was out of it and running toward the truck before it stopped spinning -- and before Nicholas could stop him.

Nicholas cursed aloud, knowing he had no choice but to follow his impulsive teammate.

By the time Nicholas reached the pickup, Grant had already jerked open the door and dragged the driver out with his right hand.

"Remember me?" he asked, his voice seething with anger.

The driver responded by dropping the same racial slur as before.

Instantly, Grant struck back with a violent uppercut. The driver was unconscious before he hit the ground.

The passenger, seeing what had happened to his friend, dashed out to assist. He came running toward Grant, his fist outstretched. But Nicholas grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks just long enough for Grant to dish out the same treatment he'd given the driver.

Nicholas released the second man, letting him drop to the ground, then immediately grabbed Grant's right arm with his left and began half-leading, half-dragging his friend back to the sedan.

"Let's get out of here before we both end up in jail," he muttered. He opened the passenger side of the sedan and threw Grant inside, then he scrambled into the driver's seat and sped away -- just as the flashing red and blue lights came into sight a mile and a half behind them.

*******

Nicholas checked his mirror repeatedly for the next few moments until he was sure that the police were not tailing them. Then he pulled into a mostly-deserted parking lot and turned to gaze at his friend, who was still staring straight ahead, wordlessly, as if in a trance, his face slightly pale.

"Do you feel better now, Grant?" he asked, his voice quiet, his tone somewhere between concern and exasperation.

When Grant did not respond, Nicholas' stomach lurched, and any irritation he felt toward his teammate vanished instantly. He gingerly placed his right hand on Grant's shoulder and shook it, gently at first, then more forcefully.

"Grant, can you hear me?"

When there was still no response, Nicholas leaned across the console in desperation and patted Grant's face. "Come on, Grant, snap out of it!" he pleaded.

Finally, some color returned to the Black agent's face. He blinked once, slowly, and Nicholas let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Thank God. He returned to his position in the driver's seat, his right hand still firmly planted on his friend's shoulder, as Grant slowly looked over at him.

"What happened?" he asked softly. "Why are you driving?"

"You really don't remember?" Nicholas returned, matching Grant's tone.

"What is it that I'm supposed to remember?" his friend asked, a hint of anxiety creeping into his voice.

Nicholas could hear his apprehension and winced internally. He opened his mouth to explain, then glanced at his watch. He hadn't realized how much time had flown by since the earlier confrontation. Judging by the timing of the rendezvous between the Senator and the terrorists, the rest of the team was probably on its way back to headquarters by now.

Maybe it's better to just let it be — at least for now.

"Never mind," he answered out loud. At Grant's quizzical look, Nicholas smiled. "I'll tell you later, I promise," he said reassuringly. "We mustn't keep Jim waiting any longer."

"Do you want me to drive?"

"I've got it," Nicholas answered, in a tone that left no room for argument, and with that the two men rode back to their base in silence.

********

Grant and Nicholas were the first to arrive back at headquarters, but before they could even climb out of the Buick, Max and Shannon pulled in beside them, followed closely by Jim.

"How'd it go?" Nicholas asked.

"Everything went as planned," Jim answered. "The mission is over. We'll stay here tonight and catch the next flight out in the morning." The elder agent eyed Nicholas curiously. "You guys should have been back here half an hour ago. What kept you?"

"Some sort of incident on the highway," the dark-haired agent responded, finding his poker face nearly impossible to maintain. It wasn't a lie — just not the whole truth. "Traffic was backed up for a bit."

Jim nodded, his face expressionless, and Nicholas wasn't sure whether he believed him or not.

"I thought Grant was driving," Max was saying, his tone making it clear that a response was expected.

"I thought I'd give him a break." Nicholas grinned at his friend, inwardly wishing they'd gotten back just a few moments earlier and avoided all of….this.

Max stared at Grant for a moment. "He does look kind of pale," he remarked, walking over to place a hand on Grant's shoulder. "You feeling okay, buddy?"

"I think I just need some rest, like Jim said," Grant admitted quietly.

"Then let's get you inside," Shannon smiled softly, as she took Grant's right arm and started toward the door.

Jim fumbled for his key as he walked by the Buick, then he stopped abruptly and reached down to touch something.

"What is it, Jim?" Max questioned.

"Something scuffed the front bumper." Jim gazed at Nicholas. "Looks fresh. Do you know anything about this?"

"Not a clue." Nicholas cringed internally at the lie.

"It didn't happen on my watch," insisted Max.

"Hmmmm," Jim responded. "I guess the rental place must have overlooked it."

*******

Inside headquarters, Max and Shannon disappeared into the kitchen to prepare dinner. Jim ordered Grant and Nicholas to get some rest, and they agreed, but they both insisted on remaining downstairs with their team rather than going to bed this early in the evening. So Grant stretched out on the recliner, napping occasionally, while Nicholas curled up on the sofa.

At six o'clock sharp, dinner was served in the living room. While they were eating, Max decided to turn on the local news. The others weren't paying much attention, but the blond was watching intently when something caught his attention.

"Look at this," he said abruptly, pointing at the television.

"Police are investigating an apparent hit-and-run that took place just outside Charleston earlier today," the reporter was saying. "Witnesses say this truck was run off the road….."

The display on the television screen changed from the anchorwoman's face to video of the rust-colored pickup sitting askew in a grassy field. Max sucked in his breath sharply.

"Hey, Grant, that looks like the truck that you said caused your accident."

Grant, still half-asleep, focused intently on the screen, and his eyes grew wide. "Yeah, it does," he agreed.

Nicholas, hiding the lower half of his face with his napkin, cast a quick glance at the Black agent to gauge his reaction. But if Grant had any recollection about the day's events, he wasn't showing it.

"This must have been what held up traffic," Nicholas mused aloud.

"…But police say this wasn't an ordinary hit-and-run," the reporter continued. "Both the driver and his passenger were found unconscious lying outside the truck, with minor injuries that paramedics say are consistent with being assaulted, rather than ejected. Both occupants are expected to make full recoveries. So far, only one witness has come forward stating that a black full-size sedan was seen in the area shortly after the incident, but could provide no further details."

Nicholas braced himself in anticipation of the interrogation he sensed was coming, but dared not look up at the others for fear of giving himself away. To his surprise, there was no comment from anyone, and he wished he knew whether any of them — Jim especially — had put two and two together yet.

"Police aren't releasing the names of the truck's occupants, but they do say they are both involved in a local white supremacist hate group. They say it's possible that the hit-and-run was an act of retaliation, and unless additional witnesses come forward this case is not likely to be solved."

At this last bit of information, all eyes in the room focused on Grant, who humphed in disgust. "I guess they got what they had coming," he said, a hint of satisfaction in his tone.

Shortly thereafter, Grant yawned several times in a row. "I'm headed to bed," he announced, despite the early hour, and bid good night to his friends.

"We should all probably turn in pretty soon," agreed Jim, as Grant started up the stairs. "We have an early flight."

Nicholas and Shannon soon followed Grant's lead, and a few moments after that Jim also took his leave.

"Sleep well, Max. I'll see you in the morning."

On the way to his bedroom, Jim paused briefly at Nicholas' door. From the moment he'd seen Nicholas and Grant at headquarters, he'd known something had happened, and tonight's newscast had told him exactly what that something had been. Nicholas had done his best to hide things, but the two of them had worked together too long for Jim not to have noticed.

Jim lifted his hand to knock, intending to demand an explanation — or, at the very least, a confession. But instead, he hesitated. He knew that Grant could get a little worked up sometimes, though it had never been enough to warrant disciplinary action, or really even a reprimand. And having a slur thrown at him would have certainly been enough to push him to that point.

No one had been seriously hurt, and they would be on the other side of the country by this time tomorrow. Plus, this wasn't likely to occur again, Jim reasoned. Rehashing the matter now would accomplish nothing.

And so, for perhaps the first time since becoming a team leader, Jim made the decision to let it go. He relaxed his arm, then turned from Nicholas' door and disappeared behind his own.

Several minutes later, Max finished the program he'd been watching, then switched off the television and joined his teammates upstairs.

*******

It was nearly two in the morning when Grant awoke from a fitful sleep and tiptoed onto the upstairs balcony to get some fresh air. A minute later, he heard a faint shuffle behind him, and then Nicholas was at his side.

"Sorry I woke you, man," Grant apologized, his voice low so as not to wake the others.

"You didn't," Nicholas assured him, and even in the darkness Grant could see the worry in his friend's eyes. "Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm okay," Grant replied, somewhat unconvincingly. "I just needed some air." Grant looked back toward the night sky in front of them. "I figured you'd be sleeping."

Nicholas grinned, his bright smile gleaming in the moonlight. "I tried, but it didn't work out too well," he said dismissively. "I heard you up, and I remembered that I promised to tell you what happened earlier."

"I think I know," Grant responded. He stretched his right arm out in front of him and closed and opened his palm several times. "My hand is sore. And then the newscast…." Grant's voice trailed off, and he gazed at his friend. "It was me, wasn't it?" he asked, almost afraid of the answer. "I'm the one who hurt those men."

Nicholas nodded, laying his left hand on Grant's shoulder as he recounted the events of the day.

"I can't believe I zoned out like that," Grant murmured. "What do you think caused it?"

"You were so angry," Nicholas answered, shuddering slightly at the memory. "I've read about rage blackouts before." The dark-haired agent's eyes caught Grant's, and his voice was gentle. "I heard what they called you," he said, his tone a mix of anger and empathy. "That, plus what led up to the crash, was just too much."

Grant nodded his understanding, then looked down at his feet. "I can't believe I took that kind of chance," he said sadly, "especially with you in the car. I could've killed us both."

"But you didn't." Nicholas waited for Grant to look up at him. When he didn't, the dark-haired agent removed his hand from Grant's shoulder and cupped his friend's chin, lifting his head gently until their eyes met again. "Look, I'm not blaming you, Grant, and you mustn't blame yourself," Nicholas assured him. "You were not in control. Even after it was all over, I couldn't get you to respond to me at first. And that scared me."

"I still don't remember any of it," the Black agent admitted quietly, "and that's pretty scary, too."

It was Nicholas' turn to nod his agreement, and the two agents were silent for a moment, letting the feelings settle. Then Grant spoke again. "I'm surprised Jim hasn't said anything," he observed. "Do you think he knows?"

"Oh, I'm sure he knows," Nicholas quipped. "The man knows everything." He and Grant shared a slight but knowing chuckle. "I guess he knows there's nothing he can say."

"Oh, he might say something eventually," Grant remarked ruefully. "He'll probably try to get me to go talk to a therapist or something."

Nicholas paused slightly before replying. "Grant," he said hesitantly, reaching out to touch Grant's arm again, "maybe that's not such a bad idea."

The comment stirred up something between anger and defensiveness within, but when Grant looked over at his friend, all he saw was concern. His irritation quickly dissipated.

"I've never been one for sharing my deep, dark secrets with a stranger," he admitted.

Nicholas sighed heavily. "I can understand that," he said sincerely, "but it's not good to keep it bottled up inside."

Grant considered this for a moment, then he grinned widely at his teammate. "Maybe I could talk to someone who isn't a stranger," he suggested. Nicholas raised an eyebrow, and Grant continued. "You've taken pretty good care of me so far."

Nicholas returned his grin. "Does this mean you want to hire me as your personal therapist?" he said teasingly.

"That depends," Grant replied, in the same tone. "Are you offering? And, more importantly, can I afford you?"

Nicholas squeezed Grant's arm affectionately. "I will always be here for you, Grant," he vowed, turning serious. "That's a promise."

"That goes both ways, my friend," his friend returned in the same tone, reaching up to pat Nicholas' arm and suddenly remembering they'd been out on the balcony talking for an unknown amount of time. "We'd better get some sleep if we want to be functional in the morning."

"You're right," agreed Nicholas, stifling a yawn. "I actually think I could sleep now." He looked fondly at his friend. "Thanks for the talk."

"Thank you, partner," Grant answered. "See you in the morning."

And so, with the conversation having lifted both their respective burdens, the two agents returned to their bedrooms and were asleep in moments.

The End

(C) 2026