Page 39 of Capturing Perfection

“Where?” Trevor exclaimed.

Logan pointed at the wall where he’d seen the movement.

“I don’t see anything,” Fredricks said.

“Wait! There, behind the pillar. Are you sure that’s him? It’s awfully dark in that corner,” Trevor asked.

He nodded his head, unable to speak.

“Who’s Clay?” Fredricks questioned.

“Detective Clayton Phillips, Sir. Logan’s partner.”

“Partner? What’s a lab tech doing at an active crime scene?”

“No, Sir, life partner.”

“Oh, well, shit.”

Trevor’s fingers played for a few seconds, and the image zoomed in. Logan's eyes met Clay’s through the video feed. The video was so close that Clay’s image filled the entire wall. He kept his eyes fixed on the gunman. Resolve hardened the gaze Logan had seen soft with love only hours before as they had said goodbye. Clay had his back to the large, white, round pillar. He came around the side with his gun trained on the man holdingthe woman hostage. Clay made a gesture with his hand, and three other officers crept into the space behind him. Logan’s eyes trained on Clay’s lips as Clay identified himself to the gunman. The image retracted, and they saw the assailant spin around to face Clay and his fellow officers.

Logan couldn’t read the gunman's lips, but his body language shouted that he was not happy with the turn of events. As much as Logan wanted to monitor Clay, he knew the gunman held all the clues. He scanned his body language for the telltale signs that all hell would break loose. Tightened muscles, bracing posture. If only Logan could see his eyes, then he’d know. Overthere, he’d gotten really good at reading potential targets, and those skills never truly left you.

“What’s happening?” Trevor asked.

Logan trained his eyes on Clay once again. He watched his lover’s lips move and translated, since they didn’t have sound.

“Clay is speaking to the gunman. ‘Put down your weapon. You don’t want to do this … that may be, but this is not the answer … let the woman go. She’s not at fault.’” Logan could tell the gunman was getting agitated. His gun arm raised, and the pistol pressed tighter against the woman’s head. He took his eyes away from the wall for a second and looked at Trevor. His friend caught his gaze, squeezing Logan’s shoulder.

“He’s a excellent cop, Logan. He knows what he’s doing.”

Logan nodded, and when they looked back at the wall, his eyes widened as a flash of light burst from the gunman’s weapon. Clay stepped out from the side of the pillar, his weapon still trained on the suspect. With a sickening realization of what was about to happen, and with no power to stop the event from unfolding, Logan watched as the gunman fired a second shot. A dark cloud burst from Clay’s side. His lover got off two rounds, and the gunman stumbled back, dropping the woman before hehit the floor. Clay fell backwards, and a pool of blood spilled out across the hard floor.

Oh God, no! Not again! This can’t be happening again!

Logan blinked, and instantly, he was back in time. He lay in the street cradling Adams’ head. He screamed for another squad member to come help him. The rat-a-tat-tat sounds of bullets being fired, the splat as the rounds smacked into buildings and thud when they dug into the ground, a far off echo. Red tracers from the thousands of rounds being fired filled the surrounding sky. However, when Logan looked down, it wasn’t Adams’ green eyes staring sightlessly at him. It wasn’t light blond hair matted with blood from the perfectly concentric hole in his forehead. Sightless stormy gray eyes stared up at him and blood coated black hair stuck to his fingers. A gut wrenching cry echoed from the depths of Logan’s soul as his hands tried to cover the gapping exit wound, pouring Clay’s life-force into the dirt and covering Logan’s hands. He kneeled in the blood-filled street, shouting in denial, begging Clay to wake up, to move. They had to take cover. His breathing became erratic, his head spun and his heart galloped in his chest. Bullets flew and the ground shook from the concussion of explosions surrounding him, but the world was silent. The image wavered as if he were staring into a desert mirage.

No! This is not real! I am not being shot at. I am in the AV lab.

The image dissolved into a strange, uniform meld of reality and flashback. He saw desert streets and plasma screens. Logan stomped his foot on the ground. This is not dirt and sand; this is tiled linoleum. The surface beneath him smoothed. He took a deep breath and let it out. He did it again, and one more time. The pounding in his head lessened, and his hands stopped shaking.

That is not the scent of cordite and blood in my nose, that is Trevor’s aftershave. Clay’s dead body is not in my arms. I am home. I am safe. I am loved. I am leaving.

The flashback dissolved and the AV suite of the Boston crime lab took shape. He looked around and noticed a small crowd had gathered. Logan hated crowds. He hated feeling like a freak. He hated being vulnerable. Trevor kneeled in front of him, and Logan realized he’d somehow ended up on the floor. He had his arms wrapped around his knees, and groaned as he uncurled and tried to stand, stretching his tight muscles. Trevor helped him up, his friend’s hands supporting him until he was stable on his feet. He looked around the room and saw faces filled with question, sympathy, and pity. God, he hated the pity worst. Logan closed his eyes and repeated the words Matt had taught him.

I am Logan Callen, former U.S. Army Ranger. The hell I survived does not control me. I am stronger today than I was yesterday. I will be stronger tomorrow than I am today.

“Logan?”

He heard Trevor’s voice and opened his eyes. He concentrated on that one face. The others in the room didn’t matter. He used Trevor as a fixation point to complete his ground. The world around him came back into focus, and he once again took possession of his body. The heat from the vent above them blew warm air across his skin. He blinked, trying to bring back moisture to his burning eyes. Trevor stood before him, and Logan could tell the younger man was unsure how to help him. He raised his arm, the limb heavy and disjointed.

He squeezed Trevor’s shoulder, giving his thanks without words.

“What do you need, Logan?”

Trevor’s soft, light voice floated towards him. He was tired. He wanted to lie down and rest. The flashbacks always sucked him dry.

“Water,” he croaked out.

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