"I discourage company every way I can," Mack said.
Lucas looked up at him. "You and Jaimie moving in together, boss?"
Mack stared him down. "What do you think?"
"That I'd better keep my mouth shut," Lucas muttered.
"Good plan." Mack took the chair across from Kane, looking up as Gideon came in. He frowned. "You look tired. You aren't sleeping again."
Gideon shrugged. "I'm fine. Getting headaches again, Mack." He washed his hands at the sink and looked around. "You know, I'm not all that hungry. I might lie down while I brief you. Do you mind?"
You need a medic? Mack demanded with quick concern. Don't lie to me, Gideon.
There was a long pause and it took every ounce of self-discipline for Mack to keep from looking at him, and possibly tipping off the others--or Paul--to their private conversation.
"Use Kane's bed," Mack said aloud. "It will be easier for you to talk."
Marc was the only one of them with real healing and medic abilities and right now, he'd gone out on the roof to keep an eye on their company. But there was Spagnola. The man was pararescue and he obviously had skills, psychic healing skills.
I'll be fine, Mack, Gideon assured.
Any bleeding? Mack held his breath.
A nosebleed. Nothing serious.
Around him the men joked good-naturedly with one another, but Mack could only hear the warning alarm going off in his mind. A nosebleed--nothing serious. It was another complication. He needed Gideon, but the man had to be seen by a doctor and immediately.
"We've got two men sitting out in a fishing boat. Neither is very happy. One keeps puking. They're radioing our two on land. Right now they're sniffing around the warehouses, including this one, so I'm fairly sure they aren't certain of the exact location of the guns. But sooner or later, one of the guards is going to go home and someone else will take their place. There's no mistaking a Madigan man. They wear that cute little tattoo on the inside of their arms, trying to be all scary."
"They don't get one of those tattoos without first killing a Madigan enemy," Mack said.
"They like to brag," Kane said.
"And they strut around the docks. A couple of Madigan's men were in the pub down the street and the local fishermen never even looked at them. It takes practice to keep your eyes off someone like that," Lucas said. "Practice and fear. And these fishermen are tough. When I went up to the bar, one of the older fishermen gestured for me to sit with him. He made sure I was facing away from the bar and the two Madigan men. He didn't say anything to warn me off, but he was definitely trying to convey to the newbie in the neighborhood that you don't 'see' those men."
"Gideon, did you ID any of the Doomsday team?"
"Oh, yeah. We got one of the heavy hitters running the show. Armando Shepherd. Believe me, boss, he's not the one in the boat."
"Why do they all call you 'boss' and not 'Top'?" Paul asked.
"He's been our boss a long time," Kane said. "It's a nickname more than a title. But if the brass is around, or we're running a mission, most of the time we call him 'Top.' "
Mack sent them both a quelling look as he got up to pour a large amount of coffee into a container to put it in the refrigerator. He left the rest on the warmer and returned to his chair. "Now that we managed to settle that important issue, did you ID anyone else?"
"Armando always travels with his psycho buddy, Ramon Estes. The two are homegrown, by the way. Grew up in New York City. Both were Marines. Before that they terrorized their neighborhood until things got so hot they joined the service."
Gideon sounded so tired Mack went over to the bed there in the shadows and carefully inspected him for tell-tale signs of bleeding. You take anything for the pain?
Gideon shook his head. Wanted my head clear to report.
Mack bit back a curse as he dropped a hand on Gideon's shoulder. "You're taking something now. Kane. We need the medic bag."
A hush immediately fell over the group. They'd grown up together and Gideon was immensely popular with them all. He had a way of bringing calm to any situation. He tended to be quiet, but was one they always counted on, a good man to have at one's back.
"You don't wait next time," Mack said. "And that's an order." There was no pretending it wouldn't happen again; they all dealt with it. And if he was right, and their psychic talents were growing with use, or with whatever else Whitney had done to them to accelerate it, so were the negative side effects. Mack brushed at the lines of fatigue etched into Gideon's face.
"I'm okay, boss. Just need to sleep. Can't seem to these days."
Lucas had mentioned in passing to Mack that Gideon wasn't sleeping. He should have followed up on it. Gideon often prowled the apartment at night when he wasn't on guard duty, and during the day he wasn't taking his usual catnaps.
His heart beat too fast, and there was a bad taste in his mouth. He recognized it as fear. Mack had always controlled every situation through careful planning, and yet now he had no way of ensuring his men were safe. He took every precaution on a mission, but their health, the consequences of their psychic abilities, was beyond his control. It seemed the stronger the gift, the greater the repercussions.
Kane dropped a hand on his shoulder as he placed the medic bag on the bed beside Gideon. "We all made the decision, Mack," he said quietly.
Mack let out his breath. He knew none of them blamed him, and maybe some of them would have done it anyway without his endorsement, but they had been following him since they were kids and he had known they'd follow him this time. Kane's statement didn't let him off the hook, though he appreciated it.
Kane prepared a shot. "I'm going to get you to sleep, Gideon. Just lay it down for a while. No dreaming. Just go out and let your mind and body rest."
Gideon flashed him a wan grin. "Yeah, I'll try to remember about that dreaming thing."
"Maybe I can help," Paul said, his voice a little thin.
There was instant silence. All the men turned to eye him carefully. The scrutiny was thorough.
"What can you do for him, Paul?" Mack asked. "There's nothing in your jacket indicating you're a healer."
The tips of the kid's ears turned crimson. "The bio was tweaked quite a bit."
"Why?"
Paul shook his head, his gaze sliding away from Mack. "It's not what you think. Protection, not to spy."
"Protection for who?"
Paul heaved a sigh. "Me. Sergeant Major assigned me to your unit because he believes you have the best chance of protecting me."
"Tell me the rest."
"I'm not at liberty to do so, Top."
"Damn, do you think this is a game? You pose a threat to even one of my men, do you think I have the least compunction about putting a gun to your head and pulling the trigger?" Mack stalked across the short distance to stand in front of the kid, glaring, staring straight into his eyes. "I hope you can read, because I'm giving you the gospel here, Paul."
"I read you loud and clear, boss," Paul said.
"You haven't earned the right to call me boss," Mack said. "Until I can trust you, you call me Top."
Paul stared straight ahead. "Yes, Top." He barked it out, a marine to a master gunnery sergeant.
"Just what can you do for Gideon?" Kane asked.
"I have some healing talent, sir," Paul said. "I'm able to visualize the brain and skull and see any damage done."
Mack sucked in his breath. "You're a fucking psychic surgeon," he guessed. There was a note of awe and respect in his voice in spite of his anger at Sergeant Major for planting someone on his team with unknown skills. A psychic surgeon was one of the rarest of talents. Mack had never actually met one. It was rumored they existed, but no one he knew had even seen one. Joe Spagnola, like many others, had the rudimentary skills to heal wounds, but none of them could actually operate as a psychic surgeon was reputed to be able to do. "You're the real damn deal."