38. Enemy

Warshon studied the fluster in those big emerald eyes and the plump cheeks rosy from blushing. 

Stifling the need to take her in his arms, he chuckled wryly. Scarred indeed like Guiliana, this young woman wasn't marred. Her scars only cut her like a diamond, and she was iridescent. She dodged bullets for herself and shielded his secret with so much ease. And even after seeing his other side, she still chose to believe his principal without reservation, the doctor's oath. When the world saw him as darkness, she saw the light that cast his shadows. Though he never needed others' understanding, he couldn't deny the joy that enlivened him and made him ache in one breath. Growling under his breath, he was sorry for having yelled at her, more so for ever wanting to distance himself from her. But he wasn't sorry for implicating her in his life. He would not allow the weakness of being without her; nor would he apologize for not wanting to be weak.

Anyone who dares hurt her can come and try and see how it'll turn out for them. 

"Whatever you hear, stay inside," he said, his gaze narrowing at her cherry lips. "And you," turning away to Guiliana, he continued. "Come out when you hear the commotion so we can put on a full show." 

Though not without reluctance, he let go of Mira and headed out. Knocking on the door to the treatment room, he turned the knob. 

"Sorry for the wait," he said to the Abids, his eyes focusing on the husband. "May I speak with you alone, Commander Abid? Regarding how we should proceed with the treatment?" Keeping the door ajar with his hand, he left the man no choice but to follow him to the next room.

"Second thought, Doctor?" asked Zahid the instant they were alone. 

Warshon chuckled. "You don't seem to have much faith."

"You blame me?" Zahid let his eyes rest for a moment, leaning on his back against a wall, his arms crossed. "They've kept setting my hope high only to see it shatter in my face."

"Who are they? And for how long have they been doing this?" 

Zahid opened his eyes. "Blunt of you, Doctor."

Warshon slid his hands into his pockets, pivoting on his heel as he swung to face the other. "I'm sorry if you were expecting sympathy. But I have no time for useless things, sympathy, least of all."

Zahid bored into him from across the room. "Doctors of authority, like yourself," he answered. "Or, maybe not exactly. Those doctors we've been to, they hold quite a contempt for you for trying Tamen medicine, if you don't mind me being honest."

Warshon chortled. "I believe in results, not authority. Authority only tallies the number of people who believe that which could be a complete lie. It's another useless thing I don't have time for."

The Commander let out a laugh. "You're quite a character."

"About those doctors you've seen," Warshon skipped to comment. "They didn't try to put her on the waitlist for a transplant?"

A long sigh parted the other's lips. "At first, they all said they could treat her, that a transplant was unnecessary. But they didn't deliver."

"And they spoke against you coming to see me?" 

Zahid nodded, dropping his gaze. 

"Good, we'll use that."

The Commander quirked his brows. "Use what?"

"When you punch me in the face at the reception before my other patients, remember to say what the other doctors told you about me, and how you should have listened to them." 

Zahid raised his brows, his pewter eyes bulging. "Why the hell would I do that?"

"As I was finishing up the prescription, I was about to sign my name, and it dawned on me that I'm still a Qusbecq. Wouldn't want people to raise a stink against my father or the Conservatives only weeks before the election, would I?"

A dry laugh shook the other man's shoulder. "Why didn't you turn us down right away? Why –"

"Ask someone you can trust at the office to rent a postal box, a wallflower would be ideal," Warshon cut him off, cocking a brow, his head tilting. "Use his device and text me the address of the postal box, to which I'll reply with a question mark. Confirm with three asterisks so I know that really is you. The prescription will be sent to the box each week. If everything goes well, great. But should anything goes awry, text me with a red cross. We'll figure out how to arrange a house visit then."

Standing with one heel resting against the other ankle, Zahid raised his chin, his knuckles whitening as he gripped his own arms. His eyes, a vulpine squint, absorbed every detail. "All the extra steps for your father and his Party?"

Warshon offered a lazy shrug. "Extra or not, none of what we do now would accomplish much if she didn't get a transplant. How long has she been on the waitlist?"

Zahid gulped. "A year."

"With her critical condition, her MELD score should be very high." 

"I guess I don't control the men who control how it works," the commander croaked, failing at his attempt to smile. He hissed with a mournful sigh and slid to the floor. Squatting on haunches, the burly man pressed his palms to his eyes. "It's my fault," he mumbled. "I shouldn't have joined the DEA, so she wouldn't have developed the problem. And even if she drinks, even if she needs a transplant, she may have a better chance by going through the normal procedure. Maybe she'll come to you sooner and have a better chance." 

Cocking a brow, Warshon lowered his head. Before joining the DEA, Zahid Abid had been a thug. He met the middle-class girl who believed in him, and he got her pregnant. Knowing he couldn't raise a family like this, he enrolled in the police school and agreed to join the most dangerous department in exchange for erasing his delinquent records. Zahid had been grateful for the second chance at life, and they abused his gratitude. For thirty years, he had been on the front line. Never complained, and always executed his job. Warshon wouldn't have taken out the cartels had Zahid not delivered. "It's not your fault that you wanted to give her the best," Warshon observed at length.

"And the best only makes it worse," Zahid snorted with a derisive cackle. 

"Well, you never know," Warshon straightened his collar, adjusting the silver chain between the two loops. "Maybe by turning down my treatment, you'll send a message to those who call shots, and who knows, they may take you more seriously this time and give Sommer what she needs. Without her, they won't have anything on you, after all." Drawing connections, he thought about Nikita Ozal, who came before Zahid. Should his conjecture hold, that Ozal agreed to spy on him in exchange for his son's transplant, a similar kind of deal had probably been offered to Zahid, too. Only this time, the offering party got snide. Why waste a liver when they could keep Zahid's mouth shut by redding his hand, keeping him on the same boat he could no longer scupper, so to speak? 

Zahid lifted his leery eyes. 

"Well, I'm just throwing darts in the dark here. Won't hurt to try, no?" Warshon shrugged, then offered a hand to the Commander, pulling him up from the floor. 

"You're left-handed, Doctor," remarked the man. 

"So?" 

"You're using your right hand an awful lot today."

Wearing the palimpsest of a smile, Warshon ran through his options. He could be ambidextrous, and indeed he had been when he was the Phantom Lord to confuse the evidence. If he admitted now, he defeated that purpose. Or, "I used to play the piano," he said instead, his voice casual, bored, even. "Now I try to get back into it, and my right hand is rusty. So I try to use it more, giving it more practice." 

"Uh-huh," the Commander scoffed. "You know, the other day while we tried to capture the Phantom Lord, a bullet went under his left shoulder."

Warshon raised his head and laughed. "Are you still suspecting me, Commander?"

The other shrugged, jutting out his chin. "Just a thought that came up." 

"Is that so?"

"Are you familiar with the name Marvin Osborne?"

Cartel Manifesto's No. two boss. "Jog my memory."

"The cartel boss, well, one of them."

"Haven't you put them all away?"

Zahid bobbed his head. "Well, yes and no. Those without a power net behind them, they're gone for good. But Osborne," he paused for a long huff of air. "Mustafa is getting him out."

Warshon shrugged. "Why should it pique my interest?" 

"I don't know, Doctor, maybe because we're on the subject of the Phantom Lord," Zahid replied, looking equally casual. "And I remember Osborne swore vengeance on him." 

Carrying himself with his usual air of nonchalance, Warshon deliberated on whether his father, too, was behind the attempt for the release. Lord Quesbecq might not need him as a son, but he needed the Phantom Lord. It made no sense why he'd want Osborne out now after all the years to put him away. It must be Mustafa angling for a cartel boss to keep the rein on Warshon now that Serhat had exposed him. And yet, it'd contradict his previous conjecture about Mustafa and his father working together. Either his conjecture didn't hold, or the two discorded. 

"Seems to me that Mustafa wants one to handle the other, assumed your tidings hold," Warshon observed, his eyes flicking to Zahid. "No offense, but I can't see why Mustafa Agca should let you on what must be classified." 

"I've been in the DEA for over half my life," The Commander replied, his voice hoarse. "I have friends in the prison keeping an eye out for me. Mustafa never went to see Osborne or called, of course. But I have reason to believe he's brewing the plan." 

"Careful, Commander," Warshon warned, his head shaking. "You don't want to spread rumors about the Globalist candidate to a civilian. Maybe the wall has ears I'm not responsible for." 

"Good!" Zahid clapped his own hands. "Let my words take the wind and spread. Maybe the Phantom Lord will hear them and take caution." 

Warshon angled his head, his brow contracting. "Don't you want to catch him?"

"Of course!" Zahid guffawed, sauntering over to Warshon's side of the room as he stood beside him. "Don't get me wrong, it's still my dream to put my cuff on the cocky son of bitch. But," he paused, considering the other sidelong. "I realize something over the years. It's a losing game the moment you find respect in you for your enemy, and beating a man you respect never feels like victory."

Warshon scoffed. His muscles tensed, fists clenching in his pockets, nails delving at the flesh. "I'll ponder on that." 

"I'm sorry I raided your Plant, doctor. It was… I was…" The afternoon sun slanted through the window, casting a gossamer glow on Zahid's tired eyes. His rough features softened. 

"It's alright." 

"And thank you, for being the bigger man here."

"I'm only doing my job."

Zahid raised a hand over Warshon's shoulder and brought it to an abrupt halt before landing on his shoulder; he lowered it for a handshake. "Now, how much damage do you wish to be done to this pretty face of yours?" 

Warshon shook his head with a quiet laugh and gripped the man's calloused hand.