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Next was Patrick.
“Smith.” Oliver straightened as soon as the man came out. “I need to speak with you.”
“Turner.” Patrick’s upper lip curled, and if Oliver had had any doubts about how Patrick felt about him, he didn’t have them anymore. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
Oliver stepped in front of him as he tried to walk down the hall. “You’ve got at least one thing. And I’d bet a lot more.”
Serihk’s voice sliced over them, calm and persistent as always. “Is something wrong here?”
Oliver felt a fresh burst of hatred for the meddling qesh. “Nothing. Smith and I just need to chat.”
“Smith’s busy.” Harrison appeared at Serihk’s side, and Oliver was stunned silent for a moment. It hadn’t been visible while they’d been sitting, but Harrison’s left leg had a thick cast from ankle to hip. Oliver was reminded forcefully of just how lucky he was to have escaped the explosion as unscathed as he had.
How lucky he was to have been saved.
He sighed and gentled his voice. “Look, it won’t take long. It’s important.” And just for good measure, because he never used this word, “Please.”
Patrick looked torn. Harrison as well. Serihk, of course, did not. “Smith really doesn’t have the time to spare. He—”
“I do,” Patrick interrupted him.
Serihk’s eyes widened, but he recovered quickly. “You don’t.”
“I do.” Patrick shot Serihk a glare, and Serihk looked like he was about to respond harshly, red sliding up his throat, when Harrison put a hand on his forearm.
“Patrick knows his own schedule, Serihk.” He gave the qesh an awkward tug as he swiveled on his crutches. “Let’s go. Take care, Patrick.”
“I will.” Patrick nodded, then looked at Oliver and jerked his head to a door that hung slightly ajar a couple of rooms down. “In there.”
Oliver tried not to physically let out a sigh of relief as he followed Patrick into the room and shut the door behind him. He flicked the lights on. “I know Mal’ik wasn’t at the meeting you said he was at.”
Patrick planted his feet and crossed his arms. “Yes, he was.”
Was that how a soldier lied? Oliver rolled his eyes. “No, he wasn’t. And he wouldn’t have gotten confused, and he wouldn’t have lied to you. So, where is he?”
“That’s his business.”
“And I’m making it mine.”
“You don’t own him, Turner.” Patrick strode forward and jabbed a finger into Oliver’s chest.
Oliver scowled and batted the bigger man’s hand away. “Don’t try to get macho on me, Patrick. I want to help him.”
Patrick barked out a laugh and turned away. He put his hands on his hips and looked at the ceiling, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’m sure you do.” His tone said otherwise. “Don’t worry, you and your brother have helped enough.”
Oliver grimaced, though he knew Patrick couldn’t see it. He glanced over his shoulder, as though anyone else was in the room with them, before admitting, “I don’t feel good about it. The gas.”
Patrick snorted. “Sure you don’t.”
Oliver grabbed Patrick’s arm and yanked him around to face him. “I don’t want Mal’ik to use it.”
Patrick frowned at him. “Why not?”
“Because he’ll hate it.”
Patrick didn’t reply right away, eyes narrowing as they searched through Oliver’s.
Oliver wasn’t sure what he was going to see. He wasn’t sure what was there.
