Immigrant girl

Chapter 26. Anya.

Mark's words echoed in my head like a funeral bell. Caleb's car had been shot at.

"Is Mitchell alive?"

My hand clenched the door handle tighter. Electric currents ran up and down my spine. A sharp sting hit my nose, and tears welled up in my eyes. Horrifying images flashed in my mind—twisted metal and permanently closed chestnut eyes that held not fear but only surprise. It became hard to breathe; my lungs felt like they were squeezed in a steel vice. I felt like I was losing consciousness, not just imagining it. No, it wasn't my imagination—I was indeed losing consciousness. Mark's voice reached me from afar, and black spots started to cloud my vision.

"Anya? Anya, are you okay? Can you hear me?" With one hand on the steering wheel, Mark reached out to me. My body was covered in a cold sweat. "God, you're burning up." That was the last thing I heard, and then everything around me plunged into darkness.

I felt my legs being lifted and something soft placed under them. My head was turned to the side, probably to ease oxygen flow. Someone's warm, strong hands touched my ears and began rubbing them.

"Come on, Anya, wake up." The voice was vaguely familiar, with a distinct British accent.

Agent Davis was trying to bring me back to consciousness.

"Open your eyes. Can you hear me?" I slowly started to open my eyes and turned my head. It was dark around me, with a faint light source somewhere to the side. I was lying in the spacious trunk of his Ford, and the back seat was lowered. In his emerald eyes, I could see concern, and his hands were on my earlobes.

"What...?" My mouth was extremely dry. "What happened?"

"You passed out." Mark removed his hands from my head and took my left wrist, pressing it with his index finger. I thought he was measuring my pulse. "How do you feel?"

"Fine, just thirsty." I began to sit up slowly to avoid feeling completely ridiculous. As I rose, I felt blood rushing to my head, and my cheeks turned red. Or maybe it wasn't from the blood flow to my brain, but because Mark was still gently holding my wrist. I delicately freed my hand and tucked loose hair behind my ear. "Do you have water?"

"Of course." Mark shook his head and diverted his gaze from me, seemingly embarrassed. I thought he looked just as uncomfortable as I did. He went to the driver's seat and returned with a water bottle. "Here, take it." I took a small sip, and I felt much better.

"What happened to Caleb?" Memories hit me like a hammer. My chest tightened again, and a sharp pain stabbed at my heart.

"You shouldn't worry about that right now." Mark's voice became stern, and his eyes took on a severe expression.

"What. About. Caleb?" My intonation changed too. I made it clear to Agent Davis that without an answer to this question, our further communication wouldn't go smoothly.

"He's alive. Wounded in the shoulder. He'll survive. The bulletproof glass on the passenger side didn't hold." The answers were clear, without unnecessary details, as if he were reporting to his superiors. A sigh of relief escaped my lips.

"Thank God," I buried my face in my hands and was ready to burst into tears, but I didn't want to do it in front of Mark. I sat in that position for a few seconds, then collected myself, removed my hands from my face, and looked directly at Mark. "Is he in the hospital?"

"Yes, they took him to the nearest hospital in an ambulance."

"Take me to him."

"No."

"Why not?" I was starting to get angry.

"The reason is that Mitchell is currently a subject of investigation and a victim of an attack. Talking to him is prohibited, and being near him is simply dangerous. The people who attacked him might decide to finish the job if they find out they were not successful," Davis explained. I glared at Davis, realizing that he was absolutely right. "Anya, I promise he'll be fine. The wound is not life-threatening, and he's under the protection of the police and the FBI. But for the sake of the investigation, we can't allow anyone to see him for now."