Lita watches in mute terror as the blood drips from the jagged gash in James' arm, down his elbow, and spatters onto the gym floor. The spreading stain on the ground serves as a seal to the patrolman's promise. There is no resolution here, no compromise to be had...only death. Whether a bullet to the brain or thrown in La Quinta, the result is the same. Lita will be damned if these power hungry sons of bitches will have a piece of her before the end. There is nothing she wouldn't do to stave off that fate. Nothing.
Lita is so hyper-focused on James, on the blood spilling from his wound and wild, frantic fury in his eyes that she doesn't quite pick up on the Lieutenant's words but once she's heard them they start ringing in her ears. Heel, Dog King. The Dog King was the stuff of legend; a cautionary tale told to children to get them to toe the line. A charming monster with insatiable bloodlust and a black hole where his heart should be. If these lackeys think they've got the myth himself, no amount of arguing to the contrary is going to save them. Lita would laugh if she wasn't sure it would come out as a scream.
The patrolman, McCarrick, is practically foaming at the mouth with unrestrained glee when he calls in their location. How he knows she's a UMCB doctor she hasn't a clue but if the DoJ thinks they've got some big fish on the line they'll come running and they'll have no chance to run at all.
James is arguing, throwing the lieutenant's words back in his face when the patrolman rucks up his shirt, showcasing a nasty scar along his torso. It throws James, Lita sees. He's surprised and then, somehow, not surprised at all.
The epiphany rolls over Lita like cold water, filling her up slowly until she's drowning in it. Her shoulders fall, her knees buckle, her chin falls to her chest, her hands sag to her sides. Lita closes her eyes. It's easy to see, now. How it fits. Where all the lies meet and converge like puzzle pieces, filling in all the gaps she'd been too blind to see were even there. There had been moments where she had seen able to see through the cracks in his carefully calculated disguise; where the gentle met the brutal and she hadn't turned away. She'd felt no remorse or disgust knowing what she thought him capable of. She'd found strength in it. A stupid, self-aggrandizing title didn't change what she felt for him. She'd taken him into her heart and made a place for him there where no one else had ever been.
He hadn't thought she could take it. He thought she couldn't be trusted with the truth. That she was weak. Unworthy. She was on her knees and had blood on her hands and it still wasn't enough for him and she hated him for it. None of it was real. Not one damn bit of it. She was knocking on death's door and the last thing she'd live through was a lie.
"Get those hands back up," the Private behind her growls, grabbing her by the hair and yanking her forcibly back upright on her knees. Lita straightens and raises her hands and places them behind her head. She can't look at James, she won't. She doesn't need to. Instead, she looks to the lieutenant. Eyes clear, back straight, chin lifted, and mouth set in a chilly, knowing line, Lita addresses him.
"This is your last chance to take that out," Lita says, her voice eerily calm. She is regal in her accused stance. "You have no idea what you've done."