Harris flips over onto his belly. Come on, come on!

First three feet he crawls. Then, groggily, he climbs to all fours. Correction: all threes. His right arm dangles uselessly, sending jolts of pain into his shoulder. Pain hurts. It hurts like hell. But he grits his teeth and staggers on toward his only goal.

"No," Agatha screams over the thunder, the fire, the sirens, and the chariots of Hades for all he knows. "Get out. Out! Save yourself!"

Harris' energy is committed to his progress. The ruins on the floor bruise and scrape him when they don't bar his way. They're extra slippery from the rain too. It just has to be an obstacle course!

Once he's within shouting distance—kneeling next to her—he fishes out a key from his jacket's pocket. "I apologize for my trashy taste!"

Hopefully, Oliver and him both use the universal handcuffs and his fingers are nimble enough to unlock the handcuffs one-handed.

Here goes nothing. Shaking and sweating, more by luck than design, the key slips in. He will take it. Shakily, the key twists—and metal bracelets fall off Agatha's wrists. He can breathe again.

"God!" Agatha whispers. She cradles his face, kissing him, rubbing her tear stricken-cheeks against his nose. Her lips are wonderfully hot against his rain-soaked skin. "Thank God, you're promiscuous!"

"That was before I met you."

"Uh-huh." She laughs more than she cries.

"Sweetie, we're not through yet. We need to make it down... come..." he half-carries, half-walks them to the stairwell. "Sorry, I'll make you all wet."

The building wails and rattles like a freight train. He rips the jacket off and wraps it around her. In the darkened interior, blood that stains his shoulder isn't red. It's tar. Just tar. No biggie.

She's clinging to his other side. He has his arm slung over her.

"One step at a time," he whispers as they stumble down the first flight of stairs. "They're coming toward us. Jung. Colin. Everyone."

He pushes back his fears, but another explosion ruins all his good work. The bomb squad must clear the object first. The firefighters might never even enter the building if it's deemed unsafe. Who could blame them! It would only be the right call.

"We need to get as close to them as possible. Go as far down as possible," he whispers to Agatha. Exiting this cursed tower would be the best.

She stares at the dark stain on his shoulder, growing paler and paler with every passing second. It's hard to say if he's holding her up or the other way around. But... whatever works.

"What did Oliver say about your uncles?" Keep her thinking. Talking. Moving.

"Oliver said they..." She hiccups. "...they put a hit on my parents. My father made deals they didn't like, but couldn't challenge. He was the eldest, see?"

"I wouldn't trust a word out of Oliver's mouth."

"He gave me proof... a stick drive. His parents weren't just rich eccentrics. She was CIA. He was MI6. Hung out to dry after the cold war's end, so they went rogue. High end assassinations, industrial sabotage and espionage... you name it. Trained Oliver since childhood to do the same."

"That's some quality homeschooling."

"They always gathered a file on the client as assurance—that's the file Oliver gave me. That's... that's how he got 'hooked' on me. They had my family under surveillance for a while before staging the accident."

"Pervert," he hisses under his breath. Fourteen... she was fourteen!

There's an on-rush of steps from the hallway. "Milwaukee Fire Department! Call out!"

Tears spurt out of Harris' eyes, because the voice is so familiar. He pours the last ounce of his strength into a shout. "Jung! Over here!" He slumps against the wall drained and listens. Did they hear him?

The door scrapes open at the landing just below them. "Third floor! Stairwell!" Jung yells into the radio.

There could be more explosives. The building can collapse any second despite the steel. Yet Harris smiles, as he pushes Agatha forward. "Jung, take her out of here. Do it—and I'll put a word for your wretched soul before God."

"He's shot!" Agatha nearly tumbles on top of Jung, but catches herself on the railing. "Shot! Help!"

Jung's face looms over him. His head's too floaty to pick up anything from Jung's yells but keywords. Male. Twenty-five. Gunshot wound. Urgent. Medevac. Standby.

Why does nobody ever listen to him? Agatha is still there, wedged next to Jung.

"Stay with me," she whispers. "Stay with me. Marry me... Harris! Harris?"

He can't have heard it right, but it's nice. With an idiotic grin spread over his face, he kilts over to one side, bumping into the wall. His shoulder is burning, but the rest of him is so darn cold and growing numb. He can't really feel most of it... can't feel much at all, even his shoulder. Pure black engulfs him.

***

If Harris knew in advance how much hassle it would be to marry a board member of an international conglomerate, who's also a major social media darling, and in the middle of a criminal trial of a century, he would have said—

Harris chuckles. He would have said 'yes'. Even if he knew he was agreeing to a destination wedding. A far-far away destination. The opposite end of the planet, basically. That it only took Agatha and him a year to get to this sandy beach is a glowing recommendation to the small army of wedding peeps.

The golden, combed sand is crowded with people and chairs. The azure waves lap the shore and tease the guests with the prospect of the morning swim. An arch covered with orchids and some other flowers is behind Harris' back. Their scent mixes in with the heady saltiness in the air.

He sweeps the guests, picking out the familiar faces—his dad and Lonita, his mom... and Jung with so many of the Station's personnel sitting next to him, Harris has no idea how the City of Milwaukee is getting by while the firefighter Sarkisian is getting married.

The music plays, calling everyone to attention. Another smile curves Harris' lips, because his tiny half-sister has a comically focused expression on her little face. Her job is to strew the petals along the aisle, and strew them she does. Pink, red and white, they fall on the sand or fly away on the wind. He gives her a secret thumbs up.

He lifts his eyes away from the flowers and all he can see from that moment on is Agatha walking to him.

Her dress and her veil stream in the ocean breeze. That damn dress was the best kept secret in Wisconsin for months. It has a skirt about the size of a parachute, scrunched up into silk roses. They are dusted with silver thread, then coated over with some nebulous fabric.

Agatha would float away on this swaying structure, except love grounds her satin shoes to the sand... he hopes.

She stops next to him before the priest.

He puts his arm on her back... The sadist, calling himself a tailor, added a thousand pearl buttons down the skin-tight bodice of Agatha's gown, sitting about an eighth of an inch apart. He'll have to unbutton every one of them later on. A tough job, but someone has to do it, and he's up for it. A smile stretches his lips at the thought. His world fills up with sunshine that no clouds will ever be able to dim completely.

"Dearly beloved," the priest starts, and Harris smiles even wider. Yeah, that's what happiness is.

The End

Calgary, Alberta

June 2, 2023