Prologue
"What the hell are we doing here?" Nathan Thompson grumbled, pulling his black ops jacket on over a heavy Kevlar vest and sweating already just from the heat of all the clothes piled on top of him.
"Our job," Craig shot back. Nate and the other agents tasked on this mission had been complaining most of the way here, and he was really just sick of it. Admittedly, he was excited just to be going on a real field mission after three years with the Agency and only a handful of field operations under his belt. Unfortunately, this wasn't exactly his "big break" into the ranks; this mission had been offered to him because he was lower-level agent, and because they could spare him for a few days. If, God forbid, he didn't make it back, he wouldn't be too sorely missed by his colleagues. A few well-known and well-respected agents came along, but so far, everyone he'd met seemed half-crazy. Quite honestly, they would have to be to play along with this raid, designed out of a lust for blood and vengeance. Pity for the senior agent that drew up the mission, along with a little boredom, motivated him to join the team raiding the facility. He wasn't privy to many of the details of the case, but Agent Vaughn's precarious emotional state and increasingly erratic behaviour was the CIA's worst kept secret. Most people spoke caustically behind Vaughn's back, saying that he needed to be suspended from active duty until he came to terms with the loss of Agent Bristow, but Craig, for some reason, felt for the older man. He'd met Vaughn only a few times, but he'd heard the stories about SD-6, and he knew that Jack Bristow respected the man that handled his daughter's case. Vaughn wasn't just another loose cannon - he was a lost and mourning man, and he needed closure before he could move on with his life. If Craig could help, and get out of a little menial paperwork in the process, he saw no harm in indulging Agent Vaughn's desires.
"It's not our job to follow this whacko just because his girlfriend died," Nate shot back. "Not my problem."
"You're an ass, Nate," one of the other agents spoke up. "Besides, you didn't have to take this mission, so shut the hell up."
Craig smiled a little, inwardly pleased with the look on Nate's face. He should know better than to speak so flippantly about their fallen colleague. Nearly everyone shed a few tears the night Sydney Bristow's death was announced. Her murder reminded every agent of the fragility of human life; she was one of the best agents the CIA had ever seen, and she was killed in her own home, then burned to nothing more than ashes. Many of the agents he trained with idolised Sydney for her strength and prowess, and secretly, all the rookies hoped they one day became a legend just as she did. It was a punch in the gut, even for those who didn't know her personally. For those who did, her death was dehabilitating. So when the request arrived on his desk, asking him to provide backup on a mission to apprehend several people believed to be responsible for her death, he didn't hesitate to accept.
"Listen up!" Eric Weiss announced, stepping up to the small group of agents gathered around the van parked half a mile from the facility. Michael Vaughn stood a foot or two behind his friend, face pale and haggard, drawn from exhaustion and poor nutrition. Stubble darkened half of his face, and he looked like death slightly warmed over. The bereaved man probably shouldn't even be here, but no one was going to force him to do anything. Quite frankly, everyone had become a bit scared of the once straight-laced agent, startled by his nearly suicidal behaviour and incessant drive for revenge. Craig got the impression Kendall and the others were just letting his grief run its natural course. Eventually, the lack of sleep and food would catch up with him, and he wouldn't be able to do it anymore. Craig hated to be the one to see him fall, and he knew when the reality of losing Sydney finally washed over Vaughn, overwhelming the anger with an empty, aching loneliness, he would never see the older agent again. That was perhaps the greatest tragedy of Sydney Bristow's death; so many others quit living when they buried her.
Trying to shake the disturbing thoughts from his head, Craig turned his attention back to Weiss, who was detailing the specs once more. He'd read through it several times, so he didn't miss much when he zoned out for a few minutes.
"You keep all of these prisoners alive," Weiss instructed. "We want them all back in LA for questioning, and then they'll be punished accordingly. If you see anything, and I mean Ianything/I out of the ordinary, you call for Agent Vaughn or myself. Understood?"
The agents nodded, and Weiss ordered them all to disperse. Running through the darkened fields, Craig felt a rush of adrenaline. He always wanted to be a field agent, but he hadn't impressed his superiors. Maybe this mission could change it all. Weiss seemed at his wit's end trying to watch out for his friend and still carry out these insane operations, and if he performed well, he might just earn himself a recommendation out of sheer gratitude. As soon as the thought entered his mind, he scolded himself for being so selfish. Tonight wasn't about him; it was about making people pay for ruining innocent lives, about giving a man a reason to keep living long after the best part of him died, about showing these bastards that American agents didn't take well to having their friends murdered in their homes. He cocked his gun and reminded himself to focus, fixing his eyes on the dimly lit building just over the side of the hill.
The team split up when they entered the facility, and gunfire immediately erupted all around, joining with stomping footsteps to form a startling cacophany of fear and death. Craig closed his eyes for a split second, trying to stem the wave of terror that assaulted him when he watched a man fall. They were all wearing vests, so it almost Ihad/I to be one of the bad guys. Still, he'd only done this a few times, and he was guessing it took a lot more experience before he became desensitised to watching human lives end.
The chaos in the hallways ended abruptly when he opened his eyes, and he made out the form of Robbie, a fellow agent he'd been through training with, motioning him to follow. He held up his gun once more and ran after him, glancing over his shoulder to make sure another agent tailed them. At the very end of the hallway, one door stood partially cracked, but no light spilled out from inside. Robbie looked around cautiously and tapped the door with his foot to swing it open a few more inches. He peeked inside and then turned around, indicating to the other two that it was safe to enter. They crept in with guns raised, and Rob let out an alarmed gasp.
"Holy shit."
His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and Craig stared in shock at the sight before him, wincing at the awful smell seeping off the walls and the floor of the small cell. The concrete slabs were cold and damp, emanating a heavy odor of must and vomit and spoiled food. In CST, his instructors warned him about torture, about the sick and twisted things men did to agents that let their guard down and wound up prisoners, but part of him always believed their stories were not meant to be taken literally. If anyone believed that those things really happened, it was only a stastical anomaly, and surely, none of them would ever confront such a horrible scene. But standing in this room, gazing in horror at the form before him, he realised his instructors weren't exaggerating. At all.
Sympathy filled his veins as he bent his head and let out a slow stream of air, every pore suddenly filled with sorrow and despair as he looked on the poor figure huddled in the corner of the room. Instinct told him this one was a lost cause; surely the torture in this room killed the poor bastard and put him out of his misery.
"Jesus, he's alive!" Rob cried in alarm.
"What?" Craig hissed. "No way in hell!" He squinted his eyes and looked a little closer. Sure enough, the figure was shaking slightly. The three agents stood transfixed, unmoving, as a harsh cough rattled off the walls. No one made a move towards the prisoner, obviously terrified to confront the grim reality of this tragic scene. But as the sound of laboured breathing filled the room, Craig couldn't stand to do nothing. He dropped his gun and ran across the room, ignoring the filth he trampled through along the way. He knelt down next to the prisoner and received his second shock of the day. "Shit," he cursed lowly, reaching out gingerly to move a piece of stringy hair obscuring his view of the face. He kept his voice quiet, trying not to frighten the person before him as he called out to his colleague. "Robbie, go get Vaughn," he instructed.
"What?" the other agent asked in disbelief. "You've gotta be kidding me. Why the hell would he care about this poor son of a bitch?"
The figure whimpered at the loud voice, and Craig tossed Robbie an irritated glare. "Because this son of a bitch is a woman!" he whispered heatedly. "Just go, Robbie! Hurry up!" The two men dashed out of the room, leaving Craig alone with the woman. Craig crawled a little closer to the woman and hestitantly reached out a hand to brush the long hair out of her face so he could better examine her. She began trembling in fear, shaking with sobs as she quietly protested the touch. "Shh, I'm not going to hurt you," he soothed. "My name is Craig Bowman. I'm an agent with the CIA. We're here to help you," he said slowly, keeping his words simple and short for her benefit.
She didn't seem to understand him, still shaking violently with fear as she tried uselessly to crawl away from him. She looked like a breathing skeleton, her dark eyes hollow and sunken in her pale face, her skin stretched thinly over sharp, angular bones. Even in the dark he saw evidence of beatings, and he shuddered at the thought of someone actually doing this to a woman. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a small penlight and flicked it on, illuminating their tiny corner of the room and casting a yellow glow over her already pallid face.
"Oh God," he breathed shakily. For a moment, he believed his eyes were deceiving him, or maybe he was still asleep. There was no way in hell she could be alive, and he didn't even want to consider the possibility of her being here, beaten and abused while everyone she ever loved wallowed in despair and depression over her death. He prayed silently for Vaughn to arrive; he didn't want this responsibility anymore. Not knowing what to do to alleviate any of her pain, he tried to gently coax her out of the corner. Her awkward position was probably straining her already difficult breathing, and if he could get her to lay down and keep her head just a little elevated, she might be a little more comfortable. She shied from his touch at first, but he kept his contact light and brief, and she started to relax just enough for him to work with her. He moved her gently away from the wall and eased her down, cradling her head in his lap. He thought briefly of his girlfriend back home, and he suddenly wished he could call her, just to make sure she was okay. When he returned to LA, maybe he should think about telling her what she meant to him. The mere thought of her being the person trembling in the dark nearly made him sick, and it was a sobering revelation.
The woman whimpered again, probably in pain, and tried to shift her head. "No, don't move," he whispered, easily restraining her with only a minimal amount of force. "Shh, you're okay. No one's going to hurt you now. We're gonna get you out of here."
"Vaughn?" she mumbled, her voice barely even a whisper, though it might as well have been a shout. Only one person could know that name, and she had supposedly died four months ago.
"No, I'm Craig," he managed to answer, fighting for his own voice as he held her a little tighter. "But Vaughn is here. He's on his way. He'll be here any minute. Just hang on, okay?" He was suddenly desperate, terrified that she might be beyond saving. The only thing worse than losing her in a fire was losing her in a fire and then watching her die again, and he knew that would kill Vaughn, as well as Jack and Dixon and Eric and Marshall.
"What the hell is this about?" Vaughn fumed as he stormed through the room, apparently oblivious to the mess all around him. "I don't have time for this, Bowman. You better hope this prisoner has some-" He stopped short when he gazed down at the shivering body, recognising those hands and those eyes despite the torture that tried to mask and disguise her. A myriad of emotions played out across his face, beginning with shock, transitioning to grief, and finally finishing with desperation. "Oh...oh my God," he breathed, immediately dropping down next to her and forcing the younger agent out of his way. He quickly moved her head into his own lap and wiped at her face, assuring himself over and over that he wasn't seeing things. Craig suddenly felt like a voyeur on an incredibly private moment, and he rose without another word.