Thank you to everyone reviewing my un-Christmas Christmas fic. I am aiming for having it completely posted by the day after Christmas, so with encouragement I think it'll work. Once again, my laptop was destroyed by a virus, but I managed to salvage most of my documents before it went down.

Standard disclaimer: I have no rights to the GI Joe brand and I make no money from this writing. Please enjoy it as it is intended, a work of homage to the greatness of the characters created by Hama and Hasbro.


Chapter 2

It was two days before Beach was awakened by the noise of a loud diesel engine. Getting stiffly to his feet, he limped to the window to peer out. Two days of random kicks and punches as he cringed and whimpered in mock terror had left him bruised, while the constant cold had sapped his reserves until he spent most of the time trying to sleep. Begging for water and food had gotten him just enough water to prevent outright dehydration while the occasional heel of bread had done little to alleviate his hunger. His eyes narrowed as he saw his head keeper rush out to the incoming vehicles. The convoy stopped in the center of the compound and his keeper stood by as a set of guards climbed out to glare around. Beach reluctantly pulled his eyes from the man who'd spent the last days beating him and focused on the newcomers.

A heavily muscled man stepped out of the middle car, looking around with disdain. Beach's tormenter greeted him with a great deal of deference. Tilting his head to get a better look, Beachhead compared to the picture in his head from the Intel and recognized the head of the local terrorist cell. There were gestures towards the building housing the prisoner and Beach stepped away from the window to stay out of sight. When the small group headed towards his building, he hurried to the furthest corner to huddle in a ball, hiding his face against the wall. He didn't need to add dirt to his face at this point.

The clack of the lock being opened, alerted him to tighten into the smallest ball possible. The footsteps coming towards him caused him to whimper in anticipation of the multiple kicks into his back and legs.

"Get up! Stupid worthless American scum!" The shouts got him scrunching around in the dirt to struggle to his knees. His head keeper grabbed him by the hair to wrench his head around to show him off to the newcomer. "He walked right up to my men. Stupid clueless soldiers. They are like chickens, no brains." Giving his prisoner a shake, he shoved him into the wall. When the bedraggled man whimpered and began to beg, he kicked him in the chest to shut him up. "Quiet. You do not need to speak. Do not make me cut your tongue out!" That made his victim clamp his mouth shut, although the terrified eyes flicked from him to the new man in clean business attire.

Mad Tournish smiled down at the huddled man. At first glance, it would seem almost kindly, if one didn't see his eyes. "Don't worry..." he spoke in nearly accentless English. "You won't be suffering much longer. Tomorrow is Christmas day. We'll have a present for the American people, they'll get to watch you on film tomorrow." He bent slightly to pat the filthy hair. "It won't be painful." He straightened and exchanged a smile with the keeper. "We are not animals to torture you to death. One nice gun shot to your skull..." The cold smile turned on the terrified face. "... you won't feel a thing."

A whimper escaped the prisoner's throat as he watched them leave. Curling up in his corner, he twisted his bound wrists inside the ropes and kept his whimpers just loud enough to be heard outside of the room. A glance out the window from his corner told him he only had a few hours until dark fell. His eyes narrowed as he nursed a particularly swollen bruise on his thigh. He hadn't been beaten enough to disable him. Just enough to make him wary of moving too quickly. Looking at his sock covered feet, he grimaced again. Standard combat boots were a huge step down from his normal footwear, but would have been far superior to barefoot in the cold. Still, it wasn't as bad as it could be. Not yet.

His voice was low as he spoke to himself in the lonely cell. "Fuckin' hell... this plan sounded better in my danged head."


Junkyard raced after the rubber bone to grab it and race back to Mutt. "Good boy." Mutt scratched his dog's ears and then gave him the toy back to chew on. "WildBill... any word?"

The pilot walked up from the nearby Army tents. "Not a peep. No transponder signal at all." He looked off at the horizon as if he could see past the thousand miles of scrubby forest to where their teammate was supposed to be. "Old Beach is way overdue."

Clutch looked over from where he was playing solitaire on a crate. "We should go in." His voice was low. "Joes don't leave our guys behind." His eyes flicked over to the regular Army troops who were studiously ignoring the nondescript strangers hanging out next to a state of the art helicopter. They'd been standing by for three days, waiting and not speaking to anyone but the camp commander.

LowLight's quiet voice made them all settle. "Can't go get what we can't locate." Clutch grumbled under his breath and the sniper turned a expressionless gaze onto him. "We have to wait until Beach activates the locator beacon."

"He's two days overdue." Clutch left off at that repeat of their objection.

Mutt reached to pet his exuberant Rottweiler. "Beach will come through. He always comes back."


Insurgent Compound:

Night finally arrived, covering everything with a freezing blanket of darkness. The men wandering the compound all disappeared into buildings, leaving only two bundled up in thick coats on guard. The one in the tower spent his time chain smoking with his back to the compound to block the wind. The single roving guard seemed more inclined to stand near a barrel fire than to actually roam the compound. Beach limped to the window to peer out, rubbing his arms in a futile attempt to get warmer. The lightweight fatigues were fine for daylight patrols out in the sunlight. Trapped in a dank cell with no footwear meant he was feeling the first warning signs of hypothermia finally. Rolling himself into a ball to conserve his body heat helped only slightly.

Waiting as the compound quieted seemed to take forever. Beach stood with an effort from the most protected corner and hobbled to the door to peer out. He found himself wishing his weakened state and limping was more of an act than it was. His eye was puffy where one kick had snapped his head into the wall unexpectedly. Most of the serious punches or kicks he'd managed to roll with just enough to avoid actual damage. Putting his good eye to the crack, he saw that the single guard sitting in the outer room was asleep, as usual. He had a brazier at his feet and a mug of cooling tea on the desk beside him. Watching for a moment showed the Ranger that he was deeply asleep and unlikely to simply wake up.

A quick check at his window showed the tower guard possibly asleep, at least he was propped up against the wall out of the constant wind, all but hidden from view. The roving patroller was no where within sight... which perturbed him. Finally he decided it was the best time he could hope for and twisted his wrists a few times. Slipping the abraded skin through the sloppily tied restraints took him only a minute. Taking the rope in hand, he unknotted and coiled it up to carry. Going back to his corner, he picked at a large nail, dragging it out of the wood. He'd spent most of one night prying it out, then reinserted it so no one would realize it was loose. Back to the door with his nail, he poked the hinge pins out easily.

Shaking his head at the ineptness of the idiots who would use a room with the hinges on the inside of the door for a prison cell, Beach tucked the nail into a pocket and peered out the crack again to check the sleeping guard. Rubbing his hands a moment to warm them as best he could, he took the door and lifted carefully. Turning it slowly, he pushed it open on the hinge side until the lock slid free. Setting the door aside silently, he took the rope out and slipped up to the guard. Strangling him from behind took a moment, and Beach grunted softly lifting the weight away from the brazier and the desk lest the flailing struggles knock over something and make unwanted noise.

Checking the body, he took a knife and checked the boot size, grimacing when they proved to be three sizes too small to fit him. A second to drag the body into the cell and slide the door back into place might buy him several minutes if anyone looked in casually. Then he poked his head out of the building and slipped into the night. He was annoyed that he couldn't spot the roving patrolman but he used the shadows to move to the larger building in the center of the compound. It was the only building with all the windows both glassed in and curtained.

The side door led him through a small kitchen, then a open room with a phone and radio set up. He took a few extra seconds to cut through all the wires behind a table. Ghosting through rooms was slightly easier due to not wearing noisy boots, harder since he really couldn't feel his feet anymore. Still, he found no sign of life other than snores from behind closed doors. Checking around the corner of the hallway showed him a door with a guard standing in front of it.

Beach smiled. Other than a fancy name plate on the bedroom, there wasn't a much more obvious manner of pointing out which room his target was sleeping in. The guard looked bored and like he was possibly dozing against the wall, head down, rifle slung on his back instead of held at the ready. Beach flipped his knife idly in one hand, considering which way would be most quiet to take out the guard. Deciding to risk throwing his knife and following up with a bull rush, he hefted the blade in his hand and stepped around the corner to throw.

He came nearly face to face with the surprised guard. The thought that the guard had picked the most inconvenient moment in time to decide to go take a break crossed Beach's mind even as he turned the blade and sliced across the guard's throat. He grabbed the other man's powerful arms, struggling to keep him under control until he could bleed out. The guard kicked ineffectively at him, instinctively trying to reach for his gashed open throat rather than attempting to reach for his weapons. It didn't take long for him to sag into unconsciousness. The burly Ranger lowered him to the floor as quietly as he could. He was breathing hard just from wrestling with the one man. The time without warmth and food had sapped his strength more than he'd realized. Snarling at the body, he rolled it to the side. A quick search gave him another knife, a handgun and the rifle. Beach slung the rifle and tucked the pistol into his pocket. He needed silence more than firepower.

Moving down to the now unguarded doorway, Beach listened at the door and heard snoring. Easing the doorknob open, he moved inside. The bed and it's occupant took much of the space, but he could see a small briefcase on the floor next to the head of the bed. Plucking it up, he snagged the little bits of metal out of his hair. He paused a few seconds to warm his shaking fingers under his arms. Using the lock picks on the briefcase, he tried to open it silently but couldn't help the tiny clicks. The snoring stopped and he froze, waiting motionless and tense. When the man in the bed rolled over and opened his eyes, Beach dropped the case onto the foot of the bed and reached to clamp one hand over his mouth and the other around his throat.

Leaning in, Beach bared his teeth. "Shhhhhhh..." The soft hiss made Mad Tournish grab at the thick wrists. "No no... shhh... be still or I'll have to snap yer neck..." A tightening of the hand on his throat made the struggles cease and the man nodded. "Good. You couldn't show up on schedule, could ya? You've been very inconvienant." Beach's eyes glittered in the dim light filtering in past the curtains. "Make even a squeak, yer dead as yer guard layin' out there." The eyes shifting to look at the slightly open door made Beach nod. "Yes, he's dead, no one will hear you dyin' in here if'n I chose to get a bit of revenge fer yer plans fer me tomorrow." There was a muffled noise of fear. "Shhhh..." The noise stopped instantly. "Now, hold still... I'll knock you out, then go away." The hand wrapped around his throat turned loose only to bring a shiny blade up to show to the terrified eyes. "One noise, I'll slice yer throat." He turned the blade over twice, catching the attention of Tournish before he slammed the hilt into the side of his head. Beach felt for the pulse, finding it slow but steady. As much as he would prefer killing the warlord, he had orders to leave this one alive.

Dumping the case's contents onto the floorboards, Beach picked out the computer hard-drives he was searching for and tucked them inside his clothing. He took a few minutes to truss up the unconscious man, tying him securely. Muttering at the small boots he found once again, Beach plucked up two more knives and tucked those into his pockets. He found a gold-plated small pistol and made a face at the loose action in the mechanism. Despite the shoddy construction, he tucked it in the small of his back.

Finally moving through the doorway again, he tried to slip down the hall in silence. Just as he passed a heavy wooden door, it opened to reveal his head keeper, staring at the unexpected apparition in the hall. There was an instant where the expression turned to a sneer as the brutal keeper assumed he was still dealing with a frightened abused corporal under his control. Then Beach was on him, punching once in the face to stun and drive him backwards. The man got one squawk out before the Ranger punched his throat, seizing up the voice box. Paniced and choking, he managed to grab up a rifle from a table inside the room and Beach grabbed the barrel, snatching it out of his weak grasp easily. The rifle was spun into a club and crushed the side of his skull with a rather loud thunk. Beach glared down at the twitching form and snorted softly. "Next time, don't take my damned boots."

He didn't pause this time, worried that the noises might bring more armed men. Instead he rushed through the building as quickly as stealth allowed. Checking the back door, he opened it and slipped out, still in only socks to trot across the empty yard towards the brush. All he wanted at this point was to get into the scrubby woods without stumbling across the guard who was actually doing his job in roaming around with a gun guarding things. He didn't particularly feel hopeful however. Somehow his luck didn't usually run in the direction of good.

Sure enough, he rounded the corner of a shed and almost fell over the guard, hiding behind the tiny building to smoke some sort of drug from the sharp odor in the smoke. Beachhead barely paused, grabbing up the guard and snapping his neck cleanly before he was able to even identify the figure as their prisoner. Dropping the latest body in a heap, he took off at a run, heading for the dark brush. His hand patted to locate the computer parts secure in his clothing. He winced slightly as his feet landed on rocks or sticks but kept going. When he became winded, he slowed to a trot, continuing in the same direction until he finally reached a stream to wade into. Clambering out of the freezing water on the far side, he sped towards the flat rocks and then carefully backed along the same footsteps back into the water and headed upstream towards the north.

The rushing water stayed thigh-deep as he struggled along. Once in a while he would stumble slightly. Fearing for the cards, he took a moment to drag them out and held them in a hand tightly. Half the time he kept his eyes on his hand, worried that the cold would numb him into dropping the precious drives. After an hour or more, he heard distant shots ringing out and paused to listen. He thought he might hear the truck engines, but it was difficult to tell. He continued along the stream dragging his legs through the weight of the cold water. His socks gave him slightly more purchase on the slippery rocks and he made it up the stream until it split into two smaller creeks. Recognizing the feature from his intel maps, he slogged out of the stream as soon as he found a rocky spot. Tucking the cards away again, he set off to the northwest, mentally plotting out the area and trying to place exactly where he'd left the transponder. Once he found the transponder and set it off, he'd have just enough time to get to the landing zone.


Local Base Camp:

Clutch was dozing when a rough hand shook him awake. "Whuu?" He sat up and blinked, already reaching for his boots. "We got signal?"

"No, your shift." Mutt jerked a thumb towards the communications tent. "If Beach ain't signaled by dawn, I say we go look for him anyway." The dog handler yawned and flopped into the vacated cot. "It's freezing out there, make sure you button up your coat." Junkyard whined softly and Mutt patted his legs, encouraging his dog to jump up onto the cot with him. "C'mon Junk, it ain't fit for man nor beast out there."

Clutch grumbled but headed through the chill towards the canvas tents where the radio operators kept all the area communications sorted out. He'd spend a cold four hours before being relieved by WildBill. "Beach had better not be enjoying some woodland hike instead of getting to the LZ. If I freeze my balls off, he's going to get such a piece of my mind when he gets back."

Lowlight's voice came floating out of the darkness. "Knowing Beach, he'll probably come walking into camp bitching about how we took too long to come get him."

Clutch grabbed at his chest. "Dammit! You just about gave me heart failure! You know that's creepy as hell, man!"

Lowlight chuckled softly. "You just have to make the night your friend, Clutch." The red tinted lenses faded back into the shadows.

Clutch watched him disappear again. "Merry Christmas you creepy fuck."

"Happy Hanukkah Clutch."

Clutch shook his head. "Damn, my own teammates are going to end up being the death of me. Worrying over Beach and getting scared out of my shorts by LowLight... what next?" He ducked to enter the tent and made sure to tug the flap shut again. "Hey guys, any signal yet?" He was greeted with vaguely annoyed looks and a negative answer. "Dammit, Beachhead. Where the hell are you?"


End Chapter

Beach is loose but will they find him before the bad guys or before he freezes? Stay tuned!