A/N: Long chapter alert – couldn't find a good place to end, so there is a cliffy. Thanks to all the reviewers for taking time to comment. I appreciate it. – Enjoy. RL
Chapter Three (T - mild language)
Betrayal
Rachelle's heels clicked rapidly on the cement sidewalk as she left the main building of The Company compound. To a casual observer she seemed to be in a hurry, to anyone who knew her, she was running, running from a meeting that never should have happened but had.
"Tell me about Maxwell Pierreponte," the chairwoman's words still echoed in her head. She had held herself calm, had answered every question thoroughly, competently, automatically. Her professional training had kicked in, and she had managed a performance worthy of an Oscar. Now, as she turned down a crushed, granite path toward the duck pond, that façade was slowly crumbling.
Rachelle made it past the first small outcropping of trees and suddenly veered off the path toward another small clump of unruly bushes. Obscured from view by this foliage, she fell to her knees and vomited finally releasing the visceral reaction her body had had when the chair had first spoken a name Rachelle thought she would never hear again. After voiding the meager contents of her stomach, mostly water and coffee as it had been several hours since she had had anything substantial, she fell into dry heaves.
It took a good minute before she could breathe again. Swiping her wrist across her mouth, Rachelle pushed herself to her feet and half-stumbled, half-walked further down the path toward a small, iron bench situated to give an observer an excellent view of the grounds of The Company compound and the little pond that had apparently attracted water birds. She dropped to the cool, rough surface, and with hands still shaking, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed quickly. On the forth ring, a happy voice answered asking for her to leave a message. Rachelle hung up knowing that the lack of a message would be more forthcoming of a call back rather than any voice recording she could leave.
As Rachelle looked at the rings of water made by the ducks still swimming in the pond, a soft, evening breeze, still holding a hint of salt from the ocean, blew and gently swept the strands of her hair from her cheeks. There were two adults and several ducklings that swam just close enough to her to see if she would be throwing any tempting morsels to them. By her still form, they realized that this two-legged being was not going to be sharing leftover crusts, and they continued swimming to the other side of the pond.
Hot, unshed tears blurred her vision as Rachelle watched the little family foraging on the opposite shore for grass and bugs. She blinked quickly clearing her eyes. She knew that if she started, gave in, the tears wouldn't stop, and she'd be damned if she let a few feathers and a name break the barriers she had fought years to construct.
Come on Ashleigh, Rachelle begged silently as she looked to her quiet phone. Her fingers itched as she traced nine digits to another well-known phone number, but she stopped herself from actually dialing. He knew the whole story, had been there from the beginning, but to call him with this would be pure selfishness. Closing the flip top of the phone to further prevent a weak moment, she focused on the reddening hues of a spectacular sunset stretching and fading to blues against the horizon.
It had all been a ruse. She had spent the last week of her life preparing reports, looking at intel, and trying to formulate some way to save Airwolf as it currently existed in The Company, but that hadn't been the point of the investigation at all. While she was involved in internal committee meetings, Locke and Newman had gone to DC to participate in the official hearings on the Airwolf Program. Even though Hera had promised that Rachelle's report had been part of the arsenal that Newman and Locke were using to justify Airwolf's continued survival, the assurance had left a bitter taste in her mouth, made even moreso by the true motivation of the Oversight Committee's agenda.
Rachelle buried her head in her hands and swallowed the sob that almost reached the surface. She would survive this; she had to. But, it would be so much easier if she could just talk to Ashleigh; find out if the agent knew anything and how much and when…
Thoughts whirled around her head as twilight, darkness overcoming light, slowly took place in the sky. The distant quacking of the ducks silenced as the fowls bedded down for the night. The wind that had offered a brief respite from the suffocating summer heat died away leaving Rachelle very much alone with memories that would never be distant enough to examine.
Threading her fingers through her hair, Rachelle stood and shook herself from a reverie that would be nothing more than debilitating. Glancing to the water, she jumped when she saw the image of a man standing behind her as if to push her. She spun, her hands poised to strike, but he flickered and blinked out of existence. God, she took a deep breath and released it trying to disperse the adrenaline rush. If a mere Q and A session with a Company committee, that only knew half of the story – the official half, brought on hallucinations, what would the total truth do to her?
--
The waiter finished taking their drink orders and left Ashleigh and String to study the menu for their main meal. Ashleigh glanced at the menu one last time and closed it after making her quick selection. Ever since she had left the Hawke house she had been longing for Italian food. While she was quite sure the entrée wouldn't measure up, she would at least silence the pasta craving that Jo's had inspired.
String closed his own menu and look at Ashleigh. She had passed the recertification with no problems, and he had been impressed when she had handled the significant crosswind on the runway during landing. "How long did you say you've been flying," he asked.
"I got my license back when I was in college," she answered, taking a sip of the iced water that the waiter had brought as soon as they had been seated. "I let it lapse while I was in the Bureau back East. Couldn't find the time to keep up my hours. But, now that life has settled down a bit, I thought I'd update it."
"Been practicing?"
"You can tell, huh? I've got a friend who let me brush up before my final."
"Ever think of adding a rotor wing to it?"
Ashleigh waited for the waiter to set their drinks down and take their food order before she replied. "Why, are you looking for another pilot to handle the Lady?"
String's response was to simply quirk the corner of his mouth at her wryly and to lean back in his chair.
A brief tone from her purse prevented Ashleigh from continuing to bait him. "Looks like I missed a call," she apologized, rummaging through her bag to find the chirruping object before it got louder. Glancing at the screen, she recognized the number immediately, and with a repentant glance at String, dialed voice mail.
"That's odd," Ashleigh murmured after confirming there were no new voice messages. "Can you excuse me for a moment. Your sister called but didn't leave a message." At String's nod, she headed to the entrance of the restaurant to make her phone call.
"Hey, what's up?" Ashleigh asked when her friend picked up on the first ring.
"I need to talk to you."
Ashleigh heard the strain echoing in Rachelle's voice. "All right, you have my attention now."
"Not on the phone."
"Rae, I'm in Burbank. String and I just sat down to dinner. Where are you?"
"I'll meet you somewhere, anywhere. Ash, it is important."
Ashleigh looked back at her empty table and noticed that while both she and String appeared to be missing, their entrées had made it safe and sound. "All right, give me thirty, and String and I can both meet you at AWACs, the bar near the Bob Hope Airport, off of Sherman."
"I'll find it, but come alone," Rachelle insisted.
"What is this all about?" Ashleigh asked, not liking the urgency permeating Rachelle's voice.
"Maxwell Pierreponte."
"Maxwell Pierreponte," Ashleigh repeated back, her own tone hushed at the utterance of the name. Oh God. "I'll be at AWACs in less than thirty," she affirmed and hung up the phone as the line went dead on the other end. Shit.
Ashleigh returned to her seat at the table at the same time her missing companion did. "I need to cut this short," she informed him as she pushed the pasta on her plate around with her fork. Suddenly, she wasn't hungry anymore.
"Because of Maxwell Pierreponte?" String guessed.
Ashleigh's fork clattered on her plate as she dropped the utensil. "Excuse me?"
"When our food arrived, I went looking for you. I overheard you talking to Rachelle. The name came up. You suddenly went pale and hung up. What's going on?" There was no contrition in his tone at eavesdropping on her conversation.
If Ashleigh had been less frazzled by her exchange with Rachelle, she would have been angry with Hawke, but right then all she felt was disconnected. "Not my place," she whispered, as images played through her head.
"Then whose place is it, Ash?" String growled low in his throat, not liking the run around she seemed to be giving him.
Rather than answering his question, Ashleigh flagged down the waiter. "Could you bring me a to go box and the bill?"
"I want an answer, Ashleigh," String demanded, watching the redhead hunt around in her purse and come up with a wallet.
"We all want a lot of things, String," Ashleigh retorted, taking the box from under the tab that the waiter had slid on the table as he brought food to another table nearby. She scooped the pasta into the container and reached for the bill only to find that String had taken possession of it.
Rather than fight him for it, she simply tossed several bills on the table to cover their meal and started to stand to leave. String grabbed her arm in such a way as to have her return to her seat. "You left too much," he hissed, sliding her money back to her. "And, in case you've forgotten, we rode together." Once again, String held up her keys.
Rubbing her wrist, Ashleigh glared at him. "Enjoy your meal. I'll pick you up by dessert." Moving quicker than String thought she could, she managed to snatch the keys to her car away from him.
She was halfway to the door before he closed the gap between them. "I'm going too."
Ashleigh ignored him while they were in the restaurant and even returned a parting goodnight pleasantry to the hostess managing the door. Once they made it to the parking lot, she wasn't nearly so cordial. "This is not up for discussion," she stated evenly and moved to open the car door only to find String between her and it.
"Who's discussing it?"
"Get out of my way, String."
Ashleigh's tone held a warning that String simply ignored. He was used to the temperament of a redhead and figured he could use that experience to his advantage. However, he was slightly surprised when she leveraged herself to physically move him from his spot. But, when he noticed a security officer making rounds through the lot, he realized that Ashleigh was working toward a physical confrontation to attract additional assistance in leaving without him. She pushed him again, and String turned and wrapped his arms around her in what appeared to be a loving embrace.
"What the hell are you doing?" Ashleigh growled, her voice starting to rise in volume as she struggled to free herself from his arms.
"This," String stated simply, pulling her into a rough, passionate kiss.
All thoughts left her when String's lips crushed against her own. . As Ashleigh reveled in the feel of him, taste of him, her fight drained, forgotten. She had had feelings for the lone wolf ever since she had met him almost two years ago, but then again Ashleigh had always been attracted to the strong, silent, dangerous types. However, when Stringfellow had turned out to be blood relations to her oldest and dearest friend, Ashleigh had quashed all thoughts of a romantic entanglement with the quiet, brooding man. But thoughts were easy to dismiss - chemistry, electricity, not so much.
As fast as it had begun, Ashleigh found herself out of breath staring at String. "What was that for?" she asked, still a little rattled from the kiss.
"Distraction," String replied evenly as though nothing had happened. "You were going to create a scene for that rent a cop, and I needed to get these away from you." String held up the prize of car keys once again.
Ashleigh lunged for the keys but only managed to catch Strings arm. "Give me my keys," she ordered and not getting anywhere with threats this evening added a half-hearted, "please."
"Not until you tell me what is going on."
"I've already told you, that it is not my place. You want answers; talk to your sister."
"Fine, then I'll go with you and ask her myself." String agreed and opened the driver's side door once again taking ownership of Ashleigh's vehicle.
Ashleigh brought her hands to her head and ran her fingers through her hair in frustration. "You don't know where we are even going," she argued.
"You do," he countered.
Ashleigh made no move toward the other side of the car. "Dammit, she wants to meet with me alone. Alone, String. It is a concept I know you're familiar with, so let me go by myself." She purposefully focused on his clenched jaw as she spoke knowing if she looked into his eyes she would see the emotions her words were meant to inspire, and the depths of those blues would sway her more than any verbal argument could.
String sat silently in the driver's seat as Ashleigh's words echoed over him. With great restraint, he reigned in the emotions that spun from the truth. An image of Caitlin O'Shaughnessy saying almost verbatim what Ashleigh had said came into focus. Without another word, he slid across the gearshift and into the passenger seat. "I'm going with you," he repeated quietly, his tone brooking no further argument. They were the words that he wished that he had said to another redhead a long time ago.
--
Blinking in the darkness of the interior of AWACs, Rachelle made her way to an empty barstool close to the door of the establishment where Ashleigh had said she would meet her. As soon as she took her seat, a good-looking bartender dressed in a close imitation of Air Force blues asked her for her order. Deciding that something strong might not be such a bad idea, she requested a Blanton's bourbon, neat, and placed a bill on the bar to cover the drink and still leave a sizable tip. Ignoring the nod of understanding the bartender gave her as he took her money and started to pour her drink, Rachelle turned in her chair to take in the environment of the pseudo-club/bar.
Various scenes of an E-3 interior were displayed in mural fashion on each wall, from targeting radar graphics to cockpit photos of terrain and sky. Although fairly clean, the place had seen better times. The murals were completely intact but had turned yellowish from years of exposure to cigarette smoke that even though now banned in bars still seemed to linger in the air in defiance of the California ordinances. The wood on top of the bar was riddled with glass scars and gouges from who knows what. Odd forms of light spilled out from the fixtures made from what appeared to be instrument housings and in some cases the skins of missiles.
Rachelle took a sip from the glass that the bartender had placed in front of her and swiveled to look in the other direction at the platform where tonight's live band was preparing. The stage was constructed from half of a cockpit of an E-3, the top peeled open and innards removed, leaving only the nose intact. The wings, presumably from the same AWAC, additionally reinforced to handle longer intervals of human weight than it would have ever experienced during an actual tour, were now connected directly to the cockpit and spread forth on each side to create the left and right portions of the stage.
Rachelle lowered her head in exasperation as the band began their first set with songs from the popular 80's movie, Top Gun. So much for originality, she thought turning back to the bar and doing her best to ignore the music now blaring from the stage.
"Buy you a drink?" a man wearing a faux-leather, flight jacket asked her as he took the vacant bar seat next to her.
Rachelle glanced at him and back to her still mostly full glass. "I'm taken care of," she answered, swearing to herself that she saw the same situation in the movie the band's music was now emulating.
"All right, I'll join you; what's that you got there?"
"Bourbon," Rachelle answered tightly, using a voice she hoped would dissuade his apparent interest in striking up a conversation with her.
"Gotcha," he smiled. "Hey barkeep, a bourbon."
The bartender looked up in annoyance from his conversation with a leggy blonde. He then glanced at Rachelle who rolled her eyes at the intruder and shrugged almost imperceptibly. Within a few minutes, a honey hued beverage appeared in front of the man hitting on Rachelle.
"Name's Bradley," he smiled a toothy grin of bleached, white teeth. "But, my friends call me Brad," he continued conversationally, as he settled his tab, shorting the tip noticeably.
"You don't say, Bradley" Rachelle murmured, glancing to the opaque glass door leading into the bar.
Either by choice or ignorance, Brad didn't notice Rachelle's lack of interest or use of his full name. "Seems you have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don't know yours, unless you prefer to be called Gorgeous."
Rachelle's bland expression dimmed in agony at the horrible line. Do people really do this? "Look Bradley, I'm really not in the mood…"
"Ah, tough day at the office," Brad continued, gliding past Rachelle's attempt at ending the conversation. "I can relate. I know," he snapped his fingers, "let's toast to it being Friday." Lifting his beverage, he clinked his glass with the one in her hand. "Cheers," he smiled and took a large swallow.
As soon as the liquid made contact with his throat, he started coughing and sputtering. "What the hell is that?" he gasped, still trying to cool the burn from the liquid as it continued its decent through his digestive system.
Rachelle picked up his glass and sniffed it. She swirled the liquid around the glass to get the full aroma. Finally, looking at Bradley, she took a slight sip. "That," she replied, "is bourbon."
"You drink that stuff," he choked, still feeling the effects of the liquid.
"No," Rachelle replied and slid her chaser of water to him. "I drink, Blanton's. You apparently drink the cheap stuff."
The band's music began the notes of a song that Rachelle immediately recognized as The Righteous Brothers, You've Lost That Loving Feeling, and seeing a glimmer of an idea brighten in Bradley's eyes, Rachelle decided now was the best time to shut down the guy. "Bradley, you're crashing and burning here," she explained. "And, so help me, if you launch into a rendition of this song with your friends over there," she pointed in the general direction of a group of five guys watching their interplay. "I will throw what is left of your drink in your face. You think that stuff burns on the inside? Wait until you get it in your eyes."
The gleam in Brad's eyes dimmed, and seeing that he was almost ready to give up, she continued, "Remember the saying, any landing that you can walk away from? Walk away, now." Finally, taking her hint, Brad looked down the bar and found another woman who looked like she might be receptive.
God, I hope he fixes his radar soon, Rachelle thought as she watched him make his way to an attractive blonde to start all over again. Her boyfriend isn't going to like that. Turning away from another potential scene, Rachelle looked at the bartender who was cleaning up Brad's drink. "Thanks."
"You more than paid for it," he flashed a quick smile in her direction and headed back to his conversation with the blonde.
The door to the club opened, and Rachelle immediately recognized the profile of Ashleigh Francisco. Finally. Rachelle was about to flag her when she recognized the other shadow next to her friend as that of her brother. Dammit. Rachelle finished her drink in two swallows. Not the best way to finish premium bourbon, she acknowledged. Taking courage in the slight burn of the liquor, she left her seat and headed to the twosome.
"Ashleigh, String," she greeted them.
"Rae," Ashleigh's acknowledgement was tinged with apology. "Sorry, we're late. I couldn't find a decent parking spot."
"Yeah," Rachelle agreed, looking pointedly at her brother. "String, why don't you get Ashleigh a beer or something."
Although he knew he was being sidelined, String complied with a nod. "You want anything?"
"Just a glass of water."
As soon as her brother was out of earshot and heading to the bar, Rachelle grabbed her friend's wrist and pulled her close. "What is he doing here?" she gritted through clenched teeth.
"I couldn't get rid of him. We rode together to Burbank. What was I supposed to do, dump him at the restaurant?" Ashleigh replied in the same hissing tone as Rachelle.
"Yes, that would have been preferable to this," Rachelle continued, sweeping her hand around her to the ambience of the club. "Why in heavens name did you choose here to begin with?"
"Do you like it? I found it awhile back with some girls from the office. They have a wicked ladies night with karaoke."
Rachelle shook her head in dismissal and dragged Ashleigh to a small alcove of empty tables as far away from the stage as possible. "I really don't care about that now. We need to talk."
Ashleigh's eyes lost their shine of reminiscence. "What do you want to know?"
"Well for starters, how about the fact that you didn't and don't seem surprised by my even mentioning him."
Ashleigh looked down and drew a breath holding it for a second. When she exhaled, she finally met her friend's eyes. "He's in the Witness Protection Program."
"What!" Even in their relative seclusion, Rachelle's shout was enough to turn a few heads in their direction. Lowering her voice, Rachelle continued, "You told me that he got the needle."
"I thought that he had," Ashleigh defended herself against the accusation in Rachelle's voice. "I testified at the hearing. I testified for me and for you since you couldn't."
"We don't need to go into specifics here," Rachelle growled, forcing the memories into an analytical frame of reference rather than a dramatic representation of the past events of her life. "When did you find out?"
"About four months after the trial," Ashleigh admitted.
"And you didn't think to tell me!" Rachelle's anger was palpable. "Of everyone, I think I had a right to know."
"I couldn't. I swore an oath…"
"Screw your oath," Rachelle yelled. "I should have been told."
"You left the Bureau," Ashleigh argued, still trying to reconcile the action of betraying her friend with honoring her duty. "I didn't know where you were for almost eighteen months. Besides, what would you have done if you knew?"
Rachelle could feel the weight of her concealed Glock in her shoulder bag. "I'd have killed him," she answered, truthfully.
"And what would that have gotten you," Ashleigh countered.
"Justice," Rachelle spat and went silent as String approached them.
"Everything all right here?' he asked, placing the beverages on the table. He could almost see the waves of tension radiating from the two friends.
"Peachy," Rachelle snapped and took a swallow of her water, wishing she had asked for another bourbon or at least a beer to numb her feelings on the subject matter. She glanced at her watch and stood. "I'm heading home."
"I'll hitch a ride," String stated, standing to go with his sister and leaving his beer untouched sans the swallow he had taken on his way to their table.
"You don't have to do that," Rachelle hedged, still moving to leave. "Stay, enjoy your nightcap and the band."
"I've got an early flight," String excused himself, staying in line with Rachelle as she edged out of the bar.
"I'll see you later," Ashleigh called, not moving from her chair. After her run-in with Rachelle, she figured she had earned her beer. Besides, there was no better way to wallow in the decisions of the past than with a brew and 80's soundtrack music.
--
Mike took another sudsy plate from St. John's hand and dunked it into the clear water on his side of the sink. He dried it on his dishtowel and repeated the process of taking the next dish from his partner in chores.
After eating Jo's payment of the lost bet, St. John had volunteered Mike and himself to clean the kitchen. Mike gathered that it had been under duress since the volunteering had involved a blatant nudge on Jo's part and a not-so-subtle suggestion regarding the task in need of completion. It was obvious from the get go that she expected some male-bonding moment to take place.
He couldn't blame her, since he had all but ruined her meal not only by his gloomy mood and news bomb but also by his excessive drinking. On his sixth beer, he had finally deadened his reaction to the fact that Rachelle would be responsible for reopening healed wounds of the past and rattling skeletons that he had thought were long dead and buried. It was about that time that Jo had switched him to iced tea, and not the Long Island variety. Of course his comment about String and redheads might have aided her in the transition.
Finished wiping down the countertops, Mike folded his dishcloth over the apron front sink, picked up his glass of tea, and walked out to sit on one of the benches on the front porch. A few minutes later, the front door creaked open, and St. John joined him.
"It might help to talk about it," St. John suggested, looking out at the front yard and listening to the cicadas strumming their evening sonata.
Mike closed his eyes momentarily weighing St. John's counsel. "Do you remember Lynn?"
St. John leaned back against his chair and looked at Mike. Offering a slight apologetic smile, he answered. "Sorry, Mike, but not ringing any bells."
Mike shook his head and laughed hollowly. "I know, there have been so many of them. I was kind of a revolving door. Lynn turned out to be a rogue agent trying to get a hold of Airwolf," he explained.
Again, St. John shook his head.
"Aw, c'mon there haven't been that many females used as lures for Airwolf; have there?"
"Do you want me to count?" St. John suggested, preparing to enumerate ones of which he knew through String or had first hand knowledge of himself.
"No, that's quite all right. It doesn't really lend anything to where I was going anyway."
"Oh, so there is a point to this," St. John quipped, in an attempt to lighten the mood.
"Lynn was Company. But, still she betrayed me, us," Mike admitted.
"And, you feel that Rachelle is doing the same thing?"
"Yes, no. I don't know. I know she's your little sister, the blood test and DNA prove that, but do you feel like you really know her?"
"I know her as well as I can for two years passing among thirty some odd. Relationships take time."
"I know that," Mike waved in dismissal. "But relationships take more than time. They take openness, sharing, a willingness to trust."
"And, you don't think you have that?" St. John guessed.
"It's too early to tell, but Rachelle can be so secretive. She's locked so many things up tight; I'm not sure I'll ever be on the inside. What kind of relationship is that?"
St. John shook his head in reply and looked up at the headlights that swept the front porch as a car pulled into the drive. "I don't think that this is a conversation you and I should be having. Why don't you try again, with her," St. John indicated the shadowy figure exiting the parked automobile. Picking up his glass, St. John retired into the house.
--
Mike offered a nod to String as he went into the house, and watched as Rachelle took the two steps to the porch. "Well, I see the prodigal sister has returned," Mike muttered.
"Not tonight, Mike," Rachelle warned.
Mike didn't miss the edge to Rachelle's reply nor did he miss the exhaustion in her stance, but despite St. John's suggestion of having a true heart-to-heart with her, Mike couldn't stop the anger that swelled upon just seeing her. "Hard day at the office?"
Rachelle looked up sharply at Mike's choice of words. As soon as her eyes met his, she knew that he knew. "Who told you?" she asked in defeat, sliding into the glider that St. John had occupied.
"It should have been you," Mike's answer held a mixture of hurt and anger.
"I was under orders not to say anything." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. God, I'm no better than Ashleigh, she thought with bitterness.
"Since when has that stopped you?"
"It doesn't matter," Rachelle argued, trying her best to ignore Mike's more than valid attack.
"Why?"
"The Oversight Committee wasn't interested in a word I said. They already made up their minds. My meeting was just a test of loyalty."
"Congratulations," Mike spat, "You passed."
"I'm not so sure," Rachelle replied.
"Could have fooled me. You managed to keep the lid on the investigation from your brothers, Jo, and myself."
Mike's omission of a name was a telling indicator to Rachelle. "Locke told you," she realized. Mike's silence was enough of an answer. "Did he also tell you that he and Newman are in Washington doing the same thing that I was, just with the true bigwigs that make the final decision?"
"No," Mike admitted, feeling a certain sense of betrayal at that omitted piece of information. "But, it is Jason's job to handle The Company side of things."
"So, it's okay for Locke to do his job but not me?" Rachelle's hands balled up in frustration. This was the same argument that they had been having ever since she had joined The Company on the security side of things. "You know, it isn't easy breaking into this little clique of yours, even by blood. Not all of us can fly. Not all of us like to fly."
"You know," Mike growled, tired of the repetition of the fight as well. "If you'd try and open up a bit, be honest. It might not be such a trial getting to know us, become part of us."
"Which us are you talking about?" Rachelle countered. "Because from where I stand, there are secrets on both sides."
"You dug them up; you tell me."
"What exactly is this all about," Rachelle's anger evaporated, leaving her too tired to continue the verbal exchange.
Mike sunk back into his chair and looked hard at Rachelle. "You investigated some pretty ugly spots in our history. There were things that happened that I'm not proud of and other things that cost me dearly. Doesn't seem fair for you to find those things out that way. I couldn't defend myself or explain my actions. In testimony, there are just words, but I am more than that."
"I know that," Rachelle said, moving from her chair and kneeling in front of him. "We all have skeletons in our closets, things that we wish would never come to light." Her words made her shutter as she thought about how some of her own skeletons were about to be revealed.
Mike stared into Rachelle's deep blue eyes and saw flickers of fear and raw pain before she closed her eyes and pulled to standing. "Why didn't you ask me?"
Rachelle shook her head in confusion for a moment forgetting what they were talking about. "Emotions, even if they are part of the truth, do not do you any good with a governmental body. Hard facts that have explanations, justifications, are all they want. You fly by the seat of your pants; you fly with emotion. People who have never been in the field or know what a life and death situation really is judge your actions in a cold sterile room. They hold the purse strings; you play by their rules."
Mike watched Rachelle stare at the night sky, her hands wrapped around her upper arms sliding up and down slightly as if to ward off a chill. He stood and walked to her but stopped short of touching her. "Where do you stand?"
"In the middle on the outside," she whispered.
A squeal of tires shattered the night, silencing the insects and ending the moment. A dark car peeled down the road with no headlights illuminating its path. As the vehicle screeched down the pavement, an audible cracking accompanied it. Mike recognized the sound at the time Rachelle did, but he acted more quickly.
With Mike's arms wrapped around her, Rachelle was pushed off her feet. A blinding pain glanced across her skull as she impacted with the front lawn.