Uncommon Bond

Chapter 3

Rated – NC-17/MA

Author: Batistafan(given name, given on request)

THIS IS THE SEQUEL TO UNCOMMON SENSE – If you have not yet read the first story, doing so may better help you to piece together the events and characters of this fiction…enjoy!

Disclaimer: This is a mature fanfiction intended for mature readers. This story contains graphic violence, as well as explicit, mature, consensual sexual situations and these would not be deemed appropriate for all readers.

I do not own nor claim to have any affiliation with the WWE, its characters, wrestlers, staff or other affiliates. I do own any original characters that I have created, as well as scenarios that ensue throughout the course of this fiction. However, since both my characters and scenarios are inexorably intertwined with those of the WWE, my ownership of them is not autonomous.

I do not endorse nor do I discourage the use of any brand-name products that might be referenced in the fiction and have no claim to them as they are property of their respective companies of license. Thank you kindly for not suing.

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"Perhaps extreme danger strips us of all pretenses, all ambitions, all confusions, focusing us more intensely than we are otherwise ever focused, so that we remember what we otherwise spend most of our lives forgetting: that our nature and purpose is, more than anything else, to love and to make love, to take joy from the beauty of the world, to live with an awareness that the future is not as real a place for any of us as are the present and the past."

Dean Koontz

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Owen was fairly gritting his teeth by the time he reached the main road, his concern for Barren hidden under a well contrived poker face. One hand was on the steering wheel, the other in the best possible place should Douglas have an inkling to attack him. Inches from his firearm, his fingers itched to pull it free, but he did not.

Douglas seemed to be concentrating on the road ahead, but Owen knew better…he knew that anyone contracted by Sullivan for the job of protecting Congressman McCaughey, or any of the other questionable jobs for which they might be used, would likely not be caught off guard. He knew Douglas might appear nonchalant, but he was as lethal as any would be assassin and rapid in his assault when provoked.

Neither man seemed to have a desire to speak for the better part of the drive, but soon Douglas was struck with the need and so he spoke up.

"Do you think that Barren was run down because she couldn't see the car or because she had a hard time runnin' with her hands cuffed?" Douglas didn't face Owen when he asked the question, his voice rattled out on a rasp that suggested he was a heavy smoker, though Owen had never seen him with a cigarette.

"I couldn't say." Owen stated as he took the freeway exit that would lead him to the hospital district.

"Might be hard to remember…" Douglas nodded, reaching into his jacket pocket. "Does this help?"

Immediately Owen realized his error when Douglas dangled the handcuffs that had been cast aside after freeing Barren from them.

Owen shrugged, "Well I guess that rules out one of yer assumptions."

"I guess so." Douglas confirmed. "So were you planning on letting her go before or after you fucked her?"

A laugh passed his lips and Owen caught the slightest movement of Douglas' arm from the corner of his eye. "Yer smarter than ye look, Doug…ye've got me dead to rights." He hated the pun and he silently noted that he would be just that if he didn't act soon.

The subtle grasp of the knife under his parka, Douglas waited for an opportune moment…a stoplight perhaps, so that they didn't crash and burn when he slit Owen wide open, but they were still on an empty access lane just off of a dead freeway and moving at a fairly fast pace.

"Are ye plannin' on fightin' fair, Doug?" Owen asked knowing that the big man would already have eager fingers on the hilt of the knife…he could have guessed even if he hadn't seen the movement.

"Owen, if you reach for your gun, I'll cut you from your throat to your balls." Douglas warned calmly, no inflection when he spoke, he could have well been joking…but Owen knew better.

"And if ye pull that dagger, I'll split yer head in half with a hollow point bullet." He smiled as if he meant no ill will, but with the fingers of one hand grazing the butt of the gun in his holster and the other on the wheel, he had every intention of following through.

"I'd say we're at an impasse…a Mexican standoff, only we're both Irish." Douglas snorted as he made a halfhearted attempt at wit, but it fell flat.

"Not true." Owen said, suddenly seeing his opportunity. "I'm Irish…and yer just in the wrong place at the wrong time." His elbow flew quickly, connecting sharply with Douglas' jaw. More than once he rammed his elbow into Douglas, trying all the while to keep the car under control. He slammed on the brake pedal and the action sent the Cadillac swerving awkwardly onto the shoulder of the lonely road, skidding to a halt.

A full-on, closed spaces battle ensued, with Douglas pulling out the knife, prepared for a downward slash, but his arm was blocked, and Owen's fist to Douglas' nose prevented a deadly knife wound. Overpowering the massive fellow Irishman was proving difficult for Owen and he found himself desperate to prevent the larger man from gaining access to the gun in his holster. The fierce struggle continued for several more seconds, with Douglas having the upper hand, but Owen shifted his body, tugged the seatbelt from around Douglas' sternum and wrapped it around his neck securing it behind the headrest with one hand, while the other, tugged his holster upward and fired the weapon without unsheathing it.

The unseen bullet ripped through the bottom of the holster casing and dove into Douglas' belly…going deep and because it had been a hollow point, shredding everything in its path. He knew the deployment came with enough force that it would be lethal, but he hadn't counted on the bullet being unhindered by the organs and passing through each in turn, lodging itself in the seat. He knew when Douglas stilled for a moment that the bullet had likely severed his spinal cord, low in the back. He knew that if he had turned the man over he would have found a sizeable hole in his broad back…mostly he knew that he'd better finish the job and get the hell out of there. The shock in Douglas' eyes was quickly extinguished…his cobalt irises darkened by the dilation of black sightless pupils, when Owen pumped one more round into his head and exited the vehicle.

Tonight hadn't gone as he'd planned. Nothing since the arrival of Barren O'Neal had gone as planned, for that matter. He certainly had never intended to fall in love with someone he'd been sent to kill. He'd only been required to seduce her so that she could be used for leverage should her brother Duncan O'Neal decide to go to the authorities with information about Congressman McCaughey.

But Owen had quickly learned two things. Barren O'Neal was as close to a soul mate as he could get without looking into his own spirit…and he had learned that an alliance with the lovely flame-haired woman could help him in his endeavor to break free of Sullivan and stop the illegal funding of the Irish Reformist Party, a front for Dublin based mob activity. It was, for lack of a better term, an underground reformation on Irish soil whose illegal activities were heavily subsidized by monies from the Congressman himself and backed in secret by an influx of resources from American campaign contributions.

It was all rather simple in theory, but proving it was another undertaking…and that was where Barren had entered the picture. It wasn't supposed to have been her, not in the beginning anyway…she wasn't the one who was supposed to die or be forced to run. She was a damned fitness trainer at a gym, nothing more…just the sheer DNA link between her and Duncan O'Neal was all it had taken for her to become a target. It was her brother Duncan who had been the one to stumble upon the discrepancy in the accounting. Poor bastard couldn't have chosen a worse career, or a worse time to be employed as a CPA for a Congressman. And because Duncan O'Neal was so bloody intelligent, he'd detected the missing money instantly despite the fact that it had been filtered through numerous channels in an attempt to hide it.

He'd gathered every shred of detail possible and hidden it away for insurance before he ever even approached the Congressman with the inconsistency. Somehow Duncan must have known that something would go awry, for he clued Barren in to the whereabouts of the evidence on the morning of the day he was murdered. And as intelligent as he was, he'd split the evidence up like a scavenger hunt so that no one person could have access to it all. Now Barren was the only one left with the knowledge and if she died…then the resistance to the IRP died with her. His family, her family…many in the military and in government in their homeland would suffer, once the root of the corrupted party took over. The only way to stop it from happening was to expose it. Bring the core of it into reckoning…prove that the Congressman's agenda was being fueled by a gross misappropriation of American government funds.

Owen walked down the side of the road, until he reached the lonely parking lot of the hospital. His thoughts were with Barren, but there was little he could do for her now, he could not take the chance that Sullivan's men might find Douglas's body and then track him down in the hospital, where they'd told him to go. He'd originally planned to be crossing the border sometime late in the afternoon tomorrow with Barren hot on his heels, but that wasn't realistic anymore…he'd be passing the border crossing late tomorrow night, with a prayer for Barren on his lips, ready to trek halfway across Canada to the cabin where they'd finally be safe.

'And if she doesn't live?' The doubtful voice in his head offered. She'd live…she had to…he refused to accept anything less.

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By the time he'd reached the third floor of the hospital, he'd calmed considerably. Certainly his heart rate had gone down to an acceptable pace and his mind was much more focused, less muddled…maybe the prayer had something to do with that. The one he'd uttered in complete nonsensical silent vocabulary. God understood what he was trying to say, even if he had mixed everything up in the process.

They had already moved Nancy to the Medical Intensive Care Unit of the hospital, just a little over an hour into her stay. That meant she wasn't in an operating room being pieced back together…and so that was a good thing…or maybe it was bad thing…it all depended on how he chose to look at it. The triage nurse had pointed him and Chris Benoit, who had politely chosen to stay until he was no longer needed, toward the direction of the room in which she had been placed and with long, determined strides that left a much shorter Chris Benoit struggling to keep up, Dave covered the length of the long hall in no time.

His eyes found Randy Orton seated on a chair in the hallway, his tall and usually proud frame was hunched in the chair conquered, deflated…his head propped in the hands as his elbows rested on his knees. Dave Batista had wanted someone to blame…needed someone to hold responsible for the tragedy. His very human nature cried out for someone to pin to the wall…that's the way humans felt when something spun out of their control, and he reasoned he was no different.

But his inner sense of rationale overpowered the voice of his inner animal. Despite his urge to exact physical recompense on Randy…his conscience began reasoning that the accident was just that. An accident. There could be no blame on anyone or anything but the weather as far as he knew…though the details of the wreck were sketchy at best. Beyond that there was the factual basis that even though Randy was a prankster, he was unquestionably not deliberately negligent.

Sure he'd been famous for a few incidents of gifting fellow wrestlers with bodily fluid and/or other indescribable matter in their bags. He'd passed his share of gas in a locked down vehicle where he was the only one in control of the windows. Randy was even famous for swiping Vaseline onto a few toilet seats. He was easily the adult, male counterpart of Dave's very own youngest daughter Audrey. But, even in light of all of that, Randy was Dave's friend and so he knew deep down in the place it counted most, that Randy would never knowingly, never intentionally harm another human being.

Dave could forgive, because there was nothing to forgive. It was just the way things had chosen to happen. He simply had to do the best he was capable of under the circumstances and let Randy know that he held no judgment against him for what had happened. He stopped a few feet from Randy who lifted his head, revealing the lackluster expression, tired eyes…guilt flooded his features as he stood, putting his hands deep into the pockets of his dress slacks. And he was reminded that he had only just barely washed Nancy's blood off of them.

"Dave…" He began. His name rolled off his tongue with remorse, as he fought to hold in the emotion. "They put her in there already…Damn, man…I'm sorry…I didn't mean for anything like this to happen." He held back the tears, but his chin quivered as he spoke.

Dave nodded, sensing the true nature behind his words. He could not hold a grudge against Randy…he could not be angry, because he knew that Randy meant what it was he was trying to say, even if he didn't have the calmness to put into words. "I know…" He pulled Randy by the shoulder forward and embraced him for a moment, patting his back he said. "We'll work it out."

"I tried to find out how she is, but they won't tell me anything…because I'm not…you." Randy explained, stepping back and releasing a deep pent up breath. A suspicious crystalline moisture graced his lower lashes, and he chewed the inside of his cheek in order to prevent the flow of tears.

"It's okay." Dave nodded and then squeezing Randy's shoulder, he excused himself to go speak with the doctor. "Chris could you hang out until…" he motioned not knowing how to finish the sentence. Until what? Until he knew whether she was going to live or die? Until he knew if his child would survive or cease to exist before he could even hold him? He dashed the thoughts and headed straight for the reception desk.

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…She watched Duncan leap clumsily over a small cluster of flowers, laughing as he reached up in midair and snatched the Frisbee from its flight. His suit coat was still on, and the lapels were flapping hopelessly every time he ran to catch another of her botched throws.

"You're gonna tear your dress pants!" Barren told him, as he jogged back over toward the picnic lunch.

"And it'll be your fault when I do." His voice was musical in nature. Every word was pleasant when it resounded, as if happiness itself had filtered through his voice box in the form of a language. He was a fine singer too, but it had never occurred to him to anything more than karaoke. "Bad throws, Barren…every single one of them!" He kissed her on the cheek and dropped the Frisbee on top of her duffel bag. "Now let's see what you're all set to bribe me with." He reached over to dig through the food items, but snatched his hand back in a hurry when Barren smacked it away.

"As if you think I would bribe you…" Barren laughed un-wrapping a ham and cheese hoagie and passing to over to him. "You should just be happy to help your baby sister without the aid of gifts or hoagies from Tom Albert's."

"They do have the best sandwiches in town…could make a person willing to help a certain bratty sibling." Duncan grinned and then bit deeply into the sandwich. He chewed through the meat and veggie-laden bite and then asked. "How many gallons, Barren?"

"Shouldn't you be asking how many rooms?" Barren laughed, finding it extremely funny how he sidled the issue at the very same time as he cut to the chase.

"How many gallons?" He shook his head.

"Six." She replied.

"Oh hell…" He laughed nearly choking on a bite. "Barren, one gallon of paint covers four hundred square feet…two coats." He informed her, chewing and shaking his head in mock consternation. "Your apartment is only twelve hundred square feet…which means you have double the amount of paint you need for the job."

"Double the amount we need…" She corrected. "Besides, they were having a sale."

"Obviously not on 'common sense'" Duncan laughed, and then dodged Barren's wadded up napkin.

"Will you help me, please?" She pleaded with her big brother. "I'm so sick of the white walls and the landlord said I could change it if I paint it back to the original color when I leave."

"You have double the paint…three gallons of it in the wrong color." Duncan said, wiping mustard off of the corner of his mouth. "Take the other three back, if they're shelf bought and get three gallons of the original color and then I'll help." He was always like that…always thinking of ways to save her some money…it was more due to the accountant in him than the big brother in him, but he was cooperative nonetheless.

Barren squealed in delight and hugged Duncan. "We can start on Saturday."

She noticed the smile on Duncan's face fade as he stared off into space. His eyes held behind them a distinct air of worry and it piqued her curiosity, being as Duncan was normally so jubilant. "Barren?" He asked softly. "Do you ever think of moving? You know, going somewhere you've never been before?"

"I used to." She answered, tugging a stray thread on the picnic blanket. "Not since I met Owen, though…thanks to you…he's a great guy and I could easily see us being together for a long time."

Duncan didn't smile, he only nodded. "But would you…move if the chips were down? If you had to?"

Barren shook her head in confusion. "Duncan, why are you asking me this? She placed her water bottle aside and leaned in furrowing her brow. "Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"Working for McCaughey was the opportunity of a lifetime." Duncan announced softly as he wrapped the uneaten portion of his hoagie and laid it aside. "It was a chance for me to pay homage to our heritage…to support a man from our homeland…a good man." He said the last part with hesitation. "I always looked at the wars and the battles on home soil as a necessary evil, mostly because I had never been there to experience them like our father."

"Irish government was corrupt, you know they did they had to." Barren told him, basing her assumption on what their father had told them in bedtime stories.

"It was important to me to be ethical here…to make our father proud." Duncan shook his head. "Lies Barren, it was lies…what he told us the government was never as corrupt as he made it out to be…it's the men in power underground who are crooked."

Her face contorted in confusion. "Dad wouldn't have a reason to lie…not to his children."

"McCaughey was a chance for me to take hold of a good future…it was never an agenda with me, Barren…you have to know that." He insisted. "But it's not that way with other people…Barren, the skirmish may be between Irishmen overseas, but it's being paid for by the American Government and they don't even know it."

Barren blanched and then looked over her shoulder as if she expected someone else to be listening. "Are you sure you should even be talking about something like this?"

"Listen, Barren…" He began. "The Greyhound Bus Terminal in Seattle…in the women's restroom…in locker 209…can you remember that? It's the numeric digits of your birth date."

"Of course I can remember." Barren shook her head in frustration. "Duncan, you're babbling."

"I've got to go." Duncan rose to his feet. "But I need you to hold onto something for me." He took her key ring from her hand and slipped a tiny silver key onto it.

Barren nodded. "Yeah, sure." She began to pack up the remaining food. "So I'll see you Saturday for painting?"

Duncan didn't answer with a 'yes' or 'no', instead he leaned over and hugged his baby sister, kissing the top of her head fiercely. "I gotta get back before my lunch hour is over."

She watched him walk away, past random groups of people, noting how the heads of girls turned as he passed. He was handsome like their father…and a confusing babbler like their mother. "Hey Duncan!" She hollered and watched him turn. "You're a sorry excuse for a Frisbee partner!"

He smiled brightly and cupped his hands on either side of his mouth to throw his voice further. "And you have a lousy throwing arm!" He tossed up a wave and turned to resume his stroll to the car…

A jolt as Barren was switched from the gurney to the bed almost afforded her the gift of waking from the dream, but the sedative that had been administered upon her arrival conspired to keep her shrouded in the darkness. And so she slipped…back again into sleep and the darkness and danger of her dreams.

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He shook the much shorter man's hand at the introduction…he didn't know why, because he certainly hadn't felt like it. Maybe he thought it would be impolite not to do so and so he obliged, when what he'd rather do was dispense with the formalities and get in to see his wife.

"I'm Dr. Blalock." The man informed him. "Before you go in to see your wife, there are a few things that I'll get out of the way."

Dave cleared his throat and stood waiting to hear the worst.

"The best news that I can give you straight out of the gate, is that she's alive and she's breathing on her own." The Doctor kept a serious expression. "We didn't have to put her on a respirator, which tells me a couple of hopeful things…she's not in a vegetative state." He continued. "The baby is also alive and remarkably the heart beat is normal, strong and from what I felt when I did the exam, the baby is still positioned properly and moving like crazy…I'll be able to tell more when we get a sono machine up here from the maternity unit."

Leaning against the wall as the doctor spoke, though a subtle action, was the key decision that prevented him from passing out. Dave could feel the dizziness and he willed it away as he listened.

"Your wife would have lost a substantial amount of blood, had not your friend…her friend…stopped the flow until the paramedics arrived." Something in the way that the doctor spoke led Dave to believe that he was confused about the nature of Nancy's involvement, or rather her non-involvement with Randy Orton. "We've eliminated that problem, but there is a potential for injury to the brain…as a result of the passenger airbag not deploying." He gestured across the sternum. "She was wearing a seatbelt and I'm guessing it caught most of the impact, or else we'd be looking at substantial facial fractures and that's not the case. Her sternum and collarbone are severely bruised as are her hips where the lap belt was…she's lucky."

Dave nodded. "How will you know about the injury to the brain? I mean when will you know?"

"Ideally I'd like to be able to do a CT scan with a radioactive contrast, basically infusing Iodine through an IV, but I'm not willing at this point to endanger the fetus, so I can do x-rays, or a CT without the contrast…it could prove inconclusive…but we'll hope for the best." He further explained. "The greatest determining factor is going to be time…and if she's lucky there'll be little to no swelling of the brain and she'll regain consciousness in a few days, but there's no way to tell…it could go completely the other way and if it does we'd be looking at making decisions for the safety of the baby."

Dave nodded. "I can see her?"

"Before you go in there I just want to let you know she has facial bruising and she's bandaged from the laceration in her forehead." The doctor warned. "But no broken bones, it's a mystery…she looks bad, but she's intact."

Dave thanked the doctor for his time, and pressed his hand to the lever on the door to her room.

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