STRIKE TWO

Walk walk straight don't stop keep going pain tolerable just a little further same man it was the same man who is he I've seen him can't think walk walk he can't be sure he killed me Scotty did you get him were you followed Scotty Scotty what happened…

Sorry Scotty sorry

Patzcuaro… have to get there…you know…

Get there just get there something is wrong about this…

Goza straightened at his approach. "Was he there?"

Kelly thrust the stiletto at the older man, slumped against the slippery fort wall, started to go down. Goza grabbed him and the knife – he recoiled, pain blowing through the shock, nausea not far behind. "Go – now," he panted, lurching forward.

"¿Que pasa?" Goza demanded, still hanging onto him, then saw. "Oh, no, kid..." He slid a strong arm about Kelly's already quivering shoulders. "Come on – I will help you…"

Scotty…Scotty…I'll be there…


He awoke bandaged and throbbing. The Mexican woman admonished him in Spanish when he pushed himself upright, and slapped his hand when he pulled the foul smelling necklace off over his head. "Gracias," he got out to her, rummaging through his slushy brain for something better. "Lo siento…"

Slowly he reached for his shirt; it was wrinkled, torn and stained rusty stiff with the leak of blood from the wound. The pain of moving gave his aching brain some desperately needed clarity. Getting out of Acapulco was his first priority. As long as the wound didn't get out of hand he'd be able to find out just who was framing him and why. Scotty's plan for the plane out of the country – like Nate's – was now out. It was clear that they couldn't operate together – not yet. As for his own Plan Y– well, it wasn't so much out as modified…maybe it'd be better if it was called Plan Z.

"Por favor…" he rasped to the hovering, muttering woman. Whatever she had given him had sucker punched him into unconsciousness for what seemed like hours. And taken all his saliva with it – he could barely swallow. "Agua…or something…" He fumbled for his coat pocket, pulled out his watch, squinted at the time – only two hours gone, but long enough. He checked the other pocket – no gun. Great… defenseless, hurt and still on the run– this was not one of Agent Robinson's better days.

He slumped a little, the bandages pulling and causing pulses of pain to scamper up onto his shoulder and ride down past his elbow. Someone, from one side or the other, was working very hard to make sure this traitor charge stuck all over him. They must've had Scotty under surveillance – how else would they have known about the meet? Or maybe they'd followed Goza instead. Whoever had stabbed Nate had tried a repeat performance on him. He took a small sip from the cup the woman handed him, hoped to hell she hadn't mixed anything in it – the water could be bad enough on its own. Had it been Hamp or one of his men? It seemed too vainglorious for any British spy, though they likely had a "kill on sight" directive – Hamp himself had alluded to that during those first accusations. Maybe they hadn't meant to stab Nate and he'd been the target from the start. Then again, if Nate had been the target, then it was easy enough to point fingers at the accused agent and issue that kill order. Kelly shoved the cup aside – he knew that knifer, had seen him before…he tried to shake his head, clear his burning vision. That man – somewhere before – with a knife, near the water…

Scotty… Kelly sagged a little further. Scotty would be doubly unhappy now – twice his partner had bailed on him. He'd be mad; moreover, he'd be worried, especially seeing that stiletto crammed into Kelly's back. Scotty, guardian against all my hurts, healer of all my ills. I won't complain the next time you wrap me up too tight, Kelly thought to himself, easing away from the woman's rough poke at him. That unsettled, lopsided feeling came back up over him, stronger than before. Patzcuaro was the key to everything – Hampton, Elena, Randolph/Drumov, that knife crazy Mexican, even Hampton's sweet old Uncle Henry. He'd have to get there and hope Scotty would follow, working things from his end so together they could bust this mess wide open and clean it up right.

"Hey, kid!" Goza's stern voice cut into his musing. The burly Mexican strode forward. "What do you think you are doing?" He reached out and grabbed at the shirt twisted in Kelly's hands, but Kelly held on. "You need rest, kid," Goza told him.

"I need a telephone," Kelly corrected. "And I want you to find one for me. Now, give me my shirt, if you please, sir. And my gun – just where did you stash that?"

But Goza was now looking him over with an intent eye, and probably hadn't heard the question. Taking advantage, Kelly tugged the shirt out of his grasp and fumbled to find the sleeve. Drawing it on wasn't easy – his left arm wasn't cooperating too well. Straightening up wasn't that good, either. And his fingers were cold and kept shaking as he worked to push buttons through what suddenly seemed to be tiny little holes in his shirt.

"Ah – my gun?" he prompted the other man still staring at him.

Goza started. "N-no, kid," he stammered, his expression turning guilty. "No gun." He glanced at the old woman and said something in Spanish that included the word pistola. She answered back, exasperation evident in her voice. "No gun," he repeated apologetically.

Kelly sighed. "No gun, okay. Where – no, I'm not even going to…" He slowly stood and wobbled, accepted the other man's quick, helpful hand of support. "Just get me to a phone, all right?"

Goza gave him a doubtful look, but shrugged. "Sure, kid. Here, I fix this… " He reached up around and pulled out the folded over shirt collar, his fingers cool against Kelly's sweaty, heated skin.

"I have to call someone," Kelly told him, nodding his thanks.

Goza straightened one sleeve cuff, then reached for the other. "Okay."

"I need a way out of town – today," Kelly said to him, still working at the buttons.

Goza grunted. "If you say so, amigo."

"I do say so – it's too dangerous for me to be…" Kelly frowned as his fingers jigged over his shirtfront – damn these buttons and the wooziness that was coming back up over him. "…hanging around."

Goza brushed his hands aside. "I do it for you." He worked the few seconds in silence, and then cast one of those observant, uncomfortable gazes over Kelly.

"I'm all right," Kelly insisted, drawing back from that stare, wishing his head wasn't pounding so.

"Sure, kid, you're all right," Goza replied, still watching him.

Kelly took a step forward to get out from under that unblinking gaze. "I need a phone-" He swallowed his voice as his knee unexpected gave out underneath him; he dropped fast, heat and nausea racing up over him, darkness not far behind...

Goza caught him about the middle and hauled him up. The knife wound howled a protest but the pain brought him back, though he was sweat soaked and trembling. He tried straightening on his own but both legs seemed to have lost their bones. Goza muttered something and jostled him into a better position. His head bounced a little, then found some support when his cheek bumped down onto the other man's shoulder. For a moment he let it rest there, unable to do any more than curse his wretched weakness.

"You silly gringo," Goza said into his ear, but held him until the shuddering stopped. "I told you – you need more rest." He sat Kelly back down onto the bed but kept a meaty grip on his collar, just in case. Over his shoulder he said something to the woman.

"No," Kelly protested, seeing her approach. "Goza, now, none of that. She's done enough. I'm all right." He took a breath to slow himself down. "But I really do need to get out of here," he continued softly. "I don't want anyone one to get hurt. Please, amigo."

Slowly Goza smiled. "Amigos, eh, kid? All right," he nodded. "For you I will do this. Because we are friends." And this time he didn't say the word like he distrusted it.

"Okay – all right." Kelly blew out a breath, felt better. "Thanks, man."

"Sure kid." Goza took up Kelly's jacket and held out a sleeve. Slowly Kelly put his arm into it. "But I think maybe first you tell me who you are running from," Goza suggested, drawing the jacket up over him. "After that I take you to the teléfono." He straightened the shoulders, smoothed the lapels, and wiped some sweat off Kelly's cheek. Then he stepped back, crossed his arms – and waited.

So Kelly told him.