A/N: Tonight was my first write-in, not counting kick-off. Today's offering is particularly crappy thanks to all the word wars we did to get our word counts up. If anyone were reading, I'd tell them to beware!
John had already managed to procure a different vehicle. They zipped along the freeway feeling relatively secure. Monica watched the roadside flash before her eyes and tried to take it all in. She flitted between joy and a crushing sensation of dread in her heart.
He had a plan, of course, which he explained as such: They would drive up to NYC where he had worked as a cop and later a detective. Five years spent tracking down fugitives had given him a thorough knowledge of the criminal underpinnings of the city. He knew who to contact to get fake passports and other documents. Then they would head on up to Canada and hopefully get on a plane and get off the continent.
"Do you think I did the right thing?" she asked after explaining what had happened to her over the last two days. She felt she'd done so, but she wanted to make sure that he did too.
"Honestly, Mon, I can't say for sure. But they were definitely pigeon-holing you and they could have chosen to take legal actions against you. They could have locked you up and thrown away the key as some kind of petty revenge against Mulder and Scully and me. And there's a good chance none of us would have known. Anyway, they've got what they want, probably. They've destroyed the x-files, they driven off Mulder and Scully, and they're probably sure that we don't know where they are or they would have been on our case about them too. No, all we've got that they want is the boy and I'm not sure how much they want him, or if they just want him to disappear again and stay out of their way."
She looked back at Gibson again who was staring out the window ignoring her. Had she been able to see inside his head, she would have been shocked to see the workings of a plan to escape once they hit the city. He had taken bits and pieces of John's plan and was quickly creating his own. Somehow he had to give them the slip, but preferably after they had managed to get him fake papers. And he could take some of the money they had brought as well.
And if she could have looked into John's mind, a mind she actually knew well enough to read fairly accurately when she chose, she would have seen that his cool demeanor belied the unease inside at her unexpected presence. He was elated to have her there on the one hand, but he worried what it would mean, and where they were headed, in the metaphorical sense. Would he be able to keep his feelings for her in check? No sooner had that thought and the ever present daydreams of kissing her rushed at him than he remembered the boy, whom he knew could read minds, even though he didn't understand how in the world something like that was possible. He looked back at him guiltily in the rearview mirror and the boy's eyes met him. Dammit, he thought, This won't do at all. He wasn't sure how he could possibly be around Monica and not think those thoughts.
"Mulder's mind is much dirtier than yours," said the boy and John could only respond by sighing and giving the road more of his attention. He could see Monica out of the corner of his eye turn around and look at the boy, no doubt giving him some sort of look. He didn't want to know more.
He timed the drive to put them in the outskirts of New York City after dark. They crawled into a generic motel around 11 and he wearily went in to inquire about a room. He went ahead and paid so that they could leave first thing in the morning, telling the clerk that they were on their way to Ohio to visit family. That should help throw off the FBI just in case they managed to track them here.
One room, two beds. He was exhausted and knew he needed sleep to keep going, but this was too troublesome. Luckily for him, Monica was well attuned to him and his needs and could see he needed rest. She volunteered to stay up through the night while he and Gibson slept. He wanted to kiss her again, he was so happy, but instead he crawled under the thin covers and was asleep in minutes.
He woke promptly at 5 and took over, even though she insisted he get more sleep, but by then his mind was racing as he tried to go over everything that they would need to do. He roused her and Gibson at 8 and they groggily all made their way into the city.
He was sweating bullets by this point. He assigned Monica the task of never taking her eyes off of Gibson while he kept his own eyes peeled for cops, not for fear of being arrested, but for fear of being recognized. Heading into the criminal underbelly of the city, asking for help and possibly protection, knowing full well that he had a history with them that would not easily be forgotten, this did nothing but add to his anxiety. But he never let the focused look slip from his eyes and he would never let anyone see his fear. This was perhaps the riskiest part of his plan and he wasn't sure how it would play out, if at all. And dragging Monica into it as well … no, he couldn't allow himself to think of that.
They came to a grungy black door in a deserted alley. He buzzed and the heavy door creaked open slowly, revealing the face and body of a man no one wanted to mess with. "I'm hear to see Ricky Soreno," he said calmly.
"Yeah?"
"I need a favor. I've got cash."
"Why do you think Ricky would want to see you?"
"Because Ricky and I used to do business," he responded in an accent that was growing thicker by the syllable.
They were lead up a staircase and told to wait outside another ominous door. John kept looking at Gibson, asking in in his if everything was ok, but the boy didn't seem to acknowledge him, which he hoped meant that thy were fine. Monica hovered near him and he almost could feel the warmth rising from her body, but he tried to concentrate on the mission at hand. Would Ricky accept him? Would Ricky help him?
After an excruciating 30 minutes, they were lead into another room. "Ricky wants to know who you are what you think you're doing here giving out his name and claiming you know him."
"Tell Ricky that my name is John Doggett and he would have known me some eight years ago when I was doing some work with the police department. Tell him I'm not a cop any more and tell him I need his help to get the hell out of this country."
The bouncer nodded and went inside what was the final door. This time he was quick to open it and tip his head inviting them in.
Ricky sat at a desk, clad in a linen suit for the summer, with two lackeys standing at his side, a formation they had obviously taken for show. "John Motherfuckin Doggett. Never thought I'd lay eyes on you again. What the hll brings you to my establishment?"
Monica looked at him with undisguised bemusement and he gave her a sharp look. Such merriment would not stand well here.
"Glad you remember me, Ricky. You helped me out a lot back in the day, and it'd be nice if you could help me out again. This time though, it ain't to turn in your buddies. This is all about helping me. If you feel up to it. And if the price is right. I need a favor. A big one."
Ricky looked him up and down. "You got yourself in some trouble?" His body language was making John nervous, but he held his ground.
"I just need to get out of the country. I know you are a master at fake passports and licenses and such. If I've got the money, you think you could help me out?"
"I dunno, Doggett. I turned a lot of my buddies in to help you and it didn't do me much good."
John reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash that made Monica's heart lurch.
Ricky leaned forward. "We might could talk business. How much you got?"
"How much do you charge these days, Ricky?"
Ricky laughed. "Time's is good. I might could talk business with you." He sized up the party before him. "Three thousand per passport. Thousand for driver's licenses. What other services do you need? We can get you a new car, set you up with some plastic surgery. Whatever you need to go under."
John counted through his stack of cash and pulled out several hundred dollar bills. He started to walk towards the desk when Gibson laid a hand on his arm. He looked down at him quizzically.
"I can help him," said Gibson. He looked up at John. "He doesn't mean what he says. He wants revenge. He's going to turn you in. But I can help him, and he'll change his mind."
Ricky was staring hard at the boy.
"Send them away," said Gibson, referring to the two men who stood beside Ricky and to the bouncer who stood at the door. Ricky wasn't persuaded. "You don't have to, but what I have to say you probably don't want them to hear."
"What do you think you can tell me, boy?"
"I can read minds." Ricky and men stood looking unimpressed. Gibson sighed. "Think of a number." He gave them time. "Twelve. One thousand seventy-two. Eighteen."
One man gulped visibly. Ricky smiled and leaned forward again. "We might could do business. Boys, pat these lovely visitors down and then clear the room."
They were alone. Ricky motioned for Gibson to take a seat, which he did, making himself look much smaller than normal. "What can you tell me that might interest me?"
"Ralph… Ralphi… he screwed your wife. Gabriella. He's terrified you will find out. He knows he screwed up. But he's still trying to justify it. He only did it once, and he totally got her drunk – he feels like he used her. But he liked it."
"And Marco? What about that bastard?"
"You can trust him. He admires you. He wants to be like you. He's worried about leaving you in here with us and he's right outside listening for trouble. He hates Ralphie. Doesn't trust him at all. Feels demeaned standing there as his equal.
"But you want to know more than that. You want me to prove to you more that I can read you mind. You had your uncle Mike killed in '97. You really do admire John. You were a boy scout for a year but you never told anyone. You grew up in a home with a mother, a father, two aunts, and four brothers. You are the oldest and they all look to you. You inherited the business from your father. You own three cars, but the Mazarati is your favorite, but your wife hates it and always wants you to take the lotus. You really wish you'd been given the keys to another family business, one where there is less danger of dying, but you have found your way in this one and enjoy it. You stole a car when you were twelve. You…"
"That's enough. I believe you. You do some work for me, kid, and I'll set you and your friends up real nice. And you know I mean it."
"I know. We only have a few hours though. You need to call your people in now. And provide a safe place for my friends to stay while we do this."
"What's going on, Gibson?" asked Monica, with concern.
"I'm going to help him."
"Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"Yes. Don't you want me to help us escape? I know things that he needs to know, and he will help us in return. For free," said Gibson, resolutely. Ricky nodded with amusement.
"You're a sly kid, I gotta say. You'd do fine in this business. Look me up if you ever want a job."
They were shuttled across the hall to a lounge type area and within the hour Gibson was called out to "interview" about fifteen people who were close to Ricky. By the end of the afternoon, Ricky was offering him cash. It wasn't a bad deal at all. He didn't tell John and Monica that he had come out on top. The money would help him get home, or wherever he meant to go. In the meantime, they would be helped. Ricky promised them passports by the morning, good ones, the kind that no one would suspect or look at twice. The kind that would get them across any border, anywhere in the world.
In the meantime, they would need another place to crash for the night. Ricky offered them a room at his own home, which they quickly passed up, even though Gibson assured them Ricky could be trusted.
"Just don't want to get him mixed up in our problems. I'm sure he means well."
They settled instead for a seedy hotel that charged way too much a night. Two beds as before, but half the space, as it is in New York City. Gibson was wiped out after a full day of scouring people's minds.
