A/N: It occurred to me that I should stop trying to explain a style I was playing with because it is probably of little interest to anyone but me. So I'll just say thank you for reading along, and I hope you enjoy the next part.
Three
God. Oh, God. She's tearing at the Velcro holding the vest in place, then at the undershirt, heedlessly ripping it apart. Part of her brain knows that she should be scoping the place, or at the very least, keeping an eye on the entrance, watching for their friends, and while her gun is nearby, right at her knee, her hands are busy on his chest, feeling for some sign of life, poised to do compressions if necessary.
Her palm finds his sternum and she pauses, hardly breathing. Come on, Boss - come on. Don't do this to me. Give me a little sign here…her fingers detect a flutter, low and slow, and she really does hold her breath, just to be sure. Nope, that's really him - not just an echo of her pulse. She lets out something between a curse and a prayer on a sigh, then sets about tearing the rest of the tee shirt free, moving carefully to avoid jostling the misshapen left arm. Sorry about the familiarity, but it's about all we got to work with, and if I don't take care of some of that bleeding your heart's gonna stop for real.
The tee shirt is rags now, and she folds part of it into a soft pad and pushes it hard against the side of his head, holds it there. His head shifts slightly and his eyelids quirk but don't open. The pad is drenched almost immediately and she tosses it aside and reaches for another. This is gonna have to do, because I'm running out of fabric and I still gotta stabilize that arm some. She uses part of the tee shirt to tie the pad in place, then pauses to catch her breath, glancing first at one end of the tunnel, then towards the other. Everything looks still, but she holds herself quiet a moment longer, listening for any untoward sounds.
Nothing.
She looks down at the hand unconsciously resting on the bandaged forehead and pats lightly. "Maybe our luck is finally taking a turn for the better," she whispers. "How you doin'? Okay? I'm gonna try to do somethin' about that arm." She wrestles him back into the vest, wincing in sympathy as she feels the skin of his bad arm, hot and taut with swelling. "You need a doctor. An' I'm gonna get you one, too, or ain't nobody gonna let me out alone with you any more."
Something buzzes in her ear and she pauses in tearing the remaining tee shirt into strips, listening hard. "Sinclair?" she barely whispers. "Granger? You out there? We got a problem here."
The words bounce off of the black shimmer of the canal water and she bites her lip. Damn. Maybe not such a good place to hide after all. The buzzing breaks into static and it's all she can do to stop herself from swearing.
"Sinclair." She raises her voice, just a little, and it echoes in the enclosed space. No answer but the hum of electronic white noise. This time she does swear.
A faint glint shows her that Don's eyes are open again, fixed on her quizzically. She tries to smile apologetically, wonders if he can see her face at all anyway - see anything - that is, anything except for the mystical fireworks.
"Looks like it's just you and me," she barely breathes, painfully conscious now of the way the water is carrying sound, of the suspicious quiet wrapping the fairgrounds around them.
"'Sokay." His voice is even fainter, and it's his ballplayer voice, not his SAC voice, and for some reason her eyes fill again.
That is NOT helping, Betancourt, she scolds herself. She feels an awkward pressure on her knee, looks down to see his good hand resting there. She swipes at her face, clutching for control. Well, now I know a secret about you. You may play hard ass, but you were one sweet kid.
The hand tightens suddenly, bunching around the fabric of her trousers. She frowns. "You all right? Am I hurting you?" The grip becomes more urgent, and she realizes he's trying to pull himself up. "Look, I know you don't like to take things lying down but I don't think that's such a good idea." She's reaching to push at the Kevlar-coated chest, to keep him down, when she senses it too and grabs for her gun instead.
It's just the suggestion of a shadow - a deeper black on the black of the water. It curls around the edge of the entrance and she holds her fire and her breath - waiting. She feels Don shift under her hand and pushes down more insistently, belatedly hoping she's not putting pressure on anything damaged. Her finger twitches in the trigger guard, yearning to clip off a shot, but she bites her lip hard to stop herself. Just what I need. Giving us away for some damn squirrel or something. Do squirrels even come out at night? Good question for Granger.
Nothing moves, but the silence doesn't feel empty. She holds her breath, tries to picture the area at her back. The other end of the Tunnel bends out of sight, but somebody could have worked their way up there by now - hell, somebody could have already been there, waiting, making their way toward them.
Herding.
It hits her suddenly what Don was trying to tell her and she barely suppresses a groan in time. Of course. The silence, the carefully directed gunfire…they were trying to drive them in here. Worse…she remembers the sudden animation of the twirling cup ride, destroying her hiding place…worse, they may have even been pushing her to find Don, to make sure they were together, a trapped and compressed target. Crap. Sinclair and Granger, wherever you are, stay out of sight or we're all toast.
Don's hand tugs at her trouser leg again and she pats absently at his chest to comfort him, eyes still on the Tunnel mouth. What the hell are they waiting for? An engraved invitation? Or…? She glances briefly over her shoulder to where the water twists and disappears. …Or for somebody else to join them…?
Her heart crowds the back of her throat, choking her. Suddenly waiting doesn't seem like such a good idea. If they know their position anyway…
Her finger grabs at the trigger. It's like an explosion in the quiet. Bullets puncture the wood surround of the Tunnel, stitching the frame, and the dark glimpse of shadow flickers out of sight. She spins quickly, sees no movement at the bend behind them, brings her weapon around again just as a returning round of fire sounds, plowing into the water's surface so that it skips and jumps next to them.
A hand gun of some kind this time, not an automatic weapon, her brain registers. And either they can't see them clearly, or that's one lousy shot. Or…she winces at the thought…they're stalling. Distracting them. Pay attention and don't assume the obvious. You're in the Majors now. The memory of Don's lectures brings a tight-lipped smile and she glances down at him again, frowns when she realizes he's struggling to roll onto his side, to get up.
She leans right next to his ear and hisses, "Stay down, stay still! You're gonna kill yourself!"
He sinks back with a smothered gasp. The fabric of her pant leg fists and tightens, then relaxes abruptly as she feels his hand slide free.
Her frown deepens. Is he out? But she can still make out the glimmer of his eyes, just barely, so she swings back in the direction of the Tunnel mouth, gun lifted. There is a pause, a standoff on who is going to waste ammo first. She is acutely aware that hers is finite, even taking into account Don's gun and the extra rounds tucked in their vests.
Nape tingling at the unprotected space behind them she whirls again, then back at the Tunnel opening, waiting. She doesn't see even a hint of movement and she is mulling whether or not it would make sense to have Don train his gun on the area behind them, even from a supine position. There is a faint plash of water and she pivots again, aiming wildly.
Nothing.
Back at the Tunnel mouth.
Nothing.
She eases back into a crouch, expelling breath, reaches out to pat Don's good shoulder. Her hand touches plank.
Startled, she is suddenly aware of the absence of warmth near her knee, looks down, heart bounding. The water laps in faint ripples against the boardwalk.
The boardwalk is empty.
TBC