Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters.
Ch.6
A knock on the door woke Paz from his sleep. Rolling off the couch, he tripped over the blanket he was wrapped in and crashed to the floor.
Henri's eyebrows shot up in amusement as Paz finally opened the door, letting him in.
"Had a rough night?"
"No, just a rough awakening." Paz answered with the slightest bit of humor in his voice.
Henri set two paper bags on the kitchen counter and took off his coat.
"I brought you some food and stuff," he announced as he unpacked the contents onto the counter.
While Henri prepared breakfast, Paz took a shower. As he toweled himself dry, he studied his solemn expression in the mirror. Most of the cuts from the first car crash had healed, although now there were new scars from his flight through the other windshield. His nose had turned a shade of green, but it was straight. His hair was short again, thanks to Henri and his hair cutting skills. He had cut it in a crew cut, so the longer hair on top would hide the small bald spot where the bullet from the two agents had nicked him.
"I owe you one, Henri," he said, joining the other man in the kitchen.
Henri shook his head, "No, I do. You got me off the streets and gave me this job in the first place. It may not have been your idea in the first place or even the most legal type of work, but look how far I've come. Now I have another job, a wife, and soon a child. What more could I ask?"
Paz was speechless. Although he had helped Henri, it was because he needed documents, and he'd been able to see that Henri was smart enough for the job. He couldn't exactly say he'd taken care of him out of the kindness of his own heart; he had simply been a useful tool.
On the contrary, Henri though Paz was a trustworthy agent having a bit of bad luck; he'd taken him in and cared for him, let him stay now for almost a week, fed him, and what was he getting in return?
A new sensation nagged at the back of his mind; he wasn't sure what it was, but it made him feel bad and untrustworthy.
Lost in thought, he wandered over to the couch; Henri watched him but said nothing, instead turning back and busying himself with the dishes.
Paz tried to decipher the new feeling, and slowly it came to him: guilt. He hadn't felt any shooting at the two agents, fighting with the police, or taking advantage of a naive friend. He hadn't felt much, if any, his whole career as an asset.
Now, suddenly, remorse loomed over him like a cloud. A sudden urgency gripped him. He had to get out, get away from Henri.
As if reading his mind, Henri spoke. "Ignacio, I was thinking…it may be better if you are not here next time I come."
Paz looked up at Henri's concerned gaze and nodded dumbly.
They ate breakfast together in silence. After tidying up the kitchen, Paz washed his clothes and cleaned up his stuff that was lying around the apartment.
Late in the afternoon, Henri gathered several documents he'd been working on and tucked them into his bag. He bid Paz goodbye and left quickly.
Left alone again in the quiet apartment, Paz noticed a passport still sitting on the table. He picked it up and flipped it open. The passport was in the name of Ramon Fernandez and the young dark haired man in the picture was of him, at least a slightly younger him.
He remembered when it was taken: over a year ago he had needed another passport in a hurry, and had no access to agency issued ones. Henri had made it up for him then, but circumstances changed and he'd never used it.
Now holding it in his hand, he realized Henri had purposely left it there.
After Bourne saved his life, this was the second kind deed someone had done for him without ulterior motives. He wasn't sure how to react to it; it only made him confused.
Curling up on the couch, Paz decided he could afford to catch a few hours of sleep before he left. He had no sooner closed his eyes however, when his mind switched into overdrive.
Martin Clayborne. He let the gears of his mind turn until he could remember where that name came from. Martin…yes, that Martin, a recruit who, along with Paz, had been one of the first agents of the program Blackbriar. Martin was not a natural agent as Paz had been. He'd made several naïve blunders on his first missions, and Paz had been assigned to bring him back to HQ.
Paz sighed inwardly and resisted tapping his foot impatiently.
"Martin, you need to come with me, I have orders to bring you back."
The skinny young man in front of him vigorously shook his head, making his oversized glasses slide further down his nose. "I-I...can't," he muttered fearfully.
Paz folded his arms across his chest and waited. Martin made no move either, just stared at his hands.
Paz stepped into the adjoining room, and explained the situation in a few words to his earpiece. Orders came back immediately: Martin had to come.
Digging through the supplies in the cupboard, Paz pulled out a needle and bottle.
Martin leaped straight up when he felt the poke of the needle, but Paz easily overpowered him and held the struggling Martin down as he finished the injection. Martin's angry cries faded as Paz let go of him, letting him collapse on the floor.
Paz efficiently cleaned up the apartment and helped the drugged Martin down the steps to the waiting car, which he drove to a designated point and handed Martin back over to his superiors.
He had never seen or heard of him since.
Paz watched the late afternoon shadows dance across the ceiling. He groaned softly and pulled the blanket over his head. He pinched his eyes shut and once again tried to sleep.
Poor Martin.
He yanked the blanket off and sat bolt upright. Had that thought actually crossed his mind?
No, he decided finally, he didn't really feel sorry for Martin; it had all happened years ago, and it was simply a distant memory.
Another distant memory flashed across his mind: that of an old apartment, colorful block toys, worn wood floors, and soft skin as someone wrapped him in a hug.
He rocked back and forth on the narrow couch, willing his mind to stop; all this thinking was making his head hurt.
He got up and poured himself a glass of water; downing it in one gulp. After splashing cool water over his perspiring face, he returned to the couch to make another attempt at sleep.
"No, I tell you, he is not here, please, you have to believe me."
Paz blinked as he sat up. His eyes probed the darkened apartment as he searched for the source of the voice. Was it another dream?
More voices came from outside the door, and with a jolt, he realized that it had been Henri's voice.
Scraping sounds and the sound of a key being turned in the lock made Paz realized that the agency had caught up with him.
"I tell you, he's not here. I wouldn't hide anyone from the agency." Henri's pleading voice came again through the thin door.
Casting a panicked look around him, Paz grabbed the precious passport and his coat, the extra weight reassuring him his gun was still in it, and dashed into the bathroom, only to realize the window was too small for him to fit through. The bedroom window was slightly larger and he broke the screen out and shoved one leg through. Halfway through, he heard the apartment door swing open. He yanked his other leg through and dropped to the ground, thanking Henri silently for picking a ground floor apartment.
He had barely got to his feet when voices shouting at him to stop, announcing to him that they had already found the open window. He ignored them and pounded down the alley. A car unexpectedly screeched to a stop on the other end of the alley. Paz couldn't stop, and thumped into the driver door. The door opened, and a hand grasped Paz's shirt.
He jumped back, pulling the person out of the car along the way, only to have the barrel of a gun thrust in his face. He recognized the man as another asset from the agency. As hot anger ran through him; his hand inched toward his pocket.
The man didn't hesitate, smashing the barrel of the gun into Paz's face. Paz groaned as it connected to his jaw with a sickening crunch. He fell heavily to the ground.
Before the man could respond, Paz rolled over, gun in his hand, and shot the agent twice in the chest. The other man grunted as the bullets impacted and he sprawled backwards on the ground. Paz got to his knees, gun in his hand, ready to shoot again should the other man move, but the man only groaned once, and went still. Head spinning, Paz stepped over the body and crawled into the car.
As he drove, he cast a quick glimpse at his face in the rear-view mirror. His jaw was undoubtedly broken; it made a scraping noise when he moved his mouth. He didn't think his nose was re-broken, although it was bleeding.
He felt no regret when he looked at the gun besides him on the seat and thought of the man he had just killed. "He got what he deserved," he decided coldly.
Looking in the mirror again, he noticed two black cars behind him; immediately recognizing them from the agency; he tried to speed up a little, but traffic prevented him. A couple blocks later, they were right behind him; he prayed they wouldn't try shooting him in the middle of the city. They didn't, but they stuck on his tail as they moved through the evening rush hour traffic. Paz grimly stuck on the road he was on; as the edge of the city approached, traffic thinned slightly and he attempted to swerve into another lane.
There was the blast of a truck horn, and a not so gentle bump sent his car spinning two lanes over, right in the path of other cars. In panic, Paz floored the throttle, lurching to the side of the road seconds before a car scraped him. His hands were shaking so hard he could barely put it back in gear, but he did, moving back into traffic and taking the next exit.
The warehouse district was almost deserted as Paz slowly bumped down a street. There were few streetlights, but the moon was bright.
Without warning, there was a loud crash and his back window collapsed inwards, showering glass all over. Silenced bullets thudded into the seats as Paz dropped down. The car swerved, narrowly missing the curb; Paz shot a glimpse out his side window and saw the headlights of the black cars behind him on one side and a looming wall on the other side. He yanked the steering wheel, and the car jumped forward while more bullets slammed into the car. The cars pulled closer and shoved his car hard. His car was much lighter than theirs and spun easily in a circle, coming to rest against a wall. Paz grimaced as the impact jolted his broken jaw.
Luckily for Paz, when it stopped, the driver's side was facing away from them. The other cars screeched to a stop, and two men ducked out, using their doors as shields as the fired more rounds in Paz's direction. Paz crawled from the crumpled driver's door, and let off two shots in the other men's direction.
The shooting stopped, but only for a moment, then it resumed, tearing chunks in the metal and showering glass shards all over him. The second car, meanwhile, had turned around, and was now racing straight for his car. Paz knew he had to move or risk being crushed by the approaching car.
There was a screech of metal as the car rammed into the driver's side of the car, pinching it against the wall. From his confining vantage point in the back seat, Paz let off several well aimed shots, nailing both men in the car directly in front of him. He squeezed out of the back window, shooting furiously at the agents as he went.
There was a barrage of gunfire in return and Paz immediately felt the hot white pain signaling he'd been shot. He tumbled to the pavement, crying out softly as more bullets grazed his face, arms and legs.
Fighting off unconsciousness, he pressed his hand against his bleeding shoulder. He strained through his blurry vision to see his gun, which had fallen when he'd been shot. He caught sight of it; beside the car, just outside the protection of the crumpled cars. Groaning, he rolled to his side, and made a grab at it.
Just as his fingers grasped it, he was shot twice more, once in the hand, and one right above his wrist. The gun skittered back towards him as his immobilized arm dropped to the pavement. Leaning on the lifeless arm, Paz wildly shot at the other car. When the gun clicked on empty, he dropped it and rolled over again, landing on his wounded shoulder. He fought to get upright, but this action took the last bit of his strength and he slumped back against the car, unconscious.