A/N: Sorry for the delay in updating. Pesky, pesky real-life. Thanks for the fantabulous reviews, everyone. I appreciate the love.
Courage is tiny pieces of fear all glued together. ~Irisa Hail
It was well past midnight in Las Vegas, but the nightlife barely noticed. On the dance floors of the various clubs, it continued to swirl in a gaudy display, flesh, gems, and expensive clothing flashing in the dim light.
It was a perfect hunting ground, really.
She was lushly curved with shoulder length-blond hair, and he'd been steadily buying her anything and everything she'd asked for all evening, piling on the fussy, frilly, feminine beverages she'd been sipping. He wished that she'd order something stronger, something more like HER, but the physical resemblance was striking, so he could overlook the minor details.
She was twittering away about something inconsequential, and her high-pitched, coquettish laughter annoyed him. It shattered the illusion. SHE would never lean forward that way in such a low-cut nothing of a dress to entice, would never giggle vapidly like that while twirling one lock of her hair around that over-bejeweled finger.
He pulled her up and out on the dance floor to make her stop. The dim light soothed him, and he turned her away from him, pressed his hips against hers, was pleased by the easy way she moved against him. When he leaned down to nuzzle her neck, to nip lightly at the sensitive places there behind the curtain of honey blond, he was ready.
"I've got a surprise for you upstairs, querida. Don't you want to come and see what it is?" His every tone, every gesture, every touch promised ecstasy beyond her wildest imagination. His hands stroked paths of fire up and down her bare arms.
In the morning, the hotel cleaning staff would find her naked, bound, and very, very dead on the blood-stained blue bedspread of one of the bridal suites upstairs, a pair of wings hideously carved with horrible precision into her back, a carefully folded note left beside her on the still-pristine pillow.
---
Marshall's breathing slowed down and reality started to seep back in. The enormity of what he'd just done, the intensity of what they'd just done registered.
Well, that wasn't exactly a peck on the cheek and a how've you been. Where the hell do you go from that? One day I'm chasing her in a basement with my gun drawn; the next I'm fucking her from behind over a picnic table. We've got to reach a happy medium with this.
She made a happy, satisfied, groaning noise under him, shifting her hips slightly, and as he felt the reciprocal effects to his own anatomy, he reconsidered.
Okay, so maybe fucking over picnic tables isn't the worst thing in the world, but this isn't really the reason I got on the plane this morning....
He could practically hear the other little voice in his head laughing at him. Oh really? Never crossed your mind, huh? Just call it a nice little...bonus...then.
He pulled himself off her and stumbled over to one of the lounge chairs, dragging her unresisting body with him. She fell across him in a graceful facedown sprawl, her head more or less on his shoulder. They looked at each other and smiled goofily, a little drunkenly at their mutual condition.
He ran a gentle hand down her cheek, pushing sweat-dampened hair away from its curve. "Hi," he said, grinning, he knew, like a fool.
She turned her face into his hand and pressed a kiss there, returning that crazy grin, heart dancing with happiness at the unexpected ending to her night. "Hi. And, wow. Yeah. Hi."
He laughed out loud. "Wow? I get a wow? I think I might be honored."
She kissed his chest, just over the heart. "You definitely damn well should be. And maybe just a little scared. Because now that I know what happens when I push all those buttons of yours, Marshall, you can look for it to happen a lot more often." 'Cause I mean by DAMN, that was some show, folks.... WHOO.
He groaned and let his head fall back against the padded cushion of the chair, snickering. "You'll kill us both, Mary."
She rested her head against his shoulder, listening to the steady beat of his slowing pulse. "Yeah, but like you told me once not too long ago, what a way to go...."
---
They might have stayed like that all night, softly stroking, gently discovering the ways they fit against one another, had one of the unexpected showers of the early days of the rainy season not drifted in. The first few cold spatters of rain on their bare skin were incentive enough to provoke even their weary bodies to make a mad, cackling dash up the brick stairs, past the shattered flowerpot, bending for the bits and pieces of their clothing as they went.
Marshall slid the glass door closed, and they stood panting, looking out at the pool and the beach as the scene was slowly obscured by a grey haze of rain.
"What is it about us that brings on the bad damn weather? Just once, I'd like for us to have sunny skies, no thunder, unlimited visibility," Mary griped, wiping water from her face.
"Oh, I don't know," Marshall said, admiring the slick shimmer of wetness on the curves of her before pulling her rain-soaked body up against his, dropping the bundle of his jeans and shirt in the process. "There's an awful lot to be said for just staying in, having one of those...quiet nights...at home...."
Mary, much later, had to admit he had a good point. Several of them, actually. Was really, very, obscenely...persuasive.....
---
The next morning, Marshall's phone rang. They were both still sleeping in her big bed. She had taken all the covers and was sleeping in that glorious, bed-hogging side twist of complete abandon. He woke to find himself cold and running out of space. He reached for his phone at the same time he unceremoniously grabbed at the comforter and tugged. She held tightly to the components of her nest and made a low growling noise of disapproval in her sleep, refusing to give up the warm covering.
He sighed and gave up, grabbing the cell and heading into the hall. What he heard on the other end quickly erased what remnants of sleep still clung to him. The report coming in from his office was dispassionate, thorough, and horrifying. He gave a few brief comments of assent, hung up the phone, and stood in the hallway staring into space, seeing nothing for a moment, lost in thoughts of a life ended, and of the conversation he knew was to come. Then he turned and slipped back into the bed, and Mary roused herself to curl around him, throwing the comforter over him, arms surrounding him.
"It's bad, isn't it. Whatever it is."
He kissed her hair gently, hand stroking down her back, tucking her against him more fully. "Yes. But let's steal a few more hours of sweetness right now. We're going to need it."
---
Mary sat at the big kitchen table. The top was polished, lovely, and well-cared for. Her hands were wrapped around a large pottery mug of coffee, and she sipped from it, savoring the rich flavor of the beverage inside. She was waiting on Marshall to return from the office where he'd disappeared to shortly after getting up a few hours earlier. Her tension was rising with each minute he was gone.
I mean, okay, clearly he didn't come down here just for some slap and tickle, even though that was all kinds of fun. And since the cavalry hasn't stormed the gates yet, I'm assuming he's not here to drag me out by the hair, either. So what the hell was that call this morning about that made him look like somebody he loved had died when he came back in the room?
Logically, she knew she was in a place of safety. She knew that he had no rights or authority over her here in Costa Rica; this was, after all, the reason John Patrick had insisted she come down for awhile. So why was she gnawing at her cuticle in worry?
Because I know he didn't come down here for a social call. Not for a vacation. Not because he just had to see my face one more time. I'm biting this thumb bloody because whatever drove him down here was so bad that J.P. told him where I am, and J.P. has a very highly developed sense of what is and is not really scary shit. I'm biting this thumb because I know Marshall himself doesn't scare easy, and this morning, I saw something in his eyes, just a second, just a flash, that made every hair on the back of my neck stand up, made me wish I had my knife in my hands. Whatever this is, it's going to be so bad...
Marshall came back in the room, a sheaf of papers from the computer printer and two folders, one manila, one a dark red in his hands. He sat down at the table across from her and laid the items on the polished surface. For a moment, he looked down at the table top, and she could see that he was mentally preparing himself for what he was going to say.
Oh please, Marshall, just go ahead and tell me. Whatever it is, you are only making it worse with this waiting. Whatever it is, it can't be worse than what my imagination is creating right now....
She was wrong.
---
He told her all of it in clinically precise terms. It wasn't in either of their natures to sugarcoat. He didn't withhold any of the details; he showed her the photos; he let her read the notes. By the time she was looking at the photo of the blonde on the blue bedspread, she felt nauseous, felt dizzy, felt the scars low on her back throbbing.
Marshall slid the last of the notes to her. He had held it back on purpose, and there had been a very large part of him that had not wanted her to see it at all. Now that he was telling her, though, he knew that this ugliness, too, had to be revealed, no matter what it was costing her.
She unfolded the heavy cream paper, absently noticed the hotel's insignia at the top, instantly recognized the careful, elegant handwriting. Below her wings, her body ached. She read the words of a madman addressed to her:
M –
Tonight you flew, mi angel. It was the most beautiful sight I have ever seen, when you unfolded your wings and rose. To know that I did that, to know that I gave you the power to fly, that you soar because of me, it undid me. I can hardly wait until the next time, to set you free again.
See you soon,
R
A rage built up inside her. She looked up at Marshall. He was watching her, eyes concerned. She waved the note at him, unable to control her anger.
"That motherfucking son of a bitch."
Marshall stayed calm, did not move to comfort or confront. "I'd say that's a fairly accurate assessment of him, yes."
"You see what he's doing here, don't you?"
"What is it he's doing, Mary?"
"He's trying to take credit for my wings, trying to take the symbol of my survival and turn them into something I'll be sick over every single time I see. He's trying to wrap a leash around my neck again and choke me to death with it. Me and every poor creature he happens to get his hands on as a surrogate in the process. He never helped me fly anywhere. Not one fucking place, Marshall, unless it was right into the jaws of hell. And I will be damned straight back there before I will sit here and let him take from me what I had to claw my way to inch by inch because of him!"
She was trembling, knew it, hated it, hated Raph because of it, hated herself for her inability to stop. Her heart raced. There was no target to strike, nothing to hit, nothing to destroy in her rage. She'd been here before, hadn't she, hunted, helpless.... She looked at the photos of the four dead women, her four dead sisters, on the table, their bodies battered and broken. She knew their pain all too well....
"Damn it. Damn him!" She dropped her forehead to the table, blocked out the sight of the dead women and their bound hands, the hideous bloody parody of her own sigil of survival, those unfortunate substitutes killed in effigy.
Marshall did not come around the table, did not try to soothe or stroke her. He knew that she didn't want to be held or cuddled, knew that she was wrapping her anger around her like a protective coat of armor to shield herself from the evil on display in front of her. She was entitled. He could offer her something more, if she was willing to take it.
Unable not to offer any support whatsoever, though, he allowed himself to slide his hand across the table and gently cover hers, needing to make the small contact with her. Her fingers wrapped around his, convulsively laced with his, gripped tightly. He could feel the small tremors running through her start to fade.
A moment later, she raised her head, met his eyes. "Okay. So tell me."
Marshall narrowed his eyes at her. "Tell you what, exactly?"
"Whatever the grand plan is."
Damn, she's good. "And what exactly would make you think there is some master plan at work here?"
"Because you are the sneakiest, planning-est son of a bitch I know, and mostly you can take that as a compliment. Because you're here with me in a place where you can't slap cuffs on me instead of waiting for me at some airport terminal somewhere. Because you're showing me this...bestiality...and you know I'm not going to just let it go. Because you and I both know he will just keep killing women whose only crime is that they are romantics at heart and happen to remind that bastard of me in some superficial way. So quit fucking around and get to it, Marshal Marshall. Every minute we're sitting here, he's resting up for another night of ...fun." Her mouth twisted on the word, made it sound like a gutter obscenity.
He took the folded piece of paper from the back of the manila folder, held it in his free hand for a moment, and looked at her. "How would you like to be free of a number of the problems that currently plague you?"
"I am really, really, SO very not in the mood for games this morning, Marshall. Cut to it, or get ready for the consequences."
His mouth quirked briefly, but there was little real humor in it. Either she would accept it or she would not. There were compelling reasons on both sides of the argument, and he'd given up trying to figure out the statistical probability not long after it had come into his possession. It was time to lay all the cards down. The betting was done. He extended his hand to her, watched with an outward calm he did not feel in any way inwardly as she released his hand, took the heavy official document off his palm, unfolded it, and began to read.
---
Mary had to read it twice. It was an offer from the U.S. District Attorney granting her full immunity from prosecution from previously committed crimes and an end to her fugitive status and the subsequent chase by the Marshal Service on the condition that she assist them in the apprehension of Raphael Ramirez.
She lowered the paper to find Marshall staring out the window at the rainy Costa Rican morning, sipping his coffee. She was not fooled by his apparent inattention. She saw tension in every single line of his body.
"So...bait the trap with a nice juicy piece of fresh meat and see what comes sniffing around? That's the master plan?" Her tone was calm, conversational. They can't seriously expect me just to trot off into Raph's hands and wait for the heroes to come sweeping over the hill to the rescue... Jesus, how naïve do they think I am?
Again, he flashed that humorless smile. "Sort of. Except you wouldn't be the only thing being dangled before his nose."
"What else did your genius thinktank come up with, then? Going to throw in a new blade for him to slice and dice me with? A secluded location with some nice strong ropes to sweeten the deal? Going to count to fifty before you boys start to chase him?" A sarcastic smile crept over her face.
"Nope." He took another slow sip of the coffee, looked over at her with sky blue eyes. "There'd also be me."
Mary sat back. What the fuck?
"He saw me at the Mississippi house, Mary. He knows I was there all night. He's jealous as hell. He threatened me in the first note found in Biloxi. We're going to make him come after both of us, and we're going to get him."
---
The surprise on her face was almost comical, but none of this was a laughing situation. Had she really thought he'd throw her to the wolves? He couldn't blame her, he supposed. She'd been running for so long, surviving on her own with nobody but J.P. to look out for her.
The simple truth was that no matter what he was beginning to feel for her, they didn't know each other well yet. The things she knew about him were not enough to make her understand that he could no more have asked her to face Ramirez alone than he could have asked her to have put a gun to her own head and pull the trigger. He couldn't stand the idea of her facing down a demon, figurative and literal, of this magnitude without someone there to watch her back, hold her hand, and kiss her in victory when they emerged from the darkness ahead in triumph.
He watched her contemplating the offer, watched a mask settle over her face as she became aware of his scrutiny. So much Shannon's. She traced abstract patterns on the tabletop, thinking. He wished he could see the paths her mind was walking, wished there were words to turn her toward his own, but he knew better than to speak while she was deciding.
Finally, she met his eyes again. "Tell me more."
He took it as an encouraging sign. "We'd go back to Vegas, be very visible, very much the young couple in love. He's looking for you, so Vegas will be a natural place to draw him in. Shannon has already agreed to use the Phoenix Dream if you agree, so we'd be on your 'home turf' more or less. Sooner or later, Ramirez will make his move, and we'll have him."
"What if he makes his move, and you don't have him? What about that possibility?" She was keeping her tone light, but he heard the thread of real concern under it.
Marshall leaned across the table and took her hand in his. "Mary, I swear to you that I won't let anything happen to you. I won't be the only one protecting you. I'm not so arrogant that I would ever try to do it all alone, but I am giving you my personal promise that I will be right beside you every minute of this until we have Ramirez."
Mary looked down at their joined hands for a moment. She seemed to be deciding something. Still looking down, she spoke.
"And at the end of it.... I get to walk away, right? No strings, no cuffs, no...no...tricks or loopholes. I'm free to go?"
Marshall ignored the little twinge he felt in his heart at her words. "Absolutely free and clear of all the charges currently held against you. Free as the proverbial bird, Mary Shannon." He forced a little smile.
She looked up at him, and she felt something like hope fluttering in her heart for the first time since he'd laid that first photo on the table hours earlier. She took a deep, deep breath and released it slowly. "Then I accept. Sign me up. Get me a star or a quill dipped in blood or whatever it is that you do. Let's go gut that son of a bitch."
This chapter worked a little differently than the others. Let me know what you think. The button is your friend....