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Tim has a list – a long, carefully defined, and strictly adhered to list – of things that he does not dwell on for a sustained period of time. His subconscious may not obey all the rules, but when he's awake he shoves, cajoles, and beats his conscious mind onto the right track, the safe track. It's never been particularly obedient either.
"No. That's the dumbest fuckin' thing I've heard in my life. You are not going to fuckin'–"
"Oh c'mon, Sarge, it'll be fine. There's plenny of big ass rocks for cover, an' I'm faster 'n all of you."
"That's exactly what your girlfriend told me before we shipped out."
"Shut up, Gibson." Tim turns to Ferraro, "No, dipshit, I'm not letting the Taliban play fuckin' whack-a-mole with you. Stay the fuck down until they pass."
Ferraro grumbles but remains hunkered down behind his boulder and out of sight, and Tim thinks it's a good thing they've got leave coming up in a few weeks. Every time he looks in that kid's eyes they're a little less grounded, the edges a little wilder. Last few patrols Ferraro's been the first out in front and the last to find cover. It happens to some guys that way, sliding into the mindset that the more they dare death the more control they have, the less they have to be afraid of. It's a twisted comfort, that illusion of choice.
Tim doesn't know what catches the attention of the larger Taliban patrol farther down the ridge, but something does. The first rocket hits over their heads, and Ferraro's off like a jack rabbit, yelling and spraying bullets back at them. He gets all of thirty yards before one of their bullets knocks him in the chest and down for good. His parents get a purple heart and a body.
"What my deputy means to say," Art continues more tactfully, "is that our team is going to go investigate the situation, and I'll decide what to do from there." Tim notes Art's precise language – "our team" and "I'll decide". This is his castle, and as long as she's on this side of the drawbridge, she'd do well to remember it.
"Hey, I think it's a pretty good idea. Gimme the keys, and I'll drive."
Lena and Art turn to Raylan as one. "No."
"I would, of course, be wearing a vest," Lena tries again.
"Are you deaf or dumb? You of all people should know a car ain't bulletproof."
"Tim," Lena turns on him, patience ruffled, "I'm pretty sure they don't have a .50 cal."
"Oh, and your car has armor that can take the rest, does it?" Her expression says no but that she's not giving up the idea either. "You aren't gonna be fuckin' bait, Lena."
A couple years ago he saw a woman in crisp white shirt, who was always too clean and smelled too good for the shithole he'd met her in, staring down the barrel of a pistol, and a few minutes after, a couple of AK-47s. He saw her white shirt wet and stained all over with blood. Each of these is on his do-not-dwell list. Tim glares at Lena's white shirt, then back up at the woman herself.
"Ms. Carlan," Art continues, once again voicing his wishes for him, "for now I'd like you and Mr. Faheen to wait in the conference room, back corner away from the windows." There's a steel there that says 'this is my office and it's not a request', though they can both see she considers treating it like one. "You," Art circles a finger around at the rest of them, "go see what's outside."
They pass the bomb squad on their way out, suited up like waddling grey-green turtles. Raylan gives Tim a nudge. "Let's check those SUVs." He's still pissed about the earlier parking jam. Honestly, half of Raylan's problems would probably disappear if he just learned to let shit go. Tim just shrugs and follows; it's not like he's got room to judge on that account.
They approach slowly, guns unholstered and half-raised. The windows are tinted, but the sun's at the right angle to see that all of them are empty.
Raylan lets his Glock drop. "There's no one inside."
"Shit really? I thought they were just invisible."
Tim turns back around, surveying quickly. Overflow from the Marshal carpool, staff lot, visitor lot…he strains to see the inside of the cars, stepping forward…cars parked out on the street. That's weird considering there are still plenty of spaces left in the visitor lot. Tim catches Raylan's eye and jerks his head towards the two cars parked on the curb across the street, a blue impala and something dark green he can't see the emblem on.
He's just taken the first tentative steps toward them when he's startled still by squealing tires, and a rumbling silver blur shoots past him and into the street.
o.O.o
Lena rummages around the inside of her purse, shoving the contents about in a jangling slurry. For once she regrets being prepared for every eventuality; the pill bottles are bulky, the deck of cards has slid out of its pack and turned everything to soup, and why the heck does she need so many pens? She gives up and dumps everything onto a chair.
"Is he looking over here?"
Sayeed gives a quick, discreet shake of his head. "He's on the phone."
Ah! There it is. Lena snatches up her quarry, a little cloth zip-bag with tampons, and dumps everything else back into her purse except her keys, wallet, and cell phone, which go in with the tampons. She surreptitiously slides the pistol into her coat pocket.
Lena looks up in time to see Sayeed eye the pistol dubiously, obviously debating whether to talk her out of what is certainly not going to be the wisest decision she's ever made. But she knows that whoever is out there waiting for them, it's not just the bozos in the SUVs. Those are a distraction. The most surefire way she can think to draw out the lurkers is with bait.
Sayeed's shoulders fall a fraction, untensing – he's still not thrilled with her – and with a last flick of his gaze towards Chief Deputy Mullen's office, he says a quiet, "Fi Amanullah." May Allah protect you. It must be comforting to put oneself in God's hands, believing that whatever happens, it was a benevolent being's ultimate will. Faith in someone's grand plan, and that it includes you, just feels like disappointed hope waiting to happen. All she has is an obligation. Everything past that day in the convoy was just extra, a fluke of death's math, and if he decides to take it back, she'd better be allowed to do something useful first.
"Fi Amanullah. Stay with Chief Mullen. Do what he says, and stay away from windows."
Her admonishments are met with a raised brow, gently mocking. "As you are doing?"
She grins with more confidence and fewer nerves than she feels and turns to lean through the door to Mr. Mullen's office.
"Chief Mullen?" Lena jiggles the little bag down by her side, half behind her leg as if in unconscious urgency, making sure he notices while pretending to be discreet. "I'm going to use the ladies room. Be back in a flash."
His eyes do go to the bag and away again just as fast. "Stay on that side," he waves to indicate the back wall.
She does as asked, skirting around empty desks to the door. Resisting the urge to look back to see if he's watching her, Lena turns right towards the bathrooms and, passing them, heads for the stairwell. The building is mostly empty, and on the two occasions she runs into anyone, she flashes her fake FBI badge. The trip down to the parking garage is quick.
Lena bypasses all the cars, creeping towards the outside entrance first to peek into the exterior lot. Her car, impressive machine though it is, is loud, with a distinctive purr even in idle, so she scouts ahead to make sure the path out will be clear. It is, so she hurries back to the car, pops the trunk and pulls out and straps on a bullet proof vest.
This time when she reaches the exit, Lena pulls out farther this time. She can see the Marshals patrolling in groups around the courthouse. There's a cluster around the SUVs, weapons up and at the ready. She sits still a minute, squeezing her hands around the steering wheel and willing that first pump of adrenaline and nerves back down. Come on, dollface, this is your jam. Then she hits the gas and the engine roars and the tires scream and that second pump of adrenaline goes unchecked, a shot of cocaine straight down her spine and all the way out to her fingers. It's thrilling, the stuff addiction is made of, she thinks, yanking the gear shift from first straight into fourth and spinning the wheel in a hard left that would send a lesser vehicle into an uncontrolled fishtail or a roll.
The high lasts all of five seconds, right up until the first hail of bullets shatters the back windshield and she has to duck. Her eyes snap to the rearview before swerving another too-fast left, narrowly missing the cars in the middle of the intersection. Angry, scared drivers lean on their horns in protest, but there's no room for guilt right now. It's not the SUVs following her, but a couple of dark sedans. She wonders if the SUVs back in the parking lot were decoys or if they're following further behind, waiting to pounce.
Another staccato pop of bullets wipes everything but the next left out of her mind. She has to circle the courthouse, trick them into staying on her tail until the Marshals and LPD can catch up and take them out from behind. The trick is to let them see her but turn before they can shoot her.
It might be cold outside, but the gods have blessed her with dry weather, and the tires barely skid as she leans into the turn, pressing the gas pedal down, and shifting it up to fifth. She shouldn't be that hard to find; just follow the chorus of pissed off car horns and people screaming obscenities. Lena barely sees a pedestrian in time and swings a near-two-seventy degree turn, swearing right along with them. A few more bullets whistle past, and a spider web of cracks blooms across the front windshield. Shit. Lena stays straight for a moment, reaches into her pocket for her pistol to finish the job. She has to come to a near stop to make sure the thing does whip back into her face. Her pursuers have gotten too close, but the blue and red lights reflecting off the rearview mirror and into her eyes mean that someone else has caught up with them as well. Putting pedal to metal, Lena allows herself a small cheer and heads out of town.
o.O.o
"Tim! Sit your ass back down! There are people everywhere!" Rachel reaches over to yank on his pant leg, and the car swerves. She over-corrects and swerves the other direction.
"Then stop trying to run them over. Or are you just livin' out a real life Grand Theft Auto fantasy?" He's pissed 'cause the yank made his last shot miss the tire he was aiming for. He should have gone with Raylan. Raylan wouldn't have bitched at him for blowing out the tires of murderous assholes. Hell, he probably would have steered with one hand and shot with the other.
Rachel slaps a radio into his chest. "Just tell me where they're headed. And put your damn seatbelt on." He does so, marveling at the stupidity of civilians who act like they've never had to pull over for a police vehicle before. It slows them down, and they lose sight of the chase. He grinds his teeth and wishes he could wave his shotgun out the window, scare them into getting their fucking shit together and moving out of the goddamn way. Some fucker actually makes a left turn in front of their car. Rachel slams on the breaks and when she recovers says evenly, "You can shoot that guy's tires."
The radio squawks, and Raylan tells them to book it north up the seventy-five.
Rachel turns. "Jesus, how fast is she going? It's only been five minutes." The seventy-five is a fifteen minute drive, at best, and Lena didn't take a straight route.
Tim shifts in his seat, antsy, uncomfortable with nothing to do but wait. "I bet she's really good at Grand Theft Auto."
o.O.o
Driving a hundred and forty with no windshield is hard. And stupid. Aside from the windburn from the cold air on her face, her eyes keep tearing up, making it hard to see properly. But slowing down and letting the people trying to kill you get a better shot is an even worse idea, so she keeps her speed, leans on the horn, and wills everyone the fuck out of her way.
LPD is keeping up, but hangs back. The people chasing her have automatic weapons and have already turned one car into swiss cheese. If she'd thought this through better, she'd have brought a rocket launcher and someone to shoot it.
Her heart lifts when she sees a building-sized blur in the distance, and windburn and tears aside, she speeds up, hoping to find cover, provide LPD and the marshals with a better chance to bring these guys down.
Lena's wipes at her eyes, straining to see what the structure up ahead is, when a much smaller, much closer blur runs into the road.
She does exactly what she'd been told never to do and swerves to avoid the animal. If she'd swerved left, she'd have crashed into the median and probably killed herself, but she swerves right instead, off the shoulder and skimming dirt. Her tires can't grip loose soil the way they can grip black-top, so she can't correct and keeps sliding sideways. The slide, combined with considerable forward momentum, flips the car. Lena curls in, covering her head against the airbag, and screams. Or at least she assumes she does because by the time the car finishes sliding her mouth is full of dirt.
It takes a bit for gravity to reassert itself and to figure out which way's up, which is difficult because the front corner of the car is caved in, making it lean forward on the diagonal. Luckily, the windshield was lost, so there's less glass than there otherwise would be where she braces her hand on the ground. Wriggling and crawling her way out of the car doesn't hurt too badly. Her head's a bit shaken, the rest a bit banged up but just bruises. Some shards of glass from the side window swiped her face and shoulder during the roll, and the middle two fingers on her left hand are jammed from the airbag deploying. The vest, while cumbersome, probably prevented worse.
The sound of tires sliding on pebbles is a bucket of cold water thrown over her sluggish brain. The gun. Lena shoves her hands in her pockets, but they're empty. Fuck fuckfuck. Heedless of the glass and bent metal edges, she scrambles back towards the car. If she can just –
A hand closes over her ankle and jerks backward, tearing her shirt and the vest up and raking her stomach across the rocks and dry grass. Panicking, she kicks out, twisting, trying to get loose, but whoever's dragging her has a grip like iron.
"So," the hand drops her and Lena turns over to a man with a hard face and a gun, "you're the State bitch? Where's your Haji boyfriend?" Lena remembers what Tim told her about guns. Don't pull it unless you're prepared to use it. This man is one hundred and fourteen percent prepared.
He kicks her hard in the shin, cocks the hammer. "I said where's the goddamn doctor?"
Part of interrogation is asking precise questions and paying just as much attention to the exact wording of your suspect's answers. The sneaky ones tell the truth just enough to let you fill in the blanks with erroneous assumptions.
"I left him behind. I don't know who's with him now or where he is." All truth. He could be at the courthouse or not, with Chief Mullen or not.
"Then I guess you ain't any fucking use are you?" The gun twitches up, and Lena flinches at the sharp crack of a pistol firing.
Two little spurts of red mist fountain out of the man's chest, and he crumples forward.
Lena stays on the ground a minute, frozen, puzzled, working out how he, the man with the gun was shot, and she, the one without the gun, is unscathed.
A shadow in the shape of a cowboy hat flickers over them, and Lena looks up to see Raylan squatting down next to her. "You good?"
o.O.o
A shiny glint of silver catches his eye. Then they get closer, and he notices there's a dark patch on the silver glint, and a second later that it's Lena's car, and it's upside down. He tells Rachel to step on it. She marks the fear, unusual in the unflappable ex-ranger, and does as asked.
"Jesus." Rachel's slow to open the door. The show has already gone down, and there's not thing to do but figure out what happened and clean it up.
Tim jumps out of the car, eyes scanning, alert, and through the crowd he can see the lumpy white sheets on the ground. There's one apart from the rest, next to the silver glint, and for a second his vision goes dark at the edges.
"Hey, Tim!" A voice calls and an arm waves.
He ignores the voice and the arm, runs towards the overturned car and the white sheet next to it.
"Tim!"
He ducks under the tape and around everyone who's pissed he hasn't shown them a badge and kneels down next the thin plastic, pealing it back.
Raylan catches up to him and pulls on his shoulder. "Tim, I said, she's fine!"
Tim stares at the pallid face under the plastic. It's not her. It's some guy. He notices that the lump under the sheet is too big to be her body, and looks around at the rest. They all are.
"Where is she then?" His heart slows down and his lungs stop trying to choke him.
"That truck stop over there. She's okay, just shaken up. LPD's with her."
Tim trudges the two hundred or so yards to the truck stop, shaking out the jitters. Now that the fear has died down, the rage moves in in its place.
Calmer – or at least more cognizant – he shows his star to the officers in the truck stop, and they tell him the FBI agent he's looking for is still in the bathroom getting cleaned up.
He pounds on the restroom door, ready for a fight, ready to yell, to make her understand how much of a fucking idiot she was.
It opens with a soft click, and the anger sticks in his mouth like peanut butter. She looks like shit. There's blood smeared over her face, only half-cleaned off, and more on her shirt. There's a wet pink wad of paper towels in her hand. She stares back at him, defensive, tries for a smile, but it's too unsteady and slides right back off. There are too many emotions, all too strong, and he keeps his mouth shut tight so the wrong one doesn't come out.
Lena shifts her weight to the other foot. "Hey."
The emotions slip out anyway, and Tim steps into the bathroom, steps into her and keeps going. The first pass is a clumsy mash of lips, rushed by desperation and an overwhelming need for touch, for proof of life. His aim improves on the second go round, and he keeps on forward, as close as he can get because, as after any brush with death, what he needs most is to feel life.
Lena's back hits the wall with a thud and a gasp, and he's afraid he's hurt her, jarred an injury from the crash or something and goddamn, he should have thought to –
Her hands climb up his neck and around his jaw and into his hair, and then she's pulling him back into the kiss with a death-touched desperation that mirrors his own. Tim grabs two handfuls of hair and pulls, anything to hear her make noise, to show life. Her nails dig crescents in the back of his neck, and he grinds into her, filthy and needy. She jerks against him, a moan vibrating against his lips. He shoves the jacket back and off her shoulders and bites down hard on the soft hollow of her collarbone, working his way back up until he can taste her pulse, sucking until there's a dark purple welt in the shape of his teeth.
Lena pushes him back, fumbling open the buttons of his shirt, swollen red lips trailing after. Her nails scrape over his sides, down his stomach. He exhales sharply, "Fuck."
Another shove against his hips and he stumbles backward, catching himself on both hands against the sink. She looks him in the eye, runs a hand over the tattoo on his chest, then lower. Lower. He grips the cold porcelain, thinks about taking off her clothes and having her right here, hard and rough enough and as many times as it takes for him to forget the body bag next to her car. Jesus fucking Christ.
"Tim?" She takes her hand back, uncertain.
He leans up and hooks a hand around the back of her neck, pulling her against him. His other arm wraps firmly around her shoulder blades, holding her in place so he can feel the rise and fall of her chest against his. He holds his breath, unwilling to lose it in front of her.
"Hey," she says into his neck, soft, coaxing. Lena pushes gently against his chest, trying to lean back and get a look at his face. "Hey." But he doesn't want that right now, so he holds her tight right where she is. Eventually she gives up, slipping her hands into his open shirt and around his waist. Her hands are cold, and he concentrates on that, lets the feeling pull him back down. "I'm sorry I upset you." Not, 'I'm sorry I did that.' Goddamn it.
His chin is pressed against her temple, and he turns his head to kiss her cheek just under the corner of her eye. "There was a body right next to your car," he says, half in explanation, half in accusation.
"Oh Jesus, shit." When she tries to pull back this time he lets her, and Lena's hands move quickly from his waist to his face. She lifts herself up on her toes and pulls his head down, kissing his lips, his cheeks, anywhere she can reach. "Raylan shot him before he could get me. No one else got hurt."
Tim looks down at Lena, and for a moment her face blurs with the memory of a reckless private who didn't want to get anyone else hurt either. He doesn't know how to talk her out of the guilt, still hasn't managed to talk himself out of it, but a selfish part of him is gratified that the woman who's read his mission files understands something of the soldier behind the bland play-by-play accounts.
Her palms squeeze around his jaw. "It's fine, see?"
He doesn't want to argue about the definition of the word 'fine,' so when her mouth comes back to his he holds it there, happier to kiss her instead of think, just happy to kiss her.
There's a knock on the door, a warning, not a request, because it opens without invitation. Lena tries to jump back, but Tim's arms around her hamper the instinct.
It's Art. A startled Art who quickly morphs into a wickedly bemused Art as he takes in the tableau before him, eyes traveling over Tim's undone shirt, the hematoma on Lena's neck, and their compromised position. His expression tells of a man delighted to have something to hold over his deputy's head. He gives Tim a pointed look and jerks his chin towards the outside and backs out, closing the door.
Lena's head falls into Tim's chest with a groan. "And here I was, all happy to be alive. Where's my gun?"
"You sure your aim's good enough?" A fist smacks half-heartedly into his stomach. "Oh it's fine. Give Raylan a week to screw a witness or shoot one or set the office on fire – all are equally plausible – and Art'll forget all about a succubus FBI agent corrupting one of his deputies." He gets another smack for 'succubus.'
"God bless Raylan. May he fuck up spectacularly and harmlessly." Tim thinks about his most recent adventures trailing after Raylan around rural Kentucky. He doubts it'll be harmless. Might be fun though.
"Come on," he picks up her jacket and sets it back her shoulders, gives her one more kiss, then one more 'cause he's becoming addicted, "music's playin'. Let's go face it."