Hi Guys. Sorry my chapters have been so short. I'm seriously knit-picking my way through this story, and I'm still struggling for some kind of epithany(did I spell that right?) to come to me. Thank you for all the wonderful reviews; I've really appreciated those.
"So, did anyone find anything?" Max followed Smith as he circled his office, pulling various files out and putting others away. The older man looked preoccupied, but paused to focus his attention on Max.
"We've called every place we could think of, which wasn't very many. I've become astutely aware, lately, just how sheltered that boy is... just a lab rat. Anyway, all we've got is a piece of paper with an address, and I figured you'd want to be the one to check it out. Here..." After a moment of digging, Smith produced the small, orange post-it note and handed it to Max. "However, I want you to rest a bit first. I realize this last mission was fairly sudden, and you've literally been all over the place the past two days, chasing that rookie of a terrorist across the globe."
Max looked at the piece of paper in his hand. "So it's a mission? ...Of sorts?"
Smith frowned pensively. "It's been too long for me not to worry that something might have happened."
Max stiffened. It was kind of a blow to actually hear it out loud. His friend was in trouble. He'd had time to reflect, of course, over the past two days. Hearing Rachel on the other end of his bio-link during his two-day fox hunt, instead of having her with him, backing him up and being the partner that was usually right there beside him... well he had felt, somewhat, disorganized. She had always been the trusty other half of a team. Berto was the one always in his ear, giving him guidence, reprimanding his lack of ethics or commending jobs well done. It was Berto... his hermano. Max set his jaw. "I'm on it," He stated as he turned to go, "and I'm going to take Rachel with me."
Smith nodded as Max disappeared. "Then I'll do moniter," he said to himself.
***************************************************************
What's the world coming to, thought Franklin as he stood, poised, with a large cold bucket cradled in one arm. A deep frown dominated the disgusted look on his face. This so called "doctor," Marinez, who now laid restrained on a bed that was conveniently stolen from some psychiatric ward someplace, could hardly be called a man; he was just a kid.
Stupid, Franklin thought, shaking his head. Just stupid. Out loud, he said, "Such a shame." Then he took the bucket in hand; it was big, filled with icy cold water. "Time to wake up, Martinez." With that, he flipped the bucket over, dumping the water onto the unconscious prisoner with a splash. Martinez jolted awake with a gasp, sputtering and coughing, and then his head fell back onto the matress weakly and he moaned quietly. Maybe the boys had worked him over a little too well, probably busted a rib or two; the good el doctor had a nice shiner high on his right cheek, and blood crusted from the left side of his forehead and down his temple.
"Can you hear me? Martinez?" Franklin tossed the bucket to the ground with a loud clatter. "Say something."
Martinez took a moment to focus his eyes, blinking dazedly as he couldn't see clearly to begin with. His limbs shifted a bit when he realized his predicament. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble," he finally croaked in a raw, faint voice. "If you wanted to get me into bed, you could have just called and asked for a date."
Franklin smirked. The doctor had spunk. "Good. You're talking. I wouldn't get too friendly, though, sweetheart." Franklin walked over to the door and rapped on it. Two large men came in, monotonous, stereotypical faces, stony and cold. They unstrapped the prisoner's hands and feet, then literally dragged him across the room to a chair as he was too roughed up to be properly mobile or coherent.
"This can be really easy, Martinez," Franklin started, and pulled something shiny from his pocket. "I just want some information." It was brass, and it glinted in the dim lights as Franklin fit it over his fingers and onto his knuckles.
"So, did anyone find anything?" Max followed Smith as he circled his office, pulling various files out and putting others away. The older man looked preoccupied, but paused to focus his attention on Max.
"We've called every place we could think of, which wasn't very many. I've become astutely aware, lately, just how sheltered that boy is... just a lab rat. Anyway, all we've got is a piece of paper with an address, and I figured you'd want to be the one to check it out. Here..." After a moment of digging, Smith produced the small, orange post-it note and handed it to Max. "However, I want you to rest a bit first. I realize this last mission was fairly sudden, and you've literally been all over the place the past two days, chasing that rookie of a terrorist across the globe."
Max looked at the piece of paper in his hand. "So it's a mission? ...Of sorts?"
Smith frowned pensively. "It's been too long for me not to worry that something might have happened."
Max stiffened. It was kind of a blow to actually hear it out loud. His friend was in trouble. He'd had time to reflect, of course, over the past two days. Hearing Rachel on the other end of his bio-link during his two-day fox hunt, instead of having her with him, backing him up and being the partner that was usually right there beside him... well he had felt, somewhat, disorganized. She had always been the trusty other half of a team. Berto was the one always in his ear, giving him guidence, reprimanding his lack of ethics or commending jobs well done. It was Berto... his hermano. Max set his jaw. "I'm on it," He stated as he turned to go, "and I'm going to take Rachel with me."
Smith nodded as Max disappeared. "Then I'll do moniter," he said to himself.
***************************************************************
What's the world coming to, thought Franklin as he stood, poised, with a large cold bucket cradled in one arm. A deep frown dominated the disgusted look on his face. This so called "doctor," Marinez, who now laid restrained on a bed that was conveniently stolen from some psychiatric ward someplace, could hardly be called a man; he was just a kid.
Stupid, Franklin thought, shaking his head. Just stupid. Out loud, he said, "Such a shame." Then he took the bucket in hand; it was big, filled with icy cold water. "Time to wake up, Martinez." With that, he flipped the bucket over, dumping the water onto the unconscious prisoner with a splash. Martinez jolted awake with a gasp, sputtering and coughing, and then his head fell back onto the matress weakly and he moaned quietly. Maybe the boys had worked him over a little too well, probably busted a rib or two; the good el doctor had a nice shiner high on his right cheek, and blood crusted from the left side of his forehead and down his temple.
"Can you hear me? Martinez?" Franklin tossed the bucket to the ground with a loud clatter. "Say something."
Martinez took a moment to focus his eyes, blinking dazedly as he couldn't see clearly to begin with. His limbs shifted a bit when he realized his predicament. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble," he finally croaked in a raw, faint voice. "If you wanted to get me into bed, you could have just called and asked for a date."
Franklin smirked. The doctor had spunk. "Good. You're talking. I wouldn't get too friendly, though, sweetheart." Franklin walked over to the door and rapped on it. Two large men came in, monotonous, stereotypical faces, stony and cold. They unstrapped the prisoner's hands and feet, then literally dragged him across the room to a chair as he was too roughed up to be properly mobile or coherent.
"This can be really easy, Martinez," Franklin started, and pulled something shiny from his pocket. "I just want some information." It was brass, and it glinted in the dim lights as Franklin fit it over his fingers and onto his knuckles.