Desert Fox Chapter 2
A/N: Disclaimers in Chapter 1.
~*~*~*~*~
Sandstone pinnacles towered against the sky, black against starlit night. Drifts of snow stirred in wind from a silent helicopter's rotors, dusting ice grains like handfuls of diamonds.
"Still don't like leaving Le Van," Caitlin murmured from the engineer's seat.
"Dominic can handle him."
"We don't know what happened in New York."
"Nope." String quelled the urge to rub the hairs on the back of his neck. Part of that was the Lady, still jumpy after whatever had cut loose five hours ago. Part was knowing Michael had headed toward that mess, unarmed, when every instinct String had was shouting to get under cover and shoot anything that came near.
Well. Not unarmed, knowing Archangel. But Firm jets didn't carry missiles.
Pilot Michael, Archangel out of sortie range, Airwolf grumbled.
"We know, Lady. We know." Caitlin sighed. "You think this microdot's still important?"
"Maybe. Least we're a few hours closer, if something does go-"
An electronic warble stung sensitive ears; Caitlin punched up the descrambler. "Yeah?"
"It's always enlightening to hear your dulcet tones over my phone line. A true model of FCC protocol." Wood creaked against plastic; Archangel's cane against an airplane seat, if String knew sounds.
"Who else would be on this frequency?" the redhead challenged.
"No one, if you're fortunate." A distant roar; jet engines pushing a plane into the sky.
Link distance shortening, Airwolf reported. Anticipating return to Airwolf range of operations?
"Not now, Lady...."
String caught the weariness in familiar tones. "Michael. If you want secure-"
"I'll stick to more mundane forms of communication," came the dry reply. "Call me old-fashioned, but I believe in the inherent superiority of auditory and visual transmission media."
As opposed to the parapsychological. String smiled. That was more like Archangel's usual bite.
"Anyway, it's over. Now we get to handle the clean-up." A hint of a sigh. "The agency infighting on that ought to be interesting."
"What happened?" Caitlin demanded.
"The Joint Chiefs asked that question in a much more colorful manner. I'm sending you some of our preliminary reports. I'd be on the ground when you read them." Archangel's voice dropped. "Make contact with Zorra. It's suddenly become vital to know how much support Demona has among her people."
String raised a brow. "Demona?"
"It's in-"
"The report," Caitlin finished. "Want to give us a clue?"
A moment's silence. "I refuse to condone genocide based on the acts of one person."
Caitlin sucked in a breath. String frowned. "You're serious."
"We've got several million terrified people out here, Hawke. And it's been my experience that it is never wise to frighten politicians."
"Missiles first, diplomacy later," String translated.
"Generally speaking, yes."
Cait bit her lip. "Is there anything we can do?"
"Get me the truth."
"And if that doesn't work?" Caitlin demanded.
A longer silence. "Call me when you have something." The line clicked.
Multiple files received, Airwolf informed them. Scan detects low-level shield, ongoing access of older memory banks; "favors", "assets", "biographic leverage". Probable cause: Michael, Archangel running multiple tactical scenarios.
Biographic leverage; the polite term for what people not in the Game called blackmail. That was Archangel, all right; plotting his way clear of whatever mess life had suddenly thrown them. "Bet you he's not gonna get back to sleep 'til tomorrow," Caitlin said ruefully.
"No bet."
Hawke held the collective steady, easing Airwolf down through walls of red stone. Snow skirled down around them, drawn in by their downwash. Stars glimmered above in the fading dark before dawn, shining into the cavern that had been Airwolf's Lair for almost three years. "Been a while since we've done this."
"Never did like doing it at night," Caitlin murmured. "'Course, that was back when night was dark."
IFF transponder mimicking Airwolf II signal, scrolled across Tactical. Lair security measures disarmed. Monitoring Lair systems for signs of Airwolf II return.
"Let's hope Sinj stays busy for a while." Hawke set her down, taking a moment to eye what the Company had made of the bare rock they'd spent so many hours in. Lights. Computers. A regular landing pad, for goodness' sake.
Caitlin was scanning the cavern, something sad and lost on her face. "Doesn't feel like home anymore."
Mission base relocated: Eagle Lake, California. Airwolf's voice in their minds was soft and feathery as always, with just a touch of wistful regret. She'd spent more of those years here than they had, waiting between missions, hoping one day to break Moffet's chains and speak to those who cared for her. Main re-supply and repair relocated to Knightsbridge.
"Yeah." For better or worse, they belonged with Michael now. And this place belonged to the Company.
The Company, whose little mess they could - hopefully - clear up in a few hours.
Alert! IR scan indicates presence of multiple individuals in Lair, approximately twenty minutes ago.
Helmet in hand, String paused. People in the Lair, without setting off the alarms? When they knew Sinj and the others were out of town? "Not good," Caitlin murmured. "Can you bring it up on screen?"
Ghostly trails of heat shimmered over a display of the cavern, dispersed around the floor. The freshest was a wide swath up sheer stone, climbing up and out.
Stone that was no longer sheer, String saw, zooming in on vertical stone. Finger-long holes pocked red rock, as if a massive, three-clawed cat had clawed stone like wood.
Three claws. "Gargoyle?"
Match 97% accuracy, Airwolf agreed. Multiple tracks. Width of marks indicates at least three individuals. Potentially six.
"Not Zorra." Caitlin looked grim.
"Not unless she brought friends." String touched the gun in his shoulder holster. "Better see what they messed with."
Ten minutes later, they had a fair idea. "Damn!" Caitlin swore, spying inhuman fingerprints on documents that should have been under lock and key. "Rivers?"
"Or Sinj," String sighed. His brother had spent too much time in field assignments without paperwork that could compromise him lying around. Jo Santini had better sense. "Looks like they were in the computer, too."
"How far d'you think they got?"
"Don't know. Don't plan to find out." No sense confusing the trail. "Airwolf, trip the tap."
Acknowledged.
"If Locke only knew," Caitlin chuckled, eyeing the computers Archangel's personnel had left for the Company agent to find, over a year ago. Computers Jason Locke had gone through with a fine-toothed comb... without finding more than half of Archangel's 'extras'.
A small smile touched String's face. Until Locke got back here to handle his own problems, the Lair's computer security would be out of his Machiavellian hands.
And into Archangel's. Who could have given Machiavelli a few pointers.
Caitlin joined him by Airwolf's side, having swept the area to her satisfaction. "They couldn't have gotten too far before sunrise."
"And we could look all day and walk right by them," String growled, eyeing pocked stone. "Why we laired up out here in the first place. Plenty of room to get lost." He cast her a frustrated look. "Sooner we find Apoyo, the sooner we can get the hell out of here."
Reviewing files: New York Demona Incident. Alert - Preliminary reports have no database match outside Bethancourt datafiles.
Just when he thought the day couldn't get worse. "Let's see it."
Displaying summary.
String scanned glowing letters, Caitlin's breath warm on his neck as she read beside him. Assault, explosions, mass chaos - psychokinetic transformations?
Caitlin's fingers clutched tight on his arm. Without looking, he knew she was rereading the same incredible lines.
Archangel had sent this. Which meant Michael believed it.
Unknown whether available protocols sufficient to block psychokinetic transformation.
Datafiles indicate energy levels required for full shield dangerously high.
Pilot intent: exercise due caution?
"Yeah."
Dark wheels thudded onto the landing pad; String steadied his motorcycle with one hand, checking for any signs of leaking oil or flat tires. Caitlin went through their packs one last time, calling out items as he went down the checklist. Water, thermal blankets, guns, radios, repair kit; everything they might need, caught out alone in the Utah-Arizona desert. Michael's "little jobs" had a habit of turning into life-or-death fubars in a matter of moments.
And then it was load up and roar into the dawn, Caitlin's arms wrapped around his waist.
String leaned into the wind, visor blocking most of the chill from his face. Utah's sky was a glory of stars; the Milky Way a river of sun-struck diamonds. Enhanced vision picked out every shadow of stone or shrub, leading them through the snowy maze of red rock safer than most could drive by full sun. Walls of stone fell away behind them.
Caitlin's laughter tickled through his ribs. "Now, this is the way to see Arizona!"
String smiled, feeling the soft sweep of Airwolf through the back of his mind, drawing him back from the edge when sight would have swamped him. Without asking, he knew she was doing the same for Caitlin; keeping their focus clear and steady, gently tugging back senses that threatened to wander. Thanks, Lady.
Fun, came the gleeful reply; a bounce of fur and feathers that echoed of the breeze rushing past them, the bright blaze of starlight they raced through. Airwolf would rather be knifing through the wind herself, but given that daylight sorties weren't an option, ghosting along in her pilots' minds was a good second.
Dawn rimmed the east, gilding cliff tops along their left. String tipped his head back, knowing Cait could hear him through a hurricane. "Next stop, Third Mesa."
~*~*~*~*~
Paolo Argentino lowered his binoculars with a scowl, glaring at the nondescript trailer. Tucked into the hollow behind him, a pair of helicopters disgorged the last of his men, rotors winding down. "You are certain the demon is here?"
Ricardo nodded. The loud clothing of a tourist had been replaced by nondescript tans; colors that didn't stand out as camouflage, but not nearly as obvious as orange and green floral print. "Somewhere, yes."
"It won't come," Miguel Quintano rasped. Thick bandages stretched from the former patrol officer's cheek down one side of his throat, hinting at the extent of the burns underneath. "Not until dark."
"Which is why we will take her in the daylight," Paolo said coolly. His brother's killer would not survive. Honor demanded it... and practicality. Already the other cartels were sniffing at his heels, testing to see how much damage had been done, how vulnerable the Argentinos might now be. Only a body would hold them at bay.
But only a fool would take Apoyo and her demon together.
A wave of his hand dispersed his men into the desert. Ricardo had watched their target for days now; within an hour of the sun's rise, she would return.
They had only to wait.
~*~*~*~*~
Walking down from the hills, Isabel saw a trio of little gray birds thunder into the air.
Maybe the elders could have identified them, she thought, feeling her daypack thump against her whole arm. To her they were just LGBs; unknown and nameless as bits of bone around a poison spring. Far less important than bracing herself for the ride to the doctor with Beth; one long conversational assault to get her to give in and speak to the university group, probably. But it wasn't as if rides were thick on the ground out here.
Still. Something about the birds seemed off.
Working her way past loose grit, Isabel replayed the flight in her mind. LGBs were timid creatures, just enough brains to ID food from predators and windows - though sometimes they made a mistake on windows. No matter how quiet her stride, she would startle them.
But the birds were ahead of her.
Adrenaline iced through her veins. Act as if nothing's wrong. Nonchalantly she wandered over toward a wire-stemmed shrub, as if the bright mica scattered near its base had caught her eye. Sniffed the wind as Zorra had taught her. Listened.
A taste of exhaust, bitter in the chill morning air. A tiny click of pebble on pebble.
Run like hell.
Isabel squashed the impulse, feeling her limits in every catch of breath, every low throb in her wrist. Instead she circled the bush, kicking up dust. Mentally calculating her options, her resources, the enemy's likely angle of attack. Holdout gun, check. Water, check. Jacket, pack....
Dust drifted in the wind, cloaking her form. Hiding the moment as she slipped around the low hill-
Shards of rock sprayed into the air; the crack of a rifle reached her moments later. They made me!
More shots, ripping at stone. The tramp of running feet. Isabel ducked, never deviating from the path in her head. Chilled fingers tore at her blouse, ripping off the buttons one hand couldn't undo. They could outrun her. They could outgun her.
But she knew these hills. And if she could just reach that crest there, a hair out of sight, where scars of an old landslide beckoned and the rock was old and brittle-
Heat passed by her leg, close enough to shock. Oh, Mother Mary, she was going to die here, and Zorra would die, and it was all going to be for nothing....
Don't think! Just do.
And Isabel was out of sight, just above the crest, red rocks stirring ominously about her feet. One move slung her pack clear of the scree, stripped the remnants of her shirt from her form, leaving tan skin a rash of gooseflesh. She screamed, high and shrill, tossing pale blue fabric onto the slope as she pushed a wobbling boulder with all her might.
The world roared.
~*~*~*~*~
"Too easy." Miguel spat on the landslide, sneering at the flutter of blue cotton under stone. "Just like a Norteamericana."
"Yes," Paolo agreed thoughtfully, submachine gun slung over his shoulder. A wave of his hand beckoned his men in from their search of the slide. "Too easy."
It'd taken the better part of an hour for the slope to settle enough to climb. Time they could spare, out here where no one came. But still... something was not right.
Scraps of dusty blue, half-hidden under red rock. Paolo settled onto his haunches, peering into unsteady crevices. If Apoyo were buried in the landslide, it would be best to leave her here. The fewer clues the better; not that he worried about States law. But an open murder warrant would make further dealings with some of his associates... less pleasant.
If she were buried.
"Dig."
Miguel recoiled. "We should be away from here. Surely, there is no need-"
Paolo's eyes were black ice, chilling his men to the bone. "Dig."
Apoyo had survived once, when only a demon's own luck could have saved her. She might have done it again.
Rubble shifted. Dust hung heavy in the air. Boulders were shoved aside, spilling stones on the slope below them.
"Santa Maria...." Miguel lifted out tattered cloth.
Unstained cloth.
"Jefe - there is no body!"
"Bastarda!" Red rage flickered around the edge of Paolo's vision. That a woman could do this - a bitch of an American, who lay with demons instead of men-
"¡Jefe!" Ricardo, over the radio. "A pickup."
Heading this way. "¿Policía?"
"No." Lustful satisfaction in his spy's tone. "A woman. One I have seen... with her."
Another perra. His men's eyes gleamed at the thought of teaching this one what it was to have men. "Do we take her?" one asked.
"You, you, and Ricardo," Paolo waved a hand. "Manuel, Enrico - track the bastarda. The rest of you, with me in the helicopters." Dark eyes glared at the waiting desert. "No witnesses."
~*~*~*~*~
String felt Caitlin's fingers squeeze tight, more than the plume of red dust they rode through could account for. A strand of red hair tickled his neck as she nodded down the road. "Trouble."
He cast his own hearing ahead, listening past the sound of their motorcycle. While he'd focussed on keeping them in one piece on this dent in the dirt laughingly called a road, Caitlin had been tracking the truck two miles down, trying to determine who else might be heading out Apoyo's way. They'd heard a pair of light helicopter turbines about half an hour ago; not unusual, in this land of empty space. But odd enough to set already-jangled nerves twitching.
Still. There was no reason for whoever was in the truck to be hostile.
Since when have we been that lucky?
Listening now, he heard birdsong. The rustle of wind through dry branches. A woman's angry voice. "Son of a -"
Crack.
Flesh on flesh; the bone-breaking slap of a man's hand. Coarse laughter, and a suggestion of just what they were planning to do to this chica that brought a vile curse to Caitlin's lips.
"I'll give you 'chica,'" the woman panted, "You-"
Crack.
String's eyes narrowed. "Three."
"Unless one of 'em's not talking," Caitlin pointed out. One arm released him, reaching back into the saddlebags for his automatic. Hers was already holstered. "Guess we find out if Archangel's permits cover the reservation."
~*~*~*~*~
Nine hours to sunset, Beth calculated, tasting blood. The greaseball's hand was an iron vise on her arm, encircling her with a tan sleeve that stank of sweat and musk. Way too long.
This couldn't be happening. This was her own truck he'd pinned her against, as his two cronies opened the tailgate. Her sister was a cop. Her brother was a cop. She was a cop's daughter, and there was no way these three pigs were going to - going to-
"Too bad," the mustached thug whispered in her ear, "We only have time to play - once."
Beth slammed her head back where she thought his nose was; jarred skull against skull, points of pain blasting through her vision. Funny... always works in the movies....
She saw the hand coming, tried to duck-
Something sprayed her, hot and wet. Her captor screamed, overlapping a short, flat crack of gunfire.
Beth jerked against the iron grip, slipped free as Mustache held up a shattered, bloody hand. She slid to the ground, scooting out of sight under her pickup as the two sidekicks pointed their submachine guns toward the echoing shot.
"I wouldn't." Mirrored lenses watched them from an idling motorcycle; a lean man leveled a matte-black automatic pistol on the nearest whole thug. "My partner's a very good shot."
The shorter sidekick spat something in Spanish, brought his gun on target-
Which was no longer there, motor revving in a spurt of red dust. Beth cringed under the truck bed as more shots rang out; a long rip of thunder, punctuated by five firecracker snaps.
Silence. The motor cut off. A creak of metal; someone leaning a motorcycle onto its kickstand. A sobbing moan; if she hadn't heard her captors' vile boasts, it would have sounded like... pleading....
"Hagáse el muerto." The motorcycle rider. Voice level and cold as polished ice.
A shuddering sob. "Sí, sí...."
Small, dark boots moved across Beth's line of vision; a freckled face peered under the truck. "It's okay," the woman said soothingly. She held out a pale hand. "I'm Caitlin. You're gonna be all right."
Shaking, Beth scrambled out from under the transmission, gripping a hand whose calluses felt way too familiar to a cop's daughter. Gun callus.
But a warm hand. She didn't feel warm. She wasn't sure she'd ever feel warm again. "You're not tribal police."
"We'll have to call them. Do you have a radio?" Caitlin studied her swollen cheek, touched gentle fingers to the edge of hot pain. "Looks like they cracked the bone. Should be okay, but it's gonna hurt like heck." She glanced toward the motorcycle rider. "Hawke?"
Hawke was tying the wrists of a bleeding man with a cut length of nylon camp cord, ignoring twisted bodies sprawled on red ground. Mirrored lenses gave nothing away. "¿Dónde es Isabel?"
"Por favor...."
Cold patience, as Hawke folded away his pocketknife. "¿Dónde es Isabel?"
"Radio? No, I don't have a radio... Isabel? You know Isabel?" Beth stared at still, bloody forms, swallowing as a dank stench hit her nose. "They're dead."
"Yeah." The redhead's gaze was bleak. "Here. Channel 9 ought to hook you up with the locals."
A walkie-talkie, Beth realized, wrapping her fingers around black plastic. High-end model, looked like; the kind Elisa had borrowed from the SWAT team, once or twice. "Who are you people?"
"Good Samaritans." Hawke didn't look up. "Wasn't your shot, Cait."
"You don't know that!"
"I know where I aimed." His voice dropped low and cold as morning frost. "And I know you understand English. Who do you work for? Where's Isabel?"
"Go to hell!" the surviving thug spat.
"Fine." With no regard for the man's yelps, Hawke dragged him into the bed of Beth's pickup.
I don't believe this, Beth thought incredulously. Her free hand wiped the stickiness from her throat, came away red. I just don't believe this.
Slamming the tailgate, Hawke dusted off his hands. "Cait?"
"There was more of them." Caitlin circled the trailer, climbing a low rise. She picked up a squashed cigarette butt, sniffed it; dropped it back to the ground. "Looks like they hung out here a while, then took off." She stooped again, coming up with a bright handful of spent cartridges. "Submachine guns."
"Excuse me?" Is that my voice? Beth thought in passing. Sounds too hysterical to be my voice. I don't get hysterical.... "People are dead here. You killed them!"
"And we told you to call the cops." God, the man could've been ordering a cup of coffee. "Trail?"
"Looks like she headed up that landslide," Caitlin replied, peering into the distance. "Bought her some time, maybe... think she headed cross-country?"
Hawke nodded. "Somewhere with guns. Probably by way of places a helicopter couldn't get to."
"If she knows they're after her," Caitlin pointed out, grabbing packs off the back of the motorcycle.
Hawke caught the one she tossed. "She knows." Mirrored lenses turned Beth's way. "We'll be on Channel 12." A hint of a smile. "It'd help if you told the locals not to shoot us."
~*~*~*~*~
Rotors chewed the air overhead; Isabel squeezed her eyes shut and prayed. The lining of her jacket was silky warm against bare skin, gaping into chill around her neck. Dust crept into her nostrils, drawn by the hint of moisture in the sandstone boulder's shadow. She fought a sneeze. You're a rock. Think like a rock.
Intellectually she knew the limits of human vision. She'd ridden in helicopters more than once, trying to spot smugglers from Mexico; she knew how the eye fixed on movement, any movement. So long as she lay still in the shadow, she should be safe.
They could have IR-
They could. But the mass of stone should block most of her body heat from the sky. This spot was close to perfect.
Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.
Oh, and wasn't that a pleasant thought. All the Argentinos would have to do was drop one charge from that hovering nightmare-
Rotors whined, pitching lower and softer. Wind stirred the dust; settled.
They're... leaving?
The rumbling beat vanished into the distance, leaving only the moan of winds over rock.
Now's your chance. Move!
Isabel surged up; sank teeth into her lip at the screaming pain. Something was wrong in her chest. Terribly wrong.
It's not like hurling yourself up mountain slopes a week after a sucking chest wound is a good idea....
She licked away blood, grimacing at the coppery taste. Coughed. Felt the catch in chipped ribs, and leaned back against chill stone. This is the best chance you're going to get. Get moving. Get to help. Get to....
Isabel blinked, gaze wandering dizzily across red-banded stone. If the sun was there, and she'd walked in from there... or had she? She'd done her level best not to leave a trail, and apparently she'd succeeded. She might have come in that gap ahead, or maybe across those stones, or down that scrap of a stream....
I don't believe this. I don't believe this.
Lost. Less than an hour from home. In her own homeland.
I am so screwed.
~*~*~*~*~
Down on one knee, String studied the faint tracks of a wounded woman. Just scatterings of dust, for the most part; sometimes hidden completely by the heavy footprints of those following. But this stretch of prints was almost clear. Let's see. According to the map, we're right about....
The GPS coordinates slid into mind easily as breathing, Airwolf locating them in relation to her own position. Within about seventy feet of what the map indicated. Fairly close, as far as maps of this area went.
Caitlin leaned over his shoulder, gaze flicking up every few seconds to make sure they weren't seen. Less than a hundred yards away they could hear footsteps crunching on dry grass, sharp Mexican curses at the dust, the heat, the stones that turned under leather boots. "Do we take them?" A bare breath against his ear; an ordinary person standing beside them would have heard nothing.
"Two on two, automatic weapons, and they can call in helicopters?" Raised brows gave his impression of those odds. "Not if we don't have to."
"If we could take 'em out, we'd have a head start."
"Yeah." If only they could do it quickly. Any distress call, and they'd get two armed helicopters in their laps. Which wouldn't do them or Apoyo any good. "We need a distraction."
Daylight sorties generally undesirable.
Mitigating factors: Local terrain favors nap-of-the-earth flight, local terrain recorded, low population density.
Engage autopilot?
String blinked at the fluff-warm question. There was an option he hadn't considered. "You've never hovered out of the Lair on your own, Angel."
Proper strategies recorded.
"It's trickier than it looks," Caitlin murmured. "Better not."
Pilot hazard, Airwolf lamented.
"Not yet it's not," String muttered.
"We'll be careful, Lady," Caitlin promised. "Worrywart."
Pilot survival crucial factor in Airwolf survival. Full link contact positive reinforcing influence on Airwolf A.I. Link cessation negative outcome.
The corners of String's mouth twitched. "Translation: don't get yourselves killed, I'd have to break in a whole new set of pilots."
"Hawke!" Cait smothered a giggle, listening to the Mexicans move ahead. "You know she likes us better than that!"
"I know." He gestured at the tracks. "She was hiding them better before."
"She's hurt bad." Caitlin swallowed, blue eyes hardening as she thought of the bloody form they'd rescued a week ago. "And she doesn't know anyone's looking for her."
Anyone friendly, anyway. "So will she keep going, or hole up?"
"You're askin' me?"
"I'd hole up and take my chances," String said frankly. "But I'm not a woman. And we both know what these bastards will do to a woman if they find her."
"Would you hole up, Hawke?" Caitlin watched him like a falcon, gaze full of wary compassion. "After Angela. Would you hole up?"
He drew in a sharp breath. Horn's daughter. The woman who'd made him share her life... and her bed. I'd die before I'd go back there. "I'd run."
"Run like hell," the redhead agreed. "Hello...."
Caitlin dropped into a crouch, grin lighting her face as she studied a faint trail on the ground. Step by step, she followed the winding, serpentine path, stopping just before a patch of gray-leafed brush.
Catching the diamond pattern of gray on gray, String drew in a subtle breath. "Cait?"
"Just like catchin' trout...." Blue eyes flickering over the bush, she lunged.
Something hissed, a long, thrashing coil of gray-speckled muscle. Hollow scales rattled furiously, fangs stymied in their reach for the slender hand that pinned them just behind the skull. A forked tongue licked out, tasting the molecules that bore the scent of its captor.
Arms full of rattlesnake, the former Texan chuckled. "Think we just found our surprise."