AN: Gruesome warning here, and strong language (in German). You've
been warned.
***********************************************************************
Harm saw Mercedes tensely perched on the tree branch some good twelve feet up when Tikhomirov began moving back. The cousins watched as, unaware, he moved directly under her hiding place. Mercedes looked at him, eyes ablaze, body tensed. She pointed first to Mac, then at her cousin. She held up her right hand, four fingers in the air.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Harm dove madly at the pair, grabbing for Mac as he went. Simultaneously, CD dropped like an avenging angel from above, tackling Tikhomirov and sending them both to the ground.
CD hit Tikhomirov hard, her hands in a fist connecting with the back of his neck. She never stopped moving, agilely and immediately rolling to her feet when they hit the ground. Turning back to her opponent, she let fly a vicious roundhouse kick just as he struggled to his knees. The blow snapped his head backwards and left him unconscious in the snow.
Meanwhile, Harm had wrapped both arms around Mac's thin frame and used his momentum to propel them away from the fight. Hitting the ground hard, they rolled a few feet before stopping. "I got ya, Mac," he breathed urgently in her ear, "now stay down. This isn't over yet."
He looked up in time to see Mercedes deliver the wicked-looking kick to Tikhomirov. Breathing heavily, she paused for a moment, then looked over at her cousin and Mac. "Harm?" she called.
"Over here."
"Right." Still fighting the adrenaline flying through her body, she took a few deep breaths before answering further. "Mac okay?"
"I think so," he called, glancing down at her. "Go check Webb."
"Right." With that, she dashed over to where he lay, near the car.
And then any thoughts of Webb, CD, Tikhomirov, or anyone else save the woman in his arms fled from Harm's mind. Everything in his being was focused on Mac.
*************************
Mercedes sprinted to where Webb lay slumped on his side in the snow. His body position alone was bad news. People instinctively tended to move to stay warm, which typically meant face down, body pressed to the ground. Clay hadn't moved since Mac had been forced to drop him.
She half-skidded to her knees next to him. "Webb?" she tried, reaching to shake him gently, but it was no good. A quick survey of his state did not reassure her. "Clay?" she tried again, leaning closer.
God, he was a mess. A nastily logical voice in the back of her head reminded her that most people she'd seen in a similar condition were lying on a slab in the morgue. His clothes were filthy and tattered; someone had obviously forced him into a ratty looking coat, but that was the only concession to comfort that had been made. She recognized the distinctive coloration of dried bloodstains all over his skin and clothes. Gently, she slid a trembling hand on to the vein in his neck. His skin was chilled and clammy, but there was a faint but steady throb under her fingertips. Thank you God.
Okay, first things first: get him off the ground. She pulled open the car door, then moved back to him. "Okay, Clay, stick with me here. I'm gonna try to get you a little warmer and somewhere I can get a better idea what the slime did," she said quietly, rolling him toward her.
She couldn't help the pained-sounding gasp that escaped her lips when she got a good look at his face. A slow-burning rage ignited within her as she took in the purplish, puffily distorted features. Dammit, this was her fault. What the hell else had been done?
As gently as she could, she lifted him into the car, helping him on to the edge of the seat. He dropped back against the seat as she began a close examination. The soles of his feet were burned, and there possible broken bones. His legs showed various lacerations through corresponding cuts in his pants. There were at least three broken fingers, and his arms showed similar damage to his legs. Wanting to keep him warm as possible, she slid her hands underneath the jacket and over his chest. Broken ribs, several on each side... and what were those small rough spots? The texture was familiar...
An anger that had been on slow burn ever since she learned the truth about her uncle's death was quickly surging upward into a white-hot fury. It climbed higher when she lifted the hem of his shirt and discovered the nature of the mysterious spots. Cigar burns, deliberately placed where they would cause maximum pain.
Much like her cousin, Mercedes prized her hard-won control, and had worked hard to learn to keep in under any situation. Unfortunately, even the strongest restraints have their limits. CD's control hit theirs when she discovered the worst of Clay's injuries.
His back was a mass of raw meat, trimmed with infection. Oh, no. Holy God, no. Not salt... That... He didn't....
But Tikhomirov had. After systematically reducing the tissue to a bloody mess, salt had been rubbed into the wounds. It was a pain that was both acute and enduring.
Deep inside Mercedes Rabb, something vital snapped, and the darker side of her nature, the aspect of herself that she so carefully controlled, was unleashed.
**************************
"Come on Mac, talk to me," Harm begged, gently pulling her to him. Apparently, somewhere between being held at gunpoint and hitting the ground after Harm's rescue, she'd passed out. Cradling her in one arm, he brushed away the hair from her face with a soft caress. "Open those big brown eyes of yours and talk to me, ninja-girl, please," he pleaded softly.
Slowly, very slowly, her eyelids lifted, and he got his wish. She regarded him with confusion, reaching up to touch a tentative hand to his cheek. "Harm?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Relief flooded through him. "Welcome back, Marine," he said softly.
Her fingertips moved to brush his newly-acquired mustache. "It's you..."
"It was the only thing we could think of to get an advantage on Tikhomirov," he replied softly, pulling her closer. Hell, he couldn't get close enough. "We had to get you back," he added, anguish creeping into his voice. He swallowed hard before asking the question he'd been dreading. "What did they do to you?"
"Not much," she replied, "but I haven't eaten in a few days. I'm so hungry...."
"God, Mac..... I was so worried," he managed, his voice rough. "I... I..." Words failed him; instead he kissed her, desperately, passionately. "I thought I'd lost you," he whispered brokenly, before simply holding her tight for a long moment.
Finally, he pulled back slightly. "Come on, I think we've got something you can eat in the cabin, and it's a hell of a lot warmer in there." He started the to get to his feet, helping her do the same. "CD?" he called, still focused on Mac. "How's Webb?"
No answer.
"Mercedes?" Finally standing, still supporting Mac, he looked up... Just in time to see his cousin striding over to where Tikhomirov was slowly regaining consciousness. What the...?
Confusion turned to shock as Mercedes brutally kicked the struggling man in the stomach. "Los, aufstehen, du gottverdammter Wichser!!"* she ordered, pulling out her gun and leveling it straight at the Russian's head.
TBC.......
*********************************************************
*Translation: "Get up, you ****ing b*****d!"
*********************************************************
AN2: Okay, y'all, I need some feedback here for the end of the story. I have 2 options: 1) wrap up everything neat and clean at the end of this story, or 2) leave a few loose ends hanging, & deal with them in a (much shorter) sequel. Basically, are you guys sick of Mercedes, or would you like to see more of her?
Let me know off list, at msnovtue@hotmail.com Thanks!
been warned.
***********************************************************************
Harm saw Mercedes tensely perched on the tree branch some good twelve feet up when Tikhomirov began moving back. The cousins watched as, unaware, he moved directly under her hiding place. Mercedes looked at him, eyes ablaze, body tensed. She pointed first to Mac, then at her cousin. She held up her right hand, four fingers in the air.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Harm dove madly at the pair, grabbing for Mac as he went. Simultaneously, CD dropped like an avenging angel from above, tackling Tikhomirov and sending them both to the ground.
CD hit Tikhomirov hard, her hands in a fist connecting with the back of his neck. She never stopped moving, agilely and immediately rolling to her feet when they hit the ground. Turning back to her opponent, she let fly a vicious roundhouse kick just as he struggled to his knees. The blow snapped his head backwards and left him unconscious in the snow.
Meanwhile, Harm had wrapped both arms around Mac's thin frame and used his momentum to propel them away from the fight. Hitting the ground hard, they rolled a few feet before stopping. "I got ya, Mac," he breathed urgently in her ear, "now stay down. This isn't over yet."
He looked up in time to see Mercedes deliver the wicked-looking kick to Tikhomirov. Breathing heavily, she paused for a moment, then looked over at her cousin and Mac. "Harm?" she called.
"Over here."
"Right." Still fighting the adrenaline flying through her body, she took a few deep breaths before answering further. "Mac okay?"
"I think so," he called, glancing down at her. "Go check Webb."
"Right." With that, she dashed over to where he lay, near the car.
And then any thoughts of Webb, CD, Tikhomirov, or anyone else save the woman in his arms fled from Harm's mind. Everything in his being was focused on Mac.
*************************
Mercedes sprinted to where Webb lay slumped on his side in the snow. His body position alone was bad news. People instinctively tended to move to stay warm, which typically meant face down, body pressed to the ground. Clay hadn't moved since Mac had been forced to drop him.
She half-skidded to her knees next to him. "Webb?" she tried, reaching to shake him gently, but it was no good. A quick survey of his state did not reassure her. "Clay?" she tried again, leaning closer.
God, he was a mess. A nastily logical voice in the back of her head reminded her that most people she'd seen in a similar condition were lying on a slab in the morgue. His clothes were filthy and tattered; someone had obviously forced him into a ratty looking coat, but that was the only concession to comfort that had been made. She recognized the distinctive coloration of dried bloodstains all over his skin and clothes. Gently, she slid a trembling hand on to the vein in his neck. His skin was chilled and clammy, but there was a faint but steady throb under her fingertips. Thank you God.
Okay, first things first: get him off the ground. She pulled open the car door, then moved back to him. "Okay, Clay, stick with me here. I'm gonna try to get you a little warmer and somewhere I can get a better idea what the slime did," she said quietly, rolling him toward her.
She couldn't help the pained-sounding gasp that escaped her lips when she got a good look at his face. A slow-burning rage ignited within her as she took in the purplish, puffily distorted features. Dammit, this was her fault. What the hell else had been done?
As gently as she could, she lifted him into the car, helping him on to the edge of the seat. He dropped back against the seat as she began a close examination. The soles of his feet were burned, and there possible broken bones. His legs showed various lacerations through corresponding cuts in his pants. There were at least three broken fingers, and his arms showed similar damage to his legs. Wanting to keep him warm as possible, she slid her hands underneath the jacket and over his chest. Broken ribs, several on each side... and what were those small rough spots? The texture was familiar...
An anger that had been on slow burn ever since she learned the truth about her uncle's death was quickly surging upward into a white-hot fury. It climbed higher when she lifted the hem of his shirt and discovered the nature of the mysterious spots. Cigar burns, deliberately placed where they would cause maximum pain.
Much like her cousin, Mercedes prized her hard-won control, and had worked hard to learn to keep in under any situation. Unfortunately, even the strongest restraints have their limits. CD's control hit theirs when she discovered the worst of Clay's injuries.
His back was a mass of raw meat, trimmed with infection. Oh, no. Holy God, no. Not salt... That... He didn't....
But Tikhomirov had. After systematically reducing the tissue to a bloody mess, salt had been rubbed into the wounds. It was a pain that was both acute and enduring.
Deep inside Mercedes Rabb, something vital snapped, and the darker side of her nature, the aspect of herself that she so carefully controlled, was unleashed.
**************************
"Come on Mac, talk to me," Harm begged, gently pulling her to him. Apparently, somewhere between being held at gunpoint and hitting the ground after Harm's rescue, she'd passed out. Cradling her in one arm, he brushed away the hair from her face with a soft caress. "Open those big brown eyes of yours and talk to me, ninja-girl, please," he pleaded softly.
Slowly, very slowly, her eyelids lifted, and he got his wish. She regarded him with confusion, reaching up to touch a tentative hand to his cheek. "Harm?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Relief flooded through him. "Welcome back, Marine," he said softly.
Her fingertips moved to brush his newly-acquired mustache. "It's you..."
"It was the only thing we could think of to get an advantage on Tikhomirov," he replied softly, pulling her closer. Hell, he couldn't get close enough. "We had to get you back," he added, anguish creeping into his voice. He swallowed hard before asking the question he'd been dreading. "What did they do to you?"
"Not much," she replied, "but I haven't eaten in a few days. I'm so hungry...."
"God, Mac..... I was so worried," he managed, his voice rough. "I... I..." Words failed him; instead he kissed her, desperately, passionately. "I thought I'd lost you," he whispered brokenly, before simply holding her tight for a long moment.
Finally, he pulled back slightly. "Come on, I think we've got something you can eat in the cabin, and it's a hell of a lot warmer in there." He started the to get to his feet, helping her do the same. "CD?" he called, still focused on Mac. "How's Webb?"
No answer.
"Mercedes?" Finally standing, still supporting Mac, he looked up... Just in time to see his cousin striding over to where Tikhomirov was slowly regaining consciousness. What the...?
Confusion turned to shock as Mercedes brutally kicked the struggling man in the stomach. "Los, aufstehen, du gottverdammter Wichser!!"* she ordered, pulling out her gun and leveling it straight at the Russian's head.
TBC.......
*********************************************************
*Translation: "Get up, you ****ing b*****d!"
*********************************************************
AN2: Okay, y'all, I need some feedback here for the end of the story. I have 2 options: 1) wrap up everything neat and clean at the end of this story, or 2) leave a few loose ends hanging, & deal with them in a (much shorter) sequel. Basically, are you guys sick of Mercedes, or would you like to see more of her?
Let me know off list, at msnovtue@hotmail.com Thanks!