Chapter 15

Why Do Fools Fall in Love?

            Could it get any better than this? Michael Johnson wondered. He lay in the darkness, breathing gently. His arms were wrapped around Faith's sleeping form, their bodies pressed tightly together to fit on a cot that was designed to barely fit one person. The heat of her next to him was intoxicating.

            I suppose we could have a proper bed, he thought to himself. That would be nice. There were, in fact, a lot of things that could be better. For now, though, he was content merely to have her in his arms. The rest would come later, after they'd completed the rescue mission and they were all safely back in England.

            Slowly, so as not to disturb her, he lifted his arm to look at his watch. It was a quarter to midnight. He sighed. He would be needed on duty soon. He hated to leave her, but he was first and foremost a soldier. No, he corrected himself, he was first and foremost a man.

            He didn't like to think of himself as a sap, but the only phrase he could think of to describe his feelings was 'love at first sight.' The moment he'd seen her fall through that portal and land in a heap on the floor, he'd been in love. She seemed to him so fragile, so in need of protection. He had immediately fashioned himself her protector.

            It had been frightening for him, at first. Logically, she didn't need his protection. She was a Slayer after all. She could probably take him apart with her eyes closed. And the rest of the team for that matter. If she didn't need a protector, what could he offer her? And what if she didn't want him?

            But she had come to him quite willingly. Their attraction had been instant, mutual, and had flared into life immediately. Their joining had been hot, almost urgent. She had clung to him as they pressed into one another. It was like he was a life preserver and she was drowning. She clung to him, and he buoyed her.

            Then he had carried her to the cot, and she had continued to cling, and he had pulled her close to him. He held her against his chest and told her of his dreams for them. A house in the country; kids. She'd started to cry. He wasn't prepared for that, and he didn't think she had been prepared either. But the tears began sliding down her cheeks and onto his chest.

            She refused to look at him. She just buried her face in his chest and he simply held her. And in the quiet, dark of the night, he began to make plans. He planned their wedding, and a home in the country, and the names of their children. He made plans for their life together. It didn't dawn on him that she might not share his feelings.

            Carefully, he slipped out from beside her and began to search for his clothing in the dark. It wasn't easy – as they were wearing nearly identical black outfits, which were now on a dark floor in a dark room. It would have been almost comical in other circumstances.

            To Faith, though, nothing was comical. She was, to be honest, completely conflicted. The lovemaking had been exactly what she'd been after. She'd wanted, she'd taken. He'd wanted, he'd taken. It had been primal, forceful. They had pressed together so hard that the amulet had left a bruise on his chest.

            But then, he'd turned so damn tender. Crap! she thought to herself. Why did he have to do that? Why didn't he just bum a cigarette and leave? The result was something that she simply hated. She'd let her emotions come through.

            The tears had started, and they burned her cheeks as they fell. Everything was just so screwed up. She didn't want him to be tender with her. She didn't want him to hold her. But she couldn't help herself; she clung to him and let the tears fall. Eventually, she feigned sleep, hoping he would leave.

            He probably thinks he's in love, she thought to herself. Fool! Nobody could be in love with her. She didn't get that – she didn't deserve that. Want her? Oh yes. Everyone wanted her. But love? No. Men didn't love her.

            She was relieved when he started to get dressed. She didn't let on that she was still awake. She didn't want to talk to him. She just wanted to be alone. She wished she could just curl up and die.

            Soon, a voice told her inside. You'll get your wish very soon. The voice frightened her. But it was so soothing as well. It told her what she needed to hear, and all she had to do was listen to it. Believe it. It was so easy to believe that voice.

            His watch beeped. One chime. It was midnight. From beyond, she heard footsteps. There was nothing suspicious about that. Or at least there shouldn't have been. But the voice, the chime, and the footsteps – it was too coincidental, and the effect was foreboding. The voices came closer.

            They were coming for her. She wasn't sure how she knew, but she knew. They were coming for her, and it was time for her to die. The voice tried to reassure her. It became more and more insistent. Faith fought the rising panic. You'll be all right, the voice said. You can trust them.

            The curtain to her room was pulled aside. Three men stood there. One of them reached over and flipped the light on. The lone, uncovered bulb cast its harsh light over the scene. Faith lay curled into a ball on the cot, a thin blanket wrapped around her body. Johnson stood, half-dressed, his shirt in his hands and a shocked look on his face. In the entrance to the room, Sheffield, Cook, and Jessup stood, their faces grim.

            "What the hell is going on here?" Sheffield snapped. He stared at them. "Johnson?"

            "Sir," Johnson said, and volunteered nothing further.

            "What did you do to her?" Sheffield demanded. "So help me, if you –"

            "He didn't," Faith said absently. "It's fine."

            Sheffield looked from Faith to Johnson and back. She wasn't covering for him; she was simply stating a fact. But he didn't need this kind of complication. He frowned even further.

            Cook cleared his throat. "Shall I escort him someplace safe?" Cook asked.

            Sheffield nodded. "Good idea. Johnson, attend Mr. Cook. Immediately."

            Johnson didn't like the whole setup. However, it was an order. And he wouldn't get anywhere by arguing. He slipped his shirt over his head and walked past them and out of the room. Cook peeled off and took his elbow, escorting him off.

            "It's time," Sheffield said to Faith.

            "I know," she said. She sat up, the blanket pulled around her body. "A little privacy please?" she said. Sheffield and Jessup turned their backs. Faith reached for her clothes, the voice from the amulet having asserted total control on her.

* * *

            On the other side of the warehouse they were using for an operations area was an old shipping container. Cook pushed Johnson towards it. "Open it," he ordered. Johnson turned to see if his escort was serious, and noticed that Cook had pulled out his pistol and held it at his side. Johnson complied.

            "Inside," Cook ordered. When Johnson had moved forward, he pulled out a pair of handcuffs and tossed them in. "Put'em on," he ordered.

            Slowly, cautiously, Johnson knelt down and grabbed the cuffs. He snapped the cuffs on, his hands in front. He held them up and showed them to Cook. "Happy?" he asked.

            "Am I happy?" Cook sneered back. "You must think you're pretty special, huh?" He pocketed the pistol and stalked forward. "Was she good?" he asked.

            "Jealous?" Johnson sneered back.

            For an answer, Cook threw a punch – lightening fast, deep into Johnson's gut. Johnson collapsed. He followed it up with a strike to the side of the head. It didn't bother him that his opponent was handcuffed. He actually preferred it that way.

            He stalked aside and glared down at Johnson. "She was mine!" he screamed. Frustration played a symphony over his facial expressions. In a sudden burst of anger he stepped forward and leveled a kick into Johnson's kidney.

            Cook's agitation boiled up inside of him. "I saw her first," he wheezed out at Johnson. "You lousy thief. You pig. She was mine!" Another step, another kick leveled into his supine victim.

            Johnson coughed and spat out blood. "She's not a piece of property, you know." He only managed a horse whisper.

            "Really?" Cook replied. "I think maybe Mikey likes it. I think maybe Mikey doesn't know what he's dealing with." Cook leveled another blow on Johnson, and then grabbed him by the hair and jerked his head up. "She's nothing but a piece of meat. She's a freak, you understand. A freaky piece of meat that has only one purpose: to breed other freaky pieces of meat for us to use." He threw Johnson's head down and stalked away.

            "And I suppose you want to be the stud they breed her with?" Johnson squeezed out, gasping for breath.

            "You'd think that, wouldn't you?" Cook said. "I watched her shower, you know. Her body is amazing. But I wouldn't have a child with that mistake." He walked slowly around Johnson, deciding how much to taunt him. Cruelty overcame discretion. "You know how to breed a Slayer?" he asked, not expecting an answer. "You kill her." He laughed as Johnson looked up at him. "Yep," he said. "You kill her, and another one is called. You do it nice and hospital like, so you can bring her back if you decide to. And then you'd have two."

He laughed again as Johnson's face went from disbelief to horror. "Of course, this one's been with you. I think that makes her not worth bringing back."

* * *

            "She's like a zombie," Sheffield grunted. The Doctor looked up at him from the table across the room. Sheffield was waving his hand back and forth in front of Faith's face. Faith, garbed now in a hospital gown, stared forward unblinking.

            "She'll not respond," the Doctor replied. "I used a particularly potent sedative. It will keep her like that for awhile."

            "Will that be a problem? I mean, will it affect your ability to bring her back?" Sheffield didn't particularly care one way or the other. He did, though, want to have an idea of what the outcome would be. He would need to report the mission status soon.

            "Her Slayer metabolism can handle it," the Doctor replied. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to finish the preparations." The Doctor held up a set of electrodes and tubes that ran from a sophisticated piece of machinery on the cart next to him. "We can discuss it more after we are ready to proceed," he said.

            Sheffield knew that he was being dismissed. He nodded to Jessup, however, indicating that the man was to stay and keep and eye on things. He turned to leave. On a chair by the door was piled Faith's clothing. On top of the pile was the Amulet of Arinoth – their sole control over the supernatural wild child.

            "Shouldn't she have this on?" Sheffield said, indicating the amulet.

            "It is conductive," the Doctor replied. "There is too much risk of fouling this up if she is wearing it." He shrugged. "Don't worry, I will put it back on her before she comes back to consciousness."

            "You're sure about that?" Sheffield said. "Is there any chance that she could revive too soon?"

            "It would take an extreme circumstance to revive her. Even with her Slayer's metabolism, the sedative will keep hold." The Doctor waved his hand flightily in the air to indicate the remoteness of the possibility. "I wouldn't worry about it."

            "I worry," Sheffield replied.

* * *

            "I worry about people like you." Cook continued his taunting of Johnson. "People like you and MacKenzie – people who put their own personal feelings above their duty. You make me sick, you know that?" He shrugged and slowly circled Johnson's inert form. "Now you're going to end up just like that little Scottish miscreant."

            Johnson's mind was running a hundred miles an hour. He had been hurt by Mac's betrayal of the team. It was something he hadn't wanted to even think about. Now, however, it was becoming clear. Mac had figured out that Sheffield and his pets were up to no good. He had tried to stop them.

            Johnson realized now that he should've trusted MacKenzie. He should've been helping stop Sheffield all along. Anger flared in his eyes. "He knew," he spat out, trying to rise to his hands and knees. "He knew what you were doing, and tried to stop you. That's why Sheffield killed him." It was all over. Mac was dead, and Michael Johnson knew that he would soon be dead also. There was nothing he could do to stop things.

            "That's mostly true," Cook laughed. "I imagine MacKenzie's still kicking around somewhere. Probably in hiding. He can't go back to the SAS – Sheffield saw to that. But he's not dead, no." Cook drew his pistol out and walked slowly up to Johnson. "That's more than I can say for you, though."

            The realization that Mac was still alive sent a shock through Johnson. He knew MacKenzie, and he knew that if Mac was still alive, he'd be close to finding them. He wouldn't have given up and hidden; he'd still be fighting Sheffield. That meant that there was something Johnson could do to turn the tide of this encounter.

            "Say 'bye bye' Mikey," Cook sneered, leveling the pistol at Johnson.

            Years of hand to hand combat training all crystallized in that one moment. Like an electric charge surging through his body, every nerve and muscle Michael Johnson had reacted with blinding speed. In perfect unison, he rolled to his shoulder, spun on it like a pivot, and scissored his legs. Cook hit the floor of the shipping container hard, and the gun went skidding.

            Johnson rolled onto Cook's back, repeatedly driving his knee into the other man's kidney. Cook attempted to throw him off, but Johnson grabbed his tormentor's head between his handcuffed hands and slammed it into the metal floor. Once. Twice. Three times.

            He rose unsteadily to his feet and half-stumbled to where the pistol lay. He reached his hands out for it, but was stopped by Cook's shoulder driving into his back. The two fell to the floor, the gun skittering off to their left.

            Johnson flung an elbow over his shoulder and connected with Cook's face. The crunch of cartilage and the spray of blood sent Cook moaning and rolling off. Johnson got to one knee and raised his doubled fists high above his head. He slammed them down into Cook's abdomen, causing the man to double over in pain.

            For a brief moment, Johnson considered going for the gun again. A glint of metal on Cook's thigh caught his attention instead. He slid his hands to his opponent's leg and jerked the combat knife free of its sheath. "Don't. Call. Me. Mikey," he spat through gritted teeth. With each word he plunged the knife between Cook's ribs.

            His bruised and aching body wanted nothing more than to collapse. There wasn't time for that, though. He had one more mission to complete. Faith's only hope lay in his reaching MacKenzie.