Title: The Courier
Author: DOKChairman
Time/Spoilers: Don't know; it's a future fic. Assume everything up to "Truth Takes Time" is fair game.
Disclaimer: I don't own Alias, at least not at this moment. There was this brief period of time back in '01 where JJ briefly lost the rights to the show to me in a poker game, but he liquored me up on alcohol and somehow managed to convince me that a pair of threes was good enough to beat a full house. That bastard. Just think of all the things I could have accomplished by now if I still ran this show... Damn you JJ!
Warning: This ain't your typical fic. It's bloody, violent, action-packed, full of language, possibly inappropriate humor (actually, this one is a certainty), sex (at least in my mind there is), and maybe, just maybe, some S/V action thrown in. If this don't float yer boat, or send your trailer rockin, don't read on. If, however, you don't mind an adrenaline fueled romp (hehe, I said romp) then please continue at your leisure. Oh, and did I mention that there would be Action Vaughn and Devious Sark? No? Ok, good then.
Dedication: This story is dedicated to Cat and to Vicky, words are not needed to explain how you help me. You already know. Thank you all! Oh, and thanks to Jude who helped me with the teaser.
Chapter 3: The Running Man
Vaughn looked tiredly out the window and rubbed a weary hand across his forehead; exhausted inside and out. Traffic was moving far too slowly for his tastes and it was beginning to get on his nerves. The quicker he could get the case he carried off his arm, the quicker he could relax. The silver case had become the physical embodiment of the anxiety weighing heavily on his mind.
Despite his best attempts to the contrary, Vaughn could not stop thinking about Sydney. Of course, when was he not thinking about Sydney, he thought negatively. Like the many times before, however, his thoughts were far from pleasant-they were full of anxiety, apprehension, and even a touch of fear. His emotional high off of his conversation with Weiss those many hours ago had finally died down, and he was beginning to face the stark reality that all was not as optimistic as he had previously believed.
He still had faith in their ability to get through their problems, but he no longer believed that doing so would be as easy as he had previously thought. He sighed loudly and turned his face away from the window. He should not be thinking these things; he should be focused on the mission. There seemed to be a lot of things lately that he should be doing, but wasn't, he thought scornfully.
When Vaughn turned his head away from the window, his eyes locked with the eyes of the man sitting to his right. Willard was looking him over with a critical gaze. Vaughn could clearly see the doubt and apprehension written in the lines on the other agent's face. Vaughn grimaced internally and forced himself to maintain eye contact.
Vaughn sighed, "Is there something you want, Agent Willard?"
Willard maintained his critical stare for a few seconds longer and then abruptly turned his head away. He shook his head slightly and mumbled, "Uh, no. I was just thinking."
Silence settled over the car again, a heavy blanket that suffocated the occupants inside. Vaughn suddenly felt stifled and claustrophobic. God, his nerves over Sydney were wreaking havoc with his mind. In an attempt to think about something else-anything else-Vaughn tried to strike up conversation with Willard. In a hesitant tone, he asked, "So, um...how long have you been with the Agency?"
Willard was momentarily caught off guard by the abrupt randomness of Vaughn's question, but he quickly composed himself and answered, "I've been with the Agency for a total of 12 years, and with the SAS for the last five. Why?"
Vaughn shrugged his shoulders. "No reason. It's just we've spent all this time together and I know nothing about you." Willard arched an eyebrow and Vaughn smiled sheepishly. "All right, I'm bored and I need somebody to talk to or else I'll fall asleep."
Willard grinned in response, his teeth alarmingly white against his rough exterior. "I would think you'd be used to these sudden trips overseas. Your files says that you make these kind of trips at least once every two weeks."
Vaughn was taken aback by the knowledge that Willard had read his file. "You've read my file?" Vaughn asked stunned.
Willard's smile faltered a bit at the surprise on Vaughn's face. "Yeah. Assistant Director Kendall gave me a copy of your file and told me to study your psych profile and operational history. He said that I needed to know who I was dealing with in case things went south."
Vaughn's face soured and he said bitterly, "In other words, he wanted to know if you thought I could handle the mission."
"In a word, yes." Vaughn stiffened in response and Willard hastened to continue, "I don't think he was questioning your competence per se, but more like making sure that I knew your limits and what you were capable of."
"I don't understand. If he was so skeptical of my competence, why did he agree to let me go in the first place?"
Willard shrugged. "Don't know. I just follow my orders. What the higher ups are thinking is way outside my realm of expertise." Willard paused for a moment, considering his next words. "Although, I must say," he started to say, with an uneasy expression, "that for a person who spent most of their career sitting behind a desk, you have managed to accrue an impressive record." Once he had started, the expression on Willard's face softened, apparently judging that his comment had had the desired effect as he could see a smile forming in Vaughn's eyes. A secret smile on his face, he went on to finish, "Quite a number of successful missions you have been a part of. SD-6?"
Vaughn blushed slightly at Willard's compliment but quickly moved to correct him, "Nah, I didn't--I didn't really do much. It really wasn't just me, my asset at the time is largely responsible for most of it all--for the takedown of SD-6. As for the other missions, I always had a good team behind me. They're the ones who deserve most of the credit."
Brooks, who had been surreptitiously listening to the conversation between Vaughn and Willard, commented, "And he's modest as well. Jesus man, the women must love you."
Vaughn smiled embarrassedly and said, "I wouldn't know. And even if they did, I think my girlfriend would scare them all away."
All the men let out a quiet chuckle at Vaughn's comment. It was at that moment that Vaughn's phone vibrated irritatingly inside his jacket pocket. Vaughn frowned, his forehead wrinkles showing prominently on his face, and reached into his pocket to pull out his phone. He looked at the caller ID and rolled his eyes at the number displayed.
Hadn't he told Eric not to bother him for the next few hours, he asked himself sourly. Not that that mattered much where his best friend was concerned. It was typical Weiss to just ignore what he had asked in order to annoy him needlessly.
Vaughn brought the phone up to his ear, tired and irritated, and said sharply, "I thought I told you not to call me for another four hours, Eric."
The voice that greeted him did not belong to his best friend and it jarred him a bit at the recognition that it was someone else. The voice spoke, "So you'll tell Weiss where you're going and what you're doing, but you won't tell me?"
Vaughn sighed loudly at the realization that the person on the opposite end was an extremely angry Sydney. This was the last thing he needed: to have a fight with his girlfriend while on a mission was one thing, but to have a fight with his girlfriend while there was a large metal case attached to his arm and he was in a situation where three complete strangers would overhear everything that he said was another matter entirely.
Before he could stop himself, he said angrily, "Now is not a good time, Sydney."
Vaughn could not believe that this was happening to him, and his face colored in embarrassment. Due to the nature of the limited space of the car, there was no way that the three other men would not hear everything.
Out of the corner of his eye, he searched out the face of the man next to him. Willard's face had taken on a look of disapproval, but to Vaughn's relief, he seemed to be pointedly ignoring everything that Vaughn was doing. Brooks and Simkin seemed to be doing the same as well. Both men had their eyes firmly glued forward, and while Vaughn knew that they could still hear everything, he felt as if they had given him some much needed space.
Sydney's loud and angry voice jarred him back to the conversation, "Well, that's too damn bad! Did you think I wouldn't find out? Did you really think you could disappear for a few days without me noticing? Not even you are that stupid."
Anger welled inside of Vaughn and he barked into the phone, "I don't owe you a damn thing! You made that pretty clear to me the other night."
Willard coughed into his hand and Vaughn was sharply brought back to the reality that he was not alone. He took a deep breath and tried to get himself under control. He could not afford to lose it. At least not here. Sydney replied to his angry retort with equal enthusiasm, "You're the one who made a big deal out of the situation!"
Vaughn managed to get his temper under control and he said forcefully, "I'm in the middle of a mission, Sydney, and we are not going to have this discussion now. We'll talk about it more when I get back."
Vaughn heard Sydney vehemently spit out, "No. Either we talk about it now, or don't bother coming back." Vaughn had to pull the phone away from his ear and stare at it in disbelief. He did not just hear Sydney say that she was willing to end their relationship over this fight.
Vaughn moved the phone back to his ear and said, "You don't mean what you just said. I know you and you did not just say that you would end our relationship like this."
When Sydney responded there was a feel of finality to her words, "I did just say that and I meant it too."
Vaughn felt a pit form deep in his stomach and for the first time since the fight, he felt a real sense of fear. 'This was not happening' became his desperate mantra as he faced the very real possibility that the best relationship with the only woman he had ever truly loved could end over the phone. Quietly, he said, "I don't believe you. You don't really mean that, Sydne-"
Vaughn never finished his sentence. His head shot up when he heard the ear piercing scream of tires screeching against the road. Vaughn looked towards the front of the car and saw Brooks yank the steering wheel violently to the left. It didn't matter. Brooks yelled out, "Oh shit! Hold on!"
Unfortunately, Brooks warning was not fast enough for Vaughn to prepare himself fully for the inevitable impact. Vaughn was slammed bodily against the door and he let out an explosive breath. He groaned in pain and his cell phone slipped weakly out of his numb left hand.
Vaughn sat stock still, recovering his bearings and trying to determine the extent of his injuries. His shoulder hurt like hell, but that was to be expected. It was his neck and head that he was more worried about. The force from the impact had caused his neck to snap almost as violently as a whip lash, and he could feel the stress on his spine from the snapping. It had only been his reflexes, from hours upon painstaking hours of training and natural athletic ability, that had prevented his head from slamming into the door at full force. Even still, he had gotten a rather nasty gash on his forehead and he could feel the warm blood sliding down his face. He knew how lucky he was-he could have easily broken his neck, let alone suffered a concussion.
With his survey of his body complete, Vaughn tentatively turned his head, careful not to put too much strain on his sore neck, and looked out the left rear window.
The Mercedes had come to rest almost 45 degrees from its original heading, the front end ramming the car in the next lane. That car had in turn been rear-ended by the car behind it and a general pile up had occurred. Vaughn could see disoriented people getting out of their cars and wandering around aimlessly, trying to determine what had happened. That was something Vaughn would have loved to know himself.
Vaughn righted himself and struggled to unbuckle his seatbelt to give himself more freedom of movement, but the damn thing was being difficult. Still struggling, he yelled out, "Is everyone all right?"
He turned his head to his right and saw Willard nod in affirmation, Simkin did the same. But Brooks, whose portion of the car had taken the brunt of the impact, let out a weak groan. Vaughn frantically asked, "Are you all right, Brooks?"
Brooks head lolled to the side and he struggled to lift his head. There was a large gash running up his right cheek and blood was smeared on his face. Brooks struggled to speak and when he did his voice was weak, "Ye...ah. I think my leg is pinned to the seat though."
Vaughn nodded his head slightly and began to assess the situation. Brooks needed to get to a hospital as soon as possible. Simkin and Willard seemed to be in relatively decent shape although Willard was already sporting a growing bruise on his face. Vaughn uttered, "Right! Hold on. Where the hell are Johnson and Holly?"
Vaughn let out a little cry of victory as the seatbelt finally came undone and turned to face Willard as soon as he started speaking, "I don't know! Last I saw, they were right behind us." Willard paused and then said to Simkin, "Get on the com and find out their situation. I'll go and see what the hell happened."
Simkin began trying to reach Johnson or Holly while Willard undid his jacket and unhooked the strap that held his gun in place inside his holster. He turned to Vaughn and said, "You stay in here. If anything happens, being inside this car is the safest place you can be." Vaughn grunted quietly in response and Willard slowly opened the rear right door of the black Mercedes. Willard kept his left hand firmly attached to the door while his right hand rested on the butt of his gun.
Willard did his best to keep as much of his body behind the protective armor of the car door as he began stepping out into the open. He had made it about halfway out of the car when the staccato sound of gunshots rang out in front of him. He immediately leapt backwards into the car and closed the door as he did. Several pings sounded as the bullets impacted against the metal of the car.
Willard shouted out to Simkin, "Shit, we're under fire! Get on the line and contact the embassy! Tell them we've been intercepted."
Simkin stopped trying to reach the chase car and started barking into the com. Meanwhile, both Willard and Vaughn had drawn their weapons. Both men turned towards each other and Vaughn asked, "What do we do? Brooks can't move and I don't think this car will be able to run. We're boxed in."
Willard grew contemplative and then a serious look overcame his face. He said, "We have no choice. Going out into the open would be suicide. This car is the safest place for us right now. We can't leave."
Simkin interrupted Vaughn and Willard, "I couldn't get through to either Holly or the embassy. They're jamming us somehow." Simkin stopped and sharply turned his head to his left. Both Vaughn and Willard followed suit and Simkin suddenly opened his door and drew his gun. Before anyone could ask what he was doing, Simkin fired three times and Vaughn could just make out a man falling to the ground, clutching his stomach. Simkin fired two more times and jumped back inside the car when their attackers returned fire. Simkin turned his head and spoke sharply, "There were two of them, trying to swing around. I got one of them, but the other one made it to that group of cars over there. The fuckers are surrounding us."
Willard cursed silently and sighed. Vaughn knew that if they didn't do something soon, they would all be screwed. Simkin asked hopefully, "Is there any chance we can make it to Johnson and Holly?"
Willard shook his head haltingly. "We don't even know where they are, or if they are even still alive. It's too risky. Staying right here is still th-"
Brooks, who had been largely quiet since Vaughn had asked if he was okay, blurted out in a strained voice, "Watch the right. I think I saw some of them moving up along the row of cars!"
Willard opened his door and dropped to one knee. He used the door for cover as best he could and started firing at four men moving up alongside them, using parked cars and other assorted objects on the sidewalk for cover. They returned fire and the car became riddled with bullets. Simkin also opened his door and crawled out, making sure to stay low to the ground. He started firing at what now looked like three men taking cover in the entryway of a store to their left. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on how you looked at it, there was a row of cars in-between Simkin and the three men he was shooting at. That was making it difficult for Simkin to get a clear shot, but the reverse was also true.
Meanwhile, Vaughn was forced to sit impotently inside the armored car. A feeling of utter uselessness overcame him as he heard the angry retorts of the raging gun battle. He felt like he should be doing something, instead of just sitting in the car. Simkin and Willard were risking their lives, and he was doing nothing. And it was all because of the damn case attached to his arm. Vaughn regretted ever agreeing to carry the stupid thing.
Vaughn was yanked out of his depressing thoughts by a sharp yelp of pain coming from Willard. Vaughn turned his head to his right to see Willard slumped up against the car, the top half of his body awkwardly lying on top of the plush leather of the backseat. Willard moaned in pain and said through clenched teeth to Vaughn, "Ugh...I'm hit! My leg."
Motivated by Willard's agony, Vaughn leapt into action. He quickly slid to his right and grabbed the front of Willard's sweater with his left hand. With a nearly Herculean effort, he pulled Willard's entire body up and into the safety of the car. Willard collapsed atop the backseat, lying horizontal along the curiously undamaged leather. Vaughn moved to the floor, leaning over the bleeding Willard, and quickly began exploring his wound.
Vaughn was no doctor, but all agents had to take a basic first-aid course during CST and so it was with that basic knowledge that he studied the thumb-sized hole in Willard's right thigh. Not that he needed even first-aid to know that the rapidly bleeding wound in Willard's leg was a very bad thing. Holes in the body generally were-even the ones you were supposed to have.
Vaughn needed to stop the bleeding. He frantically looked for anything that he could use, when his green eyes finally settled on the belt wrapped around Willard's waist. He immediately began unfastening the belt, but things were not going as fast as he would have liked. He only had one free hand, and it wasn't like he had a lot of experience taking off other men's belts. Finally, after a few arduous seconds of work, he pulled the belt free and began the process of tying off the wound. Thankfully, making the tourniquet around Willard's thigh went decidedly smoother and he was able to get it set within a few seconds.
Vaughn looked up from the wound to Willard's face and felt a knot form in his stomach. Willard was already deathly pale and a fine sheen of sweat had formed along his forehead. This was not good. Willard needed to get to a hospital right away if he was going to have any chance.
Vaughn tried to school his features into a mask of confidence and optimism but Willard saw right through his facade, and a bitter smile of humorless acceptance graced his lips. Willard rasped weakly, "It's bad isn't it?"
Vaughn briefly considered lying to him, but he quickly forewent that decision. It would be doing Willard a disservice to lie to him now. Vaughn shook his head in the affirmative and said quietly, "Yeah, it's not good. I think the bullet may have nicked your femoral artery. If we don't get you to a hospital soon, you'll bleed out and die."
Willard stared briefly into Vaughn's eyes and then nodded his head in acceptance. There was nothing they could do and he knew it. Leaving the safety of the car would be suicide. All they needed to do was live long enough for the London police to show up, which could be a minute from now or twenty minutes. With the surrounding traffic, it was anybody's guess. None of which foretold a good outcome for Willard.
"I'm gonna get you to a hospital,"Vaughn said determinedly. Vaughn then began to wrap his left arm under and around Willard's shoulder. He started to drag him backwards, intending to pull him out of the car on the opposite side, away from the more concentrated fire coming from in front of them, but he didn't get far. With a surprisingly firm grip, Willard grasped Vaughn's arm and gritted out, "No. You are not too leave this car under any circumstances. That package can not...must not fall into enemy hands."
Vaughn looked down, flabbergasted, at the dying man in his arms. "But you'll die if we don't!"
Willard nodded his head in affirmation and said, "Then I die."
Vaughn shook his head. He refused to just accept that. What the hell was he carrying that was worth another man's life? Was it really worth all this? Vaughn was sorely tempted to just say "Fuck it" and give them the damn thing, but his sense of duty and loyalty to his country overrode that brief feeling of weakness. No. He had a mission to do, and he was going to do it or he was going to die. There was no middle ground.
Vaughn looked up and through the passenger-side window and swore under his breath. He slid forward, hand reaching for his gun, and pushed open the car door in one smooth motion. He stuck his arm out and pulled the trigger rapidly. The gun bucked violently, as he fired six rounds at three men trying to advance on the car. None of the men were hit, but they were forced to hunker down behind an abandoned car.
Vaughn pulled his arm back into the car and yelled, "Damnit! There's three of them...over there! I think they're trying to get close to the car."
Willard, from his horizontal position on the backseat, asked Vaughn hurriedly, "What are they doing?"
Two of the men started letting loose a steady stream of fire, as the third one began moving closer and closer to the car. The heavy wall of lead, combined with the approaching man's weaving between cars, prevented Vaughn from mounting any kind of counter-attack. The only thing he could do was try and determine what exactly the man was up to-whatever it was, there was no way it would be good. Why else would he be running towards them, instead of away?
Vaughn began feeling a deep sense of dread. This was most definitely not good, and Vaughn felt an intense sense of frustration at his inability to do anything. He snapped a response to Willard's question, "I don't know! I think one of them has something in his hand. It looks like a..." Vaughn's face paled when he recognized the object in the man's hand, and he shouted, "...ah fuck! It's a mine! Everybody out of the car now!"
In Vaughn's haste to exit the car, and pull Willard along with him, he dropped his gun on the ground. But he couldn't worry about that now. If he didn't get out of the car soon, whether or not he had a weapon would soon be a moot point.
He scrambled backwards until his back came into contact with the unyielding door of the Mercedes. He had to briefly let go of Willard to reach around behind him and pull the lever to open the door. Willard, meanwhile, was yelling at Vaughn to let him go and save himself, but Vaughn was having none of that. He wasn't going to leave Willard to die just to save himself.
The door finally popped open and Vaughn quickly leapt backwards and out of the car. He fell on his ass, hard, with Willard landing on top of him. Both men let out grunts of pain, Willard more than Vaughn as his leg had been jarred in the fall. Vaughn started moving backwards, but he was not moving nearly fast enough. Willard was for all intensive purposes dead weight, and he was slowing Vaughn down considerably. But Vaughn refused to leave him.
There was a loud clanging sound as something was slapped against the car and Vaughn knew that the magnetic limpet mine had just been attached to the black Mercedes. He had literally seconds before the mine exploded and he was only three feet away from the car. He wasn't going to make it completely out of the blast radius in time.
The SPM limpet mine, built in the former Soviet Union of course, was roughly the size of an enlarged cigarette pack. It only weighed 2.6 kg, but almost half of that was devoted to its explosive payload. The directional charge, built to create small holes in the keel of a ship, blew straight through the armor of the black Mercedes, and simultaneously lifted the car into the air.
Vaughn, Willard, and Simkin barely survived the explosion of the mine. Brooks was not as lucky.
The impact of the white van slamming into the Mercedes at close to 45 miles per hour had done little to damage the car, but it had done enough. It had done what it was intended to do: take the driver out of the equation and prevent the car from leaving. The metal of the car had folded upon Brooks' right leg, shattering it and pinning it to the seat. His spleen had also ruptured and three ribs along his right side had broken under the power of the impact. There had been a good chance that Brooks would have died from his injuries, if he had not received immediate medical attention, but there had also been a chance that he would live. The limpet mine slapping against the outside of the fuel tank had nullified that chance.
The Mercedes exploded in a fireball, killing Brooks instantly, and sending the car flying into the air. The shockwave flew out in all directions, shattering windows of cars and buildings alike. Vaughn and Willard were showered in shrapnel and glass, the flying missiles digging into their skin. Simkin, who had been the farthest away from the explosion, had been thrown into the side of a car. He had thrown out his arm to stop his momentum, but had only succeeded in breaking the appendage.
Vaughn felt several sharp and hot pinpricks of pain along his legs as the shrapnel from the car became embedded in his skin, and he screamed in agonized pain. The shrapnel was still burning. He quickly thrust his left hand to his legs and tried to remove the shrapnel from his legs. Willard went slack on top of him and Vaughn looked down. He stilled. Willard was a mess. His body had protected Vaughn from most of the damaging effects of the explosion, and it showed. His legs were torn to pieces and what remained of his pants were on fire. There were several bleeding wounds along his torso and a long gash starting from the base of his neck extended all the way to his forehead. His eyes were closed and he was taking quick, shallow breaths.
If Vaughn was honest with himself, he was amazed the man was still alive. The bullet wound in his thigh alone should have been enough to kill him. Yet, he was still breathing and to Vaughn that meant there was still a chance to save him.
Forgetting about his legs, he looked up and searched for Simkin. He saw him about ten feet away, leaning up against a car with his left arm cradled to his chest. Simkin was in the process of reloading his gun, but it was obvious he didn't have much experience doing it one handed. Vaughn started to move towards him, and that's when he remembered the case.
He looked down and noticed for the first time that the skin of his wrist was a glaring red. The heat from the explosion must have warmed the metal of the handcuff, and in turn, burnt the skin around it. Vaughn had never even felt the pain. The case itself was relatively unscathed. Whatever they made it out of, they made it to last. It was pockmarked with the occasional gash, a rather nasty sized one traversed the lower right side, but it was still in one piece. Vaughn still wasn't sure if that was good thing or a bad thing.
He had more important things to focus on though. He wrapped his left arm back around Willard and began moving both of them to Simkin. After about 15 seconds of intense effort, in which Vaughn found himself oddly out of breath, he sidled up to Simkin and collapsed against the reassuring backdrop of the car.
After taking a few gasping breaths of air, he turned to Simkin and asked, "How are you doing?"
"My left arm is broken and I'm down to my last clip of ammo. You?"
Vaughn gently moved Willard off to the side and turned to face Simkin. "I'm fine. My legs took a beating and my wrist is burned, but other than that, I'm okay." Vaughn absently left out his neck injury.
Vaughn saw Simkin try to stifle a smile. Confused, he asked, "What?"
Simkin chuckled slightly, "Oh nothing. It's just your face."
Vaughn felt a stab of fear. "What about my face?" he asked panicked.
Simkin smirked. "It's just that you're kinda, well, you're kinda missing your eyebrows."
Vaughn hadn't expected that. "Oh." Then he saw the smile on Simkin's face broaden and he frowned, which only seemed to make Simkin smile even more. "Oh, ha-ha. I'm glad you find my disfigurement amusing."
Simkin grinned and said, "Sorry, man. Every little bit helps."
Vaughn frowned some more and then reached to behind his back and pulled out two clips of ammunition and handed them to Simkin. "Here. I lost my gun in the car before it blew and I have no clue what happened to Willard's."
Simkin wiped the smile from his face and took the two clips of ammunition out of Vaughn's proffered hand somberly. He said, "Right. We need to move. We can't stay here. It's only a matter of time before they move on our position."
Vaughn was in partial agreement. "I agree, but go where? How far is the embassy from here? How many of them are there? Where the hell are the cops!?"
Simkin shrugged his shoulders slightly and said, "All good questions, Vaughn, but that's all they are. We don't have time to sit here and answer them. We have to move. Now."
Simkin turned his head away from Vaughn and began scanning the surrounding area. His eyes settled on an alley between two buildings about 100 feet away. From his vantage point, he couldn't tell if the alley ended or continued through. It would be a calculated risk taking the alley, but it was better than the alternative of staying out in the open. At least the alley would limit the avenues of attack.
Simkin turned back and fixed Vaughn with a steady gaze. He nodded his head in the direction of the alley and said, "There. We'll head for that alley. If we're lucky, we'll be able to move through to the other side, if not, we'll at least have a more defensible position. We'll wait 'em out."
Vaughn could see no reason to argue and just nodded his head in response. He climbed to his knees, groaning in pain. The pain was almost too intense, and he had to settle himself for a few seconds to recover. He finally felt stable enough to stand, and he did so awkwardly. He felt a hand on his arm and he looked up to see Simkin frowning at him.
Simkin asked concerned, "How hurt are you? Can you move?"
Vaughn contemplated his answer for the briefest of seconds. "I think so. The pain is pretty intense, but I'm fairly certain I can run if I have to."
Simkin seemed about to argue Vaughn's assertion, but the feeling must have passed because Simkin nodded his head and began to move away. Vaughn finally reached his full height, felt a white hot stab of pain, and quickly pushed the pain out of his mind. He could moan and groan about his pain later, when he was still alive to do so.
He leaned down to Willard and started to wrap his left arm around the unconscious man, but he was stopped by the hard voice of his partner, "Leave him."
Vaughn froze and spun around to face Simkin. Angrily, he hissed, "Leave him!?"
Simkin responded coolly, "Yes, leave him. He'll only slow us down."
Vaughn shook his head vigorously. "You can't be serious."
Simkin glared coldly at Vaughn. "I am completely serious. You think I want to leave him? I've worked with him for five years! I've met his kids, been to his home! I don't want to see him dead anymore than you do, but this is the life we signed on for, and the mission ALWAYS comes first. Do you understand?" Before Vaughn could even respond, Simkin continued, just as angry and curt, "Now leave him and come on!"
Vaughn glared angrily at Simkin, but he couldn't help but see the underlying logic of his argument. With a reluctant and heavy heart, he let Willard slip out of his grasp. The unconscious agent settled back to the ground and Vaughn grabbed the large metal case with both hands in a firm grip.
He straightened and began to walk towards Simkin who had just turned around to spur him on. "Come on, Agent Vaughn, we don't have all fucking day! Let's get a mo-"
Simkin never finished his sentence. The bullet impacting against Simkin's upper right temple was almost simultaneous with the sound of the gunshot. A splash of blood flared out from his temple, the entry point of the bullet relatively clean. While Simkin crumbled lifelessly to the ground, a bloody pool formed around his head, like some kind of perverse halo.
Before Vaughn even knew what he was doing, he had dropped to the ground and had begun crawling towards Simkin's body. He had to get Simkin's gun. It was his only chance. Bullets tore into the ground in front and to the right of him, and he rolled to the left to avoid the fire. Tiny little flakes of asphalt and concrete exploded up and outward with the impact of each bullet, and they bit into his face, shredding the skin.
Vaughn swore. They were keeping him away from the body with their fire. He scrambled to a car and quickly crawled behind it to use its bulk as cover. He carefully poked his head around the bumper to get a look. Four men were slowly but systematically making their way towards him. They were about 200 feet away and he could clearly see the weapons in each man's hands. Without a weapon himself, he was pretty much screwed.
The alley. It was his best hope. Hell, he thought desperately, it was his only hope. He could hear sirens in the background, but they sounded too far away for them to be of any use to him. He'd be long dead and the case he was carrying would be in enemy hands long before the London police showed up. He couldn't wait. He had to run. And so he did.
