By
E. S. YoungChapter Three: A Hard Day's Night
Argh . . . sorry this post is so late . . . my computer decided to be evil and refused to allow me access to the Internet, then it up and DIED so here I am, typing up the third chapter (again) on my new one. 9.9; Welcome to the age of technology, ladies and gentlemen.
Erm, anyway, what is it with me and naming chapters (not to mention stories themselves) after songs/bands? This particular chapter is named after a popular Beatles song, one that I find relates to this chapter in particular because most of the characters in said chapter haven't been having the best day of their lives . . . and night isn't looking any better.
- - -
"Y'know . . . for an impassive, you're really quite gentle."
His sister shrugged, or at least Sands assumed she did. One without eyes can never tell.
"Med. School will do that to you. So will studying the human psyche." Lynné pursed her lips as she managed (on the fifth try, too) to slip a length of catgut through a needle. She had always been bad at sewing, whether it was a piece of material she was stitching up or a human being, but Sands didn't need to know that.
On the other hand, she had excelled in all the other medical courses she had taken in college. She knew that it was best to have Sands sitting up in bed rather than laying down. She knew that she had to carefully wash away the liberal amounts of blood that had dried before she had her brother remove his shirt and pants (thank God he was wearing boxers that day). She also knew to flush out the holes the bullets had made before she started her work on them. And she even knew to wear latex gloves while doing all of this. But wasn't all of that common sense?
Lynné shook the pessimistic thought away. She probably could have been a doctor if she had really wanted to. But she had her reasons for discontinuing her medical studies.
"Speaking of med. School," Sands began, his words came out somewhat short as Lynné stabbed her needle into his right arm.
"Mmm?"
"First, take the pins out of your mouth, second, I seem to recall that you dropped out." He cocked his head to the right, trying to ignore the little shots of pain the needle was giving him along with the sudden reels of agony that came with the other four wounds he was sporting. He knew the drugs weren't going to last forever. "Why?"
"Why don't you tell me?" It was a rhetorical question. "I'm too gentle, remember?"
"Sands bit down hard as another wave of pain crashed over him. "And that bothered you?" he asked, panting slightly.
When Lyn answered, he pictured another shrug to go with it.
"Start getting to soft, people will walk allllll over you. Let your guard down, and they'll use you. Get to close to someone, and you just might be as good as dead."
Lynné forced herself to become engrossed in her sewing, pretending not to notice as Sands' hand clenched into a fist on top of the bed sheets. She had gotten to him with ease. What the hell was wrong with her? It was more than likely Sands was already tearing himself up inside over how foolish he had been, how stupid he had been to actually trust someone. He didn't need anymore help; he was probably doing a good enough job on himself . . . God, was she really that cruel? Of course she was, no shit, Sherlock. But that was what she did best, wasn't it? She got into people's heads and pissed them off.
Gee . . . hell of an accomplishment there, girl.
Riiiing . . . riiiing . . . riiiing . . .
Sands and Lyn both looked for the source of the light, jingling tone, and found it was coming from the dresser where Lyn had distractedly laid Sands now blood drenched clothing. While he couldn't see it, the sound was all too familiar not to know. The phone. Shit.
"Lyn – don't – get – that," he commanded quietly, reaching his good arm out to grab her shoulder.
"Sands, don't be rude," Lyn scolded sarcastically, rising from her position on the bed before he could put a hand on her. "If someone feels the need to give us a ring, I feel it's only fair to answer their call."
If Sands had had eyes, they would have widened incredulously. Admittedly when Barillo's men had first carried out their grisly duty he had tried to call the CIA; by that time he was desperately in need of help. But that was only because he was so hopped up on the cartel's drugs; he hadn't been thinking of the consequences at the time. If he had managed to contact the CIA, they would have swooped down on him and before he knew it, he would be clad in a straight jacket in some mental institution in Washington D. C. Let's face it, while he was one of the agency's best, they didn't exactly care for his . . . unique way of handling things, and they only knew about a quarter of the crimes he committed in order to get what he wanted. He knew full well that they were constantly looking for a reason to 'let him go,' and the fact that he was now useless to them would be just the excuse they were looking for. He couldn't let that happen, death would be better.
"Just don't do anything stupid," he ordered through gritted teeth. Obviously another burst of malice had just hit him, but Lynné didn't think it looked too bad at the moment. Right now, she had a call to answer.
"Bonjour?" She heard Sands groan in frustration from behind her.
"Who is this?" the voice on the other end demanded. Instantly, Lynné had a mental flash of what the man might look like: Mid-forties, hair thinning, portly . . . he could probably be irritated easily, too. This was someone who thought he was something and liked to treat others like incompetents, kind of like her keyboarding teacher back in high school (inside-joke, btw). Yeah, she could definitely get to this guy.
"I'm sawrry," she said into the phone, putting on a whinny voice and sounding nothing like herself, "but waz there a poyson you had waanted to tawlk to?"
"Young lady, this is a private line," the man informed her, "and I demand to know who you are and what you are doing using it!"
"This is a private line? An' yowu're tellin' me I'm not ta be usin' it?" she asked, sounding perplexed.
"Yes, this is a private line!"
"But if this is private line, then why awer you usin' it?"
"I'm authorized to, miss! But if you'd kindly inform me why you're –"
"Hang on," interjected Lynné, "lemme put onnna my associate on the phone."
"Associ – who is this!?!"
"Who is this?" Lynné asked, now using a British accent.
"That's none of your business until I know who YOU are," the caller insisted.
"Excuse me, but I believe I asked you first," she replied, sounding slightly insulted.
"I – no you didn't!"
"I didn't?" gasped Lynné, loosing the British voice and adapting a panicky, breathless one. "But . . . I thought for sure I did . . . I, oh my God . . . If I didn't – Oh! I don't want to think about what'll happen . . ."
"Look, lady, just calm down –"the caller began.
"Calm down?" she nearly screamed, sounding more than slightly hysterical. "Calm down!? How can you SAY that? Ohhhh, if only you knew what I've been through . . . the betrayal, the torment, being locked in a trunk . . ."
"Miss, whoever you are, please, just breathe a bit –"
"And they took my belt buckle, too!" she sobbed in despair.
Sands' eyebrows went up at this and he was sure, if he had been able to see, that he would have seen Lyn glaring at him from across the room. Okay, so the belt buckle with the marijuana plant on it HAD been hers, and, yes, he HAD worn it that day, but she always took HIS stuff . . . nonetheless, he shrugged and gave her a 'what-can-I-say' grin.
Seeing this, Lynné let out a disgruntled sigh and shook her head at him, turning back to the phone.
"Look, just stay where you are, we'll be sending someone right over –"the man started, but Lyn cut him off.
"Y'know what?" she said, speaking in normal tones. "I don't think that'll be necessary. Have a nice day!"
And without a moment's hesitation, she threw the phone down on the floor, where it hit with a resounding 'THUNK' raised her booted foot, and brought it down on the object with a satisfying crunch.
"They'll have traced that call," Sands informed her.
"I don't think I was on long enough for them to," she responded, "And if my favorite people DO show up . . . then it's a good thing I already have most of our things packed."
"Well damn you for being longsighted."
- - -
Liam paced the floor of the living room. The TV was on, but he wasn't listening. Lynné would be mad, no, scratch that, furious when she came down and asked him if the news had held anything worthy of concern. He would tell her he didn't know – better than lying, something he would sincerely regret doing because Lynné always knew when you lied – and she would ask him in that dangerously calm voice of hers why, and he would be truthful.
Thinking about Lynné was always work that left him in a state of bemusement. Of course, his partner was a confusing woman who could make anyone believe what she wanted them to believe, so that made sense. He often tried to figure out just who she was and how her mind worked, but it was impossible. Not 'nearly impossible' or 'next to impossible,' it was simply impossible. And that's exactly the way Lynné wanted it to be.
Long, dark, shoulder-blade length hair and equally dark eyes; it was strange how brown eyes like Lynné's, which were usually very common, could be so cold and dangerous, yet so very lovely. . .
'Lovely!?'
What, was he attracted to Lynné now? She was very pretty, even if she did resemble her brother greatly. Not saying that he wasn't easy on the eyes either – not saying that he, Liam, was drawn to men in the least.
Liam sighed and ran his fingers through his dirty blonde hair that fell a little past his shoulders. It was Lynné who had convinced him to let his hair grow longer, actually. And it was Lynné who was the cause for all of this.
No, that wasn't fair. She didn't cause everything.
She and Liam had been sent to Mexico about three years ago. He was just out of the academy and ready to start on a mission, and Lynné had just returned from Greece having successfully 'settled' a dispute between mob families. Liam had chosen to take on the job of taking down the ever-rising cartel in Mexico because he was eager to serve his country. Lynné agreed to the deal because she was sick of America, though now, Liam imagined, she despised Mexico even more.
Things had seemed to be so going well at first. Lynné had set everything up, hired the right people, made the proper connections . . . and then everything had started to crumble before her, and the CIA had made no move to help.
And now, it seemed, that Sands had gone through the same thing, only it wasn't certain that the agency hadn't bothered to stop the cartel from disposing of him, whereas with Lynné they had made that all too clear.
But he had survived, and still worked for the CIA. He had just . . . chosen . . . to remain in Mexico because . . . he didn't want Barillo or drug lords like him to take control of the country.
'That's a damn lie,' he could practically hear his partner say.
It was, too. Lynné had ordered him to remain in Mexico, worried that he would whisk off to the CIA and inform them of her whereabouts. And, as if that weren't nice enough, kindly tell them that she spit on the CIA and that she could care less if they all went out and . . . . well, Liam would rather not repeat, even in thought, what his partner had said the CIA could do.
- - -
It had to come some time, Lynné knew that. But why now? Why her? It wasn't that she was squeamish or anything, she had dealt with things much more graphic than this . . . with other people. That made all the difference.
She had asked Sands whether he wanted her to wait until he had fallen asleep and/or passed out first or go ahead and get it over with now. He had chosen the latter, the asshole. Eh, but he was probably going to blackout once she had started her . . . job . . . anyway, so . .
Taking in a breath, Lynné slowly began to clean off the congealed blood on her brother's face, saving his eye sockets for last. Neither she nor Sands wanted the glasses to go off until everything else had been taken care of.
Why the hell are you getting so tense over all this? God, you act like you're some hormonal teenager and you're about to remove his pants but are nervous about it cuz you don't really know the guy . . .
'Oh, go screw yourself.'
Sands' breathing became increasingly more pained as time pressed on.
"We both know that even if I could give you painkillers, you'd refuse them. . . so it's rather useless to offer, I think."
"Yeah, yeah . . . fucking bastards . . ." His voice diminished as his breathing became more shallow. "I don't even know why they let me go."
"Probably so they could take bets on how long you'd last," answered Lyn.
"Y'know," said Sands, raising his head a little, "I think I may have heard one of them say just that."
"Told ya." Sucking in a low breath, she said, "Okay . . ."
In one quick movement they were off. Lyn winced impulsively at the sight before her. She hadn't gotten a good look at the cartel's handiwork when she had asked Sands to remove his sunglasses earlier that day, so it hadn't been that horrific, but now . . . Lynné closed her eyes slowly. She had seen a lot of things way back when . . . but they could never compensate for this. The horrendous dissection that those bastards, Barillo and Ajedrez both, had done or had ordered to be done (it didn't matter) to her sibling. If she hadn't known they were already dead, she would have considered them as good as if she had gotten a hold of them.
"Oh my Christ," she breathed, ". . . they were in such a hurry –"
"'They' would be Guevera," Sands interjected, "I won't call him by his proper title of 'doctor' because he's not. He just some sick fuck who gets enjoyment out of –"
"They didn't even finish the job," continued Lyn as though she hadn't heard him. "They didn't complete the procedure the . . . fuck . . . mooks . . ." She trailed off, gazing into the dark caverns that had once held Sands' eyes.
"What?" he asked sharply.
"They . . . they didn't finish the job," she repeated, her hand rising to cover her mouth, which was, strangely enough, twitching as if it wanted to smile.
"I thought we'd already decided that," Sands snapped, "Remember? They wanted to take out bets before I up and croaked on the operating table."
"No, jackass, Barillo's goons, doctor, or whoever the hell the got to do it – the didn't finish what they started."
"And why would that matter?" asked Sands in bored tones.
"Because," his sister said, sounding somewhat triumphant, "they only took your eyes."
If he had had said eyes, Sands would have rolled them at her and then demanded she start taking her medication if she was on any, and then informed her that she should get some if she wasn't.
"Lynnie, I think you're los –"
"No, you don't get it, that's all that was removed. They didn't get to the optic nerve or the . . . the main . . . things—oh, I don't know what they're called, I'm not an optometrist –"
"Lyn," Sands warned, his visage looking more and more dangerous by the minute, "start making sense, or I swear I'll blow you sky high."
"Hell you will," Lyn smirked, "but I will tell you."
"Good –"
"Just let me check something. Give me a moment?"
Before he could protest, Lynné had removed herself from the bed and dashed out of the room, leaving Sands to lye on the bed, shaking his head after her. A few moments after his sister's departure, Sands leaned his head back on the pillows and sighed.
"Why does she always do that . . . ?"
- - -
And so marks the end of another chapter. The next one, which will hopefully be up sometime next week, is expected to be much more detailed and . . . ermm . . . painful and . . . gory, I think are the words I'm looking for. Reviews are much appreciated, thanks! .