TITLE: "Flight of the Falcon"
AUTHOR: Ardeth Saunders
RATING: R [Language, violence, adult themes]
SUMMARY: Frank Donovan learns that all is not what it seems.
DISCLAIMER: UC: Undercover belongs to the writers, creators, NBC, and a dozen others. NO infringement intended. All other original characters belong to the sick, twisted, and frequently vivid imagination of the author. Please DO NOT use any original concepts, characters, or content of this story without the express permission of the author.
A/N: As always, special thanks to Shelley, Dawn, and Serena for your unending support and patience while I rattle on incessantly about my twisted ideas and plots.
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PROLOGUE: A ROUTINE ARREST
"FREEZE," came the indignant shout. "Drop your weapon!"
For more than twenty minutes, she had engaged the federal agents in an exhausting chase. The last five or so had been on foot. Frankly, she was just about ready to collapse anyway. Kayla stopped in her tracks, but her fingers were still in fleeing mode. They didn't want to release the Beretta they held so tightly. It was her last string of defense. It was stupid. Utterly stupid. There were three agents on her, perhaps more, and she really had no chance against them. It was insane of her to assume so in the first place. However, she had taken the ultimate chance, and for a moment, she actually thought she was going to get away from them. From him. Although her back was turned, she knew he was there. He had shouted the words and probably stood glaring at her with his expressive eyes. Damn you, Agent Donovan. Damn you to hell.
There were two courses of action to take. She could throw down her weapon and face the music, or she could go down shooting. Taking the latter option wasn't her way. She had experience with firearms, true, but she had never shot at another human being. It wasn't her role in the jobs. It wasn't her thing. Of course, never before was she so desperate. She had been caught with her proverbial hand in the cookie jar. Sad thing was, she was sorry, but there was nothing she could do about it now. Feeling and saying she was sorry wouldn't keep her from going to prison. It was exactly where she was headed. In a way, she supposed she was glad it was over. Leading two lives, playing both sides of the game, had done something to her. She felt as if she had aged five years since the ordeal began.
"Drop your weapon. Turn around slowly with your hands up," came another indignant shout.
This voice belonged to someone else in Agent Donovan's group. Vaguely, she wondered how much his crew knew about what happened. Best I don't dwell on that right now. If I don't move, I'm dead. It's as simple as that. Yet another option. It was the coward's way, of course, but maybe…just maybe…she was a coward. Get moving, Kayla. With almost ladylike precision, she slowly kneeled down and gently placed the Beretta onto the pavement. Her hands had begun to sweat, and the cold metal nearly slipped out of her fingers. Perhaps she hoped it would fire, forcing one of the agents to shoot back in return. Coward. As if on cue, rain began to fall, and it soon soaked her to the bone. How dramatically apt. She brought her body up and raised her hands like a good girl. Slowly, she turned around. She didn't think she was ready to face Agent Donovan, but it didn't matter. It would happen despite hell.
Before Kayla had the opportunity to breathe, two of the agents were on her. She was down on the roughened, wet pavement, her wet hair obscuring her face. It offered a nice soppy cushion that protected her cheek from the harsh surface. She gritted her teeth angrily as one of them, she thought the man, planted a knee into the small of her back. Her arms were jerked up and out, cruelly yanked behind her. Her wrists were cuffed securely, but the pressure didn't let up. The bastard weighed a ton. As she remained prone against the blacktop, she heard another set of feet approaching. These feet were in no hurry to approach her. Agent Donovan. Horribly enough, she heard a tortured moan escaping the depths of her throat. She didn't think anyone could hear it over the pounding intensity of the rain. Donovan might have heard it, his hearing being so ultra sensitive lately. For the moment, she didn't care. She was a felon, for Christ's sake, a felon who had just been caught. She should be kicking and screaming. What harm did a sorry moan do? None.
"Get off her," Donovan commanded.
Immediately, she felt the pressure letting up. She thought she might be able to catch her breath, but she was wrong again. She felt Donovan's hand clamping around her shackled wrist. Roughly, he pulled her up to her knees. Just as roughly, he helped her to her feet. She didn't want to look at him, but when his hand moved to clamp onto her forearm, she had no choice. His grip was vise-like, very painful. She had grown accustomed to a different type of touch from him, and this was new. She didn't like it, but she deserved it, and deserved so much more in return. Oh yes she did. Defiantly, she lifted her head and stared up at him. There was so much rain on her face that he couldn't see she was crying. Good. She didn't want him to see it. But she saw plenty in his eyes. They bore into her, reminding her of a powerful drill set to puncture her flesh, digging jagged holes.
"You have me now," she said quietly.
"And it will be my great honor to see you to prison," he said low and severely.
--
Kayla was pretending to sleep. Since Agent Donovan had nonchalantly escorted her to jail, she hadn't slept more than two hours straight. She wasn't afraid to face prison, but she had already begun to feel stir crazy. Get used to it, keed. You have fifteen or twenty years of lock-up to look forward to. There were a lot of things that weighed heavily on her mind, and the most important one was her betrayal of Frank. She could still hear the last kind words he had uttered to her a mere two days ago: You don't know what you do to me, Kayla. No. She didn't know. She didn't have one inkling in her confused brain. He was supposed to be no more than a useless toy to her, a tool…a means to an end. She had been repeatedly warned not to get too close to him. She thought she knew what she was doing, but she was wrong. How had she known a chance encounter would screw up everything that she had planned? Damn it. What the hell was she thinking? What the hell had she gotten herself mixed up with? What the hell, what the hell. Groaning now, Kayla turned to her side. It was morning already and soon, jail personnel would haul her ass out of her cell for work detail.
"Time to move," a voice shouted gruffly. "Face forward."
She cringed when she heard the voice. 'Face forward' was a universal command. It meant that it was time for her to leave the cell. Sighing, she swung her legs over the uncomfortable cot and brought her body up to her feet. She thrust her hands through the small space in the bars so the guard could snap the cuffs on her wrists. She stepped back and waited patiently as the cell door was unlocked and slid open. She apparently wasn't considered a violent flight risk, because the guard failed to shackle her legs together. She wanted to ask what was going on, but she assumed the guard would be less than forthcoming. Jail wasn't social time, after all.
Kayla was led down the hallway to a corridor on her immediate left. She knew from experience that it was where the prisoners were taken when their attorneys decided to pay a visit. Hers had shown up only yesterday, so she didn't think he would come back so soon. Her breath caught in her throat when she realized it wasn't her attorney at all. Agent Donovan. Good God. What the hell was he doing here?
"Take me back, I don't want to see him," Kayla pleaded.
The guard didn't blink an eye. "Move," he barked.
She immediately noticed that Donovan was eyeing her, scrutinizing her. The bitter expression had never left his face or his eyes. She was dealing with the man who had taken her down. This definitely wasn't the one who held her so gently in bed, whispering words of comfort and endearment when evil invaded her dreams. It killed her to see him like this, but she had torn open his chest, pierced his heart, and filled it with immense pain. The stoic federal agent looked up at her as she was dragged into the room.
He saw that Kayla was decked out in an unattractive green jumpsuit. He had trouble with the fact that up until about two days ago, she had shared his bed, shared his life. Her betrayal was fresh and biting. Under the table, he shifted his legs uncomfortably. It was the only thing that actually pointed to his true feelings. From the waist up, he sat steady and patient, his hands folded neatly before him. His cold gaze never wavered from her face. He wanted to see her, the real woman behind the mask. The shock had yet to release him. He was torn between wanting her and wanting to strangle her. He didn't want to admit the dark joy he felt when he clamped his hand down onto her arm. She was in pain and he was obviously hurting her, but it made him feel such black elation. He hadn't felt that way very often, but right now, it possessed his soul. It was the only thing he could feel.
Kayla was shoved down into the chair directly across from him. She pushed her lank hair behind her ears and avoided eye contact with him for a good minute and a half. "What are you doing here," she finally asked.
The sound of her voice was weak and small. He was almost certain she hadn't spoken at all. He found himself ready to ask if she had spoken or if he was finally losing his mind and hearing things. Gathering his wits, he asked, "What did you do with the evidence?"
"I don't think you're here to discuss evidence, Agent Donovan." She had folded her hands in front of her, intentionally mocking him. If he could play it cool, she could as well.
"So you read minds now," he replied bitterly.
"No," she answered smartly. "But I can read you. Why are you here?"
"This is no damn soap opera." The low, severe tone of his voice had returned. "Your real name isn't Falcon, is it?"
"What does it matter now," she asked, suddenly resigned. She was tired. So tired. It was time to end the game. She wanted him out. "What do you want, Frank?"
"The truth would be nice for a change," he began.
He couldn't look at her for a moment. He pushed back from the small table and moved a few steps away. She was too close. Much too close. He had planned this visit to interrogate her, to get to the bottom of this nerve-wracking case, but she had messed him up internally. What he wouldn't give for five minutes alone with her.
"What truth do you seek, Frank? You won't believe anything I say anyway."
Her words angered him, struck a nerve buried so deeply inside, that he actually felt physical pain from the shock. He chewed on his bottom lip and tried desperately to keep the rage bottled inside. He was damn tempted to overturn the table and throw her to the floor. A question bubbled to the surface, one that didn't need to be asked in this setting, in front of a nosy jailer. However, he couldn't contain it anymore. "Why did you do it?"
She hadn't expected his outburst, hadn't expected such a complicated question. He wasn't asking her to explain her motivation or to describe her crime spree. He wanted to know why she had used him. She had no answers. "I don't know," she said weakly.
He chuckled bitterly. "I expected you to say that. You try so hard to be a skillful liar, but you fail miserably. I hope you enjoy your tenure here. Pick up a nice trade, won't you?" He turned to glance at the guard. "Take her away."
Kayla was stretched out on the hard cot that night. Her eyes were focused on the ceiling of her cell. She had been thinking about Donovan all day. If she had taken a different route that day, she never would have darkened his door. Never would have darkened his door…
To be continued…