PART 1

Chapter 5

Starting to feel sick, Weiss realized that the cuts on the blonde's midriff weren't the best places to be looking to convince him Sutton, Huang, and Mike were alright. He stared for a while, getting used to the sight of blood again, letting the momentary panic about his friends subside. His eyes were almost drifting closed again when he forced himself to say, "How'd you do that, anyway?" His voice was drowsy. "Those cuts, I mean." He hadn't seen it happen. He'd only noticed the cuts afterward.

"After we escaped the art gallery. Before the car chase. The whole glass front of the building came down, remember?"

"Oh yeah. I forgot about that particular traumatic event." He let loose a resigned chuckle, automatically tucking thoughts of his friends away. "I was a little more worried a second later when you told me to cover you when there was no where to take cover."

Her eyes were suddenly sharp, those dark pools burning holes into him. He blinked, not understanding her sudden attention. "That was when I knew," she said.

"Knew what?"

"That you were one of them. One of those who watches me, helps me. Protects me. They usually don't let themselves be seen. That's how I know you're different."

Yeah, she was completely crazy. "Señorita . . ." She looked so determined to believe what she herself had to know by now was a lie that he had to resist the urge to go to her, tired as he was. "Señorita, I've never laid eyes on you before in my life. I helped you in order to save myself. I thought you were doing the same." She pressed her lips together firmly and closed her eyes, shaking her head. Seeing that he was making headway, Weiss shakily stood, ignoring the sudden throb of protest in his shoulder.

"Señorita, I'm not different," he went on. "I'm just a guy. Just a guy doing his job—a job that doesn't include you." He took a wobbly step toward her. Her hands clenched vaguely around the gun and waved it at him, and he stopped. "Señorita," he said, yet more gently. "No one's coming. There's no point in waiting like this. My team doesn't know I'm here. My team doesn't know who you are. No one is coming."

She was trembling all over. It was working. It was getting to her, the excitement, the terror, the physical exertion, the adrenaline. The fact that she had killed—somehow, he instinctively felt that mattered to her—the fact that she had nearly died today. If anything, the loss of blood from her arm could just be going to her head. Either way, she looked like she was about to lose it.

She just needed him to . . . help her along a bit. "So your dad?" he said, after a minute. "He—uh . . . in the business, too?" When she didn't reply, he went on. "Must be pretty weird having someone in your family who knows you don't actually work for . . . who you say you do."

"Yes," she said suddenly, and then just as quickly, "No. I don't know. He . . . I've never met him."

"Oh. So this is more of a guardian angel type of thing."

"¿Que? No. He is alive."

"Oh," Weiss murmured, taking another step forward. The way she was shaking, the gun was no longer pointed at him. Still, it paid to be careful.

"He is alive. I know it."

"I'm not arguing, señorita." He spread his hands and arms in a gesture of innocence. "I'm just wondering: oh, hey, how do you know if you've never met him?"

Yep. Right thing to do. Her eyes were filling with tears, and Weiss felt a sudden pang of guilt. He saw, for a moment, a young woman who simply wanted her father. He edged closer.

"Sometimes," she said, opening her eyes, causing him to pause. "I hear a voice. I hear a voice in my head."

Weiss froze where he stood. Confessions of the crazy woman with the assault rifle? Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

But pity stalled him, more than anything else. What had this world done to her, anyway, making her the kind of girl who felt she needed to keep assault weapons in her Mustang when she was barely over twenty?

"I thought it was my father . . . " She was going on, her voice thick, her lashes shimmering with tears. "I thought it was him, somehow, I wanted it to be him . . . but the voice drives me . . . it tears me apart." She put a hand on either temple, letting go of the gun for the first time. "I don't even know what language it is, the things it makes me write . . ."

Weiss took another step, wondering how close he'd have to be before he could grab the gun without her grabbing it first and blowing him away. In her state, even if she didn't want to do him in, there was no telling what she would do, on instinct, without thought. "It's okay," he murmured. "It's okay." In that moment, he loved his sister more than ever for teaching him how to approach a woman about to go off on a crying jag.

"He's not coming for me. My father. He's never going to come for me." She choked on the words, swallowing back sobs.

"Hey, it's alright." Weiss was very close, now. He could touch her shoulder—and he did. He could lean a little and just touch the—

She clutched the gun to her, eyeing him with sudden violence in her eyes, the tears all swept away. She may hear voices; she may be seriously delusional about just how far being daddy's girl went in the real word; she may be on the verge of sobbing hysterically, but she was not unaware. He touched the gun even as she held it to her, gripping it tightly. "Hey, Juanita—"

"My name is not Juanita," she said simply, but there was a tidal wave under her voice.

"I know," he said. "It was a bit of a joke."

He could tell she was done with lying, for now, lying to herself, most of all, and she was facing the bleak realization that whatever beleif concerning her father that had gotten her through this day wasn't based on reality. She was facing it, but much more calmly than he had anticipated. It was like she was just giving up—not just on him, but even on protecting herself, on her life— Her hold was loosening on the gun— "I don't have a mother. I didn't grow up in Guatemala. I never studied in France. I . . . don't even know who I am any more . . ."

"Hey, guess what? My name isn't Juan and this leisure suit isn't mine," he said off-handedly, eyeing her hands loosening still further on the weapon. Then quickly, before she could resist, Weiss pried it out of her hands, and then, before she could react, he placed the gun on the floor. "Here," he said smoothly, pointing down at the gun. "We're not going to use this. Look."

She looked at the gun on the floor, her momentary concern about the weapon obviously giving way to her more defeatist views, suddenly resigning herself to everything. He could understand that, in a way. She had thought he was the solution to some problem of hers—now he was just . . . there. She looked at the gun tiredly, as if it was a foreign object, a misquito, a shoe. He nudged the gun with his foot, and then he gave it a small kick. It spun crazily against the floor, ending up several yards from both of them.

The trick was to play it cool. Act like it was no big deal. Pretend Handel's 'Hallelujah, I got the gun out of her hands Chorus' wasn't playing at eighty decibels in his slightly messed up brain. Make her think she was safe, too, so she didn't completely go ballistic on him. Keeping relief, shock, and hyperventilation out of his voice, he said smoothly, "Now I'm going to look and see how you're doing, here." He bent so he could get a closer look at her arm, probing the skin gently so he could see how big the gash was. "Hold on; it might sting a little."

The woman was like She-ra on steroids. She didn't bat an eye-lash. Weiss, however, was feeling slightly sick again, mostly with relief from having gotten the gun out of the situation, but a little from the sight of the blood. "A little truce, okay?" he babbled. "No guns pointing at each other or anything like that. We're going to get you fixed up, and then we're going to find a phone or something." At her dull look, Weiss tried to smile, and said, "If you're good, later we can order pizza."

"I don't want pizza," she said, as if the conversation he was making actually mattered, as if they were really talking about everyday things. As if he wasn't about to freak out with the shock of feeling safe for more than four seconds in a row today and as if she wasn't a crazy Latina lady who heard voices.

"Chinese, then. No? How about donuts? C'mon. Everyone likes donuts."

"You can't just call up and order donuts in this country."

"Hey, are you doubting me? I told you, I'm going to find a phone, or a transmitter, or something, and when I do I'm going to tell them to bring fifty bear claws, eighty-seven apple fritters and fifty-two hundred eclairs."

Man, the whole 'wait her out 'til the stress hits her' plan? Not a good idea. Weiss was wigging out himself. Swallowing, he looked around. "Is there a first-aid kit in here?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because you're all banged up and I want donuts, dammit."

She smiled a little, and slowly turned around to look up at him. She blinked, studying him, as if seeing him for the first time. "You're very nice."

He met her eyes and his heart did a flip-flop, and not because his shoulder was killing him. "Yeah, I get that a lot."

"No. I mean, you're very . . ." Her eyes wandered over him, as if she couldn't quite think of the word without taking him all in.

Weiss gulped. Something in his body was making itself known that it seemed like a very long time since a woman looked at him like that, much less a woman this beautiful. "Uh, very nice," he finished for her. "Yeah, you said that already. Uh . . ." He bent his head closer to her arm. "I think you need stitches."

"No. I don't."

"Yes you do. You need them. Here, let me get—"

"No!" Abruptly, she pushed him. Oops. She'd obviously snapped out of the making eyes at him bit. She was shuddering, looking at him in horror. Probably because she'd pushed him pretty damn hard. Or maybe because if he had been a sex-crazed psycho she could've just unwittingly made the situation fifty times more complicated than it already was by looking at him in that way. "I'm—I'm sorry," she stammered. "I didn't mean to. I . . . Please. Don't. I hate needles. I hate them."

It was the first time her voice really seemed to rise. Weiss shrugged. If she wanted her arm to fall off, fine. He told himself he didn't care—but he couldn't avoid looking over the rest of her. "What about . . .?" He trailed off, gesturing to the smaller cuts on the side of her waist.

"I can take care of it."

Weiss tried not to show his relief. Tending those wounds would mean either ripping up or taking off her dress, and while admittedly, doing both had crossed his mind as he'd stood next to her in the bar, to actually have to do so would be . . . well, to say the least, embarrassing. However, if that . . . embarrassment was to be avoided, that meant that she should be left alone to tend to her wounds. Which, as far as he could tell, meant one or the other of them being alone with the gun.

"It's alright. I'm done holding you up. I won't touch it," she assured him, her eyes following his gaze to the gun on the floor.

"Yeah. But . . ."

"I swear on your grandmother's brisket recipe."

"Not fair. You don't know my grandmother. You've never had her brisket." The words came naturally to Weiss. For him, humor was almost always the answer. Luckily, that didn't seem to disturb her. She even seemed to be on the same page.

"I swear on my father's life."

Whoa. What a way to get serious. "Yeah, but you don't know if your father is—"

"I swear on my hope that he lives. Satisfied?"

"I guess so." Weiss pondered a minute, wavering where he stood. He was still feeling dizzy. "Maybe we should put it away," he said after a moment, still staring at the gun.

"In my car."

"Who's going to—"

"You can. I'll bandage up these cuts and change, while you—"

"Change? You have clothes here?"

She pursed her lips, and finally sighed. "Yes. This is one of our safe houses."

"How do I know there aren't more guns in here which you're going to get out while I'm out there so when I come in here you can—"

"You can check around, if you'd like."

He cocked his head, the cool steadiness of her voice jolting him into the realization that he'd been babbling. "No," he said after a moment, resigned. "That's okay. You're sure you're okay with me picking . . . that . . . up and taking it outside? I don't want you to . . . you know. Freak out."

"Again?"

"Now, don't say that. I think you've done a swell job of not freaking out—you know, for a psycho."

She chuckled. It was a rich sound, like coffee. Nice laugh, Weiss thought, and then berated himself for thinking it. Must have been all the shoot-'em-up action today, making his mind wander.

"I swear I'm not going to freak out if you pick up that gun and take it outside," she told him. "Actually, I'm getting sick of looking at it."

Nodding, Weiss turned away from her and went over to pick up the gun. As he exited the bungalow and went outside, he wondered what the hell he was doing. This whole situation was messed up; there were so many opportunities he could've gotten the better of the situation and quite possibly escaped, and yet, he hadn't. And why? Because she was pretty? Because he felt sorry for her? Or was it mostly because he felt sorry for himself, because Huang and Sutton might be dead, because Mike might be dead, because he was scared and couldn't do this alone?

The thought was galling. He, Weiss, was scared shitless.

A/N: Thanks if you're still reading. :-)