---
"What?" Hobbes shouted. "What did you say?" This couldn't be possible; something else couldn't have gone wrong on this mission. It was as if the whole damn thing was jinxed from the start. Well, at least they knew Papadopoulos wasn't going to be causing trouble at the Bacchanalia. What with being dead and all. So, that merited a check in the good column.
Murphy scrubbed his face in his hands. "We just lost the GPS signal."
Hobbes blew air out forcefully and collapsed into the nearest chair. They were back at the hangar, staying put until the weather cleared and they could go after Fawkes and O'Neill. The pilot and Steve were in the office, napping and watching TV respectively. Hobbes had been pacing restlessly, while Murphy did whatever he did on the long workbench where the computer was. Claire had been wandering about the sleek dark gray jet that took up about half the available space. It had corporate and expensive written all over it. Claire had insisted on coming along, playing the "I'm his doctor," card with all the skill of a card sharp. Bobby didn't bother to argue with her, knowing he would lose. When she decided she was going to do something, there was no stopping her. Plus, the Official had ordered it. Her field kit sat on the floor near the hangar door, awaiting the moment when they could leave.
Claire came around the far side of the plane, worry creasing her fair features. "Bobby, what does that mean?" She knew all that Bobby did, which wasn't nearly enough to satisfy either of them, but she'd been much relieved to know that they could at least keep distant tabs on her Kept.
"Nothin' good, Claire, that's for frickin' sure," Bobby grumbled, shooting a deadly glare in Murphy's direction.
"It could be nothing more than the GPS was damaged. They were still on the move when it went out," Murphy countered, obviously irritable over Hobbes' incessant complaints.
Claire moved to stand behind Bobby. "But how will we find them without it?"
"We know where the rendezvous point is. The GPS was just for back-up. If they aren't there when we arrive..."
Bobby interrupted Murphy's explanation. "We start at the end point and work our way back. Is there a back-up plan if we miss them?"
"Aye. They'll head to Dulzura. It'll be a hike, but doable," Murphy confirmed with a nod.
Hobbes grunted. "How's the weather looking?'
"The same; clearing out about dawn." Murphy's look turned serious. "I swear we'll be in the air the instant we can be."
"You're worried about her, aren't you?" Claire asked softly, clearly seeing what Bobby had missed, simply because his concern was focused on his partner and not the chick who'd gotten him into this mess in the first place. The hard look on Murphy's features could no longer hide the truth.
"Always," Murphy admitted. "But as she would point out, that's my job."
Hobbes just sat there, not understanding what that was supposed to mean. Again, it was Claire who was able to discern the truth through the cryptic statement.
"She takes too many risks. More than you prefer, anyway." Claire's observation was dead on if the look on Murphy's face was any indication.
Then he chuckled, the tension easing. "That she does. But if there is one thing Fallon has learned to do over the years, it's survive. I swear she has more lives than a very lucky cat."
Hobbes and Claire exchanged a glance. They could only hope that Fallon's survival instincts could counter the effects of the unluckiest cat-burglar alive.
---
They finally reached the next big ripple in this section of desert just as the sky began to darken noticeably. At first, Darien thought it was another round of thunderstorms moving in until a glance at his watch revealed that somewhere behind the thick layer of clouds the sun was setting. Within minutes, it was going to be pitch black out here. And, it was still raining, though, considering the cover it was providing, he supposed it wasn't such a bad thing. However, he was soaked to the skin, his toes squished in his socks with every step, and his head still ached dully. 'Maybe she's got some aspirin stuffed into one'a those pockets.'
Fallon stumbled and he set a hand on her shoulder to steady her. He couldn't imagine how she was still moving, knowing how badly she was hurt, but she wrenched herself away from him with an audible snarl.
"Hey, I was trying to help."
"I've 'ad more'n enough of your help," she said around harsh laughter.
'Crap. She's still pissed,' he observed silently. He debated asking her what her problem was, but she beat him to the punch.
"Bet your boss will bloody well be pleased with 'ow things turned out," she grumbled as she pulled out the busted GPS in some vain hope of getting even a moment of functionality out of it.
Darien was confused, not at her attempt to figure out where the hell they were, but by her words. The Official was probably chewing Hobbes' limbs off, after starting with his ass, and trying to figure out how to reclaim his possession - the gland - without breaking the budget. Happy? No, Darien was pretty sure that happy was the last thing the 'Fish was.
She tucked the GPS away and closed her eyes. At a wild guess she was trying to reconstruct the big old 'you are here' map in her mind, complete with yellow star, that would give her a clue where 'here' was so they could get to 'there.' Absurdly, he wondered if they could even get there from here and had to rein in a snicker of amusement.
"Okay, I give up, why would the Official want me out here? You said yourself me tagging along wasn't part of your plan."
He suddenly found himself staring down the barrel of a gun that was mere centimeters from the end of his nose. He hadn't even seen her pull the thing. Hell, she hadn't even opened up her eyes. Was she psychic or something?
"I've 'ad enough of being played by the likes of you," she told him in no uncertain terms.
Had enough was right. He'd certainly had enough of her pointing guns at him for no valid reason. He was tired, he was cranky, his head still hurt and, maybe most of all, he was on her frickin' side in this mess and she kept trying to stuff that damn gun up his sinuses. Instead of responding with some snarky comment, he snapped his hands up, one circling her wrist, the other gripping the barrel of the gun and twisting it out of her hold. The final result being Darien in possession of a gun he barely knew how to use and her looking at him, head cocked to the side.
"Huh, I'm almost impressed," she finally said, her tone as bland as her continued gaze. "Ye can let go now."
"What? Oh," Darien mumbled as he released her wrist. "Now, what's this about me playing you?" He checked the safety, and twitched only slightly when he realized it was off, and flicked it on. He adjusted his grip so that he was holding it correctly.
"You can't think I wouldn't figure it out," she sneered. "Getting bolloxed might've made me stupid enough to trust you t'other night, but not this time."
Darien wiped his face in a vain attempt to keep the water from running into his eyes. "Fallon, what are you talking about?" He really had no clue and wanted this settled before the next time she pulled the gun and decided that shooting him would be the easiest way to deal with him.
She shook her head and began walking down the hillside at an angle that would take them deeper into the canyon that cut between the two mini-mountains. "Are ye gonna try an' tell me ye didn' come by my place t'other night for the sole purpose of finding something that I'd deal for?"
Actually, he could argue that, given he had intended to trade the Chrysalis info for it, but she was close enough for government work. And since he had broken into her place, she was allowed to assume the worst. "Nope, not gonna tell you anything of the sort."
"You're good, I'll give ye that much." She'd lowered her voice, forcing him to move closer to hear her.
"Fallon, I didn't play you," he insisted.
"Fine, conned me then. That's more your style anyway." She dug into a pocket, produced that bright LED flashlight, and turned it on. It was needed, as darkness was settling swiftly about them. His Mag-lite wouldn't do much in this water-soaked gloom.
"Damn it, Fallon, I didn't con you," Darien shouted, which was more than enough to make her stumble to a stop and spin about to face him.
"Then what do ye call it? Not like it'd be too difficult for your Agency to put two and two together and figure out that I spend that day in me cups." She rolled her shoulders; the weight of the vest must be getting to her about now. "Ye show up, doing your best impression of a sweet, naïve dope and ye not only manage to get me to talk, but show up the next day with that exact info for trade. What would ye call it?" She stalked off, continuing down the slope.
Darien just stared at her back for a long moment, unable to say a thing. She had a point; from her perspective it most certainly did look like he had played her, though he hadn't. And now, him conveniently ending up with her out here... He'd been convicted on less evidence. No wonder she was royally pissed off and suspicious.
"Okay, so it doesn't look good, but I'm telling you..." He stopped when she tossed him a glare over her shoulder that threatened bodily harm, gun or no gun in his possession. "Yes, I knew about the anniversary, but not which day. They only gave me the bare bones info on you."
"And that keeps you from finding more by yourself, 'ow?"
'Crap. Does she have to come up with a new angle every single time?' "Shit, I couldn't be bothered to read the file on Papadopoulos. Do you really think I'd go to all that effort just to find out you get drunk on April 20th every year?"
She tripped over something in the dark, but this time when Darien reached out to assist she let him; one hand grasping her good arm and holding her steady until she had her feet securely beneath her. "Are ye trying to tell me it was a coincidence?"
He shrugged. "Dumb luck? When I showed up at work they had a file on Westgaard." He held out the gun, butt first, more as a peace offering than anything else. "I took a chance he was the same guy as your 'Tor.' Hell, I figured you'd be happy to have the info. Who knew you'd be so damn cynical about the whole thing."
She snorted and made an effort at giving him a smile, her teeth flashing for an instant in the gloom. "I've seen far too many realities of this world to be anything but cynical. Ye 'ave no idea the petty things people will try to destroy each other for, the manufactured excuses for war, the things done in the name of god and country." She shook her head violently. "I roll in the steaming refuse of it every day."
Darien could only imagine the secrets she held, given the ones he'd learned since coming to the Agency. He'd been doing this for a couple years: she'd been doing this most of a decade. It made him wonder what he'd be like come that time. "So walk away. Go back home to your family. Get out, while you still can."
"Too late for that. The filth is imbedded so deeply that it's stained me soul. There's no going back, no walking away for me." She didn't sound resigned; more like she'd accepted the truth a long time ago.
"You saying there's no hope? No chance for redemption?" Darien asked, not certain which of them he was referring to.
She laughed, leading the way down, the hillside growing steeper with every step. "Nay. And I'm not lookin' to be saved. Can't see ye wantin' to play savior anyway."
Darien couldn't help himself and chuckled softly. "Yeah, the halo's more'n a little tarnished, can't argue with that." Had to admit he'd kinda gotten used to the hero gig, even on the days when the white hat didn't fit quite right. "But I still think there's a happily ever after out there."
She stiffened. "The ye'd be a fecking fool. The cavalry does not ride in, the knight in shining armor does not rescue the fair maiden, good does not always triumph over evil." She glanced back at him, her voice hard. "The 'ero and the 'eroine do not ride off into the sunset and there are no 'appy endings."
'Damn.' Cynical was too tame a word for how she saw the world, though if he'd had her life he might feel the very same way. The rain suddenly fell harder, the pounding atop his skull making his head throb dully and reminding him he was cold, wet, tired, lost and, oh yeah... wet. Very wet. So, instead of asking exactly why she had such a crappy outlook on life he changed the subject. "So, um, where are we going?"
The change was the right move, as her shoulder relaxed under his hand. "I wish I knew," she muttered, just barely loud enough for him to hear. "We're off course and without the GPS I can't find our target."
"Target?"
"Aye, I... we were going to hole up at the Whitney University Excavation site. It's funded by the school and used for technology research. The mine is closed this time of the year, but it's high tech, like Westgaard's. We'd have been able to dry off and 'ide in comfort. And I 'ave... 'ad the keys to the door."
Right now, dry sounded like heaven to Darien. "So, what are we doing?"
"Whitney isn't he only mine in the area, just the most modern. I'm 'oping we'll find another one we can break into. I... I'm just about done in," she admitted with great reluctance.
"And you think there's one around here," Darien stated, knowing her supposition was as good as any he could come up with right now.
"Aye." Her feet went out from under her, and this time Darien was unable to prevent her from falling. She landed hard on her butt; a curse that must have been colorful escaping, but it was in a language he didn't recognize. The flashlight went spinning down the hill into the darkness. It remained lit, fetching up against some more solid bit, and lighting up the ground for several yards. Since the light wasn't going anywhere for now, he crouched cautiously down next to Fallon, who hadn't bothered to even try standing.
"Comfy?" he asked, aiming for humor.
"Well, me feet seem t'approve," she answered after a moment to think about it. "'Owever, me arse is not enjoying the experience."
'He shoots. He scores.' It was his turn to be impressed, she was holding it together much better than he would have. Hissy fit with a side of whining would have been his modus operandi after a day like this one. "Come on." He offered her his shoulder for leverage. "Up you go." Together they made their way towards the light, picking their way carefully in the near-blackness. Darien bent down to get the light and, as he lifted it, there was a flash off to the right. Disbelieving, he shined the light about till he saw it again. "Did you...?"
"Aye. Could it be more of your dumb luck?" she asked. "'Cause I was beginning to think this job was jinxed."
"God, I hope so. The dumb luck, not the jinx," he clarified. He was careful to keep the light focused on the whatever it was and prayed it wasn't some stray soda can bleached to mirror brightness in the desert sun. Turned out that was exactly what it was, along with other ancient remnants of some party or something. But just 10 yards away was exactly what they'd been looking for.
A mine entrance.
---
Picking the standard off the shelf Masterlock had taken mere seconds, and they wasted no time getting inside and out of the weather. Ten feet down the near claustrophobic tunnel was a room. A room no one had been in for a few years, at a guess, considering there was a noticeable layer of dust over everything. The footprints of the last visitors could still be seen in the dirt, the treads blurred only minimally by the passage of time. There was a mismatched pair of bench seats, probably swiped from old pick-up trucks, being used as sofas. Milk crates served as tables and shelving, ancient metal coolers and lidded 50 gallon drums doubled as vermin-free storage.
Darien stripped off the wet gloves, poked about, and came up with an oil lantern, which he lit with the Zippo lighter he carried around, and then, in one of the drums, he discovered blankets. Old comforters, army/navy store wool, fleece; all well-abused but serviceable and smelling of nothing worse than dust and time. A groan dragged his attention from the prize to Fallon, who leaned against the wall and was trying to remove the gun holster one-handed. He grabbed one of the blankets and moved to her side. He was going to toss it about her shoulders, but she shook her head.
"Need to get this off first."
He knew she meant the vest and not the gun holster. "Let me," he insisted, her fair skin was a shade or two paler than it should be. They were both cold and wet and just damn lucky the temperature outside had been reasonably warm, or they'd've been in a lot more trouble. He was chilled, but not shivering... yet. Their constant movement had kept the blood flowing enough to counter any potential hypothermia that could have occurred. But now that they had stopped... even though they were under cover, they were at a greater risk. They had to get warm and dry and soon.
As swiftly as he could, he got the holster off, stripped her out of the jacket, and removed the dead weight of the Kevlar vest. With the exception of the gun, he just left everything in a pile on the floor to deal with after he had her squared away. The gun he tucked into his jacket pocket, strangely not feeling safe without it near to hand. He got the blanket about her just as her teeth began to chatter. Not good. Not good at all.
The front of her black t-shirt was damp, but not soaked, the vest having protected her somewhat; however, on the left side, it was far more due to blood than rain based on the red-tinged smears on her arms and his hands. Without bothering to consult her, he pulled the collar of her shirt aside, the hole not big enough to provide an adequate view in the dim light of the lantern.
Blood was still oozing from the wound, combining with the water dripping from her hair and leaving trails of bright red down her chest. "Crap, Fal, how're you still standing?"
She stiffened. "Don' call me that."
"What?" he asked as he examined her. Her skin was cool to the touch, proving her body temp was most likely down a degree or two. "Oh, Fal. Why not?"
"Just... No one calls me that anymore, all right?" She sucked in a breath when he set his fingers a touch too close.
He met her eyes. "All right. We gotta stop the bleeding, or come morning..." he trailed off, not really wanting to contemplate that scenario.
"Aye. Jus' do it." She braced her back against the wall and Darien didn't bother to hesitate.
Quicksilvering two fingers, he placed them over the bullet hole and held them there till the frost had turned the leaking blood pink, the wound frozen shut again. This time she wasn't able to maintain the stoic silence of earlier. With a whimper like that of a mortally wounded animal, she endured his poor efforts to help. When he was done, she just about collapsed, her head sagging forward onto his shoulder. They stayed that way for several minutes, his hands at her waist to keep her upright until she was ready to move to a more comfortable location.
"Feck, that 'urts," she grumbled as she raised her head.
"Come on, you need to rest for a bit." He steered her towards what looked like the more comfortable of the two makeshift couches.
"Nay, what I need to do is get to work," she argued even as she lowered herself onto the cracked Naugahyde.
"Work? On what? Your big dance number?" Darien asked, fetching another blanket to toss over her.
She snickered softly and began untying her boots. Dry toes sounded like a good idea to Darien as well, and now that they weren't out in the deluge, he had a quick way to do so, mostly anyway. It wasn't something he'd admit to practicing during his free time, as it wasn't a situation that came up too often - like needing to Quicksilver just one eye - but it was looking to have paid off on this occasion.
Willing the Quicksilver, he made sure it stayed under his clothes. This caused the water soaking the cotton to swiftly freeze. He let the Quicksilver flake away and shifted, which caused the ice crystals that currently infused the cloth to shatter and do a fair imitation of a short-lived snowstorm. The clothes were still damp, his socks still sopping, since there was little point in doing them with his boots still on and he'd deal with that presently, but he was no longer dripping as he walked. His hair, however, was a mess and hung down about his face. He knew that when it dried, it'd curl, and that was so the last thing he wanted her to see.
"That... that was very cool," Fallon declared, sounding truly impressed.
"Want to give it a go?" he offered. He wasn't quite sure how to manage it, as Quicksilvering her would just trap the water on the inside, cooling it maybe, but not freezing it. He could, he supposed, Quicksilver himself and... hug her. That'd freeze the water on one side anyway. Maybe. It worked better the other way, though. He knew that much from experience.
Her eyes widened and after considering his offer for a few moments then said, "Ah, while a creative way to get into me pants, I'll have to pass, but thanks for the offer."
Darien laughed softly. It was tough to argue with that. "How about some body heat, then?" There was something in her eyes; suspicion, distrust, it didn't matter. "I'll behave. Scout's Honor." He held up three fingers to show his sincerity.
"Aye, till I'm warm," she acceded as she shivered violently.
'Well, that was awfully easy. She must be worse off than I thought.' Darien grabbed yet another blanket, this one a thick comforter that was in better shape than most of the rest. "Where's the fire? We're safe, right?"
"Maybe. No guarantee they ain't still looking for us," she informed him. "Need to try an' fix the GPS. Let my people know where we are, if at all possible."
That made sense, as it would be nice if the cavalry had some frickin' idea where they needed to ride to. "Can you? I mean, it's not like we can run down to the nearest Radio Shack and pick up parts."
She shrugged. "Won't know till I look at it. I'm hoping to kludge something together that'll at least get a signal out."
"And if you can't fix it? Is there a Plan B?" He'd watched more than enough Junkyard Wars to know what 'kludge' meant.
"Aye. Head to Dulzura and make contact." She pulled the blankets closer about her.
Darien plopped down next to her, and proceeded to pull off his boots to give his socks their turn at much needed freeze-drying. Settling back, he slung an arm about her shoulders and pulled her practically onto his lap. She was either too cold or too tired to resist. He tucked the blanket about both of them, hoping to bake her dry if nothing else.
"But won't Westgaard and his little buddies be waiting for us?"
"Doubtful. Come dawn they'll realize they've missed us and will have to fall back and regroup. I'm certain Murphy will be in the air as soon as the weather clears, looking for me... for us," she corrected. She sagged against him, wet hair dampening his so recently dried shirt.
"Crap. Hobbes is probably pulling out the rest of his hair," Darien muttered aloud, knowing that was far too mild a description of what Bobby was most assuredly doing to himself for losing his partner. Part of Darien was wishing he hadn't rushed off without thinking the whole thing through; he could be home, in his own bed, all dry and toasty warm instead of sitting here in a dusty old cave that could very well collapse about his ears without warning. Okay, so he was alone with a woman, who wasn't Alex, for the first time in months. That could be looked upon as a plus, except for the small issue of her being soaking wet, cold, injured - god only knew how much blood she had lost - and very likely to shoot him someplace painful and permanently damaging should he give even a hint of trying something. Nope, this would not qualify as romantic no matter how liberal your interpretation.
Feeling the need to fill the silence he asked, "So, how're you liking San Diego?"
Fallon started, then laughed softly. "It's been interesting. Very interesting."
---
'Bloody hell. Is there anything that isn't damaged?' Fallon glared at the innards of the GPS, which were laid out on the flat cooler lid before her, with a frown on her face. It wasn't looking good. Not only had the LCD screen cracked, the circuit board behind it had as well, severing a host of needed connections. Not that she was too surprised by what she'd found. The bruise on her thigh in the shape of the handheld was mute testimony to the force with which she'd hit that fair-sized rock when she'd fallen. Come morning she was going be stiff as well as sore.
The damage was not repairable with the few items she had on hand. Half the delicate welds and wires were broken and the battery - not the typical AAs - had been drained dry due to a short when the LCD went. That was why she'd gotten an image the first time, useless as it had been, but not the second; the battery had been long dead by then and any hope of recovery had now fled.
On the upside, the section of circuit board that was the actual GPS appeared to be undamaged, the lack of power, and some loose wires, keeping it offline. Maybe if she rewired a direct connect from the GPS to a new power supply she could get a limited signal out that would give Murphy enough data for a location. What to use for a new power supply? She mulled the collection of items in her possession; needing to figure out which one she was going to have to sacrifice this time. There was the LED flashlight that she needed to be able to do the actual work, the lantern and Fawkes' Mag-lite just weren't bright enough for the nit-picky work she was going to have to attempt. There was the mini-digital camera. That she'd made certain was undamaged as soon as Fawkes was out cold. It would indeed have more than enough juice to power the GPS, but only at the loss of the pictures she had taken. It could store up to a dozen high resolution images, but the memory was dependant on the battery; if it failed, or was removed, the chances of retrieving the photos became infinitesimally slim. With miniaturized gear, there was always a trade-off. No, those pictures were more important than getting rescued in a timely fashion. She had other options yet.
Speaking of time... She focused on the watch embedded in the wide leather cuff on her left wrist, and sighed as she noted it was time for another perimeter check. Not that there was much of a perimeter; just the tunnel and the area about the entrance. She made her way down the tunnel by feel; the light leaking from the room was more than enough for her to see where she was going. Given the rain was still bucketing down, thunder rumbling near enough to knock dust loose every now and then, she wasn't keen on actually going outside and getting soaked again. She was barely warm enough as it was. So, she cautiously poked her head out the door, staying under the overhang, and checked the area. She had wiggled back into the gun holster, but her left arm, while mobile, hurt like the divil to move, and she wanted avoid bleeding again if at all possible. Twice was more than enough of Fawkes' little patch job. That made her smile for an instant. The rumors were true. That boyo could turn invisible.
Once certain the area was clear, she secured the door, musing over which of the many theories of how he did it were true as she shuffled back to their haven. They varied from gene manipulation, to implantation of something that acted as a reservoir, to ingestion of a cocktail of drugs. Not that the how really mattered. Just confirmation that Darien Fawkes could indeed turn invisible would keep the fourth monkey solvent for years. She'd never inquired why the various parties were interested in the information, since she had never expected to encounter the man in person and her initial probes into the Agency had yielded little. A'course now she knew far, far more than she should, and she idly wondered if the Official would try to shut her down before deciding she didn't really care. She could always pick up and start over again. Although, truth to be told, coming to San Diego was turning out to be damn good for business. They were turning people away simply because they were booked solid. Seemed like everyone wanted dirt on someone else, and she wasn't talking Mrs. Smith looking for the brasser Mr. Smith was tupping, or Hollywood-type moguls wanting some blackmail to get the latest starlet for their film. Hell, something like that would be a nice change of pace. From the power-mad to the power-hungry, they were flocking to her doorstep, looking for that one piece of information they couldn't seem to acquire on their own.
A deep basso rumble that shook the walls about Fallon made her realize she was doing nothing more than doddering about. She had work to do.
Fawkes was snoring softly, curled up awkwardly on the nearby truck seat, and looking much better than he had earlier. The boyo had looked right shook after dumping her on her arse. While she hadn't meant to eat his head off, she'd been in a fecking lot of pain and not thinking straight. She could be quite the puss face when conditions were right, and today almost nothing had gone right. By the time she was feeling reasonably warm and dry, he'd been completely flah'ed out and she'd told him to get some sleep. She didn't need him coming down with a bad dose along with her. Come morning he might be their only hope of getting rescued.
His right arm was flung out, revealing the emerald snake tattoo that was poorly hidden by his watch band. Maybe she'd get him one like hers, a nice wide leather cuff. She snorted softly as she realized they both wore their watches on the wrong hand for the sole purpose of disguising their tattoo. The phoenix on her left wrist, however, was completely hidden by the well worn leather. The current watch face was one of many that that had been mounted into the cuff over the many years. It was a combination one, with a score of digital and analog functions... and had a fair sized battery to run it all.
With a sigh, she sat back down before the makeshift work table and removed the watch. With some luck, she'd have the kludged together GPS ready in a couple of hours.