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The Bourne Legacy
Part One
He's in too deep, he knows it but there's nothing he can do (here: Alaska, 2012). Coming over the mountain was hard enough. Aaron gets the intel from the contact at the hut, but then there's the drone, the tracking chip, the wolves. Whatever HQ did to his chems to make this whole thing work, it's playing havoc with his system. He's ready to pull the plug on the way south, but then he gets the call from Command. They need the doctor, they need her alive.
The chems, conveniently, give Aaron Cross, Outcome Five, an excellent excuse to gate-crash the doc in Maryland.
He swaps the heavy-duty snow gear for jeans and a leather jacket. Sees the news report about the lab shooting and floors it.
Aaron pulls her out of there by the skin of their teeth. The blood sings in his veins. For a few precious minutes it even drowns out the pounding in his head, the sharp stabbing behind his eyes. He slips into the flow of battle, the out-thinking of an enemy, the clean through-and-through of a good shot, the silent slide of a knife. As soon as the last goon (person, they're a person, they're as human as he is) is dead, he forces himself out of the headspace.
And finds himself more shaken than he'd like to admit.
He's never enjoyed killing. He's good at it, yes, because it's all part and parcel of the job. But he's never enjoyed it. This calm taking of life might be necessary — imperative, even, when it's either him or them going home in a body bag — but enjoying it? The thought is anathema.
He's not about to start now.
The doc's all but incoherent with hysteria and shock and waning adrenaline. He can understand that. She's been through a lot in the last two days.
But so has Aaron. It's all he can do not to shake her until her teeth rattle. Where are the chems? he says, and gets an empty look in response. The chems, blues, greens, I need them. Where are they?
Blank stare. Stammering. I — I don't know. Not here.
He takes her face between his hands, forcing her to meet his gaze. Her pupils are clear. No signs of concussion or drugs. No flickering guilt. She's telling the truth.
Ten minutes later they're on their way out, the house in flames behind them. He steals a car and drives them east, drilling her on the cover story along the way. She's still fighting hysteria; he finds an excuse to pull off the road and hop out, clear his head, clear both their heads. The stabbing behind his eyes is back. He feels the dead-end closing in.
And then she says the magic words, I can viralise it, and he sees the way out.
The government's on their tail. He needs to keep moving, to keep her alive. Aaron is worried about the chems running out, of course he is. The blues keep him smart. He's got a long way to fall. And the doc is his ticket to freedom.
He chokes down a couple of painkillers which do nothing, spends a sleepless night working on fake passports, and they're on a flight to Manila almost before the doc knows what's hit her.