To Win the Heart of a Rebel
Chapter Three:
It was October the 19th, 1972 and Quatre Winner was curled up in the soft hay of some farmer's barn. His wound was worse than first thought and he was forced to find cover until nightfall. The early morning attack on Catherine Bloom had stripped a lot of his energy, both physically and emotionally. Quatre figured that he just wasn't made to kill, no matter the circumstance.
When he had been switched from messenger to field soldier Quatre had been ecstatic. He had a chance to show his superiors just how well he could do the job. Granted, he was a damned fine soldier physically and could manage every obstacle he had ever come across so the only setback to being a great soldier was his reluctance to killing.
The attack on Catherine Bloom had been the first time he watched his target die. The other attacks he had been involved in normally called for a remote controlled detonator and a far distance between him and the victims. It was a very different concept to watch as the life left a human being. When Quatre had stumbled into the barn he found the biggest pile of straw and covered the majority of his body in it and cried long into the morning about it.
Unfortunately the time when a barn is most occupied with humans is the daytime, so he had to relocate to the very far corner of the barn and away from the door. He hoped the darkness would hide him from sight. So far the door had been opened twice, both times a horse was saddled and led outside and the door was closed again. The hay he sat in was warm but Quatre knew that if he fell asleep there was a likely chance he would be discovered. Quatre was holding clean straw against his side because it was the only available material for the steady stream of blood coming from his wound.
Having ditched his rifle on the run he tried to cover as much ground as possible since he knew there was a manhunt going on. He was also aware that the police were not the ones to be afraid of. Since he had killed a member of the UDA it was almost guaranteed that the entirety of the organization was out searching for him and that left him wary of everyone. Quatre knew he was somewhere around eight kilometers from the orphanage with a bleeding wound that needed prompt medical attention. In a tactical sense Quatre knew he had a very small percentage of making it back alive with the search parties and even if he did manage to make it back surviving the blood loss was a whole different matter.
He was still dressed head to toe in his black uniform for cover but was now a surprising contrast to the golden straw around him. The tactical side of Quatre's brain told him that it was stupid to lay there any longer and the more time wasted bleeding here meant the longer it would take for him to get help.
Quatre fumbled in the straw, pushing it aside and climbing to his feet. The front door of the barn was the only possible exit and Quatre cursed his bad Irish luck but shuffled toward the door anyway. The wooden door was rough against Quatre's hands as he tested how much weight he would need to put on it to make it move quietly. He was sweating profusely and alternated between chills and an intense hot pain in his side. Quatre pulled off his face mask and shoved it in another pocket on the opposite side of where he had shoved his revolver.
As he pushed the door open he slipped out the small opening and surveyed the yard in front of him. The white house was just across the dirt drive and as Quatre turned to shut the door he heard another door open and heavy footsteps. He turned and blinked in the harsh light, leaning his weight on the door and looked behind him at a tall man holding a hunting rifle on the front step of the wrap-around porch. Quatre's black uniform stood out in the sunshine against the bright red of the wooden barn. The man was obviously the owner of the farm and Quatre had no idea if the man would shoot him on sight for trespassing or take him in. Neither of which was good for him.
"You're not a thief so I suspect you're that fellow the UDA are lookin' so hard for." Sweat ran down Quatre's face as he tried to ignore a shooting pain and attempted to stand his ground under the weight of being captured by a civilian.
The man grunted and turned to go back inside the house, motioning for Quatre to follow. "You don't have to worry here, we were just sitting down to dinner. Come on in." The farmer crossed the porch and opened the door to the house, leaving Quatre alone in the yard.
Quatre was concentrating on the benefits of running back into the woods, wondering if the farmer would come out and shoot him if he did. Then again the offer was a great one. Food was something Quatre knew he needed if he was to make it home and they could have a first aid kit in the house. Making up his mind Quatre slowly crept across the dirt walk and up the steps to the door the farmer left open as an invitation. His laboured breathing and flushed face made Quatre pause just inside the door, taking note of the rifle that sat beside multiple sets of footwear. There was a modest country kitchen to his right and there the farmer and his wife and two young sons sat at a fully laden table. There was an extra place set closest to Quatre and the farmer motioned for him to come in.
Quatre knew that he wouldn't be able to take his shoes off so he walked in and pulled out the chair, timidly sitting down. The farmer filled his plate and handed it to back to Quatre as he proceeded to say grace. He couldn't tell what religion this family was but assumed they were Catholic since they were helping a known IRA soldier. The young boys watched the stranger sitting at their table with interest as Quatre said amen and slowly ate his food. After he couldn't stomach more he set his fork down and placed both hands onto the table staining the crisp white tablecloth red with blood.
The silent wife now voiced her concern over the soldier.
"Are you injured?"
Quatre nodded and motioned to his wound. She shook her head and left the table, the meal forgotten, and led him upstairs to one of the many rooms of the farmhouse. The boys followed them up the stairs at a run but waited in the hall, their heads poking through the door when they braved a look inside. Their mother had cut off Quatre's shirt as their father brushed past them with a basin of water and a set of clean white sheets.
She went to work cutting them into long strips and cleaned Quatre's flaming red wound with the soft edges of linen. As Quatre closed his eyes in a fatigue caused sleep he entrusted his life to these two kind souls.
Hours later Quatre awoke to the sounds of booted feet running up the stairs. The farmer's wife was in the room cleaning up the various bloody sheets and basin that she had used to clean his wound, and binding it tight to stop the bleeding. She knew he needed stitches and a hospital visit before he could really start to get better.
Her husband ran into the room and breathlessly said, "There are members of the UDA outside, Rose. We need to get the boys downstairs and away from this room." Here he turned to Quatre and said, "You stay here and stay silent while we try and get rid of them."
As they left Quatre alone in the room he laid there bare chest, fingering the white bandages wrapped tightly around his side. If the UDA were outside than it meant this was a Catholic household and they suspected them enough to house an IRA soldier. Or it was possible that they had followed his trail to the house. He felt a sinking feeling when he realized that he put the entire family in danger by his very presence in the house. It was too late now, he could hear voices in the entryway at the bottom of the stairs.
He fingered the revolver that still rested in his pants pocket and wondered if he shot himself if the family would still be charged for housing him. In most cases he figured having him dead or alive it wouldn't really matter to the enemy as long as he was in the house. He sighed. He could always keep the revolver out in case they did come searching and shoot the first person that came through the door.
Quatre felt a sick feeling and almost retched. He was back to that psychological barrier that shed him away from killing. He calmed himself with the rationale that there were children and innocents in the house so he could not justify the use of his firearm.
If they came through that door then so be it.
The voices got louder and one of the children cried out in fear and he could hear a shuffle of feet. Quatre gasped as he tried to sit upright, fully intending to leave the room and give himself up to save the family. He heard boots climbing the stairs at a slow pace and Quatre figured it was all over and the enemy had found him.
The door cracked open and Quatre unconsciously backed closer to the wall, hands grasping the sheets in a new found fear as he caught a glimpse of a silver revolver. The door creaked open and Quatre found himself staring wide-eyed at a tall man dressed in the green uniform of the UDA. His brown hair fell over one side of his face and fully covered one eye but the deep green of his visible eye made up for the lack of the other. His gaze was very intense as he took a step forward and Quatre winced away from him.
The soldier took in the bloody basin and sheets in the room and Quatre's bare chest, the blood had seeped through the new bandages. When he spoke Quatre expected yelling or cruelty in his voice, but it somehow calmed Quatre.
"Weapons?"
Quatre nodded and the soldier motioned for him to reveal it. He slowly stuck his hand into his pocket and drew out the revolver handle first and set it on the dresser beside the bloody basin. He had to try and save the family.
"Please, it wasn't the family's fault at all. I threatened that if they didn't help me I would kill the children." Quatre lied for the first time in his life.
The man watched the pale faced and small framed young man on the bed and Quatre couldn't help but be afraid for his own life. Now that they had him they would take him back to their own headquarters and question him, likely violently, for information. Quatre would try his hardest not to say anything but since he had never gone through it before he wasn't too sure if the thought of keeping the orphanage secure could get him through all that pain.
"Get up."
Quatre swung his legs over the side of the bed and pushed himself up with one hand. The blood loss made him lightheaded as he moved and his blue eyes rolled to the back of his head as he slumped forwards headed for the floorboards.
The revolver still sat on the bedside table and Quatre's hands were grasping the warm figure on the floor in front of him as he cried out in pain. The man had caught him as he fell from the bed and now held him in his arms on the floor of the room. Quatre felt secure even though he knew that the man's very presence spelt out death for him. He was lifted into the air easily as the man stood, his own revolver in his left hand. Quatre weakly brought up one arm to slip around his neck. He went from warm to cold as the man stepped outside the room and carried him down the stairs. There was another soldier standing in the entryway beside the family and Quatre could see their apologetic faces as they stood silently.
"Thank you so much for your care, you're a true Catholic family and I thank you for it." His voice was a near whisper.
The farmer raised an eyebrow and said, "We're Protestant loyalist's young man. We just couldn't sit around and watch as another human being suffered. I'm sorry that they caught up to you."
One of the children waved goodbye and said, "Bye soldier! We'll miss you lots and lots!," as his mother tried futilely to hush him.
Quatre was speechless from the revelation of their religion but the soldier didn't give him a chance to say any more as the door was opened and he was brought out into the cold air. As the soldiers conversed the other was told to go upstairs to collect his revolver from the desk and then meet them in the car.
There was a nondescript black car sitting in the drive and Quatre was gasping with every step they took towards it. As he was laid out into the backseat he hugged his midsection and moaned in pain. The soldier climbed into the backseat with him holding him close as Quatre laid out on the backseat. Quatre shivered in the fall air as the soldier wrapped his arms around his shoulders holding him in place as they waited for the other soldier and then as they drove out of the yard.
The driver glanced back at them and asked, "So, are we headed back to HQ, sir?"
The voice of his soldier calmed Quatre's shivering body almost immediately as he responded, "No."
The drivers face was questioning as he wondered what his superior was planning.
"He shot my sister. I want time with him alone before we turn him over."
The driver nodded at his logic.
Quatre's heart sank as the words hit him and he realized that he was completely and utterly at this man's mercy. He wondered how he would feel if it was his brother killed, albiet not blood related but brother in spirit, and realized that Solo had already been shot and Duo was missing since.
Quatre clutched his hands around the strong arms that kept him in place laid out in the backseat of a UDA vehicle and cried silently for miles as they drove.
Maybe if he could just hold on he could right the wrongs already done.