Chapter 7

Confessions (M - suggestive content, graphic imagery, strong language)

By the time Mike drove away from the small café where they had stopped for lunch, the bright, sunny morning had deteriorated to a gloomy midafternoon. Rachelle had said nothing to him since they had left the Company compound. She had barely even whispered an order to the waitress, and when the food had arrived, she had only picked at it. Mike had had about as much as he could take. Making a quick decision, he turned north on the 101 instead of south back toward St. John's house.

The only sound that punctured the quiet of the car was the hum of the tires on the wet pavement. Rachelle kept her peace and simply stared at the small water droplets: gathering on the window, growing into larger droplets, running along the top of the window and down to the rubber seal. She paid no attention to the unusual scenery blurring beyond the water interplay on the window. In fact, she was so lost in her own thoughts it took her several seconds to realize that the car had slowed and come to a final stop in a parking lot. Blinking at the unfamiliar landscape, she turned to Mike. "Where are we?"

"Point Mugu. We need to talk," Mike stated and removed the keys from the ignition. He then opened his door and vacated the car.

Rachelle made no move to exit the vehicle. Close quarters were not a good thing when it came to talking, especially on the topic that was fresh on Mike's mind, but talking in a state park didn't seem like a better idea. Mike opened the passenger side door and motioned for her to get out.

"It's raining," she hedged.

"Sprinkling and barely at that." Mike reached in and undid her safety buckle. "Come on." He took her hand and helped her out of the car.

Rachelle allowed herself to be pulled from the vehicle. They resumed their silence as Mike led the way down a path that indicated a heading toward the beach. Because of the weather, the path was empty and likely the beach would be as well. Rachelle shivered slightly as she followed him. She couldn't decide if it were in anticipation of the conversation or the chilly dampness of the air.

Mike didn't stop until they reached a semi flat area ringed by dunes and bluffs and a few boulders. . As expected, this stretch of the beach and trails was completely deserted. Rachelle settled on a rather large rock and looked out over the gray sky blending itself into the stormy blues of the ocean. The waves from the ocean created a loud background noise as they crashed against the rugged coastline. The salty ocean water was pulverized into a mist and seemed to saturate the air.

Mike sunk next to Rachelle and watched the horizon as well. He rested his forearms on his knees and idly picked at a few strands of coastal grass, threading them through his fingers. Dropping the remnants to the ground, he turned his body so that he was sitting half facing her and half facing the water. "I thought you were going to shoot me," he stated flatly.

Rachelle looked up and caught his blue eyes staring into hers. She saw the pain, the confusion, in his gaze and just as quickly lowered her eyes in shame. "I would never have done that."

"What is going on, Rae?"

Rachelle swallowed hard. Not here, not now, please. Instead of giving a verbal reply, she reached over and gently traced the contours of Mike's face with her fingers. They stopped at his jaw line, and she leaned into him bringing her lips to meet his.

Almost as if memorizing the way Rachelle tasted and felt, Mike closed his eyes and let her kiss him. It took all of his self-control to not kiss her back, but he couldn't allow himself to follow that path: the path that became all physical without emotion, the path that led to quick sex and a lonely heart. As she attempted to deepen the kiss, he moved his hands to her shoulders and pushed her away. "No, not this time."

Rachelle's eyes sparkled with anger at his rebuff. She wasn't sure how to handle his rejection. She quickly changed tactics. "Fuck you," she hissed and drew away from him.

"That's right," Mike growled, throwing his hands in the air, "fuck me! That's how you always answer the tough questions, isn't it?"

The anger simmering in Rachelle's blue eyes sparked to rage, and she slapped him. Her ears rang with the sound of her hand impacting against his cheek. Her hand stung from the contact, but it was the breathless pain that crimped her heart that made her turn away. With halting steps, she started walking toward the beach. She stumbled and increased her pace. Before she knew it, she was running.

Mike's hand touched his face where it still smarted from Rachelle's blow. He had touched a nerve, and even though the backlash had hurt, at least, she had reacted. Looking at her back, he watched the pattern beginning to repeat. She was running away once again. At least, here there was nowhere to run, only the general direction of away. Feeling that he had given her more than a fair head start, he went after her.

Mike found his pace quickly, and soon he was gaining ground. He had several advantages over Rachelle. He was fast. He had been captain of the track team and had carried his field skills throughout his life, engaging in marathons and relays, winning several. He also knew this stretch of Point Mugu. He had been coming here since his Air Force days. While he hadn't visited recently, he knew the landscape wouldn't have changed that much. He had selected this place specifically in case Rachelle tried to pull one of her disappearing acts. It wouldn't matter which direction she chose. Large, rugged bluffs flanked each side of the beach creating this small oasis between them, and the cliffs were impassable from the shoreline. Finally, he was better dressed for an impromptu race. His jeans and casual shoes were a better choice than a pantsuit and heels.

Mike came upon Rachelle and weighed his options. He didn't really want a flying tackle, but with both of their momentums, it was unlikely that a full stop would be very forgiving. Putting an additional burst of speed, Mike paralleled her, caught her arm, and came to a full stop. Inertia took over.

Rachelle stumbled as her footing slid from the backward drag. Trying to regain her equilibrium and remain in an upright position, she pivoted and came face to face with Mike's chest. He blocked her fall as she solidly crashed against him.

Mike was more than prepared for Rachelle's next counter maneuver. He had sparred with her on numerous occasions and knew that she was moving into fight mode as her flight had been preempted. He also knew that when cornered, she could and would fight dirty. As she tried to pull out of his grasp, he let her go, and she fell backward, landing gracelessly on her rear end.

Rachelle gasped for air from both her ill-fated run and unexpected impact with the ground. Her fingers clutched at the sand.

"Unless you want me to step on your wrists, I suggest you drop the sand."

Rachelle glared up at Mike who loomed over her. He didn't have the decency to even act winded. Meanwhile, she was gulping in air as if it had been denied to her for hours. Knowing that he would indeed act upon his threat, she uncurled her fingers from the earth. It wouldn't have been an advantage anyway; flinging sand at an attacker worked best if it were dry grains rather than wet clumps.

Satisfied that Rachelle would at least not be hurling items at him, Mike sunk to his knees beside her. He kept a watchful eye on her and waited until her breathing resumed a less labored cadence. "You don't get to hit and run."

Rachelle could see the faint, red imprint of her hand still marking his cheek. Apparently, she had put enough force behind it that it might form a bruise. "Leave me alone."

"Not an option. You lost out on that when you put a gun to my chest."

Rachelle hugged her knees to her torso and locked her wrists underneath them. Her eyes skittered to the shoreline in avoidance of his intense stare.

"You can't run away, Rae, not this time. I won't let you. I'm fighting here. Fighting for us, but it is a one-sided battle. I can't win this if you won't help me."

Dropping her head to her bent knees, she spoke quietly, "Walk away, Mike. Leave the damaged goods, and just walk away."

Mike had to strain to hear her above the crash of the surf. When the words registered, he became angry. He was done. If she weren't going to fight for them, there was nothing left; maybe there never had been anything to fight for to begin with. He stood abruptly and began stalking away. He had taken several steps when he realized that he was once again giving into her wishes. She was manipulating him with words instead of actions this time.

Spinning around, he approached Rachelle and hauled her to her feet. His fingers dug into her upper arms as he practically shook her to make her look at him. "I deserve better than this," he gritted through clenched teeth. "We deserve better than this. Stop putting up walls that I have to tear down to get to you. This goddamned secret is killing you, and it is destroying us."

Rachelle's eyes widened in fright at Mike's uncharacteristic vehemence, directed completely at her. Gods, she had hurt him. It wasn't supposed to happen. When had she gotten so close to him, too close to him?

"You know what?" Mike released her so quickly that she almost fell. "Forget it. If you're not going to give me the answers, then I'll go to Faraday. She obviously knows the whole story."

"Wait," Rachelle whispered in protest. For a moment, she wasn't sure that Mike had even heard her; he was still moving away from her. She saw him falter slightly, but he didn't change his course from the path leading back to the car. As she watched him continue away from her, she fought a bitter internal battle. Letting him go meant sparing herself. Stopping him meant that she cared enough for him to give him the truth that he thought he so desperately wanted.

Kicking off her shoes, Rachelle sprinted to catch up with him. "I said, wait," she repeated and grabbed his wrist. Only her physical contact stopped his forward progress.

"Why, Rae, so you can push me away again, or whenever it suits you?"

The words hurt. Even if they were the truth, it didn't take the sting out of them. Nor did knowing that part of the reason she did what she did was more than self-preservation. "You're right. I have pushed you away, and part of me wants to continue to push you away," she admitted. The honesty ringing in her voice made Mike turn to look at her.

"You've gotten too close. You weren't supposed to be here." Rachelle's right hand curled against her chest in a gesture to indicate her heart. Her left hand still in contact with his wrist clutched tighter in desperation. She knew she should make him leave. It would be so much better, but heaven help, her she wasn't that strong, not anymore.

"I don't want to do this," she whispered. Her eyes begged him for a reprieve, but he would have none of it. Her hand left his, and she wrapped her arms around herself in a defensive hug.

Mike saw the pain in her eyes. He saw the tears welling. For all of her tactics, Rachelle was never one to use tears to her advantage. Although he wanted to with every fiber of his being, he refrained from touching her. This was likely the only breakthrough he would be granted, and he wouldn't jeopardize this last chance. "You have to trust me."

His voice was so gentle, so persuading, that it actually made Rachelle's heart hurt even more. "It was never about trust," she whispered and turned to face the ocean.

"Then what is it about?"

"It is about me, about choices I've made, about trying to live with the consequences."

Rachelle was silent for a long moment, staring out at the surf. The weather had turned progressively darker; drizzle was now mixing with the ocean spray. As if searching for something to do with her hands, she undid the fastener to her braid and began unplaiting her hair. "The man in the conference room was Maxwell Pierreponte."

Mike's eyes flashed in recognition of the name. String had used the name last night after the shooting. Rachelle had reacted. Mike had been so worried about her injury that he hadn't paid a great deal of attention.

Finished setting her hair free, Rachelle's hands returned to their earlier self-hug position. "Six years ago, I was under deep cover with the Bureau. Pierreponte was my target.

"He was a chemist and microbiologist that had caught the eye of one of the Maroni generals." Hearing the name of the notorious South American cartel caused Mike's hands to clench reflexively.

"Maxwell did mostly small scale stuff, designer drugs, but between that and his biological research, he had become a person of interest to the organization. Maxwell and the Maroni Cartel came to an arrangement: Maxwell would verify the drugs, sometimes adding designer elements to them, and in return, he would be paid with women or with funds for his research, which if fruitful would be added to the weapons arsenal of the cartel.

"Maxwell had a weakness for beautiful women, and the high-end prostitutes that belonged to the cartel were definitely that. It was actually these women that led me to take the job in the first place. The FBI had credible information that the cartel was engaging in human trafficking to supplement their business.

"I spent two months working the clubs where Maxwell was known to associate, studying him, his habits. The main thing that I had learned about him was he liked a challenge; something he wasn't getting from the girls that Maroni supplied. That's what made me stand out. That was how I got in."

Mike's jaw flexed with suppressed emotion. He knew that deep cover would mean that Rachelle was entrenched in the organization, doing whatever she had to to stay alive and to make her cover work. It also meant that she and Pierreponte had been lovers. He had already noticed that she had stopped using his surname to refer to him. That in itself was a telling indicator of the intimacy they had shared.

"He was charming," Rachelle continued, oblivious to how her words affected Mike. "He treated me as an equal, sharing his work, his passions." She stopped as if lost in thought for a moment, and then she hugged herself more tightly. "It wasn't until Ashleigh's cover was blown that I saw his true nature, his sadistic side."

Rachelle's hands unwrapped from her body. Mike saw how they shook as she tried to remove the strands of hair that were now blowing across her face. Her eyes were clouded with distant memories. She looked as if she were drowning in them. Gently, he reached out his hand to stroke her cheek, bring her back to the present, and he immediately regretted the move as she violently jerked away. In that brief moment, he saw her whole face and knew hell would have been a better place than where she was right then.

Her voice lost all emotion, all tone, as she continued speaking. "I have never seen such fury." She squeezed her eyes shut, but that only magnified the ghostly voices ringing in her ears and intensified the images pouring into her brain. "I fought for Ashleigh's life. He was going to kill her."

"Until I got him to focus on me." An incongruous smile, doing little to stem the pain radiating from her, graced her lips. The drizzle had turned into full-fledged rain and was falling on the both of them now, but neither seemed to notice. Rachelle's features paled even more so as she turned and looked directly into Mike's face. "We fought. He won."

"Stop," Mike begged. This was not what he had expected.

"You know, I said those same words." She was lost in her own mind. The words that came tumbling out of her mouth were babbled as the dam of memories disintegrated what was left of her defenses. "He didn't listen.

"I thought the blows would never stop, but finally they did. That's when he threw me down the stairs. When my head cracked against the floor, I thought it was over, but he just kept coming. My body was broken, so he went after my spirit. He raped me, but even that wasn't enough. When he was done, he just simply switched to a knife." In her mind's eye, she could clearly see the glint of the blade before she blacked out.

Her muscles must have remembered as well. Her knees buckled, and she sank bonelessly to the sand. She didn't even register Mike as he pulled her against him and made a shushing sound against her hair. She couldn't seem to stop. "The damage was so severe, that I bled out on the scene. My pressure was zero by the time they wheeled me into the ER. It was a miracle I survived at all."

Mike's hands threaded into her hair and pressed her close against him. He knew there was no sheltering her from the past, but it didn't stop him from trying. The heavens opened up, and the rain poured against the couple desperately embracing on the sand.

"I can't have children," she blurted out against his neck. "I'm sorry. I know that you wanted to have kids, lots of them, but as a result…I can't." It was this admission that caused her tears to slide down her cheeks.

Mike couldn't speak. There were no words. He held her as she cried, knowing that some of her tears coursing down his neck were mingling with his own. All this time, he had known her; all this time, she had never uttered a word, never given away this hidden part of herself.

"I was in the hospital for sixteen weeks," her voice was raw as she plunged on to finish the story. "While in I was in recovery, they caught him. He was tried for his crimes, sentenced to death. His appeal process was exhausted quickly. I got the call a year and a half later that they had plunged the needle in his arm. It wasn't until that moment that I felt safe. The nightmares stopped; he couldn't hurt me any more.

"Then, yesterday, I found out he was alive. The government had granted him some kind of immunity for testifying against the cartel. He was absolved of all of his crimes and placed in the witness protection program. Ashleigh confirmed it. She had known for some time but had never told me. I think, it was her way of protecting me. She knew that if I knew he was alive, I wouldn't be able to stop the nightmares when they came.

"I knew I wasn't supposed to be at that meeting this morning. I inadvertently found out about it when I went to see Amara to give her my statement of what happened last night. She let the information slip. I didn't know why I was being excluded; I just thought that Locke was playing games with me. I'm still not sure whom Locke was protecting or even how much if anything he knows. I certainly didn't expect to come face to face with Pierreponte.

"I snapped when I saw him; I was within a hair's breath of pulling the trigger, but you stepped into my line of fire. And as much as I wanted him dead, I couldn't sacrifice you. You are the only reason I didn't take the shot."

"I wish you had," Mike murmured.

A mirthless smile appeared on Rachelle's face as she responded, "Yeah, there is a part of me that wishes I had to. I'm sorry," she whispered in contrition. She didn't have the strength to hide her words, her thoughts. That had all been stripped away in the reliving of the hell that was Maxwell Pierreponte. "I'm just so tired."

He knew she was. Her eyes were gray with fatigue; dark circles sunk below them. The tears she had shed hadn't helped nor had the rain that was finally slowing to a gentle sprinkle. Mike released her and slowly stood, doing his best to dust the wet sand from his legs. He reached out a sandy hand, and Rachelle took it allowing him to pull her upright as well. He took one last look around the beach and knew in his heart that this would be the last time he ever came to Point Mugu.

"Come on." Mike wrapped an arm around her shoulder and guided her toward the path.

Mike's gaze flicked from the road to glance over at Rachelle curled next to him in the passenger seat. Her eyes were closed, but he knew she wasn't sleeping, not really. She didn't sport the look of someone at peace.

At least, she appeared to be warmer now. When they had finally made it back to the car, after running back to collect her ruined shoes, she had been so cold that her body was literally vibrating with chills; he could even hear her teeth chattering. He had rummaged around in the trunk and collected a fairly clean t-shirt and jacket. She had gratefully changed from her wet clothes and put on his dry offerings. The t-shirt fell to her knees, and the jacket had been even more oversized.

Mike reached over and turned the heater off. He was still pretty wet and sandy, but the heat was making him more humid than dry. He turned onto the 405 and started driving north toward St. John's house in Santa Clarita. He glanced once again at Rachelle; she had changed position, tucking her feet underneath her and turning slightly into the chair.

So much made sense now: the control she exerted over every situation, the shying away from intimacy, the need she had to prove herself over and over again, her insane privacy issues that kept everyone at arm's length, even the odd characteristics of her relationship with Ashleigh. He felt like a fool for not putting it together before today. He could rationalize that it was because he was caught up in the newness of it all, of her, of them, but it didn't make him feel any better.

A memory of last Christmas began playing in his mind. He had taken Rachelle out to Minnesota to meet his family. He wanted to show her off, let her see a little bit more of who he was outside of work. His mom had taken a shine to her immediately, so had his father and brother. They were all seated around the dinner table when Brian made his announcement. His wife Melissa was pregnant. Mike's parents were going to be grandparents in June; Mike was going to be an uncle.

Mike had been thrilled. He had gone on and on about children and how he wanted to have a big family. Rachelle had listened, had smiled, and had allowed him to talk at length. He had been so blind that he barely registered her reticence on the subject. That had been the first night they had slept together.

Mike slammed his fist hard against the steering wheel, and he immediately regretted his impulsivity as Rachelle jerked upright. Her luminescent eyes still shuttered by exhaustion stared at him. He wondered briefly if the haunted look hidden in their depths would ever completely disappear. Casting her a sheepish look, he reached over and squeezed her hand. "Sorry," he mumbled and returned his attention to the road to make his turn off of the freeway.

"It's okay," Rachelle murmured back and straightened in the seat. She readjusted the jacket to cover her bare legs and glanced at the landmarks passing outside the window. They were relatively close to St. John's house. Gathering her courage to once again broach the unwelcome topic, she took a breath and plunged in, "I dropped a lot of stuff on you back there. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

She took in Mike's profile: the set of his jaw, his grip the steering wheel, his eyes, which kept flitting to her. "Liar," she accused.

Mike blew out a breath through his teeth and spared her another glance. "I'll be fine," he amended.

"It's okay to be angry."

This time Mike's gaze lingered on her for more than a second. "I'm not angry with you."

There was her opening. "Sure you are."

"No, I'm not," he reiterated, trying not to clench the steering wheel any tighter. "Not you." The trailing comment was almost a whisper.

"I kept this very important part of me away from you. I've basically lied through our entire relationship. I put you in the untenable position of protecting the man who brutalized me, and you aren't angry?"

Mike pulled into the driveway and put the gearshift into park. He didn't know what to say, so he just sat in the driver's seat and looked at the house in front of him.

Rachelle kept going. "I know that you are angry with me for being in that situation to begin with." She held up a hand to stop his protest. "Anger and blame are not the same things.

"When I watched the footage from the Cypress Party, saw your documented injuries, knew how close you had come to dying, I was angry with you. You had put yourself in that situation. Sure, you didn't mean for it to go to hell. It just did. I don't blame you for what happened, but I was angry at you for being there in the first place."

Mike just stared at her.

"Oh c'mon, don't give me that look." She smiled a genuine smile, even if it were a slight bit self-deprecating. "I'm allowed to be enlightened. I've had a lot longer to digest what happened six years ago than the, what, two hours you've had. Besides, it is a lot easier to be the first person in the situation rather than a secondary bystander after the fact. As the first person, you could do something or at least know that you did everything you could; as a second person, you sit helplessly listening to events you can never influence, control, or change."

"I want to kill the bastard." The hatred in his words was palpable.

"Get in line," Rachelle shot back, her own vengeance punctuating her remark. "But, right now, and possibly forever, that isn't an option. He's a federal witness, under federal protect. Protection that, like it or not, you are obligated to provide."

"Does that 'you' include everyone in this car or just me?"

"I have a TRO; I'm not allowed to get within 500 feet of him," Rachelle answered indirectly.

Mike saw right through the evasion. "Rachelle," he warned.

"I don't have any firearms either," she elaborated.

"Rae."

Rachelle undid her safety restraint and moved to the door. "I'm not going to do anything tonight, but get cleaned up and go to bed." With that unsatisfactory answer, she departed the vehicle and went into the house.