A/N: After much internal debate, I have raised the overall rating to this story to M. Most of the chapters fit within a T rating, but since I have a couple of chapters that are definitely closer to M, (chapter 5, sexually descriptive content; 7, adult content and language). I have decided to err on the side of discretion, probably to the point of over-kill, and raise the rating for the entire story. It is too bad, that ff doesn't allow a chapter rating, but these are the constraints in which I will endeavor to operate. For assistance to readers, I will offer chapter ratings with the chapter number to aid in decisions to read chapters or not.
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Chapter 8 - (T - mild language)
Consequences
Hearing a familiar mechanical hum, Mike looked up from the stove where the minestrone soup Jo had made a few days ago was just being to simmer. The garage door was in the process of closing as both St. John and Stringfellow entered the house; both were on their cell phones.
"Yeah, Jo, so I need you to do a full pre-flight. We are going to need her in the next couple of days. I'll get you the particulars in the morning." St. John paused and nodded a greeting to Mike.
"Yeah, I do too. No, I'll see you in the morning. Bye." St. John pushed the end button on his phone and moved to set it in the charger. He then turned to look at his brother, who silently hung up his own phone.
"No luck?"
"It's just going directly into voicemail. And, now that is full." String answered, following St. John's lead to plug his phone in to recharge as well. "She doesn't have a landline, and the voicemail at her office is also full. Did the Bureau say anything?"
"No," St. John replied and glanced at the pot of soup that Mike was heating. "There enough for the rest of us?" At Mike's nod, St. John pulled another couple of bowls from the cupboard and set them on the countertop before continuing, "Agent Fielding finally showed about an hour before the meeting broke. He didn't offer more than a quick apology to the attorney general. I tried to catch up with him when we finished, but he was already gone by the time I ran into you in the hallway."
"Why do we need Airwolf?" Mike interrupted, as he pulled leftover salad from the fridge and placed it next to the half of the bread loaf he had retrieved from the pantry.
A quick flit of eyes from the Hawke brothers to each other and then to Mike was the immediate response. Mike saw it and growled, "I really hate it when you two do that."
"Where's Rae?" String asked, ignoring Mike's comment.
"Upstairs, sleeping, I think. She was pretty tired."
"Did she say anything to you?" String's questions were suddenly sounding more like an interrogation, and Mike wasn't sure how much he should say.
"We talked," Mike hedged and turned his attention to putting the mixture of lettuce and vegetables into a bowl. He didn't need to look up to see more of the silent communication occurring between the two siblings. "You still didn't answer my question."
"We have been requested to provide safe transport to and from a federal hearing for a federal witness."
The words had scarcely left his mouth before Mike yelled, "Are you out of your mind?" He couldn't suppress his fury and ended up grabbing St. John's shirt and pulling him aggressively face-to-face. "How the hell could you agree to…"
"Back off, Mike." St. John pushed him off, breaking Mike's grip and forcing him to take a step backwards. "Rachelle flipped out and tried to kill someone in that meeting; you jumped in and got collared for your efforts. Both of you put me in a position without any options. I did what I had to do."
"Well, bully for you," Mike snarled and shoved his hands through his hair. "You know that your sister wouldn't act like that unless she had a good reason."
"Maybe," St. John agreed, "but if I hadn't agreed to the AG's terms, both of you would be rotting away somewhere."
"Gibbs made those the conditions?" String finally broke his silence as he watched the two men stand off.
"Yes."
"Well, we've certainly been played in all of this."
St. John looked at his brother questioningly. They hadn't had more than a couple of minutes outside the conference room to talk, and String had been adamant that they not speak openly in the Company compound. They had agreed to bring each other up to speed at St. John's house since both of them had separate cars.
Without further verbal sparring, String pulled out a cheery purple PDA and set in on the kitchen table. The incongruity of the color of the device in String's possession rose eyebrows on the other two men, but they kept their peace. "Catherine Faraday collected some information for me. You need to see this," he directed his last comment to St. John and turned to Mike. "Given what you've said and how you've reacted, I take it that you already know the gist of this." He tilted his head to indicate the BlackBerry. Mike nodded his head in affirmation.
Hesitantly, String slid the purple handheld to St. John. "You need to sit down." The suggestion was issued as an order.
St. John slid into one of the kitchen chairs and picked up the device. As he read the file interspersed with graphic images, all of the color drained from his face. Mike reached over and plucked the PDA from St. John's loose grip. The full color image of a battered Rachelle stared back at him. Her head was wrapped in bandages and wires and tubes went in and out of her body. Although it was impossible to make out the actual numbers, the mechanical devices in the background glowed with eerie LED lights indicating body functioning. The white of the gauze wrapping her head only accentuated the ugly bruising on her right temple and eye socket. It was worse than the images his brain had supplied when she had told him of her ordeal. Unable to stop himself, Mike thumbed the scroll button, and more images and details filled the screen.
Enraged, he flipped the BlackBerry around and put the newest information in front of St. John's face. "Congratulations, big brother," Mike sneered, his anger pouring caustically into his words, "you've just agreed for us to protect the bastard that did this to your sister."
St. John's mouth opened but no sound escaped. He was rescued from a response, by an unnoticed figure darkening the doorway. "Leave him alone, Mike," a voice ordered from the threshold.
All three men snapped to attention at the entrance into the kitchen of the subject on the PDA. Wordlessly, Rachelle pulled the handheld out of Mike's hand.
"Don't," Mike warned, trying to tighten his grasp to keep her from looking at the images prominently displayed and failing.
Rachelle looked at the screen and felt her stomach roil at the bombardment of images from her past. Her whole, personal trauma laid bare and glaring for the world to see, worse than the world, her family, the people she loved. Her finger moved to the delete button, but she didn't push it. It wouldn't matter. The details were indelibly etched into their minds now. "Where did you get this?" The question sounded like an accusation; her tone augmented by a strangled catch of her breath.
String moved forward to answer, "Cat."
The one word utterance made her brother the focus of her eyes. In that one moment, String felt every bit of Rachelle's anger, horror, and violation and regretted his involvement in dragging out her past. "Cat," she repeated. "I've never seen this information before today. They look like photos taken for evidentiary purposes, but all of the court proceedings were sealed."
"Cat's good," String answered and moved close enough to touch his sister but refrained from actual contact.
Rachelle nodded and looked back at the photo, a particularly disturbing graphic of her face. This image must have been taken as soon as she had been moved out of surgery. The bank of machinery looked like it belonged in an ICU. All of the wounds looked particularly fresh. If she closed her eyes, which she steadfastly refused to do, she could enumerate the damage from each blow. Her hands balled into fists after she carefully and deliberately set the BlackBerry back down on the table. She lifted her head and made eye contact with each man in the room. "I am not that person," she declared. The intensity of her words magnified her hard gaze.
"Rae," St. John began, but Rachelle's eyes stabbed him to silence.
"I am not that person," she asserted again. "That woman is no longer with you. She was victimized, brutalized, and broken. She does not exist, and you have never known her."
"She is a part of you," String pushed. Denying what happened would only be detrimental.
Rachelle bowed her head and then came up with eyes even harder than before, piercing blues that defied him. "I am not that woman. I'm no more that woman than you are the man who lost Gabrielle or than you are the man in the MIA camps or than you are that man held hostage by the Cypress Party." She looked at each man as she addressed his own troubled past. "Don't deign to treat me as you would her." Her finger stabbed in the general direction of the handheld.
Deafening quiet followed Rachelle's words. Only the popping of bubbles from the soup simmering on the cooktop could be heard. String made the first move. He reached across the table and retrieved the PDA. He pushed several buttons, and after several minutes of silence, he handed the device back to Rachelle. She looked at the BlackBerry's blank screen. He had wiped the memory completely.
"Now," she whispered, trying to reign in the thick emotions coloring her voice, "if only you could do the same thing to your own minds."
Not wanting to see their reaction to her words, she turned away and gave her attention to the food. In moments, she had completed the dinner preparations and was transporting full soup bowls to the kitchen table. The trio of men followed suit: moving salad and utensils to place settings, cutting bread and adding to plates, preparing beverages, and gathering napkins and other necessary condiments. Each person took his or her respective seat and attempted to eat. Some were more successful than others.
As the meal drew to a close, String finally broke the silence. "Rachelle, have you heard from Ashleigh since last night?"
"She was supposed to be at the taskforce meeting."
"She never showed."
Rachelle put down the fork that had been scooting the same piece of lettuce across her plate for the past few minutes. She had tried, but had only succeeded in stomaching a small portion of the meal. Even with all of her talk about not being the woman featured on the PDA, she was unsuccessful in truly swaying herself.
Deciding that she had been able to make it look like she had eaten more than she had, Rachelle pushed the remnants of her dinner away and pulled her cell phone from one of the front the pockets of her slacks. She hit the speed dial number for Ashleigh. Her efforts were rewarded with a mechanical voice informing her that the voice mailbox she had reached was full. Rachelle's fingers danced over her phone again only to be given the same information from Ashleigh's work voicemail account. She traded a quick glance with String, knowing he had received the same answers to his earlier calls, and she thumbed her phone's address book to find another number.
This is Xavier Nex; please leave a message, and I will return your call as soon as possible.
"Nex, it's Rachel Karrison. I'm trying to get in touch with Agent Francisco. Could you call me back at this number," Rachelle rattled her cell phone number quickly and repeated it before terminating the call.
"I left a message with her supervisor," she explained, catching the questioning look from the men seated around the table most likely in regards to the usage of her former name. "He'll be able to give me the Bureau version of what is going on."
The burning sensation of muscles that had been overworked, taxed beyond their means, hurled Ashleigh Francisco back into the land of consciousness. As a response, her eyes fluttered opened and then slammed closed as bright lights burned into her retinas. She took a shallow breath partially to calm her body's reaction to the motor memory and partially to orient herself.
The air in the room was scented with a faint tang of antiseptic and industrial bleach. Preparing for the onslaught of unforgiving fluorescence, Ashleigh cracked her eyes opened to a mere squint and attempted to place her surroundings. Her vision was blurry and unfocused. It took several attempts at blinking to clear her eyes enough to gauge her new location.
As she attempted to shift upright for a better vantage point, she immediately realized that she was once again restrained. She bent her head down to look at her body. Her clothing had been removed and replaced by a thin, short-sleeved smock that barely reached her knees. The cloth offered little protection from the air-conditioned chill in the air and the coldness of the bed on which she found herself.
She shifted her weight and slid an inch to her right. The iciness of the platform dug into her skin sending shivers down her spine. She was lying prone on what felt and looked like a stainless steel table, reminiscent of the gurneys used in a coroner's facility. That morbid thought, gave Ashleigh pause, and she swallowed hard to chase her thoughts from their current path. Instead, she focused on her wrists. White gauze had been wrapped around her injured hand, and wrapped around the white gauze was a soft, hospital belt-restraint.
Ashleigh glanced at her other hand. Sans the gauze, it too was bound securely to the metal bed. Experimentally, she worked her fingers to touch the exterior band of the cuffs. Her middle finger could just graze the edge, but there was no physical way for her to push the end through the loop and against the prongs that were secured through grommets. Nor could she slide her wrists from the straps as she had with the handcuffs. The binds were snug against her skin.
A chill that had nothing to do with the metal table ran across her body as she realized that in her current situation she was completely at the mercy of whoever her captors were. Not allowing herself to give into the panic that was just starting to seep beyond her control, she concentrated on the room in which she now occupied. It was quite different from the previous location, overly clean and stark in contrast.
The walls were white, reflecting the brilliance of the light and magnifying its intensity. A full bank of mid-sized mirrors covered half of the wall directly across from her. The mirrors stretched from the ceiling to about waist-high, and Ashleigh was willing to bet that the low-tech, shiny panes were being used to disguise an observation room. Occupying the same wall, at the corner of the room, was a door with a small portal window. A steel deadbolt winked somewhat more weakly in the brightness of the lights.
Next to the door was a small cabinet. It too sported an obvious lock. The box was painted the same white as the walls. Only the hardware and unbreakable glass door inserts highlighted its location. From her position, Ashleigh could see that the only other piece of furniture in the room appeared to be empty. It seemed odd that there would be such overkill on a locked cabinet if there were nothing inside to protect.
Ashleigh turned her head from side to side to allow her eyes to roam the walls to her left and right. They were blank. She tipped her head backward and managed to get a view of what was behind her. She was only able to make out the top portion of the back wall, but it too seemed to be desolate of everything, just blinding whiteness.
Because of the constant state of sterility and the odors permeating the room, she decided that she must be in some kind of medical facility. She had no more time to evaluate her circumstances as she heard a grating of metal sliding smoothly against metal, and the door to her prison slid open with a hermetic suction of air.
A figure dressed head to toe in a hazmat-type of bunny suit entered the room. The heavily gloved hands carried some kind of stainless steel vial in one hand and a five -step ladder in the other hand. Paying Ashleigh no mind, the figure passed her and proceeded to set the ladder upright on the floor.
As the person climbed to the ladder, Ashleigh called out, "Who are you; why am I here?"
The only indication that the figure heard her was a small falter before it continued climbing a few steps to easily reach the ceiling.
Lying on her back gave Ashleigh full view of what the person was doing. After removing a piece from what appeared to be a fire suppression system, White Bunny-Suit unscrewed the cap from the container that had been brought into the room. The vial was then attached to the sprinkler head. The completed ensemble looked almost identical to the other two, non-embellished, fire-deterrent devices in the room.
"I know where Pierre Gunn is," Ashleigh called out, as the figure collapsed the ladder and started to leave the room.
This time, White Bunny-Suit didn't even hesitate in the departure. All Ashleigh received for her ploy for more time, or to, at least, gather more information was a simple, dismissal wave.
Frustrated by the lack of progress in determining where and why she was in the room, Ashleigh leaned her head against the cold metal bed and took a deep, exasperated breath. Her eyes resumed staring at the added device to the sprinkler head.
What the hell is that thing? It doesn't look like a camera. Besides, they have an observation window for that, and I sure won't be going anywhere soon.
She experimentally tugged at the restraints again. She knew that they would be steadfast, but she had the urge to do something, appear like she was doing something, anything.
It's probably not a microphone or speaker, since White Bunny-Suit didn't care about the information I have on Pierre Gunn nor was Bunny interrupted by an outsider.
Ashleigh didn't know how else to refer to the person, the only person, she had seen during this phase of her imprisonment. The hazmat-suit made the individual non-descript; she couldn't even determine if it were male or female. The height could have been that of a tall woman or a short to average man.
But, why the spacesuit? A hazmat-suit seemed to be an odd choice to conceal the identity of her captors. They could have just as easily blindfolded her. So, was it some kind of interrogation procedure to increase her anxiety of the unknown, or was there more to the suit than a disguise? Ashleigh took a cleansing breath to regulate her heart rate. Well, I guess, it's working. I never did that great on the isolation training in Quantico.
Frustrated by her lack of control, she rolled her head from side to side, trying to release the tension building in her neck. Again, she tested the bindings on her wrists with no progress.
She pressed to her elbows and leaned semi-upright. Her feet were unfettered, but that did her little good. She was only able to touch her bare toe to the floor. An experimental push with her foot also led to no results. The gurney was locked down on the floor, and there was no way for her to unlock and slide it free.
The position on her elbows was awkward for her muscles that were still recuperating from the stun gun that had been jabbed into her cerebellum. With no other options forthcoming, she lay back against the cold metal to resume staring at the added device to the sprinkler system.
Ashleigh's concept of time had been obliterated by her circumstances as well as her surroundings. With nothing to do, she found that she was having a hard time staying alert. She wasn't sure how long she would have before the next phase of interrogation, or whatever they had planned for her, would take place, so she opted for taking her present situation as a time to rest.
A shrill ringing startled her from her twilight doze. Her body tried to sit upright but was impeded by the wrist cuffs. In seconds, the fire sprinklers in the ceiling went off, drenching the room and her in a fine spray of water.
Rachelle opened her eyes to an unfamiliar room. Predawn light was streaming through a crack in the blinds from a window on the opposite side of the bed from where she was accustomed. She must have been more tired than she had thought to last the full night in Mike's room.
To commemorate the event, she rolled to her other side and reached for her sleeping companion. She was met by the cold flatness of sheets. Rachelle rose to her elbow and glanced at the empty spot, which given the coolness of the sheets had not seen a warm body in quite some time. Grumbling quietly to herself, she slid out of the empty bed and stumbled to the door.
The one big difference between her quarters and Mike's was the adjoining, private bathroom she enjoyed from her suite. Mike shared a full bathroom with the guest room. It was one of the many reasons she preferred to stay the night in her own room or make her way there long before dawn had a chance of spreading its fingers of light and waking the rest of the house.
Rachelle glanced at the bathroom to find it unoccupied. She was surprised that Mike did not seem to be on the upper level at all. Perhaps he had woken in search of coffee. She finger combed her long locks out of her face and started down the stairs. After a full reconnoiter of the lower level, she had still not found the object of her search.
She made it to the kitchen and quickly set the coffee maker to brew. It had been programmed the night before but not to start at this early hour. As the pot began to gurgle its contents into the carafe, Rachelle became aware of a soft banging noise somewhere in the near vicinity. She tilted her head to listen and followed the sound to the door leading to the garage.
The garage to St. John's house had been modified at some point in time from a large three-car capacity to a two-car capacity. The third stall had been walled off and turned into a workshop, and then changed again into a home gym.
Rachelle opened the door and listened. Sure enough, the thumping sound was louder in the enclosed space and appeared to be coming from the far bay. Using the light spilling from under the doorway leading to the sectioned off portion of the garage, she skirted around St. John's Jeep Wrangler and her baby, a '75 Mustang. She smiled as she ran her hand lovingly down the dark blue paint of the fully restored, Cobra II, briefly stopping to linger on the stark white racing stripes streaking down the hood.
String must have brought her car home after Mike had handled her at the Company. That thought soured her smile, and she continued on her way to investigate the noise. When she arrived at the entry, she turned the knob and cracked open the door. Her eyes fell on Mike who was attacking the hanging bag as if it had done something unforgivable.
She was careful not to startle him as she entered the room. Although given the way he was pummeling the sand from the bag, it would have been difficult to do. She winced as she watched a particularly savage volley of fists quickly jabbing into the leather. The bag had little time to reverse its course as another fist slammed into it, rocking it back into another swing that would be met with another fist.
Despite her caution, her grimace must have been audible because Mike halted his attack, grabbed the bag, and turned his head to look at her. Sweat poured down his face. The hair on the back of his neck curled slightly with the moisture. His face was impossible to read.
"The bag do something to make you this upset?" Rachelle asked, taking a few more steps into the gym. She watched his face intently to try and judge what exactly was going on in his head.
Mike made a small grunt as his reply and turned back to the bag, resuming his attack.
Rachelle stood her ground and watched the fluidity of his movements, the raw power behind each jab, cross and hook. She could see how his muscles contracted with each blow. It was a rippling effect as the fist impacted with the bag: abs, obliques, chest, and shoulders working together to create an explosive assault against the not-so inert, boxing equipment. Her eyes traveled to the apparatus itself. What she saw made her angry.
"What the hell," Rachelle growled, grabbing Mike's arm on a back swing.
His momentum caused his stance to pivot as he released the energy his muscles had compressed not at the punching bag but directly at Rachelle whom he was now facing. Even as the realization dawned, Mike had no way of changing trajectory or even slowing his strike.
Rachelle saw the fist as it came directly at her head. She dodged the blow, swatting his wrist with a hard push to his left, using his unstable equilibrium against him. As Mike took an additional step forward, stabilizing his weight onto his right foot, Rachelle swiveled with him and grabbed the arm that was still extended in a completed punch. She adjusted her grip and twisted his arm, pushing it so that it was rotated behind him. She pushed hard into him, lifting his arm up against his back and securing her stance with her other hand bracing his contorted elbow at the sharp angle.
"Stand down," she ordered, her breath coming in a rough rasp as she breathed through the sudden burst of adrenaline.
Mike willed his body to relax in the uncomfortable position Rachelle had placed him. As soon as he felt her grip slacken slightly, he twisted so that he was once again facing her. He caught her wrists in his own hands and pinned them behind her back so that they were pressed chest-to-chest, face-to face.
"I almost hit you," he growled, his breath hot on her cheeks.
Rachelle squirmed, but Mike held her fast. "Well, I almost shot you in the conference room, so call it even," she hissed back.
Mike immediately released his hold and stepped away from her. "That isn't remotely funny."
"Yeah," Rachelle countered paralleling his movements, "neither is this." She grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand up, pointing at the abraded skin.
Blood was clearly showing through the shoddy taping job he had done on his knuckles. Mike flexed his fingers and pulled his hand out of her grip. "It's nothing," he lied.
"Nothing? You turned your hands to hamburger meat, and you call that nothing?"
Mike remained silent and walked over to a bench to retrieve a towel to dry his face.
"Damn it, Mike, what the hell is wrong with you?"
In less than a second, Mike bridged the gap between them, the space that he had created himself. He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her so that they were once again face-to-face. "You. You are what is wrong with me!" His voice was a whisper, but the intensity behind it was as though he were screaming.
"I look at you sleeping beside me, and I see what he did to you. I can't get the images out of my head. I can't forget the things he did to you. I can't stop thinking. All I want to do is stop thinking!" He released her, physically pushing her away from him and buried his hands against his temples, fingers curling into his hair.
Rachelle swallowed hard. She had thought that she had prepared herself for the backlash that was bound to occur after overloading Mike with information about her past. The images that Cat had provided hadn't helped; they had only added fuel to an already out of control fire. Now, she wasn't sure that she could do any real damage control; she could only triage what she saw and hope that it was enough.
"Mike," she began, trying to get him to look at her, but he refused. Gently, she reached out and took one of his damaged hands in both of hers. When he finally met her eyes, she tried again.
"Mike, this is me. This is real. Me, right now, right here." She took his fingers and brought them gently to her mouth, softly caressing the bruised and bloodied flesh against her lips.
Mike reached out his other hand and brushed the hair out of her face. He gently traced the healing cut on her forehead, trailing down to stroke her cheek. She responded by leaning into his palm, her eyes closing. Needing this moment to feel as real as she had promised, he brought his lips down across hers.
The kiss had started gentle, but almost as soon as they had touched, it had become more, almost desperate. Like drowning victims clutching a lifesaver, they poured themselves into each other: pushing, pulling, trying to get closer.
Rachelle's hands found the hem of Mike's soaked tank top. She pushed it up and over his head. He willingly shed the skin, reveling in her hands scraping against his chest down his abs. He was about to follow suit with Rachelle's top, but he stopped immediately at a short, barking cough coming from the doorway. Rachelle and Mike broke away from each other like two teenagers caught by a parent's unexpected arrival.
Feeling her already warm face grow hotter, Rachelle raised her gaze to meet the intruder. "String," she greeted, trying to keep her voice even and failing.
String cocked an eyebrow at Mike and then held up her cell phone to her. "You have a call."
"Thanks," she muttered, feeling the heat on her cheeks rise to molten levels. She took the phone from him. "This is Hawke," she answered and then quickly corrected herself, "Karrison."
She was silent for a moment, listening to the caller on the other end of the line before suddenly shouting, "What? When?"
The tone of Rachelle's voice caused both Mike and String to move closer. Exchanging a look, they watched as she started pacing the floor. Both men knew when she started to do that, it was a sign that things had just gotten worse. The only question was, what the "things" were.
"I'll be there in thirty," Rachelle snapped and terminated the call. She ran a hand through her hair before she looked into the two pair of waiting eyes.
"That was Nex. They found Ashleigh's car early Saturday morning. It was burned, arson. They found a body."
String let out a loud expletive, and Mike moved closer to offer support, but Rachelle waved him off already pacing the floor again. "It was male. But, they don't have any leads as to what happened or where Ashleigh is. I've got to go."
"Woah," Mike called, stepping in front of her, "I'm coming with you."
"No," String spoke, using the same word that Rachelle's mouth was forming. "I'll go."
"Now wait a minute," Rachelle began, but was interrupted again by her brother.
"This is not a topic open for discussion. Get washed up; we leave in five." Not allowing further debate, String left the room.
Rachelle stood in the room with her mouth opened to protest but thought better of it and closed it. She looked back at Mike. He shook his head sympathetically at her.
"Go." He nodded, eyes encouraging her to go after her brother.
Ignoring him, Rachelle walked toward him instead. Moving to her tiptoes, she brushed her lips across his, a much more chaste version of the kiss that had been interrupted.
"I'll keep you posted," she promised and turned to follow String's path from the gym.