Author's note: it's a little dark, but it's sort of been floating around in my mind for a while. Fair warning, it's a crossover, but I'm going to leave the series for you to guess. Also, this is not exactly a JJ HR story . . . not that I'm not a (huge) fan of the pairing (I am), but I'm doing something a little different with Jonny's character here, sort of pushing him a little.
Disclaimer: I don't own Jonny Quest or any of the other characters portrayed herein.
Last Time: "So, what's the plan," she said softly, still not trusting herself to look at him.
Her question was greeted with a prolonged silence.
"Can you walk?"
"Yes, I can walk – what's the plan?"
"Keep quiet, stay behind me and keep up," he said tersely, helping her carefully to her feet and stooping to retrieve the discarded rifle.
"That's not a plan – you don't have a plan, do you?"
"Were you listening when I told you to 'keep quiet'?"
She stifled an indignant retort, her eyes widening as a commotion caught her attention, and his. It seems the guards had returned to the guardhouse.
And things had been going so well.
Drew was a practical girl. Her reasons for joining the agency were her own – she didn't crave adventure, she wasn't particularly fond of intrigue, and she certainly wasn't in it for the travel. Her own agenda lay closer to home.
Still, she'd been an agency spy for almost two years – saying it like that sounded so sordid, the word 'spy' conjuring up the high-adrenaline, high-roller lifestyle espoused by popular movie spies. It fairly reeked of money and illicit liaisons. And betrayal.
She didn't want to dwell on that thought. Her capture was evidence that someone close to her – a small, exclusive list of trustworthy agents – had betrayed her to the enemy.
The actuality of her career had been quite boring, the polar opposite of the glamorous movie spy lifestyle. While she'd be hard-pressed to call it boring, it had thus far involved more time spent in libraries, or behind computer screens than in casinos or high-speed chases.
Drew liked libraries and computers well enough, and she also liked the cachet of working for the agency – besides, she'd never been able to resist the intrigue of a good mystery.
She was discovering that she didn't, however, like being shot at. Of course, she was pretty sure that it would compare favorably to being shot (the preposition, in this case, being a rather important one). She didn't want to find out firsthand, though, so she let the blond man tow her along behind him as he made a beeline for the shrubbery bordering the compound wall.
No, that wasn't right. 'Beeline' implied setting a straight course for a clear objective. This was a mad dash, emphasis on the 'mad' – he dodged and ducked and (yes) dashed, carving a zig-zag path through the grounds.
Jonny had grown up under the protection of Race Bannon, arguably I-1's finest agent. Ever. Which is why, rather than heading straight for the illusory freedom offered by the wall (standing in plain sight a mere fifty feet away, and only fifteen feet tall – an easy climb given the footholds afforded by the crumbling masonry), he instead made a break for the center of the compound after forcing the window and hauling Drew bodily out behind him.
He'd had the presence of mind to grab the gun – or maybe he'd been holding it while he forced the ancient, rusty window open. He wasn't sure, and he supposed it didn't really matter. He harbored a deep-seated objection to guns, a matter of personal preference, but that didn't matter either; he was hard-pressed to stay far enough ahead of the guards to avoid getting shot, much less return fire.
Drew was being a good sport, though he supposed her lack of complaint or commentary had more to do with being rather short on breath than with any forbearance on her part. She'd been kidnapped and subjected to God only knows what torments in the last twenty-four hours, only to be assaulted by her would-be rescuer, and despite the fact that she was almost certainly going into shock, she'd still shown a remarkable resilience in the form of goading him.
It reminded him of someone else he knew.
He didn't have long to reflect on that revelation. A hail of bullets raised a cloud of dust around them; one of the rounds skimmed the meat of his shoulder, raising an angry red furrow before joining the other rounds impacting the wall of the structure they were making a break for.
Jonny ducked around the corner, yanking a stumbling Drew behind him as a stray bullet whizzed past his ear. He paused briefly, edging up to the corner to squeeze off a few rounds of covering fire before taking off again, towing Drew with him.
He was getting tired; the lack of sleep was beginning to take its toll on him – he was pretty sure he'd been up for over 36 hours – and running in dress shoes and a tux wasn't the easiest, especially while physically pulling someone else along.
By some miracle they'd managed to avoid being surrounded, or shot – although he had a sneaking suspicion that they weren't shooting to kill. He was sure it wasn't physically possible for such a large of a group of people to have such bad aim, collectively, unless they were trying not to hit their targets.
Still, the reality of the situation was inescapable – sooner or later, someone's aim would fail and a .762 round would rip through either him or Drew, or failing that, the men pursuing them would get smart and work together to corner them.
He would put good money on the former being the more likely of the two alternatives. He'd been shot before, though not by a rifle round of that caliber, and he wasn't eager to add to his experience.
And then it hit him. Not a bullet – a flash of inspiration.
Drew was gasping for breath; her legs felt like they were made of lead and her arm was going numb from Jonny's iron grip at her elbow.
He darted behind a low building and skidded to an abrupt stop, and she wasn't able to duplicate his feat; she ran headfirst into him, only his grip keeping her on her feet as he spun. She squeaked, flinching as a man rushed around the corner, hot in pursuit. He didn't even have time to react before Jonny dropped him with a solid punch to the throat.
Jonny let go of her arm, shoving her against the wall behind him as he edged closer to the corner. He caught the next pursuant off guard, shattering his kneecap with a well placed kick and knocking the gun from his hands with a second.
"Go – that way!" He grabbed Drew by the shoulders, pointing her in the right direction and giving her a helpful push. Which nearly knocked her off her feet.
"But –"
"Go, before the rest of them catch up! I need you to cause a diversion."
Translation: he needed her to kick up a nice cloud of dust and throw off pursuit while he doubled back and picked a few more of them off. She was bait, but if she could buy him just a few minutes, he might be able to set the trap that would get them both out of this increasingly ludicrous situation.
To his surprise – and relief – she went without further question, snatching the rifle off the first pursuant before taking off in the indicated direction. He grabbed the other rifle, firing a short burst around the corner as he watched her retreat. Maybe she was too out-of-breath, too tired to argue or demand the details of whatever it was he was planning. Maybe she was simply accustomed to being used as bait.
And then it occurred to him that he may have miscalculated rather badly. She was, indeed, kicking up quite a nice cloud of dust.
In fact, she was nearly impossible to see, and she'd only covered about ten yards. His plan hinged on the assumption that the men pursuing them wanted both of them alive, and were not shooting to kill.
He looked back at her – or rather, her dust trail, and realized he couldn't take that chance.
He swore softly to himself as he sprayed bullets around the corner again; this time, his volley was answered with a veritable hail of bullets. So much for her diversion.
Jonny scanned the landscape for any possible escape as he hastily searched the two men at his feet. He pocketed their wallets for later examination, as well as a largish ring of assorted keys and an extra clip of ammunition. Sooner or later those men chasing him were going to figure out that they could surround him by going around the other side of the low structure he was sheltering behind.
But then, maybe he could use that to his advantage. He always did think better under pressure.
The sound of gunfire faded with distance, the sand and the dry heat seeming to leech the sound from the air until all she could hear was her own labored breathing over her shuffling footfalls.
She wasn't being pursued – no one was following her, and no one was shooting at her.
She should be happy – she had no particular desire to be chased by men with guns, but she had the sinking feeling that that had been the Plan. The Plan she'd been waiting for, the one that would get them out of this mess.
She ducked into the meager shade offered by a low wall, collapsing in a trembling heap as she struggled to regain her breath and her senses.
He'd wanted her to create a diversion. Either that or he'd sent her on ahead while he made his last stand, in the hopes that she would use the opportunity to make good her escape.
Either way, she'd failed. Her bitter disappointment at the revelation that no one was chasing her spoke to her somewhat disturbed mental state.
She wondered how long she'd last. Dehydration and fatigue would set in before the sun set again – assuming (somewhat optimistically) that she'd be able to avoid capture until then.
She shifted slightly, taking in her surroundings. The wall she was sheltering under surrounded a series of starkly utilitarian structures. Her eyes slid over a jumble of Arabic script, her fatigued brain unable to translate.
And then she saw it. An iconic sign that needed no translation, and yet was always accompanied by a warning in at least ten different languages.
Hochspannung, alta tension, alto voltaje . . . that black-on-yellow lightning bolt. High voltage.
It was a utility shed. Two of them. She squinted, taking in the layout. She was near the main wall of the compound – she could see the concealing hedge.
She could also see the power lines entering the structure furthest from here – the one closest to the main compound wall. That would be the grid power. A subtle rumble coming from the structure closest to her aroused her curiosity.
She glanced around cautiously before ducking over the low wall. A series of large white storage tanks flanked the building closest to her. A quick exploration of the area revealed that she'd discovered the electrical control center for the entire compound. The building closest the compound routed power from the main grid to the buried lines that supplied power within the compound – it contained a dizzying array of circuitry, all meticulously labeled.
The second building contained several large propane generators, humming quietly on standby. The tanks outside looked to be about fifty feet long, and ten feet high each. She counted five, total.
She reckoned that she'd found her diversion. Given either of the two scenarios, she'd certainly need one. Now, all she had to do was figure out how to implement it without incinerating herself. She slipped back into the shed, rummaging about and gathering her tools in a pile.
Wrenches of all sizes and shapes, and various clamps, pliers and crowbars and other implements of destruction, a pair of work gloves, a wicked-looking utility knife …
She was still missing a critical ingredient.
While the generator room was blessedly empty of human habitation, it was clearly set up to house a semi-permanent guard/engineer. There was a small desk hunkered in a dimly lit corner, its surface littered with half-empty coffee cups and rumpled magazines, a portable TV, and a single, tattered photograph, half-buried under the clutter.
She supposed the normal occupant had been recruited in the search for her and Jonny, and offered up a brief prayer to any deity that happened to be listening that he would not return anytime soon.
A desperate search of the desk's drawers yielded nothing of further use – chewing gum, paper clips and tape and a half-melted roll of duct tape, plastic silverware and salt and pepper and – of all things - ketchup.
Useful, perhaps, if she was MacGyver. Especially the duct tape and chewing gum.
She wasn't MacGyver, so she still needed an ignition source – a match, a lighter, a magnifying glass, anything. Hell, she'd settle for a flashlight, or a radio, or anything else with a battery she could short-circuit. It was just her luck that the guard wasn't a smoker. That fact struck her as a grave injustice. He was a bad guy – by definition (by her definition, anyway) he was practically obligated to smoke.
In the movies, gasoline and propane tanks ignited with little to no provocation, with spectacular results. Of course, in the movies all the bad guys were smokers. She knew she'd need something a little stronger than harsh language to ignite the gas, and she'd need a significant amount of heat and concentrated gases to produce the kind of explosion she wanted.
Propane wasn't a concussion-ignition substance, and she didn't have an ignition source. The massive generators weren't of the variety that generated an open flame …
And then it hit her. Propane wouldn't ignite on concussion – but black powder would.
Jonny shrugged out of his tuxedo jacket, stripping off his dress shirt as well and tearing it into strips. He worked quickly, binding the two men's hands with the shirt and propping up one of the fallen men under his tuxedo. His work was made more difficult by the need to frequently stop and lay down a burst of suppressive fire to keep the other pursuants at bay.
He shuffled back and forth to kick up a large cloud of dust, wrapping one of the trips from his shirt around his nose and mouth so he could breathe. He took the time to fire off a few more shots before making a break for it.
He could hear the sounds of gunfire behind him, but none of it was aimed in his direction. Now that he'd put a little breathing room between him and the men with the guns, he slowed down, taking the time to observe his surroundings.
What he saw was not encouraging; he'd left behind the utilitarian part of the campus, and had ventured into habitable territory – lush lawns, hedges, and tall, ornate building were scattered across the landscape. In the distance, he could see the gilded gleam of the wrought-iron gates.
Jonny tended to operate best under pressure – but then, he usually had Jess with him to save his bacon. A pair of knobby tires captured his attention – a welcome distraction from the thought of Jessie - and he could have sworn he was hallucinating.
He'd found the compound's garage – and the shiny new four-wheeler parked outside it.
The explosion knocked Drew off her feet, the wave of heat and the impact searing the breath from her lungs. She hadn't imagined that the first tank would explode – and if the first one had gone, the others were sure to be close behind.
She had to put some distance between her and the scene of the crime, before the cavalry arrived, and before the rest of the tanks went. Just as soon as she could shake the ringing in her ears.
Drew blinked, trying to clear her vision. The sand was burning her skin, but she couldn't seem to make herself move. The ringing in her ears intensified, crescendoing in a thunderous rumble that drowned out all rational thought.
Except it wasn't really ringing – it was more of a buzzing. It sounded almost … mechanical. Like a gigantic mechanical bee. She had a concussion, it was the only possible explanation.
A concussion might also explain the tableau before her, coalescing out of a cloud of sand and smoke: her white knight, charging in on his gleaming quad runner.
Did concussions cause hallucinations? Maybe she had sunstroke, or heatstroke.
And where the hell had he found a quad runner? She didn't have time to vocalize her many questions. He hauled her onto the ATV behind him without a word; she was almost thrown off the back when he throttled up – it had quite a bit of power for its size.
She readjusted herself, getting a grip on her thoughts, and on Jonny. He let go of one of the handlebars long enough to wrench the rifle – which was digging into his sternum – from her hands. It was becoming increasingly difficult to stay balanced as he swerved wildly at breakneck speed through the compound, even with her death grip around his waist.
It didn't take nearly as long to locate Drew as he'd feared it would. He'd heard the sound a fraction of a second before he felt the shock wave from the explosion; off in the distance, he could see thick, black smoke billowing into the sky.
She'd barely managed to get clear of the main blast; for a moment, he was worried she was unconscious, but she stirred when he pulled her to her feet, stumbling along with him as he guided her onto the ATV.
"Where the hell did you find a quad runner?"
He barely heard the sotto voce muttering. Well, she was well enough to ask spectacularly irrelevant questions.
"Hang on," he yelled back to her as he took off, nearly unseating her behind him.
He circled the flames, skirting around the widespread destruction. He'd almost completed a full circuit when he saw it.
The blast had blown a sizable hole in the main perimeter of the compound. Flames still licked at the ancient brick, obscuring the opening.
He gambled, opening the throttle wide and heading straight for the hole. A bullet whizzed past his ear, and he hunched lower as the ATV blasted through the faming debris.
They were out of the frying pan, at least. Jonny set off at a tangent, checking his watch and getting his bearings. Dean had set up a aeries of pre-arranged meetings, a different meeting place every hour on the hour.
It was 5 till – if he wasn't mistaken, he could just make the 11 o'clock rendezvous.
It was late. Not that she'd been keeping a regular schedule, by any definition of the word "regular".
She'd been busy; not any busier than usual, truth be told, but as the days grew colder and the nights grew longer, her thoughts turned to darker times. The glow of the monitor cast an eerie pallor over her face as she stared blankly through the panel.
It had been almost three years since she'd visited Benton. Three years to the day, in less than a week.
With Jonny unaccounted for, and Hadji occupied with Bangalore's preparations for Diwali, she figured she could risk the trip this year. Her father was a concern, but while she most definitely wanted to avoid that particular confrontation, she knew the chances of running into him were slim.
Her father wasn't the type to hang around cemeteries.
She frowned as a discrete chirp caught her attention. It was a simple message, though obscure in its meaning: 23:53:00. She knew what it meant, though it hadn't been meant for her eyes. Prudence dictated that she keep a close eye on Jonny (though for her protection or his, she would have been hard-pressed to say), and what better way to do that than to place an intercept on his phone. Phones, rather. She had implanted a Trojan into most of the major cell phone networks around the world, a clever bit of programming (if she did say so herself) that allowed her to intercept and copy any communications to or from a given number (or numbers).
23:00:00. 11:53 PM. It was code, most likely a distress call or a warning from I-1. 7 minutes to midnight – an obscure reference to the Doomsday Clock.
Author's Note: Chapter the third, imagine that. Thanks for staying with me so far!
Let me know what you think, I love getting reviews (if you like it, tell me – if you don't like it, tell me what you don't like!)