Daughter of Pelias
Carrie drew in a long breath. She needed time to think, to compute everything that had just happened. Saul and Chankria were still looking at her expectantly but she knew after what had been said that she could tell them nothing, not now.
Dammit! If he was to be believed Bakri had Quinn! She didn't want to think how an IT geek had managed to take down a black ops agent; just the thought of it made her stomach squirm with disbelief. She had to sort this herself and she couldn't involve Saul or Chankria because if she did she may never see Quinn again.
She cleared her throat. "You know what, fuck this!" she growled. "I was wrong to come here and expect that we could ever sort this out. You're on borrowed time, Saul, since you came back you always fucking have been." She reached forward, took her file, and turned towards the door.
"Carrie," Saul's voice was angry. "You are behaving like a spoilt child!"
She stiffened but did not turn back, instead she ignored his annoyed whine and left the room, banging the door shut so loudly it caused all the glass of the windows to rattle scarily. Grabbing her phone as she walked out, she punched a number. "Virgil?" she said urgently as he answered. "Get me a trace on Bakri and Quinn's phones. Now, dammit! Phone me back in two minutes, I have to make more calls."
She hung up. Punched another number. Swore as Bakri's phone came back as unavailable. She needed proof that Bakri's threat was legitimate. So she tried a third number. "Maggie? What the fuck is happening?" She listened for awhile, interjecting a couple of times with, "Calm down." Then she asked, "And Franny is all right?" Further listening before, "Quinn said he got it covered, right? Those were his exact words?" She nodded at the response and then said, "OK are the police still there? Tell them as little as you can, I will come to you as soon as I can."
She hung up. Delaying her exit through the main doors, she paced the floor nervously before her phone rang. "What? Fuck Virgil! Nothing on either? Fuck! Bakri just called me! I thought you were supposed to be looking for him! Have you tried all of Quinn's numbers?"
As she hung up a voice came from behind her. "It seems like you have quite a situation going on. Would you care to share it with me?"
Carrie turned to see Suneeta Chankria standing regarding her intently. "It's nothing," she muttered.
Chankria snorted. "Clearly it is something and from what I have just heard it involves a member of my staff to whom I have a duty of care. Carrie, I will not throw any of my people under any buses, neither will I negotiate with terrorist scum, of that I can assure you. Let me help you with this."
Carrie regarded this stylish woman, wondering how far she could be trusted. As the adrenaline rushed through her, Carrie felt frighteningly alone but she had been so in the past, many times, and she had found a way through. She had complete confidence in her own abilities to get out of the predicament and get Quinn back but there was a bigger picture here that needed to be addressed too. She ran her hand through her hair, pushing her panic away. She needed time to think, to quieten the flustering noise reverberating around her head and focus on what was really important.
She gulped, scanning all the information she had in her mind. Maggie had told her that Quinn had gone willingly with his captors, even told her to pass the message on that he had it covered. What did he mean by that? She had seen him in action, knew how good he had been but now she feared his physical weakness compromised him, would he still be able to deliver as he once had? She wanted to have faith in him, the memory of that barb of Astrid's in Islamabad still hurt, but it was too big a risk, a gamble with his life that she was not prepared to take because, more than anything, recent events had shown her that nothing had changed; she simply couldn't lose him.
Chankria was still regarding her, her beautiful features softened with sympathy. "I think we both want the same thing, Carrie," she said. "We should be allies - two strong women together, we can do business. Trust me with this and let me prove my dependability to you."
Carrie knew of this woman's frightening reputation but as she listened to her own instincts, she was getting no alarm bell, no indication that she should not trust her. And what was the alternative? She nodded slowly. "Help me save Quinn," she said. "And then I'll give you enough intel to blow Saul's treacherous ass to hell." As she spoke she possessively squeezed the file in her hand.
Chankria smiled. "Black ops are at your service." She moved forward and laid a supportive arm on Carrie's shoulders. "And then we will talk about Saul and the possibility of patricide, figuratively speaking, of course."
Quinn felt incredibly calm.
Granted he would have preferred to have bought the farm at the hands of a fellow professional, rather than this ignorant amateur but in the scheme of things it did not really matter. He had achieved what he wanted; Franny was safe, Carrie would be putting her plan into action and Bakri's days were numbered. It felt sort of right that this was an appropriate time to check out.
But looking past the infinitely mesmerising dark void of the gun barrel in front of him and into Bakri's crazily blinking eyes, Quinn realised that it was not going to happen. For, although there was definitely frazzled madness there, there was not the iron will of a cold blooded killer. And with that realisation came a second startling insight for Quinn, it contradicted entirely his previous acceptance from only moments before; really he didn't want to die, not now. Now he had too much to live for, now he may even have a shot at the normal life he craved. Why would he give that up? And the most crucial question of all, why would he give Carrie up?
So he determined to stoically endure whatever Bakri had in mind for him while, behind his back, unhurriedly, his hands kept working the screw along the rope.
"No," Bakri said. "I won't kill you. Not yet." He pulled the gun away from Quinn's head.
Asshole, Quinn thought but kept his stare impassive. It was a difficult line to tread; to be confident enough to imperceptibly nurture the element of doubt in his captor but not to be too defiant to provoke Bakri to violence. Quinn realised he was pushing too hard when Bakri's whole body suddenly stiffened, his eyes flashed insane anger and he snarled, "Don't fucking judge me, you arrogant bastard!" The open handed slap that accompanied the sentiment rocked Quinn's head back and he tasted bitter blood trickling into his mouth.
Quinn bit back his frustration and looked down to the floor, disengaging, retreating from the conflict, making his whole demeanour as unthreatening as possible.
Bakri glared at the cool and submissive, lowered head in disgust and then moved away as the heat of his anger lost its focus and dissipated somewhat.
"She's out of your league, you know." he said, calmer but obviously still irritated. "We were so good together. I could have given her what she really needs. You? You're just sloppy seconds and she'll get bored of your shit soon enough."
Fuck! Quinn thought as his headache began to throb again, I really cannot cope with a talker and an unstable one at that. Why do weak men, under pressure, always seem to feel the need to vocalise their demons, even to their enemies? Why do they seek absolution and forgiveness, when they should take responsibility for their own fuck ups? Much more of this self indulgent crap and I'll be begging him to put the bullet in my brain! But despite himself and his pounding head, Quinn's training kicked in and he listened because through all of the self pity, Bakri may inadvertently reveal something that would be of use and help him in his escape.
"Jesus, how did it get to this?" Bakri was pacing the floor to the door and back again, silhouetted by the stark metallic light from the other room, the gun, still in his hand, wafting about in a hazardous fashion, he continued, "It's not my fault any of this! Mathison should have let it lie but then she was never any good at doing what I told her. If only she would have worked with me, not against me, we would have been quite a team."
He turned back to Quinn. "I never had a fucking chance. You will never understand what it's like to have no country, to be so dispossessed, so powerless. You who have had everything you ever wanted, I hate you, fucking American Dream boy. Where I grew up there was nothing but despair. Why wouldn't young boys listen to what the holy men say, be a suicide bomber with the promise of heaven and all those virgins on the other side? Oh I tried, tried to fit in, tried to be a good American when I got the chance but I fucking woke up one day, oh yes I did, and I suddenly realised I really didn't care anymore, not for any of it. The CIA were doing no good, no fucking good at all, only making things worse, everywhere. And I realised there is no point to any of it anyway because in the long term we are all dead. There is nothing else; heaven isn't waiting at the end, there are no virgins waiting for the blessed martyrs; they are just throwing their lives away! There is nothing else, only this fucked up world; you have to get everything you can before it's too late and if you don't get given you learn to take what you want."
The words were tumbling out now in a long anguished confession. Bakri's body was shivering with unstable, overheating energy, quivering like an animal before a storm. "Information is the only commodity of true value on this planet and I have exploited it. I have done nothing wrong, I have simply taken it and sold it to whoever will pay the most money. I have done nothing with it myself, committed no evil. I am innocent." His eyes flashed frantically in the silver-grey light and, despite his protestations, Quinn looked up to see guilt written large across his features. Bakri blindly continued on. "I have no allegiances, no commitments except to myself and what I can get. It's been a truly glorious and uplifting experience to be released from the ties of morality, to be completely consumed by satiating my own needs."
He moved back to stand in front of Quinn, who was still on his knees and trying to remain as static as possible although he swayed slightly as he fought to retain his attentiveness. "And of course, you are to blame for some of this. You and your team pulled me out of Mogadishu, allowed me to continue. You could have stopped me!" He shook his head fanatically. "I will not be beholden to anybody."
Quinn regarded him emotionlessly, wondering where this rambling declaration was leading and whether Bakri would ultimately find the courage to kill him at the end of it. He doubted it but he could not be sure, not with somebody as pathetically unhinged as Bakri.
It was time to move. Quinn had managed to fray the binding rope enough so that pulling his hands apart finally snapped it. Like a spring held taunt for too long and suddenly released, he launched forward towards Bakri, ignoring the rush of dizziness that the fast movement brought and concentrating instead on landing a heavy punch on the side of the other man's head. Bakri let out a surprised squeak and went down heavily, unconscious before he hit the floor.
Quinn stood over him, muscles shuddering as he removed the sticky gag from his mouth, ignoring the sharp pain and ripping sensation it brought down the side of his face as he breathed in deeply. "You talk too much, asshole," he spat bleakly. "And I've got a fucking headache."
He bent down and picked up the rope and proceeded to hog-tie Bakri in a much more robust fashion than had been done to him. Picking up the gun, he shambled to the wall and leaned against it, tried to swallow back nausea but he lost the fight and vomited violently and noisily. "Fuck, I can't do this any more," he muttered. He was shaking uncontrollably again, his whole body on the brink of closing down but he would not allow it, not yet, he had to get out first.
He staggered into the next room. It was bigger and lit by a whole row of startling fluorescent lights that burned on to the retina of his good eye causing it to water and the scene to jolt and blur alarmingly. He blinked and the picture settled enough for him to decipher he was in a room that was similar to Carrie's operational control room with its stark VC screens. There was only one person present and from his position in the nearest chair, he turned towards Quinn. Joaquín let out a gasp of surprise at the bloodied and battered apparition that had suddenly appeared behind him.
Quinn raised his gun shakily. "You got a choice," he said voice croaking dryly. "Run away and don't...the fuck!" He stopped when he realised that the scene he was seeing on the VC screens was indeed Carrie's control room. He could clearly see the back of Virgil's balding head as he watched the monitor in front of him. "You been watching us all the time?" he demanded.
Joaquín nodded and was not able to suppress the lecherous leer that creased his face. A rush of indignant rage surged uncontrollably through Quinn, he felt violated and abused to know that this smirking bastard had watched everything he and Carrie had done the night before. The exhaustion and pain that riddled his body were chased away by livid anger. Giving into the impulse without further thought, he punched Joaquin's sneering face with all of his remaining strength and took great delight in watching the insensible body fall, head cracking hard on the concrete floor.
Quinn leaned on the desk, breathing heavily for long moments, trying to quell the spasms that shook through his body and then he grabbed the nearby phone, dialled a number with a shaky hand and watched on the screen as Virgil picked it up.
"Trace this call," he said jadedly. "I don't know where the fuck I am!"
"Peter?" Virgil's voice was worried. "Are you OK?"
Quinn didn't hear the other man's concern. In fact he didn't hear anything. He had finally run out of determination and energy, surrendering to the alluring appeal of the black concussion that had lingered at the edge of his mind for so long. Now the immediate danger was passed, he was unable to struggle against it any more, he was powerless as it crept forward unopposed into his conscious mind, and stole away his awareness.
As it took control every muscle in his body lost its strength; the life leaving his features as the flame of a candle flickers and is gone. The breath eased out of his lungs in a long sigh, the phone dropped from his hand, he slumped forward and gracefully slid down the desk to come to elegant rest on the cold floor, his body still as the grave.
Oblivion claimed him.