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A flash of terror floods through Jaz's body the moment the door swings open; eyes wide, she is prepared to see men armed with more torture tools, more angry fists, more video cameras to record her pain.
It's dark in the room, but it takes only seconds for her to realize that whoever is in front of her is not an enemy, and before she can say anything - she opens her mouth to speak but the dry blood around it cracks and makes it difficult - the figure is making his way over and muttering a string of curses that sound distinctly like, "Fuck, shit, Jaz."
McGuire stands in front of her with his gun under one arm. He says something else under his breath - she realizes he must be on his mic to the others - before crouching down in front of her tentatively.
"Jaz, it's me," he's soft, whispering. He tries to squint through the darkness to take in the extent of her injuries and, from what he can see, it doesn't look good. He shifts so he is a position to help her up. "The team is here, Jaz. We came to get you out of here, okay?"
The girl nods once, pain shooting up the nerves of her spine at the movement and she can't help but flinch.
"I don't think I can walk on my own," she croaks. Her voice is rough and dry - she doesn't know how long she's been without water, but it's enough that her throat feels like sandpaper rubbing, tearing through the fragile layers of cells. "Stuff is broken, I'm not sure what." Weakly, she attempts to brace herself with her hands and push up off the floor, an attempt to prove herself wrong and show that she is okay. As soon as McGuire senses what she is doing, he moves closer, gently looping his arm around her body so that he can easily help her off the ground. She relaxes into the touch, feeling safe at last, and allows him to do the work of lifting her body from its crumpled position on the floor.
"Thank you," she whispers, allowing her head to lull against his shoulder. When they are standing, she is able to remain on her feet and move her legs well enough, but he still does most of the work of keeping her upright and steady.
Suspringly, she finds herself relatively unconcerned about the men she knows are in the compound. If McGuire feels confident enough to lead her out in the corridor and the rest of the team is inside the building, they must have some sort of control over the situation. While part of her hopes all of the men are dead, a smaller, vengeful bit whispers in the back of her head ideas of revenge. If she had to opportunity to confront the guy who did this to her, she would make sure he died slowly and felt a fraction of pain she felt. She wasn't cruel, but she was angry.
"Amir just gave the all clear," he said suddenly, informing her of what was being said on the mic. "Dalton is going to wait at the door and Preach is parked right outside." He pauses, casting another glance down the length of her body and shaking his head, a sigh falling from his lips. "I'll get you patched up as soon as we're on our way."
Truthfully, McGuire was concerned about what Dalton would do when he saw the girl. What was on the film didn't do her beating justice: even in the dark of her cell, he could barely make out a piece of skin that wasn't marred by some type of afflication. Of course, it would hurt them all to see Jaz like that, McGuire himself included, but he kept thinking of the way Dalton stormed out of the room during the livestream of her torture. He had never seen the man turn a blind eye to something because it disturbed him, and the look on Dalton's face when the punches started was something he didnt recognize. It was anger, hurt, pain, all balled into an ugly swell in his heart.
And another part of McGuire was worried that Dalton would wallow in his own pain a little too much. He was afraid that Dalton would forget that, although the whole thing hurt the team, Jaz was the one physically abused and beaten and subject to God only knows what else. There was no telling how she would change or react to any of them or what she would expect from missions from now on; there was even the chance she would want to leave the team. He doubted she would leave - she had dedicated three years to them and was clearly in love with helping people during the job - but there was always the chance that she would want to give it up, and if that were they case, none of them would be in the position to be angry or blame her for that decision.
"Ready to move? I can carry you if you need," McGuire said, slow and careful. As a medic, was worried about her stressing any injuries presen; as a friend who knew her well, he was worried she was too proud to ask for the help herself.
Despite everything, a small smile tugged at the corner of Jaz's lips and she gave a barely perceivable shake of her head that he would have never noticed if he didn't feel the movement against his own chest.
"I think I can manage. You just keep me upright and I'll do the walking, okay?"
His reply was wordless, the smallest comforting squeeze of her shoulder from the arm that was wrapped around her. When they started moving, she couldn't help a hiss of pain at the first few steps, but she never asked to take a break or for more help as he began leading her out of the room and the down the hall to where he knew Dalton was waiting in anticipation and agony. They had to move slow, but Amir and Dalton had apparently eliminated all of the existing adversaries, so unless some sort of backup was coming, they were in the clear to move as slowly as Jaz needed.
"They're all dead?"
The question startled McGuire for some reason - it was a statement posed as a question, something she seemed to have picked up on but wanted to make sure. McGuire nodded, knowing she could see him in the more-lit hallway.
"They're all dead," he assured. She was silent and he focused on the sound of his feet clashing against the ground, and it was then that he realized she was still barefoot, the soles of her feet dragging against the rough concrete floor. He should have looked in the room for the rest of her clothes but, at that moment, he had more concern for successfully getting her out of there.
They're getting closer towards the front door when her voice breaks the silence again, another question thrown his way: "Is Dalton angry with me?"
"Not with you," he concedes, furrowing his brow. They should be meeting him within a minute. "I mean, it didn't help when you went off on that video, but no, never with you."
"Okay, McG. Thank you." It's soft and barely above a whisper, and as soon as it comes out, they turn a corner and a shadow stands ahead of them under the frame of the open front door. Dawn is beginning to draw in and a backdrop of soft purple and yellows illuminates the space behind the shadow. There is no mistaking the figure waiting for them - from the stance to the way the gun is held, to the foot tapping against the ground impatiently, it's clearly Dalton. The moment he sees them turn the corner, he feels ice cold and like his heart has stopped midbeat.
Part of him wants to run, meet them half way and swoop in and take Jaz from McGuire's arms to tend to her himself. He has to stop himself; he knows that is certainly the last thing she needs, for him to force any type of intervention. The other part of him is hoping that, any second, she will drop the limp and run to him and wrap her arms around his neck, telling him that she's fine, she's okay. And he knows that isn't going to happen, either - as she gets closer and closer, the state of her health becomes more obvious. He sees the burns he noticed on the camera standing stark from the skin on her thighs, and he sees the way her wrist is head limply against her stomach. McGuire seems to be doing most of the work to keep her walking, but she's able to at least shuffle her feet against the floor enough to be mobile.
Twenty feet away turns to fifteen, and fifteen turns to ten, and before he knows it, she's inches away, head bowed and refusing to make eye contact. Dalton can see McGuire's eyes shifting between her beside him and him waiting expectedly, seemingly also surprised by the lack of any sort of movement in his direction.
Time freezes for a a minute as no one says anything, and then suddenly, a familiar voice he's missed so much graces Dalton's ears, then shatters his heart.
"I'm so sorry, Top."
Finally, she looks up at him, making eye contact for the first time. He's never seen such sadness in someone's eyes and, if possible, she seems to shrink further away from him and deeper into the hold McGuire has on her as if the strength she showed to walk out of there was suddenly deflated. The horror of her ordeal is printed on her face: physically in the form of cuts and bruises and blood that acts as face paint, and more subtly in the dull glaze of her eyes and the trembling of her lip.
Dalton doesn't know what to say, how to respond. The last thing he was expecting was an apology -at worst, he was expecting cries of pain upon meeting and, at best, he was expecting her to crack an innapropriate joke. Seeming to sense the anguish running through Dalton, McGuire steps in to intervene and hopefully temporarily alleviate whatever it is both of them are feeling.
He keeps eye contact with Dalton as he speaks, hoping the man will understand his message. "Jaz, let's get you back so I can fix you up, alright? Top, you want to go ahead and make sure it's all clear for us?"
Dalton gives a nod, unable to form the words for another response. He has to force himself to turn away from Jaz and get his gun at the ready as they make the brief move from the building to the car. As he moved, he heard the footsteps trailing behind him but didn't dare look back, keeping his eyes scanning the area around them between them and the vehicle. The pathway was rocky and while the rocks and pebbles crunched beneath his and McGuire's boots, he imagined the bottom of Jaz's feet torn to shreds by the edges, but he still didn't dare to look back.
After Dalton makes it to the vehicle, the two of them arrive only seconds behind him. It's a military vehicle with three rows and seats; Preach and Amir are perched in the front, Dalton climbs in the final row, and he can only watch as McGuire helps Jaz get on the leather seat of the middle row. As soon as Amir and Preach see her for the first time, it's like they've gone mute: neither knows what to say or what to do other than to drive as far as they possibly can from the compound. The safehouse the team had prepared was only a few miles away, within a twenty minute drive, and it seemed to everyone that they couldn't get there fast enough.
"Water?" McGuire, now analyzing the injuries closer, called out. There was movement from the front seat and a worry-stricken Amir held out a full canteen for the medic to take. Dalton watched as McGuire braced her head from the back while she greedily took a few gulps, pausing so she could swallow it all and then repeating the process until the canteen was empty.
"Just a few minutes to go, Jaz," Preach reported, his first words to the girl since seeing her. He wished he had something less clinical to say, but there was too much tension in the air for him to comfortably give his admissions of relief at her life.
"Thanks, Preach," she mumbled, allowing her eyes to close for a second. A second turned into a minute, and no one realized until the even breaths were rhythmically falling from her open mouth that she had fallen asleep despite the situation and the bumping of the car along the road. When Amir heard it, he turned his head around, eyes focusing on Jaz for a second before dancing between McGuire and Dalton behind him.
"She's going to be okay?" Amir's question was loaded; was he talking about physically or mentally?
The answer wasn't clear: McGuire nodded from above her and, behind him, Dalton shrugged. It was clear to them all that getting her to safety offered little solace to their team leader. His expectations of the rescue had been shattered and he felt helpless; he was supposed to be the one to find her and get her out of there, and he couldn't even do that.
xxx
"You want to tell me why you apologized to Dalton and then avoided him like the plague?"
The question startles Jaz. She had been laid back on the hospital-like bed of base, revelling in the comfort of the barely there padding and the warmness of McGuire's hands as they carefully cleaned out her cuts and dutifully applied antibiotic ointments to each. There were a few he had to stitch when she first came in, angry ones that still were bubbling blood hours after they had been forced upon her flesh.
After falling asleep on the way the the base, they had managed to get her inside without waking her. While she slept, McGuire used a portable xray machine to briefly scan her and see what he had to deal with: a few breaks in her hand, and two broken ribs, but nothing else internal. That was a good thing; while the cuts and bruises certainly looked awful and painful, they were superficial and, spare some type of infection, would heal relatively normally.
When they did wake her up, Amir had a cup of soup prepared for her and a warm cup of coffee with too much sugar, and she surprised them all by how quickly she managed to devour them both, even while only having one arm she could lift. She made little conversation as she sat there - no one asked questions, and she didn't offer any information besides the fact that she "didn't feel as bad as she looked." After eating, she knew it was time to be taken care of, and she followed McGuire towards the medical suite with little argument, and that's where she continued to sit now.
"I didn't avoid him," she said softly, turning her head to face the wall beside her instead of the medic. "I just didn't really want to talk to anyone."
"You're talking to me," he pointed out. There was a pause and she heard him shuffling but didn't bother to move her head again to find what he was doing. After rummaging through his med kit for a few moments, she felt his hand gently take hold of her palm, fingers tracing over the swollen mess that was her wrist. While he had agreed with her that it was broken the first moment he took to look at it, it wasn't as bad as he originally feared. The xray had displayed that the displacement between the bones wasn't large and there was no complete shattering, meaning surgery wasn't neccessary. She winced as he began to wrap something from around her palm, circling towards her wrist.
"That's different and you know it." She sighed, conceding and turning his head back towards him. "You saw his face when he saw me. He was horrified."
McGuire pauses to look up and her and narrows his eyes, unsure of the direction her explanation is heading in. "We were all horrified when we saw you, J. From the moment you were taken, it was a guess to any of us whether you were alive or not and, if you were, what you were going though. Listen, I'm not trying to force you to talk to him if you don't want - you know I would never do that - but I'm just saying that I think it would mean alot if you sat down with him and talked through it. For both of you."
His eyes went back down to her wrist and, after placing the thin wrap, he began putting on the splint he had pulled. When the swelling went down, she would get a cast put on but, for the moment, the splint would do the job well enough.
"What do you mean by that?" Her voice was raised, pitch off key.
"Jaz, whatever you guys think of each other, you don't hide it very well." He swore he could see the skin of her face turning red beneath his gaze. "He'll understand if you need time for this."
"It's not that," she sighed, picking up the hand he wasnt working on and running it through the loose strands of her hair. It was still slightly wet from a brief bath she attempted to take as soon as she had finished eating and before McGuire took her to check her out, telling McGuire she couldn't let herself sit still until some of the dirt was washed from her skin. "I don't want things to be different. I know he cares - I know you all care - but I'm worried it's going to change how he looks at me."
McGuire didn't respond, so she continued. "McG, I don't know what happened to me while I was there. There were times when I was passed out and I woke up with more bruises and burns, so there's no telling what else they did to me," she cast a look downwards, unwilling to say more specifically what she was concerned about but guessing the medic would pick up on the subtext of her words. "And no matter what they did, I'll get through it, I'm sure of it. But I don't want to be looked at as weak or this broken thing now." Her lip began to tremble and she forced herself not to cry, not now. "I'm so worried that he's not going to want me on the team anymore, or he won't let me to on solo ops, or he's always going to be second guessing me."
It was clear that Jaz had been quietly dwelling on the thought; while the team was concerned about her safety and her health, she was concerned about her position on team. Throughout her years of service, she had never felt like she fit in better in any role than the one she held with Dalton's team. It wasn't just what they did, but the way the team worked. It was loyalty, brute determination, and cunningness that bound them all together, and it was the combination of it all that she feared would kick her out of the team. If Dalton felt he couldn't reasonably trust her anymore or that her experience would compromise her actions, he could easily send her packing with nothing more than a few rushed goodbyes.
McGuire sensed the flood of emotions threatening to spill from Jaz and used his feet to move the wheeled-chair he sat on so he was closer to her face rather than her lower body. She seemed unwilling to make eye contact with him, but he could see from where he was the unshed tears filling her eyes.
"Hey, Jaz, it's gonna be alright," he took her hand, offering a comforting squeeze. "Dalton wants you on the team just as much as everyone else, and as long as you want to be here, he is going to be beind you one hundred percent. I don't think you realize how wrong it felt when you were gone - it's like a whole chunk of the team was taken," he admitted, shaking his head at the memory of just a day prior. "I can promise you that once you're up and moving again, you'll be doing ops like any other day."
A weak smile tugged at the corner of her lips at the same time the first tear fell. "You promise?"
He let out a chuckle, nodding. "I promise, Jaz," he paused and then offered her a titled grin, playing on a smirk. "Can you promise me something, too? I mean, it's the least you can do for the guy who found you and patched you up, in my opinion."
She laughed and nodded, the tears freely falling now. It was a wild mix of emotions like she hadn't felt before rushing to the surface all at once: relief, happiness, anxiousness, sadness, pain, fear, hope. She knew she must have looked crazy - the tears making streams on her face but laughing for the first time in days.
"Promise me you'll at least try to talk to him, Jaz?"
She nodded, an affirmation in the promise to McGuire and herself that, along with whatever else was to come, she would clear the air with Dalton as soon as she could.