AN: As promised to my reviewers this chapter will be a bit closer to my previous chapters' tones. I admit my writing pace is rather odd but since I would much rather write for all of you than pretend to study for my midterm this week here you have it. I hope that you read this installment with much enjoyment and thus translate your appreciation into reviews. And yes I still don't own Bones.
You can taste the moisture and life emanating from the soil. From the leaves. From the trees around you and the insects crawling over you. You can smell and taste the vitality of life and yet you are the harbinger of death. Why is it that you can feel life pulsating around you every time your hand caresses the worn carving along the butt stock of one of the most lethal tools developed by the depraved ramblings of the lunatic human mind?
You stalk through these woods, these woods which only a few long days ago you were fleeing through like a jilted calf. Now you are a predator. So many people equate what you are, a sniper, to a wolf or a snake of some sort; but no animal is so dangerous. No you are something far deadlier.
Nothing is more dangerous than a man with a purpose.
Hang that thought, Bones is still more dangerous than you are; at least she has more flair about her aura of delicious deadliness. And you know what they say: "The female is the dangerous one of the species."
But if she was so dangerous then why did you all but force her to stay back in the car and to go find somewhere safe to hide with her dad? Surely you could benefit from having two other sets of eyes and weapons to watch your back?
No.
You know what it is to fight, to kill. The other two don't.
Max might know what it is to murder, to kill in defense of his own or for a specific purpose but he's never been in a serious fire fight. He's never had to do what you know what needs to be done here.
Bones has killed before and you never wish for her to have to stain her hands again with the blood of even the wicked. You're expendable, she's not. Your soul is already irreparably scored with the blood of others and hers is still pure; you'll never allow her to be stained with what you can prevent by doing yourself. You're here to make sure that she stays safe; it makes no sense to bring her right in the middle of the hot zone.
Bones was a mixture of anxious/worried/furious as you all but forced her to stay behind as you geared up and started to make your way into the woods hand railing the road; the location of which you "elicited" from the hit man sent to the Jeffersonian.
The sweat rolls down your body even as the wind drifts through the trees nipping at the skin of your face. The weight of your gillie suit, weapons, equipment, and ammo are comfortable reminders of your younger days when you did this more times than you can count.
As you roll your feet heel to toe along the knife edge of your foot you scan around the area listening and looking for anything out of the natural order of things.
You hear the chirping of birds, the natural crackle of the wind through leaves and branches. The distant gurgle of a woodland stream catches the dim notes at the edge of your hearing.
The pre-dawn light shrouds you as it shrouds everything else in the forest. You're glad that you slept so much on the drive here; you're going to need it.
If you had a mirror you could tell that you look nothing like the clean and dapper FBI Agent that you've always looked like; mussed hair, a face obscured with green and loam. No tailored and cut suits for you now only functional BDU's overlain with a "burlap sack with leaves" as Bones so aptly put it. You have to admit your boots are a lot easier on the feet than your normal shoes are.
A distant rumble.
Instantly you drop down behind a well placed log. You guide your rifle to cover the road and the ever growing growl coming from the direction where you came.
Time ticks away as you lie there waiting.
The growl gets louder. The sweat pools in the small of your back.
Calm yourself Seeley.
Your breathing is steady and controlled.
Your heart slows.
You already have a round chambered; the growl builds into a dull roar.
Through the foliage and underbrush you glimpse the dirty red paint job of a pickup truck.
As it gets closer you see two men in the cab.
You have no idea who these guys are; the light or lack thereof obscures their features. But they look totally unaware that the proverbial Sword of Damocles is hovering above them; or to be more accurate lying on top of what you strongly suspect is a pile of deer shit.
You can't see what's in the bed of the truck, the angle is too bad.
Do you take the shot?
Are these guys connected with what you have to do?
Will you compromise yourself?
Your finger hovers next to the trigger as you line up your shot with the truck…
And relaxes as you let it go. You lie there as you listen for the engine to fade into the woods.
Carefully you pick yourself up and continue to make your way on foot
*************************************************************************************************************************
You can hear loud voices in the distance up ahead. You're getting close.
It's an arduous process as you crouch down low to the ground and start to creep forward, always trying to keep as much concealment around you.
Ooof your back is starting to complain about all of this hunched over movement. Maybe you can ask Bones and her magic knuckles to fix you after this is all done?
In the lightening sky you can make out more features in the woods of Appalachia; yes that was definitely deer shit that you laid down in, it's starting to crust along your chest.
As you get closer you can barely make out a wire fence. Concertina wire. This is definitely the place.
You keep creeping around looking for a vantage point to dig in for a while. You'd prefer to wait until dusk falls so you can have the advantage of confusion so right now it's strictly Intel gathering.
Ah perfect.
You spot a bit of a ridge off to the north which by the looks of it will afford you a look at the entire camp.
Well what are you waiting for Seeley? Time to hunch-walk over there.
Your back complains as you start moving again.
****************************************************************************************************************
You should have shot that truck. Oh you really should have. You're never going to forgive yourself for not shooting those guys in the truck.
Quietly ensconced along the ridge, concealed by a myriad of bushes, brush, and fallen logs and leaves you have a decent view of the large clearing in the middle of the camp, the guard's barracks, entrance, and various prisoner holding boxes.
You can see the feet of the prisoners in the little boxes; you can see the sores and dirt along their feet and legs.
And a dirty red pick-up truck.
To be more specific a dirty red pick-up truck with two empty burlap sack with manacles fixed into the bed.
Your scope plays over the body of a very unconscious Max Keenan tied up and gagged to a post alongside the truck. Blood caked to his face, his eyes seemingly swollen shut.
You can see the guards; 8 of them, and the stone faced boss man amongst them. They're all gathered around Max, haranguing him by their gestures and the snippets of words that you can discern from a distance of about 300 meters.
Stone man is holding what you can only describe as the evil bastard child of a cheese grater and a baseball bat; a sickening lurch in your stomach crops up as he brings it down, hard, on Max's legs. You can see the blood well up through the new rips in his pants as he gasps forth to painful consciousness.
You can see the laughter on the guards' faces. Anger wells up in you but you know that you shouldn't act just yet. You have no plan to get into the compound, and if you shoot now you can give your position away. There's no telling how many and where the rest of the guards are, if there are any more. As much as you hate to see Max get hurt for Bones' sake you can't risk the big picture for any one person…
Wait two burlap sacks.
Where's Bones?
Oh Jesus God where is Temperance?
You swing your rifle into position; you let the sights line up.
*************************************************************************************************************
Max looked on in barely concealed terror as he saw that demon in man form raise up that peculiar instrument of pain again. One blow with that already left him reeling in pain and the jabbering of the rest of these punks only seemed to throw fuel on the burning fire within his leg. How could he have been so stupid to let those two guys get a drop on him? He mused that he must be getting too slow in his old age; getting dropped upon never sat well with Max and it definitely didn't sit well with him that his own daughter was put into danger by his failure. Max noticed with some satisfaction that the two goons who got him both sported numerous bruises and cuts along their faces so Tempe must have fought back. Maybe she even got away; he told her to run for it as he tried to hold them off!
All thoughts of this were wrenched from Max's mind as suddenly that cut-granite face of scars with a permanent snarl on its face suddenly exploded in a mass of blood, gore, brains, and bone shards.
Chaos descends on the camp as the Angel of Death makes his presence known.
AN: Just so you know the next chapter is going to be the magnum opus of this work so it will take a while but will be chock full of wonderful goodies and one-liners. As always if you have any ideas that you want me to write in please sound off and let yourself be known to me in the form of clicking on the button immediately below this sentence.