Author's Note: Neeext.
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CHAPTER TWO
TO DENY MY WISDOM
*
In this bloody dawn I will wash my soul
To call the spirit of vengeance
To deny my wisdom for anger
To break the scream of the silent fool
And to be the son of doom
-Rhapsody-
Guatemala
1994
"Make a choice, Sergeant Booth." The older man's voice is low and brusque at his right.
Eyes like a fawn's stare up at him, innocent and questioning. She is too young to understand–three or four at the very most. All she can comprehend is that these armored men are breaking things all around her, yelling. They are robotic, but she doesn't know what that word means. All she knows is that they do not flinch.
She doesn't know their tongue, she can barely speak her own. So she is silent, and remains very still.
One man–different somehow from the rest–stands before her, weapon trained, but not quite locked on her form. His face is not hard like the others'. Brown eyes are soft instead of stone. He is younger than her father–younger even than her elder brother. He is still a child, like her.
He stiffens, trying to disguise the way his hand shakes.
It's a strange anomaly, for certain. His hand never shakes, he never flinches.
His superior will not stand for failure. "Her people hide the enemy. They rat out innocent American lives to faceless mercenaries and the guerrilla armies. Those impossible to bring to justice."
"But she doesn't," he wants to say. His voice is too choked, throat doesn't function.
This feels wrong. Nerves are like fire, warning against.
She's not much more than an infant. Ingenuous black eyes watch him carefully. Tan-skinned, dusty round cheeks, mop of rumpled black hair. This child, this beautiful little child they'd found hiding amongst the rice and crates of wheat, is not guilty of anything.
Duty outweighs conscience today.
The child tips her head in cautious study of the young man. He looks sad.
She hugs her knees closer to her tiny form, shivering in the Guatemalan heat.
It isn't long after that his rank ascends to Master Sergeant.
The innocent are never spared.
The first of many nightmares he has about that particular Guatemalan assignment finds him bent over his bathroom sink, dry heaving. Hours into the morning, and he is still curled in the empty bathtub, shaking and victim to tears.
Washington DC
October 2nd, 2009
Are you going to betray me?
Booth squeezes the trigger, jaw set in determined wrath. Face a thundercloud. Suddenly, he is furious.
No.
He is done looking back and feeling the onerous guilt over choosing the wrong side, time and time again. Looking the other way while simultaneously pulling the trigger. Following with blind faith, those who would rather watch from afar, often with ulterior motives. Killing on demand, without question.
It feels too dirty. Too much like Gormogon.
He's done abusing those deemed more expendable, those less fortunate than the leaders. Whether a leader of a high school hallway or first world country. Protocol and Law of the Jungle demanded those with lesser importance be sacrificed on a whim so that the stronger could survive. Or those who are punished for the crimes of others.
The weak are never spared. The innocent never exalted.
His resolution falters. Blinks back the rush of adrenaline that befalls him. The little voice whispering in his ear about serving one's country is ignored. Mourned, but forgotten.
Either way, he feels weak.
He can't.
"What?" The reprimanding bark of his commanding officer makes him jerk in response.
Without fail, he always manages to find a way to let down the father figures in his life. A faithful disappointment.
"I can't," his voice is small, gaze pinned to the rotted earth beneath their feet. His superior growls out a curse. He winces, eyes sliding shut against the offhanded castigation. "I'm sorry."
The sun beats down from above, smothering them in unforgiving heat. Sweat-coated brows, pounding hearts. Judgment suffers.
They are short on time. His superior thinks he is speaking to him. Suddenly, the weapon is seized from his hand and a loud shot splits the chaotic air like a thunderclap. He spasms in shock, so torn that, for a moment, he thinks the bullet has lodged in his own chest. Hesitant to open his eyes, he is pained to no longer see those big pure eyes he'd just addressed looking back at him.
He cannot move. He doesn't even notice his weapon being shoved back into his hands.
"It's done," rings the voice in his ear. And it is.
Another soul erased. Another piece of his own chipped away.
His superior shouts off some routine orders to the swarm of soldiers flocking about behind them, then his attention slingshots back to his subordinate.
"I like you, Booth. One day, you'll take my place. You're a perfect soldier, a machine. You don't ask questions–you get the job done. You're my best sniper, my best tracker. We're all allowed to have off days. The credit goes to you on this one. That's the end of it. Won't discuss it further."
And then, the final twist of the knife. The justification.
"She would've died anyway." With that, he claps a hand on the young man's shoulder, squeezing once. "Good man." And he's gone.
Booth feels anything but. Tears brim his eyes–it is the first time he's cried over enemy casualty. For the very first time, reality hits him. This is not a game. Everything is real, too real. Before, he'd been too young, too naïve, to truly understand. Before, he'd just followed orders.
He'll continue to do so, but now he will feel every shot like it's meant for him.
She would have died anyway...
It echoes in his ears, haunting, like something alive.
"Cortman!" he hears his superior snap. Glancing to his right, he sees one of his fellow comrades bring their heads up attentively. "Torch the rice."
The other soldier gives a sharp nod, if a little distracted. Mostly, his focus is on Booth. Dark green eyes bore into him, critical with disapproval. "What the hell was that?" they read.
He is the one they all look up to. So why does it feel like they are all looking down on him now? Booth lowers his gaze, wishing he could disappear from the eyes of his regiment.
Either way, he feels like a failure.
Not his choice to make.
He hadn't done it. But he hadn't stopped it, either.
No more. He knows now which side to choose. It has never been clearer.
The first agent from Intelligence closest to Brennan lurches back with the force of the shot that slams from the M82, falling to the frozen earth–lifeless before impact. Screams of alarm immediately follow, and the passing streetwalkers begin to flee. No sense of definite direction, just in search of cover and to escape the vicinity of the fresh corpse corrupting the sidewalk.
To save one, another would have to die.
He is designed to be a Protector. He was never meant for the things they ask of him.
Paladin.
He protected his family from his father, his fellow soldiers from the enemy… he is the leader of teams. The leader defends, sacrifices. At least a good one does.
The remaining three agents had barely comprehended the shift of his rifle muzzle, the shift of his expression. All they'd seen was a shadow of doubt, a flicker of danger on the horizon. Too soon to have told anything, and now too late to do anything about.
Rainfall intensifies.
He recalls he's only taken one bullet with him. They know he never misses, so there was no reason for auxiliary rounds. But this is just for the Barrett.
He abandons the weapon, senses surging into overload as the second agent promptly opens fire at the roof. He takes cover below the ledge as shots scream by and notch the cement.
This doesn't stop him or slow him.
He coasts along the wall, ducked low and out of sight, drawing the Beretta from his shoulder holster. Quickening his pace, he chances a look below.
The third agent is closing in on an alarmed and immobile Brennan, drawing a Glock and advancing.
Disregarding the agent intent on ending him, he swings over the ledge in a vault that sends him dropping several stories down. Lashing out with his free arm, he grabs hold of a fire escape railing, clenching his teeth around the yell that wants to break free when his shoulder is nearly wrenched from the socket. Momentum carries him further, and his boots slam against the exterior of the building. He keeps his grip tight on the slick rail.
With one shove of his legs, he's over the barrier of the safety mechanism and descending the metal stairs two at a time. He sees the agent with the Glock draw a bead, and shouts that Brennan, "get down!" Breaking momentarily, he shoots off some cover fire to give her a chance to do so.
Hell breaks loose. Shots ring out on the DC streets. Screams, terror.
Disloyalty.
He feels a bite in his thigh and stumbles against the grating of the fire escape. In glance, he sees the blood oozing down his black cargos just above his knee. Ignoring the fiery sensation the bullet leaves behind, he makes a running leap across, landing violently on a lower fire escape where he continues his turbulent descent.
Reaching this one's limit, an outcrop of the building's exterior confronts him. He jumps for it, bracing his boots and free palm against the wall before impelling himself back in the direction he'd come in a remarkable display of parkour. His feet slip a fraction against the elements, but he grips the lowermost rung of the escape, and the ladder quickly begins to slide.
Releasing the rung as soon as it reaches its maximum length, he drops. Boots hit the ground jarringly. Water sloshes and droplets gush. He rolls over his shoulder to break the fall. A racing shadow, a single force.
He sprints for her.
Unrepentant. Her image is all he sees.
Save her, his heart commands.
There is no logic to it, no careful thought. Now there is only instinct. Bones is in danger.
She'd thought she was going to die. Her faith in him had faltered, no matter how briefly. Her heart had seized, her bravery had splintered. But now, her breath catches in her throat, awed. For the rain and crowd part and, like a candle in the darkness, he is there.
Mother Nature's fury bears down on the city, harsh and unforgiving. He moves like a panther–fast, savage, and deadly.
Sometimes you need to bring back the monster to get the hero.
"Agents under fire! Agents under fire! Negative! Attacker is not patient zero! Deadshot is on the move and hostile!"
Ignoring the rounds hurtling past him, he snaps in another clip and draws his Beretta before him, putting a bullet in the shooter's heart. Four more loping strides, and he pops two into the windshield of the agent's vehicle, who has radioed for backup.
Lethal precision. Glass and skull shatter. The agent is dead.
Vision tunnels.
Looking ahead, he sees the last remaining come out from behind cover, seeking out the established target. When he doesn't immediately zero in on the rather conspicuous FBI agent pounding across the street, Booth at once knows who the agent is searching for. He pours on the speed.
Before the man can fully make it to his feet, he is at Brennan's side, wrapping his free arm around her, pulling her back, and stanchly locking on to the Intelligence agent with his M9. Both defenders maintain a solid, unwavering bead on the other.
"Drop it," comes the sharp order, loud above the rain.
He doesn't move, doesn't speak, but the air of menace around him is palpable. Mouth set in an ominous line. Visage harsh and forbidding. He can hear her shallow breaths beside him. Her palms press against his chest, delicate nose brushing at his jaw.
He tightens his hold on her protectively. No harm shall come to her.
"Is this how you want to be remembered, Agent Booth?" The man takes a step closer, not liking the situation, but keeping his voice level and precise. "A traitor to your country?"
"Back off." His voice is a jagged growl. Brown eyes are black and serrated, rip into the opposing force.
"There'll be Shields down here within five minutes. I can wait until then."
"Last chance."
"Try me, Ranger."
With unforeseen speed, he shoves his partner down, below the danger. FBI and CIA square off, interagency bloodshed igniting. Twin thunderclaps command the air.
Brennan screams as Booth takes a hit to the chest and lurches back. The Intelligence agent sinks to the ground with a bullet between the eyes.
He grimaces, doubling over slightly as she catches him in her arms. "Booth," her broken voice sounds at his side, drowned out by rain and wind. Frantic concern lacing that one syllable is tangible and almost alive.
He swallows a groan, leaning heavily against the supportive tower her slight frame provides. With one hand he reaches up and yanks down the zipper on his saturated jacket, revealing the Kevlar vest.
Relief courses through her, hampering her equilibrium enough to where she has to clutch at the folds of his jacket to remain upright. Her forehead collapses against his neck.
Sirens wail down the street, closing the distance quickly. He holsters his weapon, taking Brennan's hand and leading her into the mouth of the alley. She squeezes tighter, finding immediate comfort in his touch. Her adrenaline erases any ability to speak coherently.
"Where are we going?" she breathes, slender legs striving to keep up with his as they race together down the alleyway.
He doesn't know. All he is sure of is that she's alive and with him. Safe.
Her hand in his is enough.
"Just run."