Well, this is it! Three and a half years later, I've finished my first piece of fanfiction. It's been one hell of a ride, ranging from the hilarious to the downright insane (and that's just the reviewers) Interacting with the small handful of loyal reviewers has been mostly incredible.
I want to say a quick thanks to all of my reviewers, but especially the following:
PirateGyrl, who gave some of the most helpful feedback I've ever received writing a story and who gave me plenty of plot and character ideas.
Eva, my favorite anonymous reviewer, who never hesitated to let me know what she thought about each chapter and side story since she joined the story back around chapter 30. My resident CxL fan. Love you, girl!
Perhaps-A-Star, BW4eva, Jesscah, and KnoKnayme, my reviewers who popped in and out at various points throughout the story, giving me so much encouragement.
MademoiselleGF, who made me a beautiful banner than I so wish I could somehow post on this story. Get on it, ff . net! (and I'm still sorry that I didn't kill Lisa for you...I was tempted to delete the chapters since then and re-write it all, but I just couldn't figure out Jackson's reactions well enough to do the idea justice!)
Clavis Salomonis, who created the fanart that serves as the main image for this story.
She Who Shines and Amely Shine, both of whom served as excellent betas (and friends).
And a handful of others who were constant sources of support at times:
Medisha
Brunette Bulma
ThisIsChickaOnFFdotNet
I Am the Batman Dag Nab It
son-of-puji
EmpireX
EmpireAndAll
waitingfortoday
pinky's creature feature
Astrianne
CharliRenee123
I'm not going to lie, going through all those reviews to make sure I didn't miss anyone made me tear up a bit. I don't know if most of you stopped reviewing because you lost interest in the story between the long updates, I ruined it for you somehow, or life just took over, but each one of you made my day at some point over the years, so thanks so much for that. :)
I honestly don't know if I'll ever write a sequel for this story. I do have ideas, but as made obvious by the long list of reviewers compared to the handful who still leave feedback, interest in the story has really faded. As you might have been able to tell from the tangle of complex plot-lines (probably too complex at times) and the research put into some of these details, I put a lot of work into my stories, and I don't want to put it out there if people aren't interested. It's up to you guys, I guess.
Le Fin:
Chapter 42: Waiting for the End
"Ben will be the connection," Jackson relayed to Spencer, setting the phone down on the nightstand and trying to push back the lingering emotions from that phone call. He already knew he was going to accept Ben's offer, but he would have to have a long talk with Jamie- he owed her a full explanation. He could only imagine how backstabbed she was feeling by what had just happened, and it was the last thing he wanted for her.
"How so?" his mother asked, intrigued. She took her place on the opposite bed again, crossing one leg over the other.
"He and I lived in the same building," Lisa spoke up, and Jackson let her take the reins for the moment. She would know more about that connection, after all. "We did laundry together sometimes, and I...mentioned him to Cynthia once or twice." Jackson turned his head at her sudden meekness, and saw a small blush on her cheeks. He wanted to laugh at her embarrassment- she had obviously had a thing for his associate at one point. It didn't bother Jackson, though- he was confident that she would have said something if she still had any kind of feelings for him.
"And he bought the gasoline that we used to burn down Dad's house, so you can- wait," she turned to Jackson, cutting herself off. "Are we saying he forced me into it, or am I a terrorist in our story?"
"Forced," Jackson assured her before Spencer could cut in. "They're the ones who killed the feds and your dad, and kidnapped you, then killed you." He looked at Spencer. "The trainees checked in under stolen identities, so we don't have to worry about them. We used Ben's car to get away, so let's have it conveniently show up on some security camera somewhere," he continued, even though he was still sure it had been too dark for any cameras to pick up the plates."
"So you can get him buying the gas on security cameras, right? I also stayed at his apartment a few nights this week," Lisa added, "And that will be on camera, so the press can still have their sexy rape story- I know I didn't exactly look comfortable."
"Why would you want to give up Ben's alias?" Spencer finally asked, looking impressed by the plan that was being presented, but still skeptical.
"I think we need to give him another alias," Jackson began, knowing this was a question only he could answer. "Something Chechen. If we connect him to the Keefe attack, as well as Priliva," he continued, referring to the group they were supposed to take out next, "then we essentially link him to Priliva and they're not going to refute it- why would they?"
"They'll want to claim a successful terrorist," Spencer murmured, nodding. Jackson knew she would like that one. The CIA had a history of blaming their own attacks and assassinations on convenient terrorist cells, who were only too happy to take credit.
"Exactly," Jackson replied. "We'll go through Marie's records and find out who her informants are. When the time is right, we turn one of them over to the Politsiya. Ben will surrender in the States, get arrested, and extradited. We'll make some kind of deal with the government or whomever- they give Ben a criminal record in Russia and imprison him with the informant, and we'll promise to hand over the intelligence Ben gets from him- after we've used it to find more members of Priliva," he added quickly when Spencer's face changed to distaste.
"The Russians might bite, but do you think Ben will go for this?" she asked, frowning. "Russian prison isn't the best vacation spot, especially for a Chechen terrorist. And you think he could get anything from this informant?"
"If anyone could, it's him," Jackson replied. Ben was the best at making someone into his best friend and getting absolutely whatever they wanted from him. "I assume they haven't been exactly forthcoming with information about their infrastructure, so it's the only way to work up to the top. This guy names names, we work those individuals, they name names, and so on. Just like Alnsur," he added, referring to the Iraqi weapons dealers his team had taken out in almost that same manner years ago.
"How will you keep the Russians from getting Ben's intelligence and then disposing of him when he's not needed?" Spencer asked, lighting a cigarette.
Jackson shrugged. "We'll use a code," he replied simply, "and make it clear that if anything happens to him, the information will somehow disappear and they can go back to hunting down Priliva themselves." It wasn't his first time pulling a stunt like this, but it was his first time doing so in Russia. He was still confident in the plan, though- if history taught him anything about relations with Russia, it was that mutually assured destruction was a language they spoke well. Both sides would take their own risks and assume the other held up their end of the bargain- if they didn't, neither won.
Spencer was silent for a moment, thoughtfully smoking her cigarette. Jackson just waited. He was used to this, having to present his case and wait for the go-ahead. It was something he was actually looking forward to not having to put up with as much once he became director, because he knew his plans would work just fine. The problems never came from the plan. They came from outside meddling, the other players unable to resist sticking in their hand because of pride.
"Look," he finally said when Spencer remained silent, cutting through the tension with his impatience. "It's a sound plan, and as long as you and your agency backs off until or unless I need you, it will work. Just let us do our damn jobs, or do it yourself."
Spencer smiled, the first genuine smile since she had stepped foot back into Jackson's life, and Jackson wondered if she had been waiting for that exact reaction, trying to see if he did indeed have a spine. "It's your show, kid."
Caleb nodded vaguely, staring at the seemingly innocuous building. "If we tell you to leave, you go," he muttered, reaching for the door handle. "You're the important one here."
"Sure," Ben replied, not sure whether or not he was actually agreeing. Yes, if they were talking about a purely pragmatic level, things would be easier for Jackson if Ben survived. But Ben had already instructed Jeff to go through his apartment and gather every computer, flash drive, and hard drive Ben had stored, including Robert's own computer that Ben had stolen. Ben had kept meticulous track of every piece of intelligence he had been gathering, and he had also given Jeff the decryption keys, along with Robert's passwords. The information was all Jackson really needed to begin taking down the Chechens.
On a personal level, though, of course Jackson would prefer that if anyone survived, it was Caleb, and so Ben couldn't fully commit to abandoning the younger twin.
"Tell Biggie and Tupac I love them," Caleb joked, flashing Ben a confident grin before exiting the car, and Ben chuckled, briefly glancing at Jamie as she followed Caleb before pulling away. He had all but forgotten about that line, even though it had originally come from his own mouth, the effects of anesthesia on his 24-year-old self about to undergo a tonsillectomy, begging Caleb to get a message to his two beta fish should anything go wrong. It had become Caleb's favorite parting line on a job, and for now, it had successfully broken some of the tension.
"See you in Hell, Cal," he muttered, dialing the two access codes and driving into the garage. He heard Caleb's soft chuckle through his earpiece, and grinned again. At least the equipment was still working, and it beat 'testing, 1, 2, test'. He drove slowly, scanning the empty first garage as he drove down the concrete slope to the real garage.
"Stay down," he murmured to Nikita, who was in the backseat, pressed down against the floorboard. She had already been told not to move until Ben said otherwise, but reminding her again helped preserve some of his sanity. The idea of getting them both killed and leaving Sasha stranding in Minnesota as an orphan was proving to be a difficult image to purge from his mind.
"Cal, I have a welcome party," he announced as his gaze rested on a group of individuals near the exit into the main house. He didn't recognize them, but they certainly looked official. "Three suits, likely armed. Probably government, agency unknown." He didn't receive a response, and didn't expect one. If Caleb was in the main house, he couldn't very well start replying to Ben. Ben wasn't looking for a command- he was merely passing on the information.
He spotted what looked like the perfect parking spot and decided to label it luck, not a trap. He pulled in, happily noting that the driver's side was opposite the group of officials, and there was another car between them. It gave him some cover, and more options- now he just needed the plan.
Caleb glanced over at Jamie, but said nothing. They already had company of their own, having met a man in a suit in Marie's sitting room, a complete all-American who looked straight out of the Marines- tall, sinewy, with a square jaw and buzzed brown hair. He smirked knowingly when the man eyed his bloody jeans and up to his splattered chest.
"You should see the other guy," he remarked, warily watching the man approach him, and chuckled dryly. "Oh come on," he continued at the his lack of reaction, "Someone's seen In the Line of Fire too many times." This type of mocking wasn't Caleb's style, but it enabled him to let Ben know he was seeing one official so far.
"Come on, Rippner," the man said, approaching him carefully. "Hand over your weapons." Caleb hesitated. Marie had to be watching this exchange, and if he couldn't even get through the door, it was pointless. But there was also no way in hell they were going ahead unarmed. On top of that, there was something vaguely familiar about the man's voice, but Caleb couldn't place it.
"Or?" he asked, backing up slightly, moving closer to Jamie.
"There's one over here, too," the lead murmured, and Caleb frowned, quickly scanning their possible options. Hand over the weapons and have nothing, be sitting ducks, or not hand them over and likely be killed on the spot.
"Or you don't get through the door," the man replied, and Caleb noticed an odd air about him. The man's eyes stared intently into his, and each word was deliberate, as though he was conveying a hidden message that Caleb couldn't even begin to decipher. "And you-" he began again, speaking to Jamie, "-give yours to my partner."
"Who are you?" Caleb finally asked, frowning. The situation was just strange. Plus, it would be nice to know if they were dealing with some kind of government agency, if these people were part of the agency itself, or some other group of terrorists, assassins, et cetera.
He was confused even more by the man's smile, which almost seemed relieved. Caleb briefly wondered if Jackson was supposed to know who the guy was, but then, that wouldn't explain why the question was met with relief instead of confusion.
The man held open his badge, and it finally clicked in Caleb's brain. Jonathan Moore from the Federal Protection Service. DHS. Caleb gave a barely perceptible nod- Jackson's contact in DHS was named Jonathan, and Caleb himself had talked to him after the Keefe attack. He seemed to be the same man, but how the hell? Not only was the guy supposed to be in hiding, he was some kind of administrative employee, not fucking FPS. Not a cop.
Caleb stared at Jonathan for one more moment, nodding reluctantly when he saw the knowing look in the man's eyes. He hadn't expected Caleb to recognize him, because Jackson had never met him, either. The badge was the key.
"Whatever you say, Jon- can I call you Jon?" Caleb replied, hoping Ben would understand the vague message. He lazily turned around and interlaced his hands behind his head, allowing the officer to grip his hands and begin to pat him down. "We might as well skip the formalities since you're feeling me up without buying me dinner first."
He mouthed a quick 'trust me' to Jamie, who was staring at him as though he had lost his mind. The woman hesitantly mimicked Caleb's actions, allowing Jonathan's partner to search her.
Caleb was somewhat impressed by the show the officers put on for the cameras, Jonathan's hands quickly but thoroughly roaming down Caleb's entire body, leaving no inch untouched. He removed the Colt tucked into Caleb's belt, but left the spare magazines and Benchmade where they were. It was somewhat uncomfortable, of course, and Caleb was tempted to tell the man he was enjoying himself a little too much, but it looked real, which was the important part.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he heard Jamie mutter as the two assassins were finally released.
"Allies," Caleb whispered in her ear, knowing that Jonathan and his partner were likely wearing earpieces themselves- he didn't want anyone listening in to pick up on the conversation in case the people on the other side of the door weren't so friendly.
"And the others?" Ben asked, narrowing his eyes as he watched the three officials, who had pulled out their guns.
"No idea," came the reply, and Ben nodded.
"I guess we'll find out," he said, moving his lips as little as possible and moving his head for good measure- he was supposed to be alone in the car after all.
"What's the plan?" Nikita asked, thankfully catching on quickly, and Ben ran a hand through his hair.
"Get the guns," he replied, as though that answered the question. "I'm going to get my crutches and you get out- stay the fuck down, and if you think it's necessary, shoot them."
"What if I shoot you?" she asked, and Ben shrugged, climbing out of the car.
"I give up," he called out to the men, bracing his weight on the hood of the car. "Let me get my crutches, though- unless you've got issues shooting a cripple." He wasn't surprised to get no verbal response, or to see the men train their guns more intently on him. Crutches would serve their purpose better, since he couldn't very well go for a quick gun grab with his arms preoccupied. But, they also had no way of knowing he wasn't about to pull something else from the backseat. Ben knew the game well.
"If you don't kill me, they will," he muttered, reaching for his crutches and letting Nikita crawl under him and onto the ground. "And it seems more fitting that you do it yourself." In all honesty, Ben wasn't completely convinced their roles shouldn't be reversed since he was a better shot, but he also didn't want her within arm's reach of three officials when the shit hit the fan. At least under the car, she was much more protected.
Ben sobered up, and began hobbling toward the men. "So, what's the deal here?" he asked, deliberately taking his time and making himself seem much more uncoordinated than he was. He knew he looked ridiculous, and the idea of him being a threat probably seemed comical at the moment. "Are you bringing us in for Keefe?" He finally made it to the men, and grinned at the one who seemed to be in charge. "Or are we worth more dead than alive?"
He studied the man carefully, but didn't see anything in his eyes other than the official dead stare, and saw the same in the other two faces. If these guys were allies, they did a damn good job hiding it.
"It depends," the leader replied, and Ben watched them lower their guns. They did keep them at the ready, so it wasn't much of a relief. "If you're Alexei Kadnikov, a.k.a. Alex Dean, a.k.a. Benjamin Parker, a.k.a. Alexander Dubnikov, then you have information we need. If you're a nobody, then we don't have a use for you."
It was inappropriate, but Ben couldn't help but grin at hearing all of his aliases- the main aliases, anyway- listed together. One of these things is not like the other... Them knowing his birth name wasn't amusing in the least, and he did wonder how they knew it when he was fairly sure Marie didn't, but there wasn't much point in asking.
"Then I am that man of many names," he replied, bowing awkwardly on his crutches. He wasn't entirely sure what to make of it still. They could either be using the song and dance as an excuse to keep him alive, or actually be about to arrest him. But he saw the flash of the cuffs as one of the men approached, and wasn't about to assume it was safe. He needed an actual sign.
"Back up," he said firmly, locking eyes with the leader again. "I never said I was willing to talk."
The man smiled softly, and Ben wondered if he was about to hear that infamous line in real life. We have ways of making you talk. There was nothing friendly in that smile.
"What's with the crutches, anyway?" the man asked, his voice just not casual enough for the seemingly innocent question, and Ben raised an eyebrow. Interesting diversion of topics.
"It was a present from one of your dead DepSec's boys," he replied flatly, starting to get annoyed. He needed a sign one way or another so he could either have Nikita kill these motherfuckers or they could be on their way to help Caleb and Jamie.
The sign came without hesitation, courtesy of another bullet in Ben's leg, and the New Yorker hit the concrete ground. Fucking Christ, Norman Stansfield! Fortunately, Nikita didn't hesitate to follow his orders, and before Ben had time to actually react beyond his internal bitching, the sound of more gunfire exploded in the garage, the explosions bouncing from wall to wall and giving the impression of an all-out war.
Ben curled into an almost fetal position when another bullet ripped through that same leg, and within seconds, the three men were on the ground with him, every one of them having wounds to match his, courtesy of the Russian woman. He let out another cry of agony when one of the men landed on his already injured leg, and twisted away from the heavy weight.
He saw another man attempt to return fire on Nikita. He could only hope that she was well-hidden enough that they couldn't spot her in the confusion, and that she would know to stop shooting now that they were a writhing, pained mass of limbs. "Stay the fuck down," he hissed through clenched teeth as he pushed through the pain, reaching in his boot and pulling out a KA-BAR. The last thing he needed now was her coming to help and opening herself as a target. He maneuvered his other hand, grabbing the Colt from his jeans and quickly rolled himself onto his knees. He had this under control now.
Caleb allowed himself to be lead down the passageway, instinctively keeping an eye out for possible cover, additional rooms, and anything else that might be useful. Him never having been in this place was just one more disadvantage, and made it even more difficult to come up with a solid game plan. And despite the fact that he did believe Jonathan and his partner were on the assassins' side, he still felt so fucking vulnerable without his gun. It wasn't that he was waiting for betrayal, but the idea that he was useless if things got difficult just made him itch.
He barely listened to Ben's conversation with the unknown agents, letting the words absorb themselves in his subconscious instead of allowing them to distract him. He knew he would pick up on anything important, so he wasn't worried. Marie's place was just too over-the-top for Caleb's liking. It was straight out of a spy novel, and he was finding it irritating.
Before long, Caleb found himself standing in front of the woman he hadn't seen in almost five years, and wasn't surprised to find that he hadn't missed her. "There's my favorite traitor," she greeted, smiling warmly. Almost instantly, her smile faded, and the woman paled, her eyes scanning Caleb's figure.
Caleb just smiled faintly, knowing no words were necessary. He didn't stop staring at her, knowing that his silent taunt was more than enough. He used his well-trained peripheral vision instead, seeing without looking that there were five more officers standing with her. The woman had to know her brother was dead, but she obviously hadn't expected to have her face rubbed in it.
Marie was the first to pull out her gun, pointing it directly in his face, but Caleb didn't even flinch. He didn't believe for a moment anymore that she had gone through all of this just to shoot him as he walked through the door. No, there was something she wanted.
"Isn't this supposed the part where you tell me we need to talk?" he asked flatly, trying to feel as relaxed as he managed to appear. "Or are we skipping it?" This was his least favorite part of any job- the stand-off. It could be seconds, minutes, or even hours, but that fucking purgatory before all hell broke lose- or didn't- was excruciating, infinitely worse than the boredom before a job that Lisa had complained about days prior.
It was the moment when every word, every gesture, every minute nuance could determine the outcome, and it tried every shred of Caleb's patience.
Every muscle in his body twitched imperceptibly, but Caleb felt it all the same. His brain frantically attempted to recap every bit of information he had gathered in an effort to make sure for the thousandth time that there wasn't a possible scenario he had overlooked, trying to predict the future that was already so near, Caleb could taste it.
Marie raised an eyebrow, something in Caleb's statement or demeanor causing her previous rage to suck right back in, a calm mask instantly upon her face. But before Caleb could fully assess the sudden attitude change, Marie's arm shifted to the left and a single gunshot pierced the deafening silence. Almost simultaneously, Caleb heard the same noise in his earpiece, and knew that it was going down in the garage.
As painful as the purgatory could be, it never faded gradually. It was a sharp sucker-punch of an atmosphere change, straight from the agonizing over-analysis to a mental vacuum that left no room for anything other than quick reactions. And so, Caleb didn't have time to turn around and see if he was right, didn't even have time to wonder if Jamie had actually been shot down right next to him in cold blood. He only had time to reach for Jonathan, trying to grab the man's gun from its holster.
The advantage almost always came down to the person who was already armed, and this time was no exception. Caleb heard the primal cry from his own lips out as a searing pain tore through his forearm, and the momentary distraction left him unable to determine whether the erupting gunfire was in that very room or just invading his senses through the earpiece. He was able to register the wall of force slamming into him, sending him crashing through a nearby door and straight to the ground, his body crushed between the hard surface and the heavy weight falling on top of him.
Jonathan was already moving, though, grabbing Caleb's hoodie and yanking him right along. Caleb was half-dragged and half-scrambling on his own away from the now-open doorway, taking cover behind the wall instead. He moved as far away from the door as possible, laying prone and praying that the walls were concrete instead of some shitty wood and drywall structure.
He moved to brace himself on his forearm, the burning stab of pain and subsequent collapse back onto his chest a cruel reminder that he had been shot. He quickly scanned the room- it was an office, but Caleb couldn't see any of the security screens on the computer. He had no way of knowing what those Marie and the agents were doing, and no way of knowing if there were more on the way. All he heard in his earpiece were grunts, pained groans, and death rattles. They were fucked. "Lex, if you're-" Caleb's voice wavered, and his lips twitched uselessly, unable to form the words 'still alive', "-you need to get the hell out. Now."
Ben pulled himself to his feet with a determined groan, thanking the non-existent gods that 'Stan' had shot him in his already wounded leg, and the bullet from Nikita wasn't too far away from either of them. One swiss cheese leg was better than two. "Like hell," he managed, taking one step before crying out in agony and collapsing onto the concrete again.
"Stop!" Caleb heard Marie yell, and glanced over at Jonathan, who lay next to him. The man frowned, obviously just as confused by the command. "He's not the one you want- that's his brother."
"Jamie's dead," he hissed, gnashing his teeth. This was no time for heroics. "And I assume Jonathan's partner is, too- you don't-"
"Nik, get me Cal's bag," Ben called out, rolling onto his back. He just needed to get his leg wrapped up, and he could manage the rest. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, fighting back any emotions threatening to burst through at Caleb's news. He couldn't fight back that feral rage, though. There was no way in hell he was leaving without seeing the French cunt dead at his feet. "And a tire iron," he added, sitting upright. "We're coming to get you, Cal, so shut the fuck up and concentrate on your own shit."
Caleb shook his head, but he wasn't going to argue with him. It just wasted time. "She's turning in Jackson to DHS?" he whispered, taking his gun back when the man offered it. "Why?" He collapsed again as he attempted to prop himself on his better arm, smacking his face on the hardwood floor and realizing with a silent scream that his shoulder might be dislocated. But, he supposed that was what happened when a person was slammed through a solid wooden door, knocking the damn thing off its hinges. His entire body felt as though he had collided with a train.
"DHS wants in on your agency," Jonathan replied, shifting over the assassin to stay between him and the doorway. He got to his knees, his gun at high ready. "I've got you covered," he assured Caleb, having noticed the smaller man inspecting his shoulder. The previous bullets hadn't punctured the wall, which probably meant that they were concrete. That meant they were covered well, but also meant that they weren't able to shoot through the wall, either. "She worked out a deal- we help kill your brother and-"
"And the agency and DHS become allies," Caleb finished in irritation, shaking his head as he climbed to his knees and removed both the zip-up hoodie and his t-shirt. So Marie worked out a deal with both the Chechens and the DHS? That would never come back and bite her in the ass… "Who else knows about us? In DHS, I mean...well, besides everyone who will get the transcript," he asked, deciding that his shoulder was dislocated, but it felt like a partial dislocation, which meant an easy fix. Quick, but definitely not painless.
"Just us, and there won't be a transcript- no earpieces. Napolitano and Patterson would never go for a deal like this," Jonathan assured him, referring to the Secretary of DHS and Director of FPS. "It was supposed to be fairly covert, similar to the association I'm assuming you have with the CIA."
"Who the hell knows what we have?" Caleb muttered, suddenly very well aware of the frustration Jackson expressed regarding the subject of trust. Fuck double-dealing, some of the players were up to triple and quadruple-dealing at this point. Speaking of… "What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, gritting his teeth against the pain as he held his left arm bent in front of him and slowly rotated it out to the side. "You aren't supposed to be FPS."
"And you aren't supposed to be Jackson's brother," Jonathan shot back, and the two men were temporarily silent, trying to hear what was happening on the other side of the wall. Nothing was happening- just talking, but Caleb couldn't make it out. It was a true stand-off, neither party willing to appear in the doorway and open themselves up to an attack. He carefully raised his arm toward the ceiling, his face twisting in silent pain and effort as the muscles stretched. He almost gasped in relief when he felt the shoulder joint relocate, lowering his arm again and picking up his gun.
For the moment, Caleb was willing to wait, but only because he was trying so hard to form a plan with so few options available.
Taking further advantage of the downtime, he carefully inspected his right arm, knowing Jonathan would be ready for any glimpse of a target. The bullet had torn almost straight across his forearm, shredding a decent hole that formed a small canyon across his flesh. It wasn't deep enough to have hit an artery, but he was not out of the woods by any means. He couldn't flex the fingers in his right arm without a fresh spasm of pain, and his mobility was greatly reduced. It had been an almost perfect shot, right to the flexor digitorum profundus muscle. The only way it could have been better- worse- was if she had severed the tendon instead of simply shooting across the muscle. He would have been proper fucked, then.
Caleb couldn't help but smile, despite everything that was happening. He still didn't know how Marie had figured out so quickly that he wasn't Jackson, but she must have shot his right arm on pure instinct when he had grabbed for Jonathan's gun. If she had taken a moment to assess the situation, she probably would have noticed that Caleb lunged for the gun with his left hand, not right. Jackson was right-handed, and Caleb was left-handed, and that tiny detail had saved them. It was so stupidly simple, but fucking fantastic for him, now that he was really thinking about it. His arm would heal, but it would likely be somewhat deadened, like Jackson's hand. If he had to chose a dead arm, he would much rather it be the right.
"I haven't worked with Keefe since he got promoted from FPS," Jonathan explained softly. "It was Spencer's show. She fed me the information, and I gave it to him. I've done some other gigs for her- we go back a bit."
Caleb nodded, softly scoffing again. Maybe when this was over, he would give himself a weekend just to sort through all this information, all of the time spent creeping in the-
The younger twin snapped his head up to the overhead light. The dark. He had an idea.
Ben leaned on Nikita as they made their way down the passageway. He was hearing nothing but talking from Caleb's end, so he knew there was no hurry, and Nikita was so much quieter than crutches. Every step sent throbbing pain up his leg, but Ben was no stranger to the feeling. He had been shot, stabbed, dealt with broken and sprained limbs, and had the shit kicked out of him more often than the twins put together, probably. He had never been shot three times in the same week, but records were made to be broken.
He was barely listening to the conversation in his ear, trying instead to remember the layout of the twisting, underground passages that Jackson had ramblingly relayed back in Miami. Ben knew the route Caleb and Jamie had taken, but this was new- he would have to remember to ask Jackson how the hell he knew it by heart some other time.
Adding to their snail pace was the fact that Ben didn't know which room this was all happening in. He and Nikita had come across a handful of doors, and he had listened intently at each. When he heard no voices or movement, they continued. There could be more shooters in those rooms, but Ben wasn't about to expose himself by investigating any further.
Despite the fact that he was hearing nothing violent in his earpiece, Ben knew that he didn't exactly have all the time in the world to get to Caleb. He knew there was a stand-off, but eventually, someone was going to make the first move.
"We're here." Caleb perked, hearing Ben's confirmation in his earpiece as he pulled his hoodie back on, zipping it all the way up to his throat.
"Five suits and Marie," he relayed softly, pulling his hood over his head. "Possibly a sixth, but he's an ally." He frowned, trying to think of a distinct description for the man so Ben would know not to shoot him, but he was coming up with nothing. The officer wasn't exactly wearing a red carnation. "If he's alive, he would be the one not trying to kill us. Jon and I are in an office on your right," he continued, assuming Ben was coming in through the back door. "But don't go until my mark- I have an idea."
"Are you sure you don't want me to go?" Jonathan asked, not turning as Caleb fired a few shots into the overhead light, ducking his head to avoid the shower of glass from both the bulbs and the fixture itself. He stared for a moment as the filaments in the bulb continued to burn, but within seconds, the flames had burnt out and the room was relatively dark. "Is your arm okay?"
Ben tightened his grip on the tire iron, his self-control slipping for a brief second at the knowledge that Caleb was injured. Too fucking much. First, finding out that Rick, the man who had been his roommate back in the early days had been launched across a room courtesy of Lisa, seeing his new teammates and manager dead all around him, then Jamie, the woman he had loved with all his heart at one point, and now Caleb was wounded and had successfully kept it from him until Jonathan had given away his state? What else?
Caleb nodded at Jonathan. He could easily send the man in his place, but since they were to the right of the door, anyone moving back further into the room and along the wall would have their left side exposed first. Since that was his shooting hand, it made sense for him to go. "Just keep talking like I'm with you," he whispered, but his attention was caught by Marie's voice calling out to him.
"Don't be stupid, Caleb," she appealed, and Caleb was sure by the sound of her voice she was moving closer. "You're not even the one we want- there's no reason to throw your life away, right?"
Because you were going to let me live anyway. Caleb hesitated briefly, realizing that in all likelihood, she did want him alive. The shot to the arm had been nearly perfect, yes, but she could just as easily have gone for the chest or head- she had intended to take him alive from the start, and had never planned for Jamie to make it past the door. Jamie was a loose end, and if Caleb had been Jackson, he probably would have joined her on the hardwood before he even knew what hit him.
So yes, Marie was going to try and keep Caleb alive, at least long enough to lure Jackson into a rescue mission. He would like to think his brother wouldn't be so reckless, but come to think of it…he couldn't imagine Jackson able in any way to refuse the trade.
"You're never going to find him," Caleb called back, the taunt escaping his lips before he had a chance to be more rational about it. It was just occurring to him now, but if Marie somehow survived everything, Caleb absolutely couldn't. He could not allow himself to be taken alive. If it really came down to that, Caleb had to find a way to end his own life before Marie could use him as bait. Charming. Just don't jump the gun. Why did his stupid puns come out in Ben's voice in his own head?
Marie replied, but Caleb ignored her as he began to creep against the wall, moving around the perimeter of the room. She had to know he wasn't about to surrender, and so he had to assume this was some kind of distraction. Marie wouldn't waste words for the hell of it, so Caleb had to block her out, focusing solely on his plan.
The room wasn't pitch black, of course, but as long as his skin was relatively covered, and he moved slowly, it wouldn't be nearly as easy for the people on the other side of that wall to spot him.
"She knows who I am," he whispered to Ben, knowing the taller man would know exactly what he meant and the ramifications. It meant that if for whatever reason Caleb couldn't do it himself, it was down to Ben to put the bullet in his brain.
He stopped when he heard Ben's breathing change dramatically. "Come on Lex," he murmured, his whisper as soothing as he could manage without being picked up by anyone else and giving away his location. No one would blame Ben for starting to fall apart- the man had been holding it together despite the onerous circumstances for days now. He had to snap sometime, and apparently, the double-tap of knowing he might have to kill Caleb and Jamie's death was that proverbial straw. Just hold it in a few more minutes. "I need you right now."
"I've got this," Ben assured him, but Caleb heard the abnormally high pitch and the shaky, breathy tone. He knew the signs of holding back tears like the back of his own hand.
"Lie better," he whispered back, trying so hard to keep the sympathy from his voice. It was just another skill Jackson possessed that Caleb had yet to fully master- Jackson could be brilliant at keeping his team and even Caleb together by saying exactly what they needed to hear. In Ben's case, he needed to be reminded that breaking into pieces, no matter how justified, wasn't an option.
"Just for you," Ben whispered back honestly, and Caleb smiled faintly, resuming his silent prowling. He felt somewhat exposed with his entire face below his brow exposed, but had to hope the shadow from his hood was leaving at the most only a glimpse of skin to catch the light.
Ben turned toward Nikita and pushed her softly against the wall. "Nik, you're staying here," he insisted, whispering in her ear. "If you need to shoot, then shoot from the doorway, but do not go in that room. Understood?" Nikita opened her mouth to argue, but closed it when she saw that Ben was not giving her a choice.
He understood that she wanted to help, and also understood that she was completely capable, but when it came down to it, it wasn't her fight and there was no reason for her to open herself as a target unless her life depended on it. Her life, and no one else's. Not even his.
Caleb took in the Ben's words, wishing that he and Jonathan could be exchanging information so easily. The New Yorker was coming in alone, and they needed to provide a distraction. When Ben in turn distracted whomever was left, Caleb and Jonathan could come out and catch the rest in a crossfire. But Jonathan didn't have their frequency, so Caleb could only hope the man knew how to follow the body language cues of someone he had no experience working with.
He finally made it to the wooden desk and now was able to move more quickly. The furniture probably wouldn't stop any bullets, but it gave him decent cover from being spotted. Unfortunately, it was also the kind of bulky object that Caleb would be watching if he was on the other side of that wall. He would be anticipating someone using it for cover, and watching intently for any sign of movement.
He pressed his cheek to the cold floor, glancing out from under the desk. He didn't have enough of a window to shoot from there, at least nothing but the soles of shoes if the bullet didn't embed itself in the floor first, but it did give him a better idea of whether or not there would be anyone in his field of vision once he made it past the desk.
"I have two men in my sights- no idea where Marie is," he whispered to Ben, firing off the number to Jonathan via a hand signal. "And...go."
Caleb whipped around the last set of drawers and opened fire, knowing he had caught at least one of the men before diving behind the desk again, barely noticing the wood fragments that scratched his face and another bullet tearing through his shoulder. It was just the deltoid muscle, just pain. It was nothing. He lay prone, firing off the remaining bullets in his magazine through the desk with abandon, now just trying to create that distraction for Ben to slip in.
Ben stealthily opened the door, noting with satisfaction that the first leg of Caleb's plan was working. No one had noticed him yet. He moved forward with new determination, the previously throbbing pain in his leg now a mere dull ache that he didn't have time for. He only had time for two thoughts- one, Marie was going to die horribly, and two, Ben was not going back to Jackson without Jamie and without the manager's little brother.
He approached the brunette woman from behind, a sick smile tugging at his mouth as he raised the tire iron, swinging with surprising restraint and cracking it across her skull with a grunt of effort. It wouldn't kill her, and he didn't want it to. He would come back for her.
"I'm in," he relayed before she had even hit the ground, turning his attention to the next closest man and firing a bullet into the man's head. Ben glanced at Marie again and brought his foot down hard, crushing the woman's hand under his heel and twisting away her gun just in case she still had the ability to fire.
Caleb snapped a new clip into his Colt and sprang to his feet, seeing Jonathan mimic his actions out of the corner of his eye, and advanced on the open doorway. He was pretty sure Jonathan had to have some experience in the Secret Service or something similar- the man moved in front of him without hesitation, as though he was offering protection.
Caleb emptied the new magazine with precision, not even giving the bodies enough time to hit the floor before moving onto the next. They couldn't waste any time- now that his position was compromised, Ben was completely vulnerable- but Caleb did try to keep an eye out for Jonathan's partner. He noticed the man just in time to see him hit the ground, shot by another FPS officer.
It only took mere seconds for that final assault- the officers had been sitting ducks caught in the middle of triangular gunfire whiplashing back and forth between two sets of partners.
Seeing that the two men had everything under control, Ben turned his attention back to Marie. He was a man completely possessed. He barely heard what has happening around him anymore, the yelling and gunfire muted as though everything was underwater. He only saw, smelled, tasted, felt, and heard his target. He breathed that need to end her life.
Tossing the gun aside- it was too easy, too humane for her- Ben reached down and rolled Marie onto her back. The woman was already more than halfway to death, her eyes unfocused and confused. Ben stared at the gaping wound on the side of her head, the jagged bone fragments decorating the edges of the glistening mass of blood and brain matter like a cheap party popper.
Somehow, the woman was still able to make eye contact with him, and Ben knew by the absolute hatred in her blue eyes that she was aware of what- who- she was seeing. He smiled grimly, lowering himself to the floor and crawling up her body, dropping his entire weight onto one knee that pressed into the woman's throat. It was a trick he had learned from Jackson, and he had been on the receiving end of it- although not quite as forcefully- more than once after arguments that went too far. It seemed like an appropriate send-off for the specimen- Ben knew the manager would approve.
He listened to the wet, strangled gurgles from the director, saw the blood trickling from the corner of her mouth, and knew he wasn't simply strangling her- he was crushing her fucking throat. He watched felt her hands weakly grasping and pulling at his thigh, but only found himself saddened that she couldn't put up more of a fight. But he wasn't that upset- it wasn't too cruel. It was a mere fraction of what she deserved for everything she had done to the men and women under her rule.
"Jesus- Mitchell!" Ben snapped out of his trance and scrambled to his feet, watching Jonathan race over to a man on his back near the corner of the room, Caleb right at his heels, the right sleeve of his hoodie a deep shade of purple from soaked blood seeping into midnight blue fabric. Ben moved as quickly as he could, following the two men and not even bothering to glance back at Marie for her final seconds. She wasn't important enough for his time anymore- she was nothing.
"Nik, bag!" Caleb called out, kneeling by the fallen officer. He knew just by looking that his femoral artery was severed, the blood already pooling on the floor around the man. He glanced up to take the bag from the Russian's hands, passing it off to Ben to open for him. "Watch out for anyone coming through the doors," he commanded the woman, deciding they might as well have some cover just in case.
"Hold him down," he instructed to Jonathan, rolling up the sleeves of his hoodie and tearing Mitchel's pants open to give him a better view. He bent the man's leg, ignoring the blood flowing over his hands and down his wrists, as he carefully checked under his thigh. There was no exit wound, which made this so much easier. He didn't have time to remove the bullet, though- it was too dangerous and better left to the surgeons in the hospital with suction and real instruments. He lowered Mitchell's leg again, and turned back to Ben. "Get me a scalpel, gloves, Celox, and gauze," he ordered, wiping his hands on his hoodie as best he could as he watched as the officer began to lose consciousness. "Sterilize the scalpel with an alcohol pad."
"What the hell are you doing?" Jonathan demanded when Caleb pulled the gloves over his blood-stained hands and grabbed the scalpel from Ben's hand, but then continued to wait.
"Giving his pressure time to drop," Caleb replied calmly, watching the blood still pouring from the unconscious man's leg. "And it's easier for him if he can't feel it." It was a battlefield technique that Thomas had taught Caleb years ago- if he acted too quickly, the force of the blood would impede the Celox. "Trust me."
"Cal's a doctor," Ben added, trying to back Caleb up, but the younger man still heard the doubt in his voice. It was against all of their instincts to sit back and watch a man bleed to death.
Having Jonathan hold him down was probably unnecessary, but in case the officer wasn't completely unconscious, Caleb didn't want him moving for this next part. When he figured a minute and a half had gone by since Mitchell was shot, he brought the scalpel down and across the man's thigh, opening his wound to allow better access. "Gauze," he ordered, quickly soaking up most of the blood and tossing the fabric aside. "Celox." He grabbed the bag from Ben, tearing it open with his teeth and pouring the yellow granules directly into the wound. "More gauze, and give Jonathan some gloves."
Caleb pressed the gauze hard against the filled wound. "Keep holding pressure until I tell you to stop," he commanded, holding it himself until Jonathan took over. When the chemical hemostat had done its job, Caleb could remove the clot and dress the wound. After that, all Jonathan had to do was get him to the hospital. He moved away and attempted to get to his feet to take over for Nikita, enabling her and Ben to take what they needed from the computers, but Ben grabbed his good shoulder, keeping him down.
"Your turn," the old man said softly as he unzipped the hoodie, gently pulling it down Caleb's arms. "What's the story, doc?" Caleb glanced over at his right shoulder, finally able to see it in the light, and knew that his first assumption was correct. There was no exit wound, and not much blood- the bullet had merely embedded itself in the deltoid muscle. It was safe to remove, and required only skin sutures- the fascia and muscle would heal on its own.
"How's your sewing?" he asked, locking eyes with the taller man as Ben knelt in front of him, straddling his thighs.
"I know how to make a pillow pet," Ben replied lightly, pulling the bag closer. "What do I need?"
Caleb sighed, hating the idea of letting someone else operate on him. But it wasn't the end of the world- at least Ben was good with his hands. "Forceps," he began, adding "the things that look like scissors and tweezers had a bastard kid" when Ben looked at him in confusion. "That thread, and one of those needles," he continued, motioning to green and white box of nylon suture and small pack of J needles. "And some fucking vodka," he finished after Ben had set the necessary supplies down on Caleb's lap.
Caleb shook his head when Ben removed the cap from the bottle and moved to pour it on the wound, swiping the liquor from him. "It's for my nerves," he muttered, taking a long drink. Ben only grinned, pulling on a pair of gloves, and Caleb exhaled deeply, setting the bottle down next to him, nodding a go-ahead.
He watched as Ben wedged his forearm between his left arm and rib cage, squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught of pain. It wasn't an ideal situation, but Caleb was likely going to instinctively pull away as soon as Ben began, and having his arm trapped like that with the forearm wound treated first could easily tear the sutures. He cried out, clenching his teeth hard and pressing his forehead to Ben's shoulder, twisting his fingers of his free hand in his shirt when the man added to his agony by digging for the bullet. Ben actually had impressively skilled fingers, but he just wasn't trained, and muscles weren't meant for this kind of invasion.
"I can see why you waited for that guy to pass out," Ben murmured apologetically, dropping the bloody forceps and bullet on the floor with a soft clatter. Caleb just nodded, pulling away from his friend to take another drink of vodka, coughing as it burned his throat. It probably wasn't the best idea to be drinking now, but he needed something, and he couldn't very well assess and treat Ben's injuries with morphine in his bloodstream.
"Suture it up," Caleb commanded firmly, taking another drink before setting the bottle aside again. He grabbed the back of Ben's head by his hair and leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together. He exhaled deeply, trying to gather up his courage before releasing Ben, and at the same time, thanking the man for holding it together for him, for ignoring his orders and coming after him. "The next one's going to be worse."
Jackson pulled himself to his feet, pacing slowly around the room. The movement was subconscious- he was barely thinking anymore. The hour and a half mark had come and gone, and still no word. He was crawling out of his skin waiting for something, anything to let him know his brother and friends were alright.
Lisa was silent, watching him move around the room. She probably wanted to reassure him, tell him everything was okay, but neither of them could know.
Jackson's mind refused to stop moving, stop assuming the worst. There were so many things he should have said while he still had the chance, to all of them.
He lunged for the nightstand when he heard the phone ring, almost losing his balance and crashing against the wall. He answered the phone without even checking the ID, but he remained silent. There was no greeting suitable for this kind of scenario.
"Marie's dead," were Caleb's first words to him, but Jackson hardly heard them. He immediately picked up on his brother's tone, and his heart tightened in his chest. The words might be good news, but what was about to follow was definitely not. His brother sounded so violated, so shaken up, and Jackson dropped on the bed, wincing heavily at the jolt of pain, but not caring.
"She made a deal with DHS too- you for a partnership- and they were there to meet us," Caleb continued, and Jackson knew he was dancing around the point. The information was relevant, and sparked a whole new rage in Jackson's chest, but it was merely Caleb's way of building up to his true intention. Jackson still remained silent, the fingers of his free hand dancing along his jawline as he waited- he wasn't about to push the man.
"Jonathan's here- he's actually FPS, not one of Keefe's guys," Caleb pointed out, his voice rising as though he had just remembered the information. "He said Spencer had him pose as an informant, and that you can call him if you ever need anything. We're going to work out a cover story for why they were here and how they ended up dead, so don't worry about that."
Jesus Christ. Jackson briefly snapped his head to look his mother, his eyes flashing. He was sick of her meddling and lies, but her time would come.
"After that, Ben, Nikita, and I are going to Minnesota. Sasha's on her way there too. We'll have to drive, so could you give them a few days before you have Spencer plaster their faces all over the news?" It wasn't really a question, but Jackson nodded anyway. "And I'm back in."
Jackson got to his feet, unable to remain silent anymore. "Absolutely not," he snapped, walking right out of the room, the phone still to his ear. "Caleb, you're going to be fucking normal, alright? It's what you want."
"I'm not normal," Caleb replied, and Jackson heard the regret in his voice. "This is right for me, so, even if...please let me?" Jackson dropped his forehead into his palm, gripping his bangs tightly. Everything in him was screaming no, but he knew he had to at least Caleb make his case, and the man was in no mental shape to do so.
"We'll talk about it later," he managed, silently grunting in frustration. He had never intended to bring Caleb into it for good, for fuck's sake. His head snapped up, suddenly aware of the name that hadn't been mentioned.
"What about Jamie?" Tell me she's fine. Tell me she's going back to New York and you just haven't gotten to that part, yet.
"She's dead."
Jackson stared blankly at nothing, waiting for the words to somehow change in his ear, as though there was any way to misunderstand those two words. "Jack-" Jackson threw the phone hard against the wall, not even hearing the plastic pieces clatter to the ground as he dropped softly into an armchair, leaning forward and gripping the top of his head with both hands, pulling hard at his hair.
He inhaled shakily, his heart fighting overtime to reject the information. Jamie couldn't be dead. She was one of the most alive people he had ever known, a complete one-eighty from the homeless, sixteen-year-old junkie strung out on heroin that had already given up on the world she had been when they met. She was five years younger than the twins, and in the beginning, Jackson had protected her as fiercely as he would have an actual little sister.
Over those years, she had transformed from the angry brat of a kid to one of Jackson's best friends, the only person other than Rick who remained from the 'old world', and the closest thing to a confidant he had after Caleb and Ben were gone. And now both she and Rick were just dead, as though they had never existed. The only impact either of them left were on those handful of people left behind. He had never gotten to say goodbye to either of them, never had been able to express in words how much either of them meant to him. The last words he would ever say to the young woman would always be betrayal, despite his intentions. Hell, he hadn't even directly addressed her in that conversation.
He ignored the sensible voice in his head reminding him that death was always a possibility to people like him. He knew the deal, but he didn't have to like it. He didn't have to accept it, and at the moment, he just wasn't.
"Jackson?" He hadn't even realized he had been crying freely until he heard Lisa's voice, ripping him back into reality. He didn't respond or look up at her though- not because he was ashamed, but because looking at her might turn his tears to full-on, painful sobs.
Jackson flinched as he heard Lisa kneel in front of him, moving forward to sit between his thighs and squeezing his upper arms. He dropped his head down onto her shoulder, not finding the ability to care that he was causing either of them pain as he wrapped his arms tightly around her back. He couldn't let go of her- he needed that warm presence to soothe his sanity.
It wouldn't do any good to tell her about Jamie, to warn her of how people like him ended up. She knew, and she had already chosen to stay with him despite all of it. They had made their decision, but he still felt such a strong urge to do whatever he had to so she would go back to her family. He had to ignore that urge- it wasn't an option anymore, but there was still something he could do.
"When I'm director," he began, his voice tattered with pain, both physical and emotional, "will you be my analyst?" He felt Lisa tense under his touch, and knew that the poor woman was likely confused as hell with his opening. It probably wasn't at all what she had expected. "I need someone I trust," he continued, pleading with her through his tone, "and I can't put you in the field."
"I don't think I can," she finally replied, each word full of hesitation. "That's a lot of responsibility, isn't it?" While Jackson had been rambling to Lisa earlier that day, he had explained to her what the analyst's role was in the agency. He or she was essentially every administrative position rolled into one- secretary, accounting, inventory, and file and mail clerk. They kept track of the funds, the weapons and technology, the jobs, the intelligence, the contacts, and the associates themselves- their locations, aliases, and whatever else needed to be on record. The Radar O'Reilly of the agency. "What if I let you down?"
Jackson shook his head. "You won't. I'll help you," he insisted, shifting so he could kiss her, his hands on either side of her jaw, his fingers resting in her hair. "We all will. Please, Leese."
Lisa opened her eyes at Jackson's plea, and felt her heart lurch at the red-rimmed pools boring into her soul, silently begging her. Every time she thought she couldn't see him more vulnerable in her hands, he proved her wrong. She wanted to ask what had happened to make him so upset, but he was determined, and waiting for an answer.
She wanted to tell him everything he wanted to hear, but could she do that job? Could she effectively manage an entire branch of the agency, especially when she had no real experience in their line of work? Or was it more or less the same as managing the Lux Atlantic, keeping track of .45 ammo instead of tiny bottles of cheap hand lotion, paying hackers instead of caterers?
Lisa finally nodded, pressing another kiss to Jackson's waiting lips. Yes, she could do what he needed. She would have his back. And hell, she might actually be better at it than being out in the field.
She deepened the kiss, wishing that her agreement was all Jackson needed to soothe his misery, but she knew that like herself, Jackson's suffering would never be something anyone could magically heal. He might never fully heal, never be what society would deem normal, but it gave Lisa comfort knowing that she could still do her small part. She could bear it with him, just as he had- and would- for her.
They had both found someone to suffer with, someone to share their laughter, tears, and anger, someone to help them over, under, and through any obstacles that appeared in their path. A bond that would never be orthodox between two people who would never be complete on their own. Two parts of a damaged whole. Two people who at any point could decide that it wasn't worth it anymore, a future shrouded in the unknown, the opposite of security and at the same time, as safe as either of them would ever be.
Lisa would take it over perfection any day.