Author's Note: Hell yeah, buddy! Here's the action I promised. Happy belated Christmas!

Trench:

This sort of approach takes me back to a time when we were all grunts trying not to get our heads blown off, out in the sticks of Cambodia. Replace the jungles with pine and shedding hardwood, and the feeling is the same.

It feels like, even though Church has no way of knowing we're in his backyard, literally, that he's somehow expecting us. But that is attributing omniscience to a human, and I am loathe to make the mistake.

Barney must love Meera in a big way to risk pairing Booker and I together for this impromptu rescue. We never got along in the old unit, back when we old enough to swing a gun but not old enough to drink. Uncle Sam made us unit buddies, but not friends. If it weren't for our mutual respect for Barney, I doubt we'd be doing this. From what the hangar cameras show, she seems pretty enough. But I know nothing more about her than her relation to Barney, and even that is sketchy.

Still, any woman who penetrates a merc like Barney's heart has got to be special. I'm curious to meet her. Well, provided she's still alive when we find her.

Booker crouches in front of me, throwing up a closed fist to signal a stop. I crouch at his left shoulder, and peer at the screen of the GPS he pulls from his chest pocket.

"A hundred more yards," he whispers, sounding much like the breeze that quakes the leaves around us.

I tighten my grip on my gun, staring off into the bush, but find a quip. "There's an Uhara joke in there somewhere, Booker."

He stares at me blankly.

"Uhara? Star Trek broad who repeats the computer?"

I can tell he's debating if he can kill me quietly enough to not blow the mission. The answer to that is yes, but he still needs me to take up his slack.

We rise to a half-crouch, guns at half-mast, and set off silently. It pisses me off that he's quieter in his steps than me.

When I put my foot through a punji trap, only grabbing onto him keeps me from losing my balance and impaling myself. We both stare down at the boot-sized hole, and the sharpened sticks at the bottom, and then at my fistful of his shirt. There is no cry of alarm because we are pros with our balls out.

"Yeah," I say, trying to hide my embarrassment.

It gives me some satisfaction to see him do the same thing not four steps later, and because he's not in a position to grab me, I catch him under the arm and perform a rather fast judo hip toss, throwing him out of harm's way.

The smaller man is whipped through the air, lands on his back, and tries to process. Then he realizes that I'm drawing breath for a joke at his expense, and flips to his feet. "Thanks," he says, in a way that implies his pride suffers less if he acknowledges my aid.

"How much - ?"

Booker points over my shoulder, and peeking between the scruffy fall bush is a rustic cabin with an air of promise.

Both of us sink to the forest floor, and start to crawl for the last leg of our approach. We're out of the punji field, but hardly out of the woods, so to speak. The cabin is nestled snugly amongst the trees, with no yard or rear attachments like a porch. There is one window, but it is boarded up.

I reach up and run a hand over the boards and nailheads. "Freshly done." We're still whispering.

Booker nods, wheels spinning, and makes the tactical signs for, "Look around the corners for more windows or doors. You go left, I'll go right."

Still on my stomach with my gun in front of me, I wriggle to the side of the cabin and poke my head around the corner. Another window, also newly boarded, and a thick bundle of wires protruding from a corner of it. I worm closer, watching for someone to come around from the front of the house. The bundle of wires is warm to the touch, and if I had to guess from the grade...

Flipping over onto my back, I look at the roof and, sure enough, there's a satellite bolted to the eaves. And it does not say 'Dish Network' on the bowl.

"Found his communications array," I murmur upon returning to Booker.

"Must be how he bounced his signal when he talked to Barney." His eyes get a sharp glint to them, and I recognize the spark of a plan. Or insanity.

"That's the look that cost us an Abrams tank in Uganda," I say worriedly.

"Let's go T-mobile on him," says Booker.

The spark catches in my own eyes when I catch his drift, and I grin. Oh, this'll be fun.

Barney:

The tent, though sadly perforated due to the CIA's assualt, is hastily patched with ducttape and we pile in as the snow piles higher. I go along numbly, my mind thousands of miles away. The tent is cold and mostly dark, because we are conserving fuel. Nadia has lowered her nose enough to accept the arm Gunnar threw around her.

Outside, the wind howls through the craigs and over the cliffs, driving snow before it in a blizzard. God as my witness, I'll never come back to Russia again. I zone out tiredly. I have no more emotions in my current vein of depseration and worry to throw at this problem. Who would have known that being unable to fix something myself would mess with me so badly?

You are hardly a 'fix', though. That word implies you are broken, and you need new parts. You are a heal, or a restoration, because you require only enough love and care to put you back together.

If Booker and Trench get you out of this, I wonder how much 'fixing' you'll need.

I sigh from the deepest part of my body and shiver. I'm more tired than I ever have been in my life, including basic training, and my energy reserves are almost gone, multiplying the cold. It seem that in my wish for your survival, I am neglecting my own.

"If you don't believe she'll be fine, you'll jinx it," says Ceasar. I feel him crawl over, and something nudges my arm. I take it, and the wrapper around an energy bar crinkles.

I have to smile, because Ceasar always packs the good shit that has real chocolate. Ripping the wrapper off and sinking my teeth in, my stomach roars to life. Something warm and heavy is put around me, and I recognize the smell and texture of my unzipped sleeping bag. I draw the things closer around me, and gnaw away ravenously at the bar.

"You have to decide," continues Ceasar. "In your own mind, if she's dead or alive."

"Is that blisdom?" I ask, the joke evident.

"Black-wisdom, no. The product of too much Dr. Phil books, yes." I hear the smile in his voice.

He crawls back to his own sleeping bag, and I swig from my canteen. Orange Gatorade never tasted so good.

I see what he means, though. For my own sake, I need to either start writing you off, or planning for your recovery. Indecision and the unknown can ruin a man if unchecked. I refuse to let it ruin me, because you're going to need me. I only hope you're not so deconstructed as when we first met.

The dream-you with bloody thighs looms in my mind's eye, and my hand unconsciously tightens on the canteen, denting it. If Church has raped you, he's not just a dead man. He's a slow dead man, missing every extremity until he's nothing but a shrieking, cauterized torso. Then he may die. I should call Booker and amend the plan.

"I'ma go bleed the lizard," announces Christmas. We all groan as he opens the tent flap, momentarily silhouetted against the streaking snowfall, and quickly zips it up behind him. The draft sucks any warmth out of the tent.

"You'd think he's just use a bottle," gripes Toll.

"He's got the bladder of a seventy-year old man," Gunnar replies. "He'll freeze his dick off before he succeeds."

We all chuckle, even Nadia. I smile, and am surprised by a pang of guilt. I decide to air the emotion. "Guys," I begin. "I'm sorry for abandoning you. It may not have been literal, but it was mental."

"Barney," scoffs Toll. "Meera's our friend, too."

"We get it, man," agrees Gunnar.

The crunching of snow is heard outside. "Fellas!" hollers Christmas. "Guess who just showed up!"

The tent door unzips again, and three figures stumble inside in a flurry of snow and freezing wind.

"Yang!" Gunnar cries, rising to embrace his friend. "Fuck, you're cold!"

"And you are warm!"

"Ugh, don't hug me! Bad touch!" Someone lights a lantern, and it reveals our token Asian and his scruffy blonde tag-along. Said Asian is laughing at Gunnar's attempts to pry him off. "Good to see you, guys!" he says happily.

I rise to my feet and extend a hand. "Sullivan, right?"

"Yes," he replies, shaking my hand.

"Thank you for the assist."

"No worries, mate."

"Settle in, boys," says Christmas with enjoyment. "The band's back together!"

Meera:

Church takes a momentary break in his ministrations, and I am left to watch the floor zoom closer, farther, and in/out of focus. I can tell the drugs he gave me are wearing out.

The sound of my own blood occassionally dripping to the soaked floor is worrisome, in a very distant way.

The crackle of Church's water bottle threatens the silence. When he asks me no questions, he is disconcertingly voiceless. That's when the drug (I think) makes me hear other things. The hum of electronics in the other room sounds like a swarm of bees, and the illusion makes it so, right down to the stings I feel. Somehow, the sound of a woman screaming in the next room reminds me of myself in Nepal as they spread my legs. But there is no woman screaming. I am not in Nepal.

Around and around my brain chases its tail. The drug throws up illusions, and I have to force my tired mind to pick them apart with logic, or accept they are real. It is getting more difficult, because even though the drugs are on the downward slope, my mental capacity is diminishing with bloodloss and exhuastion. This is where Church wants me: beaten down, fatigued in every way, at the end of my rope.

I can feel his eyes boring into my bowed head as he plans his next attack on my body and psyche. I am not sure how much more of this I can take. A part of me wants to give in, because his questions are not so obviously dangerous. He's asked about previous missions of Barney's, some of which I know of from stories, and about Gunnar, Yang, Chirstmas, Toll, Tool, and Ceasar, but what little I could answer I refuse to utter. I know that if Church wants the answers, it is harmful to my friends and my love. I refuse to give him ammunition, because God only knows what he has planned for it.

Church made a mistake in telling me that Barney can save me. Putting aside that Barney would have to take lives to do so, the prospect gives me something to hold on to in the storm of pain and fear. If I hold on to hope that my love will come through for me, I can withstand.

From somewhere in another room, a small, repeated beep sounds. I find the strength to raise my head when I hear Church's boots move. "Hang around for me, Meera," he says. "I think we'll use that bed, next." He opens the door to my prison and leaves me in momentary peace.

Oh God, he's going to rape me!

My wounds are throbbing all over, but little does he know, I have felt worse. I shake my head as the walls flex like lungs in time with my own breath, and try to free my brain from the illusions that the drugs are causing. The walls stop flexing, but still shake with my rapid, traitorously pumping heartbeat.

I have told him nothing, but it is only by a hair's breadth. Of course, he's going to switch tactics. One tear slides down my cold cheek. Do I have a smell or mark on my skin that makes me a target for such violence?

Barney has only about an hour left to fufill Church's terms. The possibility of actually dying here, in this stupid, whitewashed, dark room with no one friendly grips my heart, injecting fresh fear. Of course, I would rather die than go through that again.

I am sick of it.

I clench my sore jaw and stare after Church's exit. It occurs to me that he is just another in a long line of men who seek to harm me. He is another villager kicking me away from the well, another Nepalese rebel pounding into me, another...

I'm so fucking sick of it.

I'm sick of being a helpless victim, prey for any shark who wants a bite. Barney, like now, will not always be there to protect me. That is why he taught me how to shoot, to use my fists.

I'm letting him down. Barney wants me to fight to love another day, the same way he does. So that when the dust settles and the blood dries, we can still be together.

I feel an unholy fire kindle in my gut. My feet may barely touch the ground thanks to the caribiner suspending me from the ceiling rafters, but my toes can touch the caribiner securing my feet to the bolt in the ground. Hanging my head again, this time not in purpose instead of exhuastion, I wait for Church to return.

Booker:

"You know what you're doing?" I ask Trench as he brings a multitool to bear on the bundle of wires.

"Hell, yeah, I do," replies the Austrian, peeling back the insulation. "Think it'll work?"

"It will. When he sees the fritz on his electronics, he'll come out to fix it."

The tall man stifles a yelp, sticking his finger into his mouth. "Bitch shocked me, but it's done."

We scurry back to our hidden position behinid the corner of the cabin, and wait, safeties off our guns and muscles taut with expectancy.

After two tense minutes, the front door creaks, swings, and a pair of heavy feet come down the steps. There is the clink of tools in a bag.

As one, Trench and I swing around the corner and open fire.

Somehow, Church already has out his gun, or he's an extremely quick draw. He pops off three shots, one of them whizzing by my ear, and backpedals rapidly, face furious and surprised.

I have to smile. We caught him off guard, just as planned.

Trench steps forward, matching Church's backpedal, and nearly pays for it. Church nails him in the gut, sends another shot zinging over my head, and turns the corner of the cabin, out of sight.

Trench groans and tears open his shirt, revealing the bullet embedded in his Kevlar vest. "Guess I'm the substitute for Barney the bullet magnet," he jokes.

"Can you stand?" I ask, my Uzi trained on where Church disappeared around the house.

He scoffs. "Bitch, please." He grunts to his feet, hefts his gun to his shoulder, and we follow Church hotly.

The front of the cabin is threatless, but that does nothing to make us relax. We carefully keep out of each other's line of fire, eyes roaming, minds singularly focused. The interior of the cabin is dark, and we probe the corners with adjusting eyes.

"Party time," I whisper. Trench flips on his tactical strobe and leads the way, the twitching light banishing the darkness.

The cabin in small, only four rooms that I can tell, and the first two we check are empty. Where is Church? He can't just vanish. I throw open the door on the room connected to the wires and satellite outside, and scan it in a second. Nobody there. He must be waiting for us in the last room, probably with a gun to Meera. It'll be a quick-shot scenario, but I'm positive I can get a headshot from ten feet away or less.

Trench takes the opposite side of the door to the last room, and with a nod, we step into our fate.

And pause, because neither of us was expecting what we found.

Meera is hanging from the ceiling, looking significantly more disheveled and bloody than the hangar cameras showed, a snarl on her face, and her legs wrapped tightly around a rapidly reddening Church's neck. The CIA operative's gun is against the wall, presumably kicked out of his hand.

I blink in surprise, but once I catch the young woman's eye, I slowly lower my Uzi, and Trench lowers his Kel-Tech.

"Meera, I presume?" I ask, watching Church's face turn puce.

"Yes," she grunts, tightening down again. Church twitches, his eyes bugging out. It is gratifying to see that he loses all his composure when his oxygen is cut off, same as any man.

"Do you..." Trench trails off momentarily, looking slightly stunned. "Want any help?"

"No, thank you," comes Meera's strained reply. The contrast of politeness and murderous intent is almost comical. She bounces slightly off her wheezing leghold, grabbing the chains of the cuffs around her wrists, and sighs as the pressure is taken off the bruises and cuts there. "And you are...?"

"Booker," I reply. I see no reason why I can't lean against the doorframe, as I am obviously not needed. The deescalation is sudden and stunning. "You may also know me through Barney as the Lone Wolf."

She smiles around her fiercely homicidal expression. "He's mentioned you a few times. And you, Trench. Nice to see you again."

Trench is disconcerted somewhat, having come to the party to find it started without him. He switches off the tactical strobe with some remorse. "Likewise," he replies. "Are you sure...?"

"Yep," Meera replies curtly, gritting her teeth and squeezing impossibly harder. Church's paltry claws at her legs falter, and his arms fall to his sides. The lithe Nepali holds him suspended for a few seconds longer, then, with a cry, twists to the side. Church's neck snaps audibly, and she lets him fall.

I'm impressed. Leave it to a woman to utilize such pure hatred so efficiently.

Panting, Meera lowers her feet again. "Can you help me down?"

The spell is broken: from gleeful revenge seeker to pained and slightly sheepish. I scoop under her bloody jeans with my shoulders, so that her weight is off the cuffs, and Trench stretches his tall frame up to pick the locks. He then helps her slide down my back, leaving a noticeable amount of wet blood.

As I turn around, she sways unsteadily, and I realize just how much of that blood is now on the floor, under Church's still corpse.

"Whoa, easy there," says Trench, steadying her.

I reach out and shoulder his Kel-Tech's sling. "You hike her out to the car. I'm going to torch the place."

"That's not - " Meera starts, but Trench lifts her light frame and walks out of the room with long strides. " - necessary."

First, I yank the harddrives of all the computers in the satellite room. I imagine it will come in handy at some point. Then I rip open the mattress in the other room with my knife, strike a road flare, and drop it on the stuffing. With a final, mocking salute to Church's dead body, I turn on my heel and go. The room is full of black smoke before I clear the hall. I find it ironic that I am reluctant to burn the place down, yet have no qualms with taking a person's life. Priorities can be fucked up.

At the door, I pause and toss a small package back inside: the C4 from the wall of Barney's hangar. By the time the fire has spread, I will be long gone and the package will take care of any and all evidence.

Whistling, I stride away, into the woods. A hundred yards in, a wave of heat and sound pushes demurely at my back. I keep right on trucking.