Meera:
Trench has to duck under the doorframe slightly to manage his height and me in his arms, and for the first time, I see my prison from the outside. A decrepit cabin? It felt...bigger, somehow, or more imposing from within. The trees and scrub hug it tightly.
"Where are we?" I ask suddenly, feeling masochistic as he shoulders through some of the heavier brush.
"The state park, about 200 miles from the hangar," he replies tersely, but he spares no glance down at me. Past the initial hedge, Trench's long legs eat up the ground of the sparser woodlands. My feet swing loosely with the strides, the blood on my pants drying and sticky. He pauses only once to stare at two foot-sized holes in the ground, and carefully gives them a wide berth.
This arrangement does not make me happy. I just went through a solid half-day of torture and fighting for my life, then killed a man with my bare hands - erm, legs. I just want to lay down in a dark place and sleep, away from people, sounds, and my own roiling emotions. Trench's chest is aggravating the fresh blade strokes trailing shallow and stinging down my arm, his firm cradle panging the fist bruises on my back. The fold of my body reopens the cut on my hipbone, making me hiss. The shrieking pains reverberate, distracting me from my emotions. In the religion of pain, it is a blessing to have one pain confuse another. I shift slightly, but his strong hold corrects the imbalance for the benefit of his quick walk.
"I can walk, you know," I feel the urge to repeat, my tired brain trying to get my point across. His proximity, though platonic, makes me uncomfortable. My psyche and wounds are still screaming from Church. Really, I do not want anyone to touch me. I have had enough contact for a long time.
No. I must not think about that, not yet, my overwhelmed and reeling self cannot take it. Nepal is behind me. Soon, this will be, too. Church is dead, I killed him myself. It is somewhat strange to me that I am not flooded with guilt, but I have a sinking feeling it will come. The sound of his neck snapping will come back to haunt me, but first, I must first sate and vacate the current demons before inviting more.
"Are you joking?" he asks me dismissively. "You're pale as a ghost."
"Truly," I say, losing my nerve as I bat a stray pine broom out of my face, as he is focused more on fast pacing than me. Why is Trench so eager to make tracks?
I cannot stand it: my tortured mind and body rebel at this clinical and emotionless touch. Distantly, it makes me remember Barney's first trek with me in his arms. He'd measured his pace because of my then-injuries, scarcely stopped looking at me in concern. Not so with this courier. I ache for my love. "Would you just put me - !" I splutter with tired indignation and a little hysteria.
We clear the woods as I speak, approaching a black SUV with lots of 'tricks', and the tall man unceremoniously drops my legs. I stifle a gasp as the impact of my feet makes pain shoot through my myriad hurts. He seems antsy, urgent, like he's expecting trouble. The ground shakes under us, like a far-away earthquake, and the sound of an explosion reaches us a moment after. Our gazes go back to the forest.
"Sounds like Booker's joining us soon," comments Trench, relaxing slightly. He reaches around me, again invading my personal space, and opens the rear passenger door to the SUV. "Get in."
I glare at him. 'Pissed', I believe, is the term Barney taught me for this emotion rising in me, and exhuastion, and overwhelmed. Swallowing any sharp retort, I climb stiffly into SUV. Some of my wounds are leaking, making my eyes water. "I'll stain the - "
"In," he urges, looking back towards the woods.
I fold my legs in as quickly as the new bloodflow will allow, and he slams the door shut.
"Why the rush?" I ask angrily as he slides into the passenger seat in front of me.
"Do you want to be here when the rangers show up?" he asks, matching my tone.
I glare at him again, and let my breath frost the window. What is his problem? Is this his 'work mode'? Are all mercenaries this stone cold when on a job?
Booker lopes out of the woods, slowing to a walk as he nears the SUV. He opens the driver's door. "You're driving," he tells Trench. The taller man scoots over the center console and into the seat without argument, twisting the key in the ignition as Booker opens the rear driver's side door. With a startling athletic grace, he slides onto the bench seat with me.
He meets my eyes, and the effect is like a blissful cold waterfall, dousing my flaming, out-of-control emotions and bolstering my flagging composure. "Here," he murmurs, fishing under the seat. Pulling out a olive green plastic box, he sets it between us. When he unslings his gun from his shoulders, I have to fight back my tears, as he strongly reminds me of Barney performing the same motion.
He opens the box as Trench bounces us through some thin meadows, towards the swath of a road cut through the park's edge. "What hurts worst?" Booker asks, voice soothing in its cool, neutral manner. Again, the effect is calming, deadening my half-crazed feelings. From what little Barney has told me of the man, and my own frayed intuition, I find the man's demeanor indicative of a quiet, steadfast soul.
Just what I need, right now, in lieu of Barney's embrace.
"Here," I find my voice lowering to tie with his. I cup my hipbone, wincing, but do not lift my shirt. I feel like a piece of me would break off if I have to take off any clothes, show any extra skin: my harshest memories are nipping at the surface of my mind. In fact, I would give anything for a blanket to completely tent myself inside of, shut out the world and marinate in dark, quiet, aloneness.
Booker's eyes flicker to my hand and he seems to understand.
Trench is constantly looking into the rearview mirror, checking for pursuit, and perhaps eyeing the two of us. We must be surprisingly quiet, but what does he expect from an anemic, exhuasted, and pained rescuee and a man nicknamed the Lone Wolf? As we jostle onto a paved road and gain traction under Trench's heavy boot, Booker tacitly rips open and hands me a gauze pad, and I press it to the oozing wound under my shirt. The amount of blood on my clothes is faintly impressive: huge burgundy splotches and drops all over them, especially the sides of my shirt, where my lacerated arms brushed. It is the green shirt with the bird on the hip that made Barney's eyes go wide when he saw me in it. I tear up again, senselessly, when I realize it is ruined.
"You've lost a lot of blood," remarks Booker. Moving slowly, giving me time to either steel myself or shift away, he reaches out to check my wrist pulse. I try not to shudder under the touch of two fingers. "You could use some IV fluids. You know how those work?"
"Needle," I whisper. I instinctively cover the crooks of my arms, eyeing him warily. "No," I say, a little louder.
"You might pass out," he cautions, without pushiness.
"No," I repeat in a whisper. Lightheadedness is a small price to pay for keeping invasions out of my body, however small. I almost was raped again, back there.
He nods. Dipping into the box again, he pulls out a water bottle and cracks the lid for me, so I do not have to move my occupied hand. I suck down most of the bottle before coming up for breath, astonished at my thirst. "Thank you," I gasp, regaining my voice.
His eyes peg me again, and a specter of a smile tips his lips.
"We should call Barney," Trench says, like a stone dropping into my puddle of calm.
"Good idea," says Booker, not taking his eyes off me.
Barney. My love must be worried sick.
Trench takes a hand off the wheel to fish around in a duffle bag in the footwell, withdrawing a chunky-looking phone. Dividing his vision, he dials a long number, and the phone starts to ring noisily.
When I look back at Booker to see him scrutinizing me, my gaze skitters away, hiding my shakiness. Without a word, he removes a bottle of wound disinfectant, more gauze, and some bandage wrap. "May I see your arm?" he asks neutrally, like I am completely allowed to refuse.
I revel in the choice, but my ebbing adrenaline is starting to seriously make the pain of my cuts surge back, burning all over, seeping messily with every movement. I hold out my unused arm for his inspection. Bandages would hold the throbbing edges of my skin together. The phone to Trench's ear continues to ring, bounding over the planet to connect me and Barney.
My silent nurse carefully cleans the cuts with sure and gentle strokes of cold-soaked gauze. The burn of the disinfectant makes me clench my hand, and hold my breath to keep from hissing in pain.
This feels intimate, and I am not sure if I can stand it. I had what felt like soul-to-dirty-soul contact with Church during my captivity. Physical touch is only a step below.
I feel the strength that enabled me to kill Church well up again. If I am strong enough to kill my captor and torturer, then I am strong enough to do this. Forcibly, I inhale, exhale, and untense my fisted hand. Booker means me no harm, and only good (there is a distinction, I know). Trench, too, in his brusque way.
Booker gingerly rotates my hand to expose my mangled wrist, and when he meets less resistance than before, I see that same ghost of a smile.
Suddenly, the phone beeps loudly, and the speaker snaps. "This is Ross." The speaker volume is enough for me to hear, even though Trench holds the phone.
"Church is dead," says the Austrian. "We got Meera. She's safe."
"Barney?" I say, my soul brightening immeasurably at the sound of his voice. "Barney!" Four days of not hearing him might as well have been four days of deafness.
"Meera?" queries the voice of my love. "Trench, Booker! You found her!"
"That we did," replies Trench proudly.
I wriggle up between the seats, forgetting my wounds, and beg the tall man, "Please let me talk to him." I pump my open hand in front of him, forcing him to move his head to continue to safely drive.
"Let me talk to her!" demands Barney.
"Fine, fuck, here," says Trench, slapping the phone in my hand.
"Barney!" I cry delightedly. Tears well up yet again, and I let them spill over.
"Meera! Baby, are you alright? Are you hurt?" His tone is urgent and concerned.
"Nothing big," I say. It is a lie, because Booker taps me on the back and indicates the drops of blood on the console under my hip. The gauze had fallen away in my haste. "Nothing that will not heal."
"Oh, baby, my Meera," his voice breaks slightly, and I stiffle a sob. "I'm coming home as soon as I can. I swear, I'll come."
"It is alright, Barney," I say, sniffling. "I am safe."
"I nee- ... see ...-ou."
"Barney? Can you hear me?"
"Mee-... -ear me?"
"Barney?" I ask, more than slightly panicky.
Booker plucks the phone from my grasp, tapping a few buttons, reading the screen. "The connection was lost. There must be some weather on his end."
I feel unforgivably cheated, like an addict watching his drug be flushed. Miserably, I dash the tears from my eyes, then take back the phone and cradle it sadly. Booker clears his throat, pointedly holding out a fresh gauze pad. I press it to my reopened wound dejectedly, and when he extends an Ace bandage, I let the phone drop to the seat. He wraps my arm, politely not meeting my teary eyes.
"The storm will clear up soon," says Trench suddenly, glancing into the rearview mirror. "And your loverboy will call back."
He is trying to be nice. I detect a hint of underlying guilt in his words, and decide to take pity on him. "Thank you."
The miles pass sullenly, slowly. Booker finishes wrapping both my arms from shoulder to wrist, putting an adhesive bandage on my neck, applying a familiar cast over my nose, and butterfly stitches over my temple, but cannot convince me to expose my hip to his aid. He does not test my resolve in the matter, and I credit him with more intuition than previously fathomed. He trades my empty water bottle for a new one, hands me a coarse blanket exactly like the ones at home, and vacates the bench seat in favor of the passenger seat.
"You can sleep, if you like," says Trench gruffly. I can tell he is trying not to sound soft.
My lids have been heavy for hours, if I were honest. As I lay across the seat, curling up with a hand on my hurting hip, and am nearly asleep when a thought floats up from my tired subconscious. Trench's guilt, which is making him act so stiffly towards me, must be because he feels bad for unintentionally causing my capture. If he had not thrust this job upon Barney and the guys, Church would not have been able to kidnap me.
"Trench?" I say tentatively.
I see his spine straighten. "Yeah?"
"It is not your fault I got taken."
His hard but seeking eyes flicker to the mirror.
"Church has been watching Barney for a long time. He would have gotten me eventually, to get to Barney because of his refusal to kill the Kreshes."
Booker twists in his seat. "So Barney told you?"
I nod, already drifting off. "I do not blame you, Trench."
The mercenary's gaze loses a fraction of its roughness. He nods almost imperceptibly, and goes back to driving.
I fall into a heavy sleep, the waters of my slumber without waves, but occasionally roiling faintly as though disturbed by something deep down.
Barney:
"Motherfuck!" I shout frustratedly. "Work, you sonofabitch!" I punch the buttons on the phone for the fifth time, the wind whips snow around me in a gust that obscures the mountain view of my outcropping perch, as well as my hand.
I suck in a freezing breath until it passes, but there is more where that came from: thick, dark clouds caress the peaks all around. Stubbornly, I continue to dial and redial, to no avail.
"There eez bad weather rolling down the moutain," says Nadia timidly, minding my mood. She has come up behind me, presumably the unlucky short straw of the group, and now lays a gloved hand on my shoulder. "You must come into the tent, before you cannot see it."
I shrug off her hand, growling because of the lack of signal. I know she's right though, so I turn heel and stomp down the outcrop. I'm lucky the blizzard broke when it did, or I would never have gotten you, Trench, and Booker's call.
You. You're safe, and it's a Panzer tank off my chest. I feel like I can breathe for the first time in twelve hours. I know you're hurt, I could hear it in your voice, and it addles me that I don't know how bad, that I can't tend your wounds myself. What did Church do to you for twelve hours? Can you walk? Did that motherfucker rape you? A shocking image of your bloody legs and you screaming my name surfaces, and I shove it back. I would know by your voice if that had happened, I would. The very thought makes me want to eviscerate him with my bare hands, but according to Trench, Church is beyond any revenge I can exact.
"You said you would come to her," says Nadia, puffing along at a jog behind me. "How?"
"I've got a plan," I reply. "It was originally the fly-Stateside-to-kill-Church plan, but I tweaked and relabled it." I whip back the tent door, and am met by six apprehensive faces.
"Well?" prompts Christmas.
"Is the sheila alright?" queries Sullivan, sounding more worried than I gave him credit for. He's meshed with us well in a matter of hours, and when this is all over, I'm considering poaching him from Trench's team. That would make Mauser shit bricks.
"Meera's alive, she's safe," I reply with evident relief, and everyone in the tent sighs.
"Thank the Lord," mutters Ceasar.
"Is she hurt?" asks Gunnar.
"Is Church dead?" follows up Yang.
"Whoa, whoa," I chuckle, cracking my first smile in a long time. "She's hurt, yeah, but she didn't say how bad. Church is dead."
"Good riddance, the bastard," appoves Toll.
There is several minutes of questioning, answering, and speculation upon what little my phone call gleaned for information. The snowstorm descends, howling and rustling the drafty tent like a wild animal, but as happy as I am, I feel like I could walk naked through it and whistle Dixie.
"I said I would go see her," I reveal, guaging the reactions.
"If Kresh sees one of us leave, he will check on Shawn and me, and discover our escape before we are ready to reveal it," points out Yang. "You cannot be seen leaving."
"I hate to be the wet blanket," adds Christmas begrudgingly. "But there is still the matter of the UAV watching our every move."
This only dampens my celebration a little, like spitting on a fire. "Actually, I have a plan for that."
The Englishman looks surprised. "You do?"
"I've had twelve hours of thinking time. But first, does anyone mind me tapping out for a few days?"
Gunnar snorts. "Hell, no. You earned it, with this mess."
"What the Swede said," agrees Yang, earning a jostle from his tall friend.
"Let's foster that cookie swap!" crows Ceasar, waggling his eyebrows.
"Enlighten us, fearless leader," jokes Toll.
"Do you boys still wanna make your money?" I ask.
"I do," says Yang immediately. "I have mouths to feed."
"You and the mouse in your pocket," snarks Toll.
"And Nadia, you still wanna journalize?" I continue.
"Yes," she replies, straightening, her eyes hardening. "I will deal with my father when I am through. I know I can sell the stories I find here, and I will put the money to good use. After this job, I will move where he cannot find me and start a new life, away from his dirty business."
Gunnar nods, looking at her with some pride. So that's what they've been talking about in their corner of the tent. Leave it to an ex-addict to encourage a captive to free herself.
"So the job is still on," I continue. "Kresh no longer matters. Trench will pay us - "
"Damn right," interjects Sullivan.
"Counting Yang, and subtracting me and Sullivan, we have enough bodies to trick Kresh's eye in the sky. See what I'm saying?'
"Yeah, I'm picking up what you're laying down," says Ceasar. The big black man stretches out on his sleeping bag. "Looks like it worked out good."
"I'm just glad the worst is over," says Toll, wriggling into his bag.
"I'll keep first watch," volunteers Gunnar, unfolding his lanky legs.
"May I assist?" queries Nadia softly. The Swede looks surprised, but delightedly smiles and opens the tent door with a bow.
"I might be sick," groans Christmas, huffing into his hands to warm them.
"There really is someone for everyone, am I right?" says Sullivan, unrolling his bag.
I recline on my own bag and allow myself another smile. "Yeah." Reaching over to dim the lantern, I say, "Time for bed, brats."
"But, dad!" squeaks Ceasar, contorting his deep voice hilariously.
Someone for everyone. My someone is on the other side of the planet now, hurting, shaken, and missing me, but safe. And that is more than I could ever have hoped for.
I fall asleep embarassingly fast, almost too quick to realize, and I dream about you again. This time, you sit on the outcropping I occupied for the twelve worst hours of my life, your knobby, brown, and nude back to me as I climb the hill. The curve of your spine to your hip and the round of your perfect ass solidly steals my attention.
You pat the snow next to you, and I sit down beside you. "I thought I'd lose you forever," I say hoarsely.
"I am here," you assure softly, reaching up to cup my cheek coldly. God, I can feel your fingers. Your dream touch is real enough to make my heart skip a beat.
I move my head to kiss your palm, and look into your dark, coffee eyes. "I'll see you soon."
You smile beautifically, and I have my reply.