Trench:

I hate to bring any damn emotion into this, but I feel shitty for the little Nepali asleep behind me. Compulsively, I look at her still and blanketed form in the mirror, where the tan of the Ace bandage on her exposed arm contrasts the olive green cover sharply.

I feel shittier when I realize she's going to scar spectacularly from this ordeal.

She looks still as death, and the creamer is heavier than it should be in her coffee skin. She looks damn unhealthy, even without the knife marks and bruising and broken face. Dare I say that I'm actually worried about her? Nah, can't be. I just don't want Barney tearing me a new asshole if she gets any worse. I'm gonna have fucking hell to pay when he comes around, because he will certainly find that the bear trap of blame fits my ankle perfectly. On that note, I check the mirror yet again.

Her hair has fallen over her face except for her busted lips, which are parted with exhaustion. It's weird how a truly drained body sleeps differently than a simply tired one. If my imagination holds any water, Meera - erm, the Nepali - deserves this depth of sleep. The things on her outsides that bleed are only the tip of the iceberg of what Church did to her.

I swallow a growl,, tightening my hands on the wheel to white knuckle grips. What the hell? Soft ain't one of my ingredients. Suddenly this Nepali, a complete stranger to me, takes a swinging stroll in my arms and I'm getting misty-eyed? Fuck me...

My conscience, or what ate it, reminds me that she has a name. Meera.

"ETA of, what, fifty miles?" queries Booker absently. He is texting someone, presumably his Asian wife.

"Yeah, thereabouts," I confirm, looking at the miles/trip counter. We're speaking softly, but I doubt we could wake the boneless heap passed out behind us. I gesture at the phone. "You two pop out any lil' dumplings yet?"

Booker's response is a quasi-baleful glare and a genuine answer, "Not yet. But we started trying only a couple months ago." He continues to thumb away at the phone. His continuation is reluctant, like he is loathe to admit interest. "You found anyone worth sticking around for?"

I'm a little stunned by his question, and it causes me to give a real reply. "Nah, not yet. But she's out there."

He nods, as though approving my mindset. Thank God he's not a talker, because I would be busting my balls right now, if I were him. I sneer internally. She's out there? Really? I might as well start singing: "Sooomedaaay my prince will come..." I snort quietly. My ass...

"What are we going to do about her?" Booker asks.

I frown, because it's an extremely pertinent and vexing question. "I didn't sign up for nannying duty," I point out. "Neither did you, if I recall."

He twists in his seat to look at our little tagalong. "We can't just leave her to fend for herself. She can barely sit up, much less walk."

"Who says she'd have to walk?" I ask obstinantly. "We set her up on the couch with enough water and food, and she'll be fine until Barney skids in."

"Did he give you a timeline for that?"

I scowl. "No." For the millionth time, I look in the mirror at Meera. She's thin like a damn razor, all her blood is on her clothes and smeared on the seat, and she's just come off the shitty end of a CIA-level interrogation session. I sigh explosively. "Fine. I'll stay with her."

Booker considers my declaration for a moment, then nods decisively and bends to his cell's keyboard. "Then so will I. Last thing you need is Barney fucking you up because you were alone with his woman."

I scrub my face wearily. "He'll be doing that for other reasons, I'm sure."

Booker contemplates my statement. "Because you enabled Church to nab Meera?"

"Unintentionally, but yup." I salute the shorter man mockingly. "It's been nice knowing you, Booker."

"At least you're man enough not to run," he comments, and goes back to composing his text.

It was an insult at first glance, but there might have been a compliment in there, somewhere.

I scratch my stubble, wondering how Sullivan is faring in Casa de Kresh. Hopefully not too shabby. I'll get him out of there in a matter of days, though, when I show Kresh that I paid Barney and his brood. Although it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth to have millions in my account and have to (mostly) give it back, I know it has to be done. I have no real comraderie with the men of my crew: they do their jobs and come and go as their contracts allow. But if I leave Shawn there to rot and eventually die, I'll lose all credibility and respect among the brotherhood of mercs. Can't have that, can I?

With my mind occupied, I set the cruise a few miles under the speed limit and carry the fallen birdy back to her nest. Little does she know, she just got a vulture and a hawk to guard her recovery.

Barney:

We all wake up, decide on a preliminary plan, and Ceasar makes us reconstituted eggs on the camp stove. With some hilarity, we find that they freeze on our spoons like nasty protien-sicles. When Christmas jams one against my ear like the world's grossest wet willy, it starts a rumble that lasts the better part of ten minutes. The guys are practically crying with laughter, and Nadia is leaned against Gunnar with side clutched.

"Tap, snap, or nap, mate!" shouts Sullivan from the tent, where he and Yang watch and eat out of the UAV's sight.

"Alright, alright!" hollers Christmas, loosening his grapple hold on me. I let go at the same time, grinning like a new man. I feel like a new man: you're safe, and I'll be seeing you soon. We stand up, brush the snow off, and grasp hands in a mockery of a mutual congrats. It's a mockery because between Christmas and I, winning don't matter: it's playing the game.

"Anyone seen it, yet?" I ask, rolling my shoulder where my best friend locked my joint. Said friend snickers at me, earning an affectionate slug to the arm.

"Not yet. The clouds are too thick," replies Toll, still chuckling.

The premise of such a prolonged breakfast is to see if the UAV shows itself. But time is running thin on us: Nadia's next appointment is another day's walk away. We aren't too worried about making it in time if the weather plays nice like this morning, but if another storm were to blow in, travel plans would be shot. Not only would the guys and Nadia be stuck, so would Sullivan and I. I'd probably be tempted to rip my hair out, if that were to happen.

I squint at the mid-level ceiling of clouds, which are breaking apart towards the east and being chased out by the sun. "It's not worth waiting any longer: we'll lose our cloud cover. We'll have to assume that if we can't see it, it can't see us."

"Time to shake, rattle and roll," says Ceasar, rubbing his hands together.

In a few minutes, the shit is packed. All that is left is the tent, which hides our two escapees.

"Gunnar, show me this cave," I say. "Sullivan, be ready to move."

"Right, mate," replied the Aussie.

Nadia and her boytoy found a small, flattish cave last night while on watch. As Gunnar leads the way, going further and further down the trail, I find myself wondering just what they were doing this far from camp during their watch. I should bark at the Swede for straying so far with the client, much less during his watch. But the mountains feel rather empty, now that the CIA pawns are dead and stiff in the snowbank. Plus, he's never acted this way with a woman before, not in all my years of knowing him. I have to smile to myself, because I'm getting the impression I know something he doesn't. Is that how the guys looked at me and Meera? Did they know we were in love before we did?

"Here," says Gunnar, crouching to brush aside a mound of snow. I crouch next to him and shine a flashlight into the small opening,, which is just wide enough for two men to lay flat beside each other. It's rock on all sides, about a foot high, and goes back around nine feet. Tight squeeze for two burly guys, but beggars can't be choosers.

"It'll do nicely," I reply.

Suddenly, Gunnar sits back on his heels and looks at me funny, like he's got something on his mind.

I give an exagerrated groan. "I know that look. Tell me what's up, Gunnar."

"Barney, I got a suspicion," he starts, testing my waters.

"Yeah, Gun?"

He rubs the back of his unkempt head. "It's about Meera."

Now my curiousity and caution are piqued. "Yeah?" I reply, trying to stay neutral. My mind flies through every encounter he's had with Meera: at Tool's place, a few phone conversations to arrange book exchanges...

"I think that Meera has an eidetic memory."

I frown, from mouth to brow. "Isn't that like a photographic memory?" I ask, bemused.

"By definition, yes," replies the former Fullbright scholar, drawing a pattern in the powder at his boots. "But nothing crazy. Her memory is mostly written-word-specific. Think about it, Barney. Has she ever recited large amounts of information? Stuff she wouldn't know and you wouldn't expect her to have remembered from just reading?"

"Yeah..." I say, trying to follow. It sounds too far-fetched for my mind to wrap around. I love you and your curious brain, but a random little half-Nepali woman being a Brainy Smurf? It feels like picking a random fish out of the ocean, and that fish being a concert pianist. Then, I remembered the day I taught you to shoot handguns. You knew every gun, right down to the caliber, even though you'd never seen them before except for in my books. When I had asked you what you knew, your instant and unassuming reply of "Everything," had baffled me.

"I think that's why she hurts the way she does," continues Gunnar slowly.

I pin him with a Look that says 'watch it'. Your dirty laundry will not be aired by anyone, friend or not.

"I don't know exactly how you found her, or what her story is," says the Swede uncomfortably. "But I know a wounded soul when I see one. Whatever trauma she faced in Nepal... well, let's just say she may never completely get over it, not with her memory."

An ugly thought occurs to me. "Trauma makes it more memorable?"

"Like for anyone else, yeah."

I am thrown back to the night you broke, the night you let it all go and rose from your ashes. You told me that you closed your eyes after six rapists, and that you weren't sure how many more came after them. Although it sickens me to reopen that box of empathetic pain, I distinctly recall you saying that you couldn't remember. I had assumed you meant 'couldn't' in the sense of 'blocking it out', not in the literal sense of 'could not'.

I scrub my face, my thoughts a whirlpool. If this idea of Gunnar's holds any water, did Church completely derail any recovery you'd made in the two months you've been with me? What fresh hell has your gifted brain left you to relive?

"Does she read weird stuff, like manuals for appliances?" asks Gunnar, breaking my inflection.

I look at him with surprise. "How did you know that?"

A grin flits over his face. "Classic. Put yourself in her shoes. She's new to the modern world, fresh out of the jungle, with only basic English skills. But she can read English better than she can speak and understand it. She knows without consciously realizing that, by reading, she can absorb the culture extremely quickly."

I stare blindly at the cave before us, processing. "Practically the first thing she did," I recall. "Is pick up a book off my shelf."

"You remember that night at Tool's?" he presses on. "I suspected then, by the way she talked. She was practically quoting old army manuals, and T. S. Elliot, too. Let me tell you, that shit ain't easy." He stands, as do I. "I tested her by sending her one of my old US history textbooks. She was a fountain of info overnight."

"So she can remember practically anything she reads?" I confirm, slightly dumbfounded.

"Yeah. And a lot of what she sees, too, but not as strongly."

"I gotta tell you, Gun, this seems a little out there."

"It's not that rare, not really," he replies. "Quite a few people have it, in varying degrees."

I scowl at the trail as we start to walk. It brings a lot of things into clarity, answers a lot of questions. So your odd thirst for knowledge is all part of that incredible brain's workings? But if your super memory is stonger with trauma, what lasting effects will Church's tender mercies have on you?

But that would mean she remembers good things, too. Like our kiss.

Damn, I'm gonna have a job to do, when I get home.

We trudge back up to the overlook, where the team waits. I put aside my musings and new worries for now. "Guys, do your jobs well," I say, meeting every eye. "Watch each other's backs. Keep Nadia out of trouble."

"I think we need to keep 'trouble'..." mutters Yang, thumbing none-too-subtly at Gunnar. "...Out of her."

"Ceasar, I'm gonna need some soy sauce from you," comments Gunnar, smiling murderously at Yang while Nadia blushes deeply. "I feel like eggrolls tonight."

Yang's shit-eating grin is all I need for assurance, and I snort. They'll be fine. "I'll see you all in a few days. I have your schedule, so I know where you'll be." I make a round 'em up gesture at Sullivan, who steps out of the tent. "Let's make the switch."

He and I dash down the trail, sling our bags into the cave first, and slide in behind them like runners into home plate. With any luck to our names, the clouds are enough to cover our escape. We wait a few hours until the crew leads the UAV onward like a kite strung to Nadia, and then Sullivan and I head for the plane, which is about a hard day's journey.

We lay panting in the thin cave, and Sullivan chuckles. "Reminds me of the old-fashioned foxholes, eh?"

I grin back and nod. Turning onto my back is impossible, and the cold stone ceiling presses against my back slightly. If it weren't for my pride and exercise ethic, I'd say I needed to lose weight. The stone is freezing against what little skin is exposed by our thermal gear, but at least we are sheltered from the worst cold. There is rock above, below, and to my left. Sullivan is to my right. "Feels like the mountain's on top of us," I mutter, flexing up to test the weight. No budge, but that's expected.

"Don't say that," groans Sullivan. "I'm gonna get claustrophobic by the end of a few hours."

"I hope you pissed before you crawled in here."

"You, too," he shoots back with a smirk.

"Shoulda brought the newest Danielle Steel to pass the time."

"Keep your Steel: Mills and Boon are top-notch, where I come from."

And so it goes. I am able to put you, your super memory, and worry about your condition out of my mind for a while as I pass time with Sullivan. Before he yawns and starts to nap, I plumb him surreptitiously about a change in bosses. "My fucking contract ain't up for another five months," he gripes. "He's a shitty boss, but at least he pays well."

"He left you to rot in Kresh's mansion," I point out.

"Eh, he'd've let me go eventually, when Trench paid you."

Sullivan's a man of integreity. He seems favorable, but feels dutiful to Trench. I think I can change his mind.

So while the Aussie snores softly beside me and the sun slowly creeps the shadows across the mountains, I cast my mind forward, to the near future where I get to hold you in my arms again. I can smell your hair, see your smile-crinkled eyes, taste your lips.

When we are finally safe to gratefully bust out of our foxhole, Sullivan has to urge me to slow down, or I'll leave him in the dust. I do, but just barely. Thoughts of you swirl in my head and spur me on.

Meera:

I wake from my engrossing doze to the sensation of the SUV moving across tarmac, which makes a different noise than asphalt. Keeping my eyes closed, I let my aches and pains start their four-part harmony, dulled by the various bandages and a kindly dose of painkillers.

The amount of pain that the medicine does not touch is disconcerting. Wincing, I inhale sharply as my ribs hinder the breath. Even the cushion of the bench seat makes them sing. Suspending my weight on my wrists for the better part of twelve hours might have shifted the bones, because they click with sharp, bright pain when I crook my fingers. All the muscles used in the suspension and abused in the capture and interrogation by Church's hard, unrelenting fists suggest a lovely matrix of bruises will soon make me look like a world map. One eye has swollen partially shut (ironically, the same one as from Nepal), and my nose is throbbing in time with my heartbeat.

I groan softly to myself. Of all things, my damned nose had to get broken, again!

Taking stock of both my own body and the two occupying the front seats, I marinate in my last few moments of mental peace, because when I open my eyes, I will have to face the music. I will have to embark on yet another healing journey. But, somehow, this journey feels less intimidating than my last one. As I examine the feeling, I take significant comfort in its genuineness. I am hurt. I am shaken.

But I am not broken.

The surge of victory floods me, and I smile and open my eyes as we roll to a stop in the shadow of the hangar.

"Hey," murmurs Booker, reaching over and lightly jostling my knee. "We're home."

I sit up laboriously and rub my bleary eyes, but catch him looking at me strangely, as though he is surprised by my smile. Silly man: doesn't he understand the depth of my strength, born of harsher tribulations than this? Doesn't he know from my pore-wept aura that the previous scars do not hold a candle to the ones now? The past terrors and traumas dwarf the current ones, but, with only a little urging, I know I can coax the stitches on my soul cover the present wounds.

Memories can only fade, if my time with Barney has taught me anything.

Trench and Booker get out of the SUV, and by the time Booker has opened the door to access me, Trench has come around the vehicle. "I've got her," mutters the tall Austrian, reaching in.

This time, I don't need to avoid his touch on a soul-deep level. My pride, on the other hand, rears up. "I can walk, Trench Mauser." Perhaps using the fullest name I have for him will be emphasis enough.

In light of my current empowerment, I am surprised to find his will stronger than mine. He pins me with a longsuffering look, planting his hands on either side of the door. "Look," he begins with a sigh. "I know I'm not your first choice, here. But Barney is on his way, and until then, you're stuck with me and Booker."

I study his face, noting the lingering guilt and Booker shrugging behind him, and reluctantly nod. In an awkward shift and jumble of limbs, I am lifted out of the SUV bridal-style.

"Oh," I grunt, touching my head.

"What?" asks my tall courier.

"Dizzy," I whisper, my head spinning. Pity, my internal championing does not carry to my body. Moving around makes me notice the weakness of bloodloss pervading my heavy limbs and fuzzy brain.

Booker puts a hand to my temple, gauging my temperature. "Let's get her inside. She's hot as hell."

My brow furrows, exacerbating the spinning sensation. "Am I?" I query in surprise.

As we turn and start to walk into the hangar, we all notice the VW Beetle at the same time. I have closed my eyes to ward off the dizziness, but open them when I hear rapid bootfalls coming towards us. Oh, no. Not good.

"Who the fuck is that?" asks Booker quietly, flipping off his holstered pistol's safety.

Trench does not debate. "Who the fuck are you?" he calls warningly.

"Meera? Meera, is that you?" asks January, her voice rising in alarm. She breaks into a run. "Meera! What the fuck happened?"

I smile wearily, closing my eyes again. "Hey, Airy. What are you doing here?"

"Oh," figures out Trench. "It's the dike from the video!"

Booker grunts, clicking the safety back on. "So it is."

"What the hell...?" trails off Airy, blatantly ignoring the crude men, her focus on me. The fingers that lightly and worriedly cup my face are faintly shaking.

"You!" Airy addresses Trench in her warehouse-floor voice. Trench stiffens. "What happened? I was here not fourty-eight hours ago!"

"Ma'am," interjects Booker, cutting off the mounting hysteria. "I'll be happy to explain, but right now, Meera needs a bed and some serious care. Please stand down."

I can feel the clash of three type-A personalities like an electric charge in the air.

"Who says she can stay?" asks Trench, his hold on me tightening slightly.

"I stay where I want, thank you," replies Airy curtly.

"Hey," I say weakly. They do not hear me. I probably should tell them that there is blackness eating at my vision.

"We don't need you around, lady," says Trench irritably.

"Meera's my friend," snaps Airy. "I need to help."

"Hey," I say, mustering a bit more volume. The blackness encroaches more with each second.

"Ma'am," repeats Booker, a little more forcibly. "I'll fill you in, just - "

"And exactly who are you two?" growls Airy, warming to her protective instincts. I hear two safeties flick off, both Booker and January squaring off.

"HEY!" I shout. The outburst makes me even dizzier, but the effect is as desired.

They fall silent, but only reluctantly so.

"January," I pant slightly, still cradling my head. "I don't mind if you stay."

"Thank you," she replies, shooting a victorious gaze at Trench.

"I think I'm going to..." Oh. Yes, there it is. The blackness takes over and swallows me, and I pass out.