Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

7. Tracked

Doberman leaned on the wall, lifting a dumbbell while listening to Froggie and Stallone presenting their conclusions. A hand covering the north and west of the country ruled those lands out as being too far off.

"New York would be his first option," Froggie continued explaining, "he has two townhouses in Manhattan, one of which has been discovered by the X-Men, but he's probably got at least another hide-away in the vicinity. It's also where he has the majority of his contacts and suppliers. But, like I've said, he can't possibly be trying to get to New York because it's just too far to drive."

"He could take a plane," added Stallone, "but it isn't likely. First, he doesn't know if we have airstrips and airports covered, not to mention that, being on a short fuse because of the drugs in his system, he'll lose it and start killing with the least of triggers. It's pretty guaranteed that, right now, if he's not knocking at our door, then he's trying to lay low until he's recovered."

Doc agreed. The drugs wouldn't have a strong effect, but would remain a background nuisance that would keep him off-balance. Murdock nodded and glanced at the Colonel, who seemed as edgy as the mutant probably was. Froggie noticed the glance and tried to hide his own worry.

"As I was saying, his best contacts are in the New York area. However, a few have subsidiaries in other cities. Los Angeles and Las Vegas, for instance. We have no word of him owning a house in Las Vegas, but he does own a townhouse in the centre of Los Angeles, as well as a mansion in the outskirts."

The Colonel narrowed his eyes, focused on the pin marking Las Vegas. "He could get there quickly enough."

"It amounts to 730 miles. He could make it in less than 12 hours," Froggie clarified.

Stallone shook his head. "He's an animal, Sir; especially under those drugs. He'll want a safe lair to hide and lick his wounds."

"Los Angeles is 810 miles away; he could be there in 13 to 14 hours. But," Froggie moved over to the east side of the map. "He's got a closer hideout in Dallas, which is 770 miles away; 12 to 13 hours driving. There are no subsidiaries of his favourite suppliers there, but we have information on three contacts."

Stallone looked at some printed pages. "Larry Johnson is a small time gun dealer, and an explosive expert. Jerry Hernández smuggles people, guns and drugs across the Mexico frontier. El Guano is another gun dealer, but he mostly exports. El Guano and Hernández have access to heavier weaponry and in larger scale, but Johnson has a wide range of explosives, despite having a modest number of available guns at any one time."

"If he's planning on coming back here," the Colonel said somberly, "he'll want explosives. If he wants to wait for us or hunt us down, he'll want the heavier weaponery."

There was a moment of heavy silence as the Colonel decided on the best course of action. Froggie made eye contact with every man, one by one. The Babysitter had always been the weakest of the group, but keeping the numbers and watching over any locked up target didn't ask for a particularly strong element. Besides, he was a good man. Even if they hadn't liked the addition to the group, at first, allotting him the code name of Babysitter, Greg had earned their respect and friendship. They all wanted to bring the mutant down; the money would be more than welcome. But it was the woman they longed for. She would be paying for the torture and the death of Greg Wilson.

"What's the fastest way to reach Las Vegas, Los Angeles and Dallas?"

Froggie snapped into action. "Uh... Las Vegas... that would be northwards on the I-25, then westwards on the I-40, and finally northwards again on the US-93. Los Angeles would be southwards on the I-25, then westwards on the NM-26, I-10 and I-210. He could also turn northwards at Phoenix if he was bound to LA but changed his mind and decided to go to Vegas, instead. Now Dallas... northwards on the I-25, then eastwards on the I-10 and the I-20."

"They left the cave around 3 am; the old couple was killed between 4 and 5. That would give them..." He looked at the watch. "8 to 9 hours of a head start. Where would they be at this time, in any of those three scenarios?"

Froggie took six red pins. On the I-20 heading to Dallas, he stuck two, determining the fugitives would be somewhere between Westbrook and Abilene, both in Texas. Two more pins went on the I-40, between Williams, Arizona, and the Mojave Desert. The last two pins were settled on the I-10, between Tonopah and Quartzsite, both in Arizona. The Colonel looked at them carefully. "They've probably ditched the Oldsmobile, by now, and got something new."

Blue eyes looking intently at the map, he finally made up his mind. "Froggie, find out if any cars were reported stolen in a timeframe coincident with Creed's passage in any of those areas. See if there are any reports of murders, missing people or abandoned cars by the highway or in small local towns. Murdock, get the plane ready to fly. I'm going to access satellite radars and search the highway path to Dallas. Dobberman, Stallone, you're going to sit with me and do the path towards Vegas and LA. See if you can spot the Oldsmobile, either abandoned by the road or still driving. Doc, how is our ammo?"

"Packed and ready to go, Sir."

"Why are ya a low-self-esteem moron, girl? Or are ya just tryin' ta piss me off?"

Irbis swallowed and her voice waivered as she once more explained that "many people drive very much better dan I."

"Duh! Just 'cause there's better drivers around, it don't follow ya're a bad driver." Creed glared a bit harder at her mortified slump. "But if ya are gonna play that hand every time I says ya're good at somethin', I advise ya ta think twice. If I says I think ya're good at it, then ya are. End o'discussion. Got it?!"

Irbis nodded a well-behaved, though unenthusiastic, affirmative. "Good! Now who taught ya ta drive already?"

"My uh... my padrinho, I don't know de word in English..."

"Padrino?" Creed asked in Spanish, quickly adding: "that'll be godfather in English. Yer godfather taught ya how ta drive, huh?"

"Yes, my godfader. He had dis friends dat had a private property and organised rallies, but only used deir cars, not real rally cars. My godfader asked a mechanic he know to help him and he adapted an old car dat he had to be a race car, and den he teached me how to drive and sometimes I participated in de rallies."

Creed lifted his eyebrows. "No wonder ya held yerself drivin' 'gainst those punks," he snorted in a low voice.

"I'm not very good." She shrugged, but then quickly added, noticing the mutant's glare. "Is because I never win any rally nem nada que o valha. Para dizer a verdade, I never went to many rallies, because my moder didn't like. And den, when I had sixty years, I started working during summer in a... a ganadaria? Is de same in Spanish..."

Creed growled, wondering when she would ever learn to speak proper English. Right now, the way she claimed 'ganadaria' was a word in Spanish, when the real Spanish word was 'ganadería', proved that even if he tried to speak to her in Spanish, it still wouldn't fix the problem of her deficient speech.

"Cattle farm," he spit out, predicting he would have to continue playing the dictionary for yet some time. "And it's sixTEEN, not sixty."

"Certo. Sixteeeen," she corrected herself. "De qualquer modo, I started work in de cattle farm where my grandfader António works, so I don't go to many rallies after dat. Em vez disso, I started to go to uh... touradas?"

"Bull-fighting," he snarled.

"Pois. I started to go more to bull-fightings. De ganada... quer dizer, a cattle farm had bulls dat went to bull-fightings, but o more important is dat dey had horses in de bull-fightings too. Dey trained de horses. My grandfader António is de best trainer off horses in anywhere, and I help to take care off de horses. Den I start to give some equitation classes... uh... classes off how to ride a horse."

"I know what equitation is, moron. Ya think I'm ignorant or somethin'?"

Irbis bent a leg under her and sat almost sideways on her seat, looking at him. "I'm sorry. Sometimes I don't know de word in English, so I invent a little and make a Portuguese word look English in de end. Sabe, when I talk wid oder people, dey don't correct me like you. So I learn very much English when I talk wid you."

He glanced at her, offering a surprisingly soft warning. "Ya might wanna get yerself another teacher, girl. I ain't got no patience t'put up with ya."

"Sim, I know," she shrugged and looked down at the gear stick. "But I don't want to make friends wid someone dat can give you problems in some way. I promised."

Creed's mood improved significantly with her words, and even his sleepiness, that'd been always at the edge of his vision, seemed to have been further dispelled. He could both smell and hear the truthfulness of her quiet assertion and he was pleased he'd given the girl a second chance, even if she was a moron and couldn't help getting herself into trouble.

"Ya're inta bull-fightin' then, huh?" Irbis shrugged a shy "a little", but the smile that spread through her face hinted at a different answer. Creed decided to find out what the real answer was. "Ever went out facin' a bull with a mantilla?"

"No." She bit her lower lip, while her gaze was re-living some far off memory. "Not real, adult bulls. Only de young ones, during de tentas. Tentas is…"

"When ya test the animals individually ta check fer their bravery and capacity fer bull-fightin' shows, I know." Irbis looked at him, enthusiastic interest shining in her eyes. "I happen ta like bull-fights. Don't miss one when I goes ta Spain or Mexico durin' the season."

The ecstasy filling her eyes rewarded his efforts. She was a fan, maybe even a die-hard fan of the sport, that much was certain.

"And Portugal? Did you saw bull-fight in Portugal?" A patriotic fan, too. "My favourite are de forcados. When I was small, my grandfader António took me to see boys learn to be forcados and dey had to face young bulls, and den catch de head of de animal against de body when de bulls go running against dem, and den catch de bull by de tail and group around the main guy, dat catches de head off de bull, to force de animal to stop. I know it doesn't look very hard when de bull is young, but is not easy. And sometimes dey practice wid more old animals and… and I even do it some times, too! And is... is..."

She sighed, enthralled with the memory; the emotions burning strong across her features. "You ever tried to face a bull like a forcado, Mister Creed? I have certain dat you will like. Is de best sing... de best thing in de entire world!"

She gazed dreamily through him, and Creed didn't bother answering. He faced death every other day; what could facing a bull offer as a challenge? Now facing a pissed off brown bear… He shook his head. The grogginess he'd been trying to avoid had returned to the edge of his vision, but he wasn't that much annoyed anymore. He knew that sooner or later he'd have to have another nap, but for now he just stated he'd seen some forcados, or suicide squads, at work in California's Portuguese community.

Irbis snapped back to the present and looked at him in awe. She apparently knew that Portuguese bullfighters sometimes went to shows in Mexico and California, but she hadn't been aware of the Portuguese roots of some of those events, nor of different traditions in Californian bull-fighting. It gave Creed a chance to set off on a lengthy explanation, even taking the time to make sure the girl understood the words he was using and could use them again in everyday speech. Talking was a better way of ignoring his fatigue than just sitting there, driving, while Irbis babbled on and on, because he had to actually force his mind to work, keeping it from slowly drifting off. As he explained how the bullfights were organised for religious feasts, he allowed her to quip in to describe those holidays, forcing himself to pick up the information she was giving instead of brushing it off.

"The main difference in California," he explained to her, expecting a die-hard fan's disgust with the escape to the tradition, "is that they put a Velcro coat on the bull, so banderillas are stuck 'stead o' driven inta the animal's back."

"A sério? Dat's interesting." And she unbuckled the seat belt so as to seat with her back to the door and look at him directly. "And you know if dey have uh… esperas?"

"Runnin' o' the bulls," he again translated. "Yeah, but it ain't that big."

Irbis smiled brilliantly. "I always go. My moder tried to prohibit me, but I always go. And I have de… uh… cicatrizes?"

"Scars?" Creed wasn't sure he had heard right. "Skin marks from wounds?"

"Yes. I have de scars to prove it." She laughed, carefree, and Creed suddenly understood why she couldn't care less over him beating her: she enjoyed getting beatings from bulls.

"Masochist," he grumbled under his breath.

Stallone opened the tailgate of the tuned car and was greeted by the decaying stench. With a whispered curse, he grabbed the bodies and tried pulling them out of the boot. They were carefully packed, making sure that every little nook in the small boot was put to good use, so that arms and legs were broken and entangled, making the task harder than expected.

"Doberman, gimme a hand, here."

The tall black man approached silently and quickly had the three bodies sprawled on the dirt.

"Thanks. Start lookin' fer some id's, will ya?"

The mute thug grabbed two bodies and threw them onto the car's bonnet, before starting going through the pockets. Doc was right behind him, studying the bodies and mumbling markers about how long they'd been dead.

Stallone didn't like messy jobs. He was a sniper by nature – attacking with utmost accuracy from afar. He did his reconaissances carefully, planning as many courses of action and outcomes as possible, and then hitting them fast and hard. He was particularly at home in urban environments and considered himself a guerrilla mastermind; which meant he was behind the slaughter, not cleaning it or going through its midst. Rummaging through a woman's dark clothes, he couldn't help feeling nauseated. He hated having to deal with dead bodies. Killing them was great; getting up and close with their bloody or maggot infested remaints was sickening. Which was why he had voted in favour of accepting the job on Sabretooth, in the first place. The only thing he hadn't liked was not killing the dangerous mutant while they had the chance. Like the Colonel kept saying, the mutant was to be considered deadly until he was dead, and, if they asked him, until he was shredded to little pieces and burnt to ashes. But Torini had been adamant, and the fact most mercs didn't feel up to par to such task was what had made the pay so alluring.

Damn the money! They should have killed him no matter what. The only thing left to do now, money or no money, was to track him down again and put him to sleep. Definitely. Only instead of having eight weeks to hunt him down and choose the perfect place to attack, they now had about eight hours.

Dobberman signalled he hadn't found any documents on the bodies. Froggie hadn't either, and if they couldn't identify the victims, they couldn't tell what car the runaways were driving. The only thing they had to go on was one tuned car whose license plate had been taken. But it didn't really matter. If the mutant had had enough wits to change wheels as soon as possible, he'd have the wits to do it again.

"We got nothing here, Colonel," he briefly stated as both men re-entered the plane.

"We got more than enough, Stallone." The Colonel didn't even look away from the computer screen where Froggie was accumulating small windows of information. "He's heading to Dallas, no matter what car he's on. Moreover, he can cut off some travelling time if he pushes the tuned car he's got. We're 320 miles from Dallas, which can be made in about five hours, respecting the 80 miles per hour speed limit. Let's say he's making an average of 90 to 100 miles per hour... He could get to Dallas in 3 hours, 3 hours and half from here."

"Well, Colonel," and Doc entered the plane too. "I'd say those three were killed around 12, 12.30. Which means he would arrive in Dallas at 3 pm the earliest. Or much later, if Stallone is correct and he wants to lay low and avoid getting picked up by police radars."

"If he does keep to the speed limit," Froggie said, while Murdock started the engines and got them running through the sleepy motorway for take off. "He won't be in Dallas before 5 and we'll have plenty of time."

"Between 3 and 5, then," Colonel settled. "That gives us from 30 minutes to 2 and half hours, Froggie. It isn't plenty of time; but we have better make sure it's enough."

Creed had been sleeping since one in the afternoon, slumbering peacefully next to Irbis. As usual, though, he had kept one ear open for out-of-the-ordinary sounds, and his nose on the lookout for suspicious scents. None had disturbed his sleep. Yet, his dreams had been disturbed, since an awkward soundtrack, running in the background of the dream scenarios, had insisted on unsettling his thoughts. He hadn't been able to identify any of the melodies, but they had been omnipresent nevertheless. On the other hand, truth be said, the soundtrack hadn't been so upsetting as to wake him up; if anything, it might even have kept his mind from delving into distressing scenes while processing the events of the last 12 hours or so.

Eventually, the melodies became clearer as his consciousness slowly left the dream province and travelled back to reality. There was no music to it, in reality, only a voice that evoked some melody, surely and pleasantly. Finally, Creed breathed in deeply and opened his eyes. Irbis's voice became perfectly clear while his eyes noted the greater number of houses near the motorway. How far from Dallas were they?

Glancing to the driver's seat to see the time – nearly 3 pm – he finally realised what the girl was doing. Apparently oblivious to the world around her, Irbis was using the steering wheel as a keyboard, playing a tune while singing it in a fully self-absorbed low voice. Shaking his head, he decided that she was either bored to death or had had a mental breakdown.

He couldn't suppress a grin at the focus with which she sang Sinead O'Connor's 'Nothing compares'. The fingers outlining the melody with slow accuracy; her face frowning, scowling and grimacing to the strength of the emotion in her voice, harder and deeper than O'Connor's. It was quite the show, really! He studied her carefully. She had a nice voice… strong, well-controlled, expressive. And she sang as if she meant every single word, too. Creed noticed how she easily modulated her voice. "I can put my arms around every boy I see... but it only remind me of you" High pitch, low pitch; hardened, softened; holding back, letting go... She did have a very good control, indeed. Singing classes for sure, he reasoned, as he enjoyed the expression she put into the lyric.

Giving her full attention to the song as she was, she was oblivious to anything happening around her. Creed felt a strong urge to frighten her. Making himself more comfortable, he enjoyed the end of the song. Then he tried to guess the next one from the movement of the fingers. He failed, but when she started singing Edith Piaf's 'Non je ne regrette rien' he agreed the movement of her hands fit the melody. His grin widened with the passsion she put into the song, forgetting to keep a low voice. Two completely different voices, Irbis's and Piaf's, but as much as Piaf gave the song an unimmitable scale, Irbis gave it her own twitch. Creed didn't know what the lyrics were, but again, Irbis seemed to mean every word.

Pleasant. But not so pleasant as to keep him from blurting a sudden 'BOO'. With a silent gasp, the girl jumped in the seat and held her breath. The car didn't threaten a meeting with the ditch, though.

"Nice hand control," he complimented, with a mischievous grin. "Ya ain't been speedin' while I wasn't lookin', have ya?"

He had been very stern about it, before settling for his nap, because the girl had seemed adamant in overcoming the 80-mile-per-hour limit of the motorway by 200. "Ya can go up to 85, but no more. I don't wanna get the cops attention, ya understand?" She hadn't been happy, but had promised to behave. The bored sigh she answered him with attested she had indeed behaved.

"Pull over. I'm drivin' the rest o' the way."

A sign warned of an exit to Weatherford, which, if Creed remembered correctly, was about an hour away from his Dallas apartment. It seemed like the perfect place to ditch their current car and pick up another one.

Dallas came into sight, downtown's glass towers shining in the evening light.

"OK, people this is it!" The Colonel's voice rang through the plane and the five men straightened themselves up. "There's no room for messing up anymore. We follow the plan and, on my orders, Creed is to be shot down. Remember, the girl is to be taken alive no matter what, but Creed is still our main target. Keep in mind that you are not to approach or engage him unless I've instructed you to. Clear?"

"Yes, Sir!" echoed through the small space, eliciting a pleased frown from the leader.

"Creed's apartment is at Gables 3636 McKinney, in the West Village, with a view to Cole Avenue. So, we're taking surveillance posts at the Gables Turtle Creek community, which is directly opposite his flat. I want to know when he goes in and when he goes out. Whatever happens, we attack between 22.00 and 23.00."

The Colonel looked around. They were going to receive only a quarter of the initially agreed amount of money for killing Creed themselves, instead of leaving that task for Torini, but he wasn't about to risk his men's lives again.

"Let's get this show on the road, people!"