Chapter 40
Al-Taj Liberation Complex
Sloan landed hard on his hands and knees. The steel door slammed behind him,
leaving him in a broiling, airless concrete cubicle. He waited while his eyes adjusted
from the desert glare to the semidarkness of the bunker. All in all, he hadn't fared too
badly... a couple of bruises and perhaps a sprained wrist. He marveled at their
stupidity. Any thinking person could have seen that he wanted to be captured. Of
course, maybe the terrorists were thinking how stupid can you be of him.
"Derek," he called. There was no response. He prayed that ibn Aziz had held
good on his word... that Derek was here. If he's not, Sloan promised himself, I'll find
him... I'll find him no matter what. I'll be there for him... I won't let him go through
this alone.
After a couple of moments, he began to make out shapes and shadows. The
room was bare except for a form curled in the corner. William knew it was Derek. But,
was he alive? He crawled over to his friend and placed a hand on his neck to feel for
a pulse. It was there, but it was thready... rapid and erratic. His hand came away wet
with blood. Only then did he notice that Derek's shirt had an enormous dark stain
across the chest and shoulder.
"Oh, God," Sloan murmured. He looked into Derek's eyes, which were wide
open, but unseeing. He knew that his friend had escaped into his own mind, a self-induced catatonia. He gently uncurled the young precept to examine his wounds...
Christ... this on top of his ordeal with Tanit and the desert.
He immediately saw that his jaw and lips were badly bruised and swollen... the
cut on his brow had bled profusely. Through hair matted with blood, he felt a great
knot at the base of his friend's skull... on the right occipital bone, if he recalled his
anatomy... a blow from a rifle butt, he guessed. From the size of it he knew there had
to have been a concussion. He prayed that there was no fracture or damage to Derek's
spine.
He searched the room for water and saw a bucket in the far corner. Carefully,
William laid Derek's head down to reach for the container, hoping that it did indeed
contain water. If it did not, he, himself, would soon be in serious trouble from the fluid
sapping heat. His heart sank... it was empty. At least they wouldn't have to worry
about contamination. Of course, dehydration was a different story.
Sloan removed his shirt and tore off a sleeve. He wiped what blood he could
from his friend's face and neck. When Derek let out a soft moan, William shushed him
the way he soothed his own little girls when their sleep was fitful. He didn't want him
to awaken while he was trying to examine his injuries. Better that he sleep on in his
mind's bastion.
Since the light was dim, William forced himself to go slowly, to inspect slowly
and patiently. There were rope burns on Derek's throat and a gash to the lower right
side his neck that was still seeping blood... probably sliced by a bullet. The older man
held the cloth on the wound for several minutes until the bleeding stopped. It was then
that he ran his hand along the right shoulder and felt a deep, very wrong, depression
in the collar bone. He knew it was broken. "I'll just add that to the list," he murmured.
Sloan's stomach was beginning to sicken. He had prepared himself for the
worst, finding Derek Rayne dead, but, somehow, he had not expected this. Johnny had
been right... with his medic's training, he was the one who should have come. Not
me... "Please God, help me," he pleaded.
Blood was beginning to flow from the neck wound again. With a trembling
hand, William grasped Derek's right sleeve, preparing to rip it off for a bandage. When
he touched the arm, his friend gasped, but, thankfully, still did not waken. Sloan
glanced down at the young man's hand. Vomit rose in his throat, but he suppressed it.
For Derek's sake, he had to continue slowly and calmly.
"God forgive me," he said. "This is all my fault." He tore the sleeve at the
shoulder and gently lifted Derek's arm to pull it off. The arm was so swollen that the
garment wouldn't slide. William ripped it up the seam. He forced himself to
concentrate on folding the cloth and placing it on the neck wound to staunch the
bleeding. "One thing at a time," he told himself. "One thing at a time, and we'll get
through this." What was the old saying?... Something about getting by on a wing and
a prayer? "We will get by," he swore to his friend.
Wishing for more light, Sloan ran his hands down Derek's body. The rib cage
didn't feel right, but he couldn't be sure. He unzipped his friend's pants, which he had
noticed were damp at the waist....with sweat he hoped. But he hoped in vain. When he
ran his hand along the precept's lower back, it came away bloody. Gently, he rolled
him onto his side. Derek let out a childlike whimper that tore at William's soul. He
pulled the shirt tail, stiff with blood, out of the way, and pushed the pants down. He
sucked in his breath and closed his eyes. There it was... a neat, round bullet hole near
the top of the pelvis. William searched Derek's abdomen for the exit wound. There
was none... the bullet was still in there. Sloan tore off his other sleeve to gently wipe
the blood away from the small hole, which was only slightly oozing. Then he folded
the rag and placed it over the wound. Carefully he pulled Derek's pants back up over
the makeshift dressing to hold it in place, and fastened the zipper.
Having found no damage to the legs, other than a gash across the shin, he turned
his attention to the hand and arm. With the sleeve gone, Sloan could see that his
friend's arm was swollen and purple nearly to the shoulder. The elbow was so puffy
that he couldn't bend it properly, but he guessed the break was somewhere in the
lower forearm or wrist. The darkened skin was cold to the touch. Not good. He
proceeded to examine Derek's hand. William gasped when he turned the hand over
and saw the white bone extruding from the palm. He had lost blood there too. Fear
gripped the older man in the gut. How much blood had Derek lost? Was there internal
hemorrhaging? He could be bleeding to death right now, in my arms, William realized,
and I'm powerless to stop him.
The fingers had swollen to such a degree that William had difficulty separating
them. He could tell that the thumb, ring, and little fingers were dislocated and guessed,
from their odd angles, that the middle and index were broken. He knew his friend had
been worked on by a professional who specialized in brutality. Derek's skin was
darker than the blue stone set into his precept's ring, which was cutting off circulation
and slicing into his finger so badly that blood seeped from around the gold band.
Sloan tore his shirt into strips, which he wrapped around the mangled hand. The
swelling actually provided more immobility, but he had to do something to protect the
open wound. Lastly, he removed Derek's own bloody shirt, placed his now bandaged
right hand over his heart, and secured it in place with the torn fabric.
William glanced up at the grated window set high in the wall. The planned time
of rescue must be nearing. They had taken his watch... he couldn't judge by the sun's
light. Johnny and ibn Aziz were supposed to give him one hour from the time he was
thrown in with Derek. Then ibn Aziz's small force, along with their Padwig friends,
was to start a diversion at the far end of the training center and five minutes later
Johnny was to pop the "Huey"over the last few ridges, strafe the north end of the camp
and set down along the edge of the wadi. It had been at least an hour, he worried.
Sloan pushed himself off the floor and took a step to stand beneath the window.
He jumped, grabbed the grate, and pulled himself up. His wrist ached with the effort.
Hot wind blasted him in the face and whistled in his ears. Rampaging sand tore
through the camp. He couldn't even see the next building, which he thought was about
fifteen yards away. His heart sank as he let himself drop. He slumped down beside his
friend. This hot desert wind, he had been warned, could last from hours to days. As he
gazed at Derek's open, unseeing eyes, a shiver ran down his spine. He reached over
to brush the matted hair from the younger man's pale forehead. He had a premonition
that this wind, the Ghibli, would be Derek Rayne's death.
William lifted Derek and slid himself under the precept's back so that he could
cradle him. "Derek," he whispered. "Derek... can you hear me? Come on... don't leave
me after I've come all this way.... Hold on." He wiped Derek's face with the rag and
again ran his hand through the matted hair. "Derek... damn you... listen to my voice...
follow it... I know you can... I'm going to get us both out of this, but you've got to help
me... I can't do it alone....You are a Legacy precept... you cannot abandon a member
of your house."
"William?" Derek said, though his mouth produced no sound.
Sloan saw his friend's swollen lips form his name. "Derek?" he said as the hazel
eyes attempted to focus.
"You're not a member of my house," the precept mumbled.
Sloan replied, "You still can't leave me. We never do that, do we?"
"...so thirsty," he whispered. "You shouldn't have come?... Tanit?"
"Tanit's gone... easy as pie... and I'm saving your ass again," answered William,
falling far short of the mocking tone he wanted. "Whatever you did to her must
have finished her."
"Not much left to save this time. Ik heb... verkloot." Derek's attempt at a
chuckle died. "It hurts," he moaned. "It hurts so bad... I can't breathe." He began to
choke. Sloan raised him as much as he could and wiped his mouth... bloody froth on
his lips. "I didn't tell them anything."
"I know.... Yes, you have screwed up... royally," said William as he felt
panic surge from the tightly locked box where he kept it imprisoned. Bloody froth...
a pierced lung. "It's OK... just stay still... I'm going to boost you up a bit, so you can
breath easier." Sloan wrapped an arm around him and pulled him into a sitting
position. Derek groaned at the movement and nearly slipped away again. "Stay with
me," William ordered. He knew that this was precisely the wrong thing to do for
shock, but he feared that Derek was drowning in his own blood. "Stay with me, Derek," he repeated. "Derek... focus... dammit!"
"I can't...."
"I should have known you were a quitter," Sloan said in the most disgusted tone
he could muster, "after all, you ran out on me that time in Spain." Baiting Derek was
all he could think to do... he had to keep his friend awake. "You left me there to fight
that thing all alone. Just like you're doing now."
Derek rallied to the challenge, as William had hoped. "You pushed me off that
bloody cliff, if you remember," he responded weakly. "It's a wonder you didn't kill
me. I lost my 'Sight' for three weeks from that crack on the head."
"That damned 'Sight' of yours is what got us into that mess... I saved your life
when I pushed you... I didn't expect you to tumble down that mountainside and stay
down there."
"Sight's gone... blasted to bits," Derek mumbled sadly, but then he rallied. "I
didn't need saving... I was doing just fine... I had my sword."
"Yup... and damned near impaled yourself on the thing." William gently stroked
his friend's brow, as he had seen Kym do.
For a moment Derek seemed comforted by the gesture. He seemed to relax and
regroup. Finally, he started to respond with another barb, but a barrage of pain seized
him. Sloan felt his entire body tense with the strain. Derek gasped, but continued. He
had realized what William was doing and knew that he had to play the game if he
wanted to live. I have to live, his mind screamed. There's so much to do....
"Well, what about Rome? I took a bullet for you there," Derek murmured.
Sloan's heart warmed at the challenge. "A dog could take a bullet for me... I
needed you whole and you didn't have the brains to realize that."
"I still backed you up, didn't I?"
"Sure," William countered, "literally." He had to smile at Derek's choice of
words. "Then I had to lug you two miles to get you out of those catacombs before you
bled to death."
"Remember Skibbereen?" Derek was still fighting. "You tied one on and left me
up the creek without a boat, let alone a paddle."
"I had to divert their attention to me, because a certain pig-headed Dutch kid
had a vision and took off on his own," William retorted. Sloan felt Derek's body tense
again. He held his friend tightly as the younger man tried to cough.
"Hulp mij," Derek pleaded, grasping his friend's wrist with his cold hand. He
could barely think anymore, let alone in English.
William helped him to lean forward, then, as he coughed and gasped for breath,
wiped the blood from his mouth. "Hang on.... Remember... and this too shall pass," the
precept whispered.
"William... I can't argue anymore," Derek said. "It hurts too much... I'm too
tired... too cold... they took Kym's ring... she was right... tell her that I loved her more
than anything... and I'm sorry... tell Mother and Ingrid, too. Het spijt me."
Sloan could feel him slipping. He lightly shook the young precept. "Derek!" he
shouted. "Goddammit... don't let this happen... not yet!"
"I don't think... it's my decision... any... more," he mumbled.
"Of course, it's your decision... you can decide to keep your eyes open and not
to slip away."
Now William had to lean in closely to understand Derek, whose words were
becoming more garbled, his accent thicker. "I'll try for as long as I can... but... there's
nothing left... the Legatus exists... William... the sword... I have no heirs... promise me
that you... not the Legacy... will decide who gets it. If he turns out to be the right one...
give it to Nick, when he grows up."
Sloan felt his panic rising, "Stop this, Derek! We're so close... Johnny'll be here
soon.... Don't give up now." How could he ever tell Barbara, who had trusted him,
how and why her son had died?
"...and this too shall pass.... Promise...," Derek's lips said as his body went slack
and he slid into oblivion.
"I promise," William Sloan whispered as tears rose at the terrible realization that
their rescue wasn't going to come in time. He held Derek to his chest and rocked him
back and forth, hoping that the warmth and motion would keep his friend's spirit close.
They were supposed to be defending mankind against the creatures of darkness, yet
it was ordinary human cruelty that had done this. Dear God, were they fighting the
wrong enemy?
Sloan didn't know how long they stayed so, but he could feel Derek's breathing
grow more and more labored. It was as if he could sense his physical presence clinging
to life, while the essence that was Derek Rayne drifted away. Still he cradled him. He
had the premonition, or was it the memory of some long ago chronicle, of bearing the
young precept's lifeless, ravaged body through the fog to a place by the water's edge,
where three women waited, Kymberlee, Ingrid, and Barbara. High on the cliff above
stood a fourth, Christina, raising aloft the bladed cross of Derek's sword.
"Please, Lord," he prayed, and he was not a praying man. "Give him the
strength to hold on.... The Legacy fights your battles... and Derek Rayne will be the
best of the Legacy.... He's so young.... Let him continue your work... please... don't
take him."
Outside the sound of explosions caught his attention. He didn't dare move to see
if the winds and sands had ceased blowing. Suddenly, the door burst open. All Sloan
could see was a silhouette against a blinding light. He cursed himself... this was the
moment for which he had come, and he wasn't ready. There was a burst of gunfire and
bullets smacked the wall above his head. A single shot followed. The silhouette fell
face forward into the room.
Johnny Boyle rushed into the doorway, shouting, "Sloan... Derek!"
"We're here," William said. "Johnny, thank God... help me with him... it's
bad.... Where's Kym? Where's the chopper?"
The light from the open door fell across the pair. Johnny stared down at his
precept. The seasoned soldier went pale. "Oh... sweet Jesus!... those bastards!"
Kym appeared in the doorway behind Johnny. "Where's Derek?" she
demanded. "Is he all right?" When she stepped around the soldier and looked down
at the still form cradled in Sloan's arms, she went stark white and swayed. It was her
vision. Her world exploded. Any chance she had at happiness was lying on the floor,
dead in William Sloan's arms. Johnny grasped her arm and spun her around to face
him.
"Kymberlee! Not now!" He slapped her across the face. "We need you... he
needs you." As much as Boyle hated to admit it... it was probably true... perhaps, her
touch... the touch of a loved one... could bring his friend back from the brink.
"Major Boyle!" Sloan shouted. "Help me get him up."
Johnny let Kym go and dropped to his knees beside the two men.
"Get him around the back," instructed Sloan. "Careful of his hand and he's got
broken ribs... one's punctured a lung."
"Where'd all this blood come from? Where's he been hit?"Johnny asked.
"It looks like a bullet sliced him along the base of the neck and he took a round
in the hip." The sound of gunfire distracted him. "It's still in there," he added. "Let's
go!"
Johnny handed Kym his M-16, then helped Sloan pull Derek up. He might
detest the woman, but he knew she could shoot and would. Together they carried the
injured man outside and toward the waiting helicopter.
Shots spit around them from the gun emplacement atop the administration
center. Kym dropped to her knee, took aim, and fired off three rounds. The sniper
toppled from his nest. Quickly, she pushed herself off and ran to catch up with the
men.
"Omar?" asked Sloan, when he saw the Egyptian pilot sitting at the controls,
revving the motor for takeoff.
"Hates Libyans."
Johnny jumped into the rear of the chopper, then pulled Derek's limp body up
through the door and stretched him out across the floor. He turned to grab Kym's hand
and yanked hard as the helicopter started to lift off. Sloan stepped up onto the skid and
boosted himself through the door.
Johnny grabbed the M-16 and emptied a couple of clips at the figures firing at
them from the ground. Then the helicopter tilted and soared off toward Egyptian air
space. Johnny glanced over at his companions. In the daylight, the sight of Derek was
truly devastating, but he'd seen guys in 'Nam recover from worse. Kym seemed in
total shock... no expression, no movement at all except for her fingers lightly stroking
her husband's hair. Sloan looked like a shattered hulk as he sat on the floor beside his
friend's body.
"Johnny?" said William, looking up with haunted, confused eyes. "What do we
do?"
Boyle lifted Derek's feet onto a pack and covered him with a blanket. "He's in
shock," he shouted over the noise of the chopper. "Keep him warm.... Pray.... There's
nothing more we can do.... It's up to God and Derek til we get to Cairo." He turned
and clambered forward into the copilot's seat. He would see to it that this machine
would reach beyond any capacity it had ever known.
| CHAPTER 41 |
| E-mail: Dubricus | CONTENTS | E-mail: Selena |
