Setting: ATF AU
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fanfiction based on the CBS television series, The Magnificent Seven. It is in no way intended to infringe on the copyrights of CBS, MGM, The Trilogy Entertainment Group, The Mirisch Corp., or anyone else who may have legal rights to the characters, settings or song references. I don't own the characters. This story is strictly for entertainment. No monetary gain will be made from anything contained in this story.
NOTE: Big thanks, no HUGE thanks to Julie, for her invaluable, generous and wonderful medical assistance.
With one hand covering his free ear, Dominic Novelli poked his head into the hall, watching the elevator doors. He continued to nod, listening to the patrolman on the other end of the phone. The noise from the hallway, overhead pages and construction work outside made it hard to hear. Then he saw the haggard face of Buck Wilmington and waved.
"Yeah, you call when the lab gets something!" he tucked the cell phone away and motioned for the others to join him. "The OR waiting room was too crowded." He noted of his decision to wait in an empty conference room. "Plus, I wanted to keep whatever we find out here. The head nurse will bring the surgeon here, when's he done."
"Did you see him?" Buck asked, worried about his oldest friend.
"No, he was in surgery when I got here. He's stable, that's good. Sit down and I'll fill you in," He moved aside, "Ma'am," he nodded to Caitlin, who was already on the wall phone, paging Brie.
"This road where they found Chris," Josiah inquired, taking a cup of coffee from Ezra. The courtesy table in the corner had coffee, hot water, tea bags and instant decaf packets. "No sign of Vin at all?"
"Not when I spoke with you..." The weary captain replied
"But?" Ezra supplied.
"But they found two sets of tracks... footprints... south of where they found Larabee. The lab is covering that dirt road the trucker used. They did find a set of prints leading to the road. They match one of the pair back further."
"He went to get help?" Sanchez guessed.
"Or he was being followed and attempted to lead those vermin away from our wounded leader." The Southerner put a mug of coffee in front of Buck Wilmington's slumped shoulders. He rested his hand briefly on the downcast cotton, keeping a vigil at the agents side.
"Wherever he went, the trail ends on the highway. Either he got picked up and he's at another hospital or Fowler or Trent caught up to him and took him back." He jumped, like the other's, when the hand smacked the table.
"Easy, Buck," Josiah saw the smoldering blue eyes and wondered how it was possible for one man to hurt so much.
"I assume neither Bates or Trent have appeared in town?" Erza inquired.
"No, the highway patrol and F.B.I are looking for them too." Novell answered. "The truck driver was headed out of town when he stopped to take a leak. He didn't pass anybody going the other way. The EMT's said Larabee wasn't there too long, there was a fresh poultice on his arm."
"Poultice?" Josiah asked, "from a plant or something?"
"Yeah, why?" the Captain eyed the trio who exchanged a sorrowful look.
"Vin," Ezra sighed, sipping his coffee. "is quite the expert on things grown in the wild. What's edible, poisonous and medicinal."
"How come you can't find him?" Wilmington rose and shrugged off Ezra's grip. He paced the room, stopping in front of the defensive veteran cop. "What kind of department are you running? How can you let a pair of maniacs like that run loose?"
"Well let me check," Novelli growled, peeking under his shirt. "Seems I left my cape and the big red 'S' on my chest at home!"
"Whoa!" Josiah moved between them, turning to Buck. "Back off, Buck, he's been bending over backwards to help us. You cool that hot head down, that's not helping Vin. If those tracks are his, that means he was alive and walking as of this morning. That's something to hold onto."
"Sorry," Buck mumbled, shaking his head and heading for the window. He was still standing there, when he saw the body slide next to him.
"I only work with the best, Wilmington," Novelli admitted turning slightly to eye the pensive profile. "Undertand this, I WILL be responsible for putting those animals behind bars."
"I only work with the best too, Sir," Buck turned, extending his hand and relaxed a little at the strong grip.
"I can't stay," Novelli moved to the door. "I got too many pendings all over town. I'm assigning a couple men to Larebee's room. I spoke with Greg Nelson, the F.B.I. agent in charge and he'll be in touch. He's a good man, I've worked with him before." He spoke to them all, but kept his eyes on Buck, needed the young man to get the message. "If I hear anything, I'll call. You check in, okay?"
"Yeah," Buck sighed, "Thanks Captain."
"You can call be 'Clark', Kid," Novelli grinned, winking to Wilmington as he left.
The throbbing pain in his wrist woke him, completing the shouting match with his back and head. For several minutes, it was if he was an unwilling participant on a macabre carousel. The world was spinning up and down and sideways, all at once. The road to freedom had been aborted. But maybe all was not lost. Maybe, just maybe, Chris was free. Vomit came up and he tossed it weakly, panicking as his air was cut off. It took all of his waning strength to supress the cough that needed to go airborne. He used his other senses to see for him. He inhaled painfully, past the damaged ribs and congested lungs. The damp earth beneath him created the mildewed odor that was smothering him. He was curled on his side, hands bound to a rope that went between his legs, up his back and around his neck. He tried to move and the rope compressed, cuttting off his air. He moved his legs slightly, wincing as his back protested. Voices hovered above and he stilled his breathing, concentrating on the words.
"Thanks to your stupidity, this whole area is crawling with cops," Bates hissed, "I cannot wait any longer, Trent knows where to find me, and he better have ALL my money. He knows the consequences..." he left the threat linger, eyeing the almost unrecognizable man on the floor. "You would be well advised to forget about him and save your neck. Remaining her any longer would be suicidal. In an hour or so, the helicopters will go up and then it will be too late."
"How 'bout it, pretty boy?" Fowler ground his boot hard into the blackish-purple bruises on the slim man's marred back. He enjoyed the muffled cry of pain and the weak struggle. "Looks like you and me are gonna be travelin' buddies." He squatted on his haunches, watching the taut abdomen fighting for each breath. "You don't sound so good. I hope you don't up and die on me." He slid the metal hand down the battered body, feeling the weak man pull away. "Now that would be a shame. I have lots of 'games' planned, with new toys all the way from China." The cell phone rang, he hissed and stood, pulling it out. "Yeah? He's here and he won't get away again. What? Yeah, Bates said the place is crawling with cops, we gotta make tracks." He eyed the empty room. "You sure can pick 'em. The Bates is bad news. Just disappears into thin air. He said you'd know where to find him and bring all his money. What other place? Oh, yeah, I remember that old shack, near the river up north. There's abandoned hotel, The Bluebell Inn, about fifteen miles or so south of there. It's the exit before Baton Rouge. Two lefts and a right, follow the long road. I'll meet you there, I'll leave now. You get the kid yet?"
"No, " Trent replied, eyeing the new image he'd created in the mirror. He didn't even recognize himself. The years of undercover work paid off. The large case of makeup and other devices used for disguises sat open on the floor of his van. "I'm down the street. I'll get that brat. Don't lose Tanner."
"Don't you worry about him," He eyed the blinking man on the ground, nudging his crotch with the toe of his boot. "We're got lots of games planned. No I won't kill him!" Fowler barked. "Okay, five p.m. I got it... yeah." He flipped the phone shut and moved away, gathering up the discarded clothing. He cut Tanner's ropes and rolled him on his back, then lifted him forward, shoving the limp arms through the shirt. The socks went on next, no shoes were necessary. Then the leather jacket. He was rolling Tanner on his belly, preparing to handcuff him, when the legs lashed out.
Vin sprung, having waited for the pawing hands to finish dressing him. He needed the warmth and his left hand was useless. His kick boxing lessons paid off royally and he leveled the unexpecting felon. Unfortunately, his body was spent and he couldn't move. He slid down the wall, like a puppet with the strings cut. He was gasping horridly and now feared the pain in his chest was not just from his ribs. He coughed and coughed, watching spots in front of him. Fowler hadn't moved yet and Vin slid sideways, rolling, then crawling towards the stairs. With every feeble inch he progressed, his mantra grew stronger.
"...one more step fer Chris... one more... st...e...p... Chr..is..."
His hand was on the first step and he looked up, seeing a dozen more. "Aw, hell..." he slumped, until he heard Chris cursing at him in his head. "Shut... hell... up... ar..a..bee..." Grunting, he did one step, pulling his body up using his right hand. He was shivering uncontrollably and his vision was blurring. By the third step, he felt as if he'd ran to the top of the Statue of Liberty. He rested his face, then heard a voice and lost his heart.
"Like a rat scurrying from a sinking ship," Fowler grabbed the wet long locks of hair, painfully yanking the prisoner's head back. He pressed his knee into the battered back and closed the metal hand over the tender, exposed throat. "You'll pay for that foolish prank. I make you wish you were dead." He paused, pressing his face next to the blue eyes dulled with pain. He licked a trail of blood from the corner of the eyebrow and heard the weak hiss.
"Foolish boy..." He pressed his fingers just enough to scare the victim. The eyes bugged, the body jerked and finally went limp. He dropped Tanner into the back of the van, rolling him on his belly. He pulled the hand cruelly behind the back, eyeing the discolored, swollen left wrist. Peeking at the pale, clammy face, he used his metal hand to grip the wrist and drank in the unholy scream. After tying the wrist and binding the feet as well, he shoved a filthy, urine soaked rag into the agent's mouth. Eyeing his box of toys nearby, he grinned, slammed the door shut and took the back road.
He didn't go far, only to a patch of swamp where an old river boat was waiting. He'd put it there himself, in case the cops closed in, even Trent didn't know about it. He put his box in, before dropping Tanner in the boat. Then he laughed, as the blinking man's forehead hit the edge, creating a new bruise. He caressed the bruised, tender area above the collarbone, watching the weak sparks anger die down as the eyes rolled back and the lids slid down. Satisfied, he glided up the river, far away from the highway patrol.
"What about him?" Andy West asked his partner. They were parked out in front of Seamus's Saloon, which was closed for the day. After a thorough search of the interior, they'd secured the place. Several times, patrons who were used to stopping in for a quick breakfast, shook the locked door. This man parked his shopping car, loaded with bags, boxs, bottles and other junk by the entrace to theally. Then, he staggered towards the door. His long brown coat went to his feet and his face was obscured by a floppy hat.
"I got it," Dan Brumberger advised, exiting, "See how Sean's doing," he noted of the patrolman guarding the rear. He strode over to the elderly man and paused, waving his hand. The guy reeked of liquor and urine. His soiled clothing bespoke little, if any, sanitation. "How yuh doin', Pal?"
"Eh?"
"Great," he mumbled, watching the old face wrinkle and the hand cup the filthy hair over the ear.
"Move along!" He barked, "Place is closed today."
"Eh?"
"No!" The bald sergeant called out, when the wino went to urinate. "Not here, in the alley."
"Eh?"
"Move!" He shoved the man forward, too hard, the body fell, crying out. "Shit!"
"What the hell are you doing?" Andy hollered, then saw his partner point to the alley. "Okay!"
The stench was overwhelming and having to half carry the old guy only made it worse. The long floppy coat he wore made it hard to estimate his weight, but it was better than two hundred pounds. So intent was he on settling the now struggling, irate drunk, he never saw the body loom up from behind the dumpster.
Trent caught the dead cop, wiping the blood from the knife on the drunk's coat. He'd seen the old guy in the area, he came every day to get handouts, before passing out drunk in the alley. The perfect ploy. He stripped the drunk of his long coat and hat and left them nearby. The he moved over and opened the old coal bin, a throwback to another era and all but forgotten. He slid the dead cop down first, then followed. The basement was dark and he had no time to spare. The cop's partner would be getting curious. He eyed the radio clipped to the patrolman's shoulder and pushed the call button. Using his ring to scratch over the mic, it distorted the signal.
"What?" Andy winced, 'Christ, Dan, get that fixed. I can't hear you."
"...drunk... vomit... clean... up..."
"Better you than me!" West grimaced, "Nothin's doin' out here... take your time."
He eyed his watch, all too familiar with the McKenna scehdule,courtesy of his conversations with Caitlin. The old man would be in bed still. The big Irishman and the brat would be in the kitchen. Taking the dead cop, he crept up the stairs. He eyed the open door to the kitchen and then the dark hallway. He left the body, blood running from the gaping throat wound, in a position where McKenna would see it, as soon as he crossed the room. Then he moved foward, through the passage and towards the backstairs.
"I want pizza!" Grace decided with a wet burp, wiping the chocolate milk from her lips with her fuzzy sleeve. The blanket sleepers were warm and had Cinderella and Prince Charming on the front.
"I want to eat your toes!" Ryan growled, lifting her up and nibbling on the rubber bottoms and cloth covering her feet. Her giggles rained down on him like a rainbowed shower.
"Uncle Wyun?"
"Yes, Buttons," he said, pulling her onto his lap and getting a kiss on the cheek. Her small face screwed up and she pushed her small belly out. Pointing to the dancing couple on her pajamas, she eyed the man she considered 'Prince Charming'. "This is you and the is my Mommy," she paused, dropping her face and curling into the broad chest. "...when I dream." She pulled her face up, amethyst eyes burning with tears. "Why can't you be my Daddy? I love you, Uncle Wyun..."
Ryan's air left his chest as his heart exploded. He couldn't speak, for his love for this child was that great. He cupped the tiny face, so like her mother's, and smiled. Then he kissed the tip of her nose and ran his hands through the unruly curls.
"I think maybe, Buttons, that dream of your will come true."
"For real!" She squealed, "a spit promise," She spit into her hand and waited.
"Don't be doing that," he scolded her mildly, hiding a smile, "You're a little girl."
"So?" She scowled. "Poppy and me do spit bets."
"Poppy and me are going to have a talk," he frowned, wiping her hand with a napkin. "How about a kiss bet?" He waited and she nodded, kissing him.
"I love you, Buttons," he choked, "and your mother, she's got my heart all wrapped up."
Puzzled, the tiny hand snuck inside his shirt. "No, she don't, it's still there..."
He laughed and set her back down, heading for the pancake mix. He took eggs out of the refrigerator and dropped them, gasping in shock.
"Jesus God!"
"You said a swear word!" Grace's head came up from over her coloring book. "What's wrong?" She started to climb down, only to be pulled up harshly and pressed against him. "You're squooshing me..."
"Shh!" He tried not to panic, but the unblinking eyes of the dead cop lying a few feet away with blood running down his chest was unsettling. He picked up the phone and the line was dead. Cell phone? "Shit!"
"You said another swear word." She squirmed. "Put me down."
"No, uh... we're playing a... a... game... like hide and seek..."
"But I'm hungry. You said we was gonna eat..."
"Shh!" He shook his head, the phone was upstairs in his coat pocket. He couldn't do down the dark, narrow hall, he didn't know where the killer was. There were no windows in the restaurant's kitchen, and only one door, leading down that hall. Then he heard a floorboard squeak overhead.
"Oh God, Seamus..." he whispered.
"Poppy's still sleepin'. He don't like to get up s'early."
"Shh!" He wiped the sweat from his face and another horrid thought occured. What if there were more than one? He grabbed a knife from the butcher's block and shifted her to his hip. Then the climbed the small stairs in the kitchen that let upstairs. Nearing the top, he ducked down, peeking into the open door of his grandfather's room. He saw the tall man's chest rising and falling and heard the soft snore. After checking the room, he sat Grace in the closet.
"Don't move, I'll be right back, I have to get my phone."
"Is this part of the game?" She whispered, eyes wide.
"Yeah, you have to be very quiet. Don't open the door unless you hear me, okay?" He kissed her forehead and shut the door.
He was three feet outside the door, when something hard hit the side of his head. The pain was blinding and he dropped the knife. He threw his body hard, hitting his opponent and driving them both into the hallway. He saw the glint of metal and hissed in pain, as the knife sliced into his side. He kept one hand on the wrist of his opponent, warding off the blade. With the other hand, he poked the eyes first, then curled his three middle fingers and jabbed the area over the collarbone hard. The other man fell away, unable to breath. He tried to stand, but blood was flowing freely and coupled with a head injury, it left him dizzy. He reached for the knife and was slashed again in the forearm. He dropped his knee on the man's arm, sending the knife through the air and down the stairs.
"I'm gonna kill you, you sick son-of-a-bitch!" Ryan growled, grabbing Geoff Trent around the throat and squeezing hard. He didn't know about the gun and never saw it slam into his head.
Trent rose and shoved the gun into the stuperous man's mouth. There was no fear in the icy blue eyes that looked up at him. He smiled and pulled the gun out, cupping the man's chin.
"Killing you would be too easy," he purred, "Know this, I intend to have Caitlin, every way possible. You dream about that..." he saw a fire flicker and a fist rise weakly, before the eyes slid shut. He took the container of sedated juice from his pocket and went into the room. He stopped at the closet and opened the door.
"Drink your juice and I'll take you to your mother," He said, dropping the box into her lap.
"No!" Grace's furious little face screwed up and she kicked him hard. "Get away from me. You're a bad man."
"If you don't drink that juice, I'll hurt your grandfather." He pulled out the gun and saw her face go pale.
"Poppy?" she whimpered, unsure of what to do. "Uncle Wyun!"
"Enough of this nonsense." He hissed, lucky that the old man never roused. He grabbed her, keeping her mouth covered and ran down the hall. He forced her on the bed, pinched her nose shut and went her mouth opened, he poured the sedated juice into the protesting, wiggling body. Finally, she slumped and he rolled her in a blanket. Minutes later, he donned the old wino's long coat and hat, put her in the cart and shuffling away.
"Dan?" Andy saw the wino leave and waited for his partner to respond. "Dan! Shit! Sean, get in the house, move!" He ran to the alley and found the real wino, then ran back to the street. The other man was gone.
"Brie!" Caitlin moved quickly when her best friend arrived in the room. She didn't miss the pale face and the aqua eyes tinged with fear. "How's Chris?"
"He's in recovery, Doctor Doumanian is right behind me. It went well. He had some minor cuts on his chest and throat. We stitched them up and they should heal fine. He's hypothermic and dehydrated, we'll be pushing fluids and watching him temp carefully. Oh, Doctor, these are the men who work with Mister Larabee." She moved to allow a middle aged man enter, his gown splattered with blood.
"We were able to get the bullet out of his arm and he should have no long term effects from the wound. It's infected, but the antibiotics should clear that up. Although the bone wasn't damaged, there was extensive damage to the muscle and he'll be in a sling for awhile. We'll keep his arm immobilized for 3-4 weeks and then he'll need some therapy. He'll be in the recovery room being monitored for several hours, then we'll move him to a room. He also has a concussion and we'll be waking him up every hour for the next few hours to check his mental status. All in all, I'd say your friend is pretty lucky. With a lot of rest, he should be fine" He heard the audible groans of relief and trained his eyes on a man with a mustache, who seemed very shaken.
"If he's hypothermic, how do you know he has a fever?" Buck asked.
"That's a good question," the physician answered, "Often patients like that are admitted to the hospital with a lower than normal temperature. Regardless, the important thing is to warm him up. Hypothermia causes a decreased level of consciousness which makes his head injury difficult to assess. What will happen is that they will get his temperature back to normal and then it's going to keep on climbing." He paused, "We'll treat it with Tylenol. It's very frustrating when you fight to get a patient's temp up and then you have to cool them down!!" He took a deep breath, "I don't forsee any complications, we'll keep him here for a few days, monitor him closely. He's a strong young man, I think he'll be fine."
"Thanks, Doc," Josiah shook his hand and Ezra nodded, his eyes cast on Cait and Gabrielle. The pretty doctor was weeping and Cait was rocking her.
"Buck," Standish nudged him, pointing to the stricken woman.
"Damn," he sighed, rising and walking over. He gently massaged her neck, then watched as she lifted her tear-streaked face. "We'll bring him, back, Darlin'. You got Buck Wilmington's word."
"He's dead..."
"Shhh!" He soothed, gathering her close. "You keep your head up. We got no room for quitter's around this campfire."
"I need him, Buck," she whispered, taking a deep breath.
"I do too, Gabrielle," he managed, his heart aching for his lost friend from Texas.
"One of us should stay here," Ezra proposed.
"Buck, how you doin'?" Josiah stood next to the gambler and eyed his stricken friend.
"I'm okay. I wanna go see where they found Chris. Ezra, can you stay?"
"I'll keep close to Chris." He answered, frowning as Buck's cell phone rang.
"Hello? Yeah, Captain. What! How the Hell did that happen! What! Godammit!" He listened for a few minutes and threw the phone to Josiah. He counted to five, before lifting his head.
"What? Is is Vin? Did they find him?" Gabrielle asked.
"No," Buck said softly, turning to Caitlin, "It's Ryan, they're bringing him into the ER."
"No... No..." She stood and backed away. "Not again... I can't lose him too. Oh God, Grace! Grace! Buck, my baby... Buck..."
"I'm sorry, Cait, they took her." He winced and moved, catching her as she fell.
"Trent?" Ezra guessed and saw Buck's head dip. "Seamus?"
"Madder than hell, threatenin' to sue the city, the cops and shoot anyone who gets in his way," Josiah replied, shutting the phone off. "Whoever it was, killed one of the cops inside the house. The old man never heard a thing, until the cop's partner woke him up. They found Ryan in the hall, with a note. He put a fight... he's got several stab wounds and a concussion." He moved to stop the hurricane that swept through the room. "Buck, don't go off half-cocked." He warned, having his arm shoved away.
"I'm tired of sittin' around and waiting. I'm gonna find that fuckin' lunatic and send him straight to Hell!"
"Buck, get back here, Buck..." Josiah moved and took Cait from Ezra. "Go!" He ordered, and the green-eyed man nodded once and ran to catch up to his irate friend.
Built during the second World War, the Bluebell Inn was a modest roadside resting area. Fourteen rooms were sprawled in an even row, just beyond a small clapboard house that doubled as the reservation area. Tucked off a narrow offshoot of the river, it was closed for over ten years and long forgotten.
Fowler pulled the boat to the side, securing the rope to a wooden post. The dock was long gone, but he hauled himself up on the base, then took the supplies up to the backporch of the old house. The door was broken and he entered, setting the box down and slinging a large duffel bag from his shoulder. He walked through the cobwebs and parted the dust clouds, seeking the small office. He took the keys to room number two. The modest sized room was clean; he'd used it not long ago.
"Get up, dog," He snarled, having returned to the boat. There was no response from the unconscious prisoner. "GET UP!" He barked louder, but still there was no movement. Hissing in anger, he jumped back into the boat and slapped the man's face hard. The slim body jerked and two eyes peeled half open. " Get on your feet, I ain't carryin' you. MOVE!"
Vin eyed the metal fingers moving menacingly near his eyes and winced as they hauled him up. The pain in his wrist had dulled somewhat. He stumbed along the path, zigzagging as the weeds seemed to move with ground beneath his feet. He blinked at the blurry building approaching, wheezing heavily and coughing. Saliva and phlegm ran down his chin, he had no strength to clean himself. His wrists were raw from the harsh ropes and his hands numb. He felt the hand grab his collar and propel him towards an open door. He must have blacked out for a second; he roused again as the door slammed. Through swollen lids he noted that he was lying on his side on a mattress. There was a table in the room and a bathroom of sorts off to the side. The curtains were drawn, blocking out most of the light. Fresh airdrifted in through a broken window and every so often, a breeze lifted the tattered drapes, letting in sunlight. He didn't fight the dizziness. He was in too much pain to care and surrendered to the black cloak.
" Sir, can you hear me?"
Through the thick blanket of mud that seemed to envelop him, the fallen agent fought hard. He was cold and in pain. His arm was throbbing and his head felt like it was going to implode. He screwed up his face as the pesty voice persisted.
"Sir, Can you..."
"Go... away!"
She smiled at the irate level in the confused green eyes. They lingered on her face for a moment and then slid around the room. The face scowled and then the eyes began to close.
"Oh, no, not yet," she tapped his leg, causing the head to swivel. He was doing much better, his core temp had risen to 98 degrees. Once she could ascertain his lucidity, he could be moved to a regular room. "Can you tell my your name?"
"Lucky," he tossed back, eyeing the IV lines and feeling the influx of oxygen. "What's yours?"
"Sir, I have other patients to attend to, if you'd just cooperate."
"Christopher Michael Larabee." He shot back, eyeing the short, fiftyish nurse through pained eyes. "You buying?" He inquired, smacking his dry lips. She smiled and gave him a large spoon of ice chips. "Water?"
"Not yet, you're just over surgery. Do you know where you are? What year ..."
"Bush is president, it's two thousand and two, this is New Orleans and I want my Goddamn pants."
She chuckled and put the clipboard down, adjusted his drip and made note of his blood pressure and respirations. She pushed the on call button and a voice came through the intercom.
"Nancy, tell Doctor Doumanian that Mister Larabee is awake."
"Okay, Theresa," she replied, answering the protester's lips with another spoon of ice.
"How long have I been here?" Chris demanded, swallowing the ice without chewing. "What the hell happened?" He frowned, trying to reclaim his wavering memory. The door opened and a middle-aged, dark-skinned man entered. Past his white cloaked shoulders, Chris saw a familiar face.
"Josiah!"
"That's my little boss," the preacher tucked his rosary beads in, eyeing the ceiling with a gleam of humor. The F.B.I. man next to him made the connection and stood as well. "Sometimes I get them confused," Sanchez teased. "They tend to roar at the same decibel."
"...Get your ass in here..."
"Nice," the gray head shook, as he moved past the not-so-amused doctor. "S'okay, Doc, you'll get used him. His bark is much worse that his bite."
"What the hell is going on?" the blond was annoyed, and his temples were jumping in pain. "What's all this shit for?" he shook his arm, jostling the IV lines.
"Mister Larabee, if you'll just calm down," the doctor tried.
"You calm down!" he turned away, glaring at Sanchez. "Well?"
"Can you tell me anything about who attacked you? How did you end up off that dirt road? Were you alone?"
"Who the hell are you?" the ATF's finest rasped painfully at the young, nervous quizzer who was by his bedside. "Get away from me..."
"...or was Vin Tanner with you? Did you..."
"That's enough, Son," Josiah gently moved the young F.B.I man to the side, after all the blood left his boss's face. "Let the doctor have a look at him. You can talk to him later."
The three letters swirled and twisted in his brain. V...I...N... Vin... Vin... Vin... He felt the air leave his lungs in a rush and his brows furrowed. He had a nagging fear something was dreadfully wrong. He remembered darkness, cold and a determined Texan dragging him somewhere. A voice in his memory bank resounded.
"I won't let ya die... I'm gettin' help... ya hang on..."
"Vin?" He whispered, raising a hand in an attempt to snag the whispered drawl that lingered near. "Vin..." he blinked and looked in the smokey eyes of Team Seven's eldest. What he saw there made his stomach drop. "Oh God... he's dead? No... Aw, shit... " he began to tremble, only to have a strong hand on his shoulder.
"Chris?" Josiah sighed, feeling the encompassing agony that wracked the battered body. "We don't if Vin's dead..."
"What?" the blond head snapped back up, dead eyes filtering with anger. "How is that possible? He was right next to me..."
"You were found alone, Mister Larabee."
"Found?" Chris blinked at the doctor, then turned to his teammember. "Found?" he repeated, seeking a reply.
"A truck driver found you near daybreak, on a dirt road off the highway outside town. You've beeh shot in the arm, bone's okay, but you ripped up your muscles. You were hypothermic and covered with cuts and bruises. You have a concussion and the infection from the wound has caused a fever. That about it, Doc?" Sanchez asked and saw the head nodding.
"You seem to be aware and cognizant. I'm recommending you be transferred from here to a regular room. If you can tolerate it, I'll have a clear tray send down to you later. I'll leave new orders with your nurse. You're very lucky, young man. A few weeks in that sling and some therapy and your arm will be fine. Gentlemen," he nodded to the agents, "I have a date with a hot appendix, I'll check on you later." He nodded to the small pink pitcher. "A little water... he should tolerate it."
"Thanks," Chris managed, sipping the water that Josiah held out to him. "He was with me... he carried me. Alone? I don't understand..."
"What do you remember?"
"Uh..." he leaned back on the pillows, closed his eyes and let the cobwebs in his brain part. "...the old woman... said... I saw Vin... she grabbed my hand... saw him... he was in agony... being tortured... by that metal-handed bastard Fowler..."
"Fowler?"
"He killed Sarah, Max McKenna too," Chris replied to Sanchez. "Trent hired him. He's an animal, Josiah, you can't believe what he put Vin through." One weak fist balled up on the bed. "I'm gonna make him hurt..."
"What else?"
"It's foggy next... I woke up in a dirt room... I don't remember getting there..."
"You don't remember leaving the hospital with Nigel Bates?" the F.B.I man asked.
"Bates?" Chris's eyes popped open as the words repulsed off his tongue like battery acid. "No... What's he talking about, Preacher?"
"When we got to the hospital, Jessenia Broussard was dead. You were seen leaving her room with Bates. It's on the surveillance cameras in the parking garage. He didn't force you, Chris..."
"He must have... done... something... I wouldn't..." He stopped, his shaky hands taking a sip of water.
"We'll do this later, Chris, you're not up to..."
"I'm fine," Larabee snapped, "He was curled up in the corner, naked and filthy, like an animal. When I touched him... called to him..."
Josiah's eyes narrowed at the unmeasurable amount of anguish beaming from both green eyes of the leader. The change was evident, also, in the hushed whisper that slid past the tense lips.
"...he turtled up..." Chris managed, the painful moment revisited nearly choking him. He turned his agonized gaze to the eldest, "to me, Josiah. He turtled up to me... Christ..." he raked his shaky hand through his hair, until the larger hand caught it.
"Easy, Chris," he didn't want to upset the IV line. He waited until two cleansing breaths were completed, then listened as the voice grew to normal tones.
"They used everything on him. Electric shock, cattle fuckin' prods, they beat the shit out of him, he's burned and cut and abused. He was confused as hell... he had bugs crawlin' in his mouth for Christs's sake. " He stopped then, took another breath and continued. "They... Trent..." His venom rose, seeping from his eyes like vaporous toxin. "I'm gonna kill that mother fucker, Josiah, mark it down. Sick fuckin' bastard hurt Vin."
The F.B.I. man looked on with envy at the man who was profiled to be one of the finest fed's carrying a shield. Whoever this Tanner was, he must be something, to earn respect like that from such a source.
"They were looking for a book. Trent thought Vin knew where it was hidden."
"The book Max found the night he was killed," Sanchez surmised.
"Yeah... only Vin don't know squat and they found that out too late." He sighed. "They beat him in front of me, with fists and rubber hoses. Then, " Chris swallowed hard, his steely gaze unnerving both men. "They strapped him upside down in some fuckin' metal cage and lowered him in the water... to feed some fuckin' alligator."
"Sweet Jesus," the preacher winced. "How'd you two escape?"
"I convinced him that I knew about the book. He laughed at me, had Fowler take Vin out of the cage and toss him in the water. I rammed him, we both went in... I grabbed Vin and kept swimming. We swam down a narrow tunnel, went over the fence and kept going. I have no idea how long we were passed out... we held each up and stumbled along. Finally, we got out... it was dark... nighttime... Vin took a look at the stars and made his map. I can't remember too much after that. I got shot by one of them when I grabbed Vin. I remember us stopping a few times..."
"You had a fresh poultice on your arm when they found you." Josiah noted.
"Must have been after Rawhide..." Chris heard mental snippets of conversation with Vin coming back.
"Huh?" the F.B.I. man squinted.
"Nothing," Chris sighed. "He'd never leave me, Josiah, you know that. They were following us... I bet he spotted them and took off. Led them away, damn him."
"They found two sets of tracks beyond where you were found," the graying agent replied, "Then one set leading to the highway."
"He went for help?" Larabee theorized, shutting his eyes again. "But, he's not here..."
"No, and he hasn't turned up in any hospitals." He waited a moment, "or morgues." The green eyes shot open and the face blanched.
"Shit... we were so close..."
"You get some rest, Boss, I'll update Novelli and the F.B.I. team. This is Rick Messina, he's with the local branch of the F.B.I. His boss is a guy named Nelson. He's been assigned to guard you. Buck and Ezra are out at the spot where you were found. This prison they kept you in can't be far."
"Don't matter now," Chris yawned, his eyes falling. "They won't be there. They've moved on..." He saw a shadow cross the preacher's face and frowned. "What was that?"
"Trent's getting desperate. He attacked Ryan this morning."
"How bad?"
"He's out of surgery, he had some minor damage from two stab wounds. He's got a concussion. You'll be rooming with him."
"Goddammit, how did that happen? I thought Novelli was going to have men guarding them?" The greens were flashing again.
"He did... and they lost one, a twelve-year veteran, his throat slit."
"Oh God..." Chris's anger was building and the IV lines and his weak body were mocking him.
"It gets worse."
"How?" The patient bellowed, then his heart sank. "No, Caitlin? If he hurt her, I'll slit his balls..." He stopped when the gray head shook. "But..."
"The little girl, he took her."
"Son-of-a-bitch!" Larabee eyed the immobilized arm, which was unable to yank the IV lines out. As if sensing his goal, the older man lashed out, gripping the angry freed fist.
"Cut that out! You're in no shape to be running loose after that madman. The cops, state troopers and F.B.I are on it. They'll find him, Chris. You're not leaving this bed for five days. That doctor said..."
"Fuck what the doctor says. Five days my ass," Larabee squirmed, "Where's my Goddamn pants?"
"In your Goddamn closet at home in Denver." Sanchez added wryly, as the transport team arrived. "You get some rest, I'm gonna check in with Novelli and Buck."
"How's Cait?" He wondered aloud, as a parent, he knew that cold fear.
"Shattered," The other replied, following the gurney.
"Hollywood! Get back here!"
"What now?" Ezra muttered, rising from the crouching position he was in over the disturbing dirt filled cell Vin Tanner had been kept in. "Gentlemen," he nodded to the lab crew, "Be careful, there's holes in the floor and it's dark."
After covering the short area where the truck driver found Larabee, Standish and Wilmington followed the F.B.I team into the bayou. The helicopter found tire tracks in the mud outside an old stone ruin. Fortunately, he'd been in front of Buck as they climbed down the crumbling stairs. He recognized the imported chair from his work with Amnesty International. He also didn't miss the thick boots and mittens. They'd abused his mind first, to weaken him. Then he saw the table with 'tools' and his stomach dropped. Just about the same time a blue-eyed locomotive rushed past. He barely managed to control the much larger, irate body. Nobody felt hurt like Buck Wilmington when one of his own was down. But seeing the devices of torture had rubbed salt on an already open and festering wound. Novelli managed to steer the thrashing body aside, leading him towards a back cavern. That is the spot where the bellow came from.
"You cool his heels or he's loses privledges. I'm not a babysitter," Novelli warned, shoving the flame tempered agent to his partner.
"Enough!" the gambler ired, shoving the cursing stallion against a damp wall in the cave.
"Enough?" Buck vented, trying to break free, "Did you see that fuckin' thing? Vin was in that... he... there's a clump of his hair stuck on the bars... Fuckin' freakshow... there's an alligator in there. What if... they find..."
"They won't," Ezra answered without hesitation. His cool eyes saw the nagging fear. His own stomach couldn't comprehend a reaction if parts of Tanner were pulled from the beast's belly. "He fled with Chris, remember? Wherever they went, it wasn't here..." He paused, "He's still alive and you're wasting valuable energy frothing."
"Frothing?" Buck slumped, totally drained. Suddenly the smell of blood and must and dankess became too much. "I gotta get out of here..." his voice died when the long, tangled stands of brown hair moved in the water. He shuddered and thought of his injured friend, upside down and helpless.
"We'll check in with the hospital and then I journey north."
"North?" Buck asked, kicking the chair as he went by and getting manhandled by the smaller agent.
"That's evidence..." Standish shoved the angry body forward, "North... I have an address where Ms. Broussard spend her childhood and most likely revisited as an adult. Perhaps someone there knows of Bates."
"Josiah?" Buck asked, having dialed on the way. He slid into the car and shoved his sunglasses on. "How's Chris?"
By the time they drove off the road, taking a narrow curvy path toward s house rising over the water on stilted supports, Buck was brooding again. He didn't envy Sanchez, now that Chris was aware Vin wasn't with him. He'd be chomping at the bit to get loose. He put a hand on the pale green coat sleeve of Standish, eyeing the 'clan' that appeared on the porch of the run down property.
"Do you hear dueling banjos?" He made reference to the famous scene in Deliverance.
"Keep that temper under control." The unamused agent replied, "We are vastly outnumbered. For every face you see, there are several more hiding." He held onto the tense agent's jacket and waited, "Understood? I don't want to end up as Wally's dinner." He noted of the famous cartoon alligator.
"Alright," Buck jerked his arm away, "I'm fine." He stood and followed Ezra up the dirt covered planks.
It was cold and his legs were numb. He kept falling and a pair of arms held him up. They supported him, while the dangerous trek continued. He didn't know where he was, only that he was in pain. A persistant voice, heavy on drawl, kept him moving. Then he was resting, the strong hands were pressing something on his arm. It felt good and he relaxed .He opened his eyes and saw the marred face of his best friend. Vin was standing a few feet away, smiling at him.
"I won't let ya die... I won't let ya die... I won't let ya..."
"No! Vin!" he screamed as the voice was silenced. Out of the brush came a large silver hand, severing the unaware, still smiling tracker's head from his body. Fowler's laughter filled the bayou as he held the head up high. Vin's eyes large and shocked.
"Chris, Chris, wake up!"
"Vin... V..." He opened his eyes briefly, feeling the sweat running into them and stinging him. The first sensation he got was heat. "Hot... hot..." he muttered, trying to shove the sheet off. His face was soaked and a soft touch took that away with a cold, wet cloth. Still shaken by the vivid dream, it took several minutes to get his breathing under control.
"Nightmare?"
"...worse..." He panted, squinting at the beautiful face above. The almost aqua eyes seemed lost in the pale cocoa skin. Too much pain lingered there. His eyes shifted to the other bed, where all he saw was a pair of swollen, red-rimmed eyes. "Cait..." he croaked, watching her pale face rise. She dropped the limp hand she'd been holding and came over. He snaked a hand up, over the bars, and brushed the stray tear with his finger. "I'll find her, right before I send that son-of-a-bitch to hell."
"She's my baby, Chris, she's all I have..."
"I know," he hushed, seeing the pretty eyes well up again. "How's Ryan?"
"He won't wake up. It's been too long. They said his x-rays were good..."
"What time is it?" He rubbed his eyes and saw Gabrielle taking his vital signs.
"Time for you to eat some dinner. You've been sleeping all day. You're temp is up to just over a hundred. I want you to take these," She handed him Tylenol. "I'm sending for a clear tray. Here," She handed him a cup with a straw. "I have to make rounds."
"Brie," He grabbed her hand, carressing the fingers lightly. "Don't give up. He's out there, somewhere, and you're one of the things keeping him fighting."
"He's special, Chris," she admitted, gaining strength from this man.
"Preachin' to the choir," he smiled lightly.
"I gotta go, I'll check on you two later. Cait, you need to eat... You're gonna get sick."
"She's right," Larabee agreed.
"How can you think about eating?" The worried mother repelled, crossing her arms over her broken heart. "I can't eat..."
"You getting sick won't bring her back." the doctor advised. "I've got some soup in the doctor's lounge. One mug and some crackers, deal?" Gabrielle offered and led the shaken woman away.
Chris waited five minutes, sipping his water slowly. Then he turned his head towards the opossum in the other bed.
"They're gone."
"You knew?" Ryan pushed the button, raising himself.
"I heard you clenching your jaw all the way over here." He paused, watching the guilt drowning the handsome Irishman's features. "It wasn't your fault. "
"The hell it wasn't. I was supposed to protect her. You weren't there." He whispered, seeing Cait's stricken face. "How the hell can I face her, Chris? I let that monster take the most precious thing God ever sent to this earth."
Chris winced as the tall man's voice broke. He knew what that pain felt like, he'd lived through it when Adam died.
"She's not dead and he isn't that stupid. He won't hurt her, not until he gets his money. So we have time."
"That's great!" McKenna scoffed, wincing as the stitches in his side pulled. "We got no idea where hetook her."
"He has to surface, eventually," the blond predicted, "He can smell the money. " He paused, seeing his best friend's battered body. "Vin'll protect her... with his life if he has to."
"If he's alive..." Ryan muttered, then heard a sharp hiss. "I'm sorry, Chris, I didn't mean that..."
"'s'okay Ryan..." Chris replied as the door opened and a tall, strong man with thick, snowy hair entered. His gaze burned a hole into the other McKenna, who turned away in shame.
"Get yer head up! Yer not a dog!"
Chris jumped when the large, black thorn walking stick hit the chrome rails.
"I'm speakin' t'ye Ryan Seamus Patrick McKenna. Ye'll look me in the eye!" He waited until the head rose and saw the scarlett flush of shame lingering. "I'll not utter a word until ye lose that paint. Twas not yer doin' and ye'll not be wallowin' in a pity pond. Yer a McKenna, and by God I raised ye better."
Chris admired the old man, he must have been quite a hell raiser in his day. He watched in mild amusement as two sets of stormy blue eyes met. For a few brief moments, neither budged, then he saw the younger man's Adam's apple bob and the face got even more flamed.
"Fine, I'll not be wastin' me breath!" Seamus turned and walked to the other patient's bed, giving a stern gaze from head to toe. "Ye look like ten miles of bad road, Man. Ye could do with a drop..."
"Tullymore?" Chris grinned, knowing that Irish whiskey was a favorite.
"Ah... yer a lad after me own heart." He unscrewed the top of the walking stick and poured a 'shot' into a small plastic cup.
"Jesus!" Chris laughed, shaking his head. "I can't, Seamus, but thanks for the thought. You never met a Maude Standish, did you?" He teased.
"Is she a looker, then?" McKenna asked, taking another shot and capping his 'cane'.
"She's a real lady, and more than a little shady."
"Ahhhh... there's not a woman breathin' that can pull the wool over Seamus McKenna's eyes."
Chris saw that Ryan had calmed down somewhat. He was reclining on the pillow, his eyes closed. On hand was pressed to his injured side. He met the old man's eyes and nodded. The gnarled hand came out and gripped the one attached to an IV. With a wink of gratitude, he turned back. He paused over this young man, seeing a lost boy. He ran his hand through the thick, curling black hair and cupped the strong chin.
"Ye breakin' me heart, Lad," he offered, "Yer not t'blame."
"I'm sorry, Sheanair," Ryan whispered, tears brimming. He heard the intake of air, knowing how that one word, the most affection he could show for this man who raised him, left it's mark. He felt the hand open up and stroke the side of his face.
"When I found ye... bleedin' like that in the hall." Seamus's voice shook. "I thought I'd lost ye. It damn near stopped me heart. Ye know what ye are t'me, Boy-o. Get yer chin up, now, and find me jewel." He bent down and kissed his eldest grandson's forehead, gripping the back of his neck. He saw her reflection in the window and eased Ryan back, tapping his face once and with a wink, moving aside. "I'll be stretchin' me legs..." He gave her a brief hug and kissed her cheek, then left.
"Caitlin, God, I'm sor..."
"Shhh!" She put her fingers over his lips, taking the word away. She moved the bars down, sitting on the edge of the bed. She held her arms out and he fell into them, weeping on her shoulder. She rocked him and crooned softly in his ear, letting her fingers stroke his back. "I love you, Ryan McKenna, now and forever..."
It was a curious noise that woke him. The room was dark, the only light coming from a weak bulb blinking in the bathroom. Painfully, he moved, surprised that his wrists were free. As the circulation came back, he cried out, the pain of the broken limb exploded. He rolled onto his back, frowning as he feltan iron manacle on his ankle. The short chain was connected to the wall. Cradling the injured limb, he heard the sound again. Breathing was becoming difficult, he felt like an elephant was sitting on his chest. Lifting his dirty, wet, tangled head, his fevered eyes raked over the room.
"..the hell..." he croaked, seeing something tiny curled up in the corner. His blurry eyes didn't adjust to that darkened area of the room. At first, he thought it was a dog. Then a tiny voice pierced the stilled air.
"Vin?"
"Grace?" His panic-stricken voice replied. He growled as a low heat rose in him. He didn't care what they did to him, but to take a child brought out the lion in him. "Did they hurt ya, Sugar?"
"No." She paused, squinting at the battered, body covered in streaks of blood. "I thought y'was dead. I... I... kept... call..ing... but... y... you did... didn't... answer... I tried to... to... your eyes wouldn't work..." She started to cry.
"Come're..." Vin held his arms and inhaled painfully when the tiny child dissolved into them. Her tears came them, raining down on his bare chest, through the torn shirt. He sat up gingerly, sucking in air as the room flew by. He leaned against the wall, his good arm around the tiny body, now choking and hiccuping. "Cut that out, now, y'all make yerself sick. Look at me," he waited until the tiny tear-streaked face rose. "I won't let anyone hurt ya, ya got m'word." He kissed the tip of her nose and smiled.
"Vin?"
"Yeah?"
"I want my mommy."
"I know, Sugar, " he winced as the tiny cries threatened to spill over. His mind was willing but his body wasn't able. He tried to stay awake, but the pain and fever were too strong.
"Vin?" Grace felt his arm slip and turned around. His eyes were closed again and his head was hanging down. She moved and he fell, landing on his back on the mattress. "Vin... wake up... I'm scared... it's too dark... Vin... please..." she squeaked, then curled up against him, burying her face into his neck. She felt his arm move over her and relaxed a little. Later, she hear him moan, then cry out, clutching his head. "What's wrong? Did I hurt you? I'm sorry, Vin. Don't cry..."
He wanted to soothe her fears, calm the tiny, shivering body, but the pain was too intense. His head was exploding and his chest so heavy he could barely breath. His eyes widened in fear as the horrid thought appeared. He was dying. Just as his eyes rolled, a strange mist invaded him and he lost all his senses. He sat up, held the quivering child and felt his heart bursting. He'd found her... finally... his lost angel... his own precious miracle. Nobody would take her from him again.
"Ne pas craindre, mon ange."
"Huh?" Grace screwed her face up. His face looked the same, but it was different. "Your eyes are all funny? Vin?"
Vin? He wrinkled his face. Who was this Vin? The child was confused. He cupped her face and gazed on the perfection displayed.
"C'est magnifique," he marveled, then felt her stiffen and the tiny face puzzled with fear. What was the matter? "Q'uy a-t-i-l?"
"Why are you talking like Aunt Brie's granny?" She noted of the elderly woman they visited sometimes, who only spoke French. "Vin, don't talk like that, okay?" She cocked her head.
Again with the 'Vin'. He sighed, smiled and nodded. It mattered no, she could call him anything. He'd found his angel. He stroked the tiny head, flinching at the pain that enveloping him.
"I am sorry, little one," he spoke quietly. "You are my angel, no?" He relaxed as she snuggled against him. He rocked her, humming as she finally began to relax.
"I love you, Vin," she murmured, sucking her thumb and pressing herself close to him.
"Je t'aime, sweet angel," he kissed her curly head and held her close. He sung to her in a low voice, smiling as he recalled Isabella's sweet voice. He felt the hot breath on his chest and her stiff body relax. His eyes were sharp now, trained on the door. When the beast returned, he'd slit his throat and go to find his beloved bride.
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