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: I want to thank the kind, generous and understanding editor, aka KET, for effortlessly going through this with her red pen. Thanks Pard, you got no idea how relieved I am to have my 'assets' covered. I am very very grateful, KET, thanks a million.
NOTE 1 - I want to thank the kind, generous and understanding editor, aka KET, for effortlessly going through this with her red pen. Thanks Pard, you got no idea how relieved I am to have my' assets' covered. I am very very grateful, KET, thanks a million.
NOTE 2 - I want to thank very good friend and wise, wise lady for all the priceless medical information for both Eye of the Deceiver and Through the River of Fire. Julie, without you my story would have huge holes in it! Thansk for being so very generous.
It wasn't just that something cool was eased down his throat; it was sweet. His mind's eye made a picture of a large glass of coke, pregnant with ice and almost too cold to lift. He started to gulp it, eager to quench his thirst and it was taken away. This action met with his disapproval and he scowled, forcing his eyes open.
"...gimme..."
"Slow down!" Chris ordered, tipping the can of coke to Vin Tanner's lips. He saw the eyes narrow and roam the room. Confusion soon gave way to pain and the eyes shut again; both fists balled up and a prolonged hiss slid free. "...I got a long memory..." the blond vowed, seeking revenge. "Here, it's not much..." he offered a handful of cookies. "We're pullin' out..."
Vin stopped munching, swallowed a wad of cookie, drained his soda and shook his head.
"Ain't no 'we'..."
"We stick together, it's our only chance." Larabee leaned on the chair and eased his wounded body upright. "They'd never leave a witness behind, Vin." He saw the head drop and the cheeks flush. "I didn't mean it that way..." He rested his hand on the soft clothed shoulder. "Hell, it's only 2 to 1 odds, for us, that's a piece of cake." Still there was no reply. He watched his injured friend rise slowly, clutching his head. "You got a knot the size of Texas, but it's not bleeding bad." Then he saw Vin's color deepened again, as his hand rode over his lower back and backside. "Vin..."
"Don't," he denied, embarrased that Chris knew. "They gotta listen t'me. They got no choice. Roads is washed out and they're runnin' low on time. They'll miss that plane."
"Can you stall? Buy us some time?" the blond buttoned his shirt and finished his water.
"I can try... as long as I don't find that airstrip, we gotta a chance. They won't kill us 'til they get on board. Worst gets to worst, we're their 'ace in the hole'. "
Chris saw the smirk forming on the Texan's battered face and began to grin in anticipation.
"Damn shame ya didn't think to use that extra hole in yer ass... couldda hid a weapon up there."
"Go to hell, Tanner!"
"Thought we's goin' together, Cowboy?"
Chris's grin broadened and he gripped the back of Tanner's neck, gaining an immeasurable degree of strength from those blue eyes. Before the two could debate further, the loud sound of footsteps signaled the call to arms. Not knowing if this would be their last trip together, they locked forearms instinctively and shared a brief intense stare. Then the door opened and the huge mountain of muscled flesh appeared.
"Move!" Bull ordered. "Texas, you ride up front with me." He pushed theslim man ahead, shoving the staggering blond backwards. The motion caught the injured man off guard and he went to his knees.
"Get offa him!" Vin snarled, reaching to help Chris up. It was the smallest sliver, but he recognized the brief glint of panic in the pale green eyes. The bloodied hands moved over the raging gut, still feeling the effect of the strong antibiotics. Wordlessly, he propelled the leader toward the bathroom.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"Ya ain't the brightest bulb in the lamp, are ya?" Vin scoffed, shoving Chris into the men's room. He felt Arlee behind him and turned, blocking the doorway. "Back off!" Despite the fact every inch of him was pulsing in pain and his legs felt like jelly, he rose and stood tall, squaring his steely gaze at the defiant villian.
"Arlee!" Linc clamped a hand on the arm raised, bearing a pistol. "Cool your heels. Get the gear stowed. Go!"
While staggering towards the cubicle, Chris eyed the bathroom, desperate to leave a message. He shut the door and saw the cardboard box that held the toilet paper covers. He eased it off the grips, flipped it and used the only 'ink' he had - his own blood. He heard Linc and Bull's voices rising and feared for Vin, so he was brief. When he heard Bull threaten to break Vin's fingers, he flushed and got to the sink. He washed his bloodied hands just as the eldest Savage entered. Chris walked slowly to the door, wincing as the stall doors were slammed open and shut.
"All clear!" Bull yelled. "Let's go."
Vin was already in the front seat, tensing as Troy's knife slid next to his ear. The younger Savage was sitting behind him and enjoying the blade play. Bull jumped in front and turned the ignition on. He tried to turn his head only to have the knife prick his neck and the large leader laugh.
"Now, don't you go worryin' on Harvard, he's uh... tied up..."
"Chris!" Vin hollered, then turned two hot blues on the killer. "Ya fuck with him and ye'll never see that plane."
Sixty prickly seconds hummed through the air before Bull blinked. "Take the gag out, Linc."
Vin didn't ease his defiant look; he heard Chris gagging and coughing, then the breathing slowed down.
"I'm okay, Vin."
While the dark beauty of the Land of Enchantment passed by, Vin Tanner's mind was spinning. He'd stalled as long as he could; any more delays and he was sure Bull's short temper would blow and they'd end up dead. He was trying to fight off the aftereffects of a probable concussion; the dizziness and nausea was gripping him severely. His back and ribs were throbbing and his burned chest was on fire. Most of all, he was worried about Chris. He'd flipped his visor down and could keep eye contact with the blond in the mirror. The green eyes were fading fast and he willed them to open. Vin used his best judgement to guide the van through the rustic countryside. Finally, they were on NM 15, a steep, narrow winding road that would take them to Silver City.
Nestled in the foothills of the Pinos Altos Mountains, Silver City bordered the Continental Divide. The sky had turned from black to dark blue announing the new dawn approaching. Lincoln pulled out a cell phone once they passed Lake Roberts.
"We're here... south side of the lake," he paused. "Okay," he cupped the mouthpiece. "He said look for a sign of Dead Gulch Mine and follow the arrow." Five minutes later, they eased down the remote road on the way to a ghost town. Vin saw the tail of the small, silver plane and his heart began to pound. His eyes slid to the mirror and he saw Chris reading his thoughts. It was now or never. Through eyes glazed with fever and pain, he saw the slightest tilt of the head and replied in kind. They pulled up a short distance from the plane and the door slid open. Arlee's hand grabbed him and pulled him out. He was relieved to see Chris emerge from the back of the van, on his own feet. He then eyed Troy, the man next to Chris, and he spotted a pistol tucked in his jeans and a knife in the top of his boot. A smaller gun was pressed to Chris's neck. The two older men went to speak to the pilot and inspect the plane. Troy and his brother exchanged sick details of how they would 'off the pigs'.
Anxiety gave way to nervous energy and Chris felt a rush of adrenaline as they stood waiting to be executed. Despite the fever he felt coming on, his eyes were slowly sizing up the situation. Vin was swaying and blinking, as the aftereffects of the concussion rose up. Arlee seemed to notice this and let his guard down. He kept one hand on Vin's neck was twirling the gun haphazardly with the other, eyeing the plane. Larabee's anger broiled, when he saw the interior light from the van hit the silver badge pinned to the killer's belt. Vin's badge... something that the fiery Texan was proud as hell of. When Vin's eyes met his, Chris dipped his head once, keeping two fingers at his waist. He saw Vin's gaze glued to his hand and he went one finger, then none.
"What the hell?" Linc spun around hearing scuffling from behind the van. He and Bull dove for cover and shots rang out. "Shit!" He ducked when the blond captive appeared, rolling on the ground under the back of the van, firing a gun.
"Drop it or I'll pick his dinner out the hard way!" Arlee yelled, shoving the point of the knife into the now semiconscious tracker's naval. He saw the blond hesitate and pressed harder, getting a sharp cry. "I've done this before, Larabee. I can make him suffer for hours, pull his intestines out real slow and easy. Your choice."
"Yella ain't yer color, Larabee," Vin gasped, trying not to pass out. He wanted the blond to get mad enough to shoot. If he didn't, they'd both die. His weakened condition caused him to stumble at the moment of impact. While Chris was able to disarm Troy and kill him, Vin started to black out and his knees buckled. He'd been slammed into the side of the van hard. Blood now ran from a new cut on his hairline, high above his right eye. He sucked air in hard as the blade entered his belly slightly; his eyes widened and his fists curled up.
His will to survive was the only thing keeping the leader conscious. Blood from the wound in his side was sticking to the bandages and pulling his skin. His pounding head swam and sweat poured from his fevered body. A few feet away to his right, his best friend was prone, writhing in agony as a madman was trying to eviserate him. He ducked as two bullets whizzed over his head from the left where Linc and Bull were taking cover by the plane. Then he heard Vin cry out and saw the evil grin on Arlee's face. The gun rose and wavered; he made his choice. He'd take that animal out or die trying. Fate intervened as the gun clicked with no discharge.
"Shit!" He rolled over, seeking to reach the dead boy's body to get the knife from his boot. A heavy foot stomped on his hand and another yanked him up by the hair.
"It don't matter none which one of you pigs killed my boy," Bull seethed, eyeing the place where his son's face used to be. He slammed a fist into the twisting blond's back. "You're both gonna pay! " He knelt down in front of the semi-conscious ATF man who then spit into his face. "I'll make you and that pretty friend of yours wish you were never born. Get them on the plane!"
"What?" Linc shoved a boot into the still struggling blond man's chest, pinning him to the ground. "Are you crazy? Let's do 'em both here."
"Come on Pa," Arlee begged. "I wanna gut 'im..." He sliced a little more of the gasping man's lean flesh.
"If you were doing your job, your brother wouldn't be dead!" Bull raged. "Get him on the plane! They'll die when I decide and it won't be quick or pretty. Until we land in Mexico, we still might need them alive. Move!"
Vin's glazed eyes met his best friend's briefly. He blamed himself; Chris's actions were precise and dead on. He didn't stumble and fail; he took his man out. It would have worked... if he'd done his job right. The pain of that - failing the one person who meant more to him than breathing, hurt worse than all the cuts, abrasions and abuses on his body. They were gonna die and he'd thrown away their last hope. He sighed heavily and didn't fight the black tidal wave. He was already unconscious when Arlee rolled him over and tied his hands.
"No, Vin..." Chris whispered painfully. The depth of shame and guilt from the battered blue eyes wounded him far deeper than the bullet did. Defeat in Tanner was so rare he couldn't get a grip on it. Like his partner, he was rolled over and flinched as the brittle ropes cut into his tender wrists. He staggered along, the only feeling of satification was that Bull Savage was in pain. The look of anguish as he cradled his dead son, was fuel for him. Chris was shoved on the floor in the back of the Beechcraft next to the unmoving Texan. His concerned eyes couldn't see how deep or long the knife wound was. He did see blood seeping onto the floor and hissed in frustration. Arlee helped his father lift his brother into the plane. He was laid on the floor in the back. As the engines sounded and the small plane took off, Chris Larabee watched the journey to hell begin.
In the middle of the chorus or 'Lola', the Kinks classic hit, the would-be-crooner rinsed the soap from his lean body and paused. Shoving the shower curtain aside, he stepped out onto the bathmat and tucked a towel around his well-muscled waist. He turned the radio off and pulled the door open, wiping his face with a hand towel. As he entered the bedroom, he heard a strange voice on his answering machine.
"... of the sheriff's department. It is urgent that you call here as soon as you get this..."
"Hello!" Buck grabbed the phone, his heart hammering. "This is Buck Wilmington. I was in the shower. I missed the beginning of the message.'
"Mister Wilmington," the deputy watched the crime scene team enter the diner and moved aside, nodding to his partner. "I'm Antonio Barnes of the San Juan County Sheriff's Department in New Mexico. Do you own a 1999 green Chevy Tahoe?"
"Yeah... I lent it to a couple of my friends on Sunday. Why?" Buck's heart was hammering and his mouth went dry. He clenched his eyes shut, fearing the worst, as the lawman read off the digits on his licence plate.
"It was found at the scene of a homicide on route 64..."
"Homicide!"
"Yes sir, at a diner on a lonely stretch of road about thirty miles from Farmington."
"Oh, God!" Buck raked a hand through his wet head. "They were driving up late last night from Taos. Vin was sick..."
"Vin?"
"Uh... I'm a... federal agent, ATF, here in Denver. Chris Larabee, my boss and Vin Tanner, another agent were driving that car. Are they dead?"
"No, the owner of the diner was shot point blank... but it looks like your friends were kidnapped. We'll inform the F.B.I. since they're feds." He paused, cupping the phone and signaling the sheriff.. "Dan, I got two positives, they're feds from Denver. Wilmington is their partner... ATF... uh... Larabee and Tanner. Okay."
"Kidnapped?" Buck sat on the bed, grabbing the pen and pad by his phone. "Slow down a minute." The news that his friends were not in a body bag allowed him to breathe again. "What happened?"
"Can you describe your two friends?"
"Uh, Chris is the taller one, about six feet with short blond hair. Vin is younger and a little slimmer, long brown hair... what's going on?"
"Near as we can tell, they arrived here last night before eleven p.m. They stumbled into a hornet's nest. The owner usually closes at eleven and uses a video camera to record the interior. He'd been robbed several times overnight."
"...and Chris and Vin were on this tape?"
"I'm afraid so. The blond man was wounded in the side," he paused, hearing the sharp hiss on the other end.
"...and Vin?"
"I'd rather not go into details now, Sir, but he was injured as well. They were both walking when they were forced to leave just after one a.m. How soon can you get here?"
"I'll be on the next plane." Buck stood. "What about the kidnappers? How many? Are they local? Do you have any leads?"
"They're from Montana way. Four men," the young deputy nodded to the sheriff who was waving to him. "No, Mister Wilmington, we have no leads yet. We have an APB out on them. They're on the top of the F.B.I.'s most wanted list."
"Most wanted..." Buck's quick brain did the math. Four men... most wanted... Montana. His face drained of color and he closed his eyes, his heart sinking fast. Just as the name entered his brain, the young lawman uttered the words he didn't want to hear. "Fuck, no..."
"Bull Savage and his family. I'm sorry. The sheriff just alerted the Border patrol. It looks like they were taken as shields. I'll have a one of our men meet you at the airport."
"Yeah... thanks..."
For a moment, he was paralyzed. The water ran from his plastered head down his face. He heard Vin's cranky voice as the slim Texan shuffled up the aisle every morning. He saw that winsome smile, too long missing, that Chris Larabee found again when the Texan entered his life. He fingered the tiny gold cross on his neck, a Celtic design, the last gift his mother gave him before she died. He bowed his head and said a prayer, the most heartfelt one he'd ever offered up. Then he picked up the phone.
"Hello, Orrin, it's Buck," his shaken voice had the other man's immediate attention. "I got bad news..."
The sick feeling in his stomach was due to more than his injuries. The blond hostage awoke with a start, annoyed that he'd dozed off. His first gaze went across the aisle to where Vin's dull eyes were fixed into space. Something was wrong. He could hear Bull up front somewhere, screaming at the pilot. The other three men were in seats up front. He, Vin and the dead body were on the floor in the rear where cargo was usually stored. He twisted sideways but couldn't move; his legs were tied to a metal bracket on the wall.
"Vin? Vin?" he whispered, rolling his eyes as the plane dropped again and his stomach shot up to his teeth. "Something's wrong... Vin?" The eyes blinked and the brown brows furrowed. He noted that the sniper's normally fine featured, handsome face was swollen, cut, bruised and discolored. But it was the defeat in those normally bright eyes that worried him. "Get your ass in gear, I need you! Fuckin' look at me!"
"Engine's failin'," Vin replied tonelessly, "we're goin' down." His legs weren't tied down and he sat up painfully, his eyes glazed in agony.
"Jesus..." Chris swore, seeing the large amount of blood riding the blue shirt above Vin's waist.
"I'm sorry, Cowboy, I fucked up..." he rasped painfully, trying to kneel, using his shoulders as leverage. He bit his lip, trying to worm his left hand free. He twisted and grunted, each movement causing more ripples of fire to stab his ravaged body. Finally he felt three fingers shift and tugged hard.
"Bullshit!" the angry blond tossed back. "Guess I fucked up too. My ass didn't get bit by that Goddamn rat and we'd never have been on that road."
"Ya took out yer man, all I hadda do was..."
"Shut up!" Chris hissed over the loud voices of the now panicking passengers. "Can't think of anyone else I'd rather ride with," he said in a thick voice, not masking how he felt for this man. They locked eyes and he managed a small smile. "To Hell or anywhere else." He saw the excruciating pain on the other man's face as he slowly inched his way forward. Unable to go on alone, the freed bloodied hand reached out and the shaggy head came up.
"Chris..." Vin's voice was almost prayerful. He knew the plane's rapid descent and the angry argument up front spelled out their fate. Then the engine sputtered and died. With all the strength he had left, he reached out for his brother. "Chris!"
"No!" Chris screamed as Vin's fingertips barely brushed his chin, just before the deafening sound tore them apart. He felt a brief, explosion of hot pain in his head, then nothing.
Team Seven's youngest member was stumped. His chocolate doughnut was only half-eaten and his coffee was black and strong. The steam drifted past him as he studied his problem. His hazel eyes were crossed in perplexion.
"J.D., did you hear me?"
"Huh?" he blinked when a dark-skinned hand appeared on his desk. "Aren't they beauties?"
"If you say so," Nathan Jackson chuckled. "I wouldn't know one end of a fishing rod from another. You buying a new one?"
"It's a present, for Casey, for our anniversary," he bragged of the pretty twenty-two year old law student who lived with him. "Six months ago she moved in, best six months of my life!"
"Fishing rod?" the older and much wiser married man laughed and shook his head. "You best pick one with the right grip. I wouldn't want it to slip out of her hands before she breaks it over your thick skull."
"What's wrong with a fishing rod?" Dunne defended. "We're planning on a long camping trip near the river and..."
"J.D.," the former medic laid a 'fatherly' hand on the younger man's shoulder and left the grin on his face. "We gotta talk. You might be a computer whiz, but when it comes to romance, you need some schoolin'."
"She likes outdoors stuff, she's not fussy like most girls."
"She's not a girl, she's a woman. If she's that special, you give her something that will take her breath away. Something that comes in a velvet pouch from the jewelry store."
"She's not much for jewelry..."
"No thanks to you," Nate sighed, waving to Ezra who appeared with his cafe au lait. "Speak of the devil..."
"Has our sharpshooter returned?" the gambler looked around the office.
"Not that devil..." Jackson bobbed his head. "J.D. and Casey are celebrating an anniversary."
"Ah," the southerner placed the cup on his desk. "Young love, how very nauseating. Six months of co-habitation?"
"Yeah, I'm buyin' her a ..." His voice was interuppted by the dark hand on his mouth.
"What would you give a special lady to celebrate the event?" Jackson posed, removing his hand.
"I'd start with a nice dinner, soft music, some chablis and lots of candles," Ezra mused, "a nice comfortable area under a moonbeam."
"The gift, Ezra, get to the gift..." Nathan pressed.
"Six months," he rubbed his chin. "Too soon for a ring, earrings wouldn't do... a gold charm, yes, for that pretty bracelet her mother gave her. A rose perhaps..."
"Charm bracelet?" J.D. frowned. "When did you see that?"
"Most recently at the charity ball for the Widows and Orphans Fund. As I recall, it was for her graduation from High School. The last gift she got from her mother, it holds great sentimental value no doubt."
"See?" Nathan thwacked the dark head. "Guess what Einstein came up with?" He jerked his head and grinned as Ezra chortled.
"The last of the great romantics!" Standish grinned. "If you'd like, I can recommend a good jeweler. Another fine choice might be an antique timepiece given her chosen profession."
"Thanks, Ezra..." J.D. looked up, startled at the man in the doorway. "Orrin!"
"Gentlemen," the veteran nodded and moved into the room. "Where is Mister Sanchez?"
"He's coming..."
"Get him on the phone, please." Travis walked to the speaker phone on Buck Wilmington's desk. "Have him call here now."
"What's wrong?" Nathan's blood ran cold for some reason; it wasn't often he saw the senior ATF man so upset.
"Josiah?" J.D.'s eyes never left the shaken Division Head. "Orrin's here, he wants you to call Buck's phone. No, I don't know why... okay..."
When the phone rang, Travis pushed the 'speaker' button and motioned them to come closer.
"Orrin?" Sanchez frowned at the unmoving line of traffic. "I'm stuck on the interstate. Did I miss a meeting?"
"No, Josiah, Buck called me this morning and I wanted you to hear this together."
"Is Buck okay?" J.D's voice died, fearing his best friend had been hurt.
"He's on his way to the airport. Nathan, there's a squad car outside waiting for you. You and Buck are taking the 8 am flight to Farmington, New Mexico."
"New Mexico?" Ezra pursed his lips. "Have Chris and Vin been in an accident?"
"They've been taken hostage."
"Hostage?" Sanchez spoke over the horns honking outside his window. "By whom?"
"Last night they stopped at a diner not far from the Colorado border. Apparently right after a pack of blood thirsty animals killed the owner. The surveillance camera recorded some of what transpired. They've both been injured and were taken out at gunpoint around one a.m. The border's been alerted and the F.B.I has obtained some disturbing evidence."
"What is it you're not saying?" Nathan frowned.
"They have an A.P.B. out?" J.D. asked.
"How disturbing?" Josiah inquired.
"The kidnappers are already wanted in several surrounding states for robbery, assault and murder, among other charges. I spoke with the sheriff who is still on scene. Chris appears to have been shot .A portion of the tape contains these animals torturing Vin." He wasn't surprised at the silence. Nathan's face was a mask of molten anger; J.D.'s simmering rage. Ezra's was unchanged save for the fire in his eyes and one fist clenched to white knuckles.
"Orrin, who took Vin and Chris?" Josiah asked point blank, adding up the clues.
"Bull Savage." He turned to Nathan. "Get going, keep me posted and use some of that talent you have to keep Buck under control."
Wordlessly, the stunned agent collected his badge, gun and cellphone and left.
"Orrin, what about us?" J.D. stood up. "I can't sit here while some lunatics have Vin and Chris."
"You have a job to do," he said. "All of you."
"But..." Dunne protested only to be cut off.
"A job you were trained and hired for. You are an ATF agent, Mister Dunne and I expect you to continue in your investigation." He paused, eyeing the scorched hazel eyes. His tone softened and he let out a small breath. He moved next to the dejected youth and placed a hand on his slumped shoulder. "I know it's frustrating, J.D., I want to find them too. But you know the rules. You're not working for the F.B.I or trained as such. There are people whose lives depend on you finding that arsonist," he referred to the rash of church bombings. "Keep your chin up, Son." He turned away, addressing the others. "Ezra, Josiah, unless I hear anymore, we'll meet in my office at one p.m. The sheriff will arrange a conference call."
The sound of the door closing was the only sound in the room. Suddenly, it seemed so large and cold. Without the barb-wired bantering that filled the air each day, the office seemed stagnant and lonely. Then the phone rang and Ezra took the call he was expecting from the lab in Colarado Springs. Josiah tossed the cell phone onto the passenger seat and felt a headache coming on. J.D. didn't move for several seconds then slide his desk drawer open.
He lifted out an antique frame bearing a photo of the seven. It was sepia-toned, one of those photo's that is styled to look like the old west. He was the one who spotted the Time Lost Photography Studio in a small town near the spot where they went river rafting. It was the first trip they'd taken together after Vin joined the team. None of them wanted to put on the antique cowboy gear, but they did it for him, grumbling all the while. It was a favorite of his; his eyes raked over the figures of the two men on the far left. Chris was dressed in black duster with a low brim black hat. A pair of pearl handled Colts rode his hips. One was trained on the slim man in front of him. Vin was on his knees wearing hand cuffs. He'd already been in his trademark buckskin coat and only agreed to pose if he could be the 'outlaw'.
JD studied every feature on their faces, stunned to realize it was the only shot he had of all seven of them. He remembered the bawdy humor, endless teasing and bad jokes over the campfire. It had been a weekend to remember; they basked in the light of brotherhood. He hoped and prayed it wouldn't be the last trail they rode together.
"Get to the back of the plane and brace yourself ! We're going down!"
Bull listened to the pilot's harsh words in a daze, his heart slamming into his chest as the engines sputtered and coughed. It couldn't end this way; he'd waited so many years for this taste of freedom. Time was slipping past and his numbed fingers fought the restrictive seatbelt. Through a haze of disbelief, he heard Linc somewhere in the background, screaming at Arlee. No, it couldn't end like this. He took out his frustrations on the busy pilot, screaming at him.
As the engines died and the body of the plane began to shimmy, Roberto Carrion's lingering thought was that he should have been fishing. That was what his original plans were - a nice relaxing morning off Baja. Now the ten thousand dollars in his pocket wasn't worth the paper it was printed on. The fifty-year old pilot had been running drugs since he was a teen; this was an easy run or should have been. Now, it a cruel twist of fate, he gazed for the last time at the spectacular beauty of Candamena Canyon. The jewel of the magnificent but treacherous area was the Basaseachic Waterfall, rushing down over 800 feet. He made a lightening fast choice; his time had run out. It was an isolated area, reachable only by foot and then only by an experienced guide.
He ditched the last of the fuel, ignoring the angry Americano's abusive behavior. The odds were slim enough but a little higher without the threat of a fireball. He pulled hard, gritting his teeth as the fog rolled up off the tops of the trees. The ground was rising rapidly, ready to greet them. He never saw the tree limb that crashed through the windshield taking his head off.
The expensive, dark green sunglasses did nothing to quell the raging headache. He shifted in the seat, eyeing the passing desert with little interest. He took the back seat on purpose, leaving his partner to get the details. To his credit, Orrin had chosen wisely. Nathan's quiet strength was the perfect compliment to his own inner storm. His stomach was suffering the most from the battle his heart and brain were waging. One voice speaking in words of 'faith' and 'resolve' and 'optimism'; the other recalling the bloody carnage that the killers left behind. Men with no souls who hated law enforcement. Men without guile who would slit a throat as easily as peeling an orange. Animals who had the lives of two of his closest friends in the palms of their filthy hands.
"Buck?"
Nathan laid a gentle hand on the tan jacket and saw the shoulders jump. He pulled back, letting the tall man regain his senses and ease from the car. A parade of vehicles was splayed in front of the modest silver coated diner, a relic from the 1950's. The patrolman was talking on the radio as a young man of perhaps twenty-five or so approached. His short dark hair lifted slightly in the morning breeze.
"I'm Antonio Barnes; I spoke with one of you on the phone earlier."
"I'm Nathan Jackson, a member of Chris Larabee's team," the dark man began, nodding to his silent partner. "This is Buck Wilmington. Can you give us a 'walk through'?"
"Yeah, the sheriff's inside," the young man moved, nodding to the green SUV. "Is that your vehicle? Is that how you left it?"
"Yeah," Buck whispered, finding a sad smile at the huge empty cup where Vin's trademark coke resided. "Damn that chocoholic, he left a mess..." he choked up, eyeing the graveyard for silver foil wrappings of the sniper's favorite snack. He could so easily see that choirboy-like smile and the blue eyes softening. He inhaled painfully, hearing the raspy, aw, hell Bucklin...
"Easy, Buck," Nate saw the crack forming. He touched the other's elbow and nodded to the deputy who continued.
"At approximately five a.m., a trucker pulled in here. Normally, Clem Johnson, the owner, opens up at five. The driver saw the blood and mess inside and the door was open. He couldn't find the owner and called us. We found him in the freezer, a thirty-eight buried between his eyes."
"What's the ETA on Chris and Vin's arrival?" Nathan asked, approaching the door to the tiny eatery.
"You could set a clock by Clem," Barnes stepped thru the tiny entry and moved towards the small cluster of booths to the right. "He locked up at ten p.m. By the way we found the place, we surmised he was ready to lock up when the Savages arrived," he paused, nodding to the doorway. "They shot him in the head and dumped his body in the deep freeze." He waved to a tall, lean man with silver hair whose features bespoke a hint of Native American ancestry. "Jim, these are the ATF guys from Denver. This is Buck Wilmington and Nathan Jackson."
"Jim Whitefeather," the sheriff nodded. "Gentlemen, let's get to it. The hotel confirmed your two friends checked out at five p.m. They were off course, but most likely due to a series of washed out roads. This would have been a detour, perhaps to Durango. In any event, it's apparent they arrived shortly after the killers. From the videos we've viewed, it's fairly certain that the blond man was shot. The force of the bullet sent him there," he pointed to the toppled salad bar. "We found blood over there. They were held for awhile back here," he moved to the store room where a young Hispanic woman was taking pictures. "The lab found traces of two kinds of blood back here, on the tiles, floor and discarded bandages."
"Vin?" Jackson frowned, disturbed by night of Hell his friends endured.
"I'm afraid so," Whitefeather paused, eyeing his young deputy. "Tony, are the tapes ready?"
"I'll check." The other man nodded and left.
"What was that look?" Buck finally spoke, his eyes leaving the small pile of cookies and coke cans lying side by side with the bloodied linens.
"I don't have to tell you how Bull Savage felt about lawmen," the sheriff's dark eyes grew hard. "Unfortunately, your Agent Tanner got the brunt of that brutality." He watched the tall man with dark hair and a mustache coil up like a cobra. The dark blue eyes were shooting fire and both fists were clenched. His friend's dark eyes were full of helpless rage. "We found two videos. Clem had been robbed several times, sometimes when he wasn't here. So he installed one camera at the far end of the dining room, another in the office. Your friend is abused on both."
"All set, Jim," the deputy called out.
"These go on at eleven p.m. when Clem locks up and heads for home. This first shot, from the tape in the office, occurs shortly after they arrived."
Nate nodded as the young deputy put mugs of coffee in front of them. They were seated a table for four in the back of the dining area. A small portable monitor was set up at the end of the table. Jackson's eyes saw the time in the corner of the screen, fifteen minutes past eleven p.m. He listened as Vin was verbally assaulted, then dished it right back.
"This friend of yours has guts, I'll give him that," the veteran sheriff noted, having seen the tapes already. "Whether he figured out the camera was here or not, thanks to that mouth of his, we got two leads. It's the needle in the haystack, a big haystack."
They listened as Vin goaded Bull into a discussion and the town of Silver City was mentioned along with 'flying' out of the country.
"He's smart, thinks good on his feet," the deputy added.
"They broke the mold," Buck managed, flinching as Vin's battered face was suddenly thrust into view. The angle of the camera showed the safe and one half of the desk. "Damn that hot head of his..."
"God..." Nathan hissed, fingers curling around the cup. They couldn't see what the brutes were doing; all that was visible was Vin's upper body pressed onto the desk. Then they heard the unmistakable sound of leather hitting flesh. The sharpshooter's eyes bulged in pain, yet he never uttered a sound. A single line of blood ran from the lip which he bit through. Then the shoulders rolled once and the eyes shut.
"...sick fuckin' bastard..." Buck shoved a chair. "Turn it off..."
"From the clues he drew out, we've got the Highway Patrol working the whole route. The F.B.I sent a team to scour the Silver City area. It's in the desert and there are a ton of little ghost towns, it's a lot of ground to cover..."
"Then get more men!" the angry agent demanded, his blue eyes on fire.
"Buck, you ain't no rookie, you know the drill..." Nate tried to placate.
"What I know is that a pack of animals has Chris and Vin, that's what I know!" He fumed, pacing around the table.
"The second tape gives us the departure time," Jim hesitated, eyeing the storm that passed to his right. "This isn't easy to watch."
"Do it," Buck issued frostily. His face was set in stone as the whooping maniacs laid Vin spread eagle and tied him down, baring his chest. He never flinched when the gun and blade probed the sensitive man's body. He clenched his jaw, curled his hand up into balls of rage, when the sizzling meat was laid on the lean chest. But when Vin finally cried out, his agonized features ripped the large man's gut. "Goddammit!"
"Let him go." The local lawman grabbed the dark-skinned agent's arm. Three sets of eyes watched the tall agent stalk through the door and outside into the sunlight. "His heart is too large..."
"Yeah," Nate agreed. "Do we need to see this?" His stomach turned when the urination began.
"No, not all of it," Barnes stopped the tape, then forwarded it until a digital readout showed. "Here's where they leave, just after one a.m. They're both still on their feet."
Nate nodded absentmindedly, lifting his lips when the battered, but not beaten Texan defied the others there, guarding the men's room. "You give 'em hell, Vin!" he said softly.
"Your friend, Larabee, left a note," Jim said, rising and signaling the brooding man outside.
Buck ducked back inside and eyed the men's room with a curious stare. He following Jackson as they approached the door.
"Chris left a message," Nate said, sliding into the bathroom. He paused behind the sheriff who used a pen to show them the bloody lettering on the back of the large rectangular toilet seat cover holder.
"NM... Sil Cty... X..." Wilmington frowned, then spotted the crude image of a plane. "Same thing Vin pulled, they're headed over the border. You done with my car? We need to get to Silver City."
"Yeah," Sheriff Whitefeather pulled out a notepad.
"I'll be outside, Nathan," Buck said, suddenly needing fresh air. Seeing Chris's desperate message churned his insides.
"There's a Holiday Inn on Superior St, we'll check in there. The F.B.I is HQ'ing there..." Sheriff Whitefeather wrote down a few more things and handed the paper over to the tall agent. "My numbers, office, home and cell. That's the F.B.I. agent in charge. He's coordinating things down there. Problem?" He heard an audible groan and watched the dark man's head shaking.
"I don't believe it," Nate exasperated, walking to the door. "Our luck can't get any worse."
"Tony will lead you back into town, get something to eat. I got a chopper coming at noon. We'll fly up to Silver City. We'll meet with the F.B.I. team and arrange a conference call with your people. He's gonna authorize the photos be pushed on television and in the papers. We want high visibility. Questions?"
"Anything from the border patrol?"
"Not yet, but they're on high alert." He rested a seasoned hand on the downcast shoulder. "Hey, they walked out of here, there's still hope."
"Yeah," Nate sighed, slipping his glasses on, "but the odds suck." He eyed the paper given to him and shook his head. "How the hell am I gonna tell him...?" He slid into the car and tried to keep a composed face. He told Buck about the plan to drive to town and then fly to Silver City for the meeting.
"Nathan?" Wilmington turned the ignition and studied the anger set in the other's jaw. "You keepin' somethin' from me?"
He sighed, turned and dropped the bomb. "Buck, the F.B.I is calling the shots. They got agents in the field, combing the hills around Silver City and others on their way to the border."
"So? We knew that before we flew here. That's their job, finding missing people, especially other agents." Then he saw it, or rather he felt it hit his chest. This was New Mexico and a leering face appeared in his mind's eye. "No, no fuckin' way. You're shittin' me? McClendon?"
"I'm afraid so, he's the senior field agent, he's in charge."
"Goddammit!" He slammed his palms on the wheel. "Does Orrin know?"
"He does by now, I'll call him from town." He clipped his belt. "Buck, I know that McClendon's a prick and it's no secret how he feels about Vin. But we gotta tread carefully here, or we'll get booted off the case. The most important thing, the ONLY thing is finding Chris and Vin. If that means swallowing my pride, I'll do it. Don't blow your cool..."
"I'm not promising that," he vented. "If that SOB says one word, just one, about Vin, I'm gonna send him into orbit."
"You're not gonna do a damn thing!" Jackson issued sternly. "That won't help either of them. We need to keep on top of every piece of information and evidence they get. I don't trust him, Buck, and getting sent back to Denver won't help. You do this for Chris and Vin. Buck! You got that?"
"Yeah," he muttered, feeling his stomach acid churning.
Enrico Figueroa eyed the blond captive with a wide smile. Normally, the rebels found little of interest in their patrols of this remote area. Today, Lady Fortune smiled on them. A small plane made a forced landing, splitting into three sections. One went towards the cliffs, over the river. They'd been able to eye that area with field glasses. It was empty. The second was just behind him, a piece of the luggage compartment. It's the section they found first, with an unconscious blond man chained to the wall. The third part, the largest, was the front part of the plane. Smoke drifting skywards is what attracted them. This part was smoldering as they arrived. They put the fire out and found a dead pilot and a half dead occupant. The last prisoner was found in the tall grass nearby, having been thrown. His nasty mouth was as large as his body. They had two prisoner's, American's most likely and that would make their leader happy. He watched the lean blond man's body stirring on the ground before him.
Over the pain in his head and chest, the sensation of suffocating was causing a 'red alert' alarm to sound in his brain. No air was coming into his lungs and that forced his eyes open. His foggy memory allowed no illumination into what occurred. He tasted blood, dirt and grass in his mouth and coughed, sending a mouthful free. He twisted his throbbing head sideways, sucked in some air painfully and tried to rise. He groaned and hissed when the unmistakable end of a rifle was shoved between his shoulder blades. The words that were screamed at him were loud and harsh - and Spanish.
"What the fuck?" He murmured, wiggling uncomfortably. He was on his belly in the dirt in the tall grass. His hands were tied and he heard voices, lots of them, all hollering in Spanish. "Hey, what the hell is going on?"
"Silence, Gringo dog!"
He cursed inwardly as a heavy boot slammed into the underside of this belly near the hip. This wasn't good. He lifted his face and squinted through the blood running down it. He saw legs encased in jungle fatigues and lots of rifles. The air was full of acrid smoke and the lingering scent of burning rubber, brush and flesh. Flesh? He blinked and shut his eyes, trying to remember. Then a voice broke through his shaky field of concentration.
"You listen to me, you grease ball! My boy's in there..."
Bull Savage. He groaned again as the loud voice was silenced by the screaming hostile voices and the thuds of boots and rifle butts hitting muscle and flesh. Then the images came back, broken and distorted. The loud sound and the explosion of pain. They'd crashed.
"Vin!" He screamed, unable to contain his concern. His head was jerked back and he then realized why he couldn't breathe. He had a leather collar on, thick and constricting each breath. A short lead was attached allowing the guard to choke him at will. His eyes bulged and he gulped air like a sick guppy as he was hauled to his feet. Then the pressure was relieved and he gulped air noisily before the tidal wave of pain descended. His head was cut; he felt air causing abrasive pain on the upper right side. The gunshot wound on his side had opened again and the burning pain in his ribcage told him he'd broken a few ribs. All of that paled in comparison to the twisted pile of smoldering debris several yards away. His frantic eyes swept the landscape. A dozen Mexican guerillas were milling about, laughing and drinking. Bull was unconscious, blood covering his face and a gaping wound in his thigh. He was tied and blindfolded. There were no more bodies.
"Vin?" He called out, wincing as a fist hit his back.
"Did I not warn you, Yankee pig? You are a prisoner of the Army Of The People. You do not have the right to speak."
"The others... on the plane..." Chris blinked back tears as sweat and blood stung his eyes. He scanned the grounds seeing open backed trucks.
"Only that big gringo... the rest are dead," he smiled cruelly, "...or will be..."
"What? No!" Chris jerked, hissing as the leather collar tightened on his throat. He watched two soldiers enter the smoking pile of debris and raise a gun. "Is there someone else in there?"
"His injuries are too severe... burned over most of his body and..."
"Jesus!" Chris flinched as a scream was followed by a series of gunshots. "Who... who was that? Who, I have to know!"
"I am tired of your gringo tongue!" The soldier yanked on the collar, forcing the battered, bloodied man to his knees, and then the wet blond head lolled forward. He was unconscious. He released the 'leash' and hollered for two of his men. "Load them in the truck... we will take them to camp. Juan Xavier will be pleased. Two Yankee dogs will bring money... much money from the ugly American Government."
"That could take months," the grumbling soldier replied, tossing the bound blond captive into the back of the truck.
"So what of it? We have much work to do at the camp. They will work like the dogs that they are. Is it done?"
"He's dead." The soldier eyed the burned corpse and kicked it before leaving the smoking ruins. "Let's move out!"
The hum of the engine and the motion of the large wheels jostled the ATF agent to rouse. Through green slits, he saw the smoke rising and wondered about that statement. Who was dead? Was it Vin whose scream he heard? Or had his friend been spared a horrific body of burns? Had he been killed on impact? The soldier's words came back to mock him then. The rest are dead... are dead... are dead. That took the fight from his abused and battered body. Vin was dead and that pain drove him back into a black void.
Wet. Cold. Wet. Cold. Pain. Hurt. Dead. Wet. Cough. Cough. Breathe.
The words formed images and his brain worked when his body wouldn't. He rolled over, shivering in pain and shock. His entire body pulsated in a shrieking chorus of agony.
Water. Lots of water.
Blink. Blink. Moan. Move. Move. Can't. Hurts. Die. Die. Hurts. God.
More orders from his brain. He couldn't move. He didn't even know if he was breathing. He opened his eyes as the rushing water forced him to react. It was cold and it hurt. One eye wouldn't open at all. The other observed the world above through a large blurry scope.
Trees. Water. Rocks. Birds. Loud Birds. Snakes. Snakes? Move. Move. Pain.
The shock from the pain prevented him from thinking beyond the basic need to stay alive. That meant breathing. Water was under him and brushing over him. The sun moved sending a razor sharp shard into his one working eye. He closed it and let his body go limp.
Trees. Water. Hurts. Pain. God. God hurts. Die. Please.
"Whoa, Pepe..." the priest reined in his horse and squinted into the sun. "What is this?" He studied the riverbank and frowned. There among the rocks and tall grasses, lying in the shallow water, was a body. He climbed down from the seat and made his way down the steep incline. He knelt down next to the young man and laid his fingers on the exposed throat. "So, my young friend, you live. Madre Dios, what a mess!" He eyed the nearly naked body covered with cuts, bruises and burns. A sharp gash splayed open some of the right thigh. Blood covered most of the face and upon tipping it slightly, he exposed the most dangerous injury. He blessed himself and said a silent prayer, eyeing the torn scalp, which exposed part of the skull.
"Where did you come from, my Son?" He eyed the rushing river and wondered about a hiking accident. The face was strange to him; he knew most of the locals. This boy's skin was too pale. He was a visitor. American most likely. That meant trouble if the rebels found him first. He would check the news when he got back to the church. He lifted the upper body gently, easing him from the frigid water. He eyed the steep hill and frowned. Tapping the stilled face, he made a vow.
"I am Father Carlos Romero and I'll be back. I need to get a rope."
By the time the battered young man was in the back of the wagon, wrapped in a soft blanket, the priest was worried. He was a medic many years ago in the army and had read as many medical books as he could. Often, the poor had no money for a doctor or no means to get to a town. So he was their only source of help. But he feared this young man's injuries were beyond his humble hands. As he rode for the church, he prayed for guidance.
Grimacing and cursing, he crawled from the river. Standing was impossible. The left leg was broken and the pain caused him to black out. When he next awoke, the sun was high in the sky and his tattered clothes were drying. He sat up, rubbing his throbbing skull. He threw up, then used the cold river water to rinse and then drink. Memories invaded his injured head of a forced landing. The plane broke apart, skittering in different directions. He vaguely recalled someone grabbing him as they were tossed in the river. The rushing water tore them apart. He eyed the landscape and crawled up a hill, securing a long tree branch. With his crude crutch, the young man began to limp, his battered body protesting each step. He paused, spotting tire tracks and followed them. He found the wreckage and the dead inside. Two dead... that meant the others were still alive, maybe. Taken away? His pained eyes lingered on the tire tracks. He found shells from rifles and cigarette butts. He saw blood on the ground. He knew this area had rebel troops. After using some debris to make a crude splint, he used his crutch and followed the tracks. He wouldn't stop until he found their base - and hopefully, the one he sought was there, still alive.
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