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.
The thick walls of the church provided much needed relief from the heat. The Madonna and her holy child looked on in sympathy, as Father Carlos carried his young patient into the back of the building and down the stone stairs.
The church was small and simple, but to the poor people in the mountain area, it was a beacon of hope. It was the quiet shelter they sought to ride out their emotional storms. Inside the one story Spanish stucco building, they offered prayers and gained strength from the much beloved priest who resided there.
At eighty years of age, the gray-headed man looked much younger. His hair was thinner and his stride a little slower, but Rico Romero felt as strong as he did when he wore a younger man's clothes. He heard the wagon pull up and dropped the armful of vegetables into the large bin. The garden was his pride and joy; it provided them with food and gave him many hours of pleasure. It was out back of the church, just beyond the door of the small kitchen. In addition to the simple chapel, there were two small bedrooms, a living area, a bathroom and kitchen upstairs. Downstairs, there was a good sized clinic, where his son tended to the poor parishioners. By the time Rico got to the front of the churchyard, the wagon was empty. Frowning, he entered the chapel and saw the open door leading to the clinic.
"Carlos?" he called out, easing his slight frame into the dark stairwell.
"Down here, Papa," the priest replied, easing the young man onto an examining table. The torn cloths came off easily and he began his examination. In addition to the severe head injury, there were older bruises, cuts and burns. A deep slash mark on the right thigh would need tending. Frowning, his skilled hands traced the outline of a stab wound in the lower right abdomen.
"You are lucky I was returning from San Pedro," the priest noted of the nearest town. "You will be keeping me busy this morning, my young friend."
"Who is he?" the older man asked, eyeing the muddy, bloodied, limp body.
"I don't know. I found him at the riverbank," the medical missionary replied, eyeing the horrid wound on the young man's head that exposed his skull. He moved his trained hands through the long, brown hair and clucked his tongue. "Papa, get me a basin of warm, soapy water," he requested, pulling a sheet up to the patient's waist. He tilted the pale man's head to the side and then turned it back.
The clinic was a good size, running half the length of the building above. There was an examination room where his medicine and tools were. Next to that, a gathering of several cots for those patients who remained overnight or longer in his care. There was a small washroom and storage area at the far end. He went into the washroom and scrubbed his hands and arms up to the elbows. Returning to the clinic, he noted his father already at work. He smiled upon seeing the tools he'd already used in the sterilizer and the older man bending over the patient.
"Someone hurt him on purpose," he called out, hearing his son return. "The Federales might be looking for him..."
"He's safe here, within the sanctuary of the church," the priest replied, patting his father's back and noting the worry. "What do we have here?" He saw a glitter of silver in the limp hand and uncurled the fingers.
"He guards it still," the old man said, noting the death grip the young man had on the object. "He must value it highly."
"Ah," the priest sighed, finally prying the treasure loose. He held up the muddy chain and eyed the disc on the end. "St. Christopher, a fine choice," he cupped the square jaw of the unconscious man and smiled. "The chain is broken; maybe I can find someone to fix it for you?" He saw his father's head turn and he handed the chain over to the gnarled fingers.
"Hmmph!" The old man slid the medal in to his pocket, "I suppose after all my other chores, I could find some time." He didn't see his son's wide smile.
For the next ten minutes, they worked on either side of the injured man, scrubbing the mud and blood from his battered body. The priest cleaned and stitched the nasty cut riding above the pale brown eyebrow first. While his father tended to the minor wounds, applying hydrogen peroxide and covering the deeper ones with bandages, he set about to take care of the serious head injury. He used a large syringe to squirt hydrogen peroxide into the nasty, gaping wound. It sat just behind and high above the right ear. Taking a long, thin pair of scissors, he cut the hair from the area around the wound. He used tweezers to gently remove the foreign objects sticking to the pink tissue within. He rinsed the area thoroughly again before suturing it with close to twenty stitches.
"Papa, hold him for me?" He moved to get the bandages while his father lifted the slim young man's upper body. This allowed the priest to wrap the sterile white gauze around the head wound. He nodded and his father eased the boy back down. Then he turned his attentions to the other two more serious injuries. Both the thigh and abdominal wounds were doused with peroxide, before being stitched and bandaged. Lastly, the burns on his chest were cleaned and he laid cold wet clothes over the red and blistered area. Finally, their frighteningly still young charge was ready to rest.
"Will he live?" the older man asked as he helped carry the unconscious, pale man to a cot in the next room.
"I hope so," the priest replied, pulling the sheet up and laying a hand on the pale forehead. "He has fever coming." He pulled out a stethoscope and listened to the labored sounds from within the battered chest. "I will pray for him. I must get ready for the morning mass. Do not leave him, Papa."
"Yes... yes..." the other replied, taking out the tangled chain and beginning the process of cleaning and fixing it. "We will be fine, this young Americano and I."
They both turned when a long, heavy sigh slipped through the bloodless lips of the patient.
Carlos patted the exposed naked shoulder and smiled.
"Rest easy, my young friend, you are in God's house."
"That's another beer you owe me, Mate," Jack Lynch goaded of the driver of the jeep. His blond hair was long and shaggy, which suited his clean-shaven face. The heat of the day was already simmering in the early hours of the morning. It was a far cry from the climate he'd been raised in, just south of London in England. His smile widened when he saw the tense jaw of the driver. The short dark curly hair matched the brooding, hooded dark eyes of his American friend. Both were news reporters covering wars, uprisings and other rebellious activity south of the border. Thrown together in the middle of an uprising ten years prior, they'd paired up and now traveled together.
While his sunny friend continued to goad him, Pete DiTullio clutched the wheel of the battered jeep and pressed the accelerator. They'd heard a rumor in San Pedro the night before that the rebels were breaking camp and moving again. The car broke down twice and a washed out road had led them on this detour. He'd wagered, unwisely, that they'd be at the falls before noon. That was the area that the rebels were spotted near. His concentration was broken when the chipper tone of the Englishman changed.
"Slow down, Pete!" Jack called out, sitting up and sending his alarmed line of vision through the cracked windshield. "Look!"
"Who the hell is that?" The cranky Italian-American inquired spotting a young man sitting against the base of a tree ahead. "Great... another delay... of all the fuckin' luck."
"Spoken like a true humanitarian," Lynch winced, "one of your more endearing qualities, Yank." He tapped the denim clad knee of the driver. "Pull over... he's hurt." He frowned when the speed didn't decrease. "Pete!"
"Yeah, yeah, okay," DiTullio barked, easing his booted foot off the gas pedal. He pulled up and gripped the tanned arm of his friend. "Could be a trap, watch that skinny ass of yours."
"He's half-dead," the Englishman retorted with a wicked wink, "Like most of the senoritas you sleep with."
"Just go!" the other tossed back, pulling a small gun from under the seat.
"Easy, Mate!" Jack put both hands up defensively when two blue eyes shot open and a fist flew at him. He'd knelt by the fallen young man, eyeing the crude splint. "We're not the enemy... neither are you. Where'd you come from, then?"
"...don't know..." Arlee Savage replied, trying to recall just how he got to this spot. His head was pounding and his leg was on fire. He remembered bits and pieces of the plane crash and his journey to find his father, but little else. He didn't know how long he'd been sitting here or just where he was. More importantly, he was hurt and needed help. Here were two non-natives, friendly, with a car and offering help. His cautious eyes told him these men were not military. He gazed at the jeep and spotted a bulky camera in the backseat. Reporters of some kind... he would have to be careful. "...can't remember... accident maybe... don't... know... busted my leg, I think..."
"Well, we'll get you back to San Pedro, there's a clinic there. The chap that runs it is quite handy with a needle. I'm sure Doctor Lorico can patch you up. Shall we have a go at it, then?" He asked, ignoring the string of nearly silent curses coming from his partner.
"Thanks..." Arlee allowed the tall Englishman to help him into the jeep. He eyed the terrain and made a vow to return.
The staff of the conference room acted quickly, setting up for the important meeting. The Video Teleconference was scheduled for noon and the F.B.I was already on the scene. In the corner, a table was set up with coffee, hot water, decaf packets and tea bags. Next to the creamers, sugar and artificial sweeteners was a large tray of sandwiches and a big bowl with individual bags of potato chips. The house staff tested the video, cables and connections, filled the water pitchers with icy H20 and then adjusted the piles of plates, napkins and utensils.
"Thanks, that will be all," F.B.I. agent Ted Harris nodded, placing note pads, pencils and status sheets on the table. He looked up several minutes later when the door opened. "Hello, Jim," he greeted the tall sheriff whom he worked with before.
"Ted," Whitefeather replied, taking the hand offered. "This is Buck Wilmington and Nathan Jackson. They work with Larabee and Tanner in Denver."
"Gentlemen," Harris nodded, shaking the dark-skinned man's hand. He frowned when he saw simmering rage in the dark blue eyes of the other man. "I'm Ted Harris. This is my boss, senior agent..."
"Eric McClendon," Buck spat out, fisting both hands.
"Small world, Wilmington, isn't it?" McClendon sneered, not hiding his smirk.
"You arrogant son-of-a-bitch!" Buck leapt, only to be hauled back by the Navajo lawman.
"No! Not here... remember your purpose!" He growled, directing the comment at the smug F.B.I man.
"Buck, get that hot head of yours together," Nathan hissed, grabbing the tan jacketed arm and shoving him into the wall. "Vin and Chris, remember?"
"Yeah," the tall agent replied, shaking off the restraining hands. "But you keep that slime-infested, foul mouth of yours shut, McClendon." He made the threat in low, feral tone before taking a seat. He shoved the offered plate of food away only to have it returned.
"You're not a child, quit throwin' tantrums," Jackson warned. "It's gonna be a long enough day, I don't need your belly growlin' along with that mouth of yours. Eat!"
Buck scowled and took a sandwich. His jaw worked in short order, dutifully chewing without tasting anything. The harder he tried to block out the vivid images of the tape he'd seen, the clearer they became. The cruel pictures of Vin being tortured replayed in his head, causing his fist to ball up the napkin he held. He felt a nudge to his leg, as Nathan pointed to the large video display unit.
"Ted, I think we're ready," McClendon issued, as the distinguished image of Orrin Travis appeared.
People who didn't know the thirty-year veteran agent, wouldn't be able to tell just how angry he was. They would only see a hawk-like, penetrating gaze burning a hole through the screen. But his men knew those eyes were on fire and they exchanged a cautious glance. Nathan caught the Travis's eyes and nodded, sending a silent message of accord.
"Good afternoon, Director Travis," Eric McClendon oozed. "We meet again."
"Just lucky, I guess," Orrin managed, keeping his distaste far below the surface. He saw the bodies gathered and frowned, eyeing the tense face of Buck Wilmington. He sighed heavily and leaned forward as the F.B.I. man introduced his partner and the local lawman. "Buck," he said, not hiding the warning in his tone.
"I'm okay, Sir," the mustached man replied before opening the file in front of him. He cast a side glance at his partner and offered a weak smile. "Thanks, Doc." He got a smile in return and took a deep breath before beginning to review the evidence.
As they ate, they watched the tapes and went over the evidence compiled by the agents in the field and at the scene. They discussed the most likely path taken and the increased number of lawmen along the border. A beeper sounded and Ted Harris stood and went to the phone on the wall, punching in the numbers. He nodded and turned back to the group, cupping the mouthpiece.
"It's Jenkins and Santiago, they found the van... at an airstrip about ten miles from here. No signs of life but lots of blood and bullets."
"We done here?" Buck asked, rising from his chair and eager to pursue the first sign of a lead.
"Yes, I believe that concludes our meeting," McClendon nodded. "I'll keep you informed of any new information, Orrin."
"That's Director Travis." The ATF man's clipped voice gave both his agents a brief smile as they watched Eric McClendon flush. "And I'll hold you to that. Buck, Nathan," his voice and eyes spoke volumes. "I'll check with you later."
"Yes, Sir," Nathan replied, tapping Buck and moving towards the door.
Amidst the canyons, mesas and plateaus of the beautiful but deadly mountainous area were a scattering of winding trails. Like the threads of a spider web, they wove through the intricate terrain making a natural map. Traveled by goatherds, smugglers, hikers and a few ranchers, the forested area was both a paradise and a paradox. Without a reliable guide, or firsthand knowledge, getting lost in the deadly arms of the dense area was almost guaranteed.
The truck wound its way through the geographic maze, bouncing through the rambled highlands near a tumbling waterfall. Then it began its descent, skirting the misty cascade of foam and following the thickening forest into the rocky terrain below
Behind the driver, a half dozen armed soldiers sat on benches, kicking and spitting on the gringo prisoners lying on the floor. They passed a bottle of tequila around, laughing and discussing their prisoners. Finally, they arrived at a deserted mining village buried deep in the embrace of the moutain. Known only to the rebels, it was the perfect base of operations. The truck coughed and sputtered before stopping in front of a large, flat adobe style building.
Far beneath the thick, black blanket that held him snug, a sharp, burning pain in his side brought his eyes wide open. Through a blurry veil, he saw a muddy boot pressing its toe into his wounded side. He curled his lip into a nasty snarl and twisted his body, kneeing the offending foot
"You know, Pedro," the guard turned to his companion, elbowing his green-fatigued chest. "This blond gringo has huevos!' He laughed, grabbing his crotch and then shoved his boot on the prisoner's neck. "Maybe when we're done with you, we'll cut them off and send them back to your compadres up north, Si?"
"Try it and I'll break your fuckin' arm," Chris choked, spitting a wad of blood on the boot pressing into his tender flesh.
"Oh, I like this gringo!" Hector Alonzo laughed, rolling him over and grabbing him by the back of his wet blond hair. He heard the hiss of pain as he lifted the prisoner and shoved him off the truck. His friends got the large, unconscious gringo into the barracks, laying him on a bunk and securing his wrists and feet to the bedrails. He shoved the blond forward, towards a set of double doors. "Get your feet moving, Dog! Doctor Delgado does not like Americanos to begin with..."
"Doctor?" Chris's blood ran cold as he was mercilessly shoved ahead, landing on his knees. He managed to get to his feet by rolling sideways and using the bottom of a bunk to get leverage. He was grabbed by the hair again and shoved through the doors into the back. He squinted at the bright light, eyeing a stout, middle-aged Mexican man who was smoking a cigar at a small metal desk.
"He is not clean, Hector." The swarthy man rose, clenching the cigar tightly between his jowls. "I cannot examine him until he is cleaned up."
Chris's hackles rose when they both laughed. Hector shoved him forward towards a small ante chamber at the edge of the room. The intense ache in his wounded side was unyielding, matching the livid fire in his battered skull. A new pain arose, from his lower back this time, where the heavy boots of the soldiers had drilled him. The burning pain with every harsh breath he drew told him his ribs were damaged. He fogged out briefly as his tattered clothes were cut from his ravaged body. He felt his arms drawn up and attached to metal clamps hanging from the ceiling. He barely got his eyes open when the force of icy, cold water blasted him from a hose. He screamed in agony as the hard, razor-like force hit his injured side. He was dimly aware of a rough set of hands scrubbing him with a stiff bristled brush. He felt himself slipping away only to be roused by the deadly blast of water again.
"Welcome to your new hacienda, gringo dog!"
He blinked at the guttural voice and shook the water from his face. His hands were freed and he fell to his knees, naked, shivering and cold. He was dragged by his wet hair towards an examination table. His limbs were made of lead and wouldn't obey his commands. Once they settled him onto the table, clamping his hands to the corners above his head and his ankles to the corners below, he saw the bearded face of the doctor appear. His glazed eyes saw the filthy tool in the physician's hand. The fear pounding in his chest nearly choked him.
"Don't... touch..." His plea was cut off when a filthy, sour-tasting gag was shoved in his mouth.
"Now, Senior Dog, we will see to that wound." The doctor grinned at the fevered-tinged green eyes darting back and forth. His smile widened as the metal tool probed the wounded side, causing the man on the table to produce a muffled scream. "Hector, hand me that brown bottle, it's a very powerful disinfectant."
A horrific tidal wave of pain exploded from his gagged lips when the burning liquid was poured into his side. Tears of agony ran down his face as the pair laughed above him. He felt the cigar ashes hit his chest as the beefy hand lifted the metal tool again. He would have welcomed unconsciousness now, but it was not to be. Chris remained semi-alert as his journey into hell continued.
As his scream rose up again, a pair of sky eyes appeared above a winning Texas smile. Vin was dead and he was in the bowels of hell with little hope of escape. Vin was dead... .Vin was dead. He screamed again as the burning liquid was poured over the wounds on his head. He saw the needle coming and felt the jaws of the devil biting his skin, as he screamed the name of his best friend.
It was dark and hot, so very hot. He couldn't see or feel or taste or touch. All he knew was the heat that roasted him. A burning fire so intense it took his breath away. He tried to fight it... but couldn't find it. He was lost in a sea of turmoil; thick black waves of hot lava engulfed him.
Rico Romero moved from the chair, putting the old Bible down. He stood over the frantic boy who was twitching. The fever roared to life, its power sending a fine line of moisture onto the injured man. The old man wrung out the cold cloth, wiped the scowling features, then the neck and carefully around the bandaged chest. He put fresh cold towels on the burns and then gripped the face gently.
"Easy now, young one. Do not fight so." He saw the lips moving and bent closer. A brief blue slit appeared in lieu of an eye. "Who are you?"
Vin felt himself succumbing to the deadly tide when something pierced his ebony world. A sharp call to arms... a voice he knew better than his own... his own name came slamming into him, breaking the waves and freeing him. He reached out in the dark, seeking and desperately needing that part of his soul that screamed for him.
"...Chris..."
Rico Romero frowned at the weak whisper and the now closed eye. He eased the sick man up and turned the pillow before lying him down on the fresh side. Then he began the task of reducing the fever again, humming an old song from his childhood.
Something startled him and forced him to pull himself from the thick river of mud that gripped his throbbing body. He felt the heat of the day, which rivaled the fever within him. A distant scent of spicy food drifted past, causing his empty stomach to growl. He sighed in relief as a cold cloth was wiped over his face, neck and chest. It was a soft touch, a gentle touch and he let his tension ease up. Cautiously, he opened his eyes, squinting into the mid-afternoon sun. Dusty wooden barracks greeted his gaze, as his green eyes swept over the room. Frowning, he scrubbed a hand over his face, wincing when he encountered stitches. Jagged images interrupted his murky awakening, his body tied down and a mad doctor with a scalpel.
"Shit!" He hissed and sat up, only to have the room spin around him at a dizzying pace. He fought a wave of bile rising and began to gag. He felt two hands, soft but firm, forcing him back down.
"No, Señor, you must not get up. You are ill..."
"Who... are... you..." Chris grunted, shoving the helping hands off his fever-slick skin. He fingered a lightweight pair of clean, tan cotton pants that covered his lower body. On the hook at the wall across from the foot of his bed was a shirt that matched. He gripped his side, hissing through clenched teeth as a hot pain exploded.
"Please, you must keep still..."
He blinked and lifted his head, spotting a pair of faded blue jeans and a silver concho belt with a white tee shirt tucked into them. The slim waist gave way to a most decidedly female form. He forced his gaze upward and saw a young, pretty face with large dark eyes. A very young face, no more than eighteen.
"Who are you?" He repeated as the pain intensified and threatened to send him back into his former unconscious state. He licked his dry lips and felt a cold mug pressed to them. He took the mug and drank slowly, letting the cool water relieve his parched state. Wiping the excess moisture from his mouth, he nodded to the young girl.
"Thanks... Is that for me?" he nodded to the food nearby.
"Sí, I have brought broth for your fever and some fresh bread and fruit." She helped him move back on the bed so he was sitting up, resting his back against three pillows on the wall. She set a tray with legs across his waist. It held a bowl of chicken broth laced with some vegetables and rice, a generous portion of fresh bread and several pieces of fruit. As he picked up the spoon, she refilled the mug of water. "I am Maria Delgado. My Papa said if you woke up, to get some..."
"Delgado!" Chris roared, dropping the spoon and not hiding his revulsion. "You're related to that quack?" He jerked his head towards the room where he'd been tortured. He saw her lip quiver and her head drop. She turned away; her dark hair was gathered in a single braid which hung down her back.
"He is my father. He was not always this way..." her voice drifted off, "Things were different before my mother died. He never got over her death... he began to drink. We were forced to move when the money ran out. We lived in my Grandfather's old house in the mountains not far from here. The soldiers came, demanding he treat their men. It was not a hard choice, Señor, we had nothing."
"There's always a choice," Chris grunted, breaking a piece of bread to dunk into the flavorful soup. "He shouldn't have done that to you... he's supposed to be your father." Then he realized his roommate was missing... or maybe dead. "Where's Savage?"
"Who?"
"Big son-of-a-bitch I was brought in with. He's wanted for murder back in the States."
"He needed surgery, he is in the back still. Papa is with him..."
"There is a God after all..." Chris mumbled, thinking of the brutal attacks Vin had suffered. He hoped the murdering bastard was being skewered to the table. His eyes flickered for a moment as the pain of the unfathomable loss returned. Vin... he pushed the image of the Texan's face away; it was much too painful to dwell on.
"Juan Xavier can be very persuasive when he wants to be." She turned to look back at the handsome American.
"Who is he?"
"He was in the army of Mexico once, but forced out in a dishonorable discharge after a bar fight. The bartender was killed. He claimed he was innocent and never got over the banishment. He is about fifty or so, in excellent shape. A tall man with short graying hair and a pencil thin mustache. He is fair but very strict; he would never tolerate the actions of these men. When he's gone, they act like wild boys."
"He's never earned their respect or that would never happen." Chris broke off a piece of bread and took a healthy bite.
"They fear him; he is the leader of the People's Army; there are branches all over Mexico. That is where he is this week. He's traveling in the south, gathering more support."
"Why don't you leave? He's not here to stop you."
"Papa is a weak man... the money they offered is very generous. He's gotten lazy; he isn't strong enough to walk away."
"But you could," the blond tossed back, picking up a banana. "Why do you stay here?"
"He's my father, I can't leave him. I still remember the man he was and hope one day, I can look at that man again. I want to go to America, to take him away from this... these animals."
Chris eyed the pretty girl and saw the fire in her eyes. He saw the small fist clench and made mental note. Could be he'd found his one and only ally. He saw the clean bandages on his side and wondered about the clean clothes and good food.
"I'm Chris," he left off his last name, too wary of his shaky status as a law man. "I don't get it?" He offered up the bowl and she moved across the room, filling it again from a large metal container. "Why all this? He tortured me back there..."
"Juan Xavier called. He will be returning in a week and he wants you in shape to travel. They will be breaking camp here and heading deeper into the mountains. You are American and worth a lot of money to him... alive..." She replaced the bowl and sat on the edge of the bed. She tapped two pills from a bottle and slid them over. "For your infection," she coached. "You are lucky they radioed ahead. I got some food in him and got him to sleep. I hid his bottles. He was angry... at me... I'm sorry, I know he hurt you. I thought if he had sobered up..." She shuddered, recalling the sound of Hector's laughter and the sight of the unconscious American on the table. "I got... Hector to leave... made Papa promise not to hurt you."
"Leave?" He saw her blush and his anger rose. "Jesus," Chris snarled, then saw her flinch. "Sorry, it's not your fault."
"It wasn't... it's not what you think. It doesn't go beyond groping and I say the rosary until he passes out."
"Fuckin' animal," Chris recalled the brutal soldier and recoiled when he thought of that beast touching this brave girl. "You stay away from him."
"He wouldn't try anything more. Juan Xavier would shoot the first man who got out of line. He's strict that way. Miguel and Dominic are outside on guard. Nicolo is in charge when Juan Xavier is away. Nicolo is a mean man. Do not cross him, Señor, he will hurt you."
The intense pain of the headache, a result of the building fever, gripped the back of his damp head. He moaned and pressed his fingers over his throbbing eyes. He felt the tray being lifted and firm hands guiding him flat onto the bed. The cold cloth returned, bathing his chest and neck.
"Here, let me," she massaged his temples and neck, watching the tension lines disappear. Finally, the pills took effect and he was sleeping again. She pulled the sheet up to mid-chest and stroked the side of the handsome American's face. She felt a warm spot as she replayed the protective roar in his voice. She bent and kissed his cheek.
"Thank you, Señor Chris." She studied his face again before leaving to prepare the evening meal. "I will take good care of you."
"Ah... it's good to be home!" Jack goaded, knowing the driver was beyond the human zone. He was too angry to growl and that only made the sunny Englishman's grin wider. "Still buzzin', then?" He elbowed the decidedly 'unhappy' face and winked. His partner said nothing, but pulled into the curb next to a white stucco two-story building. He slammed the door, headed across the street and never looked back.
"Who pee'd in his Cheerios?" Arlee sassed, eyeing the brooding male who entered a bar called Santino's.
"Don't mind him, Mate, he's always narky," the chipper blond noted of the driver's bad mood. "He'll find his smile again after a pint or two. Here, give us a wing, then," He held out his arm and supported the stuperous young man. "Let's see if Doctor Lorico is about."
By the time the tall Englishman got him inside and onto a narrow white examination table, Arlee was about to pass out. The pain in his leg was unbearable and his head was throbbing. He shut his eyes, drowning out the babbling man's words, until someone made the mistake of touching his injured leg. He screamed and dove forward, grabbing for the throat of the misfortunate soul.
"You do that again and I'll cut your nuts off and shove them up your ass!"
"Easy, Yank, don't go nutter! He's the only doctor for several hundred miles..." Jack shoved the angry man back down. "Sorry, Doc, this is... uh..."
"Kevin Lincoln," Arlee supplied, for his dead brother and uncle. The doctor looked angry, but Arlee kept right on glaring.
"Righto," Jack nodded, "Me and Pete found him not far from the falls, he can't remember much. I'd wager he's put a knock in the old melon as well as that broken leg."
"I'm Jose Lorico, Señor Lincoln, and this is my clinic. I do not tolerate violent outbursts. You have been injured and require medical attention. I can provide that, but if you are foolish enough to attack me again, I'll have the authorities take you away. I do not have to tell you how easily a misguided American can become lost in the Mexican prison system. Comprende?"
"Yeah," Arlee rasped, suddenly realizing just how alone he was in the foreign country. Until he was able to maneuver on his bad leg, he'd play it cool. He'd become a fuckin' choirboy. "Listen, Doctor Lorico, I'm really s..s...sorry," he hissed, rolling his eyes as the pain rose up. "It's been a bitch of a day..."
"We'll take some x-rays of your leg, it looks like a simple fracture. Have you been experiencing double vision, blurred vision or throwing up?"
"No, just really dizzy and a bad headache."
"A minor concussion, I'll have the orderly take you to the x-ray room and see you later."
"Good luck, Kevin," Jack gave the doctor's shoulder a smack, "Thanks, Doc. I think I'll plant me arse in front of a nice pile of tacos and a pint."
He found Pete easily. The handsome American, whose brooding dark looks were a trademark in San Pedro, had two 'waitresses' fawning over him. Terita and Rosa weren't too hard on the eyes, and Pete was their favorite source of attention. One was planted on his lap, the other hanging over his back. Neither was shy with their hands... or their intentions.
"Beat it!" Pete growled, smacking the ample backside of the fleshy woman on his lap. They left, after hissing and complaining, and the cranky man slid the bottle of tequila across the table.
"Ahhhh..." Jack sighed, taking a long drink, "that's the mutt's nutts it is..."
"You're buyin'," Pete snarled, watching the smile forming. "You cost us a lead today. You know how much money we lost? Saint Jack the fuckin' humanitarian!" He tossed a shot back and his eyes burned, "What the fuck are you grinnin' at?"
"I didn't know ye found religion, Yank. I'm moved..." Jack winked and rose, patting the tense muscles in the older man's back. "Order us a couple of specials while I go point Percy at the porcelain," he noted of his full bladder.
While his chipper friend was in the men's room, the angry man downed two more shots. The waitress reappeared, putting down a full platter of tacos, refried beans and corn bread. He slid her a hefty tip, making sure the bills were 'nestled' securely between her ample bosoms. His eyes strayed to the television where the grainy image of two men was displayed. He cocked his head and leaned forward, hearing the translated words of 'missing American government agents'. He didn't get the blond man's name, but the long-haired man in the other photo was identified as 'Tanner'. The static covered most of the audio portion, but he put together the clues from the snowy pictures shown. They'd been kidnapped somewhere in New Mexico and there was a plane involved. Before he could see the rest of the report, the picture faded out altogether.
"So what'll be, then?" Lynch asked, shoveling the food down and taking a swig right from the bottle. "Are you going to lollop around here and get trolleyed?" he noted of the potential path of drunkenness. "Or shall we have another go of it?"
"It's a long haul between bunks..." He finished his platter and took out a cigarette. Through the blue smoke that curled up, he eyed the smug Englishman.
"What?" the blond blinked, then narrowed his blue eyes, shaking his long blond hair. "Have I lost me goolies?" he used a wounded tone of the insinuation that he was 'soft'.
"The last time we took off into the mountains, it was a week before we got back. You bitched and moaned the whole time about your fuckin' cold."
"Codswollop!" Jack defended, irate. "Me lungs were full of muck and I was waitin' for the angel Gabriel to come down and..."
"Hah!" Pete snorted, drawing on the cigarette, "If anybody was goin' to the pearly gates, it would have been me. Some obit... 'brilliant reporter nagged to death by a Limey wuss."
"I think me heart's broke..." Jack thumped his chest and chuckled. "What's got ye bloomers in a bunch?" He knew the dark eyes as well as his own and saw the wheels turning.
"Two feds were kidnapped in New Mexico. I couldn't hear the whole thing, but it seems they were taken somewhere by plane."
"Yanks?" Jack asked, eyeing the clinic across the street.
"Yeah, but not him." Pete rose, capped the bottle and moved toward the door. "Let's go."
"Maybe lightning will strike twice, eh?" Lynch noted of their lucky find earlier.
Nathan sighed and slid the phone back onto the leather pouch on his belt. He just completed updating Josiah on their arrival. Orrin had shown the rest of the team a copy of the tape. They were all chomping at the bit to get involved, but were bound by their badges. The dark-skinned medic knew they'd be working the computers and phones on their own time trying to find leads.
He squinted in the hot sun, wiping the sweat from his brow. There wasn't much else to do. The F.B.I lab crew was taking samples from the interior of the van. Another agent was on her knees outside the abandoned vehicle taking samples of what had been blood in the dirt. There was a larger amount of blood several feet away and a bevy of footprints. He was bent over a box that was found in the van, when he heard a pair of voices grow hostile.
"Shit!" He hissed, drawing his head up just as Buck Wilmington's hands found Eric McClendon's jacket. The tall ATF agent's force sent the other man hard into the side of the rental car.
"Buck!" He made short work of the distance between them and pulled the still hostile Wilmington off the smug F.B.I. man. Nate would have liked nothing more than to wipe the arrogant grin off his face.
"Knock it off!" He warned his partner, seeing the veins on his temples bulging. The dark blue eyes were black and stormy and the normally tan skin was bright red with rage.
"You keep that dog collared, Jackson, or I'll have him up on charges." McClendon poked the hostile ATF agent's chest. "...and I don't make idle threats."
"You're not gonna be makin' any threats after I break your fuckin' jaw, you shit-eatin' prick."
"Buck!" Nathan had to use all his strength to hold his irate partner at bay. "That's enough... that ain't gonna help us find them."
"No, but it will make me feel a helluva lot better," he growled, lifting his snarling upper lip. "You call either of them anything but Agent Tanner or Agent Larabee and I'll put you in traction, if you're lucky." He saw Nathan's dark eyes narrow in suspicion. "He called Vin a filthy name... was trash talkin' Chris, too."
"I'm a patient man, McClendon," Nathan said quietly, using every inch of his six foot five frame. He leaned in, not masking his intent. "You don't want to make me angry. This is a professional investigation. You keep it that way or you'll lose that badge and your pension. I can guarantee that," he warned, his eyes dripping fury, before putting his index finger above the other man's collarbone. He exuded just enough pressure to make the coward squirm in discomfort. "One more thing, I have a black belt and I'm undefeated in the boxing ring. I'll make you hurt..." he whispered before shoving off and leading Buck away.
"I swear to God, Nate," Buck vowed, still hearing the crude remarks in his ears. "Once we find them and this case is over, I'm gonna beat the shit outta of that animal."
"You'll have to get in line!" Nathan tossed back, walking over to the crew. He stopped next to a young man carrying a clip board. A drawing was sketched and he was setting down red markers next to spent bullets. "Whaddya got?"
"Fire fight," Bill Wheeler replied, "By the footprints and bullets we found. There were two by the van, two over here and two more by the plane tracks."
"That's a lotta blood," Buck noted of the large amount of congealed liquid staining the ground.
"...and brain matter..." Bill recalled of the samples of gray material taken in lab bags. "Whoever went down here, didn't get up."
"Dammit!" Nathan gripped his hips. "Anything in the van?"
"Lots of prints..." Tia Kimiko replied, joining them. The Japanese-American woman shifted her sunglasses. "The plates are registered to a Troy Savage from Wolf Point, Montana."
"Doesn't that figure," Buck scoffed of the 'wolf pack'. "What's that?"
"A mistake," she noted, "somebody got sloppy, it's a flight plan. They're headed to Hermosillo. We called it in... they're checking all the airstrips near there. So far, only commercial flights, nothing private."
"What?" Nathan asked, eyeing Buck's suddenly pale face.
"Nothin' maybe," he sighed, rubbing his neck and trying to shake it off. "But I got a bad feeling that plane didn't make it."
"Mexico's a big place, Buck, maybe they changed their plans," Nate offered.
"Or maybe this was planted," Tia replied. "The phone number on the back was a pay phone near Baja. Highway patrol reported a couple of ghost town hunters near Dead Gulch saw a low flying silver plane take off early this morning. They got partial numbers. We're checking it..."
"Thanks..." Nate said. "Let us know as soon as you get word on that blood type."
"Will do," Bill replied, nodding and walking away.
"Come on, Buck," Jackson offered, "Let's get back to the hotel and start making some phone calls."
"They're dead, Nathan," he whispered, dropping his head.
"You don't know that!"
"Don't I?" Wilmington shot back. "I've been totin' a badge for fifteen years. I know a thing or two about hostages. Once they got over the border, they had no reason to keep them alive. Chris and Vin were insurance... in case they got caught."
"Cut it out!" the tall man ordered. "You're startin' to sound like McClendon." That got a reaction. The dark head jerked, the eyes flashed and two fists were raised. "Go ahead, I can finish whatever you start." Slowly the fists uncurled and the lips formed a grim line.
"Dammit to hell, Nathan..." Buck raked a shaky hand through his thick hair and eyed the horizon. The pain in his eyes was underscored by slashes of naked fear. He wanted to believe they were alive; he wanted to squelch that nagging noise inside his head. He felt a strong hand on his neck and used the deep voice to keep the demons at bay.
"I hear you, Brother. But you keep that Tanner motto in your head."
Buck frowned, then found a sad smile. "Life's too short to eat bad pizza?"
"No!" Nathan chuckled, "the other Tanner motto, the one on his coffee mug, about faith."
"Uh..." the other man mused, wrinkling both brows in concentration. "Something about... sunshine and shadows..."
"Keep your face to the sunshine and you cannot see the shadow," he repeated the Helen Keller quote. He kept that strong grip on the downcast agent's neck and watched the dark head slowly rise. "You keep lookin' at that sun, Buck, and chase them shadows away."
He pulled the clean sheet up and laid a hand on the pale brow of his patient. Sighing with a mixture of fear and exhaustion, the weary priest rose and went to the window. He winced as he stretched his back, rubbing the small area at the base of his spine. For over seventy-two hours he'd fought by the young man's side. He'd wagered a war against the devil and won, finally defeating the high fever. As the rosy sky started to awaken, blushing gold and streaks of blue, he thought on the last three days.
The young man, who they named 'Chris', due to the medal he clutched so fiercely, fought hard. He'd tossed weakly in the bunk, fighting the heated infections that plagued his battered body. Father Romero had bathed him, changed him and coached water and weak tea between the delirious man's lips. Most of it would come back up as the shivering body vomited. The small moans and grunts were weak and barely audible. The single blue eye, when opened, was clouded with pain and confusion. The lost world the battered American was trapped within left him near death. Now, at last, the fever was gone. But at what cost? Had this silent young warrior fought too hard? Would he be strong enough to recover from the battle? What of the head wound? What could the priest's naked eye not see? A small moan drew him back to the bed. The one blue eye followed him, then moved around the room. He felt a glimmer of hope; confusion was evident, but the gaze was a bit clearer.
"Hello, my young friend," he soothed, lifting the man's head to a mug of water. "Slowly, you do not want to become sick again."
Pain, unrelenting and wicked, painted red like Lucifer's harlot possessed every inch of his battered body. It slashed at his chest; it ripped up his sides and back and it drove with unmerciful force into his tender skull. He was in so much agony, he couldn't think, let alone speak. His throat was dry - dry, hot and scratchy. It hurt to swallow and he moaned, seeking relief. He tried to open both but only one cooperated. He saw thick plastered walls, a crucifix and a robed figure. He studied the kind face and felt his tormented head lifted.
Water. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank...I can't speak. Father? Who... Where... What... Water... more... He gasped and licked his lips, frustrated by his inability to communicate. He tried... he tried hard... creasing his brows in frustration. His lips opened, his thick tongue worked... trying to force the words out. Thank you... more please... Father... Dammit... why can't I speak?
"Shhhh!" The kind priest soothed, wincing at the unintelligible grunts coming from the man's throat. He saw the panic rise like a python, then warned as the guttural sounds met the injured man's ears, "No, don't do that, you'll upset yourself. You have a serious head injury and almost died. You've been very ill with a fever. I am Father Carlos Romero. My father and I have been caring for you here in my church. We are in Mexico, not far from San Pedro. Can you understand me?"
Understand? He nodded, conveying he did indeed understand. Through the fire walls of agony consuming him, he held onto the fragile shredded remnants of his mind. Why couldn't he speak? He thought hard, pursing his brows together. Maybe I can't speak? Am I a mute? He cocked his head, trying hard to remember. Remember what? Oh God... Oh God... Oh God...
"Calm down!" the priest ordered, seeing the eye darting frantically about, the weak hand fisted and the unmistakable panic in the grunts. "Look at me... do you recognize this?" He held up the St. Christopher's medal. "I found you near the river. This was clutched in your hand."
He stared transfixed at the gleaming silver medallion. His heart began to pound and his pulse raced. His fingers thumped on the mattress...itching to hold the medal. The glint of the medal went right through his heart. It drew up a powerful feeling. Uninvited words blinked rudely in his mind's eye. I need him... it... him? Who? Who? He tried to catch the nimble hint that was already gone. Who was it that he sought? Why couldn't he remember?
"Here," the padre lifted the weak man's head and slid the medal over it. "There, it rests over your heart. Is he perhaps your patron saint? Christopher that is..." He sat back as the young man tensed, his body stiffened and his eye went wide with excitement. "What? Is that it? Is your name Chris?"
Chris. Chris. Chris. Who. Who. God, I need to know. Who is Chris? I need Chris. Why? Who is Chris? Who am I? Why can't I remember? Chris? Chris?
"...r...r...tt...thhh..."
"Chris? Yes, we shall call you that. I have some broth ready. You are very weak and you need to start rebuilding your strength. You will not be leaving this bed for some time." He left the young man to refill the mug. As he returned, he saw the weak hand struggling to reach the medal. Smiling, he sat down, put the mug on the table and gently lifted the disc, placing it into the frail fingers.
"There now, is that better?" He heard the audible gasp and saw the sweet relief in the battered man's eyes. He gently lifted his patient's upper body, wincing at the small cries of pain. "I know it hurts and I am sorry for your suffering. I pray to the Lord that your tormentors are brought to justice. "Here," he offered, holding out a spoon and gently placing the nourishing liquid on the offered tongue.
Vin swallowed every bit of the warm broth, feeling the first slivers of strength return to his weakened body. He kept sliding sideways, too frail to support himself and the uncomplaining priest righted him each time. He kept staring at the medal, twisting the name around in his battered mind. The five letters brought a powerful feeling of peace to his heart and soul. He felt almost invincible when he said it silently. Why couldn't he remember? He opened his lips at each call for the spoon, dutifully eating while he remained mesmerized by the medal. Cold water and warm medicinal tea came next, followed by a call of nature. Finally done, a clean sheet resting on his cooled body, he felt his throbbing eyes sliding shut.
Thank you, Father. Thank you. Thank you. Angry at his inability to communicate and embarrassed by his uncooperative body, he snarled weakly, pounding his fist into the thin mattress.
"What?" Father Carlos paused, resting his hand on the side of the recovering face housing incredibly expressive blue eyes. One was a slit, still resting under a swollen lid. The other was incredibly wide and vividly upset. He heard the guttural grunt and saw the hand moving. It pointed weakly to the mug, bowl and then it batted his waist. The head lifted, the eyes sought his feverishly and the hand wobbled and rose. He smiled then, taking the hand and using his other hand to cup the man's jaw.
"You're welcome, Chris. I understand you just fine! You rest now and let your body heal. It's all right, my friend, I have been gifted in healing both body and soul. Sleep now, we'll talk later." He waited until the eyes were shut and the raspy breathing was even. The slim, bruised and bandaged chest continued to rise and fall as he turned away.
But Vin wasn't sleeping. Under the guise of closed lids, his eyes darted in rapid, stealth-like movements. Who was Chris? Where was he? How did I get here? Mexico? His skin was too pale for Mexico. His heart drummed frantically as if trying to escape his tender chest. The medicine in the tea finally worked and as he felt himself fading away, three scarlet words flashed repeatedly.
Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?
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