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.
Chris yawned and finishing washing under the watchful eye of the guard. It had been one week since he'd been brought here. The only time he was alone was when he slept. Every waking moment was spent under the scrutiny of a leering sentry. He had no privacy. He dressed and winced as the healing stitches in his side protested. The fever had lasted until yesterday, the battle leaving him weak and sluggish. His headaches were decreasing, but the bruised ribs still hurt like hell. He ignored the catcalls and whistles from the guard. He shuffled slowly towards the door, wincing as the rifle prodded him between the shoulder blades.
"Back off, asshole," he growled, turning and raising a fist.
"You tell him, Blondie!" Bull Savage called from the table inside the barracks. His injured leg was wrapped in heavy bandages. His face was marred by cuts and burns giving him an even more evil look.
Chris just glared at Savage, not wishing to waste the breath a retort would take. Living several feet away from the cowardly animal was bad enough. He tried to block out the vile remarks, except when the bastard made the mistake of talking about Vin. That only happened once and Bull ended up back in the infirmary. Chris settled at the table, as Maria entered bringing breakfast. His nose wrinkled as his fellow inmate's stench floated across the table. Bull refused to bath, only using the bathroom to relieve himself. Chris pushed back from the table, motioning for the girl to leave his tray on the other side of the room.
"Something I said?" Bull teased, watching the look of revulsion and getting a rush from it.
"The fact that you walk upright still amazes me," Chris sent back, walking past the ogre.
Wary of the guard, Bull moved his hand deftly, cupping the area between the girl's legs. Her slap was followed by a fist shoving his face into the hot cereal on his plate.
"You so much as breathe near her and I'll cut your balls off, you fuckin' animal!" Chris warned before the guard shoved him off.
"Don't!" Maria pleaded, not wanting the guard to hurt her new friend. "I'm okay, Señor Chris... please..."
He studied her worried features and nodded. "Get off me," he warned the guard, shoving the rifle from his neck. He shuffled to his bunk and pulled the wobbly bedside table closer. She laid a plate of ham, eggs, fried potatoes with peppers and apple fritters in front of him. A large glass of orange juice and a mug of coffee completed the meal.
"Thanks, Maria. You shouldn't go to so much trouble," he noted with a half-smile, picking up his fork.
"It's no trouble. I like you, Señor Chris," she squeezed his shoulder. "Thank you..." she whispered, catching his wink and smile. She carried the image of the handsome face all morning as she cleaned up the clinic and restocked the medicine.
It was almost one p.m. when she returned. She prepared a tray and took it into the barracks, only to find the room empty. Puzzled and worried, she put the tray down and went outside.
"Where is he?" she demanded of Hector. The lazy guard was lounging nearby in the sun.
"Who?" he asked arrogantly. "Your pretty blond boyfriend?"
"What have you done to him?" She shoved him hard, ignoring the other guard's laughter.
"I put him to work." He raked his eyes over her, "...and since you don't have to spoon feed him anymore, maybe you and I can..."
"Where is he?" she brushed past him and ran into Nicolo's office. "Where is he?"
"Who?" The brusque reply came from a man with broad shoulders and a chest full of muscle. His dark hair was short and thick, and his eyes were cold. He didn't look up from the paperwork in front of him.
"Larabee... Chris Larabee... one of the Americans... you know who I mean. Where is he?"
"Don't raise your voice to me, Maria!" he issued sternly. "Juan Xavier is returning tonight. We have much to do. I needed supplies loaded and some of the buildings emptied out."
"He is ill... his fever only broke yesterday. It's too hot today."
"I suggest you worry about your own job, Maria," he turned the page and continued reading. "The kitchen needs to be packed. We'll be traveling for awhile, so make sure you have all you need. Go," he ordered, then looked up. "And Maria, make sure you father stays sober. Juan Xavier will not tolerate his sloppy habits."
"My father is fine!" she defended, eyes hot. "I could tell Juan Xavier a few things about you that he wouldn't like. Like the fact his men get drunk while he's gone and..."
"Don't issue idle threats, foolish child!" he hissed, "this mountain isn't heavily traveled... a young girl like you could disappear."
"You pig!" she vented, her fear for her new friend outweighing her fear for herself. She ran among the village until she saw three large trucks. Most of the guards were loading them. Her dark eyes moved sideways, then she spotted the large one called Bull. He was carrying a large crate towards the middle truck.
"Where is Chris?" she asked him.
"He's dead!" Bull goaded with a sarcastic laugh, watching her face drain of color.
"Shut the fuck up, Savage!"
"Chris!" She turned towards the voice, which was coming from the interior of the truck. She jumped on the back and ducked under the canvas. He looked awful. He was covered in sweat and she could tell by the way he was holding himself, he was dizzy. "You're ill..." she dropped to his side, unstrapping the water bottle from her hip. "Here..."
"Thanks!" Chris took a long drink and used the rest to pour over his face. He lay back against the crate and shut his eyes. His head was pounding and he was extremely dizzy. He felt a soft touch, a cloth wiping his brow. He smiled and forced his eyes open. "Thank you, Maria." He touched the side of her face. "You were worried, huh?"
"Yes..." she stammered, eyeing his pale features. "I'll be right back."
She went outside and spoke with José, one of the few guards who was decent. She explained about the sick American and how if he wasn't able to rest, he'd not be well enough to travel. She emphasized how Juan Xavier wanted the Americans healthy. The guard agreed to allow Chris to rest until after supper. Then, with the sun down, he could return to work. She scooted back inside the truck and helped Chris stand, hooking his arm over her shoulder.
"I'm okay, Maria," he lied, swaying badly.
"I will be the judge of that," she returned, easing him out of the truck. "You will not argue with me."
"You sound just like Vin." He stopped and inhaled sharply, not sure how or why that snuck out.
She saw that face again, the one that she'd seen for so many days when he battled his fever. In his delirium, he called for this 'Vin'. His face twisted in agony, his eyes shining with grief. She didn't know who it was, only that the name brought unfathomable pain, like she saw now. "I'm sorry..."
"Huh?" He blinked, resuming his staggering gait. "No problem."
"You called out for him before, when you were ill. He is special?"
"He was." Chris's clipped tone closed the conversation. It was still too painful to talk about.
Finally, they were at the barracks. He eased his aching body on the bed, unconscious before his boots came off.
"Sleep," she whispered, stroking his face. She took his boots off and drew his legs on the bed. She used a whole bowl of cool water, bathing his face, neck and chest. She left his shirt unbuttoned and turned the fan on. She left briefly to pack some of the kitchen items and check on her father. When she returned, she found her new friend stirring.
"Hello," she smiled at the confused eyes and helped him sit up. "How do you feel?"
"I'd feel better if I wasn't a damn prisoner..." he snapped back, then recoiled upon seeing her look away. "I'm sorry, Maria, I didn't mean that."
"Yes, you did and it's okay," she smiled, helping him to the table. "I'd feel better if you weren't a damn prisoner either!"
He chuckled and lifted the napkin, eyeing the simmering mixture. "Adam's favorite," he mused, picking up a biscuit and dipping into the large tin plate.
"Adam?"
"My son," he said. "Chicken and dumplings, he loved them!" He smiled, seeing the dark-haired boy's face in his mind's eye.
"You are married?"
"Was," Chris took a large bite of the food. "This is good, Maria, thanks."
"You do not have to keep thanking me, Chris," she blushed, "You are more than welcome."
"They died, three years ago," he answered the question in her eyes. "His mother was with him... he was only six... it was a fire... arson."
"Oh, no... that's horrible. I'm so sorry."
"Yeah," he paused, lifting a cold mug of ice tea. "I miss them..."
"What was he like?"
"He was a good kid," Chris commented, continuing his meal. "He loved sports, especially football. He loved swimming and camping; any kind of trucks, especially fire trucks. He was crazy about animals and hot dogs. That boy could eat you under the table..." he paused and smiled again. "He liked flying kites and painting pictures... wrestling with Buck. Buck sure spoiled him... he loved..." He stopped and took a drink, seeing Buck toss Adam high in the air and hearing that wonderful laugh.
"Buck?" She asked, watching his pretty green eyes light up.
"My oldest friend, Adam's godfather," he wore a wide drunken grin. "He's one helluva friend..."
"He is looking for you, no?"
"He is, yes," Chris admitted with pride. "He won't ever give up. He doesn't know how."
He finished the stew and drained his ice tea. "Adam had the most beautiful laugh..."
Chris shut his eyes and heard his child again; that music filled his head and gave him strength. He sighed and smiled widely, then stood, kissing her cheek. "Thank you, Maria... for bringing my boy to lunch. I hadn't heard his laughter in some time... it felt good... damn good."
"You are welcome and thank you for sharing that with me. He was a lucky little boy, your Adam."
"I was the lucky one." He swallowed and sighed, seeing Sarah and Adam fade away. "It's almost sundown."
"Sí, Juan Xavier called. You are to remain here. The other one is returning and Juan Xavier will meet with both of you. Rest now..." she nodded towards the cot and watched him lie back, rubbing his eyes. "Dream of your boy..."
"What the hell do you mean?" Buck Wilmington roared, covering the length of the room in several long strides. He grabbed the smug F.B.I man and shoved him against the wall. "We're not giving up. There are two federal agents missing. Get your head out of your ass."
"It's been a week, Wilmington. We've exhausted all the leads. No planes with those partial numbers landed anywhere in Mexico. Nobody matching the Savage's descriptions have been seen anywhere, above or below the border. The State Department has advised the Mexican Government of the situation. It's out of our hands... I've got other cases to pursue."
"You fuckin' dog," Buck growled, leveling the arrogant Fed with two punches. His fist was raised for a third blow, but was snagged by a stronger force.
"Buck, that's enough," Nathan moved between them grabbing the wayward fist. "Orrin wants us back in Denver... tonight. He's still the boss... he's calling the shots."
"I expected him to go belly up, he's a worm," the dark-haired agent spat in contempt of McClendon, his blue eyes livid. "But you... how can you turn your back on Chris and Vin? They wouldn't give up if you were missing."
"I'm not giving up!" Nathan hollered, too tired to control his temper. "I'm following orders. I carry a badge, that's how it works. There's nothing left here, Buck. If they're still alive, they're in Mexico somewhere."
"If?" Buck shoved his partner hard, then turned when Eric McClendon snorted from the floor. "Shut the fuck up, McClendon or you'll end up in an MRI tube..." he warned with a swift kick. Turning back to Nathan Jackson, he bristled, "There's no 'ifs' in this scenario. It's 'when'... When we find them, not 'if'. Don't ever let me hear you say 'if'..."
"Orrin's flying down to Mexico tomorrow, Buck, to meet with the consulate. It's out of our hands...for now."
"No," Buck shoved off and strode away. "I won't give up... the rest of you can go to Hell. I'll find them if I have to walk to Mexico."
Nathan winced as the door slammed, shaking his head. Both of his tense hands rested on his hips. The brief glimmer of hope earlier in the week faded fast. The lab report showed that the brain matter and blood found pooled out at the airstrip wasn't from Chris or Vin. But then with each passing day, the leads died out. After meeting with the F.B.I and D.E.A, Orrin pulled them out. The D.E.A. had lots of field agents in Mexico. They would be on the lookout for the two missing men. The Mexican government was being cooperative as well, promising to give their photos extended exposure. His frustration at not being able to soothe Buck's wounded psyche was growing stronger every day. The man was shattered. His mood swings were getting dangerous. He had a need to fill and nowhere to fill it.
"I'll have that clown up on charges," McClendon managed, spitting out a wad of blood from his mouth as he rose. His vertical position was temporary. He never saw the dark man move. Suddenly, he was on his hands and knees, courtesy of two sharp blows. A strong forearm was pressed to his throat.
"You listen to me, McClendon," Jackson's voice was low and lethal. "I meant what I said. Now, it's done. You crawl back under that rock you live in, in Albuquerque. You so much as whisper Buck Wilmington's name and I'll find you... and make you hurt." He applied enough pressure to cut off the air slightly, releasing his hold when he felt the panic set in. He left the coughing coward on the floor and left the room.
Nathan spent two hours checking the local bars for his irate partner, after packing the rental car with their things. Buck wasn't answering his cell phone. Finally, he entered a dive called Hot Shots and saw a familiar body slumped at a corner table. He sighed and walked across the room, stopping beside the forlorn man.
"Come on, Buck," he said quietly, tapping the slumped shoulder. To his surprise, the other man offered no resistance. He nodded mutely, rose and staggered. Nathan grabbed him and got him outside. They rode in silence to the airport. The flight was at eleven p.m. He went to the counter to get them checked in and left Buck at a café with a large mug of coffee. Returning a few minutes later, he sat down across from the tall man, wincing at the red rimmed eyes.
"Why?" Buck finally spoke, his eyes mirroring the agony in his heart. Why had Fate ripped his heart out? Why were two of his best friends lost to him? Why had they suffered? Why couldn't he at least find them and bring them home... if only to bury them? Why? Why?
"I don't know, Buck." Nathan sighed and sipped his own coffee, keeping a silent vigil beside the drained man. The emotional burden combined with lack of sleep and frazzled nerves had worn out the big-hearted agent. He remained there, keeping guard, until their flight was called. He tapped the rumpled jacket and winced again at the anguished eyes.
"Let's go home."
"Why?" Buck repeated. "What for?"
Chris wouldn't be there; he wouldn't see that cocky, shit-eating grin again. Vin... He inhaled painfully, hearing the raspy drawl and seeing that wonderful choir boy smile that broke hearts.
Buck didn't eat... but dozed as the plane reached altitude. His sleep was troubled, a violent blend of his own worse fears and images of the tapes they'd seen. Vin was bloody and reaching out to him. The large sky eyes were full of fear and pain. Chris was lost and struggling; battered and bleeding.looking for help. Then Bull Savage's face appeared, leering as his beefy arms drew back. The axe gleamed, held high above Vin Tanner's unsuspecting head. The sky eyes were wide and full of hope. The bloody lips formed his name and a hand snaked out, just as the axe swung downward.
"No... Vin!"
"Buck!" Nate shook his partner, watching the vivid eyes fly open. His hands were trembling and for several minutes, he couldn't speak. "You okay?"
"No," Buck answered, raking a shaky hand through his matted hair. "I won't be... until I bring them home. One way or the other, Nathan, I'm finding them... and bringing them home." He gazed past Nathan's concerned face to the black sky outside. "You got my word on that, Chris," he choked, hearing that cocky familiar voice inside his head.
"Wilmington's word is as good as done!"
Father Romero paused in the doorway of the clinic and shook his head. It was just after nine p.m. and his infirmed young patient was not in his bunk. He put the pot of herbal tea down and walked past the empty bed and out into the garden. He stayed in the shadows for a moment, watching the young man's face as he eyed the heavens above. The slim fingers were always stroking or gripping the sacred medallion.
The injured young man was so troubled, it was interfering with his healing. His headaches were crippling, bringing agony and tears. Then he would sleep for hours, thrashing and restless, fighting unknown demons. When he woke, his blue eyes were wide and full of fear. He didn't know who he was or how he came to be in this place.
Tomorrow, Father Romero was going into San Pedro for supplies. He would keep his ears open; perhaps someone in town would have heard about the American.
"You should be resting, Chris."
"...s'all I do is rest..." Vin complained, squinting as the pain in his back flared up.
"They are beautiful, no?" the priest raised his eyes, studying the stars.
"Yeah... jes' might follow that North star and head home..." Vin paused, his shoulders slumping, "...don't know where the hell that is..."
"You will, my son, give it time. You suffered a dangerous injury. Head wounds are very tricky."
"It's been a week, Padre," Vin shuffled back to the stone wall and sat down. "...damn headaches make me sick... passin' the hell out... bad dreams keep me from sleepin' right... I'm tired... Father... I ain't never been so worn out."
"You are trying too hard!" he scolded mildly. "You are trying to force the memories back. They will return when you are ready."
"What if they don't?" Vin whispered. "I don't wanna be lost forever...." his fingers went to the medal again. That was where he found the only shard of peace - even if it was slim. He didn't know why, but it gave him hope.
"Tomorrow I will go into San Pedro. I will ask around town. You didn't just drop from the sky, Chris. Someone may be already looking for you. Keep the faith, my son. We'll get you home."
"I'm sorry, Padre," Vin sighed, shutting his eyes against the wall of nausea rising fast with the wicked pain. "Ya done more than I could ever repay... yer Pa's been takin' good care o'me. Hell, half the time I'm pukin' up the little bit o'food he gets in me."
"Don't, Chris," he saw the faded bruises on the handsome face flush with shame. "I am a healer. That is one of the gifts I received from our Lord. I receive great joy from helping the ill and injured. To see you here, standing again and walking, that is my reward. Come, you need to take your medicine, I don't want your fever to return."
"It might not stay put..." Vin warned. "Ya best stay up wind o'me, 'else ye'll run outta clean robes."
"I have plenty of clean robes," Father Carlos laughed, taking the lead. "Chris?" He turned when he heard a short gasp.
"Aw, hell..." Vin managed when the garden began to spin around too quickly. "Father!" He managed to gasp, as the world tilted sideways.
"Easy, now," he caught the slender man as he fell. "I have you... relax... Chris?"
"...m'sorry, Father...!" Vin cried out, locking his arms on either side of his head. He sank helplessly to his knees, rocking and moaning. The pain roared up, like a vile beast, sinking rabid fangs into his brain. It exploded inside his head sending him into darkness.
The worried priest sighed and lifted the young man into his arms. The door opened as he approached.
"I was only gone a moment," the elderly man apologized. "He slipped away..."
"It's okay, Papa," Father Carlos laid the unconscious man on the bunk and felt his brow. "He's warm again. He's so weak already... if his belly continues to rebel..."
"I'll make some more soup," the older man offered, tugging the blanket up. "Maybe you should have Doctor Lorico look at him."
"I will talk to him tomorrow, when I get to San Pedro. In the meantime, you get some sleep. There is time for soup in the morning. I will say the rosary with our young visitor. I will pray to Our Lady to guide him home."
Unaware of the beads just inches from his face, Vin Tanner dreamed. It was the same dream. Strange faces looming in the dark, shaved heads with leering grins. Pain ripping through him. Fire and pain in great roaring waves. Then a thundering echo broke through, trying to guide him.
"Fight... fight... get your head up and fight back!"
"I'm tryin'..." he mumbled, tossing his sweat-soaked head. The images got worse; the faces changed to hideous animals with sharp yellow fangs and scaly, slithering reptilian bodies. He tossed his head when the many fangs sank into his neck, chest and back. "No... no... God, it hurts..." The voice came back, from beyond the shadows of doubt.
"Fight ... fight back... fight... fight... don't give up, dammit!"
The strong voice in his head slayed the demons and he felt the pain lessen. "Don't go.... no... don't... leave me... alone... please... no...no..."
"Easy, Son," Father Carlos lifted the slurring man and winced at the rising heat. "Madre de Dios, you are burning up again." He sighed, held the shaking body until the devilish dreams left and then lowered him down again. He filled a bowl with rubbing alcohol and water. He pulled the sheet down and began to bathe the fevered body. The moans died down and the weak form began to shiver. The glazed eyes opened at intervals, dull and unfocused; they lingered long enough for him to coach water between the pale trembling lips.
It was near dawn before the fever died down. The last cup of water had medicine in it, enough that the troubled man would rest for awhile. His father entered the room and pointed to the cot nearby. He nodded, gave a pat to the weathered shoulder and sought some sleep.
"Wake me at nine a.m., Papa," he managed, letting his weary body rest. He wanted to be in town by noon. Maybe, just maybe, someone would have the key to this puzzle. As he drifted to sleep, he prayed for his young friend. He prayed for the lost soul to find his way home. He liked the soft-spoken man and sensed immediately he had a good heart. That fighting heart and the soulful blue eyes that mirrored it needed solace.
"Wake up, gringo dog!"
Chris grunted and rolled over, squinting through the sun streaked halo around the guard's face. His features were dark, but the voice he knew all too well.
"Fuck off." The fist to his midsection sent the blond to the floor of the barracks. He spit on Hector's shoes, earning him a strong backhand. His clear eyes saw only one set of boots. Coughing and doubled over, he sucked his breath in and charged. He slammed the sadistic guard against the wall, sending the rifle skittering across the worn floor. He sent a strong fist to the throat of the guard that sent him to the floor. He nearly had his hands on the rifle when a new voice stopped him.
"Very impressive, Mister Larabee. I enjoy a show before breakfast. Also, it is good that your spirit was not broken."
Chris stole a glance over his shoulder, then cursed as a tall, distinguished man with piercing dark eyes stood in the doorway. Behind him, three armed guards, all with their weapons trained on him.
"So you're the big prick," Chris grunted as a guard gripped the back of his shirt and hauled him upright.
"I am Juan Xavier," the leader smiled, recognizing a peer. Then, armed with the information he'd gained from the television and his sources in the States, he sought the open wound. It didn't take long to find the spot and he took out the salt, eager to rub it in. "And my condolences on the loss of Mister Tanner. My sources tell me you two were compadres, no? Such a painful death, being burned alive."
"Shut up!" Chris hissed, sliding his fingers into to angry fists.
"...I am told he screamed like a puta... at the end." He smiled, seeing the naked rage in the icy green eyes. He knew the blond captive thought the dead man was Tanner, so he pressed onward. "...he died yellow, like a woman... begging... and..."
"Shut up!" The blond struggled in vain, baring his teeth. It took two guards and rifle butt in his gut to cease his fight.
"Bind him and bring him to the small supply room."
Chris was dimly aware of the dirty ground passing inches below his face as he was dragged along. He coughed and wheezed as he was slammed into a chair and his arms were tied to the arms of the chair. He kicked out at the guards, gaining another backhand that split his lip. They secured his legs as well then left. He spit out blood as the tantalizing aroma of sausage, peppers and eggs filled the air. Coffee assaulted him next, followed by hot corn bread.
"It would appear as if you've stolen Maria's heart. She is quite fond of you. She prepared this meal for you. It would be a shame to waste it, no?" He smiled and began to eat. He saw the eyes dart around the room and to the window. "Not to fear, Mister Larabee, she is safe. She is a good girl, very loyal and an excellent cook. If you behave, I will allow her to bring you dinner."
"Dinner?" Chris gasped, his split lip stinging.
"S�, dinner, the meal at the end of the day. Are you not familiar with that in your country? I thought all of you American swine overindulged. You are a race of lazy, fat contented cows..."
"...beats the hell out of being a greasy rat with no balls..."
"Touch�," the leader continued to eat, pouring a cup of coffee. "They have called off the search, you know. Your government." He updated the confused eyes. "Apparently, you and your dead compadre are not worth as much as I thought. No matter, eventually, I might consider ransom." He cut the bread and took a piece. "I have much work to do, roads to clear and new trails to create. With you and your large friend, I will not have to waste any of my men."
"He's no friend of mine," Chris repulsed of Bull Savage.
"Oh, but he will be." The soldier completed the meal and stood up, smiling cruelly. "...he'll become a close friend. You'll have no choice... the leg irons are old and not very long."
"Shit!"
"Which brings up another point," he stood, knowing the call to nature was nearing. He knew the man had battled a fever all week. Maria would have plied him with water and juice the night before. His bladder would undoubtedly be very full and need emptying. "Just how strong are you, Mister Larabee?" He pressed the lower abdomen of the bound man and saw his face blanch. "We are still packing and preparing. I must update my men. Hector will be outside... should you need him to assist you..."
"Hector needs help finding his own equipment..." Chris shot back. "I'm guessing you don't have any."
"Oh, I do enjoy your sense of humor, Mister Larabee." He paused behind the bound man, pulling out a knife. He slid it gently over the stubbled face. "Once we reach our new camp... then we'll have some fun. I am quite talented with a knife." He reached around and pressed his hand onto Chris's lower abdomen again, laughing at the hissed air forced through the prisoner's teeth. "Tsk... tsk..." he clicked his tongue. "Do not wet your pants, Señor. That is a punishable offense."
The showers were in the next room and the sound of running water entered. The arrogant rebel smiled again, knowing that would only push the bound man's need even higher. He turned the small television on and then eyed the struggling blond.
"I am not a man without heart," he smiled curtly. "I thought you might enjoy seeing the news from your country." He opened the shades on all the closed windows in the small room. He smiled as the prisoner ducked to avoid the sun in his eyes. Over the next several hours the heat would build in the small room. Satisfied, he left to update his men and prepare for the trip.
It took all the strength Chris had to control the rising pressure of his full bladder. The running water in the wall behind him was like a loaded gun. He grit his teeth and bit down on his lip trying to hold on. Then the blue fuzzy screen cleared up and the tape began to play. His eyes narrowed when a twin set of photographs appeared.
"...identified here as Senior Agent Christopher Larabee. The young man next to him, Agent Vincent Tanner, was vacationing with the ATF leader when the kidnapping occurred." The reporter's voice droned on, giving a brief account of their trip, complete with photographs of Vin being tortured.
"Son-of-a-bitch!" he swore of the brutal force used by the Savage's on his dead friend. Then his pained eyes saw another familiar face. "Buck..." his voice trailed off as the tall man spoke.
"No comment!"
"Agent Wilmington, is it true that the F.B.I. has called off the search? Have you given up hope of finding them alive? How did it feel to view those tapes from the diner?"
"Why don't you bend over and I'll stick that camera up your BLEEP, you little BLEEP... BLEEP..." Buck vented. "Then we'll see how it feels."
"Buck, calm down!"
"Josiah!" Chris's voice died, seeing his oldest friend being barely restrained by Josiah Sanchez. It looked like the airport in Denver. They didn't wait long. They zoned in on Buck; you'd have to be blind to miss the raw agony on his features.
"We spoke to F.B.I. agent, Eric McClendon, from the New Mexico Division of the Bureau," one reported pressed on, seeing he'd struck a raw nerve. "He said they're dead. Is that true? Do you think..."
"Buck!"
Chris found a half smile as Buck popped the whining reporter. It took both Nathan and Josiah to restrain the irate agent.
"Good for you, Buck," Chris whispered, barely controlling the agony of his internal pressure. Then the picture went black. The full bladder was painful now, creating beads of sweat on his face and body. He eyed the clock on the wall. It had only been ten minutes. How long could he hold out?
It was nearly eleven a.m. when Father Carlos pulled up in front of the clinic. He saw Rosa Dominguez, a nurse who was also a parishioner, standing outside. He exited his jeep and strode over.
"Good morning, Rosa," he greeted, taking both her hands. The fifty-year-old woman helped out at his own small clinic in her spare time. "I have not seen you all week. Has the clinic been busy?"
"Yes," she sighed, "Also, José was sick."
"Not serious?"
"No," she said of her husband. "He is fine now. How are you, Father?" She spotted the tired face. "It looks like you are not sleeping?"
"I have a patient, he was hurt badly. I almost lost him... a bad fever and a terrible head injury. He's an American..."
"American!"
The word hit Arlee Savage like a bullet. On the other side of the window, resting on a cot, he was now fully alert. But now, the fever that had plagued him all week seemed to disappear. He sat up, pressing his face to the wall beside the screen.
"...he's a nice young man, very spiritual. From Texas, I think, by his accent. Such blue eyes..."
"Tanner!" Arlee mouthed silently, his heart pounding. Maybe his father was with the old priest too! Or maybe Tanner knew where he was. He continued to listen, his head spinning.
"American, with blue eyes!" Rosa sat forward. "We have an American here! Pete and Jack found him in the mountains. He has a broken leg and a concussion. The leg was infected and he's been ill all week. I think I heard Doctor Lorico say that they found him near the falls. He only remembers bits and pieces of an accident. He's been calling for someone named 'Troy' in his fever dreams."
"Troy?"
Arlee frowned; he didn't remember calling out. Of course, the last three days were a blur; he'd been so sick. What else had he revealed? He snapped back to attention as the priest spoke.
"Did he mention any other names? Who he was with? Where they were from?"
"No, just Troy and words like 'look out' and then screaming... terrible nightmares. We had to sedate him." She paused. "What of the young man you found? Who is he?"
"I do not know," Father Carlos noted. "He has amnesia, poor boy. He has a chain, a Saint Christopher's medal. It was clutched in his palm when I found him. He is quite attached to it, it's been his life line. He said the name 'Chris' once, when I first brought him in. Either he is Chris or someone he knows and is close to is Chris. Is your young man named Chris?"
"No, Kevin Lincoln."
"Is Doctor Lorico here? I am worried about my young patient. The head injury is quite serious."
"No, I'm sorry, Father, he is in the high country today, visiting the clinic that Sister Agnes runs. He'll be back tomorrow."
"Okay, will you tell him I was here? I will bring Chris with me tomorrow. I think I'd be more comfortable if he had his head x-rayed." He paused. "Is the young man strong enough to have a visitor. I would like to see him."
"Certainly, Father... this way."
"Shit!" Arlee hissed, lowering himself back in the bed. He was still weak and the room spun around. His mind was still whirling even after the room stopped.
Think... think... think... the words flashed. Tanner was a tracker... he could find Pa. His heart began to pound as the pieces fell into place. Brothers, no... they didn't look enough alike. Friends on vacation? No... closer... cousins. Yes, that would work. 'Cousin Troy' lived in Texas. They were on vacation, exploring and hiking. He needed to figure out how to solve the 'Chris' problem. His fevered mind worked overtime as the footsteps in the hall grew closer. Then he got an idea and an evil smile spread on his face just as the door opened.
"Brilliant!" he lauded himself.
"Kevin, this is Father Carlos Romero. He has a church nearby. He'd like to speak with you, if you're able."
"...Father..."
The priest moved closer to the bed, eyeing the feverish patient. He took the raised hand and smiled.
"I'm glad to meet you, my son. It looks like you've been ill and far from home."
"...fever... from... leg... " Arlee poured on the 'weakness'. "...vacation... with Troy and Chris... and Pa. Oh God... Oh God..." He turned away, eyes large with pain.
"Please don't upset yourself so," the priest moved closer. "Who are Troy and Chris?"
"...cousins... from... Texas..." He closed his eyes, not wanting the priest to catch him lying. "...hurts..."
"Here," the nurse moved in, giving him a painkiller and a long drink. She used a cold cloth to wipe his face. "Better?"
"Yes, thanks..." He took a few shallow breaths.
"Were your cousins with you?"
"Yeah... with my Pa... near water... I think..." He swallowed. "I can't remember much... it seems there's a big gap... something happened... to us... but... I can't..." He inhaled sharply, his eyes growing wide. "Troy... they hurt him... he's screaming..."
"Who?" Father Carlos pressed, recalling the marks of torture his young charge bore. "Who hurt Troy?"
Arlee moaned and rubbed his head. "I don't know, it was a flash, it's gone. I think hard but... I try to... remember... there's screaming and pain and water... lots of water... some reporters found me... I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I can't... I don't... they're dead, aren't they? Why can't I remember more?"
"No, no, don't, son," the priest soothed, seeing the tears falling.
"...Chris... good man... raised Troy after their folks died. Their Ma was my Pa's sister. Since that time... when they died... my Pa... he started taking them on our vacations."
"And Troy?" Father Carlos hedged.
"...he's got an easy voice," Arlee managed. "...a soft drawl... raspy-like." He chuckled then. "...he'd try to pull stuff...
but couldn't fool Chris. Not with them big blue eyes... I can't believe they're gone!"
"Blue eyes?" The priest felt a glimmer of hope. His young friend had a family.
"Yeah... Chris was always after him to cut all that hair, but Troy liked it long."
"Kevin," the priest waited until the young man turned. "I think I have good news..."
Arlee listened quietly, letting the false tears fall freely, as the priest told him about Tanner. By the time this was done, he'd win an Oscar for his acting. He heard the priest's voice fade away as the sedative took effect. He'd get Tanner away from the priest, then install plan 'B'. For the first time in over a week, he slept without nightmares, wearing a smile.
"Well, well, it looks like our guest has broken the rules, Hector," Juan Xavier goaded, entering the hot room which reeked of urine.
Larabee weakly lifted his head, having been overcome by heat, and lack of food and water. The intense heat in the small room was stifling. It stole all his energy and his throat burned for water. Still recovering from a fever, he was groggy and lethargic. He was panting, trying to find any stray air from the opened door. He didn't see the metal instrument in the leader's hand.
"Pull the truck around, Diego," he called out, tapping the weapon in his hand. "By the time you arrive, Mister Larabee will be over his punishment."
"What?" Chris croaked, his tongue too large for his hot mouth. He blinked when Hector's hand appeared, a large knife pressed to his throat. He swallowed hard, blinking again as the beads of sweat ran into his eyes. The knife moved, severing the buttons on his shirt and exposing his bare chest, slick with sweat. He was watching Hector and the knife, the guard drawing his attention to the left. Chris never saw the metal move from the right, touching his bare skin.
Maria heard the scream and dropped the glass she was holding. Her slim legs tore through the camp. She'd been looking for Chris all morning; Juan Xavier wouldn't tell her where he'd been taken.
"No... no... you promised!" She panted of the false pledge he'd given not to harm her friend. "Chris!" Three more screams tore at her before she flung the door open. His head was dropped down, chin hitting his chest. He wasn't moving, but she saw his shoulders rising and falling with every breath. "What's wrong with...?" Her large brown eyes froze, watching the metal instrument rise again.
"No, you promised!" She moved in, throwing her slim body over his exposed one. She cried out when it hit her arm, the shock stunning her, but she held on fast.
"Such devotion, Maria, this gringo means that much to you?" The arrogant leader grabbed the wet blond hair and pulled the now unconscious man's head up. "Perhaps you are right, child. He has been punished enough. You know I have strict rules. He soiled his pants... he had to be taught a lesson."
"Filthy pig!" She spat, standing up, tears of pain rimming her eyes. She moved in front of her new friend, protecting him.
"Watch your mouth, Maria, or your lazy father will be punished!" Juan Xavier warned.
He handed the electric cattle prod to Hector and smiled as the truck rumbled to a stop outside. "Bind him to the other..." He put on his cap and nodded to the soldiers saluting from where they'd gathered.
"Gentlemen, the time has come!" His brisk pace took him outside the room and towards the caravan.
He strode to the open flap and watched dispassionately as Chris Larabee's body was dumped in the back. The blond head began to stir just as the rusty manacle was snapped on his exposed ankle. He saw a flash of white as the teeth were bared, but otherwise, no sound came from the tough American. The other leg iron was attached to the larger man's lower leg. It had been specially welded to accommodate his large ankle.
"Hey, I ain't being saddled with him!" Bull complained of the two-and-a-half foot length of chain. "He stinks..."
"You would be advised to bite your foul tongue, Mister Savage, or you will be punished as well."
Chris's eyes opened a slit after the flap dropped and the truck was cloaked in darkness. He was lying on his side, his hands bound tightly behind him. His chest throbbed from the bruising shock and his throat was on fire from thirst. The rumbling motor, swaying motion and heat of the day lulled him into a doze.
The road to Hell had begun.
From beneath a herd of elephant's feet, he cried out and rolled over. Still they came, treading on his tender skull. He crawled away; someone was calling him.
"Chris..." he moaned, furrowing his brows.
"Easy, son," the old man shook the slim man's shoulders. He saw two confused eyes blink up at him.
"Mis...ter... Ro...mer..o..."
"Sí, it is I," Rico helped the young man sit up. "Come, we will eat supper in the garden. It's cool tonight. Here, I have a cool bath ready..." He waited patiently while the injured man used the clean water to wash his face, neck and chest. He slipped on a large white shirt and got to his feet, swaying slightly. "Okay?"
"Yeah... thanks..." Vin shuffled along, his head pounding. His leg was healing, but it hurt like hell. He smelled roasted chicken and saw a simple platter filled with potatoes and carrots. He eyed the small pile on the plate next to it and his hand went out.
"No," the old man smiled, gently pulling the hand away. "Sit down... here..." He handed him a tall glass of ice tea. "No chocolate cookies until you eat dinner. You have to regain your strength."
"Aw, hell..." Vin pouted, then smiled as another voice joined them. "Hey Padre! I missed ya today. Me and yer Pa was plantin' stuff..."
"Papa!"
"Don't go hollerin' at him!" Vin defended, then gave a sheepish grin. "It weren't his fault. I snuck out... a couple times. I reckon I wore him out... chasin' me an' such. He give up and let me help. I done real good. Only passed out once and that was after I got back inside." He snaked his hand out, but it was slapped.
"No sweets," Father Carlos laughed.
"Aw, hell," Vin repeated, bowing his head as they said Grace.
As the plates were being passed around, Father Romero eyed the young man. The bruises on his face were healing. The marks on his back and chest were healing as well. He had a good sense of people and his instincts told him this visitor was special. The quiet conversations they shared were full of hope and faith. There was a kind light shining from those blue eyes; it reflected a strong moral fiber from deep within. He waited until those mirrors caught his smile.
"Somethin' wrong?" Vin frowned at the smile. "I got somethin' stuck in m'teeth?"
"No!" the priest laughed. "But I have some good news. While I was in town this morning, I met an injured American in the clinic. He is not much younger than you."
"Does he know who I am? Come on Father, I gotta know." Vin's heart began to pound hard against his bruised ribcage. "Who is he? What's his name?"
"Kevin Lincoln."
"Huh?" Vin's nose wrinkled and his brows creased. "I don't know him."
"Troy?" He flinched as the fork hit the plate and both hands went to the injured man's head. "So that does strike a chord?"
Pain. Pain. Pain. A faceless demon ripping his insides apart. Flashes of the sky and a stranger's hidden face. A face he knew as well as his own...but yet it remained a mystery. He reached out to grab... grab... grab... for... for..
"Chris..." he whispered, his eyes clenched shut. Then the face and the body were gone, sucked into a sea of blue. "Oh God... he's dead..."
"Your cousin thought you were dead too." The priest moved to his side, rubbing the tense neck. "Do not give up hope, Troy..."
"Don't call me that!" Vin snarled, "I ain't... him... I'm... I'm... I'm... Dammit!" He shoved his body away from the table and staggered, falling to his knees. Who was he? He thought hard... pressed every fiber in his hot brain. Nothing, and then the shadow figure appeared, wrapped in the dark cloak in his mind. "Chris..."
"Your brother," the priest winced at the prayer like texture of the name as it came from the agonized lips. "He may still be alive. Kevin said you were traveling with your uncle, his father, on vacation. It seems something bad happened to your group. He can't remember exactly, only pain, screaming and water."
"River!" Vin's head snapped up. Pain. Pain. His head slamming into a rock. Wet. Wet. Water rushing in his mouth and nose. Water. A river. Maybe... maybe Chris was alive. Maybe his name was Troy.
"I want Doctor Lorico to examine you, Chr... Troy," he corrected. "Tomorrow at the clinic. Then, if you want to, we can visit with your cousin. He was overcome with emotion when I told him of you. He wept in my arms."
"Yeah?" Vin's head rose and the pain began to subside. "How come I can't remember him? ... Can't recall any of 'em...?" He paused, feeling a huge powerful force sweep through his system. It was the awesome power his brother possessed, to reach him deep inside. "Chris... his eyes... eagle's eyes... he could see m'soul... we was close, Padre... he was everythin' t'me..."
"Yes, I know. Your cousin spoke highly of him... Come, finish your meal. You won't get well if you don't eat." He helped the injured man back to the table. He and his own father began to eat; he paused as a sad smile crept onto the young man's face. "What is it?"
"Kin, Padre," Vin said, eyes shimmering with tears. "I got kin... I ain't alone..." He wondered about this cousin, suddenly anxious to see him. "Maybe... we can find Chris... Would ya help, Father?"
"You know I will do all I can, Troy," he reassured. "I'll pray for him tonight. You must go to bed early. We will leave after breakfast."
"Yeah," Vin whispered, hearing the sound of the river in his head and seeing the smiling face of his lost brother. "I'm comin', Chris... I'll find ya..."
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