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.
Nathan's whole body sagged in relief. He'd never been so glad to see his tall, mustached friend. From the corner of his eye, he saw Pete's hand move to his gun and he snagged the wrist.
"Mister Wil...ming...ton..." Ezra coughed, still trying to find his air. "I may... have to... kiss... you..."
"Hah," Buck chortled. "Damn, Ace. You look like ten miles of bad road. What the hell happened? What are you doing here?"
"DiTullio." Nathan answered Buck's questioning gaze and saw the two men exchange nods. "We ran into him in San Pedro."
"San Pedro?" Wilmington's head cocked.
"...taking... an... extended period of relaxation..." Ezra supplied.
"Vacation?" Buck translated in a voice tinged with disbelief. "In the same area where Chris and Vin went down?"
"A mere coincidence..." Standish drawled.
"Josiah and the kid?" Buck eyed the road and the empty Jeep. Then he saw Nathan's head turn and a soft curse escaped his lips. His gaze went to Ezra who lost the little color he had and made his cuts and bruises stand out brilliantly. "Ace?"
"We were camped by the river... and accosted by about a dozen men... soldiers..."
"Xavier's?" Wilmington hissed and snarled when the chestnut head bobbed. "Did they hurt them? Did they do that to you?"
"No, they were fine when I left. In my efforts to find Nathan and Pete, I was accosted by every upturned tree root, tangled vine and an army of winged insects..."
"How long ago?"
"Several hours..." Ezra paused. "Have you had any luck?"
"No," Buck sighed and then turned as the rest of his unit joined them. "Sir!" He snapped to attention. "This is Pete DiTullio, the reporter who clued us in to what happened. These are..."
"Jackson and Standish," the General nodded, having recognized the two from photos his son sent with his letters.
"It's an honor, General. Chris's told us a lot about you," Jackson nodded.
"Uncanny..." Ezra managed of the strong family resemblance. "Absolutely uncanny..."
"You still owe me fifty bucks," Pete shot out along with his right hand.
"I think not." The General took the hand and managed a half grin, recalling the two fearless reporters who'd risked their lives to get two of his own injured men to safety. "I believe that transaction was handled by an... uh... rather skilled undercover operative."
"Hah," Pete laughed, recalling the beautiful Oriental girl who'd arrived unannounced into their campsite in northern Thailand. They'd been covering the border wars between Burma and Thailand. Jack still had dreams about her and that night. "I stand corrected. It's good to see you again, sir."
"Same here, DiTullio." He saw the reporter's dark eyes travel to the slim young girl who stood behind him. "This is Maria. She's a very valuable asset. Not only did she help my son escape from Xavier's men, but she knows all about Juan and his past moves and future plans. She knows where his camp is."
"I know this area better than anyone," Pete charged. "I've got a stake in this too. Those bastards took Jack. Where are they?" He glared at the defiant girl who pouted back at him.
"I will take you there... You will not tell me what to do..." She backed up when the brash American reporter grabbed her arms.
"If you know what's good for you, you'll tell me where they are!" Pete bristled, only to encounter a wall of ATF agent.
"Take it easy!" Buck moved in front of Maria and paused. He knew Pete was upset and gave the other man a moment to compose himself. "She's not the enemy! Show a little respect..."
"I'm sorry," Pete raked a hand through his hair. He turned and gave the girl a genuine smile. "I didn't mean to bark at you. I know you're tired... you've done a great job so far. But I think maybe I'm better qualified..."
Maria paused, eyeing the group of men and suddenly feeling very tired. As much as she wanted to go on, all her energy was spent. Then the General's voice, sounding a lot like her missing blond friend's broke through her fatigued mind.
"This changes things, Maria. He not only knows this terrain, but he's been in war zones before. How about it?"
Reluctantly, the words came out, slow and halting. She wasn't happy but she was exhausted. Try as she might, keeping up with the American soldiers was hard and they'd been forced to stop several times to let her rest. He was right and she slumped with fatigue after giving them the information. Then she felt her chin tipped up and saw understanding and admiration in the reporter's dark eyes.
"Thanks, Maria," Pete said quietly, then turned to the General. "We need to scale down. I've got a safe house in Vincente. It's not far. Nathan can take Ezra and the girl there." He turned to the medic. "There's a first rate computer set up and a radio. You can update Orrin and we can contact you there."
There was no reply. The General saw the disappointment and a little resentment in Jackson's dark eyes. He stepped forward, taking the girl's arm and leading her to the angry man.
"She's a valuable witness and I need her protected. Xavier will do anything to prevent her testimony. Understood?"
"Yeah," Nate managed, then turned to Buck. "Find them, okay?"
"You got my word, Nate." The mustached man nodded, knowing that Jackson was concerned for all their missing friends, including Josiah Sanchez, his best friend.
"Wilmington's word's as good as done," Standish parroted and took the hand up, giving Buck's shoulder a tug.
"You bet your sweet ass..." Buck retorted, with a wink to the grinning southerner.
The heart wrenching scream pierced the thick, pulsating wall of pain. It tore through him as sharp and lethal as a blade. His eyes shot open and with a force he didn't know he possessed, he shoved the massive weight of the corpse from his body. He rolled onto his side, gasping free air greedily. His unfocused eyes adjusted and he saw Vin Tanner's prone body. His lips formed the name, but no words would come. He tried twice, but he had not the strength to produce them. So he began to crawl, inch by inch, like a worm. Despite the sweat pouring down his face, mixing with blood and stinging his eyes, he kept going. He ignored the screams of his injured body, the shrieks from his burns and the loud protests from his throbbing head. His burning eyes never left the stilled and bloodied face of Vin Tanner.
Gasping, heaving and coughing, he kept going. A trip of a few yards that should have taken just minutes took forever. He stopped, he chugged air and pushed his body beyond the pain.
"One more inch for Vin... One more inch... for... Vin" became his mantra.
Finally, he was close enough. He reached a hand out. It wavered badly before thumping on Vin's chest. He dropped his head, choking and gasping, his lungs on fire. His fingers fumbled across Vin's face, then over his nose and he waited. He held his breath and waited, concentrating with all he had.
Was it there? Had he imagined it? His numb fingers moved again, pinching flesh. He pinched harder and heard a weak cry. He sighed in relief. It was there. Vin was still alive. It was faint, but warm breath danced across his fingers. He gave the stilled cheek a pat and rolled over, trying to find the gun. His right hand inched along the narrow space between them and he felt the metal. It seemed to weigh more than he could lift.
Minutes passed. His fingers were numb and slick. Finally, he got a grip and pulled it onto his thigh. His pained eyes raked the landscape and flitted over the corpses. There would be more soldiers.
But how many and how soon?
He swallowed the pain and took several shallow breaths, trying to remain alive.
Major Chelsea was several yards behind Buck Wilmington when suddenly the man in front of him stopped. He tossed his hand up, signaling those behind him to pause. Then he jogged closer, watching the eyes of the man in front. His own gaze went to the sky and a circle of predatory birds.
"It might not be them..." The Major pulled out the scanner and the luminous dial showed no movement. "I'm not picking anything up... well..."
"Don't say it!" Buck snapped. "And that damn thing could be wrong!" Buck managed, but he wasn't convinced. The girl said Chris was injured and they knew Vin was. How long could an injured man last out here? "We need to check it out."
"It's in the other direction..."
Buck's eyes lingered on the birds for several seconds before training on the dark-skinned man's face. He knew what he was asking and it was a Solomon-like decision he couldn't fathom. If he turned away, to seek Xavier's camp, they could rescue Josiah and J.D. If he took the other road, even if he found Chris and Vin alive, it might cost them the lives of the others.
"It's the General's call," Chelsea noted and picked up his radio.
Small canvas tents were set about in close proximity with a dozen armed guards on the perimeter. Several more were in trees and still more hidden in the woods along with booby traps. His heart was beating wildly as he was shoved forward, a rifle slamming between his shoulder blades. With his arms tied behind him, it was hard to keep his balance and he went to his knees. That brought a harsh edict in Spanish from his captors and a hard blow to his already aching back.
"Goddammit! I can't go any faster!" he railed and that caused them to laugh harder at him. He was prodded forward and staggered badly into the clearing.
"Oh God..." he murmured, his hazel eyes widening at the horrid sight. Josiah's large frame was suspended between two trees, his arms pulled high and tight. Blood streaked the ropes that bound his wrists. It ran down his face and there were bluish bruises on his chest. His eyes ran around the foreground and he spotted the unmoving body of Jack Lynch. He was shoved forward and down onto his knees, an unwilling witness in the bizarre arena.
J.D. flinched as yet another blow descended, the loud thwack leaving another bruise on Josiah's face. One eye was swollen and the graying agent was nearly unconscious, his head hanging low. From the time they were brought in, Xavier and his two right hand men had been suspicious. Jack was dumped in the corner, kicked several times and spit upon. He drifted in and out of consciousness. J.D. and Josiah were questioned together, then separated. He was questioned by two filthy soldiers whose foul stench gagged him. They used fists on his face and lower back which created a horrid dull ache. But he'd remained silent, only telling them of his college courses and ministry work.
J.D. was grateful he volunteered with Josiah at the church the older man was restoring. The Saturday afternoons went by faster with Sanchez telling him of his travels as a youth.
Josiah hadn't uttered a word, just recited various Bible passages and asked God to forgive them. That angered the soldiers and they were brutally beating him. J.D.'s eyes widened in shock when the soldiers parted and Juan Xavier walked up to Josiah, gripping his hair and yanking his head up.
"No more games, gringo! I am tired of your foolish babbling. I know you and your friends are spies and I will find out the truth!"
"Huh?" J.D. eyed the two men who hauled him to his feet. He was tied like his friend and watched an evil smile split the soldier's lips. Then he saw the gun come out and a single bullet placed in the chamber.
"Josiah?"
The smoky eyes were barely open but met his dead on. The bloodied lips parted and a single word was mouthed.
"Faith."
Did he have that capacity in him? Could he face what may be certain death and have the strength that his friend did? J.D. watched as Josiah never flinched when Xavier ran the gun along his face and body. He continued to pray as the younger man felt his bladder tremble. Then with one last warning and a blow to the abdomen, leaving the youth breathless, the madman turned.
"Very well, we shall begin!" He turned to his aide. "Toss the dice... the boy, he is even and the older one, he is odd..."
"Four!"
"Oh God..." J.D. whispered, heart hammering as the gun was brought up.
"You all understand your mission?" General Larabee eyed the four men and then turned to his right hand man. "Major, we'll rendezvous as soon as we get confirmation," he paused. "One way on the other."
"Sir!" Chelsea nodded, gripped his rifle and nodded to the path. They would let Pete show them where the camp was. The General, Buck, Weston and the medic, Dillon, would check out the circling birds ahead.
Twenty minutes later they had their answer. The stench told them well before they reached what was left of the bloated bodies. What animals and other predators didn't get to, the hot sun did. Buck was in the lead and radioed back. Putting a mask on, he approached and nearly gagged at the sight. He saw tracks and jogged to the edge of the cliff. He spotted the familiar fatigues on the dead bodies of two rebels.
But there weren't alone.
He blinked in disbelief. His mouth went dry and his fingers froze on the radio. It was almost too painful to look at. There, far below, lying in the dirt under the hot sun were two filthy, bearded, bloodied men. The clothing was tattered and rough hewn bandages peeked out between lines of mud and blood. But he saw through the grime and his heart trembled.
They weren't any two men... they had names.
"Chris! Vin!"
There was no reply. His heart sank. Was he too late? Were they already dead?
His chest constricted in pain when he looked hard at the pair. Larabee was on his back, his arm flung over the side of Tanner's chest. The younger man was turned on his side, facing his friend.
How strong was that bond that linked them? Was the combined forces of their will to live enough? Could that faith they shared endure when their injured bodies gave out?
"Sir! I have a visual." He recovered and screamed in the radio. "I repeat, I have a visual."
"Confirm!" Larabee barked, racing towards the clearing as he put on his mask. The air was that foul.
"It's them, sir! Tanner and Larabee. I'm going down to check." After giving the coordinates, he climbed down the rocky hill.
Something loud invaded the tracker's senses. It parted the thick black mud that his brain was encased in. With Herculean effort, he forced his eyes open and tried to focus. He gasped in pain as every move tore through his already damaged body.
Air.
He couldn't seem to find any. The harder he tried to breathe, the worse the pain in his chest became. The fire in his ribcage was preventing the air he needed so badly. Desperate, he sucked greedily through his mouth. The short, ragged breaths over his dry throat felt like he was swallowing rusty nails.
Shredded by a raging fever and a jackhammer-like pain, his brain struggled hard to work. Where was he? What was wrong? Why was he in such pain? A dark fear gripped his heart, seeming to squeeze the life out of it. His small breaths came in short pants like poisoned bullets as the fear intensified. He was drowning in a tidal wave of agony.
A face appeared in the mists above the world of confusion he was lost in. Suddenly, fear had a name.
Chris Larabee.
Or rather, the utter and total loss of someone he couldn't see clearly but felt with a depth he didn't know he possessed.
Chris was dead.
Chris was dead?
"...no..." he whispered, shifting his arm as if to ward off the unthinkable.
His hand moved and brushed against something. It was soft... not dirt... not rocks. He moved his head and blinked. His eyes widened and his heart began to race. There was a body next to him. The brother who had the face of a stranger. He moved his hand painfully up the chest and over to the neck.
"Please... please..." His mind screamed. "...don't be dead... please..."
Then he felt it; that which was the very essence of life. It moved beneath his fingers and he choked in relief. Chris Larabee was alive. The pulse that ran under his trembling fingers seemed to move through his skin and jolt his old failing body.
A voice from faraway overtook his weak state. It was a vow sent on the wind for all eternity. It traveled through time and space, curling inside him and spreading. It gave his body the warmth he needed to remain alive. It fueled his soul and painted his destiny.
"I got yer back..."
Then he saw movement beyond the bandaged chest his hand rested on He blinked several times and saw boots in the dirt.
Boots.
Boots?
Black boots.
His heart raced and his delirious mind knew one thing. Guns came with boots. Guns came with boots and hurt Chris. His head turned and his eyes spotted the gun in Larabee's slack fingers. His own weak body reacted and he shoved over, tossing his left side and arm further on the prone man and grabbing the gun with his right. He saw the black pants tucked into the boots. He watched the soldier's boots hit the ground as the body turned.
The words came to him, giving him strength and purpose. He grit his teeth, he put his armor on and he stood his ground.
"I got yer back..."
Vin never hesitated. He sucked in his air, cried out weakly and raised his arm. Chris was depending on him and he wouldn't fail.
He aimed and fired.
Josiah sagged in relief and let his heart cry out in silent thanks at the swift reply to his prayers. The staccato echo of gunfire in the near distance caused the rebel leader and his young prey to jump. J.D.'s gasp was audible and the preacher then heard him gagging. Xavier barked out orders and left a single armed guard with the bound prisoners.
J.D. never felt such internal pressure in all his life. His eyes still saw that gun just inches away from his face. His blood ran cold and his bladder was throbbing. He didn't know who fired the automatic weapons in the woods, but he wanted to kiss them. His stomach was still doing flip-flops and he fought hard to control himself. Taking several gasping breaths, he finally raised his battered face.
"What's... going... on... Josiah?"
"The Lord provides..." the older man sighed as the exchange of gunfire continued."Keep the faith, son."
"I'm tryin', preacher," Dunne managed. "But it's awfully hard on my kidneys..."
"They're alive!" Richardson put his field glasses down and called out to his acting C.O., Major Chelsea. "Looks like they got worked over pretty good..."
"Where are they?"
"Two are tied up just beyond that ring of tents. There's one guard watching them. The blond guy isn't moving. He's curled up by a tree."
"Damn..." Pete slumped, raking a hand through his dark hair.
"Xavier?" Chelsea asked the returning scout.
"He's not going anywhere. We took out his jeep and the two trucks. We nailed four of his men in the woods..."
"Parker?" The leader hit his radio and waited.
"We took out three on the east side... looks like the main nest is in the camp."
"How close to the hostages?"
"I can take 'em out... I'll toss a couple eggs in there..." His hand slid towards the grenades.
"Hold it!" Chelsea took his eyes to the field glasses and zoomed in. "I don't see him..."
"Sir? Do I have a green light? We need to take them out now...before they shoot the hostages. They're looking that way..."
"Do it!" Chelsea boomed.
"Josiah!" J.D. screamed over the explosion as the guard turned, aiming the rifle at the preacher. But before a shot could be fired, the rebel's eyes bugged out as a bullet came through the back of his neck.
"That, son, was the sound of Gideon's trumpet!" the older man managed, coughing through the smoke stinging his eyes. Then a sound so sweet it brought a smile of relief to both men.
"Drop it, you Mexican cockroach, or I'll blow your balls off!"
"God Bless America!" J.D. sagged in relief at the distinctive American accent that belonged to one of their rescuers. Apparently the rebel didn't obey and the single gunshot answered the threat.
"Jack!" Pete charged into the clearing cutting Lynch's bonds. Moving quickly, he released J.D. Dunne. "Here... get Josiah!" He handed the large knife over and dropped to the side of the stricken man. He gently turned the prone man onto his back and tapped the stilled cheek. They'd been down this road before and it never got easier. Every time the injury-prone man was stricken, he felt a part of himself die.
"Quit fuckin' around, Lynch..." He tapped the face harder. "Don't you die on me...I'll leave your ass here and let the rats eat it..."
"...be a sweet treat then, eh..." Jack winked and wagged his eyebrows.
"Goddammit!" the dark-haired reporter seethed, not amused by the grinning face. "I thought you were dead. What the fuck's wrong with you? That's not a damn bit funny..."
"It is from here, mate," Jack grinned weakly. "Your eyes are all crossed..." He sighed, resting his throbbing eyes as he lifted his arm and waited. "Give a hand, then... Pete? Pete?" He peeled his blues open, eyeing the retreating back of his friend. "Hmmm... he's gettin' t'be a crotchety old bugger..."
"Here, son, let me..." Josiah lifted the younger man up and steadied him. Then he saw the gun on the ground. "That was your work?" He nodded to the soldier who'd been ready to kill him when a shot took him down.
"The other bloke dropped it when the bomb went off..." He nodded to a dead rebel nearby. "He was doubling back to kill us... I think."
"I owe you a beer," the smoky-eyed man smiled, then frowned when the other's leg buckled. "Jack?"
"Nice face." Chelsea winced at Josiah's battered features, marred by blood and rapidly swelling. "Anything broken?"
"No..." Josiah eased Jack down. "But he's got a bad head injury. He's been in and out..."
"Okay." The Major's eyes went around the camp. He watched his men piling up the dead rebels and their weapons. Before he could formulate the next phase of the plan, his radio sounded.
Josiah Sanchez listened and felt his battered body gain new life at the sound of General Larabee's voice. The head of the elite team updated his men that their two missing friends had been found. Buck was now in the process of checking on them. He let his thanks to go airborne.
"Praise the Lord!"
"What's that?" J.D. raised his face at the sound of Josiah's proclamation. He handed the other man a canteen, wincing as his back protested the slightest movement.
"General Larabee called, they found Vin and Chris." Sanchez took a drink, swirled and spit out a mouth of blood. Then he took more swallows, trying to sate his thirst. "Buck went down to check on them. He thinks they're alive but he's not sure. They're at the bottom of a steep hill..."
"Let's go!" J.D. shot up too fast and cursed as his back spasmed.
"Hold it!" Major Chelsea waved his hand. "You're not going anywhere. This is a military operation. Vincente is the nearest town and your other friends are there. Richardson!"
"Sir!" The young man appeared.
"Are any of the vehicles operational?"
"Yes, sir... we can fix the tire on the Jeep and get one truck up."
"Do it. DiTullio, you use the Jeep to take these men to their friends in Vincente. We'll put the dead rebels in the back of the truck and we'll notify the army. We'll take the other truck back to where the General is and take that injured man with us. He can be medivac'd to El Paso from there."
"El Paso?" J.D. paused, pulling up a mental map of the border between Texas and Mexico.
"If Larabee and Tanner are alive, that is the nearest trauma center. It's on the army base in El Paso. It's not far, just over the border," Chelsea stated. "We should know in a few minutes..."
Upon hearing the words of the younger man, General Larabee radioed his second-in-command. He got an update on their situation and gave the order to stand by. He positioned his men around the search perimeter, always wary of stray rebels, and jogged to the edge of the cliff.
"Chris..." he whispered, his heart breaking at the sight of his only child, battered and bloody, marred by bruises, dirt and rags. Was Chris even alive? He saw movement then as Tanner's head came up and his eyes blinked. Hope was born. If Tanner was alive, given the position of their bodies, Chris might be alive as well. "Hold on, son..."
Buck was nearly down when the General began his own rapid descent. He was just a few feet away when the shot rang out. He heard Buck curse and saw his hand grab his thigh. He moved slowly, cautiously, wary of the wobbly gun trained on Wilmington's chest.
"You're lucky he's in bad shape. You could've been dead..." he warned, coming up just behind the younger man.
"Lucky, hell!" Buck clenched his teeth against the fiery pain along his inner thigh. "He put that bullet just where he wanted to. Delirious or not, he's the best damn shot I've ever seen," he noted with pride and gazed painfully at the stilled body of Chris Larabee. He trained his eyes on the flat abdomen and saw it rising and falling ever so slightly. He sighed in relief and turned his attention back to the sharpshooter.
Buck's heart broke when he looked at Vin Tanner. His upper body was strewn across Larabee's. His left hand was clamped on the blond's chest, the right wobbling badly and holding a gun. The long hair was filthy and matted; a beard and mustache covered his lower face. He saw crude bandages peeking through the tattered shirt. But it was the eyes that caused more pain than his own leg. Those blue eyes that were usually so animated and alive were full of fear and bright with fever.
Vin Tanner was lost. Between the amnesia and his delirium, he had no idea what was going on. That hand resting on Chris Larabee's chest was his only lifeline.
"Vin, I'm not gonna hurt you. It's me...Buck. I'm a friend of Chris's. This is Chris's dad...we came to take you home. You're hurt, Vin...you need help..."
"...back... the... hell... off..." Vin warned, the voice causing his throbbing head to ache worse, his blurry vision only letting him see black legs, boots and two figures. "...next one... goes... a mite... higher and ...dead... center..."
"Ouch!" Weston winced, realizing the 'delicate' area that the shaky sniper intended. From his post above, he had a clear shot. "Sir... don't take any risks... I can disarm him from here..."
"You stand down or I'll shoot you myself!" Buck hissed, eyeing the man above.
"Buck... Weston..." Larabee warned both of them just as he got the answer he sought. "He's alive... thank God!"he sighed, watching Chris's lips move and his muddied head follow suit.
"...quit... talkin'... move... th'hell... 'way..." Vin ordered.
"Chris? Chris, can you hear me?" Buck said quietly, then saw the green eyes open.
"...trick..." Vin muttered aloud to himself. They were trying to get him to believe they were friends of Larabee's. "...no worry... 'ris..." He gave the chest a thump. "...won't let 'em... hurt... ya... watchin'...back..."
"Damn..." Buck swallowed hard and heard the intake of breath behind him.
"I had no idea..." General Larabee said quietly, awed by the blue-eyed watchdog that guarded his son's life.
"Chris...?" Buck said louder, then the eyes blinked and the gun came up again. "No! Vin, don't!"
He knew he wasn't under water, but nothing was clear. Not his vision, nor his hearing. Everything was wet and blurry. It was hard to breathe. He blinked twice and saw a hand nearby, hovering above him. Then he saw dark metal and trained his eyes on that shape.
Gun.
He turned his eyes, following the arm, and saw long hair and the familiar grubby face of Vin Tanner. Then he realized that noise he heard wasn't a dream. It was a shot. Vin was shooting at someone. His brain seemed to be full of hot mud and he found it hard to put his thoughts in order. He heard a sharp cry and turned his head, moving his hand to rub his eyes. It wasn't a mirage... that was a mustache!
"...you dead too... B...b...buck?"
"Hell, no!" the relieved man shot back with a waning smile. "I'm too young and pretty!"
"...took your fuckin' time getting here... " Chris noted and locked onto that dark blue gaze. He gave a slight nod, letting his oldest friend know just how much it meant to see him.
"Now that's gratitude for you! Risked life and limb trooping through these mountains to find your sorry ass and..." Buck paused, then frowned at the odd angle of Vin Tanner's body. Something hit him then and it hit him hard. The tracker's legs weren't right and then he noticed that Vin was only moving his upper body. He shot a gaze back to Chris who understood immediately and nodded his head, indicating Vin's legs were affected.
"Damn..." Buck slumped, then felt a hand on his shoulder. "...and I brought some company."
"Dad?" Chris's voice was half-prayer and half-shock. There was no mistaking that face, his own features refined with age. The dark hair was just beginning to gray and those black eyes were still mesmerizing. He was really here...just a few feet away. His muddled brain did the math quickly, realizing that his father flew halfway around the world to find him.
"You should have gone to medical school..." The older Larabee's voice was clipped and then his heart rose at the weak smile.
"Vin..." Chris turned away then, wincing at the lost soul above him. "Vin, put the gun down. It's okay. That's Buck and my dad. You remember me telling you about Buck Wilmington..." He saw the shaggy head cock and the eyes darting.
Vin's frazzled brain was working too hard, and like a machine that was in overkill, it felt like it was beginning to overload. Steam rose above the flames in his brain and caused him to shake his head. The stories came back, the ones Chris told about the men they worked with. Names began to form and then he found it.
"Skirtchaser!" he blurted loudly.
"Thanks, Chris!" Buck mocked derisively. "I do have other qualities, you know."
"...name... better..." the injured man tossed back, then reached his hand up, palm out. He saw Vin clearly then, more so than he'd ever seen him before. Here on this Godforsaken stretch of ground, under the bruises, cuts and bloodied mask, he saw Tanner. He saw a man who was willing to die for him. That intensity was born from something deep within. Vin still didn't know who he was or where he came from. What he did know, what he held close to his heart was his faith. That faith kept them alive and now was struggling hard. He rested his fingers on Vin's wrist and took a deep breath.
"They're here to help... take us home. It's time, Vin, to cross the river of fire, remember? We can go to that valley of dreams. I'll take you there, cowboy, I promise..."
"...they hurt ya... I seen 'em... I tried... t'help..." Vin panted, desperate to find the right answer. "...fuckin' legs wouldn't work..."
"Look at me..." Chris commanded and saw the troubled face turn slightly. "You got 'em, Vin. You saved my life. You took care of business. It's over...and it's time to go home, okay?"
"...black boots... guns..." Vin denied, still seeing the soldiers attacking his friend.
"Trust me."
The General started to move and Buck shot his arm out, hitting the other man's chest. He shook his head and let the moment play out. He knew these two well enough to know those two words were more powerful than the bullets in the gun.
Adam Larabee's eyes lifted from his son's face, full of so much emotion that it nearly blinded him. Those green eyes were locked on the lost blue ones. He watched in awe as the wobbly hand holding the gun stopped shaking. Some of the fear left those troubled eyes and without questioning it any further, the gun dropped into his son's palm.
"Chris!" He moved in, dropping to his son's side.
"Easy, Vin... I don't want you to hurt your legs any worse." Buck gently laid the Texan down and straightened him out. He saw the lost eyes darting frantically and didn't need a stethoscope to know the heart was gyrating wildly. "Here, I got some water."
He gently lifted the matted head and felt that weak hand covering his own. He smiled and took the canteen away, lowering Vin's head again. "You're gonna be fine, Slick..." His words died when the use of his nickname for Vin caused the younger man to flinch, gasp and jerk his shoulders.
A picture came to Vin then. Of a sunny day in a beautiful park. Bright green grass covered the ground and a glorious blue sky was overhead. There was the sound of laughing. The good kind that comes from deep inside. The kind you share with your brothers or best friends. The hum of voices interplayed with laughing. Then a football sailed through the air and the voices called out.
"Heads up, Slick!" the voice warned and he saw himself catch the football and run like the wind.
"...touchdown!" Vin gasped as the image faded.
"Huh?" Buck's eyes narrowed at the delirious rendering. "Vin?" He watched as the confused eyes slid shut. Then he pulled out his radio as Dillon, the medic, approached. "What's the ETA on that chopper?"
"Ten minutes. I radioed as soon as we had the first visual. Let me check 'em over..." He moved in, then saw the crimson stain on Wilmington's leg. "You okay?"
"...Bactine and a bandaid'll do it..." Buck eased his grazed thigh down.
"Bactine?" The young man cocked his head and gave Buck his first laugh in some time.
"Damn, I'm gettin' old..." he commiserated, eyeing the touching reunion between father and son.
"Easy, son," Adam choked, gently lifting his son's head to let him drink. His hands trembled and he had to swallow back the waver in his voice. Then one hand came up and touched his face and that's all it took. So close... he'd come so close to losing this precious gift from God. He closed his eyes, trying to push back the tears that burned there. Then he felt those weak fingers brush his cheek and he gasped.
Chris heard the sob and slid his hand to the back of his father's neck. He didn't need to hear it. He saw it painted on every agonized feature of his father's face. Although his own time in that domain was too short, he knew that pain. The kind only a parent can feel. Now he saw it displayed in living color. There was no man he loved or respected more than Adam Larabee. The older man then dropped the canteen and lifted his son, gingerly embracing him
Chris gasped, feeling invincible in his father's arms. Suddenly, the hands of time slipped away and he was nine years old again in the woods. Burned into his memory, those first lessons came back to him.
"...food... shelter... fire... water..." he managed as his father finally broke the hold and pulled back. "...pays... havin' best... teacher..."
"And the star pupil." The older man grinned, "...best I ever laid eyes on..." Adam didn't hide his pride, gripping his son's neck. "You're a Larabee, every inch..."
"...you're the virtuoso, sir. I'm still a student..." Chris sent back, eyes locking on his father's. "I hope one day to earn that mantle."
Shaken by the close brush with death and the moving testament by his only child, Adam J. Larabee dropped his head and wept silently.
The distant sound of an airborne motor brought Buck's head up. He scanned the sky and saw the chopper approaching in the distance. He watched until it got closer, setting down on an area of open solid ground above them. He moved then as the medic working on Vin Tanner completed his short assessment.
"How is he?"
"Well," Dillon sighed, eyeing the battered man, "he's pretty beat up and his fever is over 102. His blood pressure's too low. His pulse is weak and rapid, respirations labored, and I can't tell how much damage that head wound did. Then there's his leg. . . it's badly infected. . . hot to touch. . . red. He's got some second degree burns on his back that look to be infected too." He turned to look at Buck, his gaze almost apologetic. "He's a mess," the medic advised, his frustration obvious. "Christ! I don't even know how this guy is still breathing!"
"They broke the mold," Chris hissed and then grimaced as he motioned weakly with one hand. "...he got thrown from up there... landed on a big rock... on his back.." Then he turned to Buck and his voice trembled. "I thought he was... d..d..dead..."
"Okay, that explains his legs," Dillon grunted and saw the other injured man nod. He eyed the hut and the marks in the dirt where the Texan had painfully pulled his crippled body across the ground. "..and that certainly didn't help..."
"...sorry, Vin..." Chris laid back, realizing Vin had moved to save his life.
"Sir, you need to update Major Chelsea..." Buck limped to his C.O. and waited. "Are we moving out? That son-of-a-bitch is still loose..."
"Yeah..." He cupped the side of his son's face and gave a bold wink. "I'll see you at home, son. Don't give those doctors any trouble, you hear?"
"Me?" Chris gasped, "...never trouble... hospitals love me..." He turned and scowled as Buck Wilmington choked on a stiffled laugh. "Shut up... Buck..."
Buck stood back then full of admiration as the 'father' left and the 'general' returned. The older man moved a few feet away and pulled out his radio. Buck saw the medics from the chopper dropping down. The men above lowered equipment and two stokes to be used to transport the injured. He watched the medical officers moving rapidly to kneel next to Vin and Chris while Dillon gave them a quick assessment.
Buck stayed back, eyes wide, his heart pounding with anxiety as the efficiency of the medical crew took over the care of his injured friends. As Dillon cut the area around his injured thigh and treated it, he watched the other medics working. Chris and Vin were given a quick examination, the extent of their various wounds and injuries noted and documented. As they attached the portable life-monitoring devices, the medics spoke with their patients, started IV lines and applied oxygen masks.
Chris answered their questions, his eyes heavy with pain and fatigue but fighting hard to remain open. Vin, however, remained unresponsive in spite of the loud voices calling to him and the gentle taps upon his battered face. Following established protocol, both agents were then placed in cervical collars and strapped securely to hard backboards even as their injuries were given a cursory cleaning and bandages applied. The small monitors beeped softly, giving continuous readings on their heart rates, blood pressure and oxygen levels.
Just as the two patients were being secured inside their individual stokes and vital signs relayed to the medical team waiting at the trauma center, Buck moved in, kneeling gingerly on his good leg beside Chris Larabee. He felt his own chest constrict and lightly grabbed the injured man's shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. He followed with a wink and a nod.
Chris didn't say anything at first, then lifted his gaze to meet the dark blue one above him. Despite the restraints holding him down, he moved his hand, reaching for his oldest friend.
"...you done good, Bucko..."
Buck chuckled softly, his handsome face breaking into a wide smile. He took the weak hand of his oldest friend and gripped it hard. "I was just protecting my ass. You up and die and Orrin'll assign some fuckin' college slide-rule champion to be our team leader." His smile died then when Larabee's face nearly broke. Chris's chin wavered and the eyes shimmered lightly.
"I knew... you'd come..." Chris gasped, the pain in his body beginning to overtake him. He let it out then, every bit of gratitude he felt for this man. How many times in his life could a man be so blessed? To have a friend who would march through hell and back for you. No questions asked. He felt so privileged...to call Buck Wilmington friend.
"...thank... you..."
"Aw, hell..." Buck choked, swallowing hard. He held onto that hand even after it went limp and those magnetic green eyes closed. And he felt that special tingle long after the two men were airborne, winging their way homeward. Then he saluted as the chopper disappeared over the distant horizon.
"Come on, son, the others are topside." He noted of Chelsea and the rest of the team. The injured reporter was waiting in the chopper. "We've got a job to finish..." Adam clapped Wilmington's back.
"Yes, sir..." Buck recovered, sucked his breath in and began the trek back to the jungle.
The phone rang and Nathan hesitated, not sure if he wanted to hear the news it would provide. On the third ring, he picked it up.
"J.D., if you don't sit down I'm gonna nail your ass to that chair!" Josiah grumbled, his head throbbing.
"And might I add, Mister Sanchez, that your constant thrumming of fingers on that glass is beyond irritating?" Ezra managed, trying not to scratch his many bug bites.
"Shut up, Ezra... you're givin' me a headache!" J.D. shot back, pacing the tiled patio of the home they were waiting in. The motrin Nate gave him took some of the pain from his back, but his nerves were jangled.
"Christ, how does Larabee put up with all of you?" Pete hissed, shooting from his chair.
"Shut up!" Jackson roared, cupping the phone. Then he pushed the speaker button and put the phone back on the cradle. "Could you repeat that?"
"The chopper just took off. Chris and Vin are on their way to the army medical center in El Paso. They're in bad shape but they have a first rate trauma center on the base and they'll get the very best care."
Adam Larabee winced as the loud burst of cheering broke into his earpiece.
"Silence!" he ordered, gaining immediate quiet. "I spoke with Orrin Travis. The army is sending a car to pick you up and take you to the airport in Chihuahua. From there you'll be flown to the army base in El Paso sometime tomorrow. There are no flights scheduled until then."
"Thank you, sir. Will you be returning?" Nathan asked.
"When the job is done. Larabee out."
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