Chapter 2.5 — The Answer

There is no pause this time, just Kretchmer, rapid-fire.

"Perimeter, I want you two to get over there and help east team get that thing the hell out of there. And I've lost you on sats. Looks like a big front moving in, 80-90 percent cloud cover. We've got a chopper in the air, but it's going to take us awhile to get to you."

"Copy that," Sydney says. "Packing it up now."

Vaughn and Watkins are already halfway to the door of the tiny room, the black box secured in her backpack, when he speaks again.

"North team, you stay put."

"Sir — " Vaughn wonders briefly why he's using the term at a time like this " — shouldn't we go help them as well?"

"No. I want those coordinates."

"Watkins?"

"Just a sec. Let me get back to the top of the list." She steps gingerly over the body on the floor and reclaims the seat in front of the computer. Fingers rattle through the keys again, and a new sound joins the clicking — meshing with it, almost in unison, but louder.

It takes Vaughn a moment to realize the new sound is gunfire. Somewhere outside the tiny room, the forest, he thinks. "What the hell is going on out there?"

There is no answer over the radio, only Watkins, swift and loud. "40, 58, 14 north. 88, 45, 55 west. 47, 52, 00 north. 99, 39, 00 west. 37, 11, 35 north. 93, 11, 57 west — "

" — we're under fire!" Weiss, finally. "McClure is down — "

" — 31, 30, 45 north — "

" — dead." Shit. Damn it. Stupid, fucking eager kid. Dead. Something, some deep boiling dread, compels him to check his watch. Thirty-three seconds past midnight.

"92, three, 57 west. 41, 47, 53 north. 98, 50, 33 west — "

We should go while we have the chance. I gave Robertson the wrong start time.

" — Weiss, do you copy?" Kretchmer is slightly less calm, Vaughn thinks. "Weiss?" No answer. oh god he's dead and it was all compromised. Again.

"East team, stay put until we get a better idea of what's happening out there."

"Copy that."

" — 34, three, seven north — " One of Watkins's hands drifts down to her backpack, whizzes through the zipper, roots around " — 118, 14, 34 west. Fuck, that's L.A."

Shots still chatter from somewhere outside. They killed them, and now they're going to come in and kill you. Watkins slowly extracts her gun — the real one — from the backpack. For a second, he thinks —

— she will swing it up at him. Point it at him, bore into him with the ice eyes one last time, and pull the trigger. Kill you like that damned eager kid. Kill you like Weiss. Kill you like the rest of her team. Drill you like Irina Derevko would.

She doesn't. "38, 53, 52 north. 77, two, 12 west — " The gun goes next to the keyboard, clunks down there, reminds him that it is past time to switch.

Not you, Chris. Never you. Relief washes over him like the numbers she continues to recite, but he cannot ignore the time or the noises outside.

"Watkins, where are you?" Kretchmer interrupts his thoughts. "You two are gonna have to move, help out east team."

"Three more," she says, then launches into the remainder.

"Devlin. It was Devlin." No one confirms his statement, and he does not have time to braid his thoughts together into something coherent enough to support it.

Because they are there, in the doorway. Two men, black-clad, rifles first. "Prival!"

Vaughn does not understand the word specifically, but the meaning is clear enough. Halt, stop, or we'll shoot you like your friends and this is all going to end badly. He is closer to the doorway, not close enough — not fast enough — to do anything but slowly lean over and place his gun on the concrete floor. A clunk, and it sounds hollow. He holds his hands out, wide, the universal sign for surrender, and slowly begins to rise.

He sneaks a glance back to her, barely visible in the periphery, but he knows, almost instinctively, her intentions. The hands sliding slowly from the keyboard, one in a direction it shouldn't and —

Fast. Always fast. Her eyes on the men in the doorway, as if her hand has its own agenda. Slipping slowly and then — point of no return — snapping, flying, grasping. Wrist flicking — up, up, up — gun jerking in her hand as one man's forehead erupts in a burst of red. A second jerk, quickly to the left, and a second burst.

Loud, he realizes, when it is done. No silencers. And so the shots ring through his ears in the tiny room. Two men on the floor by the doorway, and for a second, he thinks she is fast enough.

Not fast enough. Not for that. She gasps, slumps a little in the chair, but not enough to hide the red blooming high on her stomach. Higher than the pink line. Closer to the center. No vests, either.

He becomes aware of many things now. Kretchmer, in his ear: "North team! North team! Do you copy?" Stumbling toward her. Some strangled reply that she's been hit but she's still alive. Still alive. Her blood, slick on his hand as he presses it into her. Calling her name, again and again, and the pools of blood forming around the men on the floor. Still alive. Computer whirring next to her, competing somehow with her labored breaths.

Promising her that they will make it out of here, that they will get her help. That she will be okay. Still alive. The fear and shock mingling in her eyes, dark and pained on the blue. Kretchmer screaming in his ear that east team needs his help. His free hand, speckled with blood, as he turns the earpiece off.

She makes a choking noise as he moves his other hand away from the wound, starts to pick her up.

"What the — " another cough " — what the hell are you doing?"

"Getting you out of here, Chris."

He watches her push the fear-shock from her eyes and replace it with something deeper. Darker.

"Are you insane?" Not the reaction he had anticipated. "You have to go help. Go help them with the device."

"Chris, I'm not going to leave you here." Desperation rings in his voice, and it doesn't sound like him. Doesn't feel like this is real.

"You have to, Michael. This — this is the big picture. You have to go." She stares at him, as if the force of her eyes will be enough. "Go. Just fucking go."

The logic, then. Another decision in which he does not have a say, and somewhere in the core of him he feels she is right, but does not want her to be. Everything is stiff, disjointed — unreal — as he stands.

"I'm going to come back for you." His hand stabs around his ear until the receiver returns to Kretchmer's yelling. "This is Vaughn. I'm on my way."

He leaves her with her hand clutching the center of the crimson on her stomach.

———

Night cooler, air more blustery as he swings out of the metal door, half expecting an ambush.

Nothing, again, and even the gunfire has died.

"Chris?"

"I'm still here." A tired sarcasm, something fading from her voice, he thinks. "Fucking focus, Michael — " Another cough, and just hang on, Chris. " — I'm going radio silent."

Static for a second, and when it clears there is no longer the sound of her. No more faint, labored breathing. No occasional cough. Nothing to fuel hope.

Silence beneath his feet as he works quickly toward the corner of the building. Hugging it, staying close, where there are only patches of grass on dirt. No twigs, branches, rocks to snap or scatter. Nothing to give him away, step step step, gun low but ready.

The corner, then. And his name, from somewhere in the trees behind him. Soft, very soft, something for disbelief, but definitely there.

And then again. "Mike."

Weiss. Quickly over the crest of the hill, running and up against the side of the building, along the tufts of grass until he is behind Vaughn. And very much alive.

"Eric?" A quick whisper. "I thought you were — "

No easy way to put that. Especially with what he has left behind.

"My microphone went out."

Vaughn does not bother with "I'm glad." No ill-sounding, inadequate, time-consuming pleasantries here. Another swift whisper. "Weiss is with me, north side of the building. Going around to the east now."

He moves with this, gun swinging around first, its momentum carrying the rest of him.

Enemy. Shoot. Enemy. Shoot. Some sort of instinct, reflex on his trigger finger until they are falling in front of him. Three, four, five, he is not sure, but then there are no more. No more black-clad men, no more rifles, no more yellow starbursts in the night and no more bullets flying in his direction, clanging into the metal building. A cursory check finds none of them hit their intended targets.

"East side is clear, for now," he says, still quiet, and he realizes he has not heard anything from Sydney or Dixon in quite awhile. Quick toward the east door, but it swings open before they reach it, and they halt. Tense, guns-up waiting, until the door claps against the metal siding and Sydney steps out — walking backward, feet cautious. In her hands, two corners of a clear — plastic, plexiglass perhaps — box. Dixon grasps the other two corners, steps just as careful.

This is the first time Vaughn has actually seen such a device, and he takes a moment to study it. Small, but somehow still foreboding, a silver ball suspended over a black curve. The big picture.

"We're ready to extract the device," Vaughn says, eyes scanning the forest around them. Hoping there will be no movement amongst the trees, no men swinging around the corner with more firepower than they can handle. "Where's our chopper?"

"Two minutes," Kretchmer says. "Can you hang on that long?"

"We don't have much of a choice, do we?" Nothing in the woods. Nothing around the corner. Please stay nothing, because we can't handle any more.

"You're going to have to move around, Vaughn. To the access road. Only place they'll be able to land, and even that's going to be tight."

"We should — you should let me and Weiss carry the device. You're both more experienced, better shots." Pragmatic. Logical. Like her. The only thing that matters is getting the damned thing out.

Vaughn swaps with Sydney, fingers wrapping gingerly around each corner. He catches her, staring first at the blood on his hands, then trying to reach his eyes, but he focuses on the box in front of him and the device inside.

The helicopter is whirring in the distance when they reach the corner. So close. So damn close and then at least this will all be for something. Vaughn tightens his grip on the box as Sydney and Dixon swing around the corner.

Shots — one two three four five six seven eight nine — and then Dixon. "Clear!"

Careful, oh so careful, and he curses every tuft of grass, every rock under his feet as they creep around the corner. The whirring grows louder, turns to thumping — closer and descending. They walk, slow, Sydney and Dixon on either side of the box, until they reach the road.

Box on the grass now, the blades whipping trees around them into a frenzy, adding to the harsh wind that arrived with the clouds overhead. Down, down, down, and they are going to do it, he decides. Helps to pick up the box, all four of them now, eight hands on it, bodies crouched to avoid the stirring of the blades.

Surreal, when they push it into the back seat. Sitting there, taking up most of the space in the tiny thing, and then there is a realization — only room for one, and no time to retrieve the one he wants there. His hand on Dixon's shoulder, then, Sydney and Weiss nodding in agreement. No widows. No fatherless children. And no time to protest. Dixon climbs in and starts securing the device as the helicopter pulls away from the ground.

Maybe this is the big picture, he thinks as it clears the trees. So much more than something.

———

Sydney speaks first, and forcefully. "We need to change the rendezvous point. If this was all compromised, that may have been as well."

"You remember that little cabin, about a half mile away?" They nod. "We can meet there. But Chris — I have to go back. I have to go back for her first." He doesn't wait for an answer, spins instead and starts running.

"Vaughn!" You would do it too, Syd, and you know it.

Then the static again, and it is a wonderful noise, he thinks, because it means she is conscious and with it enough to turn her comm link back on. "Did you get it out?" Quiet, fading, but still there and it's not too late.

"Yes, Chris, we did. Listen, I'm on my way and — "

" — Michael, I want you to listen to me. Don't do it. Don't come back. Just go. Get the hell out of here." She pauses, coughs again, and he thinks — perhaps, maybe, oh god no — voices. And then static, again.

"Chris? Damn it, Chris!"

He runs faster now, almost blind, skidding to a halt at the first corner. Around it — clear — and he ignores Sydney, screaming into his ear. Calling him a fool, pleading with him to run. I can't, Sydney. I can't.

Next corner — swing, look, point — and one man standing there. He fires, twice, and somehow still has some semblance of aim left. The black-clad figure crumples to the ground, rifle spurting into the sky on impact.

At the door now, and his hands are still crusted with blood, shaking as he searches pockets for the right keycard. Rattling it through the groove on the plastic box when he finally — finally! — finds the right one, and then there is the green light, and his hand on the knob.

He flings it open — doesn't have a plan of attack, doesn't have a clue what is beyond, except for her. It can't end here. It can't end this way.

Nothing, hallway clear, and he thinks he could not have handled another shot. Wants only to get to her. Wants only the answer.

The door to the second room is open; he left it open, thinks now that perhaps that was a bad idea. Quickly, quickly, quickly to the door, and there are footprints in the blood that are not his own. Dread takes his stomach now — tight, pulsating, blood swirling up to his ears, roaring. And somewhere deep in the center of all this, he knows the answer even before he turns the last corner. But he has to see, has to know, slowly around, and —

There is a second bullet wound, in the center of her forehead. Eyes clearer, in death, and he realizes it is because there is no emotion, no fire — no Chris, oh god nothing — behind them.

And now it all flashes through his mind —

The men swooping in, guns pointed at her. Chris, forcing the fight — gun up and whatever she had left, shooting until one of them hit her. Trying to hold out for him and knowing she couldn't, or —

A logic beyond that.

Scopolamine. Sodium Amytal. Sodium Pentothal. Her battered body, partially healed and then beaten again to a bloody pulp. A dark faceless figure, breaking things, pulling things. And when that didn't work, drugs pumped into her disfigured form until whatever was left loosened its tongue.

Years of intelligence, categorized and cataloged by that sharp mind, spilling from her. Missile plans. Software. SD-6.

Surrounded by black-clad men and all of these things, blue eyes terrified as she picks up the gun, moves to point it at them. Turns it on herself and makes it intellectual, logical, moves her finger until —

Either way, it solidifies things. This is the moment when he trusts her completely.

———

Voices down the hallway — must have been in the big room — and he cannot stand to be in the small one with her — her and the dead eyes and all this blood — any longer. And then he is spinning and running, out of the room, into the hallway — "Prival! Prival!" — and there are gunshots and bullets, but he does not stop until he is out of the building, into the forest and slipping, tumbling down the hill.

There, at the bottom, he lies for a moment. Wants to make some noise, express something, but there is nothing. Nothing appropriate for what he has seen. Nothing to reach the shock that makes him tremble at his core.

———

It takes him an hour to get to the safehouse. Running through the forest, branches snapping at him, ripping at his face, reaching up to pull them away and her blood is still there. Trying to get icy cold dead blue out of his mind, but it is there and it won't go away. Won't ever go away.

Someone shouting his name over the radio, but he gives no answer. There is no answer for this, no words to communicate the images in his mind and the way he found her. He leaves the microphone on and gives the voice the twigs breaking under his feet, wind whipping around him. No mournful noises, no sobs, although there are tears. He reaches up, tries to wipe at these, and they mix with her blood. Make it wet again.

Cold black peat and dead leaves on the ground under his palms, and some force, compelling him to stand back up and keep running.

He curses the sky because there is all this storm around him and no rain, and why can't it rain and wash all of this away? Rinse off the blood and the images and leave him cold and numb and nothing.

The cabin is surreal, a tiny little thing crammed within the thick forest. Battered and rotting and run-down, but there and he has found it somehow. Somehow with the little green-light square of global positioning in his hand, caked in mud but it says this is it. He decides he doesn't care if somehow it isn't.

No knob, but the door is a few inches off the frame, enough to wrap his fingers around, and he is opening it, stumbling inside. Hoping someone is there, because it is time to give up. Weiss and Sydney, standing there, guns drawn until they recognize him. Or what is left of him.

Covered in dirt, blood, bits of dried leaves and twigs. Cold and way past shock, floating, no longer caring. He wants to be numb, but her eyes — her eyes and her blood — keep breaking through, stabbing back at him.

"Holy shit." This from Weiss, but he sounds far away, from some other place.

They catch him before he collapses, wrap him in a blanket. Some crocheted, garish thing of red and yellow and orange, absorbing the mess that is him. Leading him to a bucket of water, doing their best to wash him, scrub away the blood and the mud, but it is not enough.

Sydney's eyes look nothing like hers.