An Unexpected Mission

The first thing Jake Marsh was aware of was that every inch of his body ached. The second thing he was cognizant of was that someone, or something, was watching him. As his sight adjusted, he rolled over and looked around. He appeared to be in a stone walled cell, with high, narrow windows and a heavy wooden door.

He sat up and took quick stock of his physical condition. There wasn’t anything broken, but his knee popped painfully and his shoulder gave a twinge as he moved. His wrist communicator was gone, and he didn’t have to check his pockets to know that the rest of his gear had taken leave as well. Whoever had brought him here had been thorough.

A scuffling noise came from nearby. Rats? Snakes? Or… worse? He slowly turned toward the sound and saw a form huddled against the wall. Wary eyes raked over him.

“Ave atque vale.”

‘Hail and farewell’ was an unusual greeting. He lifted his hands in a gesture of pacification and got to his feet to explore the room. It was roughly 25 feet in diameter and 11 feet high. The only entrance was the door; the two windows several feet above were too narrow to allow anything except sunlight in. There were two buckets on opposite sides of the room, one looked like water; the other was used for waste. Several sets of rusted iron shackles were embedded in the walls and two pair hung from the ceiling. “How Gothic,” he mused to himself. Jake glanced back at his companion. “How long have you been here?” At least, that’s what he hoped he had said. Conversational Latin wasn’t one of his strong points.

The face reflected surprise, quickly masked by cool indifference. After a moment, the husky voice replied, “Adinfinitum.”

An eternity. The words were spoken quietly and Marsh studied his associate. It appeared to be a woman, with long dark hair that hung in a tangled, matted mass. It was hard to tell with the filth, but she appeared to be clothed in an old sundress that might have been pretty at one time. An intricate Celtic design of black and red tattooed her shoulder, with a matching one around her thigh. She sat with her knees pulled to her chest and her arms wrapped around her knees and began to murmur to herself. Marsh caught bits of German and French in with the Latin.

The muttering stopped when she realized he was watching her. “Non compos mentis.”

He switched from Latin to French, more comfortable with that tongue. “You may not be ‘of sound mind’, but you’ve got a rather colorful vocabulary.” She wanted him to think she was mad, but the intelligence in the dark eyes told him otherwise.

The brief flash of mirth in her eyes turned cold and she groused in French about old men and giraffe posteriors under her breath.

Marsh let her be as he tried to put his scattered thoughts in order. He had no idea where he was or who had brought him there. What was the last thing he remembered…?

##

The explosion rocked the plane and Marsh was knocked to the floor. “DeMarco? What’s going on?” He got to his feet and stumbled to the cockpit.

The pilot replied, “Engine 3 caught fire, and engine 4 is stalled.” He spoke into his mouthpiece: “Mayday. Flight UK-3556-09 in need of assistance. Mayday. Engines 3 and 4 are out, repeat, engines 3 and 4 are out. Unknown explosion. We’re losing altitude over coordinates J33/Q892… over.”

“Flight UK-3556-09, this is Checkpoint Vidol. We read you. Try and make it to coordinates J33/Q998. There is not, repeat, NOT enough clear ground to land in the coordinates you are at now. Over.”

DeMarco flipped two switches and replied, “Roger that. Attempting to maintain current altitude, over.”

Marsh slid into the co-pilot’s seat and strapped in. After glancing at the instrumentation he said, “We’re not going to make it that far. Engine 2 is about to go.”

As if on cue, the engine sputtered to a stop. DeMarco punched the ignition button without response. “Vidol, engine 2 is gone and we’re going down. Repeat, we’re going down. Over!” He struggled with the stick as the plane swayed drunkenly.

“Flight UK-3556-09-, you are—“

The second explosion cut off the rest of Checkpoint Vidol’s message and the plane went into a flat spin. The G-force pressed the two men into their seats and Marsh choked out, “We are out of control… peremptory spin! We are going down. Attempting to eject!” He hit the bright blue switch on the far-left panel. The world turned into a blur as the cockpit dome blew away and they shot into the air.

Marsh closed his eyes until he felt himself start to fall. After several moments of freefall, the parachute released and his descent slowed. The plane was far below him, and as it hit the trees, it erupted into a fiery ball. He glanced around to find DeMarco. As if it was happening in slow motion, he watched his fellow agent struggling with a snarled parachute that hadn’t opened fully. DeMarco was barreling toward the ground head first and trying to adjust himself. Marsh couldn’t tear his eyes away, and followed the pilot’s too-fast descent until the man was swallowed by the trees. There was no way the man could have survived a 25000 foot drop with a malfunctioning chute. Marsh’s brow knitted in anguish. He hadn’t known DeMarco well, but the man had been a good agent and was a great loss to the organization. 

Marsh gave himself a shake and focused on his own situation. He was in freefall, and he pulled on the parachute cords to harness the wind and maneuver away from the crash site. As he came down, Marsh judged how far until he hit the upper branches and hoped that the seat would absorb most of the impact. 

As he fell through the uppermost branches, his parachute snarled in the limbs and he flipped over, the weight of the seat sending him down faster. As the blond attempted to regain control, his arm tangled in the ropes and he jerked to a stop, head down, about 15 feet from the ground. Marsh hung limply for a moment, disoriented, and then started to free himself. He tried to move his arm and winced. The compact man wriggled around, trying not to jostle his shoulder, and managed to pull his knife free of his boot. A moment later he tumbled to the ground. Marsh got to his feet and a jolt of pain told him that the joint was indeed dislocated. He moved toward the sturdy tree and took a deep breath. With the ease of long practice, he rammed his shoulder into the trunk, popping the joint back into its socket. A ragged groan was torn from him as he sank to his knees and the world faded to black…

##

He had been on his way to Leningrad. They hadn’t gotten very far. If he remembered his coordinates correctly, they should be in Belarus. Without his wrist communicator, he couldn’t be sure that the organization knew where he was, although they should be able to find the remains of the plane easily enough. In hindsight, he wished he had gone ahead with the transdermal placement.

The transdermal communicator, developed for field use several years earlier, was a paper thin bio-tech device that was surgically fitted under the muscle of the forearm. It was a two-way GPS and communicator. Agents had an audio receiver placed in a small depression made in the skull bone, behind the ear. All field agents that came out of training were now routinely fitted with the transdermal.

Jake Marsh had no pressing need of one, as he was no longer a field agent. He’d reluctantly taken an administrative job four years earlier. Twelve years ago his former partner, Andrew Hayden, had become Head of division after working in the field for twenty years, but Marsh had refused a promotion, working as lead on Alpha Team in covert operations until Hayden had finally threatened, after Marsh was hospitalized for a knee replacement, to resign him permanently. Although Marsh preferred field work, he’d finally admitted that he was too damn old to be running around the world. He’d taken the admin position and settled in New York City.

Marsh gave himself a shake and focused his attention on the present moment. He looked at his companion. In French he asked, “How long have I been here?”

“A few hours, maybe.”

Enough time for the organization to have traced the plane. Marsh looked at the woman. She had impossibly dark eyes that followed his every move. “Do you happen to know where we are?”

“It’s an all expense paid trip to Hell.” The words were spoken quietly, but there was a quality about them that sent a shiver down his spine.

“Hmmm,” he murmured noncommittally.

“Yeah, you’re fucked.”

There was a dignity, honesty, and intelligence about her that dirt and vulgarity could not detract from and he replied dryly, “I suppose that’s one way to put it.”

“Hmmm,” she responded, her lower lip thrust out in a pout.

“Well, now to get out of here.” He had two explosive wires in the collar of his jumpsuit and he moved toward the door to examine the hinges. A loud grating sound made him pause, and then the door swung open.

Four armed guards entered, followed by a tall, dark-haired man. Marsh recognized him from a recent report. It was Alexander Petrie, head of a rising criminal establishment having ties with several enemy governmental groups. The pictures hadn’t done him justice. He was devilishly handsome, with a warm smile belied by the steel in his eyes.

Petrie read the name on Marsh’s right sleeve. “Tinker.” All field agents used their codenames while on assignment. The despot smiled and said in English: “Well, Tinker… before the sun rises, you will tell me anything I want to know.”

“Why do you think I know anything?” The cold and aloof persona he had spent most of his life perfecting had served him well and he slipped into it as easily as he would an old coat.

“The organization wouldn’t be sending people out here if they didn’t suspect something.” He glanced at the woman and then back to Marsh. “Somehow she’s gotten a report out. I want to know how.”

Marsh kept his face impassive as he realized that first, Petrie thought he had been sent in to stop whatever it was that he was up to, and second, the woman was a fellow agent… or at least Petrie thought she was. He decided to play into the autocrat’s paranoia. “Then you also know that my organization will be coming to retrieve us.”

Petrie laughed. “That is what she said the first time we spoke. However, if an eight-month response time is the norm, then I think I have little to worry about.”

Marsh tried to think if there had been any missions gone wrong in Belarus in the past year. It was unlikely… the Republic was not hostile; they had worked with the organization in the past on projects of mutual interest. Aware that Petrie was studying him, he lifted a brow and replied coolly, “Now that we have enough information, there’s really no need to wait any longer.”

The dark-haired man’s lips tightened and he turned to the woman. “The guards heard the two of you talking. What did you say?” Petrie motioned to her and one of the men reached out and hauled her to her feet. “Answer me.”

Her eyes flashed defiance. “You’re an ass licking whore,” she said in French.

He frowned. “What did she say?”

The shorter man behind him said, “I do not know.” He raised his arm and struck her across the face.

Her head snapped to the side and after a moment she looked back at him. She rolled her eyes and snapped, “Suck shit!” At the man’s baffled look she continued, “You don’t know Polish do you? How about Mandarin?” She switched languages with barely a breath. “Your dick is the size of a bean sprout and you ooze purple sludge when you fuck.” She twisted her lips in disgust and said in Spanish, “You’re a cock sucking donkey raper.”

“Enough!” Petrie caught her hair in his hand and jerked her head back to face him. “You think you’re fooling me, but I know all your secrets.”

In Latin she murmured, “You are a rancid piece of pig’s offal.”

Marsh had to admire her. Not only was she an incredible linguist, it took incredible inner strength to defy the person who held your life in his hands. He bit back a smile as she began to describe the size of Petrie’s genitalia in Dutch.

Petrie turned and jabbed a finger into Marsh’s face. “You will tell me what I want to know!”

He struggled against the guards until he was slammed against the wall, making his head swim. He was quickly overpowered, one holding him from behind.

Petrie motioned to the heavily muscled guard with greasy hair. “Ivan, please… introduce yourself to our new guest.”

The larger man doubled his fist and rammed into Marsh’s stomach. Before he could draw a clear breath, Ivan landed a punch across his jaw, and then started on his ribs.

He only realized the beating stopped when he felt the floor coming up to meet him, hard. Unable to break the fall, he landed on chest and cheek. He could feel his breath moving through his nose in short, painful gasps as he lay on the cold stones.

“Are you awake? Talk to me. Come on, old man. Say something.”

It was his cellmate. He tried to speak but started coughing. He felt her turning him to his side as he gagged up blood and mucus for what seemed like forever. When he could breathe again he asked, “Old… old man?” She didn’t reply and he forced himself to open his eyes.

She was speaking French again. “Would you prefer ‘Grandfather’?”

He took a ragged breath and shook his head as he looked up at her. She had fresh bruises across her cheek and dried blood at the corner of her mouth. He had vague recollections of hearing her cry out, of hearing Petrie shouting at her while Ivan had worked him over. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She unzipped his jumpsuit and lifted the green tee-shirt. She probed his sides with stiff fingers, ignoring his gasp of pain as she examined him. “You’ve got at least two broken ribs.” She sat back. “Pull off your tee-shirt.”

He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain went through his side and he gasped. “I… I can’t.”

She leaned over him and gently, but efficiently, pulled his arms from the jumpsuit and eased the tee-shirt off. With her teeth she started a rip and skillfully tore the cotton into one long thin strip, tossing the upper portion with the sleeves into the corner. “Come on, you have to sit up.”

Marsh gritted his teeth as she helped him into a sitting position. His chest was on fire and he couldn’t keep the groan of pain from escaping.

“Lift your arms and take a deep breath.”

She slid her hands across his chest, smoothing the cotton strip as she wrapped it around him. Marsh felt her fingers brush along an old scar, shiny and pale white. It was one of several he bore, although he had long since forgotten how he received most of them. She moved around him to tie off the wrapping. Their eyes met and he saw profound understanding, the kind that can only be shared by people who have suffered in similar circumstances. He felt a strange kinship with her, and it frightened him on some subconscious level. He reconstructed the polar barrier and pulled away from her touch. “T… t-thank you,” he wheezed.

The flicker in her eyes told him she had picked up on the subtle dismissal. Marsh felt a flash of guilt as she got to her feet and walked away. The emotional side of him had been a curse and when he was a young field agent he had learned to keep it under control… most of the time. Now that he was older, he found himself more comfortable, but sometimes the barriers still came up. However, she had come over to help him, even though she had no reason to trust or care and he at least owed her an apology. “I appreciate…” the tight bonds around his chest restricted his breathing and he had to pause for more air. “I appreciate your help.”

“It was either that, or let you choke to death. I don’t like corpses, they tend to stink up the place.”

He slid his arms into the sleeves of his jumpsuit and muttered, “They’re also lousy conversationalists.”

“So are you.”

“I’ve been told…” another gasp of air, “that I’m better company than a cadaver.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Her eyes raked over him.

He saw her taking note of the standard-issue black survival jumpsuit and heavy boots. All agents were required to wear them while flying, even if the mission was diplomatic. The one-piece garments had large pockets over each thigh normally containing gear to assist in cases where intermediaries were lost in the field. In Marsh’s case, he had been searched and relieved of all equipment. There was a pocket on the left sleeve for a slim canteen, and the right sleeve had his codename embroidered in bold letters. “Our plane went down. Pilot’s probably dead. The organization will be trying to find me.”

“They won’t. Expendability. Acceptable losses.”

“No one is expendable.”

“Tell that to Omicron.”

Omicron Team. The Seeker Mission. Marsh closed his eyes as the pieces fell into place.

There had been six men and three women in Omicron. They were one of the most highly trained covert ops contingents in the organization, all of the agents were at the top of their classes, the best at what they did. All of their missions had been successful. The Seeker Mission was supposed to have been a routine assassination of a crime lord, based in Turkey. Somehow the assignment went wrong. The investigation had been incomplete when Marsh had read the reports, but it seemed to be a case of corrupted intel, and the entire group had gone missing. Three months later, most of the agents’ bodies had been recovered throughout Europe. One man and one woman were reported MIA. He didn’t understand how she had come to be Petrie’s prisoner, and he didn’t ask her to explain. The priority was escape and then contacting the organization.

As he watched her, a thought came to him. “Were you fitted with a transdermal?”

“Yes. It’s not working.”

“It must have been damaged,” Marsh said, thinking that otherwise the organization would have found her by now via GPS. “Perhaps we can figure out a way to fix it.”

“Unless you have a tool kit shoved up your ass, I doubt that.”

He lifted a brow. “I’m not quite that dedicated to my job.”

“How unfortunate.”

“First things first. We have to figure a way out.”

“Like you’re in any shape to play hero.”

He looked over at her, reluctantly admitting, but only to himself, that she was right. Although he was in excellent shape for his age, he was not going to be able to jump up and move like he had thirty years earlier. His body ached from the abuse it had taken; it was still difficult for him to draw a full breath. “I can’t do it alone.”

She chuckled. “Vae victis.”

Woe to the vanquished. He murmured, “The organization IS looking for me.”

Her lips pursed. “As long as they think you’re not dead.”

He shook his head; “They’ll look for me even if they think I am.”

“Lucky Tinker.” Her tone was mocking. “I used to think that. I know better now.” She picked at a scab on her knee, “There’s no way out.”

The lack of emotion in her voice frightened him more than if she had spoken in despair.  “There’s a way out of every situation.”

“De profundis, ipse dixit,” she muttered. /Out of the depths, he himself has said it./

He knew that she had no reason to believe him and reluctantly let the matter drop. Until he actually had a plan, there was nothing for her to trust in. Marsh decided to go a different way. “You have an unfair advantage.”

“Hmmm?”

He pointed to his right sleeve. “You know my name.”

She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes darkening. “Does it matter?”

He realized that it did matter. It was suddenly very important for him to have something to reference her by. “Yes.” He refused to back down as her eyes did silent battle with his.

After several minutes she lowered her head to rest against her knees. “Javelin.”

She looked very young, very vulnerable, and it provoked a strange feeling within him. Although logically he knew that it had nothing to do with him, he suddenly felt responsible for her situation. He whispered, “Thank you.”

She slid down the wall and rolled away from him. “You should get some sleep. Petrie will be back in the morning.”

**

His eyes flew open. Something had woken him, and he looked at the door. It was still bolted and the room was dim. A sound echoed across the room and he looked toward it. Javelin was curled into a tight fetal position, her fingers digging into her shins. He could see that she was trembling and moved toward her. He put a hand on her shoulder and a strangled cry came from her throat.

“No… please… no more…” She was having a nightmare. “J3A0V2E5L7I9N9…”

He leaned down to hear the mutterings. “Javelin, wake up.” He gently shook her.

“J3A0V2E5L7I9N9…” Her eyes flew open and she repeated the system of letters and numbers, running them together over and over again.

He pulled her into his arms, trying to calm her. “Javelin, shhhh…”

A choked sob shook her body and she went limp. “Javelin… Section Two… number 3025799…”

It was the rudimentary information programmed into all agents when they first joined the organization; merely the first flimsy level of the many complex layers agents were indoctrinated with. Marsh stroked her hair as she calmed. “Shhh… it’s all right.” He’d had his fair share of nightmares over the past thirty years and thought no less of the young field agent. It seemed as though she hadn’t been broken.

**

He had fallen asleep against the wall and she was lying across his lap. He looked down at her as she stirred. “Are you all right?”

“What…?”

“You had a bad dream last night.”

She sat up and looked at him distrustfully. “Did I… say anything?”

He shook his head. “No.”

Relief lightened her eyes and she leaned against the wall, away from him. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

The door opened and the guard set a metal tray on the floor. Javelin retrieved the tray and set it in front of Marsh. There was a loaf of bread and two raw, unpeeled potatoes. He mused, “I see they’ve included our daily requirement of starch.”

Javelin shrugged. “It’s edible. Sometimes it’s not so great.” She tore a hunk of bread off and tossed it to him. “Bon Appetit.”

He bit into it. It was surprisingly good, probably locally baked, with cracked wheat across the top. “Is this the normal fare?”

“Yeah. Most of the time the veggies are okay, but a while back there were some nasty rainstorms and a lot of the local crops rotted. Then I only got bread.” She tore off tiny pieces as she spoke, rolling them into balls before popping them in her mouth.

He noticed that she only ate a small portion of the piece she held, before placing it back on the tray. “How often do they give you this?”

“Once a day… sometimes every other day.” She motioned to the tubers; “I usually keep those aside, just in case.”

Marsh picked up the potatoes and handed them to her. “You’re the expert.” She smiled, meeting his eyes briefly before setting the vegetables in the corner. He recognized the signs of malnutrition in the way her shoulder blades moved under the dirt-encrusted flesh. When she returned he offered her the rest of his bread. “I’m not really hungry.”

“No, save it. You’ll probably want it later.” She watched the floor for several minutes and then asked, “Your ribs? They okay?”

“Only hurts when I breathe.” She had done a good job with the wrappings; he couldn’t feel the ribs displacing as he moved. “Thank you for helping me.”

“Yeah.” She scooted back against the wall and pulled her knees up.

“Have you…” he glanced at the door, but it looked as if they were alone. “Have you ever tried to escape?”

“Twice.” Her eyes darkened and became unreadable. She held out her arms. “The first time I was tossed into a pit they’d dug outside. I don’t know how long I was down there, but I probably came close to starving.” Her voice was a raspy monotone as she continued, “It took a while before I tried again… and that’s when I got this,” she lifted the hem of the dress and showed a dark red scar across the top of her thigh.

Before she could elaborate, there was a noise at the door and it swung open. Petrie walked in, followed by four guards. “Good Morning! I trust you had a pleasant night.”

Marsh got to his feet, wincing as his ribs protested. “Splendid, thank you.”  He didn’t resist as Ivan pulled him up and pushed him against the wall, fastening chains around his wrists. “Iron fetters. How medieval.”

Petrie chuckled. “They came with the castle.”

Javelin was pulled from her spot on the floor, but she resisted as they pulled her across the room and locked her in matching irons. Only once she was restrained did she let her head rest against the stone wall, her dark eyes shooting daggers at Petrie.

Daylight poured through the high windows and the added illumination gave Marsh a better view of his fellow inmate. There were fresh electrical burns on her arms and marks crisscrossed her legs: some recent, some old enough to have become scars. He could see a myriad of other abrasions, contusions, and minor cuts in various stages of healing; some of the more recent looked puffy and infected, not surprising considering the grime. He had a feeling the flesh covered by the dirty sundress was just as maltreated. Fear prickled at the back of his mind but he pushed it away and said, “My people will be here soon. I wouldn’t suggest doing anything you wouldn’t want done to you.”

Petrie laughed and leaned against the wall next to Marsh. “Before things get nasty, why don’t you just tell me what I want to know?”

He struggled to keep his face impassive. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I want to know what your organization’s plans are.”

“We’re looking for a good vacation spot.”

“That’s very funny.” Petrie nodded at Ivan, who landed a punch on Marsh’s already tender abdomen.

He gasped for air and muttered, “Glad to amuse you.”

“Now, let’s try this again. What are you doing here?”

Ivan hit him again and Marsh heard the snap as another rib gave way. The pain threatened to engulf him and he let his head fall forward.

Petrie said, “It would be in your best interests to cooperate with me.”

“I…” It was difficult to speak, each breath felt like a hot knife slicing into his chest. “I have… nothing… to say.”

“Not now… but perhaps soon you will feel differently.”

The backhanded slap knocked his head back against the wall. Blood poured from the cut on his lower lip and he closed his eyes, blotting out the spinning room. “I… I doubt it.” After several minutes of silence he looked up.

“You’re still with us? Good. It would seem that the organization is in need of fresh blood, if it is sending out women and old men to do the dirty work.” He walked over to Javelin and ran his hand along her arm. “I had assumed the ‘rescue party’,” he said it mockingly, “would be made up of much younger agents.” He looked back at Marsh. “However, if it were an accident that your plane crashed, and that is the way it appears by the wreckage my men came across, then it could mean that you are merely another hostage.” Petrie pulled the whip from his belt and unfurled it in his hands. “Who are you?”

Marsh didn’t answer and when the braided leather flicked out, he recoiled in expectation of the blow. When it didn’t land he opened his eyes.

“I’m going to start here,” Petrie snapped his wrist and another bloody trail appeared above the first one on Javelin’s thigh; “and work my way up.” He looked at Marsh expectantly.

“What do you want to know?” He had no intention of telling the despot anything of importance, but perhaps a manufactured answer would keep him from beating her.

“Nothing, yet.” He sent the thong flying.

Marsh hadn’t thought it possible, but she remained conscious throughout the drubbing. Petrie had been silent, a glazed look on his face as he methodically worked up and down her legs. Marsh had closed his eyes but couldn’t shut his ears and the tormented sounds coming from her throat cut through him as though he were the one on the receiving end of the lash.

After number thirty-three Petrie stopped. “You! Tinker! Are you going to talk now?”

He had to take several deep breaths to keep his voice moderated. “What would you like to discuss?”

“Who are you?”

“You already know my name.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Just…” he twitched his wrists, making the chains rattle, “hanging out.”

“I’m growing tired of your impudence!” As he spoke one of the guards opened the door and motioned. Petrie’s eyes narrowed, “Use this time wisely, Tinker. It will be the last reprieve you get.” He motioned to the guards. The taller one released Marsh while the other let Javelin’s limp form fall to the floor.  The three of them departed without another word, the door clanging shut behind them.

Javelin moaned and Marsh looked over. He crawled over to her and asked in French: “Can you hear me?”

Her eyes fluttered and after a moment, managed to focus on him.

He said, “I’ll be extremely disappointed if you die on me.”

“Beau geste, mon frere.” /A beautiful but futile gesture, my friend./ The words were spoken softly, her voice cacophonous from screaming. Her body shuddered and she panted, “Shut up so… so I can sleep.”

“No, talk to me… stay awake!” he whispered urgently. He was afraid that if she lost consciousness, she would die. Ignoring the stabbing pain in his chest he asked, “Tell me, how many languages do you know?”

“Nineteen.”

He switched. “How about now? Can you understand Korean?”

“Yes… and your accent sucks.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve been told that.”

“It’s the Cajun diacritic.”

Marsh wasn’t surprised she had guessed his heritage, for her linguistic skills exceeded his. He saw her head fall forward again and said, “Wake up!” Her comment about stubborn old men was barely audible. “Javelin!” He pulled her into his lap. The ache in his chest blossomed into agony and he felt as though he were suffocating. After several minutes of uncontrollable coughing, he sagged against the wall with her limp on his lap. When he could breathe again, he checked her pulse. It was slow but steady. Using some of the water from the bucket he cleansed Javelin’s face. She stirred and he restrained her gently. “Stay still.”

“Waste… waste of water. Don’t....” Despite her protests, Javelin remained still. Her muscles were taut and he could hear the occasional smothered gasp of pain as his fingers moved across her face. As he began to stroke her hair, her body relaxed slightly as she drifted into unconsciousness.

**

“Tinker?”

His eyes opened. “Yes?” Her face was flushed and he reached out to touch her. The excessive warmth alarmed him and he sat up.

“You’re not… a hallucination.” She didn’t seem overly happy or upset by this observation.

“No.” He pulled the bucket over and said, “Let me help you get a drink.”

He had to haul her upright and cringed as his broken ribs ground against each other. He bit his lip to keep himself focused and cupped his hands in the water. “Drink,” he ordered, bringing his hands to her lips.

Most of it went down her chest as she moved her head away. “No…”

He splashed some of the liquid over her forehead. Her eyes had a glazed look. “Try and drink some more.” He managed to get a little more water between her lips before she passed out. He lowered her to the floor and brushed the tangled hair out of her face. Her legs were sticky with dried blood and many of the lacerations were still oozing. She wasn’t going to survive much longer. “Javelin?” He dipped his hand in the water and ran it over her face. “Javelin, wake up.”

Her eyes were unfocussed and she reached out, pushing at his chest. “No…”

“I need your help. Look at me, Agent!”

Her eyes fluttered and opened. “Sir?”

“Come on, sit up.” He pulled her to a sitting position. “I’m going to blow the door… I need you over by the wall.” He half-pulled her out of the way. This was probably the best shot at escape they would get. If he waited any longer, he’d be too weak to try. Marsh peered through the bars; there was no one outside. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the wires from the collar of his jumpsuit and wrapped them around each hinge. He twisted the blue ends off and hurried to the other side of the room. With a flash, the hinges exploded and the door fell outward.

He waited, expecting the guards to come running as the smoke cleared. When there was silence, he moved over to Javelin. “Come on, wake up!” He patted her face.

“What…?”

“If you want to get out of here, you’re going to have to help me!” He pulled her up; gritting his teeth as his ribcage reminded him of its damaged state. The wrapping was keeping the worst of it at bay, but he wondered how much damage there was. There had been blood when he last urinated and his chest still burned with each breath. “Javelin? Come on!” He slid his arm around her waist and they headed out the door. “Which way?”

She clutched at his shoulder as she stumbled along. “I…” she squinted as she tried to focus. “I think…” she pointed right. Her memory was sketchy but after two wrong turns they came to the main hall. Petrie had been right when he referred to the place as a castle; it was one of the many abandoned ruins that Western Europe was famous for. She pointed to the large double doors. “There were… several men out there,” she paused to catch her breath, “when I was brought through.”

He glanced out. “Looks like they’ve retreated.” There were deep ruts in the grass. “I don’t see…”

The sound of a gun being cocked hung in the room. Marsh looked behind them.

Alexander Petrie smiled as he walked toward them. “You had an explosive tucked away somewhere. And I thought I checked you thoroughly.” He motioned with the pistol. “Move away from the door.”

Marsh let go of Javelin who sank to the floor. As he moved toward Petrie, he dove forward, taking them both to the ground. He rolled, fighting for control, and he wrapped his hand around the pistol. He landed a punch and the man released his grip enough for Marsh to wrench the weapon away. He pressed the muzzle against Petrie’s temple.

The tyrant smiled. “Do you honestly think you could get away? I own every village within 500 miles.”

The adrenaline pumping through his veins gave way to anger and he wrapped his hand around Petrie’s throat. “You sadistic son of a bitch!” Rage turned his world red and he pulled the trigger, turning his head as blood and brain splattered. Marsh sat there for several beats, breathing heavily. A shout in the distance caught his attention. “Damn!” He quickly searched the body, pulling a knife from Petrie’s boot and sticking it through his belt. There was nothing else of use and he got to his feet, pressing a hand to his side to keep the pain to a minimum.

Javelin was huddled on the floor against the wall. “Wake up!” He grabbed her shoulders and gave her a shake. “Stand straight, Agent!” He pulled her to her feet and they walked to the doors. “We’re going to run like hell that way,” he motioned to the forest across the clearing. “On three.” He looked over his shoulder at her. “One…”

“Two,” she nodded that she was ready.

“Three!” They sprinted across the field. As they reached the woods, he heard a bellow and exclaimed, “Go!” She fell as they scrambled through the glossy foliage and it took several minutes to get her up. “This way!” He pulled her with him as they ran. One tree looked like another and he wasn’t sure how far they had gone when he skidded to a stop.  Javelin slammed into him and they fell to the ground. They were both breathing hard and he looked around. “Under here!” He pointed to a narrow gully with plenty of leafy cover and she slithered in. He moved in next to her and murmured, “Be still.”

The pit was shallow, about three feet deep, and barely wide enough for the two of them. They were lying against each other, her face buried in his chest, his arm over her with the pistol clutched in his hand and pressed flat against her back. He listened, barely breathing, as the enemy searched for them. With Petrie dead, he wasn’t sure what the others would do.

Javelin’s breathing came in short, smothered gasps and he whispered, “Try and relax, we might be here for a while.” Marsh, while keeping an ear open for the searching guardsmen, let his mind prioritize what needed to be done to get them out of there. First they needed to get further away from the compound then they needed to find a way to make contact with the organization. Getting medical attention would be the next step.
He glanced down. Javelin’s eyes were closed and he pressed his fingers to her neck, checking her pulse. It was a rapid but steady. “Javelin?” There was no response and he wondered if he would be able to rouse her when they had to move out.

**

He had dozed off at some point.

Marsh heard something and held his breath. The sound repeated, slowly at first and then more rapidly. He realized it was raining and relaxed slightly, although he kept his hand curled around the gun. He hoped the rain would discourage the guards. Fat droplets splashed through the leaves and he grimaced. Although the heavy survival jumpsuit would protect him from the worst of it, Javelin was barely clothed. He unzipped the garment and pulled her into his body heat, wrapping the suit around her as far as he could. She stirred, muttering in Latin. Marsh whispered, “Shhh… go back to sleep.” She seemed to hear him and quieted. The rain continued to fall, the small ravine turned muddy and as the sky darkened, her fever heightened. As the temperature dropped, Marsh began to feel the effects of lying in the cold. Teeth chattering, he disentangled himself and sat up, peering through the brush. It appeared to be clear.

“Javelin?” Marsh said it softly and gave her a shake. She was unconscious and he lifted her arm. “Javelin, I need to do this… can you understand me?” There was no response and he pulled out the knife he’d taken from Petrie. “Javelin, I need to get the transdermal out, I have to try and repair it.” It took less than five minutes to make the incision and pull out the device. He reached inside his jumpsuit and cut off a large piece of the cotton band around his ribs, gritting his teeth against the pain that flared.

After wrapping her wrist tightly, he turned his attention to the communicator. He didn’t have the miniscule tools needed to work on the wiring, but used the tip of the knife, hoping his shaking hands wouldn’t destroy the delicate workings. The thin bio plastic was difficult to hold with bloody fingers and he swore under his breath as it slipped out of his grip. He caught it and wiped his hands clean on his pants before doing what he could with the flawed circuitry. Once he traced the delicate connection and found the defect, it only took a few minutes to repair. He would be able to transmit, but since he didn’t have an audio receiver, he wouldn’t know if anyone replied. He pressed the circuit and said, “Open Channel. Tinker, 002-7334509. Priority Level One, Code Red. Emergency transmit, unable to receive. Trace coordinates. Two agents down, immediate evac required. Tinker out.”

He stuffed the communicator in his pocket and hoped someone had heard him, and then tucked himself back into the gully around Javelin.

**

“Agent Marsh?”

He looked up. The sun was coming over the horizon and there was a young man in a black jumpsuit kneeling next to him. “I’m with Rho Team. We’re here to get you home, sir.”

Strong hands were lifting him onto a stretcher. “Javelin…?”

“The woman? We’ve got her, sir.”

Someone on the right of him started an IV before he was bundled in blankets and strapped down. “Where…?”

“We’ve landed in the clearing about a half mile away. We’ve cleared the area of hostiles and we’re getting you out of here. Just relax, sir.”

“Is Javelin all right?”

“She’s stable, but we need to get both of you out of here.”

As they loaded him in the helicopter, he saw Javelin on the stretcher next to him. Her eyes were open, but she had an oxygen mask on and he couldn’t hear what she said. He reached out and brushed his fingers over hers. As the helicopter lifted from the ground he smiled at the woman and said, “We’re outta here.”

In French she replied, “It’s about time, Old Man.”


~finis