Back Inside Sona, Part XLIV
Cam ran full speed into the campsite; the only thought in her mind was line of sight, or line of trajectory, to be more precise. She came to an abrupt halt directly between the assailant and the hammock. Not close enough to the attacker to disarm her, but close enough to ensure that a bullet wouldn't hit its intended target. It was the best she could do in the given circumstance. If nothing else, the sound of the weapon's discharge would awaken the man, and send him on his way.
If Cam made her move quickly enough, she would be on top of the Company agent by the time the weapon fired. Shrugging out from under an uncooperative body was a challenge, even a body as small as Cam’s. That would at least give Michael a little head start. She glanced for a moment at the gear bags packed and ready to go. He could make it out of here without her; after the last two days, she was convinced of that.
But things were not as they seemed, not how they should be. Well, some things, that is. She was standing between a loaded weapon and the hammock. She was face-to-face with her enemy. And she did make her move before the handgun discharged. But that was where everything changed from black-and-white, to gray.
At first Cam thought her eyes and the rush of the fight were playing a trick on her, but even obscured by the operative’s form, there was no mistaking the shadow moving behind her. It was too dark to see what it was. All Cam could determine in that split second was that it was human, and that it towered over the Company agent.
The noise Cam made running into the clearing had masked the sound of the other’s approach, and before Cam could do anything but stare, a hand came down hard against the other woman’s right temple. It must have held something, because the thud Cam heard couldn’t be made by a hand or even a fist.
So there she stood, frozen in place, watching the agent’s body crumple to the ground, revealing Michael’s form standing right behind where the agent used to be, his hand still raised in the air.
For a moment, Cam felt like she was at a tennis match. Her head bobbed back and forth from Michael’s upright shape, to his sleeping form in the hammock. She was captured in a dream world. Things like this didn’t happen in her life. She only ever relied on herself. Could only rely on herself.
Cam fell back into old routines quickly, and lunged at the motionless body. She didn’t need to look around for other agents, having already eliminated all the other nearby threats. She turned the woman onto her front and brought both wrists together forcefully, planting a knee firmly into the small of the limp back. Working swiftly, but adeptly, Cam took the fishing line out of her pocket and did her best to unravel the knots. Normally she would take the time to recoil her weapon properly after use, but on this occasion, there had been no time, and the best she could do was wad it up and stuff it in a pocket. It didn’t bother her to use it for another purpose, making a new one would be easy enough.
She could hear Michael’s movements as he walked around to get a better view of what she was doing. She bent down a little further, hoping he wouldn’t see the red tint on the thin cord. It probably didn’t matter though, after her run in with Walker, she was sure she wore the colors of the battle--black slowly replacing the bright red stains as time past.
Once the knots were secure, and Cam had tested the restraints, she flipped the agent onto her back, arms pinned beneath her torso. Cam lifted one hand to her neck, the other to her mouth, searching for a pulse, a breath, some sign of life.
Michael squatted down next to her and extended his hand out flat. Resting against his palm and long fingers, lay her whetstone, a tiny speck of blood on the edge, but otherwise, no worse for the wear. “You didn’t leave me much,” he hissed between breaths. He didn’t have to say anything else--the scowl on his face and his fierce stare were clear signs of his anger and her betrayal.
Cam looked at him closely for the first time since her return. His pupils were still blown and his breaths were rapid and faint. Even in this damp environment, there wasn’t a drop of sweat on him. He was still riding the adrenaline high, the body’s natural “fight or flight” response. In Michael’s case, that had meant fight. She knew from personal experience that his heart must be pumping furiously, doing its best to abandon the ribcage that confined it.
“I hope you didn’t kill her, or put her in some kind of coma or something,” Cam growled, trying her best to look angry. She had finally gotten her own breath under control and was able to talk again. She did her best to ignore her own rapidly beating heart.
Michael rose immediately, stepping away from the unconscious agent. “You’re welcome,” he replied in a smooth, even tone. One that hid all those signs Cam had just observed.
“For what?” She snapped. Her body tensed as she stood up to face him. It was comical in a way, even jutting her chest forward, standing erect, and holding her head high, the best she could do was give his chest a menacing glare.
“For preserving your perfect record,” he sneered, letting the stone slip out of his fingers and fall to the damp earth. “Does that give me the 'save'?” He walked over and sat on the hammock, staring at her.
That last comment did it. This had been an exhausting evening--she had neutralized a team of well-trained agents and put herself in harms way-and it was long from over, but any anger she still harbored, fell away. “You only get the save if we win, you know,” she smirked, moving to join him on the hammock. As soon as she sat, his greater weight caused her body to lean in his direction.
She pulled the GPS unit from her pocket and looked at it before handing it to Michael. Everything seemed to be in order; she just hoped they didn’t have to wait too long for the agent to regain consciousness. “Watch for unusual movement,” she warned, “If Alex starts to head this way, we have to go whether we get anything out of her or not.”
Michael stared forward, his feet planted solidly on the ground, controlling the sway of the lightweight fabric beneath them. “Why didn’t you tell me what you were planning?” He asked, releasing a long sigh.
Cam couldn’t look at him; instead she focused her attention on the agent lying on the ground. The earth was cool and damp, soon the temperature would begin to affect the woman; that would make things easier. Then she dropped her eyes to her feet. “I didn’t think you would want to know,” she confessed. “I thought it would be easier for you this way.”
“Easier?” Michael turned toward her, not even the hint of a smile now. “This wasn’t easy for me.”
“It shouldn’t have gotten this far,” Cam’s voice dropped lower, “I’m sorry for that.”
They didn’t speak for a little while before Michael pushed his arm against her shoulder, unsettling her balance for a minute. “Next time, let me decide.”
Cam struggled to regain her position before drawing herself straight up staring at the other woman, and putting a finger to her lips. She lifted her face toward his, and he bent down slightly in response. “Watch,” she whispered, pointing toward the restrained agent.
Michaels gaze followed hers to the nearly motionless form, inert except for the fluttering eyelids. “Her eyes,” he answered with confidence, keeping his voice as low as Cam’s had been.
“They all do that,” she murmured, staring at the agent. “When they start to come around, they try to pretend that they are still unconscious. But the eyes always give them away. No one has that much control when they regain consciousness.”
Cam slipped off the hammock and circled wide around the woman. She came up from behind her head and silently lowered herself to the ground on all fours. “Won’t work!” She screamed in the agent’s ear.
Gretchen’s eyes flew wide open.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Lincoln checked his reflection in the bathroom mirror before heading back out into the hotel bedroom. He was relieved to be wearing something clean and new, even if it meant he looked like every other turista who had ever stepped foot in this town. The white cotton button-down shirt probably fit a little more snuggly than most of the locals wore it, but if he was going to wear a “panama shirt,” he was going to make it look good. The vertical embroidery patterns that ran down the front felt a little strange against his skin, but the lightweight fabric helped to keep him cool. He left the two top buttons undone. It was actually quite comfortable.
The khaki pants were similar to the ones he had worn earlier, except that they were new and stiff. They were not quite as comfortable as the shirt, but he would take clean and odor-free over comfort any day. He glanced at the day’s purchases. He couldn’t remember the last time he went shopping without worrying about cash or credit limits. It was funny that now, when he had no real limit, everything was dirt-cheap.
He smiled when he thought about his purchases. He had a small stack for himself, and another one for Michael. He was sure Michael would need them. This was a good sign; it meant he would see his brother again, soon.
He worried about the handgun. If he tucked it in at the small of his back, surely the butt would show through the thin fabric, but if he pocketed the weapon, he wouldn't have ready access. So he stalked out of the bathroom to confront Sucre with the problem.
He didn’t even get a chance to put words to his concern before the younger man doubled over on the bed laughing.
“Those,” Sucre tried to get the words out between bouts of laughter, “Those aren’t supposed to look like that!” He couldn’t say anything else before succumbing to laughter once again.
Lincoln’s eyes narrowed, he looked at his friend questioningly before turning to the mirror to see what was so funny. “What?” He demanded.
Sucre wiped his eyes and tried to catch his breath. “Whatever you do, don’t look at any women tonight.”
“What’s your problem, man?” Lincoln felt the color rising above his neck. He was starting to get pissed-off.
“No problem,” Sucre chuckled again before he could continue, “Just that every man we see tonight’s gonna have a knife or a gun, and if you even look at their ladies dressed like that, somebody’s gonna cut your throat. They won’t even wait for you to go to the bathroom, they’ll just do it right at the bar.”
Linc eyed him skeptically, “How do you know this shit?”
Sucre shook his head. “I’ve been in these types of cantinas before, just not in Panama.”
“Okay, no looking at the ladies,” the older man shrugged with a grin. That reminded him of his pressing concern. He walked over to the bedside table, picked up the handgun and tucked it as deep into the back of his pants as he could while still leaving it readily accessible. He pulled the shirt down to cover it, and turned his back to Sucre.
“How’s it look?” He asked the Latino.
Sucre’s eyes bugged and his jaw dropped as he turned his head away. “Dude...,” the Latino warned.
“The gun, you asshole!” Lincoln growled over his shoulder. “Can you see the gun?”
“Oh,” Sucre coughed. “Okay, um,” he took a moment to actually look at the other man, “No, you're good. Just don’t lean forward against the bar, someone might see the outline from behind.”
“No looking at the women. No leaning on the bar.” Lincoln recited his list of rules. “Can we go now?”
“Yeah, let’s go. I’ll head out first, you follow in a few minutes.” Sucre pushed a single sheet of paper into the other man’s hand. “Here’s the list, if we get separated, just go to the next one on the list.”
Lincoln held it close to his face, as if that would help make the names more understandable for him. “El Boracho,…El Toro,” he enunciated as best as he could. “La Bara,…La Mariposa.” He looked up and grinned, “Butterfly? We’re going to the “Butterly Bar?”
Sucre frowned and snatched the paper from Lincoln’s hand. “Don’t pretend to know something you don’t,” he cautioned. “Down here, Mariposas are pilots, pendejo! They don’t name seedy bars after insects!”
Lincoln glared at his friend, “Why don’t we go there first, then?” It seemed like the logical thing to do.
“We got to ease our way in,” Sucre grinned, waving his hands through the air first to one side and then to the other.
It looked more like a hula dance than anything else to Lincoln. It was his turn to laugh. “Don’t do that again,” Linc warned.
“Seriously, papi, we gotta get a feel for this place. La Mariposa is probably our best bet, but I don’t want to scare the locals off. It might take me a few bars to get the hang of this thing.”
Linc shrugged again, “You first.” With that, Sucre headed out, and Lincoln had to laugh. He would have felt much more comfortable dressed like his friend. Jeans and a t-shirt were much more to his liking, but right now the best he could hope for was to look like an innocent turista.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Nothing felt right. Nothing smelled familiar. But she was trained for just this situation, the one where nothing made sense. Even through her jumbled thoughts, training took over. “First things first,” Gretchen counseled herself, "Control."
She tried to make sense of the mumbled words she could barely make out. “Perfect record…Save…Only if we win…Unusual movement.” After that, the words became softer and less distinct.
“Focus,” she reminded herself silently. Then she shifted slightly before ceasing all activity. “Feel, don’t move.” All those drills were slowly coming back to her now.
Cold. Wet. Restrained. Voices-one male, one female.
Those were the first four things that filtered into Gretchen’s mind.
“Stay still,” she mentally warned her protesting body. She struggled to slow down and deepen her breaths. Training was everything now.
“No, don’t open your eyes! Information, that’s what you need.” Suddenly Gretchen couldn’t tell if she was talking to herself, or if someone was guiding her through the process.
Position. That was her first and foremost priority. She could feel her arms behind her back, held down not only by her own weight, but by some other type of restraint. Using every bit of self-control she possessed, she managed to keep the rest of her body still while wriggling her hands underneath in an attempt to evaluate the extent of her predicament. Even through the numbness that enveloped her arms, Gretchen could feel the bite and the burn of her constraints. Not handcuffs, this was too tight, too binding. Not rope, that would have been a welcome relief compared to what she now felt.
This was something thinner, yet unyielding. It was something that cut in and left its mark with every minute twist or turn of the wrist. “Stop moving!” Gretchen ordered herself.
Her mind worked feverishly to force her body to obey its commands. It was difficult, but if she was able to accomplish nothing else, she remained still and kept her mouth closed. She focused on the voices, trying to ignore the vague, cold fugue that was attempting to ensnare her. “Voices,” she told herself, “Concentrate on the voices.” It gave her a focal point to distract from the physical discomforts that cried out, “Cold! Numb! Hurts!”
The voices stopped, but Gretchen remained still. She thought she heard movement. Maybe even something behind her. It took every ounce of discipline she possessed to remain stationary. She worked to control her breathing.
“Won’t work!” A voice screamed in her ear.
Gretchen’s eyes flew open and she gasped, drawing in as much air as she could. Her body shuddered, leaving the ground momentarily, and she hissed as her weight crashed back down, driving her burning wrists further into the ground. The intense pain allowed her to forget the chill for a minute. She wasn’t sure if she felt it, or if she just knew that blood was oozing out of the wounds.
“Damn!” She screamed at herself inwardly, “I just lost round one.”
“Gotcha!” It was that same voice from behind. Except this time, Gretchen heard something in it. She felt the contemptuous sneer and sense of victory. Gretchen wasn’t giving up though, there were still a lot of cards left unturned.
“She’s awake now. Do you know her?” Gretchen turned her head toward the sound. It was the female voice.
“I’ve seen her.” It was the male voice, but now Gretchen knew exactly to whom it belonged.
“Round two, and this one is mine,” she convinced herself before opening her mouth and admitting that she was an active participant in the conversation.
“I think I know him better than he knows me!” Gretchen grinned, ignoring the pain and the cold in her body.
“Hmmm…” A face suddenly loomed above her own as she heard the woman’s now familiar tone. Gretchen felt arms press down on her shoulders, drawing another painful hiss from her lips. She held her breath, trying not to focus on the eyes just inches above her own.
“Maybe we’ll see if we can change that,” the small figure above her growled. And there was a sense of confidence and finality in those simple words.
Suddenly Gretchen’s body was wracked with fear and the chill that seeped in from the ground. She shivered and gasped without any new physical stimulation. Already she was down two rounds to none.