Lone Wolf [1/3]
Title: Lone Wolf
Series: Dog Eat Dog
Rating: T
Characters/Pairings: Lassie, Juliet/Shawn, Gus
Warnings: Character death, violence, vile trickery
Genres: Action/Adventure, Romance, Het, Humor, Suspense
Chapters: 3
Completed: Yes
Word count: 989 this part
Disclaimer: If I owned this you'd all be *ded* after watching this on screen. Sadly, I don't so you'll have to do with the pictures in your heads. :(
Notes: For the Psychfic Ficathon '08. My theme was 'action' and my prompt 'catharsis'.
Summary: "Everyone has a price, Jules. I'm sorry."
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He dropped behind the broken and abandoned refrigerator, rifle held tight to his chest, and took a precious moment to wipe some of the sweat from his brow, valiantly ignoring the stench of the alley baking in the summer heat.
This needed to end soon. The adrenaline high was fading. Soon he would start making stupid mistakes. He'd be unable to stop himself, unable to win the battle of mind over matter.
He inhaled and exhaled a few times and then nodded. Time to go.
A quick peek around his cover showed no signs of movement. That meant less than he liked since it was unlikely they would be standing in the open.
How many were left? He didn't know and trying to divine the answer would only waste time he didn't have.
Sucking in a deep breath and exhaling he rose, shifting to the balls of his feet.
Come on, Lassiter, he chided when hesitation kept him where he was. Odds aren't gonna get any better. Just GO!
On the last word he moved, bolting from his sanctuary, his destination the half-cannibalized wreck of a truck. He zigged and zagged the twenty yards, shoulders tense under the unshakable feeling that he was being watched. The shot would come any second . . .
He made it into the shade behind the truck and was swamped with sweet relief, if only for a second.
He wasn't out of this yet, but he wasn't dead either. So far so good.
He was safe for a few moments. His quarry would have to move to be able to try for him again, especially since now he could slip around the corner without coming into the line of fire.
He needed to get back to the bank, he thought as he checked his ammo. Half-full mag in and one full spare after that. Not good, but hopefully enough. If he could get there then-
The sound of glass crunching underfoot froze his hands and snapped his eyes up.
He cursed silently yet vehemently and began a noiseless duck waddle towards the rear of the truck. Ridiculous he may have looked, but if it kept him from getting shot then he'd deal with the embarrassment.
He slipped around the corner and straightened, running for all he was worth towards the gaping doorway of a storefront. The front window had been smashed out and there were no signs of life but then he didn't really expect any. Riots had a way of chasing people off and according to the briefing it had been particularly chaotic and violent in this part of town.
He dashed inside and headed towards the back. If there was a rear entrance-and it wasn't blocked like the last one-he could cut five minutes off his journey.
He almost tripped over the leg sticking out of an aisle, but managed to hop it at the last second, spinning around as he danced to a stop.
It was Carelli. Two chest shots made it quite clear that he wouldn't be getting up any time soon.
He cursed again.
Eager beaver rookie full of boundless enthusiasm . . . He'd paid the price for that enthusiasm it seemed.
No time to think about it now, Lassiter reminded himself and turned back towards the rear of the store.
He located the door easily enough and found someone was smiling down on him. It was unlocked and unblocked.
Back up against the wall next to the door he gripped the handle and swallowed a mouthful of nervous saliva. He had no idea how many of the others were left. They could have easily surrounded him. He could have walked into a trap and now they were just waiting for him to try to leave so they could nail him.
He'd never see it coming.
Cursing his team for dying and himself for letting them, he threw caution to the wind and twisted the handle, throwing the door open and jerking his hand back.
No gunfire came and he dared to hope that he might have actually gotten lucky for once.
His radio crackled and his awareness zeroed in on it, blanking out the rest of the universe.
Let it be a friendly voice, he prayed. Let it-
“Oh Caaaaarlyyy . . .”
Another curse.
He'd thought-hoped desperately-that he'd managed to hit the younger man in their last encounter. Apparently he was wrong.
He wasn't going to be making it to the bank. He'd be lucky if he made it out the door three steps.
“Carly, I know you can hear me. It's just you and me now. The rest of the team is gone.”
He shouldn't respond, he told himself as he looked to the ceiling, knuckles white where they gripped his weapon.
“Don't worry. None of them suffered. None of them even knew what hit them. One quick shot and they were down.”
He shouldn't respond. He shouldn't respond. He shouldn't-
“I can do the same for you, Lassie. Just step out that door and it'll all be over.”
He spit out a particularly colorful epithet, then clicked his radio. “How could you, Spencer?” he hissed.
A laugh came back. “There you are! I was wondering how much longer you were going to ignore me.”
He was too cheery. He was enjoying this. He was actually enjoying this. Son of a-
“Traitor,” he bit out.
“Oh ouch. Now really, Lassie, must we be reduced to calling each other names?”
“You betrayed us!” he shot back. “We trusted you and you betrayed us!”
“Betrayed is such a harsh word. I prefer to think of it as 'realigned my loyalties'.”
“Why?” Lassiter demanded. “Why would you do that?”
“Why does anyone do such a thing? They made me a better offer.”
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