Heroes fic: Mohinder Suresh and the Quest for the Cure (6/8)
Title: Mohinder Suresh and the Quest for the Cure (6/8)
Characters: Mohinder/Peter, Noah, Nathan, Sylar, the Haitian; cameos by most of the (surviving) Season 1 cast
Word Count: 28,000ish
Rating: PG-13 for mild language, violence, some non-explicit romance-y stuff -- nothing worse than what you'd find in Raiders. Also, character death -- if you've seen Raiders, you'll have an inkling as to who might not make it to the end.
Spoilers: through all of Season 1
Summary: When the FBI approaches the Helix Foundation with a request, Mohinder finds himself thrown into another adventure--one that brings up a past he thought he’d left far behind.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the words.
A/N: An AU, set in the 1930s but after the events of Season 1. Written for reel_heroes as an adaptation of Raiders of the Lost Ark. An unending amount of thanks, gratitude, and hugs to imamandajulius for cheerleading, offering criticism, and holding my hand through these past few months. You are the best of the best of the best. <3
Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight
VI.
The airstrip bustled with Arabs and Company employees alike as Nathan, Sylar and the Haitian surveyed what was left of the flying wing. Sylar fumed visibly. Nathan quietly studied the wreckage, an odd look on his face.
“Get the sarcophagus out of this place immediately,” Sylar barked to his men. “Have it put on the truck; we’ll fly out from Cairo. Damn that Suresh,” he added under his breath before stalking away. With a sideways glance at Nathan, the Haitian followed in Sylar’s wake.
“Peter,” Nathan mused to the flames. He joined the Haitian in walking back to the digs.
Noah Bennet watched them leave from farther down the airstrip, wrapping the cloth of his turban over his face. As he crept in the direction of the digs, a hushed noise made him pause. He turned; Mohinder and Peter were crouching within an empty tent flap, beckoning for Noah.
Noah darted to them. “Oh, thank God,” he whispered, joining them within the tent. “I thought you two were dead.”
“And I thought you had been captured,” Mohinder said, wiping away the blood on his face with a handkerchief that Noah proffered. “How’d you escape?”
A wry smile played across Noah’s face. “You don’t give me enough credit, Mohinder. I did this type of work long before either of you ever did.” His expression changed. “The sarcophagus. They’re taking it on a truck to Cairo.”
“Truck?” Mohinder moved his jaw in exasperation. “What truck?”
“Come on,” Noah said, and the three of them emerged from the tent, running stealthily toward the excavation site.
They reached the digs just in time to find cover behind a rise of sand and watch the truck being loaded. Sylar had apparently become fed up with his men and was moving the sarcophagus into the truck bed himself, holding up his hands as the crate moved by its own accord into the vehicle. Once the crate was settled, several armed men climbed inside. An open-roofed car pulled in behind them, a machine gun mounted on the back, and a man on a motorcycle revved his engine. Sylar, Nathan, and the Haitian seated themselves in a separate car, a black, luxurious convertible that had lost its sheen in the dusty desert. As their driver started the engine, Mohinder lay back against the sand, thinking.
“Get back to Cairo,” he said to Noah and Peter. “Get us some transport to America-boat, plane, anything. Be ready for me at Fahim’s place. I’m going after that truck.”
“Mohinder,” Peter sighed.
“Don’t,” Mohinder said. “You’re not coming with me.”
Peter crossed him arms but didn’t argue. “Alright then,” he said instead, “so how do you plan on going after the truck?”
Mohinder lifted his fedora and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I don’t know,” he mumbled, “I’m making this up as I go along.” He slid down the sand and disappeared between two tents. Noah and Peter exchanged looks before making their way out of the excavation site unseen.
As the sarcophagus’ caravan trailed out from the digs, Mohinder burst into the open on the back of a white Arabian horse, speeding through the excavation site and out into the desert. Dust whipped up behind him like a cape as he traveled across the sand dunes that rose above either side of the road. He looked out over the landscape and watched as the convoy drew closer-the black convertible, the truck, the armed car, and the motorcycle pulling in the rear. The horse had brought him level with the truck now; with a snap of the reins he led the steed down a slope onto the road and closed in behind the truck. He could see the crate rattling inside the canvassed truck bed, flanked on either side by six armed men. The machine gun roared behind him; hastily he led the horse around the side of the truck toward the passenger seat as the six men shouted for the gunner to stop firing at them.
Mohinder rode parallel to the truck now, inches from its side. He drew a sharp breath and flung himself toward the canvas, leaving the horse behind and clinging to the side of the truck. After steadying himself he opened the passenger door and flipped the man sitting inside out onto the blurred road. The driver turned, stunned; but Mohinder was already climbing inside the cab. He punched the driver and grabbed him in a chokehold, the steering wheel swerving aimlessly.
By this time the lead car had heard the commotion behind them, so Nathan, the Haitian, and Sylar twisted around to watch as Mohinder and the driver grappled with one another. “Speed up,” Sylar barked to the driver, and the man pressed his foot to the gas. The road curved among the mountainous sand dunes, and up ahead one side gave way to a sudden drop down into a valley. The convertible’s tires squealed as the driver rounded the corner, and its passengers gripped their seats, still turned back to watch the fight in the truck.
The truck veered dangerously as the curve in the road approached. For a moment, in between their punching and smacking, both Mohinder and the truck driver glanced up and saw the cliff. They took the wheel together and steered the truck through the curve, the left-hand tires barely skimming the ground. The driver looked to Mohinder in relief, but Mohinder grabbed the scuff of the man’s shirt and heaved him out of the cab, slamming the door behind him.
Mohinder glared through the windshield at Sylar and accelerated. “Speed up, you idiot!” Sylar said again, but the truck’s grill had already rammed into the convertible’s bumper, sending the car toward the cliff edge. Suddenly the tires sped off into the air; the car lurched, the valley gaping miles below, but with a swift flick of Sylar’s hand the car kept moving forward, its tires spinning over nothingness. The driver kept his foot plastered to the gas pedal as Sylar maneuvered the car back onto the road, safely ahead of the rumbling truck.
Nathan let out the breath he had been holding and pried his hands off the back of his seat. “Enough of this cat and mouse game,” Sylar said through gritted teeth. He raised his hand toward the truck, ready to strike-but the Haitian took hold of Sylar’s wrist, holding it steady.
Sylar snapped his head toward the Haitian. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“You risk damaging the cargo if you act,” the Haitian said coolly. “A flick of your wrist, and the sarcophagus will be gone forever, over that cliff.”
“How dare you-”
“Let your men do the dirty work, sir,” the Haitian continued, fingers still wrapped around Sylar’s arm. “Dr. Suresh will not get away.”
They stared at one another, Sylar’s whole face shaking with fury, for a long moment. But finally, with the slightest nod from Sylar, the Haitian let go, settling back into the seat next to Nathan. Sylar growled through his teeth and slammed his hand into the dashboard, making the driver cringe. The cliff faded away behind them, palm trees and greenery now flanking either side of the wide road.
Mohinder watched the exchange in the lead car with interest, nearly forgetting about the armed car and motorcycle behind him until the car appeared suddenly in his rearview mirror, speeding alongside the truck bed. The gunner aimed his weapon, and Mohinder swerved the truck into the foliage, sending the armed car careening into the tree trunks and down a hidden slope, where it flipped upside down in a heap of men. Mohinder eyed the other mirror and saw the motorcycle come up on his left. He waited until the motorcycle had crept farther forward before he yanked the wheel, sending the bike screeching through a pool of mud and the man spinning into a tree trunk.
A grin pulled at Mohinder’s mouth as he drove, only the convertible remaining on the road ahead of him. But he glanced in his mirrors again and discovered that the men from the back of the truck were now clinging to the canvas, inching forward toward the cab.
“Great,” Mohinder muttered.
He swerved the truck left and right, ramming two men into the trees until they toppled off. Yet several men were still holding on, and with the mirrors as his only guide, Mohinder couldn’t tell how many were left. He continued snaking across the road, watching the reflections of two more thugs fall off into the sand, and smiled when the mirrors showed no more.
Then he grunted in pain as a bullet ripped through his left bicep. Clutching his arm, he turned to see a man pointing a gun through the passenger-side window. Mohinder kicked the door that the thug was trying to open, and the man dangled from the hinges, his feet dragging along the sand. He kicked again and the door swung wildly, finally falling off with a screech of metal that sent the thug into the foliage. Vision cloudy, his arm throbbing, Mohinder gripped the wheel with both hands and peered at the road through the blood-spotted windshield.
The pulse of his wound had only just begun to dull when a pair of legs suddenly catapulted through the driver-side window, ramming directly into Mohinder’s bicep. He choked back a scream as the man punched him in the same spot, knocking Mohinder into the passenger seat and nearly out the hole where the door had been. Mohinder doubled over in pain, eyes squeezed closed; but the thug grabbed him and heaved Mohinder’s head through the windshield. The glass shattered around him as he tumbled down the nose of the truck, latching onto the hood ornament with his good arm. The ornament bent, then broke, and he slid down to clutch the iron rods of the grill. Those bent forward too, and he found himself barely hanging on to the front of the truck, his legs straddled around the left tire and the ground whizzing by just inches below.
He heard a voice behind him. Sylar was shouting to the truck driver, urging him on so that he’d crush Mohinder into the back of the convertible. Mohinder felt the truck accelerate, his shoes skidding across the sand. With the convertible closing in, Mohinder bit his lip, trying to ignore the pain, and began to lower himself down the grill and under the truck’s bumper.
Nathan watched with wide eyes as Mohinder disappeared underneath the truck, his back and legs scraping over blurred sand. Sylar swept his hands at the truck, but when nothing happened, he glared viciously at the Haitian. “DAMN YOU!” he shrieked, but the Haitian made no response. Sylar looked ready to strangle the man, but instead he followed Nathan’s gaze to the truck.
Mohinder had reached the back of the truck now. He hooked his whip around the truck’s underbelly and released his grip, lurching suddenly out into the sunlight. Dust and dirt billowed into his lungs as he flapped from the end of the whip, the gravel and sand tearing at his stomach and knees. With a strangled cry he began to pull himself toward the truck, his muscles screaming with the effort. At last he clamped a hand over the back bumper and climbed up into the truck bed, pausing only for a second to catch his breath before swinging onto the side of the canvas. He slid along until he reached the cab, and with a satisfying kick to the thug’s head he dove inside, shoving the man away and taking the wheel. Mohinder rammed the man’s head into the dashboard three times before chucking him out the windshield, where he groped for the grill and missed, falling onto the road. Mohinder didn’t flinch as the truck bounced over the new speed bump.
He thrust the truck into gear and closed in on the convertible. The car swerved to the side as Mohinder approached, so Mohinder sped up until he was level with Sylar, Nathan, and the Haitian. Nathan’s and Mohinder’s eyes met as Mohinder slammed into the convertible, sending it skidding into the open terrain. The truck zoomed by as the driver lost control of the car, careening into a bank of sand. Sylar and Nathan jumped to their feet and watched the truck rumble into the distance.
Sylar spit out curses and threw his hat onto the car floor. “Follow him, for Christ’s sake!” he screamed, and as Nathan and Sylar resumed their seats, the car coasted back onto the road.
As Sylar fumed, Nathan considered the Haitian with a suspicious look. “What game are you playing?” he whispered sharply. The Haitian returned his gaze but didn’t answer, his face indecipherable.
When the car rolled into the bazaar in Cairo, the truck was nowhere to be found. They halted in front of a wall of produce vendors, but before the car had come to a full stop Sylar’s hand was already around Nathan’s throat.
Nathan stared in bewilderment at Sylar’s seething eyes. “This is your fault!” Sylar shouted. “You brought the damn Haitian with you when you joined the Company.” He leaned in until his face was almost touching Nathan’s. “I should kill you right now.”
“If you do,” Nathan rasped, his fingers digging into the seat, “my mother will lock you up for the rest of your life.”
“Angela Petrelli has no power here,” Sylar sneered, squeezing. But Nathan looked sideways at the Haitian, whose hand now hovered just above Sylar’s forehead.
“Then I will stop you,” the Haitian said.
Sylar glared from one man to the other. Nathan’s legs scrabbled against the car floor as his vision blurred, Sylar’s hand still gripping his throat. The driver watched the scene helplessly, his eyes darting from the Haitian to Sylar to Nathan. Finally Sylar released his grip, and Nathan collapsed into the seat, coughing. The Haitian calmly lowered his hand.
“If we don’t get the sarcophagus back,” Sylar said in a low, dark voice, “I will slice open that head of yours, Angela be damned. Take us out of here,” he snapped, and with a start the driver put the car in gear, speeding out of the bazaar.
---
Mohinder climbed out of the truck, grimacing as he touched his arm. He had parked the truck in Fahim’s garage; seconds before the convertible drove by, tenting fell over the garage door and Fahim’s men gathered in front of it with baskets and carts, pretending to sell produce. The scheme had worked, and now that the sarcophagus was safe from immediate danger, Mohinder approached the door to Fahim’s house and knocked weakly.
Peter answered the door. “God,” he said, cupping Mohinder’s cheek, “you look horrible.”
“Thanks,” Mohinder muttered. He let his head fall into the crook of Peter’s neck, the brim of his fedora crinkling in Peter’s shoulder. Peter gently took off the hat, wrapped an arm around Mohinder, and led him inside. Noah and Fahim greeted them.
“The sarcophagus?” Noah asked at once.
“Safe,” Mohinder answered, “for now. Tell me you found us a ride?”
Noah nodded. “An old friend will be taking us to America on his ship. We leave in a few hours.”
“You need to rest,” Peter said.
Mohinder lifted his head and stood up straight. “I’m fine,” he said stiffly. He turned to Fahim and shook the man’s hand. “Thank you, for everything.”
Fahim inclined his head in response, a brief smile touching his face. “Godspeed,” he said.
---
The docks were misty and quiet, bathed in the blue-white light of a crescent moon. Mohinder, Peter, and Noah stood beneath a sleek tramp steamer; across from them were Claire, Sandra, and Lyle. Noah approached his family and spoke with each of them, talking to Sandra last and kissing her deeply. The four of them converged in an embrace for a long moment before Noah broke away and retreated back to Mohinder and Peter.
“I’ll tell the captain we’re about ready to leave,” he said, his voice controlled, and walked up the gangplank onto the ship.
Mohinder and Peter moved together toward the Bennets. Peter hovered in front of Claire; they looked at one another in silence for a moment, dampness already staining Claire’s face, and then she flew into his arms, choking back tears.
“Try not to die, okay?” she said into his shoulder. “Or, at least, get your powers back or something, so that I know I’m keeping you safe. Okay?”
Peter smiled. “I’ll try,” he said, pulling away.
“And when you’re done with all of this, I expect letters from you,” she added. “No excuses.”
“No excuses.” He wiped the wetness off her cheek with his thumb. “Goodbye, Claire.”
“Bye,” she said through sniffles.
Mohinder ended his embrace with Sandra, saying, “I’m sorry about Mr. Muggles, Sandra. I wish there was something I could do.”
She brushed it away with a sweep of her hand. “It’s alright,” she replied, though her face looked pained. “My family is safe, that’s what’s important. Take care of yourself, Mohinder. And you too, Peter.”
Peter nodded. “Keep an eye on your sister, okay, Lyle?” he said, and Lyle smiled, shaking his head yes. They all exchanged embraces for a last time, and Peter and Mohinder boarded the steamer.
They found Noah speaking with the captain on the other side of the deck. “Bloody hell,” the captain said to Peter as he and Mohinder walked over to meet them. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you? Same damn hair falling over your face, I see. Wasn’t cute four years ago and still isn’t now, mate.”
Peter blinked. “Claude? You … you’re a ship captain?”
“I prefer the term pirate,” Claude said, rolling back on his heels.
“Wait, this is the Claude that trained you in New York?” Mohinder asked Peter. “I thought you said he disappeared?”
“Yeah,” Claude cut in, “four years ago. I’m allowed to reappear, last I checked. And from what Bennet tells me, you lot might well consider disappearing yourselves, now that you’ve gone and chucked so much shit at the Company’s fan. Lucky for us,” he continued, grinning, “I can get you and your dead girl back to the States before those Company bastards know you’re even gone.”
“And we’d best get going,” Noah added. “We ready to set sail, Claude?”
Claude nodded. “Leaving in a few minutes, actually. Let me show you to your rooms.” Clapping a stunned Peter on the back, he led them all to their cabins.
-chapter seven-
Characters: Mohinder/Peter, Noah, Nathan, Sylar, the Haitian; cameos by most of the (surviving) Season 1 cast
Word Count: 28,000ish
Rating: PG-13 for mild language, violence, some non-explicit romance-y stuff -- nothing worse than what you'd find in Raiders. Also, character death -- if you've seen Raiders, you'll have an inkling as to who might not make it to the end.
Spoilers: through all of Season 1
Summary: When the FBI approaches the Helix Foundation with a request, Mohinder finds himself thrown into another adventure--one that brings up a past he thought he’d left far behind.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the words.
A/N: An AU, set in the 1930s but after the events of Season 1. Written for reel_heroes as an adaptation of Raiders of the Lost Ark. An unending amount of thanks, gratitude, and hugs to imamandajulius for cheerleading, offering criticism, and holding my hand through these past few months. You are the best of the best of the best. <3
Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight
VI.
The airstrip bustled with Arabs and Company employees alike as Nathan, Sylar and the Haitian surveyed what was left of the flying wing. Sylar fumed visibly. Nathan quietly studied the wreckage, an odd look on his face.
“Get the sarcophagus out of this place immediately,” Sylar barked to his men. “Have it put on the truck; we’ll fly out from Cairo. Damn that Suresh,” he added under his breath before stalking away. With a sideways glance at Nathan, the Haitian followed in Sylar’s wake.
“Peter,” Nathan mused to the flames. He joined the Haitian in walking back to the digs.
Noah Bennet watched them leave from farther down the airstrip, wrapping the cloth of his turban over his face. As he crept in the direction of the digs, a hushed noise made him pause. He turned; Mohinder and Peter were crouching within an empty tent flap, beckoning for Noah.
Noah darted to them. “Oh, thank God,” he whispered, joining them within the tent. “I thought you two were dead.”
“And I thought you had been captured,” Mohinder said, wiping away the blood on his face with a handkerchief that Noah proffered. “How’d you escape?”
A wry smile played across Noah’s face. “You don’t give me enough credit, Mohinder. I did this type of work long before either of you ever did.” His expression changed. “The sarcophagus. They’re taking it on a truck to Cairo.”
“Truck?” Mohinder moved his jaw in exasperation. “What truck?”
“Come on,” Noah said, and the three of them emerged from the tent, running stealthily toward the excavation site.
They reached the digs just in time to find cover behind a rise of sand and watch the truck being loaded. Sylar had apparently become fed up with his men and was moving the sarcophagus into the truck bed himself, holding up his hands as the crate moved by its own accord into the vehicle. Once the crate was settled, several armed men climbed inside. An open-roofed car pulled in behind them, a machine gun mounted on the back, and a man on a motorcycle revved his engine. Sylar, Nathan, and the Haitian seated themselves in a separate car, a black, luxurious convertible that had lost its sheen in the dusty desert. As their driver started the engine, Mohinder lay back against the sand, thinking.
“Get back to Cairo,” he said to Noah and Peter. “Get us some transport to America-boat, plane, anything. Be ready for me at Fahim’s place. I’m going after that truck.”
“Mohinder,” Peter sighed.
“Don’t,” Mohinder said. “You’re not coming with me.”
Peter crossed him arms but didn’t argue. “Alright then,” he said instead, “so how do you plan on going after the truck?”
Mohinder lifted his fedora and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I don’t know,” he mumbled, “I’m making this up as I go along.” He slid down the sand and disappeared between two tents. Noah and Peter exchanged looks before making their way out of the excavation site unseen.
As the sarcophagus’ caravan trailed out from the digs, Mohinder burst into the open on the back of a white Arabian horse, speeding through the excavation site and out into the desert. Dust whipped up behind him like a cape as he traveled across the sand dunes that rose above either side of the road. He looked out over the landscape and watched as the convoy drew closer-the black convertible, the truck, the armed car, and the motorcycle pulling in the rear. The horse had brought him level with the truck now; with a snap of the reins he led the steed down a slope onto the road and closed in behind the truck. He could see the crate rattling inside the canvassed truck bed, flanked on either side by six armed men. The machine gun roared behind him; hastily he led the horse around the side of the truck toward the passenger seat as the six men shouted for the gunner to stop firing at them.
Mohinder rode parallel to the truck now, inches from its side. He drew a sharp breath and flung himself toward the canvas, leaving the horse behind and clinging to the side of the truck. After steadying himself he opened the passenger door and flipped the man sitting inside out onto the blurred road. The driver turned, stunned; but Mohinder was already climbing inside the cab. He punched the driver and grabbed him in a chokehold, the steering wheel swerving aimlessly.
By this time the lead car had heard the commotion behind them, so Nathan, the Haitian, and Sylar twisted around to watch as Mohinder and the driver grappled with one another. “Speed up,” Sylar barked to the driver, and the man pressed his foot to the gas. The road curved among the mountainous sand dunes, and up ahead one side gave way to a sudden drop down into a valley. The convertible’s tires squealed as the driver rounded the corner, and its passengers gripped their seats, still turned back to watch the fight in the truck.
The truck veered dangerously as the curve in the road approached. For a moment, in between their punching and smacking, both Mohinder and the truck driver glanced up and saw the cliff. They took the wheel together and steered the truck through the curve, the left-hand tires barely skimming the ground. The driver looked to Mohinder in relief, but Mohinder grabbed the scuff of the man’s shirt and heaved him out of the cab, slamming the door behind him.
Mohinder glared through the windshield at Sylar and accelerated. “Speed up, you idiot!” Sylar said again, but the truck’s grill had already rammed into the convertible’s bumper, sending the car toward the cliff edge. Suddenly the tires sped off into the air; the car lurched, the valley gaping miles below, but with a swift flick of Sylar’s hand the car kept moving forward, its tires spinning over nothingness. The driver kept his foot plastered to the gas pedal as Sylar maneuvered the car back onto the road, safely ahead of the rumbling truck.
Nathan let out the breath he had been holding and pried his hands off the back of his seat. “Enough of this cat and mouse game,” Sylar said through gritted teeth. He raised his hand toward the truck, ready to strike-but the Haitian took hold of Sylar’s wrist, holding it steady.
Sylar snapped his head toward the Haitian. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“You risk damaging the cargo if you act,” the Haitian said coolly. “A flick of your wrist, and the sarcophagus will be gone forever, over that cliff.”
“How dare you-”
“Let your men do the dirty work, sir,” the Haitian continued, fingers still wrapped around Sylar’s arm. “Dr. Suresh will not get away.”
They stared at one another, Sylar’s whole face shaking with fury, for a long moment. But finally, with the slightest nod from Sylar, the Haitian let go, settling back into the seat next to Nathan. Sylar growled through his teeth and slammed his hand into the dashboard, making the driver cringe. The cliff faded away behind them, palm trees and greenery now flanking either side of the wide road.
Mohinder watched the exchange in the lead car with interest, nearly forgetting about the armed car and motorcycle behind him until the car appeared suddenly in his rearview mirror, speeding alongside the truck bed. The gunner aimed his weapon, and Mohinder swerved the truck into the foliage, sending the armed car careening into the tree trunks and down a hidden slope, where it flipped upside down in a heap of men. Mohinder eyed the other mirror and saw the motorcycle come up on his left. He waited until the motorcycle had crept farther forward before he yanked the wheel, sending the bike screeching through a pool of mud and the man spinning into a tree trunk.
A grin pulled at Mohinder’s mouth as he drove, only the convertible remaining on the road ahead of him. But he glanced in his mirrors again and discovered that the men from the back of the truck were now clinging to the canvas, inching forward toward the cab.
“Great,” Mohinder muttered.
He swerved the truck left and right, ramming two men into the trees until they toppled off. Yet several men were still holding on, and with the mirrors as his only guide, Mohinder couldn’t tell how many were left. He continued snaking across the road, watching the reflections of two more thugs fall off into the sand, and smiled when the mirrors showed no more.
Then he grunted in pain as a bullet ripped through his left bicep. Clutching his arm, he turned to see a man pointing a gun through the passenger-side window. Mohinder kicked the door that the thug was trying to open, and the man dangled from the hinges, his feet dragging along the sand. He kicked again and the door swung wildly, finally falling off with a screech of metal that sent the thug into the foliage. Vision cloudy, his arm throbbing, Mohinder gripped the wheel with both hands and peered at the road through the blood-spotted windshield.
The pulse of his wound had only just begun to dull when a pair of legs suddenly catapulted through the driver-side window, ramming directly into Mohinder’s bicep. He choked back a scream as the man punched him in the same spot, knocking Mohinder into the passenger seat and nearly out the hole where the door had been. Mohinder doubled over in pain, eyes squeezed closed; but the thug grabbed him and heaved Mohinder’s head through the windshield. The glass shattered around him as he tumbled down the nose of the truck, latching onto the hood ornament with his good arm. The ornament bent, then broke, and he slid down to clutch the iron rods of the grill. Those bent forward too, and he found himself barely hanging on to the front of the truck, his legs straddled around the left tire and the ground whizzing by just inches below.
He heard a voice behind him. Sylar was shouting to the truck driver, urging him on so that he’d crush Mohinder into the back of the convertible. Mohinder felt the truck accelerate, his shoes skidding across the sand. With the convertible closing in, Mohinder bit his lip, trying to ignore the pain, and began to lower himself down the grill and under the truck’s bumper.
Nathan watched with wide eyes as Mohinder disappeared underneath the truck, his back and legs scraping over blurred sand. Sylar swept his hands at the truck, but when nothing happened, he glared viciously at the Haitian. “DAMN YOU!” he shrieked, but the Haitian made no response. Sylar looked ready to strangle the man, but instead he followed Nathan’s gaze to the truck.
Mohinder had reached the back of the truck now. He hooked his whip around the truck’s underbelly and released his grip, lurching suddenly out into the sunlight. Dust and dirt billowed into his lungs as he flapped from the end of the whip, the gravel and sand tearing at his stomach and knees. With a strangled cry he began to pull himself toward the truck, his muscles screaming with the effort. At last he clamped a hand over the back bumper and climbed up into the truck bed, pausing only for a second to catch his breath before swinging onto the side of the canvas. He slid along until he reached the cab, and with a satisfying kick to the thug’s head he dove inside, shoving the man away and taking the wheel. Mohinder rammed the man’s head into the dashboard three times before chucking him out the windshield, where he groped for the grill and missed, falling onto the road. Mohinder didn’t flinch as the truck bounced over the new speed bump.
He thrust the truck into gear and closed in on the convertible. The car swerved to the side as Mohinder approached, so Mohinder sped up until he was level with Sylar, Nathan, and the Haitian. Nathan’s and Mohinder’s eyes met as Mohinder slammed into the convertible, sending it skidding into the open terrain. The truck zoomed by as the driver lost control of the car, careening into a bank of sand. Sylar and Nathan jumped to their feet and watched the truck rumble into the distance.
Sylar spit out curses and threw his hat onto the car floor. “Follow him, for Christ’s sake!” he screamed, and as Nathan and Sylar resumed their seats, the car coasted back onto the road.
As Sylar fumed, Nathan considered the Haitian with a suspicious look. “What game are you playing?” he whispered sharply. The Haitian returned his gaze but didn’t answer, his face indecipherable.
When the car rolled into the bazaar in Cairo, the truck was nowhere to be found. They halted in front of a wall of produce vendors, but before the car had come to a full stop Sylar’s hand was already around Nathan’s throat.
Nathan stared in bewilderment at Sylar’s seething eyes. “This is your fault!” Sylar shouted. “You brought the damn Haitian with you when you joined the Company.” He leaned in until his face was almost touching Nathan’s. “I should kill you right now.”
“If you do,” Nathan rasped, his fingers digging into the seat, “my mother will lock you up for the rest of your life.”
“Angela Petrelli has no power here,” Sylar sneered, squeezing. But Nathan looked sideways at the Haitian, whose hand now hovered just above Sylar’s forehead.
“Then I will stop you,” the Haitian said.
Sylar glared from one man to the other. Nathan’s legs scrabbled against the car floor as his vision blurred, Sylar’s hand still gripping his throat. The driver watched the scene helplessly, his eyes darting from the Haitian to Sylar to Nathan. Finally Sylar released his grip, and Nathan collapsed into the seat, coughing. The Haitian calmly lowered his hand.
“If we don’t get the sarcophagus back,” Sylar said in a low, dark voice, “I will slice open that head of yours, Angela be damned. Take us out of here,” he snapped, and with a start the driver put the car in gear, speeding out of the bazaar.
---
Mohinder climbed out of the truck, grimacing as he touched his arm. He had parked the truck in Fahim’s garage; seconds before the convertible drove by, tenting fell over the garage door and Fahim’s men gathered in front of it with baskets and carts, pretending to sell produce. The scheme had worked, and now that the sarcophagus was safe from immediate danger, Mohinder approached the door to Fahim’s house and knocked weakly.
Peter answered the door. “God,” he said, cupping Mohinder’s cheek, “you look horrible.”
“Thanks,” Mohinder muttered. He let his head fall into the crook of Peter’s neck, the brim of his fedora crinkling in Peter’s shoulder. Peter gently took off the hat, wrapped an arm around Mohinder, and led him inside. Noah and Fahim greeted them.
“The sarcophagus?” Noah asked at once.
“Safe,” Mohinder answered, “for now. Tell me you found us a ride?”
Noah nodded. “An old friend will be taking us to America on his ship. We leave in a few hours.”
“You need to rest,” Peter said.
Mohinder lifted his head and stood up straight. “I’m fine,” he said stiffly. He turned to Fahim and shook the man’s hand. “Thank you, for everything.”
Fahim inclined his head in response, a brief smile touching his face. “Godspeed,” he said.
---
The docks were misty and quiet, bathed in the blue-white light of a crescent moon. Mohinder, Peter, and Noah stood beneath a sleek tramp steamer; across from them were Claire, Sandra, and Lyle. Noah approached his family and spoke with each of them, talking to Sandra last and kissing her deeply. The four of them converged in an embrace for a long moment before Noah broke away and retreated back to Mohinder and Peter.
“I’ll tell the captain we’re about ready to leave,” he said, his voice controlled, and walked up the gangplank onto the ship.
Mohinder and Peter moved together toward the Bennets. Peter hovered in front of Claire; they looked at one another in silence for a moment, dampness already staining Claire’s face, and then she flew into his arms, choking back tears.
“Try not to die, okay?” she said into his shoulder. “Or, at least, get your powers back or something, so that I know I’m keeping you safe. Okay?”
Peter smiled. “I’ll try,” he said, pulling away.
“And when you’re done with all of this, I expect letters from you,” she added. “No excuses.”
“No excuses.” He wiped the wetness off her cheek with his thumb. “Goodbye, Claire.”
“Bye,” she said through sniffles.
Mohinder ended his embrace with Sandra, saying, “I’m sorry about Mr. Muggles, Sandra. I wish there was something I could do.”
She brushed it away with a sweep of her hand. “It’s alright,” she replied, though her face looked pained. “My family is safe, that’s what’s important. Take care of yourself, Mohinder. And you too, Peter.”
Peter nodded. “Keep an eye on your sister, okay, Lyle?” he said, and Lyle smiled, shaking his head yes. They all exchanged embraces for a last time, and Peter and Mohinder boarded the steamer.
They found Noah speaking with the captain on the other side of the deck. “Bloody hell,” the captain said to Peter as he and Mohinder walked over to meet them. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you? Same damn hair falling over your face, I see. Wasn’t cute four years ago and still isn’t now, mate.”
Peter blinked. “Claude? You … you’re a ship captain?”
“I prefer the term pirate,” Claude said, rolling back on his heels.
“Wait, this is the Claude that trained you in New York?” Mohinder asked Peter. “I thought you said he disappeared?”
“Yeah,” Claude cut in, “four years ago. I’m allowed to reappear, last I checked. And from what Bennet tells me, you lot might well consider disappearing yourselves, now that you’ve gone and chucked so much shit at the Company’s fan. Lucky for us,” he continued, grinning, “I can get you and your dead girl back to the States before those Company bastards know you’re even gone.”
“And we’d best get going,” Noah added. “We ready to set sail, Claude?”
Claude nodded. “Leaving in a few minutes, actually. Let me show you to your rooms.” Clapping a stunned Peter on the back, he led them all to their cabins.
-chapter seven-