>???, CHECHNYA, RUSSIA
>0500HRS...///

[i]Four wheels struggled for purchase on the mountain road, suspension creaking in the early morning darkness. The halo of morning was starting to peek through the horizon as Donnelley grunted in frustration at the mud being thrown up by the Ural’s tires, their toughest enemy yet and the one that managed to slow their advance to the objective.

“You sure you don’t want me to drive?” Peake turned his head to Donnelley, his face still stuck in that slit-eyed frown he’d had since Somalia. Donnelley wondered if his face had ever known a smile or grin.

Probably not, Donnelley sucked his teeth, cigarette clenched between them, “I’m fine, I’ve got this.”

“We could ditch this piece of shit, ruck the rest of the way to the rally point.” Peake grumbled, turning away from Donnelley, but Donnelley had never been the one to take the easy way. He wasn’t going to start. “That’s what I’d do.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Thank you for telling me the tale of what Peake would do with this stolen Ural in Chechnya.” Donnelley frowned sidelong at Peake, glowering from the passenger seat. “I liked the last one too, what Peake would do if FSB caught wind of a Marine Raider, a CIA Officer and an ISA Operator illegally crossing into Russia.”

Donnelley heard Guzman sigh from the backseat, his AKM laid across his thighs as he looked out his window pretending not to hear yet another contest of Who’s-A-Better-Asshole. Donnelley’s eyes narrowed as Guzman’s did the same, leaning closer to his driver’s side rear window. Guzman’s wary voice came from behind Donnelley, “You seen that?”

“What?” Peake barked, his head whipping to the direction Guzman was looking like a bird of prey. “Oh, sh-“[/i]

“Fuck!” Donnelley fell from his rocking chair and scrambled across the wooden deck, a terrified flailing that left him with an aching knee and elbow when he came to lay in the gravel just at the foot of the porch’s steps to the front door of the Safehouse.

His chest rose and fell as he lay there, staring up at the dark-blue morning sky. He stayed there, his mind busying itself like a dog barking away intruders, pushing away the memories of Chechnya. “Fuck.”

He reached up to his face and felt his right cheek, fingers gliding down the long burn scar from cheekbone to clavicle. Still there. He lifted his shirt and eyed the two bullet wounds under his ribs. Still there. Guzman. Still gone.

 “Fuck.” His breath quivered in his throat as he buried his eyes in the crook of his elbow, heaving one long breath and growled it out between clenched teeth. Finally, he sighed, grunting as he got to his feet and walked back to his rocking chair, bending over to pick up the pack of American Spirits on the floor.

He shoved one between his teeth and found the bottle of Jameson that Tom had spilled last night, only dregs left but Donnelley swigged at it anyway. He bared his clenching teeth and shook his head, the liquor fighting all the way down. As he dropped his ass back in his rocking chair, he let himself sway back and forward. The creak added to the birdsong of the early morning, darkness still hanging over the open air such that the porch lights were still useful. He tipped his head back after lighting his cigarette and sighed the first drag out into the morning, enjoying his moment of silence.

Laine lay in the bottom bunk, alone in the women’s bedroom and she listened to the birds singing outside. She had not slept well, nightmares plagued her, most she did not remember now that dawn was creeping in. With a grunt, she rolled over and slipped out of bed, wincing as she put her weight on her cut foot. She had forgotten about that. The night came back, charging forward with the film and the strange phenomena that had occurred to the four that had watched it. She rubbed her eyes, smearing more old mascara around as she had passed out without washing her face.

“Gross,” she muttered, feeling the oiliness of her skin. Laine puttered around, picking out black jeans and underwear then went to the new shirts, picking one up then the other. Nothing she actually would buy if she had not been pressed for time. It reminded her of when she went shopping for Alex back when they were together. He loved the name brands. She took the black t-shirt, a fitted little thing that had a queen of spades in a distressed print on the chest. It was still better than the designer labels splashed across like a damn walking billboard. 

After a shower that was not long or hot enough Laine dressed, putting on her Converse sneakers to keep her foot comfortable and went outside to smoke. Her mind was still clouded and she felt the shadow of last night still hovering over her. She stepped out onto the porch, inhaling the mountain air and despite the tinge of distant coal smoke it was nice. Better than than the smog of LA or the humidity of Virgina. She lit up, the cloves crackling with comforting familiarity. 

The creaking caught her attention and she turned, spotting Donnelley in the chair and she felt her chest tighten. Guilt over leaving him alone, over her own reaction to his closeness made her hesitate, but if she said nothing or too much then it might get weird. She was already making it weird. Laine sighed and blowing out a stream of smoke, she turned again, looking at him and said, “Good morning.” 

“Hm?” Donnelley leaned forward and set his eyes on Laine. He paused, remembering the moment they shared on the very porch they stood on now. And how it didn’t come out to anything. He smiled anyway, a soft curve of lips, “Hey.”

He would ask how she was doing but he feared the worst to come from that topic. His mind stretched for something to say to her, something to fill the air between them. He didn’t know why but the empty space left there felt wrong. “It’s a nice morning.”

Laine shifted so her hip leaned against the railing, she glanced east at the sun breaking over the trees. “Another sunrise.”

Her eyes met his and she smiled slightly, recalling what he had told her before. Now that she was living dangerously, that’s what she had to look for, another sunrise. Laine glanced away, flicking her cigarette absently, “How’d you sleep?” 

Donnelley looked at her and then out at the rising sun at her words. It was another sunrise, but… Oh, he thought. He cracked a grin at that, remembering the time they had at Baughman’s cabin. To her question, his grin faltered and then regressed to a tight-lipped smile in his bearded face, red roots now really shining through in his hair and beard, especially in the growing early morning light. “Slept alright.” He cleared his throat and took another drag, “I hope you did too.”

He chuckled softly, trying at a little bit of humor, “I need a goddamn vacation.”

“I slept as well as you probably did,” Laine said, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She brushed a hand over her damp tousled hair, smoothing the dark strands down. She had put on makeup to cover the dark circles under her eyes, the sleeplessness as she woke again and again. 

“You mean away from all this,” Laine waved a hand, her cigarette now between her plush lips. “A cabin in the woods, rustic American living.” 

She huffed a close mouthed laugh, then shrugged a shoulder. “This place could have been real nice, but...well it’s not.” 

Laine blew out smoke and tapped the ashes, letting her hand rest against the railing. “So, where would you go if you could go anywhere for vacation?” 

Donnelley pursed his lips at the question. He hadn’t even thought on where he’d go, just that he wanted to sometimes. “Huh…” He grunted, taking a drag from his cigarette and flicking ash away, “Mexico. Beer on the beach.”

“That sounds nice, some white sand on the Sea of Cortez,” Laine said, tossing her hair back and looked out at the forest as if it might change to the crystal blue waters. “Have you a nice senorita on your arm?” 

She met his eyes then glanced away, ducking her head down to examine her cigarette, watching the glow against the black paper. 

Donnelley’s smile grew a little more the longer Laine described the details of his imaginary vacation. He was envisioning the beach, the stars, a bonfire. A señorita on his arm. He huffed a chuckle as she looked away from him, turning his eyes onto the sunrise after he said, “Maybe I do.” A little smile on him before he continued, “Modelos, Corona, tequila. Street tacos… marlin.”

He chuckled warmly, “Shoo’, makin’ me wanna run for the border.”

At his expanded description, Laine smiled and added, “With fresh mango salsa and lime juice...[i]muy bueno[/i]. 

She looked up and hobbled a step towards his chair, the conversation had started to flow more naturally as it had before, the tension she felt somewhat easing. Laine gestured to her sneaker clad foot, “I’d go with you but I’m not running anywhere today. Bring me back a sombrero, the kind with the little pom poms.”

“Only the best for you.” He smiled at her as he leaned back in his chair. The events of the night before grabbed and clawed at his attention but he made an effort to push them back, reaching for better, “Where would you go? Anywhere.”

Laine tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, then grinned, “I had thought Fiji but Mexico sounds so good now. I think I’d like to visit somewhere different, maybe colder. Finland..maybe, my dad’s family is Finnish. But I don’t think pickled herring or whatever they eat could beat fish tacos.” 

She laughed, glancing over at him, “I don’t know really, maybe France. Visit Paris to say I went there then be disgusted by all the tourists and light out for some small unknown village and drink local wine and travel around the French countryside in early summer. Rent a bike and take a picnic, stay in a chateau.” 

Her green eyes twinkled at the idea, lavender filled fields and ancient stone houses. And no weird shit. “I guess that’s probably pretty basic, but it sounds nice.”

Donnelley watched her as she stared out at the sunrise, or beyond it to those green fields of France where he could see her smiling as she walked the streets of Paris, tasting wine, and lounging in a field of grass where no signs of man would spring up for miles. Didn’t he say he wished he could have ridden his motorcycle across Europe a time ago? He took his eyes off of her and looked out where her gaze was, the hills not seeming too sinister for a time. “I’d like that.” He near whispered, before he caught himself and continued, “It’d be a nice break. Maybe sometime soon we’ll have what we want.”

His hushed tone caught her attention and she looked at him, not quite catching what he said before he continued. Laine nodded, “It would be nice. Maybe hop over to Switzerland or the Netherlands. Just somewhere far away from here. Soon...”

Unwillingly her thoughts turned to the murder, the film and the mystery of Blackriver. Laine moved over to Donnelley, standing within reaching distance and looked at him, “‘We have miles to go before we sleep.’ I just remembered that line, you know I loved poetry and literature in school, if it wasn’t for...well...”

She noticed her cigarette had burned down, the length of ashes hanging precariously and she flicked them, taking the last drag. “If it wasn’t for the path set for me, I might have majored in that.” 

Laine grinned, then crushed the butt of the Djarum under her sneaker, “Then I’d not be here and I wouldn’t have met you and all of our team. Nor had an actual career.”

She stooped with a swift movement to pick it up, palming the filter to toss it away inside. “I’m sorry,” she said suddenly, then shook her head. “It was nice...you know, dreaming for a little while.” 

“Ain’t it?” He said, smile fading a tick before a thought crossed his mind and pulled him back to the waking world. He hadn’t gotten the check-in from Laurie and Gwen. “Oh, fuck.”

He stood with some purpose and frantically checked his pockets for his phone, finding it wasn’t there. He rushed inside, leaving the front door open and he snatched his phone up. No messages. Nothing. Maybe those two assholes had just forgotten or…

He dialed the number to the sat-phone, having to erase a wrong digit a couple times for his rushed fingers struggling to keep up with his panicked mind. Finally, he got it right and pressed it to his ear. It picked up. When he heard nothing for a few seconds he hesitated to speak. “Laurie?” He ventured, nothing. “Gwen? Can you hear me?”

Maybe they weren’t in a spot where the reception was good. Mountains blocking the signal. Something. He opened his mouth to try calling out at them again but a voice like a chorus of whispers came through underneath static, “Come and see…”

The line went dead.

He looked at his phone, pressed the home button and it only showed him that it had died. It was at least at half battery last night and there was no way it would’ve drained so quickly. He set his phone down and stepped back, his hand on his forehead, his eyes vacant at the floor.

Laine followed him, not quite sure what was making him worry until she heard him ask for Laurie. The Drone team that had gone into the woods, cocksure and packed with PB&J sandwiches. She stared at his expression as the phone call ended, feeling a prickle crawl across her scalp. “What happened?”

“Donnelley?” she asked again, stepping closer to him when he did not respond. “What the hell happened?” 

Laine touched his cheek, trying to look him in the eyes, her fingers light against his two toned beard. “It’s bad. Fuck...”

Turning away, she felt the cold grip of panic trying to seize her up as she called out, “Tom! Justin!” 

Tom woke up thinking about the events of the night before. He was thinking about his sister. The Boston PD and Mass State CPAC never did find who kidnapped Meghan. It was one of those things that has haunted him since he was 12 years old. It was one of the main reasons he became a police officer. On the anniversary of her death, or the anniversary of when Boston Police found her corpse, he pulls out her cold case file and read it cover to cover. He hasn’t given up, but there is very little evidence or leads to go on.

He rubbed his eyes, dispelling the sleepy seeds from the corner of his eyes. He dragged his legs off the edge of the bed and felt a throbbing headache on both sides of his head. It took some effort, but he dragged himself to a standing position and stumbled to the bathroom to relieve himself and take some Tylenol. He returned to the room and began the process of getting dressed. He pulled on the same green tactical trousers he wore yesterday, but opted for the grey T-shirt.

Justin shocked awake in a cold sweat. He came out of whatever hell he was in with his heart pounding. He shot up in bed in an instant, his mind racing. Mortars? Where was the goddamn shelter, it was-

His eyes traced the features of the room, his brain struggling to catch up and remember just where he was.

“Good morning, Sleepy head,” Tom chided Mr. Clark as he tied his boots.

“Gh-” Justin tried to speak, to respond. His mouth was bone dry, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. A moment of contemplation, and he finally mustered a response in a dry, scraggled voice. “Ffffuck.”

“You need some water?” Tom asked. “I have a bottle of whiskey if you’d prefer that?”

“No.. I’m- ah- I’m good.” Justin swung his legs out over the side of the bed slowly. “Did- did I dream someone calling me? Or was it real?” He inquired as he went for a pair of jeans folded semi-neatly nearby the bed.

“I heard nothing, but then I had a pretty deep sedative last night,” Tom admitted. “It may have been a dream.

“Right.” Justin stood as he wriggled into the pair of jeans. No sooner had he done that than an unmarked maroon t-shirt was thrown over his head. Socks, check. He slipped on his favorite ATAC boots right after.

“Well, I’m going to head downstairs. I don’t smell eggs and bacon like yesterday, but maybe I can cook us up something to eat,” Tom added. He headed for the door. Once in the doorway he heard someone yell. “That sounds like Dr. Laine,” Tom spoke at Justin. “It sounds like she just yelled for the both of us. Hurry up!” Tom headed for the stairs and marched downstairs quickly. He found Donnelley near the counter at the kitchen.

When he entered the room after descending the staircase, he asked, “What’s up?” Tom was curious why the doctor called. 

Justin was right behind, signs of his bedtime distress still plastered on his face as he appeared in the room.

“Laurie and Gwen missed their check-in. No SITREP, nothing.” Donnelley didn’t even turn to them as he spoke, just stood there, one arm wrapped around his waist and the other rubbing his forehead, ‘Come and see’ echoing again and again in his mind, “Fuck. Something’s wrong.”

He pushed off the counter and nodded at the two men, “Full gear, get outside ASAP. We’re going for a hike.”

“Roger that, boss,” Tom responded and moved back up the stairs. He grabbed his Assault vest, still set up as it was yesterday. He pulled the M4 sling over his head, checking to insure the weapon was on Safe. The SIG was back in its right thigh holster and he put the tactical helmet on his head before grabbing a few more cigars sliding them in a pocket. He was ready for a hike, heading toward the front door as instructed by Mr. Donnelley.

Justin similarly rushed up the stairs, his instinct kicking in as he pulled pieces of gear from his duffel under his bed. He traded the t-shirt for a UBAC but otherwise kept the jeans. He fastened his JPC vest hastily, thumping a fist against the hard plates. He hooked the straps of his helmet around one of the PALS loops, letting it hang as he affixed a multicam baseball cap on his head. Then onto the guns. The Mk. 18 was a beast of a weapon, an M4 frame updated with all the best parts that money could buy outside the Army itself. Slamming home a magazine, he didn’t bother chambering a round as he threaded the sling around his torso. Sliding his SIG into a holster and collecting both his knives, he stuffed magazines into accessory pouches; his go-bag became a patrol ruck. As he descended the stairs, he’d went from washed-up hillbilly to elite operator.

Laine watched them roll into motion, practiced and smooth, not like her own jerking heart. She glanced at Donnelley, his face still drawn and pale. He looked suddenly older, the carelines etched deeper and she waited until the men as vanished up the stairs. 

"You know what you'll find," she said quietly, putting a gentle hand on his arm and despite her gut fear of what she suspected might be waiting she said, "I'm coming with you."

They might have the guns but she knew crime scenes, she understood men that killed like this. At least she hoped she did. 

Donnelley folded his arms and hung his head, nodding in agreement. He already knew what happened, or the gist. It wouldn’t hit him until he saw it. And he needed to. Leaving anything open to wonder at years down the line wasn’t something Donnelley did. In a profession that made him witness the unreal and the unknown, Donnelley dealt in reality and absolutes. “I gotta get ready.”

He went for the stairs, leaving Laine’s gentle hand behind him as he gathered his tools of the trade.

Laine watched Tom and Justin, now grim faced and armed to the teeth. She closed her eyes for a moment and hoped to whatever might be out there that this was Gwen and Laurie's idea of a prank. 

"Wait, you guys haven't eaten," Laine said, looking for something to do as they readied. 

“You have any more of those PB&Js?” Tom asked.

"I can make some real quick, and there's protein bars," she moved quickly, ignoring the twinge of discomfort in her foot. Cabinets slammed open and closed as she whipped together half a dozen PB&Js, spreading lumps of peanut butter and spilling some strawberry jam in the process. Her mind focused she was able to put aside speculation of what waited. 

Tom grabbed a few sandwiches and  protein bars, stuffing these into his butt pack. “Thanks, Heather.” He took one of the sandwiches and began eating it as he resumed heading to the door.

Donnelley took a deep breath at the top of the stairs, fully kitted with his Honey Badger dangling from its single point sling. A pull from his flask had steadied his hands as he got ready, and as he descended the stairs it seemed the stress was seeping deep under his skin to be hidden away in some compartment at the back of his brain. He donned a grin as he sauntered into the kitchen, one hand clutched the rim of his tactical helmet, NODs fixed to the front of it. The other stuffed a cigarette between his grinning lips. “Hot damn, look’it these badasses.” He rapped his knuckles on Justin’s backplate, “I’m feelin’ dangerous now.”

He stepped back, heading for the door, but paused at the open door. He looked to Laine, his face grim for a second until he cracked his smirk, “I trust mine are cut in triangles.”

"Only the best," she said, flipping the knife to make a quick cross cut. 

Laine smiled at Tom and Justin, the hint of worry in her green eyes unable to be completely hidden. "You guys are armored up, I'd better drive to test the durability."

[hr]

>BLACKRIVER FORESTS
>0600...///

Donnelley had made sure to wake up Foster before they set out in the Chevy Suburban, stuffing their gear in the back before the three men stowed themselves in the back seat, squeezed in amongst each other. The closer they got to Laurie and Gwen’s infil point the less and less idle chit chat or small talk came up. By the time the Suburban lurched to a stop in the logging roads to the mountains, they all sat grim faced and ready.

They exited the Suburban and as they donned their rucks, Donnelley spoke in a voice unlike his previous cheeky banter, “I’m sure I don’t have to tell either of you this, but we’re goin’ to treat this forest like hostile territory. Light and sound discipline, no smokin’, we communicate by whisper or by hand and arm signals. Make sure you bring your NODs, I’m not leavin’ ‘til we find Laurie and Gwen or the sun fucks off.” Donnelley patted his Honey Badger, “We don’t know what is in this forest with us, but if it was quiet enough to get Laurie and Gwen before they could call then it’s quiet and it’s good. This ain’t no Tora Bora, so your signal to shoot is when I shoot. If you see somethin’ I don’t, you signal for a halt and tell me about it so we’re all on the same page where to put our rounds down range.”

“That means [i]anythin’ and anyone.[/i] I’m comin’ out of this forest. We make sure whatever’s in that forest don’t.” Donnelley checked over his weapons and laid eyes on his men, “Justin, you’re takin’ point, I’m bringin’ up the rear. Heads on a swivel, boys. Good copy?”

"Aye." Justin nodded, fitting his olive green OpsCore over his head. He flipped down the monocular NOD on the RHINO mount, giving it a quick test as he secured the battery. He ran a gloved hand down the taped-down wire which ran from his headset to his radio. Pulling his Mk. 18 up by its single-point sling, he pressed the stock into his shoulder and pulled back the charging handle, guiding the bolt back forward with a satisfying 'click-clack'! A test of the laser-light and he was ready to go.

As Donnelley was heard and understood, he came around to the passenger side window, tapping a knuckle on it for Foster to roll it down. Once it was down halfway, he smirked at the other man, “Don’t suppose we can request a Predator drone overhead? Maybe get Coral Nomad teams as QRF?”

Foster just shrugged, miming tied hands, “I’m not planning for it to get bad enough we have to convince someone to drop a JDAM on Whitetree.”

“Could we?” Donnelley rose a brow. Foster shooed him and Donnelley caught eyes with Laine. “I’ll be back pretty soon. Just goin’ for a walk with some friends, s’all.”

Laine leaned forward to look around Foster, she was stuffed into borrowed Kevlar and her Glock on her hip, tactical helmet in her lap. Just in case.  "You be careful, stay out of that poison oak," she said, playing along but her gaze was intent and worried. 

“Yes, dear, I shall.” Donnelley smirked before he looked back at Foster, “Night time. I’ll call you. We don’t come back by zero-hour, you hightail it out of here and get CORAL NOMAD on the phone. Have the president authorize a nuke to get dropped on Blackriver.”

“Yes, Sarn’t.” Foster saluted.

“Don’t salute in the field, dick.” Donnelley gave a smug grin and patted the car door before he walked back to the others and nodded, all business. “Are we ready, gentlemen?”

"Ready." Justin nodded, having returned his Mk. 18 to sit diagonally across his chest via it's single-point sling. A single-hole olive green balaclava obscured his face, only his two green eyes visible, which were soon also covered with a pair of Oakley combat glasses. A microphone stalk stretched from one side of his integral headset, which was earpro and comms all in one.

Tom put his assault vest and thigh holster back on with the Sig in the holster and all his equipment in the butt pack or attached to the vest. He put his low tactical helmet which looked similar to Mr Clark’s  olive green Ops Core Helmet. He checked his NODs to make sure they were working properly. The M4 sling went over his head to the left shoulder so the weapon slung down on his right side. Tom pulled the magazine out of the well and pulled the charging handle back, locking it to the rear. He inspected the chamber, which was clear and then reinserted the magazine. Next, he unlocked the bolt, which slid forward, placing a round in the chamber. The weapon remained on safe until needed.

Major Tom Stewart, USMC intended to follow Ranger Clark along their path up the mountain. He would remain roughly ten meters behind his point man; closer if the foliage became congested. “Roger that Mr. Donnelley. I’ll watch Mr. Clark’s back and keep an eye on you too.” Tom did not smile. He would be as serious as a mother fucking heart attack here on in.

Donnelley nodded and motioned for the two men to follow him. From then on, the only sound they would share between each other were their boots crunching against the packed dirt and gravel of the mountain trail. Three men willing, waiting, and ready to pull Laurie and Gwen out of a bad situation. And failing that, eager to visit violence upon their enemy. Like Donnelley had said, they packed light, probed deep, and when the time came - Struck goddamn hard.

Their first destination was the hide point that Laurie most likely would have pointed out. It came to them after a half hour as a high ridge resting above the trails, standing rocky, jagged vigil over the trees. From here, Laurie and Gwen would have had a commanding view of the forests in Blackriver. There were the tell-tale signs that Laurie and Gwen were here. The makings of a campfire had been propped up, but as Donnelley looked closer at it there was no ash or ember. He looked around the rest of the hide, noting the disheveled look of the place. The tents were toppled and there were fresh-turned scrapes in the dirt hinting a scuffle.

His eyes narrowed at the camouflage netting over the laser microphone. It remained upright on its tripod, turning in another direction, the drone still sat underneath its netting. The laptop was still there, as well as all the other pieces of hardware the two-person Drone Team had taken with them. Donnelley stepped over and opened up the laptop. No recordings of flights had been made. The drone had not even left the hide.

Around one of their tents, the boot prints became more erratic. Scrapes in the earth and bounding steps. Ten meters away, three spent 7.62 casing rested on top of the dirt. As expected, they were not warm, cold to the touch Donnelley found as he removed a hard-knuckle glove to pluck one of the casings up. He dropped it back, replacing his glove. Laurie was shooting at someone. Returning fire, maybe, but as he looked back to where Laurie had been standing he could see no visible bullet holes coming back at him. A few meters forward, one of his rounds had punched through a young tree, another pile of casings between its roots there, boot prints heading from the first pile to this tree. He was advancing on someone. He motioned for Tom and Justin, speaking as low as he could while still trying to let them hear what he had to say, “Search around the camp, look for Gwen’s 5.56 casings. Laurie was advancing on somebody deeper in the forest.”

The farther Donnelley tracked the casings and bootprints, the more the picture came together. He looked up and took in the rest of the scene, his head staying down so far. Trees were splintered in the distance, bending in the places they were broken. He walked further, his eyes scanning the spaces between the trees, looking for movement. Bending down to look at a dip in the ground, big as his upper body, he swore under his breath. Whatever they were shooting at wasn’t going to be bothered by Laurie and Gwen’s bullets but it had been retreating deeper into the forest.

Pulling them away from camp. Exhausting their ability to get a sense of their surroundings and regroup, getting rid of the possibility of calling for help. This thing was huge. And intelligent. He lifted his eyes to scan the trees again, suddenly not feeling like the hunter anymore. Tom and Justin regrouped with him and he nodded. They would continue on and follow the tracks and broken trees.

Their slow and methodical advance took them through a long stretch of hard country they tackled with soft swears and hard steps. They were assured and also burdened by the fact the size of what they were tracking would be heard coming, at least. It was easy to track. But it was not easy to kill. They pressed on through overgrown game trails and forest roads until the sun began to set, even. Their NODs lit their way from the time the long shadows of the mountains swallowed them.

Then they came to a place where Donnelley knew they would come. But it had to be seen. Had to. He knew it was them from the weapons and tatters of clothing. Gwen’s Air Force uniform, or rags of it, and Laurie’s weapon. Laurie’s legs were a meter away from him, his chest split open with what looked like an axe, but Donnelley knew was something more brutal.

Farther afield it looked like something had blown the trees apart. More huge tracks, a set heading away and then a set heading back. Somebody had set explosives to catch the thing, but he knew neither Laurie or Gwen would’ve had the time to set a trap like that in the midst of a firefight. Donnelley picked up a piece of cord, found the blackened timber of the trees self-evident that somebody else had entered the picture. There were bootprints around as well, two more sets. Heading towards the scene and leading away into the underbrush. “We’ve got some unaccounted for guests.”

As Joe conducted his investigative surveillance of the scene where a fight occurred involving Laure and Gwen, Tom scanned the horizon and peered through the underbrush for any signs someone might be watching them. He pulled security while their team leader did his job. He viewed the surrounding terrain in various hues of green looking for an unanticipated heat signature that would show up as a bright green spot.

It was easy to track where the two people were headed. They had somehow earned the ire of this great beast and it had chased them long into the hills. The shine of casings told the men it was a fighting retreat, but a frenzied one. Before long, the trail cut south and led them to what looked like a cabin, or what may have been one at some point before nature set its teeth into it, the forest intent on swallowing it whole. From Donnelley’s NODs, he could see no movement, but the bootprints and splintered trees were enough to tell him that the fight had stopped here. Donnelley surveyed the area with his NODs, “Lotta broken trees and shit.” He pointed to an area where a huge crater had been blown into the earth, as well as toppled a couple trees, “They had some decent firepower, looks like. Let’s move. Stick close. Tom, watch those windows on the left side of the cabin from the treeline, Justin and I can stack up on the front door.”

Tom used the crook of a tree to steady his aiming point and scanned the windows providing overwatch for Joe and Justin as they advanced toward the door. He could see nothing inside the window; just the blackness of night.

With that, they moved in unison to their spots like a well-oiled machine. Justin and Donnelley bounded across the thirty meters from treeline to front door, their steps quick and quiet as the breezes. Donnelley took one side of the door while Justin took the opposite. Donnelley held up three fingers… two fingers… one finger…

[hr]

>THE NIGHT BEFORE
>BLACKRIVER FORESTS
>WORKING GROUP BLACKBEARD SAFEHOUSE
>2300HRS...///

“I’m picking up some weird signals.” Mark said. He was a SIGINT collector in the Army’s ISA working in Somalia before The Program picked him up. The short, bearded Korean man wiped his brow and sighed, “Baby Boy’s going batshit over this stretch of country.”

Baby Boy was one of two hand-launched drones Mark procured from the Army and upgraded with all manner of Hollywood spy shit by The Program’s Office of Logistics. The other, named Baby Girl, was without node for picking up radio, cellphone, radiation and a menagerie of other detectable signals. A small expense compared to some of the other things The Program would manage to get indefinitely loaned out to them for the vague purpose of supplying ‘counterterrorism task forces.’ Clif Boone, the team’s Designated Marksman and former sniper for the FBI’s HRT, and a Green Beret before that, removed the two-setting NVG/IR monocular from his eye as he looked out over the cliff their little cabin Safehouse was perched on. The sharpshooter piped up from around a mouthful of Ranger bar from his recently devoured MRE, “You like naming your shit weird.”

“GPS still works though,” Mark said, unperturbed by Clif’s comment, “I’m penning the coordinates down so you and David can check it out. We need eyes on this place.”

“Are you asking, or is Bob?” Clif sighed.

“Bob.” Mark tossed the notebook with the coordinates to Clif, “Asshole.”

“I’ll take Rambo with me.” Clif nodded over to David, Rambo being his nickname for David, knowing of his recent recruitment and the cowboy nature of the man in question, “You good with that, Rambo?”

"Yeah, I'm good with it." Dave picked himself up off the ground where he'd sat cross-legged, pouring over [i]101 Medicinal and Edible Plants[/i]. The sub-title marked it as the Appalachian edition; Dave had a copy of the Ozark edition at home, and had given another to Mal. He tucked the book into his pack and slung it over his shoulders, tightening up the straps before slinging his rifle. The weapon was one from his own armory, an AK platform in a NATO caliber. 

"We goin' out just us?" He asked, brass-checking the weapon before letting it hang and digging out a can of Long Cut from a cargo pocket. 

“Gotta leave somebody to watch over my favorite Korean.” Clif shrugged, growling to his feet and stretching his arms up, his back rattling off a series of pops. “Holy shit.”

Clif grunted, slipping his plate carrier over his head and plopping his helmet on, slapping it a couple times. “Let’s git.”

Clif waved David along with him as he stepped through the rickety door of their cabin and out onto the porch. Bear came around the corner, just finished with zipping up his pants. The huge SEAL bent down and hefted up his FN LMG, “Where y’all headed?” He said, turning his head and letting loose a thick stream of chew spit.

“Out. Stay with Mark.” Clif pointed back at the cabin without breaking stride. The long hike was silent to the coordinates that Mark had penned down. Rough country and overgrown game trails traced their jagged path through the mountains. Clif was no slouch when it came to rucking through the backwoods and to David’s credit he kept up almost effortlessly. It was an hour before Clif held up a hand for them to stop on the trail they’d been hiking for a while.

“You hear that?” Clif whispered silently enough it was almost lost to the night air. There were no animals. None. Which made it easier to pick out the soft sound of gunfire somewhere in the hills. With how far away it sounded, it would be nigh impossible for Clif and David to orient themselves the true direction it was coming from. Vaguely east, Clif pulling out his compass and listening closely.

"Well that probably ain't a good sign," Dave said dryly. He swallowed hard. The first time he tried dip, he and his brother had snuck off into the woods. They'd brought a few beers they stole from their father's liquor cabinet, intent on a little youthful rebellion. Big Joe tracked them by the spit trail, and gave them both a thrashing to reinforce the lesson. Now he gutted his dip.

"So I guess we're headed East," he said. "Unless you think we should head back and grab the boys. Go into it with some numbers." 

Clif frowned deep, looking from the east to where the cabin would be and back again. He took his moment, “I’ll update them. Tell them to catch the fuck up, we’ll get eyes on.”

Clif got Mark and Bear on the horn, told them what they heard and to double-time it to their position. By the time they were close enough to hear the pops on the air and the flashes from muzzles the two of them were panting as they lay prone in the bushes. Their distance from the gunfight let them have a wide view of the field. What was off about it was that there were no muzzle flashes opposite the other two. The pattern of the flashes and the report of gunfire told Clif these were professionals. The longer they lay there, Clif and David felt the soft vibrations of something. Paired with the trees splintering and looking like they were being shoved out of the way by something told Clif it was footsteps. Big ones. The ones with the guns were advancing in bounding overwatch, but why did they feel the need to cover their partner from?

Almost as if whatever it was answered him, there was a roar on the wind. Something like cattle being slaughtered before there were screams, more human. No more gunfire. Just the footsteps, and a low thrum of a growl. The trees made way for it and they listened until it was gone. Clif turned to David, “Fuck me.” He whispered incredulously, “I almost don’t even want to fuck with this. Your call, we go or wait for the others?”

Dave shot him a look. "You fuckin' with me right now?" He asked. "I left my [i]RPG[/i] back in Arkansas. That thing sounds huge, and it just wrecked shop on a pack of shooters. My country ass votes we get back-up." He held his breath for a moment, then muttered a curse. "After we check casualties, I can't just fuckin' leave 'em." 

“I don’t even know who the fuck [i]them[/i] is.” Clif said. It was silence between them for a few moments, “Fuck, alright, Rambo. Let’s go do this.”

Clif rummaged around in a pocket and his hand returned with his monocular. The IR setting painted the trees in greys and, lo and behold, two splotches of white. There was a spray of white along a tree as well. They were dead. Bad kind of dead. The prints of whatever attacked them were big, its prints standing out as huge dips in the earth, each the size of a man’s torso. “Jesus fuck.” He said, passing over the monocular, “Take a look.”

"Christ in heaven," Dave murmured. He dropped to a knee, eyeing the prints. They were sunk deep into the loamy earth of the forest floor, pressed firmly enough he could see the ridges of the toes. He gave Clif a wide-eyed look.

"This thing… we're talking ten, fifteen thousand pounds. Feet this wide, weight's spread out. This thing is fucking massive, man." He passed the monocular back; his AK suddenly felt nigh impotent. "I don't have the kind of ordinance to reliably kill something like this, even in my pack."

He looked in the direction the thing had gone. 

"Let's go, we need to move. You want me to set a toe-popper for him?" 

“I’ll check out the bodies. You do that, maybe it comes back this way and we can hear about it. We’re gonna need some high-vis shit on this low-vis op to put this thing down. This place is more fucked than the Ozarks.” Clif looked to the huge tracks and shook his head, “Which I have no goddamn clue if they’re even going to approve that Hollywood bullshit after what we pulled in your stomping grounds.” Clif shook his head at the growing amount of bullshit they’d have to deal with now, “[i]Seven fucking tons[/i].”

Clif turned to go check out the bodies, muttering, “Get a goddamn C-130 gunship in the air for this sonofabitch.”

"If they don't we're fucked, unless I can rig something up." Dave dug into his pack, coming up a moment later with a roll of electrical tape and a spool of snare wire. He eyed the creature's path, found two likely trees, and went to work.

Animals, especially big ones, preferred walking ground they'd already covered. It made for less resistance, and almost universally animals chose the path of least resistance unless they were on the run or on the attack. He took every frag grenade he had, four of them, and began strapping them together with the tape. He added a flashbang for good measure and then taped the entire contraption to a tree at hip-height, securing it to a thick branch with the rest of the tape.

"You really think we might get airpower?" He asked as he ran the snare wire through the pins on the grenades. He'd placed the explosives so that all of the spoons were free, and ran the wire in a quick weave through the pin rings. The other end he spooled out and attached firmly to a tree across the monster's trail. 

"Done. Let's scat." 

“Hold a moment,” Clif called to David, waving him over, “The hell you make of this shit?”

In front of Clif were the two bodies, one smaller than the other. Their weapons were NATO, an M14 next to one and an M4 next to the other. And as David looked them over, he could clearly see what Clif did.

They had absolutely no skin. One was missing an arm, the other had its legs amputated from the knees and his chest split open. Clif hoped to God they’d died instantly. “I’ve seen some shit, but this is a special type of shit.”

Dave looked over the bodies critically. "Ain't seen nothing like that before," he said. He sniffed, shook his head, and shouldered his pack. 

"Look, we need to scoot, hoss," Dave said. He looked nervously down the path the beast had taken. "Ain't any guarantee the frags are gonna stop whatever that thing is. Shit's more of a spicy early warning system. I don't want to be standin' anywhere nearby when that thing gets an ankle full of shrapnel." 

“Right, yeah.” Clif turned away from the bodies and followed David back the way they came. They didn’t get twenty steps into the underbrush when they heard it again. Or felt it, more like. “Holy shit.” Clif pushed David ahead of him, “Get to the others and tell them we’ve got a big one paying us a visit. Go!”

Even by the few moments Clif spent talking the footsteps and crashing trees were loud enough to be heard in their peripherals now. Clif and David made their retreat, Clif turning back every now and then just to see if he could see what was chasing them. And hopefully he could distract the big sonofabitch long enough for David to slip away quick.

Dave released an impressive stream of creative backwoods profanity. Then he spun on his heel, tucked his dip tight into his cheek, and ran.

He moved as fast as he dared, high-stepping to keep his feet free of entangling obstacles, his rifle tucked tight to his body with his left arm. His heart was hammering, but he kept his gaze solidly ahead, wishing like hell he'd saved one of those goddamn frags. 

From behind him he could hear Clif curse, the easy sound of reports of gunfire from his rifle. Three bursts of automatic fire and Clif was gone, taking the thing with him as the huge steps seemed to fade in the distance with yet more angry pops of Clif’s M4...///

>FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER...///

Bear and Mark had been taking a knee at the position Clif had pegged him and David would be at. He and Bear were chatting, the bigger man’s words coming from around a protein bar. His eyes screwed up when he saw something come crashing through the trees and brush, raising his LMG while Mark had his M4 up in a flash. They seemed to relax when they saw who it was. Bear spoke first, “Where’s Clif?” He asked, “What happened? We got here and we’ve been pinging Clif since, dude hasn’t responded.”

Dave ducked his head as he crashed into view, slaloming around a tree. He tried to slow down, couldn't, and settled for dropping into a slide, skidding to a stop baseball-style with a twinge of the knees and another burst of profanity. 

"Fucking contact!" He roared, rolling to a painful kneeling position. His safety clacked off and he scanned the treeline, his barrel bobbing slightly as he worked to catch his breath. "Contact, big, Clif is gone, killed a couple others, dunno who. It's fucking [i]big[/i]." 

“Wait, what the fuck?” Mark asked, eyes going from David to the treeline. Despite his confusion, if David was spooked, he kept his M4 up at the ready. “Alright, let’s get back to the cabin. Tell us what happened, and we can see if I can find Clif with my drone.”

“We need to go-“

“We need to make sure we can get Clif without risking our own asses floundering around the damn dark.” Mark held up his hand, interrupting Bear. “Come on. Unless you want to risk it there, David.”

Dave thought for a moment while he caught his breath. "We gotta fall back," he said finally. "We're talking seven tons of somethin' angry. It killed two shooters, tore 'em apart. Ain't no way Clif made it. He's either hidin' and we'll find him later, or he's dead. This thing don't leave walking wounded." 

He stood, wincing as his knees cracked. That sprint through the forest with gear on his back was going to take its toll later, he could already tell. 

"Come on. Move quick, fucker wasn't far behind me. We get back in time I might be able to set somethin' for it, but we gotta roll."  

>...///

They made it to the Safehouse in good time, moving as quick as they could through the trees and underbrush until they spotted their little home in the forest. “Fucking shit, man,” Bear growled, “Bob doesn’t have to stay in this fucking forest, but we do?”

“He had to report to Headquarters.” Mark shook his head. “Get the fuck inside, Bear. Where’s the M2?”

“I’ve got it, it’s in the living room.” Bear bounded inside the house to retrieve it so they could set some kind of perimeter up.

“Set it at one of the windows!” Mark called after him. “David, what do you got? Please tell me you have something in your bag of tricks to fuck this thing up.”

Dave grabbed a heavy black duffel bag, hiking it up onto his shoulder. 

"Keep me covered," he said. "I'm gonna plan a Fourth of July party." He paused in the doorway. "Hey...I ain't kidding when I say this thing is bad. If I start screamin'... Just hit it with that fifty. Don't worry about watching your fire. Rather take a bullet than deal with this bastard up close. Alright?"

He jogged to the treeline, to the area they'd exited from. He hadn't bothered trying to hide their trail; it wouldn't have been possible anyway. And he didn't want to. He wanted that trail, wanted that monster to just stroll along after them. It made his job easier.

Dave dropped the bag and dug into its contents, laying out a few bricks of C4, their detonators, and other accoutrements. Beside that he added three Claymore antipersonnel mines and two red-star-parachute flares. 

His heart pounded, but he forced himself to work calmly. The flares he rigged to two tripwires, a simple setup to let them know the bastard had arrived. The Claymores he rigged at three levels; one at the ground, one set into the crotch of a tree at waist level, and one propped at head height, all pointed to roughly cover the "X" of the flares. 

Time was wasting, so the C4 he simply slapped on the ground, armed, and then covered with leaves. While it was a sloppy job that wouldn't trick even an amateur soldier, he hoped it was enough to deceive a mindless killing beast. If that's what it was.

The last step of the trap was bait; human or animal, the bait had to be something the target wanted. With people that was usually something intangible,  something goal-oriented. People wanted to get into something, go somewhere, or find cover; the bait was a door, a hallway, a culvert or rock wall. With an animal, especially a predator, things were simpler.

Dave took his knife, gritted his teeth, and then jerked the blade across the flesh of his left forearm. The blood welled and he slung his hand about, spattering blood on the ground and trees nearest his trap. Then he jogged back to the cabin, slamming the door shut behind him. 

"Trap's set," he said, tossing his empty bag aside. He moved to the window and set his detonators nearby, within reach. "When the flares pop, hit the deck. Don't wanna be by a window when this party starts." 

“Don’t wanna be by a window,” Bear put some oomph behind his arm, working the bolt and chambering the first of the huge .50 BMG rounds into the M2- which was situated at a window, “Goddamn it.”

Mark let go a rueful laugh at that, a growl in the silence, one eye closed and M4 pointing at window of the east side of the cabin. Bear and his M2 could light up whatever came from the west and he trusted David to watch the approach to his trap from the south. Just as everybody’s hearts were pounding the loudest, it turned quiet. The moments ticked by at a snail’s pace. Mark could only hear his breathing and his labored heart pumping adrenaline, his jaw set and hands ready. “How big?” Mark asked, his question drifting on the winds to David, “You get a look at it?”

"Not even once," Dave said. "Got footprints is all. From the depth, when you compare how broad the feet are? Lookin' at no shit like… Ten, fifteen thousand pounds at the top end. And the way it tore apart the bodies…"

He shuddered, blocking out the memory of both the corpses and the roar of whatever it was. "I know the guys it killed were putting a lot of rounds out. And we know Clif at least was a pro. So…" He shook his head, realizing he was drifting, letting his nerves get the best of him. "So no. I don't know what it looks like, or how big it really is. But I put three Claymores and four pounds of C4 out there, so if it can walk [i]that[/i] off we might as well shoot ourselves."  

A lonely breeze only added to the rising anxiety in Mark’s bones. David’s talk didn’t help, but he couldn’t blame the man. He heard Bear swallow hard even from how far they were apart, other ends of the cabin, “Downer.”

“Everyone shut the fuck up.” Mark shot back, giving a thick swallow himself and rolling his shoulders, “Get your NODs on.”

Mark pulled his down as he spoke, lighting up the perimeter in shades of staticky green. The minutes ticked by silently. These binocular goggles didn’t give him the field of view of the quad-NODs the Army gave him in Somalia, but neither did the window. He leaned at the waist, slicing the pie on his field of view from the window and still saw nothing. Fucking nothing. He whispered into his comms headset, “Anybody got visual on [i]anything?[/i]”

“Negative.” Bear’s rumble came over from his right ear.

More silence. No sounds from the trees. Not even an owl or a bat. The rustle of the trees made him shiver in turn. They were alone out here, and White Tree was the closest civilization, if that shit place could even be called such. “David? Movement?”

"Nothin'," Dave said. His eyes were glued to the trail, straining for detail through the green tint of the NVG's. His rifle lay across his lap, the explosive triggers on the floor within easy reach, his hands on his weapon where they wouldn't set off the bombs with an accidental fidget. He was breathing slowly, rhythmically, keeping cool, staying calm, just slow breathing -

"Wait," he said. He saw it again, a subtle but definite movement, low to the ground on the trail. It was small, not some rampaging beast. He leaned forward, hands drifting towards his detonators. Then the image resolved itself and he swore. 

"Son of a bitch, it's Clif! And he's headin' right for the goddamn bombs!" 

Mark snapped his attention to David at the mention of Clif. His eyes went to the window to David and back again, “Can you fucking stop him?” Mark asked. This threw a goddamn wrench in everything. He wasn’t going to leave Clif out there for that thing. “Try to stop him! Don’t break the fucking perimeter, tell him to-to come another direction. [i]Fuck.[/i]”

“Help!” Clif’s ragged voice came, “Come on! I need a fucking medic! Bear!”

“Fuck, I gotta-“

“No, you don’t…” Mark cut himself off. He couldn’t break his watch on the eastern approach and neither could anyone else risk going outside to retrieve Clif. What if… “It wants us to get him. Don’t fucking go outside.”

“Please, fuck!” Clif’s cries for help came again. “My fucking leg! I’ll crawl to you, just get me half way there, man!”

“Fuck!” Mark growled, uselessly slamming the toe of his boot against a wall. “Just…”

But he had no ideas. There was nothing any of them could do for Clif save putting a massive hole in their perimeter they’d just set up. Bear was getting antsy, the SEAL medic in him needing to tear across the thirty meters of open ground from the front door to Clif. A deadly thirty meters. “Come on, I can make it, Mark. You know it.”

“That thing… it’s out there, it’s testing us. You think Clif could reach us this quick with a bum leg?” Mark said through gritted teeth, trying to give Bear reason as much as he was trying to give the rest of them.

The entire time he realized he wasn’t watching his side of the perimeter. He turned back to the window and something was off about the picture his NODs were giving him. He lifted them and looked with his own eyes. Had that tree been there be-

Bear heard the window on the east side crash open and something heavy thud to the ground. He took his eyes off of his window to catch a glimpse of Mark’s body and a growing pool of black around his head. There was no gunfire…

As if the sun had suddenly risen red, the entirety of the immediate area around the cabin was bathed in a bright light from David’s flares. They could clearly see Clif become frenzied and crawl frantically for the cabin. The explosion that followed and thumped in David and Bear’s chests told them Clif was now gone with Mark. And David’s entire payload.

The massive trap David had set had been wasted on one of their own. Bear swore under his breath, maybe Mark was right. This thing was smarter than they thought. “Fuck, David. Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Bear screamed impotently.

This was all going to shit. The crash of trees ripped Bear back to the present and like a man watching an Orca through the depths and the wake it left, the towering old growth trees simply cracked and jostled at the beast’s advance, skirting their perimeter and hidden in the trees, a huge black mass. Bear had found his target, “Fuck you!”

The M2 let loose its furious rounds in a cone of fire and drowned the cabin in its loud rhythmic bang. Brass flew everywhere as Bear tracked the movement of the beast through the forest, not even bothering with leading it at this distance. He wasn’t sure if he hit it or not as the beast careened past his cone of vision through the wide window. He stopped firing, standing to heft up the M2 and change position but his window crashed open and he looked down at the numbness in his body.

Out from his solar plexus, a long, thick black chitinous spike had punched straight through the Level III plates in his carrier. He looked up at his comrade, vision growing blurry through his NODs. He let go a gurgling, breathless whimper, “Dave-“

And whatever had grabbed him pulled him through the window, shattering the rest of it as he flew through the glass. A few beats passed as David could hear Bear’s helpless scream, so unlike the burly, bearded DEVGRU Operator. Something flew through the window, a huge mass that hit the wall with a wet thud hard enough to send dust from the rafters as it dropped and rested against the wall. It was Bear, skinned completely with only tatters of his clothing left. A single eye still set in his wet, grinning skull, glassy and lifeless.

A low growl, deep enough for David to feel in his chest resounded through the forest around him. The snapping of twigs of its careful movement and the low growl the only menacing evidence that it was still there. Still waiting to see any more of them.

As the chaos raged Dave did the only thing that made sense - he hit the ground, and lay still. He wasn't a coward. He was a pragmatist. His father instilled in him an insurgent's practical mindset; fight when you can win, run when you can't. You can always come back with more friends and a bigger gun. 

Dave knew a losing battle when he saw one. That thing had shrugged off gunfire from half a dozen different men, one of them armed with a fucking deuce. If a .50 wasn't killing it then nothing that Dave had access to was going to. Not with his proverbial load blown out the south treeline.

He rolled onto his back and began to scoot away from the window, his rifle in his hands, ready to lay down enough fire to let him rabbit if something stuck its head in at him. 

Nothing came. Nothing else but the thrumming growl and the sounds of its steps in the underbrush, creaking of trees as it weaseled it’s wide berth otherwise carefully through the tight forest. It might have been minutes, maybe hours. It left at some point in the night, the big steps and complaints of trees heralding its retreat, leaving David the sole survivor. But not for any notion of mercy, nor as cruel and human as sending a message.

He listened to it disappear into the trees, resisting the urge to try and sneak a look. Instead he used the reprieve to crawl to the bag full of their extra gear. He helped himself to a few frag grenades, slipping them into his empty pouches, before making his way to the kitchen. There was only one window there, a more defensible position. He lay back down, quietly turned off the safety on his rifle, and settled in to wait for daylight…///

[hr]

>WORKING GROUP UMBRA
>PRESENT NIGHT
>2100HRS...///

As soon as his three-finger countdown closed in a fist, Donnelley stepped back, unsheathing his super shorty and stabbing the barrel into the door, right next to the knob. With a loud bang, the knob came apart and Donnelley spun to put his back against the wall again. A good kick sent the door swinging in hard enough to hit the wall on the inside of the cabin, thudding against the wood and shaking as Justin took point with Donnelley close behind.

They kept their rifles trained to their front and moved in unison, right for Donnelley and left for Justin. “Two bodies.” Donnelley called out, knowing Justin saw them too. “Door, front. Moving up.”

Donnelley stepped over one of the bodies, the fact it was completely skinless sticking in his mind. The other one lay in a black pool of blood from a wound in his head, the thirsty and dry wood of the floor stained with what blood it had drank. Brass covered the floor, big spent casings from the M2 sitting destitute in the middle of the living room.

The door looked to be the last room to clear, probably the kitchen at the back of the cabin.  Again, Justin and Donnelley took their sides on the door. Donnelley reached out, turned the knob slowly and quietly and threw the door wide open with a good shove. He took a knee and leaned left, offering whoever was on the other side just the smallest picture of him. A sliver of himself, and a gun barrel to meet eyes with.

Tom remained in the woodline watching the exterior of the building. He lowered himself into the prone position and scanned the terrain around him, in front, to the sides and naturally to the front; the cabin Joe and Justin were searching. The temperature outside felt comfortable, maybe low 70s or upper 60s. The soil had that musty smell he often appreciated when being one with the ground.

Dave heard the door breach, the hard, flat [i]bang[/i] of a shotgun unmistakable, especially in close quarters. He scooted to the pantry, pulled the door open, and put himself behind it, muzzle towards the door. The hollow-core door wouldn't even slow a bullet down, but concealment was better than nothing. 

He heard the rattle of the ķnob, took a breath, and then took a chance.

"Hold fire!" He called leaning into his rifle and putting his own finger on the trigger. "Hold fire! Rather not get shot after all that shit last night." 

“We got a live one!” Donnelley spoke from behind his own concealment. He assumed the both of them knew that what they were hiding behind would stop none of the lead they could potentially sling at each other. “Who are you? What do you mean ‘all that shit?’”

Dave paused as he thought things through. He had never been the shiniest apple in the barrel, he knew that. This spy shit was beyond him, and likely always would be. Instead he sighted down his barrel, aiming roughly where he'd heard the voice, and checked that his SLR was set to auto.

"I'm out here on a special…[i]Project[/i]," he said. He put a little emphasis on the word and winced at how forced it sounded, even to his amateur ear. "I'd love to tell you all about it, hoss, but I don't know that I can. Don't want to upset [i]Bob[/i], you understand? Unless you might be working on the same kind of Project?" 

Donnelley’s eyes went to Justin, mouthing to himself, ‘What?’ He put his eye back on his front sight, leveled right at the other man. “Project?” He asked, the confusion in his voice barely shrouded, “What… you mean a fucking Program? Some kind of Group. That Works together?”

Donnelley grunted, rolling his eyes, “Do the words Working Group mean anything to you, guy?”

"Only if the name BLACKBEARD means somethin' to you." Dave paused and gave a heavy sigh. "Look man, I think it's pretty clear we're all a buncha bad-ass killers or whatever, but I'm gonna level with you - I don't wanna kill you, and I damn sure don't want you to kill me. So can we just share a black helicopter ride outta here before that thing comes back? Cuz I'm all out of ordnance and this thing shakes off grenades and fifties."  

“The thing that fucking vivisected my guys?” He thought about the bodies he’d stepped over, “And yours?” Donnelley already knew the answer. If what this guy was saying was true, then he didn’t want to be anywhere near it. Maybe they would have to bring in CORAL NOMAD teams after all. “You can walk?”

"Shit, I can run," Dave said. He peeked around the door, showed his hands, and then stood, stepping into the open. 

He'd been through Hell, and looked like it. Even as surefooted as he was, that sprint through the woods had taken a toll. His face was covered when small scratches, and his eyes were shadowed by deep, dark circles. His left hand was a bloody mess where the cut he'd given himself to bait his trap had bled freely, crusting his forearm and knuckles. He moved stiffly, sore from having sat in one spot all night, but he was on his feet and mobile enough for one more hike.

"Whatever that thing is, it's big and it's smart. [I]Real[/i] smart, man. It saw right through the trap I set, then picked us off." He shook his head. "We need to move." 

Donnelley stood, sidestepping out into the open himself and tentatively lowered his weapon. He frowned at the guy’s warning, “Jesus fucking Christ. Alright.” Into his headset’s mic, he spoke, “Tom, three coming out. We’ve got a friendly. Double-time it to the truck.”

“Roger that,” Tom stood up and joined the group at the cabin. They would walk together to the vehicle for extraction. Tom wasn’t going to be left in these woods alone after what he saw.

“Stay where I can see you. No offense.” Donnelley shrugged, and they were off. The entire way from the cabin they made a steady and shuffling jog through the underbrush and old growth trees to a main trail. A thick lifeline straight to the general area Donnelley had remembered coming in from. They wasted no time with introductions or small talk, everyone knew where they stood and what needed to be done.

They passed the huge tracks, Laurie and Gwen’s bodies. When they broke out into the main trail, Donnelley felt it first. A thump, thump, thump in the earth. “Oh, fuck.” They all shared a glance and were off at a dead sprint and whatever it was roared something fierce and chilling.

Donnelley didn’t dare look back but they could all feel it in the ground, hear it in the crashing trees and the underbrush trampled underneath it’s huge breadth…

[EVERYONE ROLL STAMINA AND DEX]

[hr]

>BLACKRIVER FORESTS
>LAINE AND FOSTER...///

“They’ve been out there for a while…” Foster said more to himself than Laine. He knew Donnelley was a good Agent, always was. Give him a task and he’ll get it done. But this was different, it was almost starting to play out like Chechnya. Foster push checked his 9mm Glock, “They said they were going to come back when it’s night, right?”

Laine sat in the car, watching the trees that rose with the land as it arched back and away from the clearing. Into the dense woods and uphill, not ideal at all; an environment made for concealment, a man could walk right by a hidden danger and not know it. She shifted in her seat, leaning her elbow on the door frame where the window was down. It was quiet, not even the whirr of summer insects or birds and it made her nervous. It was a noticeable silence, one that seemed to be heavy in her ears. 

Foster spoke and she turned to look at him. “By dark he said, he would call.”

Her gaze settled on the case officer, studying him for a moment, “You’ve worked with Donnelley before, you know his habits. What’s making you nervous?”

Foster shook his head, eyes slowly sweeping the treeline. He wasn’t used to being in the field, more suited to watching over everything from a Drone’s feed or monitoring the team on his computer. This was different. “Just… Donnelley. Being Donnelley. I’ve worked with him since 2014 and he’s the man I’ve kept in my rotation because of how he is.” Foster turned to Laine, “A stubborn prick. I’m betting we’ll go back to the Safehouse and he’ll just be getting there when we wake up.”

Foster sighed, “That is to say, he’s going to comb every inch of these woods for Gwen and Laurie. If he doesn’t find them, he’s going to find the person that got them and… well, do what Donnelley does. What time is it, speaking of?”

Laine kept her eyes on him, watching his expression then met his gaze when he looked her way. “Not in the business of making arrests,” she made a soft sound between a sigh and a snort, turning away to watch the trees again. “But he’s good at what he does, right? He’s made it this long. He’ll get them back, all of them.” 

At his question she took out her phone, “It’s almost nine, uh, twenty one hundred. Sun’s going down.”

The last part was needless, the sun was dropping below the treeline, the slanted light of the late afternoon had fell to dusk, a reddish glow over the tops of the oaks and pine now vanishing as the shadows crept in. Laine sat up, leaning forward slightly over the steering wheel of Suburban, it was getting harder to see as the light faded.

Foster nodded at her confirmation of the time, “None of the military boys are here, you can use civilian time.” Foster chuckled before it guttered out as he watched Laine lean forward as if to look at something. He brought his handgun up to his chest at low-ready, eyes narrowing as he too looked out at the trees, “What is it?”

Laine felt her heart jump, the tall shadow loomed among the tree trunks and even from where she was she felt the menace, or perhaps it was her own fear. She blinked and it was gone, but it left the small hairs on the back of her neck standing. 

“I don’t know, something in the trees...maybe it was just a trick of the light,” she said, sinking back in her seat and realized her right hand was on the butt of her Glock. 

“Goddamnit, I hate fieldwork.” Foster sighed, eyes a little more nervous in their searching of the treeline. “Fuck, Donnelley, just call and say you’re heading back.”

Foster slowly lowered his handgun back to his lap. He felt naked out here, just sitting in the metal box of the Suburban in a dress shirt, slacks, and a black plate carrier. “So, you’re the Doctor. Psychiatrist, profiler. You like Donnelley as Team Lead?” Foster asked, trying to change the subject but his eyes didn’t stray from the trees.

“I am,” Laine said, keeping her eyes on the forest, watching to see if that shadow would appear again. “Donnelley is...interesting. I think he makes a good team lead. He’s flexible, leads by example and he’s not a typical government type, rigid and by the book. I think that helps when he has to pull together a group coming from different agencies. He’s able to adjust to the personalities and find what drives his people. And he cares. I get that from him, he cares about us and the job. That’s what I’ve gathered anyway, whatever weaknesses he might have I don’t think have taken away from him being an effective leader.”

She glanced at Foster, “I think he’s a good man.” 

“I didn’t ask you about that.” Foster snorted at the last bit, but in the end he nodded. “All the years I’ve known Donnelley, he’s been a real goddamn wiseass. But I did put him in charge of this team for a reason.”

“I know he likes you.” Foster rose a brow, looking at Laine for a few beats, “He thinks you’re a good investigator. Told me you tried to pick his brain within the first day of knowing him.”

Foster chuckled, “But that’s the kind of shit he likes. People who play things loose and don’t catch shit for it, don’t end up being idiots. Or worse for everybody, [i]dead[/i] idiots.”

“What about the rest of the team?” He asked, “What do you think? Donnelley tolerates some, but he definitely has a preference. I can tell.”

Laine smiled slightly, glancing down at her hands as she recalled that conversation with Donnelley. It was the first but not the last time she would try to pry under that sardonic layer that was presented, not that it was part of her job. He interested her and that was enough reason. At Foster’s next question, Laine breathed out a sigh and thought for a moment, “I haven’t been able to work with all of them equally, but I’ll tell you what I think so far. This is just my current opinion, not a formal analysis. For the record.”

She watched the growing dusk, absent of fireflies that would normally be flickering in the long grass before the treeline. “Tom Stewart, very professional and skilled, he’s been used more for his combat training so far but I’ve talked to him about an outside case and he has a quick mind for procedure, investigation, and evidence. I haven’t had much personal time with him but he’s certainly an asset to this team. Justin Clarke, even less time spent with him but he’s a quiet, polite, professional soldier. He seems confident but not cocky, he knows his business. Definitely a keeper for the team. Mathieu Laurence...well, I think he might be in over his head, to be honest. There’s a certain detachment he’s maintained and when I spoke directly to him to get his help and broke through it he nearly melted down. I fear what might have happened out there.” 

Laine gestured with her chin towards the trees, “If he was confronted with something his detachment would not protect him against. If he’s still alive, send him home. He’s not fit for this duty.”

Thumbing the box of Djarums that she left unsmoked, Laine continued, “Serena Gomez, I think is capable but I don’t think she wants this anymore. She’s not checked in and after my contact with her after the last case, she was seeking therapy outside the LAPD. I think she’s struggling and perhaps should be quietly let go and allowed to resume her life as best she can after seeing what she has. Jason Jimenez, another that has not arrived but considering his day job, it’s not a surprise. I think he’s a very capable mind and he’s obviously skilled in combat. But mostly he’s seen things, I’m sure you know more than I about those things he saw and I believe his experience, like Donnelley’s, might be vital to our mission. Those killings...”

She tugged up a black cigarette between her fingers but left it unlit, “Anyway, last and certainly least, Gwen Weissman. Why?”

Laine looked at Foster, “Why the hell was she ever sent anywhere to interact with human beings and a sensitive investigation? If she’s not dead, send her somewhere, anywhere but here. I’ve never met someone so unprofessional.” 

“I think we might not have a choice in the matter. I’m not familiar with the Case Officer that brought her in, but whatever he saw in her, I have no idea. She was foisted on me, truth be told.” Foster frowned, “I put in a call before we left for a replacement. I know someone who knows someone, who knows someone that I want for this team.”

Foster sighed, nodding, “And it’s not Gwen. I hope she’s alive. Her and Laurie.” He shook his head, “But I hope I can shove her somewhere else. So, you want Stewart put on more investigative stuff with you? He’s got the combat experience too, so him going with you should give you someone good for watching your back.”

“Donnelley’s a good guy, but… you know. He’s an intelligence officer, not a detective. He can put the screws to some guy in a blacksite. I’m sure Donnelley will be happier pulling triggers.” Foster shrugged, “Your call.”

“It’s not my call,” she countered, “I’m not the team lead. Besides, Tom is versatile, he’ll fit where he’s needed most. Whether with me to read case files and talk to witnesses or...or up in that forest.” 

Laine glanced at Foster, tilting her head slightly as she peered over her glasses, “I think, despite the fact you’ve worked with Donnelley so much, you underestimate him.” 

Foster rose a brow at Laine, curiosity tickling at him, “You think?”

She pushed her glasses up and looked out the window, “Yes. But like I said, these are my current [i]opinions[/i], we worked together earlier and I would say he’s perceptive and can read people, obviously. He might have upset the deputy but now we know those assholes aren’t going to play nice no matter how we go at them directly. I think he...”

Laine trailed off and looked at Foster then clamped her mouth closed, feeling a flush suddenly warming her face. She looked down, digging in her pocket for a lighter then put her hand on the door handle, “I’m gonna smoke, is that alright?” 

“Keep in the car, please. I don’t want anybody else missing.” Foster nodded to Laine. After a spell of silence, he looked out at the night sky and the trees around. There was a growing sense of wrongness about the forest that he couldn’t block out with conversation.

But he’d try, “Your opinions are more valuable than you think. A Working Group is only as good as the members can make it. One wrong piece that doesn’t fit in the puzzle… two pieces that snag together… and it comes apart when it’s needed most.”

Foster turned to Laine, eyes on her own, “I’m sure you know that. Despite your competence, there’s a certain Doctor in the Bureau with telling words.” Foster paused before he looked back out the window, “I think Donnelley works better when he’s not burdened by a needless care for something or other. As sad as it was, the recently divorced and burgeoning alcoholic state we found him in back in 2010 might have helped him say yes to us. He cares a lot about a lot.”

“You think we can’t find a reason why Laurie and Gwen disappeared and continue with this investigation? It’s sad, but between friends and duty, there’s only one choice.” He pointed out to the expanse of woods, “And Donnelley made his. And we’re out here risking an entire Working Group to find out what we already know.”

Laine held the lighter, looking at the rubbed logo of the Crimson Ghost, the cheap Misfits lighter her brother Roy had bought her at some gas station. She sighed, huffing a breath between her lips and nodded, “While it might be seen as risky, it’s what makes him a good team leader. We know we won’t be left behind and even if we are replaceable to the unknown suits there’s one that will look out for us.”

Her thoughts turned to Olympia and how Donnelley had at least given her a piece of mind to know Sofie Childress was not going to just be forgotten once she was out of her hands. “It’s dark now,” she said quietly, then looked towards Foster.

Foster nodded, his face made of silent stone until he spoke, “It is.”

A trilling ringtone sliced through the tension and Foster’s hand shot out to pick up his phone. He didn’t have time to ask Donnelley what he found as he heard the man yelling over what sounded like… gunfire?

“Turn that fucking car on and point it in the direction we came!” Donnelley’s voice was loud enough that Laine could hear it. No need for speaker phone, “We’re coming in fucking hot, Foster, don’t fuck me now!”

“O-Okay.” He nodded to Laine to do just what Donnelley had said, “Turn the car around, unlock the doors.”

She slapped the helmet on her head, just to get it out of her lap and cranked the key over, the engine roaring to life. Laine put the Suburban into reverse, backing up to give herself room to make the U turn and face the direction away from the trees. “Time to flip a bitch,” she muttered as she glanced over her shoulder. 

The doors were unlocked, waiting as the engine idled, Laine was gripping the wheel ready to make a hasty escape as soon as the team was in the truck. 
Up until Tom heard the rustling of something large chasing them, he was skeptical about the possibility there was some supernatural creature in these woods. Even when he viewed the skinless corpse on the metal table in the morgue and held the black shard in his hand, he refrained from admitting there were supernatural efforts in motion. But with the enormity of the beast thundering after them. The sound, thrashing of trees as though they were. He told himself to not turn. [i]‘Keep your head forward. Focus on the bottom of the hill, the road, the truck.’[/i] If he wasn’t fast enough to outrun the thing, these would be his last few breaths. No need turning to look. Just run. Run like your life depended on it, which is certainly did. He didn’t know who this fourth guy running with them was, but he was apparently one of them now. [i]‘Welcome to the outfit stranger!’[/i]
 Tom could see the suburban driven by Heather Laine at the bottom of the hill. The doors were open. He was nearing the bottom of the hill and he must have hit a slippery patch. His conditioning was good, his breathing was heavy, more from the fear of what was behind them than the running. He ran almost every day. But the urgency to get away from something he did not dare to look at overwhelmed him. Fortunately, he was traveling light. But traveling light was irrelevant tonight.
 The world changed attitude, slipping on a fern or patch of mud. Whatever it was, no one will know. His right leg fell out from underneath him. He fell headfirst into the roadway, striking his right cheek on a rock. Skinning both his hands as they slid across the path. The rock tore a three-inch cut across his cheek causing the blood to flow quickly. The impact to his head snapped his head back sharply putting strain on his neck. He would definitely feel that in the morning.
 Remembering why they were running; he quickly clambered to his feet and ran around to the other side of the vehicle throwing himself inside. “Get out of here now!” He yelled with blood flowing down over his jaw collecting on his assault vest and gray T-shirt.
Dave was running, his head down, lungs heaving, one arm holding his rifle tight to his side while the other pumped furiously for momentum. He could hear the shouts of the other men coming to him over the furious rush of his breathing, could feel the ground trembling as the beast behind them gained step by step. He pushed harder, feeling the fatigue of the previous night’s exertions as his muscles strained. 
The SUV drew nearer and Dave shot a look over his shoulder. His foot came down on a rock and he cursed as he felt the ankle twist, the rock tumbling and his foot shooting off to one side. He came down hard and pulled his arms in, rolling with the fall, trying to use his momentum to get back to his feet with some of his speed left. He managed it, coming upright only to realize that in his tumble he had gained on the Suburban more rapidly than he’d expected. There was a confused moment in which all he could see was the rear bumper. Then his head met it with a solid [i]thud[/i] and the world turned white, a harsh ringing drowning out all other sound. 
A few seconds passed that felt like hours. He rolled, trying to right himself, his foot kicking listlessly at the ground for a moment as he struggled to regain his feet. He managed it in a kind of stumbling crawl, leaning against the Suburban as he wobbled his way around it to the open door. With an incoherent muttering he collapsed inside, his body working on automatic while his mind drifted in a confusion of stars and distant, muffled voices. 
Run.
That was Donnelley’s only thought, over and over again. With each footfall he made, the beast’s own made the earth under his soles tremble. He bared his teeth, lungs sucking air desperately and for a few moments he wondered why he’d chosen to smoke so many cigarettes. He could feel the beast practically looming over him, but he did not turn back to see if it was true or only his fear. He could see the treeline coming up on them. He saw Tom and the new guy pass him quick before they each took a tumble. Justin was to his right, but before he could ready himself for the slope the others forgot about, pain lanced through his left leg.
It made his right buckle and he pitched face first into the dirt, the ballistic helmet taking the brunt of the force but his cheek still ground itself into the rocky soil, sending white flashing across his vision. 
“Gurgh!” The entire right side of his face was a burning mess and his teeth ached. He could feel himself getting dragged back and he looked down to see it, a tendril blacker than night had impaled the meat of his thigh and the pain seared into him. “Fuck! Justin!”
Frantically, he ripped his knife out of its scabbard and grabbed hold of the tendril, furiously chopping at it in an effort to get away. “Justin, help!”
Whatever the tendril was made out of, it was hard. Blacker than anything he’d seen, save one. The more he chopped, the more he chipped away at it until the meat of it was bare. When he saw the gray of its flesh, he struck and made purchase. His blade bit deep and the the tendril tore itself wriggling from his leg with a spurt of blood and a sickening squelch, back into the trees. Donnelley cried out in pain and scrambled to his shaky legs, but he could not stand.
Foster saw movement in his side window, four… four? Four men crashing out from the darkness in the trees. He felt the Suburban rock sideways before Tom threw the stranger into the backseat and clambered in after him. He saw Donnelley at the top of the ridge limp and tumble down, leaving a scarp in his wake. 

With three of them piled into the back of the truck, Donnelley threw open the large back door and threw himself inside. His panting was furious, growling, white knuckles underneath his glove grabbing the oh-shit handle above Tom’s head, “Go!” As if to punctuate his order, the forest erupted into an ear-splitting roar.
Laine glanced at the rear view mirror, the doors slamming shut, they were inside. At Donnelley's order she shoved the Suburban into drive, her foot hitting the gas when she heard it. 
"What the fuck," She said to no one in particular, gripping the steering wheel as the back tires slid on the hard packed road. The truck fish tailed slightly then corrected, slamming down the logging trail, rocking through the dips and bumps. 
"What the fuck was that noise?" Laine called out, flooring it as fast as big Suburban would go on the dirt road. "Are you guys alright?"
Donnelley was still peering out of the back window as Laine spoke, not registering her question as his mind still raced at what was in the forest with them. “I’m…” Donnelley looked down and pressed his palms against the gaping hole of his leg, the pant leg almost soaked through and black with dark blood, “I’m… oh, shit.”
His hands weakly slapped at his plate carrier in search of his first aid pouch. When he finally found it, he pulled free a tourniquet and cinched it around his thigh, just above the wound, hoping that would at least do something. He forced himself to relax, letting his head droop back and forth with the rough bumps of the road, the back of his helmet tapping against the window behind his head. The adrenaline from moments before now a thing of the past. While his head bobbed, he slurred out, “Just go, just go.”
Dave looked blearily at the man beside him, watching with distant interest as he tied his leg off. His forehead was swelling, already carrying a sizeable goose-egg, and the lights of the car’s console seemed uncomfortably bright. 
“Toldja it’s fuckin’ big,” he grumbled. He reached up and tentatively prodded at his forehead, then paused. “...I lost my fuckin’ hat.” 
“Oh, shit,” Donnelley muttered, his eyes weak as he shook them from the hole in his leg and looked around for something to wipe his hands on, settling for his other pant leg and smearing that too with his own blood. He reached into a pouch on his carrier and pulled free his pack of cigarettes, “Not [i]the hat.[/i]”
Laine could hear them but her focus was on the road, keeping the speed up as fast as she dared on the unpaved surface. She could see the scattered trees and brush rush past caught in brief illumination of the bouncing headlights. The road had to be close, she tried to remember but they had driven slower that morning. Not by much though. 
Suddenly the strip of asphalt was there and she asked Foster while glancing briefly in the rear view at the men illuminated only by the dim console light They looked pale and one man she did not recognize was with them but Gwen and Laurie were not. 
"What's going on, straight back home?"
Foster looked back at the others, “Hospital is [i]out of the question.[/i] Back home.”
She hung a sharp left onto the paved road that would get them back to the cabin. Laine forced herself not to put the gas all the way down, what good would it do to escape only to flip the truck on some tight curve. The white line glowed in the headlights, marking the darkness, [I]absolute country darkness [/I] she thought uncomfortably. 
The mention of hospital finally trickled into her conscious and she realized she could smell the faint slightly metallic tang of blood and gunpowder. "Anyone hurt bad?"
Donnelley flicked his lighter on and puffed his cigarette, offering his pack out to the other men, his Texan twang evident, “Just a ‘lil poke, s’all.”
"Poke? Better not be bullshitting me, dude," Laine said, slipping into the SoCal accent. "How bad?"

“He’ll be alright,” Dave said. His thoughts were clearing, though things still felt fuzzy. He waved off the offered cigarette. “You uh...Want me to give that tourniquet another yank, man?” 

Donnelley took a drag of his cigarette, keeping it clenched in his teeth as he growled and lifted up his leg, “Thank ya kindly.” As Dave roughly drew the tourniquet tighter, he growled again and gave a thumbs-up, “Feels great. Couple bandaids, some whiskey...”

He drifted off, staring out at the forest passing them by, taking another drag and hanging his head, “Fuckin’...” Donnelley sighed, rubbing his face and carelessly smearing blood over his forehead, remembering the bodies and sobered by the memory, “They… they ain’t here.”

"Goddamn it, a [I]tourniquet[/I]?" Laine hissed and said to Foster, "He needs a doctor, now. We can make it to that doctor near Whitetree."

Donnelley perked up at that with a quickness, pointing at Laine’s general direction with his cigarette still smoldering between his outstretched fingers, “[i]Fuck that.[/i] Do not bring me to Whitetree, [i]fuck[/i] Whitetree. Go to the Safehouse, Foster can work his fuckin’ magic and conjure me up a doctor.”

"I'll only do that if you promise not to fucking bleed out," she glanced at him through the mirror, her brow creasing with concern.

“[i]Yes, mother.[/i]” Donnelley shook his head and huffed out smoke, silently hoping he could keep that promise.

[hr]

[hider=fresh baked rolls]Dice Rolls
Tom Stewart, Situational Awareness: 11
Tom Stewart, SERE: 13
Justin Clark, Awareness: 20
Justin Clark, SERE: 22
Dave MacCready, Athletics: 20
Dave MacCready, Dexterity: 6
Tom Stewart, Athletics: 18
Tom Stewart, Dexterity: 4
Justin Clark, Athletics: 7
Justin Clark, Dexterity: 20
Donnelley, DEX/STAMINA: 16/11[/hider]