>ANCHORAGE SAFEHOUSE, EN ROUTE TO >11SEP2019 >0900.../// The road was a thin ribbon of asphalt that wound through the woods and mountains, the late summer rapidly vanishing into autumn under the morning sun, the air still brisk from the night. It had been years since he had been up this way but the operator remembered the routes. He had a knack for it, a quick study of a map or visit a place once and it was etched deep into his memory. Under his thick black beard and the dark Locs covering his eyes, it was hard to make out his features other than the deep olive skin and the occasional flash of smile at his own private joke. His tactical gear was mostly deep green digital camouflage, mixed in with grays and a black t-shirt under the jacket and plate carrier. He was a CORAL NOMAD operator, more anonymous than any other Working team. His call sign was not even velcroed to his gear, only a blank spot for it. They were the ones who asked no questions and gave no answers, who mopped up after whatever the teams left behind or whatever was left of the teams. It was a quiet drive and he itched to turn on some music, the man beside him probably would not object. Sobel, or as the operator called him, Spooky, was a man of few words. Maybe he would not object, maybe he would not even mind but he might look at him in [i]that[/i] way and it was one of the few times he felt fear from one of his own. “Hey, Spider,” he said, glancing in the rearview mirror at the woman in the back seat. She was also dressed in similar gear though hers was more black and gray toned but also without a name plate. Her glare told him what she thought of the call sign he had christened her with when she joined their team. He had taken one look at the tall lanky woman with legs forever unfold herself from a chair and the name stuck. “Wanna play Slug Bug?” he asked. “Maybe I-Spy is more appropriate?” She shook her head, then narrowed her dark eyes, “I spy with my little eye an asshole that’s not keeping his attention on the road. That’s Zeus.” He shrugged and smirked under his beard, “Are you always this much fun at parties? Lighten up, [i]Mama[/i], we have had a long night. Ever been to Alaska? I’ve been a few times, first time I came up right after highschool. Hitched it all the way from Texas.” “Sure you did,” she said, glancing at the back of Sobel’s head. He was always so quiet but never not working, she could almost see the gears grinding. About the four in the other car, the prisoners. Spider had been witness to some of his interrogations, not by her own choice in the matter but because she was the medic and they had to stay alive. He was careful, very methodical but the human body was both resilient and remarkably fragile at the same time. “Oh yeah, right up through the Rockies,” he laughed, “The farther north I went, the less Mexican I became, suddenly I was from whatever local tribe was there. It was fun though, white girls thought I was exotic when I said I was from the Aztec tribe.” His dark eyes hidden behind the black lenses of the shades gleamed, “I bet even you would have too back in those days.” “I doubt that,” she said, her sharp features giving no hint of a smile. “My tastes have been the same.” “Ah, that’s just because you never had the chorizo, only the bolillo,” he chuckled. “Gross.” Spider leaned back, turning her face to watch out the windows as the sun gleamed off the distant snow capped peaks, bathing them in golden light and was just now reaching the deep forested river valleys. They had left after dawn from the airport, the Safe House should not be far. Despite her distaste for his humor, Zeus never failed to get them where they needed to be. “How much longer?” Foster spoke up from the back, next to Spider. His shades had been glued to his face since it got light enough to justify them. He scrolled on his phone looking at work emails, Intel reports. Whatever kept him looking busy and unapproachable. “Shouldn’t be long now. Fifteen minute ETA.” Sobel too had his shades, but he busied himself with looking out at the countryside and committing it all to memory. Something to recall alongside his Idaho plains when he needed calm. He turned to his Mexican compatriot in the driver seat, “Fifteen?” “[i]Si, Jefe,[/i]” he agreed, “Maybe thirteen mikes, if the following car doesn’t lag again. [i]pinche mamon[/i] doesn’t know how to follow. He’s either on my ass or falling too far.” “You picky, bitch,” Spider said, then gave a side eye at Foster. He wasn’t one of their team and it made her a little nervous. She fell silent, her brooding features left a mystery of her genetic origin, perhaps a blend of Native American or Northern Europe, maybe even a little of the East but she never bothered saying. Zeus turned off the main highway, flicking a glance at the rearview mirror to see the SUV behind them following too close again. Asshole. At least they were close to Safe House and likely not going to be ambushed but the chance was always there and he did not need the car with the assets putting its nose up his ass. “Gonna have a talk with Junior about his driving,” he muttered, “Ten minutes, ETA. We’re in the woods now, keep your eyes out Spider. All of them.” “Fuck you,” she murmured, trying not to show a hint of laughter, watching the trees flit by as they moved. It was indeed ten minutes on the dot when the SUVs came roaring up to the Safe House. Or what was left of it. “What the fuck?” Zeus said, “What the fuck these [i]putos[/i] been up to?” He pulled to a stop and honked, tapping out a rough version of [i]La Cucharacha[/i] and then stepped out, leaving his door open and he slung his rifle up. Spider could see the damage right away and reached to grab her medical bag, putting it over her shoulder. “Are we clear to go?” she asked, still new to the game after her stint as an Air Force medic somehow tripped and fell down the stairs into this dark hole. “What the hell happened?” Sobel dismounted, closing his door and removing his sunglasses. There was a gigantic hole in the Safehouse, filled with detritus. The chassis of what looked like a responsible family sedan was peeking out from the hole. “Get the detainees inside, don’t worry about the house.” Sobel looked to Spider, “Lead Foster to the barn with the detainees. Zeus and I will introduce ourselves.” .../// Spider climbed out of the SUV, in her combat boots she was just over six feet tall and long limbed, her trim figure hidden under the layers of tactical gear. She left her rifle slung across her chest and her medical kit on her back as she walked over to the other car. A young man in the driver’s seat had an eager look about him, with close cropped blonde hair so fair he might as well have been bald. “Let’s unload them,” she said, passing his window and going to the passenger door, opening it. There were four of them and they had been quiet mostly. She did not know who they were or why they were picked up and she liked it better that way. Spider took the arm of the first one, “Step out, just follow my lead. There you go.” She led them to Junior who stood with the chain wrapped around his hand and an eager dog that had been picked up along with him. One of those spotted breeds that got popular, Spider was not sure what it was called. She was a cat person. With Junior and Foster, they lead the hooded detainees into the barn. It was old and run down, it smelled of must and something else, something almost rusty. Her nostrils flared slightly at the sight of the single chair and the dog that had been brought along immediately began sniffing around it. “Here,” she said, bringing one of the detainees over to the wall, “Take a seat, get comfortable. It might be awhile.” Spider helped each one to sit as it was difficult with their hands zip tied behind their backs, none giving her an issue save one. Even under the hood she sensed the aggression and said little to him other than basic instructions. “Junior, get that dog away from there,” she snapped, looking at the younger operator sharply as the dog kept digging around the stained floorboards. “I’m gonna take him out for a walk,” he announced, enjoying the duty of a dog sitter compared to dealing with shackled detainees. Spider was left with them and she asked, “Does anyone need to piss, raise your hand?” The joke was unappreciated without Zeus around. She found a bucket in the corner of the barn and hoped it was not leaky. Spider set it down and glanced at Foster, “I’ll go get them some water.” “Do that, please. Unload the polygraph too.” Foster said, slipping his phone into his pocket and giving Spider the most eye contact he’d given everyone since the pickup. He put his hands in his suit pants pockets and looked down at the four individuals, “We’re going to find out if you’re telling me the truth. I wouldn’t want to be you if you’re lying.” .../// Bajbala peeked past the kitchen window curtains at the sound of crunching gravel breezing in through the open-concept living room. They were expected, but she would wait for them to dismount before any judgment. The team was sporadically lounging in propped furniture about the kitchen. Not much of the small house was without loads of debris and the cold Alaskan draft. They should have moved to another location but their comms equipment was damaged and a secure channel to CORAL NOMAD was too distant. Throughout the night priscilla and Lucky periodically checked the perimeter, likely because they didn't trust her to do it alone. A crash, exchange of fire, bomb, and knife fight later she was immaculate, a rubbing of old wood on her jacket from laying on the chest. "Poker, I believe your friends are here." She broke the silence with a smile. Through the pane of glass musical horns mocked their solemnity. Poker was patched through to the exit wound, bleeding settled, but he would still need a check to make sure his guts were in order. Ghost was back behind her as well. His face was closed up after an hour long stitching ordeal. It wasn't perfect, but the clean cut made it relatively easy. She shook off the feeling in her neck when he snarled through the gash as she worked on him. Grunting not in pain but anger or maybe some primal baying as he relished in victory, embracing the disfigurement through every stitch. Ghost perked up when he heard Priscilla, rising from his seat on the hood of the ruined car. He'd put on a jacket in deference to the weather, the clean garment at odds with his ripped cargo pants and bloodied face. He hefted his rifle. "Lucky, on me," he said. Dave fell in beside him and watched Foster take a pack of hooded and bound people into the barn. He sighed and grabbed his AK. "Let's do this." Sobel had his hands in his pockets as he looked towards the others. The assembled four looking like they had quite the night. So did the house. “Zeus, with me.” He looked to two other plain clothes NOMADs, faces obscured by black neck gaiters, “Face, Tripod, you’re with me too.” The two operators nodded and followed Sobel. All of the parties involved were armed to the teeth, and after the evidence of whatever had happened last night, he didn’t blame the others. His MP9 hung from the single point sling, bouncing on his stomach as he walked. When he got to a respectable distance from THUNDER and Bajbala, he removed his sunglasses. Pale, blue eyes regarded each of them for a few personal seconds. One by one, cold predator’s eyes took them in like a butcher eyeing a line of sheep. They hung on Lucky and suddenly Sobel’s face twitched to a friendly smile as if seeing an old friend after years. “David, hello.” Was all he gave the other man before speaking to them all, “The barn is now under mine and Foster’s purview in connection to an adjacent investigation which none of you have clearance for. Until the end of the investigation, you are to keep back from the barn or risk injury or death.” The friendly smile was gone in an instant. He remembered hosting Dave and his team some time ago, keeping appearances and making them feel as at home as he could. But there was now something in his eyes that made him more like Poker, or the other rough and tough trigger-pullers in the Program. Nothing friendly, and Sobel was more than comfortable dropping the friendly veneer and cutting deep to the bone of the matter, “I hope I’m understood.” "Injury. Or death." Ghost's words were muffled by the swelling of his injury and the pull of the stitches that held his face together, but there was no missing the growl in his tone. Dave returned Sobel's brief smile, but the hunted look in his eye held a hint of violence, like a man on the edge. His shaggy hair and beard were dirty from the night before, and he seemed to share Ghost's irritation in his stance and the confident grip of his AK. "[I]Classified,[/i] fine, I can accept that," Ghost said. "But don't threaten me." He looked at the NOMAD team. "You or your amateurs." He paused. "Show me your faces." Zeus rested his gloved hand on the M-4 that was slung over him and looked through the dark sunglasses, his beard covered now with a black gaiter, hardly a bit of skin visible but his nose and the top of his cheeks. He shook his head minutely, looking over the huge scarred man. The other two operators towered over him but stood back, also dressed from head to toe in tactical gear and none wore name plates. One of them, the taller of the two, wore a skull-faced gaiter and even under the bulky gear his powerful build was obvious. He looked back at Baj in a curious but flat eyed manner, then over at Ghost. He puffed slightly at the challenge but none removed their masks. “The identities and faces of CORAL NOMAD are classified. Accept that too.” Sobel spoke, not bristling, just stating facts with his flag voice. He took a few steps toward THUNDER, his eyes mirroring Ghost’s under his Oakleys as they held each other’s gazes. The faint smell of ozone just barely noticeable hanging about him the closer he got, “And I don’t make threats. You should all get some rest, it looks like you had a rough night.” Sobel turned away from Ghost, walking just slow enough back to the three of his own faceless killers to let Ghost know his breadth and growls had no effect on him. He turned around again, hands in his pockets, “You’ll speak to me or Foster. Pretend these people don’t exist.” He said, “Because they don’t.” Tripod flexed as Sobel laid down the law and Zeus cut his eyes to the young operator and back to Ghost. The Mexican was much shorter and stockier than both but the dark eyes behind the loc sunglasses were quick and calculating. He turned to Sobel as the man walked away and stepped beside him, speaking in a low voice, “[i]Jefe[/i], we should have the medic take a look at them, they’re looking rough. I don’t want to have to shoot that big one. I only brought three magazines.” “I’ll have Face switch with Spider then.” Sobel said as he walked to the barn. Priscilla had slapped a stick of gum in her mouth earlier, ostentatiously chewing for the friendly encounter. She stood back, silently leaning on the same awning pole and exchanged glances with the uniformed goons, donning a half smirk for their show with her arms crossed. This operation grew more sour by the hour. She could see there were odds even between NOMAD and the assholes she was already with. Something was playing her a pawn and she was alone. Zeus watched Sobel leave, the spooky bastard, the faint scent of ozone going with him. He turned, putting his hands on his hips and raised his chin at them, a grin under the gaiter. “[i]Que pasa?[/i],” he asked, looking at the four. “Y’all had a fucking night.” Tripod said nothing, keeping the CORAL NOMAD silent squirrel image but Zeus was too gregarious by nature to keep stoic and silent long when it was not necessary. These were associated with the detainees and they looked like shit, at least one friendly voice might keep the tension from exploding. Spider carried her medical bag, pulling the gaiter up over her nose as she made her way to the house. All that could be seen was the tops of her high cheekbones and the dark hooded eyes that peered with a sharp curiosity at the scene before the house. She stepped up, brushing past Tripod in his power stance and rolled her eyes, she could almost smell the stink of bro. “I’m a medic,” she said simply, glancing over the rough stitching job on the big one’s face. “Don’t mind me, I’m just going to make sure it’s been cleaned properly. Who did this? What did you use?” She looked between them, her gaze settling on the only one that did not seem hurt. Spider looked her over, a hint of appreciation on her dark gaze. Priscilla acknowledged the tall woman with her brow and approached, stopping by her side to examine her work closely. "A slash wound, through and to the bone. I flushed it with water and used peroxide, he also has an antibiotic. Luckily the trauma kit here was good. Even got him a tetanus shot!" She put her hands in Ghost's face and gave him a quick neutral glance to ease the invasion. "I started here... near his lip." Her finger traced along the stitching. "Three layers um, subcutaneous? Then inside his mouth and out." The stitching was amateur, but tight. Priscilla gave a steady slap to Ghost's shoulder. "I think it looks alright! Can't make much more a monster out of you anyway, am I right?" He was probably tasting the blood that would ooze in his mouth for a week. Spider nodded, looking at the stitching in the deep laceration that must have laid the man's face open. "Good work for what you had." Her dark gaze met Ghost's eyes, "Any other injuries that need attention before I move on?" Priscilla pointed to Poker with her eyes. "He's got a bullet wound through and through. Bandaged and no bleeding I can tell, but you should take a look." She left it. Out of the barn came Foster, the suited man that looked every bit the seasoned CIA Operations Officer that everyone but Priscilla knew. Little did she know, Priscilla’s dossier was slid across his desk a few weeks before at his request. It’s a shame the team she was supposed to augment with her particular set of skills was now six feet deep in the monumental shit-show that was Alaska. Almost as bad as the HUMINT Asset purge in Syria on behalf of those chucklefucks at the DIA. Jason not counted among those, understandably. Foster’s only man on the inside in Iraq was dead and his 8 year operation was tits up, and any hope of another operation was grounded indefinitely. His frantic and angry conversation over the phone gave everyone the idea of how he felt about all of that, even if they didn’t know the particulars. A lot of intelligence cases were bust by nature, they told everyone that on The Farm, but this was utter dogshit. He joined the gathering looking none too happy to be there, “Why is there a fucking Corolla in your living room?” When Foster approached, Spider stood back, waiting for the case officer to finish his questions. She half listened with curiosity though her job had no business with their drama before approaching Poker about his wound. "Because someone drove it through the fucking wall," Ghost growled. He was accepting the ministrations of the two females without complaint, the model patient. "And then blew it up." He glared over at Tripod, meeting the man's gaze. "I killed Bear last night," Ghost said. "From TRIDENT. Except Lucky already blew his fucking face off four days ago, so what the fuck is going on?" Dave nodded, his face hard at the mention of Bear. The loss of his team was fresh. The loss of Ava. Seeing Foster didn't help. "He ate a burst from my AK in his fuckin' mouth. But he seemed fine last night until Ghost gutted him." Foster nodded, “We’ve been made aware of,” His eyes flicked to Bajbala, not sure she was read in yet and then deciding it didn’t matter, “Made aware of some hypergeometric activity around the Noatak area. If it calms everyone the fuck down, this is what this adjacent investigation is about.” “Consider this your debriefing. Fill me in on everything that happened this week, because I got a phone call two days ago saying one of my entire Working Groups got put down save for one guy, and another guy that’s fifteen countries away on indefinite standby.” Foster was fuming at the state of affairs, “Please, enlighten me as to how this all came about.” Dave shot Foster a baffled look at the mention of [i]hypergeometric activity[/i] but held his peace. At the mention of his team his face fell, then quickly hardened. "TRIDENT," he spat. "Cocksuckers and their CORAL NOMAD buddies turned on us. They… They killed everybody. Just shot 'em down." He swallowed a catch in his throat. "Then…" "Then we wiped them out," Ghost said. "Killed every one of them. Until our safehouse was attacked last night by a VBIED and a sniper, and I got to dance with Bear in the fucking kitchen." Priscilla looked around the room at the others. No one knew what was going on –she didn't know what was happening. Foster's words were unfamiliar. She tried to ignore them for now. "Prior to last night was our blind date. We saw through the Russian assignment, but there was room to be tracked." She passed her eyes over Lucky then spoke to both teams. "If we covered well these rogue agents of yours must have known we'd be here already, I would think. They must know a lot of things. I don't understand how I'm finding out about this now." She said disdainfully, not expecting an answer. "Because the rogue agents are supposed to be dead," Ghost growled. He clenched a fist on the grip of his rifle. “We knew about possible moles, but now the GRU is getting a lot more kinetic. I don’t know why, unless we’re onto something they don’t want us near.” Foster mused out loud, “First West Virginia, then Massachusetts, now Alaska. They already took out one of our team, now this.” “It’s like they’ve got a personal fucking vendetta with us or the case we were working.” Foster shook his head, “Program CI is working through DOD and DOJ channels. Belyaev was just the first, but there has to be more. I find it hard to believe a single GRU Officer in Alaska orchestrated all of this, I want a transcript or a recording, or whatever the fuck from his interrogation.” “As far as THUNDER is concerned, keep working closely with this asset. Dave… keep doing what you’re doing.” Foster said, then looked to Bajbala, “You. Let’s talk somewhere else.” Bajbala tensed with his unexpected summons. She hoped he had answers as to why everything was fucked. If it was to be chewed out, she had her own words for him. She silently followed him out of the room avoiding looking at the others as she passed them. Foster led Bajbala upstairs to one of the bedrooms. He sat at the desk and gestured for her to sit on the bed. When she did, he wasted no time in getting to what she must be wondering at all this time. “Bajbala Shirzad, Project Red Bulb asset in Afghanistan. One half of the failed Operation in the FATA of Pakistan.” Foster nodded, “Not much else other than that but black ink. At one point in time, I would’ve had my friend here to greet you too.” “But that friend’s dead. Working Group UMBRA is now nothing but a name in my roster. The reason I’m being so forward with you right now, is because as of this moment, the training wheels come off.” Foster said, “We’ve had an eye on you for a while, and even though your exposure to the very unique purview of the Program is… minimal, you’re a good candidate.” “I’d say you have a choice in the matter, but your paperwork’s already been faxed over and it’s waiting for your signature. So, you’re one of us now.” Foster looked Bajbala up and down, “How’s it feel? Anything yet?” Bajbala soaked up Foster's proposition with a straight face. "I don't feel anything, I don't understand." He knew details she had nearly passed from memory. She was so young then, those days in the barren mountains with the wailing wind. His matter of fact tone crept up her skin. "What about my position within the directorate?" She didn't grip it other than being reassigned. Posted to a new billet with the 'program'. It was deeply wrapped in mystery, she almost didn't believe the man. “You’re still officially CIA, your position isn’t being vacated. As far as anyone knows at Langley, you’ve been indefinitely loaned out to a Joint Counterterrorism Task Force in which everything you do is classified.” Foster shrugged, “I don’t expect you to understand. No one really does until they see it for themselves, but the threats we deal with…” “Let’s say an international threat, and we’re the ones best equipped to deal with it. Everyone outside of this Safehouse,” Foster shook his head, “They shouldn’t have to know anything about what we do or deal with. How much do you remember about Pakistan?” Foster produced an envelope, handing it over to Bajbala. Once opened, it had a series of aerial photographs of the AO that Bajbala was operating in during Pakistan, “Maybe these will refresh your memory,” he nodded at the photos in Bajbala’s hands, “Bazir al-Khalwadi was never with the Taliban or Daesh. His activities were rogue, or so we thought. Joseph Donnelley was there.” “The man you’re supposed to confirm is dead or not. My friend. You both helped to coordinate an executive action order on Bazir when he was compromised before we could get to him, and put the black slabs on the map for the Program.” Foster shook his head, “Anyways, you’re Program now. I want you to take Dave away from those fucking cowboys over there and restock Working Group UMBRA. After Alaska is done, just go back to SAC. Twiddle your thumbs or carry out your assignments, but just wait for a call.” Foster produced a cheap burner phone not unlike his own from his pocket, tossing it bouncing on the bed next to Bajbala, “You and I hear this a lot, but this conversation never happened and we don’t know each other at Langley. You understand?” The dutiful soldier in her gravitated towards the mission, the authority, the purpose it provided her. Meanwhile a deep-seated human part of her cried out to run. Foster wasn't being as forthright as he claimed, but Bajbala felt she could trust him this far. It sounded more like she had no choice; he would be in Virginia, somewhere, and he would look for her whether she wanted to be found or not. "I understand." She said, subdued. She slipped the photos back into the envelope and snatched the phone. They weren't something she wanted to look at with the current stress. Vague memories of the sights and scents reaffirmed themselves in her consciousness. Voices; one voice a distinctly American man whom she communicated with briefly. She wondered if he was the dead one. All evidence pointed to that fact, however, the dead were rising according to 'Ghost'. "Then I'll speak with Dave." She stood up to Foster's desk "I do feel something. I feel crazy. Seems to be the normal thing here?" Referring to NOMAD, THUNDER and Foster sounding like a lunatic himself. The only lunatic she'll believe again. “You get used to it.” Foster stood and straightened his coat, “I’ve got an interrogation to watch.” >.../// A crack of light from outside shone in the darkness the lamps couldn’t illuminate. Foster stepped inside and sided up with Sobel. They watched the proceedings with sober expressions, the polygraph technician asked the detainees some simple questions to start out, Foster and Sobel only able to see the backs of the detainees heads from where they stood. A man in a priest’s clothes had just finished his turn and the CORAL NOMAD slipped the earmuffs, gag, and hood back over his head before bringing over the next. A middle-age man in civilian clothes. “Sobel.” Foster said, the man looked over at him and Foster nodded towards the table the detainee was seated at. Sobel nodded back and relieved the polygraph technician, sitting across from the man. He offered his hands, and the other man was hesitant even to speak. Sobel offered him a smile and said something that seemed to convince him, and he lay his palms against Sobel’s. Sobel closed his eyes and began muttering in whatever that nonsense was that wizards seemed to all know until he froze, stiff…/// [i]Get up… [right]One more time, мой друг[/right][/i] He gasped, just as a horn blared and he saw the front of a car barreling straight towards him just before he yanked the wheel hard to the right, feeling like the wheel gave him an extra fifty pounds of resistance. The power steering was gone. A scream came from the back of the car he was apparently driving, but he didn’t have time to pay it any mind as he dramatically over-corrected the car, yanking the wheel left in a desperate attempt to right themselves, and then he was spinning like a sheet in a dryer…/// ???.../// His eyes fluttered open to blurriness, greenery outside in blobs against a blue sky, sparse clouds drifting above. He forced his eyes to focus again and looked at the movement in the back. His head swam, turning round and round in his skull, pulsing painfully. He groaned, looking around himself and trying to figure out what the fuck was even happening. “A-are you okay?” He asked on instinct, not even knowing who he was talking to, or who he was, or where he was. “Uh huh.” Came the voice from the back, and he recognized it, just a bit. With the recognition came a creeping feeling of anxiety as more and more came back to him. Soon, the two of them were staring at each other in the rearview mirror as they blinked away grogginess and shook their heads. For some reason, he couldn’t explain it, he was starting to feel a burning hot hatred for that face. It began to show plainly in his eyes, though he wasn’t meaning for it to. And then the other person, the woman in the back seat looking like her clothing was far too small for her, looked at him with one part recognition and another part that same burning hatred. “[i]Donnelley…[/i]” He turned to look at her, snarling, “You [i]fucking cu-[/i]“ She hit first, Donnelley not yet knowing why, but he did know it was a fight now. His nose had been bent and he held his right arm against his head to absorb the hard punches She-Ra had been throwing. He reached down to his seatbelt and unbuckled himself, suddenly falling into the roof with a grunt. He was on his back now, and before She-Ra could unbuckle herself too, Donnelley kicked her head back into her seat once, twice, three times. The force of his kicks were fueled by whatever inexplicable hatred he’d had for the woman, and the very explainable anger at having his nose broken. He just kept kicking, again and again, his hands on the headrests of the front seats to give him leverage and some force as he roared and grunted with each one. By the time he was done, her face was a bloody mess, her lip split completely up to her red-dripping and crooked nostrils as she sucked in haggard, wet breaths through a mouth missing teeth. The muscles in her arms were tense and her hands were quaking fists, the first sign of traumatic brain damage as her eyes lolled back. With the sight of her it all came rushing back. The gunfight. Ava dead, Laine dead. And she was the one who’d dropped Queen like a stone. “Fuck you!” He reared back another time and jammed his heel into her face once more, and She-Ra fell limp, her ragdoll arms falling to rest against the ceiling. Donnelley was snarling, his lips still curled up, “You fuckin’ bitch. You fuckin’ bitch, you killed him, you [i]fuckin’ bitch![/i]” Donnelley crawled his way towards her, hellbent on exacting his revenge, “You’re not gettin’ out of this fuckin’ car alive.” He had a sick laugh bubble up from his throat and past his clenched jaw. He bared pink and bloody teeth in a death’s head grin. Donnelley unhooked her seatbelt, the weight of her falling on top of him. He tried to get her seatbelt to reach around her neck, but the length of it was too short. He felt around his waist, and another sick and hateful chuckle came up his throat. A belt. He undid it and worked it from around his waist just as she began to stir and moan, “N-nuh. Nuh, wai’.” “Is that what he said to you?” “P’ease.” She pleaded through a ruined mouth, bloody drool dripping from her bloodied lips. She snorted every breath in with a noise that sounded like a runny nose, a desperate and pained moan with each exhalation. Donnelley hooked the belt through the buckle and then yanked it tight, holding her head against his shins as he pulled up with everything he had, as if he was trying to pop her Goddamn head off. “Please?” He growled, “[i]Please?[/i] That’s all you fuckin’ got!? Beg me, you fuckin’ [i]bitch![/i]” She struggled against him, trying to get her fingers underneath the belt around her neck, slapping at his thighs, clawing at him. Her silent screams cut off and only ekeing out tiny squeaks and choking gurgles. She slowly stopped her fighting the longer Donnelley kept the pressure, the slaps becoming nothing but pats. He could see it plain as day, Ava going down, gurgling as she coughed up blood. Laine just beside him, not alive to see that he was still trying to fucking get to her when he was on the ground next to her. “You fuckin’ bitch, you fuckin’ killed them.” Donnelley whimpered, and he dragged in a shaky and quivering breath, threatening to turn into a sob. He could feel tears welling up in his eyes, making everything a blur. His high voice came from quivering lips, “I hope you’re in [i]fuckin’[/i] hell.” He let go of the belt after he was sure she’d never wake up again and just lay there next to her. His chest and shoulders rocked by hiccups and sobs. He’d thought it was a dream, and when Ipiktok had told him he’d dreamed of the shootout… he thought it had been a dream seeing Laine and Ava dead before he woke up with Dave pressing down on him. His crying contorted his face even as he heard the window break, felt the beads of glass pepper his flannel button-up shirt and tan Carhartt vest. “Hey! Sir! I’m here to help, okay, just come towards me.” The voice told him. When he made no move to, he felt himself being pulled out by a pair of strong hands, “Hey, man, it’s going to be okay. Alright? It’s okay, just calm down.” He was pulled to his feet and dusted off by slapping hands. He looked at the man who’d come to his rescue, Native features and dark skin, his hair slicked back. A Good Samaritan. “What about her?” He asked. Donnelley looked at She-Ra curled up dead on the overturned ceiling of the Jeep Liberty. He shook his head and wiped at his face, “Dead.” He muttered, “I couldn’t… I couldn’t…” Save her. Was what he wanted to say. Couldn’t save any of them, and he bent double and sank to his haunches. He stayed there for a moment until he heard the other man call out, “Hey, why does she… oh my god…” Donnelley looked over to him with wide eyes, and the man looked back in horror at Donnelley, “You…” “No.” Donnelley shook his head. “No, it was the crash.” “You killed…” Donnelley and the other man held each other’s eye for a long moment. Donnelley stood, his hands balling up into fists, and then the other man was on his own feet and at a dead run for his car. Donnelley was after him, tackling him about halfway up the hill back onto the Highway. “You kill-“ Donnelley jammed a fist into his face, and another, again and again. “Why,” Donnelley said with gritted teeth, “Why, man? Why are you makin’ me fuckin’...” The last punch cracked something, perhaps his nose, but Donnelley wasn’t paying attention to where he was punching. Just that they landed. And hard. With each punch came another utterance of [i]why[/i], again and again, and Donnelley turned the stranger over, hefting him up until the stranger’s back was resting against his front. He wrapped one arm around his neck, grabbing the bicep of his other arm as he rested his hand against the back of his head, “I can’t have you tellin’ no one, partner.” Donnelley suddenly dropped all of his weight into the rear-naked choke, felt and heard bones crunch. “Sorry.” He dragged the body back to the Liberty, nabbed the man’s wallet and keys, repositioned him as best he could to make it look like an accident, and made his way to the stranger’s car. He finished putting his belt back on and opened up the door to the stranger’s white, dirt-stained Toyota 4-runner, closing it after. He drew in a breath, let it out and started the car. He didn’t go just yet, couldnt bring himself to, just sat and stared at the lines of traffic headed towards… he still didn’t fucking know. He opened up the wallet and looked at the ID, Gregory Miles, Alaska. Then whatever wallet was in his pants, Samuel Teague, Alaska again. He looked at the plates of a passing car, Alaska, and another set of Alaska plates on another car. He was still here. Still somewhere in Alaska. His eyes went to the rearview as he adjusted it, and then he saw it there. A child’s car seat, empty. He swallowed down a lump in his throat the set his lip to quivering. [url=https://open.spotify.com/track/6w239a5CMtrmT9EWEgBgQv?si=XlkGKFheRHGFWhPOdJ89rg]He took the hand holding the mirror and smashed it into the steering wheel[/url] in a moment of violence, focusing instead on the pain in his knuckles than Laine’s dead eyes pleading for help that never came. Just pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind, shifting into drive and merging onto the Highway.../// >.../// Sobel heaved in a breath like he’d just come up to the surface after almost drowning. His shoulders heaved, and he looked at the man across from him. Bearded and scarred. The man stared back, eyes dark and angry. Sobel spoke, “It’s you.” Donnelley nodded once.