Fallen

by Ann Simko

  "Later. If you drink too much now, you'll just puke again." The guard sighed and shook his head as he looked down at Dakota. "You're a mess, Doc. What you really need is an IV."

  For the first time, Dakota braved a look at his arm. He felt he was looking at some foreign thing, not a piece of his own body. The break was at his mid-forearm, with the ends of both ulna and radius protruding about an inch from the ragged, bloody flesh. Nausea threatened once more, and he looked away. "Nice job."

  Bubba ignored the sarcasm and offered him the water again. Dakota sucked on the bottle, trying to get as much as he could before it was taken away again. He knew Bubba was right, and he should just sip it, but his thirst overpowered his good sense. On the third gulp, Bubba started to pull the bottle away, but Dakota clamped down with his teeth to buy more time. He only succeeded in sucking the liquid into his lungs. He coughed and sputtered the water back out, and then defeated the purpose entirely by throwing it all up.

  Bubba helped him onto his side and stayed with him until he was through retching. "Hang on a second, Doc."

  By then, Dakota was beyond caring what happened to him, and was surprised when a few moments later Bubba placed a cool, damp cloth on his face. "I told you little sips." He shook his head at Dakota.

  Dakota was too wiped to ask the question in his head.

  "Medic," the guard explained.

  "Ahh." Dakota winced as another spasm shook him. He felt like a dried up corn husk, the ones that rattle in winter winds, clinging stubbornly to the stalks that once gave them life.

  "Tell me something," he said when the pain became more tolerable. "How can you do this?"

  Bubba shook his head.

  "Take care of me, after doing this to me?" Dakota indicated his broken arm with his eyes, careful not to move as he did so.

  The guard simply shrugged. "Orders," he said, but it was clear he was frustrated.

  Dakota closed his eyes at the insanity of the answer. He was at this man's mercy. There was no point in pissing him off with a debate he didn't have the energy to start. He heard the clank of his cell door once more and assumed Bubba had gone back to his post, but he felt hands on him and he panicked at the contact. Pushing away from the hands on him only caused agony to flare once more.

  "Take it easy, Doc."

  Dakota let the guard pull him onto his back and watched through blurry eyes, as Bubba tied a tourniquet around his good arm. He hoped the look on his face asked the question he couldn't seem to put into words.

  "For the pain." Bubba purged air from a syringe and a drop of clear liquid oozed from the needle's tip.

  "What?"

  "Hydramorphone. Not nearly enough, but you're a little shocky. Give you too much, I could bottom out your pressure, might even kill you."

  Dakota felt a sharp bite as the needle pierced his flesh. Within seconds sweet relief flooded his system. He couldn't say the pain went away, but he certainly didn't care about it as much. Before the narcotic could take him completely under, he turned to Bubba. "Hey... What's your name?"

  Bubba covered Dakota with a blanket. "My name's Carlson. Sergeant William Robert Carlson."

  Dakota closed his eyes and waited to be swept away into narcotic bliss. Still looks like a Bubba to me.

  Chapter 13

  It is said that once activated, Army Rangers can be anywhere in the world in eighteen hours. They had twelve hours, and none of the Rangers Ito contacted had been listed as active in a long time. But Rangers are Rangers for life. It's in the blood.

  One of their own was in trouble, and a single phone call had the three remaining members of Montana's team converging on the state of Nevada. From across the country they came. Leaving jobs and family they came, because Montana needed them. It was as simple as that.

  By ten that evening a family reunion of sorts was taking place, but it was short-lived. They had work to do. Montana introduced Private Ricco, and then briefed his team on recent events. "Our mission is fairly simple." He passed his phone with the image of Dakota from man to man. "We need to retrieve an injured man from a secure location. I have no idea how many men are at the site or how heavily armed they might be. Ricco is our only source of information, and he was a prisoner." Montana looked at each of the men to whom he had entrusted his life on countless occasions. He was placing his brother's life in their hands now.

  "Sweet," Ray sounded as if he was ready to leave now. "What are we waiting for?"

  Montana returned his grin. For the first time since Dakota had gone missing, he felt like he could breathe again. He had missed this. These men were as much his family as his brother. He had no doubts that each of them would give their lives for him, if it came to that, as he would for them. Theirs was an unspoken bond few civilians could hope to understand. To them, family was more than blood. It was trust. It was loyalty. It was the training that gave them the courage and the confidence to accomplish this task. "The bastard gave me forty-eight hours until he calls with the exchange instructions."

  "So, we go in now." Ray never changed. He was the equivalent of an eight-year-old with ADD on amphetamines but the guy was good. He was a genius when it came to explosives and munitions. He didn't know what it meant to be afraid, and he had more adrenaline than blood flowing through his veins. Montana had seen him grow eerily calm in the face of overwhelming odds, even when grievously wounded. Ray thrived at the prospect of dismal odds and certain death.

  Montana would not want Ray as an adversary.

  "Do we know where your brother is being held, Major?" Bobby was the youngest, smallest, and perhaps the smartest of them all. He stood five-four and tipped the scales at one-thirty, but he had a sixth sense that kept him alive. He knew where rounds were being fired from, and he had a knack for staying out of harm's way.

  Montana hoped he still had the gift. He felt incredible guilt at Bobby's presence. His wife of two years was just days away from the birth of their first child, but like the rest of them, Bobby had come of his own free will.

  "That's another problem," Montana admitted. "I hate like hell letting his guy have any more time with Dakota than necessary, but I have no idea where they might be keeping him."

  "I can help with that." Everyone turned toward Ricco. He had been studying the picture of Dakota for some time. His expression showed how uncomfortable he was with the unwanted attention. "I—I mean, I think I can help."

  "Okay, Ricco. Tell us what you think," Montana said.

  Ricco licked his lips and his voice cracked on his first word. "Well, see here on the wall behind Dakota?" He pointed to the blurry background on the small picture. "There's an insignia. I'm pretty sure I recognize it."

  Montana took the phone from Ricco. He had been so focused on Dakota's image that he had missed the details.

  He handed the phone to Ito. "Can you clean this up?"

  Ito squinted for a moment, and then sat down at the computer. "I think so. Give me a minute." He plugged the phone into the hard drive, tapped a few keys, and pulled the image up on the monitor. The enlarged image was distorted. It changed slowly, as Ito manipulated pixels. "There, that's about the best I can do." The image was a lot clearer than the one on the tiny phone screen.

  Ricco had been watching in evident amazement. "Can you make that part bigger?" He pointed to the upper corner, where numbers and letters had appeared on the wall behind Dakota.

  Ito zoomed in. Even distorted, the image was now readable. "How's that?"

  Ricco leaned in close and studied the image. Finally he looked back, excitement clear on his face. "I know where they're keeping him." He gave Montana an elated smile. "I know where Dakota is."

  Montana felt hope surge, but he kept a straight face. "Were you planning on keeping it a secret, Private, or are you going to share with the rest of us?"

  "No, sir... I mean, yes, sir." Ricco flushed, but he pointed to the black insignia on the wall in the photo. "There, you see that? BD-3."

  Bobby stepped closer and stared at the monitor.
"What's it mean?"

  "It stands for the Beaver Dam Location number 3. I've been there before. I can't tell you exactly where it is or how to get there from here, but I know they have several bunkers in the area, and that's one of the older ones. They haven't had me there for a long time. I thought they abandoned it."

  "Beaver Dam?" Montana was confused. "But that's where we found Tommy Lawson and the others. They did abandon that location."

  Ricco shook his head. "No, sir. That was BD-1. I've been there for years. I can't really remember how long because they hadn't moved me in quite a while, but I know that BD-3 isn't that far away."

  "How far away? Beaver Dam's not a back yard—it's over three and a half square miles of untouched desert." Montana let out a frustrated breath. He dragged a hand through his hair and turned his back on the team.

  "I don't know. They had me sedated whenever they moved me. I can't say exactly."

  Patrick spoke for the first time. "You know, that's the great thing about deserts." Everyone turned to stare at him.

  He was tall and lanky, with long blond hair pulled back into a tail that hung down his back, dark, brown eyes alert and taking in everything. It was a novelty to hear Patrick speak more than two words at a time. The man was eerily quiet.

  Montana didn't think anyone really knew Patrick, but the man was the best sharpshooter he'd ever seen. He was scary-good. Tell Patrick to take out a target, and it was taken out. The circumstances didn't matter.

  Montana voiced what everyone must have been thinking as he turned back around. "What's so great about the desert?"

  Patrick almost smiled. "It's not very good at keeping secrets."

  Montana understood. "The trail."

  "They had to move him. We have a search perimeter. We track them."

  "In time?" Montana knew Patrick was good, but twenty-three hundred acres was a lot of ground to cover, and Dakota's life was in the balance.

  Patrick shrugged and leaned back. "Give me an hour."

  "But it's dark out." Ricco's tone showed he couldn't believe they could take on the General and win.

  Patrick glanced out the window at the star-filled sky and a moon-drenched landscape that appeared to stretch into infinity. He conceded the point with a shrug. "Okay, ninety minutes."

  Montana felt pride welling up in his chest. Pride for who these men were, and for what they were willing to sacrifice simply at his asking. He had never requested anything like this from them in the past, yet he knew there would be no hesitation. They were Rangers.

  During training, they'd had a saying: With the tab or on a slab. It was a variation of the Spartan's mother's directive to their soldier sons, With your shield or upon it. In reality, the tab was only a small rectangular piece of cloth sewn over the right breast pocket of their uniform. Ranger, it read, simply. But it meant far more. It meant you had survived the barbaric training required to be called an Army Ranger. It was a symbol of respect, and it was earned with not a small amount of blood, pain, and soul-searching.

  It was this all-or-nothing attitude that had gotten them through their missions. Now, active duty or not, one of their own was in trouble. Dakota might not be a Ranger, but he was the brother of their team leader, and that made him family.

  This one was personal. Nobody threatened family and lived to talk about it.

  Montana said, "I know I don't have to say this, but this General is not an honorable man. What he did to Private Ricco is unforgivable." He looked at Ricco as he spoke. "He goes under the guise of the military, but I don't believe he is. We go in with one objective in mind—failure is not an option."

  "What would you have us do?" Bobby had assembled a semi-automatic assault rifle and was lining up the sight.

  Without answering, Montana took the weapon, inspected it, and then chambered a round. The rifle was a thing of beauty. Montana let it distract him for a moment before tearing his gaze away from the sleek, black, barrel and locking his attention on Bobby. "I want you to bring my brother home."

  Patrick gave Montana an almost imperceptible nod. "Consider it done, sir."

  For the next hour, five ex-Army Rangers, and one very rusty Marine private discussed maneuvers. Ray and Bobby showed Ricco the advancements in firepower that had occurred over the last hundred years, and reacquainted him with the feel of a weapon in his hand. But for all of them, there was but one goal: To bring Dakota Thomas home.

  Chapter 14

  Time had lost all meaning. Dakota drifted in and out of consciousness, and the pain followed him, even in his dreams. His fever hovered dangerously high. His blood pressure had dipped below shock levels, and a disturbing congestion had developed in his chest. His arm was, beyond a doubt, infected. Bubba did what he could, but it wasn't much.

  He felt abandoned. Was Montana looking for him? He knew in his heart that Montana would come for him eventually, but the more time that passed, the more despair took hold. He was beginning to believe he had become, like Michael Ricco, one of the forgotten ones—one of the fallen.

  The overhead lights flared to life, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He had quickly learned that any change in his environment only brought more pain. He heard the familiar sound of heels clicking on concrete and braced himself for the worst. The door to his cell opened, and the clicking heels came to a stop near his head.

  "My, my, Doctor, you really don't look well."

  Dakota ignored the General. A hand touched the side of his face, and he flinched.

  "What are his vitals?"

  "Heart rate 150, blood pressure 80 over 40, and his temperature is 103."

  Dakota realized, in a strange detached way, that the numbers Bubba rattled off were about him. He was in worse shape than he'd thought. The logical part of his brain that was still functioning, voiced concern. I shouldn't be this bad this quickly. The illogical part just wanted them to turn off the lights and leave him the hell alone.

  Even in his feverish daze, he heard Bubba say, "Sir, he needs fluids, at the very least."

  He heard papers shuffling before the General said, "I had hoped he would prove a little hardier, but I agree, Sergeant. He's no use to me dead. Do what you have to, just keep him alive."

  There was a brief silence. Believing the General had left, Dakota opened his eyes. The lights were still glaring down on him, and the General was still standing over him, watching. Just watching him.

  That scared him, that silent observation.

  "Doctor..." The General took a step closer and squatted down next to Dakota's mattress. "It's fascinating, isn't it, the amount of pain a human being can survive?"

  Under the General's clinical gaze, Dakota felt like a bug under a microscope. He found both humor and comfort in that odd image as memories from his childhood invaded his brain. The pictures that played inside his head felt safe and he retreated deep within himself, trying to find a place where no one could hurt him, a place as far removed from reality as he could manage. He closed his eyes and tried to play dead.

  The General was having none of it. "Did you know Ricco survived over thirty-six hours of electric shock? The pain he endured must have been beyond comprehension. Yet it took him less than a day to recover. That was an amazing thing to watch. He has had every bone in his body broken, some more than once. I would bet that none of those injuries is apparent on radiographs. He is, in a word, miraculous. Don't you think?"

  When Dakota remained still and quiet, the General slapped his face. Not hard, but it had the desired effect. Dakota's eyes snapped open, and he raised his right hand defensively.

  "Are you with me, Dr. Thomas?"

  Dakota slowly lowered his hand. "What do you want?" He glared, and let all the hate he felt show on his face.

  The General tutted softly. "You really should do something about managing your temper. Considering your present circumstances, losing it is not healthy."

  Just then Bubba entered the cell. His hands were full of familiar equipment, and Dakota stiffened with fear at the thought of
what the man might do with it.

  "Relax, Doc. I'm just going to get some fluids into you."

  For some bizarre reason that Dakota couldn't understand, Bubba's presence calmed him. The man had broken his arm without mercy, but he had also been the only source of compassion in this hell. Bubba took away his pain. Bubba cooled his face. Bubba cared whether he lived or died.

  He felt the familiar tourniquet around his arm, the needle that slipped effortlessly into his vein, and watched as the IV was established and hung above his head on a small hook. He tried to smile, but only succeeded in wincing as pain rippled through him. He couldn't ask Bubba for anything, not with the General in the room. Their secret would be blown, and Dakota would lose his only salvation.

  "I do hope you will learn to behave yourself, Doctor. You will find that positive behavior is rewarded. Perhaps something for the pain, or maybe I will allow the sergeant to set your arm. It looks extremely painful."

  Dakota forced himself to smile. "I won't be here long enough for that. You've made a huge mistake."

  The General's face took on a look of exaggerated comprehension. "Ah, I assume you are referring to your brother, the Ranger?"

  The room began to spin again. The General's face came in and out of focus and nausea threatened to overcome him. Dakota swallowed and blinked several times before finding the strength to glare up at him." You have no idea the trouble you're in for." He had no more energy, and he turned his head away from the General, and sought that place deep inside himself once more.

  The General sighed, and more gently than Dakota would have expected, took his face and turned it back.

  He would have jerked away from the contact, but it required more energy than he could summon.

  "Yes, well, I'm afraid I have some distressing news for you, Doctor. I did contact your brother to arrange for your release, but unfortunately, he decided not to play by my rules. My men killed him a few hours ago, along with Private Ricco." He paused, as if to let the information sink in. "It is a pity; he would have made an interesting subject. I don't believe we have ever studied brothers before."