Fallen

by Ann Simko

  Montana couldn't see, but he knew what Bobby was doing. He grinned as he listened to Ricco's reaction.

  "Wow! I can see. I can see everything! You guys really can't see anything? You can't see me?"

  Everyone laughed. "Not a thing, man," Bobby said.

  "Wow!" It was the most animated Ricco had been since Montana had met him. Way to go Bobby.

  The lights came on, and Ricco took the goggles off and stared at them in amazement.

  "Are we done playing around? We have work to do." Montana gave a nearly imperceptible nod to Bobby and handed Ricco a 9mm Glock. "Make sure he knows how to use it, Bobby."

  Ricco examined it. "This feels like a toy, you sure it's a real gun?"

  Bobby raised his brows. "I'm sure. We got lighter and more powerful over the last few decades." He held out a clip and showed Ricco how to fit it into the grip. "Make sure the clip is secure, then pull back on the slide, release it, and you got a live one in the chamber. Got it?"

  Ricco nodded but still seemed a little uncertain.

  "How does it feel to be the one with the gun again, Private?" Montana said.

  Ricco tightened his hand around the grip, and then slipped a finger inside the trigger guard, letting it rest lightly on the trigger. He bounced his hand slightly, once, twice, as if testing the gun's weight. "Dangerous." He didn't look innocent anymore. He looked like a Marine. "I like it."

  He glanced over at Bobby. "This is sweet."

  Ito laughed as he shouldered a rifle. "You've been talking to Ray."

  Montana finished inspecting his weapon. "No time for practice. Looks like you get to learn on live targets, Private." He loaded a few more clips into the ammo belt around his waist, and then addressed his team. "We move out, now." They didn't need to be told twice, and they silently followed Montana out into the cool of the desert night.

  As they loaded their weapons and ammo in the trunk of one of the rental cars, Montana pulled a sleek Harley 833 Sportser from the shed behind the house. It was a black, low-slung, sweet ride, and his favorite toy. Besides his Jeep, the Harley was one of the few possessions he hated to be parted from.

  He brought the bike around and parked it in front of the car, while his team waited in the dark of a desert night for his final word. As he faced them, he felt something completely alien. It was just small seed stirring in the pit of his belly, but it was there. Doubt. He didn't like it.

  Ito must have understood his hesitation. He placed a hand on his shoulder. "We will bring him home, Montana." Montana. Not sir or Major. Montana.

  Montana swallowed the hundred excuses he had for bringing these men here. "If any of you decide to leave, I wouldn't think less of you. This is my fight, and this is my brother. You have lives, people, and families of your own to think of." He paused, and his eyes settled on Bobby. "I should have handled this by myself."

  They stood in silence for all of two seconds, until Ray broke the tension. "Yeah? Well, screw that." He glanced at the rest of the team. "He invites us to a party, hands out the favors, and then he wants to start without us." He turned back to Montana with a grin. "Ain't gonna happen, sir."

  Ito's rumbling laugh filled the night. A broad smile spread across his face. With his white teeth and eyes gleaming in the dark, he resembled a giant, black, Cheshire cat.

  Bobby said, "We're not here because we have to be, sir. We're here because you need us. If you think you can do this alone, then... Well, with all due respect, Major, you're wrong."

  "We're not leaving," Patrick added. "Deal with it."

  Montana pointed at the weapon Patrick cradled affectionately. "You're just saying that, because if you leave, you won't get to play with your new toy."

  Patrick slung the rifle over his shoulder and put a protective hand on the strap. "Yes, sir." he said with a completely straight face. Montana wasn't certain if he was serious.

  Without being asked, the team gathered around. Ricco looked small and very alone standing by the car. Montana motioned to him, and Ray made a hole, inviting him into the circle.

  Ito quoted the Ranger's motto. "Rangers lead the way."

  Ray snorted. "Yeah, and we kick ass, too."

  Nothing more needed to be said. Montana straddled the Harley and kicked the engine to life. He took one last look at the team. "We all good?"

  He got nods all around. He trusted these men, and that was a good feeling. He had missed that feeling more than he wanted to admit. "Then, let's go get my brother."

  He ripped the throttle back, and tore into the quiet of the desert night.

  Chapter 17

  Twenty minutes into the first serum infusion, Dr. Thomas went into convulsions. His body arched on the bed as his muscles contracted in violent spasmodic jerks. His eyes rolled back until only the whites were visible, and saliva foamed from his mouth.

  Sergeant Carlson had expected that. He had seen it happen before, and had established a secondary IV for just such an occurrence. While the serum continued to drip into one arm, he straddled Dakota's writhing body and struggled to inject Valium into the other line. By the time he accomplished the relatively simple task, he was drenched in sweat.

  Countering the seizures was a fine line, and Carlson prayed he hadn't crossed it. Too much of the drug, and respirations would be suppressed to the point of stopping. Too little, and the seizures that gripped Dakota's nervous system would deplete his oxygen reserve, causing irreversible brain damage. He watched and waited.

  Two minutes—one hundred and twenty seconds—that's all the longer the convulsions lasted. Carlson figured he guessed right. The Doctor's body relaxed and his heart rate and respiration returned to baseline. When he checked Dakota's pupils, they were equal and responsive to the flashes of light shone in his eyes.

  Carlson breathed a sigh of relief. "Good news, Doc. No sign of brain damage."

  The rest of the infusion went without any problems. He hung the second and final bag of Ricco's serum, while the doc slept off his Valium chaser. As he adjusted the flow of the yellow liquid, he wondered exactly what the stuff was doing to the doc. He'd always considered Ricco to be a freak of nature. The man was over a hundred years old, but he didn't look a day over nineteen. It just wasn't natural. But he'd never felt guilt over what he had helped do to Ricco. That was different, that was his job.

  He watched the monitor as the vital signs readout moved across the screen, but after a while his gaze moved to the doc's face. In the quiet of the cell, with the steady rhythm of breathing lulling him to another place, another time, Carlson found his thoughts drawn to when he had first met the General. He had no wife or kids, only the military. But after everything he had sacrificed for his country, he couldn't even find a job to support him in civilian life. That's when the General had found him, on the streets, strung out, and slowly dying. The General took him in and cleaned him up.

  He owed the General more than his life. He owed him his honor. It was debt he felt obligated to repay.

  The story was the same for everyone in the Program. The forgotten, the damned, the neglected, the rejected, the General had found them all. He had given them back more than their lives. He gave them back something they thought lost forever: their honor and their respect. He gave them the chance to look in the mirror again.

  Carlson never questioned anything the General asked of him. He followed orders because it was what he had been trained to do. The Program had become his life. But now, as he looked down at Dr. Thomas, Carlson felt for the first time that what he was doing might not be right. This man spent his life helping others. He was a doctor. He had helped Ricco, and look what it had gotten him.

  Carlson shook his head, ridding himself of the thoughts. He glanced at the monitors and was pleased to see that the doc's vital signs had stabilized. It gave him the leisure to do something he had wanted to do since the man puked all over him. He didn't think the General would mind. In fact, his exact words had been, "Do whatever you think you have to."

  He left the room just
long enough to get what he needed, and then he proceeded to bathe the doc and do what he could for his injured arm. Trying to be as gentle as he could, Carlson cut away the soiled and foul-smelling clothes. He washed the sweat and filth from the doc's body. With that task completed, and his patient still stable, he took hold of the shattered arm. "It's a good thing you're out of it, Doc. I'm thinking this is going to hurt." He pulled and twisted until the bones realigned themselves, and eased them back down into the channel of flesh and muscle they had been forced from.

  Dakota didn't flinch the whole time, and his heart rate remained steady. That was a good sign, but fragmented pieces of bone still lay scattered in the infected wound. Carlson knew it was only a temporary fix, but with the arm stabilized, at least it would not cause Dakota agony every time he moved. He finished by taping an aluminum splint to the underside of Dakota's arm, and then wrapped it tight with surgical gauze. After dressing Dakota in a set of scrubs, he positioned the arm across the Doctor's chest and secured it in a sling to minimize movement.

  Carlson sat back, feeling pleased with himself and the work he had done. Although it had only been a couple of hours since the infusion began, Dakota clearly looked much better. The color had returned to his face, and he no longer sweated with fever. He looked at peace.

  He listened to the doc's respirations with his stethoscope. "Clear as a bell." He placed a tympanic thermometer in Dakota's ear. "101, damn near normal." A wave of relief surged through him.

  Unable to contain his feelings, Carlson leapt to his feet and threw his arms up in victory. "Ladies and gentlemen, it appears as though Doctor Dakota Thomas will live after all. Yes!"

  * * * *

  Montana killed the engine and coasted the bike to a stop on the side of the road. The rental car pulled up behind him and went dark. For just a moment he gazed out into the quiet darkness of the desert and willed it to part with its secrets.

  His relationship with the desert was a complicated one. In all the years he had spent asking the desert the questions of his life, he had learned more in its silence than he had through any formal teachings offered to him.

  Dakota understood. Dakota understood that Montana spoke volumes through his silence. Where the hell are you Dakota?

  Car doors opened and feet crunched on gravel as his team started to unload their gear. He forced his attention back to what needed to be done.

  He shook wind-blown hair out of his eyes. "We're about a mile from where Dakota and I found Tommy's car. It's only been twenty-four hours since this all went down, so I'm thinking the place is probably still pretty hot, if not with cops, then maybe with this 'General's' eyes. Either way, we need to assume we will not be alone out there. We go in fast, and we go in quiet. Our only advantage is that we're not expected."

  Ray grinned. "Well yeah, that and superior firepower, not to mention they don't have me."

  Bobby rolled his eyes. Montana just shook his head as he retrieved a box of headsets from the trunk, and handed them out. He fitted a wireless earpiece around his left ear. A small blue flashing light indicated it was working. The rest of the team, save for Ricco, did the same.

  "Patrick, take point. The bunker will be a in a ravine about a mile due east of here. Give us a sit-rep when you find it. Approach with caution and give anyone there a wide berth. Maintain radio silence until then."

  Patrick gave him a single nod.

  "Okay, com-check, channel one." When Montana was satisfied that everyone was on the correct channel and they could hear one another, he gave a nod. Patrick headed off into the dark at an easy, ground-eating lope, and soon the darkness swallowed him.

  "We'll give Patrick a few hundred yards, and then we move." While he was checking his ammo, he noticed Ricco standing away from the rest, as though he had no place among them. He looked lost. On the pretense of looking for more ammo, he moved closer, so Ricco would be the only one to hear him. "You okay?"

  Ricco jumped. "Yes, sir."

  "You don't look okay. I need you with us, Private, not locked up inside your head. Do you understand? I don't have time to look after your ass." Montana motioned toward the others. "Neither do they."

  Instead of making eye contact, Ricco fumbled with his weapon, struggling to load the clip properly. "Yes, sir." When the clip failed to slide in smoothly, he ejected it and tried again.

  Montana took the Glock and the clip from his hands, loaded it correctly, and then handed it back to Ricco. "All right, spill it, Ricco. Tell me what's bothering you or stay here."

  "I don't know. This is all a little weird, I guess. Being back here...well, being anywhere really. I have no idea what you expect of me. What's a sit-rep? And what's a com-check? Major, I don't want to mess this up, but I don't know what to do." The words came out in a rush, laced with uncertainty and fear.

  Montana checked an ammo clip and added it to his bag. "Is your shoulder okay?"

  The unexpected question had caught Ricco off guard. He absently rubbed his injury. "Yeah, it's fine. I guess."

  "Good. Just stay with me, Ricco. That's all you need to do. I promise I won't let anything happen to you. Understand?"

  Ricco clearly still had doubts, but he nodded. As Montana turned back to his men, he said, "Sir?"

  Montana waited for him to continue.

  "There is one more thing." Ricco lowered his eyes and hesitated. His voice became a whisper as he seemed to struggle with internal demons. "Do you remember what I asked you, back at the hospital, about if it looked like they were going to take me again?" He raised his head and looked Montana in the eyes. "Remember the promise you made me?"

  He sounded like he was about to choke. "Sir, I need you to keep that promise."

  Montana kept his voice quiet and controlled, despite the fact that Ricco had crossed an invisible line. "I don't forget my promises, Private, and I never go back on my word. If that doesn't convince you, let me make it perfectly clear. That isn't going to happen." He stepped closer. "Now, I'll ask you one more time...do you understand?"

  Ricco gave him a tentative nod.

  Montana walked back to the team, but decided to keep an extra close eye out for the kid. It wasn't fair bringing him back here and expecting him to keep it together, but Montana—and he supposed Ricco as well—had learned long ago that life was anything but fair.

  Ray paced in front of the car as if he was about ready to crack out of nervous excitement. "Come on, sir. Are we moving or what?"

  Montana tried to suppress a grin. "Let's go find Ray something to destroy. Move out."

  Ray waggled his eyebrows as he trotted past. "About Goddamn time!"

  Montana followed his team and made sure Ricco was at his side. He shook his head at Ray's attitude. The guy acted like he was on his way to a kegger, rather than facing unknown danger out there in the dark, but then, that's why Ray was Ray. Montana wouldn't have it any other way.

  * * * *

  They made good time, but after fifteen minutes at a steady jog, Ricco lagged behind. He'd tried to keep up, even though the pace was killing him. Physical exercise had not been a part of the Program's routine, and his thighs quivered as underused muscles objected to the abuse. His lungs burned with every breath. Sweat dripped from his face. He stumbled once, got right back up and ran a few more steps, but then everything shut down. He tried to will himself forward, but his body refused to follow the commands his head gave it. The desert swirled around him as he fell to his knees. He lowered his head and sucked the cool night air into his lungs in great gulps. He wanted to call out to Montana, but was afraid to make any more noise, he could only pray they didn't leave him too far behind.

  He hadn't needed to worry. Montana must have seen him fall because he silently signaled his men to hold up. Ricco heard soft foot-falls and saw Montana jogging back through the dark. Still gulping air, he shook his head. "I'm sorry, Major." He wiped sweat from his face with the sleeve of his shirt. "I can't... I can't keep up." Ashamed by the admission, he lowered his head again, his face bur
ning with the effort and his humiliation.

  "I'm surprised you made it this far." Montana knelt at his side. The major wasn't even breathing hard. "You almost bled to death a couple of days ago. I'm not sure I could have done better."

  Ricco's breath came easier now, but his legs still felt boneless. "You're just...saying that...to let me rest...sir." He attempted a smile as Montana offered him a hand up. Ricco took it, standing on unsteady legs.

  "Does it matter?"

  "No, sir, I guess it doesn't."

  "Then keep moving Private. If you stop now, your muscles will stiffen up." Before Ricco had a chance to reply, Montana's hand went to his earpiece. He took the time to collect himself. He'd thought for sure the Major would leave him if he couldn't keep up. He felt useless, weak, scared. He hated that. With his hands on his knees, he concentrated on breathing and watched the major's face with interest. Whatever he was listening to wasn't sitting right with him.

  "Give me a visual on our players, Patrick." Ricco wish he knew what the major was talking about. Not only was he about a hundred years behind the times, he had only been a private. He had no business working with these men.

  "Stand by." the major said. "Ricco, Patrick has two men in his sights. Big guys, dressed like military, carrying mini-14's. Sound familiar?"

  "Black, snort-nosed rifles?" Ricco knew those guns. He didn't know what they were called but he had them shoved in his face enough to remember what they looked like.

  "Affirmative."

  Maybe he could be useful. "They sound like the General's men. They all carry those things." Despite the calmness of his words, his throat tightened at the thought of being this close to the hell he had just escaped. He'd sworn he would never go back, and yet here he was practically on the General's doorstep. It took everything he had not to turn and run as fast as he could in the other direction.

  The major and his team were so sure they could take on the General and win. Ricco wasn't that brave when faced with the prospect of being put back in a cell under the General's command. It was easy to be brave when you had no idea what faced you in the dark.