by K Alexander
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"
------
Christopher Melville drops the phone in helpless shock and turns to stare at the woman trussed up on his sofa. Her face is still red from his grip on it, and there is a bleeding gash just under the eye where he accidentally scratched her with his ring. Even so, her blue eyes are glaring at him with the same kind of intensity they had when he first kidnapped her at her own house.
"What's going on?"
His glowering query brings about a slight grin on her face. "Why, whatever do you mean?"
At the sarcastic reply he bites his lip in fury before he slams a fist against the wall. "What the hell is going on?! Who are you?"
She smiles unkindly. "I'm Claire Walsch. Isn't that who you'd like me to be?"
"Shut the hell up!" Jumping up he strides towards her. When the flat of his hand meets her face she turns with the impact and then looks back at him impassively.
His face draws up into an unattractive glower. "Tell me!"
"I have nothing to tell you."
"Who are you?"
"Claire Walsch."
This time he hits her with his fist. It connects with her jaw and sends her backwards onto the couch. A fine trickle of blood runs down her mouth where she's bitten her lip, and he doesn't even notice when it begins to drip onto the dull blue fabric of his couch, leaving a small but spreading black stain. Eyeing the unconscious woman balefully he flexes his hand fretfully before he starts to pace up and down in the small room.
------ George Turner is still grinding his teeth furiously when the phone rings. Caller unknown.
"Mahoney?"
"I hear you're looking for me." Gritty, hoarse, coupled with an air of amusement.
"Ryan." And now the plan has to go ahead, regardless of the bizarre hitch. "Did you also hear that I have something you want?"
"Actually, the way I heard it… you're not sure whether what you have is what I want at all." The low laugh that follows it enrages him. "Who do you have, Turner?"
He spits it out, his hatred for Leah Ryan palpable. "Doctor Claire Walsch."
"Are you sure?" She's so deliberately sugary and it's driving him up the wall.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Ryan. Get here or I hurt her."
"If she's not Claire then I wouldn't really care, General. Sorry."
"Fuck you!" He feels like he's going to die of a heart attack right now.
"No thanks." She's maddeningly conversational. "Hey, let me talk to her, George. Maybe it'll help your case if I can hear that it's really Claire."
"You don't get requests, Ryan!"
"Suit yourself. It's the only way I might co-operate."
"You're a fucking bitch. I regret ever getting involved with you."
"It's your own fault, George. You started this. Don't get righteous on my ass now. Put her on."
Turner eyes the collapsed figure in the chair wrathfully. "She's not up to talking to you." Even as he says it the blonde begins to stir, a low moan slipping from her throat.
Whether Ryan hears it or not he can't tell, but his remark doesn't please her. "You'd better not have hurt her, Turner." A smile begins to twitch at the corner of his mouth at this statement of apparent concern, but the rest of the words wipe it stubbornly from his face. "You think I care because I fucked her? C'mon, Turner. Don't you know what I'm like by now? I wouldn't give a shit - but it wouldn't be in your best interest right now, either. I'd be careful if I were you."
With a snarl Turner stalks towards the blonde, noting her slight cringe away from him with satisfaction before he pushes the phone roughly against her ear. "Tell your friend Ryan that you're Claire Walsch."
Dazedly she stares up at him as she speaks into the receiver. "Ryan?"
Her voice is slightly slurred and strained, and it breaks Ryan's heart. The soldier speaks quickly. "Listen to me. It doesn't matter who you are … "
"I'm… "
"No!" Ryan interrupts fiercely. "Don't say anything. Him knowing which one you are makes one of you worthless in his game. Be brave, Walsch. I'll come for you soon."
She barely finishes the sentence before Turner's back on the phone. "So? It's Claire Walsch, Ryan."
"I wouldn't be so sure if I were you."
"It's her. I'm looking straight at her."
"So is Christopher Melville."
"He's bluffing."
"He's not a good con artist, George. I know him." She chuckled. "It seems you've got a problem."
George Turner takes a few deep breaths before he speaks again. "Here's the fucking thing, Ryan. If you don't pitch up in an hour, I'll shoot this bitch regardless of whether she's Walsch or not. Okay? Fuck this little game of yours. I'm not playing."
"Okay." The soldier sounds imperturbable. "Do what you feel like, George. I might be further away than an hour anyway. Just remember that whether she's Claire or not, she's the only chance you have. Blow it, and the next time you see me it'll be at my discretion down the barrel of a gun. Oh, how much fun we'll have! See you, pal."
The click in his ear mobilizes the squat bullish man. With a roar he begins to pound the wooden desk, not stopping until he is out of breath and his fists are grazed and bleeding. Then, with a curse, he dials another number.
"Sir."
"Mahoney, tell me you found them."
"No, sir. We did find signs of a struggle. Smith at ComCorp's just tracked Melville. He's not far from here - we're on our way. Location should be coming up on your handheld about now."
Pulling open the top drawer of the desk George Turner clamps the phone between shoulder and ear to check his encoded mail, and indeed, the very first from the top is from Alistair Smith at ComCorp - a detailed address in a suburb not far from Walsch's.
"Okay. Mahoney? Don't hurt that woman."
"Sir. And Melville?"
"He's a rat. Throw him down a hole like one."
He slams down the phone and glares at nothing for a while before he stalks to the window and slides it up, resting his hands on the sill while he takes in deep calming breaths.
When the fresh air flows over her the blonde doctor opens her eyes blearily and takes stock of her surroundings for the first time. She is in a small room which looks like a government office - all faded white walls and starkness. Beyond a square heating system in the corner to her right and the desk in front of her there is no other furniture. By the simple fact that she cannot see the door she assumes that it is behind her. The sturdy general is standing at the window, his broad back to her as he takes greedy gulps of air. There are half-moon sweat marks under his arm-pits, dark against his olive-green shirt.
Her right eye is swelling shut, and there is an insistent throbbing at the back of her head. When she tries to move her mouth she starts at the sting of her obviously split lower lip as the wound breaks open again. A salty drop of blood makes its way onto her tongue. She watches the man for a while, groggily, as he leans against the window frame, and then blinks a few times to try and focus her weak awareness. There's no point!, her mind is telling her tiredly, you're hurt and weak and possibly drugged, and there's no way you're going to escape this big evil man of your own volition. Nevertheless she pushes her alertness to the furthest point it will go - which is not that far at all - and studies her surroundings with exaggerated concentration, willing to memory every small detail for the negligible possibility that it may mean something at some stage. She pushes to the back the sound of the voice in her head screaming You're going to die here, wondering with a sense of the absurd whether this is anything like the voice Ryan experienced. It may be whatever's floating about in her bloodstream, or it may be the surreal incident she finds herself in, but it almost feels as if time's slowing down and the air's turning static. As she blinks, twice, to rid herself of the awkward feeling, she hears something crackle roughly. At first she imagines it to be another of her apparent audial hallucinations, but then the big man at the window turns and reaches to take a two-way radio from somewhe
re off the desk.
"Marshall?"
The man known as Tango is barely audible over the crackle of static. "General Turner… problem with … Bravo's ... not sure what … over."
"Marshall? Marshall!" Turner barks into the radio vainly.
"Can't… gunshots… have to stand down… "
"Marshall!" Turner slams down the radio, producing a loud squeal of feedback. Glaring at the electronic device angrily the big man rattles off a string of curses. "Fucking Ryan - it's a fucking trap! So obvious!" With another few choice expletives he unclips his holster and slides out his pistol to check the clip. "Thinks I'm just going to march in there? I know better, you bitch - I'm coming for you."
He stalks towards the blonde, but this time passes her with only a cursory glance. There is a moment of silence before she hears the door latch open and then close. Silence. Gritting her teeth she tries to shift her burning arms to feel out the strength of the knot. She expects his threatening voice or swinging hand to accost her at any moment, but beyond the thundering of the blood rushing through her head, there is nothing. When she tries to pry apart her hands her shoulders feel as if they're on fire, and when she persists with dogged stubbornness her head begins to pound and nausea flashes through her in retaliation against the physical strain. Frustration makes her push too hard, and finally a sharp shooting pain explodes through her stressed right shoulder. Smothering the involuntary moan she tries again to force her bonds, abandoning the effort with a sob when her limb protests violently. Dropping her head forward onto her chest she tries to keep back the hot tears of frustration which are threatening to spill over. It is in that moment of stern self-control that she notices a muted sound completely out of place.
Click.
Lifting her head she looks around as well as her constraints and injuries will allow her to. Everything seems as it should be, and she is just about to start questioning her own sanity when the window slides open in front of her, seemingly of its own volition. Her breath escapes in a stutter as she gawks at it, unwilling to believe her tired eyes, and when a head suddenly pops up on the other side she jerks back in dread.
Captain Leah Ryan's vivid green eyes meet hers for a shocked moment, the dark woman taking in her battered condition, before the soldier throws an arm over the window sill and hoists herself into the room. When she hits the floor she rolls behind the desk, out of the blonde's sight for a moment, and rapidly assesses the situation before she rises to her full height. Her tread is light and sure when she approaches the doctor, and her expression is concerned.
"Walsch."
Low, fond and gritty. Kneeling behind the woman Ryan begins to undo the knots with great care, sliding a knife out of a holster on her thigh to saw through the rope where she cannot make headway. When finally she can release the blonde's hands she touches the bruised wrists gently, sadly with her hands before she helps the woman to her feet carefully. The sudden change of position causes a wave of vertigo to rush through the blonde and she tips backwards, gratified to find the solid frame of the soldier supporting her firmly. Wrapping one arm around Walsch's shoulders Ryan leads her towards the door - and then suddenly stops.
"Wait."
Her head cocks to one side and she listens carefully for a moment before she scowls.
"Damn it. There's a problem." Her voice is a whisper. Turning around she leads the blonde around the desk, peering at the space under it before she helps Walsch onto the floor and motions her into the cubicle. "I'm sorry. Keep in there - you'll be at least slightly hidden. If anything happens, someone will come for you very soon." Ryan's green eyes take in the bloody smears on the bruised face with a flash of melancholy before she touches the blonde's cheek lightly. "You're safe with me, all right? Stay down."
Leaning back against the wooden surface with both a measure of relief that Ryan is finally there, and anxiety about what's about to happen next, the blonde closes her eyes wearily.
------
Muttering to himself darkly George Turner returns to the office. He had gone to the south wing instead of the front doors, knowing he would be able to peer down at the front gate from one of the abandoned offices' windows without being seen. Both posts had been abandoned, with no sign of either Marshall or Pitt, and he had watched for a quiet moment, mistrusting the silence, before he suddenly comprehended that the threat may have been to a completely different area.
Now he creeps back up the corridor, his pistol raised threateningly, as he listens carefully for any sound out of the ordinary.
It is a building still considered under construction, bought and paid for by the consortium which does not use his name anywhere in its documentation. The mass of open pipes and exposed wiring makes it tricky to maneuver, unless you are well-versed with the area, and Turner is. If the consortium knows why he insists on being a silent partner, and what he uses the premises for in exchange for his quite notable influence, they do not say.
Stepping over a gap in the floor he gazes down for a moment - and that is enough time for Leah Ryan to catapult down from the break in the air-conditioning vent and careen into him forcibly. The impact onto the solid concrete floor winds them both, but the out of shape Turner more so, and while he is still scrabbling to his feet Ryan leaps forward, driving her shoulder into his midriff. The air leaves his chest with an audible "whoof" but with years of assault training under his belt he manages to hold onto his weapon even as he folds double and catapults over backwards with her lean body landing on top of his. She reaches forward for the pistol, wrapping her hands around his and pushing the weapon away from them, using his temporarily winded state, but George Turner is a big and strong man. With an out-of-breath grunt he yanks his hands up, pulling her off-balance and forward. When she feels herself being pulled closer she suddenly lets go of his hands, leaving the natural impetus of his brutal motion to pull the pistol away from her as she propels herself forward and slams her head squarely into his nose.
"Aaargh! Motherfucker!"
Bringing one hand down to cup his excruciatingly shattered nose he jerks his right hand over his body, using the impetus to roll over and shove her off him roughly. Wanting to take advantage of his condition she leaps forward to grab the pistol, and almost finds herself at the butt-end. Ducking his clumsy blow she grips his thick wrist with both of her hands and snaps it down, intending to loosen the weapon from his increasingly weak grip, but with both hands occupied she is unable to stop the bloody hand which shifts from the nose into a fist and heads directly for her jaw. Pulling her head back as fast as she can she avoids some of the power of the blow by rolling with it, but nevertheless his strength is immense, and the bulk behind it adds force that has her seeing stars. Blinking quickly to clear her head she rapidly steps to the side and lets go of his hands, once again using his own vicious momentum against him. Wrapping her hand around his upper arm she tugs him forward as he stumbles, tangling her leg with his to bring him to the ground forcefully. Twisting as he falls, he wraps his feet around her ankle and pulls her feet from under her.
Both soldiers go sprawling on the concrete. When Ryan hits the ground she is already catapulting forward for the gun, but this time Turner is prepared. Reaching out he grabs her unexpectedly by the collar of her hooded sweatshirt and drags her closer, and as she puts out both hands to keep from collapsing on top of him the butt of the pistol strikes her, with a dull thud, right above her left ear. Instantly her eyes roll upwards and her body goes limp, a problematic circumstance for him as her frame is surprisingly heavy with all its muscle mass, and is now pinning him down. With a grunt he wipes at the bloody trail under his nose before he pushes at her brusquely, the gun clasped in his hand making it slightly difficult. Finally he manages to roll her off to one side, and he is wholly unprepared when the roll simply continues into a smooth rise to her feet. Turner is still lifting the pistol when she leaps into the air and hoists herself into a gap in the ceiling - and promptly disappears.
"Fuck!" With a gruff howl h
e starts to shoot into the sheeting, but beyond his own litany of cursing there is no sound. Moving astonishingly lightly for his bulk he moves around, listening for any signs of action above with his gun drawn. Nothing. The sharp overwhelming throbbing of his broken nose is making concentration more difficult. Pressing at his forehead tentatively with his left hand he creeps towards the office door, taking care not to make any sound himself. When he opens the door and sees the empty chair with the loosened ropes strewn around it he bites back the urge to let loose another curse and closes the door softly again.
After all, the blonde has served her purpose. Afterwards he'll have her tracked down and eliminated.
He is wondering whether the sheeting will be strong enough to hold him when Ryan's voice drifts down from somewhere above him.
"So, General, can I ask you something?"