by Ann Simko
"They think so, eventually, yeah. Cal, what didn't they tell me?"
The sheriff ignored the question and just nodded. "Good. He's a good boy, always was. I gave him a lotta grief growing up, but only 'cause I knew he could make something of himself. He didn't disappoint me."
Montana felt impatience clawing at him. "Cal?"
With another sigh, Cal finally turned to face Montana. "They pulled everyone out of that bunker, boy, and your General wasn't one of 'em."
Montana blinked several times. "That's not possible. Ito said he hit him twice in the chest, and Ito doesn't miss."
"I'm not saying he did. I'm only telling you what I know as fact. Forty-two bodies, all non-coms. Not one of 'em matches your description of this General. Is your man sure he was dead? The guy could'a had a vest. You did. Saved your life."
Montana shook his head. "There wasn't time...I don't know." His thoughts raced through the events of that morning: where his team had been; where the General was; the only two exits they knew about, and Patrick was covering those. He would have seen the General if he'd climbed out.
He was having a hard time believing the General could have escaped, and an even harder time with what that meant if it were true. "You're telling me he got away? That the man who did this to my brother is still out there?"
"I'm just telling you we don't have a body."
Montana took Dakota's hand and stared at the wall ahead of him. His mind was churning.
Cal turned to leave, and then stopped at the door. "Montana, you did good. You got your brother back, and you shut down that hellhole. Don't go spoiling it by doing something stupid, boy. Let it go. Let the Feds do their job, and just let it go."
Montana continued to stare at the wall. "One of my men is dead, and they haven't released the body to his family yet. Another is badly wounded and might lose the use of his left arm. Ricco spent most of his life at that man's mercy. Who knows how many others?" He squeezed Dakota's hand. "The son of a bitch tortured my brother. Now, you tell me he is out there somewhere, still breathing?"
His voice was measured control, but when he turned to Cal, he knew his eyes were black, fathomless, and dangerous. "Don't worry, Cal. I don't do stupid. I never did."
Chapter 20
Montana was the first thing Dakota saw upon opening his eyes.
"You done having all the fun yet?" Montana said.
He smiled and wanted to say something witty, but he fell asleep instead.
The next time he opened his eyes, Ricco was staring back at him. "Where's Montana?" His voice didn't sound like it belonged to him. It was thick and gritty, and it hurt his throat to speak.
"Not far," Ricco told him. "In the waiting room, sleeping. He's hardly left this room for three days."
Dakota looked around the clean, bright room. His last clear memory was of Bubba holding a gun to his head in a dark, filthy cell. Everything after that was a mirage of images and half-remembered dreams. "How we doing?"
Michael shrugged and stuffed his hands into his pockets. It was clear being here made him uncomfortable. "One of Montana's team members, Ray, he died at the bunker. Another one, Bobby, he got shot pretty bad, but you took the worse of it."
Dakota tried to process that information and put faces to the unfamiliar names, but he couldn't. As more memories came to the surface, one stood out crystal clear—his life and death struggle with the avian influenza. "Michael, did you know about the serum?"
"The serum? Yeah, I knew about it. They took my blood all the time, and talked a lot about a super-serum that would cure anything, but they were afraid to use it. Everybody they gave it to...died." He peered closely at Dakota. "They gave it to you?"
Dakota nodded. "You saved my life, I think."
A bright smile broke out on Ricco's face. "You saved mine, Doctor Thomas. I'm happy to return the favor."
Seeing his boyish smile, after having had a brief taste of what Ricco had gone through for over eighty years, left Dakota in awe of Ricco's strength. "Jesus, Michael." He didn't know what else to say. He couldn't believe the hell that had been this man's life. "What about you? What happens to you, now?"
Ricco sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. "Everybody seems to want a little piece of me."
Dakota noticed his hair had grown longer, and he looked like he had gained some weight. "Everybody? Do you mean the Government?"
Ricco pursed his lips in frustration. "The Government, people from the military, the FBI, medical research people from who knows where... It seems I am a person of great interest." He tried to smile again, but the attempt was pitiful.
"Is that what you want?"
Ricco shrugged. "Don't know that I have a whole lot of choice."
"Yes you do, Michael. Everyone has a choice."
"It's okay. If they can figure out how to do some good, you know, with what they did to me, I can't say no to that."
Dakota raised his eyebrows. "You're a better man than I am, Michael J. Ricco. I sure as hell don't want them to know I'm carrying the serum. If they do, they'll never leave me alone."
Ricco gave him another half-hearted smile and a shrug. "They don't need to know. They have me." A worried look replaced the smile, and Ricco took a deep breath. He turned around, stepped to the window, and stared into the distance.
Dakota could tell there was something more on his mind. "What is it, Michael?"
He didn't answer right away, and shifted his weight nervously, as though trying to decide whether to speak at all. "Doctor Thomas, you need to know something. They told me not to tell you, but I think you have a right to know."
Dakota wrinkled his brow. "Know what?"
Ricco turned to face him. "He's still out there...the General. He got away."
Dakota fell quiet, as what Ricco told him sunk in. When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible. "Then it's not over, is it?"
Ricco shook his head. "No, sir, I'm afraid it's not."
"And he's not going to stop looking for us, is he?"
Ricco confirmed Dakota's fears with a matter-of-fact statement born from a lifetime of experience. "He'll either take us or he'll kill us. He thinks he owns you now. You know that."
Dakota did know, but hearing it put that way sent cold fear creeping down his spine. He didn't answer. He didn't need to. He turned his head away, and noticed the armed guard outside his door for the first time. The man was obviously military. "Who's he here for, you or me?"
Ricco glanced over his shoulder. "He belongs to me. Guess they're afraid I'll take off on them."
Dakota suddenly felt exhausted. "I'm sorry, Michael."
"It's okay, sir. I'm not sure how I would handle complete freedom anyway. It's been too long."
A nurse came up behind Ricco and cycled Dakota's blood pressure cuff. Apparently, she didn't like the numbers she saw. "I think he's had enough for today." Her voice was quiet, but it was clear she wouldn't tolerate an argument.
"Yes, ma'am." Ricco smiled. "I'll see you later, Doctor Thomas."
As he started to turn away, Dakota stopped him. "Ricco, I need to talk to Montana."
"Yeah, he needs to talk to you, too." He glanced at the nurse. "They'll only let one of us in at a time. It was supposed to be Montana, but Ito wouldn't wake him."
"That's good. Let him sleep. I'm not going anywhere for a while. I have a feeling they will be amazed at my recuperative abilities."
It was Ricco's turn to smile. "I have no doubt about that, sir."
His guard fell in behind him like a shadow, as Ricco walked back to the waiting room and let Dakota sleep and heal.
* * * *
By the end of that week, the FBI had finally relented and released Ray's body to his family. He was from Virginia, ironically not far from where Ricco had grown up. Montana and Ito were going to the funeral, but Bobby, much to his dismay, was not well enough to go.
Dakota, as predicted, had amazed his doctors with his remarkable recovery. He still needed additional surgeries on his arm,
but the chest tube was out, and he was moving on his own again. Granted, he hurt all over, got dizzy when he stood, and felt weak and useless, but he was alive.
The same could not be said of Ray.
"I'm going," he told Montana.
"They won't release you."
Dakota made a face and waved off Montana's comment. "I'm a doctor, remember?"
"No, you're a patient, remember? Dakota, you almost died seven days ago. You aren't ready for this. It's a five hour plane ride just to get there, and that's not including the service or the burial. Besides, you never even met Ray."
"What's that got to do with it? He died saving my life. I'm going."
They stared at each other in silence, until Montana finally blinked. "I'm not going to talk you out of this, am I?"
"Not a chance."
"Then you have to promise me, you will listen to Ito."
"If I have to."
Montana sighed and stood up. "I don't think it's a good idea, but I'll make the arrangements."
Dakota smiled as he watched his brother walk out of the rom. For the first time in a long time, he felt as though he had just won an argument with Montana.
* * * *
He was tired, and all he wanted to do was sleep, but they wouldn't let him. Every time he drifted off, he would wake to find Bubba next to him, jabbing him with needles, hooking him up to one monitor or the other, observing him, always observing him, a specimen in a glass cage.
The General was impressed that he had healed so quickly, and wanted to see what more he could do. What limits could they push and still keep him alive? Dakota was certain he didn't want to find out, but there were no more choices left to him. No one was coming to rescue him this time. All the good guys were dead, and no one knew where he was. Desolation, hopelessness, and isolation owned him as much as the General did.
Bubba jostled his still healing arm. "Sorry, Doc." He grabbed Dakota's wrist and elbow. Dakota knew what came next and he tried to brace himself for the pain.
"Orders," Bubba explained. He applied pressure to the mending bones, and the snaps could be heard over Dakota's screams.
Dakota came out of the nightmare with a sudden start. His left arm, encased in a fiberglass cast and resting in a sling, had slipped beneath his body as slept. The plane seat was reclined as far as it went, but he still slumped to one side, with the injured arm wedged between his body and the window. The dull, steady, pain the position caused was what woke him in the guise of a nightmare.
Sweat ran down his face and back as he tried to orient himself. The gentle touch on his arm caused him to jump. He turned to Montana, sitting next to him.
"You okay?"
Dakota tried to slow his breathing. He could feel his heart beating in his ears. He tried to shake off the effects of the dream, but could tell from the look on his brother's face that he had failed miserably.
"Where are we?" he said, instead of lying and saying he was fine. Montana was right. He was not ready for this, either emotionally or physically. The nightmares plagued him whenever he closed his eyes. The drugs they gave him helped for a while, but then the dreams started sneaking through. With the sedatives in his system, he couldn't just wake up. He had to endure whatever the General and Bubba did to him until the drugs wore off. He was jumpy and sleep-deprived and, despite Ricco's magic serum, he had a long way to go before he recovered all the way. Simply put, he was a wreck.
"We just entered Virginia," Montana said. "Should be landing in about ten minutes or so." Montana silently appraised him. His expression showed he didn't like what he saw, and there wasn't squat he could do about it.
"Do you need Ito? Something for pain?"
Dakota wiped a hand over his eyes. "Just stop. I don't need Ito, and I sure as hell don't need something for pain. What I need is for you to stop bugging me. Think you can do that, big brother?"
Montana stared as though he spoke a foreign language.
Dakota saw the look and immediately regretted his tone, even though he didn't have much control over it. "Look, Montana. It's as good as it's going to get, okay? Just let it alone."
Montana slowly shook his head, his expression difficult to read. His words were not. "Understand something. You have no choices here. You were discharged against medical advice and against my better judgment. You gave up any right to express your opinion when you signed those release papers. You'll do what I say, when I say it, or I swear I'll have you flown, under military escort and heavily drugged, back to the hospital. Are we clear...little brother?"
The plane dipped in altitude as it made its descent and preparation for landing.
"Can I go take a piss without your permission?"
Montana stood up and helped him to his feet, making sure he was steady as he guided him to the coffin-size bathroom at the end of the isle.
Dakota said, before closing the door. "Gee, want me to leave the door open so you can make sure I don't drown in the toilet or something?"
Montana ignored the sarcasm. "I'll wait outside."
Only when Dakota was alone did he let go. He leaned against the door and started shaking. He couldn't stop. Then the tears came. Sliding quietly down onto the closed seat, he dropped his head to his chest, and muffled the sound against his arm. Sobs tore through his body until his chest hurt. The shaking didn't stop, but settled to the point where he could hide it. He sat with his knees pulled up tight, his eyes squeezed shut, and his head buried in the crook of his arm.
He stayed like that until he thought he could stand again. He saw the reason for Montana's concern when he looked at his image in the polished metal mirror. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, now puffy and red from the tears. He had lost weight since his ordeal began, and his face was gaunt and pale. Green eyes looked back at him with a haunted expression.
"Get a grip," he told his reflection. He splashed cold water on his face and, gathering what dignity and courage he had left, prepared to face his brother's concern once more. The constant, silent, appraisal was almost more than he could take.
As close as he and Montana were, this was the one thing he could never share. The only other person who might understand what he was going through would be Michael Ricco. He wondered how Ricco dealt with the nightmares, if he feared sleep or if they had managed, after all that time, to kill that part of him, the part that dreamed. In his conversations with Ricco, he'd felt an emptiness about the man, as if that part of his soul where hope lay had been taken from him. Michael Ricco did not know how to hope.
Dakota started to shake once more as he realized why.
Chapter 21
Several Humvees met them at the airport, complete with an armed military escort, which was obviously not there to pay respects to Ray or his family. Not one dress uniform was in sight. These troops were all business, and their weapons were not for show. They came loaded and ready for battle, with full body armor, helmets, and ammo belts bulging with additional rounds.
Dakota stepped to the cabin door and blinked against the bright Virginia sunlight. After the dim interior of the plane, it blinded him. Not having much choice in the matter, he allowed Montana to take his good arm and ease him down the steps. He eyed the impressive escort with awe. "I didn't know you were that important."
"I'm not." Montana pointed at Ricco, who was in front of them, walking steadily toward the waiting vehicles.
From behind them, Ito's voice registered his disgust at what had become of Private Ricco. "The government's just protecting its property."
Dakota watched as Ricco climbed into the Humvee without any expression on his face. "He says he's okay with all of this."
"Bullshit," Ito said under his breath.
It was still loud enough for Dakota to hear. Words and tone brought a smile to his lips for the first time in a very long while.
Then, as a soldier opened the door for him, Dakota froze. A sudden, unwanted image slammed into his brain: a different car, alone on a desert road, three armed soldiers, and the feel o
f gravel under his back as they forced him to the ground. He took a step back, and then another, and shook his head. "No."
"Dakota?" The voice was quiet in his ear, but the light touch at the small of his back made him jump. He blinked, and the present came into focus with a dizzying rush. His knees threatened to buckle. Bile surged into to his throat and he struggled to swallow it. His every sense was suddenly running in high gear as the sun scorched his back and cold sweat ran down his spine. He wished for his sunglasses, but remembered they were in his bag, which had just been stowed in the Humvee.
Montana stepped in front of him. "You don't have to do this."
Dakota took a deep, steadying breath, stiffened his shaking knees, and pushed the memory of his capture out of his head. "Yes, Montana, I do."
It took more courage than he liked to admit, but he climbed into the Humvee and sat next to Michael Ricco. The soldiers gave no indication they had witnessed the incident. Once everyone had climbed into an assigned vehicle, the Humvees formed their own small cavalcade. The band of survivors was on its way to say goodbye to Ray.
* * * *
Dakota sat through as much of the service as he could. When the walls started closing in around him he stood and walked quickly to the back of the church. He was suffocating. He needed fresh air, and he needed space. He needed to run and not stop until he collapsed. He didn't know what he needed. But no matter how far away he ran, he could never outrun himself. He couldn't outrun the pictures in his head, either. They would follow him wherever he tried to hide.
He pushed open the doors at the back and took a deep breath. Sitting on the stone steps of the church, he hung his head and waited for his breathing to slow. It didn't take long for the beautiful Virginia day to seep into his awareness. Canting his head upwards, he saw a cloudless, captivating blue sky. A soft breeze carried the delicate scent of honeysuckle, and the sun was warm and soothing. His troubles momentarily forgotten, he closed his eyes and let the healing rays bathe his face.
