Fallen

by Ann Simko

  Montana leaned heavily on Ito but he stood. "Stop the van."

  "Sir?" The Ranger turned to Ito, a question on his face.

  "Stop. The. Van." Montana said louder. He closed his eyes tightly as he spoke.

  Ito told the Ranger, "If I were you, I would stop the van."

  The Ranger dropped to the ground. The van was two hundred yards out and picking up speed. It was a difficult shot and Ito hoped the guy was as good as he thought he was.

  The Ranger lay flat on his belly, sighted the rifle and gently squeezed the trigger. The van's left rear tire exploded. When the vehicle kept moving, he squeezed off another shot, hitting the left front tire.

  "Yes!" The Ranger grinned, but his elation was short-lived.

  The van careened from one side of the road to the other, jumped the curb, tilted precariously on two wheels, then started a slow roll down the hill. It flipped four times before coming to a rest with a metallic crunch against an ancient oak tree. The tree creaked and groaned in protest to the insult, but it held strong.

  "Shit!" The Ranger whispered.

  Ito bent down to quietly speak in the Ranger's ear. "Not quite what you had in mind?"

  "Dakota is in there?" Montana struggled to stay on his feet. It was obvious he was dizzy and not in the best of shape. "I need a weapon."

  "No, sir." The Ranger shook his head.

  Ito smiled and handed Montana the Glock he kept concealed in a shoulder harness. "Live one in the chamber, nine in the mag. Try not to kill any of the good guys, okay?"

  Montana checked the weapon and pushed the safety off with his thumb. He started, a little unsteadily, toward the overturned van.

  "Sir, do you think that's a good idea?" The Ranger asked Ito. "He has a head injury."

  Ito clapped him on the back. "Son, you just rolled the vehicle with his brother inside. I would think arming the Major would be the least of your concerns." Ito checked his own weapon and followed Montana down the hill.

  * * * *

  The van lurched violently. Dakota was thrown against the side and his recently injured ribs sent sharp pain through his chest.

  Evil Bubba smiled at his obvious pain. "I can't wait to get your ass back to base. We have all sorts of fun planned for you and Ricco."

  "Why wait?" If he couldn't get free, and if Montana was dead, maybe he could finish what he started in the cemetery and piss this guy off enough to kill him, despite the General's orders or promised payment. He looked as if he hated Dakota enough to do him that small favor.

  "Don't tempt me," The guard growled. "There is nothing I would like better than to put a bullet in your brain. But I can't."

  "Ahh, yeah, that's right, orders," Dakota straightened himself up against the side of the rocking van. "You know, I often wondered if Bubba ever made one decision on his own. I doubt it. He probably needed permission to take a dump."

  The guard narrowed his eyes and, without warning, slammed the rifle into the fiberglass cast.

  It was exactly the reaction Dakota had been hoping for, but the pain caught him by surprise. Everything grayed out for a minute, then all-encompassing pain brought him back to the moment.

  Sweat rolled down his face and his gut roiled but he said, "You sure you didn't need an order to that?" He saw the soldier's nostrils flare and gave one final push to send him over the edge.

  "You and Bubba, you're just the General's puppets. He pulls the strings, you pull the trigger. The bastard walks away with clean hands, you wind up with blood on yours. Bubba ended up dead."

  Evil Bubba snapped. He placed the gun on the floor of the van and pulled a wicked looking knife from a sheath at his hip. "No amount of money is worth this." He threw Dakota to his back and straddled him. "You don't deserve a clean death."

  Dakota didn't fight. He closed his eyes and waited for the blade. He tried to think of Montana and his mother. Pain wasn't important, as long as the man killed him in the end, as long as the General never got the chance to turn him into another Ricco.

  A sudden explosion had Dakota opening his eyes. The vehicle lurched, while the driver fought to keep it under control. Then another bang, another sideways lurch, and the van flipped onto its side and then rolled onto its top, before finally ending up on its side again.

  Dakota and Evil Bubba were tossed violently inside the rolling tin can. The gun smashed into doors, windows, and the ceiling, a lethal weapon without being fired. Both men lunged for it.

  When the van came to rest, Dakota fought for breath. The guard's weight had settled directly onto his chest. He struggled to escape the unconscious body with only one arm. He finally emerged, dizzy and covered in blood.

  Evil Bubba hadn't been so lucky. During one of the flips, he had fallen on top of his own knife and embedded it up to the hilt in his chest. Exactly the same death he had planned for Dakota.

  Dakota scooted away from the body and found himself pressed against the roof. The van's motor raced out of control, its howl accompanied by the screeching of metal grinding against metal. Steam and the smell of burning rubber filled the interior. He heard voices coming from outside, but his still-reeling mind couldn't decipher words. Expecting the worst, he searched through the steamy haze and found the rifle.

  With a shaking hand, he pulled the weapon to him, and held it like a lifeline, determined to kill anyone who came through the doors. He was aware enough to make sure the safety was disengaged and a live round chambered, but he had trouble holding the weapon steady.

  It didn't matter. In the confines of the mangled vehicle, it was unlikely he would miss anything in front of him.

  * * * *

  The Rangers had set up a perimeter. They had killed twelve armed men in the cemetery grounds, and were convinced that any remaining enemy troops were inside the van or already dead.

  They were preparing to open the cargo doors when Ricco stopped them. "Where's the General?" He had seen his own bit of action on the short trip down the hill, and knew his face was speckled with blood that was not his own. He was breathing heavily, but adrenaline buzzed through his system. He wasn't anywhere near done.

  Ito came up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Most likely, he is inside the van, Private."

  Ricco shook his head. "Not in the back. He wouldn't be in the back." He brought his rifle up and checked the load. His hand was on the crumpled fender when the Ranger entrusted with his safety stopped his attempt to climb it. Ricco pushed the restraining hand off his shoulder.

  "Private, let them do their job," Ito said.

  Ricco glared at Ito, but he backed down. He stood to the side as the Ranger climbed the side of the van and cautiously opened the driver's door which now faced the sky.

  "We have one dead driver, and an injured passenger." He pulled out the driver's body and let it fall, before helping the passenger out.

  The General fell to the ground. He was unsteady and bleeding but he was most definitely alive.

  Ricco gripped his rifle and cautiously circled him.

  He approached slowly, with his rifle aimed at the General's head. "I should have done this when I had the chance." He stepped forward until the barrel touched the General's temple. He pushed it against the existing wound and smiled when he saw the General flinch.

  "Does it hurt?" he said softly. "Perhaps we should record it and study how you react when I blow your fucking head off."

  The General closed his eyes. His body trembled. "Ricco...don't."

  Ricco smiled. "Beg me not to kill you."

  "Please." The General sobbed and fell to his knees.

  "Not good enough. Beg me the way all the men you killed begged."

  The General's chin quivered and a string of saliva hung from his bottom lip. "Please. Please, I beg you, don't kill me. I don't want to die."

  Ricco closed his eyes for just a moment. When he opened them again, all he could think of was this time he was the one who decided who lived and who died. He had the gun. This time he had the General's life in his hands.
He remembered the years of indifference and pain, not only from the man in front of him but from all those who came before him. He had been an object to them, nothing more. They had taken him to hell, had watched him suffer without compassion, without sympathy. He had been reduced to nothing.

  He wasn't nothing now. He was the man with the power now.

  "Sir, how long are we going to let this go on? We have wounded inside the van as well as out here."

  "He has waited a lifetime for this Corporal."

  Ricco pushed the muzzle of the rifle against the General's head even harder.

  "Michael, please. I don't want to die." the General begged again.

  "I don't care," he decided, and pulled the trigger.

  The rifle clicked on an empty chamber.

  The General screamed, a surprisingly high-pitched sound.

  Ricco grinned at the large, wet, dark patch spreading across the crotch of the General's pants. He had pissed himself out of fear.

  He threw the empty weapon to the ground and pulled the General to his feet. "Way too quick and clean for you"

  "Michael—" The General tried to smile. "Think about what you're doing. What would your father think? He would be disappointed in you, wouldn't he?"

  Ricco froze. "Don't you dare mention my daddy to me, you son of a bitch! He was a better man than you could ever hope to be." He walked around the General, still fighting the undiluted anger that had built up over nearly a century of torture and inhumane conditions.

  "My daddy gave me life, he taught me how to be a man."

  "And me Michael? What did I teach you? Hmmm? I taught you how to be strong, I taught you pride, I taught you that even the most insignificant man can make all the difference. You never did understand that lesson. Too selfish, to squeamish to realize that trivial discomforts were for the greater good." The General seemed to regain some of his dignity.

  "You're wrong. I understood. I always understood. You deluded yourself into believing that the things you did to me were for the betterment of mankind. Isn't that what you would say to me as I lay in my cell bleeding, screaming in pain, begging you to stop, pleading to a man who has no soul, for mercy? I understand that you did everything but kill me, even when I begged you for death. I think it's time for you to understand that you taught me well. You took my soul, so don't expect to be saved by it."

  He was done with words. He threw himself at the General.

  When he could no longer lift his arms, he fell to his knees, exhausted. Blood covered him, not his own. The General lay unmoving on the ground.

  No one bothered to check if he was alive.

  The Rangers were still working to open the van doors. Montana, who had watched while Ricco executed the long-deserved payback, said, "If we're all done having fun, can we open up the damn doors and see about Dakota?"

  * * * *

  The sound of metal screeching against metal brought Dakota back to consciousness. It took him a few seconds to remember where he was. Just then a bright light seared his eyes as the van's bent and twisted doors groaned open. Several pairs of hands held them open.

  He knew who was outside, but he had the gun this time. There was no way in hell he would let the bastard live, not after what he had done.

  God. Montana is dead.

  The reality of that slammed into him and he almost dropped the gun.

  A faceless figure stepped into the narrow opening, silhouetted against the sunlight behind him. Dakota raised the rifle and steadied it on his knees.

  "Dakota Rain, drop the gun."

  There were only two people in the world who knew his middle name. He had thought them both dead.

  "It's me, man, drop the gun."

  He was certain it was a cruel trick of his imagination. When the figure leaned inside and blocked the sunlight, he saw the face for the first time. He lowered the rifle. "I watched you die, you're dead."

  Montana knelt in front of him, covered in blood, with his dark hair matted and stuck to the side of his face. He took the rifle.

  "Still breathing," Montana assured him. He looked at the dead guard. "Can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?"

  Dakota still had trouble believing what he was seeing. "Montana?"

  Another figured appeared behind Montana. Dakota reached for the gun only to find it gone. "Behind you."

  Without looking, Montana put a hand on his arm. "It's okay, man. They're the good guys."

  Dakota shook his head. "There are no good guys." Then he recognized Ito.

  Ito smiled as squeezed past Montana. "Dr. Dakota, what a mess you have gotten yourself into, yet again." He gently touched Dakota's face and then slid a hand down to his wrist. "He's shocky. Let's get him out of here so I can see what there is to see."

  Out sounded good to Dakota, but his fear lingered.

  "The General..." He couldn't seem to get a complete sentence formed. Thoughts pinged around inside his head, until nothing made sense. The one thing that made it through was that Montana wasn't dead. That was the thought he held onto. Nothing else mattered.

  He kept a tenuous hold onto consciousness as they took him from what he had convinced himself was his coffin. He was aware of Montana's face, and Ito's gentle hands, a helicopter and a lot of pain. Numbness and cold. And then nothing-peaceful nothingness.

  * * * *

  The FBI was not known for handholding or patience. A field medic had patched Montana up, but advised him to see a real doctor. Before Montana could tell him that wasn't going to happen, Ito and he were taken to a makeshift command center near the remains of the church.

  They were told to wait. The trailer had only a small circulating fan to push the hot humid air around, which did little to cool anyone.

  Montana took one of the hard plastic chairs. He wiped a mixture of sweat and dried blood from his face. "What's the deal?"

  Ito stretched his legs out in front and hiked his shoulders. "As far as I can figure, we are caught in the ultimate pissing match between the FBI and the Department of Medical Research. Neither one wants to admit to any wrongdoing."

  Montana nodded his understanding. "So of course, both sides are trying to figure out how to blame us."

  "I have a feeling Private Ricco might have something to say about that."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Think about it. The government wants Ricco almost as badly as the General. We saved his life. Do you really think he'll let us take the fall for any of this?"

  Montana smiled for the first time in what felt like days. "It's good to have friends."

  "That it is." Ito swiped a hand over his face trying to clear it, but the sweat was immediately replaced by new beads springing up on his brow.

  They were silent for a while, then Ito's chest started to shake. Soon the shaking turned into full-blown laughter.

  Montana raised a brow. "Something amusing about all of this?"

  "I was just thinking." Ito's grin split his face like a sharp axe through soft wood. "The commander of the Deltas told me they got all the civilians out of that church before it blew."

  "Yeah, I know. They told me."

  "But they didn't have time to get Ray out."

  Montana finally understood and a smile twitched his lips. The smile evolved into a quiet chuckle until, unable to contain it any longer, both he and Ito laughed until tears streamed down their faces and their sides ached.

  Their laughter gradually quieted as their thoughts returned to their fallen brother. Ito sighed and leaned back. "Getting blown up in a church while still in his coffin. Damn, Ray would have loved that."

  Montana wiped his eyes and gave a small nod. "I can't think of a more fitting tribute."

  Ito smiled sadly, before giving his best Ray impression. "Fucking sweet."

  "Fucking Sweet." Montana agreed.

  The sat in the silence of their individual memories until the FBI came back to question them in detail.

  Chapter 23

  Michael Ricco was alone. He could not honestly
remember the last time he had been truly alone. He wandered around the spacious apartment with absolutely no idea what to do with his time.

  The feeling of freedom was an illusion. The Department of Medical Research had set him up in the one-bedroom apartment, given him clothes, introduced him to flat screen televisions, CD players, smart phones, and computers. All the Department wanted in return was his cooperation.

  He would be kept comfortable for the remainder of his life, however long that might be. He was promised no pain, no life threatening experimentations. They only wanted his blood from time to time. It was all he had to give them. And of course, his freedom.

  He sat on the sofa in front of the blank television screen, staring out the window and watching the leaves on the trees blow backwards.

  "There's a storm coming." He remembered his daddy telling him that. After a humid afternoon, if the leaves start blowing so you can see the underside, you know a storm is not far behind. His daddy had never been wrong.

  He closed his eyes and heard his voice in his head, the quiet southern drawl that could be soft and sweet like honey or hard as steel, depending on his mood, but never loud. His daddy never needed to raise his voice to his oldest son. Michael had never wanted to disappoint him.

  God, how he missed his daddy, his family. It upset him that he had trouble recalling their faces. He'd tried, almost making out his brother Matty's mischievous grin and Sarah's shy smile, but he could never get the whole picture. It had been too long. Sarah and Matty were long dead and buried. They had grown old and lived their entire lifetimes believing he had died a nineteen-year-old Marine. He wondered what he had been doing when they married, when they died. He had been denied the simple thing most people took for granted—family—and now his were all gone.

  The injustice made him angry, drove him beyond anger.

  A possibility invaded his thoughts, something that had never occurred to him before. Matty and Sarah had grown up. Wouldn't they have had families of their own? Maybe he was not as alone as he'd thought. Maybe he did have family out there somewhere.