“There’s a small... thing of surgical thread in that bag.”
He heard Elliot snort a tiny laugh. “A spool?”
“... don’t sass me, son. You’re the one having his hair braided.”
“You’re the one who apparently knows how to braid hair.” Elliot’s hand appeared at his right shoulder with the thread his first aider had requested. However, when Cabe went to accept it, his grip around it tightened dramatically. “What are you doing back there, anyway? You’ll give me a warning if you start sticking needles in my head, right? Because I’ll sue you.”
“Oh, I believe it,” replied Cabe almost immediately. “I’m just using it to tie off the ends of the hair. It’s black, so if you brush these front parts over it, no one will even know the wound or its dressing are even there.”
“Professional hair stylist to the stars, are you, Peaches?”
“Maybe one day. With your good recommendation.” Cabe cracked a bit of a smile. “Come on, head down. My hands are cold.”
“I’m going to have to have a word with your supervisor at Patriot, Mr. Cooper,” Elliot was saying, as Cabe continued to work pulling, twisting, braiding, and manipulating his hair to hold the wound shut, tying it off every few criss-crosses. “It’s been at least five minutes since you called me ‘sir’ in that eager-to-please way that I love.”
“My sincerest apologies. Sir.” Cabe finished up with the last knot, reaching for the suture scissors sitting on his left thigh so that he could snip any loose ends that might be more difficult to hide. Personally, he’d crawled off battlefields and onto helicopters with bits of himself hanging off, bloody and bandaged and patched together like a six-foot-two rag-doll. His current record for a single mission was twenty-eight broken bones, and twelve bullet casing extractions. But considering he spent most of his days on the job going up against humans with abilities that were, well, inhuman, he felt no shame in the only post-battle victory he cared about being the fact that he didn’t die.
But Elliot’s life was something entirely different. To him, scars weren’t proof of what you’d survived or endured without breaking, they were proof that you were weak... that you could be harmed. That you weren’t invincible. And when it came to big business, when it came to the limelight, when it came to other people’s money... invincibility was everything.
“There.” Without thinking about it, Cabe was brushing his fingers through Elliot’s bangs, training them back over the area he had just braided and tied. “Just keep it pushed back like this, no one’ll even know.”
“I appreciate the help, Peaches.” Elliot shifted, resettling a little further away from his bodyguard. Their feet and legs remained bound together by the sheepskin blanket that was aiding them in conserving and sharing some of their heat. “So... who do you think will find us first, then?”
Cabe knew Elliot was referring to the two parties he was aware would be out frantically searching for them at that very moment: Parks Canada’s mountain rescue teams, who would no doubt have been deployed immediately after the international celebrity’s distress call – and whoever had hired Max as a double-agent and set up the hit. Elliot Wright was a clever man, and there was a lot Cabe sensed he didn’t need to tell him, things that he perhaps would’ve had to break down and explain to other clients.
Things like the fact that this assassination plot no doubt had several steps – failsafes, which would be executed immediately upon their enemies realizing Max had failed and Elliot was still alive. Or that there was no doubt a ground crew waiting close to the airstrip at Banff National Park, where Max had originally been so keen to force a landing.
“Probably Canadian rescue,” Cabe said with a nod. “Imagine the international press if they let someone like you die out here in the Rockies, especially after your coming out.”
“Bad politics.” Elliot clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, a single shiver passing through his body. “Ugh. No. Canadians are lovely people. Even the S.A.R. dogs apologize to you.”
Cabe nodded absent-mindedly, though this time, he was at least distracted by something pleasant. Elliot wasn’t aware of it, but there was a third party who would be conducting their own search and rescue operations, a party who had a very valuable interest in ensuring they were the first to reach the stranded men: W.A.R.D..
“Do you need some help?”
“Huh? What?”
“Remember earlier when I told you that you’ve been bleeding all over a very expensive jacket I had custom designed for myself? Only one in the world, worth more than you are?” Elliot pursed his lower lip, which wasn’t shivering anymore. “Would you like me to assist you with it? Return the favor? Tit for tat?”
“No, sir. Actually, the most useful thing you could do for me is just to sit still, stay warm, and try to conserve your energy.”
“Really? You don’t need these deft, talented hands for anything more... technical?”
Cabe very gingerly raised one eyebrow, more at the brazen look Elliot was wearing than what his client had said. “I’m pretty sure it’s just a graze, I’ll clean it and bandage it up. Now close your eyes and save your voice. You never know who’s waiting where with a camera or Facebook Live, and we want them thinking you sauntered out of that wrecked fuselage in even better shape than you took off in.”
Elliot chuckled, sliding down a little against the side of the raft and pulling the thermal blanket more fully over the trunk of his body.
“Finally, Peaches... finally, you’re understanding how we prioritize.”
Eight
Fifteen Months Earlier
Somewhere in the Nevada desert...
“Keep your head up, Sparrow... never gon’ fall ‘sleep... if you keep your ‘ead up...”
Even though he felt the touch of the words on his tongue, even if they reached his ears in his own gravelly voice and a decisively south London accent, the words were still Boone’s. And when he repeated them, it was almost as if Boone was sitting next to him, as if Boone was the one shaking him and reminding him not to fucking fall asleep at his post. That kinda shit got people blown away.
Blown... away.
It had been two days. He didn’t know the count in hours; they’d taken his watch along with his wallet, his phone, his beeper, his boots, and any weapons he’d had on him at the time everything had very suddenly and very sharply gone black.
The next thing he remembered...
There was a noise to his left. It was probably a tiny reptile creeping over the large rocks he’d crawled behind, both for shelter from the extreme climate and from prying eyes, but as far as his starved and traumatized mind was concerned, it was a sniper adjusting his position before he took the shot that ended Cabe’s life. He whirled on it, the arm that had been dead and numb from exhaustion just fractions of seconds before whipping out of his lap and snapping out to its full length. It extended the tactical knife in front of his body, between himself and any would-be predators that were stalking him in the dark.
“I am not gonna die here...” he grumbled to himself, as much as he knew even talking was unbelievably taxing on his body right now. Two days and almost two nights out here on just a single bottle of warm water. Other than the knife, it was the only thing he had dared to snatch up before fleeing the vehicle, which he was one hundred per cent sure had some sort of tracking device on it.
“Was born in a shithole... not gonna die in a shithole, too...”
No offense, Vegas...
Out of the frying pan and into the fire. That was basically what it felt like, leaving what could technically be classified as a war zone for what he presumed from vegetation and topography and location was the Mojave Desert. And the longer he was out here, focusing on staying warm (or cool) and staying alive, the longer he had to scrutinize and unravel every single second of his escape.
His instincts to survive had told him to keep to the road, but his instincts to avoid recapture forced him deep into the desert, as far south from the du
sty highway sign that read ARMAGOSA VALLEY 17, BEATTY 46, TONOPAH 139 as he was able to travel shoeless without risking exhaustion or major injury. The desert sloped down into a valley maybe a couple miles across, before it rose up again in jagged brown peaks against a never-ending span of American wilderness. When the abandoned vehicle was discovered, his assailants would probably presume he’d run north, into the mountains for cover and to await air rescue from W.A.R.D., which was why he deliberately descended south. A few hours of confusion on his enemies’ side could buy him all the time he needed to escape.
Once the incline began to carry him upward again, he had found a good, shady spot to settle down for the hotter part of the day, not wanting to exert too much energy. He obediently waited until he was shaded to remove his long-sleeve henley, tying it around his head to retain as much moisture as possible.
And then, he waited for nightfall.
At first the Joshua Trees had provided small scraps of fast-moving shadow to chase with his eyes for entertainment, but he grew so sick of the sight of them that after eight hours of waiting out the sun he swore he was never listening to another U2 song again, no matter how much Beautiful Day reminded him of lazy Sundays in England. His body ached and his nerves were fried, every muscle coiled and waiting to have to lash out to defend him against... well, one of the many, many things out there that would probably be more than happy to kill him, his captors non-excluded. Every half hour or so, he would remind himself to rest his agitated body for a short while.
Evening fell, and he had pressed on under the light of the moon. It was less torturous without the sun overhead, though the arid air was still next to impossible to wade through. Rocks and ledges burned his hands, knees, and feet as he hauled himself higher into the mountain range, though they started to cool off quickly, signaling that within the next few hours Cabe was going to have an almost hilariously opposite problem to the one he’d been dealing with all day.
During the time he’d already spent alone in the hot, dry wasteland with nothing but his own thoughts for company, he’d torn apart his exit strategy. He had panicked; an undetermined amount of time trapped and bound in the trunk of a rusted sedan that was probably older than he was had rendered him dizzy, nauseous, cramping, and anxious. After taking out the two assholes with him, who were probably responsible for stuffing him in there in the first place, he’d grabbed the tactical knife he recognized from his own thigh-holster strapped around the leg of the smaller of the two men, cut what was left of his bonds, retrieved the single bottle of water they had left in the trunk with him for the drive, and fled for his life.
He hadn’t armed himself with a secondary weapon from the incident site. He hadn’t retrieved any armor, protective clothing (including his fucking boots), or cover that could’ve been used once he found a secure rendezvous point. He hadn’t followed his survival training exactly to the letter, and that pissed him off more than anything else he’d endured in the last three days.
And he had endured a lot.
Boone... Curled up in his shelter, Cabe’s stomach wrung itself into a tight knot, something it didn’t really have the strength to do. He’d been out here for two days, but the passing time didn’t make it hurt any less. The only thing keeping him from collapsing in uncontrollable sobs was the determination to survive, and surviving meant conserving his body’s hydration.
Then he could cry, when he was home safe in Seattle. Then he could... then he could mourn.
But right now, he owed it to Boone as his field partner, as his mentor – as his lover – to survive. Not just out of respect, but to make sure whomever had done this to them paid for it.
And paid in full.
Keep your head up, Sparrow...
The young agent’s chin jerked skyward, staving off sleep. It had been a full day now since he had last napped, but something deep, deep inside of him was driving him to stay conscious. It was Boone who had first told him to always trust his instincts above all else, because his instincts had the most vested interest in keeping him alive. And he wasn’t going to start ignoring some of the most pointed pieces of advice his partner had ever given him not two days after his death.
One-hundred thousand green bottles sitting on the wall...
A gust kicked up, whipping up grains of sand as it whistled through the gaps between the rocks and shrubs he’d taken shelter amidst. He’d grown to hate the wind now, even more so than he had done growing up in London. Not only did it deafen him against the telltale sounds of any threats lurking nearby, but it was really fucking cold. It was like a blunt knife against his upper face and forehead as he peeked out from the collar of his henley, his knees drawn up to his chest for warmth.
The knuckles and fingers of his right hand was the only other area where skin was exposed, and that was to ensure his grip on the tactical dagger was secure and ready, should he need it. Said knuckles and fingers had gone red in the past three hours, raw from being scraped at and chilled by the wind, which seemed much worse tonight than it had been the last.
And if one green bottle...
He squeezed his eyes shut. The worst part was wanting to close them against the wind and cold, or even just to rest them for a few seconds, but knowing he was more likely to fall asleep if he allowed himself to do that.
Should accidentally fall...
Cabe prided himself on being something of a fighter and a survivor by nature. He had to be in his line of work. The same as others who risked their lives everyday, such as firefighters, police officers, storm chasers, those in the military, fishermen, even entertainers and filmmakers to some degree. Any job that involved a person putting their body through hell for a paycheck had a way of weeding out those who weren’t physically or mentally strong enough to take the heat. But, despite all that, as he sat away from the rock which was now cold enough to sap any heat left in him right out, there was a small part of him which honestly and genuinely considered just... not.
Not fighting. Not surviving.
Just closing his eyes... and letting go... and maybe just... just joining Boone.
There’ll be ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine green bottles...
The guilt hurt more than even the dying thirst, and Cabe grunted to himself. “Sorry...” he uttered weakly, to the spirit he knew would be glaring down at him for even thinking such a thing. Boone would’ve just scowled, smacked the back of his head, and told him not to waste anymore energy if he wanted to get through this.
He inhaled a slow, steady breath, and once again choked back tears he quite literally couldn’t afford to shed.
Sitting on the wall.
◉
“Mmmf... C-Cooper?”
Head up, Sparrow.
Cabe snapped to attention, his eyes opening against the glare of the low afternoon sun now peeking in through the entryway of the relatively well-constructed snow trench shelter. The source of heat he’d sensed cuddling closer to him on his right was a balled-up gray wool overcoat, which no doubt contained the man he’d been charged to protect. Somehow, his arm had removed itself from its post keeping in the heat at his side, and had wormed and wiggled its way around said ball of coat. His other hand was perched ready on his knee, wrapped around the butt of the Glock 19, index finger hovering close to the trigger guard. The barrel was pointed in the general direction of the entryway.
“Ssh. I said no talking.”
“You’re strict. Just... wanted t’make sure... still alive.”
“Still alive until further notice, sir. Now, ssh.”
It was hard not to revisit it, consciously or unconsciously. The scenario and themes were slightly different, but all the plot points were still the same. Instead of a knife, he was grateful for the icy feel of the chilled polymer against his gloved hand, a constant and very welcome reminder that he had a means to protect both himself and his client whilst keeping some distance.
And there was the fact that he was not alone, which was both a curse and a blessing. The
additional shared warmth was a pro, but it was balanced out by the con of having someone else he had to try and keep alive.
“Cooper?”
“Do I need to have Emiko say it in Japanese for you?”
The silence that followed was... uncomfortable, in a way that Cabe had never really felt uncomfortable before. He didn’t need to expend the energy to look down at him to know that what Elliot was about to tell him was something he probably wouldn’t ever dream of saying unless he was fairly convinced he was going to die.
“Have you... has this... ever hap-happened to you before...?”
As a general rule, Cabe never spoke about that time, about what happened right after Boone had died in the line of duty. Ronnie was the only one who hadn’t been around back then who knew about it, and that was only because Flint had encouraged (which was a fancy way of saying ‘forced’, in Cabe’s opinion) him to tell her, insisting that as his handler she would need to know everything about his past and his P.T.S.D.. Flint was disgustingly blunt and honest most of the time.
But in that moment, Cabe got the sense that given the olive branch of trust that had been extended, Elliot deserved the truth. “Yes, sir. Very similar.”
“Pres... presuming you survived...?”
“Spoiler alert, I did,” said Cabe, straining against his jaw’s urge to let his teeth chatter. “I’ll tell you about it... when we’re back...”
Elliot made a grumbly noise and curled tighter into his krill-like position. Within the folds of the sheepskin blanket, his thinner legs entwined themselves further around his bodyguard’s, subconsciously or otherwise seeking out a more effective way to transfer and share heat. Cabe used the arm around his ward to rearrange the thermal blanket, ensuring there were no gaps for cool air to sneak in and plague him. Cabe had undergone rigorous survival and endurance training; he had a feeling Elliot Wright hadn’t been so fortunate. Or unfortunate, depending on how you viewed it.
Black Tie: Book One of the Sparrow Archives Page 13
