Someone was calling his name...

And there was something important - something that he knew he ought to remember...

For a long moment he floated on the darkness, trying to remember. But the details remained elusive, slipping out of reach as he tried to catch hold of them. Finally it was a soldier's instinct, deep in his subconscious, that warned him that he should listen to the voice, that he should wake up. But he was tired... and it was comfortable here... Couldn't he just stay here for a little while longer...?

They were calling his name again, insitently, the urgency pulling him up through the warm, comforting darkness...

And then the pain hit him, ripping through him and slamming him back into oblivion.

"Thorne!" the man called again. The Englishman's eyes fluttered and he moaned softly, almost as if he were trying to come round. But then the breath shuddered slightly in his chest, his fingers twitching, and his face relaxed as he slipped back into unconsciousness. Mikhail looked across at the woman kneeling on the floor at Thorne's other side, holding a wad of cloth against his back.

Lara met Mikhail's gaze, shaking her head, telling him, "He's still losing blood. If we move him now he will die."

Mikhail swore softly. The Englishman had taken a bullet in the back. It had glanced off his ribs and deflected up and out of his shoulder. His breathing seemed okay - there was no tell tale rasp of fluid in his lungs - but Mikhail was more than slightly concerned that they hadn't been able to stop the bleeding. They were hiding in little more than a shack, with almost nothing in the way of medical supplies. Thankfully the last shepherd to use this snow shelter had left blankets, but they had a long cold night ahead of them...

He looked across the semi-darkness of the hut at his other companion, who was standing at the door, searching the area with infra-red goggles, looking for the first movement that would signal soldiers or the Police moving in. "Pasha?" he asked. "Anything?"

The man shook his head, "No. Nothing... I think we may have lost them. I should have seen something by now."

"Mikhail!" Lara, cautioned, "this is stupid. Let's leave the Englishman and get out of here!"

Mikhail shook his head, "No. I have too much blood on my hands already..."

"Damn it, Mikhail!" Lara exploded, "We are fighting a war!"

"Yes!" he agreed. "A war that neither Patrick O'Donnell or this man asked to fight!"

Lara made a small sound of disgust, "Shouldn't you have thought of that before agreeing to take O'Donnell from his hotel?"

Mikhail said nothing for a long moment. She was right of course. But it was too late now to have any remorse over their actions. They had taken Patrick O'Donnell, a wealthy American businessman, and held him hostage for one hundred and fifty thousand American dollars - a fortune in his own currency and money his brothers in the fight for freedom desperately needed to buy not only munitions but food. The man lying wounded and bleeding on the floor had stepped into the negotiations and subsequently arrived with the agreed eighty thousand dollars. Only, the State Police had turned up and it had all gone horrifically wrong.

And now they were sitting in a shack as it was getting dark, hunted by the government, with the Englishman possibly dying - and all the money they had ever dreamed of... Money that could do nothing to save their dead comrades. Or Thorne. Or O'Donnell.

Finally he told Lara, "You and Pasha are free to leave any time you wish, Little Sister. But I am going to stay with the Englishman."

She opened her mouth to object, but he lifted his hand, hushing her, "He brought the money to us. He followed through with his end of the bargain. It is not his fault that Yuri was stupid enough to let himself be followed back to the farmhouse."

"But..." she tried again.

"Lara," he interrupted, "you saw yourself! The Police didn't care who they caught in the crossfire. I will not leave him to them! They will kill him then apologise to his embassy, just as they will apologise to the American embassy."

He reached over, taking her free hand, "Even if it wasn't them who fired the round that killed O'Donnell, he *is* dead. Yuri is dead. The others...?" he shrugged, "perhaps. But we have the American's money. We have everything we set out to get..."

"Then keep *him*!" Lara countered, pulling her hand away and stabbing a finger at Thorne's unconscious body. "Make demands for him! Get more money!"

"Having *murdered* our last hostage?" Pasha commented softly from the window. "They'd laugh in our faces!"

Lara snorted in disgust and reached for another strip of torn blanket, her face sullen. Her brother glanced down at Thorne, "All we have to do is keep him alive long enough to contact his people. Then they can arrange to have him taken out of here."

"There's a farmhouse on the other side of the valley," Pasha informed them quietly.

Mikhail pushed himself to his feet, crossing to the door, "Where?" Pasha pointed out the faint glow of a lit window, two or three miles further down. If they'd kept going they would have reached it.

"Want to chance it?" Pasha asked.

"We need to, otherwise the Englishman won't last the night. And I, for one, could use a good loaf of bread. Stay with them, I'll go." He turned, "Lara, stay here with Thorne." Then he turned back, slapping Pasha gently on the shoulder. "I'll be back as quickly as I can," he assured him, then slipped out of the door and disappeared into the darkness.

Awareness returned slowly. Warm and comfortable, he drifted for a long time in the half reality between consciousness and oblivion, content simply to listen to the sounds around him - unaware, at first of the nagging ache along his back and in his shoulder... until it began to intensify.

The pain brought with it an image that pushed obstinately at him, demanding attention - a sandy-haired, ruddy faced man stumbling backwards before falling to the ground, as if some invisible giant fist had hit him in the gut. A name floated into his mind...

//Daniel...?//

//No... Donald...?//

//Donel...?//

//O'Donnell...//

*Shit!!!!*

Reality slammed home. The memories of the negotiation hit him. Terry Thorne opened his eyes, trying to move, trying to get to get to the American. But agony ripped through him, freezing the breath in his lungs, darkness rushing in from the edge of his vision. Then he was breathing again, ragged gulps of air as he tried to stay conscious through the pain. He squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his teeth as beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

He was aware of footsteps on the floor beside him. And then someone was wiping his face with a cool, damp cloth. He opened his eyes, blinking in an attempt to see. "Thorne..." a man's voice told him, "stay still, don't try to move. You'll open the wound again..."

"O'Donnell..." Terry rasped.

"Is dead," Mikhail told the Englishman bluntly.

Terry turned his head as the pain dropped to a bearable level, looking up at the dark-haired, heavily bearded man, recognising him as one of the Rebel soldiers who had been at the farmhouse where they were supposed to have exchanged dollars for O'Donnell. "Where are we?"

"Safe... For the moment." Mikhail turned, "Lara, some water!"

Terry closed his eyes... //Christ... What a bloody mess... What a bloody awful mess...//

Everything had been going fine until the police had turned up... And now... now...

Another thought hit him. Now the hostage negotiator had become the hostage... One of the risks of the trade... //Shit! Shit! Bloody, stinking shit!//

With a heavy heart he opened his eyes. A young woman was handing a bowl to the bearded man, turning and walking away again. "They won't..." Terry tried. But his throat closed over the words.

The bearded man hushed him, "Save your strength, Thorne. Here!" He held a small spoon to Terry's lips, feeding him water, the cool, clear fluid easing the dryness in his throat. Finally the man sat back, "Are you hungry?"

Terry nodded. The man grinned at him, "Then you are getting better. We have soup."

Mikhail turned, holding out the bowl to his sister, "Lara, bring some soup, please. You will enjoy this, Thorne," he continued as she walked across taking the bowl. "Made by the old mother," he went on, turning back to the Englishman, "at a farm not far..."

He trailed off. Thorne's eyes were closed, his face relaxed in sleep. Mikhail nodded, pleased. Sleep was the best thing for the Englishman at the moment. Pushing himself to his feet, Mikhail turned, walking across to Lara and Pasha.

The Englishman made a small sound, almost like a sigh. Lara glanced over at him as his eyes fluttered open. The late evening sun flowed in through the open door of the hut, flooding the floor with a redish gold light, turning his hair a coppery red and bringing colour to his face that she knew wasn't there. She rose to her feet, walking over to him and dropping to her knees by his side. Placing a hand lightly on his thigh, she warned, "Don't move, English. Let me check the dressings first."

He nodded, saying nothing as she folded the blanket down and gently began to pull the pad away from the exit wound on his shoulder. He clenched his teeth against the pain, refusing to make any sound as she cleaned it and redressed it. Then she moved across him, kneeling behind him. "You are lucky, English," she told him, removing the dressing on his back. "The bullet went through..."

"I'm not English," he informed her quietly, through clenched teeth. "I'm Australian..." The word ended in a soft moan.

Lara frowned, saying nothing for a moment, concentration on tending the wound. Finally finished, she pushed herself to her feet, walking across to the small fire. "Australian..."

"Yes..."

"Jason Donovan," she offered, turning to look at him. "Surfing."

He smiled tiredly, nodding, "Yes..."

Lara considered him for a moment. The sun was dropping behind the far mountain, the floor now darker in shadow, the sunlight having crept up the wall. The reflected light on his face made him look even more drawn than he was, accentuated the dark circles beneath his eyes. "I don't like Jason Donovan!" she informed him, finally.

He laughed softly, wincing as the movement pushed pain through him, "Neither do most people back home..."

Not expecting that reaction, having been trying to goad him, she frowned. Then watched as he closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, the pain writing itself across his face despite the fact that he didn't make a sound. Instinctively she moved towards him. But his eyes were opening again, his body beginning to relax as the wave of pain subsided. Despite herself, she found that she was beginning to respect this man Thorne... The muscle tone of his body as well as the easy way he was dealing with his pain hinted that he was possibly a soldier and not just some Fat Cat's money man.

Maybe her brother was right... She crouched beside the fire, reaching for a bowl, "Are you hungry, Australia?"

He nodded again, "Yes..."

A flock of birds flew up suddenly from a nearby tree. Lara froze, her stomach flipping as she reached for the rifle that lay behind her. And then she heard the familiar bird call that told her that it was only her brother and Pasha who had spooked the birds. She picked up the bowl and began to spoon the soup into it. Moments later the two men walked into the hut.

Mikhail grinned as he saw that Thorne was conscious, unslinging a sack from over his shoulder, "So! You are awake, English!"

"Only just!" Lara told her brother, walking across to the Australian. "Pasha, help me sit him up... And he's not English. He's Australian."

"Australian?" The big, bearded man laughed, dropping into a crouch and opening the sack as Pasha moved towards Thorne. Terry gritted his teeth, unable to stop the small grunt of pain as slowly, carefully, Pasha and Lara helped him sit up. The world span for a moment, tilting slightly as he sat up fully. He closed his eyes against it, fighting it, trying to remain as much in control as he could.

Mikhail produced a huge loaf of bread, a roasted chicken and a sealed pitcher of goats milk from the sack. Lara sat behind Thorne, supporting him, careful of the wound on his back, holding the bowl for him and handing him the spoon. Pasha crossed back to the fire, scooping up the pitcher of milk and breaking the seal.

Tearing off a chunk of bread Mikhail dropped back against the wall of the hut, watching Thorne in the failing light as he ate a few spoonfuls of the soup. Finally Mikhail told him, "The farmer is going to try to reach or comrades further into the mountains. With any luck you will be able to contact your people within a few days... a week at the most."

Terry looked at him, frowning, "You want me to negotiate for my own ransom?"

Mikhail shook his head, poking at the embers of the fire with a stick, "We have what money we need. It is unfortunate that O'Donnell died, it was not intended. You will contact your people and arrange for them to take you out."

Suddenly, terribly tired, the soup lying uncomfortably in his stomach, Terry looked at the big man, confused, his mind not taking in what had just been said, "What...?"

"You will contact your people," Mikhail repeated, "and get them to send someone for you. You are not a prisoner, Thorne. We simply took you to keep you alive. O'Donnell was already dead and the police were not particularly concerned about who they killed."

Terry blinked at him, still not quite believing what he was hearing, "I'm free to go...?"

Behind him, Lara laughed softly, quipping, "The bullet has affected his hearing! Yes, Australia, you are free to go!"

Her voice seemed to come from very far away. Terry tried to turn, to look at her, but the world tilted and his stomach finally rebelled against the soup. Aware that the spoon had fallen from his hand, knowing that he was collapsing sideways against the woman but powerless to stop it, he threw up. Darkness rushed in. He knew that she had dropped the bowl, knew that she had caught him and was lowering him gently back onto the floor...

Pain flared in agonising brevity... And then the darkness wrapped itself around him completely, smothering him and dragging him down into a black void of nothingness.

He opened his eyes. It was dark, the wind whistling around the door of shelter they were in, the sound of even, peaceful breathing telling him that at least two of the others were asleep. Movement from the door proved that one of them was standing watch. He closed his eyes.

When he woke again, the pain in his chest and shoulder had faded to a nagging ache. He opened his eyes. It was dusk, or pre-dawn. The woman was lying on the floor, trying to blow life into the fire she had just lit. The thinner of the two men was sitting against the far wall, stripping and cleaning an SLR. The big bearded man was missing. Terry turned his attention back to the woman as the flames suddenly sparked and started to burn.

Pasha looked up, aware that they were being watched, glancing across the room at the Australian. Grinning, nodding an acknowledgement to him, Pasha turned his attention back to cleaning the rifle.

Mikhail pushed open the door, slipping inside. He walked across, unslinging another bag of food and handed it to Lara who opened it and starting to rummage inside. Mikhail turned, checking on the English... the Australian and grinned as he saw Thorne watching him. "Ah, you are awake again!"

Terry smiled, "So it would seem..."

"You are hungry?

"Thirsty..."

The big man grinned again, scooping up a jar and pouring water into a cup. Then, lifting a spoon, he walked across to Thorne. He sat cross-legged beside him and offered him the water, spoonful by spoonful. Terry sipped it, relishing the taste of the cool, clear liquid.

"The old mother and the daughter from the farm," Mikhail told him, "left yesterday morning for the nearest town. By now they should have contacted our comrades in the North. You should be able to get word to your people in three days, four at the most."

Terry considered him for a moment. There was no doubt in his mind that this man was sincere about letting him go. But he had no idea how high up the Rebel soldier was in the chain of command. And he had been involved in enough hostage negotiations to know that a situation could change drastically simply because someone else stepped in to take control. Quietly, he asked, "And what happens if your comrades don't agree with you and decide not to let me go?"

"I doubt they will." It was the other man who had answered, "The last ransom attempt cost us more than it gained..."

Mikhail glanced round then turned back, looking straight into Thorne's eyes, "We had no wish to see O'Donnell die. He was a decent man..."

Terry simply nodded an acknowledgement, biting back the caustic reply that sprung to his lips. He had no right to judge them. He had no idea what they had had to endure. They were fighting for the independence of their country from an oppressor... And in their situation he would probably have done exactly the same thing.

But that didn't change the fact that O'Donnell was dead...

//And if it hadn't been for the *police* turning up at the farmhouse, he would still be alive and safely back with his family in Texas.//

This big Azhdarcheynian was sincere in his regret. He was being told the truth. Whatever had gone before, Terry had complete faith that both of these men would do their damnedest to see him get safely back home. The woman, on the other hand... There was something about her that he found hard to trust...

"Do you feel strong enough to sit?" Mikhail asked.

"Yes..."

"Lara...? Help me." She moved across and together they helped him to sit up. He didn't feel as light-headed this time, the room staying firmly where it should. Lara rolled a blanket into a pillow, holding it against the wall to cushion his back as Mikhail helped him to slide back and sit against it.

The effort left him drained, but he was glad to be sitting up. The ache in his back and shoulder had intensified... but it was worth it. The big bearded man grinned at him, "Perhaps you can keep some soup down now, yes?"

Terry grinned, suddenly appreciating how hungry he was, "Hell, yes."

"Good!" He stuck out his hand, introducing himself. "I am Mikhail!" Terry took the strong grip, shaking the big man's hand. "My quiet friend in the corner is Pasha"

Pasha nodded to him and Terry smiled back. "And this," Mikhail finsihed, "is Lara."

She turned, looking at him, saying nothing. Terry smiled then looked back at Mikhail, "Terry. Call me Terry."

Mikhail's grin faded, "I am truly sorry, Terry. It was not supposed to be like this. The police must have followed Yuri when he brought you to the farmhouse."

The Australian nodded, saying nothing for a moment, then asked, "What have they said about O'Donnell's death?"

Mikhail shrugged, "I have no idea. There has been nothing on the radio or television. And in this part of our country there are few enough telephones, let alone personal computers. It is hard to get access to the internet." Lara had walked over and handed Terry a cup of milk, giving Mikhail the pitcher and a bundle of cloth. Terry sipped from the cup, enjoying the chalky aftertaste of the goats milk. Mikhail swigged from pitcher then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, "But in a few days we will know more. Perhaps even later today when the old mother returns."

"How were they going to make contact?"

"You ask too many questions!" Lara told him, stabbing at the fire with a stick.

Mikhail glanced at her, then turned back to the Australian, grinning again. "You must forgive my little sister, Terry. She has much distrust in her heart!"

Lara gave Mikhail a venomous glare as Pasha smiled at her. Then she shoved herself to her feet and stormed out of the hut. Pasha rolled his eyes at Terry. Putting down the SLR he climbed to his feet and wandered out of the hut after her. Mikhail shook his head with a sigh, unrolling the dark green shirt. "She is like our mother," Mikhail explained, "All fire and passion!" He held the shirt out. "The farmer gifted you this!"

"Tell the farmer, thank you!" Terry said, as the Azhdarcheynian dropped the shirt over his head and helped him into it. Then, wanting to find out as much as he could about his three rescuers, he pressed gently, "Has she a reason to mistrust?" Even with the best of intentions things had already gone awry. The more he knew about these three, the better prepared he would be.

Mikhail gave him an appraising look then nodded slowly, "Her husband was a policeman, married more to the job than to her. He handed over our little brother to the authorities when the troubles first began."

"Oh," was all that Terry could find to say. Then after a moment he told Mikhail, sincerely, "I'm sorry..."

"Don't be," Mikhail grinned. "Our brother is still alive and fighting for the cause. The policeman, on the other hand, had his throat cut."

Terry hesitated for a moment, then hazarded a tentative guess, "Lara?"

"Lara," Mikhail confirmed, laughing softly.

Terry grinned, "Fire and passion..."

Mikhail laughed again, nodding, "Just like our mother!"

The door flew open, Pasha rushing in, "Soldiers in the valley! The grandson was sent to tell us. He met Lara on the path."

Mikhail was already on his feet as Lara ran inside, a tousle-haired youngster hard on her heels "Two trucks," she told her brother, "heading up to the farm! It may be nothing..."

"But we can't afford to take the chance!" Mikhail turned to the boy as Lara dropped to her knees and began to shove the food back into the sac, "How far away were they when you saw them?"

"At the end of the valley, just turning into the road. They'll be at Papa's by now."

Mikhail turned towards Thorne. "We can not put these people in any more danger," he told him. "We will have to go. Do you want to come with us, or do we leave you here?"

"He'll slow us down!" Lara protested.

"Then he slows us down!" her brother snapped back at her. "Well, Australian, what is it to be?"

Pasha had slung the SLR over his shoulder. Now, he reached out, ruffling the boy's hair, "Go back home, little one."

The boy shook his head, "Papa said to stay with you... There's another place... I have to take you there."

Instinct warned Terry Thorne that he was safer going with these men than taking his chances with the platoon of unknown soldiers who were more likely to shoot first and ask questions later. A brief image flashed in his mind - of O'Donnell slamming backwards as the police bullet hit him in the gut. Holding out his good hand, he told Mikhail, "I'll come with you."

Lara made a small sound of disgust. The big man nodded, then bent down, catching hold of the Australian beneath the shoulders, hauling him to his feet. Terry bit down on the wash of pain, but Mikhail heard the small sound. Pulling Thorne's good arm over his shoulder he helped the hostage negotiator towards the door.

Pasha was already outside, rifle held at the ready, looking through the trees towards the farm. The branches screened any sign of movement, but by now Pasha knew that the soldiers would be climbing down from the trucks, the farmer moving to greet them. The boy had taken off up the hill, Lara following. She *was* right, the Australian would slow them down. But deep inside Pasha was glad that Thorne had made the decision to stay with them. His chances of survival were better with them than with those sordid sons of whores down there!

And there had been too much innocent bloodshed already... He stood for a moment longer, then he turned, following the others up through the trees.

Terry swore silently, willing his body to obey him. But he was exhausted after only a few meters of the uphill climb, the pain expanding out from his chest and shoulder into his lungs and up into his head, the milk sitting uncomfortably in his stomach. He forced himself to move on, pushing one foot in front of the other as the big Azhdarcheynian soldier helped him climb. But after only a few more minutes his world had narrowed into a corridor of agony, the breath burning in his lungs, the pain thumping through him.

Cursing, he stumbled, crying out softly as Mikhail steadied him. The big man let him pause for a moment to get his breath. But when they started upward again, they made it only a few steps. Then Terry's knees buckled. Mikhail caught him, taking his weight easily.

Pasha saw the Australian collapse against Mikhail, saw the black stain of blood spreading out across Thorne's back and knew that it meant the wound had opened again. Swearing, he put on a spurt of speed, rushing up the few meters to where Mikhail held Thorne. Mikhail threw his SLR at Pasha then bent forward, grunting as he hauled Thorne over his shoulder.

Pasha waited until his friend had the Australian settled across his shoulders, then told him, "I'll slow them down."

"Ok. And find out how far this place is." Pasha turned, running up the hill as fast as he could to catch Lara and the boy. Slowly, carefully, Mikhail began to climb.