Notes: hibrido--bastard, asesinos--murderers, Voy a destriparle--(roughly) I'm going to gut you, Para mi amante--for my lover
The locker room was almost chilly after the moist heat of the sauna. Mulder's damp feet skidded on the tiles, but Ethan caught him, keeping him from falling. "Shoes and pants--move fast!" Ethan ordered as he followed his own directive.
Fox snatched up the required garments and bolted out of the room a split second after Ethan. He didn't question the wisdom of taking the time to grab these few items--a Colombian jungle was not a good place to be barefoot and naked.
They didn't pause to don them right away, though, instead racing through the house. Fox didn't bother to ask Ethan why he was going toward the front instead of out the closer back way--he was sure that his partner had a reason. In the front hall, Ethan stopped and began jerking on his pants, stuffing his feet into his shoes.
Fox followed suit, and while he was closing his fly he got the answer of why Ethan had chosen this route. He was opening a small ornamental cabinet. Reaching in, he drew out a small carrying pouch, and his gun. He tossed the pouch to Mulder. Mulder had kept his belt threaded through the loops, so it had come along with the pants. He fastened the pouch securely while Ethan checked his gun.
There was noise from farther back in the house, a crashing sound as Olivero either slammed a door open, or simply took out his rage by smashing something. Ethan jerked open the door. "Stay with me!" They darted out into the night. Ethan whirled and sent a shot into the security light that illuminated the front lawn. There was a crunch of shattering glass, and it winked out, leaving only the moonbeams, and what light filtered through the heavy draperies of the house.
Fox had thought briefly that it might be easier to avoid de la Montana if he and Ethan split up, but he knew why they couldn't do that. On the coldly practical side, one might not be able to make it back to the landing pad when the copter came, and the hard-won information could be lost. On the more personal side, there was just no way that either of the men was going to risk having the other caught alone.
They darted across the well-kept expanse of grass, and plunged into the trees, effectively moving from civilization to wilderness in only a few strides. The ground cover was sparse near the cleared area, and they could move quickly between the trees. Farther in it wouldn't be so easy, but it would provide more camouflage.
Mulder wasn't sure how deep they went into the trees, but he was breathless by the time they found a clump of bushes and ducked behind it. They squatted and spent a moment listening, trying to muffle their gasps. Finally Mulder whispered, "I don't hear him."
"He'll be there," Ethan whispered in return. "He just won't bull his way through. Jaguar, remember? He'll stalk us, try to get right up on us before we spot him. He's an arrogant bastard, and that may be to our advantage."
"How?"
"He doesn't know I have the gun. I think he'll want to be close-up when he takes us out--use his hands, or a knife. That's his style, it's what he likes. All his previous personal victims have been unarmed." Ethan smiled grimly. "This time I have a surprise for his ass."
Mulder shifted tensely, whispering, "Fuck. It can't be any later than ten-thirty. We have close to eight hours before the chopper comes. Maybe we ought to just get the fuck out of here. There has to be some form of civilization nearby--his help lives out."
Ethan shook his head. "No one who lives around here is going to risk defying him. They'll either turn us over to him, or try to kill us themselves, hoping to curry favor." Fox gave him a look. "Yeah, it would be a stupid move, since Montana is interested in killing us personally, but they won't know that. Our only chance is to hide and run, whichever is appropriate at any given time." There was a brittle sound, and Ethan realized that Mulder was gritting his teeth. Hunt gripped his lover's arm firmly. "We can do this, Mulder. It won't be easy, but we can do it. I've managed to hide for hours from search parties in sealed-off buildings."
Fox took a deep breath, nodding. "Okay. I think we'd better move. He's bound to know where we exited the house, and it would be a good idea if we weren't hiding in a straight line from the back door."
Ethan grinned crookedly. "Not exactly a straight line--we did a little veering as we moved, but you're right." He tilted his head to the left. "That way."
"Why that way?" Fox was already moving as he spoke.
"Because it's to the right from the way we came when we ran out of the house. Most people, if there isn't an obstacle, run to the left when they're fleeing danger. He won't be expecting us to go to the right."
Mulder cast him a questioning look as they moved through the shadows. "Really?"
"No, I'm bullshitting you. The government wastes a lot of money on bizarre studies, but they haven't done this one, as far as I can tell."
"Too bad. Maybe I should present a proposal for a study grant when we get back. The only drawback I see is that they might object to putting test subjects in actual danger to study their responses. Maybe if we used IRS auditors, or used car salesmen..."
"Telemarketers."
"Personal injury lawyers."
"Psychologists." Fox swatted him on the back of the head. "I love you, too." The continued, edging around the perimeter of the compound.
Olivero slammed open the door that led out of the gym, so hard that the handle dented the wall paneling. He paused just in the corridor, eyes flicking over the choices of direction. To the front of the house, or the back? The front direction would bring the fleeing pair to the roughly cleared path that led eventually to the dirt road that ran on to the nearest cluster of dwellings. It was too tiny to be graced with the title of 'village'. But the back way... that would be the fastest way out of the house, the closest to cover, and thus the most logical. Olivero started toward the back door.
Manuel had paused for a moment to wrap a damp, cold towel around his forearm. He could feel something grating inside. He muttered darkly about the hibrido who had dared to injure both himself and his lover. Yes, some of Olivero's other chicos had fought, but their struggles had always been pathetic, almost laughable. *He shouldn't have been able to do that, damn it. He was too fucking efficient. Galbraith--yes, I would have expected it from him. He's lived a hard life, he's fought. But Daniel? He grew up in a soft, protected world.*
He hissed angrily, binding the aching limb tightly for support. He had no time to nurse himself, though. He wanted to be with Olivero when he caught up with the pair. He was looking forward to seeing Danny gutted. But as he awkwardly tugged on his pants (Olivero had gone off naked--when he was in this state, he wouldn't feel the scrape and sting of branches or thorns), he thought, *Yes, Ballard began moving in a more dangerous crowd when he took up with the drug runner, but I have seen how protective Connor is of him. He would have had no reason to learn to defend himself so well. I think that perhaps they are not exactly what they seem. Olivero must kill them both. He will give up the business advantage easily enough, but he still might want to keep Danny for a while. That must not happen. He can't be allowed to survive, not even till tomorrow.* He was unaware of the wolfish smile that crossed his lips. *It shouldn't be hard to urge him to that last step. It never has been before.*
The hall was empty when he stepped out of the gym, but it was easy to determine which direction Olivero had taken--a warm breeze blew from the back of the house, and he followed it. For a moment he considered going to his room for the gun that he kept hidden under his mattress, but there was no need for it, since the prey was unarmed. Instead he stopped in the kitchen and selected a knife. He knew from past experience that the cleaver could scare a victim into pissing his pants before you made the first cut, but unless you landed it solidly in the throat or skull, the victim could still be surprisingly lively. The wide-bladed knives tended to get blocked by bones, or stuck in them. Instead he chose a narrow-bladed boning knife. It was kept razor sharp, and would be almost as effective as a scalpel. You could open a man up, from side to side, with one hard slice.
Midnight
"There would be a full moon," muttered Mulder.
"That shouldn't be a problem, unless we go into the open," replied Ethan quietly, squinting upward. He couldn't really see the sky, couldn't even see the branches more than a few feet over their heads. "Not much light reaches the ground in here."
"Yeah, but that wasn't what I meant. You know that old saw about the full moon making crazy people crazier? Where they got the term 'lunatic'?" Ethan stared at him. He continued defensively, "Well, I'm here to tell you that there's more to that shit than you might believe, and Olivero does not need any more fucking incentive--he's nuts enough already."
"I think after you reach a certain point, it's strictly theoretical, and Montana reached that point a long time ago." There was a rustle of sound, and Ethan looked up alertly, finger going to his lips. Mulder mouthed, 'Like you need to tell me'. They both listened intently. They were squatted behind the remains of a fallen tree, one that hadn't been quite as big as a Sequoia during its life, but was quite big enough to hide the two men.
They tensed as the sound continued, drawing closer. Even in the dimness, Mulder could see how white Ethan's knuckles were as he gripped the gun. Then there was a pause. Mulder held his breath. Seconds ticked by, and he could picture Olivero standing in the jungle, the very faint light from above throwing shadows on his olive skin, dappling him like his namesake--the jaguar. And his eyes would be the same, too--cold, devoid of any humanity, showing only the need to hunt, and kill. *No, that's not right,* Mulder thought, *because the predator doesn't take pleasure in torturing his kill. He does it quickly and efficiently, because it's nothing more than a necessity for survival. With Olivero, I think it's even more. If he can't do it, he won't just go hungry physically.*
The movement resumed, but it was going away from them. They relaxed minutely as the sounds faded. "We have to do something," Mulder whispered. "We're both so pale that we might as well glow in the dark." He picked up a sturdy fallen branch and began digging at the ground. Ethan watched, without comment as his lover punched through the grass. The ground in the shelter of the tree was still spongy with the last of the frequent rain. Mulder quickly chopped away a few clods of grass, then reached into the hole and scooped up a handful of mud and began to smear it over his naked chest and arms. Ethan was watching him silently, and Mulder paused. "Well?"
"You look like you're coating yourself with chocolate frosting." "Again, well?"
"It's giving me ideas."
Mulder snorted, and the next handful he dug up was splattered in the middle of Ethan's chest. "Sex fiend. Get with it. I'm going to need you to do my back in a minute." They both worked quickly, and soon they were coated with mud from hairline to waist. Ethan reached over and picked something off Mulder's shoulder, holding it up to show him. It was a pale, glistening earthworm. Mulder arched an eyebrow. "I've told you about the Flukeman, haven't I? I'm not impressed." He looked down at himself, arms held out slightly from his side. "How much longer do we have to wait? This is going to itch like a son of a bitch when it starts to dry."
"I think it's around midnight. I wonder if Montana's checked his landing pad yet, to be sure we aren't trying to figure out how to fly his chopper?"
"Uh. I don't know about Olivero, but I think Manuel will have checked. He's a thorough little bastard."
"Let's move around toward that area and see what's up. The closer we can be to it when the time comes, the better."
They moved through the jungle, crouched low to take advantage of what cover there was. It was slow going. There were frequent pauses to look and listen. Once, without comment, Ethan shoved Fox flat on his face, holding him down with a hand in the middle of his back. Mulder didn't protest or try to escape--he knew that it wasn't done on a whim. Ethan must think that there was a good chance that he'd need Mulder out of the line of fire. After a moment, though, Ethan grunted and helped Fox up to his feet, and they went on.
Manuel had caught up to Olivero, and he followed behind. He was careful not to get too close, though. Olivero was intent on his prey, but it was always better to not interfere with a stalking predator. They could be distracted, and then nothing within their grasp was safe.
Olivero was prowling the perimeter of the cleared area, only going a few yards deep into the jungle on each sweep. Manuel never grew tired of watching his master on the hunt. There had been a few times when a previous chico had been allowed to escape--or rather think he had escaped. Olivero would amuse himself by tracking them through the jungle. One of them, wounded and desperate, had even managed to get three miles from the compound before he was taken down. Olivero had been merciful with that one, killing him quickly, twisting his neck to the side, then dropping a gentle kiss on his sweat-matted hair. Then he had taken Manuel beside the cooling corpse, and Manuel had buried the man that Olivero had obsessed over for a month, and had already half-forgotten.
He was rather surprised that they had not already caught the fleeing pair. While Connor had a certain survival instinct, he was a city man, used to an urban environment, and Danny... Danny should be easy meat. Manuel liked the situation less and less as time passed. They should have found them, disposed of them, and be back in the house by now.
*They are not supposed to know how to fly a helicopter, and the pilot is in the village. Even if they could find him, I doubt that they could convince him to defy Olivero and fly them out. Still, they might try to take the chopper up themselves. They know that if they stay they will surely die, but if they try to fly, they will only possibly die. Desperate men commit desperate acts. I had better check.*
He headed toward the landing pad.
One-thirty AM
Moonlight glistened off the glass bubble of the helicopter. Mulder and Hunt squatted in the bushes, watching it. "Looks clear," whispered Ethan.
"Wait," whispered Mulder. Ethan cocked a questioning eyebrow. "A hunch, bred by several hundred hours of stake-outs on shit so weird you wouldn't believe me if I told you." They waited. Ten minutes later Fox grabbed Ethan's arm and pointed silently toward the corner of the house.
Ethan squinted, then looked at his partner questioningly. Mulder held up a finger, 'wait', then pointed again. Ethan looked, and this time he saw a tiny, silvery flash, a splinter of brightness. He wished for his infrared binoculars, but concentrated even harder, and finally made out the shape of a figure standing in the shadow of the house. It moved a bit, and a moonbeam hit it just right, striking another glint. Ethan hissed a breath through his teeth as the figure cautiously moved out into the dim light.
It was Manuel, barefoot and shirtless. His head turned restlessly as he scanned the area, his hair brushing his naked shoulders. In the moonlight, his eyes were as dark and flat as those of a shark, and he had a wicked knife clenched in his fist.
The young Colombian moved to the helicopter, his gait smooth despite the constant shifting of his gaze. He walked around the machine, knife raised, at the ready, as he peered inside. Finally he crawled in. A few moments later he emerged on the other side, and stood there, looking around. His stance was a little less tense, and he waved the knife slowly, thoughtfully, as if trying to come to a decision.
Finally he walked back to the house, disappearing into the surrounding shadow. Ethan whispered, "He isn't gone. The bastard is waiting just around the corner."
"Yeah. The son of a bitch knows that's our best bet for getting out--he's just missed the guess on how." Manuel was squatting in the darkness, as still as a stone. "Shit. I don't like the idea of trying to move with him right there." There were rustling noises off to their side. "But it looks like we have no choice."
As they started away, Mulder whispered, "Ethan, if we can make it around to the kitchen, why don't we try to slip inside?" Ethan gave him a look. "Yeah, I know, it's crazy. Which means they won't expect us to do it, right?"
"It's as good an idea as any, if we can be sure that we can get in without being seen."
Two-thirty AM
How long had he been searching? Olivero wasn't sure. Time was a malleable thing when he was hunting like this. Minutes could stretch out like hours, or hours could fly by like seconds.
There traces of his prey. Behind a fallen tree he found the sunken area where they had knelt. The earth was torn and churned, a shallow hole filled with a murky puddle of water. He couldn't understand that. Had they become thirsty so early in the hunt? It was possible. Fear made the throat dry, he knew that.
He was able to follow their trail for a short space from there, eyes unerringly finding broken branches, bent grasses. It became apparent that they were simply moving around the rim of the clearing, so when he lost the trail, he continued in that direction.
He would pause now and then to lift his eyes to the trees. They weren't easy to climb, but if you were determined... One of his more determined chicos had climbed a tree once. That had been amusing. He'd simply camped under the tree till the young man, already weakened, had lost consciousness--whether from exhaustion, slow blood loss, or thirst and hunger, he didn't know. The fall had shocked him awake again, but by then it had been too late for him. Olivero had been on him, exacting payment for past betrayals and current defiance.
He reached the area near the landing pad, and again here was a place that his prey had rested. He was puzzled. The marks were obvious those of two people, so they were still together. He would have thought that they would have split up, in hopes of dividing his attention. The thought that they were still together stoked his anger.
His Duncan--his--clinging to this piece of Irish trash! "You didn't like what I did to your pretty teacher, Chico," he whispered. "I'll work on this one slowly, and you'll watch every moment." He moved on.
As they crept toward the kitchen door, Mulder whispered, "Look, maybe they couldn't get the chopper here earlier, but we could try, couldn't we?"
"Mulder, do you really want to take the chance of being trapped upstairs? I've had to jump off a second story before to get away from someone. It isn't necessarily killing or crippling, but it DAMN sure isn't good for you."
"How about the salon, then? There are those French windows that will lead out toward the landing pad, and plenty of furniture to hide behind."
"Good choice. C'mon."
At the corner of the house, Manuel could see Olivero moving in the trees, pausing every few steps to look around. He was magnificent--primal in his simple desire to kill. Manuel remained still, watching Olivero as he made his way around. He passed to the side, and continued back, heading toward the kitchen area of the house. *He'll probably move farther back into the trees on his next pass. He should speed up a little. If the two chickens did not hide, if they simply blundered on, they will have quite a head start. He might not be able to find them before the beasts, or his workers do. That would be a shame. He doesn't enjoy it as much if they are brought to him.*
Olivero had come abreast of the kitchen, and he paused, looking back toward the house. The brush here was disturbed, a branch or two bent outward. He studied the house, then stepped out and began walking toward it.
In the house, Mulder and Hunt heard a door open. "Motherfucker!" muttered Ethan. They were crouched behind the sofa, so that they were hidden from the hall. He reached up behind him, grabbing the handle of the French doors. They were locked. He shoved at the thumb switch. *Oh, Christ, I don't believe this! The bastard locks them with a key!*
Mulder was watching him, and he grasped the problem immediately. "Ethan," he whispered. "Do you have a problem with shooting that psycho in the back?"
"Hell no!"
"Good. Get ready." He stood up.
"Fox!" he hissed. He grabbed at Mulder, but the other man had stepped out of his reach. Ethan was faced with the impossible choice of letting the man he loved walk into danger, or trying to stop him, and certainly drawing the attention of the man who wanted to kill them both. Fox didn't give him time to make the decision--he moved.
*I'm right; I know I'm right,* Mulder thought. *He won't kill me immediately. He's sick. He wants to play. If I can play to his delusion, I can stall him--give Ethan a chance.*
He stepped into the hall. He could see Olivero at the end of the long hallway, standing at the crossway. His back was turned, and he was looking between the kitchen and the front hall, trying to decide where to search first. He was naked, his olive skin splashed with mud, and streaked with blood from where branches had whipped him during his hunt.
*Give him what he wants.* Mulder forced himself to relax his stance, and called softly, "Hey!" Olivero tensed, then turned slowly. Fox's gut clenched when he saw the huge knife Olivero held. The overwhelming urge was to turn and run, but he fought it down, and he did perhaps the hardest thing he'd ever done--he smiled. He made his voice lazy and drawling, "Vero, you're a rascal, scarin' me like that."
Olivero cocked his head. "Duncan?"
Fox pouted. "Well, it's about time you called me by my right name. A person would think that you hadn't missed me."
Olivero started toward him slowly. "Oh, I've missed you, Chico. But it's your own fault. Every time I find you, you run away."
Fox shrugged negligently. "You know what a tease I am. I can't help it--it's just how I am." Montana was moving closer. Mulder waved a hand at himself. "Will you just look at this mess? I fell down out in that nasty jungle. You know how I hate to be dirty."
"Yes, Duncan. You never liked being dirty. I was the first one to smudge you, and you loved it."
Fox started backing away slowly. *I have to get him past the salon, so Ethan can step out and have a clear shot.* "Well, smudged is just fine, but I'm downright filthy, and I need to get cleaned up."
"Duncan, stand still." Olivero's voice was soft with warning. He was beginning to close the space between them.
Fox had reached the stairs. He stepped up on the first one. "I'm just goin' to the bathroom." He tried to make his voice inviting. "You can come with me, if you like."
Olivero continued advancing. "I killed you once in that bathroom, Chico. There was a lot of blood that time. Will you stay still?"
Fox kept backing, feeling panic beginning to well up. "Vero..."
"A slice across the back of the ankles should do it. The tendons are strong there, but this knife will take care of it nicely."
Fox turned and ran.
He tried to, anyway, but Olivero had gotten so close. He leaped and caught the FBI agent halfway up the stairs, tackling him. They struggled. Olivero grunted, "Be still, Duncan! If I do this right, it won't hurt too much, but if I'm sloppy you could bleed to death."
The shot took both of the fighters by surprise. Olivero was surprised by its simple fact, and Mulder was surprised that the Colombian didn't simply drop. The bullet smashed into the wall only an inch or two above Olivero's heaving back.
He was insane, but Olivero still had excellent survival instincts. He hooked an arm around Mulder's throat and rolled them over, so that Mulder was on top. From that angle, Mulder could see back down into the hallway. Ethan, green eyes blazing from the darkness of his smeared face, was aiming up at them. He snarled in rage and fear. "Let him go, motherfucker!" Olivero put the knife to Mulder's throat, and the agent stopped struggling. The drug lord stood, pulling Mulder upright with him. "Let him go, and I won't kill you."
Olivero laughed raggedly, and it was a chilling sound. "Oh, please, Connor! We understand each other. No one touches what we have claimed. The only problem is that you have claimed what was never yours. He's mine--he's always been mine."
Ethan thought he might very well be going insane. What could he do now? If Olivero believed that Fox was Duncan, he would kill him--eventually. If he thought that he was Danny, he would still kill him, because Danny was nothing more than Duncan in another form to him. And if he thought he was anyone other than Duncan or Danny--what? Would he kill him immediately? And he couldn't shoot the maniac. His aim was good, but not that good, not in the dimness of the hallway.
Olivero began to move slowly back up the stairs. "Why don't you go, Connor? I have business with Duncan, and it will take some time. If you run now, who knows? Perhaps you will escape."
"I can't do that, Montana. You know I can't." "Olivero, I'm not Duncan. I lied," said Mulder.
"Yes, Chico, you lie. You lied when you said we would be together forever. But I can make you truthful this time. I can keep you here. Where would you like to spend eternity, my love?" He kissed Mulder's temple. "I can build a cabana by the pool--one with a cement slab. Or perhaps you'd prefer beneath the tiles in the sauna?"
"I'm not Duncan, and I'm not Danny, either. I'm not who you think I am on so many levels. I'm an FBI agent, and there are copters on their way right now to destroy your poppy fields and your processing stations."
Olivero was still, his breathing deep and ragged. "You've never played this game before, Duncan."
"It's not a game. I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder, Monatana. Right now there isn't a hell of a lot we can do, since I'm on foreign soil. I'm willing to let the Colombian government try to put you away--I've had enough of this. But if you kill me, you are gonna be in a whole different world of trouble. Uncle Sam doesn't like it when you mess with his employees."
"Chico," Olivero's voice was soft, almost wondering. "I believe you have gone mad."
Ethan spoke up. "Not him, but yeah, Duncan went mad. You really did a job on him, Montana. He's still alive, you know." Olivero looked back at him, and there was a flicker in his eyes. "I mean the real Duncan--not one of your substitutes. Duncan Broussard. He's been in an insane asylum since he was seventeen. You put him there. You broke him, Montana. His mind couldn't handle it. I've seen a picture of him."
"My Duncan?" There was a hint of doubt. "They sent him away. I thought surely... When I left him, he did not move--he did not speak."
"He's not much better now. But he looks almost the same. I've seen a picture of him. Madness ages some people, but it's kept him young."
"Young. Yes, he's always been so young..."
Ethan was staring at Fox, willing him to understand. *If I can just gain a few more inches, I can do it. He's on the step behind you, Fox, so he's almost clear. Please, Fox, give me my chance!*
Fox knew what Ethan was doing, trying to distract Montana, give him just that split second... Montana was caught by the thought of his old lover, still young and beautiful... and helpless now. Fox felt the pressure on his throat ease, the cold metal line of the knife edge no longer dimpling his skin, becoming just a feather touch.
He took his chance. Fox grabbed Olivero's forearm, shoving forward, throwing his head back at the same time. The back of his skull smashed into Olivero's face.
Pain exploded in Olivero's nose as cartilege crumpled. For an instant he froze in shock as his captive dropped before him. Fox had simply let his knees collapse. He went down. The knife blade scraped a layer of skin off his chin as he descended, the sting bringing reflexive tears to his eyes, and he felt an immediate trickle of moisture, signaling blood. He thumped down, his ass hitting the step hard. Olivero, blood gushing from his broken nose, snarled and grabbed Fox's hair, jerking the other man's head up and back, arching his throat as he raised the hideous knife to slash.
There was a crack of gunfire, and Fox cried out in pain, strands of hair tearing loose as Olivero de la Montana, the Jaguar, fell back against the stairs, a bullet hole between eyes that had been empty of sanity for a long time.
Ethan rushed to Fox, shoving his gun into the back of his waistband. He grabbed his lover, examining him anxiously, swearing at the sight of blood. "Shit, baby, he cut you!"
"It's not bad," said Mulder numbly. "He missed everything vital."
"Yeah, but I think he may have made you look more like Kirk Douglas--may have given you a cleft in your chin." He reached in his pocket, but there was no handkerchief. He gently wiped away the blood. "I think it's going to stop bleeding in a minute."
"Asesinos!" The shriek was high-pitched, almost feminine, but there was nothing laughable about it. It held rage and grief so strong that any sense of the ridiculous was drowned by the knowledge that the one who had cried out meant death.
Manuel was running down the hallway toward them. Instead of raising the knife high in the classic movie attack, he had it low, held underhanded. Manuel knew how to kill with a knife. Ethan grabbed for his gun, jerking it from its seat at the base of his spine. But his hand was slick with Mulder's blood. The gun slid from his grip, the force of his pull tossing it out onto the hallway floor, and it fell almost at the charging man's feet.
Ethan had always hated fighting on a staircase--he knew he was at a disadvantage in the higher position. Manuel could slice at him almost at will. Ethan would have to get in perilously close to land a disabling blow. But before Ethan could react, Fox lunged past him, and he clashed with Manuel, knocking him to the floor. "Fox!" Ethan screamed.
The two were rolling on the floor, thrashing. "Voy a destriparle!" Manuel snarled.
Ethan jumped down and tried to reach down to separate them. Manuel lashed out, and Ethan fell back with a hiss, a gash opened in his calf. The hand holding the knife began to dive toward Fox's back, and Ethan felt a moment of bitter despair. Then Fox caught the boy's wrist, trembling with the effort to hold off the blade. Manuel was panting. "Para mi amante!" He suddenly jerked, dark eyes flying wide open, utter surprise filling his expression before it went slack.
Fox shoved off the now limp body, and Ethan saw Olivero's knife, the one responsible for the deaths of so many innocents, buried to the hilt in the boy's belly. He'd always trusted his own reflexes, but the swiftness with which his lover had reacted, snatching up the blade that had threatened his own life seconds before, was impressive. Fox glared at the body, wiping blood off onto its pants. "And that was for my lover, you piece of shit."
For a moment Ethan and Fox stared at each other. Fox reached out and touched the blood-soaked slit in Hunt's pants. "How bad?"
"A few stitches." Ethan reached out and again touched Mulder's chin, gingerly. "At least mine won't show."
"Vain bastard." They helped each other up. Mulder glanced at where Olivero's body lay sprawled on the stairs. "You know, in all those horror movies, the monster is never really dead the first time you kill him." Ethan stepped over and picked up his gun, then calmly put a bullet in Manuel's head, and another in Olivero's. He raised his eyebrows at Mulder. "Better, but I still don't feel like climbing those stairs."
Ethan touched the bag hanging at Mulder's belt. "There's nothing we really need up there. I set the communicator to self-destruct at our pickup time, and it'll take out the whole room. If we're lucky, the whole place will burn down. All we have to do now is wait."
They started to limp out of the house. "I don't know about you," said Mulder, "but I intend to get this shit off me. I hope I totally fuck up the pool filtration system for whatever drug lord buys this place after Montana."
Seven AM
There were three choppers. Two of them split off and went to blow up the fields and preparation stations. Ethan watched the third approaching, seeing orange balls of flame bloom over the treetops, and thought of the children he'd seen working in the fields and helping process the cocaine. He didn't want to think about that, couldn't really allow himself to--but he hoped that their families had slept late.
The pilot landed beside the other helicopter, and the two bedraggled men walked slowly and painfully over and boarded. He looked at them as he lifted off. There was a second man in the front section, with an automatic rifle cradled on his lap. He greeted the agents with, "I thought I was gonna have to do a little work." He peered past them. "What happened?"
The two settled into the back as the copter took off. The one with hazel eyes had slumped against his companion, eyes closing. The green-eyed one carefully fastened his companion's seatbelt. The gunner took in their strained look, filthy clothes, and wounds, and his curiosity rose. As they lifted off, an explosion blew out a wall on the second story of the house. Flames began to eat outward. "Well?"
The black haired man shrugged. "It'd take a book to tell you."
