Who: Wash, York & Carolina (featuring NPC North Dakota) When: Halloween Weekend What: York and Wash launch a rescue (they planned this?) Where: The Middle of Nowhere, Sudan Ratings/Warnings: Medium-high for mentions of torture & NPC death Status: Complete!
Locked up in a stone cell deep behind enemy lines, Wash was exactly where he wanted to be. There were no windows in his little cell. No light. Even so, Wash guessed that it had been at the very least a couple of days since he and York had driven their little jeep deep into the desert scrub and towards a small abandoned village that did not appear on any map. They were literally two stupid Americans lost in a place they should not be.
And they got caught.
The next several hours Wash had been subjected to what the military and government referred to as “advanced interrogation techniques.” Separating him from York and depriving him of food, water and light had only been the beginning. The beatings soon followed. Then came submerging his head and shoulders in dark murky water reserved for the horses to the point Wash’s lungs burned and threatened to burst. All the while his captors, nameless men with heavy accents, demanded to know who he was and who had sent him.
Hell. Wash was a marine. He’d been trained to withstand torture. Fuck. He’d lived with torture as a day-to-day occurrence through most of his teen years. So, Wash held his ground, kept his mouth shut and tried to to breath in the water. His one regret was that York, wherever they were keeping him, was going through the same thing.
But this was what they had signed up for. Carolina, their Commanding Officer, Leader & Boss, she needed them and this was the best way they could get to her without her captors being the wiser. Without giving them the chance to put a bullet in her brain and -- with any luck they could have a bit of revenge as well. All Wash had to do was hang on and bide his time. Eventually the guy in charge would take notice.
He was right.
Wash had no idea and no way of knowing that it was morning outside when two guards dragged him out of his cell by his arms and marched him from his cell to another room within the main structure.
They brought him straight to an interior room. Wash noted one small window in the back about 7 feet up. It was just wide enough for maybe an adult male to squeeze through, but Wash would not be getting that opportunity.
Nor had York. His partner was laying on his back on the dirt floor. Their “hosts” had already taken the liberty of working him over prior to rousing Wash. His face showed clearly how frustrated the men holding them were becoming. Wash’s breath caught a moment in his throat until he noticed the slight rise and fall of York’s chest. He was still alive. Thank God.
York's nose was definitely broken. He was going to have two black eyes, and he was fairly convinced his shoulder had been tugged out of its socket. Thankfully, none of his teeth were knocked out or even loose, which was some kind of miracle, and he believed that his wrists were fairly damage-free--besides the ugly, red, sore skin around them where he'd been tied. At some point York couldn’t remember, they’d switched from nylon rope to zip ties around his wrists and ankles. His legs were badly bruised, but not broken.
His current condition was because York insisted he was just some stupid American who'd gotten lost. They wanted him to talk? York was a talker, he could talk. But, apparently, he wasn't saying the right things. He was a little surprised they hadn't cut out his tongue or something. He'd asked for some water, or maybe some Scotch, and that sent them over the edge. That was earlier. He didn't know if it was morning or night, but a few hours had gone by since he'd been beaten within an inch of his life. Then he laid on the floor and drifted in and out of consciousness.
York was aware of the sounds. They were bringing someone into the room and forcing him into a chair. The man's mind perked up; here was Wash. He did his best to struggle out of his fog and pay attention.
Wash was only given a moment to look before he was plunked down hard in the wooden chair in the middle of the room. His ribs and back screamed in protest, but Wash bit down any sounds of pain. Never let them see you flinch. His arms were fastened to the chair at the wrist with two sets of zip ties. One of the men gripped him by his chin and forced him to look upwards at them. “You have one last chance, American,” the man growled. “Who are you?”
Wash leveled bloodshot grey eyes at the man, this small fry in a small rogue cell, and said nothing. The slightest of smirks playing at the corners of his cracked lips.
He was rewarded with an open palm smack across the face. “You will talk,” the man seethed at him. “You will talk to our leader!”
Wash chuckled faintly. Yeah. Sure he will.
It was only a moment later when another man entered the little room. Just by the smug confident way he carried himself, Wash knew he’d finally gotten the attention of the big fish in this little encampment.
“Good morning,” he said as he strutted into the room, dragging a second chair over and planting it firmly in front of Wash. He spoke with amazing command of the English language. Better than most native speakers. “So, I hear you’re the ones who wandered into our territory a few days ago.” He took a seat in the other chair and unscrewed the top of a canteen. “You and your partner here,” he motioned with the canteen towards where York lay a foot or so away in such a way a few droplets of water spilled from the top to the parched ground below.
Wash’s eyes were on that canteen. His throat ached for something, anything, wet to drink. He forced them upwards again. “We got lost,” he rasped.
The other man nodded his head. “You got lost. Ah. I see. Just a tourist in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He took a long drink from the canteen gulping loudly and allowing a few droplets to spill down his face. He took a big breath and lowered the canteen to screw the cap back on again. “Now, I don’t believe that. You, both of you, have withstood our attempts to interrogate you. No mere tourist would have kept quiet as long as you.”
“I don’t remember saying I was a tourist,” Wash responded.
A frown momentarily touched on the other man’s features and then it was gone. “I do not find your arrival to my territory to be a mere accident or coincidence. Not with the recent ship that was found off our coast. A ship carrying many of your fellow countrymen.”
“And you’ve been playing host to my fellow countrymen?” Wash asked. “As graciously as you’ve been hosting us?”
A smile replaced that frown on the other man’s face. “Who are you?” He asked. “Who sent you?”
Wash said nothing. He would give nothing. All he had to do was stall for time. His job was easy. Just stay alive.
Unlike the other interrogators, this man wasn’t at all bothered by Wash’s silence. Instead he smiled. “You know,” he said as though the two of them were having a casual conversation. “I have always found it fascinating how the human body works. I spent some time studying biochemistry in your country.”
As he spoke he reached for a little pouch attached to his belt and opened it producing a syringe and bottle. “I’m sure you’ll agree that it is interesting that just by introducing one simple chemical into the human body can so drastically change the make-up of the psyche, of a person’s disposition. This,” he held the vial up for Wash to see, “is an experiment of my own design. I have been working to make my own special form of truth serum and I have found this to yield the best results.”
He filled the vial, being sure that Wash was watching everything he did before leaning forward to inject the serum into Wash’s arm.
The word 'biochemistry' caught York's attention. He noted how this man seemed more educated, more eloquent, and much gentler than their other "guards." This must be the good cop. The boss cop. The one who was out to do the thing, get the info, whatever. York turned his head slightly, opened his eyes, and looked over at where Wash was sitting with the man. There was sweat on York's face that ran into his eyes, making it hard for him to see. Blurry, fuzzy, painful. He swallowed twice, the taste of blood long gone from his tongue, and watched Wash get injected with something. York gave a little start, but stopped himself from reacting more than a flinch.
Just wait. Just stay alive, York thought.
The drug burned through Wash’s veins and it wasn’t long before he started feeling the first wave of effects. A buzzing sensation in his mind soon followed. It reminded Wash a little of what it was like when Epsilon had been implanted. Funny how these kinds of connections could be made.
The man was leaning forward in his seat, studying Wash carefully, watching for changes in pupil dilation of his eyes, listening for the laboring of breath. He grinned and when he thought the drug had been given enough time to do its work asked: “Tell me. Who are you?”
Wash resisted. The buzzing in his head intensified. The heat of the day in this sweltering desert already had him sweating at this early hour, but his body felt cold now. Every injury already sustained seemed to intensify letting Wash know exactly where he was hurt, which bones had been bruised, which ones had been broken. Wash closed his eyes and struggled just to keep his own mouth closed. The more he did, the more his entire body seemed to catch fire.
“Don’t fight it,” the man said in a soft almost gentle tone that Wash found to be infuriating.
Wash ground his teeth hard, but the compulsion to speak was too much and even as he tried to regain control of his voice he heard himself spitting out between hard gasps: “Gunnery….sergeant….David Barrow.”
“See?” The man leaned forward to pat the side of Wash’s sweaty face as if rewarding a pet for doing a trick. “That wasn’t so hard.” He leaned back in his chair. “So you’re a soldier. I wager that you’re here on a rescue mission, is that it? To rescue your men? Ah, but you don’t have to answer that,” he patted Wash’s leg, “I have long suspected as much.”
Wash swallowed hard. Now that he had answered the question his mind didn’t hum quite so loudly, but it still hummed nonetheless. He kept his eyes on the man sitting across from him. Countless games of poker seated across from York and Carolina had taught Wash something the marines never could. He knew what tells to look for. He knew that what a person didn’t say was just as important, sometimes more so. And what this man hadn’t said was that Wash and York’s mission was futile. Carolina and her men were here.
York's brain was nowhere near as fuzzy as Wash's. He hadn't suffered any injections. Just the lack of light, lack of food or water, and the beatings. But when he noticed the other man start talking--blabbing, really--he noticed the same thing Wash did with crystal clarity. This guy was giving everything away. York's shoulders relaxed (though one shot piercing lightning bolts of pain through his entire back). Carolina was here. She was still alive. But then the man stood and moved toward York, and his eyes fell closed again. As if he was still unconscious.
“You’re not very good at this,” the man observed in a highly amused tone of voice. He got to his feet and toed York in the side. Wash’s jaw clenched. “Usually when someone comes to rescue another they themselves do not get caught. You must be a terrible soldier.”
Wash shook his head. “Not a soldier anymore.” he panted.
The man turned and looked at him, a brow raised. He had not been expecting that kind of answer. He frowned. “You expect me to believe that?”
“You’re the one who shot me full of truth serum,” Wash said. “You tell me.”
The man looked at him hard for a moment debating what he trusted more, his own science or the resolve of a single man. After a moment he relaxed and shook his head. “You’re a mercenary then. Men who cannot cut it under a military regime still sometimes crave the excitement of battle. But mercenaries still have orders. What are yours, Gunnery Sergeant?”
“You already know the answer to that,” Wash wheezed through his teeth.
The man leaned over the back of the empty chair. He grinned a sick grin of a man who knew he was in control. In control of this conversation. In control of everything that went on in his little encampment. In control of the lives of the men and women currently in his custody. And he relished it. “Tell me yourself.”
Wash’s lifted his eyes again. “I have no orders,” he said despite his struggle against the compulsion to speak. “I’m here…to save…my sister-”
“Your sister?” The man whooped as if Wash had told him the punch line of a very elaborate and very funny joke.
“-And to watch you die.”
The joke apparently lost its humor. As though someone had flipped a hidden switch, the man’s expression went from mirth to disdain and hatred instantly. “You are hardly in a position to make threats.”
“I’m not..making threats.”
The man tossed the chair aside and leapt onto Wash, grabbing his mouth in a hard grip, fingernails digging into the soft flesh of Wash’s cheeks. “Who are you working for?” He demanded. “Who sent you?”
Wash didn’t even need to fight the truth serum pumping through his veins. “No one.”
Again the man had to decide who he trusted more, his drug or the man in the chair. He let out a frustrated noise before letting go of Wash’s face with a twist of his hand to snap Wash’s head to the side.
“You did not come out here all on your own!” The man yelled at him. “No one is that fool hardy.”
“Not…on my own,” Wash answered.
“The two of you could not have hoped to have launched the rescue of an entire ship full of men on your own!” The man kicked dust over York’s body before whirling again on Wash. “I will get the truth from you! One of you!” And with that hanging rather threateningly in the air, he turned and stormed out of the room. The sound of the heavy door clanging into place after him made Wash jump a little.
Wash listened, but he could not hear anything through the thick wooden door. He let out a breath and waited another moment before turning his eyes towards the man on the floor. “York,” he hissed in a stage whisper. “York, you alright? Did they kill you?”
They were left alone. York's shoulder was aching, but the white-hot, blinding pain had receded. Once the door clanged closed and the bolt was thrust in the lock, York's eyes blinked open again. Though, one of them was threatening to squeeze shut. He'd taken quite a few blows to the face. More than he could count, really.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," York said, wincing a little as he tried his best to sit up. When he'd passed out the first time, someone moved him from the chair to the floor. He'd been down there ever since. "It takes more than a few steel-toed boots to the nose to kill me, man. You should know that." York gave a grunt and a groan as he hoisted himself up onto his backside.
"You all right? What was that shit he shot you up with?" York asked, scootching closer to his friend. He was slow, his movements pained, but he persisted.
The drug in his system didn’t allow Wash to hide the wince when he got a good look at York’s face. He’d managed to luck out and not receive quite so many smacks across the jaw or square in the nose, but truth be known (and he didn’t have much choice here), he was doing about as well as York was. This had been a terrible plan, but it had worked. Both of them were in and had caught the attention of the guy in charge. They both had riled him up enough to want to prove to them that whether they lived or died was up to him.
Wash didn’t have the option of lying to York, even if he wanted to. “No,” he admitted still breathing hard. “My arm’s fucked up and my ribs aren’t doing much better. He shot me up with some kinda truth serum. It’s uh...it’s working really well.” He took a breath. “Don’t move around so much….He can’t know you’re awake. We got...uh…” Wash’s eyes rolled upwards trying to determine how long the shadows on the ceiling were. It had to have been midmorning and even though Wash didn’t know how many days had elapsed exactly, enough time had gone by for North and his crew to move out. By now the encampment had to be surrounded and one very good sniper up in the hills lining up his shot. Wash hoped. No. It had been a long time since Wash had worked with North, but he still trusted him as much now as he ever did back then. “We just gotta stall’im,” he said. “Just a little longer.”
He noted York’s hands weren’t bound. Good. Wash struggled to gain control of his breath, but it was a losing battle. “When North makes his move, you got enough in you t’ get up an’ give’em hell?”
York nodded. He wanted to check out the other man, make sure the rookie was all right. As long as they lived, York was probably always going to feel responsible for, and protective of, the man sitting in the chair nearby. York thought of Wash as a brother. More than a brother, even. Whatever this was was thicker than blood. Not just the time they spent in the military together, but the Dreams, and Orange County Weirdness, and whatever else...
When Wash looked up at the shadows, York did the same. He was trying to figure out where the sun was. How long had they been in there? How many days? "Hours," he fed in. It wouldn't be much longer. North was the cavalry. All they had to do was wait. And not die.
"Are you kidding?" York asked, breaking into a grin. There was still a little blood on his teeth from when the guy smacking him around split his lip open. "I can't wait for this."
Wash grinned back at him, stretching cracked and bloody lips painfully. “Good,” he said between jagged pants. They were almost there. Just live through this and they could go home. All of them could go home.
There were noises coming from the other side of the door. Wash’s attention moved towards it in a way that made him feel as though his body was submerged in water. The sooner he could get this drug out of his system the better. He did not like the way it made him feel, made his mind hum and reel and thrust things into his mouth he really did not want to say or the way it seemed to intensify the pain in his arms, his torso, his back, his legs…
He could make out voices coming from beyond the door. Someone was barking orders. Wash thought maybe he’d understand a bit of the dialect if it wasn’t for the thick barrier between them. He could hear the tone. It wasn’t one of panic. It was one of frustration. Their “gracious host” was on his way back and he was as angry now as he had been when he’d left.
“Better lay down again,” Wash warned. “Company’s comin’.”
York moved back over to where he’d been laying at the sound of the voices on the other side of the door. “Be careful.” He said. Then he laid on his side, his back to the door. There was no way he was going to remember his exact positioning from before, so he curled up around his injured shoulder and coughed twice before going still.
Yelling could be heard up and down the hall outside the cell door as it opened. The cultured man had reappeared, but this time he was not alone. Two armed guards dragged a hooded figure into the room. Only the figure’s hands were bound, but from the way the men had dragged her in, it was obvious that her legs were not functioning properly. They unceremoniously deposited the captive onto the chair opposite Wash, leaving quickly before either one could think to get ahold of their weapons.
The man, now obviously some sort of leader, rounded on Wash. “There have been rumors of a military operation taking place here. In Sudan. One of you will tell me everything I wish to know about their forces and what they are looking for. The other will die.”
The man ripped the hood off of the woman, revealing what might’ve once been red hair, but now had dust and grime caked on every strand. Her face was gaunt and her left cheek sported a swollen mess of red, black, and green that threatened to shut her eye completely. She was dressed in long, loose black clothing that resembled mission fatigues. The skin that did show at her collar and bare feet was dirty and bruised. The woman had obviously been treated to the same sort of ‘hospitality’ as they had given the two former Marines.
Had it not been for the fact that she had already donned the poker face she reserved for such interviews, her green eyes would have widened in surprise and disbelief at the sight in front of her. As it was, her lack of reaction infuriated the man in charge even more. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of dog tags and shook them in her face. “You are a Marine! He is a Marine! I have no use for both of you. I shall leave you to discuss which one of you will die!” He threw the tags at their feet before storming off. The door slammed shut behind him, muting the shouting for his men.
Alone at last, the poker face vanished as if it were never there. In its place was an all-too-familiar glare, although it lost a bit of its sharpness considering she only had one good eye. Even tortured and drugged, it wasn’t hard for her to put the pieces together. Especially when the dog tags she had thought lost were being waved right in front of her face. The labored breathing she could barely hear behind her meant there were not completely alone. That meant two fools had come looking for her based on the coordinates for her tags. Two fools who had managed to get themselves captured by a very dangerous splinter cell. She would have growled, but her ribs hurt too much to do more than grate out, “You idiots.”
Jesus Christ, she looked bad. Every bit of the former Marine in front of her wanted revenge for what these monsters had done to her. He tried not to show that rage, but considering the drug sloshing through his veins was doing a terrible job at it. And he knew it. So rather than focus on the swelling of her eye and the gaunt look of her cheeks, Wash instead choose to focus on the fact that at least Carolina was alive enough to be mad at them at all. He would take her being mad at him for the rest of his life over bringing her home in a casket.
“Hey, Boss,” he tried to smile, and managed to succeed despite his own wounded face. She was alive and he was going to enjoy what came next. So much. “No man left behind, ‘member? Ooo-rah.”
The smile faltered just a bit when the buzzing hum that started in his head and traveled through broken and bruised bones reminded him again, needlessly, of the situation the three of them were in. “Uh. Full disclosure here. I’ve been shot full of some kind of truth serum. So, uh, if there’s anything you don’t want to know the answer to, please don’t ask.”
York waited, his heart thundering as they brought her in. He didn't move a muscle, assuming it was her, assuming and praying that Carolina was alive and bring brought in to them. Those idiots. Bringing the three of them together?
Then the door closed and Carolina finally spoke. It was as if a switch was flipped in his heart. The relief that washed over York momentarily relieved the physical pain. He rolled over and broke into a grin.
“I think you mean it's the perfect time to ask you personal and embarrassing questions.” York turned his bruised, tired eyes to Carolina. “Hey, ‘Lina. You holding up?”
The flat look in Carolina’s eyes said everything Wash needed to know. “That’s not what I was worried about.” Being held and tortured had certainly been no picnic, but at least she had been able to comfort herself with the fact that her loved ones were safe and sound back home in California. “Why the hell are you here, Gunney? Did you seriously come here without backup?” A military mission she could understand, but neither Wash nor York were in the military anymore. They weren’t supposed to know that she was officially in the field, much less that she had been captured. Wash and York had been the last two people she had expected to launch an ill-fated rescue mission to extract her and her team.
If her team was still alive. The man had taken her dog tags early in her captivity and she had assumed that he was using them in order to taunt the rest of her team, just as he taunted her with theirs. God, she hoped they were still alive. It would’ve been pointless to let herself be captured in order to save their lives, only to have the assholes kill them later.
Carolina didn’t turn back to look at York; he was on her bad side and she wasn’t sure how much turning would hurt. “Better than you. I’ve got a chair.” She quipped back. From the sound of his voice, she could tell that York was in rough shape. She studied Wash’s injuries with a critical eye to try and determine just how long the two had been held captive. There had been some sort of activity a few days ago that had sent her normal guards into a tizzy. In hindsight, it had probably been their arrival. There hadn’t been enough time to weaken them through starvation as well as torture, so both of them were in far better shape to fight than she was. Not that she had planned to do any fighting.
A thought occurred to her and her heart flew to her mouth. “Is… Is he…” She swallowed the words, unsure if she wanted to know the answer. Carolina didn’t want to think about what this group would do to a blind man. Beard or no, former smuggler or no, Kanan would likely have been treated even worse than a regular American. At least as bad as a Marine. Perhaps even worse than her.
“Kanan’s not here,” Wash assured her. Again he found words entering his mouth that he didn’t want to say, but felt compelled to anyway. “...he….wanted to come…” he struggled, “but I...made him stay home.”
Grey eyes moved up towards the ceiling again, attempting to gauge how long the shadows had come. He listened for noises outside, but nothing had changed yet. Wash had no idea what North was planning, but that had been the point. This splinter cell could pump as much truth serum into him as they wanted, they weren’t going to get information he didn’t know. Sweat dripped down into his eyes stinging them.
“What am I doing here?” Wash repeated the question thoughtfully turning his attention back to Carolina. “We came lookin’ for you. That was the point of these, wasn’t it?” He toed the dog tags in the sand. “They’re not much good if you don’t expect the person on the other end to actually use them, are they?”
Again, Wash couldn’t put up his normal facades to disguise his anger and his eyes moved towards the door. Even with his injuries, a broken arm, dislocated shoulder, broken and bruised ribs among other things, he was just itching to lay into these men. “I haven’t lied to your new friend. We aren’t here on any orders. We aren’t workin’ fer anybody. Right, York?”
Grey eyes moved back to Carolina, noting that she wasn’t bound to the chair like he was. Desperation was starting to erode cracks in the terrorist cell leader’s confidence. Those eyes moved upwards to look with Carolina’s. They held nothing but cold unfiltered rage and thirst for vengeance. “He’s going to die and we’re taking you home.”
York frowned. “Who said we came without backup?” God, wouldn’t it have been cool if North and his guys took that moment to bust in and… y’know. Save the day? But, of course, that didn’t happen. York climbed over to where Wash was sitting (he was closer) and started to fiddle with the straps pinning the man to the chair. Now that he was moving around a bit more, he was realizing that the bashes he’d taken to his legs were a lot worse than he’d originally suspected. He still didn’t think anything was broken (he hoped, anyway) but it was suddenly way more painful than before. Now that Carolina was here and York was sure she was alive… maybe some of the adrenaline was finally wearing off?
“Not working for anyone, no,” York added, then frowned. Biting his lip was out of the question, because of how bruised and bloody he was, but he focused as he tugged on Wash’s restraints. His mind was a little fuzzy and he felt weak, but nowhere near as weak as he was pretending to be each time their captors came into the room.
A mixture of relief and disappointment flooded through Carolina. Much like their relationship, her feelings about Kanan staying at home were complicated. Eventually, she settled on being glad that at least he was home and safe. Or as safe as Orange County ever got these days. Her attention was pulled back to the present as she spotted York moving to work on Wash’s bonds. Jesus, he looked bad. Worse than Wash - and that was saying something. She was sure that if she weren’t still in this muddling fog, she would be growling revenge for both of them.
“You’d better have brought six or seven squads. If we could’ve escaped this place with a handful of Marines, we would’ve been gone a long time ago.” Carolina swallowed, trying to moisten a mouth that felt like sandpaper and ash. There were drugs in the water, here. “They have tanks. Anti-aircraft weaponry. Enough C4 to start the next damn ice age.” Like the vest they used to get her to surrender. The vest that had ended up blowing up the evidence of their abduction.
While York busied with Wash, Carolina raised her wrists to her mouth and began shifting the tie around her wrists until the center was between her arms. Then, she began tightening it as far as it could go with her teeth. Regardless of the odds, regardless of whether she could walk or not, if they were going to see this through, then dammit, she’d go down swinging with them. “Try not to fight the serum. It’ll help.” Carolina took short breaths through clenched teeth. “The effects will wear off in a few hours.”
Wishing she had something to bite on, she grit her teeth and readied herself for the oncoming pain. She knew her ribs were probably past bruised at this point and any pressure or sudden movement was going to cause them a world of pain. Carolina held her fists out in front of her, took one last breath, and quickly pulled them downward and back against her sides. The tie snapped, pieces falling harmlessly to the dirt floor. She grunted in pain, taking a moment to let the white spots fade from her vision before attempting to speak again. “Alright, Rookie. Time to explain what this plan of yours does entail. Preferably before that asshole comes back and realizes we’re free.”
There were locks on the leather straps that held Wash down to the chair. Wouldn’t do any good to have your prisoners busting through their bonds before the “interview” process was done. Wash glanced down at York attempting to free him. If anyone was going to get through those locks, York would be it. He was their locksmith after all.
Eyes snapped up when he heard Carolina give a grunt of pain. Any question about if she was able to fight was put to rest. The answer may have been no, but that wasn’t about to stop her. A grin made the split in Wash’s lips ache. Here they were, the three of them, together again, doing what they did best.
He couldn’t give away their plan, though. The time wasn’t right. He hadn’t received the signal. The buzzing in his head and body intensified again, reminding him exactly what both Carolina and the cell leader both had told him about resisting the drug. He grit his teeth and groaned, rolling his head to the side. “York and I…” he started with a groan, “supposed to get caught, get the attention of their leader. Keep’im occupied while North…” he bit down hard and squeezed his eyes shut, trying, but ultimately failing to keep his words to himself. “Haven’t gotten the signal...yet….waiting….for….”
And then as if on cue a commotion started beyond the door, catching Wash’s attention. His eyes snapped open. Unlike before, the shouts they were hearing were ones of panic, not of anger. It wasn’t long after that came the sounds of gunfire. “That’s it!” Wash exclaimed straining against the bonds keeping him in the chair.
It was then that Carolina’s earlier expressed fear came true. The heavy wooden door suddenly banged open, and the terrorist leader rushed in, slamming it shut again in a panic. He whirled around and seeing that two of his prisoners free and working on freeing his third, utterly snapped.
“You!” He screamed and drew his weapon. “You have brought the Americans here!” He brandished his gun at Wash and York. “I only need one live Marine and she is worth more than either of you!” He took aim right at York’s head.
“No!” Wash yelped, tearing at his already scratched throat. “York-” However, before the panic-crazed leader could get off his shot, his head jerked back and his eyes went wide. He continued to stare at the three of them as if he couldn’t, for the life of him, understand what was going on. The gun dropped from his limp hand and he fell backwards onto the floor, a gunshot wound right in the middle of his forehead.
York had the first bond free by the time the door banged open. See? He wasn’t completely useless when it came to his locksmithing, thankyouverymuch. But then he was distracted by the entrance of the terrorist dude--and why the fuck did it have to be on his bad side? He couldn’t see the man raising the gun clearly, but boy did he know that motion. York barely had time to flinch before the terrorist leader was taken out. The sound of the gunshot, though, made York jump. He turned to fully face the door, hands frozen on the second of Wash’s restraints.
Carolina had been tensing her muscles, getting ready to jump between York and the leader’s gun, legs be damned, when the shot went off. For a moment her heart stopped. She was too late. Too slow. A beat later, she registered that the pink mist had come from the leader, not her former XO. The redhead let out a painful sigh of relief. Wash’s plan, as foolish as it was, had worked. North. It felt good to know their faithful sniper had their backs once again.
It was time to get out of there. With another grunt of pain, Carolina carefully scooted off of the chair and onto the floor beside the dead man. She didn’t need to look back at York to know that he had resumed working on Wash’s restraints. “Get him loose, York. Now.” She growled as her hands quickly searched the leader’s pockets. It had to be there. It had to be. “It’s not like it’s a damn hologram.” There was a teasing note to her rasp, taking the edge off of her words. York was their locksmith and he was damn good at his job. At least, when he remembered he was.
There! Her fingers hit cool metal and green eyes flashed in triumph. Carolina slid the large ring over her thumb, not trusting the integrity of her remaining pockets. Using her arms, she shifted back to face the chair and grabbed her dog tags. Good. Now she was ready as well. Or she thought she was. Time to see if she could move on dislocated knees and ankles. God, she hoped they were only dislocated. Fractures would be a bitch to heal. Unfortunately, the moment she tried to get up and put weight on them, her world went blank and she fell back hard on her ass. “Fuck!” It took longer than it should have for the world to return, and even then, it was still tinged with a lingering pain. God dammit. There was no shame or guilt as she looked back at her family. Related or not, they were both her family, and there was nothing wrong with asking family for help when you needed it. “Walking out... isn't gonna happen... We don’t have time to set... my legs, so you’re going to have to... help me up.”
Nope. When it came to locksmithing, York was the best there was. Hands down. And thankfully he’d still have many years ahead of him to ply that trade now that the immediate threat of being shot in the face had been taken care of.
Wash let out a painful breath and sagged back against the chair. Christ on a cracker that was close. York was back on the second restraint as Carolina looted the man’s pockets. Wash watched her, brows furrowed. What the hell was she even looking for? Her dog tags were in the dirt at Wash’s own feet. He didn’t see her come up with Smith’s Flame Ring, but he did note she put something on her thumb.
Wash exchanged a look with York when Carolina went down on her ass. Any questions about whether or not she could move had been answered. It was going to be up to the two of them to get them out. That was fine, Wash had pretty much planned on that anyway. As soon as his other arm was free, Wash was on his feet. Adrenaline helped him ignore the pain that shot through his body with every move he made. He’d had years learning how to move while in pain, how to ignore it, how to hide it and he was pretty damn good at it.
He maneuvered around Carolina so that York would have her on his blindside. This meant that Wash had to pull Carolina up on his dislocated shoulder and broken arm, but, better to keep York’s good side available to watch their periphery. Wash’s shoulder and arm could be fixed, getting shot in the back less so.
“Alright, Boss,” Wash said as he stooped down next to her, “this has been fun an’ shit, but our rides here. Time t’ go.” He grabbed the dead terrorist’s gun with one hand and hoisted Carolina’s arm over his shoulders with the other. He waited for York to move to Carolina’s other side and get her other arm. Then the two of them, as in sync now as they had been when both men were serving under Carolina’s watch, stood with Carolina’s weight distributed between them. She would still have to walk – neither man was in any condition to actually carry her – but she would use each of them as a kind of crutch, if crutches could move on their own and shoot things.
Despite being used to having his body battered regularly, the effort to stand with Carolina’s added weight on his injuries caused Wash’s breath to catch audibly and his vision to grey out. It took a moment for him to even out his breathing and his vision to come back, but only a moment. He glanced over Carolina’s head at York and nodded that he was ready.
It was time to leave.
York didn't have to be told twice. And now that he'd already unlocked and unfastened the first restraint, the second came twice as fast. In mere moments York had thrown aside the straps that had bound Wash, having forgotten his insecurities in their moment of need. He could do this with one eye, he had to.
Yeah, that was Carolina on her ass. York was concerned, but also maybe a little amused? Maybe. Just a little. He couldn't help but meet Wash's eye for a moment, then turned back to Carolina. They could do this. They would do this. York moved over to Carolina so she could wrap an arm around his shoulder. He was in a lot of pain, and his shoulder still needed to be returned to its normal position, but he was in fairly good shape--only broken ribs, broken nose. His dislocated shoulder wasn't broken, or any of his limbs. That was a win in his book. He helped Carolina to her feet so they could get her out.
"Oh, and by the way? You're welcome." York said, grinning. There was still blood between his teeth.
“Remind me to thank you after we get the hell out of here.” The redhead snarked back, although there was the hint of an upward tilt to her lips. Between the two of them, Carolina managed to keep enough pressure off of her legs to at least support some of her own weight. They made slow but sure progress out of the room and down the narrow hallway. She hated feeling useless and hoped that if they encountered anyone on the way out, the two men would be smart enough to let her fall so that they could defend themselves. She needn’t have worried.
Rounding the corner, they spotted a familiar figure holding a sniper rifle. Leaves woven into nets covered the man from head to toe, but the CO didn’t need to see his uniform to know the bright eyes staring back at her. North. There was only one reason he would be standing there and not still in position, defending his brothers from afar. She let out a soft sigh, allowing herself relax for the first time since she had left Orange County.