From trevizo@utep.edu Sat Sep 21 16:10:51 1996 Return-Path: owner-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com Received: from chaos.taylored.com (chaos.taylored.com [206.53.224.58]) by sh1.ro.com (8.7.6/8.6.9) with SMTP id QAA07113 for ; Sat, 21 Sep 1996 16:41:05 -0500 Received: (qmail-queue invoked by alias); 21 Sep 1996 21:10:49 -0000 Delivered-To: x-files-fanfic-outgoing@chaos.taylored.com Received: (qmail-queue invoked by alias); 21 Sep 1996 21:10:48 -0000 Delivered-To: xff-outgoing@chaos.taylored.com Received: (qmail-queue invoked by uid 1003); 21 Sep 1996 21:10:45 -0000 Received: (qmail-queue invoked from smtpd); 21 Sep 1996 21:10:39 -0000 Received: from mail.utep.edu (trevizo@129.108.1.4) by chaos.taylored.com with SMTP; 21 Sep 1996 21:10:39 -0000 Received: by mail.utep.edu (1.37.109.16/16.2) id AA163130251; Sat, 21 Sep 1996 15:10:51 -0600 Date: Sat, 21 Sep 1996 15:10:51 -0600 (MDT) From: Gil Trevizo To: x-files-fanfic Subject: Finder's Keepers (1/2) (fwd) by Colleen C. Baily Message-Id: Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; charset=US-ASCII Sender: owner-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com Precedence: bulk X-UIDL: d558761283033e08198d91b7d6ad764a I did not write this. Please send all comments to the author at (ccbailey@facstaff.wisc.edu). __________ / __ __ \ ( (__) (__) ) --------[[[---------]]]------------------------------------------------- Finder's Keepers Summary: Krycek escapes from the silo and is on the run, aided by a local woman. Gee, I've never written a disclaimer like this before. OK, Alex Krycek and CSM are characters belonging to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions, see? I'm just using them for fun; no copyright infringement is intended. All other creativity is solely mine, y'hear? Do not post or distribute without my express permission. These characters are completely fictional. No resemblance to any persons living, dead, undead, channeled, abducted, possessed or in suspended animation is intended. Sorry, this is another "silo" story; it follows "Apocrypha". I wrote this in August of 1996, having been "inspired" by a really slow month at work. Don't tell my boss, OK? I purposely left out a lot of exposition, background, and character insight. My intent was to make this feel like the show - what you see is what you get (without the soundtrack, unfortunately). I couldn't hold to that ideal completely, but I think I came close. For the record, I think Krycek is an amoral loner who will take whatever desperate measures are needed to keep his skin intact - and I like him that way. Comments, criticisms, praise, nitpicks and flames may be sent to ccbailey@facstaff.wisc.edu. Finder's Keepers Part 1 of 2 Stale air, tinged with the smell of scorched oil. Darkness. Silence - a heartbeat - such a warm, intimate sound in such a cold, impersonal space. The distant ceiling swallowed his earlier pleas and spat them back in eerie, mocking echoes. Now, the silence, though less comforting, is more conducive to thought. He looks briefly at the gun, held loosely in his lap, closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall. Not yet. The heartbeat grows louder, closer. ************** A quiet town, and a quiet home. The sign on the mailbox says "Brennan/Trudell". In a night-lit room on the second floor, a woman sleeps restlessly in the single bed, curled up on her side. She is dreaming; her head tosses and her hands clutch the covers spasmodically. She cries out; the cry escalates into a screeching wail as she comes awake explosively, rising and striking out with both arms at nothing and losing her balance, falling forward to crouch hands-and-knees on the bed. Her eyes are wide and sightless, each breath a cry of fear. The door crashes open and she scrambles backwards into the headboard, throwing her arms up against the man who enters the room. "It's OK, Carrie, it's Mark, you're awake now, take it easy." He sits and pulls her to him; she moves with him, but remains sitting up, leaning forward, tense and drawn. He continues to reassure her she's OK, it was another dream. A second man enters with a large glass of water, which she grabs and gulps at, spilling some down her chin and neck, making small noises as she guzzles, not lowering the glass until she drinks it all. Only then does she relax, leaning her head wearily against Mark's chest. He hands the glass back. "Get another, Bob, I'll stay here." Bob exits quickly. He strokes her hair and asks, "Is he still alive?" She nods. "Can you find him yet?" She hesitates, shakes her head no, and follows the movement with her body, turning into his shoulder as she starts to cry. He kisses her hair and holds her, gazing into the darkness. She listens to his heart beat. ************** Darkness, but with the promise of light ahead. The harsh sound of quick, shallow breathing mixes with the rasp of movement against metal, muffled in the narrow passage. A sensation of turning a corner; ahead, a faint haze of light. The point of view rises, crossing the barest outline of a man's upturned face, following a metal air shaft, turning to show an outline of bright yellow, a square eclipse far above. The shape grows in size until the yellow has vanished and there is nothing but blackness. ************** A richly sunlit coniferous forest is all around, with birds singing and small animals rustling in the underbrush. The point of view tilts down to show a metal pyramid, raised somewhat off a concrete platform. A rain- and debris- cover for an air shaft. Suddenly a dirty, white-knuckled hand appears from beneath the cover and grips the edge tightly, feeling around the rim. A second hand appears opposite the first. Eight fingers trace the edges of the cover, meeting at one end, then the other. They disappear; a moment of silence, then the cover vibrates with a rhythmic pounding. The forest is quieter now, and the pounding grows louder, punctuated by a man's voice: "Damn DAMN *DAMN*!" ************** The bedroom is dark. In a large bed, Mark and Bob are sleeping spoon-fashion, legs curled into each other's. A heavy jacket is slung over a chair back, a badge on the lapel. A gunbelt coils on the seat of the chair. A woman's hoarse cry stirs them. Mark swings his feet to the floor, checks the clock. "Fourth time this week. This better be worth it..." Bob snaps on the bedside lamp and reaches for his robe. "Go, Mark, I'll get the water..." Mark goes to her room, to find a now-familiar scene: Carrie crouched on the bed, gulping for air. He gathers her in his arms as before, but something is different. Her sobs are lighter somehow, less desperate. Bob comes in with water and she drinks; halfway through the glass she begins to laugh. Mark asks, "What is it, honey?" She sits up, then stands, swaying slightly as she opens the top dresser drawer. Bob puts an arm around her to steady her as she pulls out a pair of socks. "I found him." The men look at each other behind her back. Dead silence. ************** "Here, Mark, turn left here..." Screech! Tires squeal as the old Caprice pulls off the highway onto the logging road, the occupants not noticing the bouncing. The woman is wearing a raincoat against the slight drizzle spattering the windshield. She grips the dashboard, concentrating. Mark clutches the wheel with gloved hands, peering forward into the back-lit forest. "Here, he's here!" She's out of the car almost before it stops. Carrie's boots kick up pine needles as she skids around the car door. She runs a few steps then stops. Tilting her head back and squeezing her eyes shut, she presses her knuckles to her temples and turns slowly, concentrating. Her head snaps upright and her eyes fly open just as Mark slams the door. She sprints into the underbrush. Mark curses, fumbles with the flashlight, then follows cautiously. He pushes his way through; his breathing and the swishing foliage provide the soundtrack. Drops of condensation scatter in the flashlight beam. "Mark!" He swings the beam slightly left, following her cry. The patch of light lands on her downturned face, half-hidden by wild hair, as she turns the body of the man beneath her. As Mark nears, she turns to him, hand still on his neck and grins. "He's alive." Mark looks down on dark hair and stubble, pale damp skin and black leather. He shifts the light to trace the path of flattened foliage that is the wake of his passage through the forest. She goes through the pockets of his jacket and finds.... "Oh, wow." She pulls out a .38 revolver. Mark takes it carefully and pops the cylinder open with a practiced wrist. Carrie leans over to look. "One bullet? No spent shells....hmmm." She turns her attention back to the man. "Hoo, he *smells* like he's been locked up for a long time. Got some black gunk all over his face, too." And his hands.... "Mark, look at his hands." She lifts an arm and he focuses the light on it. Mark exclaims - his hand is bloody and bruised, two fingernails are missing. "What happened to him?" She starts to slide a hand under his neck. "That's not important right now, he's alive. C'mon, we've got to get him to the hospital...." SNAP! "Aah!" she cries out more in shock than in pain as the other bloody hand grabs her loose hair and pulls her down towards the wounded man's face. Eyes closed, he whispers to her, then releases her. Mark pulls her away, to her feet, holding the flashlight like a weapon. She wipes absently at the bloody grease stain his hand left on her cheek. "No, it's OK, I'm not hurt." "What did he say?" Her brows knit. "He said 'no hospital'." Their eyes meet, then they both look down at him. The flashlight illuminates the face of Alex Krycek. ************** The hotel room is dark. The only illumination is provided by the television, silently broadcasting an old black-and-white. Keystone cops scurry maniacally across the screen, in contrast to the stagnant surroundings. A large chair is set before the television. A column of white smoke rises above the high back, curdling into a noxious mass before dissipating into the room. The burbling ring of a cellular phone does not disturb the cloud. Click. "Yes." A pause. "Good. Make sure he talks to no-one." A longer pause. "Not yet. She may still prove useful." Silence again. "I appreciate your concerns. I have my own to consider." An arm clad in a nondescript black suit-sleeve appears from the chair; its hand stubs out a cigarette next to its brothers in the ashtray, then glides out of sight again. "I'm glad you agree." Click. There is a rasp, and the flare of a lighter reflects off the far wall. A moment later, a stream of smoke flows towards the television, obscuring the tiny police figures. ************** The spare room would be quite cheerful if the curtains weren't drawn. Krycek is lying lifeless on a single bed against the far wall. A pinstripe of light where the curtain missed the window flows across his shoulder. Carrie brushes a still-damp lock of hair from his pale forehead. She walks to the door, watches him from the doorway for a moment, then pulls the door shut and steps into the hallway to be met by Bob, looking worried. They move towards the kitchen. "We should take him to the hospital right now." "He said no hospitals." Carrie pulls a can down from a cabinet and opens it. "What's he afraid of? What's wrong with the hospital?" "Maybe he's a Christian scientist." She spoons brown goo into a bowl. "Yeah, and maybe he's an escaped convict!" "Bob, you're worse than I am. He's not ordinary, I'll grant you that. Now quiet, let him sleep." She places the bowl on the floor. A cat attacks it, purring. "Why are you protecting him?" She ignores him and washes the can out in the sink. "Look, we find ... you find this guy, bleeding, unconscious, lying out in the middle of nowhere, no ID, not even a wallet or keys, he doesn't want to go to the authorities, and you think that's OK?" "NO!" She slams her hand down on the counter and turned to face him. "I don't think it's OK. I'm as freaked out as you are. But c'mon, Mark's the deputy, not you. And you're my brother's lover, not my mother. He hasn't done anything to me, Mark hasn't heard anything at the office, so he's not likely in local trouble..." "Oh, so he's not a local criminal, that makes him OK." "Nothing about this is OK! You know what I - saw. Someone left him there, no food, no water, no light. There's something very wrong about this whole thing, and I want to find out what." "You can't save him, Carrie, he's not a puppy who needs keeping. He's been here, unconscious, for more than 8 hours. There could be something wrong..." "There's nothing wrong with him, he's just sleeping." She dries her hands on the dishtowel hanging from the refrigerator door handle. "How do you know? What if he's on drugs? What if someone comes looking for him?" She looks sharply at Bob. "What if they do?" They lock eyes; he looks away. A moan interrupts them. She traces the sound with her eyes; Bob sighs. "We'll wait for Mark to come home, and talk about it then, OK?" Another moan, and Carrie goes down the hallway and through the door. "You bet we will." Bob leans against the counter, hugging an arm to his chest. He lifts the other hand to his mouth; with a sharp crack, he bites a nail. ************** Krycek is sitting up. He flinches at the sound of the door, and watches Carrie warily as she crosses to the dresser by the closet. His hands are bandaged. She picks up the pitcher there and pours him a glass. He sits up straighter, wincing, leaning out to her as she moves towards him. He grasps her hands around the glass and pulls them towards him, spilling on the bedspread. She steadies his grip and slowly sits on the bed and moves the glass towards him, allowing him to rest his head against the wall as he drinks. He does not release her hands. "Hey, you're making a mess. Slow down, there's plenty." He ignores her. When the glass is empty, he urgently pushes it back at her, gasping faintly. While she concentrates on pouring, he cases the room, scanning from right to left, ending where she sits on the edge of the bed. She still needs to hold the glass for him, but he's calmer, pausing twice as he drains the glass. He inspects her as she fills it again, emptying the pitcher. His gaze takes in her height, her youth, the work boots, the worn jeans and sweatshirt. Her hair is pulled back in an untidy ponytail, and she tucks a loose strand behind her ear as she hands the glass back to him. He balances it unsteadily, but manages not to drop it. He takes a long pull, then pauses and stares into the water. "Thank you." His voice is hoarse, but very sincere. "You're welcome." She hesitates. He brings the glass to his lips and drains it. He notices and inspects his bandages, turning one hand in the air before his eyes. Sighing, he holds the glass in his lap and leans his head back against the headboard. She makes a false start at words, then smiles down at her hands. "I can get more." She rises and leaves. As she turns to go, his eyes widen when he sees the Crawford County Sheriff's logo on her sweatshirt. She turns again to look at him as she pulls the door shut, smiling at him. He smiles back, a broad grin that disappears as soon as the door is closed. He puts down the glass and tries to run his fingers through his hair, stopping as he remembers his bandaged hands. He leans back and lets his arms fall to his sides. ************** Carrie closes the door behind her. Bob looks up expectantly from the kitchen. "What?" she asks him, somewhat scornfully. She goes to fill the pitcher. Bob follows. "Did he tell you anything?" At the sink. "I didn't ask." "You didn't..." "Look, he's still dehydrated. He's just woke up, he's probably disoriented. Give him time." He takes her hand in both of his, pulling her towards him. She won't meet his eyes. "Carrie, what's gotten into you? Let's call Mark and have him report the guy. You've worked with the sheriff's department before, it's not like they won't believe you..." "I know but finding missing children and stolen Buicks is one thing; this guy's different. He's in trouble." He releases her hand and turns to lean on the counter, looking out the window. "Carrie, this is none of our business. If you think he's in trouble, then maybe he is, but why should we get involved? Let the law handle this, that's what they're for." "Have I been wrong before? Remember the molester down in Burley, everyone thought he was sweeter than Mr. Rogers?" She grips Bob's arm and forces him to look at her. "Let me handle this, OK?" She takes the pitcher and walks out of the kitchen. Bob watches her walk away. He goes to the cordless phone on the wall, dials a number. "Yeah, Deputy Mark Brennan, please." He cups the receiver against his cheek as he leans over and opens the bottom drawer by the sink. Taking a holstered revolver out, he checks the load, snaps the cylinder shut, and replaces the gun. He flicks a glance at the wall clock, muttering "Can't wait 'til Mark gets home." END Part 1 of 2 From ccbailey@facstaff.wisc.edu Sun Sep 22 11:29:34 1996 Return-Path: owner-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com Received: from chaos.taylored.com (chaos.taylored.com [206.53.224.58]) by sh1.ro.com (8.7.6/8.6.9) with SMTP id NAA17437 for ; Sun, 22 Sep 1996 13:18:09 -0500 Received: (qmail-queue invoked by alias); 22 Sep 1996 16:23:26 -0000 Delivered-To: x-files-fanfic-outgoing@chaos.taylored.com Received: (qmail-queue invoked by alias); 22 Sep 1996 16:23:24 -0000 Delivered-To: xff-outgoing@chaos.taylored.com Received: (qmail-queue invoked by uid 1003); 22 Sep 1996 16:23:14 -0000 Received: (qmail-queue invoked from smtpd); 22 Sep 1996 16:23:01 -0000 Received: from students.wisc.edu (HELO audumla.students.wisc.edu) (144.92.104.66) by chaos.taylored.com with SMTP; 22 Sep 1996 16:23:01 -0000 Received: from Default by audumla.students.wisc.edu; id LAA199462; 8.6.9W/42; Sun, 22 Sep 1996 11:22:56 -0500 Message-Id: <199609221622.LAA199462@audumla.students.wisc.edu> X-Sender: ccbailey@facstaff.wisc.edu X-Mailer: Windows Eudora Pro Version 2.1.2 Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii" Date: Sun, 22 Sep 1996 11:29:34 -0500 To: x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com From: "Colleen C. Bailey" Subject: Finder's Keepers Part 2/2 Sender: owner-x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com Precedence: bulk X-UIDL: d00a69c294fb9fe93bc35be76bee325a Finder's Keepers Part 2 of 2 Summary: Krycek escapes from the silo and is on the run, aided by a local woman. See Part 1 for disclaimers ************** Krycek is leaning against the wall by the window, peering out from between the curtains when Carrie opens the door. He's wearing a dark t-shirt several sizes too big and boxer shorts. He holds the glass out as she enters. She fills it and returns it. He drinks, then turns and sits heavily on the bottom corner of the bed, smiling at her as if remembering the courtesy too late. He barely meets her glance as she stands next to him. "How are you feeling?" "Fine." "Good." She shifts to sit on the chair at the foot of the bed, facing him. "Now tell me the truth." He winces at her tone, but doesn't respond. "How do you really feel?" She waits. He sighs but does not meet her eyes. "Where are my clothes?" "There, in the closet. The jeans were a loss; I put an old pair of mine in there, I think they'll do for you, you're not that tall. Until we can get you back where you belong." He looks away. "You were in pretty bad shape when we brought you in last night. Wanna talk about it?" He stares at the wall, but his body shudders slightly. "No." "What's your name? Do you need to use the phone? Tell...whoever that you're OK?" He looks away. "No." "Don't talk much, do you." He doesn't respond. "OK, at least tell me your name?" He makes a tired smirk, still not meeting her eyes. "Bill Davis." "Don't give me that!" He looks up at her, surprised. "That's a pretty lame pseudonym, y'know? You think I don't know trouble when I see it? You think I didn't notice that gun you've got in your jacket? You didn't mess those hands up playing pinball, bucko. Now there are three people in this house who helped pull your fat from the fire, and we all have a right to know who the hell you are and what you're doing here, and if we're in trouble because of it! Now talk." His turn to be angry. "Hey, lady..." "Carrie." He barely pauses. "Hey, Carrie, I didn't ask you..." He stops. "I don't want to be here, OK? Just give me my shoes..." "You didn't want to be there, either." His head comes up like a startled deer's. "Why were you down there?" She leans towards him, arms on knees. "You didn't just fall into an old well or something. Did someone...you know, put you there? How did you get out by yourself?" He lunges forward onto his knees, skidding on the hardwood floor, grabbing her arms with red-bandaged hands - they both wince from the pain - "How do you know about that!" She's pinned in the chair and can only pull her head back, frightened. "I saw it. In a dream." He shakes her harder. "Bullshit! How would you know, if this wasn't a setup?!" The sound of tires on gravel comes from the front of the house. Krycek staggers to his feet, breathing hard, and crosses to the window, pulling her with him. He keeps a grip on her arm while he pulls the curtain back. Out the window, a Crawford County squad car is pulling into the driveway. "Oh *shit*..." He backs up into Carrie, and they fall to the bed. He lands on his hands and rolls to the floor, but rather than sprint from the room he curls up with a cry, holding his hands tightly against himself. Carrie drops to her knees beside him, lifting him up. He twists and grabs her by the shoulders, trying to use her as leverage to gain his feet but his outburst has drained the strength from him; too weak to stand, he falls across her lap. She holds him close. "No, it's OK, you're safe, that's my brother, you're OK, hey, slow down, easy now." Bob opens the door and Krycek leans backwards, feet pedaling against the floor as he tries to put Carrie between himself and this new stranger. "Back off, Bob, he's threatened enough...!" Bob obviously wants to intervene. "Go!" she shouts, and he exits quickly, closing the door after himself. Krycek stops struggling, but pins her arms against her sides with his own. "Who are you!" "Let me go." She is sitting very still in his embrace. "You're setting me up!" "I *found* you, dammit, if it weren't for me you'd be coyote bait right now! If I wanted you dead I would've left you there! That car is Mark's, he's my brother, dammit, he's not going to hurt you, he hasn't told anyone you're here. Really, we're the only three who know about you, no one's going to find you here. I'm the one who found you, you're OK now, you're safe here." Her voice is soothing as she works her arms out from under his. "C'mon, let's get you back into bed, you're in no shape to play Twister yet." He looks down at himself, seeing the bruises on his arms, the scratched legs. He sags back against the side of the bed, legs sliding out to lay on the floor. "Why are you helping me?" Smiling awkwardly, she rubs her arms where he grabbed her. I guess you have an honest face." She kneels next to him and gets her arms under his, lifting him awkwardly, then rising one foot at a time to stand and haul him up to sit on the bed. He pulls the quilt up over his legs as she takes the glass over by the door and pours him more water. She hands it to him. "I'll be back in a few minutes, OK? Just relax - you're safe for now." As soon as the door clicks shut, he sighs, saying to the ceiling, "I wish I could believe that." He pulls himself upright, leaning his elbow heavily against the bedside table. Walking his forearms along the wall, he opens the closet door and pulls out a pair of jeans. And his leather jacket. ************** "What are you doing home, Mark?" she demands as she enters the kitchen. "We have to talk about him, Carrie." Mark is in his deputy's uniform. He leans a hip against the counter and holds his coffee in both hands. Bob stands near him, not touching him. He bites a fingernail, loudly. "Damn straight we do, Mark." She pulls out a kitchen chair from the dinette set in the far corner and turns it backwards, straddling the seat and leaning her arms against the backrest as she sits. "I don't know what's going on, but this guy is in some serious trouble." "Carrie, you've gotten in way above your head now, girl. This is none of our concern. These people..." "These people? What people?" "These people," he repeats, louder, "are way out of your class. Now that trick of yours has been a benefit to this community, but this is way out of hand." Her face has acquired a look of total disbelief. "My trick? Do you think I just pull it out for parties? Do you think I like losing sleep to find the Jacobson's dog?" "Carrie, helping the people you live and work with is one thing. This guy is completely different." She leans towards him across the seat back, her face hard. "How?" "I've made a few phone calls, this guy is a dangerous fugitive..." Her eyes widen. "You ratted on him." She says it like she doesn't want to believe it. Mark looks uncomfortable. "Carrie, you didn't hear what they said about this guy..." "Didn't hear what who said about him? What the hell kind of game is this, anyway?" She runs her hands over her hair, smoothing back the wisps. "I don't believe this, you ratted on him. I told him he was safe, and you're giving him away like a Crackerjack prize!" "Now dammit, you listen to me!" Mark's face is red as he slams the coffeecup on the counter. Bob bites another fingernail. "That man is a dangerous criminal! He's killed more people than you care to think about!" "So now you've killed him," she whispers. She's in shock, staring at the floor. "This is unreal." Suddenly she raises her head to him. "What are they going to do to him now?" "That's not our concern..." "Not our concern? It should be everybody's concern! This is not due process! They didn't just put him in jail, they didn't execute him." He looks away. "They buried him alive, Mark!! Is that justice? Is that in the Crawford County Sheriff's Handbook? To let him die of thirst, alone, in the dark? You didn't see that, Mark, you didn't feel what they put him through! I did! You wouldn't do that to a dog, Mark, and you're going to let them haul him away." "And you didn't hear what this guy's done! I came home as soon as I heard because I want him out of this house! He's dangerous, and I don't care what you believe, you are not going to harbor that fugitive in this home!" She gets up abruptly, swinging the chair violently into place at the table. Mark stands straighter, concerned. "Where are you going?" She crosses the room towards him. "You don't want him here, fine. I'm going to get him out of here." "Now wait, Carrie," he moves to block the door. "Get out of my way, Mark." Her tone is soft, but deadly. He puts his hands on her shoulders, shaking his head. "I'm not going to let you..." CRACK! She sucker-punches him, left-handed, and ducks under his arm as he lands against the doorjamb. Dazed, he grabs for her; she shoves her shoulder into his chest and slams him into the doorway again. She turns the corner, and makes towards the room where Krycek is. There's a crash from the left as the front door of the house flies open. Two figures in black, masked and armed, appear from the opening from the living room. They each grab one of her arms and slam her backwards into the wall. More figures enter the hallway, twisting and gesturing as they spread cautiously throughout the house. She struggles for a moment, wisps of hair falling into her wide eyes. "Mark!" The man to her right holds a pistol to her head and loudly clicks the safety off. She shuts up. Mark appears in the doorway, Bob hovering anxiously behind his shoulder. He doesn't appear surprise to see them as he rubs his chin ruefully, then notices the gun. "Get that thing away from her!" He walks over and reaches for the pistol. "I said..." The man to her left, closer to him, reaches with one straight arm and sweeps him into the wall, pushing a pistol in his face. Mark's hand reaches for his own gun, but stops before he can draw it. Bob starts violently, jumping backwards to collide with another commando. Footsteps pound up the stairs to the second floor. A voice comes from the living room. "Bring them in here." Carrie, then Mark are shoved into the living room. Bob follows, hands by his shoulders, shying away from the weapons pointed at him. Carrie collapses into an easy chair, head in hands. Mark glances at her, but she doesn't look up. He switches his attention to the young man seated on the sofa. He is lounging back, completely at ease, dressed in a smart suit and wearing mirrored sunglasses. "What the hell is this!" Mark demands. "This was not part of our agreement, pointing guns at me and my family!" "It's standard practice in securing a potentially hostile environment. You're in law enforcement, you know that. It was for your own protection." "You didn't need to come here." He glances significantly at his sister and lowers his voice. "I was going to bring him to you..." Carrie moans into her hands. "We couldn't risk him escaping, Deputy Brennan. Surely you understand." The sound of heavy steps rattles the ceiling. A masked commando appears in the doorway. "The house is clear, sir. No sign of him." The smart young man's face falls momentarily, then recovers. "You have your orders. Search the neighborhood. Discreetly." He smiles at Carrie. "He can't have gotten far." He looks back at the commando. "Escort the young lady to the car. We're leaving." "What?!" Bob and Mark exclaim simultaneously. "You can't do this," Mark continues. "She found him for you, isn't that enough?" The black-clad figure nods, slings his rifle over his shoulder and walks to where Carrie is seated. Behind them, a whistle code is heard. Carrie laughs bitterly. "You can't involve me 'just a little', big brother. This is an all-or-nothing game. Am I right?" she asks the man now gripping her left arm and pulling her to her feet. "Shit, I don't even know what's going on and I know that." Without responding, the military man pushes her through the open front door and levers her ahead of him into the waiting unmarked sedan. Another gets into the rear seat, sandwiching Carrie between them. Commandos are streaming out of the house and into the van parked behind the sedan. Mark follows, shouting over the shoulder of the man in the suit, "Damn you, call your superior, he said nothing about this! I want to talk to him right away!" Ignoring him completely, the agent gets into the passenger seat of the sedan as the last commando crosses to the driver's seat. All four car doors slam in unison. Mark runs into the house and grabs the cordless phone from the kitchen wall. Running back to the front porch, he dials a number and presses the phone to his ear. Bob comes up to stand beside him. The phone rings, faintly. Mark turns, muttering, clinging to the phone, and watches the sedan and the van turn the corner a block away. The phone rings endlessly as Bob and Mark are left alone on the front steps of a quiet small-town home. ************** A shadowed urban alleyway at night, city sounds in the background. Krycek leans against a dumpster, breathing hard and glancing in all directions. Satisfied that he is alone at last, he painfully pulls the revolver from his jacket and opens the cylinder with still-bandaged hands. Six bullets? He looks puzzled for a moment, staring blankly into space, then smiles grimly and replaces the gun in his pocket. "That's two I owe you, Carrie." Casting an elongated shadow behind him, he walks away, into the darkness of the alley. Then he begins to run. * FINIS * ccbailey@facstaff.wisc.edu