1: Ashes, Ashes, we all fall down
JD walked slowly along the building with his gun drawn. Taking deep a
deep breath, he turned the corner holding his gun extended in front of
him, scanning the ally way.
Chris was gonna have his head for this. He grinned wryly, assuming, or
course there was anything left of his head for Chris to have. He had to
admit, this wasn't one of his brighter ideas. And for him, that was saying
a lot.
It wasn't the glory, he told himself firmly. There wasn't any glory to
be had on this case. Only heartbreak and rage. A stubborn part of his
brain pointed out that if that was true, why hadn't he waited for the
others? No time, he answered his own question.
'Sides, the others were on the way. He just needed to stall for a little
time. Michael FitzWalther was extremely elusive. Given half a chance,
he'd be out of the country again before anyone was the wiser. If JD could
keep him from slipping away again, he'd do whatever it took. He had to.
He'd made a promise.
Revenge was a tricky matter. Push it too far, and it consumed you, burned
away your soul. JD winced at his choice of words. The bitter tang of smoke
still coated his throat, and he doubted the screams would ever fade from
his memory.
He kept alert as he crept down the alleyway. FitzWalther had turned down
this way, JD was sure of it. The brick walls met in a dead-end, the only
exit was through a green, wooden door. Tightening his grip on his gun,
JD reached for the doorknob with his free hand. The rusted metal was cold
under his hand.
The door swung open, easily- inviting him in. He didn't hesitate. Just
crossed the threshold and rolled to one side. Exactly the way he was taught.
Training kicked in, running him through the motions. JD was too detached
to be grateful. The gray morning had taken on a nightmarish feeling.
The door swung shut behind him, blocking out the charcoal sky. The finality
in the sound made him wince. His mind spiraled away for a moment, remembering
the way another door had sounded as it condemned him. JD felt hollow,
goose-bumps lancing across his skin. In the heavy silence, his breath
grated against raw nerves.
The sound of metal on concrete jarred JD back to the present. Shaking
his head to clear memories that would be scattered, but not banished,
he moved deeper into the plant. He let the shadows swallow him, concealing
his movements from FitzWalther.
Somewhere up ahead, he could hear footsteps. Whoever it was, wasn't outright
running, but they were close to it. It could only be FitzWalther. One
set of footprints disturbed the dust ahead of JD.
He picked up his pace, the adrenaline pushing him past caution. FitzWalther
was on the run. . . from him. The man who had dominated JD's nightmares
for the past year and a half, was actually running rather than face him.
It fed JD's anger, stroking the knot of contained rage into full fury.
There was blood to answer for, and JD wouldn't let the wergild go unpaid.
The noises that led him moved upward, toward the catwalks. JD watched
as a dark shape scrambled up one of the long ladders. His blood sang in
his ears as he called out, "Freeze, ATF."
The shape didn't halt it's ascent. JD shouted again. "Stop where you are.
I. Will. Shoot."
The first blow caught him unaware, slamming across his shoulders. JD hit
his knees hard, the rough concrete tearing at him through his jeans. A
second blow sent eager fingers of darkness through his brain. His gun
was suddenly too heavy for his hand. It hit the ground with a metallic
clang that was far too distant.
Every ounce of training and instinct screamed at him to get up. Stopping
was the same as dying. JD fell forward. He managed to catch himself with
his forearm. Fighting back the growing darkness, he pushed up trying to
regain his feet.
A heavy boot clad foot caught him in the ribs, tumbling him into a heavy
piece of machinery. Bright lights exploded behind his eyes. He had to
fight for each searing breath his lungs pulled in. His vision blurred,
light and shadow blurred into a shaded kaleidoscope.
Michael FitzWalther dropped his crowbar. It struck with an unnaturally
loud clatter. The noise bounced violently against JD's skull. "You again?"
Surprise was heavy in the other man's voice. "I'd have thought once would
be enough."
JD groaned. Somewhere he found the nerve to reply, "What can I say, I'm
a slow learner." Then he gave into the waiting darkness.
2: Waking up is hard to do
It was always disorientating to wake up in the dark. Especially to wake up in the dark when your hands were tied. Part of JD was vaguely disturbed that he thought he should be used to it. It didn't happen to him *that* often. Did it?
JD decided he didn't want to answer that question. It would just depress him. Anyway, he'd always managed to come back from his misadventures alive. So far. . . Now that was an uncomfortable thought, he decided grimly.
JD shifted, testing the ropes he was bound with. No give. Not that he'd expected any. It seemed most of the bad guys he ran into seemed to have earned their knot tying merit badge. That begged the question, 'were criminals ever boy scouts?' The thought was just ludicrous enough to make JD laugh in spite of the situation.
A golden flame blossomed in front of his eyes. FitzWalther met his eyes over the wooden match. "Most men I kill stay dead."
"I'm not most men."
"No. You're a boy playing at being a man. Bet you wish you'd done like Mommy wanted and gone to business school."
"Is there a point to this?" JD asked, trying his best to sound bored. It took all of his self control to meet the cool blue gaze instead of watching the small flame dancing on the man's fingertips.
"Not really," FitzWalther said with a shrug. "I'm just a little curious." The fire reached his fingers. Without acknowledging either heat or pain, he casually dropped the matchstick. Darkness smothered the room again.
There was a hiss and the smell of phosphate as he struck another match, this time near JD's left eye. The heat and sudden light was painful, but JD managed to hang onto his control.
"I never leave survivors. It's a policy of mine." His voice was low, deadly as he circled JD. "So, you can understand why I was surprised to see you again." The light died.
Another match sputtered to life. JD couldn't help himself. He stared at the contorting flame. Living. . . hungry. . . angry. . . fire. Beads of sweat stood out on JD's upper lip, and he could feel the brittle edge of panic welling up within him.
"How'd you get out? The other men both died. I checked." FitzWalther moved the matchstick around, savoring the way JD's slightly glazed eyes were locked on the golden death he held.
JD swallowed several times, trying to separate the past from the present. Memories were flooding through him, too fast to be processed. Rough concrete under his cheek. . . screams of the other agents caught in other rooms. . . heavy smoke stealing precious oxygen. . . searing heat as ravenous flames crept closer. . . Buck appearing out of nowhere to haul him to safety.
Another match burst into flame, near enough to hurt. JD flinched back into the moment. "Not that it matters." He picked up a bottle, displaying it for JD. "Butane. Burns at a very low temperature. Watch." He poured some of the liquid into his hand, then touched the flame to the small puddle.
The surface ignited. FitzWalther smirked at JD. "Mildly uncomfortable, but not fatal right away. It's a bitch when the clothes catch, and I really wouldn't recommend letting all the liquid burn away." Shaking off the fire, he began moving in the darkness.
The cold oily liquid was a shock against JD's skin. In the darkness he couldn't predict which direction the icy stream would come from. Line after line slammed into him, carrying the promise of death on their searing kisses. His clothes were saturated, his hair dripped under the deadly showed. Cool drops slipped uncomfortably down the collar of his shirt, running between his shoulder blades.
FitzWalther finally seemed satisfied that JD was drenched. He dropped the can the floor, the tin sides echoing unnaturally in the stifling black.
Straining for clues in the dark, JD could hear the glug-clug as the remaining fluid sloshed out and onto the cement floor. He could hear FitzWalther still circling him slowly.
Taking a blind shot, JD lashed out with his foot. He caught the can squarely, sending it skittering across the floor into FitzWalther's shin. The other man swore as butane soaked his legs.
"You'll pay for that," he seethed.
The sickeningly familiar scratch and hiss of a matching being struck precursed the return of light. JD was ready for it. When the room lit up he kicked at the source of the light with both feet, striking FitzWalther's hand.
FitzWalther jerked, his hand spasming open to release the match. The golden point tumbled free, disappearing as it fell. The flame was out by the time it struck the butane soaked concrete, but enough of an ember still remained to ignite the liquid.
Fire raced along the floor. Blue tinged flames that licked hungrily at everything in their path. Including FitzWalther's leather sneakers.
For a moment, the arsonist could only stare at his feet in disbelief. Then he tried to stamp out the growing flames, but his actions generated a wind that fed the fire. By the time it reached his pantlegs, FitzWalther was in a full-blown panic. He beat at his legs, only to slide on the slippery floor. Crashing heavily to the floor, he surged back to his feet. His hurried actions were too late. Already the blue flame eagerly leapt along his now soaked clothing.
JD didn't wait to see who was winning. Standing up, with the wooden chair still bound to his arms, he made for the door.
He had to get out. The heat. . . He could hear the screams again. Good men who'd lost their lives, while he was saved. Just random, stupid luck--well that and a self-sacrificing Buck, had been the only difference between life and death for him.
FitzWalther's leg struck JD's knee, sending him crashing to the floor. He landed on dry flooring, but the fire was drawing closer and the air supply getting weaker. Pain shot up JD's arm where he'd landed on it, and he could now feel the fine hairs on the back of his hand singe.
Chewing on his lip and praying for strength, JD pushed the chair back toward the heat. Suppressing a cry of pain, he felt the first feathery kiss of white agony in his hand. He clamped his eyes shut, and began jerking on the ignited rope.
He could feel the flames dancing higher. Along the back of the chair. . . The arms of his jacket. . . The searing heat had just reached his neck when the rope gave way.
Surging to his feet, JD tore the burning leather coat from his body; letting it pool around the wrist still tied to the chair. He'd deal with it eventually. Right now he had to get out of the small supply room.
FitzWalther had already beaten him to that conclusion. The large man staggered to the door, ignoring his burning clothes in search of oxygen. Just as his hand closed on the metal doorknob, it exploded inward--sending him sprawling once more.
JD lurched forward, intent on reaching the promise of cool air. The chair tangled on a burning crate, dragging JD to his knees. He struggled to pull free, but it was a losing battle. Heat and pain were wearing him down, and the ill- suppressed panic within him clouded his mind.
Through the painful, golden light came dark shapes. Like avenging seraphim, they swooped down on him. And for a moment, JD believed that they really were angels sent to collect his soul.
Then strong hands hauled him up-right, chair and all. His head thumped heavily against someone's chest, then lolled to one side as even the strength to hold it up ebbed from him. Comforting arms wrapped around his chest and JD felt himself being carried out into the blessedly cool air.
Forcing gritty eyes open, he tried to focus on his rescuer. He needn't have bothered. The lazy drawl in his ear told him that no angel had come to the rescue.Instead, everything that meant safety, home, family, echoed in the distant words.
"Buck," he coughed, "'bout damn time you got here."
He felt, rather than heard the laugh that rumbled through Buck's frame. "He's talkin' back, Chris. That *has* to be good."
JD's eyes were heavy, but the waiting darkness was comforting instead of foreboding. "You have. . . no. . . idea." He stopped fighting the deep sleep that lurked at the finges of his mind. For the first time in a year and a half, the dreams weren't there waiting for him. The fires had gone out.
Don't forget to feed the author: Kat