+18 - eps 22-27 - A case takes Russell and Brock to the brink of death. It'll be up to Gillian and the team to rescue them before they're killed by a white supremacist militia. And in the aftermath of the Paris attacks, the threat of a bio attack fo...
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Was he awake? He couldn't quite feel his own body, but what little he felt had to do with pain and a funny sensation, like being a sack of potatoes. Something soft against one side of his face, holding it up, but it didn't hurt. His face was what hurt. It felt like a balloon with too much air, just about to burst. No cold. That was good. Noises... Gunshots? Lots of. Damn, it was a battle out there. A voice. Very close.
"Behind that crest!"
He knew that voice. More shots, so close to him.
"I'm out, dammit!"
He tried to move.
"Shit! He's waking up! I need a hand here, lads!"
Gillian. She was in trouble. That idea made him try to open his eyes, only to notice how swollen his eyelids were. So he tried to call her, and reach out. Her voice sounded only a step away from him, he should be able to reach her. But it seemed as if his mouth had forgotten how to shape words. Even her name.
His numb hand found something. Another hand. It closed around his while more shots burst all around.
"Hang on, sir. We'll be outta here in no time. You just hang on."
Brock moved his head to the sound of her voice. Too many shots. She needed to take cover. He tried to pull from her hand. A different sound among the shots. Like a thud. Something big landing close to them.
Another voice. "Get down and cover Brockner!" Morris. The sniper was panting.
"What the hell, Fred! A grenade!?"
"Down, Reg!"
"Shit!"
Her hand let go of Brock's and he felt arms around him, pressing him against some wet, cool fabric. Small things like fingers entwined his hair. A loud explosion. No more shooting. The tapping of little chunks of soil and wood raining down on them.
"You can come up now, guys," said the sniper.
The wet fabric against Brock felt like pounding. What was going on? Where was Gillian?
"You okay, sir?" Her voice was muffled, from above his head.
The arms around him moved away, like the wet, pounding thing covering him.
"Gillian..." he mumbled.
She let out a suffocated sound. "Yes, sir, it's me. Sorry for the crushing, I needed to cover you. How're you holding up, sir?"
He struggled to open his eyes. She sounded so close. He moved up his hand, trying to find hers again. He did. Her fingers pressed his hand, warm and firm. It was dark around. A dim glow somewhere near. Enough to make out the shape of her head and guess part of her face. Her eyes on him, intense, concerned. She looked fine, but he needed to know.
"Gillian..." he repeated, unable to utter any other word.
Her fingers tightened around his hand. "Yes, sir. I'm Gillian. Please stay still, I'll be right back."
Not like he had an option. She let go of his hand again and he heard her move. Her shadow met a couple more. A ponytail. Morris. The other one could be anybody, but he decided it was Bellison. Made sense to complete the scene. That. The scene. Woods. Was it the hill he'd tried to climb to get away from the men chasing him down? Why were they still there? He remembered the beating, and his flogged feet. How come his body hurt so little? Morphine...? Yeah. Felt like it. Meaning he was in a very bad shape.
Muffled voices. Gillian and her team. Isolated words. Clear. Perimeter. Wait out. Bring down. Tacs. A couple of hours. Medic. A few left. Extraction. They didn't make much sense, but they were enough to get one message to his muddled brain: danger. They were still in danger. And Gillian was there. He didn't want her in danger. But it was so good, coming back to her. It made him feel guilty. Well, as much as he could feel anything that complicated.
A gentle touch on his shoulder. "Sir...?"
She was back. By his side. It was her hand on his shoulder.
"Can you hear me, sir?"
He could open his eyes but a little, so he tried to move his face up, to her.
Gillian swallowed hard at the bloody, swollen bruise his whole face was. He moved his lips, cut and hurt. So she leaned in closer.
"Danger..." he mumbled.
"No, sir, it's okay. We're safe here. My team has our back now. But we're gonna be here a while longer, until our Tacs clear the hill to bring in medics for you, and take you away."
"You... Here..."
It took her a moment, but then she understood what he meant. In a split second, Gillian's eyes were full of tears and her throat was squeezed shut. Stupid caring man. He just couldn't help parenting her. "I'm fine, sir, don't worry. But I'm afraid I'm not going anywhere."
"Stay...?"
Her hand moved by its own will from his shoulder to his hair, to brush it gently. It was okay, he wouldn't remember any of it.
"Wild horses, sir," she muttered. "Just... wild horses..."
He moved up his hand, but could only scratch her sleeve before dropping back to his lap. Gillian frowned. What did he want now?
"Sir, you need to drink. D'you think you can?"
Brock tried to frown. Drink. Sounded like a good idea. The word made him realize how thirsty he was. His mouth felt like a thick, sticky ball of hideous taste. He felt something thin and hard pressing softly his lower lip. A plastic tube, a straw. So he parted his lips, enough for the straw to slip into his mouth. He tried to suck, felt the wonderful cool of water on his tongue, sucked harder. But he couldn't swallow. He choked on the water, and felt it slide out from his mouth and down his chin.
Gillian's voice was warm and low, close to him. "Easy, sir. You gotta take it slow. Try little sips."
A gentle hand guided his head backwards, to rest on something that wasn't wood. Then the straw touched his lips again. Sips, she'd said. Little sips. So he tried to do as she said. This time the water flowed down his throat without choking him.
"You got it, sir. Keep drinking all you can. Like this, little sips."
The straw stayed in his mouth and he took another sip. Not easy. He was so drained, that even such a small effort forced him to pause to breathe between one sip and the next, because no air got through the ruined chunk of his nose.
He moved his hand again and found the plastic bottle by his shoulder. And her hand around it. He tried to pull it down.
Gillian frowned. What was with him? He couldn't want her to take away the bottle, because he kept drinking. So she held the bottle with her other hand and rested her palm on the back of his hand.
"What is it, sir? What d'you need?" she asked, keeping her voice low, not to interfere with her team's communications over the radio.
Brock turned his hand palm up and tried to close his fingers around hers. Gillian gasped. She held his hand on his lap, under the blanket, and heard his weak sigh. He closed his swollen eyes and relaxed, as he kept sipping water. And she took a deep, shaky breath, trying to keep her eyes dry.
