The Jigsaw

Thank you very much for your comments :)

mrrreye - here you are, this is your chapter :) You really got my accelerator turned on ;)

Lusia - I'm glad you like this story :) I promise I won't stop writing it, as long as I know you read it :) It's just that sometimes my real life gets so intense that I barely have time to scratch two words...
But slowly, sentence after sentence, I go on.

ASOTA - I hope I explained the point of Casey's action well enough. If not, it means I have to rework it, I guess :)
Have a nice time reading, and... be careful with encouraging Casey - you never know what he's capable of doing! ;) :D

cobraqueen - I'm happy to announce that you can already stop thinking about the previous chapter and start thinking about the last one instead :D
Is it less mean? I hope it isn't! :D

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The Way Out

Ramson didn't wait for the smoke and flames to subside. He caught a radio impatiently and called Simon.

"Do you read me?"

"Yes," the short answer came. "What the hell was that?"

"A missile." A faint smile flickered across Ramson's face.

"Why didn't you fire it earlier?" Simon didn't make any effort to hide the grudge that was evident in his voice.

"It's just come. We launched it as soon as it was possible. Now, did it work?"

"I don't know. I can't see anything yet through the smoke."

"Then move. That son of a bitch can't see you either. Check the protection. If you can, take the guy down and report the state of devices."

"Roger."

The connection broke off.

Simon and Ryan slipped out of the air conditioning duct straight into the acrid smoke. Their masks and goggles constituted good protection against the greasy wreaths of smoke but didn't make it any easier to see through it.

The men stopped for a second to determine whether their movement remained unheard. Only the crackling of flames and hiss of burning objects could be detected.

Keeping their weapons at the ready, they started to crawl towards the steel net. Shifting soundlessly through the shambles of the room, covered with broken glass and the burning wreckage of God-knew-what, verged on the impossible. The only things they could count on to cover their presence were the buzzing fire and the cracking sounds emitted by materials losing their battle with the heat.

Was the man inside composed enough to keep cool and lie in wait until he could see his opponents? Simon hoped he wasn't. If the terrorist didn't hold on but started shooting too soon, misled by one of many sudden sounds, the agents could localize his position.

A...handlebar? Simon’s forehead wrinkled under the mask when his eyes came to rest on a strange object covered with something that looked like melted rubber. What the hell? He looked around and in the smoke he spotted a wheel rim coated with bubbling rubber. Later. He focused on his task again, putting all other thoughts aside.

Somewhere to their right a loud crack announced the bursting of the next object to be consumed by the fire.

Now the criminal made a mistake. A short series of bursts from a machine gun, shot in the dark, slashed the air and quickly died.

Gotcha! Simon relaxed inwardly, carefully moving forward. The guy was hiding somewhere on the left wall of the room, about five, maybe seven meters from them.

They reached the place where the steel net should stop them. Ryan carefully examined its structure with his left hand and came across the wide breach. As expected, the protection had been damaged successfully, together with the bulletproof glass.

Ryan looked at Simon, waiting for his order. A short movement of his partner's head indicated that he was to move inside.

The next small explosion caused by the fire had fatal consequences. The hunted man wasn't stupid; he started blazing at the place where the missile must have destroyed his shield. This time Ryan had the bad luck to find himself in the line of fire. All he managed to do was grunt when the series swept across his back, fortunately sparing his head. His body instinctively yanked back when a stinging pain exploded in his left shoulder and rolled across his shoulder blades. His right hand clenched spasmodically on his gun and he pulled the trigger a couple of times, the barrel aiming nowhere in particular.

Simon acted in a flash. He grabbed Ryan's legs and with one strong jerk he pulled his partner back outside the protection net just in time to save him from the deafening cannonade of bullets that slashed the place where Ryan had been lying seconds earlier.

Simon quickly assessed the situation. Ryan was alive; the bulletproof vest had managed to protect his body, although the agent would have impressive bruises on his back, probably broken ribs, and two bullet wounds in the left arm to show for it. Wounds could be nasty, sure, but so far his weren't life-threatening. Good, Simon decided, pulling Ryan farther from the battlefield and helping him inside the duct they’d come from. Thank God he’s not panicking.

Ryan panted heavily, confused and in shock. Not until now did it really hit him as to what had happened.

I'm alive, he whispered over and over in his head, as if the words had no meaning for him. His brain worked slowly, trying to process all the impulses that had overloaded his system.

I got shot, he thought. Yes, I was shot. My arm.... He winced in pain when he tried to move his left hand. With his other hand, the one that had dropped the gun at the entrance to the security room, he found a wet patch on his sleeve and bit his tongue to hold in a yelp of pain when his glove irritated the edge of the wound. Holy fuck! It hurts...God, it hurts.

"Shh..." Simon whispered into the microphone, analyzing Ryan's eyes. They were a bit unfocused, clouded with pain but conscious.

"Hurts..." Ryan said almost silently.

"I know. Hang in there, man. We'll get you out of here." Simon gripped Ryan's right arm to hearten the wounded man and thought, Wait until the adrenaline stops working—then it'll hurt!

"Alpha, this is Beta," he called quietly.

"Beta, this is Alpha, over."

"Romeo—" Simon used the international signaling code— "got shot in the arm. He can walk but has to be withdrawn."

"I'll try to organize help."

"What about Casey?" Simon gave this idea a try.

"No can do. He's needed here. Maybe the police can help. Did you manage to accomplish your task?"

"Not yet, but the shield was destroyed. I'll do this."

"Be careful—two people from the first floor went upstairs."

"Thanks. Romeo is in the ventilation duct waiting for help. Over and out."

Simon sighed heavily, feeling the almost substantial burden of the minutes to come. Shit, two more. He patted Ryan's thigh and sneaked out, leaving him leaned up against the metal wall on his left, unharmed side.

The game started again. The agent's enemy couldn't know how many opponents he would have to fight, nor did he know how severe Ryan's injuries were, if any. But Simon had no idea of the actual terrorist's position, either. He wouldn't stay in his old hideout, that was for sure. And then there were the two other men going up to check out what had happened.

Pretty hot.

---

Casey opened his eyes. His first thought upon awakening was, Are they all right? He sat up suddenly to find himself sitting on a stretcher inside an ambulance. A quick look around confirmed his conviction that nothing serious had happened to him. The only thing was that his left hand was immobilized in a sling. Right, it was dislocated. They must have frozen it, because he didn't feel any pain. Actually he didn't feel anything at all in his left arm. Driven by anxiety, Casey jumped off the stretcher and left the vehicle, clasping his injured hand to his chest.

"Colonel Ramson?" he shouted, seeing his boss staring at the casino. Spontaneously he followed Ramson's gaze and saw a huge hole in the glass wall where clouds of thick smoke spewed out. Holy shit... that's me! Not until now did his own idea and the stunt display he’d given amaze him. He blushed slightly and his heart beat faster. Yes, he was proud of himself.

"Colonel Ramson?" he repeated, approaching the man.

"Oh, you're back on your feet, I see. How do you feel?" Ramson patted Casey's shoulder with a smile of acknowledgment.

"I'm perfectly well, sir. How are they?" Casey indicated the casino with his head.

Ramson took his time before he answered. "I don't know. Ryan got shot in the arm. Simon is trying to neutralize the guy in the security room. Your missile did good—the net and panes were destroyed."

"What about—" Casey stumbled. He wanted to ask, but he wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.

"Sarah and Sam?" Ramson guessed immediately. With his eyes focused on the building he said simply, "Sam is alive, we can see him all the time. About Sarah—I hope she's alive too. Fortunately their boss upstairs is busy now, so Linda and Thera have a chance to put thing in order downstairs."

"Is Simon alone in there?" The young agent felt despair welling up inside him.

"Yes. Two policemen went in to get Ryan out."

"I—I can help!" Casey said with such zealotry that Ramson looked at him in surprise.

"No, you can't," he answered. "Don't let your emotions make you stupid, agent." He looked at Casey's disabled arm meaningfully.

Casey bit his lip, embarrassed. "Should I go to the technicians' van?" he asked, trying to sound professional.

"Sure. And remember that officiousness can cause damage sometimes."

"Yes, sir," the agent whispered, hanging his head, and he started toward the place where the whole thing had begun for him.

That day Casey had crossed another border, and another door was opened that would never be closed again. It was the first time in his life when he’d decided to risk his life for someone else. The first time people's lives had depended on him. And he had done it! He hadn't panicked, he hadn't chickened out...and to his dismay he realized that he'd liked it. The world of experiences was so much riched than he could have ever suspected. And as for his inner world, Casey was surprised to find out he’d known so little about himself.

He was still overwhelmed with the intensity of the latest experiences. It came as a shock that he could register impulses with such clarity and sharpness. This was living. “Living” with a capital L, spelled letter by letter. “Living” that was extremely intense just because it was so close to death that one could suddenly see its value and charm.

Casey felt in his bones that sooner or later he would regret learning this, but it was already too late to go back. He’d discovered a new kind of excitement and, though still only vaguely, he already knew his mind would remember that state and crave it again.

---

Just after the explosion Linda and Thera got the order to intervene and try to set Sarah and Sam free. The mess on the first floor had cut off the terrorist in the security room from the screens and forced the criminals to divide into smaller groups. As Ramson had informed them, two had gone upstairs, so there could be around six armed men in the main hall.

Linda asked for a short projection and Ramson sent one to the numerical displays incorporated in the glass of the agents' goggles.

Between two rows of gambling machines, on a plastic chair, the agents saw the motionless, bound silhouette of Sam. His head hung down; it was possible that he was unconscious.

There was no sign of Sarah anywhere. They must be keeping her in a room with no camera.

"Thanks." Linda turned of the screen and her goggles became clear again. "We're going in."

---

A powerful blow revived Sam for a moment. With the greatest effort his consciousness broke free from the suppressing mud of darkness. When he noticed a man standing in front of him he was given the next blow, from the other side, and together with the chair he flew into the nearest machine on his left. Its corner collided badly with Sam's cheekbone and crushed it, ultimately massacring the eye which was already shaded with purple swelling.

"Oooops." The man in black made a philosophical face, but Sam didn't see it. He didn't see anything any more, as he fainted again.

"Shit, I wanted to talk to you." The terrorist scratched his head in fake confusion. He sighed, pulling the chair up with one violent jerk. He left the bleeding agent leaning against the ropes that bound him tightly to the chair, in the middle of the hallway, and directed his steps to the closet where Sarah was imprisoned.

---

"Well, well, feeling submissive already?" At the sound of the mocking voice Sarah raised her head watchfully. She felt so tired and scared now. It had been some time since her adrenaline level had decreased and allowed her body and mind to feel the results of the action without anaesthetic.

"I came to talk to you as your friend is, uhm, indisposed, to tell the truth, and completely unable to talk." The man chuckled cruelly and Sarah's heart almost stopped beating. Dear God, let him live, please. The tears welled her eyes.

"Oh, my, that was touching news, I see." The terrorist came closer and rolled her onto her back. Then he knelt astride her and pulled her up by her suit, moving her face very close to his. She could see wrinkles radiating from the corners of his gray eyes, as if he was a man who liked to smile. But he wasn't smiling now. Sarah tensed in horror, resisting with the whole strength of her backbone and neck and shoving her face as far as possible from the black mask.

"Look at me, bitch!" the man hissed, shaking Sarah. "That's right!" His laugh was ugly when she stared at him, her eyes wide with fear. "Now we'll make a radio call using that fancy helmet of yours. You'll obediently tell your fellas there to get their sorry asses out of here or we'll finish you." He pressed the helmet to Sarah's cheek and ordered, "Do it!"

She closed her eyes and thought maybe dying wasn't that terrible. With that thought she spat at the man's face, wincing in disgust. The terrorist drew back, his eyes narrowed warningly.

Good God! Sarah had just enough time to offer up her short prayer before an open hand smacked into her face, throwing her head to the side. Her lower lip cracked and a thin trickle of blood dribbled down her chin. Here it comes. The fear lessened, as she didn't have any choice left. When the inevitable came, fear gave way to resignation.

"You think you're brave, stupid whore? Let's see...you know, this pretty face of yours makes me horny. I think I wanna play." The man inserted his knee powerfully between her thighs, spreading them and hitting her crotch painfully. She shouted quietly as the wave of fear came back and stroked her with doubled force. Sarah's heart started pounding like crazy and her entire body tensed as if paralyzed by an awkward contraction. The veins in her neck and temples swelled and her eyes almost bulged out of her head from the pulsating pressure inside.

When the man's hands took her vest off her and tore her shirt, the last shreds of courage left her and Sarah burst out, crying spasmodically, "No! Stop, please—God, help! Heeelp! Noooooo!" Soon the crying turned into the howling of an animal, when the man's hand brutally slipped into her pants, breaking her dignity and raping her honor.

Then everything happened in a flash: the door clicked open and a second later Sarah arched back, giving out a piercing yell when the invading fingers sank into her delicate flesh with the incredible force of a dying man whose body tried to hold on to life in a last desperate impulse. The criminal's head, pushed tight against the wall by the crushing energy of a bullet, exploded, poppingout the eyeballs and a handful of broken teeth, and bespattering the white plaster with a collage of blood and brain.

Sarah screamed like crazy, struggling in panic to free herself from the gruesome weight of the body without a head, which was still jiggling in the last “dance macabre” of dying nerves.

"Shhhhh! Shhh!" Linda fell to her knees and with one hand she covered Sarah's mouth, while the other embraced the woman strongly. Sarah was clearly at her wits' end. She stared at Linda blankly, as if she didn't know who the agent was, her chest still heaving spasmodically. "Shh, honey...shh. Everything's okay, you're safe. It's okay, it's okay," Linda whispered, hugging Sarah and rocking her gently.

Thera stood at the entrance, his eyes focused on the view of the corridor. "Call Alpha," Linda's sad voice said in the speaker inside his helmet. He nodded, not turning around, and called Ramson.

"We have Sierra Three," he reported. "I repeat, we have Sierra Three. She is alive and not injured. Just in shock."

"Good. Thank you." The relief in Ramson's voice was imperceptible. "How did you get there?"

"As you can see, there’s quite a mess in the hall. Without information from upstairs they can't control the whole floor, so it’s still possible to move around so far. We took down three terrorists patrolling the corridors. There’s still the group guarding hostages and they started to panic, which is a bad sign. Someone’s liable to die every minute now."

"Can you get upstairs?" Ramson asked after a moment of hesitation.

"We can try."

"Then do it. Help Sierra Two eliminate their boss. Probably the rest will give up killing hostages."

I hope you're right, Thera thought. He answered, "Roger, we're going upstairs. Linda," he said turning around, "we have to leave her here."

"I heard." Linda's voice was dry. In the meanwhile, when Thera was having the conversation with Ransom, she had untied Sarah and tidied her clothing.

"Honey," she addressed Sarah softly, "you have to wait here, okay?" She moved the woman away and looked intently in her eyes. Sarah looked at her consciously, her terror slowly disappearing. She even managed to nod, accepting Linda's words. Linda smiled with relief and caressed Sarah's cheek, still reddened from the slap. "We'll come back for you soon," she promised. "We have to change rooms, okay? They might come here for you."

The agents took Sarah, still jittery, to a different office and left her huddled in a big armchair, with a gun lying near her leg and her helmet on her head so she could stay in communication. They told her to lock the room from the inside, and after they heard the characteristic click of the lock they moved towards the emergency stairs.

---

One hour later everything was over. Just as Ramson had supposed, after their boss was killed, the rest of the terrorists, persuaded by the negotiators, turned themselves in. Eighteen of them had gone in; only four went out. Three more hostages died at the hands of the panicked criminals just before the most dangerous killers were eliminated. Fifty-two people were set free.

Behind the scene of the big commotion, the rescue service was getting ready for their job: identifying the dead and helping those who could be helped.

Casey, who finally gained permission to enter the building after the gunfire ended, had only one thing on his mind. To Ramson's surprise, he didn't rush to the office where Linda and Thera had left Sarah. In amazement the colonel watched on the screen as Casey threw himself toward the chair standing lonely between the rows of machines. He reached Sam before anyone else could come to his aid.

"Sam...Sam..." Casey whispered insanely, his chest squashed by agonizing pain, anxiety, and something else he wasn't even aware of. Everything he’d done was completely spontaneous; he hadn't thought about anything, acting on impulses coming from somewhere inside his heart.

"Wake up, please...wake up." Don't do this to me. He clumsily caressed Sam's right cheek and tried to remove the hair that seemed glued to his wounds. He was so afraid his touch would cause pain that he almost had to force his own hand to keep feeling Sam's face.

When he had been watching the action on screens in the technical van, his eyes had been full of tears; it was helplessness that had condensed. Now his eyes were dry as he impatiently struggled with the ropes, using his one good hand. His fingers trembled and Casey cursed desperately when he couldn't manage, the knots too tight to be unraveled.

"Fuck!" he shouted angrily. He grabbed a piece of glass from the floor and slashed at the bonds with such fierceness it was as if he was trying to cut out his own pain. Finally the rope gave and released the inert body that gently leaned toward Casey and, embraced by Casey’s good hand, rested on his knees.

With his injured hand Casey feverishly caressed Sam's face, cuddling the man's head tightly to his chest. The sight of the swollen, bloody pulp of his cheek, the crushed bone and a whitish substance covering it together with clotted blood—the left side of Sam's deformed face—tortured Casey's eyes. A red mark left by the strangling rope encircled Sam's neck like an ugly necklace.

A heart-rending sob rose up within Casey, but when it reached his mouth his lips just opened voicelessly. Without any sound Casey knelt on the floor, making a huge effort to breathe, as hampered feelings clogged up his throat. He could no longer even get out the only thought lingering in his head: Wake up, please, wake up....

Maybe it was pain, or maybe that silent mantra, that made Sam shiver. His lips twisted slightly and a silent moan escaped from between them.

"Sam...Sam!" Casey whispered, his nerves strained like guitar strings.

The right eyelid twitched and slowly rose, revealing a black eye. For a few seconds it wandered, unfocused, but finally it rested on Casey's determined face, now smiling stupidly. It was the smile of a child who had just discovered that Santa Claus had brought him exactly what he’d asked for in his naïve letter.

The eye stared into Casey’s amber eyes with no expression at all. It simply stared. And Casey simply stared back, drowning in that black pupil and subconsciously rocking Sam gently in his arms. He found everything in that sad, black eye—all the helplessness and weakness that made up the strong, cocky man lying on Casey’s knees like a baby; the consent to their situation; relief and gratitude for the presence of another human being. Casey guessed them, although the eye was blank; but there was also no annoyance and mistrust in that look, and it was enough.
He had learned to read those hypnotizing eyes without even knowing it.

The eye closed and Sam's body relaxed. Just before he lost consciousness again he whispered helplessly, "It...hurts...." No confession could shake Casey more than that simple admission, exposing as it did for a short moment the fragile, lonely being who uttered it.

"Move aside, please," Casey heard behind him and he turned his head to see medics in red overalls and Simon approaching, still in his vest, with his gun and helmet in his hands. Simon knitted his brows at seeing the unusual Pieta-like scene and Casey had to overcome a strong impulse to let Sam go, suddenly ashamed of what his behavior might have suggested. As true as it was, Casey wasn't ready to acknowledge his feelings or, even more than that, reveal them to others.

"I—he fell from the chair," he said, driven by an inner compulsion to explain the situation. "And there’s glass everywhere." He looked around over the battlefield of the casino.

"Sure." Simon smiled. As strange it was for him that Casey had apparently grown attached to his brother, he found it rather a relief, for the first time not burdened with his role of the only one who cared. "Let them help, 'kay?" He knelt and put his equipment aside, pointing at the medics. His face was tired and smeared with ash and blood.

"Yeah." Casey moved away, carefully releasing Sam's head to a man in red.

"Oh, fuck!" Simon moaned, seeing Sam's face now in all its glory. He leaned forward, analyzing his brother’s injuries. "The eye," he stated. "The fucking eye." He combed his sweaty hair back with a dirty hand and for a moment covered his eyes.

"Awful, isn't it?" Casey knew the statement was stupid but somehow it slipped out before he could hold it back

"Awful?" Simon laughed bitterly. "It's lost!"

Casey was struck dumb.

"This," Simon pointed at Sam's cheek, covered with a disgusting gunge, "is his eye."

"Wha—? God," was all Casey managed to stutter out.

At that moment the flip side of the coin that was an agent's life revealed its cruel face: sometimes life was so close to afterlife that the shadow of death remained on a daredevil or a fool who had crossed the border between them. This was the price for “feeling the value of life”: losing part of it sometimes, if not all of it. Judas' pieces of silver.

Two medics in red led Sarah out of her shelter. She had managed to pull herself together, but when her swollen eyes caught the sight of Sam covered with blood, carried on a stretcher with an oxygen mask on his face, she trembled visibly and let out an inarticulate, plaintive moan. There was a powerful load of pain, regret, and relief mixed in her voice. She lifted her hand as if to touch the wounded man, but suddenly the strength left her and her hand dropped. With her eyes full of tears she followed Sam's pitiful silhouette as it vanished inside the ambulance.

Then her look met the empty gazes of Casey and Simon and a sudden desire to vanish into thin air rose in her heart. The thought of the contempt and hatred she would experience from them was not as unbearable as the awareness that they had every right to despise her. She hung her head to her chest and cried silently, with no sobs, only tears running down her face.

But she was wrong. Casey and Simon didn't hate her or despise her. They just didn't care any more. Probably they could even understand what had happened; they knew why she had to do what she’d done, but it made no difference now. It was obvious to everyone, including Sarah herself, that she was finished. There wouldn't be a third chance for her, not because she’d risked her partner's life but because she’d done it without being ordered to.

---

Sam remained unconscious for three days. The doctors kept him in a drug-induced coma following a complicated, risky surgery.

Simon entered the white isolation ward and sat on a metal stool near the bed. Sam's face looked much better now; five patterns of stitches crossing the cheek indicated a bone reconstruction, and a soft bandages covered his damaged eye.

Funny how different it always looks without blood. It's that fucking red glue that makes things disgusting and scary.

"Hi, bro," he said loudly, smiling encouragingly although there was no one to see. His brother was unconscious, but Simon had heard once that talking to people in comas helps. Probably it didn't apply to a drugged state, but nevertheless....

"You look human finally. They say your state is stable and generally okay, so maybe tomorrow they'll wake you up. Shit, I don't want to be near you when you see your new eye! They should destroy all the mirrors in the world." Simon chuckled. "Well, what can I tell you?" He pondered. "Everyone's alive. That's good, ain't it? Only Ryan has two holes in his arm, but they’ll heal with no problem. They still won't let him walk. What else...." Simon raised his eyebrows as he searched through his memory.

"Oh, well, Sarah...." He entwined his fingers. "Sarah is leaving today. It was her choice not to wait any longer. Probably she doesn't want to face you, and to be perfectly honest, I'm not even a little bit surprised at her decision. Right now she's gathering her things, I guess." Simon paused. After a short hesitation he continued, "They—they tried to rape her, you know? Later, in that room. She was lucky—Linda and Thera saved her. They did the same thing she’d done earlier...almost. I mean, I see the difference, but it's just the irony of fate, kinda. Well, never mind." Simon stopped talking and with a sigh he tousled his hair with both hands.

"Oh!" He remembered something suddenly and brightened. "You'll never guess what happened on the first floor of that building! God, I thought I was too old to be surprised twice by the same person. But you know, it's getting to be a disturbing habit of that kung-fu nerd that from time to time he does something unexpected, if not spectacular. You'll see for yourself—there’s a recording. It's fucking unbelievable!" Simon chuckled, shaking his head at the recollection of the scene he'd watched five times at least. "The flying fucking Dutchman!"

The door clicked and Casey appeared on the doorstep. He hesitated for a moment, seeing Simon, but finally his face stretched in a friendly smile. He approached the bed and the men shook hands.

"Hi," Casey said. "How's he?" He nodded toward Sam.

"Uhm...calm?" Simon gave him a wink.

"That's rare, huh?" Casey chuckled, pulling up a chair and seating himself comfortably.

"Yeah."

"What about his eye?"

"What do you mean? It's gone."

"Well, I know. I'm just asking if everything is fine," Casey explained.

"You mean, is everything fine with the eye that’s gone?" Simon couldn't help teasing his colleague. Casey didn't answer, just lowered his head, irritated. He didn't know how to talk about what had happened and about Sam's condition. Whatever he said seemed ill-judged to him as soon as it left his mouth.

"Hey, I'm kidding." Simon poked him in the ribs. "He's doing fine. The doctor said that maybe tomorrow they'll wake him up."

"So...he won't have an eye?" Oh, shit! Why do I have to ask such stupid questions?

"Weeeell, he will." Simon smiled mysteriously.

"Really?" Casey reacted with spontaneous enthusiasm. “How?”

"An artificial one."

"What? You mean like...a ceramic ball or something?"

"Uhm...kinda." Simon tilted his head to the side. " It’s a special material."

"But does it work somehow?" Casey knitted his brows, trying to imagine an artificial eye.

"Sure. Better than the real one."

Casey looked at Simon questioningly.

"It’s a small computer," Simon explained. "The real nerves are connected to artificial nerve endings in the eyeball. Impulses are received from the outside by its photosensitive layer and a small processor activates transmitters that convey the signal to the nerves. Well, more or less," he added. "I'm not a scientist, I’m just telling you what I've heard. Probably you understand this electronic hocus-pocus much better than me."

"Wow... sounds like science fiction." Casey raised his eyebrows in amazement and looked at Sam. "Does it look like a real eye?"

"How should I know? I've never seen it." Simon shrugged. "Anyway, he'll be more or less pulled together. What 'bout you?" he asked, looking meaningfully at Casey's arm, still held in a sling.

"I'm perfect. It's nothing serious, they just told me not to use the joint for a couple of days. A strained muscle."

"I'm glad." Simon nodded. "You look fine. And how do you feel, in general? I'm not a shrink, but...is everything all right?"

"Yes, thank you. It even scares me, you know, that I feel so indifferent now. Maybe I expected to be more shaken or something, and my own reactions and thoughts seem a bit inhuman to me now. But, to be honest, I prefer this state to puking over my shoes." Casey smiled as he remembered, with amusement now, his first encounter with the killing gun.

"Absolutely," Simon confirmed.

For a long while they sat in silence, staring at Sam, their shoes, their hands, the ceiling, and whatever else met their eyes. Finally Casey gathered his courage to ask, "What was it like, the first time you got shot? ‘Cause you did get shot, right?"

"I did," Simon answered shortly. Casey didn't dare insist, so he just assumed it was the end of the subject. But Simon took it up after a moment. "I got shot in my stomach. Wanna see?" He looked straight at Casey.

"I've seen it...during training." Casey blushed, not knowing why.

"Right. You can take a closer look if you want. It's nothing really personal." Simon shrugged.

"I want to see it," Casey decided. Simon turned to Casey, unbuttoned his shirt, and parted the shirt's tails to reveal his broad torso. Below the solar plexus, a bit to the right, was a big scar with ragged edges.

"The liver?" Casey asked, observing the mark intently.

"No, the bullet went in below."

"Why didn't you have a vest on?"

"I did. It was a small missile with an explosive charge. It damaged the vest and went inside. But the vest saved my life, anyway. Without it my entrails would have exploded."

"Shiiit...sounds awful." Casey had goosebumps.

"Looks even worse," Simon said coolly.

"Yeah, I believe you."

"You can touch it," the agent said in answer to Casey's unspoken desire.

"May I?" Casey hesitated.

"Go ahead."

Casey put out his hand and touched the scar. It was hard and uneven, covering Simon's skin with an ugly, abstract pattern.

"Did it stick inside or go through? The bullet, I mean." Casey withdrew his hand and rested his elbow on his knee.

"It stuck. They had to pull it out." Simon buttoned his shirt back up.

"Does it hurt a lot? When you get hit?"

"That's a difficult question," Simon said, his expression pensive. "At first it doesn't. The adrenaline works to keep the pain away. Then it starts to hurt and the longer you’re without help, the more it hurts. Finally it freaks you out, feels like it’s eating you from the inside out, and in most cases you faint and then it doesn't hurt any more. So it's kind of a blessing if you faint easily."

"Do you?"

"No."

"Bad luck, huh?"

"Yeah."

"How long have you worked for Ramson?" Casey asked after a moment of silence.

"Dunno...five years? Something like that." Simon shrugged.

"Shorter than Sam," Casey observed.

"Yes."

"Why? Why didn’t you joined at the same time he did?"

"That's a long story. We were brought up apart. Our parents weren't married, and they hadn’t planned to have children, so after we were born—or maybe before, I don't know—our father left our mother. She wasn’t quite stable, so social welfare system took us away from her and we landed in an orphanage. We were ten at that time so it was hard to find a foster family for us. We were too old. Well, I got lucky, however terrible it might sound. One family had lost their son. He'd been sick—cancer. I was similar to him, so they adopted me. But they didn't want to take Sam, especially since he'd always been kind of wild." Simon smiled, peeking at his brother. "We had different lives from then on."

"But you kept in contact?" Casey drank in the story.

"Yeah, more or less. My foster parents lived in Florida and Sam stayed in South Dakota. That was quite a distance, so we could only write letters or make phone calls. But Sam hated me for a long time for what had happened, so I didn’t get many letters from him. Actually, I got one. He wrote that he’d escaped from the orphanage. And then he came to Florida."

"So how did you land here?" Casey remembered that Ramson had files on every one of them and wondered what could be in Simon's or Sam's files.

"Don't ask me that, please. It's better that you don't know, and besides, I don't like talking about those matters. Not to mention that Sam would kill me for telling you this. Well, I’ve told you enough to get killed already, so spare me, will ya?" Simon cast a cheerful glance at Casey, deftly avoiding the subject.

"Sure." Casey's lips tilted in a coy smile. "Thank you, anyway."

"Well," Simon sighed and stood up. "I'll be going. I still want to see Ryan."

"Yeah, tell him hi from me. I'll probably drop by later."

"Sure." Simon patted Casey’s arm. "Oh, and that action of yours—" he turned back and shook his head— "it was amazing, man!"

"Thanks." Casey felt both proud and ashamed at the praise.

"So you've found your place, finally. I told you once you'd have a chance to try your skills for real, remember?"

"Yeah." Casey remembered. It had been when he came to Maoro base for the first time, scared, cocky, and thrilled.

"I'm glad you made it. You were wasted in that computer job of yours."

"That’s a funny thing to say, considering I didn't risk my life sitting in front of a computer."

"The more you have to lose, the more you stand to gain," stated Simon philosophically.

"Oh, really?" Casey looked at him with a sad expression and melancholy in his eyes.

"No," Simon answered honestly. "I lied. There was a chance you haven’t got it yet."

Casey only nodded his head and waved goodbye. The door closed behind Simon and Casey sat there in silence.

It was so strange to be alone with Sam breathing loudly through the plastic tube. Until now Simon's presence had been a great pretext for shoving off his confusion and restlessness. Now, when he’d been left alone there, he had no other option than to face his uncomfortable inner state.

Casey couldn't identify the moment when he’d let the powerful drug into his system. It had destroyed the composure and self-control that Casey had believed to be his signature features. The drug was named Sam and it lay innocently in front of him.

In the van, when he’d managed to launch the vision, what had gotten into him that his heart had swooned with fright at the sight of Sam's accident? Well, then, he had been convinced it was about “his friends”, but the truth was that his mind had gone mad when he saw Sam beaten unconscious. Sure, it might be because of the intensity of the torture itself, but somehow Casey found it really difficult to convince himself of that theory.

And that irrational dash when everything was over? Holy Father in heaven, that was shameful! That event still haunted him, making him feel angry and scared; scared that if he looked deeper into his heart, he would find things there that he didn't want to find, not to mention acknowledging them.

Hard as it was to face himself properly, it was endlessly harder to face Sam. Therefore Casey felt a bit relieved that Sam was still sleeping.

"Hi," he started quietly as if he'd just come in. "Um...." He couldn't think of anything to say. What could he talk about? Sam? That would be stupid. Himself? What about him? There was nothing interesting to tell, after all; or nothing he could force himself to tell. Well, maybe Sarah, then? God, no! Even in a coma Sam could suffer an apoplexy at hearing about that. You're a pain in the ass, you know?

A little tense, Casey got up from the chair and tentatively perched on the edge of the bed. On the one hand he felt an urge to run away, but on the other a strange gravitation was attracting him closer and closer to the silent figure lying there. Slowly, a bit unwillingly, he gave in to that force. He leaned over the dark-skinned man, his right hand on the other side of the lean body, and stared, his heartbeat growing faster, and inexplicable excitement building up within him.

He didn't remember seeing Sam so close up before, at least not for longer than a few moments. It was an interesting experience—to analyze the man's face, neck, chest, arms, and hands without inhibition, and without considering his feelings or reactions. The simple, innocent fascination and the unknown, dizzying emotion that heated up his blood and made his arms weaken against the force that threatened to drag him down competed to get the better of him.

As if in a hypnotic trance, Casey released his left hand from the sling and slowly lowered it over Sam's head so that his trembling fingertips gently brushed the black hair, sweeping it off the temple. He had never touched that hair before. It was thick and stiff, but soft, the jungle of black strands entwining in his fingers and tickling the palm of his hand. Shivering from some weird impatience and possessiveness, Casey slipped his whole hand into that rebellious, tangled mass, and strongly grabbed a handful of it. In doing so he slightly pulled the top of Sam's head back, causing his chin to lift, and through the transparent oxygen mask he saw Sam's lips part slowly, as if with lazy reluctance.

It worked like a magnet. Casey couldn't avert his eyes from those full lips, too often twisted in an ugly, derisive sneer, and now—innocent and tantalizing. Involuntarily he licked his own lips and swallowed hard. The skin above the bow of his upper lip was covered with salty sweat.

He released Sam's hair and moved his hand lower. He outlined the regular superciliary arch above the healthy eye and ran his thumb across the ends of Sam’s eyelashes, then, barely touching the olive skin, passed his fingers across the nose and stroke the patched-up left cheek.

God, it was so thrilling. He felt like a cowardly perpetrator of a sacrilege, sneaking into the temple when nobody was looking, and he found a perverted delight in it.

His gentle, caressing touch slipped down the tattooed cheek, stopping for a moment under the ear, where Casey spotted the irregular callus of a scar; then, following the sharp line of the jaw, it finally reached the edge of the plastic mask and stroked its surface with a quirky intensity. It almost hurt to not be able to touch those lips, to feel their softness, to slip a finger between them....

Casey settled himself more comfortably on the bed. He sat with his right leg pulled up and bent at the knee, so that knee was touching Sam's hip through the sheets. If he could, if he had the courage or was crazy enough, he'd climb Sam's body and sit astride it. He would—God, he didn't know what he’d do, and he didn't even want to know. He simply didn't do it, the last pitiful flashes of conscience still keeping a tight rein on his awaking instincts.

But his right hand couldn't help taking up the exploration where the left hand had left off. From the well-defined chin Casey's fingers, spread wide to grasp the whole mandible, wandered down, and his palm clung to Sam’s throat, the thumb feeling the pulse in one of the carotids, and the index finger in the other. The remaining fingers, hungry for new sensations, closed around the warm neck in an embrace.

Casey felt his own blood pulsating to the rhythm that was just perceptible under Sam's skin, stronger and stronger, kindled by a fever that was slowly devouring his whole body. As if with every contraction of Sam's heart, its energy was pumped to Casey through his palm. The hot blood went to his head, and all of Casey's muscles tensed. An unpleasant, suffocating knot started to grow in his throat. As his hand travelled lower and lower, taking possession of the regular collarbones, the breastbone, the tattoo design leading to the pectoral muscles, the knot also crawled down, through Casey's chest and stomach.

After a short examination of a lengthwise scar below Sam's nipple, Casey's index and middle fingers succumbed to the gravity of that small, brown button and brushed it slightly. At the touch its areola tightened and the nipple stood up prominently. Its reaction sent shivers up and down Casey's spine and the strange knot of dark sensations moved from his stomach to his abdomen. His hand abandoned the nipple with inexplicable regret, but the desire to discover other unknown lands was stronger.

The fingers met the sheet covering Sam's body up to the solar plexus and stopped there. For a while Casey just ran them back and forth along the fabric edge, somehow aware that he'd reached a border that he shouldn’t cross. He couldn't focus enough to give it proper consideration, though; he just sensed it vaguely, probably his instinct of self-preservation warning him.

But soon his primal needs got the better of him and, gritting his teeth with determination, he slid his hand lower, pulling the sheet down and revealing, inch by inch, the smooth skin beneath. When he uncovered the ribs, an enormous blue, black, and violet bruise saw the daylight. It was a memento of an encounter with a table leg in the casino. Small, even cuts marked places where the surgeons had gone inside to piece together the broken bones. Casey caressed the injury with kindness and concern before his hand crawled farther, to the belly button. There it flattened itself in a shallow hollow lined with carved muscles, visible even now, when Sam was completely relaxed.

For a good minute Casey watched Sam breathing, his chest and stomach heaving slowly. So defenseless.... There was something predatory in Casey's thoughts and actions. A lion hunting antelopes might feel like this.

Casey's eyes rested on the sheet border again that had been pulled down to partially reveal Sam’s hip. The abdominal obliques, stretching from the ribs and covering his sides, narrowed over his hips and in a tempting muscular triangle disappeared under the sheet, heading straight toward the most important part of the man's body. Casey's eyes followed those lines that met together somewhere below and he hesitantly ran his fingers over one of them down to the sheet border.

But now Casey didn't dare to break the rules that his common sense, although in serious trouble, imposed on him. He pressed a hand to Sam's abdomen through the fabric. When he felt the soft bump barely touching his wrist, the knot still oppressing his own abdomen contracted suddenly, sending an amazing, electrifying impulse to all his nerves that seemed to end in one place: between his legs. That was when he realized, not without terror, what was going on with him. His left hand grabbed his crotch and Casey looked down in disbelief.

Fuck! What is—what are you doing to me? He was now close to panic, in a single second completely forgetting about his fascinating wander over the unconscious body. He still kept one hand on Sam's belly and the other on his own pulsating, sensitive erection, dumbstruck. A sudden wave of disgust, the effect of immediate and absolute denial, rolled up his gullet and made him dizzy. His guts cramped so violently that he bent double, clutching his stomach. Feeling nauseous, he flung himself at the sink in the corner of the room and threw up, clenching the edges as if he wanted to crush them.

His world had just been shaken to its foundations.

Hurriedly, not looking back, Casey shot out of the isolation ward, only stopping when he reached the building exit.

What the fuck...what the holy fuck? He was still jittery and terrified, unable to believe what he’d done. Even less could he believe his body's reaction.

That's him! It's all his fault, the fucking fag! He hid his face in trembling hands and leaned against the wall. Calm down, idiot...calm down. Don't think about it. Forget it and do something now. He took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind. Ryan! Yes, he had intended to see Ryan. It seemed a perfect way to leave the disgusting experience behind, at least for a while.

Casey directed his steps to the small room where Ryan was going through his period of convalescence. When he opened the door, he bumped into Sarah on the doorstep. She moved back to let him inside and waited. After a short hesitation Casey slipped in and thanked her with a nod. An awkward silence reigned over the room, both Sarah and Casey feeling that one of them should leave. Soon they both reached the same conclusion—Sarah was taking her leave anyway. Slowly she stepped over the threshold; once in the corridor she turned back and looked sadly at Casey and Ryan. No one said a word; there was only sympathy and anger in Ryan's eyes and indifference in Casey's that stood for words of goodbye.

The distant, unforgiving expression of Casey's gentle face became a cursed memory that was to haunt Sarah till the day of her death. More than the view of the unconscious Sam; more than the trauma of the attempted rape. From then on she would live in the shadow of the thought that the man she might love had thrown her out of his life. The fact that she was never meant for him didn't make any difference; she couldn't know it.

"You know," Ryan said quietly when the door swung shut behind the beautiful red-headed woman who had once decided to give up everything she cared for to remain faithful to herself, "I hate you." His eyes were still stuck on the door.
It hadn’t escaped his notice that it hadn’t been him, whom Sarah had given her last sad glance.

"You have nothing to hate me for, Ryan." Casey looked coolly at his teammate, thinking that that was all it was: life. Everyone had to make choices, everyone had to pay for them. Sarah, Ryan...and him too, however much it hurt and however high the price was. "You're just jealous and furious," he finished mercilessly, watching Ryan's eyes narrow to slits and his face twist in a vindictive grimace. It hadn't been Casey's intention to hurt anyone, nor had he wanted to make an enemy. It was just his dark side spontaneously looking for ways of making others feel as rotten as he felt at that moment. Sometimes hatred of yourself turns into hatred toward others, or, more aptly, toward their positive attitudes.

It was Casey who was low and jealous. He knew that perfectly well and hated Ryan for being honest and straightforward.

"Get the fuck out of here," hissed Ryan warningly. "I don't want to see your face. Visit Sam—you're a good match with that bastard."

It hit Casey hard. He hadn't expected such a blow. His knees weakened and he had to put his back against the door case to regain his balance. The knot in his guts tugged at his stomach again.

"Fuck you," he whispered through clenched teeth, encompassing everyone with those words: Ryan, Sam, and Casey himself. He made an effort to walk out to the corridor and there he slumped to the floor, leaning against the wall and sobbing. He tried to suppress the contractions rattling his chest but silent, choking sounds escaped his lips and tears welled up in his eyes.

The strange grunts reached Ryan's ears. He knitted his brows, concentrating on the source of them. Casey? He cocked one brow in tentative surprise. What the hell? He felt lost. Why was everything only getting worse? How much longer could things fall apart? In that moment the first flash of understanding crossed his mind and his heart contorted in pain and fear: this was just the beginning.

Ryan was the last of the three of them to realize the real curse of the path they had incautiously chosen in the stupid vanity of people who thought they could proudly deal with the difficult but shining lives of heroes.

He bit his lower lip and turned his head to the window. He had to close his eyes, feeling that if he didn't, he wouldn't be able to hold back the tears.

He didn't hate Casey any more.

And Casey, sobbing outside, didn't hate Ryan any more.

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