"An Offering"
Apr. 17th, 2006 07:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
somedaybitchthe first bit of backstory for the LFN/Spooks crossover, as i work out the linkage in the plot. this isn't a wip in the strictest sense of the word. will be set pre 301 for Spooks. could still contain some minor continuity errors in the Spooks universe, and of course, typos. gen.
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perverseparagon made me name it.
~~Then~~
He listened to the call to prayers drifting mournfully on the dawn mist, as soft shafts of dusted light filtered through the slatted windows and fell across his hand. He stared at it rested against a thigh, flexed it, studied the angry red bands encircling his wrist where the ropes had bitten so tightly they'd cut. Images flashed; Farook's fists, a length of pipe, Amal screaming, time slowing so he could follow the graceful arcing of his blood as it splattered against sweat-soaked shirts. His mouth was still dry and heavy with the aftertaste of copper and the bitter tang of drugs. The musical rhythm of the muezzin's second call penetrated and focused his thoughts. His contact was late. The window for extraction was short, maybe an hour if he was wickedly lucky, but luck didn't seem to be a lady interested in Adam Carter anymore.
He shifted stiffly, trying to ignore the broken ribs and dislocated shoulder, the eyes still swollen almost shut on a face that more closely resembled hamburger than man, and the raging headache punctuated by searing spikes of pain. He didn't have to close his eyes to see Amal in that warehouse, eyes huge and locked on him, terror warring with guilt warring with rage, honed to a deadly edge by strength. Her husband and his friends had nearly beaten Adam to death and forced Amal to watch. Syrian intelligence officers having their wives played were like that.
He checked that thought. If Sukkareih had known Adam was MI-6, he’d be a corpse rotting in an alley right now...if he was very, very lucky. Farook merely believed his wife was unfaithful and used her lover to remind her whose property she really was. He could have killed them both; spoke volumes about the man that he didn't. Maybe luck still fancied Adam after all.
It had been close to a week since it happened. The first few days were a drug-induced blur; soft speech, Euro accents, needles and field-rigged intravenous lines, weapons he didn't recognize and op chatter that wasn't his. Adam couldn't remember how he'd gotten to what was obviously a safe house, who got him there, or even when the beating had actually stopped. One agonizing moment he was staring into Amal's eyes, willing her to know that he loved her, and was so horribly sorry he'd been sloppy, and the next Farook was cracking yet another rib and Adam was screaming. Somewhere in the haze of pain, he remembered more men, angry shouts, and then Farook seeming to lose all reason, wielding the pipe in his hand like a cricket bat. Adam's next fully conscious thought was gut-wrenching panic. When they'd told him Amal was still with Farook, it had taken several of them to force Adam back down onto the bed long enough to get a sedative into him. One of the poor bastards earned a concussion for his trouble. Adam felt vaguely bad about that.
He checked his watch and tried to slow his breathing, suppress the panic that threatened to rise up and choke him. Amal was still alive. He could get her out but he had to do it right; had to, because as surely as he knew his own name, he knew that Farook wouldn't rest until she was dead if he did it wrong. The problem, however, was that Adam couldn't do it alone, and not just because of his injuries. Amal's value as an asset was blown. As far as Vauxhall Cross was concerned, then, she was useless, and they wouldn't risk anyone's life to extract her. Not even his. As far as he was concerned, the only way he'd leave her behind was if he left Syria in a body bag.
"How do you feel?"
Adam hadn't even heard the door open. He looked up at the voice he recognized. The man walking towards him was about his age, French, or possibly Belgian by the accent, and moved with a dancer's grace, sleek in all black. Obviously dangerous to anyone that knew the signs.
"Where is she?" Adam demanded, shocked at the hoarse and wounded sound of his own voice.
"Michael." A woman entered the room behind the man she called Michael, handing him a file as she continued forward to stop next to Adam's bed. Her eyes softened as she reached for his wrist carefully to take his pulse.
"Out of reach for the moment," Michael replied quietly. He moved to the other side of the bed and gave Adam the file.
Adam flipped through it, fighting to regain some of his usual control as he studied its contents. Surveillance photos from inside Farook's compound. Amal was in every shot, and so was Farook. Adam dropped his head back against the pillows, feeling his last bits of energy drain with his hope. "How did you get these?"
Michael and the woman - Simone, Adam thought her name was Simone - shared a look before Michael answered. "We have someone inside. She's never out of his sight."
part two.
perverseparagon made me name it.~~Then~~
He listened to the call to prayers drifting mournfully on the dawn mist, as soft shafts of dusted light filtered through the slatted windows and fell across his hand. He stared at it rested against a thigh, flexed it, studied the angry red bands encircling his wrist where the ropes had bitten so tightly they'd cut. Images flashed; Farook's fists, a length of pipe, Amal screaming, time slowing so he could follow the graceful arcing of his blood as it splattered against sweat-soaked shirts. His mouth was still dry and heavy with the aftertaste of copper and the bitter tang of drugs. The musical rhythm of the muezzin's second call penetrated and focused his thoughts. His contact was late. The window for extraction was short, maybe an hour if he was wickedly lucky, but luck didn't seem to be a lady interested in Adam Carter anymore.
He shifted stiffly, trying to ignore the broken ribs and dislocated shoulder, the eyes still swollen almost shut on a face that more closely resembled hamburger than man, and the raging headache punctuated by searing spikes of pain. He didn't have to close his eyes to see Amal in that warehouse, eyes huge and locked on him, terror warring with guilt warring with rage, honed to a deadly edge by strength. Her husband and his friends had nearly beaten Adam to death and forced Amal to watch. Syrian intelligence officers having their wives played were like that.
He checked that thought. If Sukkareih had known Adam was MI-6, he’d be a corpse rotting in an alley right now...if he was very, very lucky. Farook merely believed his wife was unfaithful and used her lover to remind her whose property she really was. He could have killed them both; spoke volumes about the man that he didn't. Maybe luck still fancied Adam after all.
It had been close to a week since it happened. The first few days were a drug-induced blur; soft speech, Euro accents, needles and field-rigged intravenous lines, weapons he didn't recognize and op chatter that wasn't his. Adam couldn't remember how he'd gotten to what was obviously a safe house, who got him there, or even when the beating had actually stopped. One agonizing moment he was staring into Amal's eyes, willing her to know that he loved her, and was so horribly sorry he'd been sloppy, and the next Farook was cracking yet another rib and Adam was screaming. Somewhere in the haze of pain, he remembered more men, angry shouts, and then Farook seeming to lose all reason, wielding the pipe in his hand like a cricket bat. Adam's next fully conscious thought was gut-wrenching panic. When they'd told him Amal was still with Farook, it had taken several of them to force Adam back down onto the bed long enough to get a sedative into him. One of the poor bastards earned a concussion for his trouble. Adam felt vaguely bad about that.
He checked his watch and tried to slow his breathing, suppress the panic that threatened to rise up and choke him. Amal was still alive. He could get her out but he had to do it right; had to, because as surely as he knew his own name, he knew that Farook wouldn't rest until she was dead if he did it wrong. The problem, however, was that Adam couldn't do it alone, and not just because of his injuries. Amal's value as an asset was blown. As far as Vauxhall Cross was concerned, then, she was useless, and they wouldn't risk anyone's life to extract her. Not even his. As far as he was concerned, the only way he'd leave her behind was if he left Syria in a body bag.
"How do you feel?"
Adam hadn't even heard the door open. He looked up at the voice he recognized. The man walking towards him was about his age, French, or possibly Belgian by the accent, and moved with a dancer's grace, sleek in all black. Obviously dangerous to anyone that knew the signs.
"Where is she?" Adam demanded, shocked at the hoarse and wounded sound of his own voice.
"Michael." A woman entered the room behind the man she called Michael, handing him a file as she continued forward to stop next to Adam's bed. Her eyes softened as she reached for his wrist carefully to take his pulse.
"Out of reach for the moment," Michael replied quietly. He moved to the other side of the bed and gave Adam the file.
Adam flipped through it, fighting to regain some of his usual control as he studied its contents. Surveillance photos from inside Farook's compound. Amal was in every shot, and so was Farook. Adam dropped his head back against the pillows, feeling his last bits of energy drain with his hope. "How did you get these?"
Michael and the woman - Simone, Adam thought her name was Simone - shared a look before Michael answered. "We have someone inside. She's never out of his sight."
part two.
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no subject
Date: 2006-04-17 05:25 pm (UTC)i was in barca for the weekend checking things out. gaudi is very cool, indeed.
your underwater agent
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Date: 2006-04-17 11:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-20 02:02 pm (UTC):-)tdr
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Date: 2006-04-20 02:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-18 07:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-18 07:47 am (UTC)thanks, yo.
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Date: 2006-04-19 01:00 pm (UTC)I so did not!
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Date: 2006-04-19 01:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-19 01:13 pm (UTC)You'd already named it, you just had to make it official is all. Plus, it's too good to be ruined.
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Date: 2006-04-19 10:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-24 12:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-24 12:59 pm (UTC)