"What are you doing?"
"I was thrown out. I'm assuming if they ever get this guy under restraint, they'll call me back in." Dr. Garr looked defensively at Randy's scowl. "It wasn't my idea, Gerald."
"Just sit down and shut up, then." Randy glanced over at Hannibal and BA. Hannibal hadn't reacted to the name; BA looked suspicious. Frankie looked openly puzzled.
"Never mind, Frankie." Hannibal wanted to nip that in the bud. Just looking at Randy, he knew he couldn't deal with questions along those lines right now. Frankie still looked puzzled, but Hannibal's tone of voice left no room for discussion.
Garr was looking at Randy, too. He didn't understand one bit of this. Who were these people? Obviously they were in league with Gerald, and that did nothing to ease his fears. But what were they doing here? Before he knew about these people, he was afraid Gerald had come back specifically for him. But all of them? Were they actually here because of the drunk? But why on earth would they keep someone like that with them? From all Garr knew of Gerald, there's no way he'd put up with a drunk, let alone a mental case. No, Gerald was too much like his grandfather to keep someone like that around.
Noting that Randy was still glaring at him, he moved into the living room and sat in the overstuffed chair. For some reason, he was controlling his temper around these men, and Garr had no intention of pushing that control. He sat still, staring at his hands.
"How is he?"
Garr looked up at the older man. He seemed used to giving orders and having them obeyed; what was his relationship to Gerald? It was too complicated for him; he was tired, confused and tense.
"He's psychotic and going through the DT's. How do you expect him to be?"
BA's hand caught Randy's wrist as the fist flew toward Garr's face. Randy was livid, BA surprisingly calm.
"He ain't worth it, man. And we're gonna need him awake."
Randy stared at BA for another second, then looked up to the ceiling. His shoulders sagged, and he nodded. BA released his arm, and Randy turned to go into the kitchen.
That was when they heard the glass breaking.
"Lock the door!"
Kurt stood, stricken. Blood was streaming down Sam's arm, but he seemed totally unaware of it. How in God's name had Sam managed this shit? He could barely get a coherent word out and yet...
He jumped, saw the glass press against Murdock's neck even harder. No time to argue. He took three quick steps to the door and flipped the lock. Sam relaxed slightly. Grinned at them. The grin got larger as they heard Hannibal on the other side. His voice was calm but urgent, demanding to know if everything was okay. The last thing Kurt wanted right now was someone breaking down the door. Murdock would end up shish-kabob.
"Everything's fine, Colonel. Just a little accident." He forced his voice to be reassuring. He wished he could think of something to say to alert the men outside without Sam noticing, but his mind was a blank.
"Are you sure, Kurt?"
"Yeah, I'm sure. We're just peachy."
Hannibal wasn't stupid; neither was Randy. Surely they would catch irony in his voice.
"Peachy. Peachy. I like that." Sam chuckled. "We're just peachy." He looked at Murdock. "Are you just peachy, bud? I'm feeling pretty peachy." He grinned wildly, suddenly frowned. "You didn't answer, bud. Are you just peachy or not?" The glass slid a little, a tiny rivulet of blood seeping down Murdock's neck.
"Sure, Sam. I'm just peachy." Murdock found it hard to talk with his jaw in jeopardy every time he moved, but...
"Good!" He looked over at Kurt, then Daryl. "We're all peachy. Right?"
The two men nodded.
Sam smiled, satisfied.
"Uh, Sam?" Daryl moved just a little closer, not sure at this point if Sam considered him friend or foe.
"Yeah?" He was delicately tracing Murdock's jaw line with the glass, forming a perfect red outline. The new blood was mixing with the pilot's sweat, forming little droplets.
"What's your plan?"
"Oh." Sam stopped his tracing, looked thoughtful. "Oh! I'm going to kill him, and then we'll bring the others in one by one and..." He stopped, frowned again. "One by one...like the bugs...I shouldn't have killed them. I should've listened to them. They tried to warn me." His shoulders sagged just a bit. "They warned me and I killed them."
"You feel bad about killing the bugs, Sam?"
"You don't like killing, do you, Sam?"
"No..." He looked up, suspicious. "But this isn't a bug." He nudged Murdock's chin with the glass.
"No, he's a man. Not a bug. More important than a bug."
"No. He's not a man. He's the enemy. You kill the enemy. Before they kill you." He glared at Murdock. "Right, muchacho?"
Murdock's eyes went wide. He thought quickly, decided he was probably going to die anyway...
"The Team doesn't kill, Face. You know that."
Hannibal stepped away from the door. He looked over at Randy, who looked anything but reassured.
"There's something wrong in there." Randy didn't hesitate, but headed immediately for the back door. "BA, come with me. Quick."
After an immediate nod from Hannibal, BA followed Randy outside. They rounded the corner of the cabin, and Randy led the way to a back window. They stopped a few feet from it, seeing immediately the glass scattered on the ground. Randy motioned to BA to stay put, and carefully edged up to the broken window, stepping carefully around the glass.
He could hear the voices from inside, but couldn't make out the words. He could tell that Sam was close to the window, that was all. He bit his lower lip, concentrating. He moved further back from the window, trying to come parallel to it. When Sam's back came into view, he stopped. Sam had someone standing in front of him, and it was obvious he was being held there. He caught sight of the back of the man's jacket, saw the blood on the window, and felt ill.
This was a nightmare.
Slowly, he stepped back to BA, explained what he had seen.
"He's maybe a foot and a half, two feet from the window. I don't know if he's got a weapon of any kind, but there had to be a reason he broke that window. Any chance you could go through there and get to him before he could react?"
BA shook his head, an angry glint in his eye. "No way. He couldn't'a taken Murdock unless he was on top of things."
"How the hell...damn it. Okay. You go back and tell Hannibal what's going on, and you guys get ready to come in."
"Come in when?"
Without waiting for a response, Randy started back into the woods, again moving to a position parallel to the window, with a clear view of Sam and Murdock. BA watched for a moment before heading back around the corner of the cabin. He had no idea what Randy had in mind; he just hoped everyone would come out of this in one piece.
Sam stood still. Dead still. His head was buzzing, loudly. It hurt. What was going on? He looked around, puzzled. Saw Kurt, then Daryl. Staring at him. Pale.
What was going on?
He suddenly realized he was holding on to someone. He looked, surprised. He had his arm around the guy's throat. Had a large piece of glass shoved up against his neck. There was blood, all over. His hand, his arm, the guy's face...
The buzzing in his head got louder. He could feel his body starting to tremble, badly. His hand, holding the glass, shook, and more blood spurted from the guy's cheek.
Why did they keep bringing Face into it? Why couldn't they let the guy die and be done with it? Why?
He felt a spurt of anger, and then it died away. He was so tired. What was he doing here? What did it matter if he killed this guy or not? He couldn't kill them all. They would win. Their kind always did. No matter how much he tried, there were always more of them out there. The Stockwell's, the Smith's. They ran the world. Even Randy had accepted it...
His arm moved slowly away from his victim's neck, the buzzing in his head getting louder and louder.
Randy stood perfectly still, watching, calculating. He noted, angrily, that his hand shook as he drew the Beretta from his belt.
He didn't want to do this. God, he did not want to do this. He was afraid. Afraid that his aim would be off. It had to be just right, or Murdock was dead meat. Randy would not have a second chance. He knew that. He knew Sam would not allow that.
That's all he would have. Period.
Randy took several deep breaths, trying to relax, knowing he was running out of time. He closed his eyes, tightly. If he knew any prayers, he would have said one, but all he could do was offer up a silent, "Please..."
He opened his eyes, raised the pistol, holding it carefully in both hands. Looked at the back of Sam's head. Swallowed. Relaxed. Pistols were harder to aim accurately. He had to be careful. He had to do this right.
He looked at his friend's head one more time. Aimed. Slowly pulled the trigger.