PART  ONE.

02:41 am.   something wakes julia, snatching her from her sleep  —  the source is unknown.  she squints, peering through the darkness of her room but she's not got her glasses on which means anything that is visible appears fuzzy and distorted.  not to mention her persistent headache and the impairment that comes with alcohol being in her system.  for a few moments, siu waits in the silence of her room, resting still to listen.  nothing  —  she's imagining things, she concludes.  wouldn't be the first time.  thus, her head ducks back onto her pillow and her eyes seal shut.

that's when something can be heard, faint, like it's in the hallway and she wonders if the couple a few doors down are bickering again.  it's definitely muffled chatter, decisive tones and she thinks they're masculine.  the shuffling of footsteps can be heard next, a group of them, impatient.  brows furrow as julia works to concentrate on the steps, initially peeved that the walls are so damn thin that the commotion sounds like it's in her living room!

she ought to have a word with the landlord, perhaps he could put up a camera or light in the hallway to deter lingering.  that thought slams to a halt when she all too quickly, but not quickly enough, realises that the footsteps are getting louder, as are the voices.  without warning, her bedroom door flings open and blocking the escape are three lanky figures dressed in all black with masks covering their faces.  julia has no time to react, other than to sit upright in her bed, fearful as one of the men brandishes a knife.

“ don't make a sound, ”   he tells her,   “ stay fuckin' quiet and i won't have to use this on you, yeh? ”   the second expresses discomfort that their victim is a helpless old lady and the third appears to direct them.   “ start packing shit, anything that might be valuable.  and hurry the fuck up. ”   he takes up the mantle of overseeing julia, obtaining the blade, whilst the other men ransack her place.  she must've left her door open, is all she can come up with, in her intoxicated stupor.  every time she cries out, the knife is jabbed closer and the man's voice becomes more threatening.   “ shut the fuck up! ”   he snarls,   “ don't fuckin' try me.  i'll stick you in your lung.  gonna make me get out the tape? ”

trouble is, she's not sober, which means she's not thinking straight.  she begins loudly pleading, incoherent but she commits nevertheless.  this prompts a wave of panic between the men, the two bagging up her belongings demanding the third shut her up.   “ that's it, ”   the thug threatens, tightening his hold on the knife as he draws it back, preparing a devastating strike but before he can react, his wrist is restrained behind his back and pain rockets through his forearm  —  an audible snap shocking him into dropping the blade.  it's kicked away, skidding across the floorboards and into the darkness as the thug is forced to his knees and then flush against the ground with a cry.

startled by their accomplice's noise, the other two men turn their attention onto a fourth man dressed in black and masked up with a skull printed across the mouth-section.   “ who the fuck? ”   one of them asks, but they don't get an answer as the stranger crosses the room and strikes them in the throat, fluidly sending them down to the floor in a sputtering and choking mess.  the third searches for a weapon, settling on the nearby vase which he grabs and throws in the stranger's direction.  the brunt of it is taken with a burly shoulder, forcing into the impact and emerging out of shattering ceramic to deliver a weighted punch to the jaw.

around him, the three men writhe in their pain  —  opportunists, he thinks.  they'd not come prepared for or expecting a fight, preying on a lone and unsuspecting older woman.  it wouldn't stand.  a search of one of their packs reveals they had indeed brought tape, which he uses to bind their wrists behind their backs and around their ankles to prevent them from fleeing.  once the scene is secured and only then does he make his way into the bedroom where julia resides.  she pleads for him to leave her alone, for him to just take what he wants and go.

“ you're safe now, ”   the stranger tells her.   “ they can't hurt you.  it's  —  i'm not with 'em.  's colin, ms siu, from next-door. ”   colin, the lone wolf neighbour who routinely disappeared for inconsistent periods of time.  they'd barely spoken before, if at all, the two living wholly separate lives despite being in the same building.  yet here he is, her saviour.

“ i thought they were going to kill me, ”   julia tells him as she takes his offered hand and rises to her feet.

“ weren't gonna let that happen, ”   colin reassures,   “ you alright?  stand alright? ”

she nods, patting herself down for potential injuries.   “ did they take anything? ”

“ 's all still here, ms siu, don't worry.  'fraid your vase did get broken, though. ”

julia exhales sharply, shaking her head.   “ fucking hated that vase anyway, ”   she confesses and colin exhales a chuckle, a strained sound, reaching into his pocket to retrieve a phone; glancing between the screen and julia.

“ you wait right 'ere, love, just gonna call the police. ”   she watches as he makes his way out into the living room, peering around the doorframe to see colin had seemingly restrained and incapacitated all three thugs on his own.  who is this man that'd saved her life, brandishing the marking of a skull?  julia had stood, astounded, as he proceeded to manoeuvre around and over the scattered thugs to make her a cup of tea.

PART  TWO.

julia's head spins from the previous night.  she's yet to get a further wink of sleep after the horrific intrusion of masked men breaking into her home.  she doesn't feel safe, doesn't feel comfortable anymore.  every corner she passes, a shadow is perceived  —  every doorway lingered at, out of fear someone's hidden just out of sight on the other side of it.  despite hours having passed, the police having arrested the culprits minutes after the call had been made, her hands are still weakly trembling.  although there's no telling whether it's merely from having not topped up the alcohol in her blood yet.

her gaze is cast across the room and lands on a misplaced bottle of wine, half empty and calling to her.  julia's feet don't move however, and she can't summon the strength or confidence to even stand from her chair.  a knock at the door startles her, but the familiar voice that follows immediately brings ease.

" it's colin.  could you let me in? "  she'd made a point of locking the door this time, checking it three times before resigning to her seat and remaining there for... however long colin had been gone.  lips sealed, her brows lift to respond instead but he can't see her, so she remains otherwise silent.   " julia? "   a considerable pause, followed by an audible exhale.  " it's safe. "

she debates, truly, keeping him locked out.  crumbling in on herself in the way she's most familiar with, but something in her forces her to stand and she'd like to think it's her husband, eric, willing her to push through.  fingers hesitate on the lock, but she twists it and opens the door to reveal the tall, masked man outside her flat.  she appears to study him for a moment, the dark smudges encompassing his eyes and his furrowed brow...

" got these, "  colin says, lifting a small bouquet of flowers up for her to see.  they're a little crushed, but the arrangement contains a subtle collection of pinks and lilacs.

" i — don't like flowers, "   julia mutters, frowning at the bundle.

" didn't say they were f' you, "   he counters, a playful hint in his tone.   " can i come in? "   he waits as she steps to the side, making way for him, even waiting further until it's apparent she really doesn't mind, and then enters.  the door is closed and locked behind him by julia as he makes his way over to the kitchen counter, setting the flowers down on the side.   " how'a you holdin' up? "

julia looks down at the floor, avoidant of his eyes. " fucking exhausted, "  she tells him honestly.   " too  —  well, i'm not sure i'll be able to sleep.  not after that. "

" good, "   colin replies proactively,   " 'cause we're goin' out. "

her expression shifts at this, shocked.  " what? "

" you can't stay in here f' the whole day, julia. "

" why ever not? "

he inhales deeply.   " trust me when i say i understand better than anyone.  it's tough t' recover from somethin' like this.  you think by hidin' away, that you'll heal  —  but you'll only become more 'n' more afraid'a the shit that's out there, "   he gestures to the window, to the outside world, where morning resides and light peeks through the edges of her blinds,   " 's important you get out, get some fresh air after what you went through. "

her gaze drifts back to the bottle of wine and she chews on the inside of her cheek. " i don't care about fresh air. "

colin follows her eyes to the alcohol and he visibly shifts.   " no more'a this shit, either.  got this for ya. "   he passes her a bottle of sparkling water and she takes it, staring at the item in her grasp.   " do ya a world of good.  now, go put somethin' comfy on.  you're comin' out with me. "

" but — where? "

" we're gonna find you a new vase.  t' replace the one i broke. "

julia crosses her arms, placing the bottle of water on a nearby table.   " but i — "

" you're scared, "   he points out.   " i get it.  'n' i know we don't really know each other, julia, but i'm not gonna let anythin' happen to ya.  alright?  you hate it that much i'll bring you back.  free'a charge. "

she debates what he's asking of her and recalls how he'd defended her against those thugs.  protected her in her time of need, asking nothing of her in return.  she found it difficult to believe such people existed  —  had convinced herself that they didn't.  " why do you care, colin?  why... bother? "

there's a lengthy pause, while simon thoughtfully regards her.  " not everyone deserves t' have someone that cares about 'em, julia.  but you do.  now, do us a favour 'n' get changed, yeh?  and make sure t' bring that water with you. "

PART  ONE.

“ ¿no podemos entregarlo mañana?  ( can't we deliver it tomorrow? ) ”   zita folds her arms over her chest, hip holding her weight as she leans against the boot of liam’s truck.  it’d be too simple, too heedless and undermining, to say that she radiates the attitude of a stubborn teenager.  liam knows she’s seen far too much and lived through enough to be wiser, to deserve more respect than that.  at a young age, she’d faced the oppressive presence of the   zaragoza drug cartel occupying her home, a rising death rate and others her age straying to commit terrible crimes, unable to avoid the temptations that came in the form of reward.

while she’d remained true to her path, the loss of her father a heavy motivator, it’s something she had faced in the beginning and still faces years later.  drugs were rampant and even some of their neighbours played a role in supporting the vindictive acts of manuel “el gordo” roba, ‘ceo’ of the cartel.  his existence was ever-present and gradually rising, with money came power and with power came people.  zita, above all else, made liam proud   —  laid his fear to rest, that he would somehow ruin the work and love his friend had poured into his daughter.   lead her astray or fail to save her from corruption.

“ puedo ir solo si es un problema para ti,  ( i can go alone if it's a problem for you, ) ”   liam responds briskly, loading the few baskets of vegetables she’d helped him carry out into the back of his vehicle.   “ no tienes que venir siempre, ¿eh?  ( you don't have to come every time, eh? ) ”

“ ¿de qué estás hablando?  ( what are you talking about? )  por supuesto que tengo que ir contigo, liam.  ( of course i have to go with you, liam. )  eres tonto al pensar que te dejaría ir solo.  ( you are foolish to think that i would let you go alone. ) ”

liam’s brows furrow fondly, expression softening as he considers his ahijada.  so stubborn, still, and he can see that it’s fear beyond anything else that stirs it, agitates it to the point where her lips curve downwards and features are etched with agitation.   “ no me pasaria nada, cariño.  ( nothing would happen to me, honey. ) ”

“ eso es lo que solía decir mi padre.  ( that's what my father used to say. )  mira cómo terminó.  ( look how it ended. )  bastardo, no puedes decir eso,  ( you bastard,  you can't say that, ) ”   zita shoots back sharply, biting at the inside of her cheek as she scoffs and pushes past him, though helps to lift a basket in nevertheless.

“ lo siento, mija, la entrega debería salir hoy.  ( i'm sorry, mija, the delivery should go out today. )  si te unieras a mí, sería feliz,  ( if you would join me, i would be happy, ) ”   there’s a pause as he reaches for her, palms pressing to her jaw as a kiss is pressed affectionately to her forehead.   “ ¿qué dices?  ( what do you say? ) ”

zita offers a roll of her eyes, lids narrowing at him.   “ iré, aunque sólo sea para mantenerte fuera de problemas.  ( i'll go, if only to keep you out of trouble. ) ”   her words spark a grin to form on liam’s lips, prompting her to stick out her tongue as she turns and makes her way to the front passenger door.   “ llamo escopeta,  ( i call shotgun, ) ”   zita announces, slipping into the car and shutting the door behind her.  liam shakes his head with a warm chuckle, straining as he hauls the final basket into place and slams the boot shut.  he checks the front door to their home is locked, patting at his pockets for his wallet and phone before approaching the driver’s side of his truck.  upon climbing in, he notes zita has already turned on the radio and is listening to something far too youthful for his ears and is swift to turn it off.

“ ¡no! ¡estaba escuchando eso!  ( no!  i was listening to that! ) ”   she complains with a wave of her hand.

“ tú llamas escopeta, yo llamo radio. me parece justo.  ( you call shotgun, i call radio.  it seems fair to me. ) ”

zita sneers, folding her arms over her chest again.   “ cállate, de ninguna manera me dejarías conducir.  ( shut up, there's no way you would let me drive. ) ”

“ tienes razón, deberías estar agradeciéndome.  ( you're right, you should be thanking me. )  nos estoy haciendo un favor a los dos,  ( i'm doing both of us a favour. ) ”   liam replies, snarky, and zita huffs in response to it.

“ estúpido.  ( stupid. ) ”

“ muy madura,  ( very mature, ) ”   he hums, turning up the volume to the new song that’d come on, an older one that fits him better   —  the drive wasn’t necessarily a short one, meaning it was important he focused and got the job done sooner rather than later.  crossing sections of the desert was no mean feat and he didn’t intend to get either himself nor zita stuck out in its night due to negligence.  that, and the longer they took and the more of a scene they made, they were more likely to be targeted by the cartel, seeing as they oversaw most interactions in the area.

“ ¿para quién es la entrega?  ( who is the delivery for? ) ”   zita inquires after a few minutes as they drive towards the path that diverts from civilization and across blistering sands.   “ alvaro otra vez?  ( alvaro again? ) ”

“ sí, alvaro, es un buen cliente.  ( yes, alvaro, he's a good customer. ) ”

“ el habla con zaragoza,  ( he talks to zaragoza, ) ”   she points out.

“ él lo hace. ( he does. )  pero necesitamos dinero para sobrevivir.  ( but we need money to survive. )  alvaro está dispuesto a pagar un buen dinero por estas verduras.  ( alvaro is willing to pay good money for these vegetables. ) ”

“ bastardo probablemente se los esté vendiendo a roba, ( bastard is probably selling them to roba, ) ”   draws a scolding scowl from liam beside her.

“ no importa.  ( it doesn't matter. )  ¿prefieres morir de hambre?  ( would you rather starve? )  le prometí a tu padre que cuidaría de ti, pase lo que pase, zita.  ( i promised your father that i would take care of you, no matter what. ) ”   liam gestures as he speaks to the space between them, tone passionately assertive.   she merely retorts with a taut hum, gaze turning to watch the desert landscape as they begin the journey.  although his concentration is aimed forwards, he scans her in his peripheral, working to keep a gentle frown off his face.  while they’ve been together for some time now, their bond is ever fragile and he’s keen to avoid irreparable damage where possible.  zita, now, means everything to him.  her upbringing, her survival, it is his sole purpose these days   —  everything else set aside.  she was too young to understand his sacrifices, to comprehend the pressure he’d been put under to step up to this role but he’d done it without hesitation.   being her padrino was something he intended to never fuck up.   she would come to learn, to see, with time, but that wasn’t a weight she needed to bear at this age.  she’d blamed herself for so much already.

“ ¡oh, mierda!  ( oh shit! ) ”   zita pipes up after some time of silence, save for the radio rumbling away in the background.

“ ¡idioma!  ( language! ) ”   liam grunts, expression creasing in disagreement but is quick to spot what she’s referring to, following the direction of her pointing out the window.  dread washes over him, a familiar sensation when he’d learned his friend was missing   —  prior to him turning up dead, at the hands of the cartel.   “ oh, mierda,  ( oh, shit, ) ”   he breathlessly agrees.

“ eso es un cuerpo muerto?  ( is that a dead body? ) ”   she asks him, concern lilting her voice.

changing course, he drives the vehicle towards the apparent body in the sand and swallows down his festering anxiety.  was this the work of the cartel?  would his approach reveal wounds and gore?  his stomach jerks and twists, the urge to demand that zita turn her stare away.  he considers driving in the opposite direction, considers pretending they’d seen nothing but something bone-marrow deep insists he explore the scene.  justice, a force tells him, and so he steers the truck closer and stops nearby, keeping the engine running in case they have to escape quickly as he exits onto the sand.

“ ¿qué estás haciendo?  ( what are you doing? )  ¿estás loco?  ( you're crazy? ) ”   zita shouts after him, leaning out of her window to get a better view of the situation as liam closes the distance.

“ quédate en el camión, zita.  y baja la voz.  ( stay in the truck, zita.  and lower your voice. ) ”

he can make out her cursing and muttering in shock under her breath behind him but continues onwards.  he stands next to the mass, which he confirms is definitely a body judging by the broad but bony shoulders, subtly visible ribcage and ulcerated limbs.  liam collects himself and lowers into a crouch, squinting at their back to check for signs of breathing.  he’s startled to find them still alive, a guttural, wounded sound leaving them.   “ ¡son un hombre! ¡vivo!  ( they are a man!  alive! ) ”   he informs zita, signalling for her to open the back seat door.   “ ¡él necesita ayuda!  ( he needs help! ) ”

“ esto es actividad del cártel, te lo digo.  ( this is cartel activity, i'm telling you. )  deberíamos dejarlo,  ( we should leave it, ) ”   zita calls back.

“ ¿déjalo? ¿y si fuera luke?  ( leave it alone?  what if it was luke? ) ”

“ ¡ese no es mi padre!  ( that's not my father! ) ”   she snaps but it only earns her a glare.

“ ¡consigue la puerta!  ( get the door! ) ”   liam barks back, looping one of the man’s arms over his neck as he heaves him to his feet.  he’s unconscious, babbling away to himself too incoherently to understand but liam can tell just from looking at him he’s been through something horrific.  there’s scars of all sizes scattered across his slender form, blisters, ulcers and swelling in some areas from obvious infection.  his hair is overgrown and unmaintained and a potent stink is coming from his form   —  how long had he been baking for under the sun?  how had the desert’s predators not torn into him yet?   liam tells zita to stay back as he drags him over to the backseats and lays him across them.

“ ¿y si son peligrosos?  ( what if they are dangerous? ) ”   zita insists but her objections are ignored when liam shuts the door with the man still inside.

“ de vuelta en el camión,  ( back in the truck, ) ”   is all he says, making his way back to the driver’s side.

she hisses a few more curses before following the request, frowning over her shoulder at the seemingly-dying man.  then, she glances at the vegetables peeking over from the very back.   “ ¿qué pasa con alvaro?  ( what about alvaro? ) ”

“ nosotros continuamos,  ( we continue, ) ”   he states.   “ es como dijiste, alvaro habla con el zaragoza.  ( it's like you said, alvaro talks to the zaragoza. )   este hombre podría estar en peligro.  ( this man could be in danger. )  ellos podrían estar buscándolo.  ( they could be looking for him. )  deberíamos comportarnos normalmente.  ( we should behave normally. ) ”

“ este hombre podría estar en peligro y quieres traerlo con nosotros?  ( this man could be in danger and you want to bring him with us? ) ”   zita gawps.

“ sí.  no podría estar ahí para luke. ( yes.  i couldn't be there for luke. ) ”

“ ¿y qué, crees que esto es una señal?  ( so what, do you think this is a sign? ) ”   she scoffs at him, shaking her head.

“ no sé. sólo mantén un ojo en él, ¿quieres?  ( i don't know.  just keep an eye on him, will you? ) ”   liam pleads, gesturing behind him as he begins driving again.  they would deliver the vegetables to alvaro like usual, avoid looking at all suspicious and once they were back home   —  then he could figure it all out.  but he knew something for sure, this man would not die alone like luke.  the cartel would not rob another of life like they had his friend.  and truth be told, he’d do whatever it took in this moment to help this stranger.  for luke, and he didn’t care if it didn’t make sense to anyone else.  it made sense to him, and that’s all that mattered.

eyes drift to the rear view mirror and he studies the lying figure, how gaunt he looks in comparison to how liam imagines he should look.  whoever this is, he’d suffered unimaginably, to the point that he’d preferred to be eaten alive by preying creatures than survive a minute longer of whatever he had been.  liam’s teeth grit together, a mantra repeating in his mind as he drives.  for luke.

PART  TWO.

“ rápida, rápida!  ( quick, quick! )  ponlas en el suelo.  ( put them on the ground. ) ”   liam urges, sweating palms clutching awkwardly at the unconscious man’s biceps as zita strains to carry his ankles.  the man’s skinny, concerningly so, but it doesn’t seem to do much in terms of making him lighter, a dead weight   —  her grip slips momentarily and she almost drops him.   “ ¡fácil, cariño!  ( easy, honey! ) ”   her padrino gently scolds,   “ no lo dejes caer.  ( do not let him fall. ) ”

“ ¿qué estamos haciendo aquí, liam?  ( what are we doing here, liam? ) ”   zita hisses as the body is lowered carefully to the carpeted floor.  usually, liam prefers a clean household   —  shoes off, no food in the bedrooms, which is why she’s surprised to see him barely flinch at this bloodied, sand-coated man residing on his spotless floor.  he hadn’t even told her to remove her shoes upon entering their home.  what was his problem?  why was he so focused on this mystery man?   dead man, she comments internally.   may as well be, at this point.  unmoving, reddened and blistered by the sun... zita half expects him to either produce a dreadful death rattle or to bolt upright, wailing in agony.  neither comes, so she looks to liam again.   “ liam. ”

“ no lo sé todavía.  espera aquí,  ( i do not know yet.  wait here, ) ”   is requested, before liam disappears off into the kitchen, leaving zita alone with the stranger.

“ ¡no me dejes sola con él!  ( don't leave me alone with him! ) ”   she complains, stepping back a few feet in case he wakes and tries to grab her in a panic.  scenarios flip through her mind, stomach churning nervously at the sight at her feet.  his skin’s practically raw, grit causing wounds to fester and some appear so infected she feels herself become swiftly nauseous, bile rising to the back of her throat.   from the kitchen, she hears the tap running.  liam reappears with a makeshift bowl filled with warm water and what zita imagines to be salt poured into it.  that’d certainly get him a head start on cleaning the wounds, but she’s sure it’ll hurt   —  enough that their guest might regain consciousness... might fight back, fuck, he’d better not ask her to hold him still.  the towel hanging from his forearm drops to the floor as he lowers the bowl, a glance spared at zita who merely frowns.

“ no te preocupes.  ( don't worry. )  por favor... sólo haz lo que te digo.  ( please...  just do as i tell you. ) ”   zita offers a hesitant nod, knowing better than to argue now, and the towel is dipped into the water.  liam then locates one of the many visible wounds and presses the cloth against it, doing his best to sweep the grit out.   some time is spent doing this, repeatedly brushing over the stranger’s injuries but he finds it’s difficult to make much progress.  instead, liam decides perhaps running water is better and has zita help him haul the body across the house and into their small bathroom where they lay him in the tub.  he tells zita to wait outside and with the door shut, begins stripping them down to their underwear.  this reveals the extent of his physical damage and liam’s expression creases into pained sympathy.   “ ay, pobre hijo de puta.  ( oh,  poor son of a bitch. )  ¿qué te hicieron, eh?  ( what did they do to you,  huh? ) ”   liam tuts as he runs the water, ensuring it’s cool but not so cold that they go into shock.   “ zita, preparar un poco de agua, para beber,  ( zita,  prepare some water,  to drink, ) ”   he calls behind him, gaze turned towards the door   —  missing the fluttering of eyelids as vacant stare assesses surroundings...

liam’s attention is snapped back to the tub when water sloshes and a hand clasps his wrist in a vice-like hold, a single jerk and he’s certain the bone will break, eyes wide as he stares down at the visually frantic and terrified stranger.   “ fácil, fácil,  ( easy,  easy, ) ”   liam tries to comfort, his tone steady and unwavering.   “ está bien, es seguro.  ( it's okay,  it's safe. ) ”   behind them, there’s a knock at the door.

“ ¿estás bien?  ( are you okay? )  ¿con quién estás hablando?  ( who are you talking to? ) ”   zita asks, a lilt to her tone as she tries the door handle.

“ quédate fuera, cariño, todo está bien,  ( stay out,  honey,  it's all good, ) ”   liam insists, glancing between the grip on his wrist and the door,   “ no entres.  ( do not enter. ) ”   there’s an audible pause as she seems to consider his words, a heavy sigh leaving her and then footsteps fade away from the door.  having been silently observing up until now, the man finally addresses him, voice hauntingly hoarse and guttural.

“ where am i? ”   he croaks, squeezing the wrist,   “ english, d’ you... english, speak english? ”   his eyes are fixed on him but liam can tell he’s scanning for weapons in his peripheral.

“ yes, i speak english, ”   liam confirms,   “ you are safe here.  i rescued you, ”   he doesn’t need to know about zita just yet, would rather leave her as a voice on the other side of the door for the time being,   “ from the desert. ”   he gestures towards their form,   “ you are... covered in sores.  i was rinsing the grit out. ”

“ need... water... ”

“ water, yes, one moment, please, ”   liam calls back out to the door,   “ zita!  ¿puedes traer un vaso de agua a la puerta?  ( can you bring a glass of water to the door? ) ”   he cautiously eyes the other as they wait, listening to zita’s approach.

“ aquí,  ( here, ) ”   zita informs, knocking gently at the barrier between them.

“ you need to let me go, for me to get it, ”   liam reasons, prompting his wrist to be released.   “ gracias, zita,  ( thank you,  zita, ) ”   he turns and approaches the door, opening it wide enough for him to retrieve the glass from her without revealing the situation within the room but as he takes it from her, an arm is wrapped around his throat and he tenses, wincing when zita shouts in surprise and drops the glass which shatters around them.

“ you need t’... let me go... ”   the stranger snarls weakly in his ear,   “ let me... i’ll kill you if you... if you don’t... ”   liam notices his voice growing quieter with each word, breathing laboured,   “ let... ”   suddenly, his hold loosens and liam is nearly pulled down with him as his legs give out and he faints, barely having enough time to turn and catch him, saving him from the scattered glass.

“ ¿¡qué carajo!?  ( what the fuck!? ) ”   zita yells, gripping at the top of her head,   “ ¡él solo trató de matarte!  ( he just tried to kill you! ) ”

liam hauls the body across the room and back to the tub, placing him into the cool water.   “ mierda.  ( shit. )  ¿podrías conseguir una escoba para este desastre, por favor?  ( could you get a broom for this mess, please? ) ”

“ ¿una escoba? ¿no me escuchaste?  ( a broom?  did you not hear me? ) ”   zita tries to stress but liam interrupts her.

“ hice.  ( i did. )  por favor, no hagas esto más difícil.  ( please,  don't make this more difficult. ) ”   a string of ferocious curses and complaints leave zita as she turns and disappears in search of the broom, though he can still hear her hissing away to herself.  a hand subconsciously rubs at his neck, disturbed by the strength of the near-dead man, and glances in the direction of the occupied tub.  a sigh leaves him, followed by a shake of his head.  just who the fuck was this man?  what had he seen, to make his eyes like that?  what had he been through, to have become such a scarred canvas?

PART  THREE.

it'd been over a week since they'd rescued his corpse collapsed form from the desert.  he can't recall how long he'd been walking, having escaped the grave roba had buried him in, alive.  there's a heavy weight in his gut  —  dread, an awareness that his ordeal isn't over yet.  that the cartel could still find him, that someone could report his location back to them.  couldn't even trust the two that were currently caring for him...

simon's really only been conscious for the last three days.  a comatose state had taken over him, with brief moments of delusional panic.  he doesn't remember attacking liam, threatening his life, but liam's god-daughter had made a point of reminding him.  mercilessly, kids could be venomous and she undeniably made him feel guilty for something he couldn't recall... sore palms rest on the broken and leaning fence post overlooking liam's vegetable garden.

he'd not been able to step foot out the front of the property, fearful he'll be noticed or recognised.  swept right back into the hot box with the scorpions.  is it strange, to say he misses them?  their reliable tapping, the familiarity of their stings.  it's as though he still hasn't come down from the adrenaline of it all, like he's been on a permanent high for the last several months and this all feels like a torturous test.  will he awaken, back in that fucking room?  its red light blinks incessantly in his mind.

he had to get home.  had to return to his family  —  were they worried about him?  what had they been told?  it's convenient that he feels somewhat outside of his own body, because the pain ravaging him is unforgiving.  simon frees a cig from the box liam had generously bought him, after hearing him mention it in one of his incoherent-states, and flicks the lighter in his grasp but he's obviously worse than he realises, because it easily jumps out of his hand and hits the floor with a dull thud.

/  /  /

even from the doorway she can make out his cussing, his voice harshly guttural  —  likely from prolonged silence and the dry weather.  mexico wasn't kind to strangers.  zita notices the dropped lighter and, despite her distrust of this man, the speed of her approach increases momentarily to beat him to it  —  a hand lifting to signal for him to stay where he is, since something as simple as bending down might split some of the stitches liam had to put in for the bigger wounds.

" i got it, güey, "   knows he'll reject her help if she offers, thus it comes out as a statement.  the lighter is picked up and handed back to him; she notes that he's hesitant to take it.   " thought liam already told you about being careful.  like he has all the time in the world to stitch you back up, eh? "

" didn't ask f' your help, "  he spits back, low and steady.

the hair on the back of zita's nape stand to attention, but she doesn't back down.  " believe me, if i'd had a say you'd be nothing but bones by now, out on that sand. "  he visibly tenses, but says nothing.  there's a lengthy silence between them, and she ponders on why he decides against lighting the cig in her company.  the stress she's suffered will have taken more years off her life than any second-hand smoking could ever hope to.  " you ever going to get around to telling us what your deal is? "

he shifts, keeping his distance from her.   " my deal? "

" mhm.  with the zaragoza  —  why was a guy like you lost out in the middle of the fucking nowhere? "

" because it was the middle'a fuckin' nowhere, "  the man says matter-of-factly and zita rolls her eyes.   " you ever try t' navigate it? "

" i grew up with that desert.  know it like... what do you say?  like the back of my hand? "

" can't all be so lucky, then. "

" lucky, "  zita scoffs, shaking her head.  " how lucky i am that i can't travel across part of my home without coming across dead men. "   surprisingly, he offers her a tired side-eye and she squints.   " almost-dead. "

" reckon you're right. "

" about what? "

" you picked up a pile'a bones.  reckon your padrino sees more in me than there really is. "

zita finds herself staring at him, at how fucking skinny he is, how cracked and drained his face looks, how fragile he appears.  this man is tall, too, he's well over six foot and she's certain he's military to some degree... he should be muscular, fit, broad  —  instead he's a fucking shell of a man.   " you just need some time, "  she informs him confidently.

" yeh?  time fixes all, does it? "

" no. "   it's a sharp answer, though it holds weight.  time didn't fix the murder of her father.  the death of her mother.  time merely made her bitter, made her ache.  but with time, she's been able to focus, to develop hindsight and better understand what to do next.   " but it will help. "   another pause, her gaze drifting to the garden ahead  —  it's more of a patch, really.  she's proud of liam for finding something to keep himself busy with.  " how long were you with them? "   is asked out of the blue, avoidant of any eye contact as a finger taps subconsciously against the panel of fence she leans against.

" was nev'a with 'em, "   he informs firmly.

" then how long were you kept? "

" i — "   she studies him adjusting his stance in her peripheral.   " too long. "

" god must think you're pretty special, helping you out of there.  people don't just survive the zaragoza. "

his lip wrinkles and brows draw together, though it's not necessarily a negative expression.  she perceives him as solemn, introspective  —  she assumes an internal dialogue is occurring.  " they a problem 'round 'ere? "

zita's head dips into a nod.   " like a plague. "

his eyes are cast downwards at her words.   " they've got a lot to answer for. "   and zita wonders to herself what exactly he means by that.  answer to who?  when?  she's curious of his intentions, after everything he'd been through.  there was no returning to life for someone like him.  zita had barely returned to life herself, after years without her father and even then, nothing was the same.

" if it were up to me, i'd burn manuel's empire to the ground.  every last bit of it. "   and to that, the other makes a sound of... approval?  it's difficult to tell, especially because his expression nor body language give much away, but zita would like to think he agreed.

PART  ONE.

" you were apprehended inside a club that has illegal connections to the monclova cartel.  i don't think you have any standing to negotiate, "   the cia agent warns her.   " not to mention you being a citizen of mexico.  what exactly had you illegally crossed the border for? "

" listen  —  none of this is how it looks, okay? "   zita insists.

" oh yeah?  and how's that? "

slender form leans back into her seat, the clink of her cuffs keeping her on edge.  liam would be furious to know where she is.  to know she'd been arrested here, of all places.  a short but impressive list of cartels that'd fallen by her own doing sincerely lacks evidence, meaning explaining what she'd been doing for the last few years to make a change, to do good, would prove futile.   " because i'm not a criminal! "   she replies.  well, debatable.  zita isn't about to sit here and explain to this agent that she's killed, taken lives, witnessed horrendous crimes and had worked alongside some of the more notorious cartels in mexico.  but her intentions are good  —  granted, driven by spite, by anger, zita had grown tired of the corruption that'd impacted so much of her life, her family.   " you have to hear me out.  i'm doing something.  making a difference.  i can't just tell you without... risking it all.  but i'm not like the others you took from that club. "

" then explain to me why you were there in the first place? "

" i was with them.  i  —  shit.  we were following orders. "

" following orders from who? "

zita's arms attempt to cross defensively over her chest, brows furrowing.  she recognises that if she keeps talking, it's going to get her into bigger trouble.  digging the hole deeper with every word that leaves her  —  however if she doesn't, she'll be going to prison regardless.  and if she's transported back to mexico to serve time, it'll be impossible to hide who she really is.  what she'd done.  a survivor of the handful of collapsed cartels...  wouldn't need to look like a rat for them to perceive her as one.  the punishment would be fatal.   " i can't tell you.  i don't think you appreciate the complexity of my situation. "

" and i don't think you appreciate the gravity of this situation, miss. "   the agent rises to his feet and heads towards the door, casting a glance back in her direction.   " i'll leave you to think about it for a few minutes.  my boss will be with you shortly, she wants to have a talk with you. "

" maybe i'll get more patience from her! "   zita calls out as he exits, scowling at his brief and muttered  ' doubt it '  before the door clicks shut and locks.   " mierda.  ( shit. )  ¿que voy a hacer?  ( what am i going to do? ) "   fingertip taps nervously at the table, leg bouncing furiously as more and more time passes and she fails to come up with a valid or reasonable excuse.  the reality begins to dawn on her that she might just have to bite the bullet and tell them.  explain why she's doing what she is, how she could be beneficial to the us government.  maybe they could come to an agreement!

when the door next opens, an older woman enters with brushed back, blonde hair tied into a bun.  although her heavy fringe seems to age her, since zita assumes she's maybe in her early to mid forties, with the hairstyle adding on an extra five or so years.  nevertheless, she looks like someone with more authority, more than the last agent, given the way she walks and her reserved but calculated expression.

" miss delgado, is it?  i'm station chief, here.  you can call me kate. "   she lowers herself to perch on the edge of her seat.   " my colleagues inform me you're in quite the predicament. "

zita narrows her eyes, cautious of the switch in nature between the two agents.  she's highly familiar with manipulation tactics  —  they won't work on her.   " i'm not a criminal, "   she repeats firmly.   " just got caught up with them trying to do something good. "

" i see, "   kate answers gently, nodding to herself.   " and did you know that these criminals you've gotten yourself... caught up with, have connections to a globally-recognised terrorist organisation? "

the younger shifts.   " al-qatala, yeah, "   zita acknowledges.   " this is what you don't understand.  without these connections, al-qatala's resources would deplete. "

" so you're trying to stop al-qatala? "

" not originally.  i  — "   there's a lengthy pause as the internal debate begins to boil over.  an encouraging brow lift from kate sees that she continues.   " i've been fighting the corruption.  the cartels, they... let me work for them.  i work my way up the hierarchy, gain their trust... "

" a vigilante, "   kate notes.   " you mean to tell me you've been taking on mexican cartels all by yourself? "

" don't you think it speaks for itself that i'm under arrest here and not mexico? "

the station chief crosses a leg over the other comfortably as she genuinely considers her.   " i'll bite.  say you're telling the truth.  is there anyone that could vouch for you?  people i could contact or bring in for confirmation? "

zita chews on the inside of her cheek as she thinks.  no one knew  —  even liam isn't aware of the extent of her travels.  of her criminal involvement.  eager to keep him as far from it as possible, after what'd happened to her father, her focus is redirected to other potential people.  names scroll through her mind but none of them could be trusted not to rat her out.  none of them knew.  until she lands on one that's particularly dear to her.   he'll vouch for you, her conscience urges. if he's still alive, that is.   " simon... riley? "

" excuse me? "

" simon riley, "   zita says again, with more confidence in her tone this time.   " special air service.  he was... a hostage in mexico, back in twenty-ten.  did he ever... make it back?  he was part of a team sent to take down  — "

" i don't recognise the name, "   kate states, interrupting her.   " but tell me, why would a british special forces operator have connections with someone from a mexican cartel?  you don't think you'd be putting his career in jeopardy, by naming him? "

" no, no  —  i knew him before all of this.  he doesn't know that i'm involved in this shit. " 

" then how could he prove your word, if he doesn't know? "

" because he knows me.  please  —  i swear.  if he made it back, if he's still alive, he'll vouch for me.  could you find out? "

" alright, zita.  i can look into it, but if i don't make progress then we'll have to consider other avenues.  okay?  i'll have my colleagues ensure you're comfortable until i know more. "   she stands, offering her a final, lingering look that zita finds herself unable to decipher and then she leaves.  stress swells behind her ribs at the thought of simon having not made it home.  she'd thought about him endlessly, after word spread that manuel roba's summer home and overall enterprise had been burned to the ground  —  his guards killed and that even roba himself was dead.

it eventually became fact when the zaragoza cartel's hold over coahuila fizzled out.  life returned to a normality zita had never known before, not since her very early childhood.  yet, no one knew who'd killed him.  whether they'd survived or fled into the jungle, their unfortunate demise a fulfilling feast for the stalking rainforest predators.  truth be told, she wouldn't know what to say if he had somehow survived.

/  /  /

when kate next returns, it'd been about three days of radio silence.  the anticipation in her had been bubbling since the moment the station chief had left.  even after that, she's forced to wait in the same dull and disinteresting room for at least an hour.  when she finally hears the door click and open, relief washes over her and a groan of complaint isn't held back.   " ¡maldición!  ( damn! )  it's about time! "   except that it isn't kate who enters.  a stranger occupies her space, clad in dark clothes and donning a balaclava with the bottom half of a skull painted across the lower section.  zita doesn't recognise them, brows furrowing in confusion as she scans the black paint encompassing heavy stare.   " i  —  i don't understand? "

the figure inhales deeply, shoulders squared and form tensing further at the sound of her voice.   " it's me, zita. "

and the sound of his voice is all that's needed for the reality of the situation to come crashing down on her.   " hijo de puta...  ( son of a bitch... )  simon!? "

PART  TWO.

" keep your voice down, "   simon scolds as he approaches the seat opposite her; the table between them.   " yeh, it's me. "

" ¿pero qué verga?  ( what the fuck? ) "   zita hisses, sitting back in her seat in astonishment.  she has so many questions for him, starting with,   " why the mask? "

simon exhales, seemingly exasperated already, and zita thinks   i'm not a kid anymore.   " it's a precaution, "   he says, half telling the truth.   " listen, zita.  the fuck'a you thinkin'?  they told me you were caught with a bloody cartel. "

that pisses her off.   she isn't eighteen anymore.   " i'm twenty-nine, by the way, "   she tells him sternly.   " a grown ass woman.  i can do what i like. "

" not if you're gonna use me as your scapegoat, "   simon bites back.   " you 'ave any idea how this looks?  me, associatin' with a cartel member?  weren't zaragoza enough f' you? "

" don't talk about them, "   zita narrows her eyes.  she feels a sense of frustration building.  her hopes had been set on a positive reunion.  it's a relief to know he's still alive and had survived roba's torture...  but he's ruining it!   " i'm not using you.  i just— "   she pauses.   " i'm not one of them. "   hands splay across the table as she unfolds her plans before him.   " i'm fighting back. "

simon stares at her incredulously.   " fightin' back, "   he repeats, like she'd just told a bad joke.

" ¡sí! "   she glances around the room for signs of a camera.  when she doesn't find one, she continues.   " just like you did. "

" how d' you know— "

" it was you? "   she finishes his sentence.   " come on, simon, por favor,  ( please, ) do you think i'm stupid?  of course it was you! "

he seems displeased that she knows.  arms fold over his broad chest.   " what d' you mean, you're fightin' back? "

she sits forwards in her chair.   " i mean i'm taking them down.  uno por uno.  ( one by one. ) "

" how? "

" i get real close, simon.  real close, and then i — "   it dawns on her then, that she's going to have to explain that she's killed people.  she has blood on her hands, some of it innocent.  tongue sweeps out across her lower lip awkwardly.   " i do what you did. "

simon really considers her, then.  there's a sorrowful glint in his eye.   " you've killed people? "

teeth grit as she debates how to answer him.   " i do what's necessary. "

" zita... "

" it's like i said, simon.  i'm not a kid anymore.  i've done shit i can't come back from. "   he can't judge her, anyway.  he'd be hypocritical to.   " don't look at me like that. "

" like what? "

" like you pity me.  i made my decisions. "

" you made the wrong ones.  choices 'ave consequences, zita.  look at what you've given up, the life you could'a had.  roba — 'e was gone.  you could'a — "

" could've what?  lived a normal life?  bullshit, simon.  you couldn't, after what zaragoza did to you.  i mean — you're walking around in a mask for fuck's sake! "

he huffs through his nose.   " and you reckon you can do all this by yourself? "

" i was doing just fine before the cia intervened. "

he eyes her, meeting her gaze with an unrevealing stare.   " what if you 'ad 'elp? "

" help? "   zita repeats, shaking her head in confusion.   " from who? "

" me. "

the past.

" they fucked us, boss! "   simon had called out to his captain, his voice straining over gunfire.  the two had made a point of squatting behind cover to evade the onslaught of bullets as they processed the situation.  their informants had played them  —  royally screwed them over, likely not out of malice but rather intimidation.  their capture / kill target had been formidable, a widely respected ( out of fear ) individual, and a betrayal with such a target involved had undeniably been on the cards.  inevitable, almost.  if the locals couldn't be bought with money, then the threat of their dead families was surely enough.  in turn, the team that'd accompanied them had been shot point blank, leaving the two to survive alone.

hawkins had immediately lifted a finger to his lips, gesturing for simon to keep his voice down.  he'd closed the distance, keeping his head ducked as best he could, and took up a position beside his sergeant.   " 'course they feckin' did, simon, we knew there'd be a high chance of this  —  didn't we?  look at me. "   riley's wide eyes had turned to his captain.  he'd not experienced something like this, before.  at least, not this direct.  he'd heard about betrayals on the battlefield, sure, and a number of times he'd been warned to keep an eye out for the signs...  but he'd yet to experience such a deliberate and outright display of disloyalty from an intel source.   " it's not personal, "   hawkins had stated, delivering a reassuring thump with his fist to simon's shoulder.   " what we can't do is sit here an' wait  —  yeah?  they'll shoot us like fish in a barrel.  look around, see what you can find, lad. "

" f' what? "   simon had urged.  what could possibly help them in such a situation?

" anythin'!  anythin' at all! "   feeling helpless, he'd watched as hawkins's gloved fingers dug into the dirt beneath them, sifting through in search of stones, twigs  —  quite literally anything.

" a rock, sir? "   riley had practically gawped.  indeed, he'd had training in guerrilla warfare tactics back in the royal marines, had learned to make all sorts of explosives, traps and the like from simple resources.  but that'd been when they had the element of surprise.  how were they to possibly combat the approaching gang of armed enemies?  hired hitmen.  they'd lost their guns when, prior to diving for cover, the hitmen had momentarily held them at gunpoint and stripped them of their weapons.

" sooner have a rock f' christmas than a pricey gift, riley! "   hawkins had chuckled, weighing the object in his hand  —  it was been hefty.   " a gift is nice, but if someone breaks into your home, what's a gift gonna do? "   it'd been the first time simon had seen the capacity for his captain's renowned 'wild' decision-making.  as the gunfire had died down and the curious scrape of footsteps could be heard approaching  —  likely to check if they were dead, hawkins had given him a single, affirming nod, and then popped up from his hiding place like a irate weasel, socking one of the hitmen leaning over their cover in the face with the rock.  with the others stunned by the sudden violence, it'd enabled him enough time to snatch up the enemy's rifle and unload the remainder of the clip in their direction.   " move, sergeant!  go, go, go! "

simon hadn't hesitated then, surging forwards out of cover as their attackers dove and dodged hawkins's own gunfire.  he hadn't stopped running, assuming his captain was behind him as the shooting had ceased.  he'd reached the edge of a dense forest.   " we pushin' through, captain? "   catching his breath, he'd turned to look at hawkins  —  who was nowhere to be seen.   " sir!? "   nothing.   " fuckin' hell. "   simon had wholeheartedly considered going back to search for him, but he'd heard voices coming from his previous location, getting closer, and instead pushed into the forest alone.

the trees and overgrown foliage had been a task to navigate through.  he'd suffered numerous cuts to his hands and arms, despite his gear, and he'd even ended up slipping into and almost drowning in a hole filled with sludgy mud.  with his lower half caked in filth, solidifying by the hour, and the approaching night's chill seeping through his sweat-soaked clothes, simon had started to debate whether this was something he'd find his way out of.  the forest never seemed to end, and when he'd been sure he was going in circles he'd planted himself beside a tree and tried his radio.   " this is riley in the blind  —  captain, how copy? "   he'd paused, giving the other time to respond, if he was even still alive.  how would he explain to hawkins's wife and baby that he'd left him to be butchered?  ran, selfishly, and hadn't looked back.   " captain, d' you read? "   nothing.   " shit, shit, shit, "   he'd hissed to himself, opting to be proactive in changing his dirtied bandages that were keeping his open wounds from infection.  when, again, he'd received no response, concern started to set in.  you  won't  survive  this  one,  simon.  this  is  it  for  you.  your  cowardice  has  brought  you  to  your  death,  once  and  for  all.  what  kind  of  teammate  are  you?  maybe  your  dad  was  right  —  always  running,  always  hiding,  like  a  little  bitch.

mexico.

" no se lo digas a el gordo, pero edgar metió la pata, lo dejó ir.  ( don't tell el gordo, but edgar screwed up, he let him go. ) "   one of roba's men mutters to another as they search a local barn.

" ¿déjale ir?  ( let him go? )  pinche cabrón,  ( fucking asshole )  ¡no mames!  ( no shit! )  ¿que chingados?  ( what the fuck? ) "   the other responds.

" él no fue intencionado, güey,  ( it was not intentional, man, )  ¿has pinche visto al gringo?  ( have you fucking seen the gringo? )  él está loco.  ( he is crazy. ) "

" ¿estaba roba enfadado?  ( was roba angry? ) "

" ¿enfadado?  ( angry? ) "   simon, huddled behind a couple of hay bales, can hear the man laugh.  a laugh that lacks all emotion, one that's produced by someone who's stood by and witnessed terrible things.  these men operating under roba live for the power and bloodshed.  they could comfortably watch simon be torn limb from limb by a pack of ravenous dogs and, if anything, would merely make bets between them.  as they talk, his palm pats at the ground in search of something  —  anything, to use as a weapon.  his fingers bump against a rock, and he secures it in his grasp.   " si el jefe descubre quién es el responsable, edgar está jodidamente muerto.  ( if the boss finds out who is responsible, edgar is fucking dead. ) "

" imbécil,  ( stupid, ) "   they tut, kicking at the piles of hay nearby.   " ¿cree que habrá recompensa?  ( do you think there will be a reward? ) "

" por encontrar al inglés?  ( for finding the englishman? ) "

" no, para exponer a edgar.  ( no, to expose edgar. ) "

" no lo sé. me mantengo al margen.  ( i don't know.  i stay out of it. )  ya sabes cómo es el gordo.  ( you know how el gordo is. )  no tengo deseos de morir.  ( i have no death wish. ) "

suddenly, the bale simon is behind is kicked and his weight against it keeps it from falling like the others, signifying something's behind it.   " espera un puto minuto...  ( wait a fucking minute... ) "   he hears one of them mutter,   " oye,  ( hey, ) "   they call out to their buddy, but simon's too quick and before the word can fully leave them, he pops up, bashes the rock into their skull and as they drop he catches the weight and hauls them over the bale.

within seconds, the other notices the absence of their companion and calls out.   " alvarez?  ¡oye!  ( hey! )  no seas mamón,  ( don't be stupid, gringo, )  ¡muéstrate!  ( show yourself! ) "   with the rock in one hand, he uses his free fingers to curl around the evident knife sheathed at his unconscious target's hip and removes it.  as requested, he appears and, with a clean flick of the wrist, the blade is launched through the air and hits the other enemy square in the forehead.  they go stiff, then tumble back with a thud.  cautious, simon hops over the bales to dislodge the knife, cleaning it on the man's jacket, before making a point to drag the body out of sight alongside the other.  he ensures a quick jab to their head too, eliminating the risk of the unconscious one waking up later.

can't stop now.  he'd come too far.  having escaped from roba's godforsaken compound who knows how many hours earlier, he'd found himself in the outskirts of zaragoza, with the town's series of buildings closely joined.  it'll be a bloody nightmare trying to navigate it without getting caught.  his body aches indescribably, his searing gut wound barely healed and the bruises that scatter his form throb; the adrenaline racing through him being his saving grace.  he's crossed numerous terrains, many of them stony and sharp, with the soles of his bare feet serrated and indented.  leaving bloody footprints behind is a concern.  still, he cannot stop.  hasn't got time to search for bandages or medicine, for spare clothes.  topless, he's only in a pair of shorts and it's fucking freezing outside.  nobody  but  you  can  get  yourself  outta  this,  lad,  comes hawkins's voice in his head.   you  wanna  see  your  family  again,  don't  ya?   " i do... "   he mumbles to himself, stumbling.   " gotta... keep movin'... "

past.

" captain, please respond... "   simon had whispered into his radio.  his body was forcing him into near-silence in an attempt to retain heat and energy, given the cold temperature.  his back had been pressed to the tree he'd seated himself next to, and he'd searched through his kit for one of the few food items he'd brought with him.  simon had concluded he could draw out, at most, two days from his water supply before he ran out.  then, it would've only been a matter of time.  if hawkins had truly been killed, he'd imagined they'd be waiting for him  —  the forest surrounded.  if he didn't die within, they'd certainly catch him upon his exit.

" sound like you've half-given up, sergeant, "   came hawkins's voice through the radio, and for a solid few seconds simon had debated whether he'd hallucinated it.

a desperate hand had stiffly grabbed the device.   " you're alive. "   a statement, an observation  —  doubt?  he'd stared down at his own chest, watching it rise and fall.

" 'course, "   he'd replied confidently,   " takes a lot more than a feckin' squabble t' put me down f' good. "   his captain had sounded brighter than ever, as though the chaos of it all filled him with energy.

" sir... "   simon rasped, apologetic tone unusual from him.   " not sure i'm gonna make it. "

his captain hadn't hesitated.   " where are you? "   he'd abandoned him, left him for dead and yet hawkins still gave a damn about him.

" left you behind, sir. "

" you did no such thing, "   hawkins had scoffed.   " i told you t' go, and you did.  that's someone who follows orders, simon  —  makes you a good soldier. "

simon had frowned at that.   " but — "

" where are you, sergeant? "   he'd interjected, tone growing more urgent.

riley looked around, fully taking in his surroundings.   " went into the forest.  reckon i might be lost, sir. "

" can't be lost if you didn't know where you were goin' t' begin with, lad, "   hawkins had dismissed nonchalantly.   " no trouble. "   he'd fallen silent for a few moments, prompting simon to sit upright  —  listening more intently.

" sir?  's a bloody maze in 'ere, i'm not gettin' out.  you need t' finish the mission without me. "

" i need you t' listen t' me, riley.  nobody but you can get yourself outta this, lad.  you wanna see your family again, don't ya? "

simon had exhaled, his frown now heavy on his features.  he'd thought of his mother, of how distraught she'd be to learn he'd died on the job.  then, he'd processed that if he died there, against the tree in the middle of fuck off nowhere, his family would never get his body back.  there'd be no one to bury, but the memory of him.  at least, if he could get out to civilisation, he stood a chance of returning home  —  even if he wasn't alive for it.   " yeh, "   he grunts,   " yeh, sir, i do. "

" then i need you t' keep going.  you hear me, simon?  keep feckin' moving. "

as simon had risen to his feet, he'd looked around at the mass of trees blocking any hope of seeing an exit.   " can't see a way out. "

" then climb, "   hawkins responded simply.   " oh, and let me know where you're almost up. "

climb?  he'd thought.  how was he supposed to climb, when his energy was running low and his fingers were freezing.  simon had taken a deep breath, shrugged off his heaviest gear and with the image of his baby nephew, joseph, in his mind  —  he'd leapt for the first branch.  he couldn't recall how long it'd taken him to reach the top, updating his captain once there, but it was long enough that his palms were swollen and bloodied.

" i'm settin' a small fire, sergeant.  watch for it.  when you spot it, head in the opposite direction.  use your compass, keep west  —  i'll meet you at the edge.  that's an order. "

narrowing his eyelids, he'd watched until the contained blaze threw smoke skywards, its harsh orange amid the darker landscape catching his attention.  smart.  their enemies would think they were over there.  once back on the ground, he'd obtained his compass and set it in his palm, pushing west as ordered.  that's  an  order.  if ever there were three words to wholly spur him on.

mexico.

clambering up onto an unoccupied building's roof, simon's able to assess his surroundings from a height.  he'd cleared the location prior, and secured a number of resources from inside.   " got a bottle of tequila, some cloth, matches, "   he tells no one, taking this time to stuff the cloth as best he can into the neck of the bottle  —  not before having a daring swig or two first to cool his nerves.   got  yourself  a  pretty  little  molotov  there,   he imagines hawkins saying.  but  matches  sound  like  a  faff,  try  'n'  find  yourself  a  lighter.   shit, he could use a cigarette right about now.  with a resilient huff, he descends to the ground.  the landing stings, and although he'd found some shoes that'd fit inside the building, he's no thief.  someone lives here, they're just not currently present.  thus, simon pushes on barefoot towards the town hoping that by sticking just outside of it, he's less likely to be spotted, captured or reported.

he scales a wall, smearing gore down it as he does, and pauses once on the other side.  he can hear voices.

" mantener la posición alrededor de la zona, él sólo puede haber llegado hasta cierto punto.  ( maintain position around the area, he can only have gone so far. ) "   they're searching for him, here.

simon grimaces, stealthily crossing the apparent courtyard he's found himself in and locates two wooden boxes outside the nearby residence.  one is opened to find a handful of ingredients  —  potatoes, onions, corn, beans...  the second holds similar contents.  hearing footsteps, he makes quick work of moving the items in one box neatly over to the other and then squeezes himself into the small space of the empty one.

moments after, someone approaches and stops beside him.   " ¿se han comprobado?  ( have they been checked? ) "   they can be heard asking another.

" es un hombre, no una maldita rata,  ( he's a man, not a fucking rat, ) "   the other complains with a sigh.   " estamos perdiendo el tiempo con esta mierda.  ( we're wasting our time with this shit. ) "

" un segundo, pendejo,  ( one second, asshole. ) "   then, there's an agonisingly tense minute where he hears the crate beside him open.   " pinche verduras...  ( fucking vegetables... ) "   they mutter.

" sí, y el otro también será de verduras,  ( yes, and the other one will also be vegetables, ) "   the second chastises impatiently,   " vamos.  estoy harto de esta mierda.  ( let's go.  i'm sick of this shit. ) "

past.

as simon approached the edge of the forest, he was stopped in his tracks by a stomach-churning sight.  from above, he'd noticed four bodies hanging, a thick rope keeping them dangling eerily in the air, attached to branches.  the closer he'd gotten, the more details he'd been able to process until it'd dawned on him  —  they were his and hawkins's betrayers.  their former informants, the assets that'd given their meeting location to the high value individual.  despite their efforts to ensure their safety and the safety of their families, it'd appeared the hvi hadn't moved past the fact that they'd coordinated with the enemy in the first place.

he'd scowled up at them, unable to level with an ounce of sympathy.   " our informants'a dead, "   he'd told his captain over the radio.

" no surprise there, "   hawkins had responded.

" why'd they do that?  we could'a protected 'em, "   he'd grunted and shook his head.

" that's how it often goes, sergeant.  it's an ugly world we live in.  can only do our best.  some people want the easy way out  —  but easy doesn't mean no consequences.  every choice has a consequence, riley. "

" i'm at the clearin'.  you close? "

" got company, lad.  you see that buildin' across the ways?  i'm in it.  feckin' bastards are here, too. "

simon's brows had furrowed as he'd checked the stretch ahead for any signs of life.  there could be a sniper, he'd reminded himself.  however, pressed for time, he wasn't able to waste any of it and pushed forward, keeping a close eye on the potential sniper positions for glints or movement.  perhaps the hitmen tasked with hunting them down hadn't been as efficient as special forces, since it'd seemed no one had been assigned the job of covering it.

as he'd reached the building, a gunshot sounded and his heart had lurched.   hawkins!  a father, a husband, a loyal friend, a brother and a son to someone...  if anyone deserved to live more than simon, it was captain braden hawkins.  overcome with newfound strength, riley searched the location furiously until he discovered two enemies looming over a wounded hawkins.  he'd been shot.  non-lethal, they'd likely intended to bring him to the hvi for interrogation  —  fat chance, but at least they could do something correctly.  it'd meant his captain wasn't in danger of bleeding out any time soon, with the right treatment.  with no gun at his disposal, he'd retrieved one of the spare knives he'd kept on his person and he'd positioned himself so that hawkins could see him.  with a subtle cue, a gesturing of hands, he'd crept up on one of the men from behind and, in a sharp slicing motion, slit his throat.

the second enemy became aware of his presence and in the split second he was distracted, hawkins had kicked out a leg to trip them up which enabled simon to pin them to the floor.   " you good, sir? "

" right in the bloody shoulder, "   hawkins had complained, clutching at his injury,   " this is gonna make nappy changin' back home a damned nightmare. "   simon had found himself smiling at that.  wide and unbridled, likely partially dehydrated and disorientated, but giddy to be reunited with his captain, nevertheless.   " nice one, lad, "   he'd praised the sergeant, stepping over to the pinned individual.   " right.  well, you've pretty much buggered our plans  —  haven't ya?  think the only way you can make it right is by tellin' us where we might find your boss. "

" i'll tell you nothing, "   the enemy had spoken with a thick, russian accent.   " Британская мразь.  ( british scum. ) "

with his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, a dark expression had spread across hawkins's features.   " no? "   he'd moved closer, leaning down to slot himself between simon and the man's back.   hawkins took the bloodied knife from his sergeant and pressed it to their enemy's covered spine.   " if you don't, i'll see to it that you never walk again  —  'n' then i'll leave you here.  can't imagine your team'll find you before the wolves do. "

simon had listened to every word, absorbed every detail.  something about how hawkins carried himself, even when injured, radiated control.  a control simon had felt he could've only dreamed of having.  he'd never seen it before, not to that degree.  blade balanced perfectly on vulnerable spine, one slip and the effects would be irreversible.  and yet, hawkins never faltered.  and just like that, they'd gone from tight-lipped and stubborn to a blubbering mess.  threaten a man with any loss of power and it was checkmate.

mexico.

once simon had freed himself from the tight, wooden box, he'd navigated a tricky path through the handful of buildings outside of the town.  find  yourself  some  resources,  simon.  he imagines hawkins telling him.  anything is somethin'.  between his blade, rock, and molotov, he's sure he can do some damage.  however, it wouldn't hurt to look for more.  it leads him to a small shed, the door busted open  —  likely from them searching for him, which means they might not be far.  inside, he finds a small fan, canned goods, various colourful candles, duct tape and numerous other items.  between them, he's able to put together a makeshift smoke bomb and also creates a distraction device  —  placing a firecracker he'd discovered into an emptied can.  one of the fan blades is also snapped off and kept for future use.

utilising a small shopping bag, that'd also been left in the shed, to carry his things, simon descends down the hill towards the nearby houses.  no one here will help him.  even if he encounters a good citizen, there's nothing they'll be able to do to help.  the cops cannot be trusted.  none of the local politicians.  he's on his own.  he approaches a small house and goes around it to the back gate.  it's a metal door, and it's locked, with no way to climb over.   " shit, "   he mumbles, wincing as his stomach wound throbs painfully.  in fact, the pain surges so suddenly he doubles over, almost dropping his bag of items in the process.  we've  gotta  keep  goin',  lad,  hawkins's voice says in his head.  standing back up, he obtains his piece of metal from the fan and jimmies it into the door's gap.  with a few violent movements, the fan blade snaps in half  —  but the door springs open.  with every success, he thinks he can see an escape.  he thinks of his mum, of tommy and beth, of little joseph...

his stomach jolts again and this time he drops to his knees and vomits.  has he got a fever?  there's a soft clang from behind, and he shakily looks over his shoulder to see a woman watching him.  she must be mid-eighties, he thinks to himself.  and apparently, his body deems that information safe enough for him to collapse fully, his vision going black.

past.

" you sure you're good t' keep goin', boss? "   simon had asked his captain, keeping warily close.  despite the shot being non-lethal, hawkins was still losing blood and although the sergeant had done his best to cover it and prevent further bleeding, it was only makeshift.

" i've gotta see this through, sergeant  —  it happened on my watch.  we've gotta keep goin', lad. "

simon had bowed his head respectfully.   " understood, sir.  i'm with ya. "

" couldn't ask for better company, "   hawkins had nodded back, gesturing to the compound in the distance.   " that's where we'll find him. "

the trek hadn't been easy, with the captain struggling more with every passing minute.  they'd taken up position at the back, scanning each hostile and monitoring the guard's routines.  then, when ready, they'd closed the distance to one of the back doors.   " here, "   hawkins had said, offering a bent piece of metal to him,   " got it back at that place.  jam it in there, should open it up. "

" nice, "   simon had nodded, doing just that.  with a twist, a turn and a shove, the door opened, bringing them to a tight corridor.

" push up, sergeant, i've got your six. "

in tandem, the two had made it inside the compound, infiltrating the building holding their hvi  —  who they'd still intended to capture and bring back with them for questioning.  at one point, they'd dodged a passing enemy by ducking into an unoccupied, makeshift bedroom.  it was there that hawkins had spotted a vase.  he'd removed the flowers and placed it under a pillow, forcing his weight down on it so it broke.  when it did, he'd secured a shard as a weapon.

" good thinkin', sir, "   simon had praised.

" well, you've got the knife, "   the captain had shrugged back, allowing simon to lead the way back out into the hall and up another set of stairs.  from there, they'd followed the sound of voices to a locked door.   " that's him, "   hawkins had said.

" we need a PID ( positive identification ) on 'im, boss.  can't risk baggin' and taggin' the wrong bloke. "

" can't tell how many are in there, "   hawkins had huffed.   " at least three, including the hvi. "   the tables had turned in their favour however, as the door unlocked and out walked a woman.  immediately, hawkins had snatched her into his hold, the piece of broken vase in hand and pressed to her throat.   " get behind me, sergeant! "   he'd barked, pushing into the room with the woman in front of him  —  using her as a vest.  simon had positioned himself at hawkins's six, ensuring no one snuck up behind him, as hawkins secured the room and PID'd their hvi.   " yeah, that's feckin' him alright. "

mexico.

when he wakes, he finds himself laying flat on something.  scanning his surroundings, he notices trinkets here and there, a television playing away in the background and drawn drapes.  there are countless candles that occupy the surfaces within the room.  he's on a sofa, he realises, with old-fashioned cushions propping him up and the smell of lavender is heavy in the air.  in the corner of his eye he senses movement, glancing to the nearby doorway to find the same woman as before, looking back at him.  the nausea hasn't settled, and by the looks of it she hasn't tried to fix his wound.  is she intending to help him or not?

" i... can't be here, "   he barely manages to get out.   " i need t' leave. "

the elderly woman shakes her head firmly.   " no, "   she says,   " debe descansar.  ( you must rest. ) "

" i don't  —  don't speak spanish, "   he states, hissing when he tries to sit up.   " fuck!  i need... clean water.  boiled. "   when she stares back at him and doesn't respond, he finds himself growing frustrated.   " water.  agua, "   perhaps one of the few words he'd picked up since arriving in mexico.  yet, still, the woman stares.   " i know you can talk, lady.  i know you understand me.  why 'ent you sayin' anything? "   nothing.   " fuckin' hell.  i don't 'ave time f' this. "

at  times  like  that,  you  can  only  trust  yourself,  simon.  hawkins's voice drives him to his feet, ignoring the searing pain as he tries to compose himself, tries to focus.   " i've gotta get outta here... "   he says, as though the woman is no longer there.  his gaze falls on the exit she's standing in, but before he can find the strength to move towards it, two burly men appear behind her.  roba's men.  she's not talking, nor is she helping him, because she sold him out.   " what the fuck? "   he wheezes, looking between the men and the woman.  then, she departs, leaving him with them.  terror seizes him, survival instinct kicking in  —  he can't go back!  in a remarkable surge of adrenaline, simon lunges at them, disarming one with a powerful swipe.  one shot, two shot, he kills them both.

past.

" like you said, sergeant, bag the bastard and tag 'im, "   hawkins had ordered, positioning the woman in his hold so that the other men in the room weren't tempted to shoot at them.   " weapons down, all of you  —  now! "   the shard against her throat was reinforced and she'd pleaded for them to do as they were told.  they slowly placed their guns on the floor and kicked them away.  it'd seemed he'd picked someone important to hold hostage.

simon had obtained hawkins's tape from his bag, always prepared, and wrapped it around the hvi's wrists and over his mouth.  he'd searched him and removed any weapons, securing a pistol for himself.  then, he'd proceeded to tape the other men to the furniture in the room, given they'd surrendered and were currently no threat to them.  after, he'd secured the woman, applying tape to each of their mouths to keep them quiet too.

" let's get outta here, "   the captain had said, gesturing to the door.   " keep your eyes on him, sergeant, i'll take the lead. "

as they'd pushed down the halls of the building, they'd encountered countless enemies patrolling.  for a few minutes, they'd successfully maintained stealth until it'd seemed someone had discovered the taped up individuals and the alarm was raised.

resistance was gathered and they were hunted down, unable to further conceal their presence.  sticking to his order of keeping the hvi safe as well as in his control, simon had kept his head down and watched as his captain made a path for them.  an impressive display of skill, hawkins had utilised every tool at his disposal, emptying the clip of one's gun and then switching to another's blade, ridding himself of his vase piece by ramming it into someone's throat before clutching at a nearby chair and shoving it into a guard's ribs.  skidding past each threat, despite his own injuries, simon had hardly been able to believe his eyes as his captain took on attacker after attacker.  one was pushed aside into the open fireplace, and his screams had filled the main room as he darted about, flailing in an attempt to aid his burning crisis.  moments later, he'd dropped dead, along with four others at the hands of hawkins.  that was until, distracted by one, another managed to sneak up on his captain, but simon had fired a single shot in time and they'd collapsed into a heap.

three stabs into his final enemy's torso, hawkins had paused to look back  —  seeing the missed threat.  he'd glanced to simon and nodded in appreciation, then returned to finish his kill.  with the hvi's first wave of backup dead, the captain radioed for their pickup at a RV ( rendezvous ) point of his choice.

mexico.

with both of roba's men dead, he frantically begins searching the living space.  where did she hide his things?  he finds them stored atop one of her kitchen cupboards and clutches the bag tightly in one hand, his newfound gun in the other as he exits the home.  the rest of the nearby men had heard the shots and were rallying around the woman's building.  they're going to do whatever's necessary to get him back to his torturer.  but simon would sooner die than give in to further suffering.  as he crosses the path to the next house, bullets zip past him and he fires back.  he dives into the open doorway, with the home seemingly having been evacuated upon his discovery, and he does a swift search of the rooms  —  finding a lighter in the process.   " yes! "   he spits, his voice hoarse and throat sore, testing that it works.  it does.  from his bag, the molotov is retrieved and he sits at the door in waiting.

when he hears voices down the walkway, getting nearer, he doesn't hesitate in lighting the rag protruding from inside the bottle.  the flames burn eagerly, and a full shudder runs through him.  the second someone steps into view, the weapon is hauled into the air and it collides with them.  a blaze erupts and the man howls in agony, writhing and pleading to his disinterested god.  simon grins, delirious  —  he starts to laugh wildly.   HA  HA  HA  HA  HA!   his legs operate without command and he makes a run for the next house.

he's being closely tailed, prompting him to trigger his smoke bomb for cover.  holding his breath, he listens as they choke, racing for the backdoor and out into the unfamiliar garden where he lights his firecrackers in the can and tosses them over the fence in an attempt to mislead them.  his bag is ditched and he heaves himself over the opposite fence, ducking out of sight just in time.  the men enter the garden, spot the bag, hear the firecrackers and swiftly pursue them.

pushing himself back to his feet, ignoring the splitting pain in his gut, he ditches his emptied pistol and sneaks down the side of the house and through the gate where he unexpectedly encounters another of roba's men.  simon doesn't give him a chance to announce his location and plunges his knife into his throat, then once into his chest for good measure.  an animalistic snarl leaves the lieutenant as he tries to dislodge the blade but finds it wedged in place, and the approach of more men forces him to leave it behind.  from there, he runs.  he runs as fast as his feet will carry him, down the dirt path.

past.

" i'm impressed, simon, "   hawkins had broached.  the hvi had been secured and was on a separate helicopter to them, giving him a chance to speak freely.   " you really held your own, back there. "

" appreciate that, sir, but i can't say i agree with you, "   simon had disclosed, averting his gaze.

" and why's that? "

he'd frowned to himself, watching out the window of the chopper.   " wasn't as supportive as i'd like to'a been. "

" i told you, sergeant, you followed my orders and you kept yourself alive.  can you imagine what might've happened, had you looked for me?  you're no good t' the mission dead, lad. "

" s'pose it's hard t' see it that way right now, sir. "

" you'll come to understand.  the mission always comes first, with us.  it's what we're born an' bred for.  at times like that, you can only trust yourself, simon.  believe me.  besides, had i lost you, i might not've been able t' get the job done. "

simon had nodded along, though he remained curled in on himself.  it'd take him a while to recover from this mission.   " nephew's gonna love hearin' about this one, "   he'd decided to say, offering a small smirk.

hawkins had beamed back at him, bumping his shoulder with his fist.   " that's the spirit, sergeant. "

mexico.

his lungs had started to feel like they might collapse in on themselves.  he's never experienced this level of pain.  his mind begged for him to keep going but his body threatened to drop.  simon started to physically feel every deep cut in the soles of his feet, could sense the dirt inside of them.  he became aware that his skin was burned, hadn't previously noticed how red it'd gotten.  how his shoulders were blistering and his ears peeling.  god  —  his lips.  how many hours had he been running?  hiding out in gardens, and then running again.  ducking into ditches, near-suffocating in tight spaces...  he'd come to another garden, perhaps an hour ago, and hopped the fence only to come face to face with a beefy pitbull.

he sits at the small, inset pool, watching the still water and debates drinking from it.  in his arms lays the pitbull  —  dead.  he can't remember killing it but he knows it can only have been him.  it's his only source of comfort in this moment.  he swallows, looking back to the pool.  just  one  drink...

something crunches behind him and his head swings around only to be met with the full force of something hard.  all he can do is will himself to fall forwards, to splash delightfully into the sun-warmed water, to take a single sip...  but he falls backwards.  the dog falls out of his arms and to the side somewhere, and he stares upwards as his vision proceeds to blur.

" nos has tenido dando vueltas en círculos durante dos putos días,  ( you've had us going around in circles for two fucking days, ) "   a man's voice addresses him, though simon can't make out what he's saying.  he feels himself drifting, like he's rising to the heavens.   " no más.  ( no more. )  se acabó el juego, pendejo.  ( the game is over, pendejo. )  perdiste.  ( you lost. ) "