Desperate Measures ~ 11

[hemrage]

Masterpost for the verse: here.

Chapter 10
A/N – Been a long time, I’m sorry. I know this is short, but I figured posting something is better than posting nothing.

Chapter 11

Sam followed through side streets and alley ways, finally hunkering down in the overgrown garden of a small apartment block marked for demolition. His quarry leant in the entranceway of the lobby, shielded from casual observers. Not that there were any. When this apartment building was first erected there would’ve been plenty of traffic along this street, but Sam hadn’t seen a car for the last few blocks. He was surprised there were still buildings standing in the area, but then maybe the local political leaders were hoping for some kind of miracle – a sudden boom to the population. The only way that was going to happen was if one of the major cities started throwing people out – which, considering the need to maintain a reasonable sized workforce, was highly unlikely. Hope has a way of making people cling to things they should just give up as a lost cause.

The bastard he’d been following looked too fucking comfortable. The man didn’t pace, didn’t once look at his watch. His body language screamed ‘professional’ and Sam had to admit it worried him.

There was nothing like a stakeout to make a smoke seem like a fantastic fucking idea, especially when adrenaline was starting to surge.

It didn’t take long before the low hum of an engine announced a new arrival. From what he could see from his position, the car appeared expensive but non-descript. Electrical whir that indicated the driver was, if nothing else, environmentally aware. He put the mounting unease down to the instinct that had kept him alive the last twenty years of his life, the same instinct that led him to follow Jensen’s ‘friend’ and not Jensen himself.

The man didn’t draw attention to himself even though Sam knew he was fully aware of what was going on around him. Sam recognized the predator in him, the intensity, and didn’t doubt he was familiar with the same rush Sam had experienced when he’d witnessed life leave another man’s eyes.

Sam knew he was a paranoid son of a bitch at the best of times but, as Sarah had joked on too many occasions, in their line of work ‘Paranoia was a fickle bitch, but she could keep you alive if she had a mind to'. She’d served him well in war zones and she had served him even better once he’d joined the Network. It was too easy to trust people who offered help, too easy to take new recruits at face value.

Paranoia was his best friend … and she had yet to let him down.

Moving to a slightly better vantage point, Sam was able to witness the meeting, which, at first, had seemed quite genial. Hand outstretched, the stranger pulling the newcomer into a warm and friendly hug. But within minutes a few unheard words had soured what had seemed to be a discussion amongst friends.

The fragments of dialogue Sam had overheard revealed nothing, but he didn’t need an interpreter as, suddenly, the newcomer was forced to his knees with a knife to the gut. Didn’t need to see more than the death blow - and identifying signature – of a bullet that went in through the right eye, to know who the fuck he was looking at.

He knew the M.O.

As the new arrival fell to the ground, crimson haloing his shorn head, Sam thanked Paranoia for her unfailing record.

He waited until Jensen’s traveling companion had left in the dead man’s car before he moved in to check the body. It wasn’t that he was looking for signs of life, he just needed confirmation of something that was far more than a suspicion.

There’d been a few Intelligence Agency operatives who’d managed to worm their way into the Network. Infiltrate their fractured hierarchy and splinter the organization. They’d been found – eventually – but what made them good at what they did was their determination. Their inability to feel mercy or empathise with those they tortured for information or killed as a message. They were chosen for their loyalty to government and state, not friends or loved ones, and Sam knew, without a doubt, that the man he’d followed was one such man.

He’d not recognized the man himself, how could he? No one had ever had a run in with him and lived. But he certainly knew the signature of his handiwork. The state of the body was all too familiar, the mode of death the trademark of someone he’d studied even if he’d never been able to affix a face to the name.

Misha Krushnic. The man had been mentioned in Network briefings since even before Sam’d signed up to the cause. The name had been linked to far too many deaths within the Network – both trusted operatives and people who’d done nothing more than offer shelter or the answer to a question. He was more than an assassin, though. Krushnic believed the party line. He was a zealot and was undoubtedly one of the best operatives IA had and, to all intents and purposes, he had Jensen. Because there was no way someone like Krushnic would ever let Jensen out of his sight if he wasn’t completely confident that the leash was short enough to reel him in. Even if Jensen didn’t know it, there was no way it’d be safe to remove him from this situation. Not yet.

Cursing his discovery Sam retreated.

It would’ve been so much simpler if he’d just grabbed Jared, taken Jensen and run … but he’d spent days reminding himself that the situation was bigger than Jensen. Bigger than his need to get Jensen home and safe and back with his daughter and Jared’s son.

Fuck. He’d lost too much to the cause that’d robbed him of his wife, he really wasn’t up to losing more and he knew Krushnic was more than they could handle on their own.

He had to find Jared. Had to make sure the lovesick idiot didn’t do anything that’d get him dead.

---

Ross stared at the man in front of him, his earlier unease at being discovered where he really shouldn’t be, lost, replaced by a terror which was almost paralysing.

There was something about this man. He knew this man. Knew him. And Ross didn’t doubt that some of his past was tied to this stranger. The pain. So much pain. Pain that this man had caused. Pain that made not remembering a good thing. Not remembering…

“Jensen? Jensen, what’s wrong?”


Part 12