Fic: Jericho - Honor Bound - Adult 1/5

[tanaquiljall]

Title: Honor Bound
Fandom: Jericho
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Non-con/dub-con, sexual assault, torture, non-sexual violence
Pairings: Beck/Heather, Jake/Heather
Words: 45820 words
Summary: An AU to scribblesinink's Devil's Due. Heather has been kidnapped by Phil Constantino, who intends to execute her. Discovering where Heather may have been taken, Jake and Beck set off on horseback to try and get her back. But the rescue attempt goes wrong when they run into one of the AS Army's patrols.
Disclaimer: These stories are based on the Junction Entertainment/Fixed Mark Productions/CBS Paramount Television series Jericho. They were written for entertainment only; the author does not profit from them nor was any infringement of copyright intended.
Author's Note: This story is an AU to Awesome!Jakeverse, the shared post-season 2 verse being written by Scribbler (scribblesinink) and Tanaqui (tanaquific). It's been brewing in my mind ever since I saw the alternative ending to Season 2 of Jericho and the scenes in Loomer Ridge. Thanks to Scribbler (scribblesinink) for the beta.

oOo

"Well, well, well." Hoffman looked up from the map he'd been studying. "Major. It really is you. I didn't quite believe it when the patrol called it in." His gaze slid sideways. "And I do believe you're Jake Green." He looked back at Beck. "Not a combination I would've expected to find trying to sneak past my lines."

Not Beck's preferred combination either, but he and Jake hadn't had much choice. Not if they wanted to get Heather back from Constantino's clutches. And it would be easy for Beck to say it was bad luck they'd gotten captured, but he didn't believe in luck. No, it was setting out on a crazy mission with too few men and too little time to scout the creek crossing properly. With the result that they'd been totally taken by surprise when, having nearly reached the trickle of water moving sluggishly along the half-empty water course at the bottom of the creek, they heard a shout to their left.

Tipping his head back, Beck had spotted a soldier at the top of the bluff. He was joined a moment later by half a dozen others, their M-16s raised. From somewhere he couldn't see, he heard a humvee engine being gunned into life, and he guessed the rest of the party were headed downstream to circle round them. Not that it would have helped much to flee along the creek, in plain sight of those rifle scopes. Exchanging a resigned glance with Jake, Beck had gestured for the other man to find a way up to where Hoffman's patrol waited to arrest them.

Now, standing in front of Hoffman himself, Beck again looked across at Jake, who nodded in confirmation: in the back of the humvee on the way to Hoffman's headquarters, they'd held a hurried debate about what to do next. Beck didn't think there was much hope for either of them, but the least they could do was try and make sure Heather still got rescued.

He turned back to Hoffman. "Phil Constantino sent several assassination squads into Jericho last night." Hoffman didn't blink, which Beck thought was as much of an admission that he knew about them as if he'd said it out loud. "One of the squads kidnapped Heather Lisinski. They're taking her back to New Bern. We understand Constantino plans to hold a public execution in front of City Hall."

Hoffman did raise his eyebrows a little at that. "That's quite a story."

Beck could sense Jake thrumming with barely suppressed impatience. Only half aware he was doing so, Beck gestured a little with his tied hands to tell him to keep calm. "It's no story. One of Constantino's people warned us, but too late. We captured one of the squads and they confirmed it. She may not have much time before...."

"I see." Hoffman pulled out a chair and settled himself in it, crossing one leg over the other. "You know, I don't know what lies Hawkins and his terrorists friends fed you, but the ASA does believe in the rule of law."

At Beck's side Jake snorted. "Right. Your laws. The ones that let you torture people while you cover up mass murders?"

"Jake...." Beck twisted so he could put a hand on Jake's arm, urging him to hold on to his temper.

"No." Jake glared at Beck. "We know he let Constantino execute Ted Lewis. We know he put him back in charge of New Bern. Why are we even talking to him?"

"Because he's holding us prisoner, and he's our only chance of saving Heather," Beck snapped back, meeting Jake glare for glare.

He turned back to Hoffman and met the colonel's amused gaze. "You do remember Heather, don't you? She was my liaison, before...." Beck left the sentence unfinished. He cleared his throat. "Constantino regards her as a traitor to New Bern for the work she did for me. For the work she did for us. I recall you recommended her specifically for the position." He hoped Hoffman would feel at least some of the guilt he did.

Hoffman nodded, steepling his hands. "I also recall you reporting that she turned out to be a double agent. She stole confidential material from the ASA, and has been instrumental in aiding the insurrection in Jericho. Give me one good reason why I should believe this pile of horseshit about her being kidnapped."

Jake had apparently had enough of Hoffman's soft-spoken disdain. With a cry of frustration, he lunged at Hoffman across the table, trying to fling himself out of the grip of the soldier who held him. "Because they're going to hang her if someone doesn't get to her in time." The soldier hauled him back.

Hoffman, ignoring Jake, continued to meet Beck's gaze. Beck swallowed, trying to get his own anger and frustration under control. "Look, do you really think that if I had some operation going on, I'd be out here with him," he jerked his head at Jake, "risking getting captured myself? Do you think I'd be doing something this stupid if—?" He took a deep breath. "They're taking her to the old Franklin mine." He tilted his head toward Jake again. "Jake can tell you where that is. At least send a patrol to investigate. Please."

Hoffman continued to look at him, his eyes narrowed. Beck hoped he was remembering the months they'd served together. That this wasn't the kind of stunt Beck pulled. When Hoffman still didn't reply, Beck stepped forward and, awkwardly leaning his shackled hands on the table, said softly, "You and I both know that killing the enemy in a sneak attack is one thing, Colonel. But a public lynching? For the 'crime' of trying to help the government? A government that Constantino was trying to overthrow just a few weeks back?" He shook his head. "You know as well as I do, that's unacceptable."

Hoffman snorted. "Strikes me Constantino and New Bern are only—."

"Come on, Bob!" Beck didn't use Hoffman's first name often, but he knew a decent man wore that ASA uniform, and he was determined to reach him. "The ASA would at least give her a trial and conduct an execution in a civilized manner, not in front of a baying mob. What Constantino's up to is exactly the kind of thing you sent me here to stop."

Hoffman shifted uncomfortably under Beck's gaze for a moment, before he nodded. "Lieutenant Marsh!" he barked.

"Sir." One of the junior officers loitering on the far side of the map table snapped to attention.

"Take three squads out to the—." He turned to Jake. "Where did you say?"

"The old Franklin mine." When Hoffman tilted his head , Jake stepped forward, studied the map for a moment and then pointed. "Here."

Hoffman half turned his head toward the lieutenant. "Take three squads and see if there's any truth in this story. If you find Miss Lisinski, bring her back."

"Sir." The lieutenant took another look at the map and then started round the table for the door.

"Oh and lieutenant," Hoffman looked back at Beck grimly. "If Constantino or his henchmen are out there and deny having seen her, search the place thoroughly until you find her."

oOo

Heather had eventually realized trying to loosen the screws on the door hinges with the multi-tool was futile. Shoving the tool back into her pocket, she squatted down as far away from the door as she could get and gave herself over to waiting.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed—it seemed like the way the sunlight bounced around the mine kept the bright slivers that found their way into the shed pretty steady—before she heard several trucks approaching. There was the sound of doors opening, and voices, although she couldn't make out much other than someone demanding to know where Constantino was.

The voices moved off—into the office, probably—and everything went quiet, apart from the low grumble of the truck engines still running. A few minutes later, she heard several pairs of boots approaching. She scrambled to her feet as the padlock rattled, her heart thudding. The door swung open and she blinked against the sudden brightness.

"Ma'am?" The figure in the doorway bulked oddly, until she realized the man was wearing a helmet and tac vest. "Miss Lisinski?"

"Yes." She could barely hear the word herself. What were the Army doing here? Russell had said Hoffman had given Constantino free rein for the assassination attempts, so why were his troops getting involved now? She swallowed and tried again. "Yes," she managed a little more loudly.

"Please come with us, ma'am." The soldier took half a step back and gestured for her to leave the shed. When she stood frozen, wondering whether she was going to face a firing squad rather than a hanging, he added, "Colonel Hoffman sent us, ma'am. We're to take you to headquarters. You're safe now."

She hesitated for a moment longer, and then it occurred to her that if Hoffman was in on her execution, the soldier wouldn't have sounded quite so uncertain when confirming her identity, or half so polite. Pushing herself away from the wall, she allowed him to shepherd her out of the shed.

Outside, the light was even more blinding. She squinted as the solider, a lieutenant by his patches, escorted her to one of three humvees pulled up beyond the pickups. Constantino was standing outside the office where he'd threatened her a few hours before. He scowled as he watched the lieutenant settle her in the back of one of the humvees, and that in itself was enough to reassure her that she really was being rescued.

As they climbed slowly up the steep switchback road out of the mine, she wondered how Colonel Hoffman had gotten wind of this particular part of Constantino's plans. Maybe someone other than Russell had baulked at the scheme? However it had happened, she was glad to discover there were limits to what Hoffman would allow, despite letting Constantino take charge again in New Bern. For all Hoffman had refused to listen to Edward's attempts to persuade him that he was serving the wrong people, she'd thought him merely cynical about politicians and generals, not devoid of a sense of right and wrong. It was some comfort to find she'd hadn't misjudged him completely—especially as it seemed she was now on her way to see him.

oOo

Heather found that being shown into his presence turned out to be uncomfortably like going to see Edward. It made her wonder—not that she hadn't been already—if Edward was okay, if Jake was okay, everyone back in Jericho. She remembered what Constantino had said about moving up his plans. If the team that was supposed to be firebombing Bailey's had hit while—. She pushed the thought away.

"Miss Lisinski." Colonel Hoffman dipped his head at her. "My men seem to be making quite a habit of rescuing you from unfortunate situations."

"Yes." Heather nodded gratefully. "Yes. Thank you, Colonel. I don't know how—."

"Don't thank me too soon." Hoffman unfolded himself from where he'd been lounging against a table littered with maps. "I gather that, among other acts contrary to the interests of the government, I have you to congratulate for ensuring Jericho still has power." His mouth twitched with the wry amusement she remembered from when she'd asked him which government was in charge. He gestured in the general direction of the maps. "You do realize I can't send you back there?"

Heather swallowed. She wasn't terribly surprised by that. Getting the wind turbines up hadn't just been about making sure the town had power but also about making sure Hoffman knew they weren't going to roll over without a fight. She couldn't imagine he'd been very happy when he'd found out what she'd done—she guessed Constantino or one of his people had told him—or that he was feeling nearly as well-disposed toward her as last time they'd met.

"Where are you going to send me?" She wondered if she'd ever find out what had happened in Jericho, and whether Constantino's plans had succeeded.

"An ASA detention facility." Hoffman shrugged. "One appropriate for terrorists and traitors."

Heather gazed at him blankly for a moment, not understanding what he was saying, before she caught his meaning. "I'm not." She tilted her chin up and looked him in the eye. "The only traitors are Thomas Valente and Senator Tomarchio—" She wasn't going to dignify him with the stolen title of president. "—and the officers who follow their illegal orders."

Hoffman seemed taken aback for a moment, and then he snorted. "I was right. You do have a lot of spirit. Pity it's so misplaced. A word of advice, sweetheart." He dipped his head and gave her what she supposed was a fatherly smile. "You're not going to do yourself any good by continuing to spout terrorist propaganda."

"It's not propaganda." Heather took a step forward, wondering why he couldn't see it. Why he didn't seem to care. "Valente knows what Cheyenne is saying about the bombs is a lie. Knew the attacks were going to happen. And the corruption, the arbitrary arrests, the—."

"That's enough!" Hoffman took a step toward her, his angry bark cutting her off. He shook his head, like he was disappointed in her. "You seem like a very... loyal young woman. But your loyalty to your friends is misplaced. The Allied States is the legitimate government of this country, and the sooner you accept that, the better." With an angry jerk of the head, Hoffman nodded to the soldier still standing behind her. "She's to go with the others. Tell the lieutenant to get the transport on the road as soon as possible."

Heather opened her mouth to argue back, but Hoffman was already turning away. She snapped her mouth shut, suddenly feeling too tired to argue any more; when the soldier took her arm, she listlessly let him march her out of the tent.

As they trudged across the camp toward a humvee parked some yards away, she wondered what would happen to her next. She remembered Edward telling her, after he'd found out about her stealing the page from the report, that he could have her imprisoned or executed. What she'd done since then was probably much, much worse in Cheyenne's eyes. The only comfort was that her execution wouldn't be feeding Constantino's sick hold on the people of New Bern. And she hoped that Hoffman would at least let whoever was left in Jericho know that she'd been rescued from Constantino's clutches.

They rounded the end of the humvee and the soldier shoved her toward the open rear door. "Get in."

His words were drowned out by another, much more familiar voice, exclaiming, "Oh my god! Heather?"

"Jake?" Heather tipped her head up and met his relieved gaze. He was hunched on one of the bench seats that ran the length of the back of the humvee. Suddenly, her unexpected rescue by Hoffman's troops began to make sense: Jake must have come after her, like she'd hoped, and gotten caught.

The soldier behind her gave her another shove, telling her to hurry up. As she climbed in, Jake reached out his hands to her—she realized with a start that they were bound with a plastic strip—and she put out her hand to grasp his. Even as she felt the reassuring warmth of his skin under her fingers, her gaze was drawn past him into the far reaches of the humvee, to the figure sitting next to him.

"Edward?"

He only had time to give her a small, tight smile of acknowledgment before another soldier climbed in behind her.

"Sit down and keep quiet." The newcomer roughly pushed her down onto the seat opposite, tearing her hands away from Jake's and sandwiching her between him and a third soldier already in the humvee, whose rifle, resting across his chest, covered Jake and Edward.

The soldier who'd escorted her from Hoffman's tent banged the rear door closed, plunging the back of the humvee into gloom, and rapped twice on the side of the truck. A moment later, they lurched off.

Heather turned her gaze from Jake to Edward and back again as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. She saw that Edward's hands were also bound. If the situation hadn't been so desperate, she would have laughed. As it was, she had to hold down a hysterical giggle. They'd done like she'd asked and worked together—and gotten caught together.

Caught trying to rescue her. She wasn't sure she was worth Jericho losing both its leaders. And if Constantino had moved up the rest of his plans, there might be nobody left in charge....

oOo

The soldier on Heather's right shifted and smothered a yawn. They'd been on the road maybe half an hour, and it was getting warm in the back of the humvee, though nowhere near as hot as the shed back at the mine had been. Heather's legs were cramping, but she hadn't dared move since the soldier thrust her into place. Sneaking another look at the guards on either side—the one on her left had his head turned away from her and was staring out the rear window of the humvee—she tried to unobtrusively wriggle into a more comfortable position on the bench and stretch her legs a little.

Opposite her, Jake also stretched, his foot bumping against hers. She would have drawn her legs in again, but he tapped his foot against hers a second time. She looked up at him, the first time she'd done so in a while; she'd been too embarrassed to look at either him or Edward once the implications of both of them getting caught had begun to sink in.

Jake met her gaze and held it for a moment, before he lowered his lashes, tilting his head forward slightly at the same time. She gave him a puzzled frown; he made the same gesture again, and she suddenly understood that he wanted her to look down again. What on earth—?

Slowly lowering her gaze, she saw he had one hand resting on top of the other, two fingers extended. As she watched, he curled them back into a fist, and then extended the two fingers again. With a little surge of excitement, she realized he was signing the first letter of her name.

Thinking frantically, she tried to remember the rest of the fingerspelling alphabet she'd learned in a college class on dealing with disabled students. J was an easy one, even though you didn't use it much. Crossing her own wrists in her lap, she made a fist, raised her little finger and drew it in a curve through the air, trying to keep the movement as small as possible.

Looking up as she made the gesture again, she saw Jake was watching her hands. He lifted his gaze and met hers and nodded, a relieved smile breaking out on his face. Glancing down again, she saw he was beginning to sign something else, but she gave a slight shake of her head and held her hand out flat, signaling she wanted him to wait. Obediently, he curled his hand into a fist.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she began to sign her way through the alphabet, trying to remember the chart in her textbook. She got stuck on P. Opening her eyes and looking at Jake again, she gave him a slight, hopeless shrug. He gave her an encouraging smile and made the sign for her; she copied him, and then went on, until she reached the end of the alphabet with a sigh of relief.

When she was done, he gave her another smile. Then began the strangest conversation she'd ever held. It felt like they were conducting it mostly in textspeak, as they both looked to find the shortest way to say anything. After a while, her head began to ache: just deciphering what Jake was trying to say was hard enough, let alone trying to remember how to sign herself. But she kept going, because she didn't know how long they'd be kept together, and there were things she needed to know and things he probably needed her to tell him.

"U OK?" was the first thing he signed, and she answered with a Y. When she asked him the same question, she got a Y and a rueful shrug back. She began to sign "Jericho?" but he got it after three letters and signed back an "All OK". When she started on "Jimmy?" she got back another "OK" and felt a weight lift that she'd scarcely known had been pressing down on her.

She was about to ask him for more details when he put his hand out flat. Lifting her gaze, she caught the merest shake of his head, confirming his gesture telling her not to sign. At the same moment, she became aware that the soldier on her right was stirring and yawning. He wriggled his shoulders a little and shifted on the seat, before making himself more comfortable in the corner.

Watching Jake, waiting for him to let her know it was safe to talk again, she saw he had half closed his eyes. It almost looked as if he, too, was taking a nap, but she guessed he could still see her hands well enough. Glancing down, she saw him sign "Go", and they began signing again.

In slow, fractured sentences, stopping every now and then when the soldiers looked like they might be paying attention, he told her about the firebombing, and how a patrol had picked up one of Constantino's teams, that Perkins had confessed where she'd been taken, and that he and Beck had set off on horseback. "Why you?" she'd asked him, and he'd answered, "Who else?" She wasn't sure, when she looked up at his face, whether he simply meant there'd been no one else to send, or whether he meant something more.

It was around then that she noticed, out of the corner of her eye, that Edward was watching them. Putting out her hand to tell Jake to wait, she shifted slightly so she was angled more toward Edward and signed an E. But he only shook his head sadly and spread his hands to indicate he didn't know how to join in.

She'd signed a T and a Y to him, just in case he understood that much, before she turned back to Jake and signed the same. It felt entirely inadequate—but she wasn't sure how, even if they could have spoken normally, she could have expressed how much it meant to her that they'd come after her. He shrugged slightly, and signed an Y and a W, which she guessed stood for "you're welcome".

They went on talking after that, the conversation proceeding in fits and starts—about how they'd gotten captured by Hoffman's patrol, and her meeting with Constantino, and them finding Charlotte—while the humvee rumbled over the blacktop, eating up the miles to wherever they were going and whatever fate awaited them when they got there.

oOo

It was dark by the time the humvee drew to a halt and they were allowed to climb out for the last time. Beck guessed they'd been on the road for maybe seven or eight hours, with a couple of stops to change drivers. Each time, they'd been given some water and allowed to relieve themselves. Heather had been taken round the far side of the humvee; he wondered if the soldier with her had been polite enough or bashful enough to turn his back on her. When he'd given her an inquiring look—the guards still wouldn't let them talk—she'd replied with a rueful shrug and a wry smile. He guessed that, rough as the treatment they were getting was, it was an improvement on the handling she'd gotten from Constantino's thugs. He also took it as a good sign that Jake didn't seem particularly worried about her—or no more than the situation in general warranted—so he guessed that whatever she was telling him in the intervals when they dared resume their silent conversation was keeping him reassured.

Following the two of them out of the humvee, Beck looked around, trying to guess where they were. They'd stopped outside a cluster of low buildings next to a high chainlink fence topped with razor wire. In the arclights that lit the compound, Beck could see a second fence a hundred yards beyond that, with bare ground in between. A watchtower loomed above them, off to the right; nearby, a gate was sliding shut with a clang. He'd never seen the place, but he'd bet a month's worth of rations they were in Loomer Ridge.

The soldiers herded them through a set of double doors into the nearest building, past a mesh-windowed booth that held a watchful guard, and along a drab hallway lit by flickering fluorescents. Finally, they were shown into what was clearly an interview room, thought it was bare of furniture. The soldier holding Heather's arm gave her a shove, and she took a few steps forward into the room, before she stopped and stood there listlessly, as if she didn't have the will to do anything else.

Another of the soldiers pulled out a knife and cut the tie around Jake's wrists, while the third soldier stepped back and raised his rifle to cover the three of them. While Beck waited for his own wrists to be freed, he watched Jake step forward and touch Heather on the arm. She turned, and he gathered her to him in a bear hug. Her arms came up to grip his shoulders as she returned the hug. Beck was reminded of when he'd first seen them together, in the sheriff's department a few short months ago.

The guards backed out of the room and Beck heard the door being locked. He slowly approached Jake and Heather, feeling like an interloper. Heather must've been aware of him, though, because she pushed back from Jake—Beck noticed he didn't let go of her—and reached out a hand to grip Beck's arm.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he shook his head urgently, taking a step closer so that an observer wouldn't be able to see much more than their backs. "They're watching," he murmured, indicating the mirrors that covered the upper half of one wall. "Probably listening, as well." The opposite wall had openings cut into it, covered with wire mesh, that let on to another room. It was dark in there, the only light falling coming from the fluorescents above them where it fell through the openings, but it looked similar to the room they were in. It was impossible to see if anyone was lurking in the shadows.

He turned his head and met Jake's gaze. He could feel the tension in the other man, sense the way Jake's muscles were bunching to pull Heather away from Beck. Then, with an obvious effort, Jake relaxed, puffing out his cheeks and nodding in acknowledgment.

Beck let out the breath he'd been holding. He didn't think his days of butting heads with Jake were over, but he was glad that Jake was smart enough to recognize the current situation trumped their personal antagonism.

He shifted his attention back to Heather. "In the humvee." He kept his voice low. "You two were communicating?" When Heather nodded, he added softly but firmly, not quite a question and not quite an order, "Teach me."

Again, she nodded.

Before they had a chance to say anything more—there was so much Beck wanted to warn them about!—he heard the unmistakable sound of the door being unlocked. The three of them turned and watched as two armed prison guards entered. They wore dark brown uniforms that resembled Ravenwood gear closely enough that Beck guessed they were also J&R employees. It was not an encouraging thought.

One of them kept his weapon—a large semi-automatic pistol—trained on them, while the other pointed at them and said, "You. Beck."

Heather's hand tightened on his arm. For a moment, Beck considered refusing the command, but quickly decided against it. It would be almost entirely futile, and he didn't see much value in getting beaten to a pulp just to prove how cussed he could be. Better play along and spy out the lay of the land, and trust he'd be reunited with the other two at some point. He didn't think they would have been driven all this way if someone didn't want to talk to them before they were all executed.

Giving Heather what he hoped was a reassuring smile, he headed for the door. Once through it, he was marched further along the hallway to another interrogation room. He hesitated on the threshold when he saw who was waiting for him—although he wasn't really that surprised, was he?—but the guards shoved him forward and into a chair. A quick glance behind him told him they'd taken a pace back, but were still close enough to grab him if he made a lunge for the man leaning on his cane on the far side of the table.

"Major Beck." Valente lifted the cane and pointed at him. "You have been something of a disappointment."

Beck linked his hands and rested them on the table, giving Valente back look for look, though he bit down on the urge to reply that Valente had proved equally disappointing to him.

Valente dropped the cane and took a pace sideways. He sighed heavily. "You were singularly inefficient in locating the terrorist. Had you done your job properly, we would not be having this... unfortunate meeting."

Beck watched Valente from under lowered lids. His presence all but confirmed they were in Loomer Ridge; Beck had never been told precisely where it was, but he'd gathered it was only an hour or two from Cheyenne by road. Even so, he wondered just why the ASA's Director of Homeland Security had made the trip from Cheyenne to have this chat, rather than leaving it to trained interrogators to extract any useful information the three of them might have.

He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction that Valente would almost certainly be wasting his time with him. Beck had only the sketchiest knowledge of Dale's smuggling contacts or the wider resistance movement they were trying to build outside Jericho, while any insight into the Texans' plans was limited to whatever snippets Mack Davis was allowed to pass on by his superiors. The little intelligence Beck did possess was strictly local, and it would have better served Valente to leave him to Hoffman, in hopes of breaking the stalemate and freeing up several thousand troops who could be deployed elsewhere.

Valente leaned on his cane and again sighed. "I trust you are aware how unpleasant things may become here. However, there is no need for such... inconveniences. Simply make a broadcast to your company commanders to tell them to surrender, and assist me in finding the real terrorist, Robert Hawkins, and you will be transferred to a far more... comfortable facility than this one."

Valente undoubtedly thought he was making a tempting offer. And that, Beck reflected, summed up the gulf between the two of them. He had no doubt that one day if—when, he promised himself silently—Valente was brought to justice, he'd sell out his co-conspirators in a heartbeat if he thought he could cut a deal. Whereas Beck....

He didn't reply for a moment. Then he leaned back and crossed his arms and, meeting Valente's gaze again, said coldly and clearly, "Major Edward Beck, United States Army. Five-two-five, two-six, four-three-eight-nine. Born October 1, 1962."

Valente looked at him in surprise for a moment, and then he laughed, a small, dry sound. "You seem to be under the impression, Major, that you are a prisoner of war, rather than a traitor and criminal. I can assure you that the Geneva Convention does not apply here."

That wasn't really news to Beck. Even if Valente had regarded him as a prisoner of war, the ASA didn't have much respect for human rights. He pushed away the memory of what he'd done himself, to Jake and to Jericho, in the ASA's name. He couldn't change the past; what was important was that he did the right thing now.

He didn't reply, just continued to stare Valente down. Valente was the one to break eye contact first, on pretense of picking up a folder that had been sitting on the table and flicking it open. Beck was again uncomfortably reminded of his own interrogation of Jake.

"You have an admirable service record." Valente had flipped through a couple of pages. "I see here that you received Class C SERE training prior to your deployment to Afghanistan." He looked up from the file and smiled sardonically. "It will be... useful to discover how effective that training is. Meanwhile," Valente's lip curled in disdain, "perhaps Mr Green will be more co-operative."

Beck snorted. "Good luck with that." He'd tried his hardest to break Jake, and everything he'd done had just made Jake more defiant and determined. Beck was glad about that now.

Valente closed the file and slapped it down on the table. As if knowing the way Beck's thoughts ran, he sneered, "Everybody breaks, Major." He nodded at the two guards behind Beck, and Beck found himself being hustled from Valente's presence and back to the first room they'd been taken to,

There, he found Jake and Heather sitting on the floor in one corner, leaning against the wall. Jake had his arm around Heather, and her head rested on his shoulder. She looked absolutely exhausted, while Jake had the kind of jittery alertness that Beck recognized from the battlefield. He guessed he didn't look much better himself.

Seeing them like that together, he'd felt a rush of irritation. He wished he'd had a chance to warn them not to show too much affection toward each other. It was dangerous; the guards would use anything and everything against them, including each other. Then he laughed inwardly as he realized it was already too late: hadn't he and Jake demonstrated how much Heather mattered to them by getting caught making a half-assed foray deep into enemy territory in an attempt to get her back from Constantino's clutches?

As the guards pushed Beck into the room, Jake and Heather scrambled to their feet. Heather gave him a tight smile, and even Jake managed to look relieved at his return.

"Green!" the guard ordered. Jake glanced down at Heather and gave her a slight nod, before he stepped away from her to join the guard. As Jake passed him, Beck murmured "Valente". Jake grimaced and jerked his head back toward Heather. Beck took it as a sign that Jake wanted him to take care of her.

Once the door clanged shut behind Jake, Beck crossed over to her.

Again she took his arm, her gaze raking across his face. "Are you...?" She mouthed the words as much as spoke them.

"I'm good." He kept his voice low as he replied. Glancing at the mirrored wall, he drew them to sit down where she and Jake had been resting, understanding that one or other of them had chosen the place where it would be hardest to observe them from the other side of the mirror. Remembering again how the two of them had leaned against each other, he realized that part of his irritation at seeing them like that sprang from envy at Jake's easy familiarity around Heather. The more his own friendship with her deepened, the more awkward he felt when he was with her.

Pushing his feelings aside, because he didn't know how much time they'd have together, he took her hand in his. He curled her fingers into a fist and repeated what he'd said earlier: "Teach me."

Nodding, she frowned for a moment, and then pointed a finger at him, before forming her hand into four distinct shapes. Then she pointed at him again, and repeated the hand gestures.

He guessed she was signing his name. Indicating himself, he repeated the gestures back to her, and was rewarded with a smile. He pointed at her and raised his eyebrows, and she spelled out her name for him, twice. He recognized the E shape their names shared. Carefully, he signed her name back to her, fixing the letters in his mind.

He allowed himself a small smile as he realized he might have learned no more than a half dozen letters, but he had three key ones. With a quick glance up to check she was watching, he offered her the first three letters of the alphabet.

He saw her hands shape a fourth letter almost automatically on the heels of his ABC. With a nod, he started again and ran through the first three and then added the D she'd just shown him. And, of course, the E he already knew. They went slowly on, his hand aching as he forced his fingers into the strange patterns. A few times, she had to reach out and help him make the shape; he felt her trembling, and wondered if it was exhaustion or fear or cold, or all three.

When they finally reached the end of the alphabet, he ran through the whole thing again a couple of times, only stumbling a little occasionally. He looked up at Heather, checking she was watching him, and began to sign his first question. She reached out and put her left hand over his, stopping him, while with her right she signed a T and a Y. She did so again, the fingers of her left hand giving his a squeeze, and he realized she was saying "thank you". He thought back to what she'd tried to sign to him in the humvee, and decided it was probably the same thing.

He lifted his gaze to meet hers and shrugged, before he began to laboriously spell out, frowning as he concentrated on remembering the letter-shapes, “Are you OK?”

She signed a Y back to him and looking up, he saw she was nodding and giving him a tired but reassuring smile. With a touch on his wrist, she drew his attention back down to her hands and slowly spelled out. “Not secret, talk.” A slight lift of her shoulder seemed to indicate the last word was a question, and he guessed she meant that if what they had to say was something their captors already knew, they didn’t have to sign it. He nodded at her and signed a Y.

Her voice when she spoke was a little hoarse. “They knocked me out with something—. ”

“Chloroform?” he offered.

She bobbed her head in agreement. “Carted me off to a mine outside New Bern. Constantino—” A shiver ran through her. “—threatened me a bit, and then they locked me in a shed for a while. Then Hoffman’s soldiers turned up and got me out.” She looked around her and gave a small snort. “I guess things could’ve turned out a lot worse.”

Beck tried to block out the sudden memory of a dusty village somewhere deep in Kandahar province where he and his men had cut down three bodies swinging in the wind: men from the neighboring village who’d been mixed up in some petty dispute about... something. He’d never quite gotten to the bottom of it, and the roots of it seemed to go back decades, if not centuries. He realized that part of the way he’d dealt with it at the time was by telling himself that it was crazy foreigners with their crazy religions. Not good Christian folks in the mid-West....

He pushed away the memory—and the thought that he had gotten it all wrong when he'd called Heather naïve, that he'd been the one with blinders on—and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I got you into all this. I should have never asked you to be my liaison....”

Heather shook her head. “You didn’t. Get me into this, I mean. It’s not your fault that Phil Constantino's... like he is. And anyway—.”

She stopped speaking at the sound of the door being unlocked again. They hastily got to their feet, his arm under her elbow to help her up, as the door opened and Jake was returned to them. He was wearing the defiant air that Beck knew all too well: Valente had obviously rubbed him the wrong way. One day, Beck promised himself, when they'd all gotten out of here and the ASA was just a bad memory, he was going to have to track Hawkins down just to ask him how the hell he'd managed to work with Jake for months without putting his back up.

Dismissing the thought, Beck clenched his fists as the guards called Heather's name and escorted her away. He guessed Valente wanted a look at each of them, to see what levers he could use. And Heather, in her quiet way, had been a key part of exposing Valente's machinations and keeping the resistance going. Watching her leave the room, he allowed himself a small smile: he didn't think Valente would have much success with her either; she was quite as stubborn as Jake when she wanted to be.

He wasn't much surprised by the way Jake also turned and watched Heather leave, stiffening as the guard roughly grabbed her arm and dragged her out. Or the way Jake carried on looking at the door even after it was closed and locked again, as if he could see through metal and brick and follow her into Valente's presence.

Clearing his throat and making sure he trod heavily, Beck cautiously approached and touched Jake on the arm. Jake started and shook himself and then looked down at Beck. Making sure their bodies were angled so his gestures were hidden from any observer, Beck began to sign, "What—?"

Jake let out a snort of laughter, apparently amused that Beck had learned to sign in the time he'd been away, before he sobered. Raising his gaze, he caught Beck's eye and gave him an approving nod. Then he dipped his head, indicating Beck should go on.

Beck only got out the first three syllables of "What did Valente want?" before Jake began to answer. It took Beck a moment to catch on to the slight differences in the way Jake formed the letters compared with Heather, but Jake's signing was easy to read, especially as Beck already had some idea of what the answer would be: "Hawkins. Texas plans. You?"

Beck repeated back the letter-shapes for Hawkins, which earned another snort from Jake, and then spelled out "Order surrender." When Jake raised his eyebrows, Beck glared at him and spelled out "No" twice with rather more vehemence than his previous answers.

Jake's next question was, "Know where we are?"

Beck shrugged and signed back, "Loomer Ridge. Probably."

Jake's nod suggested it was the answer he'd expected. "Anyone ever escaped?"

Beck shook his head. He'd never heard of anyone coming out of Loomer Ridge once they went in. It was part of the reason why he'd listened and granted Jake's ridiculous request to name Dale as an informant in his investigation into Sarah Mason. Whatever Dale was up to, it wasn't bad enough to be sent here. Parker—Chavez—on the other hand, he'd had no compunction in shipping off to Loomer Ridge, although he supposed now it was a good thing the transport had never made it, even if it was at the cost of three lives.

"Look for chance," he suggested silently. Not that he expected there to be any. Still, it was the only plan he could come up with, right now. His main hope was that they could at least all remain in touch within the prison. Seeing the frustrated expression on Jake's face, he added as an afterthought, "Don't provoke...."

Jake's expression darkened, but before he could reply, they heard the door being unlocked again.

oOo

Jake had to admit he was impressed by how quickly Beck had picked up the fingerspelling. He was less impressed that Beck seemed no less patronizing when restricted to sign language than he normally was. Did he think Jake wasn't aware that provoking the guards would be a bad idea? Jake's left hand instinctively curled into a fist, but he'd only just begun to formulate a retort that, even signed, would convey the full extent of his contempt for Beck's suggestion when he was diverted by the sound of the guards returning.

He swung round toward the door, his pulse quickening. The whole time he and Beck had been talking, he'd been worrying about what Valente, or the guards, were doing to Heather. But when the door swung open, there was no sign of her, only of several guards in the hallway. He sprang forward. "Where's—?"

The guard who'd opened the door drew his pistol and pointed it at Jake, even as Beck caught his arm and pulled him back.

The guard sneered at them. "You'll find out soon enough. Move." He waggled the pistol to indicate they should step out into the corridor.

"You're not going to do Heather any good if you get yourself shot," Beck hissed at him as they headed for the door. Jake gave him an annoyed look; he knew that. He knew he had to keep his cool. He just.... He grimaced: it was just that, where Heather was concerned, he lost all reason. It was his fault, after all, she'd gotten dragged into all this....

When they got out into the hallway, he saw with relief that she was standing at the far end, near the main entrance to the building, watched over by a couple of guards. With more guards flanking him and Beck, they headed all outside and across the prison to another, larger block.

Here, they were processed into the jail. In the first room, photographs were taken and their fingerprints scanned, while a clerk tapped other information into a computer. Jake wasn't surprised, when he caught a glimpse of the computer screen, to see the J&R logo glowing in one corner. He wondered when they'd be tattooed with barcodes or implanted with ID chips.

From there, the guards hustled them into a second room, where hatches led through into what looked like a store room, shelving stretching into the distance. Another clerk lounged at one of the hatches, a smirk on his face. When the guards had lined the three of them up, the clerk looked them up and down, before he disappeared in back.

While they waited for him to return, one of the guards pointed at Beck, who was at one end of the row. "Strip," he ordered.

Beck raised an eyebrow. "Here? In front of...?" He glanced sideways, past Jake, to Heather.

Looking at her as well, Jake saw her cheeks had gone pink, and she'd half turned her head away.

"Now." The guard unshipped a stun baton from his belt and pointed it at Beck. "If it's something the young lady hasn't seen before, she'd better get used to it." He laughed derisively. "Unless you're afraid she'll find out you don't measure up."

The guard's words send a chill down Jake's spine. He was only dimly aware of Beck undressing, the major's movements stiff and his gaze fixed straight ahead; his own attention was focused on Heather, on what the guard had said and what it might mean. If they were separated.... A small voice in the back of his mind pointed out that, right now, even with all three of them in the room together, there wouldn't be much they could do against six armed guards.

"Your turn." The guard poked Jake in the shoulder with the stun baton. Remembering Beck's admonition not to provoke their captors, Jake restricted himself to a snort of disgust before he began to strip.

The clerk had come back with a stack of clothing that he separated into three piles, before barking "Shoe size!" at them. Heather's voice was barely above a whisper as she gave her answer, and Jake had to swallow and wet his tongue before he could force his out. Even Beck's reply sounded hoarse. The clerk disappeared again.

Jake dropped his underpants, adding them to the pile in front of him. He felt goosebumps rising as a draft of cold air from somewhere behind him hit him. He resisted the temptation to hold his hands in front of him, because he was damned if he was going to let the guards know how humiliating this was. Instead, he let them hang limply at his side.

"And now it's the young lady's turn." Jake could almost hear the guard's leer in the way he spoke.

"What?" Jake swung his head round to look at Heather.

The guard took a moment to smirk at Jake and Beck; behind him, Jake heard Beck's sharp, quiet protest of "Officer!"

Then the guard turned back to Heather and, with the tip of his baton, tilted up her chin. "Get on with it," he ordered.

"No!" Without thinking, Jake launched himself at the guard. He heard Heather whisper his name despairingly as the stun baton was slammed into his stomach. He doubled over, falling to his knees. As he curled around the pain, gasping for breath, he dimly realized he'd gotten lucky: the guard had only hit him with the baton and not shocked him.

Black spots were still dancing on his eyelids and he was struggling to get his breath back when he felt Heather's touch on his arm. Forcing open his eyes, he realized she was crouching down next to him. To his surprise, she slid her hand down his arm until she could grab his hand in both of hers and shove something warm and hard into his palm. She curled his fingers closed around it, before she put her arm around his shoulder.

Drawing in another lungful of air, he let her help him back to his feet. Her hand lingered on his shoulder and she caught his eye. "It's okay," she whispered, before she stepped back.

He watched her turn and square up to the guard, meeting his gaze unflinchingly as she kicked off her shoes, dragged her top over her head and worked her way out her jeans. Jake turned his head away as she reached back to unhook her bra, and tried not to listen to the wolf-whistles and catcalls coming from around the room.

Still breathing heavily and trying to tune out the after-effects of the punch, he tightened his hand around whatever she'd passed him. It was mostly squarish, with rounded edges, and about an inch wide, an inch deep, and maybe four or five inches long. Whatever it was, he was determined to keep it hidden. He clenched his other fist as well, hoping the guards would just think he was trying not to take a swing at them. Which wasn't so far off the mark.

Looking around, imprinting the faces of the guards on his memory, he had the satisfaction of seeing some had fallen silent and were looking down at their feet. Not all of them, though. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the guard who was giving the orders slowly walk round Heather; inspecting her from every angle. Eventually, just as Jake wasn't sure he could hold onto his frustration and disgust much longer, the guard stopped pacing and snapped, "Get dressed."

Jake saw him sheathe his baton, grab a pile of clothes from the counter and shove them at Heather. A moment later, the guard was thrusting a bundle at Jake. He took it awkwardly. Putting it down on the floor, he managed to slip the thing Heather had given him inside one of the sneakers sitting on top of the pile. He pulled on the underwear and orange hospital scrubs that seemed to be the prison uniform, and then managed to extract whatever it was Heather had given him, and hide it inside his fist again, apparently without being detected, before he slipped on the shoes. Picking up the pile of spare clothes—an extra set of scrubs and some more underwear—and straightening, he saw Heather and Beck were also ready; it was strange to see the major out of uniform, while the bright orange made Heather looked even more washed out.

After that, they were hurried out of the room and taken in different directions. Jake threw a despairing look over his shoulder at Heather as she was marched away from him. Not that he'd been able to do much so far to protect her when they'd been together, but at least he was there, at least he had a chance to stop—.

He didn't want to think about what they might do to her when they got her alone. Instead, he used the time between them pushing him into a cell and the lights going out to take a look at what she'd given him. Crawling under the thin blanket that covered the low cot—pretty much everything in the cell, including the bed, seemed to be made from either concrete or steel—he turned his back to the door, as if going to sleep, and opened his hand.

He almost laughed when he discovered he was holding the multi-tool he'd brought her from Lackland. God knows what use it would be, though various attachments when he pulled them out suggested they might prove vicious enough in determined hands; the short knife blade certainly felt sharp when he cautiously tested it against his thumb.

Folding everything away, he carefully slid the multi-tool under the thin mattress, deciding he'd find a better place if he could in the morning. He knew the chances of him holding on to it for long were slim; he suspected the cells would be searched thoroughly on a regular basis. Yet the thought that Heather had managed to salvage his silly gift, that she'd had it on her in the first place, made him feel oddly happy.

The lights went out. Turning onto his back, he lay on the narrow cot and stared up into the dark. Though he was dog-tired, and knew he should be trying to snatch some sleep while the guards allowed it, he lay awake for a long time, trying not to think about what might be happening to Heather.

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5