| Subject: The Beach (crummy title - Shan! help!) - 1 |
Author:
~d
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Date Posted: 20:51:12 07/09/04 Fri
In reply to:
~delle
's message, "For Jean" on 20:49:40 07/09/04 Fri
The sun was setting when the mission finally came to its anticipated and long-awaited end.
Michael stood at the bottom of the beach access trail and watched the second team haul the target up the dirt path. Winding their way back up to the parking lot and the waiting black Suburban truck, they were soon hidden from his sight by the long shadows thrown down by the trees with the able assistance of the glare from the dying sunlight behind him.
He turned and looked for Nikita. This was a tricky time of day; the sun was searingly bright as it sank reluctantly to the sea, yet the darkening sky and lengthening shadows made the wearing of sunglasses seem pretentious and - worse yet - attracted attention from passers-by. He folded the glasses up meticulously and slid them into the breast pocket of his leather jacket, feeling (foolishly, he knew) exposed and vulnerable without the shaded lenses to shield his face and eyes.
There. His gaze focused on Nikita, drawn to her like to a siren call; a beacon pointedly dismissed by his conscious mind, but heard and well acknowledged by his soul. She was walking back to the egress point, her loose-limbed, unhurried stride belying the stresses of the past three [four] hours as they had stalked and captured their quarry.
As if she sensed his stare, she turned slowly, the rising wind caught her long hair and tossed it haphazardly about her face and shoulders. She had removed her sunglasses too, and despite the distance that separated them he could see the diamond-bright flash of her luminous blue eyes. She stared back at him, then deliberately lowered her gaze to look at the watch strapped to her left wrist.
Time to go.
He blinked, a precise calculated movement to convey to her that he understood the message.
Slipping a hand behind his right ear, he pressed on the communicator hidden there; running his fingers through the tangled mass of curls on his neck to cover the movement. “First team proceeding to egress.” He pitched his voice to a low murmur.
Quinn’s harsh British accent came over the earpiece. “Acknowledged, first team.”
He turned his attention back to the lithe blonde waiting impatiently at the waterline. The dry sand shifted treacherously beneath him as he walked casually across to join her; closer to the water the sand became wetter, firmer and more stable underfoot.
A sudden thought struck him and he glanced again at his watch. We missed the turn of the tide. The entire mission had been carefully sim’d to accommodate the tidal rhythm of the Pacific Ocean. But the target had been delayed arriving and the beach more crowded than anticipated, complicating the retrieval of their objective. The profile had called for Michael and Nikita to hike back around the point and north to their egress point over an hour [2 hours] ago.
Even as he watched, a wave struck the beach and wrapped around the worn basalt of the headland. The old road over the point rose several feet above the water, he remembered, there should be no trouble negotiating the rough path. They might get their feet a little wet, nothing more.
A few long strides brought him next to Nikita. “We’re late,” she observed testily. A day spent idling among the families and children of the living had taken its emotional toll on her, he noted. She had never completely learned to divide herself as he had; it was her greatest flaw, as well as her strength.
He didn’t answer her, only nodded to the rocks ahead of them. Disdainfully tossing her hair over her shoulder she scrambled up the broken stones to the path.
Seventy-five years ago, someone had taken the time and energy to blast a road around the promontory rock. Before then, travelers headed down the coast had to either ride well inland to go around the point, or navigate a series of hand and footholds, literally hugging the rocky point as they climbed over it, suspended over the raging ocean. The road, rough as it was, had no doubt made life on the coast a little easier, before the advent of superhighways and tunnels. Before society needed Michaels and Nikitas and Section Ones to keep it safe from itself.
Where had that introspection come from?, he wondered, and pushed the train of thought aside. He easily mounted the ruined remains of the nameless road. Bits of tarmac and coagulated concrete still clung to the rocks where the gusts of ocean waves had not yet pounded the road or the rock itself away.
It was not, and never had been, a flat road. Over the years, the sea had carved huge divots in the rock, hungrily snatched up chunks of the rutted highway. The winter storms and their incredibly powerful high tides were not long past and the lower stretches of the road were still covered in snarls of seaweed, lying patiently in wait to trip the unwary traveler.
A wave crashed into the rock face, splashing water up to his ankles and misting him with seawater. The tide was coming in, coming in much faster and higher than anticipated. Being late didn’t help, Michael thought grimly as he brushed the droplets off his face. Nikita was only a few paces ahead of him and he sped up slightly to catch up with her. The lowest point of the road was just around the next bend and he felt the first twinge of concern. They were ten feet above the sea here and getting wet; what would the situation be on the next segment?
He glanced behind him quickly, considering if it would be more prudent to return back and walk the two miles or so down the highway to their vehicle. The waves had receded slightly; the ruined road behind him was damp but unimpeded. They had just encountered a surge wave, he assured himself, the sea would be quieter for the next several minutes and there should be no difficulty traversing the dangerous section ahead.
His evaluation proved correct; when they turned the corner, the pathway was wet but clear. Being the lowest point, it was also the slickest; dark green seaweed clung in long wet threads to every section of the path. White barnacles and tiny black mussel shells crunched beneath their feet as they descended cautiously. Michael’s foot slipped and he touched the sheer cliff face next to him to regain his balance. Nikita gave him a quick knowing glance and he read the latent humor in her gaze. Michael prided himself on his physical abilities and it wasn’t often he lost his balance. Picking the way carefully, they worked down the slope.
There was another foot or two to navigate when Michael felt a trickle run down his spine. He reacted instinctively, neither thinking nor evaluating the situation. His intuition had saved his life more times than he could count and he had long since learned to react, not think, when the ’smell’ of danger hit him. He sprang forward and threw himself between Nikita and the ocean, pressing her tightly to the rough face of the rock. Beneath him, he felt her muscles tighten as she reacted to his unexpected closeness.
The water struck him. The force of the wave drove him onto Nikita and he heard her forceful exhalation as the impact of their bodies against the rock face knocked the breath out of her lungs. The water cascaded over his head, soaking them both thoroughly. Sneaker wave, he thought incongruously, as if knowing the local name for the phenomenon would make it easier to keep his footing. His hands reached for the cliff, seeking a handhold, anything to help him stay on his feet.
As quickly as the wave hit him, it began to recede. Feet slipping on the treacherous seaweed, he felt the tug of the undertow as it pulled seductively at his legs, drawing him, enticing him toward the cliff-edge. Nikita grabbed his biceps bruisingly hard; he could feel the pressure of her fingertips through his leather jacket.
They stood, clinging to each other, as the water swirled around them on its retreat back to the depths.
In a moment, it was over. The remnants of the wave were a few inches of water puddled about their feet, soaking through their shoes.
Nikita made a fruitless attempt to brush her tangled hair from her face; Michael coughed rackingly, bringing up a little seawater he had inadvertently swallowed.
“Oh my god, Michael, I thought you were going over.”
He released her arms reluctantly, feeling a tingle of pain from the cramped muscles in his fingers. She’ll have marks from that, he thought as he gave her a slight push. “Go. Let’s get off the path while we can.”
Obediently turning, she moved as quickly as possible on the uneven terrain of the shattered road. Her foot slipped on the seaweed and with a cry she went down. Michael was at her side in a heartbeat, his hands under her arms.
“Are you all right?” He lifted her to her feet. She stood carefully and winced at her right foot hit the ground, quickly shifting most of her weight to her other leg.
She held out her right hand, palm up. An ugly gash was beginning to bleed. “I can walk.”
Michael fished in his pockets for a handkerchief as they maneuvered up another rise in the road. “You must have cut it on some barnacles.”
Nodding, she paused for a moment to rinse the cut in a pool of standing water and hissed softly as the salt water hit the wound. Wrapping the cloth around her palm, he pressed her hand tightly between his own to halt the bleeding.
She allowed his ministrations without a word, keeping most of her attention on the water around them. As her glance lingered momentarily on him, Michael felt a quick tightening in his groin. Adrenaline was flowing through him and his nerve endings tingled with hypersensitivity. He was too well experienced in the normal stress reaction to lose much of his control; but he permitted one fingertip to caress the curve of her upper lip before he slipped an arm around her waist to help her limp down the final slope of the road.
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