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The Sentinel Project Part 3
by Lianne Burwell
August 2002
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"Mulder, are you insane?"

"No, Scully, I'm not insane," Mulder said patiently, 
resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Scully had taken the 
news that he was heading out with Krycek to contact some of 
the man's contacts just about as well as he'd expected.

"Then what the hell do you think you're doing?" Scully was 
a tiny woman, but while her hair was redder than when 
they'd first met -- not that he was suicidal enough to 
comment on her decision to dye her hair -- it was an 
appropriate color choice.

"I told you--"

She cut him off. "Yes, yes, I know. Krycek needs to contact 
some people and they'll only talk to him face to face. No 
problem. He can go to hell for all I care. That doesn't 
explain why *you're* going with him."

"Scully--"

"And do *not* tell me it's because you're in love with him, 
because he certainly isn't in love with you."

Mulder felt the muscles in his face tighten with anger. 
"And why not? Am I *that* unlovable?"

She winced, no doubt remembering the time when he'd told 
her that he was in love with *her* and she'd laughed in his 
face. "We're talking about Krycek," she said gently, as if 
she were talking to a child or a mental defective. "He's a 
killer."

"And killers can't be in love?"

"Not this one," she almost spat before talking a deep 
breath. "Mulder, you've hated him for so long, how can you 
change your mind so quickly?"

Mulder leaned back against a handy wall and crossed his 
arms over his chest. "I haven't hated him in a long time," 
he said softly. "Not since Tunguska, I think. I just wasn't 
sure *what* I felt until..." He stopped.

"Until what?"

He sighed. "Until I overheard him having sex with Kincaid 
and realized that I was jealous. It scared the hell out of 
me. That's one of the reasons why I turned myself over to 
Spender. But while I was locked up at the Center, I had a 
lot of time to think. I want Alex, I have Alex, and I sure 
as hell am not giving him up." His lips tightened and his 
jaw was thrust out belligerently.

He could see by Scully's expression that she didn't 
understand, and more importantly, she didn't *want* to 
understand. She'd made up her mind about Alex years ago. 
And while Mulder could understand why she hated the man, 
she'd closed her mind completely to the idea that maybe the 
man was a little more than the monster she'd labeled him in 
her mind. Sure, Alex was never going to be a candidate for 
sainthood, but neither was he a demon.

"Scully," he said with a sigh. "This isn't a debate. This 
is what is going to happen. Alex and I are going to go find 
some of his contacts and see if we can't find out what's 
going on inside the Consortium. I'd like you to stay here 
with Jarod and Broots, at least until they identify this 
Mexican facility in the records Broots copied from the 
Center."

"Assuming that it *is* in those files," Scully broke in, 
her face pinched into a disapproving expression. Mulder 
wondered just when she'd become such a defeatest.

"Assuming," Mulder said with a nod, acknowledging the fact 
that it might *not* be there. "Also, I've left messages for 
the Gunmen. I'll leave one of the modified laptops with 
you. If they respond, you can let me know. And with any 
luck, they might even know what's happened to Skinner," he 
added as an incentive.

While he might have been clueless about Alex's feelings for 
him, he hadn't been as blind about his partner's feelings 
for their boss, although Alex, for some reason, was 
convinced that they were aimed at him. And now that he'd 
had his eyes opened about men as sexual possibilities for 
him, he had to admit that he could see Skinner's appeal. 
Not that he would consider making a pass at the man. For 
one thing, Skinner was so straight it wasn't funny. As 
well, while he knew Skinner was physically attractive, he 
wasn't sure he would want to spend his spare time with the 
man; Skinner was just too damned intimidating.

Besides, Alex was more than enough for him, so if Scully 
wanted Skinner, she was welcome to him. Maybe it would 
mellow her out, although he wasn't betting on it.

Slowly, Scully softened. She still looked upset, but she 
had stopped yelling. "Fine," she said. "It's not like I can 
go anywhere by myself," she added with a sigh.

Mulder winced. "I'm sorry about that," he said, all his 
frustration disappearing in a rush of guilt. "It's my quest 
that dragged you into this..."

Scully quickly waved off his apology. "I've had plenty of 
chances to get out. If I didn't believe in your quest, I 
could have ended my involvement back when they separated us 
the first time."

She turned around and walked over to the counter to pour 
herself another cup of coffee. She sipped it for a moment 
before turning back to him. "I don't regret being involved. 
I still think you're making a mistake, though." She sighed. 
"But obviously I'm not going to be able to change your 
mind. Just promise me you'll watch yourself."

Mulder crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her. 
She was stiff for a moment, the melted against him. He 
rested his cheek against her hair for a moment. "I 
promise." Then he stepped back and grinned at her. 
"Besides, I'm always careful, aren't I?"

He ran for the door as she laughed, escaping before she 
could find anything to throw at him. He was glad that she 
was willing to accept, at least that little bit. She was 
his oldest friend, outside of the Gunmen, and he really 
didn't want to lose her.

But if it came to a choice between her and Alex... He 
didn't have a clue what he would do.

>>>~~~<<<

Broots stared intently at the computer screen as he set up 
the search parameters for the latest disk. With each disk 
searched, he refined his techniques, shortening the time 
required. Unfortunately, he'd gone through half the disks in 
the package over the last couple weeks without finding 
anything to lead them to the mysterious Mexican facility, 
and he was beginning to doubt that there *was* anything to 
find in his downloaded copy of the Center's database. Still, 
he had to try.

Step one was to look for any reference to Mexico. He'd 
collected a list of place names in Mexico -- in case the 
files didn't mention the country by name -- as well as some 
possibly appropriate phrases in Spanish and the native 
languages, as well as names from mythology: Anything that 
might have been used as a codename for a scientific 
facility.

Once the search engine had found all files that matched the 
parameters, it passed the results to a context organizer. 
That piece of code searched through each file, looking for 
keywords, then organized the results list by subject.

However, while that was all well and fine, the next step was 
the one that took the longest: He had to go through the 
context list and open every probable file and check it 
manually. If he didn't find anything there, he would even go 
on to the improbable ones. You never knew where that 
critical bit of information would be hiding.

But in the end, would he really recognize the information he 
was looking for when he found it, if he found it? That was 
the one thing that really worried him.

On the other hand, did he really have anything better to do? 
Since the blow-up at the Center, he'd been basically 
homeless. The biker types had given a home, if you could 
call the series of safe houses they'd been in 'homes.' And 
the other guys -- Krycek and Mulder, at least -- had given 
him a purpose, a job, which helped to lessen the anxiety 
that came from knowing that his former employers would 
probably kill him in a heartbeat if they got the chance. At 
least he'd had a couple letters from Debbie. His daughter 
was the one bright light in his life, and while he hated 
having to send her into hiding in another country, the way 
things were going she would be safer in Canada than here.

Broots scanned his settings one last time, then clicked the 
start button and pushed back from the desk. The laptop 
sitting on top of it started to whir as the disk spun. 
Broots sighed.

"How long is that going to take?"

He nearly jumped out of his skin at the comment. Turning 
around, he found Jarod standing in the doorway, leaning 
against the jam with his arms folded across his chest. He 
wore blue jeans and a white undershirt that was tight enough 
to be a second skin. Broots felt his mouth go dry. He'd 
always known that Jarod was an attractive man in an 
intellectual sense, but now...

Now he'd learned that he found the man attractive on *every* 
level. He'd never thought he'd feel that way about another 
man, but Jarod, with his lack of inhibitions, had broken 
past the gender barrier and made Broots feel things he'd 
pretty much given up on ever feeling again. And to think 
that Jarod had been a virgin, a complete innocent in every 
way, when he'd escaped the center.

"Four hours, maybe more," he said, looking up at the man 
he'd risked his life to smuggle information to, the man 
who'd saved his life without even asking for anything in 
return.

"Good." Jarod stepped into the room, shutting the door 
behind him. "I can think of a few ways to pass the time."

As Jarod pulled him out of his chair and started to maneuver 
him towards the bed set against the wall, deftly stripping 
him along the way while making a meal of his mouth, Broots 
had to agree.

He could definitely think of a few ways too.

Then he forgot about thinking altogether and just went with feeling.

>>>~~~<<<

The next morning, Mulder and Krycek packed up a few changes 
of clothing and a laptop into the saddle-bags of a couple of 
bikes belonging to the Hunters. Fake Ids had been supplied, 
and Kincaid hoped they'd hold up to close inspection. Before 
everything had gone down, he would have bet good money on 
them, but now, with the threat of martial law hanging over 
them, even the best fakes might not be good enough. The 
entire country was twitchy, especially the cops, and when 
armed men got twitchy, people got dead.

According to Krycek, the two men would be heading to Chicago 
first, which would be a long trip from Texas. Most major 
cities were going to be trouble, thanks to the so-called 
terrorist threat. The country was gearing up to a war 
footing, although no one actually knew who they were 
fighting against. But Krycek figured that if he and Mulder 
avoided D.C., they should be pretty safe. They were going to 
travel by day, rather than taking the risk of being pulled 
over for violating curfew. The bikes were going to give them 
enough trouble, although they were dressed more like a 
couple of yuppies out for a tour rather than hardcore bikers 
that might be gang members.

They mounted up and headed off. Everyone else stood on the 
farmhouse porch and watched them go. Then, once they were 
out of sight and even the dust cloud had faded from view, 
they turned around and headed back inside.

Scully started a pot of water boiling for coffee. From the 
set of her shoulders, she wasn't happy, and Kincaid wasn't 
crazy enough to do anything to attract her attention. She 
had the feel of a stick of old dynamite that could go off if 
you even looked at it cross-eyed.

The kettle was whistling, and she poured the boiling water 
into a mug with a spoonful of instant coffee. She added 
cream, but skipped the sugar, he noted. Maybe that explained 
her disposition. Then she started, looking a little guilty. 
"Does anyone else want any?" she said a little weakly.

"Nah, I think I'll get something a little stronger," Kincaid 
said, even though it was barely mid-morning. There was a 
half bottle of scotch in one of the cupboards, and he poured 
himself a shot from it. It was smooth and mellow going down, 
and left a nice burn in his stomach.

Scully was staring into her cup like it held the secrets of 
the ages, not doing more than taking the occasional sip. 
Suddenly, without warning, She through the mug at a wall, 
narrowly missing Jarod. The ceramic shattered, and hot 
coffee went everywhere. While everyone stared in shock, she 
stomped from the room.

"What's her problem?" Broots asked in a bewildered tone.

Kincaid didn't say anything. He just poured himself another 
shot.

>>>~~~<<<

Debi woke in the middle of the night with a feeling like 
gas, and was confused for a moment about where she was. The 
room was completely unfamiliar. Then she remembered her 
mother's arrival. While they'd been talking in the sunroom, 
her few possessions had been moved to a small suite. Two 
bedrooms, a bathroom, and a sitting room. The cameras were 
still there, though, and just as obvious as before. It was 
just a new cell with new companionship.

Unable to get back to sleep, she went into the sitting room 
that by day had a nice view of the gardens at the center of 
the complex and sat down on one of the wicker chairs. If you 
ignored the cameras and locked doors, you could almost 
believe that you were in a tropical resort. Through the door 
to the other bedroom, she could see her mother sleeping 
peacefully, her hair, still that unnatural red, spread out 
over her pillow. she was twitching in her sleep, like she 
was having a bad dream.

Debi knew that she should have felt guilty that her mother 
was now stuck in this place with her, but the truth was, she 
was glad. It was damned selfish of her, but she needed her 
mother, more than she'd ever needed anyone before. 
Everything had been moving so fast, and then suddenly she 
was in a strange place, and they'd done something to her, 
and she was scared.

Tears were streaming down her face now, and when she tried 
to stop crying, she couldn't. She never cried. She'd 
survived so much in her life that the tears had been purged 
out of her. She was tough and strong, an FBI agent, a 
survivor of an alien invasion before she was fifteen. People 
had tried to kill her and failed. And here she was, 
blubbering like a baby with a stubbed toe.

"Debi?" Her mother squeezed into the chair next to her, 
wrapping her arms around her. Debi hadn't even noticed her 
come into the room.

"I'm sorry. It's all my fault," Debi sobbed into her 
mother's shoulder, her arms wrapped around her stomach. The 
stomach upset that had woken her was getting steadily worse.

"No it isn't," her mother said, rocking her back and forth. 
"A lot of people are to blame, but you aren't. Oh, baby, 
what have they done to you?"

The question brought out all the fears she'd been trying to 
ignored. "I don't know. They did something, but they won't 
tell me what. They do tests and inject me with things, but 
they never talk to me. Ceto is the only one who talks to me, 
and he doesn't know anything."

Her mother's arms tightened around her at the same time as 
her stomach cramped. "Debi?"

She tried to answer, but the second cramp was far worse than 
the first.

She screamed.

>>>~~~<<<

Suzanne's heart nearly stopped when Debi doubled over and 
screamed. She clutched her daughter tightly, easing down to 
the ground. She pulled at Debi's nightgown, trying to get it 
out of the way so that she could figure out what was wrong, 
but Debi curled up into a tight ball, moaning in pain.

Before she could decide what to do, the locked door that 
lead out to the corridor burst open, and a stream of people 
came rushing in. An oversized man wearing some sort of 
weapon grabbed her and dragged her away, kicking and 
screaming. Other than that, they ignored her.

People in lab coats hovered over Debi, hooking her up to 
portable monitors and drip bags. A gurney was brought in, 
and she was lifted onto it. While Suzanne shouted questions 
that went unanswered, her daughter was wheeled out of the 
room.

Then the goon restraining her tossed her across the room, 
and followed the scientists out. The door slammed shut, and 
she heard the final click of it locking her in, with no idea 
what was happening to her daughter.

Suzanne pushed up to a sitting position and leaned back 
against the wall, her arms wrapped around her knees, and 
waited for someone to come tell her something. Anything.

Please?

TO BE CONTINUED