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The Sentinel Project Part 14
by Lianne Burwell
June 2003
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The two vehicles arrived early in the morning, when the sun 
was barely above the horizon. One was a pickup truck, with 
a covered back, that would be taking the last of the 
personal items that had accumulated in the Texas farmhouse 
during their stay.

The second was an ancient Volkswagen mini-bus, its color 
coming more from the rust covering it than the paint that 
had been applied sometime in the distant past. Kincaid 
walked around the heap, amazed that it was still running, 
and snickered to himself when he saw the rows of decals on 
the back door, urging him to 'make love not war' and hoping 
for 'peace'. It was as if one of those vans he'd seen in 
his childhood driven by long-haired hippies had been parked 
in a backyard somewhere and had just been uncovered.

But despite the ancient vintage of the vehicle and the 
generally decrepit exterior -- and interior, he noted, 
looking through one slightly grimy window -- the engine was 
running quite smoothly, and trusting Wolfling, he was sure 
that it would get them where they wanted to go. He opened 
the back of the van and started loading their equipment.

Getting to the Yucatan would be a long trip by van, but it 
was definitely safer than taking a plane. A private plane 
would be too expensive, and would attract the attention of 
the DEA probably. As for commercial flights, forget it. 
Security at airports was too tight these days, and probably 
most of the group had prices on their heads. In fact, 
between the Consortium and the Center, the only ones who 
probably *weren't* being hunted were the Hunters and 
himself, and he wasn't willing to bet his life on that.

Crossing the border at an official border crossing would 
probably be just as dangerous, even if they picked a quiet 
out of the way one, so they were going to cross over into 
Mexico illegally. The farmhouse they'd been staying in was 
fairly close to the border, and Wolfling knew a spot that 
was used by smugglers that the DEA hadn't yet stumbled 
onto. Using it, they would be out of the country in a 
couple of hours, and well on their way south before the end 
of the day.

The only question was how many of them were going. Kincaid 
was going; that much was sure. All he had to do was close 
his eyes and he could see the blonde pixie-like child who 
had done more than anyone else to keep them from despairing 
during the long months of the fight against the Morthren. 
Hiding out in a secret base hidden in the sewers, rarely 
seeing blue sky, fighting a fight that seemed hopeless. It 
would have been far too easy to just give up. But giving up 
would have destroyed *her* world, and looking into her blue 
eyes, Kincaid hadn't been able to do that. None of them 
had.

And now she was a prisoner somewhere, with God only knew 
what happening to her, and he was going to find her and 
rescue her. He refused to consider any other options.

But no matter what they said, that didn't mean any of the 
others had to go with him. Wolfling and the various members 
of the Hunters weren't, of course. A trip through the 
jungles of Mexico to assault a secret lab engaging in 
illegal human experimentation wasn't exactly something they 
were ready for, so Kincaid didn't blame them. But he wasn't 
sure why the others were coming. Jarod and Brooks, Scully 
and her boss, none of them had any sort of personal stake 
in finding and rescuing Debi. In fact, Scully was the only 
one who had even met her.

"Just about ready?" Jarod asked from the doorway as Kincaid 
pushed another case into the back of the van. Weapons and 
plastique had been obtained from one of Wolfling's 
contacts. Whatever they were heading for, they would be as 
well armed as a small army.

Kincaid slammed closed the van's back door. "Yep. Just need 
to load the personal bags and we can go." Then he 
hesitated. "You don't have to come, you know. Any of you."

Jarod's expression darkened. "I was taken from my parents 
as a child. I was raised as a science experiment, exploited 
in just about every way imaginable. If you think I'd leave 
anyone else in that sort of situation, think again." The 
cold tone to his voice told Kincaid just how serious the 
man was.

"Sorry," he said, and he really was. Now that he thought 
about it, what the man said made sense. During the last 
couple of weeks of sharing a house with the men, he'd spent 
a fair bit of time talking with both Jarod and Broots; 
enough to get a rough outline of their lives. He should 
have realized just how much Debi's situation would 
resonate.

And if Jarod was coming, Broots would be coming too. Aside 
from the moaning and thumping that came from their room at 
all hours, Broots had latched onto Jarod with an almost 
desperate intensity. From what they'd told Kincaid, the 
Center didn't let anyone get away, not even employees, and 
once they realized that Broots had handed over almost their 
entire database to Jarod, an escaped subject determined to 
bring them down, they would be out to kill the man. Despite 
his nervous, almost timid behavior, Kincaid had to respect 
the man for taking that risk.

That only left Scully and Skinner to worry about. Given the 
chance, Kincaid would leave them behind happily. Scully's 
attitude drove him up the wall, and he didn't trust her 
boss any further than he could throw him. Most of the time 
he seemed all right, but every so often, Kincaid caught him 
staring at them with the coldest expression he'd ever seen. 
To put it simply, the man gave him the willies. Kincaid 
didn't trust him. He didn't believe the man's story, no 
matter how logical it was. And he sure as hell didn't want 
him at his back in a firefight.

But he also didn't want to let the man out of his sight, at 
least not while Skinner knew what their plans were.

He hadn't told anyone else of his suspicions yet, though. 
Scully obviously thought that the man walked on water, and 
she'd been much easier to deal with since he'd shown up, if 
nothing else. It was hard to believe that the woman making 
goo-goo eyes at the oblivious older man was the same one 
who'd thrown a fit over Mulder leaving with Krycek and who 
loved to catalogue Krycek's fault whenever she could. Based 
on the way she talked, Krycek should have had horns, a 
tail, and cloven hooves instead of feet, while Skinner 
should be walking on air.

Speak of the...

Scully and Skinner were coming down the porch steps, both 
dressed casually in blue jeans, her with a flannel shirt 
and him in a Henley, although neither of them was dirty 
enough to pull of the image of the sort of down on their 
luck tourists who would be traveling around Mexico in an 
ancient van, but they would have to do. Scully was carrying 
a duffle bag, while Skinner was carrying a laptop bag that 
would have to be hidden under the other baggage. Of course, 
if anyone actually insisted on searching the van, the 
weapons would catch their attention first.

Skinner handed over the laptop bag, a touch reluctantly 
Kincaid thought, and Kincaid stowed it away under one of 
the seats, wedged in place by his own bag of clothes. 
Scully hung onto her own bag as if it were a lifeline. "I 
still think this is a mistake," Skinner muttered under his 
breath.

"If you want to stay around here and wait for Mulder, feel 
fine," Kincaid said, itching to slug the man. Why the man 
had this effect on him, he didn't know. Having heard, in 
excruciating detail, about the incident with the nanocytes, 
he wished he had that palm pilot of Krycek's.

Skinner glanced at Scully, who was trying to decide which 
seat she preferred. "No. Splitting up would be an even 
worse mistake," he growled. "I just hope that this doesn't 
end up being a wild goose chase."

For once, Kincaid actually agreed with him. There was no 
real evidence to say that they were going to find Debi at 
this Project Tezcatlipoca, but he for one was tired of 
sitting around and doing nothing. Even if it turned out to 
be a mistake, at least they were doing something. Besides, 
it might give him something he could pass onto Vincent. The 
lion-man had saved his life more than once in the past, and 
if he could give the man some answers about his origins, he 
would feel as if he was repaying the man in some small way.

Both the van and the truck were loaded, and the Hunters 
were ready to be on their way. The band of five got into 
the van, Kincaid behind the wheel, and he waved to 
Wolfling. The biker waved back, and started his motorcycle. 
They would follow him to the border crossing, and then they 
would be on their own.

>>>~~~<<<

Krycek pulled to a stop, well outside of town, out in 
alligator country. After he turned off the car, the silence 
was almost deafening, at least at first. Then the sounds of 
nature -- insects and bird, water moving, and things in the 
water also moving -- came back, combining with the 
oppressive humidity to create an exotic atmosphere. Krycek 
glanced over at Mulder, who was rubbing his eyes. He'd 
fallen asleep during the long drive. The sun was climbing 
in the sky, although they still had some time before it hit 
its zenith.

"Where are we?" Mulder asked. Then a yawn nearly split his 
face, making Krycek smile fondly.

"About an hour west of Miami," he said, gesturing around at 
the almost wilderness landscape around them. "No 
interruptions."

Mulder frowned. "We aren't going to *really* hurt him, are 
we?" He sounded like he wasn't really sure whether that 
would be a bad thing or a good thing yet. Still, he was 
learning.

"Nah," Krycek reassured him. "We'll scare him, get the 
information we need, then point him towards the main road." 
Montoya struck him as the type who would cave in pretty 
damn quick. Still, if he didn't, Krycek would happily 
torture him until he did. He had a few tricks up his sleeve 
that Mulder wouldn't even recognize.

That brought a sneaky smile to Mulder's face. "Barefoot and 
naked?"

Krycek shrugged, not hiding his own grin. "I can't think of 
anyone more deserving," he said. "Come on."

He got out of the car and stretched to get rid of some of 
the kinks from the long drive. He had ditched the black 
sweater early on, leaving him in black pants and a bright 
green t-shirt with a local logo on it. Nothing that would 
make a cop look twice. He headed over to the edge of the 
creek that the dirt road was following and relieved himself 
into the water. There was nothing worse that being 
interrupted by a full bladder when you were... in the 
middle of something. Then he left Mulder to do the same 
while he headed back to the car.

There was a regular thumping coming from the trunk now. 
Montoya had woken up about a half hour earlier. Maybe 
longer, for all he knew, but the thumping and muffled 
yelling hadn't started until then. But now that the car had 
stopped moving and the engine had been shut off, the sounds 
were getting a little more frantic.

Krycek leaned against the car and listened for a while, 
until Mulder rejoined him. Poor little Estoban. And the 
only people around to hear him were the two who had 
snatched him.

Eventually the thumping slowed, then stopped. That was the 
sign Krycek had been waiting for, and he gestured for 
Mulder to go pull the trunk release. The lid popped up, 
revealing the man inside. Montoya looked a lot paler than 
when he'd gone into the trunk. The skin around his wrists 
and ankles was bruising, although he hadn't struggled quite 
long enough to break the skin. A pity, that. A little blood 
went a long way in convincing someone to talk. There were 
traces of tears on the man's face, and from the smell, he'd 
soiled himself sometime during the drive. Good think Krycek 
had put in a drop cloth to line the trunk. The Hunters 
might object to the car being returned smelling of shit.

"Hello, sunshine," Krycek said with his nastiest grin, 
staring down at Montoya. "Time for a little chat, Estoban."

With that, he grabbed the pudgy Cuban by the scruff of the 
neck and hauled him out of the trunk. With his hands and 
feet bound, and his legs probably numb to boot, Montoya 
went crashing to his knees. Considering the condition of 
the dirt road, that had to hurt.

Krycek pulled out his knife -- carefully cleaned of the 
ketchup before they'd hit the road -- and Montoya 
immediately started to whimper. He tried to shuffle away, 
but Krycek grabbed his ankle before he could get far. "Hold 
still," he ordered, "and maybe this won't hurt."

Montoya froze, and Krycek took the opportunity to cut the 
plastic ties off of the man's legs. "There," he said in a 
gentle tone. "Now, isn't that better?" he asked, pulling 
the man to his feet.

Montoya swayed in place, and for a moment, Krycek thought 
that he was going to collapse again. Then he steadied, and 
some of the fear faded from his eyes. Instead, now he 
seemed to be trying to calculate just how deep the shit he 
was in was, and how he could get out of it with his skin 
intact.

Krycek grabbed a corner of the piece of duct tape covering 
the man's mouth and ripped it away quickly. The resulting 
bellow of pain made a flock of birds take off from the 
surrounding tree cover, but that was it. "You do realize, 
of course, that there's no one around to hear you, except 
me and my partner," Krycek said conversationally. "And if I 
slit your throat and leave you here, chances are pretty 
good that the 'gators will find you long before the 
authorities do. But if you play nicely, you might come out 
of this in one piece."

"My people will be looking for me," Montoya said, his voice 
sounding very rusty.

"Of course they will. But they won't find you, at least, 
not until we let them."

Montoya stared at him. "If it's money you're after..."

Krycek laughed. "We don't want your money," he said as 
Mulder came back around the car, a bottle of spring water 
in his hand. Krycek took it and drank a swig. Montoya 
watched avidly. After being locked in a hot car trunk with 
a piece of duct tape over his mouth for several hours, he 
had to be desperate for a drink, but he didn't ask. 
Krycek's respect for the man went up fractionally. It could 
be a good thing or a bad thing. It just depended on how 
pragmatic the man could be.

"What is it you want, then?" Montoya finally said.

"Information," Krycek said, and for a moment he wanted to 
snicker. He suddenly had a mental image of himself wearing 
a button with the picture of an old-fashioned bicycle and a 
number 2 on it. "Jerome Michaels. What he's planning."

At least Montoya didn't try to pretend that he didn't know 
who or what Krycek was talking about. "I can wind up just 
as dead telling you as not," he said.

Krycek shrugged. "That's up to you. You can tell your 
people anything you want. Rivals. Feds. A jealous husband. 
Someone wanted to put the scare on you. The only way that 
Michaels will know that you talked is if you tell him, or 
we get caught. And trust me, he isn't going to catch us."

Montoya thought about it. "All right," he said. "What do 
you want to know?"

Krycek's eyebrows went up. He was a little surprised that 
the man had caved quite so quickly, but he stepped forward 
and used the knife to cut the man's hands free, then nodded 
to Mulder to give the man the water bottle. Montoya took a 
sipped, swished it around his mouth, then spat. Then he 
took a long drink and settled against the car's back 
bumper, wincing slightly as his bare ass hit hot metal. 
Krycek grinned. "Everything," he said. "Start and the 
beginning and keep going."

"All right..."

>>>~~~<<<

The 'do not disturb' sign was still on the cabin door, but 
Sally ignored it. It had been there for four days now, and 
the car that the three men had arrived in was gone. They 
had paid in advance for a week, so she wasn't worried that 
they'd decided to run out on their bill, but not cleaning 
the cabin or even changing the sheets went against every 
instinct she had.

She wheeled the cart she used for cleaning supplies and 
linens -- she was owner, desk clerk, and maid for the small 
motel all by herself, and had been since ditching the big 
city to move to Key West more than a decade earlier -- and 
knocked on the door. "Housekeeping!" she announced in her 
brightest voice. There was no answer.

After waiting a minute, and knocking a second time, just to 
be safe, she tried the door. It was locked, unsurprisingly, 
so she pulled the master key from her pocket and used it to 
unlock the cabin door. "Housekeeping," she said again as 
she pushed the door open, even though it was clear to her 
that her guests weren't there. In fact, she hadn't seen 
them in more than a day, and she was beginning to get 
suspicious. They hadn't acted like the typical tourists -- 
they certainly hadn't packed like tourists, or visited the 
local sights and bars like most tourists -- but they hadn't 
done anything that would justify calling James at the 
police station. At least, not yet.

But it looked like that was about to change, she realized, 
staring that the open suitcase sitting on top of one of the 
unmade beds.

Because while she certainly was no expert, that sure as 
hell looked like a bomb to her.

TO BE CONTINUED