Chris wiped the sweat out of his eyes with the back of one hand, ignoring the way that the salt in his perspiration stung in the myriad of tiny scratches adorning his wrists and arms.  It was goddamned hot.  They'd had to fight their way through the thick undergrowth to get this far and it was only the beginning.  They'd have to fight their way back out again.  Behind him he could hear Wiersbowski cursing softly as he got caught once again on some sharp vines, probably giving his fellow American even more scratches to add to his collection.  Chris was faring slightly better, used to working in these conditions, and not for the first time he wished for Sam's quiet and uncomplaining presence.  One of the plus points of the Englishman's reserve was the fact that he'd sooner die than admit to being in any discomfort, Nomine Patri only being a case in point.

Of course there was a downside to being that repressed.

Chris sighed again, making sure that his colleague didn't hear him.  Not that Wiersbowski would over the sound of his own complaints.  The trek through the jungle hadn't been the easiest of exercises.  Whoever had decided that the phrase 'a walk in the woods' would be an indicator of easiness should be shot.  Mind you, they also said that it wasn't the heat that got to you but the humidity, and he could believe that.  It was like a sauna in here. 

He checked the portable GPS unit he carried, pinpointing their location with accuracy, his heart sinking when he realised just how much jungle they still had to get through.  He raised the machete again, his shoulders aching fiercely from the need to slash his way through the thick undergrowth, and concentrated on the mindless task of making their way through to the compound CI5 Ops had identified on the satellite, a compound they'd been tracking down for months.  At least in this thick and overgrown environment he wouldn't have to worry about anything sneaking up on them, at least nothing human.  It hadn't taken him long to realise why Malone was so insistent that it would take them at least two days to reach Belmont's South American hideaway and they were to plan accordingly.  Once again, the old goat was right, much as he hated to admit it.

Finally though they were getting close to their target and their rendezvous, and he wondered whether he should just tell Wiersbowski to just shut the fuck up.  The man was still muttering to himself, his machete being wielded with less efficiency than Chris' but with considerably more aggression.  He also wondered how Backup and Carlson were faring, and ran through the plan, such as it was, in his head again.  It saved him thinking about Sam.

*****

Sam knew that something was up as soon as he stepped into the Control Room.  For a start, the room was almost empty and it was the middle of the day shift.  Secondly, Spencer darted past, looking very frazzled.  His fellow countryman never lost his cool, so the sight of Spencer frowning and snapping at Rebecca was an incredibly unusual sight.

Sam moved closer to him, his eyes darting round and noting the unobserved computer screens churning out information while operators attempted to monitor several at once, and the small number of operatives clustered in the corner of Richards' section while the hacker briefed them, his face serious as they pored over several printouts.

"What's going on?" he asked Spencer quietly, when the Ops manager finally paused from his relentless prowling.

"Oh hello, Sam," Spencer answered, sounding remarkably unenthusiastic about talking to him.  His next words confirmed it.  "Can't talk now.  Aren't you supposed to be off still?"

He started to move away, but galvanised into action by the chaos around him Sam followed him, frowning slightly.  "Had to see the doc," he explained.

Spencer finally looked interested.  "She clear you?" he asked hopefully.

"Not for field duty, no.  'Nother week she thinks."

Spencer's face fell.  "Oh," he said.  "Well, I won't lie to you, Sam.  We could use you."  He sighed.  "Malone's pulled half my team to stand by.  We're going after Belmont."

"Again?"

"Yep," Spencer confirmed.  "He's still pissed about losing two of our men in Pakistan.  Wants Belmont taken down as a matter of priority.  We finally found the bastard's hideout, and we've teams in there now, trying to crack his perimeter and access his files.  Belmont's not there at the moment, and if we can get the information we want and shut down as many of his operations as possible at once..."

"He won't know what hit him and he won't have a chance to react," completed Sam.

"That's the plan," confirmed the Ops manager.  "Which is why Malone has every available agent poised to strike."

"Is that where Chris is?"

Spencer hesitated and then nodded.  "He's in one of the teams heading into Belmont's place."

And heading into trouble more than likely, thought Sam.  He abruptly came to a decision.  "What do you need me for?"

Spencer frowned.  "The doctor said you're not fit..."

"For field duty, Spence," Sam interrupted.  "But I can still man a monitor.  Take some of the pressure off you."

The older man considered this for a moment, his face doubtful.  For a second Sam seriously thought he was going to be reduced to begging but then Spencer came to a decision of his own, nodding determinedly and gesturing Sam to one of the workstations.  "We're trying to trace Belmont's accounts, so we can shut them all down at the same time too.  Really put the bastard out of business.  Richards has his team working on getting into the accounts we know of where we doubt the Authorities will take action to see if we can... ahem... use less orthodox means, but we still have a hell of a lot of transactions to rule out.  It's boring as hell, Sam..."

"But someone needs to do it," completed Sam again with a grimace.  "Okay, count me in."

Chris, he thought disgustedly as he surveyed the pile of printouts awaiting his attention, the things I do for you.

*****

Chris wiped the back of his hand across his face again, flinching as he aggravated the graze on his cheek.  The sound of voices drifted towards him, harsh in the still air, and he froze, praying that Wiersbowski had the sense to do the same.  A half-day out from Belmont's place and they still hadn't managed to shake their pursuers, despite his almost cocky assurances to Backup that he and Wiersbowski were ideally situated to draw the guards' attention so that she and Carlson could clear from the area as rapidly as possible.  Admittedly, to professionals half a day was nothing, but in this heat?  And they'd believed that Belmont's guards would cut off pursuit relatively rapidly.  He cursed his own optimism now and drew silently back into the undergrowth as he heard a twig break nearby.  They needed to get far enough from their hunters to be able to call in and arrange extraction.

*****

"No news from 4-5 or 5-3, Mr Curtis?"

Sam glanced up from his workstation at his boss.  The man had taken his presence in the Ops Control room remarkably well, all things considered.  A few pointed remarks about people who didn't know what was good for them, a few threats to send him back to the doctors to have his head examined and a final admonishment that if he keeled over he could 'bloody well stay on the floor until someone had the time to deal with him'.  Spencer must have warned him in advance that they'd acquired a new pair of hands, and the old bastard was so grateful he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth, for all his bitching.

"Not yet, sir.  Should be any time now."  Provided of course, he added mentally, that they hadn't run into anything they couldn't handle.

Almost as if he'd read Sam's mind, Malone continued, "I'm sure they'll be fine.  But let me know as soon as they get in touch.  We need to move fast if the information they've got is to be any use."

"Think Belmont can act that fast, sir?"

Malone snorted.  "We've already seen how fast Belmont can move," he stated dryly.  "If we don't put the wheels in motion within 12 hours of Belmont realising that there's been a breach in his security, we can kiss our chance of getting him this time goodbye too."  He hesitated, giving Sam a keen look.  "The information is our first priority, Mr Curtis," he added.

Sam bristled slightly at the implied slur on his professionalism, but controlled his reaction well.  At least Malone wasn't making him repeat the First Rule.  "I know that, sir," he replied evenly.

Malone frowned slightly, but didn't comment other than giving a brief nod and heading back into his office.  Must be slipping, thought Sam, if he didn't respond with his normal 'Don't be cheeky,' retort.

He turned his attention back to his screen, trying desperately to concentrate on the task he was working on and not think about the kind of trouble Chris could be getting himself into, or the fact that the channels he was monitoring, the ones assigned to the teams in South America, were nothing but static.

He was still vainly trying to trace some of Belmont's financial transactions twenty minutes later when he finally heard what he'd been waiting for, the voice almost drowned by static.

"Repeat, 5-3?" he asked urgently, his hand pressing the earpiece closer to his head as though that in itself would resolve the weakness of the signal.  Around him he sensed rather than saw the lull in activity as the agents close to him realised that this could be what they were all waiting for.

"...objective obtained... heading... rendezvous..."

"Affirmative, 5-3.  How long?"

More static.

"You're breaking up, 5-3.  I can't hear you.  Repeat?"

The static in his ear peaked, making him flinch as it hurt his eardrum.  And then, blessedly, it died to be replaced by Backup's faint voice.

"Better?"

"Affirmative, 5-3.  Repeat?"

"We've obtained our objective, and 7-8 and myself are heading towards the agreed rendezvous.  We need evac ASAP.  ETA, thirty mikes."

"Understood, 5-3."  He hesitated, but had to ask.  "4-5?"

"We split up from 4-5 and 9-6 when we'd obtained our objective.  We have it; the other team were running interference.  You haven't heard from them yet?"

"Negative, 5-3."

A hesitation from Backup's end and then the Canadian asked, "Should we wait?"

There was only one choice he could make.  "Negative, 5-3.  Evac when your transport arrives.  We need what you've got."  He could only hope that Chris and 9-6 - Mike Wiersbowski, he remembered - made it to the rendezvous in time for extraction.  If not, they'd have to wait until they could arrange another evac for them, assuming they lasted that long.

Chris was good, he reminded himself, holding back the fear that threatened to envelop him at the thought of Chris in a combat situation without him there to back him up.  Chris was very, very good and he thrived in this sort of situation.  He'd be okay, and he would get to the rendezvous point by hook or by crook.

He tried to hold onto the thought.

*****

They'd finally managed to shake off their pursuers long enough for Chris to risk calling in.  He didn't think that Belmont's men had any sophisticated monitoring equipment that would enable them to pick up the CI5 men's transmission, but even if they had he was going to have to take that chance.  Things had gone from bad to worse, and they'd heard nothing from Backup and Carlson, being pushed by their pursuit away from the rendezvous point rather than towards it.  The heat was taking its toll, and they were both getting close to the end of their tether.

He risked a quick glance over at Wiersbowski, who was taking advantage of their tenuous safety to rather awkwardly bandage the cut on his arm.  In normal circumstances, Chris would help him out, much as he had helped Sam on Nomine Patri, but since Wiersbowski wasn't seriously injured he couldn't spare the time when it was urgent that they let Ops know they were alive and more importantly wanted to get out of this hellhole.

"4-5 to Ops.  4-5 to CI5 Ops..."

His only reply was static and with a wince he tried fiddling with the controls on the satellite phone, aiming for a clearer signal before trying again.  "4-5 to Ops.  Come in..."

This time his reward was greater, a voice coming through although it was too garbled by static still to make any sense.  He tried fiddling again.

"... 4-5.  I said, repeat 4-5, you're not coming through."

The reception would have to be considerably less clear than it was for him not to recognise his partner's voice.  Or the relief in it.  But what the hell was Sam doing at Ops?  By rights, his partner should still be on sick leave.  He just hoped the Englishman wasn't doing anything stupid.

"Roger, Ops.  Is this better?"

"Yes."  Definitely relief he could hear in his partner's voice, combined with some urgency.  Before he could relay the information about their position, his partner's voice came rapidly through the headset.  "ETA to rendezvous point, 4-5?"

He glanced over at Wiersbowski, but his colleague wasn't giving him any help, shrugging his shoulders as he heard Sam's voice over his own headset.  "I'd say at least an hour, Ops."

He heard Sam's muttered 'shit', but it was more the dullness in his partner's tone when he next spoke that warned him that something was wrong.  "Roger that, 4-5.  Be advised that 5-3 and 7-8 are to be extracted from the rendezvous point alpha in twelve mikes."

Shit indeed, thought Chris.  He didn't let his despair show in his voice though, not wanting to add to the stress that Sam would be under.  "Understood, 3-7.  We're not going to make it.  Advise?"

A brief, telling hesitation, and then Sam's dull voice came back again.  "Stand by for instructions."

He waited impatiently, one ear out for any signs of pursuit, while Sam obviously conferred with someone.  Within a matter of seconds his partner was back on the air.  "4-5, acknowledge."

"Here, Ops."

"Be advised that next possible rendezvous is exactly 24 hours from now, at point beta.  Confirm extraction one hour, that's six zero mikes in advance or extraction will not proceed.  Next window is 24 hours from then, rendezvous point theta.  Again confirm extraction six zero mikes beforehand.  Maintain radio silence other than that."  Another hesitation, and then Sam spoke again, his tone having that hard edge to it which Chris knew meant his partner was struggling to hide what he was feeling.  "Be advised that theta is the last possible extraction at this time."

There was no doubting the message.  They'd be on their own resources after that, left to attempt to make their way to friendly territory.  Of course, the reason for that was because if they didn't manage to make it to those rendezvous it would probably be because they were dead.

He sat staring blankly at the sat-phone for a few seconds, wondering how the hell he was going to get out of this one without Sam to watch his back.  Wiersbowski was good, but not in Sam's league.  Finally, Sam's voice percolated through his consciousness, the desperation in it almost tangible, at least to Chris' attuned ear.

"Watch your back, 4-5."

In spite of the grimness of the situation, Chris had to grin defiantly, trying to put into his tone what he couldn't say in words knowing that they'd be overheard.  "See you in hell, Sammy.  4-5 out."

He cut off the connection, not wanting to prolong the contact and risk being tracked, although the sound of Sam's voice made him ache to see the man.  Turning back to Wiersbowski to assist him with his injured arm before they moved on, he caught the American watching him, his expression furious.

"That's it?" spat Wiersbowski.  "We're on our own fucking resources?  They're just going to leave us here to rot?"

"No," replied Chris, fighting back his own temper.  "They're arranging two other potential extractions for us."

"Why the fuck can't they wait for us when they pick up Backup and Carlson?"

Chris glared at him.  "Keep your goddamned voice down," he snarled.  "You want to bring those fuckers down on top of us?"  Wiersbowski looked abashed for all of two seconds before he glared back.  Chris continued, his voice barely above a hiss.  "It's too dangerous to risk waiting.  You should know that.  In a situation like this it's straight in and out for the chopper and if you aren't there, tough shit."

"He's leaving us to stew, man.  I always thought your fucking partner was ice, but this is cold even for him.  Leaving his own partner in the shit."

Chris lost it at that point, slamming Wiersbowski into the trunk of the tree behind him and sticking his face straight into the American's, his voice a growl.  "Don't you ever talk about my partner with anything less than respect.  You hear me?  He's twice the fucking man you are.  As for leaving us here, he's doing his goddamned job and he's relying on us to do ours.  So quit whining and get on with it."

They stared at each other, glaring daggers and neither willing to give ground until finally Wiersbowski's eyes dropped from Chris' and he pulled away furiously, rubbing at his front where Chris had grabbed his shirt.  "Touch me again, Keel, and not even your partner will recognise you when I've finished with you."

Chris resisted the childish impulse to dare him to make good on his threat, straightening his own shirt and moving to collect their sat-phone with an icy silence that would have done Sam proud.  He probably shouldn't have lost his temper like that but the idea that Wiersbowski, a man who had only spoken to Sam half a dozen times, would dare to sit judgement on his partner rankled more than he cared to admit.  How could Wiersbowski miss the despair and desperation in Sam's voice when his partner had been forced to tell them they were on their own for the next day or two?  Surely even a knucklehead like him should have picked up on that.  He shouldered the sat-phone pack with an angry shrug, not looking at Wiersbowski in case his unruly temper got the better of him again.

Still not speaking and barely tolerating each other the two Americans started on their journey to the next rendezvous point.