Running over the lawn, they hit the road with a squeal of tires. Reaching into his bag, Cesare dug out his water bottle and rags. Soaking a rag in water, he liberally washed his face, working systematically to get every inch of powder off his face, the pile of rags quickly added up before he switched to dry ones. His hair was little more than a soaked tangled mess by the end.

Cesare carefully opened his eyes, even sure with Aleph’s un-sight he was anxious at having missed a trace. He relaxed his hold on Sephirothic, reality splintering around him, meaty senses flooding into the space Aleph had held. The power of the Kundalini tapered off, Root Chakra closing as the serpent laid down to rest.

Leaning forward, Cesare tapped Mr. Snake's knee with the water bottle. Reaching out, the man grasped the bottle as Cesare laid clean rags on the man’s knee. “Wash, dry, and repeat until you’ve scrubbed yourself clean. Make sure you get your hands, neck, and scalp. Only open your eyes a bit at first.”

The man held the items, face a blank canvas of neutrality, thoughts chasing themselves across the man’s face. It didn't matter to Cesare if he trusted him or not, it wasn't his eyes on the line.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Banana said, hand clenching white knuckled around the kukri.

Slow and lazy, Cesare smiled at the impotent, blind man. “Big talk from a man that can't whip his own ass.” A bestial growl rumbled from the man.

“Enough,” Mr. Snake said, hands busy with water and rags as he scrubbed his skin raw with the scratchy rags. “We fought, and lost. It doesn’t matter now.”

“I’m fucking blind!” The leader looked in the rearview mirror at the shout, concern drawing crow’s feet along his eyes.

Mr. Snake slowly cracked his eyes, the barest essence of a squint before opening them fully. With a nod of thanks to Cesare, he kneeled down and started looking over the small girl with the flechettes in her body. “You know the score, Banana. We fight, kill, kidnap, and slaughter, Hounds sworn to god’s vengeance don’t whine. Today he did the fucking, and we did the crying, deal with it.”

Pulling a bag from under the bench, Snake opened a triage kit tricked out with the latest tech. Taking up a set of surgical pliers, he pulled the flechettes out, staunching the blood with bandages. The metallic feathers were serrated things, tearing the skin on their way out of the hamburger looking flesh. Even in the bouncing car, the man worked with a precision that was mesmerizing.

Wayward beams found their way past the windshield, showing the raw metal of the troop transport. Steel bars ribbed the inside of the van, a frame supporting a skin of reinforced steel, plates of ballistic plates rivetted into place along the sides, floor, and ceiling. Leaning back, Cesare watched Mr. Snake wrap the small woman in bandages, finishing her with a syringe to the neck before examining the larger woman.

“You fucked us up good. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone fight like that,” Mr. Snake said, rolling the big woman over, his fingers ran over her body, cataloging injuries. “Once we got you separated from Viktor, you were supposed to be a clean target. Instead, you maimed one of us, and put two Hounds out for months.” Snake stuck the woman with a long syringe before lifting her dead weight off the metal floor, wraps for her ribs piled beside him.

Cesare moved over and held the woman as Mr. Snake stripped her of the blood-soaked trench coat. The medic located the bullet wounds from the 44 Automag Viktor carried. Through and through, the bullets had shredded her, leaving gaping wounds dribbling blood into the growing pool of scarlet under her. A normal person would be dead four times over. She’d not only survived four holes ventilating her chest cavity but gone on to trade punches with him.

Mr. Snake reached into the bag, retrieving a fat plastic syringe filled with black pellets. Seeing his eyes, Mr. Snake talked as he jabbed the rounded end into a bullet hole, pushing on the plunger. “The black pellets are high efficiency sponges; they’ll stop the bleeding and seal the hole. Once we get to the farm, I can see what were up against.”

Holding up the gauze, Mr. Snake looked a question at Cesare. Nodding, Cesare took his half of the bandage, working quickly they bandaged the bullet holes. Transitioning, they wrapped the woman’s ribs tight, it might keep the splinters from moving before someone could get in there. Laying the woman down, Mr. Snake gave Cesare a long look before checking the women’s vitals.

“I could use help when we get back, if you’re willing,” Mr. Snake said, meeting Cesare’s eyes over the bodies of his teammates. “I don’t need much, just someone with a steady hand.”

Shrugging, Cesare nodded his agreement. They weren’t trying to kill him, and maybe if he helped them with their teammates, they’d keep that mind set. Looking over at Banana's milky eyes, he didn’t think he’d be having a lot of luck with that one.

The van bounced along a rough road, Mr. Snake keeping the women from getting thrown around. Slipping off his seat, Cesare helped the man keep them steady as the shocks squeaked and rattled. Looking out the windshield, Cesare saw the forest pressing in, branches scratching along the van’s steel sides. Wherever they were going, it wasn't off the beaten path, it was born in the back ass of nowhere. One thing was certain, no one was going to hear his screams.

After longer than he would've thought, the van came to a smooth stop. Opening the back, Mr. Snake slipped bonelessly out of the van. Taking the small woman’s legs, the medic motioned for Cesare to take Dart's shoulders. Together they lifted her outside and into the fading sunlight.

He only got a quick look at the farm before Mr. Snake was rushing him into an old style farmhouse. Taking the wooden stairs up the porch, he heard the leader yell behind them. “How are they?”

“Critical,” Mr. Snake said grim. “Bring Beast into the operating room, if we don’t get fluids into her soon, we’ll be doing Last Rights by morning.” Mr. Snake back stepped through the house with the ease of long practice.

Kicking open a bedroom door, Mr. Snake lead Cesare into an operating room. White tiles lined the floor with the walls done in smooth panels. Industrial size drains marked out the room, manacles wrapped around anchored hooks in the walls, the gurneys lining the room were equipped with chains and straps, gleaming steel locks shining under antiseptic lights. For now, the room was prepped for emergency triage, with I.V. units prepped, sorted trays of sterilized equipment standing ready. Mr. Snake might have been expecting an easy fight, but he’d prepared for the worst with four beds set and ready.

Laying the girl down on one of the tables, Mr. Snakes words were quiet. “You know how to do an I.V.?” The words weren't even out before the leader kicked open the door, rushing in with the big woman cradled in his arms.

“I’ve done a few, if I can’t get a vein, I’ll let you know.” Cesare wedded action to words, tearing open a sterilized pouch, fitting needle in place while looking over Dart's arm. Mr. Snake headed for the other one, it took both men to get the woman settled onto a gurney.

Sliding the needle into the vein, Cesare taped the connection down. Working on Beast, Mr. Snake hooked her up to the fluids and blood waiting by the far bed. Taking his cue, Cesare hooked Dart up to the waiting lines.

“What about Banana?” The leader asked from the doorway, wide bulk filling the archway.

“Nothing I can do; the bleach killed his eyes. The next step is removal, but that can wait. Give him something to put him under and I’ll deal with it later.” Mr. Snake said without looking up from taking vitals.

“And the kid?” The man asked, eyes settling on Cesare.

“He’s helping, and unless you're going to join us, fuck off,” Mr. Snake said, leaving Beast and making his way to Dart.

The man shut the door behind him. “Get cleaned and sterilized, the bathrooms over there in the back. You did good getting her hooked up, how'd you know this was her blood type?”

Cesare threw the words over his shoulder on the way to the bathroom. “Just made sense, you had the tables set, and you didn’t move Beast next to Dart, I figured you'd readied them for specific team members.” Mr. Snake nodded, eyes resting on Cesare for a long moment.

They worked for the next few hours on the women. Mr. Snake moved as if born to work flesh, digging through meat for fragments of steel, bandaging ravaged bodies, injecting them with a cocktail of antibiotics, a calm certainty to everything he did. They finished off the women with a big enough hit of dope to make an opioid addict grin.

Cleaning up the together, Mr. Snake’s words filled the silence. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

Scrubbing down, Cesare grimaced at the blood stains on his hoodie. “I’ve worked a few underground clinics. You know, vets that work on gunshots, abortions for a song, anything for the right price.” Mr. Snake's mask of sterilized crystal hid the serpentine thoughts that threaded his eyes.

Walking out with the man, Cesare got a look at the farmhouse. Exposed beams ran across the ceiling from room to room, roughhewn, their age was worn in the raw wood. Old and scarred, the floor had tracks worn into the warm brown of the planks. The space was more open than he was used to, small islands of furniture surrounded by oceans of dead wood.

Pictures and portraits dotted the wall, clothes, nationalities, and era's changing, only the grim set to the eyes marking them as family. Not by blood, but deep in the bone, a branding that joined their flickering slaughterous lives into an unbroken chain. The other thing that remained was the sigils peeking out along hands or marching in hard, unforgiving blocks down arms.

Coming out of the hallway, Cesare was greeted with a stripped down, barely functional living room. An old wood sofa draped with threadbare cushions, shared the open floor with chairs made of rough logs already old when Cesare was new. Mr. Snake kept walking, leading Cesare into what looked like a dining room set for twenty.

“Sit anywhere, usually we’d have a full house, but orders were to keep it strictly to who Andras absolutely needed.” Bitterly low, his laughter skittered through the air. “Turns out, he should’ve brought the whole pack.”

Stepping out from the kitchen, Andras set an overly large crock pot onto the middle of the table. After passing out wooden bowls and spoons, the big man took his seat at the head of the table. Clasping his hands, Andras bowed his head, followed quickly by Mr. Snake.

Lord, we your Hounds, come before you in thanks

Thanks for a life lived under Lucifer’s guiding hand

Thanks for your grace wedded to our bodies and souls

And thanks for the salvation of our souls

May we forever bask in your glory

May your name grace our lives

May we always bask in your light and favor

Amen

Taking Cesare’s bowl, Andras ladled out a heaping helping of the stew. Handing the bowl over, the big man kept hold of the bowl as he met Cesare’s eyes. “Thank you for helping Snake with my pack,” the man said as he let go of the bowl.

Taking the bowl, Cesare smelled the savory taste of stew that had slow cooked for hours, big lumps of potatoes and carrots swimming in the thick broth. “It was nothing.”

Snorting, Mr. Snake held his own bowl out to for filling. “You were a damn sight better than nothing. I should know, nothing is standard fair for the help I get.” The man’s words warmed something in Cesare even as he ate the stew with relish.

“Speaking of them, how are Dart and Beast?” Andras asked tucking into his own stew with big bites.

Sighing, the bald man ate a small bite. “Out of the woods thanks to Cesare, but now we’re looking at recovery.” Mr. Snake gave Cesare a long look before darting questioning eyes at Andras.

“You don’t have to hold back, if he’s as smart as you think, he’ll figure it out anyway,” Andras said simply.

Snake nodded in acknowledgment. “Even with our enhanced healing the damage they've taken we’re looking at months of recovery. The wounds will heal up in days, but they'll need physical therapy to deal with scars, muscle tears, and things that won’t heal clean.”

Eating slowly, Andras contemplated his stew. “What was that thing?” the man asked with the idle curiosity of a person not expecting an answer.

“A frisbee with plastic explosive molded onto the top, embedded with flechettes.” Cesare wasn’t giving them anything they couldn’t figure out, and it was only one trick in the dozens he’d cooked up. “If I'd known it wouldn’t kill, I'd have cut into the flechettes and smeared them in shit.”

Mr. Snake paled, spoon stopping in mid-air. “By God, it would have been impossible to dig out the infection.”

Cesare shrugged, reaching out to refill his bowl. “I don’t make weapons to keep people alive.” The Hounds locked eyes as Cesare ate. Something strange and dangerous passing between the two leaders of the pack.

Silently eating, the three men finished off the crock pot of stew. Mr. Snake got to his feet, clearing the table with quick efficient movements. As Mr. Snake left the room with the bowls, Andras motioned for Cesare to follow him.

“I’ll show you to your room,” Andras said.

“I thought you wanted to talk,” Cesare asked, following the man through the quiet house.

Yawning, Andras looked back with a wolfish smile. “When you get as old as me kid, days get longer but you don’t get any younger. Get some sleep and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

Andras pushed open a door at the end of the hall. The small space held a twin bed, blankets military sharp and a dark wooden dresser. It was bare, almost clinical in its simplicity, the necessities and nothing else, as if the idea of a place to sleep was boiled down to its essence.

Andras grinned, baring his teeth in understanding. “I’m a warrior and a man of God. I vowed no harm would come to you, and I’ll keep it. Make yourself comfortable under my roof, knowing I’ll kill to protect you if need be,” the man said before he left.

Weighing his options, Cesare made for the bathroom across the hall. If he was going to die tonight, he'd do it clean and warm. A smile stretched across his face as the warm water ran down his body and over scars. No matter how bad the day was, at least at the end of it, he had hot water. It was a luxury that hadn’t been there for most of his life.

He rigged the bedroom door with shaped charges, anything forcing their way in would be torn apart by the shearing force of overlapping explosions. Cesare worked for the next few hours on a new line up of tricks, ready for tomorrow in case the man’s word didn’t mean as much as Cesare hoped it did.