Title: Radar Beneath Our Skin
Author: Brigantine
Fandom: The Losers
Pairing: Cougar/Jensen
Rating: PG-13
Length: 2,100
Summary: A mission goes completely pear-shaped. Jensen ends up with Cougar's rifle.


#####

At a crucial point in the exchange where one of Aisha’s fanatical ex-comrades yelped, “Death to America!” and expected Aisha to yelp it back, just like in the good old days, she hesitated for a half-heartbeat too long, and her voice over the comm units said, “Yeah. Damn Yankees!” And then she said, “Oh, shit,” and all hell broke loose on the other side of the compound wall.

Clay, Pooch and Jensen broke cover and roared in after her, Pooch handling the heavy truck like the beautiful maniac he is once he gets behind a steering wheel, while Clay and Jensen hung off the back of it and made the neighborhood very noisy and more than a little bit hazardous. It was thrilling and all very macho, except for the part where the bad guys threw Aisha, wrapped in a tarp and swearing sulfurously, into the back of an oversized Toyota Land Cruiser and bolted out into the desert, raising a dust cloud that followed them toward the southeast.

The drug runners Aisha’s old fanatical buddies were doing business with shot out of the compound at top speed in a Russian GAZ 2975, heading northwest. Pooch careened southeast after the Cruiser with Aisha in it. Jensen was whooping and swinging like Tarzan from the heavy gauge chain pull on the back of the truck, while Clay advised him in a half-hearted, I-have-to-say-this-because-I-am-the-resident-adult sort of way to quit dicking around and get inside the truck and settle down when the comms buzzed with the sound of Cougar swearing in Spanish, and then there was the sound of men shouting in the background and the GAZ engine gunning, and a fistfight, and then crunch and then nothing. Jensen’s chest felt cold and then hot, and before Clay could order him not to he jumped off the rear end of their truck and sprinted back toward the damaged compound to commandeer a Land Rover from a freshly dead political fanatic at the wheel, keys in the ignition and hopefully plenty of gas in the tank.

So.

Clay and Pooch are somewhere over whereverthefuck east, chasing Aisha into the frying pan heat of the northern Gobi, and Jensen is about a hundred-odd miles west, flat-out in the scrub on a small hill overlooking a dozen yurts perched in a lovely, tree-rimmed meadow in northeast Kazakhstan. If he lives through this Clay is going to dismember him. Neat.

Jensen stares through the scope of Cougar’s rifle at Yurt Number Three – the one where he’s deduced, based on traffic, they’re holding Cougs – and entertains himself by running lists of what he knows versus what he doesn’t know.

Some things Jensen does not know:

1. Whether they are hurting Cougar down there in Yurt Number Three. With Cougar’s comm unit trashed he can't listen in, but based on past experience Jensen’s got his suspicions.

2. How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood. No one has ever explained that to Jensen. Maybe there are too many variables to solve for x. If so, then why do people keep asking?

3. Exactly where Clay, Pooch and Aisha are. Jensen leaves his comm unit in his ear so that he’ll hear about it the moment Clay gets back in range, no doubt loudly questioning Jensen’s mental readiness and threatening dire consequences to his person for bailing on his CO and haring off into the sunset after Cougar. Jensen finds Clay’s threats oddly comforting.

4. How many men exactly are down there in Yurt Camp. Jensen has spotted three sentries, plus the half dozen going in and out of Yurt Number Three, and now there's a guy who leaves Yurt Number Five, crosses the camp and disappears into Yurt Number One. Considering how few guys Jensen actually has eyes on, there are a lot of yurts, and a lot of vehicles. Jensen finds two URAL all-purpose transport trucks, three Land Rovers, a Ford Explorer, one PLA BJ 2032 pickup with a Russian Pecheneg machine gun bolted to the roof, the GAZ parked in front of Yurt Number Three, and a Mercedes Benz convertible done in champagne beige. Huh. The GAZ holds 4 crew up front plus room for 5 in the back so 9, ten at a squeeze... Not really helpful. What he needs to know is how many men are lurking in the yurts. Lurking in the yurts? Oh, no no no. Jensen does not need that earworm. Return to sender.

Things Jensen is mostly sure of:

1. They took Cougar ‘cause after the clusterfuck with Aisha and the fanatics (1960’s rock group, torn jeans, muslin gypsy blouses, flowery headbands, he wonders if she can actually sing) they need to know what the hell is going on.

2. Cougar is going to be very happy with him for a) retrieving his rifle and his kit, b) cleaning out the fuck-ton of sand that got into his rifle when he ditched it before the drug dealer guys got him.

3. Cougar not being much for pda’s, there is likely to be a nice, private blowjob involved later as a "Thank-you Best Buddy for rescuing a) my favorite rifle, and b) my sexy Mexican ass." This is assuming Cougar and Jensen don't finish up the evening by sharing a shallow grave under a tree in Kazakhstan.

4. When the shooting starts, the Pecheneg is at the top of Jensen’s kill list. Nasty little fuckers, Pechenegs.

5. Cougar’s SR-25 takes a 7.62 mm round, which will make an impressive hole, and it’s got a full magazine, since Cougar never had a chance to get a shot off, but that’s only 20 rounds, and zero time to switch out, so Jensen needs to make each one count.

6. The bad guys are probably very nervous right now, and not terribly patient, which means Cougar hasn’t got time for Jensen to hang out here forever, making lists in his head.

7. Unless there is piracy and/or coding involved, holding perfectly still and focusing for an extended period of time are not at the top of the list of Jensen’s strengths. Being quiet while holding perfectly still and focusing is not even on the list. There’s a reason “backup sniper” is not in his job description. Also, see Note #6.

Jensen addendums to self that if Cougs has been killed and/or maimed Jensen will not be responsible for his actions. Yurt Number Three shivers in the crosshairs of his vision and he inhales and releases a deep, slow breath, just the way Cougar taught him, to wait out the adrenaline surge of terror and the threatening rage blackout.

Jensen starts humming very, very quietly, "A Spoonful of Sugar" until his hands quit shaking. Adding up the lead Jensen had to give them for discretion's sake on the drive here, plus the time Jensen's been lying on the hill, they’ve had Cougar in Yurt Number Three for nearly an hour, and Jensen, hopelessly hyperactive and a little bit cracked in the brain, is the only cavalry Cougar's got. Right, then. Bring on the cabaret.

It’s a funny thing, Jensen thinks, as he sweeps the crosshairs of Cougar’s scope slowly across the camp, but he does not personally have anything against recreational drug use. Unless, of course, some dumbass gets himself extra happy on the good stuff and then decides it’d be a swell idea to climb behind the gears of an Abrams, “...cause that,” Jensen murmurs to the small animal burrowing noisily into the long grass about a yard from his left elbow, “just never ends well.”

Jensen eases out a slow breath, and puts a slug into the engine of the Russian GAZ. The nearest sentry nearly swallows his cigarette in surprise, and fumbles his weapon while Jensen takes out the gas tank. Cougar in Jensen’s head coaches patiently, “This is how the tortoise wins his race, sí? Slow, but not too slow.”

Breath out. Squeeze. Three men running for the BJ2032 flinch back as the vehicle rocks slightly, one shot to the gas tank, a second to the engine.

Breathe in. Sight. “No, my naughty heroin-procuring friend, that is not for you….” as he gently squeezes the trigger of Cougar’s rifle and puts a nice, big hole into the center mass of the Pecheneg.

Breathe out. Squeeze. Land Rover... Squeeze... Land Rover, won’t Cougar come over...

Whoops. Jensen has been so distracted playing carnival games with the vehicles that he’s lost track of the humans. The camp looks as though someone has kicked over a heavily armed anthill. Many men. Many angry, angry men, who are going to put lots of holes into Jensen if he doesn’t get the hell out of their way.

Jensen scrambles right, hoping they haven’t already got a bead on his position. In the fading light he spots a figure running out the back of Yurt Number Three and heading for the trees. Cougar’s crouching low and favoring his left leg some, but he’s moving fast. He holds his hands together in front of him, cuffed or bound, Jensen can’t tell without the scope, but he sees the brief glint of a steel blade held in Cougar’s hands, and Jensen grins. He doesn’t try to draw Cougar’s attention. Cougar will know how to find him.

Jensen quickly settles into a new spot, takes a deep breath, and the scope’s crosshairs pass over the open doorway of Yurt Number One as the guy who’d entered it earlier stands in front of it, waving a Chinese Kalashnikov and apparently looking around for someone to shoot. He heads for the GAZ, not knowing it’s dead. Inside the yurt, lit up in the headlights of a recently deceased Land Rover Jensen spots stacks of crates of a certain variety that he recognizes, and behind it a stash of gasoline drums that he couldn’t see from his old position.

Jensen grins behind the scope, murmurs delightedly, “Hel-lo, Nurse!” and squeezes off a quick five rounds; three into the gas drums and two into the stacks of munitions inside the yurt. Three shots of a 7.62 mm slug into steel drums gives him more than three holes, slamming through and through, and flammable petroleum product is gushing out onto the ground, but there is, disappointingly, no spark, and therefore no satisfying BOOMWHOOSH.

The many, many angry men from the camp have piled into the URALS - and the Mercedes convertible, wait, what? – and are racing toward the general direction of Jensen’s old position, which isn’t all that far from his new one.

Jensen takes a breath, tries very hard to ignore the increasing growl of the URALs engines, and sights in on the munitions again. “One, two, three,” he thinks rhythmically as he breathes in, and out, and in, “One, two, three.”

Something finally sparks and pops inside Yurt Number One, and catches on the mess the gasoline drums have been making.

“And we’re dancing,” Jensen says, watching the fuel and the munitions begin a hot and colorful tango down in Yurt Camp. Everyone looks better by firelight.

The URALs come to a grinding halt nearly at the crest of the hill, and then wheel back, gears squealing, toward the camp and all the expensive merchandise about to be devoured by the spreading conflagration. From where he’s hiding Jensen can hear the men inside the trucks swearing.

The moment all pursuit is well down the hill back toward Yurt Camp Jensen scurries backward out of his hide, crouches for a few hurried steps down the rear of the hill, then straightens and heads for the stolen Land Rover he parked about fifty yards west, inside the treeline. Cougar's probably already there. Jensen grins, fierce and relieved beneath the starry sky.

He imagines the kissing first, top priority. After that, while driving and/or applying first aid as necessary (though Coug always growls at him when he bandages/rummages for candy while driving with his knees), the manly bragging, because of course Cougar's been tracking in his super ninja sniper brain the result of each shot Jensen fired, and knows he didn't miss a single target, and then hopefully they can scrounge something to eat, because hell if hot pursuit and worrying and being very, very patient, ugh, don't work up an appetite. Congratulatory sex later, when they’re well clear of hostiles and can take their time, waiting for Clay to show up and yell at them.

Jensen wonders whether Cougar will let him leave the handcuffs on him for a while.

Nah.

Maybe.

Jensen balances Cougar's rifle against his shoulder as he slants down the grassy hill toward the dark, sheltering trees, the Rover, and Cougar. He starts humming an old song by Golden Earring.


--#--