CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

 

So Close and Yet So Far

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The rain drilled downward like scores of wet, sloppy bullets firing from the heavens, but merely splattering apart on impact with the surface.  Stormy, powerful winds chased the rain down to the ground, then swept the earth and whipped back up into the sky, carrying with them anything light enough or small enough.  Fortunately, The Baroness was neither light nor small enough to be carried away, but it still thrashed at her long, night black hair and her slender body as she stomped through the foot deep mud nearing the southwest coast of the island.  A single hand lifted over her lightly colored face blocking the gale force and rain, but her hair still flew about from the aggressive wind tunnel and she was soaked from head to toe like a drowned woodchuck.  Whatever hair wasn’t whipping in the wind was plastered to her round scalp and stuck there like paper mache.  Her face was contorted behind her wire rim glasses and her green eyes darted back for a split second.

“Destro?” she asked, half shouting over the wind.  They were nearing the western edge of the thick forest behind the airfield.  The two Cobras had an appointment to keep.

“Yes, my love, I am here,” Destro replied, trudging through the deep forest mud as rain pelted down at him, even though the trees sheltered him.  Wind blasted against his broad, leather covered chest, and his high-necked red fur collar trembled under its strength.  His right hand clutched at his ribs, which ached dully like a slow burning candle, not an agony, but a constant, warm pain settling through his left ribcage.  But the Cobra arms supplier was merely happy to be alive at this point, a miracle in and of itself after being at ground zero of a GI Joe bombing run.  But he had taken one of them out of the picture.  That was settling to him, at least.  Ahead, he could see the Baroness walking more quickly, picking up her pace now that the water was closer.  Destro could almost hear the churning waves slapping at the wet, marshy beach as the end of the thick vegetation grew near.  He could see out into the land beyond, and was amazed at what the storms had done to the former marshland.  The grass was drenched beyond recognition, with the pounding water mixing with the soil and creating a thick, soupy mess rolling and churning over the once grassy land.  It was thick, wet mud, plain and simple, probably a foot and a half deep, and Destro hoped it was too wet to solidify around their legs as they crossed.  The Baroness’ swift motion confirmed his thoughts as she was slowed by the deep mess, but did not stop.  Destro stepped softly out from the woods, taking great care not too step too hard and be sucked into the dark, chunky land.  He took one easy step, and then a second, but suddenly a voice shouted hard and loud to be heard over the storm, brought him to a stand still.

“Destro!” It was an almost frantic scream.  A mixture of dread and the utmost pleasure, shouted by someone looking for something, but not expecting to find it.  The man in the silver mask turned, his face frowning underneath.  A single figure stood ten feet away, framed by the slamming storm.  With a loud CRACK a bright yellow bolt of lightning scorched the sky behind him, bathing the beach in light for but a split second.  Destro hadn’t needed the illumination to know who it was.  The man’s body language and voice was description enough.

“Didn’t expect to see me here, did you, murderer?” the figure demanded, stomping steadily forward through the deep muck.

“No, Flint.  I did not.”  Destro said simply, remaining where he was, not moving, not backing away.  As the figure walked closer he saw the weapon in his hand, a slender, round shotgun, the stock removed.

“Don’t imagine that you’re glad to see me, Snake.”  Flint kept the weapon trained on the large man’s chest, the barrel stock-still and hovering.  “Have you missed me?” his face was almost insane with rage, Destro could see now, as he stepped closer.  Another fork of lightning tore from the heavens, bathing the man in an almost mystical glow.

“To be honest, Flint, I haven’t thought about you at all,” Destro pointed succinctly.  Flint chuckled.

“You are a callous bastard, aren’t you?”  Flint asked, as he grew somewhat nearer.  His eyes narrowed and he viewed the Cobra with a sideways glare.  “Something’s changed in you, Destro…you’re different.”

The larger man crossed his arms, adjusting his stance slightly in the seeping mud.  “The world has changed, Flint.  A man in my position just needs to keep up.”

Flint sneered a vicious, soulless sneer.  “You don’t have much longer to worry about it, bucko.”  The shotgun lifted and pressed against the arms dealer’s broad chest, but he remained still.

“Are you going to shoot me, Joe?  In cold blood?”

“Uh uh…you got that all wrong, Destro.  I’m no Joe.  Not anymore.” Flint’s cold, dark eyes pierced into the very being of his foe.

  “Thanks to you.” He jabbed the thin barrel into the larger man’s chest, which was rock solid and didn’t budge.

Destro snickered.  “Typical.  This day and age, someone is always looking for someone to blame.”  Flint lowered the shotgun and moved in close, breathing hotly into Destro’s masked face.

“I don’t have to look scumbag.”  His angry voice breathed warm hate straight into the masked man’s face, through the open slits in his mask.   “You’re right here.”  He stepped back away, lifting the shotgun back into firing position.

“Destro?” the shrill voice echoed through the night from many feet away.

“Take your leave, Baroness.  I will meet you at the Moray in ten minutes,” Destro said calmly and evenly, as if merely stating a fact.

“What is going on here?” she screeched, walking out into the open area by the rushing ocean water.  She stopped many yards away and gasped.  “You!” she shouted a Flint.

“Baroness!” Destro shouted, almost angrily.  “Leave now.  I will join you shortly.”

“Destro, he’s got a weapon…”

“And we do not.  I will settle this, trust me.”

The Baroness nodded uneasily, and stepped back slowly.  She turned and disappeared into a small grouping of trees to the south.

“Why lie to the woman, Destro?  You and I both know there’s no Moray trip in your immediate future.”

“I don’t lie, GI Joe.  You won’t shoot me.  You can’t.”

Flint snarled and stepped in, the shotgun pressing up flush against the chin of Destro’s beryllium mask.  “Are you willing to stake your life on that?”

Destro did not budge.  He stood firmly, holding his ground.  “Deep inside, Flint…you know the truth.”

Flint didn’t flinch even the slightest bit.  “Truth?  Who are you to talk about truth?”

“You were there…we all were.  These are your inner demons talking, Flint, that’s all.”  Destro spoke clearly and simply, hoping to overcome the Joe with startling rationalism.  “Deep, deep inside you know I’m not the callous murderer you make me out to be.”

Flint was so enraged, he trembled.

“Deep inside you know the whole thing was an unfortunate accident.  A toss of the dice.  Random occurrence, if you will.”

“LIAR!” Flint tensed, his finger darting quickly, but Destro was quicker and slapped the gun away even as it roared with its deafening thunder, a blast of smoke rolling into the sky.

“Well, Flint.  I guess you proved me wrong.”  With a twist of his wrist, the shotgun broke free of the Joe’s grasp and landed many feet away, slowly sinking into the mud.

Flint glared at Destro, his eyes narrow and focused into thin beams of hatred.  “You…murdered…her.” He said it simply and angrily, punctuating each word with a speck of spittle flying from his lips, mixing with the millions of falling raindrops.  Another scorching finger of white-hot lightning seared to the earth, directly followed by the shattering blast of thunder.

“I know what you’re thinking, Flint.  I know better than you think.”  Destro’s body language was firm and unrelenting.  A thick curtain of rain slammed down around them as more deep thunder roared in the distance.

“You know nothing!” Flint shouted, throwing his clenched fist into a tight arc with the right side of his body.  It plowed into Destro’s left ribcage and he screamed in shocked pain, and stumbled to his knees, mud rising up onto the smooth leather of his uniform.

Destro coughed as the dull pain in his ribs was now flared into a raging inferno of agony.  “Beating me won’t make it better, Flint.  It won’t bring Allison back.”

Another bolt of lightning signaled the peak of the former Joe’s rage and he leaped at the fallen snake, swinging to kill.

 

 

 

Ace’s eyes swept over his console as he brought the jet into a shallow dive, and banked softly to the right.  The Skystriker moved swiftly, its pointed wings pulled in tight, and the afterburners cranking to speed up the patrol.  It seemed like they’d covered the whole gulf by now, but he knew they hadn’t.  He knew Wild Weasel had to be out here somewhere.

“Anything yet, Ace?” the voice crackled in his headset.

“Negative, Slipstream,” the Joe pilot replied through his black helmet.  He stretched slightly in the seat, his olive drab flight suit wrinkling with the motion.  He turned his head slowly to the right, glancing out into the pouring rain and the churning gulf waters.  This far out into the ocean, the clouds had parted somewhat and the sheltered moon cast an eerie glow over the crashing waves.  With a soft twinkle, the moonlight caught a flash of metal down near wave level, but as quickly as it appeared, it was gone.  Ace glanced back at his readings, then turned and looked back out the side of his canopy.

“Did you catch that, Slipstream?” he asked his wingman.

“What’s that?” the Conquest pilot replied.

“A glint off something at wave top.  Just a flash of light.”

“Must have missed it, man.”

“All right.  I’m going down for a closer look.”

“Suit yourself.  I’ve got your six.”

The Skystriker X-14 dropped into a low dive and banked around, skimming just over the top of the wild, wind blown waves of the Gulf of Mexico.  Nothing was visible from this angle either and he began to wonder if he’d even seen anything at all.  Then from what seemed like all around him, the air split with piercing shrieks and an echoing howl as a pair of deep crimson attack planes flooded over him like he was standing still.  The first one whipped by his right side, shuddering the cockpit with its shrill scream.  Ace whipped his head to his right, searching for the location of the noise when a second one streaked by his other side, going the other direction.  The Joe yanked hard on the yoke, pulling the sleek white plan into a steep climb pulling away and out of the cluster of enemy planes.

“Slipstream!” he shouted, banking slightly and leveling out to circle around.

“I see ‘em, Ace.  A pair of Firebats!  I’m converging on your coordinates.”

“Where did they come from?” Ace asked, circling the plane to the left while the wings popped out from their resting place to increase the plane’s maneuverability. A rattling barrage of gunfire shook the night and the Skystriker jolted as twenty-millimeter peppered the undercarriage, but Ace leveled it out and guided it down and around just as the Conquest moved in for the kill.  Slipstream could see both red planes whipping through the air amazingly fast and making impossibly sharp turns, simply circling around the Skystriker, blasting at it with their nose guns.

“You wanna play, boys?” Slipstream asked, punching up his display screens.  “Be prepared to play hard!” The Conquest’s engines roared to a fever pitch as the V-shaped prototype fighter streaked towards the trio of planes.  One of the Firebats broke off their pursuit and spun back around to take on the new threat, but the other remained hot on Ace’s heels, mini guns roaring.  Ace’s superior piloting skills had saved the white plane from too much damage, but it couldn’t last forever against the smaller, more maneuverable aircraft.  The Conquest fired away with its own nose guns, slamming the Firebat as it drew nearer to him, smacking heavy lead against the front of the cockpit and the front stabilizers.  The small red plane lurched a little, but collected itself and zipped back forward, hurtling just by the camouflaged plane.  Slipstream ignored this threat and focused on the plane hugging Ace’s tail.

“Ace!” he shouted, ignoring the blinking threat indicator now illuminated in his cockpit.

“A little busy right now!” Ace replied hastily as the X-14 leaped to one side, barely avoiding another gun barrage.

“Fold the wings and continue your search!  We’re out of time…I’ll take care of these bozos.”

“I can’t do that, Slipstream,” he said as the ‘Striker dove for the water, and then banked away, the Firebat still hot on his heels.

Slipstream glared down at his radar screen, smiling as his “lock-on” light finally lit.  He roared off a narrow missile and banked away just as the Firebat tailing him peppered his tail with gunfire.  The Joe pilot craned his neck, looking out of the cockpit just as the crimson attack plane blew apart from the missile strike.  He began to smirk, but the oddly shaped aircraft shook violently to one side, throwing him against the side of the cockpit.

“I’m on him,” Ace started by Slipstream shouted a negativity.

“Ace!  You have to find the Rattler!  Don’t worry about me!” the Conquest was limping as a column of fire roared from its left engine.

“Slip—“

“Ace, you know I’m right!  I can handle one stupid Firebat!  Now go!”

Ace closed his eyes, and then opened them, glancing down at his fuel supply.  Like it or not, the other pilot was right.  He didn’t have the time or the gas to fool around in a firefight.

“Don’t worry, man…I’ll see you on the Flagg…”

Ace had lost one wingman that night, and had no desire to lose a second, but Slipstream’s life compared to the life of millions wasn’t even close.  Without a reply, Ace folded the narrow wings back in tight to the body, banked the white jet away, hit the afterburners and was gone.

“Good man,” Slipstream replied, guiding the Conquest into a steep climb.  The plane shuddered and more gunfire slammed into one of the tail fins.  Slipstream glanced back, seeing the Firebat close behind, hugging his six, just waiting for the perfect shot.  The Conquest lurched one way, and then another, but the dark red Cobra plane would not release.

“Well, flyboy,” Slipstream said softly, glancing at his threat indicator.  “You want my six so bad?”  He positioned his hands over two different controls in the tight aircraft.  Warning lights illuminated the whole cockpit, and the plane was not going to stay airborne for much longer as the tail fins began to break away from the abuse.  With lightning swiftness, the Joe pilot cut his thrusters and hauled back on the yellow and black lever at the same time.  The Conquest stopped with a shuddering jolt just as the gray suited pilot punched free from the cockpit, soaring into the night sky.  He glanced back as he rose swiftly into the air and smirked as the red Firebat pounded into the abruptly slowed plane from behind.  Both aircraft were swallowed by an orange/yellow cloud and blast of smoke, as they crunched together into a single unrecognizable mass of steel and glass.  His parachute burst open and he drifted slowly to the water’s surface amidst a sprinkling of airplane debris, some green and black, and some a deep, blood red.  With a quick slice, he cut the parachute cord a few feet above the freezing water and dropped into the deep gulf, the cold water suddenly cutting through his flesh like a white-hot knife.  Slipstream yanked a small cord in his uniform and the collar puffed comically, providing him with an instant flotation device and he bobbed there, wondering what to do next.  His question was soon answered by the churning water around him, growing to a strange bubbling pitch, rumbling like a boiling pot as four strange shapes broke through the water’s surface all around him, green/blue streaming from their metal surface.

“What the--?” he asked no one, glancing around nervously.  As soon as he squinted his eyes and identified the four craft real worry settled in.  The four watercrafts looked remarkably similar to the Cobra Stellar Stiletto, their experimental rocket plane capable of interstellar travel, but this wasn’t space they were flying through, this was water.  Each clear, reinforced cockpit eased open with light hisses revealing the pilots inside who Slipstream did not like the looks of.  They stepped out of the submarines and stood on the smooth metal surfaces of them, each one equipped with a long spear gun.  They each wore gray wet suits adorned with dark tiger stripes and had a quite elaborate breathing mechanism strapped to their broad chests.  A helmet covered each one’s head as well, colored a deep blue.  Cobra blue, in fact, confirmed by the grinning red emblem proudly displayed on the helmet’s forehead.  Slipstream’s hopes dwindled quickly.

“Well, well,” one of them said smartly, striding closer to the Joe, remarkably well balanced on the slippery steel surface of the watercraft.  “Look what we caught, Tigersharks,” he said to the surrounding divers.  “Looks like you’re elected to be our first victim, flyboy,” he continued, lifting the spear gun to his goggle- covered eye.  “But definitely not our last.”  His finger twitched on the trigger as Slipstream bobbed there helpless, surrounded by the four subs.  Suddenly an insanely bright light seemed to shred the black night apart, piercing down on the four men from the heavens, hitting them with almost a physical force.

“What?  Tigersharks attack!” he screamed, pointing up at the strange object emitting the large, circular light.  Slipstream noticed for the first time that the water was churning around him, spinning in miniature whirlpools as a fierce wind beat down on it from above.  The spear guns shook as they fired, but the battle was over before it even began.  A thunderous roar exploded from just under the searchlight, further illuminating the night in orange, strobing flashes.  Red tracer fire slammed down on top of the four men on their submarines, cutting through them and quickly dropping them into the water surrounding the Joe pilot.  They didn’t shout, scream or plead; they merely thrashed and flew backwards into the water under the punishing force of the heavy caliber chin turret.  Sparks shot from the metal sub as the gun exploded, but Slipstream was not in fear for his life.  Seconds later it was over and silence descended on the night again with the exception of a beating wind and rapid low thudding in the air.  The spotlight shifted to focus on the Joe pilot and a thin rope dropped down, actually striking the Joe in the helmet before drifting to the water next to him.  He grabbed it and smiled as he was pulled up inside the familiar tan and brown Tomahawk helicopter.

 

 

 

The man in the metal mask tensed his muscles as the other man charged down at him, almost screaming with rage.  Rain continued to abuse the men and the ground around them, mixing with the once solid ground and changing it to a mushy, dark, deep pool of mud, in which each man sprawled as the former Joe tackled the current Cobra second in command.  Destro twisted under Flint’s attack and wrenched sideways, throwing his attacker into the mud behind him, sending him sliding almost comically.  Flint threw out his feet and stopped the slide, then leapt forward again, lunging at the Cobra.  Destro sidestepped and drove a hard leather fist into the Joe’s midsection, doubling him over.

“Come now, Flint!  Your anger is clouding your judgment!  You know that.”

The Joe didn’t answer, instead lashing out with his right leg, clipping the larger man behind the right calf.  His black leg whipped out from under him and he stumbled backwards into the deep mud, seconds before Flint lunged and was on him again.  He wrapped his gloved fists around the Cobra’s throat and squeezed gently.

“Flint!” Destro coughed.  “You can’t…blame me forever…”

Flint snarled, lifting Destro’s head up, and then slammed it back against the muddy ground.  The Cobra whipped his right fist around in a tight circle and drilled it into Flint’s left cheek, hitting him with a rocking right cross.  His beret spun off his head as he was thrown roughly to his right, landing in a chunky brown splash in the deep, wet liquid.  Flint didn’t stay down and charged back at the Cobra, his fist raising.

“I’ve been blaming myself, too Flint.  But I’ve come to realize…” Destro rolled away, snapping his feet together, trapping Flint’s ankles.  The dark haired man stumbled forward and rolled to the edge of the forest, kicking up mud and dirt.

“And you know it, too!  If anyone is to blame, it is—“

“Shut up!” Flint lashed up and swung a wild fist, which blasted against the side of Destro’s head.  Destro stumbled by reflex, but Flint drew back his hand with a shout.  He charged again, but again Destro kept him at bay.  He threw a solid sidekick and the former Joe ran headlong into it, catching the angled foot in his sternum, exhaling sharply and stumbling backwards.  Destro went on the offensive and moved in quickly, drawing his hand back.  With a grunt, he drove it hard and fast into his opponent’s jaw, knocking him back into a clumsy spin and fall into the mud.  The murky liquid seeped over the former Joe as he lay there, looking up at his enemy.  It slowly climbed up over his arms and rose up his chest.  He moved his arms around to help him set up and smiled softly as his right hand closed around a large, solid rock at the forests’ edge.  The large man in leather moved in while the Joe laid there, mud slowly crawling over his body.  As Destro moved in close, Flint jumped forward, swinging his right hand around in a wide whipping arc and cranked the thick, solid rock into the weapons supplier’s helmeted head.  It collided with a dull WHANG and Flint’s fingers shot open releasing the big stone as Destro groaned and fell backwards, tiny flecks of spark dancing from his temple.  He hit the ground with a thump and grunt, his beryllium mask spreading apart at the seal on the side.  As he peeled himself from the wet ground, the metal helmet split slowly and fell to the earth, revealing his angry, but dazed scowl and a thick swath of crimson spreading down the left side of his head.

“Well…struck…But you could kill me, and the truth would…still…stare you in the face….every time…you look in the mirror.”

Flint stood above the Cobra, leaning slightly, breathing haggardly, his fingers flexing.  “I…I know the truth, Destro…you are the one who is in denial.”

The Cobra stood, rubbing his temple, and pulling away the gloved hand, now covered in red.  His head was amazingly similar to the metal mask he wore, smooth and round, with no hair whatsoever except for the bushy gray tinged goatee surrounding his pursed lips.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already?” Destro asked the Joe, stepping forward.

Flint rushed in suddenly and rocked Destro with an uppercut, then drove his other hand into the side of his already thrashing head in a rapid, vicious one-two combination.  Destro stumbled back, but remained standing, refusing to give any ground.

“Have…your inner demons…warped that much of your memory?”

Flint struck again, but Destro dodged and answered with his own blistering punch.  The former Joe dropped to one knee.

“Don’t you remember, Flint?  Must I remind you?”

Flint charged up, wrapping his arms around the large man’s waist.  Destro stumbled back, but quickly resumed his balance and brought two clenched fists crashing against Flint’s back, knocking him back to the mud.

“Remind you of what happened?  You charging after me with your gun blazing?”

“Shut up!” Flint shouted, sweeping Destro’s legs out from under him.  He was on him suddenly, slamming him in the face with rapid punches.  Destro brought his knee up into his chest and shoved out hard, tossing the other man back first into the mud.  The Cobra raised his head, wiped his bloodied lip and scowled at the Joe.

“What was I supposed to do, Flint?  L…let you s…shoot me?”  Destro stood and walked over to the prone Joe, whose breath came in heavy, uneven gasps.  As the weapons supplier drew near, the other man whipped up his heavy combat boot, drilling Destro between the legs.  With a frantic exhale, the large man bent over and Flint rose up, grabbing the sleeves of his leather jacket.  He yanked and twisted, tossing Destro over his hip and sending him flailing to the ground, his jacket ripping free of his massive frame.  The Cobra lay there, and then slowly picked himself up, leaving his jacket laying torn in the mud.  He wore a tight white tank top, now caked in mud, and the blood from his head and face soaked the edges to a dull, metallic copper.

“I d…I did as any man would, Flint.  As you would have done.”

Flint didn’t reply, he only charged forward, swinging a vicious boot.  Destro lunged to one side, taking the kick hard in the right pectoral, but wrapped his large arm around the foot and lifted up, dumping the Joe onto the wet ground.  He moved in as Flint went down, grabbing the Joe by the collar of his own leather jacket and lifting up.

“I shot back, Flint!  What else could I have done?”

“D…die…” Flint muttered, but Destro didn’t oblige then and wasn’t about to now.  He spun and tossed the other man through the air, sending him sprawling through foot deep muck.

“Yes, Flint, I fired back!  I had no gun…I had to use my wrist rocket!”  Destro’s own anger level was rising as he stormed forward and leaned down to Flint’s face, looking him deep in the eyes.  Flint glared back, his gaze caught by the silver gleam waving from Destro’s thick neck.  The Joe stared carefully as the rain pounded down around, his temper flaring.  He wrapped a solid brown-gloved fist around the dangling silver and dragged them close, dragging Destro as well.  His eyes squinted down at the name on the tags as he lay there back first, and a fire ignited deep inside him, only the slightest flicker given away by a menacing flash in his eyes.

“What the hell is this?” he demanded, squinting down at it in rage.  The tiny metal rectangles bunched together in his fists, but the too familiar name imprinted on them scorched into his consciousness.

Destro was momentarily confused.

“Some kind of damn trophy?” Flint screamed yanking the dog tags to him, tearing them from their silver segmented cord, sprinkling tiny silver balls over the lying Joe.  As he pulled he kicked out with his foot, catching Destro in the chest and sending him sprawling back.  But Destro was still unfazed.

“I…I had to use my wrist rocket…don’t you understand?” he was almost justifying to himself as he spoke to Flint, trying to get the events right in his head.  Flint jumped forward and blasted the Cobra with a chest high front kick, knocking him back into the mud.  He landed in a splash and dirty, brown spray, skidding softly, with Flint close behind.  Destro kicked up, striking the Joe in the ribs, and sending him stumbling to the ground next to him.

“Y…yes, Flint…I fired the rocket.  It w…was y…your l…life or mine.” Destro’s voice came in battered rasps as he spoke, coughing, tiny specks of red flying from his lips.  “So…I fired.”

Flint laid there, his breath just as labored.

“B…but what did you do, Flint?  W…what did you do?”

Flint squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block the memory from coming as his muscles tensed, and anger rose in his stomach like bile.  He rolled over and yanked Destro roughly to his feet, but the Cobra was quicker and plowed him in the stomach with a swift right hand, then followed it quickly with three more lightning quick punches to the face…left-right-left blasting like a machine gun, rocking the former Joe’s head like a punching bag.  Flint began to stumble back, but Destro caught him by the collar.

“W…what d…did you do, Flint?  W…what?”

“I…I…” Flint could not form the words as his eyes fluttered in his head.

“Y…you moved Flint!  Y…you dove…out o…out of the w…way.  Like a s…scared child!”  He brought Flint closer, who shoved away, sending Destro stumbling back clumsily.  The two men were drenched by the torrential rain…caked in mud from head to toe, blood mingling with the gray clumps of wet earth.  They stood there in crooked stances, wobbling back and forth, struggling just to stay on their feet.  Both men breathed in harsh, spastic gasps, their breath coming out like they were standing; crooked, desperate, and uncertain.  Their arms hung loosely by their sides, their heads barely being kept upright.  Flint could feel one eye already starting to swell shut and the left side of Destro’s head was opened like a split watermelon, blood still bubbling to the surface.  The rain stormed down; washing streaks of lightly hued red down their flesh, and over their drenched, dirty uniforms.

“Yes, Flint,” Destro continued through a struggling voice, almost inaudible in the falling rainstorm.  “You moved…and Lady Jaye was caught in the b…blast.”

Flint’s eyes squeezed shut and he dropped clumsily to both knees, his head slumping forward.  His breath barely rasping, yet his chest shook with powerful, mighty heaves.  Destro approached him as an earth shattering exploding crash of thunder rocked through the marsh.  Flint’s body shook wildly as if hit by an impact, his torso twisting with a violent awkwardness.  He stumbled forward, catching himself with both hands, mud, seeping up over his arms, up to his elbows.  Destro stepped back uncertainly as thunder crashed with the loudness of a thousand Fourth of July celebrations.  Flint jerked again, his face twisting into a confused, uncertain glare.  His face slammed into the wet mud with a dull splat, thin trails of smoke spiraling up from his back, mingling with the night air.

“You miss her so, much, Flint?  Join her in HADES!”  Destro’s head whipped up at the voice, and he suddenly realized that it wasn’t thunder he was hearing.  The Baroness stood there, her arm extended, a large metal Beretta clutched tightly in her fist.  Its barrel smoldered slightly as a pair of shell casings rolled to a stop, slowly swallowed by the churning mud.  Destro’s eyes were wide in disbelief as the former Joe laid face first in the mud, his head turned sideways and glaring out into the woods, the dog tags still clutched as a lifeline in his eager right fist.  Destro lowered his gaze, shaking his head slightly.

“Finally, Flint,” he said softly, bending over to retrieve his mask, his back screaming in agony.  “Rest in piece, old enemy.  I owe you that much.”  He reached down and eased shut the former Joe’s eyelids, and then stood and joined his consort, walking back towards their ride to safety in the Amazon.