Ibanez shook his head, his expression one of disappointment, like a father who has just caught his favorite son lying to him. "Son, I wasn't born yesterday. I've been a doctor for over thirty years. I know what a car accident looks like and what sort of injuries that can occur. That man was not injured in a car accident." The older man leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest.

"No? Then what was it? What do you think happened to him?"

"He was tortured," the doctor said, his voice certain.

"Tortured?" Gunny forced himself to laugh and then nearly winced when he heard how fake it sounded. "You must be joking. That went out of style with the Dark Ages."

"If only that were true," replied Dr. Ibanez softly, staring blankly off into the distance, his weathered face etched with lines. In that moment, the doctor appeared old and worn, like a veteran soldier looking back over his career at all of the battles he'd fought, grieving at those he'd lost. Then he blinked and shifted his penetrating gaze back to Gunny. "Unfortunately, those methods are still practiced today, Mr. – . Forgive me. I forgot to inquire as to your name. For that matter, I do not even know the name of the man I have been working on for the last three hours. If you could be so kind…?"

Gunny opened his mouth, ready to give he and Webb's cover names but then hesitated. What if Webb calls out my real name or asks for me? That would ruin whatever shred of trust this man has for me. Although hastily considered, the decision was easy to make. I'll have to use my real name and Webb's, too. He'll be so disoriented from all of the medication that he'll be lucky to remember what his real name is, not to mention his cover name and story. "I'm Victor Galindez. Your patient's name is Clayton Webb."

The other man nodded once. "Very well. As I was saying, Mr. Galindez, I do not believe you, and this is why: There is not a single sliver of glass in any of Mr. Webb's injuries. Had this been an accident as you claim, glass would have been found imbedded in at least one of the numerous cuts that have been sutured. Add to that the massive internal bleeding, prolific bruises, and burns, and the fact that you sit here with nothing to show from the same accident but a bruised jaw…well, you must forgive me, but I'm having a hard time accepting your story." Dr. Ibanez's expression went utterly serious and his voice hard, seething with barely controlled anger. "Plus, I ordered one of my staff to go outside and take a look at your vehicle. He returned, telling me all about its bullet-riddled windshield and the different guns he saw inside. Now, what I want to know, before I phone the police, is whether you were the one who so brutally tortured that man or was it someone else?!" The doctor's voice had risen steadily through his explanation from a normal, pleasant tone, ending in an angry shout.

Looking into those smoldering, dark eyes, Galindez knew that he could no longer continue his charade, that he would be forced to tell this man the truth…at least as much as possible. Sighing heavily, he began to weave together a story that was mostly the truth, though he included a few strands of lies to protect himself and Webb as well as the entire hospital staff. His slightly altered tale left out all of the important details – who Webb worked for, the reason he and Gunny were down in Paraguay – and omitted any mention of Commander Rabb and Colonel MacKenzie. By the time he finished five minutes later, the dull throbbing in his jaw had flared into an almost blinding wave of agony that stretched from his left temple down his neck to his shoulder, leaving him damp with sweat and dreading the next time he had to open his mouth.

"So…Mr. Webb was being held for ransom?" Dr. Ibanez spoke after a short silence.

The American held his gaze, unflinching and unwavering, using the last of his energy reserves to hold the pain at bay. "Yes. He's an extremely successful and well-known businessman in the United States. The men who captured him planned on demanding quite a high ransom for him." Inside, he smirked, realizing that, for the first time, he was grateful for being ordered to work with Webb and the CIA, an extension of the government that he loathed. Because of that "unholy alliance," he'd learned how to lie convincingly to anyone, a necessary element in an operative's personality, particularly if he wanted to survive whatever undercover operation he was assigned. Gunny had been doing that for several months and had, by necessity, become quite adept at it. This situation was not that different, only less dangerous.

"You said that you work for Mr. Webb, Mr. Galindez. What do you do for him?"   

"I'm part of his personal security team." Well, that wasn't too much of a stretch, he thought, running an unsteady hand through his disheveled hair, somehow managing to mess it up even more. "I was sent down immediately when it was discovered that he'd been taken. I got there as soon as I could, but, as you saw, I was too late."

The doctor shook his head and gave him a small smile. "He's still alive, son. You should not be so hasty to judge yourself a failure. If you had not come, then he most certainly would have died."

"He still might die." He hated himself for saying it, but he could no longer deny the truth that loomed over him like a black, ominous thundercloud. Webb had stopped breathing once, and his heart had gone completely still. Now that he looked back on those shocking facts…hadn't he already failed? Webb had died. He had failed to save him. It was as simple as that. He lowered his eyes to the top of the table and picked at the chipped plastic, the bitter realization creating a sour taste in his mouth and a growing, painful knot in his stomach. A light touch on his hand startled him, and he jerked his face up, only to find Dr. Ibanez looking at him, with an understanding gaze.

The doctor leaned forward and said softly, "Yes, I admit that is a possibility, but at least he has a fighting chance – a chance that you gave him by getting him here to the hospital. Don't give up on him. I assure you that we have not."

Gunny gave a grim half-smile. "That's good to hear – " His voice caught and abruptly cut off as pain exploded in his jaw, wrenching a low, strangled moan from his throat. His body went rigid, his eyes slamming shut as he focused solely on riding out the fiery wave of agony that threatened to consume him. Sight and sound retreated into the background. He was only vaguely aware of movement around him and hands touching him: a strong yet gentle hand resting on his right shoulder, steadying him; a quick, sharp prick in his upper arm; and a cold, numbing sensation along the left side of his face. For a time, he knew nothing but pain, and he was rolled and shoved about by the sheer force of the ebbs and tides.

But, ever so slowly, the pain faded, until the world around him began once more to make sense.

When he was finally able to summon the energy to open his eyes, he found himself lying on a hospital bed, an IV attached to his right arm and a large ice pack propped up against his left cheekbone and jaw. Looking around blearily, he blinked, completely confused by the sudden change in location and – when he briefly lowered his eyes – the baffling change of clothes. Instead of the blood-splattered shirt and jeans, he was now wearing green hospital scrubs. What the – ? How did I get here? Just as he was about to contemplate moving, Dr. Ibanez walked through the open door.

"Ah, you're awake." The man smiled, pulled a chair up to the right side of his bed, and sat down. "I'm sure you're a little confused as to how you ended up here. No, no, don't try to talk," he said quickly, as Gunny tried to speak. "You need to keep that jaw still for a few hours. The less you talk, the less pain you'll have. That must have been some blow you took. I'm glad to say that your jaw is not broken, only severely bruised, but that's more than enough." Dr. Ibanez paused for a second, uncertain whether or not to continue. "I was forced to sedate you. You were in so much pain that your blood pressure shot up, as did your heartbeat." He took a deep breath and then released it slowly. "Why didn't you tell me that you'd been shot? I understand your concern for your friend, but does that worry have to jeopardize your health – and your life?"

What is he talking about? Gunny wondered silently, giving him a puzzled look. So I got shot…it's not like it was life-threatening or anything. That Mennonite couple took care of it. It hurt, still does hurt, but it wasn't that big a deal.

The other man must have read the confusion on his face. "Your wound was growing infected, son. If you had not required my help for your jaw, you might not have known about it until it was too late for the medicine to help. The infections in this country are particularly vicious and fast spreading. Your stubbornness might have gotten you killed. Thankfully, we caught the infection in time for the antibiotics to work effectively – provided you stay in bed and rest for the next six or eight hours. Do you understand? Blink if you understand," he ordered quietly.

The Marine sergeant blinked, too stunned by the shocking turn of events to do anything but follow orders, a habit too deeply ingrained to ignore. Not willing to think about the consequences of his actions (or inactions in this case), he pushed his own medical problems out of the way, focusing instead on the injured man he'd brought in earlier. Webb. I need to know about Webb, how's he doing, he thought, worry gnawing at the pit of his stomach. Unable to talk, he weakly lifted his right hand to get the doctor's attention and then traced a large "W" on the hospital covers at his side.

It took a couple of times for the man to realize what he was asking. "Mr. Webb's condition has improved slightly but he still remains in ICU. His blood pressure was dangerously low from all of the internal bleeding he suffered, but it is slowly rising and should be at acceptable levels within the next few hours. Once that happens, I intend to move him into a private room, as I'd mentioned earlier."

"Now," he said briskly, purposely changing the subject. "I need to check your wound before I leave you to rest." Strangely enough, he picked up a hand mirror from the stand before moving around to the other side of Gunny's bed, carefully lifting up his shirt to expose the gunshot wound to the left of his stomach. The doctor held the mirror at just the right angle for Galindez to see the wound while remaining flat on his back. To his surprise, once the bandages had been removed, he saw that the area was a dark red and appeared swollen, much worse than it had looked only the day before. He flinched and stiffened as Dr. Ibanez cautiously palpitated the edges, relaxing only when the man grunted in satisfaction and began to rebandage him, a quick and relatively painless process compared to the previous examination. "The antibiotics seem to be helping. The edges aren't quite as red, and it's no longer oozing blood." Once he'd replaced Gunny's shirt and pulled up the thin bed sheet, he straightened up and took a step back. "I know you want to hear more about Mr. Webb, but you really need to rest and allow your body to concentrate fully on fighting the infection. I'll have a nurse check in on you every half hour, so if you need something, be sure to let her know." With one last, reassuring smile, Dr. Ibanez left the room.

After absently staring at the open doorway for a couple of minutes, Gunny let his weary eyes close, allowing his exhausted and bruised body to fully relax for the first time in over a year, and quickly drifted off to sleep to the hypnotic, repetitive beeping of the heart monitor.

TBC…