Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Burn Notice, this is all for fun

This story started life as a part of the First Times collection, but has grown into a tale that deserves it own separate identity. It is thanks to Jedi Skysinger's encouragement and Beta work that it is now ready for posting.

Some details of this dark tale can be found in Jedi Skysingers brilliant story Asset Management.

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This is a very dark story, inspired by part of a conversation between Michael Westen and Larry Sizemore. Which takes place during S5 ep12.

"I didn't do anything in Chechyna." Michael paled as his mind fought to keep the memory repressed.

"Is that what you tell yourself? You stood there, you let me kill those people, and then you helped me clean it up." Larry's accusation, and gloating expression broke through his defenses.

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SAVIOR.

If there was ever a time that Michael Westen needed a savior, it was the in the early summer of '94 in Chechyna.

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High up in the Caucasus mountains Michael Westen was running for his life. Tree branches tore at his clothes and scraped against his skin, his feet tripped and slid on the slippery uneven ground. His hands were scratched and bleeding the wounds hidden under a layer of mud from grabbing at trees, rocks and even tufts of grass all in the effort to stay upright.

All around him came the crackling noise of gunfire, and the angry shouts of his pursuers. The sounds echoing through the forest and along the valley walls made it impossible to tell from which direction they came. When a tree branch close to his face disintegrated in a shower of splinters, all he could do was increase his speed, and hope for a miracle.

His steps faltered when, several yards ahead the back of his partner Larry Sizemore's jacket suddenly erupt in a spray of blood, and the older man's body crumpled, tumbling to the ground. Leaving a fallen comrade went against the very core of Michael's beliefs, but he couldn't stop. His gun was empty and the enemy was at his heels; to stop would mean death.

Just when he thought he couldn't go on much longer he spotted salvation, a thick mist snaking its way across the valley, weaving it's way through the trees. The thought that if he could make it into the swirling low level cloud he would have a chance to escape gave him the strength to carry on.

Ignoring the bullets that came whizzing past his head, Michael concentrated solely on his plan. He would use the mist as cover, and circle back to find Larry. Then they would find a way off the mountain and back to civilization. He increased his speed, eyes firmly fixed on his destination. His mind didn't even register the impact to the back of his skull.

()

He woke with a start, arms and legs flailing out, hitting the walls of whatever structure he was in. Gasping for breath, he immediately started to gag at the smell that assailed his senses. Scrabbling into a sitting position his mind was filled with confusion. At first he thought something had happened to his vision. He was in total darkness. The air was cold and moist, the stench almost unbearable. He brought his hands up off the floor, they were covered in some sort of slimy material which he came to realize was rotting vegetation.

Slowly it dawned on him, he was in the bottom of a pit of some sort. As he felt around he realized the floor was deep with rotten food waste, and the walls felt like they were made of thick clay mud. Cautiously he tried to stand up, leaning against the slick wet walls, his feet unsteady on the piled up rubbish he was standing on. He stared upwards, hoping to see some sliver of light. But there was nothing.

Panic began to set in. Had they buried him alive? Tossed him in a pit to die alone and forgotten. Hyperventilating he clawed at the sides, His fingers dug into the mud as he desperately tried to climb out, until he lost his footing and fell back. Despondent, sitting on the floor, he rested his head on his arms. For what they had done, maybe it was what he deserved. He should have at least tried to stop Larry instead of passively standing by.

His breath hitched in his throat, as he forced himself to calm down. Panic was not going to get him out of this predicament. Larry had to be dead and nobody else knew where they were going after they left Grozny to clean up the loose ends from their most recent mission.

He was on his own now; if he was going to escape he couldn't afford to fall apart. Getting to his feet again, he felt his way around his prison. It was circular, probably no more than five feet in diameter. Standing in the centre he couldn't straighten both arms out, before they reached the walls.

A wave of dizziness sent him back to the ground, reminding him if he wanted to survive he needed to assess his injuries. Gingerly he probed his scalp. The back of his head was a mass of dried blood and in the centre was a long deep cut that still oozed fluid. He realized at some point he had taken a heavy blow to the head, which was probably what had knocked him out. His ribs, back and stomach all felt sore and bruised, as well. Whoever had captured him must have beaten him before dropping him into the pit. Staring into the darkness, he went back to thinking of a way out.

"Hey!" he tried to shout, but his voice came out in little more than a croak. Coughing he tried a again, calling out in his barely passable Chechen accent. "Please, help me. You have the wrong man. I have done nothing wrong." He waited but heard no response; only a faint rustling coming from near his feet. It was then he realized he wasn't alone. He was sharing his prison with rats, and all the bugs that were feeding on the rubbish which surrounded him.

Michael lost all track of time unable to sleep because of his cell mates. He was also becoming weakened by thirst and hunger. He continued to shout out in Chechen, determined to keep to his cover. It was all a big mistake, he was being wrongly accused, and if somebody would just talk to him they could sort it all out. He was a business man from Grozny whose car broke down on the road. In the end, though his voice gave out, and eventually so did his legs as he collapsed amongst the refuse.

He slumped against the wall, with his arms wrapped around his body. Sweating, and shaking, as a fever took hold of his body and mind. Larry's face danced in front of his eyes. "Josef betrayed us. We have no choice but to clear up this mess as quickly and quietly as possible. He lives out in the countryside. If we go now we can be back in time for dinner." Josef Broshev, was a minor official in the Chechen government; Larry's traitorous asset who had lied about his ability to get them the intelligence they had been sent to collect.

"Wake up! Hey you! Wake up!" Michael's eyes fluttered open at the sound of the strong Chechen dialect. Above him, a long way up he saw a narrow beam of light. He watched bemused as a bottle was lowered down on a piece of string. "Water," the voice from above told him.

With fumbling fingers, he freed the bottle from the string and gulped down the clear liquid inside. Before he could say anything, he was back in total darkness and alone once more. Gasping and choking because he drank too fast, he rested his back against the mud wall. A tiny sliver of hope entered his mind. If they were giving him water they didn't want him dead, at least not yet.

Soon though he slipped back into semi consciousness. His foot barely twitched when a rat ran across it. Josef Broshev, his eldery mother, his wife, and two children, a housekeeper and a gardener and their families. All together sixteen men, women and children, that he had helped to round up and then Larry had killed them all. What had he been thinking? He had walked away to stand guard, leaving Larry alone with the captives. He had known what was going to happen, deep down he had known, but he hadn't stopped it.

The scene that greeted him when Larry called him back to help dispose of the bodies had sickened him. Yet he had helped pile them up in the kitchen, following Larry's orders blindly. In the back of his mind he had wanted to run away screaming; instead he set the charges that would turn the house into an inferno and hide their crime.

The next time he woke up, he feebly kicked out at a rat gnawing on what remained of his right shoe, and shook his head, swiping at the flies and other bugs which were attracted to the blood still leaking from his head wound. He knew he was getting weaker all the time, he needed to make an attempt to get out before he was too weak to do anything.

Struggling back to his feet he tried to make hand holds in the walls. It was slow going, and his fingers ached as he dug them into the hard packed mud. He managed to make it ten feet up the wall, when he lost his grip and fell back, banging his head against the side and sinking into unconsciousness.

His eyes opened, but he was too weak to move. His body had curled into the fetal position, his limbs felt heavy, and numb. He wondered if he was going to die laying in rotten food waste; eaten alive by the creatures sharing his prison. His eyes began to close, there was nothing to see anyway. Sometime later a noise disturbed him, cracks and bangs, followed by shouting in Chechen, and then after a few minutes of silence another voice speaking English with a brash American accent.

Michael made an effort to sit up, but it was too much. Light flooded into his tomb from above, causing him to burying his head in his hands; his eyes were too sensitive to bare the bright flashlight illuminating his prison.

"Hey! Here he is!"

He heard the words but still didn't move. He had been having a lot of hallucinations. The welcoming sound of an American accent seemed out of place.

"Hey you! C'mon kid grab the rope we'll get you out." This was a second voice.

He ignored the rope that dangled in front of his eyes. It wasn't real, nobody was coming to rescue him.

"Damn it. Tie the end off, I'll have to climb down and get him," came the exasperated voice again.

He was barely aware of a rope being tied around his body, or being lifted up into the fresh air. He lay limp, unresponsive to the voices and the touch of hands tending to his injuries. The only indication he gave that he was alive were three words mumbled in Russian.

"I did nothing."