He had been right.
No amount of whiskey could let him forget Regina's sobbing as he held her in front of her open door, the wracking of her body as her shoulders shook against his chest, and the way her voice grew so hoarse in mere minutes.
It took almost an hour to calm her down enough to move her from the front foyer and another thirty minutes to convince her to talk to Neal. She had yelled at them, demanded they leave her house, get the hell out of her sight, but when Henry came running out of the kitchen because the cookies were done and "Uncle August is home!" she broke down again.
"You gonna eat that, Uncle August?" Henry, in his milk-moustached glory, pointed to August's untouched sugar cookie, his own plate empty save for a few stray crumbs.
August shook his head and slid his cookie over to the kid. "It's all yours."
Henry eagerly munched happily on his extra treat, oblivious to his mother's devastation just down the hall.
Neal watched as Regina poured herself another whiskey, her third since entering her study. She glanced at the couch where he was sitting and seemed to blanch at the furniture before shutting her eyes and downing her glass in one fluid motion. Neal wouldn't mind having one of those. With the way he was feeling, he'd gladly put away half the bottle. He refrained. Emma was his friend. She would have done this for him, so he would do it for her.
She brought the decanter to the couch with her and already prepped her fourth drink at the side table. A slosh of liquid spilled over the side, and judging by the integrity of the wood, Regina should have cared. Instead, she brought the glass with her and tucked further into the corner of the shared couch. He thought about breaking the tension, commenting that she should take it easy, but who was he to tell her what to do in the face of such devastating news. She was playing with the wet rim of the tumbler as she avoided his eyes. From the tension in her neck, the protruding vein in her forehead, and the stiffness of her back, Neal could tell she was using all her energy not to break down again. In front of him, more or less a stranger, but definitely the bearer of bad news. Her resolve was crumbling, every twitch of her eye wanted to slam shut and rewind time, but she was trying so hard to be strong. He respected that.
"What happened?" Regina's voice was hoarse, her vocal cords tired from crying, and she was looking at him now, one hand clutched firmly around her drink and the other wrapped protectively around her midsection. Her eyes, red-rimmed and now make-up free, were wide, imploring, fearful. Wanting to know everything but desperately hoping to wake up from this horrible dream.
Neal had to look away and shut his own, silencing the voice in his head that constantly asked him that same question. The question that haunted him at night and tore at his insides. Where did it go wrong? When he opened them, he began in a flat voice. "It was supposed to be easy. Relatively. Just dropping off a prisoner and then we'd be home by Christmas."
"Christmas?" Regina's voice cracked and she deposited her drink on the side table to clutch at her stomach with both hands.
Neal nodded. "Probably before that. We were gonna go back home after this one."
Regina shut her eyes and a single tear fell down her pale cheek. Her face contorted in a pain she struggled to reign in, and it took every ounce of her energy to turn the sob that bubbled in her throat into a breathy sigh. Her eyes snapped open at his next words.
"She saved me."
Neal grumbled as the truck bounced rockily over the landscape. He was all for road trips — he and Tamara had once driven all the way down to Mississippi for her family reunion. She didn't even want to go, but he persuaded her, saying it was time he met her whole family and have this famous cornbread Mama Benjamin made. She had warned him he would regret it, and the six foot eight linebacker built cousins who knew how to shoot in more ways than just basketball had made sure he did. He felt awkward, out of place, and stood out like a sore thumb. By the end of the weekend when Mama Benjamin made him a plate of cornbread to go and Tamara's cousins had clapped him on the back saying they'd see him next year, it had been worth it.
But here, driving for days and nights on end with nothing but plateaus, the occasional mountain, silhouettes of a far off village, and abandoned towns as his only companion was complete and utter torture.
Not only was the drive so monotonous that he felt like he was going crazy, but whenever the prisoner — Mohammad, a man with a lean build and a face he had rarely seen due to the burlap bag usually over it — was in his truck, the man was either eerily quiet and still or chanting some sort of hymn on repeat. Neal could repeat the words verbatim but ask him what they meant and he couldn't tell you. A part of him wondered if it was some sort of curse. Frankly, he wouldn't be surprised.
But that wasn't the worst of all.
He had been right, that day in the tent. They were living a live-action SWAT movie, and he would have elbowed Emma in the ribs to say "I told you so" if they weren't constantly on high alert and evading threats left and right. A simple drive across country that should have taken no more than two weeks turned into an obstacle course. Most attacks were blatant: a car full of rebels hoping to free Mohammad as if he were the prophet himself driving straight for them and hounding them with slurs and bullets. Some were sneakier: an old woman huddled over on the side of the road with a broken cart wheel and a kind face. That is until a pack of young men, sometimes even teens, would come out with guns and bombs and machetes. Luckily their team had been undefeated, but they had to wait for another crew to do the clean up, and by now, Neal was used to thinking of the consequences of their actions as a mess.
They had been away for a month. A freaking month. He should have been out of here by now. He should have been home by now bothering Alia from her sleep and getting scolded by Tamara. His baby girl would be turning one in a few weeks, and at this rate, he'd miss yet another milestone. He was so close to seeing her he could practically hear her gurgling at him. Or maybe she was already talking. Tamara said she was walking with some help and forming words but nothing substantial yet. He was a little late to walk himself, but he knew she'd be one of those kids who didn't half-ass things. She'd start running in no time, playing soccer, and karate, and beating up boys but still a daddy's girl. He jerked as Emma made a hard turn left, veering off the road to follow the other truck in front of them as they drove haphazardly through the desert. Neal sighed. The rocks out there definitely weren't his daughter.
The landscape started to blend in with one another from their constant driving. Always move. Always change direction. Keep them guessing, Cabrera had said. The enemy can follow a straight line, but to follow a zig-zag, criss-cross pattern and backtrack only to return the way they came was harder to trail. They always met another team some miles away to refuel or switch cars and then they'd be off again. Already Frederick and Kennedy's car leading the way had had to call for a replacement vehicle since their original one had been riddled with bullets a noticeable hole appeared at the side of the armoured truck. These homemade weapons were really starting to piss him off.
This guy better be worth it, Neal grumbled to himself as Fred's voice crackled over the radio.
Neal leaned forward in between the seats, the cushion creaking under his shifting weight, and listened as Emma, keeping one eye trained on the road as she drove carefully up the rocky terrain of a hill, picked up the walkie to give him the go ahead.
"We're less than ten miles from our destination. We'll detour away from the main road. Follow my lead."
"Wilco. Out."
"Finally," Emma muttered replacing the radio. "We'll be there by sundown, Sergeant."