This is a work of fiction based on a character created in the Warner Brothers film, “Proof of Life.” There is no intent to infringe on copyright or profit in any way from the character.  The story is strictly for entertainment purposes as a work of fantasy fan fiction.  Do not copy, print or publish any part of this story without the written permission of the author. 

Note:  Please excuse the lack of proper Spanish punctuation (tilde) in this work.

The Protector

by:  Little Fish

©2001

The bullet whistled past his ear and suddenly, he knew he was exposed.  In the few seconds that Terry Thorne turned, heading for low cover, the second shot tore through his left shoulder.  He flew forward from the impact, hitting a nearby tree - a headfirst glancing blow.  Shadowy darkness descended.

When Thorne came to, he was surrounded by darkness, the ground soft and damp beneath him.  He listened for any unusual noises, voices, the sound of soldiers through the jungle.  Hearing only nocturnal sounds, the jungle alive with animal calls and movements, he quietly rolled over, only then feeling the grip of pain in his shoulder and numbness in his arm.

“Where the bloody hell did that sniper come from,” he wondered, “and how did he find me?”  Thorne rarely went out on business alone, but he wanted to covertly check out an area suspected for hostage hideaways, secure under the lush rainforest canopy.  It was simply a 48-hour drop and he was not in direct communication with HQ.  While he’d found no clear evidence, he must have been close to something - to be singled out by an unseen marksman.

Thorne also wondered where the sniper had gone, since no one had yet found him in the brush.  A random set of shots for blood sport?  Terry didn’t know, but his head was pounding and he needed to check his wound.  He steadied himself, sitting propped against the tree, and reached under his jacket to his shoulder.  It was still bleeding a bit, but the bullet seemed to have missed bone - a good sign.

As he lifted the canteen to his parched lips, he sensed a presence close by.  He scanned the brush area directly in front of him, but the inky darkness was all around.  Where was his pack?  Gently, he pulled his knife, waiting for an approach.

Much to his surprise, he heard a woman’s soft voice, quietly singing.  He turned to look behind the tree and saw her coming toward him, carrying a veiled lantern.  In the dim light, he saw that she was alone, a knife at her belt.  She wore military camouflage, but her dark hair flowed down around her face.

Was this his shooter?  He saw no gun.  As she came up next to the tree, Thorne kicked at her legs, bringing her heavily to the ground.  In a split second, he was on top of her, pressing her into the soft earth as she struggled against him.  She started to scream, but his strong hand found her mouth and choked off her attempt.

She writhed under him, but his weight started to take her breath away and she finally stopped her fighting.  “Who are you?” Thorne growled in Spanish.  “Why are you here?”  Her dark eyes were large with fear.

Easing up a bit, he murmured, “Promise to be quiet and I’ll let you speak.”  He felt her shake her head “yes.”  Slowly, he released his hand from her mouth and she whispered breathlessly, “My name is Consuela and I live nearby.”  And then, a strangled yell - “No, Roberto!”

As Terry snapped around from the woman, a rifle butt crashed down on his head.  “Too slow,” he thought as darkness overcame him again.

When Terry came to, groggy and aching from the assault, he found himself in a cave.  Illuminated by torches and lanterns, the area was small and bare, except for two cots with rough blankets, some crates and a wooden cross on the cave wall.  His gear rested near the covered entrance.

He tried to sit up, but found that he was lashed tightly to the cot.  He peered over to his shoulder and realized that his wound was dressed and his chest, bare.  “Where the bloody hell am I?” he muttered under his breath.  Listening intently, he heard the sound of water rushing nearby - perhaps near a waterfall?

“Good.  You are awake,” Roberto spoke as he entered the inner room where Thorne was being held.  Coolly, Thorne stared at the young man, who was in his early 20’s.

“Senor, you don’t belong out here.  The rebels will kill you on sight, if they find you,” Roberto said.

“And how will they find me,” Thorne asked, “unless you give me up to them or release me?”

“You think I am one of those dogs?!” Roberto spat on the ground.  “We hide from them, my sister and me.  Our parents are gone because of them.  They were hostages and then, they were DEAD, because we had no money to save them.”  The grief flowed heavily through his words.  “Enough!  Now who are you and why are you here?”

At that moment, Consuela entered, carrying a pot of steaming soup and some clay bowls.  “Not now, Roberto.  Can’t you see he is in pain?  It’s bad enough that you shot him.  Now you waste his strength with your chatter.”

To Terry, she spoke gently, “Senor, from what I see, the bullet went through you.  It is gone and I was able to stop the bleeding for now.  And you have a hard head.  That is good, no?”

“Yes,” Terry closed his eyes, a bemused smile on his lips. “Thank you, Senorita.”

Somehow, in that moment, in his heart, Terry knew that he could tell these two young people of his work in K&R.  So he quietly explained his presence that day and what he was doing.  “Thank you for finding me,” he murmured.  “I only wish that someone like me had been there for you, for your. . . parents.”

At his words, Roberto sat down with a thud on the ground, stunned.  Tears flowed freely from Consuela’s lovely, dark eyes as she came closer and knelt at Terry’s side.  “Too late,” she choked out the words.  Carefully, gently, she undid the straps that bound him.  “Oh, Senor, we did not know.  We thought you were a mercenary, looking to join up with the rebels or perhaps, even looking for us.”  As she spoke, she tenderly stroked his arm and her tears fell onto his chest.  Her raven black hair hung once again in her face and trailed down, touching his skin.  “You are a protector, a guardian of the innocent,” Consuela whispered.  “And we have hurt you.”

Terry struggled to sit up and she reached for his good arm, supporting his lower back to help him.  Her touch flowed through him and he groaned from it and the pain he felt.

“Look, Consuela, Roberto,” Terry offered.  “You did what you thought was right, but things are not always what they seem.  You live in fear, running and hiding.  You need to get away from here.”

“But, Senor, we know no other place,” Roberto responded.  “Where would we go?”

The pain was increasing for Thorne as he sat, but he gingerly swung his legs off the cot.  “We will talk later, Roberto.  I have a plan and perhaps, you can start a new life, away from here in 48 hours.  But right now, mate. . . a little soup sounds good.”  Terry smiled sadly, weary from his wound and the weight of their grief.

At his words, Consuela reached for the soup and tentatively, spooned some from the bowl up to his lips.  The warmth of the weak broth seemed a luxury and he raised his blue-green eyes to really look at Consuela, as she knelt in front of him.  She quietly smiled and sighed, shaking her head.

Gone were the military clothes she wore earlier.  Now she wore a simple white blouse, soft and flowing from her arms, and a long, dark skirt.  She softly smelled of flower-water, her black hair glistening in the dim light.  Terry fought an urge to embrace her at that moment, so intent was she on feeding him, caring for him - when he was always the protector, the caregiver.

When he’d finished the soup, Consuela reached for a glass of water, and pouring a white powder in, stirred it.  “Here, Senor.”

“My name is Terry Thorne, luv,” he said.  “Please call me Terry.”

She stared at his face, dark with stubble and wondered at his inner strength and the gentle caress of his deep voice.  “Here, Terry, some painkiller to help you sleep.”

He nodded and sipped hesitantly - not wanting to drink it at all, but accepting the drink, kindly given.  As he slipped into sleep, Consuela covered him with a blanket and gazed at his remarkable face.  Roberto had silently left the room.

Terry slept fitfully as Consuela lay on the cot next to him.  And in that sleep, Terry dreamt vividly, openly.  In his dream, Consuela came to him in grace and naked beauty.  She slipped next to him, behind his back as he lay in his bed.  Her soft skin, her full breasts, caressed his back and he moaned deeply.  She touched his shoulder and it healed instantly from the searing heat of her fingertips.

Still dreaming, Terry turned to gaze on her lovely form, her gentle curves, the short dark hair between her thighs.  As she undid his belt and slipped off his pants, her brown skin sparkled with desire.  She reached surely for his waist and he responded by drawing her tightly to his broad chest.

Even in the sleep of his heart, Terry knew true hunger as she did.  The dream stirred deep in his loins, he gasped and awoke.  Heat emanated from his whole body and in this moment, Consuela reached for his face.  Her lips met his and their hunger flared instantly.

Her hands trembled as she tried to undo his belt.  Terry reached down with his strong right hand, gripping her hands, and murmured, “No, luv, this isn’t right,” his voice husky and deep with emotion.

Pressing her open palms to his chest, she insisted, “Oh, amor, if not now, when?  You are special.  You are different from other men.  Please… for you, for me.”  Her voice carried a quiet desperation.

“Oh, God,” he breathed, for he knew the demon hunger that drove them to this blinding, intense brink.  “She’s so young, so lovely,” he thought.  He blinked back hot tears, his eyes hidden by his long dark lashes.

Then, her mouth found his and he responded warmly with his mouth, his tongue, his hand on her hip.  He was amazed to find her naked and hot beneath his touch.  She snuggled next to him, the cots placed side by side and more confidently, helped him remove his pants.

He wore no underwear and his member was long and erect, as he turned onto his back.  With one quick move, Consuela slid onto him.  She groaned at his length and leaned forward to kiss his parted lips, careful not to touch his shoulder.

The heat rose between them as they stroked and kissed each other, giving and taking in the hunger, the moment.  As Consuela sat up, gripping Terry’s hand, she marveled once again at his wonderful eyes, now dark green in their passion.  She rode swiftly and surely, meeting his deep thrusts with her lithe energy.

“Now, Terry,” she rasped.  “I need you, mi amor.”

“Yes, luv, I’m with you now,” he rasped.

Terry and Consuela came together - Terry filling her deeply, fully feeding the hunger of their hearts.  As she gently moved to rest next to him, Terry clutched her to his chest, his heart pounding, the fire in his loins at rest.

Their lovemaking had been bittersweet for they had lived too long in fear.  Consuela had sought safety and shelter from harm in this moment, reaching for the strength of his arms, the solidness of his powerful muscles beneath and in her.  Terry lived in the lengthening shadows of his choices; he feared being ultimately and utterly alone.  His was an appreciation of her goodness, her vibrant spirit that flowed out from her young body and heart.

As he held her close, heart to heart, Terry knew he would be there for her and for her brother.  In the weeks to come, he would be their protector, their guardian into the light of safety, into a new world.

She slowly drew the blanket up around them, as Terry softly kissed her hair and smelled the scent of flower-water once more.  Sleep came peacefully this time - for both of them.

THE END