Chapter Text
Shaw doesn’t trust this journalist as far as she can throw her, which, despite her taller height, she's pretty sure she can manage. The woman isn’t exactly packing much in terms of body fat and her arms, while somewhat toned, mostly just look like par-cooked noodles. Yeah, it’d be like lifting a plank of wood. Easy.
She’s been sizing Turing up and keeping an unsubtly suspicious eye on her since they left the dock, and John has certainly noticed. Needless to say Shaw’s been on the receiving end of a couple of arm nudges and pointed looks from her partner, the latter of which she’s mostly been ignoring by continuing to watch Turing like a hawk.
She’s doing so now, perched where she is against their small boat’s railing, elbows propped up on tarnished metal. Turing’s fiddling with her stupid camera—some old and outdated piece of shit that she seems weirdly attached to—and Shaw tries to stay determined in her self-assigned role as vigilant watch dog and not get distracted by the way Turing’s wetsuit is hugging her slim form. Not that Turing herself is of the same notion, because she suddenly finishes with her camera and glances right up at Shaw, eyes raking up from her legs to face before she flashes a bright smile. It somehow manages to seem both overwhelmingly genuine and politely asshole-ish at the same time and Shaw skews her with another flat glare before turning her head to the side and staring out at the calm water surrounding them.
No, she doesn’t trust Turing. Not for one fuckin’ bit.
But the truth is, they had needed her. Shaw’s done a stint in a Panamanian prison before (a brief one, to be sure; she’s not a fuckin’ amateur when it comes to a jail break), and she’d rather not have a repeat. John had been the one to suggest hiring a reporter who could secure them the required legal permits. A quick search had quickly led them to Caroline Turing, who apparently had her own popular web series or some shit, and now the three of them are here in the middle of the Pacific Ocean looking for Sir Francis Drake’s coffin.
Of course, the plan to ditch Turing as soon as they were done here had gone unspoken between Shaw and John the moment they had hired her. They worked good together like that.
She decides to check up on him now, lifting her walkie to her mouth. “Reese, you find anything yet? It’s hot as shit up here.”
She leaves out the fact that she’s also uncomfortable being left alone with Turing, not when her own wetsuit doesn’t allow any way to carry her gun. Not that she couldn’t take her in a hand-to-hand fight, but like she said, it’s hot. If her gut’s right and Turing tries anything, a bullet would just save them all some time.
The line is silent for a few seconds before it crackles to life alongside John’s voice, the static making it sound even more gravelly than usual. “You’re more than welcome to come down here yourself, Shaw.”
“Fuck you,” she says without heat. The truth is she had wanted to be the one to make the dive but hadn’t been very confident in John’s way-too-trusting nature when it comes to women. She’s had to save his ass too many times to count just because some pretty girl with a fake sob story batted her eyelashes and conned him out of his money and, as is always the case with their sometimes ally Zoe, his clothes too. If Shaw hadn’t opted to miss out on a fun and way less sweaty time then she has no doubt that she’d probably resurface to find John dead and Turing holding her at gunpoint. “So that’s a ‘no’ on the coffin, then.”
“I didn’t say that. Hold on.”
She perks up at that, letting her arms fall from the railing as she straightens. Unfortunately it also gets Turing’s attention and she walks over and leans a little too much into Shaw’s space, her hair brushing Shaw’s shoulder and her breath tickling across her neck. Shaw very pointedly turns so that the walkie is held in the newly formed, foot-length gap between them.
“Well?” She prompts impatiently after a moment, scowling when John still doesn’t respond. “Reese, what the hell?”
“Maybe a shark got him,” Turing says, peering over the edge of the railing. Shaw doesn’t even bother to deign that with a reply, trying the walkie again.
“John, I swear to—” The line suddenly fills with static, mixed with a few strained grunts that paint lines of vague amusement across Turing’s face. Shaw rolls her eyes at the both of them. “Christ, hit the gym the next time we’re in town.”
“Shut up, this rock’s heavy,” he bites back a bit petulantly. “And anyway, I found the damn coffin, so send down the winch. No need to thank me.”
Shaw pushes off the railing and heads toward the winch system near the front of the boat, trying her hardest to ignore the fact that Turing trails closely behind her like a fly. “Yeah, yeah, it only took you forty minutes. I would have found it in half that.”
“And miss out on a nice tan?”
“Hey, your pasty ass is the one who needs to spend some time in the sun.” Turing makes to reach for the winch release and Shaw glares her down. She backs off with an indulgent wave of her hands and it only makes Shaw frown harder—she hasn’t come even remotely close to being amicable to the journalist in the five hours since they’ve met, but all of her gruffness seems to bounce off of Turing like she’s made of rubber.
She waits until Turing backs up a few feet before lowering the winch into the water, watching the ripples pan out. “Hook’s coming down, Reese. Make sure it doesn’t hit you on your big head.”
“You’re very funny today,” he says in a light voice that tells her he isn’t too impressed.
“It’s the company,” she mutters low enough that Turing won’t hear, though a glance over her shoulder shows that the journalist has wandered back down to the end of the boat, camera in hand again. She’s talking, apparently filming for her show, and has wisely chosen to do so as far away from Shaw as possible since the first and last time she tried to shove that stupid camera into Shaw’s face, she’d nearly snapped it in half.
“She’s not so bad.”
Shaw rolls her eyes. “Do I really have to remind you about Istanbul?”
“No, you don’t.”
“Or Dublin?”
“Seriously, Shaw.”
“Santa Fe was a special one. Couldn’t believe you fell for that schtick, honestly.”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” he cuts her off and she can perfectly picture the wince he’s probably giving all the fish down there with him. Mumbling, he adds, “At least Zoe left me with my pants in Istanbul.”
“I still found you handcuffed to a headboard in that hotel. Have some dignity, Reese.”
She hears a snort and turns to see that Turing has slipped behind her undetected, leaning against a crate filled with God knows what, not even remotely attempting to act like she hadn’t been eavesdropping. And checking Shaw out.
Whatever. Shaw knows she’s hot, and she has eyes and a brain and she can acknowledge that Turing is hot too, if in that vaguely girl scout kind of way. The fact that she seems somewhat vanilla for Shaw’s tastes clash with the sheer amount of times she’s caught Turing’s shamelessly wandering eyes since the moment they met in that shitty tavern in town, her gaze tracking over Shaw’s biceps every time she so much as moved an inch.
It’d be mildly intriguing and Shaw might have even extended an invitation if she was inclined to let her guard down in front of Turing, which she definitely isn’t. Not that she really lets her guard down in front of anyone. But she doesn’t need her own version of Istanbul, thank you very much.
“Okay, the winch is secure. I’m coming up, almost out of oxygen.” John’s voice sounds through the walkie, and Shaw doesn’t waste any time in reeling the line back in. A few minutes later Turing is pulling him on to the deck, which seems sort of futile considering their respective physical states in Shaw’s opinion, and she shakes her head when John gives her his weird smile and murmurs a thank you as the coffin finally breaks the water’s surface.
She carefully turns the winch so that the coffin is hanging over the large, empty space they cleared out before they left port. John places a hand on Turing’s shoulder and the two of them step back to a safer distance as Shaw slowly lowers the coffin on to the deck, the heavy thing making the boat creak slightly as it settles.
“That’s definitely the coat of arms,” Shaw says as she walks over, her companions coming up on the opposite side of the large slab of concrete. She notes the barnacles and starfish quickly drying out beneath the sun bearing overhead. “Partially covered by sea life, but that’s it.”
“I dove for it,” John says, and when she looks up at him he’s offering her a crowbar he must have picked up on the way. “You do the honors.”
Shaw feels her lips stretch in a smirk, the anticipation making adrenaline spike through her body. “My pleasure.”
“You might want to get your camera out for this,” John says.
“What? Oh, yeah.” Turing stops her wide-eyed gaping to jog back to the shipping container her camera is resting on and Shaw impatiently waits with the crowbar already wedged beneath the coffin’s lid, giving John a withering look.
He shrugs. “I’m humoring her.”
“Yeah, and irritating me.”
She ignores his vaguely amused expression as Turing comes back, holding the camera in front of her face. Deciding she doesn’t care whether Turing’s ready or not, Shaw props the lid up after a small bit of resistance, tossing the crowbar to the side in order to help John slide the lid off. It’s fucking heavy and she’s mildly disgusted by the wet, squishy thing the palm of her hand presses up against, but they manage to set it down on the deck. She swipes her hands on her thighs and the three of them stare inside, squinting.
“Well,” Turing says after a beat, “that’s certainly empty.”
John winces, though not because of the distinct lack of a four hundred year-old corpse, but rather the annoyed sigh Shaw lets out, she guesses.
“Yeah, no shit,” she says, leaning over and reaching inside. “Nothing in here but some gold pieces and—wait.”
Her hand wraps around the small, brown leather book she’d spotted wedged against the side of the coffin, glaring warningly at Turing’s camera when it gets a little too close for her liking. She decides to play nice in favor of opening the book and slowly flipping through the pages, angling it slightly so that John can see better as he comes up on her left.
“It’s a journal,” he notes.
“Drake’s journal,” Shaw clarifies with a tiny, triumphant smile. “We were right. Asshole faked his death.”
“To pull off one final treasure hunt,” John says. “He went after El Dorado.”
He bends back down to sift through the coffin some more, and Shaw continues to flip through the worn pages of the diary, skimming the notes quickly.
“Looks like he went here next,” she says, pointing out a column of writing besides a sketch and set of coordinates to John, keeping her voice low so that Turing doesn’t hear her from where she’s wandered off to the side a bit to take wider shots with her camera.
“Never been to the Amazon before,” he grins. “First time for everything.”
“Uh, guys?” They both look up at the sound of Turing’s voice. “Unless you lied about being a two-man team, we’ve got company.”
“Shit,” Shaw curses, dropping Drake's diary back in the coffin and darting over to the pair of binoculars she’d been using before they dropped anchor. She holds them up to her eyes and scans the horizon, counting a handful of sleek-looking boats heading their way.
“Doesn’t look like pirates.” She purses her lips. “Don’t look like authorities either, though.”
John comes up beside her, trading her the binoculars for her favored Nano, and she checks her ammo and clicks off her safety before moving to Turing, grabbing her by the wrist and pulling her down behind some cover. Shaw remains standing beside her, exchanges a terse nod with John, and then glances at the journalist pressed against the small wall of crates.
“Can somebody please tell me what’s going on?” She asks, eyes wide with panic. Shaw just manages to refrain from rolling her own—she reminds herself that Turing is just a civilian after all, and while Shaw and John may be treasure hunters now they’d done their tours with the military before. They’ve seen their fair share of gunfire.
“Rival treasure hunters, most likely,” she says. “Just sit there and try not to get shot.”
“That’s inspiring.” Her voice is dry, if not a little shaky. Despite herself Shaw can’t help her lips twitching into a hint of a smile.
“Help yourself to crawling on over to John if you want the rousing pep talk. I’m sure he wouldn’t completely suck at it.”
Turing shakes her head and forces a flirty grin on her face, belied as it is by nerves. “If I’m going to die today I’d rather it happen in the presence of more attractive company, but the suggestion is appreciated.”
Shaw blinks. “Seriously? You’re choosing now to follow through on all that ogling you’ve been doing?”
“I’m an opportunist.”
“Right, how could I forget,” Shaw says, shaking her head. “Journalists.”
“Shaw, we got incoming.” Shaw sets her face in concentration at John’s call, ducking down as the first of the boats arrives, starboard side facing them. Automatically a hail of bullets shoots out at them, clattering against the railing loudly and making Turing gasp beside her. “They’re trying to board us.”
Shaw ducks out of cover and spots three men hauling themselves on to their boat, planting a bullet in one while John gets another. The last one ducks behind a pair of barrels just as a second boat pulls up to mirror the first. “I can’t get a clear shot,” she mutters, turning to look at the shaking journalist. “Stay put.”
She doesn’t wait long enough to see the tail end of Turing’s jittery nod before sliding out from behind the crates, crossing the walkway while the guy behind the barrels is too busy reloading his weapon to notice she’s moved. She presses herself against the bow’s railing, keeping one eye on her target and the other on the second boat, whose men seem to be preoccupied with John. She creeps up and fires twice when her man leans around the barrels aiming at the crates Turing’s crouched behind, her bullets find themselves in his chest and head.
There’s no time to go back to the crates as the guy thumps against the deck, the men from the second boat taking advantage of John’s clip running out of ammo to board. Shaw manages to get all of them before they can haul ass over the railing, but she’s still pinned behind the opposite side of the barrels as two more boats approach, one of which doesn’t stop and continues around to their starboard.
“Reese,” she yells, pointing at the boat, and he nods in understanding. She vaguely registers him pulling Turing behind better cover before firing off a few blind shots, and then she’s preoccupied with her own boat for a while before four more come up. “How many fucking ships do these guys have?”
“Definitely not our run-of-the-mill hunters,” John replies.
She curses as her gun clicks empty, reaching around the barrels for the dead guy’s rifle and spraying at a pair of men trying to climb up in front of her. Unfortunately she’d killed him before he had another chance to reload and she doesn’t have enough time to pat him down for spare clips before a hulking dude lands on deck in front of her and raises his weapon.
She swings the rifle out at his arm, knocking the gun aside and wasting no time in introducing her fist to his Adam’s apple. She knees him in the chin when he doubles over, tossing his unconscious body to the side and cursing her continued bad luck as she darts behind new cover and notes his pistol resting near Drake’s coffin, too far out of reach.
“Reese, I’m out and pinned down,” she calls, peering around her cover and spotting two men heading her way. She squares herself for a brawl, knows she can take the both of them even with the high probability of her getting shot along the way, and is just about to jump out and utilize the element of surprise when a loud explosion sounds and one of the boats in front of her goes up in flames.
When she glances to the side she sees Reese grinning, grenade launcher in hand, and all she does is spare a smirk as she takes advantage of the two guys’ momentary distraction. She smacks the first man’s gun away just as he fires, his shot grazing the second man’s arm and leaving her with a few seconds to spare to take down the guy in front of her. The sound of his nose breaking against her hand is lost as Reese decimates another boat, and she pries the gun from the thug’s fist and smacks it against his temple. His body falls to the deck and she aims and fires at the other guy as he finally rights himself on his feet, the force of the bullets sending him over the edge of the railing.
She barely registers the splash as she moves on to the final group of men attempting to flank John around the cockpit as he takes out the last of the boats, downing two of them while the others duck behind the metal structure. She mirrors their position, peering around the edge and firing a few blind shots in an attempt to get them both to stay and not split up in favor of keeping her pinned down while one of them goes after Reese.
She presses herself against the wall of the cockpit as one of the men return fire, glancing around for something to use to distract him with. She spots the binoculars resting on a container across from her and leans out to snatch them up, waiting for a pause in the thug’s firing before peering around the corner and tossing the binoculars down the pathway.
Letting the sound of the metal clunking against the deck muffle her footsteps, she moves across and slides along the railing, keeping her gun raised and an eye on the dude as he spares a glance at the binoculars. Just like the first guy behind the barrels, when he pops out of cover again he’s aiming at a place where she no longer is, and she shoots him once in the head, immediately preparing herself for the second guy to attack. When nothing happens for ten seconds she crosses back over to the cockpit’s wall, snapping around the corner they’d been hiding behind and lowering her gun when she spots the second man’s body at the opposite corner, sprawled on the deck in a pool of his own blood.
Still, she hasn’t heard an all clear from John, so she keeps her guard up as she follows the stern-side path and rounds the corner. Her eyes widen immediately and she steps around the dead thug’s body over to where John lies on the deck, his grenade launcher resting beside his limp hand. She crouches down and presses her fingers to his neck. His pulse is faint, but there. She glances back, then scans her eyes ahead of her and lets out a very precise string of curses in her head. Turing is nowhere in sight.
When they get out of this she’s going to ban John from having to deal with any women that aren’t her in their professional life, because this is worse than Istanbul and Santa Fe combined.
Shaw rises slowly and quietly to her feet, bringing her gun back in front of her. She uses all her years of training to move silently along the walkway, deeming John safe where he is for now. She sweeps her eyes back and forth and searches for any signs of movement, finger poised above the trigger. There’s a small part of her that hopes to find Turing cowering behind some crates, but Shaw isn’t a fucking idiot.
Ironically, she’s mentally telling herself this just as she finds the cockpit empty of anybody and feels the familiar twin fangs of a taser sink into her neck.
She drops like deadweight to the floor, the back of her head smacking against the deck with a painful crack that even someone without her medical experience would know meant she’s suffered at least a mild concussion. Her entire body convulses with electricity and she can’t even move her muscles into the scathing scowl she wants to direct at the figure standing over her, blurry as she is through Shaw’s rapidly darkening vision.
“I’m really sorry about this,” Turing says in a way that tells Shaw she really isn’t, “but like I said, Sameen: I’m an opportunist.”
Shaw just manages to make out Turing flipping through the pages of Drake’s diary, the gun Shaw had knocked out of one of the earlier thugs’ hands and sent flying near the coffin now in her grasp. She’s at Turing’s mercy now, can expect a bullet any second, and Shaw just mostly hates the fact that she’s going to die in a random spot off the coast of Panama, unable to even form a syllable.
She always thought she’d go out after putting up a brutal fight, not temporarily paralyzed at the feet of a woman she hasn't even trusted from the very start.
“It’s honestly a shame,” Turing continues. “You really are impressive. But I’m not much of a team player, sadly.”
Shaw can already feel herself slipping into unconsciousness, her eyelids beginning to droop. Turing steps closer and crouches down so that the tips of her long hair are just barely brushing Shaw’s chest. Not that she can exactly feel it.
“I guess you do deserve to know who I am.” Her mouth is stretched in a broad smile. Weirdly enough Shaw realizes it’s the most genuine one she’s seen on her since they’ve met. “You can call me Root. And by the time you wake up I’ll be long gone from here.”