Author note: spoilers for 03x05: The Other Lane. Pretty much the entire episode. And I am using dialogue from the episode. This story is the twenty-second in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "Blessings".
Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own Flashpoint, Harry Potter, Narnia, or Merlin.
As of this story, I've changed the way I do my first chapter(s). I will, in time, go back and change all my prior stories with very short Prologues. I hope. I also hope this change is for the better. Feedback very much appreciated.
Above the shipyard, stars twinkled in the depths of the night sky. Winter, long since settled in, showed in the misty breaths of the cops and Aurors assembled outside the shipyard's gate. Braddock and Wordsworth muscled the gate open, clearing the way for their teammates and Auror colleagues. Guns and wands were at the ready, though Team One was in front.
"Let's get in there, guys. You know the drill," team leader Ed Lane ordered briskly.
The Aurors hung back, unsure of themselves in the purely tech area; they followed Team One as closely as they dared, trusting their tech-side colleagues' expertise. Team One, for their part, stayed grouped up, eyes on the move and weapons at the ready as they moved into the jungle of shipping containers and warehouses.
From the Command Truck, Spike called, "I've got a cluster of containers in the shipyard's northeast sector. I'm uploading a map to you now." His fingers flew on the keyboard, sending the image in front of him to the team's phones.
In the northeast sector, a green shipping container stood in a small clearing, stacks of shipping containers all around it. An old, blue, utility truck stood near its open door and a man with an automatic rifle paced, keeping his eyes open for any uninvited guests.
Inside the container, another man stood guard with his own rifle as two final men stood over the open crates of neatly packed weapons. One man inspected the rifle he'd just pulled out with a handheld worklight, checking for any serial numbers on the stock. The other man finished opening a crate, revealing several more packed weapons as he spoke. "All right, you got another forty units right here, near-mint condition."
Not far from the green container, the patroller was blindsided by a large, husky constable, who slammed him into a shipping container and forced the rifle he was carrying downward. The patroller's grip tightened on his weapon and several rounds discharged into the ground.
"Door!" the rear-most man in the shipping container ordered; his bodyguard quickly pulled the heavy shipping container door shut.
Next to a blue shipping container, Constable Lane reached its corner and peeked around, weapon up and ready. At the sight of the green shipping container, he jerked back, keeping himself in cover as he yelled, "Open up the container. Throw your weapons out! Do it now!" As he yelled, his boss, hefting a shield, and his teammate Jules worked their way into positions of their own around the closed container.
Inside the green container, the rear-most man had worked his way to the door and now peered out, spotting a female constable in the reflection of the old truck's side mirror. Keeping his voice down, he hissed to his bodyguard, "She's exposed right here."
"Let me see," the bodyguard requested; the two quickly traded places. Behind them, the third man watched, his eyes alert, his stance familiar.
"Can you get her?"
"I can ricochet it as a forehead shot."
"You see it, take it."
Jules peered around the corner.
3 hours earlier
Team One had gotten the worse end of the bargain as winter marched on. Commander Holleran, still a bit irked at his top team, had put them on night shifts for the next month; the commander was turning his displeasure into an art form, but Team One knew better than to complain. They were still working magic-side, they were still keeping the peace, and they'd all worked night shifts before. Greg, in the interests of keeping his nipotes on regular schedules, had gotten both Shelley Wordsworth and Sophie Lane to agree to hosting them on alternating nights, so they wouldn't be woken up by him returning at ungodly hours of the morning. Greg was just hoping the arrangement wasn't making things worse between Ed and Sophie…she hadn't been happy with Ed since he'd put a hot call before her doctor's appointment two months ago.
For tonight, Team One was cutting loose in the workout room. Wordy and Spike were working with Jules, teaching her a new takedown maneuver, while Sam and Lou spotted each other with the free weights. Greg, enjoying an evening off from paperwork, was bracing a punching bag while Eddie went at it. Naturally, the Sergeant was taunting his friend. "Come on. Who is this guy?"
Ed countered without even looking up, "What, are you getting tired?"
"Come on. Leave something in the tank," Greg teased.
Over on the mat, Jules took Spike down again, in a close-to-flawless practice run of the new takedown. "She got it!" Spike called from the mat.
"She got it?" Wordy asked.
"Oh, yeah, got it," Jules replied.
Leaning over, Wordy coached, "Hold him down there like…" He laughed at the pathetic look Spike contrived to shoot him from the floor, Jules snickering too.
Greg spied the new arrival first: a pregnant Sophie Lane, fairly glowing as she came in. Long dark brown hair fell in gentle waves to her shoulders, framing her wide smile, pert nose, and laughing brown eyes. Her jewelry and makeup were modest, in deference to her condition, but she still managed to appear perfectly put together, in a black tank top and a stylish black jacket. She was about Greg's height and normally rather athletic, though that was currently hidden by the little one in her belly.
"Hey, look who it is," Greg told his friend, who was still whaling away at the punching bag. "Look who it is." Moving away and tapping Ed on the shoulder, he repeated one final time, "Look who it is!"
"Hey, guys," Sophie called as she entered the room, smiling at the entire group.
"Hey-hey!" Spike returned enthusiastically, bouncing up from the floor as the team migrated over to Ed's wife.
"Hey, Sophie," Wordy greeted.
"You got that glow thing going on, huh?" Spike observed, his voice upbeat and perky.
"How you feeling?" Jules asked.
"Good," Sophie replied.
As he drew Sophie in for a brief hug, Greg chided, "What are you doing on your feet?"
"Doc says I'm okay as long as I don't exert myself too much," Sophie informed her husband's old friend and boss.
As he drew back out of Eddie's way, Greg remarked, "You look terrific."
"Hey," Sophie greeted Ed as they hugged.
"Hello. How are you?" Ed's wide smile conveyed his pleasure at his wife's presence.
"Good," Sophie reassured her husband. "I thought I'd come by and say hello."
"What's going on?" Ed questioned, drawing a slightly awkward pause.
Greg clapped his hands to draw his team's attention. "Let's sweat!"
As Wordy agreed with his own comment of, "All right, let's get back to it," Sophie drew Greg's attention back to her.
"Greg, I dropped the kids off at the Wordsworths for tonight."
"Okay, thanks," Greg replied, before withdrawing and leaving the couple alone.
Though he also 'pulled' his hearing back and turned his 'team sense' off, he still heard Sophie's, "Can we go somewhere and talk?" before he got out of earshot.
The house, nestled in a nice, high class neighborhood, fit right in. Stone decorated the outside walls, with black paneling around doors and windows. A luxury black Hummer sat in the driveway, gleaming as if freshly washed. The entire house held a subtle, but elegant flavor, and, though the Hummer was a bit ostentatious, it was nothing out of the ordinary for the neighborhood it resided in.
Inside, several men stood inside a room with an stylish, expensive pool table. The walls were beautifully stained dark wood paneling, setting off the slightly lighter shade of the pool table. Two were clearly employees, standing off to the side, observing their boss and his client. One was in a white shirt with a loosened tie, hinting at professional, but not quite crossing into that category. His coworker wore an all-black ensemble, his skin tone the only area where the black theme deviated. They wisely stayed out of the discussion going on in front of them, merely keeping watch.
A meter or so away from them, their boss held court with a pool cue in one hand and a drink in the other. "So what are you thinking?" he inquired of the last man.
The last man surveyed the pool table, a drink on the table's edge right next to him. "I'm thinking you got them set up pretty good," he replied as his host sipped his drink and set it down.
Before the discussion could go further, another man entered. Though he wore a white, button up shirt, he had no tie and wore a plain set of blue jeans. He was sniffing loudly as he entered and his attitude, even before he spoke, was belligerent, cocky.
"What were you doing in there?" the boss asked sharply. He wore a business suit, with a dark blue pinstriped shirt visible underneath the jacket. Gray-blue eyes were hard; he had the look of a man who had fought his way to the top of his career. Neatly combed black hair was starting to go gray around the edges, but the clean-shaven man was still very much in his prime. One brow quirked at his employee, daring the idiot to give him lip.
The employee glanced back at the room he'd just left, then offered his boss a slight grin. "Taking a leak." The customer looked from the employee to his boss, who stood unmoved, clearly unhappy. "You want details?" the mouthy employee asked; his coworker wisely stepped in.
"Another drink?" the other white-shirted employee asked the customer.
The customer looked down at his drink a moment, then replied, "No, I'm good. Thanks." He was tall, lean, with a serious mien and light gray eyes. Thick brown eyebrows accented his seriousness and his hair was cut short, giving him a slightly rakish air. His face was just as lean as his frame, the profile of his nose and chin sharp enough to cut and only a trace of stubble visible in the room's light. Despite the fact that it was winter, he had a light black jacket, nothing heavier. Though he appeared relaxed in his environs, he kept his eyes on all four other men, not truly dropping his guard for a second.
At his polite refusal of another drink, the boss questioned, "You sure? I got a sixteen-year-old scotch over there. It's like poetry in a bottle."
The customer smirked, lifting his drink to point one finger at the business man. "You're trying to put me off my game." He looked back at the pool table. "Let's…let's talk business."
The boss passed his pool cue over to his black-jacketed employee. "All right. So what do you like?" With that, both men surveyed the impressive display of weaponry atop the pool table. Shotguns, pistols and rifles of all sizes and descriptions were laid out, each gleaming and awaiting just the right buyer.
Sophie and Ed had found a quiet place to talk; the briefing room, currently empty except for them. "I really need you," Sophie told her husband. "I'm not even supposed to be out of bed right now. And it's not going to get easier. It's just going to get harder."
"So, Clark's around," Ed pointed out.
"Clark's fifteen," Sophie countered, though she felt a little guilty. Lance and Alanna were even younger than Clark and they'd found no end of small ways to help her out on the days they stayed at the Lane household.
"Look, we've done this before, and we will figure it out," Ed reassured her.
"Your job's different now, okay," Sophie retorted. "I'm supposed to rest. I need help."
"And I'm going to help."
Her frustration slipped out. "With what, two-hour workouts a day? Night shifts? Overtime shifts?"
"What am I supposed to do?" Ed asked calmly. "Just…just tell me, and I will do it, okay?"
She didn't believe him…look at how he ran off, putting his job above her and Clark. "My mother's expecting me in the morning," she informed him. "I've already packed my bags."
Sophie saw the hurt on his face, quickly buried in his eyes. Silence hung between them, a widening gap. "Your bags are packed?"
All the reasons she'd told herself as she packed came back, forcefully. "It'll be easier for both of us. I just…I want to get through this pregnancy and…and do some thinking."
He wasn't happy, she could tell, but he didn't react the way she wanted him to. Didn't put up an argument, didn't put up a fight…wasn't she worth a fight to keep her? "Okay. Okay, if it's better…if it's better for you and the baby. It's just for a while?" He waited for her slight nod. "Give me more time with Clark anyway."
For an instant, she cringed inside, but her resentment, carefully fed for weeks, kept her from regretting her next words. "Ed, Clark's coming with me."
His head snapped back around, the hurt and confusion on his face so clear that, for a moment, she wondered what on earth she was doing. Silence hung again; she could almost see the barrier going up between them.
The customer lifted one of the revolvers, flipping the barrel out and spinning it to see that it turned smoothly, with no hesitation in its movement. Then he flipped it back and set the weapon back down. As he continued to inspect the weapons, the boss and his three employees observed.
"Tell me who your buyers are again," the boss requested.
Not even looking up, the customer retorted, "I didn't tell you in the first place."
The boss passed his drink off to his black-jacketed employee. "Kind of like to know who I'm dealing with."
"Yeah, my guys like to keep a low profile." The customer moved back to the head of the pool table, pulling a black shoulder bag off his shoulder and putting it down in front of the boss. "A hundred grand," he told the boss, opening up the bag so the boss and his employees could see the stacks of cash inside. To make the point even clearer, he pulled several stacks out and then dropped them back in the bag.
The mouthy employee couldn't keep his opinion to himself. "Sweet," he remarked, openly admiring the large amount of money.
"Deposit's only ten," the boss observed.
The customer smirked a little. "Consider the rest a finder's fee."
"Generous."
"I was hoping it might, uh, move things along," the customer admitted, looking back at the table.
"Definitely expedite things," the boss replied.
The customer lifted another weapon, examining what looked like a cross between an automatic and a regular, standard sized pistol. "When can I see the rest?" he asked.
"How's tonight sound?" the boss offered.
"Tonight?"
"Everything goes tonight," was the reply. "You're at the front of the line now."
With a small chuckle, the customer nodded. "Tonight's good. Just need to make a couple of calls." He tapped the weapon in his hands. "What can you tell me about this?"
"Fully automatic, fully concealable. That baby's a game changer," the boss informed his now very valued customer.
The mouthy employee, eager to show off, took the weapon from the customer, slipping his hand around the grip and disengaging the safety. "Wait'll they hit the streets," he bragged. "Nine millimeter. Very sensitive. Single or multi shots. Twelve…" The gun in his hand bucked as it fired, spraying the nearby couch with bullets. Every other man in the room ducked for cover as the hapless employee stopped firing, staring at his handiwork. "Whoa! Dang. Thing kind of fires itself, you know?"
"Give it to me," his boss ordered sharply. As the gun was offered, the boss added, "Safety on."
"Sorry, Nick," the man mumbled as he pulled the weapon back, re-engaged the safety and offered it up again.
Nick snatched the gun from his employee, turning to the other two and snapping, "Crank the stereo. Anybody comes knocking, we're testing out the surround sound, all right? Let's pack and move. Pack it up. Let's go."
Still oblivious to his boss's displeasure, the mouthy employee replied, "Yes, sir," and moved to start packing the guns on the pool table. He looked up into the barrel of the weapon he'd just fired as his coworker turned the stereo on. Loud, hard rock music spilled into the room as he backed away from his boss, pleading, "Nick."
"Strike three," Nick replied as he fired two bursts, dropping his employee instantly. His customer reeled in shock, his other employees cringed, but he paid no further attention to the body on the couch. "Let's go!" he yelled, lifting his voice to be heard over the music. "Pack it up and move! Get the boxes! Let's go! Get it out of here! Come on! Pack it all up!" He spared a gesture at the body as he added, "Get him out of here! Let's go! Go!"
The two employees fairly flew, snatching up guns, shoving them in boxes and generally striving to avoid becoming their boss's next target. As the guns vanished, the customer, unobserved, slipped a white handled pistol into his belt and scooped up his black bag of money. Then he started helping pack the guns.
