Author's Note: Okay, so my long awaited (ha!) debut of the prequel I've been toying with ever since the pilot episode, filling in my entire head canon for how they wound up as POW's. Many thanks to blazeofobscurity on Tumblr for putting up with the many, many, *many* pestering questions at all hours of the day to dissect random plot points, and mmorgan317 who offered to help after I made a request, and then I was a bad person and totally spaced on messaging her. So a few things: one, Afghanistan the country is as much a character in this as any person. The Dari that Thomas is speaking is actual Dari from a translator, but it's written phonetically for the Roman alphabet, since Dari is written in Perso-Arabic script, so there's probably going to be a little lost in translation. All the facts about the Hazara, the descriptions of how Kabul used to be before the Russians invaded, the towns described, all of those are real. Even the incident with the little girl is a very real, too often occurring incident. Academi is more widely known by its previous name: Blackwater. They are also real. Also, these guys are in the military, and we military do so love to swear. It's very, very toned down compared to what you would actually hear in situations like this, but fair warning, the guys swear in this. The other thing is that in this fic, there's terms used by military members to refer to members of the Taliban that are less than favorable. This is just for the sake of accuracy and authenticity, and by no means reflects a personal opinion. Which leads me to a final point of vocab: there's a fair amount of military lingo - I'm ex-Navy, so I don't know the Marine terminology for a lot, but if you have questions about what certain words mean or reference, please let me know, and I will explain them (but I think I managed to work the explanations for the dodgy ones into dialogue). Also, the title is from a Five Finger Death Punch song called "Wrong Side of Heaven". You should go check it out - it heavily inspired a lot of this.
Anyway. Enough delays. ONWARDS!
"So you're telling me, you HALO jumped into North Korea –" Masters asked, scribbling as fast as he could in his notebook, writing indecipherable to anyone who tried to read it except for him, "for what? A possible defector? I didn't even know we had actionable intel from there."
"Details are classified," Magnum reminded. "And the HALO jump was to avoid surveillance. That DMZ is a pretty…effective deterrent to getting over there by conventional means."
"And HALO stands for…" Robin prompted, hardly glancing up from his notes.
Rick grumbled irritably from the gunner turret of the Humvee. He was busy as a lookout, ready with the MK19, head on a swivel keeping an eye out for possible insurgents, IED's or ambush possibilities. It also meant that he wasn't really in the Humvee – all they could see of him was from the waist down as his top half was above the roof, protected by the weapons shield. "For the love of God, Masters, I thought you were a war correspondent. We've been over the acronyms like a thousand times."
"I have a poor memory," Robin protested. He smirked over at Magnum, and Magnum tried not to laugh. Robin knew damn well what all of the acronyms were for – he'd been in and out of the Middle East and North Africa for the better part of six years. For whatever reason though, he and Rick just liked to needle at one another like bitter siblings, and one of the easiest ways for Robin to do it was feign ignorance.
"It stands for high altitude, low opening," Rick reminded. "And aren't you a photographer? Why are you asking about missions from years ago?"
"No reason," Masters replied innocently.
The half-filled notebook said otherwise, but Magnum didn't mention it.
"Besides," Robin continued, finally glancing up to peer put the tiny window of the Humvee. "It gets boring back here, I need to make conversation somehow."
"Boring is good, Masters," TC reminded from the driver seat. "Boring is very good."
Rick laughed at that. "Yeah, you want to trade seats? Maybe come be a human bullseye for a little while? Get that heart rate up?"
"Nope. Nope, I'm good. You're doing a bang up job," Robin quickly conceded.
"Ignoring the poor word choice, how about you tell us something?" Rick said. "You're from Hawaii, right? Tell us a little something about the island life so we can imagine we're on vacation somewhere nice instead of a god-forsaken desert wasteland."
Nuzo rolled his eyes at that description, but regrettably, Rick wasn't far off, even if he was being sarcastic. The constant fighting for more than thirty years – and that was only when the Americans started measuring the conflicts – Afghanistan's beautiful cities and countryside now looked like something in a post-apocalyptic movie.
Pictures of Kabul in the seventies looked like any other European city at the time. Women wore shorts and skirts, they attended schools – including college. Not every man had a beard or a turban. Cars from Europe and America drove through the streets. It even had part of the Hippie Trail run straight through it. Visitors and tourists were welcome, and movies played in the cinema dubbed in Farsi - cowboy westerns were always a favorite. Kite tournaments took place every year from the rooftops and streets of Kabul for both children and adults.
After the Russians invaded in 1979, it was the beginning of the end.
Now Kabul, Herat, Kandahar – shells of their former glory. Buildings lay in crumbled ruins while children played among them. Women in veils begged on the streets, the only legal way they were allowed to support themselves, and even then, only if the Taliban didn't decide that today, that was against God's will, too. Men bartered for food with their prosthetic limbs because they fetched a high price on the black market. Kites were forbidden, and the skies were empty.
They were traveling west from Jalalabad to Bagram, flanked by two of their own Humvees and by a group from Academi, a private military group better known as their prior moniker - Blackwater. Just a standard supply run, but with the increased attacks on civilians and military, they were armed to the teeth and prepared for the worst, making a long ride even longer. It was a rough three and half hour drive. The convoy had to maintain certain speeds to avoid ambush, especially in the smaller towns they passed through, and the roads weren't paved and the Humvees weren't exactly luxury vehicles, so the occupants bounced and rattled around like potatoes. Rick bitched non-stop about how his knees were going to look like they belonged to a 90-year-old man at his next physical.
Masters seemed to consider the request for a moment but shook his head. "Nah. Island stories require music and some of them are literally a song and dance number. I don't have the elbow room."
Nuzo out right laughed at that, and Thomas caught a flash of a grin in the mirror from TC.
"Oh!" Masters suddenly snapped his fingers. "I got a good question – how did you get the nickname White Knight?"
Rick practically cackled at that, nudging Magnum's shoulder with his foot without taking his eyes off the terrain. "That, my friend, is an excellent question. You wanna answer, Nuzo, or should I?"
"It's a boring story," Thomas said, grateful for the windburn that hid the fierce blush creeping up his neck. "It's just a call sign someone gave me."
This time Rick's 'nudge' was more like a kick. "You fucking liar!"
"It's boring!"
"No, it ain't – Nuzo, fill in some blanks, would you? I'm telling you, Rob, it's like something out of a Clive Cussler meets James Bond novel."
Thomas punched the side of Rick's thigh, making him yelp. "TC, Thomas hit me!"
"I swear to god, I will pull this convoy over if you two don't stop fighting!"
"He got it from the CIA," Nuzo finally said, smiling innocently at the death glare Thomas gave him. "Actually, technically he got it from his previous chain of command, who Thomas here may or may not have gotten along with as well as oil gets along with water, but it sticks because of the Christians in Action. You play chess, Masters?"
"Badly."
"You know the pieces though, right?" When Robin nodded, Nuzo continued on. "Knights are the unpredictable pieces. They move in patterns at odds to the rest of the board, they can go through the defensive line in ways that other pieces can't. They can jump over obstacles, they're for quick thinkers, and they offer unconventional solutions. Sound like anyone we know?"
Masters grin was practically Cheshire like. "So why White Knight?"
"'Cause Brown Knight would be racist, and Black Knight would be misleading and everyone would think it was TC," Rick quipped, earning another punch from Magnum.
"No, that came from the fact that Thomas here has a savior complex that psychologists would have a field day with. Always a 'white knight' riding in to rescue someone," TC explained.
"I do not!" Magnum protested. The windburn was doing nothing to hide the red now. His face felt like it was on fire all the way up to his ears.
"Uh huh," the three guys chorused.
"The CIA just picked it up because that was his radio handle, and they've been trying to recruit him for the spook business for months," Nuzo said. "Regular Rosetta Stone, this one."
"I can't help that you slept through our language courses," Thomas said, shrugging. "We're in Afghanistan – it behooves me to be able to speak at least one of the local languages."
Nuzo smirked knowingly, elbowing Masters. "Yeah, but what he doesn't mention is that he doesn't speak just one, he speaks eight."
Masters perked up at that. "Really? Which ones?"
Thomas glared balefully at Nuzo who just continued to smile. It wasn't that he minded people knowing he was good with languages. They just always looked the same to him, so learning one was like learning all of them. It wasn't until he was half way through his senior year in high school he realized not everyone looked at French and Spanish and saw words in English, but he always chalked the talent up to growing up in a bilingual household.
He just wasn't a huge fan of everyone knowing he could. It drew unwanted attention from people like Academi and the CIA, and it was getting harder and harder to dodge their insistent requests to 'borrow' him for certain ops.
Magnum was saved from answering when Rick whistled, loud and sharp as he stood straight, bracing his feet against the side of the Humvee. "You see it?"
The vehicle was already slowing, and Nuzo and Magnum reflexively hitched their rifles higher on their shoulders.
"Yeah, I see it," TC confirmed, coming to a halt that kicked up dust, temporarily obscuring their vision from inside the cab.
Thomas craned his head around, glancing through the narrow and scratched glass.
They were stopped in the middle of a street, in the middle of a small town – it reminded him of the old westerns and the classic showdown scenes, where 'town' was only fifteen buildings lining a single dirt road.
Except in the middle of this one, instead of a gunslinger ready to face them down, it was a small child.
"Do not exit the vehicle," warned someone over the radio. Thomas immediately recognized the voice – Academi's chief of operations, a man named Wert that reminded Thomas more of a pit viper than a human being. While vigilant and good with a weapon, he was also quick with a weapon, bordering on paranoia with all the empathy of a Nazi. "It could be an ambush."
And it could. The Taliban was not above using women and children as unknowing or unwilling (or sometimes, perfectly knowing and willing) to rush American and foreign military convoys, forcing vehicles to stop in a classic kill box positioning maneuver, preying on the social conventions of the westerners to stop for aide without thinking. They were also targets less likely to be shot, or at least, more of a delay, allowing for valuable time and ground coverage.
Rick practically radiated energy despite being perfectly calm, keeping the MK19 swiveling towards the rooftops of the buildings that lined the single shot street. "Rooflines are clear. TC?"
"Nothing down here," the other Marine confirmed.
"Just drive around," Wert snapped. "We don't have time for this."
That was the sensible thing to do. Continue on. Stop for no one. Just drive.
Except Magnum finally caught a good look of the 'road block' and was out of the vehicle before anyone could stop him.
"And here we go – Rick, TC, you know the drill," Nuzo ordered before immediately exiting out the other side, covering Magnum from behind while he flanked to the side, moving up the side of the street, rifle at the tactical carry position. "Masters, stay in the car."
Rick mirrored his movements, sliding out of the turret with practiced ease, leaving the mounted gun unit. The MK19 was great for long distances and large targets where accuracy wasn't essential, but in close quarters like this, the collateral damage risk was too high. The rounds would shred anyone and anything and would punch through the walls of the surrounding buildings even after hitting a target. Instead, he lifted the M16 from his shoulder carry to the tactical, sweeping up the opposing side of the street.
No one noticed as Robin slunk out the back seat, Nikon clutched in his hand as he bolted for the side of the street.
"Magnum, don't you dare," Wert snarled across the radio. The Academi armored vehicles remained stoic and silent, no one exiting the vehicles, but not having enough room to drive around TC's Humvee squarely in the middle of the street. "Get back in the goddamn truck, or so help me-"
Anything else the man wanted to say was promptly cut off as Magnum switched the radio channels to their private one, and he knew without asking that the others had already done it.
Magnum didn't look around for a switchman. He didn't have to. TC has his back, Rick and Nuzo covered sides. The only thing he had to worry about was directly in front of him.
The little girl hesitated, standing in the middle of the rocky street, hand clutched around what was probably her only toy while her other hand reflexively grasped the air near her ear, almost as if searching for her mother's hand and finding nothing.
Her once beautiful dress was a shade of its former glory. The bright blue now dulled and stained, the intricate needlework of the frock top torn and coming undone despite numerous patching. The sleeves were dirty, slightly damp and smeared from where she rubbed it across her face as she continued to cry silent tears. Her shoes were mismatched, one too small and the other too large, but at least she had some. Her head veil was little more than a ragged banner in the breeze.
The dress didn't worry him.
The vest rigged with six bright red packs of improvised explosives that fastened around her tiny body was.
"Salâm," he said, smiling as he dropped to his knees in front of her. He wasn't entirely sure what language he should be trying to pick – she wasn't very old, maybe only three or four at the most, but he could be off. Life in Afghanistan was cruel to little things – children aged years in days. Either Farsi or Dari – both close enough she would probably understand either, but his Dari was considerably better than his Farsi.
Her broad features and narrower eyes, her lighter skin tone and decidedly Asiatic features, combined with her clothes, he was pretty sure she was Hazara. The Taliban had a particular hatred for the Hazara people, claiming they were impure stains on the Afghani people since they were descendants of the Mongolians, not native population. In the early days of the Taliban occupation, there were mass killings in the north of Afghanistan. Thousands of Hazaras were killed, and those that weren't forced to flee into neighboring countries.
Hazara and a girl? As far as the Taliban was concerned, her only use was as cannon fodder.
And that was them being kind.
"Nâm-e shomâ chist?" he asked, keeping his tone light. "What's your name? My name is Thomas – nâm-e man Thomas ast."
The little girl stared blankly at him, her wide, dark eyes haunted and disturbingly vacant. He kept his smile, focusing solely on her and nothing around them. He could hear Rick and Nuzo talking over the radio in his ear, but he ignored them. All he cared about was getting her to come close enough for him to get a look at the vest and see if he could get it off her before the switchman blew it. He took off his helmet, pulling down his Oakleys so they hung around the back of his neck.
He figured if he looked more like a person, less like a soldier, she might interact with him. Even if he was gonna catch hell for taking off his helmet – first from Nuzo, then from Rick and TC, and then from Greene – it'd be worth it if he could get her to talk to him while Nuzo and Rick swept for the switchman – because there had to be one. Children her age couldn't be trusted to hold a trigger switch until they needed to. They were detonated remotely from an adult that waited until the most opportune moment. It wouldn't even matter if the convoy hadn't stopped – they would've just blown it as they neared her.
"Shomâ chand sâl dârêd?"
She blinked. Her free hand paused its compulsive opening and closing. In a small, tiny voice he had to strain to hear, she whispered "Man châr sâl dârom."
"You're four?" he repeated, holding up four fingers. "Wow. That's pretty good. I'm much older than that." English was probably not in her repertoire, but he was aiming for tone more than vocabulary. "Man si-o-sê sâl dârom," he told her in a stage whisper. "Goftan nakon!" He put a finger to his lips, swearing her to secrecy. "Don't tell anyone."
There was the barest flicker of a smile for that, and he couldn't help the broadening of his own. "I knew I would get a smile out of you. Nâm-e shomâ chist?"
This time, the girl answered. "Soraya."
"Qashang," he told her. "Beautiful. Just like that smile."
"Keep her smiling, Thomas," Nuzo cautioned over the radio. "Can you see a cellphone on that rig?"
Magnum looked at the vest but saw nothing close to a trigger. Usually they were fastened up front, clipped to the front of the vests and wired to the detonator. It made it easier for the suicide bombers to set them off, rather than have to reach for them, allowing someone to shoot them or disarm them before they blew themselves and half a street.
But those were adults with a mission in mind. This was a four-year-old girl.
"Soraya jan," he asked, turning his finger in a clockwise motion, indicating for her to turn around. "Bar ghastan? Lotfan?"
Soraya studied him for a moment, and he could see a wary intelligence start to flicker in those once vacant eyes. Good. She was engaging. He always admired their resiliency. He made sure to keep his smile plastered on, keeping it sincere.
"Lotfan," he asked again. "Please?"
After a long moment, Soraya turned, her free hand grabbing the top hem of her dress as she slowly twirled, showing off her dress with a shy smile. Little girls and their dresses were a universal constant – Magnum was sure of it.
As soon as her back was to him, he felt his heart stutter. "Estâd shaw!" he demanded, harsher than he meant to. Soraya froze, her tiny shoulders hunching forward as she ducked her head, obviously expecting a physical blow. "No, shit, sorry…Mota'asefam! I'm not mad, it's okay – mowâfeq."
"You find the detonator?" Rick asked.
"Yeah," Magnum confirmed. "Cellphone. It's strapped to her back so she can't mess with it and detonate early. You guys are looking for someone close enough to have eyes on her."
"If that's the case, why hasn't he blown it?" Rick pointed out. "You're less than three feet from her."
"I'm one guy. Not enough of a soft target. He's hoping more of us come to her aid – or for her to go running to the vehicles." Magnum paused trying to look around without making it obvious to the switchman, wherever he was. "Or he's trying to goad us into having to shoot her and use it as anti-American propaganda."
People weren't in the street anymore, but they were still watching from the windows and from the shaded market stalls and boarded sidewalks in front of the buildings. Morbid curiosity kept people that should've had the common sense to get as far from the doors and the street as possible standing around, anxiously muttering to one another about what they thought was going to happen. The locals were so desensitized to violence, they had no sense of self-preservation.
"Not to be a negative Nancy here," TC chimed in, "but what exactly is your preferred choice out of all those outcomes?"
"The one where Nuzo or Rick shoots the switchman before he can do anything, we save the girl, and we all go home happy and in one piece," Magnum said. "Duh."
"Can you get the vest off of her?" Rick asked. "It's going to take us a second to clear the crowd if we have to worry about him getting twitchy and making you go boom."
Magnum bit his lower lip. "Technically, maybe?"
"Wow," Nuzo drawled. "Vague even by your standards. Yes or no, Magnum."
"Yes, I can get it off her, it's just zippered up the front and electrical tape on either side. But I can't see if there's a mercury switch, a trip wire, anything like that. And even if I could get it off her, what's to stop him from blowing it then? And where would I put it? I can't throw it, it's too crowded, the IED is enough to take out the closest civilians…"
"So finding the switchman is our only option. Gotcha. Could've just said 'no'," Rick complained. It wasn't a real complaint. Just a light tone for what was looking more and more like Thomas's last day on Earth. Rick complaining was a default setting – it was when he stopped that one needed to worry.
Finding the switchman was their only option, but it raised its own problems, too. If the switchman thought he was out of options, he would blow the vest, taking Soraya and Thomas with it, and half the too-curious onlookers.
"Soraya jan," Thomas said gently, holding his arms out for her. "Bar ghastan, you can turn around again. Âmadan."
"Magnum," Rick said suspiciously, drawing out the vowels in his name. "What're you doing, bud?"
Soraya cautiously peeked over her shoulder at him. Her shoulders still hunched forwards. She didn't know whether or not to believe him.
"Man mota'asefam. I'm sorry, Soraya jan. I didn't mean to yell at you. Âmadan. Come here." He kept his arms out, crouching low so he was eye level with her.
"Magnum," TC snarled.
"I'm helping find the target," Thomas said, voice pitched the same low, even tone he was using on Soraya. She didn't know what he was saying in English, but he hoped the tone would convince her he was still trying to help her.
"By doing what?"
Soraya finally turned, taking a hesitant step towards him. She mimicked his smile, though on her it looked painfully brittle, like she was just copying him without knowing why he was smiling at her – just that she should do the same.
"By giving him an impossible to resist target," Thomas said.
(*(*(*
"Harakat kardan," Rick ordered, cutting quickly down the shaded side of the street. "Move!" The ragged ruins of the market stall canopies were all that were left, but they offered more than enough distraction and hiding places.
Nosy and curious onlookers made the search harder than it needed to be, but as interesting as Thomas was, an American soldier with a rifle aimed at you was more than compelling reason to get back inside.
His gaze swept up and down every person he saw, looking at their hands, their chests, anything that could be another vest, another hidden weapon, a cellphone, or radio. Someone who wouldn't take their eyes off the macabre scene in the street and ignored his commands to move out of the way.
He half listened to Magnum's conversation with the girl – Thomas was always the best with kids, even though Nuzo was the one with a kid. Most of it was in Dari, which Rick knew some key phrases for, but not the ones Magnum was using. Knowing him, he was probably telling her she had a pretty dress or asking her favorite color.
Nuzo, on the other hand, he listened for.
"My side's clear," Nuzo reported. "I'm finding an elevated position."
"Fobbits are getting antsy," TC said, referencing the contractors, who still hadn't exited their vehicles. God only knew what they were threatening over the vehicle's radio. "You may have some unwanted company in a second."
Rick herd the derisive snort from Nuzo before he had a chance to reply. "You mean they'll risk their manicures getting their hands dirty? Doubt it. Tell 'em to sit tight while we save the day."
He glanced back towards the street, motion from Magnum catching his attention and he almost froze dead in his steps. Thomas was crouched on one knee in the street, his helmet in the dirt next to him and his sunglasses turned around on the back of his neck. He was clearly trying to get the little girl's attention, and as she cautiously turned back towards Magnum, Rick saw his hand go up, his hands gesturing for her to come closer to him.
"Magnum," Rick said suspiciously, drawing out the vowels in his name. "What're you doing, bud?"
Magnum ignored him, talking to the girl still and again, mostly in Dari. But Rick understood enough of it that for one kneejerk moment, he was tempted to run into the street to slap the shit out of the man, and judging from TC's growled warning, the other Marine wouldn't be far behind.
"You mother fucker," Rick hissed and felt his heart skip a beat when he heard Thomas's explanation. Sound logic as it was, Thomas just put a ticking clock on this bullshit, and if they lived through this, he was gonna kill him. "Eyes, Nuzo? TC?"
"Nothing from here."
"Maybe – on your right," Nuzo snapped. "Just beyond the pillar in front of you, haji in white and he's got his hand on something. Can't make out what though – bad angle. Eyes?"
Rick swung around the corner, several feet back to keep himself out of tackle range in case the target got desperate. Men with knives were notoriously faster in close quarters than men with guns, and the last thing Rick was looking to do was to get stabbed and live just long enough to watch one of his best friends get blown to kingdom come.
"Dasthaa balaa!" he ordered, "Hands up!"
The man startled, so focused on Thomas and the girl that he hadn't been paying any attention to the armed Marine sweeping up the sidewalks. He spun around to face Rick, hands immediately coming up to the 'surrender' pose. "Fayr nako!" he shouted, waving his hands. "Fayr nako!"
Rick was 99% positive that was 'don't shoot', but he knew more Russian than Dari. "Hands!" he repeated, rifle raised and his hand along the trigger. His heart was going a mile a minute, but his hands were steady, his vision narrowed down the length of the rifle at the man.
The man was wearing thick gloves, and he wasn't holding them palm out – they were both raised in clenched fists, and between the crap angle, the fact that he was waving his hands around like a goddamn cheerleader at a pep rally and the material, Rick couldn't tell if he was holding anything or not.
"Let me see your hands!" Rick yelled. "Dast häy-e-tän rä beeroon-e-pan-jara begered!"
The once curious onlookers now were screaming, fleeing the area as they tripped over one another and shoved each other out of the way. TC was yelling something over the radio, whether at him or Thomas or Nuzo, he didn't know – his entire focus was on the man in front of him who still refused to open his hands, backing up into the street even as Rick followed after him.
"Fayr nako!" the man repeated, over and over again, getting louder as if volume was going to make Rick back off.
"I won't shoot if you fucking show me your hands," Rick snarled. He didn't have to check if Nuzo had the guy covered from wherever he'd found a perch – the entire street would be unobstructed views for anyone with an elevated position.
The man stumbled in his rush, hitting the ground with his knees, ducking his head and curling in on himself, as if he expected Rick to strike him with the rifle.
What a wonderful photo op that would make for Masters – a pleading man on his knees, beaten over the head by an American Marine. As if the anti-war sentiment wasn't already at a peak.
"Show me –" Rick didn't even finish the command. The man suddenly lurched upright, clutching something small and black in his hand. The earlier panic was gone – the man met his eyes with glare and a bright, gap toothed smile.
It was a cellphone.
"MAGNUM!"
It was the only warning he could manage.
"Jahangir – e," the man hissed, and hit the 'call' button on the cheap cellphone in his hand, at the exact same moment Rick and Nuzo fired.
Time slowed.
Movies always showed people being thrown back from the force of a bullet. Proof that they'd never seen anyone shot at close range before. Sure, the force of the bullet entering the body knocked them back, but what everyone failed to take into account was the force of the bullet exploding out the other side.
The entrance wound wasn't a near, dime sized hole, but a star-shaped split – almost like the crosshairs on the rifle scope still leveled at his head.
Or what remained of it.
Close range M16 to the skull didn't leave an open-casket corpse.
Nuzo's shot had to go lower to avoid accidentally hitting Rick if the bullet hadn't been stopped by the body. Angled down, he'd managed to fire through the spinal column.
Even as the echo of the gunshots faded, it took a second to realize something wasn't quite…
In a single voice, all three of them shouted for Thomas.
)*)*))*
Only half of his plan was getting the triggerman to reveal himself with an irresistible target.
The other half was in several parts.
One, getting Soraya to come close enough that he could hug her was a pure and simple way to offer the only comfort he could. As she felt his arms encircle her, her entire body stiffened like an electrical current seized her, but once she realized he wasn't trying to hurt her, that he was offering probably the only comfort she'd known in God only knew how long, she burst into uncontrollable tears that shook her entire body. Her hands came up around his neck as she pressed her face into his collar, sobbing.
Two, it allowed him to look at the cellphone rigging without looking like he was messing with it. They didn't know if the switchman was ahead of them, behind them, above…there were too many scenarios to consider to openly try and disarm it. If the switchman thought Magnum had half a chance of disarming it, he'd blow it even if the only two people killed were Thomas and Soraya.
And three, if Rick and Nuzo didn't find the switchman before he detonated the device, Magnum would be enough of a shield that the blast would be minimally contained – it was six explosive packs of shrapnel, and Magnum was only so big, but it could be the difference between someone being injured and someone being killed. Like throwing yourself on a grenade to save the rest of your team.
Except, you know…six grenades.
He looked up from trying to determine if the cellphone could be detached when he heard Rick shouting, saw the man stumble into the streets and keep retreating despite Rick's repeated orders to stop moving and put his hands up.
It wasn't until the man hit his knees and doubled over that Thomas caught a glimpse of the black device in his hand.
"Shit," he swore violently. Loud enough that Soraya startled and went to pull away, but he caught her and threw them both to the ground, his body covering hers so that any blast would catch him instead of civilians – or TC, who was only twenty feet behind him. "Didan nakon!" he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut, bracing for the end. "Don't look!"
He flinched when he heard the twin rifle shots, fired so close together it almost sounded like one, fully prepared for that to be the last thing he heard.
Except.
Except.
Nothing happened.
Magnum didn't move, and neither did Soraya, wrapped in his arms like a bear hug. He was afraid if he moved, whatever miracle that kept them from getting killed in that second would be over. His heart hammered in his chest, and he could feel Soraya's spike too, as if she finally understood what was happening. More likely she wondered what the hell he was doing.
Strong hands grabbed the back of his TAC vest, pulling him over and onto his side, pulling Soraya with him so he was no longer on top of her as a shield.
"Thomas? Thomas?!"
Thomas blinked in the bright overhead sun, his brain feeling like it was caught in quicksand. TC leaned over him, blocking out the light enough for him to finally be able to see.
"Am I dead?" he asked.
"Not yet," TC said, heaving a sigh of relief. "But Rick and Nuzo might fix that."
Magnum tilted his head back, looking backwards and upside down towards the street. Nuzo was already on the radio, calling in to base, but Rick looked like he was giving serious consideration to shooting the already dead man again.
And then Thomas.
Just for good measure.
Uh oh.
"You stupid, selfless, goddamn motherfucker," Rick raged, marching over, murder clearly in his eyes. "What the fuck were you thinking? You couldn't just, oh, I don't know, not antagonize an already volatile situation? What would've happened if his cellphone hadn't malfunctioned? Or jammed, or batteries went dead, or whatever the hell just saved your ass from your own heroics?"
"Well, we wouldn't be having this conversation, that's for sure," Thomas said without thinking, offering a wry grin.
Rick's eye twitched and jabbed a finger at Thomas. "Heroes get dead, Thomas. I'm not writing home to your mom to tell her that the reason why her son is dead is because he has the self-preservation of a lemming."
It was a low blow, and Rick knew it as soon as the words left his mouth. "Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Except the part about the lemming. That I totally meant."
Thomas couldn't help the flinch anyway but made a vague attempt to hide it by sitting up, checking on Soraya who seemed to have lapsed back into a state of mild shock. She stared up at Rick and TC, mouth open in surprise, which was as much of a distraction as Magnum needed to get the vest off, handing it to rick who held it gingerly at arm's length. They'd dispose of it later, before they left the town, where it wouldn't cause any harm to the town or the people in it.
"Zenda," he told Soraya, smiling broadly. "Hastêm zenda. We're alive!" He took her tiny hand in his and made a tiny fist bump, then drew it back, waggling his fingers as he did so. She stared at him in surprisingly fierce concentration, trying to mimic the movement back. Except she couldn't make the fake exploding noise, and wound up saying something that sounded like "che che che" instead.
"Only you would quote a Disney movie eight seconds after dodging death," Rick huffed, glancing back for Nuzo, who was still on the radio. He winced. Greene wasn't going to be happy about this.
"Says the guy who recognized the Baymax fist bump," TC pointed with a snort. Which became a giggle. Which made Soraya laugh. And then Thomas laughed, which made TC laugh harder, and suddenly they were all laughing.
Shock was weird.
"When you knuckleheads are done giggling, one of you want to find our missing photographer?" Nuzo asked, finally joining them. As TC volunteered to go find Masters – wherever the hell he managed to disappear to - he ran a quick appraising eye over Thomas and Soraya, raising an eyebrow in question. "Magnum?"
"We're fine," Thomas assured. "Not that I know how, but…yeah. We're good. She's good. We're…okay?"
Nuzo held up the cellphone he'd picked off the body. "An act of God, that's how. Guy didn't set it up right – airplane mode or something. But it's no outgoing signal."
Thomas felt his jaw drop before he could even stop it. That was a one in an…extremely high mathematical figure he couldn't comprehend…chance.
"You know, one of these days, those nine lives of yours are gonna run out," Nuzo reminded. "What's your plan then?"
"Rick already read me the riot act, Nuz," he said. He gently moved Soraya off his lap, waiting for her to stand so he could get up, brushing the dirt and sand from his frogsuit.
"Rick also give you the bad news?"
"Bad news? As in worse news than we have to report this to Greene, and Wert is probably gonna throw us under the bus for breaking protocol and jeopardizing crew members and losing our civilian?"
"Found him!" TC shouted from the sidewalk of the opposite side of the street where the switchman was hiding.
Masters waved sheepishly from sidelines, offering a half-apologetic shrug. "Anyone who stays in the car is the one who winds up dead!" he called by way of explanation.
Thomas eyed the camera that was out, the mid-range lens firmly attached, the neck strap wrapped around Robin's right hand. It was something he only did when he was busy shooting so he had more range of motion to get better angles than just leaving it strapped around his neck.
He sincerely doubted that story, but it wasn't like it mattered. Just as long as he made sure to see what the photos were before he published them.
"Yeah, actually," Nuzo said. "Before he tried to blow us all to smithereens, the guy said 'Jahangir-e' – for Jahangir, right?"
Thomas froze. "You're sure? Jahangir, that was the name he gave?"
Nuzo nodded grimly. "You ever know Rick to get intel wrong?"
No. No, he did not. Which kind of made it worse.
Jahangir – world conqueror – was better known to the military as his CIA alias name, Jinn.
The Demon.
Author's Note: Cross posted on AO3. This was a monster of a first chapter. I don't expect all of them to be almost 7000 words. Usually I aim for 2000 per chapter, but I had this very specific scene in mind. A lot of the aftermath of what would *actually* happen after an incident like this is completely ignored, because it's not compelling storytelling. Wert is based off a real guy - except he was still in the Navy, and a chief, not paramilitary subcontractor. Also, the bit with Masters leaving the Humvee comes back - possibly in a one shot separate from this, but more likely a later chapter - I didn't have him run off with no explanation for a reason (I promise). Oh. And fair warning, I tend to write *really* dark fics - I promise to leave the boys in the same shape I found them in though, so no permanent deaths here. Except Nuzo, but hey, I'm not the one who did that. However, everything I intend to do or describe are straight out of actual cases and reports from prisoners of the Taliban, so while violent, it's all based in reality - if that helps or makes it worse, just thought you should know up front.
Whew. Anyway. I thrive on feedback, and you guys have no idea how much letting me know what you think or what you'd like to see can change the course of the story, and now that we have a second season to look forwards to (WOO!), let me know what you think! Oh - and you can also come find me on Tumblr as disappearinginq!