Orders - Prologue

by firechild

Rated T

Warnings: Intense (hopefully) angst...

Spoilers: Can't tell ya yet...

Disclaimers: I own approximately half a bottle of rolaids.

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Pounding.

Pounding... feet.

The hard clicks and clomps of heavy boots, pounding on the stone from so many directions, like the pulses of all those who'd been sacrificed already in this war, like the surging of the tide of blood still to be shed. Pounding, always pounding. Running. Chasing.

Chasing her.

She paused briefly, firing frantic glances around at the doors surrounding her, looking for the flames that would identify what lurked behind the dark portals. Clutching her weapon tightly, feeling its contours as though they were part of her, she turned first one way and then the other, pivoting, trying to watch all doors at once, knowing that each heartbeat brought closer those who would stop her; she couldn't let them catch her, she couldn't let these halls of justice become her tomb. She had to leave this place, she had to leave her fellow conspirators, she had to leave her life, and she had to hurry; she did not have time to think, to breathe--she couldn't breathe, her ribs were on fire, she vaguely remembered taking a shot to the chest--she didn't have time to feel anything but fear and a hollow sense of loss. She would not be able to save those she loved, the ones who had stood with her in the battle against the leaders who would bind her; she would not be able to save her comrades--the sons and daughters of the first conspirators, friends with whom she had lived and trained--or their leaders, the lone wolf and the mad master and the one who'd led two generations of the revolt. She didn't even have time to mourn the death of a dear friend and mentor who had gone down fighting against those who'd seen him convicted of mass murder.

Spying a door that seemed to her to stand out, she all but flew toward it. It took four tries and what felt like an eternity to open it, but beyond the threshold, she could see only a few feet of stone hallway before the light surrendered to the shadows. Perfect.

Hearing the pounding coming closer to the portal room, she gripped her weapon tighter and stepped into the hallway, taking an extra second to kick the door shut with her foot. With the opening went the light, leaving her alone with her thoughts and fears and instincts. Not counting on being safe now, knowing that no matter how hard or far she ran, she would never find a place beyond their reach, she kept moving. Though she knew that the enemy would still be coming for her, the only pounding she heard now was that of her own shoes drumming against the unseen stones in time with the racing thrum of her heart and the thundering of her blood in her ears. She could taste blood in her mouth now, from the chest shot, the shot that should have killed her, which she noticed with a sort of detached calm; she was sure there should be pain, there should be agony. There was only the fire, and the pounding.

With every step, she found herself farther from her home, from her friends, from her life, from herself. With every step, she carried the memory of unspeakable acts, and the certainty that her acts, and her role in this war, were far from over.

With every step, she plunged, with all her will, deeper into the arms of darkness.

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He was going to be early. That was okay--he could get the jump on the last of the paperwork from the DeSilva case. He'd have finished it yesterday, but he'd been sidetracked when Megan had needed someone to sit with Professor Fleinhardt while the physicist composed his theory in the case on which he was consulting, and by the time Colby'd made it back to the bullpen, Don had taken a good look at him and sent him home for the night, making it clear that he didn't want to see his youngest team member until clock-in time the next morning.

Glancing at his tie knot in the mirror now, Colby shrugged to himself. He'd just have to avoid his team lead for an hour or so, make sure that the ever-early Don didn't see him as ordered. Eppes wasn't the only one who could commit to putting in whatever time was necessary to get things done right. Colby might seem like a rake, but he was used to having things done ahead of schedule, keeping the machinery running as smoothly as possible--one thing he'd taken from his time in the Army was the certainty that everyone functioned more efficiently when the details folded smoothly into the whole, and it really didn't matter to him whether or not anyone knew how he contributed to that process.

He was halfway from the lobby door to the elevator bank in the Federal building, his second slice of cold pizza in one hand and a cold Dr Pepper in the other, when he felt his cell phone vibrating in his right trouser pocket. Slipping the soda into the left pocket and deftly juggling the pizza into his left hand, he retrieved his phone and flipped it open before the fourth vibration. Out of habit, he checked the caller ID.

It was the Viscount.

Colby let the call go to voicemail, sighing and running the back of his phone hand across his forehead. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think of a reason for the Viscount to be calling him, especially before 7AM.

He wracked his brain. He hadn't done anything, at least not anything likely to draw the attention of the old man. He hadn't blown up the House of Lords, he hadn't become a tree-hugger, he hadn't caused any sort of international scandal, he hadn't produced an heir, he hadn't done anything to earn the Viscount's ire or his unlikely interest--in fact, Colby thought he'd done a pretty good job of not existing.

The last time he'd heard from the old man had been... several years ago, toward the end of his Special Forces tour. The Viscount had been calling to inform Colby that that he'd be sending Marian to the Mediterranean for her birthday and that Colby needed to be sure to select some appropriate high-quality emerald jewelry as his gift to her; the conversation had been brief and one-sided, and as the old man had said nothing about Colby's armed service or his three medals or his safety, nor had he even commented on having had to call an unlisted international number and jump through hoops to get in touch with the young operative, so Colby had kept his mouth shut, not even bothering with the expected "Yes, sir." For reasons he'd never chosen to explore, Colby had elected not to re-up his posting and had left the army, joining the FBI shortly thereafter--and Marian had exchanged her Med package partly for cash to choose her own gift and partly for three blank airline tickets in the young agent's name, saying that Colby was the only man worthy of her trust or her energy. When the Viscount had called to ask about the change, Marian, the only member of the group up until then with the moxie to stand up to the old man, Marian had affectionately fingered her channel-set emerald ring as she told him to keep his alpha male motivational skills and marching orders to himself when it came to her. She'd understood why her favorite maverick had chosen to go along with the emerald idea, but she'd assured him that if it came to a point where he decided to defy the occasional order that came his way, she'd stand by him.

He'd appreciated Marian's support more than she knew, but the issue hadn't come up. At least, not until today.

It couldn't be about Marian; Colby'd have heard first, given his proximity and connection to the only American the Viscount had ever respected. It wouldn't be about Richard or Lavinia, or Marian would be calling Colby to tell him because the old man would be too wrapped up in taking care of details. Belinda and Lucien were working in Tokyo the last he'd heard, and Lissette was supposed to be in Portugal, making contacts. There was only one other person whose fate would matter so much to the leader of the group, and no one would think to call Colby or Marian if something had befallen her.

So why would the old man be calling him now? Colby wasn't even sure how the Viscount had gotten his cell number--he doubted that Marian would have disclosed it voluntarily without his permission, and they all knew how well she responded to orders. Still, they didn't call him the Viscount for nothing; the charismatic old man had his ways, ways that Colby didn't have time to explore right now, as he could see Eppes waving him toward Conference A, and his team lead looked seriously angry to have been disobeyed. Making a quick choice between facing the the very present, very ticked and very armed FBI supervisor, and calling the pontificacious old man on another continent who might have something interesting for him, Agent Granger switched his phone to silent and marched himself in to the line of fire, planning to return the Viscount's call before his shift officially began.

Thanks to an unexpected tip the turned into a rapid series of raids and arrests in one of their colder cases, Colby wasn't in a position to make any calls until the team broke for a late lunch. Colby hung back, telling the team that he'd meet them in a few minutes, and shut himself into an observation room and dialing the international code from his ID.

He waited ten minutes, expecting to be put through a hundred hoops to be shunted to a message service, so when the familiar gruff voice snapped out at him with its customary arrogant impatience, Colby covered his surprise with a casual tone measured to be just on the safe side of disrespectful.

"Granger. You Yanked?"

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