DISCLAIMER:- I do not own The Musketeers or its characters and no copyright infringement is intended.
A/N:- Dipping my toes into the modern Musketeers realm so, obviously, the story will be AU. Although I've brought these much loved characters several hundreds years forward from where Alexandre Dumas intended, I hope you will still feel the camaraderie, brotherhood, duty and courage that Dumas instilled in them. The story was originally written several years ago for another fandom but with some rewrites here and tweaking there, I'm hoping it will be an entertaining story in The Musketeer realm. It is unbeta'd and all mistakes are mine. Apologies to any French readers and those of you who are sticklers for linguistic and geographical accuracy - I did my best but hope you can overlook any inaccuracies in favour of the storyline. I hope you enjoy it.
The Musketeers - Alpha One
Preface
A large nondescript warehouse on the outer fringe of the 3rd Arrondissement housed the headquarters of the Military and Strategic Command Action Team.
The increased use of violence, coercion techniques and sophisticated weaponry - spearheaded by terrorist movements - had often found the criminal elements better organized and equipped than those whose job it was to prevent crime.
Inquiries into past incidents of hijacking, bomb threats, hostages, kidnappings and snipers had found the law enforcement agencies and the military lacking cohesion. When the police called in specialized services or the military, frequent demarcations and divisions of responsibility resulted in confusion and dangerous delays…and that's why MASCAT was formed.
Headed by Légion d'honneur recipient, Captain Jean-Amand Treville, MASCAT is not police, nor is it military – it is the best of both. Its purview is to take command in extreme situations and to use any methods necessary to restore peace. If that requires flirting with the fine line between lawful and unlawful, then so be it.
Every applicant had been subjected to grueling physical and exhausting mental evaluations that had weeded out the weaker candidates. Only those who possessed the particular skills and aptitudes Treville wanted in his organization, survived the merciless dissection. They now formed eight four-man teams – with a two-year waiting list of prospective candidates eager to join France's premier law enforcement agency.
Somewhere along the way, Treville's team of elite ex-military or former law enforcement specialists was tagged MASCATeers, which, in turn, became Musketeers…a name they wear with pride.
Chapter 1
Julien Moreau was the cute, albeit precocious, son of Paris millionaire-stock broker, Jacques Moreau. Blonde and blue-eyed the seven-year-old boy had been on his way home from school when three masked-men forced his minder's car from the road, killing the driver and bodyguard before subduing the child with chloroform and abducting him.
As a prominent Paris businessman and philanthropist, Jacques Moreau had met Captain Treville at many charity fund-raisers. When hearing of the kidnapping of his beloved son, Moreau's first call was to MASCAT. Treville assigned the case to his premier team, knowing that Alpha One would leave no stone unturned in their quest to find the boy and return him safely to his father.
Although the kidnappers surprise attack had obviously caught Moreau's protection team off-guard, there was more than enough evidence to suggest that this was the act of a desperate group of amateurs rather than the work of professional criminals. Half a finger print found on the car and a murky CCTV footage of unemployed laborer, Rodolphe Durand gave the team their first solid lead.
Durand and his associates had been linked to a cartel funding various terrorist organizations in the Middle East. With law enforcement agencies closing in, the daring, daylight kidnapping had been seen as a last ditch effort to extract fast cash before leaving the country to join the fight against Allied Forces.
MASCAT's Alpha One team had been present at Moreau's lavish château when the demand for a ten-million euro ransom had been received. Working with the distraught father, they arranged to attend the drop-off, scheduled for 2PM, outside Moreau's lavish corporate offices.
With dark skies and buffeting winds heralding the approach of a fierce storm, Jacques Moreau exited the lobby of his office building at 1:55PM, carrying a large satchel. Desperately worried about his son, the man's body was tense with anticipation as he walked purposefully to the designated meeting spot by the large fountain.
Alpha One had spread out around the large concourse, keeping their distance and moving among the lunchtime crowd while keeping a sharp lookout for anyone looking to engage Moreau.
Athos' earwig buzzed with a familiar baritone of his teammate.
"Dark blue sweater, by the coffee stand. Can't see 'is face from 'ere but he's been checking 'is watch and looks a bit twitchy," Porthos said.
The team leader cast his eyes in that direction just as young woman appeared and wrapped the man in an embrace before walking away arm in arm.
"Disregard my previous," Porthos stated. "That aint him."
Another anxious thirty minutes passed and Moreau was nervously transferring his weight from foot to foot.
"Heads up," d'Artagnan voice sounded through their earwigs. "My twelve o'clock. Dark hair, olive bomber jacket and blue runners. Could be Durand."
"Aramis?" Athos said looking across at the marksman's position. "Do you have eyes on him?"
"Roger that," the marksman confirmed casually. "Person of interest is Durand, repeat, I have eyes on Rodolphe Durand."
"Hold your positions," Athos told them. "Wait for him to make his move. Any sign of anyone with him?"
"Negative," d'Artagnan responded. "He hasn't used his phone or communicated with anyone since he arrived. Wait…he's on the move, heading toward Moreau."
The Alpha One team leader's lips twitched as he watched the suspect walk toward Moreau, looking around agitatedly as the two men spoke briefly. Snatching the satchel from Moreau, Durand turned on his heel and began to quickly walk away.
"Take him," Athos told his team.
The four agents left their positions on the perimeter of the concourse; approaching the man from all sides. A sprint through La Défense, Paris' financial hub, was definitely not on d'Artagnan's wish list but when Durand spotted the team closing in, he took off like a startled rabbit.
"Why do they always run?" d'Artagnan groaned into his comlink as he and Aramis sprinted after their quarry while Athos and Porthos returned to their car in an attempt to intercept the chase.
Durand was deceptively fast and easily outdistanced the younger men over the first twenty metres. In d'Artagnan's peripheral, he caught a glimpse of Aramis, changing direction sharply to try to get ahead of their fleet-footed suspect.
As the chase continued d'Artagnan started to make up ground, adjusting his gait as a sharp stitch in his side reminded him of the hazards of an impromptu sprint so soon after lunch.
They had sprinted for two city blocks, before a flying tackle by Aramis brought Durand to the ground and, in a tangle of arms and legs, they rolled for several metres before finally coming to a stop. With the muzzle of Aramis' Glock pressing between his ribs, Durand made no further attempt to resist arrest and the marksman quickly cuffed his hands behind his back and hauled him to his feet.
He turned in d'Artagnan's direction as the younger man arrived.
"What kept you?" he grinned.
Rolling his eyes, d'Artagnan leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees as he pulled in some deep breaths and waited for the rest of the team to arrive.
Athos brought the SUV to a halt with the usual screech of tires and acrid smell of burning of rubber. Porthos climbed from the passenger side and joined the younger men of the sidewalk.
"Gentlemen," Aramis said with a slight bow of his head. "I do hope your comfortable ride wasn't too exhausting."
"What's the point of 'aving youngsters on the team if you 'ave to do the chasin' yourself, eh?" Porthos chuckled as he took custody of the suspect and deposited him in the back seat of the vehicle.
"Think of it as working smarter, not harder," Athos agreed.
Aramis gave them a wan smile before walking back to his younger team mate. His eyes narrowed in concern as he placed his hand on the Gascon's shoulder.
"D'Artagnan, are you ill?"
D'Artagnan grimaced a little as he straightened to his full height, still breathing heavily.
"Just a stitch," he replied with a shrug. "Guess I shouldn't have had that second cheeseburger."
Aramis shook his head in admonishment.
"I keep telling you, d'Artagnan, eat healthy, be healthy."
The younger man's jaw dropped.
"If memory serves, you ate four!" he protested.
Tapping one hand against his stomach, Aramis wrapped his other arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders and steered him toward the car.
"What can I tell you? The Lord blessed me with good looks and a fast metabolism," he quipped.
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Back at MASCAT headquarters, or 'The Garrison' as it had affectionately become known, Aramis sat in Observation Room Two, watching from behind the one-way glass as Porthos and Athos staged a master-class in interrogation techniques. Well and truly over his head, Durand confessed to his part in the kidnapping and was more than ready to flip on his associates in return for a more lenient sentence and witness protection.
"Pay up," Aramis said holding his hand out to the younger man as d'Artagnan returned with the coffee.
"Already?" d'Artagnan exclaimed staring open-mouthed into the interrogation room where his senior teammates were finishing up.
"Fifteen minutes," Aramis advised checking his watch. "I believe that may be a new record."
Rolling his eyes, d'Artagnan reached into his back pocket and withdrew a crumpled ten euro note.
"You, too," Aramis told the sound technician who reluctantly parted with two fives.
"Nice doing business with you," he grinned, grabbing d'Artagnan by the sleeve and rushing to catch up with Athos and Porthos as they headed into the captain's office.
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"What do we know?" Captain Treville asked succinctly as the four agents gathered in his office.
"It is as we suspected," Athos began. "An ill-conceived plan hastily carried out by desperate men."
"In my experience, that does not make them any less dangerous," Treville told him.
"Nor in mine," Athos acknowledged. "Durand's two associates are holding the boy in a small farmhouse near Besslette. Durand was to collect the ransom and go to ground for two days to allow the heat to abate before making his way back to the farmhouse. If he didn't return by noon on Friday, the boy was to be "disposed of" and his associates would leave the country."
"Wait…disposed of? They'd kill the boy?" d'Artagnan paled. "He's just a little kid!"
"He is a means to an end," Athos said flatly; burying his fury. "Whether or not the ransom is made, the boy will have served his usefulness."
D'Artagnan stood to his full height, tension and anger emanating from him in waves. He clamped his jaw tightly shut and signaled his understanding with a curt nod of his head.
Despite his father's violent murder and his two year assignment with the Police Nationale's Cyber Crimes Unit, the young Gascon still found it difficult to accept that there were people in the world who would murder without provocation. Treville was regretful that d'Artagnan's assignment with MASCAT's Alpha One team, would destroy what was left of the young man's innocence.
"How could these associates be sure that Durand wouldn't take the cash and do a runner?" Aramis asked.
Porthos snorted.
"Believe me, if that 'appened, the cartel these guys are mixed up with would go to the ends of the earth to find him. Durand's stupid but even he's not that stupid."
"What do we know about these associates?" the captain asked.
"From what we can tell, they're your run of the mill thugs for hire," Porthos said. "Both 'ave priors and did time for aggravated assault and assault wiv' intent."
"And what of their ties to terrorism?" Treville asked.
"Tenuous at best," Athos said. "It would appear their motivation is derived from the lure of the almighty dollars rather than any particular religious or political fervor."
Sheet lightning lit up the sky and thunder rattled against the large window as the fierce storm that had been ravaging parts of France, made its presence felt in the nation's capital.
"Captain," Athos said. "Alpha One requests permission to go to Besslette to retrieve the boy."
"Granted," the Captain nodded. "But you'll have to get there by road. The president has ordered a ground stop of all military and civilian aircraft due to the extreme weather."
"That's a ninety-minute trip by road," Porthos added. "We better get moving."
"Do whatever you have to but bring that boy home," Treville told them.
Nodding their understanding, the team quickly left Treville's office, heading down the corridor to the large office they'd claimed as their own. The large room housed four desks, several filing cabinets, a whiteboard, sofa and a large equipment safe in the back corner.
Opening the safe, Porthos removed four Kevlar vests, thermal imaging equipment and satellite communication devices – testing each one to ensure they were in working order.
Aramis removed his beloved PSG sniper rifle and stashed the spare ammo clips into his backpack. Reaching back into the safe, he grabbed his Unit One kit and ran his eyes over the contents in a quick inventory. He was fastidious in ensuring he kept the medical kit fully stocked.
After the massacre at Savoy, Aramis had still been recovering and restricted to desk duties, when he had begged Treville to allow him to enroll an intensive 16 week EMT course. Although the course was far more comprehensive than the agency's standard first aid course, Aramis committed fully and achieved outstanding results.
He enhanced this training with a number of extension courses each year – some on his own time and at his own expense - and could often be found in deep discussion with the agency physician, Doctor Lemay, keeping abreast of any changes or advancements to treatments, medications, and equipment. The health and welfare of his brothers had become an obsession but it had also proven somewhat cathartic.
At the far end of the office, Athos stood watching over d'Artagnan's shoulder as the younger man keyed the address of the farmhouse into his laptop and switched to a satellite view to judge the terrain. The farmhouse was located five kilometres west of Besslette, on the other side of the Yonne River. It was remote enough to ensure the kidnappers privacy, yet close enough for them to drive to town for provisions, if needed.
The overhead lights flickered ominously as a jagged bolt of lightning pierced the angry black clouds and a deafening clap of thunder replied. Although it was only four in the afternoon, the storm darkened sky made it appear much later.
Constance Bonacieux walked into the Alpha One office balancing a large pile of files.
"I beg of you, Madame," Athos said. "Tell me those are not for me?"
"Believe me, Athos, I would like nothing more," she smiled. "But the captain wants your thoughts on these assignments before the end of the week. I'll just leave them on your desk."
Turning back to the team leader she handed him a set of keys.
"Serge asked me to give you these," she said. "He's filled the tank of your SUV and parked it out front."
Constance was a strong young woman with a no-nonsense attitude. As the only female currently working in the Garrison, she had to be. She'd been employed as Treville's personal assistant just before the Savoy massacre – a training assignment that had resulted in the brutal and senseless murder of twenty young Musketeers as they slept.
The aftermath of that attack had brought the agency to its knees as the Minister for the Interior and long-time adversary of MASCAT, Armand Richelieu, called for the agency to be disbanded. But the president, Louis Bourbon, had been so appalled by the cowardly attack, he immediately provided the resources needed to rebuild his Musketeers.
There had been burials to attend; new recruits to be found; training; paperwork and, most importantly, the physical and mental well-being of the only Musketeer to return from Savoy – Aramis.
Constance's life had never been as hectic or as challenging and although the days were long and the work demanding, she loved her job. Trapped in a loveless marriage, her husband blamed her job for their troubles and demanded she give it up. He foolishly gave her an ultimatum – their marriage or her job - she handed him the divorce papers two days later.
Looking at the map on d'Artagnan's laptop she chewed her lip worriedly.
"If that's where you're headed you best be going," she said. "There's already reports of wide spread storm damage in that area and the Yonne's about ready to break its banks."
"You heard the lady," Athos addressed his team. "Move out."
They moved passed her in single file; Athos nodding his thanks with the hint of a rare smile, while both Porthos and Aramis both planted a kiss on her cheeks. She waited as d'Artagnan shut down his computer and stood, hunching forward as his stomach cramped painfully.
"Are you alright?" she asked worriedly, rushing to his side.
"I'm fine," he replied, straightening when the pain disappeared as quickly as it arrived. "Must have pulled a muscle earlier…it's nothing."
"You look a little pale. Should I call Athos-"
"No!" d'Artagnan said with more volume than he'd intended. He gave her a shy smile as an apology. "I'm fine, really."
She watched him curiously for a moment before placing both hands on her hips.
"I'm not buying it for a second," she told him. "Something else is bothering you."
"It's nothing, really…just…well…" he huffed in frustration at his inability to articulate. "Look at them! They're Alpha One! Sometimes I just don't know…"
"Whether you belong?" Constance guessed, her eyes softening as the young man nodded. "D'Artagnan, how long have you been assigned to Alpha One?"
"Almost three months," he replied softly.
'Nearing the end of his probationary period,' Constance thought, understanding the reason for the young man's sudden self-doubts. She placed her hands on his shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze.
"Do you really think you'd still be on their team if they didn't want you there?"
D'Artagnan lips twitched in a small smile.
"I suppose you're right," he said softly.
"When it comes to that lot, I'm seldom wrong," she laughed. "Well, go on with you! Your team's waiting!"
Just like Porthos and Aramis, he leaned in and planted a kiss on Constance's cheek before slinging his backpack over his shoulder and hurrying for the stairs. She watched him go, raised her hand to her cheek and grinned.
"Who says this job doesn't have its perks?"
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Athos steered the vehicle out of the city towards the A6 exit as the others settled in for the ninety-minute journey. From his position in the back seat, d'Artagnan rolled the tension from his shoulders and took several deep breaths to calm his nerves. In his three months with the Alpha One team he had constantly been amazed by the calmness that descended over each of these larger-than-life characters before they launched themselves into the most perilous of situations.
Athos, appeared to be concentrating on driving in the hazardous conditions but d'Artagnan had no doubt that the team leader was already strategizing how to neutralize the kidnappers without risking harm to the hostage or his team.
A former Army lieutenant in Brigade des Forces Spéciales Terre, Athos reputedly had one of the best young military minds in the Armed Forces. His personal demons and penchant for wine won him no friends with the Army hierarchy but Treville recognized tactical brilliance when he saw it. Several long weeks of negotiation and persuasion saw Athos recruited into Treville's Musketeers. It hadn't taken long for d'Artagnan to discover that the phlegmatic team leader was intensely protective of the men under his command.
Porthos dozed in the passenger seat; snorting awake each time the car hit a pot hole in the road or braked suddenly. He had been recruited from the Army Troupes de Marines where he had earned the rank of Sergent-Chef. The big man had seen action in Africa and was a recipient of the Médaille Militaire formeritorious service and acts of bravery in action against an enemy force – it gave d'Artagnan no small amount of confidence knowing he had Porthos watching his back.
Flicking his gaze to his left, d'Artagnan grinned as Aramis nodded his head in time to the music currently playing on his iPhone. With his eyes closed, the fingers of his right hand tapped absently against his thigh. In his other hand, the marksman fingered a set of worn wooden rosary beads.
Having joined MASCAT soon after its formation, Aramis was one of the longest serving Musketeers. With a background in both the Police Nationale and the Group d'intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale, (GIGN) he was highly accomplished in undercover work and counter-terrorism and - be it handguns or assault rifles - d'Artagnan had never seen a better marksman.
Of his three team mates, d'Artagnan considered Aramis the most paradoxical. He had stared in disbelief the first time he'd seen Aramis neutralize a dangerous assailant with a kill shot to the head, only to kneel beside the body and pray for the man's immortal soul. Quick with a grin and possessed of a healthy ego and more than his share of irreverence, it would be easy to underestimate him. But d'Artagnan knew that anyone who underestimated Aramis, did so at their own peril.
The young man felt his stomach roil uncomfortably and rubbed his tender abdomen, desperately hoping his nerves would not betray him. For the first time since his father's murder, the young man genuinely felt a part of something. These three men, with their extraordinary skills, had welcomed him into their brotherhood. There was so much he could learn from them and he was determined to make them proud.
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It was dark by the time they drove through the small village of Besslette and onto the private access road to the farmhouse. The inferior quality of the road and the buffeting winds forced Athos to slow the vehicle. Torrential rain had gouged large trenches in the unsealed road and even the SUV struggled in the muddy conditions.
"You sure there isn't a better way in?" Porthos asked, with a white-knuckled grip on the dashboard.
"This is the only road in or out," d'Artagnan replied, rechecking their position on his laptop.
Rounding a sharp bend, the team held their collective breath as they crossed an antiquated wooden bridge standing valiantly against the surging river below.
"The farmhouse should be 1200 metres around the next bend," the young man added as Athos shut off the lights and pulled to the side of the road.
"We'll go the rest of the way on foot," Athos told them, pulling the SUV to the side of the road. "Gear up; vests and night goggles."
With Aramis taking point, the team double-timed it to the copse of trees directly in front of the farmhouse. The crudely built dwelling looked more like a shanty and was built in the middle of a clearing with a ramshackle lean-to currently providing shelter for a small generator and a late model Jeep.
The surrounding trees were approximately fifty metres from the cabin on all four sides and the large picture windows at the front and both sides made a covert approach difficult.
"Aramis, check the back. I want to know what we're dealing with," Athos said.
"Roger that," the marksman replied as he set-off on silent feet, keeping to the tree line.
Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan hunkered down in the undergrowth, powering up the thermal imaging equipment and watching as d'Artagnan directed the device to the front portion of the farmhouse. In the front room, two ghostly, illuminated figures appeared on the screen, one sitting and the other pacing from one side of the room to the other.
"Two targets confirmed in the front room of the house," d'Artagnan said
"They look a bit jittery," Porthos stated, watching the monitor over d'Artagnan's shoulder. "That could make 'em unpredictable. You watch your six, yeah?"
D'Artagnan nodded his assent.
"See if you can find the boy," Athos told d'Artagnan as the younger man made the necessary adjustments.
"There," the Gascon said. "In the back room."
The three men felt the relief rush through them. Though the smaller illuminated figure was not moving, detection by the thermal imager meant the boy was still warm and, therefore, still alive. The agents allowed themselves a collective sigh of relief but they wouldn't completely relax until job was done and Julien Moreau was safely in their care.
D'Artagnan grimaced when his stomach roiled again. He breathed slowly through his nose until the pain subsided, wondering if he had a touch of food poisoning. The young man prided himself on his healthy eating habits and he should have known better than to place his trust in the culinary skills of a sidewalk burger vendor. After several long moments, the marksman's voice sounded through their earwigs.
"Heads up, I'm coming in," Aramis said, alerting them of his return.
Mere seconds passed before the marksman rejoined them.
"Report," Athos instructed.
"One small centre window – barred - no rear door, no CCTV," Aramis told them, removing his ball cap and using his sleeve to wipe the rain from his face.
"Can you provide cover?" the team leader asked?
"Athos…please," Aramis replied with a hint of indignation.
"We have determined the boy's position in the back of the house," Athos told him. "We'll move in from the rear where there is less chance of us being seen. Porthos and I will split up and move forward on either side of the house."
"What about us?" d'Artagnan asked.
"D'Artagnan, you'll wait until Aramis is in position to cover you. Get to the rear window - move fast and stay low. Once you're in position, Aramis will join you. We'll wait for your signal and storm the front door. Your primary concern is the boy. Anyone goes near that room; you take them out."
"Understood," d'Artagnan replied solemnly.
"Move out," Athos said.
Staying within the tree line, the team moved to the rear of the building. Aramis opened his backpack and handed d'Artagnan a SWATscope.
"You'll need this," he said before casting a trained eye among the trees looking for a vantage spot.
"Porthos," he said pointing to a large oak tree, "if you'd be so kind?"
The larger man joined him, bending at the knees and lacing his fingers together. Aramis placed his foot into his friend's hands, springing upwards and reaching for a large branch, ten-feet from the ground.
"Time to lay off those beignets," Porthos groaned. "You're gettin' heavy."
"On the contrary, mon ami," Aramis replied effortlessly hauling himself onto the branch. "You are getting old."
"Gentlemen, if you're quite finished," Athos chided.
The howling winds buffeted the trees and forced the rain almost horizontal. Spreading his weight evenly between two sturdy branches, Aramis leaned his back against the trunk for support before positioning his PSG and deftly switching to night scope. From his position, he could see the rear and both sides of the building.
"In position," he said. "I'll have eyes on you until you reach the front of the building."
"Stand by," Athos replied, turning to d'Artagnan. "Remember, fast and low. Wait until the next flash of lightning recedes and move with the thunder."
D'Artagnan nodded again and Athos clapped him on the back encouragingly. Right on cue, the lightning flashed and as the booming thunder reached its crescendo, Athos ran for the left side of the house, Porthos the right and d'Artagnan sprinted for the window at the rear.
They were more than half way there when a sharp pain stabbed through the younger man's abdomen causing him to slip on the wet grass and almost lose his footing. He recovered his balance and continued on, pressing himself into the wall under the window with his chest heaving.
Aramis' concerned voice sounded through his earwig.
"d'Artagnan?"
"I'm fine," he whispered, giving the marksman the thumbs up signal.
Raising the SWATscope to the window above, he placed the cup to his eye and slowly manoeuvred the cylindrical periscope until he could see into the room through the small gap in the curtains.
"The boy?" Athos asked through the comlink.
"I can't see," d'Artagnan growled. "It's too dark and I…wait, I can see him. I have a positive ID on the boy. He's alone…his feet and hands are bound but I can't tell if he's hurt or asleep."
"Hold your position," Athos told him. "Aramis?"
"Clear," the marksman replied, as Athos and Porthos stealthily moved off, staying as close to the walls as they could. They crouched low under the side-windows before moving to the front of the building and holding their positions in the shadows.
Aramis secured his rifle and began his descent from his position. The storm was worsening with gale-force winds bending and twisting the groaning trees. The violent illumination of another bolt of lightning struck an unsuspecting oak off to his right and the marksman had to admit he was grateful to be climbing out of the tree and heading for terra firma.
"d'Artagnan," he said into his comlink, "I am inbound to your position."
Hanging from the branch and then silently dropping the last few feet to the ground, Aramis frowned at the lack of response until the sound of a sharp, pain-filled gasp filtered through his earwig. Spinning in d'Artagnan's direction, Aramis drew his pistol as the Gascon fell to his knees and began to retch.
"D'Artagnan!" Aramis whispered urgently as he burst from the tree line and ran at a crouch toward the younger man. "Athos, hold your position. Repeat, hold your position."
He was just five metres away from d'Artagnan's side when he saw the flash of a muzzle from the window and his left thigh erupted in agony. He hit the ground hard, expelling the air from his lungs as his gun fell beyond his desperately grasping fingers. His vision blurred in and out and he vaguely recognized the sound of his partners' voices as more gunshots and yelling sounded through his earwig. Unarmed and barely conscious, he looked at the window and watched helplessly as an unknown man levelled his weapon for the kill shot.
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TBC