Let Rome in Tiber Melt
Rick's innocence is only one casualty of many
Minor spoilers through 1.13, series finale
For the "Fall from Grace" prompt on my h/c bingo card
A/N: My first foray into CHAOS, which I just discovered and fell in love with, even though I told myself not to since it's cancelled. So I need to write fanfic for it, apparently. Thanks for reading!
Rick believed in his mission, he really did. "We're the good guys," he'd tell a scared asset, and she'd divulge her information quicker than if Billy had charmed it out of her. Those magic words and the sincerity behind them turned nuclear scientists against their own countries, soothed frightened political prisoners, even toppled authoritarian regimes. "We're the good guys," Rick would say, and he was right.
Even if Michael schemed and Billy manipulated and Casey hurt people and they all lied, and stole, and definitely cheated on occasion, not to mention the odd dead body left in their wake, they did it for a greater good, and the end justified the means. "We're the good guys," Rick could say, and he meant it.
The first time their mission was an assassination, Rick's faith wavered a bit. "We're being sanctioned to kill someone?" he asked incredulously, and Michael just shrugged, and Casey gave him a flat look that said far more than words could what he thought of such a question.
"But we're the good guys," Rick protested.
It was Billy who answered, for once not smiling. "Aye, lad. And there are some people the world is better off without."
When Michael pulled the trigger, Rick felt his faith slip a little more. The towering crates of land mines in the basement restored a bit of his belief in the greater good. When they opened the door to the windowless shed behind the home to be greeted by the thin, ragged, bruised and bloody faces of children only half alive rather than another weapons cache, Rick's faith was restored. "We're the good guys," he whispered in Spanish as he wrapped his jacket around a tiny Filipino girl who couldn't have been more than 10 years old. "The bad man can't hurt you anymore," he promised.
Missions came and went, sometimes they were the heroes and sometimes they barely escaped with their lives. Then came Panama, and Simms' betrayal shook Rick's faith once more. How could a man betray his country, much less Michael and Billy and Casey, who he had worked with for so many years and who he had to knew so well they were practically brothers? Rick knew their mission was unsanctioned, and understood why Higgins had to hang them out to dry, but why this man had done the same remained a mystery to Rick. But with Simms and the plates recovered, a deal struck with the treasury department, and a much warmer welcome than he would have ever suspected from Higgins upon their return, Rick could once again believe they are the good guys. "All's well that ends well," as Billy put it sometime during their fourth (or maybe fifth?) round of drinks.
"To being the good guys," Rick slurred, raising his glass. The slight hesitation of the others in joining his toast was probably only the result of his current state of intoxication.
"It's a solo mission," Higgins emphasized, giving the rest of ODS a significant look as he pushed the file folder across the desk to Rick. "Too hot to send in an entire team, but we think one person should be able to get in and out undetected. Subtlety is the word here, Operative Martinez. Do you think you can handle that?"
"Of course, sir," Rick answered, scanning the file. An assassination, a political one. A candidate in the upcoming elections in Azerbaijan. Elshan Abdullayev, a Shia radical who sought to overthrow the secular government and install Islamic law and a religious-based government in the country. The result would be a loss of an important US ally, the diversion of significant oil reserves to hostile countries, and significant impacts on domestic corporations operating abroad. Not to mention the country could become a breeding ground for radical terrorism.
Billy snatched the file from Rick's hands and glanced over it, the corners of his mouth turning down as he read the report. He handed it to Michael wordlessly.
"Are you sure Rick is the right person for this?" Michael asked, after reading through the file with a frown on his face.
Higgins fixed him with a sharp glare. "Are you questioning my call, Operative Dorset? Or your teammate's abilities?"
"Not Rick's abilities, no," Michael answered, glancing over at the younger agent. "But don't you think myself, or Casey, or even Billy would be better for this job?"
"Can any of you pass as a college student visiting his family in Baku for spring break? No? I didn't think so." Higgins snatched the file back from Michael and handed it to Rick once more. "My decision is final. Rick is the best man for the job."
"Thank you, sir. I appreciate your trust in me."
And so Rick found himself on a plane to Baku, wearing a Harvard rowing team sweat shirt and packing a laser-scope sniper rifle in his carry on.
He hadn't expected her to be beautiful. Elshan Abdullayev was one of the most beautiful women Rick had ever seen, with bright blue eyes and pale skin and dark hair hidden underneath a hijab, though occasionally a lock would slip free and she would tuck it back into her headscarf with the same impatience Adele expressed when her desk was cluttered with paperwork. He tailed her surreptitiously for a few days, gaining a feel for her movements and her patterns. She ate a simple breakfast of barley, dates and milk, prayed five times a day, and preferred the communal baths on the top floor of her hotel to the one in her room for her evening ablutions. She was graceful, charming, engaging, intelligent, humble and gentle. Wherever she went, the people flocked to her, listened to her speak on behalf of a Shi'ite state, a better future for Azerbaijan based on their own terms, not dictated to them by foreign oil companies and diplomats and energy economists.
One day, Rick sat waiting in a massage chair in the lobby outside the communal baths until he was sure the women's bath was empty, then slipped inside and hid himself in a stand-up locker near the back of the changing room. He hung a robe on the outside of the door to make it look as though the locker was in use and stood motionless as women came and went. At 8 pm his watch beeped quietly, telling him that it was time for Abdullayev's evening bath. Within minutes someone entered and began to undress. He nudged the door on the locker open just a crack and watched the doorway to the baths. Abdullayev passed moments later, wrapped in a white robe, her hair unbound for once.
Rick waited another five minutes before climbing out of the locker. It proved impossible to do silently.
"Who's there?" Abdullayev called, and he stepped out of the shadows.
She took one glance at him. "You never rowed," she said.
He glanced down at the sweatshirt he still wore. "You're a threat to international security," he answered.
"Am I?"
He swallowed. "We're the good guys."
She bowed her head, and stood up, water streaming down her lithe body. Rick fought not to look away out of respect. She was a target, and he couldn't take his eyes off her for a moment. "I wish you were," she said, pulling on her robe without drying. Her hair hung in long strands down her back, framing her face. "Kill me and you make me a martyr."
Rick moved next to her in a flash, the needle already sinking into her skin. "No," he said. "I make you a hypocrite and a liar."
She gasped for a moment as the heroin took hold. Then her eyes went wide and blank, and Rick pushed the needle into her arm several times to create the pock-marked look of a repeat user. He carefully placed the needle into her right hand and planted a half-used bag of heroin in her robe before leaving. Once outside he removed his gloves, grabbed his duffel from his room, and headed to the airport. His work here was done.
His flight was delayed, of course. At first he worried that it was due to the assassination of Elshan Abdullayev, but then reports came in of an anticyclone sweeping in from the Caspian Sea and Rick allowed himself to relax. When reports of Abdullayev's death began to filter through the news, they were much what Rick had been expecting. "Political candidate found dead of heroin overdose," read the text scrolls on CNN.
Just before he boarded the plane home, the first news broadcasts were released. The newscaster spoke in rapid Azerbaijani, an English translation trailing across the bottom of the screen moments later. Elshan Abdullayev, popular presidential candidate for the Musavat party, was found dead in her hotel bath from a heroin overdose earlier today. Police are not ruling out the possibility of a homicide, but say there is no evidence of it so far. President Gudrat Aliyev calls the death unfortunate, and says it is a shame Abdullayev misled her followers.
The screen switched back to the main CNN newscaster. "As you have just seen, the primary opposition candidate in the upcoming Azerbaijani presidential elections was found dead from an apparent heroin overdose this afternoon. We are talking with correspondent Dmitriy Kasparov in Istanbul. Dmitriy, what implications does Abdullayev's death have for Azerbaijan?"
"It's being perceived as a national tragedy. Abdullayev was much beloved by the people of Azerbaijan and her candidacy was the first serious political threat to emerge against the Aliyev family, who has controlled the leading Yeni Azerbaijan Party since 1991. Despite its relative wealth for the region, Azerbaijan is not a free country. Elections are almost certainly rigged and the Yeni Azerbaijan Party has often been accused of catering to foreign interests rather than addressing domestic concerns. Without the political threat that Abdullayev posed, this pattern of corruption and oppression of the people's will is almost certain to continue."
"Thank you Dmitriy." The newscaster turned back to the camera. "In other news, the Governor of Texas has performed a prayer for rain that he says will…"
"Sir?" A tentative hand touched Rick's arm and he tore himself away from the television to look at the petite flight attendant who had called him. She wore a hijab, and a lock of brown hair had escaped it. "Final boarding call."
"Thank you," he said, handing over his ticket.
"Have a good flight," she said as she handed him his boarding pass. She smiled, but it never reached her eyes. Rick boarded the plane and didn't sleep the entire flight. Every time he closed his eyes he saw a lock of brown hair that had escaped a headscarf.
Months later, the ODS was sent to Azerbaijan to free a group of oil field workers accused of conspiracy to sabotage the pipeline running north into Russia. They were given specific instructions not to interrupt the every-day happenings within the country. "Your mission is extraction only," Higgins emphasized. "Any punitary recourse will be taken through official channels. You are not to engage any hostiles if at all possible, nor perform any unsanctioned activities on this mission. Am I clear?"
The prison was heavily guarded, but they carried tranq guns and bought out a guard with the promise of asylum in the United States in return for running the closed circuit cameras on a loop for the 20 minutes they planned to be inside. The prison itself was dark and wet, permeated with the stench of unwashed bodies and sickness and neglect. The cells were tiny and crowded, and prisoners sat shoulder to shoulder in some, looking up at the men passing without hope. In one, a woman in a burqa lay sprawled on a tiny cot, her face hidden but her skirts pushed up around her knees and her legs bruised and bloodied. It was impossible to see if she breathed or not. In another a man sat with a swollen hand cradled in his lap, his fingers obviously broken, his face a bloody mess. No one said anything, just watched the team pass with expressionless masks. They stopped in front of the cell shared by the three American prisoners.
One with a handlebar moustache and a slight Texan twang looked up. "Y'all the cavalry?" he asked, standing. He seemed well-fed, as did the other Americans. Not emaciated or bruised like most of the other prisoners.
"We're here to get you out," Rick confirmed.
A man with a large beer gut and only a little hair left on his head levered himself up. "Thank God, feels like we've been here for years."
"A week," Michael corrected. "The government is very interested in ensuring your safety. They sent us as soon as they were made aware of the situation."
"Are you all right? Anyone hurt or sick?" Billy asked.
"Just tired and hungry and damned happy to be getting the hell out of here," the Texan answered.
"Got it." Casey looked up from where he had been fiddling with the lock and the door swung open with a creak. "Let's go."
The third man, younger and wearing thick-rimmed glasses, stepped out and looked around. "What about all these people?"
Michael's jaw tightened. "Our orders are to get you out. That's what we're doing."
They met up with the guard outside the prison and he assured them they had not been spotted. Michael nodded. "Great. Everything is arranged for you to enter the United States. We've got a van parked at the top of that hill. We're driving across the Turkish border tonight and fly out of Istanbul tomorrow."
Their flight away from the prison was slower than Michael liked, forced to set an easy pace that still left their charges sweating and panting as they struggled up the hill. Rick could read Michael's impatience in the tense set of his shoulders, the nervous glances over his shoulder, the curtness of his orders. When they reached the van, the largest of the men sank to the ground with a low groan.
"Are you alright?" Rick asked, crouching down beside him.
"Yes, I'm great. Thank you." The man grabbed Rick's hand with both of his, shaking it hard. "Thank you. You're a good man."
"No," Rick replied, looking back at the prison, thinking about starved, beaten faces and a lock of brown hair. "No, I'm not. I'm just doing my job."
End