Exfiltration

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Seven months after she had arrived in Paris, on a night that seemed as ordinary as any other, Bourne climbed through the window into headquarters. Nicky was nearly ready for bed, dressed in drawstring sweats and a tank top, sipping tea, faxing last-minute reports to Langley.

She dropped the mug of tea upon seeing him, nothing but a shadow against the windowpane, and it shattered instantly. "Bourne?" Her voice was surprisingly calm, although her chest felt tight. It annoyed her that he could startle her. "What are you doing here?"

"Quiet. Get down."

It was nearly inaudible, but the authority in those three words was unmistakable. She sank halfway to her knees, staring at him. "What's going on?" she whispered.

"You're blown. This building's been compromised. Cardena knows this is Treadstone's Paris base. He's watching you." He was already in a whirl of motion, checking the windows, switching the lights off, changing the magazine in his gun. Entirely silent, focused.

"Cardena?" she hissed, finally lying flat on her stomach. "Your target? How…?"

"He knew more than we thought he did. I just started tailing him yesterday… he's been watching the building, seeing you come in and out. I obtained some of his personal notes...papers. He knows more about Treadstone than… Look, I don't have time to explain. Where's your field box?" His voice was rushed, but controlled all the same.

Nicky felt a flutter, like a frightened bird, somewhere between her ribs and her throat. "Over there," she whispered, motioning with her chin towards a cabinet. She pressed her cheek to the cool floor, watching him, knowing well enough to keep quiet when he told her to. Bourne took the extra gun and ammunition from the box, hid them away in his jacket.

She knew from Bourne's assignment folder that this Cardena was a nasty character, and didn't much fancy meeting him any time soon. The man was a rogue agent in danger of leaking top secret information about his previous missions, not quite the same level as Treadstone but close enough that he presented a serious problem. Bourne had received the assignment two days before, and Nicky knew situation was dire if it called for an operative of his caliber.

Bourne was kneeling in the corner, fiddling with the electric cords and powerstrips that supplied the computers. When he moved, rising to stride quickly across the room, she stared at his handiwork. She knew enough about electricity to understand that the way he had connected the powerstrips--a tangle of wires and cords, too many by far to be safe when connected to all the electrical equipment in the room--would inevitably, in time, melt the rubber insulation and cause a large spark, if not a full-fledged fire.

"Bourne…" she began, meaning to warn him. The look he shot at her (hard, aggressive) shut her up instantly.

It wasn't until he pulled her up by her elbow, his hand a vice on her flesh, that she smelled the unmistakable stink of gas. She glanced at the furnace, her hair whipping her eyes, and saw a loose pipe. Understanding lit upon her brain. "You're going to blow the place up?" She forgot to whisper; his hand tightened on her arm.

"He'll think you're dead," Bourne explained as he steered her out the door and down the stairs. She expected him to take her all the way down and out the front door, but he stopped at the first floor, jamming open the old window in the stairwell. "There's a fire escape, but it stops about two and a half meters from the ground. I'll catch you."

She was evidently not aware that most of the color had drained from her face sometime within the last five minutes. He glanced at her, glanced again, and released her arm to grab her shoulder. He caught her eyes, held her gaze. "Nicky, trust me. Can you do that?"

She must have nodded, because he stuck his gun in the waistband of his trousers and vaulted over the window onto the rusted ladder that seemed to disappear into the darkness of the Parisian street. She saw his shadow hang, suspended in the black, before he dropped what must have been eight feet and rolled, springing up like it was nothing. She made her shaky way down the ladder. Finally, she hung on the second to last rung, staring down at the street that looked so very far away.

"Let go, Nicky," came Bourne's voice. She closed her eyes, and dropped.

She landed with a thump in his arms. He staggered momentarily under the impact, but did not let her go, his arms hard around her back and under her knees. Again, like it was nothing, he righted her. She stumbled away from him at the shock of having solid ground beneath her bare feet. It was then that Nicky heard a sound from behind her that she vaguely recognized, like an old memory resurfacing.

She had only witnessed one fist fight in her entire life, and it had been between her high school boyfriend and his best friend. That encounter, a jumble of unorganized limbs and awkward blows, was nothing compared to what she found when she turned around, but it was from that long-forgotten scuffle that she had recognized the sound.

The noise she had heard was the collision of Cardena's fist into Bourne's face. It was a repulsive sound, like the slap of raw meat against raw meat. She turned just in time to see Bourne, with movement so fast she could hardly catch it, reach for his gun, cock it, and point it at Cardena's head. But Cardena was too smart and too well trained for that. He grabbed Bourne's wrist and slammed his hand against the side of the building; the gun skidded across the pavement.

Nicky had never seen anything like it. She was frozen, helpless, her limbs suddenly cast in cement, as the two men circled each other and landed impossible blows. She recognized Cardena's face from the file she had handed Bourne just two days ago (had it only been two days?), but in combat the man looked manic, his eyes wide and his mouth grinning with the thrill of it. Bourne, in contrast, was completely stoic, his training serving him well, mouth tightening when he went for a hit. Bourne knocked Cardena's own firearm away with ease, landed an uppercut to his jaw, slammed his knee into the other man's gut--once, twice, three times. Cardena countered with half a dozen quick jabs to Bourne's ribs. They moved so fast that it was nearly impossible to detect who was throwing which punch, but they each managed block at least half of the blows.

She watched the conflict for what felt like hours, frustrated that she seemed to be unable to move, until Cardena grabbed Bourne's left elbow, lifted it over his head, and slammed Bourne into the wall. The nauseating crunch of Bourne's shoulder sliding from its socket and his subsequent grunt of pain seemed to shock her into motion. She dropped her eyes, ignorant of what she seemed to be searching for until her gaze lighted on one of the discarded guns, lying several feet away from her. She dropped to her knees, every breath a near-silent whimper, as her hands fumbled over the firearm.

By that time, Bourne had managed to turn the tables and, one-handed, hurl Cardena against the side of the building. The other man was struggling, kicking out, as Bourne held him fast into the wall with his hand around his throat. Cardena's face was turning scarlet, the most horrific gurgling noises emerging from his mouth.

Nicky, determinedly ignoring this, shouted, "Jason!" and tossed him the gun. Bourne, lightening fast, removed his hand from the other man's throat, caught the gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

Cardena's brains hit the wall.

She stared. She stared at the way the man's scull had seemed to bloom red and the way his body crumpled, suddenly pathetic, to the ground. She felt uncharacteristically faint, her head feeling very far from the rest of her body.

Bourne obviously experienced no such sensation. He stared at the body briefly, as if to confirm that no further aggression was needed, and turned towards her, his eyes trained at the ground. He seemed suddenly unwilling to meet her eyes, as if he dreaded her reaction to what he had just done. He was panting hard, each breath emerging as a quiet "ngh," face white, lips tight. His arm hung at an unnatural angle, useless against his side.

He was hurting.

Nicky had forgotten about his dislocated shoulder. How had he done all that with an injury that should have crippled him?

"Are you okay?" he asked after what might have been five minutes or five seconds of silence.

Nicky began to laugh. She laughed so hard she could hardly breathe. She laughed until she had to lean against the side of the building, barely a yard away from Cardena's corpse, until her stomach ached with the strain of it.

Bourne stood sentinel, watching her silently.

She clamped her hand over her mouth, attempting to quiet her uncontrollable laughter. She could feel tears threatening at the corner of her eyes. She was not a doctor for nothing; she could recognize the signs of shock. She was beginning to shiver. She had to calm down.

Nicky took a deep breath. "I-I'm sorry. Shit, I'm sorry." She hated this, hated looking stupid and weak in front of him. "Did you just ask if I'm okay?" She stared at him, a short giggle bursting from her mouth. "You've dislocated your shoulder, your face…" He was beginning to bleed profusely from a gash on his cheekbone, where Cardena had landed his first punch.

He had been staring at her interestedly, as if studying her behavior was more important than addressing his injuries. With a start, he moved suddenly, stooping down towards Cardena's corpse. "I have to get rid of the body. Wait here, I'll be back in five minutes."

"Jason, what are you thinking? You can't do anything with that shoulder."

He glanced down at his left arm, as if, despite the obvious pain he was experiencing, he had forgotten that it was currently useless. His cheeks lost yet more color, the shadows beneath his eyes horribly pronounced.

Having something to do, having a reason to utilize her own training, was calming for Nicky. She urged him down so that he was sitting against the wall and knelt down at his left side. Touching his elbow, she caught his eyes. He had been looking at her, blood seeping slowly from the wound on his cheek. Unnerved, she cleared her throat. "Uh, you probably don't want to look," she said, softly. Obedient, he turned his head so that his clear eyes stared straight ahead.

Nicky gripped his wrist firmly. The man's arm was as heavy as lead. Attempting to ignore how much this would hurt him, she lifted his wrist up quickly. Once she positioned the arm at the correct angle, his shoulder joint slid into place with a sickening clunk, the grind of tendons and ligaments over bone. Bourne made a soft, gravelly sound, low and deep in the back of his throat, and closed his eyes for maybe two seconds, his lips tightening over his teeth.

"Sorry," she said lamely once the procedure was finished. Bourne sat there for a moment, breathing shallowly, before he stood. He flexed his arm, the fingers clenching, and moved his shoulder joint gingerly.

"Thanks," he muttered, apparently satisfied with her handiwork. "I'll be right back." Ignoring her half-hearted protestations about resting his injuries, he grabbed Cardena's body and slung it unceremoniously over his good shoulder. Before she could blink, he disappeared inside the building.

Once she was alone, Nicky allowed herself to collapse against the wall, trying very hard not to look at the spatter of blood that used to be Cardena's head just feet away from her. She took several deep, shuddering breaths, closing her eyes against the darkness that suddenly felt so suffocating.

She should have been more prepared than this. It wasn't as if she didn't know exactly what Bourne and the other operatives she was in contact with did. They killed people. Shot people in the head. Poisoned people. Stabbed them. Strangled them. They took lives, just as Bourne had done minutes ago. It was nothing new.

And still, she could not banish the last seconds of Cardena's life from her mind. She could not forget the way his body, like an abandoned puppet, had slumped and fallen sideways to the ground. She could not forget Jason Bourne's indifference as he stood over the corpse, the body of a man he had just killed.

Bourne emerged from the darkening building, a stain of red down his back where Cardena had bled on his clothes. "We need to move," he said quietly, grabbing her upper arm again and guiding her down the street. She tottered a bit on her bare feet. He did not spare her a glance, his eyes trained on the street ahead, face set in the same expression as always.

"Jason,"--she had unconsciously decided that remaining on a last-name basis with him was absurd at this point--"where are we going?"

He hesitated, enough that she noticed but not enough to worry her. "My apartment. It's safe. You can rest there." It was short, gruff.

"I need to call Langley… code in. They need to set up another building for headquarters. Do you think Cardena leaked info to any of his contacts?" Nicky asked, suddenly wondering if she would be out of a job, forced to move back to Langley.

Bourne shook his head. "I don't think so. The man was a loner. I didn't see him communicate with anyone while I was tracking him. If we're lucky, he kept this to himself."

They continued in silence, Bourne's right hand clasped around her arm, supporting her. She allowed him to bear some of her weight, grateful that he seemed to understand that her legs were weak beneath her. She wondered if it strained him as she leaned into his hold. Then again, after the display of strength and endurance she had just witnessed, she was willing to wager that he hardly noticed.

Suddenly, it occurred to her that Bourne had spoken more words to her within the last fifteen minutes than he had in the previous seven months combined, save for what was said during his obligatory psychological evaluations. He seemed to come alive when given a directive, becoming suddenly animated within the task he had been assigned. She supposed it was because his training took over, but it was slightly unnerving to say the least. He was speaking without his customary inhibition, without checking every word that he spoke to make sure it did not reveal too much about himself. His tone of voice changed, his eyes lost their hollow expression. It was as if he always, instinctively, knew what the right course of action was.

He did not even need to think. Killing and fighting and calculating were as natural as breathing.

She didn't quite know what to make of it. As they walked through the dimly lit streets, she allowed her mind to wander, somewhat subconsciously, trusting Bourne (since when had she been compliant with that idea? Trusting him?) to guide her.

The past seven months had proved to be, if nothing else, thought-provoking. Her meetings with the other four operatives had proved her hypothesis that Bourne's demeanor was not unique to him; they had all presented themselves similarly, as focused, hollow instruments of combat. None of the other operatives had mentioned any headaches--even Bourne had not spoken of them since his first evaluation--but if she had to she would guess that they too experienced similar physical symptoms of their training. She was surprised to find that Bourne, for all his frigidity, was perhaps the least menacing out of the five. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, he was the most trusted and reliable of Treadstone's agents.

She had quickly learned that the man was unstoppable when handed an assignment—he'd had five of them since Nicky had met him, and every one had been completed perfectly, faultlessly, with no potential for error. Every action was genius, every step towards the completion of his mission carefully measured with the same speed with which he defeated opponents in hand-to-hand combat so easily.

It had become clear to her very early on in the operation that Jason Bourne did not ever, ever make a mistake.

A sharp stab of pain emanating from the sole of her foot brought her back to the present. Bourne felt her stumble and slowed, shooting her a questioning glance. Nicky looked over her shoulder and spied a discarded ceramic shard on which she had apparently stepped moments before. "Jason, you don't think we could signal for a taxi, could we?"

Since when had she ever asked him for permission? It was frustrating, realizing quite abruptly that he was infinitely more capable than she was in this sort of situation. Something inexplicable within her was telling her that here, in this moment, she should listen to what he told her to do, and that she should indeed ask permission.

He glanced down at her feet, appeared to realize for the first time that they were bare, and nodded.

And as the taxi was pulling up, as he opened the door and slid in to the back seat behind her, they both heard the sudden, unmistakable sound of an explosion that told them that Jason Bourne had done his job well.

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A/N: I just have to say writing this chapter—and the upcoming one—was very fun to write, and I like both of them an awful lot. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I did writing them!

And yes, I did steal the idea of using the gas to blow up headquarters from Supremacy. I figure it's the same character doing it—Bourne's thought processes stayed the same, didn't they?—so it's not completely heinous. I'm not creative enough to come up with something new. Blech. Oh, and I thought it would be kind of cool to have Bourne ask for the field box like Conklin did in Identity, when Bourne was breaking into the Paris safe house. Also, Cardena is a completely made up character, and pretty much serves no other purpose than to give Bourne someone to beat the shit out of. I hope that wasn't too apparent.

Sorry to leave you all with this cliffhanger!