A/N - Sorry, sorry, sorry for the very long absence. Excuses: started a new [time-consuming] job, writer's block, other life happenings, etc. Thanks again for all of your support, reviews, favorites, follows, encouragements! I've enjoyed writing this immensely.


There was a pounding of footsteps beyond the closet door, moving closer, followed by a silence that was soon broken by the clinking of keys and the squeal of the opening door. The hostages squinted against the light at the figure standing in the doorway.

The figure froze with a sharp intake of breath. "Whoa… Syleen?"

"Vivien!" Syleen gasped. "What are you doing here? Help us! Get us out!" She shook violently, trying in vain to scoot toward him.

Vivien rushed to Syleen and gripped her shoulders. "Where is he?" he asked.

Syleen buried his head into his shoulder, sobbing.

"She doesn't know," Enjolras called. Vivien whipped his head sharply towards Enjolras, as if he were just now noticing that there were other people in the closet. "He shut her in here with us."

Vivien nodded grimly. "We need to get out of here." He pulled Syleen close to him, using his weight to help her stand. "It may already be too late," he muttered under his breath. He gently leaned Syleen against the wall. He disappeared and returned again with a pocketknife, flipping it open to cut the zip-ties binding her wrists. When she was free, he released Enjolras and Bahorel before turning towards Grantaire's prostrate figure.

"Is he okay?" he asked quietly.

Bahorel dragged Grantaire to his feet, bearing the weight of the other man against his shoulder. "He's fine," he grunted as Vivien cut his binds. "No different than dragging his drunk ass home any other night."

Enjolras rolled his eyes. "Unanticipated sobriety."

They followed Vivien into the basement: Syleen leaning heavily against him, Enjolras close on their heels, and, finally, Bahorel pulling Grantaire forward one stumbling step at a time.

"One moment," Vivien murmured, gently lowering Syleen into a metal folding chair. Enjolras watched Vivien suspiciously. He moved naturally enough – almost randomly – through the basement, performing menial tasks: collecting stray cartridges into boxes, wiping powder off of tables, studying the contents of drawers. Yet there was an undercurrent of predetermined intentions accompanying his every move, an uneasiness straining the corners of his mouth that negated the calm in his eyes.

Enjolras crossed the basement to his side. Careful to avoid alarming the others, he questioned the man in a low voice. "Vivien, I don't know what you're hiding, but I know something is happening. I want to know."

Vivien matched his cold gaze for a moment before closing his eyes, creasing his forehead into deep wrinkles. "You were not supposed to be here anymore."

Enjolras' next question was interrupted by a muffled medley of screeching brakes and rubber tires crunching over concrete. They all looked up, following the sounds of slamming doors and heavy footsteps with their eyes. Enjolras turned back to Vivien and started. The other man had procured a gun. His face mirrored none of the fear or confusion etched into the expressions of the others; instead, he gazed calmly at the group staring back at him. He lifted his wrist to his mouth.

"4-5. We still have hostages. Carry on."


"Right." Courfeyrac swerved through the stop sign, ignoring Combeferre's protests. Albin pointed ahead through the windshield. "It's the fourth house at the end of that stretch."

Courfeyrac blazed down the quiet, suburban street, screeching around the curve. "Shit!" He slammed his foot onto the brake, but it was not enough to stop his car from spinning into the police car that was hidden in the crook of the bend. The passengers jolted forward, cursing and groaning as they pulled themselves upright and surveyed the scene around them.

The cul-de-sac was overrun by white and blue police cars and uniformed officers. The men in the car were still, in shock from both the crash and the unexpected sight of the officers. They watched speechlessly as the officers milled through the street, conferencing with each other, watching the yellow house, speaking rapidly into radios.

The knock on the drivers' window surprised them all. Courfeyrac rolled the window and smiled at the officer. "Hullo," he said. "Sorry about the car." He smiled toward the dented police car ahead of him.

The officer leaned his forearms against the window ledge and leaned in, wordlessly gazing at each of the members in the car with a lingering, empty stare.

Courfeyrac motioned to the scene in front of them. "What's going on here?"

The officer turned his head and spit before replying. "Where you headed, son?"

"Just passing through."

"Turn yourself around. Road's closed."

Courfeyrac nodded at the hood of his car. "Don't think that will be possible, sir." Combeferre rolled his eyes at his friend's heavy sarcasm and shifted uneasily in his seat; he did not like his friend's flippancy.

The officer glanced back at the back seat again, settling his steel eyes on Albin. "That so?" A long paused ensued. Without looking away from Albin, the officer finally broke the silence: "I'll call a tow. When it gets here, you are gone."

"Gee. Thanks, officer!" The officer ignored Courfeyrac's overly-chipper tone, returning to a car across the street. They watched as he spoke into a radio, glancing back at the car. "Think they're going to pay for the tow, too?" Courfeyrac chuckled and whistled to himself. "Give a man a badge…" He shook his head.

"That's the house?" Combeferre confirmed, gesturing to the guarded yellow house.

"He didn't call a tow," Albin said quietly.

"The hell you talking about?" Courfeyrac asked.

"That's the house," Albin continued. "Don't know why the badges are here."

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes dramatically. "Maybe they received a complaint from a neighbor. You know, maybe they heard some screaming. Saw some blood seeping out of a flower garden. Or whatever the hell you did with our friends."

Combeferre fought to suppress the panic that welled inside; Courfeyrac's statements mirrored his own unspoken fears. "Stop, Courf." A sudden movement outside of the car caught his attention. "We've got company," he warned.

Several officers surrounded the car, yanking the four doors of the car open. The officer who had spoken to them earlier peered into the car. "Out," he ordered.

The Amis and Albin piled out of the car. For a moment, they stood motionless.

Combeferre exhaled slowly, releasing a steady stream of air through his teeth. He tried to plan a statement to give to the police – an objective statement – that would explain their involvement in the rescue operation. However, their passive presence drove him crazy. He was consumed by a burning, silent scream that started in his chest and coursed through his body. He couldn't think; he was too afraid to think about what it could all mean.

Combeferre glanced at Courfeyrac out of the corner of his eye, silently willing him to respect authority for this one time. He could see the hate furrowed into his friend's face. He looked beyond him, noting the same ugly hate blazing in Albin's clear eyes. Albin's fists were clenched tightly, pressed firmly against his legs. Combeferre exhaled again, relaxing his face to study the officers arced in front of them. They were impossible to read; their eyes hid their intent behind practiced composure and mirrored shades.

A radio crackled and a harsh voice barked: "Confirmed."

It happened suddenly. Two officers leaped forward and slammed Combeferre backwards. The force of the impact against the side of the car knocked the wind out of him, cutting the shout of pain forming in his throat to a silent gasp. The officers caught his body as he slumped forward and pressed him against the ground. Courfeyrac yelled and reached out to tear them away from his friend, but before he could take a step toward them, he was pinned against the car by two other officers. He pushed against them, kicking and scratching in a blind fury. The other officers secured Combeferre: One planted his foot in the center of Combeferre's back and twisted his arms backwards, gripping the wrists; the other knelt by him, shoving his head against the asphalt.

Courfeyrac screamed and sank his teeth into the arm of the officer fighting to keep his head pressed against the roof of the car. The officer yelled in pain; Courfeyrac pushed him away and pivoted around the other officer, loosening the grip on his shoulder. A sharp crack stopped him in his tracks. He swayed, taking a couple of sloppy steps, before crumpling limply to the ground.


"I'm going to get you out of here. You just need to do as I say." Vivien motioned at Enjolras, directing him to return to his friends. Enjolras crossed his arms and stood his ground, narrowing his eyes at Vivien.

"I've been doing a lot of doing as others say," he replied evenly. "I don't like where it has landed me."

Vivien laughed uncertainly. "Enjolras, I'm an ally." He studied the other man, noting his steadfastness. "Alright," he conceded. Vivien set the gun on the table behind him, keeping his body between the weapon and Enjolras, and held his hands out in front of him. "I could get in a hell of a lot of trouble for this, but I need to get you safe. I'm here to help." He reached into back pocket and held a thin, black leather case out. Enjolras took it and opened it. His head snapped up.

"You're a cop?" he asked incredulously.

"Shit," Syleen exhaled.

Vivien nodded slowly, smiling disarmingly. "Yes. Undercover. So, thanks for blowing it." He held his hand out and Enjolras placed the badge back into his palm. "Much of this is classified, but I can tell you I've been working with the department to incriminate several members of the Croisade." Enjolras still looked skeptical, though the rest of the hostages were gaping at him with a mixture of shock and relief. Vivien turned his attention back to Enjolras. "We knew Albin had taken you and your friends hostage. However, we didn't think you were still being held here." He nodded his head up. "The raid has started. I don't have a lot of time to get you out."

"This whole time," Syleen gasped. "That's how you were able to do everything."

Viven smiled at her. "We need to move. We only have minutes." He returned his gaze to Enjolras, picking up his gun again. "Follow me. There are officers in the back who will escort you to safety."

Enjolras' frown deepened. He felt uneasy still, as if there was something missing, but he was too exhausted – too much in pain – to put the pieces together. "Albin…?"

Vivien pressed a hand against his ear and smiled. "Confirmed," he repeated. "They have him." He swept by Enjolras and paused at the base of the steps. He crouched and slowly ascended several steps before turning back to the group watching him. "Fall behind me."

Syleen scrambled after him. Bahorel sighed and hoisted Grantaire's arm over his shoulder again. Only Enjolras paused. He looked around the basement, desperately trying to give a form to the twisting anxiety storming in his stomach.

"'Pollo…" Enjolras gritted his teeth at the slurred call. He set his face and joined the group on the steps. They climbed the stairs carefully, apart from Grantaire's clumsy stumbling and weakly muttered oaths. At the top, Vivien held his hand out to stop them. He positioned the gun in front of him and swung the basement door open, rushing out and sweeping the open space with his gun.

"Clear," he called, ushering the others past him. "Go to the door," he ordered. They rushed forward. Enjolras looked around him. The house was still and dim. Judging by the bright slivers of light at the edges of the shades, it must be late afternoon. He hesitated, again feeling a gripping feeling of anxiety. Vivien came behind him, pushing him forward gently. "We have to go."

They clustered around the back door. Vivien peeked around the corner of a shade before muttering a list of numbers and commands into his wrist. He paused, listening to his earpiece before nodding and lifting his wrist again. "Confirmed."

"I'm going to open the door. Three officers are lined at the back perimeter of the yard. Once I sweep the area, you are to duck and run across the yard to the officers. I'll cover for you. You have mere seconds to do this when I get the command. Do you understand?"

The group nodded. Vivien pressed his hand against his ear again. They stood in a moment of breathless anticipation. Enjolras leaned backward, craning his head to peer down the hallway leading to the front door. Everything was still.

"Confirmed." Vivien jerked the bolt and flung the door open, crouching in the doorway and sweeping from side to side. "Clear!" He turned and waved the group out. Syleen ran first, bending forward at the waist, running shakily across the yard to the waiting officers. Bahorel yanked Grantaire forward, pulling the man after him as best as he could. Enjolras took a small step backwards. The front door was covered with a large, beige shade, but unlike the window shades, no light came through the edges. He took another small step. Something moved, and he focused his gaze on the door handle, which was slowly turning. His heart thudded and he took a step closer to that door.

Suddenly, he was pulled back. "What the hell are you doing?" Vivien hissed into his ear. "Go!" He pushed Enjolras out of the back door, slamming it as soon as Enjolras was clear. Enjolras hesitated, taking in the small, overgrown yard. Sixty feet back, an officer waved his arm. His friends and Syleen were lying flat on their stomachs with their arms folded over their heads. Enjolras ducked and started to weave his way through the yard.

A scream broke the stillness – a broken, anguished scream. Enjolras froze. Another scream. Silence. He could hear nothing but the blood pounding in his ears. The officer ahead of him took a step forward, motioning to Enjolras. Enjolras could see his mouth moving. But he knew that voice. Combeferre. Enjolras spun around. The house loomed ahead of him. He took a step toward it and stopped. Where are you? Step after step, drawing him closer to the porch.

Another scream, a deeper, unfamiliar grunt. The world spun around Enjolras. The house had moved; it was sideways, leaning into a sky spilling into the horizon. Enjolras felt each pump of his heart – a heavy, uncomfortable throbbing. He was trapped, but he couldn't move. He couldn't fight. He closed his eyes. The house was upside down.

His legs were bound. A trap, like a constrictor squeezing his legs together. Time slowed, stopped. The pounding in his ears subsided. He heard the wail of a siren – a lonely, distant sound. Someone was shouting; he couldn't hear the words. Another sound – a shuddering, muffled sound.

"'Pollo… 'Pollo… 'Pollo." A steady cadence. A trap, two arms holding him down. Enjolras looked down. He opened his fists. His palms were two bloody pools. He studied his nails, dripping with his blood. There was no pain. A shadow spread across his face, hiding the upside down house. An angry face. A badge. A gun. Shouting.

Darkness.


"You should be sending the department a fruit basket. Those scars make you look less like a dandy." Courfeyrac grabbed the first thing in front of him and flung it at Bahorel, sending Jehan squealing to the floor to avoid being clipped by the flying fork.

Combeferre settled against his seat, rubbing the brace on his arm absently. It was their first meeting together again after nearly five weeks. It was good to have everyone together again. His eyes fell to the newspaper lying in front of him.

"No officers indicted in mistaken arrest of three local university students."

He glanced up as someone slid into the seat across from him. Enjolras glanced at the paper and then at his friend. His blue eyes narrowed into fiery slits and his face reddened. He reached across the table and held Combeferre's hand in a rare moment of tenderness. Combeferre smiled warmly at him.

Enjolras had taken the incident the hardest, never straying from Combeferre's and Courfeyrac's hospital beds. Of course he assumed fault for everything, though Combeferre comforted him often, assuring him that he should not carry the burden of blame. While they were awake, he sat with them – often wordless, content to just watch them. While they slept, he watched the local news on mute, reading the subtitles and pacing angrily. It had been the number one story for the past several weeks.

Sensational, really, Combeferre mused. A drug house raided. The leader arrested with an accomplice, both of whom accosted the officers trying to take them. A third accomplice arrested for suspicious behavior.

Only Enjolras had spent the night in jail. Combeferre and Courfeyrac had been rushed to emergency care that afternoon.

Combeferre sighed and flipped the paper open to an inner page, to another story that had caught his interest.

"President Guillaume resigns after successful career at university; moves to American university."

"There are few men who have been called to be warriors of justice, though every breast burns with the desire to be free from tyranny and corruption." Enjolras' voice was low, but it commanded the attention of the men in the room. They settled in their seats, turning toward their leader. Enjolras glanced at Combeferre, tightening his jaw. "We cannot stop until every injustice is righted."

Combeferre closed his eyes. He didn't know how Vivien had done it, but Albin had disappeared. Syleen was gone. He had gone to the station several days earlier, hoping to talk to Vivien. They claimed to have never heard of him – not his name nor his description.

Discouraged, he had turned to leave but was struck with a thought. He inquired after who had paid Enjolras' bail. The officer could not give Combeferre a name, but – being the officer on duty during that time – was able to give Combeferre an exact description. Narrow face. A shock of black unkempt hair. Small, rectangular glasses.

Combeferre focused on Enjolras again. His friend's burning passion caused a deep emptiness to well inside of him. He knew Enjolras would not stop fighting, but he knew it was a losing battle. Combeferre believed in the power of truth and the possibility of change. He still believed in his friend. But with the paper spread in front of him, he could only see this battle slipping away from them.

Enjolras glanced at Combeferre again. He had retreated deep into himself since he woke up at the hospital, becoming more reserved than usual. Quieter. More serious. Although he would not admit it aloud, Enjolras knew his friend was discouraged. He knew Combeferre had given up. Knowing that only fueled his anger. Everyone had gone back to how they were before ("Another day on the job for the bitches of justice," Courfeyrac had quipped), except for Combeferre.

Enjolras' eyes flashed angrily around the room, until they met a pair of warm, brown eyes absorbed in his every movement. No, he reflected, Combeferre is not the only changed one. He studied the cynic for a moment.

Two arms, wrapped around his legs… It had been a late night. Enjolras couldn't stomach any more hospital coffee and had curled himself into a chair, wrapping his arms around his knees. During his vigil on his sleeping friends, his mind had wandered back to that afternoon. Those loose, disjointed moments that haunted every quiet minute. For the first time, he was able to piece the series together. He recalled the one sound he didn't register on that day: the rush of bullets zooming over their flat bodies.

Enjolras shook his head slightly, bringing him back to the present. His gaze wandered to the bottle resting in Grantaire's hand. He sneered at the drunkard, and looked away, returning to his speech.

Grantaire followed Enjolras' gaze down to the bottle in his hand. He tipped the bottle, watching the liquid swish back and forth. Still not good enough. He looked back up at his leader, but he had moved on. Grantaire smiled terribly and took a long, bitter swig from the bottle. The conversation of his friends faded as he swallowed, distracted by the blinding red and golden light of dawn bursting through the small window next to his seat.