A/N: It's Christmas Eve. I hope you all have a lovely Christmas, despite the strangeness of our current situation. For those who may find it difficult, my thoughts are with you.

Many thanks for reading and for your support over the last year. Always greatly appreciated.

oOo

Chapter Three

Athos had his apartment in the city, but tonight he was making his way to his house in Chevreuse, a thirty minute drive south of Paris. It was his private retreat, once owned by a family friend of his father's and tonight, he felt the need for its calm ambience.

Gripping the steering wheel though, his mind slammed him back in time;

He was running.

Someone was shouting in his earpiece.

There had been a breach. A call had been intercepted from the house.

"I'm only a few minutes away!" Athos shouted into the mike on his lapel.

Cursing, he ran on.

Running up to the door, he stopped.

It was open.

Drawing his weapon, he eased himself through the door, careful not to touch anything, for he was sure what lay ahead of him was a crime scene.

Someone ran up behind him and he whirled, gun raised.

The man was one of theirs. He too, had intercepted the call. He had stepped out to move the cars, in the knowledge that Athos was on his way to relieve him.

A man could do a lot of damage in the ten minutes that task had taken.

Athos forged ahead, the man now covering his back.

Down the hall. Ahead two doors – one to the lounge and one to the kitchen.

Upstairs, the two bedrooms.

They both walked cautiously toward the first door. Pushing the door open, it was empty. Nothing was amiss. Athos turned to look at his colleague and flicked his hand toward the kitchen while he moved toward the stairs, gun raised.

"Clear," the soft call came from the kitchen.

Athos continued to climb the stairs, gun raised, eyes on the top step.

Something caught his eye, lying ahead on the stair above him.

Without taking his eyes from the top of the stairs, he stepped up one step and reached down for it, blindly finding a small card.

Lifting it up to eye level, as he continued to watch the floor above, he looked briefly down at the card.

It was an i.d. card.

He froze, a feeling of dread hitting his stomach.

The photograph on the card was himself.

It looked professional. It was even a recent photograph.

Taking a breath, he slotted it carefully into his jacket and continued up to the top of the stairs.

His eyes came level with the top step and he leant on the wall, gun still raised, but not trusting his legs for a moment.

Ahead, the wall was smeared with blood. A long line stretched from left to right.

"Police!" he shouted now, as he took the last step and stood on the landing. Three doors lay ahead of him.

All were open.

The bathroom, once white, was now "painted" red. There was blood in the basin and smeared along the bath. But the room was empty. Whoever was in here had got out. Or, more likely, had been allowed to leave for a brief, hopeful moment, for there was death in the air.

His colleague was now behind him and Athos silently signalled him to go to the bedroom on the left, while he turned to the right.

The carpet was red.

The mattress had been pulled off, but had not saved the two people who now lay dead here.

The woman was in the corner, in a sitting position, though curled up, in self defence.

The man was sprawled under the window.

Athos had never seen such butchery, even in the army.

He thought for a moment he was going to throw up, but then his colleague was at his back and they both stood, drawing strength from each other in an attempt to retain their professional composure.

"Christ," Gilbert shuddered, slotting his weapon back into his shoulder holster.

"How the Hell did he do this?" he said quietly, his voice cold; angry.

They both knew the house had cameras. The answer lay there.

For the moment though, Athos dropped his arm to his side, his gun held loosely in his hand.

"He had an i.d. card," Athos murmured. "She let him in. She thought it was me."

Athos's back hit the wall behind him and he slid down. In front of him, a man and a woman who had trusted him lay dead. The man's eyes were open, staring.

Gilbert walked from the room and Athos heard him calling for back up.

The rest of the day was a blur.

The night was equal oblivion.

Athos pulled himself back from his disturbing memories.

At two a.m. the streets were deserted and he could open the car up a little.

Athos was an excellent driver.

He could have made a career of it, had he not opted for law enforcement. That meant he drove some powerful vehicles.

That did not stop him owning some impressive horsepower of his own. All of them sleek, black and expensive along with the Ducatti motorcycle. The Alpha was his current favourite, though, and he now lost himself in the low growl of the engine as he changed gears and expertly negotiated the quiet streets.

The sky was dark, only broken by a slither of moon, shining ethereally on a sleeping city. The shadows cast by the surrounding buildings fell across the road, illuminated at intervals by the street lights. He eased his foot off the accelerator as he approached a junction up ahead. Seeing a silver-coloured delivery truck appear from the left, he dropped down a gear. The driver slowed at the junction and waited, as Athos had right of way.

Athos moved off once more, but as he did, the truck moved forward. And stopped.

Athos slammed on his brakes, yelling a curse. Then, from his right wing mirror, he caught movement.

A dark SUV came out of nowhere and slammed into his rear passenger door.

Such was the force that the Alpha spun, tyres squealing, coming to rest facing back the way he had come. The SUV had reversed and was coming again. Athos groped for his weapon, strapped under his seat but the SUV struck his door and he was thrown sideways.

His head bounced off the side window which, already damaged, shattered over him. The left central support began to cave in toward him, so he pushed his body to the right to keep ahead of the twisting metal coming at him. He managed to release the seat belt, only to find his foot was jammed under the pedal and he could go no further.

The SUV came again.

The noise of breaking glass and screeching metal filled his ears and, at that point, the air bag exploded in his chest, pinning him to his seat. His arm thrust through the spokes of the steering wheel and he felt something snap. Biting back a scream, he lifted his head from the airbag, just as the windscreen burst inward.

The assault was continuing, seeming to him in slow motion; the SUV now slowly and deliberately shoving the car toward a lamppost, effectively pinning him inside, though he had no way of knowing what was happening now, as thick shards of toughened windscreen glass showered down on him, caught between the side of his face and the air bag. He felt something slice into his eyebrow, and he bit his tongue, tasting blood, but then something in his foot broke and the white hot pain shot up his leg, whiting out his vision.

He had a moment of regret for his car, and a further, deeper despair for his brothers, before accepting the fact that he was trapped and probably would die in the ruins of his beloved car, on the deserted streets of Paris.

Breathing was becoming difficult now and he couldn't move.

Someone was moving though, outside. Moving toward him.

His weapon was fastened under his driving seat, but it might as well have been on the moon.

It was hard to accept, after the last impact came, that he may lose his life in a car crash or, more likely, at the hands of the man now staring at him.

Adrenalin coursed through his veins as the familiar face bent closer. He locked eyes with his attacker defiantly. Helpless to defend himself, his eyes slid down to the knife the man was now slowly tapping on the broken edge of the window.

He steeled himself for the inevitable, but the edges of his vision began to blur. After what seemed like an eternity, but must have been only seconds, he felt his awareness slipping away. He desperately tried to hang on to consciousness as the man studied him clinically, but realised his body was betraying him.

As the shadow of his assailant fell across him, the pain of his injuries finally overwhelmed him and sent him crashing into oblivion.

oOo

At two separate locations in Paris:

Aramis walked into his bedroom from the shower, towelling his hair.

On his bedside table, his phone lit up as he pulled back the sheet on his bed. Sighing, he dropped his head. All he wanted to do was sleep, but when he picked up the phone and squinted at the screen through is wet hair, he smiled.

"What are you doing still awake?" he asked.

"Can't sleep," Porthos grumbled.

Hearing a distinct crackle on the line, Aramis laughed.

"You won't be able to if you eat any more of those biscuits," he said.

"'ow did you know?" Porthos said, sheepishly.

"There are various clues," Aramis replied. "Do you want me to list them?"

Hearing a huff at the end of the line, Aramis threw the towel on the bed beside him.

"What's on your mind?" he asked, knowing full well, but wanting to hear Porthos tell him; it saved a lot of digging.

Porthos was not always forthcoming with his troubled thoughts, preferring to sort them out himself. They all shared that trait.

"Just on edge," Porthos said.

"Understandable," Aramis conceded, picking up the towel as he felt his hair dripping on his chest, and rubbing it through his hair once more.

They talked for a few minutes, offering an easy camaraderie to each other.

Porthos then said what had been on his mind;

"Do you think we should call Athos?"

"Why would we do that?" Aramis asked, gently.

"I don't know, it was a heavy evening. I ..."

As his voice trailed away, Aramis picked up his end of the conversation;

"He will not thank you for waking him, my friend."

"I know. But it's worth it to check, you know?" Porthos persisted.

"Hmm, well, you can call him if you wish, but I think I'll pass," Aramis said. "We can have a debrief with Treville when we get to the office, in ..." he stopped, checking his watch before groaning, "Four hours."

"There may be more information from Europol by then," he added.

"Alright," Porthos finally agreed, still somewhat reluctantly, before he shivered suddenly.

"Alright?" Aramis asked, picking up on the hitch in his friend's breathing.

"Just ... felt cold," Porthos replied. "Someone walking over my ..." his voice trailed off.

"It's summer, Porthos," Aramis laughed, gently.

Just then, icy fingers slid down his own spine.

"We're not achieving anything here but wasting time we could be asleep," he said, giving himself a shake. "It's very late."

"I know," Porthos said. "Sorry. Good night."

He did not feel any better for disturbing Aramis.

Aramis ended the call, and reached for a t shirt to sleep in, his back now very cold. He looked at the clock and cursed. 4.00 a.m. Everyone in Paris would be asleep except he and Porthos. Athos had probably collapsed into his own bed. The Lord knows he had looked like he needed to.

He looked around, wondering where the draft was coming from that made him feel such a chill.

oOo

To be continued ...