A/N: My thingy keeps telling me I have more reviews but I can't see them. Dunno if that's normal or what. Anyway, keep 'em coming, hopefully someone will address this issue.

Louisiana, New Orleans

Selina pulled up outside the old decrepit building. It looked like it had once been a beautiful mansion, but now the floorboards were broken in most places, the white paint was chipped and peeling in most places, and most of the windows were broken or completely missing.

The first thing she noticed was that the entire place was abuzz with activity. There were men dressed in coveralls crawling all over the place like ants, hanging from the rafters on thick cables, removing old shingles from the roof, clearing rotten gunk from the gutters, and knocking out old decayed wood from the boarded up windows.

Across the expansive compound was a two man team driving mowers over the thick grass. Further off there was a large stable that was being hosed out with powerful disinfectant. There didn't seem to be any horses inside.

The drive had taken several days, driving very carefully and stopping frequently to make sure she wasn't being followed. She had also gotten fake identification documents and altered her appearance slightly, cutting her hair short, dying it blonde and putting on blue contacts.
It had been a little worrying anytime she came across a police cruiser or a highway patrolman on a bike, but they paid her no mind.
Perhaps, she mused, that was because the car she was driving so obviously screamed 'federal asset'. It was dusk now.

No word from Steve, no choppers circling over head, nothing suspicious.
It looked like he was just going to let her go.

As she stepped out of the car, an immaculately dressed butler stepped out of the building and took her keys, she assumed to park the car. Another butler emerged from the double doors of the mansion and led her inside.

The interior was a lot better.
Some of the furniture looked extremely ancient, like it had been here since the house had been built. There were numerous paintings lining the walls, from as far back as the 16th century to-rather oddly- modern day portraits, all of which showed wealthy aristocratic men. Barons, military generals, and finally just men in really expensive,well cut suits.

The place had a sickly sweet smell from all the damp and greenery.

Selina tried not to gawk like a rube at everything she saw, so she only let her eyes wander over what they could. The butler led her to what looked like a study, filled from floor to ceiling with all sorts of books with big names and titles, none of which meant anything to Selina. She wasn't a dunce but she was no academic either. There was a maid dressed exactly like what maids in the 17th century must have worn.

She sat for a long time in silence, wondering why contacts always chose the dodgiest of places to arrange their meets. Perhaps this was sacred ground to them, or they just felt safer here. She didn't mind. If this place was any indication, whoever this person was had a hell of a lot of money. That was all she was interested in right now.

"Hello Selina." said a familiar voice.

Selina suddenly felt nauseous. Without looking back she rose from her seat and vaulted over the large table that stood just before the window, smashing through it feet first and landing on the ground outside.

She heard several shouts, she ignored them, sprinting round the corner and climbing onto a small perimeter fence, running along the slim concrete beam with incredible balance and agility.
Automatic gunfire pinged off of the surface of the wall in rapid bursts, some very close to her feet, but they only served to make her run faster. When she reached the edge of the wall she somersaulted, rolling on her back and up onto her feet in one smooth movement.

She ran as fast as she could, aiming for the treeline just around the corner.
With any luck she could find cover from the gunfire and hide from her pursuers at the same time.

But when she rounded the corner she was greeted by the sight of all the workers she had seen, including the butlers and the maid, carrying various rifles and pistols, all trained on her. There were so many optics on her torso it looked like the shirt she was wearing was red.

She could her the sound of footsteps approaching behind her, and the cocking of a pistol. She raised her hands, not daring to turn around.

"My, my, Selina, still as dull as a doorknob. Weren't you even a little suspicious? A job this close to home?"

Shit.

"Oh come now, it'll take more than a haircut and contacts to fool me. I'd know those acrobatic moves anywhere."

Still Selina said nothing.

"Fine. Have it your way."

At a signal, four of the men advanced with rifles raised, and two more cuffed her tightly, before throwing a black bag over her head and securing it with a loop around her neck.
She could hear a car approaching. It sounded like a large van.
She was shoved inside and she felt her cuffs being attached to longer, stronger chains. She flexed her wrists experimentally.
They were tight. So tight they were cutting off circulation to her hands.
She would have to break or dislocate more than a few bones if she wanted to get out of this one.
That idea was swiftly shelved as she heard several more men get into the back of the van with her.

"Put her in the special wing with the others. Make sure she has her own cell and at least a dozen of your best men watching at any time, and rotate that shift every 8 hours. Have someone check on her every hour on the hour. If she clears her throat I want to hear about it. And make sure there is absolutely nothing loose in the room, not even a wood shaving. I want everything bolted down. She might not look like much but believe me she is as dangerous in her own way as the rest of the super-freaks in there."

"Yes ma'am." The man she assumed was their leader said.

The heavy metal doors were slammed shut and she jolted as the van set off, jangling her wrist bones painfully.

He is in Iraq again, standing outside the CH-47 Chinook, waiting for the rest of the Team to finish loading up the supplies they needed for this mission.

It is fairly light stuff, one Fast Attack Vehicle-basically a weaponized dune buggy with a powerful engine, two Hayes M1030 bikes and their usual supply of light and heavy weapons, mainly .50cal machine guns, assault rifles, sniper rifles and several boxes of explosives.

This job requires stealth, much more than their usual standards, so its down to the bare essentials, the best of the best operators only.
Wilson is totally relaxed, having already drawn up a meticulous strategy on the fly like he always did.
Lance is fumbling with his gear, as always.
Drake sits quietly in the corner doing whatever the hell she does to prep herself before Super-Covert Ops like these.
Fairchild is checking his field med-kit against the larger medical supplies list to make sure he has everything he needs. If anyone gets hurt he will have to be prepared. The nearest hospital is very very very far away, and they will be going to hostile territory.
Cash is lovingly inspecting his weapons, cleaning them before slathering them with gun oil so they won't have difficulty functioning in the hot, dry, sandy environment.
Waller is busy checking her communications equipment and the rest of her tech.
Then there is him, doing nothing because he has already checked and double checked everything.

As the Team's pilot/ transport specialist his gear is always in order at all times.
All members of Team 7 know that they can be deployed on a mission at a moments notice, and as the guy who is responsible for getting them there and back, he has to be prepared.

Always.

He watches Kurt struggle with the rifle for a full minute, then watches as Dinah rises from her position to help him with a patient smile.
Kurt shouldn't be on this mission. Yes he's good at finding stuff, but he's a civilian, and a crap operator to boot,he thinks to himself.

But these are problems well above his pay-grade. He wonders if anyone else has noticed that Dinah and Kurt have something going on. Probably. Everyone here is as sharp as a tack, they don't miss anything. The real question is why do they remain silent? Relationships among Team members are frowned upon, it compromises the professionalism of the work environment.
But Dinah has never let that interfere with the job, at least not to his knowledge. After all, he is rarely right there in the field with them.

Everything else happens in a blur. He flies the helicopter up to 5 miles outside of their rendezvous point. He watches as they unload everything, moving out in a matter of minutes. Everyone has that hard look in their eyes that they get before a mission. Everyone but Lance of course. He looks as frightened as ever. Dinah puts a hand on his shoulder and smiles reassuringly. He smiles back weakly.

Yup. Kurt Lance definitely shouldn't be on this Op, Steve thinks, but he pushes the thought out of his mind. He flies the helicopter back outside the Op Zone, and he waits patiently for several hours. This Op will have complete radio silence,he discussed everything with Waller beforehand.

"These aren't your garden variety terrorists. These guys have radar jammers, and tech that can detect all sorts of communication frequencies. Short range stuff is ok, which means the Team and I, but anything penetrating outside a mile will be picked up and you will have insurgents on your ass." she had said.

"Ok. So what should I do? How long should I wait?"

"I'd say give it about 11 or so hours. If we're not back at the rendezvous point by then, or if you see a flare, then you can come in and get us. If you see a blue flare, that means shit has really gone south, we're probably all dead and we'll need an attack chopper to clean up after us, which means destroy the entire base."

He had swallowed nervously when she mentioned them dying.

"Relax Trevor, we've run a thousand missions like these, nothing will happen. I'm just giving you the procedure for the Op, that's all."

It is now 1 hour past their arrival time. This is not unusual. Sometimes they are 3 hours late. But he has had a bad feeling all day. He has learned not to ignore this feeling. It has kept him alive and allowed him to save lives several times in his career. He leans forward in his seat, binoculars against the night sky.

There it is, clear as day, a bright blue flare. So bright it burns almost white hot.

He starts up the engines of the Apache, which he had got into the minute he made it back into the base. He guns it at top speed, not caring whether the enemy sees him or not. The flight takes a short while, but it feels like forever to Steve. As he crests over the hill, he sees that the entire place is aflame, and he can see gunfire coming from all directions, all of it focused on him. That confirms it for him. No gunfire focused anywhere else on the base means the insurgents are sure the Team members are dead.

He is filled with rage for his fallen comrades.

He has lost so many friends already. So many.

Switches are flicked and he starts with the 30mm rail gun, firing hundreds of rounds a minute into the area, shredding through steel and concrete structures like they were made of wet tissue paper. He sees vehicles,buildings, small planes, all going up in smoke with colorful explosions.
He realises he is yelling as his finger holds down the triggers.
The guns are hot, numerous lights on the console are blinking and bleeping.
Engines overheating.
Weapons overheating.

For the first time he doesn't care. He finds he is even more enraged when the rail gun runs out of rounds. He has spent 1,200 rounds of ammunition already.
He fires the missiles next, his face lit up by the fiery explosions they produce. More alarms from the console. He is taking heavy hits, and he cannot take much more.

In the blink of an eye it seems he has run out of ammo once again. The console bleeps wildly, warning him that a missile is coming in hot. It is too late to dodge it, he takes the blast at the base of the chopper, dangerously close to the fuel tanks. The chopper veers wildly and he struggles to keep it in the air. He has to complete the mission. Even if it kills him.

In a split second he makes what he recognizes as the wildest decision of his career thus far. He noses the chopper down and forwards, mowing through several insurgents with the rotor blades. He is pushing it at full speed, almost 300km/h. He can see a massive metal silo that he knows must be their reserve fuel tank, filled with jet fuel for their planes that he destroyed just moments earlier. He aims straight for it, rotors screaming, every light on the console flashing wildly, the bottom of the chopper flaming.

His last thought is that he must look really fucking awesome.

Then he remembers the dusty old parachute underneath the second pilot seat. He locks the steering column with his ammo belt and scrambles to the back, trying to get it. It probably won't do him much good, the chopper is not designed for jumps, and he isn't nearly high enough for altitude to slow him, but it can't be any wilder than what he's just done.

Finding the chute, he kicks open the window, ducking as the spinning blades shred it into oblivion. Some of the broken glass rips at his torso, through the armor plates in his vest and into the soft flesh underneath. Something warm trickles over his chest. Recalling the Airborne Training he received prior to joining the team, he swiftly straps on the chute and falls out of the chopper quite badly, bumping against the hard metal and pulling the tab on the chute as he does so. Mercifully the backdraft from the spinning rotors pushes him a great distance away, although it is extremely painful as the harness bites into his flesh and propels him backward. He crashes into the windscreen of a burning jeep, and he scrambles off of it as fast as he can, the hot metal eating through the parachute and very nearly through his vest and shirt. His shoulder is singed, he can smell the sickening smell of burning human flesh.

He is breathing heavily, already he can feel the gash in his chest bleeding profusely, and the burning in his shoulder as the flesh sizzles. He has never been in so much pain in his life, but he forces himself to crawl across the ground and find cover behind a boulder. He checks the clip on his Glock. 20 rounds. It'll have to do. He picks off as many insurgents as he can, but more keep coming, like ants crawling out of their hill. Two dull thuds in his side tell him he has taken hits.

The vest is hanging by threads, barely providing any protection from the bullets.

Three more thuds in quick succession. These ones sting. They have penetrated the vest.

He blacks out.

Steve sat bolt upright in his bed, his body streaming with sweat, his hand clutching at his stomach. He looked around, and satisfied he was in his bedroom, fell back against the sheets.

He looks at the clock on the bedside table.

It is 7.30.

He should have been awake an hour ago. He rises and goes into the bathroom, turning on the faucet.

Steve hasn't had that dram for a long time.
He is glad Diana wasn't here to see it.
As a soldier he had often despised the Rambo trope. The hardened veteran with PTSD and nightmares of his worst days in the field.
Then he became that soldier.

I must be really stressed out,he thinks as he lathers the thick beard on his face.

Stressed or not, he had a job to do.

Get a grip Trevor,he said to himself as he began shaving his face.

A/N: Some much needed background this chapter.

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