Surprisingly the fear she feels at having two shouting men shoving rifles in her face is not overwhelming. Almost, but not quite. Perhaps it's a subconscious defense mechanism. They haven't actually shot her. They want something first. Amazing the things your brain can process without you actually thinking about it. And in all fairness she's had worse. That's what she tells herself. You've had worse, dollface.
A gun drops behind her. Tim. Another jolt of fear spikes, but Lena shoves it back down. She has a responsibility now. The two men back them into Qasim's office. One of them uses a cell phone to make a call downstairs saying they have two prisoners.
Lena speaks to the air, hoping either the SAS or the other Rangers will be able to get to them. She doubts their attackers speak English. "Two men have us at gunpoint in Qasim's office."
One of the men tells her in Pashto to shut up and whacks her in the stomach to drive the point home. She sits down hard, falling back against the floor. The wind is nearly gone from her lungs, but at least he didn't hit any ribs. She hates broken ribs. Although, she'd take those over being murdered.
A voice in her ear just says, "We're coming." And another – Peter, "On our way up." There's a bit more chatter about who will take which stairwell. Looks like the SAS killed whoever had attacked them. That gives her some small grim satisfaction. Even if either group makes it to them in time…stop.
Lena remembers the day she almost died. There were bullets and yelling from people who weren't screaming. When she'd woken up in the hospital with all the time in the world to remember, one thing came back to her: the only people crying were those who were okay, those not in danger. She'd known she was about to die, known. And yet, no tears. She'd been out-of-her-mind-terrified of course. No fear has ever matched that, before or since. Problem was, lying on the ground with a piece of metal coming out of her chest, she'd chosen not to hope. She tried half successfully to make her peace and tried not to panic. Funny thing about trying to make peace with dying as it's happening is that you realize you question things a lot more than you thought. She'd never been one for church, but there's something out there. Her biggest fear in that moment was that she'd somehow be trapped in a broken body for the time it took to rot, and then she'd be trapped in the earth it was buried in, feeling each sensation and pain without the power to move. Totally helpless. Reason asserted that she'd become unconscious after blood loss. After all she'd fainted once as a child when she'd stopped breathing. Lena had reached over and gripped the closest person, but she found herself clutching at a dead body. All alone. In that moment she'd chosen not to hope. She wished for things instead. She didn't want to die. She wished for an end to the pain. It was splitting hairs really. But hope dashed had been too terrifying a prospect, like all hope was a lie if this one hope – to live – went unanswered.
The weight rolls off her chest. Maybe he was alive. No, someone else had rolled an empty shell off of her. A new pain wrenches through her body as someone grabs her under her shoulders, jarring the piece of metal embedded in her ribs. They drag her across dirt and rough road. If Lena hadn't already been certain of dying, she would be now. As it is, she wishes whoever it is would stop; it hurts more this way. The dragging eventually stops and a face appears above hers.
"Ma'am, you're gonna be fine." If she weren't in so much pain she'd have laughed in his face.
He must see her disbelief because he smiles – or tries to – and another new pain stabs into her ribs as he presses down. Aren't people supposed to pass out from pain? That would be nice right about now.
"You ain't dead 'til you're dead, ma'am, and you ain't dead."
Yet, she wanted to correct him.
True to his word, she'd woken up and lived. She had given up hope and survived. Now, burned into her mind is the irrational idea that hope is a jinx that no one can afford. She knows it's crazy, completely illogical, but knowing and feeling something to be true aren't the same. So far she's tried little hopes. She hopes for things that will almost certainly happen. She hoped for a safe flight to the country. She hoped to avoid being airsick (and took Dramamine). In a moment of daring (and a slip of her mental tongue) she'd hoped the first phase of the mission would go well. That had been a mixed bag. Right now, hoping for their safety seems too big a hope, like jinxing their chances. She can't hope for the SAS or Rangers to save them; that's definitely too much.
You ain't dead 'til you're dead.
Lena rolls her head to the side. Right before Tim had shot the unknown man who met her in Qasim's office he'd been going for a gun. As his brain exploded out of his head, the gun had dropped from his hand onto the floor behind the desk. It now rests about six inches from Lena's nose. Optimism is terrifying, but as she pushes up, she stays by the desk and within reach of the abandoned gun.
Tim has moved in front of her, put himself between Lena and the men with guns. He's speaking in English, but either they don't understand or they don't care. He has body armor over his shirt, but it hardly matters when his head's right there. Lena's angry, angry at whatever ingrained foolishness causes men to put themselves in danger for women – because she knows he wouldn't do this if she were a man, and angry because despite the fact that she can't help it, she still feels the guilt at being the cause of such foolishness.
The idea of the gun right next to her is an itch in her mind. But she'd never be able to kill them both. Even if she could, their guns are trained on Tim, and their fingers might jerk on the trigger as they die and kill him.
One of the men pulls out zip-ties and Lena feels a stab of panic. An image of the two of them in a windowless room with a video camera and someone ready to behead them with a machete flashes through her mind. One man sets down his gun so he can tie Tim's wrists together. The other keeps his rifle, but secure in their victory, he lowers it to point at the ground. Lena doesn't think. She grabs the gun off the floor, swings it up, and pulls the trigger.
She goes for the one still holding his rifle first. The bullet goes through his throat, and blood sprays everywhere. Sure enough, his hand spasms around the grip, and a few rounds go into the floor. The second guy is close enough that she aims for his head. A split second later and half his jaw is gone. For a revolting moment she thinks he might still be alive and fires another round into his face followed by two more into his chest. He no longer has much of a head left at all. The other man is still barely alive. He's choking on what's left of his throat. She stands over him and shoots him square in the face. His hand twitches, and she shoots him one more time, just to be sure.
"Lena?"
There's blood everywhere. For better or worse this is not new to her, and she is able to mostly ignore it once she's wiped her face off with her hijab. That and the suit jacket are tossed aside.
"Lena?"
When she turns around hands catch her wrist, lightly stopping the movement. Right, still holding a gun. She sets it down on the desk.
"Do you have anything –" she waves at his still-bound hands.
"Knife in my boot."
Lena pulls out the bowie knife in Tim's boot and begins slicing through the zip ties. She looks over her shoulder at the dead men. It should be revolting, but right now it's as if she just took a megadose of heroin. She isn't dead yet and neither is Tim.
"You good?"
She nods, smiling. Yeehaw! He probably thinks she's lost it. Doesn't matter, they're alive. She speaks into the wire. "This is Lena; Gutterson and I are headed to the roof. Everyone get to the cars."
They run into the other Rangers in the stairwell. A hop and a skip and all of them are running down the stairs of the adjacent building. There's a pause on the ground floor while they check for an ambush outside and wait for the SAS team. Then they're walking quickly to the cars. No one bothers keeping up the charade of being a journalist, and everyone in the street ducks at the sight of twelve heavily armed men. One or two people still manage to glare at her uncovered hair. Screw you.
There's a brief check of personnel. Luckily no one's injured. Lena says a quick thank you to whatever may or may not be out there.
"Shit, I think we got incoming." Lena follows Peter's gaze to three cars coming down the road. They're ignoring traffic. There's an agreeing chorus of "Fuck".
She makes a decision, "Split up. Stay on the radio," and jumps into the driver's side and slams the door closed. A quick jerk and the seat's in the right place; she'll fix the mirrors once they're moving.
Clark stands outside the window, pissed, like she's holding up their getaway. She may be shite at shooting, but shite at driving she is not, which means someone besides her needs to be holding the guns.
Lena rolls the window down, but doesn't open the door. It's entirely possible he'll just haul her out.
"Ma'am –"
"I know what I'm doing. Just give me the keys and get in the damn car." It's rude as fuck, but Lena knows 'please' isn't going to work, and right now that's more important than manners. And there's no time to sit and argue about it.
He's still pissed, but it's not like there's currently much of a choice with the other cars closing in on them. Only one of the other enemy vehicles followed the SAS group, so they now have two to contend with. Someone throws a helmet over her head, but Lena doesn't bother fastening the chinstrap.
"All of you stay down." She throws the car into gear and floors it.
Nice thing about the military is that they understand the value of manual transmission. Land Rovers may not accelerate like sports cars, but these come with a supercharger, and for giggles, someone also threw in a turbocharger on top of that. So it doesn't matter – high gear, low gear, this girl can go. All the armor will lessen the effect somewhat, but there's still considerable power.
Problem right now is that they're still too close to the city center. All the power in the world doesn't help if you don't know the area and there are people and traffic everywhere. They need to get to a highway. On their way in, it took twenty minutes to get from the highway to the meeting. With the way she's driving, she could probably find it in five.
A series of dull cracking sounds behind her means someone's hit the back windshield. The glass is bullet proof, but it won't last forever. Lena takes a hard right, the helmet barely staying atop her head. There's some cussing from the backseat, and she yells at everyone to put on a seatbelt. There's more cussing, but she tunes that out. Right now there's only time for things that matter – the road ahead and the cars behind. Years of being the sober driver have given her good practice for ignoring backseat shenanigans. And the necessity for total focus keeps the panic at bay.
What's hard to tune out is the automatic weapons fire coming from right behind her head. The back side windows are down, and Gutterson and Clark are returning fire at their pursuers.
Jesus Christ, you stupid fucks. Neither of them is wearing a seatbelt, and it's much harder to drive the way she needs to when they're ducking in and out of the windows. The glass would have held for longer, but now the enemy just has a better chance and more time to wear it down. Fuck! No, stop swearing. We are calm. We are a leaf on the wind. Well no we're not cause he died, but we are calm, and we adapt. Part of adapting is yelling for them to sit down and close the windows. Lena hits the gas harder during a moment when they've both ducked back in to reload to force compliance. They did manage to take one car out of the running, whether it was enough lead in the engine or they got the driver she doesn't know, just sees it fall back.
The other great thing about these cars is that all the modifications have shifted the center of gravity lower. Another hail of gunfire pelts the back windshield, and Lena takes the next turn at a solid sixty miles per hour, bursting out onto one of the main roads. There's a lot more swearing (which she ignores) as she dodges in and out of traffic in ways that are unacceptable even in a country where traffic laws are more suggestion than hard and fast rules.
Finally she can see an on-ramp. She can also see two jeeps blocking the way. They're at rest and facing the wrong direction. One has a fifty cal mounted on the roof.
This time she doesn't even think or look, just peels off to the left. No one even bothers with profanity at this point. The jeeps aren't in the rearview yet, but Lena doesn't doubt they've joined the pursuit.
The back windshield shatters, and the swearing returns in force. She's too surprised to scream, and it comes out in a strangled gasp. A Browning M2 doesn't give a shit about bullet proof glass.
"Someone give me a radio!" Fuck fuck fuck fuckityfuckfuckfuck.
A radio appears, and she rattles off a frequency to Carter. He holds it up to her mouth so she can keep both hands on the wheel.
A crackle and then a male voice with a calm, "Delta zulu niner, identify."
"Clarence!"
"Lena? Where are you?"
"We're somewhere near highway nine, but we have three cars after us. I don't know where SAS is; I told them to split off. Whoever's chasing us has plenty of guns and a fifty cal."
"Can you hide?" A spurt of machine gun fire says that's not really a possibility. Someone in their car fires back, but she's too busy weaving around buildings that she can't spare a glance. Lena wishes she'd fastened the chinstrap. Fuckfuckfuck. Stop swearing.
"Shit, do you have an IR beacon?"
It's a day op, so they don't.
"If I send someone out there, and they can't distinguish –"
"We're in a white, military Land Rover, Clarence. They can figure it out! Just fucking come get us!" She bats the radio away from her face and back to Carter. He can talk to Clarence. She needs to outmaneuver and outrun three cars full of homicidal assholes.
They need to get to the highway. Getting back on a main thoroughfare is risky, but it's the best chance they have; staying on the smaller side streets runs too big a risk of running into a dead end. A few more careening turns later and they're on a different road. This time she can't see anyone blocking the on-ramp.
Finally free of traffic, Lena takes the ramp at 90 and guns it to the top speed of 155. Their pursuers take a moment to adjust, so she manages to build up some lead, though not as much as she'd like. One of the cars also appears to have dropped off; there are only two in her rearview mirror now. She doesn't slow down, but she does allow herself the briefest moment of relief. Taking time to acknowledge your blessings is important.
Apparently it's also jinxing things because about ten seconds later a burst of machine gun fire rips through whatever's left of the side windows. At least this isn't the Browning. What is the world coming to when she's getting picky about what people are trying to murder her with? Lena now knows what people mean when they say bullets whistle when they're too close. She dimly hears Carter calling out to check on everyone. Before she can control the thought, she thanks whoever's watching over them that no one was hit.
There are more cars the closer they get to Bagram, so she has to weave now, which slows their speed, but the base is finally in view. They're still too far away. Another hail of bullets hits the car. It's a near constant vibration now. The fast moving gun battle is a decent incentive for other vehicles to move out of the way though. She checks to make sure everyone is hunkered down and pushes the accelerator flat. Straight lines don't matter anymore, just speed.
Suddenly there's an explosion of eardrum-shattering gunfire, and for a moment Lena's afraid that the 50 cal had somehow managed to catch up with them. But she never felt the impact, and a glance in the rearview mirror shows it's one of the cars chasing them that was hit. The rapid thud of a helicopter rotor registers a moment later, and a collective whoop goes up that's nearly as deafening as all the shooting.
Leaning forward slightly, she sees it when it circles back around, Gatling gun spewing rounds over their heads. Thanks, Clarence, sorry I yelled at you.
"'Murica mother fuckers!"
She laughs, relieved, hysterical, and higher than a kite in a hurricane.
He'll be heartbroken when he finds out it's the Brits.
o.O.o
The helicopter follows them all the way back, but Lena doesn't slow down until just before reaching the gates. The guards probably piss themselves as the Land Rover comes to a screeching, gravel-spraying stop, but they were warned, so at least no one gets shot.
Lena's English counterpart, Clarence, is waiting for them, along with the SAS team who beat them back. It's the first time Tim has ever seen her show a shred physical affection. No sooner has she slammed the car door closed, than she's thrown her arms around his shoulders in a bear hug. The larger man takes it in stride, as if this isn't some strange alternate dimension, and for a moment Tim is jealous. She doesn't even object when Clark and Carter clap her on the back.
"That was some Fast and Furious shit, right there!" Pascal picks her hand up and gives himself a high five with it. She laughs and ducks her head with an eye roll, pulling her wrist away.
Lena wanders over to sit on the bumper, looking suddenly on the verge of collapse. Going from 100% adrenaline to sitting still does that to a person. Tim props himself next to her, close but not touching. "Hey look at that, you weren't useless."
He gets a raspberry and a shoulder bump. She looks up at him, mouth quirked in a half smile, and shakes her head. Her eyelids are a bit droopy. "Meanie." Tim huffs at her switch back to polite language. Their shoulders are still touching.
"Hey, where'd you learn to drive like that?"
"When I was sixteen. It's a boring, short story."
He looks at her expectantly, "Well?"
Lena grins, all teeth, "Are you asking me for my secrets Mr. Rangerman sir?"
"Just the embarrassing ones." Her arm is still pressed against his, and she's close enough that he can see a tiny scar on the side of her nose, like it used to be pierced.
"Oh yeah?" She raises her eyebrows and gives him another nudge with her shoulder and winces. "Man, my arm feels funny." Lena pulls back and swings her arm back and forth a bit, like she's trying to shake out pins and needles. "Must have been gripping the steering wheel too har –"
"Fuck, Lena." He jumps to his feet and turns her around.
The white of her shirt makes the red stand out, and there's a darker patch on his own sleeve where she shoved him.
"Huh." Lena just sort of stares for a moment. "Crap." Then she moves her arm about a bit more, twisting it around and craning her neck to get a better look. There's a lot more blood now, and Tim clamps a hand around her bicep.
"Ow! Jesus Christ!" She jerks and looks about to yank her arm away, but thinks better of it.
"Well you're bleeding you dumbass."
"It can't be that bad, I just noticed it."
"You were too hopped up on adrenaline. Sometimes you don't bleed until later."
"Oh," she considers the information, "how terribly odd." She's lapsed back into an English accent, and sounds more than a little out of it now. When he makes her stand, he can see a large red stain on her back.
It's just a flesh wound. If the bullet had hit anything major she would have been bleeding earlier, and this looks too fresh. But it's already staining a good chunk of her side. Clark yanks a tourniquet around her arm and she sucks in a sharp breath. Someone presses gauze into Tim's hand, and he squeezes it over her arm. Clarence hustles her back into the car, and Tim goes with, hands still firmly clamped over the wound.
When they get into the hospital, she insists on walking, "'S'fine, really." But the moment she stumbles, Clarence is there to hoist her up. She'd have made it on her own steam if not for the adrenaline crash.
"Clarence," she sounds more aware and definitely more than a little annoyed. "Put me down."
He stops and sets her back on her feet, but before he lets her go says, "You fall again and you don't get to walk."
"Fine." Tim doesn't try to put his hand on her arm again – she's putting pressure on it herself now anyways.
Lena walks more slowly, but she does get through the doors on her own.
The doctor kicks Tim and Clarence out, saying someone can collect her in a couple hours as long as there aren't any complications.
"What do you mean complications?" Tim asks.
"Oh Jesus Christ, I walked in here. Does that count for nothing?"
"Well where the fuck am I supposed to get coffee if there are 'complications'?"
"Go outside, take a right, and walk about three quarter miles. There's this sign that'll read Green Beans. If you go in that door there'll be a counter about twenty feet in front of you. There're two boxes on the counter. They look a bit like cash registers and –"
Tim turns to the doctor. "I see what you mean about complications, sir. I think she's gonna need brain surgery too."
"You face needs –" Lena picks up a pillow and prepares to throw it.
"That'll do ma'am," says the doctor, grabbing the pillow out of her hand. He nods at the door. "Sergeant."
Tim takes the hint and waits outside.
o.O.o
There aren't any complications, but patching her up takes longer than he thought it would, and Tim has to report for the mission debrief. He changes his mind a few times before leaving a note with the nurse for Lena saying she should call his barracks when she's ready to leave. After a while when there's no call he gets worried and drops by the hospital to check in, but she's not there. After some more back and forth in his head he goes to her office. He finally finds her leaning against the coffee wall.
She's standing this time, cup held loosely between both hands, head tilted back to look at the sky. He notices her hands. She's painted her nails again, some horrendous dark blue with glitter that's probably called 'midnight passion' or some shit instead of just 'blue.' Tim looks around but doesn't see anyone else, and there's an immediate rush of anger at her carelessness.
"I thought I told you not to go anywhere alone." If nothing else, today should have taught her something about mortality.
Lena doesn't startle at his voice, doesn't change position or look at him, just lifts the cup to her lips and takes a slow sip. "You ever hesitate?" The question and the thoughtful tone of voice catch him off guard. "When you kill people, I mean. Do most people hesitate?"
Tim crosses his arms. "It happens." He doesn't specify whether it happens to him or to 'people'.
"How long does it take to feel bad about killing people?" Now she turns around, eyes wide. "I mean, I'm not saying you should, but if you did…I mean…" She sighs and takes another sip. "I don't feel bad about killing those men." Lena starts to turn the cup in her hands, but forces herself to stop. "Is…is that normal?"
"You think you ought to feel bad?"
"Shouldn't I?" Lena shifts her weight to the other foot, takes a breath. "First thing I felt was happy." She looks away, and more quietly, "Don't tell me that doesn't sound messed up."
'Alright fuckers, listen up. You're going to get blood on your hands. You'll probably be up to your goddamn elbows in it, enough to wash your faces in. It better be the right damn blood.'
"It doesn't."
Her head comes up, disbelieving, and she looks like she's about to contradict him.
She's always been wily, curious, likes slipping her fingers between cracks even when she doesn't mean to. Right now he wishes he had a drink in his hand to cover his face. Instead he holds her gaze. "Welcome to Bagram, where it's nice to be alive at the end of the day."
She gives a soft snort, more to release tension than out of amusement.
"Which is why you shouldn't be out here alone." He almost takes her uninjured arm, intending to steer her back to her room, but thinks better of it.
"Well, not sure if you noticed, but there are two of us. Didn't they teach you to count in Ranger School?"
"All the way to ten."
"Alright, fine, but who walked you out here to begin with?"
"Rangers don't need babysitters."
"Gee. Thanks."
He tries not to be happy when she elbows him in the stomach.
A/N: The quote about being 'you're not dead til you're dead' was something I read by Dave Grossman. I love that sentence. "Leaf on the wind" – Firefly reference.