Notes: I will be traveling next week, so the next installment will most likely be late.
A COP is a combat outpost.
"I told you so."
"That's not how it works, Clarence. You can't say it if I already acknowledged it beforehand."
"The point stands."
"The point is noted," says Lena, with no small amount of exasperation. If one more person says 'oh wow, that was dangerous' or 'that was a stupid risk', she's going to shank a bitch. If it's stupid, but it works, then it's not stupid. She reminds herself that it's kind of him to worry. "And tell Peter I owe him one."
"Get him a date with Oona. He asked about her."
"Ha! That'll work out."
Between Oona's fetish for all things British and deep aversion to military men, a date between her and Peter would end in either marriage or a murder charge. Maybe Peter would like scotch instead. Or maybe something else. Tim would probably like the scotch.
"Have you heard anything more from Faisal?" she asks, skimming one last time over the translated transcript of last night's mission. She's going to bend those GenCorp bastards over a table and fuck them five ways to Sunday.
"Lena." She likes to think of this as Clarence's 'dad voice'. It's endearing and annoying at the same time. "You don't need to go rushing off to Surobi right now. Give him a hot second to find something more solid. Preferably a hot week or two."
"Clarence," Lena waves the concerned dad voice aside, "His contact said a man from Tagab. Educated. Who the heck else is it going to be?" She doesn't want to wait a week or two. She's primed, ready to move, coasting one a wave of righteous determination. Her coat's on, but now she has to wait for everyone else to tie their shoes so they can get out the door. "Besides, you wanted me to leave Bagram. Surobi is leaving Bagram."
"I meant for home." He may actually be annoyed with her.
"Well, we'll notice if a bunch of armed white dudes show up in Surobi pissed off that I'm about to expose their little opium ring."
Last night had been a disastrous success. The phone and computer bugs she and Clarence had planted in the GenCorp offices had yielded surprisingly little in the way of information. Ambiguously worded emails were suspicious, but nothing to get one's panties in a twist about, certainly nothing a Senate committee is going to get their panties in a twist about, which is what she needs. The only thing that had been really off was the extra disbursements for "personnel expenses". Apparently the going rate for translators running messages between opium farmers and security companies was an extra hundred bucks a week, a paltry sum considering how much GenCorp is making off the war already.
Lena had contacted the translators, pretending she wanted in on the opium smuggling and was willing to blackmail her way into their little operation. Tim, in all of his well-meaning glory had nearly kiboshed the whole thing. Her stomach still clenches thinking of it. Tim, move. Left. As much as Lena wants to take the Rangers with her into Surobi, his actions have made that impossible, something she has mixed feelings about.
Predictably, the ANA translators didn't take kindly to blackmail. Perhaps they would have been more receptive if it had been Clarence, but they'd also probably have had less compunction about shooting Clarence as well, so Lena had insisted it be her doing the talking. While specific names weren't mentioned, she had enough audio to implicate GenCorp for gross misconduct, and as soon as she had Faheen in hand to link the two together, treason.
"At least wait until we have confirmation."
"If we wait for confirmation, we risk scaring him off or letting him get away. You know that just as well as I. He obviously doesn't stay put that long." And because he is kind, unlike others in their field she's had the displeasure of working with, "And with Peter's team, the risk is far lower."
"That sounds far too close to 'what could possibly go wrong?' and if you're asking that at all, it means everything could."
"I'll make you a deal. Once we're there if something goes wrong, if it feels off, just say, and we'll come back."
It's a bit empty as far as comfort goes. They may be unofficial partners, but in the end neither of them has any say over the other's actions. Clarence knows this, but as acceptance is the only option, he does so gracefully.
"You try to go back on that, and I'll carry you back here like a sack of potatoes."
Lena starts, fingers pausing mid-sentence over the keyboard. Maybe not that gracefully.
o.O.o
Tim needles her a lot afterward, always smiling. She needs to be trained to understand him. As a gesture of goodwill – he knows her too well to mistake it for common sense – she wore the boots when he took her to see the Howitzer. He was right – the look on her face was worth it. He bought her a hot chocolate from Green Beans afterward because he wanted to continue the goodwill, and he called her a dumbass when she spilled it on her pants from taking a too-hot sip too soon. In return she called him an insufferable dipwad and threatened to dump the rest on him. Tim considered the day a resounding success. Lena even demanded they continue her shooting lessons; she really liked the Howitzer.
She's still not great, but giving her a nine mil instead of the 0.45 made a difference. The nine mil doesn't look like it's in constant danger of leaping out of her hands every time she pulls the trigger. Sometimes Carter or Pascal shows up. Clark even dropped by once. Tim likes the way the presence of the other members of his unit makes Lena shy at the range. It's also the one place she'll always wear boots to. "Well duh, walking's easy. It's standing around in heels that's hard." Tim lets that bit of faulty logic slide. Lena also wears looser t-shirts. She feels out of place there. Even when Pascal's nice and yells encouragement instead of teasing like the others do she drags her feet, taking extra time to repack the clip. But she enjoys it, and Tim likes that she's not just doing this for him. He likes her this way – brows drawn in concentration, hair messy from the headphones… boots. He can forget the starched white shirts and clean hands, that in a few months she'll be back in Washington in an air-conditioned office surrounded by suits and he'll be back in Georgia, sweating and surrounded by olive drab.
Today she looks like what he thinks of as the Washington version of Lena – make-up, an unwrinkled white collar shirt, and nails painted an unnaturally bright red. Her hair's up, but it's held in place with some sort of wooden clip that no female soldier would ever bother with or be allowed to wear. She's barefoot at least, the ridiculous heels kicked under the desk.
At this moment Lena's wearing a frown, lips tucked between her teeth in concentration. She's frustrated. It's cute. Lena versus the trigger. This is the part of her he wants to touch, this woman with her feet thrown up on her desk and a gun in her hands. His mind fills with too many thoughts better left unthunk, so he stays by the door, arms crossed, a fence between him and places he's not meant to go. She's leaning back in her seat aiming carefully at an armor plate propped against the far wall doing the dry fire exercises he taught her.
"I swear, if you're here to tell me not to go to Surobi…" Lena lets the threat hang, trailing off as she squeezes the trigger.
That's exactly why he's here. His guilty silence and closed expression must give him away.
"Tim," she sighs, already on the path to annoyed, but not far enough along to call him by his rank, "I may not be a big bad Ranger man, but I am a big girl." He wishes he could talk her out of this.
"I never said you weren't."
"You're looking at me the way you always do right before you call me an idiot." Tim wasn't aware he had a look for that.
He wants to argue with her, but she's not some limp-dick private he can order around, even if it is for her own good.
"It's not like I'm going alone you know."
That doesn't make him feel any better. He won't be there to watch out for her, and having to wait and worry until she's back and safe again is going to suck. But telling her that feels like putting himself too far out there, so instead he says, "You need to practice with the clip in." The least she can do is know how to kill anyone who tries to do the same to her.
"I don't want to." She's feeling cantankerous. She'd probably also be annoyed to know he thinks it's cute.
"Just put it back in."
Lena looks up at him, letting her shoulders sag, and in a sheepish murmur, "It was getting heavy." She sweeps a few ornery strands of hair away from her eyes. "You think you're in shape until you have to hold a chunk of metal steady out in front of you for a half hour."
"Half an hour?"
She twists to squint at the clock behind her. "Thirty five minutes."
Tim gives her points for dedication. Too bad it does nothing to ease the growing knot of worry in his stomach.
He plants himself on her side of the desk just behind her shoulder. "Come on," he says, a little more gruffly than he meant to, glad when she doesn't take it personally, "Lemme see."
Lena huffs and raises the empty weapon, clip reinserted. "Nope, stand up, feet apart." Another huff before dragging herself upright.
"Sadist." He grins at that and looks over her shoulder, pleased to see the pad on her forefinger is centered correctly on the trigger.
Lena squeezes, he offers adjustments, and she corrects. There's still a slight side jerk now and then when she anticipates the trigger, but it's a leap and a mile better than she used to be. Finally her arms are tired again, and Lena ejects the clip and checks the chamber before letting her hand fall to the side. Over-cautious, but he's not going to give her shit about it. He can only hope she'll keep that attitude when she's in Surobi.
"Not bad," he says, "maybe I'll even give you bullets next time."
Lena turns her head towards him with a grin, brow cocked. "Oh yeah? Maybe?" Her face is suddenly uncomfortably close in this position. It takes a conscious effort to ignore the urge to lick his lips. But then she turns back around and raises the gun, aiming and pulling the trigger one more time. Her hand jerks sideways.
"Gosh dang it."
"If you run out of ammo, go for their eyes. Or throat. Or knees. Everyone thinks trying to punch someone in the stomach works, but you can take a lot punishment there. Eyes and knees hurt, and a hard enough jab to the throat will kill someone quick."
"Tim." Lena turns back around, and they're face to face again. He stays still and waits for her to move away. She doesn't, so neither does he. "I'm not running willy nilly into a hail of bullets. It's just not that bad."
She's too close, so he hides behind the only thing he can. "Well that's good 'cause you might have better luck throwing this at someone's head." She glowers at him in a completely unmenacing way, and he grins. "How about I show you how it's done?" He holds out his hand, well into her personal space, and still she doesn't retreat. The bravado rings a bit hollow since there are no bullets involved.
Lena lays the gun on his hand, takes too long to let go. "Alright Mr. Big Bad Ranger Boy, bring it." The way she calls him bad makes him want to be.
Tim chuckles, holding the pistol in his palm between them. He can see the pulse in her neck, high enough to know she's nervous under all that teasing. "Oh, I'll bring it."
Lena tilts her head, a challenge. "Oh yeah?" She says it slower this time. Still up close, still smirking, and he wonders if she's really asking a different question. Tim reaches past her, even farther into her space, and sets the gun on her desk so she can't see his hand shake. His arm brushes around her and still she doesn't move away.
"Yeah." He tilts his head, definitely answering a different question, hoping it's the one she's asking.
Lena stays still a moment, just looking, first his eyes, then down to his lips, then lower and back up again. But then the smile fades, and Tim thinks maybe he should step back before he embarrasses himself.
He's about to reach for the gun again when she leans forward, and her lips graze the corner of his mouth. In the time it takes for him to catch up he feels them brush past again, closing gently over his bottom lip. His body gets with the program way before his brain, and it needs so much more than coy softness. He kisses her back hard, lunging forward with enough force that they stumble against the edge of her desk.
Lena's probably had guys in suits who drive her to fancy restaurants in nice cars and can offer her all the things a woman like her is probably used to. His suit is fifty shades of tan and olive and shit-brown and covered moon dust. The guys she dates probably think they're all smooth too, with their Ivy League diplomas and corner offices, the sort of assholes who say 'Oh I thought about joining the army, but I wanted to go to college instead.' Fuckers. He bites her lip a bit too hard, but she doesn't slow down. He's not suave, he's starving. There's a moment when his hands have already untucked her shirt and slipped up the back to feel skin and his tongue is more in her mouth than his own that he wonders if he's gotten overeager, too aggressive. That fear is blown aside in the next moment when Lena yanks him against her, holding their hips together with her legs wrapped around his waist. He's fantasized for a while about the things those hips could do, and the only disappointment is that there are still clothes between them.
He's probably supposed to be gentle, to seduce her slowly since it's the first time he's really touched her. But he knows deep down that this isn't just the first, but the only time, so fuck that shit.
Lena groans when his mouth closes over a spot just under her jaw. "Oh, fuck." It's breathless, and her thighs jerk involuntarily, squeezing around his waist, and God but it's the sexiest thing he's ever heard. He sucks harder. Each curse is savored and chased, his very own private badge of honor, and he means to leave every one of those marks on her neck.
Lena moans in his ear, and her hands drop to tear at his belt. When that doesn't come off fast enough, she rips open his collar instead; he'll have a few marks of his own. God. His grip on her waist tightens convulsively as her mouth moves over his chest. He looks down. The skin of her neck is purple, like someone took a crayon to it. He might not be allowed to keep her, but she'll look in the mirror and remember this. He'll remember this. When he jacks off he'll think of the way she pulls his hair and the way her fingers dig into his skin. The way her hands are everywhere, grasping, she can't seem to get enough of him either, and it drives him wild. He'll think of the sudden, uncontrollable sounds she makes as he leaves bruises on her neck. The way her ass feels in his hands when he grinds into her, the way her thighs squeeze his waist. He'll remember the wicked way those hips, god those hips, and that mouth –
Halfway through the frantic scramble of buttons and zippers and Velcro there's a pounding knock on the door.
"Fuck." Lena jerks back like he's a hot coal and immediately starts doing up her shirt. No last soft brush of her lips against his, no lingering goodbye. There's no time, so he does the same, double quick. Fuck. He thinks of baseball, boot camp, and then because he's truly desperate – his father.
"Hand me the gun," she orders, then louder, "Come in!"
The door opens and he plays along, ignoring whoever the shitbag is that just interrupted them. "Don't pull down, just squeeze." His face is hot and his balls are bluer than god.
Tim looks down at Lena, pretending to gauge her technique. The only thing he can concentrate on is the sound of her breathing, still a bit too fast, and all he wants is to shove the intruder out of the room and lock the door so he can feel her again.
Her shirt has his dirt on it from his ACUs. She kept her hair down, which hides the hickeys, but her mouth is too red. His uniform collar hides his own neck well enough.
"Lena, I have something for you." It's Clarence. The James Bond wannabe with his stupid suit and his stupid accent.
The gun comes down. "I'll see you later, Sergeant." She doesn't look at him.
"Ma'am." He says it out of spite, half-expecting her to correct him, but Lena lets him walk out the door unchastised. He's more disappointed about that than he ought to be and takes his anger out on the rocks during the long walk back to the barracks.
Fucking British prick.
o.O.o
Surobi is surprisingly beautiful. Although much of Afghanistan is scrubby desert, the Kabul River running through the middle of the district has kept the area a lush green.
They go by helicopter to an outlying COP, thankfully, and the whirring thump of the rotor is calming despite the loudness of it. The drive the rest of the way into Surobi is short, and Peter's team keeps up a steady flow of bantering conversation amongst themselves.
Listening to them makes Lena miss the Rangers. Really she misses Tim. In a moment of weakness, she'd googled the stateside duty stations of the Ranger battalions. None of them are even close to D.C, nor anywhere she'd have occasion to visit for work. Lena unconsciously scrunches her face, annoyed at herself for overreacting this way to one kiss. But it was a really good kiss, and she can't help thinking that if Clarence hasn't interrupted it would have been some really good other things as well.
Lena gives herself a mental smack, sick of finding herself once again going down this path of thought. Snap out of it, dollface.
Faisal's base of operations is a gated house to the northeast of town, comfortably occupied by his minimal team of three, himself and two security officers.
He meets Clarence and Lena and the SAS team on the back porch after they pull through the gate. His contact is waiting for them as well, visible through the back window seated at the kitchen table.
"This is Ibrahim." Faisal nods at the bearded man inside the house.
"He'll give us Faheen?" Lena peers intently through the glass, looking for any sign of deception or nervousness in the man that might indicate an ulterior motive. It's impossible to tell from here how old he is. With his beard he could be anywhere from early twenties to early fifties.
"We don't know it will be him, Lena," Clarence cuts in, always the voice of caution, "or that it's not a trap."
"He has some conditions." Faisal twists a pen between his fingers, tense. Clarence looks over at Lena as if to say I told you so.
"Conditions?" Lena asks before Clarence can throw up a roadblock.
"Yes."
"Well?"
Faisal stands and looks at Clarence before gesturing to the door. "He wants to talk to her." Lena bristles at this. Clarence may be his boss, but he's certainly not hers.
"Great." Lena strides over, opening the door before objections can be voiced. "I'll hear him out then."
Behind her, Clarence asks hurriedly whether or not the man was searched for weapons, but Lena has already let the door fall shut. None of the assembled Englishmen come barreling through it, so she assumes the answer was yes.
Ibrahim al'Maswani looks up at her as she enters, squinting as if comparing her to a memory. He's on the young side now that she's up close. There are no lines around his eyes, and his skin is overly shiny around his nose and between his brows. Prudently, he sits with his hands flat on the table between them.
"You're Lena Carlan?" he asks.
"Yes."
"Do you have identification?" Lena narrows her eyes, suddenly more in agreement with Clarence's caution. Ibrahim's gaze is intent, and suddenly she wonders if she's been lured here.
Lena uses the time digging in her bag under the table to pull out the gun and set it on her lap. She probably wasn't supposed to take that, but having it along makes her feel better. Placing the laminated identification card on the table between them, she lets one hand drop to rest lightly on the pistol grip. Ibrahim leans forward slightly to look at the card, then her, then back at the card. He nods, and then reaches inside his jacket.
Lena jerks the pistol upward. "Stop."
Ibrahim freezes, hand still partially obscured by his jacket. He hadn't expected to find her armed – a naïve assumption in her mind – and his eyes have widened in fear. Lena doesn't lower her gun, but she breathes more easily. It seems he'd been unprepared for weapons to be involved, and most likely means no harm. But contrary to Clarence's griping Lena is not reckless.
The door opened a split second after Lena drew the gun, and Peter and Clarence stand in the doorway. Keeping her eyes on Ibrahim she asks, "You searched him right?"
"Yes," says Faisal from behind them.
"How did he get here?" Lena wonders if there's a bomb waiting to go off somewhere nearby.
"I picked him up." She's beginning to respect Faisal. Then again, Clarence's good habits can't help but be ingrained upon his underlings.
"Alright. Thanks." They don't back out of the room, instead making themselves comfortable in the doorway.
Lena turns back to Ibrahim, who has remained frozen in place. "What are you reaching for?"
"A cell phone."
"Take it out slowly." He takes the order to heart and pulls it out a good deal more slowly than Lena had meant him to.
"There's a video on it."
Lena nods, and, still moving slowly, Ibrahim types in the unlock code and taps the icon for stored photos and videos. After finding the right file he slides the phone across the table towards her.
Lena adjusts the grip on the gun to only include one hand and presses the red play button. The video is short, only a couple minutes, and the volume is loud enough to carry to the men behind her. Clarence is the first to speak once it's over.
"Well fuck me."
o.O.o
She doesn't come back.
For the first week he's not worried. Not that worried. It sits in the back of his mind, but it's quiet. The second week he wishes he had an email address just to make sure she's ok, to hear her voice even if it's only in his head. But no news is good news, so he pushes thoughts of her to the back of his mind and tells them to sit quietly in the corner like before.
Near the end of the third week he sees Peter, one of the SAS members who'd gone with Lena to Surobi, at the DFAC. Tim shovels the rest of his food in his mouth as quickly as possible and jogs the mile to her office. She's not there. She's not in her CHU. She's not in their spot with an extra cup of coffee waiting for him. He waited for an hour, feeling increasingly nervous and at the same time like a pathetic idiot. That evening he finds a laptop to check the news. There are no stories about female civilian casualties in Afghanistan.
Tim goes to look for her the next day and finds the name plate on the door to her office is gone. There's still nothing in the news. He doesn't want to talk to Clarence, but Peter is easy enough. Tim finds him again at the DFAC, casually asks him how Surobi went.
"We go' wot we came for," is the short reply, then with a hint of understanding, "She left mate."
She left. Relief is quickly followed by intense and unpleasant feelings of foolishness. He's not sure what he expected, but goodbye didn't seem unreasonable.
After that his thoughts sit in their corner, not so much quiet as sullen and studiously ignored.