Mercantile Credit Bank
Gateway Plaza Complex
Loudoun County, Virginia.
5.35.P.M.
Twilight had begun to fall outside the command center, it's encroaching shadows settling over the scene like an oppressive cape. Already a fleet of ambulances were pulling up to deal with the dead and injured inside. Black clad HRT members and detectives mingled around the entrance to the building discussing the destructive handiwork of the assault team. A large gathering of interested passers-by had congregated at the end of the street, their presence countered from intruding any further by uniformed officers from the local police department.
A breathless air of expectancy settled heavily over the gathering crowd. Nervous whispers mingled with the odd command from nearby police officer's urging the crowd to keep behind the taped off area. A television news crew arrived on the scene, gaining entry to within a few feet of the building after a lengthy chat with one of the Watch Commanders. Silently the journalists set up their equipment, waiting with the rest of the interested public for the first glimpse of the rescued hostages, or bodies, which really made for a better lead-in.
Nobody in that ever growing crowd paid particular attention to the diminutive woman who raced across the street.
Scully headed toward the partly demolished bank in a daze, her body trembling with a mixture of adrenaline and trepidation. Each reluctant footstep brought her nearer to the building, closer to the truth that lay in wait inside its glass facade. Deep within the recesses of her mind a battle waged... a conflict between her strict professionalism and that of overwhelming personal grief. Personal grief was winning this particular battle hands down.
"...wasted the hostage...wasted the hostage..."
The spotter's words kept pace with her strides, tormenting her with their finality. A mental slideshow began to torture her further as one by one images of her fallen partner filled her mind's eye. Every grisly crime scene she'd ever investigated replayed itself, Mulder's face superimposed grotesquely over that of the original victim's. Each disturbing deathscene became more ghastly than the last, complete with every possible scenario of Mulder's last earthly moments.
Bullets ripping through his upper body as he became a victim of the vicious crossfire between assault team and criminal. A single close range shot to the head, splitting skull, shredding sinew and cerebrum as it embedded itself deep within the confines of his perfect brain. His lifeless hazel eyes staring out in stony silence from his shattered and broken body. His dark brown hair matted with blood, tiny particles of brain matter sticking to the once fine strands.
Her stomach lurched and bile surged into the back of her throat, burning the tender tissue of her oesophagus. She clamped an unsteady hand over her mouth, arresting its further progress and angrily forced those thoughts from her mind.
As she neared the doorway to the bank she could see the full extent of the damage inflicted upon the building. What was left of the two glass-fronted doors hung precariously from twisted metal hinges. They swayed in the light breeze blowing down the exposed street, threatening to collapse completely with the merest brush of a hand. Shattered glass lay in sharp and glittering fragments on the sidewalk, debris and yet more glass lay strewn across the bank's interior.
To gain entrance, she had to dodge her way through the still milling crowd of assault team members and detectives. Paramedics and ambulance personnel stood in a tight group to one side, waiting the go ahead to recover the dead and injured from the building. They reminded her of a flock of circling vultures waiting to pick at the bones of their prey. On one level, she knew that everyone here was only doing their job, but in her grief-stricken state the price paid for their intervention was too high.
Way too high.
Suddenly she became increasingly frustrated with the gawker's macabre need to mingle outside the building. Elbowing her way past them, she ignored their rude comments and continued forcing her way through.
A uniformed police officer considered blocking her entrance, but one look at the grim face and the ID she shoved in his face changed his mind. She passed over the threshold into the bank's interior, her feet crunching upon the shards of glass and debris, her eyes trying to make sense of the chaos around her.
Sounds of cursing, crying and complaining came from the liberated hostages as they still huddled in a group upon the floor, almost too stunned to move yet. Assault team members, weapons slung over their shoulders, hovered over them protectively. More Police and FBI agents were turning up by the second to begin the painstaking task of getting coherent statements from all concerned, a task that Scully didn't envy them. The acrid smell of cordite hung heavy in the air, layered with the metallic stench of blood and death. Each definitive aroma assaulted Scully's senses, pulling her with magnetic force toward the scene of the carnage.
"You can't go in there, ma'am."
A bulky, black-clad figure filled her sight, blocking her view of the huddled hostages. Her eyes slid up his body to lock onto his earnest gaze.
"I'm Agent Scully, I'm with the Bureau."
She flipped open her ID automatically, the HRT agent hesitated briefly before stepping to one side. Scully nodded her thanks and brushed past him. The reek of spilt blood and other more involuntary movements increased as she made the last few hesitant steps toward the four covered bodies on the floor. Liquid pools of crimson spread outward from each still figure, a river of life now turned to one of death. Each body was covered, but it was easy for her to identify which one belonged to her partner. His was the only one covered from head to waist by a HRT windbreaker. Beside it, splattered with the blood of two men, lay Mulder's FBI Identification wallet. It was open, showing the picture that she had seen earlier, only now it was stained a deep, foreboding red.
Even if all that hadn't been evident, his charcoal grey suitpants and highly polished leather shoes would have been enough of a clue. Scully began to shake, the tremors taking over her body as her eyes took in the fact that her partner lay before her, broken and still. Tears sprang up, distorting the image further, almost softening its harshness. A small, involuntary sob broke free, wrenched from her very soul.
For the third time that day her world tilted lopsidedly on its axis. Step by painful step she moved forward, fist clenched tightly to her mouth, as if to hold back any more sounds that might break free. Another trembling step forward, she shook her head, unable to accept the evidence of her senses. Her eyes swept over him, needing to find something - anything - that would refute the all-too-real body before her. Too late, she thought, You're too late for him.
Around her she could dimly hear the sounds of the recovery teams as they began their cleanup. In the distance she faintly registered the sound of a receding ambulance, and another drawing closer.
As she knelt down to pull the jacket back from his face, a gentle cough from behind caught her attention. Looking up, she caught the sorrowful gaze of the young man who's jacket covered her partner's body.
"Ma'am?" He flinched at the raw pain coming from the blue eyes of the stricken woman in front of him, "I think this belongs to you."
In his hands he held the note the gunman had been reading when all hell had broken loose. That last note, crumpled and spattered with blood. With a surprisingly steady hand Scully reached up and pulled the note from his grasp.
"Thank you," she whispered softly as he turned and left her alone. Alone. The word echoed in her mind bringing with it an overpowering feeling of intense loneliness and heartache, Oh my God, Mulder, I'm alone.
Her iron clad resolve dissolved entirely under the weight of those last thoughts. No longer able to keep the tears at bay she let them fall, feeling the cathartic release of her grief combine with the saline wetness trickling down her face. A trembling hand once more reached out toward the jacket lying over his face. Her fingers curled around the soft material of the windbreaker's collar as she mentally braced herself. She drew back the jacket and gazed down into the terrified, glazed eyes of...
A stranger.
For a moment, nothing registered. The room seemed frozen, the only sound was the harshness of her breathing. Then time resumed, the room began to brighten. Scully toppled forward, partly in relief, and partly from the need to confirm. Her latex-covered hand landed on the blood-soaked chest before her. Another detail penetrated her shocked haze; wrong tie, this one matches the suit.
Suddenly everything came back into extreme sharpness. It's not him! Her mind screamed this, over and over. For now there was no thought of the family this poor Armani-clad man had left behind. Now there was only the gibbering relief that the body before her was NOT Mulder.
Glancing at the other men laid out nearby, she jumped to her feet, tearing off the bloodied glove. Scanning the room, she spotted the young man who'd handed her Mulder's note. Adrenaline pumping, Scully took a step away from the body–It's not HIM!!–she'd grieved over. She bent and gently repositioned the HRT jacket over the corpse, murmuring a quick prayer for his soul.
Spotting the HRT man again, she gingerly made her way across the still-slippery floor. Grabbing his arm, she spun him around to face her.
"Where is he?" she demanded. "Where's Agent Mulder?"
The FBI agent taking the statement turned toward her, a ready rebuke perched upon his lips. However, he quickly changed his mind when he saw the look in her eyes. He knew Agent Scully, and knew what had gone down here. Closing his notebook, he took a couple of steps to one side and gave the female agent the space she needed.
Oblivious to the courtesy she'd just been given, Scully rounded on the young man in front of her. "I need to know where they've taken him? I need to know if he's all right?"
With a surprised glance at the bodies behind her, he nodded and keyed his mike, asking questions Scully only barely registered. Running a hand through her hair, she forced herself to be still, to not scream at the top of her lungs, "HE'S NOT HERE!!" Taking another deep breath, she focused on what the serious-faced man was saying to her.
"...yes, Sir, I'll pass that along...be advised, it appears that the man they're transporting is a federal agent...yes, Sir..."
Taking Scully by the arm, he bullied his way through the still-gathering crowd near the doors. Bodyblocking for the small agent, he told her what he knew.
"They're taking all the injured to St Jude's. If he's not around here, then that'll be your best place to look."
"Do you know how badly he was injured?"
He shook his head no. "Sorry ma'am, but I arrived on the scene after the takedown."
He nodded to one of the agents that had stopped Scully before. "One of the guys gave me the note when he recognised the name from your ID. He said he found it next to the body over there. I thought..." He trailed off leaving the rest unsaid.
"It's okay, really." Scully surprised them both by jumping up and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thank you so much for your help."
The HRT man watched as she pushed her way through the edges of the crowd to the car she and Mulder'd left so many hours before. He grimaced as she gunned the engine, forcing the people milling around to scatter before she took off with a squeal of her tires.
Lucky bastard, he thought, meaning that on several levels as he returned to the grim task of cleaning up.