So, more author's notes: First of all, for everyone who favorited or followed the story, thank you so much. The sheer numbers were overwhelming. Second, I will likely be uploading a chapter a week through chapter six or seven. It might get a little longer then, because work is, well, work, and writing for a living means I don't get as much time with fanfic as I would like. I hope you all stick around for the ride, though. :)
Finally, I will point out this is not slash, won't ever be slash and I hope you can enjoy it for what it is: the start of a lasting, deep friendship between two men who end up being more alike than they know.
One last note: the site has been kind of grumpy tonight, so I'm trying to delete this and repost it.
New York, New York, April 12, 2002
Yawning, Phil Coulson snaked out a hand and snagged the cup of coffee sitting on the edge of the computer console. He eyed it warily for a moment, then took a quick gulp, resisting the urge to spit it back out.
Not only was it cold, but a thin, acidic film seemed to have grown in the substance – the result of rewarming the pot he'd taken it from several times in the last few hours. He contemplated leaving to make a fresh pot, then glanced at the clock on the computer screen in front of him and noted the time.
9:57 p.m.
His agents would be checking in in less than five minutes. Not enough time to make it up to the small kitchen off the intelligence area, start a pot and get a fresh cup. Grimacing, he wondered when caffeine had become a proper substitute for a few hours sleep – and downed the rest of the cup in two long swallows.
His stomach rebelled for a moment, then made peace with the vile stuff. He supposed late-night coffee became inevitable when he was the superior taking reports from their agents in Central Asia – Afghanistan to be specific – and the team in particular he was waiting for.
He didn't have to like it, though. Silently, he hoped that Callahan and Barrett weren't late tonight.
Coulson heard the door slide open, followed by light footsteps, and then someone stop behind him.
"Agent Coulson?" He turned to find a fresh-faced young woman behind him, holding out a large paper cup.
"Compliments of Director Fury, sir." The tone in the woman's voice, and the way she held the cup, made it very clear how she felt about playing errand boy – or rather, girl – for the Director. He accepted the cup, giving her a sympathetic smile.
"Thank you, Agent … Hill, is it?" A fresh influx of new recruits had swamped their training quarters since the events of 9-11, but this woman had caught the eye of just about all of her superiors. With glowing reports highlighting both her skills and her professionalism, Fury – short a personal assistant – had gotten her reassigned as his aide as soon as she'd cleared training.
Still, as she nodded at him, she looked impossibly young, and less than thrilled at being reduced to fetching coffee like a secretary. He smiled again. He knew her job entailed much more than the occasional coffee run, so she could cope.
Besides, it wasn't why the Director had sent her.
"Please give the Director my thanks, and tell him I'll have an update for him in about 15 minutes." Hill gave him a glare that looked like she wanted to roll her eyes at the dismissal, but nodded. She then turned on her heel and stalked off.
Phil fought the urge to chuckle. He knew Fury had sent the coffee as an afterthought – the main purpose of sending Hill was to check on the update from the team in the field. Which, as he glanced at his watch, would be coming in just a few seconds.
The clock on the computer kicked over to an even 10 p.m. He waited patiently, and after about 30 seconds, his cell phone began to ring. The ID came up as "Marco" – Callahan's code name. Barrett was Polo, which the two seemed to get endless amusement out of when they were on base.
Phil tapped his headset to open the line – and also the adjacent recording equipment – but before he could even offer a greeting, the sound of gunfire echoed across the line.
"Guardian, nova. Do you copy? Nova."
"Nova" was short for "supernova," which in turn signaled a blown operation – either in terms of an agent's cover or a situation gone completely FUBAR. It was never used lightly, and the tone of voice in which Callahan dropped the code word – confusion and agitation overriding all the professionalism the agent normally exhibited – sent a rush of adrenaline and fear through Phil's veins.
Fuck. He dropped down into his chair, typing into the keyboard to pull up a GPS location on his two operatives. He then grabbed the agent at the computer next to him, and mouthed, "Get me Fury."
"Report first, panic later, Marco." The trace had already kicked in, but it would take time. The best thing – the only thing, his brain uselessly processed – he could do was run the trace and take the report and pray they caught a break.
"Safe house breached, Guardian." Coulson smacked his palm against the arm of his chair, as more gunfire sounded in the background. Over the top of chatter from gunfire, he heard two voices – one, clearly Barrett's, another shouting something back in Farsi. He heard Callahan drop the phone, and then the sound of more bullets being exchanged.
Then, with a rustle of fabric, his agent was back on the line.
"We're on the run, Guardian. We burned the computers, burned the hard copies. Sent what data we had via my cell. Best we could do."
The sound of automatic gunfire echoed across the line. Several single shots then followed, but Callahan didn't speak again.
Coulson grimaced, then looked at the computer screen in front of him – willing it to run the GPS trace faster. But it would take at least another minute and a half to get a lock, and even if they did, there was no operational support on site. All they could do was use the Director's military connections and hope for some cooperation.
Dammit. He'd pushed for the support. Hard. He didn't like putting assets in country without backup – no matter how simple the intelligence run. And now, because the damned Security Council had made another call, all he could do was sit here and listen – listen and do nothing.
"Guardian, we're cornered." Callahan came back on the line, and Coulson could hear the anger in the man's voice. "We're cornered, between two groups of fucking hostiles in a back alley. Please tell me you have the package."
Phil quickly brought up his email account on the console in front of him, and saw two new emails – neither from Callahan. He closed his eyes, and forced a measure of calm into his voice.
"Roger that, Marco. We're good." Coulson refused to leave Callahan without the one thing he'd asked for – even if Phil had to lie to give it to him. He could feel the bitter bile at the back of his throat. "Now listen to me. I need you to hang up and stow this phone. Try and get it somewhere where they won't look for it, so we can still track your GPS."
Behind him, he heard a door slam open, and then Fury's voice demanding an update. Phil didn't care. Someone else could bring the Director up to speed. Right now, Coulson needed to hear an affirmative from his agent.
When Callahan finally spoke, he could hear, of all things, amusement in the other man's voice.
"Guardian, I know protocols as well as you do." Callahan chuckled softly. "I know you'll do what you can by us, but … no matter what happens, thank you."
Without another word, the line disconnected. Phil dropped his head forward, fighting the sudden urge to pound something – or someone. He closed his eyes, and drew in a deep breath, then let it out shakily.
Control. He needed control.
He heard footsteps, and knew the Director had come to stand behind him. Even without turning, he could feel Fury's gaze settling on him, looking for an explanation.
The problem was, Coulson didn't have one. He sighed and spun the chair around to face his boss – and his friend.
"Sir." Phil didn't have a clue where to start. Fury looked at him with a mixture of compassion and confusion, then gestured wildly at the screen.
"Knock off the 'sir,' Phil. What the hell just happened?"
Phil just shook his head, trying to find the words. Five minutes ago, Fury had sent up Agent Hill – and a cup of coffee – as a means of breaking the tedium, as a welcome distraction from the intense yet arcane art of intelligence gathering. Seven months into a new war, SHIELD had dropped operatives literally all over the planet, all in a search for some vital key that would lead to a quick resolution – the slam-dunk the American public wanted in a war.
Now, it looked like they had found something, and then lost it again in the space of a few minutes. How the hell could you explain that?
But as Phil tried to find a way to explain all that, a soft "ping" sounded from the console.
A third new email showed on the screen, stamped from "Marco."
The subject line read: "Package."
Thirty minutes later, Fury steered Phil into his office, shutting the door tightly behind him.
"I know what you're going to ask me, Phil, and the answer is hell and no." Fury dropped into his chair, and gestured to his agent to do the same.
Instead, Coulson squared his shoulders, and dropped into the SHIELD equivalent of parade rest – his hands holding a folder behind his back, his feet shoulder width apart. Fury watched him settle into the position, then rolled his one working eye.
Just like almost everything else, Coulson could be brilliant at being a pain in the ass.
"Dammit, Phil, you know as well as I do the council won't authorize a rescue mission." Fury leaned into his hands on his desk, trying to hide his frustration – coming up with sarcasm instead. "There are these little things called 'protocols' – you should know, you helped write them for situations like this. A team goes dark, under confirmed circumstances, behind enemy lines? They're on their own."
Fury hated saying the words – hating knowing that Coulson had written that protocol based on agonizing personal experience. Reminding him of the reasons for that particular protocol went against every rule of friendship, but not in dealing with another agent.
So when Coulson just gave a single nod and cracked a smile, Fury felt a flare of annoyance instead of sympathy.
"I know, sir, and that's not what I'm asking." He held up the folder, which Fury knew contained a printout of the data file Callahan had sent. Confused at the change of tactics, all Fury could do was raise his eyebrow. Phil tossed the folder onto the Director's desk, where it slid neatly into Fury's hands.
"I'm requesting you give that to one of your contacts in the White House." Coulson moved to the chair, and placed his hands on the back of it, never taking his eyes off Fury. "Best case scenario, they can get one of the Army units in the area to track this group, maybe even get Callahan and Barrett back for us."
Fury nodded. That he could do. He opened up the folder and glanced at the summary top sheet – hastily pulled together as the technicians in the op room first tracked the GPS on Callahan's cell, then lost it, then worked like hell to reacquire it. As he looked over the report, he let out a low whistle. The group Callahan and Barrett had tracked wasn't confirmed Al Qaeda, but had enough similarities that the U.S. intelligence community could dedicate the resources to mark and track them.
But he didn't play this game hoping for best-case scenarios, and neither did Coulson. He shut the folder, and raised an eyebrow.
"You don't want to stop there, do you..." It wasn't a question, and in response, Coulson's mouth quirked up in a half-smile. "What the hell else do you want, Phil?"
He could see the man hesitate for a moment, and Fury knew a fraction of a second before he spoke what the man was going to ask. Above all, Coulson was a top-notch handler.
"Put me in country. Let me get on the ground, cultivate intelligence and coordinate from there." Fury opened his mouth to say something, but Coulson plowed forward. "The longer we argue, the colder the trail gets. Sir."
Fury fought the urge to snap back at the younger agent. He could call the man Phil, but rarely did the man ever call him anything but "sir." Sometimes it was just a sign of respect. Other times, it became a joke. Times like now, it reminded Fury that Phil knew exactly who was in charge – but also how willing Coulson was to push the boundaries.
Fury sighed. Phil always pushed in situations like this. He saw the people first – and then balanced the human element with the political context. When push came to shove, though, the people came first. He commanded – and demanded – loyalty.
Fury would have it no other way.
"And just what the hell am I supposed to tell the council?"
This time, Coulson's smile grew to a full grin.
"Call it a recruiting trip … if they ask." The man's smile grew more confident. "What they don't know won't hurt them."
Fury resisted the urge to roll his eye again, and looked down at the file. All things being equal, Coulson had some damned good points – and putting another single agent on the ground wasn't likely to complicate matters too much.
It was what Phil would do once he was on the ground – recruiting on-site help, working with the military and extracting his agents – that would make the members of the Security Council shit their pants if they found out.
Then again, this kind of mission was what Coulson had a habit of making work. And he should've been there to do it to begin with.
That made up Fury's mind. He closed his eye, and waved toward the door.
"Fine. I know nothing. They know nothing. No one knows anything around here. Go." He could practically hear the grin in the man's voice as he answered "yes, sir" and Fury opened his eye to see Coulson already moving toward the door.
"Agent Coulson." Fury went with the formality, and it caught Phil cold. The man stopped in his tracks, and turned, raising an eyebrow in question without saying a word.
"Sir?"
Again with the 'sir.' To hell with it. Fury rolled his eye, smiled sarcastically and flipped his agent – and friend – the bird.
"Make sure the strays you bring home this time are housebroken," Fury huffed out a breath. The man might be the best recruiter in SHIELD, but some things were legendary. "Or at the very least won't scare the instructors off the range. Reynolds is still bitching about being shot in the foot."
Coulson snorted softly. This debate had been circling the drain for years.
"It was a graze, sir."
"Uh-huh. And I'll just let you have that argument with Reynolds." Fury looked up at the ceiling, and flicked his hand at the door. "Now get the hell out of here already."
The door opened and then shut without even a "yes, sir" to mark Coulson by.
18:02 p.m., local time, north of Kandahar, Afghanistan
Around the time of twilight in April in Afghanistan, clear evenings provided some of the most gorgeous views of the mountains – especially if unobstructed by buildings, smoke, clouds or other things.
Bitter winter had given way to mild spring, and green had started to replace the dull, drab browns. Rain now past, the last of the sunlight created vistas that even soldiers could appreciate.
Right now, the fourth Ranger Battalion, U.S. Army Rangers, enjoyed none of that. Holed up in a structure that screamed tent merged with hut, the unit listened to the mission briefing with dispassion.
At the back of the room, the unit sniper sat with his feet kicked up on a crate, his right hand idly flicking the safety off – and then on again – on his M-9. Not his weapon of choice, but it was handy in case things went to hell. And the safety gave his fingers something to do while the C.O. bored the shit out of him.
Click. Safety off.
Click. It went back on.
"I will stress again – confidence is extremely high with this information, but until we can get eyes on the target and confirm the two suspected hostages, you are in observation mode only." The commander, a freshly-minted lieutenant just assigned in the last month, droned on. "You will not fire until you clear it with base."
The man paused for a beat, then spoke a little more loudly – aiming for one person.
"Do you get me, Corporal Barton?" The C.O. glared at the sniper, and in turn, the sniper felt every eye on the tent turn toward him. The scrutiny – in equal parts anticipatory and sympathetic – put his hackles up.
Not firing? After the last three missions under this man, Barton wasn't 100 percent he'd fire his weapon even if this asshole did give the order. For a new commander, Maxwell didn't have a problem coming across as trigger-happy.
Click. Safety off.
"Sir. Yes, SIR." Barton emphasized the last word with a sarcastic tinge, and just enough of a sneer to let Lieutenant Maxwell know where he rated on Clint's shit-o-meter.
The man's eyes narrowed, and he seemed about ready to respond. Then he drew in a deep breath, and let it out again. He looked back toward the group.
"You're dismissed. Be ready to move out in 30 minutes."
Click. The safety went back on. Clint swung his feet off the crate and ducked out the flap of the tent before the rest of his unit had even found their feet. He made his way around the side of the structure, into the equivalent of a canvas alleyway.
The crisp evening air forced him to draw in a deep breath. Calm. He wanted calm. Hell, he needed it. Thinking about anything other than the current issue was all he could afford at the moment, and frankly, all he wanted. He needed that narrow focus.
Instead, a hand landed on his shoulder.
"Well, if it isn't the biggest fuckup on the face of planet Earth." He turned to find his new spotter, Jared Nelson, glowering at him with a superior smirk on his face. "What's with you, Barton? You like having Maxwell permanently pissed off?"
Clint shrugged Nelson's hand off his shoulder, stepping half a step back. Of all of Nelson's annoying qualities – and there were more than a few – his lack of respect for Barton's personal space was one of the worst.
"Man has a corncob the size of Nebraska up his ass."
Nelson scoffed.
"Yeah, and it has your name on it." Nelson smirked, and then gestured at the bruising on Barton's face. "Course, if some of us had our way, that corncob would be past history. Emphasis on past, if you catch my drift. Or wasn't that … late-night visit enough to communicate the point?"
Clint stiffened at the words, his heart starting to race as his mind flashing back 48 hours.
He bucked against the weight on his back, trying to get a foothold, a handhold – hell, any kind of hold. All he got for his efforts was a fist to his face, stunning him back into submission when his right eye exploded with pain.
Slowly, Clint moved closer to Nelson, subtly insinuating himself in the other man's personal space, smirking in an effort to keep his emotions at bay.
"And just how do you know about that?" Nelson held his ground, but Clint's low growl was enough to make Nelson – one of the few people in the unit shorter than the sniper – shrink back into his frame.
Finally, Nelson took a step back, letting off a nervous shrug.
"You know, around." He then squared his shoulders, and spat on the ground. "Sooner or later, Barton, you're gonna have to acknowledge McDermid isn't here to watch your ass, and neither is your precious Collins. And the bitch of it is, it's your own goddamned fault, isn't it? Without them, you do–"
The flair of emotion in Clint's stomach roared out of control at the mention of Collins. In an instant, he had a knee in Nelson's stomach, and then crouched to whisper in the man's ear, grabbing his right hand and twisting his wrist painfully backward.
"You don't get to mention Collins, or McDermid, or what happened. Ever." Clint knew the rage was clear in his voice, and he really didn't care. "You don't have a fucking clue, and you never will. You get me?"
With a slight whimper, Nelson nodded, then muttered something about reporting Barton to Maxwell. By way of response, Clint ground the thumb joint on Nelson's hand outward. Nelson hissed in pain.
"And you won't say a word to anyone." Clint tweaked the thumb back just a bit further to emphasize his point. "Because if you do, I guarantee the little late-night visit I got will be nothing compared to the one I'll visit on you." Clint then leaned into Nelson's ear to whisper the coup de grace.
"Don't you know? I'm the biggest fuckup on planet Earth."
Nelson nodded again – this time with a sense of desperate urgency that would've been comical under different circumstances. Clint finally let go, and Nelson scrambled immediately to his feet and out of the sniper's reach.
First smart thing the asshole had done yet.
"Barton, you're a bastard." Nelson's voice swam with anger, but Clint just smirked back. God, he hated the man. Of all the people that had remained unscathed over the last six months in country, Barton wished with everything he had Nelson weren't one of them.
Yeah, and if wishes were horses, he'd get to take his bow on missions instead of his sniper rifle. Clint shook his head, trying to clear it, then glared at Nelson.
"And you're an asshole. Now go get your damned gear and meet me at the motor pool in 15 minutes." Nelson stalked off, but Clint remained still, drawing in deep breaths, struggling to remain calm.
The night air cut through his t-shirt, though, catching the light sweat that had broken out on his skin over the encounter, and Clint shivered. Goddamnit. He'd been a loner – hell, had been alone – most of his life. He could count on one hand – and have fingers left over – the people who'd watched out for him growing up. Joining the Army had been less about the supposed brotherhood and more about finding a use for the fact he could hit any target at just about any distance. It was the only place he thought he could possibly fit in.
Then he'd become a Ranger and a sniper – and gained a spotter by the name of Rick Collins. He'd been 10 years Barton's senior, and the man had been the link between Barton and the rest of the unit. When Clint couldn't find a way to co-exist with the rest of the group, Collins had been the reminder that 'loner' didn't mean 'detached,' and that 'sniper' didn't automatically equate to 'bat-shit crazy.'
When they'd finished training, they'd shipped out to Afghanistan, and Collins had made sure the man in charge – one 2nd Lt. Thomas McDermid, U.S. Army – knew how best to use the new sniper he'd been assigned. Collins had shown McDermid how good Clint could be if put in the right situations, and damned if the guy hadn't listened. Collins had respected Clint's moral code, and made sure others respected it as well. And somewhere along the line, he'd become not only a mentor and a protector, but also a friend.
Now he and McDermid and two other guys were dead – because of a stupid prank and an even stupider punishment, because of a faulty radio and sheer dumb fucking bad luck. Into McDermid's spot had stepped Maxwell – and Maxwell forced Nelson into Collins' role. Assigning Nelson as Clint's new spotter had been nothing about a good match and everything about putting someone next to Barton who could and would report back to the new lieutenant.
Clint wanted to run. He wanted to get the fuck out before someone got hurt – before he got someone else killed because people were too busy taking his side or Maxwell's, and forgetting they were all on the same fucking side. He'd pulled further and further back, finding that same self-imposed shell that had existed long before Collins had shown – and hiding safely behind it. To hell with playing cards or drinking or making friends or settling bets. Trust no one, and no one could hurt him. He'd ride it out, finish his tour – and then disappear when he got back to the States.
Or so he'd thought until two nights ago, when he'd landed in the middle of his worst nightmare.
"Take a deep breath, asshole. Might be your last." A crackle of noise, and suddenly Clint couldn't breathe. No air, dammit, none, and –
Clint forced himself back to the present, looking over his shoulder to make sure it no one was behind him. Because it was pretty damned clear he didn't have anyone here left to do it for him, and he needed to survive. A long time ago, he'd learned to trust himself – and no one else. Too much had happened for him to be anything but alone, and that had started long before joining the Army had been even a vague dream.
But as the last of the sunset slipped behind the mountains, even Barton had to admit he'd never felt so alone in his entire life.
19:42 p.m., local time, north of Kandahar, Afghanistan
Bone weary and in pain, exhausted to the point of near-collapse, Bart Callahan still almost found the urge to laugh at the absurd irony of the situation.
Stumbling along in the dark, hours of torture behind him and maybe still in front of him – he still felt more alive and aware than he ever had in his life.
Adrenaline did funny things to the human body. Right now, he couldn't decide whether that was a blessing or a curse. Beside him, his partner, Curt Barrett, stumbled along, laboring air in and out of his lungs with a husky-sounding groan underscoring the ragged breathing. Callahan guessed the man had a handful of broken ribs, and some sort of fluid in his chest.
Callahan wasn't much better. He'd been battered for so long that his entire ribcage felt bruised, though he didn't have the same congestion in his lungs that he heard from his partner. His head felt about ready to explode, though, the end result of it being slammed into a wall by an impatient interrogator.
He'd said nothing to compromise the op, and he knew Barrett wouldn't have either. It was the reason both of them were hurting – and also the reason they were still alive. This cell, it had to be Al Qaeda, or at least a first cousin. Callahan had been fairly certain of it when he'd been ready to report in to Coulson and he was even more certain of it now.
After being expertly interrogated, both he and Barrett had been forced into outfits of the same make and color as their captors. Then, the two had been lined up next to various members of the organization until a group of six – roughly matching their body types – had been selected by a tall, swarthy man Callahan had guessed to be their leader.
Then those men had been paired off and given a set of eight guards – and pulled out of the room in groups. Finally, only Callahan and Barrett remained, along with seven men and the leader. Callahan barely had time to shoot his partner a look of confused frustration before both were pushed roughly to the floor.
The leader then threw each of them a rough scarf of brown material.
"Place those around your faces," the man demanded in deeply accented Farsi. "Do so quickly, and you will not be injured further."
Callahan tried hard to figure out just what the hell the man was up to – and thought about it a fraction of a second too long. An elbow, carefully placed and powered, landed in his back, right over his left kidney.
"Do so. Now." Callahan looked over at Barrett, and nodded. Both men then placed the scarves without any further hesitation, and the man nodded at the men surrounding them.
Then they'd been pulled to their feet and led out of the room where they'd been held since their capture. When they were led outside, and Callahan could see the entire group, comprehension dawned.
They all looked alike, and every group had their own Callahan and Barrett. Any attempted rescue would risk shooting the two hostages as equally as shooting the terrorists.
Since then, they had endured a rocky Jeep ride – one where Callahan had gotten a full view of the trip out of the city and into the desert. They weren't bothering to hide, nor hide from their captives any locations or landmarks. The group clearly had influence in the city, and didn't care what the two agents saw.
Didn't care, because Callahan expected their life expectancy had shrunk to a matter of days – or maybe even hours. Wherever they were headed, they would die there.
Or so their captors expected. Callahan didn't know whether he dared hope for Coulson's promised help. Hell, he didn't even know if the cell phone – securely stashed in a place he prayed these people wouldn't ever search – still worked or not.
Coulson's code name – Guardian – had been born out of the fact that the man made it a personal mission to protect every agent he worked with. Protect, as in break protocols and defy the World Security Council whenever it suited his needs – in short, keeping his agents safe and alive. But after stumbling through the foothills into the mountains for the last hour, Callahan knew there were limits.
Beside him, Barrett's foot caught in a depression in the sand, one of hundreds of rivulets created by the spring rains of the last few weeks. Callahan tried to snake a hand out to grab him, but before he could, the terrorists in their little cell closed rank around him, forcing him to continue walking forward.
Behind him, he heard Barrett pulled roughly to his feet, and Callahan realized how hard their captors were working to maintain appearances.
Are we being watched? Callahan weighed the possibilities in his head. Coulson could have gotten in country – or he could have gotten word to the right people. If there was surveillance out on them, if they were being tailed, all it might take to break this open could be a quick moment of identification.
Or the right words. In the end, Callahan didn't have to even think about taking the gamble. He dragged his left foot in the sand, faked a stumble – and then shouted out at the top of his lungs as he went to his knees.
"We're here! We're Americans and we are captives!"
Behind him, he heard Barrett shout the same, and their captors suddenly exploded – not just into motion, but also shouting, screaming. Callahan found himself pulled roughly back to his feet, and then shoved into the center of a large group – the terrorists having converged into one seething mass. Rather than single him out, though, that mass of bodies simply surged forward, almost like a mob moving of its own will, but with terrifying purpose and definition. He tried swerving to the left, and then to the right, anything to break free of the formation, but each time he tried, the guard just collapsed back against him.
Gunfire suddenly erupted – sporadic and seemingly off-target. Callahan couldn't even begin to make out what direction it was coming from, and he heard at least three different weapons chatter out in the darkness. Then he heard shouts, overlapping voices working so hard that he couldn't clearly make out what anyone was saying. All of it was in English, though, and fragments managed to make their way clear of the quagmire.
"—hold your—"
"—dammitall, I told—"
"—keep them in the—"
"—the damned shot!"
As the group surged forward, the area behind them suddenly lit up with flares – tossed in several different directions and accompanied by the sounds of automatic weapons fire.
He couldn't see or hear anything clearly, but suddenly, Callahan was being lifted up and onto the back of a truck, then thrown roughly to the floor. Even as he landed, more people piled in around him, and within a minute, the truck kicked into gear and bounced forward.
Callahan rolled, trying to see where Barrett was. Instead, he found himself looking at the business end of a Glock 17 – aimed at him by none other than the man he guessed was the cell's leader.
The man wore a grim smirk, but said nothing. Callahan eased himself back down to the floor, and admitted defeat. Whatever had just transpired, whoever it had been – if it had been anyone at all – they had failed. He and Barrett were out of sight, and being taken only God knew where.
Callahan wanted to hope. And he wanted to believe. But right now, all he could think was one simple sentence – half prayer, half wry amusement.
God, Guardian, now would be a real good time for you to live up to your code name.