Charlie Foxtrot
Chapter 1
Murdock hated his BDUs. They bunched up in all the wrong places, stuck to your skin under body armor when you sweated – and you ALWAYS sweated in a freakin' desert – and caused the *funkiest* of rashes right where the sun don't shine.
Murdock was not a fan, especially in situation where you had to haul ass across 150 yards of flat hostile territory with bullets fired by enemy combatants kicking up earth, sand and, just for shits and giggles, chips of brick by his feet.
Murdock ducked as a crack echoed near his head, a stone statue exploding next to him from automatic weapons fire and peppering him with shards. He ducked, the dust sticking to the sweat covering his face.
"Hey!" he bellowed behind him, lamenting the loss of the artfully crafted piece. "Phillistines! Did you see the skill that went into that!?" Bullets near his feet caused him to dodge to the side but did nothing to damper his outrage. "Respect fine craftsmanship!" he screamed.
Pivoting nimbly despite the heavy combat boots, Murdock darted diagonally across the lavish stone courtyard, the heat of the late morning sun beating down on his back. His eyes were fixed on his target 100 yards out.
She was *gorgeous*. All sleek metal, shining glass and polished chrome, the US MI-8 helicopter sat goddess-like on the tarmac of the private estate. A low concrete barrier, and 100 yards, lay between him and his lady, heat rising up to make the chopper wave at him. Or maybe that was his brain playing tricks on him. It did that quite a lot.
The whine of bullets whipping past made him pivot again, changing direction and he broke out into a sing-song tune: "Dodge and weave. Dodge and weave. That's the way NOT to get shot while sprinting through open ground in enemy territory!" He frowned, upset that his song didn't rhyme. A bullet sped WAY too close his ear and he bolted away from a direct path again.
"I could really use that distraction you promised me, Hannibal!" he yelped into his comms, veering out of the way – he hoped—from the sights of one of the guys currently trying to shoot him.
"Coming right up, buddy!" Face countered in his earpiece, gleeful with adrenaline. Seconds later a huge crack-kooooom of an explosion echoed from the center of compound.
"Whoo-wee, boys!" Murdock howled, "That's the way to draw enemy fire!" The bullets around him stopped coming and he dropped from his all-out sprint to an even run to the shining lady now 75 yards in front of him.
She looked so out of place, sitting on some rich guy's private airstrip in the middle of nowhere, Iraq. She appeared lonely and confused. She should be in a US Army hangar, nested in safe and sound among her friends and confidants, enjoying the loving and pampering of soldiers ready to serve her every need. Murdock's legs pumped under him, his breath heaving as he neared her. These runs were so much more interesting when people shot at him.
But he digressed. Weeks ago, this lovely lady had been ripped from her warm bed in the middle of the night and taken to an evil king's palace to do his bidding, which, from what the intel said, was just about nothing. It looked like the "evil king" - an Iraqi oil magnate with more money than sense - didn't really have any other plans for other than to look at her. Bosco was convinced her theft from the US Army was all a part of some drunken bet. That sounded about right to Murdock.
How exactly she got off an American military base was highly classified. Sometimes "highly classified" meant there was super sensitive intel or important players involved, or sometimes that meant that someone, somewhere had such a colossal series of fuck ups that they classified the entire thing just to avoid embarrassing an entire branch of the armed services.
Murdock suspected the latter.
The sound of the firefight, courtesy of his team in the compound, carried over the sand. The bird still stood silently, heat shimmering off her. Murdock slid to a stop behind the short concrete barrier 20 yards out.
"Well, darlin'" Murdock called to her. "Your prince has arrived."
Murdock unslung his M4A1 Carbine and gathered his breath, feeling heat radiate off him. He checked his weapon and popped his head up experimentally.
There was no movement around the helicopter, but these folks, despite being private security and not Iraqi military, weren't dumb enough to leave a stolen American military bird unguarded, not with the small army the oil magnate had employed at the main compound. Any guards around the helicopter would have had to be a special brand of stupid to not hear the commotion and not see the lone American soldier sprinting across the plain. He popped his head up again, ducking back down in less than a second. Nothing. No movement.
Huh. Murdock supposed he was just going to have to make his own excitement, then. Readying his weapon, he jerked up enough to fire a few rounds into the tarmac outside at the wheels of the chopper. Crouching back down behind the concrete barrier, he waited, holding his breath to hear any movement.
Nothing. The firefight in the main compound seemed to be intensifying, which was odd, but otherwise everything was still. Weird. These guys were hired guns only, probably with shit for training. That should have been enough to spook them from their hidey-holes.
"Something ain't right, Hannibal," Murdock spoke into his comms. "Intel said the bird would be guarded by two guys. It's quiet here."
"You getting a little paranoid, there, Murdock?" Face muttered, clearly focused on the firefight back at the compound. "These are hired guns, not soldiers. Probably panicked at the first sound of gunfire and ran off."
Murdock snorted. "Of all my myriad diagnoses, Faceman, paranoia isn't one of them."
"You sure about that fool? Don't know how you keep all your problems straight," Bosco, usually so taciturn during … everything, responded.
Alright. Time to up the ante.
Murdock popped to his feet again, waving his arms above his head and belting to the sky, head thrown back for full use of his impressive vocal chords – "Theeeeese boots are made for walkin'! And that's just what they'll doo-ooo!" he crooned, his Carbine loose and bouncing against his chest. His eyes searched the ground and his limited view of inside the chopper.
"Captain," Hannibal growled over the comm, "you really need another method to draw out hostiles." There was a burst of gunfire through the device in Murdock's ear. "We've talked about this."
"Aww, Colonel," Murdock replied, "It usually works so well."
C'mon, assholes, he thought even as he finished the chorus and dropped back down behind the barrier, just show me where to shoot.
Panic rose again in his throat, acidic and burning. This wasn't his job. This was not his job! He was just the new guy. A kid! He only signed up because the pay was great, the benefits of working for an oil magnate were great, and his family really needed the money.
But the training? The training *sucked*. In his hands, they stuck in his hands an AK-47 that looked like it had seen better days, taught him how to load and clean, told him to follow orders and then said, "have at it!"
That's how he wound up here, guarding his boss's shiny new toy. That usually mean wandering around the American chopper and making sure it didn't get too much dust on her. He had just been sitting in one of the jump seats still left – the boss had removed most of them to make room for more storage stuff – when a strangled sound from his partner caught his attention.
He followed his partner's gaze, ducking around the partition between the cockpit and the whatever the storage area was called and made the same strangled noise deep in his throat. "What the …"
A man sprinted across the grounds of the compound, some sort of automatic weapon held ready in front of him. He zigged and zagged across the patio and sculpture garden, gunshots pelting around him.
"Who is this lunatic?" his partner laughed, nervousness creeping into his tone despite his desire to quell it. "The compound guards will take care of him. No way he gets through the sculpture garden."
That failed to reassure him. "How could he even get this far, though?" the kid asked, his breath coming quicker and quicker the closer the man ran.
A crack-koom of an explosion boomed in the center of the compound, orange and terrifying, and they reeled back. It stunned them mute. The lone runner – had he howled at the explosion? – pivoted and sprinted in a straight line directly towards the machine they were in.
His partner cursed. He tightened his grip on his weapon, his heart pounding. He was not trained for this!
The man outside – no, clearly a solider - slowed his pace but did not deviate from his course to their location. He grew closer. They could see the camouflage and body armor uniform of an American soldier. Good God, he thought. They want their helicopter back.
At his hip, his walkie-talkie blew up. The co-workers at the compound were screaming about a small, elite force.
His partner cursed again. They were dealing with an American *Special Forces* soldier. The legends.
Shit, the kid thought. This was supposed to be a cake assignment. His partner's mouth was slack-jawed, lips twitching up at the corners as he tried to say anything that would convince both of them that they weren't in a deadly situation. He failed.
"What do we do?" he hissed under his breath, as if the American special forces soldier could hear them. The AK-47 felt very heavy in his suddenly sweaty palms. "What do we do?!" The special forces soldier – the phrase rang in his head and panic burned further up his throat – slid to the ground behind the low concrete barrier and disappeared from their view.
As the American slid out of their view, his partner apparently recovered his wits. He shouldered his weapon and clicked off the safety. "We do what we are paid to do. We kill him." He had meant it to sound dark and foreboding like all those war movies that he had watched, but the quake in his voice made it fall flat.
They watched as the soldier poked his head above the concrete barrier and disappeared again. "He's looking to see if someone's around. He doesn't know we're here! We can outnumber and surprise him!" His partner grinned wide, clinging to the thought. "We have him! We have him!"
The special forces soldier popped up over the concrete barrier again, weapon at the ready. He ducked back down just as quickly.
"We really have him? I've never even shot at a real person before!" he yelled, his breath coming quick through a tightening throat.
His partner looked at him, eyes wild. "What?!"
"I just got out of training!" He felt ill.
The two security guards' eyes darted to the concrete barrier outside of the craft. The American had popped up again, jumping up and down and waving his arms above his head. He ducked back down before the pair had the ability to fully process the act.
"Fine." His partner reached across both of them and clicked off the safety of his weapon, positioning him next to the side door of the cargo area. "Here's the plan." His partner gestured at the door. "We are going to open this door and then we are going to shoot him. It's easy."
The kid nodded, grateful he didn't have to make any decisions. "Yes. Yes. I'll do what you say."
"Then I'll go first. I fire at him, fall back. You pop out, fire at him, fall back. We do this until he's dead. It's two to one!"
The kid nodded, sweat dripping down his face. "Yes!"
His partner chuckled. "Think of the bonus money!" He readied his weapon and took a breath. Throwing open the door, he began to raise his firearm.
POP-POP-POP filled the cabin and warmth splattered across the kid's face. His partner's body jerked backwards, a spray of blood erupting from his mouth as he landed heavily on the floor of the chopper. The kid recoiled, jerking back against a cargo box in the cluttered cargo area. The sound of blood whooshed through his head as he stared transfixed at his partner's half-lidded eyes, red leaking from three holes in his chest.
"No … no," the kid muttered, backing into a row of tall lockers along the side wall. Special. Forces. His mind repeated it over and over, hearing pop pop pop over and over again as his partner appeared in the open door. Not enough time to raise his weapon. Just pop pop pop and he was dead, staring up at the kid as if he knew what to do.
Every sound rang through his head and he could hear the American's boots crunch on the pavement, saying something he did not understand.
The kid knew the soldier would be here soon and he would soon be dead. "No. No. No," he repeated. He darted to the locker farthest from the door, the metal interior barely big enough to fit his lanky body and with just enough ventilation to breathe. The American's voice came closer, a melody worming its way into his head. The kid looked over his shoulder. He could see a shadow of movement outside in the angled slit of daylight from the door.
His eyes darted back to the locker. The locker or death. The locker or death.
He opened the locker.
The last strains of "These Boots Are Made for Walking" fading to a hum, Murdock popped up from behind the concrete barrier and examined the chopper, analyzing the complete stillness around it. The door was closed. There was no movement from the inside, not even through the large windows encircling the cockpit. Hairs rose on the back of his neck. Something was off.
Another spate of gunfire erupted from the compound. The grunts from the guys over the comms indicated that the plan was perhaps not coming together the way it should. He needed to get this chopper in the air so that they could all go home and join Morrison in a celebratory drink.
"Okay, boys," he called into the comms, suddenly very serious. "Approaching target." Keeping his body low, he vaulted over the concrete barrier, his eyes searching for any sign of life. The morning sun beat down on him as he approached the side door of the chopper from an angle. His Carbine at the ready, his eyes flicked to each window, searching for any hint of movement. Too damn quiet.
The door to the cabin slammed open quickly, rattling against its hinges. Murdock put three bullets – POP POP POP – in the chest of the form silhouetted in the doorway. The form hadn't even had time to raise his weapon, which he should have done before he opened the door. "Murdock?" his comm roared in his ear.
"I'm good, Faceman. Found one of the guards we been talking about. One down, one to go gentlemen." He approached the base of the aircraft, barrel of his weapon trained at the door to the cabin. The dead guard's boot hung over the edge of the doorway, level with Murdock's chin. After ensuring there was no visible threat, Murdock heaved the body out of the doorway, allowing it to fall to the gray pavement feet below.
After another inspection revealed no visible threat, Murdock pulled down the steps to the aircraft doorway, mounting them with his weapon pressed comfortingly into his shoulder. He got his first real look at the cabin of the chopper.
It was a mess. Random equipment and containers were strewn everywhere, a hodgepodge without any rhyme or reason. Wooden boxes three feet tall were randomly interspersed with tools and – was that a drill press? Like Gramma Murdock's attic in here. Literally everything in here except the kitchen sink. Murdock took a step back, his foot colliding with something hard and smooth. His eyes flashed downward to see a shining chrome faucet. I stand corrected.
Weapon still at the ready, he pressed smoothly into the clutter. Most of this stuff wasn't tied down, except maybe the vertical lockers along the back of the wall. Once this bird got up in the air, the junk would start rocking and rolling, bringing it down on top of the passengers.
The sound of gunfire through the comm increased, indicating that the enemy was pressing harder. Time was running out to make a clean getaway and all the clutter made it difficult to ensure the cabin was cleared of hostiles before starting up the rotors and getting his team somewhere safe. "Things are heating up here, Murdock," Hannibal grunted. "What's your ETA?"
"I ain't flying with that fool, Hannibal!"
"Oh, Bosco," Murdock fired back, "that's like your catchphrase now. You brought your Ativan, for crying out loud. Do you even believe what you're saying anymore? "
"Shut up, fool! Next time I see you, I'm gonna …"
"Corporal!" Hannibal interrupted, "I'm sure whatever you have planned will be very creative. Captain, what's your status!"
"Clearing the cabin, Hannibal. Something still ain't right with this bird, Colonel. I don't like it."
"Roger that, Captain. Abort mission?"
Not for the first time, Murdock smiled at Hannibal's complete acceptance of his instincts. Murdock looked around the cabin. The only noise was through the comm in his ear and his own breathing under his helmet. "Negative Colonel. Negative". He backed up towards the door to the cockpit, ducking under the low overhang.
Within half a second, gunfire practically erupted out of his comms. Face screamed, Bosco cursed and the Colonel gasped and grunted. "HANNIBAL!" BA yelled.
"Hannibal is down. Repeat, Hannibal is down!" yelled Face.
"On my way to his position!" Bosco called, breath heavy over the mic as he sprinted. Face opened up to give him covering fire.
Disordered cabin forgotten, Murdock pivoted, securing his weapon and tossing off his helmet and body armor – he could never make the sensitive corrections necessary while wearing the bulky thing. "I'm on my way, boys!" he hollered into the comms, sliding into the pilot's seat on the right and flipping switches to start the rotors. He lowered back hatch. If the mysterious second guard was hiding back there behind a band saw or whatever, he was about to get dumped out. It wasn't an ideal way to secure the craft, Murdock recognized, but when you have a man down, you do whatever you have to do.
Hannibal groans and hisses of pain, mixed with Bosco's murmured words of support, meant Hannibal was awake and aware, if clearly in a lot of pain. That was good at least. "On my way!" he repeated, glancing over his shoulder at the cabin. It was still quiet back there. If the second guard were back there, Murdock's current distraction would make this an excellent time to show himself.
There was nothing. He heard the back hatch settle onto the ground, the indicator light flipping green. It was an admittedly unconventional way to lift off an MI-8, but since when had that bothered him?
The bird lifted, the cockpit rising first. As Murdock gained altitude he lowered the hind end more, balancing the pull on the rotors to allow gravity to do the work for him. "C'mon, pretty girl, c'mon," he muttered. If his mental calculations held up, and they almost always did, the tail rotor would be spared from flying clutter as soon as things started moving. He heard the scrape of wood and metal on the floor of the bird as the unsecured boxes, bins and loose items began sliding out of the back of the chopper, falling the fifty feet to the ground to smash on the concrete of the landing strip. The chopper bucked under the change in weight, but Murdock deftly balanced her as he continued to gain altitude. "Alright, boys! Good thing none of those were explosives! Poppa Murdock's gonna get you out of there!"
He was panting in the stifling heat of the locker, his AK-47 clutched to his chest in front of him. He sweltered in his tan security uniform, the sweat dripping down his forehead to sting his eyes. His breathing echoed in the small space. He was convinced that the American could sense his heart hammering in his chest. He heard the body of his partner being dragged out of the doorway, the distinctive clank-clank-clank of boots coming up the steps. He tried holding his breath, but his panic increased. His vision blurred, but whether from sweat or tears he did not now.
The barrel of the American's weapon came into view, slow and level, through the ventilation slits in the locker door. Panic fluttered his breathing and he tried not to hyperventilate. He was going to die, he realized. This American was going to kill him.
The American spoke into the black comm in his ear, his light brown hair peeking out from underneath his combat helmet. His green eyes scanned the cluttered cargo area critically. When those eyes scanned over the front of the locker, the kid's heart stopped. Before anything could happen, though, the American stiffened, holding up a hand to the device in his ear. More words were exchanged, the tone almost manic, before the American backed quickly out of his view. Was the American leaving? Did he even dare to hope that?
The kid then heard the click of switches and the thrum of the rotors. Then the hydraulics kicked in as the back hatch was lowered. No. No. NO! The soldier was a PILOT?!
He felt the helicopter lift off – he'd never flown in ANYTHING before! – and the shift in balance knocked him against the wall of the locker, praying that the locker was at least bolted down so as not to tumble out the back. He couldn't get out, he realized with a shock, and he suddenly went cold. He couldn't leave, which meant he was a prisoner. What should he do? He had heard stories about what Americans did to their prisoners. They had seemed exaggerated at the time and had dismissed them, but now the stories came back with stark detail.
He was just a guard! He wasn't in any of the factions. They would understand that, right? They would give him a chance to explain that, right?
His let out a sob as the aircraft righted itself, suddenly leveling out. Oh no. No no no. He needed to off this helicopter. It was the only way to survive, even if it meant going through this American to do it.
From the air, the tan earth slipping underneath him, Murdock could easily spot the problem as he came in low and fast. The oil magnate's private security, significantly higher in number than they had been informed, had his team penned down behind fallen statues and a four-foot stone wall. The security force advanced in a half-moon, at least smart enough to not catch themselves in any crossfire.
Piece of cake, he thought. Well, more like a piece of pie. A really good piece of cherry pie, tart and falling out all over the pace, covering your plate with that wonderful cherry goo that was just … maybe he should ask Face to get him some pie crust, head on over to the motor pool to see what pairs well with …
"Come in, Murdock," his comm sprang to life and Face's voice filled his ear.
"Coming in for you guys now, Faceman." He could hear Hannibal's voice in the background, mad as a hornet and arguing with BA. Good.
Murdock delighted in terrifying the private security forces, angling the chopper between them and his team. A few redirected their fire, the bullets thunking against the exterior and windscreen. "Here we go, boys! This princess is all army! Armoring comes standard!" Several clicks of switches later and a flick of the wrist aimed the weapons at the hostiles and opened fire.
The security forces scattered at the superior firepower and Murdock howled again, triumphant. He lowered down the chopper, the back hatch settling first. His team came on board, BA holding Hannibal upright as they hobbled up the ramp, sweating and cursing. The dressing on Hannibal's thigh had already started to bleed through. Hannibal's eyes clenched shut, lips pressed into a thin line against the pain. Face followed quickly after them, covering them as he walked backwards up the ramp. "Go, Murdock!" Face called.
His team settled into the jump seats, BA settling Hannibal's injured leg on top of his own. Murdock lifted the bird as smoothly as he could. "Don't worry, boys. It's just a quick hop home so we can plug that hole, Hannibal. Maybe get you some high-test painkillers too, while we're at it."
"Much appreciated, Captain," Hannibal said through gritted teeth. Murdock's worry faded as he listened to the bickering over the comms.
"Stop adjusting the bandages, Faceman. They'll hold."
"He's still leaking blood. We need to tighten them."
"Man, stop mother-henning the man. He got shot. Of course he's leaking blood."
"Me, mother-henning? Jesus, Bosco, you've got Hannibal practically in your lap!"
"Stop it, both of you." Murdock knew that tone. That was Hannibal's dad voice, only with more gravel mixed in. "Lieutenant, leave the bandage alone. I need a dressing, not a tourniquet. Corporal, I can serviceably prop up my leg on another seat, thank you." Murdock smirked.
He looked out the windscreens as the landscape fell away below him, the regular thrum of the choppers underscoring the hum of the banter from the back. It should be a relatively quick thirty- minute flight in this princ – no, she helped him save his team, she was a mother-fucking *queen*. After that, they get Hannibal patched up, and maybe he would fire up the grill. Bullet wounds always meant steaks and maybe, just maybe if Hannibal had the right combination of meds, he'd start singing those Irish ballads his mother taught him when he was a wee bairn. Murdock hated it when any of the team was injured, but it sure was fun when Hannibal, safe and sound and on the mend, was high as a kite on pain meds.
Damn he loved it when a plan came together.
The claustrophobic locker seemed to fill with the panting sound of his breath. They had to hear his gasping over the impossibly loud thrum of the helicopter blades. The guard could barely see out of the small slats at eye-level in the thin metal locker, and shit, he panicked, the situation had gone from bad to worse. Instead of one special forces soldier, now he had four to deal with.
His heart pounded fast in his chest. His breaths sprayed the drops of sweat dripping off his nose, from his lip, down his cheek. He couldn't do this. He couldn't do this. He was a damn coward. His cousin and his uncle were stationed in the compound that day. He had no idea if they were still alive. He fought back a round of nausea. His father's only sister, a mother to him, would have to bury whatever was left of them.
The thought of his aunt steeled something inside of him and his burning panic settled into something much colder, a rigid wave washing over his psyche until his actions came to him in stark relief. His breathing stilled. His sweat now had a purpose and his hands tightened on the automatic weapon in front of him. He had acted small and cowardly when the pilot first came on board and he had wasted a prime opportunity. He should have killed the pilot when he had the chance. All he had needed to do was point the gun and shoot. It was simple. Easy.
He would not make the same mistake again. If he died here on this helicopter or at some American military base, then so be it.
Through the slits of the locker, he had a sharp angle from which he could see the pilot in the right captain's seat. Between him and the cockpit were the three soldiers, helmets discarded but body armor still present. Two stood, hovering around the wounded white-haired one, his leg propped up on one of the seats attached to the wall. Their sidearms were holstered and their larger weapons hung by their sides.
The realization came to the guard suddenly. They thought they were safe. They thought they were secure. He tightened his hold on his weapon, held closely in front of him. They did not have their weapons at the ready. He did. He bet that they couldn't get their weapons up fast enough when his was already at the ready. He just had to burst out of the locker, point the gun and shoot. That's it. Like the movies.
He took a breath, opening and closing his grip on his gun. Finding the inside latch, he cracked the door open and watched as the younger white American briefly grasped the shoulder of the wounded one, gave him an assessing look and then turned his back to the locker to walk towards the cockpit.
Closing his eyes, the guard found the core of coldness in the center of his chest. He pictured his cousin, his uncle, and his aunt. "Now," he thought.
Bellowing, he threw his shoulder into the door, the locker flying open on its weak metal hinges. He stumbled against the momentum, shouldering his weapon and aiming sloppily towards the back of the American heading towards the cockpit. Thinking of his aunt, he opened fire.
The second Face saw Hannibal go down in the field, his throat had closed in panic. The adrenaline from the firefight and then ensuing helicopter rescue had just begun to fade as he turned from his Colonel, the leg wound still oozing blood but otherwise stable.
Coming down from the adrenaline made his hands shake and he wanted to talk to Murdock to make sure there wasn't some damage to the craft (or the pilot) that he neglected to mention. He made his way to the cockpit. Seeing the bright blue expanse of sky often calmed him even as it excited Murdock. The pilot often had bizarre yet surprisingly on point observations on the way home from missions as the two of them watched the ground race away underneath them. Sometimes, Murdock's inane chatter was enough to bring Face out of any post-mission funk.
The usual Baracus-Murdock banter carried over the comms despite the chop of the blades. "You outta come join me in the cockpit, Bosco. These Mil MI-8s are nothing but windows up here. You can see everything! The sand, the sky, the clouds, just how far away we are from the ground …" Face chuckled as he stood from his seat, turning for the cockpit. Face had learned that these discussions always followed a similar pattern. Up next: Bosco would throw insults, rationalize away his presence on the aircraft, and then deny any repetition of his actions despite its inevitability.
"Shut up, you damn fool." Check, thought Face. "The only reason you got me on this thing was because Bossman went down." Check again, Face tallied. "You ain't getting me on one of these again." And there was the trilogy.
"I'm sure Hannibal really appreciates that, Bosco, but …" Murdock replied. Face grinned, recognizing the wheedling tone Murdock used right before letting loose with something particularly devastating to Bosco's considerable ego.
"I do appreciate it, Corporal," Hannibal interrupted lightly, stopping the conversation before it could escalate further.
"Aw, Colonel," Murdock protested, completely ignoring Hannibal's cease-fire, "I was just going to say …"
A sharp racket erupted behind Face and all hell broke loose.