Trigger Warnings:
Please see A/N at end of chapter for Triggers.
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Chapter Twenty
Thursday, 17th September 2012
He didn't notice the shake until he was about halfway to the house. It was his right hand. His master hand. It caused him no shortage of frustration as he tried to keep his swaying rifle steady and orientated on the door, ready to engage any threats that may emerge.
He removed the offending hand and gave it a little flex, before grabbing the pistol grip and tensing through it. It lessened somewhat, but not enough for James's liking. Not nearly enough.
He gave the pistol grip another tense squeeze, as if with that movement he could remove all the pent-up feelings of frustration and fear that beat from his chest.
He couldn't, but he had to try something, anything, to get his body to cooperate. To work. To do what it was supposed to do.
He followed up the frustrated flex with something he considered healthier, a long, slow, exhale of all the air in his lungs.
It helped. It helped him to focus on the movement of his team as they approached the house. It helped him to focus on his IR laser as it pointed directly at the front door.
It helped him to focus on the soft footfalls of his teammates around him. How they were almost undetectable, except to his trained ear, and the enhanced awareness brought on by his headphones.
He focussed on how the ground felt beneath his feet. The soft grass.
The smell in the air, of cordite and gunpowder.
It helped him to focus on the green of his night-vision goggles, so that he could see clearly, when his enemies could not.
It all kept him grounded. In the moment. Where he had to be.
He focused on anything but the four dead Aurors that lay sprawled on the ground, mere metres from him. He couldn't focus on that. He didn't have time. He didn't have time to look at them, to see who they were. To see if one of them had red hair and bright blue eyes.
He had been wrong. He had been so incredibly wrong.
It sat in his stomach like a rock. Like an immovable fucking boulder. It required a conscious effort of him to not focus on that. For him to breathe through the mounting despair that threatened to take control of his senses.
To take long, full breaths through his nose.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
He breathed through it. He breathed so as to not let his body's unconscious reactions to the stress take over. Not to hyperventilate. Not to succumb. Not to throw down his rifle, cower in a ball and let the panic consume him.
It would not do for that to happen. He needed to be in control.
How the fuck did this happen? What in the actual fuck have I done?
I don't panic.
He told himself, over and over. A repeated mantra in his mind.
I've never panicked. I am not starting now. I can't panic. I can't. I can't and I don't.
I need to be sharp. The men need me sharp.
Hermione needs me sharp.
He let out another breath as the thought of her entered the shadows on the outreaches of his mind. It wouldn't do to dwell on her. To focus on her. Now was not the time.
But he looked to her for strength. For resolve.
For reinforcement.
He steadied himself. It was time. He channelled all of his calm. All the resolve he kept stored away for times like this. For times like this when he needed to do the absolute last thing in the world that he wanted to do.
He glanced at the bodies.
They were close together. Lying on the ground in heaps. They were distorted in different ways. Some on their front, and some on their back.
With the green of his NVGS and his movement towards the house, he had been unable to do what he wanted most. He had been unable to stop and inspect the bodies. To look for something that he offered soft prayers to whoever was listening was there. He wanted, no, he needed , to know if amongst the dead was the one man he knew who wore the red.
Ron Weasley.
In truth, he was still getting to know the man. But from the interactions he had had, he had a certain comfort and familiarity about him.
Not in the way that Hermione was, but familiar in his own way. James had been told repeatedly, but he knew that in the pit of his mind he didn't need to have been. He had been close mates with Ron before he lost his memory.
He could feel it. He could feel it in the way that Ron laughed, or when he clasped James on the shoulder. The way he made jokes that James felt like he should understand, and laughed at things James did not.
There was a familiarity there. And James wanted to know him again. To regain some of that, as best he could.
He wanted to remember him. To remember what they had. What they had before he had lost it all.
He wanted to remember the times they had together. The times that had enjoyed. The laughs. Everything.
He wanted that.
But he wanted to move forward from that. He wanted new memories. He wanted Fridays with the children. Fridays watching them run around. He wanted that with Ron and his wife.
He wanted that with Hermione.
Please don't be here. He's not. He's not here. He's elsewhere. How many Aurors are there out there? How many? I don't know. But surely there are more than four. What are the actual chances of this team being Ron's?
Tiny. It won't be him.
Not a chance.
He let out a long breath as he glanced again at the bodies, hoping that he wouldn't see Ron's familiar red hair.
Not that he would be able to tell. Not through the green of his vision.
But he lied to himself. He figured that if he couldn't see it, then it didn't matter. If he didn't see it, then he could one hundred percent pretend that it didn't exist, that it didn't happen.
He could continue to pretend that Ron was elsewhere.
And maybe he was. Maybe Ron was doing something else. Maybe he was at home, enjoying dinner with his family, or just with his wife. Maybe Ron had no idea why this team was here and would be able to fill him in at a later time.
Maybe Ron could find that out later. Maybe he could smooth it all over within the Aurors and James could help them work through it.
James let out a small scoff at his optimism. It wasn't something that held much weight to him. It was the frantic hope of a desperate mind. The pleas and deals he made within himself to assure him that something like this was not happening.
He clung to it, like a drowning man to a life raft, as he moved towards the front door and took his stack. He felt his team move onto the balcony behind him and get themselves ready.
He didn't need to look at them. They would be in position quickly and efficiently. They trained that way.
Alpha team had a further distance to move, so there was a slight delay as they waited for them to stack up on the other side of the door.
While they waited, he saw the clearance party arrive at the four bodies. He saw four men standing over the top of the dead, activating the lights that were mounted on the side of their helmets. The bright lights revealed the world through the night vision goggles.
James knew that he shouldn't look. That he should stay focused on the task. That he should put it aside and worry about it later. There was very little that he could do. Not now. It would all have to wait.
He did everything he could not to look. To focus. To stay in the game. His team needed him focused. They needed him ready.
But he couldn't help it. Something inside of him, some curiosity that could not be abated forced him to do it. He raised his night vision goggles and looked over at the bodies.
And sure enough, there he was. The closest man. A shock of red hair and dimmed blue eyes stared at him. His face was a contorted mix of surprise. He looked ghastly. Accusing. He seemed to stare deep into James's soul and force upon him one truth.
Ron Weasley was dead. And it was his fault.
His face was bloated already, likely from the compression effect that was caused by the expansion of air that happened when a human body was struck by full metal jacket rounds.
He hadn't been zipped by just one, but many. He had taken a number of well-aimed, precision shots to the chest. His shirt was so red it had become indistinguishable from his uniform jacket.
But there was no mistaking that hair. Those eyes. The twisted grimace. It was Ron.
James felt the air leave his body as the full horror of the situation struck him. He felt the tremble in his right hand, return renewed. He couldn't look away. He was transfixed. His mind had gone blank.
He couldn't think of anything, anything except what he had done. He had set the ambush. He had established the fire lanes. He had set it up for maximum lethality. It had been his operation, and they had so far executed it to perfection.
Except of course for the targets.
The only thing he hadn't done, was trigger it.
But it was still his fault. And that blame sat firmly on his chest. It swirled around inside of him, an uncontained mess of emotions. A contortion of raw feeling that threatened for a moment to swallow him whole.
It was all he could do to remain standing.
He took a breath.
Then he took another.
He glanced over and saw that Alpha team was set. They were waiting on him. Waiting on him to do as was expected. They had no idea that he was falling apart. That his world was crashing down around him.
They had no idea what had just happened.
He spared Ron one last glance and offered him a silent apology. One that did nothing to cover the horror of what he had done.
With that, he shook his head silently and replaced his night vision goggles. It was time to go to work.
He stuffed the emotions away, to who knows where. The green footlocker was gone now, it was of no use to him.
But he put them aside and raised his rifle.
As he did so, he knew one certain fact.
It emerged from all the chaos that he repressed. From the emotionless void that he allowed himself to become in times like these. The survival instincts that had gotten him this far that reached in to take over.
Like he was on autopilot. Like he was a robot.
It was a simple fact. And it seemed completely right to him.
He was going to kill Jane Jones.
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It was a tap from Mac that broke his moment.
A whisper, off comms, and directly into his ear.
"Yeh still with us?"
James just nodded and blinked himself into focus. He still had a building to clear. He still had to get his team through this. Everything else was secondary at this point.
He nodded at the Alpha team man who was stacked across him, who nodded back. Giving his head a long, slow, and obvious wave with the barrel of his rifle.
James nodded back and turned to assure Mac that his head was in the game. Then he keyed up his radio.
"Get the Bergen up here." He whispered.
There was a pause, before a flurry of whispered conversation broke out behind him.
"That's you dickhead." Came from Adam.
"Me?" Replied Rogers.
"Who the fuck else would it be? Get up front. James is waiting."
"Why am I a Bergen?" He heard Rogers reply, almost affronted.
James had to stop himself from sighing in frustration. This was fucking ridiculous.
"Because we have to fucking carry you for this op. Now go and do the job we've dragged your arse around to do."
Several footfalls later and James was looking at the slight build of Rogers as he stood next to him.
"Took you long enough." He said, if for no other reason to stop himself from shooting the man dead right here and there. From allowing himself to take immediate revenge for Ron out on this physically present and unnatural manifestation of Mrs Jones's betrayal.
James would kill the man. Right after he killed his boss. After he got revenge for everything that had happened tonight. For everything that had happened since he woke up in a hospital bed a decade before.
For the torture.
For the endless waterboarding. Everything he had managed to get past to keep living. Everything he had buried in order to survive. All that he had done to, as she had put it 'to help his country'.
All the shit that Hermione had seen that he had done. The people he had killed. The brothers he had lost. The friends that he had watched die.
It all came back to decisions made by them. By his so-called 'betters'. By governments acting in their best interests. But this is where it had gone too far. They had now forced him to kill a friend. He would not forgive that. He would not forget it.
Ron was dead. It entered his mind again, but this time it was just words. There were no emotions attached. He had no feelings towards them. They just existed. They floated through his mind as empty as the air that he breathed.
They were responsible. If he killed them, maybe he could protect Hermione. Maybe she could live a long and full life. Maybe the war would be averted. He could end it all here. With one stroke.
She'd be mad. Of course she would. He had promised. But if he did this now, she would live. She could live.
And maybe one day she could forgive.
He would just have to draw his pistol. Two in the chest. One in the head. The Mozambique, as it was called. If he was still standing in the chaos, he would take down Rogers too. Smith too.
Rogers was a thief. Rogers had stolen what didn't belong to him. Rogers should die with his mistress.
But for now, they needed Rogers. They needed him to do his thing.
He could worry about them when the job was done, and his team was safe.
He was nothing, if not a professional.
"Do you need a personal invitation? Or can you do the 'open sesame' thing?" He whispered, turning away from the man and facing back to the door.
James watched Rogers out of the corner of his eye as he stepped forward and drew his wand. He mumbled lightly to himself and his wand moved around in front of him, its tip never leaving the extremities of the door.
James couldn't help but watch. Rogers lacked all the grace and ease that Hermione displayed in the times he had watched her. The easy confidence of a person who had been born to do it. A practiced determination that made it look like it came as naturally to her as breathing.
Rogers did not instil that sense of awe that Hermione did. Comparatively, he seemed clumsy, rough, and messy. Like a recently learned skill. It lacked a professional's refinement.
Rogers paused. James watched as he repeated something, as if he was unsure. As if double-checking.
He paused again. It wasn't a good sign, and James was becoming impatient.
Rogers raised his wand again, and like a concert conductor, began to chant something that James could not understand. It seemed to stretch on and on as he mumbled along. Like a song, or a chant.
He could feel it. He could feel his magic being used on the door. Feel like something was being drawn away from it.
As Rogers worked, James could see he had become comfortable. As if the identification was something he was not confident with, but the acting upon it was. James made a mental note of that. He didn't know why, but it seemed relevant.
Something was disappearing from the door. Like it was evaporating, or being sucked out by a vacuum cleaner. The door shone with a low shimmer, a shimmer that run along the entirety of the surface.
It all ran to the centre of the door, where it was pulled out by Roger's wand.
Bit by bit it was drawn away. Like it was being banished.
It made James uncomfortable, watching him use his magic like that.
Finally, the shimmer faded as the last bits of altered light entered Roger's wand. He gave it a shake like he was flicking water off the end, before he put it back into its holster and took his rifle back up.
"A few little surprises were left for you, but they're clear. You're good."
James nodded and jerked a thumb for him to go back down the sack.
"Keep your safety on. Don't shoot any of my blokes." James whispered to the now retreating bodyguard.
All the betrayals aside James didn't like him. He wasn't right. He wasn't right at all. It bothered him to no end.
With the door now clear, James nodded at the Alpha man. Magic aside, it was time for them to do what they did best.
The Alpha man scooped up a battering ram from where it had been placed at his feet.
As he did so, James reached up and tapped the patch that he had recently attached to his helmet. It was a faded, subdued Australian flag with a tear across the middle.
But as lucky as the patch, and indeed the tear, was believed to be, it was not luck that James sought. It was not luck that he needed.
It was Lucky.
The Alpha man stepped forward and delivered a powerful, well-placed blow, that sent the door flying inwards.
James reacted instinctively. All thoughts of Ron on the ground, dead, were gone. All thoughts of Hermione, hopefully, home from work and reading a favourite book, were gone.
All thoughts were gone, they were replaced by actions.
He switched his brain off, or it switched itself off. He could no longer tell if it was a conscious thought. Just that it happened. He no longer felt anything. His emotions were gone.
But what niggled in the back of his mind, was that he didn't know where.
All the outside stress and pain that he felt with the loss of his friend disappeared. His body did exactly what it was supposed to do. What it had trained day in and day out to do. What it had done thousands of times before.
It entered and scanned the room.
It was almost an out-of-body experience. The disconnect felt real. Everything he had felt and endured prior to making entry seemed to completely disappear as he entered.
He became the soldier. Because in that moment, the soldier was all he had.
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They used particularly bright torches on their rifles for a simple reason. They blinded people. If your enemy couldn't see you, it was a hell of a lot harder for them to shoot you. It was a simple logic that had done them a world of good in times when they weren't trying to be stealthy.
The torch on the end of his rifle picked the crying man up as soon as he made entry, and he turned his torch up to its maximum.
It blinded him. Or it would have, had he not been kneeling on the ground, with his head in his hands.
He was bawling, wailing, screaming his grief into the safety of his own two hands. James suspected that the man was unaware that his door had been bashed in. That two teams of heavily armed soldiers had come barrelling into the room.
He was completely unaware that he was being completely illuminated by a torch that was so bright that it was likely to ruin his vision for the next few hours if he looked into it.
He was consumed by his grief. His tears.
But it did not stop James from keeping a close eye on the crying man's hands.
Which was good. Because while he was consumed by that, he was not at all interested in the rifle that sat next to him on the ground. It was a hunting rifle. One that would be expected of a farmer such as himself.
It looked well-maintained. Clearly, the man took pride in it. Even if it had a rather large scope on it, that would make it almost impractical to use in the close-in distance of his living room.
James made no sound as the remaining members of the team approached the man and took up their positions of cover around the room.
Two Alpha men approached the man and forced him down on his stomach, flexicuffing his hands behind his back.
The man continued to scream, and James had a moment's belief that perhaps he was completely unaware that he had even been detained.
He stepped forward and shone his torch into the man's face.
"Andrew Tate." James confirmed. "The adult male resident."
The two Alpha team men nodded.
"I couldn't." Tate cried. "I couldn't stop. I couldn't stop anything. It wasn't me. It wasn't me at all."
James ignored him.
He turned to Brett, the Alpha team leader.
"Clear through as planned. We've got up. You've got down. Three more civilians. Unknown threats."
Brett gave him a nod. Everything James had said was somewhat unnecessary. But he felt that sometimes it was necessary to verbalise steps in the actions to keep the momentum going.
"Copy, mate." Brett whispered, as he turned back to his team.
James turned back to his own, who had moved to cover a set of stairs that led to the second floor. He became annoyed to find himself at the back of the stack. He gave Mac a tap on his leg.
The tap was passed down, and his team began their ascent.
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The first door on the landing went to Chris and Mark. They smoothly opened the door, scanned the room, and made entry.
The team continued until it was up to James and Mac.
Mac opened the door and James scanned the room with his rifle. The dark room was illuminated by his torch.
James made entry first, followed closely and quickly by Mac.
It was a child's room. The daughter, likely, Delilah Tate.
James shone his torch around the room. He immediately for the impression that he had invaded a little girl's private sanctum. That he was an intruder here, disturbing the peace and safe harbour in a way that he had no right to do.
It was an odd feeling for him. As soldiers, they generally did not feel such things.
The cracks are showing.
He could tell. Little moments like this, creeping in through the nothingness he had brought himself into. Into the absolute numbness that sat in him as he made his way through the clearance.
This little girl clearly liked to read. There was a book stand in the corner that would have made Hermione proud. James didn't have time to see exactly what books sat there, but it reminded him uncomfortably of Hermione's room back at her parents.
James had a brief image of a little girl sitting at the desk, happily reading away at her latest book, or playing with the toys that were all neatly stacked on a chest near the wall.
He had to blink away the image of a little girl's bushy brown hair and bright green eyes. Now was not the time. Now was not the time for those images to creep in. He had no such time for such thoughts.
He was the soldier. He had to do his duty as the soldier.
He had to stay focussed. He had to stay on point. His team needed him to be.
He turned and nodded to Mac, who gave him another nod and they moved back into the hallway.
Chris and Mark hadn't emerged yet, which was slightly out of the ordinary, but he had no reason to suspect that they had run afoul of anything.
Adam still covered the hallway.
James pointed at him, then at the door in which Chris and Mark had disappeared into. Adam nodded and peeked in.
He gave James the thumbs up, so he continued.
He approached the last door in the hallway with some trepidation.
The last room was always, always, a tricky one.
He focussed in. his eyes and his mind took up little details, trying desperately to hold back the tide that had threatened to sneak through the cracks.
He just didn't know how well it was working.
Ron.
No.
Mac reached for the doorknob and gave it a slight twist. He turned towards James and nodded.
James nodded back and the door was pushed open.
James was through in a flash, finding himself in another bedroom.
This one was not empty. There was a small frame wrapped up under the bedsheets. The figure was sound asleep. James had no idea how anyone could have slept through the cacophony of the ambush, but somehow, this small figure had managed it.
James lowered his rifle. The small frame was clearly a child. He made a judgement call that the child was not a threat.
Mac had also lowered his machine gun and James nodded at him.
He reached to the figure in the bed and shook it by what he thought was likely to be his shoulder.
The figure moved easily in his grasp, but did not stir.
James frowned and pulled back the blanket from the bed and shone his hand held torch so that he could see the figure in the bed.
It was just a boy. He looked like he was about ten years old, with sandy brown hair that was all messed up by his sleep. James thought the boy's hair looked like a brown version of his own, but he quickly brushed that aside.
He was the soldier. He needed to be the soldier. He didn't have time for such thoughts
The boy was curled up on his side, with his eyes closed and his face relaxed. He looked completely out of it.
From the briefings, James knew that the child was called Cameron.
James gave Cameron another shake, but there was no reaction.
But he felt it. He felt it hit him in the pit of his stomach. Like it had bypassed all the work he had put into making sure that he was the soldier. Because he needed to be.
It slipped through the cracks like they were open doors. Like they were easily accessible. Like the bottom had dropped out of his natural defences, and any old thing could walk on through.
The boy moved easily in his grasp, but there was a certain – stiffness to him.
A stiffness that caused him to feel, for the second time that night, that the put of his stomach had exploded beneath him.
He couldn't help the small exhale as the horror get in. It was small, because James felt like he was struggling to get a breath in. Like a weight had settled onto his chest, between his body armour and his uniform. A weight that felt like it was compressing him.
Like he was being held tight and he was struggling to get air in. Like the very act of breathing was a fucking sin.
He turned to Mac. He could only see Mac's eyes from beneath his helmet and above his face wrap. His eyes were blank. They betrayed nothing, not even to him.
James recognised those eyes as the ones he usually had in these types of situations.
James removed a glove from a trembling hand and reached for the child's throat.
There was nothing. No beat. Just cold skin. Cold. Dead. Skin.
Ah. Fuck.
He felt the rush of tears to eyes and had to look at the ceiling to avoid looking at Mac. They couldn't see him like this. They couldn't see him fall apart. See him be so affected by this.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I never react like this. Not in the heat of it.
Not now. Not now. Later. Fucking later. Later when I can breathe!
He tried desperately to put it somewhere. To put it anywhere. To stuff it all. Ron. Cameron. Ron's unborn son. His responsibility in it all. He tried to put it all into his green footlocker. But the footlocker wouldn't close.
The door was gone. It had been blown from its hinges, not to mention the lock he had carefully put on it to hold everything together.
The locker was open and bare. Everything inside had gotten free, and there was nothing he could do to put it all back in. It was all free to swirl around in his mind. To torment him. To dance in the peripheries of his vision.
To remind him. To remind him that every time he had survived, it had come at a cost.
And that cost had finally come due.
Like the pauper to the taxman, he didn't know how to pay.
"This isn't normal." He told himself as he stared at the ceiling. As he blinked desperately to clear his eyes of tears. To try and gain control of the rush of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. "This isn't me. I'm stronger than this. I have this contained! I can deal with this later. When I'm clear. When I'm away."
There probably won't be a later.
James felt that thought cross his mind, and it calmed him. He knew what he had to do. He knew he had to end the war before it could begin. He also knew the consequence would likely be immediate and summary.
But he wouldn't have to live to deal with it anymore.
Hermione.
No.
He inhaled sharply and took a long breath, before reaching down and pulling the comforter back over the boy, covering the top of his head. He then gave the boy a pat on the shoulder.
It was an apology. One that could never be accepted, even it was sincere.
They just hadn't been quick enough. They had been lying in wait outside for the whole day. But they hadn't been quick enough.
This must be why Ron was here. Why his team was here.
He continued to refuse to look at Mac, giving a shake of his head. It was an unnecessary move, his actions had said it all.
James tried to subtly wipe the tears from his eyes, but he was under no illusion that Mac knew exactly what was going on.
Thankfully, they were interrupted by Mark's arrival at the door.
"James?" He said, tentatively.
James looked back down at the little boy. He fought hard to make sure no further tears sprinted from his eyes. He couldn't show weakness. Not now, not ever.
That fucking footlocker.
"Yes mate?" He said, and felt immediate pride. Pride in the fact that his voice was even, that there was no hitch present. That he sounded as if he was as cold and unemotional as ever. That he didn't betray the churning in his guts and the despair that threatened to take a hold of his heart.
"The house is clear." Mark said softly. There was still an underlying tension that existed between them. It had been there ever since the conversation. But they were both entirely too professional to let it get in the way of their jobs.
James nodded.
"There's no sign of the kids. But you might want to come and have a look at this."
James took a breath to steady himself. He cut the emotion as best as he could.
"The boy is here. He's deceased."
He heard Mark let out a slow breath. "Fuck mate."
James nodded. His back still to Mark.
"Let's go see what you've got." James said as he turned to leave.
But that's when he heard it.
A creak. A creak that almost echoed through the quiet room.
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Mark and Mac both gripped their weapons, but James stilled them with a gesture.
They paused.
There was another one. A soft creek. Gentle.
James pulled out his sidearm, activating the torch as he did so. Then he turned towards the bed and bent his knees slightly.
3.
2.
1..
He took a knee and threw open the bedspread as his bright torch illuminated the space under the bed.
It shone directly into the fact of an absolutely terrified five-year-old girl.
She screamed. It was an unholy scream that echoed through the room, and no doubt the house. James heard hurried footsteps in the hallway.
"Oh fuck." James breathed out. His finger eased from the trigger as he wrenched the weapon away, so it was no longer pointed at the little girl.
"It's okay." He whispered to her, as he holstered his weapon and held out his hands in what he hoped was a placating way. "You're okay! You're okay."
She screamed again and slid backward away from him until she hit the wall. Her legs kicked out at him as she did so.
James quickly removed his helmet and placed it on the floor next to him with a dull thud. He hurriedly wrenched down his face wrap so that she could see his features. See that he was human, as much as he felt like that was a problem.
"Look." He said desperately. "Look. I'm from the Army. I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here to help. I promise."
She started yelling at him. "No! No! No!" It was repetitious. There was nothing but pure terror in her eyes.
"You're fine. Look!" He quickly ripped the Velcro patch off the side of his sleeve to show it to her.
She continued her repetitious screams.
Her eyes seemed to go even wider.
"Look. It's our flag. It's the Union Jack. I'm with the Army, Delilah. I'm here to help you."
He held it out to her, but she lashed out and knocked it from his hand.
He grunted before replacing it on his uniform.
She continued to yell and scream and clamour away from him. The last thing he wanted to do was to force her out of there. He knew there were eyes on him. He knew there were probably some men in the hallway who were wondering why he hadn't done exactly that.
But he refused. The house was clear, he could take some time with this. He needed to. It would take time.
James desperately felt around his gear, reaching for something, anything.
Then he found it. He pulled out a long cylinder from his belt and held it out to her.
"Look!" He said as gently as he could. "Look at this."
She stopped yelling but continued to slide back. Her eyes widened in alarm.
He deftly cracked the middle of the glow stick and began to shake it as it rapidly illuminated the space with a bright green glow.
He almost didn't notice that it was greener than usual. That a small bluish tinged had flashed when it had initially cracked.
"Look! Delilah, Look at that. Isn't that cool?"
Delilah looked at the stick and arrested her movement. She seemed mesmerised by the green light.
The bluish tinged flashed around Delilah as she started to breathe more slowly. To take slow and measured breaths.
The tinge vanished almost as soon as it arrived.
Sensing an opening, James began to move it around, deftly spinning it around his fingers so that it created a streak of light.
Her eyes followed it eagerly.
He spun it around and offered it to her. "Take it. I have plenty. It's all yours."
Delilah looked reluctantly up at him and gingerly reached for the glow stick. It was slow, tentative. It was as if she feared he would reach in and force her to leave the safety of the bed.
At the last moment, she snatched the glowstick out of his gloved hands and held it to her chest, as if it was her most cherished possession.
He laughed, despite the circumstances. She stared with wonder into its green depths, her mouth hanging open with amazement. Like it was all that mattered in her world.
"It's like magic." She whispered.
"It is, isn't it?" James said. But it wasn't. It was a chemical reaction. But who was he to take away the wonder of the world?
Seeing the look in her eyes only made James feel worse. Regret. Regret of what killing Jones would do. What he would miss out on.
The promises he would break by doing so. The promises he really did not want to break. The promises he held to live. And he wanted to. So badly. He wanted to live. He wanted to live with her.
But how was he supposed to live with himself?
James gave a soft sigh that no one heard. He focussed back on the little girl under the bed.
"Would you like to come out from under the bed?" He asked, gently. He used the same tone he used when Lily was upset. The tone that always seemed to get through to her.
She shook her head.
"Okay then." He said. "But I thought I saw some horses out the back. Do you like horses?"
She nodded.
Progress.
"I like horses. Are they yours?"
She tore her eyes from the glow stick and looked at him.
"The pony. His name is Brick."
"Brick?" He laughed.
She nodded again.
"Why don't you show me Brick? I'd love to meet him."
It was surreal to the observers. The camouflaged legs and boots of a heavily armed man sticking out from under the bed. His feet were splayed, with the barrel of his rifle poking out between them. They could just make out the conversation, their headsets amplifying the sound.
He was their team leader. A Victoria Cross winner. A man who had led them through some of the fiercest fighting in the Global War on Terror. And here he was, lying half under a child's bed discussing a pony named Brick with a little girl.
Mark looked over at Mac. Mac glanced over at him.
Mark raised an eyebrow.
Mac's eyes tightened as he looked at him.
Mark raised his hands in a shrug. His meaning was clear.
What the fuck?
Mac just looked back at the camouflaged legs.
"Come on then. Let's go say hello to Brick."
James emerged from under the bed. His hair was sticking everywhere, as was tradition. His face wrap was down around his neck and Mac could see that his beard had suffered the same fate as his hair.
But the fact that he had removed his helmet and face wrap was not the peculiar thing. The peculiar thing was that he came out holding the hand of a little girl.
She was about five years old, with long blonde hair that was tied back in a ponytail. She looked up at Mac in awe, focussing on his size. Her bright blue eyes flickered to the large machine gun that sat easily in his hands, as if it was his own personal comfort. As if he clung to it with the same desperation that she took from the glow stick.
Mac saw as Mark glanced at the pair. From the bright green glow stick to the man clutching her hand.
They watched as he stood up, scooping the little girl up and settling on her hip. There was a slight jostling as they both got comfortable, despite her having to sit on top of his duty belt.
She seemed to cling to him. She grabbed a hold of his body armour and pulled herself to him as if he was her own father.
She looked terrified.
James reached down and scooped up his helmet. Then he placed it on the little girl's head and smiled at her. She offered him a smile back before she focussed again on the glow stick in her hand. It left a green trail of light as she waved it around faster and faster.
"James?" Mark said, uneasily.
"Yeah mate?"
"We found the mother, Maree." He began. "She's in the master bedroom. She's pretty fu-messed up. All sorts of injuries."
James nodded. "Adam having a look at her?"
"Yeah." Mark continued. "He says she's in a serious condition. He also thinks that the animals may have –"
"Roger." James said hurriedly. Cutting him off. His eyes bore into Mark's, before he glanced at the little girl he was holding. "Get Chris to call for AME. We need to get her to hospital."
He nodded.
"Go and get the Bergen, get him to have a look at her. Maybe he knows something about her injuries. Might be able to find a cause of magical ones."
Mark nodded and turned to leave, but James stopped him.
"Mark. I need you to go and take photos of the bodies." Mark turned and gave him a look. It was a long look.
"We were told that SSE was to be conducted by the tasking agency." His voice contained the same edge that had gotten him his black eye.
"Do it." James said, leaving no room for argument.
Mark looked across at Mac as if he was looking for support. He found none. He never would. Mac was too loyal. He didn't think outside the team.
Mark whistled through his teeth then nodded.
"You need to develop a healthy distrust for authority." James said, as Mark turned to go.
Mark turned back and fixed him with an angry glare.
"I'm not a fucking new bloke mate. I've been around a while."
"I know you have, mate. Just a gentle reminder. We all need one every now and then. Even me. I just wanted to let you know." James sucked in a breath. "You're one of my best mates. I'd die for you in a heartbeat. And when all of this is over, it will be in the past. I'm not holding a grudge for what you said, for what you believe."
Mark gave him a good long look as if he was trying to find a lie in the truths. It was the kind of talk he had heard before. A soldier's intuition. The man convinced he was about to die. The man setting his affairs in order.
He paused for a long moment before he nodded.
"You know I have your back, James."
"Didn't doubt it for a second."
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
"Brick is very well behaved." James said as he stroked the side of the pony's face. Brick snorted at him and rocked his head closer, allowing James to give him a scratch behind the ears.
Delilah, who had become distracted by the glow stick again as she waved it around in the dark of her backyard, nodded.
"He is. Daddy said soon I can start riding Theoden! He's the 14-year-old over there. The chestnut one."
James looked over at a handsome gelding who appeared to turn to face them at the mention of his name. He approved of it. A kingly name for a kingly horse.
James hoped that someone would take the time to stable the horses once everyone cleared out. To make sure they were maintained. It was clear they had been roaming free for some time.
"He's a beautiful horse."
Brick snorted at him, as if affronted or jealous that they would dare to speak about another animal in his presence.
James chuckled and gave him a long pat down the side of his neck.
"You're alright, Brick."
"He likes you." Delilah said as she focussed on him. "And you like him."
James let out another small laugh. "He's alright I suppose. Aren't you, Brick?"
Brick let out a small whinny.
"He has a lot of spirit." Delilah said, as she looked at the animal. "Just like you."
James paused, his hand remaining affixed to the side of the pony's face.
"Do I?"
She nodded.
"I can feel it."
"Can you?"
She nodded again, more enthusiastically this time. "I can feel lots of things."
James turned and looked at Delilah, who was looking at him with an excited look on her young face. He couldn't help but smile. His large helmet was perched precariously on her small head, and it only served to make her look more determined.
He adjusted her slightly on his hip, hoping to make her more comfortable.
"Your friend is angry at you." She said simply.
"Which one?"
"The tall one. Mark. You call him that."
James frowned slightly. Delilah was a child and her grasp of the English language was a developing thing, but there was something about her phrasing that seemed off.
"Oh, we just had an argument over something."
She nodded. "He doesn't think you are doing the right thing."
"No, no he doesn't."
"Mummy said you should always try and do the right thing."
"Your mummy is a very smart woman."
"She's been hurt, hasn't she?"
"Yes. Delilah. I'm sorry. She has been hurt. But there are some people up there who are working their absolute best to make sure she is okay."
"You don't know if she will be okay."
"She will be. You can count on it." It was a lie. He didn't know her condition at all. But in this case, it was the right thing to say. It was the right thing to do. She needed hope. She didn't need the truth.
"You're lying." She said, giving him a long look. "I can tell. I can always tell."
James took a long breath. Delilah reminded him of how he imagined a young Hermione would have been. All know-it-all attitude. Couldn't be told. Couldn't be deceived.
"She's very pretty."
"Huh?"
"The lady you just thought of. I like her. Myne. She looks nice. You think she's very nice. It's hard to describe how nice you think she is. But it's a lot. It's a whole lot of niceness that I think might just be all the niceness in the world."
James gaped at her. "What?"
"Can I tell you a secret, James? But you have to keep it just between us."
He nodded to her. "I think we can do that."
"Promise?"
James offered his pinkie. "Of course, I promise."
She took it with her own tiny little pinkie.
"I can make strange things happen."
He nodded. Transfixed about what she just said.
"I can read minds."
Legilimens.
"What does that word mean?" Delilah asked with a child's innocence.
"Ah." He stumbled over his words. "I don't actually know. It just came to me. I don't really know where it came from."
"You can't remember things." She said, matter-of-factly. As if she was telling him that Daisy was actually named Bessy, or that her Pony was named Brick.
"No. No, I can't."
"But Myne is helping you."
"Yes."
"But you're going to hurt the nice lady, James. Why are you going to hurt the nice lady? That's not nice James. She is nice. I can see that she's nice, and you're going to hurt her! You aren't allowed to hurt her James."
He could see the tears starting to well up in her eyes.
"I – uh"
She smacked him on the chest plate with her tiny hand.
"Don't hurt the nice lady, James! She's nice! You can't hurt her. You promised! You can't break promises. That would be bad." Delilah was starting to become hysterical again. Squirming around in his grip. He had to squeeze her tightly to stop her from falling. "You would be bad. And you aren't bad! I can hear it. I can feel that you aren't bad. So why are you going to be bad? That's especially bad if you hurt her. Myne is nice. She's the nicest lady in the world!"
James found himself lost for words. He didn't want to hurt Hermione.
He had to do it. He had to stop Mrs Jones before anyone else got hurt. Before Hermione got hurt. He had to stop her so that they could stop this war. So that no one else had to suffer like Ron. So that Ron wouldn't die in vain.
He was going to be a father. A dad. He was going to have a son. A boy. A child to dote on. And he was supposed to have peace to raise him.
But he wouldn't. Because he was dead. And James had seen to that. James had killed him, even if he hadn't fired a shot.
"You're sad."
James sniffed as the tears began to flee his eyes as if they were trying to escape a burning building.
He nodded.
"You're scared."
He nodded again.
"You shouldn't be sad. Or scared."
James desperately tried to wipe away his falling tears with a gloved hand.
"Why not?"
"Because the nice lady loves you very much. And you love her. And that's really nice."
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
"How worried about this do I need to be?"
Mac didn't turn to face Byron as he approached him in the kitchen. He was still looking out the large open window at his team leader. He was playing with a little girl as she patted a pony on the side of the head.
It was a surreal image. His helmet was on the little girl's head, his rifle slung over his back. She sat on his equipment belt as he did his best to make her laugh.
"He's fine." Mac grunted back.
Byron was not sold. He was too much too smart and had too much experience to fall for that.
"Mac…"
"I said, he's fine."
"Mac," Byron repeated carefully. "You and I have both seen this before. I'm not trying to come down on him, but we have a responsibility to the team. They need a leader. They don't need him if he's-"
"I told yeh, pal, he's fine."
Byron turned to face Mac then. He gave him a good long stare. Byron was not intimidated by Mac, which was rare. Most men were, even within the Regiment. Mac was the kind of big that he could chew with his mouth open, and no one would say anything about it.
"He's not. Was it Lucky? Or was it when he got wounded? I've seen both break a good operator. And I have to tell you, Mac, he looks pretty fucking broken from here."
"He's fookin' fine."
"Mac." Byron levelled at him. "I led you both. I was his first team leader, and I was your second. Have you ever seen me try and fuck a bloke over? I'm not doing that. Honestly, I'm just trying to check in to see if I need to be worried that he's going to give his Glock a blow job."
Mac finally turned and took in the Troop Sergeant. He said nothing. He just looked at him.
"Maybe he just needs a break? A training rotation. He's almost due anyway. A break away from the teams. Seeing your best mate get hit like that will screw with anyone's head. Especially so soon after you were reminded that you yourself are not bulletproof."
"He's fine."
"Don't be a broken record, Mac. I'm trying to help. Though, I've heard whispers."
"You've heard bullshit."
"This new girl he's got on the scene." Byron continued. "I've seen that. Life seems a bit more precious. A bit more certain. Makes it harder to risk it. Harder to keep running into the fray. Sounds like he's pretty into this one."
"Shut the fuck up." Mac said. But Byron wouldn't.
"I get it. It's a lot. He's had a rough year. Not to mention coming off the back of the whole '07' shit show."
Mac stepped forward and was ready to grab a hold of the Troop Sergeant, who stood his ground.
"I get it, mate." He said placatingly, he had gotten the reaction he sought. "I get it. Your loyalty has never been in question. Especially towards James and Lucky. But mate. I'm worried. He didn't shoot during the ambush, did he?"
"He did."
"Right. So instead of his rifle initiation, he just decided to change it to your machine gun instead? Didn't pass on that little key piece of information to the rest of the Troop?"
"He shot."
"I'll carbon check his rifle if I have to. Don't think I won't."
Mac glowered at him, but he continued. "Not to mention him on the radio trying to order a cease-fire, before and during the initial burst. Don't think I missed that."
Mac looked as though he was about to punch Byron in the face.
"I just want to know what's going on with one of my team leaders. With one of my mates."
Mac gave him a good long look. He was fantastic at standing his ground. Byron knew this, so he had outmanoeuvred the big man. It had worked. Mac was standing on uncertain ground.
"He'll be fine." Mac said through gritted teeth. It wasn't much, but it was about as much as Byron would get out of Mac.
"There we go, mate. Good. I need to know that. I'd hate to send him out in the field if he was falling apart."
Byron turned back out the window and saw James patting the Pony.
"Honestly?" He said softly. "Sounds like he has found his humanity again. It happens to everyone, eventually. He either needs to fight through this, or he needs to take a knee for a while."
Mac looked back out the window to see Delilah sitting on his team leader's shoulders. He wouldn't voice it. Ever. But Byron was right. He was very right.
The cracks had started to show. Mac was worried, he'd never seen James like this. Ever. James was a stalwart as man as they had. He never cracked. Sure he ran off half-cocked, and he got himself into all manner of shit shows.
But he always came out the other side mentally. He always laughed and joked about it. Lucky was especially good at helping him with that. But Lucky wasn't here. Lucky couldn't help at the moment.
It was up to Mac. And Mac felt like he was picking up the pieces of a broken man.
He just didn't know how they had gotten here.
"Unfortunately," Byron continued. "We have strict orders on this one. James stays in the field, no matter what."
Mac nodded his head to indicate that he had heard. He continued to look out the window.
"Looks like it's going to be that way for a while. So, I need you to keep an eye on him. When Lucky gets back, which will be soon apparently, I need him to do the same. We need James to hold it together. For everyone's sake."
Mac nodded.
"I tried to get him pulled from the field, but Command isn't having it. He's stuck here for now. In the meantime, someone needs to talk to him. He can't go on like this."
Mac remained silent.
"I've lost enough mates to their own hand Mac. I am fucking resolute that I will not lose another."
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
"James?"
"Yes, Delilah?"
"The bad man zapped my brother."
James just turned and looked at the little girl who was staring at him with her bright blue eyes. His voice caught in his throat as he tried to figure out the right words to say.
"Did he?" It was hardly what he was going for, but it was all he could think of to say.
"It was green. Just like this one." She said, holding out the glow stick. "Just like your eyes are."
James felt the burn then. In the back of his eyes as he went back to desperately blinking away the tears. The now familiar frustration building up behind them. This stuff was not supposed to be dealt with now. It is supposed to wait. Not now. And if at all possible, not ever.
"I'm really sorry to hear that, Delilah."
She nodded and continued to focus on the illuminated light.
"I know. I can hear it. They had sticks. And they waved them. And suddenly Daddy wasn't daddy anymore."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, he stopped hugging me. He always used to hug me. Daddy loved to hug me and Cam both. And Mummy. He was always hugging Mummy. But he became really mean. He would say nasty things about us."
"When did this happen Delilah?"
"A while back." She said, again focussing on the green light. "These bad men showed up and they moved in, and Daddy said we had to be nice to them, but they weren't very nice. They wore masks and I thought they were scary. They were very mean. Mummy cries a lot."
James felt a lump in his throat.
"They would go into her room. And then Mummy would cry. I could hear her cry. She didn't like the games they played."
Fuck.
James didn't know what to do. He knew he had to avoid thinking about that. He knew he couldn't show her that. He couldn't let his mind reveal anything to her.
But he was no expert in trauma, obviously. In how to deal with these situations. His go-to had always been to suppress it. Hide it. Put it somewhere where he could deal with it later. He couldn't tell that to a five-year-old.
"You are hiding something, James."
He offered her a sad smile.
"You don't miss a trick, do you?"
She shook her head, letting her blonde hair swish back and forth enthusiastically.
"And then last night, I was playing with Cam and the bad men came in and they yelled at us. They said we had to go to bed. But I didn't. I hid under the bed, and they couldn't find me. But they were happy. They were really excited. Like when it's my birthday and I get really excited because we get to do all my favourite things! That's how excited they were."
James just stared at the little girl as she continued to speak.
"But then they weren't so excited. And they couldn't find me. So, they got angry, and I was scared so I stayed hidden. Cam always knows what to do. But he didn't. He was in bed, and he was pretending to sleep and then one of them zapped him."
James reached up and took a hold of the little girl's hand as it was holding the glow stick. He was not prepared for this. He didn't know what to say. It just sat there on his chest, like a great big dumb weight. It caused the tears to spring unbidden to his eyes and his guts to churn.
"He's been so tired that he hasn't woken up yet."
James felt that lump. He didn't even know how to say it. How was he going to do it? How was he to break the news to this little girl that her brother had been callously murdered by magical terrorists?
"He's not coming back, is he?"
She said, her eyes boring into his.
He turned away.
How the f-. How the heck do I hide this.
"He's not coming back." She said with stark reality. "How come he isn't coming back?"
James's mouth hovered open. As did his mind. He couldn't even think of the right words. He couldn't even fathom how to deal with this for himself, let alone how to explain it to a little girl.
She started to cry. She started to bawl, and pulled herself to James's chest. Crying into his shoulder. It was all he could do to stroke her back, as he did with Hermione.
He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to think. He just held her as close as he could and prayed that her mother would be okay. Because this little girl had lost more than her share. She didn't deserve this.
"You don't either." She whispered into his neck.
He hummed.
"You should be happy too, James."
He nodded. "I know."
Silence once more fell before them, and James focussed on thinking how brave the little girl was. He hoped, that hearing his thoughts would do her more good than saying the words out loud.
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
"James?"
He turned at the sound of his name being called and saw him. Mark was standing about fifteen metres away. James knew it was Mark, despite the fact that he couldn't see his face in the darkness. No one else in his team or the other present teams stood like that.
That was not to say he stood in any distinct way, but when you had spent so much time in darkness with the same people, you knew them by how they stood, how they moved, and sometimes, just the little signs they gave without meaning to.
"How did you go, Mark?" James called back, shifting his attention from Delilah, who was sitting on the wooden fence and patting Brick. She still held the green glow stick in her hand and seemed to be completely obsessed with it.
"Quick chat please, mate?"
"Coming."
James wandered over to Mark, and James could just take in his features. He almost looked embarrassed. He took longer than was usual to meet James's expression.
"I did what you asked. I checked them. Got the photos."
James nodded to him. "Thanks, mate."
"What are the red coats?" Mark asked. "What about them got you so fucked up?"
"They are Auror uniforms, Mark. Think of them like Magical Detectives, cops crossed with Bounty Hunters. They are part of the Law Enforcement apparatus of the Wizarding World."
"Right." Mark replied, scratching his chin. "So, we just ambushed Government agents?"
James nodded.
"Yes, mate. We might just have kickstarted the war."
Mark nodded. "Fuck eh. Never started a war before."
James just nodded.
"What is it, James? There's something else here. Something you aren't saying. Because mate, this isn't you. There's something going on here, and I- well, the team, we have a right to know."
James didn't respond. He looked back at Delilah, who had rested her helmeted head on Bricks.
"Is this what's going on with you?" All the hesitation was gone from Mark. "Is this why you're shaken. Why you've got this haunted look in your eyes. Like you're being hunted. Like everyone is out for you. I've never seen you like this mate. I've never seen you brought down this low. What's changed? What's gotten into you? You're supposed to be leading this team, and instead, you're out here playing with a little girl? Showing her a pony. I mean, what the fuck mate?"
"One of them was my best mate growing up."
Mark blanched. James could tell, despite everything that covered him up. Despite the face wrap and the darkness. James could just tell.
"Fuck."
"Yeah."
"Are you saying you just friendly fucked someone?" Mark asked, his tone neutral.
James nodded. Doing his best to rebuild the dam in his mind that was constantly being torn asunder. The part of his mind that he built up, just in time for the next shock to the system to just destroy him.
He spared Mark a glance and saw it.
Concern.
Mark was generally concerned about him. James didn't know why, but it angered him. It pissed him off. He felt that anger rise to the pit of this throat and threatened to pour out.
Now? Now he's worried? Now he has some concerns?
James opened his mouth hotly. He wanted to tell him to fuck off. To say that everything was absolutely fine and there was nothing to worry about. He just wanted to tell Mark that he needed to stay in his lane, thank you very much, and leave James's business to James.
But he couldn't. Because none of that would fly with Mark. Mark had extended an olive branch, and what was James to do? Spit on it? No.
Mark was still one of his closest mates. Mark was still someone who trusted James with his life. He was still someone who James trusted with his.
He at least deserved the truth.
Instead of speaking, he sighed. It wasn't an angry sigh. Far from it. It was the sigh of a man who felt like his thoughts were just entirely too big for his head.
"Wherever you store it all, mate." James began, his voice not much louder than a whisper, but still carrying in the dark. "Wherever you put it. Keep it there. Keep it there until you are ready to look at it. Keep it there until you can open it as safely as possible. Keep it there, and keep it sealed. But if you want my advice, don't open it. Don't open it for anything."
Mark just stared at him. If he hadn't known better, James might have suspected that Mark had no idea what he was talking about. But the little subtle nod from him told him he knew exactly what James was referring to.
"We've been through some shit, James. There's no doubt about that."
James just nodded, looking away. Ashamed of his weakness. Ashamed that he couldn't hold it together. Ashamed that his mate was seeing him like this, an emotional wreck.
"If you think we're through it then I'm jealous of your optimism."
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
The helicopter disappeared into the night. A black blob, with no lights; it was just a dark shape to anyone who didn't have the benefits of night vision.
It carried on board a full flight crew, a medical crew, and an injured civilian. Maree. She was still being treated for what she had been put through. The medical team had not provided a prognosis. James knew that was never promising.
They never made promises.
His attention turned away from the retreating shape of the Blackhawk and over towards the convoy of Black Range rovers that were making their way down the driveway towards the house.
James felt it. His heart in his chest as it began to beat heavily.
This was it. The time was coming now.
He glanced around.
The bodies still lay where they had fallen. They had not been disturbed. The MI5 agents were expected to search for intelligence. They wanted the bodies where they lay.
Including Cameron.
Andrew would still be inside, guarded by two others.
The rest of the Regiment men were standing somewhat at ease. Most were clumped together in small groups. Talking, laughing, joking.
It was the standard practice once an operation was complete. Everything was funny again.
Even Byron and Bits appeared relaxed.
The tension was relieved, and the men could go back to amusing themselves. Which they did. Stories. Farts. Jokes. The usual suspects for a group of men who spent most of their waking hours around each other.
If they were grouped together, it was good. They weren't standing tactically. They didn't suspect a thing.
Delilah was looking at him funny. As if she didn't understand. Perhaps she didn't. That was good. He was doing his best to keep his mind as empty as possible. But he needed her away from him. One wrong thought and she could ruin everything.
He wouldn't risk her. Not with this.
"Mark?" He called over. Mark was standing with Chris and Adam. His rifle was slung down and he was laughing with them about something.
He came jogging over to James.
"Can you take Delilah? Jones will want a walkthrough. Best if she is kept here and away from all that."
"Yeah, not a worry."
"You're lying." Came from Delilah. She was staring straight at James. "How come you're lying?"
James shook his head and offered her a smile. "Don't worry about it, Delilah."
Mark looked at him inquisitively. "What?"
"Oh, she just says things sometimes," James said dismissively, handing the little girl over.
Mind clear. Mind clear. Mind clear.
.5
"What are you doing?" she asked. Her voice rose shrilly. She refused to release his body armour, her little hands clinging tightly to him. "You promised!"
James reached up and gave her a look as he as gently as possible started to pry her hands from him.
"I need you to let me go, Delilah."
"No! You promised!" She was crying out now. Heads were turning his way.
Men from both teams were looking over at the commotion of the crying girl being separated from the Regiment man. James couldn't see it, but he could feel some of their smirks.
"You promised Myne!"
James saw Mac slowly walking over.
"Delilah. You need to let go." James said sternly.
"No! I won't! I won't let you! I won't let you! You promised! You promised Myne!"
James gently removed the grip from his body armour and stepped back.
Mark struggled to hold her, as she writhed in his grip.
"You're alright Delilah. It's alright!" He said, trying to calm her, but having no effect.
"Hold her, Mark." James said. "You need to hold her. No matter what."
"Got it." There was confusion in Mark's voice, but he held Delilah tight.
She was crying now. Crying and begging him.
"You promised her! You promised! You can't break your promise! You would be bad! That would be bad."
James did his best to push her voice from his mind as he stepped away from her and towards the Range Rovers as they pulled to a halt.
He stepped away from her and saw Jones emerge from the third vehicle. Rogers was immediately by her side, as was Smith.
Maybe he could get all three.
She had a smile on her face and was surrounded by her suited subordinates. They spread out as she began walking over towards him.
He cleared his mind as best he could. But he couldn't. It was clouded. Hermione's face swam into view. Her anger. Her fury if she knew. Her rage.
He had promised. He had promised her he wouldn't.
"James!" She called out, with a smile on her face. "Another successful operation I hear."
He went calm. Strangely calm. The soldier in him took over. Everything seemed to mute. All feelings, thoughts, sounds, all seemed to fade in the background as he accepted what was to happen. What he had to do.
She was twenty metres away. He could do it now. But he wanted her to get closer, so he could get all three before he went down.
She was talking to Rogers as she approached.
Fifteen metres.
James's hand went down to his sidearm.
He undid the retention clasp.
He gripped it by the handle.
A long, deep, breath.
It was time.
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Triggers:
Mentions of Sexual Assault, Torture.
Child Death,
A/N:
Hello,
Welcome to Chapter Twenty of RWIF.
Once again a massive thank you to all of you who review, kudos, favourite, or follow the story! It means much more than you think.
Also a big thankyou to those of you who are still reading. We are getting there.
Once again, my most massive thanks to the wonderful LancashireWitch, who is helping me beta. We still haven't caught up, so at the time of posting, this chapter has not yet been beta'd, all mistakes are my own!
Sorry for the delay on this one. Life took over. But here you go. Poor Ron. It was hard to do. Especially after he was the hero of Diagon Alley. But that's the way these things go sometimes.
Poor James. He's falling apart.
Hope you enjoy the chapter, and I hope to be back in the next couple of weeks with my next installment.
I do so love a cliffhanger.
Cheers,
ATG
P.S: I wrote a crack-drabble in the the RWIF universe (it isn't canon and is spoiler free), so if you want more RWIF content, you can check that out on AO3. It is called 'Sword Fight'.