Hello Dear Readers! Thank you for your kind comments. I forgot to lead in by saying this is all written and I will post every other day, as usual. Thank you to those readers I can't thanks personally.
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CHAPTER TWO
The oxygen tent had gone now, just the oxygen cylinder remained, next to the bed. The mask was on the bed next to him. Someone had placed his hand over it, in case it was needed quickly.
In the corner, Aramis sat hunched over in a chair, his elbows resting on his knees, staring at the tiled floor. He looked as bad as Athos felt. He had made it from his own room, which Treville said was further down the corridor. Athos waited him out but the silence was becoming oppressive. Aramis wasn't here to chat, obviously. He was troubled.
"What happened?" Athos managed, with some difficulty. He was woozy from whatever drugs they were feeding him.
"People died. We lived," Aramis said, without looking up.
"That is not what I meant."
Aramis ran a hand through his unruly hair in a familiar gesture.
"I know what you meant, Athos," he said. He looked up then. His face was bruised, the skin beneath his eyes black. His eyes bloodshot.
"You are under my command in the field," Athos persisted, needing to know why Aramis hesitated.
"I know that too," Aramis replied in a voice that suggested Athos would get no more.
"I have to make a statement to Treville," Athos sighed. "He will decide.
"Do you even know why you hesitated?" he persisted. "We had her in that warehouse!"
But Aramis did not reply. Instead he stood up and picked up the mask, placing the elastic band around Athos's head and adjusting the mask in place. Athos reached up to take hold of it but Aramis wrapped his own hand around his, stopping him. They locked eyes.
"She's dead now, one way or another," Aramis said, pressing a hand to his side with a grimace. "Thank you for saving my life."
"Aramis, dammit!" Athos said, in frustration. But Aramis was gone.
/
Later, Porthos let himself gently into the room. Seeing Athos awake, albeit staring into space, he closed the door behind him and pulled up a chair.
"How is Aramis?" Athos asked him, by way of greeting. Porthos huffed and rubbed both hands over his face.
"I would say, this afternoon, he is overly jolly."
"What?" Athos frowned.
"He's swinging all over the place, emotionally. I'm letting him find his own level."
"Is he worried about the investigation?"
"Says he welcomes it," Porthos shrugged.
"I don't understand."
"Don't try, Athos," Porthos grunted.
He held his hand up, index finger and thumb close together. "You were both this close," he said, staring at Athos. "Place was ablaze when me and Treville and the others got there. People were runnin' about from the other buildings, but there was no stoppin' it. I was all for runnin' inside, but Treville stopped me and, God, for the size of him he's pretty strong. Wouldn't let go."
Porthos shook his head, lips tight together. "I ran round the back, to find another way in, you know? And, there you both were. Smouldering on the ground."
Athos raised his eyebrows and his lips quirked. "Smouldering?"
"It ain't funny, Athos," Porthos seethed, but then relented. "You were, though. It was only your leathers that saved you both. Aramis's hair was singed."
"Is that why he is upset?" Athos murmured.
Porthos shook his head. "Is this what psychologist's call, "Gallows Humour?"
"Probably."
"Probably," Athos said, again after a few moments. "I thought I knew him, Porthos," he added then, deadly serious, his eyes wide and shining.
"Look," Porthos said. "It's a cliché, but you've both been through it. Treville is right. Go to Switzerland. Get better. Talk. I'll hold the fort, try and find out what I can. And then when you get back, the investigation will sort it out."
"That sounds simple."
"It's not though, is it? We're a team, us three, yeah? This has been the best year of my life, being in The Musketeers. I don't want it to fall apart. Do you?"
Athos rubbed his forehead. "No, of course not, Porthos."
"That's great," Porthos said, softly.
"Though, I can't promise what I don't understand," Athos added, sadly.
/
When his men were first incapacitated by an ambush, Treville had taken the opportunity to become re-acquainted with Dannika Rand's background. He rewatched what little footage there was online, wishing there was more. It showed a shot of her and several others in a street, shooting their way out of a situation. They were all clad in black, but her hair was evident, tied at the back, beneath the black woollen cap. She didn't care that she was identified, she obviously wanted the recognition. It hadn't made it any easier to apprehend her.
He had known of her before he formed The Musketeers and as a team, they had looked into her as a suspect for various terrorist incidents but nothing ever stuck. Now, it seemed, she knew them, had studied them, and had arranged a bogus call giving them information that she was behind setting up a warehouse on an industrial estate on the outskirts of Paris and loading it with crates and boxes. They were used to tip-offs, of course. They had cultivated a number of contacts around Paris who were willing to betray or simply offer information for money. It's how all police forces worked.
Athos and Aramis had been the first to take the call. Afterwards, Treville didn't think the two of them were personally targetted, it was just the roll of the dice. The rest of the team were close behind and it was Porthos and himself who arrived next, to an already blazing warehouse. It still made him shiver to think he could have lost his whole team.
He sighed as he pulled up the only face shot they had of Dannika Rand. It was a police photo for a violation in Germany and she was younger then, but as Treville stared into the hard eyes he sighed at the path she had taken and the wasted life. He had seen many such photographs, but Rand was different. It was if she had no soul. He was in a long line of law enforcement officers who wanted the woman put away for good. Her crimes were long now and he had the fuel that would keep him looking until she was apprehended.
He took a swallow from his mug of strong coffee and leaned back, scrolling through the text on his screen.
Rand had made quite a name for herself over the last decade and was known to the police in several European countries.
Of German and Polish origin, she had had a good childhood. In fact, it had been exceptional. Born to wealthy parents, she and her younger sister, Irena, had been indulged. Sent to private schools, they had received the best education and had emerged well-qualified for whatever career they wanted to pursue in life.
Dannika wanted to pursue terrorism.
Not at first, she had worked for two years in corporate law. Perhaps it was that world that had skewed her view. Or the company she kept.
She had made one particular contact several years ago at university. He was from Hamburg, a striking man with silver hair and crystal blue eyes. Fifteen years older than her, but a man she apparently had looked up to. A man she had loved. He was an anarchist, who slowly drew her in and exploited her unease with capitalism, saying all the right things. He was a dangerous man and she soon became a dangerous woman. Within a year, they were wanted, along with their hangers-on; disenfranchised people, looking for a cause.
They all found one in Karl Gerber and Dannika Rand.
Irena, her sister, was drawn in too. She had always followed in Dannika's footsteps and Dannika knew just how to exploit her. Cause before family.
It had all gone wrong one Sunday, when after a spate of mayhem and destruction, Gerber had been shot and Dannika Rand found herself clinging to his body as he shuddered off the last vestiges of life, his beautiful eyes dimming, his blood running through her fingers. She had screamed as the sirens drew closer, her followers had melted away and she had had to leave her lover behind in the dirt, as Irena pulled her away, driving them out of Berlin, Dannika almost catatonic with grief. She had always felt deeply and now she grieved deeply.
The two sisters stayed in a squat for three months, before emerging, revenge in their hearts, unable to blame themselves for their downfall, determined to start again.
And start again they did, until police forces across Europe were aware of them and sought them. Of course, they disguised themselves, moved quickly, recruited associates and accrued wealth from their spoils whilst disrupting and terrorising before slipping away, as terrorists do. Eventually they found themselves in Paris, where they learned that a new security force had been formed whilst they were underground. People called them The Musketeers. They talked about them being formidable. Dannika Rand was curious, but also wanted them out of Paris and so she had set about observing and learning what she could about them. Until the day she set her ill-fated trap.
She hadn't just want them gone, she had wanted them dead.
/
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