Chapter 18: How The Threat Was Contained
Freya's stomach noticed the appetizing odors wafting the basement corridors they hurried down, between the catering company's staging area and the stairway leading to the museum's main entrance chamber. A little absurd for the situation they found themselves in – bacon, pastry, glaze, onion.
Ahead of her, Gwaine skidded to a stop at the corner, attention caught by the placard tacked on the wall – fire exit map, she recognized without really looking at it herself. Instead she diverted to the other side of the corridor, keeping watch down the opposite end of the intersecting hall.
Terrorist could be male or female, old or young, though probably not overweight. Dressed like staff – like them – to avoid attracting notice.
"Bee-two-twenty," Gwaine said shortly. "This way."
He took off in the direction that kept her behind him, further into the museum's interior. Away from the delicious smells and the staging area and anything they could use for weapons or defense – trays, pan-lids, chefs-knives.
It was impossible to be silent, running these polished floors in their boots, but she kept to her toes and Gwaine was canny. Best damn second-sergeant she knew. Decelerate to the corner, ease a glance around, and he gestured an all-clear-let's-go for a left turn.
Four terrorists, Merlin had said. And he'd be fine, in the middle of a crowd of well-dressed politicians, right? No one was intending to start a fistfight – they used other weapons, less immediately lethal – and the attendees would have been discreetly searched for things like pocket-knives, much less handguns.
And they knew the code to request security to back them up.
Another corner, another left turn – Freya was panting silently through her mouth, heart pounding.
There was a point, she was aware, when enemies like terrorists quit behaving rationally – don't detonate til your boss and your comrades are at a reasonably safe distance – and simply reacted to cause as much damage as possible.
Go down swinging. She could relate – military and Psych Ops could relate, to a certain extent. But not when it endangered noncombatants, whether tacitly allied with either side, or not.
She slid in silently behind Gwaine's shoulder, backs to the walls at another corner. The weight of five stories of ponderous museum architecture was almost palpable above them, and the priceless artifacts treasured inside. If this came down, it would be ten times worse than the hospital in Janada.
And she couldn't forget how that affected Merlin…
"I've had nightmares that started like this," Gwaine breathed - she didn't want to ask him how those nightmares ended – and launched himself around the corner, into the next hallway, body language telling her everything she needed to know.
Terrorists sighted.
Gwaine sprinted, faster than she'd ever seen him move, and a dark-haired man in nondescript staff-appropriate attire began to turn from his place at the end of the corridor. Stranger, here? so far from regular routine gala-serving necessity, watching toward the main basement access area, lifts and stairwells? Not hardly.
She followed almost as quickly, letting Gwaine shield her with his body – if they were armed, better Freya have the chance to reach the bomb that Merlin could tell her how to disarm - and just as Gwaine leaped to pound a fist into the stranger's face-
Freya felt a presence behind her.
Intimately close, too close for defense and that didn't even occur to her as she turned – no time even to complete the turn, if a terrorist had approached behind them. They'd know Freya and Gwaine were Camelot's defenders and if the one behind her was armed, she'd be dead before she knew it.
…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..
Halfway through the crowd gathering to the speaker-platform because of Arthur's impromptu revelations, Morgause twitched like she meant to turn and continue glaring daggers at Arthur for his daring speech – but held Merlin's gaze through the people reacting increasingly confused.
"I say," someone closer to the platform remarked to Arthur. "What are you-"
"Shouldn't you arrest her?" a half-deaf wife with faux fur and pearls stage-whispered to her companion. "That's a rather serious accusation, isn't-"
"Are we just going to let him say such things about-"
Never mind convincing. The speech had done its job. And he had the idea that Tosoldat would-
Merlin, can you handle her?
Camelot's best psychic had sensed snipers from significant distance. Had blown up boats and transport trucks.
Merlin inhaled visibly, straightening another half-inch with projected conviction, and without losing Morgause's gaze. Clearly, Yeah, go.
The moment Arthur stepped down from the platform and excused himself between two middle-aged men – "Pendragon, if you have proof, you can't just…" – "Come, we'll issue an apology and-"
-Armin Rynok shifted to the side. He eyed the people collectively – calculatingly – then glanced at his time-keeper and half-turned to excuse himself through the back of the crowd also.
The evening was barely an hour into its scheduled events. Back-on-track was still probably not possible anymore, but was Morgause scheduled to speak? How long had they planned to stay? What plans would Tosoldat change, now?
Arthur had done what he could, as far as she was concerned. Unless she acted, Psych Ops couldn't make an arrest. Gwen and Merlin would make sure she didn't escape, but-
Even if Gwen noticed Tosoldat, and almost certainly she'd recognize him, Arthur would rather take the man down himself, than leave it to her.
He skirted Morgause with several people between them, and behind where she was still focused on Merlin. Who didn't glance at Arthur, but in case his peripheral vision was alert, Arthur tapped his jacket with two fingers, just over the hidden pocket carrying Merlin's credentials. I have something here for you… I'll return it when I see you later.
It was nightmarishly slow going, with every person he passed – "Pendragon, are you quite sure…" – "We must contact Richard Gaius, if she's really…" – trying to verbalize shock and scandal, focusing on him. While Rynok was unknown and could slip away toward the-
Front doors, where Gwen turned from speaking with the officers on security duty, and the youngest of them had a hand on the service weapon at his hip.
Rynok pivoted, headed toward the interior of the building. Other exits – other guards, but not alerted to danger from within, and of course a terrorist would be as adept at arming himself as a scout.
Almost.
Gwen raised her voice – not warning, not threatening, just an attendant passing on a message. "Mr. Rynok, we've made all security personnel aware of your situation, if you could just-"
People on the fringes were distracted – decided the unfamiliar Mr. Rynok's situation was mundane in comparison to Arthur's accusation – turned away again.
Gwen stepped forward, like a graceful attendant catching an inattentive patron, not like a Psych Ops scout stalking a terrorist. Rynok quickened his steps to the alcove housing four lifts – not fleeing, exactly, but not deliberately drawing them in either.
And Arthur was closer to him than Gwen. He didn't slow, even when he dodged a tuxedoed whale of an official and knocked his hip against one of the glass cases – a sword or a javelin maybe, propped and angled artistically in the square space.
"Urhavi," Gwen said distinctly, behind him. A reminder, a warning.
Revenge. Explosion. Tosoldat was an explosives expert – or at least expert in employing explosive experts. And maybe he and Morgause intended all along to make a fortuitous early exit before an unthinkable terror attack right at the heart of Camelot-
Some devastating campaign a lot closer to home than we'd like to imagine possible, Gaius had said.
And maybe Tosoldat was going to cut ties with Renard as a devalued asset, and move straight on to revenge.
Rynok hit the button to call the lift – Arthur broke into a discreet jog. Anything like pulling a fire alarm or screaming Bomb! was going to cause chaos and panic, injuries probable and that accusation might eclipse the more important one, and Rynok might have contingencies in place anyway.
…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..
It was Merlin – not a dangerously-close terrorist - somehow behind Freya in the middle of the hall. Incongruously calm and collected, hands tucked casually in his pockets, in spite of the unmistakable sounds of Gwaine launching an attack at the bomb-guarding terrorist behind her.
He smiled. "Red wire, my love."
And vanished.
Crazy vertigo washed over her, worse than when they were both asleep and their dreams met and merged. Maybe don't try this again… The corridor tilted as she spun back to Gwaine and his target actually there, catching herself with a hand on the wall and persuading her feet to propel her forward.
Gwaine crouched over the flailing other, coolly and deliberately slamming his skull into the ground oncetwice, and he crumbled motionless. Gwaine glanced up, around the corridor theirs dead-ended into, then back at her, his hands already busy searching his captive's pockets.
"Nothing," he reported swiftly, softly, shifting his weight to begin untying one of his bootlaces. His target was only unconscious, then – though of course a fight here would be different than in an alleyway in Aravia, say. Not that these particular enemies would hesitate to make the fight lethal, either place. "You?"
She moved around them, making sure the other hall was clear to either direction. Merlin had said four, right?
"Red wire?" she offered.
Gwaine freed a hand from wrapping and tying bootlaces around his unconscious captive's wrists, and pointed.
The stencil on the closed door the man had been loitering nearest – though he'd been watching the other direction, maybe expecting any interference to come from the front of the museum, not the back? – B22.
Merlin said there were four. She almost blurted it aloud in confusion, even as she put her hand on the doorknob and realized, there could be others inside. Armed. Alerted by the sound of the scuffle.
Since the angle would be wrong for someone like that to aim for Gwaine, Freya slammed through the door, dropping to a crouch – and almost gasping in relief to find a small storeroom uninhabited. Utility room for packing or unpacking shipments?
Shelves above, cabinets below, nondescript, innocuous.
Behind the door, the wall supported a rack of tools – saws, clamps - too big or awkward to be tucked in a drawer or cabinet. In the middle of the floor there was a boxy… appliance? with cool silver skin, labeled small in a corner Pump Fan, white sticker with black writing, and a red symbol instinct identified as the two-dimensional blades of a fan.
Nondescript, innocuous. A fan for what?
"Is that it?" Gwaine said, backing to the doorway and glancing in – but mostly keeping watch for the three others meant to be guarding this room.
"Guess so." Freya opened the nearest drawer to a dry heavy shuffle of semi-organized hand tools.
Ah – a hammer for Gwaine with a worn-smooth wooden handle.
He barely looked at it when she offered, gripping and balancing it as a weapon that could be thrown – or not. "Perfect. Get to work?"
She circled the unit, noting a small access panel in the back, flush with the rest of the sleek silver skin and affixed with tiny slotted screws.
The third drawer she checked contained a set of screwdrivers in diminishing sizes. She grabbed the smallest – and a small green-handled tool for snipping wires.
…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..
For the first few breathless moments when Arthur finished speaking on the platform, no one else noticed Merlin.
Renard held her glare, ire and intent focusing and igniting, rather than diminishing.
Merlin's appearance at the museum gala, his silent stand in support of Arthur's public accusations, was unexpected. Whatever they'd learned of the events in Aravia, whatever they'd concluded, this part of Gwen's plan worked.
And how.
You. She sneered.
Yeah, me. How many explosions, how many snipers, how many times had he worn the target since he'd chosen to pick it up, and stand with Camelot. With Arthur Pendragon, Scout of Camelot.
They'd expected Arthur alone, his defenses stripped to what they could easily handle, mocking him with his helplessness. Now they'd have to recalculate the odds and the strategy and the tactics.
Probably couldn't retreat – even if Renard was someone who'd ever do that. Maybe that was something intrinsic to Essetirian psychics. Because the boy Merlin had only met in Arthur's memory of Urhavi had chosen to attack in the moment of discovery, too.
"Ms. Renard," someone said to her. "Ms. Renard, you must take the podium, you must answer these accusations-"
"-Slander," someone else said. "And if you want to press charges, he has to prove-"
Elsewhere in the crowd there were officials who oversaw law enforcement, military – orders would be given-
Merlin opened his mouth to inform the tall man with more silver than blond in his side-combed hair, Sir there's a solicitor on your staff that she persuaded you could be investigated for-
Morgause Renard inhaled, eyes widening and nostrils flaring and lips compressing and-
Jungle grass tickled the back of Merlin's neck. Saturated earth sank almost imperceptibly beneath his soles and craggy old trees rose vine-covered in the near distance and it all smelled like life and death, green and black. Growth and decay.
He knew without turning that there would be no sidewalk behind him, no safe neighborhoods to retreat to. No dazzling gem-reflections of museum-worthy displays of wealth; above him indirect light dimmed and he was in the middle of a vast jungle.
Merlin also knew that he could escape her psychic trap and return to the museum any moment he chose.
He crouched where he stood, lowering his center of gravity and ducking below the level of the grasses waving in a nonexistent breeze. The air was impatiently stagnant and damp between thicker stalks, lower to the ground.
And her psyche prowled somewhere like a hunting cat, like a panther or a tiger.
Wounded. Man-eater.
Whispers sidled around his ear. Ma'am? What are you – Are you all – Can we get…
No, Morgause Renard, you focus here.
Reverberations quivered through his soles, accelerating, closing – he twisted, surrendering balance, and a giant paw flashed out. Extended claws reached for his blood and his pulse, and the narrow yellow eyes studied his whole circulatory system before-
Vanishing again into the undergrowth.
Part of him continued registering the details of his physical location, the chaotic wisps of abandoned dialogue. Who are – Is he one of the – What's wrong with-
Merlin twisted on his ankles, crouched only in his mind. Just because the beast had swiped at him from that trajectory didn't mean it couldn't, wouldn't circle to come at his vulnerability another way.
What would happen if-
The grass shifted, blade against blade, the scent warming with body heat. This time the cat leaped with the claws of both front paws spread, gripping the air eager for his flesh, fangs open on the hiss-
None of his training had been for inhuman assailants but… this was all mental exercise after all. Wasn't it?
Merlin dove forward, under the creature's lunge.
Mostly.
Pain ripped up his left flank – lower back, muscle to ribs. He gasped to imagine claw tips catching the bone, but rolled and kicked his military boots and the jungle-grass darkness swallowed the cat.
Could she kill him, here?
Would he simply cease to be a psychic? Or would his body drop dead on the polished floor of the museum…
Where Sir Geoffrey kept his prized artifacts. And if he focused, he was sure he could tell where it was… in the real world. But that didn't matter here, did it.
Merlin got his knee under him, his foot down, and fumbled at blood-soaked clothing along his left hip because I'm psychic too damn you.
And he knew it by now, didn't he, knew its length and its runes and its hilt, even if he'd never touched it, even if he'd never seen it new or in use. He wasn't wearing a sheathe but it wasn't exactly from thin air that he drew it.
The sword for one man, one uncommon warrior, and Merlin wasn't that man and he didn't think of it as sharing or borrowing, but-
The movement wrung hot agony from his whole body. His left leg wouldn't hold him and his balance couldn't find his right leg. Mud squished under his sole and as he collapsed the jungle cat sprang up from the ground-shadows.
It wasn't clean or heroic or even graceful, but he maneuvered the blade on instinct – lift raise thrust – catching a rib and skewing the leap sideways as the tiger-panther snarled, coiling to bite and pluck at the injuring metal.
Merlin writhed, mashing mud and blood together beneath him, shoving the point farther into the beast's center of mass.
It rolled and twisted, trying to free itself from only an inch or two of blade. That wouldn't be lethal, might not even be a deterrent but a provocation to finish him, because he was wounded too. There wasn't enough room – the grass was too thick – but Merlin thrust another inch, inch-and-a-half. The cat screamed, warning and rage, a sound calculated to terrify and immobilize.
Can't afford mercy. Too dangerous, with this one.
He dug his toes in, gripped a handful of mud and roots and – full-length on the ground – jammed the sword tip far enough to hit something serious.
The beast thrashed around the blade, wildly tearing itself open on the foreign manmade weapon.
Merlin heaved himself up. This was the mercy now – enough of his weight behind the hilt to plunge the blade in the muddy ground through the creature's body.
Claws reached and pulled ineffectually. The menacing hisses of hatred diminished, and – a sudden whirlwind spun all the grasses together, hiding the beast from sight, flinging his equilibrium end over end and the psychic image of the sword exploded like fireworks.
He caught himself stumbling on his feet, movement arrested in the amber glow of electric lighting and polished granite – concrete and glass – silk and satin and gem.
They hadn't moved. Morgause Renard still faced him from three paces away, shoulders hunched and hands empty, burgundy and blonde. The blood-red lips hung open, the dark eyes sunk into stenciled makeup and her skin grayed as he watched.
Nausea surged up from his gut and he clenched empty fists. Did I just-
Around them, the crowd of formal-dressed politicians hadn't stopped moving. Drifting, rushing, murmuring, exclaiming. One of the security personnel – a slender woman with a long dark braid – appeared at Renard's side, reaching to assist-protect-and-serve.
Merlin seemed to be the only one who knew Morgause's attention would divert to the guard's sidearm. That her hand would dive down, claim and unholster and point-
Screams erupted from several of those closest.
"Gun! Gun gungun get down!"
He didn't move. They should've tried this instead of snipers, because there was no time to duck and nowhere to hide.
Her finger tightened on the trigger; the discharge was deafening.
…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..
Freya crouched behind the metal box self-identifying as a Pump Fan, twiddling tiny screws from the access panel as fast as she could.
Timer, maybe. The panel rigged to blow the device if it was messed with, maybe. The other terrorist-guards showing up any minute with a Seize-9 for each hand, maybe.
The tiny tool slipped on the sweat from her palms. No, Merlin would have warned her if it was anything but Red wire, my love.
"Incoming," Gwaine said abruptly, sounding fierce and eager.
Freya turned her attention to the last screw holding the access plate, as furious and masculine grunts and sounds of combat rose in the hallway outside. Gwaine with a hammer in a narrow corridor was something she'd put money on any day, even against three terrorists. As long as there weren't guns.
No shots were fired, though…
The panel dropped as the last screw loosened, and Freya huddled further over her knees to peer inside.
It was a relatively small space, bounded by more metal walls compartmentalizing other hidden components. Three colors of wires jumbled like a child's shoelaces, linking a circuit board to other seen or hidden connections, and a thicker ribbon like tough beige linguine twisted throughout.
No helpful readout of red-lit numbers, counting down a comfortable margin of time left before BOOM.
But, red wire my love was all she needed, right?
She reached for the green-rubber handle next to her knee – and suddenly the scuffle-and-grunt of Gwaine's fight skidded through the room right next to her, the combatants forced into the space beside the mislabeled fan.
Gwaine was on the defensive, his opponent's hands squeezed around his throat. He freed a fist to punch short ribs and forearms, ineffectively, and he was losing to lack of air.
Freya reacted instantly, stabbing the small slender screwdriver into the terrorist's leg. Not expecting it to penetrate trousers-material, she continued the movement swiftly, repetitively, again againagain. Even if it only bruised and distracted-
Gwaine broke the man's grip with a growl and hit him in the face – again again – both of them collapsing next to Freya, Gwaine on top and making sure the terrorist was incapacitated with another intentional, decisive blow.
Sprawled over the motionless body, he panted to recover. "Bloody hells!"
But if he wasn't immediately up and alert for more, she could be sure that was the last of the three Merlin mentioned for a total of four.
And blood on the screwdriver. Freya offered it to Gwaine – who took it with a nod – and grabbed the green-handled wire-snipper.
"Careful," Gwaine rasped, wiping the blood from the screwdriver on the leg of his black staff-trousers.
She crouched over, fingering the wires delicately to separate the red one.
They'd never done anything on home soil. Did this mean civil or criminal investigation, rather than just debrief of a ranking commander? She'd have to testify-
They'd have to live to testify-
Red wire, my love.
She breathed, and squeezed the green rubber handle.
Snip.
…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..
Behind him Arthur heard Gwen call out something else that clarity couldn't quite parse – extremely entertaining? – and Tosoldat was lucky enough to lurch inside one of the closer lifts, hastily jamming buttons.
Arthur quickened his pace, still not sure he wanted to accost a terrorist only twenty feet from a gathering of shocked but probably curious politicians. He could be armed, after all.
The lift door slid shut between them when Arthur was still three paces away – couldn't stand the man's smug expression - he yanked open the stairwell door impatiently.
"Pendragon!" she called.
He took half a second to face her and gesture orders – stay here, secure transport, guard against quarry doubling back.
A firm nod was all either of them needed for response.
Arthur's heart lifted as he dashed up the stairs several at a time, hauling himself onward with a firm grip on the handrail. Merlin was here. Gwen was here. She was amazing, and she was on his side, and he'd catch Tosoldat and then it would be over. All of it, all over.
Second floor lift alcove clear; the lift itself ascending without stopping.
Slinging himself around the landing, he did a quick inventory of assets – shoelaces, even on the polished formal pair, Leon was good, but that would be time-consuming – belt and buckle, hm – no loose railings in the stairwell to pry out of the wall without significant delay.
Third floor alcove clear, not so much as a potted plant or waste bin to tuck under an arm and throw when he caught up to Rynok.
Should've grabbed a tray from a serving attendant, or smashed a goblet for a weapon, stabbing or slashing; the foot wouldn't make a bad handle. And he could tell MacKenzie that a champagne flute was just as good as a teacup. If you had to.
Fourth floor alcove clear.
Cravat, he decided. Could be used to defend against a knife two-handed, or wrapped around an off-hand for deflection. Could be used for strangling as an offensive weapon. He wrestled with the knot as he bounded up the last flight.
Fifth floor was top floor. And maybe the terrorist was considering roof access – there were no other buildings close enough to jump to. Maybe they had something like helicopter backup hovering for emergency extraction – unlikely – but maybe he just wanted a chance to slip Arthur's immediate attention so there were five floors worth of hiding places that would have to be searched, rather than one or two if he'd succeeded in getting out earlier. And the further he ascended, the slower his pursuit might be expected to follow.
Really didn't know Arthur well.
Fifth floor door – he dodged to glimpse as much of the space beyond the door as possible through the slice of window. No immediate ambush detected – he yanked the door inward, using it to shield himself because it wasn't impossible that they'd been able to smuggle weapons inside the museum earlier today, or yesterday.
No one in sight - but to his right lay the overlook to the grand foyer five stories down, the murmur of agitated guests nearly covering the sound of hurried footsteps.
"Tosoldat!" Arthur hollered, and added in Aravian, "Your men in Urhavi did not run from me! Your boy who sees minds faced me with his knife in his hand!"
Now he could see the unremarkable middle-aged man dressed in Camelot finery, hesitating – turning. Choosing to stand and fight and then flee triumphant… rather than just fleeing.
"He was the man?" Arthur goaded, controlling the urge to gasp for breath after the swift upward race. "And you are the boy? You are only another skull-" deliberately he used the derogatory military slang – "supported on Essetirian charity?"
People didn't grow up with a big happy family and stable finances and decent education and then choose terrorism. Usually. So of course Armin Rynok had a past, and of course Arthur's words hurt.
He pulled his hands from his pockets with something in the right one, reaching with his left to make some adjustment without having to look down. A blade hidden in an otherwise innocuous object, Arthur would bet.
That meant small. And sharp. Arthur could kill with a blade like that, and it might be heavy enough to slice or puncture clothing.
The cravat wrapping his hand, for example.
Rynok approached him at a slow jog, every step balanced – a fighter, in spite of age and relative rank.
And Arthur didn't stand flat-footed to allow him the advantage of offense. Two seconds to scrutinize and evaluate, and he made his own decisive move forward.
Here and now. Tosoldat wouldn't incapacitate him and escape. So Arthur would die – or win.
Rynok's attack was swift and compact, controlled and efficient – block block dodge, and Arthur punched his face, but he rolled back from the blow and it was only glancing. Half a second of recovery and re-evaluation-
Arthur spun the cravat away from his hand, intending to flip-twist it around the man's wrist and use the leverage, but Rynok adjusted and swiped harder and wider, maintaining balance. And if that short, wide blade held between his fingers rather than between thumb and forefinger caught the delicate material just wrong, Arthur's defense could be halved.
So he kicked a toe behind Rynok's ankle – expected, defended – Rynok was older, slower? shorter, so-
Arthur flailed a bit with the cravat like he was afraid of losing focus, kicked like he meant to try the unbalancing thing again – Rynok shifted his weight to that leg to counter the move and Arthur switched mid-motion to jam the side of his shoe up under Rynok's kneecap.
That did it. The older man's leg collapsed under him – he caught his balance but not before Arthur had wrapped the cravat around his wrist, twisting into Rynok's grip – weathering two intentional but off-handed kidney-jabs. And pulled hard so the bones in his opponent's wrist ground together and blood-flow was cut off and he began to lose the feeling and control of the little knife.
Spasmodically, he tightened his fist – kicked at Arthur's Achilles, pounded his flank left-handed.
Arthur found the sweet spot with his thumb and gouged – Rynok's fingers unclenched reflexively and the little metal trick-knife clattered to the polished floor, dancing away somewhere in the dimness.
Disarmed, but Arthur was the one breathless from being struck. He untwisted, spinning and stepping behind Rynok, trying to pretzel his arm behind him or free the cravat for an attempted re-winding around his neck.
Rynok flailed, and Arthur almost missed that he was trying to distract attention from the baring of a second knife. Left-handed – awkward – but he stabbed blindly at Arthur behind him and Arthur was forced to spin away, disengaging.
All in the space of a single long inhalation.
Take another.
Close again with the enemy, silent and furious and maybe killing him was an option to consider, rather than just disarm and arrest, or incapacitate… and arrest.
Rynok was breathing fast and even, jaw set, and came at Arthur with the knife in a different grip – pointing between fingertips rather than gripped in the middle of a fist.
Arthur tensed and lunged, most of his attention on the right arm. Ninety-five percent. Rynok was a bit smaller, lighter, and Arthur was built and trained to take blunt force from even a fighter's off fist.
Wrist and elbow – minimize range of motion – keep the short sharp blade at enough of a distance-
Arthur blinked, and Rynok disappeared entirely.
The dim of the unused fifth-floor balcony was replaced with the bright glitter of the crowded foyer chamber. Merlin faced him, calm and empty-handed, his hair a bit shaggy over the collar of the black staff-jacket, unbuttoned over a pristine-white shirtfront.
And Arthur's hand leveled a constable's service weapon at Merlin, center-of-mass. His thumb moved nightmarishly slow from the rough cross-hatching of the grip to the safety, and clicked it over.
Merlin didn't look worried. Didn't look away.
Dammit all to – why was he just going to let Arthur shoot him? Why was Arthur shooting-
His forefinger tightened-
Bloody hells psychic do something!
Even as he strained to pull backwards, upwards, the shot rang out, echoed and reverberated.
For a moment nothing happened. Then several points of heat exploded through Arthur's chest and belly – Merlin's expression remained unfathomably calm, and Arthur watched for blood-spots to begin to bloom obscenely red on that white shirt-front in vain.
On… his own shirtfront?
Something hard and horizontal struck Arthur in the small of his back, just at the point where balance might tip, and again he felt Rynok struggling against him, lashing out against his grip. Inattention and the second knife in the terrorist's hand meant imminent injury.
In one instant he knew where he was and what he was doing – and a single option made sense.
He kicked Tosoldat's feet out from under him, flipping himself backward over the rounded handrail topping the protective glass wall of the fifth-floor balcony.
Pulling the terrorist with him, and someone screamed in full-throated mortal panic.
And they both fell.
Five stories was too far to fall and it would be over in a blink with a hard, lethal stop.
Arthur twisted in midair, reaching and grasping for the closest tapestry, feeling heavy fabric brush against him at increasing speed – rip right out of his hands-
He grabbed with his legs and arms, his whole body, squeezing and slowing, knowing and expecting there would be a-
JOLT! of awful proportions when he reached the bottom of the drape, still halfway up the second story, legs dangling wildly and arms wrenched but hugging the tapestry for dear life.
At the same time as an explosion of shattering glass sounded, beside and below. Screams erupted from the crowd, still mostly gathered near the speech-platform to the side, out from under the balconies and away from the door-draughts.
He dangled and it felt like his shoulders would grind out of their sockets, and he couldn't hold much longer. Craning, he spotted the floor – there, beneath him – littered with broken glass from a smashed display case.
Not so far, anymore. Not enough to endanger life.
Arthur let go, and fell again.
…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..
Snip.
Freya cringed, and… nothing happened.
Still tense next to her on the floor, Gwaine breathed again – "You think that's done it? You think that worked?"
Freya shifted to rest on the floor, her back against one of the cabinet doors, eyeing the wire-guts of the little back compartment of the mislabeled fan. It felt dead to her… disemboweled. "I don't know anything else to do," she admitted. "Merlin would have said…"
"Hm." Gwaine gave her a sharp glance – instant psychic communication over distance, with no line-of-sight? possible? incredible? – and unthreaded his one remaining bootlace.
"Four of them altogether?" Freya asked, pointing to indicate, but only two laces for restraints. "Do you need mine?"
Gwaine bared his teeth. "Nope. Two of 'em aren't going to need to be tied."
Yeah, okay. "You all right?"
He finished binding the man he'd just knocked out, and pushed to his feet shaking back his hair to show a few trickles of blood, some swelling beginning to discolor from fist-fighting. Otherwise, "Yeah."
"Think we stay down here til someone comes?" Freya leaned out from behind the boxy metal fan-bomb to watch him brace himself in the doorway.
"Bomb squad or someone will need to take custody of that thing and dismantle it safely," Gwaine told her, leaning out to watch either direction down the corridor without exposing himself, just in case.
Right. "But if they need our help?" Freya ventured. "Merlin? And Scouts Thompson and Pendragon?"
He gave her a look over his shoulder, entirely serious. "If you want to go, then go. Go make sure of him. I can handle this."
She arranged her legs to lift her up, elbows crammed into crevices between cabinets and drawers and doors to help. "There'll be questions."
He grinned, eyes lighting up in a way that made her feel for an instant that he could be younger than her. "There'll be commendations."
"If we won," she reminded him, gesturing at the stories above them as she joined him in the doorway. "If they won their part."
"I'll believe they did," Gwaine said confidently. "You want to take the screwdriver with you?"
It looked ridiculously tiny on his large, callused palm, and she huffed a tired laugh. "Maybe a hammer instead."
He grunted, turning a bit grim, and advised, "Take a clean one."
Because the other had been knocked several paces down the hall, blood-spatter marking its trail and collecting more ominously beneath two bodies dressed in black, facedown and lifelessly unrestrained.
"Yeah," she agreed, her stomach tightening in the intensity of the urge to reach Merlin and make sure he was upright and relatively unharmed.
A/N: The good news is, the next chapter is almost entirely written. The sort-of bad news is, it'll be the penultimate chapter. Only 2 more to go, folks! Whew!