Chapter Text
It’s not often they get sent out on a shared mission. Although they’re all competent in the field, each has his own specialty – Bourbon, intelligence; Rye, wetworks; Scotch, hacking – which leads to them mostly drawing individual assignments.
Tonight, though, they’ve been sent out as a team. The Organization is looking to do a deal with a local gang on the dusty outskirts of LA and wants to make sure they have the resources they claim to. It’s simple recon mission – Scotch and Bourbon scouting while Rye keeps the engine warm.
The site is a derelict-looking warehouse on the edge of a field. The land around the warehouse is cracking concrete; the surrounding fields are thirsty-looking scrub brush. There are a few out buildings that look more habitable and are probably used by whatever poor saps pull look-out duty. There are a few dirty vehicles parked outside the warehouse, and a row of rusty oil barrels holding god-knows-what.
Their own vehicle is a Ford F150, and three grown men packed into the front seat is tight. They’re dressed in black, even Bourbon wearing a black beanie over his blond hair tonight; they’re also all wired for sound. They park on a slight crest on the other side of the field and disembark. Scotch and Bourbon check their pistol chambers; Rye hops up into the truck’s bed and sets up his rifle. Back-up duty falls to him.
Although none of them are superstitious, none of them are dumb enough to comment on the apparent ease of the mission, either. It’s the easy ones that can go south the fastest.
Their rubber-soled boots trample quietly through the brush as Scotch and Bourbon head across the field towards the warehouse, bent low more out of instinct than need. There’s no sign of any guards on duty; Rye’s scanning the building with his scope backs them up. “No signs of life,” he confirms.
Rye is one of only two members of the Organization Bourbon feels comfortable panning a rifle over his back. The other is beside him. But then his trust in Scotch is of a different nature entirely. They scuttle forward side-by-side, Bourbon’s hand on Scotch’s shoulder to keep them together in the dark night. They’ve always been comfortable with each other – perhaps because they’ve always been with each other. Nothing ensures harmony like familiarity.
Rye… Rye is different. Most Organization operatives Bourbon has met are bloodthirsty and with a streak of plain insanity that sets them apart from the regular population. Rye doesn’t shy from violence when needed, but he’s neither bloodthirsty not mad. Bourbon can’t say that he sees eye-to-eye with the sniper in many regards, but he respects Rye’s honesty and straight-forwardness. He calls things as he sees them, and he acts by a set of principles that Bourbon finds almost parallel to PSB norms. And he’s twice taken Bourbon and Scotch’s side against Gin, making him a necessary ally.
“Confirm vent is on the east side of the building,” says Scotch quietly beside him.
“Confirmed.” Rye’s tone in their earpieces is matter-of-fact. It’s procedure to check, not a necessity – they’ve all memorized the plans. The warehouse is two storeys tall with a vent on the east side above the entrance through which they can gain access. There are also doors on either side of the building, and a collection of barrels on the east side.
They stop as they pass by the metal drums, Bourbon prying the circular lid off one and passing a gloved finger over the inside rim then raising it to his nose, which wrinkles at the sharp smell. “Kerosene,” he whispers, replacing the lid.
He and Scotch pad silently over the uneven concrete, tiny fissures carved through it by the weeds underneath growing relentlessly skywards. Out here, far from town, the night is almost pitch black – there’s only starlight to go by. They go slowly; there’s no rush. They need to gain access to the warehouse and confirm that there’s a sufficient stock of arms to make the Organization doing business with their owners worthwhile. They have all night.
They walk past the tall corrugated metal door; it’s chained shut. It would be simple to pick the padlock, but opening the heavy door would almost certainly draw attention. Instead they laboriously climb up a water pipe to the second floor and transfer onto a thin electrical pipe, toeing their way along until they reach the vent.
Bourbon pries it open with his fingertips and swings it outwards, passing through into the room beyond.
The warehouse is lit by overhead lamps shining down bright fluorescents onto dozens of large crates below. Although two storeys tall there is no second floor – only naked iron beams.
Bourbon walks out onto the beam in front of him, smooth and confident as a cat. He hears Scotch step out behind him. They’ll have to find a way down to the ground floor to check the contents of the cargo crates. If their would-be partners are telling the truth, they should be filled with military-grade weaponry.
Bourbon heads to the first cross-cutting beam and takes it, walking towards the nearest wall. Behind him Scotch is advancing along the central beam. And then in their ears comes Rye’s voice: “Incoming.”
There’s nowhere to go. With the lights above them, their shadows are cast down onto the floor below. Bourbon gets onto his knees and lies down, trying to merge his shadow with that of the beam. Scotch is just beginning to follow suit when the far door opens and a man in jeans and s tank-top comes in. He’s big and covered in tattoos; almost a stereotypical gang-banger. And he’s armed.
Scotch freezes, but even that jerk to stillness is captured on the concrete floor below.
“The fuck?”
The man looks up and, even as Scotch goes for his gun, grabs his first. In the volley of bullets that follow Scotch falls from the beam, toes scraping the floor and sending him diving forward to hit the ground hard.
Bourbon, still unseen, rises and, even as the man below hurries forward to finish off Scotch, throws himself from his beam.
He hits their assailant head-on, arms and legs flailing, both of them crashing to the floor. An instant later he’s up. He pistol-whips the man in the head and his attacker falls to the ground, unconscious.
“You’re blown,” comes a terse voice in his ear.
“Tell me something I don’t fucking know,” he snaps, getting to his feet and running over to where Scotch is pulling himself up. “You okay?”
Scotch’s face is drawn, right arm tucked in against his chest. “Think my arm’s broken,” he pants. He pulls out his sidearm with his left hand, but unlike Rye Scotch can’t hit the broad side of a barn with his left hand.
“You’ve got three incoming from the west door. Go out the other. Now,” orders Rye. He also sounds like he’s panting – Bourbon can only imagine he’s ditched the truck and is running across the field.
“It’s chained from the outside,” replies Scotch, voice tight but not panicked. Together they head for the door anyway – there are crates nearby they can take cover behind.
They take a running jump and make it behind the crates the moment before the west door opens. Bourbon puts his hand on Scotch’s shoulder, pushing him back further from the line of fire – partially to protect him, but also partially because he’s the only one with a hope in hell of hitting anything. Scotch falls back, breathing hard.
“Your ETA,” whispers Bourbon, as the three men start sweeping the warehouse from the far end.
“Two minutes,” replies Rye in his ear.
He looks at Scotch and can read his own thoughts reflected in his best friend’s eyes: too long.
They can sit here and wait to be fatally discovered at close range, or they lay can down fire and keep their assailants away long enough for Rye to show up and get the door open.
Bourbon turns to Scotch and makes the signal: covering fire. Scotch nods.
He leans around the crate, catches sight of one of the assailants, and takes aim. As a PSB agent killing – except in absolute self-defence – is forbidden. He aims low, and squeezes the trigger.
The sound of his P7 barking sends all three of their assailants diving for cover, although the one whose calf he’s just hit falls harder. The next moment, they’re opening fire. Their bullets slam into the crate protecting them, slivers and shards of wood flying in the air. Behind him Scotch is crouched low; Bourbon squats and extends just his pistol around the corner, blindly returning fire.
Beside him the crate snaps open; Scotch reaches up and throws off the top to reveal neat rows of M4 carbines glinting darkly within.
“Looks like their promises were good,” he says. He momentarily entertains the idea of pulling one out and opening up, but that would almost certainly result in casualties. More alarmingly, it would give their opponents the same idea and they would likely be cut down before Rye showed up.
“Reassuring to know you’re trapped in a warehouse full of high-powered armaments,” replies Rye, dryly. And then: “Almost there.”
They’re about five yards from the door, and half that distance is without cover. He turns to Scotch and signals: you go; I cover. He can see the hesitancy in Scotch’s eyes, but there’s no other choice. Scotch can’t provide accurate cover with his left hand. He tucks his gun away, now-empty hand slipping into an old, familiar signal: Zero.
Bourbon reaches out and clasps his shoulder, then pulls him up to crouch beside him, ready to run.
There’s a moment of silence, their opponents likely reloading. After the incredibly loud sound of repeated shots being fired in the metal-sided warehouse, Bourbon’s ears are ringing so that even the silence seems filled with noise.
There’s one, single shot from outside. “Door’s open,” says Rye.
“Scotch is going first; I’m covering,” replies Bourbon, stepping up to the edge of the crate and taking a tighter grip on his pistol. “Go on 3. 1, 2, 3.”
Scotch makes a break for it at the same time that Bourbon pops up from behind the crate and starts shooting, aiming towards his best guess of where their opponents are. He doesn’t look back, just keeps firing until he runs out of bullets. “I’m out,” he says, ducking backwards.
“Scotch is clear. I’ll cover you,” replies Rye.
He knows Scotch regrets leaving him to take the first run, but the truth of it is that Bourbon would rather provide back-up than make a naked run under gunfire. He respects Scotch’s fearlessness, his composure in the face of death.
“Whenever you’re ready,” drawls Rye, after a moment.
“Fuck you,” replies Bourbon, tucking away his empty pistol and shifting his weight to the balls of his toes. “On 3. 1, 2, 3.” He sprints out even as he hears the gunfire start up again, heart hammering in his ears. He’s so loaded with adrenaline he barely feels the impact of a shot to his right leg, hardly notices the bite of the bullet-wound. Then he’s out the door, metal slamming shut behind him.
He staggers to a stop, beginning to limp as he does so, as the pain starts to fade in. “Think I’ve been hit,” he says, voice very terse.
Scotch, who’s already almost at the edge of the concrete on his way to the car, stops. He’s just one more dark shadow in a sea of dark shadows. “Where?”
“Right leg. I’m alright.” He can still hardly feel it; there’s just a stinging sensation in his thigh.
“Get the hell out of here, then,” snaps Rye, holding the door shut.
He starts running, each step becoming more painful. He makes it to the edge of the field where Scotch is waiting before the pain starts leaking through the adrenaline in earnest and he slows up. Scotch shoves his good shoulder under Bourbon’s arm. “Come on,” he says, his own broken arm tucked in tightly against his stomach.
“Let’s go, Rye,” says Bourbon sharply, looking back over his shoulder as they trample into the field.
“Need to make sure they won’t be following us,” replies Rye. Bourbon can see his moving silhouette running towards them. Then, without warning, he turns and opens fire.
The barrels of kerosene go up like fireworks. Bourbon and Scotch rock with the impact, the heat of the explosion briefly scorching their faces.
“Rye? Rye, you bastard,” shouts Bourbon, stopping. He can’t see the third member of their team, and there’s no response. “Give me your gun, and go find him,” he tells Scotch. His fellow agent hands over his weapon without complaint, Bourbon’s leg too bad to lose ground. All he can do is provide cover.
Scotch heads back and, cardinal sin though it is, turns on his mini-flashlight. It will make him a perfect target as well as stealing his night sight, but he’ll never find Rye in the darkness without it. Besides, this side of the warehouse is a flaming wreck – they have a minute before anyone will be coming out after them.
“Found him,” says Scotch a moment later, bending low over a dark shape on the concrete. “Rye. Rye.”
There’s a groan, then Rye is standing. “Turn out that damn light,” says the older operative. Scotch does, helping him to stand. “I’m fine. Get Bourbon out of here. Go.”
Bourbon can do nothing but stand and watch as the two make their way over the field, Scotch much faster than Rye. He returns to Bourbon’s side and takes up his place as crutch. Further back, there’s shouting from around the warehouse.
“Start the fucking truck,” orders Rye from behind them; they climb up the brief incline to the vehicle, Bourbon struggling hard now. His leg is on fire, his heart thrumming sickly in his ears. He’s leaning more and more on Scotch, teeth gritted tight against the pain.
Scotch takes him around the passenger side and gets him in, Bourbon’s head banging back against the headrest as he collapses into the seat. A moment later Scotch’s climbing up into the driver’s side. “Where are the keys?”
“Ignition,” replies Rye. Scotch finds them and, left arm wrapped awkwardly around the wheel, turns on the truck. There’s a thump from behind as Rye presumably clambers up into the bed. “I’m in,” he says, voice very gruff.
Scotch shifts into gear – it’s an automatic, thank God – and high tails it out of there.
Behind them the flames from the barrels of kerosene lick upwards like a huge bonfire, red and orange tongues dancing in the darkness.
“That,” says Bourbon, looking back in the mirror, “Was a complete goddamn cluster fuck.”