Chapter Text
A bullet whizzed by their heads, cracking a faraway car’s windshield behind them and, as he and Javier dropped to the pavement, Steve knew they were fucked.
There was no cover, nowhere to go but forward . Yet, forward was where the gunfire was stemming, pistols and rifles shoved through holes in the windows of a ratty, dilapidated building they had been staking out for a week as a possible choke-point for Escobar’s secondary dealers. While most of the cocaine had gone to The United States, there were other buyers elsewhere, all across the world. And that shitpile was where Steve had realized they were doing their money trades for the other countries.
That same shitpile that was probably going to be the death of them.
But it wasn't like they had a choice.
Carrillo was right behind them, taking heat, too. Behind them, yet too far away to just turn around and run back to. They needed cover. Yesterday.
Steve had no delusions; there was no way only he and Peña could take out an entire building of sicarios . Not when they were about a dozen guns short and without tactical gear or vests. Hell, Steve wasn’t even sure he had another magazine, and they left the radio in the car a few blocks away like the geniuses they were. But maybe they could sweep the first floor, could hold it from the inside while Carrillo came at it from the outside. So he ran forward and Javier followed, their pistols drawn to their sides, taking only a beat to look at one another and nod.
Javier shouldered through the door and Steve shot, squeezing the trigger at the the sight of the first person he saw. A sicario went down in a spray of blood and Steve whipped sideways, drove a bullet through another who was standing halfway-up the stairs. He tumbled, collapsing in a pile of limbs and gore at the foot of the staircase. Peña had his back, Steve knew he did. It fueled the heat in his veins, screaming at him to stay alive as he surged deeper into the mildew-rank building. Dust filtered through the semi-covered windows. Darkness lurked in every corner. Steve couldn’t tell what was human and what was furniture but he didn’t hesitate to shoot either way. Where one round went through someone’s head, another imbedded itself in a wooden beam, a wall.
While Javier went right, he went left, for the stairs.
He needed to get upstairs, needed to sweep out at least some sharpshooters, clear the way for Carrillo because there was no way the colonel was getting anywhere close to them with a handful of wannabe-snipers on the second and third floors currently redecorating their vehicles.
Someone rounded the landing of the second floor staircase. Steve downed them, made his way up--
“ Murphy! ”
Steve whipped around as two shots rippled through the building, as a sicario dropped, as Peña all but collapsed to his hands and knees, scrambled and uncoordinated. His left leg was kicked out from under him, stretched out awkwardly as blood dribbled onto the concrete below him, the denim of his thigh more black than blue and, at that sight, at that moment , Steve’s heart thrummed under his tongue, limbs cold, eyes fixed. Another sicario crept from around a corner. He raised his gun to Javier.
Javier wasn't looking, was facing down, head hung heavily between his shaking shoulders as he gritted his teeth against a whine of pain.
One more shot and Steve killed that man, too. The guy flopped back, dead, as Steve called out, "Peña!"
Peña jerked, startled, looking up at him with wild, adrenaline-hazed eyes. He found Steve, tracking him as he flew down the stairs, jumping the last three steps, and scurried to his side, choking out, “ Jesus Christ , Javi…”
Javier ground down on a guttural sound when Steve took him by the shoulders and pushed him up, back, getting him sitting, letting him lean back on his shaking hands as his head tipped sideways. His ruined leg was half-sprawled underneath the other and Steve grabbed his calf of his pants, straightened the offending limb despite Javier's protesting sounds. He huffed out, “Bastard was gonna shoot you.” His skin was already pale, his pupils blown as he stared at Steve and continued, “You good? Get hit?”
“I’m fine , Javi. Damn, what’d you do?” Steve shrugged out of his jacket, wadding it up and clamping it down over the top of Javier’s thigh. Javier’s head flew back as he choked on a curse. The rest of his body followed the movement, elbows buckling under his weight. He would have smacked his head on the concrete if Steve hadn’t fumbled to catch him and guide his shoulders to the floor. Peña took a shuddering breath, then another, and one more, blinking fast, before he was grunting with exertion, trying to drag himself upright once again.
Whether he wanted to see what Steve was doing or he was trying to get up and walk , Steve wasn’t having it. Javier went back down easily when Steve pushed on his chest, keeping one hand there - bloodied, staining his partner’s shirt - while the other squeezed the meat of Javier’s thigh. He needed to staunch the goddamn bleeding , needed, preferably, two hands to do so. But Javier was wriggling, chin dipping to his chest. "Damnit..." Peña muttered. It was barely audible over the gunfire above them, around them.
“Stay still, man.” Steve bit.
Javier slurred out, “Wha-- ‘s it bad?”
“ Yes it’s bad, so just--” He landed a knee between Peña’s chest and arm, pinning his forearm down with his shin. He prayed Javier would get it, would just stop moving and let him apply pressure to the hole in his fucking leg. “--Just stay still, man. Keep lookout or something."
It worked.
Thank fuck , it worked. Javier let his head loll on the concrete, blinking slowly up at the ceiling. It was concerning to see his partner so subdued, but Steve would take it over him bleeding out. Freed at last, he used his other hand to squeeze--
Javier screamed raggedly, kicking out at Steve with his good foot. Before it could connect, though, Peña regained some semblance of self-control and slammed it back down, boot scraping along the floor as his chest heaved. It was an accident, Steve knew. Or, rather, a reflex , but it hadn’t stopped him from jerking backwards and nearly releasing his makeshift bandage to avoid being hit. Steve said, “Just stay calm, brother. I got this. Keep a lookout, man.”
Peña growled something out under his breath, something in Spanish. He was breathing fast, licking his dried lips as he fidgeted. His eyes snapped back and forth. “Carrillo’s not coming closer, is he?”
“Shut up.” Steve mumbled. It had no bite.
He tried to focus on the wound rather than his partner’s anxiety.
Because it was a valid anxiety. If Carrillo didn't storm the building soon, then the other sicarios may come downstairs, may find them and shoot them and then that was it, game over. So he had to focus on something he could fix, something he could try and fix, at least...
The blood was bright and everywhere, a shock of red smearing up his own sleeves, across his front, his hands sticky with too much of it. How much was too much? Right now, any was too much for Steve. For a moment, his mind wandered to arteries that could have been nicked, important things that had no business being touched nor seeing the light of day. Damnit, he wasn’t even sure where the bullet wound was in Javier’s thigh. If it were centered, he might as well buy Peña a headstone right then and there. But it could have skewed to a side, could have still been in there, even…
Hesitantly, Steve peeled his hands away.
Blood spread fast. He cursed, moved quicker, unraveling his jacket and lifting it to find ruined denim, blood, blood, even more blood and, at the epicenter, a ragged hole. Off-center thankfully, but still startlingly close where his bone should be. Had it hit an artery? Would he be able to tell? Where were the important bits in a leg? The questions sobered Steve, left him reeling internally as one hand swiped underneath Javier’s thigh - his finger dipped; the exit wound - while the other crudely spun his jacket and made it into a cord of cloth, one he could tie around Peña’s thigh.
His fingers were shaking.
He was going into shock, too, it seemed. It was a hindrance; the last thing he needed was the sharp fog of adrenaline clouding his every thought. His field training became, “Is Javi going to survive this?” His grasp on GSWs turned into, “What do I do? What do I do? What the fuck do I do?” Steve only realized he was muttering it aloud when Javier glared down at him.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” he said.
Steve breathed out, “Just shut up, Javi--”
“ Caremonda! ”
Steve froze.
Javier tensed next to him, gaze flitting to over Steve’s shoulder.
The wound had yet to be rewrapped, blood pulsing from the hole in Peña's leg.
There was no need to turn to figure out what was happening, to find what position they were now in; he had heard the click of a gun’s safety being turned off, heard the rattle and clatter of the firearm shifting in trembling hands. Peña was going to bleed out if he didn’t do something and Steve was willing to take that risk, willing to trust Javier to hopefully talk down whoever was behind him. Because a true sicario would have already shot them, wouldn’t have even hesitated. The voice that had screamed, the pitching shriek as it cracked at the end--
A kid was aiming a gun at his back, most likely.
Steve moved, wrapping his jacket around Javier’s leg. Javier flinched, grinding out a curse, but his focus was on the unknown gunman. His hands were up by his head, steady, his eyes wide and pupils blown as he said, “ Tranquilo, tranquilo .”
“ Tus manos! ” the kid shrieked.
What the fuck was manos? Steve couldn’t remember. He didn’t even bother to try and remember, though, as he muttered out, “sorry, brother”, gripped the edges of his jacket, tied them, and snapped his wrists down, tightening the knot something fierce. No way Peña was going bleed out while he was talking down a trigger-happy kid, not on his watch.
Javier cried out. His good foot slammed into the pavement again as he ground out, “Fucking hell , Steve!”
“I said I was sorry!” Steve snapped.
The kid screamed, “ Manos! ”
It clicked, then.
Hands. Manos meant hands.
Steve ground his jaw, lifted his blood-smeared hands up to either side of his head, and pivoted to face the kid.
And damn , he hated being right. Because it was a kid or, more, a young adult likely fresh out of his teenage years, still with the residue of baby fat on his cheeks. Frustration twisted in his gut. He didn’t have time for this, Peña didn’t have time for this. What the fuck kind-of person would willingly play around with Escobar and his men? It made no sense. He wasn't about shooting these younger people, but Javier needed help. If they didn’t get him the hell out of here, he’d eventually bleed out, get an infection, get fucked six ways to Sunday.
He couldn’t lose another partner.
Not again.
From his periphery, Steve found his gun. He had thrown it down at his side when scrabbling for Javier; it was still there, nudged against his knee. If he counted right, he had five bullets left. That was plenty for this kid and a handful of snipers on the upper floors. Though, now that he was listening for them, he could hear their heavy footfalls, their shifting. Shit was too quiet downstairs, they must be thinking. Steve knew they were coming.
Hands still up, Steve turned around again, facing Peña.
Javier’s brows knit. “Steve…” His voice was low, a warning.
The kid didn’t like that. He hollered, “ Manos! Dame tus putas manos! ”
“Steve, don’t .” Peña had always been too fucking soft for his own good, sometimes. In all the years they had worked together, the bastard had made himself out to be an asshole made of gold , always falling for the victims, the children, the innocents, throwing himself on swords left and right for people that didn’t matter, shouldn’t matter, people that would have otherwise killed him. His informants, his ladies --
-- Him.
God, the number of times Javier had did something for Steve. It was far too high...
Selfless son of a bitch.
Steve’s gaze dropped to his gun. Grab it, duck, twist around, and pull the trigger; that was all he needed to do. Make sure he didn’t get hit, make sure Peña didn’t catch any crossfire. If he was fast, he’d drop the kid in one go, be able to drag Javier outside and keep him somewhere safe until Carrillo finally decided to help.
His fingers twitched.
“Steve, I’m serious .”
“ Manos! Putas--! ”
Even heavier gunfire had him ducking, had the kid crying out and slinking away, disappearing into the room from where he had emerged. Tires screeched and jeeps hummed right outside the front door, taking hits that thrummed against the metal. Carrillo finally got closer, then , Steve realized. He turned back to Peña and grabbed the lapels of his shirt, hauling him upright. “Okay, time to go!” he shouted over the rhythmic pattering engulfing them.
“No shit!” Javier spat. His grunts of pain were swallowed by the warfare raining down around them. Once Peña was sitting, Steve threw one of his arms across his shoulders, grabbed his belt, and pulled , dragging him to his feet. Or , foot , rather. He hopped, leaning heavily into Steve. Their height difference made the maneuver annoying, but Steve hunched over, accommodating and guiding them to the door.
Friendly fire would be the most dangerous thing. He and Javier didn’t have their radio on them, and blasting out of the front doors was bound to get them filled with lead. They needed to be smart, needed to think of something other than just rushing out headfirst. No matter how badly Steve wanted to toss his partner into a car and peel off for the nearest hospital, he knew trying to do that would be his last mistake…
The gunfire stopped.
It was quiet. Painfully so.
The silence was almost as deafening as the bullets prior.
More alarmingly, though, was just how badly it put Steve on edge. His and Javier’s heavy breathing was all that could be heard, echoing in his raw ears.
“What’s happening…?” Peña gasped out.
Steve frowned. “No clue.” He looked up, as if he would be able to see through the floors. Were the snipers dead? Were Carrillo ’s men dead? Then, he heard it. Talking. Faint, but there. “Hey,” He nudged Jaiver. “Listen, listen. You hear that?”
Peña ducked his head, wincing as he righted himself and jarred his leg.
Outside, Carrillo was talking. Spanish. That was all Steve knew. It was too fast and too muffled to be able to decipher what the colonel was saying. But Javier--
“It’s Carrillo.” Peña got out, straining. Steve glanced him over, caught his heaving chest, his shaking, his white-pale complexion. He could only hope it was just from the shock, and not because he was bleeding to death. Because he was bleeding out , dark red now smearing down the leg of his pants, his shoe squeaking in a crude puddle when he shifted again and gasped sharply. “He’s… They’re negotiating.”
“Negotiating?” Steve glared at the closed door, where he assumed Carrillo was standing only a couple feet away from them. “Why the hell are they negotiating?”
Javier went quiet.
Another voice spoke up, unidentifiable: a sicario , then.
There was talking, more talking, fast and confident.
Peña cursed, “ Fuck. ”
“What?” Steve turned to him.
Javier caught his gaze, expression twisted with pain but also with something else. Something Steve didn’t like to see. Javier was always a cocky little shit, always feeding Steve's confidence. The face he was making, though, was one of doubt and fear. His voice was measured and low as he asked, “You got any plans for tonight?”
“Wait, what?” Steve blanched in surprise, confused.
“‘Cause you’re not leaving here anytime soon...” Javier finished.
As if they were waiting for a fucking punchline, three sicarios descended the stairs behind them, guns up and aimed at them, screaming foreign words. The kid that had been threatening them earlier slithered out from the room once again, a radio in his hand, shaking but smirking nonetheless. "Putas." he hissed.
Steve gripped Javier’s wrist tighter. His gun was still on the floor. Peña’s was God-knows-where. Though, he doubted it would matter. Not with how the sicarios were shouting, were barking orders at them, gesturing with their weapons.
None of it made sense to him but Steve wasn't stupid:
It was a goddamn hostage situation, and they were the bait.