Chapter Text
Marc has been awfully quiet. He and Raoul both, but whenever Marc’s quiet, Jean-Paul knows something is wrong. Maybe it’s about the job. Maybe it’s that condition of his, whatever it is.
That’s not to say that Marc is a talkative guy. He keeps to himself, as everyone else in their little team is expected to. He generally speaks less than either Raoul or Jean-Paul, but he’s never this quiet. There’s always a mumbled phrase here or there. An acknowledgment, a greeting, a ‘thank you’ for the coffee only Jean-Paul is allowed to make.
Today, there’s been nothing.
Of course, today is a bit different. The three of them are raiding a temple and stealing priceless treasures from hardworking archeologists. Jean-Paul honestly doesn’t care about the immorality of that. He has to pay the bills somehow, right? It’s not like they’re actively hurting anyone.
Marc might be upset about that. He is, after all, the executor. Raoul sets up the plan, Marc executes them, Jean-Paul drives everyone away. Up until now, they’ve been on security detail and police backup, nice and legal jobs. Those pay decently enough, but this? They’re set for life if they can pull this off.
Once he spots the smoke from the archeologists’ camp, he turns off the headlights, driving through the night with the moon as his guide.
The plan is simple: run in, secure the witnesses, grab the relics, and get out. Four easy steps.
“You’re coming with us, Frenchie.”
He squints at Raoul, who throws a shotgun at him and climbs out from the back of the pickup. “Sorry?”
“We need all hands for this one.”
He glances at Marc, who says nothing and secures his weapons.
With a sigh, he kicks his door open and pulls his scarf over his face. “Warn me earlier next time, tu veux?”
Raoul gives him a full body grin and leads them into the camp. It’s funny how easy it is. These men and women are researchers. Scholars, not soldiers. Being ambushed and mugged of their life’s work must be so very frustrating, but considering their lack of combat experience, there is nothing they can do to stop it.
Marc goes around to keep them in check while Jean-Paul and Raoul gather up the relics. They work fast, and they should be booking it in no time. See? Easy job. Three-fourths done.
“You’ve gotta be shitting me. Where is it?”
Jean-Paul tips his head back, his grip on the golden mask loose and lazy. “Everything alright there, boss?”
He spots Marc standing next to the zip-tied archeologists, confusion meeting his own.
The shot is loud and unexpected. It jolts them into action, both adjusting their guns to neutralize the threat.
There is none. No bullet wounds or close calls that Jean-Paul can see. Where did it come from? Was it a warning?
Someone drops with a familiar sag.
He blinks at them.
Oh, an archeologist drops dead with a familiar sag. He looks up at Raoul. He looks at the rifle in his hands.
That motherfucker.
This isn’t what they agreed to. It’s a high reward job, but no innocents get hurt. At least, none are supposed to. The weapons are precautions, not tools for Raoul Bushman’s sudden bloodlust.
He cocks his rifle, and Jean-Paul reacts, pulling out his shotgun.
He’s seen this before: commanding officers on high horses thinking they can commit war crimes, shooting because of some delusion of authority granting them the right. This is their first job outside the public eye, outside a contract, and apparently, outside reason. The first job where Bushman is in control.
Jean-Paul aims his gun just off from the enculé and shoots. Bushman jumps.
“Stand down!”
He looks vacant as he stares back. There’s nothing of ‘Raoul’ in it, no arrogance or ego or humanity, even. Just Bushman.
Then, his face changes to anger, to mania. He’s not standing down.
“Now, or I’ll blow your arm off!”
Marc finally snaps out of whatever stupor he’s in and moves to untie the archeologists. Bushman shifts his rifle, and Jean-Paul follows the direction. It’s not pointed at the archeologists at all. He’s aiming at Marc.
Jean-Paul doesn’t notice the stun grenade rolling his way as he flicks off the safety.
He’s an excellent shot. At this distance, even in the dark, he’s not going to miss.
He pulls the trigger as the flashbang goes off.
He can’t see. The light burns through his skull and he stumbles back, waving his shotgun but not daring to shoot. The noise catches him, and it’s so loud, he can’t hear a thing. He can’t hear if his shot made it or if Marc managed to free the archeologists or… or if Bushman’s shot made it.
He barely dodges a bullet as another goes off, this time closer. His whole body shakes.
Shit. Merde. Fuck!
He knows Bushman’s angry. Hell, he would be too. He is, only he’s not the one with the advantage. He fumbles for some sort of cover, anything to put distance between him and Bushman.
He fumbles toward Marc.
He needs to regain his senses. He needs them or he’ll get hurt. Bushman isn’t one to pull his punches, or bullets if Jean-Paul wants to be literal, and he can’t fight without them.
He needs to know if Marc’s alright.
But all he can sense is sand, sand, and more sand. The ringing drowns everything else out, and he can’t hear Marc’s muffled “watch out!” before something hits him.
His legs give out.
He gets shot again.
It’s too close to his heart. Bushman’s trying to kill him.
Again.
He can hardly breathe.
Again.
Je vais mourir.
By the time he can see, he’s riddled with holes. He can’t hear anything, but that could just be because whatever happened is over.
It… It is over, right? It sure feels like it.
The pain should be unbearable, but his body’s numb. His strength is fleeting. He stares at the sky—at the stars and the moon and heaven if he’s lucky—wondering if there’s a witness up there.
This was supposed to be his last job before he’s set. Turns out it’s his last job before he’s dead.
He huffs. Or tries to. That’s a shame, because there is so much in life he didn’t get around to doing, things he had planned for after he settled. Get a helicopter, a nice car. Prove to all those nonbelievers that he can make it. Tell Marc that he…