Chapter Text
“You sure you’re gonna be okay, Apollo?” Courfeyrac asked him through the ear piece once more, voice muffled by the muffin bites obviously tucked in his cheek. Enjolras groaned at the nickname- Grantaire had said it one time, and now everyone in the group called him that. So much for their respected and honoured leader.
“Yes, I’m sure. I told you, I’m doing this bust alone. It’s too dangerous for any of you,” he repeated, talking quietly so he didn’t appear to be arguing with thin air. The beach was crowded at this time, but there was just enough emptiness that he would be noticed jabbering away at himself. The 9 am crowd: when the athletes were out with their protein shakes, the stoners were still sleeping, and the tourists were just starting to seep onto the sand.
“Just take care of yourself, Enj. We wouldn’t you bloodied and bandaged for the new guy coming in.”
I knew I was forgetting something, he thought as he fought the urge to smack himself.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there. Just leave me alone and let me get this done, will you?”
“I’ll get him to shut up,” came Combeferre’s gentle tone after several seconds of silence, accompanied by the muffled protests of Courfeyrac in the distance.
“Okay, I’m getting closer to the house,” Enjolras muttered. “I’m going off now, just listen.”
His hand lingered on the grip of his gun, hidden beneath his hoodie. There were two ways this could go: he could be able to successfully find a way into the operation, making them believe he’s just another junkie willing to make a buy, or he could end up in a shootout with a gang that outnumbers him five-to-one when they realise immediately that he’s a cop. It could just as easily go one way or another.
The rusted warehouse door was just slightly ajar as he creeped closer to it, catching him by surprise. The Patron-Minette are serious criminals, and well-practiced. Serious and well-practiced criminals don’t just leave doors open.
His grip tightened around his gun, preparing to draw it at a minute’s notice. Slowly, he pressed his palm against the cool, rusted steel of the door, pushing it open as gently as he could. The hinges groaned in response to his touch, flecks of rust falling onto his hair. The dark warehouse lay before him, completely black but for the light streaming in from around him like a halo. There was absolute quiet as his eyes adjusted, the air heavy with the weight of the silence.
There were two scenarios Enjolras had been expecting, that everyone had been expecting, and they were sure. There was no doubt in his mind that when he opened those doors, he would find the Patron-Minette, playing poker or making a deal, their usual antics, and he would be able to slide his way into their establishment, or things would go downhill fast. He knew he would find five hardened criminal masterminds: Montparnasse, Clasqueous, Babet, Geuelemer, and the man himself, Thénardier. He knew exactly what to expect, he had it all planned out.
What he didn’t expect was to meet the eyes of a shivering girl in rags staring back at him.