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raisindave · 4 months

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[Chapter 19] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

The sweet girl was fumbling around like a newborn deer. Coughing, wheezing, hands fumbling into nothingness to try to scramble through the fog. Her long hair was a tangled mess of brown curls, caked with filth and what looked like blood from a small head wound. You had no way of knowing what she experienced during her time in captivity, but from the way she buckled with every heaving step, you knew exhaustion was the least of it. Your hand extended to rest on her shoulder, feeling frail muscles recoil in alarm. Though an unexpected touch on her bare shoulder must be the last thing she needs right now, it’s a necessary evil in the name of guiding her through the fog to the sanctuary of the unseen helicopter.

Head still on a swivel, you caught the rest of your teammates, Ghost and Soap were securing zip-tie handcuffs around the unconscious armed security guards whose presence you’d never even noticed. Horrifying. The manmade fog of what must be a smoke grenade still clung thick to the deck of the ship, overzealously staying long past the duration it was needed for. Although the fog had heavily impacted your vision, it most definitely impacted the patrons' as well, and time spent in agonizing fitness training made you confident in your capabilities to navigate through it. It was almost definitely vaporized chloroform to pacify the party, then a smoke grenade for additional security. Grave’s instructions to leave with no casualties were taken deathly seriously.

You caught a glimpse of Boxdye, and the girl with white lipstick, huddled under a table- looking like they’ve slipped into a peaceful slumber. The two girls were slack in each other’s arms. For some reason, a heartwarming sensation washed over you, oddly touched by their sisterhood. These two women had one another. They had returned to each other’s arms for mutual comfort, finding sanctuary in a feminine ally in this boisterous party. That’s a type of sisterhood the grizzliest warlord couldn’t pry from their souls. They didn’t deserve to be a part of this conflict, this violence. It’s you who was the harbinger of pain in their life, and that’s what will linger in your conscience for nights to come.

The helicopter chopped enough of the fog away to manifest into view as you reached the far bow of the boat, the open fuselage door revealing Rudy, Alejandro, and a handful of armed Coast Guard tossing down a ladder. Your stomach dropped. Samantha won’t manage. She’s so weak, too frail, it’s one slip and she sinks into turbulent waves, and the clock on the Chloroform gas was ticking fast. It was now your time to play shepherd.

“Squink, you gotta’ climb. Don’t worry, I’m right behind you,” you shouted over the deafening chopping of helicopter blades and blasting music. Even with a gas mask concealing her entire face, you could feel the anxiety resonating off her like a furnace. The way her fingers curled, the way she froze like a deer in headlights. “I’ve got you,” you added calmly.

She took your offer, not that she had much of a choice, and caught the clambering rope ladder in her palms, looking over her shoulder to catch your reassuring nod. It takes a considerable amount of strength and willpower for you, a seasoned expert, to climb a rope ladder into a helicopter- especially in heels. However, sweet Samantha was going to have to push through something she’d definitely never done, with all odds against her. Frankly, rushing her was the only way to get her to climb- leaving her with even a moment to question if she could lift herself onto the next rung could be disastrous. One last glance over your shoulder, past Ghost’s ghoulish mask, to catch one last look at the girls under the desk. You swore you could see one of their heeled feet twitch. Time to go.

Ghost followed immediately under you, ensuring you kept a rapid pace as you felt the weight of his presence weigh down the ropes beneath you. Climbing was easy for his stature, effortlessly clearing two rungs at a time. In a matter if seconds, he was practically nipping at your heels as if he was a herding dog. Price and Gaz held the ladder’s base as the rest of the team ascended, flashing firearm flashlights over quickly dissipating clouds of smoke.

Waving your eyes to the ledge of the helo, you were met with the extended palms of Soap and Rudy, eagerly heaving you onto the platform, passing Alejandro as he held a sniper’s position on his stomach. You didn’t remember whose hand you grabbed, but whoever it was hoisted you onto welcome solid ground, staggering as you steadied yourself. Taking Samantha under your wing, you made yourselves small, tucking into the back corner of the helicopter, returning a stern nod to Soap. The girl was oddly still, not even responding to pry her mask off like you just had. Taking her face in your hands, in slow and deliberate motions, you unfurl the buckles that firmly attach the device to her face.

Her eyes were glassy. Staring into oblivion. You shouldn’t be processing the emotions of the mission, not for someone of your station. In your position, you were supposed to be a soulless stiff machine, rolling through the organized and choreographed motions of a Sergeant on a rescue mission. It’s just that she reminds you so much of your sister. Carolyn. She was the same age as Samantha when it happened, and she even looked like her too. This is not the time or place to think about that. The way that she continued to clutch your wrist made it feel all too real, though you’d never let these emotions register on your demeanour. The land was coming into view, meaning you were about two minutes out from the seaside tarmac that you landed on only hours earlier.

The helicopter landed so quickly that, for a moment, you were certain it was about to be a crash landing. Luckily, it was not. Dim and flashing lights rose into your vision, replacing the dark gathering rain clouds that obscured the stars. Finally, movement under your arm. Samantha was shaking like a leaf, as if only now did it actually click that she was in safe hands. She followed you like a shadow, gripping your wrist as if you’d drift away like a balloon if she wasn’t tethering you down to the earth. It didn’t take long to spot a pair of people approaching, a pack of Secret Service agents in blackout sunglasses orbiting them.

Seeing the way Samantha’s parents hugged her was something that could make a grown man cry. If it weren’t for your emotions being overridden by the lingering adrenaline of maneuvering through an extremely deadly situation, you’d be a slobbering mess. Instead, you stood in obedient silence, shoulder to shoulder with your heavily armoured comrades, definitely sticking out like a sore thumb. Besides, it would be beyond inappropriate to express sympathy to the Senator and his family or even emote them in any way; this was your job. Another completed task. Nothing more, nothing less. It seemed your teammates concurred with this sentiment, standing tall and at attention, hardly even registering the soulful reunion before them. Now that the immediate task had been fulfilled, and the target was now firmly in the Secret Services’ hands, felt the energy shift to a more relaxed attitude.

A pair of Joe’s in suits and sunglasses briskly ushered the trio into a black SUV that sat in waiting. One of them shared a curt nod in your team’s direction, though retaining the lack of emotion on your face must have made you look beyond intimidating, leaving him to hurry away. For the first time since you boarded that cursed yacht, you took a deep breath. Or rather, the deepest breath you could take in the crushing pressure of the constricting dress. Only then did the self-consciousness kick in, and you looked down.

That gaudy, embellished pistol you think you remember prying off some poor sucker was still wedged between your breasts. You blinked in disbelief, catching Soap stifling a bubbling laugh with furrowed brows. You shrugged with a sarcastic frown, and he shook his head. Fishing it out, it was remarkably warm to the touch, taking your time to roll your thumb over the exquisite gold dragon design along its side. Unquestionably worth a small fortune, though you’ll never know. It’ll be confiscated by Laswell or whoever, never to be seen again. What a waste.

“‘Seems you’ll be home in time to give your goldfish its breakfast,” Price spoke up, indirectly celebrating the swiftness with the mission had been completed.

That irked you. He just came in at the last minute, swooped in and cuffed a couple of unconscious, drunk, and or high partygoers. You were the one that did the heavy lifting. He just got to play mall cop and probably didn’t even break a sweat.

“I’ll have you know I have much more interesting plans when I get back than feeding my goldfish,” given the situation, you dismissed all formal code when it comes to speaking to your superiors.

“Is that so? More grand than getting in the hot tub with your Russian sweetheart? ”

You forgot that Price knew Russian too. Your suspicions that they had open access to your communicators made your heart sink, though only one of the four could actually decipher your cringey utterances. That’s assuming Price wasn’t playing translator to his colleagues… Fuck. He seemed to take your hateful gaze as a valid answer, catching Soap stifle another laugh in your peripheral. They’re giving you every reason to tear them a new one, but it’s just so hard to stay truly mad at these fuckers.

“Oh, don’t give me that look, Cricket,” he playfully punched your shoulder, “ya did good' in there.”

“I know I did,” you countered, rolling your jaw in agitation.

“Well what’re these grand plans back home?” he asked, interest posturing as an apology for his mockery.

You took a moment to consider your words, passing your eyes over half-listening colleagues, Soap and Ghost carrying on one of their signature heated banter. Soap playfully patted Ghost’s body armour during the banter in a way that made Soap look like he was trying to pet a feral dog; sidefaced and cautious. As if Ghost could snap and bite his hand.

“If you really care,” you paused for dramatic effect, shifting your weight in your now agonizing stilettos, “It’s actually my birthday this weekend, and I intend on tearing up the town with my girlfriends.”

“I would’ve thought tonight was enough excitement for you,” he replied, grinning and scratching his beard, "Well, happy birthday in advance then."

“Well, it seems you don’t know me very well then.”

He took your answer with a barking laugh, patting you on the shoulder and turning to shepherd Gaz and Soap to unload weapons onto the mobile armoury, taking your pistol off your hands as he went. Mechanical clicking ringing through the breezy night air, a sudden chill catching your bare shoulders. Despite everything, despite the horror of this evening, the night was beautiful. Warm gusts over tropical foliage made a soothing chorus, peaceful and serene. Eerily contrasted by the armoured and masked personnel still occupying the forested tarmac.

“On days like today, I wish I could cruise around in a Halloween mask all day,” you chirped in Ghost’s direction, who still remained in your presence, “I think it would’ve made that whole mission a lot more bearable.”

“I think that’d be best for the lot of us,” he retorted, chuckling softly.

“Oh come on,” you feigned offence, “you’ve gotta’ admit I clean up nice, Lieutenant,” pouting your lips like a duck sarcastically.

“I’ve seen better,” he huffed in response, smooth and calm, though his gaze was contrastingly hard and cold as he dragged his eyes over you.

He’s seen better? The fuck is that supposed to mean? Feigned offence translated into genuine offence. He has no idea what you just went through, and there’s no way in hell you’re taking fashion advice from Diet Screamface. Suddenly, his eyes crawling over you felt like shards of glass. You don’t owe anything to the likes of him, no matter how many times he wordlessly stares down his nose at you and makes your blood run hot. His opinion means less than nothing to you, and your stomach heaved with agitation. The air was thick, humid and suddenly still, feeling like lightning could strike at any second. Palms heat, and you become increasingly aware of the tension around your chest that constricts your breathing. The only sounds were your pounding heartbeat and the faint, distant chatter of your colleagues bantering about nonsense.

He’d crack under the pressure, I have no doubt. Fuck him. Fuck that smug prick. I’d like to see him do what I just did in there.

Your eyes couldn’t lift off his. You refused to submit to his insult and be the first to cave, only praying that your eyes mirrored the way his bore into yours. His gaze was smug and half-lidded, you swore under that mask he must’ve had a smirk. What you wouldn’t do to jump up and smash that stupid skull plate like a mirror. And worst of all, you could tell that he knew that. He knew that he could slide under your skin, and rile you up. You’re too easy for him, too predictable. Fuck that stupid fucking mask.

“Grant,” Laswell’s voice snapped you out of your showdown. Fuck, does that mean he wins?

“Yes ma’am,” you returned, obediently.

“That’s your ride back,” You followed her finger to land on a small Cessna, catching the nodding visor of your presumed pilot. “You did good. We’ll be in touch.”

Laswell chucked the duffle bag you had brought back to you, catching the underhanded toss in your forearms. Flickering your eyes back up, you were met with the same frigid gaze, sitting in the same position as if Laswell had never broken the stare. Just then, he breathed a short snicker, turning on his heels and walking toward the main hangar. That made your blood boil, and he knew it. You still needed to break him. Find what makes him tick, and crack him on the shore like an otter with a shell. For now, though, your ticket to a comfortable bed you weren't expecting to see for a while was waiting. Walking away was easy. Walking away from all of it. You didn't care about getting changed out of this goofy outfit, you just wanted to shave as much time as possible off your trip back to familiar territory. Popping the heavy door open, you flung your bag behind your seat, settling in for yet another flight.

It’s always nerve-wracking to be in such a tiny plane. It’s like a strong gust of wind could send you tumbling into the ocean. The pilot was quiet. Something you were more than grateful for. He didn’t end up saying anything more than alerting you to prepare for takeoff, and kindly providing an estimated flight time. Unlike your travels from your previous mission, your operations in Mexico only left you with a brisk two-hour flight back home. The cockpit was filled with the calm white noise from the engine's low, steady whirring, and the trickle of nighttime rain starting to stream over the windshield. If it weren't almost morning, you could have easily drifted asleep. You'll be home before you even know it, and you'll have plenty of time to build up your self-confidence before you're out on the town for your birthday. Come hell or high water, looking forward to an opportunity to let loose, genuinely loose, will be something Laswell and co. won't be able to take from you.

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