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fredbassettTitle : Extraction, Part 2 of 3
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 15
Characters : Ryan, Lester, OCs
Disclaimer : Not mine (except the OCs0, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count : 7,900 split into three more or less equal parts.
Summary : A highly-place asset has been taken hostage and the government want him back.
A/N : This was inspired by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fififolle’s Lester/Ryan fic Never Say No but can be read as a standalone.
“Black 1, we’re in position.” The words came through Ryan’s earpiece clear as a bell.
Ryan checked his watch. The electricity to the whole street was due to be cut off in precisely 11 seconds. “Fire on the count of ten,” he ordered, pulling on his gasmask and night-vision goggles.
The world immediately took on an eerie green glow, but Ryan had used this kit so often that it was just like slipping on a pair of old, familiar gloves. He was out of the car two seconds later, MP5 in his hands while his 2iC, a Ghanaian lad in his late 20s built like a brick shithouse, went ahead of him, the Remington shotgun in his hands.
The noise of the tear-gas rounds being fired from the rear was quiet enough not to attract much undue attention, and even the sound of three shots in quick succession from the Hatton breaching rounds wasn’t much worse than a car backfiring. This wasn’t the sort of neighbourhood where anyone was likely to be public-spirited enough to check what was going on. With the lock and both hinges gone inside a second, the door simply toppled inwards, aided by Kwesi’s size 14 boot.
Ryan took point, dropping one guy who appeared out of the front room with a mobile phone in one hand and what looked like a Makarov pistol in the other, settling any fears Ryan might have had about Vincent’s intel being dodgy.
Throughout the house, Ryan heard sudden bursts of coughing as the gas canisters did their work. The sound of breaching fire told him Mikey and Spud were on their way in from the rear, so Ryan made straight for the stairs, Kwesi and two others behind him.
They’d practised manoeuvres like this countless times in the Killing House, Credenhill’s notorious live-fire training facility. It was second nature to all of them. Basically, in a situation like this, the asset you were trying to extract would almost certainly be secured in some way, so the rules were simple: if it moves, shoot it. If it moves again, shoot it a second time.
A face appeared over a banister. The man had tears streaming down his face, but he was holding another Makarov in a double-handed grip. Kwesi took his head off with a three round burst from the MP5.
Ryan kept going. His objective was to get to the top of the house as fast as possible, with Kwesi covering him. He trusted the third member of the entry team to make sure that nothing came at them from the rear. From the floor below, he heard a curse in the guttural language of the Ukraine, abruptly curtailed by another burst from an MP5.
At least two of the hostage-takers were out of the game.
The third staggered out of a room on the second floor, firing as he came. The shots went wide and Ryan promptly turned his chest into a red ruin. A fourth fired on them from above. He must have been in a room at the front, as he was clearly unaffected by the tear-gas, but the gunfire all around him had rattled his composure and he was too slow. Kwesi took him out with the same precision he’d brought to bear on the door and then Ryan was on the final few steps to the upper floor.
If his guess was right, James Lester would be in the back room, probably tied to a chair. Kwesi was ready to use the Remington again if the door looked locked, but they were in luck, it was slightly ajar. The tear gas canisters had done their work and he could hear coughing, but couldn’t rely on the kidnappers having been incapacitated. He kicked the door open, sending it flying back into the wall. He caught a glimpse of a man in a suit duct-taped to a chair on one side of the room. The man’s eyes were wide with fear and tears were streaming down his pale face as he fought for breath behind a mouth that had been taped shut.
Ryan fired through the door just in case anyone had been hiding behind it. A voice in his ear from Big Dave on the ground floor announced, “Clear.” A second later, he got the same message from Kwesi on the first floor. He saw movement on one side of the room and fired, just as a burst of bullets from another handgun hit the wall beside him. The tear-gas was fucking with their aim, but the chances of a stray shot hitting him or the captive were high.
From the tally of bodies he’d been counting over the radio, there was one left.
The room was bare apart from the chair the hostage was taped to and a ratty-looking sofa by the window. The asset – James Lester – was frantically jerking his head in that direction. Ryan didn’t need telling twice. He emptied the rest of the clip of his MP5 into the stained orange covers, then smoothly changed over to the Remington holstered at his side, just in case what he’d just done hadn’t been good enough.
The abrupt silence that followed his last shot was broken only by the choked coughing from the bound man.
Kwesi came up the stairs and was across the room in three long strides, looking behind the sofa and giving Ryan the thumbs up. “That makes six, boss,” he said.
Behind his mask, Ryan grinned. “Good work, lads,” he said into his mic. “The beers are on me.” He slung the Remington over his shoulder and pulled out a knife. Kneeling beside Lester’s chair, he pulled up a corner of the duct-tape across the man’s mouth and ripped it off. It would have hurt like hell, but that was better than choking to death. He then started to cut through the duct-tape securing his arms and legs.
Kwesi pulled off his own gasmask and put it over Lester’s mouth and nose. “Breathe, sir,” he instructed. They’d been trained to operate despite feeling like their eyes had been filled with acid, the civilian hadn’t.
Lester drew in a shuddering breath. Trying to cough and breathe at the same time wasn’t easy, but the mask would soon help him. Kwesi flung open the shattered window and started to let some clean air into the room. Leaving Ryan to deal with Lester, Kwesi went back out onto the landing to radio a report through to their control. Their back-up could start to move in now.
The man on the chair was wearing a once-white shirt, open nearly to the waist, pulled out of a pair of pin-striped suit trousers. Ryan could smell the rank stink of urine and fear. It looked like they hadn’t given their victim the courtesy of a visit to the bog. James Lester was shaking uncontrollably in reaction to the violent events of the last couple of minutes, but he seemed substantially unharmed. The only things Ryan had noted were bloody and blackened nails on his right hand. At first glance, it looked like they’d not done anything more than stick needles up underneath his nails. Screamingly painful, but definitely not life-threatening. It looked like the man had got off lightly.
“OK, sir, let’s get you out of here,” Ryan said, as reassuringly as he could. “Don’t worry, you’re safe now.”
The man looked at him, wide-eyed, then pulled off the gasmask and said, almost choking on his words, “Whoever you are, stay with me. I don’t want to accidentally fall down the stairs after you’ve gone to all this trouble.”
Ryan’s eyes widened slightly. If he was reading that right, James Lester didn’t entirely trust his own employers.
“We need to get you to hospital, sir, you should be checked over.”
Lester shook his head. “I need to go home, have a very large Scotch, a hot shower and a change of clothes. In that order.” He thought for a moment and then added, “Some painkillers wouldn’t go amiss, but the Scotch will do the same job if I drink enough of it.
“You are joking,” Ryan said, disbelievingly.
A pair of clear green eyes stared up at him. “I’ve never been more fucking serious in my life,” the man said, before leaning sideways and being violently sick.
Ryan pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and used it to wipe Lester’s mouth. Then he hauled the man to his feet, looping an arm around his waist. “Do you really think you’re likely to fall down the stairs, sir?” he asked quietly.
“It’s a very distinct possibility,” Lester said. “I don’t want to give anyone the chance to change their minds. And before you ask – if you were going to – anything I told them was a complete load of bollocks. But I don’t necessarily expect my political lords and masters to believe that, which is why I’d rather go home and put some insurance in place.”
A sense of common decency warred with every instinct that was telling Ryan he’d done his job and that now was the time to leave well alone and let someone else take it from here. He’d done what he’d been tasked with. The hostage-takers were dead and the asset was alive. Simple. All he had to do now was vanish into the night with his men in the time-honoured manner, leaving Sam Vincent and his cronies to take it from there.
With his arm around Lester’s waist, Ryan started to help the man out of the room, still undecided about what to do next.
A voice in his ear from Mikey on the ground floor said, “Spooks here, boss.” The distaste in the soldier’s voice was all too clear.
Lester was walking like a man whose legs bore a close resemblance to those a new-born foal. Ryan wondered if the kidnappers had kept him fastened to the chair for the entire two days. From the state he was in it was a distinct possibility. He took each step one at a time, leaning heavily on Ryan. The man’s sharp eyes took in the trail of bodies but he said nothing. The tear gas was already starting to disperse, but Ryan insisted on Lester keeping the mask to his face.
By the time they reached the ground floor, Sam Vincent was standing in the doorway, watching their progress, his face devoid of any expression. Ryan felt a frisson of unease, and wondered what orders the spook had been given while he’d been waiting at a safe distance.
“Mr Lester, good to see you in one piece, sir,” Vincent said. “We’ll get you to hospital straightaway.”
Ryan wondered if he was the only one to have noticed that Vincent hadn’t met Lester’s eyes.
Lester pulled the mask down from his face. “Thank you but no,” he said, his voice sounding like he’d been smoking 80 a day all his life, and gas-induced tears still streaming down his face. A lungful of tear gar has a habit of doing that to you. “I intend to return to my flat. I’ve no intention of being seen in public like this.”
“You need medical attention, Mr Lester.” Vincent’s unease was growing, but Ryan could see the indecision in the man’s eyes. He obviously didn’t like the orders he’d been given, and Ryan wondered why he hadn’t simply passed on the half-expected kill order before they’d gone into the house.
“Quite probably, but I’ll feel a lot happier in my own flat.”
To Ryan’s surprise, Lester stepped away from him, suddenly surprisingly nimble for a man who’d probably spent two days strapped to a chair, but desperation was a great motivator. He bent down and picked up the mobile phone that had been dropped by the first man Ryan had shot.
Using his uninjured left hand, Lester quickly tapped out a number and held the phone to his ear. “Elizabeth? Yes, I’m fine. Tell the children I’ll call them later. I’m on my way back to the flat now.” He listened for a moment then repeated firmly, “I’m fine. I’ll call you back in less than hour, I promise you. If I don’t, call Freddy. I’m sure he’ll know what to do.” Lester handed the phone to a startled Sam Vincent. “That was my ex-wife. Her brother is the Chief Constable of Bedfordshire.”
Something close to an admiring smile creased the MI5 man’s normally inscrutable face. “I’m sure it must have been a great relief to hear your voice, Mr Lester,” he said. “Ryan, would you escort Mr Lester to his flat in Whitehall Court? Make sure he comes to no further harm and stay with him until I speak to you in person. Is that clear?”
Ryan stared at Vincent, wondering what the fuck was going on. The only thing that was clear was that Lester had just very successfully pulled a flanker, letting his ex-wife know that he’d made it out alive. But it very much looked like Vincent had just told him to keep the man alive, despite whatever instructions the spook had been given by the rat-bastard who was currently occupying no 10 Downing Street.
He jerked his head at Kwesi, who was standing in the rubbish-strewn front garden. “Escort Mr Lester to the car. I’ll take it from there.” Once the two men were out of ear-shot, Ryan said, “What the fuck’s going on, Sam?”
“I told you politicians were fickle bastards,” Vincent said in disgust. “Our man at the top had second thoughts and decided he didn’t want to be beholden to anyone, but by the time I got the message, you’d already gone in.”
“Is that right?” Ryan gave the man a hard stare. “So what happens next?”
“I break the good news to the PM that Lester is alive and in one-piece. You make sure he stays that way until at least tomorrow morning. By that time my boss will have leaned on the shit-licking little son of a syphilitic sea-slug and hopefully sanity will have prevailed. In the meantime, you call the DSF and tell him the operation was a complete success.”
“You’re going out on a limb, aren’t you?” Ryan said. Once he’d spoken to the Director of Special Forces, there’d be no putting this particular cat back in the bag. The DSF hated politicians with a deadly loathing and wouldn’t piss on the PM if he was on fire.
Vincent shrugged. “My great-aunt died last month. Much to my surprise, she didn’t leave it all to the local cats’ home, so if I need to, I can tell the powers that be where to stick their fucking job.” He held out a hand. “If that happens, it’s been good working with you, Ryan. I’ll make sure none of the mud sticks to you or your men.”
Ryan shook Vincent’s hand then, followed Lester to the car. Kwesi was holding the door open, a questioning look on his face.
“You can leave the rest to the spooks,” he said. “I’ll call you later for a de-brief. Good work.”
Kwesi nodded, his face thoughtful. “And you, boss.”
Ryan got in the car and pulled the door shut. The keys were still in the ignition, where he’d left them. He turned to Lester, a questioning look on his face. “How do you know you can trust me?” he asked.
Lester met his eyes, no longer even trying to hold back the tears that were now tracking down his face as he started to shake with uncontrollable reaction. “I don’t. I just hope I’m going to be pleasantly surprised.” With that, he leaned back, closed his eyes and continued to let the tears fall.
Sam Vincent had been right when he’d said the man was tougher than he looked. But after a couple of days of having needles shoved under his nails, while no doubt being threatened with a whole lot worse, Ryan reckoned Lester was entitled to deal with this in his own way. He’d seen plenty of soldiers who’d cried after action, he’d even done it himself on a couple of occasions, and there was no shame in it.
He put the car in gear and drove off.
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 15
Characters : Ryan, Lester, OCs
Disclaimer : Not mine (except the OCs0, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count : 7,900 split into three more or less equal parts.
Summary : A highly-place asset has been taken hostage and the government want him back.
A/N : This was inspired by
fififolle’s Lester/Ryan fic Never Say No but can be read as a standalone.“Black 1, we’re in position.” The words came through Ryan’s earpiece clear as a bell.
Ryan checked his watch. The electricity to the whole street was due to be cut off in precisely 11 seconds. “Fire on the count of ten,” he ordered, pulling on his gasmask and night-vision goggles.
The world immediately took on an eerie green glow, but Ryan had used this kit so often that it was just like slipping on a pair of old, familiar gloves. He was out of the car two seconds later, MP5 in his hands while his 2iC, a Ghanaian lad in his late 20s built like a brick shithouse, went ahead of him, the Remington shotgun in his hands.
The noise of the tear-gas rounds being fired from the rear was quiet enough not to attract much undue attention, and even the sound of three shots in quick succession from the Hatton breaching rounds wasn’t much worse than a car backfiring. This wasn’t the sort of neighbourhood where anyone was likely to be public-spirited enough to check what was going on. With the lock and both hinges gone inside a second, the door simply toppled inwards, aided by Kwesi’s size 14 boot.
Ryan took point, dropping one guy who appeared out of the front room with a mobile phone in one hand and what looked like a Makarov pistol in the other, settling any fears Ryan might have had about Vincent’s intel being dodgy.
Throughout the house, Ryan heard sudden bursts of coughing as the gas canisters did their work. The sound of breaching fire told him Mikey and Spud were on their way in from the rear, so Ryan made straight for the stairs, Kwesi and two others behind him.
They’d practised manoeuvres like this countless times in the Killing House, Credenhill’s notorious live-fire training facility. It was second nature to all of them. Basically, in a situation like this, the asset you were trying to extract would almost certainly be secured in some way, so the rules were simple: if it moves, shoot it. If it moves again, shoot it a second time.
A face appeared over a banister. The man had tears streaming down his face, but he was holding another Makarov in a double-handed grip. Kwesi took his head off with a three round burst from the MP5.
Ryan kept going. His objective was to get to the top of the house as fast as possible, with Kwesi covering him. He trusted the third member of the entry team to make sure that nothing came at them from the rear. From the floor below, he heard a curse in the guttural language of the Ukraine, abruptly curtailed by another burst from an MP5.
At least two of the hostage-takers were out of the game.
The third staggered out of a room on the second floor, firing as he came. The shots went wide and Ryan promptly turned his chest into a red ruin. A fourth fired on them from above. He must have been in a room at the front, as he was clearly unaffected by the tear-gas, but the gunfire all around him had rattled his composure and he was too slow. Kwesi took him out with the same precision he’d brought to bear on the door and then Ryan was on the final few steps to the upper floor.
If his guess was right, James Lester would be in the back room, probably tied to a chair. Kwesi was ready to use the Remington again if the door looked locked, but they were in luck, it was slightly ajar. The tear gas canisters had done their work and he could hear coughing, but couldn’t rely on the kidnappers having been incapacitated. He kicked the door open, sending it flying back into the wall. He caught a glimpse of a man in a suit duct-taped to a chair on one side of the room. The man’s eyes were wide with fear and tears were streaming down his pale face as he fought for breath behind a mouth that had been taped shut.
Ryan fired through the door just in case anyone had been hiding behind it. A voice in his ear from Big Dave on the ground floor announced, “Clear.” A second later, he got the same message from Kwesi on the first floor. He saw movement on one side of the room and fired, just as a burst of bullets from another handgun hit the wall beside him. The tear-gas was fucking with their aim, but the chances of a stray shot hitting him or the captive were high.
From the tally of bodies he’d been counting over the radio, there was one left.
The room was bare apart from the chair the hostage was taped to and a ratty-looking sofa by the window. The asset – James Lester – was frantically jerking his head in that direction. Ryan didn’t need telling twice. He emptied the rest of the clip of his MP5 into the stained orange covers, then smoothly changed over to the Remington holstered at his side, just in case what he’d just done hadn’t been good enough.
The abrupt silence that followed his last shot was broken only by the choked coughing from the bound man.
Kwesi came up the stairs and was across the room in three long strides, looking behind the sofa and giving Ryan the thumbs up. “That makes six, boss,” he said.
Behind his mask, Ryan grinned. “Good work, lads,” he said into his mic. “The beers are on me.” He slung the Remington over his shoulder and pulled out a knife. Kneeling beside Lester’s chair, he pulled up a corner of the duct-tape across the man’s mouth and ripped it off. It would have hurt like hell, but that was better than choking to death. He then started to cut through the duct-tape securing his arms and legs.
Kwesi pulled off his own gasmask and put it over Lester’s mouth and nose. “Breathe, sir,” he instructed. They’d been trained to operate despite feeling like their eyes had been filled with acid, the civilian hadn’t.
Lester drew in a shuddering breath. Trying to cough and breathe at the same time wasn’t easy, but the mask would soon help him. Kwesi flung open the shattered window and started to let some clean air into the room. Leaving Ryan to deal with Lester, Kwesi went back out onto the landing to radio a report through to their control. Their back-up could start to move in now.
The man on the chair was wearing a once-white shirt, open nearly to the waist, pulled out of a pair of pin-striped suit trousers. Ryan could smell the rank stink of urine and fear. It looked like they hadn’t given their victim the courtesy of a visit to the bog. James Lester was shaking uncontrollably in reaction to the violent events of the last couple of minutes, but he seemed substantially unharmed. The only things Ryan had noted were bloody and blackened nails on his right hand. At first glance, it looked like they’d not done anything more than stick needles up underneath his nails. Screamingly painful, but definitely not life-threatening. It looked like the man had got off lightly.
“OK, sir, let’s get you out of here,” Ryan said, as reassuringly as he could. “Don’t worry, you’re safe now.”
The man looked at him, wide-eyed, then pulled off the gasmask and said, almost choking on his words, “Whoever you are, stay with me. I don’t want to accidentally fall down the stairs after you’ve gone to all this trouble.”
Ryan’s eyes widened slightly. If he was reading that right, James Lester didn’t entirely trust his own employers.
“We need to get you to hospital, sir, you should be checked over.”
Lester shook his head. “I need to go home, have a very large Scotch, a hot shower and a change of clothes. In that order.” He thought for a moment and then added, “Some painkillers wouldn’t go amiss, but the Scotch will do the same job if I drink enough of it.
“You are joking,” Ryan said, disbelievingly.
A pair of clear green eyes stared up at him. “I’ve never been more fucking serious in my life,” the man said, before leaning sideways and being violently sick.
Ryan pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and used it to wipe Lester’s mouth. Then he hauled the man to his feet, looping an arm around his waist. “Do you really think you’re likely to fall down the stairs, sir?” he asked quietly.
“It’s a very distinct possibility,” Lester said. “I don’t want to give anyone the chance to change their minds. And before you ask – if you were going to – anything I told them was a complete load of bollocks. But I don’t necessarily expect my political lords and masters to believe that, which is why I’d rather go home and put some insurance in place.”
A sense of common decency warred with every instinct that was telling Ryan he’d done his job and that now was the time to leave well alone and let someone else take it from here. He’d done what he’d been tasked with. The hostage-takers were dead and the asset was alive. Simple. All he had to do now was vanish into the night with his men in the time-honoured manner, leaving Sam Vincent and his cronies to take it from there.
With his arm around Lester’s waist, Ryan started to help the man out of the room, still undecided about what to do next.
A voice in his ear from Mikey on the ground floor said, “Spooks here, boss.” The distaste in the soldier’s voice was all too clear.
Lester was walking like a man whose legs bore a close resemblance to those a new-born foal. Ryan wondered if the kidnappers had kept him fastened to the chair for the entire two days. From the state he was in it was a distinct possibility. He took each step one at a time, leaning heavily on Ryan. The man’s sharp eyes took in the trail of bodies but he said nothing. The tear gas was already starting to disperse, but Ryan insisted on Lester keeping the mask to his face.
By the time they reached the ground floor, Sam Vincent was standing in the doorway, watching their progress, his face devoid of any expression. Ryan felt a frisson of unease, and wondered what orders the spook had been given while he’d been waiting at a safe distance.
“Mr Lester, good to see you in one piece, sir,” Vincent said. “We’ll get you to hospital straightaway.”
Ryan wondered if he was the only one to have noticed that Vincent hadn’t met Lester’s eyes.
Lester pulled the mask down from his face. “Thank you but no,” he said, his voice sounding like he’d been smoking 80 a day all his life, and gas-induced tears still streaming down his face. A lungful of tear gar has a habit of doing that to you. “I intend to return to my flat. I’ve no intention of being seen in public like this.”
“You need medical attention, Mr Lester.” Vincent’s unease was growing, but Ryan could see the indecision in the man’s eyes. He obviously didn’t like the orders he’d been given, and Ryan wondered why he hadn’t simply passed on the half-expected kill order before they’d gone into the house.
“Quite probably, but I’ll feel a lot happier in my own flat.”
To Ryan’s surprise, Lester stepped away from him, suddenly surprisingly nimble for a man who’d probably spent two days strapped to a chair, but desperation was a great motivator. He bent down and picked up the mobile phone that had been dropped by the first man Ryan had shot.
Using his uninjured left hand, Lester quickly tapped out a number and held the phone to his ear. “Elizabeth? Yes, I’m fine. Tell the children I’ll call them later. I’m on my way back to the flat now.” He listened for a moment then repeated firmly, “I’m fine. I’ll call you back in less than hour, I promise you. If I don’t, call Freddy. I’m sure he’ll know what to do.” Lester handed the phone to a startled Sam Vincent. “That was my ex-wife. Her brother is the Chief Constable of Bedfordshire.”
Something close to an admiring smile creased the MI5 man’s normally inscrutable face. “I’m sure it must have been a great relief to hear your voice, Mr Lester,” he said. “Ryan, would you escort Mr Lester to his flat in Whitehall Court? Make sure he comes to no further harm and stay with him until I speak to you in person. Is that clear?”
Ryan stared at Vincent, wondering what the fuck was going on. The only thing that was clear was that Lester had just very successfully pulled a flanker, letting his ex-wife know that he’d made it out alive. But it very much looked like Vincent had just told him to keep the man alive, despite whatever instructions the spook had been given by the rat-bastard who was currently occupying no 10 Downing Street.
He jerked his head at Kwesi, who was standing in the rubbish-strewn front garden. “Escort Mr Lester to the car. I’ll take it from there.” Once the two men were out of ear-shot, Ryan said, “What the fuck’s going on, Sam?”
“I told you politicians were fickle bastards,” Vincent said in disgust. “Our man at the top had second thoughts and decided he didn’t want to be beholden to anyone, but by the time I got the message, you’d already gone in.”
“Is that right?” Ryan gave the man a hard stare. “So what happens next?”
“I break the good news to the PM that Lester is alive and in one-piece. You make sure he stays that way until at least tomorrow morning. By that time my boss will have leaned on the shit-licking little son of a syphilitic sea-slug and hopefully sanity will have prevailed. In the meantime, you call the DSF and tell him the operation was a complete success.”
“You’re going out on a limb, aren’t you?” Ryan said. Once he’d spoken to the Director of Special Forces, there’d be no putting this particular cat back in the bag. The DSF hated politicians with a deadly loathing and wouldn’t piss on the PM if he was on fire.
Vincent shrugged. “My great-aunt died last month. Much to my surprise, she didn’t leave it all to the local cats’ home, so if I need to, I can tell the powers that be where to stick their fucking job.” He held out a hand. “If that happens, it’s been good working with you, Ryan. I’ll make sure none of the mud sticks to you or your men.”
Ryan shook Vincent’s hand then, followed Lester to the car. Kwesi was holding the door open, a questioning look on his face.
“You can leave the rest to the spooks,” he said. “I’ll call you later for a de-brief. Good work.”
Kwesi nodded, his face thoughtful. “And you, boss.”
Ryan got in the car and pulled the door shut. The keys were still in the ignition, where he’d left them. He turned to Lester, a questioning look on his face. “How do you know you can trust me?” he asked.
Lester met his eyes, no longer even trying to hold back the tears that were now tracking down his face as he started to shake with uncontrollable reaction. “I don’t. I just hope I’m going to be pleasantly surprised.” With that, he leaned back, closed his eyes and continued to let the tears fall.
Sam Vincent had been right when he’d said the man was tougher than he looked. But after a couple of days of having needles shoved under his nails, while no doubt being threatened with a whole lot worse, Ryan reckoned Lester was entitled to deal with this in his own way. He’d seen plenty of soldiers who’d cried after action, he’d even done it himself on a couple of occasions, and there was no shame in it.
He put the car in gear and drove off.
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no subject
Date: 2015-07-30 08:12 pm (UTC)Of course the assualt would go off without a hitch, Ryan is nothing if not competent.
Go Lester, two days captive and still acting to save his own skin.
Lester ftw! Ryan and the lads ftw and Vincent too (somehow I think he lied about when he got the message). Boo to the slug.
I'm sure Ryan will look after Lester and that Lester probably only needs the first two things on his list ;) *purrs*
no subject
Date: 2015-07-30 08:14 pm (UTC)Lester is always awesome. It's A Rule.
no subject
Date: 2015-07-30 08:24 pm (UTC)*nods* Lester is awesome.
no subject
Date: 2015-07-31 01:25 am (UTC)Trust Lester to have a backup plan in place.
shit-licking little son of a syphilitic sea-slug
Brilliant. I almost choked.
Ryan is also very quick on the uptake!
Love this.
no subject
Date: 2015-07-31 10:13 am (UTC)Thank you:)
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Date: 2015-07-31 06:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-07-31 10:14 am (UTC)Thank you. This was fun action to write. It all played out quite easily and quickly.
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Date: 2015-07-31 08:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-07-31 09:48 pm (UTC)Thank you :) The action in this pretty much wrote itself.
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Date: 2015-08-01 05:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-08-01 08:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-08-01 05:42 am (UTC)Brilliant read.
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Date: 2015-08-01 08:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-08-02 04:52 pm (UTC)Needles underneath the nails. Eeeek!
Oh, Ryan! Competence is so sexy.
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Date: 2015-08-02 06:47 pm (UTC)