The Black Pawn

The phone in Émile's pocket rang, causing Fletcher to do a little half-hop away from him. Her hair stuck out in odd angles, which, coupled with her huge tawny eyes, made her look to him like some sort of electrocuted animal. A deer -- or maybe a rabbit? -- caught in the headlights. A bird struck by lightning. A squirrel bathed in the eerie glow of a strobe light.

Enough girly comparisons, answer the damn phone.

Émile flipped open his cell and pressed it to his ear. "Bonjour?" It was Mr. Harding, of course. He was one of the few who knew that Émile always spoke French whenever there was a citizen in earshot. Émile would never admit it, but he was feeling a tiny bit frightened in that breath of silence before the boss replied to his emotionless greeting. There could have been cameras watching his every move; there were always cameras. Maybe even in 13. If Harding had heard the word of him lip-locking the hostage, or worse, witnessed it himself, it meant bad news. It probably didn't even matter that it was the most pathetic excuse for a snog that had ever occured.

Fortunately, the boss didn't have news of the awkward kiss, but he did have bad news. Worse news.

"Émile. There is word of a... search party on the lookout for Miss Thomas, who is currently in your possession, I hope for your sake. They'll be arriving on site shortly. I would have sent backup for you, but you and I both know the nearest quarters is too far away. Although I do believe you should be able to handle it yourself. Otherwise I wouldn't have called. Goodbye, Émile."

Well. It didn't sound like the old fart expected him to live through this. Harding never said goodbye, and he never warned anyone of anything himself unless it was time for desperate measures. It sounded quite like they were fucked.

"Au revoir, sale bâtard," Émile muttered to nothing but the dead line and the dial tone.

It was during this opportune moment that Fletcher seemed to wake from her electrocuted-animal-like trance and begin the senseless rambling once again. Maybe he'd have to let her kiss him more often if it meant getting the girl to shuck the fuck up.

"Hah! I just knew you were French. I could hear it in your accent, you know. Well... I don't know any French, but I'm guessing you said something about a bastard? Hello? Goodbye? What a short conversation. Curious, but short. Do you --"

"Shut it, hostage. We have work to do. If you value your life, you'll sit over there in the corner with your hands on your head and act terrified. Shouldn't be too hard, right?" Now he was rambling. Control, Émile. You're the master of it. He cocked his gun after hurriedly clicking it together. There was the sound of at least three cars pulling up on all sides of base 13. There hadn't even been a minute to spare! Émile stuffed some random MREs in his suit pockets along with his cell phone. Then he did the one thing he knew best; violence. Which involved taking out his knife and pressing it against Fletcher's throat as he caged her against his body. The front door was busted open (quite effortlessly; he hadn't been able to remedy that minor issue yet, by dammit) not two seconds later.

There were six men in this party. It meant hell for him, but Émile could take down six men. Maybe even the better trained ones. They were all dressed in civillian clothing, but their confident stances and stony faces, the ease with which they held their weapons, told that they were anything but innocent civillians.

"You'll be wise to drop your guns, gentlemen, or the lady might get hurt," he pressed the knife harder against her neck for emphasis. Fletcher was trying not to swallow, and didn't dare move. At least she knew by now that her compliance didn't mean much in this situation. This time, she really was the hostage. Maybe she had even realized that Émile could easily kill her if he wanted, even though he'd be dead himself if he did such a thing.

The tall, lanky man in lead didn't even lower his gun a fraction of a millimeter. "We have no orders to bring the girl back alive; just to bring her back. Now, you can make this easy by turning her over quickly, and perhaps we will leave you unharmed in the process."

Bullshit. Nobody moved.

"Or you can do it the hard way," the man shrugged, then gripped his gun tighter. He made some sort of signal with a flick of two fingers, and Émile knew that the time for stalling was over.

It would have been much easier to kill them without having to keep the damn hostage alive in the process. But Fletcher's pathetic little life was now on his shoulders.

The first two were shot straight in the head; smooth, effortless, and quick. Émile kept Fletcher clenched tightly to his chest with his gun-free hand, which made the men hesitate to shoot at him directly. They couldn't kill her even if they boasted otherwise; he already knew that. Well, he didn't know, but he assumed as much. There wasn't any time to feel guilty for taking the risk. Fletcher's breathing was shallow and heavy, but she never made any effort to escape his vice grip. In fact, she slumped against him slightly. He cursed in French under his breath, hoping she wasn't stupid enough to pass out on top of him during those few precious moments they had to escape.

Émile had made up his mind. He didn't have the resources or time to kill the entire search-party, no matter how much he would have liked to, enjoyed to, even. He took the chance that Fletcher's no-kill status gave him and bolted for the door after shooting the leader of the group in the hand. His angered cries could be heard echoing through the cabin. Several birds scattered the moment Émile charged through the door with Fletcher half-dragging, half-stumbling with him. The damn hostage was going to slow him down. Deep breaths, Émile, he calmed himself quickly. He would just have to accept it.

But one look at his car and the pressure was back, tainted with wild adrenaline and very distantly familiar. Each of the tires were slashed. Émile hadn't come this undone in quite a while, but even in his state of frustration he knew that the only option now was to incapacitate the search party. Their automobiles were most definitely under lock and key, and they had no chance of outrunning even the slowest of pick-up trucks on foot.

"Crouch low behind the car and don't move until I come and get you," he ordered Fletcher firmly and pushed her towards his immobile vehicle. He didn't look to see if she had cooperated; the three remaining unharmed men were barging through the door already. He had already shot one down before they could even spot him. He was careful to aim for the head, knowing they very likely had bullet-proof armour hiding beneath their sickeningly casual attire.

Now that Fletcher wasn't taped to his frontside, Émile was now open to a barrage of gunfire. He rolled behind the cover of a pine tree before they had the chance to put a bullet in him. There were a few breathy moments of silence before a piercing scream hit his ears. How had they gotten to Fletcher already? Emile stuck his head behind the tree for just a moment to spot the injured man, the leader, struggling to pin Fletcher down. Fuck. Émile had forgotten about that one. He ducked his head away from view just as several shots were fired in his general direction. Splintered bark flew past him on both sides.

Gritting his teeth, Émile didn't wait for the dusty cloud of pine dust to float away, and instead took the opportunity to shoot one of the remaining men in the neck and the other one in the thigh. His aiming was becoming poor; it must have had something to do with his heart racing in his ears. It felt like his focus was at three places at once; on himself, on the bleeding men, and on Fletcher.

Why the hell hadn't he resisted this assignment when he had the chance?

To his surprise, Émile heard another shot ring out that wasn't his own. There was a sinking feeling in his chest and he knew that Fletcher had been the one shot. But when he looked out, gun poised and ready to extract revenge, he saw something unusual. Fletcher stood near the front of his car, a small handgun clutched loosely in her shaking outstretched arms. She had shot the burly man straight in the heart.

So there was no armour after all. And so Fletcher wasn't the one dead. Émile didn't know, he had merely assumed. And since when had he done so much assuming? Even the newest of trainees at Hardings' place knew that when one assumed to guess, one assumed to death.

Well. At least they were both alive.

Émile cocked a grin as he crept up behind Fletcher and swiped the gun from her hands before she accidenly shot herself in the eye she was shaking so violently. He saw the tear tracks on her face and the blank stare in her eyes, but this didn't stop him from laughing darkly and cocking the small gun. He shot the groaning, wounded man who had been hit in the thigh, and then shot the dead man lying in front of him at point-blank range just for the spite and hell of it before returning his empty gun to him, throwing it down beside the body. How Fletcher had managed to steal it, he didn't know. But the three undone buttons on her blouse gave him some idea.

"We have to get away from the premisis before more of your father's cronies show up." Émile tucked his gun back into the waistband of his pants. His dark eyes were trained on Fletcher, waiting for her reaction. She didn't move, didn't blink. He saw fresh tears drip down her chin, and honestly, he didn't know what to do. Should he slap her to get rid of the shock? Should he button her shirt up the rest of the way, or should he knock her unconcious again to make things easier?

Eventually he decided to simply throw her trembling figure over his shoulder and make his way into the stretch of hazy woods, Hardings' words ringing in his head.

"Should there come a need for evacuation from Base 13," he had explained to the small group of boys. "The smart ones will cover up his tracks and take the hardest way out. Do you want to know why? Of course you do. The smart one takes the hardest, longest way because he knows that no one will follow him there. He knows he'll be alone. And being alone means being safe. Now can anyone of you girls tell me how you're going to evacuate Base 13?" A young Émile had stepped forward to address Harding promptly. "The forest, sir. I would take the forest."

Ah. And Harding would be proud, that is, if he knew Émile had survived. Perhaps he would find out in a few days.

Or perhaps Émile would remain silent.

After all, he had to make sure that no one would be following him and his strange, confusing, and currently disabled hostage. No matter how much he wanted to hand her over and forget about the mission altogether, it would be impossible now. He was just too deeply involved to pull away in a snap like that. At best he would be killed on the spot.

But at least this assignment would be a bit more exciting than he had originally thought.