[fic] the pacific - a bullet down (1/3)

[augustbird]

The morning is bright with sunshine even though the temperature still remains at a relatively cool seventy-two. Seven o’clock and there’s his neighbor reaching down for the paper, still clad in his bathrobe with a coffee in one hand. Andrew lifts a hand and waves at him. His neighbor blinks at him before briefly raising the paper at him in acknowledgement. Andrew smiles pleasantly and starts jogging down the street.

He’s barely through his second song when his phone goes off, vibrating insistently enough that he eventually slows down and pulls it out. He had originally planned to run at least two miles this morning before he had to go in to work. He’s barely six blocks from his house.

The text on his phone reads: SOS, HQ ASAP.

He turns around and heads back.

_______

“Turn my back for a few hours and you can’t function without me,” Andrew observes in a mildly amused tone as he steps from the elevator into the open space of the office. He heads immediately for the coffeemaker and is gratified to see that there’s still some left.

“Leyden,” Burgin is standing behind him and offering him a folder, “We’ve warned him a million times not to mouth off to the cops and he just never learns.” Andrew simultaneously takes the folder and pours himself some coffee. It’s the last cup though, and he takes a moment to dump more water into the coffeemaker before he flips the folder open.

“Thank you Romus,” Andrew shoots him a smile and takes the folder into his office. He sets the mug down on his desk and barely has time to sit down when there’s a knock at his open door.

“Bill cornered by the police and the Ravens lost,” Eddie says as he sits down into one of the chairs in front of Andrew’s desk, “I don’t think I’ve had a worse night in a while.”

“I couldn’t watch the last quarter of the game,” Andrew admits, “Too painful.”

“Glad I didn’t have to suffer through it,” Eddie says, “Not that my sister’s speed-dating event was any better.”

“I thought girls were crazy for the musicians?”

“Ha ha,” Eddie says flatly, though there’s a slightly amused curl at the corner of his lips. His eyes drop to the folder and he gestures at it, his voice moving from the previously lighthearted tone into something much more serious, “Read the report yet?”

“Scanned over the front page,” Andrew replies evenly, and the smile slips from his face, eyebrows furrowing slightly, “Charges for trespassing-why was he caught in the first place? The security guard shouldn’t have been there. Who gave us faulty intel?”

“One of Snafu’s sources.”

“Do we have a name?”

Eddie’s eyebrow lifts, and he shakes his head, “You know just as well as I do how difficult it is to get anything out of Shelton.”

There’s a stint of silence. Andrew curls a hand around his mug of coffee and feels a headache coming on. Eddie looks at him and even though his expression is mostly impassive, there’s a sort of concern in his eyes that Andrew can’t miss. He knows how difficult it is each time to pull their team back underground whenever something stupid like this happens and puts them all in risk. He probably knows it more intimately than any of the men here with the possible exception of Andrew himself. Andrew can’t count the number of nights where it’s just been the two of them at the office with cold Chinese takeout and too many discarded plans.

“Okay,” Andrew says eventually, “I’ll go talk to him.”

“The more permanent answer might be to set him up with a therapist,” Eddie says-and it’s the way that he says it that makes Andrew pause. They sometimes joke about their men and they never truly mean half of the things that they say in jest, but this time Eddie’s serious. His eyes are intent on Andrew’s face and there is a set to his jaw.

Andrew pauses again and then he says, “I’ll set something up. I don’t know if Rupertus has allocated anything in our budget.”

“We bring in the budget,” Eddie says and it’s in a tone of voice that’s a little bitter, hint of derision. Andrew knows that he isn’t particularly fond of the decisions made by their superiors-and half the time, he isn’t either-but they don’t have full control over operations. They only have direction over their team of eighty-some odd men.

Andrew jiggles his computer mouse like he’s going to settle in for a day of paperwork before seeming to change his mind. He sets his coffee down on the desk and looks at Eddie, eyebrows furrowing.

“Anyone posted bail for Leyden yet?”

_______

“Gotta be more careful,” Leckie says quietly to Andrew when he leans down to sign the visitor log with his alias of choice. To the casual observer it probably looks like he’s just leaning over the counter to grab a file from the secretary behind the desk but Andrew catches each word. Andrew’s eyes flicker briefly to the secretary, wondering if she’s heard-but she’s still snapping angrily into the phone and running a nail file over her cuticles.

Andrew straightens and she glances at him. He gives her a smile. She seems surprised for a moment but smiles back for just a brief moment and he takes a seat in the lobby and pulls out his phone. He doesn’t have to wait long though, because-

“Allison?” someone calls out not even five minutes later. Andrew looks up and recognizes the officer who’s looking at him with the file tucked under one arm and a cup of coffee in his hand. He stands up and follows the man into the back.

“Messy,” the man says quietly and he barely moves his lips as he speaks. He’s tall with hair cropped somewhat short and a heavy brow and the kind of expression that makes him look like he might be perpetually smiling. Right now, though, his lips have thinned and he’s looking askance at Andrew, “This is what? The third time in four months we’ve had to cover for K?”

“We had faulty intel,” Andrew replies just as quietly-but he knows that it doesn’t excuse them, doesn’t give them any justification for putting any of their men in a position where they might be caught. It doesn’t help that command is pushing his team harder these days-forcing them into a position where they don’t even have time to double check their facts before pushing ahead with a mission.

The officer-Chuckler, Andrew remembers-just shakes his head and opens the door to a small room where Leyden is sitting. As Andrew passes him, he murmurs, “Be careful, Haldane. Next time he backtalks, he might not be so lucky to get us on scene.” He then shifts into staring blankly ahead as Andrew turns his attention to the small man sitting at the table in the middle of the room.

“I didn’t know, Skip,” Leyden sounds like a cross between guilt, fear, and horror and maybe he’s even pleading a little bit, “I honestly didn’t know.”

Andrew gives him a reassuring smile, “Bill, don’t worry about it. Nobody blames you.” He flicks a glance towards where Chuckler is slouching a little boredly against the doorway and Leyden must get the hint to be quiet because he shuts up immediately and takes up staring sullenly at the table instead.

“We’re posting bail for you as soon as the transfer comes through,” Andrew tells Leyden. Leyden lifts his eyes up at that, swallows once and nods.

“Thank you, sir.”

Andrew nods and he resists the urge to lean forward and clap Leyden on the shoulder. First time he had tried, he found himself restrained by two officers who had appeared out of nowhere. He settles for a smile and hopes that it’ll be enough to assuage Leyden’s guilt.

_______

“Third time in four months,” Andrew says as he drops by unannounced to Eddie’s office. Eddie has stacks of paper strewn all around-tiny fragments of code scrawled onto post-its that don’t make any sense to anyone except Eddie himself. Even though he’s technically second in command of this branch, he spends an exorbitant amount of time in front of his computer. Andrew doesn’t mind picking up the slack of leading-he wouldn’t trust anyone else in the world to do a better job of sneaking in and out of supposedly secure databases without leaving a trace.

“Hm?” Eddie’s still staring at his computer screen.

“Third time we’ve messed up in four months,” Andrew elaborates, “Tell me you don’t think that’s weird compared to our previously flawless record. And every single time, it’s because someone from the outside has given us faulty information.”

Eddie finally tears himself away from whatever riveting information is presenting itself on his computer screen. He tilts his head, looks at Andrew and pauses for just a beat.

“What are you thinking, Andy?”

Andrew leans heavily against the doorway and crosses his arms. He bites the inside of his bottom lip and his gaze shifts to a point above Eddie’s shoulder. He looks contemplative for a moment, running past the details of the three failed missions in his mind’s eye. Eddie waits patiently with his hand still hovering in midair above his keyboard.

“I think we’re too good for it to be a coincidence,” Andrew finally answers, “I think someone is intentionally planting faulty intel.”

_______

Nine o’clock isn’t a terrible time to get home. Hell knows he’s gotten home much later.

When he pauses in front of the door to turn the key, he can already hear guitar strumming from inside. He has to smile a little at that-it’s been almost a week since Eddie has made use of his spare key. It’s been months if not a year since Andrew had presented it to him after the neighbors had asked Andrew concernedly about the homeless man sitting on his porch playing the guitar in the late evenings.

“Please tell me you ordered food,” Andrew calls out. The strumming stops and moments later Eddie pads into the hallway in his socks.

“Lamb Shawarma from Falafel King,” Eddie says as he lifts the guitar, “Though it’s probably cold by now. Hey, tell me if this works?”

Eddie fingers a chord on the guitar and strums lightly for a moment before picking out individual notes. Andrew toes off his shoes as he lets the music wash over him-and it’s strange what a soothing effect Eddie’s guitar has on him. It’s like a goddamn Pavlovian response on his behalf-like hearing it lets him shed the worries of the workday and allows him hang up the problems at work like a second coat alongside his first. He’s been conditioned by too many evenings, sunk into his couch, half paying attention to the television on mute while Eddie hums quietly along to the soft melody from his guitar.

“I think you should start out with another chord,” Andrew says honestly as he sets his briefcase down against the wall of the hallway and heads into the kitchen, “The one you’re starting with is too sad.” True to Eddie’s word, there’s a neatly wrapped sandwich on the table for him-and Eddie hasn’t even eaten all of the fries. He pulls the Shawarma out of the tinfoil and half considers heating it up before deciding he really doesn’t care.

Eddie wanders in after him, carefully arranges the guitar so it’s on his back before he seats himself at the table. He folds his hands and his brow furrows slightly as he speaks, “So I looked into the source of the faulty intel.”

Andrew’s eyes immediately snap from his food to Eddie’s face.

“Turns out it wasn’t Snafu’s source after all,” Eddie says, “The intel came straight from command.”

Andrew’s eyes narrow slightly but he swallows his food before speaking, “They’re giving us sloppy information now?”

Eddie shrugs lightly, “Maybe everything’s strained across the board, Skip. We sure as hell didn’t have time to do recon on what they give us.”

Andrew sets his food down on the table and frowns deeply as he runs a hand across the back of his neck. His voice is low and serious as he speaks, “Eddie, I can’t in good conscience send any men out on more missions if what we’re working off of is faulty.”

“Because command would love that,” Eddie agrees in a deadpan. He reaches out and touches Andrew’s arm lightly, “I don’t think we can do much else except file a formal complaint.” His voice is apologetic and it’s not hard to read his face and see that he’s having the same thoughts as Andrew about this entire situation.

But it’s true-there’s not much they can do to question what comes in from command and there’s no questioning operations.

Andrew makes a mental note to file a complaint in the morning but he knows that in reality he doesn’t expect anything to change.

_______

“Operation Peleliu,” Sledge reads from the cover of the booklet that Andrew’s distributing to all of them.

“I didn’t choose the name,” Andrew replies good-naturedly as he hands one to Snafu, “Though it was apparently the site of a campaign in the east during world war two. Someone at command has an interesting sense of humor.”

De L’eau stifles a snort. Snafu’s already flipping through the first few pages, “I thought we didn’t do counterfeit.”

“We don’t,” Andrew answers patiently, “We’re just in charge of making sure this gets across the border and delivering it where it needs to go.”

“Twenty million in pure cash,” Burgin says, lifting an eyebrow, “How many days are we given?”

“Command says that it’s going to take a few days at most.”

Burgin looks down at the booklet and his lips twist like he wants to say something. Andrew has his doubts too-but there’s not much he can do except relay expectations from command and hope for the best.

“Get debriefed,” Andrew finishes, “There’s a plane waiting for you at Newark.”

_______

Andrew hasn’t really indulged in the bar scene since he was in college and visited the pub regularly with his football buddies. He still doesn’t except for the occasional Fridays where Eddie insists on pulling him away from his work-and of course, those few weekdays when Eddie has a gig at some local bar.

All of their men are invited and generally a group of them show up to each one-but Andrew’s the only person who has the dubious honor of being present for every one of them since the beginning. It had been Andrew’s continued encouragement in the first place that had propelled Eddie to sing in front of an actual crowd and it’s been a long time since his first gig.

Eddie’s played at this bar so many times that the bartender knows Andrew by face, knows that he likes whiskey on ice or whatever domestic draft is on tap and always ushers him to a seat that has a good view of what passes off for the stage that night. Andrew always tips well and doesn’t try to talk to him like the other drunks at the bar so it’s not surprising that the bartender likes him. Tonight is a Wednesday but it’s been a long week already so he’s nursing whiskey instead of his usual weekday beer. Command called for the sole purpose of demanding to know why he had filed a formal complaint and he had spent well over twenty minutes getting chewed out by two different superiors about wasting resources and unnecessary bureaucracy and getting increasingly more frustrated.

“Hey Skip,” a voice says to his right. Andrew turns his head to find Sledge taking a seat next to him. He smiles and Sledge smiles back.

“Hillbilly going to come on anytime soon?” he asks, looking towards the stage.

Andrew shrugs slightly. He’s pleasantly buzzed but not yet to the point where his speech is affected, “Whenever they’re ready.”

Sledge nods and drops into silence. Andrew gestures for the bartender to come over and orders a beer-which he sets down in front of Sledge. He glances at Andrew quickly, seems to contemplate the beer for a moment before saying, “thanks,” quietly and pulling it towards him.

Andrew nods and looks at him, “How’re you holding up?”

Sledge quietly contemplates the counter for a moment before he answers-and in the chatter of the bar around them, Andrew almost can’t hear it. “I’m nervous.”

“Why’s that?” Andrew sounds a little puzzled, but his voice doesn’t hold any note of disdain. It’s the voice he uses with all of his men-warm with genuine curiosity, maybe a little surprised that they don’t believe in themselves as much as he believes in them. “You’ve handled volumes like this before.”

“I-” Sledge starts, then pauses like he’s searching for the right words. Andrew has to lean in to hear the quiet words that Sledge is saying, “That wasn’t real though. This-this is actually bringing real physical cash into the country.”

Andrew drops a hand on his shoulder, looking him straight in the eye, “If I didn’t think you were capable of the job, Eugene, I wouldn’t have picked you.”

Sledge shifts slightly as his expression brightens momentarily and he offers a tentative smile and a nod. Andrew is glad to see it-he smiles encouragingly and Sledge murmurs another thanks before wandering away to where his team is seated at a booth.

Andrew has half a mind to join them but then the lights dim and someone has turned on the cheap spotlight to illuminate the single stool next to the microphone. Eddie wanders onto the stage with his guitar and sits on the stool. The way that he glances in the direction of the bar where he knows Andrew is seated is purely reflexive and Andrew doesn’t think much of it.

He cradles the guitar and pulls a few short notes from the strings for a brief moment to quiet the crowd before he leans forward and without any semblance of introduction, starts crooning into the microphone.

Andrew doesn’t think he knows a single voice better than he knows Eddie’s. He’s heard it early in the morning when he answers the phone and Eddie’s telling him to drag his ass to work, he’s heard it late at night when he’s fallen asleep on the couch and Eddie’s shaking him and murmuring for him to go to bed. He’s heard it raised in an amused shout, the cold serenity of his fury, he’s heard every variation of weariness dragging through his vowels, the lilt of his accent becoming more and more pronounced with the hollowed out exhaustion on late nights, with the brightness of his anger.

He’s heard Eddie singing a million times, spent the last year and a half falling asleep in his armchair with documents spread out all around and Eddie’s low voice carrying through his dreams like a sentinel. He’s memorized the texture of the baritone, a steady hum through the sweet tune of the guitar and it always amazes Andrew, it always amazes him that Eddie can pull such beautiful music out of wood and resin and metal.

Here in this bar it takes on a strangely magnified quality, echoed back from the corners of the room. But even with a hundred people sitting silently all around him, there is something personal about this moment for Andrew, something strangely intimate in the way that Eddie slides his fingers along the strings. He has his eyes closed as he sings because he loses himself in the music.

Andrew is barely aware of the way that his breathing has grown shallow, the way that he can’t take his eyes off the man center stage and-

When Andrew opens his eyes at the end of the song, he swears that Eddie’s looking straight at him.

Something deep within him shifts.

Or maybe it has always been that way and he has just never known.

It’s there on his mind for a fleeting moment, and then it’s gone.

_______

“You are kidding me,” Eddie says in blatant disbelief as he watches Andrew throw a pair of socks into a duffel bag, “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“I just have a bad feeling about this one,” Andrew says as he pulls out a neatly folded pair of pants and shakes it out so that he can roll it up, “Plus with all of the faulty information-” He glances up at Eddie who opens his mouth, looking vaguely cross and Andrew cuts in before he can speak, “Yes, Eddie, three is the appropriate number to plot a trend-“

“You’re not even making a line graph!” Eddie’s voice doesn’t have to rise in volume for Andrew to hear the exclamation point at the end. There’s a beat and then Eddie’s voice drops back into a calm tone, “Look, you can’t just insert yourself into any mission based on whatever bad feelings you get. There’s still the rest of the team to think about, you can’t just leave HQ and expect everything to run smoothly.”

Andrew smiles-which is an unexpected response and Eddie’s eyes narrow slightly because it means that Andrew has already planned all of this without input from anybody else and Eddie’s bound to hate the results. The pants follow the socks into the duffel bag and Andrew turns to open his briefcase. When he turns back towards Eddie he has a folder in his hand.

Eddie looks at it warily because he knows exactly what it means. His lips thin and he doesn’t reach forward for it. When he lifts his eyes to meet Andrew’s, there’s a set to his jaw and his shoulders are tense with unhappiness, but at least he isn’t arguing any more.

“Congratulations,” Andrew says, “You’ve been promoted.”

Eddie’s arms are crossed over his chest still and he doesn’t reach out for the folder.

“Command says Peleliu will only take a few days,” Andrew says reassuringly, “It’s not like you haven’t done this before.”

“And if we get faulty intel?” There’s nothing in Eddie’s voice to suggest that he’s scared, but Andrew’s known him long enough to know that Eddie doesn’t express fear like other people. He expresses it in hesitance, in the pause before an action and it’s all too clear that he’s nervous now, that he doesn’t want to let anybody down.

Andrew steps forward, still patiently holding the file out. His voice is quiet, “That’s why I’m taking this mission.”

He doesn’t need to give words of encouragement to Eddie, doesn’t need to reassure him that he’ll do a good job, that he’s a good leader. Eddie knows all of that, he knows that Andrew believes in him without having to say it and he does his best to silently live up to all of Andrew’s high expectations.

Eddie steps forward, plucks the folder from his fingertips and nods once.

_______

Ravens won, 24-7. I tivoed the game. is the short email that Andrew receives when he lands in London at some absurd hour in the early morning. He rounds up his team and they make their way to a hotel where Snafu’s too tired to even flirt with the receptionist.

How do you not have a secretary? is the lone email he receives when he opens his eyes in the late morning to turn off his alarm. This time of day is strange for him-the fact that he hasn’t forwarded at least two orders and compiled a set of mission reports before lunch is throwing him off a little. He moves across the room to shake Burgin awake and it’s not long before they’re assembled and going over the plan one last time.

The last email he receives is a five note riff solely based on the G chord in the late afternoon while Andrew is covering the back of one of the buildings where they’re picking up cash with a loaded rifle and an expert eye. He waits for Burgin to extract his team and it isn’t until they’re packed away safely into the car that he allows himself to check his phone. The G chord is the only chord that Andrew knows how to play on the guitar.

It’s oddly comforting to know that Eddie’s thinking of him.

_______

Their first ten million goes smoothly-the five man team gets in and out of the building without a hitch and the six of them make it undetected across the border into Wales. There’s something to be said about Andrew’s friendly smiles and earnest way of speaking-Burgin doesn’t trust himself to speak and the rest of the team is jittery with nerves.

It’s not until they’re settled into their hotel that everything goes wrong.

Andrew’s sitting on the bed and compiling an email on his laptop when Oswalt speaks up from the couch, “Um. sir?” He looks up to see Oswalt scramble forward, staring at the one of the stacks of hundreds in his hands. For some reason, Andrew already knows what Oswalt is going to show him, feels his stomach plummeting as he sets his laptop aside. The rest of the team is staring at them now. Oswalt holds it out and Andrew flicks back the first two bills-

There is a tracker in the cut stack of bills. It blinks innocently at him with a pale green light.

“Fuck,” Andrew says very softly. It’s a rare occurrence when he swears in front of his men but these are unusual circumstances indeed.

“Gloves on. Search all of them,” Andrew says, taking the stack. The men spring into action and the rest of the bills are scattered across the floor.

“Good job Oswalt,” Andrew says as he kneels on the ground and starts flipping through the stacks with the rest of them.

It doesn’t make sense-it doesn’t make sense why money that they’re picking up from a secure source would have markers. It doesn’t make sense because they’re only acting as couriers, because they didn’t steal these-somebody else did-and Andrew has a hard time believing that they would have been sloppy enough pick these up. There is something wrong here, something off about this entire mission.

By the time that they’re done, they’ve lost nearly three hundred thousand. There are over twenty stacks with tracers in them, split amongst the ten bags.

On a whim, Andrew copies down the serial numbers on the trackers and they leave the hotel room early.

_______

He’s less confident about the second pickup. He doesn’t enter with the team and keeps them covered from the outside. He keeps expecting to hear the wail of police sirens, to see anything suspicious at all-but nothing out of the ordinary happens. The pickup goes exactly as promised, smooth and without interruption.

A week ago, Andrew might have welcomed how easy this mission was, might have thought these were the ideal sort of conditions, textbook courier material. But now he can’t help but be suspicious of the silence, the yielding ease of every step along the way.

The team has gone silent and nobody is surprised when the first action that they take once they’re in a secluded space is to search the stacks. They only find two of them-Andrew notes their tracker serials before they toss them away into an alleyway and make their way to their hotel for the night.

Andrew wants to call command, wants to demand to know what’s going on, how they could have missed this, if their client was playing them, but they have no secure lines. He supposes it doesn’t matter-not when they have less than twenty-four hours to get to the airfield and on their way home.

He’s tense the entire rest of the mission and the discomfort bleeds into the demeanor of his men. They are silent and grim-faced but he can’t ask for a more efficient team.

He just needs to get back to the states so that they can get answers.

_______

“I’m sorry sir,” the hostess says, “But we don’t have that airplane anywhere at this airport.”

Andrew has a hard time believing what he’s hearing-but for some reason it doesn’t surprise him as much as it should. He leans forward, gives her a tired smile because he knows it’s useless to channel his frustration at the staff and he makes sure to keep his tone friendly and patient, “Could you check again? It’s a small plane-privately owned.”

She bites her lip and types the code into the computer again before looking at him and shaking her head, “I’m sorry, sir. It really isn’t here.”

Andrew stares at her for just a moment before his lips turn upwards into a smile that he’s entirely not feeling and he says, “Sorry for the inconvenience ma’am,” before he turns and makes his way back to his team.

They are all looking at him expectantly.

“No plane,” Andrew says without preamble. He shifts his bag. He needs to call Eddie.

His team takes it in stride. None of the expressions on their faces change much-maybe they look slightly more grim now. Snafu’s the only one who looks slightly more concerned than the rest and he glancing around uneasily at the rest of them like he’s a little confused as to why nobody’s saying anything.

“Sir,” Snafu finally ventures, keeping his voice low, “Doesn’t this mean we’re stranded?”

Nobody says anything in reply-not until Andrew picks up the bag he dropped earlier and says, “We’ll make do, boys.”

_______

“You couldn’t have picked a more reasonable time to call?” Eddie demands when he picks up the phone on the fourth ring, “Didn’t they teach time zones at Bowdoin?”

“We’re stranded,” Andrew says shortly.

There is silence on the other end for a few moments save for the sound of Eddie’s breathing. And then, very slowly, “C wouldn’t-“

“C did,” Andrew corrects.

There is a rustle of sheets and a creak of mattress and Andrew knows that Eddie’s sitting up now, probably groping for his laptop in the dark, “What happened?”

Andrew presses his fingers to his temple. It’s the closest he’s going to come to acknowledging this impending headache, this seriously fucked up situation that they’ve found themselves in. He wonders who’s listening in on this conversation, if they’ve managed to tag all of their phones, if they’ve rifled through the trail of emails he receives on a daily basis. He wonders if they know what he’s been doing. He wonders how many terabytes of recorded conversation his cell phone company has collected on him.

“I took the boys out shopping,” Andrew says evenly and it strikes him only for a moment how absurd he sounds, “And some of them had managed to sneak in stuff that they really should have paid for by themselves.”

There’s a pause and then Eddie’s voice is serious as he replies, “Did you keep the receipts? I can reimburse you.”

Andrew pulls the list of serial numbers and does a series of conversions in his head, “First receipt. Nineteen fifty. Twenty-three seventy-five-“

He rattles off a list of numbers. He only makes it through two of the numbers before he stops. It’ll have to be enough for Eddie to figure out who’s tailing them.

“Get in contact with C,” he finishes, “We can’t stay here for much longer.”

When Eddie replies, he sounds calm but there is a trace of concern underlying his tone, “I’ll do my best.”

Andrew’s smile is genuine for the first time in days as he says goodbye.

_______

Andrew tries to call command, but unsurprisingly his attempts are blocked. Only a phone on a secure line is allowed to reach a phone in command. Andrew has no idea how they figure out what phones are secure and which aren’t. It’s an inefficient system kept in use supposedly for security reasons. It definitely doesn’t help them out here with no plane to take them home and no plan to somehow push nearly thirty million dollars past security.

Andrew spends most of the following day scoping out the airport and blending in with the shifting crowds in an effort to figure out if there’s any way at all that they can still complete this without the plane that command promised would be there. It’s hard though-they have no cover for the money and nobody that they can pull favors from in this foreign country. They have incredibly limited resources-which is ironic considering their delivery.

“I say we split it up,” Burgin suggests on the morning of the second day that they are there, “Throw them into bank accounts. Get out of here on any flight.”

“They’re probably tracking the bill serials,” Sledge says, “Plus how suspicious would we look, walking into bank with a couple millions in US dollars?”

Snafu leans against the windowsill, blowing smoke out the open window, “How many identities you think we’d have to make to deposit it all without suspicion?”

“They’re probably tracking the bills,” Sledge repeats with a trace of irritation, and he sounds strained, frustrated.

They all are. It’s not good for morale. It’s like they’re running in circles in a tiny cage. Andrew wants to promise them a way out but he needs to find it first.

_______

“C still isn’t returning any of my calls,” Eddie tells him on the fourth day that they’re supposed to be home, “But I called in a favor. Thursday, 7PM, ask for Shirley Decroix.”

Andrew frowns a little. There’s something off about the way that Eddie is speaking, a note of weariness that hadn’t been there the last time they spoke. The plane should be good news but Andrew doesn’t have to be physically present to notice that Eddie’s not smiling.

“What’s wrong?” he asks instead.

There’s a pause and then Eddie laughs low into the phone, except it’s not really a laugh at all. Andrew can imagine Eddie dragging his forearm across his face like he does when he’s tired and he says, “I fucked up.”

Andrew can imagine a million ways in which Eddie could imagine that he somehow fucked up without actually having done so. It’s the problem with him-with them really, if Andrew wants to be honest with himself-this stupid guilt complex that keeps them looking after all these men and the one that keeps them shouldering excessive blame.

“They cornered Burnhardt’s team. One of his boys was on the verge of talking and Burnhardt took him out. They’ve got Burnhardt and his other boy. No bail and likely no way out of a charge.”

“Jesus,” Andrew says, and he hates this distance, hates that he’s not where Eddie is now, “Eddie.”

“I shouldn’t have let them go,” Eddie says and his voice is stronger now with conviction, “As soon as we heard reports about activity in the area, I should have called them back. I shouldn’t have let them stay.”

“You didn’t know,” Andrew says and he doesn’t know if it’s true but he knows Eddie and he’s willing to bet on this guess, “You didn’t know. You didn’t know he’d try to talk.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything into the phone. Andrew has to press on, to fill this dangerous silence, “You weren’t there. You didn’t make that final decision.”

Eddie still doesn’t say anything. Andrew’s eyebrows draw together and he says steadily, “Eddie.”

“Yeah,” the word is said calmly. Andrew wants to reach through the phone, to drop a hand on his back, to settle himself close and offer the press of a shoulder-anything at all to show Eddie that he’s not alone. He doesn’t know what to say, nothing across the phone will be adequate.

“I’ll be home soon,” Andrew finishes lamely, “Shirley Decroix. Seven PM.”

Eddie lets out a quiet laugh but it’s more introspective than anything. “See you Friday, captain.”

_______

Their tiny plane lands sometime after five in the morning. Andrew hefts a bag onto his shoulder and picks one of them up before nodding to his men. He takes the first cab home and tries his best not to nod off in the car. He unlocks the door to find the living room light still on.

Eddie’s here. The thought of someone else in his home when he’s not there should make him paranoid-but it’s Eddie.

He drops the bags and his briefcase, toes off his shoes, and makes his way into the living room. The man is sprawled across the couch, arm flung across his eyes and slow breathing through his nose. His laptop shows the screensaver and there are notes scribbled and spread out across Andrew’s coffee table.

It’s nearly six. He should catch up on what tiny amount of sleep he can get before he gets into work tomorrow morning. They still have the second half of the delivery to make and Andrew’s intent on harassing an answer out of command. It’s one thing to have faulty information, but to cut their escape route is inexcusable.

He takes a seat on the far end of the couch and digs the palms of his hands into his eyes. He’s tired. He turns his head to look at Eddie-the lips pulled into a frown even in sleep, the texture of stubble across his jaw. He wants to lay a hand on Eddie’s arm, wants to run it soothingly across his shoulder until the frown eases away into a peaceful expression.

He doesn’t know when he closes his eyes and he doesn’t know how he ends up falling asleep sitting upright on the couch but when he wakes up, Eddie is shaking his shoulder gently and looking at him with concerned eyes. His mouth shapes words that Andrew can barely make out through the hazy blur of sleep clouding his mind. He feels himself being tugged to his feet and he follows obediently. Eddie pushes him down onto his bed and for half a crazy second, Andrew wants to drag him down too.

But he’s tired from barely any sleep overseas for over a week and his bed is more comfortable than he remembers.

He sleeps.

_______

When he opens his eyes again, sundown is angled through the blinds of his window. He mistakes it momentarily for sunrise but realizes that the wash of light in his room is too red, too deep to be the pale light of sunrise. He lays there for a moment before checking his phone. It’s six-fifty eight

He’s wasted the entire day sleeping. He should have gone and taken his role as branch manager back instead of dropping his responsibilities on Eddie for another day. Eddie’s probably had enough to do this past week without having to shoulder Andrew’s duties on top of his own.

Except he remembers that Eddie had pulled him here this morning, wonders for an uncertain moment if Eddie’s dry palm had really slid along the line of his jaw, if he had really lingered for a moment with his hand on Andrew’s neck, just looking down at him with that unreadable expression he sometimes got.

He looks at his phone again. Seven exact. He gets up and drags a hand across the back of his neck, thinking about a shower. He dials Eddie’s phone instead.

“Ravens are losing,” Eddie says by way of greeting.

“You’re not at home,” Andrew replies, and it doesn’t even occur to him that he dropped the my in front of home.

“I’m checking the scores online,” Eddie elaborates.

“You didn’t have to cover for me today.”

Andrew can practically see the shrug that rolls across Eddie’s shoulders, “You looked tired.”

“Your laptop was on when I got home,” Andrew counters.

“You looked like you needed sleep,” Eddie replies blandly and Andrew can see that he’s going nowhere with this argument.

“How are things?” Andrew asks, “Should I come in?”

There is a pause and Andrew hears Eddie clicking away on the keyboard. He can maybe see the amused smile that touches the corner of Eddie’s lips and he’s glad to hear the touch of humor returning to Eddie’s voice, “You know Andy, we work better with you here but it’s not like we can’t function at all without you.”

“Okay,” Andrew relents, and then, “When are you leaving?”

“Soon,” Eddie sounds a little distracted now, like he’s starting to pay more attention to his computer than the phone. Andrew’s gotten used to it, “I’ll pick up Chinese on the way back.”

_______

Eddie had told him that command wouldn’t pick up his call. He shouldn’t be as surprised at the sudden lack of communication as he is.

He’s sent three emails a day for the last two days over the intranet and has yet to receive a single answer. When a secretary picks up his call, she tells him to hold while they transfer him and the call always gets dropped. When he calls back and inquires about the dropped calls, the receptionist always apologizes and tells him that they’re experiencing high call volume.

Meanwhile, the orders continue to pour in.

“I got it,” Eddie says one morning as he steps into Andrew’s doorway, “It took me an entire two weeks to hack, but I got it.”

“This sounds like good news,” Andrew observes, setting the phone down on what’s another dropped call, “What’d you find?”

“You were tagged with FBI tracers. Custom made for the branch in New York three months ago.”

Andrew feels the world tilting on its axis a little bit, like some new information is slowly starting to slot into place and he’s too scared to shove it all the way in. “They’re not bank,” he says carefully.

“Someone in the FBI knew exactly what you were up to. Someone was aiming to track you.”

Andrew’s jaw tightens.

Team K has picked up on the habit of reconning every mission before sending the teams out. It takes twice as long but the amount of faulty intel they’ve managed to root out consists of well over fifteen percent of what they’re given by now and Andrew thinks it’s well worth the extra time for the extra security.

Peleliu was a fairly large project. It didn’t make sense why command wouldn’t at least mention FBI suspicion in their briefing if they had suspected anything at all. It was always better to err on the side of caution.

“What are you thinking?” Eddie murmurs quietly, eyes intent on Andrew’s face.

Andrew thinks carefully about his words, but realizes that his suspicions don’t change. “I think there’s something going on with command.”

_______

Eddie’s away at some event his sister is putting on so Andrew decides to devote the entire night to figuring out what to do about the Burnhardt situation. He’s already visited the prison where both Burnhardt and Jacobson are being kept. Leckie’s already informed him that there’s no way in hell Burnhardt is going to be released on any sort of bail-but Jacobson might have a chance to reduce his charges from accomplice to trespassing and obstruction of justice if they play their cards right.

They’ve lost a man. When the eyewitnesses listed on the case file are police, it’s a goddamn lost cause.

Andrew has music playing but he’s paranoid enough to be able to hone in immediately on the sound of something scraping into his keyhole. He thinks for a moment that it could be an old enemy coming to pay him a visit and he’s already reaching down for the beretta he keeps in his briefcase when the door unlocks and-

“I thought you were supposed to be at your sister’s thing?” Andrew asks relaxing immediately before tensing up and subtly trying to collect the copies of police reports that Leckie sent him. He turns off the music too.

“There’s only so many times that I can tell a girl that I work as a computer engineer just to watch her deflate,” Eddie replies, “And whenever I tell them that I’m a musician, I feel like a huge tool.”

“You’re actually a musician though,” Andrew says as Eddie goes into the kitchen. A few moments later, he’s setting a beer onto the coffee table in front of Andrew and he has one for himself. Eddie opens his beer, picks up the remote control for the television, and weighs it in his hand momentarily before he speaks.

“You don’t need to do that.” His voice is quiet.

There is a brief pause before Andrew replies, “Do what?”

“Put away the Burnhardt files.” Eddie’s voice is completely steady.

Andrew studies Eddie’s profile silently. His mouth is set in a slightly grim line, and from the way that his head is tilted, his brow casts his eyes into shadow. Andrew lets out a breath and flips open the folder he haphazardly threw the papers into without any semblance of order.

“Do you need help?” Eddie asks as he takes a seat on the couch next to Andrew.

“There’s not much we can do,” Andrew says.

Eddie picks up the first sheet of paper. It’s the witness report that one of the policemen turned in. He stares at it blankly for a while.

Andrew wants to say something, wants to tell Eddie again that it’s not his fault but it feels like he’s said it so many times that the words just aren’t having any effect any longer. He can’t just keep repeating them and hoping that Eddie will come to his senses-Eddie has to do that by himself.

They’ve lost other men before-they haven’t always been careful enough. Someone slips up, someone takes a moment too long, someone makes a bad judgment and takes an erroneous risk-someone gets caught, someone gets killed. There’s always this stretch of guilt after every single one of the lost men. What if they could had prepared them better, what if they missed something during their preliminary scan of every mission brief? What if they could have picked a better day, better escape routes, better conditions?

Burnhardt left behind a widowed mother. Jacobson has a wife and a child on the way.

“I didn’t join this to fuck up,” Eddie says conversationally. His voice is deceptively light but Andrew can hear the surge of anger underlying the tone of his voice. “I didn’t take this rank so I could let others fuck up.”

Eddie’s given a hundred different reasons why he’s stayed-the pay, the training that it’s given him, the way that it keeps his skills sharp both on and off the computer, the fucking empowerment that shouldering a sniper rifle or picking up a glock gives him. He’s told a thousand different stories about his early days-days when he did more than fill out paperwork and send directives, days when the most exciting part of his day wasn’t hacking into private databases on occasion. He stretches them out, exaggerates the characters into wild caricatures of the veteran badass, the nervous rookie-and the men love them, they love to listen to them-and most importantly, they love him.

Because both he and Eddie have the same real reasons for staying-because Jacobson has a wife and they need to get him back to his family, because Burnhardt gave his life protecting the secret of this organization and they need to show the same devotion by providing for his mother. Because Burgin has a fiancé named Florence at home and he talks about her with a brightness in his eyes, because Oswalt talks about one day getting enough saved up so that he can go back to college and learn how to become a brain surgeon. Because they love these men with a fierce sort of pride, because these men are just in desperate times making bad decisions in a world that’s screwed them over every other way-because they don’t trust anybody else to prepare them, to lead them into danger and then out again.

Andrew fits his hand into the crook of Eddie’s shoulder, fingers splaying against the back of his neck and his thumb stroking the delicate skin behind Eddie’s ear. He doesn’t say anything at all because there’s nothing worth saying by now. He knows acutely how Eddie feels and he goddamn hurts for him.

Eddie closes his eyes and lets him.

_______

There’s a knock on his office door. Andrew raises his eyes.

“Hillbilly told me that you were trying to get hold of command?” Burgin asks as he leans against the doorframe.

“To little success,” Andrew admits.

“William Rupertus,” Burgin says, “He’s holding a charity event for his wife’s cancer foundation in a week. It’s very exclusive though, there’s only a limited number of plates available to the public.”

Andrew stares at Burgin for a moment before grinning widely, “When do plate bids go up?”

_______

It’s still raining when Andrew gets back from his Saturday morning run, the cold raindrops running down the back of his neck and blooming wetness across the back of his thin cotton shirt. He passes one of his neighbors jogging with her dog on the way back and gives her a friendly smile. She acknowledges him with a smile and the boxer drags her on with his tongue lolling.

He unlocks the front door and spends a few moments dripping on the hardwood in his entryway, staring at the open door of his patio. He can see drops of water on the screen door and the hardwood in front of the door from this angle, from where the wind has streaked raindrops in through the mesh.

He would be alarmed but he can also hear bluegrass playing from the guest room that Eddie’s basically claimed as his own for the past year. He has shirts in the closet and complicated looking computer bits all over the desk. Andrew’s gotten past the point of joking about demanding rent by now-it’s just a space that Eddie can use to crash if he doesn’t feel like making the extra hour commute out of the city to his own apartment.

And he should really be used to this, used to these sudden changes in his house without getting paranoid-but he’s been through years of close misses from more than one angry character from his past who have tried to assault him in his own home. It doesn’t hurt to be extra vigilant and he’s never gotten rid of the reflexive paranoia.

He arranges his sneakers by the door and pulls off his wet socks. The shirt is shed next and he wanders into the hallway towards his own bedroom.

Eddie is sitting on the floor of Andrew’s room, intently measuring wires against each other. Both the cable and the phone outlet have been unscrewed and are hanging out of the wall. He doesn’t even look up when Andrew enters.

“What are you doing?” Andrew asks after a beat, flinging the wet shirt into the hamper.

“I thought I got you free cable ages ago!” Eddie says and it’s an exclamation like he really is distraught by this fact, “Why didn’t you say anything? You’ve been throwing money away for years.”

Andrew’s in the midst of opening a dresser drawer for another shirt, “I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”

Eddie looks at him expressionlessly (though it looks like maybe he’s trying to hide a smile) and he shakes his head. Andrew lifts both of his hands in surrender.

“I’m installing a secure fiber optics network in your house,” Eddie answers for real this time, “I should have done it ages ago but I’ve been busy. I’d like to wire your entire house though, so it might take a few weeks.”

Andrew pulls a shirt on. He doesn’t really know why Eddie would think there’s a need for a secure network in his home but he’s not really the expert, “Okay.”

He sits on his bed and watches Eddie work instead of thinking about the briefings he’s brought home to comb through over the weekend. Eddie’s movements are quick and efficient-he dismantles parts easily and brings in new components without hesitation like he’s memorized all of these schematics, like he can see the wires behind the drywall without breaking anything open. It’s Eddie in one of his various natural elements and Andrew’s long gotten over anything resembling jealousy and now he just admires the other man for his obvious talent.

“I’m going to make breakfast,” Andrew says after a long while, “Scrambled eggs?”

“Sure,” Eddie replies and Andrew leaves the room.

to part two