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"Are we ready for this?"
"Of course we are," I assured Ryan again, mindlessly checking my gun holster tightness and gear, then tightening my blonde ponytail.
His eyes were still filled with nerves, but I knew he was just as anxious as I was to finally complete our first real mission. If this goes well, we will move up from the easy investigative drug busts and start doing the real stuff: attacking more of those on the most wanted list.
This was a major change from our usual work. Ryan and I had never had to actively shoot someone. The drug busts usually ended after some threatening by arresting the idiots. But shooting, mainly for defense, was new ground we were about to uncover.
"Ry, it's okay. I believe in us. We can do this," I had encouraged him, placing my slightly shaking hand under his chin after he placed his helmet on, oblivious.
Clearly, I was nervous too. The drug busts never got too heated, at least the ones Ryan and I were dispatched to since we were practically FBI babies. We really just investigated and arrested for years. Now we were messing with real murderers, criminals, and terrorists.
We got ourselves and the other special agents on the mission with us in the van that was transporting us to the location. This was not their first most wanted case, so Ryan and I had also been worried about letting them down since it was ours.
"Forbes," the leader of us addressed me a while after we got situated and started driving, "Review the case."
I cleared my throat, looking over to Ryan who gave me a small, encouraging grin before I replied, "Jason Derek Green. Male over 45; exact age is unknown due to his different stories. Wanted for multiple cases of first degree murder, drug possession, and armed robbery. Tied to California, Nevada, and currently in our location, Arizona."
"What are we dealing with, Baker," he stopped me, making Ryan continue.
"He's thought to be in possession of a .45 millimeter handgun and an AK47. However as he is now robbing an artillery base, it's uncertain."
The mission leader, Special Agent Grant, nodded in approval, and Ryan lowkey gave me his hand for a high five, proud of the two of us.
"Memorizing a case and investigating is just a small part of the mission. Taking action is the majority. You'll learn it over time. Don't get too excited," Agent Grant advised, and Ryan retracted his hand.
The drive out to the military artillery base in the sweltering Arizona heat went by in a blur, my nerves distracting me most of the way. No amount of advice from McCarthy, training, or support can prepare you for the feeling I was having.
I had never been in such danger, where I didn't have any idea the end result.
My parents were so against me doing this. I just wanted to prove them wrong, that I was cut out for this job. But their disapproving frowns when I told them what new mission I was trying was an image I couldn't get out of my head.
"Forbes!"
"Yes, sir!" I backed away from my mind, seeing that we're parked now at the artillery base, everyone huddled close in the van.
"As I was saying, if it gets bad, backup will be by helicopter, so be prepared. You two newbies are in for a tougher mission than we expected, be prepared. Chiefs from the base have only informed that he's seized the explosives area and shows no signs of resisting. He's not alone, but there's no clear number of how many he has with him. Ready?"
"Yes sir!" The rest of the group, including Ryan and I, all shouted in unison before rushing out of the back of our van, guns in hand as we entered protocol and walked into the artillery.
Ryan and I stuck by each other, in the eerie, quiet explosives containment area, already having had moved past the firearms area, a little taken a back at the number of casualties lying around that we had already seen.
"Babe, I love you. We'll be okay," Ryan whispered into my ear when we were at a pause, grabbing my armor-clad shoulder, his gun in his other hand.
I nodded at him, trying to keep my mind off the gore I just witnessed as we continued.
Military troops joined with us as we slithered through the much larger containment area, moving cover to cover. Our surrounding had us ultimately more cautious then ever, since multiple types of explosives were quite literally stored everywhere. We grew from ten of us to I think over twenty, and I prayed we were enough. It was too quiet for the amount of guys supposedly here with the main criminal. We knew something was wrong, or about to go wrong.
Dust could be seen in the air from the amount of light shining in from the high windows. It looked abandoned. It smelled of sweat, metal, and gun fire. People had been in here not long ago, if that. My body felt stuffy, claustrophobic in the thick tension-filled air.
A light dink noise sounded a few feet away from me, echoing in the building, and every single quiet footstep from each of us stopped in their tracks.
Every one of us looked around before Agent Grant up front shouted, "Grenade!"
Not even a second passed until it exploded, starting an uproar of crossfire shots between us and them, a few men on our side who were hit from the blow taking a breather before joining in, no one really hurt from that blast.
But that was only the first one.
Overwhelmed, I kept strong by shooting at the multiple men aiming at me and my fellow agents, focusing my assault rifle on the two most in front of me, the deafening thundering from all the shooting an easy distraction, making it difficult to pay attention. No shooting range I was in the weeks prior to this mission could've prepared me for the real thing.
My aim, when practicing, had always been spotless, but that perfection deteriorated almost instantly when I had seen, out of the corner of my eye, our men getting shot or knocked out to the ground.
Shoot. Take cover. Move. Repeat.
Against my will, I couldn't assist those on the floor, hit either badly or grazed by bullets. There wasn't time. Grenades blew up one after one, and for a period of time, only moving cover to cover was an option.
Chaos and panic ensued within. A frag grenade five feet away from me bursted open, sending my body to the ground, unharmed, but I was forced to crawl my way to a new cover, my body jolting with every boom, wince, and gunshot.
One by one I had noticed we were being taken down, having much less an advantage since we carried no explosives, and they stole hundreds. They were falling as well, but it was going to take more of us to beat them.
Twenty-something of us turned into less than fifteen, an explosive near me getting rid of three more, and caused me to scream, going from a crouch to crawling helplessly backward as I reloaded.
It was as if after every grenade, I had to look around and check that Ryan was still okay. He was a priority I had in that mess, and he seemed to have been doing better than I was, clearly more concentrated than I was.
I couldn't figure out why I was so all over the place.
My head peeked up after I reloaded, only to barely be missed by a bullet, crouching back down behind a crate, out of breath.
There was no time to think, you had to just do.
I crouched back up and shot wildly, unsure if I was hitting a single thing until I heard a grunt, and took my finger off the trigger, watching as some large bald man who had been shooting at me fell to the ground, the sight of blood sending my body to take cover and lean behind the crate, scarred.
I had never killed anyone before.
Ryan ran past me, stopping by me and shooting somewhere behind while I tried to collect myself from what I just did.
"You good?" My friend yelled at me, though I felt as though I couldn't talk when I noticed the reality of casualties around us.
A lot of dead people. A lot of blood.
"Caroline—"
"Backup is coming!" Agent Grant screamed to us, and whoever else was alive, sprinting through the crossfire to pass Ryan and I's position and head further to the right side of the room, before a grenade went off near him and sent his body to a hard crash on the concrete floor.
"No!" I heard come out of my mouth, my body instantly scrambling away to save our group leader. If he was down, the backup would have no intel and they could have a hard time helping us effectively.
My baggy jacket behind me was grabbed and pulled back. "Caroline! No!"
I turned around, "Ryan, let me pull him over, I can help him!"
Shooting at the targets, he still managed to have time to respond, "He's out open! Just stay here and help me!"
"But the backup—"
"Backup is coming, Caroline! There's nothing we can do! We have to follow the protocol!"
I give Ryan a glance before looking back at Agent Grant, his body stirring ever so carefully.
If I could just save one person, or help one of us to safety, we might be okay. I might have felt okay. My eyes then followed the traces of other men, a few of them left standing further back, some of them either dead or nearly dead on the ground, grenades still exploding left and right. No one was expecting this outcome today.
I didn't want this outcome today.
Impulsively, I fled from Ryan to our squad leader, almost ten feet away from me, crawling over blood splatters, and watching for grenades and bullet shells.
"Caroline! Fuck!" Ryan noticed I had left, but couldn't pursue me, as he began to get ambushed.
I grabbed Agent Grant's hand, suddenly hearing muffled noises from his radio.
Our backup.
"Forbes, wha—"
"I have you, sir," I assured him, knowing he had a beautiful wife and kids he needed to go home to tonight, feeling proud of myself for making sure of that.
Right as I was about to drag him into cover, a grenade landed a couple feet away from us.
Reaction time didn't exist in that moment, and the blast took me back so hard, I was knocked out for only seconds it seemed, when gun shots near me caused my eyes to shoot wide open, looking around to see red blood covering my body. I didn't even know whose blood it was.
It was too late when I realized those shots I woke up to were aimed at me, and I felt a bullet to the stomach, my body sent into a shock as I powerlessly flailed on the ground, only really able to control the movement of my neck as I bled out. Looking to my left, I was met with a dead Agent Grant and the sight of blood spilling from my head somewhere, then sent screaming when a body fell to my right, the body of the man who shot me.
The man on the most wanted list.
"Caroline!" I recognized the voice, seeing Ryan's head come into view above me before I zoned out entirely.
Blades.
Spinning, helicopter blades.
The dreadfully loud, scary sound is what I heard that woke me up, the image of the blades spinning again and again, around and around, is what I saw from my laying position on the ground after.
After.
As I nearly died multiple times on the medical helicopter ride to Chicago from Arizona, it was only the sound of those fucking blades—
A sudden clicking noise causes my body to jump under the mess of my covers and I yelp, looking up at the spinning ceiling fan above me, my body shivering in fear at their similar image to the helicopter propeller blades. After sitting up, I look at my hand to find it holding my pistol, realizing I tried to shoot at the fan in my sleep, and woke up to the click of my trigger, the safety of my gun that was on being the only thing that kept me from just now shooting a fan that doesn't even belong to me.
They told me that a lot of things might trigger my PTSD episodes to return. The spinning ceiling fan was always one of them.
I guess I fell asleep looking at it.
A dampness on my pillows that I feel with my hand makes me realize I must have been crying, and sure enough, I feel dry tears spotted all over my cheeks.
I haven't had one of these episodes in a while.
The post traumatic stress disorder episodes began a few days after being hospitalized when we made it back to Chicago. I was found hiding on the floor, using my bed as cover in a half-sleep daze, and refusing for over ten minutes to get up in fear of being shot.
After a week of constant episodes was when I started my series of reactive psychosis. I wouldn't talk, eat, or sleep, and when people touched me, I grew violent. People thought it was for the same reasons as what had happened to my sister, and that I'd grow suicidal. Maybe it did run in the family— being prone to this kind of behavior after trauma, but I don't know. It wasn't until a couple weeks later that I snapped out of it in the nick of time.
Reliving the memories, more tears shed from my eyes and I force myself up, turning off the stupid fan as I leave my room to the bathroom.
Trying to take my mind off, I splash some water in my face, knowing that it's like two in the morning and I will probably be awake now all night from doing this. But I would much rather be awake, than relive any of it again.
Finished, I exit the bathroom only to gasp and take a frightened step back when I see Harry in the dark hallway, looking at me as I walk out. I can barely see much of his face from the poor lighting, but I can tell he's shirtless, wearing some sweatpants, and his hair looks like a restless mess.
"Sorry, did I make a lot of noise?" I whisper to him, sweeping my hands through my hair, cursing on the inside for leaving the bathroom door open when I had the water on.
He's been so uptight and mean lately, quite curt and blunt. Without explanation, he's booked more therapy appointments, acting endlessly crude with me before and after them. Angering him this early in the day isn't another issue I want to add to my list of problems right now.
"Yeah, I can't sleep," his coarse voice informs me just how tired he is, and I feel I am to blame.
Although, he stares at me a little awkwardly, as if that's not the only reason why he can't sleep.
I sniffle a little and decide to apologize anyway. I don't want him to be as pissed and distant towards me as he has been the past few days. What I did, I'm not sure about, but whatever it was, I just want to go back to how we were.
"I just, I had a nightmare..." my explanation drifts as my eyes suddenly focus on the large, spinning ceiling fan in his open living room I can see from the hallway balcony behind him.
"Caroline?"
The daze I fall into blocks out his voice to only an inaudible calling, but a tear that rolls down my cheek pulls me back out of it.
"I'm sorry," I repeat, knowing I'm about to cry again, something I really don't want him to see, as I turn to hurry for my room, a sudden hand in mine pulling me back.
Glancing down at his still bandaged hand in mine, a first from him just grabbing at my arm, I'm surprised to watch his grip change and tighten to hold my hand correctly. Our eyes meet, a gentle gleam in his.
"C'mere," his voice a soft murmur.
Without a word, I let a sleepy Harry lead me slowly to the end of the hallway, then grow skeptical when he turns left to go to his door at the end of this hall.
He steps into his room but I tug my hand from his which immediately draws his attention back to me, standing outside the door.
"I thought you said I'm not allowed in here," I remind him, unsure that if I follow, his anger will visit and throw it in my face that I made him mad yet again.
To my bewilderment, he seems amused at my words and rolls his eyes, smiling back at me sleepily.
"Well then, this is your once in a lifetime opportunity," his leisurely voice tells me, opening his arms wide. "Take it, or leave it?"
Hesitantly, I step through the doorway, my eyes giving the only room I had never seen a once over, noticing how much larger it is compared to my guest room, especially that California king bed he bragged about. He has floor to ceiling windows, similar to those in the living room, covered now in the night by long curtains that drag onto the soft carpet. The bathroom is closed off by two grand looking doors. I had never been in this big of a bedroom before.
Harry walks much faster back to his bed, dragging my attention away as he drowsily gets onto his side of the mattress, laying on his side with his elbow keeping him up as he gestures me to join him childishly by slapping the spot next to him.
"A-Are you sure?" I can't help but be treading with him, unsure with his mood swings at this point. I am honestly confused right now of how I am even in this room.
His shoulders slack and he dramatically tilts his head down, his hair following and then he swings his head back up, frustrated. "Caroline, just get over here before I change my mind."
I say no more and join him on his bed, alarmed at how perfect the mattress is. As I get situated and sit with my legs criss-crossed, he leans back to his night table and grabs a box of tissues that he hands to me.
About to accept his sweet, very unlike him gesture, I stop myself, thinking about exactly where the tissue box was located. "Wait, what the hell are these tissues used for?"
He groans a little, "It's not what you think, it's a clean box. Will you just stop asking questions and let me take care of you?"
I take the box and use a tissue, about to thank him when he casually adds in a hushed voice, "Besides, I do it in the shower most of the time."
We both look at each other, him nonchalantly combing back his soft curls like that was a normal thing to say. I crinkle up my tissue and throw it at him, watching him scrunch up his face.
"You are disgusting."
"Not as disgusting as what you just did," Harry throws the dirty tissue back, but in a playful way. He then actually takes the tissue from me, along with the box, and places it on his side table.
Curious, I let my body get comfortable and lay down under his silky bajillion dollar sheets, humming slightly at how cozy his mattress really is. He fixates his gaze back down at me, a happy, dimpled smirk on his lips at my reaction as he joins in, laying down on his back right beside me, both of us looking up in comfortable silence.
One thing I notice is the missing ceiling fan from above us, where only a ceiling light is, and I start to like his room even more. But I wonder what the real reason he didn't want me in here the first day we met was.
Harry speaks up, "Do you.. do you need to talk about it?"
Despite his voice sounding quite abrupt and worn out, I have never heard so much concern come from him, very much coinciding with his actions in the past five minutes. I can feel his eyes on me, his head turned my way, but I keep my gaze on the ceiling.
For some strange reason, I feel as though I can talk to him about it. We have known each other every day for a month, and I feel that despite our differences, we're close enough, especially since he's being very serious right now. Plus, with his psychological history and what I've learned about him, it's likely he'll understand?
Or he might just throw it in my face later as something to use against me in a future fight, but it's worth the try.
"I was shot," I suddenly hear myself confess, and from how I notice out of the corner of my eye how his body language changes, he's taken by surprise.
"It happened earlier this year. I can't bring myself to go through every detail. Every once in a while I have some sort of nightmare about it. Actually, I have—"
"Post traumatic stress disorder?" Harry guesses, saying the words in such a tired, British accent that it kind of makes me smile.
I don't know why, but sometimes when Harry would say things with his slow, heavy accent, it would just sound so much nicer than it might actually be, and it would make me smile.
My head turns to meet his lingering stare, a knowing look within those dilated, dark green eyes. When I nod in response, his head turns back to look up at the ceiling.
"You, like, try so hard to take control of the one thing that should never be able to be the thing trying to destroy you— your mind," he describes, gesturing with his hands.
"You desperately want to try and get the control back, but, it's a lot harder than it seems. It's like, like a separately different conscience trying to manipulate you and weaken you to it. It changes you to be a different person," Harry rubs his hands over his face, trying to explain.
"It kept me in a hospital for months," I sputter, eyes back focusing on the ceiling, and my words cause him to turn back to me.
I start to chuckle lightly, but it comes out a shrill sound as I picture the memories. "I got to a phase where I became immobilized and uncooperative, I mean, of course I was a little traumatized. Everyone handles it their own way. They all wanted me to go to a mental hospital, because they thought I went past the breaking point, but I came around before they could make me."
I almost went where my sister Abigail had gone, where she eventually lost it. I was lucky to have woken up before they could've taken me there.
"But are you better?" Harry asks me, peering intently at me, his attention never faltering.
I finally look him in the face again, retracting back to my more optimistic self I like to be and smiling at him.
"I like to think I have my moments of weakness now and again, like tonight, but I've really made it work in losing the voices in my head that kept me from recovering, that's for sure."
"Voices, huh?"
His expression goes from calm to unreadable, like he's hanging to every word I said, almost appearing scared, as if I just told him some bad news or something. The man right next to me looks more down to earth and human than I think I've ever seen him. The man who likes to threaten and scare everyone else looks like he has emotions himself. He's let go of a layer to show me more of who he is beneath the surface.
Eyes growing heavy, I turn my whole body over to face his large frame, his eyes scanning my body with uncertainty at my action until I soothe him by running my hands over his long curls, a little uncertain myself why I've done it, but it looked like it needed to be done. His hair is just so soft, and it brings his anxiety down I've noticed.
"Thank you, for this," I nod to him. "I haven't ever talked this much about my experience to someone who seemed like they completely understood me."
"I guess we have more in common than we'd like to, love," he chuckles a toothy grin showing me I brought back the Harry I was getting to know and appreciate, the asshole-Harry act gone again as he turns his shirtless body to face me as well.
"It's not a bad thing," I assure him, though my mirroring grin falters a little when I realize, "I should apologize for being unprofessional. Getting my murder suspect to counsel me in the middle of the night isn't exactly on the job description."
He nods along, and I do too, both of us kind of laughing at what we're doing until I pat his head and say, "I should really go, this is awkward."
I remove my unprofessional hand from his hair, which was unprofessionally combing it on it's own.
The way too tired and cheeky man picks my hand back up and places it on his hair again right as I'm about to leave, catching me off guard.
"Well, it's also unprofessional of me to enjoy your company lying next to me in my bed at this hour, running your hands through my hair. Now don't stop, I could finally fall asleep with you doing that."
It took minutes of me unprofessionally combing my murder suspect's hair until it easily put him to sleep, then unprofessionally falling asleep instantly at his side.