Lance jerked awake violently only to find himself in a tight, enclosed space. It took him a moment to remember where he was (medical clinic) and what he was trapped in (MRI machine), and then he was able to slow his heartrate and eject himself from the machine.

He took a long moment to try and even out his breaths, to try and push back the memory once more, and it was then that he realized how eerily quiet the clinic had become. "Doctor?" Lance asked, looking around. He knew how these medical types got, how fussy they'd be after they found out he'd quit the exam early, but he couldn't stand to be confined in the machine a moment more.

Breathing and heartrate now even, Lance got up to search for the doctor only to find him slumped against one of the walls, a round hole centered perfectly in his forehead, right above his now unseeing eyes.

"Fuck, no," Lance mumbled, already looking around the room. "Not again." He saw Griffin in his mind, a hole in his head too, only Griffin's had been on the side and a whole lot messier due to a shorter distance between the barrel of the gun and his head.

Lance noticed movement in his peripheral vision, and he turned to find two men dressed entirely in black, faces covered except their eyes. They stared at Lance for a moment before all three exploded into movement, the first man bringing up a gun in the same time it took Lance to cross the distance and grab the assailant's wrist, forcing his shot into a bad angle, and with a quick snap, Lance broke his wrist and sent the gun sliding across the floor.

Lance caught a movement in the mirror on the wall, and he second man swung a knife at him, but Lance was ready with a kick to his wrist. The knife popped free from his grasp only to be snatched up by Lance and, one eye on the mirror, Lance slashed at the second man's arm and going in for a deeper cut when he took a kick to the sternum from the first man that pushed him back for a moment.

Then Lance got in two solid punches and a shot to his solar plexus that had the other man reeling back while his partner stepped forward. With one kick, Lance had the second assailant on the floor, and with a second to the head, he was out cold or worse. Lance looked up to see the first figure who had clearly given up on taking out Lance and was sprinting in the opposite direction. Lance gave chase, making it out to the parking lot just in time to see a black Jeep skidding away, and he hurried to follow, medical gown flapping in the cold night air.

Lance threw open the door of his car and hopped in, jamming the keys in the ignition and shifting into park before his car door had even shut. He took off down the street, eyes flicking between the road ahead of him and the rearview mirror to see if anyone had hopped on his tail. He watched the flight change to yellow but didn't slow at all, instead slamming down on the gas and accelerating through the now red light.

He caught sight of the black Jeep in the distance and was able to follow for a few minutes before it took a sharp turn and lost him; by the time he caught up, the Jeep was nowhere to be found.

But Lance realized with a sickening feeling that he recognized what direction the Jeep was heading in, and he pumped the gas, one hand on the wheel and the other fumbling with his phone.

"Pick up, pick up, pick up," he raved. "Come on, pick up your fucking phone, Veronica," Lance snapped, tires screeching as he skidded through an intersection to make a turn without breaking, and he left a cacophony of car horns in his wake. "Come on, come on, pick up!"

When nobody picked up, Lance ended the call and dialed 911 instead.

"Hello, this is the police. What's your emergency?"

"Home invasion, aggravated assault," Lance said before listing off Veronica's address. "This is Commander Lance McClain reporting," he added, giving his credentials and identification number so they could look him up and hopefully expedite a patrol car to his house. "Requesting immediate assistance. I'm en route." After they confirmed the information, he hung up and focused fully on the road, passing cars in both lanes.

Raindrops began appearing on his windshield, first just a handful and then a bucket. He flicked on the wipers and kept a steady grip on the wheel with one hand as he used the other to take his pistol out of its holder and eject the magazine, ensuring it was fully loaded before popping the magazine back in and flicking off the safety. The truck hydroplaned for a moment, and Lance set the gun on the passenger seat to free up both hands, steering into the turn and pulling out of it.

When Lance was a block away, he killed the headlights and idled forward, braking to a soft stop in front of his neighbor's house and grabbing the gun from the passenger. He opened the door silently and slipped out into the inky darkness, easing the door shut until it was just a sliver ajar before crouching and using the truck as cover to make his way unseen from the street to the tree beside the house, then from the tree to the front door. He'd prefer to use the back door, but Veronica kept it locked and he'd have to break the glass to get in, eliminating any element of surprise.

Instead, he went to the front door and rotated the knob until he felt the latch bolt retract, and he opened the door just far enough to enter the house before guiding it back to a close. The faint squeak of metal was hidden by the Toy Story soundtrack that had been left on in the other room. He moved through the house, two hands on his gun, as he cleared the living room, the bathroom, the kitchen-

He stopped, releasing a horrible sound from his throat as he took in a puddle of red seeping out from the other side of the counter. He scanned the room for an active threat once more before running over, praying for any explanation other than the one that awaited him.

Veronica, dead.

And beneath the shield of her open arms, Raphael, equally dead.

"No, no," Lance cried out, kneeling and setting his gun down. He put two fingers to her neck, then to Raphael's. "Ronnie, Ronnie, please, Raphael–" He received nothing in return. Neither carried a pulse.

You two are my everything. And I promise you that I'm not going to let anything happen to either of you.

He pulled his sister into his arms, Raphael after her. They were still warm. He'd been close, so close. "No, dammit. He's just- he's just a kid, and...please, give them back, let them come back to me," he sobbed, and he was still sitting in the middle of the kitchen, rocking back and forth with the bodies of his sister and nephew, when the police showed up on scene.

--

Lance wore a hat to hide his features from view, but he kept his head down anyway as he knocked on the door, three sharp bursts, and Keith opened it almost immediately, his eyes widening ever so slightly before he scanned the street and motioned for Lance to come in. Lance did so, letting Keith shut the door behind him.

"They've got people out looking for you, you know," Keith said, his tone flat and informative rather than suspicious.

"I know," Lance said, turning to the couch and taking a seat without waiting for an invitation. The flat was small, the furniture old and worn, as Keith had picked up various pieces from garage sales. It was more a place for Keith to crash while Earthside than a home, and that was apparent by the lack of personal items or decorations. Although that was also just Keith. "I didn't do it." The words felt meaningless and unnecessary, but Lance said them anyway.

Lance had reported the altercation at the medical clinic, but by the time the police had gotten there, both the doctor and the man in black who Lance had knocked out were gone, like they'd never been there at all. And Lance, having been found in a pool of Veronica and Raphael's blood...it didn't look good. That was two days ago, and Lance had already been interrogated multiple times. Everyone seemed to think that he'd just...snapped.

"Obviously," Keith said without hesitance, and Lance exhaled in slight relief. He'd never doubted that Keith would trust him, but when everyone else seemed to have turned against him, it felt nice to have at least one person on his side. Keith scanned Lance's face with a frown. "Have you slept at all since that night? Or since the mission?"

"A few hours here or there," Lance said just as another one of his headaches started up, and he squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his right index and middle finger to his temple in an effort to ameliorate the throbbing to no avail.

"Lance–"

"I'm fine," Lance said, flicking his eyes open and trying to ignore the hammering within his skull. "Sorry, Keith, but this isn't exactly a social call."

"I assumed," Keith said, a fleck of worry in his eyes that Lance chose to ignore in favor of tossing a manila folder onto the coffee table. "This is...?" Keith asked, looking over at Lance for permission before pulling the folder toward himself with his left hand and starting to skim the contents. He stilled after a moment, reading the text in more depth before looking up. "Lance...this is a target package."

Lance nodded, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his thighs as he tapped his foot. "Yeah. This guy – Pelios – he works for the Fed. First to the scene at both Griffin's place and the medical clinic. First to the scene, before EMTs or local police and all that. And I'm 90% sure he's the guy I fought at the doctor's office, the one I stabbed in the arm."

Keith stayed quiet as he flipped through the documents Lance had put together, which included an itinerary of the man's daily routine, pictures of him leaving his apartment and his office, and the two reports he'd signed off on. "Lance, this guy is a federal agent...are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Good idea? No. But it's the only one I've got," Lance said. He paused, sensing Keith's skepticism. "Look, there's no obligation. I'm doing this with or without you, and if you don't want in, then that's fine."

"I'm just concerned that..." Keith bit at the inside of his lip. "Lance, you haven't...been yourself lately, and...what with you hardly sleeping..."

Lance clenched his jaw. He shouldn't have expected Keith to believe him. Nobody else did, after all. He was just another vet who had pulled the trigger one too many times and had become completely unhinged. "Fine, Keith," he said, getting up and reaching for the file. "Just don't get in my way."

"Hey, hold on," Keith said, holding the file out of reach. "I'm still going to help you, man."

"Thought you said it was a bad idea."

"And it is," Keith said with an eyebrow raised. "Going after a federal agent? You're going to bring the whole weight of the government down on yourself. But just because it's a bad idea doesn't mean I'm not in," Keith said, letting the file fall closed and setting it back on the table. "What's the plan?"

--

On his initial recon of Pelios' apartment, Lance had noticed two windows that had been left unlocked. Now, at one in the morning on a night with almost no visible moon, he used his knife to slit one of the window screens and then used his blade to wedge it up just enough to slip his fingers underneath. Before continuing, he sprayed a lubricant along the edges of the window to deter any squeaks, and after letting that take a minute to settle in, he lifted the window and climbed through the aperture into what looked to be a home office. He'd planned to head straight for the bedroom but, noticing a laptop on the desk, he decided to take a risk in favor of the opportunity before him, and he plugged in a peripheral device that began to clone the hard drive.

Lance waited for a green light to flick on, signaling that the data transfer had begun, before making his way to the office door, slipping his gun out of its holster and checking to ensure the safety was off and that the silencer had been properly attached. He eased the door open and advanced, sticking close to the wall. After posing as an interested buyer for an identical model in the same complex, he'd gotten the blueprints and memorized the layout. In the hallway, he stuck to the right, distancing himself from the office, bathroom, and supply closet. The kitchen appeared on his right and he paused for a second, his heart hammering as he saw the puddle of red slowly spreading like paint being poured from up high, a hand exactly as old as his own twitching, but he blinked and the scene disappeared, leaving behind only the early signs of a headache.

Not now, he thought to himself. Waking nightmares and migraines he could deal with at any time other than during this op. He needed to push through, get the information he'd come here for, and get out.

He brought his gun back up and passed the kitchen, twisting his upper body as he passed to ensure that the space was clear, and it was. There was no Veronica or Raphael lying in their own blood, just clinically white kitchen tiles, one of which was stained with several light orange spots from splattered pasta sauce or something similar.

Lance paused at the master bedroom door and put his ear to the wood, listening for any sounds, but he heard nothing, which confirmed his suspicions. He'd lain in wait for the previous two hours, watching as the light had gone out and giving himself forty-five minutes before making entry. He tested the knob and found it unlocked, so he turned it until he could turn no more before guiding the door open an inch at a time, positioning his eye close to the frame for visual confirmation of Pelios, asleep in his bed as expected.

Confirmation achieved, Lance crept forward until he stood above the man, and for one moment, he just stared down at him as he ran through the faces of Alpha Platoon, of Griffin murdered in his own apartment, of his own twin sister and nephew slaughtered in their kitchen. Then he moved, sliding one hand over the man's mouth, slotting the barrel of his pistol against his forehead, and setting a knee down on his chest without resting his entire weight on the agent, just enough to ensure that he wouldn't be dislodged.

Pelios' eyes opened wide, flicking left and right before widening in fear, and he started moving before Lance tapped the gun against his forehead and all the resistance went out of him.

"I'm going to take my hand off your mouth now," Lance said, his voice low, quiet, unwavering. "You're not going to scream. You know who I am and what I'm capable of, and I'm quite sure you're more than capable of imaging the sort of threats I'm willing to carry out to make sure this goes exactly how I want it to. Understand?"

There was a single moment where the man seemed more confused than terrified as though trying to sound out whether or not Lance was really willing to murder a federal agent in cold blood, but something in Lance's eyes or voice must have convinced him because the confused fled, leaving behind only horror and a quiet resignation, and the man nodded, holding himself still as Lance retracted his hand and set it on his gun. When the man kept quiet, Lance nodded and removed his knee from the man's chest, and despite the fact that Lance hadn't placed his full weight down, the man sucked in several deep breaths.

"Why- why are you here?" he asked, and Lance's expression made the man go pale.

"Let's not play games," Lance said. "I know Griffin was murdered, and that made me the last surviving member of Alpha Platoon. Someone tried to remedy that by attacking me at the clinic, and then my sister and her seven-year-old son were murdered. I'm a loose end that someone is trying very desperately to tie up."

"I told you, James Griffin wasn't murdered, he committed suicide and–"

"No games," Lance repeated, sliding a knife out of his belt sheath and resting the tip against the man's leg.

"O-Okay, sure, no games," he said after a moment, and Lance waited a beat before removing the knife and replacing his hand on his gun. "What is it that you want from me?" the man asked, swallowing and pushing his feet against the mattress to support himself up against the headboard both to distance himself from Lance and to disillusion himself into having any sort of power in the situation.

"A name," Lance said. "Whoever it is you're working for."

"I'm not–" the man began but his eyes dipped down to the gun and he cut himself off. "Listen, Lance, you're not in your right mind–"

"Who killed Veronica and Raphael?"

"I don't know, Lance, I don't know anything–"

"What about the men in the clinic?"

"What men in the clinic? Lance, I t-told you, there was nobody there. You've got PTSD or something, you're seeing things that aren't there and you're making a big mistake–"

Lance reached forward abruptly and pulled down Pelios' sleeve to see-

No mark. Lance frowned, staring at the unmarked skin.

But I could have sworn...

"See?" Pelios asked, shaking. "I'm not whatever you think I am, okay, Lance, and...look, if you go now, I won't- I won't say anything, all right? I won't report you. I know you're just going through some things right now and–"

Lance ignored Pelios and grabbed at his other sleeve, pushing up the fabric until-

There, an angry red slash.

The mirror. I slashed him from behind while watching the mirror, so it was reversed from how I remembered it.

"L-Lance, please, let's just–"

"Stop fucking whining and tell me who's paying you to cover all this up," Lance snapped, and Pelios grew even paler.

"Please, I- I can't tell you," he whispered. "I'm dead if I do. I can't- please, Lance-"

"You're fooling yourself if you think you don't come out of this dead in any number of ways by any number of people," Lance said coldly, and while he took no pleasure in the tremor that wracked the other man's body, he felt no remorse either. "You were first at both scenes. You're the one leading both investigations. Someone above you is working very hard to cover something up, and I want to know who and why."

"I don't know why," Pelios said, his voice unsteady and close to tears. "He doesn't tell me anything like that. He just gives me my assignment along with my check, and I report back to him when I have updates. That's it, I swear."

"The name."

"Please, I can't – my life is over if I tell you and–"

"You want to talk about lives that have been ended?" Lance asked, his tone pure steel. "Let's talk about my platoon then, being led straight into an ambush and gunned down on enemy soil. Let's talk about my closest friends, heroes to this country, that were sold out and murdered. Let's talk about my family who got dragged into this for absolutely zero fucking reason." Lance's hands clenched around the gun. He wanted to grab this son of a bitch by his collar, hoist him up, feel him tremble in fear. "You had a choice. You got yourself involved in this whole shitstorm. Now give me the name."

Everything holding the other man up seemed to exit him at once as he leaned against the headboard, curling forward, limbs heavy and body spineless. "Emilio Perrello."

"Don't fuck with me," Lance growled, and the man looked up, eyes wide, hands curling open in a defensive posture.

"I'm not! Emilio Perrello, that's the guy who paid me. That's all I know, I swear, please–"

Lance stared at him, trying to put his thoughts together. A name. He had a name. Someone who existed behind the scenes, orchestrating.

Lance wasn't crazy.

--

Outside the apartment, Lance pulled from his pocket the only thing he'd brought with him from Veronica's house. It was a drawing Raphael had done several months ago of the three of them, only he'd drawn Lance so big that Veronica only came up to his torso, and Raphael was balanced miraculously on Lance's head like a flyer from a gymnast troupe. There was also a bunny taking up a third of the picture that had absolutely nothing to do with the family theme, but Raphael had drawn it and so it was precious to Lance. It was the only family he had left, even if it was a paper one.

Lance looked at the image, traced the worn lines from when he'd folded it and unfolded it ad nauseum as though it would bring them back. After a moment, he flipped over the paper and wrote two names.

PELIOS

EMILIO PERRELLO

Then Lance crossed off the first name.

--

published 09/24/22 (mm/dd/yy)

3689 words