Paris, France – November 13, 2015
It was a relief to hear laughter and chatter, even if he couldn’t figure out what most of it meant. The last place he’d expected to be was in Paris on a Friday evening. Exhausted from the last mission, he was glad for the respite of the eight-hour layover on his way back to the states.
The growling of his stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since they’d finished the mission twelve hours ago. The flight attendant said he’d love the food at La Belle Équipe. Just the thought of sitting down at a table for food instead of the MREs of the last four weeks was heaven. Now, if he could just find the damn restaurant he’d be set.
Rat a tat tat rat at tat tat.
Machine gun fire?
Instantly on alert, Jasper “Raptor” Ramsey checked his six. The blast of rapid fire echoed in his ear. At first, he thought it was a flashback, but the laughter of moments ago turned to screams as they ran. Chaos.
What the hell was going on?
Without thinking, Raptor ran toward the gunfire. It was what he did. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t on a mission, just that someone might need his help.
As he rounded the corner onto the rue de Chaconne, he found the source of the shooting. Bodies were strewn across the terrace of the restaurant. Moans and screams echoed in his ears as he made his way through the hysterical crowds trying to get away.
The police arrived as he did, and as they exchanged fire with the gunmen, Raptor maneuvered onto the terrace to check for survivors. It was as bad as any mission he and his team had been on. What he’d give to have them there now. But the Deltas rarely traveled together, to say they were secretive would be an understatement. Even most their families didn’t realize they served on the elite team. And for now, he was on his own.
Moving from body to body, he checked for a pulse, after checking three people to find them already gone, he heard a faint sound to his left.
“Aidez-moi, s'il vous plaît.”
Turning toward the sound, he stepped over the debris remaining from the diners enjoying their evening. The plea was from a woman, half-pinned beneath a table in the corner of the terrace and covered in blood, but he wasn’t sure if it was hers or those she was trying to help. Lifting the table from her lower body, he made a quick determination of her condition. Broken ankle and two bullet wounds in her leg.
Not sure if she was French or not, he struggled to recall his high school lessons. A bad joke for sure. It wasn’t his strength, and he left that up to Wolfman.
“Madame, vows okay?”
“I can’t feel my leg,” she answered in English. Thank God.
“Your ankle is broken, and you’ve taken two bullets in your leg.” Taking off his belt as he spoke, he applied it as a tourniquet to slow the bleeding. The wounds themselves weren’t kill shots, but he didn’t want her to bleed out while waiting for help.
“I’m fine, it’s my parents who need help. Please, can you help them? I don’t think my mom is breathing. My dad’s over there, I think? He’s not moving either. And I can’t find Jim.”
Two fingers to the woman’s neck told him she was already gone. There would be no bringing her back after seeing the bloom of blood in the center of her chest. The older male on her other side had taken a bullet to the head. There was nothing Raptor could do for her parents, but he was determined to make sure she survived.
Her blue eyes were filled with desperation, and he eased the older woman out of her arms. The pain in her eyes forced him to look away. He couldn’t imagine what she and all the other injured were feeling at that moment. They weren’t used to this, shouldn’t have to be, it’s why the teams put themselves in harm’s way—to keep attacks like this from happening.
“No…please, help them. They can’t be dead.” Her heart wrenching plea was like a stab in Raptor’s chest. But there was nothing he could do.
“I’m so sorry.” He was, he didn’t know her or any of the dead or injured lying on that terrace, but it didn’t stop him from caring. He kept his feelings hidden, even his team didn’t know that his hard shell protected a marshmallow center.
With the gunmen dead, the police were trying to clear the area of civilians who weren’t injured. The bleating sirens of the ambulances were getting closer.
“Sir, please. Jim? He was… OMG.” Her face crumpled in horror as she caught sight of the other person she’d been trying to find as the police moved the adjacent table. Half of the man’s head was missing, one eye open and staring, but it would never see anything again.
Raptor moved to block the sight. She didn’t need that to be her final memory of him, whoever he was. Boyfriend, brother, it didn’t matter. “They’re going to take you to the hospital.”
A small blood-covered hand reached out, and he took it in his. It was so tiny. “Thank you for helping me,” her voice breaking as she tried to hold back her tears. Even as the ambulance crew lifted her onto the gurney, he didn’t want to let go. There was something that drew him to her. It made no sense. There were others who needed his help. But as she was wheeled away, a sense of loss almost took his breath away, and he wanted to kick himself for not getting her name. To check on her was his excuse, but deep inside it felt like something more.
“Es-tu blessé?” one of the officers asked as he grabbed his arm.
The question took him by surprise until he looked down at his bloodied shirt. “No, it’s not my blood,” he answered in English. No sense in trying to use his piss-poor French.
“Bien, good.
As he continued to check for survivors and helped to triage the wounded, his phone buzzed in his pocket indicating a text message.
Report in asap. We’ve got new orders.
It didn’t surprise him, especially when he’d heard from the locals that the restaurant wasn’t the only attack in Paris that evening.