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“He was born to skate,” Porthos murmured, watching d’Artagnan weave in and out of the defensemen with the puck like it was glued to the end of his stick.
“He would have gone first round NHL.” Athos clapped along with the other sparse supporters as the youngest of their group found the back of the net yet again.
Porthos snorted. “So why’s he with us?”
“Gave it up when his father was murdered. Became a cop and worked up through the ranks to catch his killer and Treville saw something in him he liked.”
Liked enough to put him with the Special Investigations and Tactical Response Unit nicknamed the Musketeers. They weren’t average for a regular beat cop and they weren’t RCMP. No, they were somewhere in the middle and Richelieu’s Mounties took every opportunity to remind them. Hence Treville kept his own garrison of sorts in an older, more secluded part of Quebec, and made sure the two rarely crossed.
The best he could, at any rate.
The horn blew, followed shortly by the whistle, signaling the game at an end. The goaltender who hadn’t spend the majority of the game under d’Artagnan’s onslaught straightened from his hunch and pulled up his helmet. Aramis’s hair was plastered to his forehead. He spared a glance toward the stands, then skated forward to shake hands with his opponents.
Athos stood and tucked his fingers in the pocket of his overcoat. “Aramis said DeMoore was probably going to show him the guns today and offer to make a sale.” He watched the players file toward the corridor leading to the locker rooms. “He does and then we can arrest him, and have most of the paperwork to Treville’s desk by tonight.”
Porthos chuckled. If there was anything Athos hated – more than his ex-wife, at any rate – it was after hours paperwork on a Friday when they could be at a bar.
A phone buzzed; Athos pulled his from the depths of his coat to find he had a new text from Aramis.
Meeting tonight. Will tell you where later.
He gave Porthos one of his rare, lopsided smiles. “We’re in.”
“We look at the guns, get him to the make the sale, and then make the arrest,” d’Artagnan said as they exited Aramis’s beat-up little car. “Athos has that drilled into my head.”
“Athos has that drilled into everybody’s head,” Aramis said, making sure the tails of his shirt covered the holster at the small of his back. d’Artagnan’s shoulder rig wasn’t visible under his clothes due to layers he wore.
Aramis found it humorous d’Artagnan dressed like it was the middle of January in upper Alberta rather than mid-March in Quebec where it was, somewhat, more temperate.
“Treville doesn’t like it when charges don’t stick,” he added. He glanced down the street where he knew there was a van parked out of sight around the corner. He and d’Artagnan were both wired, the audio relaying back to Porthos and Athos. It was one-sided converstion; neither he nor d’Artagnan had ear pieces in.
Which, if the pair of them needed back up, they’d have to yell for it. Or the sound of gunfire would be a dead giveaway, too. Local units were also standing by, reading to arrive if necessary.
Aramis wasn’t worried. The K-BAR knife tucked in its sheath strapped to his lower leg helped with that, too. God bless bootcut jeans.
“I’m gonna miss playing hockey on a regular basis,” d’Artagnan said as they headed up the sidewalk to the falling-down porch. “Seriously.”
He smiled and rang the doorbell, refraining from mentioning bar brawls and running from drunk Mounties in an equally inebriated state as replacement exercise.
The door opened and DeMoore ushered them in through a tiny, almost cramped living room housing far too many people all huddled around the TV. d’Artagnan mused quietly to himself he’d seen cleaner crack dens, and followed DeMoore and Aramis into the kitchen. There, on the table, was the merchandise.
He leaned against the wall, arms over his chest. Aramis picked up the pieces of a handgun and assembled it with a speed and precision born only from years of practice.
“You look like you know what you’re doing,” DeMoore said, flipping his dirty blonde hair out of his face.
“Been around one or two of these before.” Aramis rammed home the clip and chambered a round. “How much?”
“How many you need?”
Aramis shared a glance with d’Artagnan and said, “Enough to make a big problem for the RCMP and cause a little chaos.” He could practically hear Porthos’s laugh all the way from the van. Athos was probably smiling.
They haggled for a bit – just enough for it to seem legitimate – and Aramis finally agreed on a price. d’Artagnan pushed away from the wall, arms loose at his sides. This was always the tense part. It could go either way; DeMoore could go quietly, or it could be difficult.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” Aramis said, reaching into his back pocket like he was going for his wallet. He pulled the little booklet with his credentials instead, letting it drop open to reveal his badge and ID card as he leveled the handgun at DeMoore’s nose. “Special Investigative and Tactical Response Unit, you’re under arrest for the illegal selling of guns.”
Everything went still.
d’Artagnan glanced between Aramis’s back and the doorway to the rest of the house.
DeMoore’s eyebrows rose. “You work for the government?”
Which was not the answer he was expecting.
“Step away from the table and put your hands behind your head.” Aramis didn’t look anywhere other than DeMoore, trusting d’Artagnan to cover his back.
“Cops, boys! We got cops!” he bellowed, bolting to his left and out the door into the night.
“Shit!” d’Artagnan vaulted the kitchen chair in his way as he took off after DeMoore.
The immediate silence was broken by the sound of multiple rounds being chambered in the other room, and Aramis ducked low against the wall as gunfire tore through the doorway. He calmed his breathing and took stock of his options. His own weapon was still in its holster, and he had a full clip in the gun in his hand.
A bullet ripped off a piece of the molding too close to his ear for comfort, and he inched a little further away from the doorway.
There had been at least – shit, how many had there been in the living room? It was such a tiny space.
Six. Or five. Somewhere in there. Not as low as four because he couldn’t get that lucky if he tried, so it was five or six with him in the kitchen, d’Artagnan running down DeMoore, and Athos and Porthos coming in from the front.
“More cops out here, too!” someone yelled.
“You’ve been spotted,” Aramis said, though the likelihood of either Athos or Porthos hearing him was small if they were out of the van. What he wouldn’t give for his ear piece and radio right then.
The house was eerily silent.
He shifted onto his knees and hedged toward the corner of the wall. Carefully, in case there was someone doing much the same as he was, he put himself in a position to see toward the living room. Flashing lights were visible through the curtains, reflecting off the walls along with the glow from the TV.
“You are surrounded! Lay down your weapons and exit peacefully with your hands behind your head!” Athos’s voice was magnified with the megaphone loud enough for Aramis to hear him on the backside of the house with little difficulty.
“Fuckin’ pig!” Someone in the front room shouted, tossing a bottle through the shattered window above the tattered curtain.
The hair on the back of his neck prickled, and Aramis looked at the wide open kitchen door. A shadow moved into the pool of light, and he swung the gun around, gripping the butt of the weapon hard. He relaxed minutely as he recognized the bulk and set of Porthos’s shoulders.
Porthos tossed a plain, dark blue backpack in Aramis’s direction. He ducked back beyond the edge of light from the kitchen as movement through the short hallway drew his attention. Aramis dug his radio and headset out of the backpack, shoving the former into the back pocket of his jeans and hooking the wireless earpiece over his ear.
“Gentlemen?” he said quietly.
“About time, Aramis,” Athos responded. “Is Porthos still on the porch?”
“I think so.” He risked a glance around the wall again; Porthos sounded off with, “Incoming with Betsy.”
He set the gun on the floor by the backpack in order to grab at the heavy, oblong case Porthos slid along the grimy floor to him. That was hard to keep quiet, and Porthos backed hastily away from the doorway as more gunfire tore in from the living room.
“Get away from the door unless you wanna lose your head, pig!”
“M’good,” Porthos said. “No harm.”
Aramis breathed a sigh of relief and unlatched the case. There, nestled against foam, was Betsy. He spared a thought for the condition of his trunk, and kept one ear on the commotion – discussion, from the muffled voices – in the living room while he assembled his rifle.
“DeMoore is in custody, and we are en route back to your location,” d’Artagnan said smoothly, sounding a little out of breath in Aramis’s ear.
At least that had worked out.
“Lay down your weapons and come out with your hands behind your head!” Athos was once again speaking into the megaphone; it sounded oddly in stereo as it carried through Aramis’s earpiece.
Aramis rested the rifle on the floor and picked up the handgun again. Edging forward, he peered around the wall. There was just enough of one of the occupants visible for him to get a shot in – a solid hit to the shoulder.
“I have a non-lethal shot,” he said quietly, breathing deep and even as though he were sleeping. “Shoulder.”
There was silence over the line.
“Might help them along in surrendering,” Porthos suggested.
“Come out with your hands behind your heads!”
Third time wasn’t the charm.
Athos’s voice came through as calm and collected as ever with two words: “Take it.”
He squeezed the trigger; the man in the living room grunted and dropped like a stone. Aramis ducked back and looked for a way to get a better vantage point. Considering there was only the one way in and out of the kitchen and the living room had the better angle, he was more or less stuck where he was.
The yelling and shouting in the front of the house stopped abruptly.
“Aramis?”
“What?”
“Is there a door somewhere to your right? There’s a window leading to the outside – might be a bathroom.”
It would take him outside the house and, if they weren’t concerned with him in the line of fire, would give Athos a few more options to consider in how to deal with the bunch still in the living room. Still firing potshots at the authorities through the broken windows, if he wasn’t mistaken.
Aramis slipped his backpack on and slung his rifle over his shoulder. He left the handgun on the floor, crouched low, and crept across the room to the far wall. There was, in fact, a door there.
Calling it a bathroom would be generous.
“You think my ass can fit through this window?” He wrenched it open and dumped the screen onto the yard below. The rifle and backpack followed – albeit more gently – and he shimmied through feet-first. Porthos was there to steady him when he hit the ground, knees bent to absorb the impact.
“He’s out,” Porthos said, picking up the backpack and leaving Aramis to collect his rifle.
They crept through the darkness, staying out of the sightlines of the front windows until they made it back around to the collection of squad cars. Athos stood between d’Artagnan and a police sergeant, arms crossed over his chest.
“We take any longer with this and Treville’s going to show up and he’s going to be pissed,” Porthos muttered to Aramis, either well aware or totally forgetting Athos could hear him regardless.
“We have our objective, this is just extra mess to deal with.” Aramis rested Betsy against his shoulder, automatically looking for sightlines and vantage points. He pointed to a police cruiser on the edge of the line of them, half-shrouded by darkness. “Cut the lights on that car.” He jogged over to it, put a foot on the bumper, and crawled his way from the trunk to the roof. The swirling lights stopped, Betsy came off his shoulder and he stretched out, the butt of the rifle against his shoulder. He breathes in and out slowly, thumbs off the safety, and looks through the scope, the contents of the living he can see brought into stunning HD.
“What’s he saying?” d’Artagnan whispered to Porthos as Athos picked up the megaphone yet again.
“The Lord’s Prayer,” he answered lowly, the soft rise and fall of Aramis’s voice in Spanish in his left ear.
“We have you surrounded! Come out with your hands behind your head! We have medical attention ready for you out here!” Athos released the button on the megaphone. “Head height into the wall.”
The rifle barked; several inaudible shouts went up from inside the house as a chunk of plaster from the wall above the beaten couch rained down on those seeking refuge behind it.
Athos waited a beat or three, before murmuring, “Again.”
Another chunk of plaster disappeared.
d’Artagnan raised a set of binoculars to his eyes. A few in the living room stood, one waving his arms and yelling about a surrender. The one behind him didn’t match the sentiment, raising his own weapon. A gun went off; the man with the gun in the living room dropped and the only indication how was the burst of red on the wall behind him.
He looked at the squad car; Aramis rested his forehead briefly against the roof before he sat up, rifle across his knees as he stared at the house.
The rest of the wannabe gun running anarchists streamed from the front door into the waiting arms of the police. The EMT’s – and the coroner – went in, and Athos sighed. His hope for an easy round of paperwork and a much needed drink just got postponed indefinitely.
Constance Bonacieux was a saint among landladies.
She was used to d’Artagnan coming and going at odd hours, and she never complained when there were three or four men in the kitchen in the morning for breakfast instead of the one who paid rent for living upstairs. She’d met the other three before d’Artagnan had been accepted into the SITRU on a trial basis, and had come to adore them all.
As a result she didn’t give a damn what the neighbors thought, especially with her husband away so frequently on business.
So she wasn’t surprised when all of them – d’Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis – came tramping through the kitchen door long after the nightly news had aired on TV. They’d brought their own dinner, too – takeout, from the smell.
Porthos dropped a hockey bag on d’Artagnan’s in an out of the way corner, and leaned two goaltender sticks against the wall.
“I didn’t know you played, Porthos.” She wrapped her sweater more securely around her and crossed toward the cupboards by the sink.
“They’re mine,” Aramis said, propping a nondescript black case by the fridge. “Just four tonight, Constance. None for me, thanks.”
She paused but didn’t comment, and put one wine glass back with the others.
“Hope you don’t mind,” d’Artagnan asked quietly as the other three settled at the table.
“Of course not,” she said. “They’re always welcome here. They’re family.” She sat between Athos and Porthos, accepting the glass of wine Athos handed her. “Decent night, boys?”
“One less gun runner on the street,” Porthos said, well aware Aramis was side-eyeing the packet of duck sauce by his elbow while he delved into the contents of a carton of lo mein.
“Another job well done,” Athos said. He looked meaningfully across the table at Aramis, who, after a moment, inclined his head in acceptance.
“No, thank you,” Constance said as d’Artagnan, followed by Athos, offered her a container of something. “I ate earlier.” She glanced around the table, her eyes lingering on Aramis long enough for him to notice.
“It’s hell under the helmet,” he said, rubbing at his scratchy jaw. “I think Porthos was unhappier than I was when I shaved it after d’Artagnan and I first got onto the hockey team.”
Porthos didn’t dignify that with an answer as everyone turned to look at him.
Constance chuckled softly. The grandfather clock in the front hall dinged with the time, and she looked at the microwave.
“I’d best be getting to bed then,” she said, standing. “You’ll all be here in the morning, I assume?”
“Probably,” Athos said, topping up his wine glass. “If that’s alright?”
“Of course.” She did a circuit of the table, making sure to touch each of them in some way – fingertips on Athos’s shoulder, a hand on the side of Porthos’s neck, ruffling Aramis’s unruly hair, and a sisterly kiss to the top of d’Artagnan’s head – on her way out of the kitchen.
Aramis pushed his half-eaten dinner away from him with a sigh.
“What?” Porthos asked.
He shrugged, and said wistfully, “What a woman.”
The corner of Athos’s mouth curled and d’Artagnan snorted his way into full-blown laughter. Porthos chucked a packet of duck sauce across the table that Aramis dodged easily, tension he hadn’t realized he was still carrying bleeding out of his shoulders at the easy smile in front of him, still odd without the matching beard and moustache.
The house was quiet in the early hours of the morning. She stepped lightly into the hallway, intent on going downstairs to start the coffee pot. It was significantly larger than the one she’d originally owned for just herself and her husband. Taking d’Artagnan on as a boarder – and friend – had brought more than one change to her life, and while there were nights she laid awake in bed at the thought of him and the rest of his friends in danger, she trusted them to keep an eye on each other.
She had to pass his room to get to the stairs, and with the door only partway closed – there was a reason for it, she knew, though she couldn’t bring herself to ask which of them it was for – she paused.
d’Artagnan was a blanket-covered lump on the bed, one arm hanging outside the covers and off the edge toward the three on the floor in a nest of what looked like all of her spare blankets from the hall closet. She inched closer, edging around the door; the sight made her smile.
Athos was sprawled on his back, right arm extended clear over Aramis’s head, fingers closed around a fistful of Porthos’s t-shirt. Aramis, in the middle, was curled up alongside Athos, half on his belly and half on his side, with Porthos plastered to his back. One of Porthos’s arms stretched across Aramis and his hand rested on the strip of bare skin near Athos’s navel.
She shuffled backward, intent on leaving them until the scent of fresh coffee permeated the house and most likely roused one of them, when she caught movement.
Athos, head lifted away from the pillow he’d no doubt stolen from d’Artagnan, blinked slowly at her.
Constance put her finger to her mouth and waved him back down. He seemed satisfied there was no imminent threat, and returned to his previous position with a sleepy sigh. She retreated from the room, leaving the door as open as it had been when she’d stuck her head in originally.
Athos wiggled the fingers of his right hand, the rest of the limb quite numb from where it had been stretched out all night. Aramis burrowed further into his ribcage at the movement, and Porthos shifted with him with a low grunt, fingers sliding up to tangle in the hem of Athos’s t-shirt where it had ridden up in the night.
He rolled his eyes, and looked down at what he could see of Aramis’s face where it was pressed against his chest. After a few moments of consideration, he had to agree with Porthos and Constance – Aramis didn’t quite look right without his facial hair.
The body to the far right stretched, curling away from him. Athos let Porthos go and wrapped his numb arm loosely around Aramis’s head.
Porthos sat up, rubbing his eyes. He looked to his right and prodded d’Artagnan’s dangling hand. d’Artagnan pulled it back with a murmur that may or may not have been highly unflattering towards someone’s parentage.
Athos snorted; a ringtone blared uncomfortably loud in the silence.
d’Artagnan shoved his head further under the blankets and pillows with some more choice words and Porthos heaved himself upright to find the offending cellphone. He reached it on the third ring, pawing at Athos’s pants pockets until he found it and answered it with, “Yeah?”
Porthos was always so elegant first thing in the morning without his first cup of coffee.
“Yeah, we’ll be there. See you then.” He ended the call and dropped it on the blanket by Athos’s head. “Treville. Wants to see us at two this afternoon.”
He fumbled for the phone to see the time. “Five hours.” He rubbed his free hand over his face. “What about?”
“Debriefing.” Porthos sat on the edge of the bed and poked d’Artagnan in the back repeatedly until he moved, glaring up at the other man from his cocoon. “Get up. Smells like Constance made coffee.”
“You make waffles?” d’Artagnan’s eyes were huge and hopeful.
“Yes, you puppy. I’ll make waffles.” He moved out of the way; d’Artagnan didn’t care who he had to mow over to get waffles. There had been one memorable occasion when he tackled Athos into the wall in order to get to the kitchen. Aramis had nearly tore his stitches he’d been laughing so hard.
“Clothes, idiot!” Porthos reminded him. “Nobody needs to see that.”
Athos smiled.
Rolling his eyes, Porthos tugged on a pair of sweatpants. “You got him?” He motioned toward Aramis, who had slept through the entire fiasco.
“I got him.” Athos knew Aramis could only sleep so deeply in the right circumstances. Post-mission between Athos and Porthos on the floor of d’Artagnan’s room at Constance’s was one such circumstance. He didn’t need to be awake at the drop of a pin, and it was a place his mind had classified as a safe environment.
“Aramis. Aramis, open your eyes.”
His forehead wrinkled. Athos reached down and tugged lightly on the gold chain around his neck. Aramis batted at the hand.
“Up, sleeping beauty. Porthos is making waffles.”
It was evidently the promise of food that did it. With half his hair sticking up madly, Aramis heaved himself upright and blinked stupidly. He looked around for the others and found only Athos.
“Food?”
“Downstairs.” Athos got to his feet and hunted for some pants. “We have a meeting with Treville at two.”
“What time is it now?” Aramis stumbled into some sweatpants – stolen from Porthos’s side of the closet from the look of it, as Aramis hadn’t gone to community college – and ran his fingers through his hair.
“Little after nine,” Athos said as he shrugged into his button down, though he left it open. “Nightmares?”
“Nope.” He didn’t bother to turn the question back to Athos. They all knew he didn’t sleep well most nights. Instead, Aramis found himself asking, “Anybody die?”
“Not that I witnessed.”
Which only meant Athos hadn’t seen anyone’s death – imagined or otherwise – in his mind’s eye during the night. It was the best they could hope for some days.
“Well done as usual, gentlemen,” Treville said, looking at each of them in turn. “Your report should be in no later than Friday, and don’t forget to get in your required hours of skills work.”
Porthos looked at d’Artagnan and grinned, already imaging flinging the younger man across a practice mat.
Skills work meant target practice, tactical maneuvers as a team on the training course, and hand-to-hand combat. There was also gym time, and runs. Those damn runs. The only one who could vaguely keep up with d’Artagnan and Aramis during a long-distance run was Athos. They’d learned the hard way going on a five mile team jaunt was a bad idea and that was before Porthos threw up his breakfast.
He was a sprinter, anyway. Even Aramis couldn’t outrun him over the first 150 to 200 yards. Without getting caught.
The outcome of that particular chase had been more than memorable.
“Not get out of my office and do something productive.” Treville dismissed them with a wave.
They didn’t need to be told twice.
There wasn’t an office for themselves, but they commandeered an empty conference room. Athos picked up the paper copy of their transcripted audio from the night before and a pen from Treville’s secretary. d’Artagnan grabbed the laptop assigned to their team.
Treville, in an effort to cut down on paperwork he didn’t want to do, made them submit one massive official report together.
All for one and one for all indeed.
“Right.” Athos flipped ahead several pages in the audio transcript, swearing mentally it didn’t auto-translate Spanish to English. “Aramis?”
“Line by line or will His Majesty not be satisfied with just telling him it’s the Lord’s Prayer as a whole?” Aramis said tartly, speaking of the Public Safety Commissioner, Louis. They referred to him, somewhat jokingly, as His Majesty, a byproduct of the politicking that put the man – who was no that much older than d’Artagnan – in such a position of power. Louis made most, if not all, the important decisions regarding Treville’s Musketeers, and held influence with Richelieu’s “Red Guard.”
Athos had come up with the name one night at The Wren, three sheets to the wind and next to a table full of Richelieu’s men who had thought it a good idea to besmirch Treville’s name for all to hear.
Treville had not been impressed when he’d bailed the three of them out of city jail the next morning, and had them doing timed miles that afternoon as punishment. It was one of the reasons Aramis never drank rum when they went out anymore.
“Line by line,” Athos said. “Best to be thorough.”
They’d heard Aramis recite it so many times they could practically do it themselves in both languages. Still, Athos would rather be sure.
There were a few more moments of silence until Athos realized he’d forgotten to label Betsy. “And Betsy is - ?”
“A Canadian C3A1,” Aramis said fondly. “You should know this.” He ignored the glare Athos threw him and slunk further down in his chair, wishing he’d worn a hoodie if only for the sake of sleeping within the confines of the hood.
Porthos kicked him under the table, as though reading his mind.
“Gentlemen, and I use the term loosely,” Athos said. “Anyone else have anything to add to the conversation?”
He was met with silence.
“Print the damn thing so we can sign it.” Standing, he rested his palms on the table and leaned his weight on them. “All in favor of taking the rest of the afternoon at The Wren?”
“Yes,” Aramis and Porthos said together, both in a hurry to get to the door. Well, Aramis would have, if Porthos hadn’t kicked the chair – with wheels, of course – toward the windows.
Athos rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and wondered what on Earth he’d done in that life or the previous one to deserve them.