CHAPTER FIVE:

"Now look at that. Never a prettier sight, eh Wallcroft?"

Hovering inches in front of her own was the seedy face of Griffen. The Corporal was young, stocky, and had sharp eyes that seemed full of distrust. He was fragrant with cigarette smoke, and the yellowed ends of his fingers suggested he was an habitual offender. Hazel wanted to turn away from him. His breath was stiflingly unpleasant. If it weren't for his grip on her jaw, she might have tried.

As soon as he was finished duct taping her mouth shut, he gave her cheek two, heavy-handed pats.

"What's that?" Wallcroft called back, stood just outside the doorway into the bedroom that looked as if it had been perfectly plucked from an IKEA catalogue.

"The best kind of woman is a woman who can't talk. Seen and not heard."

Hazel glared at him icily. It was probably a good job she had lost her inability to speak because a few, particularly rude choice words sprung to mind.

"Don't be a prick, Griffen."

It was clear by Wallcroft's tone that Griffen's poor attitude was commonplace. Even after the brief amount of time she'd spent in his presence, this didn't exactly surprise Hazel. The words no doubt landed on deaf ears… so why even bother to try and sound convincing about it?

The Corporal scoffed and continued to observe the woman before him. She had thick eyebrows, peridot eyes and high cheekbones. Though she was physically quite appealing, he had a natural affinity for writing off women who possessed more than one brain cell to rub together. Intelligence meant power, and he very much enjoyed elevating himself to that position when it came to relationships. He narrowed his eyes. He didn't like her at all, and he was making a point of letting her know it.

"Bet you never thought you'd be sat here after fucking up selection, eh? Guess it's your lucky day."

It was only a momentary reaction on her part, but she knew the man in front could feel it. He was like a shark sensing blood; circling around his wounded prey until ready to deliver a fatal blow. Upon hearing the words, her gaze faltered, and her once slack body tensed into alertness. How did he know? How had he found out?

"Oops," he said with feigned surprised. "Were we not supposed to figure it out?"

By this time, Gary Sanderson, the second 'hostage' in the room, had turned his attention to the one-sided conversation. His mouth was also duct taped shut—not that he looked as though he was bothered to intervene, anyway. He was, she'd quickly noted upon first meeting him, abnormally tall. In fact, he had to be bordering on six and a half feet. If he didn't have such narrow shoulders and a slim build, she could see the cheap bed collapsing underneath his weight. Still, appearances could be deceiving. She had already heard MacTavish talking about how he was one of the most skilled troopers he'd ever seen.

Continuing on, Griffen smirked coldly. He had the kind of face on which such a look seemed right at home. As if his features were carved with the purpose of wearing it."Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. You're not the only one with access to a little intelligence around here."

The man got to his feet.

"If it's any consolation," he added, turning back as if it were an afterthought, "the other guys won't care too much when hear about it. The losers who aren't good enough to make the cut aren't worth more than a couple of laughs."

The brunette's cheeks flushed crimson against her olive complexion; both embarrassed, and furious in equal measure. For a fleeting moment, she couldn't help but wonder what she had done to provoke a frankly unwarranted reaction from the man. They didn't know one another. Had she unknowingly done something to offend him in such a short period of time? Hazel's skin prickled with rage. It was if she were a pot being heated to boiling point. All she wanted to do was leap out of the chair and strangle him with the plastic cords that bound her fists from making any irrational moves against him. She tugged, shifted about in her chair, desperate to tell him to shove his opinions where the sun didn't shine. How about you talk to me like that when I'm not restrained, she thought. Yet she was held silent and immobile by the idea that had, half an hour earlier, seemed so appealing.

Griffen laughed heartily, shaking his head as he reached the doorway. "We've got a feisty one, lads!" The Corporal looked around the room, content with his work. He bowed dramatically, as if being applauded by a rowdy Broadway audience. "My job here is done. Now, don't you be going anywhere."

With that, he took his leave. The unmistakeable click that followed told the two that they were now locked inside. Hazel had never been so glad to see the back of another human being, but such relief did little to ease her mood. She gritted her teeth and took a long, calming breath. Maybe he was this much of an arsehole to everybody right off the bat.

It would be a lie to say that she wasn't beginning to worry Griffen was going to make her attachment to the regiment as painful as she'd anticipated back in front of Chambers. When she had first been delivered of the news that made her want to light her boss's hair on fire. Demo had eased her concerns, but perhaps his kind nature was merely a taste of the minority. How fast were they all going to turn on her once the Corporal relieved her of her secret? Was she, perhaps, worrying too much? Living under an illusion of elevated relevance, when really, nobody could have given two shits about her bruised ego? The latter seemed the most likely, but her unhealthily dominant streak of paranoia made it hard to rationalise under such circumstances.

Of course she was going to worry what they thought of her. Hazel always did.

The woman lifted her gaze from the tatty door. Gary Sanderson had been flung onto the metal framed, queen sized bed across the room from her. Similarly, his hands were tied behind his back, and the strip of silver tape across his thin lips was clear. Despite the position he was sprawled in looking painfully uncomfortable, his expression was as vacant as the moment she had first laid eyes on him. It appeared the idea of the door exploding open any minute didn't daunt him in the slightest. Almost as if his thoughts hadn't been in the room for some time.

The house was strangely normal. Maybe it was easy to feel at home. It half surprised her that the walls weren't lined with china dolls and the heads of trespassers, but when Wallcroft had walked her inside, he explained that the state of the décor was very much purposeful. It needed to seem real. They needed to feel, prowling through the halls in search of their mock prey, as though it was a genuine situation. These were the exercises that stopped them choking in the field; when they were tested, in every possible way, to their very limits. These exercises were the bread and butter of the best special forces unit in the world. The gravity of being a part of it struck her more than she'd expected.

There was one section of the building, however, quite different from the others. The rubber walls each room possessed (perfect for absorbing the impact of live ammunition) meant that it escaped the carnage the rest of the house saw on the regular basis. The men had set up a tradition—though nobody seemed to know with whom it had originated—that anybody who passed through 'The House' had a duty to add to its interior. It was frowned upon not to, and for that reason, it was filled to the brim with untouched additions of all kinds. Some absurd, some antique, and some astonishing. Wallcroft assured that every past attaché had made their mark. Hazel would be the next to add to the history.

'See that biscuit jar?' Wallcroft had asked, pointing towards the most horrific, ornamental glass pot she had ever seen. Its contents seemed undisturbed. God only knows how old they were. 'Prince Harry's.' With that, Hazel's eyes widened. Even The Prince had contributed? 'It was good to know he had a sense of humour about it,' Wallcroft chuckled nostalgically. By the way the Sergeant talked, Hazel assumed he had been present at the time they had run the young Royal through a similar situation she was about to find herself in. She was well aware they were briefed on how to deal with possible hostage situations. 'He filled the whole thing with Ginger Nuts, then took the rest back to the mess to eat with the boys.'

Well, then. Just who the bloody Hell had sat in this armchair before?

A radio on the bedside table had been nattering away loudly since they had arrived. If she wasn't mistaken, it sounded like an ancient edition of Desert Island Discs. It wouldn't have been her first choice, but it was much easier to concentrate on the interview than the incessant ticking of the clock positioned above her head. Each strike of the second hand was deafening. She didn't know how long they'd been sat there, and she clearly couldn't ask Gary. The overwhelming sense of anticipation made it feel like hours. God, she was so impatient…

The woman briefly found herself wondering whether MacTavish was still annoyed by her earlier persistence. If the roles were reversed, there was no way in Hell she would have caved to some mouthy, try-too-hard nutcase… She hadn't always been that way, though. Being eager to prove oneself was an apparently incurable symptom of prolonged military life. It was the mindset of a woman trying to justify her place in a man's world. If she could shed it-and by God, had she tried-she would have already, because it truly was amazing how quickly such an attitude could fuck her over when she needed it least.

Hazel had nothing but the best intentions when she'd set out to meet the troop. Instead, she'd ended up undermining their Captain's orders right in front of them. Top marks and a gold star, you crazy bitch.

Such thoughts had encouraged an uncomfortable pang of guilt. Hazel hated the way she had no control over the knot in her stomach. Though she would be the first to admit she was unreasonably stubborn, this time, it was blatant who was at fault. Sure enough, it wasn't the walking bloody Mohawk. An apology he deserved, and an apology he would get. She just had to remember how to tack one together, first…

The attempt at easing her conscience was, however, short-lived.

If she hadn't been expecting them, she never would have heard it above the radio. Above her own thoughts, even. Every internal debate she had just been having with herself drained away in to insignificance. With her heart in her throat, and her breathing halted nervously, a pin drop would have sounded clearly.

The sound of suppressed gunfire echoed from beneath. Small, concentrated bursts.

The four man patrol cleared the ground floor with a deadly combination of speed, and a ruthless dexterity that could only be military.

She looked at Gary. He looked right back.

It couldn't have taken more than ten seconds.

It was so fast that even though she had considered herself vigilant and prepared, when the door burst open with a flash of blindingly white light, she realised she was anything but.

What followed was a highly unpleasant blur.

Before her brain could register what was happening, she had been pulled to her feet by unsympathetic hands. She had never felt more disoriented. The blast could have knocked her unconscious and they wouldn't have known the difference. The pressure change caused by the explosion had devastated her ears before the flash bang had even come into effect. It reminded her a lot of an extreme version of her ears popping during an aeroplane's take-off. Whilst everything around her droned on, she was dragged down the stairs. They weren't gentle; they did what they needed to do to get the job done. It sounded like a man behind her was shouting, but there was no way in hell she could make out actual words. She wasn't even sure what part of the building she was in anymore. Everything was moving too fast. She couldn't get her footing.

When they finally reached the threshold of the building, close to ten more seconds after the room had initially been breached, the sunlight almost blinded her bloodshot eyes. It was the most surreal thing she had ever experienced. She finally took a breath. The air was not sobering.

The two men who had grabbed her upper arms let her go, and she hit the grass like a tonne of bricks. It was as though her brain didn't understand which way was up, and which way was down. Even if she did manage to differentiate, her balance had been so thrown by the displacement of fluid in her ears, she would have been hugging the floor anyway. She blinked a few times. The sun's rays were unforgiving.

Hazel hadn't even noted someone had been stood above her before they flipped her over on to her front. In fact, she hadn't manage to absorb anything about her surroundings. The movement had been rapid, yet everything felt contradictorily fuzzy. Adrenaline ensured that she didn't feel her face make rather harsh contact with the ground.

"Hazel?"

She glanced over at Gary. Her vision was slightly blurred, but she could see his distinct face. The young trooper was already sat up, rubbing his head, and looking as calm as he had done before he'd been dragged out of the room. In fact, she was pretty sure he was chuckling.

"Hazel?" The same voice as before repeated.

She felt someone cut the cord that bound her wrists. Her shoulders were suddenly riddled with pain as they found release from the stressful position. Even in her semi-lucid state, she still found satisfaction as she heard someone bark at Griffen for the unnecessary tightness with which he had restrained her.

It took her a few moments, but she rolled back over, glancing up at the small crowd that was now hovering over her.

"You all right, Hazel?"

She tilted her head to the side. The buzzing voice belonged to Demo, and he seemed to be throwing together a makeshift bandage to cover a rather nasty looking cut on her shoulder. Huh, she mused. Hazel didn't remember hurting her arm... Thanks to the dull ache growing inside her head, she sure as Hell couldn't feel it, either. It was a good job she had never been a squeamish person when it came to the sight of blood. Rather amusingly, however, Wallcroft didn't seem as thrilled by what he was witnessing. It was easy to think of the men as nothing more than robotic, calculated killing machines… but at the end of the day, it turned out that even someone who saw death and injury on a regular basis could still have an irrational fear. How in the world did he pass first aid, she wondered.

Looking back up, she spotted MacTavish towering above her. In contrast to the sky behind him, he was almost silhouette like; as if her life had transformed into a badly edited photograph. The Scot was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Perhaps assuming a grudge against her earlier behaviour had been premature, after all? It was impossible not to find encouragement in his impressed expression. Maybe that was why, just like MacMillan's own words had assured her earlier, he made for such a priceless leader. Before Hazel knew it, quite unsure as to why, she began to laugh behind her gag. The sound of her own amusement boomed inside of her skull.

"Looks like you made it out in one piece, after all," he shouted, adjusting for her obviously dulled sense of hearing. Soap crouched down beside her, and carefully peeled the tape off her lips. The taste of the adhesive lingered; pungent and chemical-like. He offered out his arm. Hazel gladly accepted the gesture ad gripped his solid muscles. As she sat up, the world seemed to lurch precariously around her. Knowing she had an audience made the feeling easier to fight. "How're you feeling?"

Hazel paused for a moment. There didn't seem to be a word in her vocabulary to describe it. If there was, she couldn't think of a single reason why she would have used it before today. "Well. It was most certainly intense…"

"It takes some gettin' used to, sweetheart," Wallcroft boomed, grabbing her other (blood free) arm and lifting her to her feet alongside his Captain. No shit, she thought. "Gary over there's all right 'cause he ain't got a brain to disorientate."

Though she had all the grace of Bambi on ice right now, she took comfort in feeling her body begin to right itself. God, the adrenaline that had bled into every inch of her was delicious. Perhaps fear wasn't entirely the right word, but her body had reacted in much the same way. She'd always loved the buzz that came with being frightened. The pure state of alertness, and spine-tingling rush that came with a dangerous experience. Some people froze. Others used it to thrive. Hazel was one of them.

It was impossible to deny she had missed it. Even in the Intelligence Corps, she had had her brushes with danger.

"I haven't had that much fun in years," she chuckled, combing some hair out of her dirty face. A piece of grass stuck just above her eyebrow, and MacTavish peeled it away with a careful hand.

"You should try being on the other side," suggested one of the other members of the four-man squad responsible for her 'rescue'. His grin was broad as he removed his gas mask, perhaps impressed by her enthusiasm. Clearly he didn't realise that being on the other side was the biggest goal she had ever set herself.

"All right," MacTavish piped up, turning away from her, but maintaining his comfortingly close proximity. Wallcroft had mentioned something about the CCTV throughout the house. It was how the Captain managed to observe from a distance. "That's the kind of time we're looking for. Fast and clean. Comms we good. A little heavy on the breaching charge, Pritchard. Trying to blow the bloody door off, not the attaché's head."

Hazel zoned out as the Captain began to lecture his men. She glanced down at her arm. It still seemed to be bleeding, but it certainly wasn't serious enough to warrant a stitch. She suspected a rogue piece of splintered door had nicked her during the breach. Touching the makeshift bandage, she turned her attention to Demo.

"Thanks for the rag, Doc," Hazel said with a chuckle, nodding her head in appreciation.

"Well, couldn't go lettin' you bleed out." Demo rubbed the back of his head, offering up a small smile in response. "Glad to see you made it out okay. Apparently the last Box we had through here threw up when he came out. The guys never let him forget it."

Hazel's thoughts immediately switched to George. The little shit was going to love this. The time he spent with his mouth taped shut would probably be the longest he'd ever been quiet. She could see one of his troop 'accidentally' putting a bullet in him just to stop him from whining on about it when they were done.

Hopefully those CCTV cameras recorded…

"Think I passed their test?"

"With flyin' colours."

Hazel breathed a sigh of relief.

"I should go pack up," he said, gesturing towards one of the vehicles. "I'll see you around, Ma'am."

Before she could insist, once again, that he referred to her as Hazel, he had disappeared to join the rest of his troop. They were flitting around, packing up various pieces of equipment and loading it into the back of the vehicles in which they had arrived. They moved like a well oiled machine; each of them knew their place, and they functioned like clockwork as a team. It surprised her that this carried through to even the most mundane of tasks.

Reaching for the back of her head, she released her hair from the tight ponytail she adopted whenever she went running. It seemed unlikely her actions would have any bearing on the impending headache, but it was worth a shot. She tilted her head back and ran her fingers through the soft curls. They were tangled, frizzy from the humidity, and near the hair band responsible for restraining them, the strands were dampened by sweat. She was unsure whether it was from her jog, or because of her body's reaction to what had just happened, but there was no doubt in her mind that she looked more than a little unsightly.

It was a good job that of all her qualities she feared being judged, her appearance wasn't one of them.

"We're heading back for lunch. You want to grab a lift with us?"

Turning so quickly towards the source of the voice had been a mistake. As her vision shot around to MacTavish, the dizziness that hit her screamed of vertigo.

"Hey. Steady." MacTavish reached out and gripped her shoulder firmly, clearly anticipating the fact she was about to fall on her arse. "You're a bloody safety hazard."

It took a moment for her to register. "Yeah, well, I think you guys broke me," she scoffed in response, her hand shooting up to the man's arm for support once more. His hand was warm. With a seemingly genuine grin, by some miracle, he made her feel like less of an idiot. The lines around his eyes and mouth were deep; well weathered. She hoped that it was because he smiled like this so often, and not because the stress of military life had been unkind. "Thank you."

"For trying to break you, or…?" The Scot's grin bordered on devious, and his lingering hand, now content that she was stable on her feet, returned to its place at his side.

Hazel shot him a knowing look. There was no doubt in her mind that he had perfected said cheeky expression to work in his favour many moons ago. Perhaps, under different circumstances, she could have found herself falling victim to it. Her shoulder felt strangely heavier at the loss of his touch.

"So, Bambi. Yea or nay on the lunch?"

For a moment she did contemplate accepting the offer.

"Option two. I don't think I'm quite ready to see the Officers' Mess, yet," she joked.

Soap simply laughed. "Me either."

Though she couldn't help but wonder what he meant by such a comment, something urged her not to question its meaning. She wasn't about to push his boundaries again for fear he would run out of forgiveness before the day was through. He was still smiling, but it was different than the infectious, cheeky little grin he had offered earlier. It didn't reach his eyes anymore.

"I think I'm just going to walk back," she finally decided, pinging the elastic hair tie against her wrist. Maybe the cool air would wash away the headache before she got back to George, and he provided a whole new level of suffering. "The fresh air will probably do me some good."

"It'll pass," Soap assured, words empathetic. Hazel believed him.

"Oh, Cap!" The men had finished packing up by this time, and Hazel and Soap turned to see Wallcroft and Pritchard grinning in their direction. Wallcroft put his hands around his mouth so as to amplify his voice. "If she's gonna miss lunch, I reckon we should at least invite Lady Thames to games night!"

"Lady Thames?" Hazel swivelled to look back at MacTavish, quirking an eyebrow in amusement.

"I wanted to call you Vauxhall," Griffen interrupted before his Captain could assure nicknames were the norm, stamping out the remainder of yet another cigarette beneath his gigantic feet.

"That doesn't even make sense," said Demo with a frown.

"It's called wishful thinking, lad. Maybe if we will it hard enough, we'll get someone from the SIS instead."

Some of the men laughed at this, MacTavish included; all completely unaware that this was not the Corporal's first dig at Hazel today. It wasn't made in good nature. Though she didn't make a point of bringing it to anyone's attention, she also didn't dignify his remark with a response. For now, at least, she knew his opinion would be unwavering. Offering him more attention because of it was the last thing he deserved.

Wallcroft didn't join the chorus of chuckles. Instead, Hazel saw him subtly shove Griffen in the ribs. It was a struggle not to smile at this. Whether or not his intention was to defend her was irrelevant; she was still glad he wasn't afraid to ask the Corporal to cool his jets when he got a little out of hand. It made it feel like less of a battle knowing that their might be someone overlooking the situation with some sense. The larger man leaned down to his subordinate and muttered, "Why are you being so fucking menstrual today, huh?"

"Well, I could go for a game night." Hazel focused her attention back on the conversation as Griffen slinked away. Spending time with the men under circumstances which didn't involve her on the receiving end of a flash bang had to be an improvement. "What is it, like a pub quiz or something?"

Soap didn't respond. He simply shook his head and laughed. It was the kind of laugh that swiftly informed her she had gotten the wrong end of the stick. Again. Why break the habit?

"There aren't really any games involved, love," Pritchard assured, throwing his arm around Soap's shoulder with a dead-pan look. "It just sounds better than 'getting a curry, and going out on the piss.'"

"You know, you could have just mentioned the alcohol, and I'd have played less of the hard to get," she smirked playfully.

Wallcroft now took to the other side of MacTavish, layering his arm over Pritchard's. He whispered loudly enough for her to hear, but acted as though she wasn't present. "It's official, Cap. I think I like her."