Author's Note: I had this idea brewing and realised it would fit this month's theme, so decided to be brave and write it for the competition. I'm taking full advantage of the 10% rule - one day I will write a short short story! Hope you enjoy it.

Moderate bad language/blasphemy throughout. Sometimes "bother!" just isn't enough.

Twenty Four Hours

Kazakhstan, Tuesday, midnight.

"This really doesn' seem fair."

"What's not fair? We have the rest of the week off, no missions, no contact with Tréville, no responsibilities... just snow, hot tub, time to sample the local... umm... delicacies..." Aramis' voice took on a distinctly lascivious tone as he swivelled to follow the progress of a gorgeous, willowy blonde as she sashayed across the hotel foyer. Holding her head high, she did a good job of ignoring his attention, but failed to notice the change from deep-pile carpet to glossy marble as she entered the bar area, resulting in an unlady-like arm whirling manoeuvre as her feet threatened to slide from under her. Aramis was there in a millisecond, for all the world like a cartoon character as he seemed to simply disappear from the reception desk and materialise at her side, catching her courteously under the elbow and saving her from an embarrassing fall.

"How does 'e do that?" grumbled Porthos, adding 'Aramis gets all the best girls' to his mental list of gripes, just after the 'it's not fair' one based on the prospect of having to spend a week in a ski resort with a twisted knee watching the others have fun. Although to be honest, 'Aramis gets the girls' was probably on the list at least ten times already.

Athos carried on ignoring them both, something he was very good at after so much practice, and filling out registration forms for all three of them, sighing to himself. It wouldn't have been his first choice for R&R, this ski resort in Kazakhstan, sharing with his two colleagues. Admittedly they were his best friends – in fact pretty much his only male friends, apart from Tréville who was as much friend as boss. But he'd far rather be at home in his quiet, unassuming mews house in London's elegant Mayfair district, browsing Time Out to find a recital, French language film or play he hadn't seen. Or visiting his French town-house and catching up with some hill-walking. Or anything, pretty much, that didn't involve keeping Aramis and Porthos out of the trouble they would surely find as soon as they got bored. Holidays rarely went well when that pair were involved.

Registrations complete, he handed over their passports to the night porter and turned to help Porthos to his feet. The burly man looked half asleep in the comfortable leather armchair he'd flopped into with a sigh of relief as soon as they'd made it to the hotel.

Their flight from their meeting in Tashkent, capital of Uzbekistan, had been uneventful. However their plan to catch an onward flight to Dubai for a security conference had been blown out of the water when Porthos had taken exception to finding his favourite leather carry-all slashed open near the handle and half his stuff missing. He'd spotted a furtive luggage-handler behind the screens, vaulted the conveyor belt and hurled himself headfirst through the flap, batting aside oncoming suitcases, before Athos could stop him. Airport security had arrived in seconds and it had taken three hours to liberate a seething Porthos from the security offices, by which time they'd missed their onward connection. Even worse, Porthos had then found that his travel wallet – containing his money, tickets and passport – had mysteriously vanished during the fracas.

Another two hours passed merrily with police interviews, form filling, calls to insurers and of course Tréville, and a lot of financial negotiation before they were allowed to leave the transit area and take a taxi to the nearest hotel, which turned out to be in the ski resort just outside Almaty, Kazakhstan's biggest city. Porthos, injured during his tussle with the luggage handler, was clearly not going to be much use in Dubai, even if they could get him a replacement passport in time, and Tréville had correctly interpreted the weariness in Athos' voice. Mentally working out who he could send in their place, he had told Athos to take a week off to sort themselves out.

Aramis' conquest was virtually sitting on his lap by the time they retrieved him from the bar, but he seemed happy to be dragged away and up to their suite. "Not really my type," he said cheerfully as he bowed low to kiss the lucky lady's hand and promised to call her in the morning.

"What?" he asked as they waited for the lift, catching twin looks of disapproval from both his colleagues.

"We're supposed to be relaxing together," Porthos muttered.

"And what about Anne?" asked Athos, referring to Aramis' fiancé.

"Hey, you know me. I'm happy to admire the goods. Doesn't mean I'm going to buy them," he grinned, waving them both into the lift. "I'll ring her in the morning and tell her we've been called back to the office." Athos sighed. He would never understand Aramis, or how women seemed happy to forgive him no matter how fickle he seemed. He really did only have eyes for one woman but that didn't seem to stop him having fun, and Anne knew him well enough to know he would never carry it too far.

Wednesday 9am

They breakfasted late, delayed by having to help Porthos out of the Jacuzzi bath in his ensuite. It really wasn't designed for men of his stature, and his knee was so swollen that he couldn't bend it enough to climb out on his own. They'd ended up virtually dragging him out head first, involving a fair amount of swearing from Porthos, unhelpful sniggering from Aramis and a change of clothes for Athos before they finally made it down to breakfast. This is going to be a long week, thought Athos darkly.

After breakfast they arranged a taxi to the British consulate in Almaty. While they waited, Porthos lost a small fortune on the slot machine in the hotel casino, which bothered him a lot less than Athos who had lent him the money. Aramis made a short call to his blonde companion and a much longer one to Anne, and Athos did the crossword in a three-day old copy of the Times, the only English newspaper available.

Eventually a taxi arrived and they piled in, shivering in the cold, damp air outside. The streets were mostly clear but the mountains all around were deep in snow, their peaks shrouded in clouds, and the temperature was close to freezing. Their light-weight business suits really weren't ideal so Aramis persuaded their driver to wait outside a luxury shopping centre he spotted en route while he dragged the others into a ski outlet and bought them all some lined cargo-trousers and smart black ski-jackets – nothing tacky, of course. Beanies, gloves and walking boots for all of them, and a few essentials for Porthos – underwear, razor etc – and they were on their way again, feeling substantially warmer.

En route again, Aramis suddenly asked "Is it Sunday? Or is there a holiday or something?" It was true: the streets seemed unnaturally quiet for a city of one and a half million people. Their taxi driver's English was limited to "yes" and "no" so they couldn't get much sense from him. Athos could see from all their expressions that they felt a growing unease as they picked up on the atmosphere of tension in the town centre.

Wednesday 11am

The taxi pulled up outside a substantial old town house with a courtyard garden in front. Athos paid the driver who shot off the second the money was in his hand, not even stopping to check it was the correct amount, leaving Athos staring after him, scanning the street. There was a black van parked on a side-street, and a couple of cars hummed along the main thoroughfare at the bottom of the road, but apart from that the area seemed deserted.

"Let's get off the street and find out what's going on," said Aramis quietly into his ear. Athos nodded and they moved quickly through the gateway and to the front door, which stood slightly open. Expecting to find security inside, Athos pushed on the door and stepped in, blinking in the sudden gloom. Behind him the others were silent as they all scanned the entrance hall – a massive space with black and white tiles, a polished wooden desk to one side, multiple doors leading off, and an impressive staircase on the far side leading to the first floor.

For a moment none of them moved or spoke. The place was spookily deserted – no hum of machinery, no sound of voices or footsteps. And then, in the hush, a floorboard creaked.

All instincts screaming at them that something was seriously wrong, the three moved out of the doorway and fanned out silently to investigate. Porthos, barely limping as adrenaline flooded his body, checked the small room behind the reception desk, reappearing after a minute looking shaken, holding an automatic pistol and indicating with hand signals that there was one man in the room, already dead. The others checked most of the doors leading off the entrance hall, leaving only a set of double doors on the right, what looked like a service door behind the staircase, and the upper floor to investigate.

As they moved together to the double doors, Porthos mouthed his findings to Athos. Security guard: multiple gunshot wounds, very recent. Automatic? Yes.

Aramis placed an eye to the hinge of the doors, which were slightly open, then signalled to the others to advance. Porthos stepped quietly through the doorway, sweeping the pistol from side to side as he moved immediately to the side to allow the others a clear view.

The first thing they saw was a clearly dead body lying opposite the doors, then there was a flurry of movement to their right, a woman's stifled sob, and a soft "Jesus" from a young man in a once-white shirt, who was rising to his feet, bloodstained hands in the air. He'd been crouching next to another body – no, a victim, amended Aramis immediately, seeing her move. Next to her what looked like a doorman was propped up against the wall, eyes closed, and beyond them lay another casualty.

What the heck had they walked into? Athos moved towards the man who had risen. "Are you British?" he asked quietly, studying him carefully, knowing that Porthos was covering him but acutely aware he himself wasn't armed.

The young man let out a breath that sounded like a sob of relief. "Yes! Thank God! How did you get here so fast?" He paused then, as realisation dawned. "Wait – the phones are all down. Oh..." Then another soft "Jesus" as he realised these three imposing men might not be the salvation he was clearly hoping for.

Athos took pity on him as he closed the distance and quickly patted the young man down for weapons, finding none and telling him to lower his hands. "We're military, of sorts, but it's just chance that we're here. Tell me quickly what you know." He had little hope of it being quick – civilians generally wasted far too many words repeating themselves, emphasising their own role in events or gushing about how awful it was, and rarely noticed anything useful – but he needed all the information he could get, and meanwhile at least Aramis could get to work. He nodded to their medic who immediately moved to the first victim's side to examine her.

"Christ... Okay." The man, who looked to be in his early twenties at most, with longish dark hair and tanned skin, swallowed, took a breath, then looked Athos in the eye. "I didn't see it – I was upstairs with the press secretary when we heard shots and screams. He told me to hide with him but I ..." He stopped, eyes distant as he struggled with something. "I decided to come down." Athos looked sharply at him, understanding the hesitation. It would have taken guts to move towards, rather than away from, the commotion. "I heard men in this room shouting, and then there were more shots. I..." Another hesitation. "I was at the bottom of the stairs by then, so I ... hid..." (spoken softly, as if ashamed) "...in the cloakroom. I heard screams and ..." (Another deep breath) "... and looked out. There were two men in black, dragging the ambassador's daughter upstairs. They both had weapons – automatic rifles, I think. As far as I know they're still up there, with her."

Athos' eyes flickered. He could see in the youngster's face that he knew exactly what might be happening to the ambassador's daughter right now. The lad's summary had been surprisingly calm and succinct but he was a civilian, and the tremor in his voice betrayed how close to the edge he was as he added: "Can you help her?"

Athos hesitated, looking at Aramis who had now checked all three victims. "Chest, abdomen, leg: all three need to be in hospital, pronto."

"Where's the nearest hospital?"

"I don't know! Hang on..."

The youngster crouched by the woman he'd been helping, speaking to her rapidly in Russian, then asked a question of the man propped up against the wall, whose wound Aramis was currently packing with bandages from the first aid kit the young Brit had been using when they arrived.

"Okay, there's a hospital about a mile from here, across the city centre. Serik – the doorman – says there should be several cars in the garage in the basement which we could use."

Athos noticed the "we" without comment, holding out a hand to pull the lad back to his feet. "Who else is in the building – how many other staff?"

Before the lad could answer there came the sound of a man's shout from upstairs, then a burst of gunfire, then silence. Porthos moved immediately back to the doorway to look, pointing up to the ceiling.

Athos nodded and turned back to the youngster who had gone pale. "Quickly."

"I ... shit ... I think the only person upstairs is Brian, the press secretary. And Ginette, the ambassador's daughter. She's only 16. Shit. Sorry." Athos ignored the bad language – understandable in the circumstances, he thought. "There are half a dozen people downstairs in the kitchens. I sent down everyone who could walk, and there would have been two or three kitchen staff already there." Athos turned but the youngster stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Wait. I think there are more than two of them. When I first came downstairs the two who took Ginette were still in this room, but I could hear talking in the back offices on the other side of the hall. It could have been one of the staff but..." He trailed off, looking unsure, but Athos was beginning to trust this kid who seemed to be keeping his head.

"So there could be four gunmen?" A nod. And a dozen civilians or more, in a strange building with multiple floors and exits. Shit, indeed.

"Aramis, take the wounded down to the basement with –" He looked enquiringly at the youngster, who gave his name as d'Artagnan. Athos paused, full of questions. The name didn't sound English, the lad didn't know where the hospital was yet he seemed to know the consulate and its staff. "Do you work here?"

"Yes. But I only started on Friday."

Oh, great. Still, he'd kept calm so far and there wasn't a queue of volunteers. "Help Aramis get the wounded down with the others. Porthos & I will check upstairs. Aramis, if you can get access to the garage, get a vehicle lined up. Hopefully the trouble is limited to this building, but we can't be sure so keep your wits about you."

Aramis nodded, immediately telling the youngster - d'Artagnan – to find something to use as a stretcher. Athos loped to Porthos' side and signalled him to move out.

11.30am

They rechecked the ground floor first, needing to work out if there were indeed four gunman, but apart from one locked door it was clear. Heading upstairs they found the first room was clearly the press room, full of filing cabinets, TV screens and satellite equipment. Leaving Porthos watching the corridor, Athos immediately checked the equipment, but as he'd feared there was no signal or dialling tone on anything; power seemed to be off throughout the building, either cut by the attackers or through some other trouble outside in the city. What was going on? What were the men after – hostages? Money? Or was it part of a bigger action?

There was an inner door leading off the press room to an adjoining office and Athos checked it, almost tripping over the body that lay just inside the anteroom. An ID card hanging around the victim's neck suggested they'd found the missing press officer, and the reason for the recent gunfire.

11.45 am

Porthos suddenly stiffened as they both heard voices along the corridor. Quickly Athos waved Porthos to come in. Years of working as a team meant the big man obeyed instantly, even without knowing Athos' plan. Moving to his side, Athos pointed to the anteroom and then took up position by the door to the corridor without waiting to see if Porthos obeyed.

He waited until the voices had reached the end of the landing then took one step into view, waited a fraction of a second to be noticed then dived back into the press room – followed by a hail of bullets which smashed into the door frame and the rows of certificates hanging on the nearest wall.

Rolling and scrambling, Athos made it behind the desk just as the first gunman arrived in the doorway, screaming at his colleague then stepping into the room, rifle at the ready as he advanced on the desk which was clearly the only hiding place in the room.

This brought him in line with the anteroom door, which Porthos had left slightly open. As the gunman crossed Porthos' line of vision, he took one careful shot through the gap with the pilfered pistol, which was silenced, and the man dropped with barely a sound. Nodding to himself in satisfaction, he waited patiently as there was a call from outside, then another shout, and finally the door to the press room was flung wide as the second man came in, clearly in a panic. Porthos didn't wait for him to step all the way in, knowing he would see the body of his colleague instantly, but stepped out of the anteroom and shot in one fluid movement. The second man staggered, loosing a volley of wild shots that sent Porthos diving back into the anteroom, before the man's grip on the automatic loosened and he slowly sagged to the ground.

After a couple of seconds Athos emerged cautiously from behind the desk to find Porthos on his hands and knees looking pissed off. Athos raised an eyebrow in silent query, grinning as Porthos muttered something about blood on his new trousers. Clearly he'd landed on the body of the unfortunate press secretary when the gunfire sprayed the room.

Moving quickly they advanced down the landing checking every room methodically as they went, each now armed with an automatic rifle. In an empty bedroom near the end, there were clear signs of a struggle. They both looked at the door which led, presumably, to an ensuite bathroom, and Porthos nodded. Pressing an ear to the door Athos heard a soft sound like a whimper from inside.

He tapped, quietly. "Miss? Is your name ..." Shit, he'd forgotten it.

"Gina?" suggested Porthos, looking dubious.

Athos snapped his fingers. "Ginette, is that right?"

Silence.

"Ginette, I'm Athos and I've got Porthos with me. We're British ... army officers, here to help you. The men who took you – we've dealt with them. It's safe to come out now." It was almost true, he defended himself, seeing Porthos' frown. They were sort of army, or had been; and they had dealt with the two who had abducted her, at least.

They heard the door being unlocked,then it opened slowly to reveal a teenage girl with tangled hair and mascara streaks down her cheeks, shaking uncontrollably. At the sight of their weapons she hesitated but Porthos immediately handed his to Athos and stepped forward. "It's okay, miss," he reassured her, holding out his hand. She took it hesitantly, then gulped and hurled herself at him, clinging to him and sobbing silently. Awkwardly Porthos encircled her lightly and patted her on the back, muttering reassurances while Athos tried to curb his impatience.

Eventually it got the better of him. "Ginette, did they hurt you? Can you walk?" An audible sob now. Shit. There was nothing Athos found more discombobulating than a weeping woman. Frantically he looked around and saw with relief a packet of tissues on a dressing table. Ripping several out at once he handed them to Porthos with a 'do something' look. Porthos gave him a very clear 'why me?' glare back, but took the tissues and used one to clean up the girl's face, putting the others firmly in her hand and telling her it was time to be brave now. As if she hadn't already had to be braver this morning than in her whole life.

11.55am

With patient coaxing from Porthos he established that the men hadn't hurt her beyond a bruised wrist when she'd managed to break free and lock herself in the bathroom. They had just persuaded her to come downstairs with them when there was a sudden crackle of gunfire from downstairs, a yelp of pain and then a volley of shouting in a language Athos didn't recognise. The girl, who had just managed to stop crying, gasped and buried her head in Porthos' chest, wrapping arms and legs around him like a limpet.

Bowing to the inevitable, Athos signalled Porthos to stay with the girl and crept out along the landing until he reached the banister and could peer cautiously down to the hallway below. What he saw made his blood run cold.