“Two more floors. Head to the eastern edge. How’s your parkour?”
Arthur slammed out the fire door, Syler quick to engage the locks behind him, though that would only hold the guards off for a few extra moments.
“It’ll have to do,” he snapped.
“Eastern edge, over the alley way onto the adjoining roof top. I’ll guide you to the car. There are guards below ready to shoot you, so try to be quick about it.” Arthur swore again, sizing up the distance without breaking stride, throwing himself over and landing in a roll on the adjoining roof as Sanchez’s guards shot at him both from the alley below and the top of the office building behind. “Keep going straight on.”
Arthur crouched behind a fire door stairwell, returning fire and taking out two of the guards on the adjoining roof top. A third bridged the jump, two more behind him. Swearing, Dufault turned and sprinted, jumping the wider gap to the next building, hitting harder than he would’ve liked with the one story drop in height, rolling into a protected position behind a wall. “Working on it. How far is the car?”
“Two across, one over to the left. If you could go a bit faster—”
Arthur swore again as the guard from before pelted gun fire down on his position, springing up to return it, buying enough time to make a run for the ledge. “Oh you go fucking faster, Perrin.”
“I’m doing just fine. Several more guards on the adjoining roof top are a problem for you, not me.” Rapid typing filled Arthur’s ear. “I’ve kindly started your engine for you.”
Arthur threw himself across the next gap, landing in a crouch, coming back up in time to return fire. One of the bastards apparently had a machine gun, because of course he did. “We have got to talk about the intel analyst who fucked this one up—” He hauled himself over, heaving, onto the next rooftop, tucking and rolling behind the thankfully tall ledge, gaining distance between himself and Sanchez’s men.
“Need I remind you,” Syler replied, watching raptly through the security camera nearest Dufault’s vehicle, “that you were the one doing surveillance on Sanchez?”
“Oh not fucking now,” Arthur huffed, rolling across the last roof top and coming to the ledge. No fire escape. Of course not. He eyed the three story drop, ducking as a rain of bullets nearly took his head off, swearing.
“Ground guards are advancing on your position. Get to the car.” It was helpfully parked at the entrance to the alley way, thirty feet down, lights on. Another hail of bullets made the decision for him. Arthur threw a hand up on the ledge, hoisting himself up and onto the edge, tucking into a crouch as he did, and jumped off.
Really, Syler thought, watching the feed intently, it was going so well up until the point a stray bullet clipped Dufault’s left arm, throwing off his angle entirely.
Arthur landed with a crash, left ankle crunching as it rolled outwards, white hot pain racing straight up his calf. Still running on adrenaline, he got up, limping the short distance to the car, thanking every god he could think of, and at least one devil, for the invention of plated armor exteriors as he threw the automatic transmission into gear and tore off, leaving the hail of gunfire behind him as he drove.
“They’re too far behind to follow you. Proceed to the planned extraction point,” Syler’s voice came to him over the car’s speakers. “I’ve got medical on site. That landing looked painful from here.”
“Can confirm,” he grunted, trying to even out his breathing. The graze wound on his left bicep was bleeding sluggishly. “I’m going to be optimistic and call it a sprain.”
“If you say so,” Syler responded tightly.
---
It wasn’t a sprain. He was out of the field until at least New Years.
“Fractured fibula,” the doctor confirmed, reviewing the x-rays. Pierce, apparently. Arthur already hated him, good drugs or not. “Clean, and minimal damage to the surrounding joint and ligaments. You’re very lucky.” Funny, he didn’t feel lucky. “Six weeks non-weight bearing in the boot, then we’ll start physical therapy. You’ll be up and about in time for Christmas.” Oh joy. He glared at his left leg, betrayed.
“Keep your leg elevated as much as possible. I’d say try to stay active, but I know how you agents are so just don’t overdo it,” Pierce continued, trying for levity and missing by a mile. He resisted the urge to glare at the man. “I’ve forwarded my notes to Director Boothman. She’s expecting you for debriefing this afternoon. As you’re able, of course.”
Arthur grunted, heaving himself off of the exam table, already hating every moment of the next few months as his ankle throbbed in perfect time with his pulse. His left bicep stung as he limped his way to the exit, eager to escape the medical ward even if it meant facing down Jeanette’s most unimpressed look.
Syler was waiting in the hall. Arthur groaned. “Not now. My pride can’t take it.”
“Well forgive me for checking up on you.” He fell into step besides Arthur, slowing his pace without comment. “Besides, the Director wants us both. At least you’ll have company in facing her displeasure.”
“Small mercies.” They arrived at the elevator and headed for the top floor, progress slow. Arthur glanced over at his handler. Today’s ensemble was a particular blight. Somehow, the man had not only discovered the existence of a pair of checkered plaid trousers and matching suit jacket, but purchased them. The entire brown and green tweed number would’ve been less offensive to his sensibilities if it weren’t a size too big in the torso and slightly too long in the inseam. Possibly also if he wasn’t in a shit mood to begin with. On a more generous day,
