Legacy // H.S

20.

This is a double update, do not read this part unless you've read 19!

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'Hand to God with one foot in the grave'

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It's around 4:30am. London is beginning to wake up. The sun won't rise for a few hours and the streets are still shrouded in darkness, but the blinding lights of the cars that follow us make it seem like the day has begun. Bright, almost intoxicating, enough to give you a headache if you stare at them long enough. Enough to burn your skin under its rays.

'Is anyone hurt?' I hear from one corner of the van. It's Liam speaking through a radio, Claude frantically checking the rest of us. Niall is with Liam, his other team members in the van to our left, and the rest of us are all situated in the cramped space, aiming our guns at the sequence of cars that tail closely behind us.

Someone responds in another car, letting them know that another by the name of Tony died, and a Mel was losing a lot of blood. Some more voices chime in. Hailey is also dead. Claude's face is masked by grief, a pain so heavy, something we all know so well know that we would recognise it on anyone, but something Claude hasn't had to face in this operation yet.

He grabs the radio, sweat dripping from his hair and his hands clenched so tightly the tips of his knuckles are pale white. 'Did you get their bodies out of there?' he asks. Silence follows. They were left behind. His family, left to be picked apart by authorities, to be tarnished in the eyes of their loved ones. On the side of a busy street in London, their blood runs along the pavements, waiting for someone to step in the puddles and leave a trail of claret towards them. A spectacle to those that didn't know them.

He's broken. The hard exterior I've come to associate with Claude, completely shattering before me. He's not sure where to look or how to control his breathing. His hands are shaking, and his teeth are clamped tightly into his lip. It looks like he's about to have a panic attack. I can see him fighting every urge in his body to give into it, to let it consume him and cloud any rationality he needs in this moment, but that resistance only makes the tension in his chest worse.

Words never seem to suffice in moments like this. It's a suffering that many will not get to know because it seems unimaginable. Completely inconceivable to consider that those you care for were brutally taken from this world, their right to a proper send off, a loving and safe one, stolen from them. Perhaps they rest in a purgatory until then. Souls circling the dark matter of nothingness, waiting for their saving grace.

But now is not the time for grief. His ability to mourn his loved ones is not accepted here. Not when bullets fly around us and even more of his people could die. I can see the battle he's enduring on his features, the turmoil of losing someone but carrying on despite the sheer weight of pain that's pushing against your heart. Harry and he are very much alike. They take on the responsibility of many, promising to protect them. When one of those people leaves, they feel entirely to blame.

I turn away from him when a bullet flies past my head, almost grazing the skin of my cheek. My gun is aimed perfectly as I take the shot and manage to injure the perpetrator's hand, their gun dropping to the concrete of the road. I take another shot, but miss by a few inches, ducking as they try to retaliate.

Claude finally speaks as we continue defending the van. 'Who told him?' he says, barely audible over the gun fire around us. Even with silencers on our weapons, in the quiet of the early hours of day, it's hard not to hear the fire of them.

Harry meets his gaze, reloading his gun. 'Who?'

Claude raises his voice. 'Hugo!' The name makes me turn to face him too. 'Who told him our plans? Who told him we would be there?'