The furthest was destroyed. Glass everywhere. Metal, rock, and plastic littered the sand where it once stood.
Avery and Dominque were in that unit.
The second was in flames, burning from the inside out.
Johnson and Woodbridge.
Shouts sounded. A cacophony of Arabic and English curses tossed at each other. Gunfire. Lots of gunfire behind the blaze where a group of four men dressed in black came from the flames like they were born from the ashes as they carried rifles of their own, ammunition strapped to their chest and a promise in their eyes.
"Stand down!" An ally ordered, their finger ready on the trigger begging for a wrong move.
He got it. Once the four men took aim and fired, keeping the lone soldier preoccupied as he dove for cover, a fifth broke from the path. His shirt loosened and his ammunition deadly. Lethal. Ticking.
No, Emma thought as he ran along the pathway, lined by CHUs where soldiers were congregated trying to keep them back. No. One look at the bomber and they all ran. That's all they could do. Them or us.
"No," Emma said aloud as she took a step forward, lowering her gun and taking another step.
"Swan!" Neal yelled as he yanked her back.
"He's gonna die!"
Neal didn't respond. He tucked Emma's head into his chest and dragged her out of the pathway behind the units and ducked behind the sandbag encasing.
The bomb went off. Emma's ears rang. The units shook. Shots fired. Debris rained. The sky lit up in a slash of red.
Neal was moving his lips, but all Emma heard was ringing in her ears so loudly she swore she would never hear again. She didn't need her ears though. She was trained for this. She knew what to do. Just like everyone else here. The allies were threatened. Take out the enemy. They moved back to the path to find another unit closer to them destroyed to rubble. There was yelling to put out the fire. Apparently none hurt. So far.
The four men in black were scattered. One ran. Took a bullet to the shoulder and lay writhing in his own blood. Two shot back. The fourth – he ran. He ran toward them. Toward the rest of the units so fiercely he must have had a death wish. Toward Emma who was trained to grant that if she absolutely had to. Vengeance in his eyes, a weapon in his hand, and a mission in his heart, he levelled his gun. Emma shot. Square between the eyes. He fell just like the other, but this time he was limp.
The damage was done. Johnson badly burned. Woodbridge coughing up a lung. Avery and Dominique – their fate like the bomber's.
Emma stared at the man she shot, less than thirty feet from her. No hesitation. No second guessing. Take out the enemy by any means possible. She had done that. It was him or her. Jesus, it was him or her. She had to.
"Come on, Swan," Neal tugged her away, vigilant for the both of them as the two remaining men were captured and pulled to the northern end of the camp that was still intact.
But the man's eyes continue to bore into hers. The raw hatred disappeared in an instant when she had raised her gun. His eyes widened, dark brown realizing it was too late. She pulled the trigger. The pain in his eyes was brief. Faster than lightspeed and it was gone. Nothing left. No light. No life.
It was him or her. Her ears rang.
Then suddenly a swarm of people ran towards her, bombs strapped to their chests, guns, knives, and she stood there. They came from all sides and it was just her. Alone in the middle of the camp as they surrounded. The fires burning hotter, the shots sounding closer. She had to take them out. Them or her. Them or her.
Them or her.
Her ears rang when she woke up. Her palms shook. Her shirt drenched with sweat.
It was just a dream. Mostly. Emma shut her eyes to catch her breath, but the lifeless eyes swarming around her brain pushed against the inside of her skull, and she couldn't close them anymore. No, she was safe. She was . . .not home. But safe.
God, she couldn't breathe. She felt like the room was on fire. Jesus, the ringing wouldn't stop.
She sat up quickly, her gaze focused solely on the trunk by the foot of her bed. Reaching around the front, she unclasped it and grabbed the sweater on top. Storybrooke Knights. She slipped it over her head despite the humid July heat and moved the neck up to cover her face, breathing in deeply and counting to ten. She needed the sweater. Needed it more than air. And as she continued to inhale and exhale, the only thing she was breathing in was the soft cotton of the sweater, a hint of the fabric softener Regina used.
Her heart continued beating rapidly and the ringing never quite died down, but Emma felt that she could manage in the real world for just a little bit. So she removed her face from her cocoon and let her eyes adjust to the darkness of the room. Bringing her knees up to her chest, Emma cradled her arms around them, tucking her face into her knees and sighed.
It's just a dream, she kept reminding herself. It's over. It can't touch you.
Not physically, Emma's pessimistic side reminded her as she felt the trigger pull beneath her finger. She had gotten commended for her work that night. God, commended for her work. Work. That's a funny word to use for it.
Reaching blindly behind her, Emma found Rex tucked underneath the sheets and brought him into the small space between her face and knees.
Rex is really good at giving hugs, and he makes the bad dreams go away, Henry had promised that morning in the airport.
Jesus, that felt like a lifetime ago. Hell, being in the sleepy town was like a dream. A blessed dream she never wanted to wake from. When she went to Storybrooke, she had no idea what she was expecting to find – her penpal, a friend – but she found more, and right now she'd kill to be– No, she just really wanted to be home right now. So she hugged Rex.
He was soft. Just as soft as the sweater, and Emma was sure Regina used the same fabric softener on him. He smelled a little like the sun since Henry liked to play with him in the backyard, but his snout was plush, and he was worn in all the right places. He was familiar. Safe. The closest thing to comfort she could find right now. And dammit, Henry was right. He gave the best hugs in the state.
She breathed in the toy and pushed aside the darkness from her mind, replacing it with a humming she hadn't realized she knew. It was the same tune Regina had sung to Henry – that Spanish lullaby mother and son had sung together as they went riding at the stables.
Arrorró mi niño, arrorró mi amor, arrorró pedazo de mi corazón.
Regina's smooth, husky voice momentarily overrode the noise in her head, and with careful concentration, Emma was able to focus on Regina, sitting on a beast of a horse as she held her son to her body, helping him guide the reins. She had grinned when she sang as Henry struggled to roll his r's or get the accents just right, but she kissed his cheek nonetheless and kept singing, and it helped Emma just a little bit.
She needed more though. More than just a sweater, more than just the best hugging dinosaur ever, and more than just a pleasant memory.
Because that man she killed, that one whose life she had taken away, he was probably a father, a son, an uncle, a brother, he was something to someone and dammit, it was him or her, and she was doing what's right. He could have killed someone. Killed a lot of people. Killed someone else's son, father, brother, uncle. Killed someone's child. Their baby, their daughter, wife. But she stopped him. And she had to remember that.