CHAOS

Ocean of Sand

"We are the ODS, last of the old-school spies."

AN: I type out phonetic accents. Don't like it? Don't read. On that note, in Scottish accents the letter 't' is often omitted in certain parts of the word. But not entirely. It is given what is called a 'guttural stop'. It's difficult to explain, but the 't' sound is formed as a halted sound in the back of your throat, rather than the sharp sound we know that forms on the tip of your tongue. I indicate this 'guttural stop' with an apostrophe. With that said, this is my first completed CHAOS fanfiction. Enjoy.

Not only did he not expect to ever find himself traversing a desert oasis in the middle of Egypt, he never would have expected to be traversing a desert oasis in the middle of Egypt for a mission. But really, there was no turning back at this point. Not with the barrel of a primed AK-47 pressed between his shoulder blades, two more at his flanks, and a third heavily armed man leading the way. Generally speaking, he has found himself in worse odds before, but so far, the mission was still green lighted. He had no reason to feel the need to call for backup, not that they would make it in time what with the wide expanse of the desert. It was hard to tail a quintet when there was nothing to hide behind but sand… and more sand save for the small oasis they were rapidly approaching.

"I know ya don' trus' me, bu' was i' really necessary t' cuff me over th' head with th' butt of your gun, there? You could've just as easily told me t' close my eyes and blindfold me." Billy chirped in an uplifting tone that really didn't fit the situation. But that's what Billy did. He quipped about imminent danger, even if it was more imminent than he'd like to admit.

The man to his right barked something in a language he recognized as Arabic, but that didn't mean he knew what the man had said. He simply shrugged and tried not to trip in the loose sand dunes. Yeah, next time Michael asks for volunteers in a desert mission, he'll bite his tongue. Or just swallow a scorpion like Rick. Truthfully, he wouldn't condemn any member of his team to something like this. So, as horrible as it seemed, he'd still volunteer for these missions, time and time again. Glutton for punishment, perhaps?

A sparkle in the distance caught his eye and he realized there was someone up ahead, standing just out of sight, holding up what looked like a mirror. The sun caught off the reflective surface making it flash several times as the person angled it back and forth. Well, if that wasn't a blatantly obvious signal, he didn't know what was. It was almost cliché. However, recognizing it as a signal and realizing what the signal meant were two completely different things. He only hoped it was a means of communication to confirm the group's identity as friendlies so they wouldn't end up with more holes than Swiss cheese before they reached the compound. Of course, that would be too easy.

One of the men flanking the Scot kicked him in the back of the knees, making Billy crash to the sand. With his arms bound behind his back, he was very nearly privileged to tasting the Egyptian sand. Luckily, years in the CIA and MI5 alike have taught him how to balance himself when his hands were tied behind his back and the ground was seemingly shifting under his feet. He felt somewhat like he should earn some kind of points for not eating sand, but that didn't happen. No, as a matter of fact, close to the exact opposite happened.

A knee was planted firmly in the base of his spine, shoving him down into the sand. The man knelt heavily on him with one leg, while he roughly grabbed at Billy's wrists. To his surprise, his bindings were cut and the man lifted the pressure from his back. When he didn't immediately stand on his own, he was shoved rather violently with a heavy boot.

"Stand!" One of the men shouted. "Go!" They ordered, pointing towards the oasis. More specifically, pointing towards the glittering light in the distance. Who was Billy to argue? So, he pushed himself out of the sand, brushed face and clothing off, primping just a bit to draw out some time, and likely test the patience of his captors, before he started his solitary trek.

Said trek took the better part of fifteen minutes. In that time, he was able to scope out the area a bit without looking too suspicious. It was very likely that those four men that brought him this far had orders to retrace their steps and ensure no one was tailing them. It'd give them ample time to shoot him before he even reached the camp. With nowhere to run or hide, Billy would be an easy target standing out against the beige sand in his dark slate grey suit. If certain peril wasn't part of the job description and didn't happen on a weekly basis, he might be right terrified right now. Any moment he could feel a bullet ripping through his body and ending his life. However, he trusted Casey to be discrete. Their very own Human Weapon was very good at what he did and Billy trusted him with his life. If, somehow, the man was spotted slithering through the desert sand like the deadly viper he was, he trusted Casey to take all four men out before they had a chance to end the Scotsman's life. He couldn't dodge bullets, but he could evade being targeted by at least one side long enough for things to turn in their favor.

Despite his confidence in Casey Malick, the blue-eyed charmer released a pent up breath when he crossed into the cover of the compound with three heavily armed guards as his escort. They blindfolded him with a thick black cloth and led him down several corridors. He noted that they virtually backtracked twice to throw him off. Again, this would have been an effective means to disorienting him if he weren't a trained operative.

They stopped at what he could only assume was a closed door after a good five minutes of wandering around. He wondered vaguely if they knew their backtracking and virtual 'wild goose chase' had actually helped him map out the entrance of the compound to the room that they were about to enter. He heard a sliding sound and the click of an electronic lock. Keycard. Things just got slightly more difficult. He felt the slight draft of the door opening before he was shoved inside. They walked him to where he assumed was the center of the room and shoved him into a chair, binding his wrists to the warm metal. Well, that was slightly unnerving. It was so unbearably hot in the compound that even the metal chairs provided little to no relief from the heat.

Billy heard shuffling off to the side and the door shutting. Automatically, the lock slid into place once more. Assess the situation: He was bolted to a chair, locked in what felt like an interrogation room, surrounded by an unknown number of unfriendlies. Just another day in the Office of Disruptive Services.

"Jour name." A smooth voice demanded somewhere in front of Billy. Judging by the volume, the man wasn't more than six feet away from him. Nearly directly in front of him. The accent didn't fit the rest of his colleagues. No, it sounded more of Hispanic origin. It wasn't smooth enough to be an authentic Spanish accent from the motherland of Spain, but with only those two words, it was hard to tell. He sounded very much like the leader of any other drug cartel. For now, it was best to play it safe.

"I do not like repeating myself, Señor." The man's tone was lower, dangerous, this time.

"William McGregor." Billy chirped, happy to supply the information that would match their records the man certainly held in his possession. Records planted for the man to steal, but he didn't know that part. This was the reason Billy was the prime operative for this mission. He had a cloudy past. One that tied up quite well with this mission.

"Jou are a former member of the British Secret Service, sí?" The man pressed. Billy could hear the shuffling of papers as the man before him flipped through what he was pretty sure was the file so graciously provided unbeknownst to him.

"Aye. Tha' would be me. Go' myself int' a wee bi' o' trouble. Didna' agree wi' how the agency deal' wi' cer'ain… issues an' they didna' agree wi' how I did wha' needed t' be done." Billy replied smoothly, thickening his accent for the part. That's who he was. He was the charmer. He could talk himself into and out of just about any situation under the sun. Give him five minutes and a weak mind and he'll have you intrigued. Give him ten and he'll have you enchanted. Give him fifteen and he'll have your blind trust. Unfortunately, in the underworld like this, most minds weren't so easily malleable. So it took a little longer and more calculation.

"So jou killed jour commanding officer and went rogue?" The man asked, but Billy didn't like the tone in his voice. Something was off. So, he did what the ODS did best. He improvised.

"Is tha' wha' they wro'e in th' file?" Billy laughed dryly, rolling his head to pop the vertebrae in his neck. "I didna' kill th' bloke. He go' himself sho'." Really, all he had to do was keep the man distracted. Keep his team focused on carefully watching Billy, rather than paying attention to a pending invasion. His mission was to infiltrate, distract, and stay alive long enough for Casey, Michael, and Rick to take out the automatic defenses and as many guards as they could so the military could move in and storm the base.

"Hm." His captor made a thoughtful sound that Billy didn't quite like. Something was wrong. There was no such thing as 'smooth sailing' when it came to missions like these where you put yourself at the mercy of your enemy for the sake of remaining undercover, but there was a difference between expected turbulence and a storm on the horizon. This felt like the latter.

"Jou see, this file is too perfect. Jou are too perfect." Billy can hear the sound of the file dropping to the desk and being pushed aside. He tries not to jump or stiffen. He has to keep up the façade if he wants to live. So, instead, he feigns annoyance and anger.

"Pearfec'?" Billy bites back, with just enough venom in his tone to sound annoyed, but not enough to sound threatening. "Maybe ya didna' read tha' file very carefully. Or maybe they didna' wan' t' release th' real facts in my file, bu' if I was pearfec', none of thes would be gooin' doown righ' noo." Ok, a Scotsman losing his temper would result in a thickening of his accent. It wasn't typical of Billy himself, because he nearly never lost his temper. And even when he did, he was still cold and calculating. But this man had to believe he was a bit of a screw-up for now. It was all about appearing less threatening. The more the other man thought he was in control, the safer Billy was. If he remained cool, calm, and collected, the other man would feel less in control and feel the need to demonstrate his control. That's where guns and fatalities came in. He did so hate fatalities.

"We did a bit more digging and found that William McGregor was never actually on the payroll despite how well things were set up to appear to the contrary." As the man spoke, Billy felt his jaw setting, lips forming a grim line. He didn't like where this was going at all. Trust the MI5 to make an information plant look suspicious.

"A little more digging and we found a former William Collins. An operative who had been deported from his homeland. So, Señor Collins, what else are jou hiding?"

TBC