A Web of Lies, A Rainbow Six Story

Part 8: Distrust & Disdain

Marco's POV

I step into the armoury to find that I'm the last one there, the other members of my team already gearing up for deployment. An older man with black hair catches my eye first, the grey in his hair and beard catching the light as he turns to face me. Thatcher, I remember Mark calling him. He regards me with a sort of detached suspicion. My attention shifts to a man wearing the gear of a GIGN field medic. His cold green eyes gleam as he glares at me with open dislike as if his opinion of me matters in the slightest. I hold his gaze evenly, not backing down an inch. He flinches and looks away, and I shift my gaze to the next person in the room, a tall man in Spetsnaz fatigues with a small scar over his eye, loading a magazine into his rifle. He purposefully ignores my presence as if he hasn't noticed me yet, but I can see the slightest tremor in his hands as he slides another magazine into his vest. 

My eyes drift over to a familiar blonde woman in a GSG9 vest, the same woman who introduced herself to me in the firing range. IQ. She offers me a warm smile that I don't bother to return. I step past them all without a word and begin gathering what I need for the mission ahead, not bothered at all by the tense silence that hangs in the air around me. IQ finally decides to take the first shot at breaking the tension as she steps forward, speaking in a calm voice. "Have you been briefed on the situation yet Marco?" she says. 

Without turning away from what I'm doing, I nod my head in acknowledgement. IQ clears her throat awkwardly before continuing. "We believe that the hostages are being held in the bank vault in the basement of the building, seeing as it's the most defensible location in the bank. The first floor has plenty of windows on the south side, so Glaz will cover our entry from there. We'll enter through-"

I raise my hand as I turn, cutting her off. She blinks in surprise but goes silent. I shake my head slightly as I push past her and the other operatives, leaving them behind as I head for the chopper. I have no desire to make petty, unnecessary conversation with the members of my "team". They'll just hold me back anyway. I walk up the ramp of the waiting Chinook and seat myself in the back corner, setting my gear down at my feet. The others board the chopper as I check the straps of my ballistic vest and make sure it's secure. The ramp closes, and moments later we're in the air. 

Through my earpiece, I can hear the others making small talk, but I make no effort to join in their conversation. I run a check on my equipment as the others hop from one subject to another. Then the Russian says something that catches my attention. "I do not trust the stranger. He is not one of us." Out of the corner of my eye, I see the German glance over at me with concern, worried I heard his remark. I listen closely, but give no visible reaction to the man's words, continuing to check my gear as if I were oblivious to their conversation. The German responds harshly to the man, her words cut with a razor-sharp edge. "We were all strangers once, all distrustful of each other. What makes this so different Timur?" she says. 

Thatcher's voice sounds across the line, his own words laced with distaste. "What makes it different is that we were highly trained soldiers. This bloke is a street rat, nothing more. He's an outcast. And he makes no bother to change that fact." The Medic chimes in. "C'est vrai, he has tried to kill one of us already, yet somehow he remains here? I do not care what your opinion is on the matter Monika, he is not a saviour, he is a murderer. Un demon." 

"The man cares for naught but his own skin, and that won't ever change," Thatcher states. "And if I'm faced with the choice of saving him or myself, I'm letting that bastard die in front of me. Because he would do the same thing to any of us without a second thought." 

I've heard enough. I raise my hand to my head and flick the earpiece from my ear. The movement, small though it is, catches everyone's attention, and I see the German give me a look of pure horror and shame, apparently disgusted with the opinions of her comrades. Thatcher glares at me, as though he is offended that I was listening to him talk. The Medic and the Russian avoid my gaze, embarrassed at their own stupidity to speak in an open channel most likely. I finish checking my gear and lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees, letting my hair hang over my face.