A Little Fall Of Rain

The Texas sun beat down on the small town diner parking lot, the stifling heat mingling with the stench of asphalt, gasoline, and sweat. Six FBI agents stood on the cracked concrete, their casual clothes sticking to their skin as they eyed the nondescript sedan across the lot. They blended in with the crowd, but their tension betrayed their presence, eyes locked on the car that sat in the far corner. The fugitive was in there, and they had him.

"Are you sure this is the place?" SSA Trystan "Boss" Thorne asked, his voice low but commanding. 

Special Agent Edmund "Eddy" Harvey nodded. "Positive. Local sources confirmed he stopped here for food. It's him, Boss."

Thorne exhaled sharply, turning his attention back to the car. "We move in fast and quiet. No vests, no tactical gear—just get in and get him before anyone catches on."

"Fast and quiet," Special Agent Aoife "Whiskey" Watanabe muttered, adjusting her ponytail as she glanced at the diner. "This never goes as planned, does it?"

Special Agent Sebastian "Pokerface" Quinn leaned against a nearby post, his face as unreadable as always. "It'll go fine. We’ve done this before."

Thomas "Door Kicker" MacArthur cracked his knuckles. "Quinn’s right. We move in, grab the bastard, and we’re done. Easy day."

Jackson "Jack" Ward rolled his shoulders, shifting the weight of his concealed weapon. "Let’s just hope we get out in time to catch the game tonight. I’ve got fifty bucks on the Cowboys."

Thorne nodded, glancing over the team. "Stay sharp. This guy’s dangerous. I don’t want any surprises." His eyes settled on Quinn for a moment longer than usual, as if sensing something off. 

But Quinn remained as stoic as ever. "We’ve got this."

They moved in.

The operation started smoothly, or so it seemed. The team split into two groups, Thorne and Eddy approaching the driver’s side while the rest circled around. The suspect was a high-priority target—an ex-military mercenary with ties to a cartel. He’d been on the run for months, evading capture with a cold precision that had earned him a reputation among law enforcement. But today, he was about to run out of luck.

Thorne knocked on the window, casual but firm. The man inside, Gabriel Reyes, turned his head, eyes narrowing. His hand twitched toward his waist, and in that split second, Thorne saw the glint of metal.

"Gun!" Thorne shouted, diving back as a shot rang out.

Everything erupted into chaos.

Reyes burst out of the car, firing wildly as the team scrambled for cover. Glass shattered as bullets ripped through windows, and the sound of gunfire echoed off the walls of the diner. Civilians screamed, running for safety as the agents returned fire.

"Get down!" Eddy shouted, pulling a passerby behind a parked truck as he aimed at Reyes. Whiskey fired from behind a concrete pillar, her shots precise but the suspect was quick, ducking between cars with a ruthless efficiency.

"Keep him pinned!" MacArthur bellowed, moving in from the side, his gun barking with every step. "We’ve got him!"

Reyes was fast, but the agents were faster. In a matter of seconds, the fugitive was cornered, bleeding from a gunshot wound to the leg, his gun kicked away by Ward.

"Don’t move!" Thorne growled, pinning Reyes to the ground as he slapped cuffs on him. "It’s over!"

Reyes grunted, his face twisted in pain but his eyes still burning with defiance. "You think you’ve won?" he spat. "This is just the beginning."

Thorne ignored him, nodding to Ward to haul him up. The team gathered, tense but relieved. The suspect was in custody, no casualties on their side. It had been a firefight, but they’d come out on top.

As they began to walk away, the adrenaline began to fade, and conversation shifted.

"So, what’s the plan for the weekend?" Ward asked, trying to shake off the tension.

"Barbecue with the family," Eddy said, adjusting his ball cap. "You?"

"Cowboys game," Ward replied. "I told you, fifty bucks on it."

"Quinn?" MacArthur called out. "What about you? Poker night?"

Quinn, who had been walking a few steps behind, slowed. "Yeah... might have to skip this one."

"You? Skip poker?" Whiskey teased. "Now I know something’s up."

Quinn chuckled, but it was strained. "Just... not feeling it today."

Something in his tone made the others turn. Thorne was the first to notice. Quinn was pale, his movements sluggish, his usually steely gaze unfocused. 

"You alright?" Thorne asked, his eyes narrowing.

Quinn stopped walking, his hand instinctively moving to his side.

"I’m fine, Boss," he said, though his voice wavered. "Just... one of those days."

But then he stumbled.

"Quinn!" Eddy rushed forward, catching him just as he collapsed to his knees. The others crowded around, confusion and concern rippling through the group.

"What the hell’s going on?" MacArthur demanded.

Quinn opened his mouth to speak, but instead of words, blood trickled out. His hand fell away from his side, revealing the dark, spreading stain on his shirt.

"Oh, God," Whiskey breathed. "He’s been shot."

Thorne knelt beside him, ripping open Quinn’s shirt to reveal the bullet wound—a deep, ugly gash in his abdomen. "How long?" he asked, his voice low, almost eerily calm.

Quinn coughed, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. "Since... since the car. First shot."

"You’ve been walking around like this for ten minutes?" Ward’s voice cracked with disbelief. "Why didn’t you say anything?"

Quinn tried to laugh, but it came out as a pained wheeze. "Didn’t... didn’t want to ruin the weekend plans."

"Dammit, Quinn!" Thorne growled, pressing his hands against the wound to stem the bleeding. "We need an ambulance!"

Whiskey was already on her phone, her voice frantic as she called for help, but Quinn shook his head.

"It’s... it’s too late, Boss," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You know that."

Thorne’s jaw clenched, his hands covered in Quinn’s blood as he continued to apply pressure, refusing to let go. "No. You’re not dying here, Quinn. Not today."

But Quinn’s strength was fading fast. His eyes fluttered, and for the first time in years, the stoic, unreadable Pokerface was gone. In its place was just a man, scared and tired, fighting a losing battle.

"I’m sorry," Quinn whispered, his gaze locking with Thorne’s. "I should’ve... told you sooner."

Thorne’s voice broke. "Just hang on, okay? Help’s coming."

But Quinn knew better. His body sagged, the fight draining out of him with every passing second. His hand reached out, grasping Thorne’s arm in a final, fleeting act of defiance against the inevitable.

"Take care of the team, Boss," he said, his voice barely audible. "Promise me."

Thorne swallowed hard, his throat tight. "I promise."

Quinn gave a weak smile, the last vestiges of Pokerface fading away. "See you... on the other side."

And then, with a final, shuddering breath, Sebastian Quinn was gone.

For a moment, no one moved. The world seemed to stop, the distant sirens fading into the background as the team knelt around their fallen comrade, the weight of the loss pressing down on them like a physical force.

Thorne’s hands trembled, still pressed against Quinn’s body, as if refusing to let go, refusing to accept the finality of it all. He stayed there for what felt like an eternity, until finally, gently, Eddy placed a hand on his shoulder.

"He’s gone, Boss."

Thorne didn’t answer, his gaze locked on Quinn’s lifeless form, the promise still hanging in the air between them.

"Yeah," he whispered. "He’s gone."