G. I. Joe 1. Default Chapter

A/N: This sort of reflects Jaye's history from other fanfics... It's hard not to see her that way now that I've read some of those stories. Thanks, y'all.

BTW I hope you all get the Rocky & Bullwinkle reference...

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Alison Hart-Burnett gracefully stepped out of the back seat of the limo. She nodded graciously at the footman who held open the door for her, and looked up at the large mansion where she would be spending the evening.

It was a huge house– more of a complex, really, with a twenty-room main house, separate servants' quarters, stables, greenhouses, gardens, and various other small storage and equipment buildings. She knew there was a lake on the forty acre grounds as well, and if she remembered correctly, even a small nine-hole golf course.

She sighed. _Must be nice. Of course, with the trappings come the responsibilities. Like this party. _She scanned the drive and parking area. _There must be over a hundred people here,_ she thought. _Ugh. This is going to be even worse than I thought._

She had been asked–no, told– by her mother to attend tonight's formal gala. To make matters worse, it fell on All-Hallow's-Eve, and the guests had been asked to wear costumes. _At least my mother isn't here **with** me, _she mused._ She would be introducing me to 'eligible bachelors' every fifteen minutes. _

A butler took her invitation at the door, and another took her fur wrap and purse to be put in the cloakroom. She watched for a moment to make sure she could find the room later. She felt a little strange being separated from the Beretta in her bag, slightly nervous at its loss. She shook her head. _This is a social engagement, not a Covert Ops mission_, she told herself firmly.

It felt like an undercover mission, though– thanks to the costume. Alison was wearing a gold gown with a drop waist that ended mid-thigh; the top was squared off just above her breasts, with off-the-shoulder, flowing sleeves that fell to the ends of her fingers. The material was shimmery and nearly translucent; a separate layer of darker gold bands around her chest and hips made the outfit barely decent. Her sandals had straps that wrapped around her legs to her knee; around her throat she wore a wide, Egyptian-style band that sparkled with color. She also wore a small but detailed mask, giving her face a catlike appearance. Her own green eyes and slightly wild hair added to the effect.

Her mother had bought the outfit, and had cheerfully presented it to her when Alison had finally buckled and agreed to go to the party. It had sparked another round of debate, but she had already promised to attend, and her mother had pointed out that wearing her BDUs would hardly be acceptable, and since she didn't have anything else that was suitable as a costume...

Alison had ignored the dig on her career and agreed to wear the Bast costume only to stop her mother from arguing further. She had planned on shopping for a replacement in New York during her layover, but the plane had been delayed. So had her flight into Heathrow, giving her a scant hour to change before having to leave for the party. _At least I don't know anyone here. It's all up-and-coming British aristocracy, _she thought. _God, imagine running into someone I know while wearing this..._

Actually, she could think of one person she might let see the outfit back in the States– but that would have to wait. She forced a pleasant smile on her features and walked into the main room.

The ballroom was stunning. Teak floors shone in the spaces between guests' legs. Ceiling-high windows ran across the entire opposite wall, leading to balconies overlooking the gardens. The other walls were covered in huge banners and tapestries where they were not hung with expensive paintings. Chandeliers cast a soft glow on the people beneath, accented by the flickering light of hundreds of candles placed on tall stands along the walls.

The right side of the room contained an assortment of small couches and chairs, as well as several large tables laden with food. A small orchestra played softly from the far corner. To the left, a large marble staircase wound up to a second floor balcony overlooking the dance floor.

She scanned the groups quickly, noticing that her outfit was not nearly as risque as some of the others she saw. One woman was wearing a black velvet cape– and apparently little else. Alison shuddered, happy that her mother was not into online shopping. The boutiques near her home certainly didn't carry things like _that_.

Several clusters of chatting individuals were scattered around the room. She noted the ones that contained mostly older men with their wives. That would be safe. Older men tended to talk politics and history, which was at least tolerable. God forbid she go anywhere near the arrogant young men who were obviously looking to pair up with someone for the night. She was certainly NOT interested in witnessing the typical male posturing about stocks, mergers, and bank accounts for hours on end. _I can hear them now,_ she thought: _'My portfolio is bigger than yours..._'

A footman offered her a tray of drinks. She chose a glass of wine and approached the nearest group of men with their tagalong wives, who were listening with bored expressions on their faces as their husbands discussed military strategy. _Perfect. Maybe I won't have to interact with a single other soul all night_, she smiled to herself. _Obligation to the mother met, obligation to the boyfriend met. Done and done._

She listened to the friendly banter for a moment, until one of the men noticed her standing nearby. Polite introductions were made, but the men seemed a little flustered at her presence. "I don't think you'd be interested in the conversation, dear," piped up one of the wives, who appeared to be dressed as a figure from Greek mythology . "They're talking about the uprising again." The woman, who had been introduced to her as the Lady Baddeley, gave her a kind smile.

Her husband, Sir John, in costume as a phoenix–at least she thought it was-- placed a hand on his wife's arm. "Wait a minute, dove." He smiled at Alison. "Lady Burnett– Your family is Scottish Highland as well, is it not?" At her nod, he turned to the others two men. "Well, that evens the odds, then, eh?" He staged whispered to her, "Lowlanders! Think they were right to have kept out of the whole mess."

Alison stifled a laugh. They were talking about the Jacobite rebellion of 1745. The man continued in a normal voice, "I keep trying to tell them that if the negotiations with France had been more open from the start, Sweden would have-"

"More open!" One of the others interrupted. "The prince's own father didn't even know what was going on until the army was already gathered and on Scottish soil!" He turned to Alison. "Tell your compatriot here that Charles Edward Stuart was a fool!"

Sir John sputtered, looking to her for help. She wracked her brain, trying to remember everything she'd read on the subject. "Actually," she responded, "I think that Louis could have very easily won back the support of Prussia and Sweden if he had sent his men as promised. A second invasion on the English front would have made all the difference, and Europe would hardly care who sat on the throne once all the fighting was done. Louis just cared too much about appearances."

Her 'compatriot' beamed. The wives looked a little startled, but made no comment. Alison only listened with half an ear as they continued to debate the minute details of the historic event. _Thank God Scottish men can go on about this for days_, she thought. _I may not have to speak with another person the whole evening._

A half-hour later the discussion was starting to wear thin. Her smile felt glued in place, and her neck was already sore from nodding politely every few minutes.

She unobtrusively flagged down another footman, exchanging her empty wineglass for a full one. It was going to be a long night.

Alison was considering the possibility of simply hiding in the ladies' room for the rest of the evening when a familiar voice behind her caught her attention. She turned, looking for its source. A woman dressed as a biker was laughing off the advances of an extremely drunk Julius Caesar. She wore high-heeled boots and leather chaps with only a pair of tight black bikini pants underneath, leaving quite a large area of skin exposed. The rest of the costume consisted of a tight red halter top and a black leather jacket.

It took a minute to get past the details of the outfit and pay attention to the face. Long black hair fell over a pale oval face, red lips sneering at the man's attempts to speak to her. The effect was slightly ruined by a pair of wire-framed glasses...

It hit Alison all at once. _Oh, my God. The Baroness is at this party... _She nearly dropped her wineglass, but years of training kept her outward appearance calm.

The Baroness must have felt her stare. She looked up at Alison, frowning. _I am wearing a mask, she can't possibly know it's me... _she told herself. _Unless I decide to have a little fun. What would she do if I approached her? _She wondered. She decided to find out.

'Caesar' had finally stumbled away, but there was still a crowd of eager young men standing at the ready, looking for a signal that the Baroness was approachable.

Alison got there before any of the men decided to try their luck. "Baroness, dear, how good to see you," she said in a cheerful voice.

The woman looked Alison over, trying to place her.

Leaning in to give her a European peck on the cheek, she whispered in the Baroness' ear, "Interesting look. Going as a Dreadnok tonight? Or is that not a costume? It's hard to tell."

She stood back as recognition dawned on the Baroness' face. She didn't as much as twitch, showing not a sign of her surprise. She gave Alison a condescending smile. "Speaking of outfits, dear," she purred, looking Alison over, "Tell that repressed CO of yours he should keep his fantasies separate from his work. Or does he make you dress up like that on base, too?"

Alison's mouth crept up at the corners. "Oh, I'm not working," she replied. "I was invited, as I'm assuming you were. Unless your employers sent you..." She scanned the nearby crowd. "Where's your silver-headed keeper? Does he know you escaped?"

The Baroness actually looked startled. "You were invited? By whom?"

She rolled her eyes. "The host. Who else?"

"But you... Ugh. Are you telling me that we actually run in the same social circles?" The Baroness looked disgusted. "They'll let anyone buy their way into the aristocracy nowadays."

Alison was thoroughly enjoying this. "Actually my family has been titled for several generations," she replied in a perky voice. Fully prepared to duck either a punch or a glass full of wine, she continued, "Tell me, are you really a Baroness, or is that just a delusion of grandeur?"

The Baroness' grip on her wineglass tightened visibly, but she didn't try to douse her with its contents. Her eyes narrowed, and she hissed, "Shouldn't you be at home 'entertaining' the troops?"

Alison imitated her accent, replying, "Shouldn't you be out chasing moose and squirrel?"

Any opportunity for a rejoinder was lost as the lights suddenly dimmed, leaving only the candles to illuminate the huge room. The partygoers fell silent, assuming the host had an announcement to make.

Instead the sudden silence was broken by the sound of a loud voice coming from the second floor balcony. "A'right Ladies and Gents. Please listen to the instructions and there will be no need for violence. Would everyone please drop to the floor and remove your valuables from about your persons?"

There was nervous laughter from the crowd. It was Halloween, after all.

"I would not like to repeat myself," the voice continued. The burst of an automatic weapon firing into the ceiling punctuated his statement.

Pandemonium broke loose. The crowd tried to surge toward the doorways, but were halted by the appearance of more men at the two exits. The candlelight gleamed red against the metal of their guns.

_Unbelievable!_ Alison thought. _We're being robbed! This evening can not **possibly** get any worse!_


	2. Now What?

Alison took advantage of the chaos to take in the situation. In addition to the man on the balcony, four more were visible blocking the exit to the front hall and the servant's passage to the kitchen. All five men were wearing military style clothing, including Kevlar vests and black balaclavas, leaving only the eyes exposed. _A little extreme for thieves_, she mused.

The crowd had settled, no longer trying to leave but murmuring amongst themselves in frightened whispers. The group's leader fired off another short burst of automatic fire, regaining the attention of every person in the room.

Sir Morlowe, host of the evening, approached the foot of the stairs and called up to the armed man. "What is the meaning of this? How dare you barge in here and order us to-"

"I do not wish for this to be a long and involved process," the man interrupted. "Let me make myself clear: we are here for your guests' valuables and cash. If they are given up freely, we will leave without bloodshed. Everyone please place all items of value on the floor and lie down on your stomachs. NOW."

No one argued. As much as it galled her to do so, Alison followed suit, removing her jewelry and watch and setting them in a small pile next to her on the floor. She lay down but kept her head up, watching every move the men made. She turned to see how the Baroness was reacting, but the woman was gone. _Figures_, she fumed. _Takes off at the first sign of trouble._

There was no doubt about it– they were professionals at this. The way they moved and carried their guns spoke of long practice with this type of activity. None of the other men spoke; they simply waited for the guests to finish before moving about the room with black bags, collecting the various items scattered along the floor.

The leader came to the bottom of the stairway and gestured to one of his men, who stopped and looked up expectantly. "Time to find the storage room, I think. These ladies must have their purses somewhere."

Alison's stomach sank. If they searched everyone's purses, they would find her gun and military ID. She had brought her standard issue card along to facilitate the transport of her weapon. Now it seemed like they would get her into trouble rather than out of it. The men probably wouldn't be too thrilled about the idea of an American soldier being present to witness the event._ But what will they do about it?_ She wondered.

The leader scanned the room. "Take one of the guests with you to help."

Alison couldn't pass up the opportunity. She shifted just enough to draw the man's attention with her movement. As she had hoped, his gaze settled directly on her. She met his eyes briefly, trying to look frightened and intimidated.

"Her," the man ordered, gesturing at Alison. The second man pulled her to her feet and tore off her mask. She flinched. He didn't laugh, but simply pushed her toward the main hallway. She cowered back from his touch, but didn't speak, walking out of the ballroom. He held his gun loosely in her direction; not quite threatening, but ready.

She saw immediately that there was another man stationed at the front door. Sir Morlowe's two security men were bound and gagged on the floor nearby, along with one of the footmen. Her captive nodded at his coworker. "Still all clear up here?"

"All clear," he responded. "The R Sigs must have gotten the decoy. We won't hear a peep all night."

Alison stumbled for a moment, stunned. _The R Sigs? Why would the communications branch of the Special Air Service be monitoring a group of thieves? _The answer hit her almost immediately. _These men are IRA._

She considered the possibility. The Irish Republican Army was well-known for activities like this all across Britain and Ireland. It was a major source of their funding for arms and their political movement, the Sinn Fein.

Not that it changed anything about the situation, but... Alison held a very strong dislike for the IRA, having lived in Dublin while working on her Master's Degree. She had witnessed the after effects of bombings and other attacks, and had even been held hostage for a short time with a small group of classmates once. Her stomach roiled at the thought of the group's continuing violence and crime. _Damn it Alison!_ She swore to herself. _Aren't you part of the best anti-terrorist group in the world?_ She began to plan.

The hand on her arm jerked her to a stop. "Where were the purses and jackets taken?" Her captor asked.

She nodded toward a hallway to the left of the main entrance. "Down there, I think," she replied. "I don't know which door, though."

He pulled her along, ducking his head into the rooms as they passed, exposing pantries and linen closets. She waited until he was about to push open the next door, and purposefully tripped. Her sudden shift pulled the man off balance, and he tried to steady her by reflex.

He threw out his gun arm as a counterweight, and she sprang upwards, bringing the flat of her palm hard to the underside of his chin. His head snapped back and he hit the floor. She jabbed him in the side of the neck, knocking him unconscious. She had made hardly a sound, but listened for a reaction from the front hallway. Nothing.

Alison opened the cloak room door and dragged him inside. It was a large closet, but there wasn't a lot of extra room to maneuver. She scanned the garments and quickly found what she needed. Using the belts of various coats, she bound and gagged the man, then ducked back into the hallway for his weapon.

She placed the automatic rifle under a pile of wraps and cardigans and groped through the nearby purses until she found a cell phone. She dialed 999 for the British police emergency service and waited.

A woman answered on the third ring, and Alison explained the situation. "This is Alison Burnett calling from Sir Morlowe's home in Saffron Walden. A number of men with automatic weapons have entered the house. There are approximately one hundred people here in attendance at a party. The men haven't hurt anyone yet, but..." _But what? _She wondered. _If the terrorist branch of the Metropolitan Police shows up, there could very well be casualties. They had said they wouldn't hurt anyone if we cooperated, and I'm not exactly cooperating, am I?_

The woman made her repeat the information, then handed the phone to someone else. The man identified himself as a member of the Specialist Operations branch of the Met, and asked her to describe the men.

She told him about the military gear and face masks, and there was a long pause on his end of the line. When he spoke again, he said, "Alright, miss. I'm going to transfer you to Corporal Hart. He's with the SAS. They've been keeping tabs on this group– he'll want whatever information you can give him. Are you in a safe place?"

It took her a moment to answer. _Corporal Hart? What are the odds?_ "Yes, I think I'm safe for now."

Another man came on the line. "Miss– Burnett?-- This is Corporal Hart. I understand you're at Ian Marlowe's property right now?"

"Yes, in Saffron Walden. I don't know the exact address-"

"That's fine. We know where you are. In fact, I and a section of men are on our way right now. We've been monitoring communications from this group for a while. Can you tell me how many men there are?"

"I saw six, though there might be more outside. I have one of them tied up here, though, so I suppose that leaves five inside."

There was a long pause. "Did you say you tied one of them up?"

"Well...yes." She sighed. _Time for the big admission_. "I'm with the American Army. I was afraid they would find my ID..." she ended weakly, reluctant to mention her gun.

"May I ask if you are active right now?"

"No, I'm on leave. Does it really matter?" Alison responded.

"No... It's just that we have two of your military men with us right now. Just curious. Miss, I must ask that you do not take any further action. You do understand that there are lives at stake?"

She gritted her teeth. "Yes, I do. And now there's one less man left to hurt these people." _And it seemed like a good idea at the time,_ she added to herself.

"Are these men IRA?" she asked, changing the subject.

"Did one of them say something that gave you that idea?"

"Well, you're SAS, aren't you?" she replied. "And yes, one of the men mentioned a decoy transmission picked up by the R Sigs."

"I see. How long do you think before they notice their missing man? Can you stay hidden and keep this phone available?"

"I was supposed to help collect money from the guests' purses. They'll probably be wondering where were are soon."

"Can you move to a safer location?" he asked her.

"Yes, I think so."

"Good. Find a hiding spot and stay there. Call us if you hear shots from inside the house or if anything changes. And be careful." Corporal Hart ended the call.

Alison took a few calming breaths. She considered taking the man's gun with her, but her outfit wasn't exactly a dearth of hiding places. Instead she found her purse, and tucked her own gun in the back of the band around her hips. She tucked the cell phone in, too. _Okay, so long as they don't get a good look at me, I'm fine..._

She looked out into the hallway. Clear. Moving as quietly as she could, she reached the opening to the main front hall. Crouching low, she peeked around the corner to check the status of the man guarding the front door.

The man was unconscious on the floor. The Baroness stood over him with a knife, ready to strike. Alison sprang from her crouch and hissed, "Baroness! Don't you dare!"

The other woman swung around, knife held at the ready. When she saw who it was, she lowered the blade and said, "Oh, it's you. Really dear," she kicked the man on the floor. "You have too many scruples. What do you suggest?"

Alison sighed. "There's another man tied in the coat room. Let's put him there." She walked over, stopping near the bound security men and footman. "I'm sorry, but I can't untie you," she told them. "If someone sees the men gone, that's one thing. If they see you untied, they'll know something is wrong. You'll be fine."

She ignored the pleading look in their eyes and bent to pick up the unconscious attacker. The Baroness followed behind as Alison carried the man to the other room. They left him bound with the other, covering them as best they could with coats. Anyone really looking would see them fairly quickly but a in a hurried search might miss the two bulky forms.

"Baroness. Leave the gun. You're just making yourself a target," Alison told her companion.

"Not a chance, darling." The Baroness clutched the second man's automatic rifle in her hand.

"If those men feel threatened, they may start shooting. You must have friends here– that's really stretching the term, by the way– do you want them to get shot?"

The Baroness shrugged and tucked the gun under the pile of clothing.

They made it to the front stairway and onto the second floor. Alison pulled the other woman into an empty room and closed the door. She glanced out of the window, but the night was black, and she could see nothing. She stood for a moment, contemplating the situation.

A soft rustle of fabric was Alison's only warning. She spun around and sidestepped out of the Baroness' reach. "What are you doing?" She demanded.

The Baroness regarded her coldly. "You tell me to leave the gun behind, and now I see that you're armed. What am I supposed to think, you two-timing Joe?"

Alison stood with her back to the wall, refusing to give the other woman another chance to make a grab for it. "Where exactly would you hide an automatic rifle wearing that outfit?"

"Fine. What do we do now?" The Baroness stood, arms crossed, glaring.

"Nothing. There's a Corporal with a section of SAS men on their way. We wait."

The Baroness stared at her incredulously. "You are going to sit around waiting for a group of _men_ to rescue you? And then what– go home and tell your CO that you stood around doing nothing while a group of six men who wouldn't even make it through the first week of Cobra training robbed every guest at the party, including you?"

Alison narrowed her eyes, responding quietly, "I am not on duty. I am also not a vigilante. These men are IRA, and yes, I am going to wait for the SAS to do their job."

Her statement earned a sneer from the other woman. "Scarlett would have all of these men hanging from the chandeliers by now."

"Oh, that's it!" Alison hissed. She moved forward, but stopped mid-motion as she saw the door open. One of the thieves stood looking at them with open amazement. He had been searching the rooms for loot, and was completely taken aback at their presence.

Before he could recover, Alison pulled her gun and yelled to the Baroness, "Duck!"

The blast of gunfire echoed in the tiny room. "Shit," Alison muttered. She walked to the man on the ground. Her shot had taken him in the shoulder, precisely as a shot to disable should. Perfectly by the book. If she wasn't technically a civilian right now, that is. Different books tended to apply to off-duty soldiers in foreign countries.

The Baroness was climbing to her feet. She glanced at the man, then looked to the Joe. "Nice. I think they may want to investigate that. You're the expert at retreat here. Now what?"

"Shut up." Alison forced open the window and looked down. The outdoor balcony leading to the ballroom was below. It was a drop of about fifteen feet to the railed ledge, and another ten to the ground.

She climbed up on the sill and turned to her temporary ally. "Good luck with this in those boots,"she called, dropping off the edge.

The Baroness swore and followed after, pausing long enough to remove the injured man's rifle and sling it around her shoulder..


	3. Vigilante

Alison landed on the balcony with a soft thump, her sandals absorbing less of the impact than her combat boots would have. She swore softly and ducked against the wall of the house, hoping her feet would stop stinging soon.

She watched as the Baroness landed next to her. She swore again; the woman had brought along the man's gun. _ Terrific_, she thought sarcastically. _This is just where I want to be right now_.

In truth, her blood was pumping and she felt good. She had been dreading the evening, planning on writing it off as another torturous session of boredom and forced joviality. But, she had to admit, things were certainly not boring now.

She signaled to the Baroness, pointing up at the window, then over the railing. She got the point. They hopped over the marble rail and landed next to each other in the soft dirt of a flower garden. Moving quickly, they crept along the side of the house and around the corner. And hopefully out of sight of anyone looking for the person responsible for leaving one of the men bleeding in an upstairs bedroom.

They paused to catch their breath and to plan the next step. "Okay, Baroness. You win. This has gone too far to just sit and wait for the cavalry to arrive. I say we take out any guards on the outside first, then move back inside to take care of the others."

Her long-time enemy regarded her over the tops of her glasses. "Is that an order?" she asked haughtily.

Alison rolled her eyes. "It was a suggestion. Do you have a better idea?"

The Baroness didn't answer, but simply rose and headed toward the front of the house. Alison followed, willing to let the other woman expose herself first to the possible dangers ahead.

They reached the front corner. Under the light cast by the half-moon, they could see at least three more men. One was standing near the 'getaway car,' in this case an armored jeep. He was apparently also monitoring communications; they could hear the static of a police radio coming from inside the vehicle.

The two other men were spread farther apart. One was near the guests' cars, going through them and searching for anything of value. The other was on lookout farther down the drive.

"I'm going to take out the watchman. Wait until I'm close enough, then take out the man near the jeep. Once they're down, approach the man going through the cars. Act like you don't know what's going on; he'll probably believe you." _And if he doesn't,_ she added silently, _I'm not gonna cry about it._ "Just keep him distracted until I can reach him."

She looked her companion in the eye. "Do I need to remind you that noise is not a good idea?"

To her surprise, the Baroness didn't argue. She merely nodded, already planning her strategy. She ghosted away, leaving Alison to head around the shrubbery and down the drive.

Alison waited for the guard to shift positions and turn away from her. She stepped onto the pavement_. I'm not going to be able to sneak up on him, so…_

The man turned back toward the house and saw her immediately. She could see his eyes widen, and he raised his gun, leveling it at her midsection.

Alison raised her hands, walking a few steps forward. She got just close enough for him to see her clearly, and said in perfect Irish Gaelic, "An Ireland of Equals."

He visibly relaxed upon hearing the motto of the Sinn Fein political party. After all, they did have supporters everywhere.

She stepped closer as he lowered the gun. He watched her calmly and asked, still in Gaelic, "What did Sean send you out here for, then?"

She smiled and moved a step closer. "They're almost done. Bit of a hang-up with Sir Ian, that's all." She continued to smile as she grabbed his rifle and punched him in the face as hard as she could.

He fell on his backside, leaving her in possession of the gun. She swung it around and brought the butt of the gun against his temple. He fell, and she crouched next to him, checking for a pulse and feeling relieved that he was still alive. It was always dicey: hit a man hard enough, and he could die; don't hit him hard enough and he could kill you.

She looked down at the weapon in her hand. _Not much sense in stealth now_, she thought. _Might as well bring it along. _She slung the strap of the rifle over her shoulder.

Alison cautiously made her way to the parking area. The Baroness was standing near the third terrorist, who looked suspicious and angry. He was gesturing back to the house, and she was shaking her head emphatically.

Alison moved between the cars, getting as close as she could to the man. He was standing near the driver's side door of an antique Bently. She snuck around the front of the car, moving toward the open door.

The man looked down in surprise as she slammed her shoulder into the door, swinging it shut. It caught him in the stomach and knees, but he recovered quickly, shoving the door back and knocking her against the hood. She fumbled to stay upright, fear gripping her as the barrel of the gun swung towards her.

Then the man crumpled.

Alison looked up, shocked. The Baroness stood above the man, rubbing the side of her hand. "Beautifully executed plan," she sneered.

"Eh. I could have taken him."

The Baroness let out a short burst of laughter. "Whatever you say, dear." She turned and walked back toward the house.

Alison followed, grumbling under her breath.

They climbed back up the balcony outside the French doors of the Ballroom, figuring it would give them the best view of what was happening inside.

The three men that were left were standing in a tight group; the leader was gesticulating wildly, pointing to the top of the stairs and obviously berating his men. They all seemed uncertain, especially since they had no idea who was behind the disappearance of the others.

"So," the Baroness whispered casually, "Where's your precious SAS? Stuck in traffic?"

Alison ignored her, thinking. If she were in the man's position, she would have the two subordinates make another round of the house together while she stayed with the guests. Or she would make certain that it turned into a hostage situation. The number of terrorists who got away clean was higher than most people thought. Things like this happened all the time, all over the world.

She watched in amazement as the two men instead began picking up the bags of valuables. They headed toward the front door.

"Unbelievable. He's going to try to run," she whispered.

"And we're not going to let them." The Baroness replied.

Alison looked over at her. "You're beginning to act suspiciously like one of the good guys, you know that?"

"Hmpf. It's a matter of principle. They tried to rob me."

"Oooookay. Whatever you say. You know, the Joes could use-"

"Pshaw-- in another dimension, dear," she replied sarcastically. "I'm loyal to Cobra. Well, Destro, anyway."

They were moving together around the side of the house again, hoping to take the two men by surprise. They reached the front corner, and were about to glance around the edge when both men stepped into view, guns leveled.

"Shit," Alison and the Baroness said together.

They put their hands up, unable to feign innocence as both of them had rifles stolen from the terrorists themselves slung over their shoulders_. Oh, please don't let me die next to her…_ Alison pleaded silently.


	4. End

The men gestured to the front entrance. The two women rose slowly, and exchanged a glance and a nod. In unison, they each kicked out, striking the men's weapons. Alison brought her own rifle around with both hands and drove it sideways into one man's face. The Baroness used the other man's own gun, grabbing it by the barrel and shoving the butt violently into his chin. They both fell with hardly a sound.

The women shared a cautious smile.

The Baroness broke the silence first. "I still think you look like a tramp."

"And I still think you look like a bimbo."

They nodded once and headed toward the front door.

The two women took the servants' hallway back toward the kitchen, threading their way through the culinary equipment and toward the door leading to the Ballroom. Alison cautiously looked into the large room. The leader was standing on the third step, radio in hand. He was obviously getting no reply from the two men.

She had a clear shot. The question was, could she shoot the man in front of a hundred of her mother's acquaintances? _Wait a minute_, she thought. _What a stupid question. It would mean I'll never be invited to another party again._

She ducked back into the kitchen and took out her Beretta, keeping the rifle slung over her shoulder. "Open the door for me," she told the Baroness.

The woman regarded her for a moment. "You know, you're starting to act suspiciously like one of the bad guys. Cobra could use-"

"Shut up and open the door for me."

Alison took a deep breath.

The Baroness jerked the door open, and Alison swung around the corner, bringing the gun to bear on the leader.

He turned at the noise, and she fired.

All Hell broke loose. Everyone started screaming. Many of the men jumped to their feet, to do what, she didn't know.

She and the Baroness walked calmly into the room. Alison tried to get the crowd to settle down, but her voice was swallowed in the overall noise.

What did get everyone's attention, though, was the shattering of the French windows. Three armed soldiers burst into the room, guns held at the ready. Most of the guests fell back to the floor. Alison swung around to the other exits. Another six men entered, also armed. _About time_, she thought._ SAS equals slow ass soldiers…_

They all leveled their guns at her. It took her a moment to realize she still held her handgun and had an automatic rifle hanging at her side. She slowly placed the smaller gun on the ground and put her hands in the air.

She turned to the Baroness, only to find the woman lying on the ground near her, a stolen feathered mask on her face. Her rifle was several feet across the room, making her look just like another one of the guests. Alison couldn't be sure, but she thought her expression was rather smug. She shot her a glare.

One of the men barked out, "Keep your hands up and do not move. If you move we will be forced to shoot." He gestured to one of his men, who stepped carefully forward to remove her rifle.

She told him in a calm voice, "I am not with the men who attacked here tonight. I am here as guest of Ian Morlowe. I'm a grade E-4 soldier with the American Army, and I'm the one who called the Met earlier." The man gave her an incredulous look as he grabbed her arms and pulled them behind her back.

One of the men lying on the floor called out, "She shot the man who was holding us hostage."

A man with a Corporal's badge walked up to them, signaling the other to continue holding her, but not to handcuff her yet.

He looked her up and down. Her costume was dirty and torn, revealing even more of her now than it had earlier. She followed his gaze, blushing slightly as he raised an eyebrow.

"So this is our little soldier. Or so you say." He glanced down again. "I don't suppose you have any ID on you?"

She shook her head. "Obviously not. My purse is in the coatroom..."

A powerful voice boomed out behind her. "I can vouch for this soldier, Corporal."

_Oh, God, not him,_ Alison thought, closing her eyes. She knew that voice_. Two American military men, he told me. Why did it have to be-_

She opened her eyes again and looked up. Hawk stood in front of her, arms crossed, looking extremely pissed off.

_Oh, I am dead._ "Sir," she said, squirming under his gaze.

Hawk gestured to the man holding her arms, who let go quickly and backed away. Alison fired off a salute and did her best to stand at attention.

At least two of the SAS men snickered, but she didn't dare look away from her commanding officer.

He studied her for a moment, then said, "Corporal Hart, please have one of your men escort this soldier to an empty room. Make sure she waits there for me."

"Sir, I could take her," spoke another voice from behind Hawk.

Alison's eyes opened wide as she turned her head toward the sound. She hadn't even seen him standing there.

Flint gave her a lopsided grin as Hawk nodded his approval.

Neither of them said a word as they headed toward the front of the house. He led her to a library near the front entrance, and shut the door.

He tried to give her a stern glare, but kept breaking into that damnable grin. "Boy, are you up shit's creek," he told her.

"I don't want to hear a word," she replied, glaring.

He raised an eyebrow at her, eyes sparkling.

"Not. A. Word."

"I wasn't saying anything," he laughed. "By the way, nice outfit. What are you supposed to be?"

"A wealthy partygoer who's been attacked by terrorists," she hissed.

He burst into laughter again, and leaned in close. He put his mouth close to her ear and whispered, "I don't think I've ever been this turned on in my life. You represent at least three of my favorite fantasies right now."

She pushed him away, but couldn't help smiling a little. "And what would those be?"

"Damsel in distress-" he put up a hand to forestall her argument. "I know, I know. But it's the clothes. Ripped dress, dirt smudged on your face…"

She gave him another glare. "Continue."

He smiled. "warrior woman…"

"Aren't I usually?"

"Yes, but I know how you get after you've been fighting Cobra… all that adrenaline…"

She blushed furiously. "Number three?"

He leaned in close again. "Bad girl. You are in sooooo much trouble…"

She smacked him on the shoulder. "You know, you almost had me distracted there for a minute. Thanks a lot."

There was a short knock on the door and Hawk entered the room.

He stood for a moment, giving her his trademark badass stare.

She tried to meet his gaze, but ended up looking at the floor.

Hawk cleared his throat. "Does your mother know you dress like that?"

That wasn't what she had been expecting. Her jaw dropped. She shut it with a snap and replied, "My mother bought me this outfit." His eyebrows raised. "I wanted to shop for something else, but my plane was delayed, and…" she stopped and swallowed. He always managed to put her off guard.

"Care to explain what happened here tonight? I've got a pissed off Corporal with the SAS to speak with later. At great length, I'm sure."

_Oh, boy, is he mad_. She straightened her spine and gave the basics of the evening, trying to leave out a few choice details. Like the Baroness. She got to the point in the evening when she had taken down the man in the driveway when Hawk stopped her.

"I can understand why you felt you had to attack the first man. If they had found your weapon and ID, they probably would have felt they needed to deal with the problem. I see that you had no choice but to shoot the man who burst into the room."

He leaned closer, voice a low menacing growl. "What I don't understand is why you decided to take on the rest of the group single-handedly, especially since you knew that the SAS was on the way."

She gulped, and replied, "Once I got started, it was kind of hard to stop…"

He paced around the room for a moment. "Flint and I were here on a recruiting mission. We were invited along to this raid to watch some of the Corporal's men in action. Not only did I miss that opportunity but," his mouth twitched at the corner, "I now have the SAS trying to recruit _you_."

"Sir?" she asked weakly.

"The Corporal admitted he was very impressed by you. Mad as Hell, but impressed. I'm considering his offer if only to get you out of my hair. I might expect something like this from Scarlett, but I had thought you were more responsible."

"With all due respect, Sir," Flint spoke up, "This_ is_ what we're trained for. I doubt anyone on the team would have stood by and done nothing tonight. Besides," he smiled, "this story is going to get around the SAS faster than Shipwreck at a bachelorette party. You did mention something about the Corporal not showing enough respect for the G.I. Joe team…"

Hawk was trying very hard not to smile. "So I did. Mmmm… Well, I suppose that Corporal Hart can be convinced to be a little vague in the details of his report. The men were stopped tonight, after all."

Alison felt a flood of relief. Until Hawk returned his gaze to her, at which point her stomach dropped back to its previous position.

"_You_ are not off the hook. I am going to spend the entire trip home thinking of an appropriate punishment for you," he told her. "Your leave is over effective immediately. You will be returning to base with us."

Hawk turned to Flint. "You might as well head back to the hotel. I have the feeling I'm going to be here a while. Take her," he jerked a thumb at Alison, "with you. Make sure she understands her life is going to be utter Hell when we get back. Feel free to use whatever disciplinary measures you think are necessary to get the point across."

Fortunately Hawk had turned to glare at Alison again, and he missed the expression on Flint's face.

"Yes, sir!" Flint answered, biting his lips to keep from laughing.

She hoped Hawk would mistake the blush across her cheeks for anything but what it was. _I guess that pretty much confirms Hawk's cluelessness about us_, she thought.

They managed to hold it in until they were outside. Flint doubled over, wheezing with choked back mirth. "Well, we'd better get back to the hotel. I've got some disciplining to do..." He barely managed to finish the sentence before being overcome with laughter again.

"Fine, mister Warrant Officer, sir." She smacked him on the back of the head. "Keep it up and you'll see just how far your authority gets you." She turned toward the parking area. "My limo is over here, but we may have to drive it ourselves…"

Alison stopped short as she saw the masked figure leaning against the antique Bently. "You put a dent in my door," the Baroness told her.

"Ah, sorry about that…" She glanced up at Flint, but he didn't seem to notice anything wrong.

"Don't worry about it," the Baroness told her, also glancing at Flint. "I figure we're even, anyway. Maybe I'll see you again sometime at another party."

Alison nodded, and they continued toward her limo.

"Who was that?" Flint asked her.

"Oh, just an old…acquaintance." She smiled to herself. "We bump into each other now and again. We seem to run in the same circles."


End file.

G. I. Joe, Adventure, Humor