“Bloodshed as a motivator cannot be underestimated.
What is more compelling?
Legislation? Compassion? Hardly!”
- Father Abraham
“Two minutes to touch down, ladies. We all ready?” barked Simon through the intercom.
The squad yelled their assent. The drop ship zoomed low over a sea of suburban houses of Greencastle, Pennsylvania. It was a breezy night. The populace was asleep in their beds, with only the occasional dog barking at the passing ship floating across the sky.
“Remember, this one's got a lot riding on it. Live fire, multiple hostiles, fifty odd armed on last count. Lots of opportunity for getting it wrong! Otto, you're with me, Cass and Norbert, you're both coming up behind. Em and Lucas, you're providing support for the ground crew. Just keep the bastards busy while we dig 'em out from the inside,” said Simon, “Keep your bloody eyes peeled, and don't fire until I give the signal. If you forgot to go to the can, cross your legs or do it in your pants. Otto, what the Hell is that?”
Otto looked down to where Simon was pointing. It was his stun gun, holstered at his side.
“We aren't here to give them massages, yeah? You got anything lethal?”
“I've got my pistol as well. If necessary I can subdue without force and without noise.”
“Yeah, well if you want a silent weapon, go for a blade. If you want a ranged one, go for a gun. Screw that stun gun crap,” said Simon testily, taking the stun gun from Ottavio and tossing it into a crate, “If you're taking someone down, don't give them a second option, just drop 'em. A bullet in the skull is hard to argue with.”
“Sir.”
Norbert looked over at the two, but said nothing.
With all the grace of a swan the drop ship pulled to a stop, hovering a meter off the ground, silently whooshing, while the crew hopped off. It was a new design, the AePC-S, developed by the laboratories and workshops of Houston's subsidiary, RD-Tech.
Lightly armored and extremely quiet, it was not as fast or as capacious as the AePC-G, but it sailed silently and stealthily, perfect for the drop off without alerting the target.
A second and third drop ship pulled up nearby and soon the street was crawling with agents and grunts. They gathered around Simon.
“Listen up, because I'm bloody interesting and I don't like to repeat myself. This is going to be a smooth op. Fawkner's been running drug operations in this region for ages. He's got the surrounding population shitting their pants. What's left of commerce is crippled because they're either paying protection money, their staff are goofed up on gas, or they've had so much nicked there's nothing left to sell. In short, we gotta stop the bad guy.”
“Before we can dismantle the op, we've got to take out the king pin and we've got good intel that the bugger is located within the compound tonight, along with his two right hand men,” said Simon, “We take them out, the whole operation turns to crap, the region can recover and we can all give ourselves a pat on the back. Captain Jolimont.”
Jolimont, a heavily built, mustached man of thirty, stood to attention, “Yes, sir?”
“Captain, divide up your men into three, cover the South and Eastern gates and spare the rest to get Agent Lucas and Agent Emily up to their positions. They're your eyes and ears and must be protected at all costs. Don't move on the compound, but if you can take out any of the sods at a distance, be my guest. The main thing is to stay out of range, keep them busy and above all, don't get hurt!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Oh, and no one, and I mean no one is to let out a fart until my say so, right?”
“Yessir,” said the captain.
A member in the ranks broke wind noisily. A general snicker waved through Jolimont's men.
Simon glared at them. He turned to his own crew, “Em, grab your gear and get going. Come on, mates, let's leave these pussies.”
Emily and Lucas trotted off with a group of grunts and headed toward an old water tower to set up. The others headed a little way over to a grate covering a sewer.
“Geez, there's something evil down there,” whispered Ottavio, sniffing the air, “Can't we skip the scenic route?”
Simon glowered at him, “You were at the briefing too, remember? Stop being a bitch and get down there.”
He heaved it out of the way, and the four of them lowered themselves down into the stinking hole.
Cassandra crinkled her nose. It was dark, it was smelly and her foot was firmly entrenched in something uncomfortably yielding.
“You guys can sure pick a nice place to take a lady,” she mused.
“If you like the atmosphere, just wait until you've tried the food,” sniffed Ottavio.
“Gross. I think I'll pass on the braised beef,” giggled Cassandra, “Considering you're standing in it.”
Simon growled, “Knock it off! We're on the clock. Come on, Norbert, light up the tunnel, already!”
White torchlight flooded the chamber. A cluster of muttrats, feasting on goodness knows what, scampered noisily away.
Both Simon and Ottavio drew their weapons. Simon had a medium blade, well weighted for short, sharp thrusts at close quarters. Ottavio instead had a HK 17, suppressed with a flash guard and silencer. He held it at the ready, watching down the tunnel for any sign of movement.
A muttrat scampered past, missing its opportunity to run off with the others. Simon pounced forward and eagerly cleft its head off with a single stroke, barely breaking his stride.
The cat sized body wriggled and squirmed as the life bled out into the black sewer waters.
Cassandra winced at the bleeding mess.
“Was that even necessary?” she asked, side stepping the shivering carcass, still sploshing in the shallow water.
“Should have pissed off with the others,” mumbled Norbert.
“Shut up and stay sharp,” said Simon.
The team trooped on a bit further until they stood next to an entrance point, complete with a slimy, rusted ladder.
“Righto, mates, this is the spot. Norbert, kill the lights. Otto, get your scrawny ass to the top and tell me what you've got,” ordered Simon.
Although rusted on the surface, the ladder felt sturdy enough, if not a little slippery from the copious amount of biological matter growing on it.
He reached the top. A grill covered the way, which led to a courtyard, complete with a fountain, trees and flowering plants.
For a second Ottavio was impressed by the sight as the moon's rays sparkled lightly in the hissing fountain. A slight breeze rocked the leaves of the plants gently, creating an exuberant hush.
“Well?” asked Simon in the commlink.
“It's got a cover, firmly in place. Leads to a courtyard.”
“Anyone about?”
“Not that I can see,” said Ottavio, poking a mirror up through the grill and scanning, “Nope, nothing.”
“Strange, it's supposed to be full tonight. Alright, makes it a little easier I guess. Have a go at the cover, yeah?”
Ottavio pushed gently on the grill, but it did not move. He heaved a little more, scared to push too hard lest it pop off violently, or squeak and alert a passerby. Still it did not budge.
Determined not to be shown up by a piece of rusted metal, he locked his leg firmly against the ladder and pushed hard. A loud crack resonated down the hole and out across the courtyard.
“Damn it, Otto!” hissed Simon in the commlink, “I said have a go, not break the bloody thing!”
Ottavio stayed perfectly still, listening. A voice sounded above him, a little far off. It was rejoined by another. They had heard the noise indeed, and were investigating. Eventually two sets of footsteps echoed down through the grill.
“Eh, I heard something alright,” said a gruff, male voice, “Wasn't a gunshot. I know a gun when I hear it.”
“Well shut up and keep looking,” said the other, slightly whiny voice.
“Look for what, but? It's not a gun.”
“Yeah, you said that. Hmm, let me think. Oh, I know, how about you shut your hole and look for something that goes 'crack', yeah?”
The first voice sounded peeved, “Oh, all right smart ass. Well I know what goes 'crack', your skull under my fist!”
The second feigned a laugh, “Don't start stuff you can't finish, yeah? Remember you and Khrushchev? He wiped the floor with you!”
“That didn't count. Wasn't a fair fight. He played dirty. Went for the eyes and balls. He wasn't a fighter, he was a scrapper. Glad he's gone.”
“Yeah, well whatever worked for him. Whatever happened to him, anyway? Haven't seen him for a good while.”
“He's gone. You know...”
“No, I don't. What?”
“You're telling me you don't know?”
“No.”
“You're having a lend, eh?”
“Are you going to tell me, or am I going to have to feed you a knuckle sandwich.”
The footsteps stopped. The first voice lowered to a whisper, “I heard he tried it on with her!”
“Bullshit! He never did!”
“Shh! It's on the hush, right? I can't believe you haven't heard. Alright. Well Helmut told me the old dog got stuck into the juice, right, plonks on the bed out goes out like a light, while the missus, well, you know her. Eh? You know what she's like! Anyway, and Khrushchev thinks he's in with a chance, see, seein' as she can't say no and all that, and next thing he's going in to get himself some.”
“Right!”
“And then Fawkner gets up and staggers in on the both of them going at it!”
A shrill whistle of interest sounded from the second body, “Suppose he did him there and then.”
“Nah, that's the thing, see? He doesn't lose it or nothing. Well, he just wanders on past like nothing's wrong in the world, right, straight out of the room and hits the can. Khrushchev, well, he thinks he's still up on the grog and shit, and that he's got a free ticket, so he goes back to her, you know, second helping.”
“Right!”
“Next thing, bam! Fawkner's put a harpoon through his kneecap, pinning him to the bed. A bloody harpoon!”
The second voice whistled softly, “Just like that, eh?”
“Just like that. Well, that's how Helmut put it, anyway.”
“How'd he see it?”
“Ha! Don't tell anyone, but he was hiding a bit about, hoping for a crack hisself after Khrushchev finished up. Can't say I haven't thought about it, neither, but I'm not game. Apparently Fawkner had the sorry asshole skinned.”
“Get out! Alive?”
“Yup. Guess you weren't here after all.”
“Why not just put a bullet in him?”
“Dunno,” said the first voice, “Guess he wanted to show he's still top dog. Make an example and all that. Skinned! Oof, creeps me out. Ah, crap, there ain't nothing out here but mosquitoes and frogs and I'm gettin' bit. It was probably some punk kids and a fire cracker. And we're missing the game. Come on.”
Footsteps faded away, and the faint sound of a television could be heard, accompanied by whistles and mutterings.
“All clear,” Ottavio called through.
“Otto, please tell me you at least got that damn grill loose,” said Simon.
Ottavio inspected the grill. It was loose alright. The metal had not been moved in decades and the rust, dirt and salt that had built up had firmly sealed the edges with a solid crust. A crust that had now been fragmented and scattered across the courtyard.
“Yup,” said Ottavio, sheepishly.
“Well and good, mate. What did I tell you about keeping your implants under control, eh? Alright, when the coast is clear, you go up and keep me covered, and let me know when to come up.”
“Right,” said Ottavio, gently pushing the grill to one side.
It grumbled a bit but moved easily.
“Right, sir,” said Simon, “Norbert, you're bringing up the rear. Cass you stay close to Norbert. Otto and me do the fighting, yeah, you and Norb make a path and disarm stuff. Defend yourselves if you gotta, but don't poke your head out unnecessarily. Got it? Right? Too easy, let's go!”
Ottavio slipped out from the hole and rolled behind a bush, keeping his eyes and ears open. The game sounded particularly rousing. Whistles and hoots, dropped to jeering, a moment's silence, and then a loud roar.
“Poor sods,” he thought, “They've got no idea what's coming.”
Ottavio heard footsteps to his right.
“Hang five, sir, bandit returning,” he whispered.
“What's he up to?”
“He's heading this way.”
“Take him out. Quiet, this time.”
Ottavio watched the approach. Dressed in a leather vest and toting a banged up revolver, the ruffian's walk was a little out of step. Having come into a bit of extra cash, he had spent his ill-gotten gains on a bag of Whiz, the contents of which he had been repeatedly sampling. As he approached, Ottavio watched the glazed eyes as they darted about haphazardly.
“He's no threat, sir, just high.”
“Is he armed?”
“Yes, but...”
Simon hissed, “Then he's a threat. Take him out!”
The ruffian sauntered over to the bushes, a few feet from where Ottavio was crouching, and unzipped himself.
As he tinkled away, it dawned on his fuzzy brain that something did not seem right. In a haze, his mind informed him that it had noticed something interesting.
The stars? No. They were pretty, dancing around in circles as they should be, so that was not unusual. His brain fought harder. The bush? No, it was getting soaked in urine and its leaves were happily splashing liquid back onto his feet.
He turned slowly, trying his best to think. Urine sprayed on the cobbled ground, splashing noisily.
The game? No. The crickets? No. The grate. The grate had been moved! There was a big hole underneath it. Not that the hole was unusual, but the fact that he could see it without the obstructing bars was.
He staggered over to the hole, trailing urine, and looked in.
“Hello?” he called, leaning over slightly.
His eyes wiggled furiously as he scanned the darkness.
“Otto! Take that bastard out before someone hears him!” hissed Simon through the commlink.
Like a panther, Ottavio crept up behind him and grabbed his mouth, stifling a yelp. He pulled the head back and, with his right hand, expertly gripped the jugular, providing enough pressure to slow the blood flow.
Muffling and groaning, the ruffian fought back, grappling uselessly at Ottavio's vice-like grip, causing him to squeeze a little harder.
The victim's face went red, then purple, then he stopped struggling. Ottavio was left holding a limp body, which he carried over and tossed behind the bushes.
“Subject neutralized. Come on up, sir,” he said in his commlink, “I reckon we've got a few guys watching television. We move now and we've got the drop on them.”
In a few seconds Simon's head appeared. He took a defensive position and watched as Cassandra and Norbert followed. Ottavio replaced the grill. Simon looked at urine on the ground.
“That's not blood. Where's the body,” he asked.
“In the bushes.”
“There's no blood. Did you break his neck?”
“KO. Pinch the jugular...” said Ottavio, proudly.
“So he's not dead? Damn it, where is he?”
Ottavio furrowed his brow and motioned to the bushes. Simon took out his blade and drove it home into the ruffian's chest.
“That's taking him out,” he announced, “You see Otto? He won't get up now.”
“He was already knocked out,” Ottavio protested.
Simon waved his blade menacingly, “If his heart’s still beating, he can still get up. Now shut up and listen. We take out the guys watching the telly. Use that door on the right. Cass, check it out.”
She looked for a second at the body, then approached the glass door. Inside was dimly lit by the lights of an indoor swimming pool. She scanned the outside expertly.
“It's clean,” she said.
“Fantastic. Be sure to put that in your report.”
“I was just checking for traps,” she protested, “You don't think that they'd leave a...”
“That's great, really, just, ah, just open it, already,” whispered Simon, his blade held lightly in front of him.
Ottavio watched him as he flipped it from hand to hand. He looked agitated.
“You OK, sir?” he asked.
Simon was practically dancing on the spot.
“Never better,” he replied, “Cass, hurry up with that damn lock.”
Cassandra was already at work. In no time she grinned to herself, twisted her shim and it clicked obligingly.
They were inside, circumventing the pool and heading to the rear area. The shimmering lights from under the water danced on the walls and roof of an illustriously appointed room.
The sound of the game was coming from the parlor, up three stairs and to the left.
“What's the call?” signaled Ottavio.
Simon indicated for him to scout the room and report back. Norbert stayed at the door, keeping an eye out.
Ottavio crept closer, pushing himself against the wall and lightly stepping up each step, stealing a glance in the room.
A huge screen dominated the other wall, silhouetting three figures on a couch, while highlighting two others to the side. Another was asleep, or passed out, in a recliner. All manner of obscene and poorly spelled words were plastered across his face and naked chest.
Drunk, hollering and having a good time, all eyes were fixed squarely on the action in front of them.
Football was being broadcast. Even throughout the wars, and the poverty and disease that came with it, sport kept the human spirit alive. Even now, these drug dealers and pimps had put aside their violent, criminal natures to share time as people, as friends.
Ottavio felt a small pang of longing for the simpler time of his youth when he could hang out with his friends, get quietly drunk and solve the problems of the world on the shores of a beach.
Not that he regretted maturity, but sometimes, as now, he felt he had lost what is was to be with people, not as an Agent or as workmates, but as friends.
A controversially high tackle made the audience all yell and swear at the television in unison.
Ottavio relayed the information back to Simon, six hostiles, four seated, two standing, with at least three sidearms.
“They're mine,” signaled Simon, pushing Ottavio back.
Scowling, Simon readied his blade by his side and breathed heavily, eyes twitching. His eyes narrowed and his face started to turn red.
Ottavio, more than a little concerned, watched on as his body became a tense, trembling ball of muscle.
“Rrr-Yarg!” screamed Simon, launching himself into the room, hacking and slashing at anything that moved.
His blade flashed white, then red, as it danced from one body to another. Caught with utter surprise, his victims had hardly made a reach for their guns before they were gasping for air as their lungs filled with bubbly blood. The crowd on the television roared with delight, spurring Simon on.
Wild eyed, blood spattered and delirious with the taste of death, he jigged around the room, searching for anyone that might be hidden.
He slashed the couch, stabbed the corpses, spraying even more blood around the room. Ottavio slowly lowered his pistol and looked on, his shock played clearly on his face.
Before him was not Simon, the grumpy, fierce, gung-ho leader, but some kind of steroid-junky high up on gas.
Here was an animal, not a human. Here was a beast that relished in the power of taking a life, killing not to survive, but to fulfill some primal craving.
The bodies of his victims were his playthings, like a cat with a dead mouse he leered and prodded, hoping against hope that the flesh might be magically reanimated such that he could kill it again.
Ottavio turned away in disgust.
Norbert was standing behind him, watching over his shoulder with serious eyes.
“You disapprove, brother,” he whispered to Ottavio.
“It's not my place...”
“Cut the crap. I can see it on your face, man, and he will too. Don't let him see it.”
“But... Look!”
“I know, man, I know. Let him finish up. He won't stop until he's done. We'll cover the entrances, man, someone might well have heard or seen all that shit,” said Norbert and turned back to Cassandra. Ottavio followed.
“Hey!” said Simon, eventually popping back from the living room, “What gives? You were supposed to cover me, yeah?”
He was covered in red, none of it his own, from head to toe and panting heavily. He looked for all the world as if he had been running outside while it was storming tomatoes.
Ottavio tried to appear casual and shrugged.
“I did cover you,” said Ottavio, then added, “Not that there was any point.”
“Heh, yeah mate. Too right, I took 'em all out by myself. Did you see that? I had them bitches on the ground before they even knew I was there.”
“You could have let me know your intentions.”
Simon looked at him with narrow eyes, “Oh, jealous are we? Here's me, able to take out six armed men in the blink of an eye, and here's you, cowering in the doorway with your piss-ant pistol.”
“They were watching television.”
“Not any more.”