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Yep, another story. I was bored, so I started this. Let me know what you think. Cheers, Stryke.
THE MARTIAL LEGION
The man yelled in pain and fear as a burly guard threw him bodily through a doorway. He slammed into the damp stones at the other end and winced as his vertebrae protested. The guard chuckled and muttered something in his native language to his companion. Then the door slammed shut, somehow adding to the mustiness of the air inside the cell. The man backed up against the all, pulling his knees in close as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. A low cackle ensued from the darkest corner of the cell, and gradually a shadow came into view.
“ Who are you?!” shouted the man in fear.
“ Who am I?” A low voice, powerful yet sad. “ You came into my cell, who are you?”
“ I am Ant. Who then are you?”
The figure was silent for almost a minute.
“ So, Ant, what did you do?”
“ I was caught.”
“ Caught doing what?”
“ Just… caught. That is all I will tell you until I know to whom I speak.”
Another chuckle, a mirthless one.
“ You are persistent, Ant. I shall tell you whom I am.”
He leaned forward into the dim light of the cell.
“ I am Grix.” He said simply. Ant stifled a gasp in the choking air.
“ Grix? THE Grix? General Grix Thraves, Commander of the Martial Legions?” gasped Ant.
“ You are one of the Legion?” said Grix.
“ I am. My company was sent to find you. You are the General?”
“ Not any more, lad. Grix. Just Grix.”
Ant leant back, despondent.
“ A lot has happened since you disappeared six years ago, sir. I was wondering… what happened? Why did you leave?”
“ Don’t call me sir, lad. In answer to your question, I don’t rightly know. It wasn’t all my doing. I shall start the tale, but you shall have to help me.”
**
Nine years ago…
Grix sat alone in the room, a blue length of cloth clasped in his hands. He stared down at it, sorrow in his eyes. He was but a young fighter in the tournament, yet he had made it to the final. Now he must fight his friend, one who he had trained with and grown up with, and there was the very real possibility he must kill him. He sighed, and swiftly tied the cloth round his brow. This wasn’t what he had intended. He looked through the loosely tied wood gates that separated him from the baying crowds in the tightly packed arena. He saw filtered light play across his bare torso, illuminate the still wet scars he bore. He felt the warmth relieve him of some of the tiredness that coursed through him. He braced himself as a whistle sounded, then the doors erupted outwards. Grix walked slowly outwards, tight bandages wrapped over his fists. All around the large room a rope ran, and behind it people were literally piled on top of each other, baying for blood. Grix flicked his eyes across to the man standing opposite him, a long red welt running down from his right shoulder to left hip. Grix shuddered. The man’s name was Sniper. They had trained for many months together in the shadow of the mountain. All for this. Grix shook his head in sorrow, eyes downcast. He saw the bloodstains on the rough sand of the arena…. Smelt the death of the room. He set himself, fists outstretched. Sniper nodded, in honour. Grix nodded back. Then the second whistle sounded….
**
“ Everyone knows of that fight.” Said Ant, impatiently. “ You were forced to slay your friend in exchange for your freedom. Some may call that an unfair sacrifice.”
Grix still sat in the shadows, his breathing laboured.
“ Aye, some may. Yet others call it a just one. Anyway, it is pivotal to the events that shall follow.”
**
Grix stood, blood dripping from his head, Sniper laying at his feet. Sniper’s sword was lying metres away. Grix had his in his hand, pointing straight at Sniper’s throat.
“ Do it.” Rasped Sniper. “ Only one of us can leave this arena. I would that it was you.”
Grix shook his head.
“ You have saved my life, many times. I cannot kill you.”
“ And you have saved mine. Let me save yours this one last time.”
The crowd’s roar had become muted, a background noise. The smells of the arena were suddenly unbearable, the life’s blood of many men – Men that Grix had killed. He looked straight ahead, tears flooding from his eyes. He leant forward, slowly. He felt, through the blade, the soft impact as the point drove downwards. Then the noise rose, suddenly, and Grix looked down. Blood was spreading over the sand, slowly…
**
Grix sat back, wiping blood from his wounds, his sweat stained headband laying by his side. A knock resounded, and the door opened. A man in military uniform emerged, powerfully built.
“ Grix Thraves?”
Grix didn’t move.
“ I am General Honour. Er, may I sit?”
Grix nodded slowly, at the empty chair opposite him. The general sat.
“ We have a confession to make, Mr Thraves. This tournament isn’t run by the slavers that own you. It’s run by us. The US Army. We, er, were looking for recruits. A recruit.”
Grix didn’t move.
“ This was staged. I didn’t need to kill my friend?”
“ Well…”
Grix erupted out of his chair before the general had finished, foot outstretched. But the general was faster. A flurry of blows had immobilised Grix before he had even landed a blow. General Honour grimaced.
“ Yes, you needed to kill your friend. As did last year’s winner. And the year before. I had to kill to win. You have won membership of the Martial Legion.”
Grix’s brow furrowed.
“ The what?”
“ The Martial Legion. We are few in number. We do as the government commands. The elite of the elite. Only those trained in the martial arts will pass into ournumber.”
“ And why should I join this?” asked Grix.
“ To free yourself from slavery of this rotting land. The jungle’s of Asia are no place for you.”
“ Good offer. So you use this place to train me? By winning the tournament I have proven myself trained.”
General Honour leant forward, a grin splitting his features.
“ Oh no. Your training has just begun.”
**
THE MARTIAL LEGION
The man yelled in pain and fear as a burly guard threw him bodily through a doorway. He slammed into the damp stones at the other end and winced as his vertebrae protested. The guard chuckled and muttered something in his native language to his companion. Then the door slammed shut, somehow adding to the mustiness of the air inside the cell. The man backed up against the all, pulling his knees in close as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. A low cackle ensued from the darkest corner of the cell, and gradually a shadow came into view.
“ Who are you?!” shouted the man in fear.
“ Who am I?” A low voice, powerful yet sad. “ You came into my cell, who are you?”
“ I am Ant. Who then are you?”
The figure was silent for almost a minute.
“ So, Ant, what did you do?”
“ I was caught.”
“ Caught doing what?”
“ Just… caught. That is all I will tell you until I know to whom I speak.”
Another chuckle, a mirthless one.
“ You are persistent, Ant. I shall tell you whom I am.”
He leaned forward into the dim light of the cell.
“ I am Grix.” He said simply. Ant stifled a gasp in the choking air.
“ Grix? THE Grix? General Grix Thraves, Commander of the Martial Legions?” gasped Ant.
“ You are one of the Legion?” said Grix.
“ I am. My company was sent to find you. You are the General?”
“ Not any more, lad. Grix. Just Grix.”
Ant leant back, despondent.
“ A lot has happened since you disappeared six years ago, sir. I was wondering… what happened? Why did you leave?”
“ Don’t call me sir, lad. In answer to your question, I don’t rightly know. It wasn’t all my doing. I shall start the tale, but you shall have to help me.”
**
Nine years ago…
Grix sat alone in the room, a blue length of cloth clasped in his hands. He stared down at it, sorrow in his eyes. He was but a young fighter in the tournament, yet he had made it to the final. Now he must fight his friend, one who he had trained with and grown up with, and there was the very real possibility he must kill him. He sighed, and swiftly tied the cloth round his brow. This wasn’t what he had intended. He looked through the loosely tied wood gates that separated him from the baying crowds in the tightly packed arena. He saw filtered light play across his bare torso, illuminate the still wet scars he bore. He felt the warmth relieve him of some of the tiredness that coursed through him. He braced himself as a whistle sounded, then the doors erupted outwards. Grix walked slowly outwards, tight bandages wrapped over his fists. All around the large room a rope ran, and behind it people were literally piled on top of each other, baying for blood. Grix flicked his eyes across to the man standing opposite him, a long red welt running down from his right shoulder to left hip. Grix shuddered. The man’s name was Sniper. They had trained for many months together in the shadow of the mountain. All for this. Grix shook his head in sorrow, eyes downcast. He saw the bloodstains on the rough sand of the arena…. Smelt the death of the room. He set himself, fists outstretched. Sniper nodded, in honour. Grix nodded back. Then the second whistle sounded….
**
“ Everyone knows of that fight.” Said Ant, impatiently. “ You were forced to slay your friend in exchange for your freedom. Some may call that an unfair sacrifice.”
Grix still sat in the shadows, his breathing laboured.
“ Aye, some may. Yet others call it a just one. Anyway, it is pivotal to the events that shall follow.”
**
Grix stood, blood dripping from his head, Sniper laying at his feet. Sniper’s sword was lying metres away. Grix had his in his hand, pointing straight at Sniper’s throat.
“ Do it.” Rasped Sniper. “ Only one of us can leave this arena. I would that it was you.”
Grix shook his head.
“ You have saved my life, many times. I cannot kill you.”
“ And you have saved mine. Let me save yours this one last time.”
The crowd’s roar had become muted, a background noise. The smells of the arena were suddenly unbearable, the life’s blood of many men – Men that Grix had killed. He looked straight ahead, tears flooding from his eyes. He leant forward, slowly. He felt, through the blade, the soft impact as the point drove downwards. Then the noise rose, suddenly, and Grix looked down. Blood was spreading over the sand, slowly…
**
Grix sat back, wiping blood from his wounds, his sweat stained headband laying by his side. A knock resounded, and the door opened. A man in military uniform emerged, powerfully built.
“ Grix Thraves?”
Grix didn’t move.
“ I am General Honour. Er, may I sit?”
Grix nodded slowly, at the empty chair opposite him. The general sat.
“ We have a confession to make, Mr Thraves. This tournament isn’t run by the slavers that own you. It’s run by us. The US Army. We, er, were looking for recruits. A recruit.”
Grix didn’t move.
“ This was staged. I didn’t need to kill my friend?”
“ Well…”
Grix erupted out of his chair before the general had finished, foot outstretched. But the general was faster. A flurry of blows had immobilised Grix before he had even landed a blow. General Honour grimaced.
“ Yes, you needed to kill your friend. As did last year’s winner. And the year before. I had to kill to win. You have won membership of the Martial Legion.”
Grix’s brow furrowed.
“ The what?”
“ The Martial Legion. We are few in number. We do as the government commands. The elite of the elite. Only those trained in the martial arts will pass into ournumber.”
“ And why should I join this?” asked Grix.
“ To free yourself from slavery of this rotting land. The jungle’s of Asia are no place for you.”
“ Good offer. So you use this place to train me? By winning the tournament I have proven myself trained.”
General Honour leant forward, a grin splitting his features.
“ Oh no. Your training has just begun.”
**
Page:
strykey me ol mucka
you have way to much spare time
INCLUDE ME SOMEWHERE NEXT TIME!
you have way to much spare time
INCLUDE ME SOMEWHERE NEXT TIME!
WHY DOES IT DO THOSE STUPID QUESTION MARKS!?!
They're just speech marks - "
They're just speech marks - "
**
?You were captured at Loch Lomond?? asked Ant, curious.
Grix just smiled.
?If you were captured, how did you contact General Rasta?? asked Ant again.
Grix leant forward.
?You assume I went straight to Rasta after I killed AliBoy, correct??
He leant back.
?How could I? I was captured.?
?But you are Gri?? Ant stopped. He inclined his head to one side.
?That?s it lad. Think for yourself instead of letting Legion propaganda do it. I am Grix, yes. I am not the Grix Thraves the Legion wants you to see.?
Ant nodded, slowly.
?So you didn?t escape??
?No, lad. I?ve been here ever since.?
?Rotting?? muttered Ant. ?You know, when I saw you, I thought you?d be?well??
?Ten feet tall with fire shooting from my fingers?? Grix sounded amused.
Ant grinned sheepishly. ?And you?re just an old man, wasted.?
There was silence. Then Grix erupted from the shadows. Ant gaped. Instead of the wasted old man Ant had almost begun to believe in, he saw what he had always imagined. Grix Thraves, the legendary blue band twisted around one arm, rippling with muscles?
Ant felt one hand close around his throat, and Grix lifted him up, slamming him against the wall. He snarled.
?I am as ready as I ever was.?
Silver flecks sped across Ant?s eyes. He weakly tried some of the escape moves he had been taught. Grix laughed mockingly as he blocked them with ease.
?I invented those moves, boy.?
Then he sighed and let Ant go. The boy crashed to the ground gasping. He massaged his throat as Grix retreated back into the shadows.
?But?if you?re still as strong as you ever were?why haven?t you escaped??
Grix sighed.
?There you go again. The door is solid oak, seasoned. Whenever they open the door, and that?s happened twice in as many years, there are ten guards on the other side. My food is pushed under a flap in the floor. There is no way out.? Grix spat the last words.
Ant shook his head, head slumped. Then his head jerked back up again. Footsteps outside. He looked towards Grix. No movement.
?Grix?? he whispered. ?Gri??
The door swung open. Two guards stepped inside, guns drawn. Ant couldn?t see anymore. They were sweating, and looked hurried. One was bleeding heavily from an arm.
?Up.? Grunted one, in heavily accented English. ?Other??
Ant shrugged, but made no move to get up. A stone flew out of the shadows, landing behind the first guard. He turned reflexively. Grix erupted out of the shadows, hands flying. Ant gaped for the barest second, and then threw himself at the next guard, a flick-kick sending his machine gun scattering into a corner. Two jabs at the sides of the throat, and it was done. The guard collapsed to the ground, gaping for air as blood reversed it?s flow. His eyes filled with death-mist. Ant shook his head sorrowly. Killing was a deed of the damned. He looked across to where Grix was. Had been. He tossed a rifle from the other side of the room to Ant.
?How do you move so fast?? gaped Ant.
?I prefer not to be killed. Listen, there was only two guards. Something?s happening for them to be so lax. Watch out. Escaping the cell might not be to boon we wanted.?
Ant gulped as they edged out of the cell. Gunshots echoed around the stinking prison. Grix raised a hand shakily to shield his eyes from the sun.
?So long?? he muttered, and then his eyes hardened.
?We need to free the prisoners! Grix, 5 other men of the Legion are here! Rasta is here!?
?Sancho is here, somewhere?? muttered Grix.
?Grix, forget him! We?ll get him later! Grix!? yelled Ant desperately.
?The prisoners are free. Who do you think is fighting the guards?? said Grix, scanning the surroundings. ?There.? He pointed to a collection of low buildings. ?The Sancho will be there.?
Ant was desperate now. ?Grix, you don?t know what it will mean to everyone that you are alive! PLEASE, sir.?
Grix whipped an arm around, throwing Ant away.
?Find Rasta. Tell him where I?m going. Give?give him this.?
Grix thrust something at Ant. It was a triangular piece of black metal, with three red stripes crossing it. It glinted in Ant?s hand as he looked at it. The General?s Insignia. Ant looked up at Grix, mouth open. Grix nodded, suddenly tight.
?Tell him?I?m sorry.?
Then Grix was off, sprinting across the courtyard towards the buildings. Ant took a deep breath, and tucked the insignia in his pocket. Every Legionnaire was told he might have to give his life to protect the Legion. Ant had never seen it, until today.
?God bless, General.? Whispered Ant, and took off towards the direction of the shooting.
**
Grix dived forwards, smashing through aloosely secured window. He rolled as he landed, snapping the machine gun up into firing position.
?Don?t move.? He ordered. The guard he had surprised whimpered.
?Don?t shoot, senor. I no move?? His arm shook as he raised it.
?Where?s the Sancho??
?He?he in bunker. Down hall and down steps. We..in armoury. You shoot, we go boom, senor.?
?I never miss. Get over by the wall, hands at the small of your back, facing the wall. Comprendhe? Move.?
The man nodded frantically, and edged over towards the wall, and then one hand dived towards the gun holstered at his belt. Grix fired once, almost contemptuously, taking the man square in the temple. Grix leant to one side to avoid the fountain of deep red blood. He quickly scanned the armoury, and threw the gun to the floor. He picked up a few grenades and thrust them into his ragged combats. A silenced Glock was thrust into the string he used as a belt, and a standard issue AK47 would do for a main weapon. Then he strode out of the door. Guards yelled in surprise as he raised the heavy machine gun, and were quickly silenced as it roared. He vaulted over their cooling bodies and launched himself into a roll down the steps to the bunker. The heavy metal door was closing?He thrust out the gun butt and jammed it in the door. A rapid stream of alarmed Spanish came from behind the door, so Grix kicked out hard and grinned as he heard the squelch of a skull splitting. He discarded the ruined AK and drew his Glock, padding softly towards the war room. He looked slowly round the corner. Five men, plus the Sancho. The face that haunted his dreams. Goatboy. He paced out into the archway of the door. He whistled, sharply. They turned just after he drilled a bullet into the first three?s skull. Five more took the other two through their skulls and Grix levelled the gun on Sancho.
?Move, and I will kill you.?
Goatboy smiled, and shrugged.
?Hey, you?re going to kill me anyway, right, chico??
?You were there, weren?t you, when I killed AliBoy??
Sancho nodded. ?He was trying to establish his own powerbase. Hired Russians mercs, the like. I couldn?t allow that, so I simply allowed you to kill him. Taking you was easy. Two birds killed with one stone. Simple, eh??
Grix nodded. ?Goodbye, Sancho. Do give my regards to Mystique, when you see her.?
He squeezed the trigger. The gun clicked. Grix gaped. Empty. Goatboy smiled.
?I have no gun, chico.? He squared himself opposite Grix, equalling his weight. Grix snarled, and threw the useless gun aside. He ripped his headband off his arm and quickly twisted it around his long hair. He tested the strength of the old leather covering his hands and nodded.
?Let?s do this.?
**
?You were captured at Loch Lomond?? asked Ant, curious.
Grix just smiled.
?If you were captured, how did you contact General Rasta?? asked Ant again.
Grix leant forward.
?You assume I went straight to Rasta after I killed AliBoy, correct??
He leant back.
?How could I? I was captured.?
?But you are Gri?? Ant stopped. He inclined his head to one side.
?That?s it lad. Think for yourself instead of letting Legion propaganda do it. I am Grix, yes. I am not the Grix Thraves the Legion wants you to see.?
Ant nodded, slowly.
?So you didn?t escape??
?No, lad. I?ve been here ever since.?
?Rotting?? muttered Ant. ?You know, when I saw you, I thought you?d be?well??
?Ten feet tall with fire shooting from my fingers?? Grix sounded amused.
Ant grinned sheepishly. ?And you?re just an old man, wasted.?
There was silence. Then Grix erupted from the shadows. Ant gaped. Instead of the wasted old man Ant had almost begun to believe in, he saw what he had always imagined. Grix Thraves, the legendary blue band twisted around one arm, rippling with muscles?
Ant felt one hand close around his throat, and Grix lifted him up, slamming him against the wall. He snarled.
?I am as ready as I ever was.?
Silver flecks sped across Ant?s eyes. He weakly tried some of the escape moves he had been taught. Grix laughed mockingly as he blocked them with ease.
?I invented those moves, boy.?
Then he sighed and let Ant go. The boy crashed to the ground gasping. He massaged his throat as Grix retreated back into the shadows.
?But?if you?re still as strong as you ever were?why haven?t you escaped??
Grix sighed.
?There you go again. The door is solid oak, seasoned. Whenever they open the door, and that?s happened twice in as many years, there are ten guards on the other side. My food is pushed under a flap in the floor. There is no way out.? Grix spat the last words.
Ant shook his head, head slumped. Then his head jerked back up again. Footsteps outside. He looked towards Grix. No movement.
?Grix?? he whispered. ?Gri??
The door swung open. Two guards stepped inside, guns drawn. Ant couldn?t see anymore. They were sweating, and looked hurried. One was bleeding heavily from an arm.
?Up.? Grunted one, in heavily accented English. ?Other??
Ant shrugged, but made no move to get up. A stone flew out of the shadows, landing behind the first guard. He turned reflexively. Grix erupted out of the shadows, hands flying. Ant gaped for the barest second, and then threw himself at the next guard, a flick-kick sending his machine gun scattering into a corner. Two jabs at the sides of the throat, and it was done. The guard collapsed to the ground, gaping for air as blood reversed it?s flow. His eyes filled with death-mist. Ant shook his head sorrowly. Killing was a deed of the damned. He looked across to where Grix was. Had been. He tossed a rifle from the other side of the room to Ant.
?How do you move so fast?? gaped Ant.
?I prefer not to be killed. Listen, there was only two guards. Something?s happening for them to be so lax. Watch out. Escaping the cell might not be to boon we wanted.?
Ant gulped as they edged out of the cell. Gunshots echoed around the stinking prison. Grix raised a hand shakily to shield his eyes from the sun.
?So long?? he muttered, and then his eyes hardened.
?We need to free the prisoners! Grix, 5 other men of the Legion are here! Rasta is here!?
?Sancho is here, somewhere?? muttered Grix.
?Grix, forget him! We?ll get him later! Grix!? yelled Ant desperately.
?The prisoners are free. Who do you think is fighting the guards?? said Grix, scanning the surroundings. ?There.? He pointed to a collection of low buildings. ?The Sancho will be there.?
Ant was desperate now. ?Grix, you don?t know what it will mean to everyone that you are alive! PLEASE, sir.?
Grix whipped an arm around, throwing Ant away.
?Find Rasta. Tell him where I?m going. Give?give him this.?
Grix thrust something at Ant. It was a triangular piece of black metal, with three red stripes crossing it. It glinted in Ant?s hand as he looked at it. The General?s Insignia. Ant looked up at Grix, mouth open. Grix nodded, suddenly tight.
?Tell him?I?m sorry.?
Then Grix was off, sprinting across the courtyard towards the buildings. Ant took a deep breath, and tucked the insignia in his pocket. Every Legionnaire was told he might have to give his life to protect the Legion. Ant had never seen it, until today.
?God bless, General.? Whispered Ant, and took off towards the direction of the shooting.
**
Grix dived forwards, smashing through aloosely secured window. He rolled as he landed, snapping the machine gun up into firing position.
?Don?t move.? He ordered. The guard he had surprised whimpered.
?Don?t shoot, senor. I no move?? His arm shook as he raised it.
?Where?s the Sancho??
?He?he in bunker. Down hall and down steps. We..in armoury. You shoot, we go boom, senor.?
?I never miss. Get over by the wall, hands at the small of your back, facing the wall. Comprendhe? Move.?
The man nodded frantically, and edged over towards the wall, and then one hand dived towards the gun holstered at his belt. Grix fired once, almost contemptuously, taking the man square in the temple. Grix leant to one side to avoid the fountain of deep red blood. He quickly scanned the armoury, and threw the gun to the floor. He picked up a few grenades and thrust them into his ragged combats. A silenced Glock was thrust into the string he used as a belt, and a standard issue AK47 would do for a main weapon. Then he strode out of the door. Guards yelled in surprise as he raised the heavy machine gun, and were quickly silenced as it roared. He vaulted over their cooling bodies and launched himself into a roll down the steps to the bunker. The heavy metal door was closing?He thrust out the gun butt and jammed it in the door. A rapid stream of alarmed Spanish came from behind the door, so Grix kicked out hard and grinned as he heard the squelch of a skull splitting. He discarded the ruined AK and drew his Glock, padding softly towards the war room. He looked slowly round the corner. Five men, plus the Sancho. The face that haunted his dreams. Goatboy. He paced out into the archway of the door. He whistled, sharply. They turned just after he drilled a bullet into the first three?s skull. Five more took the other two through their skulls and Grix levelled the gun on Sancho.
?Move, and I will kill you.?
Goatboy smiled, and shrugged.
?Hey, you?re going to kill me anyway, right, chico??
?You were there, weren?t you, when I killed AliBoy??
Sancho nodded. ?He was trying to establish his own powerbase. Hired Russians mercs, the like. I couldn?t allow that, so I simply allowed you to kill him. Taking you was easy. Two birds killed with one stone. Simple, eh??
Grix nodded. ?Goodbye, Sancho. Do give my regards to Mystique, when you see her.?
He squeezed the trigger. The gun clicked. Grix gaped. Empty. Goatboy smiled.
?I have no gun, chico.? He squared himself opposite Grix, equalling his weight. Grix snarled, and threw the useless gun aside. He ripped his headband off his arm and quickly twisted it around his long hair. He tested the strength of the old leather covering his hands and nodded.
?Let?s do this.?
**
**
Four years ago…
Grix fingered the worn headband that held his long hair back in a ponytail. He crouched in the sparse protection provided by a stone wall, rain beating down furiously. He was in Northern Scotland, and his last ear had been geared towards this night. A whole year of preparation, wasted if one tiny thing went awry. His hand snaked down towards the holstered Colt at his belt, complete with silencer. The sword at his other hip was a reminder – of the ultimate price failure could claim. A M16 with laser targeting was strapped across his back, as well as a pouch of explosives. Then he looked at his hands. The most deadly weapons he had. Swiftly he wrapped them tightly in leather, and nodded, wiping a strand of wet hair from his face. This was it.
Bright searchlights crossed centimetres in front of him. The signal. He didn’t straighten up, but executed a perfect backflip. He spun before he landed and was launching into a sprint immediately. A guard house was ahead of him, surrounded by electrified grill fencing. Grix was diving for the ground as the guards view swept over him. He pulled the M16 free, and swept the laser target into place. A flurry of shots slammed into the man’s torso, and tore into the wood behind him. Grix was up and the gun reholstered before the man hit the floor. Grix flipped over the barrier blocking the way and sprinted for the safety of the shadows. The searchlights spun behind him, tracking his footsteps. Would they see him?
He launched himself forward, skidding across the sodden mud to slam into the stone. He curled himself up into a ball as the lights skimmed over the edges of his boots. He realised he was breathing heavily. He cursed himself and pulled the M16 free again. He kicked the door open and burst through, gun roaring. Three soldiers were dead before they knew what had happened. The other two guarding the entrance hall barely had more time. Immediately sound sensitive klaxons began to wail. This place was state-of-the-art. He carried no Martial Legion markings – not any more. This wasn’t political, this was personal. He bent to examine one of the bodies. No S.A.S. or Marine emblems. He picked up the guns he had carried. A Khashelnikov light machine gun and a Beretta. Hardly standard British Army issue. He scratched his chin thoughtfully. What was going on here?
Machine gun bullets chewed into the stone behind him. Grix yelled out, diving forward. Relief surged through him briefly that his lack of attention had not got him killed, before he swung the M16 round and fired randomly, yelling. The stair rail evaporated under a hail of fire. Grix ran forward, yelling again, gun roaring. As the last bullet was released, the room grew quiet, filled with smoke. Grix threw the spent machine gun to the ground, chest heaving. A full ten bodies lay sprawled across the stairs, blood flowing freely from dozens of wounds. Thirty-odd bullets were divided between them. Grix inclined his head slightly, grinning. He ignored the M16 – he needed stealth now. If all was going well, the alarm should have been raised. The thud of many boots outside made Grix smile.
He crept up the stairs, pulling the silenced Colt gently from the hip holster. He held it against his right cheek, feeling a cold drop of sweat ooze from above his eyebrow. He glanced quickly round the corner, before diving across the gap. He slowly pulled two gas canisters from behind his back and cracked the seals, before rolling them down the corridor. He gave a wry smile as a dense net of crossing laser beams showed up in the fine particles. His target wanted him to see this way was impassable, and thus go another way. He shook his head slightly. Whatever the S.A.S. could produce, nothing equalled the Martial Legion. Quickly holstering his Colt, he launched himself into a series of flips, pulsing laser beams just avoiding him all the way through. He landed, panting, and held his breath. No laser beam had been triggered – the klaxons stayed at the same tone. He took a deep breath, and turned.
“ I should have killed you back two years ago.”
Field Marshall AliBoy stood with a Beretta levelled at Grix’s head. Grix laughed quietly.
“ You are too weak to kill me, AliBoy.”
In a flash the Colt was free and aimed at AliBoy’s forehead. The man showed no reaction. It was a standoff. They stared at each other for a moment, hate evident in both their eyes.
“ Berettas, ‘kovs, no emblems…What you running here? Sancho expanding into Europe? These are Russian weapons?”
AliBoy didn’t react.
“ The Sancho has his claws into more governments and agencies that you can imagine, Yank.”
“ Yeah? Just gives me more to take down. And take them down I will, just like you took down my life.”
AliBoy sneered.
“You think what you endured was death? I can, and will, make what you call death a thousand times worse. Ever been afraid of the dark?”
Grix was motionless. AliBoy seemed to be savouring the moment.
“ They all scream, sooner or later. It’s the imagination…” he raised a finger to tap his temple. “ Sounds in the dark. The imagination is a greater weapon that a gun can ever be.”
“ I lived my first 20 years in the dark.” Spat Grix.
“ Darkness that can move and take you?” asked AliBoy.
Grix stared, emotionless.
“ Everyone is taken by it eventually. I was. You will be. Your Honour was.”
Grix snarled. AliBoy smiled delicately.
“ Oh yes, your “uncorruptable” commander. His screams were…perfect. I remember watching him squ…”
Grix pulled the trigger. AliBoy collapsed immediately, the one spasm of his finger sending a bullet into the Kevlar armour that Grix wore. Grix didn’t notice. Fury consumed him. He stepped over the body and fired again. And again. Bullet after bullet streamed into AliBoy.
Click.
Grix blinked. The whole clip had been expended. He cursed, then spat on AliBoy’s body. He spun another clip from his belt and slammed it into place. He had been caught up again in AliBoy’s games.
Your Honours shocked look as Grix pulled the trigger…
Grix shook his head. Now wasn’t the time. He had to get out. Get out, gotta get out. Bullets streamed down the corridor towards him. Two took him in the Kevlar, throwing him backwards against the stone wall. He groaned as waves of blackness covered him, and he muzzily raised the Colt before someone batted it from his hand easily. He moaned.
“ The Sancho will hear your screams.”
A Russian voice.
Then darkness took him.
**
Four years ago…
Grix fingered the worn headband that held his long hair back in a ponytail. He crouched in the sparse protection provided by a stone wall, rain beating down furiously. He was in Northern Scotland, and his last ear had been geared towards this night. A whole year of preparation, wasted if one tiny thing went awry. His hand snaked down towards the holstered Colt at his belt, complete with silencer. The sword at his other hip was a reminder – of the ultimate price failure could claim. A M16 with laser targeting was strapped across his back, as well as a pouch of explosives. Then he looked at his hands. The most deadly weapons he had. Swiftly he wrapped them tightly in leather, and nodded, wiping a strand of wet hair from his face. This was it.
Bright searchlights crossed centimetres in front of him. The signal. He didn’t straighten up, but executed a perfect backflip. He spun before he landed and was launching into a sprint immediately. A guard house was ahead of him, surrounded by electrified grill fencing. Grix was diving for the ground as the guards view swept over him. He pulled the M16 free, and swept the laser target into place. A flurry of shots slammed into the man’s torso, and tore into the wood behind him. Grix was up and the gun reholstered before the man hit the floor. Grix flipped over the barrier blocking the way and sprinted for the safety of the shadows. The searchlights spun behind him, tracking his footsteps. Would they see him?
He launched himself forward, skidding across the sodden mud to slam into the stone. He curled himself up into a ball as the lights skimmed over the edges of his boots. He realised he was breathing heavily. He cursed himself and pulled the M16 free again. He kicked the door open and burst through, gun roaring. Three soldiers were dead before they knew what had happened. The other two guarding the entrance hall barely had more time. Immediately sound sensitive klaxons began to wail. This place was state-of-the-art. He carried no Martial Legion markings – not any more. This wasn’t political, this was personal. He bent to examine one of the bodies. No S.A.S. or Marine emblems. He picked up the guns he had carried. A Khashelnikov light machine gun and a Beretta. Hardly standard British Army issue. He scratched his chin thoughtfully. What was going on here?
Machine gun bullets chewed into the stone behind him. Grix yelled out, diving forward. Relief surged through him briefly that his lack of attention had not got him killed, before he swung the M16 round and fired randomly, yelling. The stair rail evaporated under a hail of fire. Grix ran forward, yelling again, gun roaring. As the last bullet was released, the room grew quiet, filled with smoke. Grix threw the spent machine gun to the ground, chest heaving. A full ten bodies lay sprawled across the stairs, blood flowing freely from dozens of wounds. Thirty-odd bullets were divided between them. Grix inclined his head slightly, grinning. He ignored the M16 – he needed stealth now. If all was going well, the alarm should have been raised. The thud of many boots outside made Grix smile.
He crept up the stairs, pulling the silenced Colt gently from the hip holster. He held it against his right cheek, feeling a cold drop of sweat ooze from above his eyebrow. He glanced quickly round the corner, before diving across the gap. He slowly pulled two gas canisters from behind his back and cracked the seals, before rolling them down the corridor. He gave a wry smile as a dense net of crossing laser beams showed up in the fine particles. His target wanted him to see this way was impassable, and thus go another way. He shook his head slightly. Whatever the S.A.S. could produce, nothing equalled the Martial Legion. Quickly holstering his Colt, he launched himself into a series of flips, pulsing laser beams just avoiding him all the way through. He landed, panting, and held his breath. No laser beam had been triggered – the klaxons stayed at the same tone. He took a deep breath, and turned.
“ I should have killed you back two years ago.”
Field Marshall AliBoy stood with a Beretta levelled at Grix’s head. Grix laughed quietly.
“ You are too weak to kill me, AliBoy.”
In a flash the Colt was free and aimed at AliBoy’s forehead. The man showed no reaction. It was a standoff. They stared at each other for a moment, hate evident in both their eyes.
“ Berettas, ‘kovs, no emblems…What you running here? Sancho expanding into Europe? These are Russian weapons?”
AliBoy didn’t react.
“ The Sancho has his claws into more governments and agencies that you can imagine, Yank.”
“ Yeah? Just gives me more to take down. And take them down I will, just like you took down my life.”
AliBoy sneered.
“You think what you endured was death? I can, and will, make what you call death a thousand times worse. Ever been afraid of the dark?”
Grix was motionless. AliBoy seemed to be savouring the moment.
“ They all scream, sooner or later. It’s the imagination…” he raised a finger to tap his temple. “ Sounds in the dark. The imagination is a greater weapon that a gun can ever be.”
“ I lived my first 20 years in the dark.” Spat Grix.
“ Darkness that can move and take you?” asked AliBoy.
Grix stared, emotionless.
“ Everyone is taken by it eventually. I was. You will be. Your Honour was.”
Grix snarled. AliBoy smiled delicately.
“ Oh yes, your “uncorruptable” commander. His screams were…perfect. I remember watching him squ…”
Grix pulled the trigger. AliBoy collapsed immediately, the one spasm of his finger sending a bullet into the Kevlar armour that Grix wore. Grix didn’t notice. Fury consumed him. He stepped over the body and fired again. And again. Bullet after bullet streamed into AliBoy.
Click.
Grix blinked. The whole clip had been expended. He cursed, then spat on AliBoy’s body. He spun another clip from his belt and slammed it into place. He had been caught up again in AliBoy’s games.
Your Honours shocked look as Grix pulled the trigger…
Grix shook his head. Now wasn’t the time. He had to get out. Get out, gotta get out. Bullets streamed down the corridor towards him. Two took him in the Kevlar, throwing him backwards against the stone wall. He groaned as waves of blackness covered him, and he muzzily raised the Colt before someone batted it from his hand easily. He moaned.
“ The Sancho will hear your screams.”
A Russian voice.
Then darkness took him.
**
**
Five years ago…
Grix had been fighting for a long time. Too long. Immeasurable. All he ever saw was the dark corridor between his cell and the arena. All he ever smelt was dried and crusted blood. All he ever heard was the slow drip of water and the baying of the crowds. He hadn’t an ounce of spare fat on him, muscles toned to their peak performance. He was a fighting machine. Sometimes Grix wandered what it was like to speak to another person. It had been… so long.
The door slammed open. They didn’t need to grab him anymore. He was, to all intents and purposes, docile. He walked slowly out, tying his headband around a shaven head. He pulled the bandages tight around his hands. One guard flipped a sword at him. Grix caught it, surprise briefly flashing in his eyes before his stone montage replaced it. They had never been allowed swords before. Maybe… Grix forced the word hope from his head. He had no hope.
The doors crashed open, and Grix walked forward, shielding his eyes briefly against the light.
Sniper’s staring eyes.
He blinked, shielding his eyes. It had been over a year since he had last seen that. Did it mean what it always had? He shook his head to clear it, and looked again at the sword. Did he truly remember how to use one? Long fights, armed with sharpened staves had worn calluses into his hand, grooves that he had grown used to. Grown to live with. And now… The hilt sat gently in his hand. It felt good to have a sword again. He allowed himself a deep laugh as he looked up at the pampered nobility and drugs barons that laughed and betted on his blood. He shrugged, and span the sword so the light flashed off it. He smiled. Maybe today was his day to die.
The opposite doors that Grix knew so well sprang open, and someone slowly walked through. A seasoned fighter. He flaunted no belt. They had known better since Grix thrust a stave through the first ten’s throats. This one was balanced lightly on his feet, sword cutting a gentle loop through the air as he flicked it from hand to hand. Grix looked around, searching for the face that was always there.
Blood in the sand.
Sancho Goatboy’s face sneered down at him, virtually reeking of postured superiority.
“One day I will kill you.” Mouthed Grix, silently. He meant it.
Then a flash of motion caught his eye, and Grix turned to make the block, sword flowing as naturally as it ever had. Sound dimmed, as did vision not centred on his opponent. The fight was all. Senses closed to everything not related to the fight. He was the fight; he was the sword. The movements he had been taught so long ago roared out of the shadows of his memories. He parried every stroke easily, face emotionless, sweat making a slight sheen on his face. Backwards he was forced, towards the sharp metal staves that lined the ring. Grix smiled grimly. He knew this tactic; he had impaled many on the spikes. This one was a veteran. Which meant nothing to Grix; he was the sword. He whirled silently, bringing the sword round at knee level. The enemy jumped without surprise, he was truly a veteran. But Grix knew what he was doing. The sword whipped back up fast, and speeded up, becoming a blur of metal in the air. The veteran reacted solidly, his blocks were reasoned. Grix pressed harder, sweat pouring off him. This would work. He spun and spun again, scything down at the mans hand. Both times he barely blocked, catching the blade on the broad hilt. He was off-balance for a second.
Grix had killed in half that time.
One blow sent the man’s hand flying, sword slamming into the wooden wall. He spun his sword briefly for a second. He relished the fear in the mans face. Then he struck again, a smooth blow slicing the man’s jugular open. He collapsed forward, hands scrabbling vainly to hold in the blood his own heart was pumping out into the air. Grix looked down, senses still focused.
He was the sword.
Then his eyes snapped up, looking at the solid blade of the sword protruding just beyond the killer ring of spikes. The Sancho was getting up to leave. Grix had one chance, and he took it. He sprang forward, his own sword spinning in one hand, foot pounding down on the floor as he leapt. He landed lightly on the sword blade, and his momentum carried him forwards. He stabbed out with his own blade, and felt it embed in the wood. He swung up using it as the pivot and launched himself into the air, wrenching his sword free as he went. His free hand stretched out towards the rim of the ring.
It was too far. Out of the corner of his eye he could see guards aiming silenced guns clinically. Today was the day he was going to die.
He was the sword.
The hand closed on the edge of the rim, and muscles tightened as he swung himself up easily to the arena. One guard cried out in shock and the silencer swung round to meet him.
He was the sword.
Grix almost laughed in scorn as one of his kicks flicked the gun into his own hand. He snarled as he pumped a single bullet between the mans eyes, and then he threw himself to the floor as bullets mowed into the walls. He could hear the screams of the patrons as his senses flooded back into focus. The bullets slowed. He heard the soft thunk as spent clips hit the floor, and he sprand up, aiming. Two bullets took the first guard in the head, three and four took the second guard in the throat. Then Grix was spinning out of a fire exit, thrust open by a panicking patron.
“GET HIM! NOW!” roared Sancho Goatboy. Grix didn’t stop. He leapt head first over the railing, only realising then the thirty foot fall through treetops to the ground. The gun went flying as he crashed through the canopy.
Machine gun fire eased. Sancho Goatboy sneered.
“ Go and find the body. He must be dead.”
As the guards fled, Goatboy slammed a fist into the doorframe. He knew Grix Thraves. He was alive, and that meant this little money-spinner was finished. He stalked back inside.
**
Ant grinned.
“ Of course you escaped. With ease. And a fall like that would mean nothing to you!”
The shadow moved, angrily.
“ Ease? I took a bullet in the leg on the way down, and the fall almost broke my leg. I LIMPED twenty miles through the jungle to the nearest military bunker I could remember. I am not a god, whatever Legion propaganda tells you.” Muttered Grix.
Ant was silenced, head bowed.
“ Where from there? Straight to Rasta?” he asked, after a minutes silence.
“I had something to take care of first…”
**
Five years ago…
Grix had been fighting for a long time. Too long. Immeasurable. All he ever saw was the dark corridor between his cell and the arena. All he ever smelt was dried and crusted blood. All he ever heard was the slow drip of water and the baying of the crowds. He hadn’t an ounce of spare fat on him, muscles toned to their peak performance. He was a fighting machine. Sometimes Grix wandered what it was like to speak to another person. It had been… so long.
The door slammed open. They didn’t need to grab him anymore. He was, to all intents and purposes, docile. He walked slowly out, tying his headband around a shaven head. He pulled the bandages tight around his hands. One guard flipped a sword at him. Grix caught it, surprise briefly flashing in his eyes before his stone montage replaced it. They had never been allowed swords before. Maybe… Grix forced the word hope from his head. He had no hope.
The doors crashed open, and Grix walked forward, shielding his eyes briefly against the light.
Sniper’s staring eyes.
He blinked, shielding his eyes. It had been over a year since he had last seen that. Did it mean what it always had? He shook his head to clear it, and looked again at the sword. Did he truly remember how to use one? Long fights, armed with sharpened staves had worn calluses into his hand, grooves that he had grown used to. Grown to live with. And now… The hilt sat gently in his hand. It felt good to have a sword again. He allowed himself a deep laugh as he looked up at the pampered nobility and drugs barons that laughed and betted on his blood. He shrugged, and span the sword so the light flashed off it. He smiled. Maybe today was his day to die.
The opposite doors that Grix knew so well sprang open, and someone slowly walked through. A seasoned fighter. He flaunted no belt. They had known better since Grix thrust a stave through the first ten’s throats. This one was balanced lightly on his feet, sword cutting a gentle loop through the air as he flicked it from hand to hand. Grix looked around, searching for the face that was always there.
Blood in the sand.
Sancho Goatboy’s face sneered down at him, virtually reeking of postured superiority.
“One day I will kill you.” Mouthed Grix, silently. He meant it.
Then a flash of motion caught his eye, and Grix turned to make the block, sword flowing as naturally as it ever had. Sound dimmed, as did vision not centred on his opponent. The fight was all. Senses closed to everything not related to the fight. He was the fight; he was the sword. The movements he had been taught so long ago roared out of the shadows of his memories. He parried every stroke easily, face emotionless, sweat making a slight sheen on his face. Backwards he was forced, towards the sharp metal staves that lined the ring. Grix smiled grimly. He knew this tactic; he had impaled many on the spikes. This one was a veteran. Which meant nothing to Grix; he was the sword. He whirled silently, bringing the sword round at knee level. The enemy jumped without surprise, he was truly a veteran. But Grix knew what he was doing. The sword whipped back up fast, and speeded up, becoming a blur of metal in the air. The veteran reacted solidly, his blocks were reasoned. Grix pressed harder, sweat pouring off him. This would work. He spun and spun again, scything down at the mans hand. Both times he barely blocked, catching the blade on the broad hilt. He was off-balance for a second.
Grix had killed in half that time.
One blow sent the man’s hand flying, sword slamming into the wooden wall. He spun his sword briefly for a second. He relished the fear in the mans face. Then he struck again, a smooth blow slicing the man’s jugular open. He collapsed forward, hands scrabbling vainly to hold in the blood his own heart was pumping out into the air. Grix looked down, senses still focused.
He was the sword.
Then his eyes snapped up, looking at the solid blade of the sword protruding just beyond the killer ring of spikes. The Sancho was getting up to leave. Grix had one chance, and he took it. He sprang forward, his own sword spinning in one hand, foot pounding down on the floor as he leapt. He landed lightly on the sword blade, and his momentum carried him forwards. He stabbed out with his own blade, and felt it embed in the wood. He swung up using it as the pivot and launched himself into the air, wrenching his sword free as he went. His free hand stretched out towards the rim of the ring.
It was too far. Out of the corner of his eye he could see guards aiming silenced guns clinically. Today was the day he was going to die.
He was the sword.
The hand closed on the edge of the rim, and muscles tightened as he swung himself up easily to the arena. One guard cried out in shock and the silencer swung round to meet him.
He was the sword.
Grix almost laughed in scorn as one of his kicks flicked the gun into his own hand. He snarled as he pumped a single bullet between the mans eyes, and then he threw himself to the floor as bullets mowed into the walls. He could hear the screams of the patrons as his senses flooded back into focus. The bullets slowed. He heard the soft thunk as spent clips hit the floor, and he sprand up, aiming. Two bullets took the first guard in the head, three and four took the second guard in the throat. Then Grix was spinning out of a fire exit, thrust open by a panicking patron.
“GET HIM! NOW!” roared Sancho Goatboy. Grix didn’t stop. He leapt head first over the railing, only realising then the thirty foot fall through treetops to the ground. The gun went flying as he crashed through the canopy.
Machine gun fire eased. Sancho Goatboy sneered.
“ Go and find the body. He must be dead.”
As the guards fled, Goatboy slammed a fist into the doorframe. He knew Grix Thraves. He was alive, and that meant this little money-spinner was finished. He stalked back inside.
**
Ant grinned.
“ Of course you escaped. With ease. And a fall like that would mean nothing to you!”
The shadow moved, angrily.
“ Ease? I took a bullet in the leg on the way down, and the fall almost broke my leg. I LIMPED twenty miles through the jungle to the nearest military bunker I could remember. I am not a god, whatever Legion propaganda tells you.” Muttered Grix.
Ant was silenced, head bowed.
“ Where from there? Straight to Rasta?” he asked, after a minutes silence.
“I had something to take care of first…”
**
Jesus, I just remembered this the other day. Guess I'd better finish it off. I'll be posting soon.
Grix hit the marble floor with a thud and threw his body to one side, narrowly dodging a bent knee from Mystique. He span his legs round, pivoting on one palm, landing a quick double blow to her face, giving him breathing room. He took it, flipping up speedily and punched out, scoring a fast rapport on her torso, sending her crashing backwards into the wicker chair. He kicked out again, but she was faster than he had anticipated, and grabbed the leg, placing one arm behind the joint, and pushed. Grix grunted in pain and felt his teeth bite through his lower lip as the joint hyperextended. He keeled backwards, hands clutching at it.
“ How did you learn that? It’s…” Grix stopped, hearing soft footsteps padding into the room. He winced as he crawled round, and looked, fearfully, at the figure emerging.
Long, black hair, artfully tied back in a ponytail. A thin goatee, circling his mouth and chin. An airy black shirt, open all the way. Soft black trousers, hanging stylishly baggy. The tattoo, visible on his right bicep. A scorpion. Grix shuddered.
“ Sancho Goatboy.”
The figure said nothing. He strode over to Mystique, stroking her cheek with one hand. He smiled down at her, and for an instant…. Grix saw the vemon flicker in her eyes. She had been good once.
“ Sancho!” Grix pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. “ I am authorised to arrest you by the combined powers of the US and UK governments, fro crimes related to and including drugs trafficking, murder and corruption.”
The Sancho said nothing. He kissed his wife delicately on the cheek and walked slowly over to face Grix.
“ You and what army, Yankee?” he whispered, a soft Latino trace on his voice.
Where WAS AliBoy and his marines? Grix shoved it to the back of his mind, running through the pain suppression techniques his sensei in Nepal had taught him. He felt his strained knee ease slightly. He looked down at it, grinning. Then the Sancho made his move, savagely kicking outwards with a bare foot. Grix parried easily, relaxation now in his mind. The shock of Mystique was past him now, he could concentrate. He smacked a toe hard into the reverse of the knee, bringing the drug lord to his knees. He launched himself in the air, hitting the Sancho twice on the back of the head before he hit the ground. Grix locked his legs around Goatboy’s neck and rolled, spinning him into a wall. As the Sancho groaned, Grix pulled a gun loose, pointing it directly at Goatboy’s head, keeping Mystique within his field of vision.
“ You fire that gun,” said Goatboy, gasping for breath “ And half my guards will hear it. You’ll be dead in a minute.”
Grix let loose an intense, guttral laugh, and span a silencer in his fingers briefly, before speedily screwing it on. Sancho shrugged, and then footsteps were heard running up the steps. Grix felt a bead of sweat drip down his temple, but the Sancho looked cool. Who were they? Grix levelled the gun at the Sancho, determination evident in his lips. Then the door burst open, and ten marines burst through, rifles levelled at the two drug lords. Grix stifled a sigh of relief, and turned to the leader who strolled through the door, and saluted.
“ Field Marshall sir!”
Field Marshall AliBoy looked Grix up and down, then slowly returned the salute. Grix snapped to attention.
“ Snacho Goatboy, and wife Mystique in custody sir!”
“ Well done, General.” AliBoy’s soft, Scottish burr resounded around the room. “ Let me see your gun.”
Without hesitation, Grix spun his silenced handgun round, and extended the handle towards the Marshall. The instant he took it the marines swung around and levelled their guns directly at Grix. He gaped in shock as AliBoy levelled his gun at Grix. Sancho Goatboy got to his feet, and patted AliBoy on the shoulder. Then he turned to Grix.
“ Drugs trafficking, murder and corruption, you accused me off. Well, it’s true. And I am very, VERY good at them.”
Grix felt a heavy cosh connect with the back of his head, and Goatboy’s grinning visage faded and swam as he collapsed into darkness.
**
Grix awoke in dingy darkness. He raised his hand and felt crusted blood around the back of his head. He winced, and got to his feet, looking around his cell. It was small, covered in rotting hay, and a thin, small window covered with bars let a smattering of filtered light hit the room. The door was solid oak, studded with metal bolts. There was no way he was getting out of this, without a cannon. He lay back, the rotting hay squelching as he let his weight fall on it, and fell again into deep sleep.
Jostled..
Pain..arms…
Carried..
Voices..
Grix’s eyes snapped open, seconds before he felt himself being thrown forward, into a ringed arena. Latino’s ringed the room - rich drug lords by the looks of it. None of them legit, at least. Seated high above the oval arena was Sancho Goatboy and his wife. She looked down at him, and he saw again the pure vemon that lived in her eyes. Goatboy was announcing something in Spanish. Grix staggered to his feet, feeling his headband still wrapped around his head. Oh well, at least he still had his luck. The bandages were wrapped tight around his hands, and he looked at his clothes. The martial arts clothes he wore back in the old days… They wanted him to fight. His eyes quickly jerked around, taking in the surroundings. A door was positioned at the opposite end of the arena, identical to the one he had just come through. Yes, they wanted him to fight. He was sport for these scum.
The Sancho finished speaking, and Grix heard a groan as the door creaked open. Out of it came a strongly built man of Asian heritage, obviously skilled in the acient arts. Around his waist was the red belt of Nepal. Grix gulped. Only one skilled in all the disciplines was allowed that… He had never met another, besides himself. Grix braced himself, then a bell sounded. Staves were expelled from both doors, landing from of the combatants. The man, who Grix dubbed Scarface, flipped over to grab his, and ran instantly at Grix. Then Grix realised… The belt wasn’t real, no Red Belter would show off like that. It was test, to see if Grix would kill. He grinned, and launched his stave. It drove through the throat of his opponent, dropping him instantly. Blood spread over the sand…
Sniper’s dead face staring up at him.
Grix blinked. Had he just seen his kill two years ago? He shook his head, and turned to glare at Sancho Goatboy. This was the beginning of a long fight, one that would not end until one of them was dead.
Guards erupted from the doors just as the crowd cheered manically.
**
Ant sat back, shaking his head.
“ We only figured out that Goatboy captured you in his Arena two years ago. Then we tracked it, and…”
“ Found I had escaped?” asked Grix, insolently.
“ Four years of tracking, to find a deserted arena. The operation must have closed when you escaped. Breach of confidentiality.”
Grix stayed hidden in the shadow.
“ So how did you escape? And where did you go? I guess you couldn’t trust the Legion, not with AliBoy’s influence on it.”
Grix laughed hoarsely.
“ No-one betrays me and lives. I could trust only one person when I escaped.”
“ RastaBillySkank. The Dedicated.” Breathed Ant.
“ The what?” asked Grix.
“ He has led the operation to find you. He hasn’t ceased in his search. I do not…. I do not know if he survived our attack. He could be here.”
The shadow moved suddenly.
“ Rasta? Here?”
Then it sat back again.
“ You would lead us out of here?” asked Ant, eagerly.
“ I’m not your General anymore, lad. That’s Rasta now.” Sighed Grix.
“ He insists he is only temporary General until you return.”
Grix sighed again.
**
“ How did you learn that? It’s…” Grix stopped, hearing soft footsteps padding into the room. He winced as he crawled round, and looked, fearfully, at the figure emerging.
Long, black hair, artfully tied back in a ponytail. A thin goatee, circling his mouth and chin. An airy black shirt, open all the way. Soft black trousers, hanging stylishly baggy. The tattoo, visible on his right bicep. A scorpion. Grix shuddered.
“ Sancho Goatboy.”
The figure said nothing. He strode over to Mystique, stroking her cheek with one hand. He smiled down at her, and for an instant…. Grix saw the vemon flicker in her eyes. She had been good once.
“ Sancho!” Grix pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. “ I am authorised to arrest you by the combined powers of the US and UK governments, fro crimes related to and including drugs trafficking, murder and corruption.”
The Sancho said nothing. He kissed his wife delicately on the cheek and walked slowly over to face Grix.
“ You and what army, Yankee?” he whispered, a soft Latino trace on his voice.
Where WAS AliBoy and his marines? Grix shoved it to the back of his mind, running through the pain suppression techniques his sensei in Nepal had taught him. He felt his strained knee ease slightly. He looked down at it, grinning. Then the Sancho made his move, savagely kicking outwards with a bare foot. Grix parried easily, relaxation now in his mind. The shock of Mystique was past him now, he could concentrate. He smacked a toe hard into the reverse of the knee, bringing the drug lord to his knees. He launched himself in the air, hitting the Sancho twice on the back of the head before he hit the ground. Grix locked his legs around Goatboy’s neck and rolled, spinning him into a wall. As the Sancho groaned, Grix pulled a gun loose, pointing it directly at Goatboy’s head, keeping Mystique within his field of vision.
“ You fire that gun,” said Goatboy, gasping for breath “ And half my guards will hear it. You’ll be dead in a minute.”
Grix let loose an intense, guttral laugh, and span a silencer in his fingers briefly, before speedily screwing it on. Sancho shrugged, and then footsteps were heard running up the steps. Grix felt a bead of sweat drip down his temple, but the Sancho looked cool. Who were they? Grix levelled the gun at the Sancho, determination evident in his lips. Then the door burst open, and ten marines burst through, rifles levelled at the two drug lords. Grix stifled a sigh of relief, and turned to the leader who strolled through the door, and saluted.
“ Field Marshall sir!”
Field Marshall AliBoy looked Grix up and down, then slowly returned the salute. Grix snapped to attention.
“ Snacho Goatboy, and wife Mystique in custody sir!”
“ Well done, General.” AliBoy’s soft, Scottish burr resounded around the room. “ Let me see your gun.”
Without hesitation, Grix spun his silenced handgun round, and extended the handle towards the Marshall. The instant he took it the marines swung around and levelled their guns directly at Grix. He gaped in shock as AliBoy levelled his gun at Grix. Sancho Goatboy got to his feet, and patted AliBoy on the shoulder. Then he turned to Grix.
“ Drugs trafficking, murder and corruption, you accused me off. Well, it’s true. And I am very, VERY good at them.”
Grix felt a heavy cosh connect with the back of his head, and Goatboy’s grinning visage faded and swam as he collapsed into darkness.
**
Grix awoke in dingy darkness. He raised his hand and felt crusted blood around the back of his head. He winced, and got to his feet, looking around his cell. It was small, covered in rotting hay, and a thin, small window covered with bars let a smattering of filtered light hit the room. The door was solid oak, studded with metal bolts. There was no way he was getting out of this, without a cannon. He lay back, the rotting hay squelching as he let his weight fall on it, and fell again into deep sleep.
Jostled..
Pain..arms…
Carried..
Voices..
Grix’s eyes snapped open, seconds before he felt himself being thrown forward, into a ringed arena. Latino’s ringed the room - rich drug lords by the looks of it. None of them legit, at least. Seated high above the oval arena was Sancho Goatboy and his wife. She looked down at him, and he saw again the pure vemon that lived in her eyes. Goatboy was announcing something in Spanish. Grix staggered to his feet, feeling his headband still wrapped around his head. Oh well, at least he still had his luck. The bandages were wrapped tight around his hands, and he looked at his clothes. The martial arts clothes he wore back in the old days… They wanted him to fight. His eyes quickly jerked around, taking in the surroundings. A door was positioned at the opposite end of the arena, identical to the one he had just come through. Yes, they wanted him to fight. He was sport for these scum.
The Sancho finished speaking, and Grix heard a groan as the door creaked open. Out of it came a strongly built man of Asian heritage, obviously skilled in the acient arts. Around his waist was the red belt of Nepal. Grix gulped. Only one skilled in all the disciplines was allowed that… He had never met another, besides himself. Grix braced himself, then a bell sounded. Staves were expelled from both doors, landing from of the combatants. The man, who Grix dubbed Scarface, flipped over to grab his, and ran instantly at Grix. Then Grix realised… The belt wasn’t real, no Red Belter would show off like that. It was test, to see if Grix would kill. He grinned, and launched his stave. It drove through the throat of his opponent, dropping him instantly. Blood spread over the sand…
Sniper’s dead face staring up at him.
Grix blinked. Had he just seen his kill two years ago? He shook his head, and turned to glare at Sancho Goatboy. This was the beginning of a long fight, one that would not end until one of them was dead.
Guards erupted from the doors just as the crowd cheered manically.
**
Ant sat back, shaking his head.
“ We only figured out that Goatboy captured you in his Arena two years ago. Then we tracked it, and…”
“ Found I had escaped?” asked Grix, insolently.
“ Four years of tracking, to find a deserted arena. The operation must have closed when you escaped. Breach of confidentiality.”
Grix stayed hidden in the shadow.
“ So how did you escape? And where did you go? I guess you couldn’t trust the Legion, not with AliBoy’s influence on it.”
Grix laughed hoarsely.
“ No-one betrays me and lives. I could trust only one person when I escaped.”
“ RastaBillySkank. The Dedicated.” Breathed Ant.
“ The what?” asked Grix.
“ He has led the operation to find you. He hasn’t ceased in his search. I do not…. I do not know if he survived our attack. He could be here.”
The shadow moved suddenly.
“ Rasta? Here?”
Then it sat back again.
“ You would lead us out of here?” asked Ant, eagerly.
“ I’m not your General anymore, lad. That’s Rasta now.” Sighed Grix.
“ He insists he is only temporary General until you return.”
Grix sighed again.
**
Ant chuckled.
“ You, beaten by Your Honour?” he laughed openly.
“ You were not around then, when the Legion was small. My training was…. Harsh. I didn’t think I would live through it all.”
“ You were beaten by Your Honour, yet you became the Commander of the Legion?”
“ Aye, I was.”
**
Seven years ago…
“ I confer upon you, Grix Thraves, the title of Commander of the Martial Legions, a General of the State.”
President Vottanator smiled as he stood before Grix in the Oval Office.
“ Make me proud, Grix. Upon you the elite legion lies.”
Grix saluted stiffly.
“ Yes sir!”
Vottanator returned it, then snapped it off. He walked slowly and sat behind his desk.
“ Do you know how General Honour fell?”
“ Yes sir. I killed him sir.”
“ Yes, you killed him. Why was that?”
“ He was in contradiction of orders sir. Letting the target go. He was on his paylist sir.”
“ You think death is what he deserved.”
Grix allowed his lip to twist slightly.
“ I think he deserved much more than death…. Sir.”
Vottanator stopped, whiskey glass halfway to his lips. He looked at Grix for a long time, and Grix squirmed as those eyes rested on him. Then Vottanator nodded, and took a deep swig, savouring the flavour.
“ Sure I can’t tempt you, General?”
“ No sir!”
“ So what will you do now? You know I have no direct control over your actions.”
“ I intend to crush the Kidd Network, sir.”
“ Ah, so you still bear a grudge against Sancho Goatboy then?”
“ He corrupted my commander sir.”
Vottanator sighed as Grix marched from the Office. Either he was ensuring the Legion’s success….. or sealing it’s doom.
**
Grix grabbed his blue headband as he looked around his bare quarters. It was cleaned out. The Legion was going to war. He slung his bag over one shoulder, and tied the band around his head. He strode out of the plush, comfortable, familiar quarters in the Appalachians and walked down towards the helipad. His new second in command fell into line with him, face resolute.
“ Rasta, is all ready?” he muttered.
“ As ready as it can get with two hours notice.” Rasta was a long time member of the Martial Legion, almost as long serving as Grix.
“ Your orders have been carried out. Thirty of our men fly with you to Columbia.”
Grix nodded in satisfaction. He slung his bag into the lead helicopter and strapped himself into the pilot’s seat, Rasta just behind him. They were off in a matter of minutes, greenery shredded as the helicopter’s emerged from their camoflagued nets. Grix stared ahead, willing the helicopter’s to go faster…
**
“ Sancho Goatboy? Kidd Network?” asked Ant.
“ How long have you been a member of the Legion, lad?”
“ Two years and seven months, give or take a few days.”
“ Then you won’t have heard of our opponents throughout much of the years of Your Honour and my command. The Kidd Network was the biggest drug operation in the world. It operated out of Columbia, with a deserter from the Legion by the name of Goatboy. Sancho was the title he received when he became leader of the Kidd Network. He had power, oh he had power. He was the one that killed Your Honour. I only did what was required of me. I would have my revenge.”
**
Grix squinted through the high power binoculars.
“ That’s Sancho Goatboy’s villa. Look, see the guards. They look to be of Asian training.”
Rasta nodded, saying nothing.
“ Tell the Field Marshal. I hate having to co-operate with the British, but it is their hunt after all.”
Rasta pulled a field phone from his jacket, and hit it once.
“ Field Marshall AliBoy?”
A muted murmer on the other end signified Rasta had reached the Supreme Commander of the British Army.
“ The Marshall will send his troops in. We have 40 minutes.”
“ 40 minutes to find and kill the Sancho. Ok, let’s do it. Move in.”
They advanced slowly through the lush and dense growth that surrounded the fortified villa. The guards were taken by surprise and with ease. Several well aimed blows to the head dispatched of the one guarding Grix and Rasta’s entry, and Grix leapt over the wall, his band now tied around his head. He smashed open a door, and ran ahead, ignoring his troops who were falling behind.
“ Griiiiiiii…” Rasta’s call faded as he was attacked. Grix ignored the call to turn back and searched, with a maddening zeal bordering on a frenzy, for Sancho Goatboy. He turned and sent his foot through a feeble wood door, showering the two guards inside with splinters. They gaped with shock as Grix charged in and dropped one instantly with a spinning kick. The other fumbled briefly with a gun before Grix slammed a palm into the nerve bunch at the base of his neck. He fell soundlessly. Grix grunted, and moved on, softly opening the next door. A woman sat by the window, long breezy dress blowing artistically in the wind. Grix felt his jaw drop. Then she turned, strands of hair trailing across her cheek, and he looked into her eyes… He jerked backwards, and she landed a blow right to Grix’s jawbone, sending him tumbling into a wall.
“ Who are you?” he gasped, feeling a welt rise on his jaw.
“ I am Mystique, wife to Sancho Goatboy.”
Grix felt all his wonder disappear in an instant, and he flipped up, hands shuffling slowly. Then he struck, just as Mystique whirled a leg round, sweeping his legs out from under him…
**
“ You fought Mystique!? The Legion Bane?” exclaimed Ant, wonder in his voice.
Grix smiled, briefly.
“ I did. She was…. Beautiful, yet filled with a vemon I have not seen before in any man, or woman. It was like… pure evil in her eyes. I never want to look upon such foulness again.”
“ Nor will you have to. The Legion cornered her in China fully five years ago.”
“ She is truly dead then?”
“ As dead as she can be.”
Grix nodded, a slight flame of relief flaring in his eyes.
“ Then the time is coming when I shall return to take up my duties again…”
Then Grix sat back in his shadows, chewing on some stale bread.
“ Mystique Legion Bane…”
**
“ You, beaten by Your Honour?” he laughed openly.
“ You were not around then, when the Legion was small. My training was…. Harsh. I didn’t think I would live through it all.”
“ You were beaten by Your Honour, yet you became the Commander of the Legion?”
“ Aye, I was.”
**
Seven years ago…
“ I confer upon you, Grix Thraves, the title of Commander of the Martial Legions, a General of the State.”
President Vottanator smiled as he stood before Grix in the Oval Office.
“ Make me proud, Grix. Upon you the elite legion lies.”
Grix saluted stiffly.
“ Yes sir!”
Vottanator returned it, then snapped it off. He walked slowly and sat behind his desk.
“ Do you know how General Honour fell?”
“ Yes sir. I killed him sir.”
“ Yes, you killed him. Why was that?”
“ He was in contradiction of orders sir. Letting the target go. He was on his paylist sir.”
“ You think death is what he deserved.”
Grix allowed his lip to twist slightly.
“ I think he deserved much more than death…. Sir.”
Vottanator stopped, whiskey glass halfway to his lips. He looked at Grix for a long time, and Grix squirmed as those eyes rested on him. Then Vottanator nodded, and took a deep swig, savouring the flavour.
“ Sure I can’t tempt you, General?”
“ No sir!”
“ So what will you do now? You know I have no direct control over your actions.”
“ I intend to crush the Kidd Network, sir.”
“ Ah, so you still bear a grudge against Sancho Goatboy then?”
“ He corrupted my commander sir.”
Vottanator sighed as Grix marched from the Office. Either he was ensuring the Legion’s success….. or sealing it’s doom.
**
Grix grabbed his blue headband as he looked around his bare quarters. It was cleaned out. The Legion was going to war. He slung his bag over one shoulder, and tied the band around his head. He strode out of the plush, comfortable, familiar quarters in the Appalachians and walked down towards the helipad. His new second in command fell into line with him, face resolute.
“ Rasta, is all ready?” he muttered.
“ As ready as it can get with two hours notice.” Rasta was a long time member of the Martial Legion, almost as long serving as Grix.
“ Your orders have been carried out. Thirty of our men fly with you to Columbia.”
Grix nodded in satisfaction. He slung his bag into the lead helicopter and strapped himself into the pilot’s seat, Rasta just behind him. They were off in a matter of minutes, greenery shredded as the helicopter’s emerged from their camoflagued nets. Grix stared ahead, willing the helicopter’s to go faster…
**
“ Sancho Goatboy? Kidd Network?” asked Ant.
“ How long have you been a member of the Legion, lad?”
“ Two years and seven months, give or take a few days.”
“ Then you won’t have heard of our opponents throughout much of the years of Your Honour and my command. The Kidd Network was the biggest drug operation in the world. It operated out of Columbia, with a deserter from the Legion by the name of Goatboy. Sancho was the title he received when he became leader of the Kidd Network. He had power, oh he had power. He was the one that killed Your Honour. I only did what was required of me. I would have my revenge.”
**
Grix squinted through the high power binoculars.
“ That’s Sancho Goatboy’s villa. Look, see the guards. They look to be of Asian training.”
Rasta nodded, saying nothing.
“ Tell the Field Marshal. I hate having to co-operate with the British, but it is their hunt after all.”
Rasta pulled a field phone from his jacket, and hit it once.
“ Field Marshall AliBoy?”
A muted murmer on the other end signified Rasta had reached the Supreme Commander of the British Army.
“ The Marshall will send his troops in. We have 40 minutes.”
“ 40 minutes to find and kill the Sancho. Ok, let’s do it. Move in.”
They advanced slowly through the lush and dense growth that surrounded the fortified villa. The guards were taken by surprise and with ease. Several well aimed blows to the head dispatched of the one guarding Grix and Rasta’s entry, and Grix leapt over the wall, his band now tied around his head. He smashed open a door, and ran ahead, ignoring his troops who were falling behind.
“ Griiiiiiii…” Rasta’s call faded as he was attacked. Grix ignored the call to turn back and searched, with a maddening zeal bordering on a frenzy, for Sancho Goatboy. He turned and sent his foot through a feeble wood door, showering the two guards inside with splinters. They gaped with shock as Grix charged in and dropped one instantly with a spinning kick. The other fumbled briefly with a gun before Grix slammed a palm into the nerve bunch at the base of his neck. He fell soundlessly. Grix grunted, and moved on, softly opening the next door. A woman sat by the window, long breezy dress blowing artistically in the wind. Grix felt his jaw drop. Then she turned, strands of hair trailing across her cheek, and he looked into her eyes… He jerked backwards, and she landed a blow right to Grix’s jawbone, sending him tumbling into a wall.
“ Who are you?” he gasped, feeling a welt rise on his jaw.
“ I am Mystique, wife to Sancho Goatboy.”
Grix felt all his wonder disappear in an instant, and he flipped up, hands shuffling slowly. Then he struck, just as Mystique whirled a leg round, sweeping his legs out from under him…
**
“ You fought Mystique!? The Legion Bane?” exclaimed Ant, wonder in his voice.
Grix smiled, briefly.
“ I did. She was…. Beautiful, yet filled with a vemon I have not seen before in any man, or woman. It was like… pure evil in her eyes. I never want to look upon such foulness again.”
“ Nor will you have to. The Legion cornered her in China fully five years ago.”
“ She is truly dead then?”
“ As dead as she can be.”
Grix nodded, a slight flame of relief flaring in his eyes.
“ Then the time is coming when I shall return to take up my duties again…”
Then Grix sat back in his shadows, chewing on some stale bread.
“ Mystique Legion Bane…”
**
You mean the "How Sniper Got His Groove Back?". I think you guys have gone too far with that for me to join in, but I'm be glad to help with the next one, cheers.
Great so far, but I feel I'm listening to the wrong music to read this too... pop 80's jazz stuff really doesn't go well with having to go and kill old friends. :0D
Hey, Stryke, why don't you join us in writing in the stories? We could do with a good writer like you, you'd be a great help you know.
Hey, Stryke, why don't you join us in writing in the stories? We could do with a good writer like you, you'd be a great help you know.
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