The "General Games Chat" forum, which includes Retro Game Reviews, has been archived and is now read-only. You cannot post here or create a new thread or review on this forum.
Installment based, as always:
The windswept night in a lonely part of London was not the beginning. But it was a beginning. Along one sodden street, a man walked, slowly, so as to attract no attention. He huddled under his coat, sharp eyes surveying the door opposite him. He sighed. However long he looked, he would always be at the disadvantage. He nodded, and only someone looking very closely would have noticed the shake of his hands.
He was nervous. It was not an emotion he was used to. Yet when you dealt with the people he was about to, he had every right. That didn’t make him feel any better. He pulled a Beretta from his belt and kicked the door open. Silence. The shrouds of darkness added to the wells of fear inside him.
“ Who are you?” One voice said, cold even in this freezing temperature. I
“ The walking style...one used to hardship.” The next voice put a harsh tone on the word.
“ What do you want?”
The figure clenched a fist, tightly. A shadow moved, slowly. Nothing but inperceptable murk.
“ I was…given this address. By a friend.”
“A friend?” a tone of amusement edged the voice.
The figure said nothing. Abruptly, a faint light flicked on. Two figures sat at the other end of the room, faces still in gloom.
“ Well. What do you want?” repeated the second figure. The first figure steeped his figures.
The new figure dropped a case on the floor. He shoved it towards them with a toe. They didn’t move.
“What is your name?”
“ For now, you will know me as Mr S.”
No reply from the silent duo.
“ It’s got no explosives.” Mr S said.
Silence. The one called Mr S sighed, and reached down to open the case. In a flash, the two moved. One had his knife at Mr S’s throat. The other flung the case away, and took the Beretta.
“ You are the contact.” One said. It was not a question.
“Yes.” Said Mr S simply.
“ Just us two?”
“ No.”
The one called Mr S smiled, slightly. He had control back, for now. Excepting the knife at his throat and his gun in another’s hand. He reached inside his jacket, slowly, and produced a slip of card. It had an address scrawled on it. He dropped it on the ground, and straightened as the knife was lifted away. He made for the door, and his gun was tossed back to him, clip removed.
“ The case holds money. Consider it a gift.”
He made for the door.
The pair looked at each other. Their look was unreadable.
**
Two days later…
A nondescript warehouse. Only a trained eye would notice where a panel had been weakened to allow a car to burst through. This was a bolthole. The pair walked through the main door, shotguns casually slung over their shoulders. A grizzled man watched from a table, seemingly absorbed in a laptop. Over by the only window, a woman stood, seemingly unarmed. But when one of them moved his shotgun down to arm level, she flicked one arm and a knife slid down into her hand. A flicker of ice-blue eyes was all that showed she had noticed. The grizzled man shivered slightly and slammed his laptop shut. The second man spun his shotgun across. The woman flicked her wrist, and another knife thudded into her palm. She seemed calm.
“ Please.” Mr S stood at a table. “ If you kill them, Mystique, there goes the operation.”
The man at the computer moved. He recognised the name. Her cold eyes darted to him. The pair spun their shotguns into firing position.
“ What makes you think she could kill us?” one said, smiling.
“ Oh, she’d kill you.” Said the man at the computer.
“ And why’s that?” said the other. He met their stares, and shrugged casually.
“ She kills everyone. Sooner or later.”
Mr S clapped his hands once.
“ Enough. If you kill each other, no-one gets the money.”
The man at the computer met their stares for an instant, then looked away. Mystique sat down, gliding slowly. They all moved like that.
“ Heck, I want that money.” He said.
“ We all want that money.” Said the pair.
“ Rasta? AliBoy? Please.” Said Mr S.
Mystique looked intrigued. She knew who they were.
“ So you know our names.” Said AliBoy. “ It’s just a name.”
Mr S inclined his head, smiling. He felt safe here.
“ Ex- MI6 agent Lana “AliBoy” Alaanas. SAS origins. Expert in use of all weapons and machine vehicles. Medals for extreme valour in the face of lethal danger, ’92. Raised to MI6 status ’93. Based in U.S.A. Expelled ’95 for disobeying…”
“Enough.” Said AliBoy calmly. Mr S nodded, and turned to Rasta.
“ Captain Billy Skankson. Commander of Her Majesty’s Special Armed Services from ’91 – ’96. Pilot and driver of the highest level. Expelled ’96 for refusing to execute….”
He glowered, the only show of emotion since he had entered. “ They call me Rasta.”
“ Whatever you wish.” Mr S turned to the man sitting at the computer. He winced, knowing what was coming.
“ NSA field operative Ross Thompson. Spymaster and computer expert. Most famous case: The infiltration and execution of rebel leader Votta, which has earned you the nickname of “Vottanator.” Expelled ’98 for computer crimes.”
“ I hacked into the IMF.” He didn’t look abashed.
“ Irish free-lance assassin Mystique. 37 registered kills. Best in her field, if only because she’s killed the entire field.”
She smiled, coldly.
“ Why are you telling us this?” asked Rasta, leaning forward to snatch a cigarette from the packet on the table.
“ Because you are going to work together.”
His shotgun snapped up at the same instant as Mystique flourished her knives and Vottanator pulled a Colt from under the table.
“ We are not on a team anymore, S.” spat Mystique.
“ YOU ARE MERCENARIES!” shouted Mr S. “ The second you betrayed your respective governments you ceased being soldiers and became hired skill. And hired skill will do what the hirer tells them to do! Or the hirer will take great pleasure in killing every last one of you.”
“Who are we working for?” asked AliBoy, suddenly. He didn’t lower his shotgun.
“ You are working for me. I am working for someone else.”
“ Who?”
“ You don’t need to know. Lower your weapons.”
They did so, slowly, glaring at each other. Mr S sighed, and sat down.
“ What’s the job?” said Vottanator.
Mr S looked at them all in turn, then produced two pictures from under his coat.
The windswept night in a lonely part of London was not the beginning. But it was a beginning. Along one sodden street, a man walked, slowly, so as to attract no attention. He huddled under his coat, sharp eyes surveying the door opposite him. He sighed. However long he looked, he would always be at the disadvantage. He nodded, and only someone looking very closely would have noticed the shake of his hands.
He was nervous. It was not an emotion he was used to. Yet when you dealt with the people he was about to, he had every right. That didn’t make him feel any better. He pulled a Beretta from his belt and kicked the door open. Silence. The shrouds of darkness added to the wells of fear inside him.
“ Who are you?” One voice said, cold even in this freezing temperature. I
“ The walking style...one used to hardship.” The next voice put a harsh tone on the word.
“ What do you want?”
The figure clenched a fist, tightly. A shadow moved, slowly. Nothing but inperceptable murk.
“ I was…given this address. By a friend.”
“A friend?” a tone of amusement edged the voice.
The figure said nothing. Abruptly, a faint light flicked on. Two figures sat at the other end of the room, faces still in gloom.
“ Well. What do you want?” repeated the second figure. The first figure steeped his figures.
The new figure dropped a case on the floor. He shoved it towards them with a toe. They didn’t move.
“What is your name?”
“ For now, you will know me as Mr S.”
No reply from the silent duo.
“ It’s got no explosives.” Mr S said.
Silence. The one called Mr S sighed, and reached down to open the case. In a flash, the two moved. One had his knife at Mr S’s throat. The other flung the case away, and took the Beretta.
“ You are the contact.” One said. It was not a question.
“Yes.” Said Mr S simply.
“ Just us two?”
“ No.”
The one called Mr S smiled, slightly. He had control back, for now. Excepting the knife at his throat and his gun in another’s hand. He reached inside his jacket, slowly, and produced a slip of card. It had an address scrawled on it. He dropped it on the ground, and straightened as the knife was lifted away. He made for the door, and his gun was tossed back to him, clip removed.
“ The case holds money. Consider it a gift.”
He made for the door.
The pair looked at each other. Their look was unreadable.
**
Two days later…
A nondescript warehouse. Only a trained eye would notice where a panel had been weakened to allow a car to burst through. This was a bolthole. The pair walked through the main door, shotguns casually slung over their shoulders. A grizzled man watched from a table, seemingly absorbed in a laptop. Over by the only window, a woman stood, seemingly unarmed. But when one of them moved his shotgun down to arm level, she flicked one arm and a knife slid down into her hand. A flicker of ice-blue eyes was all that showed she had noticed. The grizzled man shivered slightly and slammed his laptop shut. The second man spun his shotgun across. The woman flicked her wrist, and another knife thudded into her palm. She seemed calm.
“ Please.” Mr S stood at a table. “ If you kill them, Mystique, there goes the operation.”
The man at the computer moved. He recognised the name. Her cold eyes darted to him. The pair spun their shotguns into firing position.
“ What makes you think she could kill us?” one said, smiling.
“ Oh, she’d kill you.” Said the man at the computer.
“ And why’s that?” said the other. He met their stares, and shrugged casually.
“ She kills everyone. Sooner or later.”
Mr S clapped his hands once.
“ Enough. If you kill each other, no-one gets the money.”
The man at the computer met their stares for an instant, then looked away. Mystique sat down, gliding slowly. They all moved like that.
“ Heck, I want that money.” He said.
“ We all want that money.” Said the pair.
“ Rasta? AliBoy? Please.” Said Mr S.
Mystique looked intrigued. She knew who they were.
“ So you know our names.” Said AliBoy. “ It’s just a name.”
Mr S inclined his head, smiling. He felt safe here.
“ Ex- MI6 agent Lana “AliBoy” Alaanas. SAS origins. Expert in use of all weapons and machine vehicles. Medals for extreme valour in the face of lethal danger, ’92. Raised to MI6 status ’93. Based in U.S.A. Expelled ’95 for disobeying…”
“Enough.” Said AliBoy calmly. Mr S nodded, and turned to Rasta.
“ Captain Billy Skankson. Commander of Her Majesty’s Special Armed Services from ’91 – ’96. Pilot and driver of the highest level. Expelled ’96 for refusing to execute….”
He glowered, the only show of emotion since he had entered. “ They call me Rasta.”
“ Whatever you wish.” Mr S turned to the man sitting at the computer. He winced, knowing what was coming.
“ NSA field operative Ross Thompson. Spymaster and computer expert. Most famous case: The infiltration and execution of rebel leader Votta, which has earned you the nickname of “Vottanator.” Expelled ’98 for computer crimes.”
“ I hacked into the IMF.” He didn’t look abashed.
“ Irish free-lance assassin Mystique. 37 registered kills. Best in her field, if only because she’s killed the entire field.”
She smiled, coldly.
“ Why are you telling us this?” asked Rasta, leaning forward to snatch a cigarette from the packet on the table.
“ Because you are going to work together.”
His shotgun snapped up at the same instant as Mystique flourished her knives and Vottanator pulled a Colt from under the table.
“ We are not on a team anymore, S.” spat Mystique.
“ YOU ARE MERCENARIES!” shouted Mr S. “ The second you betrayed your respective governments you ceased being soldiers and became hired skill. And hired skill will do what the hirer tells them to do! Or the hirer will take great pleasure in killing every last one of you.”
“Who are we working for?” asked AliBoy, suddenly. He didn’t lower his shotgun.
“ You are working for me. I am working for someone else.”
“ Who?”
“ You don’t need to know. Lower your weapons.”
They did so, slowly, glaring at each other. Mr S sighed, and sat down.
“ What’s the job?” said Vottanator.
Mr S looked at them all in turn, then produced two pictures from under his coat.
Page:
Cool, I died.
What a rubbish story, no depth, no emotion, poor plot and badly thought out characters, not enough detail.
It was pants. Cheers for wasting those valuable moments of my life Smug man Stryke.
Oh I am also joking in a big way, the story was really good and deserves loads of praise, read this punks, read it all. Well done Gaz
It was pants. Cheers for wasting those valuable moments of my life Smug man Stryke.
Oh I am also joking in a big way, the story was really good and deserves loads of praise, read this punks, read it all. Well done Gaz
Ant wrote:
> better than any of
> my serious stories.
--
Now that's praise. Cheers Ant.
> better than any of
> my serious stories.
--
Now that's praise. Cheers Ant.
Hehe, read the first couple of parts, I'll read rest tonight. So far it's excellent stuff, I love the characters and the plot is great, better than any of my serious stories.
Well, that's it. I am pretty proud of this story, it's got the best plot I could think up. What do you think?
“ Betrayed.” Said Rasta morosely, holding his head in his hands. “ Whoever did it is going to pay. I’ve been with Lana since the start, and he’s saved my life more times than I remember. Hell, he even saved my life twice today.”
Vottanator was slumped against the wall. He said nothing, but his eyes were downcast.
“ Mr S?” said Mystique.
“ What would he have to gain by sabotaging his own job?”
“ What if it wasn’t his job? We trusted this guy blindly because he showed us pictures.”
“Money.” Blurted Vottanator. “ He knew what we wanted, and he waved it in front of our eyes.”
“ My friend, I need that money.” Said Rasta, grinning. There was no humour there.
“ Mr S.” growled Mystique again. “ I’m going to slit his throat.”
Suddenly Rasta sat bolt upright.
“ The door’s not locked.” He whispered. “ No, don’t look.”
Rasta got up, and edged along the wall. He thrust his head out and jumped out. Mystique followed him immediately. A guard had his back to them. She nodded and grabbed his mouth with one hand and twisted. Rasta grabbed him before he fell and dragged him into the cell. He quickly grabbed the side-arm from the man and shoved it into his belt. The keys went into a pocket, and the uniform was salvaged. A minutec later Rasta had stepped out into the corridor. Mystique was in front of him, acting as the prisoner. Vottanator followed, ducking into the shadows.
“ This is too easy.” Whispered Mystique without turning her head.
Rasta nodded absently. His memories were returning, and with them the face of the man who had drugged him that night. He stiffened, and stopped.
“ I remember who shot me that night.” He whispered. Mystique looked puzzled, and then Rasta span, his gun levelled out in front of him. Vottanator was gone. Rasta cursed.
“ Betrayed. Never trust the NSA.”
He flipped the gun to Mystique and looked around the corner. It was a long stretched corridor, with two guards at the far end.
“ We abort now.” Whispered Mystique. He nodded.
“ Through that door, and we’re free. How?”
There was no cover. Mystique shrugged and stepped out, running at a sprint before she’d covered five metres. The guards looked up at she neared ten metres. Their guns were out of their holsters at fifteen. At sixteen, Mystique’s first bullet took the guard on the left through the forehead. She threw herself into a roll, covering the distance to twenty metres and the other guard’s first salvo shattered flagstones. Then Mystique scythed the gun around, pumping out bullets. Two took him through the kneecaps, and she stood. A single bullet took him at the temple. No emotion, no quarter. She stepped delicately over the spreading pool of blood, and looked into a nearby room.
“ Armoury.” She said as Rasta skidded to a halt beside her.
She stepped inside. Rasta shrugged on a cross-chest holster, fitting a back-holstered MI6 into it. He sheathed a knife with a darkened blade at his hip, and four grenades at the other side. A Desert Eagle was added to the rear sheath. Mystique smiled as she lifted her perfectly balanced stiletto knives from a chest, and grabbed a Beretta rom the rack. A silencer was added to this. She nodded and they stepped out of the room, kicking open the exit door. Rasta spun the MI6 free and it roared as the four guards sharing a smoke in a wind-sheltered corner were blown backwards over the balcony. He ran and vaulted over it, landing lightly. A grenade spun out of his hand, nestling in a gun emplacement. It exploded with vivid colour as Mystique leapt over him, knife whirring out of her hand to take a guard through the throat. Another grenade from Rasta blew the main doors open. Rapid Russian sounded from behind them, and a metallic object landed at their feet. Rasta’s eyes bulged as he realised what it was, and he and Mystique swallow-dived off the ledge into the bushes. They rolled and ran towards the hum-vi that Rasta had spotted. Mystique spun herself up into the chain-gun position, and Rasta leapt into the drivers seat. Not for nothing was he rated the best driver the SAS had. Or did have, realised Rasta with a pang of regret.
He turned his head as Mystique saw Ant burst half-dressed from a corridor. Her hand unfolded, and a knife thudded into his shoulder. Rasta grinned and gave a mocking salute to the Irishman as he spun the wheel. Ant grimaced as blood leaked down his shoulder. The engine roared as Rasta made it fly over the smashed door. Mystique let fly with the chain-gun, literally shredding guards and building alike. As they drove away, Rasta pressed a remote detonator. The amoury blossomed upwards as a crate of grenades exploded. He smiled as the hum-vi roared down the road towards the city.
**
The door of the safehouse smashed open and Rasta ran through, MI6 pressed against his shoulder. Clear. He nodded and Mystique entered, Beretta still levelled at chest height. Her sharp eyes swept the room once before she nodded and sat down, letting out her breath.
“ Never trust the NSA.” She said.
“ I should have known when he said he couldn’t use a gun. All Americans use guns.” Muttered Rasta.
“ Rasta…” she hesitated. “ I’m…sorry about AliBoy.” She made as if to place a hand on his shoulder, and then sat back. Rasta simply shook his head.
“ Business first, grieve later.”
He re-checked the clip into the Desert Eagle.
“ Vottanator will pay for this.”
“ What about Mr S?” said Mystique.
“ Yes, what about him.” Echoed another voice. Rasta snapped the Desert Eagle up and twisted to the figure emerging from behind some crates.
“ Grix. What are you doing here?”
“ Wondering why you didn’t come back last night. What happened?”
“ What do you mean, what happened? What did AliBoy tell you?”
Grix made a look of incomprehension.
“ He didn’t radio you?” said Rasta again, sharply.
Grix just looked confused.
“ He must have been dead already. Look, I’m going to check outside. See if we’re being watched.” Said Rasta.
He lurched outside and breathed deeply. Only then did it hit him fully. His partner was dead. All those missions, and those times when they had saved each other lives. And that last time, a year after Lana had been disavowed. Rasta had kept him in touch, of course. And when the order came through to hunt and kill Lana, Rasta had obeyed without question. He lost the team in the process, and he had the gun pointed at his friend’s head. What had stopped him? That had earned him a place on the disavowed list alongside his friend, of course. Rasta shook his head.
Then he jerked his head up. Grix had never said no when he had asked about AliBoy radioing for help. He swore and swung the Desert Eagle round, kicking the door open. All he hard was an engine revving and disappearing into the distance. A note was pinned to the table with one of Mystique’s knives.
FINISH THE MISSION, AND YOU WILL HAVE HER BACK. Mr S.
So Grix was Mr S’s man. Rasta slammed a fist onto the table. He had been lied to too many times now. He had no idea who and how many factions there were. The odds were steeped against him. But that was just the way he liked it. He ripped the knife out. A second later he heaved open one of the weapons chests. He walked over to the jeep in the corner and loaded a block of C4 in. He changed into the black spy gear Grix had got from somewhere, and slung a grenade-launcher into the passenger seat, and a bandolier of ammo for it when crossways over his chest. Clips for the Desert Eagle and the MI6 went into a backpack, along with a silencer and night-vision goggles. The last addition was an experimental micro-grenade, with a spike so it would attach to a humans flesh. Rasta considered it for a second, then thrust it into a combat pocket. A minute later the jeep roared out of the driveway, and night was closing in. The two pictures floated in front of his mind. This wasn’t about the money any more. This was about revenge.
**
The jeep pulled up on a ridge overlooking the castle. A convoy of cars was leaving it, four in total. The jammed the night-vision goggles on, and centred them on the lead car. Yes, his targets were there. Obviously Ant believed them in too much risk here. Rasta crunched the gear stick and spun the jeep around.
**
Rasta stood up in the jeep, grenade-launcher levelled at the lead car. A quick shot, and it shot off the road, exploding into a thousand shards. The rest of the cars immediately erupted into action. Experienced drivers, thought Rasta, grinning darkly. Another shot took out the rear-most car, then he sat down hard and accelerated down the slope, the pumped-up suspension on the jeep barely compensating for the rough surface. Rasta locked the wheels and executed a hasty handbrake turn as the cars passed him, and floored the accelerator. A window wound down, and a Russian leant out with a Kashelnikov in hand. Rasta barely had time you accelerate into him before five bullets shattered the windscreen. He grunted and smashed it out with a fist, and he levelled the Desert Eagle. No need. The man’s body was splattered over half the car. Rasta grimaced, then spun the wheel about to smash his bumper into the left side of the car. It shook violently, and veered off. Rasta used the opportunity to hurl a grenade into the ruined window and accelerate strongly, cranking the engine as far as it would go. He was closing on the main car when the explosion shredded the other car. He ducked as shards of metal zoomed over his shoulder, one tracing a red line across he cheek. He winced as he felt warm blood leak down his cheek. Then he realised he couldn’t match the other car. Ant had chosen well. He groaned as the car skidded into a looming forest. He braked sharply, and peered round. He had lost his binoculars somewhere, and all he could make out were 5 shadowy figures sprinting into the forest, three surrounding two. He shook his head.
“ What the hell are you doing, Billy?” he muttered, and threw open the case at the back of the jeep. He re-holstered the MI6, and packed the grenade-launcher into the backpack. He slung it over the shoulder, and vaulted over the side of the jeep, twin Desert Eagles in hand. He didn’t notice the congealing blood on his cheek.
“ Damn.” He muttered, as he remembered he’d left the night-goggles back in the jeep. No time now. He wanted to find Mr S and Grix in there and make them pay for his friend’s death. He pressed his back against a tree as he heard a foot crunch on the dead vegetation. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, before spinning round. The Eagles roared as two bullets propelled the hapless guard backwards into a tree. Rasta crused, and sprinted for a thicket of bushes. Machine gun fire chewed up the ground underneath him as he went. He crashed down into the undergrowth, swearing.
“ What the HELL are you thinking, Billy?” he yelled to himself. “ She’s only an assassin!”
Pictures of Mystique floated through his brain, assuring him that she was more than that. He forced them away and concentrated on the task in hand.
“ One down, four to go. Chin chin.” He whispered to himself, before padding soundlessly away to his left.
He hard voices from a thicket to his left, and stalked over, breathing lightly. Only then did he see the shadowy figure crashing towards him from the right. He didn’t even have time to yell as he span. The figure knocked the guns from his hand easily. Rasta cursed as the MI6 jolted out of it’s holster. He span, landing a kick to the man’s side. He hardly noticed it, and a crashing blow collided with the side of Rasta’s head. Rasta coughed, and felt blood on his lips. A heavy boot collided with his ribs, and he felt himself leave the ground and smash into a tree. His vision blurring, he saw Ant step into the dim light afforded by the filtered moonlight. Hatred twisted his face.
“ My wife,” he announced. “ was a good, God fearing woman. All I feared was the night. And the night took her, in the shape of that woman!” he spat the last word, then focused on Rasta.
“ Now the night will swallow you. Whole.” He grinned. “ Maybe then I will be granted peace.” He slowly pulled a Glock from his hip holster. Suddenly a thin tip of metal protruded from his throat. He gulped, and, with shock in his eyes, felt the tip of the long stiletto knife protruding from his larynx. He futilely tried to stem the torrents of bloos flowing from the wound, and his eyes rolled up in his head. He thudded to the ground.
“ The night was always stronger.” A soft, Irish burr. Mystique emerged from the shadows.
“ Mystique?” said Rasta, gulping for air. “ What are you doing here?”
“ Grix said I had to leave immediately. He put me into a pickup and said I had to finish the job or he’d kill you.”
Rasta stared. If Grix had said that…
“ Something’s happening here that’s way over my head. But I do know this. They’ll kill us if we don’t finish this job.”
Mystique nodded, and extended a hand to pull him up. He pointed to the thicket from where the voices were. She nodded. He scooped up his MI6 and re-holstered it. The two Desert Eagles were easily located. Then he crept up to the clearing. Voices floated through.
“ …a madman!” That was her voice, one of the targets.
“ We paid you to stop this from happening!” That was his voice, the other target.
“ Are you threatening me?” A whispered voice, hardened. Rasta gasped. He knew that voice. Before he could do anything, Mystique’s Beretta hummed. The female voice screamed as the bullet took her through the temple. Rasta threw himself upright, and the Desert Eagles roared twice. The man dropped without a sound, his throat shredded. The third figure stepped backwards into the shadows.
“ Don’t move.” His voice said. He stepped out again, gun pointed against Mystique’s temple. “ Step out where I can see you. Guns thrown first, please.”
The Desert Eagles landed in the loam, followed by the MI6, and the backpack. Then Rasta stepped out, shaking his head.
“ Hello Billy.” Said AliBoy, conversationally.
“ So it was you.” Said Rasta, morosely. “ And I thought it was Vottanator.”
“ Yes, how melodramatic of you, Billy. Vottanator was a pawn, he was one of mine. I slit his throat during your escape, of course.” Said AliBoy cheerily.
Rasta grinned. “ And you never did call Grix. That was clever. You played me right into suspecting him. He one of yours, too?”
“ Yes, that was rather clever of me, wasn’t it?”
Rasta nodded in satisfaction. He had gotten the answer he needed.
“ And of course, these two were only decoys. Reaper and Iguana, the two biggest druglords in South America. How ever did you get to Russia?”
AliBoy shrugged. “ Money. It seals lips and crosses continents.”
“ Now you’ve destroyed the best mercenaries in the world and got your hands on two billion-dollar empires. Very slick. And I refused to execute you back in Bolivia. You were, of course, working on the plan even then.” Said Rasta, grimacing. “ Ant you brought in to distract Mystique. But me? We’ve been loyal to each over for a decade, you SCUM!”
“ Loyalty.” AliBoy appeared to be savouring the word. “ What a misplaced trust. They died for theirs. You will die for yours.”
“ And Grix and Mr S?” asked Rasta. AliBoy ignored him. Rasta laughed, openly. He threw back his head and roared his despair out to the world. AliBoy smiled wryly and levelled the gun. Rasta shouted and kicked the MI6 up from the loam, diving forward as the shower of leaves obscured AliBoy’s view. He grabbed the MI6.
“ Cry for me!” shouted Rasta, and let rip with a flurry of bullets. When the clip had emptied, and the echoes died down, Rasta looked up. AliBoy was standing calmly, the twin Desert Eagles levelled at Rasta. He appeared amused.
“ Goodbye, Billy.”
“ NOOO!” Mystique burst from the undergrowth as AliBoy fired. The bullet aimed at Rasta’s head tore into her chest, and the second thudded into Rasta’s shoulder. He yelled, and ripped the micro-grenade out of his pocket, yelling as he hurled it at AliBoy. He turned and dived for cover, as AliBoy looked in puzzlement at the small spherical object protruding from his arm.
“ Oh.” He said, as his eyes widened.
The explosion sent Rasta flying, sending him head over heels into a trunk. He moaned in pain as the ringing in his ears died down. He crawled back across the clearing to where Mystique lay, her chest rising and falling slowly. She smiled up at him.
“ Why?” he whispered. She just smiled, and sighed as her last breath left her. For the first time in years, tears leaked out of Rasta’s eyes. The sounds of the night rung around him as he clutched her body to him, weeping.
Minutes later, he looked up as a whirring noise pounded down on him. A helicopter was landing. He crawled across the clearing and picked up the Desert Eagles, his shoulder crying in protest. He heaved his back against a trunk, and levelled the guns shakily as the ‘copter door opened. Two figures stepped out, smart in tailored suits and clutching machine guns. They smiled as Rasta laughed at them, and threw his guns away.
“ They’re dead. They’re…all dead.”
Grix and Mr S knelt by Rasta, sorrow in their eyes.
“ We are sorry, Mr Skankson.”
Rasta laughed manically.
“ Who are you?”
“ Agents Thraves and Stryke of Mi6, Mr Skankson.”
“ Who were you after?”
Grix squatted. “ Well, for some time now, we had been aware of C.I.A and Mi6 agents disappearing. We knew it had to be someone with intricate knowledge of our operating practises. The disavowed list was the best place to start.”
Rasta sighed.
“ AliBoy, a double-agent. Who was paying him?”
“ We don’t know.” Said Stryke simply.
“ So the druglords were just a bonus?”
Grix looked with a twisted grin at the bodies of Iguana and Reaper.
“ The C.I.A. are going to have a field day with this one.”
“ And I suppose Mystique was meant to die?”
Stryke smiled. “ We couldn’t let the most wanted assassin in the world slip out of our grasps again. No court in England would convict her. No, legal matters stopped a long time ago. Justice was served.”
Rasta laughed again.
“ And you, Mr Skankson, have heard too much.”
The laugh continued as Stryke turned away. Grix pulled a handgun from inside his jacket and stood up, levelling it as Rasta’s forehead.
“ Goodbye, Mr Skankson.”
THE END
Vottanator was slumped against the wall. He said nothing, but his eyes were downcast.
“ Mr S?” said Mystique.
“ What would he have to gain by sabotaging his own job?”
“ What if it wasn’t his job? We trusted this guy blindly because he showed us pictures.”
“Money.” Blurted Vottanator. “ He knew what we wanted, and he waved it in front of our eyes.”
“ My friend, I need that money.” Said Rasta, grinning. There was no humour there.
“ Mr S.” growled Mystique again. “ I’m going to slit his throat.”
Suddenly Rasta sat bolt upright.
“ The door’s not locked.” He whispered. “ No, don’t look.”
Rasta got up, and edged along the wall. He thrust his head out and jumped out. Mystique followed him immediately. A guard had his back to them. She nodded and grabbed his mouth with one hand and twisted. Rasta grabbed him before he fell and dragged him into the cell. He quickly grabbed the side-arm from the man and shoved it into his belt. The keys went into a pocket, and the uniform was salvaged. A minutec later Rasta had stepped out into the corridor. Mystique was in front of him, acting as the prisoner. Vottanator followed, ducking into the shadows.
“ This is too easy.” Whispered Mystique without turning her head.
Rasta nodded absently. His memories were returning, and with them the face of the man who had drugged him that night. He stiffened, and stopped.
“ I remember who shot me that night.” He whispered. Mystique looked puzzled, and then Rasta span, his gun levelled out in front of him. Vottanator was gone. Rasta cursed.
“ Betrayed. Never trust the NSA.”
He flipped the gun to Mystique and looked around the corner. It was a long stretched corridor, with two guards at the far end.
“ We abort now.” Whispered Mystique. He nodded.
“ Through that door, and we’re free. How?”
There was no cover. Mystique shrugged and stepped out, running at a sprint before she’d covered five metres. The guards looked up at she neared ten metres. Their guns were out of their holsters at fifteen. At sixteen, Mystique’s first bullet took the guard on the left through the forehead. She threw herself into a roll, covering the distance to twenty metres and the other guard’s first salvo shattered flagstones. Then Mystique scythed the gun around, pumping out bullets. Two took him through the kneecaps, and she stood. A single bullet took him at the temple. No emotion, no quarter. She stepped delicately over the spreading pool of blood, and looked into a nearby room.
“ Armoury.” She said as Rasta skidded to a halt beside her.
She stepped inside. Rasta shrugged on a cross-chest holster, fitting a back-holstered MI6 into it. He sheathed a knife with a darkened blade at his hip, and four grenades at the other side. A Desert Eagle was added to the rear sheath. Mystique smiled as she lifted her perfectly balanced stiletto knives from a chest, and grabbed a Beretta rom the rack. A silencer was added to this. She nodded and they stepped out of the room, kicking open the exit door. Rasta spun the MI6 free and it roared as the four guards sharing a smoke in a wind-sheltered corner were blown backwards over the balcony. He ran and vaulted over it, landing lightly. A grenade spun out of his hand, nestling in a gun emplacement. It exploded with vivid colour as Mystique leapt over him, knife whirring out of her hand to take a guard through the throat. Another grenade from Rasta blew the main doors open. Rapid Russian sounded from behind them, and a metallic object landed at their feet. Rasta’s eyes bulged as he realised what it was, and he and Mystique swallow-dived off the ledge into the bushes. They rolled and ran towards the hum-vi that Rasta had spotted. Mystique spun herself up into the chain-gun position, and Rasta leapt into the drivers seat. Not for nothing was he rated the best driver the SAS had. Or did have, realised Rasta with a pang of regret.
He turned his head as Mystique saw Ant burst half-dressed from a corridor. Her hand unfolded, and a knife thudded into his shoulder. Rasta grinned and gave a mocking salute to the Irishman as he spun the wheel. Ant grimaced as blood leaked down his shoulder. The engine roared as Rasta made it fly over the smashed door. Mystique let fly with the chain-gun, literally shredding guards and building alike. As they drove away, Rasta pressed a remote detonator. The amoury blossomed upwards as a crate of grenades exploded. He smiled as the hum-vi roared down the road towards the city.
**
The door of the safehouse smashed open and Rasta ran through, MI6 pressed against his shoulder. Clear. He nodded and Mystique entered, Beretta still levelled at chest height. Her sharp eyes swept the room once before she nodded and sat down, letting out her breath.
“ Never trust the NSA.” She said.
“ I should have known when he said he couldn’t use a gun. All Americans use guns.” Muttered Rasta.
“ Rasta…” she hesitated. “ I’m…sorry about AliBoy.” She made as if to place a hand on his shoulder, and then sat back. Rasta simply shook his head.
“ Business first, grieve later.”
He re-checked the clip into the Desert Eagle.
“ Vottanator will pay for this.”
“ What about Mr S?” said Mystique.
“ Yes, what about him.” Echoed another voice. Rasta snapped the Desert Eagle up and twisted to the figure emerging from behind some crates.
“ Grix. What are you doing here?”
“ Wondering why you didn’t come back last night. What happened?”
“ What do you mean, what happened? What did AliBoy tell you?”
Grix made a look of incomprehension.
“ He didn’t radio you?” said Rasta again, sharply.
Grix just looked confused.
“ He must have been dead already. Look, I’m going to check outside. See if we’re being watched.” Said Rasta.
He lurched outside and breathed deeply. Only then did it hit him fully. His partner was dead. All those missions, and those times when they had saved each other lives. And that last time, a year after Lana had been disavowed. Rasta had kept him in touch, of course. And when the order came through to hunt and kill Lana, Rasta had obeyed without question. He lost the team in the process, and he had the gun pointed at his friend’s head. What had stopped him? That had earned him a place on the disavowed list alongside his friend, of course. Rasta shook his head.
Then he jerked his head up. Grix had never said no when he had asked about AliBoy radioing for help. He swore and swung the Desert Eagle round, kicking the door open. All he hard was an engine revving and disappearing into the distance. A note was pinned to the table with one of Mystique’s knives.
FINISH THE MISSION, AND YOU WILL HAVE HER BACK. Mr S.
So Grix was Mr S’s man. Rasta slammed a fist onto the table. He had been lied to too many times now. He had no idea who and how many factions there were. The odds were steeped against him. But that was just the way he liked it. He ripped the knife out. A second later he heaved open one of the weapons chests. He walked over to the jeep in the corner and loaded a block of C4 in. He changed into the black spy gear Grix had got from somewhere, and slung a grenade-launcher into the passenger seat, and a bandolier of ammo for it when crossways over his chest. Clips for the Desert Eagle and the MI6 went into a backpack, along with a silencer and night-vision goggles. The last addition was an experimental micro-grenade, with a spike so it would attach to a humans flesh. Rasta considered it for a second, then thrust it into a combat pocket. A minute later the jeep roared out of the driveway, and night was closing in. The two pictures floated in front of his mind. This wasn’t about the money any more. This was about revenge.
**
The jeep pulled up on a ridge overlooking the castle. A convoy of cars was leaving it, four in total. The jammed the night-vision goggles on, and centred them on the lead car. Yes, his targets were there. Obviously Ant believed them in too much risk here. Rasta crunched the gear stick and spun the jeep around.
**
Rasta stood up in the jeep, grenade-launcher levelled at the lead car. A quick shot, and it shot off the road, exploding into a thousand shards. The rest of the cars immediately erupted into action. Experienced drivers, thought Rasta, grinning darkly. Another shot took out the rear-most car, then he sat down hard and accelerated down the slope, the pumped-up suspension on the jeep barely compensating for the rough surface. Rasta locked the wheels and executed a hasty handbrake turn as the cars passed him, and floored the accelerator. A window wound down, and a Russian leant out with a Kashelnikov in hand. Rasta barely had time you accelerate into him before five bullets shattered the windscreen. He grunted and smashed it out with a fist, and he levelled the Desert Eagle. No need. The man’s body was splattered over half the car. Rasta grimaced, then spun the wheel about to smash his bumper into the left side of the car. It shook violently, and veered off. Rasta used the opportunity to hurl a grenade into the ruined window and accelerate strongly, cranking the engine as far as it would go. He was closing on the main car when the explosion shredded the other car. He ducked as shards of metal zoomed over his shoulder, one tracing a red line across he cheek. He winced as he felt warm blood leak down his cheek. Then he realised he couldn’t match the other car. Ant had chosen well. He groaned as the car skidded into a looming forest. He braked sharply, and peered round. He had lost his binoculars somewhere, and all he could make out were 5 shadowy figures sprinting into the forest, three surrounding two. He shook his head.
“ What the hell are you doing, Billy?” he muttered, and threw open the case at the back of the jeep. He re-holstered the MI6, and packed the grenade-launcher into the backpack. He slung it over the shoulder, and vaulted over the side of the jeep, twin Desert Eagles in hand. He didn’t notice the congealing blood on his cheek.
“ Damn.” He muttered, as he remembered he’d left the night-goggles back in the jeep. No time now. He wanted to find Mr S and Grix in there and make them pay for his friend’s death. He pressed his back against a tree as he heard a foot crunch on the dead vegetation. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, before spinning round. The Eagles roared as two bullets propelled the hapless guard backwards into a tree. Rasta crused, and sprinted for a thicket of bushes. Machine gun fire chewed up the ground underneath him as he went. He crashed down into the undergrowth, swearing.
“ What the HELL are you thinking, Billy?” he yelled to himself. “ She’s only an assassin!”
Pictures of Mystique floated through his brain, assuring him that she was more than that. He forced them away and concentrated on the task in hand.
“ One down, four to go. Chin chin.” He whispered to himself, before padding soundlessly away to his left.
He hard voices from a thicket to his left, and stalked over, breathing lightly. Only then did he see the shadowy figure crashing towards him from the right. He didn’t even have time to yell as he span. The figure knocked the guns from his hand easily. Rasta cursed as the MI6 jolted out of it’s holster. He span, landing a kick to the man’s side. He hardly noticed it, and a crashing blow collided with the side of Rasta’s head. Rasta coughed, and felt blood on his lips. A heavy boot collided with his ribs, and he felt himself leave the ground and smash into a tree. His vision blurring, he saw Ant step into the dim light afforded by the filtered moonlight. Hatred twisted his face.
“ My wife,” he announced. “ was a good, God fearing woman. All I feared was the night. And the night took her, in the shape of that woman!” he spat the last word, then focused on Rasta.
“ Now the night will swallow you. Whole.” He grinned. “ Maybe then I will be granted peace.” He slowly pulled a Glock from his hip holster. Suddenly a thin tip of metal protruded from his throat. He gulped, and, with shock in his eyes, felt the tip of the long stiletto knife protruding from his larynx. He futilely tried to stem the torrents of bloos flowing from the wound, and his eyes rolled up in his head. He thudded to the ground.
“ The night was always stronger.” A soft, Irish burr. Mystique emerged from the shadows.
“ Mystique?” said Rasta, gulping for air. “ What are you doing here?”
“ Grix said I had to leave immediately. He put me into a pickup and said I had to finish the job or he’d kill you.”
Rasta stared. If Grix had said that…
“ Something’s happening here that’s way over my head. But I do know this. They’ll kill us if we don’t finish this job.”
Mystique nodded, and extended a hand to pull him up. He pointed to the thicket from where the voices were. She nodded. He scooped up his MI6 and re-holstered it. The two Desert Eagles were easily located. Then he crept up to the clearing. Voices floated through.
“ …a madman!” That was her voice, one of the targets.
“ We paid you to stop this from happening!” That was his voice, the other target.
“ Are you threatening me?” A whispered voice, hardened. Rasta gasped. He knew that voice. Before he could do anything, Mystique’s Beretta hummed. The female voice screamed as the bullet took her through the temple. Rasta threw himself upright, and the Desert Eagles roared twice. The man dropped without a sound, his throat shredded. The third figure stepped backwards into the shadows.
“ Don’t move.” His voice said. He stepped out again, gun pointed against Mystique’s temple. “ Step out where I can see you. Guns thrown first, please.”
The Desert Eagles landed in the loam, followed by the MI6, and the backpack. Then Rasta stepped out, shaking his head.
“ Hello Billy.” Said AliBoy, conversationally.
“ So it was you.” Said Rasta, morosely. “ And I thought it was Vottanator.”
“ Yes, how melodramatic of you, Billy. Vottanator was a pawn, he was one of mine. I slit his throat during your escape, of course.” Said AliBoy cheerily.
Rasta grinned. “ And you never did call Grix. That was clever. You played me right into suspecting him. He one of yours, too?”
“ Yes, that was rather clever of me, wasn’t it?”
Rasta nodded in satisfaction. He had gotten the answer he needed.
“ And of course, these two were only decoys. Reaper and Iguana, the two biggest druglords in South America. How ever did you get to Russia?”
AliBoy shrugged. “ Money. It seals lips and crosses continents.”
“ Now you’ve destroyed the best mercenaries in the world and got your hands on two billion-dollar empires. Very slick. And I refused to execute you back in Bolivia. You were, of course, working on the plan even then.” Said Rasta, grimacing. “ Ant you brought in to distract Mystique. But me? We’ve been loyal to each over for a decade, you SCUM!”
“ Loyalty.” AliBoy appeared to be savouring the word. “ What a misplaced trust. They died for theirs. You will die for yours.”
“ And Grix and Mr S?” asked Rasta. AliBoy ignored him. Rasta laughed, openly. He threw back his head and roared his despair out to the world. AliBoy smiled wryly and levelled the gun. Rasta shouted and kicked the MI6 up from the loam, diving forward as the shower of leaves obscured AliBoy’s view. He grabbed the MI6.
“ Cry for me!” shouted Rasta, and let rip with a flurry of bullets. When the clip had emptied, and the echoes died down, Rasta looked up. AliBoy was standing calmly, the twin Desert Eagles levelled at Rasta. He appeared amused.
“ Goodbye, Billy.”
“ NOOO!” Mystique burst from the undergrowth as AliBoy fired. The bullet aimed at Rasta’s head tore into her chest, and the second thudded into Rasta’s shoulder. He yelled, and ripped the micro-grenade out of his pocket, yelling as he hurled it at AliBoy. He turned and dived for cover, as AliBoy looked in puzzlement at the small spherical object protruding from his arm.
“ Oh.” He said, as his eyes widened.
The explosion sent Rasta flying, sending him head over heels into a trunk. He moaned in pain as the ringing in his ears died down. He crawled back across the clearing to where Mystique lay, her chest rising and falling slowly. She smiled up at him.
“ Why?” he whispered. She just smiled, and sighed as her last breath left her. For the first time in years, tears leaked out of Rasta’s eyes. The sounds of the night rung around him as he clutched her body to him, weeping.
Minutes later, he looked up as a whirring noise pounded down on him. A helicopter was landing. He crawled across the clearing and picked up the Desert Eagles, his shoulder crying in protest. He heaved his back against a trunk, and levelled the guns shakily as the ‘copter door opened. Two figures stepped out, smart in tailored suits and clutching machine guns. They smiled as Rasta laughed at them, and threw his guns away.
“ They’re dead. They’re…all dead.”
Grix and Mr S knelt by Rasta, sorrow in their eyes.
“ We are sorry, Mr Skankson.”
Rasta laughed manically.
“ Who are you?”
“ Agents Thraves and Stryke of Mi6, Mr Skankson.”
“ Who were you after?”
Grix squatted. “ Well, for some time now, we had been aware of C.I.A and Mi6 agents disappearing. We knew it had to be someone with intricate knowledge of our operating practises. The disavowed list was the best place to start.”
Rasta sighed.
“ AliBoy, a double-agent. Who was paying him?”
“ We don’t know.” Said Stryke simply.
“ So the druglords were just a bonus?”
Grix looked with a twisted grin at the bodies of Iguana and Reaper.
“ The C.I.A. are going to have a field day with this one.”
“ And I suppose Mystique was meant to die?”
Stryke smiled. “ We couldn’t let the most wanted assassin in the world slip out of our grasps again. No court in England would convict her. No, legal matters stopped a long time ago. Justice was served.”
Rasta laughed again.
“ And you, Mr Skankson, have heard too much.”
The laugh continued as Stryke turned away. Grix pulled a handgun from inside his jacket and stood up, levelling it as Rasta’s forehead.
“ Goodbye, Mr Skankson.”
THE END
Rasta crawled over the ridge of the hill overlooking the palace, squinting. Then he ducked back down.
“Right, there’s a blind spot between two of the outer guards. Narrow though, lasts only a couple of seconds. Can you do it?” He was looking at Mystique. She glared.
“ Of course you can.” Said Rasta hurriedly. “Alan, I need you up here with the grenade-launcher that Grix procured us.” He nodded. “ Vottanator, I’ll need you with me. Once she’s disposed of the guards, we’ll have to run. Can you run?”
“Run as in move fast?” scoffed Vottanator.
“Yes, the opposite of walking. Got everything you need? Let’s go.” He slammed a clip into his semi-automatic. “ Remember, we don’t breach the outer perimeter unless we’re forced to. If we are discovered, we press ahead with the job and try and take out the target. If I say abort, we abort. OK? Alan, get Grix up here unless anything goes wrong.” AliBoy nodded.
Then Mystique was gone. She rolled down the hill silently, black leather invisible in the clouded night. She looked at the guard cycle in cold, measuring tones, moving backwards and forwards in time with their steps. Then she pushed herself off on one foot, stiletto knife sliding down into one hand. She pulled her Beretta with silencer from behind her belt. She reached the outer wall, and leapt. One foot hit the mortar hard, and she pushed off into a full backflip. She swung into the air as the second guard turned the corner perfectly on time, and hung over his head for the briefest of seconds. Then she landed behind him, one hand snapped around his mouth, the other going to his throat, knife re-sheathed. She twisted hard, and let the lifeless corpse slide to the ground. Then she turned, a beat pounding in her head, reminding her of the other guards footsteps. She grabbed a projecting bar and swung up, gaining momentum. Then she let go, soaring through the air and torpedoed into the last guard. Her legs wrapped around his neck and twisted suddenly, snapping his neck with an audible click. She swore, and continued the fall into a roll into the shadows. She pressed herself against the wall, ears strained for even the slightest hint of sound. Then Rasta and Vottanator were slamming into the wall, breathing hard. She saw Vottanator snap open a laptop and place a infra-red mobile phone beside it. Then he was tapping away, hacking into the camera files. Rasta edged over to her.
“ Good work.”
“ I take pride.”
“In snapping people’s necks?” he sounded mildly amused, not shocked.
“ In all manner of things.” She replied, coldly. He shrugged and moved away.
Then a high-pitched alarm sounded over the complex. Rasta swore loudly and rushed over to Vottanator.
“Wasn’t me!” he yelled. “I hadn’t breached the codes yet!”
Rasta looked doubtful, but ripped his radio from his pocket.
“ ALIBOY! GET DOWN HERE!” he yelled, and snapped it closed without waiting for a reply. Vottanator had slung his laptop case over his shoulder, and pulled a handgun from a hip holster.
“Over the wall?” whispered Mystique. Rasta nodded. He pushed his back into the wall, and cupped his hands. She slammed her heel into it, and vaulted smoothly over the wall. Guards suddenly skidded round the corner, yelling in Russian. Rasta cursed and levelled his gun. Before he could loose one shot, a rapid burst of machine-gun fire exploded from the hill, taking down the lead three guards. Rasta’s next two shots took the fourth through the head and another burst took out the fifth. Thank you Aliboy, whispered Rasta under his breath, before scrambling up the wall. He landed softly, and turned to see Mystique’s Beretta levelled at his head. She let out her breath when she realised it was him, and pointed silently. He nodded and rolled into a bush, screwing a silencer to his Glock. He heard a silent thud, before a bleeding body toppled forward onto him. He dove forward, spinning, firing at the two noises he heard. Another two bodies toppled, and then he ran. Mystique joined him, running silently. He heard an explosion behind him – must be AliBoy and the grenade-laucher. Suddenly Mystique skidded to a halt.
“ What?” he gasped.
She simply pointed. A heavy-set man was watching her, and slowly raising a sniper rifle to his shoulder.
“Ant. Go.” Then she ran towards him, and Ant fired. Rasta saw her roll, the bullet skimming over her shoulder. No, not a bullet – a stun dart. What?
“MYSTIQUE!” he yelled. “IT’S A TRA…”
Then something thudded into his shoulder. He turned, and he seemed to be struggling through mud. He raised his gun slowly, drunkenly and saw a face. He recognised that face…He fought to stay conscious, but waves of darkness flooded over him. The last thing he remembered as he collapsed was that face…
**
He woke in a dimly-lit cell, groaning. He looked about. Mystique was slumped on a bench, the sunlight faintly playing over one cheek. It was the first time he’d seen her asleep, and he found it hard to take his eyes away. The dart must still be affecting him. He shook his head, and looked around. Vottanator was standing groggily in a corner.
“ What happened?” he asked.
“ I got hit.” Muttered Vottanator. “ Look, Rasta, I swear I didn’t breach the detectable codes.”
He nodded his head. “ Where’s AliBoy?”
Vottanator bowed his head. “ He’s…dead.”
Rasta stared. “ What? How?”
Then the door slammed open. Ant walked into the room, a scar twisting the right half of his face. His close-cropped black hiar only served to emphasise it. He smirked, and kicked the lying Mystique in the ribs. For some reason rage boiled in Rasta at this, and he hurled himself at Ant. He was in no state to fight in this condition, and Ant easily landed a heavy blow to Rasta’s chin, sending him backwards.
“ You will talk when I say talk, boy.” Said Ant, the Irish burr still audible in his voice. Mystique stirred as he kicked her again, and suddenly her eyes snapped open.
“ You don’t want to be going the way of your wife, man.” She growled.
He snarled, unholstering a gun. Then he relaxed.
“ No, I want you to live knowing you were betrayed.”
Rasta jerked his head up.
“ Betrayed? By who?”
Ant merely smiled.
“ The whole world, boy. And one person in particular.”
Then he turned and strode out.
“ WHO?” howled Rasta after him. He collapsed, sighing.
“ Are you OK?” said Mystique softly. He was startled by the softness in her voice.
“Who are we working for?” whispered Rasta.
**
“ Is it done?” said a voice.
“ It is done.” Said Ant, on the phone.
“ Good. Let them think about it. Step Two is prepared?”
Ant wiped away a beat of sweat.
“ Are you sure that..”
“ Contradict me again and you will hang. Is Step Two prepared?” cut in the voice quickly.
“ Yes sir.”
“ Then make it so.”
**
“Right, there’s a blind spot between two of the outer guards. Narrow though, lasts only a couple of seconds. Can you do it?” He was looking at Mystique. She glared.
“ Of course you can.” Said Rasta hurriedly. “Alan, I need you up here with the grenade-launcher that Grix procured us.” He nodded. “ Vottanator, I’ll need you with me. Once she’s disposed of the guards, we’ll have to run. Can you run?”
“Run as in move fast?” scoffed Vottanator.
“Yes, the opposite of walking. Got everything you need? Let’s go.” He slammed a clip into his semi-automatic. “ Remember, we don’t breach the outer perimeter unless we’re forced to. If we are discovered, we press ahead with the job and try and take out the target. If I say abort, we abort. OK? Alan, get Grix up here unless anything goes wrong.” AliBoy nodded.
Then Mystique was gone. She rolled down the hill silently, black leather invisible in the clouded night. She looked at the guard cycle in cold, measuring tones, moving backwards and forwards in time with their steps. Then she pushed herself off on one foot, stiletto knife sliding down into one hand. She pulled her Beretta with silencer from behind her belt. She reached the outer wall, and leapt. One foot hit the mortar hard, and she pushed off into a full backflip. She swung into the air as the second guard turned the corner perfectly on time, and hung over his head for the briefest of seconds. Then she landed behind him, one hand snapped around his mouth, the other going to his throat, knife re-sheathed. She twisted hard, and let the lifeless corpse slide to the ground. Then she turned, a beat pounding in her head, reminding her of the other guards footsteps. She grabbed a projecting bar and swung up, gaining momentum. Then she let go, soaring through the air and torpedoed into the last guard. Her legs wrapped around his neck and twisted suddenly, snapping his neck with an audible click. She swore, and continued the fall into a roll into the shadows. She pressed herself against the wall, ears strained for even the slightest hint of sound. Then Rasta and Vottanator were slamming into the wall, breathing hard. She saw Vottanator snap open a laptop and place a infra-red mobile phone beside it. Then he was tapping away, hacking into the camera files. Rasta edged over to her.
“ Good work.”
“ I take pride.”
“In snapping people’s necks?” he sounded mildly amused, not shocked.
“ In all manner of things.” She replied, coldly. He shrugged and moved away.
Then a high-pitched alarm sounded over the complex. Rasta swore loudly and rushed over to Vottanator.
“Wasn’t me!” he yelled. “I hadn’t breached the codes yet!”
Rasta looked doubtful, but ripped his radio from his pocket.
“ ALIBOY! GET DOWN HERE!” he yelled, and snapped it closed without waiting for a reply. Vottanator had slung his laptop case over his shoulder, and pulled a handgun from a hip holster.
“Over the wall?” whispered Mystique. Rasta nodded. He pushed his back into the wall, and cupped his hands. She slammed her heel into it, and vaulted smoothly over the wall. Guards suddenly skidded round the corner, yelling in Russian. Rasta cursed and levelled his gun. Before he could loose one shot, a rapid burst of machine-gun fire exploded from the hill, taking down the lead three guards. Rasta’s next two shots took the fourth through the head and another burst took out the fifth. Thank you Aliboy, whispered Rasta under his breath, before scrambling up the wall. He landed softly, and turned to see Mystique’s Beretta levelled at his head. She let out her breath when she realised it was him, and pointed silently. He nodded and rolled into a bush, screwing a silencer to his Glock. He heard a silent thud, before a bleeding body toppled forward onto him. He dove forward, spinning, firing at the two noises he heard. Another two bodies toppled, and then he ran. Mystique joined him, running silently. He heard an explosion behind him – must be AliBoy and the grenade-laucher. Suddenly Mystique skidded to a halt.
“ What?” he gasped.
She simply pointed. A heavy-set man was watching her, and slowly raising a sniper rifle to his shoulder.
“Ant. Go.” Then she ran towards him, and Ant fired. Rasta saw her roll, the bullet skimming over her shoulder. No, not a bullet – a stun dart. What?
“MYSTIQUE!” he yelled. “IT’S A TRA…”
Then something thudded into his shoulder. He turned, and he seemed to be struggling through mud. He raised his gun slowly, drunkenly and saw a face. He recognised that face…He fought to stay conscious, but waves of darkness flooded over him. The last thing he remembered as he collapsed was that face…
**
He woke in a dimly-lit cell, groaning. He looked about. Mystique was slumped on a bench, the sunlight faintly playing over one cheek. It was the first time he’d seen her asleep, and he found it hard to take his eyes away. The dart must still be affecting him. He shook his head, and looked around. Vottanator was standing groggily in a corner.
“ What happened?” he asked.
“ I got hit.” Muttered Vottanator. “ Look, Rasta, I swear I didn’t breach the detectable codes.”
He nodded his head. “ Where’s AliBoy?”
Vottanator bowed his head. “ He’s…dead.”
Rasta stared. “ What? How?”
Then the door slammed open. Ant walked into the room, a scar twisting the right half of his face. His close-cropped black hiar only served to emphasise it. He smirked, and kicked the lying Mystique in the ribs. For some reason rage boiled in Rasta at this, and he hurled himself at Ant. He was in no state to fight in this condition, and Ant easily landed a heavy blow to Rasta’s chin, sending him backwards.
“ You will talk when I say talk, boy.” Said Ant, the Irish burr still audible in his voice. Mystique stirred as he kicked her again, and suddenly her eyes snapped open.
“ You don’t want to be going the way of your wife, man.” She growled.
He snarled, unholstering a gun. Then he relaxed.
“ No, I want you to live knowing you were betrayed.”
Rasta jerked his head up.
“ Betrayed? By who?”
Ant merely smiled.
“ The whole world, boy. And one person in particular.”
Then he turned and strode out.
“ WHO?” howled Rasta after him. He collapsed, sighing.
“ Are you OK?” said Mystique softly. He was startled by the softness in her voice.
“Who are we working for?” whispered Rasta.
**
“ Is it done?” said a voice.
“ It is done.” Said Ant, on the phone.
“ Good. Let them think about it. Step Two is prepared?”
Ant wiped away a beat of sweat.
“ Are you sure that..”
“ Contradict me again and you will hang. Is Step Two prepared?” cut in the voice quickly.
“ Yes sir.”
“ Then make it so.”
**
**
Twenty miles away, a group of people strode out of a hotel. A seemingly separate person walked past, and only someone with deft eyes would have noticed an envelope switch. Ten minutes later the group was in their room, twenty stills laid out in front of them.
**
“ Who are we working for?”
Mr S ignored him again. He had a board pinned up on the wall. The two pictures were on it, and also a blueprint of what looked like a castle. Around it were various smaller photos of cars, gun emplacements, other people, tunnels and walkways.
“ You ever going to leave that computer?” asked AliBoy, as Vottanator typed away.
“ No, she’s must better than my old partner. Sex isn’t as good though.”
Rasta was concentrating on the board.
“ How many guards?” he asked.
“ I don’t know. Upwards of 10.” Replied Mr S.
“ Upwards of 10? Is that 10 to 100? Or between?”
“ I don’t know.”
“ Then I want more money.”
“ You’ll get your 50 grand and be grateful.” Said Mr S.
“ Then I’m gone.” Said Rasta. He heaved his shotgun onto his shoulder. Grix flicked Mr S a glance. Mr S took it in coldly, and started after Rasta. AliBoy did too. Mystique frowned.
“ You’ll get 100 K.” said Mr S.
Rasta stopped.
“ Who are we working for?”
“ Sit down.”
“ What if I don’t want to?”
“ Then stand.”
“ Sitting is easier.”
They walked back to the table. Mr S’s mobile rang suddenly. He leapt as if startled, and ran from the room. Rasta raised an eyebrow at AliBoy, then got up and began to point to figures.
“ Anyone know who this guy is?” He was pointing to a smaller picture, a heavyset man.
“ His name is Ant.” Said Mystique gently.
“ How do you know?”
“ I knew his wife…” she replied.
“ Excellent.”
“…then I killed her.” She said, emotionless.
Silence was around the table.
“ Should make for a cosy reunion.” Commented Vottanator.
“ Ant will be heading the guards. If I remember, he’ll go for a rotating sequence. Hard to break.” Said Mystique, conversationally.
“ Can we break it?”
“ Of course.”
“ If you can, you can.”
“…and I can.” She said, cold as ever.
“ Thompson? Can you break the camera cycle?” asked Rasta.
“ I’ll feed it a ten-second loop, should be enough. I’ll need to be close though?”
“ How close?”
He shrugged. “ Within twenty metres of the first camera?”
“ Can you use a gun? Aim?”
“ No. I can kill people, though.”
“ How?”
“ Electric shock.”
“ Gun would be better.”
“ Guns scare me.”
“ Gypsies scare me. Get a gun.”
Vottanator shrugged, and nodded.
“ Right, me and AliBoy will go and reccy the area. We need a pattern.”
“ Hey, who left you in charge?” asked Mystique.
“ And I’ll need a camera scan.” Said Vottanator.
Rasta sighed. “ Fine, you can all come. I’ll need backup. Just don’t kill anyone.”
Mystique smiled. “ Who, me?”
**
Twenty miles away, a group of people strode out of a hotel. A seemingly separate person walked past, and only someone with deft eyes would have noticed an envelope switch. Ten minutes later the group was in their room, twenty stills laid out in front of them.
**
“ Who are we working for?”
Mr S ignored him again. He had a board pinned up on the wall. The two pictures were on it, and also a blueprint of what looked like a castle. Around it were various smaller photos of cars, gun emplacements, other people, tunnels and walkways.
“ You ever going to leave that computer?” asked AliBoy, as Vottanator typed away.
“ No, she’s must better than my old partner. Sex isn’t as good though.”
Rasta was concentrating on the board.
“ How many guards?” he asked.
“ I don’t know. Upwards of 10.” Replied Mr S.
“ Upwards of 10? Is that 10 to 100? Or between?”
“ I don’t know.”
“ Then I want more money.”
“ You’ll get your 50 grand and be grateful.” Said Mr S.
“ Then I’m gone.” Said Rasta. He heaved his shotgun onto his shoulder. Grix flicked Mr S a glance. Mr S took it in coldly, and started after Rasta. AliBoy did too. Mystique frowned.
“ You’ll get 100 K.” said Mr S.
Rasta stopped.
“ Who are we working for?”
“ Sit down.”
“ What if I don’t want to?”
“ Then stand.”
“ Sitting is easier.”
They walked back to the table. Mr S’s mobile rang suddenly. He leapt as if startled, and ran from the room. Rasta raised an eyebrow at AliBoy, then got up and began to point to figures.
“ Anyone know who this guy is?” He was pointing to a smaller picture, a heavyset man.
“ His name is Ant.” Said Mystique gently.
“ How do you know?”
“ I knew his wife…” she replied.
“ Excellent.”
“…then I killed her.” She said, emotionless.
Silence was around the table.
“ Should make for a cosy reunion.” Commented Vottanator.
“ Ant will be heading the guards. If I remember, he’ll go for a rotating sequence. Hard to break.” Said Mystique, conversationally.
“ Can we break it?”
“ Of course.”
“ If you can, you can.”
“…and I can.” She said, cold as ever.
“ Thompson? Can you break the camera cycle?” asked Rasta.
“ I’ll feed it a ten-second loop, should be enough. I’ll need to be close though?”
“ How close?”
He shrugged. “ Within twenty metres of the first camera?”
“ Can you use a gun? Aim?”
“ No. I can kill people, though.”
“ How?”
“ Electric shock.”
“ Gun would be better.”
“ Guns scare me.”
“ Gypsies scare me. Get a gun.”
Vottanator shrugged, and nodded.
“ Right, me and AliBoy will go and reccy the area. We need a pattern.”
“ Hey, who left you in charge?” asked Mystique.
“ And I’ll need a camera scan.” Said Vottanator.
Rasta sighed. “ Fine, you can all come. I’ll need backup. Just don’t kill anyone.”
Mystique smiled. “ Who, me?”
**
Mr S looked at them all in turn, then produced two pictures from under his coat.
“Can you kill these people?”
They looked at each other, slowly. The stare lasted minutes.
“ Yes.” Said Mystique calmly.
Mr S got up.
“ You ship out in two hours.”
“ Where?” asked Rasta.
Mr S opened his mouth, then closed it. He got in the car nestled by the wall. He floored the accelerator, and the car burst out and drove away, tyres screeching. AliBoy slammed a fist on the table. Vottanator sat back, worry creasing his forehead. Mystique wore the same expression of calm. Rasta shook his head slowly.
“But who are we working for?” he whispered slowly.
**
Mr S grimaced as his mobile rang, the sounds resounding in his ears.
“ Do you have them?” a voice he knew.
“ Almost.”
“ Almost?” There might have been a threat in the silky tones.
“ Yes, then.”
“ If this fails, you can not imagine what will befall you.”
Mr S gulped as he snapped the mobile shut. The voice was not one that anyone underestimated. Cold sweat drenched him. He drove on, and punched a new number in.
“ Do they suspect?” was the instantaneous answer.
“ Not yet. But there is one.”
“ Make sure that one does not survive the first.”
“ Yes, sir.”
Mr S was caught between a rock and a hard place, and he didn’t like his chances.
**
Rasta stirred his coffee slowly, his eyes fixed on the far wall. He winced as Vottanator pulled a chair up to sit next to him.
“ SAS, eh?” said Vottanator. Rasta nodded, without saying anything. He gestured furiously behind his back, to AliBoy.
“ Yah, you boys certainly saved our skin once or twice in the Burma incident.”
“ We did what we were ordered.” The unspoken ‘when you didn’t’ hung in the air between them. Vottanator flushed a pale red. He scratched at his beard nervously, and backed away. Rasta sighed. He didn’t need this teamwork crap anymore.
“ What do you think?” asked AliBoy.
“ Risky.” Came the immediate response. “ That one is risky. And the other…”
They both looked at Mystique. Then they looked away.
“ Yeah…risky.” Repeated Rasta. He checked and primed his shotgun, then checked to see the Beretta was safely nestled against his chest. Then he stood up, sharply. The movement caused his chair to fall backwards, rapidly. Without looking, Vottanator stuck out a hand and caught a leg, holding it. Rasta blinked.
“ Risky…” he muttered, again. The main door of the warehouse was flung often, and everyone’s weapons flew up to shoulders. A man walked in, hands held high. Rasta clicked the shotgun.
“ Who are you?”
The man said nothing.
“ Who are you?” Rasta repeated.
He smiled slightly. “ Ex-CIA agent Grixopher Thraves. Specialist area: Covert ops. Call me Grix.”
“ I’ll call you whatever the hell I want.” Said Rasta, advancing.
“OK, but Grix kinda sets a friendly tone.” He began, but then Rasta smashed him on the temple with the shotgun butt. He slumped to the ground.
“ Grix it is, then.” Shrugged Vottanator, and got back to his computer. AliBoy smiled as Grix got up, a smear of blood on his face. He inclined his head slightly.
“ Truck’s outside. Load your stuff.”
“ We haven’t got any stuff.”
“ Let’s go get you some stuff, then.”
“ Sounds good to me. We all need stuff.”
They left the warehouse without a second glance.
**
Night was falling over the city as Grix pulled into an empty road. There were blocks of flats all around them, tops shrouded. Vottanator began to open the door.
“ Hey, hey, what are you doing?” asked Rasta, catching his arm.
“ Case full of computers and guns. There. Our contacts, there. The money, here.” Answered Vottanator.
“ There could be a dozen people on those flattops.”
Vottanator sighed, and kicked the door open. AliBoy made to follow.
“ Watch the second flattop.” Muttered Rasta in a thin voice. AliBoy nodded slightly. Rasta reached behind him and eased the Beretta out of it’s holster. Grix already had his out. Rasta nodded.
“ Five point ambush?” asked Grix. Rasta nodded again. He didn’t like it. Vottanator and AliBoy were going towards the meeting point. Mystique was on edge, he could tell. She held a small pistol in her left hand.
“ I don’t like this.” She said. It was the first time he’d heard her speak – a soft, Irish burr that almost hid the fact she was a mass-murderer.
Vottanator and AliBoy had the weapons now. They were pulling the case towards the truck. Rasta breathed a sigh of relief as AliBoy jumped in, carrying the case with him. Then, suddenly, two lights flashed on from the flattop Rasta had pointed out. He swore under his breath before leaping into the back of the van. Machine gun pellets peppered his seat seconds after he rolled under a seat. AliBoy jumped back outside, dragging Vottanator behind the truck. Three heavy machine guns, estimated Grix, as he rolled under the dash. Harsh, foreign voices echoed in the darkness as the machine guns stopped. Silence ensued. Rasta eased himself forward, wincing as a shard of broken glass sliced into his hand. He placed his foot on the accelerator. He motioned to the backdoor, where AliBoy and Vottanator stood. Mystique nodded, and threw it open. They clambered in, and Rasta hit the accelerator, hard. The van lurched forward, and Grix winced as he heard a squelching noise from under the tyres. Then he threw himself onto his seat as Rasta threw the van into a screeching reverse turn. He slammed a semi-automatic into position and fired blindly. He thought he saw three blurred figures, and one of them went down. Grix shook his head, and Rasta accelerated right for them. They dived to one side, and Rasta screeched the van round. Vottanator was standing on the back, machine gun roaring.
“ COME ON! NO-ONE AMBUSHES ME!” he yelled. AliBoy grimaced, and pulled him down as heavier fire slammed into the fleeing van.
**
14 hours later…
They stepped off the plane, and the chill air of Russia hit them. They ran to the waiting car. Mr S was seated inside, heavy fur hat and all.
“ Nice fashion sense.” Said Rasta dryly.
“ Yeah, well, Milan is my spiritual home.” Said Mr S as they screeched away, roaring down the deserted streets of 1am Kiev. Rasta looked around, concentrating on Vottanator. He scratched his two days growth of stubble in irritation.
“ Who are we working for?” he asked.
Mr S ignored him.
They pulled up to a warehouse, boarded up.
“ Who are we working for?”
**
“Can you kill these people?”
They looked at each other, slowly. The stare lasted minutes.
“ Yes.” Said Mystique calmly.
Mr S got up.
“ You ship out in two hours.”
“ Where?” asked Rasta.
Mr S opened his mouth, then closed it. He got in the car nestled by the wall. He floored the accelerator, and the car burst out and drove away, tyres screeching. AliBoy slammed a fist on the table. Vottanator sat back, worry creasing his forehead. Mystique wore the same expression of calm. Rasta shook his head slowly.
“But who are we working for?” he whispered slowly.
**
Mr S grimaced as his mobile rang, the sounds resounding in his ears.
“ Do you have them?” a voice he knew.
“ Almost.”
“ Almost?” There might have been a threat in the silky tones.
“ Yes, then.”
“ If this fails, you can not imagine what will befall you.”
Mr S gulped as he snapped the mobile shut. The voice was not one that anyone underestimated. Cold sweat drenched him. He drove on, and punched a new number in.
“ Do they suspect?” was the instantaneous answer.
“ Not yet. But there is one.”
“ Make sure that one does not survive the first.”
“ Yes, sir.”
Mr S was caught between a rock and a hard place, and he didn’t like his chances.
**
Rasta stirred his coffee slowly, his eyes fixed on the far wall. He winced as Vottanator pulled a chair up to sit next to him.
“ SAS, eh?” said Vottanator. Rasta nodded, without saying anything. He gestured furiously behind his back, to AliBoy.
“ Yah, you boys certainly saved our skin once or twice in the Burma incident.”
“ We did what we were ordered.” The unspoken ‘when you didn’t’ hung in the air between them. Vottanator flushed a pale red. He scratched at his beard nervously, and backed away. Rasta sighed. He didn’t need this teamwork crap anymore.
“ What do you think?” asked AliBoy.
“ Risky.” Came the immediate response. “ That one is risky. And the other…”
They both looked at Mystique. Then they looked away.
“ Yeah…risky.” Repeated Rasta. He checked and primed his shotgun, then checked to see the Beretta was safely nestled against his chest. Then he stood up, sharply. The movement caused his chair to fall backwards, rapidly. Without looking, Vottanator stuck out a hand and caught a leg, holding it. Rasta blinked.
“ Risky…” he muttered, again. The main door of the warehouse was flung often, and everyone’s weapons flew up to shoulders. A man walked in, hands held high. Rasta clicked the shotgun.
“ Who are you?”
The man said nothing.
“ Who are you?” Rasta repeated.
He smiled slightly. “ Ex-CIA agent Grixopher Thraves. Specialist area: Covert ops. Call me Grix.”
“ I’ll call you whatever the hell I want.” Said Rasta, advancing.
“OK, but Grix kinda sets a friendly tone.” He began, but then Rasta smashed him on the temple with the shotgun butt. He slumped to the ground.
“ Grix it is, then.” Shrugged Vottanator, and got back to his computer. AliBoy smiled as Grix got up, a smear of blood on his face. He inclined his head slightly.
“ Truck’s outside. Load your stuff.”
“ We haven’t got any stuff.”
“ Let’s go get you some stuff, then.”
“ Sounds good to me. We all need stuff.”
They left the warehouse without a second glance.
**
Night was falling over the city as Grix pulled into an empty road. There were blocks of flats all around them, tops shrouded. Vottanator began to open the door.
“ Hey, hey, what are you doing?” asked Rasta, catching his arm.
“ Case full of computers and guns. There. Our contacts, there. The money, here.” Answered Vottanator.
“ There could be a dozen people on those flattops.”
Vottanator sighed, and kicked the door open. AliBoy made to follow.
“ Watch the second flattop.” Muttered Rasta in a thin voice. AliBoy nodded slightly. Rasta reached behind him and eased the Beretta out of it’s holster. Grix already had his out. Rasta nodded.
“ Five point ambush?” asked Grix. Rasta nodded again. He didn’t like it. Vottanator and AliBoy were going towards the meeting point. Mystique was on edge, he could tell. She held a small pistol in her left hand.
“ I don’t like this.” She said. It was the first time he’d heard her speak – a soft, Irish burr that almost hid the fact she was a mass-murderer.
Vottanator and AliBoy had the weapons now. They were pulling the case towards the truck. Rasta breathed a sigh of relief as AliBoy jumped in, carrying the case with him. Then, suddenly, two lights flashed on from the flattop Rasta had pointed out. He swore under his breath before leaping into the back of the van. Machine gun pellets peppered his seat seconds after he rolled under a seat. AliBoy jumped back outside, dragging Vottanator behind the truck. Three heavy machine guns, estimated Grix, as he rolled under the dash. Harsh, foreign voices echoed in the darkness as the machine guns stopped. Silence ensued. Rasta eased himself forward, wincing as a shard of broken glass sliced into his hand. He placed his foot on the accelerator. He motioned to the backdoor, where AliBoy and Vottanator stood. Mystique nodded, and threw it open. They clambered in, and Rasta hit the accelerator, hard. The van lurched forward, and Grix winced as he heard a squelching noise from under the tyres. Then he threw himself onto his seat as Rasta threw the van into a screeching reverse turn. He slammed a semi-automatic into position and fired blindly. He thought he saw three blurred figures, and one of them went down. Grix shook his head, and Rasta accelerated right for them. They dived to one side, and Rasta screeched the van round. Vottanator was standing on the back, machine gun roaring.
“ COME ON! NO-ONE AMBUSHES ME!” he yelled. AliBoy grimaced, and pulled him down as heavier fire slammed into the fleeing van.
**
14 hours later…
They stepped off the plane, and the chill air of Russia hit them. They ran to the waiting car. Mr S was seated inside, heavy fur hat and all.
“ Nice fashion sense.” Said Rasta dryly.
“ Yeah, well, Milan is my spiritual home.” Said Mr S as they screeched away, roaring down the deserted streets of 1am Kiev. Rasta looked around, concentrating on Vottanator. He scratched his two days growth of stubble in irritation.
“ Who are we working for?” he asked.
Mr S ignored him.
They pulled up to a warehouse, boarded up.
“ Who are we working for?”
**
The second you betrayed your respective governments you ceased being soldiers and became hired skill. And hired skill will do what the hirer tells them to do! Or the hirer will take great pleasure in killing every last one of you.”
Is that reference to The Rock? "I'm not a mercenary Major. The day we took hostages, we became mercenaries, and mercenaries GET PAID!!!"
Great story.
Is that reference to The Rock? "I'm not a mercenary Major. The day we took hostages, we became mercenaries, and mercenaries GET PAID!!!"
Great story.
Page: