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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:
Mines installment based! Great story! I wasn't in it! :(. But if you do put me in it, please call me PS don't refere to the possible meaning of my name. Oh yeah, go to www.prawnography.net :D.
Great story Stryke. Can't wait for the next part. I like the serious story's more than the funny ones (the old/young fart that I am)
Alright. If I can't be the stealthy guy, I'll settle for being an inocent (maybe even gay!!) bystander. Please.
When's the next part coming?
Alright. If I can't be the stealthy guy, I'll settle for being an inocent (maybe even gay!!) bystander. Please.
When's the next part coming?
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: