The Mr. Nightcrawler Trilogy: Book I

[Nightcrawler]

8, Part 1

8: The Way of the Gun

“Nervous?”

“Yeah,” Austin said, breath smoking in the cold morning air. “I can’t believe I’m really doing this. It doesn’t feel real.”

“It will soon enough,” I said. “That’s the way I felt my first time too. You’ve been living in a fishbowl your entire life, bro. You’re about to see the real world for the first time. This is your last chance to take the blue pill and go back. If you do this things won’t be the same.”

“Why are you letting me come?”

“Why do you want to go?”

“Those men tried to kill me. They shot me. I’m involved now.”

“Actually, I hadn’t thought of that, but you may well be right. Those guys were obviously tracking me, and if they’ve ID’d you, you could be in danger as well. Besides…there haven’t been a lot of times in my career when I’ve been able to say this, bro, but we’re doing the right thing. Don’t get me wrong. Our targets were bad people. Drug runners, smugglers, mercenaries, terrorists, **** like that. But it wasn’t about that. It was about the money. This, this is different. We’re saving a bunch of innocent young girls from the worst life imaginable.”

“It’s weird, though…and I can’t get this smirk off my face.”

“Austin,” I said, scanning the parking lot, “this is the most important thing you’ve ever done. You’ll be fine. It’s normal to be a little jittery. I’m really surprised that Becky let you go, though.”

“Me too, actually. She’s not happy about the whole thing, but she didn’t try to stop me, either. We talked about what you were just talking about, about how I could be in danger. I…I have to do something. If they come after me, she could get hurt, and…you know. Like I said, it’s weird.”

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to finish a fight, Austin. It’s better than waiting around for ‘em to come after you again. ‘Sides, what woman wants to see young girls forced into sex slavery?”

As we talked, we stood in the lower lot not far from where my canvas-covered car was parked. Snow began to gently fall, and it was cold out. We didn’t have to wait long, though. A large white van pulled into the parking lot and stopped in front of us. The side door slid open, and we climbed in.

“Who is this?” Ling asked sharply. She was sitting in the passenger’s seat.

“This is an associate of mine. Didn’t you say you wanted more guys?”

“Yes, but you said…”

“Last minute change, darlin’. Let’s get going. I need to make one stop.”

“Stop?”

“Yeah, stop. I have to get my stuff. What, you think I keep my weapons in my dorm room? The RA might not understand why I have a box full of hand grenades.”

“You keep that one gun there,” Austin said helpfully.

“Where are we going?” Ling asked, pinching the bridge of her nose and closing her eyes.

“To my storage unit. Take a right once you get on the road.”

Once we were underway, I observed Ling’s compatriot. The van was being driven by a large man of obvious African descent. His head was clean-shaven, and he struck a silent but imposing figure. Ling had said she had one more person on her team; I had no idea where the other EXODUS operative was. They were both dressed in black outfits, with jackets and gloves. It was awkward, and I don’t handle awkward silences well.

“So where are your weapons?” I asked. Ling looked back at me again.

“In that locked container,” she said, pointing to what looked like a large steel tool box.

“Have you guys got credentials in case we get pulled over?” I asked, a little more seriously.

“Don’t worry, Michael,” Ling said. “We’ve done this plenty of times before.” I took that as a no. Most people don’t realize that unless all you want to do is buy beer underage, having alternate ID is a lot more involved than simply forging a driver’s license. Any cop in the country can run your license through the computer and will tell in an instant if it’s legit or not. The trick is to have your alternate identification officially issued by the proper authorities, and that requires more time and effort.

“So have I,” I retorted. “I just like to have a backup plan.”

“You worry too much. Now where is this storage unit of yours?” It didn’t take us long to get there. We pulled into the place, and I got out of the van.

It was a strange feeling as I unlocked that storage unit. I hadn’t been in there in months; I only went in once in awhile to make sure my weapons weren’t rusting. I stepped in and turned on the light. The unit wasn’t heated. There was a large, waterproof, steel security lock-box against the back wall, one of several that lined the walls of the unit. My breath was visible as I crouched down and undid the combination lock.

“Holy ****,” Austin said as I opened it. “I thought you were joking about the hand grenades. It’s like an illicit arms warehouse in here.” I chuckled as I retrieved my rifle.

My rifle was a custom job, built by Hawk a couple of years before. It was a FAL type rifle, but built with American-made parts from DSA, Inc. of Illinois. It was semi-automatic, and chambered for the .308 Winchester cartridge. It had a 16.25” barrel with a short flash hider, and the handguards, grip and buttstock were synthetic. The stock was mated with an old-style steel buttplate to shorten the length of pull, and the rear sight was replaced with a better, US-made one that was easier to adjust. In place of the dust cover was a DSA manufactured aluminum optics mount, on which I had mounted an Aimpoint COMP-C sight.

This electronic sight projected an illuminated red dot for me to aim with, and worked well in low light. As I picked the rifle up, I turned the sight on, to see if the batteries were still good, and pulled the charging handle back slightly to ensure that the chamber was empty. I then shouldered the rifle and looked through the optic. The buttstock was icy cold against my skin. Hefting this weapon brought back a flood of memories.

“Which one’s mine?” Austin asked, pointing into the box. In it was a second FAL carbine, nearly identical to the one in my hands, plus about fifty magazines, small parts, and other equipment. In various containers like this one, I had quite a few firearms and thousands of rounds of ammunition, plus some heavier weapons and explosives. I hoped to hell that no one ever broke into it. If that did happen, though, I’d rented the place under one of my assumed identities, and they most likely wouldn’t be able to track me down.

“Have you ever fired a gun before?” I asked.

“Um…no, but…”

“Then you don’t get one. You’re not ready. You have much to learn yet, Brasshopper,” I said, smirking. “Oh, and Austin? Why don’t you leave that camera in here?”

“W…what? I don’t have…”

“Austin,” I said, grinning sardonically, “I wouldn’t have lived this long if I wasn’t observant. I know what you’re trying to do. What filmmaker wouldn’t? But the documentary you’re trying to make will either get us both put in prison or shot by EXODUS. Leave the camera.”

“Okay, fine,” he said grudgingly, and took the small digital video recorder out of his pocket. He placed it on top of one of the lock boxes. I grinned at him. He at least dressed in subdued colors, including that same damned green jacket he always wore. There wasn’t any real need to ninja up like EXODUS, I didn’t think, but you feel weird doing this stuff dressed in bright colors. I wore heavy black jeans, a dark gray sweater, and a thick black denim jacket to keep me warm. Thin leather police gloves covered my hands. I took those off, and then removed my jacket.

Austin seemed taken aback when he saw the revolver on my left hip. It was a stainless steel Smith & Wesson model 629, a .44 Magnum with a three-inch barrel and night sights. I wore it in a Kramer-brand horsehide scabbard on my left hip.

Setting my jacket on the box, I crouched down and opened another one. I then reached in and removed my body armor vest. It was one I’d acquired about a year and a half before; it was level IIIA soft armor with ceramic rifle plates front and back. I undid the Velcro on it and strapped it on.

“What the…?” I said as I put the vest on.

“What’s wrong?” Austin asked.

“I don’t remember it being quite this snug,” I said sheepishly.

“Freshman fifteen?” Austin asked, laughing.

“I guess so! Damn.” I had been slacking off on my workouts over the last few months. Hmph.

“Ah, screw it,” I said, putting the armor back and closing the box. “Shouldn’t need it anyways. ‘Sides I don’t have any for you.” I reached into the first box I’d unlocked and grabbed my chest harness. I dug deeper and retrieved four loaded twenty-round magazines. Each contained a jacketed soft point load that Hawk had rolled for me. It was tailored to work well in my carbine’s short barrel. I inserted three of the magazines into the pouches on the olive drab harness, and stuffed the fourth one into my back pocket. I grabbed my three-point web sling and closed the lock box again. I put all of the items I’d collected into a large hockey bag and zipped it up.

“What is taking so long?” I heard someone say. We turned around, and Ling was standing in the doorway, looking…cross. “Let’s go,” she said, and turned on her heel. Austin and I looked at each other.

“Me-yow,” I said, and he did his best not to laugh out loud. I put my jacket and gloves back on, shouldered the bag, and we stepped back out into the light.

We rode in the back of Ling’s van for more than two hours, most of it in silence. Ling had a satellite phone and spent quite a bit of time talking on it in Chinese. The large fellow driving the van said not one word the entire time. It seemed like an eternity, but eventually the van came to a stop. Austin and I looked up at Ling.

“We wait here,” she said. “Shen, my other teammate, is waiting several miles down the road. He will tell us when the truck passes his position, and then he’ll follow. We’re going to create a road block and ambush the truck.”

“How are we going to block the road?” I asked.

“About half a kilometer ahead of us is a narrow bridge with no margin on either side. We’ will be able to use the van to block the entire road.”

“And what if traffic comes from the other direction?”

“That is why we must act quickly. We believe this to be a little used portion of this road, though.”

“Where are we?” Austin asked.

“Over a hundred kilometers from Marquette.” I looked out the windshield. We were pulled off of the highway and were parked at one of the many Roadside Parks that could be found across rural Michigan. There was nothing to it but a small parking lot and a couple of outhouses.

We waited for what seemed like hours. In all that time, only two cars passed us on the highway, which made me feel better. It was late afternoon when Ling’s phone suddenly rang. She answered it, listened for a moment, said something in Chinese, then hung up.

“Let’s go, Michel,” she said to the large man driving the van.

“Yes ma’am,” he replied, his voice booming and deep. It was the first time we’d heard him speak. Ling looked at me, and her face split into a predatory grin.

“It’s time,” she said. I grinned back at her. It only took us a few minutes to get set up.



CONTINUED NEXT POST...

 

[Nightcrawler]

8, Part 2

The highway indeed narrowed over the bridge. There was no margin on either side, so parking the van at an angle blocked the entire road. Michel put on the emergency flashers and we got out. Ling opened the hood of the van and acted like she was having some kind of trouble. Michel concealed himself behind the van, while Austin and I concealed ourselves in the bushes on the east side of the bridge. The truck would be coming from the east, and apparently had a sedan with four men in it escorting it. My job would be to lay into the sedan and eliminate the four guards there. They’d probably only have pistols, but all the same it was critical that they be neutralized. Ling and Michel would deal with the truck’s driver, and Michel would support me if necessary.

Austin and I laid prone in the bushes off of the north side of the highway. I inserted a magazine into my rifle and chambered a round. I looked over at Austin.

“Showtime,” I said, a predatory grin of my own appearing on my face. My body was almost tingling as the calm washed over me, and I felt very still inside. It felt good to be back in the game.

“What if it’s the wrong truck?” Austin asked, sounding nervous.

“That’s why I didn’t give you a weapon. You don’t need that on your hands. Quiet now…it’s almost time. When I open up, you plug your ears. No matter what happens, you stay here and keep quiet, understood?”

“Yeah.” Our guests didn’t keep us waiting.

A large gray semi truck, seeing the blocked bridge, rumbled to a stop just to our right, to where I could see the back doors of the trailer. The front end of the truck was already on the bridge, and there was no way it could turn around without backing up. Since it was stopped, it’d have a hard time crashing through our blockade. In any case, Ling was going to deal with the driver.

Following the truck was a black Chevy Tahoe with Iowa plates. It had four men in it, and it pulled into the left-hand lane and came to a stop next to the truck. I couldn’t see it from where I was, but I saw Ling move from in front of the van towards the driver’s side door of the semi truck. That was my signal.

I looked over at Austin, roughly slapped him on the shoulder, and scrambled to my feet. I dashed across the road and stopped behind the truck’s trailer. I waited for an eternal second; I could hear the semi driver yelling at Ling over the diesel rumble of the truck’s idling engine. I peeked around the back corner of the trailer just in time to see Ling produce a CZ-75B 9mm pistol from under her jacket. Without blinking, she raised the pistol and shot the driver in the face.

Everything moved in slow motion then. I stepped from behind the truck, bringing my FAL up in my left shoulder as I did so. As the muzzle came on target, and the red dot hovered over the Tahoe, I swiped the safety off with my trigger finger and opened fire.

My rifle cracked with authority as I rapidly fired into the Tahoe’s passenger compartment. My rounds entered the vehicle from its right rear. While I was doing that, Michel appeared from behind the van. He leveled an AK-104 rifle with a seventy-five round drum magazine at the front of the Tahoe, and opened up in full auto. The onslaught lasted for only a few seconds. When the bolt on my FAL locked to the rear, the Tahoe had been turned to scrap metal and its occupants had been literally ripped apart.

I lowered my weapon and turned around. As I rounded the back of the trailer, I removed the empty magazine from my rifle and placed it in my jacket pocket. I then removed a magazine from my chest harness, locked it into place, and hit the rifle’s bolt release with my trigger finger. The bolt slammed forward, chambering a fresh round, and I swiped the safety back on.

I looked up from this just in time to see the truck’s passenger-side door burst open. A skinny man with shaved head and a black leather jacket practically fell out of the truck onto the pavement. He had a pistol in his hand, and I ducked back behind the trailer as he raised it and fired off two shots.

****. My heart was beating so hard I could feel it in my ears. That’d been close. I peeked back around the corner of the truck in time to see the man take off running. He was obviously panicking, and ran to the west, attempting to get to the other side of the bridge. I brought the rifle back up, put the red dot on his back, and squeezed off a round.

My bullet hit the man squarely between the shoulder blades just as he was about halfway across the bridge. He shrieked in pain, stumbled, and went tumbling over the guard rail.

I kept my rifle pointed at the truck’s passenger cab as I made my way up its length. As I came to the open door, I saw that there was no one in the cab except the driver, and his brains were all over the windshield. I kept walking, rifle held at the low-ready, until I was halfway across the bridge. Peering over the side, I saw the man that had shot at me. He was laying on his back in the shallow creek that rand under the bridge. The water ran red with his blood. The pistol, a Glock, had landed in the water near him. I leaned forward, aimed my rifle downward, and put another round into him. An eerie silence followed.

“CLEAR!” I shouted.

“Clear!” Ling replied in her accented soprano.

“CLEAR!” Michel said, his voice booming menacingly. I looked around, and exhaled heavily. I then noticed Austin slowly walking out of our hiding spot, his face nearly as white as the snow on the ground. I walked over to him, and slapped him on the shoulder again.

“Like I said, bro. It’s the real world. There’s no going back. You alright?”

“Y…yeah…yeah,” he said, looking at me. “That was intense. You…”

“Never mind,” I interrupted. “Let’s get this truck open and…” I froze as I realized that a vehicle was coming down the road from the east. ****. I pushed Austin alongside the truck’s trailer and leveled my rifle at the oncoming vehicle.

“It’s okay!” I heard Ling yell. “That’s Shen! It’s okay!” I exhaled heavily again and slowly lowered my weapon as a second white van, identical to ours, came to a stop behind the shredded remains of the Tahoe.

A few moments later, we were all standing behind the truck, moving as quickly as we could. Shen, a lean, mean looking fellow, came up with a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters and cut the lock off of the back of the truck. I let my rifle hang on its sling as I pulled the right hand door of the trailer open.

God in heaven, I thought, please let those girls be in there. The trailer was completely black inside, but strangely warm. I climbed in, and heard whimpering. I pulled a small flashlight from my pocket.

Jesus Christ. There were a dozen girls in the back of the truck, all of them Asian and wearing blue sweat suits. The youngest appeared to be no more than six years old. They were all chained to the bed of the trailer, and the walls and floor were padded to keep them from making noise. The girls were bound, gagged, and squinted as I swept my light over them. Most of them seemed like they were crying, but the one closest to me was trying to say something. As I approached, her eyes widened. She gasped underneath her gag as I snapped open my folding knife. I brought the blade up, and she closed her eyes in terror. I very gently cut the gag off of her head and put the knife away.

“Do you speak English?” I asked. She nodded her head slowly. “Okay, listen to me very carefully. We’re not going to hurt you. Okay? We’re here to rescue you.”

“You…rescue?” she asked. Her English didn’t seem to be very good. ****.

“Ling?” I yelled. “I need you in here. Shen too. Tell him to bring the bolt cutters.”

Fortunately, in addition to Chinese, Ling spoke Japanese fluently. The girl’s name was Azumi, and she said she’d turn sixteen in a month. Ling, sounding softer and more soothing than I would’ve guessed her capable of, got her calmed down. Apparently, these girls had been held together for quite awhile, and Azumi, being the oldest, had done her best to take care of the others. She seemed very protective of the younger girls still; she was a remarkably brave young woman. As quickly as we could, we managed to get the terrified children out of the back of the truck. They looked around in horror at the carnage we’d caused. Fortunately, most of them were too in shock to really absorb what they saw.

Azumi said something to Ling in Japanese, speaking slowly. Ling pointed at me and said something else. Azumi looked at me wide-eyed and began to tear up.

We got most of the girls loaded into Shen’s van, and Michel climbed in with them. Ling, Austin, and I took Azumi and several of the younger girls in the van we’d taken. We got them loaded up, and I volunteered to drive. Austin jumped into the passenger’s seat, and Ling sat in the back with the girls, giving them water and checking them for injuries.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To a safe house,” Ling said. Head west.” I looked back at the terrified young girls in the mirror, then over at Austin. He was looking back at them as well. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but he looked different than he had before. I smiled to myself. They grow up so fast…

 

[Oleg Volk]

I like stories in which bad critters get torn apart.

 

[Mandirigma]

“It will soon enough,” I said. “That’s the way I felt my first time too. You’ve been living in a fishbowl your entire life, bro. You’re about to see the real world for the first time. This is your last chance to take the blue pill and go back. If you do this things won’t be the same.”

I always liked the Red Kool-Aid

 

[the naked prophet]

I like stories in which bad critters get torn apart.

Some people think I'm strange because I think the same way. I like happy endings.

Even something as innocent as Disney's "The Little Mermaid," where the what's-her-name gets impaled at the end. I mean, how many kids movies are there where the bad guy dies at the end, and of those, how many actually have the good guy kill the bad guy?

Not that I'm comparing Nightcrawler's stories to the little mermaid, but if he makes an animated version of it, I'm so totally buying it. But I don't want my kids to see it.

 

[Nightcrawler]

Not that I'm comparing Nightcrawler's stories to the little mermaid

*SNORT* That brought numerous humorous images to mind. I'd love to see this made in the style of a big budget Disney animated motion picture; complete with songs, funny talking animals, and badguys getting double-tapped with .308 soft points.

(Okay, not really. Though, if the guys that did Cowboy Bebop or Ghost in the Shell are reading... )

But I don't want my kids to see it.

Child sex slavery is pretty heavy stuff to be explaining to kids. But sm reads my stuff to kids, so I guess it's doable.

 

[Mandirigma]

I dunno if I were reading it to kids I'd probably switch the sex with sweatshop. It could work.

 

[Glock22]

You could try making into a Trilogy like star wars of lord of the rings except in cartoon form. I am sure it would be a hit.
The Nightcraweler Chronicles coming to a theatre near you. Presented by Disney and Pixar. This film is not yet rated.

 

[Arkie]

WOW.

It just keeps getting better and better!

It's so well detailed that it seems like you are right there watching everything that's happening!

I love it.

 

[falling leaves]

Hey NC - I know I'm getting ahead here, but will book 3 reach far enough along the timeline for Valentine to get his new RFB in action?

BTW, love the work - keep it coming!

 

[steveracer]

NC, you're right.

You assessment of yourself is correct: You have become a much better writer. Cheers, mate!
Steve

 

[junyo]

“Well…except for where I was really scared and almost died, it was kind of cool,” Austin said.

That's awesome.

 

[DRZinn]

Ummmm.... more, please.

 

[Nightcrawler]

more, please

keep it coming!

I NEED MORE!!!

Update in about seven hours, when I get home from work.

I vote for the distinguished Nightcrawler to be the official bard of THR!

*blush* I'd have to take that up with Oleg...

Nightcrawler, you're so AWESOME!

It's a terrible burden.

Thanks everybody.

 

[Geegolly]

Gotta love third shift.

I'm sitting here reading your previous threads while at work and saw that you posted!! I was hoping for another installment. I will make sure not to go to bed until you post your update.

Your stories are doing wonders for my productivity.

 

[Correia]

And you guys will have a little more reading here soon. NC has asked me to pitch in again.

It isn't related to this story at all, and actually takes place while NC was still in grade school. Think of it kind of like a bonus feature on a DVD. People who've read the Welcome Back (book II) thread will recognize some of the characters. Keep in mind that my characters didn't interact with NC until book II.

I'll have it up in a couple of days.

 

[Nightcrawler]

9, Part 1

9: Reflection


“Where the **** do you get off declaring yourself the boss, Hopper?” Hudson demanded.

“You think all because you shot Decker you get to be in charge?” Triana said.

“Hey!” Corwin interrupted, sounding shaky. “He saved your ****in’ life, Tri!”

“That’s NOT the issue!” she snapped. “Hawk should take over. He’s the last surviving member of the original team.” All eyes in the room shot to Hawk. He sat quietly in the corner, puffing on his cigar and absentmindedly playing with his short beard. He just shrugged. The shouting began anew. We, the surviving members of SWITCHBLADE, sat in a dark, smoky room in our safe house. Corwin was laying on a bunk off to one side, propped up on pillows. It’d take him months to recover from the gunshot wound to his abdomen, but the bullet hadn’t destroyed anything vital. The underground doctor we’d brought him to insisted that he’d probably live.

At the moment, though, I had more pressing issues to deal with. I sat at the end of the table as Jeff, Corwin, Hudson, and Triana all engaged in something of a shouting match with each other. Decker had been the glue that’d held us together, and I’d killed him. It wasn’t going well.

“We should just take the money we’ve already made and split, dude,” Jeff said.

“We can’t do that!” Hudson barked. “We don’t get paid until we complete the contract!”

“I don’t CARE!” Triana yelled. “I want out NOW! I’m ****ing sick of this ****!”

“Maybe you don’t care, but I want to get paid!” Hudson yelled right back at her.

“Yeah,” Corwin managed. “It’d be nice to get something for my trouble, since I got ****ing SHOT over here!”

“Hawk, what do you think?” Jeff asked. Hawk only shrugged. He seemed bemused by the whole thing. I took my glasses off and rubbed my eyes, sighing heavily to myself. We were at the breaking point. Of the original SWITCHBLADE, only Hawk survived. Aryeh, Doc, Ramirez, and now Decker were all dead. The rest of us were rookies that Decker had recruited. He always liked to have promising people in training to replace team members that quit or got killed. He’d brought Corwin and me on at the same time, and Triana was already there when we started. Jeff came a few months later after a job in Southern California. Hudson was the relative new guy; he’d just come on board before we went to South America.

I figured Corwin would back me, and probably Jeff. Triana for whatever reason hated my guts so badly that I don’t think she’d go along with it unless forced. Hudson had a short fuse and would likely contest it. The real question was Hawk, though.

As I pondered this, the arguing and shouting continued. I felt my right eye begin to twitch, and I’d had about enough. **** it, I thought. It was time to assert my authority and lay all of my cards on the table. I put my glasses back on and gritted my teeth.

I stood so quickly that I sent my chair clattering behind me. With my left arm, I swept the mess of bottles, cans, and ashtrays off of the table, sending them crashing to the floor. With my right hand, I pulled my SRK fighting knife from its sheath and slammed it into the table in front of me. Drawing back to my full height, I drew my Smith & Wesson 629 .44 Magnum revolver from the holster on my left hip, and let it hang in my hand, muzzle pointing towards the floor.

“EVERYBODY SHUT THE **** UP!” I screamed. You could’ve heard a pin drop as everyone stared at me wide-eyed. Only Hawk seemed unfazed.

“Listen mother****er, you can’t threaten…” Hudson began, standing up. He instantly fell silent when I leveled the big .44 at his chest. “Hey, just take it easy, Hopper,” he said in much calmer tones.

“Quiet,” I said. “Now sit the **** down.” He did so, and I lowered my weapon. “Now all of you listen to me. You want to know why I’m in charge? Because I’m the only one that has access to Decker’s accounts, where our money is deposited. Anything happens to me, none of you get paid.”

“What?” Jeff asked. Corwin coughed loudly.

“That’s right,” I continued. “Decker gave me his account numbers months ago.”

“Why you? Why wouldn’t he give them to Hawk?”

“Because I’m who y’all would’ve assumed had ‘em,” Hawk said at last. “Decker always had a paranoid streak in ‘im. He changed the account numbers and told Hopper here the new ones. If anybody would’ve made a move on me, he’d’ve had a heads-up that some **** was goin’ down without risking the numbers bein’ compromised. He trusted Hopper.” Hudson swore aloud.

“You guys can do whatever the hell you want,” Triana said. “I’ve had it. I’m ****in’ done.”

“You’re free to go,” I told her flatly. “You will of course forfeit your share of the money.”

“WHAT?” she gasped.

“You know the rules, Triana,” I said. “Any man…or woman…that bails before the contract is completed forfeits his share of the fee.”

“I…” She finally fell silent.

“We have one more mission to complete,” I continued. “Despite our casualties, we’ve completed every single one of our objectives. The client is happy. I got the complete mission dossier from Decker’s laptop and looked it over. Our last target is one of Federov’s associates, a gun runner in French Guiana. We eliminate him and destroy his warehouses and we’ll effectively shut down his entire operation. After that’s accomplished, the client will pay us the entire fee.”

“What’s the fee?” Hudson asked.

“Fifteen million Euros,” I said steadily, causing eyes to grow wide. “Comes to about nineteen million, four hundred thousand dollars. Originally we were all to get equal shares, except Decker, who as SWITCHBLADE 6 got a double share. I’m not taking a double share, and Decker’s share of the money will be divided up equally between us. That comes to about three-point-two-three million dollars for each of us. So if anyone wants to bail, feel free. Me, I’m going to see this ****ing job through to the end, get my money, and go the hell home.

“Listen guys,” I said, my voice softening. “It’s been rough. Christ…we ****ed up bad on that last one. Client doesn’t care, but I do. Doesn’t change anything, though. We can either finish the job and get paid or we can walk away and we don’t get ****. So what’s the word?”

“I’m with the kid,” Hawk said, puffing on his cigar.

“I’m in,” Corwin managed from his bunk. “As much as I can be, I mean.”

“Me too,” Jeff said.

“Fine, I’m in…Boss,” Hudson said. We all looked at Triana.

“**** it, whatever, let’s just get it over with.”

So that’s how it was. At twenty years old I was the commander of one the deadliest mercenary groups in the world. It was a far cry from the awkward high school kid I’d been not even three years before. At that moment, I could hardly even remember what such a mundane existence was like.

 

[Nightcrawler]

9, Part 2

It was getting dark when we arrived at our destination. The directions Ling was giving me led to an isolated house on the shore of a frigid lake, surrounded by dense forest. I asked her about the place as I drove the van up the long, winding road that led from the highway to the house itself.

“It is a vacation house of some kind,” she said absentmindedly. “The kind that rich men from the city rent when they want to live in the woods, I think. It is being rented by one of our front companies. It’s isolated enough that we feel it’s a safe place to keep the children until we can get them out of the country.”

“What happens to them then?” I asked, looking at Ling in the rear-view mirror.

“We send them to rehabilitation centers that we’ve set up. Many of the victims we rescue have been brutalized, raped, or subjected to torture. We have trained counselors and psychologists work with the victims for as long as they need. When they are ready, we return them home, if that is where they wish to go. If they cannot return to their homes, we do our best to set them up with documentation so that they can live in some other part of the world. Quite a few volunteer to join the organization in some capacity.”

“We’re here,” I said, pulling to a stop. Ling gently awoke the children. They had all fallen asleep, one of the youngest curled up with Azumi. They drowsily came to as Ling slid the van’s side door open. Austin and I helped herd the bewildered children into the house as Ling unlocked the door.

“Where did the other van go?” Austin asked.

“To another safe house, Mr….I apologize. I don’t believe I know your name.”

“My name?” Austin said, taken aback. “Oh, my name is…Steve. I’m Steve.” I did my best to suppress a laugh as Ling gave him an odd glance.

“Well then, Mr. Steve,” she went on, “we thought it best that they be moved to different locations, in case one van or the other was compromised. At this point, getting the victims to safety is the only priority. If one or more of us are captured or killed, so be it, so long as the victims go free.”

“I…see…” Austin said, apparently surprised by the bluntness of Ling’s response. As we got the young girls into the house, I stood in the foyer of the place and looked around. It was huge, and pretty swank. The front door led into a large, heated porch. From there, the main living space of the house opened wide. It had a fireplace on one wall, and huge bay windows overlooking the lake. Stairs off to one side led to the upper level, where there appeared to be four bedrooms. Below those was the kitchen and a dining room.

“Wow,” I said, taking the place in.

“Pretty nice,” Austin agreed.

“Ah, you’re here!” a voice said. Alarm bells went off in my head, and everything in me switched on. My .44 was clear of its holster and pointing at the person who’d just spoke before he could say another word. He was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He froze in shock, staring at the big revolver in my hands.

“Who the **** are you?” I asked, finger moving to the trigger.

“WAIT!” Ling almost screamed. She jumped in front of me, eyes burning, and pushed my weapon downward. “He’s one of us! He’s one of us!” I took a deep breath, and took my finger off of the trigger. Re-holstering the weapon, I looked down into Ling’s eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me there was someone here? Christ, I thought we were being ambushed.”

“I didn’t realize you were so edgy, Mr. Hopper,” she said, glaring at me.

“Hey man, sorry about that,” I said to the man over Ling’s shoulder. Her hair flipped wildly behind her as she turned and strode off, muttering something in Chinese.

“That’s…quite alright, young man. I understand how things can be out there. I used to go into the field myself, before I got injured.” He had a German accent.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I’m Doctor Bundt,” he said, extending his hand. He was a tall, pale man, with a frock of white hair and an odd moustache. I took his hand and he gave it one crisp vertical shake, the way Germans like to do it. “Are you new to the organization?”

“I’m…a contractor,” I said steadily. “Ling hired me to fill in a gap in her team. My name is Michael Valentine. That,” I said, pointing at Austin, “Is my associate, er…Steve.”

“I see!” the Doctor said. “Well Mr. Valentine, if you’ll be so kind as to help me get the girls upstairs, I’ll examine them to see if they need medical attention. After that, we’ll being making dinner.”

“How long are we going to be here?” Austin asked. “I need to call Becca,” he said then, quietly so only I could hear.

“Use my phone,” I said. “Do not tell her where we are, okay? Seriously.” He nodded, took my cell phone, and exited out a sliding glass door next to the bay windows. It led to a balcony that overlooked the lake. I picked up one of the younger girls and followed Dr. Bundt upstairs.

About two hours later, Austin an I were sitting alone at a large table in the dining room, enjoying what had to be the best meal I’d had in months. Dr. Bundt could cook. The Doctor himself had taken his own food upstairs, after taking meals up for each of the six girls. After everything that had happened that day, it was nothing less than surreal to be eating dinner in such a nice house.

“Why’d she call you ‘Hopper’, Mike?” Austin asked.

“What? Oh. That’s what I used to go by when I was on SWITCHBLADE. EXODUS’ intelligence wasn’t able to come up with my new name.”

“Hopper better not be your real name.” he said dubiously before taking another bite of lasagna.

“No,” I said after taking a sip of my milk.

“Then what is your real name?” he asked. I sighed.

“You know, I haven’t spoken my real name, not even once, since…well, since that day, when my mother died. I left that behind, bro. Gave it up.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to pry, I…I don’t know. This whole thing is bizarre.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Thank you for coming, though, and for sticking with me.”

“What are you thanking me for? I feel useless. I didn’t do anything.”

“Don’t sweat it, dude. Everyone’s gotta start somewhere. My first mission with SWITCHBLADE involved me doing nothing more than watching from across the street with a pair of binoculars and a radio. I didn’t get a weapon until later.”

“So are you training me, then?” Austin asked. I stopped chewing, swallowed hard, and looked up at him.

“I’ll teach you if you want. I’ll teach you to shoot, tradecraft, stuff like that. I’m not much of an instructor, though. But you’re not getting sucked into this like I did. I know it seems pretty cool right now. Took out the bad guys, rescued young girls, now we’re eating lasagna in this fancy rich-bitch house. It stops being cool when you start burying your friends, Austin. I’ve been to too ****in’ many funerals already.”

I understood where Austin was coming from. For a lot of people, once you get a taste of the life, it’s hard to go back to mundane reality. But this mission had gone better than most do, and even so we’d killed six men. I think he realized that, though. I figured he just felt a little out of place, being the quintessential Average Joe caught up in all of this. That’d pass, though. Austin, I thought, was made of tougher stuff than he gave himself credit for, but I doubted he was cut out for my line of work. I thanked God for that. He didn’t know how much being friends with normal people had done for my sanity.

 

[Nightcrawler]

9, Part 3

A few hours later, I stepped out of the bedroom that Austin and I were being put up in. The children were all together on cots and air mattresses in one room; the Doctor thought that they’d be more comfortable if they were all together. The Doctor himself had retired as well. Wondering if Ling was asleep, I made my way downstairs intending to raid the fridge. The large, open room was illuminated only by the fireplace as I crept down the stairs. It was then that I noticed Ling was standing outside on the balcony, alone.

I looked into the kitchen, back at Ling, then back to the kitchen. I took a deep breath, and walked towards the sliding glass door that led to the balcony.

“Hello,” she said, not looking at me. It was cold out, and I didn’t have my jacket, but was still wearing my sweater. The night was remarkably clear, and the moon was bright overhead.

“Standing watch?” I asked, standing next to her and gazing into the starry sky.

“Yes. I’ll wake the Doctor up in an hour.”

“Nah,” I said. “I’ve slept. I’ll take over. You can go to bed.”

“Thank you,” she said, still not looking at me. She too was gazing into the night sky.

“Hey, I’m sorry about earlier,” I said awkwardly. I looked over at Ling, and suddenly felt strange. Her long black hair seemed to shimmer in the moonlight, and her slender figure was almost luminous. I realized then, for the first time I think, how beautiful she actually was.

“I apologize as well. I should have told you there was someone in the house. Your reaction was no different than mine would have been, though your choice of weapon is rather odd. You have an impressively fast draw, though,” she said, looking at me and smiling. It wasn’t the smile of the hunter close to her quarry, or the cold false smile she’d originally shown me. Ling really smiled at me for the first time, and my heart jumped up into my throat.

“You think?” I said, grinning. Wow, I thought. I’m not even nervous.

“Typical American cowboy to carry a big revolver,” she said with a little laugh. I laughed too.

“Not really. Most Americans like their little automatics too. Think they’re badass if they carry a forty-five. Feh. Eight hundred feet per second and they act like it’s the hammer of God. I mean, it’s okay, I have a couple, but it’s not the be-all-end-all people act like it is. To be honest, though, the first pistol I ever had was a nine-millimeter CZ not that different from yours.”

“I’m rather fond of it,” she said. “I’ve had this pistol for several years now.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” I went on, “how long have you been with EXODUS?” Ling scanned the far edge of the lake with a pair of bulky night vision binoculars.

“They rescued me in Hong Kong when I was sixteen,” she said, lowering the binoculars. ”I have been with the organization ever since. Their instructors took me in and made me who I am now.”

“I was seventeen when I got sucked into this ****,” I said. “We seem to have a lot in common though.”

“I think we do, Michael,” she said. I was happy that she was using my first name again. This is going well, I thought. Wait a minute. What am I talking about? This is business. After tonight I’m never going to see her again. Get a grip.

“So tell me,” she said after a long pause, “why…” she paused suddenly. I heard the sliding glass door open, and turned to see young Azumi standing there in the moonlight.

“Mich-ael-sama?,” she asked in rough English. It sounded like she was having trouble with my name.

“Uh…yes?”

“I would like to…I mean…” she flushed and bowed deeply. “Thank you. Thank you and Ling-sama. Thank you for…for…” She teared up and drifted back into Japanese. I don’t know what she said, but Ling looked touched. Azumi just stood there bowing. I reached out and patted her on the shoulder; she responded by grabbing me in a bear hug and squeezing me. I saw Ling fail miserably at hiding a giggle as I gently patted the skinny Japanese girl on the back.

“Go back to bed, darlin’,” I said. “Get some sleep. You’ve been through a lot, and you’ve handled it better than most people would’ve.”

“Thank you,” she said, pulling away and blushing even deeper than before. “Thank you, Senpai.” With that she turned and went back into the house, closing the door behind her. I heard Ling giggling still.

“What? What does ‘sem-pai’ mean?”

“It’s an honorific given to someone with more experience, or to someone you look up to. I think you have a fan.” For the first time in a long time, I felt myself blush, and Ling laughed again.

We stood there talking for a long time. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt so relaxed around a woman I was that attracted to. I felt so comfortable with her. She knew who I was, what I was, and she accepted that without a second thought. I couldn’t even express how that made me feel.

“Michael,” she said, “what are you doing here? You’re in your prime. Why do you not go back to work?”

“SWITCHBLADE ended badly,” I said. “There were eight of us when I started, and we picked up a ninth a little later. Then one got killed and we found a replacement. Then we went to South America…Christ. Two more died, and then…well, it’s not important. I’ve…done terrible things, Ling. Things I regret. Innocent people got killed. I didn’t know, but they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. We split up, I came home. I grew up not too far from here.”

“I understand regret,” she said. “I understand pain. But…Michael, join EXODUS. You’re very good at what you do, and I need someone I can trust on my team. Our war never ends. There are always more innocent lives to save.”

“By killing the wicked,” I added.

“Yes. But it’s no less than they deserve. Do you disagree?”

“No, I don’t. I won’t be losing any sleep over the human filth we killed today, either. But how do you wash blood from your hands with more blood?”

“It isn’t about the killing. It’s about those girls upstairs, and countless others like them in need of our help. Please, just consider my offer. I will leave my contact number with you when I leave. Now…” she yawned widely, “Oh, excuse me. I really should get some sleep. Are you sure you don’t mind standing watch?”

“Not at all,” I said. “Get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night, Michael,” she said. She handed me the binoculars and left my side.

“Good night,” I said, watching her as she stepped through the door and closed it behind her. Butterflies raced around my stomach; I looked back up at the night sky, asking it many questions. The sky offered no answers.

 

[hacksaw]

Bravissimo!!!!!!

Just as the DT's were setting in ....Nightcrawler to the rescue!!!



now post more!!!! I'm hooked! I got a Nightcrawler on my back & need to fix!

 

[Fly320s]

NC, you're doing well.

I see a marked improvement over your previous work; your writing is smoother, fuller. The characters have more definition and personality.

Keep working on the details such as character development and setting the scene. It helps fill-in the story. When you get good at that, then we will cry over the innocent mothers being killed.

Thanks for the stories. I thoroughly enjoy reading them.

 

[Correia]

Sweothi City, Central African Republic.

December 15th, 1993.

1:25 PM.

The hotel had been evacuated since the government had collapsed, and revolution had spilled over the countryside, but the lobby still stank of stale cigarette smoke and sweat. Random cries, crowd noise, and honking horns resonated through the windows as the seemingly endless mob of refugees surged through the streets.

The refugees did not know they were doomed. With the Mouvement pour la Libération du Centrafricain (MLC) rebels tearing up the Ubangi river basin, there was no escape. And from what I had seen in the last forty-eight hours, they didn’t take prisoners. The CAR Army was in shambles from the coup, with half of them joining the rebels, and the other half fleeing for the Congolese border.

The lobby had become our improvised command center. Furniture, debris, and even some of the planking from the walls had been stacked against the doors to deter adventurous looters. Ramirez was on the roof, armed with a DP and a radio. So far the MLC hadn’t made a move against the city, but they were massing, and every escape route was blocked.

There were twenty men in the lobby. Two separate groups forced together, uneasy allies with only one chance for survival. You could feel the anxiety in the air, a physical buzz, almost louder than the refugee train outside. All of them were filthy, armed to the teeth, exhausted, and aware that death was coming, and it was coming hard and fast.

SWITCHBLADE was headed by Decker, the dispassionate mercenary leader. Someone had scrounged up a chalkboard, probably stolen from the missionary school next door, and he was busy drawing a rudimentary map of the city and the route that the rebel army was most likely going to use to assault it. Os were the bad guys. Xs and arrows showed his plan. Each X was one of us. Each arrow was an order given in a cold, emotionless, voice.

There weren’t very many Xs on that map. There were a whole lot of Os.

Hawk, the weathered old gunslinger, was second in command. The old man always made me think of those gun magazines I had read as a kid, with the stories about blazing sixguns on the border. He was seemingly unfazed, even in our current situation. Cuzak sat on a barstool, head wrapped in a blood stained rag, still in shock from the landmine that had splattered Irwin all over the rest of us. Areyh, the former Israeli commando, was squatting next to the board, memorizing the plans while he ran a bore brush frantically through a Galil. Doc was our medic, and he was off to the one side attending to one of the wounded Portuguese mercs. I had a feeling that Doc was going to have a long day.

And me.

And that was all that was left of the illustrious mercenary company called SWITCHBLADE.

******* Decker. **** Decker and his ******* mission. He should have listened to me. If he hadn’t been so damn sure of himself, so damn proud, Irwin, Slick, and Sam would still be alive.

I hid my emotions behind a mask of mud and dried blood, and went back to dispassionately cleaning the Yugoslavian RPK that I had stolen, listening to Decker’s defensive plans, but already making plans of my own.

The other half of our ragtag group of survivors were all that remained of the Portuguese mercenary company out of Angola. They had been hit worse than us. Nobody had expected the rebels to be this well organized and equipped, but apparently the Montalban Diamond Exchange had brought in a large group of Cubans to train up the disorganized MLC. The Ports had lost most of their leadership in the last skirmish, and the only thing holding them together was a short, angry, hairball of a man named Sergeant Gomes.

“If we put up enough of a fight along these streets, then the rebels will commit their reserves. Currently that reserve is blocking here, and here. And as far as we can tell, those are the shock troops. The groups moving into the city now are the irregulars. With them out of the way, we can then retreat down Kahiba road toward Manova-Gounda. Then it’s a straight shot, fifteen clicks, to the airfield,” Decker explained calmly. “The plane is fueled, and ready to go, but they will not wait for us if the rebels approach the airfield. We do not have much time.”

He was calm now. He was calm when he got us into this suicide mission. Calm when we overthrew a government and brought hell down on these people to placate a diamond company, and he would probably be calm when I put my knife in his throat. I snapped a fresh drum into the Yugo and worked the charging handle.

“It’ll be tight, but we can fit in the truck, all of us,” the leader of the Portuguese said, referring to the deuce and a half they had stashed in the hotel garage. His English sounded strange, and had probably been taught to him by an Afrikaner. “Who’s gonna cause enough problems to get a division worth of rebels to concentrate enough to let us slip out though?”

“We’ll need a diversion. Someone will need to cause enough resistance to stall the irregulars, here,” he gestured at the board, “long enough for them to call in the Cubans and the trained MLC. We’ll need someone who can fight, and then slip away once we escape, someone who can disappear, go to ground. Stealth will be their only chance to evade capture.” He looked right at me as he said it.

So he knew.

I should have kept my mouth shut after this operation went to hell. But I didn’t. I violated my own rule of always being the grey man, the one that didn’t draw attention. The thief in the background. I had let my emotions get the better of me. And Decker must have sensed my anger.

And over the last year, he had seen what happened to people who made me angry.

So this was how it was going to be.

“Ozzie,” he nodded toward me. “I think you would be the only person who would have a chance.” Decker was good, very good. He didn’t display any indication that he was disposing of me. Rather, he was just the good leader, picking the best man for the job. “We’re counting on you. Force them to pull their reserves, if not, we’ll have to try a frontal assault, and since they have those APCs, it would be suicide in the open.”

The only surviving radio in the room suddenly crackled with static. Every head in the room swiveled towards it. “This is Ramirez. Milita forces are moving into the south end of the city. Looks like they’re going to burn it all.”

The room was silent, then broken by a gout of coughing from one of the wounded mercs who had caught shrapnel in the lung.

“Do you mind if we have a word about this, in private?” I asked, perfectly calm.

Decker made a show of looking at his watch. “Certainly, but we had best hurry.” He gave an imperceptible nod towards Hawk. They had been around, and knew what was happening.

“No ****,” Sergeant Gomes said, as a mortar shell exploded somewhere in the city.

######

“It didn’t have to be like this,” Decker said, as strolled into the side room. He had his back to me. The spot between his shoulder blades and the ALICE suspenders was an inviting target, and I could feel the heavy weight of the combat knife on my hip. But Hawk was trailing behind me, and as fast as I was, I knew that Hawk was that much faster with that revolver.

“It is what it is,” I replied, too damn tired to try to put on any sort of act. “We killed the president. We caused this. The diamond exchange used us, and you let them.”

“How long have you been with SWITCHBLADE?” He asked, already knowing the answer. “A year, yes, a year. And honestly...” he finally turned to face me, his eyes sad, his spirit injured by the events of the last two days. “I saw great things in your future. You were nothing but a common thief when you joined us...”

“I was an exceptional thief.”

He ignored that. “But I saw a leader, a man that could make a difference. I could see you taking over, and running this organization.” Decker was sincere, at least. That I could tell, but sincerity doesn’t make a rattlesnake any less venomous.

“If you haven’t noticed, half your organization is dead, because you ****** up.”

“I know...” Decker said, his voice cracking, the pain obvious. “This is the end of SWITCHBLADE. Even if we make it out, the diamond exchange will have us hunted down like dogs. I’m sorry about the men. They… they were like family to me.” I could hear the creak of gun leather as Hawk shifted behind me.

Also true, but it didn’t make me hate him any less right then.

“And I know that’s why you’re going to do your best to slow down these rebels. Because I know that Ramirez, and Doc, and Cuzak are like brothers to you, and you won’t let them down,” Decker said simply.

“True,” I answered.

“You had better hurry.” Decker put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. And I believed him.

And that was the only reason I decided not to kill him.

######

The refugees were panicking now, turning from individuals, into a deadly entity, discarding and crushing bits of itself underfoot. Screams filled the air. In the distance could be heard the boom of mortars and sporadic automatic weapons fire. The boards that had been blocking the front door flew into the street in a spray of dust as I booted them hard and pushed my way into the street.

It was hot. Muggy, sticky hot, and sweat rolled down my back and soaked my camouflage. The air stank of oil and smoke and fear.

The group had been low on ammo after two days of furious combat and retreat, but I had still commandeered every piece of hardware that I could carry. I had the RPK in hand, our last RPG slung over one shoulder, Cuzak’s Ithaca 37 over the other shoulder (he was in no shape to fight anyway), a Browning Hi-Power on my belt, and every spare round of ammo and frag grenade that I could scrape up. Any more munitions and I wouldn’t be able to move. Tsetse flys kept landing on my face to probe the dried blood patches.

Doc had tried to stop me. He understood what was happening, that I was a threat to Decker, and therefore expendable. I had just shook my head, and made him promise to get the wounded to safety. Cuzak hadn’t said a word, but he shook my hand solemnly, knowing what I was about to do. If I had one weakness, it was that when I occasionally made a friend, I was too damn loyal.

And it was about to kill me.

Decker gave me a brief nod. Hawk tipped his hat in my direction. Areyh spit on the floor.

So this was the end of SWITCHBLADE.

The others exited, fanning out, forming a perimeter around the hotel, where they would hold until Ramirez, acting as our spotter, could see that the road was clear. If I failed, their only choice was to attack straight into the Cubans and try to break through to the airfield. They would never make it. I walked away, the deadly mob of women, children, and old men parting before me like water, leaving the last year of my life behind, and knowing that I was probably going to perish in the next few minutes. The terrified Africans moved out of my way, my anger like an invisible plow.

The CAR was a blighted land. Torn by war for generations, poor beyond all comprehension, and I knew that probably 20% of these refugees would be dead in the next ten years from AIDS even if they managed to somehow survive the machetes of the approaching rebels. And we had come here, paid in blood money, to topple their corrupt government, and install another corrupt government that the diamond exchange liked better. And even then, the exchange had sold us out.

What a waste.

Then there was someone pushing forward with me. Sergeant Gomes, the Portuguese mercenary, was at my side, his burly form cradling the Port’s PKM machine gun. A stubby Steyr Aug was tied around him with a discarded web belt serving as a sling. His oddball camouflage was ripped, blood stained, and every exposed patch of skin was covered in caked on mud. He looked hideous.

But happy. “Let’s kill a bunch of these rebel sons of bitches,” he grinned, his beady eyes narrowing dangerously.

“What’re you doing?” I shouted over the chaos.

“My men? They’re in no shape to fight. So I figure, nothing I can do for them,” he shrugged. “You could use the help. Might as well go fight.”

Couldn’t argue with that.

He stuck out his hand. It was calloused and strong. “Call me Carl.”

I had been going by Ozzie for the last year, but I knew that I couldn’t go back. Even if I lived through this battle, it would be best if I disappeared. I knew that the diamond exchange could not afford to allow any of SWITCHBLADE to survive, knowing the things that we knew. And if they didn’t get me, then Decker might very well try, just to tie up loose ends. It was time to start over, to disappear, to become grey again.

I thought of the first name that popped into my head.

“Lorenzo... My name is Lorenzo.”

#####

 

[Correia]

Sweothi City, Central African Republic.

December 15th, 1993.

2:15 PM

The crowd thinned out enough for the two of us to break into a run, counter intuitively, towards the sound of gunfire. Normally I was the type that liked to plan, but there was no time for that.

This part of Sweothi City was rougher than the rest. Half the buildings were the stacked mud brick type, but compressed between them was a maze of shantys built out of things like chicken wire, packing crates, and old tires. Some of them were already burning.

Carl grabbed me by the arm and pointed down the street into the emptying marketplace. Black smoke was rising from the neighborhood behind it. “The irregulars will come through here.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve been fighting in Africa since my people lost Mozambique. They’ll come through here because they’re stupid rabble and it’s obvious. They’ll want to loot the shops, rape the stragglers.” He swept his hand to the right, and pointed down the other intersection. “When the Cubans come, they’ll move up this street, and then try to flank us through the shantys on the north. That’s how those commie bastards will do it.”

I nodded quickly, trying to burn the layout into my mind.

“Stick and move. Don’t let them pin you down. Most of these ****-******* can’t shoot for ****, but they shoot a lot.” Carl hefted the massive PK. “Always attack. Make them react. Got it?”

“Got it.”

My pulse was pounding in my head as I turned and headed into the market and towards the rising smoke plumes of black tire-fueled smoke. The 75 round drum in the RPK was heavy and pendulous at the balance point as I let the muzzle lead the way. I moved in a crouch, Carl slightly behind me, gun shifting toward every sudden flash of movement. Several scrawny dogs ran past, tails between their legs.

Then I saw the first of the rebels. I raised my fist, signaling contact. We both crouched low and moved into the shadows beneath a meat stand. A thick black cloud of flys covered the hanging goats and chickens. A can of generic bug spray was under foot, surely used to spray the meat down to keep the flys off.

The first of the MLC were making their way through the bazaar, kicking over stands, and picking up anything left that looked shiny. They really were rabble. Nothing like the disciplined troops we had fought earlier. Most of them were scrawny, malnourished, conscripts wide-eyed with fear, or barely coherent on khat. I hunkered down, waiting for more of them to come into view before I opened fire.

Then there was a scream to the side. A woman. Carl and I both jerked towards the noise, just in time to see two of the rebels dragging a young girl by the hair from one of the brick houses into the street. She was hysterical, with tears running down her dark cheeks.

Carl’s machinegun shifted towards the two men, but I grabbed his arm and shook my head. The rebels hadn’t seen us yet. I jerked my thumb towards myself, made a slashing motion across my throat, and then pointed at the two would be rapists. Carl nodded, and trained his weapon back towards the rebels collecting in the market. We only had one belt for the machine gun, and needed to make the most use of it.

I put the RPG, RPK, and Ithaca on the ground, as quietly as possible, and drew the Vietnam era Air Force knife from my belt. I slid under the booth, and crawled through the dirt, brushing between hanging meat, and half gutted chickens, using every shadow and piece of cover. Luckily my Rhodesian camouflage was so crusted with filth that I was the same color as the earth. I covered the thirty feet to the first rebel in a matter of seconds. This was my element. No one could move quieter or faster than I could.

The men were distracted. The first had shoved the girl down and was trying to rip her clothes off as she thrashed and screamed. He was obviously inexperienced at this whole pillaging thing, and the girl was wailing on him.

The second man, got tired of waiting, lowered his machete, and pushed the younger man aside. “Ashti sangha m’baka, dummy.”

I moved in a blur, my knife humming through the air. I hit the first man in the base of the neck. The knife jabbed in under his ear, and out in a flash of red. The second man had time to turn, shock registering on his face, just as I kicked his knee cap backward. He went down on top of the girl. I grabbed him by the hair, jerked his head back, and slashed him across the jugular.

Neither man was making noise now, but both were thrashing spraying arterial fluids everywhere. They would be dead in seconds. The girl looked up at me in shock as I grabbed the rags that served as her assailant’s shirt and hauled him off of her.

“Run.”

She heeded my suggestion, leapt to her feet, and ran, trying to hold her torn clothing closed. I heard motion coming from the open door of her house, and quickly moved against the hot brick wall. Dripping knife held in a reverse grip, close to my chin.

Another rebel walked out of the house, AK in one hand, dangling useless, the other hand was holding some gaudy, cheap, necklace up to the sunlight. He was grinning from ear to ear, pleased with his plunder.

Enjoy it mother-******.

He paused, realizing that his two friends were the source of all that blood, just as I grabbed him by the top of the head, jerked it back, and rammed the combat knife straight down, just above the junction of his neck and sternum. I used the knife against his ribs like a lever to force him to his knees as I sawed through his aorta. I yanked the knife out and let him thud lifeless to the ground. I wiped the knife on his pants, sheathed it, and grabbed his AK. The whole thing had taken less than twenty seconds.

Carl was staring at me in slack-jawed wonderment as I slithered back through the hanging meats.

"Filho da Puta.”

“Yeah. I get that a lot,” I muttered as I slung the RPG and the shotgun. I now had a Kalashnikov in each hand. This was getting kind of extreme.

“Contact right,” Carl hissed.

Sure enough, there was the main body of the irregulars. Now they were clustered in the marketplace, fighting like dogs over the scraps of a ruined civilization. There were at least thirty of them, armed with everything from meat cleavers to grenade launchers, and they were not worried about resistance.

“On three,” his voice was a whisper as he slowly extended the PKM’s bipod. “One mag, then run like hell back to the intersection.”

“One.” I proned out behind the AK, using the magazine as a monopod, and centered it on a knot of men. They were less than one hundred meters away.

“Two,” Carl hissed as he took up slack on the trigger.

“Three,” I moved the selector to full.

BBBBRRAAAAAAPPPPP... BBBBRRAAAAAAPPPPP...

The PKM was horrendously loud as it cut a swath through flesh and bone. Whole knots of the rebels disintegrated in clouds of red as the 7.62x54R tore into them in great piercing blows. As Carl was swinging a reaper’s scythe, I tried to pick out anything he was missing. I centered the front sight on a running rebel, and cranked off a burst.

The wall six feet to his side exploded under the impact.

“****!”

The sights on this thing were so far off that aiming was useless. I held the trigger down and swept the muzzle across the market, emptying the magazine in one burst. I let go of the AK, and let it flop to its side. I was to Carl’s left, and the steel cases from the PK hit me with brutal impacts. I scooped up the RPK and prepared to cover his withdrawal.

Carl was saying something repetitive in Portuguese with every burst. In seconds, our hundred-round belt was gone. “Moving!” Carl shouted as he jumped up from behind the smoking beast.

“Move!” I answered as I scanned for threats. Carl ran for the intersection while pulling the Aug from its makeshift sling. The market was a mess, with the dead and dying spread everywhere. The rebels were in disarray, but that wouldn’t last long. Already there was movement as more came in from the south. I sighted in on one charging man, and stroked the trigger. The Yugo barked, and the man pitched forward into the street. At least this one was sighted in.

“Go!” Carl shouted as he took up position behind a brick wall.

I sprang to my feet, and leapfrogged past him, sliding into a position behind a bank of broken cinderblocks. The RPG on my back made it hard to maneuver, and damn near impossible to get low.

Several of the very brave, or very stupid, moved out into the open. In African warfare, you could often get away with this, as the fundamentals of marksmanship were not really known or taught by very many people here. For Carl and I however, marksmanship was apparently not a problem. The rebels went down in a quick hail of gunfire.

The street was silent.

“Hey, Carl?” I shouted.

“Yeah, Lorenzo?” He answered as he slammed another magazine into his Aug.

“What were you saying over and over while you were shooting that machine gun.”

“I try to keep my bursts at about five or seven rounds. So I say something that takes about that long, and hold the trigger the whole time.”

“What do you use?” I shouted back. A head popped up from behind a donkey cart, and disappeared just as quickly as I fired a couple rounds through the wood.

“Fala te la madre.” He said it slowly and deliberately.

“Huh?”

“Word to your mother.”

Carl hadn’t struck me as too surly to be a hip hop kind of guy. “What now?” We had bloodied them, but I didn’t know what it was going to take to get those Cuban’s attention, and get them off that damn road.

“Give them a minute, to get puffed up, get over the shock, and then they’re gonna charge. Then it won’t stop until we’re dead, or they’re dead. So let the dumb ones get popped in the open, and then we’ll fall back into the houses and alleys,” he nodded with his head in one direction, “and counterattack. When we hear the commie’s vehicles, fall back to this position so we can hit the intersection.”

Then it was on. Rebels poured through the marketplace. Some ran straight at us, firing from the hip, others hung their guns around corners and blazed away. It was chaos. None of them could shoot worth a damn, but they made up for it in volume. Bullets tried to fill the empty spaces. The cinderblocks around me exploded into powder, and clouds of dust and smoke, and I swear some of those guys must have been shooting black powder from all the smoke. I fired at everything that moved, and put rounds through anything that looked suspicious.

“Reloading!” Carl shouted as I hammered a line of impacts through some shantys. “Move to the buildings! Go! Go!”

The whole ******* world had gone insane. I was up and moving as fast as I could, hot lead all around me, sounding like angry bees. The RPK sparked hard and spun from my hands, torn nearly in half. The hot muzzle smashed me in the face and my feet flew out from under me. I crashed into the gravel as gouts of flame tore all around.

“Technical!” Carl shouted as he lumbered past me, grabbing me by the straps of my LBV and pulling me up. This particular technical was a red Toyota pickup with a massive 12.7 DhSK machine gun mounted on the back. I hadn’t heard it roll up behind us in the intersection.

The huge gun tracked over us, spitting bullets past us, and into the soldiers on their own side. Carl shoved me through an open doorway, and into the cool darkness.

I lay on the floor, breath coming in ragged gasps. It was actually quiet. Or I think it was quiet. It was hard to tell over the ringing in my ears.

“Are you hit?” Carl shouted as he quickly poked his head through the door.

“I don’t think so,” I answered.

“Good.” Carl pulled back, just as the doorway exploded into mud fragments. The DhSK was seeking us again, probing for us with bullets bigger than my pinky finger. “****!”

Now it was brighter as sunshine streamed through the fresh new holes in the wall. This home was a simple, one room dwelling. There was a backdoor. I crawled toward it, rolled over, yanked Cuzak’s 12 gauge, and kicked the simple plywood door open. Leaning out, I could see that the door led into an alley. I scanned the other direction and—

CRACK

“Damn it!” I screamed as the bullet flew through the plywood and past my face. I fell into the dirt alley, right at the feet of a rebel. He looked down at me in surprise as he tried to work the bolt on his Mosin Nagant. I smashed the Ithaca’s steel buttplate into his groin. He stumbled back, as I rose and smashed his skull in with another butt strike. I brought it down twice more in rapid succession, each impact a meaty thud. He slid slowly down the wall.

Someone else appeared around the corner, and I raised the shotgun without thinking, front bead centering on his head. I froze, as the unarmed old man raised his open hands and begged for his life. My trembling finger had almost pulled the trigger.

“Get down!” I shouted at the old man as the DhSK raked through the house again, with the bullets passing through multiple walls and into the alley. The old man vanished back around the corner.

I had to take out that machine gun. Now. I sprinted down the alley in the direction of the noise. I could hear Carl breathing hard as he tore after me. The alley was long, and twisty, with each mud house having a backdoor. “Watch our back!” I shouted as I thought about all those openings behind us.

The Aug barked twice. “On it!” Carl answered.

There was movement ahead, one of the plywood doors flew open, and the muzzle of an SKS snaked through. The rebel stepped through the doorway, and I blasted him in the face with a round of double aught, pumped it, and swung around the door. The little house was packed with soldiers. Packed.

They looked at me. I looked at them. That one second stretched into eternity.

Then everybody moved.

Cuzak’s gun was the old style with no disconnector, so you just held down the trigger and pumped and it kept shooting, it also had an extended magazine, but I didn’t stop to think about those facts at the time.

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM click.

“Meu Deus,” Carl gasped as he viewed over my shoulder.

I reached one shaking hand into my pocket, pulled out some more buckshot, and started feeding them into the loading port.

“We’ve got to keep moving.”

2:22 PM

####

 

[DRZinn]

Got a small nit to pick:

It's highly unlikely that a Portuguese mercenary would spout off in Spanish.

"Madre de Dios" is Spanish. More likely would be "Meu Deus." (My God) or "Nossa Senhora" (Our Lady), or "Filho da Puta" (Son of a Bitch), or something along those lines.

"Fala" is Portuguese, and "...te la madre" is Spanish, although the grammar sounds strange. But, I don't speak Spanish. I don't know what I'd replace it with that would allow you to keep th hip-hop reference, but I might say something like "Vai tomar no cú" (Go take it/you're taking it in the a--) slowly and rhythmically for the same purpose. Picture iambic pentameter rhythm. But, that's a Brazilian saying that might not be heard from a Portuguese.

 

[Correia]

Interesting. I am Portugese. I don't speak it, but all of my family is Azorean (Terceira) and I've always heard it in that manner. Filho de puta was my grandpa's favorite sentence though.

Fala te la madre came about because in 1992 I was in highschool, and my Port. friends translated all the popular songs. Baby got back is a lot funner to sing when it starts out with me gushta couhs grans ane no me tida.

I can't spell it or speak it, so I'll take your word for it and adjust accordingly.

And when I shoot a PK, I use "I'm killing a family of five." That is about seven rounds.