Welcome Back, Mr. Nightcrawler

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NC, excellent work. Especially since it is just cranked out in a rough draft format.
And I'm a snob when it comes to internet fiction. :)
 
Why is everyone picking these actors in their fifties to play me?

Take it as a compliment to your maturity beyond your age :) OR as a sad statement that we (your readers) are showing our age such that our movie heros are getting old too.:evil:

if it's any consolation, I didn't bring up charles heston... mbu-wa ha ha ha

besides, _you_ brought up dirty harry ;)
 
Question. Why is everyone picking these actors in their fifties to play me? I just turned twenty five not two weeks ago! :scrutiny:
Because older, experienced, intelligent 50-something guys like me - who take care of themselves physically and stay in great shape - are sexy.

(Just ask my much younger girlfriend. ;) )
 
prescioussss

oops, wrong genre;)



nc's story is more Mr. Smith (sorry: Mr. and Mrs. Smith, the movie)
but you're right. a movie reference isn't as good.
OTOH: would you say your character is close to Lazarus Long?
 
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If I ever actually have to use a gun in self-defense, some prosecutor's going to dig this up and hang me out to dry.

Obviously fiction.

I wouldn't have cheese in my house.
 
"Heinlein is more of a writing role model for me, actually...though I do like Mark Weber (it's Mark, right? Honor Harrington series?) and Harry Turtledove also."

it is david weber tbomk.

rms/pa
 
Dead 6

By this time, I had nearly fallen asleep in my chair. I crashed on Jeff's couch, and he went back to bed himself.

It was about one o' clock in the afternoon when he appeared from his bed room, finding me rooting through his refridgerator.

"What the hell is this?" I asked.

"Flavored water," he said. "Why?"

"Since when do they have flavored water?"

"They've got cherry vanilla Dr. Pepper, too."

"WHAT? They defiled Dr. Pepper??"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Man. You leave the country for a year and everything changes."

"Who knew?" He laughed. Later, we sat down for breakfast (lunch?) and chit-chatted about nothing of importance. As he was clearing the table, Jeff asked me to continue my story.

"Seems like things were going pretty well for you over there."

"They were, at first. Man, did we wreak some havoc, too. We had 'em runnin' scared, lemme tell you."

"Were you being paid?"

"Sixteen thousand dollars a month, actually. Most of that was to keep us from bolting and keep us quiet, though, I think. They never really trusted us. But I'd already had quite a chunk of change saved up from before. Taking out that Russian mobster back in oh-two really padded my bank account."

"How much did you get paid for that?"

"One point four million Euros, in an offshore account with the Bank of Grand Cayman."

"Dayum, dude!"

"Yeah. Needless to say I wasn't bothering to fill out my FAFSA when I was in college." I laughed.

"So anyway..."

Over the next few months, Tailor and I, as well as the other members of Dead 6, ran a wide variety of operations. We really had the badguys running scared, too. The rumor mill in those circles was going crazy, saying that the Americans were finally coming to get them. The Qatari government was outraged, and the Amir himself promised to take action to stop the brigands and terrorists, as he described us. The irony in that was particularly sweet.

But terrorize them we did. We weren't hitting civilan targets or anything like that, mind you. Just these terrorist movers, shakers, and players. Sometimes their families got caught in the crossfire. In such wars, they always do. I wasn't personally involved in anything like that, but I did hear some stories.

A lot of the stuff we did was almost gangland style. For the most part, we were deliberately sloppy and amateurish. One time, Tailor and I dressed up like locals, wrapping our heads and faces in shemagh scarves. We took a beat up Toyota pickup, pulled along side of a Range Rover driven by an Al-Qaeda big-wig, and I hosed him with a Kalashnikov. Broad daylight and everything. Stuff like that.

One mission in particular stands out in my mind, though. We got into some real high-speed, low-drag, Tom Clancy's Rainbow 6 stuff. Intel had located the residence of another one of these players; Tailor and I were sent in to clean house.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Gordon said as Tailor and I entered the briefing room and sat down. "We've got a good one for you, this time." I was looking forward to it; we'd had a lot of downtime of late.

Before Gordon said anything else, another man walked into the room. He had an eyepatch over his left eye, and I kid you not looked just like Charleton Heston in True Lies. We finally got to meet the old man himself.

"You two have been doing a great job," he said. "Do you know who I am?" Tailor and I replied that he was probably the boss man.

"That's right. You don't get to know my name, I'm afraid. I'm just the Big Boss, or Boss, or 'the old man'. They think I don't know they call me that." He chuckled.

"This one is important, boys," he said as Gordon excused himself. Big Boss turned on the overhead projector. Another man of obvious Arab descent; this one wearing a sharp Armani suit and sporting a two hundred dollar hair cut.

"This man is known simply as The Jackal. We believe he's styled himself after that famous terrorist Carlos from the 1970s. I trust you boys remember Carlos the Jackal?"

"I was young, but yeah," Tailor said.

"I...I was, uh, born in 1981, Boss," I said sheepishly. Big Boss just looked at me for a moment, and smiled to himself.

"Anyway, we don't know his real name. He'd used dozens of aliases over the years, but seems to go by the name 'Adar'. We believe he's either Syrian or Iraqi in origin, but we're not sure. Everything about this man is surrounded in mystery. We'd been tracking him since the early 1990s, but he'd dropped off the map in 2002. Until now, that is.

"Adar seems to have established himself a plush residence in a nice neighborhood here in Doha. We don't know if he's just here temporarily, or if he's intending to retire. We kind of doubt he's out of the picture, though.

"Adar is a known sadist. He enjoys the arts of torture and interrogation. He's an ice cold sociopath with the heart of a snake. The best psychological profile we can make on him tells us that he doesn't engage in terrorism because he's religious or because he even hates the west; he simply does it for sport.

"He's been busy up in Iraq recently, organizing the insurgency there. He's kept a lower profile than Al-Zarqawi and others; he's smarter than them, too. We never know if or when Adar is behind something, and he's always on the move.

"Imagine our surprise then, boys, when he showed up right here in our own backyard. We're not going to pass this opportunity up."

"So what's the job, sir?" Tailor asked.

"Simple, Forty-Six. We're going to break into his house and kill him in his own bed," the boss said, a hard gleam in his remaining eye.

"Just the two of us?" I asked.

"You two are some of the best I've got. Besides, Adar always keeps a low profile. He has a nice house, but not an extravagant one. He'll probably have a few guards, but not many. We've had great difficulty tracking his comings and goings, but we know he's there."

"Any chance we could get a large strike team, sir?" Tailor asked. "Too many unknowns here."

"We'll have a backup team of four men on standby, Forty-Six. But we need to keep this low profile. You're not going to be rapelling down from a helicopter or anything like that. If he gets out of the house alive, it could be years before we find him again, if ever. We need the element of surprise."

"Our chief weapon is the element of surprise," I said.

"And terror," Tailor said, grinning.

"Right. Our chief weapons are surprise and terror." I was grinning now.

"And guns," Tailor said.

"Okay, okay, okay. Among our chief weapons, there are surprise, terror, and..."

"THAT will be quite enough, boys," Big Boss said, trying hard not to smile. Who knew the old man was a Monty Python fan?

"Now listen up," he continued, more composed. "I want you boys to take some R&R. We don't have everything we need in place to take down Adar yet, and I've still got to get the go-ahead from Higher. I'm giving you both permission to leave the compound. Check out a couple cars from the motorpool and go see the city. Just keep a low profile and don't do anything stupid, okay? Now get out of here."

It was like being a sixth grader on Friday afternoon. Aside from missions, we hadn't been out of the compound in weeks. They brought in groceries and such every day, and we weren't allowed to go anywhere.

"What are you going to do?" I asked Tailor as we sat on the porch of his villa, in the shade. The sky was reddening as the sun began to sink towards the horizon.

"I think I'm going to go to that nightclub in the Merwab Hotel. Cloud Nine, I think it's called."

"Little drinky drinky?" I asked, smiling. Tailor replied that while alcohol consumption was on the menu, what he was really looking for was something along the lines of a hot Australian chick. I laughed. He couldn't bring a girl back the compound, obviously, but there was nothing stopping him from getting a room someplace.

"You wanna come with?" He asked. "You need some action, bro."

"Um...I was kind of going to ask Sarah if..."

"That's my BOY!" Tailor said, laughing. "My dawg! My main man! My ace-in-the-hole! I knew you had the hots for that chick. Just go over there, knock on her door, and say 'Sarah? I'm gonna make sweet love to you!'" He laughed even harder, accusing me of blushing. I totally didn't blush. Seriously.

"Get out of here!" I said, sounding stern but trying not to laugh.

"This is my house, bro."

"Fine. I need to go take a shower anyway. Catch ya later!"

"Good luck tonight, partner! You go getcha some!" I flipped him off as I walked away, grinning ear to ear, and he laughed again.

Sarah was on her porch as I approach my villa. She was smoking a cigarette, and smiled when she saw me. I felt my guts tense up, and my heart rate increase.

Steady now, I thought to myself. You can do this. Who dares wins. Just friggin' ask her.

"Hi, Mike. Whatcha doin' tonight?" She asked.

"I'm off," I said, less steadily than I'd hoped. "Got a pass, actually. Big Boss is even letting me take one of the cars. I'm, uh, thinking about going into town."

"Really? You're so lucky. I haven't been into town in over a month." Okay, Mike, that's it, that's the sign, she wants to go with you.

"Well, you can, um, come with me, if you want. Into town, I mean. We can go into town. Together." Smooth. Like James Bond or something.

"Really? You don't mind?"

"NO! No, I mean, no, of course I don't. I love to have you. Have you come with me, I mean."

"That sounds great," she said, smiling. "When are you leaving?"

"I was going to go take a shower and get ready," I said.

"Okay. Come bang on my door when you're ready to go, okay? I'll be dressed."

Boy was she ever. Tight jeans, tight shirt, high heels, and the first perfume I'd smelled in months that wasn't on a Qatari man. The drive was awkwardly quiet at first, but she was a lot more outgoing than I and initiated conversation.

As I drove the little white Toyota through evening Doha traffic (and often getting stuck in same), we talked about our past lives and how we'd come to be there. She'd make quite a living making forged documents in Seattle, until the Feds busted her. Now she was in the Middle East making ungodly amounts of money.

Thanks to the traffic, it took us an hour to reach the City Centre shopping mall in downtown Doha. It was a huge building; four floors, hundreds of stores, and it even had Qatar's one and only ice rink in it.

I could tell Sarah was having a good time. She dragged me from store to store, buying expensive European clothes and designer shoes from a plethora of overpriced boutiques. Normally, such a thing would be a drag for a guy, but I must admit I was enjoying every minute of it. She was so lively, so fun to be around...and so graceful in the way she moved. I don't think she really understood how beautiful she actually was.

There was a restaurant, billed as a sports grill but actually not much resembling one, on the fourth floor of the place, across from the movie theater. We ate there and talked some more. They had suprisingly good lasagna, I've got to tell you.

After that, we went to the theater and saw Oliver Stone's Alexander. Sarah liked it. I thought it was awful and way too long. The movie theather was plush, and nice. The screen must've been twenty feet tall! But we had to sit away from other people. The locals had the rude habit of talking on their cell phones while watching a movie. Why you'd pay thirty Riyals to see a movie and then not watch the thing is beyond me.

We'd been gone for six hours when we finally rolled back into the compound. Carrying her bags for her, I walked with her back to our villas. Doha was so well lit that you could never see the stars, but it was a nice night. Cool, but not cold, and not at all humid like nights in the summer got.

"I had a great time tonight," she said, smiling. "Thank you for this." Not knowing what to say, and fearing that my inept babblings would ruin the moment, I just smiled.

"You want to come in for a drink?" She asked me. Alarm bells.

"I...uh...don't drink..." I said. ***? WHY DID YOU SAY THAT?

"We don't have to have a drink," she said, smiling coyly. Whoa...

I smiled.

"Way to GO, BRO!" Jeff said, grinning, and once again disrupting my stream of consciousness. "Sounds like interesting times. I wish I could've been there."

"No you don't," I said flatly. "Things...got worse. Much, much worse."

"What happened?" he asked. I closed my eyes.


TO BE CONTINUED...
 
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I wouldn't have cheese in my house.

What? Aren't you some kind of sandal wearing, granola eating, cheese-and-french-bread-in-the-house kind of tactical hippy? :neener:

What kind of Californian are you? :D

Suprising...I mean, surprising number of typos in this. *sigh* Will clean it up for the director's cut.

Story's already at eleven thousand words, if anyone's counting.
 
Man, this is incredible. I spent a whole good part of my work time just reading this and your other work. Loving it. Btw, I think Jerry O'Connell would be perfect to play you. though he is 7 years older than you.
 
If anyone's intersted in the "official timeline";

-The original "So There I Was" story took place in Febuary of 2004.
-The aborted "Tales from the Road" would've taken place in May of 2004, but it's non-canon.
-"Welcome Back Nightcrawler", during the flashback sequence, takes place between July of 2004 and July of 2005. The 'present' sequence takes place in July of 2005 onward.

Some have wondered just how I nailed the feel of a Middle Eastern city so well. Well...there I was.
 
Y'know, you don't really have to abort "Tales from the Road" unless you want to. If you came back and finished it later, you have a defined endpoint and a defined timespan for the story. It could still work someday, and it's still a darn good hook for a story's attention-getter section.

Besides, if you leave "windows in the timeline" between your stories, they leave some defined start- and endpoints for further adventures when you publish The Complete Mr. Nightcrawler Anthology.
 
As the plot thickens the question everyone asks is, "Will our hero get the girl or will he get the short end of the stick again."

Find out in our next exciting episode!


By The Light Of The Silvery Moon

or

Who Turned Out The Lights!
 
Nightcrawler inspired me. I asked for his permission to write a little something related to his story, but from a different individual's perspective. This occur's during the moment's of Nightcrawler's hit.

Cranked this out kind of quick, so here goes...


#######

Three months, six days, ten hours... of my life... wasted.

That was the first coherent thought that ran through my mind as Ali bin Ahmed Al-Falah’s head exploded right in front of me. Scarlet and white bits rose like a cloud as the fat Saudi went to his knees. I had been on the receiving end of gunfire too many times and moved back into the club’s doorway with out thinking.

Flinching involuntarily as I wiped fine mist of Al-Queda off my face, I honed in on the sniper’s position.

I was not the only one.

“Achmed, up there!” the first bodyguard shouted as he lifted his MP5, and ripped a short burst into the nearby building’s second story window. Two louder shots rang out, probably an AK, and the guard went down hard, disappearing from view on the other side of the Land Cruiser. The second guard took cover, and fired off an entire magazine in the general direction of danger.

My ear piece crackled. “What’s going on! Report! Cease fire!”

“Hang on, Carl. I’m not the one shooting.” I muttered beneath my breath, knowing the mike would pick it up.

“Who is then?”

“Beat’s me. Somebody wasted Al-Falafal.” Carl hated when I called the target that.

Another bullet cracked into the door frame beside me. A second Toyota came screaming up, summoned by the sound of gunfire. This was supposed to have been a simple job. Buy Al-Falah’s club. Replace the owner. Wait for the day he was supposed to meet the Russian arms dealer, then steal the several million dollars in bearers bonds that Al-Falah was going to use to pay for the surface to air missiles. I had been planning on using the old poisoned hooka trick, always nice and quiet.

Carl paused, and then there was a stream of profanity so vile that it made me cringe more than the incoming sniper fire. “Get that brief case. Get it now. We’re inbound for pickup.”

I had to move. Some ******* had just screwed up my neatly planned mission. Plan B time. There it was. A plain leather brief case, still clutched in Al-Falah’s twitching hand. Starting toward it, I stuck one hand under my Quatari man-dress, or whatever the hell they called these things, and grabbed my 1911. I had spent three months wearing a dress in 120 degree heat, and I was not leaving with out that case.

The new guards were screaming and pointing at the sniper’s building. One young man jumped from the vehicle and sprinted towards me. He knelt next to his former boss, barely even registering that I was there, recognizing me from previous visits. The Toyota tore away in a cloud of dust. Good.

“Khalid! Call for doctors,” he shouted. It took a split second for me to realize that was supposed to be my name. Look one way, look the other. People moving. Pointing. Talking on cell phones. Other guards in pursuit of the sniper. This could still work.

“Certainly, I shall,” I answered, as I reached down and grabbed the case. Al-Falah’s hand wouldn’t let go when I tugged on it. I tugged harder, hoping that the guard would keep trying to hold the content’s of Al-Falah’s head in rather than pay any attention to me.

The guard looked at me in confusion. “What are you doing? Wait—“ I punt kicked him into the gutter, jerked the case into my arms, and ran back into the club, pushing past startled onlookers, their attention on the carnage in the street, some of them realizing that I had just booted a man with a submachine gun and robbed the dead. Through the kitchen. Out the back door. Down the alley. I heard the door slam closed behind me.

My breath coming in ragged gasps, my legs pumping, not daring to look back. “Where are you?” I hissed. “I’ve got it. I’m at the back of the alley.”

His voice was slightly distorted in my ear. “Coming. We almost got hit by some crazy guys having a car chase or something.”

A vehicle pulled into the alley, and it wasn’t Carl’s van, rather another black Toyota full of angry Muslims, and I immediately recognized the driver screaming into his cell phone, Yousef, one of Al-Falah’s men.

No cover, no place to hide. No time to run. His eyes widened when he saw me with his boss’ brief case O’money. The brief case fell as if in slow motion. Twenty yards to that vehicle, Yousef behind the wheel, one passenger, no other options, the 1911 was in my hand before I even thought about it. Car doors flew open as my STI cleared leather.

Time slowed to a crawl. The passenger was quicker, coming up out of the vehicle, stupidly leaving cover, stubby black MP5 rising. My hands came together, arms punching outward, the .45 an extension of my will. The Ashley Express sight was a giant globe entering my vision, focused on so clearly that the bad guy was only a blur behind it. I stroked the perfect trigger to the rear.

The sound should have been deafening, but it seemed more of a muted thump in the narrow alley. Again. Again. He disappeared, the H&K tossed from his hands like a Frisbee. The muzzle moved, seemingly on its own, over the driver’s windshield. Yousef, face betraying his shock, slower to react, cell phone falling from his open hand as he wrestled with his seat belt. The glass spider-webbed as I opened fire, obscuring the terrorist. Uncertain as his fate I continued firing. The slide locked back empty. The alley stank of garbage and gun powder. The spent magazine struck the ground, as I speed reloaded.

I had done this kind of thing a few times.

Carl’s yellow van careened wildly into the alley, locked up its brakes and narrowly stopped inches from the Toyota’s bumper. “Down! Down!” He screamed out the window, creating a weird off-time effect as my radio ear-piece repeated it a second later. I did not hesitate, and flung myself into the garbage. The muzzle of an AUG extended from the van’s window as Carl fired over my head. The cracks of the .223 were ear splitting compared to my .45.

Rolling over, I could see dust and debris spraying from the club’s rear exit. The guard I had kicked was sliding slowly down the door frame, already on the way to his 72 virgin welcome committee.

“Clear. Let’s get out of here!” My partner in crime shouted. I scrambled to my feet, grabbed the money, and ran past the shot up Toyota, keeping my gun up, scanning for threats, and pulled myself into the already moving van. We sped off into the streets, Carl’s beady eyes scanning rapidly back and forth, looking for cops. I reholstered my gun and watched my hands begin to shake.

Days of planning and preparation, phase one almost done, phase two ready to go, and all screwed because some mystery person whacks MY target. I closed my hand into a fist. I was going to figure out who screwed us.

“Did you get the money?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Didn’t get hit. Thanks for asking.” I replied.

He rolled his eyes. I held up the case.

“Good. One down. Two to go.”


######
 
nice one Correia, you picked up nc's voice very well.



and NC, well done. You can always put us on the edge of our seats.
 
The plot thickens as a new danger appears.

What impact will this new group have?

Will they become friends or foes?



Don't miss the next thrilling episode,

Take The Money And Run

or

Sheik, Rattle and Rob!
 
The Jackal

When I awoke the next morning, it was one of those moments you remember for the rest of your life. Sarah leaned over and kissed me, her auburn hair tickling my neck.

"I have to go," I said. "I've got a job tonight, and I need to get ready."

"Me too," she said with a smile.

Hopping across the wall that divided our porches from one another, I entered my villa and took a shower. Once cleaned up and in some fresh clothes, I grabbed the mission packet that had been dropped off in my mailbox and walked up the way to Tailor's villa. I banged on the door instead of using the buzzer. He hated that.

He opened it, can of Dr. Pepper in one hand, cigarette in his mouth.

"What the hell? Where've you been?" I just grinned. A knowing grin appeared on his face.

"That's my BOY! C'mon, get in here, we got work to do." He tossed me a can of Dr. Pepper, and we sat down on his couch. Spreading our mission papers out on the table, we looked over a map of Adar's house, and began formulating our plan.

"This guy's a real sicko," I said, reading my papers. "Likes feeding people into wood chippers and stuff, like Saddam's sons used to."

"That's messed up," Tailor said, puffing on a Camel. "Well, let's put the sick puppy down then. Check it out. His house is a small private compound right in the middle of the city. Twelve foot walls, only one gate in or out. We can have our backup guys park across the street and friggin' light up anybody that comes out of that gate."

"Good idea. They'll need a van, and something belt-fed. See if Frank has a SAW in his inventory, or better yet, a Two-Forty. Stop a vehicle no problem."

"I think we should hop the wall here," Tailor said, pointing at the map. "There's a small shed or something here, and we'll land right behind it. We'll need a SWAT ladder. Do we have one of those?"

"We can get one. Yeah, that is the best place. How do you want to assault the house? We have no idea how many guards are going to be in there. Intel doesn't think it'll be very many, but I'm not ready to trust that."

"No ****," he agreed. "We don't have any plans for the inside of the house. It won't have a basement, probably. Or if it does, it won't have a cellar door, so we can't go in that way. Look, there's a front door here, and a side door back here. Side door is a little less obvious, I suppose. I still don't like this."

"Ever get the feeling we're expendable?"

"Maybe," Tailor replied, in a cyincal laugh.

"Should we see if we can cut the power?" I asked.

"No. It'll alert the guards. They'll call for backup, and we'll never get out of there.

"True, true. Now..." Tailor and I continued planning. Without having an interior map of the house, we were going to have to play it by ear. We'd hop the wall behind the shed and make our way to the side door. Essentially, our orders were to search the entire house and kill everyone we found inside. Seemed pretty simple.

Gear selection was more involved this time. Third party weapons were not mandated, so I dug up my UMP-45 and mounted its suppressor. My Colt, also with a suppressor, went into a drop holster on my left thigh, and my 642 snubby went onto the right ankle. I had three spare mags for the UMP in a drop-leg pouch on my right thigh, and a black kevlar vest with front and rear ceramic rifle plates. Had a camel back for water, short-sleeved black t-shirt, black fatigue pants, combat boots. Tailor was similarly dressed. Using black camo paint, I darkened my arms and face. I was ready to go. It was kind of fun dressing up like a ninja.

It was almost one in the morning when we made out move. There was a row of compounds along the street, part of a pretty nice neighborhood. Behind them ran a narrow paved alley that was primarily used for maintenance. Tailor and I made our way down this alley on foot, carrying the collapsible assault ladder that we'd need to get over the wall.

We came to the house in question, and readied ourselves. We hooked the ladder onto the wall, and he went up first. He also had a suppressed UMP-45, with an equally suppressed HK USP-45 tactical .45 on his right thigh. He had his weapon at the ready, mounted with an EoTech Holosight set on the "night vision" setting. My weapon had an Aimpoint similarly set up, for use with my (perscription) night vision goggles, and we both had weapon lights.

Tailor gave me the clear sign and disappeared over the wall. Bringing the submachine gun up with my left hand, I climbed the latter, scanning carefully.

"Clear, c'mon down," I heard him whisper over my earpiece. I hopped down, taking the assault ladder with me, in case we needed it to get back out.

I stashed it behind the shed and, with Tailor in lead, we made our way across the darkened courtyard, weapons at the ready. No guards were in sight. Strange...

We moved along the wall, and followed it until we were between the house and the wall. We came up to the side door, and Tailor checked it.

"Locked."

"Can you pick it?"

"Yeah...gimme a minute." Tailor pulled out some lockpicks and began to work on the door. It wasn't the best lock ever designed, and thankfully, the door wasn't deadbolted. He got it open, and we were blinded by light. Removing our night vision goggles, we found that the kitchen was well lit. Still, no one was to be seen.

Loud noises could be heard from the living room, like a television. We crept through the kitchen, and I peeked around the corner into the living room. There was a big screen TV set up there, and on it was a soccer game. No less than five guards were watching it intently, not really paying attention to their duties. I supposed they'd been running regular foot patrols, and goofing off in between them. Well, security routines like that are what get people killed.

I leaned back around the corner, looking at Tailor, who was crouched behind a large refrigerator. I held up five fingers, and he nodded. Through hand signals, I told him that we had the drop on them, and that they were all clustered around the TV. He responded with what he thought we should do.

Tailor crawled up to the doorway to the living room, waiting for the guards to cheer at the game to cover his sound. He switched his subgun to the left shoulder, and gave me the high sign.

My subgun was already in my left shoulder. I switched the safety lever from semi to auto, and simultaneously Tailor and I leaned around the corner.

Tailor started on the left, and swept to the right. I started on the right, and swept to the left. We fired in short bursts. He was crouched low, and I was standing up. Our .45 caliber hollow-points cut into the guards, each one receiving multiple hits to the torso. They crumpled to the ground in a bloody pile, our muzzles following them as they went. Stray rounds blew out the television. Suddenly, the living room was quiet. We both changed magazines.

This was too easy, I thought to myself. We moved from our position and, doing our best to cover all the angles, cleared the living room. The house was big, though, and we had to find Adar. Figuring his bedroom wouldn't be on the first floor, we moved up the stairs to the second, Tailor in the lead.

He peeked around the corner at the top of the stairs. The upstairs was filled with classical Arab music, but it was muffled, probably coming from the master bedroom at the end of the hall. That's where we guessed Adar was. There was one guard at the end of the hall, standing outside of the door, looking half asleep.

Once again, complacency kills. Tailor, his UMP set on semiauto, put a single round into the man's head, and he fell to the floor with a thump. The loud music, sounds of men singing and chanting in Arabic, muffled the noise.

We snuck down the hall, trying to keep all of the angles covered. There were several doors on each side, most of them open. A bathroom, and office, some kind of study. All empty. Finally, we made it to the end of the hallway, to the large wooden door that led to the master bedroom. Sounds of movement, barely audible over the music, could be heard from inside.

Moving quickly but cautiously, Tailor opened the door, and I entered, weapon at the ready. Tailor followed me in, and moved to the left, his muzzle never sweeping me. There was a large, four post bed directly in front of me, but it was unoccpied. Glancing to the right, I saw Adar. I was shocked.

Adar was looking at me, a startled expression on his face. He seemed frozen into place. He was naked, and was holding a bloody scalpel. Hanging from the ceiling by bound hands was a woman, Filippina, by the looks of her...dead, covered in blood, slashes and cuts all over her body.

I felt cold on the inside. Tailor had turned at that moment, and he too froze at what he saw.

"GET DOWN!" I screamed at Adar. He hesitated. I put a round into this left shin. SOB got down on his knees then, let me tell you.

"What are you doing?" Tailor asked me. Adar was on his knees, with his hands over his head.

"Look at what this sick **** did!" I said.

"Who are you?" Adar asked, suprisingly calm, in accented English. "You are Americans?"

"SHUT THE **** UP YOU PIECE OF ****!" I screamed, kicking him between the shoulder blades. He slapped to the cool concrete floor.

"Let's do this right," I said, putting my UMP on safe and letting it hang on its sling. I drew my Colt from its holster and pointed it at the back of Adar's head. Tailor did the same with his USP.

We stood side by side, me on the right, him on the left, Adar on all fours on the floor in front of us. Both of our pistols were cocked & locked, and we swiped off the safeties at the same time.

Two muffled pops resonated through the lush bedroom as two .45 bullets crossed paths inside of Adar's skull, and exited out of his face. He collasped to the floor in a pool of blood.

Tailor safetied and reholstered his pistol, but I hesitated. My hand was shaking. I looked over at that poor girl. Feeling dizzy, I turned and threw up.

"We can't leave her like that," I said, wiping my mouth and recomposing myself.

"Look, she's dead, man. We gotta go."

"WE CAN'T LEAVE HER LIKE THAT!" I yelled. Tailor, still complaining that we needed to go, and worrying aloud that there might be more guards around, nonetheless helped me cut her down. We laid her on the bed and wrapped her in the sheets. I honestly don't understand how people can do things like that. The image of that girl hanging there will haunt me for the rest of my life.

Scanning Adar's bedroom for anything useful, we noticed a small safe in the corner. It was open. We moved over to it, and Tailor's eyes grew wide as we saw probably a hundred thousand dollars worth of American money, in crisp new one hundred dollar bills. Looking at each other briefly, we stuffed as much money as we could into every pocket we could spare. There were also documents listing things like account numbers and other vital intel.

Jackpot. After cleaning out the safe, we left the room. As I went through the door, I glanced back, one last time, at the figure wrapped in bloody sheets.

Doing a final sweep of the house, we found no more guards. We did find a creepy, hellish den of sorts. It contained stacks of photographs of people that Adar had tortured and killed, taken before, during and after his sick process. The world was better off without this monster.

In another room, we found a huge walk-in safe. Unfortunately, we couldn't get that open.

Our mission accomplished, we simply walked out of the front door, weapons slung, and to the gate. We opened the gate and waved to the van across the street. It pulled a u-turn and came around to the curb. We hopped in and drove off into the night.

It had gone well, and much more smoothly than I could've hopped. Still, I started to shake, and couldn't stop for a long time...


TO BE CONTINUED
 
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Ugh. :( :barf: Hate to say it, but it's sometimes sad how reality (and stories based on reality) is stranger than fiction.

Although, during the execution, all I could think of was...
And shepherds we shall be, for Thee, my Lord, for Thee.
Power hath descended forth from Thy hand, that our feet
may swiftly carry out Thy command. So we shall flow a
river forth unto Thee, and teeming with souls shall it ever be.

BoondockSaints.jpg

In Nomine Patris, Et Filii, Et Spiritus Sancti.

:) Keep it up! :D
 
"OH! Name one thing we're gonna need that stupid ROPE for!"
"That was much easier than I thought it was gonna be!"
"Yeah, on TV you always got the one guy who jumps over the couch, and you gotta shoot him 10 times. . ."
:)
 
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