"A Special Place in Hell"
Cancun, Mexico
Day One, 0120 Hours
"Be advised, I have a visual on the target. He's at the bar. Royce, your three o'clock."
Captain Soap MacTavish sat at the back of the crowded club, his back against the wall. He sat completely still except for his piercing eyes, which shifted subtly from the target to one of his team members, Royce.
Royce, one of the only Canadian-born members of the One Four One, stood amidst a crowd of inebriated college students at the bar. Upon his arrival, the man had quickly struck up a conversation with one of the students leading a particularly large horde. Now, four hours, and possible gallons of tequila, later, he fit right in with them.
"Royce copies all."
The target, a Caucasian man, was about six feet tall and extremely skinny. He had a shock of orange hair, left a bit shaggy. The guy was in his late twenties, a little older than Soap himself.
Although the target looked lanky and a bit clumsy, MacTavish knew better. Appearances were deceiving, and the young Captain knew from experience not to judge a man by his build.
"Royce, watch him. Don't get too close. We don't want to spook the little muppet."
"Got it."
MacTavish shifted his gaze around the club, to the various other 141 members posted throughout the establishment. Roach was just outside the door, smoking a cigarette, watching the street. Meat was upstairs, entertaining a few scantily clad women.
MacTavish frowned. He was sure the young soldier was focusing more on the chest of the girl across from him then on the mission, and he harshly whispered, "Oi, Meat, get yer head outta yer arse."
He watched, with some degree of amusement, the young Sergeant jump as the voice of his Captain came through his earpiece. "Sorry, sir."
The other 141 guys- Rocket, Chemo, Scarecrow, Ozone, and Rook - were spread out, all, for the most part, looking like drunk college students on Spring Break. Ghost, Toad, and Archer were sitting in a Chevy Suburban behind the club, watching for incoming intel on the mission and getting ready to deploy if things went south.
MacTavish chose his spot in the club for two reasons- one, the corner booth he was in provided good overwatch on the bar. Two, he liked, no, needed, his back to the wall. It seemed to be a psychological thing, ever since that day on the bridge when Bravo Team had been all but eradicated.
"Hey, cutie, we saw that you were a bit lonely," said a female voice.
Three young girls in too-short skirts and too-tight tops had shuffled over to MacTavish's table, and were now in the process of giggling at the huge biceps and rough, masculine, cute face glaring at them.
"Not interested, ladies. Please move along."
MacTavish stared up at the three girls and their sudden change from cutesy-tootsie college girls to drunk, angry swamp monsters. They obviously had never been rejected before. Of course, they were attractive, but MacTavish had no time for their antics.
They slowly walked away, one of them being supported by her two friends.
MacTavish watched them go and smirked. "Completely shit-housed," he chuckled.
His thoughts were suddenly snapped back to reality when he heard loud voices coming from the bar. He turned his head just in time to watch Carrot-Top punch a husky black dude in the face at the bar.
At which point, Mr. T, as MacTavish quickly nicknamed him, recovered and stalked towards a slowly backing away Carrot Top. "Royce, secure the target, now, move on him and get him out!"
Royce suddenly stopped the fake stumbling and struggled to escape the huge crowd of students at the bar. MacTavish saw the problem and quickly rose, advancing towards the fight, saying into his earpiece, "Team, move in and secure the target. Rocket, secure the kitchens in the back."
"Rocket copies all."
MacTavish was halfway across the dance floor when suddenly Carrot Top pulled a .45 and emptied three rounds into Mr. T's chest. "Shit!" yelled Royce as he finally jumped free, pulling his USP from his waistband.
The rest of 141 descended on the scene like buzzards, with Rocket, Glock 18 drawn, sprinting towards the kitchens, and Royce tackling Mr. T.
Chemo, Scarecrow, Ozone, and Rook moved quickly to surround the bar and cut Carrot Top off, but the tall man had somehow gotten in with the screaming crowd moving for the front door. MacTavish sprinted for the crowd and yelled, "Roach! Chase him, he's advancing into the street!"
"Got him, I'm in pursuit, south down Avenue 10!"
MacTavish took off running from the club, .45 drawn, down the street. Further ahead, he could see Roach, and in front of him, the target.
"Royce! Take care of the victim, get him to the 'Burban out back! Same for the rest of you!"
The target suddenly cut down an alley going right, past a few startled pedestrians. Roach followed suit, hooking a right into the narrow passage. It was dark and stunk of garbage, but the young Sergeant pushed as much effort into his stride as possible, quickly gaining on the target. As he emerged from the alley, Carrot Top stumbled on the curb- which gave Roach the perfect opportunity to slam the full weight of his 175 pound frame into the lanky man. Roach went more for his legs, and definitely heard one snap as he put Carrot Top into the pavement.
MacTavish quickly caught up to the scene, and steadied his .45 at Carrot Top's mass as Roach zip-cuffed him.
"Bloody well done, Sergeant. Great tackle, if I do say so myself."
"Which you do, Captain. Thank you."
The two exchanged a quick chuckle as Roach heaved the defeated man onto his feet. MacTavish took one look at his leg, and the splintered femur punching through the skin, and pressed his finger to his ear. "Ghost, we need a pickup, Avenue 11."
"Wilco, Captain. I'm on my way."
Within the next minute, the Suburban turned the corner and screeched to a halt in front of the two operators. Rook and Ozone piled out of the back and loaded in the target. Roach rode shotgun while MacTavish hopped in the back.
"Ghost, get us to the hotel, pronto."
On the ride there, Roach realized that Mr. T wasn't in the SUV with them. "Royce, what happened to the black man?"
"He didn't make it; I got him out and dumped him in the rubbish out back. Why?"
"Just wondering what the bloody hell he was doing with ol' numpty back there."
Ghost answered this question for Royce. "Oh, we'll find out, Roach. Not a doubt in my mind, mate."
The target scoffed. "You'll get nuthin outta me, you hear? You fucksticks won't get a scrap of information."
Archer was far from intimidated. "Oh, the wanker speaks, does he? Let's see how well you can insult us in that cute Irish accent when we've pulled each of your teeth out, eh?"
MacTavish grinned. "Easy, Archer. We don't want him making a mess of himself all over the back of the SUV."
When the Suburban pulled up in front of the Hotel Costa del Mar, Archer and Toad quickly got out first with their M4A1 assault rifles drawn. Nobody was in the street anyways, so they weren't as worried about creating a commotion as much as they were protecting the target.
Next out was Meat, now brandishing a Mossberg 500 shotgun, and Scarecrow, carrying an MP5k, who both ran ahead to make sure the path to the room and the room itself was secure.
MacTavish, Rook, Royce, and Ozone came out with the target and climbed the stairwell to the room.
Rocket, Chemo, Ghost, and Roach took the Suburban around back to the small parking lot. After parking, the four got out and took the back way up to the second floor, where the room was.
The room was the largest in the small hotel, the honeymoon suite. It seemed ironic, considering the task at hand and the name of the room they had to complete it in.
By the time the four had opened the door to the room, it was only MacTavish, Royce, Ozone, and the target inside. The others had gone off to separate rooms or other spots to begin overwatch on the hotel for the night.
"Rocket, Chemo, get to your posts, please. Thanks, guys. Good job tonight."
The two left, leaving MacTavish, Royce, Ozone, Ghost, Roach, and the target. The man was bound to a chair in the middle of the room.
MacTavish was straddling a backwards chair in front of him, and Ghost quickly moved to the kitchenette, where he began to pull out a car battery out from underneath the sink. Ozone and Royce sat on the couch, and Roach moved a chair next to the door, where he picked up Meat's Mossberg 500 and stood guard.
Ghost set the battery down on a small tray table next to the target and said to MacTavish, "Ready when you are, sir."
"Affirmative," MacTavish said, pointing at the man. "You are Robert "Robby" McMenehan, are you not?"
The man sat silently, staring intensely at the laminate floor tiles.
"Listen, mate, this could go easily, or it could be a bloody pain in the arse. It's your choice. The man in the mask does not mess around."
"Oi! Can't you get it through your thick English skull that I ain't tellin' you nothing? Piss off!"
"Ok then, mate. Have it your own damn way. Ghost, make him talk."
Ghost quickly rolled up his sleeves and took a pair of jumper cables attached to the battery. "There's a reason why your chair is metal, dumbass," Ghost said as he clamped them to the legs.
The Irishman's eyes only had time to slightly enlarge as he realized that he was completely screwed. Thousands of volts coursed through his body until Ghost detached a cable.
"You'll…. Have to….. D-D-D-Do better than-than-than- that, you knob slobbers."
MacTavish laughed a little at this, but suddenly he rose and kicked the chair away. His fist shot out and connected with McMenehan's jaw, causing a crunch and making blood flow freely down the man's chin. The Captain punched him about fifteen more times, all square face hits, creating massive trauma around the man's eyes and nose. His cheekbones were quite obviously shattered and his nose obliterated; the man's breathing became ragged sounding, and every time he exhaled a gurgling sound emitted from his nose.
McMenehan, sweating and bleeding, began to sob quietly.
Ghost said, "Had enough, mate? It can end at any time. Just tell us who provides the money for the ordnance and supply shipments to the Irish nationalists."
The room was again silent, and MacTavish turned away, frustrated and sweating. Roach could clearly see his hands behind his back, clenched so hard they were white. The young operator blinked and looked over at Royce and Ozone, who were both nervously fidgeting with the pistols in their hands.
"Sir. Why don't you go take a breather? I'll have one of these guys take your place and you can go calm yourself a bit."
"No. I'll be fine. Don't worry about it, Simon."
"Whatever you say, Captain."
The Irishman was so beaten that he hadn't paid attention to any of this. After a few awkward moments of silence (albeit the Irishman's ragged breathing) MacTavish suddenly pulled his .45 from the hip holster on his leg. He switched off the safe, and turned around.
Roach swallowed the lump in his throat and looked down at the Mossberg. He knew the part that came next. And he hated this part, every single time.
Ghost took a step back. "Sir…."
MacTavish's eyes were dark as he took the pistol and screwed in a silencer. He turned around and rammed the black pistol into McMenehan's knee. His voice was low and intimidating.
"Listen to me, you slimy bastard. You're going to tell me who's supplying the terrorist organization known as the Irish Arm. You're also going to tell me who's leading the entire bloody thing, and what their next planned attacks are. If you don't, I'm going to continue make you bleed until you talk."
The Irishman's reply was short and sweet. "Piss off," he said.
MacTavish winked and grinned at the ma n, and whispered, "Ok then," and pulled the trigger.
His right leg jerked as the round disintegrated his kneecap. There was a spray of blood angled down onto the floor underneath the chair. McMenehan let out a small yelp, but quickly recovered, moaning. MacTavish quickly switched to the man's left knee, blinking and whispering, "Tell me what I want to know. Now. "
The man finally relented and moaned, "Fine. The supplier's name is Roland Rischev, a Georgian arms dealer. He's merely a merchant; he doesn't partake in any actual attacks."
"Oh, how noble of him," Royce chimed in from the couch. Ozone chuckled and leaned over to whisper something in Royce's ear. After a few moments, they both laughed out loud and turned back towards the gruesome scene.
Ghost said, "Robert. Why did the Arm choose Rischev as their supplier?"
"He's reliable. And his inventory is bloody huge."
MacTavish was suddenly interested. "Who's the head of the Arm? And what's the next target?"
"The head is an Irishman, born in County Kerry. His name is Patrick Majors, a highly fanatical former SAS member."
"Majors, hmm? Never heard of him."
Ghost chimed in, "Me neither, mate."
McMenehan was quick to speak. "That's why he's such a good leader! He was a low-level demo specialist in 21 SAS until 2004, when he retired as a Color Sergeant."
"Sounds plausible. And the next attack?"
"I remember rumors of the group planning to pack a shite-load of high explosive into an Underground train car somewhere in Northern Ireland. It's to show some sort of force against the Catholic Church in the Northern Country, so I can guarantee that it'll be near a religious establishment. That's all I know, mate."
MacTavish clicked his tongue. "I'm not your mate."
Ghost turned to the rest of the men in the room. "Boys, what do you have to say about this all?"
Ozone was first to speak. "This is way more violent than anything the Arm has ever tried before. Perhaps he's over-exaggerating to make it sound more urgent. Or, perhaps, they're trying to muscle their way into some sort of power position. I'm not sure."
Roach nodded his head, saying, "Well, we know that they are most definitely in league with this Rischev man. Perhaps we should drop by and pay the good chap a visit, eh? He could give us the information on the shipment, let us know what we're up against."
Royce added, "That is what I was going to suggest. I think Rischev is our best bet in getting as much intel on this wanker Majors as well."
MacTavish looked convinced. "Well then, it seems Georgia is our next stop then, eh? But to the matter at hand first. We need to take care of this muppet."
Ghost took the battery off of the table and heaved it under the sink. "We don't take prisoners, and he'd just be a liability. I say we dispose of him. We have a whole rapsheet on this wanker- armed robbery, suspected acts of terrorism, kidnapping of children and clergymen? It seems that the Devil will have a special place in Hell for you, mate."
MacTavish lifted the .45 to McMenehan's chest. "Say hello to him for us, will ye?"
With that, he pulled the trigger, and shot the Irishman in the heart.