Mexico City
May 5, 2009
El Hotel azteca Antiguo (The Magnificent Aztec Hotel)
1400 Hours
Darrel Michaels hated Mexico City.
While it was true that in the past few years, Mexico had slowly showed a slight upward trend economically, that trend seemed to help those who already didn't need its benefits. Michaels reason for being here was because he represented a corporation known as VirtuaChip which showed interest in setting up a factory down here to manufacture computer chips at a fraction of the cost that it would to set up in the United States.
Of course, that was all a lie.
Michaels and his partner, John Westcott, were actually agents of the NSA, or more specifically a branch known as Third Echelon. They were sent by the head of Third Echelon to investigate an underground terrorist group known as El Partido mexicano Libre, or The Free Mexican Party. The FMP had made it's name in denouncing the United States, however, that in of itself was not unusal. What made the FMP different was that about three months ago, the NSA had lost an agent, Kelly Patterson, in Mexico City. Worried that the FMP had somehow compromised her secrecy, Third Echelon had dispatched Michaels and Westcott to Mexico City to determine how Patterson had disappeared and if need be, try to learn some of the inner workings of the FMP.
Michaels and Westcott had been here for almost two months now and had few leads. The FMP was like a shadow in the city, few people knew of it or spoke of it if they did know.
The Magnificent Aztec Hotel has been chosen as their base of operations because of how…unassuming it was. The place simply put, was a dump. No doubt it had far more cockroaches than people living in it. But it provided the perfect cover, no one would think of looking for two NSA agents in one of the most destitute parts of Mexico City.
Westcott was reviewing data that they'd wrote down on the FMP, so far, there'd been little to go on. Michaels sighed inwardly and wondered how long he and Westcott were going to have to live in this hellhole.
A sudden scratching at the door altered both Michaels and Westcott at the same time. Both looked towards the door.
"Probably another kid wanting some pesos," muttered Westcott.
It was hardly surprising, such visits happened every so often ever since they'd been in Mexico City and it was hardly surprising to have one visit now.
Michaels responded, "You want to shoo them away or should I?" asked Michaels.
"Nah, I'll handle it," said Westcott.
He stood up off the small chair he'd been sitting on and began to walk across the room to open the door.
The door promptly exploded into several thousand splinters.
The charges had been perfectly placed, they shattered the door inwards with enough force that Westcott was knocked onto his back. Michaels barely had enough time to register this when several armed men entered the room, carrying assault rifles that appeared to be quite high-tech. They wore black clothing and black tactical hoods over their faces to hide their features.
Michaels began to stand up to draw his pistol, knowing in his mind it was futile, he may take down one or two of the men, but he would die.
One of the armed men was suddenly upon him, smashing him in the face with the butt of the assault rifle. Michaels feel back, tasting blood in his mouth. Westcott for his part was recovering and drew his pistol.
A sudden whisper that a bullet makes when it leaves the muzzle of a silenced weapon filled the room for a brief moment, then another. Westcott fell back to the floor, two perfectly aimed bullet wounds to his heart.
A man stood in the doorway, holding the pistol that had killed Westcott. A slight smile on his face, he was a tall man, standing just over six feet. He had short red hair and grayish-blue eyes. He holstered the pistol and approached Michaels, who once again tried to draw his own weapon; the man simply knocked it out of Michaels' hand with a well aimed kick to his wrist.
"Get him up," said the red haired man.
He was dressed in a rather expensive business suit; it was a rather conservative gray, with a black tie. The man had the aura of command about him. One who gave orders and expected that they would be obeyed instantly. Two of the men hauled Michaels to his feet and threw him into one of the chairs.
The red haired man grabbed a chair of his own and sat down in front of Michaels, who was held down by his shoulders by the two men who had hauled him up. The red haired man steadily looked at Michaels, finally he spoke.
"Who do you work for?" he asked in a calm, level voice.
"VirtuaChip, we were here on busine-"
"Don't bother lying; I already know who you work for, the NSA, correct?"
Michaels tried to hide the surprise on his face, but only partly succeeded, how in the hell could this guy know who he worked for?
"Having established that I know when you're lying or not, I'm going to ask you a few questions and perhaps you'll die a little more peacefully today," said the red haired man with a smile.
"Who in the hell are you people?" Michaels choked out, "Are you with the FMP?"
The man smiled a wolfish grin this time, "Not quite, who I am and who I work for are irrelevant in this matter and you are in no position to ask questions, only answer them, and my first question for you will be to tell me about Third Echelon."
Michaels went pale.
"Surprised? Don't be. You will answer my questions, or else…" the red haired man trailed off.
"Or else what?" spat Michaels.
"Or else, this will be a very long day and night for you; I can assure you of that," said the red haired man, his eyes gleaming with malice.