You know why I'm a terrorist? Because it's one of the best paying jobs
in the world. I used to work for the American government, within the black
ops. department of the C.I.A. One day, while on a mission, I discovered
that I'd been simply cut loose. That I was no longer valuable to the
country in which I had given so much of my life, which I'd fought for and
split blood for. Understandably, I was pissed. I spent the next few months
dodging the assassins my former target sent after me, before I finally
arrived in the middle of the Balkans. I then offered my service to one of
the underground organizations there, and within months, I was getting
offers from all over the world. Quite a lot of people these days are pissed
off with their governments. Makes a mercenary like me quite rich.
Don't get the impression I fight for a cause. The only thing I fight for is money, and if it looks like things are going to turn out real bad, I'm one of the first people out of there. Hey, it might sound cowardly, but the way I look at it, if I don't live, I don't get to spend my money. I've got almost half a billion US stashed away in some hundred bank accounts all over the world, primarily the Cayman Islands and that stalwart of shady dealings, the Swiss. So that's plenty of incentive to come back alive.
Point in fact. I recently was working for a fairly large organization in Indonesia. They'd hired me to hit some officials, then to hang around for some other work. I was at their headquarters, when I looked out a window and saw four Blackhawks coming in low. I knew what was happening almost immediately. These people must have done some fairly major stuff if Counterstrike had been called in. I grabbed my rifle (a fully customized Sig SG-552 Commando, sniper scope, laser scope, under-slung grenade launcher, even a night scope) and started out of the building. All of the others were rushing about, grabbing weapons, barricading doors. There were about fifty of them here, so I was guessing that at least forty Counterstrike operatives were going to hit us. I'd already planned out an escape route in case of such a thing happening, but I did need some help to pull it off, so I grabbed three of the locals, and got them to follow me. They all carried ex-Soviet weapons, AK-47's, so I wasn't to confident in their abilities, but they were all I had to work with.
I heard the gunfire start. It seemed that I'd underestimated the locals firepower, because the sounds I heard were two machine guns, either FN M- 239's or Minimis, opening up on the scurrying CT's from the roof. The Blackhawks took off quickly. They didn't even stay in holding patterns, which I thought was odd until I remembered the L.A.W's and the Soviet SA- 7's that were on the roof. Then I brought my mind back to the problem at hand.
I had been leading my squad along the right hand side of the building when one of them dropped suddenly. We'd been running next to a raised garden, so we dived into cover behind the raised edge. The one who'd gone down twitched around on the ground, his chest badly mangled from the shot, meaning that someone had a fairly heavy rifle up there. I raised my head up carefully, but ducked as another shot banged into the rock next to me. I did it again, and then wondered where this guy had trained. He hadn't bothered relocating. I edged my way along the garden, and when I judged I'd moved far enough, I brought my rifle up, sighting on were he lay, slightly covered by a tree and the corner of the stone wall. He still hadn't noticed I'd moved when I blew the top of his skull off. I motioned for the other two to catch up to me, and we kept moving. Soon, we'd reached the perimeter fence, with no hassle. Most of the fighting was on the opposite side of the compound, so there were actually fairly few enemies. I came around a corner and ran straight into one. Our rifles clattered to the ground, and we both fell as well. I jumped up, knife in hand, as he struggled to get his pistol out of it's holster. I jumped him, twisting him around, then bringing the knife along his throat, cutting his jugular vein and his wind-pipe. I lowered his body to the ground, then picked up my rifle, hands covered in his sticky blood. I wiped it on my pants, and kept going, the two locals staring at me with something akin to awe, with quite a bit of terror mixed in.
It didn't take us to long to escape the compound. Apparently, they hadn't consulted with the local law enforcement, which insured that the attack was a surprise, but also stopped a full cordon from being established. We slipped out, concealing our weapons carefully, then headed for the nearby jungle. Once we reached it, I pulled out my pistol, clipped the silencer to it, and shot them both in the back as they scouted ahead of me. Hey, they were only going to slow me down.
That's a kind of extreme case. Normally, their not so difficult to get away from. Still, as an example of my life, it's a good one. I love being a mercenary.
Don't get the impression I fight for a cause. The only thing I fight for is money, and if it looks like things are going to turn out real bad, I'm one of the first people out of there. Hey, it might sound cowardly, but the way I look at it, if I don't live, I don't get to spend my money. I've got almost half a billion US stashed away in some hundred bank accounts all over the world, primarily the Cayman Islands and that stalwart of shady dealings, the Swiss. So that's plenty of incentive to come back alive.
Point in fact. I recently was working for a fairly large organization in Indonesia. They'd hired me to hit some officials, then to hang around for some other work. I was at their headquarters, when I looked out a window and saw four Blackhawks coming in low. I knew what was happening almost immediately. These people must have done some fairly major stuff if Counterstrike had been called in. I grabbed my rifle (a fully customized Sig SG-552 Commando, sniper scope, laser scope, under-slung grenade launcher, even a night scope) and started out of the building. All of the others were rushing about, grabbing weapons, barricading doors. There were about fifty of them here, so I was guessing that at least forty Counterstrike operatives were going to hit us. I'd already planned out an escape route in case of such a thing happening, but I did need some help to pull it off, so I grabbed three of the locals, and got them to follow me. They all carried ex-Soviet weapons, AK-47's, so I wasn't to confident in their abilities, but they were all I had to work with.
I heard the gunfire start. It seemed that I'd underestimated the locals firepower, because the sounds I heard were two machine guns, either FN M- 239's or Minimis, opening up on the scurrying CT's from the roof. The Blackhawks took off quickly. They didn't even stay in holding patterns, which I thought was odd until I remembered the L.A.W's and the Soviet SA- 7's that were on the roof. Then I brought my mind back to the problem at hand.
I had been leading my squad along the right hand side of the building when one of them dropped suddenly. We'd been running next to a raised garden, so we dived into cover behind the raised edge. The one who'd gone down twitched around on the ground, his chest badly mangled from the shot, meaning that someone had a fairly heavy rifle up there. I raised my head up carefully, but ducked as another shot banged into the rock next to me. I did it again, and then wondered where this guy had trained. He hadn't bothered relocating. I edged my way along the garden, and when I judged I'd moved far enough, I brought my rifle up, sighting on were he lay, slightly covered by a tree and the corner of the stone wall. He still hadn't noticed I'd moved when I blew the top of his skull off. I motioned for the other two to catch up to me, and we kept moving. Soon, we'd reached the perimeter fence, with no hassle. Most of the fighting was on the opposite side of the compound, so there were actually fairly few enemies. I came around a corner and ran straight into one. Our rifles clattered to the ground, and we both fell as well. I jumped up, knife in hand, as he struggled to get his pistol out of it's holster. I jumped him, twisting him around, then bringing the knife along his throat, cutting his jugular vein and his wind-pipe. I lowered his body to the ground, then picked up my rifle, hands covered in his sticky blood. I wiped it on my pants, and kept going, the two locals staring at me with something akin to awe, with quite a bit of terror mixed in.
It didn't take us to long to escape the compound. Apparently, they hadn't consulted with the local law enforcement, which insured that the attack was a surprise, but also stopped a full cordon from being established. We slipped out, concealing our weapons carefully, then headed for the nearby jungle. Once we reached it, I pulled out my pistol, clipped the silencer to it, and shot them both in the back as they scouted ahead of me. Hey, they were only going to slow me down.
That's a kind of extreme case. Normally, their not so difficult to get away from. Still, as an example of my life, it's a good one. I love being a mercenary.