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This is the first work written for this story. The absolute very first words I set down in stone.
This chapter took many months to write. Never satisfied, I chopped, changed and re-wrote portions of it many times over. Being my first real foray into creative writing, it was pretty raw and didn't read all that well. After so many revisits though, I had to like it and move on, but I still consider it a touch underdone and raw. I started writing about a character closely modeled on Lara Croft and the world she lived in. After a while, I realised the character I'd been writing about was Lara Croft. So I re-wrote the material I had as a Tomb Raider story. I guess I'm making Lara the character I always thought she'd be, a tough, kick ass lady that people mess with at their peril. For Winston? Apologies all, but the farting old man from Tomb Raider II is gone. I've toughened him up considerably and put a gun in his hand. Lara's butler has to move with the times also.
There are elements I like from this early work, but it certainly needs refinement. You should get the general idea though.
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*1*
Beginnings
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The Dense Rainforest of Bolivia
Lara stepped lightly along the deep forest path, the trees and undergrowth almost making a complete tunnel as it wound its way through the greenery. She was being followed, almost for an hour now. Just who might be interested in her explorations, she didn't know. Her follower kept well back and was almost silent. Many people would have dismissed the odd distant tingle of unknown equipment, or decided the odd heavy footfall was something else. Lara however, did not miss these details. Something deep in her consciousness had warned that she was not alone. A minute change in the chorus of birds and insects, silences when there should be none, or the odd chink of metal on metal.
Leaves had been falling for some time, covering parts of the little-used path and Lara took care to step around the individual leaf clumps that had begun to accumulate in the tropical breeze. She wasn't going to make things easy for the follower. She had a hunch that whoever it was, they were likely not looking to make friends. Lara was tall at 6 feet two inches but she was able to move her lithe body through the terrain with minimal disturbance. She was in her element, and relished the chance to outwit this unknown entity.
She stopped and looked up as the breeze momentarily strengthened and ruffled the tops of the trees, some 40 meters above. Silently, she moved to the shadows along the edge of the path and waited for the disturbance to settle. The sprightly breeze descended, causing Lara's long ponytail to sway and catch slightly on her backpack. Her focus elsewhere, she tossed her head lightly, causing it to fall to it's rightful position just past the small of her back. As the disturbance died she listened. The forest chorus began it's rhythmic beat once more and the silence returned, but Lara lingered a moment to ensure nothing had transpired during the noisy intermission.
Lara continued. Looking ahead, her eyes focused on some broken stonework that lay across the path, partly hidden amongst the fallen leaves. She reached the spot and crouched down to study the pieces. A droplet of sweat ran the length of her forearm as she reached out to brush the leaves away; the tropical humidity had kept Lara sweating from the moment the sun rose that morning. She'd hardly noticed though, as the area was breathtakingly rugged and offered views rarely seen. Lara absently ran her forearm across her uncovered midriff to remove the offending bead, but seemed to gather others in the process.
Ever so gently, Lara removed one of the stone pieces from its resting place. As she brushed the fine volcanic-black sand grains from its surface, she suddenly paused as she noticed the nearly worn away designs on the face she now studied. Lara gently brushed the remaining soil away to reveal a series of interwoven snakes, all tightly coiled around each other and interlocking in a fashion reminiscent of Celtic scrollwork. The design was unmistakable to her. Flipping her ponytail aside, she reached into her backpack and produced another stone piece that had similar interwoven snakes carved into its surface. Holding the two pieces together, Lara could plainly see that the designs were identical.
"Gotcha!" she murmured with satisfaction. She'd found another marker.
There were nine stone markers that Lara had discovered so far. Standing no more than two meters tall they had all been pyramid shaped and around half a meter across the base. Each one had featured the intricate interwoven snakes, plus other symbols that had appeared to be some form of ancient writing. Lara had a working knowledge of many ancient languages, but this was something else, something new.
None of the stone pyramids had been in a good condition. Left at the mercy of the tropical forest and it's moisture laden climate; they had all clearly suffered in the open. They were old, very old; that much she knew. Some, like the one where Lara now stood were reduced to rubble, soon to be lost in the thick undergrowth or swallowed into the dark volcanic soils. Others had fared better and were nearly complete, save for relentless weathering that had smoothed their surfaces and made the carvings all but disappear. Lara only had a few fragments containing designs, plus a small number of well-worn symbols. It wasn't much to go on, but as with all things ancient, there often wasn't.
Clipped to the front of her belt, was a compact GPS unit. Highly accurate, it could pinpoint Lara's location to within one meter. She unclipped it and took a positional fix of the markers location. An intriguing pattern was emerging. Lara flipped through a series of menu's to produce a graphical display of all nine markers. Her eye's narrowed with interest as the latest marker's position confirmed her hunch; the nine marker positions she'd captured so far were beginning to map out in a circle. Deftly, Lara navigated through some additional menu's to bring up some drawing tools. She then drew a circle of best fit over all nine points and paused to consider her handiwork. Staring intently at the little screen, her mind began working though the question of weather the circle meant anything. She rolled her head from side to side to stretch her neck muscles, all the while keeping her eyes trained on the circle; the soothing sensation helping her thoughts meld into a conclusion. What would you do with a stone circle? She wondered. Put something in the middle of course! But what?
Once more, Lara's fingertips danced over the GPS unit's keypad; she plotted the circle's center point, and calculated its position. She then chose the 'navigate' function and a large arrow appeared on the little screen, along with the information 2.6 kilometers to target. Looking in the direction the GPS indicated, Lara saw dense and dark steaming jungle. Not easy terrain. She sighed, and placed the GPS back on her belt.
Strapped to her back in a protective sheath was another piece of equipment, a machete. With a 60cm blade, wider at the tip than at the hilt, the cleaver-like weapon was the tool of choice for hacking through impassable jungle undergrowth. The machete also made a good offensive weapon in the hands of someone skilled enough. Lara was such a person; she was 3rd Dan in martial arts. A significant part of that training was the ability to use all manner of weapons to dispatch an enemy.
The thought of killing another person reviled her, but it had been necessary in the past. Lara reached for the machete's grip over her right shoulder and drew the weapon from its protective sheath. She twirled the blade several times in a circular motion to become re-acquainted with its balance. "Gardening time," Lara muttered as she stepped off the path and into the gloomy forest.
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Tezra Tekkara kept to the shadows as he silently stalked through the lush foliage. This land was the birthplace of his ancestors and he'd inherited their skills completely. Seeming to disappear in the muted light, he melded his body with that of a huge forest giant and completely stilled his body. He listened for the looping strokes of the tall woman's machete as she carved a path through the dense biomass. Tezra could tell she was skilled with the weapon; expending as little energy as possible with each constructed stroke.
The woman was an enigma. Definitely western, she had a European complexion that had been tanned through many hours outdoors. She didn't appear military, although the twin 9 millimeter Heckler and Koch USP's she had holstered at her hips suggested she meant business. The German made Universal Self-loading Pistols were semi-automatics, which meant that one round was fired with each pull of the trigger, and a new one loaded into the firing chamber automatically. The USP's also featured Heckler and Koch's recoil reduction system, which significantly reduced the recoil experienced by the shooter. The woman obviously knew her weapons, Tezra thought to himself. He could see she burned with a steely resolve and her intellect appeared considerable. He'd need to be careful.
He separated from the tree and resumed a cautious path after the tall woman, following exactly in her footsteps where he needed to pass through the dense vines and saplings. How much could she know? Tezra pondered. What had drawn her here to the home of his ancestors? What did she want here? Who was she?
Tezra kept pace with her for an hour; their progress slow due to the rough overgrown terrain. She seemed driven by something, though he had no knowledge of what it could be. She'd been interested in the small stone pyramids hidden in the forest, forgotten by all in the greater world except her. To his knowledge, the pyramids were nothing. His people thought them to be the boundary of a ceremonial area in ancient times. Although a lot of knowledge had been lost during the siege of the Spanish Conquistadors in the 16th century. His people had been driven to the edge of annihilation, but a very small number had escaped and went into hiding in distant lands.
His ancestors had lived in extensive underground cities built through large cave networks. The Conquistadors had found some of them during their malignant march across the land; those were supposedly reduced to rubble. Time had now faded knowledge of the cities his people built. To this very day, Tezra's people did not know if anything still existed un-discovered. Only faded memories had been passed from person to person since the exodus. The world had forgotten his people – until today.
He'd been contacted via his Globalstar GSP 1700 satellite phone. His father, in Washington, America; had called him earlier that day with the news that the company satellite feed had picked up an inbound helicopter. Tezra knew the drill, follow the intruders and discover what they wanted. If they took too much of a liking to the area – well – the Bolivian rainforest was a dangerous place.
Eventually, the machete fell silent. Tezra immediately stopped and once again blended into the shadows amid a dense thicket of saplings. He waited; wondering what the enigma-woman's next move would be. Tezra knew the area, and knew that there was nothing significant here. What was she doing? He needed to find out, and began a wraith-like stalk in the direction of the last sounds he'd heard.
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The GPS buzzed its message that the destination had been reached; Lara silenced it with a simple button push. Thin shafts of light penetrated the thick overhead canopy and appeared like swords as they thrust into the forest floor. Lara had descended into a bowl shaped area no more than 50 meters across. Standing in the center, she slowly turned examining the rocky ridge that created the outer wall of the bowl formation. There was no breeze where Lara stood; making the ever-present humidity seem to close in around her producing a wet sheen on the surface of her skin. She flexed both arms above her head and stretched; the machete work had tightened her muscles somewhat. Lara wasn't overly muscular, but her muscle tone was lightly defined in a very fit manner over her entire body. In her line of work she needed to remain fit, or else suffer in the outdoors. Her midriff shirt was damp from her exertions; however, it was doing its job keeping her cool in the moisture-laden air.
Lara continued to turn slowly in the center of the bowl. She noted with a growing sense of discovery that it appeared quite regular in shape, seeming to be almost perfectly round. The rocky walls were no more than ten meters high and fairly angular in shape. The area wasn't particularly overgrown either, which seemed odd as almost every spare space had otherwise been claimed by some forest plant or other. Only a few small broadleaf plants grew in the confines of the space.
Ferns had covered one part of the wall where the slope had actually become more vertical than the rest of the bowl formation. Long green tendrils draped their way down the small cliff producing an evergreen curtain hiding the grey rock beneath. Lara stepped cautiously; her mind shifting up a notch to another level of clarity. As she neared the lush-green curtain, her crystal mind noted the relative smoothness of the rock becoming evident between the ferns. Noted the slight fall in ground level at the base of the curtain, as well as two identical protrusions half way up the cliff. Also registering, was the-not too-distant disturbance of some Bolivian Macaws. They had suddenly screeched and taken flight as if a forest phantom had appeared from the ether. Lara knew though, that her follower had returned. She instinctively patted the grips of her always-present Heckler and Koch pistols, their presence always a welcome reassurance.
Lara scanned the rock face covered by the ferns. The two protrusions were about half way up the rock face. She'd need to climb a little in order to reach them. Stepping directly up to the rock face, Lara scanned it for footholds.
Crack!
…What on earth?
Craaaaaaaack!
The ground appeared to heave beneath Lara's feet. She was losing her balance amid a loud noise that sounded like a hundred shotguns being fired one after the other. She attempted to right herself.
No Good.
The loud noise rose up in an ever-increasing crescendo, the rolling forest floor causing Lara to stumble wildly; she groped for the ferns in a desperate attempt for balance.
Then it went silent.
"Ooooooh crap," Lara breathed, as if to pacify a demon tormenting her.
Her mind raced and grappled for answers, she stood frozen where she'd been thrown, as if by some malevolent hand come to punish her. She realized the forest floor had taken on a nasty angle; she peered at the ground immediately around her and all too late her crystalline mind found the answer. Suddenly, with a banshee-like wail seeming to come from the very earth, Lara dropped like a stone into unseen depths.
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Lara fell through inky blackness for what seemed like an eternity. With lightening reflexes she steeled her body for an impact she knew must come.
It did come, but it wasn't what she expected.
With an almost deafening splash, Lara hit a deep body of water, and crashed below the surface, it's enveloping embrace closing in around her like the arms of death. It was dark like the deepest cave; the dark water almost chilled, causing her a momentary shock as her mind thundered to catch up with events. She willed herself back to cognizance.
It was quiet. There was no noise but for her own motions in the blacked-out water. She had no idea which way was up, sideways, or down. She reached for a side pocket on her ever-trusted backpack and produced a green tinged plastic tube. Holding her breath in the blackness, Lara bent the malleable plastic causing delicate glass vials inside to break and spill their chemical contents. As she did so, a bright chemo-luminescent light began to shine from the mixed chemicals. Lara shook the tube vigorously; the green glow strengthened and Lara found herself staring at a smooth rocky surface no more than two meters away. It was the bottom of the water body.
Lara kicked down towards the smooth bedrock; spun around and used it to kick off towards the surface.
The tranquil water erupted as Lara broke the surface and filled her lungs with fresh subterranean air. Looking off to her left at some distance, Lara could see a shaft of light cutting through the darkness. It was the now-opened trapdoor she had fallen through. She estimated she'd fallen a good 10 meters. The light shaft was growing smaller before her eyes; Lara realized she must have fallen into an underground river that was now transporting her away from the trapdoor.
Holding up the glowstick, Lara could see the walls of the tunnel through which the river flowed. They were also smooth like the riverbed, worn from the constantly flowing water. The speed at which the walls passed told her she was indeed moving at quite a pace. Pointless to try swimming against the current; Lara knew it would be an exercise in futility. The tunnel was perhaps five meters across, and for now the water's passage was tranquil. She looked ahead but only saw the tunnel stretching out into the distance, growing black quickly beyond the green light of the glowstick.
Lara floated on her back to avoid any submerged dangers; she held the luminescent tube above her body to study the tunnel walls as they passed by. She could barely make out the tunnel roof, still some 10 meters above her. What had she gotten herself into this time? She pondered.
Lara had been in situations like this before, and she lived for them. Where others may panic, Lara found herself immersed in a sense of wonder at discovering the unknown. Eventual death from such an experience was a real possibility, but strangely, Lara didn't fear death as others might. She'd never feared death.
With her mother and father both dead, she had no immediate family. No brothers, no sisters to mourn her passing. She'd had lovers, but those relationships ultimately left her empty and searching for more. There were several eligible bachelors whom she could marry, if she wanted, but that life held no interest for her; none at all. Subterranean rivers were her life, lost ruins, civilizations long forgotten, tombs of ancient emperors, epic journeys long since finished, and her ultimate love, the gathering of rare and ancient artifacts.
Lara had been carried along by the mystic river only a short while when she began to note the ceiling descend toward the waterline. As she traveled further it was apparent her pace was quickening; the sounds of rushing, gurgling water also began to emerge from the blackness ahead. As her pace quickened ever more, Lara began to hyperventilate to cram as much oxygen into her bloodstream as possible. She knew that subterranean river systems could be perilously dangerous, often submerging without air pockets for miles at a time. Unbidden feelings welled up within her that screamed warning. Her gaze became granite as the realization struck that things were about to become treacherous.
The ceiling began coming down quickly now, the gurgling noise also rising as if it expected a fresh victim. Lara rolled onto her front and continued hyperventilating. She steeled herself as she began to be jostled by the water, now beginning to roil angrily about her as it hurled her down into the black gullet of the river tunnel.
Lara saw the ceiling hit the water ahead amid the green luminescence of the glowstick; a maelstrom of churning water had formed there creating a zone of brutal chaos. There was a whirlpool, angrily spinning and sucking the last vestiges of sanity from the free space left in the tunnel. The water protested loudly in boiling waves as it was sucked without mercy straight down to the pits of hell. Lara rushed headlong toward the beast without hope of escape; she took a deep breath that she knew could be her last.
Suddenly, she was pulled from the river tunnel with such malevolence that the air held in her lungs came perilously close to being punched from her body. Brutal forces took hold and she was viciously whipped into a narrow flooded tube and accelerated though it like the condemned on their trip to the underworld.
Wham!
Lara's shoulder blade collided with the roof of the tunnel. Her shirtsleeve ceased to exist, obliterated and torn by the scraping collision.
Pain exploded.
Her arm was still there; at least that was something.
Lara fought for control, but it was useless, the current far too venomous. Her body buffeted, she fought to keep her lungs from filling with water. Unseen boxers pummeled her from each direction as the water sped and boiled through the narrow space.
She was wrenched without mercy around a bloodthirsty turn. With milliseconds to spare, Lara managed to fend off the cave wall by planting both feet into it as she rocketed past.
She was now hurtling along backwards, the defensive move having turned her around. The glowstick was battered from her grip and became lost in the hell-bent torrent, sending her decaying world into darkness.
Another series of militant pressure waves hit her body and forced air from her lungs; Lara's calm center began to fade. Her crystalline self-awareness began to shatter and break apart. With immense self-control she wrenched it steady through a brutal tide of willpower.
Time was limited. She was taking a battering the human body was not meant to take. She couldn't hold out much longer, her exertions having cost her precious oxygen. She sensed her mind dulling rapidly as her brain began to feel the effects of oxygen debt. She could see nothing; yet unseen phantoms continued to pound the life out of her.
She was going out.
Her body began to shut down; Lara no longer able to make it respond no matter how much willpower she expended. Yet her spark remained, burning with passion at the center of her being.
Air!
Suddenly she was tumbling through space. Instinct made her raggedly gasp for a precious breath. She fell amid the roar of malevolent rain. Pure instinct made her straighten into a dive and once again prepare for the impact her battered mind knew must come.
It did.
Lara hit the surface of a large pool and was once again propelled into the unknown depths. Except this time her glowstick was there waiting for her, resting on the rocky bottom of the pool radiating its subtle green glow. Using the glow to orient herself, Lara kicked away from the light with her rapidly draining reserves of strength.
The tranquility of the water's surface was pierced by the eruption of Lara Croft from its depths. With more ragged gasps she filled her lungs with the earthy subterranean air, which tasted as sweet as she'd ever remembered.
Lara dragged herself through the water with spent strokes to the nearest shallow ledge she could find. She turned on her back and rested in the shallow water with eyes closed. Adrenalin still coursed through her body like the blazes, her heartbeat racing; it thumped in her heaving chest attempting to re-oxygenate her overstressed body. She took in several slow deep breaths to begin a process of calming. Unclasping the machete and backpack, she flung them on a dry ledge nearby. Similarly, she took off her drowned belt with her holstered Heckler and Koch pistols and her GPS; she flung these on top of her backpack.
She rested sodden and bruised, waiting for the world to right itself.
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Winston Banks sat bolt upright from a dead-slumber. A light sleeper, something had disturbed his subconscious and screamed warning. His eyes flicked to the red glowing numbers on his simple bedside alarm clock. 3:17am. The night was stilled, barely a whisper echoed through the Croft Mansion; yet something had wrenched him from sleep.
Pushing 67, Winston was Lady Croft's Butler. Lara trusted no one else with the care of her family home, at all. Since the deaths of Lara's parents, Winston had taken it upon himself to be as much of a surrogate father as possible. There was no way on this Earth he could replace Lord Richard and Lady Amelia Croft, but he'd damn well rot in hell before he gave up on the last remaining Croft.
A growing sense of unease pushed at the edges of his sleep-fouled mind. He was fast becoming an old man and knew it all too well. He lamented the precious time lost as he worked his mind into cognizant thought; he needed to get up, and right now. Something was very very wrong and he shuddered as if an icy shadow had suddenly passed over him. Silently, he slipped the covers off from over him and stood beside the bed in the blackness.
Still with no idea what had caused him to wake, Winston slipped into his sheep's wool slippers and stepped without noise to a locked cabinet only a few paces away. Even through the inky void of night, Winston knew exactly where to reach behind the cabinet for it's key. He needed a better place to hide the key he thought, but he'd been saying that for years. The key turned easily in the well oiled lock and the metal door swung open on equally well cared for hinges.
A Westley Richards side-by-side double-barreled bespoke shotgun rested easily on it's mountings inside. It's silverwork engraving gleamed even in the soft moonlight which barely lit Winston's modest room. The gun was a typical example of a British sportsman's hunting weapon, although somewhat more ornate. Winston had no idea of the gun's value and wasn't interested in the figure at all. It had been in his family a long time and he wasn't about to sell it to some other buffoon.
Also hanging in the cabinet was a somewhat more modern bulletproof vest. Lara's idea. She'd insisted he keep it close to hand some years ago after a break in. Although secure with sophisticated security systems, the Croft mansion had a history of unwelcome visitors. Winston now slipped the vest over his head gratefully and adjusted it around his long john pajamas. Lara had a foresight that seemed uncanny at times, just like the Lady Amelia, her mother. So like her own mother, more than even she knew.
Winston reached for the Westley Richards and also slung his old leather cartridge belt over his shoulder. In the silent shadows, he was damned if he knew what had gotten him on the razors edge like this, but he'd learned to trust his instincts over the years. Lara had drummed that into him. He knew the mind was a complex machine; a weapon in itself if one could but harness its power.
He stepped to the polished wooden door and listened intently. There was something! Voices. Very faint, as if carried up the central stairwell on errant eddies if air. Someone was in the house! Lara was in Bolivia at this very moment so it certainly wasn't her. He heard breaking glass, also faint. Trouble.
Winston slipped the door open and peered out into the dark corridor beyond. Nothing. Which he could see anyway. He heard more glass shattering, plus the distinct sounds of something wooden being torn apart and thrown around. Also in the mix were the garbled voices from moments before, but still he couldn't tell what they were saying. Whoever the miscreants were, they weren't on a social visit.
Flipping a leaver on the Westley Richards, Winston broke open the gun's breech and slipped a live cartridge into each firing chamber. He was a member of the local clay pigeon shooting club, and even in the darkness his well-practiced hands never faltered in their task, having done it many times before. His buckshot shells would be no match for vests like his own, but they still packed a fair punch, and besides, he didn't exactly have anything else to hand. He checked the shotgun's twin triggers and silently snapped the breech closed, then took a deep, calming breath to ready himself.
Padding on his sheep's wool slippers, Winston worked his way up the corridor and leaned over the railing at the central stair well. Moonlight illuminated the sandstone walls, but it's feeble light was lost in the cloying blackness of the staircase below. The voices were still there, carried up in unseen waves.
The carpeted stairs added extra muffling to Winston's footsteps as he worked his way down to the first landing. Peering, he found it difficult to see amongst the shadows of the lower main hall. He saw no movement but….
There was a noise. Movement in a leather recliner.
Someone was there, sitting by the fireplace.
Voices echoed from the hallway to the right. Louder now. Discernable.
"The bitch hides her trinkets well! Too damn well!"
"Easy Gareth!" another voice said. Male. Deep. "Focus! We don't have long. That trick we pulled with the security system will trip out in seven, maybe ten minutes! Keep looking!"
"The mansion is huge!" The first voice again, male, Spanish accent. "It could be anywhere!"
"It's here! Lady Croft would hide it in here!" Said with venom. "Her treasure room; the pathetic bitch knows nothing of it's real value."
Jesus Christ! Thought Winston. The intruders had gotten into Lara's treasure room! Only one person on the planet had access to that room. Lara. Even he didn't know how Lara gained access. He knew where it was, but that was all. The items in that room were of incalculable value. Not to mention the Croft family Heirlooms that had always bought a tear to Lara's eyes. Her mother loved them.
Winston acted. He descended the last 30 steps to the ground floor stonework with purpose. The man by the fireplace was facing away from him, so Winston slipped past behind and made for the hallway leading to the treasure room entry. With growing unease he noted the treasure room door had not been forced. All wooden paneling remained as exquisitely finished as the day it was made. Yet the door stood open.
A line of golden light ran up the wall opposite the door. Winston paused to let his eyes adjust to the extra light. He eased the safety off the ornate shotgun and checked his spare shells moved easily in his cartridge belt. He was too damn old for capers like this he thought with a muffled laugh. He should be relaxing with a single malt whiskey right now. Not running into gunfights at 3am.
"Rodriguez! Is that you?" The deep voice suddenly boomed from the golden nimbus.
Christ! Not good.
"What? I'm enjoying the fire!" the voice of the man from the fireplace behind him called back. "Let's go! Before the old man hears us!"
"Then who on God's Earth is.." A head popped from behind the treasure room entrance and looked directly at Winston.
"Swords of Hell!" The deep voice roared. "He's here!"
Winston acted as fast as his 67 years allowed, and dropped to the floor as a .45 calibre bullet cracked through the night where his head had been moments before. He squeezed a trigger on the side-by-side and a tremendous boom rang out as he sent buckshot through the doorway into the treasure room. A yell of pain from within told him some of the shot had found a target.
Chaos ensued. Rodriguez reached around the corner from the main hallway and let fly with fully automatic fire that began ripping the wooden paneling to confetti. More .45 calibre shots cracked out from the treasure room. Winston gasped with pain as a slug hit his right calf muscle and blood began colouring his pale blue long johns.
He needed to move. He unloaded the 2nd barrel of the side-by-side in the direction of Rodriguez' rapid-fire hell. It fell silent, his clip spent, or his hands full of buckshot. Winston didn't care. He crouched up and hobbled to the end of the corridor as fast as his lame leg would allow, crimson spatterings following as he went.
"Jesus! Some type of cannon the old man's got!" Rodriguez yelled. "Damn near blew my hand off! We need to get rid of him! We're running out of time!"
"Muffai is hit!" Shrilled Gareth in a rage from the treasure room. "I'll kill that old man!"
"Keep looking for the pyramid!" Rodriguez yelled back. "I'll deal with the pain-in-the-ass butler!"
Winston hobbled. He'd reopened the Westley's breech and slipped two fresh cartridges in their places. The spent shells he dropped to the ground; the intruders knew where he was anyhow. His leg was on fire with pain, but he needed to keep moving if he had any chance of seeing the night through. The corridor opened out into Lara's swimming pool and gymnasium, Winston scanned the area for any possible cover.
The pools surface stood in eerie quiescence, reflecting perfectly the clouded moonlit sky above through the ornate vaulted glass roof. He made for a series of planter pots containing low hedge like shrubs along side the massive pool, and ducked behind them. Kneeling, he poked the shotgun's barrel through the greenery and took aim at the doorway though which he'd just come. This wasn't going to end well he thought as he steadied himself for what he knew must come.
"What's the old fossils name?" Rodriguez called out from the shadowed corridor.
"Something like Wesley, or Wilbur, geez I dunno!" Gareth cracked out from further away, stress dripping from his words. Things weren't going to plan.
Rodriguez chuckled with a gravelly laugh. "Wilbur huh? Wilbur the gun-toting butler." He raised his voice to make sure Winston Heard. " Any thoughts on how you're getting out of this alive Wilbur? Tell you what! You come nice and quietly now, and that little bitch Lara can live. I'll finish you quickly, you won't feel a thing!" He chuckled again. "What do you say?"
Sod off! Winston thought. I'll go to heaven when I'm good and ready! He firmed his grip on the shotgun and watched the doorway for any movement. If they wanted him dead, they could damn well come and get him.
Rodriguez had anticipated his precarious situation and took a running dive through the entrance to the gymnasium, fully expecting the old man's cannon to be aimed his way. Winston was no slouch with a shotgun however, and his clay-pigeon-trained trigger finger didn't miss a beat. Another deafening boom rang out at Rodriguez in mid flight, sending more steel pellets into his thigh and down into his lower leg, causing him to howl out in pain.
"You fucking Bitch!" he yelled out as he crashed to the ground wounded. "You're going to pay for that you butler–ass bastard!"
Winston saw him go down and noted his hits with satisfaction. He also saw the Uzi 9mm in Rodriguez' blooded hands, which wasn't good at all. Even as Rodriguez hit the ground howling like a Banshee, he let fly at Winston's planter box with another hailstorm of 9mm parabellum bullets. So called for the parabola shape of the slug they contained.
The first round from the Uzi caught the lip of the planter box shattering up a small swarm of pottery shards. Winston dipped his head with nanoseconds to spare as the next few rounds tore the shrubbery to splinters. With his cover blown he knew he needed to move quickly. He half crawled, half scrambled along the line of planter pots running up the side of the pool. Using the cover of Rodriguez remaining Uzi-fire to mask his movements. His right leg was still bleeding and leaving a trail of blood wherever he went though, giving away his movements. Winston however, could not afford the time to staunch the bleeding.
The Uzi clip ran dry and Rodriguez cursed. "You fucking dead old man? Or are you still alive like the pain-in-the-ass you are?"
Winston heard the empty 9mm clip slide out from the Uzi and hit the marble floor. No fool, he immediately cracked the Westley's breech again and replaced the spent shell with another from his ammo belt. This time though, he took one of 3 tri-ball tungsten composite cartridges he'd made up at the club for a rainy day. Damn Lara had given him the 0.6-inch pellets years ago; he never thought he'd be unloading them into some damned fool with an Uzi.
Rodriguez heard the side-by-side snap closed and laughed. "You'd be better off sticking to your broomsticks you old fucking relic!" He gingerly stood and realized a good 8 or 10 steel birdshot pellets had penetrated his leg "And you can forget that bird-gun of yours!"
Winston was halfway up the pool crouched between two planter boxes. He knew his options were limited. Rodriguez had superior firepower, plus a good 35-year advantage on him. What the devil could he do next? He heard Rodriguez take a few tentative steps testing out his newly lamed leg, silently cursing as he found its limits. Immediately across the gymnasium from him, some 10 meters away, was the doorway to Lara's garage. It offered his only escape, but Winston knew he couldn't take much more of this shootout. He looked up to the vaulted glass ceiling above the swimming pool, noting the brightly trilling stars in the night sky; his years-formed cunning hatched a plan.
Rodriguez gingerly stepped out and immediately noted Winston's blood trail leading between two planter boxes half way up the pool. "Give it up you old fool," he growled shuffling closer. "Your dumb luck's run out. Accept your fate and be done with it!"
Another resounding boom lashed out across the darkened gymnasium. Rodriguez hesitated, unsure of what the old man was shooting at. Clearly something else in the…..
He had no further time to think, as his world became falling glass. "Christ!" he roared as he realized where the old fossil's wayward shot had been aimed. The vaulted glass roof above him exploded into a shower of deadly glass shards and began raining around him like revenge-bent demons. He leapt away from the pool with all the speed he could muster, firing the Uzi in wild arcs. Salvation was almost at hand as he landed and rolled from the carnage, coming to a stop in a kneeling position. Believing he'd escaped the falling death, he laughed, but immediately felt odd. "What the …..?"
Rodriguez knew he was dead. He had seconds left of life in this world. A large jagged glass sword protruded from his chest, causing blood to run freely. He saw the old man half stumble, half run through a doorway directly across from his fucking planter boxes. Rodriguez' body was sluggish, but he dispensed the last few remaining rounds in the Uzi at the old man before he disappeared through the doorway. His vision began to fade and his mind fogged over in a cloud of death. With one last effort, Rodriguez yelled. "Gareth!"
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Gareth's head snapped up as a tremendous shattering racket bulldozed it's way into the treasure room. He said nothing, but glanced at Muffai who was now shirtless, having torn it into crude tourniquets to keep himself from dripping too much DNA evidence. Muffai was short at 5 foot, but was a burly barrel chested man with tree trunks for arms. He was Spanish, and ruthless. The birdshot had done no more than irritate him, having given him a series of angry pockmarks across his chest. He was fuming, Gareth knew. His darkened face betrayed his rage at having underestimated the old butler, whom he'd considered to be harmless. They'd checked him out of course, and found no history of violence at all. Just a typical English gentleman butler who should have posed no threat, plus he was an old man, their intel pegging his age at 67.
The crashing glass darkened his mood even more; their plan was to be in and out of the Croft mansion like wraiths in the night. Lara, hopefully taking months to discover the theft of the small pyramid they were seeking.
"Check that wall behind you for cavities," Muffai sighed; accepting their plans had gone to hell. "It must be in here."
Gareth dared not anger Muffai further and immediately swiveled around to face the sandstone wall behind him. He held a very sophisticated piece of technology in his hands. By emitting high frequency sound waves and measuring what returned to the device; it could detect the densities inside certain materials. Not a perfect science, but in the right hands the device could certainly be used to detect empty spaces within sandstone. Gareth adjusted the small receiving dish to face the wall and pulled the trigger on the device's pistol grip.
After a few moments data began to display on a small screen in glowing blue numbers. Each was a density reading. Gareth worked methodcically, aiming the device firstly along the bottom of the wall, then gradually working up it in rows.
As he pointed the device at an antique wooden bookshelf, Muffai tore it down without mercy, causing many Croft family antiques and heirlooms to crash violently to the floor, some shattering, others falling apart. This allowed the soundwaves from the device clear access to the wall and any secrets it may contain. Muffai had clearly abandoned the 'no mess' plan and was now bent on revenge and making Lara pay.
Gareth frowned and Muffai noticed the reaction instantly.
"Got something Gareth?" It was almost an order, rather than a question.
"Yes," Gareth replied looking intently at the readout on the small screen. "I read a sizeable cavity right about… There." He looked up and pointed directly to a spot at head height in center of the sandstone wall.
Muffai grinned devilishly. "Then we'll have ourselves a little look-see eh amigo?"
"The security system?" Gareth asked, "How much time have we got?"
Muffai nodded, and checked the luminous dial on his wristwatch. "Not long. Stand back, things are about to get noisy. You better go check what Rodriguez' problems are."
They'd both heard Rodriguez call out minutes before, after the chaos of the falling glass. But Muffai was single minded in his purpose, and cared little if his team never made it. The Pyramid mattered. Cortez mattered, a man who could wipe them both from existence without a soul being any the wiser. The most dangerous man Muffai knew, you did not toy with William Cortez.
Muffai worked quickly, knowing the anti-hacking subroutines in Lara's security system would soon exterminate the little program they'd inserted to take it offline. As Gareth exited the room, his own Uzi in hand, Muffai reached into a small duffel bag and took out a longish strand of C4 explosive. Assassin and explosives expert, Muffai himself was a dangerous man, and was no stranger to the putty like substance now in his hands.
Moulding the C4 along the mortar around a single sandstone block, Muffai soon had the C4 attached to the area Gareth had indicated. He attached a simple radio controlled detonator by sticking it directly into the plastic substance. Wasting no time he rushed out of the treasure room and into the adjacent hallway. With no care for the additional contents of the treasure room, he pushed a button on a small sender unit in his pocket.
A loud crack burst from the treasure room along with a billowing cloud of sandstone dust. Even in the predawn gloom, Muffai noted the dustcloud with satisfaction, smirking at the havoc he was causing. The bitch Lara wouldn't be happy about him wrecking her home, but he didn't care. He'd deal with the aristocratic bitch later, if he needed to.
"Jesus Christ!" Gareth. "Rodriguez is fucking dead!" His voice called out from the darkness, panic rising.
Muffai sighed. Damn amateurs he thought. Gareth was handy with security systems and technology, but useless when any blood appeared. "Look for the old man!" he yelled back. "Kill him if you find him!"
"Jesus…"
"Gareth! Focus! Look for the butler and shoot him!"
"Okay, Jesus…. Okay"
Muffai entered the treasure room and grinned with delight. Two large sandstone blocks had blown out of the wall revealing a cavity beyond. Clicking on a small LED tactical torch, he stepped up to the destruction and searched inside. His eyes widened with joy as he caught the distinct shape of a small, ornately carved stone pyramid. His revelations were short lived however, because at that moment the Croft Mansion security systems came alive and a loud alarm began shattering the still night.
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Michael Withmore sat reading the latest edition of Euro 4x4 in the Foxhound security HQ at Oxford. Suddenly an alarm sounded, making him jump in his seat. There were five different alarms his company used, each one denoting the type of security breach that had occurred with any one of their clients. The fifth alarm, he'd never heard in his entire seven years working nights in the Foxhound HQ, mainly because only 5 clients had that level of security protecting their premises. With a rising sense of urgency, Withmore realized the fifth alarm was the very one sounding now.
Throwing the magazine to the floor, Withmore tapped some keys on the console in front of him and sat shocked. The Croft Mansion was showing a large number of security breaches. With dread growing, he noticed a flashing icon in the corner of his display flagging a system compromise at the Mansion. He knew the Lady Croft was away, and that the only person out there was her elderly Butler.
"Shit!" he said to himself, his worry building.
Whithmore reached over and mashed down a communications button. "All units, all units, we have a code 5 at the Croft Mansion, multiple hits. Diagnostics report a high level hack on the system. No video feeds yet, system estimates first breach 40 minutes ago. Can anyone deal?"
For a few moments there was silence, it was a very big deal when one of their major clients had a break in of any kind. It hardly ever happened, as each major client had Foxhounds top of the line security system installs. But when it did happen, they had to respond like lightening.
A voice crackled out from the console. "Unit 16 with a copy. The Croft Manor? That's all we friggin need! That's one lady we can't afford to piss off! We're at the Oxford train station, can be at the manor in 15. Anyone closer?" It was Thompson and Maloney who were looking into some drunks with spray cans.
15 minutes! Thought Whithmore. Not close enough for a code 5! He mashed the communications button once more. "Roger that unit 16, haul ass as soon as you can. Can anyone else deal? Code 5 people!"
The console crackled again. "Unit 12 with a copy. Don't get your panties all in a bunch HQ! Dan and me are 5 minutes out along Springrow Lane! Those vanishing cattle remember? On route to the Croft Manor now, be in touch when we get there." George Benson and Stan Forde. Wiseguys the both of them, but veterans at Foxhound.
"Roger that Unit 12." Withmore replied. "Be on the lookout, high level hack could mean a pro job, you got your stunners charged?"
"Yeah yeah, we charged em. We're not new at this you know."
Each Foxhound security officer was equipped with a Raysun X-1 stun weapon, which could launch two stun probes designed to hook into clothing and deliver continuous high voltage shocks to an opponent's body. Powered by a built-in rechargeable Lithium-Ion battery, they were extremely effective at stopping thugs in their tracks. Some of the new guys though, had recently been forgetting to charge them enough when off duty.
"Got it Unit 12, happy hunting."
Exhaling deeply, Withmore sat back in his leather bound console operator's chair and stared at the flashing high-level hack icon displayed on his screen. George and Stan were two of the best guys they had, yet he couldn't shake the icy cloud of uneasiness that had rolled over him and refused to let go.
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Winston knew he'd gained precious minutes. The security systems had finally kicked in and he knew that at that very moment, things would be happening over at the Oxford Foxhound HQ. They were an damn good outfit, and Winston knew that if he could hold off the intruders for a little longer, he might just get out of this with his derriere intact. The problem was, he was in trouble.
Two bullets from Rodriguez' last desperate shots had found their mark. One had gone clean through his left side and the other through his upper right arm. He'd found some small towels in the corridor near the pool, and used them as crude bandages to stop as much of the blood flowing as possible. His whole body resonated pain, and each step was becoming harder and harder to manifest. Yet his iron will pushed him onward. Damn It but I could do with a scotch right now! He thought.
Shouts came from behind. Closer than they should be. The remaining intruders had picked up his bloody trail; an easy task considering the amount he was leaving behind.
Winston knew he had little time. He needed medical help quickly or else he'd bleed to death or fall unconscious from the pain. He finally reached Lara's garage and limped desperately along Lara's collection of automobiles. Lady Amelia's Rolls Royce Phantom II appeared in the gloom, but Winston straight refused the thought of bringing it to any harm. He looked at Lara's Hummer and field Jeep, but both were tricked to the hilt with technology Winston didn't have the foggiest about. He staggered on, past deep maroon 1932 V16 Madam X Cadillac sedan, and finally his eyes settled on Lord Richard Crofts 1966 red Aston Martin DB6. Now that was an automobile he understood.
Lord Richard had always left the keys in the ignition, not wanting to damn well bother with locking them away, and then have to bother with fossicking about for them in a safe someplace. Winston silently praised the late Richard Croft's lax security habits and limped to the driver's door of the classic sports car. He hesitated, this had belonged to Lara's father, and he'd previously dared not touch the car unless under Lara's instruction, or before that from Lord Richard himself.
He had no further time to ponder however as Muffai and Gareth burst into the far end of the garage and spotted him. Damn it to hell! He lifted the handle on the Aston's door and crumpled into the black leather bound drivers seat, chased all the way by the malevolent shouts of the thugs coming after him.
The keys glinted lightly in the strengthening light of dawn, still hanging in the ignition where Lord Richard had left them many years ago. Without further thought, Winston twisted them in the ignition barrel and hit the starter button on the Aston's jet-black dashboard. Immediately the twin overhead camshaft six-cylinder engine began turning over with undeniable spirit. Lara had clearly been looking after it.
Then engine caught and roared to life just as a fusillade of bullets strafed across the Aston's windscreen, starring the glass badly with each hit. Winston mashed the remote controls for the roller door but realized too late he didn't have the time to wait for it to open. The thugs would be on him in seconds, and he couldn't let that happen.
Winston stomped the clutch and jammed the gear leaver to first. Then screamed the tyres as he fed the triple-carburetor six everything it would take. The Aston bolted from standstill like a stallion possessed. Winston heard loud single gunshots from the Colt .45 amid the chaos, immediately followed by the shattering of the Aston's rear window. He kept the accelerator to the floor however, and braced for impact with the roller door.
Screams of the devil erupted from the tortured metal of the roller door as the red Aston slammed through the small space that had opened, contorting the thin sheet metal in directions it was never designed to go. The windscreen gained more cracks through its structure, spidering their way along like cancerous tendrils bent on obliteration. Winston jolted in the leather seat from the impact, but kept a steady hand on the classic's steering wheel as he erupted from the garage and into the ever-strengthening dawn light.
Bullets chased him down from the ruined roller door and pocked into the Aston's aluminium bodywork. Lord Richard, bless the man, wouldn't be at all pleased. And there'd be explaining to do when Lara got home. Muffai and Gareth were venting their frustration at his escape by unloading their clips through the dawn mist at his retreating rear end; furious an old man had outplayed them.
Winston worked through the Aston's gears with well-oiled precision as he sped along the blue-metal driveway leading around the front of the Croft mansion. Another duty he'd taken on in recent years was that of Lara's chauffeur. Not content with basic driving skills, he'd taken it upon himself to get better, and had enrolled in several advanced driving courses. He was no silver demon behind the wheel, but neither was he some sedate grandma either. He was progressing damn well, even if he did say so himself! Lara had no idea about it though; he'd never had the damn chance to tell her!
Suddenly, bright lights blinded his vision.
What the damn hell?
Through the spearing light Winston made out the shape of a black Mercedes-Benz E-Class W211, complete with a thug toting an automatic assault rifle.
"Damn hell!"Winston cursed to himself. This was all he needed.
Winston spun the Aston's wheel sending it into a sideways drift across the Croft Mansion's exquisitely manicured lawns. Crashing through a planter box filled with Lady Amelia's yellow roses, he shifted up a gear and mashed the accelerator into the bottom of the footwell, hailed all the way by the thug's 5.56mm M-16. A ragged linework of bullet holes spread across the side of the highly polished Aston, marking it forever.
Blood fouled his grip on the stubby gear leaver, making it slippery and a devil to control. He'd been hit again. Only God knew where. Correcting out of the drift, he looked into the rear-view mirror and saw Gareth and Muffai though the ragged glass running up to the Mercedes and wrench open it's doors. This wasn't about to be over anytime soon.
Winston knew his time in this world was growing rapidly shorter. Badly hit now, he needed medical help quickly, or else he'd be before St Peter at the gates of heaven. His vision began turning a deathly shade of blue as he again willed the Aston to top gear and tore down the Croft Mansion entryway towards the wrought iron gates that marked the entrance to the mansion grounds. He knew he needed to gain as much distance as possible from the scum behind him, as the V8 engined Mercedes would soon be breathing down his exhaust lines.
The gates to the Croft Estate were left open these days to accommodate the changing times, and the mail delivery service. The red Aston shot through like a sheening bullet and entered a hedgerow lined entrance road leading a mile down to Croft lane, and hopefully salvation. The headlights of the Mercedes glinted in the rear view mirror like the stinging eyes of death with him firmly in their sights. His right leg throbbed from the earlier hit, his lambswool slipper now slick with gathering blood. A gathering tide of pain was beginning to wash over him, threatening to take control.
Wiping more accumulating blood from the palm of his hand, Winston checked the safety on his antique shotgun, thrown onto the passenger seat in extreme haste. It was his only chance. The thugs would need to get close enough for him to use it however, a prospect he didn't enjoy.
Winston kept the Aston roaring along as fast as he dared, shaking his head intermittently to ward off permanent fogginess. A series of turns meant a necessary touch on the brakes and upshfting to keep the Aston on the straight and narrow. The 60's classic didn't complain however and took the rough handling in its stride. His sprint for freedom lasted only a few minutes uninterrupted. With a growing sense of inevitability, and deaths stare strengthening in the rear view mirror; over the full-throated roar of the Aston's triple carburetor six, Winston heard the cracking sounds of gunfire once again slam across the still dawn.
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Stan Forde sat behind the wheel of a Subaru Impreza WRX, which he kept under a tight reign as it flew along Croft Lane and towards the Croft estate. Slicing through the strengthening mist like a blade, he guided the vehicle over the undulating terrain with the skillful ease of a 20-year veteran. Stan was considered a legend at Foxhound. Having been with the Oxford Security firm since it began, he had the respect of every single person working under the Foxhound roof, along with a great portion of their client list, which was considerable. The fog outside had begun to trouble him, it severely reduced his ability to see anything significant in the distance ahead, and was making his task of navigating the narrow, hedge-lined laneway all the more difficult.
Sitting next to him in the passenger seat was George Benson, who, for reasons long since forgotten, everybody just called 'Dan'. The two men had been buddies since Dan had joined the firm almost 10 years ago, bringing them together for their fist assignment trailing a well-organized drug operation in the area.
Both sat in a jostled silence as Stan worked the turbocharged flat 4 engine heavily; something smelled bad about the situation at the Croft mansion and they'd needed to be there long before now. Dan had his six-inch-barreled Glock 20 out of its holster and encompassed in his granite grip, ready for any storm they might suddenly find themselves amid. The gun was a 10mm automatic and had a magazine capacity of 15 rounds, which proved very handy in a firefight. Dan had a nasty feeling he might need the weapon at any moment, and also peered into the fog ahead, trying to catch sight of anything at all that might prove trigger-happy.
Stan Forde spoke.
"Ok Dan this stinks." Stated plainly, no emotion. "If this is a pro job we'll be up against serious firepower. You remember that break-in Lara had 4 years back?" He glanced at his friend, brimming seriousness.
"Man, I remember that," Dan replied with a deep exhale. "Serious business; those guys were tricked up to the hilt, walking hell almost."
Stan gave a short laugh. "You said it partner, walking hell." He was instantly serious again, "If this gets out of hand we shoot to… Christ!"
Nothing further could escape Stan's lips. Trouble had found them.
Bolting from the enveloping embrace of the mist ahead was a red sports car; it wobbled precariously on the thin section of asphalted laneway, the driver clearly struggling to produce a straight line. The unmistakable muzzle flash of automatic weapons fire hounded it from behind attempting to send it to a bullet-ridden hell. The driver was either injured or attempting to avoid death. As the gap between them closed, a malevolent white smoke could be seen escaping from under the bonnet of the sports car, leaving cancerous jet trails as it forced exit from the engine bay and danced in the turbulent air behind the fleeing vehicle.
"Mother have mercy!" Dan exclaimed in low tones. "Who on God's Earth…"
Words ceased.
Stan jerked the Impreza's wheel and the all wheel driveline altered the vehicles course towards the right hand side of the lane with a lurch. Dan had the Impreza's window down in a flash and bought his Glock 20 to bear on the black wraith that pursued the sports car.
The windscreen of the sickened red stallion was badly damaged. Both men noted the older graying man at the wheel as it drew near, he jolted limply with each lurch that shook though the wounded beast; a clear sign he was in trouble. The door panels nearest them were severely pockmarked with ruinous bullet holes; it had clearly taken a monumental beating and wasn't going to hold out much longer.
"Winston!" Stan exclaimed in recognition. "And that is Lord Richard's Aston Martin! Dear God!"
Time slowed. The Aston flew beside them. Dan unloaded several shots into the pursuing black wraith's windscreen in front of the driver, then turned his attention to the thug hanging out the window pointing an automatic rifle at him, its muzzle flashing forth a withering tirade. The Impreza took several hits as Dan squeezed off additional rounds at the offending thug. Then, with lightening thought, he emptied his last three rounds into the rear tyre of what he now recognized was a black Mercedes E class.
Stan grimaced under the curse of pain, a crimson smear spreading over his left forearm, the result of a thug bullet. His steely resolve did not waver however and he threw the Impreza into a sideways slide to wash off its speed. The Mercedes, now past, had resumed peppering the Aston Martin, clearly intent on sending it and it's butler driver to the deepest, darkest, pits of hell.
The Impreza's speed dissipated quickly, though Stan could do nothing about the rapidly approaching hedgerow. He allowed the rear end of the vehicle to slide around 180 degrees and gunned the accelerator once again, violently jolting them both against their safety harnesses as opposing forces fought for supremacy. With a screeching crunch the Impreza solidly sideswiped the hedgerow, once again throwing them around like rag dolls, but also halting their remaining backward motion.
"Hell of a day at the office," Dan quipped as he slid another clip into his Glock 20.
"You don't say!" Stan replied with a wry smile. "I just may just ask for a raise after this day at the office!"
Stan slugged the accelerator once more and the Impreza bolted from the tangling clutches of the hedgerow, leaves flying as it vacated. The wraith-Mercedes was a half mile ahead by this time, though it was clearly now also having trouble holding a straight line, courtesy of a shredded rear right tyre. Roaring like a thoroughbred, the Impreza quickly gained speed under Stan's gifted control and savaged the distance between them and the one sided fight; it was time to even the odds a little and take some of the heat away from the badly battered Winston.
Their presence was instantly noted as they came up on the wildly veering Mercedes, a head appeared from the rear drivers side window brandishing what could only be a Colt .45 pistol.
"Incoming!" Stan said with force. "Colt 45! Give him hell partner!"
The Glock 20 came to life, cracking forth bolts of reckoning as Dan obliterated the rear windscreen of the thug vehicle ahead of them, causing it to veer even more wildly. The thug's Colt flashed in reply, badly starring the toughened glass windscreen of the Impreza and leaving neat round holes in the bonnet. Stan immediately began to swerve to avoid the death bent fire, making Dan's job all the more difficult, he was no amateur however and kept a well trained bead on the stinking viciousness in flight ahead.
Dan's clip ran dry, but Stan had managed to free his own Glock 20 and tapped his friend on the shoulder with it. Dan immediately took the replacement with a brief nod in reply and immediately resumed his assault. Arm out the passenger window, he kept his head behind the windscreen, which had been replaced with much thicker, toughened glass designed to aid in stopping bullets. With sustained assault however, the windscreen would soon shatter and both men knew this with clinical certainty.
Chips of black paint swarmed from the Mercedes' boot as two of Dan's shots missed their line. Correcting the error, Dan sent the remaining shots into the unprotected cabin space of the Mercedes, spraying the area with a liberal dose of 10mm justice. The result was deadly. The thug with the assault rifle turned, grimacing, and trained the deadly weapon on them and pulled the trigger.
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Winston's breaths now came in ragged gasps, his tortured body fighting to cling to life with every last ounce of will he possessed. The Smiths temperature gauge on the dashboard was jammed in the red; the thoroughbred engine spewed forth a terminal cloud of smoke, filling the cabin with a stinging acrid stench, and Winston's blood was everywhere. Yet still he fought, still he clung to life through a sheer force of determination and steely resolve. He knew Foxhound had found him, and were gamely giving chase; that hadn't stopped the demons behind from trying to replace his butt with lead however.
The Aston Martin began to struggle and lose power; some cylinders in the engine began to misfire causing a death-heralding jolt with each missed stroke. Winston knew the game Aston Martin had only minutes at best, less in all probability, before the engine seized leaving him at the mercy of his executioners. His fogged mind noted he was no longer being peppered by automatic gunfire, but still heard the deathly tirade spew forth from somewhere behind him. The Foxhound chaps must be copping it he thought grimly.
Fighting for consciousness, Winston shakily reached over and took up the Westley Richards shotgun from the passenger seat and rested it across his lap, barrel resting in the space where the door window should have been, long since shot to pieces. He noted a thinner section of hedgerow approaching though the mist, looking as if some type of dreaded disease had been working it's way through the otherwise healthy plant life. A plan formed, a last desperate attempt to avoid death; he knew it was a long shot but to damn hell with it all!
With a poorly timed, last minute wrench of the steering wheel, Winston threw the Aston Martin into another screeching slide that put him on a collision course with the disease ridden section of hedgerow. He braced himself as best he could for the impact he'd now made unavoidable.
Banshees wailed and the horizon jolted wildly, a shower of glass erupted as the mortally wounded windscreen could no longer withstand the barrage it was being asked to endure. Winston was mercilessly whip-lashed with bone crunching force as the Aston punched through the hedgerow with a screaming shower of shattered branches and other angry debris ripped from their tranquil existence of mere moments before. Pain exploded through the butler's body at the renewed onslaught, causing him to cry out in a painful misery that halted the angels of heaven in their tracks.
Blackness descended over his body as it began to shut down. Winston fought it, clinging to his last remaining spark of life, knowing he had yet more to do in order to survive. The Aston's engine was in no better shape than he was, missing badly now amid an overheated pall of steam, fire, and smoke.
"Hell," He croaked in spent astonishment.
Flames had appeared, dancing and laughing at him as they leapt and spread their dire way across the front of the Aston, still managing to cling to it's last vestiges of life, gamely attempting freedom for it's brave driver now running from the man with the scythe as well as the killer wraith behind.
Battered, and with life ebbing, the Aston jolted over the uneven field in a last desperate attempt to escape. The Mercedes had not yet appeared through the blowout in the hedgerow, signaling to Winston that his risky plan had worked, for the moment.
Through the flames and smoke he noted a small drainage ditch at the bottom of the lush green hillside no more than 300 meters away, partly filled with water, it offered his only salvation from being burned alive inside the now fiercely burning vehicle. The engine shook violently and Winston knew it was terminal; he shot the clutch down and allowed the Aston to roll under gravity as the heroic 6 cylinder could give no more. Too badly wounded to escape the charring flames, Winston tightly held his side-by-side shotgun and focused on the approaching ditch filled with water. He could do no more. His fate was now in the hands of God.
The Mercedes shot through the hedgerow like the devil incarnate, roaring like an angry beast at feeding time. Winston noted its reappearance through the cracked rear view mirror with a growing sense of frustration and inevitable defeat. He blinked to clear the acrid smoke and choking heat from his overstressed eyes, and saw a smallish dark blue car with high visibility yellow pinstripes also bolt through the breach in the hedgerow in hot pursuit. Foxhound.
Winston sat at the edge of life's precipice. Only with fading cognizance did he feel the Aston's violent lurch and sudden jarring stop as it went over the edge of the drainage ditch and splashed down into the cold grey water. More banshees wailed in a terrifying chorus as the chilling force engulfed the superheated engine and the battered stallion came to rest half submerged, dipping down 30 degrees into the water. Winston hardly felt the cold water rise to his waist, as if to now wash his life away.
Blackness came.
After a time, somewhere out of the pall of blackess, a triumphant voice crowed beside him, seeming somewhat distant.
"Well, well, well. Wilbur! You fucking bitch! You're a pain in the ass! You know that! You gotta die now Wilbur! Looks like you're already half way there anyhow." A chuckling laugh followed. "You've seen us see! Can identify us. Can't have that." The chilling words spoke with pointed intent.
With a last effort borne of pure willpower, Winston cracked open an eye to see the barrel of an automatic rifle inches from his head, and the smiling malevolent face of the third thug from the black Mercedes. His hands were bloodied, and he sported gunshot wounds of his own, yet his eyes shone with drug-induced clarity. The thug was spewing out additional garbage as Winston flexed his submerged hand around both triggers on his faithful Westley Richards, still resting hidden by debris across his lap and unnoticed by the fool thug.
"Have fun in Hell Wilbur!" the thug was saying, an evil grin splashed all over his face.
"It's Winston you little shit!" the butler croaked through tortured lungs. Then he pulled both triggers on the shotgun before blackness overcame him once more.
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Stan heard a terrifying boom echo across the countryside as he pulled up the Imprezza near the now vacated black Mercedes. An equally black helicopter now hovered some distance away with two human figures bolting for it across the cloddy green field. He opened his driver's door in a flash and bolted around Dan's side of the car, putting the vehicle between him and helicopter. Opening fire with his Glock 20, he hounded the two fleeing figures as they climbed up a ladder now dangling from the black machine, which he now recognized with icy dread as a Eurocopter Tiger attack helicopter.
Dan handed him another fully loaded clip from the passenger seat with an out of character shaking grip. Stan glanced at his friend momentarily, somewhat surprised by his sluggish behavior, and noticed for the first time the deathly shade of his complexion and blood spatters on the badly damaged windscreen in front of him.
He had no time to say or do anything. A high velocity gattling gun was opened up from the Eurocopter cutting the Impreza to shreds and causing Stan to dive for cover along side the vehicle. The gattling kept up its withering tirade as the Euorcopter powered up, rising into the air like an evil demon on wings of terror. As the demon came overhead the tirade stopped, the gunman no longer having a clear line of sight. Stan didn't move as it hovered momentarily, checking the scene, before angling off over the trees and away from the site of wrecked carnage.
The Eurocopter powered away, and Stan rolled from his position and wobbled up into a standing position. His leg had been hit by a flying piece of debris and blood seeped from the wound. With shooting pain he jerked the offending piece of metal from his thigh and threw it down with seething anger to the ground. Dan coughed with a gurgling sound from inside the swiss-cheese Impreza and Stan stiffened with dread at the death rattle escaping his friend's mouth. With one last penetrating gaze, he stared down the retreating form of the Eurocopter, now disappearing in the soft embrace of the mist, then hobbled to the side of his dying friend.
