Episode 3: Common Ground

SGU-bashing time. This episode is a whole lot of nothing, human drama, racial slurs, and where the fuck did the Italian go? That was the original plan, anyway. When I went to write it, it turned out a lot differently.

The man was gasping for breath, pounding his bare feet against the wet pavement. He had to get away. Away from them- he shuddered. Sleeping with one of the many wives of a certain Islamic terrorist wasn't such a good idea, was it? But she was so damn seductive. And just plain hot. He was sure his Mafia connections could protect him, but he had to get away first.

Without warning, a black sedan suddenly came flying by. A Heckler and Koch MP-5 submachine gun can be fired in single, three shot burst, or full auto mode, and has a magazine capacity of thirty nine-millimeter rounds. In this case, each of the two men in the car had his gun on full auto and drained his entire clip.

Most of the rounds missed. Only five hit the man. One hit him in the left shoulder, one in the right hip, and one went through his right leg, smashing the fibula. Those were painful but did not kill the man. Another bullet went into his stomach, through the intestine, and out the back. It would have killed him without immediate treatment, but it was not the killing round. The last bullet went through the man's heart, which caused him to collapse in a pool of blood and die of blood loss and cardiac arrest in less than a minute.

An hour later a homeless drunk came by, wandering around in search of alcohol. Upon seeing the body, he decided in his mostly-sober state to call the police. He left no name or number, only the location of the body. The police and an ambulance were dispatched, since it must be attempted to revive a person until a doctor pronounces him dead. The police car arrived first. The officer performed CPR, but he knew it was pointless. The man was long dead. The ambulance arrived a mere minute later, where the paramedics loaded him in and made a token effort to revive the man with oxygen and a defibrillator. They also knew it was pointless.

Half an hour later, in hospital, a doctor pronounced him dead. By this time the police had identified the body as Lieutenant Mario Belliarno, Esercito Italiano, aged 35. The police officer sighed. He had quite a large family to contact, and he was Italian, which meant a lot of paperwork.

"Where the bloody hell has that Italian got to?!"
"Maybe he sleep with pretty woman, who turned out to be married to Islamic terrorist, who had him shot on street, perhaps." Boris smiled inwardly. It was nice to have connections. If only they had done it to the right guy.
Hans stepped into the room. "I found out about Italian member. He was shot yesterday. Apparently he slept with the wife of an Islamic terrorist, who had him shot."
"Oh, well that takes care of that. He was inconsequential anyway." Cunningham left, muttering something about Russian psychics, someone named Uri or Yuri, and Stalin.

Boris had many things to be angry about. Cunningham was an evil bastard, his connections couldn't shoot the right guy, and he just found out that Hans had been sleeping with his Irina. Russians are not known for a calm temper.

"Hans, you bastard, you facisti bastard!"
"What do you mean?"
"You sleep with Irina? Yob tvoyu maht!"
Hans had studied Russian briefly. In that time he had learned to find the bathroom, say that the mountain was blue at noon and the goat had three fingers, and swear. "Okay, I sleep with Irina. So what? Let's face it, she LIKED it!"
"We're married, you German son of dogs!"
"It's son of a bitch, dumbass-" he had learned both from an American he went to university with- "and you could NEVER provide the pleasure I gave her."
Boris Komarkov had enough. He slammed his fist into Hans' face, breaking his nose and sending blood flying. On his way down, Hans lashed out with his foot, connecting with Boris' left shin. Boris limped out of the room muttering something about Hitler.

Marie was disappointed. Hans hadn't showed up for his date. She sat alone in the French-styled (though it didn't seem very French to her) cafe. She sipped at her (disgustingly weak and burnt) coffee, and was about to leave when Boris came in. Not knowing of her prior arrangement with Hans, Boris decided to try his luck on her. Alley dwellers were so nice in this country. He had a small vial of something called "date rape", which was a totally free sample. The former KGB agent was sure it would suit his purposes.

Three hours later, Marie and Boris checked into a hotel room. Six hours after that, Marie woke up confused and disoriented. She had no idea why she was in a hotel room, handcuffed to the headboard, with a chair pulled up to the bed. She had no idea what happened last night, or for that matter the night before. She felt a burning pain on her left forearm and there was blood one the bed. Marie screamed then twisted, sending jolts of pain up her arm. She looked into the garbage can, where she saw a small vial, a pair of dirty latex gloves, and a bloody knife. On the desk was a sealed container of acid. She didn't know this, but Boris was thankful he didn't need to use it. Marie, after all, was a pretty woman after all. Marie just laid there, wondering why the cord was pulled out of the bedside lamp. She screamed again as the memories started coming back.

"So they found her in a hotel room, with a cut on her arm, a vial of date rape in the garbage can. Are you sure there is no evidence of rape?"
"None, and not much torture was necessary either. She's what we would call easily breakable."
Basil Cunningham and Boris Komarkov both laughed. They had found common ground. They also had no idea what the other was thinking, and they weren't about to tell each other either.

As you can see, this chapter/episode turned out way different than originally intended. Still fairly inconsequential, but more exciting than planned. I alternated writing styles, and the spy stuff comes from reading too much Tom Clancy. Next chapter- a threat and a new team member.