The Hunter Becomes the Game

Ace was on point this time out, for no other reason than she had nothing in particular to contribute. There was no masquerade this time, nothing that needed to be detonated and no Japanese to be translated so she was really just a warm body and a good shot. That was fine by her. It also meant no one was depending on her too much.

Except King.

They had gained entry to the building through an old sewer tunnel. Thankfully it was not a new sewer tunnel: with their enhanced senses it had smelled bad enough and there was reason to believe it had been dry for months. Trudging through sewers which had seen recent use would have been downright foul.

Joker had complained, as was his wont. "Why can't we use the helicopter?"

Surprisingly, even Queen had known the answer to that one, "Because the army certainly wouldn't be conducting 'training operations' near a building where this government-deployed hit squad is."

The PRF evidently had some contacts in the government with access to some very sensitive information, as they had an exact time for the deployment of their targets. That time was 20:07. Mr. Garibaldi knew a surprising amount about the paramilitary organization known as Section One, much more than he had been willing to share in the prior day's briefing. It came out in little bits and pieces; things implied but left unsaid, certain answers to certain questions.

King had picked up on it, she was sure. His dark eyes appraised her after each question. Queen had been consumed by her own insipid thoughts, probably worried about her hair or something. Joker had cracked jokes, of course. But King had taken a great interest in the game of words she had played with Mr. Garibaldi. Doubtless Garibaldi himself had known what was going on, but he told her what she needed to know just the same.

From what she had learned, Section One was a paramilitary organization with little to no government oversight. They were not officially attached to any portion of the Ministry of Defense nor to the Parliament, but owed their loyalties – and their funding – to particular senators and deputies. They were professional, untraceable and blindly loyal. Strictly speaking, they were counter-terrorists, most often tasked with eradicating members of the PRF, but their job description was flexible. Why the PRF was interested in the elimination of particular soldiers instead of the wholesale slaughter of Section One had not been mentioned.

Section One was a somewhat irritating name. There was little information one could derive from a name like that. If their name had been something more useful, say, like Public Security Section Nine, one could presume that there were eight other sections attached to their department. Not that it made much difference in the long run, really, but information was a valuable thing, no matter how inconsequential it appeared at first glance. The more she understood about this Section One, the better. It was the sort of thing King understood, even if no one else on their team did. And now she certainly understood him better.

She seriously had thought she was going to die there, on the floor of the sparring room. She had been mostly numb at the time, with so much adrenaline coursing through her. It had not really hurt until after the fact.

She had always thought she had a lot in common with King. She had been very wrong. There was fire underneath his quiet demeanor. She was nothing like that. There were some similarities, but plenty of differences as well. It had made her both curious and wary and she often thought about him at strange times.

They had gained entrance by blowing apart a manhole cover. Why this gutted and abandoned factory had direct access to an old sewer was not immediately apparent, but it served their purposes just the same. The PRF had been forced to flee here to avoid the legitimate authorities. Little did they know the Section One men wanted to turn this place into their tomb.

It had been strange that they were being deployed in the middle of a firefight between their own people and the government's, but secrecy was their watchword. They could not exactly let everyone who supported Northern independence know that the PRF employed a paramilitary death squad composed of enhanced super-soldiers. The fewer who knew, the better. As long as none of them got in the way.

There had been a spate of gunfire to announce the arrival of Section One. Even in the basement they could hear the shouts and shots. King had set up his laptop, speaking quickly, "Ace, I'll need you here to intercept any hostiles who manage to get down this way. Queen and Joker will move to intercept and eliminate the first squad. I'll give you directions once you reach the ground floor. Report any inconsistencies you encounter with the building layout. I don't want any surprises."

Mr. Garibaldi had supplied them with an old set of blueprints for this building, but there was no guarantee that there had been no changes. Ace acknowledged her orders and moved out. They were set up in the room closest to the exit. They would leave the same way they had arrived: through the sewers. The PRF, on the other hand, didn't seem to be aware of the sewer connection so they had no people stationed in the basement.

There were two stairwells and two elevators that provided access to the upstairs. The basement was full of old equipment that had been left when this building was abandoned. It was all bulky machinery with big buttons and dirty lights; it looked like this stuff had been collecting dust since before Ace had been born. She probably would have had trouble figuring out what it was supposed to do when it was new. Now she figured that half of it barely worked and the other half did not work at all.

She moved quickly through the downstairs. This must have been some sort of storage area for records. Most of the rooms had filing cabinets. There was an office that looked like it last saw use when the machines were new, even to the extent that it had a coffee-maker that looked to be cutting-edge 1970s technology. The floors were an ugly, gray tile that may have been some other color were it not for the three decades of dust that coated them. The walls were still recognizable as having been white. The stairways and elevators were at different ends of the building, so it would be necessary for her to patrol back and forth between them. The elevators were old, cargo elevators, the type with black, metal gates in the front instead of doors. The stairs were metal and seemed to continue upwards after the landing on the ground floor. Light was provided by flickering, fluorescent bulbs that looked ready to expire.

Mr. Garibaldi had expected that Section One would have the initial advantage, surprising the Padania men. After that, the PRF survivors would scatter and hide and the Section One squads would split to hunt them down. The odds would still favor Section One, though, as they had superior training, weaponry and blueprints to the building.

Ace's thoughts went unexpectedly to Queen. The girl had showed up to visit her, but with no common ground, they had said little. Her artistic talents were very good and the fact that she had both drawn and written the little comic was surprising. Perhaps she did have some advantages, despite her flaws. She wondered how things were going for those two.

------------------------------------------------

"Here?" she whispered.

Joker nodded. Strapping her weapons in securely, she crawled on top of a desk and leapt up to catch hold of a rafter. With a bit of effort, she swung into place over the doorway. The big man collected some office crap and tossed it on the desk in haphazard fashion to cover the footprints she'd left in the dust.

From here she had a great view of the room they were in as well as a slice of factory floor below, visible through a window. This room was some sort of office, with old desks and chairs and bulletin boards. It even had a quaint, old, rotary phone, the kind you see in old movies.

Tara really wanted to swipe that and take it home, but carrying around an old phone was more trouble than it would be worth, especially when there were two squads of badass, military commandos running around that they needed to kill. They don't all need to die, just a few, she reminded herself. Just the important ones.

There was another doorway in the other wall and Joker had hid himself just around a corner not twenty feet away, in a little alcove with a very old watercooler. The dust was thick in here as in the rest of the building. Tara had sneezed a lot when they had first made their way here and Joker almost as much. She would hold her breath when her prey came near, if need be; an inopportune sneeze would kill her.

Minutes passed this way. Tara's legs were just starting to ache as she crouched above the door, but she could hold herself in a spot like this for hours if necessary. King's voice came softly over the radio, a single word: "Approaching." That meant the Section One squad was close. Tara focused on her breathing as she pulled a knife with one hand and a gun with the other. There would be five of them against her, a knife and the eight rounds in her gun. With the element of surprise and Joker for backup it should work out in their favor. But plans always sound better on paper.

She could hear them, now, the sound of combat boots on metal. Outside the office, the floor was a metal catwalk. The inside was carpeted, but with the same metal grating underneath. The first man came right through the door and slammed his back against the wall, signaling the others. Tara's breath would've caught if she hadn't been holding it. Her muscles were tensed; she was ready to spring the moment someone looked up, at her hiding spot.

None did. They were dressed in fatigues with gray blotches on them: urban camo. As expected, they were wearing tactical vests and riot helmets. Each of them carried an MP5 and a sidearm. The first four moved into the room, looking behind desks for PRF members. The last man walked in backwards, covering their rear.

This would be a problem. She had wanted to take them unawares. That last guy really needed to look forward for a minute so she could get the drop on him. Somewhere up ahead, from an alcove by a watercooler, came the distinct sounds of a hammer being drawn back and a revolver's cylinder spinning into place. As one, all of them pointed their eyes and guns at the alcove. The timing was so perfect that she could've kissed him. Not that I'd ever tell him that, she thought, gently letting herself down onto the floor. The fifth man in the squad must've felt the shifting of weight under his boots because he started to turn around. Tara was quicker. As she moved, all hell broke loose.

She ran at the soldier, aiming her blade at the back of his neck, just below his skull. Her momentum helped drive it home and as he died he tightened his finger on the trigger, spraying 9mm rounds into a nearby wall. As that happened, she brought up the SIG and emptied the clip into the nearest baddie. Her aim had never been good, though; the first shot ricocheted off his helmet, the next few buried themselves in his vest. She dropped the pistol and cowered behind her makeshift shield as Section One tore up the body of their erstwhile comrade with gunfire.

------------------------------------------------

As soon as he'd heard the shots, he came around the corner, both pistols at the ready. One man was already dead and Tara was using his corpse as a shield. The others were focused on her. Bad move, guys, he thought as the guns went off. Joker was nowhere near as good a shot as King, but he had two guns and one of them hit really hard. The first shot from the Smith & Wesson took the frontmost guy in the back, almost knocking him off his feet. Joker scored a shot on the helmet with his H&K that knocked the guy's head back. Another shot from the big gun caught his opponent in the chin and made a mess of what was in the helmet.

By now, Tara had flung her meat-shield at one of her assailants and charged the other one with a knife, making short work of him. Joker unloaded on the other guy closest to the front, the H&K punching holes in his chest while the first two shots from the revolver knocked him off his feet. The S&W's last round went through the window. The man on the ground lay dying, but not dead. Joker covered the distance to him, stomped on the hand holding the SMG and dropped to one knee, sliding his pistol up, under the man's helmet as he did so.

The face that looked back at him registered pain and confusion. Sorry, Sal. Nothing personal. Just business, is what he wanted to say. Instead, he pulled the trigger.

Joker stood as Tara pinned the last man to a desk. Evidently his gun had gotten tangled with the corpse she had thrown at him. He hadn't been able to bring it to bear in time and now her blade was at his throat. She pushed the gun's strap off his shoulder and it slid to the floor, falling on a dead man.

She stood there for a bit, just looking at him, then said softly, "He's got puppy-dog eyes."

Great. Wonderful time for her to start acting crazy, he said to himself. Joker brought the gun up, but she moved in between them.

"Run away, little puppy. Before the bad man hurts you." Joker lowered the gun, speechless. Without a word, the man ran off, not bothering to look back.

"What the hell was that all about?" he asked. She tossed a gun at him – the man's sidearm, he realized – but avoided his gaze.

"He wasn't a threat."

"So you told him to run away after grabbing his guns? What happens when the PRF guys – the ones who don't like his eyes – find him? He'll be just as dead then."

"We can't save everyone, Rauf," she said, still staring at the floor. Her gaze met his as she finished her sentence, "But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try. Let's go."

Joker shook his head and followed her. He tapped the radio and sent his acknowledgement of goal achieved, "Who's on first?"

King responded immediately, "Acknowledged. Head to the other side of the building." Joker copied, dumping hot brass from his revolver. Two down, one to go.

------------------------------------------------

A few minutes passed with nothing but stray gunshots to break the silence. Suddenly, the whirring noises of factory machinery filled the air upstairs. Joker and King discussed it briefly over the radio. Evidently the PRF had started the old, factory machines to provide background noise. Ace finished her rounds and passed by King's room. He glanced up, nodded to her, then focused his attention on his laptop again. She headed off towards the west stairwell, again, starting her patrol anew.

"Wait. Hold position there," came King's voice over the radio. She stopped where she was.

"What?" It was Joker. The command had probably been meant for him.

"The target has stopped moving."

"Well that's a good thing, right?"

"No. There's something wrong here."

"Your spider-sense tingling?" King ignored that last comment. Ace was not quite sure what had been said, but figured it had been a cultural reference with which she was unfamiliar. That happened often. She paused to listen.

"The target should be about a hundred feet straight ahead of you. The entire squad should be there, but they're standing close together. See if you and Queen can circle around and catch them between you, but be careful."

"Copy. We're on our toes."

Ace moved on, checking the elevator and the next set of stairs. Still no movement. That was a good thing. Sometimes, boring was best.

"Problem," Joker's voice was soft over the radio. "That squad is still all bunched up?" Ace paused and ducked behind a piece of machinery to listen to their conversation.

"Roger. They haven't moved at all. What's wrong?"

"They're on to us. It looks like they're waiting. I can only see one guy from where I am now, but he most definitely is not where you say he is."

"Agreed," Queen's voice was barely a whisper in her earpiece. "I can see one man from where I am now and there's another maybe seven or eight meters away from him and farther back."

"Acknowledged. Joker, look at a point at ten o'clock or thereabouts. Do you see another man there?" King asked.

There was a pause. "Yeah," he whispered. "I can see his boots."

"With all that noise, one of you may be able to get behind that squad, especially if they're waiting to ambush you. If Joker provides a distraction, Queen should be able to eliminate the target."

Both acknowledged. If this went as planned, they would be out of here in short order, another assignment completed, flawlessly. She walked towards the other side of the building, her attention split between the radio and her surroundings. Suddenly she stopped, eyes on the stairwell. The dust at the bottom of the stairs was scuffed, bearing the marks of recent passage.

Ace stopped and dropped into a crouch, scanning the area. No one was in evidence and she could hear nothing more than machine noises. Carefully, she pressed on, watching and listening for any sign of an enemy presence. She reached a junction and still had seen nothing she had not seen several times before.

Maybe some PRF men had come down the stairs, then turned around. If there were hostiles in the area, she would rather not pin them between her and King. Ace jogged back, hoping that it was a nothing serious. Of course, if it was serious, King could be in trouble, since his attention was focused elsewhere. She did not want to look the fool by raising a false alarm, but she ran like the wind, just in case.

There were three doors in the room where King was, plus the manhole that led to the sewers. She reached it and stepped inside through the east door. He was glued to the laptop, listening to his headset. She stepped forward, into the room, intent on crossing it to get to the door in the other wall to start searching the downstairs with him behind her.

As King looked over at her, she saw a man step into the west doorway. She ran to her teammate, spraying the opposite doorway with gunfire. She paused in front of King, as he grabbed for his SMG on the floor. Gunfire sounded from behind her and the bullets tore into the armor on her back. She wrapped her arms around King's head to shield him, hissing in pain as the spray of bullets traveled the length of her back and thudded into her unarmored thigh.

The sudden pain in her leg caused her to lose her balance and she dropped to one knee. As she did so, King stood, his gun spitting lead at their other assailant. She heard a body collapse behind her. Ace tried to steady her breathing as she knelt in the settling dust, her arms still around King. She glanced up at him. He spoke softly as he held the gun between both doors, trying to cover them both.

"Get up. We can't stay here." His gun went off again. She tried to rise, but collapsed with a yelp. She tried again, leaning her weight on her good leg, clinging to him for support. As she stood, he tapped his intercom and said, "Blue light special." That was his phrase for, 'Help!' They needed it now, but the radio was ominously silent.

The sound of something bouncing off the doorframe caught King's attention and he swung the gun to cover the doorway. Whatever it was bounced again on the floor, but by that time the gun was already out of his hand and King had grabbed her – one arm around her waist and the other under her wounded thighs – and picked her up. She caught sight of what it was before the flash of pain. She screamed as the word flashed through her mind. Grenade!

He darted backwards, carrying her, dropping to his knees behind a pile of old machinery in a corner. He circled his arms around her head, and – realizing what he was doing – she clamped her hands over his ears just as it went off.

The blast was violent enough to bludgeon them against the wall with their own impromptu shield. Her left arm had been smashed, her whole body hurt and she could hear nothing but the ringing in her ears.

What was worse, in his haste to escape the explosion, King had run to the wrong corner. The exit into the sewers was more than ten meters away, in the opposite corner of the room. There was too much open area between the two corners for them to cross safely.

King was bleeding from a gash on his forehead, but his eyes were as fierce as ever. He wiped the blood away and pulled his Colt from its holster. Ace unholstered her own pistol and offered it to him. Perhaps this is how it ends, instead, she thought, unafraid. The two of us with two guns and a battered piece of machinery for cover against our own comrades.

Ace felt useless in this circumstance, though. She could barely stand and she was not the best shot when unwounded. She briefly considered acting as a decoy, drawing fire from the PRF men, but figured it would not work as planned. King would try to stop her and there was no way to communicate her intent to him. She should have jumped on the grenade. Maybe then one of them might have made it out alive.

He was peering through the wreckage of their cover, trying to see their assailants. He probably could not hear either. The downside to sensitive hearing, she figured. If the PRF had another grenade, someone would need to step into the room to throw it, and King would not miss such an easy shot.

One or two of the PRF soldiers were cautiously poking through the room. King stood and shot. His first bullet took the one right between the eyes. The second man dove back through a doorway as King dropped behind cover. Bullets impacted the piece of machinery she hid behind, causing little vibrations that she could feel through her arm. Her ears still registered nothing but ringing.

King traded shots with the PRF for a few minutes. She watched as well as she could, trying to stay alert for any other grenades, since she would not be able to hear them, but none were forthcoming.

Minutes passed in a standoff. King dropped an empty magazine and reloaded. It was hard for him to effectively fight back since their opponents were able to take cover in multiple spots while he could only fire back from the corner. As soon as one man ducked back in a doorway, another popped out in a different spot. She counted off the rounds as he fired. Soon enough the gun was empty and he grabbed hers. She pulled out the spare magazine and set it on the floor in front of him. Their eyes met. She did not hear what he said, but could just make out the words, "Not today."

Another minute went by with no sign of the PRF. King fidgeted a bit. He wanted to shoot something. The waiting was broken by the sudden appearance of a man in one of the doorways. King aimed but held his fire; the man raised his gun to fire at something in the other room when Queen crashed into him with all the force of a tidal wave.

She shouldered him in the ribs, stepping past the gun as it went off. She grabbed his arm at the wrist and elbow and said something to him. He watched in horror as she bent his arm back. By the time he thought to grab her around the head with his left, she had aimed the muzzle of his gun at his head and pulled the trigger. She did not flinch from the splatter of gore as the dead man collapsed. Instead she moved into the room, leaving the corpse in her wake.

Her gun was out by the time King had finished standing, but she lowered it as soon as she recognized him. She spoke quickly such that the words were lost to Ace. King shook his head, pointed at his ear and spoke.

She spoke more slowly, exaggerating her words. Even Ace was able to figure out that she had said, "Where's Ace?"

Painfully she got to her feet, leaning heavily on the machinery for support. Queen said nothing, but the relief on her face was plain to see. One of the mysteries of being Queen, Ace thought to herself, is how quickly she can go from remorseless killer to dissolving into tears.

Joker joined them in short order. The three talked for a little, but Ace missed most of what was said. King turned to her and motioned that it was time to go. She began to hobble forward and Joker stepped close and lifted her off her feet. Any other time, she might have thought it shameful to be carried around like a sack of rice, but she was in no mood to complain now.

She deserved no better, though. Shame was the price of failure and she had failed in a most spectacular fashion. Even so, she had survived. She was unsure whether that was a good or bad thing. Of the two, living with shame was much harder.

No one saw her tears, slung over Joker's shoulder as she was. The pain in her thigh had subsided to a dull ache; if anyone were to ask, it was pain that had brought the tears. But she knew better.

Next: Blackjack