A Man of Focus

by KTWizard

Roanapur, the Den of Thieves. Home to the most violent and dangerous people on Earth. The mobs that deal in blood, the cops more filthy than sewage, assassins with a thirst for violence, and businessmen who saw only profit and gains. What better place for the devil to hide then amongst his own kind? [Cover Image by G0966]

10. Fountain Foes

"This ain't sitting right with me," a Cuban man spoke, leaning back in his chair. The man next to him ignored the comment, eyes glued to the screens in front of him. "A demonio shows up in Roanapur and we proceed on as if nada ha cambiado."

"Nada HA cambiado," the vigilant guard returned. His fingers danced over a keyboard in front of them, controlling one of the cameras surveying the western end of the building. "Doesn't matter if its contra viento y marea, we keep watch. Comprende?" The first Cuban sneered at his compatriot, even as his eyes turned back to the screen.

A series of screens showing the multitude of walls, hallways, doors, and most importantly, personal within and without the compound. No less than the optimal number of cameras, all controlled by a few well placed and easy to manage controls and keyboards. And all of them for the pair of Cuban Mercenaries to manipulate and monitor.

"I'm serious, amiigo," the Cuban guard continued, even as his eyes trailed another set of monitors. "Used to only have to worry about Caracortada and Hombre Sonriente, make sure they don't get to close to los bienes and their men stay cien metros away. Now? Now we have the demonio that murdered some of the best walking around the city."

His friend still didn't respond, eyes on the monitors. He flicked past a few, checking and ensuring that the gate hadn't moved and the guards present continued their patrols. No one was behind schedules or rotations yet. Still not blind spots left uncovered. All was according to standard procedures so far.

"Bad enough that the borrachos y putas are all ducking their tails, but now we have to look out for a Babayaga whose supposed to be más mortífero que un monstruo." He sighed at the words, fingers slamming down on the keyboard as they worked. "Makes you wish you were out there hunting for the big game, instead of perdiendo el tiempo dentro." His friend knew he just wanted to smoke.

Then again, so did he. But there was no smoking in the lone terminal station of the Cartel Compound. The smoke could make it harder to see the finer details on the monitors, affect the audio quality of the radio, and generally lower the reaction time in case something happened. As former soldiers, as well-paid mercenaries, that wasn't acceptable.

"It doesn't matter, hombre," the vigilant guard spoke, leaning back in his seat. No issues on the monitors and no shifts due for some time. Rotations were coming up in another minute. "The jefe says we watch, we watch. You wanna try your luck against Babayaga, be my guest. But then it'll be you whose más mortífero que un monstruo."

"I said nada about fighting the demeno." The guard shot back. "I said it's stupido nothing has changed. No more rotations, no more guns, nothing. Staying inside like this invites muerte. We must have more than this."

"This is enough," was his response. "The Babayaga is a deadly hombre, but only un hombre. An hombre that is not after us either. If we attempt to make ourselves more of a target, the jefe will te corté por tu estupidez." He got a snort before he got an answer.

"The jefe will do that if the Babayaga shows up at all. It'll be easier to say we were over prepared than not prepared enough. I'd home the Babayaga kills me 'fore I see the jefe after that kind of mistake. Or else estaré colgado antes del almuerzo." The vigilant guard nodded his head. There was no arguing that point.

If they were to lose the compound for any reason, it wouldn't be a quick death they'd be given. It'd be lucky for them to be killed at all, at least before every form of torture the Cartel knew was used on them. Best way to keep lips still was to show what happened to the loose ones, like women on the street after a bad bust by the cops.

"Sides, just cause the Babayaga is loose in this agújero de mierda does not mean a marica like you can-" KRRRZZZZTT Conversation stopped as the radio crackled to life. Both guards abandoned their conversation without comment. Whenever the radio came to life, their complete attention was needed. But two seconds of constant static and they already felt on edge.

"Holla." Both of the Cuban soldiers looked to one another as the question crackled through the radio station. Something was wrong, and they knew it.

"I thought the last soldados got here hace unas horas? Who the fuck is this?" The question came with a point at the radio box. He only got a shaking head an dismissive comment in return.

"Don't know," the soldier responded, eyeing the radio with as much caution as his fellow guard. "Maybe a late transit. Maybe some tanto sittin' on the call. Maybe some endeble lookin' to make a big name for himself. Can't say."

"I got veinte dólares it's a pick-pocket lookin' to show his valor." The guard returned, pointing at the rig again. "And the poor soldados that lost his rig is gonna be disparado al infierno." His friend diverted his eyes away from the radio rig long enough to give him the stink eye.

"Convenido, estúpido," the guard spoke back. "Be ready to pay up, or I'll be tellin' jefe you're the one who fucked up the radios. Entender?" The other guard only laughed back in response, even as his eyes focused on the radio.

KRRRZZZZTTT The radio continued to crackle as the pair waited for the radio to continue. They both knew what to do, having to transit the gates no less than five times a day. Protocol wasn't going to broken for morbid curiosity.

That meant watching the monitors as the radio continued to draw on, making sure the patrols were on duty, all the guards were still armed, and no one entered the fourth room of the second hall. There wasn't even a portrait out of place in the manor. If they weren't watching live feeds they helped set up, the guards could have mistaken the videos being played for loops, seeing as their fellow soldiers walked in such a controlled manner.

But their attention kept going back to the crackling radio, waiting for the response to come back. A missed key word, the wrong phrase, and they'd open up the flood gates for the poor fool who grabbed the radio to be gunned down. That, or take bets on the guard that would be given the rubber necklace for their stupidity.

"Holla," the voice came again, earning both Cuban men's attention. "Los pájaros están en Nueva York." And immediately after that, one of the guards cussed out, slapping at an empty cup on the table. It hit the far wall and fell to the ground uselessly. His friend only smirked.

"Más fácil veinte dólares," he jibbed at his friend, getting a rude dismissal and hand wave for the efforts. Playing was fun, but protocol had to be followed. Failure to do so would mean their punishment. The bet winning guard quickly depressing the radio's switch. "Holla! Qué tipo de pájaros son?"

He released the button, the radio crackling again on the other end of the line. The speaker, whoever they were, didn't have long to respond. They had three… two…

"Rojo azul y follada por todas partes." The guard almost slammed the radio down. No way was that a guess. "Am I clear to enter now?" The switch between English and Spanish was too jarring. The accent was there, but there wasn't even a slip of the tongue between his words.

"He got it right, but this is still demasiado jodidamente raro." There was no need to argue a point they both agreed on. Off time, different driver, no warnings, no heads up, the jefe would've told us something."

"The jefe got the codes worked out so he wouldn't have to tell us." The vigilant guard responded back to his fellow Cuban. "Un sistema que sigues o follas is what he told us. I'm not looking for a fucking from his tools." Not even the crazy would.

"And I'm not askin' ya to risk that." The guard responded back. "Just double check with the Americano. Ask a question that's believable, or else I'll arriesgar mi culo." That made the other guard roll his head. As long as it wasn't his ass on the line, it was hard to say not to a risk. Would've made for a good excuse to trade for someone better at the job. Depressing the radio button, the guard spoke back into the microphone.

"Care ta tell us why there's another transit, Americano?" The accent made it too easy to tell. "Got no word from the higher ups, and doin' this without orders is movimiento estúpido." The other guard chuckled at the words, the agreement between the two plain.

"I was paid to deliver three more men from the barracks by five hundred hours." The guard speaking into the radio clicked his tongue. A military man then, like them. American Military wasn't as stupid as the rest of their populace. Not an amateur at least. Just meant he was more suspicious. "Told that if I didn't make it to you fast enough, I'd be shot and left for dogs to eat."

"Sounds like the jefe," the other Cuban spoke up, leaning in with a low voice. "Always disparar primero y pensar Segundo." That was an unfortunate truth they couldn't get around. Dammit, it just made the America's story easier to believe!

"You thinkin' of lettin' the Americano in?" The guard asked. They looked at one another, waiting for the other to speak. "Somethin' feels off, but there's too much tener sentido. I ain't riskin' a sangriento asesinato." He didn't want to either. It'd be stupid to bait the made bull that was their jefe.

"And I'm not into being called a traidor before given a collar de goma." There wasn't a man in their entire platoon who would. Heck, all of the old army for that matter. "I say no now, and the Americano is legit, the jefe will say we were trying to sabotear el compuesto."

"Eso es una menitra!" He already knew that.

"No le importará al jefe." And that was the cold hard truth about their organization. What the boss said was law, and coing against that law was no different than putting your gun in your mouth. Just longer, more painful, and more damning for the devil.

"Mierda," the other guard cursed again. They could paint the walls with it in the blood of every stupido Americano and it wouldn't be strong enough a word.

They could turn him away, let the guards outside swiss-cheese the cab when it showed up. But if he was telling the truth, then they and the rest of the squad would be rubber banded and paraded into the streets for the Hotel, Triads, and even Italians to feather, tar, and fuck until they were corpses on the street.

And all that wasn't considering there was still a demon loose in the damn city. Fucking Roanapur.

"You think I should?" he asked his partner back. "Better be sure, cause fucking this up could mean the jefe asa nuestro culo." The fellow guard snarled at the idea. He could growl all he wanted, but it wouldn't change the truth of it. They were hired to keep watch and watch out for suspicious activity.

It figured that the one time something like a red flag came up, it was while the whole city was on lock down. That just meant that erring on caution now would be just as bad as fucking up in the first place. Either way, if they were wrong, they were dead.

"A la mierda, let the Americano in." His arms went up with the declaration. "If it's a trap, the bastardo will be slaughtered quickly. Save the place, the job, and nuestros culos." Couldn't argue with that logic. He depressed the radio button, contacting the American again.

"You still there, Americano?" His voice questioned, waiting through the following static for the American soldier to respond.

"I am." At least the bastard wasn't trying to butcher their language anymore with his greasy accent. Small blessings when they were walking through hell, the guard supposed. If they were in the clear, they'd just give the driver a ghost pepper to swallow later.

"We'll open the gates when you're down the road. Not a moment before. You'll get ten seconds ta drive in and not a soltero more. Don't a la mierda." He took his hand off the button, watching his fellow guard scowl. "Que? You said to let him in." He was the one on the hot iron seat.

"Si, doesn't mean I'm thrilled about it." Well that made sense at least. Snap decisions in their job were like games of Russian Roulette. Appropriate, given that it was a Russian monster on the loose in the city. "Just thinkin' of what I'm gonna do if this goes south."

"Don't worry, I'll save a bullet." He responded, getting a high finger from the other guard. He laughed it off, the best way to break the tension.

"Estupido," the guard spoke back, turning his eyes to the cameras. It made sense he was more vigilant now that there was a driver coming. "Just make sure that we check the car comin' in. Don't want sorpresas obvias."

"Si si si si," he drolled back, nodding his head. "Reminds me, too." Reminded him that he couldn't le the guards outside the gates be surprised by any new arrivals. Their guards shooting up a legit car would be the fastest way to get them all killed and hunted by the Cartel proper. Not a place he wanted to be.

"Front posts," he spoke into the radio, depressing a new button with eyes on the appropriate monitor. "A new transit vehicle is approaching. Be prepared for entry within uno."

"Dupdo," came the quick response. He watched one of the guards raise and lower a hand to his mic in the action. At least the cameras weren't on loops then. A hard trick to pull off, but with Spetnaz soldiers and American Hunters in the city, anything was possible.

A tense moment passed in the guard shack, one kept away by the low whine of the television monitors and occasional crackle of the radio. Other than this, nothing more was spoken between the pair. Far quieter than any other average day.

Roanapur was never a safe city, and only the fool came here looking for safety. But this was the first time in the life of their job as mercenaries that they felt truly, honesty, terrified of their choices. Too many ways it could go south, and they wouldn't have more than a breath's moment to react.

"Mierda. Americano's here." One of the guards spoke, pointing t the monitor. The vigilant one looked up, seeing the white sports car driving down the road. It was the right make and model, color too, but the picture didn't show the plate. "Everything looks bueno, can't tell till he gets here and the men come out."

The vigilant guard nodding, even as his hands played with the radio. His other hand reached for the gate button, depressing it as he spoke into the microphone.

"Be ready on target," he spoke to the front guardsman. "Be prepared for cualquier cosa." It was an impossible thing to be ready for, but better than that than nothing at all.

"Dupdo," the command came back, twice. Once from the front guards and twice from the guards within the gates. He and the other Cuban in the command room watched the gate to the compound crawl open, the white compact car waiting in front.

The gate was slow to open, but reached the end quickly enough. When it was, the car drove in, parking in the front of the compound without a turn, as was normal. Still to protocols, the car kept itself on while the gate behind it began to shut, waiting for the compound to be secured before anyone exited the vehicle. All was going to protocol so far.

"Verificar, any issues?" The other guard asked, hand on the radio now. "Any thing odd, wrong, malo?"

"Negativo," one of the guards spoke, even with his rifle raised slightly from its lax position. "Everything checks." And everything so far appeared to order.

"Maybe we're over thinking this," the guard admitted, leaning back as they waited for the gate to shut. Wouldn't be more than a few seconds. "Maybe the jefe is bein' careful for us." The vigilant looked for a response, even with eyes on the monitor. He could find none.

The driver's door to the car swung open, the guard opposite it kept his barrel aimed at the vehicle.

BANG!

And the guard dropped dead. A man dressed in black stood from the car, holding a pistol in one hand and a large riot shield in the other.

"MIERDA! ES él! Es el Babayaga!" The guard screamed, jumping back and letting his chair clatter to the floor. The vigilant guard didn't care to respond. He was too busy now.

"MIERDA! MIERDA FOLLAR TODO!" The vigilant guard yelled. His hands made quick work of the radio, eyes on the screens as gunfire began to rain across them. "All units! Breach at central gate! Secure Hub Room! Repeat: Sala de concentrador segura!"

He watched the screen as fire began to rain down on the man, on the Babayaga!

Rifled bullets slammed into the black shield of the man, holding cover by the now exposed edge of the courtyard. He had the shield up over his head, the rest of his body ducked behind the front door of the car as he moved it forward. Fuck! That was his plan!

The car was armored, so their fire was doing shit! The car was armored, out of park, and he was using it as a literal shield with the riot wall to get closer.

Close enough to get closer to their men!

BANG! BANG!

"Joder!" He yelled as he watched two of the guards fall like bags of coke from a druggy's hands. Even through the monitor he could see the holes through their heads, driven through till their brains and blood painted the front walls of the compound.

And the Babayaga never broke stride as he moved closer to the front door!

"Sections Dos y Tres, backup the main gate! Rapido!" They had to hurry! They HAD to.

BANG!

Because the Babayaga was dropping their men like they were first-day putas. A car, a shield, and some pistol he couldn't' name, and he was dropping the best mercenary members the Cartel had, al armed with vests, rifles, and enough training to kill any average Americano. But it was all doing shit to this man!

BANG! BANG!

A man that had killed six of their best guards in shorter time than it took him to shit, and all without missing a shot. Shots fired from behind a car door, riot shield, and enough automatic fire raining down on him to make the car look like swiss cheese.

If only they hadn't armored it! If only they had checked the car outside the gate! If only they hadn't dared to think the jefe would give them aid!

BANG!

Another shot fired and the last man within the compound walls was dead. That was horrible by any measure. But it wasn't lost yet. He wasn't into the building yet, and the front door was wired to their controls. There was no getting through it fast enough without alerting all of Roanapur and their backup.

The viligant guard nodded to himself, terrified as he was. John Wick, the Babayaga had done something horrible, but he wasn't getting anything from the Compound. Only a quicker death. A death that was sure to come as he saw the guard from the front gate open the personal entrance, running in low with rifles raised. They could get him!

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG

Or they would have, if John Wick hadn't turned his riot shield around at the noise of the gate. Now they fired onto sheets of steel, ceramic, and heat casted plastic. They didn't haven't the weapons to crack the shield.

BANG! BANG!

They didn't have the time either.

Like some kind of demon that the Chupacabra would be quelled at the sight at, the man had fallen down the shield and fired from the ground, twisting his gun and shooting up at an angle that no man should be able to accurately aim from, let alone so quickly.

And yet, the man had, and sent two bullets into the heads of the two men, killing everyone outside the Compound's walls. Everyone else was inside.

BANG!

"MIERDA DE JODER!" The vigilante guard jumped at the sound of gunfire in the Command Center. He had his pistol raised and aimed behind him in an instant.

He found only his fellow guard lying on the floor, pistol in his mouth and blood shot eyes staring at the ceiling. The only guard left in the room, scowled down at the man.

"Cobarde."

BANG!

He turned back to the screens, looking for which of the other guards was shot now. He couldn't see anyone who was.

Because the cameras outside the building now showed only static.

"Estoy jodido." And he wouldn't even enjoy it.

---

A difficult part was done, but it wasn't the only hard part, only the first.

John kept his focus on the sound of gunfire and boots, both signs that he was being spied on. They were the quickest indicators of where to fire. With the outer perimeter seemingly secured, they would be fastest signs on where he was breached. He focused on that, that and his next task.

He holstered the pistol, two shots left in the magazine. Enough for now. He needed his other hand free. Reaching back into the car, keeping eyes on the building ahead of him, he grabbed the package he had procured from Yolanda. She called it the 'long-term customer reward'. John knew it was a farewell gift. Aside from the M16A2 rifle on his back, Yolanda had gifted the package to him.

He was surprised she would give away Semtex so easily, but that was beyond his focus. He could use it, and he would use it.

Primarily, on breaching the central doorway.

He kept the riot shield up as he moved, moving quickly at that. The car wouldn't reach the door, several steps up a porch. It would be inefficient and risky to ram his way in. He would be sitting in a car with at least a dozen guns on him if he had. Here, he would be mobile, armed, and controlled. Fights from cars only worked when he was with a partner. Here he was not.

He couldn't focus on what he didn't have. Only on what he did. And what John had was 200g of Semtex and the remote trigger for it. He focused on that.

The door in front of him, cameras blind, he slid the length of the molded plastic between the knobs of the doors, the quickest and dirtiest way of securing the explosives. The guards inside wouldn't know what he was doing, but they would not bare themselves against the door. It didn't matter, an explosion was too quick, destructive, and disorienting. It was even worse when unprepared.

He was focused on that. They weren't.

John quickly moved back to the car, raising the riot shield again as he eyed the door through the car's tinted windows. There were no soldiers firing at him now, but they only needed one shot to take him down, lucky or not. He had to focus on cover, now and as he moved forward.

Moving forward, of course, meant no hesitation. His hand searched through the lapels of his jacket, grabbing at the trigger for the Semtex. It was held in his grip in a familiar fashion, having being taught how to prepare it, mold it, and take cover from it. Most importantly, however, and what he focused on now, was how to use it.

Click

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

The explosion ripped through the air just as John knew it would. Splinters of wood flew past him like bullets, several tearing into the tinted windows, cracking the thick paned glass no different than the fire from before. It spoke volumes that the Roanapur, the city beyond the compound walls, was filled with screaming and terror filled cries from the explosion. That made sense, but it wasn't worth his focus.

His was focused on himself and how, even prepared, John felt the shield he was holding jerk and give under the pressure of the explosion. Shifting it only a little from above his head, he felt the thick plated ceramic crack and begin to tear at the plastic lining. John dropped it with a thud to the ground. It wouldn't be worth anything now.

The M16 around his back was pulled over his shoulder, settling into his hands as one hand held the textured grip of the barrel's neck, the other shifting around the trigger. In his third stride, he lifted the gun up, releasing the neck of the gun to pull back the charging handle and preparing the first of many rounds into the chamber of the gun.

John walked up the shattered steps of the compound, ignoring the need to check the integrity of the building. It wasn't in his focus. He only noted how the Semtex had blown off the doors completely and enough of the supporting walls to leave a hole large enough for he car to effortlessly drive through. A part of his mind focused and noted the metal linings underneath, proof it was bunkered, but nothing more.

His focus wasn't on the building, it was on the men and goods inside of it. He took a step around the shattered wall.

BANG!BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!BANG!BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

He took a round to his chest for his sureness.

John pushed back to cover quickly, ignoring the pain of the bullet until he was behind cover, leaving the metal and bullets to tear through the air next to him and wall behind him. That wasn't important right now. He had to focus on his wound.

BANG!BANG! BANG! BANGBANG! BANG! BANG! BANG BANGBANGBANGBANG BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!BANG!BANG! BANG! BANGBANGBANG!BANG! BANG!

Touching it, wincing at it, it was superficial. The lining of his suit had taken most of the blow, enough to turn the would be deadly shot into an angry bruise later. A cracked rib at worse. He was alive though, anything else wasn't worth focus. He had to focus on how to enter as gunfire rained down on him.

The answer was the same was any other time he'd been forced to focus.

Ruin the focus of the enemy.

John moved quickly one of the many guard she had killed on his entry, having walked over him earlier. There was no need for weaponry before, but there was now. The Cartel commonly employed well-trained, and often ruthless mercenaries. Soldiers that enjoyed showing off their strength with appearance more than action.

BANG!BANG!BANG! BANG! BANGBANGBANG!BANG! BANG! BANG!BANG!BANG! BANG! BANGBANGBANG!BANG! BANG! BANG!BANG!BANG! BANG! BANGBANGBANG!BANG! BANG!

And grenades were an intimidating sight for anyone to behold. A guard would hardly ever use them, if they were doing their jobs properly, but John's focus wasn't on what would have been best for them. He focused on how to use what they had poorly judged to carry.

A hand grenade wouldn't clear the room, but it would give him a window to move. He focused on the sequence of events to make it effective. He had done it before. The pin flicked off the canister with his thumb, hand releasing the lever falling off a moment later.

Five. He walked back to the edge of the all.

BANG!BANG! BANG! BANGBANGBANG!BANG

Four. John made a show of lobbing the grenade through the enemy fire.

BANG! BANGBANGBANG!BANG BANGBANGBANG! BANGBANGBANG!

Three. They hadn't noticed yet.

Two. "Bajar! Bajar!" Now they had.

One. "It's a grenade!" Too late for them.

Zero. BOOOOOM!

Far less deafening than the Semtex, but that wasn't for John to focus on. It had the effect he desired. The ripping of the explosion made the wall he leaned against shake, the men in side shouting orders in broken English and fluent Spanish. All sounds that came from the other side of the wall.

But no bullets.

Minus Two. John entered the room before the first whiff of smoke cleared, M16 raised, and eyes on the soldiers ducking for cover. He noted their positions quickly, focusing on who was where. Eye down the black sights of the rifle, he counted them.

One on the west bank of the stairs. BANG! Two down a hallway extending in line with the main doorway. BANG! BANG! The area where the grenade had exploded was clear, any hostiles either in cover or dead, the latter was preferred. There were more shooters than four.

John swiveled to the opposite perpendicular the entrance, a hallway wrapping about the exterior of the building. He noted the necessity for such a design in safehouses, keeping nay occupied rooms from open windows, but that was beyond his focus.

He was focused on the recovering guard. BANG! Until he fell back with a jerk to his neck. John focused on the signs of enemies, many of them recovering in the central chamber behind him, enough to draw concern. He had no cover in a barren hallway. He had to keep moving down the halls. There was another camera up ahead. BANG! Now there wasn't.

His feet were swift and his mind sharp, focusing on the sound of approaching enemies, noting the closeness of the soldiers recovering behind him. They were running down the stairs, shouting likely orders to shoot on site.

"Morir Ca-!" BANG! John shot the moment another soldier rounded the corner. The rifled bullet tore through his head, ruining an otherwise young face. A novice to the group, likely, shouting before shooting. That was beyond John's focus.

He focused on cover, and he saw a door. It would be locked, doubtlessly. He had to remain focused on his time. There was precious little of it to spare.

BANG BANG BANG!

His bullets tore through the handle on the third shot, affirming his idea it was reinforced. His boot connected with the door the next moment, sending it swinging inward. His gun remained raised, checking for hostiles as he entered quickly. There were none. It was an empty room, a dummy. Common in bunkers. If it was something else, it didn't matter.

He had to focus on the hostiles.

"There he is! Disparale!" John turned to the voice, seeing more hostiles running down the corridor. They had their guns lowered as they took to cover. BANG BANG BANG! He didn't.

The room was a tomb if he entered it without preparation. He focused on that. He focused on how to turn it into a trap for those around him. He knew how, the same way he had when he helped Vigo take New York. IT began by taking the body of the young recruit he had killed.

The Cuban was heavy with ammunition and firearms, but John was focused and had to move. The boy left a bloody trail beneath him as his boots slid across the floor. He entered with an unceremonious flop. That was fine for John. The dead didn't feel, and he didn't focus on what wasn't important. What was important was the ammunition and tools the boy had.

A knife, large and serrated, kept in a vertical chest sheath. Three sets of fragmentation grenades, five second pins based upon their size. Rifle ammunition from a modified gun he didn't recognize, but likely would work for the M16. The 5.56mm ammo was very versatile. But that didn't matter right now, not why it was versatile. Only that he could use the spare clip.

John shut the door, letting the room fall into darkness. He pushed the body of the dead guard to its edge, heavy body and gear holding it shut. It wouldn't last past a single kick, but that was the point.

He could heard shouts from behind the door, more men coming, more cover being taken. Leaving now would mean death. They had to come first, and he had to make sure his trap was ready. When it went off, he had to focus on escaping the room. John lifted one of the spare grenades up to the body of the young guard, pushing it until it was wedged between the thick vest he wore and the damaged wall.

It was hardly meant to last, and that was the point. Any good motion would jostle the grenade free. He wouldn't be near it. The enemy hostiles would. Focusing on the plan reminded him of what it was called by Vigo later. The fish out of the barrel. It was a stupid name.

But that didn't matter. Click. Only the plan itself mattered.

The pin was pulled as John walked away, but the level was tight against its shell. A good kick and it would be free.

THUD

Like clockwork, the blow came to the door. It pushed the body of the guard forward, but not enough. Only enough for John to hear the men outside screaming, deciding whether to breach, run, or bomb. Their words didn't matter, and neither did their safety. Their indecisiveness was his benefit, but only if the level fell from the grenade.

THUD Chink

The door was forced open by the strike, and the grenade rolled out with it. Five

John watched from the back of the room, M16 raised and waiting for them to enter. They hadn't noticed yet. Four

A rifle peeked through the opening, looking for him before they breached. Common tactic when defending a base, looking for trapped hostiles. Three

But they were focusing on the wrong area, and that was why they wouldn't survive. Two

"Bajar! Bajar!" Now they had noticed. One.

Too late for them. Zero.

BOOOOOOOOMMMM!

John raised his shoulder as the explosion tore through the exterior of the room. What little was left of the door from the kicking and shooting was blown off of its hinges, shredded timber and metal whipping through the air. Debris hit him like leaves in a storm, slapping against this suit and bringing a grunt of pain from him when it hit his bullet wound. That wasn't important, so he ignored it.

He focused on the smoke and desecrated corpse at the front of the room, blood and gore painting the walls in a manner that only the battle hardened could ignore. There was no material worn by the dead soldier or any of the other guards to resist the immediate force of the fragmentation grenade or the frags that flew off of it. The proximity, the power, and their inability to focus made the scene.

A painted wall, floor, and ceiling of gore, intestines, teeth, and whatever else the Cubans were made of. John could ignore it, by focusing on the enemies that were alive.

He moved quickly to the now open wall, M16A2 raised and looking for the obvious lines of fire. The gornas of disorientation, coupled with the far of cries and orders. He didn't have long. He had to remain focused.

Focused on the first guard he saw outside the room, braced against the wall with his head in his hands. BANG! He fell to the floor wetly. John turned at an enraged scream, seeing another Cuban trying to lift his rifle with a single torn arm. BANG! The explosion of his head ruined the chance. There was another camera up ahead. BANG! Now there wasn't.

John whipped around, following the exterior wall away from the central chamber. He was focused on hostiles, so he immediately saw the foot peeking out from the bottom of the wall corner. An inexperience or poorly prepared soldier looking for an ambush.

BANG! The guard gave a scream as his foot was blown off. He fell, exposed and out of cover. BANG! His body jerked as the bullet flew through his head. The knife he was holding clattered to the floor.

John braced the wall, peeking around cover and looking for any other hostiles. None heard and none seen. He took the moment to recover, short as it was. Letting a near empty clip fall from his M16A2, unable to imagine a proper scenario he could afford to waste time. Slapping the extra clip into place, pulling back and releasing the charging handle and ensuring a bullet was primed in the chamber.

He looked out down the hallway again, double checking to ensure it was free.

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG It was not.

"Demono! Diablo!" Those insults he understood, even if they were the only high sign he needed. John snuck around the corner, rifle raised. BANG! The soldier died mid curse, falling over wetly. John saw the barrel of a gun come out of another door. He ducked back into cover before it could fire.

BANG! BANGBANGBANG! BANG! Burst shots, cover fire, enough to keep him pinned. It was obvious why, only requiring a bit of focus. The longer he remained pinned, the longer he refused to move, the more time the other soldiers would have to flank him. He couldn't afford that.

John pulled back his leg, letting gravity pull him to the floor. When he was close enough, he pushed, sliding out at ground level with the M16 aimed down the hall. He found the guard easily, adjusting to shoot him. BANG! John was faster.

He stood up as the guard fell down, preparing quickly to move. BANG BANG BANG! Instead, he grunted in pain.

The cursed man pushed himself back to cover, raising his arms around his head for protection and ignoring the pain that stabbed at his side. That wasn't important now, not until he was in cover. And once in cover, he lowered his arms and clenched his teeth. The ceramic weaving of his suit had taken the bullets again, but he could already feel that the thread had done all that it could.

He lifted and whipped his arm, letting the wave of the action flip his jacket. The bullets dislodged from the fabric and skittered across the ground, revealing the cracked and holed fabric beneath. Weak points that any stray shot could easily pass through. Simply, an opening he now had to focus on covering.

BANG BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG BANGBANGBANG

Covering like the covering fire. John focused on that, far more important than his wounds for now, superficial or not. He needed to ascertain where the guard had come from, the other shooter that he had missed. If it was a lack of focus that nearly cost him his life, then he would be dead before he reached the compound center.

His finger flicked the mode setting of the M16, turning it from semi-automatic to automatic. BANGBANGBANG! BANGBANGBANG! Trained fingers kept the gun into a bursting fire, firing around the corner without his eyes. It was a horrible way to shoot to kill, but an excellent way to distract and disrupt a hostile force.

John trained his head around the corner after the fire, spying a pair of guards behind an upturned table. A table that was lined with lead, showing its reinforcement. Preparation for an assault. Another guard was pulling back into the cover of a hallway. It answered John's question. But the guards were recovering.

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG BANGBANGBANG BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG BANGBANGBANG

John ducked back into cover, focusing on the reload of the rifle, ignoring the plaster, wood, and strips of metal that blew past him with the enemy fire. That wasn't important, not at this second. What was important were the placement of the enemy combatants. He had to focus on that.

Two down the hall, at minimum. Several approaching from the main entrance, cautionary but unknown in number. They were wary of him, a benefit and deficit. It made their approach slow, which gave him time, but it meant surprise would be difficult, making their numbers a greater advantage. He needed them to stop approaching, long enough for him to take down the guards suppressing his cover.

John grabbed another grenade from his jacket, the second from the youngest appearing guard he had killed. Click the pin flew off with an extension of his thumb, the lever soon with it. He tossed it over his shoulder, counting carefully.

Five. Counting as he saw the green pineapple green fragmentation grenade settle only a few yards from him.

Four. BANGBANBGBANG BANG BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG The suppressing fire was still present.

Three. He didn't have long until the other guards began to round the corner on him. He needed to act soon.

Two. BANG! BANG! BANG! He wasted bullets to warn the approaching soldiers against hurrying to him. They knew he was deadly, and they would slow. Them slowing meant he had time.

One. And it was time to move.

Move as he stepped out of cover. Move as he kept his rifle raised and aimed at the two heavily bunkered guards down the hallway.

Zero. BOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM! And ignoring the explosion that ripped behind him.

It was loud enough, sudden enough, and damning enough to shake the building, throwing off the barrage of bullets the guards had been laying down the hall. It was the precious window he needed, now exposed to them.

BANG! The first guard fell over without any effort. He hit the table he took as cover before flopping behind hit. The last tried to spin back to cover. BANG! A bullet slammed into his shoulder, blowing it out and forcing him to lean into the pain. BANG! John ended it with a bullet to the back of his head. And there was another camera up ahead. BANG! Now there wasn't.

He didn't focus on them now. Dead guards didn't matter, not until he needed more munitions. Not while he was being followed so closely. There was still shouting behind him. The grenade had slowed, but it hadn't stopped. There were more guards ahead, he knew there would be.

John knew he had to keep moving, but he couldn't afford to risk being ambushed from behind during a lapse in his focus, no matter how small. He had to focus on how to get rid of the guards behind him. He had to focus on how to make a trap.

With the last grenade from the dead guard, and a few extra from the fresh corpses, there was an idea to be had. Similar to before, but different. Not a breach, but a net. And he had the tools for it. He only needed to stay focused, and then he would have the time.

Click. The pin was pulled from his last grenade, just in time as he pulled back the arm of one of the soldiers he had killed. He shoved it into the underarm of the man, weaving into his vest. When it was in place, carefully, John turned the man back over, as if he were never touched. The grenade would remain in place, he knew that. It would hold until he was turned over to be checked, as any soldier in the field would do for an ally.

Mercenaries were soldiers, loyal to cash and each other. They would check their friend, John knew this, because he focused on it. Just as he focused on what he could take from the man. It came down to only another spare magazine. No grenades to be found or knives needed. It was all he needed.

He had to move.

He ignored the screaming that now permeated the reinforced walls of the compound. They were looking for him, only knowing so far as the direction he was moving in, from the gore he left behind and cameras that he had destroyed. If they were focused, they would know the path he was taking. He knew the path he was taking, and he had never set foot in the compound before.

The Cartel safehouse was built to guard their trade routes, and nothing else. It was why the external walls were hallways, and not rooms with views. It was why everything was et up to make the defense from the inside as viable as possible, reinforcing the walls, tables, and doors. It was that knowledge, focusing on it, that told John were to go.

Because the safehouse design meant that the spare stairway up would be located in the center of the building, a secondary set to the same kind he had found in the main entrance. And it would be from a higher location he would find the Command Center. It was why he was moving down the halls quickly, with a gun raised and ears open. There was another camera up ahead. BANG! Now there wasn't.

"Diablo! There's the diablo!" John heard a guard shout down a hallway he passed. He kept moving until he was behind cover. "Fire at-!" BANG! The order wasn't for him, but John complied nonetheless. The guard fell, revealing a trio of others ducking for cover. BANG! BANG! Two made it, the last screaming as his chest was shot before his head followed suit.

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG

John turned back to cover and checked his magazine as more bullets tore past him. They shot, and only shot, at him. It was all they could do. He focused on that, what they were allowed to do. They were allowed to shoot to kill, to maim, and likely to torture. But they were not allowed to risk ruining the supports of the compound itself.

Explosions, specifically those from fragmentation grenades, had the capabilities of ruining the supports and information within the facility. John had no such concerns, least before he reached the desired location. The Cartel mercenaries, however, likely had no such freedoms, not until orders were given.

BOOOOOOMM! The explosion went off without John grabbing a grenade. He didn't focus on that. He focused on what the explosion did.

It stopped the hostile fire, giving him a chance to push out of cover. BANG! BANG! To shoot the foot out from one guard before threading a bullet through his ears. The other guard wasn't exposed, but John was approaching faster than the mercenary could be prepared for, without focus that was. It gave the murderer time to grab for his knife. SHINK! And stab it around the corner and into the unprepared soldier around its edge.

John grabbed the handle of the gun from the gurgling guard, ignoring the blood that spilled from his throat. Close quarters mean using weapons like knives. It was easier to dodge gunfire when the barrel was in arms reach. He didn't focus on that. He focused on the explosion.

The trap he had set previously must have worked. He could not tell how many mercenaries, if any, were harmed or killed by the explosion. He could only be sure it would make their approach delayed by some degree. How much, he still could not be certain.

That wasn't important. He had to remain focused on moving forward to the stairs, to the command center. There, he would be able to access the data files and room. It was the plan he was focused on carrying out. It would work.

Only if his deal with the Lagoon Company held, and they were doing their part.

---

"Mother Fucker!" BANGBANG! Revy's pistols tore through the air in tandem. One slammed into the far wall, sending concrete and dust into the air. The other slammed into the armored torso of a Cartel mob guard, taking the sudden loss of breath as a heads up to retreat. "Pussy!" Revy made her opinion of the action obvious.

On an ordinary day, she would have charged the hall with her Cutlasses raised, ready to jump past the thin corner separating the dumb bastard between life and death. The guards were armed with assault rifles, automatic fire, leading to wide inaccuracy. It meant that she'd be able to put two in his head before he'd miss his third shot. At the moment though, that would've been a bad idea down three categories, each more piss off annoying than the next.

One, they weren't storming their way out of some bad deal. They were holding themselves up at the front of a fucking barracks. Holding off with a table flipped over, guarding the front door like cheap police tape, even if it was armored through like every other square freaking inch of the place.

Two, the Cartel barracks had, apparently, a hell of a lot more people inside than a head count of rooms showed off. Already ten bodies down and there were still voices yelling inside about having to get past her to get to the cars. That wasn't going to happen, meaning that there would be plenty of more bodies to put to the ground.

And third, most piss off annoying of all, her partner -

"I got grenades ready," Rock yelled behind her, just about lying on the ground and ducking behind the table with her. "I'll pass them to you when you need them."

-decided that the sidelines were just too comfortable for him this time.

"Just put 'em down and get back in the car, Rock!" She felt like a fucking American soccer mom right now, yelling at her spoiled brat of a kid wanting to do grown up things. Revy didn't let an inch of her snarl fade. "All I need is one dumb mother fucker threading a bullet and hitting you for this to go to complete shit!"

"I'll be okay! We've been through worse!" Every dumbass mother fucker on the planet said that right before they got made one with the dirt and lead that murdered them! BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG And wouldn't you know it? The world was trying to make sure it had a perfect fucking track record when it came to that!

Revy about slammed her back into the reinforced table that was their cover. The Buddha in the bay must have stolen a glance at them for the thing to be holding out as well as it had, even if she could literally see the indents of the bullets by now. That wasn't what bothered her though.

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG What bothered her was that she was watching the enemy fire try and tear through the table and nail Rock to a cross! As much of a shit head as he was right now, she was not going to lose him to some mook and a bastard's bad plan! Even if the bastard was the most badass bastard in the history of gunslingers!

"You haven't been through worse till you've been vented Rock!" She yelled back at him as bullets flew over head BANGBANG and she kept them honest with a barrage of her own. She was damn glad she got the extended magazines earlier, or else this would have been a colossal fuckup on all sides. "And if you do that, I'll follow you back into hell just so I can drop you on the devil's cock!"

At least the fucking bastard knew better than to laugh at her right now. BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG The bullets were probably helping. But the bastard wasn't running, so they weren't helping enough!

"You seriously gotta get outta here Rock!" Revy yelled again. BANG. Even as she fired a single shot over the back of her head. No use risking brain matter for every round. Stray was as good as s dead shot if it hit. "Cause with your shithole luck, you'll probably get yourself tied up and kidnapped again. You already hit your quota with the fucking Babayaga!"

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG. She reached over the table and let loose a barrage. Revy felt the wood groan underneath her, probably from how hard she was pushing her knee into it for support. That, or it was just nervous about her fucking it as hard as she was going to fuck the Cartel boys with her Cutlasses. Whole new meaning of hard as steel!

"I know!" He shouted back. BANGBANGBANGBANG Just in time for the Cartel bastards to grow their balls back. Revy cursed a storm as she pushed herself down, waiting for the lull in the fire to whip her head up.

BANG! She never got it. Not when another bullet tore through the air above her like lightning, stopping the barrage from down the hall. She groaned at what that meant.

"But we're okay, because Eda is backing us up." Rock sounded too damn pleased with himself. It was her fucking job as his gun to remind him why that was a bad idea, because if he didn't know where to shoot, then they were screwed like whores when the pirates landed.

"I'll never call a five-hundred-a-head payment an okay thing Rock!" Revy roared at him, even as bullets began to tear above them again. She couldn't risk the blonde bitch snagging another half kay from them!

BANGBANG Revy shot twice before her eyes were on the target. She saw the brown mother fucker dipping back into cover. BANG Too slow! His leg fell out underneath him, letting him sidle back like a floundering fish! BANGBANGBANGBANG! Revy licked bloody teeth as the man wailed at his destroyed leg. That fucker wasn't coming out anytime soon.

"It was necessary Revy!" Rock shouted next to her, even if he was staying safe behind cover. Least he wasn't screaming like the first time he'd been in a shoot-out. Small blessings in a damned city, the pirate supposed. "We'd be killed by now without her support!"

BANG! And like he gave the bitch a signal, another bullet tore through the air. Revy heard glass shatter some stories above them. SPLAT! She turned and saw the broken bloody corpse of what probably used to be some dickless Cuban running around. She clicked her tongue.

"I'd rather have Dutch on my back than the bitch dressed in black!" She was not letting up on this. "Least the boss knows how to take care of us without scamming cash from kills!"

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG

Automatic fire sprayed the air above them, making Revy nearly crack a tooth as she grit her jaw. Give her walnut and she'd love to turn it into paste. Maybe give Rock something to be afraid of when it came to her. Clearly threats and guns weren't doing the trick anymore!

"He's busy and you know that!" She fucking well did, and she was staring at the man who made him busy! "Benny is the best person we know when it comes to sabotaging cars, and Dutch isn't going to let anyone else watch his men except himself." She hated his logic, she really did.

BANGBANG! Enough to shoot a pair of shots from the Cutlasses above her head, keeping the assholes beyond the walls honest. They were pinned just inside their base, but they weren't fucked until she was pantless and Rock was neutered.

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG

Revy changed her mind. They were fucked. Fucked harder than kids sold to saps in the Big Apple.

"There is no fucking way this could possibly be any more fucked up of a situation!" She screamed as she twisted her arm, shooting at the corner some Joe-suck-and-blow was hiding behind. She couldn't hit shit so long as he was acting like a pansy! Didn't help that he had the gang around him like they were looking for a fucking. Fuckers didn't even realize they were going to be on the opposite end!

"Actually, it could probably we worse." Revy was tempted to shoot Rock just for the words. But that would mean wasting the ammo she was dedicated to venting the bastards' collective throats and chests with. She perished the thought, for a second, when she felt the ribbed contour of a grenade get pushed to her back.

Her thumb, trained with gunfights a plenty, flicked the safety of her Cutlass before letting it drop to swing from her finger. She reached back and palmed the grenade the Jap was pushing at her Click thumbing off the pin and letting the lever clatter to the floor beneath her. She still didn't stop shooting with her other Cutlass, not until it started clicking with blanks.

By the time that had happened, she had already lobbed the grenade down the hall, watching it roll around the corner. She grinned as she saw it fly back out from cover, probably with one of the guards having kicked it away from him.

BOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM! Revy held the table she was braced against as the explosion went off.

A quick glance showed her the blood and carnage that once upon a bloody time was a body painting the walls and ceiling, mixed like a smoothie with the vests and cargo pants of the Cartel guards. It would've made for a pretty sick painting.

BANG! BANGBANGBANG! BANGBANG! If there still wasn't gunfire.

"Fucking hell!" Revy yelled as she fell back into cover.

She scowled hard, switching back off the safety of her Cutlass, even as she ejected the empty mags and accepted the spares from Rock's steady hands. She slapped them into place as bullets tore into the reinforced table behind her. It wouldn't last much longer now. Just enough time to curse out her dumbass of a partner!

"No Rock!" She yelled at him, even as the Jap blinked at her more than the gunfire ripping over his head. "Unless I was fucking naked and literally strapped to a fucking foot long dildo, this situation could not be more fucked!" She yelled as she pushed herself up with her good leg.

BANGBANG! BANGBANG! She got one of them, even if the bastard fell back into cover with the shots. BANGBANG! The other avoided her, but even the fucking spics weren't dumbasses enough to shoot at her while she was shooting at them. They were drug dealers, not Nazis, several dozen degrees difference of stupidity there.

"C'mon father fucker!" Revy yelled out again, whipping her head till sweat flung from her long pony tail. "I got places to be and you've got a grave to shit in!" BANGBANGBANGBANG And maybe she'd go deaf in the process.

CHINGCHING But not before she missed the click of empty magazines. She ducked back into cover, twisting until her bare back was rubbing against the indents of the bullet holes. They had maybe another full auto round aimed at them before the table gave out. Not much time then.

"Rock, ammo." She spoke out, letting the empty mags hit the floor as they slid from her Cutlasses. She held up her guns, waiting. Nothing came. "Rock!" She shouted her partners name.

She looked over, seeing him twisting his head back and forth, even with a pair of her ammo cartridges in his hand. The fuck was wrong with him? In a fire fight, there was usually a good guess.

"What? You get hit?" Revy asked Rock, watching her partner as he kept the screwed expression on his face. "Crotch get fucked then? Bad hit of a drug? What is it?" Couldn't be the drugs. Rock was too much of a pussy to try anything stronger than a cigarette.

"I'm watching people get turned to cheese, dummies, and putty, but that image alone is going to stick with me more."

Revy turned her guns on him, wishing she had a spare bullet in the chamber. The released and exposed holes told her otherwise. Rock just looked at her like she was the crazy one. The dumb motherfucker was either stupidly lucky or honest to god blessed.

Considering his penchant for being kidnapped, definitely the latter.

"Rock, I'm going to tell you this once." BANGBANGBANGBANG Over automatic gunfire, too. Awesome, guess the bastards were back. Had to make this quick then. "If we live through this and you manage to piss me off anymore than what your Fucking F-Grade plan has done, then I'll see to it that you're the one who's livin' up to that image in front of Big Sis herself!"

She managed to get a bit of a choke out of him with that. Wasn't even from the gunsmoke. Revy let her mouth tick up in satisfaction at that.

BANG! Her eyes narrowed a moment later after the tell-tale sound of the Eda Bitch's sniper ripped through the air again. Great, she was going on five kay easy now, and that was out of pocket.

Rock's pocket, but still, he was her partner, which meant she wasn't keeping pace.

"Fuck around later," Revy finished. "Ammo now. I got shit eaters to neuter." If she hit the tiny balls these bastards had with her weapons, she'd demand a raise out of Dutch later.

Rock didn't miss the action she needed. He lifted and slammed a pair of magazines into her Cutlasses with practiced better be well practiced, considering the number of shoot outs they had gotten into Maybe not this bad, but hey, beggars weren't choosers.

Not until they were next to someone begging for more.

"You think the plan is working?" Revy just about screwed all her promises and shot Rock right there. Idiocy could only go so far into partnership before it was worthless. BANGBANGBANG She ducked her head, staring Rock in the face, as bullets tore above them. "I mean, I know Benny and Dutch are doing their part, but… do you think John can handle his?"

Oh, was that the fucker he was worried for? Revy would have laughed in his face if she wasn't getting ready to do the same to the Cartel boss deep in the barracks later on. She'd use her breath for something much more gratifying.

"Rock, we are being shot to the shithole of Davy Jones by a punch of Coke heads that think Spanish is the greatest fucking language in the world!" And they were fucking morons for thinking it! "If we're getting' shot at like this, I'd bet my ass to a pimp that John's goin' through something even fucking worse!"

BANGBANG! Revy got up and shot over the armored table as she yelled that. She grinned sharkily as another Cartel Mercenary fell. Best sight in the world right now. Rock kept himself small next to her, probably the only smart thing he'd done all day.

"Least he better be," Revy remarked as she got back behind the desk, waving her Cutlass to wherever the fuck the fake nun was camping out at. "Or else I'm gonna have to use you to get us another Marker."

Rock laughed like it was a joke. Her partner, the fucker, was sharp as Draganov bullets mid-flight, but sometimes the fucker just didn't know when to quit.

---

John was right about the stairs. He knew his focus would pay off for it. But that only meant he had to find the Command Room now. That was the most important find next.

Any bunker reinforced as this would not leave their most valuable room, filled with information, guns, or other forms of currency, to be easily unlockable. It would have a gate, a keypad, or a failsafe like a safe room. Finding it first would be worthless now. Any mercenary, focused to their task, would have shut it by now. But a Command Center, likely, would have the means to enter.

BANG! He shot out with the M16, ducking back into cover before the guard he had vented fell to the ground. Spanish curses filled the air, but he ignored them. BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG, the ripping sound of enemy fire made it easy. Neither were important right now. They were only obstacles. And obstacles meant nothing when he was focused on his task. And there was another camera up ahead. BANG! Now there wasn't.

John only had to count the bullets. BANGBANGBANG The number of guards firing at him. BANGBANGBANBANGBANG. And the separation between the flying steel. BANGBANGBANGB. That gave him the opening he needed.

He bent out of cover, M16 raised before either of the Cartel mercenaries could duck back into their corners. BANG! He put a bullet clean through one of their heads, making the other jump. It exposed a shoulder. BANG! John shot at it, making the man scream and fall over. John was already moving down the hall as he aimed for the head. CHINK! And made nothing.

Without a thought, his focus high, John ran at the fallen guard. The Cuban turned with his rifle swinging with a dead arm to shoot John. He was on him faster, serrated knife raised and plunging down in the same time his foot kicked away the barrel of the gun. SHINK! It cleaned through the man's neck, leaving only a line of blood across the floor and wall.

It was good, but he had to focus. His hand grabbed at the sapre ammo the man had, palming a grenade in the same time. He rapidly rearmed the M16, knowing he didn't have time to check for the magazine size before continuing. He could count on 32 bullets, but that would be it. Anymore would be a risk.

And there was another camera up ahead. BANG! Now there wasn't. That easily made twenty now. There would be many more near the Safe Room and Command Center.

John got to his feet with the rifle raised, letting the barrel follow his eyes, but seeing nothing worth shooting. He had to keep moving. Holding still in an enemy compound was death. He had learned that quickly in the work of assassins.

Quick as he moved, he still listened. And it was because he was listening he knew to stop. And it was because he was listening that he heard the enemy coming. Or, more appropriately, focusing on where the voices were coming from, were the enemy was waiting.

John heard the Hispanic whispering from down the hall, focusing on it for a moment. He needed to listen for the number of soldiers, the number of men he would kill. Instead, he heard something else interesting.

BSHHHHHHHH It was not a sound he expected to hear inside an enemy compound, a safehouse for that matter. John realized he may have been incorrect before, or the Cartel was now desperate enough to result to destructive measures.

He knew of no other reasons, even focusing on the issue, as to why they would be preparing an RPG for him.

There would be little chance to survive a blast, especially in enclosed halls. The shockwave, heat, or fragmentation could all kill him alone, the threading of his suit too worn. To many others, it would be a death sentence to even think of moving down the hall.

But John had no other choice. He had to move forward. He had to focus.

Focus on how there would be no auxiliary or covering fire next to the RPG, not without risking the other mercenaries in the tight halls. The blowback would kill them. The soldier would shoot as soon as he believed John was close enough, an action he needed to see john to be sure of, now that he had shot out all the cameras he had seen.

That meant doing something dangerous, but danger was what was necessary. He had to focus on efficiency, not safety. Safety was secondary to a completion of his task. He had to stay focused on that.

He flung the M16 over his shoulder, too slow to aim and fire in the cramped halls. Slower than a simple Takarov pistol, with the firepower necessary to shot through what he had to. Not armor, not flesh, but a thin layer of ceramic and polymers. That was all he needed, a lot of force in a small area.

John breathed once, twice, then turned the corner.

He took one look forward, the span of a blink of an eye. With his focus, it was enough to see the man nealed at the end of the hall, an RPG system over his shoulder. A back window was open to reduce the blowback, there were no visible soldiers beside him, but the missile-like weaponry was ready to fire.

BANG! John fired first.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMM! He ducked back into cover. Too slow to avoid spare shrapnel from tearing into his jacket and pants, the weaving doing little for the weighty steel. It did nothing for the vibration of air that and heat of the vacuum that ripped by him. It was far better than an explosion in his face.

The building shook with the explosion, leading John to raise the ends of his jacket in a hope to keep any more projectiles from doing him harm. It was unnecessary, as nothing more hit him. It was worthless to check on the corpses that were at the center of the explosion.

He was injured from fifty feet away and in specialized armor. They were dead. He had to move on.

He moved to the only other room on the floor, one of two, that he had not yet entered. The door was openg, perhaps blown open, and the camera that were once mounted externally ripped from the ceiling with char marks left behind. The explosion of the PRG did not spare them. There was nothing to protect them.

John kept the Takarov pistol raised as he pushed the door open, checking the adjacent wall before spinning through the room, clearing it as he had hundreds of other buildings through is career. It was became too clear through the quick sweep that this was the command center.

With dozens of monitors lining the walls, a pair of radio systems for close range and far distant EMF capabilities, and a slightly above average bolting system to the door. It was the area where the commands were given. But the door was blown open by friendly fire, initiated by John, and the only person capable of giving orders wasn't capable of it anymore.

John found a body, but not one that was a threat.

There was soldier on the ground, one he hadn't shot. He knew he hadn't, because he was focused on the wound. There was too much gunpowder around the hole for it to be his, too low caliber to have come from the M16A2. It made the implication obvious. Perhaps he was a coward, but John was not known to offer mercy to the cowardly.

They weren't worth his focus. The saferoom was. The saferoom, located in the only part of the compound he hadn't shot up yet. Unintentional, truthfully, but perhaps an well-devised, if poorly executed, plan on the Cartel's part. Attempt to lead him down the corridors snaking about the compound, all to wear him out or kill him before he reached the room.

It was clever, but it had failed. Now he knew where to go. And looking at the desk, focusing for the obvious, John knew how to get it in.

His hands ghosted over the keypads, controlling the now broken monitors and surveillance system. He moved over the radio comms, ignoring the static that filled the radio head now. He ignored the blood that coated them all. None of that was important, beyond his focus.

The only focus John had was the depressive switch located on the underside of the table. He pressed it, rewarded with nothing for now. He didn't expect anything, not yet.

Chi-CHINK! John hit the Charging handle of the M16 again, rewarded with the click of a round placing itself in the chamber. There may not be a need for it, not with the bodies he had filled the halls with an the distraction the Lagoon Company was placing at the Barracks.

That did not mean he had time to waste. He had to focus.

His boots clicked across the floor and splashed the already collecting pools of blood from the fallen guards. He had the magazines he needed, as well as the few fragmentations necessary. Even as he gathered them, he wasn't confident that he would need them.

There were no more guards shooting at him, no one else he could hear preparing for him. The command center was taken, dozens upon dozens of bodies lining the building within and without, and not to mention the distraction the Lagoon company had surely caused at their barracks now. That was to speak little of how he had cleared the totality of the compound by his measurements, the recon he had done making him confident there was little more of the building to see.

Unless there was a bunker beneath the already heavily armored building holding more solders and mercenaries, the bodies that lined the now bloody halls were likely all the resistance that he had had to worry about. The RPG was perhaps the biggest clue that he was safe, for now. Perhaps.

A last ditch effort with all other comrades dead, the only way to possibly stop him, slim as it was, but one that would only risk the lives of comrades if fired too early. The last ditch effort, as it were.

And it had failed. His focus told him they were all dead, and he was still alive.

And standing in front of the heavily armored door, propped open no doubt by the button he had depressed in the command room, John knew that there were no other guards left.

None except for the one terrified soldier waiting inside for him.

Perhaps it was dumb luck on the part of the soldier, perhaps it was misfortune on his own, but whichever the reason, an unfortunate set of circumstance made the man's position precarious. Being inside the room with the information, the system and documents mean to be traded for his escape, John could not risk an explosion or fire-fight. Either would risk ruining the goods.

So, once more, perhaps for the last time in Roanapur, he had to keep his focus, keep it high, and take out a man waiting for him before he even knew he was there. John raised his foot up to the door's height.

BANG! BANG! He shot forward in the same motion he kicked the door forward. A soldier fell backwards before the door hit the inner wall, or John set his foot down.

And when it did, it let him survey the room proper. No other guards were present, not even bodies on the ground. A room that was an office, or disguised to be that way, but was in the middle of being raided when he entered. Perhaps they were making room to destroy it or move, but deciding against it with the PRG instead. Just as likely were the realizing there was no exit they could guarantee safety, not with the car out front, a car he had wired to explode. None of that mattered. It was all guessing where guesses didn't matter.

The only thing that mattered was what was in front of him. And that was some, at least just some, of the information for the Cartel. Maps, logs, receipts, remarks, all of it. All in a language he only knew words for, but nearly all there. And so much more around him.

Perfect.

Absolutely perfect. Almost so perfect. It wasn't quite there yet. He still needed to do two things. And they could be done in tandem.

He lifted the phone to his ear for the first, flipping it as he hit the memorized numbers, eyes downward. He began to look for the safe so he could do the second. For a room in a bunker and safehouse such as this would have a safe. The kind he was not sure, but surely a safe, even if it was with just a key.

The phone hummed in John's ear as he found the safe across the room, behind a set of bookcases pushed off the wall. Perhaps it was the last act of the mercenary to secure some form of blackmail to ensure his own life from the Cartel, should he have escaped. Maybe it was meant to be a bargain with John, it didn't matter which. Panic it was then. The guard's final detriment to John's latest rare benefit.

He began to pick up sheets of the papers and documents, placing them in the two-by-two safe. It was quick and easy, easier than he expected, but still a race against time.

"Speak." The voice in his ear told him time was short. "Speak now or be hunted."

"Let me speak to Balalaika," John answered simply, unwavering. Whomever he was speaking to, Boris perhaps, didn't matter. They would recognize him. And the quick flurry of motion and movement on the other end of the call was proof of it. They were exchanging the phone as he was moving documents. No need to wait for one over the other.

The longer he waited, the more likely he was to be compromised by someone else, greedy or curious, in Roanapur.

"John? Is that you?" Balalaika's sickly sweet voice rolled over the phone. Muffled with static, he could hear the jeer in her voice. "It isn't like you to call while you work. And we both know how busy you have been, hunting my men and disrupting my town." Poor jeers at that. She was no Viggo, no old friend turned enemy. Just a client for a time and a hunter now.

"I know you're looking for me," John focused on what to say to make the conversation fast. He didn't want to speak to her long. He couldn't afford it. "I know you're always looking for a challenge."

"Very sure of yourself, aren't you John?" She continued to pressure him. John continued to move papers. "I will admit you are more unique amongst the killers and sycophants I've had to kill over the years. I'm not sure if you qualify for a challenge." He wasn't a killer from Roanapur. He wouldn't fall for baits to his pride. He had none to be insulted for.

"I've taken the Cartel Safehouse." She didn't respond on the other end. Evidence enough she was listening. "All their men are dead. Their information storage is secure. There is many ten minutes before another gang risks coming out to search the place."

For with Roanapur in a lockdown, in a hunt for him, the Triads, Italians, and even the Hotel would be wary about marching towards a rival's grounds. Wars had been started for less threatening misunderstandings. John, however, was explaining the lack of risk to Balalaika.

His timer had already started.

"The information here appears to be a backlog and physical storage location for their drug routes and trade, including the main traffickers, routes, and supplies." He was sure on only two of those, but Balalaika knew more than he regarding which ones. "You are now the only person who knows of their location and availability."

"And you are telling me all of this… why now?" She was interested. Anyone who knew her could tell. She would have laughed or casually threatened life otherwise. "I believe I have enough work for me as it is, with the Japanese Yakuza being slowly molded into a Russian rug at the moment. What would I need Cartel drug routes for?"

"Money, supplies, bodies, or a challenge." John supplied each one easily. He knew she would be interested in any of them. The silence on the other end of the line was telling, and long.

Long enough for John to shut the safe, rolling the pins and letting him realign them to a new code. There was only one set of numbers he cared to use, and set the locks with hardly a thought. He didn't need to focus on their importance, only their familiarity. It produced fewer errors.

The metal box snapped in the same time Balalaika began speaking again.

"You are well-informed, John," Balalaika spoke through the transceiver. He wasn't focused on her voice. Only her words. He ignored the sound of breaking glass. "Am I to take this as a peace-offering? A kind of atonement on your part? From what I have heard, you seem to be keen on following those misguided paths." He ignored it.

He pushed over one of the many men he had killed, a man slumped against a far wall. His head slumped sideways with his body, handgun falling to the ground uselessly. The gun wasn't what interested him. It was what the man was also holding that did.

"No, more likely, you are doing this to keep me from finding you." The woman continued to guess on the phone, even as he kept his silence. "A well-intentioned, and honestly rather flattering, gift to me and the Hotel. Aren't you aware that for most stays it's the guest who's supposed to be treated?" That was a slang he had not heard in some time.

'Replacing the mints and gum with bullets and lead.' It was how Vigo had described Hotel Moscow to him during his first trip to Roanapur nearly decades ago now. He hadn't focused on it, as he was never intended to be their guest, and they were no place to stay at.

Then again, none of that mattered. He had to focus on the exchange. If he failed this, then it was all for nothing. Reaching down towards the man, he grabbed the set of keys from him, held tightly in his palm.

It didn't matter how they got there. John recognized the floatation device attached to the ring.

"I called only to let you know first what happened here." John kept his voice neutral, eyeing the keys in his hand. Definitely boat keys, but difficult to tell to what craft. He'd have to hurry to the docks and try out the necessary ships. "Mr. Chang will find out soon enough as well. You only have the head start in taking up the operation."

John pocketed the keys, looking around the room once more. A few extra bills were nice, but given their lack of international use, would only be minimally worth carrying. It would have been nice if they had gold or silver. Those were easy to trade.

"In the back room of the central office is a safe containing all their routes and product details." John noted the facts easily. This really was very similar to operations he had done for the Russians hundreds of times before, decades ago now. "I reset the lock to combination 12-10-08. You can get all the details before anyone else even knows they are here."

Silence came from the phone. That was good. It gave him a chance to look for any extra ammunition or short supplies he might need. A new suit would be nice, but he doubted any of them would be worth taking. Yolanda had saved him a nice suit.

"I have to admit, it's awfully hard to turn down or even ignore such a tempting offer," the woman admitted. All she needed to do was agree. He didn't care how. It was beyond his focus on that. "But that combination… I'm not familiar with it. Does it hold significance to you? Is it, perhaps, the anniversary of the day you left us?"

"It's Helen's birthday," John returned easily. The soon she got her answers, the more likely she was to agree. He didn't have time to waste, not until Balalaika agreed to the plan.

The silence that returned meant something, but he didn't care to think on what. If anything else, it only meant that she was thinking. And the more a woman like Balalaika thought about something, the sweeter the deal it made. Russians always though the same.

"I am sorry about her, John," her voice came through again.

He didn't care what she thought. Balalaika had nothing to do with Helen.

"Were this only a few weeks earlier, I would loved to have sat down and spoken to you about her over tea. I'm sure there would have been much to talk about." No, there really wouldn't have been. John pushed open a closet door as the Russian kept talking, shoving a body out of the way as he did so. He found himself faced with several choice firearms, unorganized and more thrown into the compartment like coats at a dinner party. Nothing of value then.

"But you do know that this gamble of yours won't last forever," she sounded off again. "True, and I'll give you credit, this chance to seize a bit more of Roanapur is unbelievably tantalizing, and a chance to perhaps spark a bit of a gang war with the Cubans across the seas." Rock was right then.

That was good. It was good to know that the man he had spoken to had good intel. It would have made this all an otherwise worthless risk. But in truth, it remained just that until Balalaika agreed.

"But who's to say that I don't take advantage of this new… distraction," her voice continued to muse through the phone. It didn't matter what else she said. John was just waiting for the right words. "Mr. Chang will doubtlessly want to capitalize on this as well. Make more ground for the Triads. It would give me less competition in hunting you down."

John hear a rustling from outside the door. He raised his gun, aiming at the open section of the door. His knees were already bent, ready to roll if necessary. The rustling was getting louder, and lower.

"You did kill several of my men, good men. Soldiers that I trusted and who trusted me. I can hardly be said your actions were anything less than surprising to everyone here, and throughout Roanapur. You could say your little act reminded us all just how dangerous the Babayaga really is." Her words didn't matter.

The noise outside the door mattered. A rustling sound that John was starting to recognize. The sound of a jacket being pulled and pushed across the floor, the same sound made when you were dragging or searching a body violently. Something was still alive. His gun poked open the door to see.

"But the difference between us, John, is what we value." John wasn't listening. He was staring at the source of the noise, barrel aimed between the eyes of the beast.

A dog, growling up at him.

"I would not forsake my men by losing a hunt for you. Just as you would not forsake the few left in this world you care about. Such as your precious dog-"

BANG Yip!

John watched the beast fall to the side, blood pooling out of its skull and mixing with the man he was searching. Maybe his master, looking for a treat. Maybe a mutt that had wandered in. He couldn't be sure, it was beyond his focus. The dog was dead anyways.

He still needed Balalaika to finish. Perhaps she needed a reminder.

"All that the Cartel has in its base is yours. If you do not take advantage of it now, someone else will," he spoke again, eyes looking down the hallways, bloody and full from the path he had cut. "I'll be gone by the time your men arrive."

He searched his pocket again, confirming the keys he had found. One of them would work, hopefully. If not, now would be the optimal time to stowaway. Do so now while the Hotel and Triads were picking up what was left of the Cartel.

"… Best you do John. I won't stop my men if they see you."

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

"Take care of yourself. I'll be coming for you when I'm done absorbing what little the Cartel has. Don't count on it taking me too long." And in truth, John wouldn't. He had been focused enough on Balalaika in the past to know her aptitude for taking on new challenges. This was just one more for her to handle.

Be that as it may, it was all that he needed to get away and find somewhere new to hide. It was all he needed.

"Be seeing you, John."

Click The dial tone echoed through the phone, empty as the threat.

"Yeah, be seeing you."

John dropped the phone at the body he walked over, already useless to him now. He couldn't afford to be traced. And now, he didn't have one.

A ship to a now defunct section of the Cartel, no electronics on him, and days to get ahead of his pursuers. He had everything he needed to escape now. All but one thing, that is.

He still needed to pick up his dog.