Luzon Crossroads
The night air was cool and damp compared to the heat of the day. The harsh, rigid light of the day had given way to the twisting shadows of the night. There were the usual sights and smells of a jungle; rustling trees, chittering of animals, the smell of decaying plant matter. The smell of blood was not uncommon in the jungle, indeed blood was shed daily in the leafy recesses of the jungle. It was the circle of life and death, the hunter and the hunted. It was as much apart of the jungle as the trees or the animals. It was just at this moment, the coppery tang of blood hung heavy in the air.
"Let me guess, you can't say anything because it feels so good right?" said Revy to the guard whom Shenhua had put her blade through. The blade was protruding grotesquely out the front of the mans chest, like a voodoo doll stuck with an oversized pin. He gasped in response, a blood choked phlegm sound. He tried to raise his AK, but his brain was sending nerve impulses to a dying body and it only got halfway up before it found a break in the line. The impulses demanded a way through, but the Kukri knife was in a disagreeable mood.
"Men like to stab, but no get stabbed in return so I do for them," said Shenhua pulling her blade free and letting the guard fall. He slumped down quietly onto the jungle flooring of the Philippines. He was the third guard so far and they were only on the outskirts of the camp proper.
There was no point to hiding the body. It would take too much time and they weren't going to be here that much longer anyways. Plus once they got started, subtlety wouldn't really be required or possible. This was going to be a snatch and grab operation plain and simple.
The camp was set up like most others that Revy had seen, a ring of building with an empty area in the middle made of cheap wooden cabins. A ring on concertina wire surrounded the camp, but there were gaps in places. It seemed that it was there more to deter animals then to keep anyone out. The lights in most of the buildings were out and there were only a few guards patrolling around the perimeter. Their weapons were held loosely and many seemed to not be paying any real attention to what was going on. Too many days of boredom, and nothing more exciting than the odd venomous snake had made them lax in doing their job. That laxity would cost them.
The guards that Revy and Shenhua met died quietly. Shenhua gave them permanent smiles and lowered them to the ground quietly. Shenhua was very good at what she did, quick, quiet and very efficient. Chang picked only the best and he could easily afford them. When they were finally discovered, Revy's gun-play would perfectly complimented Shenhua's blade-work.
"Takenaka, I'm telling you that he knows something, he's just stalling for time," said Ibraha, gesturing with his hands, almost pleading with his friend to see things his way. "He knows where they are, he knows how we can get them."
"No he doesn't," replied Takenaka calmly.
"How do you know?" demanded Ibraha slamming his fist on the table. "All you did was tell him a damn story and answer his damned questions! You didn't learn anything at all."
"No, I learned a lot from talking to him."
"Like what?"
"Well for starters, I learned that he's a thinking man, not a fighting one."
"So what?"
"I also learned that there's only about three other people with him, and only one of them is on the island with him," continued Takenaka.
"He told you that?" asked Ibraha sharply.
"No, but just from talking to him I was able to put it together. Strange how telling a story about an old man can put a man more at ease huh? Changes the whole atmosphere of the exchange, makes it seem more intellectual and less threatening."
"Useless," spat out Ibraha. "Guesswork and conjectures, nothing hard or concrete. Might as well have invited him over for tea for all the good you did."
"Ibraha, what's the matter? You're not usually like this, what's got you so riled up?" asked Takenaka concerned.
"There's nothing the matter, I simply can't understand how you think that his hands are clean in this."
"I never said that his hands were clean, I just said that he didn't know anything else."
"You know what I mean, don't twist my words Takenaka."
"It's the anniversary isn't it? Ibraha, said Takenaka sympathetically. "I know that it must be hard around this time of year."
"It's not about them, my family has nothing to do with this. Stop bringing them up whenever I disagree with anything you do. I've made my peace with god and I've accepted their passing. Just because I feel strongly about punishing the godless Americans who let it happen doesn't mean that I'm thinking irrationally. I want results and I'm willing to get my hands dirty to get them."
"Ibraha, you always get like this when it gets close to the date they died. Why don't you talk about it with me? I'm sure that it will help."
"I don't need to talk about it," said Ibraha stiffly.
"Tell you what, you tell me about them and I'll tell you about why I became a freedom fighter. Sound good?" Ibraha stayed quiet for a long time, so long that Takenaka was wondering if he was going to say anything at all. Almost like watching porcelain break, Ibraha's face changed and he began to speak quietly.
"That damned refugee camp," said Ibraha seeming to shrink in on himself for a moment, a far cry from the righteous zeal that he had, had before. "I still see those damned hinds coming in, shooting everyone and everything. There were explosions, people were screaming and crying all around and they were dying too. Whole families were torn to pieces, tossed up in the air to come back down in pieces. I ran through it all and Allah preserved me, he kept me safe when I should have died. I lived when so many others should have instead. The smoke was so thick that you couldn't see ten feet in front of you, couldn't tell where you were going, couldn't see the death coming when it finally find you. I found death instead though. I found them and at first I thought they were just sleeping or unconscious. There were no wounds on them, no blood at all and I tried to wake them, but they wouldn't wake up. It has something to do with explosions and nerves, I don't exactly understand it, but the force and shock of it can just cause their body to quit. I sat there weeping like an infant until a friend of ours came and got me." Ibraha paused for a moment and swallowed hard as if fighting to maintain control of himself.
"That wasn't even the worst part though. The Americans were there, their planes flying overhead, but they wouldn't help, just escorted those killers away once they were finished butchering. I won't forgive them for that, I can't. Nor can I forgive the way that they left us to just sit there in our own piss as the Soviets did whatever they pleased. So many died because of their greed. I hate the Soviets for what they did and they're gone now so there is no revenge to be had against them. I hate the Americans more though for allowing it to happen. To me, that's worse than what the Soviets did. They had the power to stop it and they didn't. When I think about their apathy towards what happened to my family and friends... I just cant stand it," said Ibraha angrily slamming his fist down onto the table.
Takenaka took out a bottle of good bourbon and poured two glasses. He filled them to two fingers, then as if an afterthought filled them to three.
"Drink?" Ibraha chuckled humorlessly.
"You know I can't."
"Well then, to their memory," said Takenaka raising a glass and downing it quickly, shuddering and letting out a contented gasp.
"May they be in gods loving care," said Ibraha not in nearly as good of humour.
"Well I think that I owe you my story now don't I?" asked Takenaka his ever present grin showing, as if a smile could lighten any mood.
"If you want to, I don't much care either way."
"Well I said that I would and I wouldn't want to be called a liar now would I?"
"Oh alright, go ahead not like we're going to be doing anything tonight anyways," said Ibraha sitting back in his chair and making himself comfortable.
"Okay now where to begin? Well, to begin with I'm Japanese."
"I would never have guessed," said Ibraha humorlessly.
"Shh, I didn't talk in your story Ibraha."
"Fine, go ahead."
"Well I was born on mainland Japan, funny thing to say considering it's an island nation, but I digress. I grew up in a little town on the outskirts of Hiroshima."
"You mean the city where the Americans dropped the nuke fatman?"
"The very same. Anyway, my dad was a tinkerer of sorts, fixing radios and engines. You know, stuff with wiring and mechanical bits. Was into that stuff like a fly on shit. Well, I grew up in an area where hardly anything grew and the farmers still tried to grow a decent crop. Try telling a farmer that they had to stop farming and you'll find the most stubborn human being alive."
"Very true," said Ibraha letting a small grin slip.
"Anyways, I grew up in all of this and I was around all these bitter, angry farmers who thought that we should still have an empire. I never really went along with that train of thought. Too many young men died trying to make that happen and Japan is just too small to take on the world. Even at the height of our power we were defeated. What I did listen to though, was their anger about all of the American soldiers on Japanese soil. About how our countries policies were being dictated by the barbarians from across the sea and that Japan should be governed by the Japanese."
"So what did you do?"
"Well, I was a bit of a hell raiser as a kid. Slashing tires on US army jeeps, drinking, getting into all kinds of mischief really. I was angry at the Americans, I was angry at the old men who had lost to them, I was angry at the world in general. I started hanging out with different groups or gangs, trying to see where I fit really. It was more by chance than anything that I found the communists in my country. They were young like me and they wanted change for Japan, good change. Jobs for everyone, homes, good schooling, and an Independent and strong Japan; free from from American control and foreign influence. We started small, with protests and marches. I remember this one time, it was just pouring rain and I mean buckets. I was standing in this stupid yellow rain poncho and trying to get people to sign petitions in the middle of the night, to ban American soldiers from Japan," said Takenaka laughing.
"It didn't last long did it?" said Ibraha quietly.
"No, no it didn't. Eventually we got fed up with all the peaceful work and not getting any results. Well, I learned a lot from my father about mechanics and electronics. He loved teaching me and I liked spending time with him. He disapproved of me hanging around with who I did, but he tolerated it. He was an old school Bushido believer. Even had an old katana sitting above the mantle, right next to a drawn picture of some distant relative who was a samurai. Well, I learned all he could teach me and used it to make a bomb."
"What happened?"
"The first time? Nothing. I screwed up and they found it, but there was a big scare and the police started watching us more closely. That didn't stop the second one from going off, hit the Tokyo police station. I'm sure you know how the rest of this story goes. I lost friends, the fighting got more brutal and eventually petered out. The people of Japan simply didn't want our revolution and eventually we fell apart. My dad died of cancer and then I wondered a bit, looking for another cause to take up. Then I found you and that's my story."
"Forgive me for saying, but it sounds like you left some of it out."
"Yeah, but some things are better left in the past and I told you more about me than you did about yourself."
"Fair enough I suppose. I just hope that we can get the documents that these pirates are carrying or else we'll be in trouble."
"So what's so important about these papers anyways," asked Takenaka passing the empty glass between his fingers on the table. "what's on them? It's not like we plaster, 'we're here with this many people so please come bomb us,' on paper. Hell most of the time we hardly have enough toilet paper around here."
"It's not so much about what it could do to us as it can do to Nghiem," said Ibraha as if he had to work his tongue to spit the name off the end of his tongue. "It's got a lot of stuff about him and his ex NVA buddies on it, real incriminating stuff on it too. Smuggling, drug running, human trafficking, the whole works and what they supply us with to name a few. So it's basically that if he gets compromised we get compromised along with other groups with the same goals as us. We're just one of his beneficiaries"
"So it's because of someone else's mistake that we're losing men trying to get a few pieces of paper back? asked Takenaka sourly. "Seems like a helluva waste."
"Yes, but we need the money he gives us and it's partially our fault anyways."
"How old is Ngheim anyways? He's gotta be pushing eighty by now," asked Takenaka suddenly curious.
"He's getting old," agreed Ibraha, "but he's still as clever as he ever was. I actually saw him last month and he's getting pretty annoyed at how business is being done in his neck of the woods."
"What's been going on?"
"Well," said Ibraha making himself comfortable. "Looks like his competition has found a new group either stupid or naive enough to take on his competitions shipments and he's losing money on it. You know how it is, start flooding the demand for goods with product and the prices go down. Add competition and then you have to start a bidding war as to who can sell lower and you make even less money still."
"You know Ibraha, you almost sounded like a capitalist there," joked Takenaka.
"Just because I know how money works doesn't mean I'm a capitalist, just informed about economics."
"What's he planning on doing to the people infringing on his business?"
"His usual bag of tricks: extortion, blackmail, kidnapping, murder, and if it becomes necessary, all out war."
"Kind of sad that we have to deal with people like him though, to bring our message to the world isn't it?" asked Takenaka.
"Years ago I would have spat at such a man, but that was a different time and if you want bullets in your gun, you can't pick and choose who you become friends with can you?"
"No, but it does make our words a little hollow," said Takenaka swirling the other drink in his hand.
"It's only temporary though, until people see how our cause is just and that the world needs change."
"That is the dream," said Takenaka downing his drink. He set the glass down just as the first of the gunshots began to echo across the camp.
Rock heard the first of the gunshots and Revy's unmistakable Beretta's. He heard the rattle of automatic weapons fire and then it cut off abruptly, only to start again but sounding from a different location. Rock got off his chair and took tentative steps towards the door, wary for anyone coming through looking to punch his ticket out early. Just as he reached the threshold of the doorway, it burst open and the sharp pops of Revy's Beretta's was painfully close.
Rock saw a man in olive drab fatigues clutching an AK stagger back and into him, causing them to fall to the ground in a heap. It was at this time that Rock realized that the man was dead and he was bleeding out over him. Rock pushed the man off quickly, almost scared to touch him, the man suddenly feeling ghoulish to the touch in death, but it being even worse being pinned beneath him.
Revy was standing in the doorway, grinning like a blood crazy Cheshire cat, twirling one of her Beretta's around her hand.
"Hi Rocky baby, did you miss me?" she asked like an overly sweet girlfriend or an older woman talking to a pet. "Now you went and got lost on me, but if you're good I'll take you to the fair and even buy you some cotton candy. Does that sound nice sweetie pie?" Rock couldn't help but smile.
They left the building in a hurry and men were already emerging from the surrounding houses, jackets undone and flapping with their motion and their only armour being undershirts. Rock saw a guerrilla run around the far side of the house on Revy's blind side, AK levelled at her head.
"Look out!" yelled Rock, trying to warn Revy of the danger. Revy was too late to shoot the man behind her, because Shenhua beat her to the punch. A roped kukri knife whizzed passed their heads and embedded itself in the mans chest with a meaty thunk. It was pulled free with a wet squelch and returned to the hand of its owner.
"You find partner now? We go get paid now?" asked Shenhua wiping off the blade of her kukri with her sleeve.
"Yeah we're going to get paid," said Revy irritably. "By the way Rock, this chinglish piece of work in Shenhua."
"Watch your tongue twinkie or you lose it," said Shenhua throwing her blades into the chest of another guerrilla.
With a roar of an engine, a Land Rover sped into the camp slewing back and forth between the guerillas and in some cases running them over. It skidded to a halt in from of them and Shenhua opened the rear door and pulled Rock inside while Revy covered them. When she piled in, the Rover sped out of the compound, tires spinning and kicking up dirt.
"I can't believe we made it," said Rock sinking back into the padded seat and relaxing, even as rounds flashed by on either side until they cleared the boundary of the camp.
"Yeah, well it was no thanks to you," said Revy checking the load on her Beretta's. "Dumbass," she muttered to herself.
"At least now we have package," said Shenhua taking out a pocket makeup kit and looking at her self in the mirror.
"Well um, actually I don't have it. The suit case was empty," said Rock sheepishly. Shenhua's eyes flashed as sharp as her blades.
"What?" she demanded snapping her compact closed and facing Rock.
"Relax, I got the papers," said Revy self assured.
"You have them entire time?" said Shenhua incredulously. "Then why we save dufus?"
"Because Dutch told me to look after him and if I didn't bring him back he would have been pissed. So I thought that he was worth the extra effort to save his miserable little life."
"Thanks," said Rock not sounding thankful in the least. Shenhua let out a huff of annoyance and returned to her gaze to her side of the Jeep, sticking her nose up into the air.
"Hey Irish, think you could step on it? There's no doubt that those assholes back there are gonna be coming after us." For a moment, Revy thought he hadn't heard her, but when he turned around to talk to her, there seemed to be a light sheen of sweat on his face and a little patch of white stuck on the stubble under his nose. It was also at this time that Revy noticed the little baggy of shrooms that was half full, mixed with cocain. "Oh fuck," said Revy bleakly.
"Faster? Sure I'll go faster. Pedal to the metal, by the grace of god and Ireland let's go. Let's go!" Revy had to brace herself as the Rover spun around and accelerated with a roar back towards the guerrilla camp. So instead of getting farther away from danger and the bullets, they were going to just drive straight back into the maw of the beast.
"What the hell are you doing?!" shouted Revy, half in surprise, half in outrage as the outskirts of the camp became visible once more. If anything though, they were even less prepared than they were before, having begun to prepare their jeeps for pursuit. After all, who in their right mind would ever head back into the middle of a lions den after escaping? You would have to be either crazy or stupid. The truth was high on a blend of cocaine and hallucinogenic mushrooms. "Goddamn it," said Revy rolling down her window and riding on the sill, shooting at anyone who moved. The return fire was sporadic at best and at worst not even pointed at them.
They drove in a fast lazy circle around the camp before leaving out the front again firing all the while. Revy pulled herself back inside the Rover again, not happy at all. It didn't help that the driver was babbling on about Captain Kirk and the Enterprise of aliens.
"He do that sometimes," said Shenhua seemingly unconcerned.
"He almost got us killed," protested Rock.
"So did you," countered Shenhua to which Rock had no answer.
"Is it good to go?" questioned Morrigan to her team of Sabre's.
"Yeah, should hold up just fine," said Ajax, a man from Greece who had been kicked out of the engineering corps for selling military demolition supplies to Bulgarian mafia families. He had a deep Mediterranean complexion and a handsome face that was marred by an ugly scar mottling a cheek. He said that it was from a demolition accident, but it looked more like someone had taken the bad end of a bottle to his face.
"Okay lads take your positions and let's do this proper," said Morrigan heading back into the treeline, the sounds of automatic weapons fire and pistols unmistakable now. She kept the activation switch in her hand and stayed in line with the spike strip so that she could activate it at the best possible time where it couldn't be avoided. She hadn't really worked with these before, but Lawrence was an ex-state trooper from the US and he assured her that it would work just fine. Morrigan hoped that he was right, because if he wasn't then they were going to be out a contract and out some prestige. So far Cossack Support hadn't failed on a contract since coming to Roanupoar and she didn't intend on being in charge of the mission that did.
The gunfire stopped before the vehicle got to them, the first thing to appear was a pair of stabbing headlights, followed shortly by a bullet riddled Land Rover. Morrigan saw it pass Ryker's position and readied her thumb over the button. The sound of the Rover got progressively louder as it got closer and Morrigan did a mental count until she could thumb the button. She could just make out the outline of the people in the Rover. A rocket, mines, or better yet and IED would have been much better in destroying the Rover, but the client had been very adamant about retrieving the papers intact and unharmed, so here they were about to risk their lives in a firefight. Despite it all, Morrigan got the tingly sensation in her fingertips which spread to her arms and up her neck which made her shiver. She had so much pent up energy and tension right now that she just couldn't wait for the bullets to start flying, at least then she would have an outlet for it.
Sometimes Morrigan wondered if there was something wrong with her for enjoying getting into fights as much as she did. She had often felt excited or anxious right before a game when she had played sports, but never to this extent. Maybe it was just because this game was always worth all the marbles and 110% was just the expected given?
Just before the Rover passed them by, Morrigan thrummed the activation switch and the teeth switched up with a soft pop. The pop of the tires however was much louder and the Rover slewed from side to side before digging too hard into the soft ground and rolling end over end. The glass shattered out of the windows and the windshield spider webbed before blowing out; the rims still spinning in the air with scraps of rubber stuck to them. Steam hissed angrily from the ruined engine of the Rover as the headlights flickered and died. After a few quick hand signals, Morrigan levelled her LA85a2 and advanced on the jeep with a group of Sabre's.
They put a loose perimeter around the upended Land Rover and watched for movement. With any luck all occupants aboard would have died in the crash and they would just have to collect the package. However, as in all things, nothing is ever easy.
Revy groaned and crawled her way out of the Rover, Beretta in hand, shifting glass as she went. Just as she was exiting the broken window a combat boot stepped down on her hand, pinning it to the ground and a rifle barrel was pointed in her face.
"Revy?" said a feminine voice with an unmistakable Irish accent. Revy looked up into the masked and helmeted face of Morrigan in night fatigues and a questioning look in her face. "You're the one moving the documents?" Revy spat out a wad of bloody phlegm on the ground even as Morrigan removed the cutlass from her pinned hand.
"Yeah, what the hell are you doing here? I thought Balalaika told you guys to back off?"
"We don't listen to Balalaika anymore Revy I guess you didn't get the memo." Morrigan's tone faltered slightly like someone caught in an embarrassing lie. "I know this isn't worth much, but...I'm sorry that it's you that's here and not someone else. If I would have known that it was going to be you on this job I wouldn't have volunteered for it. Revy I didn't know it would be you," said Morrigan unable to look directly into Revy's eyes.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" demanded Revy trying to free her hand.
"No one's supposed to survive from the delivery crew Revy. No witnesses. Complete deniability that way. I know that you know what I have to do now don't you? I'm sorry Revy, truly I am sorry. It's just business though," said Morrigan trying to justify killing someone she considered a friend, who to be fair could kill her in a drunken rage, but still a friend. "You know that if I had it my way...It's just business," said Morrigan sounding mournful, but sighting down the length of her rifle at Revy's head. "Goodbye Revy, please don't hold a grudge about this."
"You fucking bitch," spat out Revy along with more bloody phlegm. "Burn in hell."
"We got jeeps," came the call from one of the Sabres farther up. The warning was a little late because a moment later a jeep carrying a full load of guerrillas came barrelling around the corner AK's blazing.
"Take them out!" shouted Morrigan snapping up her rifle and firing a burst through the windshield. A single round from Ryker took out the drivers side window, causing the jeep to slew to a stop and the remaining guerrilla fighters to get hosed down with automatic, suppressed fire. More jeeps kept coming though, soon outnumbering the sabres.
"Clyde, get the package!" shouted Morrigan to a nearby Cossack merc as she took cover behind the stalled jeep. He nodded in affirmation and dashed to the overturned Rover intending to put a bullet through each of the delivery crews heads. Clyde had been an infantryman in the US army prior to his dishonourable discharge in early 91 after striking a superior officer in on his on the side drug trade. Neither he or the officer had wanted the issue of the drugs brought to light, so Clyde kept quiet about the drugs in exchange for getting off without serving time. Clyde was well trained with the M16A2 cradled in his arms and confident in his ability to fight. He brought his rifle in line with Revy's head and squeezed the trigger. Blood splayed out in a wide arc.
Shenhua twirled her linked kukri around her arm as the Sabre fell first to his knees, then to the ground, blood staining the front of his night fatigues and top of the line Kevlar armour a ruddy red. A gaping gash in his throat, his mouth still working convulsively and hands grasping at his throat. A quick swing of her linked kukri's ended Clydes life, the blade finishing off the ex-infantryman.
"All men do is shoot," said Shenhua laconically. "They never like to take." Revy brought herself to her feet, grabbing her cutlasses as she did so. The fight wasn't going as well for Cossack, having gotten bogged down and under heavy fire. So far other than Clyde they hadn't lost anyone, but it looked like damn near a hundred more guerrillas were coming down the road.
"Thanks chinglish," said Revy taking cover at the front of the overturned land rover.
"No problem twinkie."
"Now to kill that Irish bitch," said Revy sighting down her sights. She put Morrigan inbetween the sights valley and lined up her head. She wouldn't hold a grudge against Morrigan, she would just get even.
The job had gone to hell in a hand basket far too quickly and now they were being overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Morrigan sighted in another guerrilla and laid him out with a well placed burst. It was too bright for NVG's because of the headlights, but too dark to see easily, making it a combination of bright stabbing lights and inky blackness. She was just shooting at silhouettes, assuming that they were her targets.
"Get back to the LZ!" shouted Morrigan to the Cossack mercs and they began moving in well disciplined patterns. They covered each other as they moved and went from cover to cover like well trained soldiers. "Clyde, get the package and lets go!" Morrigan stood up and began moving to the treeline when a hammer force took her in the stomach, punching through her armour and throwing her to her back. Her rifle coming free from her grasp and falling away out of her reach. Morrigan tried to cry out, but felt as if all the breath had been stolen from her lungs and white hot pain lanced through her stomach, letting her do nothing more than draw in strangled breaths.
"Fuck," panted Morrigan trying to rise but the pain just intensifying to an unreal degree. She put a hand to her stomach to try and stem the flow of blood as she pulled out her hi-power and began shooting at anything that got too close. She didn't know if she was hitting anything, but it was keeping the guerrillas away even if their bullets did kick up the dirt around her. It was at this point that Morrigan realized that she was terrified of dying. She didn't want it to end here, in the middle of a dusty Phillippine road before her 29th birthday. It wasn't fair, she had nothing to leave behind, no one to really miss her in Roanapur. How long would it even be before her family found out that she was dead?
She hadn't talked to her parents in years and had only kept sporadic communication with her brother. Since coming to Roanapur, she hadn't talked to anyone, not even her brother. Did they miss her even? Was she the disowned black sheep of the family? The daddy's little girl turned fuck-up that everyone would painstakingly remember not to bring up at thanksgiving dinner? Morrigan came to the sudden realization that she wanted to see her family again very badly.
With a sudden frenzied burst of fearful energy, Morrigan began trying to push herself up, screaming with the pain, but determined to live. She kept telling herself that she could make it if only she could beat the pain and get to the chopper. All she had to do was beat the pain. Sweat broke out on her features beneath the stifling balaclava and veins stood out clearly defined in her neck. A marine of her royal majesty's armed services didn't just lay down and die. Morrigan had proven that a girl could be a royal marine and this flesh wound wasn't going to stop her now. But, she wasn't a marine anymore. The thought seemed to drain some of her frenzied strength from her limbs. The pain eventually won out and Morrigan fell back to the ground staring up at the stars. She didn't want to die like this. Morrigan swapped mags in her hi-power and kept shooting at the guerrillas.
"Well I guess that solves that problem," said Revy as Morrigan was hit and fell to the ground from a gut wound. "Guess she's really sorry now," said Revy chuckling at her own dark humour.
"We go now," said Shenhua pulling her companion from the wrecked rover. "You have no car to drive now, this one no good."
"My baby's gone? Did the aliens get it?"
"Yes aliens from mars, they do bad things to car now we take good jeep because car bad now. It alien car now."
"I don't want an alien car, let's get the bloody hell out of here!" said Shenhua's friend as he bolted towards the idling jeep, throwing the dead driver to the ground and strapping himself in. He was apparently more scared of an alien car than the rounds zipping over his head and lighting up the night with bright yellow muzzle flashes.
"Come on Rock, get your ass moving," said Revy firing at the blockade of Guerrillas behind them with unnerving accuracy. Shenhua pulled the rest of the dead out of the jeep, leaving just the bloodstained interior as a reminder of its previous occupants. Rock began running to the jeep but was distracted by a cry of pain. It was Morrigan trying to push herself up off the ground, before she lost the contest with gravity and came crashing back down.
"Rock come on," yelled Revy. Rock looked between the jeep and Morrigan before making a beeline for the downed Irishwoman. "Dammit Rock," called out Revy after him.
When Rock reached Morrigan she turned on him like an animal caught in a trap, feral almost. Her browning held rock steady, aimed at his head. She seemed surprised all things considered, in extreme pain, but surprised. Rock bent down and tried grabbing under her arms, only to be pushed away roughly.
"What the hell are you doing?" demanded Morrigan through clenched teeth, wild animal like eyes piercing him.
"I'm saving your life."
"But, why?"
"Because I don't want you to die, that's why," said Rock frustrated with everything going on and someone questioning why he was helping them when he didn't know why anymore than he had a compulsion. He felt the need to help people and sometimes he just did it without really thinking about it. Rock noticed a strange look come over Morrigan's eyes as he said it, the animal ferocity seeming to ebb away out of them. Her eyes took an a curious aspect to them, almost wonder. As if she really wanted to believe what he said, but was wary of him deceiving her She almost looked peaceful then, despite the circumstances.
"I'm going to scream when you start moving me," said Morrigan seriously. "I'm going to beg you to stop moving me, I'll say things, scream, cry, whatever it is I do you tell me to shut the fuck up and keep pulling okay? I know that you've got no reason to help me, but, thank you. Rock."
"Okay," said Rock getting a firm grip under Morrigan's armpits and began to pull. True to her word, she did start to scream, beg, and cry. Rock ignored her frantic pleas for him to stop and pulled her the rest of the way to the jeep. Bullets buzzed by his head the entire time that he was pulling Morrigan, but miraculously not a single one so much as grazed him.
"Rock what are you doing? Drop the bitch and let's get going or did you forget that she was going to put a bullet in your head?" said Revy sharply, gesturing with her Cutlass Beretta. "She's dead weight." Rock looked down at the injured woman before him, hurt and vulnerable and he refused to do as Revy said.
"I didn't forget Revy, but I'm choosing to help her because I'm not a killer. I help people Revy, I don't put a gun to anyone's head or leave them to die," said Rock as he pulled a groaning Morrigan into the back of the jeep. "I'm not an animal." The last comment seemed to dig particularly deep in Revy and she growled out something as the jeep sped away that Rock didn't quite catch. She seemed to just take out her anger on the troops behind them though, firing with a cold rage instead of the usual manic glee.
"I can't breathe, I, I can't breathe," said Morrigan faintly beside Rock but with a hint of desperation. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, like she couldn't expand her chest enough.
"Just hold on, um okay," said Rock as he took off her helmet and started undoing the constricting combat harnesses and body armour. As Rock removed her balaclava, he noticed that she wasn't holding her stomach wound anymore and blood was leaking out at an alarming rate. Rock put his hand to the wound and formed the best seal that he could around it. Morrigan was breathing now, if a bit laboured and a sheen of sweat was evident on her pale face.
"I think I'm dying," said Morrigan sleepily, with an almost happy smile on her face. She smiled gaily and stared up at the stars as if she didn't have a care in the world.
"You're gonna be fine," reassured Rock. "We've just got to get you to a hospital." He tried to make his words as reassuring and hopeful as possible, but Morrigan only looked at him with that sleepy empty smile. If anything the smiling worried him more than the screaming or the crying.
"Heh, trying to reassure me Rock? I've done that before too. You let them think everything's going to be fine so that's it's easier for them to fall asleep and fade away peacefully. It's not a, bad way to go, and everything's, already turning to grey you know?" Morrigan's speech was becoming disjointed and she looked dangerously close to falling asleep. Rock pushed on the stomach wound. The response was as instant as the guilt.
"AH, FUCK!" shouted Morrigan in pain, becoming very much awake. She thrashed weakly and Rock pushed her down so that she stayed on the floor of the jeep so that she wouldn't exacerbate the wound anymore than she already had.
"You're not dying," said Rock. "I'm not going to let you." Morrigan gripped onto Rocks hand with a hold that he was sure was going to break it. Her hand felt cold and clammy like that of a fever victim.
"Don't let go Rock, I don't want to die. I'm not ready. Please." Rock was sure he saw tears in her eyes as she said it. Not knowing what to do, Rock gripped her hand back, even though it felt as if she was going to crush his in her grip. Rock held onto her the rest of the way to the American DMZ. She never once relaxed her grip as if holding on to Rock was the only thing holding her in this world.
"Dammit Ibraha, why did you make me do it?" Tankenaka pushed one of his best and only friends out of the jeep onto the cold Philippine ground in the middle of nowhere. He had lost his mind, given into his hate and been willing to sacrifice everything to make one last strike against the Americans. One last act of defiance against the world, his last anarchistic rejection of everything western. He had left him no choice, too many good men had died tonight because he sent them before they were ready, sent them with no real idea what to do. His orders had contradicted each other and sent men scrambling in every direction. Was this going to be his end too, or was his end to be different?
Maybe he was going to die an old man surrounded by a litter of grandchildren, but he doubted it. If he left the cause now it would be like it wasn't for anything at all. That was one thing that he couldn't accept, he couldn't let all of it have been for nothing. The sacrifice, the blood, the dead men and the lost time. It was worth something, it meant something yet and he wasn't going to let it be for nothing. He cast his gaze over at Ibraha once so impassioned and full of life, now just dead. He wouldn't let Ibraha have died for nothing.
Takenaka started the old military surplus jeep and started driving. He didn't drive anywhere in particular, just drove to pass the time and think. When the dawn light finally broke over the Philippines he got out on top of a hill and watched the sunrise break the gloom of the night and wash it away. A crackling radio demanded his attention and he answered it. There was still a cause to support and as long as it was worth fighting for he would be right there for it.
Rock watched as Morrigan was looked after by US military surgeons, an oxygen mask placed over her face and sent away on a gurney by a quartet of medical personnel. Rock had a strange feeling that Morrigan watched him for as long as she could before being rushed into a medical tent for emergency surgery. Revy wasn't pleased in the least.
Revy walked up to Rock quickly and purposefully after she gave the documents to the CIA officials and grabbed him by the collar.
"Mind explaining what was going on with your little girlfriend Rock? Hoping to get a sympathy fuck out of it or do you get a sick thrill out of helping hurt dogs? Because last I checked, right up until she got her little flesh wound she was going to put a bullet in your head without a second thought. You think that she would have done the same for you Rock? Well here's a shocker, she wasn't and you know why? She's not stupid like you are. You going to feed the dog that bites you because it starts to whine and you feel bad for it? Think that makes it so that it's going to stop biting you out of gratitude? No. The next time it benefits the dog it's going to tear your throat out Rock and piss on your corpse."
"I don't care what you think," said Rock brushing off Revy's hold on him. "I helped her and she's going to live because of it. She wasn't some dog that bites, she was a person who was scared of dying and now she's going to live. I saved a life Revy, I saved someone today and it felt good. You know why it felt good Revy? It felt good because it was the right thing to do and I did good. I did the right thing and I'm not going to say I'm sorry for it, I've already told you that I'm not apologizing for anything anymore."
"Fucking idiot," growled Revy stalking away. She thrust her hands into her pockets and walked with her head down like she just wanted to rip something apart. Rock just sat down on a crate and had a smoke. He used his left hand to hold it, so he wouldn't get any blood on the filter. The smoke felt good as it entered his lungs, relaxing. It was then Rock realized that he was very hungry. With an errant toss, he threw away his cigarette and ground it out. Time to find something to eat.
"So, it was a failure? Four dead? We didn't get anything out of it? Who all got shot? Morrigan...you're sure? Did you see the body for sure? Well did you check for goddamn pulse? I don't care if you think that she's dead Ryker, we're not leaving her or any of the others to rot on that island. No another team will be leaving immediately for the Philippines, I'm leading it personally. I pay you to pull a trigger Ryker, once you start paying my wage I'll let you advise me all the hell you want. Try to remember that without Morrigan there Geoffrey's in charge. I already talked to him because he knows how to follow the chain of command. Goodbye Ryker." Artyom hung the phone up and put his head in his hands, leaning on his desk.
What a goddamned mess this turned out to be. Three KIA, one MIA and nothing to show for it but blood. They were just supposed to have hit the delivery crew, eliminated them, then exfiltrated. It was supposed to be a one night operation, less than a single day and it had failed. The client had paid in advance and would now require a full refund of their down payment because it was Cossack that messed up. Not some village hick, mercenaries that he had taken the time to train and equip. This would mean a loss of reputation, it didn't matter how many freedom fighter they took with them. Freedom fighters, the word tasted bitter and unclean in his mouth. Like saying it made him need to wash his mouth out with soap.
Loss of reputation aside he felt deep regret and sadness. If Morrigan was dead, he didn't know what he would do. She was more than a hired gun, she was his friend and confidant. He trusted her explicitly like he did Angelika, Beznik, Brent, Jacques, and now even Geoffrey. She wasn't a person he could just replace. Just like in the 103rd, you didn't replace the people who died, you got feet to fill the boots no matter how small the feet. If Morrigan was dead, he could get over it, but he didn't want to. He trusted Beznik in the field because nothing short of a demon could kill him. He didn't fear for his safety as he would for say Angelika or Brent, but he never really thought that he would ever die. He never really thought that any of them would ever die. Perhaps he had began feeling that they were invincible of late. Add to that the fact it was the middle of October and it seemed the old and the new were converging to make his life hell.
Artyom felt a sudden need to fly, to fight. He felt the need to fly into battle, to take his frustration out on something. Someone. Rising from his chair, Artyom grabbed a vodka bottle from his liquor cabinet and poured two shot glasses full of Vodka. Before he could drink any though, Jacques entered from his side office.
"I could not help but hear that you got a phone call. May I perhaps ask what it pertained to?" said Jacques acting every bit of a French gentleman.
"The mission," said Artyom curtly pulling out an old, but well cared for flight suit out of a foot locker behind his desk. He handled it gingerly and set the folded article on his desk.
"I assume it went well and the documents pertaining to Ngheim were recovered? After all, what else can one expect from Cossack, but success?"
"No we didn't get it and Morrigan might be dead." A slight twitch flexed Jacques aging face and he walked over to the hangar window casually.
"Were any of the notes read at least? The client was very adamant about finding a certain person and those documents are key."
"Maybe," said Artyom noncommittally. Aryom was sure that he saw Jacques clench his fist briefly, before relaxing it and facing him.
"Anything recovered would be very useful. Was there anything recovered, anything read? A name, a location, money transfers, by god at least something that we can use. I need something to go on."
"Look I already said that I don't know," said Artyom sharply. Jacques walked up to a distance where it was considered to stand to have polite conversation.
"Well maybe you should take more of an interest in actually running your business and knowing these things hm? You're in charge of what happens here, responsible for the people here. How about you start acting like it?"
"I don't pay you to criticize me," said Artyom angrily. "I don't know because they didn't tell me and they said they don't have the package so I assume that they didn't read it. I know what happens in my operations here in Roanupur and I deal with it. That satisfactory enough, or do you want it in triplicate?"
"You were correct in one thing Artyom, you don't pay me to criticize you, you pay me to make sure your business doesn't go bankrupt. And since that you know so much, I assume you are aware that the Colombian's attacked our holding at the airport this morning because of your business venture there."
"It was your idea to take over the airport like we did," retorted Artyom.
"Yes, but I didn't expect you to go about it like a buffoon and make demands as you did. Now we have to deal with this problem and call a meeting. Since that you are in charge, do you want to call the meeting or should I? We've lost three sabres we had stationed there as security, it wasn't pretty." Jacques was being unusually sharp and critical and Artyom really wasn't in the mood.
"The Colombian's attacked us? Killed my men?" asked Artyom far too quietly for someone having a heated argument.
"Yes, so should I fix the matter or should you?"
"Let me fix it, I've been waiting for an opportunity for something like this."
"Actually started reading more than fiction and plan on solving problems by yourself like a grownup? Or do you need be to hold you hand so you don't get scared?"
"Don't worry, I'll take care of it."
"Well than Artyom, it that case I bid you adieu and hope you handle this better than your ineptness with this latest job. I'll be in my office doing work if you need me. Jacques turned abruptly and walked back to his office, his newspaper tucked tightly underneath his arm. He shut the door and the blinds shifted back and forth so hard that Artyom wondered if they were going to break off.
"*I intend to solve things immediately, and permanently,*" said Artyom donning the old flight suit with a painstakingly sewn on pair of flight wings. He ran a hand affectionately over the shoulder flash on the worn flight suit. He would settle things like he had in the old days. When he had lost friends before, the retaliation had been swift and massive, with no concern for collateral damage and they had worked. A mission of vengeance wouldn't bring back the fallen, but it would avenge them. The unit insignia was a little faded, but still very visible. 103rd Guards Division, Soviet Union.
Miguel Contreras was Albrego's second in command and a native born Colombian. His parents had worked in the cocoa fields when he had been growing up and he had worked alongside them. He had seen the poverty, the squalor, the dead end life that his parents lived and he wanted no part in it. Miguel had soft hands with old scars, because he had sworn that once he had gotten out of those fields he would never do peasant work again.
Growing up he had seen the lavish life lived by the cartel lords. Their large homes, their fast cars, the women, the food, the power. He had worked his way up from the very bottom rung of the cartel and had clawed his way up every rung. He had advanced quickly because he had been willing to do anything and everything to make it, to get what he wanted. He was a peasant boy from the fields so no one really took him seriously. Most thought that he would only rise to soldier in the cartel, but they had underestimated his determination. His rise to stardom had been much faster than those around him, his star burning just a bit too bright for some. The cartels were always looking to expand and when they put their eye on Roanupur Miguel had jumped at the chance to leap several rungs of the cartel ladder. He had called in favours, done favours, pulled strings, and put more than one potential rival six feet under.
Miguel's villa was a lavish affair, done to Colombian style perfection. The Spanish tiles on the roof were a soft red hue and the wide veranda offered a great view of the Roanupur harbour and city. There was a tennis court, pool, and a tropical garden all within its walls. The Main house itself was three stores and 20 000 square feet, with numerous outbuildings and garages. The villa was perched on top of a large hill, nearly a small mountain outside of Roanupur and the only way up was a narrow winding path that was barely wide enough for a single vehicle. In addition to being a luxurious home, the villa was also a fortress. The wall had reinforced concrete and re-bar behind the sandstone exterior, with motion sensors and pressure gauges built in. Obvious and hidden cameras watched every square inch of his property, and he had a direct line to the Roanupur police station with the equivalent of a SWAT team on standby to protect his house. Not that he really needed it. Miguel had damn near twenty cartel soldiers at his Villa, plus a large household staff who knew how to handle themselves in a fight. The windows in his house were all bullet proof up to 7.62mm and he had a veritable bunker of a panic room in the basement. Miguel liked to sit on the veranda and look out over the city like he was king and Roanupur his fiefdom.
Miguel liked three things in life and only three things. The first thing that Miguel loved, was beautiful women. They had never even looked at him when he was a peasant, wouldn't even give him the time of day. Now he had nearly every woman in Roanupur vying to decorate his arm, and a different one every night. The second thing that Miguel loved, was money. There had been many nights in his childhood when he had gone to bed hungry without a proper meal, or had worn patched and third hand clothes. He had walked in bare feet wherever he had gone, sometimes gotten a ride on a mule drawn cart. If he was extremely lucky, he would get a ride in the back of a lorry that a kindly old farmer had used to help move his livestock. Now Miguel ate sumptuously every night, with fine imported French wines and roast pheasant, Peking duck, beef steak, lobster, souffle, cake, or anything else that he could ever desire or have an appetite for. His clothes were Armani, Dolce & Gabbanna, Hugo Boss, or Gucci. He had a personal masseuse that gave him a treatment everyday and he drove a Ferrari; If he wanted a change though, he would drive his Lamborghini or Porsche. Miguel was scrupulous in his efforts to erase every trace to his impoverished upbringing, but there was one thing that he loved above all else, even more than life itself. Power.
It was like cocaine, but better. It was intoxicating and the sheer godlike feeling it gave could never be replicated by a drug, because it was better. It was real. To have the power of life or death over men, to have them grovel at your feet and lick the shit from your heel and say it was gold, was better than sex. It was the one driving reason that Miguel had risen so far in the cartel so quickly. He wanted power and he was willing to do whatever it took to get it and keep it. It would be Miguel's apotheosis to become the head of the cartel branch in Roanupur. If only that fool Abrego could see that he didn't have the city under control and that the cartel was a small fish in a big pond.
Abrego couldn't seem to grasp the concept that you don't settle for second place, that there was no place to be but at the top of the food chain, especially in the Roanupur underworld. Miguel spit contemptuously on the patio just thinking about it and a butler wearing a red vest and white shirt quickly wiped it up. Abrego was an imbecile who didn't understand the world. Did he think that by playing nice he could control a city full of cutthroats and killers? No. It was foolish and naive in the extreme. The reason that the Colombian cartel had expanded so rapidly was because of their willingness and ability to be vicious, to be cruel. They had gobbled up the territory of the old families who had gotten soft and complacent with their power and position; wanting to simply sit back and count their money, no longer wanting or willing to get their hands dirty. Miguel wouldn't say that he was a prophet, but he could see that if the cartel ever lost its edge it too would fall to a younger, more aggressive group.
Miguel stared at some of his "eye candy" lounging by the pool. They were young women in their twenties, with a wide variety to choose from. They were playing pool games or lounging in the sun, working on their tan. They were expensive, but nowhere near costly to a man of Miguel's wealth. Miguel considered taking one to make the afternoon more enjoyable, but decided against it. Miguel knew that he was a lush, had admitted it to himself and cut out the tongue of another who had called him one, but he was also a thinker. One thing that Miguel liked to do more than anything on a quiet day was sit on his veranda with a cigar in one hand, a drink in the other, and think. He thought about many things, most often how he could kill Abrego and take over, but he could not think of any conceivable way to do it without severe repercussions. He had even considered doing it himself, just so that he would know without a doubt that it was done and done right. It was the one part of his poor upbringing that he refused to part with, the one part that had made him so successful. The ability and desire to do something with his own two hands. Despite his ever growing paunch and his forming second chin, Miguel was a doer. It was satisfying to work with your hands and see a finished product at the end that you could be proud of. It had made him an effective cartel soldier and an even better boss. The work of his hands had a certain, extended reach now, so to speak.
Miguel's various musings and thoughts were interrupted, by an incessant thumping. He allowed a frown to cross mark his features and held up a finger. He was quickly attended by one of his many butlers. If this had anything to do with the central air system, he would be very displeased. It wasn't that Miguel cared much for air conditioning, having grown up in a one room shack in Columbia, but he enjoyed fresh air in his home all the time. Another reminder of his peasant upbringing.
"Find out what that noise is and take care of it," said Miguel not bothering to specify what it was, despite the fact that there were many different appliances and machines running at his home, all humming softly.
"At once senor Miguel," said the red vested butler, before moving off to quickly converse with his fellows. Let them worry about the noise, so long as it was taken care of and in good order.
Unfortunately, despite the efforts of his staff, the thumping not only persisted, but grew louder with every passing moment. There was something distinctly familiar about it too, like he should recognize it. For a moment, Miguel felt like a dumb peasant again, unable to understand what the strange sights and sounds of the city were and it angered him greatly. Then, like a man finding a switch in the dark, Miguel placed the sound. It was a helicopter, and a big one if the pitch of the thump was anything to go by.
Miguel smoothed the wrinkles in his white summer suit and gestured for one of his guards to come to him. Miguel dislike raising his voice, again because it reminded him of working in the cocoa fields, but also because it was so uncivilized to yell.
"Yes senor Miguel?" asked the guard respectfully. Everyone tread carefully around Miguel, for even though he very generous, he wrath was given in equal measure.
"Find out what fool of a pilot is flying by my home and be sure to get the identification number. I want to be sure that he understands how much it displeases me for people to intrude onto my home. Or over it for that matter."
"At once senor Miguel."
Miguel watched the guard run to the far wall of his property overlooking Roanupur and climb the small parapet to look over. The thump of the rotor had turned to a constant and loud roar, and Miguel just couldn't wait until it came over the wall so that he could see just who it was that thought they could disturb him.
Miguel dropped his drink and the glass shattered on the sandstone patio. Gunship. It rose over the wall slowly, like the piano he had once seen lifted into the apartment of a rich man, before he had become one. It looked too heavy to fly, like an armoured reptile with stubby arms and a black protruding tongue. Miguel knew that he had only seconds to make the decision that would either mean him living or dying. Miguel hurled himself to his feet, his white summer fedora ripping free from the sudden movement and he poured all his strength and power into speed at the same time the gunship started firing.
The sound was deafening, like an angry growl of some predator, but droning and buzzing like an enormous insect; the guard that Miguel had sent to the wall was the first to die, obliterated into a fine red mist. Red streams of baseball and golfball sized spheres of red phosphorus cut deadly lines across his luxury villa, turning whatever it hit to dust and fragments of stone and flesh. Miguel was dimly aware of the bullet proofed windows he had installed in his home, blowing out like cheap pane glass.
People were screaming and running, those with guns shooting at the helicopter, but people were mostly just running. Those by Miguel, beside him, and even in front of him were cut to pieces, torn apart by the heavy calibre rounds, but Miguel himself remained unscathed. With a final surge of strength, Miguel leaped into his pool and dove beneath the shimmering surface, just as the first of the explosions started.
Miguel swam to the bottom of the pool, holding an inflatable headrest that he had landed om when he dove in. The pool was shaking and Miguel could hear a bizarre and distorted versions of events taking place above him. The screams were warbled and the sound of gunfire was somewhat muffled. Miguel swam to the bottom of his pool, seeking the relative safety that a few more metres of water would give him.
Miguel wouldn't be able to stay under the water long, already the water was trying to push him up to the surface and his lungs were starting to itch for air. In a moment they would be burning, demanding to be filled. With a surge of elation, Miguel saw a weighted bar at the bottom of the pool. No doubt left over from that oiled up trust money brat from his party the night before, who had tried to impress some the the candy by lifting it while treading water. Miguel pulled as hard as he could through the water and grasped the bar. His fingers slipped the first time and he had to fight to get a second grip on it. His lungs were burning now and Miguel used his teeth to take the cap off of the inflatable headrest, then put his lips to it. The air was stale and it made breathing uncomfortable, but Miguel managed to satisfy his lungs.
By now, it felt as if the pool was in the middle of an earthquake and all Miguel could hear was the distorted crack-bang-thump or explosions and the steady burr of heavy weapons fire. The chlorine in the water stung Miguel's eyes, but he kept them open. He wanted to see what was going on. At first Miguel thought that his it was simply his overstressed brain and irritated eyes playing tricks on him, but he realized that what he was seeing was very real. An ugly patch of red was growing in his pool and spreading. Blood was running into the water of his pool, polluting it.
Miguel sat at the bottom of the pool for what seemed an eternity, always feeling the shaking and vibrations of explosions, the distorted voices having vanished long ago. When the vibrations did finally stop, Miguel waited at the bottom of the pool, the top now a translucent red in colour and hard to see through. His diligence was rewarded when he saw the dark shape of a helicopter fly over. His ears were still ringing so badly that he hadn't even been able to hear the thump of its rotors. Miguel stayed at the bottom of the pool until his head cushion ran out of air and forced him to the surface.
Miguel pulled himself onto the edge of his pool and stood, his shoes squelching. Miguel took in the damage to his home and estate like one long accustomed to hardship and disappointment.
What wasn't turned to rubble was on fire, and what wasn't on fire was cratered. There wasn't a single structure left standing on his entire property and the walls were collapsed in many places. The meticulously placed and expensive monitoring equipment had been destroyed. His guards whom he had assumed could repulse any threat were strewn about the lawn like so much hamburger. His 'candy' was now powdered candy, save one sitting off by a wall rocking in the fetal position and crying for all she was worth.
Miguel stooped and took a cigar out of the breast pocket of a relatively intact torso with the head still attached and bit the end off. He lit the cigar on a burning tree and looked through his broken wall to the city of Roanupur. Dark pillars of smoke rose from several places in the city and Miguel realized vaguely that they were all in the rough locations of cartel businesses. Someone was cleaning house with the cartel and had tried to punch out Miguel. Miguel had survived when all others around him had died. It was almost as if he was chosen. Spared by god to complete some purpose that as of yet was unknown to him and those who he had spared around him were also chosen, but to assist him. It was beautiful. Miguel took a long and deep puff of his cigar.
"Senor Miguel!" Miguel looked back over his shoulder and saw a single remaining guard, bloodied, but alive. Miguel smiled, here was another chosen.
"Hello," said Miguel almost serenely. "What seems to be the problem?"
"We-the-everyones dead! The soldiers, the girls, the staff, everyone is dead!" said the guard, clearly close to hysteria.
"Not everyone," said Miguel gesturing over to the traumatized 'candy.' "Get a car ready, I want to go into town and see what's going on personally."
"Everyone's dead and they're probably coming back to finish us off!" said the guard incredulous.
"Maybe, maybe not, but I am going to try and salvage what's left of this business that Abrego seems to be unable to keep together."
"They'll kill you!"
"They've already tried haven't they?" asked Miguel amused. If god didn't want him dead yet, then he wouldn't die. The guard looked at him in awe.
"You've got to be the bravest man with the biggest pair of cajones I've ever seen senor Miguel."
"Yes, I suppose I am," admitted Miguel. "Grab the girl over there and bring her along too would you? I'm eager to see what's happening down in old Roanupur today." As Miguel walked to the last intact car, he stooped and placed his white fedora on his head. He stuffed the deflated headrest into his pocket.
AN: Well here's another chapter for you guys. I haven't updated for a while so I'm putting this out now and I'll actually start working on the other one right away so that I don't just leave this on a cliff like I like to do so often. The Miguel idea just kind of came to me and I kind of like it. The next chapter will deal with the rest of the fighting that takes place in Roanupur and some other neat stuff. So as always, review and thanks for reading.
