1998:
The light blue Corvette ripped through the countryside of Canada, easily hitting 60.
Trees, mere meters away, and mountains in the distance zipped by, as its two occupants grinned dumbly.
Quatre Raberba Winner craned his neck to the right of him, drinking in a quick glance at his newlywed wife. The stunning brunette beside him grinned back, her silky brown hair flapping clumsily behind her.
Smiling at his good luck, Winner's eyes returned to the road, a hand brushing a long lock of blonde hair from his eyes.
A corner neared, and Quatre eased back on the speed, taking the turn with ease.
An overturned car suddenly loomed in front of the convertible, and, with a frown, Quatre pulled hard to the right, slamming down on the brakes as he did so.
The squealing of tires, and the smell of burning rubber found its way to the newlyweds, as Winner grimaced, the Corvette nearly overturning itself.
A look of worry replaced Quatre's handsome face, as he quickly stepped from the car, followed by his wife.
Agent Claire Luck, of Interpol, frowned, as her hand snaked its way into the leather purse, her hand closing around the checkered grip of the Colt Commander. Seven rounds of 230-grain bullets. It would be enough to stop most threats. As her husband rushed to the door, Luck shook her head. She was still a rookie. The gut feelings were probably just a bad stomachache. Still, though. After one shooting, she was beginning to trust her gut instincts.
Against her better judgment, Luck's hand left the grip of her weapon, as she followed her husband towards the door of the car.
A blast suddenly filled the peace of the wilderness, as a bullet sped from the side of the road. Quatre bucked, stumbling back, and falling heavily to the ground.
"No." Murmured Luck weakly, her hand again closing around the grip of the Colt Commander. "NO!"
Heero Yuy stared coldly as the blond man fell from the car, a hand viciously batting away a fly.
He had missed.
The weapon held in his hands, a Heckler & Koch PSG-1, was a powerful weapon. 47.56 inches of cold, hard, 7.62mm spitting steel. If the bullet had impacted head on, Winner wouldn't have a face. He wouldn't have much of a head. The bullet had only grazed his face.
A movement to Yuy's left brought him rolling away from his current position, the PSG-1 swinging towards this new threat.
A single .45 bullet smashed into the dirt where Yuy had lay a mere second ago, followed by another, which smashed into the Polygonal barrel of the sniper rifle.
Heero glanced coldly at the ruined weapon, his hand already un-holstering the Heckler & Koch USP9 Compact.
Another bullet imbedded itself within a tree, the wooden splinters coating themselves upon the assassin.
The Japanese killer returned fire, a pair of 9mm bullets burning through the air.
Luck dropped quickly to the ground, as the two 124-grain hollowpoints ripped through the air, right above the Interpol agent's head.
A figure rose quickly from the brush, the silhouette of a pistol clear in his hands.
He stayed low, darting with amazing speed across the open road, as Luck's bullets smashed into the concrete.
His lips pulled back, displaying the teeth, the expression on Heero Yuy's face could have been mistaken for a grin. It was, however, a vicious growl. The Japanese man pumped his legs hard, not even a trace of sweat visible on his face.
A bullet smashed into the ground directly in Yuy's way, causing him to stumble.
With only a meter between him his destination, Heero leapt, soaring gracefully through the air, his gun hand extended, the gun spitting both fire and bullets.
Claire Luck gasped painfully as a pair of bullets impacted solidly with her abdomen, sending her sprawling.
Quatre groaned, his head lolling to the side. His eyes widened, as the scarlet red poured from his wife's stomach.
"God no." muttered Winner, attempting to crawl to his wife's side.
A bullet whined over his head, causing him to drop back to the ground.
His hand found the wooden grip of the Beretta Bobcat, and, with his remaining strength, pulled it from his holster, aiming clumsily at the figure.
A black dirt bike exploded from the trees, as Quatre weakly pulled the trigger, the .32 caliber bullets whining off the metal frame of the bike.
As if in slow motion, the assassin glanced coldly at the blonde man, his brown hair flapping in the wind. The cold, deadly eyes boring deep into his soul, as his well-framed figure flew through the air, straddled on the vehicle.
And then, the moment vanished, as the killer sped away into the distance.
And as the blissfulness of unconsciousness began to take over Quatre Raberba Winner, four words tumbled dizzily from Winner's mouth, as his head hit the ground, his eyes, blinking.
Both fists tightened, as blood from his head wound poured over the road.
"I will kill you."
2001:
Chang WuFei glanced over the simple concrete railing of his New York home.
Five stories sat below him, as the people below moved like ants doing their business.
Sniffing the air, WuFei frowned, and shook his head. New York definitely wasn't his favorite city.
A wind swept through, chilling Chang's upper-body.
With that, the Chinese man turned on his heels, and walked briskly back into the nearly barren apartment.
In the corner, was a bed, and beside it, was a rack full of ancient oriental weapons, from a pair of Chinese Butterfly Swords, to a Guan Dao, to a Japanese Katana. A puffy chair sat on the other side of the room, a small 15-inch TV located directly in front of it, on a simple wooden table. A large pile of books lay beside that chair. Finally, there was the washroom, and the closet.
Definitely not what you'd expect in a home of a highly infamous Chinese gangster. WuFei grinned, as he sauntered lazily towards the weapons rack, his hand gripping a single broadsword. It was his favorite weapon. A simple yet deadly weapon.
Walking to a center of the room, Chang lowered himself into a deep horsestance, and began twirling the sword absent-mindedly. It wasn't a norm, but at the age of 25, WuFei was beginning to get restless.
An irritant fly flew through the open window, buzzing around the room.
WuFei glanced at the bug, and, with a sigh, shook his head, and began slicing the air with the blade.
The fly neared, and, with sudden quickness, WuFei tossed the sword up into the air, his hand darting forward, gripping the fly gently between his two fingers.
The fly buzzed helplessly between his fingers, as, with his free hand, Chang caught the sword.
Striding gracefully towards the window, WuFei set the bug down on the windowsill, speaking quietly as he did so.
"Next time, I won't be so merciful."
The incessant ringing of his cell phone caught the gangster's attention, as the fly buzzed away.
"What is it now?" muttered WuFei, digging the phone from his pocket.
Flipping it open, Chang merely pressed it against his ear, to the rapid, high-pitched voice of his friend, Cheung FanGau.
The annoyed look on his face was suddenly replaced with worry, as he lowered the phone. Flipping it shut, WuFei set it down, walking briskly to the door, pulling on a black, woolen jacket as he did so.
His boss, Lam LoWei, had just been found dead, along with 12 of his guards. All seemingly killed with bare-hands.
"Hey! You punk! Get your ass back here!"
Duo Maxwell cursed the heavy SWAT gear on his back, as his legs pumped hard, propelling him after the male criminal.
37, Hispanic, male…and homosexual, was what Maxwell had been told about the criminal.
"Queer bitch." Muttered Maxwell, as he dashed through the alley, easily closing the gap between him and the gay gunrunner.
The Heckler & Koch MP5A3 swung in his arms, as they moved in sync with his legs.
"Fuck!" filled the empty alley, as the out-of-breath criminal swung around, gasping for breath, as the chrome Beretta 92 shook in his pudgy, sweaty hands.
With lightening-fast reflexes, Maxwell dove to the ground as a 90-grain bullet sped overtop.
"Now c'mon here." Called out the NYPD cop as he dove around a corner. "Just give it up!"
"Never!" Yelled the gunrunner, as another two bullets imbedded themselves in the ground.
"Ah crap," muttered Duo, frowning. "I wish I could just pump up his semen-filled ass with bullets."
Hesitating, the SWAT member finally yelled out "I'll make you a deal."
"No deals!"
"Even if it involves having sweet, hot, horny sex with me?"
A moment of silence filled the alley.
"You…you'd do that?" Asked the Hispanic man, straightening from his lowered shooting stance, the gun-arm falling down to his side.
"Well…" said Maxwell, tensing up. "No."
The cop shot from his cover, charging the criminal.
A shrill, high-pitched scream filled the alley, as the criminal quickly back-pedaled, attempting to bring his own weapon back into play.
As the Beretta began it's ascent, Maxwell, flew through the air, his shoulder impacting with the Hispanic's chest, sending him sprawling. The pistol fell from his grips, clattering noisily on the concrete. With a sound halfway between a helpless sob, and a police siren, the gunrunner, smashed into the ground.
"Idiot." Muttered Duo, as he closed in on the gay man. A hand gripped the criminal's shirt, and he roughly flipped him onto his stomach, putting his hands in cuffs.
"You have the right to remain silent. Actually, if you don't remain silent, I'm gonna kick your fatass. You understand me you freak? So SHUT THE HELL UP!"
A snickering intermingled with some sarcastic laughing brought Maxwell spinning around.
"They should really replace that damn Miranda crap with the Duo rights."
A large black man stood in the shadows, his chocolate-colored skin melding in almost perfectly with the darkness.
"Yeah, you're right. Ruby, ma' man, we should definitely take this idea to the courts."
Chuckling ensued, as both men shared some hearty laughter.
"When you two stop laughing like friggin' maniacs, why don't you haul this queer prick down to police headquarters?"
Both men spun, surprised, to the source of the voice.
An old, rugged man leaned coolly against the brick wall, his own Beretta 92F holstered in clear view.
"Sure thing, Lieutenant." Spoke Duo, the grin still evident on his face. "It's just, I think Rubi…Officer Carter, should maybe take hold of him. I mean, I think the guy has something for me. I offered to have sex with him, and he agreed!"
Lieutenant Jon Taylor fought hard to keep the grin off his face, as he turned away. The humor was still quite evident, even in his gruff, rough voice.
"Just figure out something."
Grinning at his superior, Duo turned back towards his friend.
"You heard him, Ruby, you have to haul him off."
"What?! He did not say that!"
Jogging towards the squad cars, Maxwell craned his neck back.
"Well, you have to now!"
"Asshole." Muttered Carter, a mock growl filling his face. Roughly grabbing the overweight criminal, Carter hauled the gay man towards the squad cars, after his friend.
"Another day in the life of the illustrious Officer Rubin Carter, and his idiotic screw-up bitch-ass whore-lovin' partner, Duo Maxwell." Muttered the black giant, heading towards the cars.
Duo Maxwell grimaced, as he pushed up the 300 pounds clamped solidly in his hands.
"C'mon, you weak-ass white boy." Rubin Carter urged from above him.
"Fuck…you." Muttered Maxwell weakly, attempting to bench the 300-pounds above him.
With a desperate scream, Duo pushed, hard, finally bringing up the 300 pounds.
"Yes!"
Sitting up tiredly, Maxwell glanced around the gym, waving happily at the many cops who were openly staring at Duo, and his scream.
"You must feel…" Rubin Carter's snide remark was cut off, as a scream filled the station.
Frowning, Duo reached quickly into his gym bag, pulling out a Glock 23, and an extra clip.
Grimly chambering the round, Maxwell glanced over at his partner, a Glock 17 held in his hands.
"Let's do it."
Duo and Rubin burst from the gym door, their badges clipped onto their shirts.
A crowd of cops had gathered around the chief's office, and that was where the two SWAT members headed to.
"What's happening?" Carter asked a nearby policeman.
"The…the chief. He's dead!" answered the bewildered policeman.
"Dead?! How?" demanded Maxwell.
"She…Detective Glover, found him in his office, strangled.
"Jesus." Muttered Maxwell.
Carter leaned heavily against a nearby desk, his head drooping low. This chief had been a good one. Friendly, great to all the cops under him.
A lone oriental man dressed in black slacks, and a dark green muscle shirt suddenly caught Rubin's attention. His hair was dark brown, and the eyes. He had the eyes of a killer.
There was something about the guy,
The warning bells were clanging in Carter's head, as he walked briskly to the man, his weapon now primed and ready to fire.
"Hey, you!" Called out the NYPD cop, jogging quickly to the Oriental man. But he didn't acknowledge Carter's existence, as he headed towards the door.
Frowning, Maxwell followed his friend, the Glock 23 angled loosely towards the Oriental.
"Stop right there!" Demanded Carter, placing a firm hand on the man's shoulder.
With quickness that no normal human could possess, the Oriental man spun around, grasping hold of Carter's arm, and twisting it roughly, easily snapping it.
Rubin Carter was 6'3 and 230 pounds of rock-hard muscle, so it came as a surprise to everybody when the small 5'9 150 pound man picked up the cop, and easily threw him across the room.
"Holy crap!" The Glock 23 in Maxwell's hands exploded, but the Oriental man moved with extreme quickness, narrowly avoiding the bullet.
Heero Yuy moved quickly to the side, a slight frown breaking through his cold, expressionless demeanor as the bullet grazed his thigh.
From a small shoulder bag came a Walther P99, which spit out a pair of 9mm bullets.
The long, brown-haired cop ducked down behind a desk, as the other dozen cops spun around in surprise.
This mission had already gone to hell.
Yuy triggered the weapon as quickly as he could, emptying the clip in under eight seconds, as seven cops fell to the onslaught.
Both the black cop, and the longhaired one came up firing, a duet of .40 S&W and 9mm bullets zeroing in on Heero.
Diving to the ground, the assassin tucked into a tight ball, rolling on the ground, as more than a few dozen bullets sped overtop.
The bulletproof glass behind Yuy cracked, as the bullets smashed into the doorway, sending many pedestrians scurrying for cover.
Quickly reloading, Heero palmed a fragmentation grenade, peeking around the corner as he did so.
The remaining cops had now joined in on the fight, as over half-a-dozen different guns fired in Yuy's general direction.
Setting the pistol down, Heero roughly pulled the pin, and gently tossed the grenade in the direction.
As the assassin ducked back into cover, another grenade now in his other hand, a panicked voice suddenly sounded. "Grenade!"
The explosion was amazing, and inferno filled the station for a few seconds. But it seemed like an eternity.
As the explosion died down, Heero again pulled the pin, tossing it around the corner. This would get the rest for sure.
Duo Maxwell cursed as the explosion died down. A bouncing sound reached Duo's ears, but he shook it off.
Just my imagination. Thought the cop. Just my imagination.
A pair of officers peeked from their cover, weapons held at the ready. Another half-dozen followed this. Among them, was Rubin Carter. But something wasn't right. Something just wasn't right, and Duo opted to stay behind cover.
So, because of his caution, Maxwell wasn't all that surprised when a second explosion sounded.
A loud ringing filled his ears, as Maxwell curled into a tight ball, the shrapnel ripping through the air above him, and into his friends, killing all of them.
The second explosion finally died down, and Duo peeked from his arms.
The worry that should have been there, was replaced by anger. Deep, dark anger.
Blood, skin, and bone was strewn around the station, and he know, among them, was the blood, skin, and bone of Rubin Carter. His friend. His partner. His brother in blue.
"fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!"
With a scream of anger, Duo burst from his cover, the Glock 23 already firing.
Blood flowed freely from his face, and scarlet red filled his vision as he continued firing.
The Oriental man rushed for the door, and he spun around, the Walther P99 outstretched.
For what seemed like an eternity, their eyes met, and they connected
Cold, expressionless eyes met with deep, soulful, humorous ones.
And then, in an instant, that reverie was broken, and both men fired. Both men missed. And while one rushed out the door, the other continued firing, screaming with rage as the killer burst out the door, and into the night.
Agent Trowa Barton stared stonily at the screen before him, his eyes traveling over the information.
"A Triad leader murdered, his 12 guards all found dead, all killed with bare-hands. The Chief of Police found murdered, 19 cops killed, 4 injured, 1 has gone AWOL, apparently on a vigilante mission." Muttered Barton to himself. "And all this in the past week."
Sitting back, the agent shut off the screen, massaging his temple.
There was something else to this. Besides for a highly trained assassin easily taking out dozens of important people, there was something big going on.
Both men had been stalked by a mysterious man, only days before they were killed. Somehow, he knew. Something big was going on. He just knew it.
Agent Trowa Barton would have to find out what that was.
To be continued…
The light blue Corvette ripped through the countryside of Canada, easily hitting 60.
Trees, mere meters away, and mountains in the distance zipped by, as its two occupants grinned dumbly.
Quatre Raberba Winner craned his neck to the right of him, drinking in a quick glance at his newlywed wife. The stunning brunette beside him grinned back, her silky brown hair flapping clumsily behind her.
Smiling at his good luck, Winner's eyes returned to the road, a hand brushing a long lock of blonde hair from his eyes.
A corner neared, and Quatre eased back on the speed, taking the turn with ease.
An overturned car suddenly loomed in front of the convertible, and, with a frown, Quatre pulled hard to the right, slamming down on the brakes as he did so.
The squealing of tires, and the smell of burning rubber found its way to the newlyweds, as Winner grimaced, the Corvette nearly overturning itself.
A look of worry replaced Quatre's handsome face, as he quickly stepped from the car, followed by his wife.
Agent Claire Luck, of Interpol, frowned, as her hand snaked its way into the leather purse, her hand closing around the checkered grip of the Colt Commander. Seven rounds of 230-grain bullets. It would be enough to stop most threats. As her husband rushed to the door, Luck shook her head. She was still a rookie. The gut feelings were probably just a bad stomachache. Still, though. After one shooting, she was beginning to trust her gut instincts.
Against her better judgment, Luck's hand left the grip of her weapon, as she followed her husband towards the door of the car.
A blast suddenly filled the peace of the wilderness, as a bullet sped from the side of the road. Quatre bucked, stumbling back, and falling heavily to the ground.
"No." Murmured Luck weakly, her hand again closing around the grip of the Colt Commander. "NO!"
Heero Yuy stared coldly as the blond man fell from the car, a hand viciously batting away a fly.
He had missed.
The weapon held in his hands, a Heckler & Koch PSG-1, was a powerful weapon. 47.56 inches of cold, hard, 7.62mm spitting steel. If the bullet had impacted head on, Winner wouldn't have a face. He wouldn't have much of a head. The bullet had only grazed his face.
A movement to Yuy's left brought him rolling away from his current position, the PSG-1 swinging towards this new threat.
A single .45 bullet smashed into the dirt where Yuy had lay a mere second ago, followed by another, which smashed into the Polygonal barrel of the sniper rifle.
Heero glanced coldly at the ruined weapon, his hand already un-holstering the Heckler & Koch USP9 Compact.
Another bullet imbedded itself within a tree, the wooden splinters coating themselves upon the assassin.
The Japanese killer returned fire, a pair of 9mm bullets burning through the air.
Luck dropped quickly to the ground, as the two 124-grain hollowpoints ripped through the air, right above the Interpol agent's head.
A figure rose quickly from the brush, the silhouette of a pistol clear in his hands.
He stayed low, darting with amazing speed across the open road, as Luck's bullets smashed into the concrete.
His lips pulled back, displaying the teeth, the expression on Heero Yuy's face could have been mistaken for a grin. It was, however, a vicious growl. The Japanese man pumped his legs hard, not even a trace of sweat visible on his face.
A bullet smashed into the ground directly in Yuy's way, causing him to stumble.
With only a meter between him his destination, Heero leapt, soaring gracefully through the air, his gun hand extended, the gun spitting both fire and bullets.
Claire Luck gasped painfully as a pair of bullets impacted solidly with her abdomen, sending her sprawling.
Quatre groaned, his head lolling to the side. His eyes widened, as the scarlet red poured from his wife's stomach.
"God no." muttered Winner, attempting to crawl to his wife's side.
A bullet whined over his head, causing him to drop back to the ground.
His hand found the wooden grip of the Beretta Bobcat, and, with his remaining strength, pulled it from his holster, aiming clumsily at the figure.
A black dirt bike exploded from the trees, as Quatre weakly pulled the trigger, the .32 caliber bullets whining off the metal frame of the bike.
As if in slow motion, the assassin glanced coldly at the blonde man, his brown hair flapping in the wind. The cold, deadly eyes boring deep into his soul, as his well-framed figure flew through the air, straddled on the vehicle.
And then, the moment vanished, as the killer sped away into the distance.
And as the blissfulness of unconsciousness began to take over Quatre Raberba Winner, four words tumbled dizzily from Winner's mouth, as his head hit the ground, his eyes, blinking.
Both fists tightened, as blood from his head wound poured over the road.
"I will kill you."
2001:
Chang WuFei glanced over the simple concrete railing of his New York home.
Five stories sat below him, as the people below moved like ants doing their business.
Sniffing the air, WuFei frowned, and shook his head. New York definitely wasn't his favorite city.
A wind swept through, chilling Chang's upper-body.
With that, the Chinese man turned on his heels, and walked briskly back into the nearly barren apartment.
In the corner, was a bed, and beside it, was a rack full of ancient oriental weapons, from a pair of Chinese Butterfly Swords, to a Guan Dao, to a Japanese Katana. A puffy chair sat on the other side of the room, a small 15-inch TV located directly in front of it, on a simple wooden table. A large pile of books lay beside that chair. Finally, there was the washroom, and the closet.
Definitely not what you'd expect in a home of a highly infamous Chinese gangster. WuFei grinned, as he sauntered lazily towards the weapons rack, his hand gripping a single broadsword. It was his favorite weapon. A simple yet deadly weapon.
Walking to a center of the room, Chang lowered himself into a deep horsestance, and began twirling the sword absent-mindedly. It wasn't a norm, but at the age of 25, WuFei was beginning to get restless.
An irritant fly flew through the open window, buzzing around the room.
WuFei glanced at the bug, and, with a sigh, shook his head, and began slicing the air with the blade.
The fly neared, and, with sudden quickness, WuFei tossed the sword up into the air, his hand darting forward, gripping the fly gently between his two fingers.
The fly buzzed helplessly between his fingers, as, with his free hand, Chang caught the sword.
Striding gracefully towards the window, WuFei set the bug down on the windowsill, speaking quietly as he did so.
"Next time, I won't be so merciful."
The incessant ringing of his cell phone caught the gangster's attention, as the fly buzzed away.
"What is it now?" muttered WuFei, digging the phone from his pocket.
Flipping it open, Chang merely pressed it against his ear, to the rapid, high-pitched voice of his friend, Cheung FanGau.
The annoyed look on his face was suddenly replaced with worry, as he lowered the phone. Flipping it shut, WuFei set it down, walking briskly to the door, pulling on a black, woolen jacket as he did so.
His boss, Lam LoWei, had just been found dead, along with 12 of his guards. All seemingly killed with bare-hands.
"Hey! You punk! Get your ass back here!"
Duo Maxwell cursed the heavy SWAT gear on his back, as his legs pumped hard, propelling him after the male criminal.
37, Hispanic, male…and homosexual, was what Maxwell had been told about the criminal.
"Queer bitch." Muttered Maxwell, as he dashed through the alley, easily closing the gap between him and the gay gunrunner.
The Heckler & Koch MP5A3 swung in his arms, as they moved in sync with his legs.
"Fuck!" filled the empty alley, as the out-of-breath criminal swung around, gasping for breath, as the chrome Beretta 92 shook in his pudgy, sweaty hands.
With lightening-fast reflexes, Maxwell dove to the ground as a 90-grain bullet sped overtop.
"Now c'mon here." Called out the NYPD cop as he dove around a corner. "Just give it up!"
"Never!" Yelled the gunrunner, as another two bullets imbedded themselves in the ground.
"Ah crap," muttered Duo, frowning. "I wish I could just pump up his semen-filled ass with bullets."
Hesitating, the SWAT member finally yelled out "I'll make you a deal."
"No deals!"
"Even if it involves having sweet, hot, horny sex with me?"
A moment of silence filled the alley.
"You…you'd do that?" Asked the Hispanic man, straightening from his lowered shooting stance, the gun-arm falling down to his side.
"Well…" said Maxwell, tensing up. "No."
The cop shot from his cover, charging the criminal.
A shrill, high-pitched scream filled the alley, as the criminal quickly back-pedaled, attempting to bring his own weapon back into play.
As the Beretta began it's ascent, Maxwell, flew through the air, his shoulder impacting with the Hispanic's chest, sending him sprawling. The pistol fell from his grips, clattering noisily on the concrete. With a sound halfway between a helpless sob, and a police siren, the gunrunner, smashed into the ground.
"Idiot." Muttered Duo, as he closed in on the gay man. A hand gripped the criminal's shirt, and he roughly flipped him onto his stomach, putting his hands in cuffs.
"You have the right to remain silent. Actually, if you don't remain silent, I'm gonna kick your fatass. You understand me you freak? So SHUT THE HELL UP!"
A snickering intermingled with some sarcastic laughing brought Maxwell spinning around.
"They should really replace that damn Miranda crap with the Duo rights."
A large black man stood in the shadows, his chocolate-colored skin melding in almost perfectly with the darkness.
"Yeah, you're right. Ruby, ma' man, we should definitely take this idea to the courts."
Chuckling ensued, as both men shared some hearty laughter.
"When you two stop laughing like friggin' maniacs, why don't you haul this queer prick down to police headquarters?"
Both men spun, surprised, to the source of the voice.
An old, rugged man leaned coolly against the brick wall, his own Beretta 92F holstered in clear view.
"Sure thing, Lieutenant." Spoke Duo, the grin still evident on his face. "It's just, I think Rubi…Officer Carter, should maybe take hold of him. I mean, I think the guy has something for me. I offered to have sex with him, and he agreed!"
Lieutenant Jon Taylor fought hard to keep the grin off his face, as he turned away. The humor was still quite evident, even in his gruff, rough voice.
"Just figure out something."
Grinning at his superior, Duo turned back towards his friend.
"You heard him, Ruby, you have to haul him off."
"What?! He did not say that!"
Jogging towards the squad cars, Maxwell craned his neck back.
"Well, you have to now!"
"Asshole." Muttered Carter, a mock growl filling his face. Roughly grabbing the overweight criminal, Carter hauled the gay man towards the squad cars, after his friend.
"Another day in the life of the illustrious Officer Rubin Carter, and his idiotic screw-up bitch-ass whore-lovin' partner, Duo Maxwell." Muttered the black giant, heading towards the cars.
Duo Maxwell grimaced, as he pushed up the 300 pounds clamped solidly in his hands.
"C'mon, you weak-ass white boy." Rubin Carter urged from above him.
"Fuck…you." Muttered Maxwell weakly, attempting to bench the 300-pounds above him.
With a desperate scream, Duo pushed, hard, finally bringing up the 300 pounds.
"Yes!"
Sitting up tiredly, Maxwell glanced around the gym, waving happily at the many cops who were openly staring at Duo, and his scream.
"You must feel…" Rubin Carter's snide remark was cut off, as a scream filled the station.
Frowning, Duo reached quickly into his gym bag, pulling out a Glock 23, and an extra clip.
Grimly chambering the round, Maxwell glanced over at his partner, a Glock 17 held in his hands.
"Let's do it."
Duo and Rubin burst from the gym door, their badges clipped onto their shirts.
A crowd of cops had gathered around the chief's office, and that was where the two SWAT members headed to.
"What's happening?" Carter asked a nearby policeman.
"The…the chief. He's dead!" answered the bewildered policeman.
"Dead?! How?" demanded Maxwell.
"She…Detective Glover, found him in his office, strangled.
"Jesus." Muttered Maxwell.
Carter leaned heavily against a nearby desk, his head drooping low. This chief had been a good one. Friendly, great to all the cops under him.
A lone oriental man dressed in black slacks, and a dark green muscle shirt suddenly caught Rubin's attention. His hair was dark brown, and the eyes. He had the eyes of a killer.
There was something about the guy,
The warning bells were clanging in Carter's head, as he walked briskly to the man, his weapon now primed and ready to fire.
"Hey, you!" Called out the NYPD cop, jogging quickly to the Oriental man. But he didn't acknowledge Carter's existence, as he headed towards the door.
Frowning, Maxwell followed his friend, the Glock 23 angled loosely towards the Oriental.
"Stop right there!" Demanded Carter, placing a firm hand on the man's shoulder.
With quickness that no normal human could possess, the Oriental man spun around, grasping hold of Carter's arm, and twisting it roughly, easily snapping it.
Rubin Carter was 6'3 and 230 pounds of rock-hard muscle, so it came as a surprise to everybody when the small 5'9 150 pound man picked up the cop, and easily threw him across the room.
"Holy crap!" The Glock 23 in Maxwell's hands exploded, but the Oriental man moved with extreme quickness, narrowly avoiding the bullet.
Heero Yuy moved quickly to the side, a slight frown breaking through his cold, expressionless demeanor as the bullet grazed his thigh.
From a small shoulder bag came a Walther P99, which spit out a pair of 9mm bullets.
The long, brown-haired cop ducked down behind a desk, as the other dozen cops spun around in surprise.
This mission had already gone to hell.
Yuy triggered the weapon as quickly as he could, emptying the clip in under eight seconds, as seven cops fell to the onslaught.
Both the black cop, and the longhaired one came up firing, a duet of .40 S&W and 9mm bullets zeroing in on Heero.
Diving to the ground, the assassin tucked into a tight ball, rolling on the ground, as more than a few dozen bullets sped overtop.
The bulletproof glass behind Yuy cracked, as the bullets smashed into the doorway, sending many pedestrians scurrying for cover.
Quickly reloading, Heero palmed a fragmentation grenade, peeking around the corner as he did so.
The remaining cops had now joined in on the fight, as over half-a-dozen different guns fired in Yuy's general direction.
Setting the pistol down, Heero roughly pulled the pin, and gently tossed the grenade in the direction.
As the assassin ducked back into cover, another grenade now in his other hand, a panicked voice suddenly sounded. "Grenade!"
The explosion was amazing, and inferno filled the station for a few seconds. But it seemed like an eternity.
As the explosion died down, Heero again pulled the pin, tossing it around the corner. This would get the rest for sure.
Duo Maxwell cursed as the explosion died down. A bouncing sound reached Duo's ears, but he shook it off.
Just my imagination. Thought the cop. Just my imagination.
A pair of officers peeked from their cover, weapons held at the ready. Another half-dozen followed this. Among them, was Rubin Carter. But something wasn't right. Something just wasn't right, and Duo opted to stay behind cover.
So, because of his caution, Maxwell wasn't all that surprised when a second explosion sounded.
A loud ringing filled his ears, as Maxwell curled into a tight ball, the shrapnel ripping through the air above him, and into his friends, killing all of them.
The second explosion finally died down, and Duo peeked from his arms.
The worry that should have been there, was replaced by anger. Deep, dark anger.
Blood, skin, and bone was strewn around the station, and he know, among them, was the blood, skin, and bone of Rubin Carter. His friend. His partner. His brother in blue.
"fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!"
With a scream of anger, Duo burst from his cover, the Glock 23 already firing.
Blood flowed freely from his face, and scarlet red filled his vision as he continued firing.
The Oriental man rushed for the door, and he spun around, the Walther P99 outstretched.
For what seemed like an eternity, their eyes met, and they connected
Cold, expressionless eyes met with deep, soulful, humorous ones.
And then, in an instant, that reverie was broken, and both men fired. Both men missed. And while one rushed out the door, the other continued firing, screaming with rage as the killer burst out the door, and into the night.
Agent Trowa Barton stared stonily at the screen before him, his eyes traveling over the information.
"A Triad leader murdered, his 12 guards all found dead, all killed with bare-hands. The Chief of Police found murdered, 19 cops killed, 4 injured, 1 has gone AWOL, apparently on a vigilante mission." Muttered Barton to himself. "And all this in the past week."
Sitting back, the agent shut off the screen, massaging his temple.
There was something else to this. Besides for a highly trained assassin easily taking out dozens of important people, there was something big going on.
Both men had been stalked by a mysterious man, only days before they were killed. Somehow, he knew. Something big was going on. He just knew it.
Agent Trowa Barton would have to find out what that was.
To be continued…