God, how he loved Germany…the long-legged, big titted women. And the beer. Those beer halls…heaven on earth for a guy who kept at least three 6-packs of Molson Canadian in the fridge at all times.
Normally, standing at the entrance to such a mansion of alcohol, Kalman Ling would have had a big, sloppy grin etched upon his face. But now, standing in the central district of Bonn, Ling instead wore an uneasy gaze.
There seemed to be a mixed crowd here. Skinheads at one end, and scholarly-types at the other.
It was with this uneasy scan that Ling nearly missed the huge giant easing towards him, moving with grace that belied a man of his size. He could have easily been seen as the Aryan ideal. Beneath short-cropped platinum blonde hair stood a handsome face that would have done Brad Pitt proud, and a body that would have put Hercules to shame.
Those bright, blue German eyes held a glint of menace, and with the muscles suddenly tensing up, with the adrenaline suddenly coursing through his veins, Ling slowly began rotating his wrist, a habit he had developed over the years before he fought.
Like many other testosterone-filled teenagers, Ling had taken his share of Martial Arts. Tae-Kwon Do, Karate, Kung Fu…of course, he had purposely forgotten all of that. Even living a relatively pampered life, there was one thing Kalman Ling had always been good at. And that was bare-knuckled brawls.
The giant…all 6'5 and 290 pounds of him, slowed to a stop, intent eyes glaring forward.
"Shit…" Muttered Ling under his breath. He'd gone from his home in Toronto over to Germany for a cross-training program with the infamous GSG-9, Germany's premier Counter-Terrorist organization. He hadn't come to Germany for a brawl.
It was then that he noticed another man, almost as big as the first, strolling forward, his menacing face tightened in a slight snarl. This one was a skinhead. Not as bulky, but certainly taller, standing at close to 6'8.
Ling's fingers itched for the trusty old Colt Defender he'd left back at home. There was no way he could win against these two 'freaks'. Not only did they seem strong, but they also seemed fast.
The skinhead stopped to the right, and just behind his partner, milky white teeth acting as a mirror to those nervous half-Irish eyes.
"Hey, uh…" Muttered Ling, suddenly cursing himself for his limited German.
The lips of the first suddenly peeled back. Great, there were two guys viciously snarling at him now.
But wait.
It was then that Ling noticed that the blonde giant wasn't snarling. He was grinning.
"Are you…uh…Herr Ling?" Boomed out a jolly voice in heavily accented English.
Kalman could merely blink. "Yeah."
The skinhead suddenly chuckled, twisting gracefully around his stockier companion.
"Ve are you new…com…comrades? Ja. Comrades. That ees it." Came an equally accented voice with an equally huge grin.
Kalman blinked again. "Um…"
"Come!" Boomed the blonde's voice again as he slapped the smaller Canadian in the back, nearly brushing him off his feet. "I em Erik. Dis is Wolfgang. We buy you some beer."
With a grimace, Xander Harris once again swallowed a heavy dose of 'industrial'-class painkillers. The throbbing was returning…with the morning sun. Wincing, he eased off the light cotton shirt, letting it drop to the floor as he checked the bandages wrapped around his torso.
Pointedly, he ignored the incredulous gazes of his old friends. It hurt…to see them. It hurt to be here. Back in Sunnydale. Back in the Magic Box. Back with his demons…both metaphorically and literally. Those fucking demons. The ones who had ruined his life…the ones who had consumed him.
It didn't matter now. Xander didn't expect to live much longer. He could deal with his demons in hell…or, more preferably, in heaven.
The Smith & Wesson lay upon the counter beside him, empty of ammunition. Neither soldiers had any more rounds, and his friend's gun had even jammed.
The shirt lay on the ground, next to his feet. The babyfat around him had never fully vanished, still giving him a boyish look. Harris didn't mind. His opponents always seemed to underestimate him for it. That is, until were on the brink of death.
The silence in the Magic Box seemed unbearable…but any conversation with the friends…with the family he had hurt so badly would be even worse. Thankfully, Willow - his absolute best friend - Tara, and Dawn had all left for a shopping spree. Of course, Xander was glad that they weren't here to witness the destruction…possibly even get hurt, or worse. But his real reason was much more selfish. It would be hell to face up to them…especially Willow.
The quiet shuffling of Giles sounded out as the former Librarian, his hair now greyed around the edges, attempted to set everything back in place. Buffy was at the other end, gently sweeping up the shards of glass that scattered around the floor of the shop like furious hurricane. And Spike merely sat in the corner, his flask grumpily held in his hands as he took swig after swig to ease the burning pain inflicted by the bullets.
Ling had turned heel and burst out the door the moment he had seen that the danger had subsided. Harris would have been fret with worry for his friend, but he knew the ex-RCMP cop, formerly with the ERT - Emergency Response Team, a version of SWAT - could handle the low-life bloodsucking scum of Sunnydale.
"Bloody…" Came the quiet, muttered curse as the bleached vampire pushed himself from the corner, ambling over towards the bathroom. "Might as well…"
The entrance to the Magic Box suddenly slammed open, the short red hair of Willow Rosenberg, the young, talented witch, exploded in, followed by her lover, Tara, and the sister of the Slayer, Dawn Summers. Simultaneously, four heads whipped towards the three girls. They looked worse for the wear, blood, grime and tears streaking across the porcelain faces.
With a growl, Spike spun clumsily on his heels, limping towards the three, as the sounds of objects crashing against the floor echoed, Giles and Buffy racing towards the three.
Grimacing, Xander shuffled slowly forward, pulling his shirt from the ground.
A torrent of questions from the Watcher and Slayer assaulted the three…as the soft brown eyes of Willow Rosenberg suddenly caught sight of her long-lost friend, leaning painfully against the counter, the Smith & Wesson lying next to him.
"X…Xander?" Squeaked out an innocent voice. Harris couldn't resist the small smile that uplifted the corners of his lips. She hadn't changed in the least.
"Hey Will."
"Xander…" Repeated Willow, her eyes widened open. "Wh…"
"What happened?" interjected a frantic Buffy, quickly pushing her younger sister down upon a chair.
"Just…five guys. W…w…with g…guns," Stuttered the blonde witch, Tara, obviously shaken as her hands slowly wiped a speck of blood from her cheek.
"Tara…"
"They came!" Shouted Tara, gulping hysterically as she roughly shook away tears. "They started shooting everyone!"
Silence reigned in the store as they took this piece of information in.
"Were they…were they, invincible?" Came Giles' voice as he shakily pushed the drooping glasses up his nose.
"No," Answered Willow, shaking her head, now totally ignoring Xander. "There was a guy. He shot one of them."
"A guy? A…a policeman?" Asked the Slayer, roughly wiping blood off of her sister's face.
"No. Some guy in a leather coat in black pants."
His eyes widened, Xander ignored the sharp stab of pain as he suddenly lunged forward, sprinting for the door.
"Kalman you idiot…" Spat the ex-SEAL quietly as he burst out the door. "You fucking idiot."
It was the thunderous torrent of bullets that finally sent a short, crisp "Fuck!" from Kalman Ling's lips his legs pumped crazily, sending the Canadian cop sprinting to the other end of the food court at the mall with the unpronounceable name.
Luckily, the Germans occupying the mall had long-since been evacuated before the fanatical 9-man team of neo-Nazi terrorists had exploded onto the scene, intent on a massacre.
Catching a whiff beforehand, GSG-9 had sent two 3-man teams to apprehend the terrorists. But things weren't going so well. For one, they all seemed to be amazingly well trained. For the other, they all seemed to wield state-of-art weaponry. The huge, bulky OICW rifles were the absolute best you could get. The operated with helmets, which operated in tandem with satellites, providing information on the enemy's location based on the body heat.
In essence, the neo-Nazi's wielded technology not even provided yet to the American military.
But then again, technology was no match for guts and determination. Along with a Heckler & Koch MP5PDW.
The small, compact sub-machine-gun stuttered in his hands as Ling fired one-handed, forcing the Nazi's back down under cover.
The hammer swiftly began striking thin air, and with a curse, Ling let the sub-gun drop against his strap.
This battle had been going on for far too long. He had started out five clips in all for the MP5…adding up to 150 rounds. Now he had only 30 more rounds for the sub gun.
5.56mm bullets chasing him across the empty food court, Ling dove behind the counter restaurant, hunkering down as bullets flew overhead. Cursing in his newly learned language, Kalman rammed his last remaining clip home.
The 6-man team had quickly been cut into a 3-man team. Hell, for all he knew, it could have been cut down to a one-man team. Erik and Wolfgang could be dead, for all he knew.
Grimacing, noting the lull in enemy fire, Ling lunged over top the counter, firing the MP5 two-handed, jerking the trigger back rapidly. The sub-gun was now set for single-fire.
But it wouldn't have mattered, for it was then that a torrent bullets struck the countertop, sparks flying about as the ricocheted off. Some bullets went into the MP5, instantly demolishing it. Others went into Ling.
Death. This was what it was like. Some people said that death was peaceful, a light glinting overhead as beautiful little feathers drifted against their skin. Fucking bullshit. He didn't see any lights…he didn't see any feathers. All he saw was the ceiling up ahead.
Bloodstained fingers held the Heckler & Koch P7M13 loosely in his hands, the handsome Chinese features contorting with agony as he gasped for air.
The leather jacket lay open, the blue shirt underneath stained with blood from the chest wound. Chest wounds were healable. But somehow, Kalman Ling had a feeling that this one wasn't.
Those Irish blue eyes hazily scanned the grounds around him. Bodies littered the floor of the Sunnydale mall. Those five bastards had exploded in…just like those nine bastards three years back in Germany. Same rifles, same clothes, same look…and same fucking sponsor. Marcus Jennings had sponsored the massacre three years back…Marcus Jennings had sponsored the massacre three minutes back. Too bad he wouldn't get to kill Marcus Jennings.
Grunting in pain, gasping noisily as the Grim Reaper seemed to loom up before him, his hand reaching out to finally claim him after all those years, Kalman Ling forced a small, wavering smile upon his face.
What the hell. Like the Natives said, today was a good day to die.
"No…" Muttered Xander Harris as he exploded into the shopping mall, the sounds of sirens wailing in the distance.
Bodies littered the grounds before him, but the acute eyes easily picked up the body he was looking for.
"Kalman you fuckhead!" Screamed Harris as he sprinted towards his friend.
"Xa…Xan…Xand…" Gasped Ling, a delirious little grin upon his face.
"Oh god…" Muttered Xander, ignoring the moisture welling up in his eyes as he dropped to his knees, applying pressure to the chest wound.
"See…blue…disk." Gasped the former cop, his face strained with exertion.
"Shut-up," Spat Xander. "Save your gibberish until after you get outta the hospital."
"Blue…bl…dis" Insisted Ling, shivering.
"I said shut up!" Growled Xander as he bit down hard upon his lower lip, ignoring the stream of blood that ran down his chin.
"Kill…bastards for…" Muttered Kalman, his right hand waggling the P7 in his fingers. "Jennings…here…"
"Wha…I said shut up man," Murmured Xander softly, almost helplessly as a big, fat goblet of saline streamed down his eyes. "Tell it to me later."
"Kill…Jen…" The plea died down as the Canadian's face froze in midsentence, the eyes opened wide, hazy with pain, the lips outstretched, the face contorted in exertion.
"Tell it to me later," Pleaded Xander softly as he applied more pressure to his friend's wound. "You here me!" Yelled Harris suddenly. "You tell it to me fucking later!"
The yell seemed to echo around the mall as the soldier began shivering, his fingers shakily closing around the P7.
"You…you tell me…" Sobs racked his body as Harris hammered his fist into the cool, linoleum floor. Tears dripped softly upon Ling's face, streaming down, mixing in with his hair. Slowly, he lowered his face against his friend's shoulders, his strong arms wrapping themselves around the slain warrior's body. "You…fucking…tell…me…"
And it was there that Xander Harris cried for the first time since his wife was murdered. But now, as a sorrowed, angered scream rang throughout the mall, Harris vowed that Jennings would pay for the death of his blood brother.
This was the Soldier's Vengeance.