After getting a response with the other one, I decided to write this one as
a way of doing something other than study ^_^. By the way Dargon, the
first two were written at least two years ago. Well, that CT one was, this
one was like 18 months ago. Compare all three.
After that last unfortunate encounter, I headed for South America. Colombia, to be exact. What with all the drug cartels fighting all the times, combined with the rebels and government having it out, there was bound to be plenty of work for an experienced man like myself. And I was right.
I fought on the side of several cartels, moving as the money flowed, though I tried not to fight any of the ones I'd previously been hired by. Not out of any professional ethics, but it does tend to piss people off when you switch from their side to that of the enemy. That was something a friend once told me. well, more like a target. But that's another story.
After my last cartel job, I was hanging out in a bar in South Colombia. I won't tell you where, because the bar doesn't exist anymore. It was a victim to a government air strike some days after I left. Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself again.
I was hanging out in the bar, having received an invitation there, to discuss a job. All I had on myself was my combat knife, strapped around my ankle, and a Berretta 92F tucked into the waistband of my pants. I'd left my rifle in the hotel room.
How'd I get it through customs? That isn't important. I've gotten it past every single form of customs on the planet that I've been through with it.
Anyway, back to the bar. I was sitting there nursing my drink, isn't too smart to get blasted in this profession, when this tall customer comes up to me. And when I say tall, I'm talking TALL. Like nearly seven feet. Guy was a monster, built like a tank as well.
He introduced himself, sitting down. Didn't say his name, just that he looking for my services. Kind of understandable. We discussed the contract, and shook hands on it.
He was standing to leave when the doors busted open, and the windows crashed inwards with a shattering spray of glass and other, more lethal items. As I threw myself back, I saw the big guy hit the deck hard, half- twisted around. Looked like he'd copped a round to his shoulder.
Reaching down into my pants, I pulled the pistol out, slipping off the safety as it cleared. Lashing out with one of my legs, I knocked the table over. It was fairly sturdy, so I figured it would be okay for a while. Rolling forward, I crouched against it. The firing stopped, and I ducked my head over the table.
Three men stood in the doorway, sun filtering in and distinguishing them as silhouettes. They were wearing heavy armour by the looks of it, carrying Heckler & Koch MP-5K sub-machine guns. They definitely weren't locals, the gear looked too good for them.
My head withdrew back into cover as the three let off quick bursts from their guns. As I huddled, they stopped, and shouted for me to surrender. In English.
Damn. Hadn't I left Counterstrike behind? I cocked the hammer of my pistol, and then let off a few blind rounds. The response thudded into the table. I was pretty sure this time they'd dived for cover as well. I edged my way to one side, and peered around it.
One of the men who'd been standing in the door way was crouching next to a table. Luckily he didn't see me as I pulled my head back around. This time with my pistol, I lent around.
This time he was looking right at me down the sight of his weapon. He didn't react as fast as I did though. My shot went straight through his forehead, right underneath the helmet. His weapon sprayed as he jerked backwards, finger reflexively pulling on the trigger. I was back behind the table, so it didn't really bother me.
What really bothered me happened quickly after. A grenade popped in over the table, and landed right next to me. I grabbed it quickly, and tossed it away, turning from it and squeezing my eyes shut.
Flash-bang grenades. Can be good. Can be a right proper bitch. My ears were ringing badly from the concussive blast, but I could see. Therefore, the Counterstrike operative was rather shocked to reach my side of the table, and see my gun pointed between his eyes. He flew backwards from the shot, collapsing against tables on his way to the ground.
The other one didn't appear. I looked over the edge of the table, and saw him slumped on the ground. I stood up, noticing the blood pooled around him. The other two were dead, so keeping my gun trained carefully on the one in front of me, I moved up to examine him.
I must of hit him with those blind shots, I realized upon seeing the two holes in his chest. They'd punched right through the Kevlar, probably killing him quickly. Damn, I'm good.
I walked back to my client. He was lying still, hand firmly clasped to his shoulder. I went over, and helped him up, leading him out into the street. After all, he had just hired me. For now, I was going to be working for the rebel army.
But how had Counterstrike found me? That was a mystery for another time.
After that last unfortunate encounter, I headed for South America. Colombia, to be exact. What with all the drug cartels fighting all the times, combined with the rebels and government having it out, there was bound to be plenty of work for an experienced man like myself. And I was right.
I fought on the side of several cartels, moving as the money flowed, though I tried not to fight any of the ones I'd previously been hired by. Not out of any professional ethics, but it does tend to piss people off when you switch from their side to that of the enemy. That was something a friend once told me. well, more like a target. But that's another story.
After my last cartel job, I was hanging out in a bar in South Colombia. I won't tell you where, because the bar doesn't exist anymore. It was a victim to a government air strike some days after I left. Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself again.
I was hanging out in the bar, having received an invitation there, to discuss a job. All I had on myself was my combat knife, strapped around my ankle, and a Berretta 92F tucked into the waistband of my pants. I'd left my rifle in the hotel room.
How'd I get it through customs? That isn't important. I've gotten it past every single form of customs on the planet that I've been through with it.
Anyway, back to the bar. I was sitting there nursing my drink, isn't too smart to get blasted in this profession, when this tall customer comes up to me. And when I say tall, I'm talking TALL. Like nearly seven feet. Guy was a monster, built like a tank as well.
He introduced himself, sitting down. Didn't say his name, just that he looking for my services. Kind of understandable. We discussed the contract, and shook hands on it.
He was standing to leave when the doors busted open, and the windows crashed inwards with a shattering spray of glass and other, more lethal items. As I threw myself back, I saw the big guy hit the deck hard, half- twisted around. Looked like he'd copped a round to his shoulder.
Reaching down into my pants, I pulled the pistol out, slipping off the safety as it cleared. Lashing out with one of my legs, I knocked the table over. It was fairly sturdy, so I figured it would be okay for a while. Rolling forward, I crouched against it. The firing stopped, and I ducked my head over the table.
Three men stood in the doorway, sun filtering in and distinguishing them as silhouettes. They were wearing heavy armour by the looks of it, carrying Heckler & Koch MP-5K sub-machine guns. They definitely weren't locals, the gear looked too good for them.
My head withdrew back into cover as the three let off quick bursts from their guns. As I huddled, they stopped, and shouted for me to surrender. In English.
Damn. Hadn't I left Counterstrike behind? I cocked the hammer of my pistol, and then let off a few blind rounds. The response thudded into the table. I was pretty sure this time they'd dived for cover as well. I edged my way to one side, and peered around it.
One of the men who'd been standing in the door way was crouching next to a table. Luckily he didn't see me as I pulled my head back around. This time with my pistol, I lent around.
This time he was looking right at me down the sight of his weapon. He didn't react as fast as I did though. My shot went straight through his forehead, right underneath the helmet. His weapon sprayed as he jerked backwards, finger reflexively pulling on the trigger. I was back behind the table, so it didn't really bother me.
What really bothered me happened quickly after. A grenade popped in over the table, and landed right next to me. I grabbed it quickly, and tossed it away, turning from it and squeezing my eyes shut.
Flash-bang grenades. Can be good. Can be a right proper bitch. My ears were ringing badly from the concussive blast, but I could see. Therefore, the Counterstrike operative was rather shocked to reach my side of the table, and see my gun pointed between his eyes. He flew backwards from the shot, collapsing against tables on his way to the ground.
The other one didn't appear. I looked over the edge of the table, and saw him slumped on the ground. I stood up, noticing the blood pooled around him. The other two were dead, so keeping my gun trained carefully on the one in front of me, I moved up to examine him.
I must of hit him with those blind shots, I realized upon seeing the two holes in his chest. They'd punched right through the Kevlar, probably killing him quickly. Damn, I'm good.
I walked back to my client. He was lying still, hand firmly clasped to his shoulder. I went over, and helped him up, leading him out into the street. After all, he had just hired me. For now, I was going to be working for the rebel army.
But how had Counterstrike found me? That was a mystery for another time.