chapter EIGHTEEN: Seven Bullets. Seven Bodies

"FOX-HOUND had been 'reassessed' (to quote the official statements) sometime around the second incident with the tanker, the Discovery. As soon as it was reinstated and officially accepted as a division of the United States Special Forces once again, Solid Snake was back on the job. The timing did seem a little too convenient to be simply coincidental. As suspected, it was anything but a coincidence. FOX-HOUND had been reinstated specifically for Solid Snake. Whatever that meant, exactly, was anyone's guess, but as time went on it became clear that someone didn't want him returning from Trinket that day."

~*~

The creature was getting something ready in the shaded corner of the room, packing a bag or something. Brant looked woozily over him, trying to figure out what he was doing. "So," he began, pausing for a short time to arrange his words carefully, "where do I go now?" The creature ignored him, continued packing the bag in the corner. Sunlight was beginning to wash through the sky, a very faint glow passing through the cut-out window and reflecting on the back wall of the room. Brant asked again: "What happens now?"

"My name is Fox," the creature said, matter-of-factly. He slung a small black duffel bag over his shoulder and turned to Brant, fixing one hand over his giant red eye and pressing on his temples with his thumb and middle finger. There was a release of air and a muffled 'click' and the front of the mask came free in his hand. Lowering it, he showed Brant his face, his blondish hair, his rugged features, and his sharp cheekbone. There was age in his face, not of years but of experience, and there was an odd glimmer of acceptance and sternness in his eyes. He extended a hand to help Brant onto his feet. "Call me Fox from now on. We'll be working together for the rest of the day."

Brant eyed him, confused. Working together? And then, the name struck him. "Fox...Gray Fox from Shadow Moses? I thought you died."

"I did," he said, and turned away, refitting his mask to his face and going to the heavy rusting door across the room. Brant watched him, still somewhat frozen in awe. Fox stopped at the door, his hand resting on the handle, and looked briefly over his shoulder, big red eye glowing brightly again. "Coming?"

~*~

The White House was right ahead of him, the sun shining over its steps and making its white walls appear yellow for a short time. Desperado was waiting just across the street, at an intersection, watching the cars roll by, watching the lights as they never seemed to change. There was a weight in his pocket, his cell phone, that he wished would ring, and a light tug in his hand as the big blue balloon bounced around in the breeze, the string inching out of his grip. Looking back to the lights and the cars, he saw the white man flash ahead of him, signaling him to cross.

Stepping into the street, he heard a flock of geese passing overhead, moving south of course. Their wings were all black, their bellies white, and little streaks of green behind their eyes. As he arched his neck to watch them, resting his hand on his brow to guard him from the sunlight, he felt the wind stop and the world slow down. Everything moved less quickly – the clouds, the geese, the trees, the people, the cars – until he heard those loud honking sounds around him. The lights changed, the cars began to move, cautiously and slowly, trying to warn Desperado with their horns, but when he realized they were trying to go by he simply walked to the other side of the street, no hurry in his step, and started up to the White House.

The geese were flying to his back, still squawking like mad. Honking. Just like the cars.

~*~

Fox pulled a set of keys from his duffel bag, brandishing them as they stepped up to Brant's truck. "You'll drive," he said, handing the keys over to Brant who still seemed confused. Taking the keys, though, without question, he opened the driver's door and scooted inside as Fox moved in on his right, taking a seat next to him and throwing his duffel bag down at his feet. Brant jammed the keys into the ignition and started the truck, the engine sputtering a little.

"Where to?" Brant asked, watching ahead as he backed out of the lot and stopped before the street.

"I need to talk with some of your friends from FOX-HOUND," Fox answered. "Head for the safe house." Brant looked sideways at him, questioning his intentions.

"Why the safe –" Brant started, but Fox lifted a cell phone to his ear and shushed him with his index finger. "Just drive," he said, and Brant turned left out of the parking lot, leaving an abandoned office building – the one he'd met outside of with Will Beck, Director of the NSA – behind. He looked over at Fox every few moments, making sure he wasn't doing anything peculiar, and continued driving.

"Mei Ling," Fox said, speaking over the phone line. "We're heading for the safe house."

"Fox," she started, "how is Mr. Brant?"

"He's fine," Fox answered. "Be ready for us. I'm calling Desperado now to give him the news." He ended the call like that, didn't even say good-bye. But, for him, time was important. They couldn't be wasting it with good-byes. He had to call Desperado.

~*~

"Hello?" Desperado answered anxiously as he entered the crumbling stairwell through the West Wing, phone to his ear.

"Brant and I are heading for the safe house." It was Fox.

"Good. I'm going to speak with Mr. Moore. Have you heard from the post in Moscow yet?"

"No. Nothing new from them. I doubt they'll have much to do before the President gets on the plane…when's he heading out?"

"Within the hour, I believe. Once I leave this meeting with Mr. Moore I'll go to speak with him." Desperado went down the stairwell, slid his card key through the register by the door at the foot of the stairs and passed into the next hallway. "I have to go, Fox. I'll call you soon."

"Good bye, Desperado." The call ended and Desperado pocketed his phone. There was hardly any business going on now. It had been much more congested earlier in the day, the hall that is, but it had cleared out since. At the end of it was a man carrying a number of weapons, guarding a door. Desperado went to him, smiled, was patted down for any guns – a Desert Eagle that the guard then took from him – and was then let into the room.

He found Vice President Moore sitting there in front of him, eyes shut, arms crossed, legs crossed, and one single piece of paper sitting on the table before him. He opened his eyes when Desperado stepped up to him, smiled a little, and slid the paper to his side of the table. "These are your targets," he said, plainly but eerily. "Everything you need to know about them – location, age, phone number – is right there on that sheet." Desperado lifted the paper to his eyes and read quickly over the names: there were seven. Seven names, seven targets. Targets…not people, not human beings. But targets. He folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket.

"You will have four hours to get rid of them," he said. "Any longer than that and its possible news could break and you could be caught before all seven are disposed of. So long as you have them all gone in the next five hours you'll be covered, the scenes will be secured, and your association with me on this mission will be forgotten."

"Is this all?" Desperado asked, trying to avoid returning to this room, the cameras positioned all about. Mr. Moore looked up at him through narrowed eyes, a sort of sadness or disappointment in them.

"Use this gun," he said, reaching into his pocket with a cloth about his fingers, and setting a heavy black gun on the table. Desperado stepped forward and lifted it off the table, eyeing it carefully. "A Five Seven," Moore said aloud. "There are seven bullets in that clip. That's exactly the number you should need. Seven bullets. Seven bodies."

Desperado nodded, dropped the gun in his jacket pocket, and without saying anything more, passed out of the room and left Alex Moore, Vice President of the United States of America sitting in his stiff chair, eyes shut, arms crossed, legs crossed.

~*~

Snake noticed the air was becoming less stale, less cool. There was a low hum all around him, the vents shooting streams of warm air out at him from above. The walls were crumbling, cracking at his sides, and the floor, to his advantage, had grown soft from years of wear. His footsteps were nothing more than muffled pats, like raindrops on sidewalks.

He had maneuvered around a couple of guards patrolling the halls, but he was surprised that he hadn't met with many more than two. He suspected that if there was any real threat here there would be swarms of men on site, but it didn't seem that way. Didn't seem that way at all. But, eventually, he came to a new door. The last ones he'd gone through had led to storage closets or restrooms. He'd picked up ammunition for his SOCOM in one of the closets and had taped two magazines on the sides of the barrel like Desperado had done with his Desert Eagles all those times before.

Going cautiously to the door, now, he checked the knob. He rattled it very lightly, trying to determine whether or not it had been locked. Upon finding it unlocked, he flattened his back on the wall beside it and counted silently to himself, eyes squinted, hand gripping the SOCOM with confidence, but not with nervousness. He was anticipating whatever lay beyond the door. Wasn't sure what it was, but hoped he'd find something.

And he did.

When he swung around and pushed it open he found three men, all wearing black apparel and carrying machine guns, M4s, M16s, side arms, flash bangs, and grenades. His SOCOM had no silencer, but that wasn't something he could worry about. They were all three turning in his direction. Two of them were sitting in little plastic chairs, facing three narrow cells and one that was wider, and the third soldier was aiming playfully at the far wall. They were all caught off guard.

Without hesitating, Snake turned his aim to the man all ready standing. With two pulls of the trigger, two loud droning claps, and two sprays of blood, the soldier who was standing before began to stumble to the floor – a gunshot in his neck, and another in the back of his head. The other two men fumbled with their guns – one aiming at Snake and the other aiming through the bars of one of the cells. "I'll kill him!" the one said, referring to whoever was hiding in the jail cell. Snake didn't move. His finger rested lightly on the trigger.

He had two men, both armed with everything they would need to kill him. But, he didn't think about that. He'd always been taught – never hesitate – and he'd had years to understand why.

He pulled the trigger, and the man aiming at his own chest fell backward, a hole punched in his forehead with a bullet. The second man didn't fire at the inmate – no one ever actually shot the hostage – but instead turned his gun on Snake. But, he was far too late. Smoke was pouring through the pinhole in his heart just the next second, and his gun was clattering to the floor before he could get the shot off.

Snake looked around the room, SOCOM still aimed ahead, and made sure there was no one left before closing the door behind him and holstering his gun. He glanced over the bodies as he moved to the cells, both disgusted and miserable. Closing his eyes in reverence, he went and stopped before the four cells. Looking over them, he found three men – all sitting, frightened, in their cells.

One of them scooted forward on his cement slab, what was supposed to be a bed, and stuttered: "Is it…? Solid Snake?"

Only one of them was familiar, but he would find out, soon, that all three of them meant much more than he could ever have thought at the time.

~*~

Desperado stepped inside the secretary offices outside the Oval Office and said to the woman sitting at her desk: "When is the President leaving for Moscow?" She looked over her gold-rimmed glasses, capped her pen, and smiled.

"He'll be leaving here in a matter of minutes," she announced. She had met with Desperado before. They knew each other, not well, but knew each others' names and personalities to some extent. Desperado was always kind to her when he came through. And she was always kind to him. "Would you like to see him?" Desperado nodded.

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble," he said, and she stood, stepped around her desk, and went to the door of the Oval Office. She stepped through, said something, and Desperado smiled to himself when he heard the President's muffled voice pass through the doorway. The woman peered over her shoulder, went back to her desk, and smiled to Desperado. "Go right on in."

Desperado thanked her and walked to the door. When he stepped into the Oval Office he shut the door behind him and stopped abruptly at the sight of the President, hunched over his desk and signing a few last-minute things. His briefcase was by his desk and his coat was laying over it. The windows the stretched up behind him let in a warm stream of sunlight, one that caught the dust hovering about the room, but also glowed around the President like a golden halo. He looked up from his things and laughed when he saw Desperado. He was happy to see him, as Desperado was happy to see him.

"Simon, my boy!" he said, setting down a pen and coming over to shake his hand. Desperado was obviously a few years the President's senior, but he didn't act it. "You did a great job this morning at the briefing," he said. "I'm glad you stopped by. I had meant to give something to you earlier, but you were out of the building before I could grab you. Here, just give me a moment," he mumbled as he went back to his desk and searched through the drawers. "Aha! Here it is," he exclaimed. "They restocked the offices with these babies," he said, brandishing a beautiful gold and blue pen. "I remembered you'd liked these ones. It's a shame they ever changed…but, well, here you are."

Desperado took the gift warmly, smiled wide as he pocketed it. The President and he had always been good friends. Great friends, actually. They didn't go out for beers or anything like that, but they played Poker every now and then, and even when their meetings were short they were worthwhile. "Thank you, Mr. President," Desperado said, and the President set his hand on Desperado's shoulder.

"I imagine you'll hold down the fort while I'm out," he said. Desperado hesitated, remembering what he would be doing all day long. Defying the President, one of his best friend. Then, he nodded: "Holding down the fort, sir." The secretary opened the door and smiled to them both.

"Sir, your ride is waiting."

"Well, then," the President said, turning and going back to his desk to review the papers he'd set on it one more time. He did it briefly before picking up his briefcase and draping his coat over his arm. "I guess I'll be going." He patted Desperado's shoulder again and smiled brightly. "Take care, today, Simon West."

"You too, Mr. President," Desperado said.

"Oh, and help yourself to some paper. It's in my bottom desk drawer. Why don't you try out that pen?"

"I'll do that, Mr. President," he said, muttered, as the President gave him a wave and passed through the doorway. The secretary watched Desperado for the time that he stayed in the office. And all the while, the sun pouring in through the windows, lighting up the room around him, and making a golden halo glow around his sides as he stood before the President's desk, a flock of geese passing in the sky ahead and a helicopter following in their direction to the airport where the President would board Air Force One, his heart sank – four words running through his mind as he handled the Five Seven in his one pocket, and his Desert Eagle in the other:

Seven bullets. Seven bodies.