Chapter 16- Feel My Pain
McNeil, seeing the gun pointed towards Raiden's head as a signal for battle to begin, mounted some offense of his own. He made the first move against the guards and threw a hard right hand at the nearest sentry. The guard, in instinctive self-defense, clutched the handle attached to the back of his glass riot shield and raised it, lowering his head so that he was looking at the floor... although he wasn't looking at anything, as his eyes were closed in fear of his soon-to-be fate. McNeil's fist connected with the shield, which, contrary to the guard's belief, did not serve its purpose very well. Upon being struck by McNeil's right hand, it shattered into countless pieces. The guard now had no protection except a Kevlar vest, his helmet, and a small Beretta M92F.
But the job was never done until the enemy was dead, lifeless on the floor underneath him. The guard as well as McNeil was thinking this, but the guard's fear for his life practically shut down his motor skills. He fumbled with his gun as he tried to defend himself against an attack from McNeil that he knew was coming. He finally had his gun in position, pointed at McNeil, shaking as if there were an earthquake beneath his feet. However, he soon found that McNeil was a step ahead. He already had his pistol pointed at the guard; he could look down the barrel and almost see the bullet that was about to rob him of his life.
"No...please, have mer-"
His plea for compassion was cut off by the sound of a gunshot; McNeil was obviously unaffected by the guard's request, being a man of no sympathy, caring for no one but himself. There was an almost blinding flash of the muzzle as the bullet was sent on a path of destruction towards the guard's exposed neck. The slug pierced the throat, cutting through the trachea, creating a bloody scene; the guard bent over in extreme pain, and the blood dropped from his neck wound like an intense rainfall. The expected scream or death rattle did not come from the guard, although his mouth was open, as if he was trying to scream, but could not no matter how hard he tried. The bullet had destroyed the trachea, the main source of oxygen for the human body. Without any breath, he could not utter a single word, let alone a scream.
The guard clutched his bloodied neck in desperation; desperation to hold on to the few precious moments of life that he may have had left. They did not last long; his hand fell away from his throat, bloodied now as well, and he hit the floor hard, a lifeless heap. Only the first victim; the first of many.
Now, eleven soldiers surrounded a very dangerous Jake McNeil. They obviously cared more about their own lives than their comrades, as they refused to jump in and save their partner from McNeil's wrath. Now, they wisely backed away, but not too far, barely giving him eight feet. Their M16s trained on him, shaking in the hands of the fear-stricken guard's. It was in their eyes, their body language...they were scared for their lives, like a rat trapped in a pit of cobras. And the cobra smelled warm blood.
"Who dies next?" McNeil asked himself, looking into the eyes of each guard, looking for the weakest of the pack, the runt of the litter. His right hand was gripping his pistol, the trigger finger impatiently waiting to act...for a chance to pull the trigger-
McNeil's keen ears suddenly picked up a sound. It was a silenced gunshot, not too far away. He knew that when a gun has a suppressor attached to it, it slows down the bullet significantly. This helped him avoid the flying steel, dodging it with the agility and speed that earned him the nickname "Hawk". The slug whizzed centimeters from his face with such a velocity that he could almost feel the wind from its course.
The guard who just happened to be in the way of the round was too fear stricken to even hope to avoid it. It struck him right above his collarbone, hitting several arteries along the way, creating a shower of blood that spouted from his neck.
The falling of their fellow squad member perplexed the remaining guards. They looked all around them for the perpetrator, asking questions to no one in particular.
"What the hell was that?!"
"Where did it come from?"
"What the-- we gotta find who did it!"
Suddenly, one of the guard's realized that McNeil was gone. Where he could've gone that fast, no one knew.
"The intruder's escaped!"
"Where'd he go?!"
"Find that bastard!"
The guards looked all around them, in every direction... except upwards. After all, how could he have possibly gotten anywhere above the ground level in that short of a time period? That was a question that only one person could answer. He was the lone figure sitting on top of the rafters, a good fifteen feet above the floor. He sat in a crouched position, stealthily watching his enemies from above, much like Godzilla watched the measly humans from his perch in the sky. Much like the people of Tokyo, the guards below didn't stand much of a chance against their giant opponent.
The guards split up into groups of two and went in separate directions; McNeil, still watching the guards from the rafters, could only assume that they were looking for him. He searched around for his first victim. There was one guard, all alone, on an extremely thin catwalk. It would be a very extreme risk to jump from his position on the rafters to the catwalk, both because of distance and the little bit of space on which he had to land. But this was a man who took more risks than Evil Kinevil and Jackie Chan combined. Fear was not in his vocabulary. He got up and stood straight. He started running towards the catwalk, picking up speed, and leapt!
He soared through the air like a bird; one might have thought that he was actually flying. He landed on the catwalk, right behind the guard, using his right palm to break the fall, so that his legs didn't absorb all of the impact. His landing was almost silent, but "almost" is the key word there. The guard heard the low sound of McNeil's boots on the metal floor, and turned around, his gun up, finger on the trigger.
But McNeil was faster than the guard. He quickly slid under the rail and grabbed the edge of the catwalk floor, holding him up. It was a long fall to the floor, and he didn't know when the guard would turn back around, if he even would. Bad news. The guard didn't turn around. Instead, he decided, intelligently, to stay in that spot, and he turned around to look behind him every second. There was nowhere he could go without insuring death. If he went up on the catwalk, the guard would spot him; not even he was quick enough to get up and shoot the guard in the back before being discovered. And if he dropped to the floor, he'd undoubtedly break his legs, and then be killed, with no way to run or defend himself.
Suddenly, an idea popped into his brilliant head. He let go of the catwalk floor with his right hand, and pulled out his pistol. This was very risky, as he only had his left hand, his weak hand at that, keeping him from falling. He craned his neck and looked at the guard and waited until the guard was looking in his direction. He lifted his pistol, and pulled the trigger, praying that the recoil wouldn't force him to lose his grip. It didn't, but the bullet missed, as the guard turned around and the slug whizzed by his head. The bullet pinged off of a rafter; coincidentally, the same one that he had been on. The guard looked up, reflexes getting the best of him. McNeil knew that he couldn't give the guard the chance to look down and see him. He quickly aimed his gun haphazardly, and pulled the trigger quicker than he wished he could have. However, the bullet still found its mark, going through the back of the guard's skull, and coming out on the other side, then dropping on the catwalk.
The guard let out a scream that would wake the dead, and stumbled, death creeping up on him. He fell over the ledge; the body, blood stained, dropped past McNeil, onto the floor. A group of two guards heard it, and went over to investigate. One guard bent over by the body and placed two fingers on the fallen sentry's neck, checking for a pulse. He looked up at the other, standing soldier, and shook his head, a "he's dead" look on his face. The standing sentry spoke into his radio.
"That bastard got another one! Dog tag reads Private Alexander Armour. Anderson, get an ID on him immediately! Everyone else, stay on high, tactical alert!"
The one guard who had checked the deceased guard's pulse nodded his head, got up, and left the room. Four guards were out of the way now; eight were left.
McNeil, still hanging, put his gun away in the holster on his waist, and did a chin up with both hands. He rolled up onto the catwalk, right before the two guards looked up to see where the body had come from. He remained on his chest, looking all around him. The guard now was alone, by himself. Ever so vulnerable. McNeil then noticed that he was also close to a dark corner; he could definitely use that to his advantage. He needed a ruse to get the guard to go into the corner. His mind was racking trying to come up with something, but nothing happened. That's when an idea was hatched. If it worked, he'd be home free. If it didn't, he'd lose a finger or two. He took a deep breath and got ready to put his plan to action.
He placed his left hand underneath the floor of the catwalk and raised his gun, in his right hand, about four feet above the floor and pulled the trigger. The gun sped out of the barrel and towards the floor, penetrating it. The thickness, however, slowed it down so that McNeil could literally catch the round in his hand. He brought it back up and looked in his left palm to make sure it had not broken the skin. It hadn't, and he had a single bullet in his hand. Step one: completed.
He put the bullet into his right hand and cocked it back, aimed towards the corner that the guard was standing near. He hurled the bullet, and it disappeared in the darkness of the corner. It made a high ping sound, which immediately caught the attention of the guard. He turned around and looked right into the dark corner. He knew that that was where the sound had come from, but was very reluctant to investigate. After all, it could have been a rat or something....or perhaps a careless intruder. He had no choice but to investigate the noise; it was the soldier's code of honor. He walked over, slowly, prepared, mentally and physically, for whatever could be in that corner. As he got closer, he realized that he needed another light source, as the corner would be far too dim to see. He flicked on the flashlight that was attached to the barrel of his assault rifle and went in the corner. Finding nothing after a rather thorough search, he let out a sigh of infinite relief and proceeded to go back on regular patrol duty. But he was being watched the entire time.
McNeil was using the light emitting from the guard's torch to know where he was at all times in the shadowy corner. He placed his gun in a basic, fundamental position in both of his hands and carefully aimed at the guard's so vulnerable head area. A pull of the trigger sent a bullet of death to the guard's anatomy.
One, nearby guard heard the victim's scream of agony from the corner. He looked over in time to see the guard's blood spilled from a wound so brutal that it traveled out of the dark corner, staining the adjacent wall. The grotesque sight put a look on the nearby sentry's face, a look of disgust, horror. He was speechless, not moving, although his feet were screaming for him to run. He knew that that was the intruder, and he was vulnerable; he might as well have had a sign over his head that read, "Shoot me". He snapped out of his stupor and decided to go investigate. Perhaps he could save his comrade; miracles are possible, after all.
He slowly walked, knees shaking, towards the corner, his gun shaking more than his legs. He entered the ominous darkness, the gloom almost pulling him in. He unconsciously flicked on the flashlight on his gun, and saw a looming, portentous figure that radiated death with every single breath that he took.
"No! Please... don't!" screamed the terrified guard. In a brawl that no one could see, the guard and McNeil duked it out for about three seconds. In the end, a sickening crack was heard from the corner, and a limp, twisted body was sent from the trap corner into an nearby wall, the corpse hitting the wall back first. There were no gunshot wounds, cuts or bruises, signs of usual murder methods. However, there was one rather revolting sight that would immediately tell any military connoisseur the killing process used to eliminate this guard. The neck was twisted in a seemingly impossible way to the left; there was no way anybody could survive an injury of that extent, and this guard was the proof.
A tall, barely visible man walked out of the corner; his figure just screamed, "Don't **** with me". Suddenly, before even he knew what happened, three guards were around him, not wanting to get close to him after what he did to the other, formerly living guards.
"I can see the fear in your eyes. Don't try to hide it. It's showing, rookies." There was about a five second stare down, the guards still very much afraid to approach McNeil. He was fighter, and he soon found himself getting frustrated. He let out a sigh and tried a new approach.
"I'll make this even easier for you assholes," declared McNeil. He put his gun away and dropped both hands at his sides, not in any kind of orthodox fighting stance. Finally, much to McNeil's delight, the three guards rushed him roughly at the same time. He mentally timed the speeds of the sentries and found out which would one would get to him first. He gave that soldier a straight kick to the abdomen, knocking him on his back, the wind knocked out his system. He then faced one of the other two guards and delivered a fierce punch to his jaw, breaking it, no doubt. He was stopped in his tracks, in the middle of a rush towards McNeil, and immediately fell on his back, a small crack heard from the spine area. The last guard standing rushed at him, the bayonet that was attached to his gun gleaming in the light. McNeil gripped the gun in both hands and bent over slightly and tossed the guard over his back onto the floor. He then pointed the gun towards the guard whom he'd kicked at the beginning of the battle and let the shells fly to the soldier's abdomen. Several rounds penetrated his heart, cutting off life instantly. The guard whose jaw was broken by McNeil was still on the floor, prone, helpless. He threw the gun to the floor and headed towards the vulnerable soldier. However, the gun slid across the floor right to the guard whom he had flipped over his shoulder. Unbeknownst to McNeil, the guard slowly reached for the gun, little energy left in his body. He stood on one knee and aimed shakily at McNeil. He pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. He looked at where the clip should be, and noticed that a different type of clip was inside, jamming it, not allowing a new clip to be put in. He cursed silently and got up, barely able to stand.
Meanwhile, McNeil was standing over the other guard that was still breathing, but barely. He bent over and looked into the guard's eyes. If looks could kill, this soldier would be six feet under. McNeil's eyes had a look of something more evil than evil, something sicker, more sinister than that. It was unexplainable with words.
He lifted up his boot and brought it down. It sunk viciously into the guard's neck, and the insides of his throat were grossly rearranged, large amounts of blood spurting out of his mouth like a fountain. He coughed, a sound like nothing anyone had heard before, blood coming up with every breath, making each more difficult. Eventually, the guard choked on his own blood, causing him to stop gagging abruptly. His mouth area was stained red, blood still dripping from his face to the floor.
Two down, one to go.
The other guard was about to toss the gun away, but he realized that he could also use it as a close quarters combat weapon. He got up and walked towards McNeil, the combat boots not making any sounds on the linoleum floor. McNeil's sixth sense suddenly kicked in; he knew that the guard was sneaking up on him. He waited for the right moment, on instinct only, and turned around. The guard swung down with the butt of his assault rifle. McNeil ducked the strike and delivered a body shot to the guard at the same time, his fist sinking into the stomach of the sentry. The guard doubled over and dropped the rifle, falling from his hands after the sudden, unexpected impact of McNeil's strike. A knee entered the guard's stomach now, causing him to drop on one knee, a kaleidoscope of pain searing through his abdomen. McNeil wasn't satisfied, however. He grabbed a knife from his one of the holders on his hip, the steel flashing, luminous under the light. He slipped it underneath the guard's stomach, and gutted the sentry; he essentially slit the abdomen, everything aside from the soldier's guts practically spilling out onto the floor. He fell in a pool of his own blood, yet another victim to the dangerous, psychotic Jake McNeil.
"Huh? What- is there anybody there?" This was the question of a nearby guard. Apparently, he'd either faintly seen or heard the massacre. He walked over towards the carnage. McNeil took refuge behind a barrel that he assumed was full of chemicals. He peered around the side and observed the guard. He was kneeling next to one of the bodies, checking for a pulse. McNeil knew that he had to take action before backup was called for. He gripped a knife in his left hand and hurled it towards the guard. It bit into the sentry's leg like the bitter cold bites your skin, a stinging pain that one never forgets. The guard was in too much pain to scream, but he gritted his teeth and turned around to find the perpetrator. However, by this time, McNeil had shifted to the other side of the barrel so as to avoid detection. He pulled out a pistol and, unseen, shot the guard in the base of his skill, and he dropped to the floor, the body thudding against the linoleum, blood pouring into the air.
Nine guards down, three to go.
McNeil looked around him, for whoever would be his next prey. He saw a guard, stationary, looking to the left and right. Perfect. He walked up to him in a crouched, stealthy position and found himself right behind the guard, still undetected. Underneath the mask was an evil, sinister smile. He grabbed the guard in a violent chokehold, the guard struggling immediately, his screams silenced by a gloved hand over his mouth. It was a violent struggle between prey and predator, McNeil jerking the guard around like he was a rag doll. The guard was losing breath every second, but he continued to struggle, though his efforts would end up futile. Suddenly, the guard stopped struggling. He went from struggling to limp in about half a second. McNeil had crushed the sentry's windpipe, rendering him unconscious.
Taking his hand off the soldier's mouth, McNeil unsheathed a knife and jammed it viciously into the guard's spine, breaking it in two. The guard was dead for sure now, and McNeil was satisfied. He threw the guard to the ground and walked away. Just two more guards left.
He saw two guards on lookout, apparently. They had no patrol route, per se; they just looked in every direction for anybody that was a threat.
McNeil found a small place where he could attack the guards without being seen, a dark corridor that he could barely fit his three hundred plus pound body into. He crouched and took out his pistol and aimed carefully. He pulled the trigger three times, and three shells went into the front of one of the guards' right leg; he was unable to stand and dropped onto one knee. He then dropped the pistol and drew a knife and launched it at the guard's neck, and it sank about one and a half inches into the guard's neck. It was a sickening sight, and the other guard looked down at his comrade, a look of more than shock on his face. His eyes were wide, a look of fear in them. He was making the most fatal mistake that any soldier could make. He was leaving himself vulnerable when he knew that there was an enemy nearby that was intent on killing him.
He didn't have time to realize his slip up, as a bullet went through the side of his head, then coming out on the other side, penetrating the two- inch thick helmet. There was a hole in the helmet that had blood and brain tissue leaking out of it as the guard fell to the floor, lifeless.
McNeil put away his gun and stood up. He looked at his work around the room. Twelve guards lay on the floor, bloody, unmoving. He smiled at his handiwork. They head felt his pain... and more. He went up the stairs to the battle taking place between Ghost and Raiden. He walked with a purpose; he was on his way to do something that should have been done a long time ago.
McNeil, seeing the gun pointed towards Raiden's head as a signal for battle to begin, mounted some offense of his own. He made the first move against the guards and threw a hard right hand at the nearest sentry. The guard, in instinctive self-defense, clutched the handle attached to the back of his glass riot shield and raised it, lowering his head so that he was looking at the floor... although he wasn't looking at anything, as his eyes were closed in fear of his soon-to-be fate. McNeil's fist connected with the shield, which, contrary to the guard's belief, did not serve its purpose very well. Upon being struck by McNeil's right hand, it shattered into countless pieces. The guard now had no protection except a Kevlar vest, his helmet, and a small Beretta M92F.
But the job was never done until the enemy was dead, lifeless on the floor underneath him. The guard as well as McNeil was thinking this, but the guard's fear for his life practically shut down his motor skills. He fumbled with his gun as he tried to defend himself against an attack from McNeil that he knew was coming. He finally had his gun in position, pointed at McNeil, shaking as if there were an earthquake beneath his feet. However, he soon found that McNeil was a step ahead. He already had his pistol pointed at the guard; he could look down the barrel and almost see the bullet that was about to rob him of his life.
"No...please, have mer-"
His plea for compassion was cut off by the sound of a gunshot; McNeil was obviously unaffected by the guard's request, being a man of no sympathy, caring for no one but himself. There was an almost blinding flash of the muzzle as the bullet was sent on a path of destruction towards the guard's exposed neck. The slug pierced the throat, cutting through the trachea, creating a bloody scene; the guard bent over in extreme pain, and the blood dropped from his neck wound like an intense rainfall. The expected scream or death rattle did not come from the guard, although his mouth was open, as if he was trying to scream, but could not no matter how hard he tried. The bullet had destroyed the trachea, the main source of oxygen for the human body. Without any breath, he could not utter a single word, let alone a scream.
The guard clutched his bloodied neck in desperation; desperation to hold on to the few precious moments of life that he may have had left. They did not last long; his hand fell away from his throat, bloodied now as well, and he hit the floor hard, a lifeless heap. Only the first victim; the first of many.
Now, eleven soldiers surrounded a very dangerous Jake McNeil. They obviously cared more about their own lives than their comrades, as they refused to jump in and save their partner from McNeil's wrath. Now, they wisely backed away, but not too far, barely giving him eight feet. Their M16s trained on him, shaking in the hands of the fear-stricken guard's. It was in their eyes, their body language...they were scared for their lives, like a rat trapped in a pit of cobras. And the cobra smelled warm blood.
"Who dies next?" McNeil asked himself, looking into the eyes of each guard, looking for the weakest of the pack, the runt of the litter. His right hand was gripping his pistol, the trigger finger impatiently waiting to act...for a chance to pull the trigger-
McNeil's keen ears suddenly picked up a sound. It was a silenced gunshot, not too far away. He knew that when a gun has a suppressor attached to it, it slows down the bullet significantly. This helped him avoid the flying steel, dodging it with the agility and speed that earned him the nickname "Hawk". The slug whizzed centimeters from his face with such a velocity that he could almost feel the wind from its course.
The guard who just happened to be in the way of the round was too fear stricken to even hope to avoid it. It struck him right above his collarbone, hitting several arteries along the way, creating a shower of blood that spouted from his neck.
The falling of their fellow squad member perplexed the remaining guards. They looked all around them for the perpetrator, asking questions to no one in particular.
"What the hell was that?!"
"Where did it come from?"
"What the-- we gotta find who did it!"
Suddenly, one of the guard's realized that McNeil was gone. Where he could've gone that fast, no one knew.
"The intruder's escaped!"
"Where'd he go?!"
"Find that bastard!"
The guards looked all around them, in every direction... except upwards. After all, how could he have possibly gotten anywhere above the ground level in that short of a time period? That was a question that only one person could answer. He was the lone figure sitting on top of the rafters, a good fifteen feet above the floor. He sat in a crouched position, stealthily watching his enemies from above, much like Godzilla watched the measly humans from his perch in the sky. Much like the people of Tokyo, the guards below didn't stand much of a chance against their giant opponent.
The guards split up into groups of two and went in separate directions; McNeil, still watching the guards from the rafters, could only assume that they were looking for him. He searched around for his first victim. There was one guard, all alone, on an extremely thin catwalk. It would be a very extreme risk to jump from his position on the rafters to the catwalk, both because of distance and the little bit of space on which he had to land. But this was a man who took more risks than Evil Kinevil and Jackie Chan combined. Fear was not in his vocabulary. He got up and stood straight. He started running towards the catwalk, picking up speed, and leapt!
He soared through the air like a bird; one might have thought that he was actually flying. He landed on the catwalk, right behind the guard, using his right palm to break the fall, so that his legs didn't absorb all of the impact. His landing was almost silent, but "almost" is the key word there. The guard heard the low sound of McNeil's boots on the metal floor, and turned around, his gun up, finger on the trigger.
But McNeil was faster than the guard. He quickly slid under the rail and grabbed the edge of the catwalk floor, holding him up. It was a long fall to the floor, and he didn't know when the guard would turn back around, if he even would. Bad news. The guard didn't turn around. Instead, he decided, intelligently, to stay in that spot, and he turned around to look behind him every second. There was nowhere he could go without insuring death. If he went up on the catwalk, the guard would spot him; not even he was quick enough to get up and shoot the guard in the back before being discovered. And if he dropped to the floor, he'd undoubtedly break his legs, and then be killed, with no way to run or defend himself.
Suddenly, an idea popped into his brilliant head. He let go of the catwalk floor with his right hand, and pulled out his pistol. This was very risky, as he only had his left hand, his weak hand at that, keeping him from falling. He craned his neck and looked at the guard and waited until the guard was looking in his direction. He lifted his pistol, and pulled the trigger, praying that the recoil wouldn't force him to lose his grip. It didn't, but the bullet missed, as the guard turned around and the slug whizzed by his head. The bullet pinged off of a rafter; coincidentally, the same one that he had been on. The guard looked up, reflexes getting the best of him. McNeil knew that he couldn't give the guard the chance to look down and see him. He quickly aimed his gun haphazardly, and pulled the trigger quicker than he wished he could have. However, the bullet still found its mark, going through the back of the guard's skull, and coming out on the other side, then dropping on the catwalk.
The guard let out a scream that would wake the dead, and stumbled, death creeping up on him. He fell over the ledge; the body, blood stained, dropped past McNeil, onto the floor. A group of two guards heard it, and went over to investigate. One guard bent over by the body and placed two fingers on the fallen sentry's neck, checking for a pulse. He looked up at the other, standing soldier, and shook his head, a "he's dead" look on his face. The standing sentry spoke into his radio.
"That bastard got another one! Dog tag reads Private Alexander Armour. Anderson, get an ID on him immediately! Everyone else, stay on high, tactical alert!"
The one guard who had checked the deceased guard's pulse nodded his head, got up, and left the room. Four guards were out of the way now; eight were left.
McNeil, still hanging, put his gun away in the holster on his waist, and did a chin up with both hands. He rolled up onto the catwalk, right before the two guards looked up to see where the body had come from. He remained on his chest, looking all around him. The guard now was alone, by himself. Ever so vulnerable. McNeil then noticed that he was also close to a dark corner; he could definitely use that to his advantage. He needed a ruse to get the guard to go into the corner. His mind was racking trying to come up with something, but nothing happened. That's when an idea was hatched. If it worked, he'd be home free. If it didn't, he'd lose a finger or two. He took a deep breath and got ready to put his plan to action.
He placed his left hand underneath the floor of the catwalk and raised his gun, in his right hand, about four feet above the floor and pulled the trigger. The gun sped out of the barrel and towards the floor, penetrating it. The thickness, however, slowed it down so that McNeil could literally catch the round in his hand. He brought it back up and looked in his left palm to make sure it had not broken the skin. It hadn't, and he had a single bullet in his hand. Step one: completed.
He put the bullet into his right hand and cocked it back, aimed towards the corner that the guard was standing near. He hurled the bullet, and it disappeared in the darkness of the corner. It made a high ping sound, which immediately caught the attention of the guard. He turned around and looked right into the dark corner. He knew that that was where the sound had come from, but was very reluctant to investigate. After all, it could have been a rat or something....or perhaps a careless intruder. He had no choice but to investigate the noise; it was the soldier's code of honor. He walked over, slowly, prepared, mentally and physically, for whatever could be in that corner. As he got closer, he realized that he needed another light source, as the corner would be far too dim to see. He flicked on the flashlight that was attached to the barrel of his assault rifle and went in the corner. Finding nothing after a rather thorough search, he let out a sigh of infinite relief and proceeded to go back on regular patrol duty. But he was being watched the entire time.
McNeil was using the light emitting from the guard's torch to know where he was at all times in the shadowy corner. He placed his gun in a basic, fundamental position in both of his hands and carefully aimed at the guard's so vulnerable head area. A pull of the trigger sent a bullet of death to the guard's anatomy.
One, nearby guard heard the victim's scream of agony from the corner. He looked over in time to see the guard's blood spilled from a wound so brutal that it traveled out of the dark corner, staining the adjacent wall. The grotesque sight put a look on the nearby sentry's face, a look of disgust, horror. He was speechless, not moving, although his feet were screaming for him to run. He knew that that was the intruder, and he was vulnerable; he might as well have had a sign over his head that read, "Shoot me". He snapped out of his stupor and decided to go investigate. Perhaps he could save his comrade; miracles are possible, after all.
He slowly walked, knees shaking, towards the corner, his gun shaking more than his legs. He entered the ominous darkness, the gloom almost pulling him in. He unconsciously flicked on the flashlight on his gun, and saw a looming, portentous figure that radiated death with every single breath that he took.
"No! Please... don't!" screamed the terrified guard. In a brawl that no one could see, the guard and McNeil duked it out for about three seconds. In the end, a sickening crack was heard from the corner, and a limp, twisted body was sent from the trap corner into an nearby wall, the corpse hitting the wall back first. There were no gunshot wounds, cuts or bruises, signs of usual murder methods. However, there was one rather revolting sight that would immediately tell any military connoisseur the killing process used to eliminate this guard. The neck was twisted in a seemingly impossible way to the left; there was no way anybody could survive an injury of that extent, and this guard was the proof.
A tall, barely visible man walked out of the corner; his figure just screamed, "Don't **** with me". Suddenly, before even he knew what happened, three guards were around him, not wanting to get close to him after what he did to the other, formerly living guards.
"I can see the fear in your eyes. Don't try to hide it. It's showing, rookies." There was about a five second stare down, the guards still very much afraid to approach McNeil. He was fighter, and he soon found himself getting frustrated. He let out a sigh and tried a new approach.
"I'll make this even easier for you assholes," declared McNeil. He put his gun away and dropped both hands at his sides, not in any kind of orthodox fighting stance. Finally, much to McNeil's delight, the three guards rushed him roughly at the same time. He mentally timed the speeds of the sentries and found out which would one would get to him first. He gave that soldier a straight kick to the abdomen, knocking him on his back, the wind knocked out his system. He then faced one of the other two guards and delivered a fierce punch to his jaw, breaking it, no doubt. He was stopped in his tracks, in the middle of a rush towards McNeil, and immediately fell on his back, a small crack heard from the spine area. The last guard standing rushed at him, the bayonet that was attached to his gun gleaming in the light. McNeil gripped the gun in both hands and bent over slightly and tossed the guard over his back onto the floor. He then pointed the gun towards the guard whom he'd kicked at the beginning of the battle and let the shells fly to the soldier's abdomen. Several rounds penetrated his heart, cutting off life instantly. The guard whose jaw was broken by McNeil was still on the floor, prone, helpless. He threw the gun to the floor and headed towards the vulnerable soldier. However, the gun slid across the floor right to the guard whom he had flipped over his shoulder. Unbeknownst to McNeil, the guard slowly reached for the gun, little energy left in his body. He stood on one knee and aimed shakily at McNeil. He pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. He looked at where the clip should be, and noticed that a different type of clip was inside, jamming it, not allowing a new clip to be put in. He cursed silently and got up, barely able to stand.
Meanwhile, McNeil was standing over the other guard that was still breathing, but barely. He bent over and looked into the guard's eyes. If looks could kill, this soldier would be six feet under. McNeil's eyes had a look of something more evil than evil, something sicker, more sinister than that. It was unexplainable with words.
He lifted up his boot and brought it down. It sunk viciously into the guard's neck, and the insides of his throat were grossly rearranged, large amounts of blood spurting out of his mouth like a fountain. He coughed, a sound like nothing anyone had heard before, blood coming up with every breath, making each more difficult. Eventually, the guard choked on his own blood, causing him to stop gagging abruptly. His mouth area was stained red, blood still dripping from his face to the floor.
Two down, one to go.
The other guard was about to toss the gun away, but he realized that he could also use it as a close quarters combat weapon. He got up and walked towards McNeil, the combat boots not making any sounds on the linoleum floor. McNeil's sixth sense suddenly kicked in; he knew that the guard was sneaking up on him. He waited for the right moment, on instinct only, and turned around. The guard swung down with the butt of his assault rifle. McNeil ducked the strike and delivered a body shot to the guard at the same time, his fist sinking into the stomach of the sentry. The guard doubled over and dropped the rifle, falling from his hands after the sudden, unexpected impact of McNeil's strike. A knee entered the guard's stomach now, causing him to drop on one knee, a kaleidoscope of pain searing through his abdomen. McNeil wasn't satisfied, however. He grabbed a knife from his one of the holders on his hip, the steel flashing, luminous under the light. He slipped it underneath the guard's stomach, and gutted the sentry; he essentially slit the abdomen, everything aside from the soldier's guts practically spilling out onto the floor. He fell in a pool of his own blood, yet another victim to the dangerous, psychotic Jake McNeil.
"Huh? What- is there anybody there?" This was the question of a nearby guard. Apparently, he'd either faintly seen or heard the massacre. He walked over towards the carnage. McNeil took refuge behind a barrel that he assumed was full of chemicals. He peered around the side and observed the guard. He was kneeling next to one of the bodies, checking for a pulse. McNeil knew that he had to take action before backup was called for. He gripped a knife in his left hand and hurled it towards the guard. It bit into the sentry's leg like the bitter cold bites your skin, a stinging pain that one never forgets. The guard was in too much pain to scream, but he gritted his teeth and turned around to find the perpetrator. However, by this time, McNeil had shifted to the other side of the barrel so as to avoid detection. He pulled out a pistol and, unseen, shot the guard in the base of his skill, and he dropped to the floor, the body thudding against the linoleum, blood pouring into the air.
Nine guards down, three to go.
McNeil looked around him, for whoever would be his next prey. He saw a guard, stationary, looking to the left and right. Perfect. He walked up to him in a crouched, stealthy position and found himself right behind the guard, still undetected. Underneath the mask was an evil, sinister smile. He grabbed the guard in a violent chokehold, the guard struggling immediately, his screams silenced by a gloved hand over his mouth. It was a violent struggle between prey and predator, McNeil jerking the guard around like he was a rag doll. The guard was losing breath every second, but he continued to struggle, though his efforts would end up futile. Suddenly, the guard stopped struggling. He went from struggling to limp in about half a second. McNeil had crushed the sentry's windpipe, rendering him unconscious.
Taking his hand off the soldier's mouth, McNeil unsheathed a knife and jammed it viciously into the guard's spine, breaking it in two. The guard was dead for sure now, and McNeil was satisfied. He threw the guard to the ground and walked away. Just two more guards left.
He saw two guards on lookout, apparently. They had no patrol route, per se; they just looked in every direction for anybody that was a threat.
McNeil found a small place where he could attack the guards without being seen, a dark corridor that he could barely fit his three hundred plus pound body into. He crouched and took out his pistol and aimed carefully. He pulled the trigger three times, and three shells went into the front of one of the guards' right leg; he was unable to stand and dropped onto one knee. He then dropped the pistol and drew a knife and launched it at the guard's neck, and it sank about one and a half inches into the guard's neck. It was a sickening sight, and the other guard looked down at his comrade, a look of more than shock on his face. His eyes were wide, a look of fear in them. He was making the most fatal mistake that any soldier could make. He was leaving himself vulnerable when he knew that there was an enemy nearby that was intent on killing him.
He didn't have time to realize his slip up, as a bullet went through the side of his head, then coming out on the other side, penetrating the two- inch thick helmet. There was a hole in the helmet that had blood and brain tissue leaking out of it as the guard fell to the floor, lifeless.
McNeil put away his gun and stood up. He looked at his work around the room. Twelve guards lay on the floor, bloody, unmoving. He smiled at his handiwork. They head felt his pain... and more. He went up the stairs to the battle taking place between Ghost and Raiden. He walked with a purpose; he was on his way to do something that should have been done a long time ago.