19
"I hope you guys back at the station are breaking out the party hats." Dave kept a heavy eye on his train of thought, keeping sarcasm in professional check as it tried to worm and force its way out of its boxcar.
"And why's that, Schlitz?" the anchor said expressionlessly.
"The Major's helicopter is down for the count!" he shook his head, eyeing the cloud of thinning tan as it sprawled over the buildings, dissipating into the blue the further it reached. "For those of you who just tuning in, the VSA commander's helicopter has crashed in the West Bank, right in the middle of the refuge camp after a pursuit that lasted well over an hour. He seemed to have been pursuing a red and yellow SUV, possibly of American design, before the crash."
"Well that's good news for all of us," the anchor retorted pompously, sanctimonious and infallible as ever, "here at the Channel 2 news desk. If I said it once, I said it again: the Major had to be stopped. With that sort of tenacity and viciousness, we'd have the entire Arab world storming our doors."
*How's that different from any other day? * He rolled his eyes disgustedly.
"He had a problem with this network," he said, "from what I've read and heard."
"How did he crash?" the anchor dismissed him altogether.
"From what we could see," he said, "the tail rotor of his Apache malfunctioned. We should know, since the copter took a blade of it right in the body!"
"Are you alright?" the *putz* inquired in sheer fakery.
"Never felt better, or so alive!" he countered. "The blade passed right through, while the Apache took the Major for a hell of a ride. He crashed right in the middle of the refuge camp, and he is on the run."
"And if he isn't, he may as well should be if he isn't dead."
He the reporter, the one who stuck his head through a noose, could never be granted this privilege. It was a privilege that only prominent yellow-journalists could employ without a single word of open protest, as long as their own butts sat safely, comfortably in their sleek, black thrones behind the impunity of the desk.
"Right..." he sighed abruptly.
"This target vehicle," the *putz* continued, the utter bias rivaling the pompousness already thick in his audible demeanor, "why exactly was the head honcho so hell-bent over it?"
"Your guess is as good as mine." He shrugged. "It is quite possible that his suspect had something to do with the hostages' execution just a couple hours ago."
"Or it could be that someone just picked the wrong day to get on his nerves." The anchor replied smugly.
"Could be," his eyes took another lap around in his head, "couldn't be that at all; we'll never know till the IDF cleans up the mess."
"And clean it up they shall." The anchor replied distantly, a telltale sign that his hour in the limelight became abridged to a typical fifteen minutes. "That was Dave Schlitz, with our... *traffic* report. We have to take a break, but when we come back, we'll hear how talks over the complete transfer of ownership of the Temple Mount can bring peace to our troubled land--"
The headphones slipped off of his ears smoothly, the thick band cradling his sore neck while his shaky fingers rubbed at his weathered eyes.
"Everything okay, Dave?" His pilot asked seriously.
"Let's go home, man." He shook his head weakly. "I need a cold one-- and fast!"
He buried his crown deeply into his palms. Israel was doomed. Its last, possible hope had become a dying wish, dissolving in the wind like the tan cloud beside; and the mere thought of losing the mountain of Mariah hit him like bitter joke. The bones of Jacob would tumble restlessly about at the thought, buried under the rubble that was once his tomb.
"That Prime Minister better not make us regret this whole shenanigan!" he spat.
"I hear that!" the pilot nodded.
***
The dust had rested back upon its dirty street, settling deep down in the cracks that the stresses had ripped open in the pavement. The attack helicopter sat mangled in the crash site, peacefully for possibly the first time in its entire existence, encroached by chunks of concrete and stone and brimmed with a sooty black.
The Bloody Reds' fearless leader sat before him and his son, slumped in his chair unperturbed. Abu had never felt his heart act this erratically before: it wanted to leap for unbridled joy yet this terrifying fear consumed it at its apex, dragging it down to depths he had only dreamed that it would never reach. The group around did best to quell his uneasy spirit inadvertently, as though they all tiptoed though the minefield of eggshells. Most were caught in the midst of a confusing stride, meeting themselves coming and going midway.
"Do you see, Father!" his son beamed victoriously, his Soviet rifle strangled in his hands. "The great Allah had heard our many prayers! He had brought us that vicious heathen on a silver platter, just as He ordained it!"
"Easy Muhammad." He shook his head. "You don't know this man."
"He's a Jew!" his son snarled. "He's a murderer! What's not to know!? As we speak, his followers are probably using our blood for their disgusting pastries!"
"Cornered Jews are more dangerous than jackals, son." He said aloud.
"Ha!" Muhammad said arrogantly. "He's probably poses as much as a threat as a bug."
"Don't be too sure." He noted. "Don't be too sure--"
The voices around were chased away by the gentle breeze, as the mangled wreck let out a deep, loud curse of that heathen language. Pistols and rifles sounded together in a mighty clack, barrels trained weakly against the thick glass that glinted in the sun. The pragmatic, fearless leader was as bold and defiant as ever, just like in all the longwinded speeches he made, tucked away so safely behind that shiny glass.
It just didn't click in his mind. The scum behind their fence thought all alike; it was no big secret, or even one of public domain. Who was this Jew, this rotten, lying filth trying to convince anyway?
The defiant filth let out a painful groan.
"Well this, in Hell, is not a note!" it spoke with such insolence, and such a shaky grasp of the language it despised so venomously that he could barely make sense of it. The people took strange, quick glances at each other.
"Back up, will you!" it growled. "Very much packed, is this 'copter, with SEMTEX! Blow you, easily can it, out of the water!"
A few men beside him let out a grunt, one that even his beloved son shared in. Their fingers curled around the triggers agitatedly.
"The Jew is lying!" a woman's voice roared from the back throes of the crowd, where onlookers eagerly wormed in. "They always lie! Kill him!"
The inner crowd hissed like the great snakes of the desert, voicelessly, and one even went as so far as to voice his retort.
"Shut her up!" the man shouted.
"Right, are you!" it mockingly retorted. "To die, has no one, needlessly."
The machine let out a terrible, strained whirr of its mechanisms, and the shiny glass was tugged open like a puppy dog pulling at his chew toy. The gentle breeze smothered the whirr quickly, and the metal behind the shiny glass whined, as though the machine's plight was eclipsed by its loud hollow moan. The shiny glass over-flexed, and--
*Oh--gross! *
--It touched the ground with a crash.
The high commander of the Bloody Reds, the mysterious, vicious monster of heathen prodigy, shrank to a measly teenager in olive battle dress. But his face--! Oh what a terrible sight, a frightening sight that reflected the very devil beating deep within that fouled, blackened heart! Terrible scarring undulating the face with a deep crack running diagonal, from the forehead, over the sunken white orb, to the fading extreme of his jaw line. It must have had something to do with those shiny, smoothed blades on his balding head.
People around him let out a groan of disgust.
"This is the 'Major' we kept being terrorized by!?" another woman shouted. "He's just a boy!"
"Shut up!" another man shouted back.
"To you, Mr. Boy!" it shouted, and it lifted its arm into the air, as high as it would reach. A device was clenched in its grasp; a clunky, cumbersome one that looked like it belonged to a remote controlled toy. "Explain this, do I, have to?"
A couple people around him cursed, and some of the barrels of their gun dipped a little, trained toward the littered street. The eyes of the curly haired boy behind the thing were wide and jittery; lips capped the "neck" of an orange, translucent container no longer than half a pencil, no thicker than a roll of film. The curly top let out a wet cough the second the cylinder was free of the lips.
"Set, is this trigger, for one second!" it yelled brazenly. "Kiss the sky, will you, if I die! Sit here, are we all, nice and easy! Until, comes for me, my party!"
"Father, please!" Muhammad hissed bitterly. "The Jew is lying! It'll do anything--say anything--just to get loose! It even admitted it! We must kill this thing before it's too late!"
"I fear it might already be too late, Son." He drew a shaky hand across his brow. "Let us go home."
Muhammad blinked at him, blindsided seemingly as though his girlfriend had smacked him upside the head. The tanned hands eased their strangulation upon the grips of his rifle, and his shoulders dropped in defeated incredulity.
"But Father--!"
"Take me home, Muhammad!" he felt his brow furrow a bit, and his robes whipped opposite of his motion as he moved through the crowd, squeezing through at times where the bodies were pressed so tightly together.
Bodies... he shuddered at the thought. Though he wished against it feverishly, he couldn't deny the utterly *real* possibility, the *real* predictability. Whatever it may turn out to be, he didn't want to be near when the corpses started piling up, and neither did he want to scoop his son, his beloved son up like others from the bloodbath the next street over.
"Take that man's lead!" it let out a mocking chuckle. "Away you go!"
*Allah...! * He winced a bit, jerking his head spasmodically as a shiver ran down his spine. *Turn not paradise away from all those who come to you this day. Let them receive your mercy, and your many brown-eyed virgins awaiting them. Let them finally come to know peace, great Allah, and give that wretched Jew his just punishment in Hell! *
"So now what, Father?" his son inquired, shifting the sling on his shoulder so that the flank of the Soviet rifle came to rest at his side.
"I don't know, Muhammad." He shook his head. "I just don't know..."
***
A small cloud of dust blew up from the pavement, fogging over a small pool of crimson briefly before her squinting eyes, the only part of Kim's body that could move naturally. Her body ached deeply throughout while she baked helplessly on the pavement, the dark, hot asphalt like fresh road- kill. Her tense muscles burned with an excruciating pain, so bad that she dared not wince an inch or millimeter.
*OH--DAMN!! *
The sheer pain made her want to curl into a ball. It seized at her throat, clenching it tightly so much that her small breakfast and a belly full of bile wanted to crawl up the length all on their own.
"GOD!!" she screamed, knuckles popping as she balled her fists.
Everything was going so well after Drazen went down, taking a bite out of the very dust his mechanical behemoth kicked up from underneath. The big rifle slipped off her body, plummeting to the unknown below after her bum had lost its grip on the chrome ski. One of the innocents below could have it for all she cared; it turned in a flawless performance, and would serve its newfound owner well.
*God knows... *ah*--they could use the help. * She had thought.
Her abs yanked her trunk up by the front, and she had gotten a hand firmly around the cord of her grapple. Her arms singed with exhaustion, fighting it tooth and nail while her ankle worked itself free of the cord. With the toes of her boots pointed strongly at the underbelly of the 'copter, and her abs keeping her body in a crunched, acute L, carefully she had let her legs--
--*SNAP!! *--
--Drop.
Gravity seized her by the hips, and it pulled with all the might its center could muster. A piece of the cord flailed before her, its fringes short and ragged, waving at her in its captivity in the fierce drag. It had no hindrance on her muscles as their conditioned memory took over, pulling the length of her body into a ball as she let the momentum do the rest--
The roof of the building below was closer than what she had thought; she was only halfway out of her ball, yet that didn't stop the very most edge of the roof from smashing evenly atop her shoulder. A terrible fire blazed deep within, erupting from the very bones and sinews that held it fast, as the joint had been forced down the length of her body too far. Her body went limp, and her muscles had done nothing to keep their strength as she tumbled side over side like a doll made of rags.
Her face became flush with something soft against her body; she felt it stretch against her cheek. Then it had contracted as though it shrank ten times, and her body had lifted off of the textile like she had been tossed on a trampoline. Her body flipped over on its back; the wind had blown against her sore back. It felt relaxing, so much so that she could have been in it all day till her eyes had caught that dark blue awning, seemingly rushing past her with its little, curly fringes waving goodbye--
Her back finally had smacked the hot, pebbled ground, hard and unmoving, her spine ablaze intensely throughout its length. Carefully, she had turned on her side, and there she sat.
Her eyes rolled up and down up and down easily in their sockets, drinking in the colors around just as the cracks in the black asphalt sipped at her spilt crimson. People daring enough to stick their necks outside gazed at her, eyes unblinking like paparazzi, murmuring aloud with hushed voices as though she the Princess of Wales.
Gravel crunched softly from behind, loudening and loudening till the person was right beside her ears. The singeing hope that one of the walleyes around had grown a conscious was burned out as a pair of boots rounded her head, and the loose gravel shifted underneath no more as they stopped right before the pool of her red. A boot's toe gleamed a dark, faded reflection of her as the owner took a loose, duck footed stand.
--Her heart skipped weakly as her ears caught a clack from above. An annoying soreness swelled at the complementary sides of her eyes, straining as they ran up the height of the boots. That glowing flame deep within died, as though the owner of the boots snuffed it out underfoot, as she caught a sliver of olive above where the black laces were knotted firmly.
The instep of the closest boot pressed against her stomach--and sheer pain paralyzed her instantly as the person rolled her--shoved her onto her back. She pained to keep her eyes open, to see the face of the one who'd do her in. But she wished she'd let her lids to their job.
The man: he didn't look as terrible as Drazen or his pompous, despotic father for that matter. Thick scars, plump, fleshy scars rolled a half of his face messily down the middle, from the middle of his squared widow's peak, through the bridge of his nose, and to tip of his jaw. Wherever she may go, it'd be burned in her mind forever, just like Drazen, while the scarred man in the ALICE gear placed the barrel of his bullpup rifle in the gentle valley between her eyebrows.
"Well, well, well...." A smirk tugged at the mangled corner of his lips. "Look what the cat dragged in."
"She looks like crap, Sir." A voice nearby her said. Her eyes rolled towards its point of origin. The nameless punk standing cattycorner, behind from the scarred man carried a huge rifle-- *her* rifle--in his arms, a tiny wisp of gray floating up, out of the gas break. It took what little strength she had left to keep her arm from giving her crown a good whack.
"Good shot." the scarred man's gaze never parted from her own, as much as her crawling skin wanted, that eerie, empty gaze that penetrated her very soul. It unnerved her greatly. "I didn't think you could actually hit!"
"It's easier with the sight." The punk nodded. "I guess treasures really do fall from Heaven after all. God must have been feeling generous today."
"Indeed." The scarred man was expressionless, as soon as the mangled corner dropped his lips.
"Well, Sergeant." Loose bits of dirt crunched and shifted little by little, at an even pace as the punk took a few steps toward her, shifting out her sight briefly before he emerged on her other side. Like the cowardly vulture, he was circling around her, eyeing as though she was nothing more than mere time between an animal and an easy lunch. "She doesn't look like the talkative type, but I do admit she has a pretty mouth."
"I hear that..." he shoved it off with a slight shrug of the shoulders. "Not that I'm into that kind of thing."
"Isn't Tank Man though?" She blinked, her brow kinking barely, and sorely. "I'm sure he have some fun with her."
The punk slipped behind the scarred man's firm build, gone for a moment before he slipped out on the opposite flank. The scarred man let out a brief, single chuckle though his parted lips.
"Not that there's anything left on him for such activity." He said flatly. "And even after a few sessions, there's no guarantee she'll talk."
"Then should we make it permanent?" her heart skipped at the words.
"No." it quickly slowed to more of a natural pace. "We take her back to headquarters. I believe the Major might know who she is."
The scarred man's eyes tore away finally. He barked loudly away from her, something unintelligible, yet she knew--just somehow knew that there was some sort of rhyme and reason to it. She was pretty sure she had heard Ronald speak something like it before.
Distantly, her ears caught the disjointed percussions, clunking and slapping. A motor growled to life nearby, and loose bits of earth grinded against each other. Her eyes were pretty sure they saw the very top of an olive vehicle, running quickly over the large, mounted gun, as it rolled past.
She swallowed hard, and pain stabbed throughout her head, as the muzzle seemed to have gained some weight in the middle of her brow. The scarred man pulled himself into a crouch, looming his body closely over hers, using the barrel for support. Those terrible burns, she couldn't get away from them as they leaned into her face. Her skin crawled away from his touch, as he ran a finger over her cheek.
"You are..." he batted his dark eyes, "American?"
Kim rejoined nothing; she motioned nothing.
"Irish?" he said.
She felt a small tick twitch at her eye.
"Answer me, you Mick!" he growled.
Her fist tightened habitually; the searing pain in her forearm eased her fingers instantly.
"Why do I have the feeling that I've seen your face somewhere before...." Her soiled cheek was relinquished of his finger. He simply then placed it upon the furrows of his chin, rubbing at it.
"I guess you were right, Sergeant." The punk said. "Looks like this songbird won't peep at all."
"Then you owe me a shekel."
An aching groan came out of her mouth. The barrel grew heavier for a moment before the "sergeant" moved himself back onto his boots. He crossed his legs at the ankles and he untwisted them with practiced ease of a soldier, spinning a complete 180 degrees.
"Until our ride comes back, we're stranded." The cap of his dark, straight hair swayed gently, back and forth with subtle movement. "Be on alert! Most of the filth may be busy washing up their kin with a hose, but they wont stop at that. Everyone's a hostile! Got it?"
"Sir!" The punk whipped out a straight arm, hand flat and straight. The elbow unlocked, curling into itself; bringing the forearm in a good 150 degrees.
"And try not kill any children this time." Her jaws pressed together tightly at the teeth at the indifferent sigh.
"Of course, Sir." The punk replied. "But... what if I *must* kill them?"
"If you must," the scarred man said easily, as if it were actually that simple, "you must."
She wanted to puke.
***
"Great!" Tara cursed faintly, easing the car to a sudden, screeching halt. "Just *fucking* great! Are you happy, Yune!? WELL ARE YOU!?"
It was time well wasted. It took her several minutes to turn Sadie around, even though she was able to do it in less than half the time. Yune had a hold on her, warm yet taut as though she were a slippery fish. Yet as much as she respected his wishes, this fish couldn't--wouldn't--go with the flow. The thick console and the broken arm put him in no position to say different anyway, though his mouth tried vigorously.
"I told you not to turn around, Tara." Yune's note came through a sigh, defeated like there was nothing else to say, to do, or even to try. "And I didn't even tell you, I screamed at you!"
The wheel's meeting with the bottom of her fist was short, abrupt as she continued to rain blows upon it. The piece trembled in the fierce shower, so fierce that she felt the car quake gently beneath her bottom.
"Can you see, Yune!?" she seethed, dropping her head into the gap between her outstretched arms. Her hands clutched the wheel tightly, wringing it, strangling the buoyancy straight out the finger grooves. "Can you see!? Take a good look at her, Bin-Mok, because this is probably the last time we'll ever see her!"
"Give him a break, Tara." Sadie rejoined for him. "It's not like he's psychic, you know!"
It didn't matter anymore if he had been blessed with the gift for foresight or not. Kim was down for the count, with no signs for a comeback anytime soon. The auburn lay there a block away, twitching and writhing, her locks smoothed awkwardly on the street. Two men in olive drab circled around her like hyenas to an easy meal, one proudly flaunting her large rifle about as a trinket for a hard day's work.
"You!" she eyed that indifferent fluctuating screen with as much ferocity as she could muster. If only that program had eyes that she could stare darts, sharp pointy darts, right into. "And what do you think!?"
"I don't think--"
"That's right!" she growled. "You don't think AT ALL! You just crunch the numbers, and pick what you think--what you *compute*--are good choices! NOTHING ELSE! DO YOU GET THAT, SADIE!? THAT'S ALL YOU DO!!"
"Now hold on one goddamn minute here!" The AI's bars fluctuated in dissent.
"All those numbers you crunch..." she shook her head. "All those *possible outcomes* you compute, yet your huge, honking chips can't process a blunder--an *error* as you might call it!"
"Tara, please...!"
"No, Sadie!" that green readout shrank smaller and smaller the longer she gazed it down to size. Snot rushed back up her nose with a sniff, letting all the drawn air out her lips in a quieted gush. "Whether or not you chips are silicone or potato, you maybe able to process *anything* except how to live with a mistake!"
A tear slipped out of her eye, trailing down her cheek while her crown met the crest of the steering wheel.
"Tara...." Yune said.
"We..." she sobbed, blinking to keep the water where it was, "can we save her, Yune?"
"We're almost out of ammo, T." he replied flatly.
"And my tank of coolant's about to have an aneurysm!" The AI replied unsolicited. "I can't do another figure-eight race around the camp!"
"Tara." He said again. "This is not your fault, my fault, or even Sadie's for that matter. Kim knew the risks, and knew the numbers were not on her side. Yet that didn't faze her whatsoever."
"And I *do* know that she go down like that Apache, just so we can play a whimpering, sitting duck!" That piece of junk interjected itself again.
"But..." she sniffed, "I didn't tell her--I'm sorry...!"
"I think I know she does, T." A warm tingle ran up and down her back, as his palm tapped lightly against her shoulder blade. "But you have to pull yourself together. We have to get out of here before the gruesome twosome spots us!"
Her knuckles popped as her grip tensed on the wheel. She snapped her head back quickly, the back of it bounced against the headrest.
"Where to?" She asked emotionlessly.
"Out of the West Bank for one, T." he let out a soft chuckle, ill timed. "Take us to Jerusalem. We'll link back up with Ron, then we'll figure something out from there."
"Fine!"
She pushed the knobby lever up a notch, so that it rested evenly beside the "R". Her back strained to keep her straight while her trunk twisted around, towards the door, taking an arm from the wheel and wrapping it oddly around the back of her seat. She eased off the brake. The vehicle rolled back, crawling towards the adjacent wall with a slight shift of the wheel. Her arm untwisted when she could make out the small fissures on the upright slab, placing it back on the wheel while the other went for the shift lever.
"When we pick up Ron today," to her man, she shot him a look that pierced deeply into his dark eyes as she moved shifter, "you can tell him of this *victory* yourself!"
"I will." He nodded deeply.
Sadie began to lurch, and she opened the throttle up a little bit. The drag lifted up strands of loose hair as the air ran smoothly over her head. The junction rolled at them quickly, and she stole one last glance at her mirror as she eased the vehicle to a crawl. Kim was but a blur, a little smear on the glass like the bits of dirt caked on. She wasn't even sure if it was the girl at all by the time she was in the midst of a left turn.
"I'm sorry, Kim." She thought aloud. "Forgive me...."
***
*That redhead thinks she's all that. * He thought calmly. *But she's not... she's not.... *
"Major Drazen?" the warped speaker made a crackle, intonation slipping through the static and out through the twisted, metallic honeycomb.
Uzi was surprised that anything still worked after that terrible spill, where his pride and joy had degraded to a malformed jalopy, parked in its deathbed on the mongrels' front lawn. Thankfully his ace up the sleeve still functioned perfectly, just as he hoped, keeping the hordes at a silent, weary bay. Quizzically, he scooped up the microphone, using the thumb and index while the others kept their stranglehold upon the lengthy trigger.
"Oh... ah!" he thumbed the button carefully, awkwardly as the microphone just threatened the grip of his fingers. "There we go! *Ah--! * This is Major Uzziel Drazen speaking. Who is this?"
"This is Private-First-Class Reuben Gad, Sir." The speaker crackled back. "I must say it is an honor to speak with you."
"Wish I could say the same, *Private*." He frowned. "This is an encrypted channel! How the hell did you get this?"
"My apologies, Sir--!"
"My ass, Private!" he growled. "Answer my question! How'd you get this?"
"My patrol at Ben Gurion has in custody two people from Spain." The speaker spun away, though it clearly sat right beside the catch for the microphone. "An elderly man, with some pretty boy beefcake. I think it might be a son or something. My CO's questioning them right now, Sir. The old man claims he knows you."
His brow cocked. "What do they want?"
"He said that he loaned you some money sometime ago, Sir." The voice replied. "He said he wants a return on his investment."
"Well, can this day get anymore *exciting*?" He closed his eyes, shaking his head gently.
"Is it possible that you could grace them with your presence, Sir?" the voice asked. "I mean, if you're not busy or anything--"
"Why on earth would I be busy!?" he snapped. "Sure, my 'copter's been shot down and a whole damn camp's worth of mongrels are staring at me with rabid, jackal eyes and gun barrels! But no, I'm not busy! No sir! Let me just whip my magic teleport out of my ass really quick!
"Oh wait--! That's right! I don't HAVE A FRIGGING MAGIC TELEPORT IN MY ASS!"
"Good Lord, Sir!" the speaker gasped a rough crackle. "How many are down?"
"Great looking out, maggot!" his eyes took a lap around his head. "My teams are down. Five presumed dead, four vehicles toast, Lieutenant Bonnet and I in a standoff, and a fucking partridge in a pear tree, maggot! Get it? Got it?"
"Yes sir!"
"Get Sergeant Avi Jude on the horn ASAP!" he barked. "He's in the area somewhere, and tell him to pick us up on the double!"
"Your location, Sir?"
"Just have him follow the mongrels!" he growled at the thought. "I've got a feeling that they won't want to miss the show! And get on it ASAP! Jesus can hold them off only for so long!"
"...Jesus?" the speaker replied rhetorically. "Since when were you religious?"
"The Jesus Trigger, maggot!" he chuckled a bit. "When push comes to shove over here, we're all going to find religion really fast at a flick of a switch!"
"Uh... right!" the speaker said. "Sir, what about the Spanish twosome?"
"Oh--just escort them back to the Organ Grinder!" he whined. "I'll deal with them myself! Just get Avi here NOW!"
"Yes sir--!"
His ears twitched at bit, catching the sound of gravel moving, shifting loudly underneath a great weight. Some of the angry walleyes shifted their wide, angry eyes away, as far as their muscles would let them roll. Through the forest of legs, he saw pairs of them far in the back part way, a big way as something huge tried to roll through. The crowd before him had their heads turned away, barrels of their illegal contraband arched up and way. Soon they moved slowly apart, grudgingly making way for the sweetest sight of steel and olive paint he had ever seen. His red insignia on the hard, olive canvas was so beautiful to his dry, weathered eyes.
"Gad, forget about Avi!" he smiled. "I see my ride's here."
"Yes Sir!"
"Major Drazen out!" he tossed the microphone away like it was scrap. Shia made a little rattle behind him, then the curly top made another one before a small *clomp* and another rattle.
"Ulcer getting to you?" he asked impassively.
"Why wouldn't it, Mr. U?" the curly top batted it right back to him. "North Korea's medical contribution, no doubt. And it's costs me a damn fortune!"
"Forget about that little... *uh! *" It came out like a grunt, and the deep blue space was right before him, the wreck looming over him as he found himself on his back. "Yellow devil, Bonnet. His curtain will fall, just like all these disgusting wretches around."
He pushed himself up onto his feet; his drabbed forearm a brush, sweeping the dirt off his BDU. Shia had crawled onto the edge of the wreck, where the canopy and the cockpit met, his body in a squat with hands flat against the edge like a frog. A small cloud of dirt floated up from the earth, from the curly top's boots as he hopped down from his perch.
"That's some serious firepower, Mr. U!" Shia's intonation assaulted his ears as thought a dim redneck from United States stood right next to him. The curly hair shifted around atop his head, his body twisting complementary to the movements of his head. "I knew we should have brought our ALICE gear!"
"Point taken, Shia." He replied distantly as he creaked for the Hummer. The detonator took the lead, training it in as many directions as his range of motion would let him. He spun on his heels quickly when he was at arm's reach from the open back door, and his butt sank easily, safely into the seat as he slipped in smoothly. "Hurry up!"
"Right!" the vehicle moved gently as the boy hopped inside like a kid.
"Let's move!"
The driver gave a quick nod of the straight, black hair. "You got it, Sir!"
Luckily, there was enough room beside the crash site that the Hummer squeezed through instantly. The four-way stop rushed at them quickly, and his knee flattened against the seat, taking a look over his shoulder as the vehicle cleared the intersection. Sharp blasts of yellow, and puffs of white smoke filled the air behind as the rabid mongrels yelled after them. Many rushed through the jalopy, using the same clearance the Hummer used while others climbed, crawled over it like animals.
"They're coming after us, Sir!" Shia eyed the crowd warily, yet he paid the boy's sudden apprehension no mind.
"We have to get Avi too, Sir!" the driver exclaimed. "I don't know how long he'll last out here, especially with this hot reception!"
"Don't worry about it!" his lips pulled into a smirk, and he moved a finger from off the detonator mischievously. "I'm sure the lord and savior of the Christians will take care of everything...!"
*Say hello to your Allah! * He laughed triumphantly; the mongrel's fates sealed like a burning drip of wax. He felt little tension return to his fingers as he flexed them like the detonator did with the trigger, nice and wide, as it tumbled to the floor with a *clunk*--!
"I hope you guys back at the station are breaking out the party hats." Dave kept a heavy eye on his train of thought, keeping sarcasm in professional check as it tried to worm and force its way out of its boxcar.
"And why's that, Schlitz?" the anchor said expressionlessly.
"The Major's helicopter is down for the count!" he shook his head, eyeing the cloud of thinning tan as it sprawled over the buildings, dissipating into the blue the further it reached. "For those of you who just tuning in, the VSA commander's helicopter has crashed in the West Bank, right in the middle of the refuge camp after a pursuit that lasted well over an hour. He seemed to have been pursuing a red and yellow SUV, possibly of American design, before the crash."
"Well that's good news for all of us," the anchor retorted pompously, sanctimonious and infallible as ever, "here at the Channel 2 news desk. If I said it once, I said it again: the Major had to be stopped. With that sort of tenacity and viciousness, we'd have the entire Arab world storming our doors."
*How's that different from any other day? * He rolled his eyes disgustedly.
"He had a problem with this network," he said, "from what I've read and heard."
"How did he crash?" the anchor dismissed him altogether.
"From what we could see," he said, "the tail rotor of his Apache malfunctioned. We should know, since the copter took a blade of it right in the body!"
"Are you alright?" the *putz* inquired in sheer fakery.
"Never felt better, or so alive!" he countered. "The blade passed right through, while the Apache took the Major for a hell of a ride. He crashed right in the middle of the refuge camp, and he is on the run."
"And if he isn't, he may as well should be if he isn't dead."
He the reporter, the one who stuck his head through a noose, could never be granted this privilege. It was a privilege that only prominent yellow-journalists could employ without a single word of open protest, as long as their own butts sat safely, comfortably in their sleek, black thrones behind the impunity of the desk.
"Right..." he sighed abruptly.
"This target vehicle," the *putz* continued, the utter bias rivaling the pompousness already thick in his audible demeanor, "why exactly was the head honcho so hell-bent over it?"
"Your guess is as good as mine." He shrugged. "It is quite possible that his suspect had something to do with the hostages' execution just a couple hours ago."
"Or it could be that someone just picked the wrong day to get on his nerves." The anchor replied smugly.
"Could be," his eyes took another lap around in his head, "couldn't be that at all; we'll never know till the IDF cleans up the mess."
"And clean it up they shall." The anchor replied distantly, a telltale sign that his hour in the limelight became abridged to a typical fifteen minutes. "That was Dave Schlitz, with our... *traffic* report. We have to take a break, but when we come back, we'll hear how talks over the complete transfer of ownership of the Temple Mount can bring peace to our troubled land--"
The headphones slipped off of his ears smoothly, the thick band cradling his sore neck while his shaky fingers rubbed at his weathered eyes.
"Everything okay, Dave?" His pilot asked seriously.
"Let's go home, man." He shook his head weakly. "I need a cold one-- and fast!"
He buried his crown deeply into his palms. Israel was doomed. Its last, possible hope had become a dying wish, dissolving in the wind like the tan cloud beside; and the mere thought of losing the mountain of Mariah hit him like bitter joke. The bones of Jacob would tumble restlessly about at the thought, buried under the rubble that was once his tomb.
"That Prime Minister better not make us regret this whole shenanigan!" he spat.
"I hear that!" the pilot nodded.
***
The dust had rested back upon its dirty street, settling deep down in the cracks that the stresses had ripped open in the pavement. The attack helicopter sat mangled in the crash site, peacefully for possibly the first time in its entire existence, encroached by chunks of concrete and stone and brimmed with a sooty black.
The Bloody Reds' fearless leader sat before him and his son, slumped in his chair unperturbed. Abu had never felt his heart act this erratically before: it wanted to leap for unbridled joy yet this terrifying fear consumed it at its apex, dragging it down to depths he had only dreamed that it would never reach. The group around did best to quell his uneasy spirit inadvertently, as though they all tiptoed though the minefield of eggshells. Most were caught in the midst of a confusing stride, meeting themselves coming and going midway.
"Do you see, Father!" his son beamed victoriously, his Soviet rifle strangled in his hands. "The great Allah had heard our many prayers! He had brought us that vicious heathen on a silver platter, just as He ordained it!"
"Easy Muhammad." He shook his head. "You don't know this man."
"He's a Jew!" his son snarled. "He's a murderer! What's not to know!? As we speak, his followers are probably using our blood for their disgusting pastries!"
"Cornered Jews are more dangerous than jackals, son." He said aloud.
"Ha!" Muhammad said arrogantly. "He's probably poses as much as a threat as a bug."
"Don't be too sure." He noted. "Don't be too sure--"
The voices around were chased away by the gentle breeze, as the mangled wreck let out a deep, loud curse of that heathen language. Pistols and rifles sounded together in a mighty clack, barrels trained weakly against the thick glass that glinted in the sun. The pragmatic, fearless leader was as bold and defiant as ever, just like in all the longwinded speeches he made, tucked away so safely behind that shiny glass.
It just didn't click in his mind. The scum behind their fence thought all alike; it was no big secret, or even one of public domain. Who was this Jew, this rotten, lying filth trying to convince anyway?
The defiant filth let out a painful groan.
"Well this, in Hell, is not a note!" it spoke with such insolence, and such a shaky grasp of the language it despised so venomously that he could barely make sense of it. The people took strange, quick glances at each other.
"Back up, will you!" it growled. "Very much packed, is this 'copter, with SEMTEX! Blow you, easily can it, out of the water!"
A few men beside him let out a grunt, one that even his beloved son shared in. Their fingers curled around the triggers agitatedly.
"The Jew is lying!" a woman's voice roared from the back throes of the crowd, where onlookers eagerly wormed in. "They always lie! Kill him!"
The inner crowd hissed like the great snakes of the desert, voicelessly, and one even went as so far as to voice his retort.
"Shut her up!" the man shouted.
"Right, are you!" it mockingly retorted. "To die, has no one, needlessly."
The machine let out a terrible, strained whirr of its mechanisms, and the shiny glass was tugged open like a puppy dog pulling at his chew toy. The gentle breeze smothered the whirr quickly, and the metal behind the shiny glass whined, as though the machine's plight was eclipsed by its loud hollow moan. The shiny glass over-flexed, and--
*Oh--gross! *
--It touched the ground with a crash.
The high commander of the Bloody Reds, the mysterious, vicious monster of heathen prodigy, shrank to a measly teenager in olive battle dress. But his face--! Oh what a terrible sight, a frightening sight that reflected the very devil beating deep within that fouled, blackened heart! Terrible scarring undulating the face with a deep crack running diagonal, from the forehead, over the sunken white orb, to the fading extreme of his jaw line. It must have had something to do with those shiny, smoothed blades on his balding head.
People around him let out a groan of disgust.
"This is the 'Major' we kept being terrorized by!?" another woman shouted. "He's just a boy!"
"Shut up!" another man shouted back.
"To you, Mr. Boy!" it shouted, and it lifted its arm into the air, as high as it would reach. A device was clenched in its grasp; a clunky, cumbersome one that looked like it belonged to a remote controlled toy. "Explain this, do I, have to?"
A couple people around him cursed, and some of the barrels of their gun dipped a little, trained toward the littered street. The eyes of the curly haired boy behind the thing were wide and jittery; lips capped the "neck" of an orange, translucent container no longer than half a pencil, no thicker than a roll of film. The curly top let out a wet cough the second the cylinder was free of the lips.
"Set, is this trigger, for one second!" it yelled brazenly. "Kiss the sky, will you, if I die! Sit here, are we all, nice and easy! Until, comes for me, my party!"
"Father, please!" Muhammad hissed bitterly. "The Jew is lying! It'll do anything--say anything--just to get loose! It even admitted it! We must kill this thing before it's too late!"
"I fear it might already be too late, Son." He drew a shaky hand across his brow. "Let us go home."
Muhammad blinked at him, blindsided seemingly as though his girlfriend had smacked him upside the head. The tanned hands eased their strangulation upon the grips of his rifle, and his shoulders dropped in defeated incredulity.
"But Father--!"
"Take me home, Muhammad!" he felt his brow furrow a bit, and his robes whipped opposite of his motion as he moved through the crowd, squeezing through at times where the bodies were pressed so tightly together.
Bodies... he shuddered at the thought. Though he wished against it feverishly, he couldn't deny the utterly *real* possibility, the *real* predictability. Whatever it may turn out to be, he didn't want to be near when the corpses started piling up, and neither did he want to scoop his son, his beloved son up like others from the bloodbath the next street over.
"Take that man's lead!" it let out a mocking chuckle. "Away you go!"
*Allah...! * He winced a bit, jerking his head spasmodically as a shiver ran down his spine. *Turn not paradise away from all those who come to you this day. Let them receive your mercy, and your many brown-eyed virgins awaiting them. Let them finally come to know peace, great Allah, and give that wretched Jew his just punishment in Hell! *
"So now what, Father?" his son inquired, shifting the sling on his shoulder so that the flank of the Soviet rifle came to rest at his side.
"I don't know, Muhammad." He shook his head. "I just don't know..."
***
A small cloud of dust blew up from the pavement, fogging over a small pool of crimson briefly before her squinting eyes, the only part of Kim's body that could move naturally. Her body ached deeply throughout while she baked helplessly on the pavement, the dark, hot asphalt like fresh road- kill. Her tense muscles burned with an excruciating pain, so bad that she dared not wince an inch or millimeter.
*OH--DAMN!! *
The sheer pain made her want to curl into a ball. It seized at her throat, clenching it tightly so much that her small breakfast and a belly full of bile wanted to crawl up the length all on their own.
"GOD!!" she screamed, knuckles popping as she balled her fists.
Everything was going so well after Drazen went down, taking a bite out of the very dust his mechanical behemoth kicked up from underneath. The big rifle slipped off her body, plummeting to the unknown below after her bum had lost its grip on the chrome ski. One of the innocents below could have it for all she cared; it turned in a flawless performance, and would serve its newfound owner well.
*God knows... *ah*--they could use the help. * She had thought.
Her abs yanked her trunk up by the front, and she had gotten a hand firmly around the cord of her grapple. Her arms singed with exhaustion, fighting it tooth and nail while her ankle worked itself free of the cord. With the toes of her boots pointed strongly at the underbelly of the 'copter, and her abs keeping her body in a crunched, acute L, carefully she had let her legs--
--*SNAP!! *--
--Drop.
Gravity seized her by the hips, and it pulled with all the might its center could muster. A piece of the cord flailed before her, its fringes short and ragged, waving at her in its captivity in the fierce drag. It had no hindrance on her muscles as their conditioned memory took over, pulling the length of her body into a ball as she let the momentum do the rest--
The roof of the building below was closer than what she had thought; she was only halfway out of her ball, yet that didn't stop the very most edge of the roof from smashing evenly atop her shoulder. A terrible fire blazed deep within, erupting from the very bones and sinews that held it fast, as the joint had been forced down the length of her body too far. Her body went limp, and her muscles had done nothing to keep their strength as she tumbled side over side like a doll made of rags.
Her face became flush with something soft against her body; she felt it stretch against her cheek. Then it had contracted as though it shrank ten times, and her body had lifted off of the textile like she had been tossed on a trampoline. Her body flipped over on its back; the wind had blown against her sore back. It felt relaxing, so much so that she could have been in it all day till her eyes had caught that dark blue awning, seemingly rushing past her with its little, curly fringes waving goodbye--
Her back finally had smacked the hot, pebbled ground, hard and unmoving, her spine ablaze intensely throughout its length. Carefully, she had turned on her side, and there she sat.
Her eyes rolled up and down up and down easily in their sockets, drinking in the colors around just as the cracks in the black asphalt sipped at her spilt crimson. People daring enough to stick their necks outside gazed at her, eyes unblinking like paparazzi, murmuring aloud with hushed voices as though she the Princess of Wales.
Gravel crunched softly from behind, loudening and loudening till the person was right beside her ears. The singeing hope that one of the walleyes around had grown a conscious was burned out as a pair of boots rounded her head, and the loose gravel shifted underneath no more as they stopped right before the pool of her red. A boot's toe gleamed a dark, faded reflection of her as the owner took a loose, duck footed stand.
--Her heart skipped weakly as her ears caught a clack from above. An annoying soreness swelled at the complementary sides of her eyes, straining as they ran up the height of the boots. That glowing flame deep within died, as though the owner of the boots snuffed it out underfoot, as she caught a sliver of olive above where the black laces were knotted firmly.
The instep of the closest boot pressed against her stomach--and sheer pain paralyzed her instantly as the person rolled her--shoved her onto her back. She pained to keep her eyes open, to see the face of the one who'd do her in. But she wished she'd let her lids to their job.
The man: he didn't look as terrible as Drazen or his pompous, despotic father for that matter. Thick scars, plump, fleshy scars rolled a half of his face messily down the middle, from the middle of his squared widow's peak, through the bridge of his nose, and to tip of his jaw. Wherever she may go, it'd be burned in her mind forever, just like Drazen, while the scarred man in the ALICE gear placed the barrel of his bullpup rifle in the gentle valley between her eyebrows.
"Well, well, well...." A smirk tugged at the mangled corner of his lips. "Look what the cat dragged in."
"She looks like crap, Sir." A voice nearby her said. Her eyes rolled towards its point of origin. The nameless punk standing cattycorner, behind from the scarred man carried a huge rifle-- *her* rifle--in his arms, a tiny wisp of gray floating up, out of the gas break. It took what little strength she had left to keep her arm from giving her crown a good whack.
"Good shot." the scarred man's gaze never parted from her own, as much as her crawling skin wanted, that eerie, empty gaze that penetrated her very soul. It unnerved her greatly. "I didn't think you could actually hit!"
"It's easier with the sight." The punk nodded. "I guess treasures really do fall from Heaven after all. God must have been feeling generous today."
"Indeed." The scarred man was expressionless, as soon as the mangled corner dropped his lips.
"Well, Sergeant." Loose bits of dirt crunched and shifted little by little, at an even pace as the punk took a few steps toward her, shifting out her sight briefly before he emerged on her other side. Like the cowardly vulture, he was circling around her, eyeing as though she was nothing more than mere time between an animal and an easy lunch. "She doesn't look like the talkative type, but I do admit she has a pretty mouth."
"I hear that..." he shoved it off with a slight shrug of the shoulders. "Not that I'm into that kind of thing."
"Isn't Tank Man though?" She blinked, her brow kinking barely, and sorely. "I'm sure he have some fun with her."
The punk slipped behind the scarred man's firm build, gone for a moment before he slipped out on the opposite flank. The scarred man let out a brief, single chuckle though his parted lips.
"Not that there's anything left on him for such activity." He said flatly. "And even after a few sessions, there's no guarantee she'll talk."
"Then should we make it permanent?" her heart skipped at the words.
"No." it quickly slowed to more of a natural pace. "We take her back to headquarters. I believe the Major might know who she is."
The scarred man's eyes tore away finally. He barked loudly away from her, something unintelligible, yet she knew--just somehow knew that there was some sort of rhyme and reason to it. She was pretty sure she had heard Ronald speak something like it before.
Distantly, her ears caught the disjointed percussions, clunking and slapping. A motor growled to life nearby, and loose bits of earth grinded against each other. Her eyes were pretty sure they saw the very top of an olive vehicle, running quickly over the large, mounted gun, as it rolled past.
She swallowed hard, and pain stabbed throughout her head, as the muzzle seemed to have gained some weight in the middle of her brow. The scarred man pulled himself into a crouch, looming his body closely over hers, using the barrel for support. Those terrible burns, she couldn't get away from them as they leaned into her face. Her skin crawled away from his touch, as he ran a finger over her cheek.
"You are..." he batted his dark eyes, "American?"
Kim rejoined nothing; she motioned nothing.
"Irish?" he said.
She felt a small tick twitch at her eye.
"Answer me, you Mick!" he growled.
Her fist tightened habitually; the searing pain in her forearm eased her fingers instantly.
"Why do I have the feeling that I've seen your face somewhere before...." Her soiled cheek was relinquished of his finger. He simply then placed it upon the furrows of his chin, rubbing at it.
"I guess you were right, Sergeant." The punk said. "Looks like this songbird won't peep at all."
"Then you owe me a shekel."
An aching groan came out of her mouth. The barrel grew heavier for a moment before the "sergeant" moved himself back onto his boots. He crossed his legs at the ankles and he untwisted them with practiced ease of a soldier, spinning a complete 180 degrees.
"Until our ride comes back, we're stranded." The cap of his dark, straight hair swayed gently, back and forth with subtle movement. "Be on alert! Most of the filth may be busy washing up their kin with a hose, but they wont stop at that. Everyone's a hostile! Got it?"
"Sir!" The punk whipped out a straight arm, hand flat and straight. The elbow unlocked, curling into itself; bringing the forearm in a good 150 degrees.
"And try not kill any children this time." Her jaws pressed together tightly at the teeth at the indifferent sigh.
"Of course, Sir." The punk replied. "But... what if I *must* kill them?"
"If you must," the scarred man said easily, as if it were actually that simple, "you must."
She wanted to puke.
***
"Great!" Tara cursed faintly, easing the car to a sudden, screeching halt. "Just *fucking* great! Are you happy, Yune!? WELL ARE YOU!?"
It was time well wasted. It took her several minutes to turn Sadie around, even though she was able to do it in less than half the time. Yune had a hold on her, warm yet taut as though she were a slippery fish. Yet as much as she respected his wishes, this fish couldn't--wouldn't--go with the flow. The thick console and the broken arm put him in no position to say different anyway, though his mouth tried vigorously.
"I told you not to turn around, Tara." Yune's note came through a sigh, defeated like there was nothing else to say, to do, or even to try. "And I didn't even tell you, I screamed at you!"
The wheel's meeting with the bottom of her fist was short, abrupt as she continued to rain blows upon it. The piece trembled in the fierce shower, so fierce that she felt the car quake gently beneath her bottom.
"Can you see, Yune!?" she seethed, dropping her head into the gap between her outstretched arms. Her hands clutched the wheel tightly, wringing it, strangling the buoyancy straight out the finger grooves. "Can you see!? Take a good look at her, Bin-Mok, because this is probably the last time we'll ever see her!"
"Give him a break, Tara." Sadie rejoined for him. "It's not like he's psychic, you know!"
It didn't matter anymore if he had been blessed with the gift for foresight or not. Kim was down for the count, with no signs for a comeback anytime soon. The auburn lay there a block away, twitching and writhing, her locks smoothed awkwardly on the street. Two men in olive drab circled around her like hyenas to an easy meal, one proudly flaunting her large rifle about as a trinket for a hard day's work.
"You!" she eyed that indifferent fluctuating screen with as much ferocity as she could muster. If only that program had eyes that she could stare darts, sharp pointy darts, right into. "And what do you think!?"
"I don't think--"
"That's right!" she growled. "You don't think AT ALL! You just crunch the numbers, and pick what you think--what you *compute*--are good choices! NOTHING ELSE! DO YOU GET THAT, SADIE!? THAT'S ALL YOU DO!!"
"Now hold on one goddamn minute here!" The AI's bars fluctuated in dissent.
"All those numbers you crunch..." she shook her head. "All those *possible outcomes* you compute, yet your huge, honking chips can't process a blunder--an *error* as you might call it!"
"Tara, please...!"
"No, Sadie!" that green readout shrank smaller and smaller the longer she gazed it down to size. Snot rushed back up her nose with a sniff, letting all the drawn air out her lips in a quieted gush. "Whether or not you chips are silicone or potato, you maybe able to process *anything* except how to live with a mistake!"
A tear slipped out of her eye, trailing down her cheek while her crown met the crest of the steering wheel.
"Tara...." Yune said.
"We..." she sobbed, blinking to keep the water where it was, "can we save her, Yune?"
"We're almost out of ammo, T." he replied flatly.
"And my tank of coolant's about to have an aneurysm!" The AI replied unsolicited. "I can't do another figure-eight race around the camp!"
"Tara." He said again. "This is not your fault, my fault, or even Sadie's for that matter. Kim knew the risks, and knew the numbers were not on her side. Yet that didn't faze her whatsoever."
"And I *do* know that she go down like that Apache, just so we can play a whimpering, sitting duck!" That piece of junk interjected itself again.
"But..." she sniffed, "I didn't tell her--I'm sorry...!"
"I think I know she does, T." A warm tingle ran up and down her back, as his palm tapped lightly against her shoulder blade. "But you have to pull yourself together. We have to get out of here before the gruesome twosome spots us!"
Her knuckles popped as her grip tensed on the wheel. She snapped her head back quickly, the back of it bounced against the headrest.
"Where to?" She asked emotionlessly.
"Out of the West Bank for one, T." he let out a soft chuckle, ill timed. "Take us to Jerusalem. We'll link back up with Ron, then we'll figure something out from there."
"Fine!"
She pushed the knobby lever up a notch, so that it rested evenly beside the "R". Her back strained to keep her straight while her trunk twisted around, towards the door, taking an arm from the wheel and wrapping it oddly around the back of her seat. She eased off the brake. The vehicle rolled back, crawling towards the adjacent wall with a slight shift of the wheel. Her arm untwisted when she could make out the small fissures on the upright slab, placing it back on the wheel while the other went for the shift lever.
"When we pick up Ron today," to her man, she shot him a look that pierced deeply into his dark eyes as she moved shifter, "you can tell him of this *victory* yourself!"
"I will." He nodded deeply.
Sadie began to lurch, and she opened the throttle up a little bit. The drag lifted up strands of loose hair as the air ran smoothly over her head. The junction rolled at them quickly, and she stole one last glance at her mirror as she eased the vehicle to a crawl. Kim was but a blur, a little smear on the glass like the bits of dirt caked on. She wasn't even sure if it was the girl at all by the time she was in the midst of a left turn.
"I'm sorry, Kim." She thought aloud. "Forgive me...."
***
*That redhead thinks she's all that. * He thought calmly. *But she's not... she's not.... *
"Major Drazen?" the warped speaker made a crackle, intonation slipping through the static and out through the twisted, metallic honeycomb.
Uzi was surprised that anything still worked after that terrible spill, where his pride and joy had degraded to a malformed jalopy, parked in its deathbed on the mongrels' front lawn. Thankfully his ace up the sleeve still functioned perfectly, just as he hoped, keeping the hordes at a silent, weary bay. Quizzically, he scooped up the microphone, using the thumb and index while the others kept their stranglehold upon the lengthy trigger.
"Oh... ah!" he thumbed the button carefully, awkwardly as the microphone just threatened the grip of his fingers. "There we go! *Ah--! * This is Major Uzziel Drazen speaking. Who is this?"
"This is Private-First-Class Reuben Gad, Sir." The speaker crackled back. "I must say it is an honor to speak with you."
"Wish I could say the same, *Private*." He frowned. "This is an encrypted channel! How the hell did you get this?"
"My apologies, Sir--!"
"My ass, Private!" he growled. "Answer my question! How'd you get this?"
"My patrol at Ben Gurion has in custody two people from Spain." The speaker spun away, though it clearly sat right beside the catch for the microphone. "An elderly man, with some pretty boy beefcake. I think it might be a son or something. My CO's questioning them right now, Sir. The old man claims he knows you."
His brow cocked. "What do they want?"
"He said that he loaned you some money sometime ago, Sir." The voice replied. "He said he wants a return on his investment."
"Well, can this day get anymore *exciting*?" He closed his eyes, shaking his head gently.
"Is it possible that you could grace them with your presence, Sir?" the voice asked. "I mean, if you're not busy or anything--"
"Why on earth would I be busy!?" he snapped. "Sure, my 'copter's been shot down and a whole damn camp's worth of mongrels are staring at me with rabid, jackal eyes and gun barrels! But no, I'm not busy! No sir! Let me just whip my magic teleport out of my ass really quick!
"Oh wait--! That's right! I don't HAVE A FRIGGING MAGIC TELEPORT IN MY ASS!"
"Good Lord, Sir!" the speaker gasped a rough crackle. "How many are down?"
"Great looking out, maggot!" his eyes took a lap around his head. "My teams are down. Five presumed dead, four vehicles toast, Lieutenant Bonnet and I in a standoff, and a fucking partridge in a pear tree, maggot! Get it? Got it?"
"Yes sir!"
"Get Sergeant Avi Jude on the horn ASAP!" he barked. "He's in the area somewhere, and tell him to pick us up on the double!"
"Your location, Sir?"
"Just have him follow the mongrels!" he growled at the thought. "I've got a feeling that they won't want to miss the show! And get on it ASAP! Jesus can hold them off only for so long!"
"...Jesus?" the speaker replied rhetorically. "Since when were you religious?"
"The Jesus Trigger, maggot!" he chuckled a bit. "When push comes to shove over here, we're all going to find religion really fast at a flick of a switch!"
"Uh... right!" the speaker said. "Sir, what about the Spanish twosome?"
"Oh--just escort them back to the Organ Grinder!" he whined. "I'll deal with them myself! Just get Avi here NOW!"
"Yes sir--!"
His ears twitched at bit, catching the sound of gravel moving, shifting loudly underneath a great weight. Some of the angry walleyes shifted their wide, angry eyes away, as far as their muscles would let them roll. Through the forest of legs, he saw pairs of them far in the back part way, a big way as something huge tried to roll through. The crowd before him had their heads turned away, barrels of their illegal contraband arched up and way. Soon they moved slowly apart, grudgingly making way for the sweetest sight of steel and olive paint he had ever seen. His red insignia on the hard, olive canvas was so beautiful to his dry, weathered eyes.
"Gad, forget about Avi!" he smiled. "I see my ride's here."
"Yes Sir!"
"Major Drazen out!" he tossed the microphone away like it was scrap. Shia made a little rattle behind him, then the curly top made another one before a small *clomp* and another rattle.
"Ulcer getting to you?" he asked impassively.
"Why wouldn't it, Mr. U?" the curly top batted it right back to him. "North Korea's medical contribution, no doubt. And it's costs me a damn fortune!"
"Forget about that little... *uh! *" It came out like a grunt, and the deep blue space was right before him, the wreck looming over him as he found himself on his back. "Yellow devil, Bonnet. His curtain will fall, just like all these disgusting wretches around."
He pushed himself up onto his feet; his drabbed forearm a brush, sweeping the dirt off his BDU. Shia had crawled onto the edge of the wreck, where the canopy and the cockpit met, his body in a squat with hands flat against the edge like a frog. A small cloud of dirt floated up from the earth, from the curly top's boots as he hopped down from his perch.
"That's some serious firepower, Mr. U!" Shia's intonation assaulted his ears as thought a dim redneck from United States stood right next to him. The curly hair shifted around atop his head, his body twisting complementary to the movements of his head. "I knew we should have brought our ALICE gear!"
"Point taken, Shia." He replied distantly as he creaked for the Hummer. The detonator took the lead, training it in as many directions as his range of motion would let him. He spun on his heels quickly when he was at arm's reach from the open back door, and his butt sank easily, safely into the seat as he slipped in smoothly. "Hurry up!"
"Right!" the vehicle moved gently as the boy hopped inside like a kid.
"Let's move!"
The driver gave a quick nod of the straight, black hair. "You got it, Sir!"
Luckily, there was enough room beside the crash site that the Hummer squeezed through instantly. The four-way stop rushed at them quickly, and his knee flattened against the seat, taking a look over his shoulder as the vehicle cleared the intersection. Sharp blasts of yellow, and puffs of white smoke filled the air behind as the rabid mongrels yelled after them. Many rushed through the jalopy, using the same clearance the Hummer used while others climbed, crawled over it like animals.
"They're coming after us, Sir!" Shia eyed the crowd warily, yet he paid the boy's sudden apprehension no mind.
"We have to get Avi too, Sir!" the driver exclaimed. "I don't know how long he'll last out here, especially with this hot reception!"
"Don't worry about it!" his lips pulled into a smirk, and he moved a finger from off the detonator mischievously. "I'm sure the lord and savior of the Christians will take care of everything...!"
*Say hello to your Allah! * He laughed triumphantly; the mongrel's fates sealed like a burning drip of wax. He felt little tension return to his fingers as he flexed them like the detonator did with the trigger, nice and wide, as it tumbled to the floor with a *clunk*--!