P.R.B


"Dubya, you got a visual?"

It is noon in Rapid City. The continuous layers of concrete and tarmac built into the district radiate a palpable heat, absorbed into the faces of three men at work. A twelve-story office block, standing for decades as all buildings should, lies in clear view of this trio. For most, there was nothing about this block that would wield any level of distinction above any of the surrounding buildings, but you, along with the two people adjacent, knew of one.
That office block has been set to implode, with no survivors.
It would already have been demolished, were it not for an unknown group seizing the area and using the rigged building to sneak in nine hostages overnight. A simple deal for the property's owner was laid out – one and half a million for each head by one, otherwise boom. If this shows up on the news, boom. Police? Gunshots? Boom. They took hold of the demolition operation, and controlled the spread of information so that no one, other than the building's owner, would be aware thereof.
Only one channel escaped this scrutiny – Phillips-Robertson Bugle, a dark "domestic security" firm, was notified by proxy of the situation, and had relayed the job to your unit. It was to be a covert mission – forwards carry M9's with silencers and subsonic ammo, and underbody Kevlar vests only. Secure the detonator, get the people out, shoot only when shot at, and spit metaphorically in the son's face, in that order.
Your team arrived in the demolition company's van, first stopping behind a nearby building to deploy Dubya, the team sniper, as oversight. He is the lucky one who gets to keep his full dress, along with his M24A3, a backup MP7, and not needing to enter a rigged building unless things turned sour. Blackhead, Cleef, and you, Red Bastard, fronting as an inspection team, is cleared to enter the site to perform final checks on the explosives setup.

"All set up, RB," Dubya responds, slightly garbled, into your earpiece. "Don't see any hostages from up here – should be inside. Have fun." Indeed, searching twelve floors hiding nine people on a one-hour timer to getting buried alive is the gunman's idea of fun.
"I'll handle the remote. You guys go in," said Blackhead as he separates from the group.
Cleef stares a bit too hard at the parting mercenary. It is unusual, he thought, that Black would take the position to split off that he normally would. He turns to you to ask a question. "You think Black's still pissed about La Junta?"
"Come on," you reply, "it wasn't that long. He thinks he was gonna come out clean?"
"I mean, that could've been anyone else. If it were you, you would've focused the remote."
You cease the tangent. "Yeah, right. Let's go. We work from top to bottom. Once we get everyone together, we bounce."
Your earpiece rings. "RB, status." It was Arnold, acting in communications.
"This is Red Bastard with Cleef; we're going upstairs and working down. Blackhead's moving for the trigger, over."
"Understood. Just got in touch with the owner – he says that fucker doesn't suspect you guys. He could be shuffling the hostages around, so stay frosty, out."
"FAB." You and Cleef head upstairs for the penthouse. Cleef radios Blackhead, "You got the remote yet?"
"No, leads are fine down here." Blackhead suspected that the enemy would listen in on the PTT, so aside from using the radio instead of the SWATCOM, he added that suffix to quell their suspicion. The mercenary approaches a temporary hut where the trigger man and detonator would be. Upon entering, he greets the unsuspecting man, who is eating a pre-made sandwich. "We're doing final checks. Can I see the detonator?"
"Here you go." He hands Blackhead the CD450-4J and tester. The "tech" attaches the little black box to the detonator, and then depresses the CHARGE button, waiting a few seconds until the READY TO FIRE indicator lights up. He pushes the FIRE button. ENERGY OK – as is expected. "Kay, blaster's good and charged." Blackhead radios Cleef, "Okay Scott, the remote's fine. How're the leads in the building?"
Of course, Cleef is keen on the messaging. "Yeah, everything's good so far. We'll survey the tenth floor soon, out." The penthouse is devoid of "wiring faults." Now sixteen minutes past the hour, you start to become nervous. If your group would still remain in the building by one, then the man on the detonator would have free reign to bury everyone inside. This, however, depends on whether or not he was ordered to keep up appearances. Uneased about that break in certainty, you radio Blackhead. "Joe, this wiring check could take too long with only two people. How long until you get in the building, over?"
After a while, you get a response. "Yeah, everything checks out here. I'll be in shortly, down-up, over."
"Okay, meet us at the central staircase, out." You count every slow, increasingly agonizing second as you and Cleef scan the last remaining rooms and corridors, hoping to find anyone, victim or otherwise. Nothing. Still, there are nine more floors to go, but at least Black would hasten the process. Cleef notifies the team, "Okay, tenth floor's good. Moving down to nine."
You split up from Cleef to sweep the northern side of the ninth floor. There's a certain routine you follow for each room; swivel at the entrance, looking from the nearest wall to the furthest, pinpoint each corner as you head for the next doorframe, and all the while you hover your hand over your pistol, steeling yourself for the occasion that the next person you see might attack you. You take note of the bright yellow wires strewn across the support columns, leading up into sizable holes where the high-velocity explosives have been stuffed into. Those blasters make magic happen, you thought. I better not hit these. With the low energy and muzzle velocity incurred by sub-silencing, accuracy is a concern, especially in close range and near live wires. Cutting them wouldn't cause premature detonation since they're electric, but will make the building fall unpredictably should blasting commence. You enter another room and – wait, a body? "This is Red Bastard, I found a hostage on nine. Male, mid-thirties, maroon jersey and light brown pants, over." He is apparently confused that a safety tech is talking into his sleeve.
Blackhead responds, "Confirm, RB. Eight more to go."
You approach the scared man. "Don't worry, I'm here to help. You have anything on you?" You subdue your voice in case he has a transmitter on him. "Radios, wires, trackers?"
"Not on my body," he replied before exposing his waist and back for you as assurance. You check his ears, and what do you find, if not a pea-sized receiver. "This is RB. The hostage is bugged, one-way. Expect the same from the others, over." You lead the hostage to the central staircase. "Okay, stay by these stairs. If you're near a window, they're gonna see you and blow this place up." You head back to finish the rest of the floor, with nothing else found.
Cleef calls, "I found RB's hostage. We're going down to eight."
As you head down the central staircase, Blackhead buzzes in. "Ground floor's clean, moving up to one."
"Understood, Black," Cleef responds. "Scanning the south of eight now."
You head past the maroon man and into the north side, leaving no stone unturned. All the rooms were devoid of any desks that someone could hide under, a small consolation for the volume that had to be covered. It wasn't long until you find another hostage. "This is RB. Found another hostage, mid-forties, wearing a yellow coat and black pants, over." You check your watch – twelve twenty-five. You would have to drive your pace up to sweep the building in time. "Don't worry, we're rescuing you. Stay right here – when I come back, follow me to the stairs."
"Black here. I saw someone run upstairs – east staircase. Gonna take a look."
In unison, Cleef and Dubya reply "Understood," with Cleef continuing, "RB confirms two of nine. Hold on – I think I see someone." A few seconds pass, followed by Cleef speaking again. "Found another one, she's about thirty, white shirt, dark cargo pants."
At least progress was made. "Alright Cleef, we're one-third done. Head back to the staircase, ov-"

Pistol shots crack through the air. It was not your teammates; the shots came from below your level, ruling Dubya out, and were unsilenced. If the police even dared show up, the tower would've already fallen.
"Shit. Squad, sitrep!" You start a mad dash for the yellow hostage.
The boulderous voice of Blackhead echoes in your earpiece. "It was right above me! Get those people out!" The bodily urge of action kicks into overdrive as you head to grab the yellowjacket-
More shots, this time on your floor. "Fuck, she's got a gun!" What Cleef had just shouted sets off a twisted revelation – the hostages, aren't. They were operatives all the time, intended to leave the tower block by one so they could enact a wholly unexpected phase in the terror group's plan. They knew they were safe. They knew that the owner was willing to part with thirteen million dollars for the sake of life. They knew that they could extort him for even more. They are going to wreak havoc on everyone outside, and you would wish you could act faster.
"What was that?" It was Dubya, or at least you assume it was.
"It was a setup, they're not hostages!"
"No, I mean-" The yellowjacket blindsides you with a blow to the head, knocking your earpiece out. You try to get your bearings straight as you draw your pistol and fire four shots at the retreating terrorist, who swiftly ducks left into a room to evade your gunfire. "This's RB, I'm engaging, I got no ears!" You rush into the room where the yellowjacket waits in ambush. His M1911 is drawn, and you notice the left leg of his pants dropping to his ankle. Everyone your team found had loose pants for a reason. You swing your gun at him, but the two of you clash and drop your weapons. The terrorist throws a right hook at your ribcage, but as he lands it, you grip his arm, deliver a mighty left onto his nose, and shove him to the ground with a right forward kick. He's still conscious, but you have just enough time to grab a gun – his gun – and get your feet underneath you. The instant you were upright, he had already reached the staircase, so you dig deep and sprint after him. You catch up within three flights, but the yellowjacket turns suddenly and pushes both you and him onto the fifth floor. Fortunately, you still face him, and you unload three rounds, incapacitating him. You hear more shots fired from across the building.
Those weren't.
Behind you, the scenery changes to that of a rapidly-closing shower of concrete and dust. You launch yourself up, only to lose your balance due to the shifting floor beneath you. The knuckles on your right hand get scuffed between the gun and the ground. Hastily, you holster it to free your hand for more grip. If you can make it to the staircase and at least ride your way down, you might stand a chance. In the single-minded urge to claim your survival, you plant one highly-sprung right foot into the ground, and-
The floor collapsed underneath you. You weren't going to make it. Desperately, you try to claw your way towards the vanishing central column, but it goes down in smoke, and so do you. There is only the overwhelming crushing wall of noise, catapulted forth by the twenty-thousand-ton concrete masses. Your vision becomes cluttered with heaps of solid grey rocks, clouds of abrasive dust, and a fiery line quickly skating across your sight…

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