Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.
Disclaimer #2: This chapter sees a character use language some may find more offensive than usual. Consider yourself informed.
Disclaimer #3: This chapter contains descriptions of violence that some may find more graphic than those encountered in previous chapters. Again, consider yourself informed.
ICYMI: With the stakes raised to their highest levels, Arnold and the motley bunch move to execute the (hopefully) final confrontation against Scheck.
Oh, would you look at the time? It's time to start the latest chapter!
23. How To Isolate The Isotope
One. Two. Three.
One…Two…Three…
One, on the boat. Two, on the furthest container. Three, nearmost container.
One, bang…Two, bang…Three, bang…
Arnie was at his designated location, all set up and cycling through his main targets. Furthest one was eight hundred yards and change; closest one, about six hundred. The one on the boat, somewhere in between, but at an awkward angle. Awkward, but not impossible.
"You realize, Sheriff, that you're going out there with the intent to commit murder."
Brainy's words back at the brownstone, highlighting his concerns as Arnie laid out his plans.
"Not so, Four-Eyes. I'm acting on a tip from the most credible source I've ever dealt with, to investigate and possibly prevent an imminent homicide from being committed. Use of lethal force may be unavoidable."
Arnie's counterargument, against which Brainy had nothing. Back in the here and now.
First one, most difficult shot; take him out first, maybe get his partners to look his way.
Second, possibly with line of sight. Take him next, before he can spot me.
Third one, back towards me. No time for him to turn around; take him last.
He could do it; he could make those shots. He kept reassuring himself as he cycled through the targets.
One…Two…Three…
He had the equipment: a McMillan TAC-50 sniper rifle, fitted with God's own telescopic night vision sight and enough aftermarket goodies for him not to require a spotter. It was, in sniper parlance, a fucking big gun, able to send a very big bullet, very far and very quickly. Just as well, as every split second would be precious: there simply was no room for error.
Ah, showtime!
Arnold had come into view; he was walking, weapon in hand, into the designated kill zone. "Arnold, shots acquired. All three," he spoke into his mic.
"Hold position, Arnie," Phoebe whispered back via her channel. "Fire only when you hear the codewords."
"Arnold, I hope you know what you're doing," Arnie whispered back, airing the last of his doubts.
"Arnie," chided Phoebe, "Arnold is putting himself at risk for all our safety. All we can do now is trust his judgment."
They all trusted Arnold's judgment, even as the poorly lit kill zone suddenly became bathed in the light from numerous LED spotlights and numerous armed PMC's sprung out to face him, weapons drawn, trained and live.
Don't panic, Arnie reminded himself. He knows what he's doing. All part of the plan.
"And how do you know he won't have you killed on sight?" Arnie had asked Arnold as the latter was formulating his plan in the brownstone.
"Trust me, Arnie. He won't," Arnold answered confidently.
"And how can you be so certain about that prediction?" Phoebe's tone of uncertainty had matched Arnie's.
Arnold's reply: "His ego. It won't be enough for him just to beat me. He'll want to humiliate me. He'll want to gloat over his victory, make me realize that there's no escape and remind me that he always wins in the end. So no, he won't want to do this quick; he'll want to draw it out to savor the victory. Just remember, Arnie. Wait for him to say the words before you fire."
"But why would you want to prolong the danger? One shot from Arnie may be all that's required."
"Only, Olga may still be at risk. Look, I know that Hillwood PD has closed the case. But what if – just…what if – they decide to reopen the investigation? They'll come after her with more questions, they might tie her in with Vasquez's death. We do this right, they won't dare reopen it."
True to Arnold's word, Scheck's men held their fire when the smart tactic would have been to drop him then and there. Scheck himself was some distance behind the firing line, though the cool night air helped him project his voice over the entire area.
"Arnold! So exceedingly nice of you to join us!" Scheck seemed chipper indeed.
"Not that I had much choice!" Arnold was doing his part by pointing his weapon down, not wanting to set off his adversaries. Not yet, anyway.
"Now that's a lie and you know it!" Scheck replied, to which Arnold and his crew nodded as they recognized the beginning of a gloating session. "You needn't have come here at all! Of course, there would have been a severe penalty for non-participation. But still, you had the choice!"
"So is this how it's going to play out?" Arnold ventured. "I still have questions. Like why target all my friends and family? Why not just go after me?"
"But we did, Arnold! We did!" Scheck feigned innocence. "That's only because our inside man forgot to mention that there'd be bystanders on the day. Tragic, isn't it? Even more tragic was you being delayed, unable to make it in time for your own surprise!"
Inside man? Arnold let that question go unasked. No, best to keep him talking. Seems like he's on a roll.
"You know what's even more tragic? Not everyone was happy with you saving the neighborhood! Several of those people who sold their businesses wanted to move out. Then when they got their title deeds back, they had to undo all their moving arrangements and start their businesses again from nothing. Then there was Robert Pataki. You stopped me from buying him out, only for him to watch his business go to shit! Now if he had stayed on board with me, even when beepers would eventually go the way of the dodo I'd have bought out his stake at a very healthy premium. Enough for him to live comfortably for the rest of his life."
"Arnold, disregard him!" It was Phoebe's urgent whisper. "He's twisting your sense of honor into guilt! Keep your head. Remember the plan! Your plan!"
"That's always been your problem, Arnold," Scheck resumed his prodding. "You were always a boy playing adult games. Never seeing the big picture, always seeing good guys or bad guys. Always thinking the bad guys would stay down after one good blow. And look at what that got you!"
"That's bullshit, Coz, and you know it!" Arnie took a turn at stabilizing Arnold, who was still holding on to his composure.
"The truth is," continued Scheck, "is that guys like me make shit happen. We add value. We put food on people's tables. We grow economies! Take us out and all you'll have is your moral victory with fuck-all else to show for it! Your politicians, your authorities? They won't come near us!"
"So they let you get away with murdering innocent children?" asked Arnold.
"That was a tragedy, dear boy!" Scheck replied callously. "On the plus side," he continued, "I was able to deal with your co-conspirators in the process. That nigger friend of yours, for instance…"
Arnold held steady with gritted teeth, his trigger finger begging to squeeze out all the rounds in his carbine at Scheck. He knew that Scheck was provoking him to raise his weapon and give the men cause to gun him down. He held his nerve and stood fast. Scheck kept smiling, knowing that Arnold was rattled.
"Oh, was that a nerve I struck? For what it's worth, you were supposed to die with him. He and that blond girl. Pataki's daughter. You know, the one you fell head over heels for? Now, what was her name, again..?"
"You ought to know," taunted Arnold. "You stole her file with her psych evals."
Scheck did not miss a beat. "Oh yes, the basket case. I still don't get why her death upsets you so much, or even at all. If anything, you should be thanking me for taking that lunatic, that mentally unstable timebomb, out of your life for good! Did you really foresee a happily ever after with Helga Pataki?"
'Helga Pataki'. At those final words, Arnold smiled.
"Did you really foresee a happily ever after with Helga Pataki?"
'Helga Pataki'. I'll be dammed, Arnold called it!
"I guarantee he'll bring her up to rub in how I failed to help her in the end," Arnold had comfortably predicted at the brownstone. "And when – not if, when – he mentions her name, that's your cue."
Those words were Arnie's cue to fire.
First target on the boat. BOOM! Work the bolt; chamber the next round: CHA-CHUNK!
Second target on the furthest container. BOOM! Work the bolt; chamber the next round: CHA-CHUNK!
Third target on the nearmost container. BOOM! Work the bolt; chamber the next round: CHA-CHUNK!
All within three seconds. Another look through the scope.
First shooter: downed.
Second shooter: brains splattered over a wide radius; downed.
Third shooter: a cavernous hole through his back; downed.
Kill zone: confusion.
Time for Arnold to go to work.
Three shots were fired. Many more were heard: the initial reports from an unknown shooter, then the echelon echoes off the shipping containers arranged around the area.
Scheck and the PMC's were confused. Someone yelled "SHOOTER!". Others looked around in disarray. Others dove to the ground. Momentarily, nobody was paying attention to Arnold.
Their mistake.
Arnold raised his carbine towards the closest combatants and let loose short sprays of 7.62mm lead.
BRRT…BRRT…BRRT.
The first five never saw it coming as Arnold's bullets ripped through them. Three more turned to face him: abreast, weapons raised, composure regained. They in turn never saw Arnie's fourth shot as it passed through each of them, dealing instant death times three.
BOOM!
Arnie's fourth shot also echoed and reverberated across the area, further adding to the confusion. The confusion that Arnold exploited with more volleys.
BRRT…BRRT…BRRT.
Three more hostiles downed with gaping holes in their chests and stomachs. Arnold began circling the hostiles gathered closest to him. Strafing them with more full-auto bursts. His constant movement prevented them from getting a bead on him. The constant adjustments of their aim made them sitting ducks as Arnold dropped them in rapid succession
BRRT…BRRT…BRRT.
Two…no, three…no, four more dropped, Shots to head, heart and lungs.
Then… BRR—CLICK-CLICK-CLICK.
Shit! The magazine was empty! He had to put some distance between him and the foes, but they also heard the unmistakable sound of an enemy's weapon dry-firing.
Arnie bought him his time with a fifth and final shot which passed through another two hostiles and caused the rest to hit the deck once more as the fifth BANG reverberated through the area. It was Arnold's cue to haul ass for the labyrinthine passages amongst the containers, which fortunately were now abandoned by Scheck's men who were previously stationed on top of them and who no longer had any desire to be open targets for a fucking sharpshooter.
"He's retreating," shouted someone who sounded in charge. "OPEN FIRE!"
He and his comrades did, and Arnold barely made it in time to the passage to avoid the wall of automatic gunfire pursuing him. He slid in just as innumerable bullets pinged and dinged against the metal containers, some ricochets barely missing him. He now had a few seconds.
Time for him to eject the ammo drum and insert the other one.
Time for him to hear the man in charge issue a loud command to close in on the target.
Time enough to pull out a flashbang, pull the pin and praise his latent baseball pitching skills as he threw the grenade so that its trajectory saw it bounce off the side wall before clearing the exit of the passage and rolling towards the advancing party.
At that point, he heard the self-appointed leader issue a desperate "Shit! Fall back!" just as the grenade exploded with its usual cocktail of 170 dB of noise and 2.3 million candelas of luminous intensity. The desired effect was had, given the screams of agony Arnold was hearing.
Arnold briefly mused what Bridget was putting into these things as they were way more powerful than the ones he normally used. But not for long, as he rushed the incapacitated party and again administered more quick sprays toward them.
BRRT…BRRT…BRRT. BRRT…BRRT…BRRT.
His gunfire ended with seven more downed hostiles with entry wounds in every location: head and heart, mostly. He caught sight of one struggling in vain for breath due to his sucking chest wound while another was fated to exsanguinate from a leg shot that left blood gushing out of his femoral artery.
"Arnold, behind you!" Phoebe's voice over the earpiece reminded him that the fight wasn't yet over and that someone had indeed scaled a container again for a better vantage point and was about to acquire Arnold as his target. Arnold turned in time to see the shotgun's muzzle flash and feel the slug as it struck him square on the chest.
"Arnold!" shrieked Phoebe over the radio, having witnessed the occurrence at Brainy's. Fortunately for Arnold, Bridget's armor had stopped the slug from penetrating. Unfortunately, his sternum had borne the brunt of the impact leaving it and him in considerable distress. But not enough to prevent him from returning fire, albeit not as accurately as his more able-bodied version. Still, his counterattack eventually found its mark: the shooter's knee, thigh, and stomach. Forward he fell, off the container while flinging his weapon in Arnold's direction. As he hit the ground, Arnold emptied his remaining few bullets into the man.
"Arnold, how are you?" asked a worried Phoebe.
"Not good, but I can keep going," he attempted to hearten her as he also moved as quickly as possible to retrieve the last man's shotgun and claim a new primary weapon. In this case, it was a Tavor TS12. Shit, what kind of budget for weapons do these guys have?
"Phoebe?" he was back on the radio. "I think that's it for the enemies out in the open. How many out in and amongst the containers?"
"Checking," Phoebe responded, letting her professionalism shine through now that she knew Arnold was still fine. "I count thirteen, not including Scheck. And he seems to be reading them the Riot Act. It appears that they've regrouped and are planning to converge on you."
"Phoebe, you're the best! Now guide me, please. I'm going in to meet them."
"Phoebe, before you guide my idiot cousin, can you help me out please?"
"How so, Sheriff?"
Arnie was fresh off inserting a new magazine and was pointing the rifle back at the war zone. While doing so, he kept up with the lovebirds' radio chatter and now had his own request.
"Do you have a fix on Scheck's limo? It doesn't seem to be where he left it when he arrived. Chances are Arnold just took the fight out of him and he'll want to take a powder. Live to fight another day, and all that."
"One moment," Phoebe responded, her professional tone suggesting how well she'd eased into her role.
"Found it!" She then relayed its new location, which was to aid a speedy getaway if the situation didn't go to plan. Arnie did a slow pan of the area until the vehicle appeared in his sight.
"Target acquired!" he confirmed.
"Not a moment too soon!" Phoebe responded this time with some urgency in her voice. "Scheck and two of his men are heading for the vehicle, no doubt for a fast getaway."
"I'm on it. You get back to assisting Arnold."
"Will do."
He maintained his visual on the limo, making several minor adjustments and compensations. He was targeting the guards and the vehicle itself.
"Don't hit Scheck, whatever you do!" Arnold had earlier insisted. "We need him to be identifiable for the plan to work!"
Aye-aye, Lieutenant! Arnie mocked reproachfully as he waited.
Just then, Scheck arrived, no doubt to be escorted to safety under the escort of two PMC's. Arnie watched as he was bundled into the vehicle through the left passenger door with one PMC, with the other one hustling over to the driver's seat.
Not so fast, you son of a bitch! Arnie sighed as he squeezed the trigger. The .50 BMG round had a longer flight path with this shot, but it reached the target vehicle having lost none of its initial punch. It struck the limo, entering through the roof. When it exited through the driver's side window, the result was akin to an exploding glitter bomb comprising several flecks of blood and multiple fragments of bone and glass. A slight pause, then the second guard exited, trying to find safety and eventually settling behind a nearby van where he made frantic motions to his boss to join him in safety. How little he knew, as Arnie squeezed off another shot that after another three-second flight, struck the crouching mercenary on the head. His head was transformed on impact into a red plume of blood and brain matter. Next, three shots for the car itself.
BOOM! To the front axle, steering column, or thereabouts. The front end collapsed, signaling that the 'or thereabouts' was close enough.
BOOM! This one was for the engine bay. This bullet powered through the hood, and Arnie knew straight away that the engine block was done for.
BOOM! Last shot, also for the engine. He was hoping that the previous shot had also ruptured the fuel line and that this one would ignite the spilled fuel. He saw the impact, then he saw a fire slowly starting in the engine bay, then a distraught Scheck exiting the vehicle and running for any location but his current one.
"How's it feel knowing how the Sunset Arms victims must have felt, Asshole?" Arnie shouted at full lung capacity, at once saddened and relieved that there was no-one around to hear him.
"Job's done," he whispered into his radio.
His work completed, Arnie started packing up his gear, after which he would flee the scene of a crime – that officially would never have happened – and disappear from Hillwood for good. He gathered and bagged his spent casings and was about to disassemble and pack up his weapon when he noticed that he still had a third magazine remaining.
He paused for thought while remembering Arnold's instructions back at Brainy's.
"And Arnie, once you've foiled Scheck's getaway, your job will be done. Pack up your gear and get the hell out of Hillwood. Go back home to Hilda and Helle."
His job may have been done, but the operation was not. He decided that his cousin was worth the disobedience and an extra five rounds of protection, reloaded the rifle and resumed his watch.
Just in case, he reckoned.
Who knows? Arnold and Phoebe might just need extra support.
Meanwhile, Arnold was traversing the labyrinth in and amongst the containers. He was glad to have Phoebe as his backup, else this would have been a fool's errand: him meeting eleven armed combatants – eleven, now that Arnie had eliminated the two by the limo.
He was approaching a T-junction when he heard Phoebe's voice.
"Arnold!" The firmness of her whisper brought him to a standstill. "Hostile around the left corner…twenty, twenty-five feet. Weapon trained towards the junction! He's expecting you…possibly through your footfalls."
"Got it," Arnold whispered back. He then stalked toward the junction, aiming for the most acute angle possible without being spotted. Once he had attained that goal. He fired a round that ricocheted off the side of a contained around the corner. Arnold judged from the loud 'Fuck!' that the round had come close to the aggressor and caused him to jump back in surprise. In a deft display of rapid target acquisition, Arnold rounded the corner, bore the weapon on the target and fired. Boom! The slug struck the target just below the sternum and down he went.
"Arnold! Two more approaching behind you!"
Arnold turned in time to see two more enemies rounding another junction further along his passage. He barely had time enough to fire two shots there way to force them back around their corners and stall them.
"Found him!" he heard the one shout. "He's here! Contact, contact!"
He saw that he was at a dead end, so he rushed back to the junction through which he'd entered, just in time to avoid a volley of full-auto machinegun fire. He took the time to cycle the tubes on the shotgun; the current one was fully expended.
"He's bolting! Pursue! Pursue!"
"Arnold!" called Phoebe. "They're about to round the corner!"
Hearing that bit of information caused Arnold to spin around, in time to see his pursuers come into view. Boom! Boom! Boom! Two more hostiles down. He didn't have time to admire his recent handiwork; Phoebe was back in his ear. "One from behind!" she shouted, in time for Arnold to be made aware of an approaching hostile but a fraction too late for him to react to said hostile firing a three-round burst that caught the Footballhead in the back and dropped him to his knee. His attacker believed that his target was down and was about to announce as much, so he was taken by terminal surprise as Arnold did an unexpected 180 pivot and returned the favor with two shots – BOOM…BOOM – to the leg and chest. Down he went.
Bridget's armor still seemed to be holding: no penetration yet. It hurt, but he was still mobile. Eight shells remaining for seven enemies.
From the downed man's radio, he heard a hodgepodge of increasingly desperate chatter.
"Cates, did you get him?"
"Zix, come in! is he down?"
"Anyone got a visual?"
"Cates, respond!"
"Maitland, you there?"
"Zix! ZIX!"
They appeared to be in disarray; easier to pick off. "Phoebe, where are the rest?"
"They've regrouped at the other end by the vans. They're being cautious now. They seem nervous."
Good news: they were bunched together. With luck, he could pick them off with only the remaining shotgun shells.
"Phoebe, guide me to them."
A slight hesitation, then: "Affirmative."
From there it was an efficient sequence of 'Take the next left', 'Take the next right' and "Straight ahead' statements. Soon enough, the remaining seven were in sight. They were sticking in a tight formation, moving along the periphery of the container area. They weren't going back into the maze; they were going to wait him out.
Time to end this.
His thoughts as he exited the maze into a better firing position…and into the gaze of the rearmost guard who happened to turn his way at that exact moment.
"Contact! Six o'clock!", he shouted, which caused his comrades to turn around in response. SHIT, thought Arnold, as he now had no choice but to fire in blind hope.
BOOM BOOM BOOM… rotate to the last tube…BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM in rapid succession as he sprinted for the protection of the vans. The return fire had commenced by the time he reached them, and he was almost able to avoid their bullets. Almost, as one struck him on the side, where the armor was at its most vulnerable. At least the armor slowed down the bullet enough so that when it penetrated, it was shallow enough not to be fatal, though still deep enough to hurt like a MOTHERFUCKER!
He heard a gasp from Phoebe over the radio, but now was not the time to offer reassurances. He discarded the Tavor and drew his Glock, ready to face the remnants. At least the gunfire had stopped, and they were reloading. Still, it was now fifteen rounds against, how many was it now? Plus, he also didn't know their positions relative to his.
"Arnold, four opponents remaining!" What a relief, Phoebe's priorities being in line with his! "Fanning out! One to your immediate right!"
So he was. BANG-BANG-BANG! Three shots to his chest and he was down. And the firing recommenced, forcing Arnold to roll under the van behind which he was hiding. He still had time to marvel at how smoothly the Glock was firing thanks to Bridget's compensator and how he'd have to thank her for it.
"Next one, ten o'clock, twenty yards."
Arnold slithered around to find him almost exactly where Phoebe had pointed. Like his mates, he was firing at more or less chest height. BANG! Arnold's first shot struck him in the tibia, which must have shattered on the impact. The impact also propelled the man's leg backward, and the resulting momentum flung him forward on his stomach. BANG! Arnold's second shot found him right between the eyes and straight away he too was no longer a problem.
"Fuck this! Old Man Scheck ain't worth this shit! I'm out of here!" Arnold heard one of the last two announce his retreat, followed by the sound of him running to get the hell out of the area.
"You fucking coward!" Arnold heard the second man shout at his partner, then the sound of a three-round burst followed by that of a fleeing man dropping dead.
By the time the last man standing had loudly muttered, "Fucking pussy!", Arnold had rolled out from under the van and was positioned with the last man in his sights with his back turned. His target must have sensed Arnold's presence and realized the disadvantage of his position, even as he turned quickly in an attempt to outdraw his target.
A futile attempt, as by the time he had his weapon raised – BANG-BANG-BANG! – Arnold had placed three rounds in his chest. The man expired, leaving Arnold with one last request to a relieved-sounding Phoebe: "Phoebe, can you locate—"
BOOM!
A heavy gunshot, then an equally heavy impact on Arnold's back. He went down, no longer requiring Phoebe to locate Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck.
Phoebe was hysterical.
"ARNOLD!"
In a moment of carelessness, she had given full priority to the mercenaries and forgotten about tracking Scheck. And Arnold had paid for her absentmindedness.
"What's happening?" Brainy shouted as he came running into Phoebe's station.
"Phoebe, what happened?" It was Arnie shouting through the radio.
"It's Arnold! He's down! Scheck got him!"
"Shit!" responded Arnie. "Where! Where, goddammit?"
"Vans-vans…roundabout the vans' location!" Phoebe's composure was slipping at what she was witnessing on the screen.
"Arnie, if you're still in your position you have to take a shot you have to take Scheck out NOW!" Phoebe's words were tripping over each other as her mental state was unraveling.
"Sorry, I don't have a clear shot," apologized Arnie.
"What do you mean 'no shot'? Take the fucking shot! Take out Scheck, right fucking now!" Phoebe was being sickened by what she was witnessing. Brainy was beside her, mouth equally agape.
"I can't," repeated Arnie. "Vans obscuring the target. Might hit Arnold! "
Brief silence from Phoebe, then a deep inhale, then: "OK, Sheriff. Here's what I want you to do…"
Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck was a winner.
No matter how long it took, no matter what it took, he always found a way to come up on top. Arnold was no exception. It had taken seventeen years, some of his freedom and most of his PMC staff, but his moment was now as he squeezed the first round from the Desert Eagle into Arnold's back.
"Never were one for the bigger picture, were you, you little prick?" he shouted as his quarry, his would-be killer, went down. His question alluded to how careless Arnold and whoever was assisting him had been in failing to notice their main adversary slink away from the limousine into the container maze, where he came across the .50 pistol from one of his downed men. He was still shaken from his failed escape bid and his head and upper body were slick and caked with blood, bone, and viscera from the soldier who would have been his getaway driver. Nonetheless, he'd been able to remain out of the way as Arnold focused on the remainder of the PMC's, only sneaking up on the footballhead to take the shot when he was certain that his and everyone else's guard was lowered.
Then he witnessed the impossible as Arnold stopped himself from a full collapse and forced himself back to his feet. BOOM! He attempted to rectify the matter with a second shot which caught the footballheaded bastard on the back as well and forced him to stagger forward.
"Impossible!" Scheck's loud arrogance was being undermined by disbelief as the little shit refused to fall.
He watched Arnold spin to face him. BOOM, BOOM! Two shots to the newly presented chest sent Arnold reeling backward, though he remained standing while steadfastly holding on to his gun.
"Why won't you fucking go down!" Scheck's disbelief had boiled over and distilled into fear as – BOOM! – he fired the fifth shot to the young man's chest. That shot finally dropped him on his back, the impact on the ground sufficient for him to drop his weapon.
Finally! Scheck rejoiced internally as he walked over to Arnold. He had two bullets remaining; Arnold had none. Time to finish this!
"New outcome, Arnold!" Scheck spoke with newfound malevolence as he approached his gravely injured enemy with equally newfound confidence. "Remember Phoebe's parents? Your belligerence has come at a cost. Now they too will die for your folly. As soon as I'm done with you, I'm making the call."
Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck was a winner. He knew it, as he stood straddling over the recumbent Arnold who was groaning in pain and coughing up blood.
"Ooh! That doesn't look good, Mister Shortman! Looks like internal bleeding. Maybe a ruptured organ or two?" He continued with his merciless taunts. "Anyway, where was I? Oh right…you really don't have much luck with the ladies, do you? First Helga Pataki, now Phoebe Heyerdahl. Oh, did I mention that she'll be going the way of her parents as well?" He saw Arnold's eyes take on a death glare, one final look of defiance at which the older man scoffed. "You poor, unlucky bastard. You think that thousand-yard gaze is going to save you now?"
Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck was a winner. He was thinking that much as he raised the Desert Eagle to the footballheaded man. He was thinking that much as he heard three loud, metallic impacts from large-caliber bullets hitting a nearby van. Almost immediately thereafter, three loud booms – reports from that sniper bastard – echoed and reverberated through the area, causing Scheck instinctively to turn away from Arnold and scan the area in a slight panic.
Hmph! Blind fire! Otherwise, …he'd have hit me! Oh well, I'll find him and have him killed too. They'll all die. They fucked with me, they'll all die.
Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck was a winner. He was thinking that much as he turned back to Arnold and witnessed the last thing he'd ever see: the muzzle flash from an implausibly obtained weapon. He futilely realized at exactly that moment that he had the smallest fraction of a second in which to appreciate the extent at which Arnold had come prepared even for tight spots like this. The last-ditch weapon: an NAA Black Widow, mounted on a spring-loaded rig strapped to Arnold's arm and covered by the sleeve of his coat. Then, as the unexpected .22 bullet pierced through his left eye and entered his brain cavity where it bore through his frontal lobe and did its terminal damage…only then, did Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck have all the time left in the world.
"Dammit Arnie!" he coughed, sputtered and rasped. "I told you to pack up and go home!"
"Since when did I ever listen to you?" replied his cousin. "And besides, if Hilda found out you died on my watch, I'd be better off eating one of my own bullets. How bad are you, Coz?"
"I'll live…" Arnold groaned. "The armor did its job…"
"Arnold, how are you…really?" Phoebe's stern voice cut through the pained banter.
"Not good," Arnold admitted without any bravado. "Back's fucked. Ribs are definitely broken. Organs ruptured, definitely internal bleeding, plus I've got a bullet lodged near the one lung."
Phoebe was aghast at these disclosures. "Arnold, you need to get yourself to an emergency room, right this second!"
"I'm on it!" Brainy interrupted. "Hang in there, Arnold! She's three minutes from your location."
Three minutes? Not much time. Arnold dragged himself over to the late Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck. With that accomplished, he began rummaging inside his overcoat.
"Arnold, what are you doing?" asked Phoebe in grave concern. "You shouldn't even be moving at all!"
"Saving Olga. Keeping my promise," he replied with increasingly difficult breaths. "Best you stop recording now."
Before Phoebe could protest further, he heard Brainy's voice. "Done! Now do what you have to do."
On Brainy's assurance, Arnold produced a clear plastic bag containing a pistol, a .22 High Standard HDM with a sound suppressor integrated into the barrel. The very weapon that ended the life of Detective Mark Vasquez. Arnold had disposed of the Bodyguard, Olga's shotgun and Vasquez's service pistol. He'd kept the HDM. He'd wiped it clean, down to the magazine and the remaining bullets, in the hope that a situation like his current one would present itself. Carefully, he placed the bag in the inner pocket of Scheck's coat.
"Arnold, what did you just do?" Phoebe asked suspiciously.
"Best you don't know," replied Arnold. "Best none of you know."
With that, he'd done what he could. The rest was up to how the other players would play their hands. In the distance, he heard an ambulance siren approaching.
"OK, I'm done," he heard Arnie announce. "So long, guys. And good luck."
"Thank you, Sheriff." A sincere display of gratitude from Phoebe.
"Four-Eyes, you're not that bad to work with. You ever get tired of this city, I could always use a CI like you back at the county."
"Thanks, Sheriff," returned Brainy. "And Arnold, the care package is done. I'm just waiting for the courier."
But Arnold couldn't hear him, or anyone else. He'd lapsed into unconsciousness, so he didn't hear Phoebe's and Brainy's increasingly frenzied calls for his response, nor did he hear the ambulance come to a screeching halt near him. He did not hear Sheena rush over to him and comment on what a train wreck he was, nor did he hear her chide her rookie partner to keep it together among all the dead bodies.
He did regain consciousness long enough to hear Sheena calling in the scene and advising that they send people with strong stomachs. After that, he felt like taking the longest nap he'd ever taken.
So he did.
And that will do for this chapter. Thank you ever so much, you lovely, wonderful people, for coming along for the ride. So now the main villain has been liquidated and all is well in the city of Hillwood. Right? Right? Don't bet on it, as we're now beginning the denouement which includes a detail alluded to here and in a previous chapter. I'd say three or so chapters are remaining; in fact, the ending scene is already playing out in my head. As always, if you feel so compelled, do drop a review: I really do appreciate your feedback.
Author's Note: So...that word. You must understand that we're in the M-section, the adult's table if you will. And the scenarios I've created don't lend themselves well to such putdowns as 'Ugly Fat Doo-Doo Brain', 'Bad Old Poopy-Pants' or even 'Big Meanie'. But seriously, I deliberated on that word and decided that it was the best fit for the situation, of trying to goad an adversary into an emotional, irrational response. That is the decision I made, and also the one by which I stand.
Author's Note #2: Similarly, the more graphic depictions of violence in this chapter were also subject to much consideration. Arnie's weapon fires a .50 BMG round, a round designed for anti-materiel as well as anti-personnel applications. So if it is designed to take down vehicles, its effect on carbon-based lifeforms is most profound. And since Arnie had to confirm his kills, I had to describe what he was seeing.
Author's Note #3: The title of this chapter is a Looney Tunes reference, specifically to the Foghorn Leghorn cartoon, 'Feather Dusted'. In this title, a character reads a book titled 'How To Isolate The Isotope'. I had barely reached double digits when I first saw it, and so I had no clue what an isotope was, only that isolating it must be a very difficult undertaking. Decades later, writing this chapter and realizing the difficulty Arnold and friends were in for made me remember that book title. Well, that and 'How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb' was already taken.
Author's Note #4: My main inspiration for the opening section of this chapter was episode 3 of Neon Genesis Evangelion, in which Shinji is learning to use his Eva's targeting system. I had Arnie repeatedly cycle through his targets, rotely building his muscle memory for when he had to take the shots, in the same detached way Shinji kept repeating "Position target in the center and pull the switch."
And finally, herewith this chapter's Spotify playlist:
Step Up — Drowning Pool
Centuries — Fall Out Boy
Brothers In Arms — Junkie XL
One Hundred Hunters — Nigel Stanford
FEUER FREI! - RMX BY JUNKIE XL — Rammstein
Weapons of Mass Distortion — The Crystal Method
Firestarter — Torre Florim
Vertigo — U2
Run Boy Run — Woodkid
Vengeance — Zack Hemsey
And with that, this chapter is concluded. See you next time!