Half-Life - War in the Shadows
Chapter II - Just Another Couple of Bodies
Donovan couldn't help but sneer slightly as he saw Garret approaching through the sheets of rain that were obscuring the view of everything that wasn't directly in front of his face. He'd been with Garret and his team for a few months now, and he'd actually grown to respect the young and enigmatic leader of the troop. But this latest decision of to not have the old defector killed? Donovan was simply having a hard time swallowing that.
But that didn't mean he was any less respectful, or mindful, of just what kind of a person Garret was, or was rumoured to be. Most of what Donovan did know about Garret was hearsay and conjecture, but it followed the young man around like a shadow nonetheless.
Apparently, Garret's mentor had been the obscure and almost unknown, save for few scarce rumours, figure that went by the name of Kind David. Theories ran rampant about just who and what David was, or had been prior to the Combine invasion, but the rumour mill seemed to consistently state that he was some kind of former intelligence agent for one of the "big companies".
In Donovan's mind, that meant FBI, CIA, MI5, MI6, KGB, GRU, any one of those, or possibly some other government organization he had failed to remember. He had heard of a few ex-intelligence community guys, spooks, turning up in the Resistance, looking to help out, but he'd never met any of them himself.
Of course, Donovan had heard of Garret by reputation, or at least bits and pieces of it, but had only just met him recently in a safe house outside the city a few months back. Garret had been about to go in to "interrogate" a captured Civil Protection Officer, and Donovan had been asked if he wanted to "sit in" on the proceedings.
There had been a totally of five people in the room; Garret, Donovan, another soldier, some guy who'd claimed to be a Lieutenant in the Resistance, and the Civil Protection Officer, who had been stripped and looked like the guards had already given him a rough time.
Donovan remembered Garret being the only occupant who hadn't at some point or another emptied the contents of his stomach onto the cold concrete floor of the basement cellar. It became very clear to Donovan just how and why the term "sadist" keep surfacing in the rumours he'd heard about the young man.
The methods and "procedures" he'd witnessed Garret perform on the hapless prisoner had been disturbing, at the very least.
Donovan had expected a sort of textbook beating, maybe even with a textbook of some kind. At worst, he'd expect to see some bones broken. But nothing could have prepared him for the frightening calm savagery exhibited by Garret as he "worked the subject".
In that long and gruesome interrogation session, Donovan had seen perhaps the worst things that one human could do to another.
He'd seen the streams of blood as fingers were not only broken, but also sliced clean off.
He'd heard the screams of unimaginable pain as eyelids had been removed with razor blades.
He'd smelled the stench of burned flesh as cigarettes had been pushed deep into exposed eye sockets.
He'd felt the pool of blood grow larger as it ran past his boots to disappear into the drain on the other side of the cellar.
He'd tasted the fear that hung in the air as Garret drew his sidearm and levelled it at the man's battered forehead.
There was no doubts in Donovan's mind just how effective Garret was, but there was also no doubt just how sick and twisted the young man could be. The kid was good though, very good, and good enough to lead a team of highly specialized and highly trained individuals.
If anything, Donovan was more curious as to just who, or what, could have possibly made Garret into the creature the young man had become.
However, in the meantime, he would try to decipher the reason why he hadn't been allowed to shoot the old man, and why he was now standing at the foot of a lonely bridge, in the middle of the night, soaking wet.
Garret walked up to Donovan, his hood pulled low over his face, obscuring his features in shadow. "I hope you don't mind the weather," Garret said, his voice drowned out slightly by the pouring rain.
"You knew it was going to rain tonight," Donovan shot back, immediately annoyed at Garret's use of his trademark sarcasm. "Why the fuck are we out here?"
Even through the sheets of rain, Donovan could see the grin across the other man's lips. "Because of the rain. If it were a nice night, people would be out, and the Combine would be running tighter patrols. After tonight, it isn't supposed to rain for a few more weeks. This is the only chance I'll have."
Donovan gave Garret a puzzled look. "Chance for what?"
"To meet with that old man and see just what the hell is going on."
His eyes narrowed, and Donovan fixed Garret with a stare. "Just what did he say to you during that rather short phone call anyways?"
Shaking his head, Garret responded, "Nothing. Call this a hunch. But, quiet. I think there is someone coming."
Donovan's hand went immediately to the pistol tucked at the small of his back, but Garret had already moved around and behind him, advancing out on to the bridge to meet the new figure coming through the rain from the opposite side of the bridge.
"Don't do anything," Garret called back to Donovan. "Just stay there and let me handle this."
As the figure came closer, Garret drew his submachine gun and levelled it at the stranger's chest.
"Hold it right there," Garret called out.
The stranger froze, Garret seizing the opportunity to move closer, the barrel of the small weapon never wavering from its target. The stranger raised his hands slowly, surrendering and showed that he was completely unarmed. Garret moved quickly, reaching inside the stranger's jacket, withdrawing the small form of a compact pistol, a Makarov PM that he quickly dropped into one of the many pockets of his own jacket.
"I take it you aren't with Civil Protection then," the stranger said as he tossed back the hood of his own jacket, revealing the face of the old man. "Which means this meeting is likely to be something more of an execution than an extraction."
"That all depends on what you decide to tell me," Garret said as he withdrew his own deadly looking pistol from the folds of his long jacket, the long, thick length of a silencer attached to the muzzle of the weapon. He levelled it at the old man's chest as he quickly concealed the SMG in his other hand in one of the deep pockets of his jacket.
The old man eyed the weapons carefully. "You are definitely not Civil Protection. I've never once seen any Metro Cops using any Russian equipment, least of all that particular submachine gun. Also, there is that pistol of yours, a Browning. Not too common, or so I find. So you are Resistance then? Unless of course you have a particular attachment to unique weaponry."
"My fascination comes and goes," Garret responded, cocking back the hammer of the weapon, grinning inwardly as the old man twitched slightly from the sound. "Now, I'm going to ask you some questions, and you're going to answer them honestly. I don't really think I need to make any further threats now, do I?"
"You've made all the threats you need to, I think, my friend."
Garret nodded. "Consider yourself fortunate. Normally I rarely get to the point of making threats, or asking questions for that matter." Garret gestured over his shoulder at the obscured form of Donovan, "Earlier on today, that man had a sniper rifle aimed directly at your head. On my order, he could have shot you dead in the middle of the street, and, as always, we would have gotten away with it."
"So, you are not Civil Protection, and I doubt the Resistance would execute a civilian, even a traitor, in broad daylight." The old man seemed puzzled, as if he were thinking. "So who are you then?"
"That doesn't matter," Garret shot back, edging closer to the old man. "On the phone you mentioned something, something about having contacts amongst the highest level of the Resistance, people you could turn, or have turned. You said you'd need help. I want to know who you were talking about, names, ranks, everything."
Smiling, the old man bowed his head and slowly turned around.
"Hey!" Garret shouted at him.
"You'll get no answers from me, my friend," and with that, the old man began to walk away from Garret, disappearing into the rain.
Garret heard the sound of footsteps behind him. Donovan was running towards Garret, his weapon drawn. "Jesus Christ, Garret! You're just going to let him go?"
"No chance."
The report of the bullet was all but completely extinguished by the roar of the rain, as well as the silencer. Donovan watched as the back of the old man's head exploded outwards in a cloud of blood and bone. The old man went limp, like a puppet that had just had its string cut, and fell to the ground.
"Do we both dumping the body?" Donovan asked Garret as the two of them walked forward to stand over the corpse of the traitor.
Garret stood there for a moment, staring down at the mess that had been the old man's head. "No, I don't think so. Someone will find him tomorrow and report it to Civil Protection. They'll be able to recognize the face easily enough. Has Alexei sent that disc out yet?"
Donovan shook his head. "He was going to wait until you got back from this little 'meeting.' Why? Are you going to add some more information or something to the disc?"
"No," replied Garret as he turned around and began walking off into the rain, Donovan following suite.
"Just what was said back in the apartment? What were you guys just talking about? Alexei wouldn't tell me after you left, said something about not needing to know."
Garret stopped and stared at Donovan. For a moment, Garret contemplated telling the other man about the potential defectors, about just what had been said. Then he thought better of it. He neither liked, nor trusted Donovan all that much. The man had been a former soldier in the Resistance before some bright spark had thought it would be smart to send regular soldiers out with the Intelligence Teams. The official story behind this was that the teams, who were civilians, would have some level of protection. Garret knew full well that this wasn't the case, and that the Brass just wanted to keep an eye on a faction amongst their ranks they didn't entirely trust, or control.
Well, Garret didn't trust the Brass all that much either, and less so now. No, Donovan wouldn't need to be told a thing.
"He was right," Garret said after a moment. "You don't need to know."
"Oh bullshit!" shouted Donovan as he reached a hand out to grab hold of Garret's jacket.
Whatever he had been about to say was suddenly replaced by a shriek of pain. Garret had seen the action and reacted by shooting his own hand up and out, grabbing Donovan's thumb, and twisting it backwards, breaking it with a loud snap, hushed by the rain.
"You're off the team," said Garret without emotion as Donovan sank to his knees, clutching his hand to his chest, biting down hard on his lower lip.
"Go to hell!" shouted Donovan as he leapt up, his weapon clutched in his still useable hand.
It was too late, Garret had anticipated such an action, and reacted swiftly. He shot his left hand out, pushing Donovan's weapon hand upwards. Less than a second later, he'd drawn the Makarov, the one he'd taken off the old man, and fired three shots. Two caught Donovan in the chest, the third in the forehead, just off centre.
"Should have just stayed down," he muttered to the corpse at his feet.
Garret didn't wait around for too long. Quickly, he ran back to the dead body of the old man, placing the Makarov in one of corpse's already stiffening hands.
It was a ridiculous set-up, and Garret knew it, but he didn't care. There was no CSI these days. Civil Protection was the only police force, and they wouldn't care about two more dead humans, it's what they wanted.
As for the death of Donovan, which the Resistance would no doubt learn of, Garret could explain that away easy enough. He could claim the execution went wrong; the old man had pulled a gun and shot Donovan. Garret had then shot the old man and fled the scene. Simple. Easy. No one would question it.
Just another couple of bodies in a world that was already full of them.
As for the old man and the supposed defectors amongst the Resistance, that required a bit more careful thought. What if the old man was right? What could Garret do?
A few years ago, he would have gone straight to the top, demanding to know who amongst the Brass, or their staff, was planning to defect, but it wasn't a few years ago, and Garret certainly wasn't that stupid. No, he was handling a live grenade, and it would blow up in his hands the second he approached the Brass about it.
If he were wrong, he'd be detained, and likely killed.
And if he were right, he'd meet his fate in some dark alleyway.
As Garret stalked off down the street, leaving the bridge and the bodies behind, he turned the information he'd been given over in his head time and time again, trying to decide just what to do about it. It was times like this, he wished he could go and seek out David, ask the older man's advice.
No, that would be pointless. Garret, though he missed the old man, didn't need David around anymore. The former spook had taught his young protégé everything he needed to know, turned Garret into the deadly little automaton he was.
Eventually, Garret would arrive at the logical conclusion, but how many more people would have to die before he found the truth?