Portland Free Commerce Zone
October 2005
The bicyclist stared at the GTO's windshield, and the cascade of rain water running down its sides. He then turned to quickly check highpoints and firing positions along the street- a balcony two blocks down from the pay office, a roof with a stone balustrade across the street from the office, a overflowing dumpster sitting in a foot of standing water, a garage with the door halfway up- before turning back to Snake's car.
Snake leaned forward, cocking his AK-150, unable to shake the willies the bicyclist gave him. The guy had checked the exact same positions Snake had coming in to the alley three hours earlier.
The bicyclist gently caressed the hamper top to the basket on his bike. A taxi cab drove by, spraying him with water, but the bicyclist never flinched. He cocked his head like a dog, and pushed his glasses back up onto his nose. A tentative push with his middle finger, and then a more firm push with his index finger.
Snake's eye widened in alarm. He'd seen only one man ever push up his glasses like that, while still in special forces training with Black Light at New 29 Palms.
"Sorter", Snanke thought, barely able to catch his breath.
A lone-wolf, wet-work guy, Sorter executed "special assignments" for a sister outfit. Stuff that other commandos and operatives didn't have the stomach for.
The guy had straight parted hair when he and Snake had graduated from their training program, and no beard then. But nobody did that quirky push up the nose with goofy thick-rimmed spectacles except for Sorter. And then only when he was expecting to dole out some serious misery and hurt.
Sorter turned and pushed off with his bike, across the road towards Malarkey's car. Snake spit out all his sunflower seeds and revved up the Goat to a full-throated roar. He kicked it into drive and burned rubber out of the alley.
In the meantime, Sorter had crossed the street on his bike. He removed a double-barrelled, double-magazine machine gun from the basket. At point blank range, Sorter blasted the two men in the front seat.
They never had a chance. Inside a few seconds, Malarkey and Deladier were minced into bone fragments, twitching severed limbs and streaming coils of intestine. The window's of Malarkey's car blew outward. The concrete wall behind the car crumbled in the onslaught of hundreds of armor-piercing rounds.
As Snake pulled out the alley, he fired, one-handed, through his own windows to hit Sorter as he pedalled off from the ruins of Malarkey's car.
Muzzle-flash and red-hot shell casings, the over-powering stench of cordite, filled the car interior as Snake dogged Sorter's zig-zagging form down the street.
So intent was Snake on his target, he failed until the last second to notice the skidding city bus barrelling down on the driver's side of the Goat.
The bus driver had both hands crossed in front of him. The bus was close enough that Snake could make out earphones plugged into the driver's ears and the dirty Portland Trailblazer's hat perched on his head.
"Man," Snake thought as the bus loomed over the Goat, "I'd like to sock that bus driver right in the nuts."
And then the two vehicles t-boned.
Darkness.