Call of Duty » A Faint Cold Fear
LoneWolfSniper
Author of 2 Stories
1. Nature of Conflict
Rated: T - English - Adventure/Suspense - A. Mason & F. Woods - Reviews: 7 - Updated: 04-07-12 - Published: 12-18-11 - id:7647134
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Author's Note: Alright, I would just like to start off by saying thank you for whoever chose to read my story. I would like to say that you won't be disappointed in choosing to read this, whether by curiosity or interest, or both. Anyway, you'll be glad about this story, heck, maybe you'll want to read the next chapter. Maybe you'll want to read the chapter after that, and maybe you'll want to follow this story. Anyway, I'm glad you decided to read this. And reviews are greatly appreciated.
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters from Call of Duty. They rightfully belong to Treyarch.
Confidence thrives on honesty, on honor, on the sacredness of obligations, on faithful protection and on unselfish performance. Without them it cannot live. – Franklin D. Roosevelt
The morning was quiet, but the empty stillness was quickly subdued from the sound of the chattering and the clicks of ice in glass mugs. A leathery voice filled the room, the language native to the country thick and strong as the voice rose and fell with the pitch of the music, the stringing guitar as well as a multiple number of instruments that she couldn't exactly place. The morning seemed like just about any other; patrons clustered around the small room and a few standing around the bar.
She had been working with the Special Activities Division for a good three years, and those three years had consisted of hunting and tracking down a dictator, the team working like a wolf pack and trying to bring down the Cuban that the Central Intelligence Agency had deemed a person of their interest. Though bringing down Castro was something of the agency's personal agenda, it had effected a good portion of the teams working for the Pentagon, and therefore the field agents sent to kill him. Of course, she was part of the team that had been ordered for the assassination – or rather execution, but both words seemed appropriate enough – of Fidel Castro. And the news reports of the Cuban and how he was handling his country had decided for themselves that the bastard couldn't be killed. After all, the corporal and her team had been searching for the man for three damn years already, each mission unsuccessful, a complete failure, a waste of time and bullets. And the agency wasn't a big fan of wasting anything; the Pentagon wanted to attempt ending the bastard once more, and if that failed then the whole organization of the operation would be tossed aside, and the Division would then focus their ammunition towards the Cold War that was beginning to take the agency's interest.
But the corporal and her team members weren't the least bit convinced that they would let the Cuban slip under their radar again. They would end Castro once and for all, and that would happen in just a handful of hours, prior to the Bay of Pigs invasion that would be occurring anytime soon. And if the mission wasn't pulled off the line before it got too far into the point of retreating not being an option, then it would be easy and quick. A bit of resistance, of course, but other than that the corporal was sure that the mission would be smooth sailing if nothing went wrong, if no one got injured and then some. Hopefully, though, it wouldn't come to that of a replacement. She knew the men on her team all too well, and she didn't want to have to serve any funerals anytime soon. She couldn't bear to stand over a polished wooden coffin with one of the men inside. But she dulled the thoughts, the images nagging at the back of her mind as she remembered where she was and why she was there.
Taking a deep breath, she walked forward, gently nudging open the wooden door that separated her from the contact her team was suppose to meet for the mission. Upon opening the door, a draft of air greeted her. Her lips were slightly apart, tasting the diluted aftertaste of liquor and the thick scent of lit cigars. The smells wafted on the air current before dissolving into the fresher and cleaner air, and she stepped further into the doorway.
As Corporal Allie Thompson walked fully into the bar, her eyes scanned the large room around her. Spanish men sat at small tables shoved into the corners of the room and against the walls, dressed in the civilian attire that they should be wearing. Their hair was all the same, dark brown if not black. Some sported facial hair, stubble running down their jaws or beards that had become too gnarled for the soul work of one razor. Some wore polo shirts with plaid or tropical designs, others wearing plain shirts with the sleeves rolled above the elbows. Atop the tables they sat at were empty glasses and empty bottles, once filled with beer or some other substance of alcohol now drained from the early morning work of the patrons. A single young woman danced to her own rhythm at the pulsing beat of the music, and she was dressed in a red sundress with a white floral pattern. Her skin was sun kissed and her black hair was cropped short against her head. As she danced, her arms slowly weaved into the air and her legs wobbled, positioned on the high heels that struck the muddy brown tile flooring with a sharp prick that cut through the air.
Thompson was dressed in attire similar to that of the men around her. She wore a buttoned down shirt, dark green with the sleeves rolled up above her elbows. The jeans that were fastened with the help of a belt were dark blue, slightly faded from the hard wear and tear she exerted on the pants. Her boots – the soles softer than most footwear and the build of the boot shaped into leather molded so she could walk or run more silently and easily – were laced up and knotted so they wouldn't slip out of them when she moved. Her hair was dark brown, cropped close to her head and neatly brushed forward. The bristles from her brush had streaked the hair forward in a male styled fashion, but that was how she liked it. Her eyes were a dark and polished brown to match her hair, and the hard tones stood out against her paled and soft skin.
She felt a loneliness creep up onto the back of her neck, and she halted immediately and casually glanced over her shoulder, only to be calmly and thankfully reassured as three men came into her view, following after her and sliding through the wooden door, each coming in one by one. To her great fortune, the men were with her.
The first man was tall, a good height of 6.0" that loomed over the agent with supposable intimidation, but to her it was a sense of reassurance. The sergeant's jeans were lightly colored, and the khaki colored shirt he wore had the sleeves rolled halfway up his upper arms, a cigar box as well as matches tucked into the fold of one of the cuffs. His boots were tightly laced, scuffed up and caked with mud from the short walk it took from the nearby hotel to the bar. His hair was slightly a heavier shade of brown than that of the corporal's, clipped short but the front slipping over the crown of his hair. His eyes were darker and they double checked the room, the irises filled with that of a sense that he already had seen too much bloodshed and too much war, but to the officer it didn't seem to be enough. Shaggy stubble rushed down his jaw, intertwining with hair that came over his upper lip and down below his chin and forming a thick goatee.
As he came up alongside the corporal, he landed a heavy pat of reassurance upon taking note of her tensed up shoulder muscles, and she flinched from the sudden and unexpected contact to her form. But she had gotten more used to a hand to her shoulder. If it had been three years ago, she would have jumped clear out of her skin and she would have undoubtedly whirled on the man in assuming that he would have wanted to try something. And that was the fairly expensive price to pay for being in war and getting so used to every touch acting like it would kill you upon contact. But she had grown accustom to an occasional slap on the back upon a good round of shooting or something along those lines, and with becoming at ease around such claims of contact, the corporal was bound to need to catch up on being more acute to her surroundings at a time like this. The sergeant glanced at her, lowering his hand and shoving them into his pockets. His eyes surveyed the room before he raised one hand and casually scratched the back of his head, keeping his other hand tucked into his pocket and wrapped around the handle of a knife that was snug in the denim. The firm handle of the weapon was just barely poking out of his pocket but covered by his shirt where it had been fortunately un-tucked by coincidence.
Behind the sergeant, as if on cue upon the signal that would have been taken so casually for a way to disregard an aggravating itch, a man who was an inch or so shorter but just as large came up alongside the commanding officer and moved a little ways away as to not cause suspicion among the other bar patrons. The former recon captain's skin was a light shade of skin tone, a somewhat milky pale color suggesting that he hailed further north than the rest of the others that entered the room. His hair was almost black, an incredibly dark tone of brown cut closely short to his head. Above his forehead, the hairline was cut straight across and fixed into a military fashion. Stubble ran down his squared jaw line, rounding over his upper lip and gathering below his chin almost like a shadow covering half of his face. As he entered the bar, his dark green irises flecked with black glowed from the fluorescent lighting above, and his pupils dilated as he took in his surroundings. He wore a faint red polo shirt, the collar tucked in on itself with cream colored buttons fastened into the slots to keep the shirt together. The sleeves to his shirt were rolled up above his elbows, giving light to a small collection of livid scars running along his thick and well toned forearms. But it was hard to notice the scars since the marks were the same color as his skin. His jeans were a grayish blue that looked faded, as if the man had worn the pair of jeans year after year or, more appropriate, mission after mission. Nevertheless, the slightly intimidating look the man gave off didn't bother those around him, because they were equally as frightening and it would have been an accurate statement to call them liars if they said that they were trying to be intimidating. In truth, they weren't. It was just by chance that they all gave off strong and hard postures, their looks cold as they fixed themselves to be like that of one of the civilians.
The second man scanned the area before casually moving forward, taking up an empty space at the bar that ran along the far side of the room where the wooden surface sharply veered to forward into the drywall. He casually leaned against the counter, pulling forth a cigar and attempting to ignite it with the hiss of a lighter. He brought the manmade fire close, then clicked the lighter again when the flame extinguished. Silently, he cursed but finally managed to bring smoke to the cigar, firmly squishing it between his lips as he took a deep draw, allowing the taste to haze over his tongue before he exhaled and released the grey fog of smoke.
The third man walked inside, seeing the cigar as a signal that the coast was all clear. The chief petty officer's shirt was buttoned down, the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. His jeans were dark, combat boots tightly laced up. If anyone in the bar paid extremely close attention to the new arrivals, then they would have noticed how their attire was somewhat similar; the footwear, at least. The third man walked into the bar, gently closing the large wooden door behind him, the only recognition of his actions being the groan of the rusted hinges and the barely audible click as the door came into place with the frame. The man was dark skinned, his eyes chocolate and simmering as he took in the room, seeing no sudden movements save for the dancing woman. Stubble ran down his squared jaw and a thin layer of hair rested over his head. The corporal and the two men strolled casually up to the bar, the corporal taking up the space along the left side, flanking the captain's vulnerable spot while the sergeant took the corner seat, the chief petty officer standing a little ways off as to not make it seem as though all four were together, despite the fact that they were. The surface of the bar was messy and unkempt, indicating that its patrons that had left earlier hadn't cleaned up after themselves, and the bar tender who was currently in the back feigned to notice it in deciding to wait until his new "customers" settled in. It was going well, all according to the plan that had been so carefully orchestrated by the agency.
The corporal uneasily sat in the round chair at the edge of the bar, the wooden barstool wobbling under her. The men decided to stand, the sergeant and captain leaning over the bar whilst the chief petty officer leaned against it with his back, his thumbs hooked into his pockets as he watched the dancing woman but paying little attention to her elegant movements. Above, the wooden ceiling fans whirred slowly and lazily, creating cool wind currents and lowering the temperature in the room to a comfortable setting. Thompson was nervous, and she didn't know how else to put it. She found herself glancing nervously at the ground or the surface of the bar, anything other than the men around her or the portraits of Castro in different colors, framed in gold or silver. There were at least four portraits in all, one very large one hanging over the bar as if the man painted into the picture was watching them. Thompson canvassed the room, observing how the civilians around her acted as though they weren't in one of the countries that America had a grudge against, that American was going to invade in just a handful of hours, if not minutes. The Bay of Pigs would begin soon, but to the corporal's dismay, she wasn't given the exact time. Early in the morning was all that she was told. She checked her watch, the little hand resting on the five and the large hand resting on the twelve. It was 0500 hours, and if that wasn't considered early in the morning, than Thompson didn't know what was. She allowed her arms to cross over themselves in a casual fashion, her fingers drumming along the green fabric that she toyed between her fingers. The music seemed to pick up from her hearing growing more acute, and her eyes surveyed the bar; abandoned beer bottles, empty glass mugs, discarded cardboard boxes once filled with various brands of foreign and local cigarettes and cigars. Alcohol and smoke tainted the tropical sweetness of the oxygen, the aroma now less pleasant.
The corporal shifted, her eyes skittering to each of the faces of the men around her. Mason was calm, standing rather than sitting on the wooden barstool that was behind him. Woods was leaning over the bar, patiently awaiting the service of the bartender that would come out in a minute or so from taking stock in the back. Bowman was a little ways off from the others, but he seemed to blend in with the scene perfectly. Again Thompson grew tense. It wasn't because a dangerous task would be successful in a matter of hours, but rather that she was the only woman in the room – save for the dancer. The other woman was gently stroking the ground with her heels, her hips grinding against the music as she attempted a dance that would allure onlookers. That was what made the corporal uneasy. Being in Cuba, women had little to no rights. They had no say, no opinion in the eyes of the Cuban militia. And if any militia came in now, Thompson would surely be questioned, no doubt confronted with demands she couldn't answer. She couldn't answer truthfully why she was present in the bar, why she was consuming herself with alcohol at such an early time in the morning. Of course, there were others at the bar. Other men. The only other woman was just an entertainer, just doing her job. Surely she wouldn't be questioned if militia did come in. And if they did…
Mason allowed the sick yet sweet smoke of the cigar to slide out his parted lips. He munched on the edge of the tobacco, carelessly enjoying the tasteful prop that was so beloved by the men in the country. He slid the cigar further into his mouth, deeply inhaling before giving a pleasant sigh, the smoke exiting his lips. He was calm, like everyone else that had taken their position at the bar. He glanced downward and to his left to see if Thompson was doing alright. Last time she was in Cuba, she had gotten questioned and nearly blew her – as well as the team's – cover. But they had slid under the radar of the militia, no doubt a watchful eye kept on the group of four until they parted from the Cubans' view.
Of course the others tried to coax the corporal, tried to tell her it wasn't her fault. They didn't crowd her or directly talk to her about it, though, because that would have just made Thompson feel even more embarrassed. No, they just looked at her, gave a nod, and walked on to the hotel they had checked into the night before that they all agreed would give the best surveillance. Bowman had given Thompson a nod, and Woods had elbowed her in the shoulder with a friendly smirk. Mason had offered her a sympathetic smile as well as a sentence containing reassurance how it could've happened to anybody. The captain pondered for a moment, going off his current objective, wondering what the corporal had been thinking when the Cuban questioned her. Of course she had spoken to him in the perfect native tongue of the militia man – she wasn't fluent with the language, but she had recited possible excuses if she were to be troubled by anyone on the street. The man nodded, and apparently, he had thought it a good idea to question everyone else. The men didn't know Spanish either, and that was what had gotten Thompson so upset; that she blew the whole thing. It was just by pure luck that they had looked over the Spanish dictionary, thankfully remembering a few phrases that they had strung together and somehow remembering them correctly. Mason knew Thompson was still kicking herself about it, and he knew she would continue to blame herself until the mission was over with, done for, marked successful and stuck in with all the others that had been congratulated upon.
"The police are gonna be here soon, let's make this quick." The announcement came low and orderly, so quiet and authoritative that only the three subordinates at the bar - who were addressing themselves as local civilian patrons for the time being – heard, calculated, and understood what the order meant.
"Woods, it's been a while." The bartender that had appeared from the back room had come out of hiding to greet his fellow agents.
He wore a lightly colored blue shirt, the collar creased, and a rag caked in dirt and multiple colored liquids hung over his one shoulder. His English was decent and clear, fluent and understandable enough so that the agents could just barely catch the clip of Spanish accent, and he gave a nod to the sergeant who returned the gesture with a half smirk and half frown upon the Cuban being so upbeat at such a quiet and dark time of day.
The morning wasn't exactly the commanding officer's favored time, and the sergeant shifted his weight from one foot to the other. And it was clear, plain as day, the look of disappointment on his face showed that he wasn't exactly in the mood for greetings at such an early time in the morning. It was quiet amusing, the officer greeting his teammates when they had woken up, showing them that today was going to be a good day, and his gesture of friendliness had suggested just that - a smirk and a casual nod, a sip of coffee containing no sugar or cream, and a sigh of pleasure; no doubt glad that the mission would finally be closed up and stored away for good. Apparently, though, all that friendliness had changed into authority when directly on enemy territory – the hotel had been a mile or so away, and that hadn't been considered enemy soil since militia didn't patrol nearby often – or otherwise, on a mission. And the agents currently present at the Cuban bar – as well as their contact – knew that all too well. They shifted, playing their roles perfectly and acting as normal as any early rising person would be. Mason toyed with the cigar that he had discarded and placed in the oval bowl shaped ashtray. He curled the tobacco, smoke rising and choking the air, giving off a foul and distasteful scent. Bowman glanced towards the dancing woman, not attracted by her beauty or lured by her moves; he simply needed to act as civilian as possible, just as Woods, Mason and Thompson were doing. They looked as though they were having a friendly chat with the bar tender, acting as though they had become interested in one of his drinks and wanted to know the ingredients and such. Three talking with the owner was plenty; four would just rouse suspicion among the atmosphere, and that was the last thing anyone needed.
"Not enough Carlos," Woods observed in slight annoyance, taking note of the Cuban's expression when he had heard the remark, returning the stoic look that Carlos had given him. But it was all circulating around the topic at hand, and that topic would hopefully be brought up in a few moments after introductions were made. "You know Bowman, right?"
"Carlos," Bowman nodded, and he almost visibly tensed to keep himself in a well relaxed poise.
His voice was slightly strained to be pleasant, slightly hushed as to not attract unnecessary attention. The Cuban nodded in recognition, turning back to Woods who jerked his head to the left to introduce the rest of the team – the two newest members in three years, having joined the sergeant and chief petty officer on their first mission in Cuba, thus leading up to the current operation at hand.
Operation Zapata as the spooks in the CIA Headquarters – as well as the directors of SAD – called it. It suited the mission fine. In a state of convenience, the word Zapata was actually the last name of a Mexican Revolutionary character during the late twentieth century. Emiliano Zapata, a man of war who led a revolt of Mexican soldiers during the early start of the twenty first century. Yes, Operation Zapata was a fine name, considering that this would be somewhat of a similar act to that of the revolt led by Emiliano. It would be Spanish speaking men against Spanish speaking men, along with the aid of a few Americans. And, of course, it would actually be the Americans doing most of the work, the Cubans really assisting the men and woman that would bring forth a freedom to the country as well as an end to the dictatorship that ruled over Cuba. Woods' eyes followed left; the direction he was referring to, making sure both agents acted well behaved and didn't give snide remarks or suspicious looks. The last thing Woods needed was to apologize to their contact and make the agents do so as well if they gave the man a hard time. It wasn't that they were immature or childish in any sort of manner, but it was simply the fact that they both had impulsive decisions and acts, and they both did more or less without thinking through the circumstances and consequences properly.
"This is Mason, Thompson," The sergeant said, raising a hand and waving introductions at the two agents who had almost been invisible up until that point. The two were snipers, after all, and they could be wherever they pleased without the recognition of anyone around them, lest they be with the two agents alongside them.
Upon hearing her name, the young corporal visibly showed discomfort, shifting slightly towards the captain next to her and away from the bartender that looked her once up and down, dark brown eyes giving approval as he nodded with the same fashionable type of demeanor. Thompson glanced at Woods with uncertainty, looking for reassurance that was hopefully present. Why he had given the Cuban her name, she didn't know, but she did know that if her name was introduced then the commanding officer must have some sort of ties with this contact. She went along with it and nodded back, hopefully playing her part correctly. She didn't want to screw up, not again. It wouldn't look good on her record or dossier if she were marked a bad agent to the agency she worked with. Not that reputation mattered among her colleagues, but more or less, it all circulated around what got done and how it got done. The two major things that the directors of the departments in the CIA needed to know as if the answers depended on their very lives.
"What's up, Carlos?" Mason nodded, the Cuban giving him a look of approval as well. The captain's question was lighthearted and calm, showing respect and lacking any type of mockery or disrespect.
Woods took note of it, giving a nod to the captain and glad that he didn't pull of a foul comment of some sort. His eyes flickered to the younger soldier next to him, and she was staring down at the brown tiled flooring, no doubt feeling uncertain and uncomfortable. The sergeant didn't know why Thompson was feeling as she was; she had been over to Cuba plenty of times with the team, despite the last mission almost compromising them. The sergeant thought a moment, then knew that the kid had kicked herself and blamed herself for the loss of success. But it was a thing in the past, and this would surely make up for what had happened. If there was anything to make up in the first place. All that happened were a few questions, a few doubtful answers, a few looks passing back and forth, and that was all. Nothing more than a simple obstacle that had been cleared without the need for violence or blood, or casualties or anything of the sort. The sergeant was actually glad about that, considering that he wasn't getting any unwanted blood following him around.
"So you got what we need?" Woods asked, drawing Carlos back to the situation at hand. The Cuban contact gave a nod, reaching into his back pocket and revealing a folded up piece of paper.
Upon opening it, the paper was creased evenly in two spots, but it was clear that it was a detailed sketch of a map. Probably detailed enough to be accurate and flawless for the team. Thompson glanced at the paper when Woods jerked his head for the three agents around him to move in a little so they could look better. Thompson looked the paper up and down, studying it and determining that the contact probably got a few scouts for some recon. It was somewhat amazing how they could do such things without leaving any traces. Thompson couldn't help but lean a little closer. She wanted to observe the map more clearly, and when she did so, she gave a nod of approval, eyes glittering with satisfaction dulled by the hand interrupting her line of sight with the directions. She wasn't finished looking over the map, but she studied it enough to know what her terrain would consist of, how many buildings, what building they would be entering and what building they would be exiting. They would be entering by zip-lining off a cliff that overlooked the north side of the compound, and they would proceed to the main building to eliminate their target. They would then exit out the fairly tasteful foyer and from there, make their way to the extraction point; a large hanger housing a C-130 military aircraft plane located on the far side of the airfield that would be bombed and assaulted, most likely the fight over with if the team took long enough. Or if they were quick enough, being that the fight would be pushed away from the airstrip before things got heavy and the Cuban Resistance got pushed back. Hopefully, though, it wouldn't come to that.
"He will be here," Carlos explained, pointing at a large square on the map, most likely the compound that the team would be raiding in less than an hour, if not half of that time. He didn't take note that the corporal was still looking it over, and he payed little to no attention to the scowl fixed on her face. "Plantation, my old plantation. Our attack on the airfield should be enough to get you inside."
"And what about the evac?" The sergeant inquired next, further leaning over the bar and arching an eyebrow.
He needed to be sure that all things were set, that everything would go according to plan. This was the last chance the agency would give the officer and his team, the last move they could make to eliminate their target. It was going well so far, and hopefully, the contact had planned ahead and did provide an escape when the agents became known and deemed threats to the compound and its hosts, as well as the security detail that should be heavy with ammunition and firearms. Woods didn't need to file in for new recruits. It hasn't happened in three years, and he couldn't dare imagine himself filling out one, if not two, sheets of different forms; one for funeral expectations and arrangements, one for a transfer and dossier. That was something the officer never wanted to need to look at again.
"We will have transport waiting for you. Just be there," Carlos said, his voice firm and his English slightly clipped from his native tongue.
After he finished speaking, his eyes lifted past the group of agents and he stared out the window for a long second, before finally turning his attention towards the men and woman who had looks of confusion on their faces. But, seemingly all at once, they understood what Carlos was worried about. They slightly broke apart, their meeting disrupted by the sounds of Cuban men. There were four different voices, each a pitch higher or lower than one another. The language was Spanish, native to the country that the group was currently in, and the tones and pitches of the voices sounded anything but pleasant to the men and two women inside the bar. Everyone seemed to tense, save for dancer who thought it okay to continue her work.
"Excellent," Woods said quickly, referring to the Intel he had just received and the evac that would be awaiting him and his team when the mission was over with and deemed a delightful success. He grabbed the map of the compound him and his team would be raiding, folding it perfectly at the creases and pocketing it in his lightly colored denim jeans. He glanced behind him, spotting two police cars, the red and blue lights winking at him through the two large glass windows flanking the wooden door. He scowled inside himself, but kept his face stoic as he addressed the two agents to his left. "We got company."
The two nodded, slightly distancing themselves by a few inches. Though because of the corporal's height and stature, she easily became invisible on the left side of the captain, and the Cuban militia would have had to walk a little to their right to catch a glimpse of the woman. The agents relaxed, as if they really were on vacation – which was what their civilian attire suggested – and they looked at either the surface of the wooden bar, the empty beer bottles that lacked the alcohol they once held, or anything else in the room that would have seemed interesting at the moment. They were all trained for situations like this one that were uncalled for or unexpected, and thankfully, the task force had a commanding officer that had just that trait in him. The sergeant already began developing several plans, unique in several ways if things were incoherent among the militia. Translation being if they suspected foul play among the bar patrons, which would be correct if they decided to bother any of the agents.
Carlos stiffened behind the bar, straightening and eyeing four Cuban men, hair cut short and eyes beady and dark. They wore green camouflage and black combat boots, neatly laced and shined to perfection. They were armed, large rifles in hand and pistols dangling inside leather holsters. One militia man interrogated the dancing woman, demanding her papers to which she would not give because she didn't have them on her. The Cuban shook her, throwing her to the ground. Woods shook his head, overhearing the faint shuffling of boots and the frantic clicks of staccato as the woman fled from sight. Thompson frowned in pity, watching as the woman rushed out of the bar and most likely the entire building.
"Just be cool Woods, wait," Mason growled, spying out of the corner of his eye a Cuban militia man that had sought his attention to the American at the bar.
But the Cuban hadn't he slightest clue that the patron was American; he grew suspicious because of the pale, almost ivory translucent skin. As far as the militia man knew, everyone where he had come from had tanner skin from being so close to the equator. In the Cuban's eyes, this man wasn't that of a native. And that was what had caused him to grow so suspicious. In all of his years living, and his short amount of time working with the party loyal to Fidel Castro, he never came across such a situation, thus unsure of how to handle it. But he did what he was trained to do, and so he took a hesitant yet confident step towards the stranger, demanding to know where he was from. It was required that the militia captain knew where all foreigners came from, if this man was indeed a foreign figure to the country. But there was no reply, deeming that the question given was Spanish and the pale skinned man wasn't fluent in that language. That further roused the militia captain's suspicion, and he then tried a new approach and a new tactic.
"I said where you from?" The Cuban asked, now in English. He walked across the room, boots thudding loudly against the tiled flooring, slightly chipped and cracked from years of wear and tear. As he neared the man, there was still no answer, and because of this the Cuban grew dangerously impatient. "I'm talking to you!"
In frustration and impatience, he grabbed the man's arm, and that assault alone caused a fairly large chain reaction among the patrons at the bar and the men around them. The man that had been standing next to the militia captain – whom the Cuban officer took little note of as a threat – grabbed his arm, forcing the grip on Mason to release. In a swift and fluid motion, a glint of silver was caught in the fluorescent lighting, a scream following as the knife plunged into the Cuban's hand. Then, in another swift motion, Woods rose a glass mug, bringing it down hard on the agonizingly pained militia captain. His legs briefly wobbled before giving out, falling down onto the tile floor with a thud, knocked out cold and rendered unconscious. The rest of the team was quick to act. Bowman quickly shot the militia man nearest him, Woods shooting the one who had turned for the door, and Mason executing the final Cuban that was so shocked that he was still fumbling in his holster to withdraw his pistol. Thompson brought out her pistol checking the room for any more men and finding none. All went silent for a moment; the only evidence of an attack being the discarded shell casings and the Cubans that lied dead on the ground.
"Sorry about the bar, Carlos," Woods apologized briefly.
He turned his attention below him and looked down at the unconscious Cuban, his hand still nailed to the bar. The sergeant withdrew the blade, the tip dripping with crimson, and he raised his pistol to finish off the attacker who had failed his assault and was now to pay his price. The shot rang out, rather loudly, seeming to echo off the walls of the room.
"That's alright. My men will dispose of the bodies," Carlos assured, tossing Mason an M16 Multiple Attachment rifle that everyone else was currently holding.
"Gear up, boys," The captain muttered quietly, an old habit when he had been in command of soldiers whilst overseas and partaking in the Afghanistan issues, but the only person in the room that heard him was Thompson; who at the moment was standing next to him.
The two glanced at each other, nodding before the corporal was tossed the same type and model of rifle as well. In approval, they cocked their weapons and favored their positions alongside their commanding officer, who at the time was taking his own position at the wooden door. One hand was curled tightly around the indent made for a handle. He was ready to fling open the door when everyone was prepared. Bowman was crouched under the left window, armed and ready like the Cubans around him.
"Occupants leavin' their vehicles; armed with shotguns," Bowman announced, glancing out the window.
He then ducked down, seeing more police cars speeding towards the bar, fearing that the men inside the cars would suspect activity from the building. The windows were broken not moments afterward, glass glittering on the tile flooring as it was caught in the rays of the fluorescent lighting and the bare bulb that hung above the door and its frame. Boots crunched against the glass as men shuffled into positions, lowering themselves under the space under the broken windows, readying themselves for the fight to come within the next few seconds.
The call had been placed of a disturbance in the area, yes, but the militia man that had phoned the alarmed call never got the chance to explain where exactly the shots had been heard from, because one shot went straight through his temple. The bullet had destroyed his brain and shattered skull fragments, losing the man's life instantly. What was also lost was the exact place of where the shooting was currently occurring at the moment. Of course, the worker on the receiving end of the line understood enough of his job to announce where the police should head immediately, and to top that off, documents were made and the militia men were constantly monitored on where they were headed for the day's routinely work, in case of an event such as this occurred. And it wasn't hard to narrow down and pinpoint the exact location of the men when being monitored so closely, being watched and closely followed by a backup police car. That second police car was currently parked alongside the vacant one – that car holding the now dead militia men – and that second car had immediately commanded backup upon hearing the echoes of bullets being released from chambers, and even though the concrete walls of the bar slightly muffled the noises, it was still loud and clear.
"Carlos, Bowman; you lay down covering fire. Mason, Thompson – on me." Woods' order was heard, and it was heard loud and clear among the owners of the names that had been called.
There were nods of agreement. Gunfire crackled to life as the commanding officer swung open the door, lunging out into the open and firing his M16 at two police cars that had parked in front of the bar. The hurricane of ammunition the sergeant sent at the vehicles caused them to spark to fire, and finally, to a deadly burst as they exploded, the gasoline fusing with the flames. Bowman, now alongside Carlos, leapt out one of the windows. Mason and Thompson rushed out the open doorframe, barreling down the side of the street and flanking Woods. Mason cocked his gun, firing off grenades from the launcher and minimizing the number of police men, gathering up a fair score of bodies now littering the concrete and asphalt. The captain's eyes sought out Thompson, who was rushing alongside the sidewalk and firing at multiple tangos every which way. She was professional as she moved, her strides suggesting that she was beginning to tire but had a fair amount of time before her legs were to grow victim to fatigue. But she continued to move, speeding up despite her limbs already growing sore to her misfortune.
"Damn impressive," The captain muttered, shaking his head while he replaced an empty clip with a fresh one, running alongside the street and leaping over crates and cardboard boxed that had been dismantled from their stacked positions just moments earlier.
Woods had tucked himself into a sanctuary of brief security behind a fruit cart just as a police car came barreling towards him, blue and red lights dazzling in the dark morning. He rolled several times before purposely bringing himself to an abrupt and sudden halt, heightening into a crouch behind a wooden stand. The wood would be peppered with bullets surely soon enough, but the police cars had rushed past him, one running up the curb and skidding to an ear deafening halt just short of a tree, the other stopping too slow, the tires slipping a few feet and the front bumper colliding with the electrical pole that had been in its path. There was a sudden presence next to the sergeant. He whirled, M16 packed and secured with a new cartridge and ready to unleash thirty pieces of lead into the unknown figure. But he stopped, and a livid scowl corrupted the surprise look on his face. Thompson just blinked stupidly, unbeknownst that a moment ago Woods thought her to be a tango. The sergeant's lividness grew visible to the corporal, and she gulped, understanding why the man was upset. She tensed, awaiting the scolding that she would surely receive.
"How many times have I told you not to sneak up on me without saying something?" He asked. His voice was of annoyance, the demeanor heavy with anger and an authoritative growl. Thompson shifted uneasily, giving a shrug as she reloaded her M16. Woods narrowed his eyes in disapproval. He pointed a finger at the younger agent, his expression now orderly but his eyes still livid and bright with anger. "Stay on my ass. Got it?"
"Yeah," Thompson nodded, slightly out of breath.
The two rose just as bullets inaccurately peppered the wall behind them, and they darted forward, Woods yelling for the group of agents and Cubans to move up the street. The metallic taste of blood filled the air, and when the corporal inhaled, the foul taste hazed around her tongue. She ignored the acrid smell and moved on, firing her M16, reloading, and firing again in a matter of minutes.
"Into the alley! Let's go!" Woods shouted above the uproar, bullets trailing him as he lunged into the mouth of a brick alleyway.
Thompson wasn't sure why the officer had done so, but she knew better than to question the decisions of a superior ranked officer. Woods knew what he was doing; the man was placed in situations such as this countless times before. She leapt over cardboard boxes and wooden crates as she stumbled along the asphalt, knocking over trashcans and making her way towards a beige and rusted car, all four doors open and the ignition on, the pipe sputtering gas and burning fuel. Bowman and Mason leapt ahead, faster than the corporal and leaping into the car. Thompson piled into the backseat next to Bowman while Woods took shotgun and Mason took the wheel.
"I will see you at the airstrip! Suerto my friends!" Carlos yelled into the driver side window, his voice muffled slightly as the doors were closed.
It was a tight fit in the backseat – the entire car, at that – but Bowman and Thompson managed to have enough space and hold onto something sturdy while Mason reversed the car, slamming it into an alley wall and sending trashcans to the ground. Carlos rushed down to the alleyway opening, disappearing from sight as he rushed to aid his Cuban friends as they fought to buy the American agents some time.
"Hit it! Go!" Woods barked. Mason nodded, changing gears and the car lunging forward. "Out of our damn way!" The sergeant snarled, two civilians rushing for cover and just narrowly avoiding behind hit by the speeding vehicle. The buildings and terrain flew by Thompson in a blur of dark colors, and she tightly clutched the back of the driver's seat to keep from hitting her head against the roof of the car while it somehow went over every bump and pothole. The corporal watched as Woods kicked the windshield to fragments and tiny slivers of glass, sticking the muzzle of his M16 through the rectangular gap and firing at police men. "Dammit!" The sergeant snarled as a cascade of bullets punctured the car, everyone ducking down.
Thompson watched as a bullet nicked her commanding officer's shoulder, but she knew it would take more than a bullet to finish off the agent. Racing past the human barricade, the agents sat back upright and braced themselves, Mason swerving to avoid cars and civilians but not bothering to turn the wheel when a police officer got in the way.
"Blockade!" Bowman announced, just as the four agents thought they were in the clear.
Up ahead, not even five hundred yards and closing fast, two police cars were purposely backed into each other, wooden posts circling the cars. A barricade meant to stop or at least slow down the four agents, but all of them knew that they wouldn't give up so easily.
"I see it!" Mason yelled, speeding up the car, the little red needle on the speed marker located on the dashboard inching up every ten miles per hour.
Fifty miles per hour and gaining, Thompson observed, her eyes looking over the dashboard and taking note of the small clock indicating the vehicles speed.
"Floor it Mason!" Woods yelled in an order for one final act, bracing himself and pressing his boots against the dashboard.
Obeying the urgent order, Mason clutched the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles pale and turning white from the fierce grip his fingers exerted on the wheel. He pressed the gas further than its intended limit, and the car sputtering and jerking forward, tires hauling the body of the vehicle forward and racing down the street. The buildings and terrain raced by, passing through the corporal's eyes and causing her head to spin as if it wasn't doing laps already. Thankfully, she hadn't eaten such a large breakfast, if she had eaten at all, and therefore she kept the contents of her stomach in her system, not releasing them onto the floor of the car.
"Oh shit," Thompson moaned seconds before the head on and intended impact.
She squeezed her eyes shut – a normal response to a scene such as this, the body and mind not wanting to witness something so frightening that would occur to a normal person. In fact, all four agents shut their eyes. It was as if looking at a scary movie, the eyes not wanting to see the film and hands preventing the vision from observing the horror, but the eyes tempted to look and observe what was happening next and therefore have nightmares for continuous days, even weeks – as Thompson felt her body jerk forward, the sound barrier broken as metal collided with metal, sparks flying from the police cars as well as the getaway vehicle, tires screeching and whining as the brakes were firmly applied to control the car. Thompson was a "been there, done that" type of person, and she knew on a personal hand to not look at the movie when she didn't want to see what happened, whether it being the psychotic maniac leaping from around a corner or a serial killer ready to select his next victim.
The corporal felt her stomach lurch as she was thrown back into the leather seat, her head meeting the back windshield with a sickening smack. Her ears rang loudly, and she allowed a groan to escape her mouth as she slid down her seat, sinking into a newly introduced darkness. Upon her head hitting the glass, her brain had taken an immediate response to the pain to the skull, and the brain did to the body what any brain would do; shut down but keep the organs moving and pumping blood to needed places. In other words, the corporal's digestion slowed to preserve energy, and her heart slowed as well, yet keeping the blood flow at a normal pace. The corporal slid into the darkness, unconsciousness taking effect. She found herself temporarily paralyzed and temporarily placed in a sort of hibernation until her senses came to. As for her teammates, their vehicle barreled down the road and they remained conscious and aware. Bowman was slightly disoriented, his head hitting the back windshield as well. The back part of a vehicle always takes the worst whenever a collision or accident of some sort occurs. The back wheels are jerked around like a rag doll, the front wheels maintaining control. Therefore, Mason and Woods didn't feel much of the impact, save for being thrown forward and nearly out of their seats. And the vehicle sped on, not slowing up until a few miles were gained and a few more miles separated the agents from the Cuban police and the town they had just narrowly escaped. Now all they needed to do was assemble their positions at the cliff that they would soon be over top of and overlooking the compound that they would soon be raiding.