(A/N) Another X-Ray and Vav update, here for you now! Did everyone catch the livestream that the X-Ray and Vav team did yesterday? Wasn't a bad watch, even if we didn't learn much, but hey, there's still a lot to look forward to! Another fantastic chapter here from the marvellous Jaden Silver, this time from Bullet-Beard's perspective! Not too far to go now guys, so I hope you're all strapped in! Big things will be coming, and soon!
Speaking of marvellous, we're still looking for writers for our Avengers/Hunger Games fic – In the End, You Always Kneel – but I'm sure you've noticed that at this point! But if you're interested, head on over to our forum of the same name, or fire me a PM. So, without further ado, I'll leave you to this chapter!
Enjoy!
Chapter Thirty-Eight – Unfinished Business
Jack Pattillo / Bullet-Beard
Written by Jaden Silver
"Still, he figured, sometimes you've got to do what you've got to do, and then sometimes you've just got to run like hell after it's done."
― Derek Landy, Death Bringer
A dark figure crept silently through the night, his face hidden under a mask as he dodged between points of shadow and hid from even the faintest touch of moonlight. This dark figure was quickly spotted and apprehended by two Achievement City police officers, who were on high alert due to the recent wave of crime the Community had subjected the city to.
Bullet-Beard fought down a mirthless laugh, watching as the petty thief was pushed into the back of a police car. He, of course, was far more cunning than that. Only an idiot would allow himself to look like a criminal, especially at a time like this. No, that sort of look wouldn't do for tonight. Tonight called for something a little more…civilian.
Bullet-Beard wore a pair of plain jeans, an old, faded t-shirt, and a plain jacket. It wasn't flashy or intimidating, but he knew it would go unnoticed, and it was still manoeuvrable enough that he could fight if he had to. Not that he really made a habit of fighting hand to hand when he could help it. After all, what's the use of being a sharpshooter if you still had to get your hands dirty, right? Bullet-Beard had already had his fair share of that tonight, anyway.
I'm going to build a house, the assassin thought as he approached a chain-link fence. I'm washing my hands of shady criminal organizations that turn on each other at the first sign of trouble, I'm going to build a house somewhere far away from here, and I'm going to forget about this whole endeavour. I'm certainly not being paid enough to deal with this. I'm done.
Bullet-Beard quickly climbed the fence and dropped to the ground on the other side. He looked along the rows of airplane hangars, trying to see their numbers in the dim lighting. "My guy said Hangar Five," he muttered, squinting to make out the shape of the numbers. When he finally spotted what he thought could pass for a five, he began walking toward it at a leisurely pace.
As he'd anticipated, he'd barely gotten half way to the hangar before a security guard stopped him.
"Sir," the guard said uncertainly, his hand on the sidearm at his hip. "You can't be in here."
Bullet-Beard glanced at his nametag. Palomo. He looked young, maybe in his mid-twenties, and sounded incredibly gullible. Under different circumstances, Bullet-Beard was sure he could have gotten away without killing this kid. As it was, he couldn't afford to leave a witness to his departure from the city.
He kept his stance calm, the picture of someone who is exactly where they're supposed to be. "Oh, yeah," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "I just wanted to check on my plane. News says there's a lot of crazy stuff going on right now. I want to make sure no one's trying to steal it."
"Oh, uh… Yeah, that makes sense," the guard said thoughtfully. "Uh, do you have a members pass for the airfield? And an ID I can look at?" he requested hesitantly.
"Sure," Bullet-Beard said, smiling disarmingly. He stepped closer to the kid as he reached into his back pocket, presumably for his wallet. "It should be right here," he muttered, fingers wrapping around a knife handle as he watched Palomo's overly trusting eyes, waiting for the perfect moment. Right… about… now!
The kid blinked, and Bullet-Beard drove the blade into his throat.
Palomo made a barely audible choking noise as he was lowered to the ground. "Sorry," Bullet-Beard muttered. "Can't have any witnesses. You know how it is." He wiped his hands on the guard's jacket and cleaned the knife before standing up and moving on.
He glanced down at his shirt as he passed under a light, noting the spray of blood on the front. "So much for inconspicuous," he whispered, shaking his head.
He finally reached the hangar and was surprised to see that the pilot he'd hired was not waiting by the plane. This wasn't normal. He'd used this guy a number of times in the past to get to jobs in other cities, and he was always waiting and ready to go once Bullet-Beard arrived. The site of no one waiting by the plane was definitely a bad sign.
Bullet-Beard looked behind him, scanning the open runways of the airfield. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, just… quiet. Not unusual, exactly. It was late, and the small, privately owned aircrafts were mostly used during the day. Still, something didn't seem right. There was an uneasy feeling beginning to stir in Bullet-Beard's gut.
Against his better judgment, he crept further into the hangar, making as little noise as possible. He reached into his jacket and pulled a gun from his concealed holster, just as a precaution. He glanced around furtively as he approached the small office at the back of the hangar.
He turned the doorknob and was surprised to find that it wasn't locked, but the door wouldn't budge when he pushed. He leaned back for a second before pressing forward again, driving with his shoulder. This time the door caught for a moment before swinging open, revealing what had stopped its path.
The pilot lay on the floor in a pool of blood, a distinctive dark circle on his forehead marking the path of a bullet.
Bullet Beard crouched to examine the body. It was still warm and blood still oozed from the wound. He noticed the familiar smell of gunpowder and realized that the pilot had been shot in this room, very recently.
Too recently for the killer to have left.
"Shit," he muttered, turning around and raising his gun just as five men entered the hangar. That made him pause for a second as he counted them again, confused.
Only five? he thought, somewhat amused. That's almost insulting.
His feelings changed, however, when he noticed what two of the men were carrying. At first he was confused by the slow movements of the men, until he recognized the shape of the gun one carried, and the bag of ammo weighing down the other. It was a minigun, and from the looks of it they had enough ammo to keep the thing firing at top speed for quite a while. Apparently the Community weren't happy to just let him leave.
With that thing, they'll only need a few seconds to cut this entire office to splinters, Bullet-Beard thought, looking at the flimsy walls surrounding him. "And kill me in the process," he whispered thoughtfully. "I need to get out of here."
He looked around the small room. There really wasn't much to see; a desk with a computer, a chair, and a filing cabinet. And the dead body, of course. "You couldn't have left me with something useful, could you?" he asked the pilot. Of course, he didn't expect for there to be much. From what he'd gathered working with him in the past, this guy didn't do much except fly. Well, fly and BMX. Because, according to him, 'everyone needs a hobby'.
Bullet-Beard smiled slightly when he remembered something. The last time he'd hired the pilot, he'd shown up early and the guy had spent a few minutes showing off his bike. Apparently he kept it somewhere in the hangar.
"I doubt he'll mind if I borrow it," Bullet-Beard said to himself, digging through the pilot's pockets to retrieve a small key chain. He'd have to hope the key for the bike was on here.
He peeked out of the office again, wondering why these guys hadn't opened fire already. He guessed they must have been pretty sure of their victory to take their time. That'll be a mistake, he thought.
The plane took up most of the centre of the hangar. Far away to his right, Bullet Beard saw the bike leaned against the back wall. He knew if he could just get to it, he might be able to escape.
So, get the bike, kill the assholes, then get out of here, he thought, mapping out a plan in his head. He was beginning to wish he'd taken the time to grab more weapons from his apartment. His handgun wasn't exactly the best for this kind of situation.
Bullet-Beard heard the pop of a silenced gun firing and ducked back into the office. "I guess that means planning time's over," he muttered, before darting out of the room.
Bullets flew around and behind him for the few moments it took to get from the office door to behind the plane. Once there, he knew he had to be quick. It would only take a few seconds for his attackers to realize that they could shoot under the plane to get to him. I do not like the thought of bullets in my ankles, he thought, stopping alongside the dirt bike.
I definitely don't want to take one to the knee.
Bullet-Beard quickly searched for a key with the same insignia that he saw on the side of the bike. He found it after a second and jammed it into the ignition, but didn't turn it, and he bit down on the rising panic starting up within him. Glancing around, he searched for a direction to go once he got the bike started. He couldn't see the hangar doors from his position, but he knew they were behind the plane.
Along with all the guys who wanted to kill him.
His eyes fell on a pile of crates with a sheet of metal leaned against them. His heart rate quickened with all the force of a thousand childhood dreams. A part of him thought it was ridiculous. There was no way he could make a jump like that without hurting himself. Another part thought that if his options were to die by getting mowed down by a machine gun, or die jumping over a plane on a motorbike, he'd rather choose the latter. He heard the whir of the minigun preparing to fire and turned the key, revving the engine as it roared to life.
He pressed the gas and launched toward the makeshift ramp, hoping against common sense and physics that this would work. The bike drove up the ramp shakily and rocketed into the air. It barely cleared the plane, back wheel scraping along metal, as Bullet-Beard aimed for where he'd last seen his attackers.
The pair with the minigun turned toward the sound of the bike, blatant confusion on their faces. Bullet-Beard shot them both before they could react any further, catching the first between the eyes and the other twice in the torso. He jumped off the bike mid-air, letting it fly toward the other armed men. All three dove for cover as the vehicle careened past them. Bullet-Beard landed just short of the trio, rolling to absorb the impact.
One of the men regained his composure sooner than the others, rising to his feet and aiming for the assassin's face. Bullet-Beard raised his own gun. Reflexes trained for years came to the rescue as he managed to fire before his attacker, hitting him, like the first of the minigun men, right between the eyes. The other two men were shot multiple as they rose to their feet, as Bullet-Beard emptied his clip into them, never even getting the chance to fight back.
Bullet-Beard kept his gun at the ready, reloading it with one of the spare clips he kept tucked into the waistband of his jeans, turning to check for any more attackers. Once he was sure he was alone, he re-holstered it and went to check the bodies.
He was surprised to find that the men who had attacked him were fairly generic thugs. None of them had any markings on their clothing or any tattoos to tie them to a single one of the city's gangs. This can't be random, Bullet-Beard thought with conviction. He glanced at the minigun on the ground. Few people could afford to supply their men with a weapon like that. He already had his suspicions of who had sent these men when he began to search their pockets.
On one of the men, he found an envelope. A note with the instructions 'leave on targets's corpse', scrawled in familiar handwriting, was taped to it.
"This looks promising," Bullet-Beard muttered to himself, frowning. He tore open the envelope and pulled out a letter, addressed to him.
I know you're going to kill my men, the note began, and he smirked reading it. At least whoever hired these guys hadn't underestimated him. It doesn't matter. They're a warning. You know I have much more than this at my disposal. Finish the job you've been paid for, or you'll be a warning to the next assassin I hire.
Bullet-Beard didn't need to see a signature to know who had sent him the letter, though of course, the letter lay unsigned. He knew it was from Shadlz. Who else would make a threat like this? It certainly wasn't the Corpirate's style, and the other members tended to be more…subtle, in their manoeuvres.
He stood there for a moment, considering his options. He could still make a run for it. There's no way Shadlz knew where he was planning to go. But he knew the chances of getting away with that. A man like Shadlz wouldn't forgive an associate for walking away from a job, and Bullet-Beard knew better than most that he could hold a grudge. He'd helped end enough of them himself. I suppose I'll have to finish one last job before I can leave, he thought, dropping the note and turning toward the exit.
"One last job," he said out loud, looking down at the dead bodies of his would-be murderers as he walked by them. "One last fucking job, and then I'm out of here."