Chapter 16: Through Europe With Hate, Part 6

Resilience– London

"Well, I got to hand it to you, Phillips," Grif said as he set down his rum and Coke. "You finally managed to find somewhere in this godforsaken country where I can get a decent drink without having to put up with that EDM crap blaring out the speakers."

"Thanks, I guess?" Mary replied in between sips of her mai tai.

"Unfortunately, tonight's act is somehow worse than that! Seriously, whoever decided to book those 'Tinkerbell' bozos needs to start rethinking their career decisions!"

"It's the Tinkerbillys, you berk!" a Yorkshire-accented voice replied from the nearby stage. "And if you think we're really that bad, perhaps you c–"

"Save it, Sheila! Last thing we need is you costing us this gig because you decided to start a row with a heckler!" another voice butted in.

Before "Sheila" could get another word in edgewise, the sound of an explosion filled the air, followed immediately thereafter by a number of well-armed men storming inside through a broken-down service door.

"Who in the…" one of the other patrons asked.

From his spot at the top floor's bar, Donut immediately snapped into action, signaling to Grif with one hand while the other shot down the front of his jacket. In just under twenty seconds, both had their pistols drawn– a silver-plated Jericho 941 for the former, while the latter clutched a no-frills Beretta.

"Wait, how'd you get those into the country?!" Mary asked, her jaw practically hitting the floor.

"Ask your friend's dad !" came the reply. "Meantime, get behind something solid!"

Just then, another, more feminine figure stepped out of the smoke surrounding the remains of the doorway, her head surrounded by a blue, fully enclosed helmet.

"The Gabor girl! Where is she?" the figure barked.

"Better question– why do you care?" Grif retorted as he ducked behind a flipped-over table.

As if in response, a thin length of glowing blue material shot out from the helmet's forehead and lashed out, cutting the table clean in half.

"What in the…" a stunned Grif began, slowly backing away from his approaching opponent.

"Electrified monofilament whip," the figure smugly replied. "At full charge, this sucker cuts through damn near everything– steel beams, concrete, armor plate, the works. Now with all that in mind, let me ask again: where is Gabor?!"

"Look, just tell me what you want with her first!"

"Oh, I don't want her. Those goose-stepping wannabes from the Scions of Thule who tagged along, on the other hand…"

"Enough talk– FEUR FREI!" one of the other attackers yelled, punctuating the statement with a shotgun blast.

Mary's heart was racing as she ducked behind the bar, her eyes flitting around in their sockets as she tried to get a bead on the situation. Above her, she could hear the sounds of screaming, breaking glass, gunfire, and the crack of a whip mixed with a distinct electric hum. Momentarily glancing up from the floor, she noticed a phone on the wall right near the restrooms.

One for the money, two for the show, three to get r–

Just then, there was a loud buzzing noise, followed by the sound of the phone being torn free of its mounting. A quick glance to the side revealed the culprit to be another helmeted figure– this one a walking mass of muscle with multiple tattoos.

"W-w-who are you?" she stammered, desperately reaching out for something to use against her opponent.

"They call me the Mad Dog," the figure snarled as he leaned in close. "Wanna know why?"

"Not particularly," came the reply, her fingers wrapping around a conveniently placed broken table leg.

"Wasn't really a question, girly."

"Then consider this not really an answer!"

Before "Mad Dog" could get another word out, Mary swung the table leg at his knee, prompting a howl of pain from him and a similarly pained expression from her as it connected.

"You little–"

Barely wasting a second, Mary sprung to her feet and ran for the nearest piece of cover.

"Grif, retrieve the VIP now!" Donut ordered as he popped a fresh magazine into his gun.

"Dude, she's in the bathr–"

"Then grab her on her way out or something!"

"B–"

"If it makes you feel better, consider it taking one for everyone stateside! Now move!"

Grif gave his cohort a short, reluctant nod before racing off.

"C'mon, c'mon…got to be an emergency number somewhere…" Phyllis said under her breath as she fiddled with her phone in a vacant stall. "Thought there were laws here that made sure this sort of stuff didn't happ–"

As if on cue, a thin length of material shot out, cutting through the stall door like a wire through cheese.

"Oh, son of a–"

Before she could finish, the thing wrapped around her leg, and she could swear she felt a jolt work its way through her system before all went black…

And here I thought Gabor would be the worst thing in this assignment! Grif thought as he took a potshot at an inbound neo-Nazi. On the plus side, at least we'll get combat pay…if her dad's willing to shell out the cash for it, anyways. Or if she's still alive after th–

The thought suddenly died as he noticed the figure with the blue helmet emerge from the restrooms carrying Phyllis's unconscious form over her shoulder. Not wasting a moment, he unclipped his walkie-talkie and began to give chase.

"Donut, get the Phillips girl out of here before those Scion bastards do!"

"What about G–"

"That creep with the whip took her! And before you ask, I'm not kidding!"

"Oh, so now you care!"

"Really not the time!"

"Look, I'm just s–"

"Just get Phillips somewhere safe while I secure our payday!"

Police sirens echoed through the night as Phyllis's kidnapper exited the nightclub into a nearby alley, her gaze focused on a waiting SUV.

"Sheppard, what's your status?" she asked, tapping the side of her helmet.

"Be with you in two, three minutes, tops," a man's voice replied. "Also, we got any Tylenol?"

"What? The 'Mad Dog' can't take a beating from some mousy brunette?"

"I'm serious here, Warfield!"

"There's a bottle in the glove compartment," she said. "Now hurry it up before we–"

"Give me the girl!" another voice proclaimed from nearby.

Figures those idiots wouldn't give up so easily, she thought as she drew a Colt .45 from either hip, fingers tensing against the triggers in anticipation.

"Grif, status report!" Donut said into his walkie-talkie as he and Mary made their way towards the exit.

"Found VIP, the kidnapper, and their escape vehicle!"

"What's the model?"

"1985 Ford Bronco! Just need to make sure they can't make a break for– sonuvabitch!"

"What?"

"That chick with the whip?"

"What about her?"

"Turns out she's a good enough shot to be actually effective with dual pistols!"

"What's that supposed to m–"

"She's got me pinned!"

Donut sharply exhaled. "Just stay calm! I'll be right there once I've got Phillips to safety!"

"Forget her! Right now, our top priority is retrieving Ga– OH, COME ON!"

"Grif, what's going on?"

"Chick's got a fr– OOF!"

"A what?"

The only response from the other end of the walkie-talkie was a series of punching noises, pained groans, and finally a car engine starting.

Oh God, what have we gotten ourselves into now?

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

For any MASK purists out there, yes, I know that Jackhammer (the aforementioned Bronco) wasn't Bruno Sheppard or Vanessa Warfield's vehicle, but I couldn't think of a way of incorporating either of their respective rides into the events of this arc in addition to the Jackhammer without it coming off as forced. As for why I went with the Jackhammer…well, let's just say that one of the main set pieces for this arc was plotted around its primary gimmick.