A/N: This was meant to be ready sooner, but at least I can say it's finally here. However, I have some slightly unfortunate news for you all. The Gentle Sniper 2 is dead. I will be releasing the unreleased chapters but I will not finish the story as I no longer possess the drive to do so. For that, I deeply apologise. I will be continuing this story and then taking a break before I continue writing. I will also no longer announce stories on my profile until they are nearly complete in the hopes that will increase productivity. I will also only stick to one story at a time in the future. Time will tell if that works out.
…
Parking his vehicle beyond the gate at the base, Hiccup stepped out onto the asphalt. The sky was still dark, and so his surroundings were well-lit by lights that loomed overhead. He made his way to his office, the corridor's fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
Unlocking the door and stepping inside, Hiccup was met with the familiar sight of his office. It all seemed ordinary until he realized that his office wasn't unoccupied.
Ug, Teeny, and Thuggory were all grinning, sitting on or around his desk.
A beat of silence passed by, before Ug who asked the dreaded question, his voice thick with amusement. "So, Hiccup, what's this I hear about you and Astrid's little weekend getaway?"
Hiccup's shoulders slumped, and he ran a hand through his dishevelled hair, groaning. "Oh for God's sake. NO. Far too early for questions. All of you get out!"
Ug's grin widened, and he extended a hand to Teeny and Thuggory. "I win the bet. Pay up, bitches!"
"GET. OUT." Hiccup repeated, his voice loud and tone firm.
Money was handed to Ug, who pocketed both twenty-pound notes before they each filed out one by one, leaving Hiccup alone in his office. Just as he thought he was in the clear, Ug remained behind.
Turning back, his grin returned, and he leaned in close. "Was it nice, spending time in bed with a woman?" he asked Hiccup, his voice carrying a teasing note, only for Hiccup to shove him back a step and for the office door to slam shut in his face.
…
At approximately 9 A.M. the soft glow of morning light filtered through the cracks in the blinds, casting golden slivers across the room. Stoick Haddock, the stalwart mayor of Berk, turned the aged brass doorknob with a determined grip, pushing the heavy wooden door open. The hinges creaked softly in protest, the sound echoing in the otherwise still room.
His leather shoes, worn smooth from years of pacing on the wooden floor, emitted a faint tap-tap as he stepped inside. The air carried a faint scent of aged paper, mingling with the subtle aroma of his morning coffee that still lingered. The room's scent seemed to weave a tale of long hours spent poring over documents and making weighty decisions.
The heart of the room was the mahogany desk, polished to a deep sheen that caught and held onto the available light. Papers were neatly organised in meticulous stacks, each corner aligned with precision.
A filing cabinet stood guard against the wall near his desk, between the desk and the window. Stoick's eyes flicked to the window, however, that view remained veiled, as the blinds were lowered, their angled slats casting thin shadows across the floor.
With a purposeful stride, Stoick flicked the switch by the door. A soft, fluorescent glow buzzed to life overhead, illuminating the room's contents with clinical clarity.
He moved closer to the window, his broad hand reaching out to grasp the blind's cord, rough fingertips brushing against the textured fabric.
His intention to open the blinds was abruptly arrested as if time itself had been frozen. The air grew taut, and every muscle in Stoick's body tensed like a coiled spring. His breath held, the only sound now the distant cries of gulls outside, carried by the breeze.
In that suspended moment, his eyes fell to the cord, tracing its path from the window's edge to beneath his desk… to where a bomb lay waiting.
This device, this instrument of destruction was no exception. It had the size and shape of a typical lunchbox, a grey metallic shine to its surface, no timer to speak of and a small hole into which the cord disappeared.
A bead of sweat formed at the nape of Stoick's neck, his brow furrowing as he processed the gravity of the situation. His fingers hovered above the cord, as if afraid that the wrong movement could trigger the malevolent mechanism beneath his desk. He knew that action was required, and quickly, but also with the utmost care.
The silence of the room was punctuated only by the rhythmic thud of his heartbeat, audible to him against the ticking of the clock in his office; the only other sound to be heard amid an unrelenting stillness.
He quietly whispered, scarcely daring to breathe, "Think, Stoick, think." His fingers, calloused from years of leadership, trembled slightly as he tried to formulate a plan.
Every sense heightened, every detail magnified, he weighed his options carefully, acutely aware of the consequences resting on his next move. The thought of his son, his Henry; his only living reminder of his late wife Valka, lingered in his thoughts, tugging at his resolve like an anchor in a storm.
In a flash, his decision was made. It was obvious to him in an instant. Stoick backed away from his mahogany desk and the window carefully, half convinced at the moment that moving too fast might trigger the bomb as he neared the door.
Outside, his secretary was on the phone. Target sighted, he approached her desk and grabbed for it, wrenching it from her grasp. Startled, she looked at him in shock but restrained herself and said nothing.
He paid her no heed, however, as he jabbed the keypad three times.
"You are through to Police Scotland's emergency line, how can we help?"
"This is Mayor Stoick Haddock of Berk. There is a bomb in my office, please advise on the appropriate course of action, besides evacuation."
"…Alright sir. Police will be with you shortly. For now, proceed with evacuation immediately."
…
Elsewhere on Berk, there was a hotel, a branch of Premier Inn, which stood as a refuge for anyone to escape from the cold Berkian early morning wind. The police officer who entered was most certainly included in that.
Inside the hotel's welcoming lobby, bathed in the soft, ambient glow of chandeliers overhead, the receptionist, Johann, sat behind the polished oak counter. The faint scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air, mingling with the delicate notes of lavender-scented air fresheners. The low murmur of hushed conversations and the occasional click of suitcase wheels reverberated around the space.
Johann, a middle-aged man with a neatly pressed suit, peered up from his computer screen, adjusting his glasses before he greeted Officer McCartney. A brass nameplate on his desk displayed his name with elegant, serifed letters.
"Officer McCartney?" Johann's voice was warm, and his eyes held a hint of curiosity as he offered a welcoming smile.
"Yes? How do you-" McCartney began, his words interrupted by Johann's courteous interruption.
"News travels fast between hotels, sir," Johann replied, his voice carrying a faint German accent. "Particularly of special visits from the police."
McCartney nodded, acknowledging the astute receptionist's awareness.
"There is a Mr. Graham Manning on the third floor," Johann continued, his voice carrying the weight of purpose. "He hasn't yet checked out."
Johann's fingers danced over the keyboard as he confirmed the information, the soft clicks adding to the symphony of sounds in the lobby. "So as I was saying-Mr. Manning. Third floor, room 304," Johann finished.
"Uh, alright. Thank you," McCartney replied.
"Please come again. Perhaps to stay, sir?" Johann's parting words held a hint of hospitality, but they drifted into the background as McCartney turned and made his way back through the lobby. He spoke into his lapel radio, his voice transmitting quietly over the radio waves as he headed outside.
Once outside, the scene changed dramatically. The wind had a sharp crisp bite, causing McCartney's coat to flap gently against his frame as he walked.
Approaching a sleek, black Jaguar parked nearby, McCartney opened the passenger door and slid into the plush leather seat. The interior of the car enveloped him in luxury, the scent of premium leather mixing with the faint aroma of expensive cologne.
"So, what did you find this time?" a voice inquired, and McCartney turned to look at the driver, a woman whom he knew by the name Helga. Mrs Hofferson was her name to others. Her confident demeanour was accentuated by the soft purr of the idling engine.
"He's here, Helga. Call it in," McCartney replied, his voice tinged with a sense of urgency that matched the tension in the air. As Helga reached for the radio, the distant sirens of another police car echoed through the city streets.
…
Stoick stood in silence, watching as the police worked. One officer was moving a few metres in front of him, unfurling police tape to prevent anyone from entering the building until the bomb was dealt with, with others doing the same at other sections of the building to establish a perimeter.
As this was taking place, another officer, a woman, approached Stoick. "Alright sir. Good morning. Are you able to answer some questions so the EOD unit know what sort of bomb to expect?"
Stoick nodded. "Certainly. What do you need to know?"
"Can you describe how you found the bomb and what it looks like, sir?"
"Yes, I stepped into my office like I usually do, went to open the blinds and very nearly pulled the cord on the bomb, which had been hidden underneath my desk. It is the size of a standard lunchbox with a grey silver surface and a small hole for the cord. That's all I can tell you about the bomb."
"Not a problem sir. We'll take it from here. Stand clear of the building in the meantime."
The officer turned and left, brushing past Stoick with the mayor maintaining a safe distance from the Great Hall as instructed.
Minutes went by as the EOD unit worked, with a robot venturing into the building and his office.
It emerged again, with the officer approaching the robot and taking the defused bomb. She reached into it, took some object out and discarded the outer casing from what Stoick could see as he stepped forward cautiously, his height allowing him to peer at the device in her grasp.
He slowly recognised it to be a grenade, from which the cord dangled, wrapped around the safety pin.
All of a sudden Stoick felt incredibly glad that he hadn't pulled on the cord or raised the blinds in his office, and instead left the device alone entirely and simply called the police.
"Feeling a tad curious, sir?" the officer prompted with a grim smile, having noticed Stoick staring her way.
"Feeling quite relieved, officer. That I didn't pull the cord on that damn thing. Or opened the blinds in my office."
"That wouldn't have happened, sir. Even if you had pulled the cord."
Stoick's eyebrows raised. "What do you mean?"
The officer turned the grenade over in her hands, revealing a hole at the base of it.
"Because this grenade is empty, sir. It would never have exploded. The EOD believes it to just be some kind of distraction."
"A distraction, for what exactly?"
She sighed. "We don't know yet sir. We'd like to investigate further however."
"Alright… I'll leave you to conduct an investigation if you want? I need to go somewhere in the meantime."
"Of course. Thank you sir."
…
Grimmel's chosen hotel room on the third floor was a far cry from luxury. The unmistakable stench of stale cigarette smoke clung to the faded floral-patterned curtains and worn-out carpet. The single bed stood against one wall. An electric kettle let out a lingering aroma of recently boiled water which wafted through the room, mingling with the faint scent of leftover takeout containers.
The bathroom, tucked away in a corner, was equally modest. The shower stall was cramped, its tiles showing signs of age and wear.
The room's only source of natural light was the solitary window, which was propped wide open, allowing a faint breeze to rustle the worn curtains.
With the door finally forced open by a battering ram, the room's secrets began to reveal themselves. The disarray suggested a hurried escape. The neatly folded duvet on the bed seemed out of place amidst the chaos, a testament to meticulous habits interrupted.
As the investigators turned their attention to the window, they noticed a camera mounted on the exterior wall, its lens pointed down at the hotel's entrance. A thin wire snaked its way into the room, cunningly concealed behind the headboard of the bed. The camera had been positioned with precision, granting a clear view of any vehicles arriving or departing from the hotel's vicinity.
Beneath the bed, shadows seemed to stretch endlessly into darkness, a potential hiding spot. The chest of drawers, upon which the kettle sat, contained a surprising and unsettling discovery – three spent bullet casings, carefully stowed away in a zip-lock bag. Their presence added another layer of intrigue to the unfolding mystery.
McCartney's focus returned to the camera, his mind piecing together the puzzle. He reached for his lapel radio, urgency evident in his voice as he spoke into it.
"All units be advised: Suspect was aware of police presence and has fled the scene. Direction unknown. Suspect name: Graham Manning. Welsh descent, late sixties, full head of grey hair, has SAS training. Likely in illegal possession of a firearm. If spotted, approach to arrest with extreme caution at all costs."
With the report done, McCartney directed his team, their faces etched with determination. "One of you ask the hotel manager for access to the CCTV. Someone else call forensic services and inform them of the situation before you return to the station. The rest of you can head back to the station at your leisure." They left the room, their footsteps echoing in the dimly lit hallway as they made their way back to the hotel lobby.
McCartney, however, had a different destination in mind. He left the hotel and approached Helga's jaguar, where she sat, her expression tense and her knuckles white on the steering wheel.
She turned in her seat to look at Viggo, who shared her concern. "You know what we need to do now."
Viggo sighed, the weight of the situation settling on his shoulders. "I was hoping it wouldn't come to this. Alright, but since this was your idea, you brief both Haddocks on the situation, okay?"
"Okay," Helga replied, her gaze unwavering. "But I have a slightly different approach from our usual in mind, this time."
…
On the northern edge of Berk, the suspension bridge stretched gracefully across the water, connecting Berk to its neighbouring island, Bog Burglar Isle, or simply Bog Isle to the locals. It stood as a testament to engineering and offered a breathtaking view of the northern sea below.
The sun had slipped away, its warm rays hidden behind thick clouds that hung ominously in the sky, threatening rain as Mayor Stoick embarked on the short journey across the bridge. It was just under a mile in length, but for Stoick, the weight of the impending visit added distance to his steps.
As he neared the end of the bridge, Stoick's destination came into view. The Bog mayor's private residence was perched on a cliff overlooking the sea. It was a sturdy two-story building, its grey stone walls contrasting vividly with the striking red front door. The residence exuded an air of authority and elegance.
In front of the house, a meticulously maintained garden welcomed visitors with a riot of colourful flowers. These blossoms danced in the gentle breeze, adding a touch of vibrancy to the otherwise colourless surroundings. A cobblestone path meandered through the garden, leading the way from the main gate to the inviting front porch.
However, a sense of unease hung in the air as Stoick arrived at his destination. The presence of police officers near the gate signalled that something significant had transpired. Stoick's heart quickened, his recent ordeal adding to his apprehension. His knuckles tightened around the steering wheel as he pulled his car to a stop in front of the gate and stepped out.
Approaching the gate, Stoick found himself face to face with two female police officers. Their expressions held a hint of mild surprise, as they recognized the mayor but clearly didn't expect his personal appearance at this particular moment. "Can we help you, sir?" one of them inquired politely.
Stoick's voice trembled with concern as he spoke. "Are Bertha and her daughter alright? I was scheduled to meet with them today, but neither are picking up their calls."
The officers exchanged a knowing glance, their silence adding to the mayor's growing sense of unease. After a brief pause, one of them finally spoke, her words carrying a heavy weight, "You should come with us, sir."
The tone in which she spoke did little to alleviate the tension that had gripped Stoick. As he followed the officers through the gate and towards the private residence, the fear of what he might discover gnawed at his every thought.
…
The top floor of the multi-storey car park was a desolate concrete expanse. The man standing roughly at the centre of the top floor wore sunglasses, which did little to conceal the impatience etched into his features. A baseball hat pulled low over his brow obscured much of his face.
His footsteps echoed as he paced back and forth, the sound punctuating the silence of the open space. Each step carried a sense of urgency, and his eyes remained fixed on the distant entrance, anticipating the arrival of a car.
Soon, the unmistakable roar of an engine filled the air, growing louder as the vehicle raced up the ramps to the top floor. Grimmel saw that the car was gunmetal grey and had black tinted windows after it emerged from the concrete labyrinth, coming to a halt at a distance, roughly a third of the way down the car park.
It was an inconvenient distance, requiring the man to walk further than he had hoped, but he had little choice in the matter.
As he approached the vehicle, the driver's side door swung open, revealing the figure inside. Grimmel's surprise was palpable. "Alvin has ground rules. So do I. You give me your gun, and there is no talking on this journey."
Grimmel stared in silence for several seconds before he conceded. "Alright. I accept the deal," he replied, a sense of desperation in his voice. He reached into his jeans' waistband, withdrawing his gun and offering it in a reverse grip to the driver.
The driver accepted the weapon with a steely expression, then moved to open the trunk of the car. "Are you going to stand there, or are you coming with?" he inquired, his tone carrying a hint of impatience. "Because I can leave you if that's what you want. Far less of a hassle for Alvin and myself that way."
Without a word, Grimmel complied, sliding into the passenger seat as the driver closed the trunk and returned to the car. The engine roared to life, and they pulled away from the car park, just as ominous clouds gathered overhead. The heavens opened, and the rain descended in a torrent, blurring the world outside as their car melded seamlessly into the flow of Berk's traffic.
With the sound of raindrops drumming on the car's roof, Grimmel broke the silence. "I'm going to ask the elephant in the room. How are you here, Haddock?" His voice was filled with curiosity and suspicion. "How are you involved with Alvin?"
Hiccup glanced at him, then resumed watching the road. "Took you what, ten seconds, to break rule two? Don't do it again."
Grimmel simply rolled his eyes in response.
Hiccup's phone vibrated in his pocket immediately after what he said, as if to taunt him while demanding his sole focus. Hiccup ignored it. Whoever was asking for his attention via text could most definitely wait.
…
In the dry, windswept part of Scotland where Faslane Naval Base stood, Astrid was a lone figure in her small office. She sat at her desk, her surroundings reflecting the seriousness of her profession as a physical therapist. Dressed in a pristine white lab coat, she looked every bit the dedicated medical professional.
The room bore the telltale signs of a healthcare facility – the scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, mingling with the subtle aroma of her morning coffee. The computer on her desk hummed softly, a constant companion in her daily tasks. The room was impeccably tidy, with medical charts neatly organized on one side and motivational posters on the other.
Astrid had just wrapped up a therapy session with a patient, her professionalism shining through as she offered encouragement and guidance. With the next appointment still an hour away, she seized the opportunity to confront the unease that had been gnawing at her for the last two days, and it had worsened when Hiccup had to depart for Berk. His absence left her feeling especially vulnerable in this foreign land, and she knew it was time to take matters into her own hands.
Her fingers danced across the keyboard as she opened her web browser, the soft tap-tap of the keys punctuating the otherwise quiet room.
With a resolute expression, Astrid typed her query into the search engine: 'Closest self-defense classes near Faslane.' As she hit the enter key, a list of search results appeared before her. The first result that caught her eye was a martial arts school named 'Combat Central.' Without hesitation, she clicked on the link, navigating to their website, eager to find the solution to her newfound concern.
The website opened up, revealing a wealth of information about the school's offerings, class schedules, and the qualifications of their instructors. Astrid immersed herself in the details, determined to make an informed decision that would equip her with the skills she needed to feel safe in the event of the sudden appearance of Grimmel.