When Mark and Krueger got back to the hotel, the whole situation was already well under control; Trinity (now with slightly more clothing) and Done had taken control of the counterstrike, and now there was a whole army of pissed-off gunrunners helping them watch over the few remaining Shop operatives. Trinity looked up from her rifle, expecting Rowena to get out of the jeep, then shot Mark a look of confusion.
"I thought you were going to stop the plane!" she hissed.
"The kid's on it," Mark replied.
"That's insane."
"Yes," Krueger said, "and that's why she needs all the help we can give her."
Trinity gave him a confused look; Krueger sighed, then walked off toward's the hotel's garage.
"Equinox won't like this," she said, giving Mark a sharp glare.
"I trained her. You saw her in the hotel," Mark replied. "She's ready."
There were a few seconds where Trinity's expression fought Mark, tooth and nail, but his face didn't budge; finally, she rolled her eyes.
"You know, Simmons, when you make those calls, it's usually just your ass on the line. But you sent Rowena in there, alone and unprepared, and even if she's the second coming of the Goddess of War herself, she's too young for this. She needs more experience."
"And the way to give her experience would be..."
"I know, she has to do this sooner or later. Call me overprotective, but I'm worried sick. It's just this bad feeling in my stomach," she said.
"Maybe the calamari?"
"Murder thoughts, Simmons," Trinity growled, her glare renewed. "Murder thoughts."
"Aw, come on. Relax. The way I know her, she's already got things sorted..."
---
Rowena had not, in fact, made any significant progress. Her body more closely resembled a collage of dents and dings from tumbling over the metal ramp than anything from a fashion magazine, and she was wearing a freaking pajama with socks and not something more useful in a fight. Her entrance had remained undetected for the time being, but her skills and Mark's guns weren't going to help her take the plane if she couldn't walk on the floor.
The video screens installed in the walls switched on, running a soundless version of some commercials. Rowena briefly wondered why that would be, then watched the screen more closely...hm, a commercial for Bluetooth headsets?
Wait...no. That's insane.
Still crouched down behind several crates of miscellanous gear way in the back of the Antonov's cargo hold, she touched the small "sweet spot" behind her right ear, activating the voice interface of her Archer cochlear implant - a Series V, installed just before she'd gone to New York City. The device generated electric impulses that directly stimulated the nerves in her ear, which her brain decoded as a friendly - if neutral-sounding - female voice.
Crosscom standing by.
Taking care not to speak out loud, Rowena whispered in reply.
"Crosscom - Legacy - Bluetooth - Scan."
For a few seconds, there was silence; then the gadget's voice chirped.
"One Bluetooth device detected."
"Crosscom - Legacy - Bluetooth - One - Connect."
"Connected. Incoming call..."
Rowena tapped the sweet spot again; theoretically, she could've used the voice interface again, but the design team had cleverly considered a simplified interface for the more frequent functions.
"Who's there?" she mouthed.
"Paint me yellow and call me a mailbox, it works!" Krueger's voice came through.
---
Sitting on a camping chair in front of a hastily-assembled computer system, Krueger watched the Antonov's system readout; he'd never felt the need to hack into his own unified control software, but knowing a few of the backdoors was handy.
"Rowena, this is Doctor Krueger. Do you read me?"
"Loud and clear," came her reply, rendered in nice stereo by the computer's speaker system. "How did you do that?"
"Oh, just some tricks with astromodems, SSH and VoIP, nothing you need to worry about. I can't see you on the cameras, where are you?"
---
"Well-hidden," Rowena replied. "Where are the cameras?"
"Not obvious, either. There's nobody else in the cargo hold we can see from here. Can you stick up your hand?"
Rowena took a deep breath, then raised her hand beyond the crates.
"Ah, yes, I see you. Good hiding spot. I should probably put a camera there on the next refit...uh, you can take your hand down now."
"So, how does it look?"
"Not good. I'll need to focus on getting everything rerouted to the remote control system, but that will take some time. I'll hand you over to Mark, okay?"
---
Krueger nodded to Mark, who crouched down next to the computer system and tapped the "On" switch of his headset.
"How are you doing, kid?"
"I'm okay, but I can't fight like this."
"Bullshit. You can always fight."
"Let me rephrase that: I can't fight well like this. Now, what's the situation?"
"Cameras are reading 12 people," Mark said, watching the cycling cameras while Krueger typed furiously on the keyboard. "Four in the cockpit, 7 in the crew area, one...well, he went for a Number Two. The cockpit crew doesn't appear to be armed, but it's hard to tell. The guys in the rear have handguns - looks like Glocks to me."
"Appreciate the details. Now, how can you help me?"
"I can get you into my container," Krueger said. "There's some clothes in there."
---
Rowena crept towards the big white office/container; it was just aft of the ladder access to the upper deck, with the missiles spread out on the floor in the forward part of the cargo hold.
"The door code is 74860061529," Krueger's voice came; she entered the code, then opened the door, flinching with every creak it made. "I know, I should get that oiled..."
"Heads up, kid," Mark said, "the guy just came out of the toilet. He's heading towards the ladder."
Rowena noticed the screens switch off just as she pulled the outer door of the container closed and locked it from inside.
"...read me?" Krueger's voice came in, weaker than before.
"You're breaking up, Doctor."
"Container...Faraday...authorization signal," he said; the inner door opened as if by magic. When she stepped inside and closed the inner door, there was another signal beep from her implant - total signal loss.
---
"What now?" Mark asked.
"The good news is, Rowena's in a safe location, nobody gets into the container without the code or a plasma torch. The bad news is, I'm still locked out of the security systems and navigation, so I can't track them that way."
"Keep trying. We need to have a team on the ground when they land."
"They have to refuel first."
"They've been flying for ten minutes, tops. They can't be dry."
"Simmons, my aircraft happens to be an Antonov An-124-300."
"And?"
"And each missile is as heavy as 20 HMMWVs, even stripped down and unfueled. The Antonov's in a very, very exclusive club of ultraheavy cargo aircraft in that it can even realistically attempt to carry four of these monsters. It's a minor miracle that we had enough capacity for some kerosene before we hit the maximum takeoff weight. If they don't refuel within the next 15 minutes, they'll have a very short flight."
"Okay. What does that tell us?"
"Two countries here have the tankers to do this, but my money's on the guys I grew up with."
Krueger briefly looked up from his screen and smiled warmly.
"The boys from Brazil."
Friday, February 23, 2007
Monday, February 19, 2007
Just 'cause - Chapter 8
Mark's eyes snapped open, and for a split second, he had a moment of confusion. He was in his hotel room, with everything quiet around him. The clock on the nightstand read 3 AM; not nearly enough sleep for him. There was no reason he should be awake, but he knew better than to question his body's reflexes - he held his breath and listened.
Cicadas outside, singing their mating song. Cute, but irrelevant.
Footsteps in the hallway outside. Late night visitors?
Suppressed gunshots.
Mark had barely enough time to grab his gun from under the pillow and roll off the bed before the door to the hallway flew open and spewed forth a duo of masked men with suppressed SMGs; Mark kicked up the blanket that had swirled around his feet, then returned fire with his handgun. Everything went loud as the .45 barked, plugging one of the gunmen center mass and making his trigger finger seize; he emptied his magazine into the windows, shattering them, while Mark rolled under the bed, saw the second attacker's feet and fire twice more, shattering the man's shins. With another roll, he was free of the bed and close to the hallway wall; he shot the crying man in the head, then reached for his second gun from beneath the pillow and rolled towards the door as more gunfire - this time from a shotgun - blew a hole through the wall above him. Like a maniac, he darted for the door, dove outside and caught the shotgunner by surprise with a double-tap.
The good news was that this should've woken up anyone still asleep. The bad news was that he'd have to take the flak until they could get more guns into play on his side.
Two more SMG-wielders down the hall; Mark spun on his back, delivering a two-fisted smackdown and sending the pair tumbling right back down the stairwell; it would've looked supremely badass if he had been wearing something more dignified than a wifebeater and boxers. With more gunmen from either side, he fanned out to 180 degrees, peppering both ends of the hallway with the rest of his ammo before his guns ran dry. Rolling forward to get back on his feet, he jumped back into his room, hunting for the luggage. A sniper's bullet whizzed by him, missing him by mere inches; he threw one of his guns at the door to his hotel apartment, startling another gunman out of firing. With a kick to a brown case - Mark felt the pain of doing this barefoot keenly - he snapped open a little purchase from yesterday. The case unfolded to reveal a H&K UMP in .45 caliber; Mark grabbed it and sprayed the newcomers, killing three more of them. The sniper fired again, and Mark hugged the wall in response - he now had a clear field of fire on the door and was hidden from the sniper, but a good shot would go through those walls - and God help him if somebody used a grenade. Not good.
Then, he heard the unmistakeable boom of a .50 cal rifle from the room next door. God bless you, John, Mark thought, then heard more gunfire from the hallway - apparently, the fight was beginning for real. He skipped the socks and just straight up slipped into his fatigues and boots, then took a liberal amount of firearms from his stash, stuffed it into a canvas backpack and went for the corridor.
Trinity was out there in her nightgown, laying down covering fire towards the staircase with an IMI MTAR-21; Rowena had at least thrown a bulletproof vest over her pajamas before joining the firefight with her pair of Five-seveNs. Done was still in his room and kept the .50 cal thundering - probably picking off more targets outside. A small group of attackers were now pinned down by the staircase; Mark swivelled in the opposite direction when he saw Rowena raise her guns, and together they sent a barrage down that end, killing another five guys.
"Glad you could join us!" Trinity shouted over her last burst, then ducked back into her room; with Rowena covering the other direction, Mark spun again, keeping up the cover fire with his UMP while he scrambled forward, ducking down as low as he could manage without going prone.
"Grenade!" he shouted as he saw something fly towards them from the staircase; Trinity dropped the magazine she'd intended to reload her carbine with, whipped the gun around and spun out of the cover of her door, hitting the grenade with the stock of her gun and sending it right back to sender. BOOM! it went, spraying shrapnel all over the staircase; Mark gave Trinity a thumbs up, admiring - if only for a split second - her psionic talents as much as her sweaty, almost tantalizing...
"What the fuck is going on here?" Krueger shouted, appearing from Rowena's side of the hallway; he was still dressed in his suit, but now carried a tactical vest and a - holy crap, Mark thought, what kind of a monster is that?
"OICW prototype," Krueger said, answering the unspoken question as he spotted Mark's glance. "Now, who are these assholes?"
"Gray's guys, I'll bet," Mark replied, slowly rising from his crouch. He spotted another ski mask rising from the staircase and fired once, sending the Shop trooper tumbling down to join his comrades. "What are they after?"
"Three guesses," Trinity said.
"The rollfield, now!" Krueger barked. Mark nodded, then turned to Trinity. "You and John clean up the mess here. Kid, you're with me."
Rowena ejected the magazines from her guns, then reloaded.
Holiday my ass.
---
Outside, the scene was hardly quiet, but most of the Shop attackers seemed to have been killed in the initial assault; there were still occasional gunshots from inside the hotel, but Mark trusted John and Trinity to get things under control. Krueger led them toward his utility vehicle, took the driver's seat and slammed on the gas, with the jerk almost throwing Rowena off the back of the truck. Mark took shotgun - and grabbed the OICW from Krueger -, peppering the occasional masked figure with slugs as Krueger raced the heavy vehicle towards the rollfield. The Antonov's engines were already rolling; Krueger smashed the car through the wire fence and jumped a small ravine, then landed the truck on the tarmac and shifted up as he brought the truck to maximum speed.
"You never told me you're a stunt driver!" Mark shouted; Krueger ignored him, because his attention was on several other utility vehicles closing in, this time staffed by his guards. His elation was short-lived; they opened fire on the truck, putting a burst through the windshield.
"Switch to grenades!" he finally cried, keeping his hands on the wheel; in response, Mark climbed up a bit so he was sitting on the back of his seat, then steadied the OICW and activated the electronic sights.
"Oh shit!" Rowena said, but Mark ignored her and took aim.
Thump!
Diiii....
BOOM!
The hot 20mm shell sailed past Rowena in slow motion before hitting the darkness behind them, while the grenade itself airburst over the enemy truck, blowing it off the tarmac; with a hefty move, Mark realigned the OICW toward the next target.
"Go faster!" he said to Krueger, then stood up fully; the incoming wind was biting in his eyes, but he needed the next shot to be fully clear of the truck.
Thump!
Diiii....
BOOM!
This time, the grenade went wild, splashing the second truck with splinters but not hitting it directly; in response, the truck swerved to the side dangerously, almost touching Krueger's ride if not for a last-second evasive maneuver.
"Three more!" Rowena shouted as she looked back; Mark turned around and sent a quick barrage of grenades downrange - Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! BOOOOOM! -, not hitting anything but dissuading the trucks from pursuit. There were a couple more trucks further down the tarmac, but they kept back, afraid that they'd made the wrong choice in trying to doublecross Dr. Krueger. The arms dealer put the pedal to the metal, swinging the tachometer way past the orange up into the red, but he gained enough speed to catch up to the Antonov. The hasty departure of the Shop agents played in their favor; the mammooth aircraft needed all of the rollfield to take off, and the rear cargo hatch was still in the process of closing. Mark dumped the OICW in the truck's bed and climbed forward onto the hood of the truck.
"Steady!" he shouted, one hand on the windshield and the other reaching up to grab the edge of the ramp, but it was already too high to get to. With a sigh of frustration, he cocked his head around briefly, and his gaze met with Rowena's.
You sure, kid?
Yes.
Then do it.
Mark turned to face Rowena, still crouched, then lowered his head; Rowena jumped from her place in the back onto the windshield as stepping stone, her sense of balance all that remained to keep her from being turned into high-speed roadkill. With another step, she skipped onto Mark's shoulder, who let go of the windshield and sprung up, flinging her upwards. It had to be perfect, and it was; she grabbed the edge of the cargo ramp and pulled herself up, Krueger kept the truck steady, and Mark didn't fall off and kiss asphalt. As soon as Mark had stabilized his position again, his hand shot out and grabbed the backpack; then he flung it towards the Antonov, barely managing to throw it clear of the ramp and into the plane's cargo hold.
Then the ramp closed, the Antonov's engines howled with a new fever pitch, and the giant let go of the rollfield. Mark jumped back into the shotgun seat, and Krueger yanked the wheel to the side for a sliding stop. For a few seconds, they said nothing, watching the cargo plane thunder away; then Mark looked back towards the camp.
"We got spring cleaning to do," Mark said.
"What about her?" Krueger asked.
"Oh, she'll be fine."
Krueger shifted back to first gear, then brought the truck around and put it back on course to the main base. Mark picked up the OICW again and reloaded it, but it was all reflex; his thoughts were with Rowena.
Make me proud, kid.
Cicadas outside, singing their mating song. Cute, but irrelevant.
Footsteps in the hallway outside. Late night visitors?
Suppressed gunshots.
Mark had barely enough time to grab his gun from under the pillow and roll off the bed before the door to the hallway flew open and spewed forth a duo of masked men with suppressed SMGs; Mark kicked up the blanket that had swirled around his feet, then returned fire with his handgun. Everything went loud as the .45 barked, plugging one of the gunmen center mass and making his trigger finger seize; he emptied his magazine into the windows, shattering them, while Mark rolled under the bed, saw the second attacker's feet and fire twice more, shattering the man's shins. With another roll, he was free of the bed and close to the hallway wall; he shot the crying man in the head, then reached for his second gun from beneath the pillow and rolled towards the door as more gunfire - this time from a shotgun - blew a hole through the wall above him. Like a maniac, he darted for the door, dove outside and caught the shotgunner by surprise with a double-tap.
The good news was that this should've woken up anyone still asleep. The bad news was that he'd have to take the flak until they could get more guns into play on his side.
Two more SMG-wielders down the hall; Mark spun on his back, delivering a two-fisted smackdown and sending the pair tumbling right back down the stairwell; it would've looked supremely badass if he had been wearing something more dignified than a wifebeater and boxers. With more gunmen from either side, he fanned out to 180 degrees, peppering both ends of the hallway with the rest of his ammo before his guns ran dry. Rolling forward to get back on his feet, he jumped back into his room, hunting for the luggage. A sniper's bullet whizzed by him, missing him by mere inches; he threw one of his guns at the door to his hotel apartment, startling another gunman out of firing. With a kick to a brown case - Mark felt the pain of doing this barefoot keenly - he snapped open a little purchase from yesterday. The case unfolded to reveal a H&K UMP in .45 caliber; Mark grabbed it and sprayed the newcomers, killing three more of them. The sniper fired again, and Mark hugged the wall in response - he now had a clear field of fire on the door and was hidden from the sniper, but a good shot would go through those walls - and God help him if somebody used a grenade. Not good.
Then, he heard the unmistakeable boom of a .50 cal rifle from the room next door. God bless you, John, Mark thought, then heard more gunfire from the hallway - apparently, the fight was beginning for real. He skipped the socks and just straight up slipped into his fatigues and boots, then took a liberal amount of firearms from his stash, stuffed it into a canvas backpack and went for the corridor.
Trinity was out there in her nightgown, laying down covering fire towards the staircase with an IMI MTAR-21; Rowena had at least thrown a bulletproof vest over her pajamas before joining the firefight with her pair of Five-seveNs. Done was still in his room and kept the .50 cal thundering - probably picking off more targets outside. A small group of attackers were now pinned down by the staircase; Mark swivelled in the opposite direction when he saw Rowena raise her guns, and together they sent a barrage down that end, killing another five guys.
"Glad you could join us!" Trinity shouted over her last burst, then ducked back into her room; with Rowena covering the other direction, Mark spun again, keeping up the cover fire with his UMP while he scrambled forward, ducking down as low as he could manage without going prone.
"Grenade!" he shouted as he saw something fly towards them from the staircase; Trinity dropped the magazine she'd intended to reload her carbine with, whipped the gun around and spun out of the cover of her door, hitting the grenade with the stock of her gun and sending it right back to sender. BOOM! it went, spraying shrapnel all over the staircase; Mark gave Trinity a thumbs up, admiring - if only for a split second - her psionic talents as much as her sweaty, almost tantalizing...
"What the fuck is going on here?" Krueger shouted, appearing from Rowena's side of the hallway; he was still dressed in his suit, but now carried a tactical vest and a - holy crap, Mark thought, what kind of a monster is that?
"OICW prototype," Krueger said, answering the unspoken question as he spotted Mark's glance. "Now, who are these assholes?"
"Gray's guys, I'll bet," Mark replied, slowly rising from his crouch. He spotted another ski mask rising from the staircase and fired once, sending the Shop trooper tumbling down to join his comrades. "What are they after?"
"Three guesses," Trinity said.
"The rollfield, now!" Krueger barked. Mark nodded, then turned to Trinity. "You and John clean up the mess here. Kid, you're with me."
Rowena ejected the magazines from her guns, then reloaded.
Holiday my ass.
---
Outside, the scene was hardly quiet, but most of the Shop attackers seemed to have been killed in the initial assault; there were still occasional gunshots from inside the hotel, but Mark trusted John and Trinity to get things under control. Krueger led them toward his utility vehicle, took the driver's seat and slammed on the gas, with the jerk almost throwing Rowena off the back of the truck. Mark took shotgun - and grabbed the OICW from Krueger -, peppering the occasional masked figure with slugs as Krueger raced the heavy vehicle towards the rollfield. The Antonov's engines were already rolling; Krueger smashed the car through the wire fence and jumped a small ravine, then landed the truck on the tarmac and shifted up as he brought the truck to maximum speed.
"You never told me you're a stunt driver!" Mark shouted; Krueger ignored him, because his attention was on several other utility vehicles closing in, this time staffed by his guards. His elation was short-lived; they opened fire on the truck, putting a burst through the windshield.
"Switch to grenades!" he finally cried, keeping his hands on the wheel; in response, Mark climbed up a bit so he was sitting on the back of his seat, then steadied the OICW and activated the electronic sights.
"Oh shit!" Rowena said, but Mark ignored her and took aim.
Thump!
Diiii....
BOOM!
The hot 20mm shell sailed past Rowena in slow motion before hitting the darkness behind them, while the grenade itself airburst over the enemy truck, blowing it off the tarmac; with a hefty move, Mark realigned the OICW toward the next target.
"Go faster!" he said to Krueger, then stood up fully; the incoming wind was biting in his eyes, but he needed the next shot to be fully clear of the truck.
Thump!
Diiii....
BOOM!
This time, the grenade went wild, splashing the second truck with splinters but not hitting it directly; in response, the truck swerved to the side dangerously, almost touching Krueger's ride if not for a last-second evasive maneuver.
"Three more!" Rowena shouted as she looked back; Mark turned around and sent a quick barrage of grenades downrange - Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! BOOOOOM! -, not hitting anything but dissuading the trucks from pursuit. There were a couple more trucks further down the tarmac, but they kept back, afraid that they'd made the wrong choice in trying to doublecross Dr. Krueger. The arms dealer put the pedal to the metal, swinging the tachometer way past the orange up into the red, but he gained enough speed to catch up to the Antonov. The hasty departure of the Shop agents played in their favor; the mammooth aircraft needed all of the rollfield to take off, and the rear cargo hatch was still in the process of closing. Mark dumped the OICW in the truck's bed and climbed forward onto the hood of the truck.
"Steady!" he shouted, one hand on the windshield and the other reaching up to grab the edge of the ramp, but it was already too high to get to. With a sigh of frustration, he cocked his head around briefly, and his gaze met with Rowena's.
You sure, kid?
Yes.
Then do it.
Mark turned to face Rowena, still crouched, then lowered his head; Rowena jumped from her place in the back onto the windshield as stepping stone, her sense of balance all that remained to keep her from being turned into high-speed roadkill. With another step, she skipped onto Mark's shoulder, who let go of the windshield and sprung up, flinging her upwards. It had to be perfect, and it was; she grabbed the edge of the cargo ramp and pulled herself up, Krueger kept the truck steady, and Mark didn't fall off and kiss asphalt. As soon as Mark had stabilized his position again, his hand shot out and grabbed the backpack; then he flung it towards the Antonov, barely managing to throw it clear of the ramp and into the plane's cargo hold.
Then the ramp closed, the Antonov's engines howled with a new fever pitch, and the giant let go of the rollfield. Mark jumped back into the shotgun seat, and Krueger yanked the wheel to the side for a sliding stop. For a few seconds, they said nothing, watching the cargo plane thunder away; then Mark looked back towards the camp.
"We got spring cleaning to do," Mark said.
"What about her?" Krueger asked.
"Oh, she'll be fine."
Krueger shifted back to first gear, then brought the truck around and put it back on course to the main base. Mark picked up the OICW again and reloaded it, but it was all reflex; his thoughts were with Rowena.
Make me proud, kid.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Just 'cause - Chapter 7
John Done watched from the hotel balcony as Krueger, Gray and Abbot walked over to the rollfield, caught up in polite conversation. The day was slowly coming to an end, with the sinking sun casting long, tangerine shadows over the base and the jungle around it. The horizon pulsed with the day's last struggle for heat, as if the air was hungry for every bit of sunshine it could still soak up. The noise from the woods grew louder; the animals were waking up. He heard Trinity's footsteps behind him - it was her rhythm, her smell, the tingling in the back of his head that he got whenever she was close to him. She draped her arms over his shoulders; it made him realize how cold his own skin was. Come to think of it, he'd rarely touched someone with cold skin (besides bodies) - was it something in the human experience that everyone thought everyone else was somehow warmer, or was that just one of his pecularities?
"You worry too much," she whispered in his ear.
"How do you figure?"
"You're tense."
"Mmh-hm. What's your plan?"
"Oh, I'd say start at the shoulders, massage the back, then some zone therapy on your feet..."
"About the missiles."
Trinity sighed.
"You know, I hated doing this, not letting you in..."
"But?"
"Simmons asked me to."
"And you listened to him?"
"Then, Rowena asked me to."
"Sounds like I was overruled, then. But you're talking past tense."
"So you are paying attention to me," she purred, "and not thinking about how you can get us on that plane."
"Both, actually..."
"We have the plane thing covered. You see, we're just going to walk aboard."
"How?"
"Hm. You'd have to know the plan."
"Which you were about to tell me, right?"
She drew him into a light hug.
"I suppose I could..."
---
"If you would follow me..." Krueger said, leading Gray and Abbot into his container slash office. After going through the standard security precautions, he offered them a drink and was met with (less than) polite denial.
"Finalize the transaction," Abbot said; Krueger raised an eyebrow, but did not reply and sat down at his computer. There followed some hacking on the keyboard, fingerprint scans and other security measures, none of which mattered except for the result: Krueger raised his other eyebrow.
"I'm afraid there may be a problem," he said cautiously.
"Yes?" Gray said, annoyed at the delay.
"It appears that I can't gain access to your account."
"Let me see that," Gray responded; Krueger made an annoyed face, but swiveled the laptop towards the Shop leader and let him try to enter the passwords.
Account suspended
"Is there something you want to tell me?" Krueger asked.
"The money is there."
"I've no doubt. However, there is the matter of getting it from your account to my account."
"This is a trick."
"Mr. Gray," Krueger began, in the manner of a patient teacher, "when I asked you - and everyone else - to deposit the money at an account with the Schweizer Nationalbank, it was not a polite suggestion. I'm satisfied that they match my criteria for discreetness and diligence. Now they tell me that your account is under investigation. I don't know what you were trying to do here, but I kindly suggest that we shake hands and you leave my office within the next five minutes."
Abbot's eyes flared up, but Gray made an almost imperceptible move with his hand.
"I understand," he began. "We're both businessmen. You have no reason to trust me. But I do have other accounts..."
"I don't make exceptions, Mr. Gray. The protocol exists for list of reasons, and I don't want you to become the next item on it. You see, I've made some bad experiences in the past. Mistakes that had to be corrected at a considerable cost and effort to myself. It's better for everyone involved if I don't sell to you. A good day to you, Mr. Gray, Ms. Abbot."
"I could..." Abbot began, but Gray saw Krueger reach for his panic button and stopped her again.
"No. Dr. Krueger is right," he said. "I'm sorry for the trouble. Goodbye, Doctor."
Gray turned on his heel, then marched out of the container with Abbot in tow. Krueger let out a deep sigh, then grabbed his cellphone and dialed.
---
In the plane's cargo hold, Mark's hand traced the outlines of the missile skin, feeling every small bump, weld and bolt in the metal as he slowly walked the length of one weapon. Even for someone with a broad background in firearms, being this close to a weapon of mass destruction - no, owning it - was a special moment, and he didn't want it sullied by any words, debates or arguments. He wanted to be alone with the projectile, imagine the roar of its mighty engines - and yet still know that it would never fly. They would be dismantled, made unuseable, destroyed. He didn't know how to feel about that, so he felt nothing.
Outside, Krueger was leaning against one of his utility vehicles, lighting up a herbal cigarette with an SAS-engraved zippo. He took a few puffs, the acrid taste of smoke biting his throat but still, eventually, going down, filling his lungs. There were a great many people in the world who wanted to quit smoking; Krueger intended to start, but his first tries had been less than pleasant. He was slowly building up a tolerance to the idea of smoking with these "not quite" cigs, but at his rate of progress, he'd be ready to try a real cigarette again in some unspecified future time, aeons past our understanding of the universe - a time when nicotiana tabacum would be long extinct. A time, perhaps, where one could observe a sharp decline in humanity's energy consumption by sheer virtue of the universe's heat death.
In a way, he thought, it was reassuring that there was something on this Earth he couldn't just pick up and make work for himself.
He saw Rowena closing in, wearing her original set of fatigues; with just a nod, she stopped next to him and leaned against the truck's fender.
"Can I have one?" she asked; Krueger reached into his pocket, grabbed the box and shook one lose. "For 160, I'll even give you a light."
"Thanks," she replied, then held the cigarette to his lighter and took a deep breath through it. "Mmh...cherry-favored?"
"Of course."
Rowena blew a ring of smoke.
"I don't like normal cigarettes, either," she said.
"We shouldn't be smoking," Krueger replied. "Since we're both not enjoying it."
"Oh, I like smoking. I just hate tobacco."
"It's a weird habit."
"I don't think so. It's one of those things I can imagine happening, like you're a caveman and you throw some tobacco leaves into the fire to get it going..."
"...and you've invented passive smoking."
"I'm just saying that cavemen were smarter than we think."
"And that humans have been looking for better ways to get high since then."
Rowena took another puff.
"You don't look the type to go SAS," she said.
"I'm not. Never was," Krueger replied, and that was that.
"Oh. I thought you had like, some Doctorate in one of those cliche soldier thingies, like...killogy."
"That's not a word."
"Of course it is. Look it up."
"I would, but my Webster's...up there in the plane. And I'm lazy. All good engineers are. So, you win."
"Yay for defaults. So what's the Doctor?"
"Computer Engineering. Studied the theoretical background of von Neumann probes."
"I'm not familiar with that."
"It's the future of unmanned space exploration, in 100 years or so." He stared at the horizon, watching the last bit of sun disappear behind the horizon. "I've expanded my repertoire since then. Flexibility is good."
Rowena nodded sagely.
"Thanks for the smoke, Doctor."
She took one last puff, then walked off, her figure slowly fading into the creeping darkness. Krueger readied another cigarette, then gazed up towards the heavens. He could almost make out the faint light of several stars, like brilliant diamonds hanging from a sheet of black velvet. The cigarette smoke dispersed into the air, eventually becoming one with the dark blue clouds hanging over the camp.
What a lovely night.
"You worry too much," she whispered in his ear.
"How do you figure?"
"You're tense."
"Mmh-hm. What's your plan?"
"Oh, I'd say start at the shoulders, massage the back, then some zone therapy on your feet..."
"About the missiles."
Trinity sighed.
"You know, I hated doing this, not letting you in..."
"But?"
"Simmons asked me to."
"And you listened to him?"
"Then, Rowena asked me to."
"Sounds like I was overruled, then. But you're talking past tense."
"So you are paying attention to me," she purred, "and not thinking about how you can get us on that plane."
"Both, actually..."
"We have the plane thing covered. You see, we're just going to walk aboard."
"How?"
"Hm. You'd have to know the plan."
"Which you were about to tell me, right?"
She drew him into a light hug.
"I suppose I could..."
---
"If you would follow me..." Krueger said, leading Gray and Abbot into his container slash office. After going through the standard security precautions, he offered them a drink and was met with (less than) polite denial.
"Finalize the transaction," Abbot said; Krueger raised an eyebrow, but did not reply and sat down at his computer. There followed some hacking on the keyboard, fingerprint scans and other security measures, none of which mattered except for the result: Krueger raised his other eyebrow.
"I'm afraid there may be a problem," he said cautiously.
"Yes?" Gray said, annoyed at the delay.
"It appears that I can't gain access to your account."
"Let me see that," Gray responded; Krueger made an annoyed face, but swiveled the laptop towards the Shop leader and let him try to enter the passwords.
Account suspended
"Is there something you want to tell me?" Krueger asked.
"The money is there."
"I've no doubt. However, there is the matter of getting it from your account to my account."
"This is a trick."
"Mr. Gray," Krueger began, in the manner of a patient teacher, "when I asked you - and everyone else - to deposit the money at an account with the Schweizer Nationalbank, it was not a polite suggestion. I'm satisfied that they match my criteria for discreetness and diligence. Now they tell me that your account is under investigation. I don't know what you were trying to do here, but I kindly suggest that we shake hands and you leave my office within the next five minutes."
Abbot's eyes flared up, but Gray made an almost imperceptible move with his hand.
"I understand," he began. "We're both businessmen. You have no reason to trust me. But I do have other accounts..."
"I don't make exceptions, Mr. Gray. The protocol exists for list of reasons, and I don't want you to become the next item on it. You see, I've made some bad experiences in the past. Mistakes that had to be corrected at a considerable cost and effort to myself. It's better for everyone involved if I don't sell to you. A good day to you, Mr. Gray, Ms. Abbot."
"I could..." Abbot began, but Gray saw Krueger reach for his panic button and stopped her again.
"No. Dr. Krueger is right," he said. "I'm sorry for the trouble. Goodbye, Doctor."
Gray turned on his heel, then marched out of the container with Abbot in tow. Krueger let out a deep sigh, then grabbed his cellphone and dialed.
---
In the plane's cargo hold, Mark's hand traced the outlines of the missile skin, feeling every small bump, weld and bolt in the metal as he slowly walked the length of one weapon. Even for someone with a broad background in firearms, being this close to a weapon of mass destruction - no, owning it - was a special moment, and he didn't want it sullied by any words, debates or arguments. He wanted to be alone with the projectile, imagine the roar of its mighty engines - and yet still know that it would never fly. They would be dismantled, made unuseable, destroyed. He didn't know how to feel about that, so he felt nothing.
Outside, Krueger was leaning against one of his utility vehicles, lighting up a herbal cigarette with an SAS-engraved zippo. He took a few puffs, the acrid taste of smoke biting his throat but still, eventually, going down, filling his lungs. There were a great many people in the world who wanted to quit smoking; Krueger intended to start, but his first tries had been less than pleasant. He was slowly building up a tolerance to the idea of smoking with these "not quite" cigs, but at his rate of progress, he'd be ready to try a real cigarette again in some unspecified future time, aeons past our understanding of the universe - a time when nicotiana tabacum would be long extinct. A time, perhaps, where one could observe a sharp decline in humanity's energy consumption by sheer virtue of the universe's heat death.
In a way, he thought, it was reassuring that there was something on this Earth he couldn't just pick up and make work for himself.
He saw Rowena closing in, wearing her original set of fatigues; with just a nod, she stopped next to him and leaned against the truck's fender.
"Can I have one?" she asked; Krueger reached into his pocket, grabbed the box and shook one lose. "For 160, I'll even give you a light."
"Thanks," she replied, then held the cigarette to his lighter and took a deep breath through it. "Mmh...cherry-favored?"
"Of course."
Rowena blew a ring of smoke.
"I don't like normal cigarettes, either," she said.
"We shouldn't be smoking," Krueger replied. "Since we're both not enjoying it."
"Oh, I like smoking. I just hate tobacco."
"It's a weird habit."
"I don't think so. It's one of those things I can imagine happening, like you're a caveman and you throw some tobacco leaves into the fire to get it going..."
"...and you've invented passive smoking."
"I'm just saying that cavemen were smarter than we think."
"And that humans have been looking for better ways to get high since then."
Rowena took another puff.
"You don't look the type to go SAS," she said.
"I'm not. Never was," Krueger replied, and that was that.
"Oh. I thought you had like, some Doctorate in one of those cliche soldier thingies, like...killogy."
"That's not a word."
"Of course it is. Look it up."
"I would, but my Webster's...up there in the plane. And I'm lazy. All good engineers are. So, you win."
"Yay for defaults. So what's the Doctor?"
"Computer Engineering. Studied the theoretical background of von Neumann probes."
"I'm not familiar with that."
"It's the future of unmanned space exploration, in 100 years or so." He stared at the horizon, watching the last bit of sun disappear behind the horizon. "I've expanded my repertoire since then. Flexibility is good."
Rowena nodded sagely.
"Thanks for the smoke, Doctor."
She took one last puff, then walked off, her figure slowly fading into the creeping darkness. Krueger readied another cigarette, then gazed up towards the heavens. He could almost make out the faint light of several stars, like brilliant diamonds hanging from a sheet of black velvet. The cigarette smoke dispersed into the air, eventually becoming one with the dark blue clouds hanging over the camp.
What a lovely night.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Just 'cause - Chapter 6
Rowena had gotten used to seeing Done, Trinity and Mark as teachers and friends, but she'd never seen them work together like this. They'd stuck their heads together, made a plan, and turned the hotel room into an impromptu command center with quickly-procured tech. With Done out to gather their arsenal for the worst case scenario and Trinity on the laptop arranging a few things, the only one missing was Simmons - who soon stepped out of the bathroom in his suit, this time wearing a black tie and a fresh shave.
"Phone," he said; without looking, Trinity grabbed one of the three cellphones on the table and chucked it toward him. Mark plucked the phone out of the air and started dialing.
Like clockwork.
"Hey baby," he said as soon as the phone call came through. "Don't fuck with me, we're in the same timezone. Is your husband around? Yes, it's professional. Can't talk, spy stuff."
"Guten Tag, Herr Mayer. Ich wuerde gerne auf mein Nummernkonto zugreifen..." Trinity spoke into her headset.
"Dante? You sound like you just got up. You did? My bad. Listen, can you do me a favor? We need to do some transactions..."
"...vier zwo sieben, Deckname Panther..."
"Okay, you got it? See anything over 10 million moving in the last seven days? We need to trace them all...yes, I mean, you need to trace them all. Sorry."
"...ueberweisen Sie das Geld bitte auf das Konto..."
"Confirmed, I saw that guy...yes, that one, too...that one's off. Deep search..."
"...ja, alles..."
"Well, hack it, then."
"...wann kann ich auf das Geld zugreifen?"
"Okay, now, do something. Throw their flags."
"Vielen Dank, Herr Mayer. Wir sprechen uns morgen..."
"Like a Christmas tree? Ha, score. Thanks, man. I'll wire you some goodies."
"Wünsche ich Ihnen auch! Auf Wiedersehen."
And they both hung up.
"Green," Mark said. "Green," Trinity replied, then looked at Rowena and chucked another phone at her. "Call in the big guns."
Rowena started dialing.
---
It was, technically, billed as a white tie event, but Mark put that down to a miscalculation; it was hard enough to get everyone into a suit for the auction, and he could only assume that some intern of Peter's had typed up the invitations. The whole thing went down in a rebuilt cinema slash lecture hall, which was the largest and comfiest arrangement one could hope for in an old military base. The team went in with their formal clothes again - Trinity had joined Rowena's lead and gone with a business suit for this one, although she chose to wear a skirt for reasons unknown and, perhaps, unfathomable.
"On 3," Done said, and Mark cocked his head about to spot Gray and Abbot standing near the impromptu bar sipping bubbly.
"Warm up the seats," Mark replied. "Time to meet the snakes, kid," he said to Rowena, who followed him as he closed the distance to his nemesis.
Mark decided that this was worth the anger management issues and put on a smile, then held his hand out for Gray to shake. The mastermind gave him a glare, but finally completed the handshake.
"Here to kill me, I presume?" Gray said, by way of starting the conversation; Abbot stood close, her eyes twinkling with barely contained psionic power.
"I'm a bit busy right now," Mark replied. "But I do have an opening in February. Just you, me and a chainsaw. How's that sound to you?"
"I'm all stocked up on idle threats. And you must be Gabriel," he said, addressing Brandon's daughter.
"I already have a name, and it's Rowena."
"Well, you're infamous and don't look happy, so I think we had the better idea there. A crying shame really, especially considering that you could have been with the winners..."
At this moment, Rowena understood, if only briefly, why Mark hated Dennis Gray.
"You haven't won yet," she retorted.
"That just shows how little you know." Gray sported a thin smile. "Oh, and tell Daddy that I'm looking forward to crushing his throat."
Rowena realized that Mark was dragging her away, and she was only slightly less freaked out by him being the voice of reason than by her own reaction to Gray. That man had a face that just begged to be bashed in, and Rowena dearly wished to be the girl with the Louisville Slugger. Still smoldering, Mark almost had to force her to sit down in her seat, but finally she went along and fixed her eyes onto a new task: burn a hole into the cinema's white screen.
"That went well," Mark said, in that tone where Rowena had difficulty telling if he was being sarcastic.
"Can I kill him, please?"
Mark shrugged. "Maybe later."
---
The lights dimmed; finally a spotlight fell onto the stage and traced Peter Krueger's way from his seat to the podium.
"Ladies and - *ahem*, excuse me - Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to my little auction. As you know, we've all gathered here to do a little business on the side - and judging by the numbers my assistant is holding up on a big piece of cardboard" - that drew some laughs from the audience - "judging by those numbers, I can say that 'little' equals about 67 million Euros this year."
Applause.
"It's a good year, really, it is. I remember when we started out in 1992 - I sold two capguns and a Makarov."
Laughter.
"Now, what you all came here for. I'm not claiming it's for everyone. It's not the big revolution in small arms or the newest hot thing - this, Ladies and Gentlemen, is proven Russian engineering at it's finest. Four items that truly deserve the label - Ultima Ratio Regum."
The film projector started up, showing several minutes worth of footage of the ICBMs - their loading onto a Typhoon-class boomer, a test launch, a computer smiluation of their impact pattern with MIRV warheads.
"Let us not mince words, Ladies and Gentlemen. You're not just bidding on any old set of rockets. You're bidding on becoming your own private nuclear superpower. Imagine the power! Imagine the prestige! And try not to faint when you imagine the resale value."
This time, there was no laughter or applause - the whole hall was silent, the audience enraptured by the images. With a flick of the switch, the projector switched off, and the lights came back on slowly, leading to some murmurs.
"You'll find a tablet PC set up next to your seats - if you would kindly enter your invitation numbers so we can confirm your identites..."
A minute went by while everyone prepared; Krueger kept his eyes on the master system display and finally nodded with satisfaction.
"I think we're ready now. You'll see a numeric pad on your screen - just enter your bid and click 'send'. The highest bid will show up on this display here -" Krueger indicated a big LED array above the podium - "together with your invitation number. If you want to update your bid, just enter a new number and send it. Oh, and of course, you're not just bidding on the rockets - as you may recall, I have an Antonov on the airfield all fueled up and ready to deliver the rockets to your destination of choice. You'll also get a full set of the technical manuals and six months of our 'No Worries' service policy - all free of charge, of course. Now that we've explained the basics...allow me to say my catchphrase."
Krueger took a deep breath, using the pause for dramatic impact, then put on his best salesman smile.
"Let's deal," he said.
---
"80 Million? You can do better than that, people!" Krueger exclaimed; the display shuffled upwards as if in response. The field had levelled off to a good degree, settling into a six-way bidding war. That was somewhat sooner than Krueger had expected, but then again, this was a lot of money. Maybe it would have been better to sell the missiles seperately...
Mark furiously worked his tablet, pushing the bidding past the 100; two bidders quit right there, but four parties pushing the auction didn't slow it down significantly. At 110, another one bailed, then it went up to 150 and seemed to stretch on forever.
"When do we quit?" Done asked.
"Not yet..." Mark answered, scribbling 160 onto the tablet. Rowena took a deep breath - this wasn't pocket change.
Trinity looked through the audience and saw a man in some sort of desert fatigues get up and smash his tablet onto the floor - so much for number 3.
"Who's leading?" she asked.
"We are," Mark said. "Come on, come on..."
The display jumped to 170, courtesy of Gray.
"Shit!" Done mouthed.
Mark kept his fingers still. "Second place is plenty," he said, watching intently for further bids.
---
At the podium, Krueger smiled at the numbers, then turned to the audience.
"That looks like it levelled out to me," he said. "Going...going..."
---
"Do something!" Done said.
"Okay," Mark replied, then laid down the tablet and smiled.
---
"Gone!" Peter shouted, and let it stand for a second before a murmur went through the crowd. "Will Number 65 please stand up?"
---
The gang watched Gray rise into the spotlight; he grinned and waved at them, but then he saw Mark's smile and turned his facial expression down a notch.
"What the fuck just happened? Why didn't you go higher?" Done asked.
"We couldn't outbid him, not for any sort of realistic price. Trust me, that was the right thing."
"Calm down, honey," Trinity said. "That was how we wanted it to go."
"Waste of time," Done replied. "Now what?"
"Now?" Mark's smile grew into a grin. "We walk back to the hotel, plunder the minibar and wait for the call..."
"Phone," he said; without looking, Trinity grabbed one of the three cellphones on the table and chucked it toward him. Mark plucked the phone out of the air and started dialing.
Like clockwork.
"Hey baby," he said as soon as the phone call came through. "Don't fuck with me, we're in the same timezone. Is your husband around? Yes, it's professional. Can't talk, spy stuff."
"Guten Tag, Herr Mayer. Ich wuerde gerne auf mein Nummernkonto zugreifen..." Trinity spoke into her headset.
"Dante? You sound like you just got up. You did? My bad. Listen, can you do me a favor? We need to do some transactions..."
"...vier zwo sieben, Deckname Panther..."
"Okay, you got it? See anything over 10 million moving in the last seven days? We need to trace them all...yes, I mean, you need to trace them all. Sorry."
"...ueberweisen Sie das Geld bitte auf das Konto..."
"Confirmed, I saw that guy...yes, that one, too...that one's off. Deep search..."
"...ja, alles..."
"Well, hack it, then."
"...wann kann ich auf das Geld zugreifen?"
"Okay, now, do something. Throw their flags."
"Vielen Dank, Herr Mayer. Wir sprechen uns morgen..."
"Like a Christmas tree? Ha, score. Thanks, man. I'll wire you some goodies."
"Wünsche ich Ihnen auch! Auf Wiedersehen."
And they both hung up.
"Green," Mark said. "Green," Trinity replied, then looked at Rowena and chucked another phone at her. "Call in the big guns."
Rowena started dialing.
---
It was, technically, billed as a white tie event, but Mark put that down to a miscalculation; it was hard enough to get everyone into a suit for the auction, and he could only assume that some intern of Peter's had typed up the invitations. The whole thing went down in a rebuilt cinema slash lecture hall, which was the largest and comfiest arrangement one could hope for in an old military base. The team went in with their formal clothes again - Trinity had joined Rowena's lead and gone with a business suit for this one, although she chose to wear a skirt for reasons unknown and, perhaps, unfathomable.
"On 3," Done said, and Mark cocked his head about to spot Gray and Abbot standing near the impromptu bar sipping bubbly.
"Warm up the seats," Mark replied. "Time to meet the snakes, kid," he said to Rowena, who followed him as he closed the distance to his nemesis.
Mark decided that this was worth the anger management issues and put on a smile, then held his hand out for Gray to shake. The mastermind gave him a glare, but finally completed the handshake.
"Here to kill me, I presume?" Gray said, by way of starting the conversation; Abbot stood close, her eyes twinkling with barely contained psionic power.
"I'm a bit busy right now," Mark replied. "But I do have an opening in February. Just you, me and a chainsaw. How's that sound to you?"
"I'm all stocked up on idle threats. And you must be Gabriel," he said, addressing Brandon's daughter.
"I already have a name, and it's Rowena."
"Well, you're infamous and don't look happy, so I think we had the better idea there. A crying shame really, especially considering that you could have been with the winners..."
At this moment, Rowena understood, if only briefly, why Mark hated Dennis Gray.
"You haven't won yet," she retorted.
"That just shows how little you know." Gray sported a thin smile. "Oh, and tell Daddy that I'm looking forward to crushing his throat."
Rowena realized that Mark was dragging her away, and she was only slightly less freaked out by him being the voice of reason than by her own reaction to Gray. That man had a face that just begged to be bashed in, and Rowena dearly wished to be the girl with the Louisville Slugger. Still smoldering, Mark almost had to force her to sit down in her seat, but finally she went along and fixed her eyes onto a new task: burn a hole into the cinema's white screen.
"That went well," Mark said, in that tone where Rowena had difficulty telling if he was being sarcastic.
"Can I kill him, please?"
Mark shrugged. "Maybe later."
---
The lights dimmed; finally a spotlight fell onto the stage and traced Peter Krueger's way from his seat to the podium.
"Ladies and - *ahem*, excuse me - Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to my little auction. As you know, we've all gathered here to do a little business on the side - and judging by the numbers my assistant is holding up on a big piece of cardboard" - that drew some laughs from the audience - "judging by those numbers, I can say that 'little' equals about 67 million Euros this year."
Applause.
"It's a good year, really, it is. I remember when we started out in 1992 - I sold two capguns and a Makarov."
Laughter.
"Now, what you all came here for. I'm not claiming it's for everyone. It's not the big revolution in small arms or the newest hot thing - this, Ladies and Gentlemen, is proven Russian engineering at it's finest. Four items that truly deserve the label - Ultima Ratio Regum."
The film projector started up, showing several minutes worth of footage of the ICBMs - their loading onto a Typhoon-class boomer, a test launch, a computer smiluation of their impact pattern with MIRV warheads.
"Let us not mince words, Ladies and Gentlemen. You're not just bidding on any old set of rockets. You're bidding on becoming your own private nuclear superpower. Imagine the power! Imagine the prestige! And try not to faint when you imagine the resale value."
This time, there was no laughter or applause - the whole hall was silent, the audience enraptured by the images. With a flick of the switch, the projector switched off, and the lights came back on slowly, leading to some murmurs.
"You'll find a tablet PC set up next to your seats - if you would kindly enter your invitation numbers so we can confirm your identites..."
A minute went by while everyone prepared; Krueger kept his eyes on the master system display and finally nodded with satisfaction.
"I think we're ready now. You'll see a numeric pad on your screen - just enter your bid and click 'send'. The highest bid will show up on this display here -" Krueger indicated a big LED array above the podium - "together with your invitation number. If you want to update your bid, just enter a new number and send it. Oh, and of course, you're not just bidding on the rockets - as you may recall, I have an Antonov on the airfield all fueled up and ready to deliver the rockets to your destination of choice. You'll also get a full set of the technical manuals and six months of our 'No Worries' service policy - all free of charge, of course. Now that we've explained the basics...allow me to say my catchphrase."
Krueger took a deep breath, using the pause for dramatic impact, then put on his best salesman smile.
"Let's deal," he said.
---
"80 Million? You can do better than that, people!" Krueger exclaimed; the display shuffled upwards as if in response. The field had levelled off to a good degree, settling into a six-way bidding war. That was somewhat sooner than Krueger had expected, but then again, this was a lot of money. Maybe it would have been better to sell the missiles seperately...
Mark furiously worked his tablet, pushing the bidding past the 100; two bidders quit right there, but four parties pushing the auction didn't slow it down significantly. At 110, another one bailed, then it went up to 150 and seemed to stretch on forever.
"When do we quit?" Done asked.
"Not yet..." Mark answered, scribbling 160 onto the tablet. Rowena took a deep breath - this wasn't pocket change.
Trinity looked through the audience and saw a man in some sort of desert fatigues get up and smash his tablet onto the floor - so much for number 3.
"Who's leading?" she asked.
"We are," Mark said. "Come on, come on..."
The display jumped to 170, courtesy of Gray.
"Shit!" Done mouthed.
Mark kept his fingers still. "Second place is plenty," he said, watching intently for further bids.
---
At the podium, Krueger smiled at the numbers, then turned to the audience.
"That looks like it levelled out to me," he said. "Going...going..."
---
"Do something!" Done said.
"Okay," Mark replied, then laid down the tablet and smiled.
---
"Gone!" Peter shouted, and let it stand for a second before a murmur went through the crowd. "Will Number 65 please stand up?"
---
The gang watched Gray rise into the spotlight; he grinned and waved at them, but then he saw Mark's smile and turned his facial expression down a notch.
"What the fuck just happened? Why didn't you go higher?" Done asked.
"We couldn't outbid him, not for any sort of realistic price. Trust me, that was the right thing."
"Calm down, honey," Trinity said. "That was how we wanted it to go."
"Waste of time," Done replied. "Now what?"
"Now?" Mark's smile grew into a grin. "We walk back to the hotel, plunder the minibar and wait for the call..."
Monday, February 12, 2007
Just 'cause - Chapter 5
The next morning, John Done and Mark stalked the gun fair, with Mark bleeding money at an unhealthy rate. Admittedly, most of that was his own doing; whenever Done chose a gun, Mark bought five; while Done carted his choices around in what amounted to a better shopping cart, Mark passed out business cards. In the process, Done saw what spending privileges really meant. They'd worked their way up to the SAWs when Done felt like having a conversation with Mark; with a sly flick of the wrist, he pointed to an IMI Negev, and Mark walked towards it to check it out.
"Well, it's from Israel," Mark said, admiring the machine gun, and Done nodded sagely. "But I'm all stocked up," Mark concluded.
"So, does she like you?" Done asked.
"We had a bit of a screaming match at the beginning. It's been uphill from there. Why do you ask?"
"I noticed she walks like you now."
"Really?" Mark asked, paying more attention to the weapon than to Done. "Missed that."
"So...you got any advice for...you know?"
"What?"
"...raising kids."
"Opening a daycare?"
"Dammit, Simmons, do I have to..."
Mark held up his hand, a sly grin forming on his mouth.
"So, is this an...urgent question?"
"No! I mean, no, I'd never...I'm just...curious, you know?"
"Well, you've known her longer."
"But she's more like you."
"See, Done, sometime's it's not the quality of the mold or the time. Sometimes it's the pressure."
"Makes sense. I guess."
"You guess? You asked for my opinion, that's it. Now, when do you pop the question?"
"Uh, I, well...I haven't really thought about that."
Mark rolled his eyes. What was it about hardened killers and indecision in romantic matters?
"Seriously, Done, you should..." Mark began, but John Done yanked him away from the stand and pulled him into the crowd, hustling him around the next corner. For a big guy like Mark, it was a vaguely traumatic experience to be dragged around like this, so he did his best to squirm out of Done's hug. "What'd I do now?" he asked.
"Not you, Simmons."
Done finally let go of Mark after they'd put some distance between themselves and the main crowd; back in the (unused) stage area, there were plenty of shadows to stick to.
"Mind filling me in?"
"Over there," Done said and pointed his finger. "See that?"
"I see a woman. And?"
"Look again."
The woman, Mark noticed, was clad in a stark business suit, her eyes hidden behind shades. Vaguely European look, with a couple of bodyguards behind her - well, she looked pretty much just like Mark imagined a female armsdealer would look like, slick and superior at all times. Then he saw the man she was with.
Gray.
Motherfucking Dennis Gray.
It was a good thing that Done was there to wrestle Mark to the ground, because he had already freed one USP from its holster. With one hand on Mark's wrist and the other cupped over the Enforcer's mouth, Done used his weight to literally sit this one out. Mark squirmed, now genuinely trying to get free, but he simply hadn't seen that coming; Done was bigger and heavier. After Mark stopped struggling, Done slowly let go of him; the killer picked himself from the floor and crouched next to John Done, but he didn't holster the USP. Mark gnashed his teeth audibly, desperately trying to keep the tension in his body from creeping into his trigger finger.
"Just a clone," Mark whispered. Done nodded silently. He drew a few sharp breaths, then clicked the safety back on and unclenched his teeth. "Just a clone."
Mark holstered his gun and picked himself off the ground. Still sticking to the shadows, the two managed to slip out through the back door. Once in the open, Mark bowed down, put his hands on his knees and tried to steady himself. He hadn't felt the shakes like that for years.
"I'm okay," he lied to Done, trying to get his thoughts back under control. Both a Gray clone and that woman - ah shit, Miss Abbot!, Mark realized.
"You look like crap."
"I'm fucking okay, right?" A few more deep breaths, and Mark snapped back up.
"Whatever," Done said. "I'm going to the hotel. You coming?"
"...right behind you."
Mark's rampant dislike of the Shop was no great secret to anyone in the new Conspiracy who had bothered to read his file. Dennis Gray seemed to have a special talent for getting into Mark's head in the way Mark usually did to his enemies; then again, they did have access to his genetic material and had made at least one clone, so maybe they had a Bizarro Mark doing their planning. Either way, Mark thought, he'd have to stop them sooner or later, but the way things were going, later seemed the most likely outcome. And how Gray kept using Mark's aggressiveness against him didn't sit well with the Enforcer, either; he'd have to play it smart, but that didn't come naturally to him. Right then, what he needed the most was to get rid of some adrenaline.
Back at said hotel, Rowena was enjoying the amenities of the Health & Wellness Center - that is, the cross trainer - when Mark barged in five minutes later, intent on putting the hurt on something.
"Tough day at the office?" Rowena offered; Mark ignored her, slipped into a pair of boxing gloves and began to work the sand bag. After a few punches, he stopped, took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Rowena briefly stopped her walk; it seemed like she was catching her teacher on one of his few 'off' days, and while the curiosity value of that experience was hard to underestimate, it also worried her - it had to be serious if Mark Simmons was bothered.
"The Shop is here," he said.
"Did you call my Dad?"
"Here's the thing, kid. I'm pretty sure he knows already."
A few more punches, and a final kick; Rowena had another two miles to go on her training session and started on them.
"What's our strategy?" she asked.
"Violence is out. Missiles are too big to steal."
"Can we sabotage the plane?"
"No chance. We can blow it up, but Krueger's guys are on high alert after they found the tracers. We can't slip anything past them. They'll know it was us."
Rowena thought about that, then smiled. The solution was obvious...
"You know, Mark, it is an auction."
"Yes. And?"
"My birthday's coming up," she said, grinning from ear to ear. "And I always wanted some weapons of mass destruction."
"Well, it's from Israel," Mark said, admiring the machine gun, and Done nodded sagely. "But I'm all stocked up," Mark concluded.
"So, does she like you?" Done asked.
"We had a bit of a screaming match at the beginning. It's been uphill from there. Why do you ask?"
"I noticed she walks like you now."
"Really?" Mark asked, paying more attention to the weapon than to Done. "Missed that."
"So...you got any advice for...you know?"
"What?"
"...raising kids."
"Opening a daycare?"
"Dammit, Simmons, do I have to..."
Mark held up his hand, a sly grin forming on his mouth.
"So, is this an...urgent question?"
"No! I mean, no, I'd never...I'm just...curious, you know?"
"Well, you've known her longer."
"But she's more like you."
"See, Done, sometime's it's not the quality of the mold or the time. Sometimes it's the pressure."
"Makes sense. I guess."
"You guess? You asked for my opinion, that's it. Now, when do you pop the question?"
"Uh, I, well...I haven't really thought about that."
Mark rolled his eyes. What was it about hardened killers and indecision in romantic matters?
"Seriously, Done, you should..." Mark began, but John Done yanked him away from the stand and pulled him into the crowd, hustling him around the next corner. For a big guy like Mark, it was a vaguely traumatic experience to be dragged around like this, so he did his best to squirm out of Done's hug. "What'd I do now?" he asked.
"Not you, Simmons."
Done finally let go of Mark after they'd put some distance between themselves and the main crowd; back in the (unused) stage area, there were plenty of shadows to stick to.
"Mind filling me in?"
"Over there," Done said and pointed his finger. "See that?"
"I see a woman. And?"
"Look again."
The woman, Mark noticed, was clad in a stark business suit, her eyes hidden behind shades. Vaguely European look, with a couple of bodyguards behind her - well, she looked pretty much just like Mark imagined a female armsdealer would look like, slick and superior at all times. Then he saw the man she was with.
Gray.
Motherfucking Dennis Gray.
It was a good thing that Done was there to wrestle Mark to the ground, because he had already freed one USP from its holster. With one hand on Mark's wrist and the other cupped over the Enforcer's mouth, Done used his weight to literally sit this one out. Mark squirmed, now genuinely trying to get free, but he simply hadn't seen that coming; Done was bigger and heavier. After Mark stopped struggling, Done slowly let go of him; the killer picked himself from the floor and crouched next to John Done, but he didn't holster the USP. Mark gnashed his teeth audibly, desperately trying to keep the tension in his body from creeping into his trigger finger.
"Just a clone," Mark whispered. Done nodded silently. He drew a few sharp breaths, then clicked the safety back on and unclenched his teeth. "Just a clone."
Mark holstered his gun and picked himself off the ground. Still sticking to the shadows, the two managed to slip out through the back door. Once in the open, Mark bowed down, put his hands on his knees and tried to steady himself. He hadn't felt the shakes like that for years.
"I'm okay," he lied to Done, trying to get his thoughts back under control. Both a Gray clone and that woman - ah shit, Miss Abbot!, Mark realized.
"You look like crap."
"I'm fucking okay, right?" A few more deep breaths, and Mark snapped back up.
"Whatever," Done said. "I'm going to the hotel. You coming?"
"...right behind you."
Mark's rampant dislike of the Shop was no great secret to anyone in the new Conspiracy who had bothered to read his file. Dennis Gray seemed to have a special talent for getting into Mark's head in the way Mark usually did to his enemies; then again, they did have access to his genetic material and had made at least one clone, so maybe they had a Bizarro Mark doing their planning. Either way, Mark thought, he'd have to stop them sooner or later, but the way things were going, later seemed the most likely outcome. And how Gray kept using Mark's aggressiveness against him didn't sit well with the Enforcer, either; he'd have to play it smart, but that didn't come naturally to him. Right then, what he needed the most was to get rid of some adrenaline.
Back at said hotel, Rowena was enjoying the amenities of the Health & Wellness Center - that is, the cross trainer - when Mark barged in five minutes later, intent on putting the hurt on something.
"Tough day at the office?" Rowena offered; Mark ignored her, slipped into a pair of boxing gloves and began to work the sand bag. After a few punches, he stopped, took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Rowena briefly stopped her walk; it seemed like she was catching her teacher on one of his few 'off' days, and while the curiosity value of that experience was hard to underestimate, it also worried her - it had to be serious if Mark Simmons was bothered.
"The Shop is here," he said.
"Did you call my Dad?"
"Here's the thing, kid. I'm pretty sure he knows already."
A few more punches, and a final kick; Rowena had another two miles to go on her training session and started on them.
"What's our strategy?" she asked.
"Violence is out. Missiles are too big to steal."
"Can we sabotage the plane?"
"No chance. We can blow it up, but Krueger's guys are on high alert after they found the tracers. We can't slip anything past them. They'll know it was us."
Rowena thought about that, then smiled. The solution was obvious...
"You know, Mark, it is an auction."
"Yes. And?"
"My birthday's coming up," she said, grinning from ear to ear. "And I always wanted some weapons of mass destruction."
Sunday, February 04, 2007
By request...Emo Feats
Emo Basics (Unarmed Combat Feat)
All your romances are chemical.
Benefit: Diversion is a free action for you, and you do not become flat-footed if you fail the opposed skill check. Further, you gain the following stance and trick.
Resolute Stance (Stance): While in this stance, all stress damage you suffer is halved (round down), but you may not leave your current square.
Poser (Trick): You may make a Tire action, gaining a synergy bonus from your Cultures skill.
---
Emo Moves
You're all about Emo Violence.
Prerequisites: BAB +3 or higher.
Benefit: You gain the following tricks.
Cling (Trick): With a successful unarmed attack, you may at once make a grapple check targetting your opponent as a free action.
Lash Out (Trick): With a successful unarmed attack, you may force your opponent to make a Will save (DC 10 + the damage you inflicted). With failure, he must Fight Defensively on his next Initiative count.
The Shins (Trick): You may take a Kick action, with which your threat range increases by 1.
---
Emo Supremacy
You're post-post-hardcore.
Prerequisites: BAB +12 or higher, Emo Basics, Emo Moves.
Benefit: Your Intelligence increases by 1. Further, you gain the following tricks.
All-Star Treatment (Trick): If an opponent within your reach becomes sprawled, you may target him with a Kick as a free action.
Quip (Trick): Once per round as a free action, you may make a Taunt as a full action that targets every opponent within 30 feet.
All your romances are chemical.
Benefit: Diversion is a free action for you, and you do not become flat-footed if you fail the opposed skill check. Further, you gain the following stance and trick.
Resolute Stance (Stance): While in this stance, all stress damage you suffer is halved (round down), but you may not leave your current square.
Poser (Trick): You may make a Tire action, gaining a synergy bonus from your Cultures skill.
---
Emo Moves
You're all about Emo Violence.
Prerequisites: BAB +3 or higher.
Benefit: You gain the following tricks.
Cling (Trick): With a successful unarmed attack, you may at once make a grapple check targetting your opponent as a free action.
Lash Out (Trick): With a successful unarmed attack, you may force your opponent to make a Will save (DC 10 + the damage you inflicted). With failure, he must Fight Defensively on his next Initiative count.
The Shins (Trick): You may take a Kick action, with which your threat range increases by 1.
---
Emo Supremacy
You're post-post-hardcore.
Prerequisites: BAB +12 or higher, Emo Basics, Emo Moves.
Benefit: Your Intelligence increases by 1. Further, you gain the following tricks.
All-Star Treatment (Trick): If an opponent within your reach becomes sprawled, you may target him with a Kick as a free action.
Quip (Trick): Once per round as a free action, you may make a Taunt as a full action that targets every opponent within 30 feet.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
"Gangsta" Feats
Gangsta Basics (Unarmed Combat Feat)
Word, G.
Benefit: You gain a +2 morale bonus to Resolve checks made in a Stand Off, and if you win the opposed Resolve skill check in a Stand Off, you inflict an additional 1d6 points of stress damage. Further, you gain the following stance and trick:
B-Boy (Stance): While in this stance, you may make Impress/Performance checks freely, counting every successful unarmed attack you make as one minute spent performing. If you leave this stance before the Performance check's time requirement is filled, the skill check fails.
Pimpslap (Trick): When you hit with an unarmed attack, you inflict an additional 2 points of stress damage.
---
Gangsta Moves
Schoolin' marks is your favorite hobby.
Prerequisites: BAB +3 or higher.
Benefit: You gain the following tricks.
Yo Mama (Trick): With a successful unarmed attack, you may make a Taunt as a free action, substituting your Streetwise skill for Manipulate.
Buck 50 (Trick): Your unarmed attack gains the Bleed quality.
Chill Pill (Trick): Once per teammate per scene, you may make an unarmed Standard Attack. With a hit, the target may at once reroll the last Will save he made.
---
Gangsta Supremacy
Big Pimpin'.
Prerequisites: BAB +12 or higher, Gangsta Basics, Gangsta Moves.
Benefit: Your Charisma increases by 1. Further, you gain the following tricks.
Cockblockin' (Grapple Trick): You may inflict 1 point of temporary Charisma damage upon one opponent currently held or pinned by you.
Poplockin' (Trick): With a successful unarmed attack, you recover 1 point of stress damage.
Word, G.
Benefit: You gain a +2 morale bonus to Resolve checks made in a Stand Off, and if you win the opposed Resolve skill check in a Stand Off, you inflict an additional 1d6 points of stress damage. Further, you gain the following stance and trick:
B-Boy (Stance): While in this stance, you may make Impress/Performance checks freely, counting every successful unarmed attack you make as one minute spent performing. If you leave this stance before the Performance check's time requirement is filled, the skill check fails.
Pimpslap (Trick): When you hit with an unarmed attack, you inflict an additional 2 points of stress damage.
---
Gangsta Moves
Schoolin' marks is your favorite hobby.
Prerequisites: BAB +3 or higher.
Benefit: You gain the following tricks.
Yo Mama (Trick): With a successful unarmed attack, you may make a Taunt as a free action, substituting your Streetwise skill for Manipulate.
Buck 50 (Trick): Your unarmed attack gains the Bleed quality.
Chill Pill (Trick): Once per teammate per scene, you may make an unarmed Standard Attack. With a hit, the target may at once reroll the last Will save he made.
---
Gangsta Supremacy
Big Pimpin'.
Prerequisites: BAB +12 or higher, Gangsta Basics, Gangsta Moves.
Benefit: Your Charisma increases by 1. Further, you gain the following tricks.
Cockblockin' (Grapple Trick): You may inflict 1 point of temporary Charisma damage upon one opponent currently held or pinned by you.
Poplockin' (Trick): With a successful unarmed attack, you recover 1 point of stress damage.
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