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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Jan 4, 2010 1:14:39 GMT -5
Paris
Too many lights, Huckabee thought to himself. Never liked this town.
The assassin stood at the dusty window, pondering over a crumpled cigarette and staring intently at the murmuring streets below. In a town where the night was just as bright as the day, people saw no reason to turn in, and everywhere stragglers and passersby could be seen wandering through the lamplight, sleepless in the city of wide-awake.
Daniel Huckabee let out a deep breath, blasting pallid smoke from his nostrils. The motorcade wouldn't be passing through until tomorrow afternoon. The Prefecture had been by three times already, questioning him and his partner aggressively, trying their damnedest to make them both absentee tenants for tomorrow's events. They'd made Huckabee for an American immediately, but the other had spoken well-enough French to pass for an out-of-towner, and after a heated debate over passports and hotel boarding, the police had finally left them alone. They'd be all over the room come tomorrow, however, and that would be a problem. Too many suspicions to get away clean - but that was the job, here. A high-profile target like this couldn't catch a bullet in the head on accident, after all.
'Any more buzz on us from the Prefects?' he turned to his partner, seated on the ratty sofa, musing over a laptop. In the dark flat, the blue screen cast long shadows over everything. They'd already been made as persons of interest on the roster. That was expected. What they didn't have were names, and they weren't likely to get them, either. The company saw to that.
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Post by Ninety on Jan 4, 2010 1:31:35 GMT -5
OOC: This RP is open to everyone but there are some restrictions in place. First, no superpowered characters. We're trying to keep the realism intact as much as possible with this one so if your character's somewhat more than human, they'll probably want to sit this one out. With that in mind, no crazy experimental weaponry either. If it's a rare gun, as long as you provide plausible backstory for its requisitioning, that's acceptable but no man-portable railguns or antimatter disruptors or anything like that. As far as leads go, this is going to be pretty limited so think the 2 mains (mine and Biscuit's) with room for maybe one or two more MAX. If you still want to participate but the lead roles are filled try out an ancillary character. This is going to be the first of a series (think Ishkabibble scaled back immensely) so you'll have plenty of opportunities for notoriety in future outings. Feel free to start posting after I make my in-character post.
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Post by Ninety on Jan 4, 2010 2:24:27 GMT -5
BIC:
“You worry too much, Dan. You know how these things go: the bigger the job, the bigger the challenge. Now will you get away from that window? The chief of police isn’t likely to walk his parade route at ten o’clock the night before it’s scheduled. Sit down, have a drink, and chill the f*ck out.”
Rance West lit a cigarette of his own, a cheap French variety in opposition to his partner’s luxurious specialty brand that they had spent hours wandering around Paris in order to find.
That’s probably how we were made. Should’ve known better than to keep such a high profile so early in the job but Dan can’t even open the case file without his smokes. And they have to be his smokes.
The two sat across from the room from each other wordless. Daniel was most likely sketching tomorrow’s details on his mind’s canvas while Rance stared intently at the ember and the smoke at the end of his cigarette. His mood rose and fell with the intensity of its glow and each drag excited his brain into activity more than the nicotine itself could ever do. He lit another with the last coals of the first and inhaled deeply, falling back on the memories of his days before he joined the company. He remembered fire then too.
“I’ll see you in the morning, Dan. Wake me up as soon as you have some coffee brewed.”
Rance walked back to his room and disrobed. He fell asleep to visions of conflagration and waste.
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Jan 4, 2010 22:28:01 GMT -5
Chill out? You know damn well what happened the last time I 'chilled out'. Dan shot a bitter glance at Rance's back as he vanished into the darker shadows of the bedrooms, a tiny flash of orange light bobbing through the ink until the slow creak of a closing door extinguished it.
Huckabee turned back to the window and crinkled his nose. Joyeuse paired their teams based on psychological compatibility, using a battery of evaluations and personality tests to determine a stable 'relationship' between the contractors. In theory, two assassins on the same intuitive page were able to read the other's actions better, predict their movements, cover their weak sides, and generally work better together. The tests were extremely well received, and, on paper at least, had improved contract efficiency and clearance by thirty percent since their application.
Daniel's pairing, he was convinced, was a vicious practical joke. One hundred god-damned percent, he thought to himself, three years of this and I still don't believe it. The kid had been green, unthinkably green, and they had hooked him onto one of their most seasoned veterans. One hundred percent compatibility. Someone was getting even.
But they worked, and worked well. Sure, West made some bad moves, but he was a quick learner, and his work behind a scope was nothing short of brilliant. If only he'd get that damned cockiness out of his system. Pride was one thing - swagger got you shot.
_________________
Huck was still at the window when the sun first peeked through the Eiffel and touched the streets. The coffee stank of wet ashes.
Four hours.
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Post by ch00beh on Jan 8, 2010 1:36:57 GMT -5
Jonathon D'Eau did not like bodyguard work. He was an assassin. A highly trained assassin, at that. At worst, he was a hitman. His normal jobs entailed killing people, not making sure they didn't die. But of course, as a highly regarded assassin, that made him a good anti-assassin. Or at least, that's what most people thought. John was ambivalent toward these thoughts. Could always be a coincidence that he could usually fend off other hitmen before they could kill his contract.
Of course, he found it slightly ironic that he was protecting the chief of police. The tipoff the police got must have been that important.
He put on his bulletproof vest. He never really liked wearing one of those, either. They were bulky, felt unnatural on his body. Today was just a day full of dislike. He needed the vest though; protecting someone meant that he pretty much expected to get shot, unlike his normal business of shoot-before-they-even-know-you're-there.
Just think of the money. It's not like he absolutely needed the cash, but well-paying legitimate jobs were hard to come by.
He'd scouted the route beforehand. Places for a sniper to set up pretty much everywhere. It was Paris after all. Just another city.
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Post by Ninety on Jan 8, 2010 5:19:04 GMT -5
“You burned the coffee again, didn’t you?”
Rance walked over to the pot and sniffed. The acridity burned his nose and soured his mood further. He walked over to the sink and poured the rank mess down the drain. He rinsed out the pot and set to making a fresh batch.
While he was waiting for the coffee to brew, Rance began his preparations for the day as he always did. A hot shower followed by a duel with a straight razor. He dressed quickly in clothes that were attractive while also being practical and forgettable; a dark grey, close-fitting, military-style Oxford, dark jeans with a black belt, some black and white Pumas, and a black windbreaker with plenty of pockets.
Rance poured himself a cup once the coffee was finished and poured in the sugar. He substituted whole milk for creamer and stirred it into a froth. As he sipped he noticed that his partner hadn’t moved from where he’d first seen him that morning.
Hell, the guy probably hasn’t moved all night. I don’t know how he manages to perform at this level on so little sleep.
Rance walked back to his room and pulled the gun case out from under his bed. He opened it and began setting its contents aside. His rifle of choice was a Remington 700 with a custom stock chambered in 7mm-08. He chose it over a more high-tech option because a hunting rifle doesn’t raise as many eyebrows in customs as some gas-operated, military-grade contraption. The bolt action meant reliability and the extended magazine leveled the biggest advantage that semi-automatic rifles had. Plus, the ammunition was easy to find when he didn’t have time to handload his rounds and had a flatter trajectory while still carrying more energy with less recoil than its competitors, the .308 and the .30-06. Sitting on top was a Leupold Mark 4 scope that he’d had The Company’s custom shop engrave a crow into the bell. He disassembled the rifle and placed it and its bipod into a duffel bag. He threw in a box of shells and then covered the hardware with dirty clothes. Going back to the gun case he lifted out the interior to reveal a false bottom. Inside was a Glock 29, a folding knife from SOG, two spare magazines and a box of 10mm rounds for the pistol, and a large brown sack. He put the knife in his pocket and started to load the magazines with the bear-stopping rounds. When he finished, he tucked the pistol in the holster he’d had fitted into his jacket and the magazines in one of the front pockets. He took the sack from the case and checked its contents before putting it in the duffel bag as well.
Rance looked up at the clock and realized he’d been daydreaming about his equipment again. He’d been in his room for three-quarters of an hour and hadn’t even talked with Huck yet. He zipped up his bag and threw it over his shoulder then pulled an enormous suitcase from his closet and rolled it with him as he walked back into the living area of the suite. Daniel was still at the window.
“I’m going to make the preparations and then get some breakfast. I’ll be on the roof shortly after that. Don’t open the comm link until the procession starts.”
Huck nodded but didn’t turn from the window.
Yeah, I know you know this already. I’m just making sure you know that I know it.
He left the suite and made his way to the ground floor, specifically the hotel’s public restroom. He locked the door behind him and then carefully set the rolling suitcase down flat. He opened the case and pulled out a large glass container filled with a few gallons of gasoline. There were two more in the bag, each held securely in place by a foam lining. Rance pulled the brown paper sack from the duffel bag and fetched out a detonator that he stuck to the side of the jar. Standing on the toilet, he moved away a ceiling tile and set the jar inside then put the tile back in place.
Ok, two more to go.
Rance walked out of the bathroom thinking about whether he’d rather have crêpes or a nice quiche Lorraine.
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Jan 8, 2010 13:38:04 GMT -5
Huck sipped the oily slop he'd brewed with a grimace. It was burnt, sure, but he liked it that way. Brought the senses to life.
From the bedroom he heard the hard metallic clatter of a rifle being assembled and disassembled. Every piece was accounted for, checked for imperfections and defects, and then carefully added to the equipment. For all his faults (and they were many), Rance certainly knew how to take care of his tools.
He was moving to the door now, duffel slung carefully over one shoulder. He said something, but Daniel didn't hear it. Didn't need to. This was the job - what made him good at what he did. No sleep. No distraction. He was a man of infinite patience, and he could outlast anyone. I've got all the time in the world, and all of yours, too., he thought to himself, staring out the window at the street below.
It wasn't their street that was marked, however. The cross street just north of them would carry the mark in his motorcade on his way to the National Assembly. The vantage point from their rooftop did not afford as large a field of view as he'd have liked, but it did give them a better sense of security. He'd have one shot, but if he made it (and it was likely that he would) they would be ghosts in the dust before anyone ever got around to checking the adjacent tenements.
They'd been leaked. He was sure of it. That meant an escort. Huck narrowed his eyes.
There was a freelancer in this part of the world, name of D'eau. Daniel had never run up against him, but his reputation as a pain-in-the-proverbial-ass was legendary in Joyeuse circles. What do I do about you?, he thought to himself, taking another briny sip. He glanced at the clock.
Three hours.
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Post by Ninety on Jan 14, 2010 0:56:54 GMT -5
Rance was laying on the rooftop smoking another cigarette. He took one last drag and tossed the butt on the pile at his feet. He took the pack out of his jacket pocket and pulled the last smoke out with his lips then threw the pack on the ground as he stood.
From his position Rance could see the majority of the parade route, giving him ample time to plan the shot accordingly. However, this was the longest stretch of the motorcade’s route so there was bound to be the heaviest police presence here. The street was already bustling with people and Rance could see dozens of uniformed officers setting up their positions and knew there were untold plainclothes peppered in the crowd. He turned to his right and looked out at the Seine. The river was almost a stone’s throw away and he could see dozens of boats packed with tourists and young lovers.
Rance sat back down against the molding and lit the cigarette that was still in his mouth. He took a white paper bag from his jacket and started to eat the beignet within.
I’m really going to miss the food here. It’s a shame Huck’s such a robot or else we could have dined like kings. I suppose there’s always New Orleans when I need a beignet fix but it’s not quite the same. Those Creole folks changed something down the line, I’m sure of it.
Rance licked the powdered sugar from his fingertips and checked his watch.
Not long now.
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Jan 20, 2010 22:26:31 GMT -5
Whistles bleated in the distance, bouncing off the cobbled streets and blurring in the labyrinth of alleys and crossroads that made up this particular suburb. The vendors were being cleared from the sidewalks. Huck stepped away from the window.
He pressed a finger to his ear. 'They're starting the sweep. Won't be long now.'
Teamwork was everything in this business. Today's assassin could no longer operate alone within the webwork of modern security. Joyeuse had moved to partnerships in the Nineties, anticipating the constriction that instant-search databases and high-resolution surveillance would bring once commercialized and sold direct-to-consumer. Somebody had to be inside, and someone had to be outside. Daniel, however, had spent a great deal of time working privately - preferred it that way, actually - and possessed a very unique skill set that afforded him the ability to survive alone in the danger zone for an extended period of time.
He had redesigned the inside-outside strategy to work in reverse: Rance would be the outside man, but he would be taking the shot. Daniel, as the inside man, would instead provide the distraction and allow his partner to escape to the exfiltration point and prepare it for their departure. Not many people could pull off that kind of danger close - but then again, not many people were Daniel Huckabee. The life expectancy for contract killers was twelve years. Daniel was ten years overdue.
He tucked his Beretta into the waistband of his jeans, grabbed the Nikon from the counter, and left the dusty apartment in silence. ______________________
'Vous là! Ouvrez la voie!'
A man selling stuffed baguettes hurried to gather his cart and wheel it into a nearby alley, where it was hounded by uniformed officers armed with red caution tape and blunted crowd sticks. Across the way, passersby were roughly escorted into adjacent sidestreets and commanded to take their business elsewhere for the next hour.
Normally a motorcade did not involve such rigorous security - but these were different times. Augustin Tourneau was easily the most hated man in France, a bloated swine of a man whose political bloodline ran deeper than de Gaulle, and he stood at the head of a scheme of governmental corruption that threatened to turn the entire country into a dictatorship.
Beginning with a series of budget inflations that afforded the Prefecture with a financial coffer of hundreds of millions, Tourneau and his cronies in the National Assembly then flooded the legislation with a glut of security bills and protective amendments, slowly and subtly arming the Ministry of Justice with powers and abilities well beyond its means. With his hand in every pocket and his influence smothering every dissenter, Tourneau began to flex his power in the streets. Police became synonymous with gangsters. 'Security taxes' were imposed on businesses. Uniformed officers operated without restraint, quelling any issue they deemed against the law in whatever manner they saw fit. Corruption ran rampant, and a blanket of fear spread over Paris. Now Augustin set his sites on the Presidency. It was no secret that he would dismantle the entire democratic order, but his machine seemed unstoppable now. He would travel to the Elysee today to declare his candidacy. The air was ripe for an attack.
_____________________
The limousines pulled into the streets quietly, moving in liquid formation. In the lead car a rail of a man lounged sanguinely against the plush leather, smoking a thin cigarette and staring daggers at the assassin sitting placidly across from him.
'We expect results from you, Monsieur D'eau. The price we paid for you should make that clear enough.' Edmund Chatel leveled piercing grey eyes at Jonathon. 'The tip was solid. We have patrols sweeping their building as we speak, but you and I both know they're much too clever to stay put. You're going to find them, and you're going to stop this inconvenience before it ever has a chance to begin.'
Chatel glanced out of the darkly tinted window at the empty streets ahead.
'You will exit this car just outside the tenements. Track these killers, Monsieur D'eau. Do not hesitate to use lethal force. They serve no purpose to us except to die. Are we understood?'
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Post by ch00beh on Feb 8, 2010 15:21:58 GMT -5
OOC: Oh shoot orders! My bad on not seeing them. This is going to be a short, crappy post because I have hella shit to do, but I've let this topic lie idle for too long.
BIC: Jonathon nodded. "Oui, Monsieur."
The limousine came to a quiet stop after the tenements, just as Chatel had said. Jonathon grabbed a bag and promptly exited the vehicle. As soon as he slammed the door shut, the car sped off to join the motorcade. The assassin didn't see the point; any good killer would have already marked the car as a decoy.
Jonathon slung the bag over his shoulder and tried to remain casual. He had no earpiece, his only accessible weapon was a concealed pistol, and he was wearing a black suit jacket over his bullet-proof vest. Sure, he would look bulky to anyone looking, but civilians would not notice at all.
The man looked at the buildings surrounding the street. No doubt they were all being searched already. No point, though. Those locations were too obvious. Still, it was best to scan them to be sure. Even if he had a mild distaste for the man who drafted up the contract, it was still a contract.
Jonathon strolled into a nearby apartment complex and made his way up the stairs only to find a locked door to the roof. A couple Euros later and the man was standing stories above everyone else. He recalled the memories from his scouting mission earlier, specifically the ones for good snipers. He looked around the city and identified them, somewhat pleased that all of the locations were in his line of sight.
That, of course, meant that he was plainly visible to the potential killers. He was sure they wouldn't take a shot. Killing someone who wasn't the target could compromise the entire operation. Plus it was unprofessional.
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Feb 8, 2010 18:05:37 GMT -5
The limousines snaked through the Parisian tenements at breakneck speed, a five-linked chain of polished black and chrome that barreled down the cobbled streets as armored policemen stood guard at every intersection.
Daniel had joined a small crowd of onlookers, herded into an alley by Prefect goons. It had only taken a bent pair of cheap aviator sunglasses and the leather-strapped Nikon to pass him as a photojournalist to the citizenry - being an American had granted him all the ambiguity he needed. People barely paid him any mind, instead avoiding his gaze and hoping he would just go away without asking for anything.
'Hey!'
The guard bristled, pretending to not hear him.
'Hey, man, I'm talkin' at you!'
That got his attention. The officer, dressed in a neon hazard vest and riot helmet, sighed.
'To.'
'What?'
'I am talking to you, not at you, monsieur. If you insist on using such poor grammar, I suggest learning a new language - something more basic.'
Huckabee frowned. 'Right, right. To you. Hey, any chance I can grab some snaps of the Chief for the Times?'
The guard remained stoic, refusing to turn to address an American directly. 'Photos are not permitted at any time. Perhaps someone at the Elysee can assist you with a press permit.'
'Aw, come on, buddy. Just move to the side and let a guy snag a few shots as they pass. Won't take five seconds. I've got money....'
The guard rounded on him, storming up to the barricade. 'Are you bribing an officer of the- augh!'
That was all Daniel needed. He seized the officer by the collar and dragged him over the sawhorse barricade amid shouts of confusion and panic from the gathered public. One swift stroke of the pistol butt put him down for good. He looked up. The vendors and pedestrians were all staring at him in shock. Perhaps it was the gun is his hand, or the fact that this strange American had just manhandled a Prefecture goon. Huckabee didn't have time to ask. The squeal of tires on slick cobblestones pulled him back to reality, and he swiftly jumped the barricade and ran into the street.
__________________________
The lead limousine very nearly hit him, grinding to an earsplitting halt as a ruffled man in sunglasses darted into the center of the thoroughfare, flailing his arms like a man possessed. More screeches and scrapes could be heard as the rest of the motorcade slid to a stop behind them. Locks popped, doors kicked open, and suddenly the street was filled with armed guards, all training their weapons on Daniel. His eyes scanned quickly, trying to see which of the cars might be carrying their cargo.
Nonchalantly, he raised the camera up for the policemen to see.
'Photo op?'
Silence.
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Post by Ninety on Feb 9, 2010 18:02:42 GMT -5
Rance didn’t even have to check his watch. He could hear the shift in the crowd’s murmur as well as the shuddering rumble from the police motorcycles leading the procession. It was soon followed by the squeal of tires and then a flurry of shouts in French.
“There’s my cue.”
Rance pulled a cell phone from his pocket and sent a page to three different numbers then smashed it underneath his foot. He stood up and quickly decoded the scene playing out before him. Huck was in front of the motorcade as planned and the limousines were emptying. His eye fell on the third car in line where all of the doors but one had opened for guards to get out.
“Bingo.”
Rance raised the Remington to his shoulder and lined up the reticle over the vehicle’s sunroof. It was fully tinted so he couldn’t see within but that didn’t matter; the interior of these limousines were all laid out the same and he knew exactly where the mark was sitting from the negligence of his guards.
The crack of a short-barreled 7mm rifle is akin to sticking your head in a metal bucket and then setting off a firecracker inside. Upon reaching the streets, the sound of the gunshot will echo off the faces of the buildings and scatter in every direction making it nearly impossible to tell where the shot came from. All he had to do was make the first one count as a follow-up would find its way into eager and prescient ears that would be able to follow it back to the source. Rance took a deep breath and exhaled slowly as he gently pulled the trigger towards himself.
The bullet flew exactly as intended. Rance could hear the screams rising but he was still focused on his scope, confirming the kill. Through the Leupold he could see that the bullet had buried itself in the target’s abdomen and the black blood pouring out told him that it had hit the liver; he would bleed out before the limo could move a block. It also showed him a face that he had never seen before, especially not one that was included with the Company’s docket for this mission. The man Rance shot, the man that was now just a few breaths away from the grave, was not the man he was sent here to kill.
Rance tossed the rifle into the rucksack then hopped over the edge of the roof and onto the fire escape that was already starting to fill with people. In his focus he hadn’t noted that the building’s fire alarms had gone off and now it was being evacuated.
At least that’s going to plan.
He pressed his finger to his ear to open the comm line with Huck.
“Mark not there. Leaving now. Get out. Meet me at the river.”
Rance hurried along with the rest of the hotel’s guests down the fire escape then turned towards the Seine.
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Feb 9, 2010 21:28:00 GMT -5
There was the shrill plunk of something striking metal at high speed. Then came the report, a whooshing, pulsing echo that swam through the empty spaces and engulfed the street with a tinny kraKOW that quickly whistled into the ether.
Silence returned, filling jagged spaces.
Daniel remained frozen, two dozen automatic weapons trained on him. His ear buzzed, and his heart skipped a beat.
The wrong guy... ?
Suddenly, bullets.
The first one buzzed past his ear as he instinctively sprang left, towards a stray baguette cart. More rounds sparked and shattered off the mid-morning cobbles as Huckabee clambered on all fours to get behind the flimsy cover. He was suddenly aware of an intensely loud popping noise, like firecrackers turned up past ten, and soon realized he was hearing the sound of the twenty-something machine pistols opening up all around him. He slid onto his back, shuffling with his feet to push himself up against the makeshift barrier. The cart did little to protect him, shredding and collapsing slowly as hot lead chewed away at its plastic and aluminum framing. He popped the cover off the Nikon, grabbed the two extra magazines inside, tossed the camera aside and slid them into his belt as he drew the Beretta, head reflexively dodging left as a slug cut through the failing buggy with a sharp snap.
'Goddammit, boy, you can't even give me cover fire?' he hissed, to no one in particular.
_________________________________
Rance had barely cleared the block when a regiment of Peugeot 607s came barreling up the side streets, sirens ululating in quick intervals and shouting distorted French commands through crackling megaphones. Behind him, storming down the fire escape stairs, came a battalion of Prefecture riot police, equipped with stun batons and small polycarbonate shields. They shouted down to him and waved at the approaching cars, pointing and gesturing at him, and trampling anyone on the fire escape who got in their way. He only had a moment before they were on top of him.
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Post by Ninety on Feb 13, 2010 15:46:21 GMT -5
Que'st que c'est?
Rance heard the thunderous clanging of combat boots on the fire escape behind him and knew that the Prefecture’s goon squad was filing down the staircase after him.
No time for dicking around with these cats.
Rance vaulted the railing and fell the remaining distance onto the hood of one of the Peugeots that had stopped. He pulled his Glock and fired through the windshield at the two men inside, marveling a little at the ease with which the 10mm rounds penetrated through the laminate on the glass as well as the chests of the Prefect drones within before burying themselves somewhere in the back of the vehicle. Standing now, he sent another round at the driver of a second Peugeot then emptied the magazine at the riot squad on the staircase; the steep angle made it difficult for them to use their shields effectively and several were hit in the legs, the bullets shattering bone before ricocheting off to wreak havoc elsewhere in the body or simply exiting the other side and blowing out grapefruit-sized hunks of flesh along with it.
He kicked out what remained of the vehicle’s windshield and climbed inside, pushing the stiff in the driver’s seat onto the pavement, then smashed the accelerator to the floor. The sedan leapt forward with all the V6 could muster as shots peppered the trunk.
“Ugh, damn Europeans. They only put the big engines in the sports cars and the Rolls Royces. How’s a guy supposed to make a getaway in a tortoise like this?”
Rance dropped a fresh magazine into his pistol then reached over to the corpse riding shotgun who was still clutching a Sig Sauer SP2022. He took the gun and turned over his shoulder to check his tails. There were four of them and Rance knew there would be more soon if he didn’t get rid of them immediately.
There was a cracking sound as one of the men in the pursuing vehicles began shooting at Rance while he leaned out the window. Rance answered him with the Sig through the back windshield. He didn’t bother with conserving his ammunition as he knew there wasn’t enough between the two pistols to deal with those chasing him completely; he simply fired behind him until the slide locked back showing an empty chamber. He tossed the weapon onto the backseat where it landed with a clatter on a large case branded with a stylized “H&K” that he’d failed to notice when he entered the vehicle. Rance’s lips trembled and formed into the smirk that had annoyed Huck so much on their first assignment together.
Rance pulled the emergency brake and turned the wheel to the right sharply, putting the driver’s side away from the following vehicles who skittered across the pavement as they came to a stop then reversed quickly when Rance sent a blitz from the Glock at them. Crawling into the backseat, Rance rushed to open the case then stepped out of the vehicle holding his salvation.
The Heckler & Koch G36K fires seven hundred and fifty rounds per minute from its hundred round drum magazine. The 5.56x45mm ammunition is a high velocity round that tumbles and fragments in tissue, often resulting in secondary wounds far from where the bullet enters as well as possible damage to the central nervous system through hydrostatic shock. The Prefecture’s lackeys were getting an exciting demonstration of just how devastating this weapon system could be in the hands of a professional such as the one who was laughing at the maelstrom of blood and shattering glass he had summoned to the streets of Paris.
There was a sudden clacking sound after the last slug had left the barrel. Rance tossed the weapon aside then turned and darted down an alley.
The streets were silent but for his footfalls.
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Post by ch00beh on Feb 13, 2010 17:56:39 GMT -5
Huh.
Jonathon was more bemused by the target switch than surprised, though he was slightly disappointed that he hadn't spotted the shooter before the shot was made. He was more disappointed in falling for the distraction, but then again, that was very fine setup they had. Went against most standard strategies.
Upon seeing the man with the camera running into the street, Jonathon had already started pulling out pieces of a sniper rifle from his bag. He had it half assembled by the time the "target" was down, though he continued screwing and fixing the various pieces on despite his "failure." He was going to get some lip for that. Probably lose all kinds of jobs, too.
Jonathon was shaken from his reverie when more gunfire broke out. He ran to the side of the building nearest the commotion and pulled out his scope, looking for the source of the noise.
There. No subtlety anymore. Guy was shooting a machine gun into a crowd of riot police. Jonathon locked his scope onto his rifle, took aim, and fired at the man's torso just as he began his getaway.
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Feb 14, 2010 22:44:48 GMT -5
The cart finally failed completely, having been very nearly sheared in half by automatic fire. Daniel half-ran, half-rolled towards the sidewalk, blindly returning fire as shells plinked and slapped all around him, shattering windows and pulverizing the brick framing of the local storefronts. Huck dove into a small in-between connecting two tenements and shoved a fresh magazine into the Beretta.
Leaning out, he pegged a round right through the faceplate of an advancing officer, crumpling him to the pavement. His next shot caught one in the arm, sending the weapon clattering under one of the barricaded limos. He let two more fly before a three-round burst punched a basketball-sized hole in the brick and mortar he was using for cover. Shaking flecks of masonry and cement dust from his clothes, he fled into the alleyways, followed hotly by the shouts and commands of Prefecture minions.
______________________________________
Something wasn't right.
Even as war opened up all around him, Edmund Chatel remained stoic and collected, more annoyed with the pandemonium than terrified. Still lounging in the lead limo, he checked his watch and listened intently to the chaos just outside. He tapped a button on the center console, and a soft hiss filled the cabin - a comm channel opening up.
'Agent D'eau, have you acquired your target?'
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Post by Ninety on Feb 18, 2010 18:24:07 GMT -5
Though it just grazed his side, the pain flew to the forefront of his mind and pushed aside all of Rance’s thoughts save one: run. His legs were literally one step ahead and had already started moving him to his right, trying to put as much distance and as many objects between him and whatever jackass thought he could kill him. It wasn’t the first time he’d been shot and he was sure it wouldn’t be the last but damned if it didn’t hurt any less each time.
Rance ducked into a gap between two apartment buildings and took off his jacket and lifted his shirt to check his wound. The bullet had hit at the very edge of his skin and left a gash instead of a pair of holes. An inch to the right and it would’ve missed; an inch to the left and it probably would have bounced off a rib and then into parts unknown and unpleasant. He pulled out his knife to cut his shirtsleeves off at the shoulders and tied them around his body to compress the wound and halt the bleeding. Donning his jacket again he ran in the direction of the Seine, making sure to always have a tall building at his back, determined to reach the rendezvous point before Huck.
He’d never let me forget it if he managed to snake his way out from under his rock before I did.
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Feb 20, 2010 16:57:13 GMT -5
Chatel frowned and twisted a dial on the console, tucked neatly into the plumped armrest. The hiss rose and fell as the cross-band radio crawled across the frequencies.
ksshk... kssstkst
He turned it the other way.
ksssSKSKUSPECT ON FSKSKKkkstsk
He stopped, and fine-tuned the small black knob.
kskstkKSKSBE ADVISED, SUSPECT IS A WHITE MALE APPROXIMATELY FORTY FIVE TO FIFTY YEARS OF A-
Chatel bolted upright, face contorted in a look of rage and crushing disappointment. He slammed the console with a knarled finger, feeling his face flush hot with fire.
'FALL back. He is not the target.' he hissed.
'-ksst- Say again, say again. -ksst-'
Edmund ground his teeth violently. 'CALL OFF THE CHASE, Captain. He is not the one we want.'
'-ksst- , I don't think-'
'I am not paying you to think, Captain. I am paying you to follow orders. Fall back.' ______________________________
Huck was waiting at the boat when Rance arrived. The chase had let up abruptly, for no reason. He didn't understand it, but he knew something was very wrong with this operation. Too many things had been deliberately hidden. They had been baited into this.
He didn't know why, but he knew someone who would.
The tiny outboard motor puttered in idle, kicking soft ripples into the Seine. He noted West's wound.
'You're shot. Get in.'
(OOC: That's all, folks. Post if you feel like it.)
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Post by ch00beh on Feb 22, 2010 18:41:31 GMT -5
Missed. Jonathon checked the alignment on his sight. It was slightly off. Today was not a good day. He drew blood, but if the shot wasn't fatal, it was a miss.
And there it was. "Agent D'Eau, have you acquired your target," Chatel's voice calmly said into his ear. Strange. Jonathon figured Chatel would be more angry, or at least disappointed.
The assassin pushed a button on his earpiece. "I shot him in the side before he ran out of my line of sight. It looked like he was heading for the Seine."
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Feb 22, 2010 20:53:06 GMT -5
Chatel pursed his lips in mild annoyance.
'Yes, the Seine. Stand off, Agent D'eau. We'll pursue this quarry some other time.'
He calmly clicked off the comm and sat there in the darkness of the limousine, spidery hands tapping together in thought. Suddenly, an idea danced across his calculating head. He reopened the link.
'Agent D'eau... the man you shot. Did you happen to see his face?'
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