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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Feb 20, 2010 19:42:04 GMT -5
Joyeuse
Unlike its extensive network of sprawling rural training facilities, hidden from the public eye with such care and scrutiny that it bordered on conspiracy, the executive offices of Joyeuse Anti-Insurgency Services were camouflaged in broad daylight, a three-story office complex dressed in various shades of beige, sitting just off the Potomac, easy to miss from the highway. The building had no name, no street signs, and no listing in the phonebook. It was exactly what the Company wanted; an anonymous dot on the political horizon. Quietly and coolly the day-to-day operations of corporate assassination were processed here, and operations moved along like any other white-collar industry.
Today, however, the building was in a state of turmoil, as a grizzled assassin stormed his way through panicked secretaries and nervous men in dark suits, shoving and muscling across each floor in pursuit of a furious vendetta.
‘I’m sorry, sir, he’s in a meeting, you CAN’T GO- !!’
Huckabee moved past the quivering receptionist and slammed an open palm into the heavy oaken door of William Mistric, Chief Executive Officer of JAIS. The door whipped open and slammed against the stucco wall, punching a divot into the plastery toupe. He barrelled into the office, fists clenched.
‘You need to start talking, Bill.’ Daniel hissed, venom pouring from his lips.
The office was hardly what he would have expected from a man of Mistric’s wealth and taste. It was incredibly spare, with only a few bolt-on bookshelves and a snap-together polyboard desk tucked into one corner of the cavernous room. Flourescent bulbs hummed overhead in yellowed screens, spotted with the silhouettes of crumbling plaster and roach corpses. The man didn’t even have a computer. William sat with his back to Huckabee, tapping his fingers together in quiet meditation, staring out of a dusty floor-to-ceiling window at the blossoming April foliage of New England.
‘Figured it out, have you?’ he murmured.
Daniel sucked in sharply. ‘You knew it was a setup.’
Mistric turned to face him. His body was old, much older than Daniel, but his eyes were piercing, filled with an intensity that steeled the toughest soldier. Even slumped in the chair, his body bent in the sharp lines of a military man. Thin, silver hair fell over his wrinkling brow in a perfect part, framing his acid stare around frameless lenses that he kept nestled on the tip of his nose, so he could look over them and better scrutinize his opponents, like some great chessmaster. He gestured to the hitman.
‘Please, sit.’
It was a bitter joke – there were no other chairs in the room.
‘We walked into a bullet box in Paris. Why?’
William’s face grew tighter, more pallid. He folded his hands across his lap.
‘About six months ago, we starting getting contracts from a small paramilitary organization based out of Belarus. It wasn’t hard to figure out that they were a front for something larger, but, why would we ever care to know? The money was green and the intel was solid – those are the two criteria for this job, you know that. But something was strange. The hits were all over the place – random targets, no connection. And they were hard, too. The timeframe, the locations, the environments – their demands for the contracts called for serious talent. So we sent in our best, and bupkes. Either there was no target, or they made our man and aborted.’
Mistric sighed and turned to the wall, his eyes glazing as he remembered.
‘I arranged a meeting. This isn’t how we do business, and it was time for answers. As it turned out, this company was looking for one associate of ours in particular. They were using the jobs to draw him out, bait him into taking one.’
‘Why didn’t they just ask?’
‘You need to know who it is to understand that.’
Huckabee felt his breath catch in his throat. He took a step forward, callused knuckles clenching.
‘Who is it?’
‘Daniel…’
‘Who is it, Bill.’
William cast his eyes on the assassin. ‘It’s Rook, Daniel. They want the Blackbird.’
Daniel bristled. ‘Well, they don’t have to look far – he’s dead. Bones are rotting somewhere east of Baghdad.’
‘Have you told yourself that lie enough times, Daniel?’ the Director sighed.
‘No. I haven’t. You’re talking about a goddamn ghost story and you know it. Rook is dead. I saw him die.’
‘Blackbird is as re-‘
‘Don’t you start in on this Blackbird shit.’ Daniel was beet red, and bolted to the floor. ‘There is no Blackbird, he’s a f*cking PHANTOM made up to scare the new blood. I don’t want any part of this. You almost got us killed for a fairy tale, Bill.’
‘Daniel. Please.’
‘Why send us, then? Why not just tell them to kiss it and find him on their own?’
Mistric nodded in agreement. ‘You know he’d disappear if they actively swept him. He’s too good for that. We’re his only contact, and so they’re using us. They’re dumping a lot of money into this chase, Daniel.’
‘So you’re throwing us into the grinder to milk more dollars out of some headhunters.’
‘That’s the nature of this game, Daniel. Been that way since Kennedy.’
The assassin shook his head, throwing a hand in the air. ‘No. No. I’m out of here. I’m not listening to you blather on about Albert and the f*cking Blackbird and this voodoo shit anymore. Rook is dead, Blackbird’s a myth, and you’re an asshole. Don’t call me. I’m finished with this.’ He turned on his heel and marched out. The muffled yelp of the receptionist told Mistric he’d found his way to the elevator.
The Director exhaled with a heavy shrug and furrowed his bristled brow with two fingers.
‘Jessica?’
The frazzled receptionist inched her way inside, still visible shaken. Long red hair framed her pale face in shining curls. ‘Y-Yes, Mister Mistric?’
'Are you alright?'
'Yes, Mr. Mistric... I... I think so, Mr. Mistric.'
‘That's good. Jessica, I need you to make some calls for me. Can you do that for me, sweetie?’ _____________________________
Somewhere in the world, in the shadows where men who worked in silence often lived, Rance West’s phone began to flash and shudder in earnest.
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Post by Ninety on Jul 14, 2010 14:49:02 GMT -5
A two-bedroom in a Wyoming town with five hundred people isn't the place you'd normally find someone of Rance's tax bracket. Thankfully, Rance didn't pay taxes and he didn't mind Cokeville's underwhelming atmosphere. His work provided enough excitement. Besides, a larger city has more eyes and more mouths. Rance knew several agents that were currently spending their early retirement at the bottom of various rivers and shallow graves because they lived a little too visibly. This place was just the ticket for a man who wanted to live under the radar without having to sacrifice too many creature comforts.
Rance was riding Cope, his black Azteca, through the Legion Grounds outside of town for some fresh air. His side was still tender from France but he was going to put another bullet in his body if he had to stay inside any longer. He left the other horse, Dante, a hardheaded American Quarter, back at the ranch since he was in no mood to fight the brute's skittish nature. He just wanted a long ride with no distractions.
On cue, Rance's phone started vibrating violently in his pocket. Cope's ears pricked up at the sound.
Isaiah 48:22; never a truer verse. "West… Hey, sweets… The ranch… What? No… Of course I haven't spoken to him. You think we sit around trading war stories?… Sorry, Jess. Still cranky over this last escapade, I guess… Nothing. The television… No, I'm not outside… Yes, I remember what the surgeon said… …Cope… He's not your horse; he's my horse. They're both my horses… Because Dante would probably run you into a low branch if you rode him… Uh-huh. Look, not to be terse but what's up? You never call me at work and you hardly ever talk about Huck… Oh he did, huh… Ha! Walked right in. Sounds right… He scared you? Huck?… Ha, sounds like he was in his fuck-shit-up mode… Sorry, pardon my French… No, that wasn't a joke… Yes, I know. You told me several times that day and every day since… Not really. You get used to him… Alright, you should probably get off before Mistric gets on to you. Tell him I'll dig through some brushpiles for Huck… No, but I've got a couple of hunches… Love you too, Red."
Cope had already started heading for home. The horse had come to associate the buzzing and the words that followed with an immediate return trip.
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Jul 15, 2010 20:06:17 GMT -5
'Mr. Mistric?'
'Yes, Jessica.'
'I spoke with Agent West. He agreed.'
'I knew he would. And Sharp?'
'Already moving to intercept. I waited fifteen minutes, like you asked.'
'That's very good, Jessica. Do me one more favor, could you?'
'Anything, sir.'
'Put me through to our friend in Minsk.'
_________________________________
There was a man waiting for West in his house.
When Rance entered, he was busying himself with the assembly of a turkey sandwich, seeming to have located all of the necessary ingredients save the turkey itself; now he was half-in, half-out of the refrigerator, rooting and rustling through the shelves in his search.
His 9mm Beretta lay heavily on the countertop.
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Post by Ninety on Sept 11, 2010 18:34:55 GMT -5
Rance penned up Cope and returned Dante's glare with one of his own then headed inside. There was a smattering of dust and dirt on the floor though this was the first time Rance had left the house since the company doc released him. The forgotten pain in his side resurfaced then traveled into his stomach before it went north to catch in his throat.
He stood in the doorway for a few seconds more before he carefully took off his boots and set them down quietly. He took the revolver he was carrying from its holster, took a silent breath, then walked on socked feet into the house.
When Rance had left, the sun had been bright and lit the house through the open blinds but it was falling behind the mountains now and the hallway was dim. Rance closed his eyes and waited for his pupils to dilate before continuing further. He turned his head slowly from side to side, separating the noise of the horses at their troughs from the susurrus coming from the hallway's left fork, the kitchen. Rance opened his eyes and tiptoed around the corner where the kitchen light poured through the doorway.
Cautiously, Rance moved to the opening with the revolver raised and steadied in both hands. Rance's fridge door was open and a pair of loafers stuck out beneath it. On the counter, a pistol and the makings of a sandwich commingled. Rance pulled the revolver's hammer back. The action wasn't just for intimidation; visibly, his hands were steady but within he was turbulent and unsure. He couldn't afford to miss because of a heavy trigger.
"The only reason I haven't shot you is because I don't want to buy a new refrigerator and I don't want you splattering all over my kitchen. You know that whole speech in Dirty Harry about the .44 magnum? Well mine's bigger." It was a practiced affectation, Rance's confidence. He'd learned early on that if you can make someone believe you are better than them, then you are. A handgun that can fell a bull moose mid-step is also quite the boon to a man's swagger. "Now, unless you want a .454 Casull round to turn you inside out, I'd suggest you put your hands where I can see them and close the goddamn door to my fridge. You're running up my electric bill and I'm out of lunch meat anyway."
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Sept 12, 2010 20:27:39 GMT -5
The man made no motion to freeze, or even acknowledge that he'd been held up. He did, however, close the fridge door with a heavy hand. A spry Welsh accent poured from his lips.
'I'm sure payin' your light bill's a right large issue out here in the boonies, pardner.'
He was a young man, close to Rance's age in appearance. Short brown hair sported a shock of blonde highlights, shooting off of his head in twisted spikes. A leather riding jacket clung to his broad shoulders, hiding tattoos that started at his knuckles and crawled surely up to his shoulders and beyond. His eyes were steel grey, and they sparkled with wildness. He gestured at Rance coolly.
'Put 'at thing away, mate! I'm 'ere on business, yeah, straight from the Man 'imself.'
The stranger glanced down at his plate, noting the two empty pieces of bread. He snatched them up and meandered to the adjacent counter, seeking a toaster. He didn't seem to mind Rance's revolver tracking his head across the room. He dropped a piece in and snapped the handle down, starting the minute timer. He smirked.
'Lemons, lemonade, right? No turkey, but we still got toast, mate.'
He leaned against the counter , resting his hands against it, elbows splayed. A thought hit him, and a look of surprise fell over his face.
'Blimey, I din't introduce myself, 'id I? Mickey Sharp, mate. I'm on loan, as it were, from your mates across the pond, yeah? Been doin' a bit of field work 'ere an' there. Course, that's not what you're curious about, izzit?' He jabbed a finger at Rance and his gun. 'Who's this punter diggin' around in my house? Better put a bit 'o lead in'im. Yeah, that's prolly what's runnin' around up there.'
Sharp shrugged it off. 'Upstairs sent me out 'ere to give you a hand with your, ah...your new problem, mate. Seems they're real pressed to find this bloke Huckabee.'
The room fell awkwardly silent. The toaster buzzed away quietly.
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Post by Ninety on Sept 26, 2010 1:00:49 GMT -5
Oh dear sweet merciful God, why did it have to be a Welshman? The only thing more grating than a Welsh accent is that damn Cockney nursery rhyme bullshit. I should have just shot him and gotten a mop.
Focusing on matters more pressing than regional prejudices, Rance moved to the counter and picked up the man's pistol while keeping his own gun pointed at the intruder. He stuck the man's Beretta in the back of his jeans then took a chair from the dining table nearby and kicked it towards Sharp.
"Sit. Do it slowly but don't dawdle about it."
Rance sat at the table in the remaining chair, resting one leg on the other and his gun hand on the raised knee.
"Tell me a story, Taffy. Tell me what right you have to break into my house and eat my food. Tell me what kinds of problems I'm having and how a sheepfucker like you is supposed to help. Tell me something concrete so I don't think you're neck-full of shit. And you better sell it, buddy, because if you know anything at all about me then you know that I don't fuck around."
The toaster jumped and produced two pieces of charcoal.
"Let's start with Huckabee. What do you know about him?"
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Sept 28, 2010 21:20:32 GMT -5
'Jee-zee, mate, 'ey sure breed you Americans high-strung 'ese days.' Sharp gave the chair a casual glance as Rance booted it towards him. He flashed a half-smile, showing hard canines that only punctuated the Englishman's animalistic demeanor. 'Really, mate. You're lookin' well in need of a serious unrollin', methinks. Wha'eva 'ey jammed up your arse, it's go'ah be turnin' you right back'ards. You've got me gun, 'ere.' Mickey snatched the blackened toast, one in each hand, and swung a leg over the chair, slumping into it heavily, taking a healthy crunch from one of the burnt slices. 'Mmph. Wha' my go'a do, yeh? Mm, mph. F'ing m' toast a'yeh? Mphmm.'
He swallowed the ashen lump with a grimace and sighed. 'Where was I?' Recollection brightened his face and he snapped his fingers delightedly. 'Huckabee! Right-o then. 'ate t' burst your bubble, mate, but I 'on't know tits about your Danny boy.' He ran a hand through his spiked hair. 'Well... I say that. Your man Upstairs, he's put me in charge of, ah... insurance, y'know? The file London's got on your boy Huckabee is abou' 'at thick.' Sharp held his hands nearly a foot apart. 'The best in the bi'ness, 'at's wha' I know.' His voice had lost its jocular edge. His eyes leveled with Rance. The stare was no longer pleasant.
'Upstairs, see, 'e knows the stakes. Send a sweep team after this bloke? Hardly. They'd 'ave be'er luck findin' Solomon's gold, yeh?' Sharp smirked. 'Nah, mate, only sure way to find 'is nutcracker's t' send the guy who knows where 'e's at.' Sharp tapped the table. 'Or, more specifically, the guy who 'e'll let find him. Which brings us round,' the assassin twirled his remaining slice of burnt toast in his fingers, 'to you, mate.'
He let the toast fall from his hand and folded his arms over the back of the chair, leaning in towards Rance.
'But oy, 'e's thought of that, 'asn't 'e?' Sharp wagged a finger at the hitman. 'A worker like Hucky, e's not gonna leave a loose end like 'at, izze? All I know, 'e's prolly got you on 'is contingency plans, real 'ush-'ush sort of thing. 'e drops the signal and poof - you're a vapor. A Kansas song. Upstairs, see, 'e don't quite think you're a team player no more. Not when it comes to Big Brother out there.' Sharp settled back in the chair.
'An' 'at's your problem, mate.' the assassin jabbed a finger at Rance. 'So 'at's why I'm here. Make sure you do your job, right? Upstairs wants 'is golden boy back unnah 'is thumb, an' you're the one's gonna go ge'im back.' Sharp grabbed the black toast and cracked it in half, nibbling at one broken side. He cast a cursory glance at Rance's gun. The barrel had never deviated from its bead on his temple.
'Still plannin' on shoo'in me, then?'
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Post by Ninety on Nov 1, 2010 2:07:00 GMT -5
"You have no idea how happy that would make me. I'd smile until I was cold in the dirt." Rance lowered the revolver's hammer and holstered it. "Which is where I imagine I'd be not too long after."
Rance sighed heavily and slouched down in the chair. He reached into the front pocket of his shirt and took out a Zippo and a pack of Camels. He pulled a cigarette from the pack with his lips then dropped the pack on the table without offering one to Sharp. Rance pinched the lighter between his fingers and snapped them together, springing the lid open. He lit his cigarette then slapped the lighter shut against his thigh and put it back in his pocket. A deep drag and a third of the cigarette was gone. He blew the smoke above Sharp's head in a long exhale and relaxed his body for the first time since he'd stepped through the door. Rance pulled on the cigarette again and tipped the ash into a glass he'd left out the night before. He never smoked inside so there were no ashtrays. He drummed his fingers on the table as he stared Sharp in the face.
After Rance dropped the butt of his second cigarette into the glass he addressed Sharp.
"Pick up your fucking toast. I don't want to get ants."
YOU'RE GOING TO HELP THIS MAN, AREN'T YOU RANCE? So it would seem, old friend. GOOD. VERY GOOD, RANCE. I LIKE THAT IDEA.[/B][/SIZE] Shut up. Please, just shut up for a minute. OK, IF THAT'S THE WAY YOU WANT TO PLAY IT, RANCE WEST. WE'LL TALK AGAIN SOON. BE NICE TO OUR NEW FRIEND IN THE MEANTIME. No promises. I WOULD NEITHER EXPECT NOR TRUST ONE FROM YOU, RANCE WEST. Then we have that in common.
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Nov 2, 2010 21:03:07 GMT -5
They departed in silence, Sharp never once acknowledging the tension that stretched precariously between them like a rope pulled to its fraying point. He twirled the dial of the dusty Land Cruiser radio until a crackling Top 40 station wheezed in and whistled along to no particular tune, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel while Rance stared out of the grimy window at the fading Wyoming horizon.
The sun gave its last breath to the sky, and the lull of lamplit highways brought sleep to the assassin with the surprise of a hangman's hood.
---------------------------------
'Oi. Oi, mate.'
Sharp prodded Rance's shoulder carefully. As expected, he jerked awake in an instant, one hand flying to his belt, the other jabbing out into the air. Always on guard. That was the way. Mickey smirked.
'Careful, yeah? Look alive, mate - we're 'ere.' The Welshman cocked a finger out the window.
The morning was gray, and misty. April showers hadn't reached the upper Contiguous yet, therefore it was apparent they'd traveled south. A breeze from the west tousled the treetops and blew pillows of swirling condensation against a dew-slick wooden sign that read, 'KANONA CEMETERY - ALTORY TOWNSHIP 4 MILES'
Sharp cast his eyes at Rance. 'Recognize the place?'
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Post by Ninety on Apr 13, 2011 0:55:13 GMT -5
"You know the answer to that." Rance opened the door and stepped into the chill of the morning then turned back to Sharp. "Dontcha, mate?" Rance slammed the door. It too had been a rhetorical question. Sharp got out on his side and walked around to stand next to Rance who was stretching and popping his spine like bubble wrap.
"Don't worry about the truck. There's only about twenty people in the town and they apparently don't like visiting the dead; no one will be coming by."
The graveyard was horribly overgrown. Headstones and obelisks barely reached above the grass around them. Rance had to constantly look down to make sure he wasn't about to trip over a toppled marker into an open grave. Thankfully, the graves were sparse and the pair was soon standing next to a small pond lined with cattails on the other side of the cemetery. Rance stepped to the edge until the faintest waves wet the toes of his boots. Squatting down, he cupped his hands beneath the water and splashed it onto his face. The shock of it tore the last bits of sleep from his eyes and he stood fresh. Looking across the pond, he let the memories of the graveyard drift in and out of his thoughts before he buried them with all the others he'd interred before. Rance turned away and began walking towards a mausoleum, set apart from the rest of the cemetery.
The building was unimpressive. A pair of columns was enough to support the overhang above the doorway and a trio of steps was all one had to climb to reach it. There were no engravings, no reliefs, no ornaments of any kind. The double doors were chained shut. Rance undid the combination lock on the chains and pulled them free of the doorhandles.
With no windows or skylights, the interior was a complete void. Rance took his cigarette lighter from his pocket and sparked it. In the quivering light Rance could see that the concrete lid to the sarcophagus had already been removed.
"We're on the right track. Grave robbers don't chain the door back up as they leave."
Rance set the lighter on the edge of the coffin and then hopped inside. The stone walls came up to his chest now.
"Give me a hand with all of these."
Rance bent down and picked up a duffel bag to hand to Sharp. He handed off another and then two hard, rectangular cases. He climbed back out holding a briefcase.
"Guns, ammo, money, passports; the whole nine yards. This is all my equipment. His is gone."
Rance took one final look around the mausoleum for anything of use then picked up his share of the load and started walking back to the truck.
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Apr 14, 2011 19:33:02 GMT -5
Sharp cracked a wry smile and shifted the duffels to his shoulders. His eyes twinkled like sinister embers in the flickering flame of Rance's lighter. Black shadows reached over his face in twisted lines, making his grin seem to stretch even wider.
"Ahh, flown the proverbial coop, 'as he. See there, we're no' as daft as yeh might've once believed." Tucking the gun case into the crook of his arm, Sharp fell in step behind Rance as they navigated the crumbling tombstones towards the Land Cruiser.
Readjusting the duffel bag with a great twist of his shoulder, Sharp continued. "My Spidey-Sense, it's tinglin'. See, I'm like you, mate. I'm a wolf. Trained by the best, just like all o' us. I can smell ya. I can see ya. I can hear what your brain's thinkin'. Just like you can hear mine. So I 'ave to wonder, at a time like this - does 'e know what I'm thinkin'? And the answer is, of course 'e does. Because you see what I see. So you saw the dust on that sarco. And you saw the month-old film on that doorchain. Your weapons have been in storage for quite a while, certainly, but his gear's been gone almost as long."
"Now I have to wonder, why would our boy Danny keep his loadout? P'raps he wanted to take it in for service - 'at's reasonable, yeah? Could be he just likes 'avin' it around, keep 'im comp'ny. Or maybe... just maybe, 'e's been preparin' for som'in like this for quite some time."
Sharp stepped over a leveled monument and crumbled a fragment of granite beneath his heel. "Goin' rogue, hey, 'at's a feat, mate. Not many guys out there 'at can pull it off. They forget they're not the only supermen in the world. And sooner or later, they get swept. We're valuable assets, you an' I. Fifty Million Dolla Men, we are. Government property. And we're not allowed to operate solo. So when a man gets it in 'is head to strike out on his own, well, heh, 'at's when things get 'eavy. And a lotta guys, you know, they get help. Maybe they got a mate on the outside, 'elp 'em disappear, right? Or maybe... maybe he goes to 'is partner."
Sharp cocked his head at Rance.
"Hucky tell you anything about going off the grid, West? Maybe ask you to 'elp 'im sort out some stuff, eh?"
He smiled. "Nah, nah. Don't answer. I'd rather not know how it is. At least not yet. Might make the drive a bit... eh, tense, right?"
He popped the lock on the rear door, and set the weapons down in a heap. 'Go'an then,' he smirked, taking a few steps back. The Beretta was suddenly in his hand. 'Load it up. Gotta make sure it all stays in the bags, yeah?'
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Post by Ninety on Apr 14, 2011 20:33:00 GMT -5
"Put that away and get in the truck, you ass."
Rance tossed his baggage in the rear and slammed the door shut. He walked past Sharp, rubbing against the pistol as he did so, and got into the Rover. After waiting several moments he rolled his window down and stuck his head out the window.
"Let's go, you miserable little fuck. We've got a lot of ground to cover and I want to get there before tonight because I am not sharing a hotel room with a shithead like you. Now get-in-the-fucking-car!" Rance beat his fist on the side of the truck several times and then pulled himself back in through the window. After another stretch of time the Range Rover started shaking violently from side to side as Rance thrashed around in his seat, bashing the roof and sides with his fists and kicking at the dash with his feet.
"I SAID NOW GODDAMMIT GET IN THE CAR GET IN THE CAR GET IN THE CAR GET IN THE MOTHERfuckING CAR YOU SHEEP-RAPING SON OF A TWO-DOLLAR WHORE GET IN THE GODDAMN CAR!"
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Post by Beelzebibble on Jun 13, 2011 16:26:15 GMT -5
NAIC: Mickey Sharp and Antonio Sharpe are distantly related. Cousins of some kind, probably. Canon. The One Steve Limit demands it.
I mean, they're both UKers for God's sake. Coincidence? I think not.
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Sept 6, 2011 23:50:26 GMT -5
"Ah, mate, not the up'olst'ry." Sharp calmly shut the trunk hatch and made his way to the driver's side of the wildly rocking Land Cruiser, flexing his grip on the Beretta. He tossed the door open and, catching the seat on its downward stroke, poured himself behind the wheel in a single fluid motion. Rance continued to thrash wildly. "Oi." said Sharp, cool and quiet. A wayward left hook whiffed past his jaw. "Oi, c'mon, mate, cap it off." The Welsh assassin watched Rance flail for a few moments more. Mickey drew in a deep breath and hollered with every inch of his voice, " HEY!!!" Rance froze. It was all the opportunity Sharp needed. The butt of the Beretta crossed West's temple with a dull thok and knocked the Joyeuse agent out cold. Mickey lunged his free hand out to catch Rance by the forehead before he could pitch forward into the dash and cause some real damage. Carefully he eased the unconscious West into a reclined position, head lolling on his shoulders as if unhinged on one side. When he was satisfied, Sharp patted him on the chest and chuckled. "Yeah, sleep tight, mate. Still a stretch to drive yet." The Land Cruiser pulled out of Kanona Cemetery and turned east. __________________________________ ...they think they've found me, Daniel. But they haven't. That's why they're coming for you. Because you've always known where I am, haven't you...Huckabee woke with a start. It was cold, and noisy. Why was it so noisy? It sounded like the dryer was on. He reached across the bed for Julia, but his hand closed on empty sheets. She was gone? It was still dark out. Daniel waved his hand back and forth across the empty bed as though she might just be hidden in some small fold of the comforters. And what was that noise? DanielHe spun on his heel, and realized his gun was in his hand. The noise was the window-mounted air conditioner. Julia wasn't in bed because Julia was at home. He was in a motel. The Mirage, off 191. Why was he in a motel? you've always knownRook. Joyeuse. They were going to flip him. Give him the West Berlin. Pump him full of paralytics and hallucinogens and divine the goddamn Blackbird out of his mind by breaking into it with a crowbar and a chainsaw. The Glock in his hand. The bug-out bag under the bed. He'd fled. Paris had smelled so bad of a setup that he'd planned to get the hell out almost on instinct; by the time he'd realized why he was running, he'd been on the move for a day and a half. So now what? He didn't know. It was Monday. School day. No doubt they were watching the school by now - so work was out of the question. Calling in for a substitute wouldn't happen either if they had the phones covered, and he knew that they did. He'd have to let administration figure this one out. And Rance... he knew they'd go for Rance. He couldn't tell him what was happening - that would have made them both targets, and he didn't need that just yet. They'd go through Rance to find him, though, and by now they were probably getting near to his trail. Daniel wiped one sleep-crusted eye and wondered who they would send to sweep him. Maybe that headhunting Tamil that flushed Rick Potter out of New Delhi. That had been a piece of work. Crazy Indian caught an agent that Daniel had considered one of the best of the best in less than three days. Made it look like child's play. But he was probably dead by now. There was that wildcat out of London house, too. Real go-getter. He'd put up some numbers that had given all the agents something to talk about, for sure. Daniel grimaced. It didn't matter who they sent - they were sure to send their best, and he needed to be ready. But first, he'd need Rance, and that meant having to step out into the light, if only for a brief second. Daniel grabbed his cell from the nightstand and checked the time. 2:36. School in five and a half hours. He had time to prepare. __________________________________ The Land Cruiser purred down the lonely dark interstate. Sharp cast a glance at Rance. He was still out cold, or else he was a damn good pretender. The Welshman cracked open his phone and dialed out. "Oi. Yeh, Delta-Oh-Five-Five. Authorization CHIMPANZEE." Dull droning. They'd put him on hold. Mickey marveled at the pervasiveness of bureaucracy in the world of contract killing. The line clicked over. "It's me. Yeh, Robin's in hand. Batman's still at large. Dead drop was a bust, but we knew that, didn't we? Heading to the last-known now. Maybe 'is bird dog'll flush 'im outta his hidey hole. I know, I know," Sharp gave a cursory look at the sleeping West. "I'll keep it textbook. When the time comes." John: Dream.
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Post by Ninety on Sept 7, 2011 23:17:12 GMT -5
IF YOU HAD BEEN NICER, THIS MIGHT HAVE BEEN AVOIDED.[/SIZE] Yeah, well I can say with certainty that if I'd shot him then this could have been avoided.
BUT THEN WHO WOULD HELP YOU FIND MR. HUCKABEE?[/SIZE] I don't need help. If Huck wants me to find him, I will. If he doesn't then I'll never see him again. Simple as that.
...YOU WILL SEE HIM.[/SIZE] I know it.
THERE IS GREAT WORK TO BE DONE, STILL.[/SIZE] I know it. When?
SOON. HOW SOON DEPENDS ON THE ONE THAT LAYS WITH SHEEP AND HOW HEAVY HIS FOOT IS.[/SIZE] He really fucks sheep?
I DIDN'T CHECK. HE CERTAINLY SEEMS LIKE THE TYPE TO DO IT.[/SIZE] Anything else you can tell me that might help?
PROBABLY. BUT NOT FOR A WHILE YET. A FUTURE TALK. YOUR HANDS ARE FULL ENOUGH RIGHT NOW.[/SIZE] In the meantime?
IN THE MEANTIME I WOULD KEEP A CLOSE EYE ON MR. SHARP. YOUR LIFE IS HOLDING LESS AND LESS VALUE FOR HIM EVERY MILE. I'M SURE YOUR TANTRUM ABETTED THE MATTER FURTHER.[/SIZE] He's been looking for an excuse to get back at me for holding him up in my house.
YOU CERTAINLY GAVE HIM ONE.[/SIZE] Fair point. Anything left to say before you let me get some real rest?
YES. DO GOOD WORK, FRIEND.[/SIZE] Always.[/i]
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Post by Beelzebibble on Sept 7, 2011 23:56:36 GMT -5
SOON. HOW SOON DEPENDS ON THE ONE THAT LAYS WITH SHEEP AND HOW HEAVY HIS FOOT IS. [/SIZE][/quote] ? Which is Pohatu for, I kind of want to get in on this sexy RP action, even though the smarter part of me knows that non-Texan participation would dilute the awesome...
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Post by Ninety on Sept 8, 2011 0:08:19 GMT -5
I have a feeling a spot or two will open up after Biscuit's next post.
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Sept 9, 2011 0:21:24 GMT -5
"Oi."
The sun was shining on Rance's face. Inside the Land Cruiser, the air was stagnant, thick. The car had been off for some time.
"Oi, oi, oi." Sharp snapped his fingers in front of West's face until his eyelids fluttered. "Wakey wakey, time for cakey." It was morning. Voices drifted by the window - young people, laughing and shouting. Mickey glanced in the rear view mirror. The parking lot was filling rapidly with high school students in hand-me-down Camrys and flashy new Mustangs, circling around each other as they battled for the quickly vanishing spaces. A group of girls sauntered by the car and Sharp found himself momentarily entranced by their silhouettes as they strode towards the campus ahead.
"My, my, they sure do build 'em 'ere. Good on ya, Danny boy. Good on ya." he murmured, head leaning over to catch a final fleeting glimpse before bringing the Beretta to bear on Rance. He tapped him firmly on the head with the barrel.
"Oi, mate. Bedtime's done with. Time for school, boyo."
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They filed into his classroom in their typical order - which was to say, no order at all - and sitting at his desk, forcing himself to believe everything was fine, Daniel felt himself coming unglued. These were KIDS GOOD GOD what was he THINKING? You didn't bet against Joyeuse. Joyeuse was Vegas. They were the house, and this house always won, and won big. They've probably made one of my kids a sleeper, he thought, feeling his blood run cold, maybe I've had an agent in my gradebook for years. They weren't going to send agents in dressed as police to kindly and quietly arrest him under some trumped-up pretense of securities fraud. They would, if they felt it necessary, raze the high school to the ground to keep him contained. These were, after all, the same people that put Littleton, Colorado on the map. Nothing was beneath them. Daniel could only count himself lucky they wanted him alive.
You've got to get Rance, he reminded himself. There wasn't any other way.
"Hey, Mr. Green?"
He snapped to attention, jumping some in his seat. The kid had been standing right in front of him and he hadn't noticed. No more daydreaming, he thought, this is not the cover anymore. This is the job. "Dean. Yeah, what can I do for you, man?" he asked, trying desperately to keep his "Cool Mr. Green" face on.
Dean Bostwick held out a crumpled piece of paper to Daniel, who took it with a quizzical look in his eye. "Umm..."
"It's the homework. Chapter Sixteen?" Bostwick was a band nerd. Daniel liked his kids, and Dean was one of the sharper ones, but he couldn't help but feel like slapping the kid once or twice and telling him to cut his damn hair and invest in a few hundred jars of Clearasil. And the homework? Had he given out homework? Shit. Huckabee gave the rumpled paper a cursory glance. "I, uh... ok. Yeah, I did give out homework. Um, excuse me, Dean - everyone! Hey, yeah, pass up your homework for uh..." he quickly glanced at the paper, "Chapter Sixteen, and we'll... uh, we'll go ahead and go over it. Okay, yeah."
The class - what little there was - stared at Daniel like he had just spoken in French. Now it was Dean's turn to look confused. "Uh... Mr. Green? I'm turning this in late. This was due last Thursday. We already went over it. Don't you remember? And anyway, the bell hasn't even rung yet."
Daniel felt himself starting to sweat, hard. Get your mind right, Huck. People could die today. In fact, that was probably unavoidable. Dean and the rest of class needed an answer. Huckabee pressed his palms into his eyes.
"Oh, man, I'm sorry, guys. I am. This was one hell of a weekend, and I'm just... whoo, I'm all over the place today."
One of the boys, a varsity second-basemen named Josh, hooted loudly, "Yeaaaaaah, Mr. Green's hung OVAH!!! Knockin' em dead on the weekend, alriiiiiight!" This sent the class into a fit of laughter, and they were soon back to their normal classroom chatter. Good save, Huckabee mused. He reached under his desk and felt the cool steel of the Glock in its breakaway holster. He could always tell from its touch when he was going to need it. It was coming.
Soon.
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The wide double doors of Bess Truman Memorial High School led right past the open-air front office, where a jovially plump woman in a paisley pantsuit greeted visitors with a smile and a "Hi, welcome to Bess Truman!" greeting that, while sweet and bubbly on the outside, held an unmistakable message - Who the hell are you, and what the fuck are you doing in my school - which, in the case of the two haggard men standing at her desk, was a very reasonable question.
Paisley, whose real name was Brenda, did not trust the look of either man, especially the weaselly one with the British accent, which she was quite convinced was fake - after all, she'd been to Toronto three times to visit her daughter, and there were British people all over the place there - not just because of his accent, but because of his jacket. "I am sorry, sir, but we have a strict jacket policy here at Bess Truman. You'll have to remove it. Who were you here to see again? I'll need your IDs, and you'll each be issued a visitor's tag." She was lying, of course. They would not be receiving a visitor's tag. She would take the IDs to the back and give them directly to Principal Stewart, who would run these pedophiles right out the door. Then he would congratulate her on her decisiveness. Job well done.
The British man was grinning. Why was he grinning? "Sir? I'll need you to remove your jacket. Is everything alright?"
It took Brenda ten whole seconds to register that the pseudo-British pedophile was pointing a gun at her. Her mouth stretched into an impossible black hole as her eyes began to gush tears, a silent scream.
"We're 'ere to see Mr. Green, poppet. Kindly fetch 'im, yeah?"
What Brenda could not manage due to shock, the other office administrators delivered in earnest, their piercing shrieks shattering the air as they saw the all-too-familiar steel barrel in Sharp's hand. The banging, flailing, and caterwaulings of pure chaos erupted among the desks and file cabinets as faculty and staff began to trample each other to find shelter.
Sharp cackled, turning towards the main hall and shoving Rance forward into his gunsight. Teachers poked their heads into the hall to investigate the commotion and, seeing the unmistakable outline of two crazed gunmen, slammed their doors, muffling their own shouts and screams. Pandemonium was spreading like wildfire, and Sharp loved every second of it.
"DANNY! DANNY? WHERE ARE YA, MATE?!" he shouted, the smile breaking across his face like a twisted wound. "COME ON OUT, LET'S 'AVE A POW-WOW, YEAH?!"
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Post by ch00beh on Sept 17, 2011 23:19:19 GMT -5
Paulie Matthews stopped short of the door to room twenty-twenty-one. His heart was beating harder than it should've been, even if he'd been power walking down the hall to get to class a bit early.
What are you worried about? She's just a girl. Puts her pants on in the morning one leg at a time, just like everyone else. One, gorgeous, long leg at a.... god dammit.
Paulie looked over his shoulder then took a deep breath. His plan had been to get in early and ask Shana Michaela to go to prom with him in the sexiest, most suave voice he could muster, but he couldn't do that with his heart pounding in his ears and his throat all knotted up. He closed his eyes and tried, mostly successfully, to get the image of Shana putting on her pants out of his heads by concentrating on the shuffling sounds of people taking their seats in Mr. Green's class. He opened his eyes and continued toward the open door.
Shana's face was the first thing Paulie saw when he turned into the room. Or maybe he just unconsciously looked for her straight brown hair and framing her pretty face every morning. Or maybe it was some paolotian thing (that was the name, right?) since she gave him a bright, white smile every time he walked in, so he was just trained to look for it. Either way, he nearly melted when she gave him that smile of hers as he took his seat in the front row next to her.
He sincerely hoped he wasn't blushing, because his cheeks felt like they were on fire.
"Hey Paulie," she said.
"Hey Shae," he replied, trying his best to give her the same, friendly (flirty?) tone of voice he gave her every other day.
She giggled.
"What's so funny?"
"Your voice cracked."
Paulie looked away and stared at his desk. Now he had to be blushing since his cheeks felt like they were about to pull a Mount St. Henna. Now what? He couldn't ask her out now.
"You're so cute when you get flustered," Shana laughed again, "So how was your weekend?"
Get your head on straight. She's totally coming onto you!
"It was, uh," Paulie started to straighten his back, then stopped mid stretch and slouched a little more, trying to look more relaxed, "it was pretty good. Yeah."
"Did you do anything fun?" Shana asked.
For whatever reason, the word "fun" brought the mental image relating to pants back into Paulie's head, but he mentally shook it away before it could linger. Probably because he imagined that kind of stuff being more fun than playing video games all weekend. "I guess I just kinda—"
"Oh, man, I'm sorry, guys. I am. This was one hell of a weekend, and I'm just... whoo, I'm all over the place today."
"Yeaaaaaah, Mr. Green's hung OVAH!!! Knockin' em dead on the weekend, alriiiiiight!"
Shana was laughing at the comment. Paulie forced himself to grin, too. "Well, I guess I didn't have as much fun as Mr. Green."
Shana laughed at that, too. Good save.
Paulie was vaguely aware of some slamming doors outside despite the class' uproar. He didn't notice Mr. Green's otherwise grave expression, though, since he was busy admiring Shana's smile.
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Sept 19, 2011 11:58:15 GMT -5
Daniel heard it first, because he was expecting it. Shouting, running, slamming. Panic. Whoever was here to sweep him had arrived.
He stood up from his desk, deftly tucking the Glock into the small of his back, and whatever fears, whatever reservations he had about what was to happen next, they all melted away behind the icy expression carved into his face.
'Mr. Green?' Tyler Brigham was walking towards the door to see what the commotion was all about. 'What's going on out-'
'Get away from that door, Tyler.' His voice, cold and stern, stopped the senior dead in his tracks. 'Go sit down. Now.'
More shouting from the hallway. Fear trickled in and began to infect the students. Eyes widened, heartbeats raced. The girls trembled while the boys exchanged worried glances. Daniel moved to the door and cracked it, glimpsing the corridor through a tiny sliver. Rance stepped into view, and then another man fell in behind him, gun trained on his head. Huckabee grimaced.
'Mr. Green? Wh-what's happening?' Shana Michaela this time. Her viridian eyes were wide with terror.
Huckabee never looked away. 'Everyone stay here. No one leaves this room, understood?' Silence. His head snapped around towards his students. 'Understood?!' A few nodded, but the rest had been struck silent by crippling dread. Daniel took a breath, exhaled, and stepped out into the hallway.
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Sharp's eyes lit up as Daniel's weathered face appeared from behind a far classroom door. It was just too easy. He waved his gun triumphantly.
'DANNY! Oh Danny boy, are we glad t' see you! Been halfway 'cross the bleedin' country lookin' for ya, and here you go showin' up at the first place we ought've looked at, yeah? If I'd've known it'd be 'at easy I'd've spared meself the trip and jus' waited for a school day!'
Huckabee ignored the Welshman and instead turned his gaze on his partner. 'You alright?'
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Post by Ninety on Sept 19, 2011 20:46:47 GMT -5
"Not in the slightest, Daniel. I've got a little drummer boy banging on my brain from when my friend back here stopped pointing that pistol at me long enough to crack me over the head with it." Rance's eyes showed fire. "Really though, that just intensified the headache I've had since Red told me about the shit you pulled with Mistric."
The muscles in Rance's neck tensed and blood flushed his face. His blood pressure was rising. His hands kept working themselves into fists and his voice was grit and stone as he spoke.
"Where did I fit into your contingency plan, Daniel? Better yet, what is your contingency plan? Did it involve leading professional murderers to a school full of teenagers? Why didn't you let me in on this gambit when you knew damn well they'd go through me on their way to you?" His forehead shone with the beginnings of sweat.
"It's because you knew I'd stop you."
Rance took a step towards his partner of three years. The man who had saved Rance's life more than once and who had trusted his own life in Rance's hands.
"Let's go, Daniel. Don't let it end here."
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Post by ch00beh on Sept 19, 2011 23:55:36 GMT -5
"What?" Shana, and a dozen other kids, said aloud when Mr. Green told, no ordered, Tyler Brigham to sit back down. Their teacher stepped out of the door, and everyone could hear him talking to someone outside, but none of the kids moved from their seats except to give hushed whispers and nervous glances at one another.
"What was that all about?" Shana said. Paulie wasn't completely sure if that was directed at him since the girl was looking at the door.
"I... I don't know," Paulie replied. He turned away from Shana to glance at the slightly open door. He turned back. "You think Mr. Green's in trouble?"
Shana still wasn't looking at him. "Shh. I'm trying to hear what they're saying."
Paulie didn't say anything in reply and just looked back at door. He cocked his head to one side and strained to make out anything that his teacher had said. Since Mr. Green was so close to the door, he heard him ask if someone was alright, and he could hear someone with an accent yelling, too, but the yelling man didn't sound particularly angry. Then someone else was talking and... "Did someone out there say something about murder?"
Paulie looked back at Shana, who surprised him by being out of her seat. "What are you doing?" he hissed.
"I want to see what's going on."
Paulie watched the girl creep toward the door, and for a moment, he wasn't sure if he was admiring her courage, fearing for her safety, or berating himself for not being the brave one and standing up first, but before he could figure it out, he found himself getting out of his seat, taking light steps behind Shana.
Shana pulled the door a bit more open then peeked out, then suddenly pulled back and braced herself against the wall. Her eyes were opened as wide as they would go. "Oh my God one of them has a gun!" she managed to breathe out.
What.
Paulie was frozen in place, staring at that open gap between the door and the wall. A gun? His eyes must have been as wide as her's. He wanted to go back to his seat and wait for all this to be over. If the classroom wasn't on the second floor of the building, he would've considered jumping out the window.
Subconsciously, his stare shifted into a glance toward Shana. Wait. I can't be scared now. Even Shana had the guts to look out the door. If I sit and cry like a baby, then what will she think of me when all this is over? Because it's going to be over, and everything will be fine. There haven't been any gunshots yet, right? Maybe she's wrong about the gun...
Paulie managed to take a half step forward, breaking the fear-driven paralysis enough to take another step to place himself behind the wall. He crouched down a bit and peeked his head out.
Mr. Green was only a couple steps away from the door with his back to them. Their teacher was staring at a grungy looking guy who had both hands up. Behind that guy was an even sketchier looking guy with a gun.
Paulie flinched, but before he could pull back into the classroom in fear, he felt something warm pressing up against his back. Some of Shana's brown hair fell over the top of his vision as she peeked out over him. Can't run now...
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Sept 20, 2011 23:12:48 GMT -5
Sharp cackled. ‘Oh, ‘at’s rich, ‘at’s rich, mate. Yeh really thought you’d slip out all on your own, did yeh?! Danny, man, I tho’ yeh were the top!’ The assassin flexed his fingers around the grip of the Beretta, sight never trailing from the base of Rance’s skull. ‘Tsk, tsk,’ he clucked, ‘What’m I gonna do with you, eh?’
Daniel furrowed his brow. ‘Clearly Joyeuse doesn’t want me caught if they sent a worm like you to bring me in.’ He glanced at Rance, then back to Sharp. ‘What’s the matter, English? Colichemarde not hiring?’
Mickey smirked. ‘London’s lent me out to help clean up ‘is mess you made, chap. Guess ‘ey figured ‘ey didn’t ‘ave the personnel…’ Sharp cocked his head at Rance, ‘…to get the job done stateside.’ He chuckled to himself, scratching at his temple with his free hand. ‘Boy, Danny, I wanna know what you did to get Upstairs so fired up. Early retirement?’
‘Something like that.’
Sharp squinted at Huckabee. ‘Ah, yer full’a shit. Come on, ‘et’s ‘ave it. Wha’d you do, mate?’ He put his hand over his mouth in mock surprise, ‘Sleep with the boss’s secretary?’
Daniel rolled his eyes. ‘The Queen, actually.’
Now it was the Welshman’s turn to frown. ‘Careful, mate. Why don’t yeh listen to yer boyfriend ‘ere? Come on, let’s go see what Upstairs wants with yeh. You don’t wanna get any of yeh kiddos hurt, do yeh? Just walk on over and let’s go on back to the office.’
Daniel heard the breathy scratch of the doorknob turning behind him.
‘You know that’s not going to happen.’
‘Aw, too bad, mate. Hate to have to frighten the tots any more than we’ve gotta.’
Daniel threw his head back and laughed, a single, roaring guffaw. ‘You think I give a shit about these kids?!’ He held his arms out, palms up, waving to the deserted hallway of the school. ‘This is my cover, English. We’re all wolves here. We don’t get paid to feel. Strike one, asshole. You should know me better than that.’
Sharp clicked his tongue. ‘Look ‘ere, ma-‘
‘No, you look, English. You offend me. You embarrass me. I’ve been top-tier in this business for twenty god-damn years and they send a teenager to bring me in? Listen up, infant, and listen good, because that’s strike two. Better put on your thinking cap, kid, because I’m about to teach you a hard lesson in how to sweep Daniel Huckabee.’ He spat on the linoleum, hissing through his teeth. ‘Give a shit about these god-damn kids. You are out of your stupid little English mind.’
Sharp glared at Daniel. ‘That’s enough, you poxy li’l-‘ but the assassin wasn’t finished yet. ‘You want to sweep me? ME?!? Come on, then. Let’s see who’s got the stones here.’ He reached behind his back and grabbed the door that Shana Michaela had cracked and flung it wide open, whirling on his heel and snatching her by the arm, dragging her through the doorway and into the hall. The Glock in his waistband was now firmly pressed against her temple, and before she could scream, he had sidestepped out into the middle of the corridor, holding her trembling body in front of him like a shield. ‘There, see? Now we’re even. Time to learn, English. You’re gonna see just how much Daniel Huckabee cares about human life.’
Sharp’s eyes lit up. ‘Ah, fuckin’ right, mate! Oh, this is top. God, ‘ey told me you was gonna surprise me, and by golly, mate, you’ve done it, ‘aven’t yah!’ He took a step away from Rance, inching himself outwards into the hallway. ‘So what ‘appens now, old man? Eh? Gonna waltz out the door with ‘at pretty ‘ittle slice yeh’ve got there?’ His eyes tracked up and down Shana’s quivering body, and Daniel felt her body racking with quiet sobs.
‘Shut up, English. Here’s the stakes. I count to three, and on three, we clear the slate. I don’t need him,’ he tossed his head at Rance, ‘if I did, I’d have called him. You barked up the wrong tree on that one. I’m going this alone.’ He leveled his glare at Sharp. ‘How many shots you got on that Cougar, fifteen? Plus one in the hatch, right? Well, I’ve got seventeen in this Glock, so let’s remedy that.’ In one swift motion, Daniel shoved the gun against his hip and forced it down his thigh, racking the slide and ejecting a single brass bullet that clattered against the chipping tiles and skittered away. The gun returned to Shana’s head, prompting a second wave of trembling sobs. ‘See there? Sixteen and sixteen. So I count to three, and we waste them. I’ll do the girl, you do Bucky Barnes there. Then we go head-to-head.’
Mickey’s grin stretched across his entire face. His pointed teeth clicked together in delight. ‘My very own high noon… God love yah, mate. God love yah.’
Daniel didn’t smile. ‘You think you’re faster than me, English?’
The Welshman’s exhiliration melted into smug confidence. ‘We’ll see, won’t we, Danny boy?’ He steadied his grip on the Beretta, eyes shifting. He began to twist slightly on his toes, positioning himself in anticipation. Daniel remained planted, forearm pinning Shana to his chest like a vise.
‘One.’
Sharp stifled a chuckle, either from nervousness or giddiness.
‘Two’
Shana began to hyperventilate. Her mouth began to silently form the words nonononononononono. The silence in the hallway stretched out like a bowstring.
'Three.’
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Post by ch00beh on Sept 21, 2011 0:31:26 GMT -5
Paulie fell out the door as Mr. Green took Shana and ripped her into the hallway. He instinctively put his hands forward to brace his fall, catching himself hard on the linoleum floor right before he hit his head. What just happened?!?
Paulie pushed himself up and started to scoot back into the room, but as he craned his neck to see what was happening, he noticed that Mr. Green also had a gun and had the barrel pointed straight at Shana's head. For the second time in the past five minutes, Paulie was frozen in place. All he could manage to do was whimper, "M-Mr. Green?" in a barely audible tone.
His teacher didn't notice him and continued his yelling at the other man. At least, Paulie thought it was his teacher, but he was starting to have doubts. Mr. Green had always been a caring teacher. Strict toward slackers, but otherwise patient and understanding. This man couldn't have been him...
"Mr. Green?" Paulie said, louder this time as he pushed himself to his feet.
His teacher didn't even acknowledge the boy's presence. Instead he continued yelling at the other guys. "...So I count to three, and we waste them. I’ll do the girl, you do Bucky Barnes there. Then we go head-to-head."
What.
Was he serious? Was he really going to kill Shana and to start a shootout right here at school? Paulie took a half step back. No, this can't be happening, this has to be some kind of dream, right? Righ—
Her sobbing snapped him out of his thoughts. Mr. Green and the other man were still staring at each other, and they still had pistols in their hands. Shana's cheeks were covered in tears.
"‘You think you’re faster than me, English?"
"We’ll see, won’t we, Danny boy?"
This isn't happening.
"One."
He could hear her whimpering. "Oh God, I don't want to die, please Mr. Green, let me go, stop it, please, I just want to go home, oh God, please, please let me go..."
"Two."
"MR. GREEN!" Paulie leaped forward. He didn't have any kind of plan besides pushing Shana out of the psychopath's arms.
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Post by Ninety on Oct 1, 2011 22:46:49 GMT -5
Blood flowed to the limbs in racking pulses. Pupils dilated until the iris was but a breathy halo. Rance drew breaths in heaps. He'd been forcing his body to dump epinephrine into his system from the moment he saw Huck step out of the classroom. Many Joyeuse agents carried autoinjectors that they'd jab into their thigh before an operation but the best could do it naturally and with a more potent response than any pharmaceutical could hope to match. Rance's body was a powder-keg ready for a spark.
"Three."
Rance tore off to his right. The bullet tore off the bottom of his earlobe but Rance never even felt it. Every shred of his body was hell-bent on getting out of Huck's way as fast as possible.
Rance could still see the spent casing from Sharp's gun dangling in the air from a smoky thread.
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Oct 6, 2011 21:08:40 GMT -5
BANGANG
Huckabee fired his gun at very nearly the same instant that Sharp's gun went off, so close behind the Beretta's report that the two shots were virtually indistinguishable.
Sharp's head snapped back, a gout of bright red blood leaping from his temple and spattering the floor behind him. The assassin's eyes went wide, lost focus, and swam in their sockets. His fingers flexed, trembled, and lost their grip on the Beretta, sending it clattering to the tile at his feet. He blinked once, almost in disbelief, and raised his arm towards Huckabee, opening his mouth as if to speak. Blood poured down the side of his face and disappeared into the neck of his jacket. Then his knees buckled and he fell backwards, crumpling to the floor in a heap. He took in one rattling, gravelly breath, held it for a beat, and then it all escaped him in a whistling, deflating exhalation. He did not breathe again.
He missed?
Huckabee stood there, chest heaving, skin cold with adrenalin for what seemed like minutes before he felt Shana's elbows digging into his ribs and realized he still had her head locked in the iron grip of his elbow. He loosened up, and she ripped herself away from him with a howl, throwing herself towards the classroom Daniel had pulled her from. She fell against the wall, looked across the hall, and screamed at the top of her lungs as she saw the second body at Daniel's feet.
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