May 19, 2001
11:05 P.m.
The Burger Shack, Brownsville, Texas
“Fred. I told you to use three pounds of C4. That was five.”
“Was it now? Hm. Seems I might have forgotten to reset the scale before I used it.”
“How do you forget to reset a scale?”
“I’m used to the old fashion ones.”
The two men sat in the eight cylinder, modified Ford Falcon GT painted a midnight black in perpetual boredom, though they could be as different as shades of gray can be. The driver, a Spaniard with too much time in England who was known by his regal name of Fred C. Dornez, was the butler to the soldier currently causing a ruckus as he sipped at a strawberry milkshake. Older, aging, and clearly past his prime, he was the eldest of the merry musketeers and looked it in every way, from the graying hairs in his lung mullet tied as drooping pony tail to the monocle he wore over his right eye on his wrinkly face. Still, he was simply happy to be alive, or whatever state you could call his existence at the moment.
Trevor Daines was quite different, while still proving some similarities. Nearly half the age of the butler, he was far more destroyed and crippled; a nasty bomb had taken an arm and his right leg, besides destroying an eye (a mutual trait between the three). Granted, he was the least likely to be discovered with such impairments as he tried hard to hide them; a beret covered his straw blond hair, a steel prosthetic leg thick enough to pass off organic, and the aviator glasses covered his eyes both day and night. His missing arm, with the sleeve of his collared shirt stapled at the shoulder and covered by a long brown trench coat, was the only thing obvious about his hurt state ruined so many years ago, the primary reason why he was so moody and angry after so many years.
Or maybe the rage came from the fact he had to settle for a chocolate milkshake instead of a vanilla. “How’s your kid doing?”
“Which one?”
“Hades. John. Whatever he calls himself these days.”
“John Constantine Moore, I believe. He’s well, though stressed; it’s not in his nature to lose a war on purpose.”
The side passenger chuckled, a rare treat. “Not even the French like to lose a war after all this time. Better man than me.”
“Better man than us. We wouldn’t be here playing taxi if we were.”
“Psh. Why do I get the feeling we would?” Trevor asked, sipping. “You’re counting us out, Fred. We aren’t here because we’re bad; we’re here because we’re brave.”
“Brave or stupid?”
“Is there a difference?” Trevor bitterly remarked, only to see the helicopter in the air shift as its sniper fell over from a bean bag.
“Boss is on point tonight.”
The butler clicked his tongue in agreement. “That was a two hundred foot shot hit with a sawed off shotgun? That’s a miracle, Trevor.”
“Miracles aren’t miracles if they happen every day, even if they’re amazing. Otherwise, everyone would be religious.”
The butler turned his head, his monocle shifting in delight. “Good to find you commenting on philosophy for once.”
“I’m just a business man stating the numbers. Nothing more, Fred.”
The conversation was cut short as the two heard the roar of a machine and the burning of tires, their car shaking as some behemoth seemed to run down the beach near them. Before either could suggest what it was, another specter came to surprise them; Jack and Max, running like the phantoms they were called and heading straight towards them, able to make out the car before the driver and his passenger could notice them.
What had them spooked would have to wait. Jack nearly ripped off the door as he got into the back, Max squeezing in before him and settling into a kennel built into the space that was once the middle seat in the back row as he began to whine, his tail between his legs as he curled into a ball. Anything that had him spooked was bad; everything that scared Jack was even worst, especially as he yelled “GO!”
The butler, the only one with two working eyes though he needed a monocle for one of them, obeyed. With the slam of his foot, the waiting car zoomed forward and out of the parking lot, tires screeching as it made a sharp turn and started to head away from the beach, a brief scorched trail left in its wake as the burning asphalt cried from the duress of the car that ran across it.
None of which registered on the driver or the passenger. Daines, ever the stressed out manager, looked at his panicked boss searching the gun cabinet hidden within his dog’s crate as he asked “You’re ten minutes early. What the hell happened?”
The explosion of a building at their side was the answer, an actual tank rupturing from a belly of a closed office building taken from a family of illegal immigrants. Crashing into the ground, the familiar roar erupted from it as the dog began to whine again, all too familiar with the sounds and rumbles of the mechanized assault vehicle.
It was no standard M2 Bradley. The tank, more common in the Middle East than Latin America, should not have had the speed or maneuverability to follow the V8 interceptor screeching across the road at breakneck speed, the car turning hard and crossing multiple lanes as it made a right. That it managed to stay in their line of sight at all was the evidence that it was custom made… all of which the informed Trevor repeated for his compatriots.
“A M2A3? Are you kidding me, Boss? You managed to pist off the Americans so much they sent a M2A3? Those are still supposed to be in the training phase; I haven’t heard of any outside of California until tonight!”
“You mean the American’s are mass producing tanks… that can outrun muscle cars?”
The tank, only a few dozen feet behind, made its desire to be part of the conversation clear. The main cannon, too surly to line up a shot and trying to avoid collateral damage to the so called honest Americans who lived in Brownsville, couldn’t make the shot to take them out. As such, the pursuing tank resorted to its turret, the hatch on top thrown up as a man with a top popped out of it, his identity hidden and revealed by the mask he wore.
A silver plate with a black handlebar mustache painted over where the lips were hidden beneath. If Trevor was aggregated before, he was absolutely livid now as he reached into the compartment hidden beneath his seat, his good hand searching as his mouth ran with the car forced to take a left to dodge the onslaught of automatic machine fire.
“Robber Barons. The fetching Robber Barons are trying to kill us now. We’ve officially hit the big leagues, Boss!”
“While I’m confident we’ll come out of his alive,” Fred announced, ducking left again and heading towards the beach in the hope that the tank struggling to find a way across the row of storage buildings they managed to sneak through would lose them. His faith failed to produce fruit; the tank opted to blow open a shed, running over its remains with its high powered tracks as it’s mounted machine gun opened fire again, just missing the rim of the car as it took another turn and ran up the boardwalk of the long dirty beach. “It’s a bit concerning that the Robber Barons are after us. Do you think they know your secret, Boss, or are simply trying to further their hold on the government?”
“The latter.” Damned Boss, the former codename of the man now retired from such insanity, replied. Finding a rifle with a grenade launcher, it was the strongest thing he could muster as Trevor revealed a machine pistol, useless against the vehicle following save to make a distraction. As the two men unrolled their windows, Jack continued “No one in the Robber Barons knows who Jack Wallace is… at this point, I don’t think they would care if they did. Their goal is to simply fill the vacuum filled by their predecessors… nothing more.
“Trevor. We need to escape; aim forward and blow out street lights… it’ll at least make it harder to hit us.”
“On it.” The crack shot replied, his one arm hanging out the window and opening fire. True to the command, a row of lights nearly up to a mile in front of them all began to go out, the automatic pistol making short wor
k of them as the tank appeared again. Seemed the Boss was right; it took a whole additional four seconds before the machine gunner began to open fire again, the shells coming close as Fred took a hard right and began to head inland again.
This time they had a plan. The exit ramp to get on the highway suspended on a bridge over the normally calm city loomed in the distance, a clear way out and a way to push their speedster to its max. If they could simply make it on, outrunning the tank would be little issue.
Especially if they blew up the road behind them.
“Fred…”
“Understood, but you need to do something about that gunner, Boss! I can keep making turns, but it may decide to blow out the road before we’re on it if it figures out where we’re heading. Without that turret, we’ll have the chance to head straight on.”
“Good… stay around the area then. Don’t go far… all I need is a minute.”
The rifle wasn’t the only thing the soldier clad in assault gear was looking for. Finding a grapple, the man hooked himself in by the belt as he kicked out to the side door, forcing it open too early as it took a bullet through its leather, Fred making a turn again just as the speeding tank found them. Ignoring the damage as Trevor cursed it, the man threw his hand up and flipped himself upwards, finding himself on the roof of the car and facing the vrooming beast following them, his red lens locking in with the silver mask of the Centurion aiming for them.
He just managed to lock himself into the small hook attached to their roof when Fred nearly threw him off, making a hard turn as to close the door Jack had opened. Fine by the soldier; he felt comfortable from the top of the car as he took a knee, trying for some stability as the mercenary brought his rifle to his shoulder.
One shot was all he needed; as the loud beast made the turn and showed himself once again, the experienced veteran didn’t hesitate to pull the trigger as the barrel attached to his rifle exploded, nearly blowing the weapon from his hands as the ball launched itself from the attachment. Flying through the air, it proved the contest and brought the conflict to an end as it crashed into its target and exploded, the Power armor used by the Centurions still unable to block a direct blast of a grenade.
Seems he wasn’t the only one affected; as the immediate fire consumed what hadn’t been immediately blown open by the explosive, it spread to the inner passages of the tank. It lurched to the side, making one final cry as it ran over a fence and crashed into the side of what seemed to be Brownsville’s DMV, stuck in what was the testing center in what was going to make a trip to hell even worst for those seeking a license tomorrow as it was lodged in the heart of the building.
Not a part of Jack’s plan… but there was no such thing as a war without collateral damage. Feeling the gravity shift as his grapple became taught, the car heading up the incline sped up the ramp to get onto the highway leading towards the Western United states, the soldier simply waited for a better chance to flip himself back into the car as he grabbed the walkie talkie on his belt, making use of the short wait as he made the call lingering in the back of his mind ever since he blew the gate.
“El Phantasmo… How’d it go, Carlos?”
“Whatever you did got los gringos off our backs. All clear; all off safely. As you say in your movies, mission accomplished.”
That was a phrase that never got old. Crushing the radio in his hand, he threw the pieces of it away and to the trail of smoke they left behind as the soldier looked to the heavens, thoughtful as he uttered his personal prayer. Another step closer to his kingdom, one more piece laid.
“Yeah… Mission accomplished.”
Times of Peace: Volume 1 of the side adventures to The Mercenary's Salvation Page 3
