She finds her way inside rather easily, and again, she wonders at the lax security. She avoids a few guards armed with the typical submachine guns – Steyr TMP’s, Skorpions, even some KBP PP-90’s. She does not notice any of them carrying stunners, and only one looked to be equipped with a radio. She has been somewhat short in her recent attentions to her duties as the vigilante, but she’s still kept an eye on the flow of information, executing a few small missions that were likely too clandestine to have been noticed. This will be her first more overt operation in a while.
The ground floor had been partially opened up, making some sort of receiving area. She also spied a small, makeshift bar, which perhaps served as much for the security as the customers. She did not spend long there, not even seeing someone behind the counter.
Floor after floor, door after door, creeping along methodically, slowly, quietly, and yet, there proves little to no sign of anyone or any activity. She continues moving up, not liking the implied lack of her own safety this entails, but she is here now, and she knows there are children somewhere inside. She encounters her first fight as she waits to proceed to the fourth floor, one of the sentries walking out to the landing as she lurks in the shadows. He had been about to miss her, moving on past on his way down, but his lighter had not cooperated as he tried to flare up a cigarette, so he turned, moving more into the corner to perhaps avoid a draft, and the sudden illumination reveals a dark figure.
He startles, emitting a grunting noise of surprise, eyes going wide, freshly lit cigarette faltering, hindered in its descent by his lower lip then dropping free. Before it reaches the ground, she moves, lightning-quick, coming in as he grips his weapon, trying to aim. She dodges to his right, further away from the current trajectory of the barrel, reaching in to grab his hand, trying to keep him from pulling the trigger and raising the alarm.
She grabs his wrist, still moving, using her momentum to apply force, turning the guard. He tries to punch with his left hand, aiming for her face, but the strike is easily seen and avoided. Once she has him shifted, his right arm twisted and pushed up, she shoves him into the nearby wall. He cries out, a grunting noise more of anger than anything else, and she uses her left hand to pull out her stunner, giving it life with a press of a button, pressing the electrified prongs against him. His grunts become stuttered and strained emissions, his body taunt. She releases the button, quickly holstering the device and zip-tying the guard, pushing him down to his knees and using tape to rapidly wind a gag over his mouth.
It all happens very fast, but it is not silent, and she tenses, looking right as she hears a masculine voice calling out a name, likely trying to check on this very sentry. She pulls back, dragging the supine man with her, his eyes partially opened as he emits some weak protests or mere attempts to regain some focus on the moment. She gets back into the dark corner just as the other guard appears. He is wearing a tan beanie, eyes narrowed, trying to better see in the dim illumination, the barrel of his SMG also pointed. He hisses out another insistent call of his comrade’s name, then his eyes go wide. He sees a portion of a boot sticking out from the darkness, and just at that moment, Lilja also notices, springing forth from the shadow in ambush.
The guard cries out, backpedaling, turning, fleeing. Lilja curses silently, knowing this will undoubtedly raise a response. She catches the man quickly, twisting and sending out a low kick that trips him. He clambers to the ground with a loud racket, hoping to turn and use his weapon to fire on his attacker now that he is unable to escape, but she jumps on top of him, flattening him with a painful grunt. She looks up, another sharp movement of her covered head, as rapid footsteps reveal two more guards entering the hallway, both emerging from the same room, both raising their weapons and planting themselves in obvious readiness to fire. A quick glance at her near surroundings reveals, of course, closed doors. Are they locked? She has to make a decision, so she springs left, hands reaching out for the doorknob, turning it and barreling through just as the gunshots blare out in the hall. The guard on the ground yells, curling up and covering his head, though his protests are eclipsed by the spray of bullets. She gives a portion of her thoughts to whether or not he will end up shot, but bullets tearing into the doorjamb and causing a storm of wood splinters gives her more concern.
She slams the door closed, looking quickly for the locking mechanism, but there is not one. She backs away, aiming with her P90, holding herself low and steady, waiting. She hears noises outside the door, raised voices. She prepares to fire, but she also quickly takes stock of the room, and there is another doorway. She moves to it, fast and quiet, barrel of the P90 still pointed at the other door, and soon she is inside a very cramped bathroom. She turns, pointing outside the wash closet, waiting, and that is when the other door is banged open and a relentless barrage of bullets is unleashed into the room.
The firing stops after causing a great deal of damage. She can only imagine that the alarm has now been raised over the entire building and more guards must be convening on the area. These three would be smart to back off and wait or use grenades, if they have them. It seems they have neither small explosives nor sufficient intelligence, for after the sounds of reloading, they proceed somewhat carefully into the room.
They do at least fire up a torch, beaming the light into the room. She sees the carnage caused by the bullets, but a portion of the room goes left, having been spared, as has the bathroom. She waits, quietly, crouched low. Voices rise up, obviously noticing there is no corpse or even blood, and she wonders that they don’t fire again or vacate the small chamber. She hears the telltale sound of running, one of them obviously heading off for whatever reason.
Another comes into view then, having traversed the short distance from the doorway to being in the room proper, and just as she sees this movement, she fires, the weapon coughing out its suppressed rounds, and the man jitters, yelling, his legs hit several times. She moves slowly and smoothly forward, aim held steady, and though she hears and sees a reactionary fire from the other, he misses completely. She does not, and soon both are on the ground, whining and moaning and cursing, bleeding from multiple wounds in their legs. She does not stick around to bind their wrists or wounds.
She is back in the hallway, moving quicker, though still steady and careful, barrel of the P90 pointing the way. She doesn’t hear anyone. Either the guards are still en route, or they are waiting. She wonders why she hears no sounds of the children. The silence bothers her. And then, the loud crack of a gunshot reaches her ears, then shortly thereafter, another. These are not being fired at her, and she can tell they are coming from further down the hall and to the right, muffled somewhat by the walls. She picks up the pace, running now, heading to the source of the noise. Before she reaches the door, she hears the cries and screams, and she knows what is happening. She does not focus on it, does not let it claim too much of her attention or drive, else she might dissolve into anguish. But she knows.
The door, as with the other, is unlocked, and she opens it to yet another report of gunfire, and she emerges unto a scene of horror.
The room is dark, dank, a holding area for the children. The lights that illuminate the place are naked incandescent bulbs, low wattage, casting out in limited areas, giving contrast and shadow to others. The obvious remnants of meager bedding and thin, worn pillows occupy some space of the floor, the only consideration given to provide comfort for whatever sleep may be found within this nightmare.
Lying there are the bodies of the children, at least four of them, all freshly murdered when bound and gagged. Two guards are inside, one nearer to the door. The other, the executioner, is further away, a pistol in his hand. They both look like the other guards she has encountered; neither showing any sort of sign of sadistic enjoyment, but their grim determination tells her much.
The killing one sees her first, and he turns, shouting, raising the handgun. She fires, P90 sputtering out several bullets, and they rip into his torso, center mass. He falls without fi
ring another shot. The other begins raising his submachine gun. Instead of shooting, she lunges toward him, a flare of anger rising in her eyes.
She kicks the gun aside. It is ripped from his hands, the unused strap dangling below it now wrapping about the weapon as it clatters to the ground some feet away. He lunges out with his right fist, but she power blocks it along with a dodging motion, turning her fist to open fingers and grabbing his wrist, moving, creating an arm-bar. She then delivers a sharp punch to the elbow, snapping it in its hyper-extended state. The guard cries out, yelling in pain. Still holding the now broken arm, she turns quickly, using her low center of gravity, smashing the man against the nearby wall, face first, adding extra force by pressing his head with her other hand at the moment of collision.
He emits more stunted protests, blood emerging from his face. She stabs out a sharp, quick kick to the back of his knee, producing another yell of pain, shoving him to the ground, forcing him to land on his back, getting over him and repeatedly pounding into his face with her fist. Each rapid, powerful jab is accompanied by a nigh animalistic grunt on her part, lips parted and clenched teeth borne behind the covering, until she cries out loudly on the last.
She then gets up, aiming the P90 at his bloody face, the guard barely conscious, struggling with respiration. She holds her intent, torqued to this one moment, gloved finger on the trigger, then she realizes what is happening.
A blink, a barely noticeable tremble, and she is past it, finger moved away from its deadly place. She turns, rapidly, pointing the barrel at the door, and she listens. She now hears the approach of others, many, rushing down the hall in this direction. She imagines the other staircase is also being used, or is watched. She glances at the covered windows and decides on another option.
The furnace nearby is bolted. Good. The window is easily unlocked and quickly cranked open. She unzips the pouch at the back of her combat harness, retrieving the tactical rope, pulling the loop to the side to unravel the length. She attaches the end to the furnace, then affixes the lead to her belt, throwing the bulk of it out into the night, then hurriedly getting through and rappelling down. She moves with experience, going out and down several meters before coming back, booted feet connecting gently with the building’s surface before flexing her legs and pushing back out to drop further, being sure to bypass the other windows as she goes. She aids the travel with her left hand, fist gripped about the rope, moving it out and in to control the pace of her descent.
She is on the ground in seconds, unhooking, looking up. She hears raised voices. They have seen her, or at least seem to know how she has escaped. They do not fire any careless bullets down at her. She leaves the rope, of course, moving away and into nearby shadows, watching, waiting. She will not give them long, just passing a moment to process and assess the situation. She knows where her transportation awaits, on the other side of the building and a short distance away. She looks about, eyes bright within the black paint and balaclava covering her head and face. She sees a decent enough path, and she is off, moving quickly, returning to her motorcycle with no further impediment.
The mission has been a failure. It is very likely not a coincidence that those poor children were killed when she was there. There is much to process, and unlike formal operatives, she has to handle the debriefing herself as best she can. She fires up her bike, knowing she needs to get home safe before she has to face what she has encountered this night.
*****
“You are right, Mister Felcraft. My employers do know you.”
“It’s David, Signor. Just David.”
“And I am Gaspare.”
The two share a friendly smirk, and David raises his paper cup in response to the same from Duilio. They are sitting at the same place where they ‘met’, though the open lot is now shrouded in gloaming. David had indeed contacted him, surprising Duilio with a phone call to his motel room. In retrospect, it should have not been unexpected. The Interpol man had agreed to meet for some coffee and further talk.
“The Demon’s no longer here,” David informs after a couple of swallows from his brew.
Duilio is noticing in their very limited time together that the man is not only a fan of sugar but also goes quite quickly through coffee and cigarettes. He had offered Duilio a small, brightly wrapped chocolate, possessed of a pocketful of the candies. Duilio had declined, merely watching as the man munches through them.
He is slender, so it does not seem that his choice of consumptions is causing him to gain weight, but who knows in what else such habits may result? Duilio glimpses the notable signs of strength, firm, lean muscle of the forearms revealed by the rolled up shirt sleeves, in addition to which is the obvious experience and steel in his eyes and hands.
He just nods to the statement, figuring it is true, and there would be little reason to lie to him.
“What have you found out?” he asks, raising his chin a bit, looking out at the Italian beneath the brim of a different, though equally well-worn ball cap.
“Not much, I am afraid. I have done the usual thing, asking around, checking the police files.”
“And?” David leads.
“They do not paint the complete picture.”
The other man nods, slowly.
“The people are scared. They know something very bad happened, but they don’t fully understand what that was,” Duilio muses, reaching into his jacket pocket for his pack of cigarettes, though he just sets them on the wooden tabletop, then he fixes his eyes on his companion. “They are not used to such things here.”
“Who is?” David snorts out a short string of chuckles.
“I had thought you might be … well, hoped, really.”
David gives the man another smirk. “Not as much as you might reckon,” he says, then unwraps another chocolate, cellophane crinkling, before he pops it in his mouth, chewing. “I’ve got a decent amount of experience hunting them, relatively speaking, but we’re glad they aren’t overrunning our world enough for us to be bagging too many of them, know what I mean?”
“I do. Yes.”
David chases the morsel with the rest of his coffee, then sets the empty cup on the table, throwing the few wrappers in it before finding a cigarette for himself. He lights up, again offering his flame to Duilio, who accepts. The two sit in silence, smoking.
“I’ll be leaving soon.”
“Oh?” Duilio peers at the man, neither wearing their sunglasses as the dark continues creeping over the dwindling sky. “May I ask when?”
“Maybe tonight,” David answers, looking around, as though assessing the situation, “Tomorrow morning at the latest.”
“Tonight?”
“Maybe. It’s not here, but I’ve found the trail. I don’t want it to get cold. I’m really only sticking around for you.”
Duilio blinks at this, healthy eyebrows rising even higher.
“Me? Why me?”
David exhales a thick stream of smoke. “To see if we’re working together or not.”
A moment passes.
“And what if we are not?”
David looks at the other for a short time, then slowly tucks his shoulders up in a shrug. “Then I’d kindly warn you away. Not as a threat from me but for your own safety. You’ll either be on the wrong trail, and it won’t matter to me, and you’ll have to deal with disappointing the Malkuths on your own,” he levels, his casual tone belying the implicit risk of such as that, “Or if you are on the trail, you’ll be near me, and I’d rather you be working with me instead of getting in the way.”
“I am not trying to hinder you, Mister Fel-,” he begins, and the other perks eyebrows, “David.”
“Oh, I know, Gaspare, I know, but I am trying to look out for your safety.”
“Thank you.” Duilio smiles a touch more, emitting a light chuckle.
“I’d just as soon you be out of here, entirely. It’d be better for you, but you do work for the Malkuths.”
Duilio waits, thinking more is c
oming. He looks at David, the man content to gaze away and up into the colorful sky, enjoying his cigarette. Duilio wonders what all is implied by the statement. He supposes it may intend as a reminder of not only who he works for but what it may also suggest of him to have such an employer.
“So,” David resumes, “If you’re going to be here, doing your job, then we might as well benefit from each other.”
“I suspect you will be on the short end of that stick, no?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” David answers, beginning it as though with humor but quickly turning it to something serious, “You’re the Interpol man. I’m a Hunter. I’ve dealt with people, but I don’t have the … savvy or sensitivity that someone like yourself does, capisce?”
Duilio nods, noting irony there. “I think I do, but how much talking with people do you think this will involve? And you are probably more trustworthy to the locals, hmm?”
“Maybe, but like I said, unless you’re planning to go in another direction and report failure back to the Malkuths, I’d rather us work together. I’d make me feel a lot better, and whether or not you realize it, it’d make you feel a lot better, too.”
David turns, leaning forward, drilling his gaze into the other man, inhaling deeply on his cigarette, lips pressing inward. Duilio is drawn to the flaring tip, watching as it burns down until the other pulls it from his mouth, depositing it in the empty cup.
“I think it would make me feel better, too, and ...,” he adds, “I was … uhm … encouraged to do so by my employer.”
“Well, that’s a plus for them,” David easily assesses, then stands, stretching. “I think I’ll head out tonight, then. Will you be keeping that rental?”
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