NationStates Jolt Archive

"The Initiative" Chapter 1 By Bolol (Warning: Long Post)

23-07-2005, 17:38
A few days ago I created a thread on creative writing, and said I was working on a new project. Well, chapter 1 is finished, and I would like it if you guys read it and gave me some feedback.

DISCLAIMER: This story is ficticious and any relation to any real life person or scenario is a coincidence...This story features graphic content, reader discression is advised...The scenario and all characters are the property of Bolol.



A limo pulled up to the curb just outside a beautiful mansion. It was roughly 21:30 hours on a cool spring night in northern France. That’s all most knew anyway, meetings like these were always secluded, and certainly not public knowledge. Only the first and finest would attend. Good breeding, a healthy smile and a bursting pocket book. A dark skinned man, likely African descent sat in the limo and gazed into a mirror, hoping he at least looked the part. Expensive black suit, fine cologne, a genuine Rolex, and an impeccable air of confidence…should work. He grabbed a comb, brushed his long black hair back one last time, and then tied it into a ponytail.

“You done getting’ pretty yet Soothsayer?” A man who sat next to him asked. He had a slight Irish accent and had an eerie calm about his voice. He wore a black turtleneck under a black overcoat covering a concealed Glock 26 9mm. Black slacks and black boots covered a concealed CZ 95 .25 caliber pistol. He wore sleek black sunglasses and a black beret over his scruffy black hair. In his attaché case, a 9mm MP5K and a satellite phone for emergency use. He certainly looked the part of a bodyguard with a severe weed up his ass.

“Cal, shut up, my work is art you know that.” The dark skinned man said. He had an odd Russian accent in his voice but it seemed to have a kind of elegance about it. Hopefully the guests inside will pick up on that and the team wouldn’t have to call him in. The dark skinned man, or “Soothsayer” as his colleagues called him affectionately picked up a walkie-talkie from the seat and spoke into it. “Alright. We’re heading in. All set?”

“I got a good angle here…” A female voice said over the radio. “Kinda nippy though.” Soothsayer smiled and nodded, understanding her predicament. A second, filtered voice, possibly through a gas mask, came over the radio.

“This is unit two, I stand ready.”

The limo driver popped in “Yeah this is your captain speaking, I’m all set…”

A kind, feminine voice, right next to the driver piped in “I’m good. Take care you two.” Soothsayer couldn’t help but smile at that woman’s voice, the voice of a woman he had been involved with for the past few months.

The driver came back on “Yeah, when this is over, I’m buying you two a hotel room, this is getting’ ridiculous!” With that, Soothsayer keyed the radio and switched it off. He looked to the Irishman to his left and nodded. Both men exited the limo and walked to the entrance of the mansion.

Upon reaching said entrance the guard politely raised his hand in a “halt” motion and asked for invitations: standard procedure to keep the wrong people away from the right people. Soothsayer presented his invitation to the guard while another frisked his Irish “bodyguard”, discovering the two pistols he had concealed. The guard spoke in the standard polite yet strong voice.

“Okay sir, the invitation is in order. However I must ask that your bodyguard deposit his weapons at the security station just ahead. Is there anything in the case?”

Soothsayer nodded and the Irishman opened the case, revealing nothing more than a laptop computer. The guard smiled and nodded.

“Very good. The deposit box is just ahead. Welcome to La Roche’ Manor.”

The Irishman closed the attaché case and together with Soothsayer walked past the guards and entered the mansion. As the men were told, a deposit box was found just two feet from the door. The Irishman sighed, and reluctantly removed the two pistols on his person, and placed them in the box. ‘Armand’s got some explaining to do when I get back.’ Soothsayer gave the “bodyguard” a friendly pat on the back and motioned to the party ahead. The men proceeded through the corridor to a pair of doors, which when parted, revealed a Victorian ballroom, filled with guests. A small band in the corner played some old French piece, as guests of all stripe talked, danced, and drank. Soothsayer noted how well lit the ballroom seemed to be, considering the company. He shrugged it off, assuming that while many of guests were they, they couldn’t all be.

“I’m going to get a drink, just stay with me Cal.”

The Irishman, Cal, nodded slightly and followed Soothsayer to the bar, where he promptly asked for a glass of Vodka. The dark-skinned man gingerly sipped at the strong beverage. “Can I get something for your man?” Asked the bartender.

Cal’s expression did not seem to change. “Water…cold…” The bartender shrugged and poured a glass of water, plopping 3 or 4 ice cubes into it. Cal smiled faintly, took the glass from the man and downed it in a second. The bartender winced at the potential brain-freeze. Cal twitched.

“Keeps me awake…less addictive than coffee…”

The bartender shrugged again, and simply went back to work, mindlessly cleaning a drying the same glass over and over, until another customer arrived. After a few minutes, Soothsayer finished his glass of Vodka and tipped the man behind the table. He nodded to Cal, and they were up again, walking about, pretending as if they had a purpose.

Soothsayer scratched his right ear with his left hand and spoke into the hidden microphone in his sleeve.

“Beginning confirmation procedure”

Back in the limousine, the driver received Soothsayer’s message. “Acknowledged, good hunting.” The driver keyed another frequency and spoke to the rest of the team. “Red? You okay out there in the cold? You were complaining earlier.” The voice that responded was that of a cheerful woman. “You try lying in a prone position with a 17 pound rifle in the snow for hours…”

The driver smirked. “Cry me a river…Hey…’He-Of-No-Soul’, you alive out there?” The same deep, filtered voice came over the radio.


“Good to hear.” The driver turned to the woman next to him. “You good?” The woman smiled warmly and nodded. “Okay…Hopefully your boyfriend can take care of business inside with little trouble.”

Back in La Roche’, Soothsayer began to formulate a plan. His task seemed simple enough; he had drilled the mansion plans into his head for the past few days. All he needed to do was make it upstairs (first part was always easy), head to the east corridor, through a secure area, down an elevator (secret of course) into the basement, down a flight of stairs just to his left, past a retinal scanner (just needed a “volunteer”), and into the target area to confirm.

After that, things got fun…

Soothsayer looked to Cal and spoke softly. “Okay, take care of business, try to help out as best you can, make sure you pick the right one.” Cal nodded swiftly, and soon Soothsayer was walking casually towards the stairs, grabbing a Martini off a waitress’ tray on the way.

Seeing that Soothsayer’s plan was underway, Cal brought up his watch and checked the TZ-38 dispenser attached to its side.

‘Guaranteed to cause sudden and severe projectile vomiting within 30 seconds…great…’

Cal sighed and looked for another bartender, one that he hadn’t already had contact with; that would seem suspicious. His eyes landed upon a female behind a table, scribbling something onto a piece of paper. ‘That’ll do…’ Cal’s eyes began moving once more. ‘Just need to find one overconfident punk who’s easy to impress…’ His eyes stopped on a guest, an Asian man who wore a traditional Samurai sword on his belt. ‘Perfect.’ Straightening himself out, Cal turned and walked to the female barkeep and smiled warmly, and with his best “Irish Gentleman” voice he could muster, spoke, “Evenin’ lass!”

The woman responded in kind. “Hiya! What can I get you?”

Cal held two fingers, “A Scotch on the rocks for meself…and a warm Sake’ for a friend of mine. You got Sake’ don’t cha?” The woman smiled. “Of course!” With that, the woman reached under the table and produced a small bottle of Sake’, pouring it into a shot glass. She looked up, but soon grimaced.

“Aw, damn. Scotch is in the back. Can you wait a sec?” Cal smiled warmly. “Take your time lassie!”

The woman nodded, turned and walked into the back room. ‘Take as much time as you need…’ Cal reached for his watch, brought it to the Sake’ on the table, turned the dial a notch clockwise, and dispensed a drop of clear fluid from a small hole in the side. ‘TZ-38…nasty shit…’ No more than two minutes later, the female bartender returned with a flask of Scotch and poured the Irishman a glass on the rocks. Cal smiled. “Thank ye!” and grabbed the tray with the drinks. He turned on his heels and walked to the Asian gentleman with the sword.

Meanwhile, Soothsayer was upstairs looking over the balcony to the party room below, nursing the Martini he had lifted on his way up. He looked around, acting as if he were nothing more than an innocent “people-watcher”. He nodded his head along with the rhythm of the band below and smiled, seemingly enjoying himself. Out of the corner of his eye he could see where he needed to go. It was the east wing of second floor, and as he continued to look, he found to door to the “secure area”. It seemed easy enough, but the guard was the issue that needed to be taken care of.

Soothsayer casually brought his head about and looked down the east corridor, and peered at the guard, noticing the notched earring on his left ear.

‘He’s one of ‘em…Low station but one of ‘em…’

Soothsayer had an ace in the hole though; he knew the guard’s superiors would be none too happy if one of the guests suddenly became violently ill. Hopefully, this career-minded individual would step in at the right time, and give Soothsayer an opening.

But knowing that the correct distraction took time, and knowing that he literally had all night to accomplish the mission, the dark-skinned man relaxed, and continued people watching and thinking. ‘I wonder what they keep on the west corridor of this floor…’

Cal was weaving about the various guests, trying to act as “dignified” as possible as he made his way to the target. He was about 3 feet from the man…

“Hello sir!” Cal said in impeccable Japanese.

The gentleman with the sword turned from what he was doing and looked to the Irishman that was approaching him.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

Cal smirked. “I had just noticed that you were armed.”

The man chuckled slightly. “That I am. You are familiar with the Japanese sword?”

“I studied for several years under a master in Okinawa.” A true fact that Cal was rather proud of…

“Ah! What style?”

“Style? I don’t care for styles. I practiced the art of the blade for the sake of it.”

“Hmm…Unorthodox…But what is life but one big unorthodoxy?”

“So true.” Cal glanced at the blade, trying to think of something to say next. “That thing battle-ready?”

“Battle tested, my friend!”

“No shit! Well remind me not to piss you off in the near future” Cal twitched for a second…just barely. ‘Wrong thing to say considering what you’re about to do…idiot.’ Cal recovered and continued the conversation. “Well, I just felt I’d treat you to a drink, complimenting your ‘fashion sense’.”

The man chuckled and eyed the Scotch. “You must be psychic, who’d have though you’d guess my favorite drink!”


Cal twitched again…just barely. “You uh…you prefer Scotch to Sake’?”

The man nodded. “I was over at the Isles for a few months, must’ve acquired the taste.”

The Irishman shrugged calmly. “Another thing you and I have in common, eh?” In his mind however, his mind was racing…’What…the fuck! Okay think…Well…I knew the risks when I signed on…’

Cal smiled and continued. “Well in that case, why don’t you have the Scotch, I have the Sake’? Haven’t had it in years anyway.”

“Very good!” The Japanese gentleman took the glass of Scotch and Cal grabbed the Sake’, which was currently laced with something three times nastier than Syrup of Ipecac. The men clanked glasses together and downed the drinks.

‘I am getting overtime for this…’

Cal smiled and sighed as contently as he could, nodding to the gentleman in front of him. In ten seconds the chemicals had hit his stomach. In fifteen they began to react with his stomach acids. At twenty the nausea had hit full force. Before he succumbed to the TZ-38, he bellowed at the top of his lungs to the female barkeep.

“Bitch, what did you put in that Sake’!?”

His partner had been given his signal…

Soothsayer grimaced. ‘Bad luck for you old boy…’ As long as it provided a distraction it would work. He turned to the guard down the eastern corridor and yelled in French, “There’s someone very sick down there!” The guard, being the career-minded individual that he was, ran over to the railing to take a look. Sure enough, there was a man, dressed completely in black, puking his guts out and ruining an Asian gentleman’s suit.

“Marde’!” The guard cursed. He grabbed his walkie-talkie, uttered an order in French, and ran down the stairs to assist. Soothsayer yelled down that he was going to get help, and then ran down the east hallway to the secure door. He produced a paperclip from his pocket, warped it, and picked the lock. ‘Primitive, but effective.’

In less than sixty seconds it was done; Soothsayer was in, and guards and physicians were attending to Cal, oblivious to the infiltration.

The driver’s ears perked up when he heard the buzz. He shook off the cobwebs of a long night and picked up the receiver. The two most comforting words came in through the other end; “I’m in.”

The two in the cabin mentally sighed in relief. The driver’s voice broke their silence. “So Cal’s idea of a distraction worked?”

“…Er…Well not quite…”

The driver’s shoulders slumped. “You mean…?”


The woman’s sympathetic voice piped in. “Poor baby…”

“He’s tough, he’ll be fine. Just check in with the others, I’m moving onward.”

The driver switched frequencies. “Red, He-Of-No-Soul, you okay?”

A woman’s voice, “I’m good.”.

A man’s deep growl, “Yes…”

The driver nodded, switched off the frequency, and continued monitoring radio traffic…and finishing his crossword puzzle.

Back in the secure area (which looked no different from the rest of this Victorian nightmare) Soothsayer tiptoed his way down the hall, looking for any sign of a concealed wall or door.

He remembered “his” plan. Find the hidden elevator, take it down to the basement, take a set of stairs directly to his left, circumvent the retinal scanner, confirm the target, and then “deal with it”.

“Getting past guards and guests are no problems…doors…you can’t fool doors…”

Soothsayer reached out and ran his hand across the hallway, searching for a crease, a crack, anything that would reveal a secret passageway. He came to a nondescript door.


The man creaked open the door and peered inside, finding a bedroom furnished with fine pine furniture, a fireplace, ornate bed with satin sheets and a large plasma television. He entered the room and began his systematic search. He ran his hands on every wall, searched behind every large photograph and painting, fiddled with every piece of architecture. Upon reaching the bookcase he pulled a random book from its frame, waiting for a reaction.

‘Always works in the movies…’

Soothsayer studied the book closer…

‘Interview with the Vampire…oh that’s funny…’

Ignoring this interesting irony he returned the book to its place and continued with his search; randomly pulling on other books, shifting statuaries left and right, the like. Upon realizing that his efforts in this room were in vain, he corrected any inconsistencies he caused, then walked out the room, carefully closing the door behind him…


Soothsayer spun on his heels and faced a confused guard that had just come from further down the hallway.

“Monsieur? What are you doing here? This area is off limits to guests.”

Soothsayer acted quickly.

“There’s a very sick man in the party room. I rushed down here, found the doors upon. I came in to find some more help. This guy’s really chucking.” A pause. “Wait, why didn’t you hear about it?” He said, pointing to the guard’s radio.

“The guards in this area work on a different frequency than those in the ballroom. But if what you say is true, let us help out in whatever way we can.”

Soothsayer smiled and gestured down the hallway to the party, “After you sir.” He noted the notched earring on his left earlobe.

Without hesitation the guard walked past Soothsayer towards the door. Soothsayer turned to walk with him. He flexed the muscles in his right wrist, extending a syringe from his cuff. In a flash the man reached forward with his left hand, grabbed the guard’s jaw, jammed his head to the left, exposing the right-corroded artery. He then sprang his right hand forward, pierced the skin with the syringe, and plunged the chemical into his bloodstream.


The effect was almost instant. The guard’s legs gave way and he slumped to the floor like linguini. Soothsayer extracted the needle and sheathed it. He looked to his left, noting the door that he had not yet checked. The dark man reached down and heaved the guard up, dragging him to the doorway. He creaked it open…a closet…no entrance or exit.

‘Where did this guy come from…?’

Soothsayer was about to dump the guard there when something caught his eye. A mop. Not a particularly odd item to be found in a closet. But then again…a broom in a closet…a broom in a dirty old closet. Why did it look like it had never been used once? And why was it bolted to the floor?

Soothsayer’s instincts hit him. He reached out with his free hand and yanked on the pole of the mop. A loud “clank”, then the sound of gears filled the cramped space. The stone wall to the north of him grated away, revealing a pristine elevator.

“Hmm…I’d call it clever…”

Soothsayer looked at the guard that was now slumped unconscious in his arms.

“Well…can’t leave him here in such a high traffic zone.”

Soothsayer exited the closet, dragged the guard to the bedroom, and deposited him in the vanity, locking the bolt. Regaining his “composure”, he returned to the closet, stepped onto the elevator, and descended.

Things are routine for the Operator Crew on these sorts of missions. They sit in their vehicle, often for hours at a time, watching the chronometer tick away. They would occupy themselves with tasks such as monitoring radio traffic in the area, researching obscure facts on their adversaries, and frequently checking up on each other.

Descartes’, “Operator 1” and unofficial team driver would occupy himself with his own wit, or when things got really boring, a newspaper in the local tongue.

Eliza Rang, “Operator 2” and “Auntie” of the team would lend her ears to the radio, and constantly monitor the life signs of her field operatives. She was their guardian angel, and would spring into action in a second. She would talk with Descartes’ when she got bored.

The Support Crew had a rougher time. They were forced to endure harsher climates, away from the air-conditioned goodness of a van, or in this case a limousine. In the case of Marian Tykes, call sign “Lady Red”, team sharpshooter, her burden was lying prone for hours on end with a heavy rifle, regardless of the weather. Rain or shine, sleet or sun, she would be out there, ready to put a full metal jacket slug into anyone who fucked with her or her team. She would keep herself occupied covertly; in one earpiece she listened into team communications…the other, heavy metal.

And then there was him. No one, no one but the higher ups knew what he was all about. He would just stand there for hours, moving not an inch, his breath reverberating through the filter of his gas mask. No one understood why he wore such a device, but many had speculated. Was it because he was scarred? Was his breathing impaired? Or was it simply to instill fear? No matter, it was the same every time. He would show up, stand several hundred meters from the hot zone, and stare into space, waiting for an order…any order.

Descartes’ keyed the team frequency and ran the routine…

“You two okay out there?”

Marian’s voice was first, as always, “Yes.” Then came his. “Yes…”

Descartes’ keyed off the frequency and continued his mundane fiddling.

The elevator’s bell rang as it reached the lower basement. Soothsayer slid the grate aside and stepped off onto the hard, cold concrete. He was in enemy territory now, no amount of cajoling or James Bond play-acting would help him if he were caught. Looking to his right he saw nothing but a wall, but to his left led down the hall, hopefully to the retinal scanner, which was his final obstacle…besides the obvious which was getting out alive.

Soothsayer pressed himself to the wall and slowly guided himself to the edge of the hallway, trying his best to prevent his footfalls from reverberating down the hall. He felt along the wall.

‘Bitterly cold, sterile…there’s a freezer somewhere around here with some very important stuff…’

Soothsayer inched closer to the edge and carefully peered around the corner. Upon witnessing a guard armed with a FAMAS he quickly pulled his head back, knowing he was now in the right place. He took a deep breath and peered around again to get a closer look.

There were no exits; the only way was an automated steel door that the guard stood directly in front of. And right in plain sight, a retinal scanner, which would open the door only if the correct set of eyes were placed in the receiver. A wrong set, or if someone decided to tamper with it, and it would trigger an alarm that ran across the walls. The facility would be locked down…and Soothsayer would be a dead man.


Soothsayer silently retreated behind the wall, listening. The sound of a voice came from behind the door, and it seemed to be getting louder.


The door slid open and a young man dressed in a think white coat stepped out into the hall. He wore a .45 on his belt. Mist poured from the room. The guard addressed him. “Yeah boss?”

The man…the “boss” fixed his coat and patted himself down, trying to warm his blood. He looked over to the guard. “I’m taking a five minute break. Getting some coffee. Too fucking cold in there…”

The guard nodded. “See you in five.”

With that, the “boss” turned and walked down the hallway to where Soothsayer still stood. He pressed himself hard to the wall. The “boss” was no more than 10 steps away. He took a deep breath, sucking his chest in, making himself as thin as possible. 5 steps away, he readied himself.

Upon turning the corner, out of the sight of the guard, Soothsayer waited. The man walked past him as if he were not there. He had a split second. He reached out, grabbed his head and swiftly brought the man to the ground. Covering his mouth with his right hand, Soothsayer brought his left down upon a notch at the base of his captive’s neck, and depressed it. The man fell limp, unconscious. The guard, who no longer understood why he heard no more footfalls or elevator sounds, walked towards the corner. Soothsayer reached for the boss’s belt. The guard rounded the corner, and was greeted by the receiving end of Springfield Custom M1911A1.

“What’s it worth?” Soothsayer asked.

The guard, still steel-eyed, un-slung his rifle, pointed it barrel up and placed it on the floor. He turned around, placed his hands on the back of his head and kneeled.

“Thank you for your cooperation.” Soothsayer brought the grip of the pistol down on the guard’s head, knocking him out cold. He reached down and pulled up the boss, dragging him around the corner to the retinal scanner. He pulled his head back, opened his captive’s eyes, and thrust his head into the receiver. The device beeped, and the steel doors slid open. He stepped in.

Everywhere he looked in this massive freezer he saw blood. Blood everywhere, hanging in packs from hooks in the ceiling, ready at a moments use. Over at the far end of the room sat a processing machine and a high-end computer.

This is what he was looking for…an illegal blood bank…

Descartes’ picked up the receiver. “Soothsayer?”

“I’m in the freezer. There’s no doubt that they do their distribution from this location, there’s blood everywhere. O, A, B, even the rare stuff, by the quart.”

Eliza picked up her own receiver. “This only proves illegal distribution. Only a slap on the wrist at best. We need more.”

“The only way I’d be able to do that is if I found the bodies…”

Eliza nodded, “You know they don’t dispose of them. Time for you to do what you do best…”

Soothsayer breathed deeply, the cold air biting at his lungs. This is all he could do to prepare himself. He walked over to the nearest wall and pressed his right hand firmly to the cold surface. He hissed.

“I hate this…”

Soothsayer ran his hand along the wall, feeling every crease, every crevice, every notch. The cold stung his hands, but in this situation he couldn’t use gloves, not if he wanted an accurate “reading”. He rounded the first corner, nothing so far. He led himself across the North wall, being as meticulous as he was with the East wall, every crease, every crevice, every notch. Second corner, still nothing. He rounded once more, and led himself across the West. Soothsayer’s breathing was becoming shallow, his heartbeat erratic. He knew it was only a matter of time before he had one of the worst experiences in his life. He ran his hand down the wall. Cold…clammy…and rigid. He came to an area around the middle that seemed rougher than the rest of the wall. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, and his pressed his hand harder into the surface. His heart rate spiked. He thrust his left hand into the wall alongside his right and pressed harder…

A massive scream erupted in Soothsayer’s mind.

He stumbled backwards, landing on the cold floor and knocking over several blood packs. He grabbed his chest, heaving, gasping for air.


Tears welled up in his eyes. He sobbed for five minutes before he had the composure to key his radio and call in the verdict.


Eliza bit her lower lip and picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

The voice on the other end was choked and shallow. “It is confirmed…there are dozens back there, maybe hundreds.”

“You are certain.”

“I saw them die…” The man on the other end was obviously putting in a lot of work to maintain himself.

Heartfelt sympathy poured from Eliza “Okay…your mission’s over honey, come back to us. We’ll leave it to the response team.”

“No! I’ll do it myself!” The man’s quivering voice was now replaced by one of righteous rage. “You just tell Jiang to stand by if I need him!”

With that, the line went dead…

Soothsayer’s overwhelming rage and sadness sent adrenaline coursing through his veins. A new sense of focus took that energy and made him rise to his feet. Fists clenched, he walked over to the large processor in the North end of the room. He keyed on the display on the computer and set the sorter to maximum speed. He then walked to a control panel, pried it open with his bare hands and looked at the intricate machinery within.

A psychotic smile spread across Soothsayer’s face.

His right hand flew down to the desk, grabbing a wrench. Eyes wide, he took the tool and shoved it into the control panel, sending sparks flying everywhere. Before the wrench disappeared into the gear work, he twisted it sharply so it would jam in the machinery, destroying the processor and taking this whole damn bloodworks basement with it.

“Suck on that!”

Soothsayer slammed the control panel shut, un holstered the stolen .45 and walked out of the freezer. He considered shooting both the guard and the technician in the head on his way out…but thought better of it.

Soothsayer stepped onto the elevator, pulled the lever and ascended. His final act, he broke the lever. He made certain no mortal would ever have to see what he had to see. Soothsayer keyed his radio, and tuned into his partner’s frequency.

Cal lied on a stretcher (minus coat and beret) as paramedics tended to him. He was perfectly fine really, just a bad case of the up-chuck. He would put up with their poking and prodding until the time was right.

A buzz went off in his ear.

‘I guess the time is right.’

Cal looked at his case that was now being held by a guard and then looked to the paramedic. “Can I have my attaché case please?”

“It’s being taken care of sir…”

“Sure it is.”

Cal flexed the muscles in his wrists, projecting hidden blades from his cuffs. He cut the restraints and leapt off the stretcher, knocking the medics to the floor. Now crouching, he swiped the blades horizontally across the floor, knocking two guards off their feet. The attaché case went flying into the air. Spinning on his heels, Cal stood up straight and sheathed the blades in his wrists. He extended his left arm and caught the case in mid air. With his same hand, he unlocked the case and flipped it open, sending the fake laptop computer tumbling to the ground, revealing the MP5K. With his right hand he reached in, flipped off the safety and grabbed the gun. Guests screamed as they fled from the manic Irishman.

Sensing two guards advancing from his left a few meters away, he spun about and flung the heavy case in their direction. The guards tumbled back as it hit them. Cal heard gunshots from the balcony above. Two guards had their weapon trained on the floor bellow and were spraying lead all around him. Cal ran to the bar, leapt over the counter and landed hard behind the table. Feeling relatively safe behind the cases of 12 year old bourbon, he grabbed a bottle, cracked open the top and poured it down the hatch…


Cal grabbed another bottle, this time Gin, and did the same.


Gunshots still rang out through the ballroom, bullets striking everything within 3 feet of the Irishman. He continued to sit silently and patiently as the alcohol ran through his system. This is where years of conditioning paid off in spades.

Cal chuckled maniacally at his own predicament. So much for subtlety…He examined the submachine gun in his right hand.

‘I don’t need automatic!’

Cal flipped the switch to semi and continued chuckling, eventually drawing out into an insane laugh. Not that the guards could hear him though over all this gunfire.

“30 shots, 9mm…two bottles of hard liquor…Makes for a bitchin’ day!”

Cal leapt to his feet, everything in his field of vision moving in delay. He targeted the first guard who was strafing him like Rambo from 6 meters away. With one hand he brought up his gun and squeezed off a shot, ventilating his target’s skull. He moved his sights two feet to the right and pulled off three more shots, hitting another guard’s chest and head respectively. Wide-eyed he brought his weapon to bear on the balcony. Dozens of bullets whizzed past his head, as if they weren’t meant to hit him. Call squeezed the trigger three times, taking the right feet off of the three guards. They tumbled to the ground, incapacitated for the time being.

Cal heard a scream from the next room behind the bar, and more men armed with automatic weapons poured into the ballroom. The Irishman leapt over the counter and ran for the other end of the room, jumping over chairs and fallen tables. As the guards opened fire full auto, Cal brought about his gun and shot backwards, not even looking at his assailants. Two guards fell dead.

The Irishman reached a column and checked his magazine.

’12 shots expended…18 remaining…7 guards down…7 remaining…’

Cal slammed the clip back into the gun and flung himself around, pulling off five more shots that struck the shoulders of two guards and the neck of another.

‘6 remaining…13 shots…’
As he ran, leaping over downed furniture, Cal fired across his shoulder striking the wounded guards in the chest, sending them spiraling to the floor. He reached the next column and checked his magazine.

’21 shots expended…9 remaining…10 guards down…4 remaining’

Cal flung himself across the room and fired at the guards behind the counter, barely taking time to aim. Bullets whizzed past his head as he reached the last column in the ballroom. He repeated his mantra one last time.

’29 shots expended…1 remaining…’

Cal peered around the column and found one guard firing wildly in his direction. Chips from the stone column flew everywhere.

‘13 guards down…1 remaining…’

The Irishman focused himself. He looked to the ceiling, at the small, concealed steel rafters. His breathing slowed as he did the math in his head. It hit him quickly.

“Bite me…”

Cal lifted his weapon, aimed it at the steel beams on the ceiling and squeezed off a shot. The 9mm bullet ricocheted off the metal at a steep angle, and struck something on the ground. He peered around the corner and saw the guard, rifle still in hand, slumped over the counter. He breathed deeply, trying to shake off the alcohol-induced adrenaline, and stepped out onto the floor.

Three more gunshots…from a pistol.

Fully knowing that he was out of ammo Cal leapt over the counter, grabbed a rifle from a downed guard and trained it on the balcony. ‘Forgot about those three!’

From the hall however walked Soothsayer, holding a smoking .45 caliber pistol. Cal lowered the rifle. “Hey Soothsayer…”

“Hey Cal…”

Cal fixed his shades and walked out from the counter and over to the stretcher. He reached down, picked up his beret, and placed it back atop his head. Soothsayer uttered an indeterminate order into his wrist mic and followed Cal out the front door to the limousine.


Any feedback is appriciated!
Drunk commies deleted
23-07-2005, 18:05
I liked it. One thing you should know though, a team of vampire-hunting paramilitary types called the initiative has already been done. You may want to change the title.
23-07-2005, 18:17
I liked it. One thing you should know though, a team of vampire-hunting paramilitary types called the initiative has already been done. You may want to change the title.

Okay. As the story progresses though you'll see it's not just vampires though. However, I will look into the title.
Drunk commies deleted
23-07-2005, 18:21
Okay. As the story progresses though you'll see it's not just vampires though. However, I will look into the title.
Season 4 of Buffy the vampire slayer introduced a paramilitary organization that hunted vampires and demons called "the initiative".

I'm sure most people won't notice, but I'm a bit of a Buffy geek.
23-07-2005, 19:43
Season 4 of Buffy the vampire slayer introduced a paramilitary organization that hunted vampires and demons called "the initiative".

I'm sure most people won't notice, but I'm a bit of a Buffy geek.

Well, the full name of my group in the story is the "United Nations Paranormal Defence Initiative (UNPDI)".

I may just tinker with that a bit.
23-07-2005, 21:59
Very cool. If this ever gets published, TG me!