Story Progression: Pt 2.

Long overdue, no h8.

For those with no recollection of what occurred before Pt 2, you can read Pt 1 here

Markus hit the up button on the elevator cage’s control panel. It started up with a lurch and groaned, the cables squealing as the cage was hauled up.

It stopped on the third floor. James, sighing, hit the door release, and the gates clanked open.

They were greeted with the pounding bass of dubstep music being blasted from speakers. James strode ahead while Markus stifled a snicker.

“Ed!” James shouted. The seventeen year old African American kid had quite a loud voice when he wanted to. “Scratch, you ****ing idiot! You want the cops pulling up for a noise complaint?”

The pounding of the music drastically reduced. “You got somethin’ against good beats, Razor? Ain’t that different from hip hop...”

“Bull**** there’s no difference. ‘Hop has some class, man.”

Markus just laughed. He only laughed around these two anymore, and never in public. Always serious. Always methodical.

He let the two of them continue their music war, opting to retreat to his corner of the floor. It was divided up into six rooms with a large rectangular central area. Each of them had a room, and some of them were empty.

In Markus’ room, he had a bed with a couple blankets and pillows. Two of the walls were solid concrete with a closet set in next to the door. There was a dresser at the foot of the bed, which was up against the wall next to the closet. Black covers were pulled over the windows. Up against the second concrete wall there was a computer with a quad monitor system.

Markus pulled open the double closet doors to reveal a wall and shelf with a few weapons. There was a regular Glock 17 on a shelf, along with an illegal Israeli Micro Uzi, fitted with a red dot and extended charging handle. Usually, you lock the bolt back, put the magazine in, and be ready to go, since the Micro Uzi fired open-bolt, but the red dot covered the charging handle on the top, so you needed it to stick out the side to reach it.

A short AR-15 was on the wall, with a pistol brace that didn’t classify the rifle as an SBR. It had a 2 MOA red dot sight and foregrip, as well as muzzle brake. On another small shelf was a Ruger .357 Magnum revolver, blacked out. It was Markus’ choice when he might have to trade rounds with adversaries, and didn’t want to have to worry about policing brass. There was also a Mossberg cut-down shotgun, with shell holders on the right side of the stock.

James came in and removed Markus’ Glock 19 from his waistband, handing it to him. Markus dropped the magazine and cleared the chamber, packing the round into the magazine. There were several boxes of 9mm, along with .357, .45, .223 and 12 gauge. Markus took one round out of a box of 9mm and clipped it into the magazine, setting the magazine next to the gun. Every gun had a one magazine with it, and Markus had two boxes, one with magazines and one with assorted attachments and accessories.

“Inventorying the arsenal, eh?”

Markus shrugged. He reached behind him and unholstered his Kimber, clearing it and setting it on his computer desk. “I don’t see why you keep mooching off my stuff. Buy your own pieces, man.”

“Just did.” James grinned, lifting his hand to show a Glock 21 in his left hand. “Got a couple mags as well, but I came to see if I could get some rounds.”

Markus chuckled, glancing at his ammo section. He had five hundred rounds of .45 ACP, all in hundred round boxes. “Oh, I don’t know, I think I can spare some shots for a friend...” He reached over into the stack and handed him two of his hundred round boxes.

“Thanks, man.” James said. He stepped out and left the door open.

James came from Chicago. Him and Markus had actually met at the same high school. James had minor disciplinary issues at the school, and got into a couple fights. At one point he and Markus had been backed into a fist fight by the same people, and instinctively fought together, and gotten out mostly unscathed. They had stayed in touch afterwards for a while, and after Markus’ life had been turned upside down, he had found out James was in New York City as well, and they met up and stuck together.

Markus pulled out his phone and turned on the Bluetooth speaker system. He was about to hit the play button on Spotify as Ed yelled out to him. “Yo Markus, you got any thirty-eight super?”

Markus made a pffft sound. “I already told you, Ed, you’d be better off with a forty-five piece than a snub thirty-eight.”

“But I already got a holster for it, dude!”

“Tell you what,” Markus called. He grabbed a universal holster out of the box, and the Glock 19 and a box of rounds. He stepped out of his room and across the hallway into Ed’s room. He tossed the holster at his chest to get his attention, then underhanded the handgun and the ammunition. “You can stop being a baby and carry an actual handgun instead of the toy you call a revolver for once. Once you actually grow a pair, you can buy your own. Cool?”

Markus didn’t wait for his response. James was yelling for him. He stopped at his room and grabbed his .357 and shoved it into the holster in the back of his waistband.

James was sitting at his own quad monitor setup, hands flying over the keyboard. He had the thumb drive Markus had retrieved from the Tech Kings shop.

“Haven’t been able to process what Broadsword itself is yet, but I have a name, as well as a little other tidbit of information.” James said. Markus grabbed the back of James’ chair and watched the screen he was using. There was a chain of command, with a name highlighted at the top.

Gavin Jenkins.

“Yeah, I know of him. Head of Special Development. My dad worked directly for him. He was at our apartment for dinner every Thursday.”

“Well, he’s in charge of what ProgCorp calls the Broadsword Program. And there’s more.” James continued, opening a file and accessing a document. It was an email.

To a mercenary group.

Ordering a hit on one of their technicians, his wife, and sixteen year old son.

“You know what this is, right?” James whispered.

“Yeah.” Markus said. He wasn’t angry. Just icy. He grabbed his .357 revolver and out of his pocket, dropped a speed loader into the gun, and snapped the cylinder closed.

“It’s his death warrant.”

————————————————————

Markus gunned the engine on the Kawasaki road bike. He had back leather pants, his combat boots, a black leather riding jacket over his black sweater. A black motorcycle helmet with a one-way tinted visor was pulled down over his face.

“I’ve got you passing through the intersection you’re at.” James’ disembodied voice said in his ears. “Target is a white Mercedes SUV six blocks ahead of you.”

“I hear you.” Markus said, lanesplitting to slide between two cabs driving slow to rack up their meters.

He had learned to ride dirt bikes in Montana and Chicago, and the Ninja 650 wasn’t too different. He’d had to send it to a mod shop for some work and a black coat of paint, but it hadn’t cost him too much brand new.

Money was starting to cease to be an issue for the trio. Edward and James had been doing jobs for private individuals and companies doing a little bit of industrial espionage, or exposing dirty secrets for a price. It had gotten easier and they had become open to a wider selection of clients when Markus came along. He was good at getting into areas a bit of remote hacking couldn’t touch.

“You’re four blocks and gaining.” James said.

A light flashed yellow ahead of Markus, and he gunned the engine again, sliding between two cars stopping and blew through the intersection.

“Two blocks.”

Another intersection, but a green light. Markus slid the bike around a taxi and back into his lane.

“I’ve got it. Confirm white Mercedes GLC.”

“Confirmed.”

The SUV was three vehicles ahead of him, so he had a moment to plan. Markus had outfitted the Kawasaki with pouches on the front where the driver could access them while riding. Two small and two large.

He unzipped the left small pouch and withdrew a small circular explosive charge coated with small magnets. He stuck it to the handlebar and turned the throttle, swerving around the vehicles in front of him and riding up to the rear of the Mercedes.

The charges were cheap but effective. They also had an eight second timer. The magnets made it arm and forget about it.

He rode by the Mercedes on the passenger side and, arming the charge, slapped it just above the rear tire. Then he maxed out the throttle and shot away from the SUV.

A few seconds later, there was a bang as the charge went off with the force of a small hand grenade, shredding the tire and causing the car to slide. It came to a rest sitting vertical in the roadway.

Markus swung the road bike into an alleyway and took the riding helmet off. Out of his holster came the Smith & Wesson .357, and reaching into one of the pouches drew the Micro UZI, ramming a magazine up the handle and hanging the charging handle. He took three extra magazines and dropped them into a cargo pocket.

He had his hood up and bandana over his mouth. “Cut the cameras.” Markus said into his microphone, telling James to disable the traffic cameras along the street.

“Cams down....now. Go.”

Markus stepped out, UZI in his left hand, revolver in his right. He cocked the hammer on the revolver.

Four men were getting out of the Mercedes. Three black suits and one gray.

Gavin Jenkins was the gray.

One of the black suits, obviously a bodyguard of some sort, yelled when he saw Markus, and tried to draw a handgun. Markus put a .357 magnum round through his chest with his right hand, spraying the Uzi with his left. The first bodyguard dropped and the other two took cover.

For Markus, it had barely even registered to him that he’d just shot a man. He just emptied the Uzi and cocked the hammer on the .357 again.

One of the other bodyguards popped around the side of the wrecked Mercedes, raising a handgun, and Markus dropped behind a parked Prius as rounds shattered the passenger side windows.

The shooter obviously had a double stack, and he fired a ton of rounds. Markus just kept his head down until the shooting stopped. There was a pause, then it started again. He dropped the magazine out of the Uzi and swapped it for one from his pocket.

This wasn’t his first time being shot at.
Or his second, for that matter. He raised the Uzi over the hood of the Prius and sprayed a full magazine in the general direction of the Mercedes, swapping magazines rapidly.

The shooting stopped, and Markus seized the opportunity. He stood up just as one of the bodyguards leaned out from the rear of the Mercedes, and he sprayed him with the Uzi. The final one popped up over the hood, and accepted a .357 round right in the forehead.

There was a clatter as the bodyguard dropped his handgun and slumped over, blood pooling from his head.

Markus began to walk carefully towards the shredded Mercedes. The windows were shot out, with bullet holes through the windshield. One body by the passenger door, which hung open. Another by the rear hatch, a third out of view...

And Jenkins, now running down the sidewalk for his life, literally.

Markus tut-tutted under his breath, and set the red dot of the Uzi on the back of his grey suit jacket.

“Not today, ****-bag.” He said, gunning Jenkins down.

Jenkins crumpled into a heap on the sidewalk. Markus jogged over to him, flipping him over with his foot. Jenkins’ eyes were glazed and unseeing. Very dead.

Markus was finished. He reholstered the revolver as he ran back to his bike. The Uzi went into one of the bike’s pouches as he started it and, after maneuvering the bike around, flew out of the alley and onto the deserted street as the first sirens could be heard in the distance.

————————————————————

Detective Miles Brady was having a dreadful day.

He had been greeted with a reprimand by the NYPD commissioner himself as soon as he was at work, and been stuck with administration work all day. He’d been called out to a drug investigation a friend needed a bit of advice on, before receiving word of an active shooter.

Now he pulled his unmarked Ford Police Interceptor off to the side of the road behind a Dodge Charger in NYPD livery. He checked that his service Glock 17 was secure in its holster before exiting the vehicle.

An officer lifted the crime scene tape to let him by. Screens had been set up to block the view of the carnage from cameras and prying eyes, but Brady just stepped around the first set of screens.

A man in his forties with a faded red beard and hair, wearing a gray suit lay in a pool of blood. There were several bullet wounds in his chest. Brady frowned, and began to walk towards the next set of screens.

Just outside one of the screens was several evidence markers clustered in tight. He crouched down to examine the 9mm brass casings scattered in about a four foot spread. He estimated that, given that it appeared to be base factory ammunition, the shooter was about four feet from the location of the brass, and given the spread of the GSWs on the body, that would put the shooter...

There.

One of the police sergeants came over to speak with the detective. Brady cut him off by saying, “Quadruple homicide. Get CSI and Homicide out here.”

“That’s not what I came over for.” The sergeant replied. “There’s a suit over there claiming to be with some sort of corporation, insisting he know what’s going on.”

Brady rolled his eyes. Corporate buffoons always trying to play alpha. Usually they were worried about the deaths of their subordinates, thinking it might be some sort of high-level industrial espionage, but it turned out to be a cheating spouse, drugs, and the like.

“Suppose I should go entertain the bigwig while you clean up here.” Brady chuckled, and after composing himself, turned to acknowledge the man standing impatiently on the far side of the police line.

 

I can never tell who reads them, but it’s good to hear someone enjoys them. Means a lot more than you think.

 

I’ll link a song to listen to during the next one