-Hal
He sent back:
Lay it on me.
-Tset
A few minutes of heavily encrypted download time went by, and then the simple text format scrolled across his screen:
***Mission Brief***
Target: Frederique 'Stinger' Archembeaux
Status: Currently in league with several slaver organizations. Works as a Narco for Greater Europe, however, has been smuggling warm bodies and drugs into and out of the various quadrants of The City and into other outlying Oldworld countries.
Called Stinger for his number of 'successful' drug busts.
Location: Red Light District, Downtown Lower CityScape.
Mission Parameters: Our client has no solid evidence against Mr. Archembeaux, as this is how the Mr. works. Thus his despatch must be quiet or must be excusable, nothing may lead back to Haliburton or our client, and his death or disappearance must be explained.
Notes: You were picked for this mission, Tset, as your expertise is apparent from your handling of the Wilks mission.
A word: You will probably end up dealing with police officers firing hostilely on you, and you will be charged for every death you cause on that side. Unless you come up with evidence, murdering a number of police, even Stinger's men, will cause problems for Haliburton. Stinger's despatch, again, must be quiet for this same reason.
Also, figure out how to keep them from calling back up.
Co-Operative: Francois Archembeaux
Specialties: Sharp shooting, saboteur.
Skills: Close-quarters weapons expert, demolitions, mechanics.
Any questions?
-Hal
Tset sent:
Give me a photo and I'll bring you a head.
-Tset
He got back:
Deleting encrypted message
...
...
...
Look to your left.
-Hal
Tset looked, saw a month-old newspaper, the headline was:
HERO COP ARCHEMBEAUX BEATS OUT COKE RING
and there was a younger, more handsome version of Francois, shaking hands, still in his combat gear, smiling, waving.
"Oh... shit." Tset closed his phone.
He waited then, until he couldn't hear sirens or see cruisers, then he left, going back to his hotel at a regular, 'cop-careful' speed.
He called Francois, "'Ello?"
"Francois, this is Tset, I'm your co-operative on this job."
"Oui, I know ziss, I wish it were not so, but eet eez, so let eet be."
"What's your problem, Francois? This seems to go a little deeper than super-exclusive French nationalism."
"Well, I don't know if I like you yet, for one sing, an'so, I don't like you. Also, ziss is a personal mattair. Not somesing I want everyone an' zeir dog in on. Yes?"
"I understand that. I'm just a wingman."
"Zough, ha, you are inexperienced. I don't know how I am suppozed to trust an individual such as yourself."
"Well, let's get together and brainstorm a bit, see what we can work out. I'm smart, I can probably show you a trick or two." Tset's mind was already running and his lips already grinning, he had some more calls to make.
"Yes, skeel, let's meet. Same place, un hour." The line went dead.
Tset pulled a U-turn, legally, and headed for Le Chateau Noir, dialing his phone.
Francois was there already, in a corner booth. Sludgy music flowed from the speakers around the room. They ordered two coffees, Francois, black, no sugar, he poured in some of his own rum, Tset, an Americana, he added a dash of brown sugar.
"Let's talk turkey."
"Oui, what is your idea?"
"Well, we need to keep them from calling backup, correct?"
"Ah, yes, backup."
"So... what about knocking out their communications grid?"
"Yes, ziss would not be suspicious to destroy the 'ole of ze radios for all ze police in ze seediest area of Ze Citie."
"Okay... wait... where's he hang his hat?"
"Not an idea."
"Dammit, Francois! Come alive! We're going to kill your fucking brother, and I got you, maybe not the best feeling in the world, but you have to help me. If you're gonna be a sadsack, I'll spike your coffee here and now and go blow his brains out my damn self."
Francois sighed, "You have no idea, do you?" Tset didn't so stayed quiet, Francois went on, "Killing my brozair wou't bring me such peace, eet's seemply 'is memory zat is disturbing to me, how you say."
"Explain."
"My brozer and I were always rivals when in school, I was ze older example, he ze up and coming showman. He always outdid me. He was better, but zere was always somesing about him, and who he kept for companie. Ze problem became, zat I loved him. He was my brozer, I wished to keep him safe. He was my little brozer, my only one." Francois paused, eyes distant.
"Yeah?" Tset was being mildly impatient.
Francois focused, "Oui, so, in school, he got arrested for having drugs on 'is person. My parents were 'orrified, so was I. 'E 'ad always done so well, you see. But now all zat was ruint.
"So, I left. I was a marksman in school, so 'ere I am, and, when 'e got out of prison, 'e gave us a big surprise by joining ze Police force, 'e said zat 'e wanted to turn sings around, we were very proud. But, ah, I..."
"Always had your suspicions?"
"Yes, he had too much money, he seemed too, ah, 'appy, somehow, you know?"
"Yeah, I understand. And I do get where you're coming from. So, let's handle him and put his ass six feet under."
"Yes... but he eez steel my brozair..."
Tset was calm, "I know. I'll be there to push you along. Maybe they wanted me there for emotional backup, not just another lead-thrower."
Francois laughed lightly, his eyes misted, sipping his coffee, "Maybe, you never know!"
"Brainstorming time, man - we're not going after your brother, we're going after a psychopathic slave trader. So, how the fuck do we take him out?"
Francois smiled, his moist eyes narrowing into needle-thin exclamation points, "Yes, how do we get heem?" He slammed back his coffee and slammed down his mug.
And so they planned.
Gibson strolled from his post on the perimeter, his combat armor and HKMP5 a comforting weight. He turned his short circuit, radioed an all-clear on the Stinger private channel and continued.
He stopped briefly to talk with one of the other guards of the compound.
Then continued, slowly making his rounds, everything quiet, and everything set up for Gibson. He was a criminal, and in his mind, he had everything set up - the money, his house, everything. He quite thought he'd scored it big time when he hooked up with Archembeaux.
There was a clanging somewhere ahead - a barrel tipped and fell. Gibson radioed it in, raised his rifle and went into the area almost behind the compound - the exterior of the building was all steel and piping, anything or anyone could be there.
He thought his neck sounded like a dry bough in a wet sheet when it went.
"Nice shot." Francois whispered harshly. Tset rolled his eyes - a useless gesture, his eyes were monochrome. His disturbance was a little bit too much.
But, here came the patsy, rushing in. Tset snapped his neck, laying him down. The radio buzzed, asking for feedback, Tset grabbed it, whispering, "No visual." And, in came another patsy, while Francois changed. Tset snapped his neck, too; the patsy had been too baffled by the unidentified intruder, semi-naked, dressing in Gibson's clothes.
Tset was in gear long before Francois, he was stuffing his balaclava into his shirt when the radio crackled again. Tset reached into the incongruous cat carrier he had, radioed, "Just a cat."
He walked back out holding the cat up for the rooftop snipers to see. Tset had a prescience about a sniper's bead, so before the bastard could vaporize his cat, he put it down and it ran off.
He turned around and called, "Get the fuck out here Gibson, I found the fucking
thing."
'Gibson' hurried out, looking overexerted: He had been sealing the bodies in waste drums stolen from the neighboring plant and it was heavy work.
Tset and Francois had already established that Francois could not speak a word, his accent would blow the whole thing. "You stay here." Tset pointed at a spot in agitation. 'Gibson' nodded and took his new position.
They split. Sam, Tset's new name, had followed a specific route, different on Tuesdays, for the last week. Tset knew it by heart and knew his habits.
Gibson was generally a stand-around guard. So Francois stood around, he was Tset's lookout at the corner.
Tset went up a gangway, over across a catwalk and was on the roof of the compound. This was where they theorized Frederique would be, or at least as close to him as they could get. The building was located right next to a processed sewage channel, underneath the sky bridge of the largest expressway to cross through the underground Lower Cityscape.
Since there was no space it had been easy for Tset and Francois to sneak in - the compound was literally crushed right up against industrial sewage refining equipment with a space of about 100x300' in front for loading and unloading.
Tset did his rounds, listening intently for information, quickly growing frustrated and distracted - he didn't even know who or what he was looking for. But it became apparent that Archembeaux was not home.
'Course his welcome mat is in Malibu or something and I'm here, sweating my ass off, totally missing the point...'
Almost immediately upon this thought, Tset found slaves. Tons of them. Warehoused right next to more cocaine than any one man could ever imagine.
'Walkin' in a winter wonderland...' He sang in his head.
He whispered an awed swear to himself just as the bay doors were opened and the slaves started being ushered out in groups.
'This is my ticket.'
He patrolled to the back of the room, hid behind some pipes and took off all of his gear, stuffing it into an abandoned kennel box. He held onto his cellular phone, stuffing it into the back pocket of the thin cotton pants he wore, then thought better of it and called Francois, "Francois, when you get a shot, my glasses and phone are at the back of the main staging area. Just grab 'em for me, yeah? I should be back soon." He did an encrypted backup of the data, leaving the phone on, and then he stuffed his card into the waistband of his pants.
Then he shuffled out, bleary eyed and confused, keeping his head down and bumping around like the slaves had been. "Stragglers MOVE!" Boomed a burly man.
Tset apathetically quickened his pace.
Then the guards at the back of the line opened fire, Tset was struck in the shoulder blade and went down on his face.
He stood quickly, tripped on a dead woman and got back in line, the slaves now moving much more quickly to the huge disposal truck they were being loaded into.
The word disposal did not sit well with Tset, but he decided a few cops wouldn't keep him from freedom if he needed it.
They got into the truck, were shackled, and the truck rumbled off.
Tset was sitting on a bench he'd forcefully taken from another slave, next to a skin and bones man with sharp eyes and long scraggly hair and a Taoist chart tattooed in thin lines and green ink across body.
The guards were watching Tset, after creating the rabble, but he assumed if he stayed quiet, they would too. His shoulder had stopped bleeding.
"What's the deal here?" He whispered to the man.
"Eh? Deal? What do you mean? We're slaves." He regarded Tset with a wearied and wary eye.
"Yeah, I got that, but where the hell are they taking us?"
"To the boss man, probably. Hoped I'd never see his face again."
"Sorry to be at odds with your somber mood buddy, but, score."
The other got upset, "Score? What the fuck is your problem man? The boss man's a cannibal at best."
"Cannibal you say?"
"Yeah, rumors come filtering back, man, he eats some of the slaves."
"No shit." The weight of the fact didn't register on Tset, did not correlate.
"None, man."
"So how the hell did you end up here?"
"I'm a journalist, man, I journalize. I published a review with a single rinky-dink comment about the boss man being a bit of an uptight bastard. Next thing I know, three felonies, a DUI and all sorts of shit. Crooked cops attesting to it, and here I am."
Tset stopped, "Holy crap." This was significant: The slaves weren't third-world refugees or even imports. They were citizens.
"Nothin' holy about it, brother."
Tset grinned a grin that didn't make his eyes, "I feel the boss man's going down, not to worry."
"Yeah, well, pie in the sky, man." The journalist did not catch his look.
Another several hours, another complex - the twin of the first, all girders and metal and pipes. Easy place to hide, but now deep, deep into the cavernous reaches of the Lower Cityscape. No men of men walked here.
"Alright, move out. We don't want to kill anyone else." The big cop chuckled behind his riot mask. He had an itchy trigger finger.
Tset noted the address of the place, its relative location in relation to any landmarks and then asked for a cigarette.
"What?" Asked the meaty uniformed fellow, standing at the mouth of the drive to the second compound and he almost reached for one.
Tset grinned, and continued to grin as he narrowly ducked a rifle butte.
He went in under and smashed the man's face with his own and then he shoved, pushing off the weighty fellow. He fled and deftly undid his shackles with a stolen key at a mad sprint. When he was free he checked behind him and brushed tooth fragments out of his hair.
A wild shot took his knee out from under him and he collapsed. "Dammit!"
Another heavyset cop came to pick him up. Tset broke his jaw with a sideways palmstrike, knocking the mask askew, then lifted him by his eyes and nostrils and threw him away, conservatively, and started running, now with a limp.
"Find that runaway!"
Tset hid, his acrobatic skill taking him farther than they thought to look. Eventually distantly, he made out, "Fuck, lost 'im boss."
And a gunshot.
These cops didn't play it cool at all.
Tset and Francois had agreed to meet at the Chateau Noir in three days no matter what happened.
When Tset made it back, four days after disappearing, Francois was there anyway, with the phone and sunglasses on the table in front of him.
"Eenteresting turn of events, yes? And your encryption algorithms are special, did you write zem?"
"Half way." Tset wore a blazer over his style-conscious combat pullover on top of an expensive pinstripe shirt, black silk tie with deep stripes of a violet hue, and all this over a pair of fine-woven cotton dress pants. His leather-soled wingtip shoes were polished to a gloss.
Francois was easier. His light charcoal turtleneck hanging loose over a white dress shirt, open-collared, and brown slacks with his loafers.
"Combat loafers?"
Francois waved his thin cigarette, "Eh, I go wis what is comfortable. I weel change, I did not expect to ever see you again, really. I was about to leave and report the mission a failure."
"Well, TFB. What happened on your end?"
"I got your hasty message, I got your sings, I changed back into my clo'es, grabbed your clo'es, and left. Did not see anysing else. What did you get, exacta-mon?"
"His fucking mailing address."
The Frenchman's eyes blazed, "Ziss gives us what we need. Come wis me, you will come to my workshop, where we will get ze equipment, and, ah, sreads, necessarie, to, as you say in America, to rock and roll." Francois was excited, a dull roar in his persona.
"Francois, I've never even fucking been to America. Alright?"
Francois pushed past, downing the last of his coffee.
Tset sighed, put on his glasses and followed.
On their way to the workshop in Francois' metalli
c black Aston Martin, Tset got a call, it was Tristram. "Dude, I been worryin' about you. Swing by my place. I picked up a custom item for you you'll dig. Alright?"
"Wow, worried, strong words, you goin' lovey on me?"
Tristram snorted, "Whatever, dude, just come over, yeah? You'll dig this shit all fancy." The line went dead.
Tset slapped his phone shut, realizing it looked like he was closing a squarish oblong compact when he did this with his thumb and fingers as he was prone.
"Francois, we've got to make a stop at Tristram's. He's got a special item."
"Ai! Merd. What does ze long-haired beatnik want now?"
Tset laughed, "You owe him money, don't you?"
Francois looked outraged, "Aaa! How did you know?"
"Lucky guess."
They arrived at Tristram's, the door was locked, they knocked. He came to it and unlocked it, "Whaddup dudes. Franky, you owe me some kesh."
"Shutup, I'll pay you! Okay!"
Tristram chuckled. "Okay, I know you guys are in a nasty rush to go stab an' shoot some fooze, but I thought about Tset 'cause I gave him some special items to handle special targets, but this is for him only, so, Francois, read a book in English and think about what you've done."
In the back, Tristram brought down a fine wooden case. He slid the top open, inside was a sword in a polished wooden scabbard - Tset recognized the style as Japanese, though some liberties had been taken.
"Katana?" He asked, hushed, reverent. It smelled ancient, and the work on the rounded pommel and the handle was exquisite.
"Yeah, fuckin' ninja sword for my favorite preppy ninja."
Tset lifted it, still reverent, and unsheathed it. In the dim light, it shone, white and pure. "Silver?"
"You got it, brosef. Specially treated by the Jappos so that shit don't corrode or lose its edge. They said it's finer than steel."
Tset felt its balance, 'Perfect,' but he noted there was no cord wrap on the handle, untraditionally short as it was, there was just a strip of matte black leather, and the pommel was big and heavy enough to crush a skull for all its filigree.
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