by Byrd, Daniel
Tough luck.
"I hate you sometimes…"
Oh! Does that mean you actually-
Hamilton spun around on his foot, eyes scanning the buildings in his view. Something didn't feel right.
Are you being watched?
"I'm not sure…"
Paranoid?
Hamilton grinned. “It never fails." The buildings to the south all looked inconspicuous, but there could easily be eyes in the windows. The trees to the west were also a gray area as far as monitoring went. Hell, when he thought about it, he was walking into the closest thing to a concrete jungle there was. The only thing he saw that was moving in the vicinity was a lone black bird perched atop a stone slab as he neared the center of the memorial. The bird was sitting almost fifteen feet above him on the stelae. As he got closer, he realized what it was, and it surprised the hell out of him. The black bird cocked its head to the side, as if it were examining the doctor's own curiosity.
"What the hell is a raven doing here?" he asked aloud.
Are you asking me? I can answer that, but-
"-It's the same species Frank utilized in his campaign."
...You're right.
Hamilton approached the bird with caution and reached into his coat for his Jetfire, ever present and always loaded. He was glad he got it back after the Washington incident, even if it wasn't through legitimate means.
Not like they gave it back.
"It's mine. They were justified in confiscating the rest of the weapons, but this is my gun."
I'm just amazed that you managed to sneak it along on this mission...and you wanted that knife from the kid…
"There is no such thing as too prepared when facing unknown variables."
While I'm inclined to agree with you in regard to the Washington incident, I'll have you know-
"Quiet, I’m hunting raven." The bird didn't show any signs of suspicion towards Hamilton as he got within feet of it. He was considering attempting to coax it to him, when a raspy, deathlike voice spoke.
"Dr. Hamilton, I presume?"
The bird flapped its wings and flew away as Hamilton spun around. Experience kept the gun in his hands, but the other part of him was against that idea, and it wasn't innocence.
Suppose it's the person you're meeting and they react? Put it away!
Hamilton slid his hands into his coat pockets and remained still as the sound of footsteps drew near. The memorial was meant for reflection on the atrocities committed against against humanity by humanity, but Hamilton’s thoughts were being bombarded by so much more. Anxiety, suspicion, and fear were all sinking in at once, and the slabs around him seemed to close in with every step that faintly broke through his conscious breakdown.
What is going on?! Stay with me! They're right here!
A masculine figure rounded the stelae in front of him, walking so slow that Hamilton really had to wonder if his senses were shutting down. Was he processing everything too slowly?
Come on! What the hell is happening?! Calm down!
The man gently slid along the side of the stone as he approached. He strolled toward the doctor while studying the concrete block, but Hamilton wasn't sure if he was actually admiring it or just trying to come off as nonchalant. He hated people like that. Drama had its place in the movies. Still, something wasn't right. He'd fought against Frank’s army of undead with little fear, yet something about this person made him feel just as he did after he'd killed Julia. The man removed his hand from the wall as he was within feet of the doctor. Hamilton kept his shaking hands in his pockets, Jetfire ready to whip out if need be, but watched the man's every action. He was of average height, about the size of Hamilton, but that was where the similarities stopped. His hands that were exposed past the faded trench coat he wore were covered in bandages, as was his head. There was just enough space to allow his eyes to leer out at the world. Those green eyes seemed to light up when he finally rested them on the doctor. Hamilton held his breath as the man stopped in front of him and cleared his throat noisily before speaking.
"I noticed that you are armed," the man spoke. His voice was sickening, but the Russian accent was pronounced. Hamilton didn't answer, and the tone the man took with his next words carried amusement.
“Forgive my appearance, if it startles you.”
The weight on Hamilton finally took on a form. It was clear to him now. The unease that had taken him was irrational fear.
It's not him. The accent isn't the same, yet…those eyes.
Hamilton’s next words came out in an awkward stammer. “Frank?”
The man actually appeared taken aback. For the longest moment the silence persisted, until the man croaked a laugh. It was more disturbing than anything Hamilton had heard.
“I have gone by many names, but that is one I must insist you refrain from using.”
It's not him. Not a ghost. Not a hallucination. This guy is right here. Come on, focus.
With a deep breath, Hamilton removed his hands from his pockets and held them out, feigning innocence. “The invitation didn't say anything against firearms on my part.”
Welcome back.
"It was to be assumed, but I will be sure to specify that next time," the man said with another creepy chuckle. “I've been waiting to meet your acquaintance for quite some time, Dr. Hamilton," the man spoke, extending a hand. “I am Ruthven, and that is all you need to know for now. I am thrilled that you made the choice to join us in our endeavors. I believe you'll be a valuable asset in this new world order. You are, after all, one of the last surviving members of Project Second Fall."
Hamilton hesitantly reached out and grasped the man's hand, giving it a firm shake. It felt weak, almost like the bandages were necessary after all to hold the guy together. “One of the last? Am I not the only living member?"
The man who called himself Ruthven hissed another cackle, but showed no surprise to Hamilton's ignorance. He held up a finger, silently asking for a moment as he reached into his pocket with his other hand and retrieved a small bottle. Hamilton was curious, but as Ruthven held it up and squeezed drops into his eyes the mystery faded. Ruthven tucked the bottle away and cleared his raspy throat. “Doctor, you know so much, but I can assure you that there is much you are ignorant of. Now, I must ask for the information on Tuefel’s research. You do have that on your person, correct?”
Hamilton was intrigued. He knew he was only here for espionage, but his own curiosity was kindled now more than ever.
Surely you're overthinking things…again.
Hamilton reached into his coat pocket and revealed a flash drive that someone in the CIA had loaded all of Frank’s data onto. Hamilton didn't know for sure what was on it, but Houseman had guaranteed his death had he somehow managed to lose it. Ruthven extended his hand, open and waiting. He wasn't keen on doing it, but Hamilton handed it over for the man to pocket. Ruthven then turned around and motioned for Hamilton to follow him down the long row of blocks. Hamilton grunted his wariness. No turning back now. Left foot, right foot, doctor.
One foot forward, he began to follow the stranger. The blocks were so high at this point of the memorial that they may as well have been walking down a dark alley. Rays of sunlight cascaded down the walkways crossing the one they walked down. Another odd sound came from Ruthven as they carried on. It was sickly breathing.
That will be you if you continue to smoke like a train.
"Doctor?" Ruthven spoke, turning to face him.
Hamilton froze. “Yes?"
"Please remove your shoes."
Fuck.
"My shoes?" Hamilton repeated.
"Yes, your shoes. Leave them here. You'll have no need for them where we're going."
Hamilton remained in place for a moment as the man stared him down. There was nothing in his eyes. No anger, no impatience. Just the most blank gaze Hamilton had ever seen. His eyes may as well have been fake.
"Is this necessary?" Hamilton asked in annoyance.
"T
ake them off, or walk all the way back to Ramstein."
Hamilton didn't like that option, nor the fact that this man knew where he had come from. With two swift motions he stepped out of his shoes and stood back. “Fine, are you satisfied?"
"Yes, that will be all," Ruthven told him. “Let us continue."
Hamilton covered the distance and stuck close to the man's back with a watchful eye on him. Just in case.
To be fair, you're the only one trying anything here with a loaded gun in your pocket.
"Also, doctor," Ruthven said over his shoulder as he came to an abrupt halt, “do you have a heart condition?"
That was an odd question. Hamilton squinted, unsure where the relevance was. “No, why-"
Suddenly his spine violently straightened up while his arms snapped to his sides. It felt like something was being repeatedly slammed along his back in rapid succession while he just stood in place and took it. The pain was unbelievable. Even the voice in his head was incoherent as he focused on trying to remember how to breathe. If he could have given it thought, he would have wondered how it was possible for his shoulders to actually touch his ear lobes, but he was still stuck on the lack of air, and why the sky was in his vision now. The pain stopped, and his limbs went limp. His breaths were fast, but he was still doing it, so that was a good sign. His body ached, but pain usually meant one was still alive. A masked figure stood over him and covered his vision as it began to clear up again. The figure had a black helmet on, and in its left hand was grasping what looked like an odd pistol with two coiled wires running down towards…
Fucking taser!
"I apologize for the shocking surprise," Ruthven said with yet another ghastly laugh. Hamilton was really starting to hate the guy. He could feel a hand going through his coat, and knew that his pistol was being removed from his person. He still wanted to understand the need for the taser. What reason did they have to-
The chip!!! The fucking RFID chip!!!
Hamilton closed his eyes as the realization hit him. His shoes were on the ground yards away, and the chip in his back was probably fried. He had no way of transmitting his position back now.
Houseman is going to kill you if these guys don't first.
"I believe that covers everything. Help the doctor to his feet, please," Ruthven said before two arms grabbed Hamilton and pulled him upright. He looked at the two men on either side of him and noted the badges on their arms. Red patches with odd skulls were present on both. He had never seen the insignia before. These people weren't German militants, as they too were forbidden from the area for the time being. Hamilton pulled his arms away and grunted.
"I can walk, and I'd rather not be escorted by the man who electrocuted me, thank you," he said as he walked ahead of the men. He kept a close eye on Ruthven, but the man simply strolled down the path ahead of him as if he had no worries of the person behind him.
I don't like this.
"I'm aware."
You're alone, disarmed, and paranoid. It can't get much worse, right?
Hamilton was busy thinking of worse scenarios when he felt something warm hit the back of his neck. He reached back instinctively to wipe it away, but when he pulled his hand off, it felt sticky. He brought his hand to his face. Hamilton had seen blood plenty of times before, but there was something about not knowing why it was on him that made the experience a little more of a frightening situation. The sound of something heavy hitting the ground behind him needed no explanation, so his first reaction was to dive behind the stelae to his right. He could hear the other guard shouting something in another language. Ruthven replied somewhere around the corner, so Hamilton assumed they were in hiding too.
"You were wrong," Hamilton said to himself.
Chapter Sixteen - The Wolf and the Fox
The brass hit the carpet with a thud much louder than the sound the bullet had made when it left the barrel. The only thing louder was the action of the rifle itself. Roman remained perfectly still as the three remaining figures dove for cover among the blocks. He couldn't help but smirk at the vulnerable men below; they were now under his thumb, or at least his scope. Not one bothered to even show a bit of themselves to try and get a fix on his location. They were smart in doing so, as his finger was still resting on the trigger, just waiting for more exercise with the barrel of the VSS still poking through the crack in the window. It would be incredibly hard for him to cover all of that area anyway; there were too many blind spots for him to see them in, but the three cameras he had set up would at least give him some idea of where they had retreated to. It was fun to see people cower in fear under his rule. He was their judge and jury today, and death was the verdict for that poor bastard whose brain matter was staining the ground. The verdict for the other three was up in the air for now, but he'd settle that after he and Mikhail moved in for the capture.
He had been sitting upstairs in that apartment for four hours now. He had shortcuts along the roof in case he needed a better angle that another room simply wouldn't provide, but luck delivered the targets right into his path. He was beginning to doubt Mikhail's intel before the military presence began to die down to the point where it tapered off completely. That had struck him as odd, and it all made sense now. There was to be no interference, but he had just shot that rule through the head, in an almost literal sense. All there was to do now was wait for Mikhail to come and retrieve the hostages, but he was apparently running behind. He should have already been ready to go.
"Fox?" Roman's radio on his waist sounded. Roman wasn’t a fan of the moniker, but they had to use them. Foxes were usually female in their folklore. Then again, wolves were supposed to be stupid. The concern in Mikhail's voice demanded an answer, so he retrieved the radio and hit the call button.
"What is it, Wolf?"
"We may have a problem…"
***
Zachary Jackson was not a patient man. Every gripe he muttered only convinced Max that he was still a low rank for a damn good reason. Max leaned against the window next to him and stared abstractedly at the passenger mirror, where he noticed something interesting for the first time in the past half-hour.
"What's that?" Max asked.
Jackson stopped complaining long enough to look at what he was pointing at in the mirror. A large armored vehicle was headed their way. The vehicle was fast approaching, and Max was worried.
"Zach…"
"Get out," he replied, reaching for the door handle. That thing wasn't slowing down.
"What?" Max asked, unsure if he had heard him correctly.
"GET OUT!!!" Jackson snatched the handle and kicked the door of the Jeep. There was no time to see if Max had heard him as he dove out of the vehicle and hit the ground. He covered his head as the armored car plowed through their small, fragile Jeep and sent parts flying everywhere. After hearing the carnage crash down around him, he quickly flipped onto his back and looked at the aftermath. Max was hugging the wall of the building across the road, eyes paralyzed open and nerves probably broken to hell. Jackson called out to him as the armored car faded out of sight around a corner.
"Max! You okay?!"
Max only nodded as his chest quickly expanded and retracted. The poor guy looked as if he'd shit himself, and Jackson really couldn't blame him if he did. Jackson readied his carbine and scanned for any other threats. The area was silent once more. He figured that whatever the hell that armored car was, they were in the way when it came through. If that weren't the case, they would have come back already to finish them off. The question was why it was even here when all military personnel were banned from the area until further notice. It was forbidden, yet that black and red armor was intent on rolling through the zone. It hit him. It was headed in the direction of the meeting. That was going to cause a problem.
"Zach!"
Jackson looked to Max, who was pointing to two figures emerging from an antique shop half a block away. Both were armed, and that put Jackson on alert. It was time to see what M
ax was capable of. Taking the lead, Jackson took one step forward at a time, his carbine's safety off. He didn't have to look back to know that Max was following suit. That was good, because he couldn't really afford to turn away.
The two figures were donning combat apparel, though not typical soldier uniforms. Definitely not German. The apparel was like body armor; thick and heavy in appearance, and intimidating with back color and red outlining material. Their vests were thick, and covered in numerous pouches that could be holding anything from extra ammunition to whatever else. One of them had what looked to be two flash bangs hanging from the left side. They wore black helmets upon their heads that were marked with red stripes going at an angle up and down the left side of the protective material, and only stopping between the dark visors that masked their faces. All in all to Jackson, they looked like trouble.
"Identify yourselves!" the one on the right shouted. It was odd-sounding through the helmet.
At least they spoke English. Jackson wasn't quite on par with his little knowledge of German anyway. “We're just delivery boys, finishing up a job. No threat here. We're just stuck here since our ride was…" Jackson jerked his head back in the direction of the wreckage, "fucked."
"This is a restricted area! Only civilians are allowed here!"
Max frowned. “Yes? Then why are you here? We had a reason, and...who the hell are you guys? German troops?”
Jackson was eying their weaponry. One had a Heckler & Koch MP7. The submachine gun wasn't unfamiliar to Jackson. German made, sure, but it was used by a variety of forces. This particular one had a foregrip mounted underneath the barrel and a dot scope on top of the receiver. The other guy had what looked like a plastic rifle. He'd had a chance to fire an XM8 before for testing. It was meant to replace the M16 as the U.S. Army’s standard rifle, but many issues plagued the design. Seemed like someone found some use for it. A dot scope sat atop the frame, and the clear magazine made it easy to see it had a lot of ammo. The pistols in their holsters resembled something like a Colt .45, though he wasn't so sure. The frames of the guns sticking out of the holsters was metallic rather than the typical darker finish. There was no national marking on their armor, only a red patch on their right shoulders that he couldn't discern from his distance. Jackson eyed it as he spoke. “So, what are you guys doing here? If you're German, you'd know to stay away from that meeting. If not…"