| From: | "Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK> |
|---|---|
| Subject: | Dockside |
| Date: | Fri, 20 Feb 1998 00:32:55 +0000 |
>>>>>[I trust this was to your satisfaction.
+++++begin video
The Tacoma docks, at night, mist rolling in from Puget Sound. The view
is from a straddle crane, looking along the pier, to where a rusty tramp
steamer is tied alongside: a helmet camera, the wearer sighting in a
silenced sniper rifle. On the pier, a group of men bunch nervously
together, Sandler SMGs clutched as if for comfort.
They scatter as a woman in tailored synthleather approaches: she seems
to be berating them for their foolishness in clustering, directing them
to cover the approaches to the pier instead. The ship flies the
Panamanian flag, but calls herself the Kora Kora out of Taipei.
"Cholo. Ready. I have the leader." the cameraman says.
Two clicks of the microphone in reply: a second later, the rifle coughs
heavily, Cholo working the bolt rapidly as the synthleather-clad woman
spins and falls. Tracking left, two of the gunmen are already down, the
other pair scrambling for cover: one makes it behind the leg of a crane,
the other jerks and falls, writhing. There is only the muffled stutter
of suppressed SMGs, and the occasional crack or clang of a bullet
striking concrete or metal.
The last gunman evaluates his situation, throws the Sandler out onto the
dirty asphalt. "I'm unarmed! I'm unarmed! Don't shoot! I'm -" As he
emerges, hands raised, Cholo fires, hitting him dead-centre in the
chest: the man sits down hard, clutches at the entry wound, then
collapses sideways.
Down on the pier, four black-clad figures emerge, moving in pairs and
giving mutual cover: as they pass each body, whoever's closest fires a
double-tap into its head. Only two seemed to need such treatment.
One pair find what little cover there is on the pier, as the other two
board the ship. Less than a minute later, the radio crackles with
"Package secured. Five crew encountered, all dead."
One of the pier guards moves off at a cautious run, the other advancing
to cover its end: the boarding party reappear, one carrying a bulky
package, following their partners.
Shortly, a van pulls up at the end of the pier: Cholo abseils down from
the crane, touching a catalyst stick to the line as he disengages from
it, and is the last man into the VW Kombi. The whole affair took less
than two minutes, with no unsilenced shots fired.
The drive is quiet and uneventful, heading north to Everett: the group
say nothing, merely watching the street around them, weapons ready. The
area they drift into seems to demand such precautions.
The van stops outside an abandoned warehouse, walls smeared with a mess
of gang symbols, scrawled out overwritten. Who were the "Slick Ikes",
when did they spray their mark on this wall, who obscured it, how long
ago? Someday, archaeologists will argue for decades over the hieroglyphs
of that dirty plasticrete.
Cholo leaves his SM-3 in the van, taking instead a heavily customised
AK-97 and walking inside.
"Halt." A voice from the shadows, and he obeys.
Cholo sighs. He doesn't bother aiming at the shadowy blur. "Borderline
anxiety suppresses sensible thoughts." he recites.
"Okay. See there?" A weak glow illuminates a crate, and the credsticks
atop it. Cholo walks to them, verifies them one at a time: satisfied, he
whispers to his radio, and one of his men enters carrying the package.
"Put it where the money was and leave." the shadowy voice says: the two
men comply.
"Too easy." The man beside Cholo says.
"Perhaps. Are you complaining?" The van pulls away, with no pursuit and
no threats visible.
"No. I like it. I also look gift horses in the mouth."
+++++end video
-- Cholo <00:29:41/02-20-59>
