| From: | Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk |
|---|---|
| Subject: | First Strike |
| Date: | Sat, 28 Aug 1999 23:23:07 +0100 |
CC: FBI Operational Archive
>>>>>[+++++begin recording
I feel the cold, unfamiliar weight of the Franchi shotgun at my side and it
fails to reassure me. I'm not a heavy-weapons man. I know how to use it,
but this is the first time I've carried a shoulder weapon in the field rather
than on the range.
In the back of the battered van, half-a-dozen Lone Star SWAT officers are
waiting for my orders. I've spent hours going over the data files, piecing
together the leads, ordering drone surveillance.
The abused and unloved house I'm staring at, is a prime candidate for the
headquarters of the Nobilis Domini, and I'm told that three battered cars
have arrived in the last twenty minutes. Busy night.
There's a meeting going on. And all I have to do is give the order.
It can't be this easy. I run it over in my head, examine the scale, but I
can't find a flaw. Nobilis Domini are at most a dozen violent extremists,
who came by some heavier weapons and are flushed with their own
success. They'd meet in a place like this. The location is right, the Lone
Star drone reports confirm it.
"Don't polish the cannonball." I mutter to myself.
"What?" the sergeant behind me says.
"Nothing. Let's go take them down." I reply, and the door rattles open.
The police officers follow me, seven sets of boots trying not to make noise
down the street: web gear and weapons rustling and jingling slightly. The
drapes are closed, but warm light flickers from the front room.
We bunch up around the door: it's locked, as you'd expect. I gesture and
the Troll with the ram steps up, swings it back, and smashes it against the
door.
The lockwork gives way with a sharp crack, pieces of plascrete flying
where the tongues of the lock ripped through the jamb, and I'm first man
in: the flashlight under my SPAS-22 probing the dimly-lit house as I head
for the front room, crashing through the door with the ten-gauge semi-
auto held high.
"FEDERAL OFFICERS! YOU'RE UNDER-" I pause. Shocked.
Five ladies, all in their fifties at least, sit in a circle, eyes wide with
terror and fear.
I just busted... a church coffee morning.
Behind me, someone starts to snigger.
Others join in. One of my Lone Star backups begins to guffaw.
I turn and walk out. What else can I do?
What a Goddamn start to the job.
+++++end recording]<<<<<
-- SAC Tom Elliott <23:20:32/08-27-60>
