| From: | shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk (Paul J. Adam) |
|---|---|
| Subject: | Leopard Hunt |
| Date: | Sun, 28 Apr 1996 15:56:18 GMT |
>>>>>[Stage 1.
+++++begin video feed
The camera view comes into sharp focus, a drone view looking down on a service
area: a fuel-and-power station just off the highway, feeding off to a 24-hour
diner and the Five Eye Motel. That puts you in Tacoma, on Interstate 5. You can
hear familiar voices, but you can't see where they come from. The scene is
monochrome, lit in shades of blue, and the lights seem to glow far too brightly.
"How certain is all this?" Lynch's voice.
"Hundred per cent." A female voice, one you don't recognise.
"Customer facing Matrix, no room at the inn: all forty rooms block-booked for a
fortnight. A Beech Engineering Consultants' conference, according to the money
trace Flux ran. " Lilith's drawl. "Good, but could be a setup, which is why
Wile E. Coyote here went looking." The sounds of tableware: they're in the
diner.
"Beep beep." The woman - probably Quinn - again. "Thirty-one rooms
occupied, as
of three a.m. yesterday. Mostly by heavily cybered bozos with bad attitudes and
big guns to hand. One magician, not too big-league, in Room 23, not alone.
Guess the commander figures she should keep her magical backup close."
"Worked for me..." says Lynch slyly.
"Yeah, right, Jason." Lilith is laughing in the background. "That was a
long,
long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away. Anyway, if this isn't one of those
Leopard platoons, I'll eat the motel. The desk clerk is wired up heavy, by the
way, same nice disposition as most of the
others."
"Security?" asks Blade.
"Nonexistent." replies Lynch. "I mean, why would they need security? The
place
is full of Leopard Guard and there's nothing to steal. The Five Eyes has
screamers on the doors and a decent intruder alarm, and they're inside the Lone
Star Highway Patrol zone. Posting sentries gets you noticed. Getting noticed
means you have people like us doing what we're about to do. The only security
they need, unless they get made, is one guy manning the desk and the exterior
cameras. Which we already dirtied up so they're fuzzy as hell."
"Okay. So, one more time, the plan." Lilith, keeping the group on track.
"Go in. Kill everyone. Come out. Run away." says Blade.
"Simple. Direct. Violent. Psychotic, in fact. Effective. Evil. I like it."
replies Lynch.
"Now, now." Quinn chuckles. "A little more detail, please."
"Okay, okay. Quinn and Blade are entry team: take the guy on the desk, quietly.
Lilith and I hit the north rooms, you and Blade the south. You've got the
magician to take out, we have more bad guys. All got your IFF bracelets?" Lynch
pauses.
A rustle. "Yep, both."
"Both okay."
"Ankle and wrist, no problem."
"Good. Becuase our backup is a pair of Steel Lynx microtanks, and anything with
a weapon and not wearing a working transponder is a valid target." says Lilith.
"If you lose both, say so. Our observation drone is armed, too: I'm running
that and the getaway vehicle. We go in, set the corridor on fire, and use
reception as a killing ground. They come out, or they burn. The windows are
security-grilled and the Lynxes are covering, so the only way out is over us.
Equipment check."
More rustles.
"Good. Extraction signal is by voice or radio. Lone Star best response time
here, for a major incident, is four minutes: average seven, worst eleven.
InterPol shouldn't be closer than thirty." Lilith's husky drawl is relaxing,
yet holds the attention even by radio.
"Actually they'll be right behind Lone Star. Might even get there first." says
Lynch.
"You're crazy. You're going to tip him off?" Blade
"Give him a gift of a motel full of dead Leopards? You bet. That should draw
off some heat."
"You really are crazy. Even though you're right."
"Camera check. Lynch."
The view suddenly flicks to a feed from headware video, sitting in the empty
diner: looking across the table at Quinn and Blade. Quinn holds up a sign,
saying HELLO MOM, and grins maniacally: Blade just shakes his head, looking
away.
"Good. Blade."
Blade's view - an external camera rather than a headware feed - shows Lynch,
sitting with his arm around Lilith. Up close, Lynch looks older, the diner's
fluorescents harshly picking out the grey in his hair: Lilith is almost
disturbingly beautiful, olive-skinned with exotic features and wide, dark-blue
eyes. Both are smoking: the ashtray in front of them is half-full of Marlboro
butts.
"Outstanding. Are we going to publish this?" asks Lilith.
"...Probably not." replies Lynch, after a moment's thought. "If we hit them
hard enough, no survivors - or a few, going to ground and securing before
calling in - then we can sow some terror and confusion. Show them exactly what
happened and we lose that. I think we let the results of this one speak for
themselves."
"Because the results are going to be awesome." says Blade. "I am pretty
fragging pissed at these guys. Payback time."
"Quinn?" Lilith, enquiring. "Sitrep?"
"Gimme a minute." Blade glances at Quinn as she collapses against him for a few
moments, before opening her eyes again. "Desk-jockey is bored, watching the
Brawl game and pissed off, maybe the Volcanoes are getting hammered again and
he's losing a bet. Rooms are occupied, thirty-three cybergrunts and one mage.
Two awake and busy in 23, everyone else sleeping peacefully."
"Okay." Lynch takes a deep breath. "Ready to cover?"
"Sure. I'll lead out. Pull down a spirit, there's a nice guy living here, and
he says he'll make us discreet. Plus I'll mask the weapons. Blade, you're point
into the building. From there as planned." Quinn stands, reaching under the
table and bringing out a long, plastic-wrapped bundle: opening it, she takes
out a SPAS-22 shotgun and a belt of cartridges, then a beautiful basket-hilted
rapier. The sword goes on her hip, the ammo belt around her waist, and the
shotgun over one shoulder.
As she moves clear, Blade begins assembling his M22, locking the compensator
onto the barrel and sliding a sawnoff autoshotgun onto the underbarrel rail.
Lilith has her folding-stock AK-47 - you notice the muzzle compensator and a
few other refinements to the classic weapon - and Lynch is preparing...
Blade looks closely at the weapon. In length - in general form, in fact - it
resembles a mutated MP-5 or HK227, but the barrel is wrong: too heavy, in a
cagelike forestock, and fitted with a bipod. Further back, where the slim
magazine for a HK227 would normally go, is a bulky mechanical affair, and Lynch
is locking an MGL-6 grenade launcher under the barrel.
"Okay. I give up." says Blade, locking a full magazine into his rifle without
looking. "Go on. I know you want to tell me. What the hell is that thing?"
Lynch stubs out his cigarette. "Heckler and Koch MC-51 conversion."
"Holy *shit*...." whistles Blade.
"Yep. Three-oh-eight Winchester calibre, heavy barrel, belt fed. All in the
size of a MP-5." Lynch, as if to prove his point, feeds a bright brass belt of
7.62mm APDS into the feed pawls, settles the belt carrier comfortably on his
hip, begins adjusting the weapon's assault sling: Lilith is adjusting a katana
across her back.
"Can you actually hit anything with that?" Blade studies the weapon carefully
again.
"Sure, it's as accurate as a -227, maybe better. Hell of a muzzle climb,
though. I rigged the barrel for quick changes, because it's dangerously hot
after two-fifty, three hundred rounds. Cookoffs, hangfires, you name it. Oh,
yeah, don't bother trying to suppress it. I crunched the numbers, the
suppressor would be five feet long."
"Ouch." mutters Blade as he pulls back the cocking handle of his rifle, lets it
snap forward, slaps it to ensure it's fully home.
Quinn, sitting on the table and thumbing shells into her SPAS-22, shakes her
head. "Boys, boys, stop showing off about the size of your... armament. Lynch's
might be big, but I could tell you some stories about how he uses it..."
"Like in Denver?"
"Shut up! Shut upshutupSHUTUP!" Quinn jumps up and down on the spot. "Don't
talk about Denver! It was six years ago and a mistake any girl could have made!
Shut up or-"
"Or you'll thcream and thcream and thcream until you're thick?" inquires Lilith
drily.
"What *did* happen in Denver?" asks Blade curiously, rising to his feet and
screwing a silencer onto the muzzle of his Predator II. As Lilith moves to
answer, Quinn leaps in. "Oh, the usual, Blade, people were born, people died,
the trees got a bit taller, the buildings got a bit greyer, the wind blew trash
around in the park, nothing special. Remember that. Nothing special at all."
"I'm offended. Nothing special?" says Lynch, grinning.
"Well... all right. It was very special. But I'm still not talking about it.
Are we ready?"
"Just a moment." Lynch takes out a portable 'phone, dials. "Commander
Drake,
please... no, I can't hold. Tell him Jason Lynch needs to talk to him. Fast.
...Paul, grab a chopper and get airborne, and monitor police freqs, we're
about to enforce some law." Lynch snaps the phone closed, picks up a suitcase.
"All set."
"Okay. Let's go to work." Quinn cackles happily, as the team is suddenly
enveloped in a shimmer: as it fades, they look quite different, dressed
differently, and carrying luggage instead of weapons. "Let's go to work."
Lilith looks at the group: all dressed in black suits, white shirts,
sunglasses, black ties.
"Quinn, I will throttle you one day if you don't get that so-called sense of
humour under control." The clothes change again to something more normal.
As she steps through the diner's doors, the view shifts to the aerial camera
for a few seconds: the doors are swinging, but each person seems to... fade as
they step into the open.
"All clear, so far so good." says Lilith calmly, as the view snaps back to
Blade's camera: he's approaching the doors, Quinn beside him.
+++++end video
And the rest, as they say, is history.]<<<<<
-- The Mighty Quinn <16:04:01/04-28-57>
