One Bloody Mission. Violence Action (standard:action, 5100 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jul 06 2020	Views/Reads: 1186/820	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Mercenaries wipe out a rogue Aryan militant camp.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

for them. Our meeting at Sangatte went something like this.... 

The first thing we did was show each other our "Mission Bills," to prove
we were, ourselves, authentic. Of course, Philippe knew all of us 
personally, but some of us didn't know each other. Since we had to 
trust total strangers to maybe save our asses, we also had to be damned 
sure they were pros. 

I told you we were paid twice, once at these meetings and once when
finished? Well, the way mission bills got started was although we're 
each paid in our choice of currency it became traditional for all of us 
to sign a bill of local currency, local to the country we would be 
working in. It's proof we worked that gig. 

When one team leader, after a particularly bad mission, dipped each of
those bills into the enemies' blood and put it on top of our pay, that 
became another habit. Now, we do it every time. When we're finished, 
the team leader makes sure a corner of those signed bills are dipped in 
blood. 

When one pro meets another anywhere in the world, he can be certain his
drinking buddy is a true professional, simply by showing and comparing 
their mission bills, each bloody and covered with signatures, some of 
which we will recognize. At that particular meeting I, myself, had good 
status by laying six of them on the table. 

"Since they're only about eighty or ninety of them," Philippe told the
six of us, "a half-dozen of you should do it. Besides, they won't be 
expecting you. And it's a better split." He looked around the room. "If 
anyone thinks different, we can discuss it." 

There were nods around the table. Only one huge black guy, I later found
his nickname was Gorgie, hesitated. I figured I'd have to keep an eye 
on him. His apparent lack of confidence in his own ability could get MY 
funky ass killed. 

As for names, they're all false. Even our bullshit sessions are used to
give false information. For example, I'm American but since I speak 
fluent French lead everyone to believe I'm a French Canadian called 
Frenchie. 

Next, we spent time deciding who should lead the team. That's another
place where those mission bills come in handy, along with inclination, 
of course. Some of us wouldn't be caught dead being responsible for a 
mission. And it is, or has been, always men. I ain't found a fucking 
woman yet that could stomach such work or put up with the macho image 
that goes along with it. Professional assassination is a highly 
masculine line of work. 

Well, having lived into my seventh mission, I got to be --
hurr-fuckin-raaa -- team leader. At least it stacked my pay a little 
higher. Some banknotes local to our job were passed around the table, 
everyone signing each one, then back to me. I hoped none of them would 
be wasted. 

Philippe had done his job in making arrangements. We were given airline
tickets on different lines and directions to a safe-house he'd rented. 
One of our group, Spider, knew how to fly choppers, including a craft 
Philippe had already hired through one of his contacts in the target 
area. I don't know how the fucker does it. Just like with us, those 
managing bastards must have their own frickin' global network. 

"You'll have to pick up your own weapons and make your own plans,
Frenchie," he told me. "This thing came up two days ago and I haven't 
had time for the details." 

"How long we fucking got?" one of the guys asked. 

"A week from tomorrow, start to finish." 

"Jesus, H, Christ," one of the guys muttered, leaning his head back with
a sigh. 

"If you don't like it, Tweetie, I can replace you?" Philippe answered. 

"Fuck. I'll do it, but don't like it." He turned toward Philippe and
spit on the floor. 

I took that as a challenge, which Philippe ignored. He's a businessman
and such childish posturing is part of the business. At the time, I 
doubted if Tweetie would be called on again, but that was up to 
Philippe. To me, as leader, the son-of-a-bitch didn't seem like a team 
player. 

"That's why I charged them so much," Philippe answered Tweetie. By the
way, the players were myself, Tweetie, Gorgie, Sam, Spider, and a 
second-mission kid calling himself Terrible Tim. 

*** 

I enjoyed the trip to the USA, tourist class all the way of course.
Spider and Terrible fucking Tim were already at the safe house when I 
arrived. It was a rundown shack on the wrong-side of the tracks, so to 
speak. But it was close to a grocery store, a bus line, and several 
bars. 

"Gorgie and Sam are here, too," Spider told me. "They figured on a few
last drinks before you got here." 

"Shit. Damn it. Hey! Tim. Go find those bastards. We ain't got much time
and gotta do some fucking planning." I turned back to Spider. "What 
about that chopper? I want both night and day recon on that site. Pics, 
too." A door slammed, Tim leaving. 

While I sat on a couch, going over supply lists, I could hear Spider on
the phone. Outside, the sun was setting. According to a television news 
channel, we still had a few hours till full dark, a three-quarter moon. 
Tweetie hadn't shown yet -- no great fucking loss, to my thinking. I 
only hoped the fucker was good on the fucking ground. He sure as shit 
didn't impress me so far. 

When Terrible Tim finally returned with the two errant troopers, it
sounded as though a couple'a buffalo were loose in a china shop. 
Banging and swearing came from the kitchen. Apparently, one of them 
insisted on buying out a McD's on the way back. Jesus, fucking, Christ, 
I thought. I was already losing control. A week to go, and I had a mob 
by the tail, dragging ME around. I had to do something about those 
bastards, and damned fucking quick. 

To make it worse, while all of them but me and Spider chowed down in the
kitchen, Tweetie finally arrived. 

I could see out a front window, and saw a taxi drop him off, right in
front of the house. He was in BDUs (Battle Dress Uniform) already, 
carrying a duffel bag and even, for Christ's sake, a gun case. I felt 
like walking out that fucking door, calling Philippe, and going home. 
It was supposed to be a "safe house," meaning a secret hideout -- not a 
fucking army base. 

The bastard nodded at me and asked where to park his gear. 

"Up your ass," I told him, jumping to my feet. I stepped right over,
face a few inches from his, grabbing him by the fucking neck. "What the 
hell you doing? You don't enter a fucking safe house like that. You're 
supposed to be a professional at this shit. Act like it." 

"Christ, Frenchie. Take it easy, man. We ain't done nothing yet." 

"All you bastards get in here. Chop-chop. Move it," I yelled into the
kitchen. "And it ain't no fucking picnic. Leave that shit out there." 

I spent a half-hour chewing ass and taking names. I braced them up one
fucking side and down the other, virtually nailing them to the wall. 
"Now, you," I told Tweetie, get into civies, toot fucking sweet. We 
ain't got us no time to rest. From this very minute, right now, not in 
the fucking morning, we're going and staying 'hard'." 

"Man! Frenchie. Take it easy--" Sam started to say. 

"Easy, hell." I reached into my pocket, peeling off a sheaf of expense
money. "You're in charge, Sam. Take Gorgie, Tim, and Tweetie, here, and 
get us some fucking weapons. Combat weapons. I don't care how. Gun 
shops, if any are open. Check the yellow pages. Bars are a good place, 
but no more fucking drinking. From now on, it's Cokes all the way." 

"Best place," Tweetie said, hesitantly, "are the stores. The ones what
are closed." He looked at his watch. "'Bout now." 

"Up to Sam. He's done this before." 

"You think I haven't?" 

"Up to Sam," I repeated. “You just do what the fuck he tells you." By
then, they were in a hurry to leave. I hoped I'd scared them straight. 

That left only me and Spider, who was still on the phone. I returned to
my list, trying to make some sort of a plan; even though realizing it 
was useless until I had more information. I knew better than to 
interrupt Spider. I'd worked with him twice before and he knew what he 
was doing. 

Finally, he put the phone back on its cradle and came over, a notepad in
hand. 

"Frenchie. I couldn't get hold of our pilot. His wife said he was out,
but would be back by morning. Something about finishing up another 
job." 

"Fuck! Man, this is turning out to be a real circle-jerk. We should'a
had at least a couple weeks before going hard." 

"The pay is good, though." Spider's smile did a lot to build my
confidence back up. 

"There is that." 

"I did get us another chopper, though. I know a guy that knows a guy
what knows a guy. He made a couple calls and I got a number. There's 
one waiting at an abandoned factory outside town. I'll have to fly it 
myself, though." 

He handed me a note, with an address. Spider had even acquired a rough
set of directions. 

"I better get my ass in gear," he said. "It's supposed to be fueled and
ready to fly but I gotta check it over. It's used to smuggle drugs, and 
those babies can be chewed all to hell dodging cops." 

"How many passengers?" I asked. "I'd like to take two, not counting us."


"Dunno. Guy didn't say. It probably has a lot of storage but passengers
are another matter, altogether." 

"Give me a call." 

"Will do. Soon as I check it over." 

I was left alone, feeling funny sitting there by myself. With a million
and one things to do, I felt I should be up and moving. Eventually, I 
gravitated toward the kitchen, finding plenty of leftovers the others 
had hastily left behind. 

*** 

The chopper had a bad gasket or something, as it was shaking so hard I
couldn't brace the camera for decent photos. I held the thing as steady 
as I could, trying not to drop it out of an open window. 

We'd dropped Tweetie and Sam, my most experienced reconnaissance people,
onto the surface to sneak through a heavily-wooded area. Their mission 
was to scope out the ground around and, hopefully, inside the enemy 
camp. 

Me and Spider would pick them up later if this lawnmower stayed in the
fucking air that long. The chopper didn't have an internal intercom 
setup, probably not needed with one-man smuggling. With smuggling every 
ounce was needed for cargo. Communication between Spider and myself was 
limited to hand-signals. Between the shaking and engine noise, not to 
mention air whistling through leaking seals and bullet holes in the 
fuselage, talking was impossible. 

Christ, I thought, finally rolling my window up. My photos were taken,
but the night wind was cold. We were taking a chance by flying without 
running-lights. 

Eventually, I saw repeating flashes of a series of three green lights
from the ground. I reached over to nudge Spider, pointing them out. 

Lost in the woods, we were forced to turn on a spotlight to find the
team. The sudden illumination stung my eyes. I couldn't see my men, as 
they were in cammo clothing. Spider must have, cause the first I knew 
they were there was when the chopper tilted and a black figure came 
through a silhouetted doorway behind me. When it was repeated, Spider 
doused the light. He went up so fast I felt my stomach rebel. 

*** 

Back at the house, I almost stumbled over cases of explosives. While
we'd been gone, Gorgie and Tim had burglarized a closed stone quarry, 
stealing explosives and blasting caps. The next day was spent in making 
bombs. Tweetie surprised me. He'd found a dozen windup alarm clocks and 
converted them to timers. It's a skill I've never acquired. 

Things were finally coming together. We still weren't a real team. That
would take time that we didn't have, but we could at least work 
together. A good team means training together long enough to know how 
each member reacts to specific circumstances. It requires knowing 
everyone's handicaps and proficiencies while working on correcting 
them. It's what we should have been allowed to do. As it was, I was the 
central figure, all orders coming from me -- a heavy responsibility. 

*** 

We went in from the north, loaded down with equipment. We carried a
mixed assortment of weapons, all civilian in nature -- though many had 
been converted to full-auto by filing sears and jerry-rigging magazines 
to hold more cartridges. There had been no way to test them, so I hoped 
they'd fucking work at least long enough to carry us through. 

We were also carrying explosives, bombs and boobies. Tweetie had set the
clocks for four in the morning, giving us plenty of time to place 
explosives, which we did. I spent an hour setting traps around and 
inside the enemy camp, hoping nobody would come out to take a shit and 
blow them early. 

We'd spent almost every night that week in hiding and watching camp
activities. Although we didn't have an accurate count, I figured on 
seventy-five to eighty of them. With six of us, we had to make it as 
quick and violent as possible. By the time any survivors regrouped, we 
hoped to be long-gone. 

Now, the people in the camp weren't real soldiers. There was no security
beyond one guy sleeping in a small yellow hut at the entrance. They 
were well-armed, though, and had some military training. With that lax 
fucking security, I doubted if there was any quick-response setup. Just 
because they called themselves “Aryans” didn't mean they'd learned 
anything from Uncle Adolf. 

Myself finished by 0347, I set up a firing nest next to the community
shitter after taking the opportunity to empty my own shaky bowels in 
relative comfort. 

Of course our luck didn't hold ... not exactly. I'd barely settled down
onto cold ground, positioning a converted AR-15 across the top of a 
small bench, before one of our automatic ambushes went off, blowing in 
the door of an enemy barracks. Most likely, I figured later, one of the 
mutts wanting to come out to bray at the moon. 

That was when all fucking hell broke loose. I can only tell of my
personal experience. I heard gunfire from several directions, along 
with yelling and the fucking screaming of wounded. When three shadows 
cut across a beam of moonlight, I fired, my muzzle-flashes showing all 
three seeming to dance to an un-choreographed but violent melody. They 
were unarmed, as far as I could see, and in their underwear. 

The next batch was armed. Not only up and active, but shooting at
everything except me as I returned fire. After that, the fucking timers 
went off in a series of blasts that lifted me off the ground. Before I 
could get under cover, I was pelted with every fucking thing but the 
kitchen sink. 

After the debris fell, the place went quiet again. A minute or so later,
I heard sporadic fire. I managed to hit one man. He was stumbling 
around and I put him out of his misery. As fires started, rapidly 
consuming dry wooden buildings, I remembered to check my watch. It said 
0410. 

Waiting a few minutes and not seeing any activity or hearing anything
but the crackling of flames and a few screams, I blew a whistle. 
Getting up on shaking legs, stomach in a knot and in a hurry to leave 
that repository of the dead and dying, I left for the fucking 
rendezvous area. 

Since the chopper, with civilian pilot, wasn't due to pick us up until
noon, I'd set our extraction to be in the woods several klicks away. As 
isolated as the target had been, I didn't really expect a quick 
response from our actions -- but why take a chance? 

Extraction was a weak point in the planning. The chopper pilot had other
commitments and wouldn't be back from Columbia before late morning -- a 
matter I had no control over. Besides, there was no way for my team to 
get together quickly at night, not in the fucking dark and in an 
unfamiliar forest. Another reason we should have had time to practice. 

Hopefully, any wounded would make it in time for noon pickup. And, damn
it, I forgot to soak that handful of currency in the blood of our 
enemy. It had completely slipped my mind. 

*** 

When I managed to make my way to the fucking pickup point, I found I was
alone. Tired as hell, I flopped down, generally out of sight behind a 
berry patch, to wait. It was too damned close to a dirt road, but there 
weren't many open spaces a chopper could land in in that forest and we 
had to use what we could find. I picked it because of its being on a 
hilltop near a small town; easy to see from the air but far enough from 
the conflagration to, hopefully, be safe for awhile. 

When the others finally showed, it sounded like a mob approaching. The
first thing I heard was the cursing. Next came branches breaking and 
metal rattling. I smiled, hoping that the noise meant they'd all come 
through. 

When I heard women talking, I jerked upright. Where the fuck did they
find women? 

Gorgie came first, weapon at the ready, to check out the clearing.
Seeing me sitting behind bushes, he lowered a sub-gun, grinned, and 
came forward. Behind him, three women were carrying a makeshift litter 
made of a couple poles stretched between what must have been their 
shirts, since they were bare-chested. I could see someone lying on the 
device. As they came closer, I could make out it was Sam. 

"Sam took a couple rounds, Frenchie," Gorgie said, sighing as he dropped
down beside me. 

"The others?" I asked. "Put the fucker down over there," I ordered the
carriers, pointing to an edge of the clearing. 

"I saw Spider and Tim get it. Spider was jumped by one'a the bastards.
By the time I killed the son-a-bitch, he'd cut Spider's throat." Gorgie 
swallowed, maybe getting his shit together. "Our terrible fucking Tim 
lived up to his name. The last I saw of the stupid cocksucker was him 
charging a half-dozen of the bastards, a gun in each fucking hand." He 
shook his head. Grandstanding isn't done in this profession. A 
back-shooter lasts longer than the moral types. 

"You see him hit?" 

"Yeah. I saw him go down. The asshole." 

"It's a wonder he earned his first mission bill." I nodded toward the
women, sitting and talking over by the wounded Sam. "Where the hell you 
pick them up?" 

"When I went over to see about Sam, I saw them huddling in a shed. The
blond was looking out through the fucking window, so I made them carry 
Sam." 

"They Assholes, too?" 

"Must be. Two were wearing sidearms and there was a rifle in the shed." 

"You think we need them anymore?" I asked. 

"Why don't we ask Sam?" 

"Yeah. Why not?" 

Rising, we both went over to talk to Sam. When one of the women came
over and said something, I told her to shut the fuck up. I'd get to 
them later. 

"How you feeling, man, and where're you hit?" I asked. He had a shirt
wrapped tightly around one upper leg. There was also a large splotch of 
blood on his left side, the lumping of some sort of bandage showing 
under it. 

"Not too well, Frenchie. Hurts like hell when I laugh." He did manage to
smile. 

"Then don't laugh. Think you'll make it?" 

"Should. I didn't lose too much blood. Gorgie found a first-aid kit and
the girls fixed me up." 

"Morphine?" 

He shook his head. "Civilian kit, no drugs." 

"You gotta hold on, then. We're due to be picked up about noon. It's
going on ten, now." 

"Thanks. You got any water?" 

"No. Maybe on the chopper? I dunno." 

I looked over at the women. "You need any of these girls?" I asked him. 

"Why?" 

"The contract. We're being paid to wipe those Assholes out. They're part
of the contract." 

"You'll simply kill them? They saved my life." 

"We honor our contracts, Sam. If word gets out we didn't, none of us
will work again." I looked over at Gorgie, who wore a poker face. 
Looking back, I saw Sam nod his head. He understood. 

"What about you, Gorgie?" I asked. 

"Let's wait a while. I told them that if they helped us I'd let them
live. Besides," he said, rubbing his crotch, "I could use a little 
relief about now. We can get rid of them when the chopper gets here." 

*** 

Well, noon came ... and went, with no sign of our aircraft. About
sundown, police, military, and news aircraft began flying over. I 
realized we were fucking stuck. 

"Look," I told the guys, "that town's close. I'm going in to find a
telephone. I'll pick up food and water while I'm there. Some kind of 
painkiller for Sam, too. We can't get him out on foot and those girls 
would turn on us in a minute. 

"Which one of these women you want?" I asked Gorgie. "No fucking sense
in you guarding all three. Besides, they can identify us if we're 
captured." 

I pointed at one girl, the tallest, calling to her, "Take off those
pants. I want them." They were blueish and looked like they might fit 
me. At least they were civilian. 

"Yeah. That one's okay," Gorgie replied, meaning the same one. Knowing
why I asked, his voice was a little shaky. I knew it was my 
responsibility. Corporal or general, a leader has his duty; no matter 
how horrendous. 

While dressing in her trousers, I took off my holster, dropping it, sans
pistol, to the ground. Turning quickly, I shot the other two women in 
the head. 

Pointing at the survivor, I told Gorgie, “Have her find some way to dig
a hole ... for all of them.” 

Shoving the pistol under my shirt, I turned and left for town. 

*** 

The hunt for us hadn't affected the town. At least not yet. As I watched
from a rise, I saw a few military-style vehicles going through. There 
was an obvious police presence in the area, but no organized search ... 
at least that I could discern. 

Steeling myself, I rose and walked down the last hill, emerging onto a
residential street. Few people were in sight, those doing mundane 
chores. I attracted no attention as I searched for and found a 
good-sized drug store. It had a pay phone, which was my first priority. 
Luckily, I had a few local coins with me and called a contact number 
I'd memorized. 

"... so our transportation never arrived. Can you check it for me?" I
gave her the number of the phone I was using, then hung up and poured a 
cup of free coffee from the establishment while I waited anxiously. 

At one time, a couple of obviously plain-clothes cops came in, causing
me to circulate and pretend shopping near the telephone until they 
left. After an interminable time, it rang. 

It was my pilot, who said he'd been frightened off by police activity,
including two helicopters. Still having illegal drugs in his craft, he 
couldn't take a chance ... and left. He'd be back later, at least 
several days later ... probably at sunrise. If he tried at night, he 
said, he'd have trouble finding the location in the dark and with 
possible police copters in the air. The cops, he said he knew from his 
drug runs, usually didn't take to the air until after they'd had 
breakfast. For those reasons, sunrise in two or three days would be the 
best time to pick us up. “By then, they'll have given up the search,” 
he said, “and you're probably safe where you are.” 

That settled, I stayed long enough to buy groceries and an assortment of
non-prescription pain killers. Also plenty of cigarettes but no booze. 
I sorely needed a drink but didn't think it appropriate until we were 
finished. 

At another store, I found a cheap backpack, then hiked back to the
pickup point. I couldn't help but look suspicious as I trudged slowly 
uphill, loaded down with supplies, including four gallon-jugs of 
bottled water. It looked like we'd have to wait.... 

*** 

Now, here it is morning on the day we're due to be picked up. It's still
dark but the sky is lightening. 

There was a bit of trouble last night. Not only did the remaining girl,
while sleeping with Gorgie, try to escape, but she tried to cut his 
fucking throat in the attempt. 

It's a bloody cut, though not serious. He must be alright, since what
woke me was him stomping her to death while wearing only socks. Also, 
luckily, I'd picked up plenty of bandages and pain pills. I used the 
rest on Gorgie. 

Last night, we spent a couple of hours cleaning up. An expert or dog can
tell we've been here, though not a casual observer. And, of course, the 
grave filled with rotting girl-flesh and our trash might be easy to see 
from the air. Nothing we can fucking do about that. And I did wipe her 
blood on three of the $100 bills, giving one each to Gorgie and Sam. 
Shrugging, I finally gave each of them a clean one to keep. Their 
intended recipients dead, no need to dip the fuckers. I never did hear 
what happened to Tweetie. But, then, that's the breaks of the game. 

I gotta stop writing this entry, since I can see and hear the chopper
hovering. 

The End.


Tweet