Michael Williamson - When Diplomacy Fails…

Elke and Bart were shooting, and he had targets ahead of him. He fluttered his finger on the trigger, pointing as he moved, treating them as moving targets to his subjective stillness. He shot four before any of them could fall. He got the last one right under his raised weapon and high on the chest.

Bart called, “Right blue clear.” Elke said, “Left blue clear,” very calmly. Alex said, “Left red clear.”

That left one man behind a bloody sack that was Aramis, raising a pistol toward Aramis’s head. Jason put a bullet right through the hand and gun, and a second two centimeters past Aramis’ ear, directly into the thug’s right eye. He convulsed with a gurgle and collapsed, his hooked left arm half-hanging on Aramis’ restrained body until he slipped free. Aramis gurgled too, and moaned.

“Right red clear. Babs sweep, Bart run a patrol, Playwright, we need evac.”

Then the Recon team burst right in behind them, and stopped.

The captain stuttered for a moment, then said, “Well done, contractors. Barnes, help with their casualty.”

The combat medic was already three steps forward, his ruck unslung as he reached for gear.

Jason tried not to look at the ruined mess that was his young friend. Elke looked greenish behind her ears and around her mouth, but swallowed, squinted and stayed with it. Shaman ran forward with his pack. Jason decided he’d better at least look and see if he could serve backup.

The man was a beaten mess, though most of his insides still seemed to be inside, and intact. He might have died from trauma, but not from hypovolemic shock. If he’d died. Jason wasn’t sure if surviving this was positive. Gingerly, three people supported him, while one drew a knife and cut the tape restraints. They kicked debris aside and laid him down.

“Alive,” Shaman said. “Pulse weak but steady, breathing labored but adequate, no major head trauma.” He spoke all this as he helped handle the naked body. Aramis had great muscle tone, but it didn’t show now. He was just a flesh-colored mannequin, lacking any vitality.

There might not be major head trauma, but his jaw and cheeks were ugly. It looked like a slightly-reduced form of the ancient Hawaiian execution, with most of the bones broken, to be followed by eye gouging and eventually shattering blows to the clavicles.

He had no idea why that had suddenly come to mind, except that.. ah, right. Shaman now lived in Hawaii. The brain was capable of the most fucked up connections.

But they had him down and in a basket, with monitors. Sergeant Barnes was solidly professional, running an IV line at Shaman’s direction and checking for critical trauma or bleeding in the legs, then for spine damage. Shaman did the rest. Elke and Bart mumbled ill comments and pulled back to maintain a perimeter.

It stank. Aramis had leaked from all ends, sweated, bled. The building hadn’t been too clean to start with. There was now the stench of smoke and explosive debris, and he felt a tickle of dust catch in his throat.

Shaman sprinkled something, said, “He’s stable enough. Let’s depart.”

They backed out, with Elke screening them with smoke against any prying cameras. They left the bodies for the military to deal with. They could claim or blame as they wished.

Jason decided they would find out who was behind this. He’d make calls to acquaintances if need be. Then he’d pay a visit.

Outside, Bart watched with concern as they loaded Aramis into a military ambulance under dim red sunlight. Shaman jumped aboard and said, “I’ll see you on base.” Two troops slapped the doors closed and it rolled, joined in convoy by two Grumblies and an ARPAC.

Without waiting for clearance, Bart slid into their vehicle, as Elke dove straight through the window. Marlow and Vaughn used the doors, but weren’t much slower. He counted four heads, then accelerated before the captain could complain about anything.

They drove back at race speeds, Bart slaloming through traffic, using horn and attitude to clear a route. They had an appointment with Highland, but also to make sure Aramis arrived safely.

Pedestrians here fell into two classes. Those who were very cautious and polite, and those who seemed suicidal. They would ignore the vehicle until it was on them, then skip aside barely enough that he felt the fenders brush their clothes. It would be bad to kill any. It would mean admin and delays.

Behind him, he heard Alex speaking into his phone. “Cady, we’re coming in the back. I want to avoid any military debrief, and get out fast with Highland. I need two people to fill in. Thanks.”

He spoke louder. “We’re changing to suits fast-just clean up with alcohol gel. Lionel and Corcoran are filling in.”

“When is departure time?”

“This says she moved it up on us. Fifteen minutes from now. How far are we from the gate?”

“At this speed, about ten minutes.”

“Go faster.”

“I need a clearer path.”

Elke said, “Turn left up here, and I’ll take the top.” She slipped restraints, braced her feet and stood behind him.

He heard Marlow curse. Elke fired a short burst. Marlow fumbled with his phone. “Warning shots, we’re firing warning shots. No engagement. I understand policy. Circumstances dictate threats but not engagement.”

He clicked off the connection and said, “We may as well call the lawyers now. This is going to be a nightmare.”

The city thinned out and the route became narrower, but less busy. He rolled onto the fused shoulder to pass a driver who had a dopy look and was picking his nose.

At last he came to the outer perimeter that IDed the vehicle and let him past, the first slalom barricade, the scanners the military didn’t know they knew about.

“Cady’s waiting.”

“Understood.”

Even out here there was a military post, and patrols, but it was officially BuState jurisdiction. The troops on duty were lesser paid contractors who did a reasonably professional job. Cady waited at the third ring, and waved.

Bart slowed but didn’t quite stop. Cady vaulted onto the hood and grabbed a tiedown ring. He accelerated slightly. In moments they reached the berm, wire, tanglers and stunners that protected the fence, along with the manned machine gun and auto cannon that officially didn’t. Cady waved again, the outer gate opened, and they locked through to the inner berm.

There was Highland and Jessie, fidgeting and waiting. He slowed and turned. He pulled up on the next side of the building so as not to be seen.

The others debarked and he followed, all of them at a run. Cady spoke into her phone, “Lionel, Corcoran, go.” She pressed off and said, “They’ll meet her and calm her. We need to roll in four minutes.”

Jason zipped out of the blouse, kicked off his boots, dropped trousers and grabbed the alcohol gel, the soldier’s best friend when water wasn’t available, or not in time. It cooled the exertion he felt, and most of his sweat evaporated with it. Someone had laid their suits out. He grabbed shirt, threw on jacket, pulled on pants and used the thoughtfully placed shoehorn to slip into his already tied shoes. He could adjust everything in the vehicle.

They made it down in three minutes, stuffing shirts into waistbands in the elevator, and checking stunners and handguns. Cady and her men were outside, ushering Highland into the ARPAC. They followed her, and the four sprinted out.

Once aboard the vehicle, they were subjected to Highland’s random seething rage. Lionel and Corcoran had managed to get her seated. She half rose and stood in an uncomfortable crouch as she railed against them.

“I don’t know what you were playing at, sightseeing when I have a schedule to keep. I will be communicating with your headquarters to note a very unsatisfactory attention to the job.”