Somewhere in New Realna's Old Quarter
2200 Hours

The city had died down, and while the nightlife was running wild, on an ecstasy and coke fueled binge combined with alcohol down below in the cosmopolitan old city, a place of bars, cafes and predominantly drunks. The latter was the most frequent sight down below. Because Lucas wasn't amongst the chaos that was a night out on Realna's Old Quarter. No, he was doing buisness. Things that needed to be taken care of. He'd done some simple reconaissance the night before, and was now moving, quickly and with a purpose, across the roof of the terraces, leaping up onto a slightly higher level, clambering over with the precision of a Gazelle leaping a hedge. He wore a black set of infiltrator's gear, with a simple harness attached at his hip, and a small MP7A1, with an attached silencer and optical sight lingering on his back, alongside a carbon-fibre Crossbow and rope system. His Kimber M1911 at his waist, and in his small rucksack, a few mixed explosives. Two 2kg Thermite charges, and two 2kg PE7 charges, the latest and greatest in blowing shit up. His black beanie on, and his distinctive [url=http://www.gooutdoors.co.uk/ZoomProductImages.aspx?ProductId=290022&ProductImageId=35416&W=1323&H=682]Black, Blue and Grey bandit[/url] that he wore meant that only a trained eye, with the correct knowlege of who it was, would know that Trident was running. His face concealed, but he saw fine, the matt black infiltration equipment he wore bringing him to darkness. Sliding across a rooftop ventilation system, he moved forward, crouching by an old stone wall, looking over at the scene in front. He had to have a reason to be like this, right? Fully kitted up with more than enough equipment to be arrested almost several times over for weapons breaches, explosives possession, and worst of all, trespassing. So why?

Because across the other side of the terraces, at a slightly lower level, lay a very, very serious Methamphetamine and Weed operation. The weed was the primary produce here- it wasn't grown, it was refined. They were making Skunk, a highly catching version of Weed that would blow most stoners out of the water. Literally. It was an aggressive, hard form of the drug that practically zombified people in an appropriate dosage, or at least rendered them pretty fucking inanimate, from what Lucas had seen in high enough use. The Russian Mafiya was making a good buck out of it, and it was a continuous process, running out of the second floor of the four storey building opposite, right in plain sight. That said, all the windows were barricaded, nobody could even see in if they were sober on the street below, where the bars ran open on this fine weekend. But on Trident's fifth floor, he had a way in. Taking the Crossbow off his back, he loaded the bolt in clean and steady, the steel cord attached to the bolt more than strong enough. He had a target. A nice metal ventilation system on the roof of the target terrace, where he'd move to.

Pulling the trigger, the bolt silently buried itself into the metal casing, embedding itself strong enough for Lucas to get a firm control of the steel line. Moving back, he tied it tightly to a well positioned telephone wire clamp, tying in neatly and quickly, as he took his karabiner from his harness. Clicking in, he adjusted the mechanism, doing up the screwgate, as he breathed hard.
"Think." He simply muttered to himself, Lucas just calm. Putting the Crossbow back on his back, he looked over the gap, almost five storeys up. This opposite building would be mostly empty, but a body count could come. The plan was simple. And simple was good.

Moving forward, he lept up, leaning back as he whisked himself far across the road, the silent noise of metal against a metal cord being not something exceptionally loud, but drowned out mostly by the noise below as the zip got him to where he had to go. Nobody even saw him. Feet up, he braced himself, as he hit the other end, looking around before he dropped off. Lucas ditched the karabiner that he had used to get across, moving across the rooftop. He'd leave the line- if it dropped, people would know something was amiss. Right now, it looked like a power cable, or something like that. Vaulting over a small wall, he slid into cover, as he heard two men, with cigarettes, talking up ahead. Ducking down, he slid behind a pair of oil barrels on the roof, smelling methlamine. The basic ingredient for methamphetamine, formed from a variety of Amines, and Methanol. A simple product, but one that made Crystal Meth. Which fuelled the frenzied rage of this city, when shit got real. The two men were talking, about the clap, and then about the operation below. One held a beer of sorts, while the other smoked, perhaps out of the labs to avoid contamination. Moving across, as they looked out down below, Lucas was fast, as they looked off the roof of the old building. The Tomahawk was a fine weapon in Lucas's hands, and today, more than ever, it was perfect in his black kevlar gloved hands. The Native American weapon flew into the neck of Smoking man, whilst Beer-holding man was too slow to even comprehend what had happened to his friend's fate. Lucas had iced one- but he wanted the other alive. For a few seconds longer. 

Moving forwards, the man dropped his glass on the tarred floor, as Lucas was able to use his slow reaction, the SEAL-issued dive knife already out. The short, sharp blade was like a shiv, but faster, and more comfortable. Beer man threw out a slow punch as he came close, his friend well and truly dead, blood spluttering from his neck. Lucas was quicker, and dodged it, with a swift shank to the abdomen putting the man completely out. He was about to scream, had it not have been for Lucas's gloved hand covering his mouth. Slamming him to the ground, he knelt, looking down.
"How many people, are inside? You lie, you deceive me, I'll know. I can tell liars, and right now, you best not be. I'll pull this out as slow as I can from the moment you start. That's going to rip your whole intestines out, you hear? I think whatever you just had for dinner will be on my knife." He said, the man screaming in muffled tone, as Lucas shook his head. Lucas's voice was hard to distinguish, beneath his thermal bandit.
"Scream, you die, slowly. So you're going to be a good boy, and you might just live. Understood?" Lucas added, as the man blinked twice, Lucas slowly easing off.
".....ten, there's ten!" He said, almost howling in pain, as Lucas put his hand back on. The man was completely incapacitated, just in total agony. The knife hadn't been random, it had been co-ordinated to go just there. Not death, but a slow one. 
"Nicely done. But you make Crystal Meth, and I've seen it's affects. Lying is a smaller sin than ruining a hooker's life. I think I can have one white lie." Lucas said, as he pressed harder, the man's muffled scream increasing, as Lucas twisted the knife out of his abdomen, before slitting the man's throat open. The blood spluttered, as he fell dead, Lucas not even caring. He was bad, sure, but not as bad as these people.

Moving up, he headed to the door they'd gone in through, swinging the MP7A1 off his back, checking the EOTech 552 Holographic that sat on the weapon. Moving down, he moved around each and every corner, sweeping carefully. This place ran continuously, and it had to. Now, would be a time for the charges. Moving down the stairs, and around the corner, target number one was found. The Meth Cookhouse. The cooks inside were too down to work, before they heard the black-clad figure make his way in through the plastic sheeting. The spluttering of 4.6mm rounds across the room left a bloody work, and downstairs, the Skunk operation had already ground to a halt as a result of that. The two cooks were gone, completely dead and riddled with rounds. Lucas smirked, as he took out the Thermite Charges, lobbing it over to the far side of the room, a clacker hooked up. This serious military grade equipment was perhaps what most sane people would call excess force. Lucas called it his equalizer. He lobbed it close to a few barrels, right by one of the bodies that had become lifeless and limp, completely devoid. Not that Lucas had a single concern. Moving back out, past the complicated equipment and two vats. The noise of men changed that. Lucas scrambled below a workbench, reloading quietly but surely. They were some guards of some sort, armed with pistols, nine mils. They were searching around, and didn't pick out the black figure of Lucas in and amongst the carnage that was here. Smashed bottles, leaking sets, dead bodies, and nobody to find to blame it. Lucas moved around the left, taking out the pair with a burst of co-ordinated shots, completely switched on in operator mode. Moving out the door, he headed to the staircase, hearing people move up. They had scaled up, UZIs in their hands. No problem. Moving down, he kicked the first man that was moving up the stairs, moving from a hidden position around the corner, kicking him down onto his friend, before emptying the mag between the two. The overpressured AP round in the MP7 was designed to eat body armor, but it was able to punch through one man into the next, whilst not being the most damaging round. And that was why the next two, six out of ten now, were dead. Four goons, two scientists, and that was discounting the rooftop pair. The stairs were concrete, and the inside of this older building hadn't seen much conversion, bar the rooms inside that had served as the laboratories and production facilities. 

The skunk room wasn't anything complicated, but the people inside were resilient. Moving up, Lucas felt bullets whizz by, as he dived behind a wall, feeling rounds punch through the wood and stone, chipping parts of the door and surrounding pieces apart. They knew he was there. Bringing up the clacker, he let his instinct keep running. The operator's mind, the mind that thought both logically and unorthodoxly, at the same time. Lucas knew that at this point in his raid, getting into the Skunk lab would be hard. But he had thermite set up in the Methamphetamine lab, on a mainly wooden floor. Right by the store of Hydrochloric Acid, too. Used to purify the product, filter off wastages in reaction. It was complicated Chemistry, but understanding the basics had been why Lucas had targeted it in the first place, and knocked this part of the chain out. Shooting unarmed men wasn't a written code of honor, but in this circumstance, what he'd do next would be worse to the men in the Skunk room. He didn't want to think how gruesome it would be, but clicking the charge, the noise of intense burning upstairs, followed by a loud bang, was enough to say the least.

The loud bang blew off part of the plywood covers on the side of the building, down into the street below, as the floor burned, hot acid and thermite eroding through, as parts of the lab above began to subside down. A huge vat slammed down into the Skunk room, as the four kilos of thermite, alongside the masses of acid that had been spilt onto plain floor, now burned a hole like hell. Moving through, Lucas took out the distracted men, the last of what the man that he'd interrogated upstairs had mentioned. The place was hellish, and the acid had mainly burnt out, though almost a quarter of the meth lab's equipment was now inside this Skunk Lab, where huge crates of Weed sat, alongside a couple of processors. This was the last bit. Taking the last two PE7 charges, Lucas rigged up the shipments, knowing full well this whole room would be blown to pieces, and probably the rest of the floor if he set this off. Setting it to the same clacker, he moved over the dead bodies, with a certain movement, a certain speed that a remorseless man had.

The cargo lift was at the bottom, and Lucas was able to use that to his advantage, choosing to take a different route down. Moving to the lift door, with a sharp pull, he opened the metal doors, leaping out onto the cable as he slid down, like he was fast roping back down to ground level. Hitting the roof of the lift, he moved through the hatch, dropping down, hiding behind the side of the lift's doors. The noise of movement could be heard. There was a lot of men coming through the door, the scene was hellish from where Lucas was. They weren't going for the lift, they were going straight up the stairs. They had some sense, they would have guessed taking the lift was going to be dangerous, if someone was waiting upstairs. So they were going systematically, floor by floor. And that played right into Lucas's hands. He was actually surprised, more than anything, that he didn't need to expend more ammunition that needs be. They were going straight to the Skunk Lab, and they would find what they were looking for. The garbled Russian through the wooden floors was enough to give Lucas his prompt, as it became an exclaiming tone. Click.

The side of the building visibly shook, as almost four kilos of highly explosive plastic charges sounded off, blowing the side of the plasterboard and stone out, as well as almost blowing apart all that was left of the Skunk Lab, and the men that had moved in. Glass and plywood rained, and a huge mess was left, everything and anyone poor enough in the blast radius of that floor well and truly dealt with. Both labs had been completely levelled, utterly destroyed, with no parts salvageable, utterly ruined. The building wasn't leveled, but those two rooms had basically become a singular cavern of dead bodies and destruction. Lucas didn't know how much he had destroyed, but with guards on this level at this time of night, he could guess this was at least $1 million. Yelling turned to screaming, as Lucas moved, not thinking. Heading round to the left, he moved to the back, kicking in an emergency door, and moving down, into the parking lot. Throwing the MP7 onto his back, he ran, moving with a pace and agility that many would struggle to keep up with, unless they were parkour artists or athletes. He didn't want to be here any longer than need be.

A couple of blocks later, running through alleys and out of sight, in the multi-storey, Lucas found his escape. The RS7 was parked neatly where he had left it last, and he knew precisely what the German-engineered machine would do. The 4.0 litre V8 roared, as the Quattro system gave a quick getaway, Lucas pulling out of the multistorey and quickly getting on the road, into the darkness. The anarchy that was left behind in his rear mirror was a world away. No tails, no witnesses, nobody that had seen him. Even if they had, they'd be describing a figure with a black beanie, and a thermal bandit of sorts, with infiltration gear and a compact SMG. They wouldn't know height, precisely at least, or even a name, physical appearance or anything. He was hidden. For now at least.

-----

The Next Day
0900 Hours

Lucas leaned back, looking out across the desk, a few case files to deal with. His office was located above a small conveinence store, the entrance being on the opposite side, in a quieter area of the Central of town. A car park out front, it was a small joint, but a simple place to be. He wore a navy blue shirt and simple pair of black suit trousers, looking over this one particular case. A suspicious husband wanted his wife monitored, from the moment she left for work at the Courts to the moment she left that to go home. He had dug up some interesting things, with a few other contacts he had in this business, as well as his own talent in following incognito. That world was completely different to what Trident did. Oh, it was different. He looked over the photos, seeing the few that he'd taken. Oh, they were golden. Caught this woman right in the act of good old fashioned drug abuse, because she drove over towards Jamaican Turf, a gang that was at least semi-in-line with the Mafia's workings in Realna. And she bought an ounce of weed every time, then proceeding to smoke it, spending at least an hour in her car, lighting up the most cracking spliff that he'd seen a solicitor take. It made no sense, but in this city of madness, nothing did. Perhaps her supply would be affected by what he did the day before. Lucas didn't care. He would just give it back to the husband, and let him do what he wanted. Get his pay. That was all he wanted. 

Exhaling, he sat up, looking out the window, as this city, the city of crime and grime. And here he was, cleaning it up. Many things fuelled him. The main one, was just knowing he was giving people confidence. The Mafia was no longer untouchable, and they didn't know what to do. They were scared, and they had to be. Perhaps they would hunt him. But Lucas knew that it would take an awful lot to stop him. Perhaps things would change. Perhaps more people like him would come, but he doubted it. He was alone, and the term, "Lonely are the Brave", never fitted him better. No kids, no family he could really talk to, and only a few loose ends from his past life were left. All that mattered, was that he got his rush out of fucking up the Mafiya, and making those Ruskies pay, for every evil they brought here.