Turning the corner, Arran moved quickly, watching the entrance enough to understand what was going on. He saw one of the men at the front look over, sharpening his Machete.
"Hey! Get the fuck away from here!" He yelled loudly, as Arran chuckled, lowering his pistol.
"You seem really....fucking positive." Arran said, taking the Tomahawk out, as the man walked over, the Machete in hand. Bad move. Arran had planned, was a few steps ahead, and already swung out, faster and quicker than the man could respond, throwing him on the ground before he managed to get the Machete close. A swipe of the front of his neck put him on the ground, as he spat on him, Arran aware he had picked his moment well. Nobody in the street. Nobody would care. Putting the bloody tomhawk in it's clip on his side, he took his P226 back to hand, and walked in, past the empty reception. Another militant moved around, and recieved a point blank shot to the head, as another froze on the spot, Arran smirking in a twisted and crazed way.
"You have people captive, a bird tells me. Drop your club, show me the keys, slide them on the floor, and turn around. DO IT!" He yelled, his voice booming, as the noise of a distant click of an weapon being cocked could be heard. The man dropped his club, and looked not at Arran, but into the distance. He knew what it meant, and as did Arran., A man running could be heard, Arran half turning as he did what he did. He fired two shots into the man's abdomen, as he almost made contact with the Shiv, and brought him down, before Arran put another 9mm round into the man's foot.
"STOP FUCKING PLAYING GAMES, YOU HEAR? NOW!" He said, walking up closer, grabbing the man by the throat as the keys dropped, and another bullet entered the militant. Three down. He didn't care. He was sufficiently moving, no point taking prisoners in this place. It was lawless enough as it was- these bastards weren't helping. He kept himself to the wall, as yelling could be heard, in native language. It sounded questioning. He stuck to the corridor, moving skillfully and tactically, aware he had two clips in reserve. He wanted to keep them as long as possible- bullets meant lives, and in short, if he wanted to take Scorpion's, he knew it would take more than 36 from his two spare magazines. Any spare would do. He heard the voice get closer, barely peeking the corner as the shots rang out. Automatic. Bugger. He let the man fire uncontrollably, clearly untrained. These were some poorly trained militants, barely allowed guns and yet this one did and fired it like a lunatic. Turning the corner, Arran shot a clean pair to the man's temple, throwing him down, as he moved forwards, the P226 that he clutched conflident in his hands, as he saw the cells. Four men wasn't enough, but he could tell that this was it. Two men in particular, in the two holding cells. He unlocked both before picking up the weapon on the floor, and a spare magazine. It wasn't a lot, but it would do- the G3A2 being poorly maintained, but it's sighting and solid stock holding stern. It would be a good weapon, if more fire was needed. A Colt Revolver sat on the men's buckle, with some equipment in a small bag, as well as a $50 dollar bill and a small golden wedding ring.
"So, who's King Cobra is this?" Arran asked, looking at the two men, the short shaven man who didn't look very tanned being what the Scot expected to find. The other one looked far too tanned, just somewhat not suiting.
"I assume yours, mercenary. Name is Arran Mackenzie. The name Scorpion I believe rings a bell. Let's get the fuck out of here." He simply said, pointing the King Cobra to the unknown Canadian man before flipping the whole pistol and holding it by the barrel, offering the handle to the Canadian, and nodding to the body.
"He has the rest of your shit. I'll check outside." Arran simply added, aiming the G3, as he pushed out from the cells, keeping a head back as a pistol rang out. Blindfiring the weapon, he heard a groan, as the man came down with a shot to the leg, before Arran popped him with a 7.62 mm round to the chest, pinning him as he led the way out of the lobby, and out the building, aware that noise had been made. Arran may have been rusty, but he was decisive. He knew what he did best, and the memories from his SBS days had stayed in his mind, flowing as the liquid adrenaline had kicked off from the first Tomahawk swing to the last bullet he had fired, 

----

Magnus watched onward. He decided to take a different approach. He had sat quietly in the lobby. His hunch that there were more had paid off. Watching the bar momentarily had been good- this guy didn't know about tailing and blending in. A white person like him should have been spotted from a mile out. But the way that Magnus acted, and almost blended with the local population like a native of sorts, suggested otherwise. He had seen this mercenary kill a drunk, and he was coming to the same hotel. Classic. He heard the room number, and followed, waiting about twenty minutes, before making his move.

He knocked on the door. He didn't search every room, of course not. But he spotted something off about this whole batch. He remembered faces. These all were so soon and so quick, and Arran's file had told him everything. The kidnap of what looked like either a Canadian or an American mercenary, and the Scot who looked like he had been rusty was connected. This was another. And he wanted to find out what he wanted. If they were here for Scorpion...well, he had to figure out a way of fixing something that would make sure that this time, it wouldn't be a wasted effort to fuel the war. As much as he liked money, he liked the locals. He cared for some, understood poverty and why he was a direct contradiction. In the short term, the factions were money, resources and a means to an end. In the long term, chances like these mercenaries turning up on his door would be a bad call if he refused to act. He knew the intentions, and in the end, he knew that to make sure that they at least had a hope in hell of perhaps finding leads, he'd need to put them through.
"You seem to be pretty good at murdering people. And fairly new around here, like about two other individuals I saw today, who happen to come out of the blue- not something you see often, you understand...especially when the Scorpion is involved. Name's Magnus. Can we talk?" He simply asked, looking into Edward in a particular way, aware that while he was a total stranger, he wanted to at least figure something out here, watching Edward's moves. He wouldn't try anything, worst that could happen, he'd shut the door. But he knew what action to take in what context, and right now, perhaps getting a better understanding of the scale from someone who wasn't Arran would be better. Getting things moving, perhaps explaining what he did.