[hr][h1][color=dimgray]Sam Clarke[/color], The Nightingale, and [color=gray]The Dreadnaughts[/color][/h1][hr] 

[h2]Part III[/h2] 


In about four minutes, a fleet of police cars came tearing down Beijing Street at maximum speed. There were ten cruisers, four vans, and two armored personnel carriers from the National Guard. Sam stood by the generator, gun in hand. There was a door adjacent to the generator, and if if opened he was going to be ready to kick ass. 

The police cars came within two blocks. 

"Good mornin', America, how are you... don'tcha know, I'm your native s--" Grit halted the murmured singing as he looked away from his scope, and turned over to see the militarized police force come zooming by, warranting a near-panicked reaction from him. He was about three or four blocks down, but still prompted his worry. He quickly spoke into his comm, "they've hit the second block, do it now! They're coming in fast!"

Caesar reached into his pocket to grab a zippo lighter and with it, lit the fuse of the firecrackers beside him. The fuse was long, he'd have to wait a brief second.

"Roger!" Sam smacked the lock off of the power box hanging from the wall with his gun and looked at the complicated system of switches inside. He pulled a few switches to cut off the power and, to make sure it got done right, shot the board with his suppressed pistol. A loud "Ping!" filled the air and the box exploded into sparks.

The lights in the warehouse immediately died down afterwards, prompting a couple of alarmed exclamations from the people inside. Baron's body was stiff and anxious. Washe looked at the fuse as it gradually shrunk. Finally, when it was just an inch or two away from the firecrackers, he jumped around the barrels and tossed them through a hole between two broken boards of the warehouse, and soon enough, went off - catching the people inside off guard.

[hr]

The sound of the electrical box bursting open and firecrackers caught the Nightingale's attention. [i]Why do men have to blow everything up? So messy. One big dick measuring contest, all the time.[/i] She was not left with much time to ruminate on the gender dynamics of covert operations for long-the doorknob beside her began to rattle. Anastasia quickly darted across the alley and knelt beside a few trashbags. Her concealment was by no means perfect, but between the darkness and the adrenaline of the Fiends, she imagined she'd be alright. Her gloved finger slid onto the trigger of her pistol, and she reached for her knife with her left hand. After a moment, the Fiends unlocked and opened the door, looking both ways.

"It's the fucking cops, man!" one of them said, struggling to pry a belt off of his arm. [i]Jesus. I feel like I'm overqualified for this. [/i] He removed it and threw it on the ground, rubbing at the crook of his elbow. "The fuck do we do?"

The other was on par in terms of sobriety and strategic foresight. "I guess, just, run or some shit." The two took off down the alleyway, leaving the Nightingale in a bit of a dilemma. Their odds of stumbling upon the sniper were...low (provided this Dreadnaught had any training whatsoever), but if they did, that could be enough to botch this whole job. Leaving her back to an open door and a warehouse full of tweakers was not exactly a tactically sound choice either. Sighing (noiselessly), Anastasia rose, following the Fiends from a careful distance. They darted around a corner, heading roughly for Grit. [i]They're either very lucky, or very well-informed.[/i]. Admittedly, the rooftops weren't a terrible idea, and she could understand where the two would look for that. Cops were going to have their hands full with the warehouse-these two cowards could lay low until the coast was clear. Anastasia wasn't used to the Fiends displaying such intelligence. It was disarming.

They slid to a stop by the ladder to a fire escape, briefly arguing over who should get to climb first. The minute she heard boots hitting steel, she turned the corner. The Fiend on the ground spotted her, mouth widening in alarm. And yet nothing came out. Curious. Anastasia sidestepped his punch, which was terribly predictable. [i]Forget the intelligence thing.[/i]She moved to press the blade of the knife to his neck and thought better of it. Getting blood over her clothes wouldn't do for the getaway-finding time to be irritated at command for not letting her have her suit even in the midst of a grapple, Anastasia punched the side of the Fiend's neck, pushing off with her legs and throwing her whole body into the punch. The Fiend grunted, but she must not have struck the carotid with enough force. Perhaps he was just too drugged to pay attention to the laws of biology-off-balance and alarmed, the Fiend staggered enough for her to land a kick on the shin of the leg that was holding him up. He hit the pavement more or less facefirst, and Anastasia quickly double-tapped the back of his head with the pistol. Bone and brain splattered onto her boots. [i]I'm going to clean these off on the inside of Lihua's ass, damn her.[/i] 

The other Fiend was none the wiser-camaraderie was a very relative term amongst this bunch, and the welfare of his tagalong wasn't something he appeared to be very concerned about. Anastasia holstered her pistol and clenched the knife in her teeth, clambering up the ladder much more quickly than he'd been able to. She caught him on the third flight, grabbing his ankle and yanking back down. His chin caught two of the rungs on the way down, and the entire damned, rusty scaffolding seemed to shake with the impact. [i]I swear if this city put half of NEST's budget into maintenance.[/i] He opened his mouth to scream, and once again, quite curiously, made not a sound. Anastasia kneeled over him, resting her knee on the man's throat. He slapped at her legs and torso, but didn't have an angle or enough force to get her off. He fell asleep. Perhaps permanently. Anastasia stood up, wrinkling her nose as she brushed his touch off of her. Christ, she didn't want to think about where those hands had been. She continued clambering up the ladder, emerging behind Grit. She gave him a quick whistle to let him know she was there, and then knelt beside him, watching the scene unfold from below. Grit turned around at the sound of his compatriot, evidently happy to see a pretty face in the sea of gruff old men that he worked with. "Ah, I thought you'd never come!"

[hr]

Meanwhile, in the warehouse, the lights had abruptly gone out. Baron was blinded for the time being, but he knew that Grit should be alright as long as he had the camera. He made sure to keep it focused on where Long Dragon was standing previously.

"What the fuck! Where'd the lights go?" 

"Someone find them!"

"Who the fuck turned them out!"

"I can't see!"

 Following the darkness, came the firecrackers. In the midst of alarm and panic, nobody noticed the brief second where sparks flew through the air and onto the ground. Sounds of gunfire immediately erupted from it, and the smell of gunpowder filled the room. 
 
 "Fuck! Fuck!"
 
 "Shit, get down!"
 
 "Who's firing?!"
 
 From the sounds of it, half of the people in the room dropped to the floor, and in no time at all, moonlight filled the warehouse as two Fiends opened the large warehouse doors to check what all the commotion was about.
 
 "What's happening!"

Back to Grit, still laying on the rooftops, had seconds to make the shot in time. Taking a quick glimpse from the green recording and back to the scope, he aimed it into the darkness of the warehouse. "Here goes nothing," he muttered. He pulled the trigger as the massive police invasion came to a halting stop in front of the doors.

Baron saw a familiar tall silhouette among the much abruptly lurch backward, before staggering and ultimately falling onto the floor. Behind his mask, the spy smiled. [i]'Whether it's Grit's luck or his skill, the boy never ceases to impress.'[/i] He turned around, making his best efforts to remain inconspicuous to the Fiends (who were more than likely distracted by the sudden army of police forces) as he casually leaned against the back door and started making his escape. He took off the gas mask as soon as he went out-doors, breathing a breath of fresh air. He looked down to see Washe's anxious face, and simply gifted to him a reassuring smile. Washe sighed.

"Mission successful," Washe declared over the comm, "now let's all get out of here before shit hits the fan."

Sam sighed and watched as the plan unfolded perfectly. These guys were impressive; they kicked ass without any supernatural abilities to help them. He was awe-struck and a tad jealous of them. As the back door burst open and Baron came running out, Sam crept over and slunk inside. He flickered out of sight and vanished once more. 

"Caesar, this is KINGFISHER FALCON," Sam said. "Job well done. I'll see you around. I've got one more thing I've got to do."

"Yeah, yeah..." Washe muttered. He proceeded to lead Baron through the back and through the alleyways to bring him to the van that they had made their mobile base of operations.

Grit grinned from ear to ear. The old man's plan worked like a charm! It was like he [i]knew[/i] what those Fiend mooks were gonna do. He took apart the stand fo his sniper rifle, and slinged the gun over his back, then immediately began rushing across the rooftop as he ripped off the ski mask over his face - the damn thing was too hot for a tropical city like this. As he began making his escape, he smiled at agent NIGHTINGALE, clearly satisfied with himself. "What do you think, eh? Not too shabby, am I right?"

[i]'I take back my previous sentiment about the Dreadnaughts being hired to fight for you - these two had no qualms with ignoring NEST and blowing the man's head out.'[/i] The Nightingale thought.

Anastasia rolled her eyes at Grit's attempt at coming on to her. She's been in this scene a long time, and if there was one thing she should've gotten used to be now, it was a cocky marksman. Being one herself, though, there was some place for respect on Grit's part. She was at least impressed by Grit's ability to take out a target in pitch black darkness, but was a little skeptical that perhaps the man was just lucky beyond compare. When he took off his mask, she was taken back by the marksman's youth - at least a couple years younger than she was. She wasn't the type to pray (with the life she's led so far, it's safe to say she's forsaken her place beyond heaven's pearly gates), but she might just contemplate praying he wasn't one of those prodigies that made her look bad.

Grit was mostly concerned about getting the hell out of here than flirting with the hot assassin while they were surrounded by the militarized police and by gang members. He stepped on the scaffolding ladder, and as he slid his way down to the platform below, he called, "let's get outta here while we can. We've got a rendevouz over by, uh... down over by... uh, damn it, I don't know. The Chinese take out place? Let's just get out of here!"

Anastasia sighed. [i]'So maybe he isn't a prodigy. Good for me.'[/i]