>BUDGET MOTOR INN ON HWY 6, NEW YORK
>10.JUL.2019
>2330...///

The styrofoam boxes sat on the small table, once full of greasy fries and burgers from the Olympic Diner across the highway but now demolished by the men waiting in room 24. Only one waited, untouched, for the last member or former member rather of THUNDER to arrive. Billy Patrick sat back in the stained chair, leaning far enough to test the creaking frame as he enjoyed a strawberry shake.

He was a lean fit man but not noticeably thin or muscular, he was average height and his longish hair was an unremarkable dirty blonde or light brown, it changed with the light. So did his eyes, the blue shifting to gray or green depending on his attire which changed as often as the weather. Billy was attractive but not overly pretty or masculine, the scruffy beard hiding his sharp cheekbones and pouting lips. The only thing that really stood out was the amount of ink on his skin and that had changed over the years. The only thing consistent was Billy's dedication to his craft and his almost flamboyant embrace of costuming to his roles. The nickname Queen had been bestowed after his teammates witnessed his Miami persona, full of designer clothes and cologne.

He sucked on the straw, the last of the shake slurping obnoxiously at the bottom of the cup. Queen was watching the parking lot through the gap of the blinds, checking each passing sweep of headlights or shadow. Dressed in jeans and a half open button down silk shirt with colorful print and a gold chain, he looked like a scumbag guido from New Jersey.  His hair now darker with the pomade slicking it back and he still had a pair of aviator shades hanging from his pocket. The look would change when they would leave for Yorktown and if anyone came poking around they would only know a Vincent Ricci had signed in and continued onto Poughkeepsie to visit his Nana. 

The other member of the team was a dark contrast to Queen, both in appearance and energy. He was tall, a couple of inches over six feet, and had the heavy build of a professional athlete, packing 220 pounds of muscle. He was in his early 40s, with a creased forehead and frown lines visible where his face wasn’t covered by a short copper beard. 

Unlike his comrade the man they called Ghost was a study in ‘Gray Man’ attire. He wore a charcoal hoodie, just form-fitting enough to allow for easy movement, and dark navy blue cargo pants over practical hiking boots. A black ball-cap was pulled low over his cold eyes; the entire ensemble was meant to deflect attention, not attract it. 

Ghost gave Queen a hard look as the man slurped at his milkshake. The sound grated at his ears; it wasn’t the noise itself that irritated him, it was the intent behind it. He’d long ago started to suspect that most of the things Queen did were meant to annoy him personally. 

“You done?” He grunted. 

Queen gave a last slurp then opened the cup, inspecting it then nodded, "Yep. Good shit."

He tossed the empty cup into the wastebasket and glanced over at the big man, dressed like he was going to rob a gas station. All he needed was a ski mask. "Too bad we didn't bring the PS4."

“Won’t be here that long,” Ghost said. He did wish he’d brought the Playstation; sitting on his ass listening to Queen talk about partying in Florida wasn’t his idea of entertainment. “Quick job. A smash-and-grab. I didn’t want to drag all that shit around.” 

He looked at the ancient TV that sat against the wall with disdain. “Besides, I doubt that fucking TV could even run it. Looks like it was built 20 years before HDMI ports were a thing.” 

Queen sniffed then rubbed his hand over his chin, "Yeah it's ancient, at least we can use it to check the weather."

He stood up, then headed to the bathroom, "I'm gonna take a leak." 

Once inside he dug into his pocket and pulled out a twisted baggie with smaller portions inside it. A party pack he brought especially to celebrate the return of Big Tex. Queen grinned and dipped his pinky nail in one of the bags, snorting a sample of the coke he brought with him from Miami. It was good shit, he felt the numbing sensation immediately then the rush. It would make the wait with that spooky asshole Ghost more tolerable.

"Fawkin A," he muttered at his reflection, trying out his Jersey accent. "Get the cawfee and come tawk to me."

His blue eyes danced in amusement and the rush of cocaine through his system. "Fawk it, I'm gonna go back to Newawk."

With a laugh, he shoved the door back open, strolling through the small room. Queen sat on the bed but immediately bounced up to his feet. "Yo, yah think they gawt bedbugs?"

One knock. Pause. One knock. Pause. Two knocks. That was the right order, right? Hopefully Ghost wouldn’t put a few rounds through the door. Donnelley was stood outside it, almost swaying on his feet from the long drive he’d endured. Fueled by caffeine and nicotine, he knew he’d need something more to keep himself going. Queen would have something, that was just a fact of life. He rolled his eyes as he took another lungful of cigarette smoke at the muffled, obnoxious voice of Queen’s twisted up and stretched out in a Jersey accent. “Jesus fuck…” he muttered to himself as he waited.

Ghost rose silently to his feet, producing a suppressed Glock 19 from his hoodie pocket. He focused the red dot of his RMR on the door, finger on the trigger, and gave Queen a silent nod. 

[I]Slow[/i], he mouthed, his gaze locked on the door.

Queen instantly shut up and his own hand went to the handgun tucked behind his back. With a nod at Ghost, he moved to the door and stood off to the side, then slid the useless chain off the lock, his hand on the deadbolt. He knew the knock but still asked, "What's the fawkin' password?"

“Fuck yourself.” Donnelley’s voice from the other side.

Queen grinned, his accent slipping back to his natural northern Floridian cracker drawl. "Good 'nuff," he said, swinging the door open with a big grin on his face. "Come on in, mu'fucker. It's good to see your beautiful face again."

He stepped back, holding the door open for Donnelley to enter the motel room. Donnelley stepped inside, puffing his cheeks out from the night air. His tired eyes fell on Ghost. The air between them seemed to fall still, and Donnelley slipped that little bit back into Tex, the bloodthirsty bump in the night. All that was shared was a nod. “Ghost.”

“Tex.” Ghost lowered the pistol, slipping it back into his hoodie pocket. He studied the man for a silent moment. “You look like shit. You good to fight?” 

Queen shut the door and slapped his hand on Donnelley's shoulder, but addressed Ghost, "This here is Big muthafucking Tex, you better know he's good for the fight."

Turning back to Donnelley, he added, "Come on now, got yer somethin' to eat. There’s beers in the minifridge. Good to see you again, it's been too long."

Dropping his hand from the man's shoulder, he pulled the unopened box of diner dinner across the table and shrugged, "It's prolly cold but fuck it, it's food."

“Yes, it is.” Donnelley’s stomach grumbled at the sight of the greasy food, as if the burger had reminded it that it was running on empty. Donnelley wasted no time in sitting down and tearing into the food with the same zeal he had in fighting and fucking. He wiped his mouth off on a napkin, looking at Queen, “I’m, uh, goin’ to assume you brought the usual performance enhancers. Uppers, no downers.”

He turned back to his food, but his words were for either of the two others, “So, I got a basic rundown of what we’re doin’. I need to know the [i]how.[/i]”

Queen sat in the chair then hopped back up with a wide grin, "You know I got you. The pharmacy is always open. Good shit, one of the benefits from being DEA."

At the question about the mission, he said, "I'll be driving, this Carlisle shitbird has a nice house in Yorktown Heights. Now this place ain't Beverly Hills but it's upper class, so I got us an Audi RS 5 Sportback in silver. Clean little car that'll blend in and it can haul ass. 2.9 liter with a turbo. I'm gonna dress like a driver, after some recon I found these rich cunts still have chauffeurs. I'll take y'all as close as I can, there is likely FBI eyes around there. I found an unmarked van, prolly surveillance last time but we can avoid him. Now, I got three routes and it's about a 15-20 minute drive to Carlisle's place. And he definitely got him some security. Monitors and shit I can try and take car of from my computer but last time I counted there was at least 5-8 armed guards at any time. Maybe more inside the house."

He spoke quickly, gesturing to a map print out and Google image views that he had downloaded of the property. "Top down view, it ain't changed much. He's got a fancy iron fence and remote controlled gate. Figured y'all could hop a fence, hopefully without gettin' yer sacks impaled on the spikes."

Queen glanced at Ghost, "Ya know, Dave Matthews lives a few blocks down. I'm just sayin', we could do the music world a favor."

Ghost had perused the Google Image print-outs on the drive and had memorized the layout of the house as much as was possible for a man who’d never been there. He felt his heartbeat kick up a notch as he looked them over again and forced himself to relax. 

“We can handle a fence,” he said, more to himself than to Queen. “Five to eight men, more inside...Private security, probably reasonably well trained, but at the end of the day they’re there for a paycheck. No honor in a merc, right?” He snorted. Ghost didn’t believe in honor. He [i]did[/i] believe in morale, however, and men who fought for the money rarely stuck around when it looked like things were going south. 

“Fuck Dave Mathews, kill him yourself,” he said, glancing at Queen. “We got real work to do.” 

“So, how do we get Carlisle out? What’s the coverup?” Donnelley asked from around a mouthful of burger. “We makin’ it bloody, or in and out?”

“We got options,” Ghost shrugged. “Figure if it comes to it, we murk the guards, snatch up Carlisle, and then when we’re done with him we do a Cartel-style execution video. He’s got ties. Wouldn’t anybody think twice if they saw him on MundoNarco getting his head sawn off.” 

Donnelley eyed Ghost, smirking, “You really like sawin’ off heads, partner.” Donnelley set down his burger to rest his stomach, sighing and closing the styrofoam container, “Queen, you know Spanish, right?”

“Ain’t that I like it, it just gets shit done,” Ghost muttered, a little defensively. “Spics, Hajjis, everybody cuts heads off these days…” 

"[I]Si, hablo español de Cubano y Mexicano, compadre,[/I]" Queen replied, not surprised Ghost lacked humor in getting ready for a mission or at any other time. "His buddies are Sinaloa, norteños. Same as the Gulf Cartel I worked with. I know enough about those fucks. Similar accents and colloquialisms."

“Plus they’ll just take the credit to save face,” Ghost said. “Like ISIS or any of those other fucksticks. They won’t mind having their names on one more corpse.” 

“The interrogation, where’s it happenin’? Because I’m damn sure not doin’ it in his house.” Donnelley frowned. “We got a space set up for us anywhere?”

Queen clapped his hands together, rubbing them briskly, "Don't worry, we got us a ship. The [I]Excelsior [/I], it'll be waiting at a dock on the Hudson. We can take our time with this asshole."

Donnelley smirked, “That’s what I like to hear. I can get the truth out better if I ain’t rushed.” Donnelley nodded, “Brought my tools, brought my gear. Only thing I don’t have is cigarettes. You still smokin’ those dog shit Kools?”

"Man, Kools are the shit," Queen said, digging the green pack out of the breast pocket of the silk shirt. He shook one out and put it between his lips and handed the pack to Donnelley. "Just 'cause ya'll smoke them cowboy ass Marlboroughs."

“Kools [i]taste[/i] like shit, maybe.” Donnelley snorted, tucking one between his lips anyway. Nicotine was nicotine. “I need me a line or three, man. Tired as all hell, I need a pick me up if I’m gonna go in with Ghost.”

Queen grinned around the cigarette, raising his brows in an impish expression. "Oh, I gotcha. Brought in some special shit for ya, straight from a Columbian bust." 

He dug out the plastic bag and inside the smaller baggies, "Want some good good or  Adderall, like a fucking college kid "

Queen held up two baggies, dangling them like toys before a cat. "I got some ice but I know how you feel about that shit."

Ghost perked up at the mention of drugs, fixing a stare on Queen.

"Good ice? Or that stepped-on shit?" 

Queen glanced over at him, "I'm with the DE [I]fawkin[/I] A, ova' hear! Course it's good shit, cooked up in a Tallahassee trailer by a drop out chemistry student. Busted him when we hit some bikers."

He left it at that and tossed a couple tiny zip lock bags to Ghost, "Try it out."

“You know what,” Donnelley said, eyeing the baggy of meth on the table that seemed too close to him now. He looked at Queen, that mischievous grin twisting his lips up, “Think I’m gonna need both, partner. Pretty tired.”

"My fuckin man," Queen said, offering his hand in a grip handshake, Donnelley slapping his palm on Queen’s in a growling show of masculinity, "Fuckin Big Tex back in the outlaw saddle, boys."

He dropped the bag, it opened to reveal a small cluster of coke, Adderall, and pills, a variety of opiates. "Help yerself, pardner."

Ghost snatched the meth and held up the bag, inspecting it carefully. He gave a nod of approval. "This'll do." 

He shook out a rock and tossed the baggie onto the table, then went to his bag, returning a moment later with a pipe, the bowl fashioned into a skull. 

"This shit kills me I'm taking you with me," he said as he loaded it, his voice light. 

Donnelley was already steady at work crushing up the adderall into a fine powder, multitasking with divvying out lines for himself. As he worked, he looked at Ghost and then Queen, “I gotta say,” he began, working at chopping up a chunk of coke, “I missed y’all. Hate to get sentimental with Ghost around, but nowadays? Bein’ a Team Lead, for a bunch of civvie-ass rookies? I like ‘em, but I can’t even take a nip of my flask without someone givin’ me a dirty look.” He smirked, “How’s that big ass Hawaiian fucker Maui and Poker doin’?

"People needed killin' down South," Ghost grunted. He sparked his pipe, inhaled sharply, and held the breath for a long moment. When he exhaled he shivered, a smile tugging at his lips for the first time in hours. "Bolivia I think. Dunno. You know Maui don't talk. I like that about him." He shot Queen a look as he set the pipe and lighter down for one of them to use if they wished. 

Queen merely grinned, shrugging slightly and sat down to cut proper lines. "Maui better bring me a souvenir, some of that Bolivian white. Good shit, ain't it? Your boy Billy never lets you down, hoss."

He leaned over with a small copper coke straw he pulled from his pocket. Queen snorted a line and sniffed hard, rubbing his nose and blinked. "Shit. That'll keep you up, Tex. How's it babysitting civvies? Got any chicks on your team?"

“None I need you sniffin’ ‘round.” He answered more quick and with more venom than he probably wanted, he played it off with a smile, “Yeah, I don’t know if any of ‘em are, uh, you know. Lookin’ for quick dick. Professionals, y’know.”

Donnelley bent forward and emptied his lungs, putting the coke straw in place before he railed the two lines of coke, leaning back and holding his nose, “Oh, [i]fuck![/i]” he could feel it in his veins, like raw power coursing through his being, the buzzing in his nose, “Jesus Goddamn, Queen, I love you, brother.” He sniffled a couple times, looking at the ceiling and blinking away tears as he wiped at his nostril with his thumb, letting go a chuckle, “God[i]damn.[/i]”

"I dunno, plenty of professional types that'll drop their panties if you talk to em right," Queen grinned, watching Donnelley partake and he laughed, "Fuck yeah, brutha. Ain't no babysittin' tonight. Just some muthafuckin' killers on the loose. We gonna snatch that cunt like it's prom night."

"They all will, you pull a big enough knife." Ghost rolled his head, loosening up his neck and shoulders. He picked up his rifle and popped the mag, clearing it with quick, practiced movements. He liked the rush that speed gave him, but it made him jittery. 

"When do we leave?" He broke open the rifle and began examining it intently, going over it piece by piece despite having done so less than an hour before.  

“Could leave now,” Donnelley said, business-like of a sudden, “Strike while the iron’s hot. In and out, guards’ll be lazy and tired, Carlisle’ll be in bed with his missus. We can waltz in and walk him out.”

“Plus,” he bent down and snorted up the last two lines, adderall, “[i]Fuck[/i] yes. I wanna get this done while I’m at the top of this rush.”

"Shit," Queen eyed Ghost for a moment then left it alone. "Yeah let's do it. I'm gonna change, don't want a scumbag guido drivin' y'all to the WASP nest." 

He stripped off the silk shirt and gold chain, tossing them on the bed, his lean tattooed body on display as he quickly changed into the black suit with a covert vest over an undershirt and under the white button down shirt and black tie. He straightened it and pulled on fine leather driving gloves. Queen held his arms out, "Fuckin respectable now to  drive Miss Tex."

He snatched up his straw and his bag of goodies, shoving them into his jacket pocket. In the shoulder holster was his favorite piece, the ASP, a real spy gun. It was small enough it hardly made a bump under the fitted blazer so not to draw suspicion with the same power as a full sized 9mm. 

Queen picked up his mini Uzi, the shoulder stock folded which he would tuck under the driver's seat just in case things got hairy. Extra 9mm magazines for both weapons went into pockets and an empty Gatorade bottle so he could piss without getting out of the car. 

Ghost hefted his flak, slinging it on and buckling on the duty belt he wore for his pistol. The pistol went from his hoodie pocket to the drop holster. 

"Let's do this," he said, snatching up his rifle and racking a round. He unscrewed his rifle suppressor and collapsed the stock so he could use the short-barreled weapon in the car if he had to. 

"[I]Pashto in the house?[/i]" He asked, dropping into the language and throwing a glance at Tex. "[I]Undercover style? I assume you don't want to have to shoot the wife.[/i]" 

Donnelley sucked his teeth, squinting off to the left and nodding, responding in kind, “[i]Lets do Pashto.[/i]” He hefted his plate carrier on, band patches aplenty adorning it, “[i]That way, anyone who hears us will be confused as all fuck. Masks on too. Real scary.[/i]”

Queen looked at them speaking a language he was not fluent in, only catching a familiar word or two. "Party time, let's do this," he headed to the door, peeking out to the darkened parking lot. "All clear." 

Ghost nodded and crossed the threshold, moving smooth and fast, rifle held low to keep it out of sight as best he could. It was a tense moment; if somebody saw them it could derail the whole plan. One phone call about suspicious men with guns could throw a major wrench into the works, especially in this day of mass shootings and terrorist attacks. He also couldn't solve the problem by just shooting the witness; that had been made clear after the first time. 

Ghost reached the car without incident and climbed inside, leaning his seat back to keep the bulk of his plate carrier out of view and setting his rifle down between his feet. His kevlar and NOD's were in the back seat where he'd left them, and he reached back and grabbed them, putting them down with his rifle.  

“Alright.” Donnelley sighed as he shut his door, an almost childish grin plastered across his face as he felt the rush of the mixture of coke and what basically amounted to some good meth in his veins, his leg bounced up and down as he sat in his seat. “Let’s fuckin’ go.”

[hr]

>YORKTOWN, NEW YORK
>JUL.11.2019
>ZERO HOUR

The dark streets were not lit, the garishness of street lights must have taken away from the aesthetic of the neighborhood of big beautiful houses set back from the road with wide manicured lawns. Many had their own security lighting, tasteful illumination to showcase their home as well as deter prowlers but only one also had a four foot brick wall topped with another four feet of iron spikes shaped into fleur-de-lis. Lights lit up the yard and the shadows of patrolling guards flickered in and out. 

Queen parked a few blocks down, around the corner from Carlisle's house. The Audi idled quietly, tucked in the shadows near an oak tree planted close to the curb in a neighbor's yard. No lights were on and Queen resisted having a cigarette until his comrades were gone. 

"Here we are, it's the house the big brick one around the corner on Hardwood Court behind the medieval fence," he said, "At least he don't have a moat."

“Then we’d have to get Maui.” Donnelley snorted as he gave his Badger a quick brass check, “Fuckin’ SEALs.”

He looked up at Queen and Ghost making their own preparations. His eyes went to the house, large and opulent. Something he’d never own, he thought. “Couple rules, we don’t fire unless fired upon. I want to get in and out, quick. I don’t want to get caught up in a firefight.” Donnelley frowned, glancing at Ghost unnoticed, “Once we have the package in our hands, all bets are off. He’s going to be strugglin’ or deadweight, we cap any guard that we can’t get past quiet. Leave a couple bodies and they’ll be more likely to believe it’s cartel.”

“Good copy?” He asked.

"Copy that, I'll leave the engine running, keep my eyes open out here," Queen acknowledged. 

"In quiet, out loud." Ghost was screwing his suppressor into place, turning on his Trijicon, and making the other myriad minor tweaks he always made before going into The Shit. His eyes were calm, focused; inside his heart pounded. It was excitement, anticipation, not fear. This was what he lived for. Another roll of the dice.

He finished with his rifle and took his skull pipe from the cupholder, the large rock still riding the bowl. He sparked up, inhaled, felt his rapidly-beating heart take on a decisive, thudding rhythm. As he exhaled  he turned in his seat and offered pipe and lighter to Tex. His cold gaze had taken on a razored edge, focus tinged with carefully controlled mania. Frenzy on a leash.

"Time to play the Game," he said, locking eyes with Tex over the meth pipe. 

Donnelley stares into that bowl for a few solid moments of hard-eyed trepidation. It was as if every inhibition he had disappeared in the presence of old friends. He raised his cold eyes to Ghost’s own and took it without question, the cocktail of drugs he was already on dulling the throbbing in his leg. He sparked up, sucking in the acrid, chemical smoke and growled it out through bared teeth. Not only was his pain near gone, but he felt that same, familiar old tickle in him when there was coming violence in the air. The static in his skin the same as the lightning bolt tearing up to crack the sky. A little bit of Tex peeking through him as he locked dark eyes on Ghost, “What we do for a living,” Tex was all smiling fangs, a coiled spring ready to let go. Always ready. “Kill, kill, kill.”

[i]What makes the grass grow?[/i] He pushed open his door and dismounted, his natural night vision brightening the shadows little by little, the world a dark place of blacks and greys, [i]blood, blood, blood.[/i] He reached up and flipped down his NODs, reached down and tapped his patch, an old tradition from another time. [i]Night Time is the Right Time.[/i]

Ghost watched him take the hit, some sense of mingled relief and satisfaction coming into his eyes. Tex had been [i]away[/i]. People changed when they went [i]away[/i]. You couldn't trust them. But Tex was still Tex; Ghost was sure of it now.

He buckled on his kevlar, pulled up a skull-patterned face mask, and flipped his NOD's down into place. Without a word to Queen he opened his door and moved on the house, rifle up, safety off, eyes combing for a target. 

“Movin’ up.” Tex muttered into his mic, just loud enough for it to transmit to Ghost. With footsteps quiet as the night breeze he advanced on the fence and crouched low. A few meters ahead on the other side of the fence and under the porch light at the front doors, two guards were smoking and talking. They let loose some muffled laughter. “Windows it is, then.”

"Unprofessional," Ghost muttered. He tracked his sight from one to the other, then lowered the rifle. Sitting in the light like that would kill night vision. They probably couldn't even see the fenceline. His hopes for a good fight sank a little. "You got a glass cutter? Probably no windows unlocked."  

It was the work of just a few moments to clear the fence, one covering the other as they breached the perimeter and advanced on the house. The fence was more decorative than functional; it would take more than that to keep out THUNDER. 

As they reached a ground-floor window Ghost settled in to provide security, eyes scanning for movement. 

Tex stopped at the window, pulling in a breath through his nostrils and letting it out slow through his masked mouth, digging in his small assault pack for his glass cutter, next to the key blanks and clam shell. He went to work cutting the neat hole into the window and broke a perfect circle out of the pane. Reaching inside, he pressed his tongue to his cheek and squinted as his hand slid and slapped for the window lock. His lips curved upward in a grin as he found it and the window slid open for them.

He reached over and patted Ghost’s shoulder as he slipped inside, quiet as a graveyard. He raised his Badger as his boots touched the expensive wood flooring, scanning for targets, listening for dead men. None. Ghost slid in after and the two quietly slunk through the house to the stairs, the bedrooms being located there, and their prize lay in wait for them. “The wife wakes up, up to you how you deal with her,” Tex whispered, “I’ve got that piece of shit husband of hers.”

"[I]Pashto,[/i]," Ghost admonished him quietly. "[I] I'll handle her. I'm point.[/i]"

Ghost moved ahead, rifle at the low-ready and sweeping as he mounted the stairs. One creaked and he froze, tight as a coiled spring, and after nearly a full minute he finished his climb. Silent steps brought him to the master bedroom. A gentle wiggle showed the door unlocked and he nodded to Tex, then let the door drift open, now viewing the world through his Trijicon, his buttstock tight against his shoulder.  

Tex moved right of Ghost through the door as they entered, scanning the room. He didn’t expect guards watching Carlisle sleep, but old habits. For a few moments, he listened to them snore, a little voice in the back of his head hoping the wife didn’t give them any trouble. Tex told himself it was because he didn’t need any complications. He knew the real reason, though, his eyes sliding to Ghost and back. He moved, quick footsteps and with hands quick as a snake he wrapped them around Carlisle’s sleeping form. Felt him jolt awake and he carefully slid him out of bed in a grip like iron.

Even so, with Tex’s legs wrapped around Carlisle’s as they struggled, a stray grip caught hard and squeezed on Tex’s bum leg. Up until now, the pain was just a memory, but Carlisle’s digging fingers made even Tex grunt and his hand slipped- just enough for Carlisle to scream out for help. Tex squeezed tighter around Carlisle’s neck, cutting the cry out in a manic gurgle, but his wife sat straight up to add her own scream. Tex breathed a curse, but under the physical struggle and the scream, he smelt something that soon rose to the top of his attention.

Electrical burn and ozone.

Carlisle went limp. Tex’s eyes, suddenly full of worry, looked to Ghost, “[i]We need to go.[/i]” in hurried Pashto.

Ghost had followed Tex to the bed, moving to the other side to hold security on the door without impeding his partner. When Carlisle screamed he let out a string of muffled Pashto curses. The screams of the wife drew his attention and without pause he drew back his rifle, pivoted at the hips, and dealt her a massive blow with the butt of the weapon. There was a wet crunch, maybe her face, maybe her neck. Whichever the case her scream was cut off and she fell back onto the bed, now silent. 

As the stink of ozone reached his nostrils Ghost pulled his weapon to his shoulder, crossing to the door. He could hear the startled shouts of guards on the move. 

[I]"On me, I'll clear front,[/i]," he snapped, abandoning stealth and leveling his sight on the top of the step, already putting gentle pressure on the trigger.  

Tex rose with a grunt, testing his leg on holding weight. Luckily, it didn’t buckle and he reached down to Carlisle’s limp form and hauled him up over his shoulders. Drawing his sidearm, he waited for Ghost to clear the way, getting restless as the foul, bitter smell started to burn in his nostrils the more intense it got. Images of gnashing teeth and sounds of demented howling seemed to come from all directions the longer he smelled it.

The first hint of resistance came not from the top of the stairs as Ghost had anticipated, but from a room further down the hall, past the stairs. Guards had apparently bypassed the main stairwell, using an alternate route to gain access to the floor. A furious barrage of automatic fire impacted the walls and floor and Ghost pulled back, crouching low and grumbling under his breath.

"[I]Contact,[/i]" he said dryly, ever one for protocol. He drew one of his three fragmentation grenades from a pouch, pulled the pin, and flung it blindly around the corner. He was rewarded by cries of alarm and, a few seconds later, the hard [i]crump[/i] of detonation. The moment the grenade exploded he was moving, rounding the corner and rushing to the nearest doorway, spraying unaimed bursts of suppressing fire in the general direction of the enemy.

The door was a flimsy interior model and Ghost simply rammed it with his shoulder, his bulk shattering the catch and sending it flopping open. A quick sweep showed the room unoccupied and he leaned back onto the hallway, sending a few bursts down the hallway to cover Tex's movements. 

“[i]Fuck, fuck, fuck![/i]” Cries in Pashto as Tex careened through the doorway with Carlisle bobbing like a rag doll on his shoulder. The thumping in his leg seemed to be harmonizing with the thumping in his head, and the smell was only getting stronger. Soon, the ozone gave way to the smell of rotting meat.

Ghost moved aside to allow Tex to enter. When he was in Ghost leaned back into the hallway. His sights fell on a suit-clad man with a compact rifle beginning to push down the hall, and he put the last burst in his magazine into the man's chest. He went down hard and Ghost pulled back, reloading smoothly, dropping his spent mag into a dump pouch attached to his vest. 

The sudden change in atmosphere was accompanied by a splitting roar. Screams joined it almost immediately, and the staccato cracks of desperate gunfire spoke of a new and interesting development further down the hall.

"[I]That's not great,[/i]" Ghost said. He was grinning fiercely beneath his mask, his blood singing with the thrill of battle. He jerked his head towards the bedroom window. "[I]That's our best bet. Toss chuckles and follow him out, I'll take six.[/i]" 

Tex only nodded, a glance over Ghost’s shoulder at the sounds of men being ripped apart under their own screams. This was quickly becoming a shit-show, and not one he wanted to be a part of when the police arrived. He set Carlisle down and threw the window open, fueled by adrenaline and amphetamines, he simply lifted Carlisle up onto his chest and heaved him outside into the bushes. Unlike Carlisle, it took Tex a few seconds to deliberate throwing himself out, but when whatever horrible beast roared in delight at the blood spilled, he knew it was a choice between jumping and dying. And that wasn’t a choice at all.

He worked himself out of the window, letting himself hang from the sill by his fingers and closing his eyes as he tucked himself and soon met the bushes. And the ground. A tremendous pain shot through him as he gasped helplessly for air and slowly gained back the ability to breathe just as Ghost himself came down on top of him. “[i]Fuck you.[/i]” He wheezed from under his teammate.

"[I]You're fine,[/i]" Ghost grunted. He heaved himself upright and grabbed Carlisle, who moaned weakly. With another soft grunt he hoisted the limp man into a fireman's carry, taking the weight across his broad shoulders. He supported the burden with his left arm and tucked his rifle against his ribs with his right, using his hand and the tension of his sling to support the weapon where it could still be fired, albeit inaccurately. "[I]Get up, we need to go.[/i]" 

Tex grunted to his feet, taking up his rifle again and scanning left and right. “[i]No, I was thinking I’d stay.[/i]” Tex muttered, following after Ghost. “[i]Let’s get to the fucking car quick.[/i]”

[hr]

Queen sat in the idling car, his fingers drumming a muffled beat against the window frame as he waited. The house was still silent, a good sign. If they were successful, no one would ever know about it except Carlisle. [I]Poor bastard, hope he fucked his wife one last time,[/I] Queen thought, idly imagining the MILF of a former model the target was married to. 

The pleasant image was shattered when he caught a faint whiff of something that made the hairs on his body stand on end. Even from the hint of electrical burning stench he knew that smell and it wasn't Ghost's meth pipe. Queen shivered, the memory of chanting voices, not in Spanish this time it was something else, something older and darker and...

Something was coming.

Queen jerked his head first reaching into his pocket for his baggie but shook off the urge and went lower to pull the mini Uzi from under the seat. It felt small and useless in his hands but it was better than nothing. He heard the gunfire and muffled boom of what might have been a grenade. Shit. 

Whispering harshly he spoke into his comm device, "Tex? Ghost? Y'all still there? You need me?"

He hoped they didn't, he could smell the ozone stronger now, the very air around him seemed to hum like cicadas in the summer heat. Queen's heart pounded wildly, cocaine and terror pumping through him. 

“Put that [i]fucking[i] thing in drive.” Tex’s voice came over the radio, breath haggard and hard. From his rearview, he could probably see Ghost and Tex moving as quick as they could with Carlisle.

And flashing light bars behind them.

Ghost and Tex went on unheeding of the impending lawmen, throwing Carlisle on the ground and the wet smack of his head and cry of pain. Tex held his face in the concrete while Ghost ziptied the modeling agent’s hands together before they threw open the trunk and dumped him in. But it was too late.

[hr]

“Let’s fuckin’-“

“Stop right the fuck there! Hands, hands, hands!” Tex froze in place, looking sidelong at Ghost as he slowly turned, hands up… and mentally preparing himself. It was a choice between killing and dying.

And that was no choice at all.

As quick as he could force his muscles to fire, his hands shot down to his .40 and point-fired a few rounds as a cacophony of gunfire crescendoed in the still night air, turning the window of the door the squad car driver was behind to twinkling beads of glass. They hit center mass, but Tex winced and grunted as he felt himself get punched twice in return, staggered back and almost fell into the trunk with Carlisle. He saw the officer gasping for air on his back and he sighted up, front sight leveled with his skull and popped it open.

The appearance of the cops surprised Queen as he put the car in drive and he pulled the Uzi up along the open window. He hesitated, considering flashing his badge but gunfire erupted before he could move. Tex and Ghost opened up in an exchange so he pulled the trigger, the submachine gun jumping in his hand.

Bullets stitched harmlessly across the door of one of the squad cars but the automatic fire was enough to make one cop look up after firing towards the car a split second before his body crumpled, his head snapping back from a well placed round by Tex. A red mist sprayed into the air, the smell of blood mingling with the ozone and burning.

Ghost was reaching for his pistol as he turned to face the officers, using his body to mask the movement. He made a quick dart left as the first rounds went off, set his sights, and fired. The suppressor on his Glock did its work, turning the sharp crack of the 9mm into a harsh, muffled bark, and as Tex fired on the driver he put three rounds into his partner, two to the chest and one to the middle of his face in rapid succession. The third round punched through the “T-Box”, the hollow-point annihilating the officer’s brain stem and dropping him limply to the ground. 

He used the brief silence to take in his surroundings, searching for more targets, then glanced at Tex. 

“You dead?” He asked. He’d dropped the Pashto; it had served its purpose. 

Tex was still leaning back on the car as he checked himself over. Two new holes in his plate carrier, but no new holes in him. He began a quiet little giggle, but he felt he was trying too hard at it as he did so, eyes going to the dead cops. He forced the smirk back on his face, “Nothin’ fuckin’ kills me.” Another roar from inside the house and glass breaking ripped the smile from his face, “I'll get the dash cam, you get the body cams.”

Ghost eyed him for a moment and then complied, moving with rapid efficiency. He ripped the body cam from both officers, pausing only to pick up one of their pistols. A few simple tweaks would make it a handy throw-away, and a man could always find a use for a dump-gun.

Queen pulled his arm back in and set the Uzi back down. Flinching at the sound of the unearthly roar, he stomped on the gas at Tex's command, the Audi gunning forward obediently. Worry raced through his mind. [I]Had the cops run his plates, had they called in back up. What the fuck had they left inside that house in the sleeping suburb. [/I]

The car ran smoothly, the turbo kicking in as Queen raced down the nearly empty road that lead to the highway. "We gonna dump this car, got a beater waiting for us in a field behind a strip mall. They close at midnight and don't have cameras in the back, we're good."

Tex could feel the telltale fatigue and lethargy taking hold of his aching body. His mind was still sharp to the task, but his muscles were singing. He watched the streetlights race by, the occasional car or streetwalker, hitchhikers, and pedestrians made streaks as they passed. None the wiser to the deeds done tonight. The lives taken. No idea that the news would report that Gregory Carlisle was taken for ransom by the Sinaloa cartel’s enemies. And no idea of the real truth.

Donnelley looked down at his hands, and breathed a ragged sigh through his mask. He held his hand up to the passing lights and watched them shake. The violence in him buzzed beneath his skin, deep as his bones. The dead guards, the cops. The cops… “Fuck.” He hissed, caught eyes with Queen in the rearview and played his moralizing off, shoving them out of mind with some bitterness, “Fuckin’ chest. Shot me. Aches.”

Those cops. Another reason banging on the gates of his mind like a mob, angry and calling for justice. And knowing it would never come. But wasn’t that the fucking world, he thought, dead cops. He frowned, just some more bodies. Just some more bodies.

“Where’d that [i]fuckin’[/i] coke go, Queen?”

[hr]
>SS EXCELSIOR
>INTERNATIONAL WATERS
>JUL.11.2019
>0600...///

Donnelley leaned on the cold, metal gunwale of the small cargo skiff. Deep in the belly of it, Carlisle waited, tied to a chair, cuffed, aching. Donnelley could empathize with the last part. He sucked in another hit of tobacco and sipped at his beer, looking out at the rolling waters of the Atlantic. The smell of salt, the chill of forlorn breezes on the early morning sky. Europe was on the other side of that, he thought, France. Fields and wine, little chateaus, the streets of Paris. His mind thought of Laine and again, guilt ripped at him, worrying if she would ever find out if she tapped her contacts again.

Another sunrise, but he wondered if he really deserved it this time. He growled, swallowing down the lump in his throat. “Fuckin’...” he sighed, letting his head hang and closing his eyes.

Queen lit one of the menthol cigarettes, cupping his hand over it to block the wind whipping off the grey water. The fog of the depressed exhaustion coming down off the high of both good cocaine and a bad shootout wrapped around him. His lank hair fluttered in his eyes but he ignored it, sucking the nicotine into his lungs. It was nice but not enough, but he had pills for that. He would need them, something to make him unconscious in a parody of actual sleep because he knew he would hear that sound in his dreams and see the faces of the wife and kids left behind to whatever monster came through. 

He spotted Tex alone and took the opportunity to talk to him without the specter of Ghost haunting him. Queen saddled up beside Donnelley, leaning an elbow on the cold steel. 

"What a fuckin shit show," he muttered, taking a drag from the Kool. "How you holdin' up? Need anything for the pain?"

“I’ll be a’right.” Donnelley opened his eyes and looked at Queen, his eyes scanning around for Ghost and not finding him. Not that he didn’t like Ghost, he was one of the best partners he could ask for, but Queen always seemed more human. Even Maui looked at the things he did beyond the eyes of his family the same way those standing trial at Nuremberg did. Just following orders, and a sorry shrug. “We did it.” He said lamely, “How’re you? I know Ghost was never your favorite. Rather it’d been Maui, or even Poker, that gnarly fuck.”

Queen shrugged, hissing smoke through clenched teeth, "Ghost gets the job done. And it's done."

He snorted and looked back out at the sea then spoke in a low voice. "I ain't much of a shooter like y'all but I'm good at what I do. I reconned this house a couple days, I knew who was there. I knew their routine. And I ...fuck man, I can't stop thinking about that sound, that smell of what was coming and the fact we left those kids and his wife to it."

Queen blinked hard and put his hand in his pocket, smoking with his free hand. "Those fucking kids, you know?"

Donnelley sighed, sighed as much of the guilt out as he could. And still, there was a mountain of it. You carry that much weight on your back, the tiniest amount added could break it. Or you would shrug at it. Donnelley shook his head, “None of us knew that would happen.” He breathed, voice growling in his throat, “We had a plan, first shot goes off, plans are the first casualty.”

He shook his head, his words seemed lame, “None of us knew.” He said, “I wanna know who done it. Carlisle’s got some real enemies, I reckon.”

Queen felt the tiny bags of powder, his fingers seeking the hard pills. Not the Adderall but the Vicodin, the Oxycodone something to numb him. He nodded, "Yeah, well ain't that how it goes. You need me for anything right now?"

“Someone to do those pills with.” Donnelley smirked. He didn’t really know if Queen had the pills, but knowing Queen, [i]he had the pills[/i], “Or do ‘em later. I want to be clear headed when I have to go talk to Carlisle. I’ll probably bring Ghost with me, he’s a good bad guy. Or, uh, [i]worse[/i] guy.”

“Figure Foster plays the good guy. We’ll have Carlisle trained like a dog, say speak, he’ll talk his lungs dry.” Donnelley gave a vicious grin at that. Say one thing about that fiasco in Yorktown, say they got that girl-snatching sonofabitch.

"Yeah, no problem, man," Queen replied, talking around his cigarette. "You know I got you."

He blew out smoke and nodded again, "Ghost'll spook him, guess I'll come along then. Might as well see it through. Fuck this dude."

Queen tossed his cigarette butt into the swelling waves, then turned to Donnelley, "You need a clear head, I don't."

He fished out a Xanax and a Vicodin, dry swallowing them with a grimace. Anything to drown out the idea of the two young children and Carlisle's wife Mandy left to the dark horror. The dead cops bothered him but they were doing their job.  It was the kids. The fucking kids left behind.  Queen closed his eyes tightly then opened them wide. "Yeah, better. Ready when you are, brother."