FourtyTwo

Task Force Lima (COMPLETED)

Still gonna hold for Skyth I think- I do want to weave Zhenya into what happens next.

Burning Rubber (Bee and kingkonrad)

Ross continued looking over at Kimberly, as she started talking to another car girl, by her beautiful Porsche 911, that looked like it had been well and truly hand-crafted. The unique style of Japanese tuning that RWB did with these cars was unbelievable, and Ross never stopped to admire it. Still though, his own Subaru was a wonderful car. 2003, a year that had produced in Ross's opinion the best of the WRX STIs, with it's distinctive hood scoop and big spoiler at the back. This was, however, a car that had undergone a full plastic surgery, and had gone under the knife for liposuction. It was carbon fiber for good reason. The glass was replaced for thinner and lighter polycarbonate, and the bonnet, roof, aero and boot were all high-tensile carbon fiber, barely even painted to remove more weight- the basis for the bumper bodykit being from Olsbergs' modification for WRX STIs of this period, though Ross had taken out the angle grinder and buffer on many an occasion to make it suit his needs. BBS SI's on the rims, 19 inch, giving the rubber only a few centimeters of thickness on the carbon-fiber. It matched the matt paint of the car, and it looked very much like a Black Horse- coincidentally, the car's nickname. Black Horse. Like the stallion of type, this car was a very scary beast indeed. The engine had been taken to bits and rebuilt piece by piece by Ross, the EJ25 engine inside being painstakingly taken apart. It was like open heart surgery at times, Ross reminded himself- replacing at least half of the already high performance engine with parts that were compatible with his build, to take the extra power and strain from nitrous, remapped ECUs, a Quaife short-throw racing six speed and the extra performance parts that were going in. Gaskets, cylinder heads, bores, everything was either changed entirely or modified extensively. Then putting that back together and back in, the boxer engine inside being fire-breathing, with a distinctly rally-based sound. The inside was stripped bare, a rollcage fitted and two bucket Recaro seats, with a MOMO wheel and racing dash put in it's place, the dash mostly stripped away. There was a sound system, but not a booming one, and it wasn't the most comfortable ride, with Ohlins shocks and dampers fitted to provide a stiff ride. The rear diffuser and modified exaust system made the rear of the car look aggressive, while the bodykit didn't just have an aesthetic design- it was hardcore aero, and sucked the car to the ground, the design not ruining the original curves but serving as an extension, their lattice-carbon fiber color going well with the matt black paint of the car, having only the slightest of shine that worked well with the carbon fiber. A Recaro sticker sat over the top of the front windshield with a small Scottish flag on the rear windscreen top, and two medium-sized tanks of a NOS Nitrous System was swept behind the passenger seat, delivering a wet shot of nitrous on demand, or a progressive and stable delivery that tweaked the power by another 20bhp throughout. All this meant that Ross had 550bhp in a package that weighed 1,020kg. The lightest Subaru you could probably get, because there was virtually nothing left that weighed anything substantial, and delivered a stupid amount of power. With the turbo having an anti-lag system that fired like a Kalashnikov on demand, and a remapped ECU, it was able to throw out those 550 horses to a four wheel drive system on a car that won several World Rally Championships, and on wet tarmac, was probably unbeatable on city streets. Outside, it was lightly damp, but that would do. Kimberly's R34 was a wonderful car, but it was that for a different reason. Powerful as hell, but Ross knew that his car was sharper, and personally tested. It was a car for Time Attacks, not street racing. But for the latter, it would do just as well. Maybe it didn't have 900 horses like Kimberly's car, but this was a car that did surprise. Off the line, it could hit 60 in 2.8 seconds, and it could carry on going to 185, at which point Ross stepped on the brakes and didn't kill himself on the empty airfield- so it could do even more, in theory. The tyres, fat Pirellis, were semi-slicks and would relish well in slightly damp conditions, and the car was insanely grippy- not a drift car, but a car that could go through corners at mind-boggling speeds and hold up well, though the handbrake was always there if classic Ken-Block style four wheel drifts were in question. After all, the Subaru Impreza was a car that was built to conquer the WRC and the estate when it was pitched in the UK, and that it did deliver.

Turning his head back, he saw Kimberly take a punch, and almost reacted suddenly, before stopping himself, watching as she then knocked the fucker out, perhaps not literally but at least in social terms, put out of the game. He was on the floor in pain, and Ross remembered those words from Kimberly. She could look after herself, well and truly. As she came over, Ross gave a simple nod, looking over at Joanne, over in the loading bay of this construction site.
"You look like someone who was punched in the face, my dear. Come here." Ross walked over to her before he got in her car, and gave her a kiss, with an icy stare over at the men that had punched her. It would be a bad idea to mess with Mama Bear, sure, but with Daddy Bear, even worse. Ross knew that was a very strong truth indeed.
"They lay another hand, and you know I won't stop till they're on the floor in whatever condition. Let's go then. Show me your new friend. That is a beautiful Porsche she has. Gonna have to see if it has the power to back the look." Ross added, as he unlocked his Subaru and clambered in, putting the key in and starting the car up. The racing exhaust was most likely borderline illegal, especially when revved hard, the Boxer howled like a wolf. The Xenon lights on, Ross pulled out of the spot and followed the GTR in front, the turbo catching and backfiring hard when he put it into first, blue flame roaring from the twin exausts. This car never failed to really set itself apart. Ross could probably do an engine swap and make it throw out more, but nothing had the real acceleration and pulling power of the Black Horse. The acceleration was mind-numbing, and it was the delivery of such that made it feel special indeed.

Following right on Kimberly's tail, Ross skidded the car into the parking of the loading bay, the music still pumping, Ross parking in forwards rather than reversing into the spot. Clambering out, he undid his harness and stepped out, looking over at Joanne.
"Hi, I'm Ross. Nice to meet you too." He said, shaking her hand, as Kimberly introduced them both, the Scot looking around at the scene, before looking back at Joanne. A fellow Scot, he could tell in her accent, and she looked pretty beautiful- not as much as his wife, but like a gearhead that Ross could imagine coming down here.
"That is a wonderful Porsche you got there. Rauf-Welt RWB kit, that is rare." He added, looking over the car, whistling as he saw the engine through the spoiler.
"Nice. Ferdinand Porsche was not imagining this beast." Ross said, chuckling, as he looked closer at the rear-engined Porsche, looking over at Joanne, who was looking over his car.
"Before you ask, her name is Black Horse. 550 brake horse power, based on a 2003 Subaru Impreza WRX STI. It weighs only just 20kg over a tonne. It's a time trial car, I suppose. Handcrafted Carbon Fiber, and I've done some serious work in all the other departments that matter. You won't find a car like it." Ross added, chuckling, looking at the general vibe.
"Looks like there's going to be some serious competition. But a car is only as good as the person sitting behind the wheel. A riced out Corsa will beat a yuppie in a 911 if you put the right person in." Ross added, as he saw a couple more Beemers come into the construction site, before looking back at his wife and her new friend.
"Coppers will be lingering soon. I got a feeling about it. When they do come, we're going to need to break out of here fast. I'm thinking towards Surrey, down to the South Downs, no motorways, night roads."

Juggernauts (BigPapaBelial and kingkonrad) IC

Merlin took the phone, hearing General Lawrence on the other end of the military phone. The CIA handler wasn't surprised to take it, and knew full well that this was a man that was planning a big offensive. Merlin had wanted such a thing for a while- it was good that now, finally, somebody was going to deliver it. The intel had been good- and this last stand had to be pushed out, one way or another. He was currently in the States, thousands and thousands of miles away from the action, in Washington DC. But he had a firm understanding of the situation on the ground as he knew it, and beyond that, understood what was going on in the bigger picture.
"We got your operators. Knight, Cordite, the two from Blue Sword PMC, Perth. We got limited intel on the group, but we know they're not fooling around. They have technology on their side, and seem more intelligent than your regular Jihadi group. Smarter. If you're going to strike them, you can't just rely on technical superiority. Have the manpower superiority. They're your best shot." He said, as he thought over the question.
"Don't fool around with them. They are fighting a war that is beyond insergency. For what reason, I don't know. But when we find advanced MANPADS and AK-12s, we know they have something bigger to protect."

----

"How much are we going to be worth? Oh god...well, we are already a lot of money. But you know. More is nice. I have an idea to buy a Dacha in Crimea, one right up against the cliffs and sea, with a winding road down to it. It's called "Devil's Nest". $4.5 million is the asking price. But it has a helipad and a dock within a cave, as well as being difficult to access by road. Perched on the side of the Black Sea, with sunshine and sea. It was refurbished by the last owner, who found he was no longer friendly with President Putin." She said, flexing the right arm of the suit, looking at her gauntlet, looking at her fiance, as she nodded.
"Maybe we can retire to there. And just fuck all day." She smirked, as she felt her own armor, looking down her arms and legs, moving about.
"I feel like a tank again. This armor is rated to take 12.7mm rounds, I wouldn't be suprised if it shrugged off sporadic 20mm HE. It feels like a piece of laser guided technology, not like my old suit. It had curves, but kevlar exterior...it was perhaps a little too simple. Yes, it's good to have a lot of armor...but this feels like it takes in my every curve so beautifully, I know understand when Medieval armorers made suits of armor like artists. It feels like it will just reflect shots off. They are working on a full exoskeleton, there's partial support but it isn't perfect. They don't want to overclock it yet, in case it rips my arm off or something." She said, as she watched Victor suit up, as she nodded, brushing her hair gently with the gauntlet. She adjusted the helmet's position, sliding it over her head, covering her beautiful face.
"I'm ready to kick some more ass, mon cherie. However we get there. I feel like a little revenge is in play." She added, as she locked the helmet down, looking through the Holographic HUD that flashed up, the faceplate much wider than her previous one and having a visor, rather than eyeholes. She could see a far greater proportion than before, and it felt just as protected, as she adjusted it. That material was made out of stuff that could probably survive a 12.7 millimeter round easily- it felt more like something out of science fiction, but then again, this whole armored program was precisely that. Looking to Victor, Natalie nodded with her helmet, as vaguely as she could, heading to the exit of the armory. They had a long, long way to go, and before they went, Natalie wanted a walk with this. She engaged the cooling system and felt the cool breeze blow between her legs and up her body, a relieving one, as she felt her steps make weight, connecting with the floor with a certain gravitas. The suit felt heavy, of course it did. It never didn't feel heavy, it felt like she was carrying an awful lot of weight around, and movement wasn't slow, but it was slower than her usual walk. Yet it felt powerful none the less, like she had a certain flexibility in movement, one that would at least mean that she would be able to pick herself up if something blew her off her feet.
"I think Athena is as good a name for this suit as any." Natalie said, as she let loose a fart, flames billowing behind her, as she looked to Victor, as over the comms, the sound of her exhaling hard following it could be heard.
"Oh, that was barely my worst."

Burning Rubber (Bee and kingkonrad)

"Maybe. But you know my tastes." He replied, smirking at her,as he looked over at a few of the cars coming in, another Evo IX and an old school BMW E30 M3, that looked like it had an awful lot of work put under the bonnet. This was a car meet alright, and apart from the pounding music, and the group of ravers, this was illegal as it could get. Kimberly looked beautiful today, her figure was a little too on display for Ross's taste, but he didn't mind. Her D cups and bootaye, with the latter in leggings, did show up and Ross knew that so long as she could handle herself that she would be fine. Most of these people were okay, but this was the rougher side of London, after all, and things could get tense very quickly.

Ross sat on his Impreza, as a group of lads walked past, one with a red hoodie and the others with designer shirts and jeans.
"So, this your ride?" One asked, as Ross chuckled.
"It might be."
"It's fucking sick. That and that Skyline...
"It throws out six hundred horses. Better than your 106, pal." Ross said, jokingly, looking across at the insanely riced out 106 that he assumed the red hooded fellow had driven into- it looked like it had more subwoofers than horses packed inside.
"You fucking what bruv?"
"You fucking starting?"
"Leave it, yeah?" One of his mates had to intervene, as the hooded figure backed off, Ross chuckling.
"I'll fucking key your car, see how that carbon fiber looks after." Hoodie man simply said, as he walked away, one of his mates looking at Ross with a certain "Sorry my mate is a dickhead" type of look, but he didn't look totally unsympathetic. Ross could hold himself- those scumbags wouldn't do a single thing, not against him. Ross wasn't a very built fellow, but he looked intimidating enough and when push came to shove, he could break an nose and take several of your teeth out with a good uppercut. Ross got off the bonnet, seeing Kimberly in the distance, the brunette that he called his wife looking as beautiful as ever. It was something about it, that they were both petrolheads, both suiting each other. It was a nice feeling, to know that. He waited for her to come back, before they'd get their cars up and running for the "race" that was going on- if it was going to go on.

Sierra Vanguard (Espionage RP)

Four Days Later
London, England
2100 Hours

Martin didn't like chauffeurs, not with a car like his. The XFR was a vehicle you drove yourself, because even in the evening, it made sense. Sierra Vanguard's Section Head was a man that had an understated presence amongst his peers, and knew how this game would work. It was one that he twisted to his exact specifications, and it was that which made him able to perhaps work with such a crazy team of operators. He turned left, heading into Knightsbridge, the pubs, clubs and lights from closed shops filling the air with an atmosphere that London always experienced on a Friday night. This wasn't his destination, of course. The M4 loomed, and even Martin wasn't going to stop himself from flaunting the horses under this bonnet.

Following Pakistan, Hassam had been taken in a visibly shaken state, one that Martin didn't mind. Let his operators have fun with the guy, so long as they could still interrogate him. They'd thrown him into a secure facility run by MI6 in Caithness, at the opposite end of the country from London, but they had a man to crack still. Martin had seen his ugly face, and had words too. Not nice ones, either. They now had a chance to at least chill out, and the end of the week didn't mean the end of duty, but it did mean a chance to at least get a drink in. Not here, this place was not the environment to grab some drinks in. George and Thom would definitely understand that, there were no real classy establishments. Maybe not Drevan and Cassie, but Martin knew that he wasn't going to some lowlife bar to go for a chilled glass of vodka.

The Hammersmith Flyover passed by quickly, as traffic thinned out on the major thoroughfare exiting the capital, the M4 Motorway, and Martin checked around in all his mirrors. It would be one form to fill out if the police snapped a picture. A very large "Classified, MI5" and a reference number would force any police to cease and desist. Any recognition of the car's plate by a police scanner, an immediate no-go was issued. It was a licence to speed, a little illegitimate in the way he used it but Martin knew that this was business of a different matter that it was worthwhile for. So Martin had no qualms about putting his foot to the floor. The supercharged Welsh V8 roared, and the rev counter flickered forward, as Martin shifted into sixth, the car now pushing out 160mph, on a road where the limit was effectively half and a little more than that. Passing by a few saloons, the black beauty was now passing the exit for Heathrow, and headed for the west.

High Moor, Oxfordshire
30 Minutes Later

The tiny village was a speck, a tiny white sign illuminating the entrance as Martin slowed down from his modest speed of 90 on country roads, the car able to do a distance that most would call an hour and a half in a third of that. The evening had finally turned to night, and it was now dark, This job did have it's perks, and today, after a good day's job, Martin felt like a drink. "The Pear Orchard" was like many British pubs, quaint, and small in it's size, with a beer garden, yet it catered more towards a gentleman's tastes. Rather than the piss that was normally sold, they had good whiskey and vodka. Perhaps again, Drevan and Cassie didn't get what real whiskey was like, but when you spent £100 on a bottle, only then did you buy something worthwhile. Anything else was stove lighting fuel, in Martin's thoughts. You had to do it properly. Pulling into a parking spot, Martin clambered out, seeing the other cars of the rest of his team parked up. An Audi RS6 Avant, a Jeep Cherokee, and a Aston Martin DB AR1, a real exquisitely rare car for Britain. They stood out amongst various Mercedes, Range Rovers and BMWs, for certain, but still fitted in somewhat. He clambered out of his Jag, the Englishman adjusting the position of his cuffs on his suit, as he walked into the bar.

Finding them at the far end, it was a quiet place, with mainly upper class hunters and "toffs" of all types in here, the wooded and stoned construction and the way that this place felt was distinctly something else. It felt calm, with no music, no nothing. The smell of a light cigar and pipe smoke in the air, illegal of course but still consumed. A quiet hubub. It wasn't a loud, over the top place. It was an establishment to relax in, and spend a lot of cash. Looking around, Martin gave a rare smirk, looking at his team. His dark grey suit, and shaved bald head was one that was hard to forget, but could be changed very quickly if the situation demanded it.
"Hello, chaps." Martin greeted the group, as he then looked back at the bar, and then took his suit jacket off and placed it on one of the chairs, a white shirt and his black tie on underneath, his physique from his wrists and hands showing that Martin still had the legacy of a very dangerous field operator about him.
"I'm grabbing some drink, I'll be right back." He added, walking away from the group's table, and heading straight for the bar.

"Belvedere Dabrowka, one bottle. My usual, fix it to the tab." He simply said to the well dressed fellow on the other side of the bar, as he nodded. Polish Vodka, no less, and it cost £150 a bottle, such was the way in which was brewed. Insignificant batches went out, and for something that ought to have felt like d
"Certainly." The barman replied, grabbing a whole bottle of vodka and four glasses, knowing Martin. He didn't need a fake name, because he knew full well that if someone did burn him over these last few years, he'd have found out a very different way than getting poisoned. That he just knew- if Martin was going to be killed, this would be the very wrong place to do it. Many, many factors made it very difficult to do so- no less that Martin's real name was probably as scattered in the wind as his false identies had been. He could be Richard Michaels tomorrow, or Ahmed Al-Qasid, the man that was Martin Duncan Thatcher was probably as real as they were. No less, as he took the bottle and the tray of shot glasses back, he couldn't help but smirk again.

"It's a shame that our mutual friend couldn't join us, they don't partake in this stuff. Oh well. Thom, put that fucking blunt out. Establishment had a word with us last time when they found the Afghan variety on you, and those souvenirs are even getting on my nerves." Martin said, as Thom took the pipe out of his mouth, dousing it out with his thumb as he put it down, Martin pouring glasses. There was no specific mention of work here- references were fine, but keeping the work of Sierra on the down low was good. They had no need to be totally hush hush here, but if someone asked Martin or the people what they were up to, or overheard it, they'd sound like a group of work mates from the city or somewhere like that.
"Alright, boss. It cools my nerves."
"Ice baths and Rohypnol do the same job. I won't go into it. Anyway." Martin simply replied, an ice cold stare over at Thom as he put the pipe away, Martin finishing the pouring of the vodka. That trick was one that he had used a few times- a lively character had to die. Some alcohol, Rohypnol, and a bath of ice, and you threw them in, unconscious. Coroner always ruled suicide by drugging in that instance, from a nightclub. Very little suspicion for a particular target. Always.
"Work never ends, but we can take this opportunity to at least put our minds off it." Martin added, as he screwed the top on the expensive bottle of vodka.
"To the team." He said, as he raised his own shot, putting it up, looking at each individual member closely, before then clinking his glass, and downing the shot.

Metro 2033: The Journey

(I'm going to be gone for a week. Hopefully, it won't have died by then, but here's my post.)

Malta looked about, the smuggler come adventurer come bootlegger come stalker on the surface, near Sevastopolskaya, or Lone, the ruined sight of apartment buildings hit by the blast a usual sight to see here. Tomas clambered over a fence, breathing heavily through his gas mask, as he raised his Bastard, looking around. He had another 25 minutes, and there were infrequent stalker posts across the surface, that he could raid and grab filters from. The mutants weren't that active today, as the slush buckled under his boots, as he moved into an alley, a little moisture in his gas mask as he looked about. Today, he was headed for Sevastopolskaya, and he guessed he had another couple of minutes walking to get to their surface entrance, before taking a look around inside. And he had business to make with a few people there, as well as getting a delivery. Things to sort out, he reminded himself. The tunnels were too infested of late, and he didn't mind the surface as much as others. There were few radioactive pockets, and the ones that he knew of he could avoid in this area, so he he was content with that. Pushing over a low wall, he saw a pair of mutants run past, as he kept his head down, letting them go. Breathing, he moved forward, Malta moving into the shell of an apartment, as he saw flashlights up ahead.

Getting down, he stayed behind the wall of one of the rooms on the second floor, the sound of some sort of men passing by. He could hear them talking. No radios, they were yelling at each other. This was going to get noisy. Checking his Bastard, he just waited. They were searching each and every room, they were going through this place. He could go around, or stop these fuckers. Malta guessed this was a stalker team, looking for things. It wouldn't matter if they were affiliated with anyone. Malta knew on the surface, it was kill or be killed, if you were Red Line or Reich or Ranger or VDNKh. It wasn't a concern. He kept himself aback, as he heard the door move in the room he was in.

The man entered, wearing a gas mask also, and winterized equipment, searching with his revolver, a weapon that Tomas reminded himself was perhaps a little inadequate for this type of work. And that Tomas now was in a position to take the man down. He didn't waste his time. Knife out, he felt the man turn and yell, as he slashed it into his throat, the man trying to get himself ready as Tomas kicked him down and stabbed him twice, kicking off the man's gas mask. His collegue ran down the corridor, with a combat stance and his weapon raised, yelling back. Tomas cocked the Bastard, and moved to the door, spraying around the corner.

The noise of a body dropping was an indication. Dead. He peeked round, and pulled his mask off, grabbing the filter out of it and keeping it for safe keeping for his own usage. Malta looted whatever else he could, what little they had. He didn't need any more weight, but he had a few items that Malta could sell, a few bits and pieces that could fetch a penny down in the Metro. A few books, some Tolstoy, remarkably. Scrap metal, it wasn't much, but Tomas took what was best out of the lot. Malta moved back down to the other man, and did the same, finding his set practically useless. Looking around, he exhaled, looking at his watch, keeping an eye out. Murder was no longer a problem. He didn't like it, but they would have shot on sight. And nobody would now care that they were as dead as a doornail, as he continued onto Sevastopolskaya.

Burning Rubber (Bee and kingkonrad)

Part Four: Night Work

London, England
22:45 PM

A few days after Dubai, Ross and Kimberly had made their way back to Britain, the money securely deposited in a Swiss Bank account, and now out of harm's way. It wasn't going to be touched any time soon, to say the least. And right about now, as Ross turned the corner in the dark alley in the London Docklands, the tweaked up, carbon-fiber black 2003 Subaru Impreza roaring, the old-school nature of this vehicle just perfect for what he had in mind. The sight of it was enough to cement what was going down- the construction site had been turned into a small night rave, and there were petrolheads aplenty right here. Ross had planned to meet Kimberly here, and as he pulled off the road, underneath the shell of the steel framed building that was going up, there were cars parked all about, people talking, drinking, generally having a good time. It was mostly out of the way of the residential buildings, in an industrial park of sorts, and the noise and feeling was good. Pulling in, the boxer engine giving a good bark as it spat a little flame, Ross found a spot in the dirt to park up in, between some building equipment. As he remembered well enough, this was a car with 550bhp, and a carbon fiber bodykit that would have suited that of a rallycross car, with a simular power. Anti-Lag, a big turbo, and a reworked engine that meant that it threw out as much power as Ross dared have it, without turning it into a pile of shit. That was the very least of what he had done to it- there was far more that he remembered doing, as he had worked on it personally for day and night a few years ago. But it still had what it took, and on four wheels, in an urban environment, it would put most supercars to shame.

Clambering out, he heard the sound of liquid drum and bass playing, this place basically a warehouse rave now, but with car nuts all over. There were some doing donuts in the construction site, others just simply sitting back and relaxing. But Ross was here because he knew it was time to have some fun. He found Kimberly by her vehicle, as he walked over to her, smirking.
"Hey babe." He said, his Scots accent giving him the distinction between all the yuppies and chavs in their 911s and stupidly riced out 106s, this place looking like it catered for a wide range of people, all with the intention of doing petrolhead things.
"This is fucking mental." Ross added, speaking up over the noise of the music, looking at the speakers and group of young girls and ravers that had assembled, as well as general groups of people that were about. Scantily clad girls, it was almost something out of Fast and Furious, though it felt definitely a lot worse, and a lot less cliched.
"So, you ready for the race they're setting up? I can see you brought some firepower today." Ross added, remarking at the car, the environment truly one that was probably going to get busted within an hour or two, but one that was amazing. The lights and general atmosphere made it clear, that this was a car meet that was far less than legal.

Task Force Lima (COMPLETED)

It probably won't be- I do want you to get a post in before I post again, I'll be gone for the whole of this week. So this RP will be on a semi-hiatus till you post basically, if that's okay with everyone else.

Metro 2033: The Journey

Yeah, go on.

Sierra Vanguard (Espionage RP)

Thom sprayed fire back, as the truck veered off the road, one or two following behind. He slid a new magazine into the Swiss-built weapon, looking across to George, or Lancaster, as he peeked up.
"We'll have to go around them, away from main paths. They're going to know, but once we head off the trails, as per the plan, we'll be out of this place." He added, as he peeked up again, putting a burst of rounds into a driver's head of a tailing car, causing it to turn off the road and flip, as the driver was unable to keep control of the wheel on this loose surface, and by taking steel to his forehead, had decided to shift the position of his tightly gripped hands. Taking aim, he put another set of rounds down range, as they began to leave the city, escaping the urban sprawl and heading into the less developed countryside, towards the nearby mountains and hills that began to sprawl across the Hindu Kush.
"Get to the exfil point, team. You know when the extract is coming to get you out of there. You hold the target there till it arrives." Martin added down the comms, hearing the gunfire on the other end of the comms, as Thom looked over, seeing the other truck come close. Spraying rounds, he hit the engine with the .357 SIG rounds, knocking it out of action, as he got back down, Hassam still totally out for the count.
"Shit, did you roofie him? He's totally fucking out of it!" Thom said, looking down at Hassam, as the last truck shuddered to a halt, giving them the chance to pull away on the dirt roads. It had been an adventure to say the least, but they needed to end this crazy chase at some point, and they had mowed down enough of these people to at least warrant them a way out of here. They would expect them to head down the roads, so a regular inteligence agency would. Or to a local headquarters. Nope, Sierra was bugging out to the middle of fucking nowhere, because that was the way the plan was written. And by the time that the local Taliban and AQ forces had realized that after a long and prolongued gunfight with Pakistani Security forces that this had happened, they would be out of time.

---

A few hours passed, as the midday sun turned to evening in the mountains outside Peshwar, the small sandstone house having maybe two rooms, yet nothing inside. It was barren, an abandoned goathold perhaps, but now, was a hideaway for the team. They were waiting on further orders, and so far, had none. They had decided to string him up on one of the walls, tied up by a set of handcuffs that practically crucified the poor fucker. Still, this "fucker" was getting his just deserts, and after what he'd done, the team knew that he deserved it. The pickup parked a few kilometers away from here, it was just them and Hassam, tied up on a wall. Thom adjusted the position of the video camera, as he looked to the team, smirking. He hadn't turned it on, not yet at least.
"We got this bastard then." He said, looking across as Hassam spat, swearing.
Lancaster, or George as it was no longer neccecary to call each other by their alias, couldn't help but smile at the irony in the scene. He was no man of torture, but there was something called vengance, and this was best served cold.
"Now that is not something a gentleman would do, spitting on people; it's disrespectful. Thom, he's dishonoured you. It's only fit that you...do something, in return. Something ironic, something fitting, no?" Thom looked to George, and smirked.
"Well, then. I have never done a terrorist video, talk me through this one, chaps." Thom said, looking to Cassie and George, as he took a balaclava that was put on the table behind them, putting it on as he walked forwards putting the balaclava on.
"I remember your face! I will hunt you down and kill you!" He said, as Thom walked up to him, putting his gag back on.
"That's enough of that." Thom replied, as the Arab moaned a little, like a pig would when it's tail was squeezed.

"Put the camera on...okay, I think the focus is good. Fuck it." Thom said, as he looked to Hassam, putting hte knife to his throat.
"Anyway, to the infidels of the East! This is the price you pay! You kill innocent people, hurt and destroy with no remorse, and this man has beheaded hundreds of men himself! And this is the price you pay!" Thom said to the camera, as he looked at Hassam, who moaned, as he put the Machete to his throat, seeing Hassam look a little unimpressed from his look, as he then swung it against Hassam's ear, cutting it off as Hassam yelled under the gag, something horrible going on as Thom stopped about halfway through, looking over at the rest.
"Am I doing something wrong? Fuck, that might not be the way to do it. These terrorist videos are actually quite hard, you fuckers make it look so simple. I don't even know how to offend, you have such a nice way of doing it." Thom said in his clear English, looking to the team who looked about ready to sigh.
"Lancaster, you want to do this?" Thom asked, as he let him come down, passing him the Machete and balaclava, as he got behind the camera, watching his colleague try a different approach.

"With pleasure" was all George said before he smirked and accepted the machete. It weighed heavy, but firm in his hand. He saw why it was favored by so many around the world. George let his gaze meet Hassam's, raising the machete high up into the air as if ready to strike him down.
"As-salamu alaykum, you swine."

The machete did not however enter his neck, nor his head.
"Oh, I am terribly sorry, Sir. I'm not proficient with this weapon, I'm afraid, Let me try again." George said, halfway laughing, as the machete had entered Hassam's right shoulder instead. It was painful to watch, but Hassam deserved it, George thought. He raised the machete again, ready to strike Hassam down.

A second later, Hassam screamed out, not in pain, but in fear.
"Forgive me, Hassam, my bad, again." George had landed the machete right between his legs, missing his crotch by mere inches.
"I'm done with this, turns out I am no terrorist-material after all. Oh well, Cavalier? Liberty?" George asked, holding up the machete for anyone to take.

After the camera was turned off, the sight of Hassam was an embarrassing, but comedic one.
"He actually shart himself." Thom said, as he looked to George, chuckling as the camera was turned off. The guy was terrified, and while he had good reason to be, it never felt better to give someone the experience of what he gave to people. The man had crapped his pants, and while the smell made this room pretty horrid, it was a good feeling to know that at least he vaguely knew what his victims felt.
"We've still got two hours till we get extracted...Cassie, you can have some fun with him. Don't kill him, or take his manhood. Seriously, work relations would be kinda awkward if you turned him into a eunuch, and it isn't as fun to watch on YouTube." Thom added, as he headed out of the room, going to go grab himself a packet of crisps. This had to be the funniest thing that Thom had done in a long while, and he knew that after perhaps another HVT taking a few months ago, that torturing Hassam mentally like this, it was awesome to say the least.
"Speaking of..." Thom added ,as he grabbed his headset, flicking it on.
"Bugcatcher, you still on this net?"
"If you are, we'll send you some footage. Edit it out to remove our names, or blurt anything that looks like it compromises security. Let's fight this war on terror in a different way." Thom added, as he walked back into the room, pinching the SD card from the camera, and lobbing it into his encrypted smartphone for upload to Bugcatcher's net.