FourtyTwo

Task Force Lima (COMPLETED)

Jan simply looked back at the team, as the smoke headed in, Neil laying down suppressing fire upon the front lobby, before flicking a new mag into his AS VAL, the Pole now fully acutely aware of what was going to happen. This was it. No more half measures, this was going to be a risky way to get things done but it was the only way they could hit the lobby before the Danish arrived. Jan had his own plans for afterwards- but that didn't matter right now. What did, was to stop what happened next.
"I got your back, Captain." Neil added, as he peeked over, laying down the occasional stutter of fire upon the front of the building, not aiming to kill or wound but merely to suppress with the silenced assault rifle.

As the smoke broke out, the Pole wasn't one to be stopped. A simple nod to Scott and Zhenya, and he was over the bench, running at full pelt, moving towards the hotel window that had been partially smashed in already, the grey cloud now spurting out a translucent field of vision in front of Jan. But he knew what he was doing. And he knew precisely how it would happen. Neil laid down a few more rounds, as Jan kept his momentum as high as possible, wanting to outflank the man before he tried anything stupid. He gave a deep breath, and lept through the lobby window, smashing through the glass as he rolled on the other side, groaning a bit as he looked around with his Glock, weapon raised high as he moved into the clouded lobby, the attention of the handful of gunmen shifting to him but not being able to identify precisely which window he had entered. He could hear civilians of various type, young and old, men and women screaming in horror, as the smoke slowly crept up, Jan sweeping angles inside the lobby as he searched, high and low, wanting to pinpoint precisely the triggerman and his buddies. He couldn't tell if Scott or Zhenya were following him, but they had to be close, such was Jan's twitch in moving through the lobby, sweeping the vicinity for the target.

One yelled, and AK fire blared throughout the lobby, the screams intensifying, as Jan put two shots into the direction of the muzzle flash, moving forward and realizing he was out of position compared to his team. It had been towards the window, where Scott and Zhenya had entered...Jan realized suddenly that he had barely kept track of his two comrades in the team as he had breached through, and that he was now out of position. Moving behind the man, he didn't even bother to think twice. He sent a single 9mm round into his temple, as one of his friends turned and sprayed fire across the lobby, Jan suddenly feeling a sudden kick to his left shoulder as he was thrown back, firing off four rounds in his direction. Cursing, he looked down, seeing an emerging wound, and what felt like a numbing and driving pain that would have normally been incapacitating. It had driven just past his collarbone, and probably blown a tendon apart, or some muscle tissue. It felt like every single tiny adjustment in his left hand was agony, let alone his arm. But it was not something that Jan could let stop him. The gunfire shifted away, as Jan held his Glock high, looking and looking twice to see what was going on. The smoke was calming down now, and the lobby felt a little more identifiable- but this was still a better idea than a direct assault without it, Jan reminded himself. It at least bought them time from a police or Jaegrekommandet assault.

Jan coughed hard, disoriented, but walked forwards after slowly crawling back up onto his feet, pistol held high, still going. He had so much liquid adrenaline in him right now, that this was not going to stop him. He didn't care, so his mind painted it.
"Move, move!" He yelled, fully aware that his team would pick up the order, to begin sweeping out the smoked out lobby, looking around. He didn't know the status of Scott or Zhenya right now, but he knew that they were involved in dealing with the other gunmen, which was the moment that Jan caught sight of the target.

He heard the runner break off with a distinctive click of his boots against the marble floor, out of the field of the smoke, as Jan himself broke into a run once more. He was trying to get higher, out of the lobby, leaving what Jan was going to guess were two gunmen to deal with Scott and Zhenya.
"I got eyes on the target, I'm chasing him! Scott, Zhenya, eliminate the rest, hold the lobby!" He knew he had his squadmates to take care of, but Jan reminded himself that they were more than competent at that job. He'd ended up out of their field of fire, out of the main area of the lobby where a firefight raged, out of the now-clearing smokescreen. Now it didn't matter. He saw the man emerge from around the corner, and Jan broke into a sprint, his empty Glock in a pouch on his chest and almost wailing in pain, as he saw the man turn. A burst of fire from an Uzi the man sprayed back forced Jan to barely throw himself onto the floor, and feel the pain in his left shoulder get grizzlier in how it felt, as he got back up once more, not willing to stop. The man had lost some time, and was clearly trying to reload his weapon, as Jan looked over at him, a cold hard stare into the eyes of the man that felt so little regard for human life. He went for his knife, but Jan was not stoppable. He didn't feel like it, at least. It was going to take more than a round to stop him, and he collided into the carrier, throwing him down onto the corridor carpet. The man was still resilient, and brought the weakened Jan onto the floor with him, flooring a strong headbutt into the Pole.

Jan took it hard in the head, and was dazed a little, immediately going for a counter as he threw a lower punch, grabbing the man's wrist with his right hand and going for a straight knee to the balls, fully alert that he could be concussed or worse at this point in time. The man tried to roll away, as Jan barely clambered up to kick him hard in the side, right in between his upper ribs, and drag him to the wall of the corridor, Jan punching the man hard in the head against the plasterboard, which cracked a little under the force. The man coughed blood, as Jan kicked him hard again in the stomach, blood pouring from his mouth, and Jan feeling like he was truly barely alive. He slid his BK3 out from his plate carrier, and put it to the man's neck, pushing only ever so slightly, just taking a moment. It shouldn't have. But it did, the man was not terrified of death, but yet Jan felt like it was the only thing that the man deserved right now. Jan looked closely into the Turkish-born national's eyes, as the knife in his right hand drew more and more blood, before Jan finished the job.

He pushed the serrated edge deep through the artery, and slit his throat, blood spitting as Jan collapsed back onto the floor, in agony.
"Priority, priority. I've taken down the carrier, repeat, carrier is neutralized. Team, this is my final order. You're going to get inside the lobby and throw down your weapons and any kit that you have. Just do it. It's the only way you're getting out of this. Put your hands on your head, and wait. When they ask you any questions, you were following my orders and mine alone. If any of you are wounded, just sterilize and clean the wound, you won't have time to recover any shrapnel before they raid you." Jan simply said, as he rolled the man over, Jan himself throwing down his 416 that was on his back and his vest, looking at his raw wound at his shoulder, before looking at the carrier, lifeless and utterly devoid of any feeling now blood poured around his throat.

The device was packed into a rucksack of sorts, and was not armed, though Jan could tell- this was a device that could kill tens of thousands if used correctly. The implications would be deadly serious, and Jan reminded himself why he was here. There were many reasons Jan wanted to just leave it alone, or just give it to Zhenya to deal with it. But Jan realized what needed to be done. It had been a long time ago. At the Rasthof, he had realized where he stood. He had been used all along, it was all games that people played. And that he was the fall guy for everything, when he really thought about it hard. Turkey, and even now, in Copenhagen. Victoria knew what his commitment was, and that no doubt, Jan guessed that she would have him surrender and give up the weapon. But Jan wasn't that silly. It was a Russian-made device. It was Russian fissile material, Russian design. Not Pakistani or even from some ex-Soviet republic. It was Russian. And that was the perfect excuse for someone like Victoria and her higher ups to find more reason to fuck things over. Jan would be a dead man, quietly disposed of. Saving Copenhagen was what Jan would never be remembered for, and he didn't want to change that fact. But he did want to stop one thing alone, one that he had seen from day one. One that cost him good men, and not with any good reason. It deserved to end here, and perhaps, if this Russian weapon never surfaced, nothing would come of it. Perhaps, it needed to go somewhere else. And even if he knew what he was doing was wrong, he knew it was the only way to stop an escalation. That he was now playing them, not the other way round. He knew full well that if the CIA was trying to capitalize on this "Russian" weapon, that they would be very much mistaken when they realized that there was no Russian weapon that existed. Jan could only say that it would be one that at least was the only grain of truth he had left now. This was a live suitcase nuclear weapon, and Jan could only guess the look on Victoria's face when she was told that there was a loose nuke, and a Special Forces Captain that was also MIA.

Jan looked over one more time at the carrier, wiping the blood from his face as he took his gloves off, and put his thermal bandit down, giving one last radio command.
"Lima..I'm going to sort this mess out. Don't follow me, don't even think about tracing my steps. It's been a fun ride. Don't die on me now, any of you. Just stay away from me. This is not for Victoria or anyone else. It's for the good of all the people we saved." Jan simply added, as he looked down the corridor, before grabbing only his essentials from his tactical pack. A first aid kit, and a spare set of clothes, and a prescription set of glasses, as well as an old-fashioned razor. The Glock joined them, Jan keeping a single spare magazine for it that he had snatched from the guard. He had his own plan now, a plan that he knew he was now going to make up as he went along from here. He had time before there was any assault on the hotel- they hadn't fully surrounded it, and most likely, were on the Stroget, still cleaning up the mess there and at the office site. He took the carrier's rucksack, and threw them in, before picking it up, slinging it over his right shoulder as he winced a little in pain. He walked out, towards the back door, barging the emergency exit open.

The Pole walked out, heading out into the slush and snow, leaving behind Lima, leaving behind the four individuals that he had called his team. He hadn't even given them a face to face goodbye, and he wished he had. But there was no more time anymore. They were likely searching the front now, and had lasers pointing at the team's heads, waiting for an order to shoot or clarify what the fuck was going on. They would be released by the time that Jan had made it out of there. And now, the Captain of the former joint special forces task force knew that this was indeed, the last that there would be of any sanity he had in his life. The last of any clarity. It had been a long journey, but in under a month, the world had changed more for him than he had imagined. So much loss, so much pain, misery. Death at their doorstep, yet the people that had followed him had been committed. They did not deserve to follow in his footsteps, Jan thought to himself. They had lives to live, and they could escape this mess, become something more. He didn't. He was going to be 29 in a few days time, and while he was young, he had seen the world's crises for himself, and knew that he would never escape the responsibilities he held accountable to by something higher than him, be it a CO or God himself. The deaths of several operators, maiming of another. Two dead men at the petrol station, and the countless number of militants who wished to kill more. The latter, he could justify, but even despite the security guards being in his way, he still felt guilty. Nothing would stop that. He wished he could have hugged Scott, Wendy and Neil, even Zhenya. They were his brothers and sisters in arms. And maybe they would have followed him out of the back, like the route that Jan was taking now, heading down dark alleys and away from the scene of so much bloodshed and anger in Copenhagen's grounded central area. For once, Jan knew that this was his own sacrifice to make. And that he wanted to be a thousand miles from here now, off the grid, off anyone's radar. Nobody knew where he was going to go, and nobody knew what he was going to do, not even his team.

Perhaps Medved were here to secure the weapon for Russian authorities, and Zhenya would have demanded that Jan stand down. They would be here to cover things up too, Jan had come to the conclusion of. It seemed deniable...though Jan could only guess that Medved's mere existence, that of a Spetsnaz GRU unit, and potential capture would play even more into Victoria's hands. That would have been the case if Jan hadn't pulled them out earlier, to at least restrict the damage of their existence here. Perhaps that was the setup, and Jan would be taken from not just treason and murder and grand theft auto, to high treason and conspiracy against Denmark, not to mention the United States. Conspiracy to kill tens of thousands, and no matter what Jan would say, he would go to a Black Site and never come back in a case like that. It was an assured execution. On the flipside, if Medved had succeeded, the device would never be found, and this would all hush away. Jan liked that idea for a while, actually contemplating it on the drive to Copenhagen. It would be easy enough, but the team would outright disagree. That and the fact that Jan was moderate to exceptionally confident in the fact that he would disappear very quickly if he did go to Russia. All these thoughts in Jan's head were what he had to assume now, not perhaps an accurate depiction of the reality of events, but the most realistic view he could take on it. Which led to Option C. Take the portable nuclear device, and walk away. Certain death, because two big blocs of countries wanted you dead. But almost certainly better than dying anyway, and becoming a pointless political facet.

This was not anyone's order now, to do what he did. This was his choice, and it was one that he didn't know if the team would act against. It was a gamble, but one that maybe one day, they would understand. When they fully and acutely understood what the alternative was, maybe they would live out the rest of their lives in a relative peace compared to this, this total madness that had swept through Lima and Jan's life. Turning another corner, the sound of sirens became distant, as Jan passed by a couple of homeless people standing by a barrel filled with reclaimed furniture set alight, heading towards the hippy commune of Christiania; a good place to stay out of the limelight. He would need a vehicle, and an awful lot of time. He felt bitter inside, everything felt wrong, like it was automatic once to just stop and obey those above. But that would not do. Not today.

---

In the lobby, Neil heard the command, and almost immediately barked back.
"Don't you fuck off now! Jan!"
There was no response, only static. Neil cursed a very Australian curse word, as the sound of sirens got even closer, wailing louder and louder, as he looked to the rest.
"He's broken off comms. He bloody took the device. The fuck is he thinking?" The Aussie asked with his tone turning exceptionally angry in the frequency of his swearing, as he knew that wherever Wendy was, he hoped she was okay. She had to get home, one way or another. If she had surrendered somewhere else, she would be fine, he reminded himself, as he slid the AS VAL and his sidearm across the floor, throwing down his vest and getting on his knees, hands behind his head and knowing full well what would happen from here on out. Turning to Scott, the Aussie could only look at his squadmate with a distinct look of confusion towards everything that was going on, just unsure of what the hell was going on.

The civilians were looking on, totally shocked, not even approaching them or coming close. They stayed hidden, far, far away, scared they were still terrorists or something else. There was going to be a flashbang, and it would hurt. Neil was utterly confused about Jan- this was fucked. He couldn't be running off now...it was purely wrong. It felt like they were now totally hopeless, and Neil couldn't have imagined it ending like this, even despite the risk he had signed up for. Neil couldn't make sense of what he was going to do with it, but he just knew the Captain wasn't going to kill even more people for the sake of proving a point. He wasn't that type of person, he had a certain honor about him. The involvement of the CIA and other organizations in this made him feel sick, and Neil didn't even know if to believe if this was some order from them for Jan to deal with the problem, or something even more sinister. It was all such a web of lies, that he didn't even know anymore. He was just waiting for the Danish to arrive and arrest them, and for most likely, days and days of questioning and imprisonment. At least it would be nicer than a Russian gulag, it would at the very least, have heating.

The sight of the first flashbang going in was enough to set off Neil's eyes to shut, and dive forward on the floor, as his eyes and ears burst out in agony, as the sound of men flooding the lobby, shields and MP5s raised up, scanning through, yelling as the civilians looked on, the sight of this assault a shock and a relief at the same time. Neil felt his face get smashed into the carpeted floor, as a pair of plastic handcuffs went around his wrists, the sight of a gas-mask wearing Jaegre bringing him up, searching for bombs and anything on his person across his BDU, as they did it to the rest that were left here. It was a barrage of yelling, as Neil felt himself get pushed, taken by two operators, the other man wearing a riot helmet with a polycarbonate visor, also armed with an equally as intimidating MP5. They both wore assault armor, a little heavier mixture of kevlar and ballistic plating, such was the mess that had been made coming in. They were expecting resistance, it seemed, but they had only come across a scattered set of surrendering men and a woman of varying nationalities. And it made no sense, perhaps. The assault had barely lasted thirty seconds, and they were in the back of a police van within ninety, thrown into the seating and guarded by three men. It was a harrowing feeling. Neil could barely talk, the feeling of confusion and utter disorientation in his head. They weren't asking anything. They knew that they were suspicious, but in some method, Neil could guess they would be going free sooner or later. That was the agreement. Even if Jan had run off, they were cleared. The Australian worried about the Captain, and felt anger and confusion, even now, not sure how to feel. A flashbang hadn't changed his mind, and that had made his head ring out in pain, after all.

Task Force Lima (COMPLETED)

YEAAAHHHHHHH *puts on CSI glasses*

It's fine- I can work with that :)

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.