The 7th Column: Betrayal
Posted By: Mainevent
Date: 24 November 2003, 3:39 AM
"Where are they when you need them? Always late." Graff whined emotionlessly at his rendezvous' inability to arrive on time. He was sweating, and had already run through his entire pack of cigarettes. The double flash of lights down the road signaled they were coming, the hilly and rocky landscape constantly obscured the view down the road.
He walked back to his Humrec Calkon Gemini. One of the finest vehicles in the universe. Six wheel drive, GPS, night-vision, leather seats, one million mile warranty, and over six-hundred radio stations. Those were only the standards. He had of course, being the paranoid bastard that he was, opted for all of the conceivable extras.
Tires that would re-inflate when shot out, and under-carriage that could withstand an anti-vehicle mine, armored plating strong enough to give a rocket a run for it's money. Windows not even a heavy round could pierce, enough oxygen to survive six days in vacuum, and MRE's for a small division. He wasn't afraid of anything inside of his vehicle, but the supreme protection made him skiddish about everything OUTSIDE of it.
"You heard?" Asked the shadowy figure in the front seat.
"Heard, hell it's all over the newsnet. Although rumor-control was their ten minutes before the ship blew, Georgio's name is everywhere. The new guerillas on the block. The 7th Column."
"I think we did damn good." Responded Johnson, a silent nod from Peters as well.
"As promised, here's your money." Graff passed a small datapad to Johnson, who checked the readout.
First Universal Bank of Sal Duradus
Box Number: 167849338538
"Damnit Graff, that's a lot of money."
"I told you, he pays well."
"It's not that you dumb shit. Ten million dollars in one day, at the same time as this? Hello, knock knock, anyone there. They're gonna track that a million miles away. Hell I'm surprised ONI hasn't already blown up my apartment."
"It's only been two days John, give 'em time." Graff chuckled doggedly. Johnson didn't think it was funny. "Besides, it's not in an account. We've had different men open separate safe-boxes. Everything that goes in is totally unnoticed. Then we had them consolidate it all into a master-box, and you're set."
"I damn well better be. But hey, if you ever need to meet me again. Don't pick these fucking woods. I know your tank can handle it, but Betsy, she just ain't got it. We could meet in a park or something."
"You know how I feel about parks, especially on this planet."
"Yea, they're all bugged. Well it won't really matter, soon Betsy will be all better, ain't that right girl." Johnson rubbed her metallic shell as he coddled his machine.
"You gonna marry that thing or drive it?"
The man gave Graff the finger, and Peters drove off. "You know where to reach me." Echoed down the bumpy dirt trail as the dust settled behind them.
"Yes, yes I do. I can't wait to see the look on their faces when they go to open that box, assuming they live long enough." Graff chuckled quietly as he pulled himself into the large cabin.
"Man, where the hell are you, this ain't funny." Patrick Johnson found the small note lying on the end table, and laughed aloud as he read it.
BE BACK LATER,
"We haven't even gotten the money yet and he's already bangin his heart out. I'll have to adopt his style soon."
A slight breeze shifted the curtains. Odd. Peters was too careful to leave that open on purpose. Johnson approached the balcony, and moved the curtain with his hand. Outside of his villa was the beautiful view of another, large villa, which itself overlooked his beach. It spran up practically overnight, totally decimating his scenic ocean-side escape.
He turned from the glass doorway, and slid it closed, locking it behind him. There was a creak on the floorboards. He spun around. Nothing. His gun was in the bedroom, too far to go if someone was waiting for him. A vase on the entertainment center next to him was his only weapon as the assassin looked for his assassin. An ironic twist of fate. Bullets pocked the wall behind him, and riddled the television.
"Shit!" He tossed the vase at his agressor's supposed location, and hit the floor. Rolling under the in table near the couch. It was cover from above, but it wouldn't last him long. His cat jetted into the room, scared and confused, the worst place possible to come. Two bullets fluffled fur into the air, it's tiny head exploding into a sphere of gore.
"Oh hell no. You killed my cat you dick."
Two bullets riddled the table, one snagging Johnson's left leg. The pain was excruciating, he tried to sit up, and hit his head on the top. Two feet were standing next to the furniture he was taking cover under, the figure apparently about to fire. Patrick pushed the table onto the surprised assassin, breaking on of his knees in the process. He fell backwards, caught off guard, dropping his gun as he did. They both scrambled for it, but Patrick got it first.
Fear struck the masked soon-to-be corpse, who childishly put his hands above his head. Yea, right, that'll do you good. The military would take him under control, Johnson just wanted him dead.
"Who the hell do you work for." Johnson screamed, the blood loss was already getting to him.
"Go to he-" Was all he managed to say before a bullet lodged in his forehead, the body doubling over on itself on the floor. Johnson hadn't fired it, his head jerked to the door. Peters? Great, too late to help, early enough to fuck it up. Johnson was relieved and mad at the same time.
"What the hell's goin on here?" Peters asked as he applied pressure to the wound. "We've got to go, I'll get you to a doctor and you can tell me all about it there."
A.N.:This is a sidestory for The 7th Column. The main story is still there, but I like this one more for now.