Unfinished Business
“You’ve reached 1-800-DELIVER, where we can get anything to anyplace. How may I help you, sir or mam?”
“Yes, hello there. Could you tell me if y’all currently have any specials? Also... are there any specific handling considerations for sensitive transports?”
“We can move anything, Mr. Markham. And anything means a rate specialized to meet your needs.”
“Funny, I don’t recall giving my name.”
“Consider it our presenting you with our portfolio. We transported it from your location. Now, what is the nature of your cargo?”
“Revenge.”
“And the time of delivery?”
“Now’s good.”
“Should you perish, ****** will take possession of all that you own, and in the event that your request is satisfied, you are to remove nothing from the premises as all shall become property of ******. If you agree to these terms, please restate the cargo and preferred time of delivery.”
“Fine, fine. It’s all fine. ‘Revenge’ and ‘now,’ but I’ll also need you to find the bastard---the man that can’t be found. They say he’s—”
“Transporting, now. Good luck, Mr. Markham, and thank you for trusting ******.”
A light descended through your apartment's ceiling, slender shafts of intense blue that flooded your living room with their light, expanding to wash over you. Then, you were falling, your arms flailing. A compound rushed up to you—a two-story structure with a perimeter wall and a courtyard.
The light carrying you hit the ground like a javelin, a wave of energy and sediment sweeping across the surface to flatten several armed guards. As the ground zoomed in, you flinched before the impact---that didn’t arrive. The momentum vanished as if you were a feather suddenly halted by an updraft. You stepped down as if from a hovering helicopter, the light retreating immediately after.
You looked yourself over, your hands and arms cloaked in black, police-issued riot gear. SMGs were strapped to your thighs, an assault rifle was slung across your back, a riot shotgun dangled at your side from a shoulder harness, and a Smith & Wesson 44 Magnum was holstered in the center of your bullet-proof vest.
Huh...well, isn’t that something? I reckon it’s a good thing I was dressed before I called.
A soldier before you climbed to his feet while holding his head. He was clad in his own combat gear, same as the others. A balaclava mask concealed his head, his eyes looking out---unfocused and searching as if he was trying to make sense of his surroundings as if he had been hit by a flash-bang. *Probably not far off. At least for the flash part. As for the other...
“Alpha team!”* squawked a radio on his hip. “What the hell is going on out there? What was that noise?”
The soldier’s eyes focused on you, then widened as you raised the assault rifle. Bang-bang-bang!
He reeled, clutching at his ears after you fired over his shoulder, one of his teammates dropping as you oriented on another and pivoted around your impromptu shield. This is a real shit position. Next time, I’ll have to be more specific.
The courtyard came alive with exchanged fire, your shield taking multiple shots to the abdomen before collapsing from a shot to the knee. You knelt behind him, replaced your magazine, then grabbed his collar, keeping him upright as you turned him like a turret, his limp body supporting your rifle as you picked off the last three soldiers.
The courtyard was quiet once again, and you allowed your shield to collapse. “Status report! Who’s attacking? How many are there? Bravo and Charlie, move to secure the courtyard.”
The radio remained strapped to the dead soldier’s belt, and you glared at it as it barked commands towards the sky. You knew that voice. Sanderson...you traitorous son-of-a-bitch.
You sprinted to an entrance door, reloading the rifle and slinging it around your back. You readied the shotgun, then knocked twice. Boom-Boom! A hole opened where the locking mechanism used to be, another at head height to reveal a collapsing form behind the door.
You announced your arrival, your shoulder connecting with the door, which exploded inward, splintered wood billowing in to reveal an entrance corridor lined with gray stone.
Another soldier stood just inside, his arm folded around his face to shield from the flying debris.
Boom! He bounced off the wall, a red streak trailing his falling form.
Ahead was a ‘T,’ the corridor branching in opposite directions. You pulled a grenade from your belt and removed the pin, when a soldier leaned out from the distant corner and opened fire. Impacts punched you in the chest, knocking the grenade from your grasp.
Shit! You oriented on a side door, blasted the knob off and barreled through, diving to slide across the floor, your hands cupping the back of your head.
Boom!
Dust swept into the room, debris bouncing around you. You coughed, your ears ringing. Suddenly, everything was just as it was five-years ago.
Your entire team had been decimated and you lay on the floor, presumed dead. Your ears rang and your vision blurred. Still, there was no mistaking your partner’s voice. The two of you had spent the previous six months investigating a crime syndicate and monitoring their operations. And when it came time to act, the two of you painstakingly devised a plan to minimize your team’s risk during the upcoming raid.
“As we agreed,” someone had said, but you knew the voice—Sanderson. He had gotten everyone killed. Well...maybe, not everyone.
You rolled onto your back, unholstered your revolver, and pushed yourself backward across the floor. Not yet.
A soldier rounded in through the door.
Pow!
His head whipped as if he had just collided with a clothesline and he collapsed.
Not yet.
Another peeked in, then retreated as your shots plowed into the doorframe near his head.
There was a counter that you scooted behind and leaned back against. You fished a flash-bang out from your belt, then deployed it, blindly tossing it over your shoulder to land back near the door. You heard cries of alarm and the detonation, but you were focused on the syringe that you readied.
Not yet. You slammed the dose into your thigh, a drug the streets had taken to calling God’s Favor. Your heart suddenly thundered, modified adrenalin forcing your legs to extend, your feet driving into the floor and forcing you to stand. You reoriented on the door, your pain sense dulled, everything else elevated.
A flood of forms moved in like a plume of smoke rolling towards you.
Your SMG’s came free of their holsters, the weapons forward as you charged, brass spraying outward like sprung leaks, the armor piercing rounds toppling the line of dominoes before you.
Your legs wouldn’t allow you to stop, the facility seeming to scroll beneath you as you cleared hallways and rooms. You kicked in a door labeled ‘surveillance,’ a spray of bullets swinging into the room as if it was a second door. Bodies danced and fell back against ruptured screens—one of them showing a bald asshole behind a large desk—Sanderson.
He had sent everything he had, and it hadn’t been enough. You charged the door to his office, your revolver hammering a final guard into the door, whom you met with a shoulder and shoved through, gunfire erupting from beyond the door to impact your human shield.
The remains of the door fell away, Sanderson wide-eyed with a pistol aimed towards you.
Click!
He fumbled to replace the magazine, but you didn’t bother with your own, instead taking the revolver by the barrel and throwing it like a tomahawk. The gun elicited an aggrieved expression as it bounced off his face, opening a wound in his brow. He mewled, and reached for his head as blood streaked his face.
You stalked up, jerked him up by his collar, where he attempted to ward you off with his hands.
“Markham, wait! I can explain!"
He had always been a talker. Frankly, you thought he talked too much, which is why you drove your fist into his face repeatedly, his teeth breaking away. You still had a last grenade. You shoved it in his mouth and pulled the pin before turning to walk out, the white phosphorus erupting behind you, fire quickly spreading in your wake.
You reemerged in the courtyard, your heart rate returning to normal, your aches and injuries welcoming you back. When you looked back to the building, everything burned. Flames flailed from shattered windows. They crawled up the exterior walls and leaped out into the trees that wrapped around the building’s backside. But it was the dark roiling spoke that gave you pause. *Shit... Is this going to affect them accepting this place as payment?
“Mr. Markham,” called from a radio on a nearby corpse. “Your arrangements have been satisfied, but you are trespassing on the property of ******. You will now be removed from the premises."*
The previous light sequence repeated, your apartment livingroom soon surrounding you once again.
'Markham, wait! I can explain!'
It was done. You had finished it. Still, Sanderson's words, his expression, they lingered in your thoughts. He wasn't looking to beg, he was searching for understanding. Your team had only learned of this delivery service while investigating the syndicate. Once upon a time, Sanderson was a real straight arrow. What if... the syndicate had requested their own delivery? What if they had requested a traitor?
You groaned and dragged your palm down your face. It seems you might need to make another call. Perhaps, two.
[WP] “You’ve reached 1-800-DELIVER, we can get ANYTHING from point A to point B for the right price.”
