CS: Dead (Cont. II)

The sniper across the way doesn’t fire across the way. He remains silent as he lays there. How long the scope shall sit on his partner I don’t know. I can’t tell how ghastly a face the dead enemy has, but it can’t be anything nice. There is a shout in foreign tongue from across the way and I have to think quick, for in a few seconds there will be another hail of gunfire. I let go of the knife, leaving it in the sniper and reaching down for my M16, grabbing it tightly and leaping to my feet. The trigger is pressed as I switch it to automatic and a storm of gunfire bursts from my barrel. The flames spewing out the end as the bullet casings pop into the sky and catch the moonlight before plummetting to the street below. Dust and plaster bursts up in a spray all around the remaining sniper’s position as the echo of his gun rings out. The bullet whizzes past me as I stand centered, unable to move as I continue to squeeze until my clip is exhausted.

The debris floats away as soldiers below begin to yell up to me to identify myself. Its a garbled echo in my mind as I just continue to stare at the cloud as it dissipates to reveal a very dead enemy. He is not my first kill, nor is the dead man at my feet. They are far from the first and they won’t be my last either. I return to the world, the shouts below and the continual clicking of my exhausted M16. “Last chance,” I hear from below as the soldiers prepare to open fire. I yell out my name and raise my arms. A light hits me, the small beam of a flashlight that makes my eyes squint. There are whispers below as they tell me to come down. I do so and am escorted back to the medic, along with my two remaining company members.

That is just a single night. Two hours worth of a million days of killing, fighting, two hours worth of a million days of wars.

$$$$$

“Where the fuck is this guy?” The words swirled off into the open, sweltering air of the open runway. Near the side of the road, a long black limousine sat, two large, bald men standing on either side of a much smaller, thin Italian with black greasy hair slicked back and tied in a shoulder-length ponytail. Sunglasses hid his eyes which, if they were matched by his pursed lips, stared forward in a sulk. He unfolded his arms and smoothed out the tight wrinkles in his blue, pin-striped suit. He continued to lean against the limo as he tapped his foot impatiently. He adjusts his tie. He adjusts his sunglasses. He glances up and down the runway. “Where the FUCK is this guy?”

One of the two large men inspected their watch. “He still has two minutes,” the man says in a voice that does not betray his frustration at the smaller man who obviously is the leader of the three.

“Thanks for that fuckin’ news flash! But by my watch, he’s fucking two minutes late!” The man’s words shot from his mouth, cutting into the large man who did not flinch but continued to stare out at the runway. It was not easy getting along with Reno Cappolla, the twenty-four year old heir to the Cappolla crime family. He adjusted his sunglasses and stared out at the empty skies above. “FUCK!”

A cloud rolled in front of the sun as the sound of the airplane’s engines began to grow louder and a small image began to appear on the horizon. Reno spotted it first, as he was the only one looking around. “It’s about fuckin time,” he hissed as he turned back to the car and yelled at the driver to get the car started.

One of the two large men broke his Royal Guard-like stare and turned towards Reno as he turned around and began to adjust his tie and prepare himself for the meeting. “Who exactly is this man, Reno?”

Reno cracked his knuckles and watched the plane slowly move in. “His name is Max Barner.”

“And that is?”

The other bodyguard quickly chimed in, fully knowing that Reno was not one to bone-up on his new cronies and allies any further than he has to. “Max Randall Barner. American born. Family: Classified. Personal Information: Classified. We know that he is blonde, has brown eyes, has no accent. Fluent in various languages. Military combat experience, hand-to-hand combat experience, computer cryptology and hacking skills. Who he is is also classified. What organization he works for is unknown, though we may assume that Sylvestro knows.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brifuckintanicca. All you need to know is that he is being billed as our fuckin’ savior. Sylvestro has pulled fuckin strings left and right to get this guy comin here, so look sharp and don’t fuck this up for us.”