Shattered

Posted: Wed Apr 18, 2007 9:26 pm

Cousin_IT and Mr. GR have already read this, though it's been edited since they last read it, but I figure I might as well post it here as well. Something that I hope you guys appreciate reading. Warning: Roughly 23 pages of reading ahead, so far. Enjoy. Smile

Prologue, p. 1-3
Chapter 1: Just a Working Man, p. 4

Chapter 2 is on its way.

Posted: Wed Apr 18, 2007 9:33 pm

June 15, 2066, 6:26 PM
Granada, Spain
El Hospital de Nuestro Padre, 1182 Calle de San Anton

"Â¿Habla usted espaÃ±ol?," the secretary asked, her teeth never unclenching from her perpetual, cheerful grin. An ironic expression, Leo mused to himself, this place could very well be ground zero in a few months, if my leads are right. But the smile was something he'd seen at every hospital he'd visited so far; the staff needed to put on a cheerful face for all the patients and their families. It would be considered just be the height of indecency to tell the honest truth, that most of the patients at hospitals like this one were only here because they had little chance to survive.

He glanced around the lobby for a moment before answering. Its white, immaculate walls shone with the pale glow of the fluorescent lights, almost like the flesh of an invalid. It was exactly like every other hospital heâ€™d been in, right down to the obnoxiously smiling secretary, the small side room full of kids toys, even the smell. Leo hated the smell of hospitals, the strong, pungent scent of disinfectants, which always gave him an impression of a deep, foul corruption. The white walls and strong, pale lighting that were meant to give a feeling of warmth and cleanliness only gave an impression of a deep, grave-like chill. Putting his thoughts aside, he turned back towards the secretary, repressing a shudder at her unfaltering smile.

"Un pequeÃ±o, no es mucho," he answered, plastering an equally idiotic grin to his own face. The woman didn't seem to recognize the mockery, and only smiled more broadly, as if sharing some private joke. Leo had to struggle to keep his grin from turning to a scowl.

"Do you speak InglÃ©s?," she asked this time.

"Yes," Leo answered testily, fingers now drumming on the desk in agitation.

She smiled even more broadly at this, almost triumphantly, as if she'd managed to wrangle some personal secret out of him. Leo felt his irritation begin to rise, but collected himself with a deep breath. Stay calm, just like in training. I've gotten this far, a few more minutes won't hurt.

"Look, I'm in a bit of a hurry Miss. I have an appointment with a Doctor...," he hesitated, pulling a card from his pocket,"...Fransisco Torres?"

"Name, por favor?"

"Leonardo Ramsey. I have a meeting with him at half past six."

The secretary shuffled through a small pile of documents on the desk with one hand, the other tapping a rhythm on the keyboard, "Doctor Torres is open at the moment, seÃ±or. If you will take the stairs up to the fifth floor, room 508."

Leo tipped his hat, and strode off to the staircase, shoes clicking against the shining linoleum floor like snapping fingers.

He found Dr. Torres sitting at his desk, stacks of paperwork towered around him like fortress walls. The room was tidy, exactly as a doctorâ€™s office should be. Spotless walls, neat piles of paper, and great, towering filing cabinets set deep into one corner. Leo waited a moment to see if the doctor would notice him before knocking gently on the door frame, the light taps almost echoing in the sparse room. He can build all the walls he wants, it won't protect him from what I've come for, Leo mused.

Dr. Torres jumped slightly in his chair, knocking the page he'd been writing on to the floor. With a curse, he dove underneath the desk to retrieve it, his head almost colliding with its surface in his haste. By the time he'd gathered up the fallen document, Leo had already crossed the room and taken his seat in the chair on the other side of the desk. Torres stared at him with a disgruntled look, heavily jowled face screwed up in a questioning grimace, before memory dawned on him.

"Mr. Leonardo Ramsey, I presume?," he asked in an American accent, offering a sweaty, ink stained hand.

"I have that honor. And I presume you are Dr. Fransisco Torres?," Leo answered, taking the proffered hand. He didn't need to presume; he'd already seen the man's file. An Italian-American, Torres had emigrated to Spain shortly after the Food Riots of '59, and had taken a Spanish name in an attempt to show his patriotism. A rat fleeing a sinking ship. Too bad the rats tend to be smarter than the rest of us. Torres looked almost like a bulldog from up close, an appearance that belied his obvious intelligence.

"That is correct sir," Torres answered, falling heavily back to his chair, "It is good to see another former American in these parts. Most have emigrated to the richer European countries," he sighed, "Spain's economy, is, unfortunately, not what it once was. But, I at least feel I am doing good here in Granada, caring for the sick." He stood up and walked towards a cabinet near the back of his office. Opening it, he pulled out a bottle, two glasses, and an elaborate box. "Wine, or perhaps a cigar?," he asked, gesturing with his full hands.

"No thank you," Leo answered as calmly as he could, patience thinning, "I just want to see the subject, if you'd be so kind."

Looking slightly disappointed, Torres dropped back to his chair, a lit cigar clutched in his left hand. "Yes, that was the purpose of your visit, wasn't it," he inhaled from his cigar, furrowing his brow in consternation, "In all my years as a doctor, one of the strangest cases I've ever seen. And let me tell you, that is saying something," he said, puffing out a ring of smoke.

"That is why I'm here," Leo answered with a fake cheerfulness. Just take me to the bloody corpse already, will you?, he thought to himself.

Torres sat for a moment, lost in thought. Leo was about to say something, anything to hasten the doctor along, when Torres stood, and with a creak of popping joints, ponderously strode from the room. Leo hurriedly followed.

They came to an elevator, and upon entering, Torres hit a button labeled DC. El DepÃ³sito de CadÃ¡veres. The morgue.

The door opened with a hiss, and Leo shivered. The light in the morgue was pale, unearthly, cold. And though he couldn't see them, he knew that most of the numerous drawers surrounding him, looking for all the world like enormous filing cabinets, contained a newly dead body. He'd never liked being around bodies, even one at a time, but the proximity of this magnitude of death gave him chills.

The doctor strode to one of the cabinets, and, unhooking a key from his belt, unlocked it. He pulled it open, and a slight stench wafted up, the scent of a semi-preserved, two day old corpse. The white sheet covering the body gave it an almost ghostly appearance.

Torres gently pulled the sheet from the corpses head, and Leo moved to the other side, looking down into the dead man's face. He was middle aged, looking slightly older than Leo. The brittle remains of a weak mustache still clung to his upper lip, and the crown of his head had evidently already begun to bald even before his death. He would almost have seemed to be sleeping peacefully, if it hadnâ€™t been for the loosely stitched folds of skin that puckered around his skull, obvious marks of surgery.

"What did he die from?," Leo asked, barely managing to keep his trepidation from flavoring his voice.

The doctor sighed, "That's just the problem. I know the how, but not the what," he said, leaning back against the cabinet, "Here's what I found out. This guy lived an ordinary life; had a wife, three kids, a dog, a nice house, respectable job as a bank clerk, and so on. You know the type. He rarely touched alcohol, didn't smoke, and didn't go with the hookers as far as his wife could tell,", Torres took another draw from his cigar, which he still insisted on smoking, even down in the chill of the morgue, "So according to his wife, about three years ago, he starts acting a little weird. Nothing big, mind you, just small things. Habits he never made that he just picks up on a whim. Goes to church three times in one week, then denounces his faith the next and doesn't visit the place for a month before a tearful repentance. Buys his dog some new toy, then kicks it when it begs at the table. Has crazy mood swings, that kind of thing." He took another draw, "So about six months ago, he starts threatening his family. Scary stuff, not your regular kind of abuse. Then he starts complaining of headaches. One night, the daughter wakes up and sees him just sitting at her desk, watching her, with a pair of scissors in his hands. So they immediately call the police, and he gets trucked off to the asylum." Torres crushed the end of his cigar out against the side of the cabinet, its guttering hiss echoing through the empty room, "Six months later, and he's dead for no reason, at least none that the wardens could tell."

Leo realized he was subconsciously shying away from the corpse, as if expecting it to attack him. He forced himself to calm, going through regular breathing exercises, trying to cool his agitation. But he was sure he knew what was coming next, and his fear only mounted as Torres sighed dramatically and leaned harder against the wall.

"So, they bring him in, tell me he died at slightly past eleven oâ€™clock that morning, and I start the autopsy, just like Iâ€™d done a thousand times before." Torres stopped, eyes glimmering, as if daring Leo to ask the question.

"What did you find?," he finally asked, dreading the answer.

The doctor shook his head, "Well, from the story I'd been told, I figured the problem was probably neural, so I opened up his skull, and found very little. I found very little because most of his brain is gone. A quarter of his skull is empty, the rest has rotted away, and I'll be damned if I know why."

You might not, but I do. Leo stared at Torres in horror. They got it out. God Almighty, they got the virus out.

*******

Back in Torres' office, Leo slumped wearily into the chair across from the doctor, mind racing. He'd need to get the word out fast, before the situation got any more out of hand. The outbreak had to be contained. The man had been sick for three bloody years, who knew at what point this thing became contagious? After this long there was no possible way of tracking down even a fraction of the people he would have come in contact with. Even nuking the whole damn city wouldn't solve the problem...

This time when Dr. Torres offered Leo a glass of wine, he wearily accepted it, and sat idly sipping it, lost in thought. When Torres dropped heavily into his seat, Leo didn't even notice till the doctor began to speak.

"Now, Mr. Ramsey, about your visit, there has been some issue with your background verification..."

Leo's eyes snapped to the doctor's face, suddenly wary. Dammit, they told me that ID was tight, what went wrong? He slowly reached down to his watch and pressed one of the numerous buttons adorning it. It gave a soft beep, which Torres didn't seem to notice as he continued.

"I checked the governmental ID you sent me, and the search came up blank. Now, while I would never wish to obstruct a government agent-"

Leo suddenly decided he needed to act immediately, "Dr. Torres, pardon me, but I need access to all the information you gleaned while examining that corpse, and any other information you might have about him. And I need it now."

Torres shook his head, "I'm sorry, but no. As I was saying, your ID doesn't check out, which means one of two things. Either you aren't actually an agent of the Spanish government, or you are too high-ranking for your ID to be public access. If that were the case, you would have made sure I could verify it, and then ordered me to give you the appropriate files. Since you have done neither, and since my secretary informs me that you have a conspicuously weak grasp of the Spanish language, I am going to assume the former."

Leo leaned forward across the desk, pointedly annunciating each word, "Doctor, you have to give me those files. You don't understand what's at stake here, I do. I need those files now, and I won't ask again."

Torres' face turned crimson, "Are you threatening me, Mr. Ramsey?"

"Perhaps."

Now Torres was leaning across the desk as well, staring Leo down face to face, "And I say again: no. Ask all you like, I will not give you those files until you prove you have the proper authority to receive them. I will not give out private medical files to anyone without a damn good reason. Now, leave my office, before I am forced to call secu-"

The phone rang, accompanied by an urgently buzzing alarm, cutting the doctor off. He glared at it, angry at the interruption, the claxon still buzzing away. The phone rang a second time, and Torres stomped over to pick it up, tearing the receiver savagely from its cradle. Leo could hear a rapid flow of Spanish from the other end, to which the doctor replied too quickly for Leo to understand. The conversation went back and forth for a few moments, before Torres slammed down the receiver, and, giving Leo one last venomous glare, rushed from the room.

Leo sighed in relief. He had no idea how David always managed to create his distractions, but had long ago decided it was best not to ask. The man did his job, and Leo had his own. He wasn't safe yet though, Torres would likely call security at the first opportunity. He would need to work fast.

Closing the door, he pulled out a small data stick from his inner pocket and rushed to the computer. Turning on the monitor, he was relieved by his own luck; Torres had apparently been looking over the case before Leo had arrived, and it looked as if all the relevant information was present. Deciding he didn't have the luxury of being thorough, he immediately set the files to transfer to the drive.

The transfer finished within moments, and snatching the data stick from the computer, he hurried to the door. As he approached it the knob turned, and Leo tensed. An armed security guard stepped through the door just as Leo dropped the stick into his breast pocket.

"Mr. Ramsey?," the guard asked in slow but clear English, "I am here to bring you outside. Will you come quietly?"

"Sure, I won't resist," Leo answered with a shrug. With that he allowed himself to be hastily escorted off the hospital premises, the data stick tucked safely in his breast pocket.

Posted: Wed Apr 18, 2007 9:35 pm

June 15, 2066, 7:12 PM
Granada, Spain
David Whiteâ€™s apartment, 296 Calle de Rodolfo Serrano

David Whiteâ€™s apartment complex was in one of the worst parts of town; poor, crime ridden, and dangerous. The building itself was dilapidated, with no power beyond what its residents provided for themselves. It was perhaps the most dangerous district of the entire city, but David had proved long ago that he could take care of himself, and the areaâ€™s crime rate gave him a certain level of privacy from anyone actively searching for him.

Many of the local criminals had made a habit of attacking policeman that strayed into the area on sight. The way they saw it, the police were just the tools of a government that had become too weak to defend its people. A twisted logic, but one that had helped David escape on more than one occasion; it made a chase into the area far more dangerous for the pursuer than the pursued, a fact that the local police had learned years past. Overall, David could hardly have picked a better hiding spot.

Leo pulled up to the complex, its decaying concrete structure appearing almost corpse-like in the dusk light. Stepping from the car, he reached his hand down to activate the gas-trap under the dashboard before locking the doors and crossing the lawn to the front door.

The door had rotted off its hinges years ago, and now rested against the wall opposite the entrance, little more than a sad, broken home for mice. The rickety, moldy stairs leading upwards were little better, their carpeting blackened by years of unwashed filth. The carpet muffled his steps as he began the ascent, feeling like a springy bed of moss under his shoes.

David lived on the 8th floor, with a clear view of the street from his window. Leo arrived at his door winded, and after taking a moment to catch his breath, he tried opening the door. It was unlocked, but there was something leaning against it from the other side; Leo could see its dark outline through the dirty glass of the door window, set just below head-height.

Something was definitely wrong. David never left his door unlocked, especially when he was inside. Leo drew his pistol from its holster under his arm, attaching the silencer with a few expert twitches of his shaking fingers.

Gun gripped tightly in his hand, heart pounding like a steel press, he placed his shoulder against the door, and silently began to push. When the obstruction on the other side failed to move, he pushed harder and harder, slowly and quietly easing the door open.

The obstruction finally slumped off the door with a gentle thwump, and he pushed the door the rest of the way open. Keeping low, he scuttled silently into the hall, scanning for signs of movement. Seeing none, he turned to view the obstruction. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat.

Davidâ€™s body lay slumped at an awkward angle where it had fallen against the wall behind the door. Leo could immediately see he was dead; blood leaked from his mouth and cuts spiraled across his naked arms and torso, obvious marks of torture. His throat was slit open, weeping blood like some grotesque smile. Leo felt bile begin to rise in his throat.

â€œS**t!,â€ he gasped, stumbling backwards. A motion out of the corner of his eye drew his gaze moments before a booted foot caught him in the chin, sending him tumbling into the half-open door. It tore off its hinges with a screech and a shattering of glass, sending door, Leo, and assailant careening into the hallway.

Leo hit the floor hard, cracking his head against an exposed patch of concrete, and pain lanced behind his eyes. Before he could roll to his feet, his attacker was already upon him, knee pressing into Leoâ€™s chest. Through the haze of pain he could feel the muzzle of the manâ€™s pistol resting against his brow.

â€œNo movement or youâ€™re a dead man like that one,â€ the attacker whispered savagely into Leoâ€™s ear, yanking him to his feet with by the front of his shirt. The man hesitated for a moment, listening for any clue that the scuffle had been heard. Through his clearing vision Leo got his first glimpse at his attacker; a lean man, wearing a dark blue sweater over a well-muscled torso. His narrow face had a weasel-like quality to it, with cold, harsh eyes glittering like two cruel stars in the pale light of the hall.

Apparently deciding that he was clear, the gunman dragged Leo into the dark recesses just inside the door to Davidâ€™s apartment. The man slammed Leo into the wall, renewing the pain in his skull, and pressed the gun to his forehead.

â€œNow,â€ he said, rank breath roiling into Leoâ€™s face, â€œI want some answers.â€ He nodded towards Davidâ€™s corpse, â€œThat one didnâ€™t give them to me, even after torture, so I guess Iâ€™ll cut them out of you. Now...,â€ he said, pulling Leo forward and slamming him into the wall again, â€œWhich of you was at the hospital?,â€ he slammed Leo into the wall again, â€œTell me!â€

Leo looked around desperately for an avenue of escape, but saw none. The floor was covered in broken glass from the shattered door window, but with the gun trained on his forehead, Leo dared not go for a shard. He was about to say something, anything to buy himself more time, when he heard the crunching of boots on broken glass from out in the hall.

An angry looking man in a tattered undershirt stepped through the entrance of the apartment, a shotgun grasped in one hand. He scanned the wreckage, seemingly not noticing Leo and his attacker crouched in the corner, â€œÂ¿David? Â¿QuÃ© en Infierno...?,â€ he began, before this gaze rested on the two men in the corner. With a curse, he wrenched the shotgun to his shoulder and pumped it once.

As Leoâ€™s assailant swung his pistol off towards this new threat, Leo took his chance. He snapped his arms up, driving the mans hand from his throat, and he dove for the floor. A kick struck Leo in the chest as his fingers closed around a large piece of broken glass, sending him rolling into the far wall with the crack of breaking bone.

The assassin fired two rounds into Davidâ€™s neighborâ€™s chest, sending the man slumping to the floor, shotgun falling from limp fingers. The gunman started to swing the pistol back towards Leo just as the piece of broken glass stabbed point-first into his left leg, an inch below the knee. Screaming, the man grasped at the wound, his finger convulsing on the trigger of his gun. The bullet grazed Leoâ€™s shoulder and impacted on the wooden door-frame with a sound like a hammer-blow, sending splinters whizzing in all directions. Wrenching the glass from the gunmanâ€™s leg, Leo stabbed into his stomach, drawing another scream. The manâ€™s uninjured leg snapped into Leoâ€™s groin, who stumbled back towards the dying neighbor.

His eyes filling with tears, he saw the gunman cradling his stomach with his left arm, a look of agony on his face. Looking up, the man leveled his gun at Leoâ€™s head.

Leo rolled to the side, the round buzzing mere inches from his face. Coming to rest, he felt something long and cold pressing up against his arm. Looking down, he recognized the shotgun, still loaded, resting where it had been dropped.

He snatched it from the floor just as the next round tore into his leg like a burning lance. Bellowing in agony, he rolled to face his attacker. Both trained their weapons on each other, barely able to aim through their pain.

Leo fired first, the shotgun blast punching into the assassinâ€™s chest at point-blank like a sledgehammer into a cardboard box. Leo fell backwards, chest heaving, the shotgun falling limply from his fingers.

He needed to move quickly, but his muscles refused to budge. Paralyzed with more fear than heâ€™d ever felt in his life, blood leaked from the wound to his leg, heâ€™d broken at least one rib, and he could smell the sour odor of his own urine. He felt the bile finally rise in the back of his throat, and he vomited onto the now blood-stained carpet.

Stomach heaving, he pulled himself to his feet. Stumbling through a fog of pain, he snatched up his pistol from where it had fallen by the remains of the door. Cradling it in his battered hand, he half limped, half fell down the eight flights of stairs down to the ground level.

Leaning against the remains of the doorframe, he gazed out onto the deceptively quiet street. He was an obvious target, and completely unprotected, but no gunshots rang out to end his pain. With a grimace, he thrust himself out into the deepening twilight, and half fell into his car, hand fumbling to deactivate the gas-trap. Turning the keys in the ignition, the vehicle rumbled to life like a purring cat. Flooring the accelerator, he roared off into the night.

Posted: Wed Apr 18, 2007 9:40 pm

June 15, 2066, 9:35 PM
Granada, Spain
Parking lot, shore of the Rio Genil

Leo was more frightened than heâ€™d ever been in his life. He was still bleeding, and he was becoming giddy from the blood loss. Movement was agony, and all he wanted to do was go back to his apartment and sleep.

But he knew he couldnâ€™t return to his apartment. Whoever had managed to track down David had doubtless found Leoâ€™s place as well, and was probably waiting there for him. And he couldnâ€™t go to the hospital, at least not yet. That would take too long, and leave him too exposed to â€œaccidentsâ€. No, the first thing he needed to do get the word out, and fast. After three years, he wasnâ€™t sure how much could be done, but he didnâ€™t doubt for a moment that seconds counted. If he was caught before he sent word to his colleagues, it could be months, even years more before anything could be done. The information on that data stick was thousands of times more important than his own life.

S**t, the data stick! He felt a rush of horrified panic grip his heart like a vice. It was in my pocket the whole fight!

His hand snapped into his breast pocket, and he found it was empty. Panicking, he dove down below the seats, ripping up cushions in a desperate attempt to find the all-important stick.

He found it lodged in between two of the seats, where it had evidently tumbled when he fell into the car. Examining it, he found that miraculously, it was totally undamaged. Reaching into his back seat, he pulled his laptop from its case. He plugged the data stick into the side before opening his e-mail.

To: lordofdistraction@css.ca
Subject: SONSâ€™ VIRUS IS OUT, GET THE HELL OUT OF MADRID
Message: Just got back from the Hospital of Our Father here in Granada. THE VIRUS IS LIVE. Thereâ€™s a corpse over there with half its brain gone. You were right, the Sons managed to get the virus out, and its been incubating three years. Get into that hospital, and either grab the corpse or destroy it. I donâ€™t care, just get word to your government, and stop this thing from spreading. NUKE THE DAMN CITY IF YOU HAVE TO. The attached files are ones I downloaded from Dr. Torresâ€™ comp, and should contain most of the info you need.
It gets worse though, I think some of the Sons survived our sting back in â€˜63. Davidâ€™s place got buzzed, and I barely managed to get out myself. Thereâ€™s three bodies back there, and Davidâ€™s dead. I think theyâ€™re after me. Iâ€™m going to try and escape the city, but the priority of my survival just dropped to last place on a long list. Get the word to both our governments, and FIX THIS THING.
-Leonardo Ramsey

Leo hit send with a sigh of relief; the word was out. This hadnâ€™t all been for nothing.

He stepped out the car into the dimly lit parking lot. His head still pounding from the beating heâ€™d taken earlier, he stumbled down to the river banks. In the pale moonlight, the Rio Genil looked almost like a rippled, glossy mirror.

Crouching down, he pulled two thermite strips from his bag. Tearing of the adhesive strips on both, he slapped them one on each side of the laptop. Setting off the micro-charges attached to each strip, he flung the computer into the river before it could burn him. The thermite strips ignited with a hiss as the super-heated metal touched the water, and within seconds the computer was a piece of useless slag, sinking into the riverbed. With soft grunt, Leo threw the data stick in after it.

Limping back to his car, Leo fell back into his seat with a sigh, closing his eyes as he listened to the pulse of the river. I need a plan to get out. But first, I need to rest...

He had begun to doze off when he heard a stick snap off in the darkness of the parking lotâ€™s edge. He jerked suddenly and totally awake, heart racing like a piston. Keeping low behind the dashboard, he reached down and ripped out the carpeting under the drivers seat. Underneath was a small hidden compartment, from which he drew an old but serviceable MP5. He checked the clip; fully loaded. Good.

Flicking off the safety of the weapon, he dropped from the car into a crouch. Keeping low and using the surrounding vehicles for cover, he quietly made his way towards the source of the noise. Seeing nothing, he crept forward cautiously, till he was almost to the edge of the lot.

â€œHello?,â€ he whispered fearfully into the darkness, weapon stretched wardingly outwards.

The only answer was the gentle thwips of silenced pistols.

* * * * * * *

Karen was the first to the body. Crouching next to it, she gave her appraisal, â€œDead, no doubt about it. Heâ€™s got more holes in him than a screen door.â€ She searched Leoâ€™s pockets, â€œNothing on him sir. Anything we need is probably in that car, or destroyed.â€

Ryan stalked out of the shadows next, his gun leveled at the body. He let out a light snort of laughter, and lowering the pistol, put two rounds into the corpseâ€™s groin.

Karen fell backwards, viewing the manâ€™s work in disgust, â€œWas that strictly necessary, Ape?â€

Ryan grinned broadly, â€œNo, but it was funny.â€ Seeing Karenâ€™s expression, his grin disappeared, â€œYou saw what the bastard did to Levente,â€ he whined, â€œIt was the least he deserved.â€

Isak skulked out the shadows, his sniper rifle now slung back over his shoulder. â€œSilence you two, weâ€™ve got work to do,â€ he growled at them. Both silenced immediately; Isak Johansson was the only member of the team that truly terrified the rest. The Swedish ex-commando had a disturbing reputation for cruelty and murder, and his team knew him well enough to believe it. His expulsion from the Swedish military was rumored to have been the result of murdering a family of civilians during an op in Korea.

Isak turned his back to them, and walked down to the bank of the Genil, where Viscelli was already searching for anything the American might have dumped, â€œIs there anything to find?,â€ he murmured in a soft, Swedish accent, his glinting green eyes mirroring the flowing water.

â€œNo, boss,â€ Viscelli answered, stepping out of the mud, â€œIâ€™m pretty sure that was his laptop he thermite-bombed down here. Whatever it was, itâ€™s gone now. Probably slag by this point anyways, even if we can find it.â€

Isak sighed, a soft, rattling noise in the back of his throat that sent chills down the othersâ€™ spines, â€œOh well, I had hoped we could catch the data intact.â€ Climbing from the bank back to the cool concrete of the parking lot, he gestured a long bony finger towards the Americanâ€™s car, â€œYou three, grab the vehicle and get back to the warehouse. Get JoÃ«l to rip it apart, and find anything you can,â€ he glanced around the deserted parking lot, â€œIâ€™ll clean up here, and be back in the morning.â€

As the others drove off into the deep darkness of Granadaâ€™s night, Isak Johansson crouched down next to the cooling corpse of Agent Leonardo Ramsey. His hand reached down, snake-like, and turned the dead manâ€™s face up towards the sky, his little finger wiping a smear of blood from the corner of the Americanâ€™s mouth.

â€œSo, I must be wondering,â€ Isak mused to the corpse, his sigh like a bone striking a paper bag, â€œWhere-oh-where did you send those files to?â€

Posted: Wed Apr 18, 2007 9:43 pm

December 3, 2069, 4:23 AM
Bern Belp Airport, Switzerland
Private cargo plane, Southern tarmac

â€œCould we hurry this up, please?,â€ Klein called into the crowded confines of the cargo bayâ€™s interior, his voice reverberating sharply off the terra-steel walls, â€œWeâ€™re freezing our asses off out here.â€

The answering shout came back in German, too muffled by the planeâ€™s interior for Paul to make out the words. Kleinâ€™s response was equally garbled, punctuated by several rude gestures towards those inside. As he turned and trudged back down the ramp, curses in at least four different languages followed him, though Paul could understand little of it.

Hands tucked firmly inside his pockets, Klein resumed his perch on the crate next to Paul, the truck humming quietly at their backs, shivering in the chill December air. True to his name, the German was small, more than a head shorter than Paulâ€™s two meters. With a plump, baby-doll face and large, honest-looking eyes, Lukas Klein could easily have passed for a man half his own age, a trait he often put to his advantage.

Slapping his hands together to warm them, Klein stared down at the midnight black tarmac with a look of intense concentration. Paul lay back atop the crate, and with a swig from his canteen, began thumping his feet against itâ€™s wooden sides, its frame thrumming like a bass drum. Klein startled and looked down at him irritably, large eyes screwed up against the chill. The gentle hum of the truck the had a soothing quality that made Paulâ€™s eyes droop, wishing for the tenth time that he was back in his warm bed.

â€œNow, what was I saying, before I left?,â€ Klein wondered out loud, pulling his thick coat closer to ward off the chill.

Paul took another gulp from his canteen, swilling it around in his mouth before answering, â€œYou were telling me about that job you pulled up in the Alps. The one with the forty grand of import tobacco?â€

â€œRight, right, right,â€ Klein exclaimed, snapping his fingers excitedly as he renewed the rhythm of his story, â€œSo, weâ€™ve gotten the goods from the Frenchman, and weâ€™re loading them into our chopper. I walk up to the Frenchman, and hand him the briefcase of cash, just like planned. All the money's in there, I checked it myself before the exchange, and thereâ€™s nothing wrong with it. So I turn around to walk away, and guess what he says?â€

â€œWhat?,â€ Paul responded, faking interest. He sat up and scanned the tarmac for anything out of place. The airport terminal lay perhaps a half kilometer away, its square windows gleaming cheerily into the winter night like enormous eyes. Everywhere else was open space, with a single runway marking the expanse like an eerie racing stripe. The blackness of the night extended all the way to the fence surrounding the compound, its edge a mere hundred meters from where he now sat. Recalling the first time he'd been to the Bern Belp, Paul marveled at how much the place had changed in fifteen years.

â€œThe f***er says, â€˜Zis is not enuff. I require more.â€™â€

Paul allowed himself a fake gasp of surprise, suppressing a groan. Klein didnâ€™t seem to notice, entranced once again in one of his countless narratives of daring-do and criminal exploits.

â€œSo I tell him, â€˜Thatâ€™s the forty grand, as agreed, and there isnâ€™t going to be a cent more.â€™ So guess what he does next? Frenchy bastard pulls a gun on me! Now, me and my men are getting pretty jittery, you know? Deal starts going bad, you need to pull, right? So-.â€

Deciding heâ€™d heard enough, Paul rolled to his feet, snatching his shotgun from where it lay next to him, its steel casing icy-chill to his bare fingers. Shaking out his legs to ward off the numbing cold, he glanced down at his startled employer, whoâ€™s confused expression made him look even more babyish. Hefting the shotgun across his shoulder, Paul scanned the area again, eyes like a pair of cold, dissonant orbs, one brown and one green.

â€œIâ€™ve got to go check things out, make sure no one stumbles across the operation here,â€ he lied, desperate for escape. Turning on his heel, he stomped off into the night, hoping that the German wouldnâ€™t follow.

His silent pleas went unanswered. Before heâ€™d scarcely gone ten paces, Klein was walking alongside him, short legs pumping to keep in step with Paulâ€™s longer strides.

â€œNo one's going to find us out here,â€ Klein complained, â€œand even if they do, they wonâ€™t care. Smugglers come through here all the time, the authorities donâ€™t give a s**t.â€

â€œThen what are you paying me for?,â€ Paul shot back angrily, annoyance towards his smaller employer rising as rapidly as the frosty haze that poured from his mouth into the cool night air.

â€œSmugglers always feel safer the more friendly guns there are around,â€ Klein explained, â€œYou being here just makes the unloaders more comfortable. Besides,â€ his huffed, almost winded by his attempts to keep pace, â€œYou being an ex-commando for the Americans adds a kind of legitimacy to the proceedings that my customers like, even if your old buddies did try to kill you. And whatever makes my customers happy-â€

â€œ-makes me happy,â€ Paul finished for him sarcastically.

â€œExactly. Now-â€

Suddenly a string of invectives cut through the crisp air from behind them, followed by an echoing crash that made both of them jump. Turning, Paul saw several of the loaders clustered around a broken crate that had toppled from the back of the truck. The men cursed at each other in all manner of different languages, while strange mewling noises sounded from the broken crate. Klein tore off towards the accident eyes afire, Paul loping lightly in his wake.

â€œWhat the hell are you doing!?,â€ Klein bellowed at them in German, this time clearly enough for Paul to understand.

One of the loaders turned towards him, face livid with rage, â€œIt was the last crate,â€ he growled, gesturing towards his companions, â€œAnd these idiots dropped it.â€ With this, the argument resumed again, each guilty party blaming the others, Klein yelling at them all.

Paul, noticing that the strange mewling sounds continued to come from the crate, glanced down and saw a small orange paw poking from the splintered wreckage.

â€œKlein?,â€ he mumbled, leaning down to pick the creature up. Irritated at the interruption, Klein spun around as Paul lifted the animal by the scruff of itâ€™s neck.

â€œWeâ€™re smuggling cats?,â€ Paul asked, disbelief plain on his face. The creature was mostly orange and white except for a pattern of black stripes adorning its coat, its large head swaying back and forth as it meowed pitifully at them.

â€œTheyâ€™re Bengal tiger kittens,â€ Klein corrected, â€œwhy?â€

â€œI thought tigers were extinct?,â€ Paul asked, rotating the beast so it was facing him. It lifted one large paw to bat at his nose, still mewling.

â€œThey are,â€ Klein answered impatiently, â€œSome hot-shot cloner in New Delhi structured us a few. Their worth a fortune on the Black. Some people skin them for their coats, some mount them as trophies, and some stuff them. The crazier ones keep them as pets. None of itâ€™s legal of course, but neither is the smuggling, so I donâ€™t ask questions.â€ He sighed, gesturing towards the crate, â€œAlright, clean that up,â€ he barked at the loaders. He looked towards the first man who had answered before. â€œYou, go get another crate,â€ he ordered, viciously gesturing towards the plane. The loader marched sullenly off, grumbling to himself in Italian.

â€œYou were keeping them in crates?,â€ Paul asked in confusion, â€œIsnâ€™t that really unhealthy for them?â€

â€œOnly for the truck drive, so theyâ€™d be easier to hide, â€ Klein explained distractedly, â€œWe had them in cages on the flight here. Look,â€ he said, turning back towards Paul, â€œJust get the tigers to Fribourg, get a taxi or catch a train back to Berne, and your four grand will be waiting when you arrive, just like I promised. And hey,â€ he winked at Paul, slapping him on the back with a wide grin, â€œIf you watch and learn, maybe youâ€™ll be a smuggling mastermind like me some day, eh, American?â€

Snow had begun to fall by the time the last crate was loaded, its whiteness contrasting starkly against the black of the tarmac. As the truck began its lumbering drive towards the airport gate, Paul hopped into the back, shuddering at Kleinâ€™s parting words. S**t, he thought to sullenly himself, gazing desolately back as the inky blackness swallowed Klein and the plane like a curtain, thatâ€™s the last person I want to be.

Posted: Wed Jul 30, 2008 2:54 am

Ok, holy crap awsome, I only read the frst part cause im about to head to bed but holy crap yes. Gonna read this at my hotel for quake con.

Posted: Tue Sep 16, 2008 8:56 pm

Thanks. I've been doing a lot more work on this over the past year, and I might post some more soon.

I should note though, that most of the stuff already here isn't what's going to be in my final version, with the possible exception of Chapter 1. The Prologue was originally written as the prologue to a PbP game I was doing, but at this point the plot of the book has evolved far more away from that. The same characters are still used, but the chapters have drastically changed, including a totally different prologue (that isn't 17 pages Confused

).

The plot also got really complicated. Currently, it follows five different POV characters, over four distinct periods of time, with some overlap. Oh yeah, and two of those characters are the same person. So yeah, it's complicated.