Mission One-'Opening Gambit'.

'Drew' Dyson, "Watchtower"

Andrea had a love/hate relationship for the bureaucratic morass that was currently, technically her employer. She loved her country, and had no problems with the actual job--even the harsher duties she often was assigned, given her "focused sociopathic tendencies" and "clinical emotional detachment"--but...she hated the clueless politicians and empire-building bureaucrats that she so often had to take orders from. Of course, the number of co-workers that those scumbags' orders had cost over the years didn't endear them to her at all. And then there were all the rumors about the 'assaulted' Senator, several Congresscritters sentenced to life for sleeping with underage illegally-imported "working girls" (which is normal in D.C.), the various Cabinet Secretaries that hated her...and the "Cartel Campaign".

Some of her disdain must show, because all of the probies were being kept away from her (lest she 'corrupt' them), the career bureaucrats were either taking long lunches or hiding in the 'icebox' with all the really classified information, and most of the office wasn't talking to her. Well, either her reputation preceded her into this entire Federal Building, or they thought she was the inspector conducting the budget and classified information audit. She shook her head, smiled at the poor lost probie (who turned and ran, barely not screaming), and walked into the local SAC's office.

"It's done, Don. That is two you owe me now." The sound of the nearly-phonebook-thick folder hitting his desk echoed across the room seconds before the urgent sound of the "Action Stations' alarm from the new BSG series started screaming from her PDA. Andrea nodded to Don and began walking towards the elevators as she shut off the "Urgent Contracting" ringtone and began to read the e-mail.
The Federal Judge, her clerk, and her stenographer were all bowled as Andrea knocked them aside at a run and slid in the elevator trailed by rather 'colorful' Arabic phrases. Her knowledge of Arabic held up under the three-minute elevator ride to the basement garage, and she continued to show her 'respect' of the powerful and rich by bull-rushing through the group of press hounding some rich sleazeball coming for the first day of his trial. The press, surprised from behind, either ate concrete or got a couple oblique shots of a an 'older' white woman in a nice dark-colored suit, ballistic shades, and low pumps knocking aside the press (all but the 'conservative' ex-military bloggers), the defense team, three personal assistants, and taking down the defendant with spectacularly well-placed knee...but yet the mystery assailant somehow managed to miss the wife, three daughters, and building security. The CNN crew (who was live) who chased after her caught rather foul Arabic phrases before being rundown by a heavily-tinted SUV with government plates.
Andrea grinned--after all, there was always next time to scare the shit of useless reporters--and focused on weaving through the traffic at 'unsafe' speeds while the traffic dodged her light and siren. Luckily, 'The Warehouse' was a mere three and a half miles from the Federal Building--she still hoped someone would be 'kind' enough to attack it so the team would have a reason to blow the crap out of the building...legally. One could dream. As she triggered the garage door to her parking space, she hoped the team wouldn't think this was like when that disgruntled customer called in a fake tip to ICE. (How were they supposed to know he wanted his mansion intact as well as his family back? He had said "Get me my family NO MATTER WHAT!". What did he want: he had his children, his wife, and even his damned Corgis...plus all the scumbags dead.

That ICE raid hadn't ended well...for ICE...Well, they should know her by now. If not, that is why her vehicle was bullet-resistant. She drifted around a corner, finally seeing the open door over her parking place a little over a block ahead. She hadn't shown up with lights and sirens to the Warehouse since the ICE "raid"...

"Well, I should have thought of that earlier."

Okay, hostages in South Asia.
Charon says, somewhat disappointed.
Whatever happened to Shanghai, Amsterdam, and London? Blowing up mansions and stomping drug dealers to death?
He rolls backwards, into a standing position.
So, do I get to come along to the meeting this time or am I still grounded for shooting that disgruntled guy?

As soon as Garret learns the location of the coffee shop, he heads downstairs to the parking garage and hops in his Acura.

Quentin Thompson

Hearing the commotion downstairs, and most especially Charon's excited shout, Quentin carefully unfolded himself from his sitting position and tiptoed around his stacks of books and dice. He arrives downstairs just in time to see Charon's antics - the man was so excited Quentin was surprised he hadn't pissed himself yet. Staying just inside the lounge, Quentin leans back against a wall, crosses his arms over his chest, and just nods in Roland's direction, letting him know that he was present and ready to hear the briefing.

As the laptop beeps, Mendoza turns and pats Greg on the back. "TV's all yours." It's not long before she's looking intently over Jack's shoulder. "Do we know this client? We should play it safe, scout the place first."

We should probably play it more than safe and have one or two people ready to lay down cover fire.
Charon pulls out his notepad and starts vigorously scribbling in it.
Maybe... Quent across the street with his rifle and me at another table with my MP5 or Ithica...
He pauses for a moment,
Perhaps I'm over thinking this. Right now, my mind is kinda screaming, so I'm probably not the best planner right now.
He starts slowly marking his notepad. He rips off the current page and starts writing on a new one. In his head, he start building more likely scenarios, but every time they get shattered by his thoughts' cacophony of screams. Screw it. Charon turns toward his vehicle.
I'm gonna go over and see if anything immediately jumps out at me. We can plan more on the way. Who needs a ride?

Quentin Thompson

"Lemme change and grab Hillary," says Quentin, pushing off from the wall. "See you in the garage."

Without waiting for a response, he heads back up the stairs, stripping off his t-shirt and throwing it over his shoulder as he goes. Before he's quite out of sight of everyone, he starts unbuttoning his jeans, but thankfully he is upstairs before he ends up naked. Quickly slipping into one of his sets of black fatigues, Quentin double checks Hillary's case and makes sure everything is good to go before snapping it closed. Picking it up, and grabbing a black boonie cover to toss on, he makes his way to the garage to meet Charon.

If this was Baghdad, I'd be much more relaxed. They're a lot more polite about publicly attacking you.

Greg smiled at the phyric victory and snatched up the remote Mendoza left sitting on the couch. He quickly pressed the buttons to bring ESPN up on the screen and to the game he desired. "First quarter guys. Notre Dame is up 7-6!", he said gleefully. As his desires were satiated he half turned towards the gathering group to listen to what was going behind him just in case the boss wanted him to do something spectacular.


Powered by vBulletin® Version 3.8.8
Copyright ©2000 - 2015, vBulletin Solutions, Inc.
Myth-Weavers Status