Frelock lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. How had it come to this? To leave the only life he had ever known. He had always been a sniper; that was his job, his identity. Yet here he was, turning down his friend’s request for help, leaving the team that had been so good to him. It was hard to consider it. What would he do now? Flip burgers? Dig ditches? He was trained for combat, he might be able to get a job as a security guard somewhere. He chuckled darkly at the thought of himself in a mall cop uniform, chasing rowdy teenagers, growing fat from sitting around, watching security cameras while eating doughnuts. Not exactly a great picture for him. Then again, all the options he considered board him. Nothing seemed as exciting as the life he had. Still, better to be bored than for...
He shook his head again to clear his thoughts, but it didn’t help too much. He was turning his thoughts to lunch (was it really 11:00 already?) when his cell phone rang. He picked it up, and an unpleasantly familiar voice greeted him.
“Agent 59864?”
Crap, it was Dick, his contact with the CIA. Not the person Frelock wanted to be talking to right now. “What do you want?”
“Well, first, I’d like to thank you for sticking with your assignment for so long. You’ve done a fine job keeping us apprised of Team BLU’s actions.” This was bad. Dick never complimented anyone unless they were in big trouble. “However, we’re quite...displeased that you didn’t tell us this was coming.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know very well what I mean. Team BLU’s recent betrayal. They turned on us during the Strife mission.”
Betrayal? Strife mission? That was surprising. Frelock didn’t think that Cheetar would be so stupid as to take a job with the CIA. He also didn’t think the CIA would be so stupid as to hire Team BLU, especially after the info he had provided. No wonder Dick was contacting him. “Luke came to me only saying that we had a job. I turned it down. I’m through.”
“Well, I suppose that works out nicely for us then. We need you to take out Team BLU. Just three little bullets and you can come back to headquarters. Should be a cakewalk for someone of your caliber.”
Frelock was starting to get angry. “I guess you didn’t hear me. I said I’m through.”
“What do you mean, though?”
“You know very well what I mean. I’m retiring. I can’t keep doing this. I’m tired of the missions, of the killing, of everything. I’m through. I’m not working with Team BLU anymore, and I’m sure as hell not working with you.”
“I suggest you re-think that answer.” Dick’s voice responded darkly.
Frelock paused. There was only one thing that could mean. He considered going back on his words for a moment, just a single moment. Standing up out of bed, he spoke softly into the receiver. “No.”
He could hear Dick sigh. “Very well. I hadn’t planned on you pulling out completely, but I thought you might not care to turn on your ‘friends.’ Good bye, Robert.”
Without a second thought, Frelock threw himself out his bedroom window as the wall exploded behind him. “Of course, they don’t have the decency to break down the door like any normal hit team,” thought Frelock as he landed on a small ledge that wrapped around the second story. He ran along it until he had reached the back side of the building. This felt completely natural to him; he had practiced the same maneuver at least once a day when he had moved in. Never get into a building that you can’t get out by a different route. It was a good rule of thumb, and Frelock followed it to the letter. About halfway across the back of the building, he looked down to make sure the dump truck hadn’t come for the open dumpster in the ally. It hadn’t; the dumpster was still full, with a few cardboard boxes to boot. Frelock breathed in, held his nose, and jumped. The cardboard crunched underneath him, breaking his fall, and keeping some of the more unpleasant pieces of trash at bay.
Continuing with his pre-planned escape route, he swung his legs over the edge of the dumpster, and ran across the alley. There was the wire, right where he left it. He looked at the entrance of the alley. Good, they hadn’t come around the edge of the building yet. A sharp tug, and the fire escape of the adjacent building came down. He ran up it, taking the steps two at a time. Then he quickly released the catch, and the bottom of the fire escape returned to its retracted position. He deftly gathered up the wire, and climbed up to the third story. The broken window was still open, so he climbed through it and into an unoccupied apartment. It was in worse condition than his. Ignoring the hobo in the corner, he walked to the door, unlocked it, and moved to the inner stairwell. He calmly took it up to the roof, going over the implications of what Dick had said in his mind. Team BLU had turned on the CIA? They were a skilled group of guys, but they were still no match for the whole CIA. Frelock had no idea what they were thinking. They had to be crazy. Then he realized that, in turning down Dick and “retiring,” he had done the same, so he must be crazy too.
He reached the roof without incident, and walked over to one of the air conditioning units. Slipping his pocketknife out, he unscrewed a side panel. There, snuggled tightly inside, was a guitar case; his “escape kit.” First things first, he thought. He grabbed a small radio transmitter, and pressed the button. He could hear the explosion from the opposite building. Anyone who was in his room was now out of commission, permanently. Not to mention a few important documents were destroyed, and his small computer completely demolished. They wouldn’t be getting any more information out of him. Next, he grabbed the old hunting rifle from out of its case. It wasn’t his favorite weapon, but it was a rifle, so it was alright. Checking the action, he saw it still looked serviceable. He loaded in a single clip, and walked to the edge of the roof. Looking down, he could see the van, and the few agents lingering around. He saw the faces of the men, clearly confused, wondering where he had gone. Steadying himself against the edge of the roof, he took careful aim. Stupid rookies, standing out in the open when there was a sniper on the loose.
Without warning, the faces returned. The agents who were standing around suddenly became women and children, all staring right at him. Frelock closed his eyes. Mentally, he ran through the exercises that the shrink had taught him. Surprisingly, it helped. The faces faded, and he was alone in blackness again. He opened his eyes, and saw only the faces of his enemies, men who were trying to kill him. He concentrated, looked through the crude scope, and fired. Five shots later, four men were on the ground. Frelock was disappointed with his aim. The first shot had gone wide. Turned out the scope had shifted position while in storage. That single mistake had nearly cost him his position. Still, a quick compensation had done what was needed. Frelock smiled in spite of himself. “Never attack a bear in its cave,” he thought. Then he turned away from the edge of the roof. The remaining agents should be busy keeping their heads down long enough for him to make his escape. He put the rifle back into the guitar case, and began to walk back down the stairs. He left the building two blocks from his own apartment, and began walking, trying to find a taxi. Now what to have for lunch? Italian sounded good.
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Topic: Chaos Point; Currently on hold. (Read 52240 times)