Double Crossed
It's been a while since I've run a mission with Sierra. A couple of years ago in Geneva we broke up a ring of rogue scientists that were operating at CERN, but since then we've been back stateside and running in different circles. I've mainly been doing counter-terrorism ops, while she's been examining the dark under-belly of the entertainment industry.
Finally our paths managed to cross again, though, as a group of Armenian arms smugglers were operating out of the port of Los Angeles, and I needed someone who had established a presence locally to help me on the bust.
The plan was simple. Sierra was going to be representing an entertainment industry social group that was looking to acquire arms to protect themselves in the case of an apocalyptic event or a government crackdown, whichever came first. I was to be an American broker who was consulting them on the deal. We’d show up with $5M in cash, take possession of the weapons, and let a Special Forces team overwhelm the Armenians in the harbor. We’d then pass the weapons on to the receiving party to continue the confidence. Pretty standard stuff.
It was good to be back with Sierra. As we planned out the mission we very quickly fell back into our old rhythms, finishing each other’s thoughts as we planned sightlines and escape plans.
On the night of the event we were in the back of the van, going over the plan one last time and putting our weapons together. As I was screwing the silencer onto the muzzle of my Beretta, I started doing the drum line from Rock & Roll Part II by Gary Glitter, you know: do do ch ch do do ch, do do ch ch do do ch… and Sierra started in with the synth part: New new newwww, new newwwww newenewwwww... It was great, just like old times. When we stopped we laughed and looked at each other. Her eyes drew me in, as they had done many times in the past, blue and longing. Her ability to do that to a man, to cut him off from his surroundings, is what both makes her so intriguing, and so deadly.
As I looked at her, I saw those eyes change from laughter to sadness, and after what could have been hours, or just a few seconds, she said to me, “I’m sorry.”
It was at that point I then became aware again of my surroundings and noticed that the Sig she had been loading was pointed at my gut.
It was, I believe, a relieved feeling that came over me as I began to grasp the situation. Somehow I had known this was coming, even though I hadn’t allowed the realization to fully come to my conscious. And to have it spelled out so clearly now was to allow my mind to reach a peaceful equilibrium.
I don’t know if she said anything else before she pulled the trigger, but I certainly felt the kick to my stomach, cold and hard. Though I don’t know if it was the bullet I felt.
I crumpled to the floor of the van, finding myself staring sideways at her black leather boots as she stood and took the briefcase full of cash that I had brought from HQ.
As she opened the back door of the van to leave, she knelt down and put hear lips next to my ear and whispered in her soulful voice, “I’m so sorry.”
I believed her.
Finally our paths managed to cross again, though, as a group of Armenian arms smugglers were operating out of the port of Los Angeles, and I needed someone who had established a presence locally to help me on the bust.
The plan was simple. Sierra was going to be representing an entertainment industry social group that was looking to acquire arms to protect themselves in the case of an apocalyptic event or a government crackdown, whichever came first. I was to be an American broker who was consulting them on the deal. We’d show up with $5M in cash, take possession of the weapons, and let a Special Forces team overwhelm the Armenians in the harbor. We’d then pass the weapons on to the receiving party to continue the confidence. Pretty standard stuff.
It was good to be back with Sierra. As we planned out the mission we very quickly fell back into our old rhythms, finishing each other’s thoughts as we planned sightlines and escape plans.
On the night of the event we were in the back of the van, going over the plan one last time and putting our weapons together. As I was screwing the silencer onto the muzzle of my Beretta, I started doing the drum line from Rock & Roll Part II by Gary Glitter, you know: do do ch ch do do ch, do do ch ch do do ch… and Sierra started in with the synth part: New new newwww, new newwwww newenewwwww... It was great, just like old times. When we stopped we laughed and looked at each other. Her eyes drew me in, as they had done many times in the past, blue and longing. Her ability to do that to a man, to cut him off from his surroundings, is what both makes her so intriguing, and so deadly.
As I looked at her, I saw those eyes change from laughter to sadness, and after what could have been hours, or just a few seconds, she said to me, “I’m sorry.”
It was at that point I then became aware again of my surroundings and noticed that the Sig she had been loading was pointed at my gut.
It was, I believe, a relieved feeling that came over me as I began to grasp the situation. Somehow I had known this was coming, even though I hadn’t allowed the realization to fully come to my conscious. And to have it spelled out so clearly now was to allow my mind to reach a peaceful equilibrium.
I don’t know if she said anything else before she pulled the trigger, but I certainly felt the kick to my stomach, cold and hard. Though I don’t know if it was the bullet I felt.
I crumpled to the floor of the van, finding myself staring sideways at her black leather boots as she stood and took the briefcase full of cash that I had brought from HQ.
As she opened the back door of the van to leave, she knelt down and put hear lips next to my ear and whispered in her soulful voice, “I’m so sorry.”
I believed her.
posted by Operative C at 08:10
1 Comments:
Hey, man, I knew something was up when I heard about you and her not reporting in immediately. But I guess it's out in the open now about Sierra. Only time will tell what she's up to. I'll be out to see you at the hospital probably tomorrow. I'll bring you a Whitman's Sampler or something. I know getting shot in the gut is the worst.
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