Broken Republic and all affiliated Chapters and characters are copyright Steven Swanson 2000-2001. The characters and events in this document are purely fictional, any resemblance between the characters and any person, living or dead, are purely coincidental. UNATCO, the FBI, the CIA, the NYPD, INTERPOL, the Spetznaz, the Mossad, and the NSA are all real organizations and should not be cited as the creation of any single person. Mason Industries is not affiliated with any existing corporations in the real world. Due to mature content, reader discretion is advised. No part of this document may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission of the author. Steven Swanson is not responsible for any difficult reading caused by the influence of drugs, alcohol, or just plain idiocy. If you are offended by some of the content in this script, that's your problem. Conspiracy theorists are warned not to take this seriously, and that this disclaimer is to simply cover my ass and make aware to plagiarists that ALL the aforementioned agencies feel that that practice could be bad for your health. Uh, well, that's pretty much it. Don\x92t say you haven\x92t been warned, and get reading!

October 1, 2018

"What time is it?"

Villieu craned his neck around, looking at his left wrist. "About six. He should be here quite soon, but he\x92s only Russian. He may be late, he may be early, you cannot predict the punctuality of my kind."

"I could really go for some teriyaki or some spicy beef bhuna right now."

Hollins, now in the passenger seat, was the next to engage in the parleying. "I didn\x92t know you were a connoisseur of Indian Cuisine. It is Indian, right?"

"Around that region. I did a stint there once during the talks. It\x92s funny. All those years, India and Pakistan were fighting for Kashmir and when the two finally reconciled, they realized that they had just acquired a smoldering, festering opium pit."

Villieu chuckled in a deep, almost growling tone. "The world is a crazy place. So, Indian food. I\x92m getting hungry myself."

"Sorry boys, you\x92ll have to hold off until we know whether or not Tattoo\x92s coming." She added with a smile. "I\x92m sure you can control your cravings until eight o\x92 clock."

Paul began sarcastically holding his stomach and whimpering, groping forward next as if grabbing for the sign of the Indian Restaurant. "Must\x85 have\x85 food\x85 can\x92t\x85 hold on\x85 much\x85 longer\x85" He then theatrically fell forward, uncomfortably flopping down between the seats."

Hollins chuckled and continued reconnoitering the area for any sign of Priboi. Her sloped mantle seemed particularly pensive, her big, green eyes scanning the streets. They widened as she spotted a dull white luxury car, not a fancy limousine, but definitely a foreign car of sorts.

"Heads up, eleven o\x92 clock." They all turned their heads, intently looking just off to the right of the hood, which had a dull orange glisten in the dying sunlight. "I think that\x92s our man. Let\x92s see for sure."

She fixated her concentration on the misty white car as if it was from the ether and could disappear with even a blink. As it approached, a circular emblem was visible on the front of the vehicle, the glossy blue checker of a BMW. It gently nosed forward as it decelerated, precariously parallel parking in an ungratefully small parking space. Four doors opened at once, revealing the men inside. There were three tough looking men of mixed nationalities, each with collared shirts that unnaturally bulged at the chest, all the way down to the waist. It didn\x92t take a genius to figure out that it was body armor, but the men were unusually defenseless; none of the three carried even the smallest concealed weapon. It almost seemed too cautions, having the men wear shorts to discourage thoughts of even having pistols strapped to their thighs. Another man emerged, this one a large, frumpy character in an equally casual black wife beater. He was obviously a tough, hardened criminal on sight. He wore oversized aviator sunglasses which covered his tanner than normal face, likely that of a Kazak or a Chechen. He had the broad, stocky build of a Russian athlete and unmistakable stubble, even visible at 70 feet. The black heads of sprouting hairs stuck unattractively out of his chin, cheeks, and upper neck like barbs. The most apparent features of the man, however, were large tattoos that covered both arms, stretching lithely to his wrists where they ended in the glitter of gold bracelets and a Rolex. Closer examinations revealed not the normal tattoos, but more interestingly some chronology or tale, a twisting tale of unknown heroes and professionally inked conflicts.

Two of the men had briefcases, each with the same design and false black alligator patterning. Paul thought it uncanny that these arms dealers were carrying cases that could fit no more than ten pistols each\x85 or perhaps machine guns.

Paul lunged forward in his back seat, pointing a clawed finger to indicate the briefcases.

"Those briefcases\x85 does that set of binoculars have a microwave scanner?"

"I\x92ve already turned it on." She moved the view over the briefcase, seeing an image in negative grayscale. The microwave beams shot harmlessly through the soft targets, highlighting solid objects and concealed metal. As she struggled to make something of a briefcase that was turned away from her, she noted unusually complex mechanics within the case. Conveniently enough, the man carrying the case, a smug Latino with slicked hair, turned when something caught his attention.

As he flashed around, she glimpsed the concealed mechanics of a briefcase-mounted submachine gun, an FN 18S. She had seen it before, mainly in the hands of terrorists or security agencies. Concealed, it looked as an ordinary briefcase, but a special trigger on the handle allowed firing from inside the briefcase itself. To shave precious time, the entire shell, save the bottom and top panels, could be slid off with the press of a button. With out it\x92s outer shell, the gun looked like a large machine pistol. Though poor to aim, it had a nasty rate of fire and its 5.7mm FN ammunition had more bite than normal pistol rounds.

The suitcase continued turning until Hollins found herself looking straight into the gangster\x92s eye sockets, the microwave image passing directly through any soft flesh on his head. He had seen her, and her binoculars had unmistakably blown her cover. Peering down, the gun barrel was aimed directly at the car. She knew what to do, as risky as it was.

"Jesus, he\x92s seen us! Get down!"

As the three ducked for cover, the rattle of five-seven\x92s introduced a stream of poorly aimed shots, most of which spattered on the windshield in green flecks. Had they been real bullets, they could have been killed by then. They stayed down, removing their pistols and removing the safes. Villieu reached under his seat to remove a bullpup assault rifle, the standard AR-22 with a 40 round drum.

The AR-22 was developed by AR military industries in the United States with the intent of creating an efficient, rugged, and powerful weapon that could become standard for all NATO troops abroad. It carried a leaner, faster 5.52mm bullet that outperformed the old 7.62mm round and generated less recoil. It also meant more ammunition capacity, and the AR-22 carried a slim, broad drum capable of holding 40 rounds of ammunition. The closed bolt operating system meant reduced recoil as well as less vulnerability to the elements, and the modular design allowed for various attachments like a silencer, microwave, infrared, night vision, and normal scopes, lasers, a tactical flashlight, and tritium sights. The bullpup configuration with the trigger in front of the firing mechanism also meant more maneuverability, and therefore made it ideal for urban combat situations. The design itself looked very similar to the old GIAT FA-MAS, with a characteristically long carrying handle and sight that started from the end of the gun and ended at the hand alcove.

Sergei was the next to speak, unable to suppress his native Russian as he concentrated on readying his weapon. "Nichevo! What the fuck happened??"

Paul tried to create some order as rattling continued in abrupt bursts. "Villieu, Hollins, on my signal." Perking his ears, he heard the clattering of hollow plastic on pavement outside. The men were unsheathing their weapons. "NOW!"

The doors all swung open at once, Hollins and Calabrese almost rolling out of the right side, the side least exposed to the shooters. Villieu wasn\x92t as lucky, but he managed to slip out, leap backwards, and roll across the hood of the Escapade in order to take cover. He barely made it as a fresh rattling of bullets strafed the corner of the vehicle.

Gracelessly flopping onto the floor, she was quick to regain equilibrium and safely nestle herself behind the thickness of the vehicle. Villieu was now behind the engine, the safest area, and was spraying cover fire into the air, the shell casings twanging against the car\x92s body. There was a great deal of civilian activity about, but at least they seemed to know well enough to stay inside or run opposite the gunfire. One man materialized in an apartment window nearby, peering out the window to see the commotion. Paul heard the sliding of the window and turned around.

"Get inside, now! Go!" The man, astonished, vanished from view as a deafening silence fell over the area. Paul carefully peered over the hood, seeing a distant machine gun pointed in his general direction. It fired, the bullets straying to the nearby brick wall. He had seen just enough to deduce that the men were trying to escape in the very vehicle they arrived in.

"Shit, they\x92re running off! Back in the car!"

Villieu took the driver\x92s seat as Hollins and Calabrese feverishly assumed their previous positions inside the vehicle. Precious seconds were being wasted, the group deduced, as the BMW\x92s Turbine engine whined to life. Villieu neglected to strap himself in, immediately starting the car. With his left hand, he heaved the assault rifle into Hollins\x92 lap, grumbling in disgust.

"Take this. If this doesn\x92t work, Maitz is going to shit on the entire team."

Hollins took the rifle and checked the drum type magazine. There were still upwards of 32 rounds inside. The BMW, after sufficiently accelerating the engine, squealed off in the silenced whine of a gas turbine engine, never mind the electric motor, which was undoubtedly deactivated. Villieu took the same course, pressing a special button that exclusively turned all power over to the powerful Stanley Turboprop engine. The slight odor of kerosene filled the air nearby as the Escapade lunged forward in pursuit of Priboi, narrowly missing an oncoming van. He realized that the windshield was terribly splattered and posed a visibility problem, so he squirted some blue wiper fluid on the glass and hastily jammed the wiper lever down, the blades cleanly wiping the toxins out of view.

They hadn\x92t much time. An automotive getaway had never been intercepted in New Canton due to its size, but Villieu was lucky enough to give chase in a part of town with no city exits, at least not for some distance. He turned to advise Hollins to send a radio call, but she had already grabbed the receiver and was speaking into it, eyeing the BMW more than Villieu was. He also noted that the car\x92s flashers were on, at least some protection from the abounding swarms of traffic. He got back to his driving as she spoke with her utmost clarity into the radio.

"Green Seven to all units, Green seven to all units. Does anyone read me?"

A voice tapped in, the sound quality good enough to deduce the sound of an idling turbine in the background. "This is Bravo three, we copy."

"We are in vehicular pursuit of suspects in four-door white 2017 model BMW, plates 28H-5D2A. Suspects are heavily armed and extremely dangerous, exercise extreme caution. Create roadblocks on All exits from the southeast district. We are northbound on West Pica Boulevard, passing\x85 Hazel Park. We have one suspect ID, Nikolai Andreyevich Priboi."

The voice responded. "That\x92s affirmative. We\x92re mobilizing roadblocks now."

The target swerved to the right at an empty intersection, but Villieu lunged directly behind and tapped the right side of the vehicle\x92s bumper, causing it to abruptly swerve back into a straight line. He had hoped that it would send the car into a spin, but he was grateful that the driver didn\x92t lose him in the sharp turn. The pair of vehicles continued at ridiculous speed, darting in and out of traffic in a deadly automotive ballet. I never knew that the roleplayers were this fanatical, Villieu thought to himself as he swerved from an oncoming freighter truck.

Just ahead, growing lines of traffic signaled the impending roadblock, its flashing lights and muffled loudspeaker phrases apparent to Villieu\x92s enhanced senses. Suddenly, in a white cloud of squealing tires, the BMW stopped and skidded around until it neatly faced the Escapade. By now, both cars had stopped and Hollins was ready to intervene, but as quickly as the two had stopped, the BMW peeled off into an alleyway, recklessly hitting trash cans, fire barrels, and some trash bags. Villieu put the car into gear and turned around abruptly, following a nearby road rather than pursuing the suspects. Hollins was the first to verbally protest.

"What the fuck are you doing? He\x92s slipping past the roadblock!"

Villieu, his eyes aflame, confidently sped along the road. "I know exactly where he\x92s going! Just keep your seat and don\x92t drive for me."

Slowing down gradually, as if the car was dying, Paul painfully watched the speedometer drop and wondered what Villieu was doing. With an abrupt swerve, the car jerked flawlessly into an alleyway and stopped, still in the process of turning left. A large dumpster lay off to the left, and a black fire escape loomed above. The brick walls were covered in graffiti and the cracked pavement of the alley was littered with garbage bags and paper refuse. Ahead at roughly 50 yards, the BMW was searing toward them. To avoid hitting the barricade, the brakes squealed and the nose dipped as the car frantically decelerated. All three leapt out, Villieu once again risking life and limb as the BMW squealed to a halt, just barely smacking the frontal left corner and missing Villieu\x92s leg by inches. All three had their weapons out, and Paul was climbing over the hood when the passenger door of the tragically scratched car popped open. A man climbed out, his pale white face filled with sheer confusion and his lower body concealed by the tinted window and the door. Villieu, the most frontal of the three agents, was the first to snarl his orders.

"Get your hands up! Get \x91em up, NOW!"

The man yelled unintelligibly in a foreign language, likely Russian, but as he distracted Villieu a man materialized from behind with a machine gun raised and ready to fire. As the man in the passenger side ducked, the assailant raised the weapon and squeezed the trigger.

Too slow, it turned out, as Paul fired three rounds into the man\x92s chest and neck, taking him immediately to the ground. The first man suddenly jumped up again with his own weapon, but like a pop-up target on the range Villieu relentlessly fired upon the man, taking him down with a single shot in the lower neck.

By now, Hollins had wedged herself up to the driver, who had surrendered to the superiority of her assault rifle. Another figure climbed out, this one with his hands raised. It was Priboi.

"Lie down, put your hands behind your head, and cross your legs, asshole!"

"Alright! Alright! I surrender!" Finally submitting to the authorities, he knelt down and assumed the position instructed to him. After having his rights read to him, a pair of soldiers ran in and hauled Priboi away. He was smart enough not to put up a fight at this stage. Another pair gave the same treatment to the driver, who took a hit from a soldier\x92s rifle stock as he struggled against the restraints. The troops stopped as the man keeled forward slightly for a second and continued, dragging the man\x92s feet along. It seemed harsh to the casual onlooker, but given Priboi and his followers\x92 records of violence, it was the least UNATCO could do.

Paul leaned against the car, resting his right arm across the roof and catching his breath. Physically, the ordeal hadn\x92t been particularly taxing, but stress piled on stress was giving him a case of combat fatigue, and the shakes that accompany it. He spoke between breaths.

"Was that good for you two?"

Hollins responded, sitting on the hood of the BMW and tearing off her sunglasses. "Yeah, that was good. Turned out nice." She looked down the alley, astonished to see the sterile plastic sign for the "Mahogany Suites" hotel. "I think we\x92ve all earned an elevator ride to our rooms, haven\x92t we?"

"Yeah\x85 Yeah." Paul paused, finally making progress in his combat fatigue. "How \x91bout we stop for some Indian food first?"

Villieu, just as fatigued, smiled under his sunglasses. "I\x92ll drive."

Julike? Contact me, Steven Swanson, at jodimest@erols.com