Saturday, June 3, 2017

SAS - At the Warehouse

Yegor drummed his fingers heavily on the steering wheel of the van. Ba-da-dump. Ba-da-dump. It was one thing to find himself suddenly in the middle of a street fight, but this couldn’t be called anything other than a shadowrun. His first real shadowrun.

The Amerindian sat calmly in the seat next to him, his shotgun resting across his lap, the barrel pointed toward the passenger door. Yegor went through a checklist in his head. It was a nervous habit, but it passed the time, and helped to reassure him that he hadn’t missed anything. Changed our commlink access IDs. Spoofed our comm numbers. Registered the Flash-Paks. Registered the commlinks. Registered my drones. Doberman in the back of the van. Lynx in the back of Smith’s pickup. Mossberg loaded and calibrated. Magazines in my jacket.

Ba-da-dump. Ba-da-dump. Ba-da-dump.

He looked at the glowing amber clock in the corner of his AR display. 4:12 AM. He was glad he went to bed early. He was feeling well rested, at least. Hopefully most of the punks in this hideout would be passed out drunk right now.

There was going to be shooting tonight, there was no doubt about that. There were too many guys inside for there not to be. Even if they were tired, they were going to know they were under attack soon enough. Lokk was creeping up to the warehouse even now.

Lokk was a pro – despite his propensity for extreme violence, he was a skilled infiltrator. The old warehouse had an external power connection. Lokk cuts the fence, disables the power, and opens the main garage door manually. Everyone slips in nice and quiet. From there, take out as many people as possible while they are still groggy, grab the bossman, and get out before Lone Star shows up. Simple.

Yegor’s ear twitched. His drumming fingers stopped.

He heard something.

“Faaack! They facking saw me!” Lokk’s voice rang through the teams’ commlinks. Automatic weapon fire rang out, creating an odd echo as it rang loudly through the commlink  and was also heard a few hundred meters away.

Yegor threw the van into gear, chirping the tires as the van lurched out of the alleyway and roared out into the street. The warehouse was the only prominent structure on the street, and it loomed ominously in the darkness ahead. Muzzle flashes from the second floor flared brightly in Yegor’s thermographic vision. He could see the heat of other figures rousing themselves through the windows as the van hurtled down the street. The parking lot of the warehouse was blocked by a tall chain-link fence and gate, which they were rapidly approaching.

“Hang on!” he barked to Joe.

Cutting the tires sharply, Yegor felt the van lean heavily onto the driver’s side tires as he whipped it into the chain-link gate. Spinning the wheel sharply in the opposite direction, Yegor maintained the perfect balance of speed and control as he brought the van to bear on the rickety metal garage door. He squared his shoulders and braced himself as well as he could.

With a cacophonous crash, the van punched through the metal strips of the garage door and into the warehouse. Yegor’s eyes darted around the room, but didn’t see any warmth in the main garage. Good. We should have a few seconds.

In the rearview mirror, Yegor saw Smith’s pickup pull into the lot behind him. Smith jumped out and whipped the tarp off of the flatbed of his truck.

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