INTERMISSION
A friend of mine once told me that the best kind of person is one who can find the good in tragedy.
I'm Frank Bilders, ex IRA, ex Smuggler, ex Narc, ex Con... Shit there's a mac truck full a things I used to be. What really matters is what I am now, and what I am now is a man with a gun.
There's the sound of an engine behind me and I can hear brakes skidding along the dirt. The car screeches in a circle around the jeep, coming to a stop just off my passenger side door. I grab the Uzi off the passenger seat and level it at the shouting driver.
It's a busted piece of shit that's probably older than I am. The gun, I mean. I took it off a dead APR soldier who'd been guarding a demilitarized checkpoint.
I'll give you three guesses as to why he was dead.
UFLL from his uniform. Or at least, what passes as a uniform around here, nothing more than gang colors, really. Hell, half of them can't even do that right. Most of the casualties coming from the border clashes are from miscommunication and friendly fire.
I slip out of the jeep and head towards the remains of the outpost. UFLL's being hit hard enough that they're not going to bother trying to re-man this place, not unless things switch around for them.
Good a place as any to make a base camp. With everyone after my head, the more remote the site is the better, and a broke-shit shack in a broke-shit country seems pretty fucking remote to me.
Now that that's settled, I can finish fixing the jeep and head back out. I grab the rusted lawnmower blade I've been using as a machete and wedge it under the dented hood in order to pry it up.
When Helen was still here I'd roll around in an IFV popping off anti-tank rounds. Now I can't even get my hands on a fucking knife and all I've got is this beater of a Serbian army jeep that I've got to manhandle every time I want it to start.
I suppose there's a lesson in that. I relied on her so much that somewhere down the line I forgot how to fend for myself.
Powerful enough to give you everything you need, take everything you have, blah blah, same old horseshit.
I don't know if Helen's been polished off or if she's just in hiding. I know she didn't kill herself, so either someone put her down and made up a cover story or she's faked it until that mess with Sarahni gets cleared up.
Either way, I promised her I'd do the job, so I'm going to see it through.
Find the Jackal.
Kill the Jackal.
Helen never minced words when it came to demands. Besides, she paid me up front and I'd feel bad if I left the job unfinished, dead contractor or no.
I just hope it doesn't take half a lifetime for me to find that slippery fuck. Shit, post office is UFLL, I'll have to double back.
See, the Jackal is an arms dealer, kind of a legend around here. He ran Helen out of Africa a few years ago, just as ruthless and opportunistic as she was and sold his product a lot cheaper. Shit, sometimes he'd charge less than half of what it cost to make the damn things. Nobody could compete with him.
Hell, towards the end nobody even
wanted to.
Needless to say, that didn't sit well with the Merchant of Menace and since she cuts for profit, she's got a lot more resources to throw around than he does.
'Course, he's not dead yet, so he must have something on his side.
Last I'd heard he was sighted at safe house just north west of a tribal settlement in the south, which means I'll have to run straight through a batch of APR checkpoints unless I want to drive halfway around the continent. I can follow the road as far as the railroad tracks, but then I'm going to have to bust a wide right and cross through a whole lot of desert if I want to miss most of the heavy fighting.
It
should be clear, anyway. Nothing there to squabble over and both sides are getting too henpecked to start blowing each other up just for spite.
I'm probably not going to be able to cut north any further, APR probably has that shit locked up tight.
Fuckers. Glad I got to see their faces when their Great Liberator's brains exploded out the back of his head.
Now the only thing... wait, hold up, what was that over-
I stall the car and climb out, brandishing my lawnmower blade in a threatening manner, just in case he comes back from the dead.
Passports. Must have been trying to get out of the country before everything went to hell. Most of the people who wanted to leave were already gone by the time I got here, but I've still managed to smuggle a few families out.
Being an outlaw isn't all fire and bloodbaths.
I fight the jeep for a few moments more before it starts up and I peel across the desert sand. It's a half hour of driving before I make it within walking distance of the target.
Probably going to be guarded, better if I ditch the roaring, sputtering thunder of a ride and catch them by surprise.
Should be a little ways past the outcropping. I grab the Springfield from the back of the jeep and make my way around it, hoping to circle to the top. Should be a good vantage point over the buildings, if they're where the map says they are.
Just joggin' through the desert at midday with malaria.
Don't worry about me, Helen, I'm fine.
Christ, could they make these things a little easier to get to? I lie down on the rock and lay the scope across the road. Damn it, no clear shot of the safe house. I'll have to circle back around and- There's a wash of dust past my field of vision and I follow it with the scope. An APR combat patrol managed to pick the wrong time and the wrong place to go looking for trouble.
There's a crack that echoes across the valley and the driver swerves to the left, his engine revving.
Even if he didn't notice his ride is one body lighter, he knows that sound.
Then, for reasons I may never understand, he jumps out.
The shot doesn't hit quite as high as I thought it did, and he writhes on the ground for a moment before getting back on his knees, trying to crawl away holding his intestines in with one hand.
I take the second shot.
Too far to a medic, unless you count the UFLL, in which case they'd torture him for kicks just as soon as they'd save him. After four years of this work you learn being merciful runs a little rougher in the real world than it does back home.
Head back to the jeep and start to drive around to a different firing position, one that hopefully has an actual view of the target.
I get ten yards from the safe house before a UFLL technical hits ramming speed and tries to run me down while hosing me with the fifty cal. Must have been on patrol and heard the shots, or seen the APR truck.
I roll out the side just as they crash into me head on, horn blaring and guns blazing. Bunch of hopped up lunatics. I toss a grenade and run while they scramble, trying to decide if they should hop out or try to reverse hard enough to unwedge the cars.
It ends just how you'd imagine.
Fairwell, jeep. You were rusty and a piece of shit.
The Jackal isn't here, either he never was or he's long gone. All that's left is a lone UFLL greenhorn. Springfield's almost out of ammo anyway, better save it for something that really matters.
I take the lawnmower blade from my leg sheathe and charge up the hill towards the house.
He panics and tries to back pedal and fire at the same time, his bullets spraying wildly. Fucking kid. With all the PCP the warlords are shoving down their throats, I'm surprised they haven't seen a lunatic rush them with a rusted lawnmower blade more often. I knock the Kalashnikov from his hands before I tackle him to the ground.
And jam the lawnmower blade through his ribcage.
The fire from the grenade explosion has started to spread, warping around the house through what little grass there is.
I am Bilders, Lord of War.
All shall love me and despair.
I know this isn't exactly what you were hoping for, but I'm going to be busy the next few days and figured I should get something up while I putter around in real life and work on the next update. [Looks like we're going to end up keeping Heather unless I miscounted] HOPEFULLY THIS IS BETTER THAN NOT POSTING ANYTHING AT ALL.