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07-07-2017, 11:20 AM | #51 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2014
Location: Val Verde
Posts: 2,345
|
Chapter Nineteen
January 8th, 1985, Edgewater, New Jersey It was just before nine a.m. when Hector Ramirez's phone rang. He groaned mournfully as he rolled over and lifted the receiver from it's cradle on his nightstand. "Mmm... yeah?" He managed to answer. Since Jeff's murder he'd been averaging about three fitful hours of alcohol-assisted sleep a night, and it was taking a toll. "Heck, it's me." Scarfe's voice sounded gratingly chipper for this hour of the morning, but Hector's annoyance was shoved aside by his eagerness to hear whatever the detective had managed to dig up for him. "What's up, Raph? Do you have something for me?" "Coupla things, actually. You said your tapes from the garage and the tunnel had a dark, four door Grenada, right? Well as it turns out, Lynbrook P.D. had a vehicle fire that same night. 1978 four door Ford Grenada, color Dark Jade Metallic, reported stolen from a dealership on the LES the very next morning." Scarfe said. "Stolen? Shit! There goes that lead." Ramirez's frustration with his investigation mounted. "Ah ah ah" Scarfe mock-chided the reporter. "All hope is not lost, compadre. The dealership in question is one Scoop Moto, which is, in addition to being a used car dealership and a chop shop, is what we call a 'rental' joint as well." Hector was a little confused. "Rental?" He asked. "Yessir. Say a bad guy wants a car he can drive around for a little bit without the potential hassle of the police catching him in a stolen car. He goes to a 'rental' joint. You pay a fee for the use of the car for an agreed upon length of time, after which it's reported stolen. Then you dump the car and the joint gets it back once its recovered to sell again, or, if you're worried about evidence or something, you torch the car, or sink it in the river or whatever, and the dealership collects off their insurance for it. That option'll cost a little more up front, but with this car coming from Scoop, I'd bet that's what your boy did here." Ramirez pondered this new information. "Why didn't Rockville PD look at this with Jeffrey's murder?" "Ha!" The detective laughed. "Buddy, I'd be more surprised if they did. Do you know how much of our trash ends up getting dumped out there? Every mook in city's got a squeeze out on the island, they must get thirty cars a day dumped out there." "Great. Thanks, Raph. I'll head down there now." Hector replied. "Woah, woah, woah! Heck, that neighborhood makes Beirut look like a vacation destination. Seriously. The Department doesn't hardly even go down there no more." Scarfe sounded genuinely concerned. "And even if you didn't get scalped the second you got off the subway, nobody at this place is gonna talk to a TV reporter anyways." "Oh, I know, Detective. That's why you're coming with me." Hector had met up with Scarfe a few hours later at the same campus area greasy spoon as before. After getting conned into paying for the detective's meal once again, they hopped into Scarfe's maroon Fairmont and headed down to Scoop. "Welcome to the asshole of the world, Heck." The detective said as they cruised down Avenue C. Every other block had at least one lot that was nothing more than a pile of bricks that had once been a tenement building. Hector couldn't help being reminded of pictures he'd seen of post-war Germany, looking at the jagged and scorched remnants of many of the neighborhood's buildings. "Not for nothing, Scarfe, but I've been down here before. I did a piece on the English Tea Room last year, and that's only a block or two from this Scoop place." Ramirez chuckled a little bit. While the previous mayor had tackled crime in the city by personally punching criminals in the face, Koch's approach had been a bit less hands on. In order to curb a surge in street violence, the city had passed a resolution banning any sort of martial arts studio or school. This was, of course, ignored, and most of the places had continued to operate underground. The innocuously named English Tea Room and been one of the most notorious of these. The sign that announced the site of Scoop Moto Sales and Service was large, featured a picture of a VW Beetle, and like almost everything in the area, was in desperate need of repair. The building itself was a small brick structure of surprisingly recent vintage. Nestled between that and an extremely dilapidated looking brownstone was a decent sized lot, packed with cars, and surrounded by a stout looking fence topped with a double curl tangle of rusty concertina wire. Scarfe pulled up in front of the brownstone and put the car in park. The neighborhood said hello with the sound of a discarded crack vial crunching under Hector's heel as he stepped out of the car. To his surprise, Scarfe didn't head towards the dealership, but rather towards the group of tough looking men gathered, despite the frigid January weather, on the brownstone's stoop. He pointed to the largest member. "Hey, asshole, get over here." Scarfe commanded. The asshole in question was a huge black man, at least seven feet tall. He sported a short mohawk hairstyle and a beard. "Man, whatchoo want?" The man's deep voice rumbled like distant thunder. "You see this?" Scarfe asked, flipping open his badge case for the man to see. The size difference between the giant and the detective's five foot, five inch frame would have been comical under different circumstances. "I'm Detective Raphael Scarfe of the New York City Police Department." He continued. "One of the many powers that I am vested with by the city is the power to deputize citizens in order to assist with police operations. I am hereby deputizing your giant ass." Scarfe motioned to his car with a broad sweep of the arm. "That is my official police vehicle. I am going into that dealership over there, and when I come out, I want to find all my hubcaps still on it, capisce? That's your duty now, and if I find one fingerprint on my car, I'm going to call the entire goddamn precinct down here and turn this shithole of a neighborhood inside out. You got that, Deputy Scumbag?" "Yeah, all right man, not a finger!" The giant laughed. He turned back to his friends and boomed "Hey, yo, check it! I'm a dep-yoo-tee!" The lobby of the dealership was like any other auto place Ramirez had ever been in, cheap wood paneling, a fake plant, and coating of grime on every surface. The service desk was closed off from the lobby by a window of plexiglass. Scarfe rang the bell. The detective turned to the reporter and said in a low voice "Listen, let me do the talking here. This guy ain't a good citizen, but he pays his taxes, if you know what I mean. I can't just lean on him like those mooks outside. 'Bad cop' ain't gonna work, I gotta finesse this, okay?" Hector nodded in the affirmative as someone finally came to the window. The man was big and stocky, with greasy black hair combed straight back from his forehead, and a thick five o'clock shadow. His heavy brow jutted out over deep set, dark eyes. He wore a grease stained, yellow leather biker jacket and looked more like a bouncer at CBGB's than an auto mechanic. "What can I do for..." the man stopped mid sentence. "Oh, its you, Scarfe." "Hey, Willy!" The detective said with forced joviality. Willy's eyes narrowed. "Whaddya want, detective?" "Nothing much, buddy. My friend here has a coupla questions about a car you had stolen off your lot back in December." The mechanic looked in Ramirez's direction for the first time. His eyes went wide. "Are you fucking nuts, bringing a reporter down here?! You think I wanna be on TV?!" He yelled. Hector held up his hand to placate the man. "Please, sir, this is completely off the record, just a couple of questions." He said. "The sign says 'Sales and Service'. It don't say nothing about no questions." Willy replied angrily. "Look, Willy, Edi sent us down here. Said you'd help us out." Scarfe lied, hoping his bluff would not be called. "It's only a couple of questions, totally unofficial. Nothing comes back here from this, okay?" "Fine. What do you want to know, Mister Ramirez?" The man slathered his name with contempt. Scarfe answered for the reporter. "You reported a '78 Granada 'stolen' off your lot on December fifth. I'm assuming that was really a rental job, correct?" For a split second Willy looked like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Yeah. So?" "Sooo..." Scarfe said, waiting a few seconds. He didn't get an answer. "Who was your renter, Willy?" The mechanic sighed. "I never seen him before. White guy, average height. Big black moustache. Seemed like a vet type. Paid cash, of course. That's all I got. It's not like I keep records on this shit." "No, that's fine, Willy. You've been a big help. You got a copy of the report from the Lynwood cops?" Scarfe asked. "Yeah. I'll have Linda get it for you" he said. The name came out as "Linder". "Yo, Linda!" Willy yelled back into the garage. January 8, 1985, Lower East Side, Manhattan Linda, Tony Tanner thought wistfully as he pulled his car into a spot across the street from Scoop Moto. She had been the secretary at the dealership when he had been here last, to get a car for the Martins job. She has a gorgeous fall of blond, curly hair and her ass had filled out the purple velour body suit she'd been wear the last time he saw her perfectly. Jones had sent him and Tracker Tom down to the city to cool out while he finished the job up in Vermont. Jones didn't want the locals to recognize anybody of his guys that were going to accompany the FBI team as the two logging scouts that had been hanging around town these last couple of weeks. That suited Tanner just fine, as he never wanted to set foot in Vermont again as long as he lived. He was fine hanging out in the city, especially on Jones' dime, but Injun Joe was not good company. He didn't even want to leave the hotel. There's been no time for cooze last time he was down here, but he had a week to kill and funds to do it with this time. Plus that purple body suit had revealed more than a shapely derrière, he recognized the marks on Linda's arms. This was a girl who liked her candy. Tony would have her strung out and groveling like the worthless whore she was in no time... He put the car in park and started to reach for the door when he noticed two men leaving the dealership. "Shit!" Tanner said, sliding down low in the car's seat. One them was that gutless turd reporter he'd worked over, Hector Ramirez. Tony didn't recognize the other guy, but he smelled like a cop. His suspicions were confirmed as he heard the man taunting the gang of thugs on the brownstone stoop as they got in their car. "Thank you, gentlemen! I relieve you of your service." The man had said to the absolutely huge punk that stood on the stoop. Tanner felt for the Detonics compact 1911 in his jacket pocket. He could do this right here... But, no, he decided against it. The cop might actually know what he's doing. This junkie skank was going to have to wait...Tanner needed to find a pay phone. Tanner had been pacing around his hotel room for a few hours before Ted Jones actually called him back. "It's about goddamn time, Jones!" He yelled into the receiver. "Calm down, Tanner. Tell me what's going on." Jones said. Tony Tanner explained the events of earlier in the day. "So what?" Ted asked. "So what is that Ramirez is looking into the Martins thing! What if he manages to connect it to us?" "Tony, I can't worry about this right now. As soon as I've got things wrapped up here in Vermont, we'll deal with this. Just sit tight and don't do anything stupid." Tanner slammed the handset down onto the cradle, fuming. January 8th, 1985, Joe's Pizza, Greenwich Village, Manhattan "I've been thinking about your murder weapon." Scarfe said, folding up one of the large, thin slices and taking a bite. "Forensics says your buddy was hit with at least ten shell's worth of double aught buck at extremely close range. The ear witnesses say that the shots were real close together...boomboomboomboom, right? Well, something's missing here." "What's that?" Hector asked, dabbing some grease from the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "The empties, Heck, where are they?" "The what? I'm not a cop, Raph. I don't know the first thing about guns." The reporter asked. "The empty shell casings. That kind of rapid fire means the guy had a semi-auto or at least a pump shotgun. With your grandpa's duck gun the shells don't eject until you break the action, but each time you cycle the action on a pump or an auto shotgun it spits out an empty shell automatically. Your guy wouldn't have had time to collect all the casings and I doubt he was carrying a half dozen double barrel guns on his back. So where are the shells?" "I'm waiting for the dramatic reveal, Scarfe." Ramirez said. "Hey, I know enough about guns to qualify with my magnum every year and get by in Homicide. But I went down to one of the armory guys I know and asked him. He showed me a 'Guns and Ammo' article about a gun called an Striker. It's this new thing, basically like a big 12 gauge revolver. It holds twelve rounds and here's the thing.. you have to kick out the empties manually with an ejection rod like a giant Peacemaker." The detective said. "So how many thousands of these things have been sold? I don't imagine you even need a record for owning a shotgun." Hector said. "That's the thing, Heck, these things are made in South Africa. They don't even really import them here yet." A light went on in Ramirez's head. "What does one of these Stalkers look like?" He asked the detective "Striker." Scarfe corrected as he explained what the gun looked like. Hector reached into his bag and pulled out a thick file labelled "CORPS" stuffed with papers. He flipped through until he found what he was looking for, a photo from the Daily Bugle story on Jones' Teach's Cay raid. The photo showed a man with a large black moustache and a camouflage bucket hat posing with a cache of weapons found at the drug smuggler's island compound. The man held a weapon roughly matching the description he had just been given. He handed the clipping to Scarfe. "Like this?"
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Needs : AOCI Lamprey Vests, (or similar), ROC Flash helmets, ROC Shipwreck flippers, 25th Dusty Torsos (or similar), BBTS Bull (Taurus) head, Snake Eyes V.52 forearms. Last edited by DerStahlhelm; 07-12-2017 at 07:50 PM.. |
07-07-2017, 04:24 PM | #52 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2014
Location: Val Verde
Posts: 2,345
|
Chapter Twenty
January 10th, 1985, Near Cobbler's Roost, Vermont Jones, whose general opinion of government efficiency was low, was quite surprised with how quickly the Feds had sprung into action once they received the information on the location of the Bad Guy's hideout. Almost too quickly, in fact. He had the foresight to send Tanner and Tom back to the farmhouse to ready their surprise before he informed the Bureau, but barely enough time to get his team ready. His team's presence as observers on the raid had been his price for the information, and Special Agent Johnson, the lead agent on the case, had reluctantly agreed. The tall, dark haired agent was finishing up his final briefing now, addressing the assembled agents and SWAT team members gathered in the highway rest area just a few miles from the farmhouse. His pockmarked face was red from the biting winter wind. "Okay, so everybody knows their jobs here. Let's do this quickly and by the plan. I don't want any injuries here. Mount up!" With that the FBI convoy started to roll. In the lead was the raid's primary vehicle, a Cadillac Gage V-100 Commando armored car. Behind that were three big trucks packed with the rest of the raid team and its gear. Trailing them was the Corps, in a Humber Pig, a British armored truck Jones had bought as surplus. Agent Johnson's plan was fairly straight forward: the V-100 would race down the farmhouse's narrow drive, stop, and an agent would pop out of the top hatch with an Arwen gas gun and begin firing CS grenades through the building's windows. Then the raid team would dismount and enter the house. As soon as the convoy got underway, Jones picked up the receiver of the car phone he had installed in the armored truck. The Motorola car phone sent out its radio signal to the IMTS system. Once connected, the phone gave Jones a dial tone. He dialled the number for his secretary Julia's line at his compound in Bozeman. Julia, as always, answered promptly. "Julia, I need you make that Florida call we discussed." Ted said. Julia dutifully made the call to the Florida number she had taped to her desk. "Mr. Smith," she said to the voice that answered, "We've decided to buy." "Mr. Smith" then dialled the New York number he had been given a few days earlier. Tony Tanner answered the ringing pay phone in midtown Manhattan. "I'm sorry," the voice on the line said, "I was trying to reach a Mr. Chang." Tony hung up the payphone and nodded to Tom who was in a booth on the opposite corner. He dialled the number he had been given, the number to the Bad Guy's Vermont farmhouse. "What?" The groggy voice answered. "Expect company. Very soon." Tracker Tom said. "What?! Who is thi-" Tom hung up the phone and walked towards subway. Mr. Chang, whose phone number had one digit of difference from the number of the payphone Tony Tanner had answered, had no idea of the role he'd just played. January 10th, 1985, Ft. Wadsworth, Staten Island NY Hector Ramirez sat in his car, hesitating. He was parked in the shadow of the Verrazano bridge, staring at the main gate of Ft. Wadsworth. The last time he'd been here, a few years ago, he'd been told in no uncertain terms never to return. Detective Scarfe was right, though. Ted Jones was the darling of congress and the media right now. Trying to take him on with the flimsy evidence he'd acquired so far would be career and quite possibly actual suicide. He needed help. Ramirez steeled himself and drove up to the gate. An MP at the guardhouse motioned him to stop. "Sir, I need to see your identification." The guard said. He handed his driver's license and press credentials. "My name is Hector Ramirez, ABC News, and I'm here to speak to General Abernathy." The MP exchanged looks with his partner in the booth who picked up his phone. "Sir," the guard said, "There is no officer by that name assigned to this facility, and you don't have authorisation to be here." "Oh, he's here. I'm sure of it. Have your buddy call over to the motor pool. He can usually be found hanging out there." Ramirez replied, hoping he wasn't going to manage to get shot before all this was over. The MP sighed. Then his face turned to stone. "Sir, Step out of your vehicle." Ramirez found himself sitting on the curb, hands handcuffed behind his back. Before long a jeep carrying two more MPs and a nasty looking Rottweiler rolled up to the gatehouse. The new arrivals looked even more serious than the gate guards, both sported flak vests and helmets. The older and meaner looking of the pair had a name tape that read "Perlmutter", the younger was apparently "Lavigne". Perlmutter spoke. "Sir, I have orders to take you into custody and escort you to the motor pool." He yanked Ramirez up by his cuffs and marched him over to the waiting jeep. He sat him roughly in the passenger's seat before unslinging his carbine and jumping in the back. The Rottweiler growled at the reporter. "Easy, Junk." Perlmutter said as the jeep rolled off towards the motor pool. January 10th, 1985, near Cobbler's Roost, Vermont At about that same time, the FBI vehicles got into position on the other side of the tree line from the target farmhouse. Agent Johnson had graciously allowed Jones to tune the Pig's radio into the FBI's tactical frequency while he observed the raid, and He heard the agent's voice come over now. "Go, go, go!" Johnson yelled into the tac radio. The V-100 armored car swung sharply onto the narrow, tree lined drive that lead to the Bad Guy's farmhouse hideout. They made it about three quarters of the way down before .30 caliber Browning set up in the house's living room window opened fire. Bullets spanged and ricocheted off of the vehicle's armor. Just as Tony and Tom had described, just off to the side of the end of the drive sat the rusted corpse of an old passenger van. Just as the armored car was parallel to the vehicle, Jones pushed one of the two hidden buttons under the Humber's dash. The button activated a transmitter which broadcast a short signal to a receiver located in the van. That receiver sent an electrical impulse to a detonator connected to a large quantity of Compostion H6 explosive. The resulting explosion vaporized the van and sent the V-100 tumbling sideways several times before coming to rest several meters in front of the farmhouse. "Jesus!" Agent Johnson's voice came over the radio once again. "Entry team, status!" A faint groan over the channel was the only response. The fire coming from the house stopped for a few seconds. If anything, they had probably been more surprised by the explosion than the raid team had been. But then firing picked up again, the volume increased by the addition of rifle fire now pouring from the upstairs windows. Jones himself had been taking aback by the ferocity of the explosion... apparently when he had sent Tanner to plant the charges a few days prior he had taken liberties with the suggested yield. The radio was now a cacophony of confused voices. "We can't get any closer with this much fire!" One voice called out. "The entry team are sitting ducks out there!" Another replied. Jones, now composed from the shock at the size of the explosion, called over the radio. "We'll go get your boys" Agent Johnson was back on the radio almost instantly. "Jones! Stand down! You are here to observe only! Turn that thing around now..." "Sorry, Johnson, I just can't leave those boys there to die" Jones replied just before switching the tac radio off. The Humber Pig speed down the drive now, its built in smoke dischargers firing at just the right time to put a wall of smoke between the farmhouse and the overturned V-100. Bullets, now unaimed, pinged off of the Pig's hull. Billy, who was driving the Pig, maneuvered the between the FBI vehicle and the Bad Guys, shielding it from the fire coming from the house. John Eagle popped the Pig's top hatch and opened fire with an M-60, concentrating his fire on silencing the living room machine gun nest. The door on the side of the Humber furthest from the house flew open, and Sarge and Shark jumped out and began to pull the agents from the wreckage of the FBI armored vehicle. John Eagle eased off the trigger of his machine gun as the .30 cal in the house's window finally fell silent. Somehow, over the fire, he thought he heard the sound of a large Diesel engine starting up. He ducked down into the vehicle long enough to call to Jones. "Boss, I think something's happening over in the barn!" Jones turned his attention from the wounded agents being loaded into the truck to the barn just in time to see the barns large double doors explode outward. It took him a second to recognize the black painted WWII LVT that was now thundering towards them from the barn. Where a regular LVT had a rear cargo bed this one mounted something that looked for all the world like the deck gun off of an old submarine. "Holy Shit!" Jones screamed, just as the cannon on the vehicle fired. The shot was very high and crashed into the tree tops past the Corps vehicle. He looked back to the Pig's rear compartment and saw the last of the wounded agents being loaded in. "Get us the hell out of here!" He screamed at Billy. He turned to look at the LVT and saw the Bad Guy manning the cannon frantically spinning the wheel to lower the gun's elevation. The LVT's path had brought it very close to the side of the farmhouse as it tore forward at top speed. "Here goes nothing." Jones said under his breath and hit the second button concealed under the Humber's dash. This time the transmitter now sent a second impulse to an identical receiver connected to an even larger quantity of explosives hidden amongst the munitions stored in the farmhouse's cellar. The LVT's gunner had just lined up the sights of his cannon with the Corps' armored truck when the world ended. The structure of the house blasted out from the explosion like the shot from a massive shotgun shell, shredding the lightly armored LVT like tissue paper. Jones felt like the hand of God reached out, picked up his vehicle, and slammed it on the ground. The rest of his men swore, and a fresh round of moans sounded from the wounded agents. January 10, 1985, Ft Wadsworth, Staten Island, NY "So that's what I've got, General Abernathy. I know it's not much." Hector Ramirez said, pushing the last of the papers across the table. Hawk picked up one of the photos, gave it a cursory glance and tossed it back on the pile. He sighed deeply. Ramirez had been a major pain in the ass ever since he discovered the existence of the JOE team, following Dr. Venom's attack on the Pit years ago. "No, it's really not. But it's more than I've managed to get with months of digging." He said. Ramirez was shocked. "So you've been looking into Jones' Corps too?" "Oh, Absolutely. Unfortunately, he's got a lot of friends in Washington, some of whom are in my own chain of command. We don't have enough yet to take this to anybody." The General answered. "It took a lot of guts to come here today, especially after I threatened you with jail last time, Ramirez. I don't say that lightly." He continued. "Thank you, General. It's not that I don't fear for my own life here, but Jeffrey Martins was a colleague and a friend. He deserves justice." "I'm going to keep these. They are copies, right?" Hawk asked. Ramirez nodded. "I should probably tell you to stop digging into this now, but we both know you won't, so I will tell you to be careful. You'll keep me posted if you learn anything else." The General added. The last part was not a question. "Of course, General. I want this guy taken down." "Good. Now get off my base." Once the General was sure Ramirez had been successfully escorted off base, Hawk pushed his desk intercom. "Get me O'Hara." The requested light flashed on his desk phone, and Hawk picked up the receiver. "General, I was just about to call you, sir. You'd better get down here." "This was the scene earlier today in Cobbler's Roost, Vermont..." the anchor read over helicopter footage of a massive blast crater. The TV was tuned to GNN, of course. "... where an FBI raid on a house allegedly belonging to the terrorists behind the Christmas mall takeover near Syracuse, New York left three agents dead and seven wounded after the terrorists apparently detonated a serious of suicide bombs. FBI officials are crediting the other agent's survival on the quick thinking action of billionaire media mogul Ted Jones Corps, who..." "Turn it off." Hawk said with disgust. "Congress already loves him. They'll be ready to canonize him after this." Lt. Shana "Scarlett" O'Hara said. "Indeed they will. How very convenient that our friend Mr. Jones keeps ending up in the right place at the right time to be a hero, isn't it?" Scarlett rubbed her chin. "You don't think he'd actually kill federal agents, do you?" She asked Hawk laughed. "You've seen what Ramirez brought us, do you still doubt it? He had that reporter killed just for pissing him off." Hawk stood and folded his hands behind his back. One of the disadvantages of a subterranean headquarters was a lack of windows to stare out while he thought. "Right now, Ramirez is the best source of info we have." He finally said. "But he'll charge into this headlong like a bull in a China shop if we let him. If Jones gets wind of this Ramirez is dead." O'hara looked up from her notepad. "Do you want me to have somebody babysit him, sir?" "Absolutely. Put Provost on it." "Chuckles? Sir, that guy is the definition of 'loose cannon'." It was Scarlett's turn for disgust. "He is, but he's the best we have for this sort of assignment. But you're also going to have him partner with Sgt. Wilkinson. Stalker can babysit our babysitter."
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Needs : AOCI Lamprey Vests, (or similar), ROC Flash helmets, ROC Shipwreck flippers, 25th Dusty Torsos (or similar), BBTS Bull (Taurus) head, Snake Eyes V.52 forearms. Last edited by DerStahlhelm; 07-12-2017 at 07:50 PM.. |
07-07-2017, 04:38 PM | #53 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2014
Location: Val Verde
Posts: 2,345
|
And once again, if anyone is reading this, I value your feedback.
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Needs : AOCI Lamprey Vests, (or similar), ROC Flash helmets, ROC Shipwreck flippers, 25th Dusty Torsos (or similar), BBTS Bull (Taurus) head, Snake Eyes V.52 forearms. |
07-08-2017, 05:32 PM | #54 |
O-Ring Overmaster
Join Date: Oct 2011
Location: A state of melancholy...
Posts: 249
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This has been a great read so far. Having the story take place in the 80's was a great idea and really sells it to me. Ted Jones is a real bastard. I can't wait to read what other The Corps! characters show up...
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The O-Ring Will Never Die! |
07-12-2017, 07:51 PM | #55 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2014
Location: Val Verde
Posts: 2,345
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Chapter Twenty-One
January 15, 1985, The Capitol Building, Washington DC The thunderous applause died down as President Ronald Reagan stepped up to his microphone and spoke. "Thank you. Distinguished members of Congress, honored guests, American citizens. I know it's unusual to call you all here together so close the the scheduled inauguration events, and even more unusual to present the Presidential Medal of Freedom on a Tuesday in January. Well, after the heroics we've all witnessed over the last few days, I decide to use my presidential prerogative. This just couldn't wait. Ted Jones is a patriot, a philanthropist, and a hero it has been my pleasure to have known for over ten years...." Jones stood next to the President. His right arm was in a sling and his face was pretty bruised up, all the better for the assembled news cameras in the massive chamber. He couldn't help but feel a rush of pride at the applause that had accompanied the President's mention of his name. This must be what a Roman general felt like at his triumphal procession, he thought to himself. He felt little but contempt for most of the people in this room, however. Maybe a handful had the slightest inkling of what was needed to set this country to rights, and least of all the senile old prune that stood next to him. That an actor had stumbled into the position of most powerful man in the world only amplified all that was wrong with America. But all this was necessary. Everything he did cemented his popularity, and that would carry him to victory when he ran to replace the withered fool currently singing his praises in '88. He and his team's miraculous survival in Vermont had further cemented his belief that the Almighty had ordained him for this task.... January 17th, 1985, Waldorf Astoria Hotel, Manhattan, NY The morning edition of the Daily Bugle featured a picture of Ted Jones from yesterday's ceremony, banged up face and arm in a sling. Large bold type next to the picture read "I JUST CAN'T LEAVE THOSE BOYS THERE TO DIE". It seemed that somebody had leaked tapes of the FBI's radio communications from the Cobbler's Roost raid. Tony Tanner suspected he knew exactly who had engineered that leak, too. He released a disgusted sigh. It had been almost ten days since he'd called Jones to tell him about Ramirez's snooping. He'd finally called early this morning to give Tanner, and Billy, who was in the next suite, the go ahead to take care of it. Tanner had enjoyed running up his room service bill and charging whores on the billionaire's dime, but that prick reporter had been running around for a week and a half now, digging up who knows what, while Jones was too busy playing hero for the press to give a shit. He glanced at the picture of Jones on the Bugle's front page again. Choke on it, you smug prick. Tanner heard the toilet flush, and the bathroom door opened. The girl from last night walked out, pausing to adjust the strap on one of her red stilettos. A huge mane of bright pink, waist length hair cascaded down her back. She hadn't been quite what Tony had been expecting, but it had been pretty wild, and when it came down to it, he wasn't that picky. Hell, it wasn't his money anyway. "Thanks, baby." The woman said. " I left my card there for you. Call me next time you're in town." Tony snorted. "Not likely." She shot him a death glance and stalked out the door, slamming it behind her. Tony guffawed and started to lace up his sneakers. January 18, 1985, Rigoberto's Ristorante, Central Park South, Manhattan, NY "Hector, baby, I'm worried about you." Luz Ramirez said, reaching across the table to take her son's hand. "And you look like shit." "Thanks, Ma. You really know how to make me feel better" Hector said. He hadn't seen his mother since right after the attack, and had invited her to lunch. She loved Italian, and this place was new and already getting rave reviews. He wasn't ashamed to admit he'd used his celebrity to jump the month long waiting list for reservations. He loved his mother dearly, but now they were onto coffee, and he recognized her segue into badgering him. "You work too hard, Hector, I can see it in your face. Your father looked the same way, que en paz descanse." Hector reached for the check. "Ma... I'm thirty six years old" "And when are you gonna get a girlfriend? I'd like to hear somebody call me abuela before I die.." Sgt. Lonzo Wilkinson, code name Stalker, was a career NCO with almost twenty years in Army service, and this was the worst assignment he'd ever had. The mission itself wasn't that bad, discreetly following this reporter, Hector Ramirez, around and make sure he didn't get himself killed. He had a fairly reasonable routine, and hadn't seemed to suspect he was being surveilled yet. Easy enough. It was his partner. He couldn't stand him. Philip "Chuckles" Provost had been assigned to the team when it was decided they needed somebody with civilian law enforcement and investigation expertise. The Bureau had given them Chuckles. They'd sold him on his ten years of FBI experience and service with special units in Vietnam. They never mentioned how happy they were to get rid of him. The man never stopped talking, and was either certifiably insane, or the world's biggest asshole. Stalker would have put money on either, or more likely, both. The pair sat in Chuckles' car, parked just down the block on Central Park South from the restaurant where their subject was having lunch. "He's gonna make us. We should have taken my car." Stalker said to his partner. "Lonzo, you drive a K-car. I got sick of feeling like we forgot to pick up the kids from school every time we were in it." Chuckles replied. The blond man's decidedly non-regulation hair was long in the back and feathered on the sides. At least he had toned down his dress for this assignment. He wore a OD field jacket over a grey hoodie with jeans and sneakers. "You didn't tell me you drove a bright red Z-28! How are we supposed to be inconspicuous in this thing?" "Yeah, but chicks dig a Camaro!" he said, checking the restaurant in his mirrors again. "Wait a minute, hold up." Chuckles said. "You see that guy standing across the street. He's been there for a while now." "Yeah, I see him. I don't like the look of him, either." "Check out that 'stache. That could be our boy Tanner." He said, never taking his eyes off of him. Stalker flipped open a binder to a page which had photos of the known Corps members. "He's got great taste in clothes, though." He was wearing basically the same outfit as Chuckles, with the addition of a black watch cap. "I'm gonna go talk to him!" Chuckles started to get out of the car. "Wait a minute! What the hell are you doing?!" Stalker hissed. Tony Tanner was freezing his ass off. He'd been watching this restaurant for forty five minutes now, waiting for Ramirez to finish eating. He'd decided that after the dramatic sort of job they'd done with Martins, he'd be a little less flashy this time. He'd just pop Ramirez when he was getting into his car, make it look like a mugging gone bad. Tony checked his watch. The guy who had just crossed the street was now making a b-line for him. If he had one more tourist ask him for directions... The closer he got the more sure Chuckles was that this was his guy. "Aww, man! This is so embarrassing!" He said. "What?!" The man replied with a mixture of hostility and confusion. His eyes only briefly left the restaurant. "Us both showing up in matching outfits! I've gotta give you my number so this doesn't happen again." The man's eyes narrowed. "I don't know you, shithead." He said. "Seriously?" Chuckles said in mock surprise. "Aren't you Tony Ta-" Tony lashed out with his right fist, connecting with the blond stranger's jaw. He followed through with his whole body, tackling him hard against the red Citation parked behind the man. Tanner quickly stood and started to reach into his pocket for his Detonics 1911. Stalker was just starting to cross the street when he saw Chuckles go down. He yanked his .45 from it's shoulder holster and yelled. "Freeze, Motherfu-" Tanner heard the call from the man now running across the street at him. He fired off two quick shots at the new threat. Stalker reflexively ducked as the rounds snapped past his head. "Jesus! I'm getting to old for this shit!" He brought himself erect and saw the man leap over the small stone wall that marked the boundary of Central Park and run into the trees. Then Chuckles was up and motioning Stalker back. "Go get the car!" he yelled as he ran after the attacker. Chuckles chased after Tanner, jumping over the short wall and into the park. Coming through the trees, he saw him run across a footpath and across the green to one of the narrow roads that crisscrossed the park. "Hey! Keep off the grass!" He yelled as he followed. Tanner turned left onto the road, barreling through a cluster of joggers, knocking a few of them over as he did. Chuckles kept up, gaining a little bit as the man's collision slowed him. He ran through the gap in the joggers that had been created. "Sorry, we just found out there's a sale at Macy's!" Tanner was going flat out now that they were on even ground. Chuckles was still a couple dozen yards behind him, but gaining, he hoped. Just as the chase came up on an intersection in the park's roads, Tanner abruptly turned off the road to the left and made for the trees. Chuckles pulled his his Beretta 92F from his belt holster and fired twice, both rounds going wide and striking one of the nearby trees. He followed Tanner off the road, crashing through several yards of brush and saplings. He came out of the woods just in time to see his quarry sliding over the hood of a waiting car. The driver reached across his body to stick a MAC-10 through his window. Chuckles hit the deck just in time to avoid a burst of fire of fire from the submachine gun. The car peeled out and sped forward, tires screaming as it tore right, back onto Central Park South. He jumped back onto his feet and ran after the car, up the short stretch of park road and back onto the city street. His vision suddenly filled with stars. When he could see again he realized he was staring into Stalker's eyes through his own cracked windshield. He jumped off the hood and swung open the passenger door of his Camaro. It hurt, but he put it aside as he threw himself into the passenger's seat. "Go,go,go!" He yelled. Stalker slammed his foot down on the accelerator and peeled after the other vehicle. "I can't believe you hit me!" He said to Stalker as they blew past the Columbus Circle monument. "Just call it in!" The sergeant snapped. Chuckles picked up the handset. "This is TV EYE." He said, using the mission's call sign. Breaker's voice responded through the heavy static crackle. "We read you, TV EYE. What's up?" He heard something, but between the roar of the Camaro's V8 and the static he could barely make it out. "We are in pursuit of suspect, headed north on Central Park West. Suspect vehicle is a..." he keyed off the radio's handset. "Was that a '73 or a '74? You know I can never remember which year-" He began to ask. "Man, Shut up and call this in!" Stalker yelled. "The suspect is driving a green Pontiac Ventura, we are..." "... pursuit.... kkkk.. Park West...zzzz...vehicle.." Back under Ft Wadsworth, in the Pit's communication center, Breaker turned to Duke. "There's too much interference, sir. The radio they have isn't on the NYPD channel, either, I'll have to relay whatever I can get." A sour look crossed Duke's face. "Its Chuckles. Tell them to expect damage." Stalker laid on the Camaro's horn to try to clear the road as they continued to race past the park. Just as the Ventura reached the Museum of Natural History, it's driver threw it into a hard left turn. Chuckles whooped and pounded on the ceiling of the sports car. "Step on it, Lonzo!" Stalker cranked on the wheel, narrowly avoiding oncoming traffic as he whipped through the intersection. "Where are we?" Chuckles asked himself out loud as the car swung around a slower vehicle and back into the lane, barely avoiding another collision with an oncoming garbage truck. Up ahead he saw the other car turn right. They followed and Chuckles keyed the handset again. "Suspect now northbound on..." he strained to read a street sign as it whizzed by. "... Amsterdam! Static was the only reply. The cars roared up Amsterdam, past shops and apartments, weaving in and out of traffic. The Ventura blew a red light at the intersection of 81st street. Stalker had to throw the Camaro into a sideways skid in order to avoid t-boning a station wagon, only to get clipped by a Volkswagen Beetle on the just behind the rear passenger's wheel as he righted the car. Chuckles glanced into his rear view. "It's cool, man. Not too bad. Now step on it!" He yelled again. "Shit." Stalker muttered. That had cost them some distance on the other car. The Camaro should have smoked them, but he wasn't able to use their speed advantage in all this traffic. And other driver was just that good, he grudgingly admitted. He pushed it as hard as he dared in this traffic, desperate to gain ground on the fleeing vehicle. He'd closed to about a half block distance when the Ventura took another hard left. By the time Stalker had got to the intersection the light was red, of course, but he blew through anyway, coming with in a hairs breadth of a laundry van in doing so, and found himself going the wrong way on a one way street. W. 94th street had turned out to be a narrow street with cars parked on both sides of the street. He could see the Ventura barreling through up a head, and they passed at least three cars that had plowed into those parked cars to avoid a head-on collision. They ran the light at the next intersection, which turned out to be a four lane boulevard. Miraculously they managed to avoid causing any accidents at this one. Chuckles looked out his side window. "Hey, that was Broadway! You know I've been stationed at the Pit for almost a year now and I still haven't been to a show!" This was definitely the worst assignment the sergeant had ever had. Up ahead, a Cadillac had swerved to avoid the Ventura and ended up blocking almost all the narrow street. "Shit!" Stalker said again, louder this time, as he hugged the Camaro as tight as he could to the cars on the left hand side. They smashed past the Caddy, leaving a trail of body work from the Z-28's front end. "You know, Lonzo, I really hope your insurance is paid up." Chuckles said. "If we live through this, Provost, I'm gonna shoot you." Stalker said, without a trace of sarcasm. The lead car turned again, this time right on to Riverside drive. The tree lined road ran up the west side of the island parallel to the water, was much wider and more importantly, less congested. Stalker opened her up a little more and gained on the other car. Despite the Camaro's damage, the engine continued to purr, and a quick glance at the gas gauge revealed about a half a tank. The weren't out of this yet. Stalker floored the accelerator, and soon he was within a car length of the green coup. Soon he'd brought the Z-28 parallel with the other car. He could see the mustached face of Tony Tanner peering out of the passengers window at him. The man extended him a one-finger salute. As the cars approached Grant's Tomb, Riverside drive split to go around the monument. At the last possible second, the Ventura's driver threw the car into a left, jumping the curb and plowing over the brown grass to bring the car into the oncoming traffic. Stalker didn't have time to react, so he kept going straight, keeping an eye on the other car through the skeletal January trees. Chuckles leaned over, like someone on a Sunday drive, and pointed at the domed structure. "You know who's buried there, right?" He said casually. The two cars hit the merge at exactly the same time. The other car swung right and crunched into the Camaro's side, sending it towards the cars parked on the side of the street. In the split second it took Stalker to recover, the Ventura pulled ahead. Stalker didn't rush to close too tightly now, as the road just past the monument was an elevated stretch, and getting rammed here would send them into the unyielding steel of the guard rails. Chuckles pointed ahead. In the distance the George Washington bridge loomed. "That's where he's headed!" The two cars tore ahead, off of the elevated section now. More bare trees lined the left hand side of the road. Before long, the bridge filled the Camaro's windshield. Stalker cranked the wheel hard to the right as they blasted up the curving ramp to the bridge, wondering if he was going to roll the car on this turn. The ramp deposited them onto the upper deck of the George Washington Bridge, headed west over the river and into New Jersey. The Ventura's driver floored it once they hit the bridge, weaving through the traffic and trying to put more distance between him and his pursuers. The cars raced over the bridge at top speed, and within minutes were in the Garden State. Stalker followed as the green car took a high speed left north onto the Palisades Parkway. Both cars blew through the toll booth without slowing at all. Once out onto the Parkway, trees lined both sides of the street. Under normal circumstances, Stalker thought idly, you could almost forget you were in the middle of the most densely populated strip on the east coast. "Alright, gimme that." Tanner said to Billy, grabbing the MAC-10 from the driver's lap and thrusting himself over the console into the back seat. "Let him catch up with us." The large highway sign announced the imminent approach of the Englewood exit. Stalker floored it and came up alongside the rear driver's side of the Ventura. "Enough of this shit!" Tanner gripped the nylon strap that dangled from the submachine gun's muzzle, thrust it through the the backseat window and emptied the magazine at the pursuing Camaro. At this range he could hardly miss. At the same instance, Billy cranked the car right onto the off ramp. A full magazine's worth of nine millimeter rounds tore into what was left of the Z-28's front end through the front grill and into the engine block. One hit the hood latch, sending the hood flying up and back into the windshield. Stalker saw the gun appear through the Ventura's rear door window , but couldn't react fast enough. His word suddenly turned red as the windshield was smashed by the full force of the car's hood. Instinctually slammed on the brakes, and turned the wheel right. The car spun 180 degrees as it slid down the shallow embankment. The rear driver's side slamming hard into an oak tree. When the sergeant came to a second later he was greeted by the sound of a hissing radiator and the sickly sweet smell of hot antifreeze. He brushed chunks of glass from his chest and stumbled out of the car. He found Chuckles already out of the car and surveying the damage to his vehicle. He could hear police sirens wailing in the distance. "Well, that was fun!" The blond man chuckled.
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07-12-2017, 08:48 PM | #56 |
Crimson Guard
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Apologies to Lethal Weapon and The Seven Ups.
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07-12-2017, 10:36 PM | #57 |
W.O.R.M.S. Commander
Join Date: Nov 2007
Location: Back in the US of A! (NoVA)
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Great stuff once again. You know when I first started reading this I wasn't so clued into Jones' somewhat ulterior evil motives. The death of Fox or was it O'Grady, was a sad moment. Is everyone in the CORPS on the same page as Tony Tanner, with respect to assassinations. Now that you have introduced Gijoe, I can't help but wonder if you have a Cobra connection in store for us?
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07-13-2017, 02:51 AM | #58 |
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Quote:
Great stuff once again. You know when I first started reading this I wasn't so clued into Jones' somewhat ulterior evil motives. The death of Fox or was it O'Grady, was a sad moment. Is everyone in the CORPS on the same page as Tony Tanner, with respect to assassinations. Now that you have introduced Gijoe, I can't help but wonder if you have a Cobra connection in store for us?
Most people would never consciously choose cackling, moustache-twirling evil for the sake of evil. The Hitlers and Pol Pots and Osama Bin Ladens of the world believe, in their twisted minds, that what they are doing will make the world a better place. Even our friend Ted Jones thinks he's on the side of righteousness. He genuinely wants to fix what he perceives is wrong with America. He didn't start out with the idea to kill innocent people, but if it turns out they're in the way of what he feels is right, then so be it. Tracker Tom is the same, but instead of some lofty ideal, his goal is simply survival. He's never had anything in life he didn't have to take from someone else, and no one gave him the moral compass to know any better. He gets no pleasure from killing, but he'll do whatever keeps himself alive and free for another day. Tony Tanner is a different story. He genuinely thrives on chaos, violence, and destruction. He thinks it's fun. If being with the Corps lets him indulge himself, then that's where he'll be. (All the better that this gig comes with an expense account to finance it) As for COBRA... I've tried to avoid getting them involved directly. I think that while their methods are different, my version of COBRA's philosophy is, at its most basic level, similar to Jones', but he'd never be able to recognize that. He needs it to be dressed flags and eagles and this false idea of "America" he's constructed for himself. Also, I wanted this story to be about the Joes going up against a completely separate adversary with no connection to the main storyline. The Bad Guys were originally going to have a HISS tank stashed in that barn rather than an LVT. Although selling tanks to a bunch of miscreants like the Bad Guys is exactly something COBRA would do, changing it allowed me to keep it seperate from the main Joe vs COBRA story, feature a vehicle from the vintage REMCO Sgt Rock/Bad Guys line, and avoid retreading technical HISS tank stuff I'd just written about in my Serpentor story. Thanks for reading, Loose Cannon!
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07-21-2017, 05:25 AM | #59 |
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Chapter Twenty-Two
January 18th, 1985, Ft. Waddington, Staten Island, NY The two Chaplain's assistants watched as the tow truck backed up to the outside of the base motor pool. The driver got out and released the tow bar, dropping the mangled front end of what was left of the cherry red 1979 Camaro onto the pavement with a crash. The car groaned and squeaked as it settled. "Why are they bringing a wrecked civilian car here?" The younger of the two asked. "Are those bullet holes?" "The motor pool guys are weird, Charley. It's best not to ask questions." The older one answered. "We've worked together for a long time, Lonzo." Hawk said to Stalker from across the desk. The sergeant had a few small bandages on his face and hands, souvenirs from the chase. "So you'll believe me when I tell you that this was a world class fuck-up. I've had General Hollingsworth on the phone twice already today. I'm going down there Monday to meet with him in person. Luckily, I'm pretty sure I've managed to keep this from going any further than him. Jones has a lot of friends on the Hill, I don't need him getting wind of this." "General, I'm sorry." Stalker said. "This was my command, and I'm responsible, but Provost is a liability. His jumping the gun set the whole thing off." Hawk gave a thoughtful look. "He had a busy career in South East Asia, MIKE Force. Some people can't hack life back in the world after stuff like that. Adrenaline junkie. I'm sure you know the type." The General sighed. "Believe me, I'll be having a long talk with Chuckles." "Yes, sir." January 20th, 1985, The Russell Building, Washington DC If the economy runs on oil, then the government runs on scotch, Ted Jones thought as he finished his glass. "Another, Ted?" Senator York asked. "No, I won't indulge in more than two if I'm working." The billionaire replied. "This isn't work, Ted" Senator Reinhardt said. "We're friends here!" Jones leaned back in the office's plush leather chair. Yeah, right. You'd sell me down the river at the first whiff of trouble, he didn't say. "Everything in Washington is work, Senator. There's no such thing as a drink between friends here." Jones smiled as he said it, but as far as he was concerned it was God's truth. York laughed with a long practiced false joviality. "You're the man of the hour, Ted. What's next for the Corps?" Ted leaned forward to set his glass down on the low coffee table in front of him. "I've got a few irons in the fire, but nothing far enough along I can talk about it yet. Right now I'm just tying up loose ends." He thought about New York, and how the attempt to get that pain in the ass Ramirez out of the way had gone completely sideways. Tanner and Billy were in Miami now, lounging in a hotel room, where as far the guestbook is concerned, they've been for the last two weeks. "I have decided to take your advice, however. I intend to run for president in 1988." Ted continued. "That's great, Ted!" said Senator York, raising his glass. "You have our full support, of course. Have you thought about your campaign at all?" Reinhardt added. Jones sat back in his chair and tented his fingers. "I'm just starting to research a campaign manager now. My over all plan is to continue what I've been doing, right up until I announce my candidacy." Reinhardt accepted his new drink from York and sipped thoughtfully. "You need to make sure you keep your nose clean now, Ted. Anything goes awry and it will follow you through your entire campaign. Trust me on this." "Oh, of course." He said, his thoughts once again going to Hector Ramirez and his mysterious benefactors. He had other people to talk to while he was in Washington. January 21, 1985, The Pentagon, Arlington, Virginia General Clayton Abernathy smoothed the front of his green Class A uniform and stepped on the waiting elevator. His meeting with General Hollingsworth had gone better than expected. He'd wanted to play his investigation of The Corps close to the chest, and managed to beg off questions about the chase debacle in New York as compromising developing intelligence. As far as he knew, no one outside of his command and the General was aware of the JOE team's involvement in the incident, and the DoD had denied it to the NYPD as a matter of course. The elevator chimed as the door slid open on the building's third floor. A man wearing the green and khaki of a Marine Corps service uniform stepped into the car. "Good day, General." The Marine Lt. Colonel said. "Colonel." Hawk replied with a nod. He recognized the man as Lt. Colonel Jody Choate, a member of the president's National Security Council. A politician in a uniform, the General thought. Such men served a necessary purpose in an organization as large as the United States military, but he still regarded them with distaste. At least this Choate, judging by the combat Bronze star and two Purple Hearts, had been a real soldier at some point, he conceded to himself. "Were you in town for the Freedom Medal ceremony, General?" Choate asked. "No, I got in last night. Just passing through, as it happens." Hawk replied. "That's too bad. Some work on the part of Ted Jones and his boys, wasn't it?" The Marine continued. "It seems so, Colonel. I only know what I read in the papers." He locked eyes with Choate now. The Marine Colonel was tall and handsome. Even in his forties, his thick eyebrows and the touch of grey that had begun to creep into his hair were the only thing keeping him off of a recruiting poster. "The guy's a real American hero." Choate said idly. "It must be embarrassing for our own antiterrorist guys." Choate was intentionally trying to goad him, the General decided. It was starting to work. "Rumor is he's going to run for president, next term. Should be a cake walk for someone with as many important friends in Washington." The Colonel said, not breaking eye contact. "Is that so?" Hawk asked. "He could end up being our boss." The elevator chimed again, announcing it's arrival at the first floor. The General had somehow missed the second. "General, I think this is where you get out."
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Needs : AOCI Lamprey Vests, (or similar), ROC Flash helmets, ROC Shipwreck flippers, 25th Dusty Torsos (or similar), BBTS Bull (Taurus) head, Snake Eyes V.52 forearms. Last edited by DerStahlhelm; 07-21-2017 at 07:37 AM.. |
07-21-2017, 01:21 PM | #60 |
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Im really enjoying the read. Lots of inspiration. I had to jump back a bit to recap. but now that im caught up i need the next two chapters by 5pm today thanks :-)
* Need more Of the Serpentor story !!!
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