Interlude
"Mike Sierra in position. Visual control established," whispers Jane "Mamacita" Rodriguez into her throat mic, peering through the scope of her semi-automatic rifle. Her fingers lightly traced the embossed inscription on the receiver "Rheinmetall Corp. Durandal, NATO cal. 7.62x51" and flicked down the safety selector. With a practiced motion, she chambered a round. Her hands settled on the fire control grip, index finger hovering, touching the metal on the side of the rifle body, pointing forward but not touching the trigger.
"Mike Sierra, copy. T-minus ten," crackles the voice in her earpiece. Jane grimaces. She could handle this herself. After all, it's just an underground brothel connected to a weapons cache and drug distribution point... yes, the place is guarded, but they're amateurs. Set traps around, wait... lure them out, strike. But the team leader knows better. Orders are to control the northeast backup exit, which means lying belly-down in the dust on a neighboring building's roof and not showing off her particularly clever head. In close combat, even the most experienced and tough professional can catch a random bullet, and what's most insulting – from some idiot holding a weapon for the first time.
And you can never underestimate the enemy. Do everything with a margin – that's the motto of special forces. At first she didn't understand how exactly they would maintain law and order in the territory, since they're not police – they have no experience patrolling streets, detaining suspects, conducting investigations, all that "you have the right to remain silent" stuff.
They approached building assault very simply, following the principle "see a hole – throw a grenade." If the enemy didn't surrender, they were eliminated, and lawyers weren't called after field interrogation. Because they were no longer needed. And if anyone thinks capturing a person alive and unharmed is easier than killing – let them think twice. Police have their specifics, they have theirs. Yes, they also know how to negotiate and storm buildings, but a bit differently. And compliance with legal procedures during a diversionary raid on enemy territory was generally not something anyone bothered themselves with.
But the new boss, this bold girl with a mane of black hair, heavy gaze, and danger rating eight – said she understands everything. And won't demand the impossible from them. They're not police, she said, but she doesn't need police either – there's already police in the city and little good comes from them. Patrolling streets and investigating crimes after they've already happened doesn't give the needed effect. Need to strike preemptively, not at the executors, but at those behind them. And here, said this girl – you can act as you're used to. These people are your enemies. Deal with them as you should deal with opponents. This is war, she said, I won't tolerate drugs and underground sex slavery in my territory. Dens distributing drugs and keeping girls in slavery must be destroyed. Those making money from these underground slavery factories and drug trafficking must be destroyed. We don't have much time, the boss said, two days maximum – in these two days there shouldn't remain a single den or drug dealer in former ABB territory. The only requirement – minimize civilian casualties. However, determining who exactly is a combatant and who's civilian is a non-trivial task. So the boss goes to storm the main targets herself. Others will clean up the small stuff, but they storm the big targets together. Like this one, for example. An abandoned factory converted by ABB into their stronghold. Drugs, weapons are stored here, and of course girls and boys doomed to sexual slavery are kept.
Jane just shook her head. She'd seen this... both in Southeast Asia and here. Better to catch a bullet to the head than live like that. However, her job is simple – watch the backup entrance while the boss and the guys go through the main door.
"All teams. T-minus five. Repeat. T-minus five," sounds the voice in her earpiece. Five minutes left until the assault begins. Jane pressed against the scope. Silence. No one and nothing in the abandoned factory's backyard. Several cars stand there, the rusty shell of some van, some construction debris...
She raises her head. Listens. Engine sound. Looks around. Sees from above how a van with tinted windows turns toward the factory. Turns and drives through the open gates into the factory territory.
"Mike Sierra here," Jane presses the transmit button. "Group target. Dark van. Northeast. Stopped at the back door. Several people, judging by silhouettes, clarifying exact count."
"Copy, Mike Sierra. Continue observation," clicks the radio, cutting off voice sounds. Through the 5x zoom optical sight, she clearly sees the van doors open and two sturdy Asian men exit, dressed in dark t-shirts, tattoos on their arms.
Jane grips the anatomically comfortable pistol grip, keeping the scope's crosshairs on the head of the first one out. Preferably minimize civilian casualties – that's what the boss said. Apparently, these are definitely not civilians. When choosing between effectiveness and law compliance – always choose effectiveness, the new boss said, and she likes that.
"All teams. T-minus one minute. Repeat. T-minus one minute," sounds the voice in her earpiece. Exactly one minute until the boss kicks down the doors and bursts into the abandoned factory building. Let's see what she's capable of, thinks Jane Rodriguez, S-tier operator with callsign "Mamacita," let's see. Yes, this girl knows how mercenaries behave, knows about the "wild geese" custom, but that doesn't mean anything yet. Maybe her uncle served in a unit. Only participation in real business, going on operations can show the color of her soul. Because words mean nothing. Only deeds matter.
Meanwhile, activity continued around the van. She pressed against the scope. They were dragging a girl from the van, face bloodied, legs trailing lifelessly behind her body. Runaway, Jane thinks, everything's clear. Such factories are held together by fear, these bastards need to catch any of those who decided to run – rather, each of them. Catch and drag back, then torture and execute in front of other girls so they won't even think about escape attempts.
Jane's index finger dropped lower, bending and finding the warm metal of the trigger. T-minus one minute, she thought, now's not the time to get on the radio and ask permission to open fire. She'd just add unnecessary information to the airwaves, distract attention, and people are busy with business now. Just... she'll wait for the assault command and then...
Another man got out of the van and dragged out another girl by the hand, this time very young, still a child. She tried to resist, but he backhanded her across the face, and she sat down on the ground, stunned by the blow. Three targets, thought Jane, one, two, three. Good thing the rifle's semi-automatic, not bolt-action – accuracy isn't as important here as rate of fire. At this angle bullets are unlikely to ricochet after going through heads... but still need to be careful.
The man stood over the girl and hit her in the face again. She covered herself with her hands and fell to the ground.
"T-minus ten. Independent countdown," sounds the voice in her earpiece. Jane smoothly takes up slack on the trigger. An S-tier operator must know her rifle better than her own five fingers. Ten. Nine. Two men dragged the unconscious girl toward the abandoned factory door. Will they make it? Eight. Seven. Six. They're already at the doors... now they'll go inside and she won't have a firing solution! Five... no, one of the men is pressing the electric doorbell button... okay, so they won't make it. Four. Three. The crosshairs settled on the short-cropped back of the head with a dragon tattoo on the neck. Two. She smoothly increased pressure on the tip of her index finger, exhaling the remaining air from her lungs... One!
"Execute! Execute! Execute!" sounds the voice.
Crack of the shot! In the jerking scope she sees the shaved head explode in bloody fragments and immediately shifts the crosshairs left. Finger pulls the trigger again... crack! Another head in pieces. Scope down, down! Fortunately, the third one, who was beating the girl, wasn't an experienced mercenary or combat veteran and just stood there with mouth open, blinking in confusion and trying to understand why his buddies were already lying on the ground with heads blown open.
The scope's reticle converges on the right knee and the tip of her finger finds the warm metal of the trigger again. Crack! The heavy 7.62 bullet shatters the knee joint completely, and the man falls to the ground. Screaming something, writhing on the ground and grabbing at the wound. The scope's reticle aims at the left shoulder. Shot! The rifle pushes back into her shoulder as usual, the ejector throws out a hot casing, and the man is thrown backward, a red spot blooming on his shoulder.
"Almost forgot," grumbles Jane "Mamacita" Rodriguez, S-tier operator and concerned Brockton Bay citizen, pressing the stock to her shoulder. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court."
Shot! The wounded man's head snaps back. In front, at a point above the eyes – a small red, neat hole. But she knows that in back he simply has no skull left, the exit wound from a special bullet is always fist-sized. She raises her head above the scope and surveys with satisfaction.
"All teams. Stand down. Assault complete. Prepare for cleanup," sounds the voice, and Jane frowns. So fast? She knows that time flows differently in combat, sometimes it seems like eternity has passed when it's only been a minute or two in reality. But now... she only managed a few shots and it's already over? How?
"Mike Sierra here, I have three Tangos at the backup exit. Status zero," she says, pressing the transmit button. "Threat to civilian and operator life. Made independent decision."
"Relax, Mamacita," rumbles the voice. "Boss already knows. Said you did good. But you need to read rights before shooting, not after. Though... she said it doesn't matter."
"Yeah?" The operation apparently really was over, since chatter started on the radio. "And how does she..." – here she notices a gnat on her shoulder. The gnat sits and doesn't think about flying away, as if looking her right in the eyes.
"Mike Sierra. Didn't copy. Repeat."
"Nevermind," says Jane, looking at the gnat. "Already doesn't matter."
"Where's the boss?" she asks some time later, standing at the factory gates with Dmitri. He shrugs.
"Took off. She's got five more such warehouses and nineteen slave-holding locations ahead. But at her cleanup speed she'll finish before midnight. We're here as backup, waiting for police to give them a tour. And provide first aid."
"To whom? These assholes who raped girls and kept them in cages?" Jane frowns.
"Look at you getting all soft, huh? A real law and order lady..." Dmitri chuckles, lighting a cigarette. "No, of course not. Some girls needed it. But these... don't need anything anymore."
"Meaning? She..."
"Official version for police – suspects fled," the mercenary answers firmly, releasing a cloud of smoke upward. "You had three Tangos in the backyard yourself, didn't you?"
"Acted according to instructions. Threat to civilian – bullet to the head."
"There you go. Go look back there. No bodies. Not even blood stains on the concrete. Our boss is just the perfect cleaner."
"She... seriously?"
"Go see for yourself. No body – no case, isn't that what the donut-eaters say? So we have no work. I envy you, you're the only one who got to shoot today."
"So why does she need us then?" Jane mutters. "For what? She can handle anyone herself..."
"I wouldn't say that," Dmitri grins contentedly. "We're atmosphere. Especially you."
"What?!"
"Well look – every cool cape villain needs their own guard. Legions of Hell and all that. Look at yourself, Mamacita, you're the spitting image of a she-devil in the flesh."
"What?!"
"And then our boss has a thing for attractive girls... saw how that Tattletale looks at her? And she specifically took you to City Hall. Conclusion – you're atmosphere. Fatal mercenary and villain boss. Romance."
"I'm going to shoot you in the leg and leave you here bleeding out."
"There! See – already making violent threats. Take example from me, Mamacita, I'm calm and represent a true example of a concerned citizen serving his city and community. Like a friendly neighbor. And by the way – quite satisfied with my role. I'd even hand out candy to kids if the boss ordered it." Dmitri smiles contentedly.
"What the hell for? Are you already eating out of her hand?!"
"Chill, Mamacita. You said yourself she did everything without our help. We just stood and lay around with rifles on the perimeter. As I see it, that's the perfect operation – zero casualties on our side and minus everyone on theirs. She spent more time getting here. She just went in and came out. Done. If they pay us this much for such service – I'd personally be her sex toy. Work every night not from fear but from conscience. But..." he spread his hands with feigned regret. "But alas! She doesn't like manly and handsome guys with strong facial features and well-groomed beards. For some reason she likes short-haired girls with bitchy characters, the 'plug every hole' type... so you'll have to work hard for all of us, Mamacita!"
"Go to hell... you're an idiot and your jokes are idiotic," Jane crosses her arms. "Where'd you even get that she's into girls? What if she actually likes bearded guys, then I'll have a good laugh. We'll hand you over to her for ravishing... and if she's the same in bed as in combat... you'll be worn out in one night. But don't worry, we'll remember you."
"Hmm. Indeed, our new boss is a hot number," Dmitri nods. "How was it for you? Oh right, you didn't see. By the way, nothing much to see – everyone with weapons died immediately. She warned she was coming, asked them to surrender and said otherwise resistance to arrest would be interpreted as suicide. After which they all suicided themselves. Apparently realized they made the wrong choice in their life path. As a Russian person I must quote Dostoevsky here. So, Dostoevsky said..."
"I don't want to hear it! When will this police finally arrive..."
"Nobody wants to hear Dostoevsky..."
"Just not now, please. Oh! Finally!" A police car appeared in the distance. It carefully approached them, turning on the roof lights.
"Please remain where you are so I can see your hands!" came a nervous voice. Police officers jumped out of the car, grabbing their holsters and approaching them.
"Here we are," Jane raised her hands palms toward the police. "Why are you nervous, officer?"
"It's because of you," Dmitri repeated her gesture. "Told you you're the spitting image of a she-devil in flesh. That's why the police are worried."
"Strange," Jane looked down, examining herself. Ordinary her. Dark uniform, tall army boots, paratrooper-type knife attached to ankle, armored kneepads, slightly higher – holster with .44 caliber pistol on thigh, pouches with spare magazines, tactical vest, trusty "Durandal" rifle from "Rheinmetall" on shoulder, grenades, another knife on the vest... what's wrong with her?
"Put your weapons on the ground!" shouted one of the policemen, pointing his pistol at them. "Immediately!"
"Like, put everything down?" Jane clarifies. "I'd find it easier to lie down myself. With all the weapons. Besides, who holds a pistol like that – I can see from here you won't hit anything."
"What? I..."
"And you're too close. You have a pistol, why get so close?" Jane takes a step sideways, knocks the officer's hand aside and up, easily breaks his fingers, taking the pistol. From the side it looked as if he willingly handed over his weapon.
"Like this," she says and hands him his pistol back. "Though I understand you. From long range I'm even more dangerous. You have nine millimeter, and I have .44 on my thigh and 7.62x51 NATO on my shoulder. To stay away from me, go a kilometer and two hundred meters... and I'll still hit. Wanna bet?"
"Who are you people?!"
"Who are we?" Jane tears off the velcro on the front of her vest, showing the inscription. "Administration. Take custody of the facility. There's lots of illegal stuff inside."
"Administration? Administration of what?"
"Everything. Self-defense unit recruited from citizens as part of local militia," Jane explains. "We even have documents. Agreement with city hall. They should have informed you."
"Yes. Something like that was mentioned... but self-defense unit... that's neighborhood housewives with flashlights patrolling the area... with whistles and pepper spray canisters! So teenagers don't play loud music..." the policeman says confusedly, turning his pistol in his hands as if not knowing what to do with it.
"Well, that's what we are," Jane Rodriguez nods. "Housewives and neighbors. I'm a neighbor, and he" – she nods at Dmitri, from whose shoulder hangs a heavy machine gun barrel-down – "is a housewife. And these guys..." she nods at the factory building behind them, "were playing loud music. And then when we came – they all ran away somewhere. Teenagers, what can you expect."
"Housewives?" The policeman carefully averts his gaze from the heavy machine gun on Dmitri's shoulder. For a second Jane thinks he'll give himself cross-eyes.
"Proper housewives," Dmitri rumbles contentedly. "You know what kind of pies I can bake?"