“Have you ever wondered why we’re ‘Raven’ squadron when the NATO phonetic alphabet has R as ‘Romeo’?” Isabella asks me, sipping on her tea. I decided to experiment a little this morning, and make a batch of what is called “pakee chai”, translating directly to “cooked tea”. It’s really good (albeit i didnt add cinnamon), and both Isabella and Jay agree.
“At the start I did, but then I realised I don’t care,” I respond. “Raven sounds cooler anyways.”
“I like Raven,” Jay butts in. He’s still in recovery. I had him go to the CAMHs building near the shopping centre, and the counsellors believe he’s mostly stable, but to keep him under supervision.. “You know, ravens are all mysterious, and you guys are all mysterious.”
“Mysterious?” Isabella scoffs. “We’re about as mysterious as a suicide note.”
“Well, the people at school haven’t suspected you yet.” Jay replies. I really should’ve put cinnamon in this tea.
“Speaking on the topic of suspicion, the syndicate will DEFINITELY be on alert now that we’ve destroyed their main storage area in Bedfordshire,” I tell them two. “Raiding the brothel will need more
than just me and Isabella, and it’s gonna be a lot harder.”
There’s A4 sheets depicting the floorplan scattered across the counter, notes frantically scribbled onto them.
So far, we haven’t got much of a plan. The floorplan is significantly more complex compared to the warehouse. It’s got a basement, ground floor and a first floor, with the latter 2 having a ton of rooms. We definitely need at least 4 of us, though considering the risk (death), chances are I’ll get all 8 of us on it. I can work on it later, though.
“We’ll be able to do it,” Isabella reassures me. “We do it, or die. Either way, it’s not our issue.”
I can’t argue with that logic.
“So, let’s assume we got all 8 of us. Probably overkill for such a tiny building, but who cares? What do you propose we do?” I ask her.
“Let’s get back into fireteams, one takes the basement and another takes the first floor. Both of ‘em clear the ground floor.”
“You’ve been one with the good ideas recently. Only issue: there’s only a single entrance to the building. 8 people through one door is not ideal.”
“Blow up a wall.” She states, way too confident. “Adds to the scare factor behind us.”
“I’ll think about it.” To be fair, it’s not the worst idea. Only issue is the fact that there are civilians. Can’t exactly run a brothel without the workers.
So far, I’ve just been trying to ignore the implications of the building being a brothel. I wouldn’t put it past the syndicate to use children, and the idea of it makes me feel sick. Repressing is never really the best idea, but it works so well that I can’t stop. Been doing it my whole life, why stop now?
Whatever, soon enough I’ll have killed or arrested those responsible.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
Also, I just realised that full sized rifles might not be the best choice for what is a modified residential building. More requests, lovely…
“Control, this is Raven-22, over.”
“Raven-22, this is Sierra Campbell, over.” Campbell? Haven’t heard him in ages.
“We need 8 submachine guns and relevant ammunition for a critical raid, over.”
“Hold.” A half minute of silence. “Dunstable station has 8 units of the MP5SF, and 1200 rounds of ammunition. Over.” The MP5? Are we in a fucking call of duty game? I don’t really like it, but not many other choices.
“Confirm. Heading to the station, out.”
I’m not really all that asked, but it’s not as if I have much better to do.
I quickly tell Isabella of what I’m doing, grab my car keys, and head out…
Being up close to the station is a bit odd. You’d think a building containing masses of firearms would look maintained, but no. This fucking building looks like it survived carpet bombings during both world wars. Hell, there's cigarette butts piled up in a corner near the door, and what looks suspiciously like a used weed grinder next to it.
Who the fuck smokes weed outside a police station?
“Hello, there.” The receptionist says, smiling at me. “We don't take visitors.” How rude, assuming.
I slam my warrant card onto the desk.
“Just let me see the armourer.” I tell her, slightly exasperated. She opens up the wallet, flicking her eyes between me and the card.
“Is this meant to be some form of joke?” She questions me, shoving my warrant card under the desk. Bitch? Give me my shit back.
“What?”
“Look, kid, I don't know what you want, but you can't be faking a police warrant card. You could be arrested right now,”
“You think it’s fake?”
“It clearly is. Your date of birth shows you as 14.”
I can't be asked, man.
I rip my radio out of my pocket, and bark into it.
“Control, this is Raven-22. Tell the damn receptionist to let me in. Out.”
“Raven-22, this is Lima, Tango Hood. Just walk in. Use reasonable force if physically stopped. Out.”
“Hear that?” I say to that bitch receptionist. She still has my warrant card.
She is also technically not an officer, just a staff member.
Unfortunately for me, my vain attempt at just walking in is foiled by the fact the doors are electronically locked.
Fortunately for me, I think the radio scared her enough, as she presses the unlock button on her desk, looking pale.
“Ay, another one of you kids.” The armourer exclaims, watching me walk into the surprisingly small armoury. It's literally just a high security cupboard.
“You know how it is. Did you get the order?” I reply.
“Yeah, 8 MP5s. Our armed officers are gonna have to outsource, ha!”
“Hey, we are your armed officers.” Technically, we are on loan to Bedfordshire police, it's just we have no quotas, so none of us bother to patrol. I might go for one later, just for fun, though.
“Ain't doing shit but shooting the local gang members.” He replies, sarcasm dripping from his words, while preparing the weapons.
“One less gang member to deal with. He was a prominent member, too.”
“Mhm.” He slams a massive duffel bag on the desk. “8 MP5s, affixed reflex sights, 56 magazines, 2000 rounds of 9mm. More than enough. Whole bag weighs 50 kilos, so be careful. Just sign here…” He hands me the armoury withdrawal form. “Also, you still owe us 2 rifles and their constituent parts. Remember to hand them in.”
Oopsies.