#05 THE DEATH OF YOSSEF BRAUN KAMIROV
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Braun laid Myriam Stanišić on the floor. Carefully staying under cover, he pulled the tacky bedspread to hide her body. After one last sad glance, the Soviet reached out to grab his civilian clothes near the shattered chair. But no sooner had he grazed his shirt than a velospeed bullet punched through the wall, forming a green star-shaped impact on the charred carpeting.
“Latrine!” the ex-MP shouted as he recognized the signature of the presumed dead sniper. “Foolish traitor!”
Without taking the time to get dressed, Braun bolted towards the exit, exploiting the Frenchman’s FR F2 short reload frame. A calculation as audacious as risky. For no sooner had the runaway reached the hallway than another shot blew the fragile door off its hinges.
Restraining himself from swearing, Braun ran and leaped against the elevator, hammering the call button.
“The tag!” he uttered, smashing the indicator.
Producing a ding, the creaky panels opened nonetheless. Yet the car didn’t appear to be empty. The welcoming committee included four slick-haired mafiosi holding titanium baseball bats. Judging by the angry look, they gave over their Cyclops sunglasses, they weren’t just hotel guests coming to complain about the noises above. They have been summoned by Latrine or whoever Techno-minion running the hit.
One of them, wearing golden chains, rings and watch, barked before translating his orders into Italian. His three goons instantly rushed at Braun, who managed to dodge their powerful swings.
The Soviet sprinted towards the staircase, burning his feet on the carpenting. But, when he reached the door, he realized it had been locked.
“Not again!” grumbled Braun as he tried to force it open with his shoulder.
Help came from one of the mobsters, who tackled him. As they both went through the plastic panel, he was greeted first by the cold concrete floor before being crushed under the brute’s weight. Freeing himself from the screaming overweight cyborg with iron fingers, he fell in the staircase. A fire alarm rang, deafening him.
The crazy chase continued down to the building’s parking lot, located mid-height in order to feed the air traffic. Slamming his fist into the control slab of the red security gates leading to the garage, Braun managed to escape from his pursuers he quickly heard banging on the closing shutters.
“Arrivederci, amici…” he panted.
Alas, the Soviet could only savor his small victory for a few seconds. Giving on a faded billboard for the movie Born on a Fourth of July, the driveway welcomed an Alfa Romeo. The black flying car with neon lights drifted before hovering above a row of service vehicles clamped to the back wall. From the butterfly doors jumped new cyber-enhanced thugs, also armed with shiny baseball bats.
“Callistoans really like the Cubs…” grumbled Braun. Fists raised in a defensive position, he refused to run again.
“Even within the deepest void, those American assholes would break our balls with their degenerate culture…” a voice behind him emphasized.
Turning around, Braun got hit in the nose by the grip of a revolver. The Soviet man toppled backwards before being punched three times in the stomach, taking his breath away. Thrown off balance, he collapsed.
“But there’s one thing I hate even more than meatloaf eaters,” Latrine resumed. “Ruskies…”
Braun was soon being held at gunpoint by the French marksman. Smirking, the latter didn’t even order him to raise his arms in the air. Sitting as he was, his eyes half-closed by the violence of the blow, the defeated Soviet presented no threat.
The sound of the hammer startled Braun; a body reflex at most. The following detonation seemed far away. Closer were the wet death rattle and the soft caress of blood staining his face.
However, when Latrine’s corpse fell at his feet—still shaking from a series of convulsions like a fish out of water—Braun realized that Morena, the Slavic goddess, had granted him some final moments of extra suffering.
A suffering such as a square-shouldered sixty-year-old. Tortured by a tight armored jacket of the CCPD, the well-timed newcomer stepped across a melted hole in the security flap leading to the stairs. Screwed slightly askew on his head was a bright eight-point Sillitoe tartan cap.
“Told you you were a chowderhead, Mister Kamirov!” the man joked as he lifted his visor with his thumb. He immediately turned towards the three gangsters emerging from the car, gesturing his blood-dripping M16 at them. “You’re under arrest, wops! Hands on the wall behind you! Come on! Make it snappy, or I’ll blast you down...”
Cursing, the mafiosi dropped their bats, which bounced on the floor. After one last look at Latrine followed by a few signs of the cross, they lined up at a respectable distance from each other.
“It’s Valentine’s day, fellas!” shouted the Uranus IX’s lunatic, as he emptied his extended magazine into the three men.
Forming a horizontal line at the height of their basin, the salvo sliced them in two while releasing a strong odor of contraband powder and chemicals. The execution over, sparkling shells filled with acid-covered pellets bounced on the ground along with the man’s police badge.
Pleased with his massacre, the Boogeyman turned to Braun. “What’s happening, Son? Why are you sitting on your ass like a goofy Bill the Cat plush?” He rested his M16 against his leg to fumble into one of his bulletproof vest’s front pockets. “Why are you naked? You queer or something?”
Braun regained his composure, then stood up before wincing in pain. “They didn’t give me time to dress…” Despite his blurry vision, he searched for the traitor’s weapon. But it apparently slipped into a gutter.
“Bloody animals…” sighed the man. He then tossed like a Frisbee the Police hat over the empty—yet still hovering—Alfa Romeo to fold up his apparently beloved Boston Red Socks baseball cap.
“I guess I should thank you again.”
The terrorist snickered. “Who do you think I am? Your guardian angel? I’m going to charge you an insurance fee, Son.”
As the Boogeyman searched for something else in another compartment of his jacket, the sound of an engine echoed outside the garage. Coming from the ring road, a taxicab with flaky paint drew near. Hoisting its thrusters, it swung as the rear door opened.
“Enemies inbound!” shouted Braun as he turned around. He instinctively reached for his holster, before remembering he wasn’t carrying anything.
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“Relax, commie…” his savior reassured him, tossing some caramelized popcorn into his mouth. “That’s General Custer and the 7th.”
But Braun’s blood ran cold as DIA Colonel Gaylord Graves emerged from the car. The 8-feet giant he had encountered hours earlier in the Techno-Senator’s office stared him down, before slowly turning to the executed Italians then to the Boogeyman.
“Donovan?” he uttered to drown out the sound of the rising wind and the hovering vehicle. He stepped closer. “What are you doing here?”
“Munchin',” replied the concerned party behind Braun.
Graves’ mustache failed to hide his broad smile when he looked back at the Soviet. “I see Captain that you met my brother.”
“Your brother?” Braun responded, stepping to the side so that he had the intriguing men in his line of vision.
To his right, Donovan loudly rummaged through his bag of Cracker Jack. “I took the good genes.”
The window of the cab’s driver rolled down. Behind the wheel, a young woman with long black hair and caramel-colored skin addressed the officer: “Gaylord! There is no time to waste. We need to exfiltrate Kamirov at once, before the Metal Rain cordons the entire satellite!”
“Brown-Girl is here too?” the Boogeyman reacted.
Prudish in large committee, Braun had begun to strip Latrine from his clothes. The Marine’s snake eaters mentioned, he turned to Gaylord Graves once the pants on. “How can I trust you? Weren’t you Cheney’s lap dog earlier?”
The colonel tapped on his wrist computer, answering Braun as he browsed what appeared to be the building’s security cameras: “Solarian people care more about the Civil War than the Techno-Secretary of State likes to pretend. The Marine still has elements which he cannot buy or blackmail like Sherman or Azimov. Especially the one who lost brothers and sisters in the recent conflict.”
Braun pulled on the sniper’s jacket that was far too small for him, glancing at the woman behind the wheel. “You’re all conspirators?” he said as he struggled with the last buttons near the collar.
Donovan Graves growled: “Patriots. Gaylord and I fight for the same team. But with different plans.”
“Really?”
“I want you to join me, Yossef,” the colonel resumed. “Together, we will bring the crooked politicians and officers to justice. Together, we shall purge both the Black Haven and the Techo-Marine!”
Throwing his empty bag over his shoulder, his sibling burst out laughing. “Still think we’re dealing with simple corruption, Brother? Open your eyes! This isn’t about Techno-backhanders! A Metacaste planned the war—toying with us to sell weapons and gain more influence within the Moon!”
“Not this nebulous theory again…” Gaylord sighed.
His brother fought back: “You’re going after one hydra’s head after another while we should strike directly to the system’s heart! End this foly once and for all!” His plea finished, he angrily lit his large cigar.
“You have no proof regarding Lunapolis!”
“The whole Red Uprising was a fucking proof. I was there!”
“The Technocracy works with laws! We just have to get rid of the bad apples! Stop playing a vigilante!”
“Alright! Alright! Alright!” Braun stopped them before turning to the colonel. “You’re leading an investigation? Orchestrating a wide arrest and taking them to justice? Is that your strategy, sir?”
“Correct. Our only limit is the sacred Techno-Constitution.”
“And what about you, Boogeyman?” Braun asked, glancing at Donovan folding his arms. “What’s your plan?”
“I want to blow up the fucking Moon.”
There was a short silence, interrupted by the laughter of the young DIA agent driving the taxicab.
“I’ll come with you, sir…” replied Braun, making his way towards the vehicle which unraveled a convenient footboard. “But the crew of the Noah’s has to join us!”
“Chicken…” Donovan grumbled as he took another lethal drag on his cigar.
“Perfect!” exclaimed Gaylord, stopping Braun in his tracks. “However, for now… I’m afraid you need to die.”
The ex-MP froze while the colonel placed a hand as large as a trash lid on his chest. “What?”
“Don’t move, Son!” Donovan warned him behind his back.
The Soviet hadn’t heard the colonel’s brother rush at him, his dagger shining under the ceiling lights. A second later, the ex-MP felt a sharp pain in his lower back. The Boogeyman had just stabbed him in the hip.
“What—what have you done?” the Soviet quavered, pushing himself out from between the two insane brothers.
“Splashing more of your DNA all around,” Donovan calmly explained, pointing with his index finger at the additional trail of blood Braun had just spilled on the dirty floor. “Both the Metal Rain and that asshole of Cheney must think you’re as stiff as Jesse James on his ice cube.”
“Appreciated yet inordinate, Donovan…” his brother acknowledged him as he opened again the camera feed on his wrist implant. With a few clicks, he filled the garage security folder with new falsified footage. “Do you happen to have any explosives on you by any chance?”
Donovan rolled his blue eyes as he stomped a stick of incendiary C4 into the Frenchman’s burgeoned skull. The Boogeyman then threw his knife away after quickly cleaning the blade off the corpse’s underwear. Finally, he strided in the direction of the service vehicles with the robbed pair of socks.
“Thank you again,” said his brother, seeing Donovan fiercely smashing the gas tanks open with his boots.
“You’re welcome…” the wrecker grumbled. “Don’t fuck up our Plan B.”
Gaylord Graves invited Braun to get into the taxicab. This one complied, sticking to the right backdoor in order to leave enough room for the giant.
“You’re Plan B. My team and I are Plan A,” uttered the latter, a leg in the flying cab. The vehicule tilted dangerously, and an alarm blinked on the mucky dashboard.
His brother, cigar in hand, laughed loudly enough to cover the roaring engine. “Jesus Christ! Mam was so right about you!”
“What? What did she—”
“No time for this!” intervened the driver, pulling the colonel inside by the collar of his uniform.
Gaylord tipped over Braun before the agent slammed the door. A second later, the vehicle plunged among the skyscrapers to rejoin the ground traffic.
“Meet our delicate Lieutenant Nikita,” the Colonel resumed, straightening despite the speed. “She’s just like you. Sour and tough. Also totally undercover for this perilous crusade.”
“Welcome to the task force, Major…” the shrewish pilot replied, saluting the Soviet in the rear mirror. Braun noticed the numerous scars running around her golden circled eyes, temples and cheeks. Those discreet markings similar to Myriam’s meant the girl was a cyborg with top of the art enhancements.
“Major?” noted Braun after a few seconds, giving back the salute.
Behind, a loud explosion shook the neighborhood. A green flash blasted through five floors of the hotel and blew away the air traffic.
“Donovan, you crazy fool…” the colonel worried. “I hope he didn’t hurt any civilians.”
“The whole place was empty. No cars are plunging into flames,” Nikita reassured him. “The toxic cloud remains hazardous but will delay any investigation for a day or two. Clever move from a hotdogger like him...”
“Good. I can already hear the bagpipes and a three-volley salute. Because you’re officially dead, Major!” Gaylord joked as the autopilot swiftly guided the vehicle into an A&W’s parking lot near a metro station. “And yes… the least we can do is move you up a rank, don’t you think? Like the Military Police, spook agencies are less picky than the regular Techno-Marine about promotions within the fleets’ chain of command.”
“Th—thank you…” Braun stammered. “...sir.”
“Never understood anything with their ‘Commander’ coming after ‘Captain’,” Nikita interjected as she donned a dirty orange sewer cleaner’s helmet. “The space-squids always do everything backwards.”
Seeing the Soviet wincing in pain and still bleeding, the officer took a medigel from the first aid kit beneath the driver’s seat to spray his hip. Meanwhile, Nikita placed a smelly overall and a helmet similar to her on Braun’s lap.
“No ‘Sir’ between us. Call me Gaylord. And let’s go get your ship and crew, to arrest the bastards who turned our system into a battlefield!” the colonel concluded, holding out his hand.
Braun gave him a handshake. It was indeed payback time.