Tiberius Rising

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: War and Military  |  House: Booksie Classic

Chapter 10 (v.1) - Liquidation

Submitted: February 28, 2014

Reads: 596

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Submitted: February 28, 2014

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----------------------------------------------------CHAPTER 10: LIQUIDATION

The squad crept into the shadows carefully, making no sound. Stryker found a set of crates with a small opening between them, positioned perfectly to cover the only entrance.  Being a master of using pistols in close combat Stryker eased himself into a three-point shooter’s kneel and braced his silenced Sig-TF pistol between the two crater right at the door, and prayed to a God he never believed in that the fight would be over quickly so he wouldn’t have to rely on the flimsy wooden shipping crates for cover. Meanwhile, Jenkins and Ramirez were crouched in opposite corners nearest the door, their silenced Sig-TF pistols aimed squarely at the door.

Jenkins watched through the small window as a tall man in a shemagh and white robes approached the door, wielding an AK47-U on a sling He grabbed the door handle with his left hand and cautiously peered inside, then swung the door open and stepped in sweeping the area for threats. Jenkins glanced over to where Ramirez was, but he couldn’t even see him. The Latino soldier was a master of concealment

Confused, the tango hit the light switch and glanced around again. Finally, he swore in Farsi, turned around, and headed back outside… when Stryker seemed to leap out from nowhere from behind two wooden crates, landing on the soles of his feet as to make no noise at all, a maneuver practiced from a life of acrobatic training.

In the blink of an eye he was behind the man with a gun pointed at the back of his neck. A gloved hand covered the tango’s throat to stifle a terrified scream as he was dragged back into the building kicking and struggling.Ramirez and Jenkins both emerged, guns drawn.  Jenkins hit the light back off and closed the door, as Ramirez approached the tango with gun drawn, mouthing the words “Shut the fuck up” and raising his finger to his mouth in a “ssssh” gesture
Jenkins turned around to see Ramirez giggling to himself. He looked over Ramirez’s shoulder to notice that in his terror the foreign man soiled his burkha in terror. Disgusted, Stryker grimaced at Ramirez, who immediately stopped chuckling. He walked over to the terrorist and tore off the smehagh covering his face, wadded it into a hankerchief and stuffed it into his mouth to prevent him from screaming. At the same time Stryker dropped him into a chair Jenkins had dragged over and Jenkins began zip-tying the man It was all over in a matter of seconds, and the terrified Middle Easterner stood with three guns to his head unsure of which man to look at. Standing in the middle, Stryker said to Jenkins, “Translate for me”. Jenkins only nodded.

“Listen up, fuckstick. We’re taking over, and we’ve got a few questions. What’s your name, kid?” Jenkins spat out a rapid-fire translation into Pashto, Farsi, and various tribal languages, until the man seemed to recognize which one he was speaking. Then he spoke and Jenkins translated back: “Mahmoud Ahmadinejad” Stryker considered that, then responded: “Good boy. Now that we’re all friends, why don’t you tell me where you got that sweet little shipment over there?”

Jenkins listened, then cocked an eyebrow as he translated the message. “...He says he got it from the CIA.” The terrorist’s face broke out in a grin as he watched Stryker’s face. “He said your mother was a goat”, Jenkins translated, just in time for Ramirez to pistol-whip the terrorist with the but of his Sig-TF, breaking his jaw and knocking his head back into a rubberneck pose. He tried to scream, but all that came out of the handkerchief in his mouth was a muffled murmur.

Stryker stared at the man intensely, then his face broke into calculated anger “Looks like we’re going to have to do this the hard way, huh?” He cocked his gun and pulled back the cocking lever, then aimed it between the man’s eyes, punching him dead in the kidneys with his other hand, forcing his forehead forward to headbutt the gun barrel painfully. “Joke time’s over, clown.”, he spat into the terrorist’s face. The terrorist terrified backpedaled and spoke again in Farsi.

“Our leiutenant, tells us steal from CIA convoys in the Northern Alliance, and use them, fight for Khadr’s war!” Stryker looked to the others “I don’t think he’s lying, boss.” Jenkins said “Only one way to find out” he responded, grabbing a car battery from a nearby crate “Tie his legs to the chair” Stryker said.

Ramirez looked confused, but then got it. Stryker took the two gator clips and walked up to the man, sparking the gator clips together for effect. “Are you ready, asshole?”, he said. The terrorist stared, motionless, and Stryker took two throwing knives from his boot, stabbing them into both the terrorist’s knees. He clamped the gator clips to the all-steel knives handles and slowly cranked up the voltage until the man was convulsing in agony, roasting in his chair. The man’s entire body convulsed painfully and his spine arched back as thousands of volts coursed through his body. His muscles spasmed and tremored. Ramirez began to chuckle again, and Jenkins simply stared. “Serves you right, you motherfucker”, he said, as he spat on the terrorist soldier. “This is payback for 9/11”, he added.

Satisfied, Stryker toned down the voltage to 0. He grabbed Jenkin’s sidearm out of his hands, took the two guns and pressed both barrels to either side of the man’s head, and leaned in close enough to feel his breath on his face. He fired out questions at breakneck pace: “Where did you get the shipment? Who the fuck is Jackknife? Where is Khadr?”
The man’s milky white eyes stared up at him quivering and Stryker backed away and the man responded barely able to stutter out his words: “Shipment from CIA base… Stolen… Jackknife is Khadr’s right hand man.. They are in Khandahar… they send us courier… give troops orders from captured Russia radio tower.”

Stryker stared at the man, listening intently as his hand rested lightly on the dial for the car battery. “Now that’s something we can use. Now… I think we’re done here. Goodbye Mahmoud.” When Jenkins finished translating, the man’s eyebrows raised in fear, and he tried to stutter out protest, struggling in the chair. It didn’t last long before Stryker cranked him up to full charge, and the man was frying alive in front of him. Stryker leaned in close and whispered to the dying man: “When you get to hell, tell Allah to save some room for Omar and Jackknife.”

The electricity charred the man to the bone and roasted him alive in his chair, dying a horrific and painful death. Satisfied, Stryker pulled out the two electified throwing knives, stood back, and threw, landing them squarely in the corpse’s head, sending it flying back and rolling out of the chair to the floor.

The body rolled over to Ramirez, who guffawed at the charred corpse. “Hey chief, did somebody order 72 virgins? ‘Cuz I think we might have overcooked ‘em a little.”


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