Chapter 1: One Shot, One Kill

Sunny days were always the least conspicuous. Everyone expects that the dark, gloomy, chilly days are the ones of those despicable acts of murder. Everyone is just happier on bright days. That’s why today was a good day for the shooting. Tyson’s lone black car drove down the interstate, heading towards the Grand Plaza of the city. It was an out of the way sort of town, which made it a ideal hiding place, particularly for the high ranking Russian Mafia agent that was in the U.S.

“You’ll be in a small town in Nebraska,” Mason had said.

“Like there’s any other,” replied Tyson. “Who’s the target?”

“Aleksandr Ruhsco. He’s a high-ranking Russian Mafia agent.

He makes his living as a paid assassin.”

“So do I have to get assassinated?” Tyson rolled his eyes.

“Just go to Cadel!”

 

Tyson’s car pulled up into the many storied parking lot, where he parked his car on the first level. He pulled out a duffel bag from the trunk, the black color matching everything about him. The only contrast was the tanned skin on Tyson’s face, and even that was obscured with a pair of large Polaroid sunglasses. 

 

“The glasses have a hidden video feed. This will allow us to make sure you follow orders… though I’m sure you will.” Cadel always talked before a mission. The two had become fast friends.

“You’d better believe it kid.” Tyson said, quoting a line from an old movie.

Cadel chuckled, and then went on. “They also have communication abilities, as well magnification and x-ray capabilities. Simply flick the switch on the side to switch between the two. Say ‘Ahoy’ before you talk to activate the communication. We’ll hear you. And just listen for the response, you’ll hear that. The x-ray can only see through about 2 foot thick walls, so it won’t affect really thick ones. They also send out a scrambler signal for a radius of about 100 yards. If you need help, break them and they’ll send out a distress signal.”

Tyson, impressed, replied, “Anything else? That’s seems like an awful lot for a pair of glasses.”

“They’re experimental. You’re the first agent to try them.”

“But still…”

“Oh, and they protect you from the deadliness of theUV rays.”

“Shut up.”  

“Finally, your weapon selection.” Cadel touched a button on the dashboard to his right, and a display of weapons popped out. Snipers, automatics, shotguns, pistols, explosives, knives, and grenades were all included.

         “I’ll take my usual.” Tyson slung the sniper over his back, slid the pair of combat knives- also balanced for throwing- into his custom made holsters tucked an automatic pistol into his third holster, and pocketed a few grenades. He would later throw them into his duffel bag, along with his assignment manual. Just like school, Tyson thought.

          “Ahh… Tyson’s famous load out. You know, others in the agency are actually picking the exact same weapons to try to be as successful as you.”

          Tyson threw back his head and emitted a short laugh, not more than a single “ha!” then said over his shoulder, “They can try.”

 

          Tyson had finally walked all the steps to the very top of the parking garage. It’s very strange, Tyson thought, that such a small town should have such a large garage. And it was true; the town had a population of around 30,000. Just a standard Nebraska town thought Tyson as he viewed it from the summit of the garage. The top wasn’t really all that spectacular; it showed a couple neighborhoods and the Grand Plaza, which was just a fountain and a small park. This was indeed a strange town… a fountain? Many of the larger towns didn’t even have those… Then Tyson remembered his dossier about the target.

          ‘Extremely wealthy and powerful, Ruhsco, age 18, graduated from shoplifting to grand theft auto. He went to a prison in Moscow for 3 years, but was released early for good behavior and what was seemingly a stable mental state. However, just days after release, Ruhsco murdered the owner of the stolen car, Logan Difes, (See separate file) and ran to the Mafia for protection. He was not seen for about a month, but he later massacred a party of about 150 people, (presumably as an initiation) with only 23 survivors. Of those, 15 were crippled, 4 brain-damaged, and only 4 uninjured. He disappeared, and has a rap sheet of 30 breaking and entering accounts, (about half which include murder) 18 armed robberies, and a whole lot of assassinations. This put at a very high Mafia rank, which means he is paid a lot, which is why he’s so well off.  Needless to say, he is a dangerous fellow.

          In public, he comes off nice enough; he generously donated to his town, holds parties, and has a seemingly normal life, with a wife (Alexia Ruhsco, formerly Polustae) and two children ( Gaia and Will). His wife, however, is a former Russian KGB agent, who turned dark and sold her secrets to the Japanese, the Germans, and the French… anyone who would pay. After months of searching, she was hunted down, but she escaped from her ‘secret’ house, and fled into the Mafia, which is where she met Aleksandr. She is still hunted by the Russian authorities and Interpol, as well as many other countries and is considered armed and dangerous.’

Then came a few pages of his unsurprising history, like how his father was murdered, his mother gone when Ruhsco was 20, and he didn’t have any siblings… a sad life. Then the dossier went into some more interesting things… like his characteristics.

‘Well built, with blue eyes, pale skin, and a bald, shaved head; Ruhsco has only one distinguishing mark: a long scar down his right forearm shaped like a lightning bolt (Origin unknown). He always wears a white suit with a black tie for public speaking; it’s almost his signature appearance.

He is trained in espionage, martial arts (including judo, kung-fu. standard self-defense, jujitsu, taekwondo, and a variant of boxing), piloting, underwater operations (like scuba diving, snorkeling, and even underwater combat), and was trained incredibly highly in counter terrorism, and many different variants of weapons, including snipers, rifles, and extensive forms of pistol and knife training.’ 

This was all extremely interesting; it meant that Tyson wouldn’t have an easy time killing him… sniping from a range would be the best bet. To close and the fight be noticed. To close of a sniping position and he would noticed in a similar fashion. So he filled in Cadel on his ideas, and Cadel filled in the blanks. He recalled the conversation between the two of them.

“There’s a parking garage just off normal sight distance of the Grand Plaza. It’s a good crow’s nest for your sniper and it’s an easy enough shot too. He’ll walk out around onto his podium around 4, so if you get there at 2, you’ll be just fine. Take the shot as soon as he starts walking off, we’ll plant a pistol man/complainer in the crowd to make it look like just a hater of Alek here making a disgruntled killing. He’ll just be there to draw the attention away from you. Umm…. Other than that, you should be fine.”

Really? Would it be? Tyson asked as much. “It can’t be that easy.”

“Don’t worry, this mission is well planned. It’s often the simple plans that are better; more complicated plans have more things that could go wrong.” Tyson had left on that bit of philosophy, knowing that it was the best option.

 

At about 3:30pm, a sweeper search went through the Plaza. Bodyguards, presumably Ruhsco’s, stationed themselves around the perimeter, taking a station near entrances and exits, and also near windows, the podium and some other random places in the crowd. One faced the parking garage, but that was the only one that might be problematic. And Tyson was a master getaway artists… like a ninja, only he wasn’t Japanese. He had had a Japanese army drill sergeant while he was in the army… now those were the days! That was when he was trained, and that one fateful day…. Tyson fell back into the past for the fourth time in one day.

 

9 Years Ago: June 3^rd, 2002

“Today, we’ll be out in our first field mission. We’ve trained hard as the commandos, but training and actually being out there is a completely different experience. Suit up.” The instructor, a Japanese one, promptly walked away, equipping himself for his own battling: that of tactical attacking.

The squad of Navy Seal commandos went into the armory to equip themselves as though each of them was a small army. Combat knives, automatics, pistols, grenades, RPG’s, and even some folding stock machine pistols found their into hands and holsters. They already knew the mission… a battalion of men was trapped inside a modern-day fortress and could only hold off for a mere matter of days before the food went out. The commandos’ job was to assist in the defeat of the surrounding army, then evacuate their army and move them down to the nearest base, where they would watch them until the made a full recovery. A simple enough mission, for they had the element of surprise on their side.

The squad of men put on the full extent of their combat armor, which included a battle helmet, full body armor (all bullet-proof and flame-proof, with extra explosive protection), and combat boots. This made them almost as secure as an armored tank, but just a bit more mobile (indeed they were; all this gear was actually quite flexible and lightweight). They loaded up into an armored car they called the Exodus, as an inside joke. Everyone had the air of excitement around them, but they showed none of it, as it was unprofessional. Soon, they were off, chatting quietly about themselves, not really knowing what was ahead. Tyson was in the corner, silently preparing himself for the task ahead. After all, he knew that there would be killing, and he would probably be responsible for at least one death, if not more. He was, after all, the best of the bunch. No one disagreed with that; he had tried, and succeeded, to keep up his reputation. No one was invincible though, least of all not him.

He slept, he cleaned weapons, he even did a bit of talking with his fellow soldiers, but for the most part, he tried to recall all he could about fortress sieging, combat, and other things like battle tactics so he would be prepared. He knew he would need them. This was his first real mission, and Tyson was nervous, he wasn’t a killer, was he? The started around a bumpy road and the announcement came to get out and transfer to the helicopter. They stopped, and the men jumped out, racing towards the copter, ready for battle. Tyson calmly walked, boarding last. He knew it was pointless to rush; the exertion would tire him in the long run. When the copter lifted off, Tyson watched out the window, loading his gun, but keeping it on safety. He wanted to be prepared for any sort of resistance on the way there, for that’s the way he was.

Half an hour later, a voice came over the intercom in the helicopter. “We are nearly there… lock and load boys, and prepare for departure.”

All around, the sounds of safeties being flicked off and rounds being chambered were heard. Tyson performed a final check, and everything seemed secure, so he slung the parachute on. He stood up, and yelled, “Alpha, Eta! You’re with me! We’re flanking! The rest, good luck! I’m sure you know your missions.” With that, he flung himself over the side, and with wind pulling his skin upwards, he yanked the parachute string ejecting the nylon strings that he relied on to save his life. Which it so helpfully did. He glanced upwards, waiting for Alpha and Eta, which he quickly saw were following him. Tyson, smiling, pulled out his massive assault rifle, which was more suited to arm a bear than a soldier like him. But whatever, he’d deal with that little aspect; all he needed was to deal with the heavy recoil.

As soon as all three touched down, Tyson shrugged off his parachute and ran towards the appointed route with the other two trailing behind him. He knew he would be hard to keep up to with the forced briskness of his pace, but they would have to deal with that. Soon however, he was at the fortress, and seeing it, the large stone walls, the massive amounts of high-tech security, he thought the army was faking it. They could hold off. Until he got to the top of the hill. There, he saw the opposing army, which was at least 500 strong, while the fortress reportedly had about 75. Plus the addition 26 from their squadron… would they have enough? Tyson waited and analyzed the situation while his two teammates struggled to catch up. When they did, Tyson told them to keep to the sides while he ran down the center, blasting through the resistance.

“You’ll have a better chance with me as a decoy. Don’t worry, I’ll survive.” Hopefully, Tyson thought.

The two just nodded. They wanted to argue, but knew it was futile; besides, they had the easy job, while Tyson was most likely to be killed during the crossfire. They slinked around the side while he sprinted into the battlefield, thinking I’ve got this, I’ve got this. He knew what he was doing. He picked his first target, arms shaking. He didn’t know if he did know what he was doing really. Could he really kill a man, not knowing his family, children, not even knowing his name? His arms were shaking so badly, the gun almost dropped. Then, without Tyson's realization, the trigger was pushed into the firing position by Tyson’s shaking hands. The gun fired off, taking the man in the back, making bloody holes in his army standard shirt. The man stuttered, took a step, then fell, kicking up a small cloud of dust as he hit the grass. Tyson nearly fell down there.

A few things hit his mind, one right after another. First a sense of anger came in. Why had he done that? What was wrong with him? That man was innocent… he had a life. Then the sadness rolled over him. That man had a life. The realization struck him like a physical blow. I could have died, and all my friends would mourn me, just as they will him. And finally, calm. Tyson realized later that that was the reason he kept going. He knew that the easiness would help out, and he had to help his country. His training kicked in. Tyson leveled the gun to his shoulder and fired. Another body fell onto the harsh summer ground. Tyson leveled another three men before they noticed him. Tyson smiled. He was having fun. He now knew what it was like, to kill mercilessly. And he almost enjoyed it. Almost, but not completely. Right then, his sense of purpose, of duty overrode everything else. He kept up a steady rain of fire, until, twenty-three bodies later, he ran out of ammo. He threw the gun aside, and upholstered his two pistols, striding towards the line of men. They stood behind a wall, aiming at him. On instinct, he rolled, and a car was placed between him and the oncoming bullets. Bullets punctured the roof, the doors, and many other parts of the car, but Tyson stayed down, until he heard a new gunfire. His own squad’s.

They had come up behind, twenty-three men of pure destruction. He laughed. Was this war? Or was this his fantasy of the battle? A harsh crackle from the radio broke into his secluded thoughts, announcing another presence.

“This is Eta. We’ve posted snipers on the fortress! You now have cover fire. I repeat; we now have cover fire!”

Tyson got onto his knees, looked through the bullet-riddled car, and stood up. He sprinted towards the battle, pistols out. He tore down every man he saw, sparing none. They all perished, the man behind a barrel, another slithering across the ground on his stomach, trying his best to stay in cover. One even put a fight before Tyson drilled six consecutive bullets into the man’s torso and skull. He reached another spot of cover with no ammo in any of his pistols. Throwing down his empty, useless pistols, he pulled out his twin combat knives, which he used by slamming them into the necks of his foes. Men just died in his gaze, like he had laser vision. His battle craze went over the top, to the point where he lost count of the dead, just knew the trail of bodies spoke for themselves. Soon he would wake up, but that moment never came. Finally, he stopped, looking around for his next victim. There was none. He looked to see a white flag, standing tall in a man’s hand. The man was fast approaching, and surrounded by about 50 men. They were outnumbered, and they knew it.

“We surrender!” They called, and Tyson knew he had won.

They captured about 200 men that day, while Tyson’s group only had one causality. It was like in the old movies, where a small group would dominate over a much, much larger group of warriors. The Spartans at Thermopylae. They completely massacred the Persians for a long while until they were all killed off. But Tyson wasn’t proud of the accomplishment. He had killed a total of 68 men single handedly, and they were almost all from behind. Also, he wounded about 18, which were sure to die or be crippled because of Tyson’s particular bullet placement. He had single handedly done almost a third of the killing or wounding of the group. That was a lot of blood on his hands…. Could he deal with it? Eventually, throughout his years in the army, the body count racked into the upper hundreds, Tyson just slaughtering the opposing force. But forever on, he would remember this day as the blood fest it was, and also as the day he first took a life in the name of his country.

 

Present day, 4:15pm

An alarm went off near Tyson. He shook his head, clearing his memory and refocusing on his target. The man’s bald head gleamed in the sun, making Tyson‘s job much easier. He knew the target. Quickly, he drew back the bolt and, moving swiftly and silently, stood up then drew off his sunglasses. He saw the ‘complainer’ moving through the crowd, ready for the transaction between the sniper and the pistol. The speech was nearing its end. Tyson drew up his sights, and put them directly on the targets heart. Ruhsco gave a small gesture to indicate the end of his speech, then stepped away. The pistol carrier gave a yell, pointed the pistol, and Tyson shot. Ruhsco toppled off the podium, a bullet through his heart. Tyson fell too, and quickly dismantled the sniper. He put his sunglasses back on, threw the sniper in his bag, and drew his knife and pistol. He advanced down the stairs, knife and pistol in the tactical position that allowed him to be prepared for anything. No one came, so he tucked away his weapons, and climbed into the car. The duffel bag went under the seat, in an un-x-rayable, undetectable compartment. He backed out, and then floored the accelerator, taking him out of the town in a matter of a few turns. He had made another flawless kill. The time was 4:22pm. Tyson smiled as he sped down the highway, and thought: this is why I’m the best.