"One is near death and the other my 9-year old niece could handle. I seriously doubt either are going to be a problem. In any case, my barracks is just 10km down the highway. But I'll tell you what I'll also do. When we get there I'll call ahead and make sure you get waived through any checkpoints you may run into."
Peter is captivated by the driver's weapon, currently accumulating a fresh dusting of snow since dropped. Carefully picking up the weapon as to avoid printing it, Peter studies it like an archeologist would a recently unearthed artifact.
Chinese...no...the receiver is milled too nice and the stock isn't made of some cheap laminent. Looks like a G36-knockoff, but the sights and flash suppressor aren't like anything I've seen before...which is disturbing in itself.
Peter hits the magazine release, popping out the clip (a box feeder, no less) and checks the bullet caliber.
10mm FMJ with enough powder to put it through an engine block. Those cops with damn lucky.
Either someone did a serious one-off modification of a G36 or there's a new kid on the block that Peter hasn't been introduced to.
"What is it?" Igor says, with interest.
"Oh shit!" exclaims the passenger, shooting a worried look at the driver.
"Sasha. Don't tell me you were carrying when we left Krasnoyarsk?"
"Never seen a gun like that before. Assault rifle frame, but the caliber looks seriously hardcore. Miracle that the damn thing even fires straight with all the thunder behind it."
He pauses briefly, then pulls out his cell phone.
"Would you mind if I take a few photos really quick?"
"That would explain why the hell they were in such a hurry. Arms smuggling is a serious offense, punishable by life imprisonment. Let's see what's in the trunk, shall we?"
Igor walks over to the driver's seat and pulls out the keys. He pushes a button the keyfob, popping the truck. Inside are heavy steel cases with an insignia and writing stamped on them. Igor pulls out a case and looks at the writing.
"I can't see much without my glasses, but those markings look, English?"
Peter snaps a quick series of photos with his phone, then sends the images to a friend in Agency R&D to be identified. Hearing Igor open the trunk, he walks over.
[color=red:1d54db0518]WARNING! DO NOT OPEN![/color]
PROPERTY OF HRM MINISTRY OF DEFENCE, UNITED KINGDOM
IF FOUND, IMMEDIATELY CONTACT +44 555 555 5555
VIOLATORS ARE SUBJECT TO PROSECUTION UNDER THE UK SECRETS ACT OF 1989
Peter also notes that the locks on the containers are made of ballistic-grade steel and would hold up to anything short of a plasma cutter.
Peter reads the inscription, the color draining out of his face.
"According to this sign, it's property of the British government. It lists a phone number to be called when you find it. Oh, and it also warns against opening. My guess it's either dangerous as heck, booby-trapped, or both."
Moten buys tickets for Brian and himself at the counter for the next express to Novosibirsk. "And the chase is on. Have you ever had to track someone down, Brian?"
Brian shakes his head, chuckling softly as he watches the people in the station. For whatever reason, he's always been fond of train stations...
"Not in a general sense, no. I tend to let the spooks handle that, they're better at it. I, as you've probably noted, am better at...explaining things...to the people that get tracked down. In a way that involves kicking down doors copious amounts of firepower."
Despite being in fairly good humor, it's clear this mission, or perhaps the entire "temporary" attachment to the Agency thing is beginning to wear on him a bit.
Brian and Moten pace about the platform waiting impatiently for the train to pull in. The sound of a trainhorn sounds off in the distance, reverberating through the ironwork structure of the platform. A few moments later, a pea-green colored locomotive comes around a bend in the tracks. It wheels spark as it brakes to stop, the engineer parking the train at the station with pinpoint precision.
Conductors exit the train doors, putting down small metal stepstools for the passengers. Immediately after, dozens of people disembark the train; some carrying what looks to be the entirety of their household, their children following closely behind.
Five minutes pass with the conductors giving the all-clear for passengers to board the train. Brian and Moten climb on, finding their small spartan room a bit confining but at least it's warm.
Siberian Hwy, Mile Marker #223.
Igor is not exactly pleased to hear Peter's translation. He takes off his hat and scratches his head, muttering something imperceptable under his breath.
"Dammit! Ok. Here's what we're going to do. There are three more crates in the trunk. Tell your friend that we're going to transfer them over to my vehicle and call the matter closed. As for the weapon you have, clear the breach and place it on the floor in the backseat of the squadcar. And for God's sake, be careful! We're leaving."
"Gotcha. Gary can handle the bad guys, I'll help with the cases once I have this gun figured out."
Peter looks carefully at the weapon, finding quite a few G36-ish features and deciding to play it as if it was one.
"Let's see if I remember how this went...magazine's out..."
Grabbing the foreshaft with his left hand, he puts the rifle's buttplate against his hip and grabs the underside with his right hand, guiding his thumb to cover the ejection window, his pinky towards the slide lock button, and the other three fingers towards the magazine well. Having steadied the rifle, he grabs the swiveling cocking lever with his left hand and pulls it back; a single round falls out of the magazine well. Satisfied, he presses the slide release and eases the receiver "block" forward. Stashing the single round temporarily, he switches the safety lever to single shot and pulls the trigger, decocking the rifle.
"There, that should do it."
Peter takes the rifle by the carrying handle and places it on the squadcar's floor. Walking back towards the Mercedes - and Igor -, he pulls out his cellphone again.
"I think I've got the number of the British embassy somewhere in here..."
While the cop is occupied with the crates, Artis moves to get the passenger and Sasha into the truck. When they're out of earshot, Artis hisses to the more worried-looking of the two, "There isn't much time. Do either of you speak English?"
If so, good. If not, he calls over to Peter, "Hey, Eugene! I don't speak Ivan - come tell these guys to behave. I'll move the crates." At which point he'll mention to Peter that he has a bad feeling about this. The cop seems more interested in the weapons than his prisoners, his wounded partner, or us.
Quote: from admiralducksauce on 10:32 am on Jan. 12, 2005
While the cop is occupied with the crates, Artis moves to get the passenger and Sasha into the truck. When they're out of earshot, Artis hisses to the more worried-looking of the two, "There isn't much time. Do either of you speak English?"
The Mercedes' passenger practically shits his pants when Artis asks him.
(speaking in English with a noticable Russian accent)
"Oh, for fuck's sake. What the hell is going on here? I am having a very bad day. If your plan is to shoot me, feel free to do so. It can only improve my situation."
Receiving no quick answer from the cop, Peter hears Art's shout.
"Sounds like the criminals don't want to shut up. Gary's coming over to help you with the cases. I'll silence the bastards and call the Brits; the sooner we get rid of those cases, the sooner I'll be able to sleep well."
He walks off towards Art, punching the case's number into his cell.
Ayumi stands before the partycrasher and the (now-prone) Carla.
Before she can help, she sees Carla knee the man squarely in the Jimmy.
(after a short moment of silence for the man's sack)
The man is lifted into the air about 6 inches with an Eeearrrgh!-type sound slowly being seeping out of his mouth. He rolls off of Carla in profound, severe pain; curling up into a fetal position beside her.
"I would ask you the same question. I was getting the hell out of town, that's all. I bummed a ride to Novosibirsk with the my friend Sasha. As usual, he was driving like a fucking madman down the road and the police tried to pull us over. Now, I knew the guy dealt in some illegal goods, but I had no fucking clue he was carrying that stuff!"
Waiting for the other end of the phone number to pick up, Peter finally hears something approaching a click in the line and starts to speak at once while walking over to Art.
"Hello, folks. Your number was on a few metal cases that are currently in my possession. Since I'm a nice, law-abiding guy, I'm ready to discuss pickup with you. I'm on the highway from Novosibirsk to Krasnoyarsk, Marker 223. There's a barracks of the Siberian Mounted Police a few miles down the road, which is where I'll be heading to shortly. I don't want cash or favors, and I'll forget all about this the second those cases are out of my sight. I just don't want to get fucked over by this. Do we have a deal?"
Dieter
