Brian looks at the two dead cops before they leave, then back at the American.
Something about that gives me an...uncomfortableness...
Disposing of the bodies had to be done, but part of Brian, a large part of him, very much wishes they didn't need to do it, especially with...the deputy, whose name escapes him. Just cops doing their job...bit too inflexible to realize that flexibility could get everyone closer to what they wanted but still, killing good men doesn't sit well with him.
Brian generally keeps himself quiet as they make their way toward the clinic, too busy trying to shore up his own internal regrets, keep focused on finding Jess, and watching for threats. After all, as helpful as the Yank has been, things moved quickly here, and the presence of apparently an agency-sponsored cleaner as well as the rest of the team and a missing Jess all added up to a situation that needed him on his toes.
Moten starts walking towards the clinic, thinking about what he'd just done. He never likes having to kill someone, especially cops. They could have been helpful, but they decided to be difficult instead. He wishes it could have turned out a different way, but he has a job to do, and he'll be damned if he'll let two government agents who don't know enough to know that they're so out of their depth that they need flotation devices screw that up.
Just gotta keep on looking forward, keep my eye on the ball, and I'll get out of this just fine.
Down an alleyway and barely marked as such, Moten and Brian reach the clinic. Outside its entrance and sitting on an overturned milkcrate is a woman deep in contemplative thought smoking a cigarette. As they approach her, Moten and Brian notice that from the blood on her clothes that she is:
a) A nurse.
b) A butcher with a penchant for smoking outside clinics.
c) A serial killer dropping off her latest victim and having a post-murder smoke.
Seeing the two men, she looks up at them with indifferent eyes and takes another long drag off her cigarette.
Siberian Hwy: Mile Marker #221, 249km east of Krasnoyarsk
The trip east to Krasnoyarsk, aside from the occasional bribery at SMP checkpoints, has been uneventful. Artis and Peter trade-off driving every 100km or so. Visibility has dropped (2km down from 5km) as the snow which was tapering off is beginning to again fall at a heavier clip.
Fortunately the rig sits affords a good view of the road ahead as Artis and Peter (current driver) would not have seen the lights of a high-speed pursuit rapidly closing the distance at an extremely (or X-Treme for you XxX fans) dangerous speed.
Quote: from Punkey on 1:56 pm on Dec. 17, 2004
Moten pulls a slightly worn picture of Jess out of his jacket. "Excuse me, ma'am, but we're looking for this woman."
(rolls her eyes)
"Nyet." adamantly replies the woman.
The nurse looks like she's pulled double-shift with this (up till now) quiet moment as her only break. She takes another long draw off her cigarette and pulls up the sleeve of her labcoat to check the time.
"Thanks for ruining my one break, pig. Why don't you go harrass someone who doesn't work for a living?"
Peter turns on his signal and starts bearing over to the shoulder when the Mercedes fishtails across the roadway spinning out of control just as two of three (the front two) policecars follow suit.
The Mercedes crosses the double-yellows and right in front of the rig, sliding perilously off the road only to be stopped by a mountainous snowdrift. Peter's survival instincts kick in, dropping the rig out gear and desperately trying to avoid a jack-knife. He does so but unavoidably sideswipes the Mercedes' right side just as one of policecars gives the rig a glancing blow to it's own left side as the other cop smashes head-on into the rig's grill.
Airbags inside the rig deploy and seatbelts tighten, thus avoiding any of Alice's Adventures through the Windshield Glass (TM).
"Those fuckers were AIMING for us!" Artis shouts, muffled, from the airbag. "Move over, move over!" he tries to extricate himself from the crash position and climb into the driver's seat.
Peter pulls out his Leatherman and extricates himself and Artis from the half-inflated airbags.
Looking out the slightly spider-webbed, blood-spattered windscreen, the duo see what's left of the police cruiser smoldering in front of the rig. It appears the driver took a header right through his windscreen, his remains unceremoniously splattered on the rig's grill, windows, and surrounding roadway. The officer riding shotgun is currently nowhere to be found although the passenger side door is ajar.
The Lada is (as mentioned above) smoldering in a heap of twisted metal, plastic, and burning rubber. Black smoke begins to seep from underneath its hood.
Artis looks out his side mirror and sees the Mercedes they sideswiped buried halfway (front end) into the adjacent snowbank. The driver appears to be OK as he is desperately trying to open his door.
Peter peers into his side mirror and sees policecar #2 (the one that sideswiped the rig) off on the opposite side of the highway penciled-in to the snowbank up to its tail-lights. About 1/2km down the road behind the rig is the only policecar that managed to steer clear of the accident. It is currently turning around and making its way back towards the scene.
Goose takes the driver's seat, doing a cursory check of the rig's gauges and indicators. Everything's in the green or in the middle.
"I'm sorry miss, but this really is important." He pulls out his FBI badge and shows it to her. "I'm not with the FSB. I'm with the FBI, and I'm trying to find this woman because she's been missing for the past few months. Her family is really concerned for her. Have you seen her?"
Peter shakes his head, partially trying to clear it from the crash, but also answering Goose's question.
"The electronic warfare suite is on back-order..."
Then his eyes fall upon the radio set in the dashboard, and he cracks an evil grin.
"On the other hand, we're trying to jam cops."
He grabs the radio's headset to listen in and a loose Britney Spears CD, inserting it into the truck's stereo. Then, carefully, he begins to adjust the frequency.
"Police Unit 4, come in..."
Still smiling, he starts the CD and holds the radio's microphone to the speakers.
I don't need permission, made my own decision...that's my prerogative...
Siberian Hwy: Mile Marker #223, 251km east of Krasnoyarsk
Upon hearing the skanky songstress over the radio, the lone policecar accelerates, closing the distance between himself and the rig while Artis weighs his options.
"I know you probably don't want to hear this, but I'm straight out of caltrops and EMP grenades. Do you actually have a plan, or do we need to invoke the laws of physics?"
Quote: from Punkey on 7:26 pm on Dec. 17, 2004
"I'm sorry miss, but this really is important." He pulls out his FBI badge and shows it to her. "I'm not with the FSB. I'm with the FBI, and I'm trying to find this woman because she's been missing for the past few months. Her family is really concerned for her. Have you seen her?"
The woman puts her half-smoked cigarette out on the sole of her shoe and stands up.
"FBI...hmm? I suppose if you were not who you say you are you would not be standing here in the middle of Siberia freezing your gonads off. Now put away that badge, someone inside might get the wrong idea and shoot you...and I've already had my share of gunshot wounds today."
CrazyIvan
