WHAT HAPPENS HERE…

By Aaron Stanley

As Domino arrived at the market, she looked around for the car matching the car keys. She paid the cabbie, and walked into the parking lot, pressing the electronic lock button on the keychain. She saw a set of headlights flash down the stack, and walked towards it, pressing the button a few more times to confirm it was her car. Before she got in, she looked in the trunk.

‘Ample room for stowing away a small bag,’ she thought to herself, placing the bag under the spare tire. She then climbed in, adjusted the mirrors, and drove out of the parking lot, before she entered her destination into the navigation system. “Paris, France,” she said, keeping her eyes out for any pursuit. When she didn’t spot any, she merged onto the A6, and put the pedal down, accelerating to 100 km/h quickly, before setting the cruise control, and relaxing a bit.

It was almost 5 hours later before she got to Paris, after stopping to get something to eat, about 50 miles outside Reims, France. She didn’t want to stop in any cities too large along the way, in chase an alert had been posted about her. She’d had no trouble with customs; using one of the passports she keeps on her at all times, this one a Russian passport. The four she kept had one from each of the major continents on which she works, which meant an American passport, a Russian passport, an Italian one, and one that had her being a citizen of Brazil.

As she pulled into the parking lot of a small hotel on a side street, she tried to remember what she could about her brief days in Paris. Other than a basic layout, and a few other details, she couldn’t remember any of the stuff that she ought to. So, she decided to see if she had any contacts at any of the embassies around town. Again, her passports came in handy, as she used them to meet various contacts. It was the Brazilian embassy that led her to Host. The lead took her to a small dive bar off the street, frequented by mercenary and intelligence types. Scuttlebutt, according to the Brazilian security officer, was that she was staying there, looking for contracts.

Domino hoped that she had enough cash on her, but she figured if Host wouldn’t take $100,000, there’s nothing Domino could do. She wouldn’t be missed for another 10 hours. She thanked anyone listening that the Concorde had been retired. If not for the future being put in a museum, her window of opportunity would be closing in 2 hours. Domino walked up to the bar, and slapped down a hundred euro note. “Looking for someone named Host,” she said quietly to the bartender. He inclined his head towards a young woman playing a game of pool against some of the other patrons of the bar.

Domino smiled, a shark in her element. As the men lost, and Host collected her money, Domino walked up to her.

“Challenge you to a match?” she asked the young woman.

“Name your stakes,” Host said. She obviously didn’t know who she was dealing with.

“I win, you do a job at a discounted rate. I run the table, and you do it for half price,” Domino said. “And you get the break.”

Host considered this, as she chalked her cue. “Fine,” she said. She racked the balls, and moved into position to break.

She struck the ball solidly, and the game was on.

Five minutes later…

“You cheated,” Host said, accusing Domino.

“How? I used the same cue as you, and let you shoot first. If you’re trying to renege on the deal, then we’re going to have a problem.”

Host sighed heavily. “You might as well grab a booth. We’ll talk about the job over drinks, and you’re buying.”

“Much as I’d love to, I have an appointment with a non-extradition, fifth world country, where nobody knows your name. And you have a job to do,” Domino replied. “Now, I’m going to give you a name, $50,000, and then we’re going to go our ways. I only have three conditions on this contract. Either you kill the target, confirm the kill, and we never speak again. Or you miss, in which case, we never speak again. I see you; I’ll put a bullet between those pretty eyes of yours.”

“You’re a mean old girl, aren’t you?” Host said. “Who’s the target?”

“General Kazon Catsoff, USAF,” Domino said. “How you kill him is up to you. Have a good day,” the older mutant said, moving out of the bar. She went to another cheap motel nearby, and got a room for the night. Taking a small grenade out of her small travel bag, Domino rigged the door so anyone trying to enter would be a smear on the floor, walls, and ceiling. She showered, and went to bed, setting the alarm for 5 a.m. She wanted to be out of Paris while she was still within her window, which was down to 9 hours.

Early the next morning, Domino slipped out the back door of the hotel. She pondered her next problem as she climbed into her car. How to get to Madripoor? She didn’t have a safe drop anywhere in France, the closest was London. Her car didn’t have enough gas to get there, and she didn’t have much money left. She drove around until she found a car park. She felt bad doing it, but she broke into several cars, until she found one that would be inconspicuous, and hotwired it. Figured, there was barely any gas in it. She kept this up for almost an hour. She was happy to see most people had locks on their gas caps, but disappointed that she had to waste time boosting a car.

Finally, she found one that was full, and fit her profile of under-the-radar. She cleaned her old car, and parked it in the same spot, leaving the keys under the seat. The person upgraded from an old Citron to a BMW. Hopefully that would get them over the upset of losing their vehicle. She got in the car, and set off to the outskirts of Paris, merging onto the A1.

3 Hours Later…

Domino pulled into Calais just two hours after her timer had run out. At this point, Catsoff would know she wasn’t going to show up, and would be sending people after her. She had to get to her drop, fast, and get to the Channel Tunnel. A thought struck her, however, and she turned the wheel. She drove out of town, and with her last bit of money, got on the Dover Folkstone-Calais Train. Catsoff was smart, knew all the same people, and might already have been watching her. The Tunnel would be watched most closely, and be the expected way into England.

Domino shook her head. “This is the stuff that gets you killed, girl,” she said to herself, looking in a mirror. She knew that trying to figure out the other side’s move was impossible, and trying to figure it out would drive her insane. She settled into her seat, and enjoyed the ride.

Once in England, she got right onto the M20. She might have just enough gas to get her to London. Once there she could walk to the bank, if needed.

As it turned out, she did need to walk, but that was because fifteen kilometres short of London, her tire suddenly blew out. She tried her best to get to the shoulder, and almost had it done when the window exploded. The bullet just missed her, hitting the dash. And that’s what it obviously was, as another one came slamming into the car, seconds later, noticeably rocking it on its tires. Domino lay down on the front bench seat, and kicked the passenger door open.

She felt her heart rate slow, and she took a deep breath. ‘Where are they? How many? Firing what?’ she thought to herself. Her mind already had answers. ‘At least two shooters, with a kill team in a 5 kilometre area, waiting to move in while the snipers pinned her down. One sniper was firing true shooter’s load, seeing as the nearest rise she saw on the other side of the highway was at least 600 metres, which probably meant an M24 Sniper system. That meant military trained personnel, so it had to be Catsoff. The other shooter had a big load, firing shells that rocked the car. It couldn’t be a .50 cal, seeing as that would have punched holes as it passed through the car. Probably the Thor XM408, which was almost as devastating.

Knowing all that, she could time how long it took each sniper to expend all his rounds. Since the one-sided battle had started, she’d heard at least 8 shots. That meant that at most, there were only two more bullets up there. She stood up slowly to let them get a peak, and ducked back down. The M24 shell arrived, with another one from the same gun coming a second later. “Definitely pros on fire speed, let’s see how you reload,” Domino said. She pushed off the car, and run up the side of the embankment on her side of the highway. It was a gentle grade, but 15 foot to the top when shells started hammering the ground to her side and feet. ‘They are good,’ she said to herself, throwing her body over the top of the hill. Now came the fun part, as she ran into the kill team, who looked surprised to see her. She pulled her smuggled Desert Eagle XIX. It fired a .357 Magnum, and damn near tore her hand off when she fired it, and fired it she did. She fired 4 of the 10 rounds in 2 seconds, moving away from the team at a sprint. Domino smiled at the small look of surprise on the teams faces. She knew her guns, knew how to shoot them, and knew how to prepare herself for moments like this. She always kept a full clip, with one in the chamber in her guns. When she was cleaning a gun, she had another one loaded and within arm’s reach. She’d learned that from Cable. “Guns don’t kill people, cleaning your gun without a backup kill’s people,” he’d say often.

Whether his training or her luck was what got her moving after one of the killers put a bullet in her arm, she’ll never know, but she was glad that she was still up and moving. The next bullet hit a tree trunk behind where her head used to be. As she assessed the situation, she came to one conclusion.

“I am so poached,” she said aloud as the hammer clicked on an empty chamber.

To be continued!