…DOESN’T MEAN MUCH, DOESN’T MEAN ANYTHING AT ALL

By Aaron Stanley

As Domino slid out the empty clip, she reviewed the situation. Bullet in the arm, after getting shot in the abdomen mere days before, no tactical support, little to no ammo, two man sniper team moving to get an angle on her, and a five-man kill team chopping down trees with machine guns. She knew her options for escape were limited. When the police showed up, and they’d still be at least 20 minutes out, it’d be a one or two man patrol car, coming to investigate the reports. Then it’d be another 20 minutes before tactical police showed up. That was almost an hour.

As she leaned against a tree to catch her breath, she muttered to herself, “Girl, if you make it through the next four minutes, the rest will take care of itself.” She popped one of her last few clips into her gun, and listened.

As a twig snapped, she came around the tree, gun high, and spotted the harmless bunny that had been fleeing from the approaching kill team. They spotted Domino and opened fire. She took off in one direction, and the frightened hare did the same. She ran, as fast as she could back towards the highway, hoping the sniper team had moved, and would be out of position for a shot. She figured she’d find out as she crested the rise, and slid down the other side, bullets peppering the ground. She looked up, and the motorway looked like a war zone. Her (admittedly stolen) car sat just off the shoulder of the motorway. Cars were piled up around it, as she’d not made a graceful lane change while under fire. She ran to the car, grabbed the bag containing the artefact she’d stolen from AIM, than stopped to catch her breath.

She gave herself fifteen seconds; then she got up, and started moving along the ridge. She figured if she did well, she could move along one side, and when the kill team came over, she could go over the other side. She’d only be able to try that trick once or twice, so she had to make sure that she was prepared with another plan, for when that tactic stopped working.

She tried to recall if she’d ever been in a situation like this with Cable. The ultimate survivalist, he’d been in every situation, had all the advice. She recalled a similar situation. It was a story that Cable told her of when he was leading a team, and they got ambushed on the road way. She recalled how it ended, and tried to focus on the now. Thinking of a team that got shot up pretty bad wasn’t helping.

Finally, she saw a cop car approaching, on the other side of the median. She could run, try to make it to the police vehicle. It was a long way, across open ground, and the car was unshielded. However, she could use it to get away, possibly, if the police would listen to her. She decided not to, seeing as it looked like Mr. Magoo climbing out of the car. He walked down the expressway, and seemed to halt the kill team in its tracks. She took cover under some bushes and watched. She realized the officer was holding the team where it was, and took her chance. She ran to the police car, all the while expecting gunfire that never came. She jumped into the car, keyed the ignition, and slammed it into reverse, driving into now oncoming traffic. It was only a short way to an access to the other side of the highway, and she was free of the kill team for now. She looked at her arm, which wasn’t as bad as she’d thought. It had hit her, but only in the meat of the arm, so it could be taken care of easily. She drove into London, and ditched the car in a side street, taking the emergency med kit. She sat on the steps of an old, run-down factory and pulled the bullet out. She pondered keeping it, but instead tossed it. She cleaned the wound, and then did a piss-poor job of stitching it, before wrapping the wound and setting off.

She walked to the end of the street, got her bearings again, and set off for White Hart Lane, where her storage locker was. She’d rented it five years ago, cash, prepaid, and was glad to finally have a use for it.

It took her almost an hour to get there, and she was getting exhausted. She’d been running for a few days, with new bullet wounds appearing every other day. ‘That’s good,” she thought to herself as she eased the door of the office open, ‘tomorrow is bullet free.’

“Hello, can I help you?” the young man behind the counter said. He looked about 18.

“Hello. I’m a client, I have a locker here, I was wondering if you could buzz me in,” she asked. The doors required the front desk clerk to open them for a client, quite a nuisance, but helpful in some cases.

“Yes,” the kid said, looking at her tattered, blood stained clothes.

She looked at her arm. “Oh this, I hit a deer back down the express. Bugger went through the windshield, got a horn in my arm,” she said, by way of explaining. It should have troubled her that lying came this easy, but it didn’t.

“Antlers,” the clerk, whose name tag read “John L.”, said.

“Sorry?”

“Deer’s have antlers, miss,” John L said.

“Thanks. I’ll remember that the next time one attacks my Fiat. The door?” Domino said, motioning to the security door.

“Right,” the young man said, buzzing the door. He shook his head, and went back to watching the small TV on the desk.

As Domino entered the facility, she instantly recalled the way to her locker. She liked to use numbers that related to the longitude and latitude of major cities. This city being London, those bearings were 51 degrees, 30 minutes North, by 0 degrees, 7 minutes West. That meant that her locker was number 510. She followed the signs to the hall where her locker was. When she arrived, she pulled out the hairpin she always kept in her hair, and bent it before popping it into the lock. She always used locks that were easy to pick, because she often couldn’t count on having the key.

The lock popped open, and she pushed the door up. Turning on the light, she saw a small locker, with a cot, some racks for weapons, and some small supplies. She closed the door behind her, and sat on the cot. Domino wanted to rest, just close her eyes, but she couldn’t count on having long.

She opened the crate of food and water that she’d stashed under the cot, and opened an MRE. While standing for Meal, Ready to Eat, she would have been hard-pressed to call if digestible, let alone edible. Having no options, she shovelled it down, washed down with lots of water, and swallowed a handful of mixed pills. Some iron, some vitamins, and a handful of other things she’d put in a baggie.

Next, she cleaned one of the guns. This drop spot had been set up quickly, so she only had an old AR-15. She checked that it was clean, no rust or rot, and grabbed a duffle bag. She filled it with as many loaded clips as she had, filled her clips for her Desert Eagle, and grabbed two extra boxes of ammo for each weapon, stuffing it all into a duffle bag. She changed clothes, and when she closed the locker 15 minutes after entering it, she felt like a new mutant. Now that the playing field was a little more even, she decided to get her other drop, which she had kept in a separate locker for absolutely no reason other than her own paranoia.

She went to locker number 307 and eased it open. It was down one of the narrower passages and thus it was well covered. She quickly opened the small case that housed the little black book that housed her emergency contact numbers, and then left the locker. As she passed John, she smiled.

“Excuse me, where’s the nearest hotel with a public pay phone?”

“That’s the Winchester. Three blocks down, two over. Big old place,” the young man replied. He turned back to the TV, on which a football game was being played. Domino left the storage facility, and walked the short distance to the hotel.

When she arrived at the front of the building, she cursed herself for trusting an 18 year old to be a good judge of class. However, seeing as she was down to less than 100 Euros, she decided that the old adage of “any port in a storm” held true. She walked in, and got the cheapest room she could, which ate up 50 of her last Euros. She went up to her room, booby-trapped the door so that anyone trying to enter unsolicited would get a nice surprise, then sat on the bed and pulled the phone to her lap. She opened her book, and dialled the first number that was on the first page. It went to an automated message board, where she punched in a five digit code, then a three number password, then another phone number. After being transferred automatically twice, a phone began to ring.

“Jackson International Holdings, how may I direct your call?” said the polite voice on the other line.

Domino looked at her notes, and spoke into the receiver. “I’d like to speak to the One-Eyed Puffer,” she said.

“I’m sorry, there’s no one here by that name,” came the reply.

Domino cursed under her breath. It figured that Nick Fury, codename One-Eyed Puffer, wouldn’t be in charge of SHIELD on the one day she needed him.

“Then may I please speak to the three Ds?” she asked, hoping that Dum Dum Dugan was still working for SHIELD.

“Ma’am, I’m afraid to say that there is no one here by that name. I’m afraid that I’ll have to let you go, as I have other calls on hold,” said the too-polite SHIELD agent that was manning the outpost to which Domino was calling. Domino hated that the calls were routed through six different countries, but that was SHIELD.

Domino scratched her brain for any contact in SHIELD she could think of. If Nick and Dum Dum were out, most of the rest of her contacts would be as well. She finally hit upon one option.

“What about Gabriel Jones, is he available?” she asked, certain that the SHIELD agent would hang up.

“One moment please, transferring your call now.”

Domino sighed. She couldn’t believe that her old fling was still working for SHIELD, and that he was well-known enough to be able to have a screener know his extension.

“Gabriel Jones,” said the voice on the other end of the line.

“Gabby, this is Domino. How are you?” she said, in the sweetest voice she could manage.

Gabriel was shocked. He figured he’d never hear from Domino again after their brief time together had ended. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, here’s the thing. I’m in a bit of a spot, and I could use your help. I feel bad asking, and I wouldn’t if I wasn’t so stuck. I’m up against it here.”

Gabriel thought about it for a moment. While he was loath getting involved in whatever situation Domino found herself in, he was looking for someone to fill a position that would align itself to Domino’s specific set of skills.

“What kind of spot are you in?” he asked, not sure he truly wanted to know.

“Well, as near as I can figure, I’m carrying an object of some importance, seeing as I have the director of the CIA sending kill teams into London looking to get it. I have no money, little to no tactical weapons of any kind, and I can’t think of any way out. Is there a safe house I can use nearby?”

“Wow, Dom, you really dug yourself in deep,” Gabriel said, whistling. “To get the CIA sending a kill team after you, you’d have to have something real important.”

“Thanks, I figured,” Domino said. “Will you help, or not, because if not I need to get moving.”

Gabriel thought for a moment. “Sure. I’ll see what I can do to buy you some time. In the meantime, get over to Heathrow. I’ve just booked you a ticket to get from where you are to Madripoor. It’s under a company by the name of Stylistic Impressions. You can pick it up with any passport as long as you know the company name. Plane leaves in about six hours, so get some sleep.”

“Thanks Gabby,” she said, before hanging up the phone. She lay back on the bed, and set the small alarm for an hour and a half. It wouldn’t take her long to get to the airport, but she’d have to clear customs. She closed her eyes, and drifted off to sleep.

To be continued!