Garryll Gates had never met an order he hadn't liked. On top of that, on his tours of duty, he'd met the new XO, Rogueboy, dozens of times; he'd served under, beside, and over the man; he had the utmost respect for the Stormtrooper. He'd followed some sinful orders over the years - burned down a village, killed dozens of civvies, executed civilian and military officers, interrogated a dozen or so men and women, killed hundreds of soldiers, blown up several ships, factories and municipal buildings, and had even done some sanctioned assassinations.
Killing one Sullustan woman, he mused to himself,
Will really just be one more black mark on my already stained record for the afterlife. And my Black-ops record, but meh.He hadn't betrayed a single iota of thought when the new "old man" had given his briefing, standing still, tall and stoically as he'd handed out targets. Gates liked to think of himself as at least a master of his trade - that was, killing people - and flt some token of pride at having been selected.
But this... If the XO wanted this woman dead, she'd get dead. But please, sir, don't tie my hands! No collateral damage? He'd apparently missed Blackjack's after-action report history. Gates
was Blackjack, and Blackjack's motto was enough was never enough. Gates sighed; he was almost out of his depth, but he'd figure something out - or he'd find someone to figure it out for him. He grinned. It'd been a while since he'd seen Conrad.
Decided, he flipped his comlink open, and stabbed at one of the top speed-dials. "Con?"
"Gare?" the man's voice came back. "It's been too long, old friend. What can I do for you?"
"I've got an assignment you'd like," Gates said, grinning at his oldest friend's voice. "Meet me outside Saint Vader's in half an hour."
"You know how much I hate that damn hospital," Conrad said, but there was a grin in his voice. "Seeya in a bit."
Garryll shut the device off and tucked it into his pocket; he continued down the hallway, intent on catching a speeder to the infamously-named Military hospital inSianat . The first speeder taxi to appear Gates climbed in, checking the powerful duty blaster he kept on and handed the surprisingly clean driver a handful of small-denomination credit chips. The man grinned and drove quickly and efficiently to the Stormtrooper's spoken destination. A handful of minutes later, and he was stepping out of the taxi, gratefully accepting the driver's business card.
Conrad, Gates' childhood friend, was loitering outside the drab ex-military hospital, eating from a bag of peanuts. At the sight of Gates, he tucked the bag into his pocket and hugged the man. "Been too long, brother. Ah, I see you've got some fancy new chevrons."
"And I see you still have the same old dusty ones, Con," Gates grinned at the man, tapping the career trooper's burnished sergeant's chevrons.
"Not all of us can be Heroes of the Empire," Conrad said. "So; to business. Mind if we walk and talk? And by the way, my sister says hello."
"Tell Katie I say hello, then," Gates replied. "And to business; I've got orders to remove a rather insignificant person from their woeful existence."
"Does this person deserve it?"
"I doubt it, but orders is orders."
"Who's the unfortunate?"
"One Recknac Tel, Sullustan Female, Hairstylist of all things."
"Big deal, take her out at home," Conrad said, his voice devoid of emotion. Garryll appreciated his ability to switch from friend to advisor in one smooth motion.
"She lives with a Warren-clan which would violate the "no collateral damage" bit of the orders, and orders also call for a body no one will ever find."
"Your boss is picky."
"Picky he is."
"Alright, how about you take her out between work and home, then; just garrote her or somethin'," Conrad stopped talking long enough to flash a charming smile at a passing woman who was pretty attractive. She smiled back, but kept walking. He refocused. "Ideally, you'd just shoot her and her entire family at home and drop some racist xeno-hating group evidence all over the scene, right?"
"That's as far as my imagination extends."
"Well, that's why I made Intelligence muscle and you're just one of those dumb-grunt rank-and-file Stormies."
"Please, it's First Sergeant Dumb-grunt."
"Wait, you said Sullustan, right?"
"Uh, yeah," Gates said, checking the datapad's notes. "Yeah, Sullustan."
"So hit her at home, easy enough."
"I don't follow."
"Flash-bang plus super-sensitive Sullustan eyes and ears?"
"They'll be out for the count for hours. Long enough for me a snatch-and-run."
"Aye, sure as sure."
"Thanks, Con," Gates said, gripping Conrad Griffin by the forearm. "Lifesaver, as always. Can always count on you."
"Got some leave coming up any time soon? We can hit the casinos, and my uncle wants to hear some more of your "Elite Stormies" stories."
"Will do, Con, have a good one."
Conrad nodded and waved for a taxi; Gates continued to walk, running logistics through his head. To acquire: one flashbang grenade; one weapon; ammunition; some sort of identity-concealment; place to dispose of the body.
He decided he could find most of that stuff in his own apartments - his personal armory under his bunk would have what he needed, and he could find abalaclava or something. Decided, he hailed a taxi and called took a quick trip back to Sexton.
Moving with purpose, now, he marched quickly through the halls of the Stormtrooper Fort. Barracks were scattered across the massive complex, and the renownedWildcard and Storm Platoons were housed near its center, each having provided a host of the top officers in recent memory. Blackjack's barracks were just one of a half-dozen.
Gates opened the main building's door, and slipped inside; his squad was about, sleeping, eating or a dozen different things Stormtroopers did to entertain themselves. He swept past all of them into the Blackjack officer's room, a significantly larger room for the SL. He opened up a closet and sorted through a pile of folded uniforms, pulling out a long black case. He popped the two locks on it by inputting a five-digit code into each tiny keypad.
Inside was a tiny, anonymous armory. He pulled on a pair of leather gloves, which lacked any trace of his own DNA as of yet, a sterile kit he'd assembled over the years for the exact purpose of Black-Ops; guns with their serial numbers filed off, knives that were totally anonymous, tiny explosives and poisons that were unidentifiable or incredibly common. He removed a small handgun, a pair of flash-bang grenades and a short, wickedly serrated knife.
So armed, he closed the case again and stowed it back into his closet, replacing some uniforms on top of it. After a few more moments' thought, he pulled on a dark jacket and stuffed a balaclava into his pocket before leaving his room once more. The troopers of Blackjack displayed equal apathy to his exit as to his entrance. He walked briskly from the base, consulting a map and the exact location of his target's home. Finally, having memorized the data, he wiped the instructions from the device and set off in the direction of theundercity entrance.
It was rush hour; there were thousands of people in the streets of Sianat, moving into or out of the undercity, seeking pleasure or sleep or pay. His target would be going home, to the warmth of her tiny, underground apartment, to her family. Gates pitied her for a moment, such an insignificant person - one of the great unwashed masses. Not like him - he was a soldier, he had purpose.
The crowds pressed down; he moved quickly and efficiently through it, making sure to keep his hands near his sides and wary for pickpockets or other riff-raff. Finally, the undercity's main area was visible, an unclean, crowded area of tiny merchants, pleasure dens, bars, cantinas and apartments. It was a suffocating mass of sentient beings and the squalor some lived in. He breathed in, acclimating his senses to the stench of this underground city, clearing his senses of the comparatively cleanSianat upper-city.
Again, he set off, traveling down the center of the lane, ignoring the cries of hookers, merchants and the homeless. Gates' pace was brisk, intent on finishing the job as soon as possible and to return to the hygiene of the military base, or at least to the city. He grimaced as a large rat skittered past through a puddle of brown liquid.
As he walked, he considered the disposal of the soon-to-be-deceased Ms. Tel. An incinerator would be the perfect place - but he could use a couple gallons of gasoline and a few matches, wrap that up and put it in a trash can.
His brisk pace led him into the main drag of apartments; aliens and gaunt humans walked the streets, some poor, some electing to live in the dark. Gates shook his head in amazement, and entered a squat apartment building. The registry, a battered collection of plastic-covered names, said the Tel Warren-Clan was in room 02 U, a floor below. It was the only occupied room in the underground level. Behind him, the street door opened and closed, and a scrawny Rodian walked past him up the stairs.
He knew where his target was; now it was only a matter of a few dozen meters. The hunt was almost over, and he would soon win. Gates descended the stairs, pulling on his balaclava as he went. A singled door could be dimly seen by the lacking light from the main apartment lobby. It was featureless, and he approached it, hand gripping the flash-bang grenade in his pocket. His other hand reached up and knocked lightly. The door was opened by a maleSullustan.
"Excuse me," Garryll said, politely. "Does Recknac Tel here?"
"Indeed she does," said the short alien. "Why?"
"I believe I may have found something that belongs to her; I'd like to give it back."
"Okay. Recknac!"
A few moments later, another Sullustan replaced the first at the door. "I am Recknac; what do you have for me?"
"This, my dear," Gates said, in the same polite voice, as withdrew the flash-bang grenade from his pocket, activated it, and hurled it into the room in one smooth motion. He ducked behind the wall, and covered his ears.
A moment later, 130 decibels of raw noise and 3 million watts of light exploded from the device. Even through his hands and the ear plugs he'd stuffed in, he could hear ringing. And if he was hurting, behind six inches of rock and protection, theSullustans ' hyper-sensitive vision and hearing would be out of commission for hours. He stepped around the corner, activating a large flash light. The powerful hand-held lantern played over the prone forms of a dozenSullustans of varying height, weight and age. He walked in carefully, and picked the spent grenade back up - leave no evidence.
He turned again pulling off the mask while he did, and pulled the unconscious form of Recknac Tel to her feet, throwing one of her arms over his shoulders. He staggered out of the apartment building, his inner ear still slightly off by the assault on his senses. He ignored - and was ignored - by the undercity denizens - to them, he was just one more person who was carrying a drunk home.
Gates dropped his charge in an abandoned alley, and, just to be on the safe side, pulled his handgun from his pocket, placed its silencer on, and pumped three shots into the woman's chest, followed by one more in her forehead. Blood spilled from her mortal injuries, but Gates had already covered her in newspaper and turned the corner. A small fuel station was selling gasoline to the city's inhabitants, and Gates sighed in resignation; there really wouldn't be any dignified way to dispose of her body.
He approached the station, digging in his pockets for some small-denomination credit chips, and got a gallon of fuel in a disposable container. He lugged it back to the alley, and placed it next to the body. Further investigation of the alley uncovered a rusty dumpster, with fossilized trash inside. Gates wrapped the quickly-cooling body ofRecknac Tel in newspapers, and tossed it in, followed by a healthy dash of gasoline.
"I apologize for your death," he mumbled. "May whatever deity you believe in have mercy on your soul, or your chi, or...fuck it."
Gates removed a matchbox from his pocket, and lit one up. Its tiny flame burned bright in the half-twilight of the undercity, and he tossed it into the dumpster. The gasoline burned bright for a moment, until Gates slammed the lid back onto the dumpster, leaving a large enough hole for oxygen to enter and keep the fire burning until it ran out of fuel.
"It's done," Garryll Gates muttered to himself. "I sure as hell hope you're happy, sir."
