2007-10-30: Desperado


Jack_icon.gif Rook_icon.gif

Summary: Define 'Desperado'

* A piece that seems determined to give itself up, typically either to bring about stalemate

* A piece to sell itself as dearly as possible in a situation where both sides have hanging pieces.

October 30, 2007


Medical Storage Facility - White Square

"Okay," Jack reiterates. "In the back, open the bay doors for the truck crew," he pauses to gesture at the moving van that's idling nearby. "Load up, and ship out. Should be easy beans. I know enough about the layout that I'm pretty sure we won't get lost, just make sure you pick out all the best lab equipment when we get there." It's not the most reassuring of pep talks, but he's always been a man who leads with actions rather than words. "And try not to get shot. I don't have a medic yet."

Though tonight should be a milk run, Jack is outfitted for action. He's wearing a form-fitting black shirt under a Kevlar vest, loose black cargo pants, and light, soft-soled shoes. A silenced pistol is strapped to one hip and a bandoleer with bulging pockets is slung around his shoulders. In short, he's traveling light.

"Uh huh." That would normally be something that means he's paying attention, but Rook is, at the moment, playing a video game. PSP to be exact. Some game bout shooting people. He's only halfway listening and looks up after Jack's voice is no longer in his ear. "Say wha— oh! Right!"

Stashing the PSP into the pocket of his jacket, he spins around to do that bay door opening sequence, before focusing his attention on Jack, once more. "Hey. When was the last time I got shot? I mean, that time in Seattle doesn't count. There were circumstances." And, well, that's about the gist of what he has to say. As for his attire, he looks more like he's dressed for a concert than a top secret mission. He's not even wearing armor. But the leather jacket is pretty sweet.

"Nnng," Jack grunts. "I thought I told you not to bring that goddamn thing with you. And put your mask on, dick." He rolls his eyes at the hurriedly stashed PSP as he pulls a surgeon's mask over his face to conceal his identity. "Remember, guard change only lasts three minutes."

As soon as Rook takes position, his Irish cohort is already turning to wave the truck crew forward. They inch the vehicle toward the door in reverse and cut the engine when it's only a few inches away. The man who slides out of the driver's seat is enormous. Like Jack, he's wearing dark clothing and has a surgeon's mask across his nose and mouth.

Unlike the rest of the crew, Rook can't be as bland as a surgeon's mask. In fact, he's decided to go with something a little more up his own alley. Lifting up, he reaches into his back pocket and comes out with a mask that he pulls over his face. He peeks his head out to look closer at Jack and pulls on the annoying voice that everyone hates, "Meesa' take care of everyyyyyyting! No worriesa!" Yeah, the mask that's being worn is Jar-Jar Binks. If this doesn't confuse any security cameras that he doesn't take out, nothing will.

Rook sets about to checking his own weapons and making sure they're all loaded and things of that nature. He's carrying a couple of Berettas and a third of the Desert Eagle fame. Yeah, he's definitely ready to do some damage. No silencers are on his weapons, if anybody cares to notice.

Jack sucks in a deep, calming breath through clenched teeth. "If you don't burn that thing when we get home," he mutters, "I'm going to kill you. Swear to Christ. Now go open the door." He pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, the universal sign for 'YOU ARE GIVING ME HEADACHE KTHX.' "There should be a control panel next to it. Works with a keycard."

"Yes, dear." Rook says with a crazy whine, before he ends up heading off towards the door. Maybe he's been playing around too much, but he's definitely the man for the job that's coming up. He slides right up to the door and reaches on his side to pull off a small device. Whisting the theme from That's So Raven, Rook slides a card into the slot and flips a couple of switches on the little device. Numbers start scrolling like mad, for a total number of seven. One after another they come to a halt and finally, the seventh number locks into place… just as Rook ends his whistling rendition of the Disney classic.

The light on the control panel switches from red to green and the door clicks! "Open wide." With a grin, he starts reeling the cord back in, while stepping back to allow Jack to run this show.

Rook is lucky that Jack doesn't recognise the tune.

Very lucky.

He beckons the truck back a few more feet and steps into the small warehouse they've just gained access to. Located on the waterfront, Jack had heard it was being used as a storage area for a great deal of high-end research equipment. He heard right. The enormous room is stacked high with wooden crated that have clearly-written labels on the sides. "SCOPES - MICRO, MACRO, INFRARED." "BEAKERS, PIPETS, SLIDES." "CENTRIFUGE(2)"

It's all there. Everything from the most modest microscope to a hospital-grade biopsy kit. Jack drags open the hatch on the back of the moving van, revealing two more men wearing surgeon's masks. "Take anything that looks expensive," he orders them. "And anything Rook tells you to."

"No no. Take /everything/ that looks expensive." Jar-Jar Rooks explains, before he steps into the room and clicks on a flashlight. The flashlight is being shined around, though he ends up heading straight for the most expensive equipment in the back. There are too many things in here for him to figure out, but he's definitely moving off towards the stuff that will assist in lab equipment. "Oooooh. Lookie lookie. These are nice." He taps a couple of big crates that are marked with some kind of stuff that will be expressly useful in the realm of whatever it is that Jack is going to need this stuff for. "Oh and get needles. Lots of needles. Me, personally? I hate needles. But if he's as kinky as I think he still is? We're going to need lots of needles…"

The movers have been paid enough to earn their unquestioning obedience, insofar as moving things goes. They do as they're told, forming an improvised bucket chain and hauling box after box into the back of the van.

Jack glances down at his watch. "Time's up," he whispers, despite the vehicle only being about two thirds full. "Take it all back to the lockup and unload it. The second half of your payment is there. Black briefcase. Combination is 7849."

Again, the movers do as their told without questioning. The original driver climbs into the cab and the two assistant porters hop up next to the cargo.

When they've taken off, Jack glances back at Rook and then jerks his head in the direction of the control panel. "Let's leave everything how we found it and the hell out of here."

Maybe Rook thought he could get away with something, but he's right in the middle of shaking up a can of spray paint when the order comes from Jack to leave everything the way it is. After all, he was going to leave his calling card. Since he's been on his own, he's invented a calling card. It was all, well, hard for him to get work being a man that didn't exist, after all. "You're driving." Stuffing the spray can down into his pocket, he's grabbing up another piece of equipment as he starts to head out of the place. Maybe just a little souvenir.

"Of course I'm driving," Jack replies shortly. "And what's with the spraypaint? I don't remember you being such an idio—OWWW!"

Near the end of Jack's sentence, a rottweiler springs out of the shadows and clamps down massives jaws full of sharp teeth on his Irish ass. Immediately, Jack draws his pistol, turns, and fires in one smooth, practiced motion. There's only problem with that. He's firing at chest level, and the dog tops out somewhere around his knees. Right now there's nothing in front of the bullet but open air.

And Rook.

"It's…" Rook doesn't even get to finish saying anything. In fact, the only other thing that stops him from continuing onward is the fact that his body gets rocked something hard by the bullet. He stumbles and falls down, grunting in pain as he collides with the floor. The can of spray paint bounces out of his pocket and rolls against the floor, but poor Rook isn't really making any wisecracks. Not now. Not while blood is pouring from his chest. A little assistance with breathing would be awesome right about now.

"Rookie…?" Jack's gun falls from a suddely slack and nerveless grasp. Absently, he kicks the dog under the jaw, sending it yelping and scampering away. "Rookie, stop playing. I still remember the last time you put scrips in your shirt." He falls to his knees and presses his hands against Rook's chest. It's no joke. There's too much blood for it to be a joke. "Shit. /Shit!/ Hold on, man. Just hang in there."

Jack presses both palms over the puncture and applies pressure, but it's clear that such simple measures aren't going to get the job done. He's versed in basic field medicine, and this wound is beyond his ability to treat. "Shit!" he repeats a third time.

Bleeding to death on his first Reunion Job with Jack is not a good idea. So Rook is trying to stop himself from bleeding. It's not working out too well. He just lies there, as that's pretty much all he can do, in an effort to try and conserve his strength. That's what they say to do on all the movies, anyway. His eyes are closed and he's tilting his head back and forth, as if he's fighting the light. "Save…" He coughs, blood coming up and everything. Not a pretty sight. "… save yourself, man. Use the Force…" Uh oh. He's going the sacrificial route.

"Shut up!" Jack barks at him. His brow furrows as he studies his wounded comrade critically. Basic pressure will help, but this wound is going to need real medical treatment. Fast.

Gingerly, he slides his arms under Rook's body and braces his feet. "Sorry, Rookie. This is going to hurt," he mutters. Then, as smoothly as possible, Jack lifts him up and carries him to their getaway car.

"Ow. Ow ow ow ow ow ow…"

Rook's voice bounces with every step that Jack takes towards the getaway car. Definitely, yes. That did hurt. But at least he's not dead. Yet. The problem is going to be how the hell Jack's going to explain this to the guys at the hospital.

To Be Continued…

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