Post by Logan Blackwood on Oct 19, 2013 16:13:44 GMT -5
1100 Hours
Downtown
Washington, DC
Starbucks, what is there to say? Everyone has, for the most part, some experience with the coffee conglomerate. A societal focal point for college students, hipsters, and "writers," the world over. Logan Blackwood sat in a corner booth in the somewhat quiet location in the downtown district of Washington. In his hands was a cup of good old, american, black coffee. Steam poured from the brim of the cup, only to dissipate a few inches up. The smell of a coffee shop deserves particular mention, because if you haven't had the privilege, you have missed out. Nutty, dark aromas of fresh roasted coffee, mixing with hazelnut, steamed milk, caramel, and vanilla. All of these essences came together in a magical way - teleporting anyone, regardless of mood, to a better place, a better plane, of existence.
There was no crowd in the coffee shop today. A gentleman had taken up residence in a window seat, macbook open, typing away with vigor. His coffee did not steam, and his bagel lay untouched. At the counter, a lady in her middle ages stood guard over two squabbling post-toddlers. This was as relaxing as Logan could expect, for a city of such magnitude. Washington was always a center of chaos. Organized, and unorganized. Politicians, lobbyists, soldiers, civilians, and miscreants. All of them, in their own way, had left their mark on this cultural center. Logan missed the Georgian countryside, and was looking forward to spending time outside this city's limits, even if that meant being secluded in a military facility. He was comfortable with that. In truth, however, he wasn't used to comfort. He looked the part of the professional soldier, he even looked the part of the bureaucratic ding dong.
He looked like a man who had his shit together.
He took a sip of coffee, and his eyes glossed over, his head slouched just a bit. As with most who have seen a thing or two, Logan could not escape uncomfortable memories, regardless of how comfortable he appeared.
A memory had found him
Logan's fingers gripped tightly on the ACR he wielded. He tasted dust on his lips. His ears were ringing. He inched down the hallway, his right shoulder practically eating the plaster and mud wall as he progressed. He constantly jerked his head back down the way he had come, even knowing that Barker had his back. The ex-marine behind him, practically mirroring him, as he covered the rear. It was dark. There was no light from the house they were in. They dared not turn on a torch, or light a flare.
The wound on Logan's leg burned liquid fire. He did his best not to think of it, but that only worked so well. The insurgents had solid intel. Someone had flipped on them. His team had been using this safe house for months. The strike was coordinated, planned, and effective. 4 of Logan's team died in the initial assault. A flashbang came in from the window, and a mounted machine gun, probably a .50, opened up from the street. By grace of fallen gods, Logan was in the back of the house, taking a piss, when the attack came. James Barker was out back having a cigarette. Even through their providence, Logan had been grazed on the thigh. He must have had the luck of 10 men that night, an inch of error would have cost him the leg.
Shortly after the shooting stopped, an engine revved, and Logan could hear the vehicle speed off. Did he truly believe he was safe in this house? Not for a second. Once he found Jimmy alive and well, they gathered what supplies they could, quickly, and made their way towards the side exit. The back was walled in, and could be watched easily. The side was a secret, one of necessity. Boarded up and plastered over to look like wall, but a swift kick could bring quick escape if needed.
Salvation awaited at the end of the hallway, where another hallway connected in an L shape. This hall lead to the sleeping quarters. Nervously, Logan peeked around the corner, gun barrel following his gaze. It was empty, and the doors were all closed. Logan let out a sigh of relief. He got on one side of the large antique cabinet that obscured the escape door, while Jimmy took the other. Logan gave a quick one two three with his off hand, and they moved in unison. Logan's squad, at least, was not your run-of-the-mill contractor group. They were well trained, well equipped, and absolutely lived perfection. That is, until recently. Perfection lay motionless in the living area behind them.
Logan jerked his head abruptly as a door opened. He looked down his sights towards the sleeping quarters. The far door was now open, and a man stood looking out. He wore fatigues, digital camo, vest, and had a Glock strapped to his thigh. He was Caucasian.
"Riley, what the fuck?" Demanded Logan, his heart rate increasing.
"Hey, Logan, you made it!" came his response. His voice was shaky, and uncertain. "...and Barker too" he added
"Riley, you shipped out two days ago..." Logan said, trailing off, as his suspicions grew
"Yeah, funny thing...storm kicked up over the atlantic, we had to turn around. Figured this was more comfortable than an airport terminal. You kn-"
Logan pulled the trigger twice, hitting Riley square, center mass. The gun hardly made a sound, thanks to his top-of-the-line suppressor. The shell casings hit the ground. Riley's body fell limp to the ground. He cursed under his breath. A glance at Jimmy told him all he needed to know. Riley wouldn't have returned without reporting in. He should be back, stateside by now, storm or no. The company's learjet could fly over them. Logan motioned to the escape door.
"Kick it in, he'll have a truck outside."
Tag: <Anyone>
Downtown
Washington, DC
Starbucks, what is there to say? Everyone has, for the most part, some experience with the coffee conglomerate. A societal focal point for college students, hipsters, and "writers," the world over. Logan Blackwood sat in a corner booth in the somewhat quiet location in the downtown district of Washington. In his hands was a cup of good old, american, black coffee. Steam poured from the brim of the cup, only to dissipate a few inches up. The smell of a coffee shop deserves particular mention, because if you haven't had the privilege, you have missed out. Nutty, dark aromas of fresh roasted coffee, mixing with hazelnut, steamed milk, caramel, and vanilla. All of these essences came together in a magical way - teleporting anyone, regardless of mood, to a better place, a better plane, of existence.
There was no crowd in the coffee shop today. A gentleman had taken up residence in a window seat, macbook open, typing away with vigor. His coffee did not steam, and his bagel lay untouched. At the counter, a lady in her middle ages stood guard over two squabbling post-toddlers. This was as relaxing as Logan could expect, for a city of such magnitude. Washington was always a center of chaos. Organized, and unorganized. Politicians, lobbyists, soldiers, civilians, and miscreants. All of them, in their own way, had left their mark on this cultural center. Logan missed the Georgian countryside, and was looking forward to spending time outside this city's limits, even if that meant being secluded in a military facility. He was comfortable with that. In truth, however, he wasn't used to comfort. He looked the part of the professional soldier, he even looked the part of the bureaucratic ding dong.
He looked like a man who had his shit together.
He took a sip of coffee, and his eyes glossed over, his head slouched just a bit. As with most who have seen a thing or two, Logan could not escape uncomfortable memories, regardless of how comfortable he appeared.
A memory had found him
Logan's fingers gripped tightly on the ACR he wielded. He tasted dust on his lips. His ears were ringing. He inched down the hallway, his right shoulder practically eating the plaster and mud wall as he progressed. He constantly jerked his head back down the way he had come, even knowing that Barker had his back. The ex-marine behind him, practically mirroring him, as he covered the rear. It was dark. There was no light from the house they were in. They dared not turn on a torch, or light a flare.
The wound on Logan's leg burned liquid fire. He did his best not to think of it, but that only worked so well. The insurgents had solid intel. Someone had flipped on them. His team had been using this safe house for months. The strike was coordinated, planned, and effective. 4 of Logan's team died in the initial assault. A flashbang came in from the window, and a mounted machine gun, probably a .50, opened up from the street. By grace of fallen gods, Logan was in the back of the house, taking a piss, when the attack came. James Barker was out back having a cigarette. Even through their providence, Logan had been grazed on the thigh. He must have had the luck of 10 men that night, an inch of error would have cost him the leg.
Shortly after the shooting stopped, an engine revved, and Logan could hear the vehicle speed off. Did he truly believe he was safe in this house? Not for a second. Once he found Jimmy alive and well, they gathered what supplies they could, quickly, and made their way towards the side exit. The back was walled in, and could be watched easily. The side was a secret, one of necessity. Boarded up and plastered over to look like wall, but a swift kick could bring quick escape if needed.
Salvation awaited at the end of the hallway, where another hallway connected in an L shape. This hall lead to the sleeping quarters. Nervously, Logan peeked around the corner, gun barrel following his gaze. It was empty, and the doors were all closed. Logan let out a sigh of relief. He got on one side of the large antique cabinet that obscured the escape door, while Jimmy took the other. Logan gave a quick one two three with his off hand, and they moved in unison. Logan's squad, at least, was not your run-of-the-mill contractor group. They were well trained, well equipped, and absolutely lived perfection. That is, until recently. Perfection lay motionless in the living area behind them.
Logan jerked his head abruptly as a door opened. He looked down his sights towards the sleeping quarters. The far door was now open, and a man stood looking out. He wore fatigues, digital camo, vest, and had a Glock strapped to his thigh. He was Caucasian.
"Riley, what the fuck?" Demanded Logan, his heart rate increasing.
"Hey, Logan, you made it!" came his response. His voice was shaky, and uncertain. "...and Barker too" he added
"Riley, you shipped out two days ago..." Logan said, trailing off, as his suspicions grew
"Yeah, funny thing...storm kicked up over the atlantic, we had to turn around. Figured this was more comfortable than an airport terminal. You kn-"
Logan pulled the trigger twice, hitting Riley square, center mass. The gun hardly made a sound, thanks to his top-of-the-line suppressor. The shell casings hit the ground. Riley's body fell limp to the ground. He cursed under his breath. A glance at Jimmy told him all he needed to know. Riley wouldn't have returned without reporting in. He should be back, stateside by now, storm or no. The company's learjet could fly over them. Logan motioned to the escape door.
"Kick it in, he'll have a truck outside."
Tag: <Anyone>
Hi all