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Shootout at Room 1201
A Retelling of a Botched Police Rescue Attempt
Characters Involved (//Claim your name below if you were one of the two who's names I forgot):
Ben Linus, Mafia Member
{Defillbert}*(IC Name forgotten, remembered as 'Ski Masked Accomplice'), Mafia Member
Hank Herman, Career Criminal
Kayla Rizzo, Police Detective
SNuker the Cop-Fox, and another Police Officer.
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Hank Herman stood in the bathroom of the roomy apartment, staring in the mirror as he scratched at his messy gray beard. The career scumbag was getting old, almost sixty, and from his raggedy army jacket and the hunting knife tucked into his belt, he appeared little more than a vagrant. The night's criminal episode was a great departure from the petty crime he had know since 'retirement.' Kidnapping an Officer of the Law was a risky bet-- but he and his associates hoped it would pay out.
A female Police Officer, Detective Rizzo of the NCPD, was handcuffed in the kitchen, her gun removed from its holster, her radio and cell phone dunked the standing ice-water in the sink. The hope was, the Police would gladly pay over a hefty sum of money to get one of their own back and out of harm's way.
Ben Linus stood at the doorway, a man in an expensive suit with a pair of slick sunglasses, two Colt .45 automatics hanging from inside his jacket. His Mob associate, a twitchy fellow with a Ski Mask and a Kalashnikov, sat on the couch, watching a Seinfeld re-run, as Hank slicked his hair back.
Then, there came a startling bump in the hallway; Hank went still, and Ben tilted his sunglasses, stealing a glance at the bottom of the door. Shadows passed the crack, and the sound of light footsteps pattered down the hall. Ben unholstered his Colts, leaning down to get a better look.
"What is it?" The man in the ski-mask asked, chambering a round into his AK-47: likewise, Linus snapped back the hammers on both of his .45's.
"Somebody's outside. Hank? I have the feeling we got Company, and I think they're Cops."
"Could just be the neighbors?" Hank offered hopefully; knowing the naive optimism, he kneeled down beside his duffel bag, unzipping it, and digging out a fex boxes of 12-gauge Buckshot and a hefty drum-magazine. "Everybody, just stay calm."
Thump-Thump-Thump. "POLICE! OPEN THE DOOR! NCPD, WE'RE COMING IN, DROP THE WEAPONS!"
"Goddamnit, nobody start shooting!" Hank hollered, tugging his Shotgun out of the bag; it was a monstrous weapon, the USAS-12 Automatic Shotgun. He didn't want to ask what kind of effort it took anyone, even the Mafia to get one of them into the country, but it was a good reassurance when going toe-to-toe with the well-Armed Officers of the Law. "Just stay calm!"
It wasn't clear who fired first, but the definite edge came from the kidnappers; Linus began blasting shots off with the gun in his right hand, putting holes in the door to keep the Officers at bay, and the Ski-Masked gunman shouldered his AK-47, aiming down the sights. There was a flurry of armor-piercing ammunition that tore through the dry-wall and sprayed into the hall, sending particulate plaster into the air with the gunsmoke, spent rifle cartridges spitting out into the door-way of the bathroom.
Hank had only halfway finished plugging shotgun shells into his drum magazine, when the Cops started firing back. With the precision of a loosed firehose, automatic fire shredded through the walls and the door, plugging bulletholes in everything, including the two gunmen at the door. The ski-masked man flailed for a moment, rifle bullets tearing through his arms and torso, before finally being rolled over the sofa by a lucky shot.
"AAAGH!" Linus let out a crazed war-cry, now unloading with both colts until they clicked empty: he continued pulling the triggers, dazed and bloodied by the gunbattle that left one arm practically shredded, and growing pools of blood beneath his suit.
The door splintered in as the Cops outside stormed the apartment; Linus put down by another few shots to the chest, and slid down the wall. "CLEAR!" one of the cops shouted, as their tactically-oriented movement brought them carefully through the building. The kidnapped Detective was shouting something incomprehensible in the kitchen, adding to the atmosphere of disorientation and pure, bloody chaos.
Finally finished loading up the 20-round drum magazine, and outraged at the bloody end to his plans, Hank Herman took to his feet in the bathroom, watching a Police Detective step over the dead body of the ski-masked man, kicking away the Kalashnikov. The old man racked back the bolt on his hand-held Weapon of Mass Destruction. "YOU SONS-A-BITCHES!"
The Officer barely had time to react, well-drilled Police Procedure almost no match for the close-in weapon that chewed him apart. His back against the window, he crinkled the shades with each blast he recieved, the glass shattering and raining down onto the fire escape behind him: a few buckshot impacts were deflected by his vest, but his arms and legs were mutilated and spattered onto the walls, a final shot ripping open his neck. The bloody carcass tumbled down, the blinds coming down over it to obscure the grizzly scene.
Another long-chain of gunfire sprayed through the bathroom, and Herman ducked down alongside the bathtub, covering his head as a painting of Jesus from the previous tenants came down on his shoulder, and the toilet shattered. The enraged cop rounded the doorway, ready to avenge the death of his partner, but an unlucky volley from the USAS sent him reeling into the kitchen, where he immediately expired, most of his face missing.
Groaning, Herman dragged his old bones off of the floor, dropping the empty shotgun; he staggered out into the room, in disbelief. Linus and his associate were dead, and so were the two Cops; apparently, they had gone in before their reinforcements could arrive, a bad move in hindsight. The sirens began to wail in the distance, too little, too little late.
Herman glanced into the Kitchen at the Detective, who squirmed with her handcuffs. Prying away an empty Colt .45 from Linus' dead hands, the old man picked out a fresh magazine, walking into the kitchen. He dropped the magazine with a relief of one last tuft of gunsmoke, and replaced it, chambering a new round with a tug on the slide.
"Today just ain't your lucky day, is it Detective?" he squinted, and popped off two shots, silencing the struggling captive for good. "Your friends could've just paid, they would've avoided a lot of mess." He put two more shots in the body for good measure.
Chucking his USAS back into the duffel bag and tucking Ben's into his belt, Herman stepped over the bullet-riddled bodies of comrade and foe alike, kicking out the splintered door, leaving in a hurry. As he exited, a few bystanders poked their heads out of nearby apartments, stunned at the sounds of high-caliber bedlam just down the hall. The witness reports were shaky at best, but an old, grey-haired man with blood on his hands exited the building about five minutes before the first-responders.
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OOC Reminder: Some events have been changed in an attempt for a better story, but the general concept and a good majority of the facts remains the same. All three Officers listed, and both Ben Linus and Defillbert's character DID die in the events. The two Officers storming the room were gunned down by myself, Hank Herman, but Kayla Rizzo's character actually popped a cyanide pill or some s*it after things got ugly. To simplify it, I just had her killed as well.
_________________ ~They're gonna hang me in the mornin', before the night is done,
They're gonna hang me in the mornin', and I'll never see the sun.~Maxwell Murder wrote: Gordan and Praphet, you are the two halves of God.
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. But in reality, buckshot could probably punch through dry-wall. Wait, before we get started...))
