The Tripoli street is about what Dacovetti has come to expect from his time bouncing around "developing" environments and their more chaotic cohorts.  Somewhere along the line he'd picked up the phrase "transition states," and he thinkd it carries a nice, if not understated, ring to it.  The amount of crap in the streets is astounding.  Exhibit A: the debris that Seb had just sent arching towards their target area and  sent Michael's heart rate into a momentary spike that he just managed to bring back under control via a few seconds of controlled breathing.

Instead of giving into the urge to freeze, he simply keeps to his controlled pace and brings himself to a gradual halt across the street from the auto-shop.  Upon suddenly "discovering" that his shoe has become untied, Dacovetti bends down in the shadows and pretends to work the knot for a few seconds while glancing across the street to count legs and appraise whatever situation he can.  There are voices to be sure, but they are just distant enough that he would have trouble deciphering the words even if he could speak the language.  The tones are rather unmistakable, however.

Seb's radio traffic puts everything into perspective.  Bullfrog is too close to speak clearly and needs to know what the odds are in going in blind.  Dacovetti sweeps the area again and then stands and begins to move past the target building, figuring that to stay would be overly obvious.  As he walks, he crosses the street again in a gentle arc to take him much closer to the auto-shop.  His hand finds the weapon holstered under his coat for a second time.

He tells Durand what he sees, how many targets, and their disposition.  Finally, as he gets too close for much more traffic, he closes with: "Break squelch twice to go kinetic."

Durand listens to the information from Dacovetti  that is coming into his own earpiece, evaluates  what the American is telling him. Four people eyeballed. He's fairly certain that the one called Wasi has been sent to fetch the car. That leaves three. Assume the one in the track pants is Boulos. We're down to two targets. The one he's tagged as the Iranian now becomes Tango One and the other unidentified target becomes Tango Two. Wasi is Tango Three.

He doesn't want them leaving the scene with Boulos. He's going in. There's no time to formulate a plan as such. He's partly operating on instinct, partly on experience. OK, anyone in chocolate chip camo is a hostile.  He thinks that Tango One has holstered his weapon. Dealer said he could see him moving towards Boulos. He doesn't know if Tango Two is armed or not, but isn't about to take any chances.

He'll try and take down Tango two with a double tap from the Glock first. Incapacitate him. Incapacitate. It's just another way of saying 'kill' isn't it. Tango One seems to be the leader. Could be Attar. Or could not be. Either way he may have information that could be useful. Getting him alive - for the moment at least - would be a bonus.  With Dealer covering his back and the other two out of the way he should be able to deal with Three. There's no need to take him alive. Live jihadis are generally more trouble than they are worth, so he intends to send Three the same way as Two. The lives of two men decided in a few seconds. Assuming it all goes to plan of course.  If it doesn't perhaps he'll find out how effective the undercover vest he's wearing under his shirt is.

For a moment he considers whether he should just take One down but his desire to try and see what intel he might be able to obtain convinces him that his original decision is the correct one. So Tango One gets one chance to surrender. If he doesn't take it Durand will happily send him to whatever fate awaits him in the afterlife.

He takes a moment. His breathing is regular, even. He's done shit like this before. He knows it never goes the way that you expect it. Sure, there will be noise, but it's not as though the residents of Tripoli are unaccustomed to the sound of gun fire. Another breath. He's visualizing Tango Two going down. Un....deux....trois... He gives Dealer the radio signal, grasps the Glock firmly in both hands as he closes the gap between where he stands and the door - this time watching very carefully for any stray debris lying in the street.

He doesn't pause, goes under the partly raised door in a crouch, bringing the Glock up as he does so, searching for the target he has mentally identified as Tango Two...


Durand
Glock 19 (15/15)
Making entry in crouching position, Glock raised
Firing two shots at Tango Two (guy in Adidas sneakers); if he goes down will then turn weapon on Tango One (guy with HK USP) and yell loudly in Arabic for him to get his hands up and get on his knees

Dacovetti moves as Durand begins his assault.  Michael slides forward to cover the other operator, drawing his 9mm.  When he reaches the door, he takes to the ground trying to cover both Seb and any other doors that he can see, in the event that the man who just left decides to make a hasty return.  It isn't an easy position to make, but he makes the best for it.

The ongoing action seems to settle down his nerves, the simple actions of movement and drawing the weapon allowing his body to respond to training and autopilot.  His breathing still comes easy.

If there are further threats, he will neutralize.  If the situation is clear, he'll let Seb know he's coming in and move to intercept a return track from the missing target.


Dacovetti
Covering Seb from doorway
Kneeling
MP-443 Grach 9mm (18/18) 4 magazines

Sebastien takes a step away from the wall, plants his outside foot, and drives hard toward the door.  Its lower lip is too low for him to duck-walk under so he smoothly turns his lunge into a roll.  There's a whisper of fabric on cement, a blur of chocolate-chip camouflage and a swarthy face not yet beginning to register surprise at the sudden appearance and the door's rubberized weatherstripping over his head as he crosses the threshold, and then he's back on his feet with one knee just kissing the Peugeot's front bumper.

His chosen target is eight feet away.  The G19's sights materialize over a stain on the man's faded blue t-shirt.  The metal door and concrete walls trap the sound of two rapid shots (Durand -2 rounds).  The first round strikes just to the left of the target's shirt pocket.  The second clips his right temple and sends him staggering back against the door, arms flailing.

Michael darts forward as Sebastien begins his attack run.  The TACP hears his partner's first two shots, sees the target's knees buckle, and slides into station at the right side of the door.  He's turning to scan for targets as a low, blocky silhouette rounds the corner at the alley's far end.  It's a passenger car of indeterminate make, running with lights off.  A single silhouette is visible behind the wheel.

Sebastien is turning, bringing his Glock to bear on Tango One, the first syllable rising from his mouth, "Drop--" and he knows there's no point.  The other man is fast, as fast as Sebastien himself, and the H&K is unhesitatingly clearing its holster and coming into line with the Frenchman.  Sebastien's visual cortex has just enough time to register the features -- Middle Easterner, Sebastien's own age, burn scars disfiguring the left side of the face -- watches the black oval of the muzzle align into a perfect circle -- sees Mas'ud Attar press the trigger --

-- and hears the pop of the primer discharging on a squib load.

Already committed to a futile lunge for cover, Sebastien punches off three rounds of his own (Durand -3 rounds [total 5]), sending tools raining down from the pegboard behind Attar as the Iranian ducks with that same liquid speed.  The DGSE agent hits the floor on the Peugeot's far side, unscathed for one more instant.

Michael hears the gunfire and movement inside the door, rhythm of a precise takedown giving way to the sound of CQB going sideways, but his visual focus is on the oncoming car.  A pair of motor scooters shield him from direct observation but the shots, even muffled by the door, have clearly gotten the driver's attention.  Brake lights glow as the man halts about forty feet away, then he kicks open his door.  The dome light conveniently silhouettes him and the AKS-74U he's pulling from the front seat.

Michael puts the softly-glowing tritium on the driver's chest and presses off a rapid series of shots (Dacovetti -3 rounds).  He's low with the first one, hammering a door hinge, but the second round tracks into the man's chest and the third snaps his head back in a black-red spray.  The Krinkov drops back onto the driver's seat as its former owner hits the pavement.

You're up.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.  The last time that Sébastien Durand had looked at the face of Mas’ud Attar it had been when he had seen the Iranian’s picture in a briefing folder at Incirlik. And now he had just locked eyes with the man. His lucky escape hasn’t had a chance to register, not yet.  What’s going through his mind right now is that he had a shot himself and fucked it up. Fuck! He’s more pissed about that than he is the fact that the Iranian had had a bead on him.

Durand rises to a crouch behind the Peugeot, glances down, shuffles slightly to the side, making sure that one of the jacks that are holding the car up is sheltering his feet in case the Iranian tries to fire under the vehicle. He looks over to where he thinks the man in red track pants he presumes to be Boulos should be. If he can see him he’ll gesture with his hand for him, Boulos, to get down and into cover. Durand doesn’t want to take the risk that Attar will decide to kill Boulos to make sure he won’t talk to anyone else.

The Glock comes up, pointed towards the far end of the car in case Attar decides to stick his head round it.  He listens for any sound that the other man is moving. Clearly any thoughts of taking the Iranian alive have gone. They’re one on one, the car between them. He heard shots fired outside, doesn’t know if Dealer is in a position to support him or has his own gunfight to contend with.  And he doesn’t know what resources the Iranian may have available. Any moment now a hand grenade might come flying over the top of the car, or more jihadists might come pouring in from somewhere. He’s also conscious that he has used a third of his magazine already. But he needs to take action.

He looks down. Various tools and parts of the car’s brakes are lying on the floor. Holding the Glock in his right hand he picks up a wrench that is lying on the ground in his left. Moving forward slightly, he then tosses it in a low arc towards the rear of the car*, hoping it will strike the floor noisily and create a diversion. Once the wrench has struck the ground he intends to move rapidly round the front of the car, keeping low, the Glock in both hands again, and fire five rapid shots at Attar before ducking back down behind the front of the car.


Durand
Glock 19 (10/15)
Crouching down behind the Peugeot
Trying to create a diversion then moving quickly round the front of the car fire on Attar before ducking back into cover at the front of the car

*Going by the ASCII art in the OOC thread am assuming Durand is at the front of the car. i.e. the hood / bonnet end and Attar is by the trunk.

Its the satisfaction of successfully completing a difficult task that crosses Michael's mind as his target makes it limp way to the asphalt, muscles no longer controlled by any process.  If there is time later, he will undoubtedly reflect on taking a human life, but for now, the mission.  While the dome light provided an outstanding silhouette for the Airman to shoot at, it also provided a rather significant fringe benefit of illuminating the interior of the car, which, from his perspective, looks to be clear of further trouble.  If Seb's CQB hadn't gone of the the auditory rails, Michael would have moved forward and made sure there weren't any other nasty surprises lurking in the interior of the vehicle, but as the situation stands, his brain runs a quick bout of mental calculus and the odds tell him that he's better off dealing with the known hostile taking shots at Bullfrog.

If the gunshots on the inside of the shop managed to get the attention of the recently deceased driver, its more than likely that the targets inside the building are aware of his shots.  With little in the avenue of direct cover, Dacovetti rolls into the gutter using what little curb there is as some amount of defilade and brings his pistol and eyes to bear in the interior of the auto shop.  There is motion everywhere; bodies moving in a sinister dance of death for at least one participant.


Dacovetti
Prone, behind curb aiming into auto shop.
MP-443 Grach (15/18) 4 magazines

The clatter of the wrench hitting the concrete floor is echoed by a louder bong as Attar leaps onto the Peugeot's trunk.  The wildly-swinging shop lights throw kaleidoscopic reflections off the blade in his fist as he comes over the top of the car in a fluid parkour move.  Swinging toward where Attar was, Sebastien tracks his fire to the left, to no avail (Durand -5 rounds).

Attar flows from a catlike landing into a pivot.  Durand feels a punch along his ribs, then an icy sting as the knife comes back out in an arc of crimson droplets (Durand - slight wound, chest).  The DGSE agent reflexively backs a step --

-- and clears Michael's line of fire.  Prone in the gutter, the airman puts two rounds into Attar's right leg and sends a third scorching across the Iranian's chest into his left forearm (Dacovetti -3 rounds).

Attar's injured leg buckles and he drops to his left knee.  Michael steadies his pistol and salvos again, sending one more bullet into Attar's right thigh and another directly below his belt buckle (Dacovetti -3 more rounds [total 6]).

Attar tries to push himself up from the oil-stained concrete floor, glaring intently at Sebastien.  His left arm quivers and he shoves with his left leg, driving toward his target, still clutching the knife.  Sebastien levels his Glock and fires until the slide locks back (Durand -5 more rounds [total 10]).  Attar slumps face-down, knife pinned under his torso, lungs emptying in a teakettle hiss.

Next?
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:50, Tue 09 Dec 2014.

The adrenaline pumping through Durand’s system is helping to mask the pain from the wound to his chest for the moment. As the man who caused that wound slumps forward, the Frenchman reaches into the right cargo pocket of his pants, extracts a fresh 15 round magazine and swaps out the fully expended one which he drops into his left pocket. The movement causes him to wince in pain as he feels the wound throb dully through the adrenaline. Glancing down, he can see the darker stain of his blood on his clothing.

His eyes shift to the man the man who has just tried to kill him. The man who had been determined to try and plunge the knife into him even after he had taken who knows how many rounds, the man whose face had been a mask of hatred. Durand’s own face is calm, dispassionate, as he points the Glock at the top of Attar’s head. The Frenchman thinks the probability of getting any useful information from the Iranian is slim to nil, and so he sees no reason to keep him alive for even a few seconds longer than is necessary. Executing a zealot like that, a man with the blood of countless innocents on his hands, is not something that will trouble Durand’s conscience, ever. His only regret is that it will be quick, quicker than the bastard deserves. He doesn’t consult with Dealer, doesn’t ask the American whether he agrees or not, simply squeezes the trigger twice to administer the coup de grâce.

Once the Glock has discharged two more rounds he turns towards his American colleague, nods his head. Sébastien Durand is well aware that but for Mike Dacovetti’s intervention, he might have been the one lying with his brains across the floor right now. ”Thanks.” He winces as he says the single word to express his gratitude, a word that barely seems sufficient. He presses his left hand to the wound, his fingers immediately wet with his blood as he applies pressure.  ”Maybe best to grab Boulos and get out of here before more trouble shows up?” In the heat of the moment he’s forgotten that Dealer may not have been able to discern what had been said earlier, but Durand wasn’t just concerned about more of Attar’s thugs showing up; he had also heard Boulos say that this was the time of night when the unknown subject Boulos had referred to as ‘The Horse’ may show up. And the last thing that Durand wanted right now was to get into another firefight with a bunch of Libyan heavies. He wanted to get to the Land Rover and the IFAK it contained. If they took Boulos with them they would have time to have a leisurely ‘chat’ with the Libyan later. And there might also be time to quickly search Attar’s body for any items of interest.

Durand
Glock 19 (15/15)
Putting 2 (hopefully fatal) rounds into Attar just to be on the safe side then looking for Boulos.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:31, Tue 09 Dec 2014.

Spending several seconds watching Durand empty one magazine and reload another seems like a waste of time to Dacovetti.  When he's satisfied that the operator has the situation in hand, he takes a few breaths to scan up and down the street ensuring that they are, in fact, still secure, for at least a few more seconds.  "Street clear," he reports, then he looks to ensure that their primary target is still present in the auto shop and not disappearing through a side door using the previous chaos as a more than suitable distraction.

The grime of the gutter is best left ignored for now, and Dacovetti scrambles into the garage.  Borrowing from the vernacular of his less verbose military brethren, he gives a barely perceptible nod to to Seb's thanks and replies simply: "Word."  He knows that in all likelihood there will be more than one upcoming opportunity for Seb to pay the favor back.  With an idling car out front and roughly a metric ton of gunfire erupting over the last fifteen seconds, he figures that Seb is right and it is time to un-ass the AO, post haste.

"I concur," he tells Seb, "let's get out of here."

He reloads the pistol almost as an after thought, more muscle memory than anything else and tries to stay out of the expanding puddles of gore on the shop floor.  It seems that Seb is working through his injury just fine, so Michael elects to respect the other man's opinion of his capability and not give into the urge to ask the pointless question: "are you okay?"


Moving to secure Boulos

Attar spasms as Sebastien's final two rounds pith him, then goes limp (Durand -2 rounds).  As the two agents straighten from their crouches, a pale-faced Sabah Boulos tries to stand up from behind the garage's workbench, a ball-peen hammer clutched in one unsteady fist.  At the sight of the sprawled bodies, his knees give way again and he slides down the wall to a sitting position.  The hammer thumps to the floor.

"What is this?  Who --" he begins in Arabic, then blinks thickly at Michael and switches to heavily-accented English.  "What are we, I I, I, where are you taking --" he stammers.  He's obviously unaccustomed to violence, at least in such close proximity.  He clenches his shaking hands and tries to collect himself, summoning a tiny vestige of defiance.  "Am I to thank you, gentlemen, or am I a prize?"  He coughs, then tries to stand again.  This time he succeeds, supporting himself with a death-grip on a bench vise.  "What--?"  He coughs again and wipes at his face.

Both agents reflexively sniff the air and turn, seeking the source of the rapidly-strengthening acrid odor.  A faint greenish mist is rising from Attar's prostrate form.  At his second breath of the stuff, Michael's sinuses and eyes erupt in pain.  He seizes Boulos' sleeve and pushes the scientist toward the doorway.  Boulos staggers forward and slams blindly into the half-open door, drawing another protest from it.

Sebastien, closer to Attar and still fighting the pain in his side, gets a double lungful of the mist.  Instantly, his respiratory tract is afire and his eye sockets are filled with boiling caltrop soup.  He crumples, blindly trying to crawl toward the faint breeze coming from under the door (Durand incapacitated for 10 minutes or until treated).

Boulos flails, catches the chain of the door mechanism, and lets his full weight sag against it.  The door rattles up and slams into its stops.  The sudden draft clears the air enough for Michael to get a handful of Sebastien's collar and drag the Frenchman into the alley.  Boulos lets go of the chain and follows on unsteady legs but trips over Sebastien's first victim and sprawling face-down on the ground.  "Riot gas," he gasps.

Proceed.

The situation has metamorphed from one category of interesting to another and the second category is a decidedly uncomfortable one.  Dacovetti's eyes are stinging and his lungs are burning, but nothing compared to what Durand must be going through.

Early in Michael's military career, he and a friend had the brilliant idea to enroll in the Army's Chemical Weapons familiarity program.  The upshot of this was that after graduation, they would never again have to subject themselves to the annual CS exposure training that everyone loved to partake in because they would be the ones inflicting it on their fellow Airmen.  The downside was they had been exposed to a level of CS in the process that would have incapacitated a rhinoceros.  If he could look back in time, he is relatively certain that he would have be the spitting image of Seb at this moment.

Bullfrog is wretching and gasping for air, Boulos is sprawled out over a corpse, and Dacovetti is in a Tripoli alley flying solo in the aftermath of a firefight he can't exfil from.

"Seb," Dacovetti shakes the operative and pushes him upright against the wall.  "Seb, lean your head forward! Let it drain!"  He collects Seb's pistol from the doorway and shoves it under the man's right butt cheek and puts his hand on it.  "Weapon."

Fucking shit.

Next he grabs Boulos by the collar and pulls him off the body.  Dacovetti hocks a giant wad of burning mucous across the alley.  "Water?  Where is your water?  Neighbor's water?"  He's trying not yelling, not exactly, but he's trying to get his point across.  Dacovetti knows he has to get it under control.  While Boulos comes back around, Michael takes a deep breath.

"I need soap and water for my friend.  If you don't have any right now, you and I are going to have to support him.  Do you understand?"

Every time Durand breathes it feels as though his lungs are on fire inside his chest. The pain is intense, overwhelming, compounded by the searing heat in his eyes, in his nose. He's blind, utterly, absolutely, has lost all semblance of motor control. Someone is dragging him, carrying him. His hands reflexively clench and unclench into fists, he's wheezing, gasping....can't breathe, fuck, fuck, can't breathe...need air...a momentary sense of panic envelops him as he tries to gulp in lungfuls of air. He coughs, retches, spits out a long ribbon of phlegm that dangles grotesquely from his lower lip, breathes in, grunting as the action of doing so triggers a fresh wave of what feels like burning  in his lungs, the heat compounded by the throbbing pain of the knife wound.

There's something hard against his back, he doesn't know what, fuck, he can't see, he needs to see. He blinks, once, twice, three times, but that just makes the heat more intense, everything is a dark blur, nothing discernible, nothing at all. He can hear a voice, tries to turn his head towards it, tries to locate the speaker, but he can't see anything. "Mike?" The word is a croak, just saying it makes his throat burn. He thinks this is what it must feel like if you drink acid. The voice is telling him to lean his head forward. He's helpless, is losing control of his bodily functions, there's a river of mucous streaming down his nose, tendrils of phlegmy drool dangling from the corners of his mouth S'il vous plaît ne me laisse pas me pisse... ne me laisse pas me chie...

His head falls forward.  He feels nauseous, is aware of a wave of bile rising in his throat, forcing its way upwards. Durand vomits, the contents of his stomach spilling forth onto the ground at his feet.

"Wait, I have something."  Boulos tears away from Michael's grip on his collar and staggers back into the shop, this time avoiding the fresh corpse.  He yanks a large silver cylinder from a wall bracket and reverses course.  As he nears Sebastien, he unclips a short rubber hose and points the fire extinguisher's nozzle at the choking Frenchman.

The blast of pressurized water drives icy needles into Sebastien's burning skin but it's blessed relief for his eyes.  Boulos plays the stream over him for perhaps ten seconds, then briefly turns it on Michael.  He sags to his knees, lets the tank fall, and holds down the handle as the last of the air pressure mists the remaining water onto his own face.

"Not my first riot or lab accident," he mutters, raising tear-streaming eyes toward Michael.  "Well, then.  You're clearly not Libya Dawn.  CIA?"  He chokes off a laugh at Michael's expression.  "Or not.  But I still think my chances better with you."

Sebastien's breath still wheezes through a constricted throat and he's coughing out half his body weight in burning mucous but the black, blinding pressure of suffocation is easing.  There's a thin, wiry body against his left side, hauling him upright.  Weapon, whispers a half-remembered memory.  Reflex sends his right hand groping for the hard shape under his right thigh.  Then he's on his feet and lurching toward a pair of headlights.

Michael points Boulos toward the Land Rover and takes a look back into the garage.  The haze is thicker and Attar's flesh is dissolving from the head down, clothing smoking as the fibers disintegrate.  Amidst the coils of gray-green vapor, Michael catches a glimpse of a grotesquely distended skull, eye sockets empty, jaw with too many articulated pieces unhinged and gaping at angles no human face could achieve.

Boulos wedges Sebastein against the Land Rover's passenger side, tugs the door open, and shoves.

Go.
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:59, Sat 13 Dec 2014.

I'm sorry, but my non-euclidiean geometry is shit, Dacovetti thinks before remembering that he is supposed to be a tech expert.  He can forgive himself the split second lapse given the rather unprecedented appearance of a distinctly non-human skull on top of a rather human looking body.  While one half of his brain begins to howl silently at something that seems to suggest he either A) got hit with way more gas than he thought, or B) has gone off into the throes of hallucinatory insanity, the professional side of his brain sends his left hand into his jacket pocket to bring out his iPhone and shoot five seconds of 60fps ultra slow-mo HD into the smoke in hopes of capturing a glimpse of something else or at least conclusive evidence that he's not bonkers.

It's time to get gone.  Michael spins neatly on his heels and follows the others to the Land Rover. "Drive please, it's your town," he tells Boulos.  It's polite, but there is the aura of an order in it.  "For now, just get us out of here," he answers the unasked question as he drops into the passenger seat.  And to be honest with himself, there is no scenario where he can drive, maintain control of Bolous, update HQ, and treat Seb all at the same time.  When the vehicles starts to move, he reaches under the seat and withdraws the first aid kit stashed underneath.  A handful of gauze pads are produced that Michael wets with water from his Camlbak before reaching back and placing them in Seb's hands then guiding them to his eyes.

"Attar a friend of yours or was his appearance at your shop a strict coincidence?" he asks Boulos.

Finally, while he waits for an answer, he pulls his iPhone back out, runs an email encryption app on the video he just shot and zips it out to the head-shed with the label "Boulos secure, Attar eliminated, this is his remains.  Will contact with update soon."
This message was last edited by the player at 02:54, Sat 13 Dec 2014.

Durand half walks, half staggers down the street, grateful to feel the warm night air on his face, more grateful that he has not soiled himself, though his shirt is stained with his own vomit, the taste of which lingers unpleasantly in his mouth. But at least I haven't shit myself. His senses are slowly beginning to return; he can make out the headlights ahead of him, feel the weight of his Glock, felt its shape, the pistol serving as reassurance, a lethal comfort blanket as he finds himself shoved into the Land Rover.

He can feel the vehicle begin to move, a sense of relief that they're on their way, for given the amount of noise that has been generated he thinks it can only be a matter of time before someone showed up, whether that was the man referred to as the Horse or more of Attar's people. He feels hands on his, a moment later there's a soothing coolness on his eyes, the burning sensation beginning to ease. He's still coughing, retching, but it's a dry cough now, for there's nothing left in his stomach to bring up.

As his vision begins to return to a semblance of normality he sits back against the seat, blinks several times as Dacovetti's shape comes into focus. "Thanks man." That was the second time in what must have been only a handful of minutes that the American has had to haul his ass out of a tight spot. He coughs a few more times, a cough that racks his body. His lungs are still aching. Seeing a 500ml bottle of water stuffed into the seat back pocket of the seat in front of him, he reaches for it, twists the top off, gulps down nearly half the contents in one long drink. As well as easing the burning the water helps to dispel the taste of vomit in his mouth.

Hearing Dacovetti begin to question the Arab, and seeing the first aid kit on the seat, Durand's next thought turns to the wound caused by Attar's knife. Pulling his shirt up to expose the wound, he reaches for the kit. "I'll take care of this if you want to talk to our friend." He says to Dealer before he starts to rummage in the kit for what he will need to try and treat the stab wound.

"And again in the taxi," Boulos mutters in Arabic, but he drops the Land Rover into reverse and backs smoothly out of the alley, then points the vehicle east at a normal speed.

The combination of water and night air from the open windows is doing quite a bit for Sebastien's recovery.  When he pulls up his shirt, a scattering of metal fragments patters onto the seat beside him. Looking down, he can see the bottom half of a truncated Glock magazine protruding from its kydex carrier on his belt.  Attar's knife appears to have gone through the magazine, the 9mm bonded hollowpoints within it, and the side panel of his undercover vest without encountering any appreciable resistance.

The fact that he's able to shrug out of the vest tells him that the wound isn't as bad as some he's suffered.  The truck's dome light reveals a surgically precise cut about a half-inch deep and four inches long.  Under normal circumstances, it would need stitches, but the first aid kit has everything Sebastien needs for the moment - with the possible exception of two stiff drinks.

Michael's phone buzzes: Acknowledged.  Unpacking now.  Bombay.  Are you compromised?

Boulos turns a corner, cuts the Land Rover's lights, and eases over a curb and into a darkened car park.  He pulls the vehicle into an empty slot between an ancient Ford F-100 and a Nissan Patrol sporting a few small-caliber bullet holes.  He's hiding in plain sight in the local equivalent of a used 4x4 dealership.

Finished with self-aid, Sebastien begins re-donning his vest.  The left side panel is thoroughly compromised but the rest of it is intact.
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:09, Sun 14 Dec 2014.

Clever boy, Dacovetti thinks as he pieces together Boulos' plan for concealment.  It won't work forever, but it should work well enough.  It does bring a moment of pause to consider whether or not he's done this particular ploy before, it smacks of planning and not sudden inspiration.  Still, effective.

He give their captive/driver/momentary ally a few more moments to breathe while he clicks back Gin on the phone.  We're secure, but at the moment he wonders how true the statement is.  Given Attar disolved, there is the distinct possibility that they are up against more than they planned, and that ignores the discovery/hallucination of something in the smoke that looked an awful lot like "not-human."  At this moment, Michael is settling for secure in the sense of: "we didn't notice any pursuit and think we got away clean."  There certainly weren't survivors.

While Boulos flexes his hands open and closed on the steering wheel, the Airman takes a good look at Seb while the latter straps his vest back on.  Their eyes meet for a second in appraisal of each other:

Good?

Yeah. You?

Yup. Dacovetti nods a fraction.

"You can infer that it's not coincidence that two groups show up at your auto shop looking for you on the same night," Michael starts.  It's obvious enough that there really is no point in denying it.  Besides, at this point even if the Advance Team holds the power, its a tenuous grasp.  Better to have a cooperative relationship based on the fact that they pulled him away from Attar.  "Can you tell me what Attar was looking for?"

OOC: If Seb wishes to take the lead, Michael will happily disengage from his line of questioning.

Well, I guess this shirt is ruined Durand thinks to himself as he sits back in the Land Rover's seat. Night time Tripoli passes by the windows as he drains the remainder of the water from the plastic bottle, finally getting rid of the aftertaste of vomit that lingered in his mouth. But he's alive, which is more than can be said for Attar, so he'll allow himself a brief moment of satisfaction that he's taken out a particularly nasty terrorist. He'd love to know where the fuck the CS gas came from though. Still, at least the effects seem to have finally worn off, a fact that he confirms to Dealer with the briefest of glances, the two of them knowing each other well enough now to be able to read the non verbal messages that are exchanged. It's all good.

The Frenchman takes a moment to study their surroundings as Dacovetti questions Boulos, English appearing to be the lingua franca of choice. Perhaps they will find out how much the Libyan knows. Given his previous profession prior to becoming a taxi driver he is clearly no fool, must have reached the conclusion that he was...valuable for some reason. But would he have concluded that was because of his relationship with the Tambolis?

But did he even know where they were? He wasn't the first person that they had spoken with concerning the rogue scientists but so far their whereabouts remained a mystery. Although granted, neither of the other two had been fucking the wife. Allegedly. There were various ways of...persuading...someone to share information of course. Durand had experience of several of them. Eventually most tongues could be loosened. However, whilst Durand had no particular qualms per se when it came to using some of the more physical methods of persuasion, nor he did wish to use them for their own sake. And that might take time, time which they did not necessarily have, for whilst Attar was now out of the equation, he doubted if it would take Daesh and their allies long to find another to continue the hunt. So Durand will try a more benign approach first. If that doesn't work...well...

He leans in when there's a break in the conversation, speaks softly, keeping to English. Firstly it allows Dealer to follow the conversation, but also Durand thinks it best that Boulos remains ignorant that he, Durand, speaks Arabic. "The thing is Doctor -" the use of the man's title was deliberate. In the Frenchman's experience, men and women who had earned the right to call themselves Doctor were often quite pernickety if it was not used when addressing them, and Durand was happy to make the Libyan feel important if that made him more talkative in turn. " - my associate and I have been sent to carry out a task." The DGSE operative has no intention of tipping his hand as to what that task is, no, rather he is trying to establish whether the Libyan may be interested in principle in what he's about to propose. "The people that we represent would be most generous to anyone that may be able to assist us in that." A pause to let that register. Nothing specific mentioned, for different people have different ideas when it comes to reward, and generosity can be interpreted in different ways, mentions of money could be misunderstood, although there is one thing that he's prepared to toss in. "We would also be happy to arrange a way out of Libya, to Europe, or the United States, some sort of employment commensurate with an individual's skills. Should that be what is desired of course." After all, some individuals might be offended at the suggestion of fleeing their native land. But what about you Doctor? Would the thought of trading life as a Libyan taxi driver for a US passport and a job where people respected you, called you 'Doctor' once again tempt you?

Obviously Durand has no authority to see anything that he promises actually given. But you don't know that, do you Doctor Boulos? A passport can be procured, as can letters of employment, but these things are worth nothing until you are out of the country. And there is no way that happens before the Tambolis are secure. And then? The Frenchman smiles. "So, are you interested in doing business Doctor?" That was the carrot. You don't want to see the stick...

After a glance at the fuel gauge, Boulos leaves the Land Rover idling but throws it into park.  He turns sideways in the driver's seat, making eye contact with both agents as they open negotiations.  He's quickly gaining composure now that guns aren't being pointed at him.

For Michael, the engineer's face is a deep-eyed mask, revealing nothing but bland politeness shaded with apprehension.  Sebastien's been in a few more interviews of this nature and he catches the shift at "Doctor" as Boulos moves him from unknown, possibly dangerous foreigner to social equal.  Nor does he miss the microexpression of interest that flickers across Boulos' face at the mention of a graceful exit from Libya.

Boulos smooths his goatee as he digests Sebastien's pitch.  "I'd never seen Attar before tonight," he responds to Michael's question.  "He'd only introduced himself when you arrived.  But I recognized one of his thugs, the first one you killed.  I don't know his name but he was a soldier - no, call him an enforcer for Libya Dawn."  His eyes roll up as he thinks back, evidently replaying the conversation.  "I do not think your Attar was Libya Dawn himself, though.  He was foreign - Persian - and his men were afraid of him.  And unfamiliar.  They did not behave as a long-standing team.  They kept looking to him for... correction?"  He frowns.  "Permission?"

"You say Europe, America," he continues, turning to Sebastien.  "This tells me 'NATO,' or you want me to think it."  He flashes a faint, ironic smile.  "But it's the same either way.  I clearly have information that's valuable to someone, though I'm not sure what that is.  NATO doesn't need my assistance in building city-killing weapons.  So you don't need me as an engineer.  What is your 'task?'"

Durand watches Boulos, studies his face, looking for any of the signs that he may give out subconsciously, anything that might betray what he is thinking. Hmm, so you like the idea of a way out of this shit hole, Doctor? Can't say I blame you there.

Then the Libyan asks his question. And therein lies the conundrum. Durand has had operations security, or OPSEC as the Americans liked to call it, drilled into him for twenty years, both as a marine and a DGSE operative, and he's sure Dacovetti will have too. It's a key tenet of what they do.

But how can Boulos lead them to their target if the Libyan doesn't know who they are looking for? But if Durand tells him...well, Boulos is going to have to cooperate. One way or another. We're still trying the carrot. For now.

His eyes flick to Dealer's for a moment before they move back to Boulos. "We are looking for Satish Tamboli." There you go, Doctor, now you know why they are here. The Frenchman watches intently for the Arab's reaction. He purposely doesn't mention the second Doctor Tamboli, Jayashri.  It's crossed the Frenchman's mind that If the intel is accurate and Boulos and she have been screwing each other, Boulos might find the thought of Satish being spirited away by a black ops team never to be seen again whilst his wife is left behind quite appealing, dependent on how close his relationship with Jayashri, so  should the Libyan ask about the wife, Durand will simply shrug his shoulders, reply that it's the husband that they are after, but they will get the wife out of the country as well. If he doesn't ask about the woman then perhaps they are on a more casual basis. A bit like me and Barthez

He then sits back for a moment, giving the Arab a moment to consider his options should he wish, think about what Durand is tacitly offering - money, a ticket out, a woman perhaps - and compare that with eking out a living driving a taxi by day and fixing cars by night whilst paying protection money to the man called Horse. And all the while looking over his shoulder in case more of Attar's thugs show up. After all, they were unlikely to be as reasonable as Bullfrog and Dealer were being, were they Doctor, especially after what had happened to their boss?

In sitting back he's also trying to leave the door open for Dealer to have a crack at the Libyan should he wish. If they'd had more time to plan it they could have agreed on the good cop / bad cop roles...ah well, maybe next time...
This message was last edited by the player at 21:49, Sun 14 Dec 2014.

This is new territory for Dacovetti.  He's watched a few interrogations, to be sure.  On several occasions it has been necessary to set up the communication systems needed so that nebulous higher-ups in some far away secure building can watch the proceedings, but generally the "need to know" hasn't been present and he has simply walked out of the room before the actual work started.  It doesn't seem like talking to Boulos is going to be a hard-sell type approach.  The option was more or less taken off the table when they didn't simply through a bag over his head and physically remove him from his auto-shop.  Seb seems to have to conversation in hand, and instead of trying to drag up more questions, the Airman sits back and studies Bolous while he ponders and answers questions.

It's obvious that he appreciates respect, and frankly, who wouldn't?  It doesn't seem like an upsell to promise getting him out of Tripoli.  That much would be easy.

"We are trying to be the good-guys here, Doctor.  We could certainly use your assistance in that regard."    Let's appeal to your sense of humanity.  Everybody wants to help, right?  Saved your life, maybe we can save theirs? 

Of course, violence is certainly an option if door number one doesn't open, Michael figures.  It doesn't take much imagination to see Seb extracting information from a source the hard way if necessary.  Not that either one of them would particularly enjoy it, but Bullfrog had just been stabbed and the pair of them had already dispatched a few "bad guys."  It wouldn't be hard to tip back over the edge to force if it came to it.

Boulos isn't that good of a poker player.  His expression folds from surprise to concern to calculation before settling back into a pretense of disinterest.  He glances out the windshield, clearly weighing his response.  "If your files are good enough to send you to me about Satish, you'll want Jayashri too," he says to the safety glass.  "They're quite inseparable as a research team."

He turns his face back to Michael.  "I think you answer your own question... Mike, was it?  Not coincidence.  Your Persian has - pardon, had done the same research as you.  'Known associates,' as your agencies put it.  I can think of two reasons Tehran would be interested in the Tambolis and I like neither."  He pats down his shirt in a clear smoker's reflex, frowning as he comes up empty.  He returns his gaze to the window for a long pause, then inhales deeply and returns his focus to Sebastien.

"So NATO wants to deny the Persians access to the Tambolis.  You're willing to offer me a way out of the country.  Clearly the same can be arranged for them.  Simpler to silence them but you," he points two fingers at Michael, "don't have the look of an assassin."  He pauses and appraises Sebastien.  "You do not like the work but you would do it if your country demanded.  But they would not send you with this partner."

"So.  Yes.  I am interested in 'doing business.'  I'm growing no younger and my country will not heal itself in my lifetime.  I can't tell you where to find my friends tonight but I'll give you what I do know.  My price is a chance to turn back at least one clock.  A laboratory to tinker in, a classroom full of students who pretend to listen."  He grins unwillingly.  "Somewhere I can be obscure.  Can you arrange that?"

Assassin? Hardly.  Even Dacovetti has to agree with that assessment.  No stranger to violence, sure, but he's definitely not the "walk into a room and kill someone because" kind of guy.  There is a little relief that violence doesn't just ooze out of him the way it does some of his past and present companions.  He listens to Boulos' speech and watches as the man transitions between excitement and wary acceptance of the situation he finds himself in.  The read is interesting as Bolous manages to find some of the blank spots Seb left in his conversation and address them directly.

"I can certainly understand your desire to return to a lab," Michael tells him.  "I believe our superiors would understand it as well."  This request fit within the parameters the team had projected, and the Advance Team could make the deal, but there were other assurances that needed to be gathered first.  "The offer would, of course, be contingent on the information being accurate and helpful."

Michael glances at his phone again.  He's really hoping to hear back from the higher ups that he's not going nuts.  They could take the time to set up the sat comms in their vehicle, but until they have it well secured, it seems like a bigger risk.  It would also be nice to have Seb take a look at the video, but while they are talking to their target, it seems like to big of a risk to undertake for not a lot of gain.  Later, when there is time, he'll make sure to give him the opportunity to study the clip.  Maybe Bullfrog knows what to make of it all.

It appears he is going to take the carrot. The Libyan had been correct in his assessment; if the stick had been required Durand would have wielded it, and dealt with the consequences afterwards. But it appears that will not be necessary. Good.  And clearly the man was no fool. Durand would attempt to bear that in mind in his dealings with him, try to ensure that he did not underestimate him, for it was easy to dismiss him as nothing more than a taxi driver, a mechanic, forget that before the fall of Kaddafi's regime this man had been an eminent scientist, a professor of mechanical engineering.

And his price was not unreasonable. He hadn't even mentioned cash. The Frenchman nods. "As my colleague says, that is possible. Provided the information that you can offer leads us to the Tambolis of course." When he refers to Dealer as his colleague it registers that the Libyan had already called him 'Mike'. Inwardly, Durand berates himself, remembering how he had gasped the American's given name when he had been suffering from the effects of the CS gas. Boulos had clearly picked up on it. Grey Cell's support team had done an excellent job of supplying the necessary documentation,  passports, press accreditation, drivers' licenses, none of which were in their real names. Durand's identified him as a Swiss citizen named Alain Colbert.

That slip notwithstanding though, he was beginning to feel quite pleased with how the night was developing. One of the other side's major players taken out of the game and they have what seems to be a solid lead on their targets. He glances at Dacovetti, notices the American glancing at his phone with an expression that appears...quizzical maybe? The Frenchman turns his attention back to Boulos. "So, Doctor, we have a deal, yes?"
This message was last edited by the player at 13:51, Wed 17 Dec 2014.

Boulos nods.  "Contingent on delivery, then.  I understand."  He reaches across the Land Rover's cabin, offering each agent his hand in turn.  Then he straightens his shoulders as if standing in front of a classroom and begins to report.

"A few weeks ago, they contacted me and asked my help in retrieving some personal effects from their apartment near the university.  They met me in a cafe on the south side of the airport - Mitiga.  You flew through there, yes?

"They had bodyguards with them, three of General Haftar's men.  They didn't appear to be under duress but they are not to approach the parts of the city where the Islamists still have control.  They could not discuss their work openly but," he smiles faintly at Sebastien, "we have a shared vocabulary, yes?  I believe," he stresses the qualifier, "they are doing something at the old research reactor in Tajura.  Possibly securing any remaining radioisotopes to keep them from falling into the wrong hands."  A thought flickers behind his eyes and he frowns.  "Or possibly looking at, how do you say, weaponizing them?  Though I think Haftar has spent enough time in the west to know what effect that would have on--"

Michael's phone buzzes: If secure, call Foundation IMMEDIATELY.  Empire2 has prior info on your last item.

Michael blinks and rotates the display toward Sebastien.  The DGSE agent rummages in the back seat for the satellite phone and passes it forward.  Michael eases out of the vehicle, steps far enough away to be outside immediate earshot of Boulos, and punches in the number that will route him the Incirlik ops center.

"Mike?  Thank fuck."  Bannon answers immediately.  "We got your video.  One of our remote support elements was monitoring and went through us to contact Choi.  It sounds like Secret Agent Man has killed one of those fuckers before.  Dude... are you sure that was Attar?  His breath hisses out at Michael's confirmation.  "Confirmed... aye aye, sir.  Stand by.  Look, Mike, get your partner on the line.  We're gonna patch you in with the rest of your team.  They're out in the ass end of the desert and they're reporting a visual on Attar..."

The audio feed pops and there's an electronic chirrup, then Mewes' voice comes up.  "Right.  Empire Three and Five are on the link.  We need to recalibrate this mission.  Gentlemen, we've all seen the video and we need a report on your recent hostile contact."

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This message was last edited by the GM at 01:24, Fri 19 Dec 2014.