Re: [IC] Chapter One - The Advance Team
Sebastien eases toward the half-open roll-down door, intent on avoiding any light source that could betray him to the observers within the garage. He's watching the shadows too intently, in fact - the cluster of discarded oil filters is just another irregularity in the buckled concrete of the gutter until the toe of his boot contacts them. He cringes at the metallic rattle - just as the man worrying at the door gives it another tug, sending a far louder set of mechanical complaints echoing down the alley. Sebastien freezes in place, Glock held at low ready. He's about four feet from the door.
Michael angles across the alley and takes a knee behind a chest-high stack of battered wooden pallets. From his vantage point thirty feet away, he has a clear view of the bottom three to four feet of about half the garage. A rusty Peugeot sedan squats spider-like on six bottle jacks, surrounded by a rough arc of brake components and hand tools. There's nothing unusual about the garage's fittings or decor.
Both of the men at the door are wearing desert camouflage fatigues in what looks like a variant of the United States' old "chocolate chip" pattern - common in Libyan quartermasters' stores before the revolution and now standard field wear for all sides in the civil war. The one losing his wrestling match with the door is wearing white athletic socks and black Adidas sneakers. The other has scuffed jump boots; his pistol is some flavor of H&K USP with a rail-mounted light.
Two more pairs of legs, both also presumably male, are visible near the Peugot's far corner. Of these, one man wears similar camouflage; the other, grease-stained red track pants.
"I told you, I've already paid the damned 'license fee' for the month," grouses a new voice in Arabic. "Call the Horse if you don't believe me. My phone's right over there. I know he'll be awake, this is the time he always comes around anyway."
"You misunderstand, Doctor." The man with the pistol, presumably the one speaking, turns away from the door and takes a couple of steps toward the sedan. Sebastien recognizes his voice as that of the Farsi-speaker. "We have no connection to the Horse - no, we're not here to challenge his protection services, either. In fact, we can solve your money problems." He decocks the H&K and Sebastien hears the faint scuff-snap of a Kydex holster's retention mechanism engaging. "I apologize for my men. They usually work in less refined circles. Wasi, there's no need for that. Go bring the car around."
Michael sees the far camo-wearer step away from the man in track pants, then turn and move out of his field of view. A second after that, both agents hear a door open and close.
"Car? What - no, tell me what you want, now. I can't leave, this-- this--"
Your move.
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:09, Sat 06 Dec 2014.