Today, the stranglehold of the controlling negative forces upon Earth is extremely advanced and is choking the very life from our planet. The effects of this are evident everywhere in the form of fear, separation, war, disease and multifarious kinds of disharmony on all levels.

- David Icke

 
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:19, Sat 06 Dec 2014.

Western Tripoli, Libya
15 March 2015
0216 hrs local (0116 hrs Zulu)

Immaculate in fresh gray primer over the last vestiges of British racing green, a Land Rover Defender 110 pulls to a halt in an alley just off the Gergarish Main Road.  The sea is strong in the air, almost masking the heavier aromas of decay and human effluent.

In the 28 hours since touching down at Mitiga Airport, Sebastien Durand and Michael Dacovetti have found wheels, guns, and a disarmingly good Italian-influenced and Westerner-friendly seafood cafe.  They've found time to shave, shower, and map out escape routes, rendezvous points, and a couple of possible short-term safe-houses.

What they have not found is the first sign of Satish and Jayashri Tamboli.

Task Force 47's sponsors in Brussels assembled a detailed file on the Tambolis with a thick section of known associates, ranked in order of potential utility.  Of the first four, one fled the country during the Libyan Civil War, one picked up a rifle and now occupies a shallow grave outside Misrata, one lied obviously and extensively in hopes of an unearned reward, and one would very much like to find Satish himself over an allegation of stolen academic glory.

The fifth prospect is Sabah ud-Din Talib Boulos, professor of mechanical engineering, former occupant of Libya's WMD labs, and possibly Jayashri's occasional illicit lover, now a taxi driver by day and an auto repairman at night.  Inquiries with Dr. Boulos' daytime employer - lubricated by a roll of cash and a few photos that will never really see the cover of The Guardian - yielded the address of his nighttime workplace and assurances that he'll be there late.

Sebastien and Michael exit the vehicle, close the doors softly, and check their weapons and cover garments.  The repair shop is four buildings down from their current position.  The shop's interior isn't visible from their current angle but wavering gridded shadows suggest a hanging high-intensity work light is swinging on its cord.

Suddenly, there's a grunt of exertion and the shadow of a roll-down door guillotines down.  With a squeal of misaligned rollers, it sticks about three feet from the ground.  Someone mutters a curse in Arabic; another voice answers in a different tongue, one neither agent speaks but which Sebastien recognizes as Farsi.  The work lamp casts the shadow of legs approaching the recalcitrant door.

Legs - and the silhouette of a pistol held carelessly at waist level.

Your move.

"I believe we will soon have every tool possible at our disposal except what I would love right now: a fiber optic camera."  Dacovetti doesn't dwell on it.  He isn't complaining, merely observing.  Anything more would be a waste of perfectly good time and energy.  Hunting leads has left him a little twitchy, but nothing he can't handle.  More than likely, it's just the fatigue toxins inhabiting his blood stream.  The adrenaline that is starting to take up it's own residence in his blood should be rectifying that situation relatively soon, however.

The shadow brandishing a pistol is a rapidly growing concern into an already potential wildcard situation.  Michael worries that they might not have time to formulate a real plan or deal with the nuances of a standoff.  It does look like someone else thinks they already have control of the situation.  A hand on his weapon provides less a feeling security and more a calmness from preparation.

"This looks like we might need to go kinetic.  I'm going to cut across the street and see if I can get a better sight angle under that door. Do you want to position to cover the door and prep for entry?"

”Sure.” Durand nods briefly in agreement with Dacovetti. In one respect, perhaps the muttered Farsi and the presence of the firearm could be taken as a positive sign, an indication that unlike the other leads that they had spent the past twenty eight hours chasing down, this one might actually be going somewhere. Or perhaps not, for weapons were commonplace here, carried by people the way kids in France would carry a smart phone. But the Farsi strikes him as an indication that something a little out of the ordinary might be going on.

As the American crosses the street Durand heads up the street on the same side as the garage door. Whilst he’s done things like this many times before he can still sense the feelings building up inside him, anticipation, anxiousness, excitement as he reaches for his weapon. He’d opted for a Glock 19 from the options that had been available to them, hoping that it would be easier to conceal than its bigger brother. He’s carrying it in a holster at the small of his back, one covered by a black button down shirt that he’s wearing loose, outside the waist of his tan cargo pants. His outfit is completed by a pair of desert boots that he’s owned for years and a dark shemagh worn loose around his neck.  He’s hoping that in the dark his attire and tanned skin might allow him to pass as a local to a casual observer casting a cursory glance in his direction.

He moves quietly, carefully, avoiding any stray sources of illumination that might cast a betraying shadow as he moves up to the metal shutter, flattening himself against the wall adjacent to it, the Glock held in both hands, his eyes following Dealer’s movements.  If Boulos is indeed a link- and it appears at the moment perhaps their only link - to the rogue scientists that they are hunting – for that is how Durand thinks of it, a hunt - his wellbeing is a priority. For the moment.

And so the Frenchman waits, poised to act, to make an entry, either on a signal from the American airman or if it sounds like things are going downhill fast inside.

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.

Merde Durand curses to himself silently, as he freezes against the wall, waits to see what consequences may be, but it seems that the noise of the door being rattled at the same moment has drowned out the sound of his boot striking the unseen object on the ground, for no one has appeared to investigate the sound. He listens to the conversation as it unfolds in Arabic. Presumably one of the speakers, the one complaining that he has paid 'the Horse' is Boulos. The other had originally spoken Farsi. Attar perhaps? After all, he was Iranian. Or one of his henchmen?

The Frenchman remains pressed against the wall, listening. The Farsi speaker wants the Libyan to go with him somewhere. In a car. The Libyan doesn't appear to want to go. Someone is being sent to fetch a car. He can hear what sounds to him like a weapon being made safe, holstered. Perhaps the Farsi speaker is trying to appear less threatening. But how many men does he have in there with him? Is someone else pointing a Kalashnikov at Boulos? He doesn't know. Dealer is the eyes, Durand is the ears. But if the Frenchman tries to communicate with his American colleague does he risk betraying their presence to the men in the garage?

Different thoughts go through Durand's mind. If the Iranian - that is how Durand thinks of the Farsi speaker - takes the man that could be Boulos away in a car that may take him out of Task Force 47's reach indefinitely, perhaps even permanently, for if they go mobile that hands the advantage to the Iranian and his team in his opinion; dependent on where they were headed they might well spot the Land Rover following them, and he and Dacovetti do not have the resources to storm an Islamist safe house. And he suspects that it would not take the jihadis long to 'persuade' Boulos to tell them everything that he knows about the Tambolis, whatever that may - or may not - be.

And so it takes the Frenchman little more than a second to decide that it would be for the best if Boulos does not leave the scene in a vehicle with the Iranian. That's the easy part. But does he go in blind or risk comms? He looks across the street to Dealer. He needs to know what the American can see. He talks as softly as he can, uses as few words as possible, his throat activated mike picking up the words, transmitting them via the covert earpiece in Dacovetti's ear. " How many targets can you eyeball?"