To walk silently is a skill, to jog silently, is an even bigger skill. To jog silently across gravel with a semi-automatic weapon, enough ammunition for it, a silenced pistol and ammunition, grenades of all kinds, the protection any soldier requires, and night vision goggles, must be a fucking miracle. That meant that Sergeant Paul Wolfe was a miracle maker, one of a kind. Ducking underneath every window around the old redbrick building, he moved swiftly on. Across every single surface he moved on, no sound was made. He reached the wooden lattice he was expected to climb, and stopped, with a look of disgust on his face. He pushed the little button on his earpiece.
"What kind of a fucking rotten piece of shit is this?" He whispered aggressively down the microphone. No reply. He had to climb it whether it was stable or not. He didn't like the thought of storming a house with helicopters on standby for and extreme situation; he would have preferred them coming to his aid precisely when he needed them. One movement at a time, lifting his left leg up, then his right hand, then his right leg and his left hand. The movement seemed to echo through his body, as the neurones in his body passed signals to his muscles, moving his limbs accordingly.
When the sergeant reached the top of the lattice he heard a door open down below. It was the terrorist's assigned patrolmen. The sergeant had a sudden thought, where were the police, and the crowds of people watching the building anxiously, trying to bargain whatever they want with the terrorists. He cut his thoughts away in his mind. Focus, was the thought in his head now. As "Wolfy" reached the edge of the side of the building he was going to rappel down, straight through an open window, the guards made their pass, talking their foreign languages, unawares of this wolf that was perched on their roof top. By the time these two men had passed, the sergeant had his rappel ready. Down he went, down the wall towards the open window. Before he swung down, he froze, holding onto the belay tightly, stopping him moving anywhere. Through the legs that were opened against the wall, to stop him waving around in mid air, he saw a barrel. They had a machine gun ready. Paul Wolfe smirked; the guy on the other end of that machine gun was expecting an opportunity to shoot at any English soldiers sent his way. Wolfe thought about this, and thought himself as an angel of death, about to fly down on to this "gunner" and with one touch, the guy would die. This thought brought the smile even wider. And after a count of three the sergeant pushed with his leg, and loosened off the belay.
On the floor, cans of energy drinks, consumed for the caffeine. On the windowsill, a tripod perched for easy gunning, and behind this weapon, a young man with a balaclava. He was waiting for any suspicious signs appearing from the woods across the other side of the courtyard. He took the last sip of yet another can, and sat with his binoculars. If any fuckers try and move out there, I'll have them, he thought to himself. Behind this baby, I'm not going to die, nobody can kill... A blurry foot interrupted his thoughts, as it crashed into his neck with amazing force, pushing his chair back over its hind legs and crashing to the floor. The guy on the chair was killed as soon as the foot made the head connect to the floor. The sergeant looked at the young masked man underneath his boot. He smiled again, another perfect hit. He was too good at this. His thoughts were interrupted by a voice, shouting to his now dead friend in a foreign language. Paul thought fast, tipping the chair back on to all fours, running into the corner and pulling his pistol out. The door opened to Pauls left, and he waited for the guy to come in. From the corner Paul was in, when the dead dude's friend came in, he was facing the other way. A few seconds went by as the guy walked deeper into the room. Two shots whizzed through the air, one into the back, and one into the head. A little voice in Paul's ear then kicked in "They should be in the basement, clear every single room on the way down, you don't want any ragheads following you". Paul almost replied, but saved himself the hassle.
The corridor through the door was huge; it was like being in the TARDIS. Paul edged his way down looking through every key hole. Funnily enough, he smelt cigarettes through every single one, but he didn't care, he knew he had a better chance of surviving through this ordeal without clearing the rooms first. He'd done these sorts of things a lot, and knew setting up some cover behind a doorway was one of the best things he could do in the possible situation running through in his mind. This was turning out to be very easy. He almost skipped down the stairs; these guys couldn't care if they had an intruder. That's what Sergeant Paul Wolfe thought. Shouts boomed from the top of the stairs. The last thing that ran through this soldiers mind was the sound of gun shots in the basement.
The words, "Game Over" appeared on the wide screen in front of the young boys face. The reflection of the words so cruelly displayed showed in his glasses. Dropping the controller in disbelief, the boy sighed. He had taken it too easily, he had played the game like an amateur, and in his mind, and he knew he was not. The boy wiped his sweaty palms on his tee shirt, rubbing his hands over his rolls, the signs of many days of coming home to the exact same thing, food, then the game console that was bought for him a couple of years a go. He now sub-consciously showed gratitude for this everyday, too much gratitude. The boy checked his watch, it was getting late. He decided in his head, to just have one more go, just one more little one. He picked up the sweaty controller from his bed, and pressed the start button, unawares that for the next couple of hours, that controller would not move once away from his hands. Not once.
Reid Piggott
I'm not a good writer, but this was only done in an hour or two, so...
