Flashbang

Chapter 8

It was the second night of recon. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary when he had left the hotel but upon coming back, his foot on the doormat, his senses kicked in. Something was not right, for there was a lack of staff mulling around the hotel, even the cleaner who usually worked this shift was noticeably absent, and the dispersion of guests seemed to be a dead giveaway that something was up. His back stiffened, sensing someone approach behind him.

"Alan Waterhouse?"

Alastair's eyes narrowed, body tensing up. It was not a voice that he recognised.

Something had engaged the most ingrained human response; the flight or fight reflex. Another figure stepped in front of him, giving him a nod, as if he was just passing through the doorway. The man behind seemed to be distracted by whatever was happening behind him. He pivoted himself around, a glint of a blade had caught his eye, his leg was quickly propelled into the attacker's stomach, distance opening up between them. He was trapped in the doorway, between the two attackers.

He was hit on the head, a flash of white interrupted his sight. He stumbled forward, the battlefield opening up around him. Alastair noted another pair of late attenders to the party approaching with speed. He blocked an incoming blow, twisting the man's arm and his body around as a shield to block another incoming kick. It had been softened somewhat, Alastair breathed heavily. His senses were on fire. The blade cut through the air, missing his abdomen by inches as he contorted himself to one side, grabbing hold of the wrist and wenching the blade out of his hand. A fist connected heavily with Alastair's nose, a loud crack echoing around the room, sending the knife scattering across the marbled floor.

He grunted, grasping at his nose as he backed away. The wolves licked their lips as they began to close the distance and encircle him.

He needed to finish this fight.

With the distance he had gained, Alastair took a brief moment to observe the pack, hunting for its ringleader. Blood trickled down his nose, breathing became increasingly harder. That was when he saw him, a stout man with sunken eyes and a bowl for hair. He lunged towards him, sidestepping the attempt to floor him as he took a fistful of the man's shirt. Even then, the man did not seem to be afraid as he was presented to his pack, Alastair's foot pressing heavily against the small of his back.

"Do you understand me?" He asked, face close to the leader. Alastair shook his head once. "Pendejo, I asked you whether you understand me."

The leader gave a slow nod.

"Tell your men to back off. Their backs against the wall." Alastair increased the pressure felt on the man's arm, anymore and the man's arm would dislocate from his shoulder.

"Fuck you." The leader spat.

Alastair applied the needed pressure, the arm popped loudly out of the man's socket. He howled in pain but Alastair did not release his hold. "Tell your men to back off, I want to have a private conversation. With you."

The leader seemed to resign to his fate, knowing there was little give in his situation as he signaled for his men to move on.

"Good," Alastair commented, spitting a glob of blood onto the floor. "Did you pay off the hotel staff to disappear for a night?"

"No."

"I'd think very carefully, I will break your other arm this time, not just dislocate it," Alastair said. "What can you tell me about the attack tonight."

"I don't know anything." The man replied.

Alastair sighed, before taking hold of the man's good arm, and stamping heavily down on the joint. The man yelled in pain as he doubled over. "Do you know anything?"

"Si! Si!" The man scooted away from him, or at least tried as much as he could to distance himself. "I was paid, I don't know by who. They were supposed to give me last of the payment tonight."

"Where?"

The man considered holding his tongue but another exchanged look, cradling his broken arm, the pain sending spasms up his arm, "I'll take you."

Alastair frowned, but seeing that this might just be his only lead to who could have orchestrated this attack and the fact that they knew his own routine. He did not reply, proceeding to fix the man's dislocated shoulder, allowing his men to hear one last scream from their leader as he grabbed the man off the floor and pushed him out of the door, following closely behind, wiping the blood off with his sleeve. "This better not be a trap."

The men waiting on the other side of the road, a couple of them smoking, their faces bruising and eyes averted.

The leader had jerked his thumb towards his car. Alastair raised his brow, standing by the car door but watching as the group conferred with one another. His Spanish was rusty, so he only managed to get every fourth word spoken - but it seemed as if they were muttering about getting their arse handed to them. He smirked, the leader got into the car and Alastair watched the group disband before he slid into the driver's seat.

With the instructions being relayed to him in crude English, they pulled up outside an alleyway. Graffiti littered the brickwork, dressing it in a multitude of colours and words. "Wait here." The leader proceeded to get out of the car and towards a shadowed figure who loomed over the stout figure. Alastair felt along the compartments, a small smirk crossing his features as his hand found the grip of a pistol, pulling it out, he checked the magazine - it was low on ammo, but it was better than not having one. His eyes glanced up past the dashboard as he watched the interaction take place.

Alastair sunk low in the car, hoping that whoever the man was here to meet had not noticed the fact that there was a second passenger. His eyes carefully watched the exchange between them, but something had gone wrong.

Their body language had changed.

The shadowed figure pulled a gun, taking little time to shoot the man and allowing for his body to drop to the ground before turning his gun towards him. Alastair had little time to think as he ducked, glass shattering around him, pieces landing upon his body. He could here rounds being fired into the engine block.

Silence abruptly followed.

Alastair did not dare move, for the falling of glass shards would alert the shooter to unfinished business. Seconds ticked into minutes, he counted it in his head as he then righted himself to see the alleyway abandoned and the blaring of police sirens in the distance. He maneuvered himself out of the car, running alongside it and walking a couple of blocks down, a safe distance away from what now was a quickly becoming a crime scene.

Taking a breath, he focused on the next line of inquiry. Who was the shooter? Did the man fail to present any sort of evidence for his attack? Alastair gritted his teeth, he hated being on the back foot. Blood dried against his growing stubble.

Having been relayed the route, Alastair followed it back to the hotel, in which everything seemed to have gone back to 'normal' as if nothing had happened. Guests shot him odd looks, eyeing the blood that had dried on his sleeve - turning it a dark brown. The staff averted their eyes to focus on new arrivals. He shook his head as he jogged up the stairs, and to his room, exhaustion settling into his body.

He was no nearer to finding out what had happened with the soldiers, and someone knew that he was onto them. Alastair's gaze remained locked onto the spinning fan in his room, as his hand went to his pocket pulling out a small piece of paper - Tiffany's number. He turned it once over in his hands, before averting his eyes from the ceiling to the card and staring at the numbers, his eyes having adjusted to the darkness of his room with one arm behind his head.

Maybe he needed to get out and socialise more.

With some reluctance, Alastair dialed in her number, setting for a place and time to meet. To no surprise of his own, she had set the meeting place at her hotel. She had given him the directions and a half an hour window to meet her in.