Disclaimer: The characters of Peter Wisdom and Culley are owned by Marvel Characters. The characters of Admiral Sir Miles Messervy (M.), Major Geoffrey Boothroyd (Q), Miss Moneypenny, Penelope Smallbone, Bill Tanner, and Rene Mathis were created by Ian Fleming, and are property of EON productions. All other characters are mine, and I'm very attached to them, so get away! Since I'm not making any money, I'll keep what I can get. Chapter 2: The Man from Stockholm What has come before: Peter Wisdom, on assignment from Black Air division of MI5, teams up with Jack Wagner, the international mercenary known as Fire Stryke. After introductions, the mercenary brings Wisdom to an office building that is a front for the organisation Jack and Wisdom are supposed to take out. They break down the door and enter . . . Bruno Hessner had been a hitman with the Stasi for nearly ten years. When the Stasi was disbanded following the Grenzgeoffnung, he had fled to the west, to take shelter under the organisation of former Stasi chief Heinz Becker. He saw, glancing out the blackened window, a silver car in the alley. Immediately he decided that the car didn't belong there, and he headed for the entrance hall. The large room had the front door at one end, and the old building's only staircase at the other. He turned to go up the staircase, and then heard the front door splinter into several sections. He clutched the Walther MPL subgun that was strapped across his shoulders, and spun to meet the threat. As he faced the doorway, he found himself looking into the coldest blue eyes he had ever seen, as well as the very ugly business end of a Mini-Uzi. He found himself so unnerved by the icy stare, he couldn't pull the trigger. As the four Parabellum shockers tore through his chest, he fell backward, his finger convulsing on the trigger, the SMG emptying its load of 32 9mm shredders into the ceiling. * * * Jack tracked the Mini-Uzi's barrel across the room. He found nothing, and stood up. "Well, I guess that shot surprise all to hell. Watch yourself, Wisdom. Head upstairs, and I'll join you when I finish here." "Will do. Be careful, Wagner." Wisdom headed up the stairs, the Ingram held in a retention grip at his side. As he reached the top, he tested both ways with the subgun, and opted to head left first. Wagner dove through the right doorway, deciding that he could take a potential flight through the doorway, and catch them off guard. He tucked his shoulder for the inevitable roll, softening his landing. He rolled to his knees, tracking the SMG towards a large goon on a couch, with a copy of Der Spiegel in his hands. The thug reached for a Star Firestar pistol on the table in front of him. He was fast, but not fast enough. As he worked the single-action hammer backwards, three softpoints tore into his neck. Jack watched the hardman slump onto the couch. He quickly moved into the next room, a kitchen of the less than sparkling variety. Three punks sat around a rough wooden table, passing a bottle of Dutch ale between them. The alcohol slowed their reaction time - two more empty bottles sat on the table - but Jack thought it best to take them out in sight order. He drilled six rounds through the first one who notised him. The second one was a few notches faster than Jack had anticipated. He brought up a French MAT-49 subgun, and squeezed off a one-handed burst. Most of the ten rounds tore up the air on Jack's left, but the final two bounced off the Kevlar lining of his mac. The thug's eyes grew wide and he raised the weapon to hit Jack's head, but the warrior burned him with five rounds from the Mini-Uzi. The final hardman turned to face Jack. He was apparently an officer in the organisation, because he raised a Czech Skorpion machine pistol. Jack stroked the trigger, and seven crimson blossoms climbed up the gunman's chest. The subgun's bolt locked back, and Jack pulled out the empty magazine, turning it over to expose the second mag taped to the bottom, upside down. He knelt down to the Stasi man who had just slid to the floor. "They say that the bottle'll kill you, mate." He slapped the new mag into place, working the cocking knob. "Maybe you should have been the designated driver." He headed into the next room. Finding nothing, he slipped through another doorway and ventilated a hitman whose EAA Witness wasn't quite as fast as he thought. Four Teflon-coated JSPs tore out his liver, and he slid to the floor. On the other side of the room, the door was shut. He tried the knob and found it locked. He reached down and twisted the outer ring on his watchface. The electromagnet inside activated, and pulled the tumblers into place. He closed the switch again, and opened the door rapidly. Inside were several men, all with side arms, looking over crates filled with automatic weapons. They opened the crates with crowbars, and the door's opening was lost in the noise. Jack thought that was just wonderful. "Quitting time, boys!" He tracked the barrel in a figure eight across the room. The hardmen jerked and danced as the bullets tore through them. Almost as one, they fell. Except one. He reached into the crates, finally jerking a Madsen M50 subgun free. He held it up and jerked the trigger. Nothing happened. The look on the gunman's face was almost comical, as Jack knew that the manner in which the fellow gripped the unfamiliar weapon prevented him from disengaging the grip safety. It was designed so that it couldn't be fired one-handed, but the yutz obviously didn't know that. Jack suddenly realised the bolt on his Mini-Uzi had locked back. Since it was only a matter of time before the thug notised this, he unleathered the Hi-Power and drilled a quick double-tap into the Hardman's face. He fell back into an aquarium, which shattered, flinging water all over the back wall. Jack looked over the crates at the body. "Enjoy sleeping with the fishes, lowlife." He cursed the Mini-Uzi. He hadn't used one in a few months, and he didn't realise how fast the thing fired. While his eidetic memory could record the details, in battle it was a matter of feel. He slung the Uzi under his jacket, anchored against the inside of the lining. Just then his heightened senses alerted him. He spun around, bringing up the Browning. A quick double-tap tore through the chest of a hitman emerging from the bathroom, as he tried to zip up. Jack thought that had to be the most ridiculous sight he had ever seen. He tapped the cufflink on his right sleeve. "Wisdom, are you still around, or did one of them get lucky?" The response came back after a moment. "Well, the Ingram's just about dry, but I'm still going. What about you?" "Let's just say I caught them with their pants down." He looked at the recent kill and smiled. "I'm coming up, so keep a lookout." "Will do." They broke the connection. Jack headed through the next door, as his sense of direction told him, and emerged into the main hall. He saw another hardman, probably from upstairs (Wisdom didn't seem to be the type to make sure nobody got out. Only experience bred that.), looking into the room across the way, where the punk on the couch lay. Jack reached down to his watch, pulling on one of the stems. It pulled out, followed by a length of flat wire. He pulled until it locked, then looped the garotte over the thug's neck. After a few moments, the hardman's body collapsed on the floor. As the thug's face came into view, he recognised the face as that of Heiko Brunner, top agent for the Stasi, one that Wagner had come up against a few times, and been lucky enough to get away. Not this time. Well, perhaps he was trying to soothe Jack's ego. Jack made another run-through, to make sure he hadn't missed anyone. After all, there was plenty to go around. Completing his run, he dashed upstairs. He dashed left, to do cleanup for Wisdom, his eyes searching left and right. * * * Wisdom rounded another corner, kicking open a door. He examined the room, finding nothing. Except for a door adjoining to the next room. He kicked it open as well, and was greeted by a thug wielding a Mexican HM-3. The secret agent drilled the last six rounds in the Ingram through the gunman's chest, and the hardman's dying impulse dried up most of the subgun's mag. Since it was similar to the now-empty Ingram, Wisdom opted to pick up the weapon because he didn't feel like facing a situation such as this with only the Walther and P9S he normally carried. As he picked up the subgun, he released the mag to check its capacity. Four rounds. With the one in the chamber that made five. Wisdom normally didn't believe in omens, but this couldn't be a good sign. He had trained with British-made Stens and Sterlings. Their low cyclic rates were easy to control, but most of the rest of the world used faster-firing weapons. In this case, five rounds meant about one burst. He decided he couldn't dwell on it. Wisdom picked himself off the floor, and headed through the next doorway. As Wisdom reached the end of the hallway, he headed into the last room. He kicked the door open, punching his single burst into the room's sole occupant. As the fellow hit the floor, Wisdom tossed the gun to the side and reluctantly drew his P9S. He adopted a two-handed Weaver stance and checked every corner of the room. As he neared the closet, the door popped open and the doorjamb hit him in the stomach. The knob dug into his side, and he hit the ground, his gun sliding across the floor. The man who emerged was tall and dark, with chiseled features. He had a Makarov pistol in his hand, and he thumbed back the hammer with confidence. As Wisdom's vision cleared, he found himself staring into the gun's barrel. The man spoke at first in what Wagner took to be German; Wagner knew a smattering of French and a bit of Russian, but German he was completely unfamiliar with. After seeing what Wisdom's reaction was, he switched to heavily accented English. He nearly spat out his consonants, and his vowels were overdone - far longer or shorter than they should have been. "What might you be doing here, other than being a thorn in my side, eh? I believe you owe me an explanation. And I am sure you will give it to me." Wisdom set himself to resist, although he figured his number was up. He had given the reaper the slip more times than he could count. But before he could use his Walther he would be gunned down, and he hurt far too much to be able to accurately use his hotknives. With the Makarov's barrel in his face, he didn't have a prayer. *See you soon, Mom.* * * * Jack quickly worked his way through the rooms, and found that while Wisdom did a decent job of stopping the opposition, most of his shots only resulted in painful wounds. The moaning hardmen were quick work with the powerful Browning. He'd have to find a way to make Wisdom more efficient. Well, there'd be time for that later. He had work to do now. He cleared most of the rooms quickly. Unfortunately, the Browning double-fed as he took care of a large oaf with a dragon tattoo on his right arm. He'd have to see who that was later. He cursed at the Browning - it rarely jammed, but when it did, it was always a difficult variety. He holstered the pistol, and unleathered the Smith. Jack thumbed back the 629's hammer, and turned to exit the room. His finely tuned combat senses began buzzing, like an electric alarm in the back of his head. Jack quickly spun around, but found nothing. He then realised what the buzzing meant. Wisdom! There could be no other explanation. Jack wasn't accustomed to occurrences like this, but he wasn't used to a partner, either, so it made sense. He turned, following the trusted instincts that were leading him to the end of the corridor. As Jack reached the door at the end, he heard three quick reports. His hand froze on the doorknob. The tingle was gone. He lowered his head for a moment. It was time to exact steep payment. In blood. He slipped through the door. He saw, on the other side of the room, a fellow with a Makarov, pointing the smoking barrel at - Wisdom! He was still moving! About time something went Jack's way. He raised the revolver, and sent 240 grains of softpoint boattail into the pistol. It flew through the air, and the gunman screamed. The thug stared at his hand. His index had been caught in the triggerguard, and it was now bent at an unnatural angle. His eyes grew wide, and out of his mouth issued a soft "Scheiss." Jack bent down, and picked up the dropped gun. He bounced it in his hand, and looked over at Wisdom, who was picking himself off the floor, and drawing his Walther. Jack smiled at him. "Let me guess. Kevlar? Good idea." He saw Wisdom nod, in recognition of the ballistic nylon vest Q branch had assigned him in London. He turned to the gunman, switching to German. "That's right, pal. You're in deep Scheiss now. And the only way you get out of it is to give me the answers I need." He stood up, indicating the Makarov in his hand. On the slide was marked "Pistole Makarov", indicating its German origin. "GDR-made Makarov pistol, 9 X 18 millimetre cartridge, standard armament for the Stasi. Isn't that right, Lars Richter? Yes, Lars, I know who you are. And that you defected from Sweden five years ago. Now, let's get down to business." He saw Lars' eyes glance to the P9S that had fallen beside him. As he thumbed back the revolver's hammer, Lars made a try for it, but he dropped the pistol as a Glaser from Wisdom's PPK tore into his thigh. The thin cupronickel coating of the bullet ruptured, launching twelve balls of No. 12 shot from their liquid Teflon suspension into his flesh. The P9S clattered to the floor, and Wagner touched the 629's still-hot barrel to Lars' forehead. He yelped as the skin on his head burned. Jack scowled into his face, and his voice dropped to a malicious whisper. "Now you shouldn't have done that, Lars. If you give me the answers, I won't kill you. But I don't have to like it, and you should remember, it's quite surprising what you'll live through." He grilled Lars for about ten minutes. The Stasi killer found the .44 Magnum at his head very intimidating, but the icy blue eyes were worse. They seemed to bore through him, and he gave up the Intel almost immediately. When he finished, Jack stood up. "Danke sehr, Lars. I hope the gendarmes don't rough you up too much." He lowered the Magnum, and blasted a round through each of Lars' hands. The Stasi man screamed as the bones in his hands shattered. Wisdom walked over and retrieved his P9S, taking the weapon through its tricky decocking procedure. As they walked out, Wagner lit up a cigarette. Wisdom turned to face him. "Jack, what the hell was that back there? You probably crippled him." "I said I'd let him live. I didn't say he'd be in a condition to kill anyone when he got out." "That's crazy, Jack. I think you're getting a little obsessed -" Wagner backhanded Wisdom. His cheek stung like hell, but he knew that Jack had pulled the blow. "Listen, you stupid bastard. If you've ever held a dying child in your arms, or seen a kid gunned down because he crossed the street at the wrong time, or known a man who disappeared because he thought the premier was wrong, then you can argue. Does the name Alex Mitchell mean anything to you?" Wisdom rubbed his numb cheek. "Can't say it does." "Well it means a lot to me. So take your compassionate bullshit elsewhere. If I have to choose between listening to the courts that exonerate thousands of those bastards every day, or to the screams of the men and women he's killed, I'll choose the latter every time. _Capisce_?" "Yeah. I get you." They were in the car again before Pete spoke. "So where to now, the next safehouse?" Jack shook his head. "No. I know a great little cafe just a few blocks away. We'll have lunch and then get to work again." The Aston Martin sped off towards the North, its occupants engaged in a stony silence.