Monaco Blues

January 01, 2016:

Scarlett rescues Reggie from an intel drop gone wrong

Monaco

The beautiful gem of the Mediterranean— Monaco.

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

"And I want a bunch of towels. Like, the plushest towels you have. Folded into the shape of swans," Reggie says, speaking into the hotel phone. "But… without being so thick that they can't be folded. Yes. Maintain a good ratio of plushiness to folding."

He hangs up without a 'goodbye' and goes to the vanity in the suite, removing a large toiletry kit from his suitcase and laying it out on the countertop. He eyes himself in the mirror with a narrow gaze and fishes for a contact lens case, and the inserts he pops in turn his eyes from muddled yellow-brown to a distinctive shade of emerald.

"You know, for a thousand dollar a night hotel room, you'd think the room service would be better," he comments to Shana, while he fishes for what proves to be some kind of face cream. "I bet they don't even had proper steak au poivre. I didn't see any peppercorns at all. I mean… y'know. By defintion it's not au poivre anymore. It's just overpriced tri-tip."

Reggie doesn't even have pants on, and the scheduled meeting with the mole from the Zhurhani embassy is in less than ten minutes. He seems overwhelmingly unconcerned by this.

"And I want a bunch of towels. Like, the plushest towels you have. Folded into the shape of swans," Reggie says, speaking into the hotel phone. "But… without being so thick that they can't be folded. Yes. Maintain a good ratio of plushiness to folding."

He hangs up without a 'goodbye' and goes to the vanity in the suite, removing a large toiletry kit from his suitcase and laying it out on the countertop. He eyes himself in the mirror with a narrow gaze and fishes for a contact lens case, and the inserts he pops in turn his eyes from muddled yellow-brown to a distinctive shade of emerald.

"You know, for a thousand dollar a night hotel room, you'd think the room service would be better," he comments to Shana, while he fishes for what proves to be some kind of face cream. "I bet they don't even had proper steak au poivre. I didn't see any peppercorns at all. I mean… y'know. By defintion it's not au poivre anymore. It's just overpriced tri-tip."

Reggie doesn't even have pants on, and the scheduled meeting with the mole from the Zhurhani embassy is in less than ten minutes. He seems overwhelmingly unconcerned by this.

Sitting over at the lavish office space provided in the suite, the redhaired intel agent has her back to Reginald and his antics. "God forbid there are no peppercorns…." she murmurs as she switches between three uplinked laptops and their varied displays. "No change in routine at the Embassy. Guard rotations are standard and at the expected intervals. Still working on getting a link to the internal security system. Five minutes." She glances over. "They're going to love your outfit" she remarks dryly.

Reginald busies himself at the vanity and steps into the bathroom to change. Less than a minute later he emerges in a tux that probably cost as much as a small used car, and he looks subtly but radically different than he did at SHIELD headquarters. His skin's a bit paler, and the green tint to his eyes lends him a more European appearance. His beard's been shaved and he even combs his hair differently.

"Right? I mean, c'mon. Lazy bastards," he says, adjusting his cufflinks. He taps the one on his left sleeve twice and speaks into it. "Testing testing, hello Tokyo are you recieve?" he asks, his voice a tinny echo in Scarlett's speaker system.

Scarlett doesn't pay attention to the antics but she appreciates the calm demeanor and well practiced effortless routine.

"Good copy. Don't forget. If you can't get in and get out in fifteen minutes after you make contact, we'll just have to steal Coca-Cola's secret recipe someplace else some other time." Her voice is a calm murmur, that of someone multitasking. Fingers flashing away on the holgraphic keyboards of the high tech SHIELD systems.

"Pfft, I wish it was that cool," Reginald snorts. "This is probably something idiotic like the Prime Minister's granddaughter's class schedule. Stealing the Coca-Cola recipe would actually be, y'know. A challenge. They guard that pretty hardcore."

He adjusts his bowtie and stands in front of Scarlett. "All right dear, I'm off to work. How do I look?" he asks, holdingg his arms out to the side.

Scarlett smirks faintly. She taps a few more keys, swiping displays about. She turns and stands. Reaching up, she straightens and tightens his tie a little. Patting him on the shoulder she smiles. "You look dashing and debonair. Go get'em. Dear." As if their cover here in the room matttered. She winks and turns to drop back into the chair, looking over the various displays from the compound's cameras and the retasked satellite imagery from hundreds of miles over head - with better resolution than the embassy's cameras.

Reggie smirks and snatches up a fancy-looking walking cane, and with a sagger leaves the suite.

The meeting takes place a few minutes later, in a courtyard area off the beaten path. The informant proves to be a weasel-faced little man with a nervous habit, but all seems to be going well…

…right up until four armed men swarm from nowhere on Reggie and the mole. The agent looks almost ready to defend himself but checks his attack at the last minute, opting to surrender with hands aloft.

"I say chaps," he says, in a perfect East London accent. "Rather a bit of a mixup here, I think?" The four gunmen move on him quickly and secure his wrists with zipties, and haul him and the mole off towards an unmarked van behind the service entrance.

A moment later, the sound of a runing engine can be heard over the commlink, and the GPS tracking unit in Reggie's shoe starts beeping. "Click your heels and go home, isn't that the snippet?" he asks, in a bemused tone. He grunts a moment later and the sound of fist striking bone comes across the microphone.

"My wife's going to be /very/ cross with you."

Scarlett monitors his progress, the meeting. But the internal security systems were proving more than up to the task of blocking her access. She could use a full time hacker to assist on operations like this, clearly. She can only watch as they are kidnapped and thrown into the unmarked van and taken off. GPS tracking is valid and stable. But only until they detect the device. She scrambles, grabbing a backpack with gear as she makes for the balcony. Already in her field armor, the redhead pulls her crossbow out to fire up at the roofline. Securing a grapple she clips onto the line and rapidly descends the hotel into the alleyway where a bike is stashed.

Pulling on the high tech helmet, it runs a full biolock check before bringing up a HUD on the inside of the visor that shows the streets and alleyways of Monaco as well as where Reginald's GPS marker currently pings from. Starting the bike she races out of the alley and onto the streets.

"Don't worry Stylus. I'm in pursuit. ETA four minutes at current rate."

"I've got a luverly bunch of coconuts, ~o/ diddle-dee-dee/~o," Reginald sings over the microphone. It creates an oddly surreal contrast as Scarlett revs her bike and tears into traffic amidst a blaring of car horns and screeching brakes.

A van swerves to avoid Scarlett as she crosses into oncoming traffic to pass. "~o/ Here they are, stand-ing in a row!"

"Big ones, small ones, some as big as yer 'ea-" there's another concussive thump and a grunt, and someone snarls "Shut up!" at Reginald.

"Corkin' hell, mate, that hurt," he groans. To his credit, the field agent hasn't broken character despite the kidnapping. "This is sort of a crap job as far as a kidnapping goes," he comments, that bland stream of dialogue never stopping. "I mean— I can see out the window. You didn't even blindfold me. And what are you carrying, CZ-75s with combat grips? Standard issue for Czech secret service. But, you're wearing off-the-rack tactical gear and the old style military boots. So not soldiers. Mercenaries, eh? Retired?"

Another thump of someone hitting Reginald.

"You know," he says, spitting, "I read once that the things that make us the angriest are the things we know to be true."

It wouldn't be an intel mission if it didn't also involve a break-neck speeds chase through peak traffic. Weaving between cars she murmurs, "Singing's not heeeeelpinnng…" she muses. Then the details. She snorts, "Please… is that really what they've got? Amateurs." She scoffs and cuts through an alleyway. It's someone's little garden being Monaco. No such thing as alleys really. Ripping up the turf she cuts back onto another street, finding herself - quite stareotypically - racing through oncoming traffic. Weaving wildly she cuts over to the correct lanes. "I'm one minute out Stylus. Leave some for me, if you please."

There's one more sodden thump and the sound of someone hitting the deck of the van. They've either broken Reginald's jaw or just smacked him hard enough to knock him senseless for a few moments. The steady beep beep beep of his GPS in Scarlett's ear keeps her on course, though, and in mere minutes the van comes to a stop in a scarcely trafficked warehouse district. It's the sort of place nefarious types like to hang out between missions— lots of escape routes, easy to get lost in, and traffic tends to stand out. And lots of places to hide a body.

There's the sound of doors sliding open and chains rattling, then mechanical noises and steel on concrete. Familiar storage sounds.

"We've got him here," a gruff voice says in a distinctly Eastern European accent. "We sure he's the guy?"

There's a pause, then a soft, negative noise. A female voice: "No. But he's certainly not someone in the wrong place, either. There's a bit of cosmetic on his skin and he's too well-heeled to be a common pad. Police, maybe. Possibly INTERPOL. Search him for bugs," the woman says, moving away. There's a sound of roughened clothing and then a low male voice, Reginald's.

"Buy a chap a drink first, eh mate?"

Scarlett is still playing catchup. Cutting across traffic. She veers between buildings as she follows the most direct path to the spot on the projected HUD inside her visor. She murmurs quietly as she closes in, "One minute out, Stylus. Stall them if you can." She jumps a curb and lands on the side walk, cutting through a cafe and out the back walkway, closing in on the location. She cuts the engine and coasts silently up to the building, the back of the truck, stopping some twenty meters short, looking at the situation to get an idea of who's where.

They're mercenaries, but they're short-staffed. One man on guard but he's busier with his phone than doing anything but looking out for a one-woman band coming down the street. It's easy enough for Scarlett to slip out of the vehicle and get close enough for a peek inside the building.

Five men , plus the one guarding the door makes for six. Brawny enough to be steroid junkies, but only two of them have the look of professional soldiers about them. Hired mercenaries and rentathugs. Two of them are busy searching Reggie, who looks like he's gone a few rounds and lost. One eye's starting to swell shut and his head is lolling. Amateur hour, too, because he's sitting in a folding chair with his hands only loosely handcuffed behind him. Three other men are taking a post-operation celebratory drink of beer, and a woman in a charcoal pantsuit and pink blouse is chatting into her phone in polished Italian, standing near a short luxury towncar in muted black.

Scarlett knows better than to take this for granted. But the element of surprise is always a big advantage. She draws her crossbow and takes aim. "Stylus… lower your wrists and spread your legs. Unless you want to be a pincushion." She only waits a moment then fires. Two rapid shots. The first snaps the chain on the cuffs, the bolt streaking between her teammate's legs to imbed in the floor before erupting into a thick cloud of covering smoke to by him some time to get himself to gether. The second strikes the front tire of the car, a small explosion destroying the tire and warping the rim such that driving it at all will be a great challenge. Then she turns, ready to provide covering fire for Stylus to get out.

"You tease," Reggie mumbles. One of the fellows turns and cranes his head towards Reginald.

"What?"

Reginald smashes his forehead into the fellow's ear the moment he hears the whipcrack of Scarlett's crossbow severing his chains, poleaxing the big man, and then hits the other man in the throat with an efficient straight jab to his adam's apple. The thug gags and his eyes bulge, and Reginald uses him for leverage to swing out of his seat and dash for the cover of the nearest shelving unit.

"That's two," Reginald whispers breathlessly into his cufflink, picking a crowbar silently up off a shelf and hunkering down while the mists fill the room. "North exit's still covered, I think. How's the south? Can I get out that way?"

Scarlett wings one of the other mercs. Well through the calf anyway. It spins him around and down as he cries out in pain, grabbing at the limb. "South's clear, Come toward me. Stay to my right. There's a doorway here. Grab yourself a weapon if you feel like helping out." She keeps a focused if amused tone as she ducks from some return fire.

The best part of using a crossbow is that she doesn't have to hit her target as with a gun. Tapping a selector switch on the side of the weapon, a new tip swings into place on the next bolt. She fires it at the ceiling and a massive flash illuminates the slowly dissipating smoke, making it a huge mass if bright glowing chaos. It goes off behind Stylus letting him make good his exit without blinding him.

Reggie starts running, near blind— but as Scarlett would be able to do as well, he's got the room's layout memorized. It's quite probable he could make his escape completely blindfolded.

One mercenary looms up in the shadows, but with a swing that'd make a lacrosse player proud, Reggie clips him across the jaw with the crowbar and he goes down with a grunt and a sodden thump.

Moments later he dashes from the smoke and into the setting sun, but like a good agent, doesn't dash straight for Scarlett. Instead, he takes a longer route angling away from the building. It's a perfect setup for Scarlett to flank the two mercs who come out with guns in hand and start peppering the rocks around his feet with bullets from their small automatics.

Scarlett taps the switch on her crossbow again and turns to aim at the two men oblivious to her presence. She fires off two more shots, these streak toward them, striking them in the center of their mass, the tips erupting in a jolt of current strong enough to fell a charging Bull Elephant. To anyone watching (and not hiding from the gunfire) the image would be comical given the way their faces contort and grimace before they slup to the ground. "Alright, Mr. Bond, are there any loose ends you care to tie up or shall we make good our escape before this gets any more complicated and messy?"

"I think it's best we scarper, dear," Reginald says into his cufflink. He flicks his kerchief from his breast pocket and unfolds a small alcohol wipe from inside, blotting at his face and wiping at it with a grimace and a small growl of pain. "Be a dear, bring the car around? I'll meet you about… four blocks west, three north?"

And sure enough, he's there when her car rolls around, chest rising and falling as if he's just jogged the near quarter-mile at a fair clip. He pauses a few steps away to adjust his cufflinks and tug on his shirt collar— tie long gone— and smirks roguishly at Scarlett.

"Nicely done, my dear. I know I promised you a trip to the theatre," he remarks, climbing into the passenger side. "But would you be terribly cross if we just stayed in the room? Perhaps Netflix and a bottle of Bollinger?" he says with a twinkle of his eyes— currently mismatched, one green contact lens having been knocked out.

He chuckles weakly and closes his eyes, head bouncing against the headrest as he accepts the momentary security of the car ride.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 License