SWAT Team Encounter
by Daniel Beadle - Wednesday, September 26, 2007
“FREEZE!”Frank stops in his tracks. Surrounded by over a dozen SWAT soldiers, he’s easily outgunned. A helicopter circles overhead, keeping its spotlight trained on the highway below.
Frank holds his hands out to his sides, gauging the situation, studying every angle. Capture is not an option, he thinks. Not again. And death? Well, he’s not finished with what he was meant to do in this world. So Frank thinks back. Ten years of Marine Corp basic training. Ten additional years of combat experience, in the farthest reaches of the globe. He remembers the self-hypnosis techniques he learned when he was fourteen.
Frank snaps back to the present, as the SWAT team slowly makes its approach. His lips part, and whispers a single phrase: “Clear the mechanism.” Suddenly, the world grows quiet and still. Frank falls into a trance, and the air takes on the smell of gunpowder.
A block away, Sniper crouches on the roof of a local bank. “Jesus,” he says to himself, as he watches Frank through his telescopic sight.
A voice crackles in his ear radio. “Status?”
“The Annihilator has just engaged the enemy. He’s outnumbered twenty to one.”
“Acknowledged. Complete your mission.”
Sniper takes aim, and controls his breathing as he squeezes the trigger.
Frank expertly moves through a hail of bullets, picking his targets and executing them with an expertise that most men will never know. Death is his art. Death is his life.
Frank’s dual Berettas empty of their ammunition, as he leaps through the air, disables a hostile, and procures his weapon, a Colt Automatic Rifle. Bullets fly through the air like rain. Frank grits his teeth, and his increasing anger pulls him out of his trance. He screams as he pumps the remainder of his clip into the last SWAT team members.
The helicopter comes in low to take Frank out. Machine gun fire dances at his feet, as he dives for cover. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s had to take out a helicopter. Frank produces his H&K USP, and takes careful aim. He shuts out the noise, slows his breathing, and ignores the bullet that grazes his left shoulder. He fires, and the rear rotor sputters and fails. The copter spins and comes down on the asphalt.
The pilot struggles in his seat, trying to ignore the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, and his shattered femur. He looks up as a shadow falls on his face.
“This isn’t over,” says Frank. He raises the gun to the man’s head, and takes him out.
Sniper lowers his smoking rifle barrel. “Mission accomplished, sir. The Annihilator is still in play.”
