Copyright © 2020 Barrett C Carver. All rights reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a review. This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Chapter One: Lone Gunman
No solution? No way out? No chance? When The Agency was cornered like this, they still had one card to play. The ace up their sleeve. It wasn't cheating - it was magic.
Three magic words: "Just Send Pryce."
Pryce was their final answer, and the last word. He was like an eleventh commandment.
Pryce was a high-level operative in The Agency. He was handsome, and loyal, but he had a reputation: his methods were brutal. His debriefings always came from his own account.
His
narrative. Everyone knew he covered something up. Often, there were no other witnesses.
His reports gained an audience: stern faces, well-pressed suits, well-practiced scowls... they'd all gather behind that one-way mirror, and watch. They loved Pryce, as an Agency operative. They hated him, as a rival. None of them would admit it, but they were in his shadow. They could only look at Pryce through that one-way mirror. They knew they'd never be like him.
He was always quiet about that rift.
There was something vaguely British about Pryce, but his nationality was unclear. Paul Bettany or Ewan McGregor could play him, in Hollywood. He had a lean jaw and piercing blue eyes. Even when he smiled, he was an arctic wolf. His presence was steely and bright.
His friend Ginny was a fellow operative. Sometimes, she took him out to the bar. She said his intensity never really stopped. Even when he was drunk, he was keen as a knife. He was a folding knife that always kept its edge - the edge was tucked out of sight.
He had a wiry build, but he was tough as hell. Tougher than hell; Ginny said you could break hell over his back, and Pryce would just grin. He wore loose dress shirts and simple blazers, like disguising the solid rock underneath. He carried himself like one of those young, savvy executives who wore jeans and facial scruff. Cool, relaxed... total façade.
Someone once called him The Sixth Bullet. They meant Russian roulette: no more guessing, no more empty clicks. He was the final hammer. He was Judgment Day, incarnate. He was painfully modest about this.
Once, he took down a drug-trafficking ring in Colombia. After only a week, he had them panicking. He bribed a few informants to spread rumours and general terror. He silenced a few mid-level goons, for effect. It was simple legwork.
In a week, even the highest-ranking bosses were shaken. Those rumours grew into dread. The mid-level hits were ample proof: this was serious. The bosses were being hunted. Every one of them felt it, deep in their gut. Someone was stalking them.
They retreated to their central meth lab - their most fortified location. This was where they secured their wealth. They were confident that no force could overtake this facility, but the bosses armed themselves, anyway.
The meth lab already had explosive materials, and now it held their munitions... the location itself was a flashpoint.
Through misdirection, Pryce got close. By carrying a dead guard on his back, he absorbed bullets till he reached the security door. He fired on the caustic materials in the lab, creating impromptu chemical warfare. Most of the soldiers were driven off. Whatever they guarded, he tagged with explosives.
Pryce fought to their holdings safe. It was a massive, armoured walk-in closet for stacks of money. He secured its door and hid inside. From there, he remote-detonated their equipment. The whole factory exploded around him - volatile chemicals, flammable materials - everything. The place was built to be a production plant, as well as a tight-walled fortress. It was a maze for lab rats. It was a toxic nightmare, and the worst fire trap imaginable. It was a solar flare trapped in a box.
Where the bosses cowered, their bullets burned. High-caliber rounds discharged in every direction, and rattled the walls. Indoor fireworks made of metal.
All this time, Pryce waited in the bulletproof, fireproof safe. He just waited there while everything roared outside. The money was incinerated, along with everything and everyone else.
They'd tried to make a stand. They discovered too late that they were a single, clustered target. The only safe place in the facility... was the safe itself.
There was no "women-and-children-first" rule, here. It was "richest-and-most-corrupt." These men destroyed lives for profit. And they celebrated that. They were some of the most financially empowered sociopaths in the world. And now they met karma, face-to-face.
After a single week, they were ashes. Pryce contacted The Agency.
"Central? It's Pryce. I'm done here."
Click.
That was Pryce.
Some people go on vacation, for a week. Pryce did his thing... and in one week, he'd created a power vacuum in South America. The Agency seeded operatives in nearby governments. Structure was rebalanced over the following years.
Everyone knew that Pryce left out details. What happened to those mid-level thugs? How did he bypass the security gates? How did he crack the safe combination? He never said. He seemed bitter about it.
Nobody saw him for about a month after that. Ginny persuaded him to have dinner one night, and she claimed he was bright-eyed as always... but rather quiet.
"Do you hate your job?"
Ginny twirled pasta on her fork. She pursed her lips, and looked at him with concern. Pryce was busy chewing. His eyes were downcast.
"Not at all," he muttered. "You?" He looked up to her with a hint of challenge. He'd tossed this back to her. Hot potato.
"Hell, no. I love my job. It's what I'm made for..." Ginny gave her trademark grin. Gleaming, warm, and a little naughty.
Ginny was a tall redhead with pronounced curves. Not pronounced, like a centerfold, but more like 'opera singer.' Her body had no silicone whatsoever, nor was it toned or firm. She was naturally luscious. She stood around six feet, and seemed taller. Mainly, people noticed her hips - she was naturally too wide for most chairs.
She had a playfully defiant attitude. Her red hair suited her; it was brassy, and bold, and exuberant. It expressed personality all by itself. It was like chaos theory having sex with fire. Like many redheads, she was fair-skinned. Men sometimes wondered about her skin underneath. Underneath the blazers and suits, was she still smooth and pale? Did that softness follow her curvy, hyper-feminine physique?
Whenever Ginny was compared to Jessica Rabbit, she laughed louder than anyone else. She was a tigress, not a cartoon lounge singer. Everyone knew she wasn't two-dimensional. She was more like a flirty Jessica Lange, with a few extra curves added for good measure.
She wore rounded, brass-rimmed glasses. They were a happy medium between brainiac and foxy. They were also linked to Agency datastores, and gave her digital read-outs on demand. It was like wearing an international library on your face. She called it style.
