This story is one of a continuing series of connected stories known as "Tales from the Shack." This is in LW because the Shack series started here, and it is much easier for those that follow the stories to find them if I keep them all together. In this case, the story stands well enough on its own, but it is very much a part of the series. I typically don't write graphic sex into this story line and that remains true here.
As part of the God Laughs Chain Story, we promised recognition of whoever got closest to naming all the authors of all the chapters of that story. Rather than just recognize them, I have included them in the story itself as characters. Keep an eye out for them, I tried to capture a little of their personalities in the characters.
Ladykiller
The Girls of Hollywood
***
Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri
"Hey, Hollywood!"
I was just bringing the micro van around the first set of barricades when one of the assistant instructors, Chrissie, jogged around the corner waving for me to stop, long blonde ponytail streaming through the back of her "Instructor" cap. I brought my vehicle to a stop.
"Mac told me to tell you they aren't taking it seriously. They've aced everything, but they're getting cocky. It's an all-female squad of Reserve MPs, with an additional First Sergeant deploying as special protection detail for female VIPs."
"Cocky?"
She grimaced. "They're nearly all civilian police or deputies in 'real life.' They've outscored damn near everyone on everything from firing range to physical fitness tests, and they've gotten pretty arrogant about it. They aren't taking this very seriously because they're convinced they won't be doing checkpoints and searches. Mac said to take them down a couple notches."
I nodded. "I can do that."
"You need a gun or a grenade?"
I shook my head. "That'd just screw things up. They'll have everything I need." Chrissie gave me a puzzled look, but she was new here. I watched her walk back up the road to the checkpoint. Not a bad view at all, but I don't play where I work, and she was married anyway. I'd seen enough of that shit go wrong to stay the hell away from attached women. Even ones that aren't acting like it. Maybe especially them.
I'd gotten a message from Kimmi in the morning asking if I was interested in a "six-to-seven-month change of venue" for a "special project." If I was eyeing Chrissie, maybe it was a good idea to take a break for a little while.
I'd get to it later, right now, I had a job to do.
My vehicle was a crappy little right-hand drive micro van about the size of a box of crackers. In the very back was a ratty cardboard box with a plastic tarp, pliers, some wire, a screwdriver, a roll of duct tape and a couple of towels. I called it the "Acme Murder Kit." Innocuous items on their own, but put together, it should give any searcher a little concern.
After I'd gotten out of the Army, I'd wandered a bit and signed on with an old friend's security company. The pay was okay, but it wasn't really my main source of income, anyway. It kept my hand in, and helped keep me sharp. The job changed all the time, but for now, I was a test subject for the vehicle search exercise for advanced personal protective detail training. I wasn't supposed to be on the schedule for this today, but one of the crew was out sick, so I had to join in. The plan initially had me as a benign citizen, but that was always subject to change. Since this wasn't a graded exercise, all variations were authorized at the discretion of Mac, the lead instructor. It was always better for the students to learn now, in training, than the hard way in theater.
I gave Chrissie enough time to get back, pushed the rattletrap into gear and rolled into the checkpoint, smiling at an ornate plywood sign that had the word "Heartbreakers," flanked by two cracked hearts wrapped in roses. I could see the squad had an aggressive stance, muzzles were on me the minute I rounded the final bend. The only initial indication that the squad was all female was the relative shortness of the group. The body armor and sunglasses made them look more like cyborgs. Pity, really.
I stopped at the stop line and a figure approached the van.
"Sir, please exit the van with your identification papers. Move slowly and keep your hands visible at all times." She was a Private First Class, a PFC, with a nametape that said, "Garcia," maybe 20 or so. A slight Hispanic lilt to her voice. She sounded emotionless and a little bored. All in all, the approach was pretty good; she stayed out of muzzle line of her overwatch and had her weapon slung behind her. The overwatch was cautious enough; I could probably have gotten two of them, but the third would have been a dice-roll, and that would still have left nine untouched before I was gunned down.
Not good enough.
Patience. I could do patience; that has always been kind of my thing.
I allowed them to escort me to the individual search area a few paces away from my van. Not enough paces.
The PFC had me turn around and started to search. She stopped, patted along my torso again, then backed off, and I heard her key her radio.
"I think he's wearing some kind of low profile body armor."
The squad leader, whose nametape read "Frost," motioned Garcia back.
"Sir. Remove your shirt. Move slow or you will be shot."
I unbuttoned, then peeled my dress shirt off slowly.
I could hear the PFC suck in her breath. I'm not in my 20s or even 30s anymore, but I've been blessed with a great metabolism, I eat right, and I work out every fucking day.
"Body armor? Jesus, Garcia." Staff Sergeant Frost's voice was dripping with amusement. She stared at me. "How many damn sit-ups do you do a day?"
I gave her my best smile. "It's mostly crunches and planks. I have a home gym and way too much time on my hands."
She shook her head, grinning. "I can see that." She nodded to the PFC to go ahead.
PFC Garcia finished searching me with hands that lingered a little longer than searching a bare torso would actually necessitate, strictly speaking, then she backed off. I was instructed to sit while they searched my van with PFC Garcia watching over me.
I idly wondered where my shirt had gotten to; it was a rather expensive Armani dress shirt, since I hadn't expected to be on the schedule for this, but it didn't re-appear. I perched on the rear Jersey barrier and began the subtle art of getting my guard to mimic me. It took a while, but she was eventually half sitting and half-leaning against the barrier beside me. It was late in the day, I was probably the tenth subject to go through and they were getting bored, and a bit careless. I glanced over the barrier to make sure the straw bales were still in place and watched for my opportunity. Finally, when Garcia shifted to watch the rest of the squad as they searched the van, I saw the squad leader pulling a canteen and start to drink.
Show time.
Move one:
Slide to my feet, pretending to be off balance—swing left arm out, smack PFC Garcia in the chest—not as fun as it sounds with her body armor on. Hit the quick release on her M4 retaining strap and snatch it out of her hands while she falls back over the barrier onto the bales. Jam her foot into the gap between the jersey barriers, trapping her for a few moments.
Two:
Yank the charging handle back and let it slap forward. A round ejects from the M4; sucks to lose it, but couldn't take the chance that there'd be a round there. Never depend on the enemy to be a good soldier. Thumb the safety off. Shoot the squad leader at 15 meters. There are closer targets, but she had never been entirely off-guard, so she is the primary threat. She's also fast as hell, she's already flipped the canteen away in an arcing spray of water and is swinging her M4 up when I fire.
Three:
Engage immediate targets at 5 to 10 meters. Since two of them have canteens in hand, prioritize by threat level. One shot per target. They are just starting to react now, but they are still not fully grasping that this has all gone sideways on them.
Four:
Engage remaining targets at van. It takes three steps to "slice the pie" around the corner of the van and take them down. Most of them have their carbines slung on their backs to make searching the van easier. The last one almost gets a shot off after scrambling for her carbine and "my" M4 locks open as the magazine goes empty, but all eleven of the Soldiers are down. The screams of the kill indicators on their gear is almost deafening, a horde of deranged electronic locusts.
