No Plan Survives First Contact Intact

“No plan survives first contact intact.”   8^th Murphy’s Laws of Combat

“Weather man, weather guessers, more like,” the girl shouted over the combination of gunfire and torrential rain.   Beside her, her brother growled.

The two huddled between three shipping containers near the center of the warehouse’s loading zone, at the moment all that protected them from direct fire from three sides.   The fourth side, really their only way out, was brightly illuminated by the spot light mounted over the nearby main office of the complex. Only the darkness of their cubby hole and the maddening rain had kept them from direct fire from their attackers.

“How can it go to shit in thirty second?” The young man groused.

That had been exactly how long it had taken.

The night had been planned by the two for more than a week after they had at last gathered enough information on the site. Everything they’d discovered told them the exchange was scheduled for that night.   Half a dozen young girls were going to be traded for five kilos of heroin. They’d come there to stop it.

Rain had not entered their calculations.

“I gotta get out of this puddle!” the brother said, needlessly. His sister knew just as well as he what being soaked to the skin would do to his powers. They also knew what the falling rain would do to hers.   Both were mutants, he a living lightning bolt, she a living laser, and both were nearly helpless under the current conditions.

The gunfire had started the moment the pair had landed in the little alcove they now found themselves in.   She’d been the one to get them in, however it had been a struggle. Though he was only about average in height, 5’9”, he was unusually heavy.   He thought it might have something to do with the fact that he could store electrical energy within his body like a battery, but that was just a guess.

She was exactly the same height but just over half of his bulk and that meant she would be flying at three times her own weight. They figured it was worth the short trip to get them into their current position, one that they had expected to be safe and unobserved.   Just as she was dropping down the sky opened and she lost nearly half of her lifting power. They dropped hard the last ten feet.   His shoulder bouncing off the shipping container had been like hitting one of those giant gongs from the movies in the 30s.

Light flooded the loading yard within a second and a series of short machinegun bursts slammed into the container above their head. From inside they heard the terrified screams of the girls they’d come to save.   The rain turned to a downpour creating puddles in seconds … it grounded all of his stored energy out and left him useless.   Even if he got dry, it would be too long before he could recharge. They were going to die.

“I can get my shield up,” his sister said in a whisper.

“Then you need to get out of here,” he replied.   If she could get away, he could die without regret.

“NO!” she snapped.   “I am not going to leave you!”

“Shit!”

His curse spun her around and she pressed back against the container beside him.   He grabbed her and pulled her between the cold steel and his body. Over his shoulder she saw movement on the roof facing their ‘way out’.   A man was sighting down the barrel of an assault rifle.

The gunman’s head exploded.   The gunfire that had been enough to keep their heads down, doubled, then tripled in intensity for only a matter of seconds before stopping completely. Inside the box the shrieks of terror continued unabated.

“You kids okay?” A male voiced called from the darkness.

Neither spoke fearing a trick.

“I’m coming out,” the voice said.   “I have my hands in the air.”

The door of the office opened and a figure stepped out and into the light from the spot.   It was a masked man in full combat gear.   He looked like US military or something.   Slowly he walked towards them, hands up though a brutal looking sub-machine gun hung by a strap over his shoulder.

“We’re here to get those kids out, any objections?” the man said.

The brother at last found his voice.   “That is why were here too.”

“How’d that work out,” the man said.   Both could hear the smile in his word.

“Yeah … not so great,” the brother admitted.

“What are you going to do with them,” the girl asked.

“Return them to their families,” the man replied.

“Shrike!   Cops in three!” A second male voice called from out of the night.

The man reached up and pulled down the mask.   “You guys want to hang out here and wait for them?”

“Not really,” the boy said.

“Then let’s move!” the man snapped.

He ducked around the container, the pair tentatively following, and produced a pair of bolt cutters from the thigh pouch of his fatigues.   A quick snap, and the lock parted.   He threw open the doors.

“Everybody okay,” he called in.

A whimper was his only response.   He turned to the girl.

“You mind?” he asked.   “You’re a lot less scary then the guy in combat gear.”

The roar of a heavy duty engine heralded the arrival of a trio of black trucks.

“We’re going to have to double up,” the man Shrike said. “We got room for nine comfortably.”

The girl had produced a glow that hovered just above her head and illuminated the interior of the box.   Six girls, ages about ten to fourteen huddled in the far corner.

“We gotta go,” she said gently.   “They might be coming back.”

“Who … who are you?” asked the girl that appeared to be the oldest.

“She’s Osprey,” the man Shrike said.   “We are going to get you all home but we have to hurry.”

“Come on,” the oldest girl said.   “It’s better than this box.”

“Can you ride with them,” Shrike asked the new Osprey.

“Sure, but if you’re playing us, and I am inside that truck, I can blow the thing up,” she warned.

“Understood,” Shrike said.   “You take the front, they should be able to pile in the back.”

“I want to ride with her,” the brother said.

“She’d have to sit on your lap,” Shrike replied.

“No problem.”

“Get in, let’s go!”

Fifteen seconds later, the three vehicles rolled out of the yard, each taking a different direction.   The newly proclaimed Osprey watched the driver but the mask hid his features.

“Who are you guys,” she asked.

“People who hate gangs that prey on innocent kids,” the man replied with an accent that sounded German.

“How many of you are there,” the brother asked.

“More then you see,” the man replied.

He touched the LCD panel on the console and the interior went black as did the headlights.   In the rear one of the girls started to cry softly.

“Don’t worry, liebchen,” the man said gently.   “You’ll be home by dawn.”

After a half dozen turns they started down into a blacked out parking garage and rolled to a stop.   The brother grabbed the door handle in preparation to getting out but the man’s voice stopped him.

“Too tight in here to open the doors, relax.”

There was a shift of weight the told the pair they were going up, like in an elevator.   When they stopped, the lights came on to reveal the stainless steel interior of a freight elevator.   When the doors rolled up, the driver pulled ahead into a marked space. There were four people waiting, one in the white coat of a doctor.

“Okay, now you can get out,” the driver said.   He climbed out and opened the rear door on his side.

Osprey stepped down and did the same on their side.

“I think we’re safe now,” she said to the girls in back.

By the time the six girls had been helped from the vehicle, the other pair had arrived and total of eight very hard looking men in masks watched silently as the doctor checked each child and talked to them softly. At last, one of the men came over and stood beside brother and sister.

“You were very stupid tonight,” he said matter-of-factually. “But very brave. Would you please join me in the office?”

The two exchanged glances.

“I have a proposition for you,” the man said, gesturing to a door.

They had expected some kind of office but instead found themselves in what in the movies might have been called a gentleman’s library complete with shelves of books, the smell of leather and pipe tobacco, and several comfortable looking chairs arrayed before an old fashion oak desk. The man gestured to the chair and walk around behind the desk.   He waits for them to settle then sat.

He skinned back the black Balaklava to reveal a men in his late fifties with black hair going grey and a short grizzled beard. He laid a boxy looking machine pistol on the desk, the muzzle pointed to the side.

“Mutant?”

“Gotta problem with it?”   The boy said. It wasn’t the first time either had heard that accusation.

“Not in the least,” the man replied.   “It explains a great deal.   You were intending on freeing the girls?”

“Yes,” the new Osprey replied.

“What would you have done with the guys that were holding them if things hadn’t gone south?”

The brother shrugged.   “They shot first.”

“And you didn’t reply.”

“He couldn’t, the rain shorted him out,” the girl said.

“Electrical, okay, what about you?”

“Rain does weird things to my … lasers.”

“Defuses, refracts,” the man nodded.

“I could have still hurt them if I had a shot,” the girl told him.

“Who are you guys,” the boy asked.   “What were you doing there?”

“Who we are might have to wait a little until we have a few agreements, what we where doing there is the same as you, getting those kids out.”

“Vigilantes.”   The boy said.

The man shrugged.   “We do what is necessary.”

“Like kill that guy that had the drop on us?” The girl said.

“We do what is necessary,” the man repeated.   “And it was eight dead.”

He appeared to watch them for some reaction.   Neither even blinked.

“Good,” the girl whispered.

“We would have done the same thing,” the boy said. “If necessary.”

“My name is Henry,” the man said, looking at them expectantly.

“Alba,” the girl said.

“Just call me Sparks,” the boy said.