Recon
#1 of The Ballad of Rosie and Manny
A picture will inspire a story, and that's the case here. I can't point you to the picture, however. Originally, this story was requested of the two people whose characters appeared in that picture. A misunderstanding in real life grew into a huge issue, and I feared there was no way to fix it, so I took myself away from all contact. I won't tell who; I will tell that it wasn't their fault, nor mine, so far as I can tell. One of those sad stories of things that shouldn't go wrong, but do. I still revere that artist's work -- he's getting nothing but better and better, and truth be told, I miss him.
I've changed the stories to create a brother/sister pair of Mexican wolves who are adventurers of a sort (not THAT kind!), with some things in their possession that have brought them to the attention of the gub'mint. As before, the story will be told in segments. I hope to be able to finish it this time. ^_^
EDIT, OCTOBER 2015: I have brought back this tale for my new Patreon account (see link at the end of the story). I've edited and revised this first chapter heavily, and as I write this, I have three more segments toward its completion. If you'd like to see what happens more quickly, please consider joining my Patreon. As always, however, the content will indeed show up here, free of charge. THANK YOU for your support!
Three dark-clad canine figures, their features obscured by their masks, worked feverishly in the blackened alleyway. They were assigned Company authorized sobriquets of Tinker, Tailor, and Soldier. Tailor stood at the alley's mouth, his eyes fixed on the entrance just around the corner, which lay empty and happily well-lit; anyone entering or exiting would be seen at once, while he could observe, blending in with the shadows that the lights created. Tinker, leading this particular op, scrutinized their surroundings as Soldier studied intently the electronic security system of the warehouse's loading dock entrance. The datapad hardware made barely audible chirps that were an unavoidable necessity - the signals provided information without making the operator shift his eyes from the wires and leads that he was working with.
"Tinker: Status."
The words crackled in the electronic earwig in the supervising figure's ear. "Workin' on it."
"Finish."
The irritated male was about to make a suggestion most often made only in cheaper brothels or barroom politics when he heard an unmistakable signal from the datapad. He glanced back at the operator (or, as Soldier was more commonly known, the Gizmo Geek), who returned his gaze with a quick nod. "Done." He waved a black gloved forepaw at Tailor, who joined his team on silently padding hindpaws.
"In and out."
"Like I wouldn't know that," muttered Tinker. Soldier bundled up his equipment and thrust it into his belt kit, then led the way for the three of them to enter the building. The door popped open with barely a click, and no alarm, silent or otherwise, had been triggered.
The warehouse was huge - strange, since there was only minor activity in terms of shipments in or out. Regular surveillance crews had little if anything to report; they were even beginning to question whether or not they had the right place. Tinker, Tailor, and Soldier had been brought in to be inside eyes - observe and report. Quickly, they realized the entrance was its own trap; the first twenty or so meters were built up high on either side with partial walls, shelving, detritus, miscellany, nothing of interest, but plenty to get in the way. The three oozed slowly, quietly, not bothering to make a light during this part of the journey; time for that when they actually needed to see something. Moonlight filtered in through grime-covered windows in the roof, giving their sensitive Doberman eyes enough information to work with. They were about halfway down the hall when things changed.
With a click that sounded like a thump in the otherwise still building, a single light came on at the T-junction at the end of the hallway. It made a spot-lit stage without an actor, until slowly, casually, a tall, well-formed adult Mexican wolf entered, stage left. A sand-colored, black-striped fedora tipped low over the pup's brow. His forepaws were in the pockets of his brown twill pants; the button-down tan denim shirt was open widely at the neck, and a bolo tie, with a wolf's head described in silver and turquoise, dangled from his neck between the parallel bands of his black suspenders. At his hip, a holster, its weapon ready at a moment's notice. He moved to the center of the intersection and turned to look at the three intruders. With his right thumb, he moved the hat upward to reveal his face, the short, dark-brown van dyke contrasting with his black-white-and-tan features. Eyes half-lidded, he let a grin touch the corners of his muzzle.
"You could've just knocked."
For a moment, the three agents stood still, disbelieving. The place had been under constant surveillance for four full days, and there had been no activity in the last 15 hours. How the hell did...? Shaking off the paralysis, Tailor moved forward, pulling a pistol from its place at the base of his back, just above his docked tail, and aiming its elongated barrel straight at the newcomer.
"Walther PPK," the young wolf observed, "with noise suppression no less. Did they finally address that little problem for you James Bond wannabes? Not bad, for Company issue. Hope you remembered the right type of bullets."
"Wanna find out?"
The newcomer shrugged. "Not why I'm here, really."
"Intruder," Tinker barked into the air.
"Funny guy." The newcomer grinned. "Yeah, maybe you better check in for instructions; you might not want to shoot me."
"Tell me why I shouldn't."
"It might make me mad."
Soldier looked around carefully, only his eyes visible through the muzzle-covering mask. "We gotta get out of here. Back out the door."
"Not a good plan."
The three canines whipped their heads about to see the new speaker. In the doorway, a lady wolf bearing a strong resemblance to the newcomer, save for the smoothly gray fur from top to tail, stood calmly, her long, dark headfur swept back. She was clad in entirely reasonable skulking garb, her dark gray pants sufficiently form fitting to keep her movements silent and (in the right circumstances) her opponents hypnotized by the swaying of her shapely rear and carefully brushed tail. She had her left arm extended, pointing directly into the small crowd in the center of the hall, the simple, blunt, and deadly efficient design of a .38 Special fitting familiarly in her forepaw.
She stretched a little, her faded rose-colored shirt concealing yet revealing the firm muscles (and other important assets) beneath. "One nice thing about an old-fashioned revolver - it doesn't jam very easily. And I get so much more accuracy from having only about a kilo trigger weight. Wanna see?" Her index finger scarcely moved on the double-action weapon, making quite the show of the hammer moving back with silent ease. Her predatory smile was wide enough to reveal some impressive fangs. "So... want to play nice, boys," she asked, "or do you want to find out just how much time I've spent at the firing range lately?"
"Instructions!" Tinker shouted at the air.
No reply. The earwig was less than useless.
"We're sorry," the female intoned, "there is no one available to take your call."
"You might actually have to use your own brains," said the wolf at the other end of the hall. "Or do they even have brains at the Office of Homeland Security? Might be against Company policy."
"What are you talking about?" shouted Tailor.
"Do you guys seriously think that Black Ops is about the color of the gear you wear? It's getting tacky. And tiresome. And despite what you think, black is still bright red on a heat-sensing monitor. You guys aren't nearly as cold-blooded as you think."
"We know what you've got in there, and we'll take you out if we have to."
Slowly, the young wolf reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a single toothpick. This he placed into the left side of his muzzle and returned his gaze at the intruders.
"Uh oh," said the female blandly. "Now you've made him mad."
Tailor spun toward the male wolf and fired three shots in rapid succession, each with a flare and a spit and little else. Each one struck something just in front of the pup, making bright, harsh shatter patterns, but otherwise not penetrating the thick plexishield. Behind the intruders, three equally swift shots penetrated one leg, one arm, and one shoulder, neatly incapacitating the Black Ops trio to a pile of howling cripples.
Tinker, trying to fight past his shoulder wound, raised his gun toward the female and fired a wild, useless shot. She smiled at him and pressed a button on the wall. From above, the rattling sound of pulley wheels made the three look upward as a large, old-fashioned, and highly effective weighted fishing net put about 75 kilos of entangling weight atop and around them.
At the far end of the hall, the male wolf stepped around the plexishield and moved to join the other wolf, who kept her gun trained on the intruders. "Nice work, Rosie," he said.
"They never learn to look up."
"You'd think that they would have figured that out while playing video games."
"You know, I should call you Mr. Showmanship," she said. "I'm not sure I'd always trust that shield, Manny; all it takes is one."
"Yeah, but I always did love that opening to the old TV series." He grinned at her. "How much trouble outside?"
"I overrode the van door locks, the engine electronics, and the rest of their equipment inside. I doubt if their cell phones or GPS chips work either, but even if they do, I figure we still have at least five minutes. These idiots came in without backup."
"No surveillance team?"
"Watchers watch, which is all they're told to do. The five minutes is for the poor excuse for eyeballs to realize the mission is compromised. They'll have to get instructions from elsewhere."
"Five minutes, hmm? That might do." Manny knelt down next to the agitated furpile and got the lookout's attention. "I can usually get information out of someone in under three minutes, and that's when they're not wounded. So, Sparky," he said conversationally as he took out a modified stun-gun from his pants pocket and waved its impressively crackling arc generators in the wounded operative's face. "What would you like to tell me first?"
_ ...to be continued... _
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