TellMeAStoryGuy
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Apr 8, 2012
- Posts
- 227
This role play is on temporary hold. Another writer and I are contemplating a major change in the plot. I will post a Seeking Writers post in the appropriate forum when we are ready to continue.
Caesar Rodriguez stood in silence outside the discotheque's entrance, waiting for the Embassy's representative to arrive. The Chilean Police had been questioning him, in both Spanish and English, for nearly two hours and had gotten nothing but his name, the name of the private security company he worked for, and his purpose for being in Santiago that warm April night.
The reason was being loaded into an ambulance, his broken nose wrapped in bandages, his arm -- dislocated at the shoulder -- wrapped tightly to his body to limit movement. Caesar couldn't help but smile as he heard the man squeal like a baby as the paramedics jostled the stretcher loading it into the decades old vehicle.
"Don't resist me," he'd told the man, just before the rapist, kidnapper, and drug runner -- wanted in six countries, including Chile and the U.S. -- threw his first and only punch. A moment later, the man was on the ground with his arm between his upper body and the cobblestones in a very unnatural way. Caesar leaned over the man and, in between the sobs and cries, said politely, "I warned you."
A dark SUV with tinted windows and an embassy plate slid to a stop just a yard away. All four doors opened immediately, with the driver and men from the rear doors moving quickly to support Caesar while the man from the front passenger side flashed his identification to the Chilean cop with the fanciest uniform.
Twenty minutes later, Caesar's target was in a Chilean cell, awaiting his hearing for extradition to the U.S.; and Caesar himself was standing in the office of the Assistant Deputy Director of Agricultural Affairs -- a spook who, back in the U.S., had run the Chilean desk in Langley for twelve years -- responding to the man's tirade with the same silence he'd shown the local law enforcement officials.
When the man, who had also been Caesar's Commanding Officer when he first joined the Navy SEALS, finally went silent and just stared at him, waiting for some response, Caesar only asked, "May I go home now, sir?"
The Deputy dropped into his chair, stared at the paperwork before him, then tossed his former subordinate's passport through the air to him. "Get the fuck out of Chile, Skip."
Caesar smirked a bit before he pocketed his ID and turned to leave. He hadn't heard his SEALS nickname since he'd left the service three years earlier and took work with the company formerly known as Blackwater. Leave Chile...? Gladly, he thought. He'd only come here because the payoff for catching this particular fugitive was in the low six figures. It was enough to let him go home to the U.S. where he was already working on a plan to get his mother and siblings out of the hell hole that was their home, the crime and drug riddled public housing project, the Tristan Tower.
He was nearly out the door when the Deputy stopped him with a firm, "Petty Officer Rodriguez!"
Caesar stopped, then turned ... and found the man holding a folded piece of paper out to him. He asked cautiously, "What's that?"
"When the Chilean police ran your name through the computer," the Suit explained, waggling the note impatiently at Caesar, "This popped up. It's about your family, and Skip ... Caesar ... it's ... it's not good news. I'm sorry."
Caesar moved forward and took the note, opening it and reading quickly. His stomach turned over and he felt his face go cold as the blood rushed from it.
"There's a car waiting for you downstairs," the man explained, his tone sincere and softer. "And a private jet at the airport. You'll be home before sundown."
Caesar turned hard and hurried for the door.
Before he reached it, the Deputy called out, "Caesar! Don't do anything stupid! But ... if you do ..."
Caesar waited a moment, then hurried out and down the hall. As he left the building and was rushed for the airport, he thought about what the man had wanted to say but didn't: If you do something stupid and need help ... call me.
An hour after dark, Caesar stood two blocks from the Tristan Tower, looking up at it. His skin crawled as he thought of what had been in the note the man in Chile, eight thousand miles away, had given him.
Somewhere inside the building standing before him, Caesar's two brothers were now part of opposing gangs, fighting over control of the 33 floors; his youngest two sisters were missing inside, presumably in the control of those same two gangs, likely strung out on drugs and prostituting themselves to stay high and alive; his oldest sister was missing, although informed sources claimed to have seen her outside the building recently; and his mother was dead, having been pushed down a flight of stares after she confronted a drug dealer in a hallway.
He was going to save his Sib's. He was going to get them out of there. He just didn't know how. The place was a fortress. And it was guarded on the street level and from several floors above as well.
I'm coming, he said, more to them than to himself. I'm coming ... just, hold tight!
Caesar Rodriguez stood in silence outside the discotheque's entrance, waiting for the Embassy's representative to arrive. The Chilean Police had been questioning him, in both Spanish and English, for nearly two hours and had gotten nothing but his name, the name of the private security company he worked for, and his purpose for being in Santiago that warm April night.
The reason was being loaded into an ambulance, his broken nose wrapped in bandages, his arm -- dislocated at the shoulder -- wrapped tightly to his body to limit movement. Caesar couldn't help but smile as he heard the man squeal like a baby as the paramedics jostled the stretcher loading it into the decades old vehicle.
"Don't resist me," he'd told the man, just before the rapist, kidnapper, and drug runner -- wanted in six countries, including Chile and the U.S. -- threw his first and only punch. A moment later, the man was on the ground with his arm between his upper body and the cobblestones in a very unnatural way. Caesar leaned over the man and, in between the sobs and cries, said politely, "I warned you."
A dark SUV with tinted windows and an embassy plate slid to a stop just a yard away. All four doors opened immediately, with the driver and men from the rear doors moving quickly to support Caesar while the man from the front passenger side flashed his identification to the Chilean cop with the fanciest uniform.
Twenty minutes later, Caesar's target was in a Chilean cell, awaiting his hearing for extradition to the U.S.; and Caesar himself was standing in the office of the Assistant Deputy Director of Agricultural Affairs -- a spook who, back in the U.S., had run the Chilean desk in Langley for twelve years -- responding to the man's tirade with the same silence he'd shown the local law enforcement officials.
When the man, who had also been Caesar's Commanding Officer when he first joined the Navy SEALS, finally went silent and just stared at him, waiting for some response, Caesar only asked, "May I go home now, sir?"
The Deputy dropped into his chair, stared at the paperwork before him, then tossed his former subordinate's passport through the air to him. "Get the fuck out of Chile, Skip."
Caesar smirked a bit before he pocketed his ID and turned to leave. He hadn't heard his SEALS nickname since he'd left the service three years earlier and took work with the company formerly known as Blackwater. Leave Chile...? Gladly, he thought. He'd only come here because the payoff for catching this particular fugitive was in the low six figures. It was enough to let him go home to the U.S. where he was already working on a plan to get his mother and siblings out of the hell hole that was their home, the crime and drug riddled public housing project, the Tristan Tower.
He was nearly out the door when the Deputy stopped him with a firm, "Petty Officer Rodriguez!"
Caesar stopped, then turned ... and found the man holding a folded piece of paper out to him. He asked cautiously, "What's that?"
"When the Chilean police ran your name through the computer," the Suit explained, waggling the note impatiently at Caesar, "This popped up. It's about your family, and Skip ... Caesar ... it's ... it's not good news. I'm sorry."
Caesar moved forward and took the note, opening it and reading quickly. His stomach turned over and he felt his face go cold as the blood rushed from it.
"There's a car waiting for you downstairs," the man explained, his tone sincere and softer. "And a private jet at the airport. You'll be home before sundown."
Caesar turned hard and hurried for the door.
Before he reached it, the Deputy called out, "Caesar! Don't do anything stupid! But ... if you do ..."
Caesar waited a moment, then hurried out and down the hall. As he left the building and was rushed for the airport, he thought about what the man had wanted to say but didn't: If you do something stupid and need help ... call me.
An hour after dark, Caesar stood two blocks from the Tristan Tower, looking up at it. His skin crawled as he thought of what had been in the note the man in Chile, eight thousand miles away, had given him.
Somewhere inside the building standing before him, Caesar's two brothers were now part of opposing gangs, fighting over control of the 33 floors; his youngest two sisters were missing inside, presumably in the control of those same two gangs, likely strung out on drugs and prostituting themselves to stay high and alive; his oldest sister was missing, although informed sources claimed to have seen her outside the building recently; and his mother was dead, having been pushed down a flight of stares after she confronted a drug dealer in a hallway.
He was going to save his Sib's. He was going to get them out of there. He just didn't know how. The place was a fortress. And it was guarded on the street level and from several floors above as well.
I'm coming, he said, more to them than to himself. I'm coming ... just, hold tight!
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