All-Star: Breaking Point (Part I)
Welcome to Caracas
"Debriefing session #405-8. Agent Nate Carter. Codename: All-Star. Agent Carter has been brought in to address the uncertainties surrounding his recent mission to Venezuela to retrieve a classified package. Are you ready, Agent Carter?"
"..."
"Agent Carter. Please state your name and rank and indicate that you are ready to proceed with this debriefing."
"...Special Agent Nathaniel Jackson Carter, U.S Government. I am ready to proceed with my debriefing."
"Good. Agent Carter, you were sent in by your superiors in the International Criminal Police Organization to retrieve a package which had been stolen from US custody and smuggled into Venezuela. Is that correct?"
"They put in a special request with my handler, yes. Wanted me working the case, specifically."
"And do you acknowledge the fact that you willingly accepted this mission for all its risks and consequences?"
"...I was lied to."
"Agent Carter. Do you acknowledge the fact-"
"I acknowledge the fact that I was tricked."
"Agent Carter."
"I acknowledge the fact that I willingly accepted the mission, sir."
"I understand that there were some complications-"
"'Complications'?"
"Complications, Agent Carter. I understand that there were complications surrounding the mission once you landed in Venezuela and located the terrorist cell responsible for taking the package."
"The Cannibals. Under the command of-"
"Alváro 'Cannibal' Santigo. I've read the file, Agent Carter."
"With all due respect, sir, I've lived the file."
"On that note, would you care to explain what happened when you touched down in Venezuela? What happened between your last registered check-in at the Simón Bolívar International Airport and your return to US soil, Agent Carter?"
"What happened?"
"Yes."
"...Can I get some water? It's long. It's a long story."
"Get Agent Carter a glass of water."
"I was called in by my handler, Special Agent Kurt White, to handle a mission which was under Interpol's jurisdiction on account of the package in question being US property and an advanced piece of weapons technology. A bunch of hyped-up pseudo-revolutionaries led by a freaking psychopath got lucky during an attack on a convoy and managed to sneak off all the way to Venezuela with it. I was the guy with a gun who was going to go ahead and bring it back."
"Continue."
"It was all very hush-hush, and all. No special gear, no star-spangled uniform, no codenames. Just me, a pair of shades and an objective. I'd gone on a million missions just like it in the past. It was supposed to be a simple open-shut case: find the Cannibals, find the stolen package and draw as little attention to myself as possible doing so. I took myself off of the Protectors active roster, hopped on a flight to Venezuela and got there in about five hours. Quick and clean..."
"Agent Carter?"
"Yeah. Still here. It didn't stay quick and clean for long."
Nate Carter emerged from the Simón Bolívar International Airport with a bead of sweat already forming on his brow and a pair of cheap airport sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose, a filter for the intense rays of sunlight boring down upon him. In many ways, this was both Nate's favourite and least favourite part of any covert mission: acclimatisation. Like any living specimen, Nate's body and mind was accustomed to a certain style of living, a certain type of atmosphere. As such, there was always something both disorienting and refreshing about stepping into a new environment and adapting to the changes in that atmosphere. And, whether it was stepping out of the air-conditioned, sterilised airport and into a new world or surviving in a harsh jungle environment with no food or water to assure him of his own safety, Nate Carter was good at adapting.
He had packed light, as always on an espionage mission. A white t-shirt had been draped in a kitschy dress shirt adorned with brightly coloured flowers, the ones which seemed popular with overweight tourists looking for a cheap, affordable thrill. Brown cargo pants clung to Nate's slightly sweaty legs, concealing a supply of bubblegum, a lighter, some toothpicks and, most importantly, a card with an address hastily scrawled onto it.
Reaching into his pocket, Nate withdrew the card and glanced it over. Of course, no mission like this was complete without a dead drop, and his was a short cab ride away. Ripping up the card and casually tossing it into a trash can, Nate gave a sharp whistle at a passing cab, prompting it to stop in front of him. Popping a stick of gum in his mouth, Nate climbed in and was instantly hit by the smell of leather on a hot summer's day. The cab driver, studying Nate in the rear-view mirror, calmly lit a cigarette before addressing him.
"<Where do you want to go, man?>" He asked in the half-assed Spanish of a local all too familiar with tourists forcing him to switch to English.
"<Libertador. The barrios. Take the fastest route you can, too. I'm on a pretty tight schedule.>" Nate responded, the Spanish flowing from his mouth with practiced ease.
"<Don't get many tourists looking to go to all the poor people, friend. Don't get many who speak Spanish as well as you, either." The cabbie responded, turning out of his spot and steadily moving down the road, away from the hustle and bustle of the airport.
"<Yeah, I had an adopted sister.>" Nate said, glancing out of the window and taking in the sights as they went by. "<Either I spoke to her in Spanish, or she wouldn't understand half of what I said.>"
The cabbie nodded, briefly. "<Hm. Got a story to tell? If I like it enough, I'll probably knock some Bolivares off your fee.>"
Nate gave a wry smile as he turned his attention back to the inquisitive cab driver. "<Me? No. I don't have much to tell.>"
The cabbie gave a short laugh at Nate's response. "<A lone tourist looking like you? Looking to go to the shitty part of this city? Come on, you're either here to do something shady or you're visiting family.>"
"<And what if I'm visiting family?>" Nate replied, a bemused smirk on his face.
"<Then here's a word of advice: tell your family to move someplace else. Caracas may look nice, but it isn't the most dangerous city in the world for nothing.>" The cabbie said with a nervous chuckle, turning a corner and pushing down on the pedal just a little faster.
"<Yeah, well...>" Nate grunted out, getting more comfortable in his seat. "<My blood's always been a little partial to danger.>"
By the time Nate had reached the location of the dead drop, the sun languishing over the Venezuelan sky had ever so slowly edged its way over the horizon, leaving an orange afterglow in its wake. Navigating the brightly coloured and mostly dilapidated tenements within the impoverished neighbourhood had been easy with directions from helpful locals and he had only fended off a small handful of not-so-helpful locals with warning glances and a few threatening words.
The dead drop was located within the confines of an old, abandoned hut and covered in debris to the point where anyone not explicitly searching for it would have been unable to locate it. Nate lifted the brown package out of the dust and hurriedly pulled it open, drawing a Glock and two spare magazines. Pocketing the magazines and tucking the Glock into his waistband, Nate rifled through the package once more, retrieving a dossier and promptly flicking through it. Most of the information within simply retraced what he had already been told in his mission briefing, but the profile on Cannibal Santigo and his followers elicited a visible frown.
Nate had heard tell of Santigo from mission briefings, government files and even hear-say by the UNTIL water cooler. A young upstart from the streets of Venezuela, Santigo had earned a name for himself as someone who was just ruthless enough to work his way up the ladder and just cunning enough to insure he stayed there. In the space of about a year, Santigo had gone from a low-level enforcer in some hedonistic kingpin's private army to a criminal mastermind who dabbled in international terrorism and trafficking. He was dangerous, he was vicious and, most of all, he was good at staying hidden. The Venezuelan law enforcement agencies had been unable to lay a finger on Santigo, provided they even wanted to with the amount of suspected bribery he had seen to. To them, he was an evil standing amongst thousands of similar evils, pushing the force of progression back and keeping Caracas writhing in the mud.
To Nate, he was a target. His face bore an aggressive tribal tattoo on its left side and his head had been shaved bald. His lips, full and rounded, had been pierced by two matching lip rings and his left ear was covered in similar rings to the point of extremity. Nate grimaced. Santigo looked as if he were a time-displaced warlord, a beastial glare perpetually fixed on his brow. He could only imagine how he had earned his nickname.
Lighting the dossier aflame, Nate tossed it into an old oil drum and watched it burn, his mind already turning to his plan of attack. Santigo currently had a ticking time-bomb in his possession and anxious government types seemed willing to do anything to get it back. The fact that they had sent the infamous 'All-Star' in to handle the situation proved that much.
If I were an international criminal holding onto a priceless piece of weaponry, Nate thought, popping another stick of gum in his mouth to replace the one which had become tasteless, I'd be burying myself in the deepest, darkest hole I could find until things got a little less tense. Nate looked up at the setting sun as he strode back out of the hut.
"So," He whispered to himself, "Of course he's gonna be here."
Pocketing his hands and beginning to whistle the first bar to 'Yankee Doodle' to himself, Nate made his way to the centre of the barrio, questions on his mind and answers on his agenda.
No one was particularly enthusiastic about giving the dangerously curious foreigner answers to questions he shouldn't have been asking, but the temptation of a few crisp bolivares had the tendency to make lips somewhat looser. Nate wandered throughout the neighbourhood, stopping to get directions and information from playing children, gossiping housewives, loitering drunks and tight-lipped farmers as he did. From streets and public areas, he went to small outdoors bars and general stores, steadily accumulating a small bank of information as he did so.
In reality, though, Nate couldn't care less about the information. He knew that actually trying to follow the rumours and superstition of townsfolk would only end up leading him in circles, chasing wild gooses and wasting valuable time doing so. What would help him get where he wanted to be faster would be the information he was so 'carelessly' putting out. Inevitably, those who knew more about Santigo than they let on would spread word of a nosy foreigner looking in places most people wouldn't. Through the power of social networks, this information would soon find its way to the people Nate was so eagerly searching for and they, made anxious by the actions of this unknown party, would look to uncover more information about his motivations and affiliations and would either attempt to remove him from the picture or pull up roots and relocate. It was a gamble but, in Nate's opinion at least, it was almost always a gamble worth taking.
Sitting at a bar with a cheap can of beer in one hand and a bunch of beer nuts in the other, Nate half-watched a game of Soccer on an old television set up by the barkeeper. All around him, the local men celebrated the end of the working day with alcohol, lewd jokes and the odd game of darts, laughing and jeering and forgetting their worries for one glorious night of revelry. Nate simply sat as far away from the other patrons as possible, nursing his drink and doing his best to look like a tourist who had gone on a self-directed tour of the city and had ended up getting in over his head.
When three burly looking men burst into the small building and scanned the room, the sudden lull in festivities made it all too clear that Nate's gamble had paid off. Smirking to himself, he downed the last of his beer and waited for the men to approach him. Two of the men sat on either side of Nate whilst the third stayed glued to the only exit, trapping him in the bar and making it obvious that they weren't here to polite tell him to keep out of their business. The patrons of the bar looked between each other with barely contained terror and the barkeeper swallowed hard as he pretended to busy himself with the cleaning of a grimy mug. Nate simply smiled, tensing up ever so slightly.
"How do you like the Caracas in this game?" He said, gesturing at the match unfolding on the TV. "I don't much follow Soccer, but I like their spunk."
"Get up." The man to Nate's left replied, curtly. "Come with us."
"Or?" Nate asked, flashing a friendly smile at his aggressors.
To this, the man on his right, made a show of pulling his shirt upwards to reveal a tucked away handgun. "Get up."
"Is that a Beretta? 9 millimetre? Nice piece. A bit large for concealed carry, though." Nate responded, completely unfazed by the show of force.
"We said-" The man to his right started, standing.
"I prefer one of these." Nate interrupted, casually pulling his glock from his waistband and causing the men to jump back in surprise. "Glock 26, 9 millimetre. It's not much, but it gets the job done."
By this point, all three men had guns trained on Nate and were yelling at him in rapid Spanish. The bar erupted into chaos as the patrons joined the frantic shouting with screams of fear and protest and the barkeep began crossing his chest in prayer. Nate simply remained in his seat, brandishing his Glock and keeping an eye on the game.
"<Get up! Get up right now, you son of a bitch!>" The third man shouted, pressing his handgun at the back of Nate's head. "<GET UP!>"
Nate kept his gaze fixated on the game as the midfielder kicked the ball past the goalkeeper and into the back of the net, followed by uproarious applause and a frenzied shout from the commentator. Satisfied, Nate moved. Like lightning, he spun around and batted the third man's arm aside, causing him to fire into the bottles of alcohol on the shelf behind the bar, shattering a few and sending shards of glass everywhere. Using the momentary distraction to his advantage, Nate balled his right fist and sent a punch to the third man's solar plexus, followed by a swift chop to the throat and an uppercut. The man spat blood as he bit the tip of his tongue clean off and hurtled backwards, his head colliding with the floor with an audible thud.
One.
Leaping backwards over the bar as the left man fired off a shot and the right man swung his fist at thin air, Nate then grabbed the wire connecting the old TV to a power outlet and, with a grunt of effort and a jerk of his hand, swung the old electronic box into the man on the left's face, splitting his skull with the force of the blow and sending him head first into unconsciousness.
Two.
By now, the man on the left had gained some distance from the TV-swinging wildman who had just taken out two of his cohorts and was cracking shots off at the bar in an attempt to bring him down as quickly as possible. As the shots slammed forcefully into the bar, Nate ducked low and checked his Glock, keeping his finger off the trigger for the time being. The barkeeper flashed him a look of concern as he gave him a brief nod, his eyes pleading and panicked. Nate simply spit his gum, tucked his Glock away and grabbed a bottle of spirits from the floor, weighing it up. Satisfied with its weight, he waited for his attacker to empty his magazine and reload his piece before re-emerging from his cover, tossing the bottle like a knife. Sailing through the air, the bottle loudly collided with the man's wrist, effortlessly breaking it and causing him to drop his weapon. The man, fighting through the initial pain, fell to his knees and snatched the gun up with his left hand. Taking the opportunity to move, Nate hurtled over the bar and charged the man, tackling him through the door of the bar and forcing him into the dirt as nearby citizens recoiled in alarm.
The man spluttered, his eyes wild and confused as Nate hoisted him up off the ground by his shirt collar, quickly grabbing his left hand and disarming him of his weapon. Unbridled fear had replaced the aggressiveness of the larger man as he stared into Nate's shades and saw his own frightened face reflected back at him.
"92FS." Nate remarked, looking at the gun now in his left hand. "Knew it was Beretta."
"<W-Wait! P-Please, d-don't->" The man stuttered, his legs trembling in fear.
Nate didn't respond to his choked pleas for mercy, pointing the Beretta at the man's temple and forcing him against a wall.
"<You don't know me. You don't know who I work for. You don't know what I want and you don't know if you can afford to upset me.>" He growled, his voice low. "<So here's what you're going to do to maximise your chances of walking away from this: you're going to look me in the eye and tell me where Cannibal Santigo and the rest of your posse is holed up and you're going to tell me as quickly as possible.>"
"<H-How do I know you won't j-just kill me i-if I do?>" The man asked, his voice barely audible and hoarse from fear.
Nate gave another smile, this time cold and predatory. "<Sorry, you don't know that one either.>"
Three.
Nate watched the old warehouse from his rented pick-up truck, his mouth playing with a worn toothpick. It had been thirty minutes since he had arrived outside and started staking the place out and, as far as he could tell, no one had entered or exited the premises. The odd visible movement he could see through a window indicated that there was definitely someone inside and Nate was positive that the scared thug he'd left unconscious in front of the local police station had told him the truth.
Pulling his shades back down over his eyes, Nate watched the sun set and fully disappear from his view before checking his Glock and his recently acquired Beretta and stepping out of his vehicle. Rolling the toothpick in his mouth, Nate got low and made his way over to the fence surrounding the warehouse. Quietly, he traced the fence with his finger and took a few steps back. With a quiet huff, he rushed the fence and pushed himself over it, landing softly on the other side.
Keeping low, Nate crept towards the warehouse and peeked in through a broken glass window. Inside, at least five men armed with AK-47s were positioned throughout the ground floor of the warehouse, seemingly waiting for something. None of them had Santigo's distinctive look, however. Moving away from the window, Nate peeked upwards at the warehouse's roof and, giving a noncommittal sigh, began slowly scaling the building, pulling himself onto the roof with a final strained push. Taking a moment to catch his breath, Nate prowled over to the skylight a few paces in front of him and looked down through it.
The scene had changed since his last glance. There were, in fact, seven armed men within the warehouse, two of which had been on the upper-floor of the building beforehand. A beckon from one of the men on the lower floor, however, had prompted them to leave their posts as the man pocketed his phone.
"<That was the boss. He says the other guys are moving the package over here for a while.>" The beckoning man said.
"<Did he say why?>" One of the others asked.
"<Got a little heat from a suspicious foreigner today. Put two of our guys in the hospital and one in prison. He's moving the package somewhere a little more out of the way until he's sure it's safe to move it.>" The beckoning man replied, shrugging.
Nate gave a subdued smile. The scared little henchman had been wrong about Santigo hiding out here, but Nate was more than grateful for the mistake. Shaking the thought from his head, Nate scanned the dank warehouse interior and began to formulate a plan of attack. Seven heavily-armed men were too many to take down indoors and with a couple of peashooters, especially peashooters without trick ammo. If Nate wanted the package without too much of a scuffle, he would have to be in and out as quickly as possible. A 'Hail Mary' play. Nate loved 'Hail Mary' plays.
The 'other guys' arrived within a few minutes in a nondescript junker barely held together by a series of well-placed nuts and bolts. Two men climbed out of the front seats of the car and scanned the area before popping the trunk, hefting a large duffel bag out of it. Nate narrowed his eyes. Judging by the size of the bag and the way its carrier hefted it over his shoulder, it was almost certainly carrying the weapon. As the two men made their way over to the warehouse, opening the gate with a jingling set of keys, Nate crept back to his skylight and waited for them to arrive inside. The two were quickly welcomed in by the men already there and were quick to gently lower the duffel bag to the ground.
"<That the package? I thought it'd be smaller.>" One of the original men uttered.
"<Yeah? You don't get paid to think, idiot. Careful with it, it's fragile. You break it, boss breaks you.>" The carrier snapped back.
The man raised his hands, defensively. "<Alright, alright. Sorry.>"
"<You keep a close eye on this, okay? We're standing watch here, and then we're packing up and leaving again in the morning. You all get paid for your trouble, we all walk away from this.>" The other carrier said, clearly the more level-headed of the two.
Nate had heard enough. Dropping down from the skylight, he landed on the upper-floor behind one of the seven original men, his eyes and attention directed towards his accomplices. Going for the quick and easy, Nate reached to grab the man in a sleeper hold, quickly twisting his neck with a muffled snap and easing his body to the floor. Grabbing the man's AK-47, Nate crept along the upper-floor, keeping his gaze on the men conversing below.
"<You have any idea what this thing is?>" One of the men asked, pointing at the duffel bag.
"<Does it matter?>" The aggressive carrier responded. "<We don't get paid to know, alright? Whatever it is, it's big. Huge. Boss wants to sell it to the highest bidder at the next underworld auction.>"
"<All the big guns will be there.>" The level-headed one added. "<VIPER, Argent, GAIA. I even heard Destroyer's going to show.>"
"<Fuck you. Destroyer? That's bullshit.>" One of the original men exclaimed, waving the claim off.
Nate crept further, sneaking a glimpse at the hanging lights illuminating the warehouse. Levelling the AK-47, he took aim, eliciting a creak from the rusted metal grating beneath him.
"Carlos?" One of the men asked, turning to the noise.
"Nope." Nate said, bluntly, as he opened fire on the hanging lights, shattering their bulbs and bathing the room in darkness.
As the men began shouting and firing blindly, Nate, dropping the AK-47, dove from the upper-floor and landed on the ground below. His bionic eyes, able to see almost perfectly in the dark, quickly adjusted to the change in lighting and focused on the duffel bag in the centre of the room. His years as a high-school quarterback came back to him as he darted forwards, barging two of the men out of the way as chaos broke out all around him. A bullet collided with his left arm as he scooped the bag up with his right. Another bullet grazed his cheek as it whistled past. Gritting his teeth, Nate hoisted the bag onto his back and kept fleeing, barrelling out of the window of the warehouse as another bullet grazed his side, eliciting a grunt. The sound of the window being shattered quickly alerted the men to Nate's location and, regaining their coordination, they hurriedly ran to the warehouse's entrance, already in hot pursuit.
Nate had only just made it to the fence when the men emerged into the hot and thick Venezuelan night air, AK-47s at the ready. Peering back long enough to see just how screwed he was, Nate fired his Beretta at the men, wounding one with a shot to the kneecap and killing a second with a clean shot to the trachea. Having bought himself enough time to continue his escape, Nate swung the package upwards and used the momentum to crash bodily over the fence. His pursuers shouted furiously as they opened fire on him, their bullets barely missing vital organs as Nate ran to his pick-up truck. Swinging the package into the back, Nate flung the door open and, using it as a momentary shield, leaped into the truck.
The men had not let up. They had managed to get the gate open and were now advancing rapidly, pelting the beaten truck with bullets in an attempt to put its driver out of commission. Through gritted teeth and searing pain, Nate turned the key in the ignition and swung out of his parking spot, swinging the back of the car into two of the men. One of the men, the aggressive carrier, hurled himself onto the back of the pick-up truck as it sped away, making a grab for the duffel bag. Spotting him in the rear-view mirror, Nate pulled his Beretta and turned to face the man through the rear windscreen.
"No hitchhikers." Nate growled, emptying the magazine through the windshield.
The man, once so needlessly aggressive, went quiet as five shots burrowed their way into his chest and sent him flying off of the back of the truck. His body, bumping down the road, flew out of sight as All-Star turned the corner and sped as far away as possible. He chuckled to himself, exasperatedly, as he jolted down the rocky roads of the Caracas barrios.
"'Hail Mary' play." He commented, wryly. "It's a keeper."
The door to Nate's cheap and depressingly small motel room swung open recklessly as he practically fell into it. Completely exhausted, he placed the bag on the bed and instantly began stripping naked, dragging his tired body over to the bathroom and stepping into the dirty shower.
As the cold water rained down upon him and washed away the blood and grime he'd accumulated over the course of the day, he considered his next step, washing his face clean with a sigh. He'd have to call Kurt and tell him the package was in his hands. In the morning, he could book a flight back to Detroit and be there before supper. An open and shut mission. No fuss, no muss. His first task, however, would be to pull some bullets from his wounds. An unpleasant task, but Nate gave a sigh of relief knowing that that would be the most painful experience of his mission.
Nate stepped out of the shower and pulled a surprisingly clean towel off of a nearby rack, drying himself with it before wrapping it around his waist. Stepping back into the main room, Nate looked over at the bag and ran a hand through his hair. He had risked life and limb to get the weapon out of the wrong hands and into the less wrong hands. Whilst he didn't like the idea of anyone holding a weapon rumoured to be as powerful as the one sitting motionlessly on his bed, he had his orders and he knew how to follow them. His superiors hadn't steered him wrong yet, and he wasn't about to start questioning their-
Nate stopped dead in his tracks, his thoughts cutting short.
The bag moved. He was certain of it. The weapon moved.
Grabbing his Glock from the end table to his right, Nate slowly walked towards the bag and reached for the zipper.
The bag moved once. Twice. A third time.
Nate's hand edged closer and closer to the zipper as he removed the safety on his Glock. His hand taking a firm grasp on the zipper, Nate licked his upper lip and ripped the bag open, pointing his Glock at the contents.
He didn't fire.
He didn't even blink.
All Nate did was stand petrified, his mouth gaping wide, as he stared into the calm and peaceful face of a sleeping, slightly dishevelled little girl.
