Episode 5 - Reporter, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy: Mission Accomplished
The storm that had raged like it was going to sweep the world away finally calmed, and the rain that poured like a torrent turned into a steady drizzle. I cupped some rainwater in my hands and washed my face. While wiping away the sticky sweat and combing back my soaked hair, Jake approached with a sitrep.
"Boss, evacuation prep's almost done."
"Yeah, got it. Tell everyone to steer clear of the blood and bodies—no stepping in it. Footprints are a bitch to erase."
The staff kept well away from the guards' corpses as they tidied up the site. Not that there was much tidying to do. They were just packing gear. The op was simple: take out two guards, snatch the target. Textbook success.
The ops officer and I had neutralized the guards without breaking a sweat, securing the target unscathed. Right on cue, the Special Operations Unit agents were hauling Fabio Verati's youngest daughter out of the SUV's back seat. They slipped a hood over her head, layered an eye mask on top, plugged her ears with foam, and bound her wrists with rope. I watched, shaking the blood from my hands.
"No cable ties around here—such a pain."
"Didn't catch that?"
"Nah, nothing. Just get back to it."
I stripped off my rain- and blood-soaked clothes, stuffing them into a large plastic bag. The pocket knife from the Magic Tower was gummy with blood. Now that I looked, the blade was a bit dull too. It was meant for one-and-done, but next time I'd spring for something better. I folded it neatly, tossed it on top of the clothes, and changed into a fresh suit. That's when the SOU ops officer approached.
"Asset 51 extraction ready."
"Ah, yeah. Good work. Head to the rendezvous first."
The SOU loaded Verati's daughter into a rented vehicle and peeled out. Counterintelligence followed in the hijacked black SUV, and the ops officer gave me a nod before driving off in the pickup—in the opposite direction. Three vehicles vanishing into the night, different routes. Standard evasion to dodge tails and muddy the investigation.
"…Whew."
I slumped against the diplomat-plated car Jake had pulled up, staring up at the sky—or whatever passed for it through the clouds. Storm on the hill, rain pouring. The once-bustling road now held just one car, two bodies, and a handful of people. SOU and CI were done. But I still had work ahead.
Thinking about what came next already had fatigue crashing in. My head throbbed faintly too. Still, op complete—success. But the real game started now.
Covert operations—that's the term for intelligence agencies' bread-and-butter work, running ops across politics, economy, culture, diplomacy, defense, you name it, wartime or peacetime. Seven main types, including the assassinations you see in movies.
Bribing pols and puppeteering NGOs: political ops.
Economic sanctions, tariff tweaks, or dumping rumors into legit banks to tank stocks: economic ops.
Blasting megaphones and feeding stories to media domestic and foreign for chaos: propaganda ops.
Spreading disinformation to amp up confusion: deception ops.
Inciting riots or coups to topple regimes: subversion ops.
Sabotaging rail, power plants, dams, roads, substations, industrial zones: terror ops.
Kidnapping VIPs, assassinations, or hostage rescues: paramilitary ops.
CIA stirring coups to oust Chile's Allende, MI6 teaming with others to boot Iran's Mossadegh, or putting a bullet in bin Laden's skull after a decade on the run—all classic covert ops. This one? Kidnapping the youngest daughter—straight paramilitary.
But here's the snag: we used force. Covert ops are illegal as hell—violating sovereignty, international law—so you bury the trail deep. Throw in military muscle? Good luck hiding that. In intel circles, they call it 'Rohandel's Ladder'.
"So, what's the play now?"
"What?"
"You left two bodies. Guts all churned up like that—if it blows back, we're fucked."
Pippin jabbed at the sprawled guards.
"We're fucked? The country's fucked."
"You call that an answer? We'll all be stripped of our commissions!"
"You're young—find new jobs."
"Argh! Seriously!"
Pippin blew up, flailing like a maniac, until Jake reined her in.
"Hey, he's got a plan. Just wait."
"You're getting busted too—how you so chill?"
"Shit, yeah, now that you mention it?"
Pippin rampaged like a lunatic. Soaked to the bone in the rain, screaming in the middle of the road—she looked the part. Reasonable panic, though.
"Even without discharge, field posting kills careers! No promotions after a gap like that!"
Military Intelligence had its own promotion track, worlds apart from line units. Green recruits cherry-picked early for clearances, but halfway through a tour and shipped to the field? No adapting to that. Worst nightmare for intel folks: return to unit. Euphemism for "pack your shit and go."
And yeah, it applied to us too.
"Tch."
"Don't just click your tongue—say something!"
"I briefed you fully. Why keep nagging?"
"Didn't think you'd actually gut foreigners!"
Raw rookies, the lot of them. No stomach for it. I sat by the bodies in my suit, pressing a handkerchief to my gut.
"Relax. You think I won't cover you?"
"What company hires short-term vets in bulk? Two at a time?!"
"Bound to be some. Think positive."
I soaked the handkerchief in blood, smeared some on my cuffs and suit. Casual gore job, then stood.
"It'll be fine. Prep to roll."
"If we get pinched, you'll bail us out, right…?"
"Diplomatic immunity's not for show. Won't get pinched. And worst case? We die. Big deal?"
"You're insane…."
I looked skyward. Rain fell; the world stayed dark and blurry.
"Phone."
I took the device from Pippin's dubious stare.
"…You're really doing it?"
"Like it's fake?"
"God, I can't even…."
Pippin clawed her hair and backed off—half overwhelmed, half not wanting to jinx the moment.
…Yeah. Now came the crucial part. Laying the foundation to slip surveillance and reach the target.
I punched in the memorized number.
"…Hello."
"Yes, police here. What's the emergency?"
The op kicked off.
"There's been a murder here."
When crime hits, cops investigate. Universal truth, even here. Like Earth PDs, local procedures are by-the-book: scene processing, witness canvass, stings, victim/witness interviews, forensics, profiling, forensics, docs, chem analysis, etc.
Cops analyze crimes to prevent and catch perps, building methods from past cases. It's their rulebook, common sense—and a frame. Even first responders and eyewitnesses matter the same. Fixed ideas, ripe for exploit.
I planned the snatch citing Magic Tower PD and Justice reports, picked the zone, prepped gear. Robbery-homicides? Half involve acquaintances; stranger jobs spike roadside.
And…
"Stab wound to the gut."
"Stab wound?"
"Yeah, like something sharp."
Stranger RO-Homs favor blades. Bludgeons next. Magic worlds have spells/curses, but mages usually kill impulsively drunk or high—exceptions.
"Knife at the scene?"
"Nope."
My pocket knife? Staff torched it, clothes with it—loaded with guard blood and my DNA. Zero links to Military Intelligence.
Which cop suspects intel op from this? Crimes daily—what're the odds?
Why self-report to Tower PD? One reason.
"…Ah."
"Something come to mind?"
"Wait, yeah…."
Deception.
"Saw two cars speeding off."
"Plates? Make, color?"
"Black SUV, other a hatchback, I think."