Civil War (6)
"You think he's dead?"
"Think he's fucking dead?"
Even after seeing this shitshow, he's asking that? Cheol-woo grabbed the old man's hair, yanking his head up off the desk. Blood mixed with brains oozed from the side of his skull in thick rivulets. Only then did Jason let out a heavy sigh, slapping his forehead.
"Fuck. We're screwed now. It's all over. Everything's fucked···."
A clump of white hair tore free from Jason's scalp, drifting to the floor. Everything was fucked. They'd gunned their way up to the headquarters of the Secret Intelligence Agency right in the heart of the capital, but the one guy who could've cleaned up this mess—the director—was already dead. What the hell were they supposed to do now? Nothing but a blank wall staring back at them.
There were already countless witnesses. Every desk-jockey agent in the building had heard the gunfire and called it in. Whether those callers were parasites or not didn't matter. The ones swarming in response sure as shit would be.
Soon enough, heavily armed Australian Federal Police and the Joint Counter-Terrorism Task Force would surround the building, storm in, round up any survivors without a word, drag them off, and "silence" them. Then the news would leak some bullshit about a minor disturbance at a company building in Canberra, and that'd be that.
Jason could see the future unfolding clear as day.
"We gotta run. Hop on the rooftop chopper and—"
"Too late."
"···!"
A! Fuck!
Jason whipped his head away, pretending not to see. Was this really happening? He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Same result. A! Fuck! Suddenly, staring down the barrel of a pistol felt like the start of a very long trip.
"Sorry about this. I didn't see it coming either. Figured we'd land, you'd get an arrest warrant on me, you'd hold off popping off shots, the director's already been taken out, and now SWAT shows up like they had a damn appointment···."
"···."
How the hell could anyone predict this? It was like a goddamn act of God. Trying to normalize things when most of the agency was already eaten by parasites? That was hubris from the start. And pinning his vague hopes on this crazy Korean? Biggest mistake of all.
Just as Jason gave up, his legs buckling to slump to the floor—
"No more options···."
"Why not? Director's dead, so you take over the Secret Intelligence Agency and bury the incident. Done."
"It's not that simple. With this many witnesses···."
"So make the witnesses disappear. Right?"
"···Pardon?"
Did I hear that right? Jason doubted his own ears.
"Kill every parasite left in the building. Leave only humans, convince 'em all to get their stories straight—perfect crime. Clean up the bodies for bonus points."
"There are at least six hundred agents working in here. Even if half are parasites, that's three hundred kills."
"Yeah. So do it."
"Wha—no, how the hell... Ah···."
How the hell do we do that? The words died on his tongue. No time for questions when every minute counted. If David Min said it was possible, then it was. Time to treat that like gospel.
"Seal breaks in two hours. Finish everything before then."
"Plenty of time."
Cheol-woo reloaded, slipped on a looted bulletproof vest, and strode out of the director's office.
Two hours. Clock was ticking.
····
"Headcount on armed suspects?"
"Yes, sir. Just one, from what we know."
"One?"
"That's what the callers said."
"Bullshit. The Secret Intelligence Agency a bunch of pussies? Can't handle one gunman and have to call the cops?"
Some ridiculous call came in, and now every cop in Canberra was mobilized. Something about an intruder at agency HQ causing a ruckus. More unbelievable than a report of a break-in at the precinct. Regulations were regulations, though, so they geared up heavy and surrounded every entrance. But the outcome? Obvious without watching. Training mishap or accidental discharge, probably. Even if real, the perp was likely subdued by now.
> Attempting breach...
> Steel plate too thick—grinder's slipping!
> Even shaped charges might not cut it!
> FAILURE — NO BREACH
"Forget it. Just pretend to try. Weird if a grinder breaches Secret Intelligence Agency HQ lockdown protocol."
Force it open? Not without serious explosives—shaped charges at minimum. And firing those in downtown Canberra? That'd land you in a parliamentary inquiry. Best case: they lift the seal from inside.
"No contact inside."
"Obviously. Lockdown means jammers are on—radios are dead."
Static only—zzzt.
He chucked the radio and dialed police HQ.
"Patch me to the director's landline at Secret Intelligence Agency HQ."
The only line into the sealed building: the director's landline. Soothing classical music played, building from intro to crescendo to finale... and kept going.
"What the hell!?"
Lockdown meant someone was in the director's office. But no answer? Hackles rose; danger sensors screamed.
"Shaped charges! Now!"
"You serious?"
"Yes! Get 'em—borrow from the army if you have to! I'll take the heat!"
Something bad enough to abandon the director's office had gone down inside. Situation escalated. Cops shifted from waiting to breaching.
Carl Gustav recoilless rifle from the army? Three-plus hours out. Redback IFVs could arrive in under two. No steel wall withstands 30mm autocannons forever. Request sent; army chopper-transport confirmed.
His leg wouldn't stop bouncing through the endless wait. Two hours had never dragged like this. Kept ringing the office—no pickup.
Now the worst-case loomed.
Did the director catch on to us?
Director hadn't "joined" them yet. Had he sniffed it out, made a patriotic call? Rally agents, seal the building, host a bloodbath inside?
No. Not enough manpower. Over 70% of agents were already "with" them. Any move by the director should've been crushed by counterattack by now.
So why still sealed? Pieces didn't fit.
"IFV inbound!"
"Finally."
Chinook chopper lowered the Redback into place. One step left: blast the entrance, flood in.
The turret whirred, 30mm cannon trained on the seal—
"Wait—"
"Cease fire! Cease fire!"
Clunk. The steel plate retracted. Lockdown lifted? Jaw-dropping. Why now? Small mercy—no downtown tank-shell apocalypse.
At the superintendent's order, tac-geared cops poured inside.
"Report everything you see inside."
"What?"
"The fu—···."
Full sweep from ground floor to director's office. Nada. Only oddities: scattered bullet pockmarks on walls. Deputy director—not the director—in the top office. Way fewer desk agents than usual. One-third normal staff.
"Investigation over? Time to leave."
"Sorry, Deputy Director. Gunfire report came in, had to—"
"How many times do I say it was a training mix-up by one of our agents? Out. Not thrilled seeing cops rummage Secret Intelligence Agency HQ without a warrant."
"Yessir. Understood. But where's the director?"
"Overseas."
"Really? Where?"
"Secret Intelligence Agency business. What more do you want? Agent locations are classified."
"···."
Cops couldn't press further and got ushered out. Outside, the superintendent lit a smoke with a deep sigh. His aide flicked a lighter over it.
"This feels like that, right?"
"Yeah. Pretty sure."
"Deputy took out the director, huh···. We letting this slide?"
"What choice? No evidence, no thank-you from them. Sigh···."
Nothing major. Just an internal coup at the agency. Even in these times, humans fight humans. Dumbasses—laughter bubbled up unbidden.