Donning your jacket, and making sure your tools are close at hand, you walk into the parking lot and get into the supercharged Falcon. It’s capable of 140 mph.
You start the engine and feel the power of this monster under you before you throw it in reverse and back out of the parking space. Two switches catch your attention. One, is blue and has the word "Tacks" written above it. The second switch is red. The word "Cloud" is printed above it. Tacks and cloud? What is Phelps expecting?
It’s a six mile drive to Cafe Intermezzo, through the heart of Cairo, a warren of streets bursting with life and energy. There are mosques seemingly at every corner, and a dash of Coptic churches along the route. In the distance, you spy huge gates dating back to medieval times, and lining the main boulevard are bazaars selling everything from perfume to motorcycle parts. Many are closed now, but there are a few still open at this hour, their owners haggling with customers over the price of items.
You come to a square hosting a modern strip of businesses---some American chain restaurants---and glide through the parking lot. Your car, perhaps surprisingly, draws few stares from the locals and others assembled, so used they've become to the sight of otherworldly things like 100-year-old cars in their ancient city.
Post by marionarsis on Nov 4, 2015 23:09:02 GMT -5
Jacob pilots the Falcon to the restaurant's rear and parks near the back exit. He then gets out and after locking the car he heads to the main entrance.
Once inside, he allows his eyes to adjust to the darker lighting conditions as he searches out his "friend," Grant. Upon spying him (OOC: heh! pun intended) he forces a friendly smile and wave as he heads over.
Parking your car, you walk to the front of the coffee shop. Young and old alike sit at the half-dozen small, circular tables on the patio outside, speaking rapidly, loudly, in Arabic. A shrill cry from a baby in a stroller alongside one table accompanies your entrance into the store. It's 8:07 p.m.
He sits in the back, behind a laptop, nursing a cup of black coffee. A staggering sense of deja vu overcomes you. There are at least a dozen tables scattered about, taking up almost every inch of floor space. You navigate a bumpy path through the maze and come to the table of Grant Owen Agee.
He’s as Phelps described him. Or as you described him to Phelps. Two things he left out of his description (or you left out of your description to him). Agee wears glasses, a fashionable red-framed design, and a ballcap adorns his head. The logo on the cap is of a leprechaun, fists raised, in a fighting posture. There’s writing above the logo--University of Notre Dame. Agee has worn this cap to work many times. Many Times.
Deja vu. You purposely left these two details out when you described him to Phelps after your spy trips. If you had, Phelps would’ve immediately known this man, a fellow NDL employee, to be Agee.
Why did you keep these crucial facts from Phelps? You search your memory but find nothing.
Agee glances up at you. "Hey, Jay, have a seat." He gestures to the chair opposite him.
Post by marionarsis on Nov 5, 2015 17:08:47 GMT -5
Jacob nods and tries to put a small smile on his face. "Hello Grant. Having a good evening so far?"
He tries not to think about what's going on, or about why he left out the identifying details to Phelps. Maybe he simply forgot. He tries hard to act normally, to be the Jay that's experiencing this for the first time.
Jacob pulls out the chair across from Grant. Don't act eager, he thinks. But he wanted more time to think, perhaps something more would come to him, another memory. "Hope you haven't been waiting long. Before we get started, do you mind if I get something?"
“Sure, order anything you like; it’s on me...or rather the company.” He grins and hands you his company credit card.
There’s a wait at the counter, and it’s not too polite. You have to be assertive or someone behind you will gladly speak over you, jumping ahead of you in the queue. Recalling your first death, you order something other than water.
There’s a crush of bodies here, as well as around the shop. You can’t tell who your backup is, which according to Phelps, is a good thing. He’s right. If you could, the backup would be doing a very poor job.
When you return to the table, Grant's staring into his laptop. He has three crisp white sheets of paper turned to face you. “I intercepted this document this afternoon and deleted it from the files of the original source. Look it over and tell me what you think.”
Deja vu hits you like a hammerfist. You’ve seen this document before. Even with just a casual glance, you know all about it. It’s as Phelps described. A few pages of words in various languages, and some numbers in random order, one after the other. Gibberish.
Your eyes fall on certain word sequences, however. They fall in a pattern that acts as a key to the full page of codes. You recognize this particular key formula. You busted it a few weeks ago. You try to remember the circumstances behind it but can’t. Your deaths, your spy trips. Your memories are like old dreams--you can’t recall the specifics behind the busted code. You can’t recall a thing.
<Your successful Saving throw...>
...As you study the page a memory comes back to you. You don’t have to bust this code to recall what this document is after all. You don’t need the key.
It’s a detailed list of names, and assignments. In code, it lists every agent of the NDL stationed throughout North Africa, the Middle East, and Southern Europe. Phelps’ name is here, as well as every field op---in code. Your eyes trigger to a small section in one corner of the third page---why? It’s there you see Agee’s name...and your name and position.
It’s true. If this fell into the wrong hands, NDL operations would be ruined. Was this something you forgot to mention to Phelps due to your spy trip? Or had you intentionally kept it from Phelps, like the name of the contact who now sits across from you? Dammit. You don’t know.
Grant studies your face. He asks the question that twice has been a preamble to your assassination. “What do you think, Jay? Is it legitimate?”
Post by marionarsis on Nov 6, 2015 12:50:04 GMT -5
Jacob had a plan. But now he's torn.
Something isn't adding up.
An agent with more experience or more chutzpah would seek the answers to these nagging questions.
Or maybe it's bravery: maybe Jacob is just afraid of prolonging the encounter, afraid of giving Grant more time to attempt to kill him.
And of course, it may be that similar efforts to garner more information is what led to his first two deaths. If he is to avoid a third (and according to Phelps, final) death, he is going to have to do something different.
Something radically different.
Something there is no possibility of him having done previously.
He ordered a small bowl of tomato soup at the counter, nothing else, returned to Grant's table, and looked over the paper.
"Well, it looks vaguely famil--"
Jacob leans-in a little and "accidentally" drags his sleeve through the soup.
"Dammit!" He bolts to a standing position. "Look what I've done; I've gotten it all over my ja--"
As Jacob completes his move: standing, acting distraught over the fate of his garment -- he withdraws his Walther and fires two quick shots at Grant, both aiming for the head/face.
Yes. Since you're shooting two bullets in one round, your second shot adds three (the dice your gun gets) to the "to hit" roll you need. But, you're so close to your target, who's not moving, it's not going to matter. You simply need to roll a 5 or higher to hit each time. Also, roll for damage for each hit (3+2).
Post by marionarsis on Nov 6, 2015 23:08:57 GMT -5
23:05, Today: Jacob Fleury rolled 9 using 3d6+2 with rolls of 5,1,1. Damage from shot 2. 23:05, Today: Jacob Fleury rolled 10 using 3d6+2 with rolls of 1,4,3. Damage from shot 1. 23:04, Today: Jacob Fleury rolled 6 using 2d6 with rolls of 4,2. Second Shot 23:04, Today: Jacob Fleury rolled 6 using 2d6 with rolls of 1,5. First Shot
Grant's body tenses when you stand, agitated at dipping your sleeve in your food. When you make your play and extract the Walther from your waistband, he reflexively raises a hand. "No, Jacob! Don't believe the--"
The bullet sounds like a cannon in the tight confines of the cafe. You're momentarily deafened, the world goes silent. The eyeglasses and cap fly from his face. The hole left in Grant's forehead is perfectly round. His eyes cross, roll to the top of his head. The follow-up shot tears a lethal path through his neck. Grant and chair flip backward. A spray of blood, like thrown red paint, splashes the wall behind him. You snatch up the laptop and the sheets of paper and make a run for the narrow hallway, toward the back exit.
You hear it now--mad chaos is taking place in the cafe. Patrons throw themselves under tables, or leap behind the counter, to avoid the bullets. You feel Grant's hot, wet blood on your face.
Your back-up? Isn't he supposed to be doing something? Racing for the back exit, you hazard a glance over one shoulder and spot the American through the mass of scattering people. In his right hand, the menacing presence of a SIG Sauer 226. With his left arm he sweeps people out of the way, seemingly clearing a path. A SIG Sauer 226--you know this is the firearm preferred by field agents. Briefly, you look into his face, seeing anger and alarm.
Your shoulder propels the back door open and out you go, in a dead sprint for the Falcon. A quick yank and the car door opens. You throw the laptop and papers to the floorboard. With a flick of the wrist, you start the ignition.
From out of the front of the cafe come three patrons. Unarmed, they look about frantically. You throw the car in reverse, backup blindly for ten yards, then shove it into drive. ...
Post by marionarsis on Nov 8, 2015 10:16:34 GMT -5
. . and propels the car to the road and from there to the quickest route to Giza and the safe house.
Well . . . this is further than I've gotten before, Jacob thinks. But Grant's last incomplete sentence bothers him. "Don't believe the--" he had warned. Three words only, but they conveyed a greater knowledge about events surrounding Jacob than Jacob himself knew. Hope I did the right thing, he thinks -- not for the first, and probably not for the last, time.
With a sleeve he wipes moisture from his brow, unsure as to whether it is sweat or blood. "Get to the safe house," he whispers as he looks about and in the mirror for signs of pursuit.
Tires screaming, rubber burning, you pull out of the parking lot of Cafe Intermezzo. Checking your rearview mirror, you see a few more people have ventured into the cafe's parking lot, and look in your direction, pointing fingers. But you give them no pause. They become smaller and smaller in your mirror until they are no more. Before anyone thinks to give chase or call the police, you will be nothing to them but a bad memory...or so you hope.
Above, the sky has darkened. Night is descending on Cairo. You see on the dashboard the installed GPS. You note it's been preprogrammed to direct you to the safe house in Giza. Flipping it on, a silky feminine voice directs you to where your next turn will be. The GPS has highlighted the route you will take on its electronic display map, but it doesn't appear the route highlighted is the shortest, most direct route.
And now you come to a critical decision. Will you follow the GPS' route, which appears to be a longer course, or follow the shorter route you see?
Before I forget, give Jacob adventure points for:
the L1SR-Lk = 8 points two saving rolls for firing the gun = 12 points
And place 50 adventure points in Clip:Pistol, bringing it to 1,050/3,000
A safe distance from the cafe, but before he makes his decision, Fleury retrieves his phone from his jacket pocket and dials Phelps. He tells him everything that's happened, and asks, "What happens at the safe house? What am I supposed to do?"