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“Yeah, yeah.” Casey pulls his goggles back on and laughs. “You sound exactly like Jake. Go away.”
Exactly 60 minutes after the lights go out in the building Mica may or may not be hiding in, Travis and Keats move in. Travis comes from the North side, taking the main entrance, while Keats slides through a window on the East. There’s no back door, which always made Travis a little unsettled – why the fuck would Mica hide out in a building with only one true exit? Then again, Mica is an idiot, so he never allowed himself to second-guess things too much over the small detail.
After a soft pop from the ear piece in Travis’s right ear, he hears Keats’s voice murmur, “Kirk in. Bathroom clear.”
Travis fights a long-suffering sigh. He’s only seen Star Trek a handful of times, back in his teen years, but he remembers vividly that he was not a fan. If they do this shit again, he’s totally picking out the call signs. “Spock in. Front area clear. Heading to kitchen.”
“Bedroom one clear, Kirk heading to bedroom two,” Keats says in response.
“Roger.” Travis flicks through his mental blueprint of the building as he quietly slinks down the hall and around the corner to the kitchen. His heart skips when he realizes someone is in it. A young man they’ve seen coming in and out of the building with a machine gun slung over his back. It’s such a ridiculous weapon for any scenario inside a house, but to each their idiotic own, Tavis supposes.
Travis carefully slides his weapon into his side holster and takes a single step forward, letting his boot come down on the floor in a silent roll. The man is mid-text, so Travis reaches around to grab his phone at the same time his other hand comes around to cover the man’s mouth. Sliding the phone in his pocket so it doesn’t clatter to the floor and draw attention, Travis brings up his other arm and wraps it around the man’s neck. If there is any sort of noise from the scuffle, the whirring microwave covers it.
“How many are in the house?” he grunts into the man’s ear as he slowly crushes his windpipe. “Nod for the amount. Don’t count yourself.”
The guy tries to kick a boot out against the cabinet, probably to get help, so Travis turns their bodies. The boot hits nothing but air before coming down on the floor a little too hard for comfort. Travis sighs, hoping anyone in the house will just assume the man stepped too loudly. Still, this needs to be over fast.
Keats says in his ear, “1 soul in bedroom 2. Handled. Kirk moving on to basement door. Let know if assistance needed.”
“How. Many. In. The. House?” Travis asks the piece of shit in his arms. “Come on man, tell me. It’s the difference between you being tied up and left to be found later, or bleeding from a shot to your forehead right here on the floor.”
The guy goes completely still. Then he shakes his head minutely, trying to say there’s no one else.
“That was a lie. My buddy already killed one. Try again.”
The guy sags in his arms. It shouldn’t be from the arm around his neck, but Travis loosens his hold just in case. The guy renews his fight. Smirking, Travis tightens it again. “3 seconds you piece of shit. How many are left, not counting you and the dead guy?”
He fights for 2 seconds.
Then he sighs heavily and nods his head 3 times.
Travis keeps his gloved hand over the man’s mouth. “Heads up, Kirk. 3 more souls possible.”
“Roger. About to hit basement. Should I wait?”
“Yeah. Give me 15.”
Travis shifts his hands on the man, moving quickly enough where the man doesn’t even realize what’s happening until it’s too late to cry out. His neck snaps in a sick, wet crack. Travis carefully lowers the dead body to the floor until it’s lying there, silent and useless. He steps over it without a glance back, moving on to the microwave. There’s 17 seconds left, but he cancels it so it won’t start beeping and draw attention when it’s ignored. He gets a peek at what’s inside. A hot pocket. Travis debates for half a second, then gives in. He can’t be blamed. He’s been eating shitty MREs for fucking days now.
It’s hot as fuck, so he wraps it in a paper towel and slides it into one of his cargo pockets. “Spock heading to basement door.”
“Roger.”
Pulling his gun back out, Travis carefully walks to where the blueprint said the basement door would be. He finds Keats there. The lighting is low, but enough for Travis to see he has some blood on his cheek. “Yours?” he asks, nodding his head toward Keats’s face.
He jerks his head no. Travis makes a mental note to question him later on how that happened - they agreed quick and clean - but now isn’t the time.
Keats taps his shoulder twice, indicating that he’ll take the lead. Travis nods and takes position behind him as Keats pours oil on the hinges to make sure they won’t creek. After pocketing the squeeze bottle, he carefully turns the knob and opens the door. There isn’t a single sound. They both breathe sighs of relief. Then Keats begins his descent into the only area of the house unchecked - an area that, according to Travis’s idiot dead guy, is going to have at least 3 people waiting for them.
“Oye, imbécil. ¿Dónde está la comida?” someone shouts, apparently hearing their boots on the stairs and assuming the dead guy is coming in with their food.
Surprise, motherfuckers. No food for you.
“La comida está aquí, hijo de puta,” Keats spits out as a bullet flies from his gun. Travis comes down one more step and is able to see the basement clearly enough to fire a bullet of his own. Two down, one man to go.
“¡Brazos arriba!” Keats shouts. “¡Baja tu maldita arma!”
The man shakes his head rapidly, eyes wide. He backs away from them. His hands are shaking hard enough that it’s surprising he’s still holding his gun. “¡No español! N-no español - I - I’m English! American!”
