“So I assume you’ll be taking the entire shipment?” asked a trenchcoat-clad pale male.
“All four thousand kilos,” answered the bearded man across from the pale man.
The pale male in sunglasses smiled and took the suitcase from the bearded man, anxious to see the massive amount of money inside.
When he opened it, his smile inverted itself.
It was empty.
The bearded man reached rapidly inside his old tan coat and pulled out a gun, pointing it at the pale man’s head. The bearded guy screamed, “DEA! Hands up, whitie!”
In a few seconds, dozens of doors in the warehouse were kicked open and in poured US Marshalls, FBI agents, and more DEA men along with numerous police.
The pale man smiled again and reached inside his trenchcoat. The bearded man across from him discharged his weapon in defense, hitting the pale man square in the forehead at point blank.
The pale man’s head flew back, but soon returned to its normal position as it had not been severed. There was a hole through the pale man’s head, but it was closing.
The bearded man froze in terror as his federal accomplices began firing on any other drug dealers in the building. A bit illegal, but the victims were major lawbreakers.
The pale smiled and fired a handgun he had hid beneath the table. The round pierced the bearded man’s unarmored stomach, killing him almost instantly.
The pale man then stood up, dodging a few stray rounds, and smiled at a few of his other accomplices. Several leaped into the air impossibly high, almost flying. Others pulled out machine guns and small explosives.
The government men continued their, fire, killing many traffickers. Soon, the only ones left were the most pale guys. The guys holding the machine guns.
The return fire came soon, killing a few police and DEA agents. Seeing they were somehow outgunned, most of the remaining g-men retreated into other rooms.
Now the drug-dealing survivors began to leave the scene, firing suppressively upon any remaining agents.
FBI Special Agent John Harris dodged any shots that came his way. He watched the pale men leaving the room unscathed, and he was pissed. He knew he couldn’t let these sleazebags get off scot free after they took down six good men and women of the DEA and FBI. So he decided to pursue.
Harris gestured for a few others to follow his lead. The heavily-armed men stealthily followed the pale drug dealers out of the warehouse, saving their ammo for clearer shots.
Once the agents managed to sneak into the next storage room, they took positions behind crates. Two on the left, three on the right, and two in the middle. They’d take the bleached bastards by surprise.
When everything was just about ready, Harris gave the signal to the men on the left.
Before any shots were fired, however, the pale dealers changed. They seemed to take on inhuman forms Their fair complexions began more bestial, more rough. Their muscles seemed to bulge, as if some steroids just kicked in.
The agents, too shocked to react, suddenly became the fodder for the new-and-improved super-druglords. The inhumane criminals turned and took the hidden g-men by storm. They ripped at their suits and body armor, shredding their skin and rending out their interiors.
Harris was shocked by the sudden onslaught. Right next to him, a senior agent turned into a pile of blood and guts and bones in a matter of seconds. And no matter how many times, Harris fired into the monsters, he couldn’t kill them.
That’s probably what frightened him the most.
Harris, thankful that he had not yet been killed, rolled into an overturned crate, crouching down on the inside and barely breathing. For the first time in his career, Harris pissed his pants.
When the gruesome noises of the massacre finally ended, Special Agent John Harris prayed that the beasts wouldn’t find him. He prayed for life.
Or, if found, he prayed for a quick death.
***
Sirens surrounded the large, multi-room warehouse building. A few SWAT vans had arrived, packing heavily-armored tactical response soldiers. FBI men and US Marshals sealed off the perimeter.
A massacre of federal agents and local police had just occurred. Despite their best investigation efforts, police could not find the killers. In fact, many doubted they could be human. The twisted methods of killing were shocking for even the most stoic veteran cops.
As police prepared to comb the area one final time, a black sedan drove up with federal license plates. Not uncommon.
But the men that popped out of the van were something of an urban legend.
Three men in black suits, ties, and shades exited the dark vehicle, observing the building from a distance.
The captain in charge of the investigation came up to the dark suited men and asked, “Can I help you?”
One of the men, apparently the leader, pulled out an ID badge for the CIA. “Agent Johnson, Central Intelligence Agency,” the man said in a controlled voice. He gestured to his left and right, respectively. “This is Agent Andy and Agent Bionic. We’re here to investigate the killings.”
The chief inspector scoffed. “Well, well, well. Looks like this isn’t a normal case, is it? Well, good luck findin’ anything in that place besides the intestines of twenty good men splayed on the walls.”
The lead man ignored the statement, ordering, “Take us to the scene of the murder.”
Once again, the captain laughed. “I ain’t takin’ you nowhere, Mr. Sunglasses. Ya see, I have jurisdiction over this place until my superiors tell me otherwise. And they ain’t gonna tell me otherwise.”
The leading man turned to his right. The man behind him pulled out some rolled papers from his suitcoat and handed them to Agent Johnson. Johnson promptly gave the papers to the investigator.
After glancing at the unfurled sheets of official-looking papers, the man grudgingly asked, “The hell is this?”
The leading man cooly answered,” We are now in charge of this investigation, Captain. You may return to your office.” Then the black-suited man walked into the fray of police, his thugs following.
The chief investigator, stunned and ticked, had to wonder what was really so different about this case.
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