In Need of Assistance? (TF2)

Fifty-Six: Fired

"Okay... Okay," she takes deep breaths to get her heart under control, gasping and tensing up. "Oh, gosh, they're here. It's happening. This is the exact opposite of getting rid of a dead body. Miss Fredrickson, what do I do?"

"Wait," I say, watching a man in a blue suit approach the table that has two women seated at it. They both wear grey and look over from their coffee, standing and greeting the man with handshakes and inviting him to sit down. One woman has the intelligence handcuffed to her wrist, meaning we either take her alive or forcefully take it from her. I adjust my backpack and act as though I'm pulling my shirt lower behind me when I'm really verifying that my gun is still resting on the small of my back.

"You guys getting this?" Scout utters into his microphone to make sure our snipers know what's happening. He leans over to Miss Campbell. "They're ready. Just gotta say the word, and we're all gonna move in."

"I would be careful with that," Priyanka inputs, almost sending me fifteen feet into the air as she appears behind me.

"What is up with spies and just speaking?" I pant.

"Sorry if I frightened you," she apologizes, still cloaked. "Their own reinforcements got here fifteen minutes earlier. The four of you would have to move fast to get out of here, and I will get them off of your tail if they follow."

I scan the area, Samia, Erika, and Pilot sitting at the table right next to the sale and Neuro waiting in the wings. She mills about in her RED attire: a crimson Captain's hat and a long ruby trench coat with a bulletproof vest on. She carries a tactical ballistic shield on one arm. That thing has to weigh at least fifteen pounds, and she's shorter than I am by two inches. There's some strength in those muscles. I'll give her that. She and Soldier argued about if it was called a "riot" shield or a "tactical ballistic" shield, and Pilot was adamant that Soldier was right. And then there was Cashew who said it was an "anti-riot" shield, but we'd only have that conversation if we assumed Neuro was right.

Neuro's not out of place in the slightest with lugging it around, not as much as she is for wearing the color red and having on a trench coat- as I've seen a group of Rio police setting them down behind their chairs in a food court. Protests have been flaring recently, and I've picked up bits and pieces from glancing at newspaper boxes as I walk by. Maybe Vince and Parma taught me more Spanish than I was paying attention to. Or I never really forgot when I was whacked with a magic spear. There's some kind of nuclear war or something, or it's perhaps to join Americans in the opposition of the Vietnam War. I'm not sure about the whole thing, I haven't taken the time to sit down and- attempt to- read one.

"I will listen in," Priyanka warns before she slinks away.

The woman with the suitcase brandishes a key and sets the briefcase down on the table to unlock her handcuffs.

"Almost Miss Campbell," I whisper. "It's your call."

She tenses up, eyelids glued open as she stares at the woman's actions. I hear the cuffs clink, and Miss Campbell turns to Scout. "Now."

Scout turns around to talk on his mic as Erika pulls her Stromsläger out of an umbrella cover. "Pop it."

Two rifle shots blare and the woman and man are dead, leaving one left at the table. Disarray and frenzy flares up, Salvador dashing off and snatching the briefcase from the tabletop before sprinting off into Neuro's direction. That little shit. She sees him coming and preps herself, rotating her body and waiting for him to get to her before she runs off with him. I tug on Miss Campbell's arm. "Come on, time to go." She's frozen in place, and I pull on her arm. "Miss Cam-Camp-- Miss Campbell!"