The Second that Screwed Up

[Go Lucky Mart, 64 Lumina Lane | 1025 Central Time, Day 1]

What are those?

Heckler and Koch UMP submachine guns, by the looks of it. Mendez recalled it holding .45 ACP rounds, being great for close-to-medium range engagements, and being easy to carry around due to its lightweight.

Mendez also recalled that he'll most likely die if he gets shot by it, which was exactly the case at the moment.

The situation was quite similar to what happened to him mere minutes before: him just minding his business, some dolt decided to point a gun his way, he only had miliseconds to react. Only this time Mendez was readier. He didn't need any kind of adrenaline electricity jolting through his body, he's already had that sensation for five, ten minutes now.

Jump.

Mendez haven't even hit the ground when he heard the first bang.

He heard a whiff, a sharp gust of wind slicing through his crown hair, grazing his skin.

Not a second later, he heard a loud ricochet just mere inches from his left ear.

CLANG!

During his glance at the source of the noise, he saw a deep circular dent at the metallic store racks, where the noise was supposed to come from.

A bullet-sized dent.

A bullet just barely missed him.

Thud.

Mendez hit the ground, and that's when the hailstorm of bullets started to pour in.

The bullet hailstorm tore the store to shreds. They shattered the store glass, sending shards raining on top of his body. They went through the walls, the racks, the pretty much everything, scattering debris everywhere. All that accompanied by the submachine guns' deafening blasts, of which Mendez wondered why he hadn't lost his hearing by then.

Mendez took a glance at the counter where the store owner was supposed to be. No one was there. Either the store owner managed to duck in time before the shooting starts, or that he didn't, and instead was lying on the counter floor with bullet holes covering his body. He wasn't standing up, that's for sure.

To his right, sitting on the floor beside him, was the egg carton he'd brought earlier. The carton itself was intact, but there's no telling that its contents were the same. He recalled gripping the carton as he leaped out of harm's way earlier, so the eggs had a good chance of surviving. Still, it didn't exactly experience the softest of landings when Mendez crashed to the floor.

There will be time for that later. But for now, onto a more pressing issue.

When will the shooting end, anyway?

Mendez was properly shielded from the hailstorm when lying in prone, courtesy of a pair of waist-high ice cream freezers standing between him and the double UMPs. Shame of what happened to the ice creams, though.

From his lying in prone position, Mendez started to crawl his way to the end of the aisle, bringing the shotgun and the egg carton with him. He should be able to find cover there, should the shooters grow a brain cell and think about getting into the store. Even better, he might be able to find something to throw at their faces.

Mendez was already at the tail end of the aisle when the barrage of bullets stopped.

Silence.

All that he can hear were distant screams from pedestrians running away from the scene.

That, and sounds of footsteps.

Footsteps walking into the store, to be precise.

Not bad, Mendez thought. These guys were smart enough to try to ensure that their target was truly dead. Instead of chickening out from the crime scene like some wannabe drive-by hoodlum, these full-suit full-autos stayed to ensure that their job was truly finished. Credits where credits are due, Mendez thought to himself, amused.

Emphasis on the word 'try'.

Sitting up behind the aisle rack, Mendez set the egg carton on the floor in front of him, hopefully away from the shotgun shenanigan he knew was about to ensue.

"I'll be right back," he said quietly, gently tapping on the egg carton.

Turning his attention away from the egg carton, Mendez pumped his shotgun and readied himself for the assailants.

Tap, tap, tap went the submachine gunners' footsteps against the store's porcelain floor.

Mendez recognized one of the footsteps sounding a lot louder than the other. As if one of the footsteps coming from a source a lot closer than the other.

One of the gunmen was very, very close to Mendez. But where was he?

Mendez looked at the faint reflection emitted by the glass of a beer fridge in front of him. If he was THAT close, the gunner's reflection would've shown up on the glass.

In which case he did.

There he was, creeping on Mendez, the jet-black submachine gun on both hands, more than eager to shoot the hell out of him.

Mendez thought of one advantage he's got over the other guy: the other guy didn't know that Mendez was hiding behind the aisle rack. There's a good chance of Mendez catching him by surprise, turning the tables against the gunmen.

At least, that's what Mendez thought.

The full-suit full-auto stopped on his tracks, his eyes dead set on the beer fridge right in front of him.

Could he have seen Mendez through the glass?

He raised his gun, aiming the muzzle at the aisle rack in front of him.

Yep, he knew alright.

Mendez bolted to his left, to the furthest aisle from him.

The thing about this movement is that Mendez didn't even bother to check whether or not "his left" is actually clear or otherwise. Whether or not this full-suit full-auto's just-as-trigger-happy buddy was there, at the furthest aisle. Mendez just jumped up and ran, hoping that by chance, the full-suit full-auto's partner wasn't there.

In which that wasn't the case.

For there was the other shootist, just entering the end of the row from the furthest aisle, the very same H&K UMP submachine gun on his hand.

Effectively, Mendez was cornered. This one dude that already knew where he was, and another at exactly where he wanted to take cover in.

Mendez had already gained too much momentum. Too late to stop and jump back into one of the aisles now.

On his mind he saw another solution, however.

That solution involved him keep on sprinting, which he did.

Mendez bolted past an aisle, the whole scenario of his solution playing in his head.

One more aisle and he'll be where he wanted. The second shootist stopped in his tracks precisely at center of the row, as if he heard something worth hearing.

Which was exactly where Mendez wanted him.

Correct, this "solution" actually involved the shootist.

As Mendez got to the aisle before the last, he leaped forward.

Not just an ordinary spring, though; he leaped with his right knee sticking out forward, his left leg acting as a spring to propel the right.

A flying knee.

Doesn't matter if the shootist was looking his way or otherwise, the move would've certainly caught him off-guard and stunned him. It was a largely foolproof move, unless the shootist turned out to be a renowned karate champion with lightning reflexes.

Thwack!

Turns out, this poor fellow might not have practiced karate at all.

Mendez can feel his kneecap cracking the shootist's ribs. That's right, when the flying knee happened, the shootist was facing Mendez' way. He saw Mendez' coming, and yet the only thing he most likely saw was Mendez' knee heading straight into his chest.

The shootist staggered backwards, slamming into the wall behind him. But Mendez wasn't done with him yet.

Disarming the dude and stealing his gun would've been a good idea, but Mendez suspected that by the time Mendez got a good grip on it, the shootist he hid from earlier would've gotten a good shot at him and fired first. This two human beings might not practice martial arts as good as him, but assuming that they can't aim is foolish as well.

Nope, he got another on his mind.

He grabbed the shootist by the shoulders and spun around, to the direction where the first shootist came from. Mendez then started to march towards the that direction, his hands still firmly gripped on the shootist's suit, the poor fellow right in front of him.

A meat shield. Should the first shootist start firing at Mendez' direction, this guy will take the bullets instead.

Mendez heard a click from the end of the row the second he started marching. A click coming from a gun. Looks like this guy is going to die, after all.

BANG!

Mendez felt something piercing through his meat shield. Damn, that guy wasn't playing.

Obviously the meat shield can only last very long before the .45 ACP rounds started to actually pierce it and unfortunately land on the one person it's supposed to protect, so Mendez kicked his pace up a notch to a fast-walk.

Half a dozen steps and 10 rounds later, Mendez peeked through the shootist's hips.

The first shootist was still right in front of him, now within his arm's reach. Moron didn't even bother taking cover or shifting over to the side, just in case Mendez was just using the meat shield to get into striking range. Nope, he thought that by shooting the meat shield, he can somehow get his intended target.

Putting his left hand on the second shootist's hip, Mendez pushed his meat shield to his right like a ragdoll and charged at his assailant. Ragdoll is right, as Mendez felt the second shootist lacking any weight other than the gravity pulling him down, i.e. limp. He's dead now.

First thing to do is isolate the gun from its owner. Or at the very least, point it away from you.

And Mendez did just that, gripping the submachine gun on its barrel with his right left and pushing it upward, effectively throwing the shootist off his aim.

Last time this happened was mere minutes ago, on the guy with the shotgun.

Last time this happened, Mendez used a headbutt against his opponent.

Now, it's time for a little variation.

Instead of launching his crown again, Mendez launched his right knee.

Mendez can, yet again, feel ribs cracking from the impact.

But unfortunately for him (the shootist, not Mendez), he wasn't out just yet.

Time to bring in more pain.

Mendez launched his right fist across the shootist's face. A right hook, if you will.

Not only that he felt the shootist's jaw cracking under his knuckle, Mendez could've sworn he saw tooth, spit, and blood flying out of the shootist's mouth. He knew the punch was hard, but it couldn't be that hard. Or this guy had the luck of having the glassiest chin ever, who knows.

Still, Mendez can still feel the shootist's grip on the gun opposing his.

With a swift motion, Mendez reached for the shootist's back and shoved him face-first into the aisle right behind him. If he remembered correctly, that aisle displays cans of tuna and sardine.

There was a loud crash. That, and multiple clanging sounds of tuna cans falling off their shelves.

Miraculously, the shootist was still on his feet.

Let's take care of that, thought Mendez.

Mendez launched his left sole to the back of the shootist's right knee. He lost his footing, effectively kneeling on one knee.

He out yet? thought Mendez.

No.

Mendez grabbed him by the back of his skull and slammed his face into the aisle of tuna cans. After a successful face plant, Mendez threw shootist to the beer fridge behind him, slumping him against the fridge glass.

At this point, it was overkill. At this point, it would be wise for Mendez to stop and celebrate his victory over not only surviving two assassination attempts, but totally turning the tables against his would-be assassinators. It would be nice to flaunt and boast over his defeated opponents, but he knew better.

As a wise man once said, "When your opponent starts boasting, he's already lost."

One more for good measure. Just to be sure.

Mendez drove his sole to the shootist's face, knocking his head back and shattering the fridge glass behind it.

The first shootist is officially down for the count.

"Now that takes care of that," remarked Mendez in an eerily calm tone.

Surprisingly, while the shootist was down, he wasn't necessarily out. Meaning that he was still conscious and can be interacted with. His eyes were still open amidst his bloodied face, though his gaze was nowhere near as focused as the one he had before, when he was shooting the store to hell.

Pulling out his phone, Mendez approached the first shootist for yet another line of questioning, squatting to get a better look at him.

"Riddle me this, my friend," asked Mendez in a slightly playful tone. "What speaks to you, never meets you face-to-face, and orders you to kill me?"

Nothing.

"Come on," probed Mendez. "You know the answer to this one."

Took him one second, but he answered nonetheless.

"He's right about you," said the shootist with a cough, spurting out blood. "That you are an interrogator. That you'd be curious. That you'd ask questions."

Not exactly the answer Mendez was looking for. But no problem with that. In fact, the shootist gave him more than what he wanted.

"So it's a he," chuckled Mendez. "Could be a she for all I know. I mean, who am I to judge?" Mendez focused his sights on the shootist again. "He told you anything else?"

"That..." the shootist started. "That you are a torturer. That you'd gladly torture me for information."

Mendez smiled. Not a smirk that he usually does, but a smile. As if he was entertained by that statement.

"And he told you not to give me anything, no matter what I did, am I right?" said Mendez as he stood up.

There was no answer to that. Then again, Mendez need not know the answer to that.

"Well," began Mendez as he picked the UMP submachine gun lying on the floor, "can you?"

The shootist spit out blood and straightened himself.

"You won't get sh--" BANG!

There was a scream of pure agony.

Mendez had just shot the shootist on the knee. With that one UMP he picked up.

"I'm afraid I'm gonna have to interrupt," said Mendez amidst the screams of pain.

As the screaming went on, Mendez went on with his quasi-Bond-villain monologue. "Hm, maybe I should've told you something like 'I'm not asking', but then again I did say 'can you'..." asked Mendez rhetorically. "Seems like I was being too accommodating, so should I pop another one--"

"NO! WAIT!" shouted the shootist, his right palm outreached towards Mendez, still groaning over his pain.

"Right," said Mendez. "You know the answer to my riddle, right?"

"My contractor, the one who hired me to kill you."

"Ah, finally," said Mendez with relief. "Didn't give you his name, did he?"

It was barely audible, but the shootist answered. "No, he didn't."

"No problem with that, 'cause I got the second best thing," said Mendez enthusiastically as he pulled out his phone with the number mangle-leg gave him earlier displayed. "This his number?"

A nod. Good.

One more question, though.

"He tell you to do anything else?"

"When it's done, I was supposed to give him a call."

"That confident, was he?" wondered Mendez.

A way to get to whoever's behind this. Perfect.

Mendez stood up, ejected the magazine from the UMP submachine gun, and then threw the gun as far from the shootist as possible.

"Well, took a little convincing, but thank you for your cooperation," said Mendez nonchalantly, before walking to pick his egg carton--and the UMP--up.

Once he got a hold of the egg carton, he set for the exit. He didn't even stop to check on the store owner, on whether or not he survived the second shooting.

This guys, whoever hired these lackeys, certainly knew quite a lot about him. Those little details on him being an "interrogator" or a "torturer"? Dead giveaways. These guys may have known who he is, or rather, was.

Which means it's safe to assume they know about what he's been up to these days. Cafe Aurores, his ownership of it, Morgan... chances are, they knew about all of them as well.

Which in turn makes them potential targets.

A classic way to get to someone. You can't get to them directly, get to what they care about.

And Mendez cared about the cafe. A lot. Not to mention Morgan.

With that thought haunting his head, Mendez rushed back to the cafe.