Post #1622497 in Branded: What if?, a roleplay on RPG

Brantley Meadors
New York City
Five o'clock
Dusk, 78 Degrees Fahrenheit
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Brantley stepped out of the plane and the woman and other agent followed closely behind him as they made their way into an unmarked vehicle, which promptly took off.

"Alright, Isis, we've got you to America. Keep your end of your deal and it'll be a nice stent in witness protection, don't keep your end of the deal and we'll ship your ass back to the frozen hell that is Russia. Got it?"

The woman gave him a bored nod, "I understand." Her Russian accent twinged a little on the words, making her voice unmistakable.

With the same tone as Brantley, commanding and filled with authority, the other agent spoke, "We'll be taking you to Interpol's headquarters here in New York, from there you'll be processed."

She nodded once again, keeping her eyes on the New York traffic as the driver tried his best to speed through it.

"Panther." The agent looked to Brantley. "It was good working with you. Tell the boys back home I said hello." The man's light Russian accent had faded easily into his natural British accent, giving the words an almost playful tone.

Brantley responded in the same accent, hinting they were from the same place, "I will do."

The car stopped in front of an imposing black building a few blocks from time square and Brantley got out, "Keep her safe, got me?" He looked at Isis, "Don't do anything stupid, sweetheart. You've got the looks, don't waste." He left with a wink and a nod, his last words fading into his unmistakeably American accent.

His footsteps faded into those around him as he made his way into the building and up to the fifth floor. He made two rights and a left down the hallways and into the third door, and unmarked black door that held his next assignment. Almost hesistantly he pushed open the door and stepped in. Darkness enveloped him.

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Lindsey Macher

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The door her heel slammed into popped open to reveal the handsome Frenchman she'd met with earlier that week on a couch with a young woman, kissing her. "Marvelo, get up."

He jumped up, trying to compose himself, "Mademoiselle! What a surprise, what are you doing here?"

"You promised me some time. I'm cashing that in." She pulled out her gun and pointed it at the girl. "You have ten seconds. Blab to the police and you'll be history. Scram!"

The girl ran out crying, clinging to what clothes she had left. Lindsey pulled the door closed behind her. Aiming the gun at Marvelo, she stared him down. "Did you read what you gave me?"

He shook his head and stood up, his hands in the universal symbol for surrender - up. "No! I swear I didn't. I didn't even know what it was. Sarge just gave it to me and said to deliver it to the cutesy little red head who looked like she'd been through hell."

She laughed, "Then you really didn't read it, did you? Or you would have been waiting for this..." She put her gun down and pulled the backpack off, setting it down. She grabbed a file from it and tossed it to him.

He jumped when she threw it to him. Cautiously he looked down at it, then to her. "It's names."

"Yes."

"Mon appelle c'est ici. Non! Non!"

"Oui. Your name is there. It's the second one, right under the senator's name."

"The senator?"

She grabbed the remote that lay on the table and picked it up. Clicking through the channels, she stopped when she saw the body on the screen. With a few more clicks, she had the volume up.

"...body was found, in a hotel, it seems that the killer left no trace of evidence behind. Suspects have yet to arise as the police are being dead ended by the lack of evidence. John, our police consultant is here with us. John, what do you make of this?"

A larger man with an odd mustache and a southern accent appeared, "Well, Amy, I feel we're dealing with a hitman. Senator Brewster was a very powerful man and due to the legal problems he was about to experience, one could almost say this was expected. There are a lot of people out there who will kill for money, in this case, it may have been the Russians. That's the sad thing we may have to consider. In this political atmosphere they control our politics as much as we do."

"Thank you John. For more on the story, tune in again for the ten o'clock news."

Marvelo had taken a seat on the couch and was shaking his head, his eyes locked on the paper. "It's a hitlist?" His French accent hit the words hard, showing his hidden fear.

"I'm afraid so."

"Who ordered the killings? Why do you...?"

She pulled out her gun again. "You know who ordered them. You know why. Au revoir, Marvelo, vous voir en enfer."

The bullet penetrated his skull, killing him on impact. His blood splattered slightly onto the folder. Lindsey put her gun up, turned the TV off, grabbed her folder, and picked up the phone.

Her gloved hands punched 911; her words carried a French accent, light but noticeable.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"Oui! Help! Help! Gunshots, I hear gunshots!" She unleashed an unearthly scream and dropped the phone, sprinting out.

The operator spoke to the room with it's dead man and arbitrary items of little value, "Ma'am? Ma'am!?"

Sirens wailed in the distance as Lindsey sprinted down the alleyways, praying she could make it home in time for dinner.

Snippet #1622497

located in 1968, a part of Branded: What if?, one of the many universes on RPG.

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