‘Two weeks ago, an anonymous tip to French police led to the arrest of a Romanian national in Paris thought to be leading a small-time drug dealing operation. Investigation of his home led to the discovery of pallets of various illicit substances, including cocaine, heroin and a compound that remains unidentified. The fact that this substance was flagged as unidentified led to the National Gendastrerie being alerted, and promptly seizing the substance for testing of anomalous properties. Initial testing confirms that the substance is anomalous in nature, however its effects remain unknown.’
Brian Upshur, Special Agent with the Drug Enforcement Administration’s Paranarcotics Division, mulled over the details in his head. The flight from MIA to OTP was long and arduous; no amount of in-flight cocktails would get the briefing out of his head, playing over and over again like a bad song he just couldn’t shake the chorus of. This happened prior to every bust, the droning voice of some middle aged Special Agent in Charge tapping at the front of his head. Acetaminophen stopped helping a year ago, and he was starting to build a tolerance to these little in-flight drinks. It was 2007, so his little PDA of a cell phone didn't offer much of a distraction. Sure, the fancy touchscreen smartphones were just hitting the shelves in America, but there was no way he was going to fork out the dough for one of those, even on his salary.
‘Why Romania?’
He thought to himself, head leaned back in his uncomfortable coach seat.
[uiuorientation2016 ‘Tricolore] couldn’t have hit us up earlier to help out in Paris?’
For one reason or another, the 26 year old Upshur wasn’t the biggest fan of Bucharest, or most of Eastern Europe for that matter. The Cold War had been long dead at this point, but its spirit still thrived in his household. Growing up in the 90’s had its drawbacks, especially when your father ran the home like a boot camp. For Brian’s dad, the Cold War never ended, and neither did his service in the Corps, despite having two children and a divorce under his belt. When 9/11 happened, Brian was in his second semester of his criminal justice program in University, with an internship at the DEA all lined up and ready to go. At 20 years old, most kids his age were shuffling right into the Armed Forces recruiting centers. Brian didn’t, despite the protests from his old man. In hindsight, he did it out of spite, and he didn’t regret it. He was a patriot, and it wasn't like watching the Twin Towers fall didn't have a profound impact on him, but he was determined to serve his country at home. Brian had no desire to fight in a foreign war and wind up getting his ass shot off on the opposite side of the globe that wanted as much to do with him as he wanted to do with them. Despite his best efforts, however, he was still on a plane halfway across the globe and some of his dear old dad had still rubbed off on him, most especially his brooding disdain for the current state of things.
‘After the individual dealing, the substance was investigated by the National Gendastrerie, and it has been confirmed that the source of the substance is located in the village of Cojocna, Romania. It's likely the local traffickers chose this location because it's only a few minutes from a small airport, just to the north. Considering the cross border nature of this crime, as well as the unknown scope, the National Gendastrerie has requested a PANGEA1 deployment to the village to investigate the most likely location of the drug manufacturing. The local authorities have been alerted through the national government, and are more than willing to stay away from this. In fact, Romanian government officials don't seem to want to be anywhere near this for some reason. Off the record, corruption is likely a factor. You all now know as much as I do.’
A musty, rotting office building. This place didn't do much to subvert the stereotypes in Brian's head. As he opened the frosted glass door, he flicked his cigarette into the gravel parking lot before stepping in. There were no cars in the front of the lot— it seemed like everyone had parked around back. Being the only Yank on this operation and one of the few that was chauffeured only served to alienate him from the international team currently occupying the building, at least he thought. This was already going to be a long day, and now piss poor planning on behalf of DEA brass was going to make it even longer. The interior of the structure had been almost entirely gutted; what was left of the drywall was clinging to the support beams littered throughout the premises. In the center of it all, a team of officers in the uniforms of their respective countries crowded around a whiteboard. As the door slammed shut behind Brian, one of the officers about faced, half grin on his face.
“Ah, le ricain. You are the American, no?”
The officer prodded, marching his way over.
“That's what they tell me.”
Brian nodded, forcing a half cocked smile. The officer was a Frenchman, like just about everybody else in the room. Brian had heard almost every slang term for Yankee or American that existed, at least throughout Europe and the Americas, and this was not his first time being called a ricain. Regardless, he felt that the French always put just enough finesse on the word to make it sound like a pejorative, despite the playful banter intended with the remark.
"Then you will be with my team. My name is Baptiste, but you can call me dur à cuire."
He quipped, the antecedent grin on his face stretching to that of what Brian could only consider mockery.
"Your name is, eh, Brian Upshur yes? I read your file. At least what was sent to my desk from l'Assemblée. Your service record is a bit… empty for my liking, but it appears you know how to handle yourself with a weapon."
Brian simply nodded, not wanting to rehash any details that weren't listed on his file. If it was redacted, it was probably for a good reason, he figured.
"The others will be on the perimeter team, or entering from other parts of the property. I wouldn't worry about introductions, my friends are not too fond of you Yankees. Some think you are a bit too much like Dirty Harry. I know this sounds a bit discouraging, but they will have your back in a gunfight, same as me."
Baptiste smirked. An entry team of two was less than ideal, especially considering the size of the operation these traffickers were running. It was small time, but international criminals rarely went down without a fight. It wasn't often that a bust would lead to anything noteworthy, maybe get a few kilos of some mind bending paradrug off the market, but the trail usually went cold before it could even be paved. Nature of working behind the veil meant that lines would get crossed, things would be harder to trace. The lack of closure made Brian bitter. All that mattered to him was making sure his people got home in one piece. There would always be another case, another trafficking organization to take up the mantle of one that was brought down, every one more violent than the last.
"Well, get your gear on Mister Upshur. Our frequencies and callsigns are on the whiteboard. I would review the layout of the property if you haven't already. Let us wrap this up, my friend."
It was overcast, the lack of sun over the bleak landscape making the drive to the traffickers’ property much more foreboding, as if a biblical confrontation was waiting for them at the end of this journey. The clock radio read 5:47 PM. The houses, as small as they were, rested on hills jutting above the roadways and surrounded by chicken wire. Small livestock animals casually grazed, and the odd civilian watched the luxury vans pass in both disdain and curiosity. An abrupt turn gives passage to the houses and small shops transitioning to rows of trees and brush. Brian's van travels down a seemingly endless straight road, the rest of the convoy peeling onto gravel roads. No turns, no stop signs, and eventually, no people or other cars.
What few farms are on the outskirts of the village are separated by seas of crops and overgrowth. They'd reached the property, although Brian wouldn't notice it by a glance considering the massive abundance of shrubs. Scanning the horizon from the van, a partially collapsed smokestack nearly blended entirely into the gray sky. This was the only indication that there was any kind of semblance of human activity beyond the vegetation on the roadside. The van slowly rolled to a stop and the engine was cut. As the vehicle idled, a silhouette suddenly emerged from the bushes and onto the road. The officers quickly piled out of the vehicle, Upshur being practically flushed out by the crowd in tandem.
“Arată-ți mâinile!”
Weapons drawn, the translator attached to the team spat out the fervent command to the figure before them. As they advanced, Brian steadied his Remington Model 870 on the man who started to come into focus. He looked over, raising his hands in the air with a sly grin. The team slowly surrounded the man, forming a perimeter as the translator and Brian approached. He could see clearly now that the man was old, donning a wiry frame and gray hair that frizzled out into every direction. The scruff around his face made him look unclean, and it was very apparent that he cared little for appearance. Then came that smell. Many of the French officers recognized it almost instantly. It took Brian a bit longer to realize what it was.
The rotten stench of death was so thick that he could practically sink his teeth into it, like a corpse that had been left out in the sun too long. It was pungent, the miasma invading Brian's senses and forcing tears to well in his stinging eyes. It wasn't that he'd been around cadavers much in his time, but that recognition was primordial in origin, a long dormant instinct that kickstarted his fight or flight. With yellow teeth bared behind parted lips, he stared at Brian directly, completely ignoring the warnings from the translator. Brian stepped closer to the man despite every neuron firing off in his brain telling him to do the opposite. With his Remington gripped tightly in both hands, he shouted out.
"On your knees motherfucker! Turn around and get on your knees!"
If this man was uninvolved in the trafficking operation, it was likely he'd get a reprimand from some of the other officers here. It wasn't like this man was armed, nor did he look like he was in fighting shape. A quick glance around, however, revealed that the small team of five officers here felt the same, their faces twisted in disgust. The old man rolled his head back, his eyes closed as he let out a deep sigh. His raspy voice cut through the yells of the officers, falling on them like a spell as they paused to hear him.
"You all never should have come here. This land is old, older than Romania itself… and there are things that should not be known to outsiders. You cannot stop what has been done and you cannot stop what is coming. In time, you will see the mistake all others have made here. You will never drive us from our land, and you will not deprive us of our livelihoods."
The old man craned his head down, resting a steely gaze on Brian that bore through him like a butcher's knife. A smile crept across his wrinkled, pale face. All at once, his yellowed, crooked teeth shifted into a straight position. The color seemed to flow back into his old face all at once. He reared his head back once more, letting out a blood curdling scream at the top of his lungs. A knee jerk reaction to the scream, the translator stepped forward to apprehend the old man, gripping his wrist in a gloved hand. The old man responded with a swiftness that the officer could not have reacted to, one that Brian certainly wasn't ready for. He delivered a swift strike to the officers throat, a loud crack echoing over the sound of the wind in the leaves. The translator buckled to his back, gripping his throat. The other officers, including Brian, responded with an enfilade of gunfire. Brian's Remington tore a chunk of the old man's shoulder off as he disappeared into the brush, skittering away.
"I- I've never shot anyone before."
Brian choked out between shallow breaths. One of the officers kneeled down by the translator, doing his best to treat his collapsed airway. The bloody foam propelling from his mouth with every futile gasp for breath told a story of imminent death, which came shortly after the man stopped writhing. Brian was in a trance, watching this man breathe his last— before a hard tug at the back of his vest snapped him back to reality. Baptiste pulled his American counterpart behind a wooden spool, patting him on the shoulder as he dropped down to a knee. Brian still had a blank expression plastered across his face. This was the real deal. More real than any bust he'd ever been on. A symptom of the American exceptionalism he swore to himself he didn't harbor, he felt responsible for every officer that came out with him on raids. Now one lay dead on the gravel road, blood and spit caked across his face.
"Upshur! The other officers have fanned out to form a perimeter! It is on us to move into the field and kill or capture this espèce connard."
With another reassuring pat to his shoulder, Brian shook the ringing out of his head. Racking a fresh round into his Remington, he took a deep breath. Gunshots began to echo throughout the rest of the compound, indicating that the other officers were now dealing with their own problems— more importantly that this place was legit after all. Baptiste clambered to his feet, sprinting off into the brush towards the direction of the smokestack. Brian didn't hesitate to follow just behind, despite his innate desire to turn back. Breaking through the first layer of vegetation was the hardest— jagged twigs, leaves and thorns clung to his clothes and gear like gnarled hands from the dirt. Surfacing from the sea of flora of concealment revealed an overgrown field, much more of the compound coming into full view. Brian was hot on the Frenchman's heels, slamming into a half collapsed wall with a pant. Baptiste pulled back the slide on his HK P9 before slipping back into his belt holster and taking his G36 back into his hands. Brian struggled to catch his breath, resting his head against the gritty wall. The old man had made a rapid escape it seemed, and the only sign he'd left behind was a trickle of blood along the top of the dead grass. Baptiste poked his head around the corner of the wall, white knuckling his rifle.
"Ok, American. I see a blood trail leading to the south of the warehouse. You did a good job tagging him, but it will take more than twelve gauge to take him down it seems. On me, Upshur."
'How was Baptiste so casual about all of this? How could he speak so candidly about a man I've just shot?'
Upshur thought as he looked up to the overcast sky. Seconds felt like minutes to him, instinct battling muscle memory that he'd picked up over years of drills with the DEA that seemed to reinvigorate every synapse in his brain. The word GO flashed in his mind, suppressing all other desires. He followed Baptiste around cover, clutching his shotgun to his chest as he sprinted forward. The trail of blood continued to snake through the grass and into a small warehouse connected to the collapsing smokestack. As Brian and Baptiste closed the distance, the distinct and very close crack of a bullet whizzed just past Brian. Wide eyed, a glance to the smokestack betrayed a glint of a sniper’s scope, positioned in a little makeshift crows nest. A second shot pierced through Baptiste's upper leg, ripping a chunk of skin and what could only be bone fragments. Baptiste rolled forward like a sack of weights, and as a third round snapped into the dirt just in front of the pair, an enfilade of gun fire opened up on the smokestack from the officers holding the perimeter, as if right on cue.
"Connard!"
Baptiste cursed to the sky as he rolled onto his back. Shards of his femur poked through a massive gunshot wound at the center of his thigh, arterial blood spraying up towards Upshur. Brian winced as he looked at the gaping, shredded crater on his partner’s leg. Without much of a second thought, he withdrew a tourniquet from a pouch on his belt and immediately set about cranking the lifesaving device around the top of the Frenchman's thigh. Baptiste responded by shrieking out in agony, instinctively batting Brian's arms away. The cacophony of gunshots and bullets striking the smokestack did a decent enough job of drowning out Baptiste's wails and protests— a mix of French and English swears thrown in for good measure. With the tourniquet set, Brian grabbed Baptiste by the shoulder straps of his vest and began dragging him towards the warehouse, the nearest structure and what happened to be their current objective. Pulling out of the field came just in time, as gunshots snapped over Brian's head once again and kicked up dirt. The pair had reached the outer wall, no longer in line of sight of the sniper.
The dead grass stopped just before the outer perimeter of the warehouse, a well trodden dirt path beaten down around the entirety of the building. With it, the blood trail also halted abruptly. Nervously glancing around, Upshur set Baptiste against the outside wall, roughly 10 feet away from a set of massive wooden double doors that seemed closed for the time being. Baptiste winced, looking in abject disgust at the wound on his leg. Brian dropped down to one knee in front of Baptiste, his chest rising and falling at an alarmingly quickened pace. Unclipping the radio fixed to his vest, Brian alerted the other officers surrounding the perimeter that an officer had been struck.
"Snowman to TOC, Tarasque is shot. We need emergency medical on standby right now. We're by a… warehouse near the smokestack. I need the perimeter team to suppress the sniper so I can drag him out!"
He barked at some poor communications specialist on the receiving end. Baptiste reached out, gripping Brian's wrist. The half smile on his face shone through the dirt, sweat and blood splatter.
"Calm down, American. The bleed is stopped, and I am safe, but our man is still here somewhere."
Brian sucked in a deep breath and nodded. He was, somehow, closer to the verge of a panic attack than the man who'd been shot. This moment of peace they found at the front of this warehouse was the last thing Brian needed. Tapping into muscle memory and instinct is what kept him centered. Having to think about his next move is what led to mistakes— to the current state he found himself in. Baptiste tugged at his arm again.
"Your file said that you do not care. You carry on like what you do does not matter, doing the bare minimum. You avoid assignments, foreign and domestic. I do not believe it is because you do not care. You saved my life, Brian. You could have just as easily left me, save your own skin as you say. You could have denied this assignment, but something must have drawn you to it. This operation is the culmination of thousands of man hours in France. Leave me, you have to capture this putain. I know that you will see that this is more than just a job, more than j-"
The distinct crack of a shotgun rang out, nearly deafening Brian's left ear. Wood fragments from the wall of the warehouse in front of him splintered out, striking him in the face. A second shot bellowed out before Brian could react to the first, and with it a warm liquid splattered across his face. Brian aimed his Remington in the direction of where the shots came from, just in time to see a silhouette slink back into the warehouse from between the double doors. He let off a shot, his adrenaline practically forcing him to squeeze the trigger in the direction of the perceived threat. The 12 gauge sent a slab of the wooden door onto the dirt, chunks of paint, dust and timber creating a cloud that obstructed the entrance. A glance down to his side sent his stomach into his throat. One of the rounds fired by the figure in the door had met their target…
Baptiste's head, what was left of it, had been mangled by a slug. A strap on his ballistic vest had caught a nail poking through the wall, keeping his dead weight from hitting the ground completely. Hunched over, the entire upper half of his head had been taken off, splaying most of his brain and massive fragments of his skull on the dirt. One eye had been violently ejected from an orbital that remained only half intact, hanging from what was probably the optic nerve. The other was nowhere to be found, likely strewn about the ground with everything else. A spray pattern of bright red blood decorated the chipped white walls of the warehouse from left to right of where his head had been laid back, like a macabre work of abstract expressionist art. Seconds felt like minutes as Brian stared deadpan at the lifeless body of the man he'd been having a conversation with just a moment ago. Baptiste was dead, but Brian could still hear his voice in the back of his mind telling him to press on. He finally lifted his gaze from the disfigured corpse of his partner, racking another round into his Remington as he set his sights on the double doors. He clicked on his radio, firing off a final message before making entry into the warehouse.
"Snowman to TOC… Tarasque is dead. Moving to interior of the warehouse. Hold fire in the direction of this structure."
Brian flicked on the flashlight fixed to the front of his shotgun, illuminating the musty, dimly lit interior of the warehouse. Dust kicked up with every step on the concrete floor, caked in dirt and gravel. As he crept forward, his light reflected off of a fresh blood trail that beamed straight through a series of small shipping containers. He stopped just before the first set of containers, which sat adjacent to one another, followed by a second and third set after them. This created a single tight alleyway, a difficult one to move through strategically. Brian poked his head past the first set of containers, revealing nothing but grime along the cracked floor. The blood snaked on, stopping at the end of the row of containers abruptly, just as it had outside. As he crept up to the second set of containers, a strike to the top of his head nearly turned his lights off, crumpling to the ground.
Brian shook the hit off, quickly realizing that the old man from the road was staring at him from the top of one of the containers, wielding an old break action shotgun like a baseball bat. He dove towards Brian, the chunk of the shoulder that Brian had torn off with his Remington still missing. A second wound was visible on his other shoulder, likely where he'd been clipped while shooting around the double doors. The old man landed on top of Brian, holding his shotgun across his throat. In his dazed state, Brian struggled for air. As easily as this man had collapsed the airway of the translator, it stood to reason that he should make quick work of the vulnerable DEA agent, but that did not seem to be the case. His strength, however he'd obtained it, was waning. Brian figured it must have had something to do with the two gaping wounds that, as Brian was now noting, had stopped bleeding. The old man hissed through clenched yellow teeth.
"You never should have stepped foot in this place!"
His breath was hot and rotten, nearly singing the hairs in Brian's nose. He huffed, battling to wriggle some space between his airway and the cold steel of the shotgun pressed against it. In his struggle, he stretched for the pistol packed into the holster on his belt. His fingers fiddled with the top of the strap, Brian cranking his arm as it got harder and harder to breathe. As his finger finally caught the latch, he pulled the top of his holster away and juggled his pistol. In a swift motion, he pressed the pistol into the right side of the old man’s abdomen and squeezed the trigger. A .45 ACP round entered the right side of the man’s gut and exited the left, taking with it a solid chunk of viscera. The old man went limp, allowing Brian to toss him off and struggle to his feet. Taking his Remington back into his hands, he fought to catch his breath, coughing and gagging as he did.
In a brief moment of silence between labored breaths, Brian could hear the raspy sighs of someone else in the building. It seemed to echo from one of the shipping containers. Rubbing the front of his throat, where there would undoubtedly be a mark soon, Brian moved to the source of the breathing. After unlatching the bar that kept both doors closed, he swung them open, shining his Remington inside. What was revealed distracted him from the unbearable pain in his throat, replacing it with an unmatched bout of nausea. He stood in a trance, silently observing the contents of the container, the makeshift contraption within, the source of the breathing. The abrupt, liquid coughing of the old man snapped Brian out of his hypnotic gaze. His eyes glassed over as he turned heel.
A swift kick was delivered to the old man’s side as he was struggling to push himself up from the ground. Knocking him over to his back with a thud, Brian trained the barrel of the Remington on the old man’s head.
"What's your name, you sick fuck?"
Brian barked, gritting his teeth. He was on autopilot, the words spilling out of him without much rhyme or reason.
"Strigoi…"
The old man grinned, laughing to himself. The laughing turned to violent coughing, spritzing blood around his mouth and face.
Brian took a deep breath, the beating of his heart in the back of his throat starting to slow. He looked down at the old man laid out on his back, gasping for breath between fits of coughing.
Brian pulled the trigger.
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