2010-09-14: Hostage Crisis




Supermax Detainees: Raul, Trejan, and Whit


September 14, 2010


Supermax — Colorado, USA


“We who live in prison, and in whose lives there is no event but sorrow, have to measure time by throbs of pain, and the record of bitter moments.” — Oscar Wilde

Supermax has its name for a reason; it's very very hard to get out. The Cobras had managed to get five hostages, and it's Raul's job to watch them. Well, his and his cohort's. The room itself is bleak-looking, an interview room of sorts, likely designed for lawyer-client communication. There's one door, and a single vent — about 12 feet into the ceiling, and no easy way to reach it.

The hostages are held along the back wall, as far from the door as possible — each with their hands cuffed together. "Doncha say anythin'" he insists to each in turn as he paces about the room, back and forth. "Yooou don't know anythin'. So gist stay quiet and shuddup." He nods adamantly while his arms cross over his chest, further showing the firearm on his belt. The hostages aren't going anywhere if Raul has anything to do with it.

The smell of the room has become stale thanks to the warmth and heat of the bodies present. Beads of sweat form along Raul's neck and face, he's already uncomfortable. "Gist stay seated."

His cohort on the other hand, is rather cool and collected, even though the AC hasn't been on for days. Someone, somewhere along the line cut most of the power cables that work a lot of the things in the prison, like the lights, AC, most of the power… Some of the other hostages were going to be kept in the meat cooler, but it's not cooling anything anymore, so the torture is pretty much pointless.

The jail cells have been compromised, the inmates that had declared themselves enemies of the Cobras beforehand have either been killed or have hidden themselves away. The Italians went underground as soon as the deal started. the Irish disappeared a day or two later, taking some of the hostages with them. The Skinheads are mostly dead, but their leader is missing and it's been rumored that he's been picking off his enemies one by one. Right now? It's not so good to be a Cobra.

"Keep it down, Raul, I don't want any of them bitches screamin' and gettin' us attention." T-dawg, more commonly known as Trejan Dunn, pumps his rifle once, as a warning to the other man.

Funny thing about the FBI - they teach recruits how to put bad guys /into/ prison, but don't teach the trainees how to /escape/ prison. That, or Olivia skipped Academy that day. At any rate, here she is - handcuffed, rather disheveled from earlier attempts at escaping (and lack of a shower), and just overall pissed off.

Slumping against the back wall, her gaze settles oh-so icily upon her captors as they snaps out instructions. Seeing as they're the ones with the guns, though… there's no verbal attacks on her part. The suit jacket she came in with has long been discarded, the long sleeves of her blue button up shirt rolled to her elbows. Anything to stay cool(er), really. Expressionless, she takes an idle look around the room, noting any ways in or out. Neither the door nor vent receives more than a few seconds of attention - probably as to not hint off any of the ideas running through her head to the two, armed gentlemen.

"Hey! Don't tell me what to do, bitch. I'll make 'em scream if I want to. I'll make 'em scream all night long." Raul glances from one of the women hostages to the next, his eyes greedily undressing them in his mind. He hasn't been this close to a woman in some time.

"Lookit that blonde one." He nods knowingly, but just sighs. "I'm stuck anyways. Clark wouldn't want that. He be'n leader 'n all." The tall dark skinned man sniffs loudly before running an arm under his nose and tightening his shoulders. "I got it in the bag."

Raul's childish protests are met with a narrow eyed glare from Trejan. "Shut the fuck up, mother fucker. You jus' insane if you think them screamin' is a good idea." With that, he turns his back on his companion and just stands there, at ease, watching the door.

"Blonde, that's just some white piece of shit. I'm just thinkin' about a fiiiiine piece of dark female… mm Mm MM!" Olivia doesn't get a second glance from the other guy, in fact, she's treated to a nice view of his behind as he reaches around and tucks his hand into the back of his pants to scratch. The gun? Well it's pointed at the floor as he concentrates on relieving that tick.

For a moment, Olivia looks like she might throw up. The prospect simply does not appeal to her. But it fades quickly, and she even tilts her head to give one of the other hostages a reassuring look. They wouldn't. Right? Right.

Handcuffs make a lot of things difficult. Right now, they would make it difficult to - hypothetically - beat someone up. But there are ways to get around this. Lifting both hands to scratch at the back of her neck, she also plucks a bobby pin from her hair and palms it out of sight. It works in the movies! Staving off any attempts to crack the cuffs open, for now, she briefly eyes the second gentleman and his gun. The gears turn in her head: is she close enough to kick him in the ass? Is there even the slimmest chance she could scramble to grab his gun? Possibilities…

"Ehn. Any tail s'better than none," Raul winks theatrically for extra emphasis and attention. He lowers his hands to his hips and glances back at his cohort, "Sometimes ah think Joseph doesn't know what 'e's talkin' bout. 'Is passificsm ehn. Lookit yooou. Yooou used to be someb'dy. Now? You gist a thug, man." There's a nod that accompanies the statement as he pads back towards the door to peek out the tiny window in it.

"Hey! You watch your mouth, motherfucker!" T-Dawg expounds loudly as his hand moves to his side, having satisfactorily scratched what he needed to. "Joseph is wise. You only wish you was as wise as he is!" He coughs loudly. "Who would you back up anyways? Clark? That fool don't know the difference between us and them. Look man, just sit tight." He glances back at the hostages as he shuffles towards Raul and the door.

Conveniently, as T-Dawg goes about shouting at his comrade, Olivia takes advantage of the increased volume to go about unlocking her handcuffs. Step 1: success. Shifting her wrists, she tries to make it appear as if they are still secure around her. Except they're not. Remaining where she is, there's a brief flash of hope in her eyes as it looks as if one of the two will be leaving. Having only one man to pummel would make escape exponentially easier!

No one leaves. In fact, T-Dawg just shakes his head and glowers, moving away from his buddy to the opposite corner. They certainly aren't making it easy to take them both out. In fact, the door opens with a creak. Enter Cobra number three: Whit. He's taller than the other. Broader shouldered, and all around more muscular. While others might be reading or scratching the walls to pass the time, he does pull ups from the bars in the ceiling. In short: he's ripped and won't be easy to take down. "Ya gooouns dun gud s'far." The words are slightly condescending, but there are no retorts in response, especially as the larger man leans against hte back wall.

T-Dawg just crosses his arms over his chest and rolls his eyes. "How many thugs does it take to watch some hostages.

Raul glances at T-Dawg then Whit. "Heh. T'ree 'corrding tah Clark…"

Well. Opportunity missed. Olivia curses herself inwardly, head shaking slightly but no words escape her lips. The third, bigger man's presence leaves her seated against the wall in an even stiffer position than she had been. The option of 'kick one in the ass and hope you get lucky' has promptly flown out the tiny window. As much as she'd like to get out sooner than later, she's patient - patient enough to wait for an opportunity that won't result in her death.

It took them a bit of time to scope out the room that the hostages were in. The initial surveillance was done via the vents, to determine how many hostages and where they were located and how they were restrained. At the time, there were only two men, but a quick duck of the head and the counting of distinct voices from the hallway parallel to the room brings them the realization that there are three. It is of little matter to their plan, it means that they may try to lure two out at one time and take care of them as quietly as possible before determine the best way to have a go at the third.

Normally the last thing in the world Rivka would ever do is trust the likes of Vasha Kruger with so much as a teacup (death by teacup is an ugly thing), much less the rifle that she's carrying. For her part, Rivka has the sidearm she'd liberated from a dead guard, carefully concealed now at the small of her back and well hidden by her jacket. The irony of all this is that while the idea of drawing them out was Vasha's, the suggestion as to how came from Rivka. God help her.

"You gave me your word. Don't make me regret it." Rivka growls as she puts her hands up behind her head and waits for Vasha to indicate she should move forward. Rivka's playing possum, the bait that Vasha has hooked in order to lure out the little fishies.

Along the way, the two had counted another couple of dozen dead inmates. Vasha's been keeping a fairly good mental tally of how many left they might have to shoot through to get out of the prison. While she is unconcerned about the hostages, Rivka seemed a little more eager to free the lawful ones than the lawless one she's inadvertently partnered up with.

"I gave you my word, you have nothing to fear aside from the men in that room." The South African woman's voice is calm and collected, she's barely paying any attention to the woman in front of her except to keep her moving. Most of it is divided between pulling her jumpsuit back on properly and making sure she looks less likely to kill them as she feels.

Peering down the hallway to the left and to the right, she keeps her rifle loosely trained on the Israeli. With one nod, she bids her to remain around the corner while she kicks the door with one foot. Then she's behind Rivka with one arm wrapped around her neck and shoulders. "We have a new plan. The hallways will echo, but the rooms are soundproof… We get into the room, close the door, and shoot everyone that is not seated."

T-Dawg is getting restless. He shuffles back towards the hostages and closer to Olivia. He peers down from one hostage to the other. With a heavy sigh he glances between each. Why do all three of them need to be here? Joseph never made him do this kind of crap.

Whit just stands there, looking menacing, even as his comrade paces, he acts almost like a genie in the room with the stance and presence to match. HIs throat clears once as his eyebrows furrow, "We should kill 'em all."

"Not 'till Clark gives the word," Raul states back. "Stay calm, friend. I still think I should make one of 'em scream… all night long…" his smile turns wicked.

It seems there will be no really blatantly convenient opportunity to escape. And time is running out. Olivia notes T-Dawg coming closer but doesn't look up - not yet. Her head is bowed a little, gaze briefly shifting around to check where all three men are located in the room by eyeing their shoes. Satisfied the other two are far enough away not to immediately pummel her to death, the blonde finally takes action. There's no way she's about to sit around and wait to be shot in the head.

It's swift and sudden, but the FBI agent promptly tosses the cuffs aside. As she rises quickly to her feet, she attempts to both kick T-Dawg where it will hurt immensely, and simultaneously grab his gun to (sort-of) even out the playing field. It's days like these where she's glad she's been wearing a bulletproof vest for however many days now.

As this scuffle is going on, Rivka is being advanced forward with her hands at the back of her neck under the subterfuge that she is Vasha's prisoner. Point for them: there doesn't seem to be anybody in the hallway, and so when they approach the door, sounds of muffled action make Rivka look briefly over her shoulder at Vasha. "Might want to change the plan." she admits, and starts to reach down and back for her own gun. If they're dealing with someone making trouble in there (and Rivka would put her bet on the American blonde), they'll likely be so distracted by it that if and when any of them exit, they likely won't be expecting guns to their faces in that very instant.

The sounds of the scuffle cause the warlord to pause for a brief moment. "It must be one of the hostages, the Cobras would shoot first." Spoken with the emotional detachment of someone who is merely watching the game instead of controlling it. A brief flick of her eyes at the back of Rivka's head is really all the time Vasha needs to make her decision. "Gun out, we shoot anything black and wearing orange. The rest will be hostages." As long as the inmates didn't exchange clothing, which might make things a little more difficult.

Without waiting for Rivka to give any sort of signal, Vasha is on one side of the door with her muzzle pointed in the air. In the next moment she's pulled the door open and is training her gun on the first standing black man she sees. It's quite possible that she might get shot before she kills whoever it is on the other end, but there's unarmed hostages that seem a little important to the agent. If she's going to barter for freedom later, she'll need a better bargaining chip than just watching the Jewish woman's back.

The surprise of Olivia's movement does its work, T-Dawg is easily caught off-guard as a firm kick his delivered to his manhood. He doubles over in pain, easily overtaken by the small blonde woman, a pathetic noise somewhere in between a whimper and a scoff emits from his throat. But as he goes down, the other thugs are on Olivia like dirty shirts, drawing their guns. Raul yells, "Back off woman!" He aims towards her, but before he can pull the trigger. BANG He collapses to the ground, a single bullet lodged in his brain from Vasha's gun.

Yet even with their aggression, T-Dawg's gun is easily taken by Olivia, removed from his belt line as he writhes in pain.

Success! Mostly thanks to the help of the new arrivals. Had they not arrived just in the nick of time, the FBI agent would probably be dead now. Olivia, a little surprised that her attempt worked (so far), promptly levels her newly acquired gun toward the third Cobra. Of /course/ it's the big one that's left. "Don't move or you'll end up just like your pal," she states crisply, tilting her head ever so slightly from Whit to the fallen Raul. Vasha is eyed a little warily - on one hand, the woman pretty much just saved her life. On the other, she's wearing orange. The clearly more pressing issue, however, is her former captor - so the gun stays pointed at him, finger on the trigger and ready to shoot at a moment's notice.

"Really?" With the expertise of the detached, Rivka steps inside, but rather than walking on a straight path in, she steps at a diagonal, the motion of pulling out her sidearm and bringing it up to aim and fire utterly fluid. "You're practically as bad as a fucking German, Kruger. Stop talking to me like I'm one of your kusemek underlings." The bullet fired is almost irritatingly discharged, straight to the heart rather than the head. Shots to the head are for show-offs (I'm looking at YOU, Vasha!) and the heart will do quite nicely. As her target drops, Rivka gestures with her free hand in the expansive, gesticulating way of many Mediterranean people. "Really, you think Hashem comes down from on high to kiss your pretty pink toenails?" There is something bizarrely comedic about the grumpy air of the Israeli woman, like all the violence is an afterthought.

Rolling her eyes, Vasha releases the trigger of her rifle and flicks it quickly by the pump to unload the old cartridge and replace it with a fresh one. "Please spare me the comments, I would rather leave this place alive than …" Instead of finishing the comment, she glances down at the bodies with a smile. Giving a pointed look at Raul, the smile only expands as she levels the gun at his head and pulls the trigger.


"There, now we do not have to watch our backs." Hopefully, none of the downed man's brain goo got on any of the hostages. Though the warlord isn't too worried about it if it did. "Now, we need to leave this place." Turning her sharp eyes to the other hostages, she bypasses Olivia due to her unfamiliarity. "How many more are there? Or are you the only ones?"

"I'm so glad you're alright," is directed toward Rivka, a breath of relief escaping the blonde once the Cobras are taken care of. Still clutching the gun (because you never know, after all) Olivia takes a step further away from the now-definitely-dead men on the ground. She's already a mess - it wouldn't do to have blood on her shoes to top it all off. "This is it as far as I know. Shots from earlier would indicate as much, anyway," she adds a little bit more quietly with a glare toward the door.

"And you." Rivka says to Olivia not unkindly, before regarding Vasha in a bemused fashion. "Fucking krauts." she says without any real venom. "Getting in is easy." She holsters the sidearm and upgrades to one of the prisoner rifles, which she idly examines the clip for before snapping it back in place. "Getting in is only slightly less complex than getting out. I would be greatly surprised if someone hasn't seized the control room, but it is the only place one can reach the outside world from, and I would imagine has access to all of the prison's electrically controlled systems. Including the doors." She regards the two women. "Unless either of you has exciting ideas involving garbage chutes or cakes with keys in them?"

"The power has been cut off to the cell doors. I would find it highly illigocal for the power grid to be working along the outside. Although…" The orange clad woman rubs at her chin with one hand while looking at the other prisoners and eying each one in turn. Some of them are strangers, a couple of them are familiar.

Her gaze quickly flickers to Rivka and then Olivia and she gives them each a small smile. "I do not suppose either of you are opposed to carrying some body parts to test the fence with? Though, the first obstacle will be getting to the courtyard without any of the Cobras spotting us. They might be in the towers."

There's quickly a grimace from Olivia - ew. Just the thought of tossing limbs toward a potentially shocking fence makes her cringe. Her gaze drifts down toward one of the already deceased men on the floor, though, nose wrinkled. "Better them than us," she murmurs in at least quasi-agreement. "I just want to get out, at this rate," is muttered finally, determinedly. "I left my carrot cake smuggling a nail file back at home. Next time." There's a bit of a smile for Rivka. Gun at the ready, she nods toward the door the two women came out of - since there's no way out from the room they're already in. "Let's go."

"Are you?" Rivka replies, to the tune of I Am Not Your Fucking Valet in the key of Do It Your Damn Self. "If they actually put both the internal and external power on the same routers, I would be quite surprised. That's a very foolish thing to do. Then again," she looks almost apologetic toward Olivia as she notes very dryly, "We are in America. There are lots of ways to check the fences that don't involve throwing human chunks at them."

"Perhaps there is… but it isn't as enjoyable."


thwp thwp thwp thwp thwp

The blades of the helicopter move it in an almost silent pattern around the yard. Two hours after ten men have been dropped off and almost on the marker for the pickup. If they weren't out in the yard, they're to be presumed dead until otherwise notified. They're not there.


It's been a long and hard fight for Hubert and his mercenaries. Even though they're equipped well enough to take down a fortress full of enemy combatants armed to the teeth, they're not in a regular situation. The men they are fighting are desperate, with absolutely nothing to lose.

From the moment they landed and the first taste of the guerrilla warfare they faced, Hubert knew that non-lethal ammo just isn't enough. The inmates are nothing better than rabid animals, some of them even cannibals, and the sheer numbers compares to his men? Three teams of three just wasn't enough.

The first team, the one securing the towers, lost its first man from a drop. The second man was lost much the same way, except he hit the barbed wire on the way down. The last one, he's still out there… somewhere. No one's found him yet.

The second team was placed on the opposite wing from Hubert and his. They were overpowered fairly quickly by a few larger inmates. One is locked in the hole, another is hanging from a hook in the meat locker, and the last is in the hallway with a shiv in his neck.

Interview Room 4A

Though the rooms are pretty much soundproof, about ten minutes ago he and the three men he's got left heard something through the ventilation system. Gunshots. Two in quick succession and one lone one. Then it stopped. They sounded pretty close by, maybe a room, maybe two.

Perhaps armor piercing ammunition and a whole bloody army would have been a better choice. But still, the authorities saw fit to want to avoid a scandal. So, he had went in light and prayed that it was enough. The fact is, when you spend most of your wars fighting across jungles and deserts and cityscapes and plan things in the span of months and years, quick and dirty sieges are usually the sort of thing you want to avoid. Down to three men, he looks at the others and back down at his rifle. The door is tapped several times, it is opened with all three of them entering with guns drawn. They don't fire yet, but remain at the ready. Its just going to be a bad day.

"Sorry boys." Hubert utters in that morose southern drawl. "Next time, we say to hell with what the civs want and roll it over with tanks like we did in the old country." Which old country is deliberately left out, but they all nod as if they understand which one. "When we get out of this, call Esther and do tell her next time screw what the state wants. I don't fight wars on home ground for precisely this reason." He grouses slowly. They wait, seeing if what is in the ducts will come closer. Its probably not harmful, even crazed inmates would be too confident to wander around in the ducts. Still, one man has his gun out and Hubert has his left hand on his grenade belt. Just in case. The prisoners may be desperate, but Hubert had fought across the world for fifteen years and he was finally taking the gloves of. Time to make some magic.

While the room the mercenaries are in is empty, the room next door to their is not. Supermax is supposed to be a state-of-the-art prison, designed to keep its residents in and maximize control over their movement. And that's why it's got a fully crawlable ventilation system! Insert architect's facepalm here.

But anyway, the point here is that these workin' men are able to hear, in a few moments of silence, the sound of voices coming from the room next door through the vent. Women's voices. One South African - possibly mistaken for Germanic, and one Mediterranean.

" — can you see? She should be back any moment now, but I didn't hear any gunfire." the latter voice is saying.

"They do not always use guns, or has your week already been forgotten with the promise of freedom? We should go, now. I will see you to the main doors, then I will come back and look for her." The first voice, definitely South African, sounds calm and collected.

The sounds of shuffling can be heard over head as the newly freed hostages and their two liberators climb into the vent. Through the walls and into the ceiling, over Hubert's head, they slide through the ducts at a snail pace.

"Ssshh… there's someone down there…" The whispered voice sounds fairly loud to the men below, who have their ears trained on it. It's the South African again… Along with a small collective of quiet male voices. "Is it them?" and "More convicts?" and "Let's just go back, we can hide…"

"Sssh.. they can hear us, quickly, back the way we came." Then a silent click.

He waits for the voices to come closer. Hubert looks up and his eyes narrow. "I know you aren't convicts and neither are we. You can either join up with us or go back the way we came. Either way, once we get out this place is going to get a thorough cleansing. The foundation will be here but anything made of meat might not be." Yeah, Hubert is calm, dead calm about it but he's pissed. He had thought at least some of these poor sinners were worth saving, not that they were Cannibal Inmates from Hell. "Headshots, strip the bodies of anything useful. Let God sort it out." Oh yeah, he's resorting to that. Rubber bullets hurt a hell of a lot, and to the face it acts like anything else penetrating the face. The gas well, thats just gravy.

Seriously? When Hubert offers a join up in one sentence and then remarks to his buddies to shoot everyone (context be damned), there is silence from the vent. Then, up speaks the Mediterrenan of the two female voices:

"Are you really such a ben zonah that you think you can convince us to come out in one breath and then tell your people to shoot anyone you come across?" With emphasis, "Fuck that."

There is further sound then, that of movement retreating back the way the sounds had originally come.

Vasha is the last to snake out of the vicinity. Slithering backward, she touches one of the guards with her bare foot at odd intervals to make certain that she's still on the same path as the rest. Once the vent leading to their immediate threat's room is out of sight, that is when she turns around to crawl after them.

She and Rivka have been in an uneasy partnership for days. It's come to the point where the South African, perhaps unwisely, trusts the Israeli with her life. That is, as far as it takes to get her to the main gates. It's been at least an hour since the kills in the interview room, it won't be long before more of the Cobras make their way up to check on the status of their appointed guards. Time is now of the essence.

He doesn't speak Yiddish, but some things are just made easier by context. "They told us to pacify the place, not to purge it. Those orders aren't regarding you." Really, would he be so stupid as to give the order openly? God, it just seems to be a day for stupidity on all sides today. The guns are held down, Hubert looking up as he adjusts his cap. "Look. You want to go your own way fine. But this is going to get nasty a lot quicker than you can get out I will wager and even if its nonlethal ammo we still have sufficient firepower to get ourselves the hell out of here, especially if you are armed. Unless someone else in the prison shoots that well?" The tactician asks rhetorically. Where were the glory days when you needed them, where you could charm people and lead epic raids and things just settled into place? Fuck that indeed.

Hebrew, not Yiddish. Oy vey!

They're already moving as Hubert speaks, and gone by the end of it. Zigged instead of zagged (because unexpected tear gassing is oddly…expected) and came out in a new room. There is quiet conversation, a quick sketch of the area, and a quiet, careful plan of movement. There's an out, and they know that now, because someone had to arrange for the mercenaries to get in. Even if it's by helicopter drop.

If nothing else, they can get out there and collectively surrender or some such nonsense, though Rivka knows that Kruger has something up her sleeve, or is working it up bit by bit. You don't become a warlord by being nice, especially when you have ovaries. But she is banking on Kruger not to stab her in the back. Rivka might just be looking the other way at an opportune moment in the future.

After all, Vasha is America's problem, not Israel's.