6. Sanctuary!

May 2020 BCE
Dallas, TX USA

Josh sunk back into the warmth and repose of his deep brown office chair. It was the one comfort he had insisted upon and it certainly seemed out of place in his moderate, Spartan office.
The room was a narrow rectangle with the door at one end and Josh's desk at the other. A few dingy filing cabinets rested atop the 25 year old grey tiles which contrasted the freshly painted brick walls. The off-white walls boasted only of a few handwritten letters, cheapily framed, yet carefully hung. All in all, the shabby office seemed a carefully concocted ruse which existed to belie the millions that the church received and redistributed.  He couldn't read them from here, but the framed letters  he had all but memorized.  "The Most Reverend Joshua R. Brown, Bishop of Dallas, and the New Hope Catholic Church,  Thank you for your donation.  Your continued support..."
There were several from orphanages and a variety of other non-profit organizations, but they all echoed the same sentiments.  It was those letters that had inspired him to keep pressing on despite the usual drama and paperwork involved in the upkeep of a church.
Josh gave a deep sigh as he sat upright and began combing through the litany of documents that covered his desk.  His phone gave a familiar chirp and Josh looked to see his newly arrived emails.  They were mostly spam per usual, some notifications from Amazon.com,  a monthly meeting reminder from Opus Dei, and-
Josh could hardly believe it. After 4 years of nothing but silence, there was a personal message from Paul.

"Josh, if you are receiving this message, something has gone wrong with my most recent operation. I always leave a email pending and remove it it when i get back. I will have been missing 2 weeks since my scheduled operation date, i've included the gps coordinates and all the details regarding what i was doing with this email. The security on this email should take at least 9 months for any team of experts to crack. (Remind me to thank your brother for his help with that).

Thank you,

Paul"

Josh sat in his chair, letting the words wash over him one more time. He hadn't seen Paul since... Manitoba. Well, Brent would want to know. Realistically,  Josh would need Brent's help to unravel what had happened.
He dialed Brent's number and skimmed over the email one more time. Where were those coordinates pointing to? Need to look that up on google, Josh thought as the ringing stopped and a familiar voice said hello.
"Brent, this is Josh, do you have a minute?"
"Anything for you, your imminent popeliness. Another orphanage on the brink of financial ruin?"
"No. Unfortunately i've got something much more urgent and important. It's Paul. He's contacted me. I can't discuss this over the phone."
"Wow. That's a bit surprising.  Okay. Let me make arrangements with my pilot. I can probably meet with you in about 5 hours."
"Sounds perfect. Meet me at 7 pm at White Rock Café."
"Sure thing, your sanctimonious holiness."
Josh chuckled to himself as he hung up the phone. All these ridiculous titles. It might be a while before he laughed like that again. For someone to have gotten to Paul, it would've taken an enormous amount of manpower and would've been a extremely costly venture... this would be a grim search indeed.

5. I'm From the Government and I'm Here to Help

Paul slid to a stop just outside the ruined gate and grabbed his MP5 SMG. Now this is where the real fun would start. Making sure he had all of his additional ammo mags, Paul headed in, keeping his head down low, even though the smoke screen was still in full effect.  He could hear muffled voices coming from the main entrance, definitely not his first choice for a main assault, but it would do well as a distraction. Paul grabbed two grenades letting the first fly towards the closed door. The explosion was greeted with a chorus of shouts. He paused briefly to avoid the rain of debris before throwing his second explosive through the doorway. He didn't have time to watch the reign of terror, however, seeing as he was hurriedly sneaking towards the side entrance. His target, prince Mohammed Abdul-Karim Bin Al-Rahman would be anxious to leave before he arrived, so every second was critical.
"Ali Baba." Paul mused with a grim smile. It was a lot easier to remember, although something like that would've earned him an overnight visit to jail in the states. Welcome to Bernie's America. Thankfully for Paul, it didn't matter which party was "in power" because the oil industry had remained lucrative and being a Saudi prince was still perilous.
It only took a few bullets and a couple kicks to gain entrance. Two surprised guards stood behind the door, obviously expecting an attack from where the explosions had been. He sunk fourteen bullets into each of them before he remembered to switch back to semi-auto. A vast hallway lay before him. Up to the left was a marble staircase complete with gold trim. He approached the staircase warily constantly checking his surroundings.  He made his way up the staircase without a sound, sights aimed above daring anyone to come forward. The upstairs was almost identical to it's lower counterpart. Large mirrors with extravagant borders, displays with valuable heirlooms, a showy display of wealth for the neighbors, no doubt.
Paul's gaze found it's way to a single doorway shimmering in soft light. No doubt, this would lead him to Ali.
Peering around the corner, he could see three armed guards and a tense looking sheik packing as quickly as he could.
Paul flicked his SMG back to full auto and walked in, gun blazing like a mobile fireworks display.
Four bodies hit the rich carpeting and Paul walked forward, camera in hand. Here was the 1.2 million dollar evidence.  He had used more equipment than usual, but even so, this would be quite a haul. 
His calculations were interupted by an ominous and repetive thump, slowly growing louder.
Those weren't just any helicopters, thought Paul. He recognized that familiar rhythym, the nuances of the intonation. If the American government had just gotten involved things were about to turn ugly.

4. Blood money part 2

Three shots resounded in rapid succession with a mere second between them. His speed with a bolt action rifle seemed beyond human, but it really reflected his weeks of practice, years of experience,  and hundreds of thousands of bullets expent. The perimeter guards already had their guns in the air nervously waiting for any movement to betray their attacker.
"Not today," Paul muttered as their bodies hit the ground. He hurriedly grabbed his Javelin 148, targeted the gate and initiated launch.  He left the CLU on the ground, determined to pick it up at the end of his mission.
As he ignited the fuzes on his mortars, he heard the blast of his missile hitting it's target.  Paul dashed to the awaiting dirtbike. It was 600 yards to the compound, but he was going to have to make it down these switchbacks first.
The first mortar fired and Paul checked his watch. It was 60 seconds early. But he knew he had used a 2 minute fuze. "Piece of Chinese Garbage!" Paul muttered darkly, already plotting revenge on that two-faced, Estonian arms dealer.
There was no longer time to take the switch backs. Thankfully, there were hardly any trees or shrubbery to speak of, but this steep incline was littered with rocks of all sizes.  With the throttle wide open, the bike lurched forward careening wildly toward the approaching drop off. A feeling of weightlessness overtook Paul as he flew through the air. The bike gave a harsh groan as he landed where he quickly swerved leaving mere inches between him and a rather large boulder.  With the worst behind him, he knew that he was back on schedule. The first three mortars had fired. He could see the smoke screen rising from three different areas just past the mangled remains of the entry gate.  The last one would hit a couple minutes later, but this time it would be an HE round to take care of any guards who were feeling particularly brave.  As the last mortar bomb arced through the air the scene was picturesque. Death rode a dirtbike while the sand trailed behind him, twinkling crimson in the setting sun.

3. Blood Money

May 2020 BCE

Southern Iran

Three guards on the rooftop.
Two walking inside the fenced in perimeter.  The 10 foot concrete wall was adorned with 2 rows of circular barbed wire.  It was a testament to the value of the prize within. 
Paul had scoped this place for a week tracking shipments, counting personel, and writing down daily movement schedules, especially the changing of the guards. There were 27 in total, but the barracks were inside the compound so he hadn't been able to definitively track their sleep schedule. 
The level of security was hardly unexpected, he had known this would be a tough assignment from the start. Nobody offers a 1.2 million dollar bounty for an easy job, but Paul wasn't in the habit of taking easy jobs anyways.  If he had wanted the easy cash, he would have stayed with the U.S. Navy in DEVGRU, but where was gut wrenching thrill in knowing that your teammate would always have your back? Not to mention having to cover for their less than perfect planning and reactions. No, it was much better riding solo, and that's exactly what he intended to do. 
Paul's breathing slowed and he put the rooftop guard in his sights. There were three of them, but only one was close to the wooden rooftop door.  Running through the motions, he put each one in his sights. 1, 2, and 3, then the two perimeter guards and last up, anyone who was foolish enough to check the window.
"Here goes nothing", Paul thought in mental preperation.
His breathing stopped altogether and he squeezed the trigger.

2. The Fantastic Flashback

15 years earlier.
2021 BCE
Dale City, Virginia, USA

"Brent Redman, come to office seven-B please. Brent Redman to office seven-B.", the intercom crackled.
Brent took a moment to arrange his materials and test tubes before he headed down the hallway. He didn't need to look up to know that his coworkers were staring at him with curiousity. They had good reason to be puzzled. Most of the lab technicians had only seen the office the day that they were hired, but this was the fifth time he had been called up this month.
Brent wasn't about to fill them in. Ever since he began working for the Health Research Initiative seven months ago, he only had one aim: he wanted to work on project Deadpan.

The HRI office would have been better labeled as the office conglomerate. Although there was a large room with the usual bland decoration, it was the twenty smaller rooms attached to the main office where the true business of HRI was enacted. Each door had an alpha-numeric delegation pasted on top of the cheap cloudy covers with which both of the full size windows had been accosted.
This was mostly likely done under the guise of protecting their clients privacy, but there was more than one source who claimed that HRI had plenty to hide as well. 

The office door opened with ease and Brent quickly crossed the nearly vacant room to office 7B. Inside sat a heavy set man whose face seemed set in a permanent scowl. "Take a seat, Redman!", he barked. Brent slid into his seat and crossed his arms non-chalantly. He had expected this to be somewhat unpleasant. Even though the name badge on the desk read "Senior Resource Coordinator", Charles Mertle wasn't the top dog in this department, not by a longshot.

"Well, I suppose you're pretty pleased with yourself."

"What do you mean?", Brent replied innocently.

"Cut the crap, Redman! I know you submitted your transfer request to Mr. Pless! I already denied your request 3 different times. You just don't have the tenure to make that kind of move!"

"While my experience with HRI has been limited, I think you'll find my qualifications to be in line with what the experimental weaponry division is looking for."

"That's hardly the point. You need to wait your turn like everybody else! Stop trying to make me look incompetent!"

"I'm merely trying to help HRI put good use to my many talents. That includes removing any obstacles that keep me from doing so. If you're afraid of looking incompetent I suggest you do the job you're paid to do instead of looking to continue this pseudo hazing, sadistic ritual of holding back talent until you feel like it."

Charles' face flushed with anger. It was probably the first time he had experienced such blunt words from someone he considered to be beneath him. Brent didn't care in the least. If he was going to get to where he needed to be, the feelings of a middle level manager were hardly a concern.  Charles had been rude and controlling from day one. If Brent was honest with himself he would admit that he was enjoying this bit of well earned revenge.

"YOU NEED MY RECOMMENDATION TO MOVE ANYWHERE YOU INSIGNIFICANT DINGBAT!", raged Charles, his voice near it's max.

"Oh dear", Brent said, oozing with sarcasm as he pulled out two letters.  "I guess this letter of recommendation from Mr. Chris Pless pales in significance to your own. You'll find a letter of acceptance from the head of the experimental weapons division as well. Apparently he didn't realize he was supposed to wait for your divine holiness' stamp of approval."

Charles snatched the letters from his hand and quietly looked them over.
"Get out." He said with a strange mix of menace and exasperation.
"It was a pleasure working with you." Brent said with an insincere smile.
"Now!"

Brent meandered back down the hallway. That had been rather fun. More than he'd had in the past few months. It was truly the little things that made life so enjoyable, He surmised.

He was transferred at the start of his shift first thing in the morning.

1. The Boring Beginning

2036 BCE
Dournazac, France

Lightning cracked with a bright white fury. It had been raining for hours, but this was the first time Brent had noticed it. He gazed around his room with sleepy eyes, that weren't looking for anything in particular.  Not that he could see much in the nearly pitch black room. His eyes shifted over to his clock.  The sharp green numbers stood out in contrast to the surrounding darkness.  4:57 AM. It was almost time for his morning to begin. The storm outside picked up intensity as it whipped against the walls of his chateau.

The door to his private bedroom opened and in strode Brent's personal assistant and bodyguard.  The Daknor turned the lights on as he entered, revealing his humanoid form covered in translucent grey exoskeleton.
"It's already 5:00, is it Paul?", Brent asked rhetorically.
"Yes, master Brent, breakfast will be served in the tertiary dining hall."
"Alright,  I shall be down shortly."

As he dressed, Brent went through yesterday's activities and and began to prepare for the onslaught that the new day would bring.  There was a food shortage in the south Asia  region, and the idiot governor had insisted he make a personal visit to quell the discontent which had taken hold of the people rather quickly.  His visit had been short, but he had seen the rebellion in their eyes quickly fade to fear as Paul had ripped through the governor's flesh with his outer bone. Two birds with one stone, but now he had to find someone else to replace him. Brent sighed heavily. He hadn't imagined that conquering the planet would lead to such a tedious maintenance of his regime. He almost regretted it. Almost, He chuckled as he made his way down to the 3rd story of his French castle.