my unnamed tale, ch. 2

kold_as_ice92

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The cargo-plane slowly screams into the North as the co-pilot has shakey fingers clutching the steering-handle. Just the thought of his friend and co-worker being only a pale, lifeless corpse beside him twists his red intestines like a soft pretzel. However, his thoughts are quickly deterred due to the silencer of a pistol pressing against his temple. His lip quivering, the man makes slightly angled turns towards some flat mountains in Canada. He realizes that his life will come to a sudden stop when a bullet thrusts into his scalp and punctures his brain, which will form a spider-web of blood and brain-matter on the plane's interior. His grip tightens as the end draws nearer every millimeter the plane travels.

"Drop the gun, Kurtzman!" a man says as he stands up in the back and raises his 9mm pistol. The killer turns his head and his eyes widen like golf balls at the Driving Range. The black-haired hero gives a volatile stare at the balding-fiend as he says "Now. Drop it or I drop YOU." "A very brave man you are indeed, Mr.......Collins?" He removes the gun from the co-pilot's head as he aims it towards the other man, forming a sinister grin. "YOU drop it, Mr Collins. Please--do us all a favor and sit back down. There flack jacket only covers your torso, remember?" Another member of the squad keeps his side with the balding assasin and stands up, placing the barrel of his MP5 3 inches from the other man's ear. "Make ONE move, pretty boy, and 8 different pounds of led are going to pierce your noodle. Your choice: option A--sit down or option B--you will be shot on sight." Sweat running down the head of the under-cover man, he makes a choice--option C. He ducks to a knee and a foot and pulls a knife from the sheath on his thigh as his swiftly makes a deep-cut right-up the MP5 holder's thigh and stomach. The assailant writhes in pain as he fires his automatic death-machine with one hand, puncturing the roof of the plane. He clutches his stomach, trying to keep his seperated halves of skin together. Collins falls to his back and throws the knife into Kurtzman's right bicep. 2 of Collins' bullets flare from the barrel of his 9mm pistol and into the throat of another crew-member. He then sweeps his black, leather right-boot across the feet of the criminal with a wound running-up his body. The man falls down and slams his back to the tough floor, screaming from the immense pain which tingles across his body like blazing flames of a forest-fire.

The co-pilot takes his chances and steers his plane on a hard-left. 9 other criminals flop across the cabin as Mr Kurtzman knocks the pilot over the head with the butt of his silenced 9mm pistol. Gibb collapses onto the panel as the plane begins to descend towards the snowy, white mountains of the Great White North. One of the other fiends riding the cargo-plane is the Britishman Jeremy Bellhorn, a well-known criminal from Liverpool, England. He sleek blonde hair with the SuperMan-esque spit curl pulls the ever-menacing fashion that he knows his business and does it well. He walks towards Collins, whom they know is a "traitor." Smelling the fresh, snowy air in the highs of Canada, he makes a steady pace for Collins as he removes a knife from the sheath on his bullet-proof vest. With the glimmering knife that could hardly be any more similar to the blade used by Rambo in the film First Blood, his arm raises in the means of stabbing preparation. "BRACE YOURSELF FOR ONE HECK OF A CRASH-LANDING!" Kurtzman says, as he grasps a steel bar for dear-life.

The plane's altitude rapidly drops. Jeremy Bellhorn trips a bit and forms a faster pace down the hall of the cargo-plane. Collins shifts his pupils to the back of the plane as the blonde-haired fiend readies his knife for a supreme killing. He runs at Collins and swoops his knife, cutting the whispy air. Collins rolls past Bellhorn and makes a fatal slash of his knife, missing the criminal by 4 inches. Bellhorn swiftly makes a 360-degree turn on the floor and makes more attempts to pierce the flesh of Mr Collins. And so ensues a knife-fight, all with knives making quick-but-mindless swipes across the wind.

"GRAB SOMETHING! NOW!!" Kurtzman barks as the airplane draws closer to the snow-capped mountain. With their trains of thought on the same track, Collins and Bellhorn obey the order in a smart-alec manner and grip each-other's necks, their free arms blocking each-other's stainless-steel blades of peril. Other members of the squad nod and hold onto the nearest, tightest object they can lay their eyes on. Heading back to a quarter of the tale we left several paragraphs ago, the man with a slash up his body lays sideways on the floor of the plane as he witnesses the crimson liquids flow from his deep wound. Grunting, he makes an attempt to grab onto a bar of a seat bolted to the floor. However, he is not quick enough. The Plane crashes into the snowy mountain and slides across the top of it. Fresh, powdery snow is plowed yards upon yards away. The massive impact sends the wounded criminal soaring out the windshield sideways. His back shatters the glass in and instant and he slams into the ice-cold surface outside of the money-plane. Sure to us that he is now beyond the realm of life, we venture back into the plane. Collins and Bellhorn pummel on the floor and Kurtzman smashes into the control panel, knocking him out cold. The plane slows to a stop, nearly crushing the corpse which lies outside of the cargo-plane. Everybody within the ship is in great pain and sprawled out across the floor like used ragdolls on a Christmas morning. The least paralyzed of the group stands a 5' 9" man that goes by the name Brian O'Brien. He limps over to the pained-body of Tom Collins, the undercover man who made a somewhat-failed attempt to stop world-wide criminal Vincent Kurtzman's big-time operation of robbing an airplane filled with 12 other henchmen that he claims "belong" to him.


CHAPTER NOT DONE YET
 
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