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IzurichA Collab between Jeddaven and CaptainBritton
Mexico City, Sección Bosque de Chapultepec
A small, unassuming white Ford van rolled down the Avenida Constituyentes, the words "Le Bec-Fin" emblazoned in extravagant cursive across its sides. The streets weren't empty at this hour of night - but there were clear enough for the van to proceed smoothly toward its destination, smoothly turning off into a small road leading into the Parque La Hormiga, following its chosen path west toward the presidential palace - Los Pinos.
For a minute, perhaps a little more, it proceeded undisturbed beneath the cover of trees, watchful sentries gazing at it as it passed by their posts. A handful didn't bother to turn and look, simply glancing the van's way, hands on their rifles.
Eventually, though, the van was forced to come to a stop in front of a large, patina-covered gate, a tan-skinned man leaning out of the driver's side window as the vehicle slowed.
The guard box was a few meters away, and a shorter man in a camouflage uniform stepped out, adjusting his black beret and pulling it snug on his head.
"Hola." He mumbled as he reached the driver's side window, craning his neck over to read the text on the van's exterior. "You the catering?"
"We are." He said, gesturing to the large woman sitting next to him, her long black hair tied into a tight bun behind her head. "There are five of us in total. The other three are in the back."
"Ay, sí." He eyed down the woman in the passenger seat particularly, breaking eye contact begrudgingly, waving them on. "Avanzar, have a good one."
The oxidized copper gate parted without input.
And the van, of course, proceeded, moving along at a crawling pace. Diaz glanced sideways at First Lt. Caldeira, but no words passed between them. Only silence.
The roundabout in front of the palace was lined with meticulously trimmed hedges, accented by ornate lamp posts which lined the stairwell. A side path labeled 'SOLO SERVICIO' - service only - snaked off to the right towards a loading dock. They were directed onto it, and found themselves parked at a service ramp manned by a single uniformed guard.
"Hey, uh - sir, I mean - we're the caterers. Is this where we go inside?"
"Sí, door leads to the kitchen, there's a lift inside for you and the goods." Christ, this kid couldn't have been nineteen. He was a baby-faced guard wearing the insignia of the Mexican Army.
Enéas nodded, popping open the door as he stepped out of the van. Out from the rear came three more people, each wheeling out a large, tablecloth-covered metal cart - one more woman, far more lithe than the giant, two tan-skinned men, and one with a distinctly fair complexion.
"Alright - we'll just be headed inside. Watch the van and we'll see if we can get you some leftovers, eh?" Enéas joked, leading his fellow staff up the ramp.
"Sí, sí." The guard grinned, helping to hold the door.
Directly inside was a room of solid white. The floor was a reflective marble, shined to perfection and matched with textured pillars of Roman style bordering a marble staircase with brass-inlaid stairs. On their right, a metal swing door was already held open by a woman in a server's dress clothes. A lit sign was suspended above the door labeled in both Spanish and English: 'COCINA / KITCHEN'.
Entry into said kitchen showed yet more white, but instead made of grout tile and reflective metal surfaces. The service lift in question sat on the far side of the room, manual door already open and waiting.
Toward the lift they went, making idle chatter about how nervous they were, how they hoped the President would like the food they prepared - they hadn't much time to rehearse, but they had enough for whoever was watching them, hopefully. Then, the moment they filed into the lift and closed the door - nervous, jittery silence.
All rehearsed, all acted out in an elaborate display.
The lift ascended slowly, delicately before coming to a stop with a thump. The door would be opened to reveal an opulent hallway, floored with polished hardwood and buttressed with brass arches. The floor plan indicated the dining room was just down the hall, which was corroborated by a soldier in an ornate formal uniform standing at parade rest outside the indicated door.
One by one, the covered carts wheeled down the hallway, Enéas at the front of the line and Caldeira at the rear. Not one of the five dared speak until they finally reached the door, and Enéas finally spoke up. "Excuse me - may we enter? We've brought a full seven-course meal as requested. It was difficult to prepare on such short notice, but... Frankly, it's to die for. We wouldn't have anything less."
"Sí." The guard gave a knowing smile, pulling open the door. As Enéas passed in, the guard leaned in close. "Buena suerte, amigo."
The caterers otherwise passed through without incident.
The room was a quaint dining room, not quite as gaudy as the remainder of the palace. A long wooden table sat about a dozen men, with a balding, lanky gentleman sitting at the table's head and flanked by two plainclothes guards. The group paid almost no mind to the catering crew, continuing talks which centered around words such as 'economía' and 'centroamericano'. It was hard to make out much in the low rumble of murmurs.
And the catering crew, of course, went about their work almost instantly, retrieving plates of canapes from the carts. Each cabinet member - including the president himself, was served a plate with a selection of seafood canapes, then the "caterers" moved to return to their carts.
The guests of the dinner scooted back in their chairs as they were served, preparing their own cloth napkins in their laps as they continued speaking among each other. They hadn't the slightest clue what was coming.
They would - and soon. One by one, the caterers bent down, examining the insides of their carts. Lifting one of the tablecloths with Caldeira, Enéas peered inside, into the darkness, feeling around with his right hand, until it touched cold polymer. He glanced sideways at Caldeira, nodded - and they all rose, Colt 635s in hand. The moment Enéas say his barrel peek over the cart, he squeezed the trigger, the sharp, snapping sounds of five submachineguns filling the room, sweeping from left to right with almost mechanical precision. The armed guards, of course, were first to go, first to be targeted - then the rest, massacred all at once.
The room went deathly silent as charging handles racked from behind the carts. The guards moved, breaking the silence but were cut down in sequence, falling upon their half-drawn pistols.
Then began the yelling and the screams. The politicians in the first few rows died quickly, as did the President of Mexico, face down in his plate of lobster and mussels. One of the politicians fled for the door, making it for one heavy moment and jerking on the handle. The door was locked from the outside, and he crumpled under withering gunfire.
It all happened in the course of less than a minute, and the Mexican President, along with his entire cabinet, were slain.
"Get the photos?" Campbell spoke up, receiving a nod in reply from the man standing to Enéas's right as he pulled a balaclava over his head, and the rest of the 'caterers' followed.
Enéas turned, knocking on the door.
"Dinner's finished."
Mexico City, Sección Bosque de Chapultepec
A small, unassuming white Ford van rolled down the Avenida Constituyentes, the words "Le Bec-Fin" emblazoned in extravagant cursive across its sides. The streets weren't empty at this hour of night - but there were clear enough for the van to proceed smoothly toward its destination, smoothly turning off into a small road leading into the Parque La Hormiga, following its chosen path west toward the presidential palace - Los Pinos.
For a minute, perhaps a little more, it proceeded undisturbed beneath the cover of trees, watchful sentries gazing at it as it passed by their posts. A handful didn't bother to turn and look, simply glancing the van's way, hands on their rifles.
Eventually, though, the van was forced to come to a stop in front of a large, patina-covered gate, a tan-skinned man leaning out of the driver's side window as the vehicle slowed.
The guard box was a few meters away, and a shorter man in a camouflage uniform stepped out, adjusting his black beret and pulling it snug on his head.
"Hola." He mumbled as he reached the driver's side window, craning his neck over to read the text on the van's exterior. "You the catering?"
"We are." He said, gesturing to the large woman sitting next to him, her long black hair tied into a tight bun behind her head. "There are five of us in total. The other three are in the back."
"Ay, sí." He eyed down the woman in the passenger seat particularly, breaking eye contact begrudgingly, waving them on. "Avanzar, have a good one."
The oxidized copper gate parted without input.
And the van, of course, proceeded, moving along at a crawling pace. Diaz glanced sideways at First Lt. Caldeira, but no words passed between them. Only silence.
The roundabout in front of the palace was lined with meticulously trimmed hedges, accented by ornate lamp posts which lined the stairwell. A side path labeled 'SOLO SERVICIO' - service only - snaked off to the right towards a loading dock. They were directed onto it, and found themselves parked at a service ramp manned by a single uniformed guard.
"Hey, uh - sir, I mean - we're the caterers. Is this where we go inside?"
"Sí, door leads to the kitchen, there's a lift inside for you and the goods." Christ, this kid couldn't have been nineteen. He was a baby-faced guard wearing the insignia of the Mexican Army.
Enéas nodded, popping open the door as he stepped out of the van. Out from the rear came three more people, each wheeling out a large, tablecloth-covered metal cart - one more woman, far more lithe than the giant, two tan-skinned men, and one with a distinctly fair complexion.
"Alright - we'll just be headed inside. Watch the van and we'll see if we can get you some leftovers, eh?" Enéas joked, leading his fellow staff up the ramp.
"Sí, sí." The guard grinned, helping to hold the door.
Directly inside was a room of solid white. The floor was a reflective marble, shined to perfection and matched with textured pillars of Roman style bordering a marble staircase with brass-inlaid stairs. On their right, a metal swing door was already held open by a woman in a server's dress clothes. A lit sign was suspended above the door labeled in both Spanish and English: 'COCINA / KITCHEN'.
Entry into said kitchen showed yet more white, but instead made of grout tile and reflective metal surfaces. The service lift in question sat on the far side of the room, manual door already open and waiting.
Toward the lift they went, making idle chatter about how nervous they were, how they hoped the President would like the food they prepared - they hadn't much time to rehearse, but they had enough for whoever was watching them, hopefully. Then, the moment they filed into the lift and closed the door - nervous, jittery silence.
All rehearsed, all acted out in an elaborate display.
The lift ascended slowly, delicately before coming to a stop with a thump. The door would be opened to reveal an opulent hallway, floored with polished hardwood and buttressed with brass arches. The floor plan indicated the dining room was just down the hall, which was corroborated by a soldier in an ornate formal uniform standing at parade rest outside the indicated door.
One by one, the covered carts wheeled down the hallway, Enéas at the front of the line and Caldeira at the rear. Not one of the five dared speak until they finally reached the door, and Enéas finally spoke up. "Excuse me - may we enter? We've brought a full seven-course meal as requested. It was difficult to prepare on such short notice, but... Frankly, it's to die for. We wouldn't have anything less."
"Sí." The guard gave a knowing smile, pulling open the door. As Enéas passed in, the guard leaned in close. "Buena suerte, amigo."
The caterers otherwise passed through without incident.
The room was a quaint dining room, not quite as gaudy as the remainder of the palace. A long wooden table sat about a dozen men, with a balding, lanky gentleman sitting at the table's head and flanked by two plainclothes guards. The group paid almost no mind to the catering crew, continuing talks which centered around words such as 'economía' and 'centroamericano'. It was hard to make out much in the low rumble of murmurs.
And the catering crew, of course, went about their work almost instantly, retrieving plates of canapes from the carts. Each cabinet member - including the president himself, was served a plate with a selection of seafood canapes, then the "caterers" moved to return to their carts.
The guests of the dinner scooted back in their chairs as they were served, preparing their own cloth napkins in their laps as they continued speaking among each other. They hadn't the slightest clue what was coming.
They would - and soon. One by one, the caterers bent down, examining the insides of their carts. Lifting one of the tablecloths with Caldeira, Enéas peered inside, into the darkness, feeling around with his right hand, until it touched cold polymer. He glanced sideways at Caldeira, nodded - and they all rose, Colt 635s in hand. The moment Enéas say his barrel peek over the cart, he squeezed the trigger, the sharp, snapping sounds of five submachineguns filling the room, sweeping from left to right with almost mechanical precision. The armed guards, of course, were first to go, first to be targeted - then the rest, massacred all at once.
The room went deathly silent as charging handles racked from behind the carts. The guards moved, breaking the silence but were cut down in sequence, falling upon their half-drawn pistols.
Then began the yelling and the screams. The politicians in the first few rows died quickly, as did the President of Mexico, face down in his plate of lobster and mussels. One of the politicians fled for the door, making it for one heavy moment and jerking on the handle. The door was locked from the outside, and he crumpled under withering gunfire.
It all happened in the course of less than a minute, and the Mexican President, along with his entire cabinet, were slain.
"Get the photos?" Campbell spoke up, receiving a nod in reply from the man standing to Enéas's right as he pulled a balaclava over his head, and the rest of the 'caterers' followed.
Enéas turned, knocking on the door.
"Dinner's finished."
