Sneakpeak

My best...or debatably second best...friend-who-is-a-male owns his own blog and has posted three stories in the span of three days...here.
(Yes, I admit; he managed to scrape together something good out of that brain of his.  ;)  I'm kidding, just kidding.  Go read them; they're worth the time, and I say that as an author, not just a friend.)
Regardless of the fact that he wrote all of them over the span of at least a year, my incessant competitive streak towards him put the thought into my head, "You're getting behind.  Shouldn't you offer your readers at least a section of your story?"

And my incessant competitive streak was right.

Before you begin reading...
1.) Please understand that this section is apt to change and may not actually survive to the very end.
2.) When I was feeling more creative, I changed the name "Conner Seralia" to "Kaes Rider."  Kaes because I have a Mexican friend-who-is-a-male named Kyle that I'm styling Millis after, and Rider because...
Admit it.
Everyone wants their last name to be Rider or Hunter or something cool like that.  :D
3.) I'm looking for proofreaders to specifically check for accuracy in the "male-style" of writing and coherence with the language translations.  If you post comments below concerning changes that need to be made, I will be much in your debt.  :)

So without further ado...

~ ~ ~

Hunting
December 11, 3013
1:05 P.M.



    Heat played in the air like the ratty, nighthawk street-kids back in sweltering Nicaragua, the half-naked boys who would aggressively kick apart a soiled leather ball on rocky fields until their toenails were broken and bleeding or a fight broke out.
    It was violently hot.  Relentless.
    And obnoxious.
    Millis felt another drip of sweat streak down his cheek as he was led through the dirty corridor towards Hassan Ikolvii’s office.  How this guerrilla band survived in the desert heat of Southern Excellia was a mystery to him.  At least in Nicaragua, most of the non-slum edifices had slight air conditioning.
    Waiting while one of the men knocked on the door, Millis cast a glance around.  Soiled walls, some old blood smears, dusty air vents.
    Hardly soundproof.
    He’d have to be quick.  Quiet was out of the question.
    Not a problem unless if the guards stayed in the room while Hassan interrogated him.  But Millis betted against that.  They had no reason aside from doubt to fear the young, unarmed man who had been caught that morning, snooping around the perimeters.
    Millis quickly reviewed the knowledge of what he had found--the license plate numbers of six cars, parts of a deconstructed bomb, and the names of the two men who had finally found him in Bunker 6.  Satisfied with his memory, he let the information slide back into the depths of his mind.
    “Quién es el?”  Who is it?  The voice behind the door was low and husky, emanating from a big chest.
    “Lo tenemos.”  We have him.
    There was the unmistakable click of a gun being loaded.  “Tráigalo adentro.”  Bring him in.
    The door swung open with a loud creak, and Millis moved with less speed than normal to the only available seat.  His guards, the two who had jumped him earlier and had taken him with his wrists cable-tied to the main building, hesitated until Hassan motioned for them to exit.  They filed out, and the door slammed shut.
    Not a problem.
    Millis leaned back in his metal, fold-up seat, feeling his black, goth-designed t-shirt stick to his sweat-soaked  back under his jacket.  The guerrilla leader put on a scowl, one that seemed to cut his square face into three parts, separated by a unibrow and tight, cracked lips.  He was more intimidating in real life with his piercing eyes, dirty denim jeans, and dark stubble than in the mugshots Millis had seen.
    But he was human nonetheless.
    And equally vulnerable.
    Hassan probably saw Millis as a typical, Mexican teenager or an Excellian tourist-brat with spiked, black-died hair.  Probably better to go with the latter assumption as it had been too long since Millis had conversed in Spanish, and his speaking skills were rusty at best.
    Good to keep that in mind.  Ignorance was his goal.  He was to be a boy, one that knew nothing of Hassan’s criminal record, his successful strikes against the Excellian army, or the bomb that was slowly being formed in Bunker 3.
    Millis glanced at his other assets.  Desk, a machete hanging on the wall that he couldn’t get without standing and reaching for it, a set of books, and an old computer.  Hassan had the pistol.
    “Su nombre?”  Your name?
    Millis returned his attention to the leader and answered in an absent-minded tone, “I don’t speak Spanish, mister.”
    Hassan grunted.  “What’s your name, boy?”
    “My name?  Kaes.  Kaes Rider.”
    The man raised his eyebrows and paced so he was standing directly in front of Millis.  “So...Kaes Rider...can you tell me what you were doing this morning around my bunkers?”
    A smile pinned up the edges of Millis’ lips.  “Yeah, I could.  Am I?  Not until you cut me loose--”
    The last word of Millis’ response was cut off as he took a blow across the mouth.  Hassan put the gun’s barrel against Millis’ bicep and growled, “You are not the one making deals, bastard.”
    Millis wiped the escaped saliva on his shoulder and shrugged in annoyance.  “Okay.  All right.  No need to get so worked up, old man.  I was just hiking with my friends--”
    “Friends?  Where are they now?”
    “Probably at the hotel if anything, but how should I know, idiot?  You want me to finish or not?”
    Hassan withdrew his gun and crossed his burly arms across his chest.  “Finish.”
    “I was dared to leap over the barbed wire.  I did and realized the building was occupied.  Just wanted to check the place out.”  He added in a mumble, “No idea I was getting into this.”
    Millis glanced up and caught sight of Hassan’s grim smile.  The image made Millis mentally simper himself.  The guerrilla leader could be fooled just as easily as any other human into believing a trained assassin--one that viciously defended the Excellian militia against self-dependent territories or functions such as Hassan--was nothing more than an ignorant child.
    “No idea, eh, boy?”
    Millis shook his head and glanced around, feigning intrigue.  “What are you guys, anyway?  Nuclear manufacturers or something?”
    “Hah!  Nuclear manufacturers, he says.  No, we’re politicians, boy.  Beyond your little video games devices and girlfriends.”  Overly relieved to find no threat in the young man in front of him, the man snorted a laugh again and set down his gun.
    Bingo.
    Well, there was the kill.
    But it was a drawback nonetheless, acting as an Excellian tourist.  Millis had no shot of getting first-hand information from Hassan.  It’d be best to get the job done and let the contingency team scour for information.  After all, in the middle of a Mexican desert, there weren’t many places to hide.
    No one was getting away with anything.  Hassan was an independent contractor.  If he knew something his gang didn’t, it’s value would be entirely detracted upon his death.  No allies, no information.  Hassan had built himself an island fitted for Hades.
    “So what are you going to do with me, huh?  Ransom money?  My dad could buy this place out.”
    Hasson raised his eyebrows.  “I had considered that.”  A dark look came over his already-venomous eyes.  “But as I have no need for your father’s riqueza, I thought otherwise.”
    Millis watched him reach for the gun and instantaneously thought, Play time over.
    He stood.
    Stood surprisingly fast in contrast to the sloth-like movements he had been using earlier.
    Grabbing his chair and folding it in the process, Millis effortlessly swung it at the man’s neck.  The leader ducked and shot; the bullet skid left.  Using his momentary advantage of surprise, Millis kicked up, slamming his boot into Hassan’s nose and exposing his neck to the chair’s edge that Millis brought back around.  Connection.  Broken larynx cartilage.
    The gun shot again; a dent formed in the chair.  Millis leapt at the machete before Hasson could reload.  With a deft snap at the wrist joint, Millis took off Hasson’s gun hand.  The man choked and gripped his stumped arm.  Millis returned with a backstroke and sunk the blade deep into Hasson’s neck.
    The blood that splattered the walls momentarily diverted Millis’ attention; he snapped his focus back into place.
    Right.
    Not a problem.
    Millis took a breath, watched Hasson sink to the ground, and thought, Now for the contingency team.
    Withdrawing the blade, he laid it upright on the desk and cut off his zip-tied wrists.  Picking up and reloading the fallen pistol with his left hand, Millis shrugged off his jacket and cut it open using the machete with his right hand.  Before he could finish slicing the cloth, the door opened.
    “Usted!”  You!  “Qué usted piensan usted es--”
    Millis raised his left hand behind him and pulled the trigger.
    The man fell at the doorway.
    Peachy.
    Quiet was kicked to the curb; Millis needed to focus on his speed.
    Inside the jacket, there a black radio, a coiled wire, and earbud.  He connected the three and slipped the radio into his pocket, adjusting the earbud so he could hear and be heard.
    The first voice that came through was a girl’s.  Faint and in the background, but still distinguishably Rea’s.  The female technician affirmed, “Hyn, radio signal’s up.”
    “About time.”
    Millis hefted the machete and stepped over the corpse, glancing down at his watch as he re-walked the hallways.  “Fourteen minutes since they found me.  You couldn’t have done any better, mi amigo.”
    “Fourteen minutes, my hat, Millis.  Whatever.  I would have come in there with you if Central had let me.”
    “Nothing good went down,” Millis countered, stopping at a blind corner and shooting his gaze around the edge, “Bunch of slapping and yelling and...hm, hold on a second.”
    Millis set down the machete and darted half-way out from the corner, using both hands to aim and pick off the two men who had come hurtling down the hallway with M16’s.  They crumpled at point blank range, one of them still alive.  As Millis advanced to the living guard and kicked his gun out of reach, he realized the two were the ones who had found him in the bunker.
    “Quién son usted?”  Who are you?
    Millis smiled grimly as he exchanged his pistol for the assault rifle and shook his head, putting a bullet through the man’s temples.
    “No le dije ya?”  Didn’t I already tell you?  “My name is Kaes.  Kaes Rider.”