Young Writers Society

If they get one lock on you, you are mort, to use an American euphemism.

glowing redly.

Because he was the hawk.

it would put a stake through the heart of the world.

I don't have much time before they send up a couple of SAMs

El Sayad felt his body jerk back as he was shot twice in the chest [s]himself[/s].

Gasping for breath, for life, El Sayad wondered again why he wasn't still in Paris comma enjoying fine alcohol and even finer women.

Maybe his soul would soar over the Seine.

And haunt the Eiffel tower.

Sighing, the man took a seat closest to Clevenger.

Ali drew a SIG saur from his jacket and pointed in at Clevenger.

Kylan wrote:Outskirts of Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

“Drone now in a holding pattern. We can pickle the target at any time, sir. I'm counting that the target has five or six SAMs, though. So these guys aren't taking any chances.”

Behind the sand dune, lying on his stomach, Captain Wazir El Sayad slowly lifted the radio to his mouth. He sighed, “Continue holding pattern. I don't want you anywhere near that plant. If they get one lock on you, you are mort, to use an American euphemism. Stone cold dead.”

“Yessir. I understand, sir. Over and out.”

El Sayad lowered the radio and squinted over the dune rise at the sprawling plant nestled in the hills below. It was one hell of a formidable target. The prime minister was gambling. Gambling everything[s].[/s]: [s]H[/s]his country, his job, his life. If the mission failed, the IU would declare war on the UAE immediately. No questions asked. What he ordered in the field tonight would determine the outcome of the lives of millions. After tonight, the world would never be the same, one way or another.

And someone would be waking up with a splitting headache. This should be part of the previous paragraph, the statement is too weak to stand on its own, but with the paragraph it will hold better.

El Sayad shook his head. Three days ago he had been in Paris. Paris. The city of love. The city of fine wine and even finer women. The city where no one remembered the night before. Absolute heaven. And he had been dragged out of that paradise to make war with the most powerful country on earth. Instead of the Eiffel tower on the skyline, he saw fifty foot oil distillation columns. Instead of holding the stem of a wine glass, he was holding a gun. He had to seriously reconsider his lifestyle.

What am I doing here?

What are we doing here? This should be part of the above thought, when using italics as though leave words you want to stress in normal font. (As you can see from the corection of the statement)

Five hundred miles away in a military bunker, he and his men had been briefed about the mission. His superiors had said that by destroying the IU, what he and his men did tonight would not only liberate the Middle East, but free the world from the IU's unstoppable fuel monopoly. By destroying the IU's entire supply of oil, – half of earth's fuel – they would destroy the Unity itself. In fact, they had practically described oil as the devil himself. That the black gold came from lakes of fiery brimstone. Destroying it would be ridding the world of a terrible addiction. And yet, when El Sayad thought of the billions of cars and jets and boats oil powered he felt doubtful. He felt like a petty terrorist. What he was about to do today didn't feel like heroism, it felt like they were tearing down another pair of world trade centers. It just seemed wrong. Where was the logic? Burning the oil was like burning money. Who would do such a thing?

What am I doing here?

Beside him in the sand, a small pager beeped and a single word scrolled across the LCD screen, glowing red[s]ly[/s].

Execute. Execute. Execute.

The magic word had come: it was time. Frowning, El Sayad lifted the radio to his mouth again, eying the pager, “Ground to bird. Ground to bird. Deliver the package. I repeat, bomb those crude oil pigs back to where they belong. Over.”

“Roger, sir. It will be a pleasure. I'll see you back home.”

El Sayad grunted to himself and nodded to his second, who quietly spread the word among the prostrate soldiers. Whether he liked it or not, the good captain had just signed a death warrant.

Execute.

Heads would roll, indeed.

****

Ali Kemal crouched nearby, - out of sight, out of mind - staring at the two hundred soldiers lying fifty feet away, waiting for the orders to invade the COP plant. According to Clevenger's instructions, he wasn't supposed to be there. He was supposed to be miles away in some motel room, waiting. Waiting for news. Waiting for payment. Well, Clevenger wasn't God. He wasn't Santa Claus. Ali didn't need to be good, for goodness sake. What Clevenger didn't know, wouldn't hurt him.

Ali smirked. For now, anyway.

The radio at his feet crackled to life, “Ground to bird. Ground to bird. Deliver the package. I repeat, bomb those crude oil pigs back to where they belong. Over.

“Roger, sir. It will be a pleasure. I'll see you back home.”

Ali smiled. It was time. He held up a hand and gestured towards the soldiers. Behind him, twenty five special ops crept over a dune rise. Each carried a high caliber machine gun and four hundred rounds. Ali Kemal expected them to paint sand red that night. He expected the discharging bullets to make beautiful music. And he would dance to it. Waltz, actually.

Because he was the hawk.

****

The drone screamed over head like some nocturnal bird of prey, engines glowing orange and heated exhaust rippling the air behind it. El Sayad watched it carve it's way towards the plant, pregnant with a thousand pounds of explosives and motioned for his men to move. Silently, they climbed over the dune, specks in the night, and began jogging for the plant.

Execute.

A powerful word. El Sayad's heart thumped inside it's cage, bruising his ribs. He was being a terrorist! He was sure of it. The entire mission felt wrong. Underhanded. Poorly thought out. That drone would plunge the world into chaos. Chaos that would result in war, in poverty, in destruction. It would do more than put a stake through the heart of the IU, it would put a stake through the heart of the world.

But El Sayad shook his head, bit his lip, and kept jogging. Orders were orders.

The drone was less than three hundred yards now from the plant and eating the distance fast. El Sayad watched it, mouth set, face grim. May Allah save my soul. This is madness. I belive this is thought and should be in italics

His radio crackled, “They've got me locked, sir. That was way too quick. I don't have much time before they send up a couple of SAMs.”

El Sayad's heart fell, “What!?”

“They're launching one! It's locked onto my engine,” The pilot swore, “Deploying hot waffle.”

Sure enough, a trail of smoke hissed from behind the walls of the plant, heading immediately for the drone. Several of his men stopped mid step to watch.

“Bastards,” El Sayad spat.

Two glowing heat charges were ejected from the drone and into the air, meant to draw the SAM away. They corkscrewed into the night, directly under the nose of the missile. El Sayad held his breath. Take the bait. Take the bait...

The missile ignored them.

El Sayad heard the pilot swear again, “I'm going to drop the bomb in five.”

The drone swung far right, the SAM trailing behind it like a tail, “Four.”

There was another hiss and the plant spat up a second missile. El Sayad felt sick, “Three.”

El Sayad watched as the missiles grew closer, nearly touching each wing of the drone. None of his men were moving any more, eyes glued to the sky. Several of them were kneeling on the ground, praying. Just drop the bomb, flyboy, he wanted to shout. “Two,” The pilot screamed, drifting the drone hard right. “He's gonna make it. He's gonna make it!” Someone yelled. El Sayad started praying himself.

The sky suddenly caught fire.

In a blossom of reds and yellows and oranges, the SAMs caught up. The drone exploded - a deafening fireworks display - and descended from it's perch in the air, appendages flaming like Napalm. El Sayad fell to the ground in shock, watching the aircraft spiral towards the ground gracefully. No.

Somewhere behind him, a soldier screamed. The chattering sound of machine guns began directly after, as if on cue. He heard grunts, yells, howls of pain from his men. El Sayad turned around dazedly. This was all a dream. It had to be.

Walking calmly down the dune was a line of uniformed men, helmeted faces illuminated by the spits of fire following each deadly blaze of bullets. They crumpled his soldiers like dying spiders. El Sayad felt his body jerk back as he was shot twice in the chest himself. An icy feeling spread from his toes to his hairline, freezing his thoughts, congealing his tongue. No one would be left standing, he knew. There would be no survivors. Gasping for breath, for life, El Sayad wondered again why he wasn't still in Paris enjoying fine alcohol and even finer women. He prayed to Allah that's where he was going. Back to France. Back to warm nights. Warm bodies.

Maybe his soul would soar over the Seine.

And haunt the Eiffel tower.

****

Standing on the dune, Ali Kemal flipped open his cell phone and dialed a number.

“It is done,” he said quietly, “You may proceed.” He nodded in agreement to whatever the person on the other end had to say, “Oh, yes. They're in for a surprise. Salaam, my friend.”

Smirking, Ali hung up, dialed a new number and put the phone to his ear, “Mr. Clevenger. Yes. It's done. Put your fuel cells on the market. That's right. Now. You're welcome, Mr. Clevenger. Anytime.”

New York City, New York

Director Mark Clevenger sat at the head of the conference table, staring at the blank plasma screen TV mounted on the wall behind it, his face ashen, his eyes hollow. The mug of coffee beside his hand had been exchanged for a bottle of tequila and was cold now; cold so that the grounds and the water had begun to separate. But Clevenger didn't care. He didn't care about anything anymore. SoftFuel was dead. His baby had suffocated: sat on by the IU. He had been tricked.

Screwed over by an assassin.

Clevenger swore for the thousandth time that night and pounded the table with his fist. He groaned. Ali Kemal had lied to him. The IU has been destroyed, he said over the phone. The plant has been bombed. You've done it old boy, so put those fuel cells on the market. And Clevenger had. That very day, before the news of any attack on the IU, he immediately began the mass production of his fuel cells and had held a press conference, announcing the maiden voyage of his new energy source. It had all gone as he had predicted. He was a genius. A visionary. His name would surely go down in the history books.

And then news of the attack on the Iranian Unity smashed into the headlines, three days later.

A failed attempt at destroying half of the world's oil.

Naturally, the IU declared war on the UAE. The tabloids and political analysts gave the war a week, maybe two, before the UAE joined the ranks of countries assimilated by the Unity. The Middle East was going to hell in a hat box, they all agreed. It was only a matter of time now before the other non-Unity countries gave in.

But that wasn't important to Clevenger. The IU had done exactly what they did to any new competition. Anytime that a new fuel source or oil retrieval technique comes into play, the IU lowers their prices dirt cheap and no one wants to buy the more expensive energy source. So that company goes out of business. And then the oil prices shoot right back up without the competition. Classic.

His own words teased him.

He had lost several billion dollars off of this venture. SoftFuel was bankrupt. His fuel cell technology would now join the legions of others like it - collecting dust on shelves - until the world ran out of black gold. Clevenger felt like crying. He lifted the bottle of tequila to his mouth and drank deeply, alcohol dribbling down his chin and onto his designer tie.
Behind him, the conference room doors swung open, admitting a visitor.

Clevenger didn't even bother to turn around.

The man entered quietly, slowly, and made his way toward the mahogany table. His footsteps bounced off of the walls like 'taps': ponderously solemn and dirge-like. Sighing, the man took a seat closest to Clevenger. Mark kept his face in the bottle.

“Cigarette?”

Clevenger looked up deliberately, eyes burning. The evening half-light outlined Ali Kemal's features like chiseled stone. Mark stared at him hard, as if his piercing gaze would kill the assassin then and there, and let his mouth hang open vacantly, “You.”

Ali merely held out a pack of Camels.

Clevenger didn't move.

“No?”

Silence.

Kemal smiled faintly and shoved a cigarette between his lips anyway, “Well, suit yourself. I hope you don't mind...” He lit up and exhaled a plume of smoke.

“You.”

“Yes, me. Surprised to see me here?”

Ali waited patiently for Clevenger to catch up to his words. The director's mouth stayed shut. “I should think so. Then again, I'm sure you were even more surprised when you checked SoftFuel's stock this morning. It seems I lied to you, Mr. Clevenger.” Ali said.

“You.”

“We've established that it's me!” Kemal said irritated[s]ly[/s], rising from his chair, “The IU wanted you out of the equation, my friend. They want a lot of things. You're scheme killed Sabradan, gave the Unity the UAE, and decimated your corperation. All goals of our friendly neighborhood petroleum dealer. You can't win, Mr. Clevenger. Whether you like it or not, groups like the IU or OPEC will always be around.”

Ali came up behind his chair and leaned into his ear, “In the future, I suggest you check the loyalties of your contract killers.”

Ali Kemal straightened up and walked back to his chair. Shakily, Clevenger lifted the tequila bottle and took a drink, never taking his eyes off of his assassin. He suddenly felt very overwhelmed. The IU had known all along. They had taken his plan and had turned it against him. He had played right into their hands. Into Kemal's hands.

Staring at his smoldering cigarette, Ali spoke, “Let us consider your options. In twenty four hours, the IU will release a thoroughly researched brief, describing the discovery of a far reaching conspiracy to frame the IU for the death of Mustafa Sabradan. The leader of this conspiracy will be fingered as one Marcus Clevenger. Inevitably, Interpol will take a deep interest in this man.” he leaned forward, “A very deep interest.”

Ali drew a SIG saur from his jacket and pointed in at Clevenger. He slipped his finger into the trigger guard, “The safety is off, Mr. Clevenger. You need only say the word. It would be my pleasure. As always.”

“Go to hell.”

“After you, Mr. Clevenger.” Ali Kemal said and pulled the trigger.
Clevenger grunted, clutched his chest and fell forward, knocking the tequila bottle onto the ground. It shattered instantly, mixing the alcohol with the director's blood. Face plastered to the table, Clevenger groaned, eyes tight. Ali watched with veiled interest. The man groped at his life a moment longer and then laid still.

Calmly, Ali stood up. He inclined his head slightly toward Clevenger's corpse, transferred the gun to his gloved hand and proceeded to wipe his finger prints from the stock. As he walked from the room, Kemal slipped the gun into Mark's limp hand. Another tragic suicide. A desperate solution for a desperate man. Standing before Mark Clevenger's private elevator, Ali Kemal felt pleased. Empowered. Ten feet tall. It was exquisite: the way the director's spine had arched in pain. The pain his good friend had felt before dying was like a high to him. Nature's cocaine.

Beautiful. Always beautiful.

I am the hawk.

And God could only help the next vole he hunted. For there would be nowhere to run.

And nowhere to hide.