WARNING: THE FOLLOWING HAS SCENES OF VIOLENCE AND THIS IS A TIMELINE ABOUT NAZI TERRORISTS SO IT WILL NEVER MAKE PLEASANT READING.
Stanley moved the crowd as quickly as he could without drawing attention. He was uncomfortably aware of the weight of the Webley under his left armpit, and how exposed he was. There must have been hundreds of people in the square, but it was quiet despite that. There was tension in the air that everyone here, even the children, were aware of. A wooden platform had been erected in the square. On it, stood a black-uniformed man who regarded the assembled crowd of onlookers around with disinterest. Stanley had found a spot he was comfortable with, far enough away from the front to be just another face, but close enough to see the people on the stage with clarity. The man on the stage had a very distinctive face. He had a clean shaven, very smooth looking face and his skin had the almost golden quality of pale skin that had been well-tanned. His eyes were shockingly blue, like chips of crystalline ice. His face was framed by his black hood and the peak of his cap which jutted out above his eyebrows. He was swathed in a simple black tunic, which drawn in at his waist by a belt. On the belt hung a machete, and his hand rested casually on it's hilt. Seemingly satisfied by the assembled crowd, he raised a hand for quiet.
'People! You have gathered here to bear witness! To bear witness to justice!' He spat out the last word with venom. Stanley thought he could see flecks of saliva dart from the man's lips but at this distance, that seemed fanciful. The man's accent was odd, his Spanish was fluent but the vowels were warped. As the man spoke, two figures in grey rags, their wrists and ankles shackled together, were thrust forward onto the stage. The man jabbed an accusing finger at the figures. 'Traitors! In mind, body and spirit! Their soul has been tainted by the conniving will of the Great Enemy and their very flesh has been bent to their purpose. The purpose of destruction! The destruction of harmony, order and purity! Their crimes are unnumbered, their heresies unspeakable. Let the spilling of their corrupted blood be a testament to our resolve! The Great Enemy is everywhere, we must not shrink from our duty, lest we become their tools.' He drew the machete from the scabbard on his hip slowly. The crowd was so quiet, Stanley could hear the scrape of metal on leather. Fully drawn, it gleamed in the sun. The man seemed to weigh it in his hand.
He turned to the two figures and made them kneel, with their backs to him, facing the crowd. Their heads were obscured by sacks. With a practised flourish, he flicked the bags from their heads. There was a collective intake of breath and Stanley felt the crowd move forward, straining to see the faces. They were a man and a woman. The man was older, with dark, leathery skin and sad, rheumy eyes. He did not flinch as the man behind brushed the nape of his neck with his blade. He seemed resigned to his fate. The woman was much younger, barely out of her teens. Her face was puffy and red from weeping, and her black hair hung over her face. She was still sobbing, but they sounded like animal barks, more like gasps of panic than crying. Stanley's fingers on his gun hand itched as he watched. The crowd was chillingly quiet. They knew what came next.
The man stood behind the two traitors, his face impassive, looking out over the crowd. Then it changed. His face twisted like a gargoyle, with grimacing teeth and bulging eyes, his skin purple with hate and his nostrils flared and white. With a shriek he brought the blade down, with a sickening thud. It was yanked back up, in a spray of blood, and brought down again, and again. It took seconds but it felt like hours. Stanley struggled to stay composed as he watched. The crowd remained silent, except a few quiet sobs and retches. The executioner, breathing heavily, slid the bloodied machete back into it's sheathe. His face was flushed and spattered with blood.
'Behold the fate of traitors!' he screeched, 'Heil Hitler!' His arm sprung forward in salute. As one, the crowd extended their forearms, and mumbled their reply. The executioner screamed at them to be louder. Now was his chance. As the arms formed a forest around him, he slipped his hand inside his jacket and pulled out his pistol. He got a bead on the executioner, and fired. The bullet smacked into his jaw and blasted out the back of his head. His face, still twisted in mid-rant, froze as his brain shut down. His legs gave out and he fell backwards. All attention was on him. Stanley slipped the gun back into his armpit holster. He must have been seen, there was no way there were no witnesses in a crowd like this. He began to push his way backward into the crowd. They had begun murmuring as they watched the executioner fall, and that now grew into a crescendo. The confusion was the perfect shield for his escape.
Men in black uniform began shoving their way through the crowd trying to find the assassin, screaming orders at those around them, gesturing with their machine guns. But Stanley had already made his escape, through the warren of back streets had memorised and into the fields around the town. A couple of hours later, Stanley had made his way back to the abandoned peasant's hut that had been his base of operations for the last couple of weeks. He sat down and opened up his laptop. He typed out a message. 'GOLD FOX DEAD. TOWN IS DISRUPTED. AWAIT FURTHER ORDERS.' It took a while to scramble, and some time later, he received a message in reply. 'WE WILL STRIKE TONIGHT. WE WILL COLLECT YOU FROM EXTRACTION POINT'. He acknowledge the message, then turned off the laptop. He leaned back with a sigh and rubbed at his eyes wearily. All he had to do now was wait. And wonder. How the hell had Argentina got itself into such a mess?
Stanley moved the crowd as quickly as he could without drawing attention. He was uncomfortably aware of the weight of the Webley under his left armpit, and how exposed he was. There must have been hundreds of people in the square, but it was quiet despite that. There was tension in the air that everyone here, even the children, were aware of. A wooden platform had been erected in the square. On it, stood a black-uniformed man who regarded the assembled crowd of onlookers around with disinterest. Stanley had found a spot he was comfortable with, far enough away from the front to be just another face, but close enough to see the people on the stage with clarity. The man on the stage had a very distinctive face. He had a clean shaven, very smooth looking face and his skin had the almost golden quality of pale skin that had been well-tanned. His eyes were shockingly blue, like chips of crystalline ice. His face was framed by his black hood and the peak of his cap which jutted out above his eyebrows. He was swathed in a simple black tunic, which drawn in at his waist by a belt. On the belt hung a machete, and his hand rested casually on it's hilt. Seemingly satisfied by the assembled crowd, he raised a hand for quiet.
'People! You have gathered here to bear witness! To bear witness to justice!' He spat out the last word with venom. Stanley thought he could see flecks of saliva dart from the man's lips but at this distance, that seemed fanciful. The man's accent was odd, his Spanish was fluent but the vowels were warped. As the man spoke, two figures in grey rags, their wrists and ankles shackled together, were thrust forward onto the stage. The man jabbed an accusing finger at the figures. 'Traitors! In mind, body and spirit! Their soul has been tainted by the conniving will of the Great Enemy and their very flesh has been bent to their purpose. The purpose of destruction! The destruction of harmony, order and purity! Their crimes are unnumbered, their heresies unspeakable. Let the spilling of their corrupted blood be a testament to our resolve! The Great Enemy is everywhere, we must not shrink from our duty, lest we become their tools.' He drew the machete from the scabbard on his hip slowly. The crowd was so quiet, Stanley could hear the scrape of metal on leather. Fully drawn, it gleamed in the sun. The man seemed to weigh it in his hand.
He turned to the two figures and made them kneel, with their backs to him, facing the crowd. Their heads were obscured by sacks. With a practised flourish, he flicked the bags from their heads. There was a collective intake of breath and Stanley felt the crowd move forward, straining to see the faces. They were a man and a woman. The man was older, with dark, leathery skin and sad, rheumy eyes. He did not flinch as the man behind brushed the nape of his neck with his blade. He seemed resigned to his fate. The woman was much younger, barely out of her teens. Her face was puffy and red from weeping, and her black hair hung over her face. She was still sobbing, but they sounded like animal barks, more like gasps of panic than crying. Stanley's fingers on his gun hand itched as he watched. The crowd was chillingly quiet. They knew what came next.
The man stood behind the two traitors, his face impassive, looking out over the crowd. Then it changed. His face twisted like a gargoyle, with grimacing teeth and bulging eyes, his skin purple with hate and his nostrils flared and white. With a shriek he brought the blade down, with a sickening thud. It was yanked back up, in a spray of blood, and brought down again, and again. It took seconds but it felt like hours. Stanley struggled to stay composed as he watched. The crowd remained silent, except a few quiet sobs and retches. The executioner, breathing heavily, slid the bloodied machete back into it's sheathe. His face was flushed and spattered with blood.
'Behold the fate of traitors!' he screeched, 'Heil Hitler!' His arm sprung forward in salute. As one, the crowd extended their forearms, and mumbled their reply. The executioner screamed at them to be louder. Now was his chance. As the arms formed a forest around him, he slipped his hand inside his jacket and pulled out his pistol. He got a bead on the executioner, and fired. The bullet smacked into his jaw and blasted out the back of his head. His face, still twisted in mid-rant, froze as his brain shut down. His legs gave out and he fell backwards. All attention was on him. Stanley slipped the gun back into his armpit holster. He must have been seen, there was no way there were no witnesses in a crowd like this. He began to push his way backward into the crowd. They had begun murmuring as they watched the executioner fall, and that now grew into a crescendo. The confusion was the perfect shield for his escape.
Men in black uniform began shoving their way through the crowd trying to find the assassin, screaming orders at those around them, gesturing with their machine guns. But Stanley had already made his escape, through the warren of back streets had memorised and into the fields around the town. A couple of hours later, Stanley had made his way back to the abandoned peasant's hut that had been his base of operations for the last couple of weeks. He sat down and opened up his laptop. He typed out a message. 'GOLD FOX DEAD. TOWN IS DISRUPTED. AWAIT FURTHER ORDERS.' It took a while to scramble, and some time later, he received a message in reply. 'WE WILL STRIKE TONIGHT. WE WILL COLLECT YOU FROM EXTRACTION POINT'. He acknowledge the message, then turned off the laptop. He leaned back with a sigh and rubbed at his eyes wearily. All he had to do now was wait. And wonder. How the hell had Argentina got itself into such a mess?
