3. Poppa Duties.

MARCH 19, 2013 | 2:34am —

INT. THE GALLIVANT INN - PENTHOUSE SUITE. NIGHT.

From the sparkling glow of her twelfth floor, hotel room view, BEA LARSON loosens her black, skin-tight dress. She watches the night with a subtle, unreadable glance. Sighing in discontent Once off, she tosses the light piece of fabric atop a chair with padded, floral handles that protrude from each side.

She glances over at the safe, open, empty. She grimaces but has no time to ponder the outcome of her naïveté for her smartphone vibrates. She walks to the bed, picking it up—displeased when it displays the name DETECTIVE DICK. She answers with a grimace.

Bea Larson:

I don't have it yet.

Detective Dick:

You promised me intelligence, Larson. That son of a bitch needs to be locked behind bars.

Bea Larson:

Don't you think I know that?

Detective Dick:

Give me the safe. My guys will crack it in a day.

Bea Larson:

In case you forgot, I don't owe you shit.

Detective Dick:

And let me remind you that your father is behind bars, serving time for that son of a bitch. He gets to walk around, living a normal life, be a father to his kid.

Bea Larson:

You'll get the drive, Hunter. Just... give me more time.

Silence on the other line makes Bea idly pace before the bed. Her features troubled.

Detective Dick:

We can't let that drive fall into the wrong hands. We know his business is a cover, that his bachelor's lifestyle is just some ploy to trick people like me. But he also has bitch-boys in the department, so be careful who you talk to.

Bea Larson:

I'll call you the second I have it. My tech nerd is trying to recreate some rerouted code to break down the biometric scanner's data system.

Detective Dick:

I hope so, for our sake and your dad's.

Bea ends the call, huffing loudly as she scrolls on the screen. Pulling up Chuck's number, she dials it. Making it the fortieth or so time since the man went MIA four days prior. Getting no answer, she chucks the phone across the room.

Bea Larson (Screaming):

Fuck!

—

MARCH 23, 2013 | 1:32am —

EXT. EURO CREEK. BATHURST ISLAND, AUSTRALIA. HIDDEN RESERVE. NIGHT.

In a closed-off quad, hidden under a dense canopy of trees, a campground glistens under the orange lights of fluorescent bulbs. Strewn about on dried out branches, and erected beams made from thick bamboo. They are reinforced by rocks and anchors of smaller wood nailed around their legs.

The canopy of thick trees provide cover, and the remote location ensures no locals intervene. Though the noise from the three strategically placed generators leave much to fear in such a place.

Militant mercenaries dressed in full black guard the cells. Extemporary cages from bamboos jammed into the ground to surround massive tree trunks. Some are mechanically nailed to the ground and high tree trunks, with old tarp that provides minimal shelter.

The mercenaries all haul around weapons. From rifles to cutlasses, and pistols holstered in plain sight— armed to the teeth. They wear helmets with polarized faceplates, bodies covered in complete protective gear.

The muffled voice of young girls and women intersperses the air. Riddled with the odour of unbathed bodies, chewing tobacco, and roasted snake.

At the centre of the enclosure, a moderate fire billows into the air with logs for chairs, occupied by three mercenaries grubbing on skewered, headless king snakes. The sound of the creek and various wildlife surrounds the environment like a canopy. Shrieks of preying beasts, and the flutter of wings both small and large peppers the wild around them.

Sashawna Reid, a sprite, young Jamaican girl. Sits within a bamboo cell— one of four. Natural afro puffy, matted with dried leaves and dirt. She clutches on to a younger redhead girl, clearly in her early teens with freckles about her pixie-like face, and pale, flawless skin. She squeezes at her left leg where two puncture parks, at least centimetres apart below her ankle, oozes blood and puss. The young girl shivers from the cold. Barely covered up by a cream, tattered floral dress that drapes around her clumsily. Three other women sit in the cage, by their lonesome. Clothes dirtied, and hair matted and frizzy.

Sashawna Reid:

You will be all right. It never nice sucking poison from yuh foot, but I see it on the television.

Her heavy, brusque Jamaican accent is soothing, though the strange girl doesn't react. Her body quivers in Sashawna's clutch, mewling in pain and agony.

At the south end, two mercenaries stand at a makeshift post. Erected by rocks, built around a foundation of vines and poles protruding from the ground. Ahead, on a dirt road leading up to the post, carved out by large tires, a matte-black Humvee soldiers through the rough terrain with two Dodge W-300s following behind on a secluded hillside dirt road. The vehicles pull into the makeshift compound, rousing up dust and the attention of the women.

Sashawna lays the girl against a folded up, black hoodie, and rises to her feet tentatively. The women all look ahead, some pressing up to the bamboo to watch the spectacle unfold.

Sashawna pushes to the front, brown eyes gleaming with concern. She watches as BASAM ALI exits the back, wearing a solid white Agbada, which stands out in the warm lights and the black his mercenaries wear.

—

MARCH 23, 2013 | 1:10pm -

INT.  SLATER'S MECHANICAL WORKS - OFFICE. DAY.

Lucian Slater sits at his desk over a strewn-out pile of papers. Impeccably dressed in a comfortable pair of black denim pants, a brown loose linen shirt, and stylish, polished brown boots. His eyes skim over the figures on the paper. Schematics for a competitor's showcase, and a meal ticket into more successful ventures.

Sitting before his desk, is a pixie of a man, with skin like mocha and eyes as brown as honey. Deacon Lancaster dons his low-cut curly hair that contrasts the fairness of his brown skin. The epitome of debonair, in his navy-blue jacket over white linen, popover shirt, two buttons loose. A style so casual yet appeals to a more formal approach on menswear. Deacon's petite height and taut muscles fill out the shirt, with incredible symmetry. Highlighting his physical appearance, which pulls attention anywhere he goes.

Lucian Slater:

The design ain't a derivative of any data I done seen.

Deacon Lancaster:

I know, but imagine using an upgraded bio-scanner, which reads facial features, even your ten fingers—simultaneously.

Lucian Slater:

The code is easy to build and program, but a new school data system, Deacon?

Lucian inclines his head, giving the man a subtle look of uncertainty. He looks down at the designs again. Each intricate line, the measurements, and possibilities all printed in detail.

Deacon Lancaster:

It's ambitious.

Lucian Slater:

Yes, and thank heavens I decided to pull out.

Deacon frowns at Lucian, surprised by the revelation.

Deacon Lancaster:

Wait, why are you pulling out?

Lucian Slater:

Because my design is ambitious too, but I don't have the resources.

Lucian shakes his head and leans back, clearly not as disappointed as Deacon.

Deacon Lancaster:

What if I loaned you the money?

Lucian shakes his head and Deacon rolls his eyes.

Deacon Lancaster:

Hey, you said it. This needs material, and the scan is an innovative idea. Are you really going to let me compete against those Silicon Valley nerds by myself? Not fun, Slater.

Lucian Slater:

It is. We just... need something with the utmost best security. Programs and computers can be hacked.

Deacon Lancaster:

Do you want to go retro?

Lucian Slater:

I'll hold on to that for a second. We're still competitors.

Lucian grins at the man who stands and gathers the papers.

Deacon Lancaster:

Smart man. Just bring your A-game to the showcase next year.

Lucian Slater:

Boy, I'm gon' be on your ass like lint on faux-cotton.

Lucian circles the desk and gives the man an affectionate pat on his shoulder.

Deacon Lancaster:

Meet for drinks later? 

Lucian shakes his head and Deacon nods.

Lucian Slater:

The babysitter isn't available tonight, and my son wants us to go to this art thing.

Deacon nods and gives him a playful salute, then leaves the office. Lucian turns back to his desk and plops down. He grabs a small remote and switches the fifty-inch smart tv on. It shows news footage, of royals and diplomats in their best garb. The night of the charity auction.

TV Reporter (V.O):

In recent events, the royals of Arlingfell have made their decision. Celebrating the induction of their first regent monarch since Jafa Abdel's cousin-.

Lucian switches the channels a few times, but he grows tired shortly after and turns the appliance off. As he stands, deciding to grab an early lunch, Bea Larson sweeps into his office.

Bea Larson:

Where the hell is your partner?!

Lucian pauses, eyeing her, baffled at the enraged approach, but unfazed by it. He straightens his composure but remains quiet. Which infuriates the woman even more so than his coy smoulder.

Lucian Slater:

I would pretend I know what you're talking about, but...

He slumps in mock pity.

Lucian Slater:

I don't have that kinda energy right now.

Bea Larson:

Your partner took something from me, and by God, I'm going to get it back.

Lucian nods, making sense of the last few days.

- After their disagreement, Lucas Chuck hadn't returned to work. A thing he couldn't cite as unusual, for it was just two days.

Lucian Slater:

Whatever Chuck has for you, give him another day or two to drown himself in alcohol, and ass.

He waves her off, then ushers her out of his office. Yet, she remains stiff and unmoving. Lucian sighs and takes a step back.

Lucian Slater:

Are you aware of the saying, my property, my rules?

Bea Larson:

Except it won't be your property soon enough.

Taken aback by the revelation, Lucian glares at her. Though, he keeps his composure and grits his teeth.

Lucian Slater:

You let me worry about it until then. 

Bea Larson:

Whatever con you're running, Lucian Slater, I will catch on. Unbelievably, I'm not just some rich broad.

Lucian Slater:

In my defence, Chuck was the one who called you a rich broad. I called you shady, and troublesome. Which judging by the inherent ignorance, makes me think I was pretty accurate.

He shoulders past her, throwing up his keys to catch them. He then stops and turns to face her with a wry look.

Lucian Slater:

Look-.

Bea Larson:

Save me your pity.

Lucian raises an eyebrow, but he shakes his head. 

Lucian Slater:

I was just going to say I need to lock the doors, so you might want to be out of here by the time I'm done putting things in standby mode.

He purses his lips with a pained look. She shoulders past him, and he grimaces. He makes his departure after putting the equipment and power outlets on standby.

- Bea Larson's visit dredged up memories of Lucas Chuck's past shenanigans. Ones Lucian always had to help him clean up. So, his decision to go checking up on the man becomes a second instinct.

MARCH 20, 2013 | 7:53pm

EXT. KINGSTON, JAMAICA. REID VILLAGE JERK CENTER - LAWN. NIGHT.

The night dazzles with blinking, rampant stars filling a cloudless sky as Halo emerges from the driver's seat of a rundown TOYOTA CAMRY. The door creaks shut and Halo glances across the street. Ignoring the hubbub or patrons, enjoying the festivities of food on grills and other amenities under high, colourful tents.

His simple attire of jeans, t-shirt and old rebooks cast a different shade. Though it takes nothing away from his startling, good looks, and roughneck swagger. Vastly different from his usual polished look, and everyday charm.

Halo takes in the activities, the sounds, the smell of succulent chicken and alligator. Aptly dressed children, parents, and tourists from all corners of the world join the hodgepodge.

He glances across a busy street, where vehicles move slowly through the thick crowd. Flags raise high, bobbing back and forth as reggae music blasts from large, extravagant sound boxes stacked dangerously high. At the crest of a hill that climbs high with used dirt tracks, and small, dirt roads that lead up to other residences. Like a district of houses, made from concrete, zinc sheets, and metal grates on some doors and windows for protection. Climbing the hill at separate intervals in the hillside town, just north of Williamsfield.

At one corner, women gyrate on the men, unopposed by the children, or the glares from older folks. All carry on in their means, enjoying the celebration of unknown origin.

A dark-skinned man, dressed superbly in retro black Jordans, a black graphic t-shirt with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles title, and blue ripped jeans approaches. Familiarity flickering in his brown eyes as a smile etches across his angular, handsome face.

Neville Reid:

I couldn't believe my eyes when mi see you pull up to di curb.

His Jamaican accent is thick and understandably toned down for Halo to understand. Though, Neville circles him, aghast, but happy to see the man's face.

Neville Reid:

You really come?

Halo Noel:

I told you I would, Neville. Should we talk somewhere with less noise?

Neville Reid:

Look, we both know why you dey here. A two week now, since Sashawna been missing.

He then gestures to the party around him, and Halo notices the posters. The few people wearing shirts with a beautiful, young girl-- Sashawna Reid, in a white graduation gown with a white sash. Across it, is the charming quote; HOT GYAL GRADUATE HIGH SCHOOL. A fitting term, for the quirky young woman, who had a set path of victory.

Neville Reid:

This is all fi her. Mi never tell people every ting, but I must do sumn fi raise money to pay yuh back.

Halo smiles at the sentiment, but he shakes his head.

Halo Noel:

What I do is not for Money, Mr Reid. Shall we?

Neville nods then leads Halo across the street, and into his Jerk Center. A vibrant restaurant mostly outdoors, filled with adults, all holding a drink or Styrofoam plates lined with aluminium foil, stacked with jerked chicken or pork.

Halo Noel:

Ahh. Nostalgia is a wicked demon.

Halo chuckles and Neville glances over at him. They slip through an imposing, beautiful bar that is separated from the food and drinks and dining people.

Neville Reid:

Yow, Jamie!

A man who tends bar looks up and gives him a nod. Neville gestures to Halo, and the man's eyes go wide.

Barry Reid:

Bomboclaaaaaat!

The man exclaims, then glances back at his brother.

Neville Reid:

Just watch di bar, bredren. Soon link yuh.

Barry nods, then turns to his customers without hesitance or question. Neville leads Halo through the bar, and out onto a second-floor balcony. It overlooks a sprawling, three-floor plaza. Ahead, a grand gate, staffed by security personal, screams open to let in another group of vehicles.

Halo Noel:

It is truly motivating to see so many people here in support of your sister.

He turns to Neville, who leans against the balcony. He sighs, then looks up at Halo with twinkling eyes.

Neville Reid:

Sashawna is a good girl. She mek some mistakes, but she not a fool.

Halo Noel:

Mr Reid. This syndicate I have been tracking, is dangerous. So, I am extremely glad you took my advice. I admire your will to not lose your head.

Neville Reid:

I don't even know why mi believe yuh, but I know Sashawna. She never have a reason to run away. It don't make sense.

Halo Noel:

If your sister is amongst this group, I will get her home. I do however need your help with something.

Neville Reid:

Anything.

The man's eager stare settles on Halo, and he nods.

Halo Noel:

In twenty-four hours, your sister will be back home. I have already appointed her a counsellor in case there is significant trauma. I need you to promise that you will encourage her.

Neville Reid:

Of course, there is significant trauma.

Halo Noel:

It is best to remember that your sister is strong. And sometimes nothing is stronger than a woman in danger.

Halo smiles and Neville chuckles, nodding after a moment of hesitance.

Neville Reid:

What you need help with?

Halo Noel:

Food.

MARCH 23, 2013 | 1:20pm -

INT. DEWITT DRIVE. CHUCK RESIDENCE - LIVING ROOM. DAY.

LUCIAN sits in the comfortable ambience, within the moderate, square living room with matching antique furniture. The seating is cushioned, the floor carpeted, and the walls papered. Light is provided by wall lamps that make the bird theme shine, in light colours and the overall quirky look. Among the first things one notices walking in is an unusual sculpture and photographs of Chuck and Lucian through their years of friendship, on an end table.

Lucian looks up when Margaret Chuck, Lucas's grandmother. A maternalistic sixty-one-year-old woman with chestnut brown eyes, a flawless complexion, and wavy dark hair pinned neatly back. She is a little short and frail, for she uses an old, sturdy wooden walker.

She balances a tray with a steaming pot of aromatic mint tea, a round sweet tea biscuits in a deep white bowl.

Margaret Chuck:

So, Chuck hasn't been to work, eh?

Lucian shakes his head, eyes focused on the woman's aloof reaction. She sits across from him and fiddles with the cups after placing her cane atop her lap.

Lucian Slater:

He's been MIA since last week. When did you last see him?

Margaret shrugs, then pours a cup. She raises it and holds it out to him, but he waves a polite no, and she shrugs. She sips the tea, looking as unbothered as he expected.

Margaret Chuck:

He came in here blabbering on. Some mess about finally branching out on his own, but that boy knows he can't survive out there without you cleaning up his shit. God bless your poor, foolish soul.

She snorts and takes another sip, closing her eyes to savour the subtle flavour of mint leaves.

Margaret Chuck:

By that look on your face, I'd say you didn't know about this.

Lucian shakes his head, thoroughly troubled by her words expression.

Lucian Slater:

You know where he could've gone?

Margaret chuckles humourlessly.

Margaret Chuck:

Shit, who knows where that boy ended up this time around. Going around whispering, knowing damn well he about to pull some other impulsive shit.

She looks over at Lucian, but an expression of pity crosses her features—for him.

Margaret Chuck:

You really worried about him, huh?

Lucian Slater:

He's been my friends since we were kids, Aunty Margaret. But if he doesn't show up to work, projects go unfinished, and clients start pulling out. The shop is in too fragile a position to deal with one of his benders.

Margaret Chuck:

I guess that's a fair point, my boy, but he ain't here and I don't know where he is.

For a moment, her gaze furrows as she tries to think.

Margaret Chuck:

You talk to that girl he been seeing?

Lucian looks up, surprised at the news.

Lucian Slater:

He didn't tell me he was seeing anybody. Who is it?

Margaret Chuck:

I don't know what the bitch looks like, but she did throw a brick in his windshield.

Lucian leans back with a slow nod.

- He wanted to believe Chuck had just disappeared to bury himself in alcohol and women. The man's usual go-to, whenever he needed to blow off steam. However, Bea Larson's visit still haunts his memories.

Later, he waves to Margaret and turns to walk back to his truck. The small district outside bustles with commuters and locals. All attending to their own business in their customary fashion.

A sleek, black Audi sits across the street from his car parked at the end of the driveway. Out of place, and against the contrast of taxis and cars parked in their yard.

Lucian discreetly watches it, but he continues to his truck and hops in. From his rear-view, he gazes at the car, but it moves from its spot and speeds past him. Turning right at an intersection leading out to the main turnpike.

A chime sounds, and Lucian's pocket vibrates alerting him that he's getting a text message.

Lucas Chuck (Text Message):

Chewie & Brny...

Lucian sits back with a sigh but straightens up when he sees a police cruiser pull into the Chucks' driveway. He grimaces, reads the message again with a frown then guns the engine.

—

MARCH 23, 2013 | 1:25am —

EXT. EURO CREEK. BATHURST ISLAND, AUSTRALIA - PLANE CABIN. NIGHT.

—

HALO sits in the simple, six-seat cabin, tightening the straps of his tactical boots with traditional mesh lining and nylon arch shanks. He then slides on a tactical vest with wide neck opening that sits snug against his Kevlar undershirt. Small lights and panels flicker, as it automatically tightens.

At the helm of the plane, sits Calum Beauchamp, sporting matching gear. Gloved arms clutching the circular yolk. Calum glances back at Halo and engages the autopilot and unclamps the protective belts around his chest. He stands, ducking under the bow to enter the cabin. Halo doesn't acknowledge him, but he tosses over a thin tablet device that he captures without flinching

Calum Beauchamp:

We're two miles out from the drop-point.

Calum engages the tablet, and a dark screen brightens to reveal the logo of a dragon, wrapped around a gilded broadsword. The logo of special operations.

— As a teacher, working and living under a name most won't pick up, Halo Noel spent his time in special ops. Carrying out one-man missions or leading a team into the face of battle certain to be successful. Procedures and protocols to safeguard the peace or neutralize threats to national security. He wasn't just a mere teacher. But a Marine, young, trained, and seasoned in combat, diplomacy, weapons, and tactics.

Data streams on the screen, with pictures of an Arabian man. He wears a blaring yellow Agbada, which closes with golden buttons on his left side and golden, runic trimmings.

Calum Beauchamp:

Ali Batam, a perfect specimen.

He ogles over the man's cool, dark features and lustrous onyx eyes in each picture. Halo chuckles under his breath, and Calum shakes his head with a sigh.

Calum Beauchamp:

Too bad he's the leading man in the Onyx human smuggling ring.

Calum looks up at Halo and rests the tablet atop his legs.

Calum Beauchamp:

This guy is dangerous, Your Grace. Are we sure he'll be stupid enough to show his face at a trade-off with his henchmen?

Halo Noel:

Ali Batam is not considered small fish in the criminal underworld. I agree he is dangerous, but the intel states he handles the bigger trades.

Halo stands and walks to the walls separating the pilot's cabin. He lifts his hands and a glossy black panel blinks. A cell-phone sized screen blares white, displaying a three-dimension map of the forest below. He presses a command, and a low hiss sounds as the wall on the left protrudes. White vapour billows into the air as it slides out with a low whir. Showing an array of weapons, both tactical and practical.

Calum Beauchamp:

We're coming up on the drop zone, Your Grace. eight minutes to clear and deploy the rendezvous transport.

Halo Noel:

Five to free the captives, and another three to get them clear for your surprise.

Halo narrows his gaze, then turns to Calum.

Halo Noel:

Might I ask what your plan of extrication is?

Calum Beauchamp:

And spoil the fun and my grand entrance?

He raises an eyebrow, and Halo smirks knowingly.

Halo Noel:

Worth a try.

Halo turns back to the compartment and pulls out a pair of matching compact pistols. The steel receiver is a solid steel chassis, with a slimmed mag. He holsters them to his side, where they are completely concealed in holsters convenient for mobility. He grabs other small gadgets, including small silver disks the size of quarters in slim, see-through cartridges.

He loads them into a camo-green vector gen semi-automatic rifle. The clean weapon features a full-length rail with a night-vision optic mounted atop it. A futuristic design, as lethal as it is beautiful.

Calum whistles.

Calum Beauchamp:

Should I send word to the mainland, Your Grace?

Halo Noel:

Not until those girls are on a plane to Arlingfell, Mr Beauchamp.

In one Swift movement, Halo holsters the rifle behind him. The magnetic mechanism whirs dimly, and the perforated muzzle glows a bright blue then darkens.

Halo turns to the right of the cabin, where the emergency exit blinks. Calum checks his own tech gauntlet, eyes scanning the numbers.

Calum Beauchamp:

Four hundred feet until we are at drop altitude, Your Grace.

Halo raises his hand, and a metal panel rises behind him. It begins to fold, preternaturally as it extends and wraps around his face. It tightens, morphing slightly into round, ominous optics that cover his eyes. They blink as the armour extends, and his eyes open under the optics before it casts over white.

Halo Noel:

Be ready to contact the Arlingfell Embassy. It is shaping up to be a busy day of work tomorrow.

The exit then blinks green, and the door sinks, then begins moving to the left. Air streams into the cabin, blowing Calum's red hair into a wavy mop. The frigid blast of wind doesn't jostle Halo, but goosebumps rise on Calum's skin.

Halo turns to face him, eyes, and expression a clear indication of his confidence.

Calum Beauchamp:

Beware of the snakes-.

His lips clamp shut when Halo takes two steps back, and dives backward out of the aircraft. Air whistles around him, as he falls back, relishing the adrenaline as his perfectly arched body sails downward.

Calum Beauchamp (On Comms):

Deploy parachute in ten seconds.

At the command, halo convolutes his trajectory, earning terminal velocity. Arms clasped at his side; he glides downward at an arc that catches wind. He performs an acrobatic barrel roll, and then curls himself into a ball.

Once his legs face downward, his gauntlet chimes white and he deploys his parachute.

Calum Beauchamp (On Comms):

Two minutes to the camp.

Halo Noel:

How many hostiles?

Calum Beauchamp (On Comms):

Ten hostiles, including Libon and his head henchman. All armed, but there is minimal security, so they're mostly spread out. He chose a remote area surrounded by lethal wildlife. There's a dirt road that leads south to the docks at the end of Euro Creek.

Halo Noel:

Rendezvous point?

Calum Beauchamp

(On Comms):

One klick, two minutes.

Halo Noel:

Maintain radio silence. We know Ali has access to technology he only needs generators to run, even out here in the jungle.

MARCH 23, 2013 | 1:32am —

EXT. EURO CREEK. BATHURST ISLAND, AUSTRALIA. HIDDEN RESERVE - CABIN. NIGHT.

Ali Batam (In Modern Arabic):

How many did we lose?

Mercenary One (In Modern Arabic):

If we do not move soon, we might lose one.

Mercenary Two (In Modern Arabic):

Snakebite, Commander. Baby Simalia Kinghorne. The poison is weak, so it will take two days to kill her if we do not make the transport.

Ali Batam (In Modern Arabic):

Round them up. There is a transport trawler waiting by the creek.

The two men give each other unseen glances, and Ali chuckles.

He then turns back to the Humvee and watches as the mercenaries with cutlasses trim down the bamboo beams. They begin lining up the women until they get to Sashawna's group. They hustle them about with shouts and violent tactics that prove successful in rounding them up.

A third mercenary approaches Ali, bowing slightly out of respect.

Mercenary Three (In Modern Arabic):

Trucks are coming up the hill, Commander. What should we do with the sick girl?

The mercenary gestures to where Sashawna hoists the smaller girl into her arms, now wearing the black hoodie. She whispers affirmations to the girl. Yet, her troubled gaze finds Ali's.

Ali Batam (In Modern Arabic):

Leave her.

He rolls his eyes, then turns to walk back to the Humvee. The two mercenaries turn, and Ali nods to the three posted around the vehicle. The third opens the door and he ducks inside.

Mercenary Four:

Move!

He sees Sashawna and walks over.

Mercenary Four:

Leave the girl.

Sashawna peers at the man, eyes brimming with emotion.

Sashawna Reid:

I cah leave her here. She will die in dis place with all the snakes and wild animal running round.

She pleads with her eyes, but a fifth mercenary steps up. He rips the girl from Sashawna's arm and pushes her back. She falls with a thud to the ground, but the sickening snap of the girl's neck follows. A chorus of gasps go up, and attention is roused in their direction. Sashawna's eyes widen in horror when she sees the girl's body go limp. Falling out of the arms of the third mercenary.

Sashawna looks over at the girl, whose dead green glance at her.

Mercenary Five:

Get up.

Mercenary Four (In Modern Arabic):

Move, whore!

Sashawna scrambles to her feet, clutching her arms over her chest. She joins the five lines of women, just as the trucks pull into the enclosure.

Mercenary Five (In Modern Arabic):

We move slowly down to the creek. Keep them rounded up.

The remaining men load the women into the first truck. Making quick work of tearing down bamboo and turning off generators. They use the large flashlights and the bright glare of the vehicles' headlights to work in tandem, carefully loading up their supplies and weapons.

The Humvee pulls ahead and begins climbing down the hill at a careful pace. Mercenaries hop into the trucks, following behind the Humvee in a perfect line.

At least four hundred meters away, Halo's dark figure looks on from the trees. At least twenty feet high on a hill of large boulders. Observing the enclosure as it empties out.

Halo Noel:

They have cleared the camp.

Calum Beauchamp (On Comms):

Standing by for further instructions. Ali will be in my sights within five minutes.

Halo Noel:

Prepare the cleanup crew. This is bound to be messy.

—