“The big bird has the worm,” Tibault said flippantly, and then shut the call down. He walked out of the decayed parking garage and around the corner to where his Eloui Rabite was parked. Inside the single passenger french compact he brought up a local map and watched the stationary GPS blip of the briefcase flash a few times.

-

The Russian, Marcus, watched the same GPS signal on an old hacked comlink in a small apartment, surrounded by electronics and dilapidated machinery. A sweep of his hand over the control board sent an electronic signal to the device, which triggered a detonator inside the briefcase. The 12 lbs of C-12 erupted as ordered. The Russian grinned.

-

Garbage and other refuse cascaded into the air from the twisted metal husk of the large trash bin that sat outside a currently closed nightclub. Across the street, a safe distance away, the large half-orc sat on his bike shaking his head in disappointment.

“You were right, Merc.” Brak spoke gruffly into his comset, “What’s our next move?”