Zacky was in a trance as he put the safety on his gun, tucking it away. He stared down at the dead form of the man who he had grown up with, played in a big band with, partied like no tomorrow... the man who became a vile murderer of scores of people, driven by religious hatred. He couldn't help but shed a few tears, whispering "I'm sorry"; he straightened himself up immediately, and turned his attention to the unhinged captive, Syn's girlfriend, lying restrained on the ground, screaming and gnashing her teeth through a gag, looking as if the Devil himself was living through her. They weren't alone, however; the other object of the girl's fear and rage was slowly approaching them, clad all in black, hooded, with what looked like a skull balaclava. The man was armed with a small assault rifle.

Zacky quickly drew his gun out and pointed at the man in combat position. The man was seemingly unworried by this, however, even lowering his gun, walking towards Zacky and the captive like he was taking a stroll through a park. The man looked down at the dead body of Syn and looked back at Zacky. "Nice kill mate, but we would 'ave preferred 'im alive" the man spoke with a noticeable cockney accent. Zacky looked at the man in wonder, knowing that this must be the British guy Dusty had told him about. "You're that British guy, right? My boss in Delta told me to expect you" Zacky said, "but how can you prove it's you?" "Ask me a question" stated the mystery man; Zacky could tell he was smiling through the mask. Zacky was ready for this; Dusty had briefed him well: "Okay, what is Chief Givens' drink of choice?" "Jim Beam mate, he often drinks straight out of the bottle" said the mystery man. "And what time does he start drinking?" Zacky countered. "No real set time, he takes a swig whenever he likes!" laughed the man. Relieved, Zacky extended his hand to the man, who shook it. Zacky could tell that this guy was not a guy who you could fuck with without ending up as the recipient of serious pain. "Okay mate, now we're acquainted, what the hell are we gonna do about these guys?" The man asked, gesturing to the deranged captive on the ground and the dead Synyster Gates. Zacky looked around, could see no-one; "we need to get the word out that Synyster's been killed" Zacky stated, "that'll fuck Matt and the other guy, Arin up. Draw them out of hiding hopefully." "Wait... there's a third guy?" the British man asked. "Yeah, Syn told me in his dying breath, his name's Arin Ilejay" Zacky said gravely, "used to be our new drummer after Jimmy passed away". "Yeah I read the whole history" said the mystery man, "my daughter happens to be a fan, you know that?" "No shit!?" Zacky exclaimed, "woah, small world huh?" "Too right mate, every time I would take R n' R from an op that's all she would talk about at the dinner table" the mystery man said fondly. All Zacky could do was whistle in amazement... but there was business that needed to be taken care of, and the mystery man knew it. "Alright mate, this one here" the man said, nudging the captive girl with his foot, "there's a storage shed that Dusty kindly rented out for me where we can keep this one. We get all we can out of her. Now this guy" he said, tapping Syn's dead body with his foot, "you got a camera?" Zacky pulled out the little Polaroid camera issued to him. "Snap a few pictures. Once they're printed, we'll mail them anonymously to Die Tageszeitung, that's the newspaper 'round here. Leave info that this is one of the terrorists you Yanks and us British are after. Before you do, pump a few more into him, and take the cocaine on him, sprinkle it all over him- that'll make it look like a drug deal gone wrong, rather than a hit by Spec Ops. Your handgun's commonly found amongst all the crims 'round here, so it'll look more like a gang-hit. People will think that these "feared terrorists" are capable of slipping up, turn public impressions of them, make the survivors more prone to fucking up, therefore they'll be easier to catch." Zacky whistled again; this guy clearly knew his shit. Zacky shot Syn's body to make it look like a gang murder, spread the cocaine all over his torso and face, and snapped pictures on the Polariod. The British guy, meanwhile, had picked the struggling girl up and placed a hood over her head. "Oh yeah, might wanna call the cops on the way to the shed while we drop off the mail" the British guy called over his shoulder. Zacky followed the man, sealing the photos along with a little note into an envelope the man gave him. As they jumped in the van, cruising towards the shed, Zacky turned and asked the man driving "I don't know your name, or whatever you call yourself." "Call me Ghost" the man known as Ghost chuckled, "now, call those cops."



Matt was awoken by a frantic Arin yelling in his bedroom. Grumbling, he opened his eyes, "Arin, what the fuck?" He looked at the clock; "It's 6 o'clock in the fucking morning!" "Dude, get your ass to the loungeroom, quick!" Arin babbled, "something happened to Syn!" Terror immediately filled Matt as he leapt out of bed, thundering through the hallway of the small apartment they had rented; the TV was already on. It was tuned to BBC. It did not look like good news. "In breaking news" began the newscaster, looking sombre, "German police forces have confirmed that the body found in an alleyway in the town of Dinklage in Lower Saxoxy, Germany, is that of musician turned hunted terrorist Brian Elwin Haner Jr., also known worldwide as Synyster Gates. Mr Haner was found by German constabulary at approximately 10:45pm in local German time, found shot multiple times in the alleyway concerned with rather a large amount of drugs on his person. Police have so far speculated that it was a possible gang attack, or a drug deal gone wrong. Police were tipped off by an anonymous source at approximately 10:30pm local time, and this morning the local newspaper Die Tageszeitung confirmed that it had received an anonymous package filled with photos of Mr Haner, along with a letter detailing who he was..." Matt could listen to no more. He roared, jumping up to the wide-screen TV, actually tearing it off the wall and throwing it all the way across the room. Arin cowered in terror; he hated seeing Matt in a rage. Matt stormed around the apartment swearing, yelling and breaking things, punching holes in the walls; Arin attempted to comfort him, only to be knocked on his arse. Matt towered over him, looking more likely to breathe fire than a dragon, Arin squinted up through the pain, ready to attack him. Matt hauled him to his feet, and turned around and knocked himself out by running into the wall. Arin sat there beside Matt's prone form, tending to his wounds. He then stood up, leaving Matt where he was, and walked outside. He was beyond devastated, and murderously furious. He knew this wasn't a gang killing. "Zacky boy Zacky boy" Arin hissed to himself, lighting a joint, "what am I going to do to you when I find you? You've just given your wife a death sentence."

Notes

Shit's about to get intense