Foreplay

  A café, the moody kind of café, where most of the alcohol is used to drown worries.
But also the kind that attracts folk... not so keen on the law. Most of them are your average troublemakers who come here for a regular drink. But this afternoon, this grey rainy afternoon, there are some not here for second grade drinks, or the barely covered waitresses. 
There is one bloke sitting at the bar, seemingly nervous and keeping a constant watch on the metallic briefcase on his right. In the left corner is a group of men, mercenaries by the look of them, keeping a constant watch on the man and his briefcase. On the other side of the room are three men, Axis symbols on their jackets, keeping their eyes on both the mercs and the man. And finally, in the middle, a lone individual drinking from the only cup here that doesn’t hold alcohol. This one is keeping his profile low. A good idea with the mercs and Axis presence here.
Briefcase man obviously knows he’s being watched, and yet he justs sits there. 
Or maybe he’s waiting, simply waiting for that one person to take that silvery metal from his hands.
The door opens, a brown haired man walks in. Briefcase man turns his head for a second.
Could that be him? Is he the runner?
“Hey Marcus!” The bartender greets the new arrival. So do the waitresses. He’s clearly not the man he’s waiting for.
“Damn.” He quietly mutters, and his hands beckon for another drink
Time crawls by, the lights outside turn on one by one as the planet turns away from the sun.
The stars which are just beginning to show are swiftly undone as giant billboards are turning this young night in a bright and colourful day. Other people come and go, all of them not being the eagerly awaited contact. Patience is running thin as tension rises.
The Axis group makes a few calls, most likely orders to ‘stay put’. And the mercs are running out of cash for beer. Mr. Lone wolf in the middle is the only one who doesn’t seem to care. Then again, he might not have anything to do with this at all. 
His eyes look around, he casually stands up, and walks to the loo.
The others notice, but Briefcase is the only one that sees the subtle signal his hands make. He replies with a careful nod and asks the barman where the bathroom is. The moustached tender points him to the back.
He picks up the package and tries to move as stoic as his new acquaintance.
The ball is now in the hands of the remaining six men. The mercs won’t move, afraid to attract the attention of the Axis. The law enforcers know this, but they’re not after them. Their leader beckons his men to draw their weapons, and they leave their seats. Strangely the other customers don’t seem to care that much, as arrests like this happen five times a week here. 
The mercs take it as a sign to leave.
“Alpha team, hold your position.” The head man quietly orders as they approach the door leading to the men’s room. His heart is marching, following his controlled breathing.

“You’re new.” It isn’t hard for the runner to spot it.
“Yeah...” Briefcase’s voice is filled with adrenaline.
“What happened to Ira?”
“Oh he... got... promoted.”

Two Axis stand next to the door, one in front.

“So, how are we getting out? There are Axis and other... people here.”
“I wouldn’t worry about them, there are probably more outside.” The Runner answers as he opens the window, letting out the typical bathroom smell.
“Outside?”

The lead man holds three fingers in the air... two... one.
He kicks the door in and follows his pointman who dashes into the room. 
The first thing he notices is an awkward smell. This place hadn’t been cleaned for days. 
It takes a few moments for his racing heart to slow down. His eyes shift from one corner to another, and he hears a surprised “Clear.” from his second man. 
Thoughts go through his mind: there are no windows, no backdoors in this room, nothing which could offer a viable way out. His eyes widen as he calculates the last possible option.
“Women’s...” He thinks out loud. His instinct is one step ahead, as he’s already running out of the toilet. 
The entry he makes is even more violent. He lands on the floor with a roll, sidearm first. 
As the dust settles, his hawk eyes look around. Again nothing. But on the left, an open window.
“Shit...” He shouts out.
“Sir,” a voice on his earpiece, “we have a visual on the target, two suspects, East of your 
 position, 300 feet away.”
“Do you have a shot?” 
“Negative, too many civies... err...”
It’s quiet on the other side of the line.
  “We have lost the target, I repeat we have lost the target!”
The leader cuts the connection and lets out a sigh, at first he seems calm, locking his sidearm. But then he bursts out in a moment of violence, kicking the dustbin a few meters away.
They made an error, and now their prey was gone. Two months of planning down the drain.
He actually saw him in the flesh, looked him in the eyes. And somewhere deep down he knew who he was facing. The target, the runner. His pointman approaches from behind. He’s careful, as he had heard his superior kicking and shouting.
“Atleast we have his face, sir.” His words are cautious, but optimistic.
His chief sighs: “We could’ve had it all...” If only his superiors put more money in this sector. 
He could have a bigger team, more materiel. More bad guys behind bars. 
The chief turns around, replaying all that has happened in his head. It went wrong, it just went wrong. They had a bad day, and there was nothing they could do about it.
  “You’re right,” he pats his man on the shoulder, “we do have his face.”

A few seconds go by as the engines fire up.
Briefcase sits in the passenger seat, watching how his driver finishes pre-launch procedures.
Skillful hands move over navigation, power output and life support. There are no weapon systems strangely.
“Doesn’t this ship have any weapons?” Briefcase wonders.
“I don’t really like weapons, they attract attention.” The driver’s answer is actually the fourth thing he has said to him. He comes across as a silent and patient man, obviously experienced and short in his answers. Again the silence returns for a moment. Briefcase lets out a sigh. The runner seems to take that as boredom.
“So... Ira got promoted?” He starts a conversation.
“Yeah, he... got a job in... the design department, apparently he discovered a flaw in the new... 
 plasma injectors, and he found a way to fix it.” The passenger is still a bit worked up.
“Interesting...” the driver reaches for something behind the navigation console, 
“...since Ira’s dead.”
He turns the pilot seat. In his right hand a silenced pistol.
The engines are now fully running, ready to pull the VS-21 Anvil into orbit. All it needs now is a pilot.
“I have to say, the whole ‘new guy act’ was pretty convincing.” 
His passenger shifts his weight, his eyes are surprised he has been discovered.
“You’re no pirate, since I have no beef with them. You’re no PMC, they are better informed.     
 So...” The runner sits back, keeping his aim on Briefcase. “who are you?
His target keeps his silence, not knowing what to answer. Or just not planning to answer.
“Hmm...” The runner sounds conclusive, “...fine.” And he shoots his passenger.
A tranquilizer dart sticks out of his chest. Dazed and confused he finally speaks: “What...?” 
“Don’t worry, I’m no killer.” The voice of his driver slows down, as does his vision. 
The cockpit fades to black, and he drops his briefcase.

The runner chuckles...