The first four go down remarkably easily, given how heavily armed and, theoretically, well-prepared their assault was. But Eliot's fucked up their play-book with his attack, and right now he's not concerned with taking prisoners and getting information--there are clearly plenty of other options for that still running around the place--just making sure these fuckers don't get anywhere near Damien. So every last one of them hits the floor with a bullet through his head or his heart, and Eliot's already giving orders for redeployment and back-up as he gets back to his feet.
He can hear more booted feet on the polished floor, and since he knows exactly where his--surviving--guys are that means these aren't his. Not the ones close enough to hear, anyway. He takes a gun off one of the bodies, rather than drawing one of his own, and jogs past the bodies, careful not to step in the spreading pools of blood. He doesn't want to leave footprints as he slips into another small sitting room, muting his walkie-talkie and leaving the door slightly ajar so he can keep an eye on the hall as he waits.
It doesn't take long, and as he watches another group of heavily armed intruders emerge from the direction of the kitchens he realizes that his own men aren't likely to be here in time to do more than mop up the damn mess. He doesn't have time for more than a brief flash of frustration at that, though. This group's more cautious, they can see the bodies already in the hall and they're talking too quietly for him to hear, though he can see the hand signs they're using, which is enough to let him know when they're all in view, no one still waiting in reserve around the corner. That's his cue, and he takes careful aim through the crack in the door--and jesus, you'd think the fuckers would be paying more attention--and takes out not the leader, but the last man in the line. He doesn't want anyone slipping away.
He manages to put a bullet through two more thick skulls before return fire forces him back from the door with a curse and a sharp flash of pain as a bullet rips through his biceps. He doesn't bother running, and he definitely doesn't bother waiting, the second the gunfire stops he's through the door, crouched low as he runs and barrels straight into the guy unlucky enough to be in the lead. The knife he's let drop from its forearm sheath into his left hand finds its target unerringly, despite the blood running down his arm and already dripping off his fingers, and he's already moving for the next man before the first body hits the floor.
From there it's just a matter of keeping one body between himself and his soon to be next target, and by the time his own men come barreling in from two directions there are four more bodies leaking assorted fluids onto the expensive floor and Eliot's holding the fourth with a shattered arm pulled up tight behind his back and his broken nose pressed into the wall.
He doesn't tell anyone where Moreau Junior is, and makes a point of walking past the room he's barricaded himself into, issuing orders loudly about clearing the house room by room, checking the perimeter and the security tapes, before he'll tell anyone where the boss is. Hopefully the kid's smart enough and not too damn spoiled to take the hint and stay out of sight until Eliot's made absolutely sure no one else is going to crawl out of the woodwork and try to put a bullet in his head.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2017-02-10 08:25 am (UTC)He can hear more booted feet on the polished floor, and since he knows exactly where his--surviving--guys are that means these aren't his. Not the ones close enough to hear, anyway. He takes a gun off one of the bodies, rather than drawing one of his own, and jogs past the bodies, careful not to step in the spreading pools of blood. He doesn't want to leave footprints as he slips into another small sitting room, muting his walkie-talkie and leaving the door slightly ajar so he can keep an eye on the hall as he waits.
It doesn't take long, and as he watches another group of heavily armed intruders emerge from the direction of the kitchens he realizes that his own men aren't likely to be here in time to do more than mop up the damn mess. He doesn't have time for more than a brief flash of frustration at that, though. This group's more cautious, they can see the bodies already in the hall and they're talking too quietly for him to hear, though he can see the hand signs they're using, which is enough to let him know when they're all in view, no one still waiting in reserve around the corner. That's his cue, and he takes careful aim through the crack in the door--and jesus, you'd think the fuckers would be paying more attention--and takes out not the leader, but the last man in the line. He doesn't want anyone slipping away.
He manages to put a bullet through two more thick skulls before return fire forces him back from the door with a curse and a sharp flash of pain as a bullet rips through his biceps. He doesn't bother running, and he definitely doesn't bother waiting, the second the gunfire stops he's through the door, crouched low as he runs and barrels straight into the guy unlucky enough to be in the lead. The knife he's let drop from its forearm sheath into his left hand finds its target unerringly, despite the blood running down his arm and already dripping off his fingers, and he's already moving for the next man before the first body hits the floor.
From there it's just a matter of keeping one body between himself and his soon to be next target, and by the time his own men come barreling in from two directions there are four more bodies leaking assorted fluids onto the expensive floor and Eliot's holding the fourth with a shattered arm pulled up tight behind his back and his broken nose pressed into the wall.
He doesn't tell anyone where Moreau Junior is, and makes a point of walking past the room he's barricaded himself into, issuing orders loudly about clearing the house room by room, checking the perimeter and the security tapes, before he'll tell anyone where the boss is. Hopefully the kid's smart enough and not too damn spoiled to take the hint and stay out of sight until Eliot's made absolutely sure no one else is going to crawl out of the woodwork and try to put a bullet in his head.