Sheepdog-18

In a quiet hanger at a municipal airport in the Chicago area, a handful of well-dressed men met around a table. On that table sat a conference-capable phone.

“Gentlemen,” said a voice, coming from that phone, “we have a problem. Approximately 12 hours ago, one of our pointmen and his counterparts with our associates failed to check in. According to local media, there was a firefight at the appointed rendezvous point and local law enforcement took out our operatives.”

The gathered men looked at each other, nodding their consensus.

“Our associates are not amused. They agree with us that an example must be made. That is why you are here.”

A young woman, attired for the head office, distributes file folders to the men assembled.

“Normally, we would leave this to our rough-and-tumble motorcycle enthusiast friends. This is not a normal situation. As the provided information shows, this incident involves an opponent whose skills and presence demands men of your caliber.”

The men look through the provided photographs and reports, and all of them seize upon the one photo showing The Sheriff with Ken, shaking hands.

“Clean up the mess, gentlemen. The one that brings in Ken’s head gets a $1 million bonus, paid in diamonds. Your luggage is already aboard the plane. You have all that you need to do the job, so get going.”

A similar briefing occurs in Montreal, at another municipal airport, and the Hell’s Angels put out the word of a mandatory ride to deal with the issue. Back at Guiscard’s place, Ken and the man sit in the back office when Guiscard gets a phone call. He listens, and then hangs up.

“They’re coming.” Guiscard said, “All three of them have sent cleaners here.”

“What’s their approach?” Ken got out his phone.

“The Synidicate and the Zetas are flying in.”

“Naturally, the Angels will just ride. The organized groups are being managed, and that photo op I did with The Sheriff will get them focused on me. You still have that old East European plane?”

Guiscard nodded.

“Get it ready. In the meantime, have your boys get my field kit ready.”

Ken dialed The Sheriff’s number, and soon the man picked up.

“It worked. They’re all coming. I want you to intercept the Angels. I have the other two.”

hung up and then hauled ass with Guiscard back to the airport, where the old Legionnaire kept an old ground-attack plane. The two men quickly got it ready to fly, and then up Ken went. He found first the Zetas’ plane.

Ken winged over and moved into an attack position. “Hello, Los Zetas! This is Ken, the man you came to kill. Unfortunately for all of you, I have God on my side and He warned me that you were on your way. If you have a problem with that, you shall soon be able to take up with Him yourselves.”

Then, without mercy, Ken shot the Zetas’ plane out of the sky. He circled a bit as it fell to the ground and collapsed into a flaming pile of debris. Ken repeated this stunt with the Syndicate’s hitmen, and then returned to the airport without incident. It was only after he got back to Guiscard’s hangar that he got any further news.

“The Sheriff reported one ambush while you were out. No causalities for us, so far.”

“The rest of their first wave will be just as easy to handle. Once word gets back to their bosses, then the real pain comes.”