Jason Jones and the Frigid North

Jason Jones braked sharply as a flock of ducks shot over a rise, completely blocking his vision. After surviving his drive through the streets of Quebec City, having only dinged two parked cars and a mailbox, he'd gotten about two hours of driving on the route south, counting a half-hour's break in a parking lot. (He was a little stressed.) As he braked for the ducks, the car went into a skid, throwing itself off the side of the road and into an elm. Jason survived, securely seat-belted and airbag-cushioned, with only a few bruises. The car's engine block took it rather worse.

Jason pushed the passenger-side door open and clambered up, jumping out of the tilted, ruined, smoking car. Looking it over, he thought to himself, I would have had to get rid of it soon anyway - that cop probably got the license - but this isn't really the method I would have preferred. Shrugging, he threw the car keys on top of it and stepped back to scan the skyline. I could hitch a ride if I have to, but... Ah! That looks like a barn, just barely visible. Hopefully I can find better transportation there.

-

A half-hour's walk and a quick climb later, Jason Jones crouched in the raft of the old barn, trying to be a stealthy as he could manage. (It wasn't really something he'd practiced.) Moments later, five men and two women walked into the barn, foretold by their heavy footsteps. Their idle chit-chat stopped as a man with a trenchcoat called them to order: "Arrêt. Il est temps de commencer." They gathered in a rough circle, with the man in the trenchcoat standing somewhat outside the circle, towards Jason; probably the leader of the group, Jason surmised. He'd entered the barn looking for transportation, but had heard the group's approach as he looked around, giving him just enough time to climb to his current hiding place.

"Cette réunion de front de libération du Québec viendra pour passer commande. Est-ce que les pistolets sont en place?" Jason, though unable to follow most of the sentence, noticed two key things: de front de libération du Québec, which sounded like a terrorist group, and the word pistolets. His suspicions on the latter were confirmed when one of the women went over to the far corner of the barn and, after rustling about in several burlap sacks, produced an armful of semiautomatic weapons. "Oui, ils sont ici," she said to the group.

At the sight of the guns, though, Jason started - not enough to fall off the barn loft, but enough to knock a clod of dirt falling, falling, falling directly onto the leader's head.

The leader turned. "Y a-t-il quelqu'un là? Is someone there?" Behind him, the other of the women laughed. "Vous êtes paranoïde. Il n'y a personne là." Jason held stock still as the leader cursed at the woman and then, as he began to climb the ladder, Jason crept slowly back. Carefully he posed, adrenaline beginning to pump through his veins; then, as the trenchcoat-wearing man reached the top and began to exclaim in surprise, Jason lashed out with a foot and kicked him off the ladder. Moments later, there was an unpleasant crack, as he hit the ground from rather too high, rather too fast.

The group below immediately began shouting at each-other rapidly; impossible to follow what they were saying. Jason crept to the back of the barn and looked out the window; it was a high fall, but there were some rather old-looking hay bales lined up along the wall. Jason took a breath and shoved himself out the window; the sound of his fall was drowned out by bursts of gunfire, shredding the loft that Jason had just left.

Footsteps could be heard from within, moving in all directions. When another man came out, Jason had barely enough time to react, swinging two quick blows in. The first hit; the man grabbed Jason's wrist before the second could connect and shouted "Ici!" Jason looked at him for a tense moment, then kneed him in the crotch, head-butted him, and pressed a nerve in his right arm in quick succession. Jason's opponent crumpled to the ground, and Jason joined him a moment later as more gunfire ripped out from the barn, cutting through the rear barn wall at torso-height. Jason rolled to one end of the barn and got to his feet as one of the women rounded the corner. Jason tried a quick kick, pulling it back as she reached out and swinging a right hook which she neatly deflected with a side-step and interposed arm. Jason took a moment to catch his breath, watching his opponent warily; when the second woman hit him from behind, knocking him to the ground with a heavy tackle, he barely retained the presence of mind to roll with the blow, throwing his assailant into the first woman. They both went down in a heap, and as Jason's first opponent attempted to rise, Jason stepped on her hand, pressed, and twisted. Jason had never felt more alive then he did in the heart of combat.

The two women stopped moving; Jason thought that they probably could, but didn't like their chances while he was still standing. Jason bent down to grab the women's guns; an act which most likely saved his life, as the bullets from the two gunmen behind him wounded his shoulder, not his vitals. Accelerated by the bullet, Jason fell backwards behind the barn wall, snagging one of the women's guns as he did so. Aiming carefully with the unfamiliar weapon, (Jason having never used a firearm before) he fired through the thin barn wall to where he expected the gunmen would be. The recoil startled him, and he fired no more than a short burst; but, to his surprise, heard no response.

Looking at the women he'd thrown down (who were staying carefully still), Jason peeked quickly around the corner; and found the two gunmen lying on the ground, shot in the legs and raising their hands in surrender. The fight had gone out of the group. Jason had defeated an entire terrorist cell. He was exultant; victory pumped through his veins. Then a sudden worry cooled his ardor: he'd defeated six of the Québécois. Where was the seventh?

Jason collected weapons from each of his fallen foes, then walked into the barn, blinking as his eyes readjusted to the dimness. Once he'd gotten his sight back, he saw the remains of the trench-coat wearing leader; and another, the last of the terrorists, apparently fallen beneath the ladder. When the terrorists had searched for him after Jason dove out the loft window, this man had climbed the ladder to see if he was still in the loft; and the ladder had broken away under his weight, pinning him to the ground.

Jason's triumph returned in full measure. He sauntered over to the corner, put most of his weapons into the burlap sack which had held them before (surprisingly heavy - there was something else inside), and wandered in the direction from which the terrorists came. Several cars were parked in a close area; one of them still had the keys in the ignition. Jason flung the sack in the back and shot off, driving a car stolen from terrorists (while, it should be noted, he still hardly knew how to drive) with a sack of illegal weapons and far too much confidence. Jason had just killed a man, and he'd never been happier.