Pro tip: for any sort of operation, covert or otherwise, you need to have contingency plans. As the saying goes, you hope for the best, but prepare for the worst. And while it’s impossible to plan for every single little thing that might go wrong, you can narrow things down a little. Once you rule out the impossible and the merely improbable, you should be left with three or four worst case scenarios that could ruin the whole thing. If you get more than that, the mission is probably screwed, and it’s time to try something new. If you can’t think of any, you lack imagination and shouldn’t be planning operations in the first place. 

Take our mission, for instance. The most obvious point of failure was being spotted. On the way in, on the way out, whatever. It all comes to about the same thing: drop all stealth, and fight like hell. Next most likely was that one or the other parties could decide not to show. Still pretty basic. Overwhelm the ones who did, leave one or two alive and mostly intact for questioning. If there were more enemies than we could safely handle ourselves, we could always hang back, call for backup, and ride in with the cavalry. 

Each of those possible scenarios was supplied with a code word, something easy enough to say that wouldn’t give any hints if we were overheard: Monkey, Dog, and Archer, respectively. Say it once if the situation hasn’t gone to hell, yell it three times if it has. 

So what does Flag mean?

Flag means we walked into a trap. Somehow, some way, they knew we were coming. Instead of fighting a surprised and disorganized enemy, we had to fight a prepared one who had time to set up countermeasures. The only option then was to get the hell out, and fast. 

That was all fine and dandy for Cora and Edgar, but me? I was pinned to the roof like a butterfly on a cork board. 

“MOTHERFUCKER!” I bellowed as the pain set in. 

Nothing hurts quite like being stabbed. The physical agony is bad enough. It felt like Zeus himself had speared me through the lower back with a lightning bolt that alternated between fire and ice so fast, I could scarcely tell the difference. But even that can’t compare with the sheer alien wrongness of having a foreign object lodged in your body. 

Every muscle in my torso cramped, all at once, as though trying to expel the intruder by force. In practice, they locked so tight around it, I was nearly jerked off the ground as my would-be murderer tried to yank it free. I roared again and tried to push myself off the roof.   

“Now now, little Hunter,” my attacker said as she planted a boot in the back of my neck. I crashed into the ground again, the wind driven from my lungs by the force of the impact. “Be a good boy and die for Mommy, okay?”

“Oh HELL no,” I gasped, breathless. 

“Was that backtalk? We can’t have that now, can we?”

I screamed. No manly defiance in this one, just sheer agony and terror as she twisted her blade. Another pro tip: if someone has you skewered, it’s okay to scream. Scream and cry and piss yourself if you have to. When you’re fighting for your life, you bring to bear every single tool at your disposal, and nothing gives flagging muscles strength quite like sheer, unadulterated terror. Don’t try to be brave. Give into it, and fight like hell. Dignity is all fine and dandy when you’re walking up the gallows, but if you’ve still got a shot, fuck dignity. 

Near as I could tell, there was exactly one route out of this trap that didn’t involve a body bag. I still had my shiny new Glock 40 in a chest rig, and since I was basically laying on it, there was a decent chance my attacker hadn’t seen it yet. 

With my left hand, I clawed desperately at the boot on my neck. Basic geometry suggested my attacker’s footing was awkward. I’m tall as hell, and with the sword or bayonet or whatever in my lower back (attempted kidney shot, maybe?) and the other foot on the ground, there was no way they were securely planted. I didn’t think I could fight her off, but I could make her work to keep her footing. What’s more, if I could figure out which way her toes were pointing, I could make an educated guess about where she was standing, relative to me. 

“That’s enough,” she snapped, kicking my hand away. “Mommy doesn’t like it when you struggle.”

The sword twisted again, this time in the other direction. I screamed, again, and had to fight the urge to black out. But, I had what I needed to fight back. 

I didn’t have to work all that hard to act like I was thrashing around in pain, because that’s exactly what I was doing. But I wasn’t thrashing without purpose. My right hand touched the butt of my Glock. It was now or never. 

With every ounce of strength I had left, I rolled over onto my right shoulder. 

“What the-” Mommy dearest exclaimed. 

Apparently I had more in me than I thought, as her cavalry saber was ripped out of her grip. She turned, shock and surprise etched on a startlingly pretty face, just in time to see my muzzle rise. 

The sound of 10mm gunshots ripped the night apart. That close to my face, I was blinded, deafened, and pummeled by the muzzle blast. I didn’t care, I kept pulling the trigger until the magazine ran dry. 

My vision faded just long enough to see the crumpled form on the rooftop, motionless. And then the world spun, once, and went black.