"One of these days Preach," Tunde's shadow was tall against the old stone wall. He spoke in hushed tones. "I'm gonna get yer t' bloody laugh." Clip slamming into his carbine; he crouched with rifle at the ready.
He was bold lines and dark skin, fervent rage hidden behind jocular smiles and raunchy jokes. The accent thick on his lips marked him from the wrong side of London. Master, the other men called him. A testament to the Jujitsu academy he had owned and taught in the same neighborhood he was raised. Sturdy, broad shoulders and starkly distinct chest muscles spoke to his physical prowess. In their downtime he had taught Nigel simple throws and methods of disarming an attacker hand-to-hand.
His entire family had been slain in the London bombings. The Church had deemed certain neighborhoods in London beyond redemption. They dropped guided smart-bombs strategically on apartment buildings throughout the projects.
A divine race war, with Tunde and his Nigerian relatives on the wrong side.
He wore the flag of Great Britain on his shoulder, like Nigel. He liked the man. But he had never openly expressed it.
During Basic the men all eagerly recounted tales in any free moment had between training. It was their favorite subject. Why they had enlisted. Why they fought when their foe seemed insurmountable.
After all, the hand of the almighty favored SoGA.
All had stories they were anxious to voice. Except for him. At most he spoke an affirmative of orders.
Even now, in the thick of deployment with this man he had known since before Basic, he barely uttered a word. Most times it was monosyllabic, following pregnant pauses.
He had gained his reputation in battle though.
"On three y'do yer thing, eh Preach?"
Nigel nodded.
"One."
His knuckles blanched as fingers gripped the stock taut.
"Two."
His eyelids descended to confirm the visage of the Chowdhury's execution in the blackness.
"Three."
It wasn't accuracy more than blatant disregard for his life. The carbine emptied rounds at a zealous pace when he broke cover, scattering the SoGA gathered behind a sand-bag piled embattlement. Three fell to his attack, the remainder firing bullets that ricocheted futilely when Nigel lowered to reload.
At the time, he was certain this was his path to salvation.
He was bold lines and dark skin, fervent rage hidden behind jocular smiles and raunchy jokes. The accent thick on his lips marked him from the wrong side of London. Master, the other men called him. A testament to the Jujitsu academy he had owned and taught in the same neighborhood he was raised. Sturdy, broad shoulders and starkly distinct chest muscles spoke to his physical prowess. In their downtime he had taught Nigel simple throws and methods of disarming an attacker hand-to-hand.
His entire family had been slain in the London bombings. The Church had deemed certain neighborhoods in London beyond redemption. They dropped guided smart-bombs strategically on apartment buildings throughout the projects.
A divine race war, with Tunde and his Nigerian relatives on the wrong side.
He wore the flag of Great Britain on his shoulder, like Nigel. He liked the man. But he had never openly expressed it.
During Basic the men all eagerly recounted tales in any free moment had between training. It was their favorite subject. Why they had enlisted. Why they fought when their foe seemed insurmountable.
After all, the hand of the almighty favored SoGA.
All had stories they were anxious to voice. Except for him. At most he spoke an affirmative of orders.
Even now, in the thick of deployment with this man he had known since before Basic, he barely uttered a word. Most times it was monosyllabic, following pregnant pauses.
He had gained his reputation in battle though.
"On three y'do yer thing, eh Preach?"
Nigel nodded.
"One."
His knuckles blanched as fingers gripped the stock taut.
"Two."
His eyelids descended to confirm the visage of the Chowdhury's execution in the blackness.
"Three."
It wasn't accuracy more than blatant disregard for his life. The carbine emptied rounds at a zealous pace when he broke cover, scattering the SoGA gathered behind a sand-bag piled embattlement. Three fell to his attack, the remainder firing bullets that ricocheted futilely when Nigel lowered to reload.
At the time, he was certain this was his path to salvation.