Anything... Everything... Canada - Community

Jack Phillip Marx stepped out from the shade of the small doorway under the sign 'London's Finest Fish n' Chips' and into the blustery English midday. The sun was high overhead in the sky as the famous Big Ben clock tower resounded the deep, echoing notes of noon in the distance over the water of the Thames. Marx, easily marked as a tourist with his handy disposable camera, wondered amazed at the atmosphere around him. Being accustomed to the busy, crime-ridden streets of New York, the American police officer had been taken by surprise with the relatively friendly atmosphere of the country across 'the pond', but his professional instincts still warned him of the obvious; crime was evident in every country, even one where the citizens where supposedly not allowed to carry firearms.

Standing just under six feet, the fit young American had already given four years of service to his beloved New York, just now losing his 'rookie' mark and having established himself as a competent and even exemplary police officer, Jack Marx had been delighted to be chosen as one of the very few younger cops to take part in the Annual International Law Enforcement Convention in London, England, where he would hear several prominent law enforcement departments heads from around Europe and America speak on the practice, future, and advancement of his chosen trade. But that was all for the next few days, thought Marx; right now he had the whole day to compare his usual New York slop to the delectable delicacies he'd heard rumored of in London. He chewed happily on a mouthful of deep- fried codfish and tarter sauce as he turned the corner onto Hampton Street, following the crowd of Londoners in what appeared to be a pretty good side of town. Not that good, His instincts told him a second later, as he heard a woman's high scream behind him. He turned quickly, ready to drop the warm platter should the danger . . .

"Duck!" He shouted, throwing the fish n' chips aside as he leapt to the pavement, seconds before the first of the shots rang out. Bullets whistled over his head as he saw the gunman, apparently alone, level the shotgun for a second blast. He rolled, hard to his left and into the street behind a small car parked on the curb, his right hand smacking his hip instinctively for the pistol that was usually there. Damn it!

"Somebody help me! Please! Oh God!" he heard a woman's voice cry out, somewhere in front of him and to his right. The same direction as the gunman, he risked a quick glance from behind the right tire of the car before ducking back into cover.

The man with the shotgun stood at a slight crouch, aiming the weapon and weaving his head in the direction of a building whose address Marx couldn't discern. The woman who had shouted had probably ducked inside, and the policeman wondered, amazed at what offense she had committed to anger this obviously crazed killer. He decided to risk another glimpse of the chaotic scene, but as he leaned slightly out from behind the car, a heavy boot landed on his back, pinning his body to the ground. He froze.

"Bewegen Sie nicht!" A deep voice commanded from high above him. "Don't move!" Came the translation a second later, thickly accented.

"I'm just a bystander, I haven't . . ." Jack began slowly, his voice strangely calm for the situation around him. Who the hell was this?

"Seien Sie ruhig!" The German cut him off roughly. Marx had just pinned the guttural language as the next command came with enough force to shut him up. The American was lying on his back, partially exposed from behind the car with a slight glimpse of the shotgun-wielding maniac as he lifted the weapon and shouted something else in German. He sounded very angry. The man pinning Marx shifted his weight a second and spoke across to the first shooter.

"Wo ist sie?" but the first killer replied in English.

"In the fucking building, come over here."
The boot shifted again and the German killer commanded;

"Get up, quickly, keep your hands in the open!" Marx obeyed, feeling the pressure lift from his back as he slowly lifted himself off the pavement. He rose with his hands at ear-level, palms outward, like in the movies. He felt himself pushed hard towards the awaiting shotgun-man, who looked annoyed.

"Who is that?" He asked as Marx was shoved into the wall of the building. He caught a glimpse of the sign 'London Financial Consulting Firm' but no address before the killer behind him replied;

"Security. Now let's go get her and be off." Marx winced as a powerful hand grasped the back of his shirt and pulled him off the wall and towards the bank firm. I'm a hostage.

Inside the doors yet another gunman was present, like the others wearing a thin ski mask with eye and mouth-holes. Marx noted silently that they were all Caucasian males, apparently German Moncler Men's Vests, and used domestic weapons, and not the terrorist favorite machine guns. The first street gunner held his shotgun, a 12 gauge with a homemade sawed off barrel while the man in the lobby of the firm held the patrons and secretaries in check with a small handgun of some sort, probably a Heckler and Koch. The police officer could only speculate as to what the man behind him had, but he didn't care to turn and find out.

"Ms. Kexer," The first killer asked the terrified lobby quietly. Marx' captor pushed him roughly to the ground and whispered;

"Shut up and stay there." Marx nodded up at him, scanning his attire; black clothes, like the rest of them, and he held a 12 gauge, as well, the same model, by the look of it, a Remington.

"Ms. Kexer, we have many people out here who are very anxious to see you, and we three grow impatient with your games." The first masked man continued, addressing the woman who had screamed moncler coats, probably. So there are only three of you, Marx thought, and probably at least one getaway car and driver nearby. The German continued to speak.

"If you do not give up this foolish charade soon, Ms. Kexer, I will be forced to do what none of us wants to happen." He said, moving towards a terrified woman crouched near the secretary's desk. Her pale blue eyes opened wide in horror as he reached down to grasp her by the collar of her shirt. He pulled her slowly to her feet, his eyes still scanning the room coldly; the hostage nearly fainted under his grip. "I have a woman here that very much wants to see you, Ms. Kexer; it would mean her life if you would only cooperate with us."

You fucking bastards! Marx' instincts screamed for him to do something, anything, but he was powerless as he saw the terrorists had all the right angles covered for an attempt at resistance. Damn it! Nearby, an overturned desk moved with a deafening groan in the silent lobby.

"Let her go, whoever you are," came a small voice from behind the overturned metal drawers, "I'm right here." The police officer watched silently as a short woman stood from behind the desk, her attractive features set in a look of heated revulsion and hate.

The terrorist with the woman, the leader, Marx had guessed, grinned through the fabric hole over his mouth, and tossed the trembling hostage aside, motioning to the second criminal to take the helpless 'Ms. Kexer' into custody.

"Gut. Number two; secure our exit." He said. The man with the pistol, 'number two', nodded quickly and sprinted off towards the doors, looking to insure the police hadn't descended upon their getaway vehicle. The second shotgun criminal, probably 'number three', had grabbed Kexer roughly by the arm and dragged her quickly towards his comrade, whose relaxed look of confidence at having completed his mission gave him the sense of ease to lower his weapon to his side. Marx gritted his teeth in hate at the man's arrogance, but he saw no chance. . .

Suddenly, the man escorting the woman tripped; it happened in a flash, and Marx couldn't quite tell whether the hostage had tripped him or not, but he instinctively sprang on the opportunity as the man stumbled by, searching for his footing. Marx was sitting a mere three feet from the terrorist as he began to fall, his back to the wall, the policeman pushed off with both hands and swept his left leg upwards and across the criminal's back leg, cracking the top of his foot hard into the man's shin, and taking the terrorist's balance out. He fell, his shotgun clattering to the floor, with a yell of pain as he crouched on reflex to clutch his shin. The girl leapt back and clear as Marx, already on his feet moncler giubbotti donna, saw the bewildered terrorist ringleader stare at him from across the room. Any second now he'll shoot, and that'll be the end of your little adventure, Jack . . . Marx thought to himself. He saw a glass ashtray on the table he'd been sitting under, and swept it up quickly, taking quick aim at his enemy's raising shotgun, and threw the heavy disc with all his might. Surprised, the killer yelped in pain as the projectile slammed into his cheek with the force of a punch. Marx was already across the room.

Jack Marx, being a police officer in one of the toughest cities for crime in the world, was by professional requirement trained in unarmed combat techniques for dealing with threats. Much of the tactics taught to police officers were borrowed from Brazilian Juijutsu and Aikido, two martial arts centered mostly on grapples, wrestling locks, and defensive throws and counters as well as a variety of special threat-disarming techniques, all of which could greatly assist a struggling officer in a street fight. Marx also, partly from necessity for toughness and partially for want of a hobby, had also taken five years of Muay Thai kickboxing training as well as some background instructions in Choy Lay Fut Kung Fu, so when the terrorist decided to try his quick draw with the sawed-off barrel shotgun, Jack was more than ready to meet him. As the shotgun continued to rise, Jack spun rapidly to his left, at the same time bringing his left forearm and fist down across the criminal's gun arm, knocking the weapon's barrel away from him. Continuing the spin, Marx had already brought his right arm up and around, elbowing the criminal full across the left side of his face as his left hand grasped the gun arm, sliding dow nto the man's wrist and pulling him violently into the direction of his spin with the momentum of the elbow, leading the off-balanced killer into his outstretched leg, tripping him and yanking the short shotgun to point up towards the ceiling.

Jack quickly secured the stunned man's gun arm, tearing the weapon away and slamming his fist with finality down into the dazed face as he turned, already looking for the first man he and the girl had tripped. He looked up just in time to see the Kexer woman swing a padded metal chair down onto his crouched form, knocking him out cold with the first terrorist Jack was leaning over. Jack gave the woman a surprised sort of smile, and the two both turned immediately to the front of the building where the man with the pistol had run off. He was nowhere in sight, probably waiting in one of the cars parked out front. Jack heard the familiar but distinctly foreign sounds of police sirens in the distance as he turned back to the hostage. Several people in the firm where beginning to get tentatively to their feet, amazed and bewildered at what had just happened, but the mysterious Ms. Kexer was not among them. The policeman looked quickly around, seeing relieved, now smiling faces all around, but not finding the terrorist's target in the crowd. Then he saw her, slipping stealthily through a pair of doors in the back of the large lobby.

"Hey! Get back here!" He yelled, handing the shotgun off to a confused Briton and taking off towards the closing door. Is this woman crazy? The police will need all of us, especially her, for questioning! He thought ugg boots wholesale, barreling through the doors.Topics related articles：

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