Chapter 2

The second chapter of Ripper.

Bayton Lane, Yeadon, Leeds, 2016

It was the dead of the night. Jackson was waiting on Yeadon Moor Road for nearly an hour, waiting for the van to cross his path. 
"I'm in position, Oliver. Where is our mystery van?" 
"It's coming up, Sir. It should cross your current position in 3, 2, 1..." 
"I see it!"
As soon as the van went past him, he started his motorcycle and tailed it, being wary of the wing mirrors. He took out one of his modified revolver pistols, which he had been carrying since 1952, and fired a few rounds into the tyres. The rubber popped, but the wheels still rolled, albeit at a reduced pace. 
Bulletproof tyres, thought Jackson. 
Obviously, the driver had taken notice of the assailant. He instructed the men to open the van doors. They took machine guns and started to fire at Jackson. One could see that they weren't your average thugs. They had military-esque armour, so they looked like paramilitary, but there was an insignia on their chests that Jackson had seen before, but couldn't remember where on first sight.

Taking both of his hands off of the handle bar, he took his revolvers and fired at the men. There were eight men in the van, excluding the driver. Since all of them had machine guns, this would be very tricky. He fired all eight shots with blinding speed, all of the bullets travelling straight through the barrel of the guns of his adversaries, rendering them useless. 
In less than half a second. 
He proceeded to leap off his bike, launching himself into the van. Firearms wouldn't do the trick here. He would have to rely on his fists and knives.

He slammed the head of one of the men into the side of the vehicle. He knocked another man out with one punch to the forehead. A spin-kick took out another. His technique was both graceful and brutal, throwing punches and kicks with precision that would shame most professional mixed martial artists. He threw knives at four other men, making sure that the blade's handle hit their temple with enough force to render them inert. 
The final one was scared out of his wits. He backed away slowly from Jackson, who looked thoroughly menacing with his black face scarf and hood. His heartbeat rose. His blood turned to ice. His thought process began to shut down, as his mind was overcome by one of the most basic, yet inescapable emotions known to man. 
Fear. 
Jackson walked up to him slowly. He took out one of the revolvers and smashed it into the man's neck, knocking him out instantly. He proceeded to go to the van doors and grab the roof of the van, flipping himself up onto the roof with nothing but momentum and brute strength. From the roof, he vaulted onto the bonnet, barely holding on. With a death-defying stunt, he shot the windscreen of the car a few times, before he pulled himself straight through the windshield of the van. 
Oddly enough he landed in the seat right next to the driver, whose eyes widened. Jackson slammed his head on the steering wheel, unbuckled his seat belt, opened the van door and shoved him straight out of the van, over the stone walls beside the road, and into the grass below. 
Jackson got out of the moving van and jumped over the stone wall. The driver of the van was obviously dazed, and made no major efforts to get away from Jackson. Jackson walked up to him and planted his foot on his chest, to make sure that he couldn't get away. 
"Whom do you work for?" he bellowed, a mobile voice distortion device (or, as Oliver likes to call it, the MVDD) disguising his identity even further. 
"Why should I tell you anything?" 
Jackson took out one of his revolvers and pointed it at the driver's head. 
"Because of this." 
The driver laughed. 
Jackson pressed his foot harder, the driver could barely breath. 
"What do you find so funny?" 
"It's just that, I saw what you did there through the peephole. You couldn't even bear to kill a man, even when they were holding bloody machine guns to your empty head. And you think that I'm going to believe that you're going to shoot me now?" 
The driver started to laugh again. 
Jackson stomped his foot, breaking a few of the driver's ribs. 
"I asked you a question!" 
"And here's my answer." said the driver, struggling to breath. He grabbed a nearby gun that had flown out of the van during the commotion and pointed it at his own head. 
"Don't you-" 
And he pulled the trigger. 
The sound was deafening, considering it was a pretty quiet night in general in Yeadon. Thankfully, there weren't many people to hear the shot, except for maybe a farmer and a few sheep. The farmer was a very heavy sleeper and had just finished a bottle of whisky, so he didn't wake up even to the gunshot. The sheep fled. 
Jackson looked down at the body. The grass beside the former van driver's head was soaked in blood. Jackson inspected the insignia on the man's arm. And suddenly, he recognized the symbol. It was a red letter 'A', inside a huge circle, or the letter 'O', also red. 
Anarchy, thought Jackson.

Author's Note

How fun is it?

Reviews

[The Lost Ghost]

Reads just like an action movie! Quick action, but doesn't feel forced, or like anything is missing. Flows quite smooth.