Chapter 9 or the ass kicking adventures of the super ass kicking spies based off the politics regulars. Ass is kicked

Two nights ago:
Eight men kneel, bound and gagged at their place of work. In front and behind them both armed men stand in position. The automatic weapons slung loosely over tensed shoulders give the air of a secure readiness. Their faces while almost uniformly hard-bitten bear no zealotry or joy at their task. This adds shock to the already horrific glee on the man joining them.
Father Venom struts through the loading bay door flanked by two attendants. The door behind them closes with that very certain metallic clunk. His eyes are lazy behind sunglasses that cost more than some men's cars. His clothes are tightly tailored and simply extravagant in that way only the truly rich know how to show. He clicks to a stop several paces in front of the doomed men, smiles with hastily gathered satisfaction.
"Can we be heard from here?" he asks the air.
"No sir," He's answered by the man to his left. "The building is completely sealed."
"Very good." The words roll in his mouth with some pleasing flavor. "Interruptions would not do at all. Gun!"
The man who answered his inquiry holds out his briefcase undoes it's fastenings. As it opens light shines upon a classically inlaid Luger. Fanciful designs dance upon the precious metals of it's outer casing. This piece had never seen war. This piece had been made to present to some noble or dignitary and sit behind glass. It was never meant to be fired but through the pride of true craftsman ready it ever was. And today is it's day.
Venom picks up the weapon calmly and gives the handle in his grip a loving squeeze. With a harsh motion the chamber is loaded and with a dramatic flair of his arm the weapon is aimed. His first shot strikes straight and true into the head of the first bound man. The others, shaken from their frightened stupors yell through their gags. Venom cocks his head back and laughs, adding a timber to the baseline. The next man dies from a strike to the heart, slumping over long before the blood gets to well on his shirt. The next two are mirror piece headshots, one to the left eye and the next to the right eye. When the next man strains against his bonds all it does is earn him a clean hit to his jugular. This time blood comes before the death. The sixth man takes a bullet between the eyes but to be honest closer to one than the other.
A moment of study follows. The forgiveness of the imprecision displeases Father Venom. He sneers as if among the spoils of dead men something smells bad. With a sigh he takes several steps back, more than doubling the range of his next shot. His attendants join him dutifully, if only because he wouldn't wait for them. He cocks his arm straight and considers his quarry. The man who has just seen six of his fellows die strains against his bounds, frantically tipping and flexing. His movement is complicating the shot.
"Hold him!." Father Venom screams. After a moment of silent deliberations one of the soldiers closest to the victims volunteers and grips the man below each shoulder, gripping tight against his desperation. Venom takes the time to enjoy this stability. He lines his shot up and fires. The man is hit in the upper abdomen. He cries futilely. From this death will come, but not immediately. Whether or not this was the intent will never be known to another soul. He's simply pleased with the hit.
One target remains. He opts for folly. "Untie him."
"Sir?" his attendant asks.
"I grow bored of sitting targets. Untie this man.. I will shoot as he runs. If he proves more a quarry than I a marksman mayhaps I'll even let him go! Do you like that thought, little man?" It's assumed his moans are agreement.
"Sir, this is highly irregular. If on the off chance this man gets loose he could jeopardize the entire operation. He could identify us."
Father Venom points towards the lackey with his gun and casually inquires "How would he do that? We are not wearing nametags, François." As if in shock he brings his free hand to his mouth. "Oh no! I have said your name. Your identity is compromised and this imperils the mission!" He smiles grimly. As soon as Françoise has the chance to know his fate it is carried out. The final round in Father Venom's weapon passes upward through his heart and he's watched as his body falls. Venom expends the spent magazine over the man without a drop of malice and it bounces against his belly.
"Magazine!" His remaining attendant behaves professionally in presenting a fresh load to his employer. As it snaps into place he turns his attention back to captive audience. "Untie him."
The soldier who had been holding the last man undoes the bonds and steps aside. The last of these poor souls shakes with unrelenting awareness. He knows how this ends. He say how it ended for the others. He knows there's no way it cannot end the same for him. Despite all this, whatever it is that fuels a human compels him to stand.
Father Venom speaks without ever parting the teeth behind his grin. "Run." The man turns and runs a few scant steps before a burning hits his side. He grasps the wound on instinct and looks back to his killer. "Yes, I am still here, move along." He does so and almost makes it to the door before another round finds his upper thigh. He grunts through the pain and manages to turn the knob, hobbling through. Father Venom follows, cheerfully mimicking the mans limp. He takes another shot that comes right about the man's ear. His own fault for shooting in motion. With wanton determination he whips off his golden frames for clarity. His foe starts for the corner and a round catches in the bone of his shoulder. He presses against the wall in an animalistic attempt to keep moving, to keep alive even as his own mind screams at him that it cannot be. His hunter follows but he does not hear the footsteps. All he knows is his path. He barely knows his good leg has been taken from under him until he falls. Still he will not have the sense to die. Somehow he musters strength in his good arm to shakingly lift his head from the floor, only to have it fly back downwards. In this he is finally dead and entertainment
"I trust you lot can work around the holes." Father Venom says casually as he makes his way out, accompanied by his now lone assistant, "If you need me I will return to London." He waves his gun in a slow circle across the room. "Is there any man here who should not know of me in London?" No one is stupid enough to answer. "Very well." As such he goes along his way.

Today:

Information lifted from the would be kidnapper had proven to be good, leading to the staging area for something much larger. Over the weekend a Sol Solutions storage depot had been overtaken, the few maintenance staff dealt with "efficiently." Calls from loved ones were answered saying they'd left as normal. The ruse wouldn't last long. It was never meant to.
Bullets bite into the wood of the packing crate with the sound of a loud cough. In the instant between bursts Staff springs from his shelter and one shot answers many. He returns to his position pinned under fire as more guards spill through door.
Across the complex the man guarding a door needs only to turn away from it for a second for D.K to slam it open over him, shattering his nose against the cement wall. D.K takes this excuse for a man up with one arm and holds it in front of himself as others come to answer the commotion. One by one they're chopped down, some lasting long enough to return fire, which at least serves to stop his shield from kicking.
Some distance away Seven's motorcycle hums as she comes up behind the procured delivery truck that had not stopped for police sirens. She swerves out of the way as another burst of submachine gun fire dances onto the road. Drawing her pistol she fires and the body of a man dangles from the window and eventually falls out of it, fatefully forcing her to swerve again. A call comes in on her headset.
"What?"
Staff's voice is barely audible over the roar of gunfire. "We're being herded. We need backup."
Seven sighs in dissatisfaction. . "I'll be there." She synchs with Wizard on the road ahead.
"Hola."
"They're going to have to be all yours." The plan had been to flank it and force the stop from both ends.
"I appreciate your faith in me." Even over the grainy connection the swarthy arrogance is clear. There's time to deal with that later.
"Out." She turns sharply and without slowing. No way they're getting the satisfaction of dieing on her watch.
Back at the depot men are arming themselves en masse in a makeshift armory. In the center of the room a seal from the ventilation shaft crashes down with R.G on top of it. Ducking into a spin he opens a cone of fire with his twin mp7s without aiming, without needing to. Several men are taken down by the sheer volume of fire. The few that remain rush to the hallway to at least put up a fight. R.G, forgoing his usual suit and now dressed in bare armor recalling his S.W.A.T days drops his spent machine guns and draws two Glocks from chest holders, setting each on full auto. He dives into the hallway, arms stretched, firing at anyone careless enough to be there. Upon landing he rolls into a ready kneel. One lays dead from his attack and one other lives. With mechanical precision a burst is sent into the mans back, just low of the right shoulder. He falls, crying out from the sheer pain. R.G seems unaffected.
Staff's shelter is failing. Multiple volleys have eaten away at the crate and left his fate to whatever's inside. Lying in wait is all he can do. He has a gun in both hands, ready. Across the room Pro is in very much the same position, knowing better than anyone that the machinations must have their time and place. Of course being shot at didn't help his deep contemplations.
Outside an open shipping container makes a perfect incidental ramp. Seven guns her bike and hurls herself at the window. Even as it crashes around her she never closes her eyes. Her helmet and tight riding leathers protect her body from the shards of glass. Just as she hit's the floor Pro's perfectly timed flash bang bursts behind her, blinding the distracted foes. Swerving to a stop she opens fire as both Pro and Staff do the same from their posts, laying waste. It's a shame the term shock and awe is taken, as Pro is known to say.
The two men emerge and rush to Seven as an advancing front. Once the scene seems clear Staff dials up the others. D.K pronounces his health, verbosely, one might add, but there's no answer from R.G. Lowe pronounces that his channel is fine. "Damn it." He mutters mostly to himself. He could have known not to let him back in the field this soon. If the idiot threw himself in and got himself killed this was on his head. He tells the others to stay here. Seven thinks better about reminding him of the chain of command right now and allows him to go off playing cowboy. She knows the last thing he's going to be stupid about is someone else's life.
R.G stands over the wounded assailant with an iced glare. "What do you know? Who are you?" He gets only pained gasps as an answer. "You can do better than that." He kneels down, pressing the barrel of his pistol onto an existing wound, causing blood to well around it.
From the other side of the hall he hears a loud "NO!" He whips his arm around and his free gun is staring straight down Staff's revolver. "We don't do that."