This is my entry for week 28 of the Finish The Story Contest, created by 
Revenge of Yayo Che In the dawn of the Peruvian Jungle landscape, a Sendero Luminoso member spotted five OH-6 Cayuse helicopters but waived the anti-aircraft to not launch their load – the soldier radioed in that they finally came and to approach the compound. In these five helis, paratroopers were carrying Russian AK74s and were armoured up. In the leading one, a certain lass finishes her cigar, then picks up the radio and begins to drum up a blood frenzy:
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"In Cuba, the Cubans celebrate a hero - name’s Che. In the World of drugs, we got our own Che – he of course went by many names like el Rey de Yayo, but we know him as Yayo Che. A heart in a heartless world, a spirit in spirit conditions and a sigh of us oppressed folk. Yet the World couldn’t stand this – so the World robbed us of him! Killed anyone that followed him! And humbled our pride!... But from the mud we rechristened our humbled pride, determined to show them gusanos what the dirt tastes and show them who the real cockroaches are! For if you mess with us, you’re messing with the BEST! And today marks… El Día de Juicio!”
As she released her radio, she heard from the radio static chants of “!Yayo Che!” and “!El Día de Juicio!” She saw from the dashboard that they were closing in to the compound, the place of theculo that ordered the hit – the Cuban Government intel was correct and she owned them a solid. Funny that they supported her endeavors, but she stopped laughing internally when she realized that political maneuvers and combatting La CIA influence was priority when it came to these matters. Considering this mission as her main payment to the Cubans, she snapped her mag into the AK74 and racked it.
Approaching closer, the pilot asked when to start popping the missiles and rain the lead thunder – her only reply being was “on my signal.” The pilot saluted and began to steer the OH-6 Cayuse into combat formation, resulting in the other helis following suit – she radioed in to the pilots to prepare for contact with anti-air craft and to rain hell, then she ordered to hang and kick the assassin’s corpse out. Moments later seeing her command followed, the pilot asked one last question before they got danger-close:
“¿Estás listo, Yayo Che?”
“¡Sí! Let the lead thunder start hammering the World! Let ‘em know El Día de Juicio!”
Soon she and her paratroopers parachuted and began their descent into the Jungle, there was no coming back and now they had to put all their hearts into it. She briefed all of them a million times on what was to be expected, the ins and outs of the compound and aid from el Sendero Luminoso – they were all going to move as one Arm, one Heart and one Spirit, for they had nothing to lose and everything to gain. El Día de Juicio truly began.
* * *
Director Malvers leaned back in his chair when the door flew open, nearly ripped from its hinges by a well-placed kick.
"It was unlocked," he said dryly.
The Lass strode into the room, followed by eleven comrades, all rouged in the smut of battle. They wore it well, their scorched, bloodied fatigues and many weeping wounds badges of honor. As expected, they'd encountered heavy resistance, both from army personnel and an alarming number of CIA contractors. But they'd come prepared. The pitched and desperate skirmishes which followed were really just bloody formalities. Inch by inch and room by room, the compound had been purged.
The Lass unrolled a Havana from the cuff of her shirt and lit up. They all fell silent as the ring she blew rose heavenward, then heaved a collective sigh when it broke against the ceiling.
"Your assassination attempt was clumsy," she remarked. "Typical CIA blundering. We got everything we needed from your dog before we put him down. You're finished here."
"It's cute that you think so," Malvers chuckled. "You've overrun one installation. We'll build more. You're nothing but a scrubby pack of criminals. Just a scab on the face of civilization... one we can peel away again every few years."
The Lass raised the cigar to her lips. But instead of drawing in another pull, she blew. Hard. A soft thwip sounded and a tiny dart lodged in Malvers's cheek. The director stiffened up at once and then slumped sideways. He struck the floor with a dusty thud.
The Lass crouched down beside him and fished a small, white capsule from his mouth. "Cyanide," she remarked, and slipped it in her pocket. "He was going to bite down on it at the last moment."
Malvers was in agony, his entire body burning, as though he were aswarm with fire ants. He longed to scream, to writhe, but he couldn't stir a muscle, that paralysis worse even than the pain. He couldn't even blink.
"Potent, yes?" she smirked. "And swift! I bet as soon as you felt the prick you tried to bite down."
He had indeed tried to bite down on the capsule. But he'd been too slow. Too damn slow, and now he was in hell.
"You almost destroyed us once," she said. "But you weren't willing to commit the resources to finish the job. And you imagined, in your arrogance, that we would never strike back."
The Lass delved a sticker sheet from her breast pocket; commemorative postage stamps of Che Guevara. She peeled one away and slipped it beneath Malvers's tongue.
Malvers could feel it dissolving, the paper breaking down into a sour, hissing foam. God only knew what they'd soaked it in.
He got a clue a moment later when the Lass leaned in still closer.
"You're not the only ones," she whispered, "to experiment with mind control."
* * *
Seventy-two hours later Malvers was seen boarding a plane for home. He was carrying a single suitcase.
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