The Rehabilitation Branch

February 29, 2011

"Whiskey six-one, package is nearly on site. What is your status and ETA?"

The driver retrieved the radio with one gloved hand, glancing at the rolex on his wrist before keying the handset. "ETA five mikes. Bingo tails and clear skies. Status on principle?"

"Impatient. He's outrunning his escorts. See you in five mikes."

"Roger. Out." He returned the handset to it's cradle, ending the short conversation. The driver rolled his neck, throwing a sideways look at the blanket-wrapped "equipment" in the passenger seat. A Caucasian military contractor cruising along cartel territory in an expensive limo was just asking for trouble, and it helped to keep contingencies close at hand.

Though, he had to admit the armored Bentley limo that the client paid for was comforting none the less. It made the drive along the coast a little bit more enjoyable despite the nerve-wracking job.

He pulled the big vehicle off the road and down a path that rose steadily to a hill overlooking the nearby beach. At the very top of the road, an impressive mansion rose above the rest of the scenery, visible for miles. Security was tight, and it took several minutes for the guards to clear the driver and wave him though, the large gates slamming shut behind.

Mister Torres was tapping his foot impatiently, though fortunately he was too busy screaming into a phone to take umbrage at the driver's slight lateness. He looked and acted rich - designer suit, picture-perfect hair and a fiery temper that would send his servants into flight if not for the beautiful payroll. Security quickly loaded the man into the limo and the client was out of sight and out of mind, leaving the driver with just his job.

But as fate would have it, some debris in the road tore a chunk out of the Bentley's rear tires and before long, the vehicle had to stop.

The driver took a deep breath. "Here we go..." He hit a switch on the console, lowering the wall separating Torres from the front seat. "Sir..."

"Ey, do I fucking look like I want to talk? Shut the fuck up and get the car moving, you fucking gringo."

He raised the wall. "Have it your way." The man killed the engine but left in the key - it would hopefully not take long. He opened the door and put a foot out, leaning over to grasp the bundle in the passenger seat. The blanket slipped off, revealing an unconscious man wearing the exact same uniform as the driver.

The "driver" checked the body's pulse and nodded. Even as he slammed the door Torres was oblivious, his form barely visible through the dark-tinted glass. The man walked over and rapped his knuckles on the window.

A moment later, the dark pane rolled down to reveal a scowling face. "What the fuck do you need this time, puta?" A heavy blow to the face left the man sputtering and clutching at his broken nose. The wealthy Mexican only stopped his groaning when his phone was neatly yanked from his fingers.

"Trade?" The American threw a nearly identical phone onto the cartel boss's lap, giving him a thumbs-up before turning on his heel and stepping away from the vehicle. He took off at an easy pace, humming to himself. Torres growled. A shaking hand dug into his blood-spattered jacket for his handgun. An impossibly wide grin filled the crime lord's features as Torres raised the Glock, aiming for the center of the traitor's back.

The man pulled a small green object from his pocket. He flicked a metal clip off the side and gave the large lever on the front a squeeze.

Torres heard a small 'pop' from behind him and turned, still scowling. He squinted as the brilliant light of a primer charge filled the cabin, detonating the small oxygen tanks carried in the limo's medical kit with a tremendous bang that blew out the windows and slammed Torres into the walls of the Bentley. Fuel lines dislodged by the shock leaked into the cabin, meeting the small fire made by the blast. Fierce flames engulfed the vehicle, licking at its pale white frame.

The American climbed into a cigar boat moored a short walk away as the screams of the cartel boss rose into the blue sky.

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Oscar C. Torres was a Mexican smuggler who specialized in not only cocaine trafficking with Colombia and China, but partook in heavy weapons transactions and human trafficking, which affected American law enforcement and tourists in startingly large numbers. Moreover, the audacity of his actions against law enforcement units was increasingly becoming a problem on the psychological side of the matter, leading to an increased rate of local violence instigated by local agents as well as an increased rate of injury and early retirement. It was decided to make a hit on the man in late 2010.

A number of operatives worked their way into the target's contacts, primarily the American military contractor firm that often ran security for the man. For approximately four months a combination of human operatives and RB units acquired positions, uncovering not only ties to cartel activity, but the highly illegal acts private concerns were conducting in foreign soil.

17 January, 2011 by chance the driver that Torres normally relied on called sick and an agent filled in. Within a few hours a hurried plan was sent down the ranks and local specialists worked on the limousine, engineering a lethal 'accident' for Torres. The operation was initiated without a hitch, and those involved were extricated with standard procedures, taking multiple flights and identity packages.

It is imagined that someone will soon fill in the void left by Torres, but the ongoing mission is the same as always - keep the enemy under the impression that the battle is lost psychologically, and the reality will follow suit soon after.

Amsel looked over the addendum to the AAR and hit send. The computer hummed as a variety of encryption and security software went to work. As the message was sent, it automatically wiped out any traces of it being written on the terminal and any logon information. His job finally done, he rose from his desk and took a few steps to the nearby bed, collapsing into it with a sigh.

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Luce sat cross-legged on the balcony, staring at the quiet road outside as she idly toyed with the parts of her rifle. She popped the rollers of the bolt cover into the carrier, then loaded the entire thing into the upper reciever. She checked allignemnt for a moment, then locked upper into lower. Slipping the entire assembly into the polymer stock, Luce sharply racked the bolt, ensuring the rifle was assembled correctly. She had repeated the process dozens of times over the past few weeks.

Security came in the form of a weapon that functioned well. Even in the idyllic mountainside suburbs this safehouse was sitting in, it never hurt to be careful. Amsel falling asleep on the job was not an excuse for her to do the same... though she wouldn't have minded getting some sleep at all. RB security was good. Amsel had insisted human eyes were better.

Lazy bastard. Luce laid the rifle beside her with a pat, sighing as she looked at the hillside below.

She turned away from the scenery and returned inside. She felt a dull pang of hunger as she moved and frowned. The Mexican food had made her a little sick during the missions, so she hadn't enjoyed much chow. Maybe they still had some instant udon... Luce slid down the railing of the small staircase and landed soundlessly on the hardwood floor.

The girl liked to make a game of moving around the house, finding new ways to stay soundless and unseen to use in the field. Just like Amsel could be a goofball with his guns in the earliest hours of morning, Luce turned their safehouses into gyms and obstacle courses when she was bored.

The cyborg vaulted neatly over their couch, landing in the cushions with a sigh. She considered flicking on the TV and reached lazily for the remote. Luce raised the thing and frowned, realizing she was holding it backwards... why was it backwards? They had a cradle.

Oh, shit.

She rose cautiously from her seat, dropping on all fours and glancing underneath the stand. It was a simple wooden thing, just tall enough to put the remote and a drink on. Like everything else in the safehouse, it was totally ordinary. Luce pulled a small penlight from her pocket and clicked it on, the beam washing over the grain of the stand.

There it was. A small cut, hidden by the darkness was apparent in the bottom of the table. Luce ran her finger along it and found glue, still drying. Someone had just done this, and they would have to get rid of the bug or whatever had been placed, but she felt like finding the asshole in their house, first.

The girl paused to send a text to Amsel, then crept over to the couch. She reached beneath the cushions and removed a handgun, checking the load before stepping away. Luce refrained from flicking on the lights in the kitchen, relying on her slightly enhanced vision to see the shapes and shadows. It wasn't like using NVGs on a mission. Her modified retinas would just expand faster than a normal person, giving the difference in vision one would take hours to gain in a few seconds.

That was a pretty big deal, but she was still literally in the dark. It was only a matter of time before she bumped noisily into something, a drawer or an open door at knee level. Hissing from the pain, she knelt down and clicked on the light again. The beam danced across a variety of containers, bleach, detergent and such. But there was a small canister she didn't recognize that looked a bit like a salt shaker.

Someone was stealing their condiments? Luce sighed and brought the light to the object. As the dull illumination of the LED swept across the cans, something blinked red. Luce felt her heart skip a beat and slammed the door shut, hurling herself away so hard she knocked over the dining table. Luce was pushing to her knees when the kitchen was shattered by a thunderous blast, shattering most of the windows in the house and throwing the girl hard against the wall. Automatic fire lashed through the walls at chest-level, and Luce was still shaking spots from her vision as she made a dash for the stairs.

The front door slammed open - Luce veered left as a light shone across the floor, taking a roll into the living room. She slid across the floor, taking a knee at the closet sitting behind their plasma TV. A wall of solid oak set with a brass knob marked one of the "closets" around the house that were always locked. Luce delicately grabbed the doorknob and ripped the thing from it's hinges, discarding it several feet away. Luce took a moment to calm her frenzied breathing and examined the armory before her. Even as the footsteps and shouts of men grew louder in the background, Luce didn't rush stowing spare magazines and grenades in her pockets, placing each item with consideration and precision.

A light shone across the room, stopping at the wreckage of a closet strewn with clothes and what looked like gun cases. The men streamed out of the doorway, checking corners and covering each other's movements. They wore mismatched sets of overalls, work gloves and painter's masks, covered with pulverized drywall. If not for the suppressed weapons, they would have looked like a group of cleaners. Luce rolled her eyes. They had probably arrived in a white van, too. They were anything but the random hired guns they usually dealt with. Considering the silenced P90s, the only thing she could tell was how well they were funded.

Luckily, their masks made it hard to see the girl, laying beneath the granite coffee table in the center of the room. She sat and hoped they would overlook her, perhaps driven away by the surprise hidden in the closet... or maybe Amsel would just get off his sleepy ass and kill them all. She sighed.

"Ordnance!" One of the men barked, making a cutting motion with his hands. His two subordinates moved up to the closet, sweeping the interior with their weapons. They found a small green plate, curved out to "point" in their direction. The claymore had a mess of wires trailing out of it, covering every inch of the interior. Did they skip it, or possibly find out what important things were hidden behind the trap?

The sound of gunfire on the floor above made the decision easy. The apparent leader of the group made a circle motion with his hand, and the group drew close. Luce went to work. She burst from the floor, rising into the granite table and tipping the entire thing onto the cluster of men. They barely managed to avoid being crushed by several hundred pounds of stone, curses and shouts rising into the air. Bullets slapped into the walls around Luce as she ran.

The girl turned and squeezed the clacker in her hand. The column of stone muffled the blast as thousands of pieces of metal ripped through the men and tore up the walls. The entire room was filled with smoke and flakes of sheetrock, obscuring everything within. Suddenly, the moans and shouts were gone. Luce turned and headed for the stairs.

A stream of brass casings a few bodies marked the location where Amsel had probably opened fire. As Luce stepped cautiously over the corpses, she grimly noted how much the brief battle had ruined the small house. Fist-sized holes were ripped into most of the walls, and little of the furniture was left standing.

Luce snapped around as something moved in her peripheral vision.

"Luce. You good?" Amsel said hoarsely. He clutched nothing but a simple revolver in one hand, and a leather gun belt was hurriedly worn on top of his slacks.

You killed three guys with that thing? Luce signed, a look of amusement on her features.

"Yep. Had to burn the hard drives too. Chat later?" Luce nodded, and Amsel moved past, the girl trailing behind as they moved toward the front of the house. It was almost dead silent now.

Of course, that couldn't last. Something loud and definitely belt fed opened up outside and started ripping through the walls, driving Luce and Amsel to the ground.

Luce brought a hand to her back, clasping at a burning spot just below her lungs. The edges of her vision blurred as it came back bright, arterial red, but she pushed to her feet. She turned and stared defiantly at Amsel despite the gunshot wound, when another slammed into her upper back with a slap. The girl fell soundlessly to the deck.

Amsel took one look at Luce and wordlessly lifted her onto his back, taking a smoke grenade from his pocket and hurling it at the front door. The gunfire only intensified, tearing the furniture and walls around the two to shreds. Amsel turned to give a one-finger salute in the general direction of the gunmen, then kicked the nearest door down, emerging in the wooded hillside the house sat on.

A couple hundred yards from the site, he gently dropped the cyborg onto her side, glancing at the entry and exit wounds the rounds had left. They looked the same on each side - no shards of bone being ripped out of Luce. Amsel opened up the small first aid kit on his belt and stuffed the wounds with gauze, applying pressure until the stream of blood abated. The veteran agent's hands shook as he felt the pulse of blood through the gauze pads, but he managed to keep his expression blank, forcing himself to remain calm.

Eventually his stressful work paid off and Luce slumbered fitfully. Predictably, the hitmen torched the place - he could see the smoke and light in the distance. Backup teams would need to get clearance to look for them, so there was little point in waiting around. He knelt to scoop up Luce.

Her eyes flitted open. Despite the pain, she stared right at him. Did you get them?

"No. You alright?" He replied quietly.

Been worse. Luce sighed, staring at the burning building in the distance.

"Fair enough." Amsel pulled the girl to her feet, catching her as she stumbled a moment later. Defeat had left a sour taste. Their job was to outperform, outgun anyone they were assigned to fight. The first time the fight was ever taken to them, they were down and out in minutes. And chances were, this wasn't going to be the first instance of a hard fight either... "We'll get them next time."

Promise?

"Promise."

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Brilliant stuff.

Cool, action packed!

Utterly and completely epic.

Amsel took a glance back at the burning barge, then the roiling water below. The water was black as tar, smashing heavily into the bow of the striken vessel. Gunfire crackled into the air, along with the amplified voices of the coast guard personnel. He desperately looked for a rope, buoy, or something... The handler was taking another glance at an equipment chest when something came screaming at him, slamming into the bulkheads at his feet with a blinding flash of light.

The blast of the rocket hurled Amsel off the bow, and his world was swallowed up by freezing darkness as he sunk like a rock. He hurriedly surfaced, looking for any sign of her in the dim light. "Luce!" If Amsel noticed all the blood he was losing from the cuts across his body, he obviously didn't care.

A bolt of lightning split the sky, and the man's ears were assailed by the deafening roar of thunder...

The helicopter slowed to a hover as Coast Guard snipers prepared to take out the gunmen on the deck. One of them spotted a pair running away from the cabin, large backpacks slung on their shoulders. One sped up ahead of the other, and the marksman shouldered the M82. "Permission to engage runner."

"Send it." The rifle thundered simultaneously with the roar of the skies, and for a moment the figure of a slim girl was visible in the light, stricken by the impact of the terrible bullet. She tipped slowly over the side, being swallowed up by the darkness of the water.

The vision of Luce turning to stare blankly at him before tipping into the ocean was etched into Amsel's mind, eating away at him until all that was left was a desperate, burning hope. He cut efficiently through the water even with numbed limbs, and the look of despair faded into one of hard determination.

When he finally found her, it seemed like all the wounds of the day caught up at once, and the man fought to make his leaden, freezing body obey his commands. Eventually, he drifted over to a loose piece of rope Luce had clung to. He wrapped the rope around one arm and pulled the girl close. "Luce..."

She was shivering constantly, clinging to Amsel like a sodden kitten. Her warmth slipped away with the trail of crimson in the water. The girl's fingers found Amsel's and they intertwined, a little bit of security for the two.

Amsel reflexively hugged Luce close and pulled against the hull of the vessel as something felly heavily beside them. It quickly unfolded and a small light begun to flash - a raft. He cussed quietly as a pair of men climbed down with a rope ladder, rifles slung across their backs. He looked at Luce, who had become almost completely still. There wasn't a lot of time.

He gave her hand a squeeze and placed the rope in it, pushing away from the side of the barge. He was aware of how suddenly quiet it was, the helicopters now taking wide flights around the barge. The men looked hopeful as they climbed in, unaware of that someone was just under their raft. Amsel ducked a hand into his jacket and found the handgun was still securely in its holster.

A single gunshot pierced the night, and one of the men slumped into the raft. The other was fast on the response, turning and spraying wildly and turning the water around the raft into a frothy mess. As everything became still, he leaned over the edge of the raft, staring into the murky depths. He blinked as the muzzzle of a pistol rose from the water and fired.

Amsel dumped the two bodies in short order. Luce was pulled onto the raft, wrapped up by an emergency blanket that had been in the survival kit. His jaw was set in a grimace as he examined Luce's wounds. A single shot from the anti-material rifle had hit her low in the gut, narrowly missing her spine but... none the less leaving a messy wound. A fist-sized chunk of muscle and gut was missing, leaving a gaping wound and jagged ends of what used to be ribs. Cybernetic safeguards had only done so much to stop the bleeding, and she was in a state of shock. He tore open the raft's first-aid kit and stuffed gauze against the wound. The sheer pain of the procedure brought Luce to life with a gasp.

...where? She weakly signed with blood-soaked fingers.

"Raft off the side of the Merchant Sailor. Had to fish you out." Amsel said calmly, suppressing a grunt of pain.

Luce stared at him coldly. Why bother with me?

Amsel prepared one of the "combat cocktails" they carried when conditioning drugs weren't appropriate. "The CG decided to shoot you today. That isn't your fault. Besides." The handler forced a smile. "You would have just hung in there until I eventually came for you." He administered the drug, and after a second Luce relaxed, the edge taken off the pain. She tried to sit up, only to drop back with a gasp. Amsel's expression rapidly changed to one of concern, and he leaned closer so her dark eyes could clearly see his grey ones. "You took a hit from a fifty. Don't try to move on it, okay?" She nodded. The simple motion was visibly wearing her down.

He tried not to pay attention to the pink pool in the floor of the liferaft and searched through the kit for a set of flares. It was only when he bent over to remove the seal on one that Amsel felt a sharp pain in his chest. Some of the blood staining the shirt was his. "... shit."

Luce's eyes flitted open. What's wrong?

Amsel grimaced. "Looks like they got me a few times, too. Fucking hell, eh?"

Unable to sit up, let alone help her handler, Luce looked so conflicted she might have cried. Amsel just sat back beside her with a shallow sigh, pressing down on the wound with a spare gauze pad. Despite nearly coughing up a lung, he managed to get a few more words out. "I didn't notice until I was done treating you - that's just how things work out sometimes. Mind over matter. Shit happens, you deal with it."

He raised one arm and fired the flare gun. An orange ball erupted high in the sky above, alerting the patroling helicopters and cutters to their presence.


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Amsel's trance-like stare at the ambulance wall was broken by some movement on the stretcher. Luce had awoke, and she was clearly getting uncomfortable on the hurried ride over to the nearest branch hospital, nearly an hour out in Los Angeles. The bullets turned out to be less than life-threatening, but all the IV lines and formalities were quite a nuisance to her. "Doing alright?" Amsel asked.

I guess. It doesn't hurt anymore. She signed, her movements casual and light. The look in her eyes was plainly one of boredom.

The handler nodded. "You were bouncing around a lot. Bad dream?"

Luce's gaze softened. You remember the gulf? And the coast guard raid?

He nodded. Despite the very generic description, he new exactly what she was talking about. He had some souvenirs: three rounds of 7.62x39 and shrapnel that took months to dig out. His shoulder still ached where a round had met bone. That was nothing compared to Luce getting hit by the USCG sniper, however. "Mmm... not many pleasant memories there. Are you alright?"

I guess so. But sometimes stuff happens, and you deal with it. Luce managed to smile.

Amsel chuckled. She was a strong girl.

Kenjiro Hayashi glowered at the handler across the desk from him. "How did you fuck this up so badly Amsel?" he muttered as he riffled through the small mountain of paper on his desk. "A compromised safehouse, a heavily damaged unit, total information loss from your drives..." He tossed another after action report on top of the stack.

"We ran into someone with competent intel, somewhere between here and there Section 2 fucked the pooch and here we are." Amsel shrugged. He looked tired. The agent held an unlit cigarette between his fingers, and a number of bandages covered up recently-stitched gashes. He was wearing nothing but jeans and a white tee shirt, with his revolver still holstered on his side.

Ken sighed. "And they wiped our CCTV to boot. I don't suppose you got any description of them or their vehicle." He pulled out a pad and scribbled idly near the bottom. Even upside down, Amsel could read the header. "John Amsel action assessment."

"Vehicle? Saw a black Suburban. They were wearing some dollar-store coveralls and painters masks. Looks like they had breaching charges, grenades and automatic weapons - Luce said P90s. Judging from the ones we put down, no real body armor." The man gestured at the revolver on his hip. "They had solid group tactics, but unlike a legitimate mil unit there wasn't much concern for casualty recovery. Sounds like hired guns, but good ones." Amsel stared out a nearby window for a moment. "Seems like they had some military contacts for equipment from the SMGs and that belt-fed they tore us up with." They both knew that any group of thugs could smuggle grenades, make home-made breaching charges and convert the odd small arm to fire automatic, but genuine belt-fed weapons meant both contacts and capital.

The intelligence officer muttered to himself and ticked off another sectionon the report. He reached into a file cabinet and pulled out a stack of documents. "I know. Sheriff's department sealed off the whole block 5 minutes after you bugged out. The ones you killed gave some very pertinent information." Ken shoved the files over to Amsel. "See for yourself. Eagle Claw PMC contracters, all seven of them." He raised an eyebrow. "Any idea why a US PMC would want you dead?"

"Mercs? Should've killed more." Amsel mused, taking the sheaf of documents. "You read the AAR?" The agent nodded. "Torres didn't trust his fellow smugglers, so he outsourced security details to American contractors. That's actually how I managed to spot in for his driver, since we had limited control over their stateside operations. I'd assume that whomever took over for Mr. Burning Corpse decided that using our domestic assets against us would be a hands-off way to get revenge. Fucking morons."

The phone on Hayashi's desk rang. Ken picked it up in the middle of the first ring. "Hayashi." He listened intently for about a minute. "Right. I'll tell the local PD to stand down." Ken looked back up at Amsel. "We found your black Suburban. I'd say that your five getaways are no longer a problem." He ticked off a final box on the competence assessment and handed the folded papers to Amsel. "Take that to Marcus when you go, alright?"

"Wilco." Amsel lazily rose from his seat and took the papers. He nodded at Ken, who looked fairly weary himself. "Thanks." The handler said as he turned on his heel, retrieving a beat-up leather jacket from the nearby closet. A slight smile came to his face as he read the documents on his way out.

----------------------

Lynette awoke from sleep slowly, swimming through the black haze into a bright hospital light. A technician was sitting next to the bed. He looked over as she opened her eyes. "Unit 0536-175 is operational," he intoned into a handset on the nightstand.

"Understood." The radio crackled as the reply came through. Lynette looked at it curiously. An AN/PRC-148 military handset. How did she know that? It didn't seem to matter. But why was it in a hospital? The question disappeared just as abruptly as the technician looked at her. "What is your name?"

"Lynette." She cocked her head as she sat up. "What am I doing here?"

The tech looked back at her impassively. "That's unimportant. Give me your serial number and affiliation."

Lyn looked at him questioningly. "I am unit series 053, block 6, age set 17, attempt 5. I am affiliated with the Rehabilitation Branch of the Department of Homeland Security, United States of America. This information is classified as top secret." She paused for a moment. "Is what I want to say, but why is that?"

The man's head, thus far nodding over a clipboard, snapped up. "What was that?" he asked, sounding horrified.

"I am unit series-"

"No, not that," the man said, waving impatiently. "After that."

"Why do I know these numbers? And why do I think I have anything to do with the Department of Homeland Security?"

The technician put down his pen, leaning in closely to look at her. "That's not important. You will cease questions of this kind and obey all orders given to you by the Rehabilitation Branch."

Lynette looked at him in some confusion. "Why?"

The blood drained from the man's face. "Stay here," he said hurriedly as he grabbed his handset. "I'll be back in a minute. Just don't leave." He dashed out of the room, speaking excitedly into the radio.

"I don't want to," Lyn said softly as the door closed. She pondered for a minute, then swung out of the bed. Boredom was not something Lynette handled well, and the outside looked much more interesting than this drab little room.

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Body armor?

Not accessible. X

Armored walls.

Money. X

Kill everyone first?

Got ambushed. X

Lose weight?

Nah. X

Stop standing around when people are shooting?

Yeah. That's probably it.

Luce set the pen down with a sigh. It was still a couple hours before they would let her out of the infirmary. In the past two days, all she had been able to do was endlessly linger on what went wrong in excruciating detail.

The orderlies didn't hold conversations very often with mutes. Who would have guessed? They were probably glad that the cyborg wasn't able to heckle them, or easily ask for a computer or a change of the channel on TV. Conversely, Luce thought the boredom would make her lose it soon. She wondered not for the first time what Amsel was doing. Probably suffocating under mountains of paperwork... or skipping duty and getting drunk. Either way, he'd arrive when he needed, or more like when he felt like it.

She couldn't quite say he was an a-hole, but he was still a guy and was about as perceptive to someone's emotions as a rock. Luce fell back onto the mattress with another exasperated sigh.

Luce looked up as a girl about her age opened the door and wandered into the room.

"What's up?" the new arrival asked around a mouthful of cookie. "I swiped these from the food carts." She held out a small bag. "Want one?"

Luce blinked, then nodded. She took one of the treats and readily chomped down on it. It tasted sooooo good.

The girl plopped down on a corner of the bed and started sorting through the mess on the nightstand. She picked up the remote for the television and idly started flipping through the channels. "So what's your name? Are you unit 0373-162, Lucinda? Do you even know what that is? You don't talk much do you?" The questions spilled over one after the other in an almost unbroken stream as she rambled on.

The cyborg couldn't help but roll her eyes. She was clearly new, with the questions, but also the fact that the entire ward hadn't told her to avoid the evil mute in this room yet. She took a sheet from her sketchbook and wrote down a short sentence.

Lucinda = Mute. Cannot talk. Also, just call me 'Luce.'

The other girl nodded. "Alright Luce. I'm Lynette, but you can call me Lyn. You look a little bored. Do you want something? Maybe another cookie?" She held the bag out invitingly, all the while chatting away.

Cookie! Luce signed, Lyn not having the slightest clue as to what the frantic hand motions meant. She politely took another cookie and nibbled at it, writing on the sketchpad with one hand. Do you have a phone? I want to leave.

Lynette bounced on the bed as she shook her head. "Sorry. I don't even know where this is."

Luce sat up slightly at the sound of faint footsteps outside. They sounded familiar... predictably, it was Amsel, and a rather familiar Asian man in a suit. The large rifle case her handler held made the cyborg raise a brow.

"Feeling better?" He said neutrally.

I guess. I made a friend. She gestured at the girl beside her.

Lyn perked up as Amsel looked her way. "Want a cookie?" she asked hurriedly, as if remembering her manners.

"Hm, thank you." The man took the proffered cookie appreciatively and took a bite out of it. "Not bad." Seeing the curious expression on his cyborg's face, he put the large case on her lap.

Christmas already? Luce signed with a smirk. She popped the latches and opened the case anxiously. A rare smile lit up her features. Amsel exchanged a knowing glance with the other man as the girl removed the mass of black aluminum and polymer from the case. Luce meticulously examined a metal tube before dropping it into the upper half of a rifle. She locked the receiver into the frame, inserting a cross pin to hold it in place. It was a big rifle, looking vaguely like an oversized AR-15.

"SR-25 Enhanced Match Carbine. Manufactured by the Knight's Armament Company in 7.62x51 NATO with a 20 round capacity." Lynette had lowered her bag of cookies and was looking at the rifle, her voice flat.

Both the nondescript Asian man and Amsel swung around to look at her sharply. "Are you a cyborg?" the first man asked, dangerously quiet.

"I don't know what you're-"

Theagent cut her off. "I am Rehabilitation Branch operative Kenjiro Hayashi, identification code 55197-3381. I HAVE Top Secret clearance. Identify yourself."

Startled, Lyn replied half-conciously. "I am Lynette, unit series 53, affiliated to Re-" She stopped. "You know, why do I have to tell you? You're not anyone I know."

Ken stopped and stared. So did Amsel and Luce. "Eh... What?"

Lynette stared back defiantly. "You heard me. I don't feel like telling you about myself!"

The man rocked back on his heels, looking stunned. He turned to look at Amsel. "She's clearly a cyborg if she recognized the code I gave her, but-" He stopped as shouting and pounding feet echoed down the hall. "I told you that bringing that rifle in here was a bad idea," he muttered under his breath as he turned to face the door.

A squad of Rehabilitation Branch operatives stormed into the room, rifles and shotguns pointing wildly. On seeing the rifle clutched in Luce's hands, they leveled an impressive array of hardware at her head.

"Drop the weapon and surrender!" the leader barked.

Luce glared at the men, then dropped the rifle onto the bed. She held her arms out to show nothing was in her hands, sitting perfectly still.

A nervous looking technician edged into the room.

"Is the the one you were talking about Doc?" the sergeant leading the squad growled.

"It does appear to be so... No wait." The laboratory tech pointed at Lynette, curled up in a chair with her bag of cookies. "She's the dangerous one here!"

The men's eyes swung from the glaring girl with the rifle to the cookies and back again. "The... dangerous one," the squad leader repeated.

"Yes, I'm certain of it!" The technician was almost having a fit as he pointed at Lyn. "She refused an order! She must be reset! There's no telling what-"

Ken looked up sharply from a sheaf of documents he had been riffling through since the men came in. "Lynette. Give these men your serial number and affiliation."

The cyborg looked at Ken and opened her mouth to protest when she caught the agent's warning glare. "Lynette. Unit 0536-175, affiliated with the Rehabilitation Branch of the Department of Homeland Security, United States of America."

Agent and cyborg turned to look quizzically at the tech. "I-I-It's... Wha-?" The man stammered as he checked his notes. "That seems to be- what's going on?"

Ken laughed pleasantly. "Relax sir. This is my unit. She was operating under my orders in that little exercise."

The tech glared back at him. "She woke up today. That's not-"

"Possible? Oh but it is," The agent cut him off, waving his sheaf of papers in the man's face. "These transfer orders are backdated to last week. She was operational before now. Just running some routine tests."

The other man paused with his mouth open, looking thoroughly confused. "But... regulations," he said weakly.

"Regulations be damned." Amsel laughed abruptly, clapping him on the back. "No harm done, eh?"

"I...suppose." The tech did not look altogether convinced, so Ken began shooing the squad out of the room. "Alright, out out out. We have mission briefings to cover, so if you gentlemen will excuse us..."

"Yo." Amsel rapped his knuckles on the security team leader's helmet. He helda paper up to his face. "SOP says to check for permits before escalating use of force in the presence of certified agents. Make sense?" The slightly baffled man nodded. "Great. Now get out of my face." The handler spun on his heel with a grin on his face and handed the documents to Luce.

The suspicious tech turned around to ask one last question as Ken shut the door firmly in his face. The agent sighed deeply. "Now that that's over, we'll-"

"Hold on a second." Ken raised an eyebrow as the indignant girl in front of him interrupted. "What was all that about? I played along, but what do you mean, I'm 'yours'? I'm not your property."

The spymaster jerked his head at the documents still on the nightstand. "Close enough. RB's assigned you to me, effective last Monday. You were activated today since I was busy until now."

Lynette scowled. "And why should I listen to you?"

"Two reasons. First, I just saved your sorry self from being having your memory flashed and reconditioned. Second, if you don't, you damn well will be wiped. Carrot and stick, pick what you like."

This time Lyn did more than just scowl. Her suggestions to Ken on what he could do with his carrot and stick scuttled a few Commandments, not to mention a few anatomy textbooks.

"They program that much vulgarity into cyborgs?" Amsel chuckled. Luce was struck with what looked like a silent giggling fit.

Ken's expression looked like a cross between approving and scandalized. After a long moment, he recovered enough to straighten his tie and clear his throat. "Ahem. That was... interesting." He started for the door, picking up his folders as he went. "I'm not so sure if I want to give you a gun now, but I suppose I have to whip you into some sort of shape." Hayashi turned back to look at the girl, still standing with her arms crossed defiantly. "Coming?" Then the door closed and he was gone.

Lynette hesitated briefly. While following this infuriatingly smug jerk around didn't rank highly on her list of things to do, being reset struck her as being even lower. She grabbed her sack of cookies and dashed out the door after the agent.

"What do you think?" Amsel finally said as the door slammed shut.

I'm hopeful. Seems better than the over-drugged cyborgs we saw before.

The handler nodded. "I can agree to that. You feeling alright?"

Luce shrugged. Yeah. Why?

"I hate hospitals too. Want to go shoot shit?" The words brought a smile to the cyborg's face and she swung out of bed, cradling the rifle in her arms as they left the ward.


((Collab'd with Teyr25.))

That was hiLARIOUS. Lynette = Best Cyborg Ever.

Jeremy Clarkson: "That's not gone well."

((I really appreciate the feedback, but could we post everything non in-character on the discussion thread: [You must be registered and logged in to see this link.] ))

Jorge Rodriguez blew on his hand sto warm them. Why was it so fucking cold in the middle of Los Angeles? He had to stand outside in it, worse luck. The cartel had been losing street enforcers by the handful in the last few weeks and the boss was getting jumpy. And when the boss got jumpy, that meant guard duty for Jorge outside the warm safehouse in the middle of the night.

The gangster looked down at the cheap watch on his wrist and cursed quietly. 1 AM. Still more than two hours before he could go inside. Rodriguez pulled out a small flask from his hip pocket and took a swig. The alcohol burned as it ran down his throat, spreading heat as it reached his stomach. It was still cold. Jorge muttered and pulled his coat tighter about himself.

He whirled abruptly as a figure stepped out of the shadows to his right, his hand snatching at the pistol tucked in his shoulder holster. A hooker - no one else would dress like that in 55 degree weather. Jorge almost laughed aloud as he relaxed. Look at how jumpy he was, right in front of his own safehouse.

The whore twitched her hips suggestively. “How about it handsome?”

The enforcer considered. He didn’t really care for Asian girls, but he had bedded them before; Chinatown was only a few blocks away. And it really was quite chilly. Jorge checked his watch again, this time more speculatively. No one would probably be coming out for an hour or two, and he could finish quickly. No one would have to know. He nodded brusquely as he turned to punch his passcode into the small keypad next to the door.

The next second, the “hooker” had her hand over his mouth and had slammed a knife into his right kidney. Before he could register anything more than shock, the knife slashing his jugular open finished the job. Jorge Rodriguez crumpled silently to the pavement, his dead eyes still staring up at the sky in surprise.
_______________________________________________________________________________

Lynette looked down at the dead cartel member and wiped her knife on his pant leg in distaste. She didn’t care what Ken said, she was never doing this again. At least three drunk truckers had tried to pick her up on the way here, and she could only fit a knife and a subcompact with one magazine in what passed for her shorts. And besides, it was cold. The cyborg muttered to herself as she crept though the open door. Next time Ken wanted to seduce somebody, he could take off all his clothes and go to a gay bar.

Her earpiece crackled. “I heard that you know.”

Lyn rolled her eyes. She had forgotten. The damn new throat mikes could probably pick up what she was thinking. “Then you’ll know I mean it,” she whispered almost silently as she crept down the hall.

“Focus Lyn. Remember. No noise.” Lynette popped the earpiece out and stuffed it unceremoniously into her back pocket.

“That includes you Ken,” she muttered for the mike to catch. If her handler wanted to make a big deal about that in the debriefing, he could.

Lyn crept down the dark hallway toward the living room. According to their mole, one of the cartel’s primary cocaine movers spent most of his time here. Besides him, intel said there were a squad of four bodyguards in the house. Scratching the horny bastard outside, that left three.

Ah. Another guard was sprawled out on the couch, snoring in front of the TV with his rifle leaning carelessly against his leg. The cyborg sidled up to the couch as she unwrapped a length of garroting wire from the handle of her knife.

The gangster had no chance to react before the wire was around his neck, yanking his head back against the cushions. He gurgled as he thrashed and struggled against the suffocating embrace of the line. After a surprisingly long time, the cartel member’s body tensed, then went still. That left two.

Two guards, two guards… Lynette peeked around a corner. There. A pair of human bulldogs, with thickset frames and no necks. Probably hired to shoot lots of bullets and not think too hard while they were at it. She leaned back and considered. She could probably shoot the pair easily enough, considering she had the drop on them, but Ken would probably skin her alive for breaking his little “no noise” rule. No alternate corridors, no cover… Great. Just great.

The first guard toppled with a bloody spasm, Lyn’s thrown knife embedded in his throat. His partner barely had time to look down in surprise before the cyborg was on him like a black shadow. Lynette’s kick knocked the rifle from his hands and sent it skittering over the poured concrete floor. As he grabbed for his pistol, Lyn’s hands clamped down, keeping the piece firmly in its holster. The enforcer gasped in almost comical astonishment. “You can’t do that!”

“Says who?” Lynette asked coldly before kneeing him in the groin. The man folded like an accordion. On his way down, the cyborg grabbed his head, and with a casual twist, neatly broke his neck. Two down.

Lyn gritted her teeth as she surveyed the door the men had been guarding. Assuming the boss here wasn’t deaf as a post, he had probably heard the fighting on his doorstep.

Oh well. Nothing else for it. Her hand on the Glock in her waistband, Lynette cautiously openedthe study door. To come face to face with an enormously fat man clutching a Kalashnikov in his sweaty fingers.

“S-stay away! Don’t get any closer!” the man screamed as he yanked the trigger on the AK, spraying bullets at the cyborg at the same instant Lyn whipped up her pistol and fired.
_______________________________________________________________________________

Kenjiro Hayashi sat in a darkened alley in the BMW Amsel had lent him. He’d have driven his own, but Lynette had somehow managed to tear off the front of the supposedly armored car while he was teaching her PIT maneuvers. Ken sighed as he listened to the empty static coming over the line. Lyn “wasn’t speaking to Ken” again then. The handler steepled his fingers. At least a dozen times a day, he wondered if he’d made the right choice in hiding that his cyborg had out of spec conditioning and taking her as she was.

All the same, Ken was firmly of the opinion that mental conditioning degraded both lifespanand cognitive ability, and he was not about to train someone with no ability to empathize or critical thinking capability to do HUMINT analysis. And though he felt masochistic for even thinking such a thing, he preferred this over the walking drones that he had seen at the RB, whose handlers conditioned them at any sign of thinking.

His reverie was cut off as a burst of automatic fire rang out, capped sharply by a pistol shot. The handler cursed under his breath. Though he hadn’t honestly expected Lyn to be able to pull off the operation without being seen once, he had hoped that the police wouldn’t have had reason to be involved until the next morning at least.

The BMW’s headlights stabbed into the night as Ken threw the car into gear. He pulled up next the door where Lyn had entered ten minutes before and waited. Less than thirty seconds later, his cyborg came barreling out the door, looking around quickly.

On seeing the car, she jerked open the passenger side door and jumped in. They screeched away just as the first sirens started to wail in the distance.
_______________________________________________________________________________

Ken was poring over the pillowcase full of documents Lyn had recovered from the safehouse when Marcus walked in.

“So how’d it go?” his boss asked.

The agent grunted in reply. “She fucked it up. LAPD are all over the place.”

Marcus sighed as he sat down heavily in the chair across Ken’s desk. “I’ll tell them to stand down Ken. It’s not an issue.”

“And the fact that we can fix it makes a fuckup not a fuckup? We’d never get away with that in Pakistan or Israel, and you know I’m right.” The handler jabbed a finger at the older man. “You’re lucky we‘re still doing these chickenshit little jobs domestic and not on any real cases.” Marcus had been badgering him about sending the pair overseas for a while now.

His boss muttered as Ken continued to shuffle the papers on his desk. “Critical as I may tend to be, she got the job done. They’re dead, we have the intel and Lyn isn’t sitting in an operating theater. No apparent sightings, too. Considering the circumstances she performed well past expectations.”

“Hmph.”

Marcus exhaled heavily. “Ken. I understand you want your unit to be the best she can be, but you’ve spent an inordinate amount of time during training. Pairs assigned after you are already working in the field successfully. Any longer and I’m not going to be the only one breathing down your neck.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “She’s already one of the best we’ve got.”

“Not quite.” Ken leaned back from his desk. “Luce beat her by ten seconds on the course yesterday.”

Marcus rolled his eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

“I usually am.”

“We didn’t recruit Amsel because he was good at small talk and making coffee. Their singular job is to fight. That’s what he does. He and Luce are probably the best fighters we have. Can you name a person that outperforms you and Lyn that isn’t an ultra-specialist?"

Ken chewed on his lower lip. “Well…”

His boss cut him off. “Nothing. She’s good enough to give some of the intel desk jockeys a hard look at retirement. She is damned good, Ken.”

The agent groaned and leaned back in his chair. “Marcus, she’s not ready.”

“As much as I’d like to give you all the time you need, we’re seriously understaffed and in a mild state of emergency with the leak. I just can’t cut you slack this time,” he sighed regretfully.

Ken gestured to the pile of paper and flash drives on his desk. “This ought to help with that.”

“And what unprepared operative retrieved this sensitive information without a hitch?”

Ken glared.

“I understand the concern about the cyborg, but her results speak for themselves.” Marcus dropped a dossier on the desk. “Two tickets. Briefing’s inside.”

The agent picked up the packet and began skimming through it. “You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly. Higher-ups think we owe the Brits for the Berlin leak. MI6 expects something for their services. I don’t like being the ass-wiping service, but that’s what we got handed.”

Marcus stood. “You can stow the reminders of how shit this job is until later. Flight is in two hours. Be on it.”

Ken muttered darkly to himself as his boss stamped out. He plucked a phone out of its cradle. “Lynette. Pack. I’ll meet you at LAX in an hour.” He tossed the folder back on his desk as the tickets spilled out, the destination spelled in dark capitals.

“DUBLIN, UNITED KINGDOM”

(Post courtesy of Teyr25)

Dublin is part of the Republic of Ireland. Calling it part of the UK is probably a mortal sin.

As for the story, well done. Good action sequences and more character development.

I liked it as well. Everything Kisk said, plus kudos for the pacing.

The early dawn sky over Los Angeles witnessed a single 1973 Alpine A110 1600S entering a nondescript warehouse in Compton. As the night watchman waved the powder blue vintage sports car inside, the driver gently nudged his slumbering passenger.

"Sophie. Sophie, wake up; we're here," announced the driver, a dapper young man of Japanese and Italian-American heritage. His passenger, a slightly younger redheaded woman, began to stir in her seat as she brought a knuckle up to gently rub the sleep out of her left eye.

"Remind me to start sleeping earlier, Leo," Sophie requested. "I don't think I'm quite in a functioning state yet."

"That's all right," Aurelio 'Leo' Zenigata replied with a smile. "Tell you what, we'll go to John O' Groats for breakfast as soon as we get this little training session done and over with. Chocolate-chip pancakes, bacon, sausages, coffee, and OJ, all on me."

Sophie's face lit up at the mention of her favorite diner. "You know me too well, Leo. I can't wait, now."

"I wouldn't be much of a partner if I didn't know you well enough," replied the half-Asian as he drove his vintage French sports car into the borders of a red rectangle outlined on the floor of the warehouse. locking the parking brake with the gear lever in Neutral, Aurelio reached for the iPhone 4S in his blazer pocket and dialed a specific number that he had committed to his own memory rather than that of his phone. As soon as he heard the line pick up on the other end, Aurelio began speaking per a given procedure.

"Aurelio Zenigata, serial number Romeo-Bravo-Hotel-Zero-Zero-Two-Five-Four-Eight-Niner. Reporting as scheduled plus one cyborg--" Inwardly, he grimaced. "--Sophie Zenigata, serial number Romeo-Bravo-Charlie-Zero-One-Seven-Niner-Five-Niner-Niner."

After a short pause, a voice on the other end broke the silence. "Confirmed. Standby, Mr. Zenigata. We're bringing you and Sophie down now."

The door to the warehouse slid shut, leaving the Alpine and its occupants alone in the darkness with headlights blazing. the ground below them began to shake as they started sinking into the floor, the view through the windshield simply that of the headlights shining on a wall that was rising in front of them until they finally began to see whilte light produced by fluorescent units mounted in the ceiling of a special facility the secret elevator they had parked on was now bringing them to.

The lift finally came to a stop on a concrete floor, and Aurelio took the parking brake off, placing the Alpine into 1st and driving a short distance over to a small parking lot where a 2010 BMW 535i and a 1995 Chevrolet Impala SS were parked. Aurelio slotted in between the two, applied the parking brake, and shut off the engine, extricating himself from the low-slung vehicle along with Sophie. Each of them brought a pistol case with them as they exited the car, and Aurelio had slung a range bag on his shoulder as well. The pair approached a table where two pairs of people were loading various-caliber cartridges into pistol and rifle magazines.

"Nuts, looks like me and Sophie are the last ones here," said Aurelio as he set his and Sophie's shared range bag on the table.

"Hmph. You two better load up. We got a lot to do and not a lot of time to do it," said a gruff elder man. "We were just about ready to start without you two."

"Sorry, Duke. Next time there's a co-op training session, I'll try to get here earlier," replied Aurelio apologetically before turning to the other man, who sat beside a young girl of Asian descent with red-streaked black hair. "Amsel, were you able to get mine and Sophie's long guns? I didn't have any space in the Alpine."

Amsel cocked a brow as he faced the pair. "Certainly makes you easy to spot, but I suppose we all have our quirks. Got your weapons right here." He waved at a pile of hard cases by the tables. "You go by Leo?"

"Thanks," Aurelio said as he and Sophie picked up the hard cases that they identified as their own. "Yeah, I prefer that people call me 'Leo'. It's much less pretentious than my given name. As for the Alpine, well, I don't plan to take it with me on missions, but It's better to drive older cars than just have them sit around to let the tires rot and the fuel turn to varnish."

"Seems like the kid isn't a complete airhead," Duke grumbled, thinking of the few vintage muscle cars he owned. Sophie glanced at the old man disapprovingly for a moment before steering the conversation back to her handler's cars.

"By the way, tomorrow, we use the Stratos and I drive, okay?" Sophie suggested as she extracted an MP5A4 and MP5SD-N from their cases. Aurelio smiled at Sophie and nodded his assent.

The handler nodded, tucking his hands into the pockets of his charcoal trousers. "Two unique cars and time to keep them in shape. Without dipping into your dossier, I'd assume you've got an impressive collection and enough funds to not worry about much of a day job. Right?" Amsel got a confirmation from Aurelio's subtly unnerved expression. "You don't look intel. Law enforcement, I would think. But that seems to never go hand-in-hand with fortune and happiness. You're quite a case."

"Well, you're right about that. I once wanted to be a race car driver, and could have been since I was pretty well off," Aurelio admitted sheepishly as he opened up the cases to his Nighthawk pump shotgun and SIG carbine. "I didn't go that route since my mom and dad taught me that people with money and power have an obligation to help the less-fortunate somehow. They did it with free clinics, charities and donations, I went the public servant route and became a U.S. Marshal. As for the cars and cash, well, that's all thanks to some investing my dad and I did when I was still in school and then I invested in Apple and Google before they were huge. That's really the only reason I can afford these uh, 'toys'."

"That investment sounds like some stroke a luck. Must have run out of it when you ended up here," the handler replied sardonically. "Speaking of toys, you ordered some expensive hardware."

"Would you believe I actually left a teaching job for this because I thought I would be some kind of social worker?" Aurelio asked with a nervous grin as he slid 5.56 rounds into the PMAGs for his SIG. "The hardware's just all personal preference and brand reputation. I used to work with Glocks and Mossys, but I heard a lot of good things about Nighthawk guns and SIG pistols, and after having a chance to run some rounds through them, I'm not stricken with buyer's remorse."

"Bunch of overpriced junk, if you ask me," grumbled Duke as he laid down the final mag for his M14 rifle. "They don't make 'em like they used to, hell, at least I buy American."

Amsel chuckled at the statements, considering how much he had dumped into equipment. "Nighthawk is US made - but origin is hardly an issue for a weapon you depend on. I spent something like five grand for Luce's rifle. Expensive, yes but I didn't waste time on it and it fits her needs. That's good enough for me. People like us have too much hassle over irreplaceable equipment to fuss over little things like guns."

"Five grand? For that money, that rifle should make you breakfast," said Duke, shaking his head as he loaded another pistol magazine.

"What kind of practice are we here for, anyway?" Sophie asked as she finished loading the last of her MP5 magazines.

Amsel grabbed his eye and ear protection, nodding to Luce as he stepped toward a steel door. "Typical range practice. Live fire with a bit of critique afterward."

"Sounds good," said Aurelio, loading shells into his Nighthawk. "You ready, Sophie?"

"Everything's ready to go, Leo," the redhead replied, holstering her SIG into her thigh holster.

Behind them, Duke and his cyborg finished loading their magazines as well, standing up and carrying their weapons and ammo with them as they followed the others, but not without a terse warning from the older man.

"June, you know what happens when you fuck up. Don't embarrass me," Duke warned, a threatening tone in his voice.

"Yes, sir," June replied evenly, maintaining a neutral, composed expression. They didn't notice Amsel and Luce exchanging uneasy looks.

The group proceeded through the door and into an air-conditioned control center, with TV screens lining the walls and two doors set in opposite ends of the room. The monitors showed the rooms from a variety of angles. Most of them looked fairly convincing, with furniture, mannequins and even wallpaper. There was nobody else running the ranges, so Amsel ran a few checks on a computer and gestured at the door. "Leo and Sophie should run it first. Go through the door and engage anybody who is armed or shows a threat. Get to the opposite end of the range as fast as you can. Duke and June can watch from the catwalks overlooking the area, if they're so inclined."

While the Hudson Fratello took to the catwalks to observe, the Zenigatas donned eye and ear protection before taking position some space away from the wall near the door they were to breach.The course got quiet, and Aurelio used his weak hand to signal a countdown to his partner.

-Three. Two. One.

Aurelio shoved his right foot into the doorknob area, bashing the door open as he went into the room, Sophie close behind as they began sweeping for targets to engage. Immediately, a target depicting a man holding a knife to a hostage's throat and a red mannequin popped up on hyrdaulic arms from behind the couch and a bar counter. Aurelio fired on the mannequin while Sophie put a three-round burst into the head of the hostage taker, and both targets receded to their original positions. sweeping for more threats and finding none, Sophie and Aurelio moved to the next area, proceeding down a hallway. Weapons at low ready position with the handler on point, they progressed down the corridor when a target popped up and advanced towards them. This, however, was a white mannequin, a no-shoot, so neither raised their weapons, much less fired. As they approached the end of the hallway, a paper target swung out from around the corner, an UZI-wielding baddie. A nearby window also revealed another red mannequin popping up, and Leo dealt with the paper target this time while Sophie stitched a burst into the mannequin's chest.

When they reached the next room, three targets popped up behind a couch, a white mannequin between two reds, so Aurelio drew his SIG and took the one on the right of the white mannequin while Sophie drilled a burst into the one on the left. Confirming the room clear, they moved to the next area, Sophie reloading her MP5SD while Aurelio fed more shells into his shotgun. As they proceeded down another corridor, more targets popped out of doorways and from the floor, Aurelio and Sophie dispatching red mannqeuin after red mannequin with buckshot and SMG fire. proceedung through teh corridor had used all of Aurelio's shells, and so he switched to his SIG again as the pair entered the final room, where a whole multitude of paper and mannequin targets popped up directly in front of them. Aurelio put two rounds into every hostile target and mannequin while Sophie used the last of her MP5's magazine before switching to her SIG to finish off the rest. Following a threat scan, the pair declared the room clear, holstering their sidearms.

"How'd we do?" Sophie asked.

"Hmmm..." Amsel's voice called over the intercom. "You missed the prone target on the right-hand side of the door."

Sophie and Aurelio both looked to where Amsel had directed. Sure enough, there was a mannequin with no bullet holes in it, something of an embarrassment to the pair.

"Damn, that was my area of responsibility, too," said Sophie. "Sorry, Aurelio. I didn't look down."

"Happens to the best of us; at least it happened here, and not out in the field," Aurelio replied reassuringly, giving his cyborg's shoulder a gentle squeeze.

Up in the catwalk, Duke turned to June, having made note of Sophie's mistake.

"Make sure you don't forget to look down while sweeping your AOR."

"Yes, sir."

"Your time was fifty-six point four seconds. Good run. We'll go next. You guys can observe from the catwalk or the command center." Amsel and Luce emerged from the door at the side of the range. Both were wearing what appeared to be plain clothing with body armor and helmets worn somewhat hap-hazardly. The man had a large semi-automatic shotgun, while his partner was wielding the black battle rifle they had seen earlier.

"Interesting choice for Luce," noted Sophie as she looked at the SR-25 in the Asian's hands. "Are those... cat ears on her helmet?"

"Looks like it," said Aurelio. "Amsel's Remington is something else..." It looked like a competition model more than a tactical gun, with a large magazine and clear, prominent fiber-optic sights.

As he remarked about the gun, the handler stared at the two. "Put on your ear pro. We're going loud in twenty seconds." There was the noise of whirring motors as the targets reset thoughout the course, and doors slammed shut on hydraulics. Amsel took a spot next to the door, Luce just behind him. They bumped fists and exchanged a few signs - exactly what was hard to tell from a distance. The two were perfectly relaxed, having done much worse trials in the past.

Amsel tested the doorknob and shook his head. Luce made a few signs and moved closer to the doorway, the handler moving sideways to cover her. Amsel raised the shotgun and fired into the lock and both hinges before kicking the door from its frame. Luce became a blur as she darted through the portal, Amsel close behind. The thunder of the battle rifle started up instantly before the bass of shotgun blasts filled the air, leaving four targets ridden liberally with large-caliber punctures.

Luce swapped mags; Amsel stuffed loose rounds into his shotgun. After a small hand motion from her handler, the cyborg pulled the pins on a flashbang and cocked her arm. The grenade rattled across the ground into the adjoining room for a second before detonating brilliantly, causing Aurelio and Sophie to shield their eyes. When they looked at the course again, there were a half dozen fallen targets surrounding a single no-shoot.

Amsel deftly fed rounds into his Remington. Another target snapped up in a doorway unexpectedly, only to be hosed with three rounds to the head from Luce. The cyborg ran forward and kicked the mannequin out of their way, ducking to the side as Amsel threw another flashbang into the room.

As soon as the explosive detonated they flowed into the room - Amsel turning left, Luce going right. Any hiding target was liberally hosed with ammunition, before the targets in the center of the room were eliminated a split second later. The two ducked into a hallway and fired as they moved, dropping targets even as they advanced.

The bolt on the SR-25 locked back and Luce smoothly produced her handgun, firing four times into the nearest target. She glanced at Amsel. When he nodded, she holstered the pistol and reloaded the rifle in a rapid flow of motions, bring it back on target after a second and a half.

They deviated from the other pair's approach at the final room. Hugging a wall for cover, Amsel and Luce directed a punishing stream of fire into the open door and took out three targets outright. Amsel hurled another of the grenades, ducking down as it detonated. He glanced into the chamber of his empty shotgun and drew his handgun, following closely behind Luce as she cleared right. Bursting into the room and veering left, he put four rounds into the small target by the floor.

The two glanced around the room, reloaded their weapons and only then safed them. Amsel removed his ear protection and glanced at a timer on his belt. "Thirty seven seconds."

Duke and June lined up next, with the handler notably attaching a bayonet to his M14 rifle. After bursting into the first room, the pair began clearing the course methodically, Duke even getting a chance to stab and slash gaping holes in some of the targets if they popped up within point-blank range, and remembering the prone target that had Sophie and Aurelio had missed, June used the last round loaded in her rifle magazine to dispatch the mannequin one-handed while transitioning to her sidearm with her other hand. Aside from those two feats, the Fratello had otherwise completed the course with a tidy effectiveness and little flash--that is, until video playback of their run showed a problem.

Shortly after Duke was taken aside to be shown what had happened, he stormed back out into the shoothouse, shaking Aurelio off as he came out the door of the control room. Walking briskly down into the final room where his cyborg was still standing, he grabbed June roughly by her shoulder and very nearly dragged her back the way they came through the course, rounding corners until they were out of sight from the others. However, everyone could still hear the grizzled handler's furious voice echo through the shoothouse.

"LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID! WHAT DID I TELL YOU?!"

...

"YOU'RE 'SORRY'?! APOLOGIES DON'T BRING PEOPLE BACK TO LIFE, YOU MISERABLE SHIT! I'LL GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO BE SORRY ABOUT!"

There was a sound of flesh hitting flesh, followed by a thump. Duke returned to the end of the shoothouse alone a few moments later, massaging his knuckle. The others were staring at him in silence, until he broke it, speaking in a lower tone.

"I don't give a damn what you all heard; she knows the consequences of the mistakes she makes. Leave if you want. I'm making her run the course by herself until she gets it right."

Luce and Amsel exchanged a glance. Both shrugged, then started to don their gloves, ear protection and body armor once more. The handler stepped past Duke and opened the door, pausing. "Traumatic memories tend to be a bad thing during a live run. If you can't respect her, then respect our right to have a competent partner to work with."

The statement was punctuated by a hollow clack as Luce inserted a magazine into her rifle. She gave Duke an icy glare before brushing past the men. Amsel followed, and the door slammed shut behind them.

Aurelio and Sophie also went to leave Duke, going back to the tables and benches where they had been loading their magazines. They cleared and began stripping their weapons for a quick once-over, also taking care to remove the unused ammunition from their primary weapons. The process gave them enough time for some banter.

"Mr. Hudson is such a jerk," Sophie commented.

"That gives us no excuse to interfere, unfortunately," Aurelio replied. "At the end of the day, June is still his girl, and he's the one in charge of what happens in her life while she's in his presence."

"But he beats her! You can't tell me that's the correct thing to do for one mistake during practice!"

"I don't like his style of discipline any more than you do, Sophie, but all we can do is try to help June a little on the side and be extra-nice to her. I know you made one mistake today, Sophie, but things like that happen. Shake it off and learn from it."

"I don't suppose we're still going to O' Groats after this?" asked the redhead.

"We'll go as planned, don't you worry," replied Aurelio with a smile. "But we just have to make sure to order plenty extra for Amsel, Luce, and especially June before we leave, and that way she'll have something decent for breakfast."

"I'm glad you're such a kind person, Leo," Sophie said, smiling at her handler. "You're so considerate of others."

"I try," Aurelio replied with a modest smile. "I can't take all the credit, though."

Emile sat to one side of the room with a wan smile on her face as she re-barrelled the IMI Uzi PRO sitting on her lap. Her handler, a nondescript caucasian thirty-something-year-old, paced around the beach house irritably as he almost yelled into his bluetooth headset.
Despite the agreeably warm temperatures, the calming smell of sea salt and a safehouse in San Diego to die for, Lucas Marsden was having a bad day, and it was getting on his nerves. He was going to end the day a wanted man, and he did not want to end it on a low note. It took every fibre of his being not to ball his fists hard enough to crush the phone in his hand to bits.

"I gave you the co-ordinates. You admit that it was solid. I handed this to you for free. Anyone else would be paying through their nose for sigint this crisp. And you still aren't convinced."

"The Mexican team took losses. Unacceptable losses." The voice on the other side infuriated Lucas. He had spent enough years - not a lot, but enough - in the NSA to likely have enough know-how to unscramble the distortion in the call. But he felt insulted by the reception to his work. "Some of us aren't completely convinced you genuinely wish to defect from the Americans. Some of us aren't even convinced this... 'Rehabilitation Branch' exists."

A vein worked at Lucas' temple as he turned to glance at Emile, her features lighting up in recognition of his face. Small hands gripped the Uzi like a bench vise as she held out the gun in his direction, searching for approval. He gave a curt nod and a smile before turning away to direct his focus back to the asshole on the other side of the call. Affirmation and approval, the psychologist mentioned. He didn't have to love the kid, he was told, but at the very least there needed to be some sense of purpose and-or respect. Rumored stories of the cyborgs flipping out on their handlers gave Lucas the chills, but for the time being Emile happily set the Uzi down on the table, giving no indication that she felt slighted by his awkward behaviour.

"I've seen the CCTV before we wiped it. You sent fucking amateurs to take out a multi-million dollar weapon that eats Green Berets for light snacks, never mind breakfast. I thought maybe you might actually take me seriously for once, but apparently my connections aren't really worth your time. Seriously? PMCs?"

"You understand our MO, Mister Marsden. We only leave paper trails where we want them. You should know, of all people."

The stubble on Lucas' chin grated like sandpaper under his fingers as he rubbed his jaw in frustration. He breathed in, breathed out, just like the doctor said. I'm surrounded by fucking babies. "Yeah. Look, I'm just saying, I've been handing all this stuff out for free, stuff that would guarantee faith from any other three-letter gallery, and it's getting to the point where I need to disappear from the scene before they burn me."

"We will extract you when it is suitable. I support your instatement into our agency, but it will take time for me to convince the rest. We will ensure your safety for the time being. Lekha milchamah, Mister Marsden."

"Spare me the Mossad bullshit, I'm not buyin' it." Lucas cut off the call before he threw the phone across the room, smashing into pieces on the masonry behind the fireplace before melting into puffs of acrid smoke. He resisted the urge to scream, instead running his hands through his hair before letting out a long, drawn-out sigh.

Emile cheerfully piped up behind him, bounding to his side with a hop and a skip. "You destroyed the whole phone, Dad. You only needed to dispose of the SIM card!" She tugged on the side of Lucas' shirt, prompting him to look down exasperatedly.

This kid. "Did you load the Uzi?"

"Yes, Dad! FMJ rounds, 25 in each box. 4 boxes. Your webbing has been re-sprayed on short notice." Emile's smile widened as Lucas tried gently pushing her away by way of placing a hand on her head, mistaking it for a sign of affection.

His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of a car in the distance. His ears picked up on it just a fraction later than Emile's, pulling up on the driveway in front of the beach house.
Tensing up almost immediately, he flattened himself against the wall, motioning for Emile to get down.

"Ready for hostiles, Emile. Keep an eye on the back entrance."

As if a switch had been flipped, the cyborg immediately bolted to the other end of the room, drawing out a Glock 18 from nowhere. She dived behind a potted yucca shrub, propping the machine pistol against the heavy terracotta, now partly hidden behind the dense shrubbery. Lucas gave Emile a brief, bemused glance, shaking his head before returning to the task at hand.
He could never figure out where she concealed those guns, let alone the thirty-round box magazine she set beside her on the floor.

The slit Lucas pulled open between the windowblinds revealed a black Chevrolet SUV, idling on the white gravel a little more than forty feet away from the front door. In that moment, he noted the details; the lack of sirens or government plating despite everything else about the SUV screaming cop car, the way it parked at an angle despite having a straight driveway perpendicular to the main road (and the house), the two occupants that exited the vehicle on the side facing away from the house, dark suits and all.
Lucas reached into the underlay of his jacket, and cursed when he found nothing. Leaning down to the shoe cabinet by the front door, the handler fumbled around until he found what he was looking for, closing his fingers around a semi-compact Jericho. He bode his time before answering the buzz on the intercom.

"Who is it?"

"Federal Emergency Management. We're here to ask some questions."

"Huh." Lucas set the Jericho down on top of the shoe cabinet, covering the gun with the brown paper out of an empty shoebox. He had been so wrapped up in getting the hell out of Dodge that he had forgotten about the inevitable debriefing.

In that critical moment, he decided to play it safe. The window of opportunity would have be narrowed once the Rehabilitation Branch realised that some of their personnel had dropped off the face of the earth. "Alright then, I'll bite. Colorado."

A brief moment's pause, before the voice on the other side of the door answered curtly. "Cheyenne."

Well, that did it. Lucas took a deep breath, and a second, before unfastening the door chain and opening it to let his new guests inside, scrutinising the pair as they stepped into the lounge. He extended a hand towards the older woman, giving her the most genial smile he could. "Nice to meet you, miss..?"

"Edgehart." The woman, a blond-haired lady in her late thirties, barely acknowledged his greeting with a nod, walking off past him, one gloved hand in her suit jacket pocket. Her companion was a much younger girl, a lanky teenager dressed in the same dark formal-wear as her elder counterpart. It only took Lucas a moment to realise that this was Edgehart's cyborg, and he quickly averted his gaze as the teenager simply smiled to him in reply to his lingering stare.
"We're here to debrief you, Marsden, and bring you and Emile back home. I assume this is her?" The government agent turned around to face Lucas again, gesturing towards his little cyborg - who was still propped down behind the yucca flowerpot bearing down on Edgehart with the sights of her Glock, a comically dead-serious look on her face.

Shit. Lucas gave a nervous chuckle, smoothing back his hair as he gestured for Emile to stand at ease. The girl sprung out from her hiding place, the machine pistol disappearing from sight in a flash, just as fast as she'd taken it out. "Heh, yeah. Just doin' some exercises with her. Taking precautions is all, didn't hear from RB for a while."

If there was any suspicion on his guests' part, the woman didn't show it, as she impassively clasped her hands in front of her. "Of course. We'll be here for quite some time, Marsden. Amita, why don't you get Emile here to show you around the area? Take a while to scout out the waves." Edgehart glanced searchingly at Lucas, who waved his hand dismissively.

"Yeah, alright. Go show Amita around, Emile."

"Okay, Dad!" Emile cracked a big smile and extended her hand out for Amita to grab a hold of, the two of them making their way out the back.

"Make sure you get back before it's dark," Edgehart called out after them, her own cyborg silently raising her hand in reply as they disappeared from view. Lucas swore he could spot the shadowiest of smiles on the woman's face, despite the stony visage the government agent presented. The two sat down on opposite ends of the coffee table facing the fireplace, which was now beginning to replace the ambient light coming in from the now-rapidly setting sun. "Nothing to worry about, Marsden. They'll respond to any percieved threats we transmit, at least. Operational procedure just needs them out of the immediate area. Keeping them outside is just sOP, but you already knew that."

"Hmm. I've been in the program long enough to get the hang of it, at least." Lucas exhaled, partly in an attempt to release the pent-up stress of the entire afternoon. "Still, keeping up with things back in Yucatán and Bolivia all by my lonesome with no-one but the cyborg... this gig ain't a cakewalk, that's the first thing I've learnt so far."

The government agent nodded, leaning forward with a questioning stare. "Tell me about Yucatán and Bolivia."
And so he did.



---



He told her everything she needed to know; their sojourn into an American PMC the Rehabilitation Branch suspected of making electronic forays into government secrets, deep cover employment that led them on a paper trail into Mexico and Bolivia, where the private branch had been setting up expansions into heavy-duty equipment of the hacking kind. Being just at the right place, at the right time, they bugged the company from head to toe, bringing in enough evidence to fill up stacks of hard drives while still providing the PMC with enough digital security to protect them against pretty much everything else - and to keep their cover intact.

He kept the truth to himself, though. The team had discovered that the PMC group had been slow at producing results - but that changed when Lucas came along. He didn't tell her about the way he'd strategically avoided their own recording devices, the way he used their information to remotely access the Rehabilitation Branch's files in the most reach-around methods. He kept to himself how proud he felt as he outwitted an entire U.S. intelligence division a whole two countries away and managed to escape with nary an implication pointing to his treason. His experience in the NSA had given him the aptitude to jeopardise the lives of a fratelo without even firing a single shot.
But Lucas never spoke a word about that. And after tonight, he would escape with one of the most sophisticated (and in his opinion, the most insidious) weapons systems created: a multi-million dollar child soldier for hire.

Lucas searched for any hint of approval from Edgehart as he told his story, lies and all. She asked the perfunctory questions to gently lead him towards the finer points of the operation, but apart from that she seemed to buy it, hook, line and sinker. He fought the urge to smile as she sat back, apparently satisfied by his recounts. "So, did I make the cut?"

"Not bad," Edgehart said admittedly, checking her wristwatch. The sun had almost completely sunk into the horizon, dark enough that the beach outside was just a blur of sand and shadows meeting the reflection of the tide. "You've proven yourself to be quite a handful to keep up with. Well-executed, in and out without suspicion. This does make for a formidable evaluation report."

"So I can check out now?" Lucas stood up with an air of finality, feeling almost triumphant. The agent on the other side of the coffee table, however, did not get up.

"One moment, Marsden." Edgehart's voice hardened, her tone taking on a cold edge. "You mentioned the third data packet you found at Bolivia station - you said that had been logged about a month and a half ago?"

Lucas barely skipped a beat - he could recite his whole story in his sleep. "Yeah. About a week before I turned up, they snagged a piece of a DoD database. They'd been making solid attacks on our encryption for a long time already, so whoever they had on their payroll had been some serious pros."

"That's interesting, because you might like to know that we had a second field agent in the area - not really someone with a pedigree like yours, but for solidarity's sake, a Section 2 plant, and he's told us some very different things about those data packets."

Lucas froze on the spot.
The notion of time and space seemed to disappear from his mind as he filled in the blanks for himself before Edgehart even finished her sentence. Even as she continued her monologue, the only thing he could hear was the thundering of his heart beginning to pound a million miles a minute as he frantically searched for a way out of the clusterfuck that he had been sitting in for the past hour - no, not even that - for god knows how long.

"Checking through all the time stamps properly, it seems the majority of them seemed to pop up after you actually arrived. It was only a hunch, but after I had the operative verify the details of the leaks, most of the evidence didn't seem to point towards the facility's staff as the source of the data."

All roads in Lucas' mind led to one path in that one moment. He tensed up - it was all or nothing.

"... and now, I don't remember broadcasting John and Lucinda Amsel's safehouse residency on a public channel, which begs the question how -"

Lucas never let her finish. Not one to telegraph his attacks, he lunged back in one single, explosive motion, letting fly with an errant backfist in Edgehart's direction before calling out for his cyborg.

"EMILE!" Even as the agent sitting on the couch began to get to her feet, Lucas had the upper hand in that instant, bearing down on top of her with another quick jab, hoping to catch Edgehart in the face with a follow-up knee strike. Even as the woman ducked under his fist, his back leg furiously shot upwards -

And shattered against Edgehart's fist.

Lucas barely had time to register the wildfire of pain shooting through his leg as his kneecap splintered apart into shards of bone. He had even less time to react before the same fist drove into his solar plexus, knocking all the air from his lungs in a savage strike that cut off his scream before he could make a sound. It struck him with the force of a sledgehammer, dark spots forming in his vision as he spasmed for air.
If the strike at his midsection had deprived him of breathing, Edgehart continued with the theme, stepping around his side to catch him in the throat with a haymaker that followed through, wrapping her arm around his neck and squeezing like a bench vise as she kicked his feet out from under him. Lucas struggled to both breathe or think, but he found the strength to push back against the floor, the heels of his shoes skidding against the floorboards as he slammed Edgehart back against the fireplace,shattering the mantlepiece fixture under her weight. The agent's grip loosened, allowing him to slip a hand underneath before it tightened again.

Gasping and choking, he tried to pull himself up with his good leg, but the woman kicked it out from under him again, bracing herself against the wall. It was just as his vision began to swim out of focus that he spotted at the end of the room a figure standing behind the back door -

Which shattered as 10 inches of tapered, black carbon-steel drove through the glass panel and cleanly punched through the back of his oral cavity.
Lucas only came to the realisation moments before he died - sundown had long since passed. He had been played for a fool.



---



He gurgled as blood bubbled down his pharynx, glassy-eyed as Christine Edgehart let him drop to the floor, the Internal Affairs agent wiping flecks of blood and spinal column off her face.
She cursed lowly. "What the hell was that?" she said, glaring at Amita as the cyborg stepped over the broken glass, bending down to retrieve the metal spike now protruding out the bottom of Lucas' skull.

The throwing weapon gave way under the grip of Amita's gloved fingers, but not without effort. "Sorry about that, Chris. The armorers down in the labs wanted me to test a new toy of theirs. Short notice." She wiped the black spike clean using Lucas' shirt before gingerly replacing it back in its pocket, a concealed trouser sheath running the length of her left thigh. "You know how it goes."

"I do know how it goes, thank you very much. Stick with the regular knives, that thing nearly caught me in the face." Christine sniffed in disapproval at the sizeable metal spike, before heading for the front door. "Help me hose this place down, we need to be back home by midnight. Did you salvage the Marsden unit?"

"Quicker to the punch than I thought, but I had the jump on her. Once I hit her with the autoinjector, she was out in less than fifteen. I kept her quiet for long enough." Amita rubbed her shoulder where she had been thrown fairly hard. "I did take a bit of a hit, but nothing serious."

"Did you take the thiopental, or the methohexital?" Christine disappeared from view as she walked out, coming back in with a gasoline can. Amita didn't reply at first, busying herself with the task of dragging Lucas' corpse out the front yard, but Christine sighed in frustration, spotting her sheepishness. "I told you to call the lab and get new stock of hexital, goddamnit. How's Emile breathing?"

"A bit slow, but she doesn't need the ventilator. She'll live."

Christine shook the last of the gasoline out over the leather couches, by now visibly annoyed. "This is why I asked you to restock the methohexital, Amita," she snapped, throwing the empty can across the room and out the front door. "The turnover on our Section 4 staff are as bad as it is already this year. We don't have the money to lose our agents, let alone the units as well. Stopping Marsden was a necessity, but losing the cyborg asset isn't. Do I have to order you to make sure next time?"

At the key word 'order', Amita shot Christine a sour glare, roughly swinging Lucas' body out in the same direction as the rest of the spent gasoline cans. "Look, I'm sorry, alright? I wasn't aware these 'assets' meant so much to you. I'm sorry I don't have the skills to keep on top of the whole damn Branch. If you want a walking assassin calculator, take your pick."
Christine sighed, rubbing the left side of her head with gloved fingers as a vein worked at her temple. "Amita, I didn't keep you with me for four years -"

"- Five, Mom. Five years and six days. Happy anniversary for us, by the way." Amita scowled, but picked up one of the last cans of gasoline and made her way to the kitchen.
If Christine felt guilty about forgetting about the date, she didn't show it. "- Five years. We're old as shit, Amita. We might be ahead of the curve right now, but sooner or later we won't be the fastest or the strongest. Hell, I hear it's already happened."

"We've been over this a thousand times before, Chris. What's your-"

"Yeah we've been over this, and we'll go over it a thousand times again. Who watches the watchmen, Amita?"

"We do." Amita mumbled in reflex, flinging the last of the gasoline over the kitchen counter, giving the gas stove a wild berth. "Nos custodire custodes."

"That's right. Nos custodire custodes. We aren't going to finish first place in the Branch, but we're sure as hell going to stay the smartest. Light that fuse and let's bring the Marsdens home. I think we're both sick of this place."

The house was already beginning to smoke as they dumped Lucas in the boot of the Chrysler along with the cans, wrapped in a body bag. Christine and Amita sat the comatose cyborg between themselves in the back seats, keeping a close eye on Emile's unconsciousness. They watched for a moment as flames began to lick outwards, bursting windows out with a heat that began to buffet the car. Christine reclined back into her seat, deep in thought.

"Take us to the air field, Dreiswich."

June had caught on in short order, so Amsel and Luce hadn't had to stay around very long helping her out. They had gotten some food from Leo and Sophie, too. Still, it had been a good half of their day before they left the compound and headed for the safehouse.

However, Luce wanted yogurt. So they decided to go by a Pinkberry for some frozen treats.

As Luce filled with a cup with various yogurts, Amsel noted she would wince and rub her shoulder periodically. "Three-oh-eight kicked your ass?"

Yep, Luce signed before adding various fruits to the top of her dessert. She handed it to the cashier, who then weighed it. Amsel paid with a ten and sat with the girl. He liked yogurt normally, but the training had left him quite ponderous. Not that Luce was clear-headed right now either, but she was good at hiding uncertainty. The sudden buzzing of his phone broke that train of thought.

"Amsel."

The voice of a very familiar woman tickled his ear. "California is quite lovely. How have you been?"

The man sat back, suppressing a grin. "Decent enough. I suppose you got those emails, calling on an encrypted line and all?"

"Of course. I did find that information you were looking for. But I would much prefer to give it to you in person."

"Hm?"

"We'll just have to wait, won't we?" She hung up.

Amsel considered the brief conversation. He stood from the table. "Be back in a bit, Luce."

Okay. Have fun.

The handler left the place and returned to the parking lot, just waiting by his car. A moment later, something sleek and red crossed the parking lot and paused in the drive way. The driver revved loudly and waited. Amsel was the only other person in the lot. He climbed into the M5 as the red car took off.

Amsel shifted into reverse and swung the sedan out of its spot. He gunned the engine heavily and released the clutch, slamming into first and launching from the lot with a roar and cloud of white smoke.

"Thank you for dessert, Leo," said Sophie as they exited the mall, having stopped for a post-lunch treat at The Cheesecake Factory.

"You're welcome, Sophie," Aurelio replied as he reached into his pocket for the keys to the Alpine. "Would you mind driving home, as well?" he added, jingling the keys in the redhead's direction.

"N-not at all!"

Aurelio smiled and was about to hand his keys over to Sophie when the sound of engines at full throttle caught their attention. On the road next to the mall, a Jaguar XKR coupe in Italian Racing Red Metallic sprinted past, supercharger whining with effort while hot on its heels was Amsel's BMW. The two cars blurred past, headed for the twisting hills.

"Looks like we won't be heading back to Oakland after all," Aurelio quipped. "Sophie, wanna see if we can keep up with them on the twisties?"

"Sounds like fun," Sophie said with a grin, grabbing the keys and dashing over to the driver's side door of the Alpine. Aurelio followed suit on the passenger's side, and the pair hurriedly belted in as Sophie fired up the engine and gave it a few revs before setting off with a chirp of the tires. With Sophie's instinctive heavy foot, the light blue car quickly went through its gears.

Sophie downshifted as she took on a sweeping left-hander, gunning the throttle upon exit as they began climbing the hill. Glancing out the passenger side window, Aurelio could see Amsel and his opponent rounding a hairpin corner two turns ahead as the Alpine began accelerating again.

"Now, I wonder why they're in a hurry..." Aurelio mused as Sophie brought the engine towards redline before clutching in and shifting up.

"You don't think it's trouble, do you?" Sophie asked.

"Well if it was, I think Luce would be leaning out the window, opening fire by now."

"Point."

Sophie took the hairpin Amsel and his quarry had passed moments ago in sideways fashion, flicking the tail out but keeping it expertly-controlled with well-timed countersteering before straightening out and accelerating.

The black BMW careened around the corner with a scream, nearly losing control before it hurtled through the straight. The ground between the two cars was closing rapidly. The lead driver took the next corner too quickly and had to slam on the brakes before emerging from the turn. Amsel had veered into the other lane to avoid smashing into the car. Incredibly, he slowed down and waited for the Jaguar to recover, gunning the engine as the sedan slowed. He didn't have to wait long, as the red tourer burst from its near-stop and cannoned past.

It became suddenly clear that this wasn't a normal pursuit.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say Amsel was racing someone," said Aurelio as he clenched his grip on an interior grab handle.

"But who?" asked Sophie as she heel-toed a particularly tight corner.

"We won't know unless you close the gap," Aurelio replied with a teasing tone.

"Watch me. We'll especially be in business once we hit the downhill section."

Sophie floored the gas pedal as she took a sweeping right-hander at full-throttle to make up for her lack of power in the straights.

It only took another pair of turns for the Alpine to catch up to the two heavier cars, and it became apparent that they were playing a game of cat-and-mouse, the BMW swerving into the inside lane to try to pass, only to be cut off by a swift counter from the Jaguar. The latter was beginning to really take its time with the turns, as if the driver were teasing Amsel. The distractions closed the gap, and it became apparent that there was only a driver in the black sedan. Before there was much time to linger on the discovery, the sight of another straight loomed on the other side of the ridge.

"Ah damn, they're pulling away again," Sophie complained, the meager horsepower of the restored Alpine unable to compete with the luxury performance cars she was chasing.

The BMW flew through the corner with a slight bit of oversteer, straightening out just behind the coupe. The deafening roar of engines that echoed off the hills grew even louder as the Jaguar gave all it was worth, rapidly increasing the ground between it an its pursuers. A moment later, the following sedan bucked on its chassis as it slammed into next gear, and a hellish roar came from the typical-looking 535 as it explosively accelerated, closed the gap and flew right past the Jaguar.

It turned out Amsel's ride wasn't quite ordinary. The Jaguar's driver blinked their high beams at the BMW, and both started to slow, though still in the speed range one would easily call breakneck. The turns were easier as the two approached the end of the road, the site of an observatory at the top of the hills.

When the Alpine got to the parking lot, both cars had been parked, and Amsel darted into the nearby woods.

~~~~~

"That's the third time you've pointed a gun at me now," Amsel chuckled as the woman left him off the path.

Elise smirked and holstered the pistol. "You know I like to make the first move." She laid her head on the man's shoulder as he took hold of her waist, and the two set off into the trees, sticking by a small stream.

"I didn't realize you were such an avid driver," the man started.

"Out of necessity. Still, I do enjoy it."

"Hence the choice of road?"

"Mm hmm. I underestimated your vehicle and skills however."

"Can't blame the vehicle. Slightly offended at skills though." Amsel grinned.

"It looks ordinary but waits for its moment to shine. It really is a pleasant surprise, like a certain man I know."

"Hah."

Elise broke away from their embrace and faced the man. "The Jaguar is clumsy brute that only knows how to work at the ragged edge. Just like you." She kissed Amsel. It was a simple gesture, but one loaded with a palpable sense of longing. "I've missed you."

"Same," he replied plainly. It had been a few months, well before the rush of work since the Mexican incidents. He wondered if they would be able to meet much at all. Amsel shoved down the thought for another time and switched topics. "Why not get a car that fits you better?"

"I can only dedicate my energies and interests to so many things. A car is nothing special for me, so I went with what was available at the time."

"Doesn't explain your expensive tastes."

"Girls enjoy being pampered, John." Elise smiled and proceeded down the trail, gesturing at the man to follow.

He noticed her hair was down - it had grown a bit since they had last met. She was probably living a less stringent lifestyle by now. "What keeps you occupied these days?"

"My connections. They decided I was too good to lose, so from time to time we exchange information. How else would I have done that research on your behalf?"

Amsel nodded. "What'd you find?"

Elise sat on the banks of where the stream widened to a small river. Her fingers were interlaced on her lap as she thought for a moment. "I brought you here to avoid people. Your own people as well. One of your branch people recently went missing, with his house burned to the ground. They must have found a leak, so I would expect visitors. Friendly agents investigating your responsibility for a leak, cartel men looking for revenge, maybe."

"So you know what happened these past few months?"

The woman gazed at him. "In a word, yes."

"You're upset."

Elise closed her eyes. "I wish you would tell me when you're in need of help. I could give you more than just information," she said flatly.

Amsel sat beside the woman and cradled her against his chest. "I can do that. You shouldn't be afraid of telling me what bothers you, though." She only shrugged in response. "You're more kind-hearted than you give yourself credit for," Amsel chided.

Elise stared up at Amsel, reading his expression, weighing his words. Her hand rose up and ran across the man's jaw. "I didn't want to tell you this so it wouldn't weigh you down, but there's more I found. Those cartels want to find a way just as lucrative as smuggling drugs, ways that are harder to get caught with. Their most recent interests have been stealing artificial limb and organ technology and extorting wealthy individuals millions for them."

"They're stealing our schtick. That's not surprising."

"The entire operation is a way for plants to establish relationships with cartel middlemen. The branch is extorting the cartels by waving first-rate products in their faces."

Amsel shook his head. "Christ. What happens when we have to fight cyborgs?"

Elise sighed. "By then, your bosses will have made their money. These operations move fast."

They sat in silence. Handing out their technology would have immediate implications for their own personnel - if their opponents literally took apart cybernetic parts, they could easily devise ways of finding them and killing them. It would inevitably turn into a way for the entire company to be blackmailed - if the international community didn't investigate them first. But the difficult question was to get involved or not, when the entire thing could easily happen without affecting them for years.

"I'll have to think about it."

"Don't throw away your life for nothing, love."

"I've thrown my life into the wind, though it wasn't for nothing..." Amsel stared at Elise in amusement, causing a blush to come to the woman's cheeks. The two leaned close for a kiss, and he started to wonder how much time they would have here.

Time. How long had he left Luce?

"Shit." Amsel leapt to his feet, eliciting a bemused expression from the woman still sitting on the ground. "I still need to go back and get Luce."

"I see." Elise took the man's hand and stood, brushing off her skirt. "Pity we didn't have longer."

"Come with me. Luce still wants to meet you."

The woman smiled warmly. "Does she now?"

The implied consent had Amsel beaming, and they walked back up the trail in content silence.

When they returned to the lot and found the unoccupied Alpine, Amsel produced his phone. "I'll call them."

"We should get going now, then," Elise said, she started to roll up the window on her coupe.

"I have a feeling they're looking for a rematch, actually."

"Your feeling is correct," announced Aurelio from a nearby picnic table. He and Sophie had been waiting quietly while they gave the engine on the Alpine sometime to rest, even if it was expertly-rebuilt and in solid tune. Older French cars were unpredictable, so one had to proceed with caution when thrashing them.

"Honestly, Mr. Amsel. Leo and I may have been at the back of the pack, but from where I saw things, it was all savagery and no finesse," Sophie critiqued. "How crass of you just to rely on horsepower. The same goes for your friend, whom I don't believe we've met."

"Running the mountain round gambit with an armored sedan isn't what I voluntarily submit to. I had to end it somehow," Amsel laughed. "As for the dame..." He gestured toward the woman, who had just emerged from her own car.

"Katrina," the woman said cordially, a bit of an English accent apparent.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance. I'm Sophie," the redhead replied with a bow.

"And I'm her partner. Aurelio Zenigata, but most folks call me Leo," Aurelio added with a nod.

"The pleasure is mine. You two seem made for each other," the woman said. The words were simple, but her sensuous nature garnered embarassed glances from the two.

"Thank you..." Sophie mumbled slightly, before changing the subject. "So, I take it we're all going to go see Luce? I didn't see her with Mr. Amsel, so..."

"That's the plan." Amsel said over his shoulder. He climbed into the sedan and it purred to life. The handler drummed his fingers on the wheel as Elise sauntered back to the Jag, watching her hips sway. He punched Luce's number into the console. There was a quick ring before the line picked up. It was silent, as expected. "Sorry to keep you waiting. Took a leisurely drive to the observatory. I'll be bringing a few friends. Should take less than half an hour depending on how many laws we break."

Aurelio and Sophie returned to the Alpine, the redhead taking her previous place behind the wheel. Turning the key, some whirring of the starter motor kicking the 1.6L 4-cylinder engine to life. After she and Aurelio strapped into their safety harnesses, the redhead leaned out her window and called to the other two drivers.

"See if you can keep up!" Sophie teased with a grin before putting the Alpine into first and launching the little blue car out of the parking lot. Amsel and Elise wasted no time giving chase, but they would soon learn that the opposite direction of travel from their previous journey was where a skilled driver in a relatively light, sharp-handling car had an advantage.

As things turned out, Sophie had clearly spent a fair amount of seat time in the Alpine based on the way that she always showed Amsel and Elise the taillights of her handler's vintage sports car. While the others had plenty of power to spare, it was of no use going downhill, where the Alpine's lighter overall weight, combined with Sophie's experience allowed the Zenigata Fratello to zoom well ahead while Amsel and Elise were hitting their brakes frequently to burn off just enough speed to take a corner without understeering. When they reached the bottom, settling down to slightly more civilized speeds, the Alpine was allowed to lead the pack as they went back to the mall to find Luce. The three cars pulled into one of the lots closest to the mall proper before cutting off their engines, the occupants exiting into the sunny weather. Sophie in particular looked quite pleased with herself.

Luce was waiting outside expectantly. Amsel and Elise glanced at each other sheepishly before moving forward to greet her.

She's pretty! Luce signed a moment before huggling Elise.

The older woman blinked in surprise, though she quickly regained her composure and pat the girl on the head. "Hello."

"She says you're pretty," Amsel explained before turning back to Luce. "Sorry for being so late. I did bring friends though."

"Hello again, Luce." Aurelio greeted vocally as he signed the same simultaneously. Sophie echoed the sentiment with a smile and a wave.

"We had a little race on the way back!" Sophie announced proudly as Aurelio continued to sign, as if a real-time interpreter. "Somehow, both the BMW and the Jag were unable to keep up with Aurelio's elderly Alpine."

"Well, we won't keep you folks. Sophie and I are headed home," Aurelio announced. He offered his arm to his cyborg, and Sophie and Aurelio were linked arm-in arm as the turned to leave.

"Have a good one!" Sophie called as they walked back to the Alpine.

They're pretty cute, Luce signed. Amsel repeated the statement to Elise a moment later.

"Aren't they?" The woman replied cordially. They left the shop, then the mall in short order. Luce opted to ride with Elise for the short drive to their safehouse. On the way, the woman noted that on top of being a mute, Luce had an uncanny tendency to be very quiet. It was easy to forget there was even a passenger in the car... if not for Luce's endearing habit of scooting close for a snuggle.

The only thing she could tell was that Luce must have been very dedicated to her handler to blindly trust a stranger like her. Or perhaps she was was a particularly kind soul. The drive was short, so Elise didn't have much time to linger on her thoughts before she was taking in the new setting.

Amsel had mentioned the place being built a little more than a year ago. One could describe it as a large apartment or condo, though that wouldn't fully describe how nice it was. Polished wood furniture and floors caught the eye, as well as marble countertops and liberal, but utilitarian use of electronics. There were planted signs of normal use - the recent magazines stacked on the coffee table, or the half-empty bottles in the minibar. Plus, knowing Amsel there were guns hidden everywhere. A comfortable safehouse indeed.

Elise couldn't help but stare as Luce popped open a hard case and casually produced a large, menacing rifle. She stripped it with an economy of swift movements and laid it across the nearby table to clean.

"Just got back from training," Amsel explained. The man had not gone into detail about exactly what work they would do, but Elise was experienced to know it was a world more direct than the intimacies she was accustomed to.

"She's good," Elise said finally. She noted a tiny smile flickering across the girl's features as she meticulously cleaned the rifle. Luce took a nearby notepad and uncapped the pen with her teeth. She jotted a line down without even glancing at the paper.

Thank you <3 Her handwriting was neat.

With a conspiratory look, Elise took the pad and scribbled under the line. When the girl looked over, she took a double take. Neat Japanese characters streamed down the page. They read, You're very good. That must be a lot of work.

Truth be told, Luce hadn't used her native language in a while. The first attempts were messy, shaky, but got better momentarily. I enjoy it, actually. You know Nihon-go? The cyborg looked to the woman. Her racial background wasn't totally clear, but she thought there might have been something Asian in there, too.

My dad was Japanese, the woman wrote. My mother was French. They met once on vacation in Rome. When they married and had children, I learned much about both cultures.

Cool!

Seeing the two getting along, Amsel quietly left the room and tapped a number into his phone.

~~~~~
On the other side of the world, in the garage/workshop of the Social Welfare Agency Research and Development wing (AKA 'Q-Branch'), a teenage brunette girl and her boyfriend were wrenching on the latter's Gloss Black Mitsubishi Starion 2600 GSR-VR, the two-door sports car sitting on a ramp with the bonnet open. Suddenly, a slightly tinny rendition of 'Jessica' by the Allman Brothers Band echoed through the workspace.

"Jay, could you get my phone and see who's ringing us at this time?" the girl asked as she unbolted the exhaust headers from the engine block.

"Sure Allison," Jay replied, ceasing his own work on the car to go to the workbench nearby. He found his girlfriend's iPhone vibrating while the ringtone continued to play, and he picked it up and looked at the screen.

"It's Mr. Amsel."

"Give it here."

Jay walked back to his girlfriend, handing her the mobile device, and she set down her tools to answer it.

"Hello, Mr. Amsel."

"Hello Allison. It's evening there, isn't it? I had a bit of a request..."

"Alright. Just sign here, here, and right there." The requisitions clerk took great pride in kitting out the new 'borgs.

This one was cute, to say the least. She was average height, at about 5 foot 9 inches, and was held within a thin yet muscular frame of a body. She had black hair and seemingly glowing blue eyes. In any case, he was glad to see a girl that actually looked right for the equipment he was issuing her. It was kinda creepy seeing little 6 year old girls with M16s or Barrett .50 caliber rifles, but this one looked about the age to enlist into the military.

Her handler, was also quite the match to the cyborg in the looks department. Though, she was a redhead, and a bit taller than the cyborg. That said, they both looked like a proper fit for each other.The handler signed for the kit that was going to be issued to her young operative. With a bit of a scribble, the name Andrea Walker appeared on the line marked "Handler", and Tara Stahl, under "Operative".

"For the little one." He placed a curvy black assault rifle on the counter. It had a rail top, and 3 rails on the handguard. "FN SCAR-L assault rifle. 30 round mags, I fitted it with a suppressor, very lovely weapon for a stealth operative I suppose. Oh, before I forget, this isn't five five six like everything else, re-chambered for 6.5 Grendel. Any accessories?"

Tara, preferring silence as of right now, pointed at an ACOG sight. "Wise choice. You don't have to be so quiet, you know that, right?"

"Sorry sir." She said with a bit of a southern drawl in her voice. "I'll take an ACOG, and an off-side sight." Off side being a side rail mounted optic. It worked well due to saving upper rail space, so you could have a long range optic, and a short range optic.

"Gotta be more specific hon." She looked at the digital catalog on a touchscreen mounted to the counter. "Umm.....I'll take an RMR." The RMR was a nice little compact reflex sight, perfect for a side mount.

He placed everything on the counter. "I'll throw in a grip, because I like ya." He did just that, grabbing a MagPul Rail Vertical Grip.

With a few snaps, twists, and clicks, Tara had completed the set up of her attachments on the weapon. It was now a multi use tool rather than a straight up weapon.

"Go on out to the range, I'll take care of the rest with your handler." He smiled, before looking at Andrea. "So, how did you find that one?"

"Long story." Andrea shrugged, leaning on the counter to look at Tara. She knew this girl, augments or no, could handle whatever came their way, and she saw a bit of herself in the girl. She had this....aura....about her, screamed of honor, that's for sure.

"Range is hot." Tara yelled, before the light above her booth went red.

Targets popped up, and within seconds, she acquired, and downed each, her rifle giving off pops as she fired at the targets. She had always found it funny, that in the video games she played, and in the movies she watched, that suppressors were portrayed as magical devices that could instantly make your gun silent. This, as she found, was not true. It just made it more quiet than it usually is.

Once she heard the click, she dropped the mag, which clattered to the floor, as she grabbed another, slid it in until it clicked, pressed the bolt release, and fired again. After this mag was empty, she put the weapon on safety, picked up the magazines, cleaned up the casings, and walked back with the weapon to the counter where her handler and the clerk were talking.

"That.....was amazing." She smiled, and Andrea handed her a score sheet.

"97% Accuracy. You did great kid." Andrea smiled, before grabbing the SCAR, placing it in a case, and handing it to Tara. "Sidearms in there too, as with some extra goodies. Follow me."

"Тир находится в использовании."

The metallic clacks of a dozen safeties snapping off filled the air, and the Federal Security Service trainees nervously shouldered a motley assortment of AK-74s. The range was more of a large firing pit, with a dusty range extending to some vaguely humanoid targets against a berm. It was perhaps a hundred meters from here to the targets.

Immediately, everything started to go wrong. Syncopated bursts of automatic rifle crackled in the air and in the malestrom of outbound fire, few of the targets were even hit. Partially loaded magazines were clumsily dropped to the dirt, and someone managed to make the top cover drop off their rifle. The loud clang of the metal part slamming into the concrete caused a silence to fall over the collected trainees.

At first he was silent, the same grim expression plastered to the man's face; colorless eyes analyzing, not a drop of sweat under his close-cut brow. He was several inches shorter than the other men, but his imposing demeanor made even the oblivious recruits stiffen in fear.

The terrifying silence was shattered by the thunderous noise of his voice. "Что, черт возьми, с тобой? Сбить достопримечательностей. ВЫ НЕ пещерного человека. ВЫ, стрелять в ПОЛУАВТОМАТ как человек! Мы не танцуют в пустыне больше. Какого хрена? Верхняя крышка отлетела во время стрельбы? Вы, вон, ВЫ ГОВНО." Grigori "Raskol" Dimitriivich punctuated the tirade by hurling the piece of sheet metal into the luckless trainee's face.

Cries of "Да, сэр!" filled the air and the following gunshots were semi-automatic. Crisp, clean and precise, just how Raskol wanted his men functioning. Satisfied that the men were sufficiently terrified to not pay him much attention, Raskol produced his sat phone. As it turned out, one of the only places in the FSB compound to lack bugs was this muddy pit. He punched in a number and waited for the encryption to finish.

It answered after three rings. "Amsel," a voice answered, flat and American-sounding. Different than the man who had sounded much like a native German when the two had first met. The hectic brawl in the Berlin pub had been a memorable one.

"Raskol. Words now. C'mon, no time."

"Very well. You said you had information about that Russian cyborg?"

"Yeah, I had. Mordekai i "Pushka". Little one, one who hurt you, da?"

There was a momentary pause. "And Luce. What do you have for me?"

"Da, da. Very strange. Had many man on many time for searching of them, but all of sudden, *poof* and they there, without us have to look. Do not know if they wanted it. Would be careful, eh?"

"Right you are. Thanks for the information. How's your dushka?"

"Rode hard and put away wet."

"Bravo, Raskol. I've found a woman myself."

"You shitting me, da? I think I leaved you ugly enough no one likes your face."

"Hah. Nah, was on a job in Rome. Found a lovely French intelligence woman - a bit of France, a bit of Japan in her heritage. She's lovely."

"I don't want to know how the France got in her Japan... You keep that all yourself, hah!"

"You know me. So are your co-workers actually doing anything about those two?"

"We were told not to engage for now. No clue on what to do. But... can provocate actions of sort... If Tovaresch Sam wants to help."

It sounded like there was a woman's voice in the background. Amsel said something indistinct - he was probably covering the phone receiver. "That's good to know. Book some tickets to LAX when you get a chance."

"Or Tovaresch Sam can jump with gun like normal. The hell you do?"

"In short, I can trust you more than some people within the organization."

"You're crazy, you know this, da? I come soon."

~~~~~

"Thanks Raskol. Out." Amsel pocketed the phone and returned to the living room, where Elise was lounging on the couch.

"Friend?" She asked as the man plopped down beside her.

Amsel shrugged, raising a brow when the woman laid back against him. "More or less. You getting along well with Luce?"

Elise turned to stare up at the man happily. Amsel had to grin - she looked positively radiant. They leaned close for a kiss. "You've raised her well," Elise said finally.

"A bit an exaggeration there. I do get in her way sometimes."

"Hm?" The woman smirked. "And I had thought my man was really that kind of a person."

"Hah. What's she up to right now?"

Elise leaned against Amsel and closed her eyes. "Sitting in her room, 'making friends' apparently."

LapuaKitteh: Hai

Hoonigirl: Heya!

LapuaKitteh: What up? ^.^

Hoonigirl: nm; just trying to calculate how many dead Padans I have to loot if I wanna purchase a Toyota GT86.

LapuaKitteh: Oooh Do you Italy-people keep count?

Hoonigirl: Me, personally, I don't. I suppose someone does, though.

Hoonigirl: Ah damn, almost lights-out time. GTG, don't want to hack off the bosses.

LapuaKitteh: <3

Hoonigirl is offline.
-------------
Luce sat back and changed her songs in iTunes. She glanced at her phone and remembered Sophie had given out her contact information earlier.

LapuaKitteh: Ello~ It's Luce!

SophieStratos: Oh hi Luce! 'Sup?

LapuaKitteh: Nahmuch~ I met Amsel's friend. She's pretty

SophieStratos: Yeah she is. Said me and Leo were cute together. X3

LapuaKitteh: <3 I think Amsel adores her, but they seem too shy to go anywhere wif it :3

SophieStratos: What a shame. They seemed to be very compatible with each other.

SophieStratos: They have a history together?

LapuaKitteh: I think so, but Amsel doesn't tell ;>_>

LapuaKitteh: Oh, did I tell you what happened, with the hospital and all that?

Luce took a moment to double-check that the chat history was disabled.

SophieStratos: Don't believe you did. What hospital?

LapuaKitteh: In Los Angeles We got back from a job and some crazy PMC guys shot us up X__x

SophieStratos: OMG! You guys get out all right?

LapuaKitteh: Bullets huuurt

SophieStratos: We should've been there to help.

LapuaKitteh: S'okay. You two should be careful though.These guys were a lot better than usual. I dun know how they found us ;___;

SophieStratos: Roger. I'll tell Leo we should make sure to check for tracking devices before we set off from somewhere. These guys sound really dangerous.

LapuaKitteh: I'm going to practice more because of it!

SophieStratos: Good idea. Have Amsel talk to Leo about getting the four of us more range/practice time?

LapuaKitteh: And June. She needs it. :x

LapuaKitteh is offline.

SophieStratos is offline.

"See the target? Gray van. On my go, shoot out the tires." Andrea spoke, laying prone next to Tara, who was manning an M107 .50 caliber rifle.

"I see it. Give me some numbers here, if I need to adjust, you're gonna have to tell me." She spoke in the same cold tone as Andrea.

"Here." Andrea uploaded the info to her tablet PC placed in front of Tara, near the rifle. The PC showed a picture of the target, and now showed a constantly updating status on windage and other factors.

"Thanks." Tara smirked a bit, before biting down on the nozzle of her CamelPak's drinking tube. She looked down the sight, then at the picture, then back to the sight. "What's in the truck?"

"Whatever toys he's selling to the Mexicans." She explained. "I got eyes on, swing a few degrees to the right" Tara moved a bit. "There, confirm visual on target?"

"Confirm." She smiled.

"Lock and load." Andrea kept her eyes looking through the spotters scope.

Tara pulled back the bolt on her M107, inspecting the chamber, before quietly releasing the bolt. "Ready."

"Weapons free when you get a good shot lined up." Andrea said, keeping her eyes on her scope.

Tara kept her eye on the target, placing the reticle just above the target's head, and to the right, due to the wind pushing south instead of north.

"Taking the shot." She placed her finger on the trigger, breathed deep, and squeezed the trigger. Approximately 1 second later, the man collapsed to the pavement. "I missed his head."

"What did you hit?"

"Neck."

"Still works just fine. Lets go."

They packed up their things, and shuffled off to a small Yamaha Rhino, before running off to a waiting Chinook where they were evac'd from the site.

The bullet coasted lazily through the air, taking time with its precarious journey. Copper met paper and a moment later, there was nothing but a small hole to mark what had taken place.

"Two mils low. Probably not lethal." Amsel lowered the binoculars and listened to the soft clicks of Luce's adjustments. She fired just as the handler brought the field glasses back up. A dark hole opened up in the high chest of the target. "Cardiovascular triangle. Nice shot."

Thanks, Luce signed amicably. She sat up and took a sip of iced tea, waiting for the next string of shots. Ever since she had hung out with Elise a day ago, Luce had seemingly redoubled her efforts at practice, asking Amsel to hit the range at the earliest hours. Not that it was a bad thing - but it was certainly different. The shock of the recent attack was having its effect, it seemed.

"Up for something different?" Amsel offered.

What?

The man marked some target numbers on his map. "Course of fire, no corrections. Targets one through seven, then the hanging plate rack."

Luce flopped onto her stomach and crawled up behind her SR-25 - Amsel had noted she was taking quite a liking for the gun. Luce breathed normally as the first shot broke, landing right in the head of the human-shaped target.

"Hit." Luce smirked and turned to the next one. Instead of clicking in the adjustments like usual, she used the thin lines in the scope to approximate a hold almost instantly. The rifle bucked, and the .308 found its unerring mark in the high chest of the target. Even as the cyborg mentally celebrated her accuracy, she ensured that the trigger clicked meticulously back into reset.

Many an observer had mentioned; when Luce was on the job, it looked more like play than work - something that lent an almost leisurely nature to the very serious work they did do.

Well, Luce mostly. Most sniper teams swapped the roles of sniper and spotter to reduce fatigue, both members knowing how to do each role proficiently. Amsel spotted, Luce took the shot. Amsel wasn't a worse shot, and Luce wasn't a bad spotter. It was just how they did things.

A sudden, unexpected low hit on the target made Luce scowl, and she made the adjustments for the next shot.

"No corrections," Amsel reminded her. Luce scowled at that, too. It was hard not to be a perfectionist in this business.

She took care and an extra heartbeat's worth of aiming to make the next hit, which was nearly twice as far out as the one before it. After a certain given range, the work of shot placement would weigh more heavily on the mechanical limitations of the rifle than the shooter.

They hadn't reached that range yet.

The SR-25 thundered, hurling the bullet downrange. A gap appeared in the stomach of the target. Not a total waste, but far from a totally effective shot. Luce shifted her aim with a sigh.

"Keep at it," Amsel offered simply. The girl shrugged in response and shifted around on the mat, making herself as comfortable as she could manage. Luce peered through her telescopic sight.

The white cutouts were so far away one could fit totally between the miliradian-sized marks in the crosshair. By now one would rely on math to do the hard work, but it would be useless if they didn't try.

The bullet slammed into one shoulder of the cutout, lightly rocking it back and forth. "Hm. Left a mil, non letha-"

Luce fired again, and this time the shot careened through the head of her mark. Amsel was the one glaring this time, though he couldn't completely hide his approval.

The next shots were't as good, one even being a total miss. Without adjustments to the optic itself the shots became something of a trial in guesswork. The final plate rack was a reward for sloughing through the other shots, and the metallic clangs of a dozen accurate hits filled the air one after the other.

How'd I do?

"Its a cover ID, not a permenant thing. Just gonna last til you get time with the target." Andrea said over a headset from her car. Tara was playing schoolgirl, trying to get a lead in the form of a teacher who also happens to be an intel smuggler.

"Class, I would like to introduce you to Katerina D'Agostino. She's from Italy!"

"Ciao." She said to the class. "Sorry, my english, is not very good." She played the part well. This was a joint op between SWA and RB, due to the targets former FRF affiliation.

"That's okay, as long as you can do the work. Please, take a seat."

She daintily walked to a desk, placed her strange looking lunchbox under her desk, and took out a notebook.

Andrea, meanwhile, walked through the hallways with the principal of the school, scouting the place for her "daughter". She walked by the math class Tara was in, smiling.

This class's teacher was the target. He was an intel and weapon smuggler a while back, and was thought to be a possible link into the Mexican cartel that the Englishman they had killed before was selling to.

A half an hour later, and class was almost over. The teacher waited for an answer from his students. "Katerina" raised her hand. "42, correct?"

"Yes, 42." The bell rang, the children all filed out, except for Tara.

"I'm having an issue with this problem." She pointed to her notebook while walking over with her lunchbox.

"Lemme see." He takes the notebook as Tara turns around and attaches a tube to her lunchbox.

"It's not from the notebook." She shut and locked the door, looking back to the teacher. "Scream, and I kill you." She whispered, putting an unfolded FMG-9 to his chest.

"Your coming with us." She threw him out of a window, and into a waiting dumpster, where Andrea picked him out and dusted him off.

"Who are you people?" He asked, as Tara hopped down behind him.

Andrea threw him in the trunk of her BMW M5, Tara getting in front, before she started the car and drove off to their safehouse.

Back in San Diego, Christine sat up on the reclining chair as the doctors finally opened her right arm, pulling the flesh backwards and pinning it down firmly in order to inspect the insides. Amita stood behind her, grimacing at the sight of the blood oozing from the multitude of "capillaries" embedded in the artificial limb. She turned her head away to cough. "Looks like some of the works ruptured."

Christine sniffed in bemusement. "It's been a while since I had this checked up. After that last target, I think it was about time to get the works maintained, anyway."

"I don't know how you can do this without the anaesthetic."

"I asked them to leave out the nociceptors. They're not all that useful, to be honest. Something they'll keep for when they give this technology to the civilians out there." Christine watched as the surgeons surrounding her arm irrigated the area and vaccuumed away the excess fluid, at the same time testing for damage. The fingers twitched in reply to the soft pressure of the needlepoints on the open palm, the tendons pulling in reflex - a response that satisfied Christine as she watched the silvery-white ligaments under the partly-translucent muscle fibers.

The head surgeon's voice was partly muffled under his mask. "Your last deployment seemed to have stressed the arm unit, but the damage is mostly superficial. Response times are a tad slower but it's still fairly functional. The underlying structure seems to be fine, as expected. No cracks in the ceramic, and the steel core seems to check out. If you want, we can replace the shell. Have you used the back-up firearm yet?"

Christine briefly eyed the small skeleton of a gun sitting beside the rest of the surgical instruments. "I've given it a few goes, but only for practice. I've yet to use it on the field."

The doctor briefly readjusted the cuff of his labcoat sleeve, furrowing his brow. "I spotted a tiny bit of residue on the elbow section. Again, nothing major, but it's certainly not something we want happening in an actual situation that warrants something that covert. I'll have the technicians adjust the clearance of the unit. Maybe a stronger spring to release it, while we're at it?"

"As long as it does what it needs to do. The arm itself's done well so far."

"I'll say. The autopsy on that agent - you really did a number on that guy's leg. Pulped that patella to bits." The other surgeons around Christine began to swap out the trays of scalpels, forceps and tweezers, setting up for the next part of the maintenance period. "We'll need your cyborg unit to leave the operating theatre now, as replacing the shell will need our full attention."

The agent nodded. "Alright. You know the drill, Amita."

Amita nodded, escorting herself out before the others moved to usher her out. "I'll keep myself busy while I wait, mom."

***

"We're here." Amsel's voice roused Luce from her daydreaming as the car skewed to a halt. The windshield was filled with the towering white walls of what was supposedly a big hospital. NavalMedical Center technically, but if anything it looked like a castle. Luce stepped out of their car and watched Amsel retrieve their kit bags. The girl's brown eyes darted down to her own outfit, and she scowled. Somehow he didn't mind wearing the bland olive-green fatigues that were a stable of their ops. She didn't complain though, and readily shouldered her own bag as Amsel walked past. They passed a checkpoint and several guards, entering the cavernous lobby of the place.

Amsel asked a few discreet questions at the information desk, then the two were on their way to a very specific operating theater. The two removed a pair of balaclavas from their kit bags and donned them moments before entering.

The room they entered was bare, except for a single table at the end and a number of stools scattered about. The vinyl flooring had a particularly noticeable smell of disinfectant, but apart from that there was nothing out of the ordinary. The room looked out onto an operating theatre below via sloped glass panels, where a group of surgeons were huddled around something hidden from view of the observation room.

Two women stood at the end of the room, leaning on the support railings that overlooked the operating theatre. An armed guard stood at attention behind them, and gave a crisp salute to Amsel and Luce as they entered.

The older of the two women glanced in the pair's direction, nodding in greeting. "I'm glad you could make the trip, Mister Amsel. I hope it wasn't on too short a notice."

"Not a problem, cushy security jobs are a nice change of pace." Amsel laid down his kit bag and rifle case, Luce doing the same. They each donned a set of bulky body armor, festooned with ammunition and nasty-looking equipment. On went their helmets, then shooting glasses, all but concealing their expressions. The lack of visible emotion perhaps made it more menacing as they opened up their weapon cases, each removing a suppressed rifle.

The agent next to the armed guard nodded to him. "You can go now, they'll take care of the rest. Shut the door behind you." The soldier saluted again, briskly walking past Luce and Amsel before closing the door with a measured *click*.

The younger lady beside her gave the two a smile, before turning her attention to their own weapons behind them, two assault rifles neatly sorted on the desk with a multitude of ammunition boxes stacked under the table. "I'm Christine Edgehart, this is my assistant, Amita. I assume you're aware of why exactly you're here, so I'll keep this as simple as possible." The woman turned back to watch the scene unfold in the operating room under them.

"I'm sure you know by know that the attempt made on your lives about a week ago was the result of a security breach in our systems. We traced it back to an operative of ours gone rogue. We finished a kill order on him, but only after he leaked a fairly substantial amount of data to some unknown entities, one of which was the PMC Eagle Claw. I'm sure you're familiar with that name now, if you haven't been before."

"Yep." For someone whose life was in significant danger, Amsel had an interesting habit of not caring. Or appearing not to, anyway. He just stood under one of the few AC vents in the room, occasionally exchanging signs with Luce.
The surgeons below them looked up, and one signalled to Christine with a thumbs-up. She replied into the intercom plugged into the wall near her. "Let's get this started."

They dispersed throughout the operating theatre, leaving the actual bed itself in full view. A young girl was strapped to it, with all manner of tubing protruding from her arms and face. She was naked, save for the green cloth draped over the lower half of her body, and the large mask that covered her face. Christine remained impassive as the surgical team began their procedures.

"This is our rogue agent's cyborg. No-one of real consequence, but we've kept her sedated up until this point. Once we make sure we extract as much information from her as we possibly can, we'll recondition her, do a full memory wipe. She'll be on standby until we find a replacement agent for her," she said, slightly curling her lip in disgust, "hopefully someone less prone to treason."

"Poor girl," Amsel concluded somberly.

The surgeons below them seemed to tense up as the cyborg on the operating table seemed to waken, eyes half-opened in stupor. "Check for wakefulness." One of the masked doctors ran their flashlight over her eyes, but they remained open and glazed over. "Okay, everything seems below basal for now. Starting debrief. Cyborg, operational status report."

The reply the girl gave was quiet, but audible - but also eerily flat and low-pitched. "Unit 0522, 102. Operational conservation mode. Input request."

The doctor eyeing the cyborg face-to-face fiddled on a knob somewhere in the mess of machinery surrounding them, the volume through the speakers of the observation room amplified. "Input: give name."

"Emile. Input request."

"Input: give serial number, give affiliation."

"Unit series 052, block 2, age set 10, attempt 2. Input request."

There was a momentary pause for a moment, and Christine leaned back onto the table, her hand lingering over one of the handguns sitting on the desk. The head surgeon debriefing Emile skipped a beat, looking around at one of the technicians standing at the monitors, who mumbled something inaudible in reply, scribbling something down on her clipboard. "Input: give affiliation."

"Affiliation..." The cyborg blinked, and her chin trembled. "No date-data... no... Homeland... no..."

The operating theatre exploded into a buzz of chatter as some of the surrounding masked doctors immediately attended to the machinery around them, and the surgeon attending to Emile looked up at the four people in the observation room, clearly alarmed. "Tetra status, code yellow possible."

"Alright. We're at the ready." Christine thumbed the safety off the handgun in her left hand, wincing at the motion as she pushed herself off the table with her right. "Stay sharp, be ready in case the cyborg wakes."

Amsel pushed the handgun down out of the way and stepped in front of the woman. "We're here for a reason." The man made a small motion with his hand and Luce nodded, exiting through a side room, down a set of stairs and to the side of the theatre itself. The handler proceeded closely behind, circling to the opposite end of the room. Amsel lightly rested the stock of his weapon on one shoulder, and took a step out to space his stance. He was all at once ready to burst into action, coiled to strike at any moment, but still calm, collected.

Minutes passed. The doctors below them frantically continued to work. Several left the operating theatre, only to return moments later with additional trays of medical equipment. All the while the four observers watched, and waited for the outcome, unmoving.
After half an hour of commotion in the room, the surgeons began to slow in pace. The head doctor still directly monitoring Emile checked the bindings on her arms and legs, and signalled the all-clear. Christine was still unconvinced, however, and the rest of them stayed put. "Report."

"The unit is sedated. It'll just be a minute, but we'll get her back to the proper sub-basal activity we need. I did a quick double-check on the output data, and while she does seem to have regained consciousness for a few seconds, the reflex output for affiliation seems to have been completely removed. The response will be the same even under the proper levels of sedation."

The others in the room fell quiet for a moment. Christine thumbed the safety back on her gun, but kept it in her hands. "Define 'completely removed', Rothshield."

"Exactly as the unit said, ma'am. No data available. Someone's been tampering with the conditioning on this unit, but as far as I can tell it's mostly non-hostile tampering. There might be some sleeper commands that've been played around with, but I'd say whoever removed this reflex output didn't do a very good job of it." The doctor motioned for the rest of his team to return to their regular stations around the operating table, and Christine motioned for Amita to stand at ease.

"Amsel, Izumi, you can get back up here. Withdrawing Tetra status."

The handler flashed a few motions of the hand at the cyborg. Luce cocked her head and signed back, seeming vaguely distressed. Amsel shrugged and turned to gaze at the observatory. "We'll linger for a mike."

"Alright, but don't get in their way."

The debriefing resumed, although the atmosphere about the operating theatre was considerably more tense than before. All the while, Emile lay strapped to the table in her stupor, unchanged. One of the surgeons briefly coughed, and another replaced the blanket that had fallen to the floor at some point during the past half hour, draping it over the bottom half of her body, but apart from that one, awkward gesture the interview - or rather, the interrogation - continued without pause.

The recounts of Emile's exploits in Mexico and Bolivia were fairly unsurprising and for everyone present simply confirmed what they had already known, if only in more detail than before. Hour upon hour of events were dissected, details disseminated, everything from what firearms had been kept on their persons for the day to what sort of drinks her handler, Lucas Marsden, had ordered. There was a particular attention to the phone calls made by Lucas, but every time the head surgeon had pressed her for answers, her replies only offered vague clues. Alive, the agent had hidden his tracks well, but even as a dead man he left a frustratingly opaque trail to follow. He had chosen to keep his cyborg in the dark, and in turn it kept the rest of the Rehabilitation Branch in the dark as well.

After what felt like hours, the surgical team began to move about again, and in minutes surgical tools were beginning to appear on the metal carts surrounding them. Pen markers began to outline the contours of Emile's body, and the smell of disinfectant became the dominant odor in the operating theatre. The lead surgeon nodded at his accompanying technicians, seemingly satisfied with the results of their work, and looked up at Christine.

"We're going to check the unit's implants now, get an inventory on anything that might be out of place. After we do our biopsy samples, we'll be checking the limb enhancements first, starting with the superficial and then moving down into the skeletal structure. We might take a break after that, switch out our pediatrics team and then do some minor analysis on the thorax units, checking heart valves and alveolae integrity and then finish with the brain augmentations."

"Where's the transfusion unit?"

"They'll be here any minute now." The head surgeon turned towards the operating table as he spoke, mumbling something inaudible to the assistants next to him. "We've got some transfusion bags here already, about four. It should be enough to take care of any little problems we come across, although we shouldn't need any more than that for the next hour, I think."

Christine leaned against the railing again, frowning in thought. "I want that unit checking in every ten minutes. Keep her anaesthetised, but keep her on conservation mode. These early-gen cyborgs don't always handle being fully opened up, and the memory wipe after all this should handle any cognizance throughout the procedure. Better to keep her sending diagnostics even if it means getting a reaction out of her in the short term."

The surgeons stopped for a moment, scalpels in mid-cut. "You mean you want her to be -"

"I want her aware. Aware, but not awake. You know how I work, Rothshield. Get it done."

A few more seconds passed before the surgeons continued to cut Emile's limbs open. The heart monitor in the background continued its steady beat, and for the next minute was the only thing that could be heard in the theatre, besides the steady, droning sound of the vaccuum sucking out the irrigated open cuts. One of the other doctors tilted Emile's head to one side to secure a pair of electrodes to her temples and the back of her head. The man ran the flashlight over the girl's eyes before asking the same catchphrase that would be asked repeatedly for the next few hours.

"Cyborg, operational status report."

The cyborg's glassy gaze was unwavering, fixed straight ahead in the direction her face was pointed at, a point somewhat wandering above Luce's forehead. The same dull monotone voice replied.

"Unit 0522, 102. Operational conservation mode. Input request."

***

The canteen was bare and devoid of activity save for the two fratelli seated at one of the tables. Picking over four trays of reheated mess hall food, the four of them spoke little for the most part. It had been hours since they had taken a break, and in the early hours of the morning the food they had snacked on prior seemed like stale crumbs in their stomach compared to even the sludges piled on their plates.

Dark circles lined Amita's eyes as she poked listlessly at a small pile of green peas. "Yours looks nice. Any idea what it is?"

Amsel turned to Luce. She was poking half-heartedly at a melting sundae, so he assumed the question was directed at him. "Some sort of meat with some potato."

"I don't even know what this is. I even ask for a coffee, and the milk they put in was yellow. So gross." The teenage cyborg slipped a spoonful of gravy and potato into her mouth, leaving the handle poking out between her lips. "And after all those hours of watching them take Emile apart... my appetite isn't all that great now. How are you guys holding up?"'

"Been better, been worse," Amsel responded plainly. Luce shrugged and went back to poking at her dessert. It was pretty plain that this level of apathy was unusual for the girl.

Christine briskly scooped what remained of the food on her own plate into her mouth, finishing by knawing on the end of a hard, crusty stick of bread. "At the rate we're going, we're going to see a lot more of that in the future. There's only so many fingers we can plug the holes with, and we can't afford to simply decommission the early-gens like we did before. Have you noticed how many cases are assigned to a handler these days? We just don't have enough candidates, let alone cyborgs. Don't get me started on the stuff going on the other side of the Pacific."

She pushed herself up out of her seat, taking her now-empty food tray with her. "We're leaving in fifteen. We've already got a backlog of things to do while we watched over Emile, and you two are it."

Amita's gaze followed Christine as she walked off towards the end of the mess hall and out of sight. "Sometimes I worry about her."

Amsel stood from his seat, then Luce a moment later. "I don't blame you."

Just before they left, however, they were intercepted by one of the doctors they had seen in the past few hours, flustered and out of breath. He leaned on the wall in the corridor leading out from the canteen. "You guys seen Agent Edgehart?"

"She's left ahead of us about a minute ago. Why, what's up?"

"It's about the physicals and biopsies we took during the op over the cyborg unit." The doctor rubbed his temples with the heels of his palms, clearly distressed even as he finished catching his breath. "We kinda suspected something was up, but we couldn't be sure until we cross-referenced it. The shell tissue we usually use on the units leave minimal scarring under the proper right conditions, but when we were going over the cranium augmentations and the shoulder attachment seams, we-"

"Cut the chatter," Amsel interrupted. "What do we need to know?"

The man nervously fiddled with one of the cuffs on his lab coat. "We've found evidence that in between the scheduled maintenance and this op, someone else made a few examinations of their own. Someone not with Rehab Branch has been digging around in Emile's body."

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"I don't think you understand." She pressed the tazer to the man, and pressed the button. He shook violently. "Really, theres no use in not talking. See, theres plenty you can do to help us here." She moved the tazer over his body. "Speak. Please. No pressure."

Andrea stepped back and smiled. "What is this, a cell phone? Huh. Lets see what kind of friends you have." She looks at it evilly. "Ooh, lets try Adrian."

The mans eyes widened.

"What, you cant share? See Tara, that guy is just a big old jerk. Show him what we do to jerks."

Tara smacked the mans crotch with the butt of her SCAR. The man screamed in pain.

"Ah yes, Adrian? This is-" She laughed. "He hung up! How charming."

Tara looked at Andrea. "He isn't gonna crack."

"Then leave him." She threw Tara a gas mask, and put her own on, before sealing the vents, and walking out the door and throwing a gas grenade in, closing the door. "You did good that time Tara. Lets see, where should we go."

Andrea walked quietly over to a fairly decent looking Mitsubishi Eclipse, a 2007 model, to be precise. This wasn't hers, she wouldn't be caught dead driving it if given the choice. No, she didn't like the car, but really, right now was no time for nitpicking and favorites.

"Tara, you there?" She looked to her side to see the young Tara standing right there, Jericho 941 in hand.

"Mhmm." Tara nodded slightly.

Andrea took out a wire coat hanger from her travel case, and began to work her magic on breaking into the car. Tara stood watch, her Jericho held at "alert carry" just in case the curious got too close.

"Do we always have to uhh, commandeer, civilian vehicles?" Tara raised an eyebrow, still concentrated on keeping watch. Not many people would be walking around at night, especially on a night as cold as this, but caution took priority regardless. A figure in a gray tee and blue jeans walked around the corner, possibly heading towards them. Andrea never gave an answer though, concentrated as she continued to try the lock.

"Andrea? You almost there? We have someone closing in." Tara really didn't sound worried, but still wanted to hurry this up and get out before they were made. Taking from gunrunners was the type of thing you wanted to do quickly.

Andrea let out a sigh of relief as the lock on the car door clicked, now unlocked. She opened the driver seat and stowed her bag in the back, before unlocking the passenger seat for Tara, who ran around the other side, sliding her Jericho into her fast draw hip holster. They both sat down, clicked their seatbelts, and Andrea shifted into reverse, backing out of the parking lot.

"I call dibs on the Mark 18." Tara giggled. "Did you get rounds for it too?"

Andrea laughed. "Sure, you can have it. Yeah, I got, uhh, I dont know how many exactly, but I got rounds." She smiled as they drove out of the gunrunner hideout in Dallas Texas, and down to their own "Sanctuary" in Huston. It was a long journey, for sure, but hours of talking or just shutting up and listening to Andrea's ACDC playlists solved that problem quick.

They arrived at the sanctuary hours later. The sanctuary was a good size cargo container used for shipping goods on boats. Within the container there were all the things they would need for continued operations when separated from any support agents. These things included an air filtration system, a generator, plenty of MREs, or Meals Ready to Eat, ammunition storage, weapons maintenance booth - really just a folding desk with a weapons rack on the wall, but who's complaining - and a bed. These were among the basic needs for any agent in the field, and it was great for the team of Andrea and Tara.

Tara strolled her way into the sanctuary, with Andrea behind her to shut the door. They immediately got to whatever it was they did after a mission. Andrea opened up her Toughbook Laptop and began to make an after action report to send to the suits back in the RB headquarters, and Tara started looking over her shiny new Mark 18 Close Quarters Battle weapon.

Tara put her Beats headphones on as she did this, flicking her iPhone's music tab over until she hit her favorite song, Revolution, by the Beatles. She started pushing in the pins on her MK-18 to check the innards of the weapon. Satisfied with her findings, she slapped the weapon back together, and quickly gathered the M262 77 grain ammunition that most preferred for the weapon, due to the shorter barrel. She gathered 5 magazines worth of ammunition, and stored the rifle on an empty set of lugs on the wall.

"I'm gonna get some rest, if that's alright with you." Tara yawned a bit, before Andrea nodded to her. She sprawled out on the bed, taking her headphones off and pulling the sheet over her.

Andrea finished up her report, and sent it back to HQ, before she looked back at Tara with a smile. Girl did good today, though, to be fair, any day where there were no rounds expended was good. It meant that they could do their job quickly and quietly. She earned her new toy today, that's for damn sure. Andrea chuckled to herself quietly at that thought, before walking over to the gun rack and looking at her own Bushmaster ACR, as well as the other weapons they had either been given, had bought, or had captured. It wasn't much, but when you had to grab intel from a gunrunners place, a few souvenirs are nice from time to time.

Thanks for the ride, Luce signed. The girl climbed from the car with her backpack and a viola case. She waved at Amsel before heading out of the parking lot, making a beeline for the nearby park. It was sunny today, so she just wore a white tank top and blue jeans, the garments fitting comfortably to the girl's form.

Luce passed a few empty picnic benches and ascended a set of stairs, finding herself on an observation deck that stood over the entire valley below. She produced a textbook and some "homework" Amsel had assigned her, setting down to her studies with a sigh. At least it was nice out.
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"Lets make this quick, if you will. I have to pick up my daughter in an hour." The gentleman examined an expensive-looking watch on his wrist, then stared at the middleman expectantly. If there was a phrase to describe him, it would be 'self-important.' The type of guy who drove up in an armored Bentley, but didn't bring bodyguards. And wore a bespoke suit in California heat. 'Vincent' was not a pleasant person to deal with, either.

So 'Mac' just focused on business. As a middleman for cartels with concerns in the fine US-of-A, that was all he ever did, really. Balding, muscular, and wearing decent, but not quite custom-made suits, he looked more like a bouncer for some expensive strip club than a businessman. That suited him just fine, since worst come to worst, he could just beat the dude over the back of the head and drag him off for his bosses to handle. "Just you?"

"That was the deal, was it not?"

Mac nodded. "You know I'm bringing one, yeah?"

Vincent glowered. "I don't like the fact, but correct."

The cartel businessman held back a laugh and tapped at his phone. "Well then, 'Vincent.' Five million, up front." His eyes widened in disbelief as Vincent casually removed a pair of cases from his car, then placed one on the hood, opening it.

"Two and a half," he remarked. Mac was practically salivating at the sight of so many neatly stacked bills, just one deal and an angry little businessman away. One percent commission? Fuck that. He'd take it, cut and run... use a bit of his fortune to hide his tracks...

"Ahem."

Oh, right. Business. "And the other case?"

Vincent scowled. "Bring your contact first."

"Fair enough," Mac said, punching a memorized number into his phone. He started to consider what they could do if he called in backup - probably kidnap the guy and hold him for ransom. They could bounce between safehouses and remove any bugs on the guy. Unfortunately for his daydreams, the phone answered on the first ring.

"Is the deal solid?" the woman asked firmly.

"He wants to see the complete product first."

"... very well." The line dropped, and a minute later a sleek sedan rolled up to the meeting spot, an even more lithe woman stepping from the driver's seat. Lauren was dressed like a company executive more than a scrub helping a field demonstration. It all underlined the serious nature of the meeting.

Mac waved at his bodyguards, who removed a very large case from their vehicles. Numerous locks were removed, then the lids were opened, garnering grim looks from all involved.
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Luce was in the midst of scribbling in her notebook when she heard a soft footstep on the grass a short distance away. She turned to see a stout, grim looking european man with what was blatantly a rifle bag slung over one shoulder, a black duffel bag, and a flask in one hand.

"Vaht's up?"

A Russian guy. Amsel knew one? Luce tore a page from her notebook and scribbled a few words onto it before handing it to the newcomer. Amsel asked you to help?

He snatched up the paper and squinted. "No need for the secret agent shit, you can speak up, you know."

Then Luce wrote the words 'can speak' and put an angry line through them, and a small frowning face.

Grigori grimmaced slightly. "Quite affliction, da? Well, you still are correct. Ehh... Tovaresch Amsel did not inform me on target... Could you tell--er, point him?"

Luce scribbled on the paper again and then handed Grigori a pair of high-power military binoculars. The Russian examined the area below, where a few automobiles and some boring-looking Americans were gathered. The paper read: Shoot everyone except the three in the middle.

"Haven't had such easy job killing crowds since counter-insurgency deployment. Shall I?"

The girl opened up her own case, and produced an M107 rifle as if from thin air, slapping the parts of the anti-material rifle together.

"A good piece. Make much mess. I like messy girl," he said in a total deadpan. Grigori unzipped his rifle bag to produce a well-maintained Dragunov with a telescopic sight and a suppressor.

She rolled her eyes, a slight blush coming to her cheeks. Luce had never talked with a Russian before, but Grigori was making a funny first impression. Dropping the comment, she gestured at a nearby grassy patch, then watched in slight confusion as the man swigged his flask, tossed it then hopped over the railing and slid down the hill.
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"Four and a half? Don't fuckin lowball me, Mr. Vincent. You know this top-shelve shit!"

"I'm the messenger, nothing more, nothing less," he replied firmly. "We will consider the full price if you can be convincing as to the capabilities of your machines."

The woman smirked. "Showing off, are you?"

Vincent glared at her, but the two stayed civil as one of Mac's men went forward to open the case.

The other guards went into a lose sort of cover formation. Except for one sitting by a van, enjoying a quick cigarette break. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. The scrawny gun-for-hire turned. Then blinked. There was suddenly a man standing maybe two feet from him, wearing a charcoal-grey flightsuit and a gasmask with darkened lenses. He also had a plate carrier bulging with plates and magazines, and a rifle that was nearly jammed into the bodyguard's face. He opened his mouth to scream but caught a knife to the throat. The killer let the man thump to the ground, snatching the cigarette from his opening lips.

The others nearby looked over to see what happened.

"Smoking will kill you, you know?" He said, muffled through his gasmask filters.

The gunman leveled his rifle and started firing several rounds to each guard he saw. Emptying his magazine, he lunged forward at the nearest man who was still struggling to pull out his pistol and swinging the rifle by the barrel, smashed his face in. He turned and threw the spent weapon at another guard, quick drawing his suppressed Grach and shooting the last grunt in the leg, then the arm, then the chest three times.

Mac's backup units rolled up in a pair of Escalades, bullets spattering across their armored windshields to little effect. By this point Mac was thinking that Vincent had chosen to fuck them over, until he noticed a gaping bullet wound in the man's gut that made his stomach churn. A surviving bodyguard was wildly spraying a P90 in the general direction of the assassin. It took a swat on the back from Lauren to send the sleazy dealer running to his ride.

The assassin noted his marks peeling out of the area and decided it was safe enough to get louder without too much collateral. He rapidly unslung a Kalashnikov from his back, a grenade launcher mounted to it. A guard managed to get a lucky burst with an SMG, rounds spattering across the man's body armor to little effect.

"Ubliudok! Next time use one of these!" The masked man flicked off the safety on his grenade launcher and reflexively blasted it at the vehicle closest to him. All the windows in the SUV blew out as it lifted off its wheels. What glass was left was soaked in a healthy coating of blood as the surviving men scrambled for cover.

Mac leapt into the nearest vehicle that didn't happen to be riddled with bullets, then had Vincent unceremoniously thrown onto him, blood, guts and all. Lauren climbed in and slammed the door. "Drive!"

"Nevermind, you won't get to." The gunman jumped and slid over the hood of the flaming vehicle. As soon as his feet touched earth again, he let rip with his rifle and cut down two stunned guards in their tracks. He dashed over to the open doors of the SUV, noting one of the men didn't die yet. He dragged him out and liberally sprayed the rest of his mag into the passenger compartment.

The assassin dropped to the ground while drawing his Grach again and used the coughing, screaming hunk of meat in front of him as a shield. He reached over the man and shot the two cowering survivors under the last vehicle in the ankles, sending them toppling into the ground only to catch another piece of lead to the face.

He reloaded his weapons, then started to poke through the meeting place. If these men hadn't been such amateurs, much less of them would have died, he mused.

Only one vehicle left the meeting place, burning down the nearest road. The man pulled off his gas mask and looked at the unfortunate guard who had volunteered himself to be used as a shield. "Lucky man. You die painlessly today." He stomped on the man's neck, killing him instantly.
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Luce tore her eyes away from the Barrett's scope with a sigh. Her instructions were to "fire if necessary." This wasn't their typical M.O. - but wasn't that the point? As Grigori paced around the area shooting everything in the head with his pistol, she cradled the rifle and took off towards the opposite end of the park at breakneck pace. Everything was done according to plan, but she had to hustle to get to her second spot. Luce plopped down in the grass just as a single Mercedes went hurdling down the road, bullet holes visible in the bodywork. She sighted it in, then relaxed her breathing... then shifted her point of aim to the police interceptor just behind it. The rifle thundered, the car swerved like it was hit by a boulder, skidding off the road. She repeated the trick with a second police vehicle.

As Luce stood up and examined her handiwork, a familiar accented voice rang out from behind. "Okay, vhat's next?"

Luce turned on her heel and found something vaguely resembling a Russian soldier, with the addition of several liters of someone else's blood. She rested the Barrett upon her shoulders and shrugged, watching the vehicle fade into the distance. It looked like she was their guardian angel today. From what Amsel and Elise had texted her, 'Mac' was babbling confessions to 'Lauren' and 'Vincent' already, grateful for how their backup had stopped the police and the mad gunman.

"Wake up, Langes."

Eugenio sat up wearily in his seat, finding himself seated in the same blacked-out van he had been riding for several hours. He immediately took note that his hands were no longer painfully cuffed together, and the vehicle appeared to be moving at a much easier pace. Just as he thought of facing his guard at the front of the vehicle, the little window bridging the rear section with the cab slid shut. The Italian sighed and rubbed absently at his scalp. While he hadn't had to worry about a haircut in years, the multitude of transfers had Eugenio sporting a shaggy goatee, and the expensive suit he had been wearing for several days now.

When they arrived at what he assumed was yet another transfer, the man slapped some dust out of his clothes and straightened his tie. The rear doors of the van were opened and the sun returned to Eugenio's world, blinding him. His eyes were watering as two men roughly pulled him from the vehicle and set Eugenio roughly on his feet. At least they had gotten past the interrogation stage, he mused. Every since he had divulged information to the Social Welfare Agency, his treatment as their prisoner had slowly improved. The jibes about him trivially abandoning Camorra had eventually ended, too.

Today, they even let him walk without cuffs or being held by guards, through it was clear attempts to run would be punished with a few bullets to the back. But he realized that was too good to last as he was lead into a building that looked vaguely like a hospital. Some kind of new torture methods he'd never seen before? He wouldn't have been horribly surprised.

As they entered the cool, air-conditioned lobby, a tall, imposing man in a suit approached him, reminding Eugenio of a similarly blond administrative jackass he had met in Italy. This man looked far more military in background than Mr. Croce, however. "Eugenio Langes?"

"Yes," he responded curtly. "Or Gene, you Americans called me."

"I see. Marcus Moretti, field-agent section chief for the Chicago branch." The man didn't offer a hand, and Gene didn't particularly expect him to. But the release of information, especially location, did lend some hope to the idea they weren't going to shoot him in the back of the head. "I'll be short and to the point. The SWA got what they could use out of you and had yourself transferred to us. That means more freedom for you, more nabbed crooks for us. But you're not ever going to work alone."

Not surprising, either. But Gene was intrigued as he was lead into one of the facility's wings, eventually ending up at what appeared to be an observation room for a small operating theatre. The area beyond the glass was mostly empty, with little more than a solitary bed with a teenaged girl in it. Gene put two and two together. "Why are you showing me a cyborg, Moretti?"

Marcus grimaced. "It wasn;t my decision, but somebody decided the best way to keep you in check was to just assign you a cyborg with modified conditioning."

"Conditioning?"

"It's the medication and regimen used to program the cyborgs."

"I see..." Gene was not stupid. If they were telling him this sort of sensitive information so casually, it simply meant that he was in no position to back out in the first place. He chose his next words carefully. "Does the assigned handler have any control over this conditioning?"

"Normally, yes," the man responded. "Yourself? No. From what I understand the conditioning for her was modified from the ground up. She's keeping you in check as much as protecting you."
It was Gene's turn to grimace. "So the handler is the one being controlled?"

Marcus had the appearance of a tired man trying to decide if it was appropriate to care. He seemed bored more than anything. "Seems accurate. Then again, you could be in Gitmo, Mr. Langes.

"You'll be given the freedom to name her, finalize minor aesthetic changes, and select her sidearm. Just hand the weapon to the unit during initialization. After orientation is completed, you'll be issued your visas, passports and company ID." With that, Marcus left the observation room, but Gene was close behind.

"Hold on. You want me to just walk in there and give that thing a weapon as soon as it wakes up?"

The section chief paused and glanced at him. "Every job has its bizarre traditions. You'll get used to it. If you're done with the questions..."

"Yeah, I have a question actually," Gene interrupted. "Did you work for L'Agenzia?"

Marcus shrugged. "I need to catch a flight." He left, and a bored-looking researcher sat down at a computer in the observation room. Gene examined the manilla envelope that had been left on a nearby table, the only object in the room that wasn't electronic or locked up. There was a small envelope clipped to it marked 'first orders' but he tucked that away for later.

Rehabilitation Branch report: Christensen, Rebecca A.

The report said she had undergone conversion at seventeen, with a small note added by the signing physician stating operating on older girls often created problems, but so far issues had been mild. It went through a variety of numbers mostly useless to him, and then finally the girl's backstory. She ran away from an alcoholic father at a young age, surviving in the big apple for a few years with a posse of other kids. The RB had found evidence she might have killed a police officer and members from opposing gangs, though there was nothing definite. The girl had been shot multiple times from close range and left to die when a patrolling cop had found her. As she was slipping away, an executive decision was made to convert her.

Before conversion she had been in surprisingly good shape, and little reconstructive work had been needed, aside from "standard components." The doctor writing the report continued to say that she displayed reflexes well above average and superb hand-to-eye coordination. She had an IQ of 132, but the long-term use of narcotics and alcohol was apparent. The report ended stating she would be ideal for any type of work, be it intelligence gathering, electronic warfare, direct action or any combination of such work.

Personality? How well she did in school, if she went? Why did she do drugs? Would she recover as a cyborg? Was her temperament suited to any of the work she was so qualified for? There were so many important questions the RB eggheads had ignored, leaving Gene with an incomplete picture of the girl and his job. It made him uncomfortable. He slipped the documents back into the envelope and tore open the smaller one that supposedly held his orders. He half expected they were going to be some sort of death squad at the whim of the American government.

"Huh."

You're going to be assigned to Section 4, but you'll work primary for Section 2, intelligence. Given your expertise in covering up criminal actions, you're going to be called in to investigate suspicious deaths and suspected crime scenes, as well as put down criminal assets when necessary. Drop this in the burn bag on your way out - it has the white-and-red stripes on it.

Marcus

Before Gene could express outrage at having to be told what a burn bag was, the researcher coughed. "Have you chosen a name?"
—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
The girl's eyes flitted open. She glanced about the room slowly, appearing to be in some drugged trance. It took her a few moments to notice the bald man sitting at the end of the bed. He looked tired, both mentally and physically, though his features were completely unmarred. The girl wondered, how did she know that?

He coughed, then looked to a clipboard in his hand. "Serial number and affiliation? Name, too. Authorization code 55209-0014."

Though she didn't particularly feel like answering, the words just came to her automatically. "I am unit series 055, block 3, age set 17, attempt 1. I am affiliated with the Rehabilitation Branch of the Department of Homeland Security, United States of America. This information is classified as top secret. My assigned name is: Kristina Fields." Why did she say that? There was a powerful headache pressing at Kristina's head. She groaned softly.

The man didn't seem overly concerned, at least outwardly. But he did take notice of the girl's discomfort. "Do you like your name?"

Her pain went away for a moment. "... no, actually. I think I'd like Kris better."

"Suit yourself. Kris it is, then. I'd like you to take a look at this. He picked a plastic case off the floor and placed it in front of the girl. The cyborg eyed the case suspiciously, though after reading the 'LOCK' label on the side she approached it with much less apprehension. Kris deftly popped the locking tabs and opened the case, immediately removing the handgun held within. Her index finger was automatically pressed up against the polymer frame as she ejected the magazine and locked open the slide with a level of precision that a teenage girl shouldn't have had.

What surprised Gene, however, was the look of distaste on the girl's face when she dry-fired the pistol, then put it back in the case. "I don't like it," she muttered.

"I beg your pardon?"

"No you can't, actually," Kris retorted. "And I don't like it. Do I have to use this one?" Most girls in the same situation would have asked what the gun was even for. Instead, Kris was complaining about the ergonomics of a weapon she didn't even remember handling. As far as Gene was aware, the researchers didn't mention programming obsessive-compulsive natures into cyborgs.

Gene looked over at the "mirror" dominating one wall of the room. He was almost certain that the shrinks were scratching their heads in reaction. They had told him that the cyborg typically adapted to whatever the handler gave them. Whether the altered conditioning or some haywire setup lead to this, he didn't know. But experience told him that improv could lead to some very interesting discoveries. So he rolled with it. Gene stood from his chair and brushed off his slacks. "If you're okay with walking, why don't we hit up a gun store and find you something more suitable?"

"Cool," she said absentmindedly, climbing from the bed while trying to maintain a sense of balance. Apparently the researchers had been watching carefully the entire time, as the door to the room unlocked moments after they had finished conversing. An orderly lead Kris to a side room where she changed, and the two were on their way out in five minutes. Gene was handed a large duffel bag with basic tools for his deployment.

A half dozen fake IDs, just as many cards, several thousand dollars in cash. Another Glock, some knife and a flashlight, toiletries, some books about living in the US and keys to a branch-issue vehicle... which turned out to be a slightly dated Camry. They certainly didn't trust him quite yet. He could count on every component being wired, and he probably had a half dozen trails waiting for him to leave.

Gene was examining the exterior of the vehicle for bugs when he realized there was a California license plate... implying this "Chicago branch" had jurisdiction in other states, as well? Not to mention, the fact he was unaware of what state they were in was a serious blow to his pride, too.
Oh well.

Living with international criminals for a majority of one's adult life tended to take the surprise out of life. Gene didn't particularly mind, as it almost felt as if he had never left the criminal underworld. To his surprise, the car started up without trouble, and from how it responded to his input, he could only presume it had been upgraded internally. It even had a GPS on the dash, which made finding the nearest gun store much easier. If memory served him right, purchasing a handgun in the US just required some background check and money. Simple enough.

When they entered, Kris stared at the walls loaded with all kinds of firearm with the same stunned look as a child in a candy store for the first time. She took off from his side, darting from display case to display case in a blur. Gene took the momentary break to thumb through the guidebooks he had been issued, taking note of all the restaurants, gas stations and highways in the area.

"Oh! What about this one!"

The clerk looked to Gene for permission to hand over the gun. He consented with a curt nod, curious as to what she had picked out. As it turned out, he didn't recognize it. It looked somewhat like a over-sized BDA 380, with a distinctive double-action trigger and hammer, steel frame and vaguely similar contours. "What is that?"

"Smith model thirty-nine two, I reckon. It's old, but they shoot nice. Big 'ol steel frame means they kick less, and you got that sweet Smith trigger. Good choice for your... niece?"

Kris scoffed. Gene shrugged neutrally. "Close enough." He and the clerk observed as Kris ejected the magazine from the pistol, dry fired it several times, then hefted it in both of her hands. The ex-cleaner noticed immediately she tended to jerk the trigger fairly hard, causing the muzzle of the handgun to dip. Importantly, however it fit her hand. "How much?"

"For that old thing?" The man, a rather portly and moustached fellow scratched at his head. "How about $500, since its in good shape?"

Gene realized he had absolutely no idea if that was a good deal or not. He did notice that a nearby Glock new in the box retailed for similar. "What year was it made?"

"39-2, buddy. Seventies, I reckon."

Kris decided to chirp in just then. "Can I get two?"'

Gene looked to the girl with a bewildered expression, then the bemused gunshop employee. "I suppose so?"

"Well, technically I can't sell it to you knowing you'll give em to your girl, so lets just say you got it for yourself. You need to fill out this safety quiz, since you've never shopped here, then gimme your ID so I can do the mandatory background check, After that, it'll be a ten day wait."

Kris's look of amusement suddenly turned very sour. She punched Gene in the leg.

As it turned out, the extra IDs in his kit bag turned out useful, as some quick explaining and a forged police letter skipped the waiting period. They left with slightly under two-thousand dollars spent, a trio of pistols, magazines, ear plugs and a whole lot of practice ammo weighing down his duffel. As they climbed into the car, Kris groaned rudely. The handler checked his mirrors as he asked, "What is it?"
"We're going to have to practice and stuff, right?"

Training on a weapon as soon as you got it was pretty basic. But Gene found himself not particularly caring at the moment, realizing he was back in the convenience of society. "I was thinking lunch, personally. If the books are to be believed, there is a rather good pastrami place just down the street."

"Hey, you're kinda cool, you know that?"

"C'mon kiddo, wake up." Andrea shook Tara a little, in an attempt to at least get her moving. Tara did just that, she blinked slowly a few times, before she finally opened her eyes.

"Really Andrea? It's like, six in the morning. I need my sleep."

"You need a swift kick in the ass, that's what you need." Andrea let out a bit of a laugh. "Coffee's on. We gotta move though, so get ready as quick as you can, okay?"

"Another op?"

"Yeah, but we gotta pounce on this one, it's a blow through op. Limited intel, and whatever we got is gonna be gone soon." She tossed Tara a thermos of coffee. "Just get your gear and lets go."

Tara grabbed her SCAR and Jericho, and some ammo for each. "Ready."

Andrea opened the door of their Sanctuary, and stepped out into the bright Texas sunlight. Tara followed, shielding her eyes from the light as they walked over to the Mitsubishi they "commandeered" the previous night. Andrea opened the door, sat in the drivers seat, and started the car as she waited for Tara. Tara tossed her gear in the trunk, and sat in the passenger seat.

"So, what's the op?"

"Basically, we're pulling an assault mission. Not our usual stuff, I know, but this is intel we gotta move on."

"Please tell me it's not a trap."

"Nothing we can't handle sweetie."

"So it's literally just go in and kill? Haven't done it in a while."

"Yep." Andrea drove out onto the highway, as they rushed out to the coordinates given for the warehouse in which a known gun runner ran his business out of.

The 747’s tires squealed as the big jet touched down on the runway. Ken slammed his laptop shut and looked over at Lynette with a mixture of affection and annoyance. The cyborg had curled up on the first class seat the moment they were in the air and had slept the whole way to Heathrow. The agent shook his head.

“Honestly, am I the only one here on work?” he muttered to himself as he bent over and shook the girl gently. “Lyn. Wake up. London.”

Instantly the cyborg was alert, lithely rolling forward off the airline seat. “London? How long was I asleep?”

The agent checked his watch. “Almost eleven hours now. I’m impressed.”

“You’re the one who made me stakeout a safehouse for two days with no sleep, fight, then hop on an intercontinental flight in two hours. What’d I miss?”

Ken smiled. “A lovely breakfast and an even more excellent lunch. The Chardonnay was particularly good.”

Lynette stared, aghast. “You mean they had food and you didn’t wake me up?”

Her handler chuckled dryly. “I didn’t want to disturb your sleep, seeing as I made you stakeout a safehouse for two days with no sleep, fight, then hop on an intercontinental flight in two hours.”

Lyn shot Ken a dirty look. Pulling a long case down out of the overhead compartment, she wagged a finger in his direction. “You’re lucky we’re still on board Ken,” she said with mock intensity. “I may have had to teach you a lesson.”

Hayashi laughed as he pulled his identical case out of the bin. “Just keep telling yourself that.”

Still bickering amiably, the pair proceeded down towards the airport security check for the connecting flight to Dublin.

The security officer manning the checkpoint raised a hand as the duo reached him. “Passports.” As Ken handed over a Canadian passport proclaiming him to be a “Fredrick Chang”, the bored looking officer ran through his customs spiel.

“Anything to declare under those guidelines then?” he asked idly. “Ireland’s been getting a touch jumpy recently, so we’ll enforce the rules sir.”

“I’m BISHOP,” said Ken, giving his codename. “Do you have my package?”

The guard did not give back anything resembling the assigned countersign. “Huh?”

The agent felt his heart sinking somewhere to the bottom of his oxfords as he seethed internally. Damn Marcus and his rush. Their contact wasn’t here. Lost in the jungle that was getting word to MI5, no doubt.

He smiled brightly. “Never mind. Just an idle thought.”

The guard gave him a sidelong glance. “Is that a fact? Well, if you wouldn’t mind putting that case on this conveyer and stepping through this gate…”

Ken would mind very much, considering what he had on his person and stowed in their cases. The TSA had waved them through the gate, but the Brits hadn’t gotten word yet, damn them.
“Actually, I need to make a quick trip to the restroom…” he said cheerfully. “Won’t be a minute.”

“This check won’t be a minute sir.” The officer waved at the conveyer belt. “Place your bags here.” He put his hand meaningfully on the butt of his pistol. “Please.”

Ken complied, his face studiously blank. This was going to be ugly.

The guard’s face went from annoyance to shock faster than a set of traffic lights as the cases passed through the scanner. He slammed the alarm on his desk as he yanked his sidearm out of its holster and covered Ken. “Sir, I need you to step back and lie down on the floor with your hands over your hea-“The man trailed off as Lyn whipped out her own pistol and aimed it between his eyes.
“Drop the gun,” she said, her voice dangerously quiet.

“You’ll not be bringing that into Ireland, so you may as well give it up,” the security man blustered, keeping the handgun trained on Ken. “Damned terrorists won’t be getting that shipment of guns.”

“Lynette. Stand down.” Her handler spoke mildly, but the cyborg complied, placing the gun on the floor and stepping away from it just as a squad of British soldiers burst into the room, assault rifles pointing wildly.
—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Ken looked up as the cell door squealed back on its hinges.

"Would you be so good as to follow me sir?" the guard inquired politely.

The handler quirked an eyebrow. "'Sir?' What happened to 'Motherfucker' and 'IRA dog'?"

The man had the grace to look embarrassed. "That was before we knew who you were...sir." he muttered, looking down at his shoes.

"Oh, I don't mind. What will it be today dear? Another cavity search? Or maybe another round of 'enhanced interrogation'?" the handler giggled, batting his eyelashes at the guard. "I especially liked it when you stuck your fingers-"

The guard spluttered. "Sir! That was-"

"I know, I know, standard procedure right? Lead on Macduff!" Ken misquoted as he swept out of the cell and into the corridor. "Who do I have to thank for saving me anyway?" He trailed off as he saw the tall blond Italian waiting for him.

"Marcus! Way to leave me in jail for three weeks. Your British friends taught me some new positions."

His boss coughed, obviously uncomfortable but maintaining the appearance of composure. "My apologies. Any other issues I should be aware of, Hayashi?"

"Err... My anus is possibly larger than it was a couple of weeks ago, and I may sic Lyn on you in a little bit, but other than that, no."

Marcus muttered to himself. Ken wasn't going to let it go. "Will a company card, keys to a locally-purchased Bimmer and a guarantee I'm going to sack the desk jockey I assigned to handle security for this gig be good enough for you?"

The handler stroked his prison stubble sagely. "It's a start. How about a raise and an Aston Martin while you're at it?"

"Why don't you go ask MI6? You and Lyn, before I forget."

The waiting guard unlocked the cell next to Ken's. "Here you are sir, and welcome."

Lyn squinted in the sudden light as she nodded ironically to Ken. "And how are you?"

The cyborg was in a straightjacket and bolted to a chair with no less than ten feet of chain.

Her handler swung around to look at the guard quizzically.

"Sent the first two interrogators to the hospital sir. Bit the last two guards who went in there to feed her too." The man rubbed at his knuckles ruefully. "Nearly got me too, come right down to it."

"Something about not ready for combat, Hayashi?" Marcus interjected.

Ken grinned. "That's my girl."
—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

A chauffeur was waiting when the team touched down in Dublin. The airport was almost deserted, with only a handful of planes at the gates. Lyn looked about as they pulled out onto the roads of Ireland. A pair of Bofors 40mm cannon in sandbag revetments flanked the road to the airport, pointing down the road.

The driver saw her curious look. "Been having a spot of trouble with truck bombs miss. If one charges the barricade and gets through, those'll stop it handily enough."

Ken nodded soberly as they passed the burnt out hulks of cars and trucks beside the road. Britain had smashed the Irish flat in the 1920s, again in the '60s, and again in the 1980s. The Irish seemed determined to prove that they were down, not beaten, and new rebellions and riots had flared up again near the end of last year, when a pair of British MPs had accidentally shot an Irish teenager while on patrol.

The car was waved through the checkpoint, and continued on into the city center. People went about their business hurriedly, with stooped shoulders and quick tread, avoiding the hard eyed British soldiers patrolling in the street.

Lyn pointed to a Warrior IFV driving slowly down the street next the soldiers. "I knew things here were bad, but that's on another level," she said quietly.

Her handler shrugged. "Parliament declared martial law last month, after that big round of bombings. All the same, it's not something the press here is encouraged to talk about."

"Fucking hell." Their driver snarled a curse as a group of Irish came up the walk toward the soldiers, waving the long dead flag of the Irish Republic and holding signs saying such things as "British Go Home", and other, less endearing messages.

Marcus leaned over from the passenger seat. "Waiting for anything?"

"Yes. Let's go." Ken bit his lip as the protesters started throwing empty bottles and rocks at the infantry fighting vehicle. "This could be bad."

Tires squealed as the chauffeur floored the accelerator and pulled around a corner to stop in front of a nondescript, slightly run down apartment building. Marcus handed Ken a key. "Third floor, room 302. Your gear is already there. I'll be back later for your first briefing."

The handler nodded. "Right."

Lyn jerked their cases out the car trunk, slamming the lid down as the driver threw the car back into gear.

Ken proffered his arm with mock gallantry. "Shall we inspect our new premises?"

The cyborg pushed past him and ran up the stairs toward their apartment. "I'm going to get my gun out."

The pair had just finished unpacking their rifles when machine gun fire broke out in the distance.

((Credit to Teyr25.))

"Oh, fuck."

Alex's eyes narrowed on the monitor, linked up to the security cameras of the restaurant her van was located not some distance from, watching very, very carefully for all the things that could, would, and probably were about to go very very wrong. A sizeable establishment, by all regards, densely populated with your average Joes out for a fine afternoon lunch. Or, as it were in this case, by two bickering cyborgs on the lookout for anyone who wasn't an average Joe. She glared intently at the table where those two certified pain-in-the-asses were sitting, watched them gazing down at the menu like it was all that occupied their attentions, and tolerated about two seconds of their inane drivel.

"Really?" Lee glared in something of mock-disbelief at Mark, across the table from her; he returned the glare evenly. "You're getting the goddamn vegetarian burrito? Christ, I knew you were a total pussy in general, but I never realise that reflected in your culinary tastes."

"Vegetarianism is a perfectly valid lifestyle choice." Mark spoke in the voice of a weather man-- calm, smooth, generally unflappable, and brimming with a repressed need to strangle someone. It only ever served to irk his counterpart all the more, which... wasn't, on second thought, a detriment at all. Unless they were on a mission. Like they were now.

"You're an assassin cyborg," Lee replied, as though the very prospect of a vegetarian assassin cyborg was as ridiculous as the prospect of Alex Valverde going a day without calling someone a cunt.

"No reason I shouldn't be a healthy one. Besides, have you not seen those videos of how they raise animals for slaughter? Most disturbing. And anyway," he was quick to add, as Lee opened her mouth to mock him for that little gem in turn. "Let us not forget that we're here for a reason, and it isn't to debate my appetite."

"OH FOR FUCK'S SAKE YOU TWO," Alex could take no more and at last exploded into the tiny little devices planted in their ears. "SHUT THE HELL UP AND LOOK FOR THE BAD GUYS. I mean..." There was a pause on the other end, most likely as Alex realised what she'd interrupted. "I concur with Mark. When you get done with this we'll all make fun of him for his pussy appetite; 'til then, stay on the ball, get it?"

Silence signalled the cyborgs' acquiescence; nothing more was said other than when the waiter approached and took Mark's vegetarian burrito order, and then Lee's order for a double-size beef burrito with extra guacamole. Alex's stomach rumbled just hearing those words. I get sent out, and what do I get to do? Get shot at, get stabbed, get blown up, and sure, it's fun. But they get to go out on a 'job', and whadda they do? They fuckin' eat. How come I never get those jobs? Then again...

The waiter had just about been ready to step away, and Lee had just turned back to silently mock Mark some more, when Alex's voice emerged once more from the ear piece. "Yo, grab me one'a them too, eh?"

Lee sighed. "Hey," she called back to the waiter hastely. "Could we get two of those double size burritos, actually? I'm awful hungry today."

The waiter turned and gawked at her for a moment, clearly torn between just going with the order and questioning the girl's sanity, before he realised there was nothing left in that little basket labelled 'fucks to give', and he simply nodded grudgingly and turned to get the order to the kitche. Whereupon Lee turned back to Mark, with an extra-smug look on her face. That familiar look that clearly said 'fuck yeah, my choice of burritos has Alex's stamp of approval and yours doesn't'. Mark merely met her eyes, and then sighed. Of all the cyborgs Alex coulda picked to partner him up with, she had to choose the single one that insisted constantly on testing the limits of his calm and composition. Of course, he did his damn best to keep his eye on the ball and stay focused-- he owed too much to Alex to fail her by letting himself succumb to Lee's constant baiting-- but sometimes, all Lee had to do was give him that look and he really, really wanted to call her something highly unpleasant.

"At the door." Mark was pulled from those thoughts-- gratefully, of course, as he never much liked to stew over things that made him unhappy and tested his calm-- by Lee's voice, a low murmur. They were located at one of the booths, positioned just so that Mark, turning his head enough that it still looked casual and meandering, could clearly see what Lee was talking about. Three men had entered-- burly types, more than a little rough-looking, and not, by the looks of it, the 'average Joe out for a fine afternoon lunch' type. They stood in the doorway, looking impatient and irritated, dressed in old, stained white a-shirts that revealed tattoos armouring their thick arms. Definitely not the typical crowd. They were unusual, they were rough, and they were here with an intention that was clearly not to feast upon rather excellent burritos.

In short order, the owner, a harried looking little man, came stumbling out of the kitchens and made his way to the three men. It was like watching a mouse flounder its way to a tribunal of big, predatory cats-- appraising it with their keen, feline eyes, pondering whether to let the little fucker go just for one more day, or to simply rip it to shreds and devour the pieces then and there. One of the men stepped forward as the mouse of a man approached, and, placing a large hand on his meek shoulder, leaned in to mutter something.

"...un lugar...mover las cosas..."

"En la espalda, la espalda."

The voices of the two men were quiet and low, and Lee could barely catch the words. She turned her head back towards Mark, who gave the most minuscule of nods as the three men and the owner of the restaurant proceeded together back through the door the owner had come through.

"A place to move the stuff - in the back," he repeated. Thank god for Alex's insistence on Spanish lessons-- the Portuguese ones had yet to come in handy, but when you were hunting Mexico-based cartels, knowing the language helped. "Now what?" he mused softly, almost off-handedly.

"Now?" Lee saw fit to reply anyway. "Now I'm gonna enjoy a nice, juicy burrito, you're gonna enjoy your pussy grub, and we both keep an eye and an ear out for anything else that happens. That should be enough information as it is to warrant some more investigation."

"We are the investigation," Mark reminded her, and was about to speak further before Alex, her voice delivered once more through the ear pieces, commented dryly, "You've been practicin' that line in the mirror waitin' for a chance to use it, haven't you?" Lee's smirk widened, and Mark sat there looking very much like he would have been blushing if he possessed such petty human qualities. "James Bond junior we got here," Lee couldn't help but add.

"Like hell. Mark, if you turn out to be James Bond 2.0, I'll toss yer sorry ass in a dumpster again. That dude's such a sack'a shit, hell, even Lee here could probably outsmart him and then kick his ass."

"Hey, I--"

"But we digress." Alex interrupted once more with a tone of finality. "You two enjoy your food, and keep an eye out again. And Lee... do not eat my fucking burrito again, understand?"

"Keep an eye out? Will do." Lee spoke almost innocently, and then pretended she couldn't hear the veritable torrent of swearing that her words incurred.

"And I understand that, Catherine, but-"

"Moretti. You and I are not on a first-name basis. Remember that."

Marcus looked at the phone again. They had been talking for half an hour without much progress. He tried a different tack. "Okay, Miss Lee, have you ever conducted a mission yourself?"

"Is that a serious question, Moretti? Of course I have - but explain how this excuses you from delaying a-"

"She's a cyborg, not a robot. You have to treat her like any other HUMINT, with consideration for rest and-"

"Are you trying to tell me my own fucking orders, Moretti?"

"Take it how you will, Lee. I'm talking pure efficiency, but considering you have a nation split in half because you can't figure yourselves out, maybe efficiency isn't the most familiar thing to you MI6 types?" Marcus found himself spitting out the last words. The week had been pretty rough on his nerves.

"What did you just fucking sa-"

"The Hayashi-Sakai team need a full twenty-four hour's rest before I will consent to them being deployed, that is absolutely final. You can send any further complaints to my superiors, Catherine." He slammed the headset onto its cradle.

"The missus being difficult?" Ken asked languidly as he lay stretched out in his chair with a copy of Jane's Fighting Ships over his face.

"Just MI6 being MI6, Hayashi."

"Ken, Ken, I just heard something on our wire-" Lyn ran into the room excitedly, but drew up short as she saw Marcus standing next to her handler. "Oh... Hi Marcus."

"Evening, Lynette," he said, sounding much more level-headed than just a moment ago. "What about a wire?"

Ken threw his cyborg a sour glare as he interjected. "Oh, nothing much. I just planted some wiretaps in some likely places while the riot was going down." The handler muttered to himself as he checked his handset. "Outside our brief, but I don't like relying on MI6 for all our intel."

The section head nodded. "And I suppose you checked this room for bugs, too?"

Lynette looked wounded. "Of course Marcus. I always check for bugs."

Her handler shot her an amused look. "Always?"

"Planting bugs in my clothes is cheating Ken. You're the only one with a key to my room." The cyborg tossed her head back defiantly. "And considering where you put the mic, I'm sure you're a pervert."

Marcus cut the pair off as Ken cackled. "Too much information, Miss Sakai," he interjected. Giving the handler a rather disapproving glare, he continued, "Get on with the real information."

"...Yes sir. A bug in the apartment building three blocks down picked up a group of men discussing a meeting about something called 'The Irish Free State'." She frowned slightly. "Then they started talking in Gaelic, so I couldn't follow it any more. That might be a problem."

"If you have a recording, we can have it sent back to the RB for translation, but that will take a while unless Hayashi has someone reliable in the area to do it... that isn't MI6." One week into an op, two days in country and they were already finding a way to deceive their partners. Some things just never changed.

Ken looked askance at Marcus. "I'm pretty sure that Catherine Lee lady you were on the phone with can do it. Other than that, I don't know."

Marcus sighed. "I'll have to request some encrypted sat phones, then. In the meantime, lets examine what our friends actually want us to do." He produced another of the envelopes that seemed to define their jobs. "They need a certain Michael O'Flynn, D-O-A."

Lyn looked up sharply. "Michael O'Flynn?"

Her boss stared. "What have you got on him?"

"He was setting up that meeting we were just talking about. Lots of men saying 'Mike', and 'Mr. O'Flynn', when they came in."

Her handler sat up, the first sign of interest he had shown in the entire conversation. "Let me see what I can dig up on our friend here." Ken opened a small laptop and started tapping away rapidly. He had been typing only a few minutes before he stopped and started reading. "Gotcha. 'Michael O'Flynn, top agitator for the terrorist organization known as the Irish Republican Army, suspect in 12 assassinations attempts on British generals and politicians, and possible arms smuggler." The handler leaned back. "Man's been busy."

Lynette snorted. "12 attempts?"

Ken threw up his hands. "Maybe he's a Quaker or something. Point is, he's a big wheel, and we know why the Brits want him. Question is, do we grab him or shoot him?"

Marcus walked over to their closet and grabbed his coat. "Nab first, shoot later if necessary."

The cyborg peeked over Ken's shoulder. "Maybe a week for setup, another couple of days to nab him and have him on a plane to London?"

Her handler looked back at her. "Do it faster. Think you can handle this on your own?"

Lyn grinned. "Come on, it's me."

Three days later, Michael O'Flynn vanished from the streets of Dublin.

((Moar Teyr25 post.))

"Fuck, that hurts," Kris muttered, massaging her hand where the gun had pinched her. Lucy, one of the other cyborgs, simply waited for her to continue. It was vaguely odd that she couldn't talk, considering the cyborg process was supposed to fix your problems.

At least. that's what Gene had told her. Some of the cyborgs were probably messed up, too. Who knew? Maybe since Lucinda didn't waste time talking she got that much better at using guns. At the very least, she didn't pinch her hand by doing something as simple as sticking a magazine into a pistol. Kris wanted to be angry at her, but she knew it didn't make sense.

So she took it from the top. Like the other girl had shown her, put the base of the magazine onto her palm, then her index finger right along the front. Then she looked into the mag well on the handgun and aimed to slam the mag home... just as she was about to pinch her hand again, Luce stopped her.

She produced her own gun and demonstrated for what must have been the dozenth time so far. Her fingers deftly plucked the spare magazine from her belt so quickly Kris would have missed it if she had blinked, then brought the mag just as fast to the gun. But Kris took note that Luce slowed down just barely enough to lock in the ammo without missing, then rapidly released the slide and punched the gun forward.

Fast-slow-fast. Okay.

Kris mimed the other girl's actions as best as she could. She took the reload, brought it rapidly into the gun, then slowed just enough to keep her palm clear as it locked home with a satisfying clack. Her thumb fumbled the slide release, though, so Kris finished the reload by angrily dumping three rounds into the target. "Hah!"

Luce sighed. She walked over to the target and circled three bullet holes with a sharpie. They were roughly scattered, none of them in the heart and lungs area. They were only at fifteen yards. She returned to Kris and held out her hand for her gun.

"Uh, okay?" The S&W and a spare mag were passed to the other cyborg. She checked the chamber on the pistol and stuck the mag in her belt. Then, in an explosive burst of movement, she dropped into a firing stance and brought up the handgun, firing six rounds in a heartbeat, reloading and releasing the slide with what looked like a slap more than pulling on it. Luce fired one last round into the target's head and safed the handgun, giving it back to the other girl. The other bullets had all landed in a tight group in the center of the target that couldn't have been more than a few inches wide.

"..."

Luce only turned and stuck out her tongue.

"Really, Lucy? REALLY? You know what, fuck it - I can deal, too!" Kris hissed before turning back to her gear and stuffing fresh ammo into the emptied magazines.

Gene just watched the scene in amusement, until there was a polite tap on his shoulder. The handler turned and found a pale, bearded giant looking around nervously at the door to the range. "Mister Langes?"

"What's up, Nigel?"

The big European scratched thoughtfully at his beard. "Where would be, hm, mister Amsel?"

"He's doing some surveillance with some other handlers downtown. His cyborg is back here, training Kris," Gene said, gesturing at the two girls. "What do you need him for?"

"Aah! I just need to update his orders. I will have to meet mister Amsel in person. Where is he at right now?"

"Downtown LA, I'm pretty sure."

"Thank you." Nigel looked at the cyborgs training. He was an experienced, easy-going fellow, having seen a fair bit of action in Eastern Europe before coming to the US. "I see the girls are doing well."

Gene turned to them. Kris was laughing now, and Luce shaking with what looked like a mute's version of giggling. They were getting along better than he'd expected - though perhaps Kris was just in a good mood with her new toys and the food they had earlier. "Tell me, is she doing well for a cyborg?"

"Hmm..." The big man considered the question. "I think so. Miss Fields is good with gun, yes. She learns pretty fast for a newly-woken girl. Do you think she fired gun before in previous life, mister Langes?"

"Maybe. To be honest, all this stuff is very alien to me, Nigel." Gene didn't know exactly why he was being so candid, but it just seemed like the big guy was someone he could trust.

"I see, mister Langes. I hope all goes well. I must pass on this information." Nigel gave a polite nod and left the range, leaving Gene with the two cyborgs and the bark of gunfire.

"C'mon Lucy, show me one more time," Kris wailed.

"Come in." The door to the air-conditioned room swung open, shedding some light upon Amsel and the array of computers set in front of him. Section 2's definition of intelligence gathering these days meant being plugged into as many computers at once as was possible. Every screen showed a different perspective of the crowded street. From his understanding, many similar stations were scattered about their surveillance net, gathering terabytes of video footage by the hour.

He hated 'intel' work like this.

There was a soft click as the door shut, and Amsel glanced up just as Elise pecked him on the cheek and sat on his lap, lounging with the ease of a predatory cat. "Hm!"

"Is this where you've been cooped up all day?" she started. Her eyes flitted from monitor to monitor, taking in the immense flow of information with ease.

Her hand slipped into his. Amsel shrugged. "More or less. We haven't found anything yet. Get anything out'a Mac?"

"He's babbling like a brook" Elise said, smirking. After a moment, she leaned back against the man in one of her rare submissions of weariness. 'Vincent' and 'Lauren' accompanying Mac had meant the two of them were instructed to virtually disappear, leaving little room for comfort or the freedom both were so accustomed too. So Elise came far more frequently than usual and stayed for longer. Not that either of them minded... Amsel wrapped one arm gently about the woman's shoulders and she wiggled closer, her cheek resting on his shoulder. ". . . how long will we do this for, John?"

"We can stop right now if you like," Amsel responded earnestly. "I'd just get assigned a different mission and we'd be back to normal life."

"For me? I'm touched."

"I do go out of my way for you, Elise," he chuckled.

"Oh?" The woman remarked, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "Would you even abandon this life you've found if I wanted you to?"

"I'd have to ask Luce."

She only laughed, a melodious noise that lingered in the confines of the room. "Never about you, is it, love?"

Amsel ran his fingers through the woman's hair. "Less about me, more about love and life. Fair enough?"

Elise answered with a kiss.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
"Backstabbing is like love, you're saying?"

Gene shook his head. "Any sort of deception is fundamentally a labor of T-L-C. That doesn't mean its lovely or loving. I just think you need some passion to do it right."

The cyborg shrugged. "Passionate but not compassionate, man? What's that worth!"

He didn't respond for a moment. "... that's oddly poignant of you."

"Is it? I don't really care."

"You might some day..." Gene said with a sense of resignation. Though he tried to appear friendly, when it came down to it, he didn't care about Kris any more than any associate or tool he had used for many years. It seemed like Kris being difficult made him more inclined to be vocal than the idea of her being a good listener. He took a glance down at the GPS unit and saw their destination was not far off. "Regardless, we have a job to do. Done right, we shouldn't see any unnecessary bloodshed or delays."

"Boring." Despite the retort, Kris still made her preparations without complaint, checking her gun and the bugs in her clothing, as well as the bag of slightly soiled garment she would carry with her. Of all of the places there were to investigate, a laundromat was one of the most promising, oddly enough. They had found cartel bagmen would stop by to collect protection money every week, Monday. It was a completely mundane intel job - just milk work until they gained enough experience to do their real job, Gene knew.

They pulled onto the sidewalk and she hopped out, starting towards the place a block down. Her clothes had probably taken the least effort out of this entire surveillance op; just a hoodie and jeans. They made her look absolutely generic, and it easily hid the weapons and electronics she was bringing along. Kris opened the door, looking very bored as she walked over to the nearest unoccupied machine. She fed in a few quarters, then dumped the bag of clothes and shut the metal cover.

Looking around to see nothing of great particular interest, the girl plopped into a chair and produced her phone. It was going to be a very boring few hours.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
Gene sat up with a start as the radio came to life. "Yo. Eyes on two of them. Big, swarthy and scary-looking guys. They're leaving now with a duffel bag. Pursue?"

"No. Observe and keep reporting."

". . . kay."

The handler drummed his fingers on the wheel. "Got a complaint, Kris?"

"Naw, MOM."

He slammed the radio handset back onto its cradle a little harder than he should have, then reached into his laptop bag for worn-out paperback novel. He had never read Crichton before, but Sphere definitely made a unique first impression. Novels and missions were a very usual thing for him. During his last jobs for the Camorra, he had picked up Grisham. After getting nabbed, that literary endeavor stopped dead. It was vaguely cathartic to delve back into novels.

The plot was actually getting to the eponymous item for Sphere when Kris piped up over the radio again. "Hey, its me."

"Feel like apologizing?" Gene said casually.

The cyborg sounded confused, then outright irritated. "What...? No! But beefcakes number one and two are roughing up the laundromat owner."

"Interesting." He stuck a bookmark into the novel and shoved it back into the bag. "Keep feeding me information. I'm bringing the car over."

"I'll try."

He was almost to the place when the distinctive bark of a nine-mil rang in the air. Gene didn't say a word, but was absolutely fuming as he stamped down on the brake and skidded to a halt in the parking lot. He opened the door and immediately ducked as something huge and fast-moving filled his sight. The Camry bounced on its suspension, and a spiderweb of cracks exploded across the windshield as a three-hundred pound man was bounced off of it like a ragdoll. Then a Glock bounced across the ground and skid past Gene's feet.

He stood up, brushed off his jacket and made sure his limbs were still attached. "KRIS!?"

Gene had to duck again as a bullet snapped past, and for a second he thought it might have been Kris doing the shooting. It became apparent the haphazard storm of lead was sent by the second bagman, and the handler swept back his coat to draw his Beretta. He was painfully aware of the panicked screams of bystanders in the background as he squeezed off rounds with his .380.

To be honest, it was mostly for show. The thug stumbled as the asphalt in front of him had a bullet thud into it, then dove into a nearby alleyway. Kris emerged from the laundromat, firing as she crashed through the glass storefront. She hopped, slid across the Camry's hood and landed neatly beside Gene. "Hey baldy. Needed me?"

"I thought I said before we left, no guns," the handler managed between pants. He was desperately out of shape, and this was probably the first time had been fired at in a year.

"Hey, that guy," she pointed at the comatose thug splayed across the sidewalk. "Pulled the gun first. I didn't start shooting until you got here!"

"Spare me the excuses, Kristina. Chase down the other one." Kris threw a sarcastic salute at the handler and took off at a dead sprint, with a grin that indicated she was possibly enjoying the chase a little too much. Gene snapped a pair of flexicuffs onto the downed man and took a glance at the rear seat. Realizing that trying to move the body, let alone cram it into the car was a lost cause, he settled for a quick message to the backup team on the radio. The handler reversed and spun the wheel to the left hard, reversing it as he went into gear. There was a metallic crunch that indicated what was probably a newspaper box being crushed by the vehicle, but he paid no heed, barreling through the boulevard, shattered windshield and all.

"He's hopped a fence and is going down Westgate. I think he has a cell phone! Should I shoot him?"

"No," Gene replied sternly. "If he calls in backup, we'll get them too."

"Sounds good. Hey, you little shit-" There was the sound of more gunshots and a variety of rather creative swears on Kris's part. "The mark has gotten into the alleys behind these houses. It's uhh - Tennesee."

The little GPS on the car's dash just showed a bunch of little buildings, none of which had any car-sized openings. Gene would have to go around and try to cut off the perp, though he was starting to wonder how someone that big had managed to outrun them this long. As he swung around, the handler noticed an alleyway just wide enough to fit the Camry into, assuming he didn't mind losing both of his mirrors and a lot of paint.

Kris watched slack-jawed as the car barreled through several trash cans and crates, the scream of scraping metal apparent as it beared down on the fleeing bagman. The man narrowly dove out of the way and the Carmry careened into the wall at some thirty miles an hour. "Holy shit. Is he insane?"

The guy took one look at the girl and bolted down the alley from where the car had come. He ran right into Gene, who casually held a pistol to his head as Kris caught up.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

By the end of the day, Kris and Gene were back on the job, parked just miles away from the laundromat. They sat quietly in their newly-assigned vehicle, a silver Crown Victoria that wasn't quite as old as their late Camry. Gene was again engrossed in his novel, while Kris picked at the bandaids on her arm. They were both exhausted, and neither spoke for several long minutes.

"Hmm," Kris yawned. "Any good restaurants in that guidebook?"

Gene placed the novel back in the bag and removed one of the numerous books that had been so useful thus far. "There's a sesame grill down the street."

"Wanna go there?"

"Why not?"

Nigel rapped his knuckles against the metal door marking the observation post. After a moment, the door clicked open, held by a chain. A rather shapely woman's eyes stared out at him. "Yes?"

"Is mister Amsel here?"

The tall woman sized up Nigel before responding. "He's on the job. May I ask who you are?"

"Nigel," he responded calmly. She considered him for a moment before unlocking the door, most likely assuming that holding him there for too long would attract the wrong kind of attention. The woman acted warily, like many, but seemed to offer much less to cause paranoia or undue suspicion. A seasoned agent, despite being so young. Nigel was impressed. He took a seat. "Now, may I ask who you are?"

"Katrina," she responded curtly. "What brings you down here?"

"Ah! Well, it appears the higher-ups wanted a change of orders for mister Amsel. They wanted someone to put in a hard copy, and I was available. Where is he?"

'Katrina' waved at the bank of monitors. "Taking a quick break. He's been here for hours."

Nigel raised a brow. "An... official break, miss?"

The woman smirked. "What do you think?"

"Ah." Nigel shrugged. Field agents always bent the rules as they pleased. It was less of a concern than simply being adept at fieldcraft, and it was apparent Katrina was not a new player at this game. He bent over to hand an envelope to the other agent.

"Your gun is printing."

"Hm? It seems so!" He let out a chuckle and threw back his jacket, adjusting the angle of his standard-issue Glock.

Katrina pursed her lips, contemplating a further comment.

"Speak what you want, I do not mind."

"You don't carry a gun much, Nigel?" she said lightly.

"You are correct. Only recently have I had to carry a pistol, working at the branch." He prodded at the kydex holster that was now jabbing into his side and sighed. "I do not wield a weapon enough to put much time or effort into it, but I suppose one day it may hurt me. I have not fired a gun in anger since my days in the ČSLA and Armáda České republiky, so you could say I was spoiled by this easy lifestyle, miss Katrina."

"What changed between the military and the branch, Nigel?"

The RB had already profiled the man, so he had little to worry revealing his background to the stranger. He started quietly. "I left the army after thirteen years. It was good, and I would have done it for longer had it not interfered with my family life. But not so long after, my wife left me and took custody of the children." The last words were flat, as if he had conditioned himself not care.

"As an expert on chemical warfare with the Soviets, I sought out careers in petrochemicals. Good money, my comrades told me. But work came in the form of a pharmaceutical company based out of Moscow, so I left home and worked there for some years. It paid very well, but..." Nigel seemed to grope for the appropriate words. "It was not work I enjoyed, I should say."

Katrina nodded. "I never liked my job. Pretending to be other people for most of my life. It's crushing."

"Yes, crushing would be the right word for some things, miss Katrina," he responded, finally taking his eyes away from the gun that was pestering him. "Maybe it is time I leave this field, eh?"

"Everybody thinks about it, and sometimes it works out great. Unfortunately, that was not the case for me," Katrina said wisftully. "Someone convinced me to stay in, and I have, and I probably will until I grow old and useless."

"Mister Amsel?"

"Mm hmm."

Nigel looked stony for a second longer, then broke out in raucous laughter. "I see! There is still hope for young romances in this field. That is good." He stood from his seat, finding a great weight lifted from him. "I enjoyed this talk with you greatly, miss Katrina. I will be on my way now."

The woman nodded and remained seated as he left as quietly as he had arrived.

Outside, Nigel was reminded that the bagel he consumed this morning had only staved off his hunger momentarily, caused by the very long shifts he had been pulling these days. Luckily for him, a food truck had parked not long away. The European stepped in line. They had some kind of bizarre Asian "burrito" with raw fish and eel as well as rice. He was in a curious mood, so he went ahead and ordered two, as well as a drink.

As the big man wiped back his coat to reach for his wallet, he unwittingly gave the cashier a glimpse of his pistol. When his hand came back up with his money, Nigel found himself staring at a bug-eyed worker. He followed the poor guy's stare back to his belt. "Fuck. Sorry, I am police." He dug out the falsified badge he hadn't needed to use in weeks, and the cashier looked much relieved.

Nigel gratefully accepted his food and headed rapidly from the truck. Maybe it was a good time to spend some more time shopping and training for that damned gun.

"You still carry that damn thing?"

Farin paid Victor no heed as she checked her .45, then slipped it back into her waistband. Her coat fell back into place, leaving no impression that she was carrying two weapons, numerous magazines, a radio and even a collapsing baton. It was only when the pale-haired Afrikaaner reached the door she bothered to respond, and only with a rather brusquely, "It's what I'm use'to, Vic. Anything else you're feeling to bitch about?"

"Nothing off the top of my head," the man responded, leaning back in his chair. His legs were propped unceremoniously upon the cluttered desk. His left leg had braces for nearly its entire length - the result of an IED that had nearly killed him out in West Africa. Somehow, despite the constant desk work, he managed to remain in shape, being much more physically imposing than his compact-framed colleague.

"Right. I'm off, Vic." Farin shut the door behind her and climbed into the nearest waiting vehicle, an armored Mercedes sedan. As soon as she did, the vehicle smoothly rolled out of the facility tarmac, two other sedans and a pair of larger G-Wagons close behind. Each vehicle had two or three men, weapons and supplies for a breakdown. Each element of their convoy had been prepared a week in advance and checked daily. When their principals saw the finished product, the group had been running the job already for several days. They cut out the awkward learning phase of a new job and moved on like old pros.

Despite being five minutes early, the group of medical professionals were waiting outside the hotel as the convoy rolled up. Farin stepped out and helped the two event coordinators into the S-class, while other, less important figures were guided into their armored ferries. Then, several very expensive-looking cases were loaded right beside the doctors. Farin sat in the passenger seat as they pulled out of the hotel.

The drive to the Cape Town International Convention Center was short and uneventful. Every now and again, some nutter would have the audacity to try to carjack one of their vehicles during particularly bad traffic, which generally ended with a rapid exchange of gunfire, a dead local and very, very scared clients. Not exactly conducive to their ongoing success as a top-tier security company. Farin keyed the Press-To-Talk button in her left hand and brought it close to her face. "Two minutes to arrival. Advance teams are to make final sweeps."

Checking parked cars for surveillance devices, IEDs, screening visitors and preventing bystanders from slipping into the event - all of those were jobs Farin would never have the patience to do. So nearly a third of their personnel were dedicated to preventing little problems from becoming very severe ones after the convoy disgorged its passengers. The problem with their gig was that this supposed "Medical Technology Expo" in the convention center had been advertised for months, so any two-bit who wanted to steal some very expensive product samples or mug a well-paid medical professional had a hell of a time to prepare.

As it turned out, they got into the convention center without much issue from the gathered crowd (aside from several rotten eggs that narrowly missed the bodyguard unit) and had the clients well on schedule for their meetings, but an entirely unexpected problem came up to make up for their stroke of good luck.

Farin spotted a man simply dawdling by the entrance, wearing khaki pants and some black sports jacket. As she closed in, a distinctive patch on the man's baseball cap and the printing of a weapon under his jacket made the situation very apparent. Their clients had hired foreign security without notifying them.

Local groups would not dare run into one another during such a high-dollar contract, and they would never use such a thin disguise. As Farin continued her search, radio messages came in informing her about men openly carrying assault rifles and more vehicles arriving on site. Things were getting dicey very fast. Farin keyed her radio. "Bodyguard group is to close up the floating box. Keep this other group away from the principals." As she proceeded over to the site of the first meeting, she was almost immediately cut off by one of the newly-arrived contractors.

"Civilians are not allowed past this point," the man droned in a vaguely threatening manner. He was tall, built like a brick wall. A very obvious sunglasses tan and some off-key ear rings on one side lessened the intimidating demeanor he was trying to sell,

Farin was annoyed. She shifted the weight on her feet and shifted her coat just enough to make it extremely clear she had a weapon and quietly responded. "Our outfit claimed the contract for this convention last year, mac. Why don't you pull the act and report to the event staff for approval?"

"Hey, bitch," he started rudely, jabbing a finger at her and taking an aggressive step forward. "We traveled nine thousand miles to do our goddamned job, you think we're going to listen to some bluff from some local in a suit?"

Farin didn't even take a step back, momentarily confusing the aggressive contractor. She stared balefully at the man, then produced a folded paper. He snatched it out of her hands, making the woman glad it was a copy of their original document. The ape of a contractor scanned the page angrily before the look of conviction faded and was replaced with doubt, making him look like a giant child that had his favorite stuffed animal taken away.

"You can't do that!"

"Do what?"

"Just explain that away with a piece of paper, shit, man!" He threw the sheets at Farin, who deftly sidestepped and continued on her way - until the man grabbed her wrist with vise-like force.

You didn't touch her. Ever.

Farin feigned resisting, causing the man to pull harder. She used his own energy and momentum to burst forward, slamming an elbow into his jaw. The man grunted as he stumbled back, and Farin dropped, ducking down and balling her right hand into a fist. She lowered like a coiled snake, then erupted upwards in a brutal motion that took all the rotational energy from her leg, hip and shoulder and threw it into a crushing punch directly into the man's liver. She didn't aim at his ribs. She aimed through his ribs.

The dull thump of impact didn't sound like much, but it only took a moment for the blow to take its effect. The man made a wheezing noise like a dying animal and clutched at his side, stumbling backwards. It only took a single kick to the chest to send the blubbering contractor to the ground hard. Farin stepped over his limp form, patting him down for a moment before removing the pistol from his side. She stripped the magazine, tossed it across the room and deposited the handgun into a nearby potted plant.

The man was struggling to his feet as the conference room door slammed shut.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

"Look, I told you Vic, we did our job to the letter."

"Yeah, don't think so. How do you explain the stolen case and a police investigation? Fucking tooth fairy did it?" Victor was very, very agitated.

Farin, for her part didn't bat an eye. "You know how I work."

"What kind of fuckin answer is that, Farin?"

"The only one I have for you, Victor. If you think it was one of our boys, you're dead wrong. There was that other outfit at the convention center."

Victor, reminded of that other, more pressing issue produced a folder from the growing stack on his desk and opened it, revealing several high-resolution photographs from their gig. He looked at the black-and-tan uniforms for only a moment before shaking his head. "Of all the small fry to deal with, we get the fucking Americans."

Farin sighed too. "Give me the dossier on them and I'll do what I can, Vic." She accepted the photographs, and another folder plastered with sticky notes. She read the label on her way out.

Eagle Claw Defense, LLC.

Undisclosed location, Mexico

3 Weeks Ago

The air hung heavy with the perfume of cheap, store-bought antiseptic, the tiled floor stained and cracked over the years. Rudimentary catheters and heart monitors were hooked up to the girl on the even more rudimentary operating table, a battered plywood bench propped up on cinder blocks. Blood freely dripped onto the floor as scalpels and forceps worked feverishly to avoid killing the subject, but the surgeon behind the tools was an expert.

In fact, the man was a specialist.

"Ligaments are polymer, similar in composition to the rest of the fibrous tissue, but lack the conductive receptors required in muscle fibre," he rasped, poring over an exposed leg joint. "Also much denser than muscle fibres. Overall very high tensile strength, but girl is rudimentary model. Artificial neurotransmitters not present in previous tissue samples, stimulation mostly via electical signals and shape-memory function. Easy to overload little girl tissue if exposed."

As he continued his work, the drug lord sitting a few feet away reclined back on his seat on the couch, blowing cigarette smoke upwards into the air, rifle casually propped on his lap in place of the dancing girls he usually had. He had waved them off as the American had brought his pet in, knowing that they would be uselessly squeamish at the sight of them cutting the little piglet open. "Spare us the technological babble, my friend," he drawled in his own heavy accent, lazily peering at the blood, still running down onto the floor. "Like the great Arnie said once, 'if it bleeds, we can kill it.' No need to know about the insides of one of these things if we gonna mess it up anyway, no?"

The surgeon at the table shook his head in irritation. "This is no simple matter of just killing these weapons, friend." He quickly threaded a needle up, giving the elaborate plastic thread some headspace with which to tie a knot. "These things think faster, hit harder, shoot better than any of your men. Mister Marsden could bring little girl into your house and not break sweat against any of your army. You are blessed he is working with you."

"Yes, I feel blessed to have the American dog letting us know he has his very expensive toy. I don't fear him. I don't fear any of them. They are in our territory now, this is our home, and in our home we are the king. Everyone bows to us."

Even behind the mask, the surgeon's disdain was evident. "And yet you should fear them, if you had wisdom."

"What you tryin' to say, mierda de ruso?" The man snarled, waving his rifle casually in the man's direction. The surgeon flinched at the sight of the weapon, but by now was used to having guns pointed into his face, and defiantly stared down the barrel.

Before the situation continued to degrade, however, a figure standing behind the couch placed a gloved hand on the drug lord's shoulder, making him jump. "Gentlemen. I would prefer it if we kept the bickering to a minimum. I'm sure our good comrade is simply a little on edge this afternoon, perhaps a bit overworked."

The Mexican fumed, but lowered his rifle. "Of course, senor. The loss of Senor Torres has made many things difficult for us these days."
"His death was inconvenient, yes, but it was a warning, and we will be prepared for when the Americans truly begin to wage their war." The figure behind the couch stepped out into the open glare of the overhanging lamp, and the surgeon shivered as Carlos stared down at the girl strapped to the table, hand lingering over the gun belted to the side of his coat. "Doctor, what do we know now?"

The surgeon took a deep breath as he took off his glasses and looked up at the mercenary. "Many discrepancies in subject, but many hints of Zhluktov's technology here. Polymer composition quite unique, but is not telltale signature. Biopsy of bone material shows unique porosity due to additive in metal alloy, and disulfide coating of fibers to minimise friction in movement. Very trademark qualities."

"So you think Zhluktov is working for the United States now?"

"Hmm, da. Either he is a turncoat, or the Americans have somehow magically raided Design Bureau and stolen Motherland's state secrets."
Carlos' expression was unreadable, but a tendon twitched at the back of his jaw as he slowly paced back and forth. The sidearm in his hand was now clearly visible - a short-barrelled rifle of a rich birch color and polished steel glinted in the lamplight. The surgeon at the table could hear the tension in Carlos' hand as leather glove squeaked against wooden grip.

Before any of them could say anything more, however, the door burst open, and two guards came in, dragging a boy between them. By his size and face he could not have been little more than twelve years old, although with the level of malnourishment in the surrounding community, it was sometimes difficult to tell.

One of the guards jabbed the boy in the face with the barrel of his gun. "Sir, we found this boy scurrying around in the vents! He was trying to get away with some food from the kitchen."

The drug lord's lip curled in annoyance. "Samuel, you gotta knock, pendejo. Who's the buffoon who let you just walk in here like that? Was it Afonso, again? I swear to God I'll club his head in -"

"Yes, sir, but I thought this was important. This isn't the first time that it's happened, and now I finally caught the little shit in the act." The guards nervously looked down as Carlos walked towards the three, attention focused squarely on the child between them.

"Nombre? Cual es tu nombre?"

The boy's gaze flickered nervously to the weapon in Carlos' hand, and briefly to the bloody mess behind her. "Juan, senora."

"Juan, eh. Es un nombre bueno. You hungry, little boy? Just looking for food?"

"Si, senora. I don't have mama or papa to take care of me, and the orphanage won't let me in."

"Hmm. You come in through the vents huh? Through the roof? Must have been quite a squeeze." Carlos reached into the pockets of his coat, and the boy stiffened in fright. However, pulling out his hand from his coat pocket revealed a small, wrapped bar of chocolate. "Did you see anything when you came in here?"

The boy emphatically shook his head, eyes still averted to a spot on the tiled floor. Carlos sighed, and took a bite out the chocolate. "It's not poisoned or anything, chico. Go on."
The child nervously plucked the half-eaten chocolate out from Carlos' hands, eyes lit in hunger as he greedily took a bite. "Gracias, senora."

"Now, you didn't see anything, did you?"

"No, senora."

"Alright. Go on, get outta here."

The boy quietly sighed in relief as he was turned around by the guards and began to leave. Carlos gave them five paces, raised the Orbez in her hand, and pulled the trigger, barely flinching as the boy's head exploded outwards in a flash of dust and smoke.

The drug lord sprang out of his seat, suddenly no longer bored with the state of affairs in the room. Snarling in disgust, he wiggled a finger in his ear, trying to shake out the ringing sensation from the noise of the shot. "What the fuck, Carlos? If you gon' make a mess in my home, you gotta give me a heads up, man!"

"Street urchin won't be missed. I won't let our operations be compromised by some little boy off the streets. They make good liars, too. I almost believed him when he said he hadn't seen anything." Carlos cycled the bolt on his pistol, kicking the errant empty cartridge aside. The surgeon at the table looked as if he was about to be sick. "I think we will finish our procedures for the day. Make sure the American's toy is unharmed. Leave as little trace as possible that Emile was here, comrade."

The drug lord crushed his cigarette stub under the heel of his shoe, pulling a sour face as he yammered at one of his guards to fetch a bucket. He watched as Carlos lightly stepped over the dead boy on the floor. "Where you going, man?"

Carlos paused, pulling out a cell phone from a pocket. "Going to look for some old ghosts."

***

Volgograd, Russia

Present day

Oh, but how quickly things could fall to pieces, if Fate so willed it.

"Grandfather, could I get some candy, please, while we wait?"

Mordechai and Lilya were waiting in line at the Volgograd International Airport, cover identities and passports all ready to slip back into the wind. It was going to be a close thing, one of Gorshkov's few remaining allies with inside knowledge of the FSB and SVR had tipped them off that Lilya's . . . outburst. . . at her school had not goned unnoticed, and that a number of high priority taskings had been issued to the Spetnaz teams that provided most of their muscle. Not just the regular counter-insurgency teams either, but teams from the Alpha group, who might have had clearance enough to know the exact truth of what they were hunting, and be able to plan accordingly. Perhaps, even, old friends?

Dammit, but the bastards after them were a cruel lot.

"Dyedooshka?"

Mordechai looked down at Lilya and smiled, hiding his worries and nodding. "Just don't take too long, the plane is almost ready to board." The girl gave him a quick smile and bumped into him reassuringly, skipping off then to one of the small stores that dotted the thoroughfare through the center of the terminal. His smile died as she did so, another of his myriad worries coming to the surface. Lilya, though she wouldn't ever admit to it, had suffered tremendously after being triggered in the middle of that classroom. She'd go. . . still, he guessed was the best word for it, if she wasn't occupied, if her thoughts were allowed wander, and after showering now she looked as though she'd scrubbed herself raw. He couldn't bring it up however, not now of all times.

She played at stoicism for him, just as he played at it for her.

Gavno, but what a clusterfuck this was.

Lilya returned after a short time, handing him an American Mars Bar with a grin. He'd developed a taste for the sweet during their short stint in the country, and had lamented ever since the fact they were hard to find in Grand Old Mother Russia. He took it gratefully, chuckling as he bent over to kiss her softly on the head and thank her. Then the phone in her coat pocket rang.

The phone that neither of them owned and hadn't been there twenty minutes ago.

The voice on the other end of the call was feminine, but edged with sarcasm and false emotion. "Hello, Lilya. It is good to be able to talk to my favorite toy soldier again, I was almost afraid she'd run off once more. How have you been, my little whelp?"

It might have been a few years, but Lilya remembered the voice with a crystal clarity that only raw loathing could afford. "Klara, you rutting bitch, I'd have thought all those years being chained to the consuls bed in that South American backwater would have done wonders for your disposition. Apparently not." Mordechai's eyes snapped to Lilya at the mention of the old training consultant. Then his eyes snapped up, scanning about the terminal for watchers.

First one he saw gave him a wink and a tip of the hat.

Well, fuck.

The old Spetznaz veteran took the phone from Lilya, bringing it to his ear gingerly. "So, the Drillmaster has moved up in the world, it seems. It is good to speak to you again, Klara."

"And it is good to see you alive and well, Mordechai. Although I still have doubts about the little pet you keep on your leash these days, especially when you let the homicidal little girl roam around, killing comrades." Klara sounded amused, almost wistful. "I'll give you credit where it's due, Mordechai. It took me quite some time to find you. You haven't lost your touch, but I suppose it still wasn't enough, da?"
"Well, when you've got the resources you get for being a whore of the State, it tends to make finding people just that much easier." His voice dropped to a low growl with the next sentence. "And they were not tovarischii, Klara. No comrade of mine ever took children and twisted what they should have been."

Klara snorted in derision."Don't get me wrong, my dear. Alexei was no real friend to the state. More like a cowardly, snivelling wastrel of a man, more interested in the science. And I'd like to think if you knew me better, you'd realise we're not so different, you and I. But speaking of the children, I would have thought we'd trained your little pushka to be smarter than to put herself on the radar, especially being an enemy of the state. But I have your way out of here, unless you'd like to take your chances right now." And, with an added pause for effect, "From what I hear, the bepasnosti aren't quite the service they used to be, but I think there would be enough men here to chew you up into little treasonous bits."

Mordechai spat a particularly vile curse into the phone, causing more than a few looks at himself. "And I guess the directorate will be quite happy with us chewing all these fine young soldiers into sausage for you?" He fumed at Klara, that callous bitch. But she was right, as any good Russian would know. Quantity had a quality all its own. "What are you suggesting?"

"You remember Zhlutkov, hmm? Chemical expert, put a lot of the medicines and weapons into our cabinets back in the day. Turns out he's been a busy bee, even busier than you, perhaps." A handful of the plainclothes officers walking around seemed to have disappeared in the past few minutes, as Klara continued. "The Americans have been taking their own children and.. 'twisting' them as well. It seems Zhlutkov simply continued his work elsewhere after your little pet cleaned out the rest of the doghouse."

"Yes, we know about the American cyborgs. We had an encounter with them. Neither of our teams were prepared." Mord glanced at Lilya, worried that the events of the last few days would have rattled her badly enough to drop her game. She had completely missed a brush pass. But no, she was as alert as ever, her eye's tracking the movements of several men and women he'd marked for SVR counter intelligence. "Offering a way in, are you? Considering it seems you aren't giving me much of a choice, I'll have to accept."

Damn, but he hated getting played like this.

"Good. This time, you will be prepared. The private charter isn't the best, but it will supply you with more than enough for your trip to the United States. And who knows? Maybe some more murder might put your little pushka at ease, to have her old ghosts buried a bit deeper down. I'm sure both of us know how that feels." One of the operatives that Lilya was tracking strayed closer to the pair, surreptitiously dropping a leather-bound notebook on a nearby row of unoccupied seats. "Oh, and Mordechai?"

"Da, Klara?" The old man grumbled as he eyed off the notebook.

"Sparrow School was disgusting business. I would know, I was part of those who made it what it was. But you, of all people, should know people have done much worse for a lot less. And some have been given medals for it. Do give Zhlutkov my regards, and a farewell that befits him. I hear Los Angeles is beautiful this time of year."

Mordechai didn't bother replying, simply dunking the phone into the nearest cup of coffee he could find. Lilya gave the old agent a grin at that, knowing that Klara would have just suffered a particularly ear splitting screech as the electronics died.

"New plan." He grumbled to her then, picking up their bags and leaving the line as more agents filled the terminal. "We're going overland to France now, then to America." Lilya nodded casually, even as she loosened the punch knife she was keeping up her sleeve. Her eyes flickered about, marking targets and threats as they moved away. The shifting crowd was making it hard, but she'd shaken off her previous lethargy and was keenly aware, just as her handlers had taught her all those years ago. "They've got the exits covered, no reason to believe they haven't got teams outside with heavier weapon just waiting to block or assault."

Mordechai nodded imperceptibly. "Da, would be too messy to leave that way. Come, loading docks for the food court should still be pretty clear, if we can slip the team there." They moved through the airport press as discreetly as they could, the spetznaz teams trying to do the same. Nobody had drawn a gun yet, thankfully, the ensuing panic if a firefight broke out would have been disaster, not to mention public as hell, Mordechai thanking whoever was listening that these operatives were showing such restraint as he swept the leather book of the chairs as he passed. In his day, they simply would have stormed in, tranquilized them, then stormed right back out. Different times, he guessed. A sudden motion in front of them drew his eye, some over eager agent trying to cut them off.

"Hold, Gorshkov! You know we have this place surrounded!" Mordechai sighed and nodded, then quickly tossed his bag at the man, who simply reacted and caught it. He didn't see Lilya follow up with a blow to the plexus, then a vicious kick to the inside of his knee that snapped it like a twig. The man was caught between crying out and being short of breath, the resulting sound incredibly painful to hear as he choked for air. The people around them, stood back in shock and surprise at the sudden violence, but Mordechai and Lilya were past it before anyone could react. Still the action was enough to set off their tail, and operatives started to close in on them, trying to sack them in as the fascists had done to the Red Army so often in the great patriotic war. It was a common enough tactic, and one which Mord was familiar enough with getting out of, pointing Lilya toward one of the various little food stores, one of those vile McDonalds. The manager tried to stammer out some sort of warning as they pushed through the door into it, but Lilya just gave him a withering look that shut him up as Mord took a can of something and tossed it into the lit fryers, the shoved the manager and the other staff in front of them putting on his sternest face and shouting "State Security, move!" They moved quickly enough, the sight of the now armed men behind the pair probably helping. One slid over the counter, pointing a Stetchkin at Lilya's back while another pair shoved through the door and added their own guns to the mix. Thankfully, the tin of beans that Mordechai has tossed into the lit, steaming hot fryers was right next to them, and as the steam of the sauce cooking away filled and filled the can, it suffered a sudden, catastrophic failure.

Put simply, it exploded and sprayed all three men with a healthy coating of boiling oil. Excruciatingly painful, and intensely distracting.

They were in the hallways behind the main facade of the airport as the men behind screamed in agony, the cyborg slamming the door then propping a loading trolley between it and the near wall to jam it shut. "We should move, they won't take kindly to that." She said cautiously, her hands twitching for want of a weapon, even a simple blade. Mordechai nodded and led the way, picking up the pace to a slow run. They reached the loading docks soon enough, but so had Spetznaz.
"There they are!" These men were armed with Bizon submachine guns, and it appeared as though they had orders to kill, given the way they very suddenly sprayed the pair with burst of fire from twenty meters away. Mordechai dove to one side as bullets ripped through the air, one catching him in the calf as he rolled behind a delivery van, thankfully ricocheting off bone but still taking a scoop out of the muscle. Lilya got a burst to the chest, but the discrete vest that she and Mord always wore took the brunt, as she swirled away and filled her hands with a fire extinguisher, turning to throw it full force at the man who had shot at her, catching him in the head with enough force to shatter his skull, leaving a lethally deep indentation where it struck. The other three men focused on her as she ducked behind a crate, pinning her with the occasional shot. That let Mordechai crawl around the van and surprise them, wrapping one massive paw of a hand around one gunman and toss him at another, while Lilya slithered over the top of the crate and slammed her knee into the last mans temple with a leap.
They both were panting a little after this confrontation, a telling sign that they'd gotten too comfortable. Lilya took a Bizon for herself, tossing another to Mordechai as she rummaged through pockets for a set of keys she quickly found to belong to an official FSB Mercedes. They left the flags in, but Gorshkov disabled the Lowjack system on it, resolving to dump it at a chop shop he knew of on the border with Poland.

~~~

"So what did the bitch have to say?"

Mord gave a glance to Lilya, who was laying down in the back seat. They'd managed to slip away from the airport and find their way onto the main highway towards St. Petersburg hours ago now, and now they simply whiled away the drive silently, wrapped up in their own thoughts.
"Appears that a Sparrow School man named Zhluktov has been plying his trade with the Americans. It seems the factions in the ministry of defense couldn't officially have him killed, so they want to use us. Our goals are aligned for the moment, apparently."

The girl snorted. "And so they offered us a better way into the States, hmm? Jackals. Giving us a vodka in one hand and a pistol in the other to get our attention." She seemed her old self, the old man figured as he watched her in the rear view mirror. Dammit, but he hoped Klara didn't have that good a read on Lilya. That would make things . . . complicated.

"What do you think, pushka?" He asked quietly.

"We take the deal, but the moment we're done we take to the wind, obviously. Should we bag another bird, even better." And if we can find Petchenkov. . . the thought made her burn. She remembered the needles, drilling through her skull.

She hadn't been anesthetized. Tainted the process apparently.

Oh, but how she burned to make Petchenkov to feel that pain.

Soon. . . . soon.

March 22nd, 2011

"So, its like whoooa and right out of fuckin nowhere, this guy shits himself as Gene sends his car flying down the alley and it smashes into the wall. So, yeah... then we slapped cuffs on him and threw him into the backup vehicle and got the fuck out of there." Kris paused to dig into the plate of freshly-made pasta before her. It was her second serving.

"She enjoys the food," Elise remarked, looking to Amsel. The two fratelli were enjoying an otherwise quiet dinner at the safehouse, isolated from most of their operations due to its location in Bradbury. It was a "disconnected" safehouse, meaning it was not connected to any of the Branch technology and was not kept in any records. An agent was simply given a key and an address to memorize. They were typically used for field operatives that needed to get away to some place in the occasion of an internal leak, but they also made for a relatively private location for an intimate evening, too.

"The food is quite good," Gene remarked earnestly, taking a sip of the wine he had been provided. "The sauce isn't overpowering. I find it interesting you went out of your way to use genuine Parmigiano Reggiano."

"I see," Elise responded. "John did most of the work since I was out all day. He's quite a bit more skilled than you would think."

To his credit, the man just shrugged. "Tastes better that way, plus you've got all those health benefits. Sometimes you want to add a new twist to a dish, other times the original recipe is quite nice. Though from what I understand what we can import is aged for less than the domestic products."

Gene nodded sagely. "That depends on who you ask. Some 'experts' claim that two years is a minimum for aging, or three. I have to ask, you were raised in a German family. Why the fascination with Italian foods?"

Amsel glanced at Elise as if asking for permission. She smiled knowingly, so he turned back to Gene. "We spent quite a bit of time in Rome, actually. Though you could say we're just reflective of the US in general. Very multi-cultural."

"I see... How did you two end up in this line of work?"

"I was in the FBI for a few years," Amsel responded.

Gene raised a brow. "Only a few years?"

"Yep." It was a polite hint that the topic wasn't open to elaboration or discussion, but Amsel did the other man a favor and subtlety changed topics. "During some cross-training, I met Marcus in Italy. When I was jobless, he contacted me about the Branch." That much was honest and plain.

The Italian took another sip, perhaps consolidating his thoughts. "I used to work for Camorra. In fact, for most of my life. My father was afflicted with cancer, so I had to work hard to support his medical expenses. Camorra paid exceptionally well." The looks from his hosts made it clear that they knew exactly what working for an Italian crime family entailed, but they were polite enough to remain attentive. "The Italian counterpart of the Branch eventually conducted a sting against the family and captured me. Since I was not a Padania, they did not torture me as much, or choose to execute me."

Amsel stared at him intently, while Elise feigned disinterest. Luce and Kris were silent now, and staring. However, Gene had never been a man who was easily embarrassed or intimidated, so he continued. "I was in captivity for... I would say a year before they transferred me here. You could say that I'm more of a man with a cyborg to watch over me rather than an actual handler."

"Wait what?" Kris blurted out.

"Wow." Amsel said finally. "You're surprisingly candid about all this."

Gene nodded. "Camorra taught me that a professional has no need for shame."

They sat there in contemplative silence for some time before Amsel's phone rung, ending the awkward situation. He answered on the second ring. "Amsel. Nigel? Where? ... Right. Give me ten." Luce stood at the same time as the handler, but he waved it off nonchalantly. "Have your kit prepped by three hours from now. You can have fun with Kris for the time being." Elise followed the man to the door, and they exchanged a few hushed words before she kissed him on the cheek, and Amsel was on his way.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Nigel was absentmindedly walking along the street, seemingly hypnotized by his phone in the dim light of streetlamps. It was only a matter of time before he ran headlong into another hapless pedestrian, nearly throwing him to the ground as the paper bag he carried tore and spilled its contents onto the street. "Shit."

"Cashing in those coupons?" the stranger asked.

"Better than tomorrow," Nigel responded. With the counter-sign confirmed, the other man knelt to help him pick up the spilled groceries. They placed the variety of canned goods in what remained of the bag. The other man pocketed a plastic baggie with some folded papers within. Moments later, he stood up and continued on his way. Nigel noticed moments after the other man left that he had also deposited a small parcel - not outlined in the orders.

The field agent hadn't gotten a good look at the other man, but he knew that was 'Amsel.' He wanted to ask what had happened during the raid on the safehouse earlier, but it wasn't the time to ask. Ever since that incident and the violence following. Rehab Branch regs had tightened up significantly, communication often going back to old-fashioned dead drops and face-to-face exchanges for the sake of security.

But even as he disappeared back into the crowds in downtown, Nigel had a bad case of the chills. All was not going well these days, and the intelligence field was seeming like a less attractive option by the day. It unnerved him enough that he ducked into a nearby restaurant, asked where their bathroom was, and emerged minutes later in a different outfit.

Some work with one of those make-up kits they issued field agents, a quick shave and ditching his sweater for the t-shirt he wore underneath made Nigel look much less like a grizzled Czech veteran of the Cold War, and more like any other person in Los Angeles. He trashed the sweater and the groceries before leaving for his apartment, feeling much relieved.

It was then that he remembered the parcel. Nigel gingerly cut open the package and found a mass of molded plastic. After a moment, it became apparent it was a kydex holster with a leather backer. There was a tag attached.

"You looked uncomfortable with the holster you had on. -Katrina." Suddenly, all the tension was lifted, and Nigel let himself laugh. Maybe he would try wearing a gun a bit more often.

March 22nd, 2011, 23:30
"So who is this guy?"

"Luce'll text you as we're on the way. Just get prepped as fast as you can. Remember, Roanoke, Virginia."

"You know this isn't my assigned job, right?"

Amsel shrugged. "Was it ever that simple in Camorra?"

"Point." Gene rubbed his scalp. "Life never is that easy."

The handler shouldered his bag and proceeded out the door, Luce in tow. A moment later the noise of the BMW coming to life was apparent, and then they were quickly on their way toward LAX.

"Kris."

"Sup?"

Gene sounded very tired. "Get your gear together. We need to meet up with this guy. We leave in an hour."

The girl shrugged. "Sitting around was boring anyway. I'm game." She removed her jacket and donned the leather shoulder holster they had found earlier, securing one of her Smiths on each side. Kris checked her spare ammo and knife were still in place, then tossed on the jacket again. Gene checked some last-minute details on a nearby computer. To his surprise, the booking was for three persons instead of two.

"John asked me to watch over you two," Elise explained. She was already dressed for travel, dressed in the colors and cuts of business casual with nothing extra but a small travel bag. She walked over to the door, handing a cheap prepaid cell to Kris. "He asked me to give you that, as well."

As they started up the Crown Vic and set the GPS for "El Monte Airport," Gene considered how little attention he had paid to the woman. Most relationships in this field weren't generally job-related, simply due to how impractical it was to keep everything hidden. And while Elise was more than attractive enough to explain an impulsive relationship on Amsel's part, it didn't explain why he would also give so much responsibility to her. Love wasn't that powerful, he knew. She had to be a veteran in the field, too - she carried herself like one, paid attention, never forgot a trick. Gene took a glance in the mirror. Elise stared back cooly. He quickly tore his eyes away and kept them on the road.

That woman was razor sharp. The entire drive, Gene felt like her eyes were digging into the back of his skull, pulling apart this thoughts. It was unnerving as hell.

At least Kris seemed to get along with her, aside from one rather obtuse comment about the other woman's breasts.

There was finally some welcome respite when Kris read out the texts that Luce was sending her way.

"Uhh lesse... here's the specific address you wanted, around the Blue Ridge Mountains or something. She says its a guarded domicile or something like that. They found out checking with Doctor Kostas up in Ft. Detrick. That's where 'Angel' had an information tag, so... they won't know we're coming? Well, that's fucking stupid."

"Kris..."

"Okay okay, anyway. The guy is named Jack Keaton and is some kinda Green Beret bad ninja-motherfucker who killed entire legions of terrorists or some shit during the Cold War. Lucy says he did counter-insurgency shooting the NVA across the Cambodian border or something. Woop-dee-do! What's the big deal with being an old guy anyway?"

Elise turned to Kris, her eyes glimmering with amusement. "The old ones have been doing their job right. They've been around the block a few times."

"All of that is true," Gene remarked solemnly. "And Kris, I would appreciate if you were a bit more discreet about classified information." If the man had hair, he would be greying at an accelerated rate.

Kris rolled her eyes and waved off the comment. "Okay, whatever. So he's old and badass and has a star in the at Langley or some shit-"

"Hm?" Elise sat up straighter, looking at Kris's phone.

"I mean, what gives? It's not like he's some su-"

"Kris! Shut up for a second, Christ!" Gene fumed. "A star at the CIA is a really big deal, do you understand that?"

"Correct." Elise added quietly. "Only agents killed in the line of duty whose names cannot be disclosed by the US Government have stars at Langley's wall."

"Uhh... so what does that mean?"

The woman closed her eyes for a moment and considered her next words carefully. "We're privy to some very sensitive information right now. The first hint should have been those disposable phones. Everything we've heard should tell us that this man is buried deep, and for good reason. Can you imagine how many people want him dead?" Elise stared out the window. It was beginning to rain, and their surroundings were swallowed up by the murky darkness.

What was Amsel trying to do?
—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
March 23rd, 2011, 12:13

Amsel had just stepped out of the terminal when a vaguely familiar woman stepped near. She was pale, and there was a hard set to her features. Her eyes were an icy blue that contrasted with the dull greens and tans that comprised her outfit. "Farin."

"Amsel. Still alive, hm? And who's this 'ere?"

Luce waved at Farin, smiling pleasantly.

"Luce. Told you about her, right?"

Farin stared at the other girl. "What kind've people are you bringing to a shitty place like this, hm?" She didn't sound cruel - almost pitying, it seemed.

"She's good with a rifle, Farin. Real good. You'll just have to take my word on this. So, what do you have for me?" Farin waved the two over to a nearby hatchback. She only started speaking when they were well out of the boundaries of the airport.

"Where to start..." Luce would stare curiously whenever Farin spoke, having a bit of trouble deciphering her accent at times. She quickly noticed the scrutiny and shrugged. "Hard of hearing, or is it the accent?" She said the last word like ack-sent. "So we've got a load of American blokes running their own security gig at the same time as ours. Shit happens, some of the tech during the medical expo goes missing, and the scrutiny is on BSD. It could help you out, and hopefully our own outfit, too."

Amsel looked thoughtful. "Stolen medical technology, huh? And you suspect it could be related to the branch?"

"If some group is stealing from a convention as big as that, why not steal the most expensive stuff they can, eh?" The woman continued stoically. "Vic thinks they're running some arms dealing locally, too."

"Thinks? A little bit hard to get a foreign asset involved out of a hunch, Farin."

"Yep. S'why we're going camping tonight. Do you like the outdoors, Lucinda?"

Amsel looked at Luce. She cocked her head in confusion and shrugged. "Sure," he answered.

((Teyr25))
Ken Hayashi stared out of a window dispassionately as Michael O’Flynn screamed in agony in the next room down the hall. In contrast, his cyborg paced agitatedly about the room.

“Ken, this isn’t right.” Lyn stopped and looked at her handler pleadingly. “If he’s a criminal, lock him up or shoot him for God’s sake.”

Hayashi sighed resignedly. “We’ve been over this already Lyn. This isn’t our concern. If the Brits want to squeeze him for intel, we don’t get a say.” He looked down at the watch on his wrist. “Besides, it’s nothing the Branch doesn’t do at home.”

“But-“ The cyborg trailed off as a pair of British troopers stepped into the room.

“Excuse me sir, but they’re waiting for you.”

Ken nodded wearily and waved the pair out. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

Lyn looked at him in something approaching horror. “You?”

“I worked for Langley, remember that? I had to do some wet work while I was there.” The handler paused to gather up his jacket. “MI6 figures that might be useful.”

His cyborg stepped in front of him, blocking the door. “I won’t let you do that Ken. We’re better than that.”

Ken looked straight through her. “Step aside.”

“No.”

“Step aside,” he repeated, this time an officer’s snap in his voice. “That’s an order.”

Lynette fought it, her knees trembling erratically as she tried to resist her subconscious will to obey. But badly conditioned or not, conditioned she was. The cyborg collapsed in a heap as she retched and vomited over the tile floor. “Fuck,” she ground out hoarsely.

Her handler stepped over her, avoiding her weak grab at his leg. He stopped in the doorway. “We’re not the ‘good guys’ Lyn. We’re not heroes either. Just a group of enforcers for the gang that’s the government.” And with that parting line, he closed the door, leaving Lynette to cry on the floor in helpless rage.

Which she did.
----------------------
Ken looked down at the bloody meat that had once been one Michael O’Flynn with distaste. “He didn’t know anything worth knowing after all.”

“Or he was more afraid of what the IRA would do to him than what we were doing to him.” a tall, vaguely handsome man in an RAF uniform remarked. He gestured toward the corpse. “Pity that. Who knew that poor Mr. O’Flynn would suffer a tragic boating accident in the Thames while on business in London?”

Ken looked back up at the man who had spoken. Jerome Smith was a soft-spoken representative from MI6 in charge of disappearing people that the government wanted disappeared.

“I’ll leave this business to you then Jerome,” he said courteously, dipping his head in a nod. “I’ll be in touch about the details for our next job.”

“Naturally,” the British cleaner chuckled amiably. “Try to keep the next few in one piece, would you?” he asked, looking about the interrogation cell. “Makes it easier that way.”

Ken smiled grimly as he turned and walked back out into the now dark hallway… only to run into the team’s British liaison.

“Oh. Ms. Lee. How nice to see you,” he lied glibly as he transitioned smoothly to a professional smile. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, you can Mr. Hayashi,” the British agent said coldly. “Your... charge has stolen an agency car and driven it most of the way to Southampton.”

Ken ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation. After checking the ones that came away in his hand for signs of grey, he answered. “I sent her there. Following a new lead you know.”

The woman sent him a fisheyed glare. “With a stolen car?”

Ken could feel his smile fixing on his face. “Not stolen. Requisitioned with approval. Ask Marcus about the details.” He sent his boss a silent apology for the hell he was sending his way.

Catherine stabbed a finger into his chest. “Believe me. I will.”

As she stomped away in high dudgeon, Ken turned back down the steps to his own car. As he reached it, he opened the glove box and pulled out a phone that he had studiously not mentioned palming off of the late O’Flynn while transporting him to London. He had cracked the phone last night at the Agency’s London safehouse, and he intended to get a good look at the contents.

Within a few minutes of searching through the menu, he tossed the phone back in the compartment, ran around to the driver’s side and threw the car into gear. He placed a call as he drove.

“Jerome. I need a favor.”

Raskol sat still, eyes closed for the first time in a while.

He was surrounded by people, but they didn't pose any threat to him here. They had all been disarmed at the checkpoint onto the plane, and he had slipped one of his throwaway polymer knives past the shmucks guarding the American airport. Up here in the air, he was relatively safe. Except from, say missiles, someone unexpectedly with a gun, or the pilots falling asleep in their locked cabin, but everything has its risks.

And this was a risk he was willing to take. Mostly because he knew that, in an undetermined amount of time while he was still on the plane, he would get a call in a phone that was placed in the purse of the old lady sitting next to him by a very cognito opperative from his home state. Of course, he had already picked the phone, and was ignoring it. For now.

He just needed to get some rest for once...

-------------------------

The phone buzzed and shook.

Grigori woke with a jerk, pawing for the phone in his pocket. He flicked it open and immediately said, "Follow the Americans, da."

There was a pause on the other end. "Yes... I see you haven't lost your touch."
"I'm flattered, Asya. What exactly am I supposed to be doing to them? Last call I got from the organization ordered me to 'follow and assist'. Don't you have places for me to be killing our enemies? I thought the Yanks were our enemies."

She sighed. "Last I heard you were killing plenty of Americans in public. Almost killing an innocent old man in the process. You know this isn't how we should be working, and that is what the organization wants, so that is what I will order. Keep their heads out of high water, and we all will be better for it."

"Alright, yes, I will follow orders. You know I have things to do though, right?" Raskol was impatient. Something within him always boiled when "state business" interfered with his objectives.

Asya continued. "Just try not to cause too much trouble in Africa, as hard as that may seem. I know you think it's a playground, but try to be more discrete, and don't start any unneeded bloodbaths. Your 'quest' can wait while you're still with us. You only have a little bit of time before we cut your leash for good, Grig."

Raskol wheezed out his farewell, "Da. Understood." And snaped the phone shut.

He shut his eyes again, waiting for the plane to land. Thoughts running through his head. Reasons for his existence.

"Suki... Nechistjje suki..."

-----------------------------

"Africa." Raskol thought. "My favorite playground...." He snickered, the people next to him shied away from the unstable-seeming man.

He waded through the airport in the middle of Cape Town. His first objective was... Get some money. Raskol was broke from buying the ticket for his impromptu trip. He was unsure wether he was going to stay true to his promise not to stir shit up, but he knew one thing. He was going to get armed and ready to move today.

Grigori stepped out into the streets of the grimy city, and started walking. He knew of a bar down town where some local scum hangs out, he had done 'state business' there on his last trip to the city. If there was anyone he wouldn't mind taking things from in this town, it would be them.

A short walk through the maze of people and buildings and he was almost threre. He passed by more than a few groups of contractors on the way. Something big was going on in this little backwater, but he hadn't the slightest clue as to what. His intel on the area was more barren that it had ever been. Despite that, he had to get ready to help his comrades in arms. Even if they were going to be drawing attention from all the firepower toting Yanks that were strolling about like they owned this part of the world, too.

Raskol stomped through the door of the bar, 'Die Pis Gat'. He pushed past two large, unsavory-looking South African men who were obviously armed and seemed to find the little
Russian man shoving though them rather offensive, which he completely ignored for the time being.

Shimying up to the bar, he pulled out his last few bucks and ordered a beer. He promptly turned and smashed the bottle over the head of one of the men glaring at him. The entire bar errupted in fist fights, with chairs and bottle being employed as weapons as well. The less roudy folk stampeded out of the bar as the fighting began, most of them making it safely through the flailing arms and

Raskol quickly kneed the other armed man in the gut, then the in face and brought a haymaker down on the back of his head. With both of the dangerous folk in the crowd incappacitated,
Grigori figured he would practice his Systema. He dove into the middle of the fight, parrying and twisting, going from an uppercut to a sweeping kick followed by a flip over another brawler's back just to bring a foot down onto the man infront of him.

He was snatched from behind by one of the fighters while two more approached over the pile of unconscious meat towards him.

Raskol waited for the first man to get close enough and kicked off of his chest, sending him, the attacker, and the grappler all hurdling to the ground. A quick elbow to the side of the head finished the man Raskol was atop off, but then the last standing man was atop him.

After recieving two or three fists to the face, Raskol kicked through his attacker's assault and reared up, springing into the man's head feet first.

He stood up and saw the last man wailing and writhing on the ground. Raskol kicked him in the head to shut him up. He walked behind the bar and found the bartender cowering.

"You didn't see anything, Friend." Raskol punched the man in the face, knocking him out cold.

Grigori looked around the room. Several wallets and at least two shooters and some knives, prime for the taking. Quite a catch for just arriving.

"What kind of trouble I can stir up to help the American tovareschi..." He thought the himself as he rifled through pockets in search of money and change. "Perhaps I can go interrupt some shady merc deals... Seems to be too many of them. The Motherland will not want these men to become too powerful, I think." A couple walked in. Raskol looked up. "Hello." They yelled, turned around and ran out the door.

"Unfriendly bastards..." He grumbled as he got around to the two gun bearing men. A Tokarev and a Glock 19, a spare mag each, a few pockets knives, a combat knife and about 5200 Rand were his catches today. Not bad considering how barren the place was on his last visit.

"I wonder if they have American pizza in this town..." He pondered out loud as he walked out of the building in search of weapons, armor and some food.

Farin suddenly held up a closed fist, and then promptly lowered herself into the brush, the two figures behind her following suit. They were lightly-equipped; three day packs, hunting rifles and ammo. Their tan clothing hid them well in the dry brush of the African landscape, but they took no risks. Even if they were investigating a PMC already under considerable suspicion, giving Eagle Claw public reason for paranoia was not a good idea.

What that meant in that case was crawling through several kilometers of brushland to reach the secluded base. There had been a few phone calls that indicated they had a lead, and immediately after they loaded into a truck and headed for the wilderness. Electronic surveillance wasn't so trivially easy as it was in the US, though none of the three seemed overly inconvenienced. To Farin, it seemed like the entire thing was just a walk in the woods, despite being laden down with a burgeoning pack. Luce was glad they weren't kitted out with body armor and helmets like usual - the woman had insisted civilian clothing would attract a hell of a lot less attention. Still, it felt weird to be out on an op with so little in terms of equipment.

"Ey. Lucinda. Setup your rifle."

She nodded, then removed the wood-stocked rifle from her pack, flipping down the bipod legs. She double-checked the Killflash was still on the sight and peered through it. The cyborg deftly cycled the weapon and applied the safety before flashing Farin a thumbs-up. Amsel removed a large spotting scope from his pack and setup beside her. He exhaled, and the three of them were so still they might as well have been scenery. You didn't survive in this line of work by being impatient or twitchy. Compared to most of their gigs, it felt like a picnic to Luce. A mild breeze that wouldn't throw a shot, warm sun, and multiple egress routes. Not having to wear body armor was nice, too.

About an hour in, Luce realized her gaze was starting to wander toward their guide.

Sometimes you met some pretty people on the job, or pretty people like Elise. But she wasn't really like that - you couldn't call her beautiful in the conventional sense. Farin wore a grimace constantly, and it made her seem uglier than she probably was. Luce noticed those little creases that formed with age and stress - which were strange on someone who didn't look much older than her. She didn't put too much effort into looking nice - her dirty blond hair was tied in a neat pony tail that was uniform, just like her drab cargos and a battered windbreaker over a thermal shirt. She dressed and acted like it was just a hike in the wilderness and she wasn't worth paying attention to.

Maybe that was what made Luce curious. Farin approached everything with the same bored sense of familiarity. It seemed like a very easy way to live.

It sounded more productive than yoga, too.

Luce found herself suddenly locking stares with Farin, the other girl's icy gaze looking upon her dispassionately. She looked away immediately with a shiver, signing the letters for "sorry" instinctively.

"Try to pay attention, hm?"

The cyborg took the advice. She started to size up the compound laid in front of them. There were lots of hescoes that were about shoulder-height for protection from enemy fire, but their elevation made it easy to see right into the compound. Using the barriers as a known height, she checked the range as one-thousand thirty seven meters to the nearest point in the encampment, marked by a parked SUV. A bit of a long shot, but workable with this sort of mild breeze. No reason to waste her energy before they had to do the real work, though.

Luce produced an energy bar and peeled away the brown wrapper. She took a small bite from it, now peering through her spotting scope. After a moment's though, she offered one to Farin.

"What's that?"

"Clif Bar," Amsel replied.

Luce sunk lower in the grass in embarrassment.. Were they really paying that much attention to her?

Wow, riveting und entertaining stories! *whew* Finally made time to read and catch up all the contributions in this thread.

March 23rd, 2011, 00:00

"Careful, careful..."

Nathan Gilbert concentrated furiously, making minute adjustments on a 2-channel remote control as he guided a mini R/C helicopter to a landing pad constructed in a cubicle inside SWA Section 2's Technology Department building. For something that had cost but thirty Euro, the damn thing was tricky to fly, and it had taken longer than usual for him to master flying the bugger. The only noise in the room now as he concentrated was the furious whir of the tiny helo's electric motor as he took pains to set it down lightly and cleanly.

Suddenly, his pocket vibrated, and the lapse in concentration it caused made him let go of the sticks. The helicopter quickly plummeted to the floor, bouncing off the helipad and into a wastebin as his smartphone began playing the Codec ringtone from the Metal Gear Solid series with ever-increasing volume.

"Dammit."

Nate put down the remote controller and fished out his phone. The caller ID simply said the letters 'RB' and he sighed. "This better be important."

He tapped Accept Call on the touchscreen and held the iPhone to his ear.

"City Morgue, you stab 'em, we slab 'em."

"This is Reyes," a woman started flatly. "Check your mailbox. Two plane tickets and a thumb drive with your briefing. I already asked your supervisors."

"Straight to the point as usual, Dominica," Nate answered. "Can I bring friends along if I see fit?"

There was a pause and the rapid-fire clicking of a keyboard. "Run them by me at least three hours before they're in country."

"Where is 'In Country' this time, anyway?"

"Check the briefing." She hung up.

"Wonderful."

Nathan fished his helicopter out of the wastebin and proceeded out of the tech department to his designated quarters. As he opened the door to his room and set his toy down on his desk, he saw the large DHL envelope carelessly taped to his door. Tearing it loose, he opened the envelope and poured its contents onto his desk before inserting the thumb drive into a USB slot on his laptop. Opening an encrypted file on the drive and entering a PIN, he started scrolling as his eyes quickly took in the details.

"Shit. Not those assholes again. South Africa, huh? Looks like I'll need a certain old Kiwi to help me."

Nathan opened up Gmail and fired off a quick message to Director Lorenzo:

Chief, need to borrow the Spriggs Fratello for an op. Erina and I are heading to South Africa, need Marcus since he knows the area and used to work for EO. Johanneke can provide extra muscle. Orders from Langley to go and help out the American Branch.

-Nate

Nathan didn't wait long for a reply:

When you joined us, I understood this was supposed to be a cross-training mission. But since you helped out with the Philippines mission and already worked with them there, I'll let you borrow them since they haven't been assigned to anything yet. Get it done quickly, please.

-Lorenzo

"Sweet. Now for a few more calls."

Nathan produced his iPhone again and dialed another contact. "Jennifer? Nate. I need your company's logistical wizardry..."

March 24th, 2011, 0900

As he stepped off the boarding stairs onto the tarmac at Cape Town International Airport, Nate donned a pair of Oakley sunglasses, still somewhat blindsided by the South African heat. Deplaning behind him was Erina, followed by Marcus Spriggs and his cyborg Johanneke.

"Haven't been 'ere in a while," Marcus commented as he adjusted the shoulder strap of his duffel bag. "So, where do we go get our gear?"

"Jennifer said she'd have someone bring us over to their hangar here..." replied Nathan, scanning around. "Ah."

Nathan spotted a spiky-haired man wearing aviatores over a bored expression and clad in some kind of generic tan-colored military-esque uniform with a sign that read 'Nathan Gilbert c/o Warhawk Military Aviation.' The young American started off toward him, the rest of his party in tow.

"Hey man, I'm Nathan Gilbert. Jennifer send you out here?" Nathan asked as soon as he was within speaking distance.

"Yeah. I'm Dennis, by the way," answered the Warhawk rep, extending his hand in greeting. His accent sounded local. "Boss said you four was gonna need a bird to get you to Jo'burg along with all your gear. Follow me, it's just a short ride to our hangar."

The five of them piled into a Land Rover Defender parked nearby, and Dennis whisked them off to a part of the airport where Warhawk Military Aviation had rented out hangar space for their operations. They soon arrived at a hangar well away from the main terminal all the way at the edge of the airport, where more BDU and flight suit-clad Warhawk personnel were milling about several fixed wing aircraft and helicopters, some armed, others, not. The Defender pulled up next to a BAe 146 short-haul aircraft. Nearby, a crewmember was loading several hard cases of varying size and shape into the cargo hold.

Dennis spoke as they disembarked from the Landie. "It's only an hour more to Jo'burg from here. There'll be a Range Rover waiting to take you guys to the hotel where some of our personnel are staying."

"Wow, Jennifer thought of everything. Didn't she?" Nate replied, impressed by the lengths his Australian colleague had gone to.

"Yeah, she said she'd like you to see about kicking more CIA business our way," Dennis answered with a grin.

"I'll see what I can do, but no promises."
-----------
Luce shifted the rifle bag onto her back, helping Farin climb out of the ditch and onto the road. Their vehicle was a short distance away, but as they proceeded toward it, the girl had a strange sense of deja-vu. Her suspicions were confirmed with the sight of another vehicle beside their Landie. She jerked her head at Amsel, then the newcomers. He didn't make any motions to respond, but shifted his center of balance almost imperceptibly, ready to spring to cover at a moment's notice.

Farin caught the non-verbal signs and brushed her fingers over the handgun on her side. They would at least be ready.

"Oh, put down your guns, we're friendly!" said a young, female, and American voice. "Also, I have a drone which we've been looking for you guys with. Come on."

"CIA?" Farin muttered.

"Yep." The handler kept his hands cleanly away from his weapons as he continued walking forward. He scanned for familiar faces.

"Yo, Amsel," greeted Nathan with a casual wave.

Some palpable tension was lifted from the three. Amsel raised a hand in greeting. "Nate. Been enjoying your cushy desk job?" he remarked sardonically. The CIA people were lightly dressed for the weather, but the openly worn web gear did telegraph they weren't too familiar with the region's dos and don'ts.

"No one told you?" Nate asked. "I'm cross-training with the Italian Branch, these two with me and Erina are from there as my backup. I'd hardly call it 'cushy'."

"Cushy," Amsel ribbed. He shook hands with the other agent and waved to his two companions. "That's miss Rovak of BSD, and my cyborg Luce."

"Pleased to meet you," replied Nathan. "The girl here with the Predator controls and the eyepiece is my cyborg partner, Erina. My colleagues with me are from the Social Welfare Agency, Marcus Spriggs and his cyborg Johanneke. Guys, you can come out now."

"Aw, Mister Gilbert! Ruined the surprise!"

From the darkness of the bush materialized a tall-ish teenaged blonde girl wearing a fully-loaded chest rig holding a Galil ARM with one hand as her three-point sling took up the rest of the slack, freeing up her other hand for what appeared to be a pair of throwing stars, or shuriken. She was followed by an even taller and larger Maori man with an AR-15-style battle rifle hanging loosely across his chest.

"Got a regular ninja-force five in your employ, hm?" Farin didn't wait for a response before walking over to their vehicle. "I know a pub where we can talk. Securely. Be in civies by the time we get there, please."

"That's easy enough. We're in our civvies under all this, so we'll just stash it in the boot," Marcus finally spoke, making his way to the Toyota Land Cruiser Nathan had rented.

"You heard Marcus, Erina. Time to give back control of the Pred."

"Maaaannnnnn."

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

The gathered agents were treated to a round of rather well-made microbrew. Farin, as the impromptu host waited for the initial round to be consumed before they proceeded into business. She eyed up the collected Americans and... Italians, Amsel had said? The two that looked the most like locals were apparently in the hire of an Italian agency. She had seen stranger things, but it did raise some interesting questions on the nature of that outfit. "Why don't you let 'em in on what we found Amsel?"

"Right. Not a whole lot."

"So Dominica called me up for..."

"Arms dealing, primary," Amsel explained. "Farin here is certain E.C. has been shifting weapons in small numbers, but her contacts say something big is coming up."

She nodded. "We're seeing armored vehicles, automatic weapons - everythin' you need to pay up the arse for to get around these parts."

"Prices went up since I was last here," Marcus commented. "Then again, I was last here in the nineties before EO cocked everything up."

"Haven't missed much, mate," she shrugged.

"Question?" said Nate. "What are Erina, myself, and Marcus and Johanneke needed here for, then? Why not just let the Feds know about something fishy going on at E.C. and have them raid the place?"

With that, Farin looked to Amsel.

"First rule of how the Branch, and from my understanding... the SWA," he looked to the gathered operatives in turn. "Is to never make our presence known. We need something with far more precision and finesse to make sure E.C. doesn't catch on - reel in the bigger fish by leaving them alive." Amsel didn't buy all of what he had to tell them - sometimes his bosses, well intended as they were, could be a bit idealistic. Leaving entities alive didn't always work. Little problems became big ones. But he had to work with his orders the best he could given the circumstances.

"Some manifests I found on Torres in that last op hinted at some cartel dealings with our contractor friends here. Basically... We need to handle this minor international matter before it escalates into some serious shit at home. The Branch needs O.G.A. help now, because we won't have much of a choice later."

"Okay, so where do we come in?" Nathan asked.

"CIA assets get some more solid info on when this deal is going down... then release that information discreetly to the local militant groups. They'll help disrupt the deal and keep us from getting our hands too dirty. Marcus, Johanneke, myself, Luce and Farin can help swing the resulting fight in the right direction."

"So what happens to those armaments, then? They just conveniently disappear, unaccounted for, possibly to be used against any assets we have here?"

"My men have been itching for a fight," Farin said grimly. "If it drives those mercs out of country, we can do it. Counter-insurgency is our specialty." She exchanged knowing glances with Marcus.

As the others were speaking, a hooded man flitted into the building past some of the crowd and sat at the bar, pulled out a thick wad of bills and ordered a shot of vodka while glancing about from under his hood. As his eyes passed over the group he stood from his chair and made his way right out the way he came, but before he could pass the threshold he heard someone speak through the crowd in his direction.

Amsel wagered a guess. "How's the pizza in South Africa?"

From under the hood came a distinctly slavic chuckle. "Pretty fucking shitty, friend." The short, scruffy Russian removed his hood and pushed through the crowd over to the seated operatives. He continued, "They didn't even put any cheese on the damn thing."

"By coincidence, I'd like you all to meet 'Raskol' of the FSB." Amsel waved the bartender over, indicating for him to bring the entire bottle of vodka.

"Coincidence, da." The Russian man said cooly.

"A real live Russian spook. Cool," said Nathan. "What a coincidence. I'm from Langley, in the interest of full disclosure. So's my girl, Erina."

"Heya," said Erina with a wave. "Ochen priyatno."

Amsel interrupted with a cough. "Say, Raskol. If I give you ten grand, can you get prepped for a mission by tomorrow night?"

The short man chuckled again. "Halfway there. Give me the difference and da."

Farin rolled her eyes. "You're not even going to ask what we're doing?"

"My problem no is to know what we are killing. Just to kill it." He said plainly, and in horrible English.

The merc stared balefully at the Russian before relenting. "If you're confident, mate."

"Sweet! We get to fight armed bastards!" exclaimed Johanneke, pumping a fist.

"Easy, girl," said Marcus, squeezing her shoulder. "We're not there yet."

"Can I use my shuriken when we do get there?"

"Sure."

Amsel looked away from some signing with Luce to remark, "I can't guarantee we'll get that close to who we're fighting, but if it comes down to it, sure. I'll remind all of you that weapons shouldn't be traced back to any of us. Locally acquired or generic as hell."

"Glocks and AKs. Fine with me," said Farin.

"This is good. Anybody need a shooter? I have spare." Raskol said, plopping a beaten-up Glock 19 on the table. Farin stared at the piece, then shoved it across the table to Luce, who caught it and tucked it away. Raskol handed her a spare mag too.

"I'll dig up something from one of the safehouses, but Erina and I and Marcus and 'Nekke came into country with our stuff from Italy," said Nathan.

"That said, I'm pretty sure Predator-launched Hellfires are fair game, right?" Erina asked hopefully.

"No!" Nathan, Amsel and Farin exclaimed at the same time.

"Poop," Erina huffed in defeat.

"Those Cartel guys are such jobbers; a goddamn e-mail account without 2-step? Morons," Erina cackled as she read an intercepted e-mail with the time and location of the meeting between Eagle Claw and their arms-dealing contacts.

"Erina, if you're done having your nerd moment, could you please get the info we need to move on this?"

"Fine, Mister M.I.T."

Erina soon found the relevant information she needed in a pair of Gmail 'conversations' between the target Eagle Claw account and two others. Eagle Claw and an unnamed party had been bouncing cryptic lists of shipments back and forth for a while. Another email they highly suspected belonged to the cartel shortly after emailed Eagle Claw, referencing a pre-existing deal. The Eagle Claw account responded several hours later with a carefully-worded message with information from the arms dealer they had emailed earlier. However, it still had the coordinates and a meeting time in plain English, which Erina took down and typed into a text message before sending it out to their friends.

Code:

 3/26/12 0300 hours; -24.953923, 26.844563

"Done and sent."

"And now, distribute to the locals. Discreetly."

"Got it. I'll throw it up on that message board I saw."

Erina tossed up a similar message on a local BBS that required password access normally granted by paying a significant sum of Rand. The message, posted through several anonymizers, read:

Code:

 For anyone who wants it, there's a big deal going down at 0300 hours on the 26th. Merchandise is of Russian and Chinese make. Coordinates are: -24.953923, 26.844563. First come, first serve. Winner takes all.

Happy Hunting >:)

-The Laughing Ratel

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
March 25th, 2011, 1900

Farin gingerly tightened the last strap on Luce's chest rig and tucked the spare webbing away. "Looks good." The cyborg loaded a few boxes of 7mm ammunition for her bolt-action rifle, as well as some locally-acquired smoke grenades and F1 grenades that Raskol had brought in. Said Russian was passed out on a nearby couch holding a loaded PKM on his lap, finger dangerously on the trigger, and snoring, surrounded by empty pizza boxes and vodka bottles. He was covered from head to toe in a hand-me-down BDU and PKM ammo-belts, with a gasmask atop his head, despite the heat. He kept muttering things in Russian as he slept.

The mercenary shook her head. She couldn't bear to go that heavy after living in the region for this many years. They had been sitting in the small auto shop that functioned as their safehouse for the better part of a day, staying out of view even though the air conditioning had given out hours ago. She had little more than a slick plate carrier and her leg rig. All in all, that was three rifle mags, her handguns and a few grenades. She had to wear a jacket on top of that until they got to the AO. Luce had significantly more to deal with; a bolt gun, a PPSh-41 and ammo for all of it, plus a ceramic plate. When she got to holstering the Glock, a look of disgust fluttered across Luce's delicate features for a moment.

"Not a fan?"

Luce shook her head, though she did seem embarrassed that the other girl had noticed.

"At the end of the day its nothing more than a tool. Don't worry about it too much."

"Well, I don't mind what Mr. Gilbert managed to scrounge up for us," said Johanneke, loading drum magazines for an RPK. "I don't get to haul around machine guns very often."

"That's 'cause I don't want you thinking you're Rambo," said Marcus, putting Vektor R4 mags into his chest rig. "Hell, you already have an obsession with being a ninja."

Johanneke stuck her tongue out at her handler while locking a loaded drum into her RPK and racking the charging handle before flicking the safety on.

"Don't forget this." Farin casually placed the machine gun against a wall and pressed an RPG-7 into the younger girl's hands.

"Oh man! It's like Christmas!"

Marcus simply shook his head and continued loading mags, this time for a rather battered-looking 1911. Just then, Nathan and Erina entered the room, already equipped with the weaponry Nathan picked up at the Johannesburg safehouse. Like a mission they had done in the Philippines with the SWA, their weapons were more-or-less feasibly local. Erina was using a fairly aged UZI submachine gun this time, with a Browning Hi-Power as her sidearm. Nathan had an FN FAL Para that had been cut down into a shorter, more compact format, and like Erina, had a Browning as his pistol. Their magazines and grenades were secured in cheap, generic 'Crossdraw' vests worn over their discreet custom body armor that they always carried with them

Over in the corner, Luce made some last checks on magazines and loaded them into another chest rig Amsel was going to use later.

Farin eyed the girl working studiosly to make sure everything was perfect with the stuff. Why did she have to do that for Amsel, when the lazy bastard could have done it before he left? "Need help?"

Luce shook her head, but Farin walked over anyway. They went through the heavily-loaded chest rig to ensure everything was secure, but accessible. When all was done and prepped, the gear went into another duffel bag to be loaded into their transports - a pair of locally purchased pickups. They were going to leave for the site in just a few hours... which reminded her. "The hell is Amsel at?"

The cyborg found a piece of paper to jot some words down on. He went to the AO to get ready. He didn't want to attract too much attention with all his gear.

"Huh. Though he'd be too lazy to do a thing like that."



Usually.

"Yeah, can we get uhh, two double-doubles, one cheeseburger with no onion and two large cokes?" The large and loud-mouthed man presented one ham-like fist with the money and sat back impatiently, causing the Lexus to bounce crazily on its suspension.

The man beside him was much smaller, almost dwarf-like in comparison. "Man, I'm starving. Thanks for the extra burger," he laughed.

"It ain't for you, Kenny boy."

"Seriously, man? What the shit!" Kenneth said in mock horror. "Maybe if you bought less cheeseburgers you wouldn't have to drive your mother's car, Andre."

"What're you trying to say, little man?" The big Latino chuckled, his voice a rich baritone that made it hard to believe he was just some gang muscle on a food run. "I like this car, man. Those little sports cars you like have me scrunched up and shit." To be honest, he wasn't a bad guy when he wasn't on the job, either.

"Less space for cheeseburgers?" Kenneth grinned.

"Oh, you little naco fuck-"

The thinner man easily ducked the half-hearted punch, but before Andre could grab him by the collar and really put a fist in his face, the nervous-looking In-N-Out worker loomed behind the big man's shoulder. "Hey, Andre. Food - like, right behind you man."

"You live this time, gringo."

"Sure, sure. Gimme my burger." He accepted the greasy package and took a giant bite out of it. Andre pulled them out of the In-N-Out and they were off, heading down Foothill boulevard. "Hey, Andre. Aren't we supposed to be going the other way?"

"Yeah, says who?"

Kenneth took a sip of his coke to wash down the food. "Cole wanted us there, yeah?"

"Dude, since when do you care about what big man Cole says?"

"I don't, its just..." The man considered how to get Andre on his side. "I dunno man, its like we do have a duty to our blood brothers in this, you know?"

"Yeah, I guess so! But they're not going to kill us over bailing my bro."

"I guess so..."

"Man, you sound like a pig, with your duty shit and all that."

"Hah!" Kenneth didn't sound nervous. Or at least, he hoped he didn't.

Unfortunately, after a few more minutes of chomping on burgers and listening to overly-loud rap music, Andre begun to look thoughtful, as if he was seriously considering his passenger being a cop. He was a nice guy, loved his sister and mother. But once he had his mind set to something, he never deviated. It was why Andre was an enforcer for the Trinitarios cell.

Kenneth's drink went empty at about that time, the sound of slurping harsh even as Andre turned up the music in irritation. He almost jumped out of his skin as one massive hand landed on his shoulder. "Kenny. I think we should talk about something." All the man could think about was the six-inch bowie knife that the man had on his belt. He'd seen him stab a rabid dog to death with it.

"Yeah, sure... What do you want to talk about?"

Just then, the unmistakable wail of a police siren was audible.

"Fuck!" Andre slowed the Lexus, reaching for a pistol in his waistband.

"Dude, don't. It's just a traffic stop," Kenneth urged.

Andre stared at the other man before resting his hands on the wheel. He rolled down his window as the cop walked up. "Sup?" The big latino shrunk back in his seat as the cop drew his pistol.

"Step out of the car with your hands where I can see them!"

"Oh shit oh shit oh shit-" Kenneth wrenched open his door and stumbled out, only to fall right into the arms of a waiting cop. "Fuck." The two of them were thrown unceremoniously into separate squad cars, Andre taking three officers to wrestle in, even with handcuffs. Kenneth's own handlers were no gentler.

The door slammed, cutting off the noises of Andre struggling, and the man decided to speak. "Dude. I'm one of you, check my badge number seventeen-oh-"

"Yeah, I know. The LAPD asked us in the APD to help you out with that belligerent gangbanger," he said reassuringly. "Just hang tight until we're out of view."

He was Detective Austin Ross of the Los Angeles Police Department. Twenty-four years old and still a neophyte to the undercover gig with barely a year in. It was March 23rd, one week into the job. He was pretty sure he had the situation handled, but he wasn't exactly in a position to argue. Soon enough, the cruiser pulled over and his cuffs were removed. A cop tossed him the keys to Andre's RX350. Austin checked himself over, finding a small microphone hidden in his collar. "So, I was still wired up?"

"Yep." With that, the assisting cops left, leaving a shaken-up 'Kenneth' with the keys to what was essentially a stolen vehicle. And, of course, a very difficult job to do. He took a glance in the side-view mirror. Same tanned complexion, a bit more tired looking than he looked. His dark hair was tousled, and there was a cut across his left cheek from being thrown around. He combed his hair into something more presentable and flashed one of his cheesy grins. He was Kenneth Davis again.

March 19th, 2011, 19:03
The parking lot was dark when Austin emerged from the building. There was an unmarked van sitting just outside the building, and a few lone uniformed officers were taping away the scene. Despite that, the cop didn't look around or seem overly concerned as he stepped over to the battered yellow Mustang nearby. The Lexus was, for his purposes more or less gone, probably in someone else's hands by now. Austin sat down, shut the door and released the parking brake.

Then he looked around self-consciously. His fingers drummed nervously on the wheel. He stretched his legs one time more than necessary. When he put the key into the ignition and press down the clutch, Austin felt in control of his situation again for the first time in what had felt like weeks. It was a welcome feeling.

But something snapped, if just minutely and shifting into first gear assailed his ears with an awful grinding noise and a tortured roar as he laid into the gas. Tires screamed, an acrid smell wafted into the air before the Mustang shot out of its parking spot, shoving Austin back into his seat like the sudden embrace of a lover... then casting him aside with the first turn.

The scream of tires wearing themselves bald against asphalt managed to whisper a message; reckless. But the young cop wouldn't lend an ear, not tearing down the street, skidding through the intersection or through the fringes of the police surveillance net. The tach danced crazily as the Mustang careened through the streets, leaving nothing in its wake but angry tracks and a whole lot of dirty evidence.
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Kenneth had spent long hours studying the dossiers and learning the habits of the most successful of the Trinitarios leaders in the region and elsewhere. As it so happened, one of them was standing just feet from him.

Cole wasn't from a barrio - he didn't listen to music with Spanish words or eat tortillas that his mother had made. He didn't dress haphazardly like his peers and he definitely didn't talk their talk. Hell, he didn't even come from California. As far as appearances and lifestyles went, Cole was like Kenneth, "some white guy" to most of the gang. But he was important, very important.

Cole often spoke of his experiences in the Army. He often told his homies how in a legitimate gang, three of them had to do logistical work for every fighter on street. Five-hundred pound bombs, automatic weapons and tanks for one job, shipments of cocaine, drive-bys and bloody baseball bats for the other, every material they needed to function had to be acquired by an enormous number of man-hours... not to mention a handful of very talented people.'

Had Cole not been a gang leader, Kenneth was sure he could have been good at most anything else. He was an immensely strong man, but he wasn't so tall or heavily built to broadcast that fact to those around him. Cole was handsome and could win anyone over with a few words and a smile just as easily as a knife or a six-digit payoff.
Money saved was money earned. And people who earned a lot of money got promoted. So from the very first moment Cole had arrived and cut the fat out of their gang's operations, his own bosses had put in him charge of increasingly more valuable assets.

He was so resourceful, Kenneth often wondered if he was a plant from the FBI or some international gang, gaining power so he could one day strike at the very cartels he wormed his way into. If that were the case, he would never know. Plants were only told about one another's existence on a need-to-know basis.

In a field where killing was the very last resort regardless of situation or justification, Kenneth's bosses rarely found any situation necessary of providing extra information. They wanted to minimize the chances of him feeding information back to the very gangs he was infiltrating, they said.

True that may have been, Kenneth was almost always in the dark. That only became more apparent as a street enforcer only known as "Ortega" roughly cut him off. "Kennyman, Andre got busted by the pigs. You fuckin deaf or something?"

Fighting down his rising panic, Kenneth shrugged dismissively. "Hey, sucks for him. But he tossed me the keys and said to fill in for him. Past that, I'm not paid to give a shit, bro." Ortega glared for a second, then turned back to his buddies. Kenneth sighed in relief internally.

It was such a strange place to be. As a gang, care too much about your peers and you were instantly suspicious, maybe a liability if it came down to the survival of the gang. Care too little, and you were too dangerous to have around.

"Kenneth. Can I talk to you for a minute?" Cole said.

He looked at Cole, then to the other gathered people.

Right now, it looked like his homies were deciding how much emotional investment it was wise to put in him. Kenneth was going to be placed on the chopping block.
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The Mustang had been burning in fifth gear for nearly twenty minutes when Austin came begrudgingly back to his senses and let off the gas, the greys and blacks streaking by turning back into recognizable scenery. He wasn't entirely sure how far he had driven, or exactly what would need replacing in the car, but he knew that had just needed to drive.

Some people binged on alcohol, drugs or sex. A whole lot of people put aside their hesitation for self-destructive activities when it came down to reprieve from stress. Austin just wanted to drive and drive until the road went bare and he was left without any specific route to follow. He had realized long ago all he really wanted in a career was freedom. But it never came, so he just waited, idled in the hope that something better would.

Austin wasn't a guy who dwelled on misery, though. He glanced in the rearview and caught sight of another driver keeping pace and blinking his headlights. "Hey, you're asking for it." Austin pushed the revs hard and shifted into third, the Mustang responding with a roar.
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"So you think I did it?"

"No, Kenneth," he chuckled. Cole was seated in a leather chair in his modest study. The walls were mostly one-way glass panels viewing the working area of the compound, a drug processing facility set behind a normal-looking hardware store. Cole seemed perfectly content with his scant furnishings, the only point of vanity being a very large and ornate mahogany desk with his laptop and a few envelopes. He gave Kenneth a few more moments to ponder things before continuing, "I don't have evidence to indicate you did or did not get one of our enforcers jailed. But you very well might have."

"I might have gone to the moon and back. What's your point, Cole?"

The gang boss frowned in thought. He was accustomed to a much quieter and... generally speaking, less intelligent-sounding Kenneth. It made the man momentarily reconsider his strategy, which helped buy Kenneth the precious seconds he needed to compose himself, preparing for the worst. "How do I say this politely..."

"No need, man." He couldn't shake the informal nature of his speech. It was just drilled into the man, which wasn't helping much in this situation.

"Fair enough, Kenneth. I'll be blunt then." Cole smiled. "You may or may not have done it. But there is always the risk you turned him in. You are good at what you do, very good in fact. But I can find someone else just as good. Do you understand?"

"Not really, but I guess that doesn't really matter boss."

He nodded sagely, producing a handgun and holding it on his lap. "I'll do it a little different this time, since you did me so well. You can walk."

Kenneth put his hands in his pockets and considered the situation. He didn't give any external signs of nervousness as he used a nail to pry open his key fob and press the "panic button" he had been issued. That gave him exactly three minutes to get to a safe place and do what he could for his mission before the LAPD SWAT kicked the door down and searched for him, using the powerful radio beacon in his pocket.

His mission, though detail-intensive was very simple: help the capture of the Trinitarios cell's leader. Normally, Cole was isolated from but all but the highest-ranking of his men. Being called into his office was a rare occasion and it could even mean Kenneth's certain dismissal and nearly as certain execution would not matter. All considered, Kenneth made a simple request. "Can I have a drink?"

Cole was apparently generous to men he planned to shoot in the face momentarily, because he turned to the minifridge behind the desk. There was the clinking of glass, and he turned back to Kenneth.

"Oh my."
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Most Fox Body 'Stangs could reach one-forty before their poor aerodynamics and frame design threw the idea of handling right out the window. One with a bit of work like Austin's could do just a hair more.

Even a '96 Impala could blow away Austin's car given the disparaity in age, so he pressed his advantage while he had it and accelerated hard, running the shifter without glancing at the tach. He let the other car follow in a panic before abruptly decelerating and turning onto an off ramp. Now back to city streets, he eyed the intersection ahead. Six lanes wide, it gave him plenty of space to work with. He pulled into the left most lane before rolling on the throttle hard.

Austin spun the wheel left and stomped the clutch. As soon as he let the pedal go, there was a jolt in the steering as the rear tires lost traction. He worked the gas vigorously as he steered into the slide, skidding through the turn at the edge of losing control.

With nothing but open street ahead, he gunned the engine, going back into third gear before careening through another turn. The cop took a moment to examine his mirrors.

The Impala blasted clumsily through the signal and barely managed to straighten out, but started to catch up from the raw edge in horsepower it held over the much older machine. Might have had something special going under the hood even, from how it closed in. That meant more turns.

Austin took a right at the next intersection, braking and accelerating out of the turn with the slightest skidding. He observed his mirrors as the pursuing car struggled to do the same. He lead his would-be opponent through the empty streets for almost half an hour, the sounds of revving engines and screeching tires echoing into the air. Had the racket attracted any curious police cruisers, Austin wouldn't have cared anyway.

But since he had been lucky so far, he let himself be reckless tonight. The Mustang nearly rode onto the curb when he took the next intersection, straights became a place where his accelerator very rapidly lost its manners, while the poor driver in the trailing sedan struggled to keep pace in something resembling a safe manner.
A guy like Austin couldn't keep at a streak of self-destructive behavior for long though, and as soon as the green sedan had fallen behind at yet another corner, he pulled over onto the street. He could imagine their street battle had worn down the other driver anyway.

As he expected, the Impala slowed as it saw his parked car and pulled up alongside. Some people had a chat after a race, some just went on their own way. Austin rolled down the window as the other car pulled up alongside. He decided to speak first. "Good race, man."

When there was no response, the young cop looked over. The ugly snout of a TEC-9 was pointing right at him, a masked man sitting in the passenger seat of the other car.
"Dude, what?" Austin's jaw dropped in disbelief. He flinched as the man raised the gun and squeezed the trigger. Suddenly there was a metallic clank, but no gunshot. No hole in the car door or Austin's chest. So the two of them stared at each other awkwardly before the gunman started yanking on the pistol's parts. Austin mashed the gas to the floor. Holding the wheel white-knuckled, he got a few second's head start before the Impala resumed what had become a very deadly sort of race.
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Kenneth's hand dipped to his waistband and came up with a sleek black handgun, a laser beam emanating from its grip. The red dot danced around on Cole's head even as he turned back, a pair of glasses and a bottle in hand. "Don't make a noise. Give me the gun."

Cole complied, and though visibly fuming raised the bottle. "May I have a drink, then?" He poured himself three fingers of bourbon and knocked back the drink without checking for confirmation.

The man was starting to pour himself another shot when Kenneth stepped over. "Sure, boss. Why don't you come to this side of the desk though?"

"Well, I'd rather not-" Kenneth yanked Cole from his seat and pushed him unceremoniously to the ground, tightening a flex cuff around his wrists, then his ankles. He tried to push off the floor but the cop jammed the Glock into Cole's back and he sunk back onto the floor.

"Make a noise and we're both dead," Kenneth hissed. Cole, despite his uncomfortable position nodded. Austin threw a coat over the man's head and took Cole's gun off the table - an ornate Colt revolver. "I'll be taking the gun."

Cole groaned. "That was expensive, Kenneth." All considered, the gang boss was pretty composed. Kenneth wondered if that was just a bluff, meant to unnerve him enough for one of Cole's guards to overpower him.

"Hey boss? You guys done in there yet? We got a guest or some shit."

It could have been his backup checking the situation. Kenneth put the gun to Cole's head. "Tell him we're busy."

Cole chuckled unnervingly. "Are we now?"

"Say it or the first bullet will go into your skull, Cole."

"Cut the bluffing, Kenny. Cops can't do that."

Kenneth raised the gun, knashing his teeth. "You really think I'm a cop after all this?" He threw a nearby coat on top of Cole and ran over to his desk, turning the chair around. Whoever was waiting at the door was beginning to pound on it in earnest. Kenneth pressed his back against the wall directly beside the door and cleared his throat. "Come in."

Ortega opened the door and stepped with his usual swagger. "What, you piss off the boss or something?" Not seeing Kenneth in the room, he looked left, and then right. The cop slipped behind him and closed to the door. Ortega turned at the noise, just in time to catch a elbow to the throat. He stumbled from the blow, gagging, but was far from pacified as he reached one hand behind his back.

Kenneth drew his Glock and blocked the gangbanger's access to the door. "Hands, show me your hands!" he hissed. The gang enforcer had a .380 tucked into his trousers - he had seen it before every day. But he couldn't shoot unless he moved to use that weapon. It was just part of his job that he couldn't get around.

Fortunately, the pulsing laser beam dancing on Ortega's forehead put some sense into the man, who tossed his pistol aside and held his hands in the air. A scowl came across his features, and before the cop could move to stop him, Ortega was screaming loud enough to be heard by what was the likely the entire safehouse. "WE'VE GOT A NARC! KENNETH IS A FUCKING NARC!"

"Goddamn it!" Kenneth stepped forward and slammed Ortega's head into the wall beside him, hard. It left the big man stunned long enough to slap a set of cuffs on him and kick him to the ground. Then, as the sounds of a whole lot of guys in the next room became apparent, he took a nearby coat rack and wedged it neatly under the doorknob. He was considering shooting through the door first to get a head start on the almost certain gun battle, but Kenneth remembered his duty as a cop long enough to drag Ortega's limp form out of the line of fire.

After that, things started to go downhill in short order. Instead of a sledgehammer or a battering ram, the first thing to hit the door was a wall of buckshot from a shotgun, blasting a half dozen holes out of the wooden panel and showering Austin with splinters. He hugged the ground and hoped nothing would fly low as two, three more blasts and dozens of handgun rounds cut right through and literally tore the door from its frame.

The little voice in the back of his head was saying to run away, or at least shoot back. But he had little more than the ten in his gun and fifteen on his belt to fight with. He had to wait for the right moment to use it.

He didn't have to wait long.

After the deafening fusilade of gunfire, the sound of wooden pieces being smashed by kicks was barely audible. Kenneth took the initative and leaned out of cover, still laying on the floor. The white sights of the Glock were centered over the shape of a man standing in the doorway, shotgun in hand. He fired four times, each bullet seeming to drive the man back out the room until he crumpled onto the floor.
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Austin ripped on the handbrake and spun the wheel left hard, throwing the Mustang into a gut-wrenching spin that had it pointing down the opposite lane. He immediately threw it into gear and accelerated right past the Impala even as gunfire snapped by his head.

There was some ill-trained hitman and his wannabe racer driver trying to kill him in the middle of nowhere, but occupied as he was trying to escape, he wasn't in any position to shoot back, or even call for backup. Austin was starting to regret taking the battery out of his phone earlier. And he was running out of gas.

As the cop realized they were driving in a place rather familiar to him, a plan took root. It was a hillside area with a lot of houses and narrow driveways that sat just a short distance from the road, which itself overlooked the valley below. He had practiced on these hills many a time before.

At first glance, it looked like there was nowhere to run to. But that wasn't really the point. He just needed to get a small lead to get these assholes off his back. The way the Impala's driver struggled with the hill, that wasn't very hard.

As soon as the pursuing sedan disappeared from view, Austin downshifted and pulled the handbrake, neatly skidding into place. He shifted into reverse and held in place.
It was the most painful five seconds he had ever waited in his life.

Eventually, the Impala clumsily came around the turn, very nearly clipping the guard rail. Austin gassed it, and the Mustang almost missed its quarry, narrowly clipping the back of the passing sedan and throwing it into a spin only arrested by a tree. The resulting wreck was strewn across the road. Austin pulled near and found that both driver and passenger were clearly knocked out.

The distraction gave enough time for a black sedan to round the corner and run right into the back of the Mustang, sandwiching it against the ruined Impala. Then a blast from a sawn-off shotgun took out most of the rear window, showering Austin with jagged glass. "Fuck!" He ripped the Glock from his waistband and fired wildly out of the back of the car with one hand, still trying to break away from the cars now pinning him in place. Every shot left ringing in his ears and bright spots fluttering in his vision.
Incoming fire pacified momentarily, Austin managed to force through the wreck, trying to stabilize his frenzied breathing, shift into the right gears and monitor his pursuers all at the same time. He could see it was a Caprice, maybe even an ex police-car from the looks of it. It was a bit of irony for a situation that was deadly serious. There were bullet holes in the front windshield from his return fire, and the bumper had been shorn off from the impact.

He didn't really want to consider what his Mustang looked like by this point. Another shotgun blast peppered the frame of the car, and despite all of his training, Austin turned to fire over his shoulder. As luck would have it, it jammed after two rounds. "You're kidding?"

Austin turned his eyes back to the road. The Mustang plowed through the gravel-covered shoulder and suddenly he was skidding down the hillside, tossed around the cabin like a ragdoll.
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The gunfire had died down, amazingly. All that was left was a pair of dead guys slumped outside the door and a seriously ruined office. Kenneth was half-deaf from the exchange and had already loaded his spare magazine. If backup had come a moment later, he would most likely have been dead.

But right now, he had to get himself and Cole out of there before the crossfire between the gang and the SWAT team killed them both. He peered out past the ruined doorway and saw their ratty couch riddled with bullets from their exchange, but the place otherwise looked clear.

Kenneth took a single step through the doorway when a guy with a machete nearly chopped his head off. He instinctively raised his gun and fired, close enough for the muzzle flash to singe his attacker's shirt.

But he fired twice, three times more without effect, until the man collapsed onto him, bleeding profusely and groaning. The machete clattered to the floor, forgotten. Every pulse spurted more blood onto him from the wound in the man's chest, and his eyes were starting to roll back in his head.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, get off me-" Kenneth kicked the man off him and crawled away, slipping on the blood-soaked floor. His clothing, his hands, even the gun were covered with bright red arterial blood. His chest was heaving, but he couldn't even hear himself breathing. Training told Kenneth to make sure his gun was still functional, but his fingers just wouldn't work right. He wiped the gun off on his pants and jammed it back into its holster in frustration, clipping it back onto his belt. Everything on him was covered in crimson. "Oh Jesus Christ, what the fuck..." He was incoherent, trying to wipe all the gore from him even as the man he had shot floundered and choked.
By the time Kenneth came to his senses, the man had already expired. What had felt like torturous minutes to the cop were just seconds, and he would sit there for almost half an hour before the SWAT team recovered him and the surviving gang members.
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Austin managed to get out of his seatbelt and pry the door open halfway down the hill. He hit the ground in a clumsy shoulder roll. All he saw for the next minute was brush ripping at his clothing and dirt thrown into the air. When the cop finally came to a stop, he had to close his eyes and lay there so he wouldn't vomit. It was only when he heard the sound of another car nearby that he bothered to sit up and look around.

It was dark enough that the men climbing out of the Caprice had to turn on their flashlights to find the Mustang. When the beams swept over the site of the wreck, Austin could make out giant furrows dug into the dirt, ending with a mess of yellow bodywork and broken glass. Somehow, the door had slammed shut as the car made its final journey, and the men assumed that he had remained in the vehicle.

Nobody was guarding the car, so he could have made a run for it. His Glock was still laying on the floor of the Mustang's cabin, jammed and low on ammunition. Kenneth dug through his pockets for a phone but realized it was probably still in the car as well. It was then he remembered he was still carrying the revolver he had taken off of Cole earlier. Kenneth crept through the brush until he was close enough to make out the features of the men searching the wreckage. One was taller, a cacuasian woman who was wearing some sort of body armor and holding a phone. There were two others actively searching the site with shotguns that had flashlights attached. He waited for them to circle the area and return to the woman, where they reported their findings.

Austin thumbed back the hammer on the Python and squared the front sight over the head of one of the gunmen. He slowly squeezed the trigger until it finally broke and the gun thundered. When the smoke cleared, one man laid still in the dirt. Kenneth rotated almost mechanically and put two rounds into the other gunman, dropping him on the spot. He emerged from the brush, gun aimed squarely at the surviving woman. "Drop the phone and put your hands on your head. I'm not going to ask again."

She complied, dropping to her knees beside the two corpses. Austin picked the phone off the ground and punched in the number he had memorized for dispatch. He eyed the woman. "You know your Miranda rights?" She nodded. "Good." The phone rang twice before it picked up.

"Eleanor, I've been driven off the road by an ambush. Two suspects down, and a TC that requires medical assistance. We're just off..." Austin fell back into the steady cadence used to make calls over the radio. He felt all the adrenaline of the day finally have its toll on him sapping the energy from his limbs and making him dizzy. After dispatch had gotten all the information needed from him, he hung up and allowed himself to sit down.

March 23rd, 2011
8:00 AM

22-year-old Steve 'The Intern' Harper was on his daily ride to work at the Rehabilitation Branch office in Pasadena. As someone who had graduated college less than a few months ago in a place where gas costs an arm and a leg, Steve delayed his purchase of a car, instead opting to ride to work on a 24-speed Specialized TriCross cycle which had been painted in a brilliant red color. The plan had worked out fairly well, since it would only take him about 10 minutes to commute to work, plus, he was getting his daily exercise to counter the fact that he was sitting at a desk most of the day.

Today was not such a bad day to ride to work, either. The weather forecast called for a high of 78 degrees with a nice steady breeze more or less all day, he'd woken up with enough time for a full breakfast this morning, and to top it off, a cute Asian girl driving a Miata waved coyly at him at the previous intersection.

Now, just a few blocks away from work, he waited patiently for the green light, and with the crossing lanes surprisingly clear, he pedaled hard as soon as he saw that green light flick on. He was already halfway across the intersection, his world sunshine, warmth and carefree one moment, the next nothing but pain and loud noises and a snarling big diesel engine. When he opened his eyes, he was staring at the sky and his entire being was wracked with pain. Everything began to go dim, and as he closed his eyes, he heard the sounds of panic-braking cars, doors opening, and someone was kind enough to come over and check on him.

"Hey man, just hold on, I'm calling an ambulance!"

------------

Later that afternoon, at Huntington Memorial Hospital, the roar of a V12 engine stood out amongst the usual noise (or lack thereof) as a bright green 1972 Lamborghini Miura P400SV pulled into the parking lot, tires chirping as it came to a stop in a parking space. After the engine rumbled to a halt, the horn-like doors swung open, and Aurelio exited the driver's seat while Sophie, a bouquet of flowers in hand, clambered out of the passenger's side before both locked and firmly shut their respective doors before proceeding into the hospital proper. The pair approached the reception desk, looking for a certain someone.

"Excuse me, but which room can we find Steve Harper in?" Aurelio asked.

"Steve Harper..." trailed off the brunette receptionist, consulting her computer. "Room 216, second floor. Sign in with the security guard to get your visitors' passes."

In short order, the Zenigata Fratello were admitted as visitors into the hospital. Arriving at room 216, Aurelio gently knocked on the door, pausing to wait a few seconds.

"Come in," said Steve The Intern's voice. The handler opened the door and allowed Sophie in first, closing the door behind him as he entered. He turned to see that Sophie had stopped short, taking in the state of their friend in the hospital bed.

"Oh, my goodness."

To say that Steve The Intern was in bad shape was to understate the extent of his injuries. One glance at his full-body cast, complete with neck brace and one leg suspended by a sling told anyone looking at him that he'd truly had a very bad day. That he was able to speak and see people was a miracle, or perhaps even proof that he was tougher than a lowly intern should be perceived to be.

"Hey guys," he greeted, apparently in better spirits than someone in his state would normally be.

"Hey Steve," Sophie greeted, walking over to the bed, Aurelio in tow. "How you feeling?"

"Well, I'm alive, aren't I? I'm doing pretty good, I guess," replied the intern with a grin.

"You seem to be taking this situation pretty well," Aurelio commented, placing the flowers down at Steve's bedside table.

"I think it helps that I'm on morphine right now, or I'd probably be less upbeat about my injuries."

"We heard you got hit by a truck," Sophie said.

"Is that what hit me? Well, that would explain the diesel engine," Steve commented.

"So you don't remember much about what happened, then," said Aurelio.

"It happened too fast, and I wasn't exactly able to pay attention to anything that drove away."

"Well someone's gotta answer for what they did to you!" Sophie exclaimed, raising her voice, earning her a shushing from a nearby nurse, which quickly cowed her. "Sorry."

"I'm sure the police will find 'em, Sophie. You don't have to make a big deal out of this," Steve said, trying to calm her down. "It was probably my fault anyway for not looking hard enough while I was crossing the street."

"This is not a scenario where you admit fault, Steve," Aurelio chimed in. "We'll see to it that whoever did this gets what's coming to them."

"Well, if you're sure..."

"Positive," Aurelio affirmed. "So let's start with the basics. Do you remember where you got hit?"

-----------------------

"Here we go, West Walnut and North Fair Oaks cameras."

Back at the office, Aurelio and Sophie were poring over recordings from Pasadena's traffic cameras after they returned from visiting Steve The Intern. While they thought it would take hours to spot the moment of the incident, Sophie managed to spot a thumbnail of the hour in which Steve had gotten run over thanks to the distinct coloration of Steve's bicycle and Ferrari-styled riding wear he always wore when biking to work. The fratello watched the footage, watching as Steve looked both ways, then left again as the light flicked to green, allowing him to cross West Walnut Street, the lights for cross-traffic clearly red. As Steve began pedaling across, Sophie gasped and her handler cringed as a speeding black pickup, lifted with big knobby tires and sporting all manner of off-roading accessories, plowed into Steve at a not-insignificant rate of speed, knocking him down along with his bike, the truck callously continuing as if nothing had happened while Steve and his totaled bicycle lay in the middle of the intersection motionless.

"I'm still wondering how he survived that. A hit like that by all rights could have killed him," Aurelio commented.

"Let's make sure whoever this guy with the 'bro truck' is never gets a second chance. I'll get the plate, and we do a DMV search on it, then we see if we can track this guy down and pay him a visit."

"Sophie--"

"With police present. I know better than to go vigilante on a civilian, Leo."

"That's good to know."

"Of course, if he does resist, I'm probably going to take pleasure in roughing this guy up."

Aurelio simply sighed and lightly pinched his nosebridge in response. "Get that license plate already."

---------------------

23-year-old Shane Ripley was having a great time at Mike and Anne's. Every Friday night after lifting weights at Planet Fitness in Anaheim, he'd head to this place to catch the game, get a steak--rare, of course--and get his drink on. Sometimes, he would even manage to pick up a lady friend while there and go to a hotel for a few hours afterward and then never talk with her again the day after. This Friday was just like any other, only that he'd vaguely remembered seeing some hipster on a dorky bicycle in between text messages on his phone while driving his truck today. Whatever. small details. Besides, he was here to have fun after benching 300-plus at the gym today. Surely the ladies would notice his hard work tonight-- that's what short sleeved shirts were for.

Speaking of the ladies...

A few seats down, a smoking-hot redhead in a baby tee and skinny jeans sat down at the bar. Tall, pretty--nice rack-- Oh yeah. Shane liked her. Shane liked redheads in general; they tended to be a hoot in the sheets. He was gonna go for it. Lifting up his shirt collar, he stood up and moved down to tonight's choice, taking a new seat beside her.

"Hey there."

That got her attention. The redhead turned to face him, gave him a once-over, and smiled.

"Hey, handsome."

"Never seen you around here before. I'm Shane," he greeted.

"Sally. I'm new to town, heard this was the place to go on Friday nights," she replied.

"You came to the right place. Mind if I buy you a drink?"

"Not at all. You sure are a gentleman, Shane. I'll have myself a Hemingway Daiquiri, please."

In short order, Sally's Daiquiri was in her hands, a second Red Bull Vodka was in Shane's, and the two chatted as they drank.

"So what are you into, Sally?" Shane asked.

"Well, I'm a bit of a gearhead, so I'm into anything with a motor," Sally replied.

"Funny you should say that. I've got this awesome truck out in the parking lot."

" 'LV2LIFT', right?"

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

Sally put her drink down and locked eyes with Shane.

"Because the police are looking for it."

That certainly caught his attention. "What? What are you talking about?" he asked with a nervous chuckle.

"A modified 2002 Ford F-250 in Black with the license plate 'LV2LIFT' registered to one Shane Ripley of 470 Devonwood Road, Altadena, CA was seen driving away from a collision with a cyclist at the intersection of West Walnut Street and North Fair Oaks Avenue at approximately 8:00 a.m. this morning. Traffic cameras and witnesses report said vehicle ran a red light and failed to stop after colliding with the cyclist."

"You're really freaking me out here, you know--"

"Your discomfort is nothing compared to the obvious disregard you have for the safety of others on the road, Shane Ripley. You ran over a cyclist and put him in the hospital. Traffic Cameras don't lie, Shane. You're done. You'll be arrested for reckless driving, and you can kiss that vulgar toy of yours goodbye."

'Sally' pulled out a police badge, and Shane looked around to see uniformed officers closing in on him from all sides. He looked back at 'Sally', who had a thin smirk on her face.

"Game over."

As the officers closed in and the redhead stood up to let them handle the arrest, Shane Ripley decided to make one last rash decision. He bolted from his seat, using his mass to knock the arresting officers out of the way and bumped his way through the crowd, bursting through the entry/exit doors. As the redhead helped an officer to his feet, she made a request of him.

"I need to borrow your baton."

The officer lent it to her, and she nodded her thanks as she went after Shane, who had a significant headstart.

Meanwhile, now out in the parking lot, Shane had frantically been pressing the unlock button on his keyless entry, finally getting to his lifted Ford and throwing himself into the driver's seat as soon as he got the door open, shutting it quickly behind him. He fumbled putting the key into the ignition, his coordination affected by the mix of adrenaline and alcohol in his blood. Finally slotting it in, he twisted the key, and the Power Stroke turbodiesel V8 roared to life. Slamming the gear selector into reverse, he accelerated to back out of the parking space and get underway when his driver's side windows shattered. The redhead from earlier had caught up with him and was now in the process of smashing up his windows, and one swing even whacked him on the head. Enraged, Shane threw the truck into park and opened his door forcefully, trying to hit 'Sally', who leapt out of the door's arc as Shane dismounted the truck and charged at her. The bodybuilder threw a clumsy punch, which the redhead sidestepped gracefully as Shane ran straight into a parked vehicle. As he tried to recover, his opponent made sure to make the most of it, grabbing the back of his head and slamming it into the trunk, dazing him. Shane stumbled backwards momentarily, falling on his ass onto the pavement. The officers from inside the restaurant were finally catching up now, but Shane made one last attempt to fight the redheaded woman, trying to throw another sloppy punch. This time she ducked, and delivered a powerful blow into his solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him as he collapsed to the pavement in a heap. As he gasped for air, the woman turned him onto his belly and straddled him, pinning his hands together behind his back as a nearby officer tossed her some handcuffs, which she promptly used to secure Shane's wrists together as she rattled off his Miranda rights.

Finally brought to his feet, Shane finally managed to wheeze out a question.

"Who... who are you...anyway?"

"My name is Sophie. I'm a friend of the guy you ran over this morning. Enjoy your time in prison, douchebag."

She turned and walked away, disappearing into the gathered crowd. That was the last Shane Ripley would ever see of Sophie Zenigata.
-------------------
March 24th, 2011
2:00 P.M.

"Told you we'd get him," said Sophie as she folded away the newspaper she held for Steve The Intern to read.

"Thanks, guys. Seriously, though, you didn't have to do that. You could have just let the cops take care of it, I think," replied Steve.

"Come on, Steve. You're our friend. Sophie wanted to make sure someone was held accountable for their irresponsibility," said Aurelio.

"Well, if that's really how it is, Leo... I owe you guys one now, huh?"

"We'll save it for when you're finally able to get around on your own again. Don't worry about it."

"Speaking of getting around, can you guys help me shop around for a new bike? My Specialized is completely trashed."

"Let us worry about that. I've got something in mind, myself..."