 
G. I. JOE: Season 3.1

One Nine Eight Seven

A novel by Gene Kendall.

This is a work of parody. The author does not claim copyright ownership to any character featured in this work.

G. I. JOE and all related characters are © 2018 Hasbro, Inc.

All text is copyright © 2018 by Gene Kendall

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
PROLOGUE

A fine game of poker, ruined by a kicked down door and an invasion from America's highly trained special missions force.

Their mission? To defend a crooked, crumbling institution and ruin a lazy Tuesday afternoon game of No River Hold'Em. That's what any self-respecting Viper would tell you.

McMichael was the first to move, to flip the table over and use it as cover. He'd been stationed in this factory for months now, him and a dozen Vipers overlooking one of their emperor's pet operations. Didn't seem like a dangerous assignment; keep an eye on the plant, make sure the reconnaissance aircraft funded by the Benzheen government ended up where it belonged. (Cobra clutches, naturally.)

How'd the Joes find out about this one? It had to be the tenth invasion of a Cobra op in recent weeks. McMichael just knew Serpentor would be on fire during his next address. Months had passed since anyone had heard from him, in spite of the Vipers receiving numerous assurances that all was well with their emperor.

_Good to know_ , McMichael thought to himself as he fired the first shot of the resistance. _Can't imagine that Commander clown taking charge again. No way would that not be a disaster_.

McMichael had heard the stories; some scuttlebutt about the emperor and a whole mess of Cobra assets passing from this earth with their boots on. Something about an operation gone horribly wrong up in the Himalaya or the Karakoram or somewhere crazy like that.

He chose not to believe it. Kept fighting this fight with the confidence his emperor would reward him; that these horrible losses were only a myth. McMichael focused on the invading force, identified his opponents.

A walking tank named Roadblock, strong enough to lift a fifty-cal, breaking just a moderate sweat. The far less intimidating Dial-Tone, surely sent out by their commander as some form of punishment. Stalker, one of the original Joes, partially responsible for the M.A.S.S. Device debacle. Footloose, a supposed fruitcake who'd somehow managed to survive an encounter with Storm Shadow.

And, leading their charge, a largely unknown entity known as Lieutenant Falcon. Scarce intel on this guy, but data intercepted prior to his recruitment into the Joes indicated he was something of a slacker.

Not true on this day, as McMichael witnessed Falcon volunteer to draw Viper fire, charging straight into their barricade. His push coincided with Hunter tossing a fragmentation grenade from behind the poker table barricade. McMichael caught the sight of Stalker shouting a warning to his allies, leaping atop the pineapple. Didn't they teach those chumps Viper protocol? Leap _away_ from the thing, dummy.

Hunter's greatest moment was undermined in less than a second, taking a shot from a Joe just as he poked his head up to examine his handiwork.

Fletcher and Vicks thought this new guy an easy target; stood to offer the kind of greeting Vipers are famous for. Ended up with clean headshots directly into their visors as comeuppance.

Dority, McMichael's remaining ally, watched them fall on both sides. "Cripes!" he squealed, eyes no doubt buggy under his helmet.

"Stay cool," McMichael admonished. "Don't give these Joes any easy victories."

"I'll show you easy!" he answered back, dropping his assault rifle to the floor. Hands raised, Dority's spineless form arose from the makeshift barrier. "Don't shoot! I surrender."

_Pathetic_ , McMichael mused. _Going out like a common blueshirt. Doesn't Viper status mean anything anymore?_

"Hey, guys," came a baritone voice from the other side. "My mom musta said a prayer for me this morning. That Viper forgot to remove the safety clip!"

McMichael sighed. Typical Hunter screw-up.

"I count one more snake," announced the new Joe with a pretty boy face. "You gonna be smart like your friend?"

Last person McMichael ever wanted to be compared to, a yellow coward like Dority. But an extended firefight was pointless by now; he knew the better part of valor.

"Fine, fine. Don't shoot," McMichael said, knocking over the remains of the table as he lifted his arms. "But you're not even gettin' a rank and serial number, chumps."

"We'll see how tough you are later," Falcon sneered, snatching McMichael by the back of his uniform and shoving him into line with the surrendered soldiers from another wing of the plant.

A motley assortment of losers, McMichael reasoned. More than deserving of whatever fate their emperor doled out, the day he chose to free them from custody.

Would he join their destiny? Would he allow himself to stand before his king with no defense of his cowardly actions?

McMichael made his choice. He was last in line, prodded by Falcon into joining the circle of surrendered goons south of the airframe assembly sector. Bet the Joe wasn't expecting an elbow to the gut; maybe a hasty attempt to poach that rifle.

The disgraced Viper succeeded with the elbow, fumbled during his attempt to grab the rifle. Falcon had too tight a grip, wouldn't surrender a single inch to the Viper. Instead, the Joe ended their tug-of-war with a fast kick to the chest, the Viper skidding across the plant's floor.

The commotion drew the attention of every Joe, but Roadblock was the closest. Rushing towards McMichael, he stated earnestly, "Are you suicidal or just _dumb_ , son? 'Cause I say it's got to be either one!"

McMichael was on his feet just as Roadblock reached his body, dukes up. Was he looking forward to this beating? Heck, no. But the story of his bravery would reach Serpentor's ears. Would not only spare him from the execution, but elevate his name to the ranks of Cobra's bravest.

He lifted defensive hands, anticipated that first blow. "Roadblock, wait!" said the approaching Falcon, palms up. "Do me a favor and back off, okay?"

The man-mountain shrugged, allowed Falcon to pass.

The Lieutenant reached for McMichael's uniform, removed the grenade and knife from their holsters. "Take these for me, will ya?" he asked Roadblock.

"No fooling? This really what you're doing?" the modern-day Goliath replied.

Falcon assumed his fighting stance, didn't take his eyes off McMichael while bouncing. "Man wants a throwdown, I feel obligated to provide it. Think I can shatter that visor in one punch?"

McMichael didn't participate in the trash talking. Just took another shot at that gut. Falcon blocked, delivered a stern knee to the Viper's chin. His follow-through was snubbed however, the Viper using his body weight to shove the Lieutenant back several inches. Didn't recover in time, took a right cross to the side of his boyish face.

Falcon's arm went up in time to block the next punch; when the Viper was close enough, McMichael received several quick jabs to his upper ribs. As the Viper winced, Falcon pressed the advantage, finally landed a solid vertical punch with his rear hand.

The visor didn't shatter. A solid crack formed, though, and the impact was thunderous enough to send McMichael back to the floor.

"Okay, Joe, not so shabby," the Viper taunted, this self-confidence not entirely justified by his preceding performance. He regrouped, found a way to pull himself off the ground.

"I'm just in first gear, you sloppy snake," Falcon replied, back in his fighting stance, ignoring the drop of blood on his chin. McMichael had no further retorts, just a guttural scream he unleashed as he drove his entire body into Falcon's midsection.

The Lieutenant had only seen this attack a dozen or so times back in the Sarge's boot camp. He pivoted to the left, caught just a fraction of the impact. Used his height advantage to get a good grip, slip the Viper into a headlock.

"You havin' fun yet, you web-toed flunky? 'Cause I'm still bored..."

Falcon wasn't entirely truthful; his heart rate was elevated a decent amount, and at least a few beads of sweat had materialized on his brow. He was so keyed into the action, in fact, that he didn't notice the timid approach of the Joe team's Communications Expert.

"Ah, Lieutenant?" Dial-Tone enquired.

"Very b-busy, my man," Falcon said with a grunt, tightening his grip around the Viper, deliberating whether that helmet would just pop off if he pressed hard enough.

"Lieutenant," Dial-Tone persisted. "I've just received some urgent news from base."

"Y-yeah?"

"Yes, sir. It...it's about Duke, sir."

Reflexively, Falcon turned to his fellow soldier. Calmed down enough to process the despondency on his face. Saw the sullen expressions on all of the Joes.

Falcon didn't need to hear another word. The time, mercifully, had come.
CHAPTER ONE

" _Facing increasing pressure on the Pentagon budget, the Air Force now plans on ending development of a weapon system designed to eradicate Soviet satellites in space. Meanwhile, South Korean opposition leaders have declared the results of its recent presidential election invalid, due to what they deem 'widespread fraud.'_

" _Back at home, Finn's Point National Cemetery will be the site of a rare exhumation today. The body of E4 Specialist Colin Kristofer is expected to be exhumed, following recent reports of links between Kristofer and the notorious head of terrorist organization Cobra Command. Until recently, the masked fanatic's identity was a stubborn mystery to authorities._

" _We'll be back with more headlines for this Friday, December 18_ th _. But first, a message from the new and improved Red Rocket Burgers. Have_ you _ridden the rocket today?"_

Lt. Falcon, checking the mirror and adjusting the collar of his Army Service Uniform, tuned out the remainder of the broadcast. The Cobra story was potentially big news, but with so much of it classified as "need to know" and beyond, he'd already divested himself from the speculation, awaiting what official word, if any, came from his superiors.

Whenever General Hawk discovered the source of the leak, how he unleashed his wrath on the low-level intel drone who tipped off the media hounds, _that_ was going to be something worth watching.

There was a larger story of the day, one not fit for civilian ears. First Sergeant Conrad S. Hauser, native of St. Louis, Missouri, would be laid to rest today. Perhaps some word of his codename Duke was leaked to the press on an occasion or two, those rare times the work of the covert G. I. Joe team couldn't be handwaved away under the banner of "plausible deniability."

Duke could've been quite the public face of the team, were such a thing ever necessary. Blond hair, blue eyes, chiseled chin befitting any soldier serving in those old _Sgt. Granite_ comics. Falcon thought of the back issues inherited from his older brother, sent off to basic training three weeks after high school graduation.

Eight years old, the grunts starring in those pamphlets no less inspiring than the barrel-chested company mascot, soaring around the city in his cape and tights. All heroes, all invulnerable. Duke -- _Conrad_ \-- would write letters from the jungle. Special ones just for his kid brother, Vince. He told stories, reaffirming the bravery of his fellow servicemen, but also hinting at a darker truth not found behind the _Sgt. Granite_ covers.

In his most blunt message, Conrad told Vince to respect his mother. That he'd be shocked to learn how many battle-hardened soldiers cry out that woman's name during their final moments.

Vincent was a smart enough kid to pick up on the intimations in other letters. Maybe Conrad's words turned the boy a bit too cynical, too early. Or perhaps it was the gravitational pull of hot rods and pretty girls that tugged Vince in the wrong direction.

Irrelevant now. By the age of fifteen, Vince was half a juvenile delinquent, giving his mother, and a few of the fathers around town, fits on most school nights.

Big brother hero Conrad S. Hauser soon found his image in Vincent's mind replaced with that of pompous, didactic _half-_ brother Conrad, with his irritating regulation haircut and too-perfect chin. An Army lifer, allowed two visits home a year, never shy about sharing his feelings on the topic of family screw-up Vince.

"He needs direction. Needs to realize the world doesn't revolve around _him_. The draft might be over, but I know we can find room for that goldbricker. I'm telling you, Ma. Best hope for Vince is to enlist. Even if he washes out, the experience would do him some good."

Did Vince sign those papers specifically to shut his older brother up? Did he make it through boot camp as a symbolic middle finger to Conrad's low expectations? Maybe. He'd never know; the Joes had recruited a psychological expert in recent days, but Falcon wasn't going to be scribbling his John Hancock on that sign-up sheet attached to the mope's door.

He wasn't going to be lying on some shrink's couch, discussing his anger at Doc for giving them that false hope the night Duke pulled out of his coma. Doc's the best of the best; he wouldn't make that diagnosis capriciously. Doc knew Duke was a fighter, had convinced himself their "top" had pulled through the worst of it.

Those months that followed, Duke going in and out of the comas, the new strain of venom they discovered in his system resisting all treatment, Doc couldn't have foreseen that.

Everyone makes mistakes. Pencils still come with erasers.

Falcon wasn't going to be elucidating any revenge fantasies against Serpentor, that freak of nature Cobra sleaze who impaled his older brother with one of those ornamental daggers. Impaled him through the _heart_ , the scene rotating in Falcon's dreams like the most irritating of pop songs.

Any anxieties, or hopes, Serpentor survived, was still out there awaiting another rematch? Falcon wasn't commenting on that.

Wasn't going to be rationalizing to some stranger why he's still kicking himself for choosing that codename. Falcon. A nod to his late father, Duke's stepfather, Adriano Falcone, true. But also a subtle jab at his half-brother, reminding him that even if they were both serving on the distinguished Joe team, Vince was still his own man. Not a Hauser. A Falcone, a turk from the next generation, no baggage from that war out in the jungle where the rain has that funny smell and no one expected a parade when they got back home.

A new day, a new Army, lots of stuff to get done before nine AM.

And, on this snowy day in northern Virginia, a funeral to attend.

Dark gray soil dripped from the maw of the bulldozer, landing neatly in the allotted area to the right of the grave. The vigilant operator, working to treat the boy's resting place with as much dignity as possible, whispered a prayer.

Earlier, he'd turned down an offer of a thousand dollars to give some reporter the "inside track" on what was happening here this morning. Even said a few words he didn't want his kids to overhear, telling that weaselly little jerk to never call again.

Not that Umberto could've given much of an answer. He'd heard the same rumors as anyone else, yet wasn't half as eager to believe them. The stories floating around, the idea that some twenty-one year old junior enlisted rank could somehow fake his death out there in the jungle. That he went underground, traveled back home, built some criminal empire...no, not criminal. _Terrorist_. No different than those animals planting bombs on the airplanes or targeting our Marines overseas.

The thought of this Colin Kristofer dishonoring his service, disrespecting his country, it would be quite a story for those talking heads on the television. They'd get three weeks off this dirt, easy, until another pop star was arrested for his sick habits, or a TV preacher got caught leaving the wrong hotel room.

Police barriers were keeping those wolves at bay. He recognized a few from the evening news. Some were even stars on the national shows, he realized. Perfect hair, sparkly teeth, cameras at the ready. All eager to believe the worst about this body, all desperate to defame a memory.

Umberto wouldn't buy the rot they were peddling. He never knew this Kristofer kid, but he served with dozens like him during his tours. More than a few came back with scars, they certainly weren't all angels even before enlisting, but the whispers going around about this kid were beyond obscene.

The Cobra Commander, that hooded lunatic on the TV, was an Army man? An innocent boy from Salem County, answering the call to serve his country?

No blessed way.

Coffee-colored soil was heaved atop the casket, all with predictable military precision. Falcon, his arm stretched across his mother's shoulder, whispered words of support, words he wished he could believe himself.

He held her closer, told her not to be ashamed of the tears. Through the snow, searching for any distraction, Falcon studied the attendees. The brass made the call to prohibit rank and file Joes from attending, hoping to minimize any connections between this Conrad Hauser and the Joe team. Just another service in Arlington, one of over a dozen funerals held on this day. Aside from General Hawk, and E-6 Staff Sergeant Scarlett, Falcon didn't recognize a single face in uniform.

No, not quite. The Vice President. Falcon certainly recognized him from the television; this morning's news headlines, in fact.

He tried to think back to that half-heard report, the scandal brewing around the man, the talk of the danger it posed to his inevitable run for the presidency. Falcon, his interest in politics past minimal, forgot the issue within a millisecond. His attention instead turned to the Staff Sergeant, grief just now shattering her stone face. He questioned why the redhead had been granted access to the service, just who offered this Joe the exemption from that callous order.

Falcon thought of his new friends, the Rawhides, the crew of rookies who'd been recruited onto the team just in time to watch the world go mad. With pride, he thought of their final showdown inside that ice dome, those science fiction horrors getting a taste of bitter defeat.

They should be here today, those Rawhides. They should all be here now, regardless of rank, regardless of whatever policy the brass thinks is best suited for the team's already diminishing anonymity. He knew a memorial was scheduled back at the base, but standing in the biting cold, offering what he knew to be inadequate comfort to his mother, Falcon simmered.

A public display for the upper echelons of command, a nice, stately goodbye worthy of a political cameo, but no official showing for the grunts. Typical. Falcon thought of the one face he'd like to see here, more than any other Joe.

It belonged to a dark-eyed girl who'd earned a reputation as bad luck, although he could no longer personally testify to the veracity of those stories.

And, just as fast as the thought materialized, he rebuked himself for falling into old habits. This was a day for mourning, a day to celebrate Duke. Let the brass have their show. Let mother Falcone have the pomp and ceremony, if she got something out of it. Let her get a hug and some condolences out of the veep. And let the Joes have their own celebration of the man later, over cold drinks and salty pretzels.

None of it was going to bring him back, anyway.
CHAPTER TWO

_At least he's not some loudmouth drill sergeant_ , thought Tunnel Rat, first in line for the sparring session. Or, as known colloquially, "The Massacre."

Standing opposite him, in the loading bay of G. I. Joe's secret base of operations, was the enigma known as Snake Eyes. Every recruit knew _of_ Snake Eyes. First name classified, no known words ever spoken, entire body covered in black leather, his mask reportedly concealing a hideous visage you'd never want to catch before mealtime.

Some said he served as Long-Range Reconnaissance Patrol in 'Nam. Another rumor had him a mountain recluse, recruited from the snowy High Sierras by none other than General Hawk himself.

His perpetual silence? A vow of silence after the loss of a loved one. Or some quirk in his brain chemistry. Or injured vocal chords, a sniper's bullet severing any hope of verbal communication for the rest of the young soldier's life.

That outfit? One story claimed his unusual BDU was in fact a radiation-proof suit, a necessity for everyone's safety after an early Joe mission. "He just thinks it looks cool, no other explanation needed," was another hypothesis. (How does he take the heat, though? Especially on all of those desert missions...)

Gossip surrounded the man. Some believed him to be a renegade Cobra agent, disillusioned with the serpentine nature of the organization and determined to make things right with the Joe team.

That would explain his codename -- snake-themed monikers tended to be the domain of the Cobra creeps. Why would the Joes have someone in their rank with a name like that unless he'd carried it in with him? Yet, Falcon had made friends with another ex-Cobra who'd seen the light. Invited him over for cards with Tunnel Rat and the other Rawhides. Per Mercer, the ex-Viper, that story was pure bullsugar.

Another rumor had Snake Eyes as some sort of ninja master from the Far East. Maybe even the reincarnated spirit of an ancient _rōnin_ , reborn in the body of a nice Nebraska baby maybe sometime thirty years ago. Karate kicked his way out of his mama's womb.

That one was ridiculous. Although, some of the veteran Joes, like Footloose and Quick Kick, would swear by it. Tunnel Rat dismissed the gossip as rookie hazing. (Quick Kick always seemed to be in the midst of some prank, while Footloose possessed "interesting" opinions on most topics. _So_ interesting you had to assume he was working a bit.)

_Ol' Snakes is just a guy_ , Tunnel Rat told himself. _Not radioactive, not an ancient spirit, just a Joe who watched the same poorly-dubbed afternoon matinees as everyone else._ And he tried to maintain that resolve, even as he stood before this mystery man.

They observed etiquette, exchanged bows.

It's just a training session. Something to keep our minds off what's going on in Arlington.

Snake Eyes provided his opponent some space. Seemed to be inviting him to make the first move.

Not like the guy's gonna go nuclear on the new recruits. Just gonna teach us some basic self-defense moves, right?

Tunnel Rat adopted a stance he'd memorized from those grindhouse kung-fu flicks of his youth. Approached his opponent suddenly, telegraphed a pinning hook kick, greeted Snake Eyes with a hammer fist punch instead.

The mystery man swatted Tunnel Rat's wrist away with such strength, such speed, he thought the mook had broken the thing.

On the concrete, cursing the pain, the Rawhide was down. Who's next?

Next man up was Chuckles. Abusing the Joe team's lenient fatigue policy, the new recruit saw fit to report for duty clad in a loud, half-open Hawaiian shirt. A survivor of that inexplicable battle in the ice dome, Chuckles had earned something of a name for himself thanks to his commitment to duty even while suffering a nasty bout of laryngitis.

In the following weeks, that inflammation of the larynx subsided, revealing to his fellow Joes a hitherto unknown character trait. The rookie actually liked to talk. _A lot._

"Okay, Mr. Strong an' Silent Type, I guess we're gonna find out how you rate against the pride of Fort Lauderdale's Barfight Circuit," he announced in a nasally drawl, bouncing on his heels, adopting the stance of a bare-knuckled fighter.

Snake Eyes, again, granted his opponent the first strike. "Takin' pity on the new kid? Thanks, but the sympathy is --"

No further words escaped Chuckles' lips, just the _uummpph!_ sound that usually accompanies excessive amounts of air traveling northward from the gut to the back of the tonsils. Snake Eyes' left leg returned to his fighting stance so quickly some of the Rawhides weren't even sure what they'd witnessed.

Snake Eyes, rather gently, shuffled Chuckles off to the side with his boot. He motioned for the next combatant to enter their makeshift arena. Three Joes remained: Law, the team's latest MP (his K-9 buddy, Order, hiding behind his master in horror), Big Lob, a retired pro basketball player who'd recently reenlisted and impressed more than a few of the Brass, and the perplexing ninja called Jinx.

Law and Big Lob exchanged a look. In his oft-imitated _Cubano-Americano_ accent, Law asked, "Hey, snake-man? You up for a two-on-one game, eh?"

It's not impossible to imagine Snake Eyes smiling behind his mask. He actually waved the two friends forward, miming what Big Lob interpreted as a "c'mere, you" motion.

"C'mere" they did. Law dancing around Snake Eyes' jabs while Big Lob used his superior size to distract the mystery man from the back. Their strategy prevailed for an impressive fifteen seconds, before Snake Eyes managed to trip Big Lob, pirouette out of the way, and send the pro-baller on top of Law, knocking them both to the ground, Law's MP helmet flying.

Big Lob helped Law to his feet; Order followed them to the sideline, offering soothing licks to the face.

Snake Eyes crossed his arms, stared down his final sparring partner. She didn't say a word. Instead, she removed a swatch of fabric from her belt and tied it around her eyes.

A martial arts expert, exclusively clad in her red _gei_ while on base, Jinx was known for a quirk about fighting best with her eyes closed, certainly, but also for the bad luck she cast like a never-ending shadow. Outside of that...not much.

She was friendly enough with her fellow Rawhides, maybe even _too_ friendly with Falcon, but no one else had gotten close to the lady during her months on the Joe team. The vaguely foreign accent, the tendency to change the topic posthaste whenever a subject turned too personal, and the preference for solo training sessions kept her at an eternal distance from the team.

Maybe she liked it that way. The other soldiers tried not to judge. She'd proven herself in that battle in the Himalayas, and Lt. Falcon vouched for her, so no further conversation was required.

Formalities were exchanged. The mutual bow. The slow circling of your opponent. Did Snake Eyes think this girl insane, challenging anyone, let alone _him,_ with this "blindness" gimmick?

His actions revealed no hesitancy. None his fellow Joes could discern, but if they truly knew "Ol' Snakes," they would've noticed something in his opponent's stance had unnerved the ninja. He was the first to strike this time, a simple forward fist jab. She deflected, her speed temporarily stunning her fellow rookies, leaving Snake Eyes open for a knee strike.

His turn to show off. He gripped her knee, shoved it away, answered with a rear hand punch that landed on her shoulder like a thunderclap. She groaned, channeled the pain into something useful, and responded with dueling jabs. He blocked the first three, let the fourth in. Just barely. Just enough to graze his chin.

Jinx found her arm snatched, her balance undone. No time to collect herself before receiving that knee to her chest. She grabbed his arm for equilibrium, moved as fast as humanly possible to get both feet off the ground. "Jump kick, landing hard on his right shoulder. Immmmpressive," announced Big Lob, offering color commentary.

The energy of the kick sent her somersaulting backwards. By the time Jinx landed, her opponent had already regrouped, was racing towards her, in fact. A sweep at her feet, another jump, a wicked strike from Jinx on the way down.

She felt his jawbone vibrate against her knuckles; her fellow Rawhides _ooooh-_ ed their shock and sympathetic pain from the sideline. That closed fist haymaker looked like it _hurt_. (Someone better tell Falcon not to make this girl mad!)

Jinx pressed the advantage, locked arms with her dazed sparring partner, then flipped him over. Tried to, at any rate. Instead, Snake Eyes braced himself, shoved Jinx an appropriate distance away.

His turn for jabs now, coming at a rate Jinx couldn't begin to fathom. The wind telegraphed their arrival, but fifteen, sixteen, seventeen jabs later and she'd let one slip.

Straight into her nose. Copper taste entering her mouth, she reflexively dropped her guard for a sliver of a second. Snake Eyes took advantage with a torrent of knife hand strikes, palm down, brutalizing neck, collar bone, shoulder, humerus, wrist. Mercy was eventually shown by kicking Jinx's legs out from her, putting her on the concrete.

Acknowledging her loss, Jinx graciously accepted the hand up. Fellow Rawhides were applauding, whistling, congratulating her for not only outlasting all the others, but even landing some brutal hits on Ol' Snakes.

Jinx didn't return to the sidelines. Mask off, she kept her eye on the mystery man, who was, just possibly, sizing her up as well. Where _did_ the Joes' resident ninja learn these moves? She was more than curious to know.

As for Snake Eyes, was he as impressed as her fellow rookies? Did he want to know how the Rawhide, _blindfolded_ , could move in response to the wind so effortlessly? Was Snake Eyes questioning if their shadowy new recruit was familiar with certain techniques unknown in this land?

Like, perhaps, the Ear That Sees?

April 19, 1965

The boy had invited her out for a drive. Told her they could study together; she'd help him with Algebra, he'd help her out with English. She dismissed him, told him her parents didn't like him hanging around.

Colin was persistent. If they went to the same school, she would've known his reputation. Not necessarily for being handsy, he was raised right, but for never accepting a pretty girl's initial rejection for a date.

She didn't know why she eventually relented. Didn't understand why he insisted on the two of them eating lunch on the hood of his car. Was this some local custom her tutors had failed to convey?

"See?" Colin asked, removing his carefully wrapped meal. She knew that style of packaging, recognized Mrs. Kristofer's work from the packed lunches resting in her refrigerator. "This is called a cheese and tomato sandwich. A delicacy for people on my side of the tracks."

"Very amusing," the girl responded, accepting the second sandwich from Colin. "Chorizo and mushroom tapas on whole grain bread, a cold beer, that's the kind of lunch we enjoyed back home."

Colin leaned back on the hood. "Your home country doesn't have any taboos on young folks and alcohol?" he asked, pulling on his soda straw.

"I don't think _any_ country has the taboos you people have developed."

"Well, uptight we may be, but it sure was kind of 'us people' to allow in refugees from this alleged paradise you left behind," he fired back, just barely covering his annoyance with humor. "Tell me more about the Trabant, girl. I love hearing about that spark plug with a roof your government calls a car."

The boy had been talking to her father, she just knew it. Back home, the servants knew their place. Didn't allow their urchins to tag along; and even if one slipped into the home, it surely would've known to keep its mouth shut around its betters.

"Never said home was perfect. And I don't want to debate this with you again."

"Yeah, understood," Colin answered after finishing his bite. "You miss home. But that doesn't mean it's okay to dump all over the place that took you in. Mom says your parents love it here. They're even taking classes --"

"To erase their accents?" she interjected. "I know. _Disgusting._ You don't want to know how I reacted when Papa suggested I join them."

"I can conjure up a decent picture."

She looked over to her lunch companion. His eyes closed, stupid grin covering his face as he absorbed the early afternoon sun. "Colin, you have yet to catch the slightest hint of that side of me."

"Oh, really?" he replied, eyes still closed.

"Yes, really. Now, do you want to study or just prattle on all afternoon?"

Colin came back to life. Sat his sandwich behind him as he scooted closer to his date. "Darling, I have a list of things I'd rather do than study. A long one..."

Her panicked expression was enough to put him in his place. Colin was taught better, should've known not to come on so strong. "Okay, sorry. Yeah, I'll get the books and we can get started."

He dashed off the hood of the car; didn't notice the girl taking secret glances at him as he opened the backseat and left half his tanned body outside, fishing through the bookbag.
CHAPTER THREE

She's a fan, at least. He had that much going for him. Only reason why she let him in the door in the first place.

"Mrs. Kristofer, you have to understand that I'm on your side here," said Hector Ramirez, graciously accepting the cup of coffee offered by his host. "I'm not eager to believe the worst about your son, believe me."

A living room shrine to Colin Kristofer, gone too soon, lost in a war Hector protested a few times back in college. Met his first wife at one of those rallies, actually.

Framed photos of a little sandy-haired kid with his model cars, golden retriever, winning baseball trophy, surrounded a 24 x 36 recreation of Colin's official draft portrait. A "man" in name only, far too young for that uniform, half-smiling against a gray background.

"But I saw you on the television last night," Jocelyn Kristofer replied, taking her seat. Hector could barely connect the woman before him with the young mother in those photos, time punishing Jocelyn more severely than she deserved. "That image on the screen behind you...my boy's photo positioned right next to that evil man in the mask. How could you do that, Mr. Ramirez?"

Her voice, that shaky tenor, the mist in her deep-set topaz eyes, could break even a man of stone. Hector wondered, for just a moment, if the lady had invited him in solely for the guilt trip.

He debated his options, decided to go straight to "warmth." Hand on Jocelyn's knee, he answered in a honeyed tone, "Ma'am, please understand that I stated _nothing_ as fact. I'm merely following a story, going where the clues lead me. And, sadly, there is evidence now that your boy faked his death."

Last thing she wanted to hear. Jocelyn sucked in the emotions, turned her face away. Hector squeezed her knee. "I know, I know, it's a bitter pill, Mrs. Kristofer. It truly is. But, believe me when I tell you that I'm not rooting for this to be true. I'm sure your Colin was a good boy, served his country with honor."

"So why would someone start spreading these lies?" she asked, reaching for a tissue.

"I don't know, ma'am," said Hector, offering her instead his silk pocket square, last year's Christmas gift from the network execs. "I can't speak to the darkness that lies in some hearts. But, as a journalist, it's my duty to chase facts, Mrs. Kristofer. And if it's true that your son left the warzone, returned home, and began...a new life, I have to get to the bottom of it."

"Oh, Mr. Ramirez, you have to believe this isn't true. You can't just spread rumors. My son loved this country, was proud to serve, and could never...he couldn't..."

"It's okay, ma'am," Hector consoled, moving his hand up to her shoulder. Jocelyn collapsed in his direction. He caught her, squeezed her tight, cursed the woman for prohibiting cameras in her home. What a friggin' moment to be lost to time. "No, it's okay. Let my shoulder absorb those tears."

A thought stirred Hector. "Say, Mrs. Kristofer...do you think an autograph might make you feel better?"

Knock at the door. Through the window, Hector saw the face of his field producer. Excusing himself, Hector left Mrs. Kristofer on the couch and discreetly exited the front door.

"You got anything, Glenn?" he asked, warming his hands under his armpits, cursing himself for leaving his coat on the woman's couch.

Glenn was beaming. "Oh, I'd say so. They tried to block the cameras best they could, but we managed the clearest shot you could ever hope for. And when they opened the casket, Hector, know what they found?"

Steam on his breath, Hector snapped, "Old bones?"

"Nothing, buddy. Nothin' in that casket but stale air."

"... _and with government officials staying tightlipped, it's possible weeks will pass before any information will be revealed to the public. What we do know, however, is that a critical piece in the mystery of Cobra Commander's identity was, very likely, exhumed from the earth this day. A candy cane for federal investigators, unwelcome coal in the stocking of this unfortunate woman, Jocelyn Kristofer. This is Hector Ramirez, wishing you love and peace from Salem County."_

Leigh clicked off the television, poured herself a drink. This Colin Kristofer story, it was a heartbreaker, but the truth had to be known. Over two months had passed since Leigh arrived at FBI Headquarters, packet in hand, offering to reveal the truth about the most notorious terrorist organization in history.

The agents initially dismissed her as a crank. Took her to the break room, one agent asking her cursory questions while consuming his morning orange juice and crullers. Wasn't expecting her to correct him on some of his details. ("No, it was Major Bludd who served in the Australian Special Air Service, not George Winston, a.k.a. Michel LeClerc, a.k.a. Firefly, assuming you're keeping track of his latest alias.")

Had her locked in a soundproof room within ten minutes, none other than POTUS himself on the line, expecting updates every hour on the hour. The circumstances that led Leigh to make that decision, to reveal details on over a dozen Cobra operations, to spoil the identity of the most wanted terrorist in American history, remained murky. But the atavistic desire within her to speak out, to cripple the plots of Cobra, and yes, to make amends for her egregious sins, that was very clear. It was a fire that still burned hot within her.

That's why she kept passing those lie detector tests. Why every profiler and psych agent sent to suss her out all came back with the same conclusion. This woman, regardless of her past, regardless of what she's done, isn't feeding us a line.

She's changed, she's useful, and we're keeping those snakes as far away from her as humanly possible.

She arrived in Glynn County, Wisconsin three weeks prior. The name "Leigh Miller" selected from a computer program of randomly generated monikers, experimental laser eye surgery from Europe depriving her of those glasses, and routine cosmetic procedures offering a new nose, chin, and cheekbones.

The final step in erasing Leigh's former identity? Simple drugstore hair dye; "Champagne Blonde" according to the label on the bottle.

Leigh's new life in the Badger State, in her unassuming suburban neighborhood, had been as peaceful as any Fed could've hoped for during these three weeks. Outside of that one kid who lost control of his brakes, came this close to crashing his Huffy into her (and soon finding himself swarmed by men in $800 suits), Leigh couldn't have asked for a quieter respite from the life she once knew.

Sometimes the boredom got to her. Making friends helped. Little Mikey, who offered reasonable rates for shoveling her walkway, was usually good company. So were her next-door neighbors, the Dugards. Sweet older couple, always inviting her over for coffee or Bridge games, always offering to set her up with their grandson.

Funny she was thinking of them, because through her front window, there just so happened to be Dennis Dugard, heading towards her recently cleared walkway. Fearful he'd lose his grip on his cane out in this weather, she opened the door and stepped outside.

"Dennis, what are you doing out?" Leigh asked, wrapping her housecoat around her thin frame. "The snow's just going to get worse today, you know that, don't you?"

Nodding, Dennis replied, "I know, I know. Just wanted to return this to ya before I forgot. Or it got lost in that mountain of newspapers Darlene saved for cleanin' windows in the spring." In his free hand was a copy of _A Timeline of Flight_ , a technical journal documenting the history of fixed-wing aircraft. Dennis thought it was the cutest thing he'd ever seen, a girl like Leigh collecting books on warplanes.

"Very conscientious of you, Dennis. You want me to walk you back to your house?"

Dennis shook his head, laughed. "No, no. I'm not that feeble yet, dear. See you tomorrow for Bridge?"

"Wouldn't miss it!" Leigh said, waving farewell.

Leading with his cane, Dennis made the trip back to his front porch. Looking both ways, he knocked a peculiar pattern on the door, then waited for the prerequisite knocks from the other side. As the door opened, Darlene gave him a smirk for a greeting.

"So, you get anything worth traveling out in this weather for?"

Dennis groaned, tossed his cane to the side. "We were told to have routine check-ins. Wasn't expecting some great reveal, just following orders."

"I would've gone. Told you that." Darlene didn't look his way as she returned to the study, flipped a switch, and waited for the intricate computer setup to finish rotating in from its hidden wall compartment.

Dennis followed, tried to keep the conversation going. She shushed him, typed into the keypad a coded message. Thousands of miles away, the recipient on the other end unscrambled the symbols and recorded Darlene's missive.

Romeo has completed daily check-in. Subject's status unchanged. Juliet remains skeptical, Romeo...less so.

TRANSCRIPT: ABN Television Studios

The _Late Tonight with David Fetter_ program. Special guest, comedian Hill Bix.

DAVID: So, you keepin' up with the news lately? Now you, Hill, I always view you as someone -- you're a fella that likes to stay informed, aren't you? I get that sense about you.

HILL: Oh, Dave. The news. Nothing depressing there, huh? [Audience laughs.] So nice to know that our fine government, in the midst of that meat grinder they sucked us into, ten-fifteen-whatever years ago, was also training a terrorist lunatic.

[Light laughter and applause from audience.]

DAVID: Now, Hill, if this story is true \--

HILL: Which it is.

DAVID: Okay, assuming you're right, that doesn't mean the military is responsible for one soldier's actions.

HILL: Really, Dave? Seems to me, they put the gun in his hands, taught him the tactics. Introduced him to that lifestyle, normalized it for him. He gets home, has a bad day, decides "Hey! Real life...chaotic, difficult, meaningless. I know! Start my _own_ army! Control the weather, brainwash politicians, kidnap national monuments for ransom!" [Guest takes drag from cigarette.] There's a certain logic there.

DAVID: The kind of logic I think only you can grasp, Hill. [Host chuckles uncomfortably.]

HILL: I don't think I'm the nutty one here, Dave. Seems like, with the ol' Red Scare winding down, the defense contractors pulling the strings of our leaders demanded a new threat to keep us scared and obedient. I think this Commander chump is off his rocker, yeah, but I don't blame him for ending up this way. Ultimately, we oughtta be pointing the fingers at ourselves. [Portions of the audience groan.] Oh, did I upset your tender feelings?

DAVID: Okay, Hill. [Host again chuckles uncomfortably.] Don't want to be upsetting that ol' blood pressure. [Taps notecards nervously against desk, continues chuckling.]

HILL: Oh, mister tough guy, why don't you sit down? [Gestures towards audience member.] Yeah, I see that crayon drawing on your arm. Eagle, anchor, globe, real original. [Indecipherable chatter from crowd.] Yeah, tough guy? Come down here and say that.

[Man emerges from audience. Is withheld by security.]

DAVID: [Tapping notecards faster.] Hey, hey now. I think -- [Host chuckles uncomfortably.] I think Hill's got our fine audience a bit worked up. No, Hill, have a seat. [Security appears onstage.] We'll, uh, I guess we'll be back after these messages. According to that cue card, Twisted Pet Tricks is next! That'll, uh, that'll be fun.

[Band plays opening notes of "The Man Who Sold the World" as the program breaks for commercial. Comedian Hill Bix escapes security, rushes towards audience member.]
CHAPTER FOUR

"No offense, but I didn't ask for company," Falcon told Jinx, lining up a shot at the nine-ball.

The Joes could often be found at Rhonda's, a pool hall located an hour's drive from their homebase, an island of almost-civilization out there in the desert. They kept the tables busy, those nights duty wasn't chaining them to the base. This evening, Falcon had been alone at the corner table, duffel bag packed with clothes and toiletries still resting inside his jeep, practicing a game of Three Ball.

He could've extended his bereavement leave; wasn't sure why he declined the General's offer. Didn't know why he hadn't returned to base, either. Uncomfortable at home, uneasy about returning to work, not particularly invested in this solo billiards match...Falcon recognized the sour mood, just hoped it wouldn't last.

"Didn't even know you'd be here, soldier," Jinx responded, stepping out of his way as he maneuvered towards the opposite side of the table. "Things were slow, so I came here to break Sci-Fi's top score on _Space Commandos_."

Falcon racked up the same three balls, took another opening shot. "Uh-huh."

"But if I did want to speak to you, to find out how you're doing, would that be so bad, huh?"

He didn't answer, just lined up another shot. In the corner of his eye, he spotted a flea-bitten derelict brush past Jinx. "Excuse you," Jinx called to the man.

The peroxide blonde on his arm snapped her gum. "Sorry, babe," she spoke with questionable sincerity.

"What's your problem, guy? You've been hoggin' this table all night," the fleabag inquired, leaning over the side pocket. Halitosis breath, chapped lips, thinning hair pulled into a ponytail, sunglasses indoors. Real catch, here.

"Plenty of others free," Falcon answered bluntly, taking his shot, not caring if the seven-ball whacked the guy on his dingy fingers.

"Yeah," the missus butted in, "but we want this 'un!"

Jinx stepped to the couple, ignored her instincts and tried to diffuse the situation. "Guys, I think it'd be best for everyone if you took an open table."

"You don't understand, toots." The fleabag snatched the eight-ball from the table. "My lady wants _this_ one, and what my lady wants, she gets."

Falcon aimed his cue in the punk's direction. "You've got some nerve, pal."

"Do I? Only person I see hoggin' a table 'round here is you, buddy. You one'a those servicemen stationed out in the boonies? Think that entitles you to a table, Mr. American Hero?" The fleabag wheezed, proud of his observation. "Way it sounds, you folk are mostly just cleanin' up a mess your own organization started."

The Lieutenant scoffed. Began a slow walk around the table, asked, "Is this a conversation we should be having in the parking lot?"

The missus clapped her hands together with glee. The fleabag laughed, positioned his girl behind him. "May be, buddy."

Jinx slipped between the men, lifted her hands as a peaceful gesture. "People, this is nothing to be fighting about."

Falcon spent a second studying the fleabag; chose not to acknowledge the plaintive look in Jinx's eye. "Probably isn't, but I think this mutt caught me in the right mood. I'm not looking to bust up Rhonda's establishment, but if you want to settle this outside, I won't be hard to find."

Dr. Mindbender approached the door reading "Manager's Office," fast food dinner still weighing heavy in his stomach. The Commander always declared Mindbender's ensemble to be the most ridiculous of the Cobra elites; his melodramatic cloak, ornate gloves, beryllium steel codpiece, and bare chest perhaps better suited for a late-night showing of some '70s cult movie.

If changes weren't made soon, if they were incapable of rebuilding the infrastructure, of eating food with real nutrients again, Mindbender questioned if perhaps he should retire the look. A theatrical rebuke of his abandoned life as an orthodontist, true, but not too forgiving of the phenomenon known as "middle age spread."

A refurbished Battle Android Trooper followed behind, carrying the six-foot case across his shoulders. "I have a suspicion, my metallic companion, that today is perchance the day. After weeks and weeks of disappointment, we have finally stumbled across the perfect design. And by 'we,'" the doctor turned to the B.A.T., "I don't mean _us_ , naturally. Excellent work carrying that weight around, though, trooper. I knew I rescued you from the battlefield for a reason."

In actuality, the reason was money. The days of salvageable equipment carelessly being left amongst the shrapnel of battle, of new fleets of futuristic vehicles arriving almost monthly, of balanced rations developed by Oxford-educated nutritionists and sessions from trainers with Olympic pedigrees, were now over.

Even the baroque multistoried castles, with those magnificently exquisite snake themes, were today chapters in Cobra's history. When Mindbender signed on to this organization, he could've never dreamed of one day hiding out in the halls of a South Carolina water park, closed for the winter. So pedestrian, so unworthy of the grand design of Cobra.

His mind turned, retraced the steps. Numerous assets lost in battle, Serpentor dead, the Commander...indisposed, Cobra's checkbook had become its greatest liability. Naming hedge fund geniuses Tomax and Xamot as intermediate heads seemed a wise decision at the time.

Did Mindbender, some part of him, desire the position? Naturally. Was he cognizant of his dearth of charisma, of his inability to fulfill the demands placed upon a leader of men? Regrettably.

Tomax and Xamot were diligent in assessing Cobra's financial situation. Devised a means of rescuing the organization from insolvency, wasted little time locating buyers for Cobra's most prized resources.

And, as soon as the checks cleared, exited Cobra's makeshift headquarters in the black of night. Several billions in the sale of Cobra real estate, eagerly snapped up by every oil-rich dictator on the planet, made their way into the parasitic twins' private accounts.

The rank and file knew nothing of this, the Vipers continuing the assortment of operations begun under Serpentor's command. Occasionally, the paychecks didn't make their way into the mail, leaving Dr. Mindbender with the unenviable task of communicating assurances that Cobra had experienced but a setback, that the most glorious days were still to come.

Cobra needed a leader. If nothing else, a figurehead with a knack for recruiting the unwashed and keeping them motivated for battle. The doctor, lamentably, was forced to select the most disagreeable of options.

And, so, here he was, knocking on the wooden office door of one Clifford Muggridge, seasonal employee of The Great American H-2-Whoa! & Fireworks Emporium. The voice that beckoned Mindbender inside did not belong to Mr. Muggridge.

It carried more of a serpentine inflection.

"Come in, if you mussst..."

I don't want to beat this guy up.

Falcon thought back to the look on the fleabag's face, interrupting his game, making those cracks, just pleading for this lesson.

_Actually, I do_. This almost caused a smile. _But I probably shouldn't._

"Falcon, I can't let you do this," Jinx told the Lieutenant, hand on his arm.

"Don't recall you outranking me. I miss a ceremony while out?"

She tugged at his sleeve. "I mean it. Let's just get out of here."

Falcon watched the fleabag approach; he'd replaced the woman by his side with a cold bottle of liquid courage. What a shame. Didn't the tough guy want his old lady to enjoy the show?

"Jinx, just go back inside, or back to base, or whatever. But don't --"

He turned, and she wasn't even there. Already approaching the fleabag, her posture indicating she'd be asking far less nicely now.

"Listen, pal," she said midstride, "you need to consider yourself lucky you're not wearing that ponytail as a necktie and get the heck out of here."

This seemed to amuse the mutt; had him laughing so hard he couldn't even speak. What he could do was pour out that bottle, every last ounce atop Jinx's head.

Truth is, Jinx could've kicked the shins out of the loser before the first drop reached the tips of her moussed 'do. But the ninja showed the proper discipline; remembered the teachings of not only her blind sensei, but every superior officer on the Joe team.

Not that she wasn't tempted, of course. She wished for nothing more than a clean shot to take down the punk.

Falcon, conversely, didn't keep those wishes in reserve. Charged in at full speed, kept his head up, and used the front of his shoulder as a blistering point of contact.

"No, don't --" Jinx tried to warn, stepping aside just in time to watch her teammate's blurry body collide with the fleabag.

He hit the pavement hard, but surprised Falcon with just how well he could take a blow. Maybe some part of the soldier was curious about this punk's ego; just how many brawls he'd gotten himself into that must've turned out all right. Mainly, though, he just wanted to keep the punk on the ground.

Falcon got in one easy hit as the fleabag tried to position himself off the pavement. Felt his next punch blocked, right as the fleabag took advantage of the space between their bodies. Filled it up fast with his knee.

Breathless from the knockback, Falcon's face narrowly avoided a follow-up hit. Not due to his own dexterity, but thanks to Jinx pulling him off the ground in time. "Jinx!" he admonished. "I don't need you to baby me!"

She had no time to rebut, only a half-second to gesture towards the animal as he rose from the pavement. Falcon welcomed the punk back up with a roundhouse kick that sent him rearward two full feet.

"Just let this go, Falcon!" Jinx shouted, needlessly. Falcon's back was already turned to her. Approaching his wobbly opponent, Falcon was stunned when the queasy fighter stiffened up, nailed him with a solid hook.

The Lieutenant, foolishly, assumed he'd kept a safe distance. He took the sore chin as a lesson, made sure he'd take the punk as fast as possible now. His resolve was iron, but that didn't mean his rival would play along. It took one hundred-sixty more seconds of this ridiculous choreography -- jabs, blocks, elbows, cheap shots -- to get the fleabag on the ground for good this time.

The battle done, Falcon was gasping, patting down his face, thanking the heavens he didn't feel any cuts. He turned to Jinx, thought he'd offer an apology.

She was gone.

Mindbender and his droid companion passed the threshold, beheld their leader. Fluorescent light reflected off his bald head, a powder blue color. The grand revelation of those days in the Himalayas, the truth of the Commander's previous identity, had been a hammering blow to Mindbender. The other Cobras seemed unfazed, excited even, but with the aid of hindsight, the doctor dismissed the jubilation as a show for the dangerous clan revealed as the Commander's superiors.

Nasty, hideous freaks. Not the kind even the most hardened Cobra fighter would choose to cross.

The Commander's abysmal posture had him slouching over Mr. Muggridge's desk, videogame joystick taking a punishment from his thumb. Bubblegum bubble popped in his mouth. This was an image of the great Cobra Commander the average Cobra underling could never envision back in the glory days, one not likely to inspire unwavering loyalty.

"I wasss almost through with this level, but never mind, I sssuppose..."

The doctor stepped around the desk and unplugged Mr. Muggridge's desktop computer, which amazingly, had never known the joys of action platform gaming until the previous three weeks.

"Hey! What'sss wrong with you?!" the Commander shouted.

"Commander, we've been through this. You have game time after dinner, and not before. You have many schemes to be plotting out, yes? Now, up against the wall. It's time to measure again."

The Commander muttered what were surely curses under his breath, even while complying with Dr. Mindbender's order. Against the faux-wood paneling, the Commander corrected his posture, stretched his arms, and clicked his heels together.

"Never any fun..."

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Ssso...what'sss with the B.A.T.?" he asked the man who possessed too much attitude for an underling.

"You'll learn in a minute," answered the doctor, marking with a pencil the top of that blue head. "One and one-half centimeters since yesterday. Not bad, but not very good, either. Tell me, Cobra Commander, do you feel comfortable leading your soldiers into battle at the intimidating height of five foot four? Remember, the tales of Napoleon's lack of stature _were_ apocryphal..."

"I'm ssstill growing, that's what's important," said the Commander, gesturing towards the other pencil marks on the wall. Hand folded behind his waist, the Commander marched over to the nearby terrarium, examined his pet cobra.

"Yes, but at what rate is this growth? How much longer do you wish to hide out here?"

The Commander had no response. Removing a plastic storage container from the cabinet above, he popped the lid and extracted a pet store gerbil by its tail. The cobra slithered away from his corner, craned his head and happily accepted his meal. The joy the Commander took in watching the display could only be described as unnerving.

A striking golden color, the snake might've been a prized exhibit at the local zoo, likely outshining its fellow reptile prisoners in the glass displays. A closer look at the serpent, however, exhibited a different truth. Were it revealed to the public, this snake would have been subject to new fields of zoological inquiry.

Its possession of ten eyes, five divided evenly on each side of its head, would cause a stir, there could be no doubt. And that's before the researchers even discovered the snake was, as he was so fond of uttering in his final days of verbal articulacy, "onccce a man..."

"Would you not prefer help in the matter?" pressed Dr. Mindbender, instructing his B.A.T. to unlock the case. Inside was revealed a battle suit, polished silver and cobalt, the proud Cobra emblem a crimson brand perfectly centered on its helmet.

Arms crossed, the Commander made his assessment. "Asss you stated earlier, Mindbender, 'not bad...but not good, either.' I prefer my previous dress, if we're to be honessst."

"Aesthetics are not what's important, my dear Commander. Understand, this is no typical suit of armor, even if the designs are exquisite in that respect. This shall provide you with something greater, something our reduced organization greatly requires."

"Which would be..." he asked, examining the suit.

Mindbender typed a code into a hidden keypad located on its shoulder. Hydraulic hisses accompanied the loosening of the suit's joints, allowing the Commander to try it on.

"...the return of our leader, as we remember him. Strong, glorious, _tall_ , out in the field of battle. The cloning process was a success, Commander, but the niceties of _instantaneous_ cloning, of returning you to the age of that original cell sample...those are cumbersome, I'll confess."

A florid way of phrasing it. The Commander had spent the previous month in this new form a hormonal mess -- moody in the mornings, inattentive in his daily plots of skullduggery, and far too obsessed with the mirror, bemoaning his latest acne outbreak. Popping on each modular component of the suit, the Commander eyed Mindbender, beckoned him to continue.

"This suit, however, should be the answer we were searching for. I realize it's a voluminous fit at the moment, but just be patient. The suit is transmitting high-frequency signals, stimulating the relevant glandular tissues, coating you in a mega- _mega_ hertz layer of accelerated adolescence."

The Commander studied his hand, wagged his fingers and watched his baggy glove dangle in response. "How long...?"

"Within twenty-four hours, Commander, I believe you'll be through the worst of these pubescent years. You might even wake to find yourself in the physical prime of your life, assuming the fates are kind."

Patting down the suit, the Commander discovered a sidearm. After straightening out his gloves, he took the pistol in hand and recreated the stances of his favorite Wild West villains of the past. "One more day to live out my childish fantasiesss, hmm? B.A.T., present yourssself!"

Dutifully obeying, the android took its position before its commander. He responded by blasting off its right hand.

"Commander! We have limited resources, as is. This is most --"

"Silenccce, you!" he snapped back, blasting the remains of the hand, dancing about on the floor. "I won't have to listen to your orderss for much longer, will I? Meantime, I want to smash sssomething!"

Five more shots severed the B.A.T.'s right arm. Tittering with glee, the Commander tossed the gun to the side, making a mad dash towards the android. He crashed straight into the B.A.T.'s chest, knocking it into the pair of filing cabinets positioned by the door. Whatever files Mr. Muggridge had meticulously catalogued now spilled onto the carpet, inadvertent confetti for this parade of violence.

The B.A.T. then found itself under assault by its own right arm, the Commander unfazed by the electrical sparks and miniature explosions.

That hysterical, high-pitched laughter Dr. Mindbender knew so well. And, were he being truthful with himself, he'd missed it. Sullen, isolated Cobra Commander, working his way out of puberty in this new body, had been a dull partner in crime. The man-child before him, relieving his teenage aggressions at the expense of a B.A.T. held together by wire and paperclips, was at least enjoying himself again.

More exercise than those silly computer games provided.

"If you're quite done, Commander, I've brought along the technical specs for the armor. The removal of the helmet can be quite the bother, given the amount of C4 lining its interior. You'll want to read up on that." Mindbender handed the papers to the Commander, still giggling, still gripping that B.A.T. arm with one hand, even though his opponent was now little more than ashes staining the carpet.

"Also, I've compiled a list of nutrients that can aid you in your transition into true adulthood. This would require you to eat something outside of french-fries and milkshakes for a few days, but...ah, what's this?"

"What'sss what?" asked the Commander, now catching his breath.

"Your eyebrows. I do believe they've moved northward almost an inch since you donned the armor ten minutes ago. Most impressive, Commander!" Reviewing the face before him, specifically the flesh surrounding the helmet's bulletproof glass visor, Mindbender's mood changed.

"The skin tone is still an issue, however. How will our remaining recruits react to your true mien? Those around for the unveiling in the ice dome are no longer among the living, so their opinion is rather inconsequential. But those grunts scattered across the country, those still waiting to see their commander...?"

The Commander cackled. "Funny you should mention thisss. We faced a similar issue, back in the days when you were far more concerned with missing lateral incisorsss and malocclusions. Quite the story, I'd sssay..."

The fleabag stepped back into Rhonda's, ignored the assorted comments from the regulars, pushed away the peroxide queen who wanted to nursemaid him. Stepped to the payphone by the restrooms. Waited his turn this time, as a lonely traveling salesman was calling his girlfriend back home.

When the sap was done, he inserted his quarter, tapped in the number. Waited for the third tone, tapped in more numbers, a perplexing combination for any strangers who would've been watching.

The doctor wasn't answering. Typical. Had to leave a message; how he hated talking into these things.

"Last day in Utah. Found a potential." The affected drawl began to slip during the final words. "Jaw is pretty sore." He grumbled softly, wiped his lip with a napkin. "Anyway, New York tomorrow."

He returned the receiver, had a look around. Decided to go find that blonde.
CHAPTER FIVE

"Good morning, Lieutenant. I trust your family leave went well."

General Hawk's office didn't reveal any idiosyncratic quirks belonging to the Joes' commanding officer. Anyone who knew the man wouldn't expect it to.

"Mom's doing about as well as could be expected," answered Falcon, hiding his nerves while taking the seat facing the General. "Unfortunately, she's no stranger to loss. Not that any mother should ever have to bury her son."

A miniature American flag sat on the desk, joined by a West Point coffee mug and a metal-wire basket packed with manila file folders you just had to assume the General deeply despised. The surrounding walls consisted of the prerequisite portraits of higher-ups in the chain of command, the current Commander in Chief once again receiving headliner status in the top frame.

"True words, Falcon. No one knows the cost of violence more than a soldier, except for the ones he leaves behind. And, if you'll forgive me for being brash, that's the reason I asked to speak to you." The General folded his hands together. "Where's your head at? You do understand that we have programs to help with the grieving process."

Falcon delayed his response; did anything he could to break Hawk's gaze. He looked up to find the lone photo not representing the Brass. Nailed above a corner filing cabinet was a 9 x 12 "family photo" of General Hawk, then known as Colonel Abernathy, standing with the twelve soldiers he hand selected to form the original G. I. Joe team.

Falcon thought of that team, of the legacy his brother served. Of the obligations now weighing upon his shoulders. And, shamefully, of a previous meeting with the General, only a few weeks after joining the team. One necessitated by Falcon abandoning his post, falling victim to his worst instincts and causing the Joes a serious amount of grief. An enraged General Hawk ordered Falcon to his quarters to await his court martial, and he was right to do so.

The question asked in the office today was invasive, yet necessary. The General was owed an answer, regardless of Falcon's instinct to clam up. "No offense, General, but I think it's in my nature to keep things close to the vest. The wake the other Joes arranged was appreciated, and I hope it helped the rest of the team deal with the loss. As for me...I loved my brother, and I'm mourning him in my own way."

"Just know that we're here for you, soldier. It's no easy thing, losing a brother."

The General's words carried an empathy that Falcon just knew couldn't be faked. He also knew asking the General to elaborate on his own losses, prying into affairs Falcon didn't have the proper "need to know" for, was breaking both spoken and unspoken Joe protocol.

"Truthfully, sir," said Falcon, moving the conversation where he felt both men would be more comfortable, "what I think I'd like better than anything is a chance to step on some snakes. I know we've had a lot of luck on those raids recently..."

The General leaned back in his chair, reunited his hands in a folded position. After considering the proposition for a possible eternity, he returned with, "Falcon, I'm reluctant to send any Joe out into the field if he's not ready. But if you think a return to action is what you need, we might be able to arrange something. Tell me, what are your thoughts on this Colin Kristofer case?"

"That KIA we're supposed to believe is actually Cobra Commander? One of our own?" Falcon's eyes darkened, revealed his anger. "What would anyone think?"

"I recognize there are rumors going around, and as you might've guessed, no shortage of federal agencies investigating these claims, all marking their own territory. Officially, the Joe team has been told to defer to the NSA, CIA, and FBI." The General's hands returned to his desk. He grabbed a pen, gestured towards his subordinate. "Unofficially, I think I might be able to authorize some leave time for a Lieutenant and two of his fellow Joes. And if you just so happened to select a specific town in New Jersey to spend a snowy winter break, well...your CO wouldn't have an opinion on that."

Falcon grinned, the first real smile in weeks. "Hypothetically, this Lieutenant would be fine with that arrangement. Permission to toss out names for a small team?"

"Granted."

"I'd like to take a certain E-4 Corporal along, one known for a unique perspective on life."

"Footloose?" The General's surprised gasp nearly turned into a laugh. "All honesty, Lieutenant, I wasn't expecting to hear that name."

"He looks at the world in his own way, sees angles I couldn't begin to grasp. Yeah, a case this odd, I think his perspective could be quite valuable. Wouldn't mind him watching my back, either, if we happened to run into some snakes."

"Understood. Who else?"

"Well, General, with your permission...I'd like to bring a fellow Rawhide along. Specifically, ah, I was thinking of Jinx."

The General's expression changed. Part amusement, part disapproval. Falcon tried to tell himself he was imagining things. "You recognize this would make you the first Joe to ever request the ninja as a squadmate. Not afraid of her relationship with lady luck?"

"Hey, I used to buy into that bunk, too, until she saved my bacon up in the Himalayas. No, I'd feel comfortable taking Jinx anywhere today." Falcon wasn't bluffing; his answer came easy because it was an honest one.

There were a few insignificant lies of omission, however. One of them he might've been able to get away with, assuming no one was spreading rumors about a victory kiss the two (hypothetically) once shared.

The General's curious expression didn't break. "And you're positive you have no ulterior motives for wanting to spend time with the lady?"

Falcon's acid reflux kicked in. He should've known General Hawk wasn't in the dark about anything happening in his command.

"Sir, full disclosure...she's good company. Honestly, she's good for helping me keep my head on straight. On a mission like this, I think I might need a calming influence."

The General considered Falcon's response, then with no visible display of emotion, reached for his memo pad. While scratching out a note, he said, "Okay, Lieutenant, I trust your judgment. And, assuming the timing works out, I think perhaps you should take a detour on your way back to base; consider spending the holidays with Mrs. Falcone."

The Lieutenant didn't verbalize an answer, but he nodded his thanks.

"Think you can be ready to roll out by this afternoon?"

"No doubt, General."

Hawk ripped the memo from the pad, handed Falcon the paper. "Excellent. Just pay a visit to Psyche-Out's office and give him this."

Falcon bit his tongue, withheld that visceral " _What?_ " response.

The General reached for his coffee. "After he gives his approval, you'll be all set, soldier."

The city of Ashburn, Kentucky. Population just shy of three thousand souls.

Dr. Mindbender, in his previous life as an orthodontist, in his current life as the science czar of a notorious terroristic organization, would've never imagined traveling here. Couldn't foresee himself roaming those dirt roads, losing time behind combine harvesters, narrowly avoiding collisions with deer.

Wouldn't have dreamed the infamous Cobra Commander would plant "an invaluable asset" inside the humble brick structure that rested on a near-dead street, two blocks away from the single-story city hall building.

"This place must be a hundred years old," the doctor remarked, parking their rental car on the side of the street.

"Clossse. It's an industrial refrigeration house," the Commander explained. Even if the region was experiencing unseasonably frosty temperatures, he'd appear to be overdressed for the weather. Sun hat, oversized aviator sunglasses, scarf, trenchcoat. Almost as if he were hiding a futuristic battle suit under the garments.

Standing at the side of the car, taking in the modest sights, he continued. "Before the average plebian had access to a refrigerator, they stored their meats in places like thisss."

"And I am to assume that Cobra is now this establishment's sole client?"

He opened the front door, gestured for Mindbender to enter. "Mister Alligood isss well compensated for maintaining his grandfather's place of business today."

Stepping inside, the doctor presumed the older man relaxing at the front desk, mindlessly digesting the game show on his portable television, was this Mister Alligood. His reaction implied he'd never even heard of the concept of customers.

"Uh, yes?" Alligood asked, recovering his wind, reaching for the television knob. "Can I help you?"

"It'sss quite all right, Mr. Alligood," the Commander answered in a tone hinting at a long familiarity. He pointed to his absurd disguise. "Just bundled up from the cold, that'sss all."

Alligood, now comprehending the situation, nodded. Mindbender detected the minor shakes affecting his body. "Right, well. I'll be honest, it's been so long since you've stopped by, I'd nearly forgotten why I even kept this place open." He headed to a back room, called out, "Although, I hate to be a nag, but the last three payments..."

"Worry not, friend," the Commander said, leaning on the counter. "You'll be remunerated handsomely, when the time isss right."

Alligood emerged with two pairs of parkas and gloves. Still nodding, his body language intimating he'd regretted even broaching the subject. "Well, nice to know. This should set you up nicely."

The Commander refused the offer. Gestured towards Mindbender. "I'll be fine. Jussst make certain my compatriot is properly bundled."

As Alligood led them past two more doors in the back, providing the duo a scintillating tour of a storage room and a dusty office, Mindbender donned the thermal clothing. The final room on Alligood's tour was a metal door, one requiring the Commander to enter a code into an ultramodern key punch machine. The doctor questioned if even the Ashburn Community Bank (which he'd driven by twice on his circuitous journey to this place) employed such technology.

The door's hydraulic locks sizzled upon release, the subzero chills offering a reluctant welcome to all visitors. Mindbender noticed Alligood had already turned back, returned to the front office with no prompting.

For two summers during his teenage years, the doctor was employed in a neighborhood supermarket's meat department. The character of this room, not much larger than the size of the average suburban home's kitchen, and the walk-in meat locker of his youth were remarkably similar. No hanging bovine or pork carcasses here, though, only a simple box strategically located in the center of the space, resting atop a plastic pedestal.

"You sssee, Mindbender, whatever knowledge you possess in biochemistry came secondhand, while I, as a nobleman in a once-great society, devoted my life to its ssstudy."

The doctor exhaled, disregarded the insult. "You dragged me to a boil on the rear end of the middle of nowhere to boast of your superior intelligence, Commander?"

The Commander admired the fiberboard box for several seconds before deigning to hand it over to his companion. "I merely wished to ssshare the final punchline to the cruelest joke imaginable."

Mindbender flipped open the hinged box, extracted from inside two trays. One contained small specimen tubes, the other, syringes.

"Thessse cell samples have rested here for years now, sssilently ssserving the glory of Cobra," the Commander said while shedding his absurd disguise. He gestured to the back of his neck. "Would you aid me with the helmet?"

Mindbender returned the box to the pedestal, entered the proper code to circumvent the detonation of the battle suit, then took a step back as the Commander lifted the helmet overhead.

That face, the outlandish, inhuman color, could still astound the doctor. In his years with the organization, he'd entertained idle speculation on the face behind Cobra Commander's mask; every member from the lowliest blueshirt to the highest ranks had done so. Common chatter conjectured a gruesome, scarred visage. No doubt the consequence of an early battle against the nauseating pro-democracy forces.

No soul could've anticipated the truth. Not even the most oxygen-deprived of Dreadnoks would've guessed the Commander wasn't even _human_ behind that disguise.

"Underssstand, Mindbender, the genetic link between my ancestors and yours isn't as wide a chasm as some might believe," he stated as basic fact. Removing a specimen tube from the box, then a syringe, he stabbed the needle into the sample and continued the oration. "Or, perhapsss, bridging that divide required a genius intellect the world had never experienced before.

"It wasss an early devotee of our cause; a bystander of the western world's lethal hypocrisies who provided these sssamples," he said, tapping the syringe. "She assumed her mission a test of conviction; true enough. But she didn't suspect the more... _practical_ motivations behind my order."

Mindbender stood in awe, observed the Commander inject the syringe into his neck, never once searching his skin for the proper vein. With no commentary, Cobra Commander returned the syringe and sample container to the pedestal.

By the time he'd finished repacking and closing the box, his hairless face began trembling, started to contort in perturbing ways. Light ash brown follicles penetrated his scalp and jawline. Patches of skin morphed, peach taking the place of periwinkle.

Within ninety seconds, standing before the doctor was no freak, no refugee from bad science fiction. This was the all-American male, ripped straight from a Penney's catalogue.

"You...so, that's why..." he spluttered, the realization kicking his neurotransmitters into overdrive.

"A sssplendid transformation is it not, Doctor?" The Commander's laugh shook his entire body. "Don't thessse amber eyes just light up my face?"

August 23, 1966

She had all but fallen asleep, sunbathing by the pool. Colin's less than graceful entrance over the fence, specifically the sound he made as he plummeted five feet and crushed their gardener's hybrid rugosa roses, was enough to snap her out of her somnolence.

"Colin!" she shouted, grabbing for her towel. "What are you doing?"

"Can't you tell?" he answered with a smirk, brushing himself off. "We're living out a forbidden romance, sweetie."

"So _dramatic_." She wrapped the towel around her waist, checked to make sure no one was around, then greeted her love with an embrace. "You know how my parents feel about you."

He tucked her delicate chin between his thumb and pointer finger, kissed her cheek. "But if they knew a common boy was more than friends with their blue-blood daughter? Doubt that would go over well."

She didn't know how to respond; chose instead to squeeze him harder, exchange a few more kisses.

To her surprise, he was the first to pull away. "Anyhow," he said, blushing, "think you can sneak away for a ride on a recently purchased Norton Navigator?"

She offered a smile, the devilish one that covered her entire face, the smile Colin could never resist. "As if I have the slightest inkling what that is?"

"A bike." He noticed that grin turning mischievous. "Not a kid's bike," he corrected. "A motorcycle. They have cutting edge motor technology like that back home?"

"Colin! How did you afford a motorcycle?"

"With the work ethic my old man left me." He patted her cheeks. Stared her down with honey brown eyes. "Now, c'mon, do you want to feel the wind in your hair or not?"
CHAPTER SIX

" _Just tell him you think his inkblot smears are all pretty trees, Falcon."_

That was the advice given to the Lieutenant by his General, after presenting his respectful-yet-pointed objection to any psychological exam. Not bad advice. Turns out, Psyche-Out didn't have any of those inkblot cards handy.

Instead the Joes' new Deceptive Warfare expert wanted to ask Falcon about (what else?) his feelings. Did Falcon think he was returning to action too soon? Did he find the pressure of living up to the standards set by the legendary Duke too taxing?

Why had he chosen to form this clique with the Rawhide crew? Did he detect a sense of resentment from the veteran Joes? Suffer any fears that they might be blaming him for Duke's heroic sacrifice?

Did he blame _himself_ for that night Duke took the spear meant for his heart?

Falcon had a feeling the headshrinker, with his proper northern Californian accent and perfect blond hair, parted so carefully down the middle, would hit that nerve. He prepared himself for it, best he could.

His answers were bland and rehearsed, some consisting of only a few syllables. Psyche-Out was sold to the Joes as a good listener, someone who could give respectable advice, make you recognize some things you'd been keeping locked away that maybe needed an airing out. If other people got something out of these chats, fine. But Falcon wasn't in the mood for conversations with strangers. He wanted to go out there, prove those idiots on the TV wrong, and uncover the latest pack of Cobra lies.

And, yes, he wanted to make his brother proud.

Psyche-Out's face contorted a bit when Falcon vocalized that last thought. Tapping his ink pen against his lips, Psyche-Out mulled this around for a moment before wheeling back to his desk.

"Good enough for me," he said, signing his name on the bottom of Hawk's permission slip.

"So, are people just using the term 'ninja' in the colloquial sense, or are you...y'know..."

No answer.

"What I mean is, are you actually channeling Chakra, meditating on the deeper levels of existence, and just fighting real dirty in throwdowns...or are you some kid who learned karate at the mall?"

No answer.

"Not judging either way. Just curious about how an actual ninja is here, fighting for the good ol' U-S-of-A, in late twentieth century western society. And then there's the issue of your bad luck..."

That's when Footloose pried a response from Jinx. Turning from the passenger seat, she wormed out of her seatbelt, grabbed a mess of his BSU sweatshirt.

"I do _not_ have bad luck, do you understand me?" she snarled.

Footloose, perpetually genial, raised his hands in defeat. "I, okay, I'll take your word for it."

Jinx didn't catch the de-escalation memo. "And if I hear another crack about my luck, you're going to find out just how much of a 'ninja' I actually am, do you understand me? _Firsthand_ experience, bunkie."

Lt. Falcon, the driver of this family sedan, instructed the kids to play nice. This wasn't his ideal mission, traveling in civilian garb, collecting intel on the sly, officiating disagreements over who got to control the radio this hour.

One unexpected benefit of the mission, though? A chance to smooth things out with Jinx, an opportunity for each to show a different side to the other. Her's involved a lumpy reindeer sweater, true, but even a small amount of novelty to balance out the grimness of recent days was appreciated.

As Jinx returned to her seat, Footloose offered his apology. "Sorry. It's just something I'm curious about, all right? And the only other ninja on the team is mute, so it's not as if he's an easy person to get answers out of."

"Footloose, I think this is a topic you don't need to pursue," Falcon called to the backseat, never removing his eyes from the road.

He should've known this would be an awkward pairing, the tightlipped Jinx traveling cross-country with the kooky Indiana boy, the one who once disappeared for three years while questioning the very nature of existence. Footloose could be exasperating at times, yet Falcon respected his teammate's guileless and inquisitive nature.

Other Joes told stories of Footloose and Spirit Iron-Knife's rocky journey to friendship, with the cryptic tracker initially rebuffing the odd duck's unyielding questions about his Native American ancestry, only to later realize Footloose's inquiries were based in respect and curiosity.

Jinx remained silent; partially out of embarrassment over her outburst, but also in response to the sore nerve struck by her teammate. How did she end up on the team with another ninja, one with moves far too familiar? She knew where to find the answers, but why was she being forced to ask in the first place?

"So, anyway, Falcon," came the voice from the backseat, "what's your plan with this Hector Ramirez fella? I can tell you as an old-timer, not a single Joe is going to convey anything printable about the man."

"Reports are he spoke to Kristofer's mother. She refused to go on camera, but he still got something out of her, I'm sure. Given that the official agencies who spoke to her aren't giving us zip, and we're trying to stay out of their way, I'd like to know what she told the sleaze."

"Okay, no disrespect Lieutenant, but you do realize that secondhand intel is never preferable to firsthand, right? Why not just speak directly to the lady?"

Falcon took a breath, thought back to the recent hours spent with his own mother, then answered, "That poor lady's been through enough. If possible, I'd like to spare her any more invasions of privacy."

"All right. Admirable." Footloose scratched his chin. "But, all due respect, Lieutenant, you do realize this investigation is very likely to have us trotting over all sorts of sensitive territory, right? It's possible we might find info that'll break Mrs. Kristofer's heart all over again. Not to mention give the entire service a black eye."

Jinx spoke up, asked harsher than she intended, "Are you saying you buy that DNA baloney, Footloose?"

"I'm saying I don't have the answers, and that any journey to discover truth -- _real_ truth, not just the convenient kind -- is bound to make you more than a bit uncomfortable. Everything we know began as heresy, right? Simply asking the wrong questions was a fast way to learn how hemlock tastes."

Falcon was patient enough to allow his subordinate to finish, then came back with, "And _I'm_ saying there's no way one of our own is responsible for creating that gang of serpents, bud. You keep your open mind, and I'll maintain my resolve to clear this G.I.'s name. Sound good?"

"How it sounds is irrelevant," Footloose answered innocently. "I'm just here to follow orders..."
CHAPTER SEVEN

Falcon, in his reasonably priced civvies, couldn't nab the scrawny dweeb at the front desk's attention if he paid for it. Which he could; General Hawk had generously provided the Joes with a stipend of a few hundred dollars for their trip.

Falcon had been shushed and "one minute"-ed enough times to catch the hint. You're dressed like you belong to the wrong tax bracket, and no Mr. Lost Tourist, I don't have time to direct you towards Rockefeller Center.

The temptation to slip a Franklin over the desk gnawed at him, although Falcon hated the thought of wasting the taxpayer's dollar while also enriching such a goon. He went for a novel approach instead. Honesty.

"Sir, I know Hector Ramirez is a guest this evening," he said after waiting for the most recent visitor to leave the desk. "I know that he's covering the Cobra Commander story, and I know...well, I _suspect_ he wouldn't mind an off-the-record comment from a member of the G. I. Joe team. How about you call his room and confirm my suspicion?"

Scrawny Dweeb's face went white. His fingers were on the touchpad within a heartbeat.

Stepping off the elevator, confirming the hallway was empty, Falcon removed a handheld transceiver from his coat pocket. "All right, kids, just arrived on the twelfth floor. I'll be resisting the urge to bodyslam Ramirez in room 12-E. Copy?"

Located in the alley between the luxury hotel and next door skyscraper, Footloose and Jinx confirmed the transmission. Footloose suggested they sneak their way through the hotel, possibly through the service elevator.

Jinx smiled, pulled into her duffel bag and said, "Sounds boring to me, bud." In her hands were two pairs of climbing claws, the kind used by any respectable ninja from those late night movies. "I say we take a more direct path."

Footloose was going to call Jinx out on the unnecessary risk, of the sheer stupidity of hanging around outside in five-degree weather when they could be indoors.

Then he got a decent look at those claws.

Utterly _fascinating_ ; forged of carbon steel, engraved depictions of the _Yamata no Orochi_ \-- the legendary eight-headed dragon of feudal Japan, per Footloose's research, said to be slain by Susanoo, the god of wind and sea -- snaking their way across each nail. Crafted with the kind of care he just knew couldn't be found in the back ads of those _Dojo Disciple Monthly_ magazines.

When he looked up from the masterpieces, he noticed his partner had already made her way up to the second story. He donned the claws, made a comment about living out his fantasy of becoming a certain New York-bred superhero, and followed.

The novelty soon wore off. Risking frostbite by the eleventh floor, Jinx provided Footloose with the necessary motivation to reach that one additional level. "Falcon's on the floor right above. You want him to hear about how you wimped out when just a few feet away?"

Footloose groaned, told himself she had a point; told himself he was unlikely to be scaling a New York high-rise in the midst of a snowstorm with the lone aid of authentic ninja claws ever again. Might as well enjoy the experience.

"Hold up," was Jinx's only greeting when he reached her floor. Steam passing her lips, she asked, "Hey, Footie, you tell me if that broad looks familiar to you."

The broad in question was a middle-manager type, light brown hair and tinted glasses, haughtily handing down orders to two bellhops. Nothing special about her in Footloose's eyes.

"Nope. That one of your sorority sisters or something?"

Jinx, now irritated, said, "I think I crossed paths with her a few months back. Lady left quite the impression. Her height, build...none of that ringing a bell?"

"Seems kinda average, to tell the truth. Why, is she --"

Footloose had around seven follow-up questions he'd never be able to ask. Before he could finish the first, Jinx had already blasted through the window with her sidearm. Swinging in from her vertical mount, Jinx made a suitably dramatic entrance, stunning the middle-manager and her two lackeys.

"What is the meaning of this?!" the woman shouted, just as Footloose was awkwardly dropping through Jinx's makeshift entrance. Removing his claws, he surveyed the hallway, tried to ascertain just what his partner was thinking.

"Ma'am, I'd like to apologize," he began, before he noticed the nice middle-manager lady reaching inside her blazer for a gun.

"Oh, don't! This should be fun!" answered back an Australian accent.

Two shots were fired before Jinx could toss three shuriken in her direction, two whizzing past her face and one slicing her hand, depriving her of the weapon.

The two bellhops raced in Footloose's direction right when the first shot was fired. He could smell them before they were close enough for a facial ID.

Dreadnoks.

Hector offered the soldier a drink. He declined.

Realizing soon enough his guest had no interest in idle chit-chat, Hector grabbed his handheld recorder and asked casually, "So, still 'off the record,' correct?"

"Let's get something clear, Ramirez," the guest answered, index finger pointed in his direction. "I'm the one asking the questions."

"Anything you need to know is in my reporting, Lieutenant," he responded, gesturing for his guest to join him on the ivory-white French provincial sofa. "And I recognize you and your bosses might find these revelations embarrassing, but the truth, whatever it happens to be, must be conveyed to the public."

The Lieutenant, examining Hector's silk shirt, tailored slacks, and Italian leather shoes, reacted with marked disgust. "Yeah, everyone knows you're just a selfless public servant, Ramirez."

"So, which of you two losers am I dealing with today, huh? Most of your names are so generic, it's hard to keep track," Footloose teased as he assumed his fighting stance.

The lady dishing out the discipline to the bellhops earlier just had to be Zarana, sister of the Dreadnok gang's leader. Jinx could handle her, but it was Footloose's duty to take on these two chumps simultaneously.

"Cor! He's sayin' we ain't all strong individualists, eh?" answered the bellhop with the higher-pitched voice.

"I can't believe the nerve! As if alla dem Joes ain't interchangeable?" agreed his friend, the one with the gap in his front teeth.

"Ripper, Cutter, Excavator, Trash Compactor, Head Butter, I Can't Believe I'm Not Butter...you're all the same to me," Footloose said, landing a kick across the high-pitched one's chest. A solid right hook followed. "All donors to the Tooth Fairy."

Gap-toothed one leapt past his injured friend, managed to shoulder block Footloose and get him on the floor. The move cost him his bellhop hat, revealed the green stripe in his dark hair. "Name's Thrasher, by the way, guv! I expect you t'be screamin' it for mercy in about t'rty seconds, right?"

Footloose rounded back with a punch to the chin. Thrasher responded in kind; a proper hit, just not in the same class with the Corporal's. After two more rounds of this, Thrasher went the predictable Dreadnok route. He played dirty.

Running momentum gave Jinx an extraordinary jump kick, one blocked by Zarana the second it landed. The Dreadnok couldn't compete with Jinx's speed, but a lifetime of barroom brawls and disreputable experiences along the railroads of the Outback had taught her how to take a hit.

And how to deliver one, as the ninja was discovering. Jinx's flurry of chops and kicks had an admirable connection rate, but just as often she was taking knees and clenched fists to the chest and face.

Zarana was able to dodge a straight arm thrust, shocked Jinx by coiling just fast enough to grab a handful of her hair from behind. "Is this some new Joe tactic," she asked, "crashin' through windows and assaultin' random civilians? Just hopin' you'll stumble across a Cobra agent?"

Jinx felt Zarana's leg twisting around hers, moving into a power position. She answered by stomping the heel of her winter boot into one of Zarana's open toe, eminently sensible, flats. When the Dreadnok reacted in pain, Jinx took her chance to lodge an elbow directly underneath Zarana's ribcage.

"I never forget someone who does me dirt...'Heather.'"

Zarana, catching her breath, searched for the name. So many aliases, so many schemes. What particular grudge was this chick holding on to?

Then it hit her. She thought of the Joes, of a particular mission from a few months back, of just how easily she'd seduced one of their fresh recruits.

Using her elbows to block Jinx's cascade of fists, Zarana couldn't hold back her laughter. "Oh, is this jealousy I hear in your voice? Couldn't keep soldier boy happy, so he turned to the Southern belle instead?"

With clenched teeth, Jinx pressed the assault even harder.

Pilfering a piece of glass from the shattered window, Thrasher ominously pointed towards Footloose's eye. "Okay bawdy boy, if you're not willing to behave, then I think I -- _ow!_ "

The threat turned out to be the necessary incentive for Footloose to reassert his dominance, to snatch that Dreadnok's wrist and squeeze it harder than he could ever imagine.

Thrasher then took a knee to the groin, and as he tried to make sense of just how he'd lost the advantage, Footloose was in the process of gripping his shoulders. Soon, Thrasher was experiencing new sights, as his body flipped overhead.

Flipped a little too far overhead, against Footloose's intentions. After rolling and bouncing a few times on the carpet, half of Thrasher's body was still in the hotel, the other was dangling out of the substantial hole in the window.

It was his top half that was on the wrong side of the building, staring down at a certain death below.

"Can't even fall over right," groused Footloose as he pulled himself off the floor and headed towards the window.

"Hey, you, Joe! Y'kinna leave me like dis!" the Dreadnok screeched, attempting to climb back inside. In his panic, Thrasher was successful in only losing even more of his balance.

He felt a tug at the back of his uniform. Thoughts raced, alternating between thanks to those saints his mum prayed to, bemusement at the Joes' derisory code of ethics, and paranoia that maybe this Joe _wasn't_ as ethical as the rest.

"Y-yere gonna save me, ain't you? D-din't just come over here to finish the job personally, right?"

Footloose had to smile. "Now there's a thought. Maybe we should start playing by Cobra's code of ethics?"

"No!" responded Thrasher. "Not funny! Just lemme up! Don't do this!!"

He had every intention of respecting the Dreadnok's demand, only to discover his greatest obstacle was yet another Dreadnok. With both hands on Thrasher's waist, Footloose's body became victim of an easy blow from his high-pitched pal.

"Is this some intimidation tactic, Lieutenant? Some effort to scare me off a story the Defense Department doesn't like? To coerce me into giving up my First Amendment rights?"

"Okay, sure, bring the Constitution into it. Now, feed me a line about your journalistic ethics, Ramirez."

"It's no line, it's the guiding principle of my life. Regardless of how you feel, I have a right to report this story."

"Well, you got me there, Ramirez. Because I'm the one who has to get up every morning, brush my teeth, and defend all of your precious rights. To know I'm risking my life for someone like _you_ , why, it just makes my heart swell."

Zarana noticed her opponent growing sloppier, allowing emotion to trump tactics. Jinx left herself open to three separate blows; Zarana let her know about it. "Yes, honey, there was a catch. So smart, so devoted. So blinded by his libido he never even questioned why sweet Heather was taking photos of a maximum security prison!"

The laughter grew hardier, meaner. This was when Zarana realized she'd pushed her luck too far; felt both of her arms in Jinx's grip, her body flung over the diminutive Joe's head.

Zarana landed in an elevator; mercifully, its doors had opened mere seconds earlier. The bellhop on duty (the actual bellhop, and not one of Zarana's partners in disguise) made a sound decision, fled as fast as he could away from the violence.

This stupid mission. All they had to do was keep an eye on Hector Ramirez, make sure he was following the trail of breadcrumbs and reporting the Cobra-approved facts to the nation. They assumed Feds were shadowing the man, and possibly a Joe or two might appear, but no one could've anticipated an all-out brawl in public.

_No one could've anticipated the scorned other woman to appear_ , Zarana thought. _Always have a way of popping up, though_. Removing her blazer, Zarana flashed back to her "date" with Lt. Falcon. Darned handsome, she'd admit, even though an older, more distinguished Joe had caught her eye the year prior.

A straight right against his cheek, Footloose staggered, instinctively lifted one hand to block the next punch. That other hand now possessed the burden of lifting Thrasher's fifteen-stone body, (a quick mental conversion made by Footloose in respect of Thrasher's heritage). The chances of Footloose maintaining that grip in the midst of a fistfight seemed negligible.

Thrasher, aware of this, expressed his frustration in a series of shrieked profanities, many of them indecipherable for anyone not versed in the swamp talk of the Dreadnok gang.

"Y'bloody lunatic! Yer killin' meeee!"

Footloose acted fast, blocked two more punches, couldn't fend off the next three. His grip on Thrasher's waist did slip, providing the Dreadnok with the longest quarter of a second of his life. In spite of his friend's efforts, Footloose was able to snag the bottom of Thrasher's left shoe, sparing the citizens of New York the stench of Dreadnok street pizza.

"Hey! Is that Thrasher I 'ear down there?" asked the second Dreadnok, pausing for one moment, both fists raised above the vulnerable Joe's body.

"Yes, you moron! I'm trying to save your friend's life!"

"Cool! Why didn't y'say so? 'Ere, I'll help!"

Footloose accepted the offer...up until Thrasher was over halfway back inside. High-pitched Dreadnok then received a fast jab to the nose. As he recovered, Thrasher was pulled the rest of the way in, a smack to the mouth his reward for trotting all of that snow inside this nice hotel.

"Okay, Ripper, I guess it's your turn," said Footloose, retaking his stance.

"See? I knew you could tell us apart!" the Dreadnok responded, ripping off the remains of his bellhop uniform. Underneath was a tattered muscle shirt and patched-up jeans. Typical Dreadnok attire, for a New York City winter or a summer chopper race in the Outback. What Footloose wasn't expecting was the pair of pristine, guiltless blue eyes no longer hidden behind Ripper's shades.

"Think I'll just call you 'Baby Blues' from now on," Footloose said with biting sarcasm, fanning himself. "Got my schoolgirl heart goin' all pitter-patter now!"

"Yew take that back, Joe!" Ripper screamed while recklessly taking a swing. Footloose grabbed the arm at just the right moment, bent it behind Ripper's back.

Pressing down against the bagged arm, Footloose pushed his opponent closer to the carpet. "Where'd you get a pair of peepers like that, Baby Blues? I doubt ol' Frank toured the wastelands down under." Ripper didn't reply, outside of grunting even louder. "And he certainly never stepped out on darling Ava, now did he? Not our Frank!"

"Is you insultin' my mother?" asked Ripper, in honest need of clarification.

A rumble across the floor alerted the Joe to Thrasher's return. "Told Zarana I'd rather stay in the car..." he mumbled to himself, lip prominently busted.

Footloose used Ripper's body as a shield, slamming one Dreadnok into the next. Before either could pull himself off the floor, Footloose was able to draw his pistol from the holster hidden under his sweatshirt.

"I know you fellas are dense, but neither thinks you're faster than this, right? So, hands in the air, and maybe I'll forgive that stunt with the glass shard."

"Your precious story is pouring salt on an old woman's wounds. And it's spreading lies about a soldier who isn't here to defend himself. That doesn't eat at you?"

"My personal feelings about a story don't matter. What matters are the facts, Lieutenant. Everything you put your life on the line for is meaningless if I let you scare me off this story."

"Okay, fine. Well, as a gesture of gratitude for a grunt who's out there defending these rights you love so much, can you give me any info on this Colin Kristofer? Anything his mother might've told you that couldn't make it to air?"

Rushing towards the elevator, Jinx tried the shuriken trick again. Zarana craned her neck just in time; lost only an inch of wig hair. She swiped the mop off her head, allowed her bold purple-pink-carrot dye job, her "natural" locks, to air out.

"Door's closin' soon, honey. You eager to continue this beatin' of your life?"

Jinx said nothing, just slid into the elevator and crushed her body against Zarana's before the punk had a chance to move. Jinx noticed the blazer on the floor of the elevator; didn't realize Zarana had removed a switchblade from its pocket while slipping it off.

She deduced this when the blade came directly for her eye. Jinx dodged, and the $280,000 mural lining the elevator paid the price. While down, Jinx attempted to swipe Zarana's feet from under her. Instead, the Dreadnok parried, got a good stomp on Jinx's left hand.

In pain, Jinx tried to roll clear. No room to maneuver in the elevator, no real shot at avoiding that next thrust of the blade. It connected with both her reindeer sweater and undershirt, narrowly avoiding the vulnerable flesh underneath.

Zarana half-laughed and half-cursed as she peeled away the rest of the sweater. Jinx, caught in this tangled mess, kicked her way free. Zarana landed against the other side of the elevator, smashed the numbered keypad just as the doors were closing.

Removing the sweater, Jinx turned the knit fabric remains into an impromptu pair of _nunchaku_ , spinning two pieces in the air as she approached her opponent.

"Child, you have to be --" The first scrap struck the open wound on Zarana's right hand. The other sliced against her bruised cheek. Zarana was too stunned to speak, but cogent enough, _eager_ enough, to stand and finish this fight.

She again tried to pit barroom tactics against the mélange of Jinx's _ninpō_ training. Laughed like a villain when the odd foreign chick took a scrap of her sweater and tied it around her eyes.

Stopped laughing when Jinx scored seven consecutive hits. Started crying when Jinx maneuvered behind her, had her in a fierce chinlock.

Zarana knew it was over. Couldn't resist one last jab. "Tell me, honey...do you think he still has my number?"

Falcon refused to be escorted out, let Hector Ramirez and his superior ethics know just how he felt by slamming that door so hard it warped the doorframe. He reached in his coat for the transceiver; stopped when he noticed his two Joe allies approaching from the south. Noticed the two Joes carrying three Dreadnoks between them.

"Hey, Lieutenant," called Footloose. "Lookit what we caught!"
CHAPTER EIGHT

" _No official comment from the management, but our sources have the damage in possibly the six-figure range. And, gentle viewer, you might be asking why the finest hotel in Manhattan experienced such a brutal attack. I suppose the fault lies in yours truly._

" _Yes, my devotion to a story, my unwillingness to bend to pressure is a risk I've long accepted with my role as journalist. Luckily, this evening, there were no casualties, aside from a priceless Bellerose original, savagely slashed during the attack._

" _But, suppose the assailants struck in the lobby. Or, heaven forbid, in the room of a guest. How could a simple family hope to defend itself from such savagery? A chilling thought._

" _Do I blame myself? Perhaps. But any guilt is far outweighed by anger. Yes, anger, at the cowardice and arrogance displayed by our government. I can report with confidence, America, that higher-ups in our armed forces, and the politicians controlling their pocketbooks, are not pleased with this story. The true story of this Cobra Commander, his past as a fellow G.I., the horrors of war that turned him against this nation \-- a black mark for our armed services, no doubt._

" _I have, personally, been on the receiving end of intimidation from these men, desperate to keep this story quiet. I can't blame them for being upset. A...shameful part of me doesn't fault them for attempting to squash the story. But the truth must be known. Even if the facts make us squirm in our seat, cause a few hours of missed sleep...I have a duty, my friends._

" _It's a sacred vow. And I, Hector Ramirez, refuse to forsake it."_

This was the moment General Hawk kicked the waste basket all the way from his desk to the wall. Missed the thirteen-inch television set mounted in the corner of his office by mere centimeters.

"Dial-Tone!" he bellowed down the hallway. "Get Falcon on the line _right this second_!"

"Well, that was the foulest dressing down I've ever been on the wrong end of," Falcon said while hanging up the phone. A ripped sticker on the receiver boasted of the motel's rates; only fifty cents a call. "Maybe you guys ended up with the physical bruises, but I'll have the General's voice ringing in my ear for weeks."

"Not funny," answered Jinx, removing the frozen peas from her side. Her hooded sweatshirt and jeans covered most of the contusions, excluding the shiner Zarana left on her forehead. "I'm sore in places I'm not going to discuss in polite company. And Footloose over here has more lumps on his pus than Tunnel Rat's Tuesday night mashed potatoes."

On the opposite bed, most of his face shrouded by a raw steak, rested a convalescing Footloose. "That was just as 'funny,' Jinx. I'll be as pretty as ever in a few days, thanks. Falcon, meanwhile, sounds like he's ready for his second court martial this year."

"General Hawk made his displeasure...known." Falcon, standing between the beds, cracked his neck. The Lieutenant was mercilessly sore after a fitful night's sleep, dreading a conversation he was planning this day. Considering the puffy state of his teammates, Falcon decided to keep his discomfort to himself. "But the NYPD has promised not to release any public statements about the snakes we brought in, so hopefully that part stays quiet. We've got that going for us, if nothing else."

"What about the mission?" asked Footloose. "Did the General order us back?"

"Negative. We're going to stay on this Colin Kristofer, learn everything possible about the man. What we shouldn't be doing, however, is drawing even more attention from the media."

Jinx caught the subtle rebuke, but chose not to respond. "We can divvy up areas in town," she coolly told her Lieutenant. (Being honest, Jinx still felt she deserved _some_ kudos for spotting Zarana and her goons that fast.) "I've already put in a call to the library; they have his old yearbooks on file. Footloose and I can get in touch with his school buddies. I'd suggest Footie stick with the phones, though." She gestured towards her swollen teammate. "I doubt those folks want a one-on-one with the Elephant Man."

"Ooh, there's another one," Footloose responded with mock offense. He selected a broken chip of ice from the cooler sitting by his bed, flicked it in Jinx's direction. "Seriously, that's a decent place to start. What about you, Falcon? That Ramirez fella give you anything?"

"Just heartburn and half a migraine," Falcon answered from the closet, removing his Army Service Uniform from its hanger. "And, unintentionally, his notes on Mrs. Kristofer."

Jinx smiled. "Sounds like one of my tricks. How'd you manage to swipe that?"

Falcon reached for the bottom of his sweater, had it half off before he reconsidered. It shouldn't have been an issue; the female Joes had their own quarters back at base, but away on missions, modesty often wasn't much of a consideration.

He shouldn't have been viewing Jinx as anything other than a Joe, shouldn't have gotten fits of modesty around her...shouldn't have been concerned about her spotting a specific tattoo on his back he'd rather remain a secret.

Maybe he shouldn't have possessed those feelings, but they were real just the same. Falcon lifted his uniform by the hanger and stepped into the nearby bathroom. It's possible he caught Jinx blushing as he entered.

"It, ah, fell between the couch cushions," he called from inside, answering her question. "Snagged it when he was in the middle of a speech. Turns out, Mrs. Kristofer has a path through her backyard, away from the cameras. Has a special place she visits every afternoon. Assuming I don't scare her off, I think I might be able to have a talk with her there."

Adjusting his tie, Falcon caught a good look at himself in the mirror. "Just hope I'm not condemning my soul to a certain place down below in the bargain."

Stalking a Gold Star mother to her local house of worship was high on Falcon's list of regrettable lifetime actions. It was necessary, yes, but the Lieutenant couldn't fight the sense of revulsion, the skeezy feeling that he was no better than the man he'd nearly decked the previous night.

Falcon slipped into the empty church, took his place in a back pew. Warm, balsamic smells acted as a greeting; just about made him forget his ambivalence about being there, about the conversation awaiting him.

There she was, lighting candles at the altar, whispering prayers and crossing her chest. Ramirez had done his research, dug up no shortage of info on Jocelyn Kristofer in recent days. Her next door neighbor of the past few years gave him this tidbit about the church.

Jocelyn had visited every day since the loss of her son. Lit the same candles, offered the same prayers. Falcon bowed his head, asked forgiveness for intruding on this moment. The death of Colin Kristofer was a raw wound, all right. One that had stayed raw for close to twenty years now.

Falcon's thoughts immediately went to his mother. He thought of how her dark blonde hair was turning Mrs. Kristofer's shade of steel gray. How easy it could be to imagine her in their local church, adopting a similar routine.

He thought of his mother spending her final days consumed by a relentless grief, memories of the son taken from her too soon haunting her thoughts. Of someone callous enough to reopen wounds that had never truly healed. He thought thoughts too impure for church, clenched his fist and exhaled a long, painful breath.

Whoever was behind this mess, the scum had a steep price to pay. Not simply for forcing Falcon into facing such thoughts, for placing him in this building, in this position. But also for what the scum had done to this innocent woman, the person whose greatest sin was sending her boy off when the call came.

Jocelyn finished her prayers; turned and discovered she wasn't alone.

Their eyes met. He called her by name.

"No, please no," she pleaded. "Don't tell me you're another one of those reporters."

"Far from it, ma'am," Falcon responded while standing. He made a subtle hand gesture indicating his uniform. It was a cheap stunt, bringing this thing along just in case, hoping to impress the woman. "I'm...someone from the service. I need to speak to you about Colin, about all of the horrible things they're saying."

"You...did you serve with Colin?"

Falcon motioned towards the pew in front of him, inviting Joselyn to have a seat. "No, Mrs. Kristofer, I did not." As she drew closer, he continued, "That was a bit before my time, but I had a brother who served, not far from Colin. Maybe their paths crossed, but I wouldn't be able to tell you for sure."

Another cheap stunt, evoking his brother's memory, speculating about a no doubt nonexistent connection between two soldiers. Falcon added it to his list of sins.

"I see. Did you lose him in the war?"

"Actually, he made it through the jungle just fine. Stayed in the service, kept fighting the good fight." The next words didn't come easy. "We...just lost him, a few weeks ago."

"Oh. I see. I'm very sorry to hear that, Mr...?"

"Falcone, ma'am. Lieutenant Falcone. And, if possible, I was hoping this conversation could stay between the two of us."

She nodded. "So, do you have anything to share about Colin?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but we're as deep in the dark as anyone else." He touched her arm, prepared himself to ask of her the impossible. "We were hoping you could offer us some insight into this craziness. I'm sure you've heard that Colin's casket was empty -- do you know how that might've happened?"

"It just doesn't make sense," she replied after a lengthy pause. "I saw his body at the funeral home. I...I touched his face. It was so cold, but I couldn't pull my hand away. I ran my fingers over his freckles, pinched his cheeks one last time."

The mother took a breath, found enough strength to finish the rest. "I remember his hair; it felt like a brush. I always used to cut it with scissors, but they were just buzzing it off over there. I don't think he liked that; I remember how soft it used to be. Oh Lord," her voice echoed through the empty building, "I remember this like it was yesterday. Who would do something like this?" she asked through tears. "Why would anyone desecrate my son's memory?"

"Unfortunately, I can't tell you that, ma'am," Falcon said, handing her a tissue. "But if there's anyone you know who might've --"

"There's no one! No one I know would've done anything this heartless, I'd swear my life on it."

Falcon thought of Ramirez's reporting, tried to mentally remove the maggot's face, as he recalled an interview with the funeral home owners that oversaw Colin's service. According to rumors, the answer they gave Ramirez was the same one they'd given to the Feds.

Colin Kristofer's casket was not empty that September morning in 1970, and there's no credible way they could account for anyone stealing the corpse from under them.

"Okay, ma'am, I understand," Falcon answered softly, searching for another angle, even while berating himself for causing this woman any more pain. "Do you think, Mrs. Kristofer, that you could find a copy of the guestbook from the funeral?"

"Why would you need to see that, Lieutenant?"

"We'd like to know who was present at the service. Just to get an idea of who was there, who might've been a target of these awful people spreading lies about your son. Can you do that for me, Mrs. Kristofer?"

She considered the proposition for a moment before replying. "It's at the house, Lieutenant. I'm sure I could find it if you think it will help."

He squeezed Jocelyn's arm. "It just might, ma'am. If you could do that for me, it'd be greatly appreciated."

TRANSCRIPT: Madison Square Garden

Concert performance from bestselling recording artists Brick Springstern and the Tenth Avenue Band.

[Band is gathered in circle, performing the closing notes of their Top Ten single, "Glorious Times." Final cymbal crash, Brick returns to his microphone.]

BRICK: Thank you, New York. You don't know -- [Brick collects himself.] You people don't know just how much this all means to me. You really don't. Let's hear it for New York! [Crowd erupts in self-congratulation.]

Before we get into this next song, it's a new one, I felt...I felt I had to say a few words. Like all of you people, I've been keeping an eye on the news. Been trying to understand...what we, as Americans have become. Who we are. Does this make sense? [Crowd cheers.]

Those young men, those kids, we sent overseas. I know some of them came back with damaged souls. I think we all knew that. But how many of us could've guessed that we created our own worst enemy?

We see this man on the TV, makin' his threats, announcin' he's gonna be bombing this or that, or teleporting this or that away unless we meet his ransom. And you think -- he's just some looney, right? [Crowd cheers.] But New York, and I hate to say this, but folks -- he turns out to be one of us.

[Smattering of applause from crowd. Assorted boos.]

Salem County? [Brick steps away from the mic. Removes bandana and wipes face with it, takes a moment, then returns.] I, folks, I _know_ Salem County. I've driven those roads, had a burger at the diner with a laid-off factory worker. I've won a girl a stuffed bear at their annual fair. To think a place like that, a place like _America_ , could produce the man we use to scare our kids into going to bed on time?

[Brick shakes his head, pauses.] It's not something any of us want to dwell on. I just think...would it be out of line? [Crowd cheers encouragement.] If you're the praying type, would it be so wrong for you to say a prayer for Colin Kristofer tonight? [Mixed reaction from crowd.]

[Roadie appears onstage, switches out guitars with Brick, who dons an acoustic model.]

[Brick strums the guitar. Reappears at mic.] At the risk of being called a cynic, I've been trying to process all of this. Wrote a new song; how you feel about it is up to you. [Brick closes his eyes.] It's called "Stars and Stripes...Forever?"
CHAPTER NINE

Rap of the door knocker. Leigh always jumped at the sound, always feared the worst. All these weeks, and the instinct remained.

She calmed herself, put down her sandwich, and approached the front door. Even as she chided herself for being so cautious, Leigh made sure to pause at the door before asking, "Who is it?"

"Deliveryman, ma'am. Got quite the package for you." In his arms was a narrow cardboard box, around two feet in length.

Leigh peered into the peephole, confirmed his identity. Unfastening the locks, she caught herself reviewing the Universal Express driver's features. The guy was pretty cute...

"Hel-lo," she intoned, smiling. She had a better view of him now, well past six feet, wide jawline, broken nose, but nothing too egregious. Brown curls escaped the back of his Universal Express cap -- disappointing. She preferred men with a more... _militaristic_ view of grooming.

"So, what's this package that's so --" as Leigh was asking the question, the box swung straight towards her head. She ducked, caught the look on the face of the deliveryman who badly needed a haircut. Teeth clenched together, broken nose scrunched up. No hate in the eyes, but an icy determination that terrified her nonetheless.

Acting on fear and instinct, Leigh clenched her fist, delivered an uppercut. The deliveryman grunted, reached for his bruised chin. Leigh pushed past him, knocked him against the doorframe, the motion forcing his hat and wig to fall to the ground. She never had a chance to appreciate the freshly buzzed mane atop his diamond-shaped head.

Leigh made her way towards the street...didn't get past the front steps, thanks to the ice. Elbow skinned, side sore, Leigh attempted to pull herself off the steps. The deliveryman seized her arm, squeezed hard to make sure she understood that it was little more than a twig in his hands. Heart racing, Leigh used her elbow, made sure he understood those nerves connected to his teeth worked like anyone else's.

Careful, hurried, Leigh made it off the icy steps and slid most of the way down her front walkway. Observing her flight, the deliveryman pulled a transceiver from his coat. In the distance, if she could've heard anything over the sound of her heart's thrashing beat, she would've caught the man's voice.

"Think I found her. Reflexes are spot on, height and weight are right." He wiped the blood from his chin. "Fights like the devil, man. Heading towards street number 156 right this second."

Leigh absorbed a view of the neighborhood -- Santa and Frosty decorations, Chryslers parked along the driveways, stapled signs to telephone poles, promoting the church's Christmas pageant.

And, to her horror, over a dozen Cobra soldiers, visiting door to door, two H.I.S.S. tanks flanking both sides of the street. Those FBI agents she'd been told to entrust her life with, now held at gunpoint. Cobra troopers marched the agents towards the H.I.S.S. tank resting next to the Griffin family's home. Their dog, leg high, was urinating against its tank tread.

Some part of her she didn't want to recognize questioned, _Why only two tanks? Unusually chintzy by Cobra standards._

Skimming her way east, tripping more than once on the icy sidewalk, Leigh approached the home of her beloved neighbors, the Dugards. If those Cobra scumwads had even put one finger on those kind souls, she was going to make sure they paid. Candidly, Leigh knew she was the one more likely to pay a fatal price in this hypothetical confrontation, but adrenaline and righteous indignation carried her forward.

Reaching the front door, that pattering heart of Leigh's sunk deep into her gut as she overheard rounds being fired inside. _Too late...God help me, I'm too late..._ she mouthed as her sweaty palm gripped the doorknob.

She prepared for the worst, opening that door. Recalled ghastly images from her past, ones she'd been actively suppressing, just to offer some mental defense for what she knew she'd find in the Dugards' living room.

Welcoming Leigh on the other side of that door? Seventy-three year old Darlene Dugard, wrestling away a Cobra creep's pistol, rolling him over her body, then flipping him into the nearby end table. The lamp crashed beneath his body, the shards joining his face as Darlene stomped him into the carpet just for good measure.

"Leigh!" Darlene cried. "Nice to see you. You know anything about all this?" Before Leigh could answer this question, her senior neighbor overheard the approach of another Cobra goon, responded by elbowing him directly between his eyes, all without ever looking away.

Leigh couldn't muster any type of verbal response, just stood transfixed as Dennis entered the room, whirling his cane like a kung-fu prop, walloping the just-arrived Cobra soldiers from the side window.

"Heck of a day for visitors, huh, Leigh?" asked Dennis, a strange flicker in his eyes. "Feel free to join in."

Confused by the invitation, but realizing soon enough three more combatants were entering the open door behind her, Leigh popped one straight in the breadbasket, then spin-kicked him into the path of his partner. Third soldier turned out to be a problem, though, sidestepping his two comrades and tackling her even as her feet returned to the floor.

Skinned elbow, agonizing rug burn, two hundred and fifteen pounds of excess weight on her back -- Leigh was growing less petrified and more angry by the second.

"Get off me, you...cur!" she snarled, revealing an accent that would seem to contradict the Ohioan backstory attached to Leigh Miller. Those elbow jabs had worked out pretty well for her so far today, but this oaf was too blasted heavy; no way could she worm her arms free.

A headbutt, however? That was conceivable.

The first blow gave her some slack; Leigh tried to use it to her advantage, maneuver her way free of his body. Not hardheaded enough as it turned out, because the goon recovered in less than a second, pinning her down on the carpet tighter than before.

He was saying something crude, about whoever this broad was, no way she was worth all this grief. That's when the buttstock of a rifle knocked his helmet clean off.

The melody of violence concluded, Dennis tucked the rifle under his arm and offered Leigh a hand up. "Don't listen to 'im. I say you're worth lots of grief, Leigh."

"How...wha...?"

Darlene, adjusting her floral sweater dress, stepped over the bodies. "C'mon, sister. We've known you for a while now. Usually, you're more articulate than this."
CHAPTER TEN

"Big Gift is safely in custody. En route to prearranged location. I think the neighborhood could use a dose of your Christmas cheer."

The Young Man's Glee Club of Glynn County received this transmission on their dash-mounted CB radio, one of numerous accessories available in their traveling home. It's no coincidence their van was parked less than a mile away from the home currently being rented to a Leigh Miller.

Not outright stated in the transmission, but clear from the strain in the man's voice, was the implication that things had gotten hairy; so hairy, upstanding citizens Dennis and Darlene Dugard weren't in a position to help out their fellow neighbors in need.

Perhaps some Christmas cheer was in order.

"Copy," called back Beach Head, donning his balaclava and squealing tires onto the small city street. "You ladies heard that? Time for gossip is up; we've got snakes to stomp."

The "gossip" the Joes' Alabama-bred Staff Sergeant was referring to was a tête-à-tête amongst the soldiers in the rear of the van. A conversation that had them lamenting the loss of their First Sergeant, expressing their irritation at being banned from his funeral, questioning the rumors swirling about that grave excavation in New Jersey, and placing bets on just when "Dennis Dugard" was going to be putting the moves on this "Leigh Miller."

Needless whining, tittle-tattling, and bellyaching, as far as Beach Head was concerned. More than once he'd been tempted to order the four men in his command -- Dusty, Quick Kick, Leatherneck, and Iceberg -- to keep their traps shut, but he'd managed to keep that temper in check.

Most Joes wouldn't have used the word "patient" to describe this man, ignorant of Beach Head's almost supernatural ability to chill the various fires residing within. Leatherneck's interpretation of "Winter Wonderland," for instance, was deserving of nothing less than a summary court-martial, but Beach Head had gone all these weeks without a peep, not once hurting that ugly gyrene's feelings.

Few words were exchanged during the rest of the ride, with the Joes unpacking their cache of weapons from the van's various hiding spots. As the vehicle skidded into Knowles Street, deftly avoiding a parked H.I.S.S. tank and maiming Mrs. Tallmadge's lawn gnomes, the Joes made a split-second assessment of the situation.

"Iceberg and I take the right side of the street, Quick Kick and Beach Head the left. Leatherneck provides cover fire. Sound good?" asked Dusty, not asking the crowd, but instead seeking approval from Beach Head, chain of command occasionally a malleable concept during Joe missions.

"Sounds like a plan. Everyone watch out for those blessed tanks!" barked Beach Head, service rifle in hand as he rolled out of the driver's seat.

Leatherneck's cover fire dropped two Cobra soldiers, still stunned from the van's arrival, before the vehicle had finished sliding to its stop. Dusty and Iceberg headed for the front steps of their first house, Iceberg reaching for the tear gas grenade on his bandolier. Dusty kicked open the door, tin "Home Sweet Home" sign landing with a thud atop the Zurbuchen family's welcome mat.

The grenade was tossed inside. Donning their masks, Dusty and Iceberg rushed in, crushing tin underfoot.

"Still can't believe they sent their top desert trooper out to Wisconsin," said Dusty, offering the five hundredth variation of this gripe since he'd been given this mission.

"And I keep tellin' you, cold ain't so bad if you just give it a shot," replied Iceberg, a snowbird who'd been cursed with Brownsville, Texas as his hometown.

Per legend, a teenage Iceberg had signed up for the service specifically to get away from the heat, asking his recruiter if he could be stationed somewhere in Alaska. Legend further goes, the first night he tossed a steaming hot mug of coffee into the air and watched it freeze before hitting the ground was the first night he wept as a man.

"Cold kills far more people than heat, bud. You should remember that." Dusty's favorite factoid, repeated on any mission requiring him to venture into territories that hit below seventy degrees daytime.

During this exchange, two Cobra soldiers occupying the Zurbuchen living room had taken blasts to their chests.

After clearing the first floor, Dusty spotted the occupants of the home, hiding under their dinner table. A nice looking couple, justifiably proud of their three-story Folk Victorian, largest house in the neighborhood. He apologized for the smoke, offered them both rags to cover their faces.

As he escorted them away, Iceberg caught a straggling Cobra entering from the staircase. The snow trooper let the goon get close, then took aim at the chandelier. One second later, he had the snake buried in a mess of crystal and glass.

Across the street, Beach Head and Quick Kick were racing towards a more modest home, one belonging to the Mendota family. Eleanor Mendota was the brownie baking champion of Glynn County, in spite of Agnes Zurbuchen's attempts to prove her recipe was nothing more than a store bought mix with crushed walnuts sprinkled in.

Up until fifteen minutes ago, the most notorious scandal of Knowles Street.

A Cobra appeared at the front door, just about clipped Beach Head with his opening hail of fire. "Duck!" shouted the Staff Sergeant, Alabama accent even thicker, as he landed behind the hedges.

The snake didn't take his focus off Beach Head, kept mowing down the hedges. This left him open for Quick Kick's signature move, a foot to the face, delivered...swiftly.

"You mouth-breathin' maniac! When I tell you to take cover, I mean _take cover_ now, soldja!"

From the front porch, Quick Kick called back, "Sorry, brother! I'll make it up to you with a Frozen Fudgy Bar later!"

Beach Head grinded his teeth down and raced into the Mendotas' home, cursing this Hollywood kook with every step of the crushed ice. He walked in on Quick Kick taking down three Cobras with a spray of gunfire, eradicating the drywall between them.

What Quick Kick didn't notice was the snake arriving from the rumpus room, left eye squinted, one eccentric Joe in his crosshairs.

He got one round off before Beach Head blasted the rifle from his hands. Two more rounds from Beach Head had the snake smelling the carpet.

Quick Kick, stunned into an uncharacteristic silence, examined his wound. Clean journey through his right bicep; no bone hit. Quick Kick tried to focus, tried to count off the seconds before he'd begin to register the pain. When he finally looked up from the red stain on his coat, his eyes met his Section Commander's.

Pain, embarrassment, gratitude, remorse...a dozen different emotions could've been read into that expression.

Didn't matter. Beach Head already had the medical tape in hand by the time he'd reached his subordinate. "You got a free hand and all those pretty teeth, I notice. Think you can wrap yourself up while I clear the rest of this joint?"

"No doubt," was the answer. Beach Head couldn't hear it, already making his way into the adjacent room.

Ten yards away, Leatherneck was positioned behind the open driver's door of the van. At opportune moments, his glorious mustachioed face would emerge, dropping Cobra creeps like flies whenever one would dare take aim at his roaming band of harmonizing youngsters.

Teamwork -- it's how you watch your buddy's back, and perfectly harmonize to hit a B natural two octaves above middle C. Truth to tell, the Joes were better at the former than the latter.

He knew it was only a matter of time before one of those dopes got his act together and aimed that H.I.S.S. tank turret in his direction. Five snakes had gone down before he was proven right. Thanking sweet Providence for his luck so far, Leatherneck abandoned his spot and aimed for a nearby collection of garbage cans. The explosion from the van, gas ignited by the H.I.S.S. blast, gave him an extra _ummph_ to get where he needed to go.

Rolling in the snow, killing the flames on his back, Leatherneck reminded himself that at least it was a van he'd lost this time, and not another seventeen million dollar A.W.E. Striker. He collected himself as fast as possible, tuned out the ringing in his ears and got a look around.

Strange, how it seemed as if the snakes were converging...away from him. Even that second H.I.S.S. tank was on the move. The Marine could barely hear anything, let alone the radio broadcasts coming over protected frequencies.

Broadcasts calling this Cobra troop a gaggle of brain-dead primates, telling them they weren't ready to engage with a Joe squad just yet. Not to risk losing those H.I.S.S. tanks; they're not growing from trees these days. The neighbors? Who cares what they saw? The cover was blown anyway. Just let them go and _get out of there_.

Leatherneck didn't possess abilities like some comic book superhero, however. And at the moment, his hearing was on the level of his great-uncle Cecil's, currently residing in a Polk County old folks' home.

Across the snowy street, Cobra creeps were sliding off front porches, falling all over themselves to just get away, like something out of those old slapstick comedies Quick Kick would force his buddies to watch. Yeah, guys like Dusty and Frostbite were fierce snake-eaters, but watching Cobras bug out in this much of a hurry was a fresh sight for Leatherneck's veteran eyes.

As the Cobras were making their graceless escape, Beach Head and Quick Kick appeared at a nearby front door. A middle-aged couple, one that couldn't disguise their terror and disbelief, stood safely between them.

Leatherneck greeted a befuddled Beach Head with a shrugged shoulder. "So, I guess we, uh, won this one?"

Beach Head couldn't find a retort. Quick Kick grunted, examined his makeshift bandage. "I dunno. Seems kinda anti-climactic, doesn't it?"

January 8, 1969

"Honey, honey...why can't you tell your mother why you're so upset?"

Her daughter turned her head, folded herself up so tight in the window seat you'd think she wanted to disappear from the planet's surface. The surrounding bedroom hadn't been altered since the Cisarovna family adopted this mansion as their home. Royal pink designs adorning the canopy bed, watercolor butterfly bush paintings on every wall, salmon-colored cushions imported from Paris, currently swallowing the girl up inside the nook beneath the window.

"It's not as if you'd understand," the daughter moaned from behind the pillows.

Her mother made a seat for herself. Removed one of the cushions, discovered the girl was clinging to another remnant from her youth; a plush, floppy-eared puppy. Gifted to the girl on her fifth birthday, still wrapped tight under her arms the day her family began its clandestine journey to America.

"I think I understand more than you know. It's about that Kristofer boy, isn't it?"

She stopped crying, just for a moment. Couldn't believe her mother was making this connection. "What would you know about that?"

"His mother and I talk, honey," she said, caressing her daughter's back. "You know that. I heard the news; I know how scared you must be. We all are. The Kristofers are very close to us, almost like family."

"You still don't understand. You never would. Colin isn't just some boy, he's..."

"He's quite special to you...has been for years? Dear, do you think we haven't noticed that? Of course we know."

The girl took a breath, wiped away more tears. "Then you know why I'm scared. Why I don't want him to go."

"But he has to. Honey, don't tell me that's what you were fighting about."

She shook her head, did everything in her power to resist the urge to yell at her mother, demand the horrible woman leave. Was this supposed to be some comfort? Revealing the secret romance was no secret at all, yet the family had still denied their blessing? That her mother was now extolling the virtue of the boy she was content to see shipped abroad?

"I told him I didn't want him going," the girl eventually said, after reclaiming a cushion and collecting her thoughts. She thought back to the argument, felt her face flush as the shame hit, the realization that this could've been one of her final conversations with Colin. "That...that there are ways to avoid it, I've read all about them. He wouldn't even listen. Was furious I'd even suggest such a thing."

"Of course. It's his duty, love. It's what he has to do."

"Nonsense. He says he's going to be fighting for freedom, but what 'free' country would compel a man to fight? It's asinine."

"It's reality." She felt her mother's fingers enter her hair, felt the soft caress that once comforted her through so many stormy nights. "And it's what these young men live with. What Colin needs is your support; a woman who will stand by him, not a girl who sulks in the corner."

Rejecting her mother's embrace, the young woman stood, tossed the child plaything to the floor. "It's not _right_ , Mamma! All of this moralizing, this justification for what he's going to be doing there, it's obscene!"

"Regardless of how you feel, honey, it's inevitable. Your role now, as much as it hurts, is to accept what fate has in store." The mother rose, placed an apprehensive hand on her daughter's back. Deluded herself into thinking her words were offering any solace. "It's all any of us can do."
CHAPTER ELEVEN

Four hours after the escape, Leigh was examining the rumpled clothing, the orthopedic shoes, those lifelike masks; their texture so real, even to the touch. In her past life, she would've been envious of the gear. She questioned just how the Joes had acquired this radical latex technology.

_Most likely developed by a clandestine division of some corporation that specializes in polymers, at a cost of around, oh, a few million dollars each_ , she mused.

No wonder the Joes took them off with such care. Used that special spray, slowly pried them off with cotton swabs, made sure they were laid down so neat on the opposing bed. Wouldn't want the after-action report to detail how carelessly the soldiers handled their paraphernalia.

Dennis and Darlene. The two severed faces lying together made quite the romantic nightmare couple. Not surprising, considering the people behind them.

A voice from the opposing bed shattered the silence. "Flint's still using up all the hot water?" Leigh jumped, whipped around to face her roommate. It was Lady Jaye, keeping their guest on edge; her way of announcing her power nap was over.

"Oh! Yes, he's still in the bathroom. I didn't, ah, realize you were already awake."

"Gotta learn how to grab Z's when you can on the Joe team, sister. Just the rules of the game." Lady Jaye swung her legs over the side of the bed, made sure Leigh caught her glare. "Because those snakes we face, they're not ones to let you get a good eight hours."

Leigh took a seat on the facing bed, was careful not to disturb the masks. She caught the jab, although she remained disciplined enough not to show it. "I can't believe the two of you guys, keeping an eye on me next door for all that time..."

Lady Jaye, now clad in an overlong t-shirt and athletic shorts, didn't reduce the strength of that glare. "Good at what we do. Again, we _have_ to be."

The bathroom door creaked, offering some relief from the tension. The intimidating frame of the Joes' warrant officer entered the center of the hotel room. "Sorry I took so long, ladies. That body makeup is a bear to wash off sometimes."

"Lady Jaye seems to think you're always hogging the hot water."

"That so? She reveal any other fascinating factoids about yours truly? I just knew she was keeping notes..."

"Hey, listen, we don't have 'a thing' with 'Leigh' here. She's an asset, a prized one, and we have to protect her. Fine. That's the mission. Outside of that, I'd rather not interact with her, unless it involves a few barbs reminding her of what she is."

"Which is?" Leigh asked.

Lady Jaye gave her answer as if she'd been sitting on it for a month. "A Cobra snake. A real _nasty_ serpent, one that's hurt a few friends of mine. One that's nearly punched my own ticket a time or two. A dye job and cute new button nose isn't going to change the past, 'Leigh,' are we clear on that?"

Leigh turned away, didn't answer. Flint took pity, made a token effort to change the conversation. "So, according to Beach Head's report, the snakes didn't put up much of a fight back in town. Maybe this is the season for miracles."

Lady Jaye tossed a pillow at the floor. "I'm sure the Cobra cranks had visits from those three Christmas ghosts last night. They were probably just going door to door when we left, offering candy canes. You're sleeping on the floor, by the way."

"Corporal, would you be opposed to a classified... _conversation_ in the next room?" Flint's mood was sour, yet he remained inordinately proud of himself for swapping out the word "debriefing" just in the nick of time.

Lady Jaye sighed, gave one final death stare at Leigh, then followed Flint into the bathroom.

"Fine, _Warrant Officer,_ is there something you wish to discuss?" she asked as the door slammed shut.

"I do, Jaye. It's your attitude. You've been recalcitrant for weeks now. Why?"

"I've been doing my job, Flint. Staying out of the way of the Langley boys, keeping an eye on the target, giving Hawk unbiased intel...you're seriously questioning my performance?"

Flint crossed his arms, pushed his body against the bathroom door. "Didn't say word one about the performance. Your _attitude_ , soldier. That's the issue. Is this aimed at me or the mission, because either way, I can't see any justification."

"Okay, Flint. You haven't fallen hard for this 'bad girl gone good' routine, have you?" She took a seat on the edge of the small bathtub. "Haven't been a little extra nice to our newly blonde 'ally,' with her innocent newborn babe persona?"

"I've been doing the job, getting close, and keeping an eye on the target. Radiating the vibes you give off wouldn't have gotten us where we needed to be. Ever occur to you that perhaps I was overcompensating for _your_ preconceived biases? Do you really think Leigh would've trusted us if I was giving the same lame performance as you?"

Lady Jaye shook both hands in frustration. "Stop calling her that! You know who she is, and if you hadn't been blinded by her act, you'd know why this is so irritating! Why can't you see that this is just another Cobra scam?"

"Her intel has checked out. Eleven raids in recent months, all of them producing something."

"'Something,' yes, but nothing truly significant. And do you think it's a coincidence that every Cobra op she gave up turned out to be one specifically overseen by Serpentor?"

"Don't see why that matters," Flint replied, too hot to acknowledge that he'd wondered the same thing, more than once. "A viper's nest is a viper's nest."

"Except Serpentor has been missing, presumed dead, ever since the Himalayan incident. And even if he were alive, that doesn't mean the _original_ head snake isn't using all of this as a setup, as a way of putting stink on his main Cobra rival."

"Regardless, we've got snakes on the run all across the nation, and you're pouting like a little girl. Why? Because you're jealous of some ex-agent's new dye job?"

"Is that what you think? Flint, no, I take back what I said earlier. You're not sleeping on the floor, you're sleeping in that rental car," Lady Jaye exclaimed, her raspy voice beginning to break. "No, actually, since _I_ have the keys, you're sleeping in the parking lot, pal."

"This is ridiculous. Until we get back to base, Corporal, why don't we just agree to stay out of each other's way?" Flint reached for the door, paused before adding the last bit. "And even after we're back at base, maybe we should maintain that position."

"No complaints here, Warrant Officer. Hey -- you smell something?"

He did; a chemical stink both Joes recognized. The scent of an incapacitating agent developed by a particular Cobra agent, one with a background in the field of orthodontia.

Through the haze, Flint caught an image of two B.A.T.s removing a dazed Leigh from her bed, the front door of their hotel room lasered in half. Arctic winds blew inside. He shoved Lady Jaye, standing in the doorway, back into the bathroom, then made a dash for the gas grenade on the floor.

By the time his limp body was on top, Lady Jaye was uttering some unladylike words and elbowing open that bathroom door. She reached for the pistol attached to her thigh holster, a must-have accessory for all Joe sleepovers, but was overwhelmed by the smoke before she'd gotten the second round off.
CHAPTER TWELVE

"Just like Footloose's experience in high school -- strikeouts all around."

Jinx said this with her mouth full, consuming her second course of tempura shrimp and vegetables. It was her idea, the Joes traveling back over the bridge to visit her aunt and uncle's _washoku_ restaurant. Her teammates accepted the invitation, both stunned to learn even this much about her past.

"Very clever, mystery lady," responded the subject of her insult. "Unfortunately, she's right. None of Kristofer's classmates could give us anything. By all accounts, he was an average kid. Decent at sports, unremarkable in academics, pretty popular around the student body. The kind all of us knew back in school." Footloose lifted the bowl, finished his last sip of soup. "Well, those of us who went to public school...and not Hidden Monastery in the Mountains Ninja Academy."

"I'll show you my diploma later, Footie." Jinx used her chopsticks to kick a piece of prawn into Footloose's lap. Before he could answer back she turned to her right, shook her head again at their Lieutenant, stabbing his sushi with a fork. "Did anything about the guestbook stand out, Falcon?"

"Not that I could tell," he replied, ignoring her looks. "I sent faxes of it back to base; maybe someone else can find something useful. Ultimately, though, I think we're no better off than before."

"Don't sell yourself short. We know the mother personally interacted with the body, and I'd trust her positive ID over anyone's."

Footloose broke in, his tone more somber than normal. "Even so, we're relying on her memory from about twenty years ago. Hard to reconcile it with what we know to be fact. That casket was empty, folks."

The Lieutenant, fork in mouth, asked "And what are you getting at, Footloose?"

"We have the memories of someone who loved her son, who doesn't want to believe the worst. Understood. But, they're just that -- memories."

"So she's pulling one over on us?" Jinx questioned.

"Not at all. But it's possible she's replaced the actual event with what she wishes happened. Could be, she had a dream so vivid all those years ago, she's allowed it to become fact."

Falcon leaned back in his seat. "Come on, man."

Footloose waited until he was finished with his next sip before offering the rebuttal. "Ever heard of something called a schizoaffective disorder?"

"Yeah, sure. All the cool kids just can't shut up about it nowadays."

Dismissing the joke, one of the few Falcon offered to a fellow Joe and not a lady in his crosshairs, Footloose tried his best to make the case. "Lieutenant, some people have a problem telling dreams from reality. It's the most logical explanation for all of those farmers having extraterrestrial prostate exams late at night. And," he lifted a chopstick for emphasis, "one way a kindhearted woman of the Lord might utter an untruth in the middle of a church."

"You think she's convinced herself of a lie?" Falcon countered. "I'm not believing that for a second, Footloose."

"Not a lie. Just a dream so real it lingered in her memory; replaced the harsh reality she wasn't able to face. Maybe Mrs. Kristofer couldn't bring herself to look into that casket. The funeral director offered, she declined, felt so guilty about it later the scene replayed in her dreams...then, one day, her subconscious gave her a second shot and she took it."

Jinx crossed her arms; noticed her posture matched that of the equally skeptical Falcon. "Quite an analysis of someone you haven't met, pal."

"Yup," Falcon concurred. "And it wouldn't explain the funeral director's claim that Colin Kristofer absolutely _was_ in that casket."

"True. So, did Cobra get to the funeral home folks? They have any gambling debts we should look into; did any of them buy a boat or something in the past few weeks? No? Just tossing out some possibilities." Footloose examined his audience, decided to move to his next talking point. "You ready to hear another option?"

"Dying," responded Falcon. And Jinx. Simultaneously.

_Someone owes somebody else a Coke,_ thought Footloose, uncomfortable even joking about the obvious chemistry between his teammates. Everyone at the table wanted to laugh; instead, Footloose continued with his theory. "The funeral home staff is right. There was a body in that casket. Something that _looked_ like a body, that is."

" _Really_ , guy?" Jinx asked, slipping deeper into her chair.

"You haven't been around long enough, Rawhide," he responded with confidence. "Don't know about Cobra's history with freaky tricks like cloning and synthoids. Let's say Colin Kristofer is Cobra Commander -- is it so outrageous to think he couldn't have used that kind of technology to send a doppelganger back home? One that might've turned to goop and evaporated away in the ensuing two decades?"

"Problem is, we're talking about 1970 here. I don't think my family even had a color television set by then. Did Cobra have access to this technology before there even _was_ a Cobra?"

"Nice job, Lieutenant. A rebuttal that goes beyond 'Uh-uh! No way!'"

"Thanks, soldier. I think."

Footloose continued the lecture. "But, let's not forget...Serpentor's prison break, and certainly that insanity in the Himalayas, showed us that Cobra has associations we can't begin to comprehend. Who's to say how far back the snakes go...and what they even _are_?"

"Listen, wise guy, don't you think you're overlooking the most obvious answer?" questioned Jinx, her thin eyebrows expressing her irritation. "The poor kid died overseas, he got buried here, Cobra secretly dug his body up just to make us G.I.s look bad, and now the media have taken the bait."

"Two questions, though," Footloose countered, again using his chopsticks as visual props. "Why'd they select this random kid from New Jersey? And how did the DNA sample collected from his family match the sample provided by our Cobra turncoat?"

These were the most bothersome holes in Colin's defense, a defense Jinx and Falcon desperately wished to maintain. Mrs. Kristofer -- loving, sentimental mother that she was \-- had saved all of Colin's baby teeth; turned the sealed jar over to the authorities as soon as the investigation began, ignorant of the point they were looking to prove.

Falcon fought back, best he could. "Certainly possible the 'Cobra turncoat' is full of it. Maybe not a turncoat after all."

"Yeah, and maybe whoever ran that DNA test is the one with a new boat in his backyard. Why are you putting so much faith in that test in the first place?"

Footloose raised his hands. "Let's assume that Cobra has pulled another fast one on us. We can't trust the informant, can't trust the DNA. Fine. Still leaves the question of why Colin Kristofer? If you're throwing stink on someone's reputation, why an anonymous grunt from twenty years ago? Wouldn't you choose to smear a famous war hero?" Leaning back on to the table, thinking faster than he could speak, Footloose finished his argument. "Heck, if Cobra Commander can just deceive the whole world into believing he's a corpse, why not claim he's John F. Kennedy?"

"Oh, come on."

"It's just as impractical, Lieutenant, yet it makes more sense. You want to embarrass the nation, claim a hero as a villain, that's the way to go."

The conversation stopped that second, as Aunt Keiko's footsteps entered the dining hall. Keiko seemed a little too young to be Jinx's biological aunt, even though the affection she lavished upon her niece seemed genuine enough. When Jinx brought the Joes to this hole in the wall joint tucked into Amsterdam Avenue, Footloose viewed the gesture as a friendly one. Took it as an opportunity to learn more about his reticent teammate.

Wasn't she originally from California, not New York? Was she native-born? When did her family come here? Did Aunt Keiko and Uncle Tomisaburo raise her?

The irritated groan and icy stare was all the answer he needed. No questions; just accept a hearty, authentic meal here in my family's restaurant. Use silverware if you wish, but you will be judged...

Aunt Keiko squeezed Jinx's shoulders, asked if anyone wanted _anmitsu_ or mochi ice cream for dessert. Falcon waved a hand in defeat; he felt bad enough accepting a free meal in a restaurant that plainly needed the business, didn't wish to be adding to these nice folks' troubles.

Jinx sent Keiko back for a pan of _imagawayaki_. Gave Falcon a look that let him know no one here needed his pity.

"You dopes are giving me a migraine," she finally said, after Aunt Keiko departed for the kitchen. She asked the next question as if it were the most obvious thought in the world. "Listen, we've got three Cobra operatives in custody; why don't we squeeze 'em a bit and see if anything oozes out?"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

New York's Finest only had one Cobra operative in custody, Thrasher and Ripper already shipped out of state to face various warrants. Zarana apparently did a better job of keeping her nose clean, or was perhaps more skilled at avoiding arrest in the first place.

With no other states competing for her presence in handcuffs, Zarana was visiting the 15th precinct for the second time this week. Aware of the rare prize in their custody, the Chief of Detectives made the appropriate phone calls, had her ferried from the courthouse back to various precinct houses to enjoy new rounds of questioning.

A punk rock nihilist with ties to a terrorist organization, known for her uncanny ability to adopt perfect disguises? Every detective in the five boroughs with an un-cleared case and a female suspect wanted their crack at this skel.

Detective Kelly, a pug-ugly Irishman still making a name for himself in the Bureau, had the latest one-on-one with Zarana. Turned out to be about as productive as a fight with his wife. When the trio of military brats appeared, flashing all sorts of ID (not to mention a card with the President's phone number), dressed as civilians and asking for a "discreet talk" with the suspect, Detective Kelly had to smile.

"Well, soldiers, don't let me stand between you and a brick wall," he said with his characteristic weariness. "Fair warning, though." He gestured to the Interview Room's door. "That one spits."

The Joes followed the plan hatched on their way to the 15th \-- Jinx handles the interview; Falcon and Footloose stay on the other side of the observation glass. Neither thought it that great a plan, but telling Jinx "no," especially when she'd set her mind to something, wasn't the most advantageous path towards retirement.

Entering the room alone, Jinx took a palpable joy in Zarana's expression as the recognition sunk into her face. The cage in the north of the room was empty; Zarana, clad in her orange jumpsuit, was seated at the table in the middle, hands cuffed behind her in the chair. Allegedly, she'd been there for hours, not budging, not requesting anything; not offering much of anything, outside of bile, either.

This expression of undiluted hate, directed at the Joe who'd taken her down, broke her exterior in a way the past six hours of questioning never could. Detective Kelly caught the face, the scrunched-up expression of disgust; made a point of joining the soldiers in the Observation Room.

"Hello, dear. I see that fate just has a way of bringing us together," Jinx teased before even taking her seat.

"Funny how fate works, itn't it?" the prisoner asked in response, surreptitiously maneuvering her hands _just so_ behind her.

Buzzer, deeply offended, clenched fists in frustration. "I thought it was a righteous joke, man!"

"It's idiotic," was the reply of Zandar, seated across Buzzer in the back of the delivery truck. Zandar's response to anything was unsurprisingly curt, but in this case his aggravation over the insipid debate transformed four-word responses into two.

Torch, squatting on the floor next to Zandar, didn't seem to care about the crumbs in his beard. "I don't even get the humor. Why's a doughnut truck funnier than, I dunno, any other kinda truck?"

Buzzer lifted the paper baker's box next to him, tried to offer some form of visual aid. "Because cops love doughnuts! Don't y'see why that's funny?"

"Cor! I thought everyone loves doughnuts? Why is that specific to the bleedin' pigs?" Torch rebutted as he cracked open a grape soda.

"It's just somethin' people say about them," Buzzer sighed. "Crikey, man, do you really not get this? I mean, this is more'n just a joke. It's, like, a bloody _statement_."

"I wasn't complainin', Buzzer. It's the nicest-smellin' ride we ever jacked, I confess." Torch turned to their leader. "Zandar, explain to Buzzer I wasn't knockin' his work!"

Simultaneously, the Cobra trooper helming the van made contact with one of 14th Street's nastiest potholes. Half the contents of Torch's soda can landed on Zandar's face.

His fist clutching Torch's shirt, yet never looking him in the eye, Zandar growled, "I want both of you...to shut... _up_."

Buzzer obeyed orders, instead twisted his body and checked the truck's rear-view. Two more bakery trucks behind them, all packed with enough Cobra troopers to cause a severe amount of trouble. How could anyone not see what a great plan this was? Why wasn't he earning his deserved kudos?

"Okay, princess, you and I both know it's no coincidence you were creeping around Ramirez's hotel room, just as he was shoveling that Cobra propaganda to the masses."

"'Propaganda,' Joe? Is that what you're calling the truth these days?"

Jinx stopped her pacing; took a stance directly behind Zarana. "I'll believe it's the truth the same day I believe this is your natural hair color. You're using that puffed up blowhard as a patsy, got him spewing your nonsense nationwide. I get the PR angle, I know how bad Cobra wants to embarrass us, but what I don't get is why you chose this Kristofer kid."

"Hey, lissen, Joe. Sometimes Cobra operatives lose their nerve, go find a friendly ear with the tossers in the nice suits. Regrettable, yeah, but what do you expect us to do about it?"

"Put a bullet behind the ear of the snitch, that's how Cobra would play this...unless they wanted this 'turncoat' to go to the authorities. Wanted this bogus story about Colin Kristofer to leak to the press. You're not fooling me, swamp rat, I know you're hiding something. If you don't tell me the truth about this Colin Kristofer, and you don't do it soon, then the two of us \--"

"Oh, we're gonna have a rematch, then?" Jinx caught the glint of the overhead lights reflecting off Zarana's dangling handcuff. "Happy to oblige, honey."

Zarana's freed hand connected with Jinx's stomach; before the Joe could retaliate, Zarana had snatched the chair away. She tried her best to use it to her advantage, had the thing mere inches away from making contact with the Joe's face. Didn't expect the ninja weirdo to parry, jab her fist right through the seat of the chair and send splinters of wood everywhere.

Jinx advanced, traded quick blows with Zarana before two Joes and one detective exploded through the door. Falcon tried to pull Jinx out of the way, Detective Kelly drew his gun, while Footloose tackled the Dreadnok. Jinx slipped away from Falcon's hands, kept charging towards Zarana.

"You morons! Stay out of the line of fire!" the detective barked, Irish fury rising up.

Zarana, somehow, weaseled out of Footloose's grip. Stomping on his foot on her way up, she didn't have an opportunity to anticipate Jinx colliding against her collarbone. Back on the floor, her body tangled with Footloose's, Zarana searched for any available advantage.

She found it in a simple ink pen, knocked from the table after her dialog with Jinx took that violent turn. Zarana used her left arm to block as she maneuvered away from Jinx's attack and nabbed the instrument.

A stroke of luck had her filching Jinx's foot, mid-kick, a heartbeat later in her other hand. Less than two inches of flesh were exposed between Jinx's socks and jeans. More than enough room for that pen to find a warm, fleshy home.

Jinx howled in pain. Detective Kelly squeezed off the first round from his revolver. Zarana pushed towards her goal, the window to the left of the cage; didn't realize at the moment that Kelly had nicked a piece of her shoulder. Falcon raised one hand, ordered Kelly to stop firing.

She deserved the bullets, Falcon wouldn't deny that. But she still had questions to answer, and a dead Dreadnok was far less help than a live one in this instance. Footloose, no obvious concern for catching that second bullet, was already on his feet, pawing at Zarana's jumpsuit.

He grabbed a handful, pulled her close, and was elbowed mightily in his chin. She ripped free of his grip, reached the other side of the cage and leapt a foot off the ground. Her fist connected with the glass, just as Detective Kelly was taking more shots. Falcon, on the floor checking on Jinx's wounds, yelled at the detective.

Pointless. Zarana avoided the gunfire, cut her hand up nicely as she punched the glass out of the window. Small price for freedom.

"Don't shoot, man!" Footloose pleaded, one arm raised plaintively at Detective Kelly and the other reaching again for Zarana.

Her right leg was still in his range. Footloose snatched as hard as he could, worked past her fidgeting and was able to get a decent grip around her waist.

"Someone help me restrain this maniac," he called out as she screamed bloody murder. After catching a glimpse of her bloodied hand and shoulder, he added, "She's gonna need a medic, too."

Falcon looked up, disgusted. " _She_ isn't the priority right now."

Footloose nodded, as Detective Kelly aided him with his prize. "Yeah, of course, Lieutenant. But she's gonna need to be looked at, too. All I'm saying."

On the floor, Jinx pushed past her pain, got a nice view of Zarana being cuffed by the detective as Footloose restrained both of her arms. "We'll get another pair of cuffs in the squadroom, put 'em around her ankles," said Detective Kelly, wisely.

"Nice showing, princess," Jinx teased.

Zarana had a comeback. A particularly filthy one, one she was proud of.

No one could hear it over the sound of automatic fire downstairs.

August 29, 1970

"I want you to explain to me what you're doing with this," her father demanded, flinging her bookbag onto the family's antique mahogany end table. Out spilled copies of _Reveille for Radicals_ , _The Communist Manifesto_ , and _Dialectical and Historical Materialism._ Just some light reading for her semester break.

She adjusted her glasses with her index finger, looked up at her father with an unwarranted haughtiness. "I'm reading, Papa. Learning. Doing what a student is supposed to be doing."

"No, no," he replied, slicing his hands through the air, subconsciously performing some ritual that could remove these sick ideas from his home. "I don't work every day and send you to that school so you can come back with this _trash_."

She collected the books from the floor, all gifts from the new friends she was making abroad, all symbols of the girl remaking herself, trying on new identities until she discovered the one that fit. "It isn't trash. These are ideas, a way for the marginalized to fight back. To claim what's theirs."

He snatched one of the books from her hands, held it up with disgust. How had these foul dogmas found his little girl? "These are vile ideas, the ones that drove us from our home. Ideas that killed good men and women. I'll not have this filth under my roof, girl. Do you understand me?"

"You can't control my mind, Papa. I have a right to --"

The familiar three notes of the doorbell chimed, halting their debate. She moved towards the window, tried to get a view of their guest. Some part of her hoped for a cosmic coincidence. That perhaps her semester break would coincide with someone returning home on leave.

She peeled the curtain away. Waiting outside was a lengthy four-door sedan. American. Black.

Jocelyn put down the potato peeler, announced "I'm coming!" from the kitchen and soon opened the door. A man was waiting. Military uniform. Much older than Colin.

He gave his name and rank to Mrs. Kristofer. Explained that he tried her home, but a neighbor informed him she was at work. Would probably be there until after dark.

In his hand was an envelope. In a tone as machinelike as it was melancholic, he delivered the news.

She collapsed in tears.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN

An unmarked van waited its turn as the city snowplow created, at an infuriating pace, a path for entry. Eventually, the restaurant's lot was cleared, yet no one inside the vehicle seemed so enthused.

"No way we're meeting in the parking lot," Dusty said, checking in the rearview to affirm Flint and Lady Jaye's rented station wagon was following.

Quick Kick, seated next to Dusty in the van they'd picked up the previous evening, just as the place was closing for business, good-naturedly tossed a candy wrapper at his friend. "Hate to break it to you, cupcake, but this info goes far past 'sensitive.' Those nice civilians in the Waffle Hut don't need to hear any of this."

Dusty's gripes had some justification. The van's heater was on the fritz, a fact discovered during last night's interminable search through the snowy streets. Quick Kick noticed Dusty's mood wasn't lightened, so he added a smidgen of sympathy to his ribbing. "Hey, I'm from Southern California, brother. I spend ninety percent of my time with my shirt off. You think I'm thrilled about any of this?"

"What oughta be causin' hurt feelings is the way we let those snakes sneak right past us at the hotel," interjected Beach Head, still sore over the previous night's screw-up. His squad was in the adjacent building, keeping watch on Flint and Lady Jaye's hotel room. An intense snow squall, one the local weather report predicted over five miles to the east, happened to hit in the midst of their surveillance.

The storm was over within fifteen minutes, just long enough for the snakes to sneak in, abduct their target, and make a getaway. Just long enough to provide Beach Head an embarrassing failure, one he wasn't going to be forgetting any decade soon.

"That's a disgraceful showing, soldiers," he told his men. "We're gonna have to do better next time."

The rear of the van opened, granting entry to Flint and Lady Jaye, both carrying hot drinks, again dressed as locals (just not octogenarian locals). "I trust everyone had a miserable evening," was the warrant officer's greeting.

"Any word from her transmitter, Flint?" asked Leatherneck, grateful he'd yet to be blamed for "losing" their previous van, the one with the nice and toasty heater core.

"None. Those snakes could've taken Leigh anywhere and we'd be none the wiser." Flint crushed his paper coffee cup in frustration, forgetting he had one decent gulp left inside.

"Very productive, Flint." Lady Jaye offered him a napkin from her jacket pocket. "Right now, we have to put egos aside and pray the intel boys can give us something useful from the hotel's surveillance vids. In the meantime, I say learn how to make peace with the cold."

The Mamba was a marvel of avionic triumph, not even a Joe could deny this. With its customized, dual intermeshing rotors, six laser-seeking anti-tank missiles, six .50-cal machine guns, and _two_ innovatory pods accompanying the cockpit, both possessing independent capacity for flight. It was a glorious testament to the more innovative, outright brash design sense brought to Cobra during the days of Serpentor's reign.

It was also an absurdly expensive copter, one that stalled out numerous times in the prototype stage. When Cobra was in the midst of its latest "reshuffling," only one functional model was in existence. And Cobra Commander thanked the sweet spirits of his ancestors no one was fool enough to fly the thing to the Himalayas, because it likely would've met the fate of so many other Cobra assets that day.

Perhaps the jewel of Cobra's diminished air fleet, the Mamba was given a remarkably prosaic task on this day, transporting two B.A.T.s and a single female to a vacant lot in South Carolina. (B.A.T.s, possessing no need for comfort, fit two to a pod.)

From there, the trio was chauffeured by car to county fairgrounds in a nearby town. When the door of the mid-sized sedan was opened, the lone female, lone _human_ , in the backseat was stunned by what received her.

"Why, if it isssn't Leigh Miller? Sssso nice to see you, my dear." It was a voice from her past, the past she'd now dedicated her life to destroying, offering her a gentleman's hello.

He was in a new outfit, but his posture, his arrogance, his irritating hiss still remained. The new helmet afforded a clear view of his eyes. Leigh should've known what to find when she looked into them, should've been wise enough not to stare in the first place.

She said nothing as the man and his B.A.T.s escorted her past the deserted Ferris wheels and bumper cars. The journey was less than six minutes but felt an easy eternity to Leigh, anticipating with dread the punishment awaiting her. Their destination was the rear of a shabby stand, its sign declaring "Twisted Brain Tricks! Five Dollars!"

Awaiting them behind the booth was another face she was trying to forget, the needlessly dramaturgical image of Dr. Mindbender.

"Please, have a seat," he said while gesturing towards a folding chair, one of three resting in the dead grass. The B.A.T.s took their leave while Cobra Commander and Mindbender casually sat facing Leigh, flanking her left and right.

"Look, I don't want any trouble," she said, the opening of what she knew had to be a compelling plea for her life. "I realize I've caused you guys a lot of grief; I know what you're probably planning to do to me. Just...please, _please_ reconsider. You have to understand --"

Mindbender laughed. "Oh, dearest Leigh, I think we understand quite well. You awoke one morning with a compulsion. A desire to leave your previous life behind..."

"Yesss...an overwhelming sense of guilt, pushing you to somehow make amendsss for your work with our fine organization."

"So you compiled every document within your grasp, commandeered an unmarked civilian vehicle from a Crimson Guard unit, and traveled fourteen straight hours to Langley."

"You offered the Feds a generousss collection of data. Asked for protection, for some way to ressstart your life."

"And just to prove to the authorities your sincerity, your willingness to play along, you offered them the sweetest plum of all. You promised to reveal the identity of our illustrious founder, the man who, regardless of...an outrageous coup, still leads us to this day."

"Who could resissst such a lure? Of courssse they bit." The Commander shook his head. Leigh found herself studying his eyes again. "Colin Krissstofer. And I thought I'd covered my tracks _ssso well_."

Leigh, dumbstruck, allowed the routine to play with no interruptions. She caught a few hints of the men she knew; the tension that still existed between the Commander and Mindbender thanks to his role in Serpentor's creation, the mocking tone used to discuss a desire to make amends for the past, the glee in possessing anything (in this case, information) that someone else did not.

She remembered it all so well. Knew why she'd left it behind. And, somehow, why she welcomed it into her heart in the first place.

Unsure of how they wanted her to respond, Leigh could merely offer the most honest defense possible. "I only told the truth. You have to realize, I really couldn't live with myself anymore. You say all of this in such a derisive voice, but it's _true_. The woman you knew is gone; I've done everything I could to erase her."

And even as she said those words, Leigh began to question why it felt as if she was trying to convince herself more than anyone.

Mindbender toyed with his mustache. "Really, love? Tell me, do you not recall a shocking revelation during our stay in Himalaya? I seem to remember a group of rather unsavory figures placing our fine Commander on trial, revealing stunning secrets about his past. Is this not familiar to you?"

"It...I..."

"The history we discovered, our Commander's past as a nobleman in a hidden, pre-human society...if true, how could he also be a cog in America's military-industrial complex? How could he be this Colin Kristofer?"

"I-I don't know..." Leigh stammered, then turned to the Commander. "...but I know that you _are_ Colin Kristofer! I know it as well as I know my middle name. You saw the horrors of war, recognized the pain your nation was inflicting on others, and...and you did something about it! Cobra was your repudiation of America's hypocrisies, your attempt to create a new path, a new _honest_ philosophy that embraced the darkest aspects of human nature. And I know this because...because..."

"Becaussse he forced you to. Crystal Ball, care to join usss?"

The curtain behind the two men opened, revealing a third. Black mustache, graying temples, eyebrows shaped specifically to evoke a Republic serial villain...this stranger would cause even the most liberal and tolerant of souls to switch seats on the bus. A perfect recruit for Cobra.

"Greetings, madam." He spoke with false civility, in an unplaceable European intonation. The sheer ludicrousness of his drawl evoked Leigh's memories of past accent neutralization courses.

"Who is he? What is going on here?"

"Should I be the one to...?" The new arrival turned to his superiors. "Excellent. 'Leigh,' I feel obligated to offer you the truth, something of a novel concept for me. Regardless, I want you to understand that none of my actions were committed with malice, and I was merely --"

"Enough preamble, you toad. Get to the point!"

The stranger, briefly, held Mindbender in disdain. He recovered, attempted again to charm Leigh. "Gentle lady, you have been a victim of my unique abilities. I am the seventh son of a seventh son, the fulfillment of a prophecy, a man with the ability to alter reality to my will." He stopped, chuckled to himself. "No, not exactly. But _perception_ of reality, yes, that is indisputably my bailiwick. And your reality underwent a few...deviations during the previous weeks."

"So, what, you brainwashed me?"

Both Cobra Commander and Mindbender snickered. "As if we could still afford maintenance on the subliminal insinuation equipment. No, no, what our friend Crystal Ball offers is the ancient practice of hypnosis, cultivated in the darkest corners of Eastern Europe. The effects are anything but permanent, but you've managed to maintain this ruse far longer than we would've hoped."

The stranger, this Crystal Ball, nodded. "Yes, it's as if she's holding on to something, an idea her subconscious has latched on to. Tell me, beautiful, are you enjoying your new life?"

"Absssurdity, Crystal Ball!" interjected the Commander. "You're ssspeaking to a true Cobra warrior! We've called her back because her role in this farce isss done -- Ssserpentor's operations have been weeded out, the media have broadcast news of my 'true' identity, and Cobra's greatest propaganda victory is all but asssured!"

"I still don't understand what is happening here. You _wanted_ me to do all of these things?"

"You were drafted to play a role, one no longer needed," replied Dr. Mindbender. "And our ally will now use his talents, make sure all is made right."

"Yes, darling. Take my hand." He caught her hesitation. "Please, I mean you no harm. Just listen to the sound of my voice. Hear these words: _Dragoste...Abandonare...Logodnicul...Pierderi..._ "

She did everything she could _not_ to hear those words, not to give in to the allure of that voice.

She needn't have bothered. Within seconds, a fog was lifting. A fog Leigh ( _Leigh_? Really?) didn't even know existed.

Crystal Ball had an inkling, some small sense his intuition was true. The lady was holding on to at least one part of the fantasy, some aspect of the illusion that she could never consciously admit was reality.

He gazed upon her face, marveled at its beauty. An unforeseen thought formed. _Let her have her peace_ , was the aberrant notion. _What could this tiny morsel hurt?_

Both Mindbender and Cobra Commander, ignorant of this inner monologue, rose from their chairs. With his hand on her shoulder, Mindbender asked in an almost loving tone, "Now, our lovely, is it not clear? Do you not understand that you're no good girl gone bad; you're in no need of redemption. You are in fact, a bad girl in the _guise_ of some sniveling ingénue, yes?"

Eyes closed, she waited almost a full minute before speaking.

When she did, the American inflections of her voice were gone, replaced with something more guttural, more...befitting her nature. "I see...it's so clear to me now. Ironic, isn't it? Seeing better, without those glasses."

The Commander offered his hand. She accepted.

"What an exquisssite deception you've performed these past months, dear. It's an honor to welcome you back...my Baronessss."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN

They managed to cram twenty-eight Cobra soldiers into those bakery trucks. Watching them emerge from the rear doors might have evoked thoughts of harmless, floppy-shoed clowns escaping too-small cars, assuming the observer could manage to restrain his horror.

Led by Zandar, the one Dreadnok wise enough to trade his summer clothes for a fleece tactical jacket, the troops parked their trucks directly in front of the precinct, marched out with a precision that would've done their Commander proud.

Although they had no official command over the soldiers, Buzzer and Torch joined Zandar at the head of the parade. "I'm thinkin' this is gon' be some fun, right?"

Zandar, again, refused to face his subordinate. "Don't. Burn. Anything." He motioned for four fighters to go ahead; two kicked open the doors while two immediately began firing inside.

He left Torch with an addendum. " _Yet_."

Soldiers rushed through the double-doors, not firing at specific targets but instead generating as much noise and chaos as imaginable. According to plans, the din would get the constabularies on the ground, out of Zandar's way. No plans for any casualties, as that could get quite messy, but Zandar was certainly aware things had a way of getting out of hand.

Sirens blared before Buzzer and Torch could even enter the station. Buzzer turned, recognized the source as a sector car, likely finished with its patrol, returning to the cop shop. The uniforms did the right thing, per protocol, turning on the sirens as soon as they spotted something unusual.

Chainsaw in hand, Buzzer wanted the filth to know just how much he appreciated their work. He'd ripped through the bonnet, tearing through the metal and all but reaching the engine, before the sector car had come to a complete stop.

Two officers emerged. Torch drew his sidearm, backed up his fellow Dreadnok as Buzzer continued his work on the front-end of their sector car. The tall, olive-skinned Officer Grillo left his door open, used it as cover as he traded shots with Torch. His shorter, paler partner also left his door open, but opted instead to barrel straight for Buzzer; soon discovered his revolver sawed in half.

Undeterred, Officer Lemass responded with a punch to the jaw. Buzzer lifted his chainsaw overhead, watched with delight as the plodder retreated. Torch's fellow Cobras took notice of the conflict and returned fire, eradicating the door window, spraying Officer Grillo with glass. When fire began piercing through the door, reducing his shield to Swiss cheese, Grillo made a lifesaving decision and joined Lemass in retreat.

Emboldened, Buzzer continued his work on the car. Shredding through the passenger side of the vehicle, he spotted the remains of the tank door, a clear substance dripping all over the pavement. With the petrol tank having received a healthy (or unhealthy) dose of automatic fire, Buzzer correctly guessed what was coming next.

He did what any sensible Dreadnok would do. He invited his friend to join the fun.

"Torch, I t'ink that fuel container ain't long for this world. You wanna put this poor ride outta its misery?"

Torch giggled, dropped his pistol and reached for the flamethrower eternally attached to his back. "What a blessed day this has turned out to be!"

Buzzer reached safety at the top of the precinct's steps mere moments before Torch ignited the sector car. The exploding fuel sent remains of the car in every direction, flaming embers landing on the parked automobiles in front of the precinct, the playground across the street (mercifully empty), and the remaining Cobra troopers outside.

A few blazing remnants even connected with Torch's bare arms. He laughed, told himself he'd found some way to beat the cold after all.

The sound of the detonation would've stirred anyone inside the 15th out of complacency, been a story they'd tell their wives and girlfriends for years, were they not dealing with a different hell inside.

The uniform cops stationed in the first floor of the 15th were prepared for random drunks to sometimes enter those doors. Occasionally a raving addict, wacked out on the latest designer drug, giving some poor arresting officer fits.

Not a military operation. Masked terrorists, armed with gear even the most advanced SWAT team couldn't compete with.

"Cover!" shouted Sergeant Rainey, shoving a rookie named DeLouise or DeRosa or something like that to the floor. No one needed the sarge's directive. The dozen uniforms drinking coffee, making calls, reading their messages, or escorting prisoners to Booking all pulled admirable disappearing acts.

Sergeant Rainey and the rookie kept their head down, gunfire still echoing through the chamber. A dense thud hit the floor, bounced a few times. Rainey checked behind his shoulder, expecting the worst. It was the typewriter that once rested on the edge of his desk. The contraption he hated so much, given the death it so richly deserved.

They crawled to their left, located their spot between the vending machines and the door to the public restrooms.

"What's going on?!" Delroy or DeLarocca stammered out.

The sergeant, fifty-five, barely able to pass the last physical, couldn't answer. The soda and snack machines were decent cover, that's what he knew. Facing down these killers with revolvers and nightsticks, he knew with the same certainty to be suicidal.

His hand was on his piece, though. Instinct was speaking; not survivor instinct, but the voice that tells you to protect the ones you serve with. That no one invades your home.

Rainey gave up his position, found his best possible shot and took it. One masked creep fell. The soldier standing next to the dropped snake immediately swiveled in Rainey's direction, filleted those vending machines. Rainey positioned himself to protect the rookie from the next blast, fought against the earsplitting voice in his head telling him it was a pointless gesture.

More gunfire, but it came from the wrong place. Up the staircase, the handmade "Detectives: Second Floor" sign now shot to ribbons, stood Detective Kelly and his smoking revolver.

Second masked creep was down.

His buddies responded in kind, had Detective Kelly ducking against the wall and questioning his bravery instantaneously. Five feet behind him, Footloose gripped Zarana in a bearhug while Falcon dressed Jinx's wound.

"Sounds like a rescue brigade to me!" Zarana cheered.

"You shut your mouth!" Falcon snapped back from his position on the floor.

Footloose pulled his captive closer. "Better listen to the man," he warned.

"Y'think this is intimidatin' me?" she replied. "Y'think a few coppers, two able-bodied Joes an' one with a limp can stand against a Cobra battalion?"

"What are you saying, Zarana?" Jinx asked as Falcon helped her to her feet. "That the fireworks show stops if we give you up?"

"Too bad we don't negotiate with terrorists, huh?" Detective Kelly asked through the side of his mouth.

Footloose was ready to give an answer, but somehow, over the clamor downstairs, he heard footsteps. Specifically, the _clop-clop_ of infantry boots.

Emerging up the steps, flanked in every direction by Cobra troops, was Zandar. Detective Kelly obeyed, dropped his piece, and with both arms high, gave the invaders the appropriate space.

Zandar took in the sights. Acknowledged his kin with a nod. "Hullo, sis." About as much as you'd expect him to say.

"Y'ready to let me go now, right?" Zarana asked Footloose as she confidently stamped his toe.

The Corporal released his charge, gave Zandar and his men only dirty looks as a rebuttal. His sister approached Detective Kelly, demanded he undo her cuffs. Zandar, as much as he showed any emotion, seemed to find this amusing. He'd assumed leadership of the Dreadnoks reluctantly, following his older brother's abandonment of the gang. (Possessing a ruby the size of an American football can alter a man's outlook on life.)

Leadership didn't suit Zandar's personality, but today, he felt a certain amount of pride in his work. His pompous glower passed from soldier to soldier, sizing them up, drinking in the victory.

His eyes stopped on Falcon.

"Him. We're taking him, too," Zandar directed his soldiers.

"Like blazes you are!" shouted Jinx.

Before she'd finished the sentence, every barrel was trained on her. Zarana, now on her brother's arm, guffawed. "Go 'head, love. Give these trigger-happy bogans an excuse to have some more fun!"

All eyes on him, Falcon tried his best to stall. "Why me?"

"Don't ask questions. Just do as I say," Zandar tersely countered.

Falcon raised his hands, nodded to Jinx, then took his first steps towards Zandar. She protested, was silenced by Footloose. "Don't make this any worse, Jinx!"

Lt. Falcon kept a steady pace towards his enemy, hands now raised and folded behind his head. He had fantasies of punching the Dreadnok slime right in the jaw. Of fighting off the cluster of Cobra creeps surrounding him, stealing one of their weapons and blasting the Joes' way to freedom.

Kid's stuff. He knew they had him good; he also knew that the Joes were getting off easy this time. If Zandar wished, he could've eliminated Falcon's teammates, possibly every officer in the precinct.

He could speculate on his opponents' "mercy." Cobra likely didn't want the attention such a massacre would attract; wouldn't want the Joes and every conceivable federal agency retaliating full-force.

Taking a lone hostage even had a certain logic to it. Joes tend to find each other in captivity, do everything they can to help their teammate escape. Two or three Joes in custody are, in a way, a liability only one isn't.

Why was _he_ selected, though? As he was escorted down the stairs, Falcon repeated the earlier question.

Zandar sneered. "Why you, Joe? Hey, maybe you're something special."

Zarana slapped her brother's back. "Dang! When you'd get all loquacious?" He only glared in response. "Anyway," she continued, indifferent to his insult, "I'm sure it'd be fun to do a proper job down here, but you are lookin' to get me touched up, right?" She used her cut hand to point to her wounded shoulder.

As they reached the bottom steps, all gunfire ceased. Soldiers immediately began filing out of the doors. "Plan was to do this painlessly as possible. We'll get you medical aid in the truck," Zandar said.

"Don't ever let 'em know I said this," Zarana moaned as they reached the building's threshold, "but those Joes can deliver quite the hurtin' when they've got a mind to."

Stepping outside, Zandar's eyes narrowed, locked on to the flaming car. Approaching sheepishly to his left was a humbled Torch.

"Sorry, guv," he said, rubbing his arm like a boy caught with a handful of cookies and an empty jar on the counter. "Guess something caught fire anyway."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN

One hundred feet, from bottom to top.

In an earlier life, Mickelson loved climbing up the playground slide, wrong-end up. A battle against gravity, against the impossibly slick metal, always a cheap thrill when some unsuspecting twerp at the top realized an even bigger kid was seconds away from knocking him off the stairs.

He never imagined he'd get to relive that experience two decades later as a member of Cobra Command. Joined by twenty other recruits, Mickelson was ascending the bone-dry slide that previously served as the Great American H-2-Whoa!'s main attraction. Their goal was to reach the top, escaping a single hit from the Commander's paint gun.

Winner received a voucher for one night out on the town. (According to rumor, double-talk for a free burger and fries coupon at Red Rocket. Drink not included.)

Before the exercise began, he joked with the soldiers that he'd once done these drills with far more lethal weapons, but, hey, times were tough now. That Commander, always kidding around...

The Commander initiated the drill by tossing a firecracker into the crowd. That eliminated one trooper, whining about it landing too close to his eye or something, leaving nineteen virile young men to pick up his slack. Only a few materialized as leaders; the rest congregated into a mass at the base of the slide. Climbing over the mountain of muscle before him, Mickelson barely had a moment to dodge Buchanan's bony elbow when he spotted the first paintball whizzing towards his head.

Using Buchanan as cover, Mickelson wormed his way out of the stack of bodies and clambered towards his goal. Three men before him, all straining to grip the greasy surface. Somehow, Hall, one of the heftiest recruits in this crop, had already escaped Man Mountain below.

Terrell was in the lead, until he lost his footing and glided slowly back towards loser mountain. The Commander singled Terrell out, spewed a respectable amount of paintballs on his descendant body to drive home the point.

Two remained. The Commander concentrated most of his fire on the embarrassments in that lump at the bottom, but would pop a few warning shots towards the leaders. Hall, directly to Mickelson's north, was slow enough to catch one of those shots, staining his uniform with neon green shame.

Hall tried to give up, to surrender to gravity. Mickelson wouldn't allow it. He grabbed Hall by the back of his shirt, lifted his wide body high enough to act as a shield. The weight was egregious, but Mickelson knew he could handle the strain. Unlike that wimp boy Whigham up there, his first place position owed solely to his reedy, weasel-like body.

Fine, in fairness, Whigham was as agile as he was skinny, actually managing to contort his body out of the way of the Commander's shots while maintaining his boots' position on the slide. Would this impress the Commander? Could he look past Whigham's sickly frame and find something of merit in there?

Not if Mickelson had anything to say about it. He positioned his boot against the edge of the slide, kept his left hand propped against Hall's back, and used his other to reach down to Hall's right foot.

"What are you doing, Mickelson?" he asked, just as the Commander popped his naked face with a combo of orange, blue, and purple dyes.

"Doing what any self-respecting Cobra would do...using the weak for all he's worth!" Mickelson responded, maneuvering his hand to untie Hall's boot. When he'd gotten the top knot undone, he maneuvered the boot off Hall's foot. Inadvertently got the holey sock, too.

Whatever. Mickelson did his best to maintain his position on the slide, taking aim and tossing the boot in Whigham's direction. Was the stringbean agile enough to evade a steel-toed combat boot?

He was, as it turned out. But not agile enough to evade the boot _and_ the Commander's hail of (somewhat) harmless bullets.

No way to know if every mook trapped inside Man Mountain had been eliminated yet, so Mickelson continued northward. The Commander recognized his strategy, admired it, thought to offer the resourceful recruit _some_ challenge before reaching the top.

Hall, still acting as that human shield, paid the price. Mickelson managed to keep his head low enough to evade the blasts while pushing Hall's body northward. Every muscle on fire, Mickelson pushed with herculean strength, shoving doughboy all the way to victory.

When he reached the top, the Commander extended his hand for congratulations. "Excccellent work, soldier," he said, sincere admiration in his voice.

Overwhelmed with pride, Mickelson was too tired to verbalize his answer. Too tired to react in time when the Commander took aim; fired a round, fuchsia bullet directly into his forehead.

Eighteen minutes later, nursing the meanest headache of his life, Mickelson watched from the bottom of the slide as the last survivor reached the top. DiFranco, a beanpole that made Whigham look like an Austrian action star, had staked his claim at the bottom of Man Mountain; didn't make a move during the entire drill.

When the last man had been splatted, when the Commander was a second away from calling the exercise, little invertebrate DiFranco popped his head up, bobbed and weaved his way to the top. The Commander presented him with the same reward as the runners-up -- a cheap shot to the noggin and kick down the slide. There was a B.A.T. at the bottom, though, presenting DiFranco with that prized coupon.

From the top, Cobra Commander spread his arms before his subordinates. "What a showing! _Thisss_ is Cobra at its finessst. Take a lesson from our underfed friend here. Be resourceful! Be conniving! Be ruthlesss...because if you're not, someone else sssurely will be!"

A smattering of applause emerged from a few of the troopers, easily drowned out by boos, hisses, and curses. Hall, Mickelson's new best friend, approached DiFranco with a congratulatory handshake. Took the opportunity instead to gut punch the loser. Another trooper tried to nab that coupon floating in the air. Was met by Hall with a fist to the face.

Within an unsurprising number of seconds, a melee ensued. The Commander cackled into his microphone. "Yesss! Now you're getting it!"

Footsteps belonging to leather boots, scuffing against frosty concrete, approached. The Commander didn't acknowledge them.

"How gratifying, to see you display a renewed enthusiasm for these exercises, Commander," opined Dr. Mindbender, exhibiting a more subtle tone of superciliousness now that his leader had bypassed puberty.

"Any reason why you're here, ssspoiling my fun, Mindbender?"

"Telephone call for you in your office. Zandar's calling from New York."

The Commander flung his microphone to the concrete; took some delight in knowing his battle suit protected him, and only him, from the piercing whine generated by the feedback. "What would he want?" A thought entered. "Don't tell me he disobeyed ordersss!"

Dr. Mindbender's face was difficult to read. "From what I could ascertain, it appears to be a good news/bad news situation..."

"You blew your budget, lost two of my men...all for _her_?"

"She is my sister, Commander."

"And that doesn't embarrassss you? You were specifically told to leave her in custody. What could make you think your actions are deserving of anything less than immediate execution?"

"Because, I'm offering you a Christmas present in return. Not that you deserve it..."

Listening in on any conversation with Zandar, the notorious mumbler, was difficult. Baroness' training granted her more sensitive ears than most; sneaking around, collecting scraps of overheard conversations, she almost felt like herself again. Almost.

A minute prior, she was on her way to the Commander's office. Questioning what she hoped to accomplish sneaking around in there, when the echo of his boots entered the hall. Her plan ruined, whatever it was going to be, she adapted to the new circumstance.

Changing her stride, heading towards him now, she studied his form in the distance. He'd planted these seeds so long ago; amazing to think the Commander waited until now to harvest them. Impossible to grasp the role she'd played all along, how he managed to talk her into any of this.

They crossed paths in the hall. He hissed his hello, asked when she was planning on returning to her true hair color.

"I'm thinking of staying patient, allowing it to come back on its own," she answered, examining strands of hair she'd collected in her fingers.

"No. Ridiculousss. Just go dye it black, dear," he ordered before entering his office.

The command was irksome, but her reaction just as perplexing as her earlier motivations. She had considered dying her hair earlier, the moment Crystal Ball awakened her at that carnival, so why was she so offended by the Commander's order?

As she pivoted back, crouched on her knees and leaned next to the space between the Commander's door and the wall, the questions distracted her; made the eavesdropping even more of a challenge.

Did she want this life or didn't she? What had that Romanian trickster done to her?

No conversation with Zandar was likely to last longer than ninety seconds. Everyone seemed to prefer it that way. The Commander toyed with the phone receiver, tapped it against his desk.

The cost of stealing those vans, hazard pay for the troops, wasted ammunition...Zandar's peevish actions in New York had officially blown through the year-end budget. The Australian oddity had returned with quite the prize, however. A giftwrapped Joe?

Just like Zarana, this could be more trouble than it's worth. The Joes were guaranteed to mount a rescue operation, another headache and budget-buster Cobra didn't need. But Zandar had selected well; remembered the preliminary talks of another plan, one hatched shortly after the recruitment of Crystal Ball.

Was the mystic skilled enough to "turn" a Joe? Were there any members of the team who lacked that iron resolve, who might conceivably give in to his hypnotic directives? One newer recruit, one with a sizeable chip on his shoulder, seemed an ideal candidate.

How fortunate his path happened to cross with an Aussie...yet again.

The Commander laughed, rose with a start, began pacing the room. Yes, this could work. So many public relations possibilities here. That young Joe's face on the news...oh, what a delicious victory that could be.

Wheels kept turning. A new plan was coalescing, and the Commander couldn't withhold his delight.

Baroness entered her quarters, washed her face in the sink. That face in the mirror; the doctors did an impressive job, cutting and stitching her into something new. Something she told herself she couldn't recognize, even as the image had grown more familiar with each passing day.

Should she return to her original face? The thought of more surgeries repulsed her; the thought of Cobra Commander volunteering the funds ludicrous, given Cobra's current situation.

Perhaps a return to her previous fashions would help. Her famous catsuit -- its tailored black leather hugging every inch, blood-red Cobra emblem so lovingly embracing her chest -- remained in storage. She told herself she was saving it for battle. Today, she contemplated a premature return.

The water was still running. Baroness studied the bottle of hair dye that rested on the sink, her thoughts drifting between obedience and insubordination. Why had she been delaying this for so long?

Surely she had no attachment to those champagne locks, a vestige from her most recent assignment. Time in deep cover was done; back to reality. Back to those deliciously absurd schemes to rule this world.

This world that deserved to burn. That warranted even worse than the Commander's most abhorrent designs.

She wouldn't be doing this as Leigh Miller. Embarrassing enough she still carried that face. No, far better to revive her midnight roots, maybe swoop enough over her face to cover this leftover disguise. Perhaps even a pair of glasses, non-prescription, would be required to finish the look?

First things first. The hair.

The bottle was in her hands. The water was still running.

Baroness twisted off the cap. Recoiled at the scent of the dye. Closed her eyes, offered a hushed farewell to Leigh Miller, may she rest in peace, or rot in hades, or simply be forgotten like a hundred aliases before her.

A knock at the door.

"Baronesss! We must speak immediately!" Another knock. "That isn't hair dye I smell in there, isss it?"

June 11, 1976

A forgotten statue in some park, celebrating pigs who lost their lives quelling a "riot" almost a hundred years earlier.

No, stamping out the dissidents, the early soldiers in the necessary revolution to reclaim what had been stolen by the ruling classes. That's the true history. She was sure of it.

The homemade bombs were fragile, but Willie C. was bloody good at his job, she'd been told. Studied the right "cookbooks," made sure to take all the necessary precautions. Still, drive _real slow_ on your way to the park, they warned her.

No one was even going to be there this time of night. Just some corner of the park the city barely maintained. Just some statue that mainly attracted the attention of pigeons.

Flashlight in hand, she paused for a moment, read the plaque. Fourteen policemen lost their lives in the riot. She doubted anyone alive today even knew their names.

She thought of all of those who served in anonymity, their sacrifices lost over the years. Didn't know if this made her actions more or less forgivable.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

General Hawk scowled at the phone. Dreaded more than anything having to make that call. Kept praying it would ring before he looked up that pitiable woman's number; maybe have some good news on the other end for a change.

"Protocol gives you ten days before you have to notify next of kin, General," his guest told him. Seated across Hawk's desk was Stalker, one of the very first men recruited by the General to form this unit, a trusted confidante. He'd spent the past thirty minutes trying to ease the General's mind, attempting to offer some solace.

Hawk's bitter expression was unchanged. "She deserves better than protocol. That woman's already lost one son under my command."

"Lost her son to those snakes we've been called to fight," corrected Stalker. "And as hard as we're all taking Duke's loss, we can't let it turn us morbid. If Cobra wanted Falcon dead, they had a pristine opportunity in that police station."

"Which just means they have something even nastier in store for the lad." The General's pointer fingers and thumbs formed a diamond shape; he rested them under his nose as he brooded over the fate of Mrs. Falcone's boys.

Duke, legendary First Sergeant of the team; tough as titanium nails, but always personable with his fellow soldiers in the proper circumstances. Hawk, on a level he couldn't acknowledge, was envious of Duke's ease with his subordinates. Every Joe serving under Hawk deeply respected the man, but few would ever consider him a friend. Hawk always assumed that distance a necessary burden of leadership; watching Duke's connection with the enlisted men was enough to give the General occasional second thoughts.

Falcon, still new to the team, still a bit too raw for his own good. Regardless, an outstanding soldier. Just as hardboiled as his brother, just as committed to the war against these terrorist maggots. Hawk thought he was doing the kid a favor, giving him something to assuage the hurt, a few days of labor to distract from the mourning process.

"You were doing what you could to help a young man in pain, General," Stalker told him. "Doing more than most in your position would ever do."

Hawk thanked his friend, asked for some privacy while he made the call. Stalker was ready to offer a rebuttal, give the General another reason to delay the call and wait for good news.

That's precisely when Dial-Tone whirled through the door. His expression did not betray fair tidings.

"General Hawk! Hate to break in, but you're not gonna believe _this!_ "

" _This!_ " turned out to be a warning from the producers of the latest cable news sensation, _Hector Ramirez Tonight_. "Credible sources" had placed them in contact with what they believed to be Cobra Commander, offering a live interview, via telephone, this evening. Hawk had to restrain himself on the line, telling those television dimwits that _no_ , you _do not_ give a charismatic terrorist leader a platform on your network, providing him a million or so possible recruits in the bargain.

"Gee, hate to hear you feel this way, because Mr. Ramirez is pretty adamant about goin' through with this," was the childlike voice on the other end's reply.

The Secretary of Defense called, made sure he gave General Hawk a reminder of this First Amendment concept, then delivered the news. The interview had DoD clearance, provided the news crew gave appropriate parties a chance to scrutinize the transmissions.

Did the Joes want to pout in the corner or join this party?

The previous tenant of this three bed, two bath home in Astoria was, at this moment, enjoying her second year in sunny Florida. No more snow to shovel, no more inflated grocery bills, far fewer hooligans running in the street. Sold out not long after her husband passed, scored one of the highest real estate prices in her neighborhood's history.

She never knew the buyer represented a terrorist organization. Didn't realize every homeowner on her block would be making the same mistake over the next year. Proud patriots, inadvertently providing terrorist pondscum with a series of back-up safehouses. Houses Cobra itself never expected to use, up until the organization's "true" founders materialized, duping the recruits into following a bizarre plan, and losing nearly everything in the aftermath.

Not that Zandar cared too much about any of this. An air-conditioned Terror Drome in the jungle, a snake-themed temple in the desert, or Astoria. All the same to him. The place he collected his paychecks; nothing more, nothing less.

The living conditions, with eight operatives stuffed inside the home (half of them Dreadnoks), were irksome, but the money was the same. So far. Rumor was, more budget cuts were coming, non-uniformed operatives' salaries next in line.

Bloody marvelous. He poured himself a drink as he examined the television, questioning just what the once-proud association had turned into. And now, this. That buffoon Hector Ramirez on the television, boasting about his latest exclusive.

Had the Commander lost his mind? No Cobra agent truly understood their leader's fascination with media manipulation; Zandar despised it with a singular fury.

A peculiar knock came from the door, disrupting his meditation. The precise pattern, Cobra's secret entry code. Zandar accounted for his housemates, only two missing; Thrasher and Ripper, both in custody.

Had they broken free and not called first? Wouldn't be the first time. Zandar set down his drink, released a sigh. He wasn't ecstatic about the filth netting his partners, nor was he eager to share a bathroom with the dullards again. So boorish, so juvenile, so... _loud_.

Zandar stiffened himself, gave the rejoining knock on the door. The other end countered with the appropriate pattern. _Probably not a Dreadnok_ , he mused. _Doubt any of them could remember those arrangements._

Someone at base had played with the numbers, worked out a way in the budget to justify renting the Wisconsin-based Joes a raised ranch home, less than twenty minutes away from that imbroglio in Glynn County. In the following days, not only had a Joe been kidnapped during a parallel investigation, but the informant abducted by Cobra was still nowhere to be found.

The mood in the house was predictably acrid; Flint and Lady Jaye weren't speaking, Beach Head took every opportunity to harangue the Joes for fouling up the mission, and Quick Kick's attempts to lighten the mood were met with a collective disdain.

Still, it wasn't a motel, and there were nearly enough bathrooms to avoid the usual pitfalls associated with cohabitation. Lady Jaye, the lone female, wasn't ecstatic about the living conditions, about sharing a room with competitive snorers Leatherneck and Iceberg, but she'd endured worse during her tenure with the Joes.

Jaye was at the stove, finishing up the popcorn. Approaching the staircase were Leatherneck and Flint, still absorbing the news.

"Any thoughts on why this guy isn't a literal snake anymore?" asked the Marine.

"Could be an imposter, Leatherneck. That's one possibility Intel is exploring. Crazy to think our last memory of that louse is him actually helping us during that insanity in the mountains, isn't it?"

"Helped us defeat Serpentor, and those oddball creeps Roadblock says turned against 'im. I never detected any altruism in that creep, no sir. Bein' a snake suits him both ways, I say."

Flint caught a whiff as they descended the stairs.

"Popcorn? Really; for _this_?"

She didn't acknowledge Flint's comment; allowed Quick Kick to rebut. "Don't be so uptight, brother. If you can't enjoy a salty snack while a pompous blowhard asks a terroristic madman what kinda tree he fantasizes about being...when can you?"

"I just hope we can keep it down," Lady Jaye added, the longest string of words she'd given Flint, even indirectly, in days.

"Guys, it's starting!" called Iceberg from the living room.

Dusty, disinclined to take any side in the ongoing Flint/Jaye "will they or won't they...choke the life out of each other?" drama, helped pour the popcorn into a bowl. Followed Jaye into the living room, just as Hector was giving his preamble.

" _Ladies and gentlemen, please know that I understand the magnitude of this evening,"_ spoke a voice every Joe recognized. The freshly blow-dried Hector Ramirez, seated in a designer chair they'd wager cost more than an E-4 pay grade took home that year. Behind him was a backdrop, stylized images of Cobra Commander forming a twisted mural, a contemptible tribute to the man who'd spent years waging war against their nation.

" _That I understand how much my recent reporting on the true identity of this terrorist has hurt some viewers. And I know many of you disagree with my decision to conduct our interview this evening. My hope is that, by night's end, you'll understand why I had to do this."_

"Ratings," was the rapid response of Beach Head.

" _I'm told our 'guest' is on the line now. Can you hear me?"_

Appreciating the drama, Hector's guest lingered on the line a moment before responding.

" _Good evening, Hector. I want to thank you ssso much for this opportunity."_

Iceberg spoke what the rest didn't want to say. "Sounds like the man."

"' _Cobra Commander,' let's get one thing clear. I don't condone your actions, I find them abhorrent, categorically, and I won't allow you to use this platform as a recruitment aid."_

" _You sssay that as if it's the most horrible thought in the world..."_

" _I say that because you're a terrorist, 'Commander.' And good men and women are dead because of you."_

" _Ressst assured that Cobra never seeks the loss of innocent life, although I confess a few regrettable casualtiesss along the way."_

"Did he really just say that?!" exploded Lady Jaye.

"Shh!" reprimanded Flint.

" _Can you name for me, Hector, any other organization with ambitious goals and entirely clean handsss?"_

" _You're deflecting."_

" _Oh, truly? I'll repeat, what would be so wrong, a man of his own free will choosing to join my organization?"_

" _Choosing to join a criminal, terrorist enterprise?!"_

" _Choosing to join likeminded individuals, those who sssee through the lies spread by our officials and politicians. Those who recognize that the powerful take all that they can, conspire to keep the little man down. Is it so wrong for these little men to band together? To speak of one accord, to announce that the sssystem's broken? That from now on, whatever they want...they take?"_

Quick Kick didn't interrupt. He did make a gagging motion with his mouth and index finger, however.

" _Are you honestly equating, 'Cobra Commander,'_ your _morality with our politicians and business executives?"_

" _Heavensss, no, Hector. I'd never choose to be associated with such degenerates. Now, tell me, why do you speak my name with such sarcasm?"_

Every Joe in the room tensed up. Whether they wanted to admit it or not, this was the moment they were waiting for. The answer they were dreading.

" _As recent days have revealed, it turns out you once used a far more prosaic name. One of Mediterranean origin, I believe. Tell me, 'Commander,' who is Colin Kristofer?"_

The Commander paused an interminable amount of time before answering. Hector was prepared to repeat the question, when abruptly he heard...

" _Ssso funny you should ask such a question. Yes, that family name can be traced to Greece, generations back, but the Colin Kristofer you speak of was as pure America as they come. Pies on windowsills, stickball games after school, afternoon matinees with his best girl._

" _Colin Kristofer knew all of those thingsss. Answered the call when his country claimed it needed him."_

The collected Joes reacted with disgust. Flint shook his head in shame; seriously considered leaving the room.

" _And what happened to Colin Kristofer then?"_

" _Would it be too hackneyed to say the scales fell from his eyesss? Heh. Just know that certain truths were revealed."_

" _Cobra Commander -- Colin -- what caused you to turn against your country?"_

" _Turn againssst my country? You wound me, Hector. I dearly_ love _this nation."_

" _Oh, come now."_

Leatherneck threw his hat at the television set. Flint made up his mind; left the couch without saying a word.

" _I mean thisss with every ounce of my being. I adore this land, and the principles behind its founding. I just think a few...amendments are in order, and I don't mean the kind that requires two thirds of both housesss."_

" _Which would be...?"_

" _The ssstrong prove themselves. Take what they can; what they deserve. The weak? The weak learn their role, accept the protection of the ssstrong. Accept what they must offer in return. Not quite apple pie and baseball, but for those of us with the proper resolve, a fitting revision of an admirable, if flawed, sssociety."_
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Conquest X-30 arrived with its special delivery, a somewhat nauseated Dial-Tone, just seventeen minutes before the interview began. As he queasily stepped off the super-sonic jet, Dial-Tone offered a "Thanks...I think" to his pilot, one of the more notorious pranksters in the unit, codenamed Slip Stream.

Yes, Slip Stream needed to ferry Dial-Tone from Utah to New York, post-haste. No, he didn't need to spend the entirety of their journey above Illinois piloting the Conquest upside down. And it's very possible Slip Stream's desire to squeeze the Conquest in the gaps between Manhattan's skyscrapers was simply gratuitous.

The roof door opened, greeting Dial-Tone with a smooth-shaven young man garbed in his father's winter coat. "We'll take you to the control room ASAP, sir," spoke Mr. Ramirez's personal assistant, just so pleased to be tossing around lingo like "ASAP."

Minutes later, Dial-Tone entered a control room that didn't offer substantially more breathing room than the cockpit of an experimental jet fighter. Not only had every employee of the cable news operation squeezed into the space, but representatives of various federal agencies were already filing in.

Dial-Tone knew the score: we all pool resources, do what we can to track down this snake. But when it came to taking action, only a direct order from POTUS himself would enable the Joes to supersede the typical FBI/CIA/DOJ muscle flexing.

He'd do his duty, nonetheless. It didn't matter who got the credit, who led the team that would take the snake down. All that mattered was that the scum got what he deserved.

As the Joe team's Communications Expert, Dial-Tone often felt just shy of useless during field missions. He was well aware General Hawk once reported his status on the team as "by the skin of his teeth," and had even undergone a scare months earlier when his re-enlistment was temporarily rejected.

Today, he was in his element. Local offices of the various federal agencies had brought along what equipment they could, hoping against hope some trail of breadcrumbs might lead to the source of Cobra's telecommunications network. Dial-Tone gave their gear a cursory glance, smiled condescendingly, and produced from his backpack implements of his own design.

This wasn't the baby stuff they sold at the mall; these were state of the art innovations, straight from the unencumbered mind of an unappreciated genius. And, as Dial-Tone tapped away at his gear, tried to hold down his lunch (second time today) during Cobra Commander's nauseating spiel, more than one Fed was peeking over his shoulder, curious to know if this "elite" soldier was as good as he claimed.

The hubris, they discovered, was justified.

"Got it!" exclaimed Dial-Tone, pumping both fists in the air, rolling his chair into two agents standing behind him.

A veteran FBI Executive Assistant Director leaned over shoulder. "What do you mean?"

Dial-Tone stood, lifted his control device, a medusa-like tangle of wires tugging at the bottom. "I've found the snake! Tracked his call straight to the source." On the control device was a segmented LED readout, listing the Yellow Pages address of a particular theme park in western South Carolina.

The POTUS himself was in fact the one who made the call, naming the Joes as the party responsible for investigating this mysterious water park.

In spite of Dial-Tone's enthusiasm, hardly anyone on the team could bring themselves to believe snatching that intel could be so stress-free. Cobra transmissions were _never_ easy to trace, and the head snake himself wouldn't have stayed on the line for a lengthy interview if he didn't maintain that confidence in his technical crew.

"But Cobra's been busted up bad this past year," a respectful Dial-Tone offered to his general, via their own secure line. "Even if those operations we took down recently were small-fry, that fiasco up in the mountains busted Cobra up pretty bad. Cobra tech _was_ state of the art, but maybe they lack the staff now to keep up?"

The line was silent. Dial-Tone allowed the coda to his defense to remain unexpressed: _Plus, a certain industrious Joe just so happened to work his cute buns off, hacking into that signal_.

"Regardless," answered Hawk after digesting the info. "This mission will have to be approached with intense caution." He thanked Dial-Tone for his hard work, hung up the phone. Took in his empty office, thought about how much he missed Duke's counsel.

Thought about how badly Duke would want that snake found out, finally brought to justice.

Not that the B.A.T.s ever complained, but the rank and file despised this hideout. (Opinions expressed on the sly, away from select ears.) The Commander's decision to turn the park's main swimming pool, now empty, into a communal sleeping camp was decidedly unpopular.

Outside the Baroness' room, a legion of B.A.T.s and Cobra troopers were packing up the place, moving with fury, doing everything in their power to erase any hint of Cobra's presence.

Inside the Baroness' room, Cobra Commander was pitching a fit.

"Thisss is outrageous!"

He'd been in such a good mood, too; early word from the Cobra recruiters coming in, affirming his interview had been a _hit_. The underground 1-800 Cobra Infoline blowing up with calls before Hector had even signed off the air. His genius confirmed, everything adhering to plan.

"Where did ssshe go?" he screeched to Dr. Mindbender, doing his best to maintain his leader's calm.

"I wish I knew, Commander. And on today of all days!" said Mindbender, rifling through Leigh's belongings, searching for some small hint.

"Well, it'sss not as if she vanished into thin air, Mindbender. Keep searching her room; maybe sssomething in here can...can..."

Her mattress on the floor, the pillows ripped open, Mindbender turned to his leader. "Commander, I suspect this is a waste of time." The Commander kicked the bedpost in frustration. Luckily for him, Mindbender had an addendum to his previous thought: "The video surveillance seems more likely to provide us answers."

Cobra Commander removed the shards of wood stuck to his heel. "Yesss. Excellent thinking, Doctor."

In the edge of her makeshift bedroom rested a small desktop computer. Mindbender took a seat at the desk while the Commander maintained a position above his shoulders. A skilled Tele-Viper had been tinkering with the base's internal surveillance system, developing a way for individual computers to have direct access to the security camera footage.

Deluded fool. Actually thought he could escape the life; move west and begin again in this place they're calling "Silicon Valley." The Commander made a point of instructing him in the nuances of Viper Retirement Policy.

Mindbender entered his codes, selected with precision the previous hours of footage taken near the Baroness' room. He warned the Commander there was no guarantee they could find anything worthwhile here, a second before images of the Baroness (still garbed in her Leigh persona) entered frame.

"Look, Commander! There she is, procuring one of our wheeled personal transportation pods." The term he should've used was "golf cart," but the Commander had deemed it too _ordinaire_ for the majesty of Cobra. "And arriving at the airport apron..." Technically, the water park's parking lot, where remnants of Cobra's air fleet rested with tarps protecting their bodies. "Why, who's that joining her at the tarmac?"

"It's that disssquieting enchanter Crystal Ball!" They watched inaudibly as the newest Cobra recruit welcomed Baroness with a kiss so passionate it could only be reenacted by Humphrey and Ingrid in their glory days.

"What's thisss?" Cobra Commander demanded. "A forbidden romance?"

"A charitable view, my Commander, considering the hypnotist's skill set."

The Commander digested the words. "Oh, utterly disgusssting, Mindbender. Even in Cobra, we have specific lines we must not cross. Do you truly believe --?"

"Coerced or genuine, what we see cannot be denied." The doctor returned his attention to the screen. "And...is that the Mamba tarp they're removing? It is! Oh, Commander, just think of the fuel costs..."

Almost on cue, the sound of a returning Mamba copter could be heard in the distance. Without a word, both Cobra Commander and Dr. Mindbender exited the room, fought their way past the grunts and their moving boxes, then nabbed a wheeled personal transportation pod from an underling.

Seventeen minutes later, after a considerable amount of fuming, they greeted the Gyro-Viper on the tarmac. Stepping out of the cart, the Commander shrieked, "Do you realize, you dolt? Realize what you've done?"

The pilot groveled, spoke this in a terror: "Commander, I can assure you --"

"It all hinged on her capture! That'sss why I let them track the signal! And now she's gone to...to...where did you take them?"

The Gyro-Viper looked to both the Commander and Mindbender. Lingered too long on Mindbender before answering, "I took them where...where I was told to take them...N-New York!"

"On whossse orders?!"

"I was told...yours?"

The Commander pulled the pilot by the straps of his uniform. "What?!"

Mindbender positioned himself between them, presented what seemed to be a reasonable defense of the lad. "Dear Commander, do you not find it plausible that Crystal Ball unscrupulously used his abilities to strong-arm this young, _loyal_ pilot into insubordination?"

The Commander contemplated this. Kept one arm on the Gyro-Viper's right strap, then reached for his sidearm.

"Unacceptable!" he declared, taking the easy kill shot, not entirely concerned if Mindbender pulled out of the way in time.

Smoke still curling from his pistol's barrel, the Commander rested against the nose of the Mamba. "Oh, am I always to be so cursed? Must I forever snatch defeat from the jawsss of victory?"

The doctor considered the body. The complications of such a last-minute disposal, when the base already had so much to accomplish in so little time. He sighed. "Sadly, my leader, what's done is done. Our current priority must be the evacuation of this base."

Cobra Commander returned to his pod. "Yesss. Make sure you see to it. I'll be sssulking in my quarters until departure time."

Dr. Mindbender used his pocket transceiver to call for a clean-up crew, just as the moving trucks were arriving in the parking lot. He knelt over the body, contemplated the Gyro-Viper's brief career within their organization.

And, subtly, removed a felt sack of gold coins from the pilot's breast pocket.

November 29, 1981

He was right to do this.

To send her out here, to test her loyalty. Ensure the connections to her preceding life had, beyond all question, been severed. The new recruit had been ordered to bury her past. Ironically, by digging it back up.

Nasty wind. Shouldn't have been this cold; not even winter yet. Told herself she didn't feel it. That she couldn't let anything get into her bones like that again.

Over ten years had passed. Some part of her was still counting the years; couldn't believe how much time had faded into the abyss.

Finn's Point National Cemetery, her first time entering the gates. The girl attended the chapel service, but couldn't bear to travel with the family for the burial. Couldn't face the image of dirt piling atop the coffin.

The woman present this night would see far more disturbing sights.

Barely any moonlight, the predawn mission illuminated by a blueshirt clumsily lifting a lantern overhead. He dropped it once, almost let it fall into the fresh pit. She punished him with her heel against his neck.

She took no joy in the cruelty; the Commander said it best, "Establish dominance. Embrace fear as the greatest motivator." No sadism involved, mere pragmatism.

When the blueshirts finally reached the casket, dragged it back up to the surface, she ordered them to step aside. Demanded the crowbar.

She reminded herself she felt nothing. That schoolgirl crushes were from another life.

Even as she pried open the lid, however, the lie rankled. This was far from her first sin. By this date, the woman had experienced literal blood on her hands.

But her actions this night, deny all she wished, were likely an even deeper violation. Maybe some benevolent being could offer absolution one day; her mother used to tell her He forgives all. But as she defied the howling wind and pried away that final nail, she knew she could never forgive herself.
CHAPTER NINETEEN

Every garage in America has at least one bag of fertilizer, right?

Falcon tried to tell himself that. Even in the New York area, if you're lucky enough to have a garage, you stock up on the occasional bag at the hardware store, don't you?

But around, say, thirty-seven bags? All lined up so neat, stacked against the walls? That's probably a hint you're not visiting the average American's residential storing structure.

Another clue would be the chains attached to the steel pegboard on the north wall. The ones currently strapping you up with the hammers, pliers, and electrical tape.

"I was told you guys had these massive temples, spread across the globe," Falcon told his captor.

He replied, "Shut up." Average word count for Zandar's responses. A plate of Cobra lima bean rations was tossed on to the table to Falcon's left. He had just enough slack in his left shackle to reach for the food; so far, he'd declined.

"And those hi-tech bases, like something out of those _Galaxy War_ movies. I've seen one of those close-up. Helped blow-up the thing."

"I told you to shut up." Zandar turned to leave. Perhaps to compensate for a full six words in a sentence, he chose to exit with only a single syllable. "Eat."

Zandar opened the garage door just as two guests were entering from the other side. A female Cobra officer had another prisoner on her arm; hair over her eyes, preventing Falcon from obtaining a decent look.

Or maybe he just wasn't paying enough attention, his focus instead going to the Cobra officer, her uniform a tighter fit than he'd ever seen amongst the fang gang. She followed Cobra protocol, let that mask cover most of her precious face, yet did nothing to restrain the blonde hair that spilled from the back of her helmet, draping her slender shoulders. The heels of her boots granting her a posture that belonged on a runway, not a military parade, the officer's presence was irresistible.

Falcon had to question if the solitary confinement had given him hallucinations.

"Got room for a guest?" she asked, her flat inflection an ineffective attempt at disguising her femininity.

"Hello, there," he called out, as Zandar motioned for the slot on the wall to Falcon's right. "And I thought I'd run across all the pretty female Cobra ops."

"You're as disgusting as advertised, Lieutenant," the officer said while chaining up her prisoner. After securing the unknown woman, she took a moment to inspect Falcon. Her thin brows contorted into a tease. "But, I'll admit, handsomer than I'd been told."

"You just gotta get me in the right lighting, babe. That's when you get to enjoy this commissioned officer in his full glory."

"Pathetic," the officer said while heading for the door.

Standing in the doorway, Zandar asked, "What happened to her companion?"

"Dealt with."

"I've got a feeling I know what that's a euphemism for," butted in Falcon.

The officer backtracked, returned to Falcon's station on the wall. "A neophyte member of our organization carried her far away from home," she informed him, standard issue mask disguising her smile. "He disobeyed orders; learned his lesson fast. Just be thankful our Commander believes he has some use for you, G. I. Joe." Her hand made its way onto his chest. Caressed his pectorals, squeezed tight. "Maybe he won't be the only one?"

Falcon, flustered, stared in response. As the officer turned again to leave, using those heels even more gratuitously, he regained enough sense to flip his captor's flirtation to his advantage. "Boss-man likes me so much, he's arranged for me to have company?" Falcon asked. "I'm honored."

Over her shoulder, the officer replied, "Doubt she's much of a conversationalist, in her current state."

The cryptic answer didn't register with Falcon, too busy attempting to get whatever he could from the officer before she left. "Whoa, dear. You can't just depart without sharing your name."

Her hand on the doorknob, she turned back for one last time. "If you must know, Lieutenant, I am Officer Morgan. Whatever cracks you have about my gender, about your plans to take me out as soon as you're freed from your shackles, about how you'd like to 'turn me' to the other side...please keep them to yourself."

The officer calmly closed the door, leaving Falcon alone with his new roommate. "Well, she's no fun."

The Lieutenant turned to his right, didn't realize until just that moment that he'd been more concerned with the typical Joe/Cobra games than with the fate of this civilian. Chastising himself, he attempted to console the poor woman. "You do realize, ma'am, that I'm just trying to get under their skin, don't you? Wouldn't want you to think you're being forced to share a cell with some kind of unenlightened...hey, you feeling okay?"

Falcon contorted his body best he could; got his first real glimpse of her face. Two shocks awaited him.

This was a face he recognized. He wasn't _supposed_ to, but he'd caught a quick look once walking past the Joe's communications suite. Mainframe nearly had a fit, when he realized he hadn't shut the door before his broadcast with the squad stationed in Wisconsin had begun.

And this face, this lovely, kind face that hid an unbelievable secret...it was now as blank as a fresh cassette.

"Lady, I know that face. You're the Cobra turncoat!" He took a breath. "Dear Lord, what have those snakes done to you?"

Flint, his face concealed with sunglasses and knitted scarf, peeked into the lonesome guard post. "No one on duty."

"Not surprising. It is the holidays. And winter," answered Lady Jaye, wearing an even larger pair of metal square-frame sunglasses. Her hair-scarf and flipped-up collar provided the rest of her facial cover. Below average temperatures in South Carolina this season, but not quite cold enough to justify the look.

Slipping under the boom barrier, Flint checked his perimeter before inviting Jaye to follow him. He wanted to tell her to drop the snark, but didn't feel entirely justified, given that he'd instigated another argument minutes earlier.

The plan was for the two Joes to sneak into the seasonal water park, present themselves as harmless civilians to anyone who happened to be inside, and fates willing, escape with their lives if something scaly and mean was going on behind closed doors.

Flint was fine with that. But he didn't know why Jaye insisted on a cover story that had them as two miserable out-of-towners, stuck in a loveless marriage and quietly counting down the days until the other passed from this earth. And he maintained serious issues with her insistence that they needed help because their car had broken down, all due to the husband's dangerously lax vehicle maintenance.

Flint was a firm believer in preventive automotive care. Never missed an oil change. Why couldn't they use the old "Do you guys have a bathroom?" as cover? And why had she concocted such elaborate backstories anyway?

Lady Jaye matched Flint's pace, soon sprinted ahead to check out the parking lot. Both Joes noticed those heavy tire tracks, not left by station wagons and affordable compacts.

West of the oversized waterslides were the park's offices. Hands discreetly placed on their sidearms, the two guests approached the main entrance.

Flint knocked on the door. Nothing. Lady Jaye called out for a manager, for anybody. Nothing.

Jaye nodded to Flint. He took the door down with his shoulder. Jaye stayed close to the wall, swiveled her head in every direction. Still nothing.

Entering the first room, he paused a second before announcing, "Nothing."

Lady Jaye responded, "So, should we be happy or sad about that?"

Flint's head popped out of the room. "No, I meant literally _nothing_. Come check this out."

Her body language relaxed, Lady Jaye walked past the threshold, realized instantly that Flint wasn't exaggerating.

No furniture. No wastebaskets. No charts, calendars, bulletin boards on the wall.

"Okaaay," she said, just now catching the echo.

"Even closed for the winter, you've got to figure the place isn't totally barren."

She concurred by nodding. "Let's check the other rooms."

Five minutes later, Flint was attempting to refit the main door into its frame as Lady Jaye flipped on her transceiver. "Don't think there's even a breadcrumb inside, Beach Head. Suspiciously empty, I'd say."

"So you think Cobra let-out between last night and today? How'd they know we were on to 'em?" came the voice on the other end.

"Maybe they sussed it out just in time. Maybe they cooked up some way to fool Dial-Tone, send us on a goose chase. Who can figure snake logic? By the way, _I'm_ not gonna be the one to tell poor Dial-Tone we came up all goose-egg. I can't take those puppy dog eyes."

"Just make sure you're thorough. If you see something, if you don't, you know what to do," the transceiver squealed.

"Copy that," she answered, returning the device to her purse.

Flint didn't comment on the conversation, simply pointed towards the waterslides. "Should check those before we leave."

Lady Jaye nodded, raced ahead of him. Shaking his head in frustration, he trotted on after her. The trail to the main attraction was just as empty as the offices, lowering any expectations the Joes had for action.

Conflicted emotions surfaced. Always a relief to avoid violence, to cheat the odds and know for sure you're returning to base with all your limbs and digits intact. Those snakes, though, had scored too many victories in too short a period. Nabbed a valuable asset, for one, right under the team's nose, but also captured a fellow Joe. Then, went on TV and put on an infomercial worthy of the Veg-o-matic.

If the average Cobra lowlife ever deserved to swallow a few bicuspids, it was today. And if the head snake was bunkered here somewhere, neither Flint nor Jaye could ever live with blowing the opportunity to nab the scum.

Not that any of these sentiments were expressed aloud. They worked their assignment with minimal verbiage, and both seemed fine with this.

Kid slides were clean. Further reconnaissance revealed the same about the mid-sized attractions. The park's main attraction, a six-lane slide that fed into a massive pool, was the last stop. A tarp covered the pool area, a fact not evident until Flint and Jaye had reached the peak of the slide.

"We need to go down there; make sure there aren't any surprises under that cover."

Flint smiled. "You want to go down the fun way?"

She was ready to ignore him, just follow the steps down to the bottom, until she realized the slide actually would be the fastest way down. Impetuously, Jaye assumed the position and pushed her body, legs first, down the slide.

The fastest way down, sure, but far from the most strategic. Flint realized this as soon as she pushed off the top, couldn't do a thing to stop her.

_Oh well_ , he reasoned. _It's probably just as dull down there as it is everywhere else in this place._

Practically on cue, that's when the tarp moved.
CHAPTER TWENTY

The first B.A.T. was firing before it had finished lifting the tarp overhead.

Lady Jaye swallowed a healthy amount of air, twisted her body away from the fire. Gravity was already doing its work, however, pulling her closer and closer to a battalion of android killers.

"Jaye!" Flint shouted from above. He drew his sidearm without a thought, lining up his shot and landing a solid grouping on the lead B.A.T.'s chest. Famously attracted to noise, the B.A.T.s' attention moved away from Jaye and towards Flint, standing atop the structure with no cover.

He leapt for the ground, the B.A.T.s' fire grazing his upper back just before his body connected with the concrete. Flint wasn't in a frame of mind to even notice the wound; his focus was on taking whatever shots he could, rolling strategically to deny the androids an easy target, and sneaking in more shots.

Jaye was bobbing as well, positioning her body to roll off the edge of the slide. The landing wasn't pretty, but it was preferable to the fate those B.A.T.s had planned for her. Before she drew her weapon, Lady Jaye sought cover behind the slide. In the relative safety of the moment, she fished out her transceiver and made a call.

Engaging these B.A.T.s, numbering over two dozen, maybe three, was foolish strategy, especially if she had a shot of retreating in silence. But Flint was already up there, already taking fire. No way was she going to let him endure this heat alone. Using whatever cover she could from the bottom curve of the slide, Jaye began trading fire with the androids.

B.A.T.s were funny opponents. Their targeting was admirable, _remarkable_ when compared to the average Cobra trooper, who'd consider any grouping on the side of a barn a victory. But their ability to adjust to field conditions was laughable, the technology that provided their intelligence clearly in the beta stages.

Jaye prayed she could outwit the tin cans, alternating her position from behind the slide, popping in from the left, right, left, repeat...a simple pattern even too complex for the metallic dimwits to grok. But grok they did, anticipating her moves after a few repetitions, some of the soldiers even breaking formation and advancing towards her.

An unknown amount of luck enabled her to blast the closest B.A.T.'s gun attachment. Didn't have a chance to breathe any sighs of relief, as the barren hand _clicked_ and _whirled_ and generated a claw attachment instead.

She realized she was out of ammo just as the android violated her personal space, got close enough to breathe on her, if only he could perform that function. Jaye ducked the claw, tried to kick out the thing's kneecap.

She did a commendable amount of damage; that metallic joint sparked and hissed enough, but it's not as if a B.A.T. had pain receptors. The blow didn't slow it down; only gave it a superior position overlooking Jaye's head.

Dodging out of its way, the side of the claw ripped Jaye's sweater, caught up a thin layer of her flash as well. Jaye's scratchy voice cracked as she expressed her pain. Repositioning had gotten her off the concrete, though, back in some position to fight against the thing.

Knuckle-on-metal contact was undoubtedly a foolish move, so Jaye instead embraced a pistol whip strategy. As before, the Joe inflicted some damage, but the brain-dead B.A.T. didn't seem to notice. Sparks spewing from its crimson helmet display, Jaye's right hand paid, via electric shock, a price during those final few fits of buffaloing.

That jolt halting her defense, the B.A.T. finally got close enough to grip her neck with its hideous metallic claw.

As it pressed harder against her throat, Jaye was able to steal a look at the B.A.T.'s free hand. It was transforming into a blowtorch.

The Joes' routine fall training exercises in Fort Benning, down near the Georgia-Alabama border, were cancelled this year, due to heavy rains and concerns over flash flooding. Exercises were relocated to Fort Jackson Army Base in Columbia, South Carolina. The training was unremarkable; one of the Joes' Heavy Articulated Vehicle Ordnance Carriers sustained minor damage and was left on base for repairs.

That pedestrian decision saved Lady Jaye's life this day.

Traveling from Wisconsin to South Carolina overnight, Beach Head's team had little need for commercial transport. They were, potentially, tasked with apprehending the most wanted terrorist alive. A friendly visit was paid to the good folks at Fort Jackson, who supplied the Joes with a vehicle better suited for taking on Cobra than a four-door family van.

When the call came, the H.A.V.O.C. crashed through the boom barriers, skidded through the parking lot, then fired a bi-pulse anti-armor missile into the heart of the B.A.T.-infested swimming pool. And just as a dangerously excitable B.A.T. was preparing to do something unspeakable to Lady Jaye, the noise generated by the blast forced it to turn around and recalculate its battle imperatives.

Jaye took the opportunity to kick free of its grip. On the ground, gasping for breath, she looked up to see the B.A.T. had made its choice. Ignore the noise; kill the Joe. It likely would have succeeded, had the H.A.V.O.C.'s "Leveler" 75mm cannon not torn it to shreds.

Out of ammo, desperate for breath, Jaye sought cover. Above, Flint was picking off the remaining androids, while calling out to his fellow Joes. "Where's Jaye?" he asked, attempting to disguise his panic.

Beach Head, stationed in the H.A.V.O.C.'s ground-effect vehicle, launched the scout. Hovering into the pool, he eradicated as many B.A.T.s as possible while surveying by air. One B.A.T. with particularly tight skills (or a well-programmed targeting system) scored precise hits on the scout's direct ignition engine. Still fifteen feet in the air, Beach Head was forced to abandon his craft.

Abandon his craft and leap into a sea of functioning and semi-functioning B.A.T.s and the scattered remains of their comrades. It was not a graceful landing, but Beach Head managed to ignore the pain in his knees and fight his way past the androids. Cover fire from both the H.A.V.O.C. and Flint saved Beach Head's hide more than once, although no one involved in the mission ever expected to hear a "thanks" from their Staff Sergeant.

"Lady Jaye!" he called, blasting one B.A.T. numerous times in the chest, shoving it out of his way when it refused to fall. He didn't expect that tug on his left boot, the one that soon lifted him an inch off the ground, sending him facedown into the concrete.

Beach Head turned, discovered the still-mobile B.A.T. was on the ground with him, taking what had to be a point-range shot from its position. He smashed the B.A.T.'s helmet display with his free foot; didn't fully expect this to work.

A functional B.A.T., having undergone proper maintenance, would have shaken off the blows. Would've taken that shot with no problem. To his credit, Beach Head had already done most of the work, putting this thing out of commission. The B.A.T. dropped its pistol, breathed its electronic last.

Didn't let up its grip, unfortunately, leaving Beach Head with an android attached to his left boot. He whacked its hand repeatedly with his rifle; after enough whacks, just had to give up and take aim at the thing. Severing the B.A.T.'s forearm at the elbow, Beach Head ascended from the concrete with a new accessory. The lingering B.A.T. fist, still gripped so tight around his boot, threw off his balance, slowed him down enough to make Beach Head an easier target for the remaining B.A.T.s.

His fellow Joes took whatever clear shots available to them, but far too often, Beach Head stood in the way of the perfect hit. It's possible the B.A.T.s were doing this on purpose, clustering around their target and exploiting the Joes' value of a fellow soldier's life.

Two B.A.T.s flanked Beach Head, received a healthy burst from his weapon as their reward. Didn't stop one from getting close enough to snatch the rifle, its ally tackling Beach Head during his momentary shock.

Beach Head punched straight through the B.A.T.'s helmet display, received the same shock that welcomed Lady Jaye. In less than two seconds, he felt the weight of a second B.A.T. falling atop him. Then a third, a fourth. He realized the android freaks were dogpiling him, taking advantage of what remained of their superior numbers.

The automatons were vicious; clawing at his uniform, dropping elbows on his face, taking easy shots to his gut and even lower regions. If the nasties had teeth, who knows what else their sadistic orders would've compelled them to do.

Beach Head never relented; ignored the bruises and electrical shocks and waves of pain. Some rational side of his head knew this was fruitless, yet was too timid to transmit that fatalistic thinking to the rest of his body.

Regardless of how he was going out, he was doing it swinging.

Over a yard a way, a _plink, plink_ noise could be heard, followed by the resonance of just under a pound of steel rolling towards the melee.

Detonation.

The heat from the explosion made the soldier question if he'd landed on the wrong end of the afterlife. The detonation had cleared away four of the B.A.T.s covering Beach Head's east. Distracted by the noise, the rest of the gang paused to examine its source. They found themselves targets of a Cobra-issued handgun, the brand furnished to all Battle Android Troopers.

Free to breathe, Beach Head pulled himself off the ground. The B.A.T. closest to him, he smashed with his right boot. From the east, he witnessed Lady Jaye's approach, finishing off the last of the B.A.T.s.

"Can you believe they give these dimwit bullet-stoppers grenades?" she asked.

"Yeah, an' that fool stunt you pulled is gonna be ringin' in my ears the rest of the week," Beach Head answered, peeling off that lingering B.A.T. hand, finger by finger.

Jaye caught her breath. "Yeah, 'you're welcome,' chief," she spoke in a low voice.

September 10, 1987

"I still think this is utterly unnecessary," she told her guest, refusing to look in his direction. "I'm a master of subterfuge, my disguises are _flawless_. I have no need of this hypnosis twaddle."

The blade was a marvel of German engineering; a laser-cut stainless steel chisel point, complimented by an ergonomic ambidextrous handle. Further customization only enhanced its beauty, its grip delicately remodeled to take the form of a vermillion-colored elapid snake.

She wasn't paying its creators their proper due, throwing it into the wall of her budget motel room like that, turning pages of _NOW_ magazine into target practice. Not that she cared at the moment.

The Romanian paused before speaking, tried mightily to disguise his offense. "The Commander insists, my dear. Says you'll be placed under incredible strain, the authorities analyzing your every word. If they detect even a hint of insincerity --"

She pinned another page to the wall. A black and white image of the Speaker of the House. "I recognize the consequences. And I'm confident I could withstand any polygraph, waterboarding, or psychological testing at their disposal."

First flick of the knife, dead between his paper eyes.

"Should I inform our leader that you're rejecting his plan?"

"You'll do no such thing," she snapped, retrieving the knife from the wall. "Regardless of how I feel about the Commander's orders, I remain loyal. Whatever reluctance, or revulsion, I feel for this plot, I will see it through to the end."

"Excellent," the Romanian nodded. "If only you'd recognize the value of my craft. Hypnosis is nothing to fear, darling." He stood, spoke in a warm tone. "It's a form of therapy, a way of scraping away the barnacles of the modern world and reconnecting with your inborn...your _true_ self."

"Hogwash." She returned to the magazine. Flipped through its remains, ripped out an image of the First Lady at a charity event for urban youths.

"It's a common method of treatment, my lovely," he spoke behind her ear. "Why, during our session this evening, I could aid you in a journey into your subconscious, offer you an opportunity to make peace with certain demons."

She stiffened. Took some time before asking, "What are you saying?"

"A habit you'd like to break? A stubborn doubt you'd prefer quieted?" The Romanian, deriving so much joy from this, kept caressing his chin. "Perhaps a moment from your past you'd wish erased forever?"

His final question coincided with her throw. Worst one yet; didn't even connect with the wall. He recognized her change in body posture, lifted his fingers to disguise his grin.

"All possible, my love." He collected her blade from the floor. "If you're brave enough to ask, of course."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

"Back so soon, darlin'? I'm flattered."

Officer Morgan, carrying a portable cassette player and headphones, gave an insidious chuckle. "Don't be. I trust you're familiar with the concept of music in psychological operations?" She placed the headphones around Falcon's neck, stood so close while doing so, he could guess her choice in perfume.

"Above my paygrade," he replied, quelling internal speculation about the undoubtedly exquisite face hiding under that mask; warning himself he needed to stop fixating on those eyes. "All seriousness, I was hoping you came in to check on her."

Falcon, still in his restraints, motioned the best he could to his right. The prisoner Morgan had brought in earlier hadn't said a word in the ensuing hours. Just dangled there, staring off into space, if you could even claim she was staring at all.

"Is there an issue?" asked Morgan.

"Yeah, you an' your Cobra buddies have turned that girl's mind to tapioca."

"That sounds rather...unlikely." Officer Morgan removed a tactical flashlight from her pocket, clicked it on and off into the prisoner's eyes. "Do you view us as such brutes?"

"I've heard the stories. I think I have a pretty good idea of who she is...or used to be, I suppose. I get you're angry, hungry for payback. But whatever you did to that woman, leaving her in a state like that, it was too much. Has Cobra always been this dirty?"

Officer Morgan continued to examine the prisoner. Falcon assumed his question had been ignored, until she turned to him and said, "I'll be sure to register your concerns with the United Nations."

"Cute. But my question was serious, lady. How do you snakes sleep at night?"

"Perhaps some of us understand the concept of necessary evils," Morgan answered, again approaching the Lieutenant. "We've seen the effects of the status quo, of the 'righteous' and 'justified' wars, and we recognize the immorality of the ruling classes. And, perhaps, we're doing what we can to stop it?"

Falcon didn't yield; kept staring into those stormy blue eyes. Beautiful, yes, but now he was curious about the extent of maliciousness residing behind them. "You're going to play the morality card on me, lady? For real?"

"Did I call myself a saint? No, I'm quite aware of my sins. And as acutely as I'm aware of the moral compromises I've made, I'm also aware of what drove me to make them." The officer reached behind Falcon's neck, secured the headphones over his ears. "Tell me, do you know what it's like to lose someone close to you? To wake in the middle of the night and remember you'll never hear their voice again? Never hold them close in your arms?"

Falcon scoffed. "I'm the wrong one to ask; the person I lost was offed by one of you snakes. And I didn't need to find out by phone or letter. I was _there_ , woman."

"And here you are, still fighting that good fight. What did it accomplish? If you're defending the status quo, my handsome soldier, then you're only fighting for more wars. More loved ones lost in pointless conflicts."

"And what you're doing is any better?"

"Cobra is ruthless, but cleanly efficient in our morality. Learn your role, accept what you're given, and no one has to be hurt. Some will be too stubborn to embrace the new order, but they'll learn their place soon enough."

"Please," he spat. "Ethics from a snake; now I've heard everything."

"Do you wish me to exhibit some humanity?" Officer Morgan presented three cassette tapes to her captive. "I'll offer you a choice -- which track do you wish to hear on repeat for the next thirty-six hours? The Pilksbory Dough Creature's 'Poppin's Got My Heart Stoppin'' jingle, Lionel Richard's Top Ten hit 'Say Blue, Say Cheese,' or the only hit, so far, from rock sensations Cold Slither?"

"No. You don't mean..."

She smiled deviously. Reached behind Falcon and grabbed a roll of electrical tape. "Ah, I see we've discovered a fan of America's bygone pop metal sensations. I'm sure they'll have their comeback soon enough." The Cobra Officer ripped off two pieces, used them to secure the headphones over both of Falcon's ears.

"I know about that rotten song. About what it does to people..." Footloose was one of the Joes caught up in that ridiculous Cobra plot. Told Falcon just the other day he still had nightmares about that loathsome ditty.

Morgan shook her head in an almost maternal fashion. "You needn't be concerned. The subliminal technology that once accompanied the track has long since been destroyed, thanks to your friends." She inserted a tape into the player. "But the repetition, the sleep deprivation, the impairment of judgment, all of that is still available to us..."

The officer pressed "Play." Her gloved hands caressed the edges of Falcon's face. His expression of unfettered contempt didn't seem to bother her one bit. "...all at the cost of a cassette player and an extended-life battery."

TRANSCRIPT: Location Unknown

Portion of interview airing on _Hector Ramirez Tonight_. Ramirez is speaking to "Thad," his identity obscured, a young recruit of the Cobra organization.

HECTOR: Thad, how can you justify this? How could you do such a thing to your parents?

THAD: In part, I'm doing it _for_ them.

HECTOR: Now, Thad, I'm trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, but...

THAD: Hey, this Colin Kristofer? This guy we were all told was the devil himself, only to find out he was one of our boys we sent overseas? My dad shipped out a year after he did. Think he had any easier of a time over there?

HECTOR: But he didn't turn against his country, did he?

THAD: And you're speaking like the Commander has? Do I agree with everything he's ever done? Can't say that I do. But do I agree with his goals? Do I think some drastic actions need to be taken to set this country back straight? Absolutely.

HECTOR: And you're convinced Cobra is the answer?

THAD: You've spoken to our leader. Tell me, man, does he sound deranged?

HECTOR: He seems...intelligent. And determined to fulfill his goals. But what I think isn't important, I --

THAD [Interrupts]: He understands what has to be _done_. And coming from him, from someone who's seen both sides of the divide, I trust his judgment. Should I go off, fight for nothing, wherever the next pointless war is staged? Or should I stand with someone who loves this country, who's willing to do anything to make it better?

Those politicians on the TV, you think they stand for anything? You think they care about fighting for us? Not bloody likely.

[Thad leans forward in his chair, rips off his shirt sleeve. On his right arm is a tattoo of the Cobra emblem.]

I'll tell you where I stand, Hector. I stand with Cobra.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The Commander had reasonable faith in the Gyro-Viper's apprentice, granting him the privilege of escorting his leader in the Mamba during Cobra's evacuation of their base. An hour into their flight, the Commander had some notes to share with the pilot, regarding his performance so far. Room for improvement, although the Commander's judgment was at least partially influenced by the foulest mood of his life.

It was an inspired scheme. Leave the Joes a trail to follow, one just difficult enough to circumvent reasonable suspicion of a trap. Surrender the temporary South Carolina base, make it seem like a crushing blow. And when the Joes have finished their exhaustive search of the empty base, are pulling onto to the adjacent highway, have a frightened young woman appear before them.

Certainly they'll recognize the lady. Leigh Miller, the valuable source they lost days ago. Somehow, the brave woman escaped from Cobra during their hasty retreat. What luck! They'll take no unnecessary chances this time; they'll make sure to get the girl to safety inside the walls of their top-secret base.

So sorry, Joes. You didn't realize Leigh Miller was just as convincing as ever, now compelled to install as many listening devices and roving bugs the Tele-Vipers could hide upon her person. Your invaluable turncoat is now a lethal mole. Funny how things turned out that way.

Now, the plot's ruined, thanks to that loathsome piece of Eurotrash. A full-time hypnotist in Cobra's employ did indeed sound like a worthy asset, but the Commander now wished he'd manually removed Mindbender's tonsils the second he made the suggestion.

Speaking of the alopecious incompetent, Mindbender's ID was now flashing across his pod's telecommunication screen. "Yesss, Mindbender. What do you want?"

"Good news, my commander!" spoke the doctor's voice, 30,000 feet below. "Zandar has called in from New York. They've located that traitor Crystal Ball!"

"Indeed? What of the Baronessss?"

"She was with him, of course! None the worse for wear, it seems, although we can't know for certain until we've ascertained just what that Carpathian cretin planted inside her mind. I'm sure the Dreadnoks will develop... _creative_ ways to get to the bottom of this."

"And what of the 'cretin,' Doctor?"

"Zandar has assured me that he'll be dealt with. Although I made him promise to save a slice for our leader."

"Yesss, yesss." Stratagems danced in his mind, contemplating numerous mutations of the plan, ways to salvage its original genius. His mood couldn't be lifted entirely -- too many assets wasted in one day, too much running around, too many memories of Cobra's previous failures brought to mind -- but his rage had been downgraded from murderous to merely sociopathic.

Having experienced both, Falcon could now state with near-certainty that physical torture was preferable to _this_ particular brand of sadism.

Volume cranked to eleven, the headphones vibrating against his ears, the utterly insipid lyrics shooting directly into his brain, the callously tone deaf vocals repeating on that infinite loop...

Falcon would never crack; never give those snakes anything. But he could understand now why a lesser man might.

As the door connecting the garage to the hallway opened, Falcon stewed over just how bad that snake had loused up. This soldier was in no mood for reptilian visitors, and darned confident he'd make this position understood.

Zandar, oblivious, delivered the latest plate of lima beans to the table. "Enjoy," he muttered under his breath, turning to leave after enjoying a few seconds of the scenery. One Cobra traitor catatonic. One Joe prisoner experiencing a hellish torment. Not bad.

He heard the sound of the plate shuffling off the table, the second his back was turned. Zandar reversed his position, thought he might enjoy watching that Joe finally submit to hunger. Finally enjoying the taste of Cobra rations.

Falcon feebly stabbed at the beans with his spoon. Looked up at his captor and whispered...something.

"What?"

The prisoner whispered something again; then smirked. Zandar stepped closer, thought he'd humor the arrogant wad, see what impotent threats he'd cooked up.

Falcon, in desperation and partial madness, had something cooked up all right. Left hand on the plate, he waited until Zandar was just close enough, then bashed the dish against the Dreadnok's thick skull.

Unconscious, Zandar landed atop the table...landed with such force, it collapsed beneath him. Falcon mumbled an inappropriate word, realizing he'd have to maneuver his hand much further south than he'd planned, nabbing that keychain from Zandar's belt loop.

Falcon was up for the job, though, twisting his body as far south as the restraints would allow, using his long reach to his advantage, always coming just _so_ close to those keys.

The pounding of his heart, the anxiety choking his stomach as he anticipated the inevitable return of Officer Morgan or some other reptile, the concern for his fellow prisoner, regardless of her past, the maddening repetition of that heinous, godforsaken _song_ , the one that had caused him to question his belief in anything _decent in this world_...he used them all to his benefit.

Channeled every atom of energy in his body and put it to work, obtaining the focus necessary to stretch, to maneuver his fingers, to palm those blasted keys.

"Ha-ha! Yes!" he exclaimed as his fingers touched the nickel silver. "Big brother, I hope you're proud of me now!"

Beach Head ended the transmission, swung his body out of the H.A.V.O.C's cockpit.

"Floorboards, lady and gentlemen," he said to his soldiers.

"What was that?" asked Iceberg.

"We're pullin' up every floorboard in that building over there," he said, pointing towards the water park's offices. "General Hawk's orders. We're gonna make sure there ain't one piece of lint left behind by those vipers."

The Joes nodded in agreement. No way were they letting this opportunity slip by them, even if it meant the completion of such a tedious task.

An hour later, Leatherneck called out to his squadmates. "Hey, lookee here!"

The closest Joes, Quick Kick, Beach Head, and Dusty bolted into the room. Leatherneck presented his finding, a carefully folded roadmap that, seconds earlier, rested beneath a wooden plank.

Quick Kick offered his congrats. "Interesting find, bud. You think some Cobra trooper was sneaking out nights, crawling for babes in the next town?"

Leatherneck opened the map, pointed to a red-ink path that led from their current location to a small airport in Virginia. "Or, more likely, the snakes' escape plan."

"So the Cobras were all instructed to memorize this path? And maybe the snake in this room had a faulty memory?" asked Dusty.

Gesturing to its original location, Leatherneck told his friends, "There was a decent-enough gap between this board and the next. Not impossible it slipped between the crack during their evacuation and the snake didn't notice."

"Or," Beach Head interrupted, "this was a deliberate plant."

"Either way," Dusty offered. "We have to \--"

"I know what we've gotta do, Dusty," Beach Head interrupted. "I just hope we're not giving Cobra exactly what they want."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Falcon's first act after uncuffing himself was to rip off those scraps of tape, ball up the headphones around the player, and toss that hateable thing against the wall. He then turned to his fellow inmate, tried to offer her some reassurance that they were going to be okay.

He held her face in his hands. "Hey, darling, you with me, right? I'm going to get you out of here. Promise."

She said nothing. Emoted nothing. Falcon cursed his jailers, took note of one more evil act they had to pay for. Even if their victim in this instance was a fellow Cobra, no one deserved such a fate.

"C'mon, girl. I know you've got a name. Mine's Falcon. Please, tell me yours."

She hesitated, eventually whispered, "Leigh." The tone indicated she was possibly asking a question, as if she wasn't any surer than Falcon was.

Leading the prisoner by hand, squeezing tighter whenever she'd grow distracted, Falcon cautiously approached the exit. His ears were still ringing, leaving the Joe with a reduced appreciation of his surroundings. No sounds, as far as he could tell, on the other end.

Gentle as he could, Falcon gripped the doorknob, entered the house without a sound. No signs of activity, although he knew it couldn't be this easy. The snakes weren't going to leave the building's exit path free; Falcon knew just how valuable a Joe and a turncoat were to Cobra.

Stepping down the hallway, he caught a shadow at the end of the narrow, typically New York, passageway. He considered the shape, made his estimation: a male Cobra guard (was he pleased or displeased this wasn't Officer Morgan?), seated in a kitchen chair, flipping through a magazine. Had to assume no higher authorities were around, or else the grunt wouldn't have been caught slacking.

Falcon released the girl's hand, let her know with a pointed gesture that she wasn't to move. Kept his body pressed against the wall as he slithered into the kitchenette. The Cobra guard had just finished the "Snappy Answers to Stupid Questions" when he felt Falcon's forearm against his throat.

The guard entered unconsciousness just as Falcon noticed the refrigerator door was open. Open, because the guard's partner was rummaging through the leftover potato salad. Falcon could've slipped past, just maybe, before the second guard noticed his presence. Not a feasible option, though, because it meant leaving the turncoat behind.

Falcon instead made the choice to rush the guard, get him down as soon as possible, and pray no other snakes were around to impede their exit. The Cobra guard wasn't a complete incompetent; he felt the thunder on the floor before Falcon's shoes made their first squeak against the tile. The refrigerator door became a makeshift shield; guard crouching as low as possible, swinging it as wide as the hinges allowed, to inhibit Falcon's charge.

The hinges didn't provide the expected resistance, given the sheer weight and desperation of this Joe. The door collapsed under Falcon's weight, whacking the guard's helmet askew, obscuring his vision. Falcon took advantage of the confusion, positioned the guard into a clinch hold.

Get him into a collar tie, squeeze tight on that neck, then position him for the second choke-out of the afternoon. A solid plan.

The stubborn guard resisted, slipping out of the hold, and countering with a painful _Kouchi Gaeshi_ technique learned during one of Storm Shadow's seminars. (Rumor had it, the ninja charged Cobra six figures for each of those boot camps.) Twisting Falcon's right hand with both of his own, the guard was forced to remove his cock-eyed helmet by bumping his shoulder against it until the thing finally bounced off.

Falcon, desperate for any advantage, used his free hand to pat around for the guard's closest leg. Before he could react to Falcon's prodding, the Joe had landed a decent grip on the toe of the guard's boot. Using his superior strength, Falcon flipped the guard to his side, right into the open refrigerator.

"Didn't mean to interrupt your snack, bud," he teased, the guard now partially propped up by the refrigerator's wire shelves. Falcon thrust his free hand behind his rival's neck, tried to get his way out of this with a nerve pinch. Mustard, cottage cheese, bologna fell to the floor. Falcon hated the thought of wasted food; almost considered bringing "fixin's" along for their getaway.

The guard repaid Falcon's arrogance with a head-butt, sending the Joe on a journey of a few inches. Just enough space for the guard to land two hits on Falcon's chest, propel him down to the floor.

As the snake snatched Falcon's Achilles tendon, wrapped his body around the leg and positioned himself into a figure-four toe hold, Falcon nearly had the presence of mind to think _Why doesn't this dope just shoot me?_

Rather than dwelling on the mystery, Falcon kicked his way free, used the nearby counters to steady himself. The guard recycled his best move; a head-butt, this one directly into Falcon's abdomen.

His body twisted in pain, lamenting every ounce of lost air, the guard followed up with a dirty hit to the chin. Pushed his luck with the second, found the Joe able to grit his teeth and block the maneuver. They traded punches all the way west down the marble countertops, the guard never once glomming on to Falcon's rough-and-ready strategy.

Falcon had spotted that hanging rack, just west of the fridge, a heartbeat before he'd caught that second guard stuffing his face. Noticed a steel cooking pot and no less than three frying pans dangling from that rack.

And when the fool, more concerned with reliving his high school wrestling days than subduing his opponent, gave Falcon the chance, he'd be sure to invent a new use for those kitchen accessories. When he'd gotten just in reach, Falcon let the snake get that one hit in, split the Joe's lip good.

All worth it, the Lieutenant reasoned, as he pulled for the nearest accessory. Nabbed one of those frying pans \-- a dingy, black one with burnt grease permanently attached -- and swung for the fences.

"Fences" meaning this Cobra goon's face, which was now in sore need of that helmet.

Panting, sore, hyped up beyond belief on adrenaline, Falcon grabbed a dish towel, ran it under the sink. Wet towel against his stinging lip, he returned to the hall, pausing along the way to search each guard for firearms.

Both were packing. Both had empty chambers, oddly enough.

He returned to his fellow prisoner, whose blank expression had morphed into a look of dumbfounded horror. Maybe the girl watched the show, maybe not, but she couldn't avoid the sounds of that ruckus. When he reached for her hand, she slapped it away, cried a sound of wretched fright.

"Hey, hey..." Falcon called to her in a near-whisper, lifting both hands as a defenseless gesture. "It's okay, ma'am. I don't mean you one bit of harm, and I want to get out of here just as bad as you do."

Her face, that childlike gape, just started to stutter nonsense. Eyebrows still raised high, tears began to seep from the bottom of her lashes.

"Look, you don't want to stay here, do you?" Falcon asked, incredulous that this woman, assuming she was in fact _that_ woman, could've been twisted around so bad by those reptiles.

The turncoat's head began to tremble. He interpreted it as a "no."

"And you don't want to leave by yourself, do you?"

A more animated shake; this one unmistakably a "no."

"Then I'm your best bet, sweetie." Moving slowly, he tried the open palm again. "Just take my hand, and I swear on my life, I'll do anything I can to keep you safe."

She didn't answer immediately, every millisecond of reluctance an eternity in Falcon's mind, his blood flow still screwy, heartbeat a mess, and intuition telling him to _leave_ this blasted building right the heck now.

Some force compelled her to respond, still. To take that hand and follow the stranger into the unknown. "Good choice, darlin'," he said with a sigh, taking her past the kitchenette, into the living room.

Falcon assumed the space to be empty, given the racket he'd kicked up hadn't generated any back-up for the guards. He still checked best he could, keeping the turncoat's hand in his this time. Assured they were alone, he reached for the telephone, called the Joe's secret messenger service.

The other end spat out the standard three-note " _ee-eee-ee_ " wrong number notice. He reached down to press the hook and restart the call. Stopped on a dime when he heard what came next.

" _Cobra Bell regrets that you couldn't finish your call. Please hang up and try again, or stay on the line for a Cobra operator to assist you. Do you need aid evading local law enforcement? Press One now. Scientific experiment backfire? Press Two for biochemical assistance, or Three for mechatronics. To report seditious activities, you are compelled to press Four immediately. Please understand, Cobra associates have no option; any suspicion of mutinous actions are to be reported instantly. Failure to do so --"_

Falcon tossed down the phone; considered a search for the transceiver Cobra had confiscated from him, but soon thought better of it. "On borrowed time," he told the turncoat, "so let's get as far from here as possible."

He pressed one hand against her shoulder, used the other to snatch the crocheted, multicolored afghan from the top of the couch. "You think Cobras have grandmas, or did the troops start up a knitting circle?" he asked the girl, who remained unable to respond, even to a Grade-A zinger like that.

Reaching the sidewalk, Falcon covered the top of his partner's head with the afghan, made an arbitrary decision on which way down the path to run. He was relieved to see a payphone around the corner; chagrinned to also see two Dreadnoks approaching with bags of groceries.

Falcon made an immediate U-turn, just about caused his companion to trip over the sidewalk as they raced to the opposite side of the street. They located cover behind a factory-new pick-up; Falcon immediately spotting a toolkit in the cargo area.

The Lieutenant popped his head, confirmed Buzzer and Torch weren't close. "All apologies to the working man," he mumbled while opening the kit and removing what he needed, a flat-blade screwdriver.

He nudged the turncoat to follow him three feet south to the next car. A 1977 Tornado, a model Falcon well-remembered from his misspent youth.

Doors were locked, but Falcon addressed the issue in under thirty seconds. The turncoat was instructed to climb into the back, stay low, and keep that afghan over her body. Falcon got to work hotwiring the venerable muscle car, kept in a condition this aficionado would never condone, but serviceable enough for the average lunkhead, he imagined. It still ran, still purred like a newborn kitten at mealtime. That's what mattered.

As he used the screwdriver to push the locking pin away from the steering wheel, Falcon questioned just what he'd do if his path again crossed with New York's Finest. Would he be relieved to have some help with the escape (assuming he could talk his way out of the predicament), or disappointed he couldn't live out this matinee idol getaway?

"Hey, darling, what was the name of that actor who played that San Francisco detective? Used to star in all those cool movies; played the guy with the bad-as-blazes shoulder holster?"

She didn't answer; didn't make a move from beneath her blanket.

Falcon located the starter solenoid, connected it to the positive battery terminal. The engine roared. "Never mind," he said, pulling into traffic. "My point is that I'm now way cooler than that guy, but I doubt you're of a mind to agree or disagree, so just forget it."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

"Pilot! Sssee if you can reach Mindbender!"

Inside the main cockpit of the Mamba, the recently graduated Gyro-Viper followed orders. "Not responding, Commander," he replied, thirty seconds later. "And, now that I'm checking, the tracker on his van is turning up something interesting. Seems the doctor took an exit off the highway."

"What?!" the Commander screeched into his pod's communicator. "You mean he'sss deviated from the escape path? Why on earth...?"

"Beats me, Commander," popped back the hesitant voice of the Gyro-Viper. "Like I said, he's, ah, not responding to my calls."

"Don't try to be cute, pilot. Never forget jussst how replaceable you are..."

"These ain't my normal stomping grounds, Leigh, but if I had to guess, I'd say those snakes bought a nice place in Astoria," Falcon told his passenger, "and my aimless driving has led us towards midtown Manhattan."

She did not respond.

The uptick in air pollution, the more noticeable scent of what the bums leave behind them, were as salient clues as the changes in scenery. Falcon had no plan, just the imperative to get his fellow prisoner as far away from that base as fast as possible. He'd passed three more payphones, but couldn't count on his luck holding out. He just knew that as soon as he picked up the receiver, some subhuman Aussie would be right behind him, taking the cheapest shot available while his buddies dragged that girl off for another round of heinous torture.

No, best to keep going. Maybe find a police station, although he had to pray this visit wouldn't end up like the last one. Perhaps, if things stayed quiet, the cops could look after her long enough for the Joes to arrive.

If only the girl wasn't in that state. If only he could stumble across a way to prod her out of that weirdo haze.

"Listen, I'm sorry about forcing you to stay hidden like that," he called to the backseat. "I know you don't want to hear about how this is for your own safety, but that is the honest truth." He examined the interior, tried to find something, anything to offer as an apology gift.

To his right was a jumbo-sized Red Rocket cup. At least half of the syrupy soda remained, most of it now ice, a drowned spider claimed as its victim.

"Hey, uh, you want to listen to the radio?" he offered instead. Not that Falcon ever wanted to hear a three-minute pop song again for the rest of his life.

She did not respond.

After pulling off the 59th Street Bridge, Falcon spent nearly a minute playing with the dials, trying to find something she might like. Then, in the midst of a grating commercial for a local carpet cleaning business, the realization hit. This wasn't some random victim, no innocent girl.

He was upset about possibly hurting the feelings of a _snake_ who'd come so close to taking down several of his fellow Joes. Who'd participated in that madness up north, where the Cobras were, no exaggeration, attempting to wipe out the human race.

He wouldn't let anything happen to her. And good on her for switching sides, but for all he knew, it was an angle she was playing. What did he care what kind of music she liked? Probably the sounds of malnourished peasants moaning out their final pleas for mercy while being stretched out on the rack.

Forget this chick.

Then, he thought of the mission. This defector wasn't only good for intel on some scattered Cobra operations, but she'd allegedly provided the identity of their leader. And it was a story he still refused to believe, even as he'd discovered no concrete evidence to contradict her claims.

Now, she was in his backseat. Their sole option for verifying the claim, of having that one-on-one denied by the multitude of competing agencies, was in his charge.

No way was he screwing this up. No way were those reptiles getting their prize back.

How fortunate Falcon found this renewed resolve, because in his rearview, three Dreadnoks were approaching.

Slip Stream wasn't kidding around this time.

The closest Joe aircraft to the head snake's suspected location, he wasn't going to be pulling any fancy aviation tricks on his journey from New York to Virginia. No question he was moving as fast as humanly possible, burning up copious amounts of fuel and giving assorted air traffic controllers along the east coast fits.

He was, however, tasked with bringing along an unwelcome passenger.

"That Conquest is like a computer with wings, right?" was Dial-Tone's just shy of subtle way of hinting he'd like to come along, overpowering geeketry oozing from his pores. General Hawk concurred, said this was a perfect opportunity to try out some new gadget.

Slip Stream didn't complain, just tried his best to maintain his cool as the techno-groupie endured the Gees without the benefit of prior muscle training. When he wasn't whining like a baby, he was bedeviling Slip Stream with exhaustive questions about the experimental craft's computerized systems.

Didn't he realize this is why he spent a portion of their previous trip upside down?

"The computers are filtering out the commercial air traffic," Slip Stream told his passenger, in response to question number eight hundred. "Soon enough, we'll have a clear view of any flying snakes in the area."

Teeth locked together, Dial-Tone asked, "What makes you so sure Cobra is following that map Beach Head's team located?"

"Nothing guarantees they are, but this is what we have to go on. It's common to follow highways from the air when navigating. Trust me; if they're around, we'll spot 'em."

"Great," Dial-Tone answered. His hope was for the Conquest to spot the Cobra evacuation, get some quality photos, and to perhaps lodge a secret tracking device onto a Cobra vehicle.

Trail the snakes, stay low, then send a full battalion to their backdoor. That's how Dial-Tone would play this.

"Hey, don't be so glum, chum. If Cobra's taking the actual roads, we've got plenty of antitank cluster bombs to deliver. Just won't be as fun, I think."

"Your definition of fun and mine probably don't intersect. I'm all for stomping snakes, I'm just hoping for a peaceful ride that doesn't require more handy little paper bags."

Resting beneath Dial-Tone's portable computer was a sealed package of paper barf bags, in fact. The second one of the trip.

Slip Stream didn't notice the comment. His sensor array was lighting up. "And what do we have here? I know that ain't an everyday ambassador for the friendly skies!"

On his monitor appeared the digitized representation of a futuristic gunship. Enough anti-tank missiles and machine gun rounds to take on an invading army.

Meters away, inside that Cobra Mamba, the Commander was radioing his pilot.

"What do you mean they snuck up on usss? I want that Joe shot out of the sky!"

Inside the cockpit, the apprentice pilot swallowed a wad of spit and replied, "Copy that, sir."

In the seconds before the machine gun turret fired, Dial-Tone asked, "What the heck is that thing? I've never seen a copter like that in my life!"

"You don't have the demented mind of a Cobra engineer, buddy." The queasier of the two Joes moaned as Slip Stream evaded enemy fire. "Whatever this thing is, I'm going to have fun introducing it to some 'Light Sparrow' missile fire!"

"Slip Stream, wait! That's a state highway underneath us; you can't just dogfight directly above civilian traffic."

Inside the Mamba's flight pod, Cobra Commander was not sharing similar compulsions. "Fire the missilesss!"

Slip Stream, eyeing the second attack, plowed the Conquest into a sharp turn to the right. The missiles attempted to correct course, only to find their servos baffled by the excessive G-force. "Love to know what alternatives you have, Dial-Tone! This freaky helicopter doesn't seem sympathetic to your concerns."

The missiles couldn't touch their targets, ended up settling for a tobacco field five miles west of the highway. An unintentional victory for the anti-smoking lobby, but a perplexing mystery (and insurance nightmare) for the farm's owner.

The Mamba's width granted it another shot at the Conquest, the gunship taking advantage of the turret attached to its right pod. The blast sprayed the Conquest at a forty-five degree angle, producing more than a few holes in the canopy.

"Not exactly a fair fight, is it?" Slip Stream grunted, twisting the jet back around, hoping to reach the rear of the copter. "I hope this fancy GPS doohickey you an' Mainframe dreamed up will be able to keep tabs on that monstrosity."

"And, the snakes don't notice it resting on the back _of_ their monstrosity," added Dial-Tone, speaking with his stomach in his throat and far too much wind in his face.

Slip Stream lined up the shot. Clicked to open fire. Heard only a "click" in response.

"Uh-oh. Not good."

"Not good _how_?"

Slip Stream bluntly responded, "The modified Vulcan cannon that housed the tracking bullet was hit. It ain't gonna be shooting nothin', pal. Looks like we need to beat a hasty retreat."

"Not just yet!" Dial-Tone shouted over the airstream. "Stay close to the copter!"

"So I guess we have to decide between one craft crashing into traffic or two, huh? Well, it's been an honor to serve with you, Dial-Tone."

"Don't get morbid yet, my friend," Dial-Tone said, fingers quivering as he typed into his precious comp. Turned out to be salient advice, as the Mamba would soon make an improbable semi-circle thrust, positioning itself dead-eyed in the path of the Conquest.

The Gyro-Viper opened another spray of machine gun fire. Slip Stream evaded marvelously, avoiding close to ninety percent of the blasts. In the middle of a barrel roll, however, the Conquest's left exhaust discharge ventilator took substantial fire.

"Hear that 'boom,' Dial-Tone? That's our cue to hit the silk!"

"No! Not yet!"

" _What?!_ "
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Hanging a left onto 3rd Avenue, Falcon had his first glimpse of his fan club. On the right was Torch, straddling a modified Japanese import cruiser, forgetting those recent ads lecturing folks about riding without a helmet.

On the left, a WWII-era Scout; a heavy bike by reputation, piloted with ease by a recently bandaged Zandar. His passenger, Buzzer, gripped Zandar's waist with one hand, brandished his signature chainsaw with the other.

Falcon checked the other lanes; saw no way to maneuver away from the Dreadnoks. A left turn had opened up; he took it without thinking.

"Just hold tight," he told his passenger, speeding up as much as traffic would allow. "We're gonna get through this."

Now on East 60th Street, Falcon studied the road, looked in vain for a ploy to avoid his pursuers. In the rearview, he examined their moves, watched them bob and weave in and out of traffic. Nearly clipped a few cars, nearly caused a few fender-benders when maneuvering around the lanes. More than one motorist rolled down his window and tossed a verbal grenade the bikers' way.

Falcon didn't possess even that luxury, keeping his eye on the strange roads, making another left, hoping the narrow spot he slipped through wouldn't be repeated in the next twenty minutes or so.

Bad News: he'd pulled into even heavier 5th Avenue traffic, packed tighter than his crazy aunt's facelift. And his precious, never to be repeated, hole in traffic? The Dreadnoks didn't care -- Zandar cutting off a church bus with only a centimeter between him and the front engine; Torch speeding up and, unbelievably, avoiding the roads altogether. A path through the sidewalk was all he needed.

In his mirror, Falcon watched the scum plow through an elderly couple, knocking both to the ground. Falcon tried to keep his cool, to stay focused on the mission, but every fiber of his being wanted to slug that Dreadnok punk into the next calendar year.

Torch, freed from the tyranny of established roads, made excellent time on the sidewalk, weaving past the civilians and ending up parallel to Falcon's vehicle. "Not pleased wit' our hospitality, Joe?" he shouted over the roar of his bike.

Falcon slammed his fists against the steering wheel in frustration. Already bumper to bumper with vehicles on both sides, he couldn't hit the brakes, couldn't speed up. And the theme to that '70s shark movie was suddenly on his mind...

He turned to the backseat, made sure the turncoat was still lying low. She was, shaking with fear under that afghan, her face covered.

Good thing. Torch drew his mousegun from his jeans' pocket and opened fire, shattering the Tornado's rear windows.

She let off a scream; a pitiful, shrill expression of unrestrained fear. Frigid air sucked into the vehicle, yet Falcon felt nothing. Nothing but a combination of anger, indignation, and a healthy quantity of that basic survival instinct bred into every mammal.

Torch, threading the needle between two lanes, sped up for his next shot. Wasn't expecting the Joe in the muscle car to swerve into his makeshift lane, to find his bike crushed between that Tornado and the tour bus to his right.

Wasn't expecting the asphalt to burn so bad, given the weather, and the relatively minor speeds of this chase. "Crikey..." he muttered while stumbling out of traffic.

"Leigh, you okay back there?" Falcon asked his passenger. She was crying now, still a mess, but no longer shrieking. Catching another image of Zandar and Buzzer in the rearview, Falcon had to question just how long this would last.

He felt no shame about Torch's fate, though. Even before he took those shots, that depraved lowlife deserved even worse for what he did to that older couple back there.

An impossibly narrow sliver of traffic opened on Falcon's right. He took the turn, came just shy of crashing into another bumper, and examined the scenery. "Oh, bless me," he groaned. "Did I just turn onto Times Square?"

First clue was the theater marquee. He couldn't make out the full names of the films at this angle, but since each one began with "Dirty," "Sleazy," and "Filthy," he felt confident in his ability to fill in the rest. The streets were less claustrophobic, he noted with gratitude, enabling Falcon to finally reacquaint his foot with the accelerator.

Taking in the decaying buildings and scattered collection of society's refuse wandering the sidewalks, Falcon scratched off any plans of enlisting the locals for help.

Zandar borrowed an idea from his ally, decided to make his own path on the square's wider sidewalks. Zipping past junkies, vagrants, and girls out on an early stroll, he located his target within seconds. Falcon spotted the duo on his left. Buzzer, displaying impressive balance, was able to stay on the back of the bike while firing up his chainsaw, leaning close enough to do even more damage to the Tornado.

"Hey, 'luv,' you know what they call that seat you're riding, don't you?" mocked Falcon. The Dreadnok couldn't hear anything over the sound of his weapon of choice. Just fine by him.

Teeth of the blades ripped into the metal connecting the front and back doors, spitting up a flurry of glass in the process. Falcon covered his face with his left forearm, decided to replay the stunt that got Torch off his tail.

No luck. What Zandar lacked in people skills, he more than compensated for in driving ability. His bike danced around that car with a coryphée's grace, avoiding Falcon's attacks and the opposing traffic, yet always finding a way to whiz back into position.

This scene repeated thrice, giving Buzzer enough opportunities to dissect larger sections of the front of the vehicle. Falcon, realizing just how close Buzzer was to dismantling the engine with each attack, acted in utter desperation.

He reached for that Red Rocket cup, tossed it with all his strength out of the remains of his window.

The icy container weighed close to nothing, but Buzzer still gave in to basic human instinct. Someone throws something at your face, you either catch or deflect it.

He deflected, and in the bargain, lost his balance on the bike. Narrowly missed the rear tire of Zandar's Scout as he hit the pavement. Nearly lost his right hand when that chainsaw landed only one inch away.

Falcon took a fast glance into his rearview. Empty now. Good. He slammed on brakes; Zandar responded by slipping into the hole in traffic north of the Tornado, faced Falcon directly on the car's right.

The engine sputtering gibberish, Falcon put the car in Park and stepped out of the vehicle. Reaching into the backseat, he peeled back the blanket, made sure the turncoat was okay. "You just stay back here," he said to her, more as a warning than an expression of paternal sympathy.

He examined the remains of the Tornado, shook his head in grief.

"One more sin you're gonna have to pay for, you worthless animal," he spat at his opponent.

Zandar offered what passed for a grin on his stone mug. "Not a parking lot, but it'll do," the Dreadnok spoke underbreath. He stepped off his bike, took a defensive stance.

Falcon, flat head screwdriver hidden behind his waist, noticed One Times Square, that skyscraper ol' Dick dropped the apple from each New Year's, was framed perfectly behind Zandar's body. Like they were filming a movie, the sun setting in the distance, ideal golden hour lighting for their final confrontation.

He'd play along. These snakes had caused him more than enough grief this year. He'd already had his showdown with his brother's killer; every broken Cobra jaw from now on was tasty gravy. Starting today, he'd view each Cobra victory as footage for his highlight reel, and he planned on having a long one.

Falcon charged towards the Dreadnok. Revealed that screwdriver just as Zandar parried, slipped out of his reach. Falcon knew the snake had a perfect chance to swipe the weapon; he cursed himself for leaving the opportunity open. If he weren't hyped up for battle, he might have wondered just why the Dreadnok didn't take the chance.

Zandar took a swing, missed. Falcon popped up, used his free hand to snatch Zandar by the collar. Pushed him forward, showed some mercy by keeping that screwdriver inside his fist while smashing against Zandar's face.

His rival had a better response this time, chopping Falcon's right hand and forcing him to drop the tool. Zandar then gripped at Falcon's shoulders with both hands, ensnared him in a respectable double overhook, then flipped him down to the asphalt.

Cars began to stop in traffic. New Yorkers emerged from their vehicles, the sidewalk, the lines for the naughty films, to catch the real show. Zandar couldn't care less. He pummeled Falcon with a series of cheap shots, kicks to the gut while he remained down.

Falcon fought against the stings, tried to focus, to again channel pain and rage into something useful. He got a grip onto Zandar's boot, managed to reach high enough to also nab his left forearm. Couldn't shove the reptile down to the ground with him, but was able to push him far enough away to purchase some breathing room.

"Dag, ma! Why you think these two are hammerin' it out?"

Falcon emerged from the asphalt, invited Zandar to come back with his next move. He opted for a fake jab, followed by a left hook. A brutal one, splitting that lip in a new place.

"Bet one of 'em got burned in a deal."

The Lieutenant responded by keeping his hands higher; this led to more body shots than he would've liked, but he reasoned he could handle the pain. Plus, coming down from above on Zandar's ugly face was turning out to be a highlight of the day.

"Preppie boy like that? Musta got a dose of the hard stuff."

Too much fun as it turned out, one of Falcon's fists connecting with that foul Dreadnok mouth, his orthodontically neglected teeth ripping the skin off the Lieutenant's knuckles. His nerves sent a speedy memo, forcing Falcon to jerk his fist away.

"Sheee-ooot. Ain't the carrot top Marlene's rep?"

Zandar pressed forward with his shoulder, trying again to force Falcon to the ground. He stayed vertical, though, somehow divined a way to grab hold of Zandar's coat and pull him close for a fast knee strike.

"Looks like. You think college boy over there hurt one'a his girls?"

Falcon told himself this was the decisive move. They traded more blows, Zandar not landing any, an indicator this fight was mercifully ending. After a modest right hook, the Dreadnok was out like school lights on a Friday evening.

"Yer both wrong. Dude that just went down? Lead singer of the Suicide Skids. Saw 'em tear the place down at Cee-Bees back in th' day."

His heartbeat still chugging too fast, Falcon had to pace around his opponent in a circle for just under a minute. The crowd was eating this all up; the whitebread preppie guy who'd taken down the punk rock freak. Not everyone loved the outcome, but the show was a nailbiter the entire way through.

Not quite your typical Times Square thrill, but it would do.

When Falcon felt he'd calmed down enough, taken some inventory of his wounds, he knelt over Zandar. _Seems like a mutual beatdown,_ he thought. _Guess a doctor might need to take a look at both of us_. He noticed the wounds on his knuckles as he examined Zandar's bruised face. _One thing's for sure, I'm not looking forward to those rabies shots_.

A heartbeat later, Falcon was pondering whatever phrase Aussies use to describe playing possum. They probably had some cutesy term for it, like "Hidin' in the kangaroo's pouch" or "Snoggin' under the bleachers."

This occurred to him as Zandar's eyes opened and he landed a deathgrip on Falcon's neck.

Dial-Tone, breathing and speaking faster than ever before, tried to make his case. "This beauty can't run without computers, and I'll bet the monstrosity is no different."

"So? You gonna bore me with a tech school lecture during my final moments?" asked Slip Stream, maneuvering under the Mamba's massive frame.

"What I'm saying is, any computer in the world can be hacked. And, well, what do you think Mainframe and I do whenever we're bored with _Space Commandos_?"

"You're gonna hack into that beast?"

More sounds of engine failure competed with Dial-Tone's answer. "D'you think Cobra expected you to be carrying along the guy who hacked them just last night? I've already sneaked through their backdoor while you've been acting all incredulous..."

Slip Stream was familiar with the deployment of irony to defuse high-stress situations. Normal circumstance, he'd commend the technique. Didn't expect tech-geek Dial-Tone to one day be using it against him.

"No! You're dropping too low," admonished Dial-Tone as the Conquest underwent a noticeable lurch towards terra firma. "Get us closer!"

"Gravity has more of a say than I do right now, bud!" Slip Stream shouted back, sweaty palm acting mostly out of instinct, jerking the control stick towards him.

He was ready to tell Dial-Tone to drop this asinine scheme; to eject them both, pray no citizens were in the path of the descending craft, and later offer his fellow Joe a reasonably sincere apology back at base.

Noble Dial-Tone, tapping away now at his baby, would understand. He valued his life over this ridiculous plan, didn't he? "Sorry, pal..." Slip Stream began, finger reaching for the button.

"Okay! I'm in," a nervous, enthusiastic, self-satisfied voice cracked from the back. "Turns out those two canopies on the side are independent flight pods. Per the flight recorder, that's Cobra Commander himself and a member of his personal guard in those pods!"

"Great; so what do we do about it?" the pilot asked, the Conquest jerking again towards the earth, another portion of the cockpit cracking away.

"Don't you think they'd enjoy a trip down to Fort Jackson in lovely Columbia?"

Slip Stream, as much as his view would allow, watched as the Mamba's pods detached from the base, then shot off into the sky.

Inside his pod, Cobra Commander shrieked like a madman. Let the pilot know just how dearly he was going to pay, whenever the Commander was granted the opportunity. The Gyro-Viper responded by clicking off his communicator.

"And can you send this pernicious bugger in the center on a similar trip?"

"Already taken care of!" Dial-Tone shouted back, somehow having the time of his life. "His flight plan rewritten, his weapon systems all deactivated."

"Excellent. Tuck in that computer, pal, and prepare for ejection!"

The button was pressed, the remainder of the cockpit popped, the two Joes were discharged into the bittersweet winter sunset.

Onboard the Mamba, the Gyro-Viper puzzled over his inattentive controls. Tried to take some joy in the downed Joe craft, but more than anything, felt regret over his present career choice. Sure, life as a commercial airline pilot was dull, but did he really need this kind of excitement?

Floating on the chutes, Slip Stream repressed his admiration for the geek. Instead, kept it professional. Asked about where he'd sent the strange craft.

"I think a visit east, all the way deep into the Atlantic, could improve his disposition," Dial-Tone replied, still hyped on a lifetime's worth of adrenaline.

"Goodness! I hope he has enough fuel!" Slip Stream laughed.

"I did the math; I predict he'll make a splash maybe thirty miles east of Chesapeake Bay."

Slip Stream watched the Conquest, his poor wounded bird, drop south. From his vantage point, it seemed destined for a wooded area in the outskirts of town. He mourned his jet, dreaded the upcoming inquiry, but thanked the heavens no civilians were harmed. "I'll make sure our friends in the Coast Guard will be there to welcome the snake."

"If we're lucky, they'll send that 'copter back to the base. You as geeked out as I am over the prospect of examining this oddity?" Dial-Tone asked, sounding more kid than soldier.

Slip Stream thought of that prospect...and the image of an isolated Cobra Commander surrounded by the finest men and women of Fort Jackson. "Not the term I would use, but I've gotta say, Dial-Tone -- it really is an honor to serve with you!"

Falcon knew enough not to push away. It'd just open up a distance, giving Zandar enough room to repay him for that earlier knee strike. Instead, he tapped into whatever strength he still possessed, used it to keep his neck erect, preventing Zandar from gaining control over his position.

Then, realizing seconds remained before his world would grow permanently dark, Falcon jutted his body south, pressing his shoulders against Zandar's. He snaked his left arm between Zandar's head and the pavement, grabbed a tuft of hair, squeezed hard enough for Zandar to react.

That slip in concentration was what he needed, a long enough reprieve to escape Zandar's grip and take an easy shot. Falcon only got one in, however, Zandar exploiting the shift in his weight during the punch, using it to shove Falcon aside and roll away from the fight.

Falcon was ready for the next punch as soon as Zandar was on his feet. The Dreadnok blocked the first two jabs, then fell right into a punishing uppercut. Falcon pressed an offensive, moved too fast and received a front leg axe kick as his reprimand.

The thrust sent him several feet, banged his already bruised body against the front bumper of that Tornado. Falcon, up until now matching Zandar dead air for dead air in the taciturnity department, had to release a healthy scream this time.

The metal bumper clanged against the asphalt, a cacophonous eulogy for the ingeniously crafted piece of American machinery. Yet another indignity committed against the fine people of Detroit.

Falcon, battered beyond belief, seeing little more than haze through his swollen eyes, grabbed the chrome-plated bumper. Lifting it above his shoulder, just like the bat he used to win his sixth grade tri-county Pee-Wee Baseball Tournament, he steeled himself for the final, _final_ stage of this battle.

"Okay, you lowdown, rat-faced, dingo-loving scuzzbag fashion reject," Falcon announced. "This is where I teach you how we throw down in the good ol' U-S-of --"

NYPD sirens interrupted the spiel. Two officers exited the sector car, arms drawn.

"Hands up! You drop that right now!"

Falcon relented. Kept his hands up as the officer approached. Watched with pride as Zandar, two yards away, collapsed from exhaustion.

He'd maintained a mental list of everything he needed to tell the authorities. As the other officer kept an eye on Zandar's body, Falcon explained that the woman in his backseat was a missing federal informant. Asked the officer to send someone to check on that older couple back on 5th Avenue. Described the physical appearance of the Dreadnoks who'd fallen by the wayside. And, as the officer secured the cuffs around his wrists, gave an approximate address of the Cobra safehouse.

Ducking his head to enter the sector car, Falcon sluggishly added, "Full confession, I did steal that vehicle. But you should know I have a phone number memorized, and it connects directly to a certain office at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Falcon's cell was the one with the door wide open.

"So, how'd you enjoy your night in the hoosegow, Lieutenant?" asked Jinx, arriving with Footloose, both in civilian gear.

Falcon motioned for the uniform officer accompanying them to provide some privacy. "After they confirmed my identity, things weren't so bad. It was too late to make arrangements to stay anywhere else, but the desk sergeant did clear out my cell."

Falcon gestured towards his luxurious accommodations: a single square of the precinct's holding pens, one dead roach on the floor, his pullover sweater rolled up into a pillow. "Lost my Nation of Yahweh cellmate, interesting fellow, but I got a decent night's sleep."

Footloose stepped inside, had a look around. "It's been confirmed the civilian you rescued is actually the turncoat?"

"General Hawk made it plain I didn't have the need-to-know on that. But he never said she _wasn't_ , if you catch my drift. How'd things turn out with you guys?"

"Had to take Jinx to the emergency room to have her ankle checked out."

Falcon stood, looked with honest concern towards his teammate. "Yeah, how's --?"

"It's fine. I'm fine. No need to dwell on it," she answered instantly.

Falcon presented his bandaged knuckles. "It's okay, Jinx. Both of us in the ow-ee club."

She ignored him, asked, "Where's the turncoat?"

"Well, funny thing about that..."

"How funny?" Jinx's expression conveyed no amusement.

Falcon shook his head. "Whatever Cobra did to her, it ain't pretty. A lady cop was going to take her to a hotel for the night, keep an eye on her, and the girl wouldn't have any of it. Pitched a fit as soon as they tried to pull her away from me."

Footloose's eyes widened. "Yeah? You an' her make that much of a connection?"

"I wouldn't have thought so, but I am the one who rescued her from Cobra's fangs..."

Jinx didn't hide her irritation with this combo of embarrassment and cockiness. "And you just have that kind of effect on the female species, don't you?"

"You said it; not me." Falcon stopped trying to smile his way through this when he noticed Jinx's expression wasn't changing. "Seriously, she was terrified of leaving my sight."

Footloose, as always, had a follow-up question. "So what'd they do with her?"

"She stayed here last night. _Not_ with me, but upstairs in this crib the cops keep. I had to escort her up there, promise that I was just downstairs and nothing would happen to her."

"Wait a minute," Jinx interrupted. "She can't stand the thought of being separated from you? They fried that girl's head that bad?"

" _Deep_ -fried it, sounds to me," concurred Footloose.

"Ho-ho. Listen, I don't fully understand it. And every time I start to develop some sympathy for the woman, I remember what she's done in the past. How close she and the rest of the Cobra creeps came to wiping not just the Joes out..."

Jinx nodded; was glad to know Falcon was having similar thoughts. "Maybe that's what sent her over the edge? I can't imagine staying loyal to an organization that wanted to --"

The thought was interrupted by the footsteps of a female uniform, entering the hall with Leigh. She held the Joe's prized asset by the arm, like a volunteer chaperone on a kids' field trip, dragging a scared second-grader into the bat exhibit.

"This one's been asking about you all morning," said the officer. Leigh's expression shifted from apprehension to relief the second she spotted the Lieutenant, standing outside the cell.

"She's talking now?" Falcon asked.

The cop shook her head. "No. But she keeps pointing downstairs and making these noises that remind me of my two-year-old nephew whenever his binkie is out of eye's reach."

Jinx gave Leigh a lookover. Didn't like what she saw; didn't appreciate the petrified baby-woman act the turncoat was putting on.

Footloose kept his distance from the reunion, answering a call on his transceiver.

"Yes? Absolutely, sir. We'll be ready."

Jinx, not taking an eye off Leigh, asked "What's going on?"

"That was General Hawk himself. He's been on the horn with POTUS all morning, and he somehow outbid all of the competing agencies for our friend here -- the one who may or may not be the turncoat."

"So she's returning to base with us?" Falcon asked, some level of discomfort evident in his face as he attempted to avoid Leigh's keen eyes.

Footloose nodded. "Until the various spooks and bureaucrats can determine what to do with her. We are the ones who managed to bring her back after the boys in the nice suits lost track of her..."

"So, we're embarking on a road trip with our new friend?" Falcon asked, remembering the date and mourning his previous plans to spend Christmas with his mother.

"Great. I an' she can have some girl talk along the way..."

Footloose stepped between Jinx and Leigh. "Actually, funny thing. The General will be stopping by personally with a Tomahawk transport. Just as soon as he leaves Fort Jackson."

Falcon spent a second digesting that last part. "Hm? What's he doing over there?"

Inside the Ft. Jackson stockade, General Hawk made an entrance worthy of the star on his shoulder.

"I trust everyone at Fort Jackson has shown you the greatest hospitality?" he asked the lone prisoner.

The Commander didn't respond at first. Wanted Hawk to know he was sizing him up. Just how unimpressed he remained. "They've kept a ressspectful distance, ever since I informed them of the C4 lining my helmet."

Hawk leaned against the wall, wouldn't allow the snake to trivialize this victory. "I'm sure we can figure out some way to address that issue. Got to say, 'Commander,' you've certainly undergone some changes since last we met."

The Commander stood, walked as far as his ankle chains would allow. "You've noticcced? Yes, I'll confess a peculiar preference for bipedalism..."

"So, now that we've got you cornered, are you willing to come clean on this Colin Kristofer business?" asked Hawk, tired of the preamble.

"What'sss to 'come clean' about? A rogue agent has exposed my darkest secret, and all of your precious tests have not ssshown her to be a liar, have they?"

Hawk studied his foe, let him know just how unwilling he was to tolerate this scheme. Just how disgusted he was by this propaganda victory.

Just how sure he was the Joes would uncover the truth behind the smear.

"Perhaps, Commander."

The prisoner didn't care for Hawk's obstinate stance. Made sure to rub his point in. "I assssume you know the DNA matches; that 'Colin's' secret has been exposed? What other ambiguities remain?"

"Dealing with a snake of your caliber, we can always count on a certain degree of chicanery." Hawk knocked against the wall, raised his voice and announced, "Guards, wrap 'im up tight and put 'im on Santa's sleigh. Next stop is the Big Apple."

"Think they're jealous?" Falcon asked, motioning towards the multitude of FBI agents surrounding the Joes.

He didn't bother to keep his voice down. He was standing atop a bone-chilling Manhattan rooftop in late December, flanked by splenetic, well-coiffed men whose sunglasses budget exceeded his mother's yearly Social Security stipend. Let them endure a small measure of chops-busting. They'd live.

Footloose, stiffening up just as another winter wind hit, replied, "They're away from their families on Christmas, too, Lieutenant." Falcon didn't answer, so Footloose altered the trajectory of the conversation. "I have a feeling, at some point, the General's cargo is gonna be shared with every level of law enforcement. There's probably some small town sheriff out in Wyoming who wants his crack at the snake...with good reason, I'm sure."

"Been a heckuva twenty-four hours, huh?" Falcon asked, listing off a series of accomplishments that had almost nothing to do with their current companions. "The Coast Guard's retrieved an experimental Cobra craft, we've regained precious 'Leigh' over here, Cobra's hideout in Astoria just got raided...and now, even the great Cobra Commander is in custody?"

Footloose nodded. "Quite a run. Hey, Jinx -- sure you don't want to stay behind?"

"Hm? What's that?"

"Just sayin' -- we're on a winning streak, and I'm not sure if we want to foul it up by bringing along Ms. Hard Luck Lady herself."

"Get bent, Footloose."

He scoffed in disappointment. "That's it? That's all you got?"

Jinx had no interest in the game, too busy scrutinizing her target, the oddly mute young woman who'd caused so many good men and women so much trouble. Everyone else was darn eager for that happy ending, but Jinx had never been one to accept any gift horses free of skepticism.

"Cool it, guys," said Falcon, pointing towards gray sky. "I think that's the Tomahawk approaching."

Coming in for a rooftop landing was the Joe team's three-engine, tandem rotor heavy-lift transport helicopter. Falcon's first trip in one of these copters ended with him being shoved out, barely with parachute, and dropped into the Sarge's nightmarish training/torture camp.

All arranged by his distressed older brother. All for good reason.

Every G-Man and soldier on the roof made way. Emerging from the copter was the honcho of the entire Joe operation.

"Excellent work all around, soldiers," General Hawk told his subordinates, all exchanging salutes. "You've all done fine, fine work."

The General was approached by an Associate Deputy Director, who very likely wrote this statement out on an index card thirty minutes earlier: "General, with all due respect, maintaining national security requires the cooperation of numerous organizations. I'm hoping that your outfit hasn't developed any proprietary interests in the agents of coercion recently apprehended. Because it's imperative that --"

General Hawk lifted his right hand, offered the FBI man something resembling a smile. "Sir, we're soldiers, we follow orders, and we can match you any day of the week when it comes to cumbersome vernacularism." He emphasized these next two words. "When appropriate, you will have full access to these enemy actors. Housing them, meanwhile, has been named our responsibility. Make as many calls up the chain as you like, but that's the answer you're going to be getting."

Indicating he desired no more time wasted, Hawk motioned towards the copter. In under a minute, every Joe had accompanied Leigh inside the Tomahawk. Greetings were made to its pilot, the universally respected WO-2 known as Lift-Ticket, as the team filed into the back.

"Pay no attention to the caged animal in the rear of the craft, ladies and gentlemen," Lift-Ticket announced to his passengers. "Just some refuse we picked up along the way."

In the final seat of the Tomahawk, still garbed in that ridiculous armor no one knew how to remove, was Cobra Commander. Metal chains strapped his body to the seat, standard S&W model handcuffs kept his hands and feet restrained.

Falcon received the prisoner with a smirk. Tried to suppress all the things he swore he'd do to the snake during the past week. "Seems you survived that ordeal up north rather well. In all that confusion, did you happen to catch what I did to your pal, Serpentor?"

The Commander hissed, confidently, "I quite enjoyed the show, Lieutenant. Perhaps one day I'll be in a position to truly expresss my gratitude..."

"Falcon!" came the agitated voice of their General from the front. "Don't engage the prisoner."

"Sir, yes, sir," the Lieutenant replied, taking his seat.

"Trust me, Lt. Falcon, the novelty of who's back there wears off soon enough," Lift-Ticket said amiably.

Falcon shrugged. "Hey, so long as this trip doesn't end with me tumblin' out the cargo doors, I'm good."

Jinx, brow still furrowed, made sure to take the seat next to Leigh. Ten minutes into the flight, the turncoat was squirming about, folding her hands over her lap and giving a nervous eye to her surroundings.

"Oh, for pity's sake."

Hawk looked over his shoulder. "What's wrong, Jinx?"

"I think I need to introduce our guest to the privacy curtain in the back, if you catch my meaning," Jinx answered with a rancorous tone.

"Understood," nodded the General.

Jinx, with a sigh, took Leigh by the arm and nudged her to the back of the copter. Made sure to linger a bit as they passed Cobra Commander. Wanted to know just how the scared little snowflake would handle the situation.

She got her answer all right. Leigh inched past the Commander, took a look to her left, gave him a look dead in the eye...and delivered a glare colder than the winter winds howling against the copter.

George Bailey was on the break room TV, running through the streets, wishing everyone a Merry Christmas. Over the fax machine, news of Dial-Tone and Slip Stream's impending arrival was stripping across the copy paper. Falcon was pouring the recently arrived Flint and Lady Jaye cups of tea.

"You're saying she was silent the entire time?" asked Flint.

Falcon nodded. "Barely even got a name out of her."

Lady Jaye blew the steam away from her lips. "Doesn't sound like the woman we knew. Not that I bought her act for a second, but our Leigh was quite sociable." She performed a stage cough. "Right, Flint?"

An oblivious Chuckles spared the men in the room from any embarrassment, sliding into the doorway with a computer print-out in hand.

"Guys! Remember that list of names from the Kristofer funeral?" he asked while exhaling.

Falcon approached, took the sheet from his hands. "You get something off it?"

Chuckles took one last breath, then smiled. "I'd say so. Ran those names through every database imaginable. Federal Intelligence Service overseas, buried in some old reports, recorded a suspected identity of a particular Cobra operative. One, if the rumors are true, is on our side now."

Flint peered over Falcon's shoulder. "What are you saying, Chuckles?"

He retrieved the paper, presented it to the crowd, tapped on a particular name. "I'm saying," Chuckles responded, "there's a name in that book you wouldn't believe."

Down the hall, Jinx was creeping in the direction of Leigh's room. No more reindeer sweaters for this Joe; she was back on base, back in her _gei_ , and not fighting her instincts. This Leigh chick was bad news, and even if none of the other Joes saw it, she was hellbent on discovering the truth.

Jinx prowled into the inky black room, didn't wait for her eyes to adjust, and discerned preternaturally a form under Leigh's covers.

"Okay, lady," she spoke softly while approaching the bed. "You slept the entire way here. Unless you drank all of Santa's warm milk there's no way you \--"

The covers were pulled back. Underneath, a "body" of pillows. Jinx swore in frustration, even as a small part of her was pleased to be proven right.

Minutes earlier, Mainframe, feet propped against the console, was indulging in his own Christmas tradition: crab rangoon and fried rice.

"No, Ma," he spoke into the satellite communications network, "I'm not any lonelier at Christmas than any other time of the year. A nice girl? I _was_ married, Ma, we both know how that worked out..."

She knocked on the open door, made sure he noticed her appearance. It was the young woman who'd been brought in, the person everyone knew was the Cobra turncoat, even if only a handful of Joes had received the confirmation.

"Huh?" mumbled Mainframe, almost dropping his take-out box. "Ma'am, you really shouldn't be in here."

Scuttlebutt had her short of catatonic, a victim of Cobra's psychological punishment after capture. A bright, friendly woman (in spite of her past) regressed into the state of a frightened child.

Nothing about that posture said "kid," though. Certainly not the way she'd slipped Cover Girl's hand-me-down long sleeve t-shirt over her flawless body.

Leigh stayed quiet; just approached with a wild confidence, grabbing the Joe by his shoulders, dressing him down with her eyes, and then...and then nothing.

Nothing, for what seemed like a thousand eternities, before she pulled him in for the kiss of a lifetime.

When Mainframe recovered, was able to respond, he could only ask, "Wha? Don't tell me, it's --"

Couldn't finish the sentence, as Leigh karate chopped his neck, sending him down to the floor.

Stepping over his body, she loomed over the console, typing in an intricate series of commands. After the screen switched to blue, Leigh removed one of her long, rectangular earrings; the left one. Flipped it open to reveal its true purpose.

The miniature computer drive, packed with a delicious array of bugs and viruses, was inserted into the proper port. She gazed at the screen with pride, but could only linger for a moment longer.

A tennis ball, filched minutes earlier from the rec room, bounced past Law and Order's guard post. Order, as any good German shepherd could be expected, gave chase. Law called out to his friend, "Hey, man! You know better!"

The MP turned towards the ball's origin, questioned if he was being set up for a trap. Dropped his guard for an instant when he registered his guest.

Leigh, recovered from her trip, hopefully eager to dole out more Cobra secrets.

"Ma'am, you really shouldn't be back here. Real _asqueroso_ fellow here we're trying to --"

He realized too late, _Hey, this girl would actually know him pretty well, right?_ The thought occurred just as Leigh stunned him unconscious with the miniaturized taser hidden inside her right earring.

The Commander, half-asleep in his cell, came to life when he overheard the MP's dumbfounded cry of pain.

"What's thisss...?" he asked, maneuvering out of his cot.

Jinx followed the trail, gasped with shock and anger when she spotted Mainframe on the floor of the communications suite. Gave in to even more paranoid feelings when she witnessed the rapidly shifting collage of numbers, words, and diagrams flashing across every monitor.

She checked Mainframe for a pulse, then dived beneath the console with blinding speed. With no clue how to fight the virus, Jinx surmised the best way to end the threat was to shut off all power to the system.

After detaching every cable, she reached for Mainframe's transceiver, shouted out this message: "All personnel! Mainframe requires assistance in the comm suite, _and_ the turncoat is missing!"

A familiar, yet still new face greeted the Commander on the other side of the bars. "Baronesss!" he called out with glee. "I sssee the initial plan is still going through? Excccellent!"

Using the card stolen from Law's unconscious body, Leigh entered the Commander's cell. Said nothing as she approached, wrapped her arms around his helmet.

"Hey! I haven't granted you permisssion to --"

The keycode was entered; a hydraulic hiss accompanied the deactivation and unlatching of the Commander's helmet. Leigh grabbed his body tighter; the steel helmet initially dropped into the space between their two bodies, the metal soon bouncing against the floor as Leigh struggled to subdue her former commander.

"Chow time, chief," Leigh spoke with an unexpected accent. In her hand, wrapped in tin, was a bite-sized cube of chocolate. Given the force with which she was attempting to shove it down the Commander's throat, he had to assume another, more lethal ingredient also resided within.

"Ssstay away from me!" he screeched at his attacker. "What's the meaning of thisss?"

Feet away, Jinx entered the hall, again following an instinct alien to her fellow Joes. Alien to every Joe but Snake Eyes, who'd just about frightened Jinx out of her skin forty seconds earlier, popping out of the ceiling ducts and joining her on the run.

No Christmas leave for Ol' Snakes. Of course not.

"The two of us should probably have a talk one day," she told the elder ninja. When he didn't respond, she recognized her gaffe and mentally declared herself a fool.

Turning the corner, both ninja spotted Law on the floor. Snake Eyes moved to check on him, while Jinx raced to the cell. Inside, the Commander was caught in a front headlock, clawing at his attacker's face with whatever maneuverability he still possessed.

His efforts were desperate, largely feeble, although he had managed to peel away much of the prosthetics lining Leigh's face. Jinx pulled the woman away from their prisoner, got a good look at what passed for her mug, and realized her suspicions of the past twelve hours had been confirmed.

"I was right!" she exhaled. "I knew it was you," Jinx told the woman, flipping positions and placing her in an impossible hold instead.

"Did you, luv? Then how'd I manage to get this far?" answered an Aussie accent.

Jinx kicked at her rival's shoes. "Wearing lifts, huh? Okay, you cheated your height, but I still don't get how you upped the rest of your deception game so quickly."

As Jinx removed the flaxen wig, the last vestige of the Leigh disguise, Zarana could only laugh. "Maybe I had a bloody good motivation, eh?"

Slipping past in the confusion was Cobra Commander. Had he known who was waiting outside the cell, perhaps he would've remained behind the bars.

The Commander was taken aback by Snake Eyes' reaction time, though. Before he endured that vertical fist to his chest, Cobra Commander thought he detected a pause in the ninja's movements. A second later, being escorted again to his cell, the Commander realized with silent horror what he'd neglected to retrieve from the floor.

Without even realizing, he'd unmasked himself before the Joe team.

Jinx was so proud of her discovery, what ordinarily would've been the greatest revelation of the year, it took a gentle nudging from Snake Eyes before she recognized the other unintentional gift they'd been given this Christmas.

She couldn't believe how young he looked. So clean cut, so...American. And that face, it was like someone you'd see in a movie.

Or, maybe, on the television? More specifically, the television _news_ for the past several days.

"Snake Eyes," she whispered. "That can't be...it just can't..."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

### Earlier...

The bottle was 1918 vintage, the pride of Dr. Mindbender's personal stock. Crystal Ball stopped toying with his tape recorder long enough to take a victory toast, scowled his discontent.

"Something the matter, my ally?" the doctor asked, savoring his second glass.

The Romanian lifted the bottle of Scotch, held it in clear contempt. "This pea-water? I'll send word from home. When the plot reaches fruition, we'll toast with a true spirit," he said with a patronizing grin.

Dr. Mindbender took the insult in stride, wasn't willing to allow his new confederate's haughty disposition to ruin the best hope for Cobra's future. "I look forward to the day. And, with that in mind, what trigger did you implant within our dearest? I'd love to know which combination of words will align her allegiance in the proper direction."

Crystal Ball ejected the latest tape, beheld it with pride. "No words necessary." He thought of the capital the organization once exhausted, using technology to recreate the feats of his ancestors. Decided he wanted another glass after all. "My range isn't so limited, you see. I've decided upon a more poetic call to action for our lovely."

"Which would be...?"

The Romanian took his time, finishing that final sip. "A smell, my dear doctor. The scent of the young woman's _roots_ , so to speak..."

A tiny felt bag of gold coins? This was like something from the glory days of Cobra, the days this Gyro-Viper had only heard stories about.

"You sure about this, Doctor?" he asked Mindbender, who'd buzzed his quarters and ordered this secret rendezvous.

"I didn't come out here to be second-guessed, you dolt. Take the money, fly to New York, and return ASAP," said the doctor, his unease growing by the second.

The Gyro-Viper's visor concealed a face of pure bemusement. "And what do I say if the Commander asks about all of this?"

Dr. Mindbender seized the pilot's shoulders, directed him towards the Mamba gunship. "You tell him to talk to _me_ , like I said. Now, any more inane questions?"

The Gyro-Viper froze. Thoughts of Cobra Commander, pointedly asking questions about the authorized fuel expenditures inspired his next query. "Yeah. Why all the secrecy?"

The doctor pointed towards the Mamba's far left pod. Inside, meditating with the aid of his portable cassette player and headphones, was Crystal Ball.

"Do you see that man? Do you know what the other recruits are saying about him?"

There were rumors about the new Cobra operative. A creep, by all accounts, even by Cobra standards. Not someone to offend on a whim. The Gyro-Viper was almost prepared to drop this, except...

Inside the Mamba's far _right_ pod, the pilot spotted another form. "And who's that?"

"Need to know," Dr. Mindbender growled. "Which you don't. Just make sure both arrive in New York. Let Crystal Ball take care of the rest."

Mindbender noticed the Gyro-Viper still wasn't moving, so he provided more motivation in the form of his boot against the pilot's backside. "Now, take that money and forget we ever had this conversation, do you understand?!"

Zandar unfastened the first lock, peeked outside. He grunted; didn't quite form a word. On the other side were two figures. One, he knew by reputation. A European mystic, one whose flamboyant stylings, they claimed, matched his tendency towards occult menace. His companion, a woman hiding behind a trenchcoat, her face covered by hat and sunglasses.

"It's okay, Zandar. We're here on the Commander's orders," spoke the foreign voice on the other side.

He relented, opened the door. As they entered, allowing a gust of frozen air, Zandar asked, "What orders?"

"We're replacing your two lost agents, Zandar," the mystery woman answered. Her accent was generic American, like most of those broadcast newscasters.

It was also as phony as his sister's dye job, although a layman likely wouldn't pick up on her affected consonants. Zandar scrutinized his guest. She untied her trenchcoat, revealed a pristine Cobra uniform, tailored for her perfect body, underneath.

"Should I know you?"

"Cobra Officer Morgan," she announced, her voice as chilled as the air outside. In her hands were several pages of computer printouts. Zandar examined them; all seemed legitimate, yet questions lingered.

"Why haven't I heard from Cobra Commander?"

Crystal Ball tittered. "He's rather preoccupied today. Haven't you heard about his big interview?"

Zandar grumbled, kept flipping through Officer Morgan's printout. "All of these docs were signed by Mindbender. I need top approval before I board new agents."

Sound of a zipper. Zandar looked up, saw Crystal Ball withdrawing an object from his coat. It was...colorful. Tantalizing. Enchanting, even.

" _Do_ you, now?"

"Can't you tell I'm watching this bloody interview?" Zarana snarled, vexed at the concept of any intruder at her private quarters. Even if he was blood.

Cobra Commander's prime time interview was hours away. But Music Video Nation's interview with Melbourne's breakout punk sensation, Ricky Zed, had just begun. Zarana's ice heart melted the day she was slipped a bootleg cassette of his demo. Came back to life again and fluttered out of her mouth the first time she got a glimpse of the 6'4 punk god's music video, showcasing his retro leather trousers, bare chest, and strategically placed piercings.

Her brother remained in the doorway, refusing to budge. "This is more important. Two new operatives arrived from HQ. Need to see you."

Tossing her bag of potato chips on the floor, Zarana huffed and met her brother in the hallway. "An' they had to do this now?"

"So sorry for disturbing the television event of the year, madam," said a deep voice with a cartoon accent. She'd seen photos of this Jack on a handful of surveillance reports. Looked even more ludicrous in person.

Standing beside him was a striking beauty; assuming her helmet and balaclava weren't covering any unsightly scars.

"Wut's this now?" Zarana snorted. "Wearing your full Cobra Officer's uniform off-duty? Y'that desperate to show off your rank, sister?"

"This is Officer Morgan," interrupted Zandar. "She and Crystal Ball have something quite important you need to hear."

Zarana crossed her arms and pouted. "Yeah? An' what's it supposed to be then?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Inside the ladies' lavatory, Lady Jaye was scrubbing off the remains of Zarana's prosthetics. Jinx, in the background, was desperate to celebrate her victory, even though the other revelation of the evening had numbed much of the joy.

"But Zarana can't be Leigh," Jaye spoke over the _whoosh_ of the faucet. "No way that timeline works out. And I've seen the original briefings -- Leigh _is_ the Baroness!"

Zarana, her hands in cuffs, her face half submerged in water, just kept laughing. "Yeah, luv. Ever think _two_ female masters of disguise in the same organization might cause you some headaches?"

Jinx marched towards the sink. "Now you want to get chatty? How about you let _me_ wash all this gunk off? Promise I'll be gentle..."

Lady Jaye cleared her throat. "Ah, Jinx, you think maybe Lt. Falcon needs to hear about this? About _all_ of this?"

Dr. Mindbender, his back still sore from the ride up the east coast, wasn't in the mood for bad news. "Blast! The data transfer has cut off!"

Appearing in the doorway was Officer Morgan. "Are you so surprised? There's only so much you can expect from a swamp rat..."

Zarana was on Morgan's mind, having spent the previous hour clearing out her space, stumbling across a lengthy parade of vile memorabilia and roaming dust bunnies. The officer had inherited the swamp rat's room, here in this "abandoned" gas station in a remote, marshy section of New Jersey.

"No need to be so dismissive of her talents, Officer Morgan. Or am I now free to address you as your proper title?"

"Only if you value your life, Doctor," answered Officer Morgan, removing her helmet and fleece balaclava. Her face, though naked, did not expose her true self. The price of extensive, federally mandated plastic surgery. The sharp, aggressive accent, however, was classic _Baroness_.

"How regrettable," she continued, "that I can now adopt my true identity, yet my face still belongs to a stranger."

"All necessary aspects of the plan, dearest," spoke another accent, one the typical American might view as even more absurd.

Mindbender greeted their new arrival; the man so essential to the previous days' acts of mischief. He then turned to the Baroness. "True. We had hoped to reclaim you before the authorities 'gifted' you with your new face, but circumstances would not allow it."

"But it all helped to craft the illusion of 'Leigh Miller,' did it not?" asked Crystal Ball with his distinctive smirk.

The Baroness observed the monitor, watched as the computer exhausted itself, attempting to tabulate the stolen information currently entering its systems. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one staring at a stranger in the mirror every morning."

Dr. Mindbender offered Crystal Ball a glass tumbler, half filled with Țuică. "Perhaps our new ally could provide some subliminal reassurance in that regard?"

After finishing his sip of the potent beverage, he gladly provided an answer. "Yes, my lovely Baroness. Who knows how well you could benefit from expert hypnotherapy?"

Baroness didn't turn to face him. Kept tapping on the keyboard instead. "Enough of this drivel. Just tell me Zarana sent us something worthwhile before they grabbed her."

The doctor leaned over her shoulder, prompted the computer to display one particular blueprint. "A few schematics for Joe vehicles were transmitted. Lovely designs on their Conquest jet, don't you think?"

"That's all?" the Baroness scoffed. "We sacrificed the Dreadnoks, our Astoria operation, _and_ a mole for that?"

Mindbender reclaimed his seat; thought for a moment before answering. "Losing the Dreadnoks was necessary for our more _significant_ plan...which has worked out rather well, yes? Casting 'Leigh' as a mole was an ad hoc scheme of our predecessor's. Her being discovered so soon is unfortunate, I'll grant you. I thought the plot had potential...perhaps I was wrong."

"And turning against the Commander, leaving him an open target for the Joes, what if you were wrong about that as well?" asked Baroness.

Mindbender squirmed in his seat. If Zarana's data breach had already been discovered, did this mean she'd also failed to eliminate their former leader/current liability?

"Dear Baroness," said Crystal Ball, disrupting the silence, "your history with this organization goes back much further than my own, but even I recognize what a burden that shrieking gasbag was. The three of us, a new Cobra Triad, can surely plot a better course for Cobra's future."

The Baroness took a sniff of the open Țuică bottle, returned it to the table. "The revelation of his 'true' identity has given our foes a black eye, even as it's enabled us to bolster recruitment. We departed with the Commander after he orchestrated perhaps his most successful plan."

The doctor nodded. "True. But, I think expecting an encore would be folly."

"Perhaps you're right," the Baroness answered while collecting her things. "If you need me, I'll be back in the morning."

"Might I ask where you're going?" inquired Mindbender.

Lingering in the doorway, she turned and said with no discernable emotion, "I no longer have my face, but I still possess a life of my own, Doctor."

She was followed by Crystal Ball, drink in hand, down the hallway. "Baroness, my lovely. Is everything a'right?"

"I'll be fine, mystic. Place your concern elsewhere."

He gripped his hand on her shoulder. She stopped her stride, but refused to look back at him.

"Because if you're having trouble adjusting, my offer stands. And if there's another memory you'd like... _massaged_ into its proper place..."

She escaped his grasp, resisted the temptation to elbow him on her way out. "I said I'm fine, mystic. Stop your...clinging."

Crystal Ball studied her body as she exited the hall, enjoyed another sip of his drink. With pride, he thought of the previous months' work, recalled that date she'd mentioned in confidence. Oh, what a memory this she-devil was _so_ desperate to erase from her mind. He questioned how the lovely ever managed a good night's sleep before their paths crossed.

_It's quite all right, my dear_ , he thought while finishing his beverage _. Your sins on that autumn evening may no longer haunt you._ The smug look returned. _Even though Crystal Ball has a long memory, indeed._

December 25, 1987

The final Christmas Day service was winding down when she passed through the church doors. More than once she'd heard the jokes about sinners spontaneously bursting into flames after entering hallowed halls. If it happened in this case, she'd understand why.

She took the back pew, sat in silence during the closing minutes of the service. Perhaps she quietly participated in the closing prayer; very likely, she didn't.

The congregation was dismissed, the lone woman in the final pew waited until one parishioner passed by.

"Ma'am? Would I be able to speak with you?" she asked in a flat, indiscernible accent.

The parishioner was weary, dreaded the next words the young woman would speak. Still, she nodded and invited her as company on the walk home.

Only a light flurry this evening, a pleasant relief from the previous weeks of brutal, unrelenting storms. The streetlight's cone of illumination gave a sweet gleam to the snowfall. Most of the neighborhood had decorated their yards with electric lights, images of Santa and his reindeer eliciting treasured memories from the parishioner.

Colin's favorite holiday, of course.

They made small talk, the young woman sometimes dropping out of the conversation, staring off into the distance with a palpable ache.

"Are you from here, miss?" asked the parishioner.

The young woman didn't respond at first. Was prepared to say something, then took a breath.

The parishioner wrapped her hand around the stranger's arm. "It's okay, miss."

The words rushed out. "I knew your son, ma'am. Knew Colin very well, actually."

The parishioner nodded, considered her response with care. "I'm sorry I don't recognize you, dear."

"I understand. But I just wanted you to know, I remember Colin, and he was very special to me." The young woman caught her breath, then continued, almost emotionlessly. "What those people are saying about him, I just can't apologize enough, ma'am."

"That's very kind of you, dear. Those of us who knew him, we remember the truth, don't we?"

"Yes," she nodded. Tried to control her breathing, as she finished the words she'd prepared earlier. "A very kind man. Loved this country. I'm so sorry his name has been slandered this way. So..." She had to take another breath. "So sorry you've had to endure this, Mrs. Kristofer."

"Miss, there's really no need for you to be apologizing." She squeezed the stranger's arm. "Dear? Why are you crying?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

" _Lieutenant_ Falcon? I thought I'd at leassst rank the General, if not the man on TV with the Brylcreem addiction..."

Falcon stood at the cell door, his contemptuous expression, at this moment, saying everything he needed to say. That face looking back at him, the face that just had to be a lie, was far too satisfied.

He'd asked only for a look. Promised Law he wouldn't violate any regs, and he meant it. But to have that stolen mug contorted like that, just so proud of the mockery he'd committed...

"You get me," Falcon spoke with controlled rage, opening the cell, "because I've got friends willing to bend a few rules." He closed the door behind him. Made sure he violated the Commander's personal space. "One of them, the guy who got K.O.'ed guarding your cell earlier tonight."

"Very unfortunate, that." The Commander raised an index finger. "Sssurely you realize that was none of my doing."

"All snakes are the same to me. You think we didn't know your clan is nothing but a nest of backbiters and traitors?"

The Commander looked Falcon over. "I'd view incompetencccy as a larger issue. Were you not our prisoner as recently as a day ago?"

"Who knows? Maybe you nabbed my evil twin. Is that how you're gonna explain --" Falcon moved even closer, raised his index finger this time, directed it right at the Commander's Greek nose "-- this?"

The Commander took his time; waited for Falcon to drop his hand, move back a few inches. "Nothing to explain, Lieutenant. Although you grasping for any straw to avoid the uncomfortable truth is underssstandable..."

"Sure, pal." The Lieutenant pressed forward without warning, throwing the Commander off his game, if only for a moment. "Just know this: I'd like nothing more than to bounce you around this cell." Falcon gripped the flexible mesh of the Commander's suit, pulled his body so tight they were touching nose to nose. "Not only for the personal grief this sick scheme has put me through, but for what you've done to that innocent woman back in Salem County."

The Commander studied the anger in the Lieutenant's eyes. Did not choose his next words arbitrarily. "You've met Jocelyn? Pleassse give my regards to mo--" Wasn't able to finish the taunt, as Falcon lifted his body, shoved his head against the wall of the cell as soon as he began to utter that word.

" _Don't_ you call her that. _Not ever._ "

The Commander was wise enough not to laugh in his face. Some of this joy did escape to his lips, however. "Careful, Lieutenant, your temper jussst might get you into some trouble in the future."

Falcon, perhaps recognizing the victory he was offering the enemy, placed the snake back down on the floor. The Commander pressed again. "May I suggest some breathing exercisesss?"

The Lieutenant scoffed, turned back to the door. "I'm done here. Just know that we will find you out, snake." Closing the gate, turning back a final time, Falcon added, "We'll expose your lies, and we'll finally give that poor lady some peace. Bet on it."

The Commander returned to his cot. Thought back to his initial journey to this strange land. What had seemed at first blush a cold and inorganic realm, he soon recognized as a beacon of freedom amongst the pink and brown skins across this globe.

He thought also of the prosthetics and make-up. The wigs, the spirit gum, the artificial means of assimilation. The ingenious method he devised to escape them all.

"Oh, Lieutenant," he whispered, alone. "Did it ever occur to you that perhapsss this old snake only wished to fit in with his fellow countrymen?"

Big Lob made certain there were enough sugar cookies to pass around. He also suggested large pitchers of warm milk, but Beach Head denied the request. Bad enough the Rawhide was introducing sugar and carbohydrates into the briefing, even if it was Christmas.

Every member not on holiday leave was gathered in the war room. Rumors were already spreading, whispers about an unbelievable discovery in the barracks, stories about Chuckles stumbling across something every Fed had overlooked. On the video monitor behind the General were five images.

A passport photo of a seventeen-year-old girl with apple-cheeks named Anastasia Cisarovna.

A surveillance still of the Baroness, circa 1984, from inside a restricted Aerospace research facility, slipping out of one of her disguises.

The driver's license of Leigh Miller, taken after the swelling from her final surgery had gone down.

Colin Kristofer's draft portrait, circa 1969.

An instant camera snap of Cobra Commander, unmasked, taken an hour earlier.

"In the spirit of honesty, Joes," General Hawk spoke, tapping his presentation pointer against his palm, "I'm not sure how to go forward with this. Any suggestions?"

Beach Head didn't hesitate to offer an opinion. "Extract as much DNA from the prisoner as the judge will allow. Then, you lock him in a room with me, and I can guarantee some answers will be forthcomin'."

Several hallways away, the Commander wasn't privy to this conversation. He was astute enough to guess its contents, however. That panic over his unmasking was pure habit; let them have this victory, he later realized. Better proof than any DNA test. Fantasizing about the Joes' confusion, the utter bewilderment over their accidental discovery, he had been elated.

The feeling soon dissipated, however. The Joes wouldn't leave this alone; he knew the prodding would never end. At some point, they would discern the actual connection between him and Colin Kristofer, and the public relations coup for Cobra would be exposed as just another scheme.

And if the inevitable tests revealed further truths, like the even ghastlier secret held within his genes, Cobra's opportunity to attract new adherents would no doubt be crippled. _Horribly_ crippled.

Then, he questioned why he cared. He'd been set up, played for a fool by his own organization. Set up for assassination, no less.

Instantly, he recognized the two objectives he must prioritize for the future.

Survival. And revenge.

"Sorry your holiday plans didn't work out," Jinx told Falcon as they were cleaning up the break room, watching the digital clock mounted on the wall pass from Christmas to Boxing Day.

"Yeah, well, General Hawk's doing what he can to make amends," Falcon replied, stacking up cheap-o coffee cups and tossing them into the trash. "Things got crazy. It happens."

"Sure," Jinx said, their paths crossing as she disposed of a used paper towel. "Whenever you see Mama Falcone, give her my love."

Unexpectedly, Falcon took her hand. "Who knows? Maybe one day you can do so in person."

Their eyes met; Jinx did everything she could to break away. "Okay, sweet-talker. You're gonna have to try a lot harder to get me to violate the rules on fraternization."

Falcon thought of those eyes; of the presence of his teammate. How, without even trying, she could temper that rage within him, somehow turn his thoughts to beauty instead of wrath. He reached into his breast pocket. "So this mistletoe I asked Big Lob to sneak onto base isn't going to do any good?"

He dangled the leaf and berry clusters overhead. Tried to forget the lecture Footloose had given earlier that week, about the plants being parasites, generally a burden on trees across the globe. Of course Footloose would know something like that.

"Hmm...well, I suppose there _is_ tradition involved here," Jinx said, allowing herself to grin. She moved forward, joined him for a modest kiss.

It wasn't enough. Both moved closer, met in a full embrace, enjoyed a second kiss that lingered a good while.

Jinx managed to pull herself away. Looked back up at Falcon and laughed. "I hope you realize I'm only doing this because it's still Christmas on the west coast. You'd _never_ catch me disobeying the rules of mistletoe, Lieutenant."

Twenty minutes later, Falcon was back in the barracks. His bunkmate, Tunnel Rat, was conked out for the night; maybe until New Year's. Rumor had it Leatherneck and Iceberg were the loudest snorers on the team, but Falcon knew they hadn't truly gotten to know Tunnel Rat yet.

Falcon claimed the top bunk, stared at the ceiling. He wondered how he would get to sleep this evening, given the revelations of the past day, the implications for the future. In fact, over two hours passed before he succumbed to the sandman's call.

REM sleep offered images he'd never recall in the daytime. Those freaks Cobra deployed up in the Himalayas, he had visions of them, slithering around his hometown. One of their monsters busted up his mother's home, had Mrs. Falcone pinned under the debris.

(Or was this Mrs. Kristofer? Seemed like her facial features kept changing.)

Falcon rushed in, tried his best to play the hero. Lifted the wreckage off her body, unaware an army of bug-eyed Cobra drones were moving in behind him.

One had Falcon cold; its scythe right in position, perfect opportunity to remove the Lieutenant's head. Didn't expect a rifle butt to almost take _his_ off instead. Falcon turned, held his mother even closer, and looked upon his savior.

Duke, all two hundred and thirty pounds of American muscle, pausing only for a nod before he went back to work on the Cobra creeps. Probably could've taken out that insect battalion all by himself, but his kid brother just had to join in on the fun.

"Yooo Joe!" they cried in unison.

Man, it was like something out of _Sgt. Granite,_ assuming those old comics ever took a crazy turn towards science fiction. High-pitched trill of the humanoid bug drones was enough to make any soldier's skin crawl, but the Hauser/Falcone boys weren't intimidated. Can't say those drones had glass jaws, but when you nailed one of them hard enough, their bones made this brittle, crunchy sound. Reminded Falcon of stepping on grasshoppers as a kid.

When the battle was over, Duke reached out for a handshake. Received a brotherly hug instead.

They piled into a V.A.M.P. jeep, went out for burgers and drinks at Rhonda's. Jinx was there; Duke told them not to be playing it coy on his account. They stayed shy anyway, but Falcon did steal a kiss from her during a game of eight-ball.

She scratched, like always, lost her turn three times.

Perfect night out, until some jerk had to play games with the jukebox. Put on the most obnoxious song Falcon had ever heard. Heavy metal trash; pop garbage, not the good stuff like Sabbath or Eddie V.

A cold slither...a band of vipers...they're playing his tune. Ridiculous.

He walked with purpose to the Select-o-matic, was ready to give this punk a piece of his mind. Odd looking fellow, like an actor in one of the late night movies. Or maybe even that geek who hosts those dumb horror shows, pretending he's Dracula's cousin, arising from his cardboard coffin Monday through Friday nights.

"Excuse me, sir, but that song's right annoying and I'd like you to cut it off."

The stranger just smirked, crossed his arms. Wanted to make sure Falcon was anticipating his response.

He stepped closer. "Good sir," he finally spoke, in some oddball accent, "there seems to be a misunderstanding." Falcon, irritated for reasons he couldn't comprehend, wanted so bad to deck this creep.

The Lieutenant could only stand there. Felt as if his feet were nailed to the floorboards. The carnival reject got so close Falcon could smell the strange liquor on his breath.

Crazy as it may sound, the stranger had grown three feet since the Lieutenant first spotted him. Looming over Falcon, staring down dead into his eyes, he whispered his next line.

"I do not receive orders from _you_. In fact, this works the other way around..."

THE END (?)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gene Kendall taught himself how to program a VCR at the age of five, determined to never miss an episode of _G. I. Joe: A Real American Hero_. He's been writing about reputable and disreputable pop culture for over ten years at Not Blog X and CBR, and has finished four novels as of this writing. Fans of the 1990s alt-rock movement, washed up comic book professionals, and a divorced ghost-hunting couple might want to sign up for updates on  his Amazon author page, or check him out on Twitter.

AUTHOR'S COMMENTARY

The annotations in the Tom Scioli and John Barber _Transformers/G. I. Joe_ series were fun, so I thought I'd provide some notes on my humble entry into the canon.

PROLOGUE

Their mission? To defend a crooked, crumbling institution...

Please note that opinions of Vipers, blueshirts, or other members of a fictional terrorist organization do not reflect those of the author.

A walking tank named Roadblock, strong enough to lift a fifty-cal, breaking only a moderate sweat.

Roadblock's ability to lift this behemoth of a weapon is legendary, and apparently close to physically impossible. It's been reported the actor portraying him in a certain 2013 film, one renowned for his size and strength, attempted to lift a fully loaded fifty-cal but couldn't manage it.

The far less intimidating Dial-Tone, surely sent out by their commander as some form of punishment.

The original hook for Dial-Tone was that his position on the Joe team was precarious, that he's insecure and desperate to prove himself.

Stalker, one of the original Joes, partially responsible for the M.A.S.S. Device debacle.

A reference to the original animated miniseries, of course. Stalker was quickly abandoned once new characters were introduced in later episodes, sadly.

Footloose, a supposed fruitcake who'd somehow managed to survive an encounter with Storm Shadow.

More fun from the animated series, specifically the "Excalibur" episode. Footloose was the "zen" G. I. Joe.

McMichael witnessed Falcon volunteer to draw Viper fire, charging directly into their barricade.

Falcon was introduced as a scoundrel and layabout in the 1987 animated movie. Plans for the episodes following the film (which never materialized) had him growing up fast and becoming the new lead of the series.

Also notice there is no direct reference to the 1987 animated movie's chief villains. A political landmine amongst _Joe_ fans I'd rather avoid.

Going out like a common blueshirt. Doesn't Viper status mean anything anymore?

"Blueshirts" is the term for a standard Cobra soldier. Whether or not Vipers are in an elevated class of Cobra trooper hasn't been portrayed consistently throughout the years. I side with those who view Vipers as a step above the standard Cobra soldier. Those cool outfits have to stand for something.

CHAPTER ONE

" _Facing increasing pressure on the Pentagon budget..._

Actual news items from this date, December 18, 1987.

But first, a message from the new and improved Red Rocket Burgers.

Red Rocket Burgers is an old Cobra scheme from the early episodes of the animated series. Those burgers must've been fantastic, since someone's bought out the name and gone legitimate with the operation.

_Duke could've been quite the public face of the team, were such a thing ever necessary. Blond hair, blue eyes, chiseled chin befitting any soldier found in those old_ Sgt. Granite _comics._

_Sgt. Granite_ is a fictional comic referenced at least once in the early issues of the ongoing comic book series. Falcon's relationship with his half-brother Duke comes from the 1987 movie. Most versions of the canon ignore the idea of them being related, although it reappeared in the _Renegades_ series.

Those months that followed, Duke going in and out of the comas, the new strain of venom they discovered in his system resisting all treatment, Doc couldn't have foreseen that.

Whatever the heck those living snake daggers around Serpentor's shoulders are, I assume they have nasty venom.

Any anxieties, or hopes, Serpentor survived, was still out there awaiting another rematch? Falcon wasn't commenting on that.

The original script of the 1987 movie is more explicit in stating Serpentor's death. While his demise is left ambiguous in the film, a cut line of dialogue has a character remarking that it doesn't really matter; a new Serpentor clone can be made.

CHAPTER TWO

_Every recruit knew_ of _Snake Eyes._

The most famous character in the lore, Snake Eyes played a surprisingly small role for most of the animated series' run. The speculation about his past is derived from various continuities, along with some ridiculous additions from the author.

Chuckles had earned something of a name for himself thanks to his commitment to duty even while suffering a nasty bout of laryngitis.

Chuckles has no dialogue in the film, no lines in the PDF of the script included with the movie's DVD release. When Buzz Dixon speaks about Chuckles on the commentary, the audio drops for several seconds. While we do know that Chuckles was designed to mimic the look of the 1987 film's major star, there's been no explanation for his silent appearance in the movie.

_Did he want to know how the Rawhide,_ blindfolded _, could move in response to the wind so effortlessly?_

The extensive ninja continuity of the comic was ignored in the animated series, aside from Jinx's reference to a "blind ninja master." Her connection to Snake Eyes is ripe for exploration in this version of the canon, I say.

" _Tell me more about the Trabant, girl. I love hearing about that spark plug with a roof your government calls a car."_

The Trabant is a notorious state-planned car from West Germany and other Soviet nations.

CHAPTER THREE

_She's a fan, at least. He had that much going for him. Only reason why she let him in the door in the first place_.

The grand return of Hector Ramirez, recurring media blowhard from the Sunbow era. Ramirez's appearances indicate the public has some knowledge of the Joe team, but I'm sticking with the idea that Joe activities are kept classified.

TRANSCRIPT: ABN Television Studios

The Late Tonight with David Fetter _program. Special guest, comedian Hill Bix._

I predict Hill Bix will pass at a young age, yet his snarky legacy will live forever on the internet. Also, "The Man Who Sold the World" is one of the greatest song titles ever, and the themes of the lyrics I now realize are reflected in the narrative of this novel.

CHAPTER FOUR

The grand revelation of those days in the Himalayas, the truth of the Commander's previous identity, had been a hammering blow to Mindbender. The other Cobras seemed unfazed, excited even, but with the aid of hindsight, the doctor dismissed the jubilation as a show for the dangerous clan revealed as the Commander's superiors.

Many have ridiculed the 1987 movie for having the members of Cobra _eager_ to participate in some alien bug creatures' plot to kill all humanity. Previously, they just wanted money and power, right?

Inside was revealed a battle suit, polished silver and cobalt, the proud Cobra emblem a crimson brand perfectly centered on its helmet.

The DiC-produced animated series provided its own origin for Cobra Commander's battle suit, and his re-evolution into manhood. We don't acknowledge DiC here. (Seriously, _you_ watch that stuff. I'm not.)

" _Last day in Utah. Found a potential."_

There's no official confirmation the Joe's base in the animated series was located in a specific state, but the classic Pit location in the comics is in the Utah desert. Considering the animated series' base is surrounded by desert, and Buzz Dixon's use of Utah in his own Kindle Worlds story, I'm confident naming Utah as its location.

CHAPTER FIVE

Within ninety seconds, standing before the doctor was no freak, no refugee from bad science fiction. This was the all-American male, ripped straight from a Penney's catalogue.

Ever wonder why the Commander always had Caucasian-colored skin surrounding his eyes, yet was revealed as a blue-skinned pre-human creature in the animated movie?

CHAPTER SIX

Regrettably, Psyche-Out didn't have any of those inkblot cards handy.

Psyche-Out wasn't featured in the film, but he is a character from the 1987 line of toys. My goal was to represent this era of the franchise as faithfully as possible.

CHAPTER SEVEN

" _I never forget someone who does me dirt...'Heather'"_

Zarana donned the bimbo disguise of Heather in the 1987 film, seducing Falcon and gathering the intel Cobra needed to free Serpentor.

That other hand now possessed the burden of lifting Thrasher's fifteen-stone body, (a quick mental conversion made by Footloose in respect of Thrasher's heritage).

Thrasher's official file card has his birthplace as Brussels, Belgium but the Sunbow producers treated him as cartoonishly British/Australian as the other Dreadnoks.

TRANSCRIPT: Madison Square Garden

Concert performance from bestselling recording artists Brick Springstern and the Tenth Avenue Band.

Brick and his band, a creation of Bob Budinasky, are in no way related to a different chart topping musical act from the 1980s.

CHAPTER TEN

From the front porch, Quick Kick called back, "Sorry, brother! I'll make it up to you with a Frozen Fudgy Bar later!"

The Sunbow series introduced us to Quick Kick when filming a Frozen Fudgy Bar commercial.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

" _Regardless, we've got snakes on the run all across the nation, and you're pouting like a little girl. Why? Because you're jealous of some ex-agent's new dye job?"_

Baroness has a history of charming Flint. See "Eau De Cobra."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

" _It's just somethin' people say about them," Buzzer sighed. "Crikey, man, do you really not get this? I mean, this is more'n just a joke. It's, like, a bloody_ statement _."_

Buzzer was consistently a dunce in the animated series, even though his dossier described him as highly educated. My theory is his judgment has been impaired through various means over the years, his intellect making only sporadic appearances.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

_The Mamba was a marvel of avionic triumph, not even a Joe could deny this_.

Another feature of the 1987 line not represented by the movie, the Mamba is a personal favorite Cobra craft.

" _I seem to remember a group of rather unsavory figures placing our fine Commander on trial, revealing stunning secrets about his past. Is this not familiar to you?"_

There were several Joe captives inside the ice dome, but they weren't physically present for Cobra Commander's trial. This is why no one within G. I. Joe knows the secrets of his past. 1987 creation Crystal Ball also debuts in this chapter. His role in the canon is less renowned, but the potential for hypnosis and mind games more than justifies his presence.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

(Possessing a ruby the size of an American football can alter a man's outlook on life.)

Zartan was bribed to go along with Cobra's new masters with this ruby. (Described as a giant pearl in the original script included with the DVD release.) Should we assume Zartan took the money and went into early retirement?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

He was well aware General Hawk once reported his status on the team as "by the skin of his teeth," and had even undergone a scare months earlier when his re-enlistment was temporarily rejected.

Another nod towards Dial-Tone's low self-esteem, and the "Sins of Our Fathers" episode of the series.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

" _Ah, I see we've discovered a fan of America's bygone pop metal sensations. I'm sure they'll have their comeback soon enough."_

Cold Slither has somehow become an internet meme over the years. I'm not jumping on any bandwagons; I had that sublime song stuck in my head _years_ before it was cool.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

" _No, Ma," he spoke into the satellite communications network, "I'm not any lonelier at Christmas than any other time of the year. A nice girl? I was married, Ma, we both know how that worked out..."_

Mainframe was established as divorced, and a Vietnam veteran (surprisingly adult material for the show), in the Sunbow animated series. The episode "Computer Complications" also teased a romance between Mainframe and Zarana.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

" _Yooo Joe!" they cried in unison._

It's a classic, but I wasn't sure if I wanted to include the battle cry in the book. The cheer didn't seem to mesh with the story, up until I hit upon this final dream sequence. I also liked the thought of the battle cry appearing as a sort of payoff at the novel's end.

And this brings us to the conclusion of the tale. _G. I. Joe_ has been a favorite for most of my life, and playing with the characters an enormous amount of fun. There's a good chance this isn't the last _Joe_ story I have in me, so hopefully I can count on your support in the future.

Any thoughts, comments, reviews (especially reviews) are appreciated. Thanks, folks.

Gene Kendall

