 
THE ORGANIZATION PART 1

THE EXTRACTION

By

Kris Kramer

" _We're looking for a few good... criminals."_

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Kris Kramer on Smashwords

The Organization Part 1

The Extraction

Copyright © 2012 by Kris Kramer

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.

*****

Kris Kramer, the author of this work, is part of the the4threalm.com, a collaborative and community-based website that focuses on showcasing writers, artists and filmmakers. He would like to invite you to see more of his work, along with several other terrific people, at the site.

http://www.the4threalm.com

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Cover design by www.MotherSpider.com

Chapter 1

"The first mission is an extraction - with a twist. We're picking up an assassin in town known as Duran. He's a dangerous guy, very expensive, and very, very good at what he does. He was hired by Smith's group to take out a Congressman speaking at a hotel here in LA five days from now. Smith's sending a message to everyone that he's a real player now, that he's a better alternative to how we do things. A louder alternative. That message is bad for business, so we're nipping it in the bud right now. We set up at the hotel, we grab this guy when he shows up, we take him somewhere secure, and we find out everything he knows about Smith. Then we start taking it to him for a change."

\- Big Man,

5 days ago

*****

He could smell the blood in the water.

Alone in his police cruiser, Officer Mike Miller sped down East 4th Street in Los Angeles with his lights flashing and his siren wailing. He swerved into the right lane, figuring out in his head the best route to get in front of the speeding white van running parallel about a half mile north of him on 2nd St. When the original call went out, he'd been on patrol in East Los Angeles, which meant he had zero chance of getting to the Concord hotel before all the action was over. But those snipers, the ones who allowed the vans to escape, had unknowingly given him an opportunity to get in on the bust. He was on the Santa Monica Freeway when he heard over the radio that the eastbound van was moving past Westlake, and his gut told him he could cut north on Main and intercept it. He'd been right about the direction, but a few seconds late on catching up. The van passed Main just before he could reach it, so Miller turned right on 4th and tried to keep pace, praying the van turned south.

His radio squawked on.

"Eastbound target just turned right on San Pedro. Repeat, he's headed south on San Pedro."

Perfect. The van was coming toward him now. Miller slowed down, realizing that he was only a block or two away from where San Pedro hit 4th St. If he timed it right the van would end up right in front of him and he'd have a golden opportunity to get close and make himself part of the bust. Nearby pedestrians stopped and turned their heads, hearing Miller's siren as well as the dozen or so others coming from the north. Miller turned his off and rolled down the window, listening for the approaching cruisers so he could gauge when to roll in after them. Surprisingly, he heard gunshots ring out instead, and the pedestrians, who'd been standing around curiously, scattered from the street, running to the safety of nearby buildings.

He saw the van only seconds later.

Instead of speeding by him at the San Pedro intersection, it swung left onto 4th, and he was just close enough to catch a glimpse of the driver and the passenger, both wearing tan jumpsuits, black ski-masks, and tinted, bubble-shaped goggles. The van itself was solid white, with no side or back windows, and the words LINENS BY LOPEZ painted in big, blocky blue letters on the side. The van floated to the far side of the street, running up onto the curb and smashing through a stack of newspaper dispensers before swerving back onto the road and straightening out. The engine roared as it lurched down 4th street followed by at least five police cruisers, along with three black sedans and a black SUV, all with tinted windows. These were the property of Scimitar, the federal task force no one in the LAPD had heard of before today. When the tip was phoned in this morning about American-born terrorists trying to kidnap Congressman Albert Ross at the Concord Hotel, these Scimitar feds in their black suits had swarmed the city like flies on shit. They'd almost caught the terrorists at the hotel, pinning them down in two identical vans at the hotel's loading docks, before sniper fire gave the bad guys a chance to escape. So in Miller's mind, Scimitar blew their chance, and now, through the grace of God, he had one of his own. He floored it, hoping to catch up and pull into the front of the chase, but he never had a chance. The van's driver swerved smartly around a white Volvo that had stopped in the middle of the road, but he wasn't prepared for the silver Audi coming right at them. The van pulled hard to the left, hopped the curb and crashed right through the glass doors of the 4-story office building at the next intersection.

The pursuing vehicles screeched to a stop in front of the building, and all of the officers and agents in front of him hopped out with their guns drawn, urgently waving people away from the scene. Glass littered the sidewalk, and concerned shouts filled the air as policemen and feds both tried to make sense of the situation. Miller stayed in his car and drove past slowly. He got a good look at the van, which had punched itself halfway through the wall of one of the ground floor office suites. Miller parked his car at the far end of the other vehicles and got out, realizing almost immediately that no one had thought to cover the back. One of the Scimitar agents seemed to be trying to take charge, ordering men around and setting up a perimeter, but they were all staying in the front, where they could keep the van in sight. Miller recognized an opportunity when he saw one. He needed a big break right about now, and if he could play a prominent role here, he could save his career. So he drew his gun, made sure no one else was watching him, and darted around to the back of the building, hoping that today would finally be his day.

*****

Flex slowly lifted himself off the deflating driver's side airbag and leaned back in his seat, groaning from the impact and resisting the urge to shake his head clear in case he had a concussion. He thought he'd banged it against the window during the crash but everything happened so fast that he wasn't sure. Squealing brakes and shrill sirens filled his ears, reminding him not to dawdle. He blinked until he could focus again and took inventory of his situation before the authorities could get to him. His chest hurt, but most of his pain came from the gunshot wound in his left forearm, which burned like hell. That was good news; that meant he probably didn't have any broken bones. He gripped his forearm tightly to control the bleeding. He was wearing a tan jumpsuit with the Lopez logo on the front, which covered the black suit he wore underneath, and the Smart Shield body armor under that. But no armor on his arms meant he'd start bleeding through in moments, and he needed to be extremely careful not to leave any DNA around.

His face was itchy and he knew he might start breaking out in a cold sweat from shock, but he resisted the urge to take off his mask. The plan had completely gone to hell, but he still had a slim chance to get out of this mess, and letting someone see his face as he ran from the van was a sure way to make things even worse. He looked over at Tox, slumped to the side in the passenger's seat, her head resting against the window. He couldn't see her eyes through the tinted goggles but he was pretty sure she was out cold. Her chest rose and fell, so she was breathing at least, but she needed to get conscious in about three seconds.

"Tox?" he said, grimacing. No answer. The interior of the van smelled like gasoline, and he cursed at his luck today. The van had a leak somewhere, which meant he couldn't risk gunfire, but it did give him an idea on how to get out of here. He gingerly reached into the center console, trying not to leave any blood smears, and grabbed the remote trigger, putting it in one of his pockets. There were small explosives lining the interior of the van, with double-plated armor protecting those locations on the outside, just in case a stray bullet actually managed to pierce the bullet-proof walls. The inside had no protection, though, so once he activated the detonator and pulled the trigger, all evidence of them ever being in that van would be destroyed in a controlled blast. The gas leak, however, would turn that small blast into a giant fireball, which could be the diversionary tactic he needed right now. But not if Tox was still inside. He reached over and shook her. "Tox? You hear me? Wake up!"

He heard voices yelling from the street, and he knew Scimitar agents and police would be on top of them in seconds. If Tox didn't wake up right now, she'd have to be left behind because he couldn't stay in this van any longer.

"Tox!" he yelled.

Nothing. Flex grunted in frustration. The van had no windows except the front ones, so he couldn't see anything behind him. He had to assume the worst, though, and there was no need for two team members to take the hit when one could do it. It sucked for Tox, but Flex had to be pragmatic. He reached over and grabbed Tox's gun off the floorboard, then opened the driver side door, which creaked loudly. He gingerly climbed out, trying not to breathe in the thick cloud of dust and drywall. Pain from the gunshot wound shot up his arm, but he ignored it. His adrenaline was still high, and it would stay that way for a few more minutes. But he had to get moving. The walls of the inner suite blocked the view to the lobby on his side of the van, which meant no one could see him getting out. Fortunate, but he would need a lot more than just one lucky break if he was going to escape from an army of police, Scimitar Task Force agents and who knows what else.

Sweat poured out of every gland on his body, but he ignored it and moved as fast as he could through the rubble. Except for an L-shaped wood desk in the corner, the reception area was empty, vacant probably. The only hallway led away to the right, then curved left, out of sight. He checked Tox's gun, making sure it was loaded before jogging down the hallway to find an exit. He'd have used his own gun, but he dropped it on the street after getting shot while returning fire. Stupid mistake, he knew, and he was damn lucky he'd been wearing gloves. He finally found a door marked Stairwell – Roof/Basement access and he kicked it open and then ran past, leaving it as a diversion. He didn't want stairs, he wanted a back door. He needed to get outside the building before anyone thought to cover the back.

"Out of the van! Now!" He heard shouting from the lobby area. Tox was gone, surrounded by LAPD and Scimitar agents. Big Man wouldn't be happy to hear about that, and he might even blame Flex, but that wasn't his main worry. All he cared about right now was getting out of this building in anything except handcuffs or a body bag. That meant taking some risks. He fished the trigger back out of his pocket and held it, hoping for one last lucky break. He armed it by turning the key at the top of the trigger handle, and saw the green LED turn off and the red one turn on.

_I really hope you're out of the van, Tox_. He rested his finger on the trigger. _And if you're not, I hope God forgives me. God, and Big Man._

He squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head, bracing himself for what he was about to do. Before he could pull the trigger, though, he heard footsteps running up the hallway in the other direction. He spun around, his gun ready, and he knew immediately that as bad as things had been, they were about to get worse.

*****

10 days ago...

Bobby "Flex" Young sat outside the Federal Correctional Institution of Tucson in a rented blue sedan, impatiently tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. He'd been sitting in the parking lot for over an hour now, and he was starting to get more than just a little anxious. He didn't know if this was a regular thing here, releasing prisoners well after their scheduled release time, and he wondered if something had gone wrong. Maybe the paperwork was screwed up, or someone higher up had changed their minds about letting this particular prisoner go free. He'd reminded himself at least a dozen times already that walking up to the prison to see what the hold-up was would be incredibly stupid. Avoiding public contact with other members of his team was part of his job, and knocking on a prison door to ask where his boss was, the man who'd just spent nine months behind bars for aggravated assault, seemed like a bad idea.

It had been a long nine months for Flex, and he didn't handle long waits very well. He was unfulfilled – or maybe uninspired was the better word – and tired of sitting on the sidelines for almost a year, so he found other uses for his time. He gambled, a lot, but he'd hit a patch of bad luck lately that left him with some fairly large debts. He had no intention of paying them, but he considered it embarrassing to owe money to small time sharks, so he had to stop. The rest of his time was filled by his 'day job' as a part-time construction worker. But even though some machinery would act up on occasion and threaten to take someone's arm off, there was no excitement, and building office complexes wasn't enough to give him a real sense of accomplishment. Not like his work with the team. His team did important things, for important people, and he felt proud to be part of something bigger than himself. But all the inactivity had taken its toll. He was out of shape, his wits had dulled, and he even missed some of his more obnoxious teammates. Plus, he was ready to get back to the business of saving the world from itself, since no one else was gonna do it.

Flex was his nickname on the team because he got into bodybuilding late in his teens. He'd always been a large kid, and his uncle, who worked out at an exclusive gym in Ohio and knew a few people in that line of work, had gotten him involved in it. His potential bodybuilding career didn't last long – he had an undiagnosed heart condition that didn't mix well with steroids - but his bulk stayed, and he found other uses for it as a bouncer and then as a professional bodyguard. That career also ended abruptly, however, when one of his charges, a wealthy Mexican businessman, was assassinated in Mexico City. He'd been imprisoned afterwards for selling information about his boss' schedule, even though he had bullets in his leg and abdomen from the encounter. None of the allegations were true, but that didn't matter down there, and he honestly thought he'd spend the rest of his life falsely imprisoned in a Mexican jail. That is, until someone showed up at the jailhouse with a big wad of cash and a proposition.

He straightened up in his seat when he finally saw Big Man walk out the side door of the prison. He was dressed in the same clothes he'd gone to jail in nine months ago - black slacks, black leather shoes, a white dress shirt unbuttoned at the top and a black sport coat. He looked the same physically, tall, thickly built with broad shoulders, short dark hair and a thin beard covering a square jaw. At first glance, you'd think Big Man was the enforcer for some high-rolling Italian mob family by the way he carried himself. And you'd almost be right. He got his start as a bruiser, one of the reasons Flex admired him, and felt a kinship with him. But Big Man was much more than that now.

Flex stepped out of the car and nodded as Big Man approached. "Hey boss."

Big Man smiled, which for him was just a twitch of the lips. "Flex." No one on the team called each other by their real name. They weren't even supposed to know anyone's real name, but that was hard to do when you worked with the same people for a while. "What's shakin'?"

"Everything okay in there? I was thinking they weren't gonna let you out."

"Everything's good. Just had to say goodbye to the homies."

Flex nodded, not totally buying it. He noticed a small scar on the side of Big Man's face. That was new.

"You got yourself some battle wounds in there?"

"What, this?" Big Man motioned to the scar. "It's nothing. Boys being boys. I'm fine. I feel good." Big Man reached for the passenger door. Both men got inside. "I feel ready for something big."

"What's the job?" Flex started the car up and immediately turned down the blaring car radio.

"Let's get the boys together, first. Then we'll talk about it. Are they all here?"

"Almost. Deadeye's here. Crash is on a plane, Bubs just left Phoenix, and Sweets is waiting at his place. We're set to meet at five-thirty, at the Convention Center."

"Good. We got one more coming, too."

"Who?"

"An old friend. You'll see when we get there. Now find me something to eat while we're waiting. A pizza place. A good one, if there is such a thing around here."

Flex nodded as he put the car in reverse and pulled out of the parking lot. Big Man had something brewing, something from the guys up top. Even in prison Big Man was one of the Organization's most valuable men, and they'd no doubt done something to get him out of jail early. That meant important happenings were about to go down, something they needed Big Man and his team to oversee. It would finally be a chance for Flex to put his real talents to use, after sitting on the shelf for nine months. Flex smiled as the car swung onto the highway.

Things were finally starting to look up for him.

Chapter 2

Crash lived for moments like this.

"Stop fucking yelling at me while I'm fucking driving the fucking van!" he shouted over a steady stream of Chinese obscenities as he swung the van hard to the right, sending his two passengers in the back sprawling across the floorboards. He was careening through the streets of Los Angeles in a souped-up delivery van, hitting speeds up to ninety miles per hour on straight-aways, with both federal and local authorities chasing after him in a dangerous, high-stakes pursuit. Bullets bounced off the armored walls with a muffled thud, while the unsynchronized wailing of police sirens and the squeal of high-performance, synthetic rubber on asphalt filled the street behind him. A violent death waited around every corner, but he couldn't be happier because he was putting on a show for the masses. "How am I supposed to enjoy this with all your yappin' and shit?"

This van was identical to the one Tox and Flex took off in, a trick designed to split any pursuers who wouldn't know which one to follow. Crash didn't know how many were after Flex right now, but he definitely had more than his share of cops and Scimitar chasing after him. They even pulled up alongside his van a couple minutes ago and fired at his wheels, trying to cripple him, but he'd been too smart for those assholes. He had run-flat tires on these babies, which meant they could shoot all day and he'd still keep going for another fifty miles. The only problem for Crash was that he had the important cargo in his van. They couldn't shoot him down, but he'd still have to lose them somehow if he didn't want to completely blow the plan. That meant he needed to start improvising on the route to help thin out the herd behind him. But first he had to swing around an old lady driving a Buick.

Bubs cursed at him from the back – at least he was pretty sure it was cursing. Mostly it just sounded like a lot of really belligerent Chinese. The back of the van was entirely cleared out, leaving plenty of room for cargo, though right now it was almost empty. The only things back there were a couple of duffel bags, a bound, gagged and unconscious assassin, and Bubs, the team's interrogator, who had one hand on the prisoner's arm and the other on a metal railing that lined the ceiling. He tried to keep himself steady but Crash's high-speed driving kept him off-balance and irritable, hence the streams of cursing in foreign languages. Crash didn't care, though. He was in the zone.

They'd left the hotel only five minutes ago, but he figured the TV stations knew something was up by now and helicopters should already be out looking for them. Any minute now they'd be breaking in on news channels, and the whole world would see him tearing through downtown LA like he owned this bitch. Silence was golden in his line of work and the bosses wouldn't be pleased with how things had gone down, but right now he was living the dream. And he planned to soak it all in while he could. Right after leaving the hotel, he'd felt that little ball of anxious energy forming at the pit of his stomach, where it waited, lurking. Ever since then, he'd craved that climax, the moment where it flooded his body, leaving him flush with adrenaline and excitement, making him feel invincible. But he wasn't there yet. He needed more to get that rush. A lot more. After all, he hadn't even broken 100mph yet.

"Whoooo!" He yelled with a giant smile on his face. He looked back at a scowling Bubs. They were both wearing their masks and goggles, but Crash could still tell. "Don't you fucking love this?"

"You're insane!" Bubs yelled back in English. "Stop driving like a maniac, or you'll get us killed before they do."

"Do you not know me? I fucking got this, man. Relax." Crash swerved back to the middle of the road, after letting the van drift too close to the side. "You know if you need a girl or pills or something after this-"

"I don't need a girl! I need you to start worrying about all those police after us!"

"Not just police, vato." Crash checked his side mirrors. "We got Scimitar all up our ass, too."

"Then lose them!"

"Right. I'll tell 'em not to follow so close. How about that? Maybe they'll hear me over their fucking machine guns."

A dip in the road sent Bubs and the prisoner flying for a moment, then crashing back down into the padded floorboard. The padding was actually a bomb-suppressor blanket, in case anyone following got smart and decided to roll an explosive underneath the van. Can't be too careful, Crash thought wryly as he slammed his foot on the gas pedal. Bubs scrambled back to a kneeling position and yelled again, first in Chinese, then in English. "When this is over, I'm killing you myself! Slowly!"

"Hey, I'm the driver. You're the support. So support me already! I'm not feeling the love from back there."

"I am not playing around with you!"

"Fine. I'll slow down if you can get them," he hooked his thumb toward the back, "off my ass."

Bubs pulled out his pistol and waved it in the air so Crash could see it in the rearview mirror. "You think this is slowing them down?"

"No, not really." Crash beamed back at him. "But that's why I come prepared, amigo. Get the grenade launcher. It's in that big-ass green duffel bag." Silence filled the van and Crash looked in his mirror to make sure he still had passengers. He saw Bubs looking at him with a confused tilt to his head. "What?" he asked.

"You brought a grenade launcher?"

"Yeah. And right now I'm kinda glad I did. Now grab it and kill some of those cocksuckers."

"You want me to fire grenades, downtown, from the back of a speeding van?" Bubs asked. "With you driving?"

"Why the fuck do you think I packed a fucking grenade launcher?" Crash pounded the steering wheel, then quickly pulled it left and zoomed around a black convertible. Bubs grabbed the rail to steady himself, then looked back up at him with a snarl on his face - Crash could tell. "Dude, if you don't do something, like right now, they're gonna fucking win. And I know how much you hate losing, so if you don't want me fucking calling you my Chinese loser-boy in prison, you need to fucking man up and launch some fucking grenades at those sonsabitches! Go smack 'em like they just stole your fucking rice!"

Bubs stared at him for a long moment, probably seething under his mask, before finally relenting and reaching for the bag. "Dumb ass," Crash muttered under his breath. "When I tell you to use the fucking grenade launcher, you use the fucking grenade launcher." Bubs was an interrogator and torturer, so this wasn't really his thing, but that was no excuse for letting a perfectly good grenade launcher go to waste. "Like there's any other option." Crash shook his head.

By now the roads ahead had cleared out a bit and more pedestrians lined the streets. The police must have radioed ahead and blocked off traffic downtown. Word was getting out and now people were coming to watch in person. Crash wished he'd had this kind of treatment during his street racing days. Punching it in a tricked out hoopty while cruising through downtown LA with a crowd of spectators on each side was like a dream come true for him. He laughed and shook his head at the irony. He was all about the spectacle, and right now he was getting that in spades. The only problem was that he had to disappear to win this race. That wouldn't be too difficult. He had faith in himself, no matter how screwed up everything else got.

Crash heard Bubs unzip the bag and grunt as he pulled out the grenade launcher, and he squeezed the steering wheel in giddy anticipation. It had taken a while, but now the whole world would see him and his team in all its glory.

This was gonna be fucking awesome.

*****

10 days ago...

Javier "Crash" Moreno parked his truck on Nevada Street, right in the heart of a small, mostly abandoned warehouse district just north of Long Beach. The only other car in sight was a silver Chrysler coupe, parked on the other side of the street in front of an old warehouse with faded, stained gray brick walls and a giant FOR LEASE sign in the window. Crash's cell phone rang as he turned off the engine, his everyday phone, not his work phone, and he pulled it out of his pocket to see the number he hoped not to see today.

Fuckin' junkies.

He tossed the phone on the seat as he stepped out of the truck. Let it keep ringing, because he had real work to do today, and he didn't need those fidgety assholes distracting him right now.

Crash strolled across Nevada toward the grungy old warehouse wearing his usual outfit, jeans and a tank top. Crash was a short guy, wiry and lean, with spiky black hair and a neatly trimmed beard. A large, heavyset, middle-aged man named Harvey waited near the front door, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, even though it was a cool, overcast day in Southern California. Harvey was the leasing agent for the warehouse's owner, who wanted to make some money off this property any way he could. It was empty, and had been for several years now, along with everything else on the street, and Crash suspected he was the only interested party this place had seen since the 90s. This part of town was older, and out of the way, which meant he didn't have to worry about too much foot traffic outside. Plus, it was just down the street from Long Beach Airport, which made for easy travel. It was just what Crash needed, and he found himself wishing the other warehouse he'd leased today had been as perfect.

"Harvey, my man." Crash held his hand out and smiled big. "We meet again."

"Mr. Lopez. Good to see you." Harvey smiled back at him and they shook hands. Harvey had puffy cheeks, and when he smiled Crash couldn't help but think of the fat guy from Laurel and Hardy. He also thought it was strange that the guy always smelled like salami, even at ten o'clock in the morning. "I think you're going to like what you see here."

"Oh, I don't know, Harvey. I'm not easy to please." Crash walked through the open door and glanced around at the empty warehouse. "You should ask my old lady about that when she gets out of the clink."

Harvey chuckled, not entirely sure if that was a joke. It was, but Crash liked keeping people off balance. "I'd love to meet her."

"Not a good idea. She fucking hates white people. That's why she's in jail." Crash smiled.

"Oh." Harvey didn't.

Crash walked slowly through the building, examining each cobweb-filled nook and cranny, and imagining what kind of equipment could fit there. This warehouse was to be the team's workspace for a while, where they'd engineer whatever they needed for whatever jobs were coming up. He had a specific list of equipment, much of it large, as well as weapons, building materials, and vehicles, and he needed room for all of them. But he also needed to keep the size of their space small enough that it didn't attract too much attention. A nice, run-down, out of the way place like this was good, even though it might be a tight squeeze to get everything he needed inside.

Crash was a mechanic during the day, and a good one, too, but that was boring for him. He was an action junkie, and his work for the team let him explore his constant need for adrenaline. Building armored cars. Miniaturized surveillance equipment. And his favorite - explosives. He wasn't an expert with them, yet, but he learned fast when properly motivated. And who didn't like making things blow up? He respected that there were more subtle ways of doing things, but that wasn't his style. He wanted a grand entrance, and a big finish, and every once in a while, Big Man would let him do just that. Nine months out of commission had made him antsy for something to do, though, and his idle hands had been the devil's instrument quite a bit over the long summer. He needed something he could throw himself into, and this looked like a good place to wind himself up for a few weeks.

"Do you think this will be big enough for you? This is one of our smaller locations, but if you need more space, we can look at a bigger one. I have a unit in Lomita that's about 22,000 square feet, almost double the size of this one." Harvey idled about near the door, dabbing the sweat on his forehead, while Crash paid particularly close attention to a large metal grate in the floor used as a drain.

"Nah, man. I think this will suffice," he said, trying to gauge if the drain connected to the sewers. He'd have to come back and check on that later.

"You mentioned storing some machinery here on the phone. Is that still the case?"

"Nah. We ain't puttin' machinery here."

"You aren't?"

Crash smiled at Harvey as he walked toward the door. "C'mon. I'm a young Latino man, flashing money, buying big warehouses." He put his arm around Harvey's shoulders and pulled him close. "What do you think I'm really putting in here?"

"I, uh," Harvey stammered, his face turning white. He swallowed hard and started to back away. "I'm not sure what you mean, but I'll have to call–"

Crash laughed. "I'm just playing around, man! I ain't puttin' no fucking drugs in here. That's for my other warehouses." He winked at Harvey and then reached into his back pocket, and he snickered when Harvey flinched, probably thinking he was going for a gun. Instead, he pulled out a folded piece of paper. "I run a linen company. It's called Linens By Lopez. Maybe you've heard of us. I need a new place to put all my fancy new washing machines and my extra inventory. Here's what I need. You tell me if the wiring in here can support it." He grabbed Harvey's other hand, which was clammy and limp, and slapped the paper into it. He stopped to take one last look around, and then walked past Harvey and out the door. "I gotta catch a plane, man. You give me a call once you look through that list."

"Right," Harvey replied weakly, a forced smile on his face. "I'll do that." He wiped his brow with his handkerchief as Crash stepped back outside. Except for his truck across the street and Harvey's coupe in front of him, the road was empty and clear for as far as he could see in either direction. With all that open space, he almost felt like racing again. Almost. He had places to go and he needed to stay out of trouble for now. There would be time for that kind of excitement later.

Chapter 3

Bubs pulled the grenade launcher out of the duffel bag, reluctantly pushing away all of the intricate plans he'd devised to murder his asinine teammate. He hefted it up with both hands, grunting from the weight. He'd forgotten how awkward it would be, having only used one once, during Army training back in China, and he struggled to hold it and keep his balance in the speeding van without gripping the rail. He preferred smaller, more intimate weapons usually. But if he needed to kill someone today, this thing would work just as well as a knife. He moved to the back and leaned against the left rear door, crouching so he could brace the launcher on his knee. The van had no back windows, so he'd have to open the door to see what he was dealing with, which would expose him to gunfire. The whole idea was dangerous, but he had to grudgingly admit that Crash was right. If they couldn't lose their pursuers, they'd be captured or killed, and - worst of all - end up as failures. He wasn't going to let that happen, no matter how much he wanted to finish this mission by launching one of these grenades at the driver's seat.

"Drive straight!" he yelled angrily. "I'm not falling out because of you."

"You got it!" Crash sounded excited, which annoyed Bubs even further. How that idiot could be so exuberant right now was beyond Bubs' comprehension, but he chalked it up to morons being morons. The team had been betrayed, but all this simpleton cared about was getting his thrills. "I'll even slow down so more catch up and get caught in the blast," Crash said and Bubs frowned. A better man wouldn't even be in this position in the first place, he thought, and that irked him even more than Crash's drug-hazed wit.

The van slowed noticeably, and Bubs felt confident enough to pull the latch on the right door. It flew open, and he leaned over to see a black SUV close on their tail, a black sedan following the SUV, and a small army of police cars trailing behind, veering left and right around stopped cars. Bubs sneered through his mask at the SUV's driver, a man wearing a dark suit and black sunglasses, and hoisted the launcher up, aiming at the front window. He could see the agents in the front seat reacting in surprise, and the driver slammed on the brakes but it was too late. Bubs fired a round, and then ducked back behind the door. A second later he heard the explosion and felt a small tremor shake the back of the van.

"Fuck yeah!" Crash yelled from up front. Bubs ignored him and glanced back outside where he saw the SUV, partially obscured by a cloud of smoke, a high-pitched grinding noise emanating from under the hood. The windshield was cracked, and the front of the vehicle was badly mangled, but apparently still drivable, because it veered left and right as the driver tried to regain control and get out of the way.

The police cars in the back started falling behind now, not willing to risk getting blown to pieces, but the black sedan zipped around the flagging SUV and stayed close. One of the agents in the back seat leaned out of his window and aimed his M16 at them. Bubs ducked out of the way and flinched at the sound of bullets bouncing off the armor plating. Several found their way through the open door, however, and stuck in the interior of the left wall.

"Shit!" Crash yelled, hunching over in his chair as loud popping echoed throughout the van. "Man, say something when that's gonna happen!"

Bubs waited for his moment, then leaned back out and fired another round. He ducked back again, waited for the explosion, and then peeked out to see the sedan swerving out of the way of a smoking hole in the road. He'd missed, but the Scimitar agents were finally getting dodgy about sticking so close, and they backed away too, giving the van plenty of space. Bubs used the reprieve to stick his head out and check the sky, and that's when he saw the black helicopter directly above them.

"The cars are backing off, and now the helicopter is here."

For the first time since Crash tore out of the hotel loading bay, barreling a path through a parking lot of police and Scimitar vehicles, Bubs felt a sense of normalcy return. They'd planned for a potential limited police response to their actions, but not an army of Scimitar agents catching them on their way out of the hotel, so much of what happened after that moment had been improvised. Bubs didn't handle improvisation well, but now things were getting back on track and their plan was once again viable. As long as the vehicles chasing gave them some space, they could get away with this. Even the helicopter wasn't a problem. In fact, it was a boon. With the helicopter above, Scimitar and the police would be content to stay back and track them from the sky, expecting them to make a run for it. But the helicopter was useless when its target was obscured by downtown buildings. "We should have a clear path to the parking garage now."

"Roger that, mi compadre." Crash floored it, and Bubs fell back against the door, groaning. He set the grenade launcher down and reached over to the open door, closing it as fast as he could. Just as he did, he fell against the side wall as Crash took a hard turn, then another, and another. Bubs wanted to shout at him for that, but he knew what Crash was doing. He was trying to limit visibility between the van and the pursuing cars, giving them more room - and more time, once they reached the parking garage, where the next step of their plan would take place. And once they escaped with their prisoner, he would be free to take his revenge on the so-called teammate who had sold them out in the first place.

The only question was how painful that revenge would be.

*****

10 days ago...

Yuling "Bubs" Gao scowled at the desolate Arizona countryside as it rolled by outside the window of his car. He sat stiffly in the back seat of the black Town Car he'd rented to get from Phoenix to Tucson, wearing a tailored dark blue suit and small sunglasses. He had short, straight black hair and as always, he was immaculately groomed. He rarely smiled. It just wasn't in his personality. But he'd had a perpetual frown on his face for days now, ever since getting kicked out of his homeland and being forced to come back here. He hated this country. He hated the terrain; he hated the people; he even hated their movies. Not for ideological reasons, although that played a small part. No, he hated plenty of things in this world. Most people were wired to be helpful, or trusting or even friendly. But not Bubs. He was wired to despise anything that wasn't actively helping him achieve his goals or making him look good in the eyes of his peers.

Driving, for example.

He hated driving because he wasn't very good at it, and he didn't do anything that could cause him to embarrass himself. Having grown up in rural China, he'd never had the opportunity to learn how to drive, and when he got older and moved up in the local Party structure, he'd always had people to do it for him. Everyone drove in the US, though, so he had to rely on rented drivers or cabs anytime he needed to get anywhere. That part wasn't so bad, though. Having someone else drive made him feel important again, like his days back in the Fujian province. The main difference, though, was that in China he could order the drivers not to speak.

"So what kind of business are you in?" his driver asked. Bubs gave him an annoyed look. He didn't want to spend the next two hours chatting with some half-educated American who could barely afford his nightly six-pack of beer.

"Imports."

"Oh yeah? What do you import? Stuff from China? Or Japan?"

"China," Bubs replied, curtly. He hated being mistaken as Japanese.

"Like what?"

Bubs gritted his teeth. He wanted to jab a pen into this man's neck and watch the blood spray all over the dashboard, but that would be impractical. In fact, any kind of hostile response would cause problems. His job was to avoid being noticed. That meant playing nice with people he despised, and most of the time that included more than just the person driving this car. For the hundredth time, he wished he could meet someone and just pretend not to know English very well. But he was too proud of himself to do that. He could speak Mandarin, English, Russian, German and French, almost all impeccably, and he liked people to know that. Except during occasions like this.

"I import rice." That should be boring enough to stop this conversation dead in its tracks.

"Rice, huh?" He chuckled. "Who knew they imported something like rice?" The driver was an older black man with a short scruffy beard that he scratched absentmindedly as he talked. He kept looking at Bubs through the rear-view mirror and smiling, which made Bubs uncomfortable. He didn't like menial workers looking at him as an equal. "I thought they just grew it here."

"Mine grows in China," Bubs replied slowly.

"Is there something special about it? It's gotta be good stuff if you're going to all that trouble to import it."

Bubs arched an eyebrow. "Obviously."

"What's the brand name?"

Bubs resisted grabbing the pen in his jacket. Instead, he secretly reached into his pants pocket, trying to find his cell phone. "It's called Siwei. It's only available in specialty shops."

"Specialty rice..." The driver shook his head like he didn't believe it. "People spend money on that stuff?"

"Yes."

The driver nodded. "So that's why you're going down to Tucson then? Selling rice?"

"Yes." He thumbed the volume control on the side of his phone and made it ring. Just the distraction he needed. "Excuse me," he said, as he pulled it out. He pretended to push a button and started speaking in Mandarin. He didn't say anything in particular; only enough to make it look like someone was on the other end doing most of the talking. Every so often, however, he mixed in a few random threats for his driver – in Mandarin of course – just to make himself feel better. Things like "When we reach our destination, I will tie you down to the table and run a band saw through your genitals," or "I will rip off your fingernails and make you bleed from every orifice of your body... and then I'll do it again tomorrow." All said with a personable, though fake, smile.

He leaned back in his chair and settled in for the long drive, even more annoyed now than when he first got in the car. He was on his way to meet with his insufferable 'team' now that his insufferable team leader was out of prison. He hated being subservient to these people and pretending that he valued their opinions. He wasn't a team player, he was a leader, and he was tired of pretending otherwise to keep suspicions about his ambition to a minimum. He'd been an important man once, with money, power, and respect. He'd had people jailed, tortured and killed on nothing more than whims, and a small army of people at his beck and call. But those days were gone. He was persona-non-grata in China, but at least over there they knew his name. Here in the U.S., he'd been relegated to working his way anonymously through this so-called Organization to regain respect, and even worse, he had to start over all the way at the bottom. He'd been doing this for well over three years now, and he still didn't even have his own team. But he knew what to do about that. The only way up was either around or through Big Man; it was just a matter of figuring out which was easier.

He'd spent the last nine months trying to go around, but that had been futile. With Big Man in jail, the rest of the team had been cut off from any communication with the Organization, or with the team's handler, a British man known only as Gentry. Typically, all meetings with him were handled by Big Man, alone, but Bubs had been sure he could get a meeting with him while Big Man was locked up. The Organization still needed to get things done, didn't they? But every time he'd tried to get access to Gentry, he'd ended up stonewalled, and after a while, he just had to assume that no one spoke with him. That left him stuck in a holding pattern until Big Man got out of jail. So much for going around.

His other option was to go through, and that meant finding a way to make Big Man look incapable of leading, which he'd almost succeeded at once before. He could do it again, too, but he'd need to be more careful this time, not to mention more successful. The easy way would be to fail their missions, but the Organization leaders could just as easily blame that on him, or other members of the team, like Crash. No, the only way to do this was to make Big Man look like the problem. Place the blame squarely on his shoulders, so they have no choice but to remove him. Then, simple seniority would put either himself, Crash or Sweets at the top. Crash was a lunatic, and Sweets was a fat little troll who still had the stink of his failed former team all over him. That left Bubs in a prime position to take over, which would be just another step in his long road back to respectability. All he had to do was wait for the right opportunity to present itself, all the while kissing the ass of Big Man and his cohorts to keep them from guessing his true motives.

He saw his driver glancing back at him through the rearview mirror, obviously waiting for him to finish his call so he could start up some more inane conversation. There would be no more of that. Bubs wasn't happy, but he was content to stay on the phone for another hour or two. Just like he was content to be patient for a little while longer, before taking what was rightfully his.

Respect.

Chapter 4

Well this is inconvenient.

Sweets slowly leaned forward in his chair, watching the bank of eight flat-screen computer monitors in front of him with no emotion visible on his pudgy, bearded face. He was shocked, which no one would know just from watching him, but that's because the whole situation was absurd and he hadn't had enough time to process it all. What had been a smoothly running extraction suddenly gone off the rails and he had no good explanation for it. Not that he expected one, but still, it was unnerving, and he didn't enjoy getting blindsided. Not at all. A few minutes ago he'd been daydreaming about going home early, relaxing in his recliner and playing Call of Duty all weekend long. He'd pre-ordered the new one last week, which meant it should be waiting for him when he got back, but thanks to this mess he would have to postpone all of that. Because of someone's stupid mistake, he would have to stick around here a while longer and waste his time worrying about damage control.

Which meant he needed to focus.

Two of the monitors were connected to a laptop sitting on the desk in front of him, the other six were plugged in to a closed circuit TV system, each with four black and white camera views visible on the screens. Five of the monitors showed views from the interior and exterior of the Concord Hotel across the street, the site of the extraction. The sixth showed a few selected spots here in the Mormont Hotel, where his command center was situated in a small room on the 12th floor. Outside the Concord he could see about a dozen cars speeding away in pursuit of two white vans while two SUVs sat in the alley leading to the loading dock with flat tires and broken windows. At the Mormont, he noticed four more vehicles with heavily tinted windows pulling up outside the lobby entrance. A few seconds ago, erratic movement on one of the monitors to his right had attracted his attention, but he couldn't look at it yet. Things had to be done in a certain order, but he already knew that was the roof camera for the Concord, a location where Deadeye should no longer be.

Yes, this was not going well. Not at all.

"Sweets." Big Man's voice came through the headset he was wearing. "You there?"

"Here," he replied.

"What do you see?"

Sweets scanned the monitors methodically, cataloging everything, starting at the top left camera view. Top left, the entrance to the Concord, where police cars blocked the road. Top right, the Concord's lobby, facing the door. Bottom left, same lobby, facing the elevators. Bottom right, the hallway leading from the lobby to the banquet rooms. He had to follow the pattern for each monitor from left to right along the top row first, then the bottom. If he didn't, he couldn't think straight. If he noticed something happening on the bottom row of monitors and he looked there out of order then he would have to start all over.

"At least a dozen police cars, LAPD, and unmarked federal vehicles, Scimitar I'm sure. They were blocking the escape route from the hotel's loading bay. Deadeye shot at some of the vehicles, taking out their tires, and our boys got free, although scanner activity says they're under hot pursuit. Deadeye's taken cover on the roof for some reason, he may have been shot, I'm not sure. He's out of camera view now."

"What's my route look like?"

"The lobby is clear but I can see a group of dark suits approaching the front doors so I'd take an alternate route to your vehicle. In fact," Sweets glanced back through the monitors, stopping at the sixth one for a moment before finishing, "they seem to be headed for my location as well. I'm going to have to break all radio contact and clean house immediately."

"Do it. Assume the drop location is compromised, no matter what. We rally at safe house three. Repeat, safe house three."

"Safe house three, roger. Killing all radio contact now."

Sweets pulled his headset off and rolled his chair over to the locked metal case sitting on the table behind him, fishing the key out of his pocket. He unlocked the case, opened it, and pulled out several items one at a time and carefully set them in a line on the table - a small spray can, a handgun, a remote trigger, several small metal canisters, a stun baton, and two Tasers. He grabbed a small knapsack sitting on the floor and took out a pair of rubber gardening gloves and a gas mask. He put the gas mask on first, then quickly pulled the gloves on and grabbed the spray can, popping the top off as he rolled back over to the monitors. He scanned through the views one more time, left to right, top to bottom, and the last thing he noticed on them - that he cared about - was a small crowd of Scimitar agents entering the lobby, with six of them heading directly to the elevator.

He frowned, then began spraying a thin greenish foam all over the monitors, the laptop, the wires, the connectors and the mouse. Everything he touched, used or stored data on was sprayed down thoroughly from left to right – including his small Styrofoam bowl of Skittles. Within seconds the equipment started to smoke as the foam ate through the metal, plastic and glass while the candy turned into a waxy brown stain on the table. The resultant gas from the foam was toxic, which was one of two reasons he'd put on the gas mask. After he finished spraying he put the can into a side pocket on his knapsack, then took off his rubber gloves and tossed them into the foamy mess on the table. He reached into the knapsack and pulled out some thinner, surgical-style plastic gloves and quickly yanked those on. He gathered the items on the table together, putting the gun in his waistband, the remote trigger in one pocket and one of the Tasers in another. He put the second Taser back in the pack, zipped it up and threw it over his shoulder, keeping the stun baton in one hand and one of the metal canisters in the other.

He stood and used his knee to roll the chair over by the front door, then flipped it over onto its side with his foot, situating it as an obstacle for anyone trying to burst in. He stood quietly next to the door and listened to the sounds of the hallway outside, waiting. After a moment, he heard the elevator ding, followed two seconds later by a herd of footsteps approaching. He guessed they would be in the room in about seven seconds.

He pulled the pin out of the top of the metal canister and dropped it on the ground in front of him, then retreated to the bedroom. White smoke poured out, filling the room behind him, and as he closed the door he frowned at the thought that he was about to live out a video game moment. That may be an exciting prospect for some people, but not for him. He'd much rather be at home, sitting in his recliner, eating some ice cream and experiencing it all through an HDMI cable. Video games were clean. Real life was messy. And messy just frayed his nerves. He flipped the light switch in the bedroom on and off three times, which settled him down, and then waited for Scimitar to burst through the front door so he could get this over with.

*****

10 days ago...

"Vacation's over, fellas. We got some serious work to get to."

Paul "Sweets" Ronson gently rocked in his oversized, extra-cushioned office chair, watching two of his four computer monitors, tapping his keyboard and drinking a 20oz Code Red Mountain Dew. He was at his loft in downtown Chicago, looking through fourteen different internet tabs spread out over two monitors, trying to find the best deal he could to pre-order the new Call of Duty, which was coming out in a week. His third monitor was displaying a secure video stream of the team's meeting in Tucson, courtesy of the laptop Crash brought with him, although he barely paid attention to anything they said. He already knew the plan inside and out. The fourth monitor had World of Warcraft up, which Sweets kept running in case anything interesting happened in his guild chat.

"We're meeting again in five days," Big Man's voice boomed through his surround sound PC speakers. "That's how much time you have to get your shit together. Literally and figuratively. Deal with your personal issues, get everyone off your back and get everything off your plate. You're gonna be busy in LA, and I don't want any distractions. And I also want you guys in shape."

That wasn't going to happen for Sweets and everyone knew it. He was forty-nine, and overweight, and he liked it that way. He made his living in an office chair, and he wasn't about to ruin his doughy physique unless he had to. Sweets didn't even like leaving his loft, so he regularly attended meetings in this fashion. He had his groceries delivered, he ordered games and toys online, and got his movies through Netflix. He even had Tiffani, his regular girl from the service, come over here every few nights instead of going out. It's not that he hated being outside, or getting fresh air, or traveling, he just didn't like being around other people if he could help it. They bored him. Most people he encountered on a regular basis were mundane and unimpressive. They had nothing to say that interested him, and there was nothing in the world more asinine to Sweets than making small talk, especially about weather. Didn't these idiots know how cold it would be before they moved to Chicago?

Sweets was an electronics and software expert. He used to be a hacker, but those days were temporarily on hold. Lately, his job consisted of sitting at a computer and handling logistics and communications for Big Man's team, while the higher ups in the Organization took care of the more interesting parts of his job. If he needed access to a foreign bank account, he made a call and it was done. If he wanted files pulled from a secure government server in Washington, D.C., another call to the O-techs – as everyone called them – and he'd have the information within the hour. The Organization didn't like employing hackers for individual teams, so they'd taken the best ones for themselves, created a central hacking group based in some secret location – a criminal Help Desk - and told all the rest to never get caught doing anything more than checking their bank statements online. It infuriated him that he'd been left out of that group, and was stuck on a fringe team with no way to show off his talents in what he did best. But what could he do about it?

A system tray notification alerted him to a new email, from Oldham-Haynes Defense Industries in Fort Worth, reconfirming his start date in two weeks. He'd applied for a job there and unsurprisingly got it after a technical interview from a programmer who was barely mediocre. He casually skimmed through the email before filing it into his Pending folder while also reaching into the large glass bowl of Skittles sitting on the side table next to him. He deliberately pulled out a green one and set it on the desk in front of him. Then red. Then orange, purple and yellow. He set them out in a straight line, their edges touching and the 'S' logo standing straight up. Then he picked up the green and red ones and squeezed them together. He added the orange one to the mash up, followed by purple and yellow. He admired the mega Skittle, and then tossed it in his mouth like a piece of popcorn.

"One last thing. Has anyone had any issues with Scimitar? Or the cops?" Silence. "Anyone tailing you, or asking you questions?"

"I had one tailing me a couple hours ago." Deadeye's voice. "But I lost him."

"You sure about that?"

"Yeah. Completely."

"How do you know he was Scimitar?"

A pause, then, "He wasn't a cop."

"Okay then. We can use that. They haven't made any other contact with anyone else?" More silence. "All right. They're on a few of us, which I expected, but I don't know if they have the whole team pegged. So keep an eye out, and keep a low profile. I didn't give you guys all that paperwork for my own health. Know your enemy. You got me?"

"Always good advice." A female voice, Tox, cut in.

Tox was an interesting surprise. She hadn't worked with the team in over two years, and nobody had mentioned her name once that entire time. Now she was back, and acting as if she'd never been gone. He wondered if she was tight with Big Man again, and if he was gonna work his prison solitude off with her later. She was a stunningly beautiful woman – tall, with long blond hair and calculating brown eyes that made him feel small and uncomfortable when she looked at him. She had a confidence and an aura that made her seem more important than she really was. Not that he cared.

Her past was well known to everyone on the team. She was Lanie Wilson, the spoiled, fame-hungry, socialite daughter of pharmaceutical billionaire Hugh Wilson. Lanie and her older sister, Lisa, had been tabloid queens for several years in their late teens and early twenties, and Lisa even had a sex tape floating around on the internet that Sweets had seen probably a thousand times. But after a few stints in rehab for cocaine and prescription pill abuse they'd both disappeared from public view. Lisa eventually got married to a hockey player and had kids, but Lanie had somehow parlayed her stint with anonymity into a position in the Organization. No one knew how, although her knowledge of drugs, her incredibly persuasive demeanor and her contact list of public figures probably played a big part. Of course, in the grand tradition of Big Man's teams, her nickname didn't come from the toxic drug cocktails she could put together. No, Tox was just a shortened form of Botox, a jab at her need for minor plastic surgery over the years. Just like his nickname Sweets didn't entirely come from his love for candy.

"You got that right, babe. So, we meet again in five days. Crash, you got our shops ready?"

"One of em. Workin' on the other. I'll know by tomorrow."

"Good. Meeting adjourned. I don't wanna see you guys for another five days unless I need to. Sweets, we'll chat later."

"Roger that."

The video feed went dead from the other end, and Sweets ignored the static. He'd finally found the deal he wanted on Call of Duty, and he was working his way through the Shopping Cart on this particular website. It wouldn't be released for another seven days, and it wouldn't be overnighted to him until a day after that. He scratched his scruffy, graying beard and frowned. He'd be in LA then, so he'd have to wait to play it until he got back. That was annoying, but he at least had enough patience to hold out until then. He may live his life like a teenager who was used to getting what he wanted, but he was also a forty-nine year old man with a job that required some real responsibility. So he could wait until he got back to have some real fun.

It's not like this L.A. job would be complicated or anything.
Chapter 5

Damnit. This was supposed to be easy.

Deadeye peered over the edge of the roof of the Mormont Hotel, watching the dozen or so black cars and police cruisers that only moments ago screeched to a halt in the back of the Concord Hotel across the street. They'd been tipped off, obviously, and now they were blocking the escape path of the team's two vans parked in the loading area, just seconds before pulling out. Men in dark suits hopped out of the front cars, holding up badges and guns while a truck pulled up at the rear of the column with soldiers in black and grey military fatigues sitting in the back, holding M16 assault rifles.

He leaned back from the edge and slumped down against the wall, gripping his M25 rifle. This was supposed to be a simple extraction. All they had to do was grab Duran and throw him in the back of a van. That's it. He was only up here to provide cover fire in case of an emergency – which this had just become. He squeezed his eyes shut in a feeble attempt to push away the stress that had been part of his life for several weeks now. All he wanted were some cake missions, where he could just show up, man his post, and then walk away, because he still needed time to figure things out. What he didn't need was to get caught in a situation that would drag him even further into the shit-storm that was coming. And shooting at cops and federal agents would do exactly that.

Men shouted below, Scimitar agents probably, and Deadeye knew he was almost out of time. His team would need some kind of distraction to get out of there, and he was likely the only one in a position to do that. Seconds were crucial, especially with that Special Forces unit down there. Once they got deployed around the perimeter, those vans weren't going anywhere. Shooting to kill wasn't an option, even if he could take out the fifty or more cops and agents surrounding the place. The Organization didn't want Scimitar any more motivated than they already were, and besides, Deadeye felt uncomfortable with the notion anyway, which was bad for a sniper. No, he needed to come up with a different solution, and he needed to do it right now.

But what if he didn't?

What if he listened to that nagging little voice in the back of his head, and used this as his way out? He could just get up, walk inside, take the stairs down to the sky-walk level and leave, like none of this ever happened. Scimitar may be all over the Concord, but they'd only just arrived. They wouldn't be deployed at the Mormont for a few minutes, and they couldn't possibly be covering all the escape routes for the entire team. He could drop his rifle and go, and he was pretty sure he'd make it. But only if he did it right now.

The Organization would be furious, but he could escape retribution by going somewhere remote, quiet, where he could see his enemy approaching from miles away. Perfect for a sniper. He could focus on his art. He could get married and have kids. He could grow old like a normal person, make a living like a normal man, and find the peace he'd always yearned for, but had always been supplanted by vengeance. All he had to do was drop his rifle and walk down those stairs.

He grunted in frustration. Leaving wasn't an option. At least not right now. He'd never bailed when people were counting on him before, and he wouldn't start today. He hated to admit it sometimes, but he felt loyal to this team, however misguided that may notion may be. This was a good unit, better than any he'd known in the military, and he couldn't just leave them to their fate, no matter how self-serving he wanted to be. But he had to ask himself - how much longer could his loyalty overcome his desire to be done with this life? He wasn't the man he used to be, not since Philly two months ago, and he was slowly starting to recognize that. It would only be a matter of time before his team realized that he wasn't the asset he used to be, and any chance to walk away would be taken from him by an Organization cleaner.

He glanced around the skyline with practiced eyes, making sure no police snipers had already begun setting up. It was clear; he was safe enough to provide some cover fire for a few seconds. Since he didn't have the guts to leave, he would at least do what he was brought here to do. Keeping the smallest profile he could, he leaned back over the edge and aimed his M25 down at the cars blocking the south exit out of the hotel. He'd only have time for two or three shots before they spotted him and started firing back, so he had to make these count. He relaxed his shoulders, took a slow, steady breath and aimed for the tires.

When the shots rang out, everyone scrambled and ducked behind their cars. The Special Forces crew in the back immediately turned toward the roof, their own weapons ready once they found a target. But Deadeye made the shots he needed to make. He'd taken out the tires of two of the cars near the middle of the right column. That would cut off some of the followers as long as Flex and Crash were smart enough to take advantage of it. And sure enough, they were. The vans, which were upgraded as well as armored, tore out of the loading area with a screech, ramming through the parked cars in front of them. Deadeye had to pull back and listen to the rest of the exchange, though, because he'd been spotted and automatic fire tore up his perch. He ducked away from the hiss and pops of bullets around him, grabbed his bag and jogged for the door. Those agents would come looking for him now, and he needed to be somewhere else fast.

Before he could get even halfway to his escape, another shot rang out, and Deadeye felt a searing pain rip through his right leg. He fell to the ground, clutching his thigh, and he couldn't help but scream. Fortunately, after a few seconds his instincts took over and he gritted his teeth, spun halfway over onto his stomach and aimed his rifle in the direction the bullet came from. He watched the rooftops and the windows to the south, looking for obvious movement, but the pain made it hard to focus and whoever this shooter was, they'd found a good hiding spot. After a disorienting moment he decided he was too exposed anyway, so he pulled up on his good leg and leaped awkwardly over to the nearest exhaust shaft for cover.

Instinct got him out of the line of fire, but now his rational mind took over, and he tried to put together the fact that he'd been shot. Not just shot, but shot in the leg. He examined the wound and exhaled in relief when he saw that it was superficial. It missed his bone, and the bleeding wasn't terrible which meant it hadn't hit his femoral artery. Whoever shot him had either been unlucky enough to hit him in just the right spot to do minimal damage, or he'd hit exactly where he wanted to. Deadeye suspected the latter, and if that was the case, the only reason to shoot someone in the leg was to disable them. To keep them from running away.

To keep him here on the roof.

Desperation crept in as Deadeye realized that someone wanted him stuck up here, so he'd get caught. But who? Was it a Scimitar agent perched in a window somewhere? Or was it someone from Smith's group? He tried to fight off the panicked thoughts, to stay calm, and assess the situation the way he'd been trained to do back in his Army days. He tried to think about his cover, and the other shooter's line of sight to him. Could he reach the stairwell exit, a good fifteen paces away, on one leg before getting shot down again? No matter what he tried to focus on, though, one thought continued to nag at him over and over, constantly pushing to forefront.

He should have left when he had the chance.

*****

10 days ago...

Hank "Deadeye" Simmons strolled casually through downtown Tucson, letting his mind wander as aimlessly as his legs. He'd flown in from New Jersey early this morning, hoping to use the extra time before his meeting with the team to take in the dusty brown Arizona landscape, uncomfortably familiar to a former Afghan vet, and maybe clear his head. He was in a funk, a long one, and it was affecting his job. Artists needed inspiration, or a driving force behind their work, and he'd been lacking both for a while now. And on top of that, he just didn't feel like himself lately. His mind wasn't as sharp, and he'd noticeably slacked off in his training regimen. It was all very uncharacteristic of him, and he didn't know how to fix it. He hoped that coming out here, that getting the team back together would give him that spark he needed, but that hadn't happened yet. In fact, ever since getting the call four days ago, he'd almost been dreading getting back to work, and he couldn't explain why.

As he walked, he slowed occasionally to look at himself in a store or office window. He wore tight designer jeans, a black, short sleeve shirt, over-sized reflective sunglasses, and a straw cowboy hat. He looked like a man trying to draw attention, and he was. Most people in his position would be keeping a low profile, because of his covert profession, or because of the scars on his face from the explosion that took his left eye. But he didn't subscribe to that ideology. He wanted people to look at him because of his style and rugged good looks, not because he was a sniper who wore an eye patch. He was taught not to stand out, but an eye patch reeked of standing out. So he wore the shades instead, and the outfit to match.

To most onlookers he was just checking himself out in the window's reflection, but he also kept a careful eye on the man following him about half a block away. He was across the street wearing faded jeans, a blue t-shirt and a grey cap, typical of a federal agent trying to keep a low profile. He'd first spotted him about an hour and a half ago, just after finishing lunch at a nearby sub shop. It took only a few minutes to realize the guy was following him, and once he was sure of that, Deadeye decided to lead him on a long, looping walk through downtown, just to see what kind of shape he was in. About twenty minutes ago, however, Deadeye finally caught a good look at him just before turning a corner, and he knew this wasn't just a run of the mill FBI agent. This guy was trouble, and he had a name Deadeye was familiar with – Agent Crup.

Crup was part of a Joint Task Force called Scimitar, put together by the President about a year ago, when the Organization and its operations became more than just a rumor. It included members of the FBI, the CIA, the NSA and at least two Special Forces teams. Big Man had given everyone on the team documentation about the major players in Scimitar a few weeks before ending up in jail, so Deadeye had spent the last nine months studying up. But he didn't have to study hard on Crup. They already knew each other, because Crup had been the man who'd botched his attempted assassination of a Bolivian politician in Italy six years ago, and very nearly caught him red-handed at the scene. Deadeye was sure Crup was on Scimitar just to tie up the last loose end from that job, and possibly a few others.

Finally tiring of this game, Deadeye stopped in front of a local eatery, a small Mexican place named Del Reyes, and stared at his reflection in the window, adjusting his Ray Bans. Then he took his hat off, pulling back his shoulder-length black hair, keeping Crup in his sight the whole time. He watched as the agent slowed his gait, then started to mill about. He looked up and down the street, playing the part of lost tourist, but it wasn't really his specialty. To Deadeye, he just looked lost, which made him chuckle. That's when Crup must have decided to finally end the charade and walk across the street.

"Mr. Simmons," he said, approaching Deadeye with a smile on his face. "Been a while."

"Mr. Crup," Deadeye replied in a monotone voice as he put his hat back on. He happily noticed that Crup's shirt was drenched under the armpits and around the neck.

"I believe we last met in Florence, right? The day Mr. Arias almost died."

Deadeye shrugged.

"Or wait, did we run into each other in Madrid, back in March of '08? I seem to remember a Mr. David Martinique getting shot through the window of his condo around that time. It was a big story."

"My memory's little hazy."

"Doesn't ring a bell? There was a lot of blood. Crying children and all that."

Deadeye shrugged. "Sorry."

"Well, I saw an airport security photo of someone who looked just like you. In fact, I would swear it was you." Crup put a particular emphasis on the word swear. "You should have found me out there. We could have had drinks."

Deadeye put his hands in his pockets and looked around, trying to act bored. "Is there a reason you're here?"

Crup frowned. "You. I think you're in Tucson for a reason, Mr. Simmons. I know full well what you do, and I'm not about to let it happen here. Or anywhere."

"I'm an artist, Mr. Crup. That's all." Deadeye's day job was custom artwork and sculptures. It was a perfect cover for a man who needed to travel to exotic locations every so often. He actually made a decent amount of money from his work, too, but it wouldn't ever be enough to cover his debts, not all of which were financial.

Crup raised his eyebrow.

"A lot of important people think you're up to something, Simmons. And like it or not you're on my radar again. But even though I want nothing more than to see you rot in a hole, I've been instructed to give you some friendly advice." Crup reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. With obvious distaste, he handed it to Deadeye, who took it without looking at it. "There's a big storm coming, and it's gonna take down a lot of people, starting with your colleagues. But you can get yourself out of the line of fire – so to speak – by giving us some helpful information. I know you're probably not inclined to do that right this minute, but think about it. Maybe you can save some lives this time, including your own."

Crup abruptly turned and walked across the street, heading back the way he came.

"I'll be seeing you soon, Simmons," he called out. "You can count on that."

Deadeye watched him leave, then looked at the card in his hand. It was a standard white business card, with Special Agent Phillip Crup printed right in the middle, SCIMITAR at the top and a phone number, extension and email at the bottom. Deadeye dropped the card on the ground then continued on his walk. He only took a few steps, though, before he stopped and looked at his reflection in the window. He didn't recognize the man staring back at him anymore. He hadn't in a while, in fact, but now he started to realize why. He shook his head, wondering why it had taken him this long to figure it out. He was glad now that he'd taken this walk. He'd needed to clear his mind and he'd done just that. Without hesitating, he walked back to the card, picked it up, and put it in his back pocket.

Chapter 6

As soon as he heard the footsteps Flex spun around and raised his weapon. He groaned when he saw the uniform, badge and gun.

"Police! Don't move!" the cop shouted.

Flex felt his heart rate spike, and the pain from the gunshot wound in his left arm made him grimace. If this had been an employee or a janitor, a few vague threats would have been enough to escape without issue. Unfortunately, that's not who came around the corner. This new wrinkle in his life was LAPD, and he had his service revolver aimed right at Flex's head while trying to use the wall's edge for cover.

"Drop your weapon!"

Flex exhaled, trying to stay calm and carefully think through the situation. As far as he could tell this cop was alone. He probably hot dogged it around back, trying to be a hero by cutting off escape routes, and wouldn't you know it... it worked. But it was still only one cop.

"Drop your weapon, or I will drop you, right now!"

Definitely the loose cannon type, too. Flex needed to keep control of the situation, otherwise this guy could do something unpredictable.

"You need to calm down, sir."

"I'm counting to three, and then I'm putting two in your chest. One..."

"I'm not dropping my gun. And I'm certainly not dropping my remote trigger."

The cop blinked and his mouth opened but no words came out. He closed his mouth, swallowed, then tried again. "For a bomb?"

"Yeah. The van back there, the one your friends are climbing all over right now, it's wired to blow. All I do is pull the trigger, and about twenty of your beer league teammates go up in smoke. So you need to make a decision. Do you shoot me, and take the chance that I can't squeeze before I die, or do you run back and warn everybody about the danger they're in?"

That did it. Flex could see the conflict in this man's eyes as he stared at the trigger, imagining what could happen. That was good, because Flex was very, very short on time.

"You're bluffing."

"Really? You think I just walk around with something like this in my pocket?" Now it was time to lay it on thick. "You might want to know that the van crashed between two load-bearing beams, right in the center of the building. If they go, the floors above could collapse and bring the whole building down from the middle on out." That wasn't true. Flex had done enough construction work to know that if the van did explode, it wouldn't be with enough force to crack the support beams. But this guy didn't know that. "You've seen the 9/11 video, right? Where the towers fall? How it starts slow at first, but then the momentum carries it down and it all collapses into dust?"

"Shut up." Beads of sweat ran down the cop's face. "Shut the fuck up you terrorist fuck."

"Now imagine that here in LA," Flex continued, lowering his voice for effect. "Do you really want to be the guy that sets that off?"

The cop's radio squawked on and both men nearly jumped. "This is Agent Hawkes. We have the van and its passenger secured. We're on the lookout for the driver, a male, tall, large build, probably moving out the back of the building."

Flex shrugged. "I guess that means I should get going."

The cop reached for the radio on his shoulder.

"No," Flex said, holding up the trigger for emphasis. "No radio."

The cop lowered his hand slowly. He must have decided to be reasonable, but he wasn't moving out of the way.

"Fine. If you want to just stand there, that's okay. But you're in my way. You let me pass and I won't have a reason to pull the trigger, right? I'll even put my gun in my pocket as a sign of good faith." Flex slipped his gun into the jumpsuit's pocket, and immediately felt uneasy. He wanted this cop to relax a little, and putting the gun away seemed like a good way to do that. But he'd also just disarmed himself, which was unnerving.

The cop glared as Flex approached him slowly, but he stayed silent. Flex needed to get past the cop, around that corner, where the backdoor must be located, and he could only pray that he wasn't about to run into anyone else along the way. The remote trigger defense would only work to a point. The cop, whose name badge read Miller, lowered his revolver as Flex stepped past him.

"This isn't over," Miller said, his words laced with fury.

"It never is," Flex replied.

The radio came on again, with a different voice this time. "All units, be advised that the eastbound van was empty. Whatever they were carrying, it's in the westbound van. Repeat, the eastbound van is empty."

"Empty...?" Miller said quietly and Flex almost groaned. They hadn't found the charges in the frame yet so now this cop thought he'd been duped. Miller raised his gun but Flex charged in before he could get a clear shot and grabbed his wrist, holding the gun away with pure strength while lodging his other arm - the one with the gunshot wound and the trigger - across Miller's neck, pinning him against the wall. Miller grunted and struggled violently, and it was all Flex could do to keep him pinned without yelling out from the pain, or accidentally pushing the button. Finally, he reached down and grabbed the top of Miller's revolver, yanking it from his hand and tossing it down the hallway. Unfortunately, that only happened as easily as it did because Miller let go of the gun and grabbed the top of Flex's mask, yanking it up off his head. The goggles popped off along with it, bouncing on the floor while Flex stepped back, stunned, as Miller just stared at his face.

SHIT!

This had just gone from bad, to worse, to completely off the charts. Miller could identify him now, which he certainly would once Scimitar agents started showing him pics of suspected operatives. He could place him here at the scene, with the explosives, the drive through LA, the hotel, everything. He'd be a wanted fugitive. A terrorist. He wouldn't be able to operate in the real world anymore. He couldn't go back to Cleveland to see Jen, or his mom, or any of his friends. He wasn't important enough to hide or to get a new identity, so the Organization would have to jettison him, or have him take the fall for the others. If Miller went back and ID'ed him, his entire life was over.

Flex reached into his pocket and pulled out his gun, and Miller's eyes went wide as he pointed it at the cop's face. Miller's hands started shaking slightly, but he didn't say anything. He just closed his eyes and tilted his head forward. His mouth was moving, but not shaking, more like he was saying something quietly. Praying, Flex thought.

Damn.

Flex needed to kill this man right now. He'd already wasted way too much time back here. The building could already be surrounded. Blood was seeping through his jumpsuit. And this cop standing in front of him represented the absolute end of his freedom. But he couldn't shoot a man in cold blood, especially not while he was praying. It wasn't in his nature.

So he blew up the van instead.

*****

4 days ago...

Flex hesitated before knocking on the door. He stood in front of room 774 at the Mormont Hotel, Big Man's room, bracing himself for a really uncomfortable moment. He had to give Big Man some bad news, and no one liked giving Big Man bad news because he didn't handle it well. But someone had to do it, and Flex felt like it was his responsibility. He knew the rules, and he'd broken them, so he had to face the consequences.

He took a deep breath to steel himself. Just as he was about to knock, however, he heard voices coming from inside, and he leaned in close to listen. He could barely hear them, but he was pretty sure one of the voices belonged to Big Man and the other did sound vaguely like Tox. But it's what they were saying that sent a shiver down his back.

"...trying to get away?"

"...can't do this to me!"

"Shut up, bitch! ...whatever I want to ... little whore tonight..."

"Stop! Let me go!"

"You want me to cut you? Is that what you want?"

Flex stepped away from the door with his mouth hanging open and he remembered his conversation from only an hour earlier.

Oh my God... Crash was right.

He wanted to laugh because it was so preposterous, yet here he was, standing outside Big Man's room, hearing all the proof. But he couldn't laugh. Something about it just wasn't funny. It wasn't even any of his business, and Big Man would be even more upset to find out Flex was eavesdropping on him. What Big Man and Tox did behind closed doors might be illegal in some states, but Flex wasn't a cop, so he tried to refocus on why he'd come here in the first place. He stifled a grin then knocked on the door and pretended he hadn't heard anything.

The voices stopped, and Flex got nervous again. He heard heavy footsteps approach, and involuntarily took a step back. Then the door cracked open and Big Man's face appeared from the darkness inside.

"What?" he said, irritated.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to, uh... I just came here to tell you something."

"Then tell me."

Flex took a deep breath.

"We got a problem. Crash is in jail."

Big Man stared at Flex, saying nothing at first, probably debating whether this was the worst joke he'd ever been told. But then his eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened, which meant this conversation wouldn't go well.

"Wait here," Big Man said before slamming the door. Flex sighed, expecting the worst, and he leaned back against the opposite wall, not wanting to accidentally hear any more of his boss's nighttime activities. The door opened a minute later and Big Man came out, wearing slacks, shoes and tucking in a button down dress shirt. He headed straight for the elevators, not even waiting for Flex's explanation.

"Are you shittin' me?" He spoke with a force behind his words that made it seem like he was yelling, even though he wasn't.

"No."

"What happened?"

"Well..." Flex began, trying to choose his words carefully. "It was sorta just Crash being Crash."

*****

Flex parked his car at the back of the Long Beach Police Station's parking lot, in the darkest corner he could find, grateful to finally be here so he could escape the silence. Big Man sat quietly in the passenger seat, as he had for the entire trip, leaving Flex to wonder just how mad he was about what they'd done tonight. He'd given him a brief run-down in the elevator, but instead of blowing up at him for making a pretty glaring mistake, he'd clammed up, glowering out the window all the way down here. Flex looked up to Big Man, and he hated to think he'd let him down. His boss wasn't known for being the talkative type even when things went well, so they'd driven out here in the middle of the night, a forty minute drive, without saying a word to each other. That is until Flex turned off the car.

"You stay here."

Flex waited quietly as Big Man got out of the car and stormed across the parking lot to the Police Station entrance. Flex already knew they shouldn't go in together, but he felt like he needed to do something to make this right. Bailing out Crash was risky, and whoever put their name on those forms would be linked to him. Scimitar was watching them, and if they hadn't already put together the structure of their little team, then this would be like an early Christmas present for the feds. Flex gritted his teeth. He should be the one going in there. He should be taking the fall and risking his cover, not sitting in the car because he'd been given a time out. Flex, Crash and Deadeye were the ones who probably screwed everything up, so why should Big Man take the hit for their mistake?

Then it hit him - why did Big Man need to go at all? He could have just called an Organization lawyer to handle this and no one would know the difference. Why did he need to do it personally? Of course, now that Flex thought about it, this entire mission had been just a little bit off. Big Man had come out of prison raring to go, with several jobs already lined up, and no thoughts whatsoever of laying low for a little while to make sure they didn't have any heat on them. Big Man was a careful and methodical planner. He didn't make the little mistakes other team leaders did. So why would he start taking chances like the one he was taking right now by walking into that police station?

A man walked out of the station entrance wearing a USC jersey and Flex's questions briefly slipped away as he stared. He was roughly six feet tall with short, spiky brown hair, and built like he may have actually been a linebacker not that long ago. The real reason he stood out, though, was because Flex had seen this man before, he just couldn't place where. It had to be here in town, and it had to be today, because he was sure that wherever he'd seen him, he'd been wearing that jersey. But why was he seeing him now, at the police station where Flex just happened to be waiting in the parking lot to get Crash?

The bar. That was it.

The USC guy must have been there when everything went down with Crash, and he'd come here as a witness. That made sense. Flex started to relax and let his mind wander back to more pressing thoughts, but as the jersey guy walked away from the station he glanced over at Flex's car. He'd parked in the back of the lot, away from the lights, with the engine off, and this guy thought to look right at him. It was only a momentary glance, but all of a sudden Flex couldn't get the idea out of his head that he was under surveillance. He glanced around, watching the road next to the parking lot, looking for a parked car that might have shadowy figures waiting inside, but he saw nothing. He turned back and watched USC guy start up his car and slowly pull out of the lot, and he wondered if he was just imagining things. He'd been drinking, everything was complicated and stressful and maybe he was just turning little things into big things.

That had to be it.

Flex took a deep breath and tried to calm himself down, and focus on what he could control - which admittedly wasn't much. But no matter how much he tried to convince himself that everything was okay, he couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right about this entire operation. And in the back of his mind he wondered if he would regret not listening to his doubts.

Chapter 7

The roads were quiet now, and Crash didn't like quiet. Quiet was boring, and he still needed that rush that had eluded him all morning. Every so often he would pass a police car parked sideways on a connecting road, blocking traffic, but none made an attempt to stop him. He glanced at his side mirrors constantly, trying to discern how many vehicles were still following him, but he only saw an occasional black sedan appearing from behind the stopped cars lining the road. Scimitar hadn't given up, but they were staying well back. So all he really had to worry about was the lame-ass helicopter.

Crash sighed. Something needed to blow up, soon.

"How we looking back there, yo?" he called out to Bubs.

"He's still out."

"What?" Crash said, then realized that Bubs meant their bound prisoner. "No, I meant the cops. What do you see behind us?"

The back door creaked open. "They're about three hundred yards back."

"What about the chopper?"

"It's right above us."

The back door closed with a muffled thud and Crash moved the van far to the right side of the road, getting ready for a wide left turn coming up. He was running at 70 mph right now and he didn't want to slow down more than he had to. He had a good buffer space between him and the agents, and he wanted to keep it for a just a little while longer.

"Good," he said. "It's been fun, but I guess it's time to shut this party down. We'll be in the garage in about 60 seconds." He knew downtown LA like the back of his hand, so he was pretty positive about that estimate. He tapped on the brake until his speed dropped to around 45, then took a hard left onto Alvarado. Since leaving the Concord, he'd driven in a giant half-oval route through downtown, mostly to spread the cops out and to keep them guessing about their destination. Now it was time to lay off the high speed pursuit and get to serious business.

Crash gunned it down Alvarado, watching ahead for any roadblocks or any sign that the cops knew where they were going. If they knew the plan at the hotel, then it was likely they also knew where they'd escape to, but he didn't see any sign of that up ahead. Just more scattered pedestrians lining the street, and the occasional cluster of cars pulled off to the side. He found two police cruisers sitting at the intersection three blocks ahead of him and he almost got nervous until he noticed the cops were all standing outside their cars. When they saw him approach they quickly jumped back in, but he already had a 70 mph head start on them so they weren't catching up.

"Here we go," he said about forty seconds later as he turned right one last time, then left into the west entrance of an underground parking garage. He ignored the ticket dispenser and drove straight through the wooden arm, breaking it near the base with a loud crack. At the same time, he heard the back door open again, and he glanced back to see Bubs lean out with the grenade launcher in his hands. He fired off a round and Crash heard an explosion echo throughout the garage.

"Whoa! Look at you! The Ragin' fucking Asian." Crash laughed. He looked at his right side mirror and saw the fiery remains of a coupe parked in the first spot roll back into the ticket dispenser. "That was bad ass, dude! I knew once you started using that thing you couldn't stop."

"Shut up. It's a distraction. The wreckage will buy us time when the police get here. They'll be too afraid to drive in after us."

"Solid, broham." Crash nodded. "You are the peanut to my butter. Now get the Uzi."

Crash heard the sound of a long zipper, followed by the rustling of a duffel bag. He turned left at the bottom of the first ramp, then left again down the first row of parked cars. He stopped about halfway down, right in front of a white van that was identical to their own.

"Do it," Crash said after scanning the area for witnesses. Bubs hopped out and fired away at the back and sides of the new van with a silencer-equipped Uzi, trying to mimic some of the dents they'd sustained from gunfire.

"Get the tires on the driver side. And don't forget the bullet-bomb," Crash yelled, and Bubs complied, moving to the left of the van and shooting those tires out. He returned to the back door and grabbed the duffel bag, putting the Uzi in and pulling out a small cardboard box covered in duct tape before zipping it back up. He opened the back door of the second van, threw the bag inside, closed that door then tossed the cardboard box under a car three spaces down before hopping back in next to their passenger.

"Go," Bubs said, and Crash sped away, being careful not to leave skid marks. He drove down another two levels of the garage before stopping again, this time in front of a black hatchback with green racing stripes on the top and sides and a gold dragon on the hood. Crash finished modifying it for street racing two days ago and also put a giant speaker system in the back. After another quick glance to make sure no one was watching, Crash hopped out of the van and opened the back of the hatchback. Then he lifted up the top of the speaker box using a hidden latch on the side, revealing a padded trunk just big enough for a body. Bubs dragged the prisoner out of the van and the two of them lifted him up and laid him down in the speaker box.

Crash closed the top and locked it, then both of them took off their jumpsuits and masks, throwing them into the back of the van. Bubs straightened out the sleeves and pants of his dark suit while Crash adjusted his jeans and t-shirt, which read Carmino's Pizza Delivery, as he walked back to driver's seat. He grabbed a rag and two triggers from the center console. One of the triggers was for the explosives in the van, which he held with the rag to prevent fingerprints. The second was much smaller, and shaped like a key fob. He quickly slipped that one on his key chain, then released the parking brake and let the van slowly roll down the incline.

"All right, Bubsie," Crash said, holding his hand out, "see ya on the other side."

Bubs ignored him and walked away, toward the stairwell in the corner. "Stop being stupid and go."

"Not feeling the love, man," Crash called out after him. "It's okay, though. We'll hug it out later."

Bubs continued walking away, obsessively parting his hair with his hand, while Crash hopped in the hatchback. He started it up and slowly backed out while grabbing some gel from the glove box. Using his knee to steer, he rubbed some gel on his hands, then pulled down the visor so he could use the mirror to spike his hair as he drove up to the second level. At the top of the ramp he stopped for a moment to arm the larger trigger, using the rag, and then blow the van. The explosion echoed through the garage but not too loudly. It was a controlled blast, designed only to destroy physical evidence inside the van. He'd wanted an explosion, and he'd just got one, but he wasn't close to satisfied. Oh well, not every job could be like an action movie. He opened his window and tossed the trigger, watching as it rolled under a nearby F150. Then he continued on up to the exit.

He'd chosen this garage because it was split into two parts, a west garage and a north garage, with a connecting level, the second. This allowed him to get to a different entrance than the one he came in, and if he was lucky, the police wouldn't be at the north entrance yet. He flipped on the speakers, which actually did work, just not as well as their size would infer, threw on some sunglasses and tried to play the part of street punk delivery boy as he reached the top level and approached the booth at the exit.

Crash rolled down his window and held out his ticket to the attendant, who took it without noticing him. Just as he scanned it, though, police sirens wailed nearby and Crash looked out to see several cruisers pulling up outside the exit. The ticket attendant seemed to wake up from his daydream and he eyed the police outside warily.

"Weird," he said.

"What's this all about?" Crash asked, suddenly a little bit nervous. And excited.

"No idea. Can't be good, though."

"I hear ya, bro." Crash handed over a twenty. The attendant made change, giving Crash three dollars back, as both of them watched the police form a semi-circle around the exit. Traffic in both directions was now blocked off, and Crash knew he wasn't getting out of this unless they bought his story completely. His only other option was to hop up on the curb and outrun them, which he could do. The only sticky point was that he didn't have another good hiding spot handy. One of the cops walked over from his car and waved Crash over, directing him to park just outside the exit along the side of the street. Crash complied and rolled down his window as the cop approached, his hand resting on his gun.

"Hey, officer," Crash said, his own hand waiting anxiously near the stick shift. He was ready to tear out of here if he needed to, and he almost hoped he did. "What's going on?"

*****

4 days ago...

"She's a crazy-ass bitch!" Crash exclaimed, his eyes wide with excitement and red from too much alcohol. He was sitting with Flex and Deadeye at a small, dirty table in a sports bar called Alley's, a popular haunt for USC students, alums and fans. A few TVs showed USC playing Arizona State, and nearly everyone else in the bar watched the game intently, while also trying to ignore Crash's slightly-too-loud outbursts. "She's into all this crazy role-playing rape stuff. She, like, wants you to wear a mask, and jump her while she's sleeping. Holding her down and shit."

They'd been here for almost an hour, after Crash convinced them that a quick night of catching up wouldn't hurt. Crash was worn out from outfitting the warehouse all week, and he needed a night off, and when Flex and Deadeye arrived with two more vans for him to modify, he jumped at the chance to get out. It took a little convincing on his part, especially to get Flex to loosen up and have some fun, but when Crash wanted something, he didn't know the meaning of the word no.

"Tox?" Flex said, drinking his fourth beer of the night. "Are we talking about the same person?

"I ain't lying, man! I heard them twice." He held two fingers up to Flex's face. "Twice!"

"You're positive it was her?"

Crash looked offended.

"What? Yes. It was her. Man, think about it. It makes complete sense. Women want the opposite of what they're like in real life. That's why the quiet little mousey bitches will fuck your brains out. But she's a dominant personality, so in her sex life she wants someone to dominate her. It's her fantasy."

"He's right on," Deadeye said. "I knew this girl in Philly. She was a bossy drama queen in front of everyone else, but in bed she wanted me to tell her what to do."

"It's all about control, man," Crash cut back in. "Not having control turns her on."

"Fine," Flex said. "I'm not disagreeing with that. But Tox? C'mon. You've seen her sister's sex tape, haven't you?"

"She ain't her sister, though. And besides, her sister's all retired up in the hills or something, poppin' babies out. Totally not Tox's style, am I right?"

Deadeye laughed. "Tox as a mother would be Britney Spears bad."

"Or that Plus Eight chick," Flex added. "Kate."

"Plus eight, what?" Crash asked, confused. His attention span had started to fade.

"Eight kids," Flex explained. "She had eight kids and they put her on TV. She had her own show."

"What?" Crash looked skeptical but Deadeye nodded. "For having eight kids?"

"Yup," Deadeye said.

"What the fuck? My aunt had like nine kids. She ain't on TV." Crash leaned back in his chair. "Was she fat? Like one of those people who needs a tractor to get out of bed?"

"Naw." Flex took a drink of his beer. "She had lipo, I think. Women love that show. My girlfriend watched it all the time."

"Man. Bitches are crazy, bro." Crash didn't see it but two of the girls at the table right behind him turned to give him a dirty look. It wasn't the first time they'd done that tonight. "That's why I keep mine tied up in the basement when I ain't using 'em." He laughed.

"Asshole," one the girls muttered just loud enough to be heard.

Crash twisted awkwardly in his chair to look at the group. Three girls and four guys, all young enough to be relatively fresh out of college, crowded around a table covered in beer bottles and glasses. A few of them turned to give him annoyed glances.

"What? I know that ain't me you're talking about," Crash said.

One of the girls turned around to face him. "Why don't you quit being an asshole and show some respect?"

"Respect?" Crash smiled. "Baby, I respect plenty of things about women, but it's all below the neck."

"What the hell?" The guy sitting next to her stood up. Probably her boyfriend. "Are you trying to be stupid, bro?"

Crash stood up too, still smiling. This guy was at least half a foot taller than him but he didn't care. The whole bar was watching now. That made it show time. Flex reached over to grab his arm. "Dude, not now."

"No, I got this. It's cool." Crash brushed Flex off and turned back to the boyfriend. "You gonna stand up for her, amigo? You sure about that? Cuz from here she sure don't look worth it."

"Oh shit," another girl said.

"Dude, you are outnumbered and outsized."

"And outclassed," the girlfriend threw in.

"If you don't want your ass beat, you better apologize and move on."

"You think you can take me?" Crash asked.

"I know I can," the boyfriend replied.

"Really?" Crash regarded everyone sitting around the table. He knew he was a little less than sober, but there wasn't a single person here who could handle him once he got started. "A pretty little white boy and his pretty little friends. Playing tough in front of their hoes. It's just a big game for you, huh?"

Another guy at the table piped in. A big, barrel-chested guy wearing a pullover hoodie and a UCLA hat. "I hear a leaf blower. Anyone else hear a leaf blower?" Several people at the table laughed.

"You want in on this too, amigo?" Crash asked. It was time. He was feeling it.

UCLA guy stood up. He was at least a hundred pounds heavier than Crash. "What I want is for you to mow my lawn, bitch."

That was all he needed. Crash pushed past the boyfriend and leapt across the table at the giant, knocking over nearly every bottle, mug and glass in his way. The girls jumped back as beer and water spilled everywhere while the guys surged forward, trying to wrestle the out-of-control Mexican to the ground. UCLA guy grabbed Crash by the shoulders and threw him down onto the floor, where he hit his head, dazing him a bit. He at least had the sense to reach up and grab this mammoth by the balls as he towered over him, though, and he felt a small measure of satisfaction as the guy howled in pain and fell to his knees, but everything after that was a blur. It didn't matter, though. He went down with a smile on his face and adrenaline in his veins.

All in all, it was a good night.

Chapter 8

Bubs reached the metal double doors at the top of the garage stairs and stopped, listening intently to the faint sound of police sirens outside. They weren't close, but he still hesitated. He didn't know what he'd find on the other side, and he didn't like walking into situations he wasn't prepared for. A dozen police officers could be waiting for him to walk right into their arms. But this was the only way out, and he wasn't about to let his fear control him and make him look weak. He clenched his hands tightly into fists, a nervous habit. He needed to get a hold of himself if he was going to get through this unnoticed, so he straightened out his suit – again – and parted his hair – again – then mustered up the nerve to walk through the doors and toward whatever fate awaited him.

A glass-walled hallway greeted him on the other side that led straight to the main lobby, with a tree-lined smoker's patio on one side and a grassy courtyard that opened out to the main street on the other. He heard the sirens more clearly now, coming from behind, back towards the garage entrance. He couldn't see them because a utility building blocked the view, but they were definitely out in force. From where he stood he could see the street in front of the building and it seemed to be quiet, but that was sure to change at any moment. He ignored his urge to run, kept his gait steady, and trained his focus on the lobby's side entrance, which was getting closer and closer.

Just as he reached the glass doors, however, multiple black cars and SUVs pulled up in front of the building, and a small army of black-suit-clad Scimitar agents poured out. Bubs nearly turned around when he saw them, but he knew he had nowhere to go. He couldn't hide in the smoker's patio, and the only other way out of this hallway led to the street. He certainly couldn't go back to the garage because it would be overrun in minutes. His only chance was to continue with the plan, however flimsy it may be, and hope they didn't know how he intended to get out of here. Scimitar had pictures of him. Slightly out-of-focus pictures, as he found out a few days ago, but they at least knew his general build and hairstyle, and they knew he was Asian. Bubs looked around at everyone already milling about in the lobby and he saw no other Asians. He groaned. The Scimitar agents were almost to the front door now, and he couldn't let them see him coming from the garage. That would be too obvious. So he patted down his hair again, opened the door, walked into the lobby, and prepared for the worst.

He took about three steps before reaching an ATM machine in the corner, and he decided pretending to check his balance might ease suspicion. He pulled out his wallet and stood in front of the terminal, trying to see if the reflection on the monitor was clear enough to make out the lobby behind him. He couldn't see anything useful but he could hear the thunderous herd of footsteps echoing throughout the lobby as agents jammed their way through the front doors.

"Everyone stay where you are!" A male, middle-aged Scimitar agent strode into the center of the lobby holding up a badge. "We are members of a Federal Task Force investigating possible terrorist activity in the city, and we need everyone to stay right where they are until we can ensure your safety."

Bubs turned away, closed his eyes and squeezed his fists again. His escape plan wouldn't get him out of this. He'd be caught, interrogated, and thrown into prison for the rest of his life. He'd be marked as a failure again, with no way to redeem himself. And worst of all, he'd be stuck in jail while Crash was out free. There was no justice in that.

A hand grabbed his arm and he flinched.

"Hello, Mr. Gao. I didn't expect to see you here." Bubs took an involuntary step backward as he recognized Harrison standing next to him. He hadn't noticed him before but he must have already been in the lobby. How had he not seen him? Bubs pushed that question away. The important thing was that he finally had someone around who could take the blame for this mess.

"You did this." Bubs pulled his arm away.

"Did what?" Harrison asked coyly.

"Them!" Bubs pointed at the agents, who were starting to round everyone up into small groups. "You told them. I saw you this morning."

"I did no such thing, Mr. Gao. If anyone was tipped off, then someone on your team was responsible. Not mine. Now walk this way." Harrison again grabbed Bubs by the arm and led him away from the ATM and toward the security station in the center of the lobby. They only took a few steps before Bubs stopped.

"Where are you taking me?"

"I'm not taking you anywhere. You're more than welcome to walk over there and give those men whatever excuse you had for being here." Harrison shrugged dramatically. "It might even work. I'm only giving you an alternative."

Bubs watched as several agents made a beeline for the doors he'd just come through, and he felt his pulse quicken. His excuse, if caught, was to produce a badge from a company on the 4th and 5th floors of this building and say he was an employee on a lunch break. But that plan suddenly seemed ridiculous. It was designed to get past a security guard, or a randomly curious cop, not a ravenous pack of federal agents who would actually try to confirm that information.

"Well?" Harrison asked.

Bubs was livid. He prided himself on being able to read people, and he had to grudgingly admit that he believed Harrison about not tipping Scimitar off. The man wasn't completely blameless, and he was also arrogantly aware of his particularly useful position at this moment. That meant he got to call the shots, whether Bubs liked it or not. And since Bubs didn't know if anyone else on the team got away, he was essentially on his own until he could make it back to the rendezvous point. Since his escape plan had become less-than-useless, he needed whatever charity he could get, which made him even more angry.

"What do we do?" Bubs asked quietly.

"Act casual. You may not believe me but I'm saving you. When these men start questioning you in a few moments, you'll be able to tell them you were having lunch with me and my friends over there." He motioned to two other professionally-dressed men standing at the lobby reception counter. "And we will corroborate, of course."

"In exchange for what? My loyalty?"

"No." Harrison shook his head for effect. "No, no, no. If I were to do that, then I'd be coercing you into helping us, and then I wouldn't be able to trust anything you tell me. I need you to want to help us, Mr. Gao. Otherwise there's no trust, and any relationship we had would just be a waste of our time."

"Then why?"

"Consider this a gift," Harrison said, eyeing the agents as they moved closer. "From me to you. We see a person in need, and we help them. And all we ask in return is that you consider our offer a little more seriously. Maybe even see it in a new light."

Bubs nodded slowly without realizing it. He had to admit that even though he didn't trust Harrison at all, he played this game well. To the victor go the spoils, and Harrison was most certainly the victor.

"Where did we have lunch?"

"Antoni's." Harrison smiled and leaned in to whisper. "You had the pasta primavera. It was wonderful."

*****

4 days ago...

Bubs tried to sit casually at his small table on the patio of Antoni's, a small Italian café on Pico Blvd. He took a sip of the water he'd been nursing for the last half hour while carefully watching the lunchtime pedestrian traffic pass by, wondering which one of these overly dressed, coifed and manicured people summoned him out here to this trap.

He'd woken up this morning to the sound of knocking at his hotel room door. When he went to check, he found was a note on the floor that read "Antoni's at noon... about new team responsibilities – Gentry." He wasn't stupid. He knew the chances that Gentry actually left him that note were slim, even though a small part of him hoped it was true. But Gentry didn't operate this way. If he'd really wanted to talk to Bubs he only had to come in the room, not leave mysterious notes at his door. No, as the morning passed, his instincts told him that something else was going on, and he couldn't quite tell how worried he needed to be. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to get his attention, and while he may be risking his life by being here, one thing he couldn't do was let a potentially golden opportunity pass him by.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Gao."

Bubs looked up to see a young man, probably in his early thirties, wearing a stylish white suit with a dark blue shirt and small sunglasses standing next to the table. Bubs said nothing in return. He watched carefully as the man sat down in one of the empty seats across from him and picked up a menu. For several moments, neither said a word, daring the other to speak first, until Bubs finally gave in to his curiosity.

"Who are you?"

The man smiled confidently. "Call me Harrison."

"Harrison? Is that your first name or your last name?"

He shrugged. "It's what my friends call me."

Bubs sat quietly as Harrison continued to look through the menu, waiting for him to explain his presence. Again he tired of the silence so he set the note down on the table.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you're not associated with Gentry, are you?"

"No." Harrison set the menu down. "I apologize for the deception, but I figured that would get you down here."

Bubs smiled, trying to look unconcerned, although he was anything but. "Why? Are snipers watching me right now?"

"No, Mr. Gao." Harrison leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. "No snipers. There's no one here right now except for the two of us. And I assure you that you're in no danger, as long as you can assure me the same."

"Who are you?"

"Harrison."

"Who do you work for?"

The thin smile came back, but it was less arrogant this time and more confident. Or dangerous. "Smith."

"Smith?" Bubs fought the urge to reach for the gun in his waistband. "You work for Smith's group?"

"I do."

"What exactly is this meeting about?"

"There's nothing to be worried about. I'm only here to offer you a job."

"A job? Working for Smith?"

"Yes. We've studied you and your team, Mr. Gao. And we think you'd be a better fit with us."

Bubs tried to reconcile his scattered thoughts. He hadn't walked into a trap, at least not an obvious one, which was a small victory. But the mention of a job was entirely unexpected. Of course they wanted him on their side. Why wouldn't they after all the work he'd put into this group? But then caution crept back in, and he remembered that he was dealing with a group of people who made it their job to be even more dangerous and unpredictable than his current employers. This meeting could be a job offer, or it could be some sort of elaborate trap that would end up with him in prison or dead. And even if it was real, the blow-back on him if he left would be tremendous. The Organization didn't like anyone abandoning their ranks, at least not while they were still alive. He had to be extremely careful here, so he did the only reasonable thing he could think of in a situation like this. He bluffed.

"No, thank you. I have a job." Bubs got up to leave. If they were serious about this, then they'd have to prove it, right now. And sure enough, Harrison grabbed his arm. Bubs let himself look alarmed and for a moment he wondered if he'd misplayed his hand, but Harrison let go of him and leaned in close.

"Even though that note was fake, you hoped it was real, didn't you? You came here because you thought you might be getting something better."

"I came here out of curiosity. I knew it was fake."

"Sure, curiosity was part of it. But if you were only curious, you could have waited in a safer spot. Any one of the offices here overlook this patio." He gestured to the buildings around them. "You could have waited up there to see who showed. But you didn't. You knew that if there was any possibility that Gentry would show up, you weren't taking the chance that he didn't see you waiting for him."

"You do not know me as well as you think you do." That was a lie. He'd been absolutely correct about Bubs.

"All that power back in China, just to go back to being a soldier here. That must be humbling. Starting all over."

"I'm not a soldier. I'm a leader."

"Good. That's why we like you. That's why we want you in a position of leadership on our new team."

"A new team?" Bubs asked. He reminded himself to be patient. And cautious.

"We don't go to this much trouble to recruit soldiers, Mr. Gao. We do it to recruit more... impactful players."

Now Bubs was hearing what he wanted to hear. What he'd been waiting to hear for years.

"You don't need to answer me right now." Harrison stood up and straightened out his jacket. "There's still time to make this decision."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going back to my hotel. I'll be in touch, though. I'm assuming you'll be around LA for a little while?" Bubs stayed quiet. Harrison leaned over and slid the menu back toward Bubs. "You should stay and eat. This place gets great reviews."

Harrison smiled and walked away, leaving Bubs wondering what he'd just witnessed. He wanted to believe everything he'd heard but something didn't quite fit, something he couldn't put his finger on. Maybe it really was a ruse, designed to break his focus and screw up their mission. Or maybe he was being lulled into a false sense of security so that Smith's men could get information on his team. Bubs was an interrogator. He knew how to play people, and his instincts were telling him right now that he was being played. He just couldn't see how.

Suddenly, he realized he was still standing in the middle of the patio, garnering a few odd stares. That's when he decided he was tired of being out in the open, and he left, going the opposite direction from Harrison. Just in case.

Chapter 9

They at least had the decency to knock first.

"Federal agents! Open the door!" one of them shouted from the hallway. Sweets waited in the bedroom of the hotel suite with his gas mask on, a stun baton in one hand and a small metal canister in the other. He already knew the drill. They would announce themselves, barely, and then knock the door down - unless they'd procured the door key, which seemed unlikely given how fast they'd come up here. Once inside, they would secure the room, expecting hostile responses from those inside. They had a well-defined plan, so the best thing Sweets could do to defend himself was to disrupt that plan.

"Open the door, now!" the voice shouted again. They wouldn't wait this time, and sure enough, about three seconds later Sweets heard the door fly open after a pretty solid thump. That's when he opened the bedroom door and walked out into the smoke-filled room to face them, on a playing field that was decidedly to his advantage. That's the thing about changing up expectations. After training over and over again for a certain situation, you expect certain things to happen in certain ways. You react based on instinct. But when you're faced with something that doesn't fall within the normally acceptable range of possibilities, you hesitate instead of reacting. You stop to think instead of following your gut. And that can be the difference between success and failure. Or life and death.

"We are federal agents! Surrender yourselves now or we will be forced to shoot!" That one came from inside the room.

As Sweets approached the front door, he caught glimpses of the two lead agents running through the powdery white smoke, aiming their pistols left and right, looking for any sign of danger even though they were pretty well blinded. The first one kicked the chair lying on the ground and cursed, probably because he'd hit his shin. Sweets had to give these guys credit for dangerously charging in instead of rationally thinking the situation through, although in reality they were just making his job easier. He crouched low, staying where the smoke was thickest, and moved quickly to the closest agent, who busily tried to wave the smoke away from his face. He prodded the agent in the leg with his baton, shocking him with 800,000 volts. The agent gave a startled cry, shook violently, then dropped to the ground, twitching. Sweets yanked the gun - which somehow didn't go off - out of his hand, and then darted to the opposite side of the room as the other agent turned at the sound.

"Price?" he called out. "Price, was that you? Where are you?"

Sweets heard more footsteps at the door as the other agents cautiously moved inside.

"I can't see anything," one said, coughing.

"Spread out!"

"Price is down! Over to the right somewhere!"

"Watch your feet! There's stuff on the floor."

Another thud, from the corner of the room where the computer equipment had been, followed a second later by a booming gunshot that came from a low angle.

"Whoa! Hold your fire! Everyone hold your fire! We can't see anything in here!"

Sweets froze, thanking the laws of physics and chance that kept the bullet from hitting him. The agent that collapsed and fired his gun must have taken a few breaths of the noxious fumes coming from the melted computers and monitors. Even limited exposure could cause severe symptoms or knock you out. Too much, though, and it would kill you. Either way, another agent was down, but Sweets didn't like random gunfire. It was time to end this.

He pulled the pin out of the canister in his hand. Another smoke bomb, only this one was filled with tear gas. These agents may be brave charging into a smoke filled room, but that didn't make them smart. He popped the top off the can and tossed it by the open door, watching as the newer green smoke mixed with older white smoke.

Within seconds he heard gagging and coughing fits by the door.

"Shit! It's tear gas!"

"Everyone get out! Get out of the room!"

"No! It's in the hallway!"

Sweets almost chuckled at the chaos, but before he could enjoy any of it a leg bumped into his shoulder. He scurried away as fast as he could while the agent next to him spun around, aiming his gun at the ground.

"He's here!" the agent gave a muffled shout. He had his hand over his mouth, and unfortunately the tear gas wasn't thick in this part of the room yet. "He's over here!"

Sweets reached into his pocket clumsily, struggling to pull out his Taser while he crouched and crawled on the floor, trying to stay out of sight of the agent. He wanted the Taser because he didn't plan to be close enough to the agent to use the baton. That became a moot point, though, when he felt a hand reach out and clip his shoulder, causing him to dart aside. He gave up on the Taser and held the baton back out, luckily catching the agent on his arm while the agent reached down for Sweets' mask. The agent twisted away violently, and fell to the ground, out of sight. Thankfully, he didn't fire his gun either - which seemed a little weird. Maybe they had their safeties on? Regardless, that was three down now. How many had he seen come up the elevator? Five? Six?

Sweets didn't hear any other footsteps coming to the last guy's defense, so he crawled toward the front, reaching for his Taser again. Once at the door he stood up cautiously and flipped the light switch on and off three times, listening carefully to the sound of men coughing and crying out from the effects of the tear gas, of which this was a particularly harsh variant. None of them came prepared for this, and when he glanced out into the hall he could see three suited men stumbling back down the hallway toward the elevators they'd just arrived in. Sweets nodded approvingly, then jogged down the hallway in the other direction, ignoring the apprehensive glances from two fellow patrons poking their heads out of their rooms. He'd won this round, but they'd be back very quickly, so he needed to find a way out. Before he could escape, though, he had one last thing to do.

*****

3 days ago...

"I wouldn't worry too much about the tech capabilities of the Long Beach Police Department," Sweets said. He'd been in LA less than two hours and Big Man already had him working. He tapped away on his laptop while sitting in his room at the Mormont Hotel. Big Man watched annoyingly over his shoulder and Tox sat distractingly in a nearby chair. "Most police stations are lucky if they even have dial-up. Budget money is at a premium these days and even basic services have been tied up in multi-stage approvals that take years to see through. This woman in my guild works for Peoria City Hall. I met her once at a get-together at Dave & Buster's, and she wasn't much to look at, but she mentioned that when her phone at work went down, it took a month just to approve the work request to get someone out to-"

"Sweets," Big Man cut him off. "Just make sure the information hasn't hit the federal databases. I don't care if Long Beach PD has him in their records for a while, but we can't let Scimitar get a whiff of this."

"Piece of cake," Sweets said, slightly embarrassed at himself for talking too much. Beautiful women did this to him. They made him nervous and eager at the same time, like he somehow needed to tell them every last detail that was in his brain, hoping that something in that stream of consciousness monologue would trigger some sort of connection. Actually, any woman who was more than average looking did this to him, but it was especially bad around Tox, who was beyond stunning. This was important work, though, so he needed to focus, which meant he needed to be alone. He stopped typing and glanced up at Big Man. "This will take a while."

Big Man frowned at him, but he got the hint. He nodded over at Tox. "He needs his space." Tox shrugged and stood up. Her blonde hair was pulled back in several different strands - some fashionable new style - and she wore a short, black party dress, probably for some event later tonight. As she walked past him he could smell her perfume, and he couldn't help but imagine caressing those long legs. He'd have to find her sister's video tonight. "I'll be back in thirty minutes to hear some good news."

"I'll have it done in twenty," Sweets said, and Big Man and Tox mercifully left the room. Sweets shook his head and kept at his mission – to keep Crash's arrest last night from reaching federal levels and to cover Big Man's tracks in case anyone was monitoring them. Big Man and Crash both used fake IDs, so their covers weren't necessarily blown, but he needed to scrub some of the more commonly used FBI and NSA database systems to make sure their aliases weren't flagged, and that Crash's fingerprints weren't matched to his real identity. He couldn't access any Scimitar files yet because he didn't know where they kept their records, but he knew they pulled much of their data from these other systems, so he could cut them off before they even found out. This was kid's stuff for Sweets, but no one else seemed to believe that, so they tended to hover about like worried parents, and that annoyed him.

Big Man was one of the worst about that, although he'd gotten better lately. He could be quite the micro-manager at times, and Sweets didn't work well under that kind of scrutiny. Fortunately, they'd learned how to work with each other over the years, and Big Man had learned to trust him, which he rightfully should. He even let him work around the O-techs on occasion, like for this particular job. Normally he'd have to notify those elitist assholes about something like this, but Big Man wanted it done in-house, which was fine with Sweets. In fact, Sweets considered Big Man to be far more competent than Hef, his prior team leader. Of course, after the way that team imploded on its last mission, everyone in The Organization was considered more competent than Hef, whose reputation became a running punch line. Hef wasn't a bad guy; he just kept trying to bite off more than he could chew, and he had a habit of taking on people far more powerful and intelligent than him. That's what ultimately got him killed, even though the actual dirty work was carried out by some ridiculously scary Russian thug named Fesenko.

Sweets shuddered thinking about the day he'd been interrogated by that brute. Fortunately, that memory was interrupted by the sound of a card key sliding into the lock of his door. He turned to see Deadeye stroll into the room.

"Hey," Deadeye said, looking around. "No one's here?"

Sweets shook his head and turned back to his laptop, continuing to type away.

"Just me."

"Right on." Deadeye seemed distracted, which usually meant he wanted Sweets to ask him how he was doing. Sweets didn't care though. Not today. If it was that important, Deadeye would say something without needing any prodding. "What are you working on there?"

"I'm fixing your little mistake from last night."

"Oh, yeah. Good luck." Deadeye started tapping his leg and Sweets resisted the urge to tap the table in concert. Instead he just waited for the question. He'd have to ask any second now, because if he didn't Sweets would throw him out of the room. Mercifully, he spoke. "Hey. I was wondering if you could look something up for me when you're done."

"What's that?"

"An arrest record. Or, to see if there's an arrest record. For a guy I used to know."

"I can do that. I need his name and his address at a minimum. If you have anything else, like a Social Security Number, or a Driver's License number then I can do it a lot faster." Sweets hoped he could do it faster so he could solve this little issue and move on. He was tired of the distractions today.

"No, I just have his name. Gerald Oliver Emerson. I don't have the full address but he's from Philly. He might be listed on Croskey Street."

"That'll have to do, I guess." Sweets adjusted his glasses then opened up a few browser windows on his laptop. "Who is he to you?"

"One of my oldest friends. We were in the Army together. Rangers."

"Hooah." Sweets always said that when Deadeye mentioned his Army days because it bugged him, which he enjoyed.

"Yeah," Deadeye replied with almost no emotion. He must not be in the mood to be annoyed. Sweets worked his way through the returned links until he found one that seemed useful.

"Let's see. Gerald Emerson. Busted for possession. Spent six months in Greensburg State Correctional Institution – in Pennsylvania. Looks like he was released about two months ago."

"Yeah, that's right."

"Wait. There's another article here about him. An Army veteran named Gerald Emerson, from Philadelphia, was found dead in his apartment with two gunshot wounds from close range. Same guy?"

He saw Deadeye nodding from the corner of his eye. Sweets followed a different news link related to the murder story while Deadeye leaned in closer to the monitor, making him feel uncomfortable. He didn't like invasions of his personal space.

"He was found dead in his apartment September 18th, roughly three or four weeks after being shot."

"Three or four weeks?" Deadeye whispered.

Sweets glanced at him quizzically. "What about it?"

"Nothing," Deadeye said, forcing a weak smile. He stood up. "I need to go. I'll be out in Beverly Hills for a few hours. Thanks for looking that up for me. Appreciate it."

"Okay." Sweets responded with a shrug, glad to be left alone again so he could resume hacking national security databases. He only had twenty-one more minutes until Big Man came back with Tox and he'd get nothing useful done with her around. Deadeye walked out, closing the door quietly behind him and Sweets took a deep breath. He had solitude again, which he craved, but now he couldn't get Gerald Emerson out of his head. He didn't know anything about this guy other than what he'd just read but the name seemed familiar, and Deadeye was acting more emo than he usually did. Sweets didn't like leaving little nagging things rattling around in his head, so he made a mental note to look up Emerson in more detail later. But right now he needed to concentrate. He didn't get very many chances to hack federal databases, and he wanted to enjoy this.
Chapter 10

Deadeye yanked a spare T-shirt out of his bag and ripped off two strips of cloth from the bottom. He tied one of them around his leg, just above the entry wound, and used the other to secure the rest of the shirt as a bandage. The bullet went through the meat of his leg, behind the femur, making it difficult to examine closely, but he could at least cover it up in a pinch. He had a first aid kit in his bag, but he didn't want to use that yet. Cleaning and bandaging the wound properly would take time, which he didn't have. This roof was about to be a really busy place, and he needed to be gone before that happened. Of course, the sniper with a bead on him had other thoughts.

He sat with his back to a large air-conditioning exhaust vent. It was big enough to provide cover, but the metal was thin and flimsy, which meant the other sniper could easily fire straight through it and kill him if he wanted. But that clearly wasn't the plan. Whoever shot him only wanted him caught, not dead. But if Deadeye made a move to escape, he felt pretty certain the sniper wouldn't hesitate to aim for a more sensitive spot next time. He was pinned down, with only a limited idea where his attacker could be. If he didn't come up with a plan to get away soon, he'd be done.

For good.

After tying the strips he grabbed his rifle and leaned over gingerly onto his elbows, wincing as he turned his leg. He leaned out from the side of the vent, just enough to peer through his scope at the buildings farther up the street to the south. He'd been moving roughly southeast across the roof and the bullet hit him at almost a perpendicular angle. That meant the other sniper was probably in or on one of the buildings at the south end of the block and he could see two down there that looked like suitable candidates. Both were slightly taller than the Mormont, giving them a good angle down on him and providing cover for his attacker. One was a glass-walled office building with a lot of obstructions on the roof that made for effective hiding spots. The other was a residential building, lofts he suspected, but the top three floors had balconies. That was less likely, but he couldn't discount it, so he carefully panned across the balconies and then both rooftops, looking for any sign of a rifle trained on him.

Both rooftops provided a good vantage point, and the office building had numerous AC vents scattered about the top for cover. The balconies were far less likely, because getting access to the lofts behind them would require some kind of advance notice. And if this sniper had enough time to do that, then he knew their plan well ahead of time, and Deadeye didn't want to think about how he'd managed that. So he focused on the roofs, and hoped he would be lucky enough to see either a figure peering out from cover or the glare from a scope. If he did, he could fire a few shots back and maybe buy himself enough time to make a hobbling run for the door. He wasn't usually that lucky, though, and his scan of the buildings revealed nothing.

He heard the door open from the stairwell exit and immediately spun around, wishing he hadn't after jostling his leg again. He saw suit and sunglass-clad Scimitar agents pour onto the roof, their guns out, and his stomach sank because he knew it was over. They hadn't seen him yet, and his instincts told him to grab the pistol in his bag but he hesitated. Defending himself would just get him killed. His rifle was useless in close quarters, and he couldn't get past these guys with a gimp leg and a .45. Plus, he'd shot at them, and they probably wouldn't care that he was aiming for their vehicles instead of their heads. He had to be smart here, and a gun battle with a depth-perception-challenged sniper wasn't the smart choice.

So he surrendered.

"I'm over here!" he called out, setting his rifle down and leaving his gun in the bag. He held his hands up. "I'm unarmed!"

He heard a flurry of footsteps and suddenly he was surrounded by half a dozen men with their pistols aimed at his head. He kept his hands up and his head down.

"Don't move!" one shouted. He didn't care who. "You're under arrest, asshole! Get on your stomach."

Deadeye obliged and he saw one of the agents kick his rifle away while another took his bag. His arms were yanked back and he felt zip-ties wrap around his wrists tightly. Two of the agents grabbed him under his shoulders and pulled him up forcefully, and he groaned while trying to avoid putting pressure on his right leg.

"What the hell?" one of them said. "Did he shoot himself?"

Another agent leaned in close, trying to be menacing.

"One-eyed sniper, huh? You're about to be someone's one-eyed bitch."

Deadeye ignored him. The two agents who'd lifted him up weren't letting go, holding his arms tightly and pushing him to the door more than walking him. He wondered for a second if the sniper might take shots at these guys, too, but that was wishful thinking. He glanced to his right, looking south, and just before he was dragged through the door into the stairwell, he saw a glint from the top of the office building, just above the edge of the roof.

You got me. Whoever you are.

He felt no anger, at least not at the person hiding behind that rifle scope. He was only angry with himself. Angry and disappointed. He'd wanted to run, to get away from this life. He'd missed his chance, though. He'd hesitated, and now this was the only option left for him. It wasn't some man holding a rifle on that rooftop that finally took him down. It was Retribution, paying him back for everything he'd ever done in his sorry, miserable life. He'd lost, and he was surprisingly at peace with that. He was sick of fighting anyway.

He only had a few seconds to reflect on his situation, though. When the stairwell door closed behind them, Deadeye heard the clatter of metal on concrete. He looked over to see a canister bounce off the wall behind him and start spewing smoke. Before he could even figure out what was happening he was knocked senseless by a flash-bang grenade. He fell forward, dragging down the two agents carrying him, sending all three tumbling down the top flight of stairs. Deadeye fell onto his side, bounced painfully off the stone steps, and then thankfully landed on one of the two agents at the first landing. The other landed next to him, and he could feel that one starting to get back up but then there was a buzzing noise and he collapsed back to the ground, twitching.

A different hand grabbed Deadeye's arm this time and tried to haul him up weakly.

"Get up!" he heard someone whisper forcefully. Deadeye blinked and saw the figure of Sweets take shape next to him. He gathered his wits, and awkwardly pulled himself up to his feet as Sweets poked the other agent with the stun baton in his hand. Deadeye let Sweets lead him down the stairs as he slowly tried to put together what was happening.

"Close your eyes for a second," Sweets told him. He watched in a daze as Sweets pulled out another canister and dropped it on the ground at their feet, only this one spewed out green smoke. Deadeye shut his eyes, recognizing the tear gas, and tried to hurry down the stairs as fast as he could on a bad leg and a skewed sense of balance. If Sweets hadn't been holding his arm, he probably would have toppled down another few flights of stairs.

As the haze from the flash-bang finally started to clear, though, he discovered that his mind wasn't working on the details of his escape attempt. Instead, he was trying to decide if he'd just been given a second chance to do what he failed to do earlier. A second chance to find a new life.

A second chance to escape.

*****

3 days ago...

Deadeye sat quietly on a bench on Figueroa Street, across from the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power building. He had a notebook in his hand, and he'd spent the last hour jotting down fake notes in an attempt to throw off anyone who might be watching him. He'd been pegged by Crup, which made him the most likely person on the team other than Big Man to be tailed by Scimitar. So why not use that to waste their time and resources checking out fake targets? Yesterday he spent two hours wandering around Dodger Stadium with binoculars, and this afternoon he planned to spend some quality time parked outside a few homes in Beverly Hills. Maybe tonight he'd go take pictures of the Hollywood sign just for fun.

He needed something interesting to get his spirits up. Big Man was furious with him and Flex for letting Crash get out of control, and for breaking multiple rules concerning being seen together. Normally he followed those rules to the letter, but Crash had been particularly insistent last night, and Deadeye was pretty sure it was because he was getting high again. But that wasn't what really got to him. Big Man pulled him aside this morning at the hotel and called him out for not being on top of his game, and he was absolutely right. The fact that his boss could see it just as well as he could made his waffling lately even more distressing.

Getting that card from Crup triggered a realization about himself that he'd been avoiding for years. He wasn't a sniper. He wasn't an assassin. He was, in fact, a murderer. He suppressed that knowledge by pretending he was still a soldier who just fought a different war every time he had a new target to take out. First, he was killing drug kingpins at the behest of shady paramilitary groups. Then he was doing it at the behest of other kingpins. It didn't matter where the money came from. All he needed to know was that he was killing someone who deserved to be killed. But somewhere along the way, the line between being deserving and being just another obstacle became blurred. And it was all because of his vendetta. Everything in his life had been twisted by a singular mission - revenge.

But that was over now. He was done with that part of his life. Forever. He wasted too many good years chasing vengeance. Now, all he wanted was peace. He could finally admit that to himself. The trick was figuring out how with so many eyes on him. With Big Man watching him just as carefully as Scimitar, Deadeye knew he was stuck in a situation with no clear way out. If he performed like he was supposed to, then Scimitar would eventually catch him and throw him in jail for the rest of his life. If he flipped, then the Organization would come after him, and their methods would make life in jail seem pleasant. No, he needed a different option.

I need to get out.

But there weren't any, at least none that were easy.

A young woman walked by just then, dragging him out of his thoughts. She wore tight jeans with a red short-sleeved top, both of which highlighted her exceptional figure. Her straight, light brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore large, white rimmed designer sunglasses. In other words, she looked like most of the beautiful women in southern California. She glanced over at him briefly and smiled, and he returned it with a nod. She kept walking, but something about her stuck with him, beyond her looks. She seemed familiar. Not that he knew her specifically, but something about her reminded him of an old friend. It was the smile. The way it curved at the edges, and showed that thin line of gum at the top. She reminded him of Geo. That was his signature look. Always smiling. Always showing off.

Until he died a broken, lonely man.

Deadeye set his notepad down. Even though he was supposed to stay here for another forty five minutes, he'd suddenly lost the desire to go through with this act. He already had enough on his conscience without being reminded yet again of how everything in his life had gone terribly wrong. More than that, thinking of Geo forced him to face old wounds he'd allowed to fester for too long. He was alone. No friends, no real family, no women in his life, no one he cared about back from the old neighborhood. Deadeye fully grasped the irony that his pursuit of vengeance ultimately left him just as broken as those he went after.

No. Unlike them, he still had time. He could change his future. He just needed to figure out how to do it while ridding himself of both Scimitar and The Organization. Not an easy task, and rarely a successful one for those who'd tried it before. Regardless, he was done here. He'd still hit Beverly Hills later, but for now, he needed some peace of mind, or maybe just some self-imposed punishment. He'd put Geo's death behind him as soon as it happened, but he realized now that he'd ignored so many of the details of that day to spare himself from the emotional impact. It seemed wise at the time, but now he felt like wallowing in his misery just a bit more. Maybe even drowning in it.

It was time to re-open some very old wounds.

*****

The brown haired woman walked briskly past the Water and Power building and turned the corner to her right. Waiting on the far side was an older man, roughly forty years old, wearing a cheap, dark green suit with a white shirt and black tie. His hair was dark brown, mussed up from the wind and he had a cigarette dangling from his lips. If his goal was to look the part of a cheap private detective, he had succeeded fabulously.

"Well?" he asked as the woman approached him.

"It's him," she said, taking off her white sunglasses to reveal a cold glare.

"Are you sure?"

"Not a doubt in my mind. That's the bastard. I say we kill him now."

"Not yet. We need to wait for the right moment."

"Not yet? I've been waiting years for the right moment and now he's here, by himself! We can do it now!"

The man arched his eyebrow at her. "Kimberly, you need to remember that there's a bigger picture here. He will get his due. They all will, but especially him. Just for you. Now try and be patient, and remember that we have a plan."

She crossed her arms and very nearly pouted. "Stop trying to sound like Katashi. It doesn't work coming from you."

He smiled back at her. "Then go hear it from him. Now get out of here and let me do my part."

She put her sunglasses back on with a scowl and wandered away, continuing on her path around the side of the building, while he stepped closer to the front. As he reached the corner, he scanned the far side of the street, just in time to see Hank Simmons walking away from his bench. He knew what Simmons had been up to out here, wasting Scimitar's time, but something felt different now. There was a meaning to the man's gait that he hadn't seen at his earlier locations. He was going somewhere important this time, maybe even back to his other partners, which meant he'd try, and no doubt succeed, at losing the Scimitar tail on him.

The man smiled. It's a good thing he wasn't Scimitar, then.

Chapter 11

4 days ago...

"I need you to exercise some caution. Things are heating up around you, and not everyone is comfortable with the overall plan." The man known only as Gentry sat comfortably in a plush hotel lobby chair just next to Big Man, speaking in a precise and dignified British accent. He wore a fashionable, though inexpensive, three-piece suit, with black suede shoes and he constantly tugged and twisted a large gold ring on his right ring finger. He looked to be in his late fifties, well groomed with an impeccably trimmed grey-black beard and thinning grey hair.

"Smith's got a hard-on for me. We all knew that," Big Man said, watching a group of young women sitting at the hotel bar.

"And who can blame him? You screwed him last year, and he doesn't let go of things like that."

Big Man shrugged. "He's sloppy. He's also impatient and an egomaniac. Give him a little more time and he'll hang himself with all these high-profile games he's playing. Then we won't have to worry about him, or his stupid little flunkies."

"You're right, of course. On every count. But the advice stands. Be wary. Watch your back, and -"

"My sides. I know. I was born with my head on a swivel."

"Now, on to business." Gentry pulled a document out of his briefcase. "Your materials have all been approved. Everything should arrive by Tuesday. If not, you're cleared for up to fifty thousand dollars of emergency funds to get what you need. Can your team procure everything on short notice?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Current flight records for American Airlines show a passenger en route to San Diego named Russell Johnson. We're fairly certain this is an alias for Duran. He's scheduled to arrive around 2:35pm today and we expect him to switch identities there, rent a car, then drive up to Los Angeles tonight. Is your man confident he can spot him?"

"Yeah. Deadeye doesn't forget a face."

"Okay. I'm satisfied with your plan outline and your prep work. Continue as scheduled and I'll report this back to my superiors."

Gentry stood up, putting the paper back in his briefcase and locking it. Big Man stood and shook his hand.

"You're a good man, Gentry."

"You flatter me, John." Gentry took a quick glance around while taking a half step closer. "One last thing before I leave, however. There is a belief amongst our security team that we have a mole somewhere. Not a big surprise given what we do and who we employ, but this one has proven difficult to find, and the information is sporadic, yet somewhat sensitive. We believe it's a team-level operative, and one of the suspected teams is yours."

Big Man raised his eyebrows.

"We've been operational for six days, and they think I have a mole? Are they fuckin' high?"

Gentry shrugged.

"I'm only the messenger."

"Bullshit," Big Man said. "I'm not a moron. I don't have moles on my team."

"I'm not the one you need to convince. Security is on a witch hunt, as they always are, and nothing we say or do will stop that unless someone is found. I'm certainly not accusing you. I'm just asking you to keep a close eye on your team's whereabouts this week."

"Yeah." Big Man nodded. "Fine."

"If they get pushy, I'll do my best to hold them off so you can operate without distractions." Gentry leaned in closer, and lowered his voice. "But if the mole is on your team, I expect immediate and decisive action."

"Always."

Gentry nodded and briefly smiled.

"Godspeed, John. I'll be in touch."

Gentry walked away, towards a black limo waiting just outside the main entrance. Big Man watched him leave, then walked briskly to the elevators, a frown covering his face.

*****

Today...

"I got something here." Flex's voice boomed through Sweets' speakers. Big Man, Deadeye and Sweets crowded around the monitors in their command center at the Mormont Hotel, watching the live video feeds of both the Mormont and the Concord Hotel, where Flex was stationed, dressed as a security consultant.

"What is it?" Big Man asked, speaking into the microphone on the table.

"This guy," Flex said, "walking down the hallway in front of me, wearing a blue jacket and a Dodgers cap. Can you see him?"

"Hold on," Sweets said. He pushed a button and the monitors cycled through a few different camera views. "Here. This gives us the other end of that hallway."

All three of them leaned forward, watching the procession of people flowing down the hall toward the banquet room, where Congressman Ross was scheduled to speak shortly. An array of security personnel in dark suits lined the hallway, checking badges and waving metal detector wands around the throng of people in line. Big Man scanned through everyone on that monitor, looking for anyone wearing a Dodgers hat. A few seconds later, he finally saw him appear from the right.

"There," Big Man pointed. "I see him, Flex. What about him?"

"Wow," Deadeye interrupted, leaning in closer to the screen. "That's him. That's Duran. How did you know that was him, Flex?"

"I didn't," Flex replied, sounding a little surprised. "He was at the sports bar with us. And then I saw him later at the police station. I thought he was just a witness to the fight, giving his statement. You didn't see him at the bar?"

"No. I missed him," Deadeye said.

Big Man bristled at this new wrinkle. If this was Duran, how had he ended up hanging around at the same bar as his team four nights before a major job for him? That wasn't random bad luck. Not in this business.

"It doesn't matter now," Big Man said, ignoring the warning signals in his gut. "He's our guy, so go get the son of a bitch. We are a go, everyone. Move out."

Deadeye grabbed his bag and moved to the door as Sweets hit a button that switched communications to his headset.

"We have a positive ID on our target," he said. "He's wearing a blue Dodgers cap and he's currently moving east with the crowd. He's passing the first set of doors to the banquet room right now but he's not going in. He's staying in the hall."

Big Man heard a response through Sweets' headset but he couldn't make it out. Sweets responded in his usual bored, monotone voice.

"Yes. That's him. You're a go for extraction. You too, Bubs. Flex is roughly two dozen yards behind the target. Crash, do you have me?" He paused a moment, listening. "Get the vans ready. You're up in approximately five minutes."

Deadeye closed the door quietly behind him, while Big Man and Sweets watched the monitors intently. As Duran moved casually through the throng of people Sweets cycled the camera views to get a better angle, always pointing him out again when he did. Which was a good thing, because Big Man had trouble keeping track. About a minute later they saw Tox approach, wearing a stylish pant suit, her hair pulled up, and a lanyard hanging around her neck that made her look like a reporter. She spoke with Duran, who looked uninterested in the conversation at first, but Tox was persistent in keeping him occupied.

A different camera view showed Flex waiting at the other end of the hallway. Bubs, wearing a similar style suit, joined him. They both pulled out security badges and affixed them to the front of their jackets, then headed toward Tox and Duran.

What happened next was a very smooth extraction for a team out of practice for almost a year. Flex and Bubs approached Duran, posing as security personnel, and asked him to come with them to answer a few questions. Duran protested at first but Tox surreptitiously brushed the back of his neck with a muscle relaxant that absorbed through the skin, making him a more complacent. About thirty seconds later, he relented and followed them back down the hallway toward the utility rooms where Tox, who stayed close by the entire time, quickly injected him with a tranquilizer. Duran dropped like a sack of potatoes, and the team quickly moved him to the loading bay and the waiting vans. He was thrown in the back of one of the vans where Crash went to work tying him up while Bubs, Flex and Tox threw on their jumpsuits and masks. All in all, Big Man was impressed, and his suspicions about this job started to fade away.

"Not bad," he said.

"Acceptable," Sweets replied, sounding as if he didn't care. He was busy deleting the recorded video feeds that included any image of anyone on the team from the Concord's security system.

Big Man put his Bluetooth in his ear, grabbed his own bag and headed for the door.

"I'm out. Keep an eye on things. Clean up as soon as the vans are out."

Sweets nodded, not turning away from the monitors. Big Man stepped outside and walked toward the elevators, where he clicked the down button and waited. He thought of Tox, and he was surprisingly content with himself for letting her back into the fold. He'd worried about putting her on the team again for a number of reasons, least of which was her field instincts. But she'd been perfect today. No hesitation, no confusion, no rust. She was just as professional and precise as he remembered, and he was glad he could check that worry off his list.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened in front of him. He stepped in and hit the lobby button, ready to get this part of the mission over with and move on to Duran's interrogation, which would provide all sorts of interesting pieces of information, including how he knew his team was down here waiting for him. Duran showing up at the same bar as the others wasn't an accident - it was a scouting mission, and Big Man wanted to know who tipped him off to that. Just as the doors closed, however, he heard Crash's voice over the comm channel on his Bluetooth and any pretense of this being a well-executed plan disappeared.

"What the fuck?"

"Ohhhhh no," Sweets said.

"What?" Big Man asked. "What's happening?"

"Fuck this shit!" Crash was yelling and Big Man could hear sirens in the background now. "How the fuck did this happen?"

"We got a big problem down here," Flex said, alarmed.

"What? Someone talk to me!" Big Man hit the button for the second floor. The lobby didn't feel safe all of a sudden.

"We got Scimitar here!" Flex said. "They're all over us!"

Suddenly, all the suspicious events and behavior of the last two weeks flooded back into Big Man's mind. He now knew without a doubt that he'd walked into a trap, and he'd done it despite seeing the warning signs. This was much bigger than a mole on his team feeding information back to Smith. This was a well-planned screw job that included someone on his team tipping off Scimitar, right under his nose. He needed to figure this out fast and put an end to it, because if he didn't, someone would end him.

*****

14 days ago...

"Devereaux wants me for this?" Big Man asked. "Ten days after I'm out of jail?"

"He specifically requested you," Gentry said. He was sitting on the other side of the table from Big Man in the visitor's room at the Tucson Correctional Institution.

"Doesn't sound like the smartest thing he's ever done."

"It sounds like he's playing a few different angles, if you ask me. He wants you as the point man against Smith, since you already have a bit of a history, and that frees him up to hit Smith's group from behind, when they aren't paying attention."

Big Man smiled. "So I'm a diversion?"

"A very effective one, yes."

Big Man nodded, considering that. "Well, it ain't the smartest thing I've ever done, either, but I guess I'm okay with being his bait. Devereaux better make his shot count, though."

"Again, you will be on a bit of an island with this one. If things go bad, there's not a lot we can do to help."

"I hear ya, Pops. I'm a big boy. And so are the guys on my team. If this gets me what I want, then we'll manage. Don't worry about us."

Gentry smiled. "Good. There's another matter I need to bring up while I'm here. A sensitive one. For you at least."

"Yeah?"

"Lanie wants back in."

Big Man frowned at that news, and it took him a moment to respond. "Why?"

"She doesn't tell me her reasons," Gentry said. "But she's pretty adamant about it. She's been after me for weeks to bring it up with you. Delicately, of course."

"Do I need her?"

"You tell me."

Big Man sighed heavily and watched the overly-tattooed drug runner, a guy named Kenny, sitting at the table next to him with his girlfriend. They were arguing animatedly about something, which seemed a not-so-subtle reminder of him and Tox. "You haven't given me all the details yet."

Gentry arched his eyebrows. "You have all the details you need right now. It's simple stuff. An interior extraction from a public place, a theft of technical specs from a highly secure defense contractor, some standard recon, and a hijacking. All in a regular day's work for you." He smiled.

"You're a funny guy," Big Man said, not really smiling back. Gentry seemed to pick up on it.

"I can tell her no. It's not like we don't have reasons to keep her out for a while."

For a moment, Big Man was tempted to tell Gentry everything. How Tox was kicked off the team not because of their relationship issues, but because he suspected she was feeding information to Smith, back before he split to form his own group. She'd only leaked minor details, nothing too serious, but he'd had to push her away before things escalated and one of them ended up dead. Nobody else knew about her connection to Smith, and that had protected both of them for a while, but it was getting harder and harder to keep her at arm's length without letting that information out. He looked at Kenny again, who was holding his girl's hands, passionately trying to explain something to her, and he envied their simple life. They argued, they made up, they moved on. He couldn't do that, though. He'd long ago given up his chance at a simple life, and he'd never looked back. That meant he had to keep his personal life out and play this like he would for any other operative. That meant understanding that they were just as expendable as they were useful.

"No. Let her in," Big Man said. "On a temporary basis. Let's let her prove how much she wants it."

Gentry nodded slowly. "She'll be happy to hear that."

This was a huge gamble, but ultimately worth it, he thought. He could learn a lot by letting her back in. If she was still tipping off Smith, then he'd know fairly early on and he could manage that with a disinformation campaign. If she didn't, then even better, because someone with Tox's connections was incredibly valuable to their team, and even more so if she was totally loyal to them. Of course, if she was a mole, he'd have to deal with that eventually, but he'd get to that when he needed to. This was a calculated risk, but also a manageable one as long as there were no surprises.

He had things under control, as always.
Chapter 12

Blowing up the van wasn't quite as dramatic as Flex had hoped.

The walls vibrated from the explosion, but it wasn't as loud as he'd expected it to be, which meant he'd misjudged the effects of the gas leak. Miller had his eyes closed at first, but the sound of the explosion startled him and they blinked open in surprise. He looked at Flex first, probably wondering if he'd been shot, but as soon as he realized what he'd heard he whipped his head around to look down the hall leading back to the lobby, then back at Flex, who had the trigger in his hand. He may have been outraged by what happened, and he may have yelled out or put up a fight because of it, but Flex decided he wouldn't give him enough time for that. Using the base of the trigger, he smacked Miller on the side of the neck, right on the carotid artery. Miller stumbled back against the wall from the blow, woozy from the interrupted blood flow to his brain while Flex ripped the police radio from his belt.

Then he ran.

He tore around the corner, the same way Miller came from initially, and he saw a long hallway stretching out before him. About halfway down he noticed the EXIT sign he desperately sought, and he sprinted down the hall toward it. Just as he reached the door, he heard Miller calling out from behind him, yelling for some kind of backup. Flex was pretty confident that if he could get out the back without being spotted, he'd have enough time to escape. At least, he really, really hoped so. He still had to get rid of his jumpsuit somehow, and clean up the blood on his suit underneath. But those were trivial matters compared to getting away from this building.

The door led to a narrow, empty parking lot that stretched around the back of the building, wrapping around the corner to his right, and stopping at a two story annex to his left. A small, two-lane road lined with small trees separated this building from another office building straight ahead, and a single police car was parked at the intersection to his right. He froze, watching for any sign of police, but saw no one. He wondered if that was Miller's car, and if it was, then Flex owed him a big thanks for letting the other cops think the back was covered. The road continued on to his left, but it disappeared into a cluster of trees, providing some decent cover if needed.

After a few glances in either direction to make sure he was clear, Flex walked briskly across the lot, then held his breath as he crossed the street, waiting for the inevitable cry of alarm from a pedestrian, or a cop he'd failed to notice. He reached the other side without incident, though, and felt relieved, as if he'd been far more fortunate than he had any right to be.

"Hey! Stop right there!"

Flex groaned, his relief dissipating almost immediately. Two cops had walked around the far right corner of the building, into the back parking lot, and they were looking right at him. For half a second he froze, feeling the dread of his fate surrounding him. Then he realized he was a good fifty paces ahead of them. So he ran again.

"Police! Stay where you are!"

The cops chased as Flex made a beeline for the trees. He stayed low, in case they decided to shoot, and once he reached the trees he cut to the right and then around the corner of the other office building. Once out of their sight, Flex looked for the closest available door, and found it just twenty feet ahead. Unfortunately, it had a badge scanner next to it, which meant it wouldn't be any use to him. He yanked on the handle as he ran by, confirming that it wouldn't open, and continued on to what looked like the main entrance. He could probably hide in the lobby, but if the side door required a badge, the doors inside would too. He ran past the front, glancing through the glass doors to see a security guard stationed at a booth inside, reading a book.

He heard shouting and he looked back to the see the two police officers sprinting after him. Their guns were out, but they weren't shooting yet. He turned the next corner, though, and saw his salvation. A sprawling retail center filled the other side of the street. Dozens of stores and restaurants, some sitting on top of each other. It was a maze of concrete and glass, filled with midday shoppers, and it was exactly what Flex needed. He ran onto the street, darted through traffic, and then hit the parking lot at a full gallop. A shoe store was the closest thing to him, Heart & Soles, and he made for the entrance. It looked like a women's shoe store, which would make it harder for him to blend in, but he wasn't in a position to be picky right now.

"Stop or we will shoot!"

The cops were still behind him, in the parking lot now. Fuck them, he thought. They weren't gonna shoot. Not from that distance, in a public place like this. They were all talk at this point. He knew more would be on the way in minutes, but that was fine. All he needed was one minute alone out here and he could get away, maybe even thirty seconds, but he needed to lose these two first.

He threw open the front door of the shoe store, ran past the startled old lady at the register, then took off down the center aisle toward the back exit, pushing past a few surprised shoppers. The cops entered just as he exited into the alley, and he turned to his left to see two waiters smoking at the back of a Chinese restaurant. Flex ran toward them, unzipping his jumpsuit as he did and sliding his gun into the waistband of his suit. He ignored their wide-eyed stares as he moved past them into the kitchen.

Half a dozen cooks and busboys stopped to stare as Flex darted through the kitchen, pulling off his jumpsuit at the same time. He ignored the burst of pain as he slid his arm out, then grabbed a giant cook pot from one of the racks. Someone screamed at him, but he didn't stop to see who. He just dodged around the tables in the restaurant, his jumpsuit half hanging off now, and moved out the front door.

Outside was an L-shaped plaza with dozens of stores and restaurants all facing a common food court. Without hesitating he went left and ducked into the neighboring restaurant, a much smaller Greek place with only two patrons inside. Taking a reverse path from his Chinese restaurant mad dash, he cut back to the kitchen, the giant pot still in his hand, and stopped to pull the jumpsuit down and over his shoes.

"Who the hell are you?" One of the waiters asked in a Greek accent but Flex ignored him. He glanced out the kitchen door and saw the cops through the front windows of the restaurant. One was looking around the food court while the other peeked into the window.

"Get out of here!" A cook yelled. Flex stuffed the jumpsuit into the pot, then grabbed a bottle of Ouzo - a Greek cooking wine - sitting on the counter next to him. "Hey!" The same voice shouted and Flex pulled out his gun and waved it around.

"Everyone needs to stay calm and quiet," he said to the two cooks, two waiters and one busboy standing around him with their hands now up in the air. "I'm only taking this bottle, and then I'm leaving. Stay calm, and we don't have a problem."

No one said a word as Flex carried the pot and the bottle of Ouzo out the back door. Once outside, he moved to the dumpster in the back, watching carefully for any sign of more police. He set the pot in the dumpster, popped the top off the Ouzo, and poured it all over the jumpsuit. He fished a lighter out of his suit pocket, glad he hadn't completely broken his smoking habit, and lit one of the sleeves. It caught fire quickly, and he closed the top of the dumpster, then slid open the smaller side door, the one facing away from the back door, and ran off.

The door directly behind him was for a women's clothing store, another place he couldn't exactly blend in, but he didn't care. He ran in, seeing no sign of cops behind him, and made for the parking lot. Any minute now he'd have a car hot-wired and he'd be on his way out of here, headed for the safe house. Then he could focus his worries on the new problem about to plague his life.

He was about to be identified throughout the world as a terrorist.

*****

Every step of their escape coursed painfully through Deadeye's body. The aftereffects of the flash-bang were slow to fade, and the burning pain from the bullet wound in his leg kept his teeth permanently gritted, but he soldiered on, leaning on Sweets for support. This was his only way out now, and he wasn't going to miss it.

They'd just left the elevator on the third floor, with Sweets almost dragging Deadeye down the hallway toward the skywalk entrance. The hotel connected to an office building plaza next door through a windowed skywalk which crossed over a small side street leading to the parking garage. It was their planned escape route from the hotel, and they had cars waiting for them in the plaza parking lot on the far side, but the circumstances of their escape were a lot more challenging now than they should have been.

At the skywalk entrance - a glass wall covering the hallway with a double door - Sweets set Deadeye down on the floor and leaned him against the wall. Then he leaned over himself, his face red from exertion and his hands on his knees. Sweets wasn't known for his cardio, and he wheezed heavily while catching his breath. After taking a few moments to rest, Sweets walked through the door and moved to the edge of the skywalk tunnel, next to the first window, and peered outside. He didn't do anything for a long time. He just stared outside, at what seemed to be the same spot. Finally, he came back, but it was hard to tell if he was excited or dejected. Sweets didn't really show emotion, so Deadeye guessed.

"It's not going to work, is it?"

Sweets shook his head. "There's a cop down there. He's stationed on the street, but he's watching the skywalk, too. Even if we tried to time our crossing, we'd go so slow that he'd still see you. And when that happens he'll radio and we'll end up getting cut off on the other side. We're going to have to find some other way."

"Maybe the service elevator?" Deadeye knew as soon as the words left his mouth that using the service elevator was pointless because it would be covered. The pain was getting to him, and he was starting to feel a little cold, which meant his blood pressure might be dropping. Now he was starting to panic and throwing out crazy ideas. But this was his second chance. He needed it to work. His best hope was that he could get lucky and Sweets could latch on to a bad idea and come up with something useful.

"Service elevator doesn't help us," he said. "What helps us is you not being shot in the leg. How did that happen, anyway?"

Deadeye gave a quick laugh.

"Another sniper. Down the street. He was waiting for me."

"Scimitar?"

"No. I don't think so. It was someone else. Someone who knew what we were up to, obviously."

"That's not good," Sweets said, looking a little unnerved. That was a weird thing to see from him. "That's not good at all."

Suddenly, the ridiculousness of the situation took over, and Deadeye started to laugh. It lasted only a moment, but it was enough to see just how pointless this had all been, how he'd fooled himself into thinking there was any kind of escape from the life he'd lived. This wasn't a second chance. It was a moment of clarity. An opportunity to actually accept losing, and maybe even be at peace with it.

So be it, then.

Deadeye lowered his head and took a long, slow breath.

"Take the skywalk."

"No. We can't go this way. I already told you."

"You can."

Sweets cocked his head, not expecting that response.

"Of course I can. But not with you."

"That's what I mean, geek. Leave me here. Walk across, and... and get to the safe house. Tell them what happened to me."

"They'll catch you."

Deadeye nodded. "Yup."

Sweets didn't say anything for a moment. Finally, he nodded curtly, then set his bag down next to Deadeye.

"If they see me with that, I won't be able to explain why I have it. You might as well get some use out of it."

"We'll see, man." Sweets moved back to the window and glanced out carefully. He was about to make his move, but Deadeye had one last thing to say. "Paul."

Sweets looked at him curiously. "Yes?"

"Be careful."

Sweets pursed his lips. Deadeye didn't think the guy had the emotional capacity to handle moments like this, but he felt the need to say it anyway.

"Hooah," Sweets said and Deadeye laughed again. Louder this time. He couldn't help it. Sweets watched him for a moment, then gave a wave of his hand that was so quick most people would have missed it. He opened the glass doors and stepped through, walking down the skywalk slowly, deliberately. Surprisingly, he managed to resist the temptation to turn to his right and look out the window, to see if the cop was watching him, or radioing for help. He just kept on walking to the far side, opened the doors, and then turned left down the beige-colored hallway of the other building. Gone.

Deadeye sighed and leaned his head back against the wall. There was no point pulling out his gun and defending himself. They'd only shoot back and kill him. So he reached into his back pocket instead, and took out Crup's card, keeping it ready this time. When Scimitar finally found him down here, lying on the ground with a bloody leg, he'd make sure to use Crup's name, and see how badly they still wanted him.

*****

"I need you to step out of the car," the cop said, his hand resting on his holstered weapon.

"Yeah, man. Yeah," Crash replied. "No problem." He turned off the engine and stepped out of the car, hoping that no one asked for his keys as he set them in his pocket. He stood facing the cop, his hands out to his side. "Am I in trouble for something?"

"I need you to wait right here for a moment. Show me your ID," he said. Crash nodded and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, slipped out his Driver's License, and handed it over. A second cop, shorter and older, with a thick mustache and glasses, walked up and eyeballed Crash, his car, and his pizza delivery shirt.

"What were you doing down there?" he asked brusquely. His name tag read Jacobsen. The first one was Hensle.

"Deliverin'. That's all, man," Crash said, trying to sound a little scared. "I brought three pizzas and some breadsticks to the security guys."

"Why'd you use the garage, then? Why not park out front?"

Crash forced himself not to smile. He was ready for that question.

"Park out front?" he said, in fake outrage. "I go to the garage now because you guys gave me a ticket the last time I did that. Now you're pulling me over and asking me why I'm using the garage? Is this some kind of crazy-ass profiling?"

The second cop, Jacobsen, held out his hand, annoyed. That was good. That meant he was buying the story.

"You need to calm down, sir."

"Calm? I'm calm. I'm totally calm. How can I not be calm when you guys keep yanking me around when I'm just out here trying to make a living. I could be dealing, and livin' large, but no, I have this crap delivery job. At least I do for now, until you guys bust me for driving in the left lane instead of the center, or turning right at that one intersection when I shoulda gone straight."

Hensle shook his head in annoyance. Jacobsen forced a smile.

"Yeah, life's a bitch." He pointed. "Stay right here. Don't go anywhere until we tell you." He turned to the other cop. "Someone's running the plates?"

"Yeah." Hensle motioned back to his car, where a third was sitting. "Pierce is."

Jacobsen's radio squawked on.

"This is Branley. We found the van." Everyone in the immediate area stopped to listen. "It's parked on the second level. We're approaching now."

Four police cruisers blocked the exit here on the street, along with eight cops either standing next to or sitting in their cars. To a man, they all remained perfectly still, waiting for the next report from their radios. Crash waited with them, biting his lips, trying not to show how giddy he was right now. About fifteen seconds passed before the radio came alive again.

"It's empty, except for a bag with their guns."

Everyone took a collective breath, most of them shaking their heads in frustration. Hensle, still waiting a few steps away with his hand on his gun, eyed Crash carefully. Crash leaned against his car, trying to look bored. He put his hands in his pocket and grabbed the key fob, holding his thumb over the trigger button. The radio came on again.

"We have more units incoming. We need to comb this garage, because they're in here somewhere."

Crash pushed the button. He heard the faint sound of popping coming from the garage, but the radio was silent for a long moment. Then it burst with shouting.

"They're down here! They're shooting at us!" Suddenly, the cops nearby started rushing toward garage exit, drawing their guns, and leaving Crash standing alone.

"Hey. Do I just wait here?" he asked.

Hensle threw his ID at him and waved him away.

"You need to evacuate this area. Now!"

Crash nodded and quickly hopped back into his car. After a victorious chuckle, he started the car up and drove away.

*****

Bubs stepped away eagerly from the Scimitar agents who had just finished questioning him about his lunch. True to his word, Harrison had corroborated his story and Bubs was being let go without a hitch, although they had taken his name, a fake one, and a few of the agents had camcorders in their hands. That video could haunt him later, but at least he was out of this particular mess. Harrison approached him, free after his own round of questioning.

"Painless, I hope." He flashed an easy smile. He did that a lot.

"You offered to help me," Bubs said. "So don't think I owe you anything for this."

"I already told you. It's a gift. And now that they've released us back into the wild, you're welcome to continue on to your escape vehicle in the visitor's parking lot. We, however, have places to be."

Harrison motioned to his two companions, and all three began moving to the front door. Harrison glanced back at Bubs. "Keep in touch."

Bubs was tempted to let them go, just to see if they really would walk away without addressing the one nagging question that was left. Bubs knew the team had been betrayed, but according to Harrison, it hadn't happened only once. He said he played no part in tipping off Scimitar, and Bubs actually believed him. But that didn't mean he wasn't already getting inside info from someone with access to the really important stuff.

He'd seen it with his own eyes, this very morning. While scouting their escape route with Crash, he stopped for a newspaper, eager to get away from Crash's incessant chatting, and at that very moment, Harrison walked out of a nearby coffee shop. They saw each other, but said nothing. Harrison smiled and walked the other way. But less than a minute later, Tox walked out of the same coffee shop. He didn't think she saw him, since she had her sunglasses on and her head down as she left. He tried to blend into the small cluster of pedestrians passing by while watching her step into a rental car parked on the other side of the street. She drove away, back toward the hotel probably, leaving Bubs to guess at what he'd just seen.

At first he wondered if Harrison had been working her as well. That perhaps he was covering his bases in case Bubs said no, or maybe he was the insurance in case she backed out. But over the next few hours, he decided he had a different thought about the matter. He didn't think Harrison was recruiting Tox. He was pretty sure that already happened a long time ago. But he needed confirmation.

"Wait," he said. Harrison stopped and looked at Bubs curiously.

"Yes?"

Bubs walked over to Harrison, away from the ears of nearby Scimitar agents.

"Why do you need me?" he asked. "You already have Tox."

"Do I?" Harrison shrugged. "Maybe I don't. Or, maybe she doesn't understand the value of what we can offer. Or..." he paused for effect, "maybe we no longer see the value in her."

"So I'm her replacement?"

"Something like that."

That seemed to do it. Tox had been a Smith mole for a while. For a moment he wondered how long she'd been selling secrets, but then he realized he didn't care anymore. It was time to make a change. He didn't always appreciate Smith's methods, but he suspected that those who knew how to play the game were the ones who moved up the ladder there. And he was absolutely skilled at playing the game.

"This job you're offering me... how would it work?"

Harrison smiled back at him. "Well first of all, don't think of it as work. Think of it as an exciting new step in your career."

"And once I do that?"

Harrison laughed. "Well, once you've done that, we'll start discussing your new team. Just as soon as we've taken care of your old one."

"I like the sound of that," Bubs said, a smile forming on his lips for the first time in weeks. "Harrison."

TO BE CONTINUED...

###

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