

# SEASON 3.4

A novel by Gene Kendall

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

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

All text is copyright © 2018 by Gene Kendall

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

# April 14, 1976

The smell of cloves from the choji oil beckons the Blind Master. Draws his attention to the nondescript 1974 Valiant. Maybe an hour earlier, the traitor had taken his _nuguigami_ tissue to the blade, polished it up nice before going out on this mission.

Six hours of meditation this morning. To clear his consciousness. Cleanse any resentment at the task falling now to him. Told himself for years he was too old for this; that the unpleasant act would have to be committed by the next generation of Arashikage.

Struggled with anxiety as the rising sun reached his face, finding some way to rationalize how it was better this way. No Arashikage blood spilling Arashikage blood. He would complete the deed, regardless of age.

He'd spent almost a year now, researching this Storm Shadow, investigating the monster's activities, the sickening acts committed in some unknown master's name. Extortion, theft, assassination. And tonight, a kidnapping.

This boy, Tadaaki, not more than eleven years old. Son of a diplomat from Chomo-Lungma, an impoverished mountain country in the midst of a border dispute with China. The sensei had more than a few memories of the region; the cold nearly did him in, yet it was the sweetest air he ever tasted. He only wishes he could've placed his first foot in the nation months earlier, in the days before a blast wave took his sight.

Tadaaki's father, the diplomat, has spent the past year pleading Chomo-Lungma's case to the global community. His son's made friends with the kids in that fancy school, accompanied them on this vacation to Washington, DC. Blind Master thinks of the monster in white, of the trauma inflicted on another child, years earlier.

No casualties this evening; none so far. Storm Shadow likely won't bring a suitable ransom to his superior if the boy's pulse stops. Honestly, Chomo-Lungma doesn't have much in the way of a treasury. Its location, meanwhile, doesn't lack in strategic value.

_What has this fool gotten himself mixed in with?_ the Blind Master questions as he snakes his way through the parked cars, finally reaches the Valiant emitting those scents. _How'd he allow himself to get so twisted?_

His mind drifts to images of the young man he knew, even as he forces his body to pause. He reflects on a specific memory of the young Arashikage boy, then casts it out. Removes the knife from his pocket and carefully slashes each of the tires.

Two heartbeats approach. One, he shouldn't be able to discern. The traitor's enjoyed too many victories, has allowed basic skills to slip. The other is so loud, the sensei guesses even a civilian could overhear. Poor, terrified kid.

The Blind Master whispers a mantra. Tells himself he won't allow another child to be victimized by this monster.

He withdraws three shuriken. Aims them at the breaker box he'd discovered five minutes earlier, the one he'd unlocked with a paperclip.

Evaporating heat from the overhead lights confirms good news to his skin. Yes, old man, your aim was true. The parking garage, this floor at least, is now dark.

The traitor calls out to the darkness, again warns the boy to hush his mouth, then checks his surroundings. Blind Master's already staked his position on a different row; allows his opponent to reach the Valiant, shove the kid into the backseat.

The Blind Master feels for the kid. Knows how bad he must hate the dark, especially after what he's experienced tonight. But, lordy, he wishes the ankle-biter would calm his loud butt down. That high-pitched shriek might be enough to throw the sensei's game off; might be the difference between life and death.

The traitor adjusts his senses. He'll never have the sensei's experience in this department, but he has endured the harshest Arashikage training. Storm Shadow is not truly blind here. Can "see" well enough, for example, to recognize his tires are lighter now.

Knows good and blessed well this was no teenager's prank.

Behind him creeps the older man. Cane strapped to his back, he carefully slips a portion of the sword out of its scabbard. Blind sword technique, taught to him years ago by the Hard Master. Use the scabbard as a guide, keep it just shy of loose. When it connects with your target, the scabbard drops, the sword cuts.

Version he was taught involved a string tied around the scabbard, held by the warrior's teeth. Easier to pick up on the vibrations that way, allows for only the faintest of contact. Amateur stuff for one now known as the Blind Master.

His target is slowing his heartbeat, disguising those breaths. Is nearly able to drift into the ambient noise of the city. A passing semi on the street above does nothing to aid the Blind Master's search, yet he continues.

Tip of the scabbard faintly brushes against peach fuzz on the traitor's elbow. Blind Master allows the scabbard to drop, thrusts forward. Storm Shadow pivots, presses his sword against the sensei's with only a splinter of a second to spare.

"You! I should've known," he speaks in a deliberate cadence, masking his surprise at the old man's strength.

The Blind Master won't allow himself to speak. Can't permit his attention to be divested, fighting against the physical force—the younger force, the one that doesn't awake in the morning with tingles and aches—now threatening to overpower him.

The older man's resolve remains, has a brief flash of pride. Even senses the first inkling of retreat. Common sense hits; realizes Storm Shadow is going to relax his muscles, only to deliver a cross kick when the sensei presses forward.

The sensei beats him to the punch; abandons the test of strength and instead moves to the traitor's right, delivers a jab to his shoulder.

Connects with more air than flesh. Recognizes Storm Shadow's refutation will be swift and merciless. He's spared by a holy light. Or, if not holy, American-made at least.

Headlights of an AMC Javelin enter the garage. The driver, confused by the darkness, slows down, examines what feels like every inch of the garage.

Storm Shadow slips into the available blackness. Blind Master makes certain he's not in the vehicle's path, attempts to channel away his frustration and contemplate the next move.

Irritated by the dark, the driver abandons this level, tries his luck with the descending ramp.

Blind Master is correct; the traitor is not patient. Feels the vibration of his feet against the pavement, waits for the right moment, then pivots. Storm Shadow slams into the cab of a pickup truck. The sensei realizes he won't get this shot again, uses his free hand to land three fast jabs against the traitor's ribs.

The younger man acts as if he feels nothing, grips his sword and strikes. The motion rips through the Blind Master's jacket sleeve, slices a portion of flesh as he draws the blade back. The sensei swings his blade towards his opponent, their second steel on steel clash of the evening.

Fire reaches his wound, inspires him to finally speak. "I can keep this up all night, boy," the Blind Master boasts. " _Onihashi_ crafted this, his final work of art."

He hopes, even in the black, that Storm Shadow's gaze dropped to the blade. That he paused for a moment and reflected on the beauty of the craftsmanship, if only in his mind's eye. That he remembered the face of one more Arashikage brother murdered by the monster in white.

Yet Blind Master knows not to dwell on such fantasies. Better to use Onihashi's steel to his advantage. The sensei ends the standoff by lifting his blade with lightning speed, taking aim at the base of his adversary's sword.

The cheap metal can't sustain the blow, shatters immediately. Storm Shadow doesn't mourn the weapon, just hits Blind Master low, uses the old man's loss of oxygen as an excuse to slip away.

Blind Master clutches his gut, thanks the heavens he didn't drop the sword when absorbing the impact. "Cheap one, boy. No better than what I'd expect from a coward."

"You insult me? Speak of honor...even as you use Onihashi's blade against the surviving Arashikage blood?" answers a voice in the dark.

Mind games. Coming from anyone but a traitor, Blind Master would've respected the move. " _You're_ tryin' to play the guilt card on me? When we both know _why_ there ain't no Arashikage blood anymore?"

_So far as you know, punk,_ the senior gentleman adds as an internal addendum, repressing a smile.

The sensei's pride in his deception—in keeping that girl alive for so long, for planting that fake obit for Tommy in a newspaper while he was serving overseas—is replaced by a new sensation. A chop connects with the sensei's wrist; he hears the air cut beneath the blade before it clangs against the pavement.

Storm Shadow is reaching for the prize. He'll claim Onihashi's masterpiece as one of his own, if the old man doesn't do something fast.

Blind Master stomps his sneakers on the pavement. Feels four digits crunch underneath. Doesn't relent, continues with a low roundhouse to the traitor's head. The kick forces his adversary to the ground.

Got him out of reach of the blade, good. But the sensei recognizes that turning back, locating the blade, leaves him open to a fatal attack. He tells himself he'll retrieve it later. That he'd be a fool not to take every shot now available.

That's why he lunges southward, reaches for what he hopes is the traitor's carotid artery. Feels his left wrist caught in a vice, realizes too late Storm Shadow is pulling himself up as he's shoving the old man down. Only has one leg to brace himself, but still manages to knee Blind Master in the chest.

Storm Shadow moves with a galvanic stride, is only a whisper away from the sensei's nose. He snatches the traitor's hand, pivots, then relocates behind Storm Shadow's shoulder.

Doesn't know how he got so lucky; isn't entirely sure how he's keeping his heart rate in check. Decides the spirit of the Arashikage must be smiling down on him.

Time for a bold move, then. Hears his back pop, oh, seven different times as he flips the traitor to the left. Relishes the sound of every shard of glass erupting and hitting the pavement, as Storm Shadow's body passes through a Buick's driver side window.

Blind Master knows he'll be cut up pretty bad if he dives in after the turncoat, but self-preservation isn't a sufficient motivator in the heat of battle. What stops him is the roar of a factory-new Torino engine. Body of the car weighed down a bit by the rooftop flashing lights and siren.

Cops.

He finds another vehicle to use as cover. Doesn't realize Storm Shadow has already exited the Buick. That he's actually racing towards the men in blue.

The ninja enters the range of their headlights. Officer Palmer slams on breaks. His partner Mullis is the first to exit the vehicle. Is going to make some crack about this not being Halloween, buddy, when Storm Shadow chops his throat.

Palmer has his revolver drawn, figures the headlights provide him enough illumination to deal with this creep. Tries not to imagine the worst for Mullis; bad enough the guy fractured his ankle chasing a perp through Lafayette Square last year, and now this?

Somehow, his first shot is a miss. And he's never able to make that second one.

Palmer is on the ground, his gun now in Storm Shadow's possession. The ninja's free hand is searching the dashboard, looking for the switch to trigger the flashing red and blues.

Needs all the illumination he can get if he'll make the killshot. Fast thinking like that, the ability to adapt to any weapon...the rejection of all sentimentality, all ties to an indolent, aimless life...this is what makes him expert _chūnin_.

This mawkish old man, meanwhile, is returning to the Valiant. Dragging that screeching brat of a child out of the backseat. Storm Shadow has suppressed pride, regained his detachment as he fires the stolen revolver.

The blind man seems to know the bullet is coming before it even leaves the chamber. Flicks his wrist, Onihashi's blade in hand. Bullet should've landed directly in the middle of his sunglasses. Instead, it recoils against steel, is sent flying back to its dispatcher.

The ninja takes it in the shoulder. Loses some of that professional disinterest as he checks the wound, prays for a clean exit. The desire granted, Storm Shadow charges in the old man's direction. Realizes a second too late that no one's there.

Loses all cool when he hears car doors slam behind him.

The boy is no longer crying, just staring in disbelief at the stranger feeling his way through the police car's interior.

"You're not really blind, are you?" Tadaaki asks the stranger.

"'Course I am. Why d'you think my socks don't match?" he says, rolling down the window.

Tadaaki, bright boy, grabs the stranger's arm. Pretends he doesn't notice the blood staining the windbreaker. " _I_ could drive us! You don't have to—"

"You see any phonebooks around, kid?" The stranger leans one arm out of the window, feels the sensation of backward wind as the car goes into Reverse. "I'm your best shot, Tadaaki. You just stay calm an' I'll get us through this."

Blind Master says this three seconds before the car crunches against a support beam, thankfully at a speed of only 3 MPH. He finds a proper path fast enough, causes only a minor fender-bender when pulling onto Francis Scott Key Bridge.

"Chomo-Lungma, huh? Lovely place. Spent some time there, back when you were but a gleam."

Tadaaki doesn't know how to respond. Survival instinct has him shouting out directions, warnings of approaching cars, not engaging in chit-chat. Blind Master tells himself he doesn't need the help, but he'll take it. Good for the child; anything that will keep him talking, keep him from going catatonic, has to be positive.

"You wanna play one of those car games? How they go—'I spy with my widdle eye...'" Blind Master thinks he's so clever, up until he catches that abnormal shift in air currents.

It's coming from the north. Weight, speed, can only mean one thing.

The traitor has found them. Probably latched onto the back of an unsuspecting vehicle, then hopped his way through traffic.

Makes a grand entrance, landing directly in the middle of the windshield.

Storm Shadow's concern should be keeping that boy safe; ensuring he returns to the hideout and plays the proper role in his employer's scheme. A stunt like this is reckless, very likely to cause both the boy and the old man severe injuries, if not death.

The ninja doesn't care. Just sees the face of the blind man, sees it so clearly now. Wants more than anything to bury the memory of the day they met—to kill _all_ remembrances of the boy who trained in those mountains.

"You blind mongrel!" Storm Shadow roars over the wind, hand reaching for the sensei's throat. "Make peace with your—"

Loses his balance as soon as the blind man cuts the wheel to his right. The sector car collides with a concrete barrier. Storm Shadow's body twists in unfathomable directions, connecting with the hood, then the barrier, before hurdling over the top of the concrete and falling almost two hundred feet into the unwelcoming waters of the Potomac.

The Blind Master calls upon every palliative technique in his library, every analgesic mantra that could calm his breathing, allow him to quiet his shaking hands.

"Tadaaki, you okay?" he cries out, reaching for the boy.

Tadaaki doesn't answer at first. Has to be shouted at twice before he thinks to check his body. No blood, no obvious wounds, outside of a tingle in his shoulder where the safety belt caught his light frame.

The crazy blind stranger tells him it's going to bruise bad, but he's lucky. "You're gonna be okay, boy. This was the worst of it, I promise you."

"W-who was that?" asks the child.

The Blind Master pretends he didn't hear the question. Knows in his gut no answer could possibly suffice.

# CHAPTER ONE

She couldn't decipher the accents of the maintenance crew that rescued her from the wheel well. Working class Irish, all slurred together, every other sentence phrased like an interrogative. They did good, though, cutting her down from the landing gear, sending her ice-cold bones straight to the nearest hospital.

Jinx regained consciousness three hours later. Enjoyed a breakfast of orange juice, ham, and eggs as she pointedly ignored any questions from the physicians. One visitor, however, did manage to coax some responses from the ninja.

"I see you're still lingering," Jinx spoke as she swallowed another bite of protein.

"Hypoxia combined with hypothermia," he answered in return. She assumed the Blind Master was speaking in non-sequiturs, perhaps evidence he'd been a hallucination all along. His current gibberish? A side effect of whatever oxygen deprivation she might've experienced in the air; had to be.

"That's how they're saying you're still alive," spoke the image, now making some sense. "Chilled yourself into suspended animation. Imagine that. Those doctors are _amazed_. Did you luck into that one, or are you much smarter than this sad old man ever gave you credit for?"

Jinx studied her sensei, decided against engaging him. "This is Dublin, right? How long was I out? Where'd they put my weapons?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I look like your personal assistant?"

Jinx finished the glass of juice, immediately slid out of bed. "Have to get out of here. Find some quiet place, somewhere I can concentrate."

"Plenty of quiet in this room, girl." He observed his student, hospital gown so small it might've been a child's size, rifle through the drawers of the bureau next to her bed. "They probably burned your clothes, by the way. You think a few scoops of Tide can wash away the grime you picked up in that wheel well?"

Jinx slammed the drawer in frustration, headed for the window. "I'll think of something later."

"Just doesn't seem like the wisest choice..."

She turned, and with finger directed in the phantom's direction, admonished, "Quiet. They're not keeping me here, and I'm not allowing that maggot to escape. You got a problem with that?"

Aboard the Cobra Transport Helicopter (still in prototype, no fancy name assigned at the moment), Ren was fuming. He'd listened to the mission directives, absorbed every absurd word spoken by that fraud of a sensei, and managed to make it through the debriefing without punching a wall.

Arms crossed, lower lip out, Ren studied his fellow students. All seemed thrilled, riding in an official Cobra vehicle for the first time, endeavoring out of the country for their true introductory exam. They ate up the lies like candy, the insipid children. Over the course of this ride, Ren had grown to hate every member of the class.

All save Gordo. Not that Gordo shared Ren's anger over this assignment, this obscene betrayal, but at least he wasn't so giddy about the surrounding nonsense. "Still, mate, what you're plotting sounds rather...extreme," spoke Gordo in a whisper.

"It's what's necessary," Ren returned. "What he's doing, this 'sensei,' I can't tolerate the lies anymore. Can't sit by and watch him usurp my true teacher's identity. Especially, now that he—"

A student walked by, in full garb, on his way to the privacy curtain. Most likely Anglo, judging by his stride. "Big day, huh?" he spoke, thumbs up.

Gordo offered a courtesy nod. Ren only glared until his classmate passed. Finally, he continued his forbidden thought. "Anyway, I'm not tolerating this any longer. Today, this farce will end. And, unfortunately for the pretender, it's going to be a _bloody_ end."

"Sensei!" greeted Gordo, subconsciously tipping his head in Ren's direction. "What brings you by?" A charming smile. "And who's keeping this bird in the air?"

The sensei motioned towards the cockpit. "My copilot, I trust implicitly!" he spoke in his typical tone-deaf cadence, referring to the female student who rarely left his side. "And now, Gordo, I wish to have words with you."

Ren accepted the hint. Rose, gave the sensei no eye contact, but made sure to burn two holes in the back of the fraud's skull as he left.

"So," the sensei spoke, now in his true voice, taking a seat, "how's it feel to be on your first real Cobra mission?"

The man disguised as Gordo also dropped his false accent, while maintaining the whisper. "Not entirely certain how you're going to maneuver your way around this one, 'sensei.'"

A discreet laugh. "'I've been thinking about you and me, how much alike we are,'" spoke the imposter with yet another intonation.

"Hm?"

The imposter smiled under his mask. "1953 classic. Anyway, what I'm saying is, we're kinda in the same bind, aren't we? I tried to sing an' dance my way out of this mission best I could, but those snakes were adamant. Word I got from my superiors says to improvise an' make the best. Guess you're in the same boat, 'mate?'"

Under the Gordo mask, Burke was questioning if boisterous Americans had as much trouble with apologies as reserved Englishmen. This was the American's attempt at apologizing for overzealously "defending" the honor of his female teammate earlier, wasn't it? Or was the colonist only making nice in the hopes of eliciting some form of "sorry, mate" out of Burke?

Such byzantine interpersonal politics. Made more uncomfortable by the knowledge Burke had been lugging around with him. Yes, he could give the American a head's up, some warning about Ren's plans. But, assuming this mission went bad, and it likely could, he'd be offering up his best lead in finding the man in white.

Ren, for reasons Burke attributed to his native charm, had taken a liking to this Gordo. Would very likely bring a certain somebody along with him, to train with this true sensei. An opportunity duty and honor would compel Gordo/Burke to accept, naturally.

"Hey, Agent Double-Oh Six Ninety-Nine On Sale, you still with me?" his companion asked.

Under the mask, Burke studied the American. Tried to make peace with his decision. "Trust me, friend. I'll do only what is necessary."

# CHAPTER TWO

Through blurred eyes, Flint saw a vision of his tormentor. Certainly an unusual point of view, the man treating Flint's stomach like a stepstool, pressing his boot down with all of his weight.

"Hullo there, bilge rat," Zanzibar said, scrunching his boot with such force, the wooden board underneath threatened to snap. "Believe that's the fourth time you've blacked out on me."

"And you still got nothing but hairy palms to show for it, huh?" Flint taunted, after a brief wheezing and coughing fit.

"Don't get so cocky, friend," replied Zanzibar, lifting his foot. "I can keep this up into the mornin'." With that, he again stomped Flint's gut; a sharp, sudden attack. Flint, much as the binds would allow, jutted upward, vomited out the water he'd swallowed during the latest bout of interrogation.

Flint, now possessing most of his wits, recognized the tactic from his studies. Old waterboarding procedure from Imperial Japan, symptomatic of their brutal treatment of American GIs. Zanzibar must've read the same books, lacked the sense of indignity that overwhelmed Flint when he learned of the techniques.

"And what happens when you finally realize I'm not spilling one blessed thing?" Flint asked, paying more attention to the sky than his interrogator. Studying the phase of the moon, he guessed that daybreak wasn't so far away.

"Good question," said Zanzibar, removing a scrap of fabric from his back pocket. "That's when I haul you back an' feed ya some lima bean rations. _Then_ , I guess we'll see if your lady friend has looser lips."

Flint lifted his body, gave his restraints even more of a workout. "You're not going to place one finger on that woman, you one-eyed sack of slime." His flash of anger swiftly disappeared, as he caught sight of a surprise visitor slithering onto the south edge of the board.

Zanzibar bent over his captive, tugged the cloth across Flint's face. "An' what makes you so bloody certain?"

"Something I didn't really believe in until just now," Flint said, a smile forming. "Karma."

The newly arrived water moccasin slinked its way up the board, mistook Zanzibar's leg as a perch, and continued its journey. The Dreadnok felt the sensation, reacted by instinct and attempted to slap the serpent away. The water moccasin was also true to its nature, throwing its head back, hissing a threat, and then driving its fangs into Zanzibar's forearm.

" _Eeeiii!_ " he screeched. Flint had little opportunity to enjoy the show, given that Zanzibar's erratic reaction had him flailing madly on top of his body. The cloth was inadvertently knocked away, but Flint suffered a fierce bruise on his cheek in the bargain.

Eventually, Zanzibar's spastic movements hurled the pit viper into the nearby water. "Nasty bite there," Flint said, choosing to ignore the pain, concentrating on whatever steps were necessary to gain freedom. "Too bad no one's around to administer first aid."

Zanzibar examined the puncture wounds on his forearm. " _Unnngh_...and I'm supposed to believe _you_ would help, Joe?"

"The Joe team? We're well-known saps. No way I'd just sit around and watch you succumb to a water moccasin bite."

"W-water moccasin?" he asked, one visible eye buggy.

"You were hoping for some nonvenomous snake out here in the swamp? Pale snout, dark green body...no, that was a water moccasin, and they're every bit as foul as their reputation, buddy. Face it, I'm your best bet right now."

Zanzibar, in increasing pain (perhaps not all of it psychosomatic), sliced off the ropes attached to Flint's wrists. "Well, prove you ain't no liar," he said, presenting his arm to Flint. "G-get this venom out!"

Flint nodded, shifted his body, and got comfortable in a sitting position. Then, he nailed Zanzibar right on the chin, knocking him out cold.

"Don't know if Florence Nightingale would approve of that treatment, but she never had to deal with any Dreadnoks, did she?"

It would've been easy, leaving the pirate weirdo out there to die. Heck, "dying" was a mite dramatic. Most water moccasin bites weren't fatal; it's not like the Dreadnok had an Eastern diamondback sneak up on him. Then, he'd have reasons to lose his cool—instantaneous internal hemorrhaging and cardiac arrest kind of reasons. Flint shoved Zanzibar's unconscious form out of the way, reached down to untie his ankle binds.

Still, an untreated water moccasin bite might require amputation. And it wasn't unheard of for a victim to go into anaphylactic shock. Standing, Flint eyed the Dreadnok, sighed, and rolled the scum over with his foot.

Bending over Zanzibar's body, Flint examined the bite in the moonlight, couldn't get a good enough view. A cursory search located the Dreadnok's flashlight and knife. Flint, flashlight in mouth, carefully cut an X into the flesh covering Zanzibar's ulna. He allowed the flashlight to drop, lowered his mouth, formed a seal over the wound, then sucked out the venom.

As he spat the poison into the water, he thought of a girl he dated during his time as a Rhodes Scholar, a medical student finishing up her years at Oxford. Out at the movies, they saw this routine play out in some braindead action movie. During dinner, she maintained venom entered the bloodstream insanely fast; sucking it out didn't make any sense. All the luck in the world, and still you couldn't remove the poison before it did its damage.

Flint asked why they were still teaching people that technique if it didn't work. She shrugged her shoulders, told him it was likely a comforting lie that had caught on.

"Well, my Dreadnok amigo, for your sake, I hope she was wrong," Flint said after he wrapped a strip of clothing over the cut, then positioned Zanzibar's body on the board. With the remaining pieces of rope, he tied up the Dreadnok in a fashion ensuring he'd cause little trouble until found. Examining his work, Flint had to do a double-take. He trained the flashlight on Zanzibar's mug to make sure he saw what he thought he saw.

"And what's this now...?" Flint asked no one, confirming that Zanzibar's mustache had relocated to the side of his face.

She felt bad, swiping a sweater, sneakers, and pair of jeans from the homeless shelter three blocks from the hospital. Kept a mental note of the address, promised herself she'd mail a donation when she returned to the States. Assuming she made it out of this alive, of course.

From the boathouse rafters, a party-crasher surveyed the room. She'd have to loot the finest luxury boutique in Dublin to fit in with this crowd. In addition to attending an extensive charm course, tacking on an additional twenty-five years in age, and perhaps altering other irreversible aspects of her form. Posh party like this, unlikely she'd ever be welcome.

"Eh. Don't be so hard on the stiffs. This _is_ for charity," spoke the ever-present voice hovering about.

Jinx remained silent. The Blind Master floating around, always with his cracks, had gotten old a good five seconds after his first appearance.

"Play your cards right, this could be a momentous occasion. How you're gonna do it with your bare hands, I dunno. But, Lord willing, it can be the day you finally put this monster in the ground. The day your family—"

"I don't need you to remind me of anything," she spoke, curtly.

The sensei ignored her outburst, continued his thought. "And to think that guy claimed you had too much 'ego,' Miss Bare Hands Killer."

"He's a jerk," she responded, refusing to acknowledge Low-Light, even with his lack of social graces, might've had a point. "Same as you."

"Aw, you're gonna talk to your beloved mentor that way?"

"He's being so much help, isn't he?"

"Well, it ain't the '70s anymore; ain't nobody wearing bellbottoms. Hey, you'd tell the blind man if they were, wouldn't you?" He exhausted too much energy on that dumb joke. She could feel his disappointment through the astral plane. Finally catching a hint, the Blind Master adopted a more sincere tone. "Just too bad that blue-eyed demon in your unit couldn't be here. Were I you, I wouldn't face that monster in white without him."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, hiding irritation as well as Jinx could be expected to.

"I thought I could take this burden from you, but I was already too old for the fight. Assumed one of your people would've taken him out by now. Time just keeps on tickin' forward..."

"I still have no idea—"

Anger flashed on his withered face. "Girl, haven't you made that connection yet? Don't you government types have entire databases on those people?"

"What people?"

"The ones you fight...the whole reason your unit was formed...you've never made this connection?" The anger seemed to fade; he radiated more amusement than pique now. "Don't tell me one old man outsmarted a swank outfit like the Joe team."

Perhaps morbid amusement.

She cut off the conversation, turned all of her attention to the crowd below. The goat had proven useful, though, nudging Jinx in the proper direction. Guiding her sight beyond sight to focus on the spirit of her adversary, to infer from the clues where to find him next.

A charity function for the neighborhoods decimated by "The Troubles," an ethno-nationalist conflict that Jinx had to acknowledge she didn't fully understand. She'd heard some talk about outdated fears of Spain using Ireland as a base of operation were at the root, which seemed absurd. Other theories about an oppressed minority reacting with violence against perceived excesses of the authorities seemed more plausible, but she had no means of knowing for sure.

Presently, she didn't care. Astral visions directed her to this gala, the place where she would meet again the monster in white. Meet him not as a child, she had to remind herself. It would be their final meeting. Tonight, this cycle of madness would finally end.

The multistory boathouse was the pride of the university, home of Dublin's famous rowing club. The luncheon promised a bird's eye view of the finish line, with international entry and alumni crews offering non-stop action, per the invitation. Naturally, the young athletes would have to compete against a four-course meal and open bar for the attendees' attention.

Storm Shadow never received his invitation. He was content to find a hiding spot inside the men's room. Any boredom was alleviated by thoughts of a check with several zeroes, his imbursement for the assassination of Judge Basil Walsh.

The ninja was even less informed on these "Troubles" than Jinx—merely knew this judge had sentenced the wrong men to prison five years prior. A media circus at the time, quickly forgotten in the States. No small matter for the judge, wearing a bulletproof vest under his robes, making his final deliberations in secret, under the protection of SAS bodyguards. Twenty-two convictions in the end, the sentences totaling four thousand years.

Some of them had hopes for an appeal. Others had associates on the outside. Expected a different petition on their behalf.

Their money was the right color, Storm Shadow told himself. No honor to be found in these conflicts, either way. He studied Walsh's photo a final time, returned it to his belt. His hand brushed against the stolen tantō blade.

The ninja questioned again why he hadn't tossed the thing by now. He should've asked why he was lying to himself.

"Give me a puff of that, Monkeywrench," ordered Zarana as she stepped onto the porch. A beautiful evening out in the swamp, made all the more lovely by the knowledge that a Joe was out there, experiencing numerous rounds of Dreadnok interrogation.

Zarana couldn't bring herself to snuff out those Joes, maybe, but the thought of one of them enjoying intense, prolonged discomfort was enough to lighten her mood.

"Didn't know you was one for a cancer stick, luv," said Monkeywrench, not taking his eyes off the swamp as he handed her his cigarette.

Zarana took a drag. "I occasionally indulge in some vices, mate. You just don't know me so well."

"Yet, here I am, the veteran Dreadnok...present company excluded. Y'think Zartan has any plans to free our mates?"

"Couldn't say for sure," she said, handing back the cigarette, the filter now smeared with her magenta lipstick. "His new masters, whoever they may be, might not approve. Are they the ones who foisted this pirate wannabe on us?"

Monkeywrench redirected his body, leaned against the railing as he turned to his companion. "Zartan called 'im up. Said he was keepin' this Zanzibar in reserves. A probationary member, just like Road Pig."

"I had enough interactions with 'Donald' before that mess in New York hemmed me up. If he's the best class we can find, I say it's time to disband our little club."

"Don't know if I'd prefer Donnie over the pirate." After taking another drag, Monkeywrench offered the ciggie back to Zarana. She lifted her hand to decline. "Strong as an ox, but he ain't all there. Zanzibar, though, seems to have some wits about him."

"Yeah, speak'a the devil," she said, turning her attention to the swamp. "That's the sound of his skiff, ain't it?"

In under a minute, the airborne skiff reached the cabin. "That bleedin' Joe slipped out on me! We need to instigate a search party!" barked the nervous voice of Zanzibar.

"I can't trust you t'do anythin' right, can I?" Zarana yelled from the porch.

"You two head east, I'll go west!" the pirate shouted back, steering his skiff westward.

"Wait a minute!"

Monkeywrench stubbed out the cigarette. "So he's the one givin' orders now, yeah?"

"I'll deal with him later," Zarana said, leaping off the porch, racing towards a nearby Swampfire craft. "We best locate that Joe!"

Judge Walsh had finished his business, was washing his hands and debating whether to indulge in more carrageen moss pudding when he caught movement in the mirror. Instinctive jerk reaction, the kind you instantly regret if someone catches you. The kind your evolved, conscious mind blames on your stubborn, archaic lizard brain instincts.

The judge's instincts, in this case, were correct. He was right to jerk. He should've gone straight for that door.

Behind him was the image of a man in white, his face garbed, sword drawn. The older man had no time to fully process the sight, let alone mount a true defense.

He didn't need to, actually. The door kicked open, revealing the lithe form of a young woman. Her attire wasn't as showy as the man in white's; was quite drab, really, in clothes that looked as if they'd been retrieved from the rubbish bin.

Judge Walsh would fully form those thoughts later. At this moment, he was speechless, watching the strange woman glide through the room. In less time than he could possibly calculate, she'd leapt into the air, connected her sneakers against the ninja's face with an astonishing force.

Jinx was unconcerned with the body at the sink. Barely even registered his presence, couldn't begin to grasp why her personal monster would be concerned with the older man. A more lucid Jinx would've breathed a sigh of relief when the gentleman raced, unharmed, through the door.

All attention was directed towards the monster, to the man whose identity was now coming into focus.

She saw him once, that night she'll never escape, in a full-zip hoodie and warm-up gear. All white, barring red streaks on the sides. His ski mask followed an identical color scheme, like a trail of blood in a snowstorm. It dawned on her now, the significance of the colors.

He'd altered his new outfit over the years—made a final revision months earlier, removing that Cobra insignia—but its inspiration was no longer obscured. In the light of day, she could recognize the truth.

_Arashikage._ The translation to English; she'd never even considered it before. Jinx's mind radiated fire. Not all of it directed in the monster's direction.

As he blocked her follow-up jab, Jinx studied her opponent's eyes. She did her best to parry as he returned with a cross kick, trying like mad to channel her anger and disappointment. She'd finally made the connection. This mercenary, this Storm Shadow, to her nothing but the alias of a Cobra operative—one of dozens buried in a stack of intel files— was so much more.

"Who are you?" she cried, shifting her body to the floor, hoping to rob him of gravity with a tiger tail sweep. "Why do you wear my ancestors' _gei_?"

He dodged her sweep, lifted his blade overhead and shouted, "Worthless child, you deserve no answers!"

Jinx spun away, missing the sword by only an inch. Momentum of her spin carried her to one of the stalls. As her body collided with the wood, she howled, " _You're_ the unworthy one, 'Storm Shadow!' Taking our family's identity, destroying the memory of our clan."

Eyes wide, he answered, "You could never understand, child. _Never!_ " As Jinx ignored the throbbing in her shoulder, attempted to pull herself off the floor, her monster aimed a diagonal swing at her neck. Didn't expect her to move that fast, to squirm out of the way and land an uppercut while going vertical. Impact was nothing to dismiss; was heavy enough to force him to drop his blade.

Storm Shadow's disbelief didn't delay his retaliation, however. The ninja landed a painful chop on her side, sent Jinx reeling to his left. As he reached for her throat, he had his first inkling her dizzy dance was but an act. Jinx ducked in time, was close enough to swipe her tantō blade from his belt. Wasted not one second flipping the grip into her wrist, slicing her monster's side.

"Nice move, girl. _Nasty_ ," spoke a voice only she could hear. Unbidden, thoughts of that night returned.

First blood was hers. An excess of emotions crashed inside her. Anger at this killer's actions, relief at having found him, fear of her possible failure, and the unnerving sense of sick joy emanating from her sensei.

She would've truly exploited her advantage, taken more than a little satisfaction in Storm Shadow's muffled cry, were it not for the sound at the door. Not one sound, actually. The murmur of numerous footsteps, marching in near-unison.

Before either ninja could respond, the bathroom's entrance was flooded with countless variations of Jinx's nightmare.

One duplicate after another of the monster in white.

# CHAPTER THREE

Flint wasn't shocked to learn Zanzibar's pirate act was just that. Discovering the latest Dreadnok was horseshoe bald under that wig, though, that was unexpected, and highly amusing. At least some bit of humor after a miserable two days.

A wig, glued on mustache, eyepatch to cover a perfectly clear eye...did those scruffy mutts know they'd recruited a full-on fraud? Did they care?

No matter. The act was so utterly absurd, Flint had no trouble assuming the role. Didn't care for the outfit one bit, but he'd endured more demeaning disguises in his day. All that mattered was that Zarana and Monkeywrench fell for it, were currently searching in the opposite of Zanzibar's direction. Searching for a Joe who wasn't missing at all.

Stepping into the cabin, Flint prepared to handle the last of the Dreadnoks. Given the size of the lug, he recognized subterfuge as superior to any direct contact. And, considering the IQ of said lug, Flint didn't anticipate any difficulties.

He discovered Road Pig at the kitchen table, crayons and construction paper scattered everywhere.

"Road Pig!" Flint shouted in his best cartoon pirate drawl. "Yer needed in the swamp!"

Road Pig, stunned, accidentally snapped his crayon in half. "Wut's that? Don't tell me lovely Zarana be in danger!"

"Ah, could be, mate! That Joe got loose, an' he's mighty powerful, I'll tell ya that!" Flint spotted the drawing on the table. A crayon tribute to the questionable beauty of Zarana, expressed in a manner befitting a deranged six-year-old. "Yeah, he told me he had a score to settle with our Zarana...yeah, that it wouldn't be pretty!"

Road Pig's hands whirled around his face, twirling feverishly until they settled into fists. "I'll smash that Joe hard! Make 'im feel my hammer!" The Dreadnok stood, reached for the weapon resting against the oven. Road Pig's intense grip seemed strong enough to break the handle. "Make 'im bleed! Make 'im...make 'im...oh, dearest me, I got a mite dizzy there."

His companion, mouth agape, watched as Road Pig dropped his hammer to the floor, lifted his right hand against his temple. After massaging his forehead for nearly a minute, the Dreadnok looked up, gave an embarrassed smile.

"Ah, Zanzibar. I fear you've caught me in the midst of a peculiar, but sadly common, transition," spoke a tranquil, cultured voice that belonged on NPR's afternoon line-up. "See, when Road Pig finds life too stressful, too nerve-wracking for his sensitive emotions, that's Donald's cue to resume the wheel." Retrieving the hammer, Road Pig headed towards the door. "I trust you'll look after the captives?" he asked over his shoulder. "Marvelous. Now, don't dawdle, point me in Zarana's direction!"

"She went...west," he replied, mouth still half-open.

They were told they'd be facing an imposter. Some charlatan, most likely a member of the Joe team, who'd usurped their sensei's identity. Fortune had granted them the info, the higher-ups discovering his location at this random society event, threatening the life of a valuable Cobra asset.

Ren could stomach these lies no more. When the pretend-sensei ordered the class through the door, Ren made certain he'd be the first through. Pushed his way to the front, so determined that no one before him would view this "imposter," stand in his way of judging if he'd finally been reunited with his true mentor.

Didn't even notice his pal Gordo was missing.

When the moment arrived, Ren could hardly move. Not just the physique, but the stance, the demeanor, all telegraphed the truth. This man, this alleged fraud, was anything but.

For his part, the true sensei was equally stunned. Bad enough the slicing of that blade had sent such a queasy feeling throughout his body, that some strange migraine was infiltrating his brain cells. Now this?

The arrival of men dressed as his pupils, subservient to some stranger, sent the killer into temporary motionlessness. Betrayal, jealousy, resentment all tacked on to the frustration, confusion triggered by this girl and obnoxious blade. And with no time to question their motivation, to appeal to past loyalties, he heard this strange _new_ leader direct them to attack.

"No mercy!" the imposter cried. His charges leapt into the fray, no reluctance to obey this command. No reluctance in all but the lone straggler, his mouth still agape.

Storm Shadow whispered a mantra, assumed his stance, laid the leading attacker low with a Choku-Tsuki straight punch. Two attackers followed, on his left and right. Head pounding, the ninja still dismissed the trainees with ease, pulling his left attacker closer, then swinging him 180 degrees to collide against the body of the fool on the right.

"Traitors!" he called. "I'll sever every neck if I must..." Behind him crept Jinx, tantō in hand. She couldn't guess the full story behind this invasion. Couldn't even allow herself speculation on why an army of men garbed in Storm Shadow's _gei_ had infiltrated a public restroom. At this moment, it didn't matter. Jinx wouldn't allow it to.

She knew the risk; recognized how unlikely it would be, sneaking up on a skilled master like Storm Shadow. Felt she had to take it, had to exploit her one opportunity to finish off the monster for good.

So concerned with the potential danger to her north, she didn't catch the hand on her left, pulling her aside. "Not smart, girlie," spoke the muted voice of the lone female trainee.

"Hey, it's my old bud, Sea-Goin' Sam!" Chuckles greeted in a mocking tone, ankle chained to the bedpost. "Ready to go another round, swamp breath?"

"Ease up, Chuck. I recognize that walk," Lady Jaye said from the opposite side of the bedroom that was also serving as the Joes' prison.

"Reassuring to know," Flint said, still in the Zanzibar disguise, still feeling like a fool. "I've drawn the Dreadnoks away from the house, but that won't last for long." Using a key he'd stolen from the kitchen, Flint unlocked the chain attached to Jaye's ankle. "I need you guys to radio base."

"And you're gonna be...?" asked Jaye, as she accepted the key Flint handed her.

"Robbing every last bit of ammo from their armory," he replied, already headed for the door.

"Sensei," spoke the timorous voice. "It's you! I thought you'd abandoned us," the words came, as Ren approached the ninja.

Storm Shadow was smashing his knee against the chin of Ren's classmate.

"You are the true master, the one I've waited so long to see again."

The ninja-in-training with the sore jaw felt Storm Shadow's hand grip the back of his _gei._ Experienced an upside down view of the room as he was flung into the path of an approaching attacker.

"This fraud that's taken your place. He's not fit to lick the dirt from your feet!"

Speaking of that particular devil, the new sensei brushed past Ren, ducked an incoming barrage of flying trainees, and was finally granted an audience with his predecessor. Storm Shadow examined the eyes of his replacement. Even in the confusion, he recognized the presence of an old enemy. Not the Amerindian, but the loudmouth, cocksure member of the Joe team. The pathetic one who'd been Americanized beyond belief.

"You! You would dishonor me in this way!"

The new sensei only answered with his fists, aiming a series of fast jabs at Storm Shadow. Most were blocked, enough connected to fluster the already enraged ninja. That anger was transmitted through a pitiless hook punch, landing heavy on the imposter's face, forcing him meters away.

Storm Shadow hoped the move would compensate for his unease. Perhaps clear the disorder in his mind. Instead, he was gripped by an image, a child's viewpoint. Her terrified eyes as an intruder entered her family home.

The reverential student barely registered the chaos. Continued his approach, was finally close enough to reach his idol.

"Teacher...do you remember me?" he asked, hand reaching out, the pose not dissimilar to Michelangelo's _The Creation of Adam_.

Pure instinct compelled the ninja to grab the hand, bend it to the breaking point, then follow through with a kick to the chest, the force rivaling that of a purebred stallion.

More images exploded. White and red. Scent of copper. More red flying through the sky, staining the white.

Ren's body crashed into the wall of mirrors. His heart gave its final beat before he hit the floor.

"Retinal scans, I kid you not," Chuckles told Flint, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Didn't know the snakes were getting so hi-tech," Flint responded, laying another handgun he'd pilfered from the cabin onto the kitchen table. "Or that they'd entrust that kinda gear with the Dreadnoks. I was able to collect a few pieces around the house, but most of these rooms are locked tight."

Lady Jaye selected a pistol, one just large enough to fit into her waistband without encumbering her movements. Thought for a second; decided to take two. "Let me guess; the 'wooden' doors didn't turn out to be so wooden?"

Flint nodded his agreement. Counted out the pieces on the table; five handguns, no rifles, no explosives, no futuristic wonders that could aid in what would likely be a hairy escape.

"Deep pockets could explain how they knew when and where to locate Zarana," said Chuckles as he selected two pieces. "Regardless, without the proper peepers, we can't access their fancy radio."

"We'll have to go into town, then," Flint stated plainly.

Chuckles' spirits lifted. "Found two nice bikes in their garage while futzing about for the comm equipment. I call dibs on the '72 Davidson FLH."

Jinx absorbed those forest green eyes, realized in an instant the voice belonged to no stranger. "Scarlett? What are you—?"

"Undercover work," she responded, motioning Jinx to join her inside a stall. As she closed the door, she continued, "And that hot dog with all the relish out there, currently dancing around Storm Shadow, is Quick Kick. Those stooges are Cobra trainees. _Our_ trainees." Jinx's attention seemed to drift at this point. "We'd like to bring the assassin back alive, if possible. And maintain our cover. As for you, what the heck are you doing in Dublin?"

Jinx couldn't answer. Instead, she reached for the stall door. "Long story. Mind if I divulge the details later?"

Greeting Jinx as she opened the door was the disguised Quick Kick, trading two-finger spear punches and knife hand strikes with Storm Shadow, as the humbled trainees did their best to observe. More than eager to cheap shot the monster, Jinx charged towards Storm Shadow, in the midst of countering a push kick from her ally.

Proving he was every bit as good as his rep, Storm Shadow had Quick Kick's leg in a grip, perfect position to swing in Jinx's direction, connect in that millisecond before she was close enough to attack. After launching one Joe into another, Storm Shadow batted off the nearby trainees. Captured his sword, which had slid underneath the sinks. Barely noticed the lifeless form nearby as he crunched the glass shards and thundered towards the exit.

Three novices stood in his way. Storm Shadow broke no sweat leaping over them, made a point of kicking one hard in the face as he landed.

Jinx, picking herself off the ground, grit her teeth as she witnessed his escape. "Are you _kidding_ me?!" she barked.

"Hey, darlin', nothin' in life can ever be easy," Quick Kick said quietly, forsaking his role as the merciless, taciturn ninja sensei.

Jinx didn't look in his direction. "Forget this," she muttered, stepping over her teammate and racing after her monster.

Lady Jaye pulled her body closer to Flint's. She wanted to gauge his reaction; didn't care if he knew it. "Lucky that air skiff doesn't seat two comfortably, huh?"

Flint didn't look back her way, navigating the "borrowed" '77 Triumph T140 through the morass of this Florida swamp. "It's a pain to steer, actually."

After thirty seconds of silence, she tried again. "So, should I be honored or insulted you asked me along?"

"You shouldn't be assigning any cognitive activity to that decision, Jaye. Two bikes, three Joes."

Jaye pulled her head closer to his ear; thought she'd give the lug another shot at saying the right thing. "I don't have an issue riding pillion, but I noticed you offered quick for me to join the back of _your_ ride."

"What are you implying?" asked Flint, as uncomfortable with the conversation as Jaye feared he would be.

"That you didn't want me on the back of that _other_ bike," she answered, vocalizing for the first time Flint's jealous attitude towards their teammate. "Flint, I'm not blind. I know what you _think_ you see. And you're being ridiculous. Even if things between us have been bad lately, I can't believe you'd think that."

"I am not having this conversation with you," Flint attempted to say dispassionately, avoiding an opossum that suddenly appeared in their path.

"Of course you aren't. Because heaven forbid we actually talk about what's—"

Flint, no warning, applied the brakes. " _That's_ not why. Look!"

A greater nuisance than a soggy marsupial had entered the swamp trail. A few meters away, close enough to hear the steady rumble of the Triumph's engine, was the Swampfire manned by Monkeywrench and Zarana.

Still in his Zanzibar disguise, Flint could've pulled the same trick twice. Flipped that eyepatch back on, told them Jaye was his captive, that he'd taken care of those other Joes. No need to stay out here; you guys be sure to leave ahead of me. No reason to fear turning your back to a fellow Dreadnok, right?

He'd forgotten he'd donned the outfit, though. Only knew that his opponents were feet away; assumed they'd fire on him if he didn't do so first.

So, without hesitation, Flint unholstered his pistol and released four quick rounds.

Zarana, piloting the craft (which took two hits to its carbon-mesh hull), aimed the headlight in the direction of the blasts. "Zanzibar?"

From his position on the left pontoon arm, Zarana's companion confirmed her speculation. "What y'think he's tryin' to pull?"

More rounds came their way. "Blimey!" shouted Monkeywrench, the next blast only missing his scalp by an inch. "I say we cancel this seadog's probationary period!"

He reached into his bandolier, withdrew a grenade, removed the pin just as the next round grazed his right arm.

Zarana turned to her side, witnessed with horror Monkeywrench dropping the grenade; witnessed the explosive rolling from the pontoon into the craft. "Move it!" she cried.

Leaping from the front of the Swampfire, she reached the water two seconds before detonation. Ruined her outfit, but escaped any injuries. Monkeywrench wasn't as fortunate. Though he made it into the water, felt only heat from the actual blast, the explosion ripped apart the air induction engine cover. Rained shards of carbon and aluminum into the swamp, the largest fragment connecting with the top of Monkeywrench's head.

The female Dreadnok called his name, splashed through the water and debris to reach him. Zarana had little time to examine Monkeywrench's wound. Two sets of boots were approaching, and given the unlikelihood of that Lady Jaye hussy switching sides, she had to assume the man wearing Zanzibar's clothes was in fact...

"Flint. Y'proud of yourself, huh?"

"Hands up, sister," he replied, not only appropriating Dreadnok clothing, but also one of their weapons. She recognized that pistol, a present from her brother on her sweet sixteenth.

"Y' bloody twerp!" shrieked Zarana, her hands not leaving Monkeywrench's face. "I've got an injured man here!"

"And whose fault is that?" asked Flint. From behind, he heard Jaye's stage cough. He caught the hint, stepped closer to the Dreadnoks and bent down to personally inspect Monkeywrench's wound. The expression Zarana gave as he approached reminded him of the look the water moccasin offered the pirate earlier.

"How is he?" asked Jaye.

Flint stood. "Looks like a bad hit. Decent amount of blood."

"You have bandages and medical supplies in your cabin, Zarana?"

"We ain't savages," Zarana fired back. "We got first aid kits there. First cabinet on the left in the kitchen."

Flint gestured for Zarana to help him lift Monkeywrench's unconscious form out of the water. With a sneer, she responded. After he'd been safely placed on the grass, Zarana said nothing as Flint removed Monkeywrench's bandolier.

When Jaye had finished checking the Dreadnok's pulse, Flint approached with the bandolier. "Take this," he ordered.

"Flint, that's ridiculous. I don't need a cache of explosives."

He moved behind her, fastened the bandolier anyway. "You don't know what you'll need out here."

Jaye sighed, removed a scrap of clothing from her sleeve, told Flint to make sure it stayed pressed against Monkeywrench's wound. With that, she mounted the Triumph, headed back to the cabin.

"How she gonna find her way back 'ere with the supplies?" asked Zarana.

Flint lifted his pistol, advised the Dreadnok to keep her hands up. "She's smart enough to figure it out. And 'you're welcome' for the aid, by the way."

The MagCharger flashlight swiped from the cabin provided more than enough illumination for the night. Stepping closer to Zarana, he spotted a grenade hooked to Monkeywrench's jeans' pocket. Without a word, he removed the explosive and latched it to one of his own belt loops.

After patting down Zarana, Flint applied that scrap of Jaye's clothing, instructed Zarana to keep it pressed against Monkeywrench's wound. He then stepped away, chose to keep his eyes off the patient; enjoyed the scenery instead. Decided Zarana was paying the hairbag more than enough attention, anyway.

"Seems like all we do is bandage you losers' boo-boos..." Flint said after the silence became too unbearable.

"Wut's that supposed to mean?"

Flint shook his head. "Nothing."

Zarana's attention returned to her teammate. "Y'know, I could kick myself, goin' soft on you Joes recently."

"Is that what you call the past two days?"

She snorted through her nose, shook her head with disdain. "All three of you still have pulses, right?"

Flint chose not to take the bait. Another minute of silence followed, before the sound of weapon fire violated the night. Flint snapped to attention, did everything he could not to entertain certain unbearable thoughts.

"I'm going to check that out," he said, holding his piece close to his heart. "You—I need you to take those boots off."

Zarana snorted. "Yer dreamin', yank."

"His boots, too. Get to it." Flint directed the pistol her way; she recognized the gun sight tracked directly to her forehead. The Joe wasn't kidding.

The monster in white wasn't hard to spot in the dining hall, shoving his way past the guests, leaping over serving trays and rustic oak tables. In precisely fifty-eight seconds she'd discern why he'd chosen the most brazen path out; piece together why he didn't double-back in the bathroom, jump out of the window.

When the realization did hit, she berated herself, labeled herself an amateur. Before that moment, however, she did a magnificent job, chasing Storm Shadow through the crowd, avoiding every civilian the ninja had shoved in her path.

Caught up with him before Scarlett and Quick Kick had a chance to find her. Maybe an infinitesimal fraction of her consciousness felt good about this; the rest was focused on the monster. On approaching at just the right angle, landing that side kick against his chest.

The monster couldn't deny he felt it; had to step back a foot or two. Retaliated fast, though, aiming a scissor punch at Jinx's shoulder blade. The impact nearly had her on the floor. She'd gotten close enough, though. Close enough to reach out with her tantō and extract another bit of flesh.

"Arrgh! _Saitei!_ " he shouted, clutching his left elbow. "Less than scum!"

She couldn't enjoy the reaction. Couldn't focus on anything but the objective, finally ending this menace. Jinx swiped again with her knife, found the move blocked. Used her free hand for a shot at his stomach, landed that one.

Annoyed, Storm Shadow took a step back. Reached into his belt, released three shuriken. Another moment Jinx will look back on, wince with pain. She didn't catch the look in his eye; didn't realize the monster had spotted his true target, seven yards to his north.

She'll replay this moment. Always in slow motion, a sharp contrast to the reality.

The throwing stars whizzed past her ear, accelerated faster than the eye could perceive, speeding towards their target.

She didn't even know his name, then. Judge Basil Walsh. Frightened out of his mind, hoping against hope to be lost in this crowd. To escape this chaos, to see his baby grandson one last time.

One shuriken did miss the mark. Flew past the judge's nose, wedged itself into a support beam. Two connected, piercing his right deltoid and triceps. Jinx didn't realize this, was too concerned with landing another blow on the monster. Was seething with anger when he blocked her snap punch, responded by landing two fast kicks on her ribcage.

As she hit the floor, she caught the commotion to her north. Saw the horrified response of the nearest civilian, as the judge's hefty physique hit the floor.

Jinx forced her body to leave the ground, told every ache in her physique to shut up. Didn't bother to look behind her, to see if the monster remained. Aiding the civilian was now top priority.

Her monster was gone anyway.

# CHAPTER FOUR

Flint tossed those boots several meters away, into the deepest section of the water. An old bit from the afternoon cowboy movies; maybe a cliché, but an effective one. Not even a Dreadnok could traverse this terrain barefoot.

The direction of that gunfire was to his west, the same section Chuckles had been assigned. Flint buried any animosity he felt towards the Rawhide, just kept pushing his way through the muck.

Of course, it wasn't impossible the shots had something to do with Jaye. He kept telling himself this wasn't true, even as paranoid visions of her in danger kept assaulting his imagination.

MagCharger caught a glint of metal in the marsh. His suspicion was confirmed as he lifted the piece—one of the handguns pilfered from the Dreadnoks earlier. One of Chuckles' selections. Flint checked the chamber, confirmed the ammo had been spent.

He'd run into that mountain of Dreadnok. Burned through every round in the hand cannon. Flint steeled himself, dismissed any fears and anxieties and kept his mind on the mission.

Although Flint's MOS did not include tracking through boggy environments, the Joes offered a well-rounded education. The seventeen-part course in stalking prey (animal and otherwise) helmed by his teammate Recondo was no joke.

Didn't take Flint too long to find the remains of the Harley so admired by his teammate. Guessed Chuckles' ride had an unfortunate encounter with Road Pig's cinderblock mallet. Footprints, belonging to two individuals of disparate heights, were nearby. The smaller set of prints seemed to disappear after a few feet. Not so the larger ones. In under five minutes, Flint had located Road Pig, sludging through the swampland, engaged in a one-man conversation.

"Blasted pretty boy...runnin' out on me just when the fightin' gets good," Flint overhead the disturbed Dreadnok mutter from a safe distance. "Keepin' me from findin' me precious Zarana." He gripped the hammer tighter. "Makes me nervous; her out 'ere with that Monkeywrench. Seen the way he eyes her..."

Flint stepped out of the tall grass, flashlight indexed by his neck, pistol aimed at his target. "Having lady trouble, Road Pig?"

The Dreadnok turned. "Huh?"

"They can do a number on you. Or maybe that's not so enlightened of me. Could be, we do it to ourselves."

"Zanzibar! Why is you speakin' like some yank?" Road Pig lifted his hammer, took a step towards Flint. The Joe fired a warning shot into the water.

" _Drop that_ —now!"

"I'm thinkin' you isn't no Dreadnok!" he said, taking that prohibited next step. "That one'a them Joes must be playin' a trick!"

Flint fired another shot; couldn't believe the Dreadnok was fast enough to use his hammer to block it. "I'm thinkin' you best have some answers. Where's me mate, huh?"

Road Pig charged the rest of the short distance towards Flint, nearly knee-length water not impeding his stride. Flint released another round; a headshot that whizzed past the Dreadnok's left ear.

The hammer flew down; Flint bounded out of its way, tried to take another shot as he rolled onto the grass. Another miss. No chance at taking a second shot, as Road Pig casually lifted the Joe by his right leg, flung him back into the water. The commotion cost Flint the gun and flashlight.

Soaking wet, Flint stood, prepared himself for the coming battle. Weaponless, barely any light, facing off against an inhumanly strong Dreadnok who possessed, in addition to a good five inches on him, a blasted cinderblock for a hammer.

All to rescue a guy he didn't particularly like.

_Rescue?_ Flint corrected. Chuckles still hadn't been found. There was a chance he was _avenging_ this Joe.

Perhaps that inspired Flint to press the attack, to charge towards Road Pig and hope a combination of honed agility and luck would enable him to keep his head attached.

"Y'think you can disguise yourself as one'a us?" The Dreadnok took another swing, planted the cinderblock into the mud. The sliver of a second it took him to remove the hammer, Flint used to his advantage, lifting his knee, targeting Road Pig's face for a vicious front kick.

The Dreadnok staggered back; Flint charged forward, landed two cheap, fast hits on his stomach. Road Pig absorbed the blows, grunted, placed both hands on Flint's shoulder. He flung the soldier sideways, propelling his body into a thick-bottomed cypress tree.

Flint thanked the heavens he didn't lose consciousness. Wasn't able to get fully on his feet by the time Road Pig returned, hammer in hand. Flint made the only available move, slamming his fist into the Dreadnok's left knee.

" _Arrgh_!" Road Pig was forced to take a step back, but never lost hold of his hammer. "I calls that dirty pool!" Flint noticed, using the cypress for support, the Dreadnok leaning on his good leg, striding forward. Hammer lifted, he yelled, "How y'like it when _I_ play dirty?"

He wouldn't have liked it one bit, that cinderblock mallet crashing into his skull. Fortunately, an unexpected figure chose that moment to make his entrance. To use the sturdy MagCharger Flint dropped earlier as a club, buffaloing Road Pig against the noggin, soon dropping him to the soggy ground.

"Hey, Chuckles," Flint spoke with the first breath that returned. "Darned shame about that Harley, huh?"

The horde of Storm Shadow clones entered the dining hall. Their sensei ordered them to halt their advance, to show these civilians the proper deference. Didn't sound like the type of command typically given by a Cobra officer, but the flunkies complied.

Quick Kick and Scarlett didn't immediately locate Jinx. Had to maneuver through the tangled collection of petrified socialites and wait staff first. Eventually they found her, positioned above Judge Walsh, using scraps of clothing to slow the bleeding, both hands to apply pressure to the wounds.

Scarlett approached cautiously, didn't realize how badly her appearance was panicking the judge. "Jinx, do you need any—"

"I think you guys need to split," she spoke bluntly, keeping her focus on the judge. "This mess isn't getting better."

Scarlett considered Jinx's words. Didn't finish her thought; nodded, then directed Quick Kick to lead the trainees back to their concealed craft a few blocks away. During their escape, she opened her hidden transceiver, took a final look back at Jinx, and called for emergency aid.

Flint, still garbed as a punk rock pirate, and Chuckles, prized Hawaiian shirt torn to shreds, had been dragging Road Pig's unconscious body through the swamp for nearly twenty minutes. With the behemoth of a Dreadnok out cold and his teammates all neutralized, Flint had allowed himself some measure of hope.

Cars could be overheard from the nearby rural highway, giving the Joes something resembling a destination. The road would lead them into a town, lead them to a phone they could use to call backup, call the local authorities.

So, when red and blue lights greeted the soldiers at the swampland's edge, both were relieved. Both were overly optimistic, as well.

"Put those hands right up, boys!" bellowed the Mangrove County Sheriff, positioned by his patrol car, which had been parked a few feet from the side of the road. He was joined by his loyal deputy R. L., already directing his flashlight towards the movement.

R. L. squinted at the sight, two scraggly freaks dragging another freak through the grass. More than enough to arouse the suspicion of the tall, reedy man. (The physical opposite of the rotund Sheriff Hardy, a fact easily noticed. Hardy forbade anyone at the office from calling R. L. by his last name, anticipating jokes about Stan and Oliver's old-timey slapstick act.)

"Nice an' easy there," said Deputy R. L., approaching with weapon drawn. "I got a feeling you two know something 'bout this racket that's been goin' on."

Flint, hands raised, responded, "Sir, we're members of an elite military force. If you'd just—"

The newly arrived Sheriff bust a gut laughing, then said, "Lordy, you must think I been indulgin' in the same substances you enjoy! Tell me what kinda military outfit is gonna let its members dress like two joyboys out on the stroll?"

Chuckles adopted a respectful tone, told the Sheriff, "Sir, we're just asking for some professional courtesy here."

" _Pff._ Sounds likely," Deputy R. L. scoffed.

The roar of the Triumph interrupted Flint's next attempt at appeasement. Both men turned, looked into the trees, felt sick at the sight of Zarana and Zanzibar arriving. The last time they saw that bike...

Zarana shut off the engine, deployed the kickstand. R. L.'s flashlight gave a good look at her boots.

She'd stolen Lady Jaye's.

The attendees' attention had been diverted by far more than food and drink, but the young men competing outside couldn't have known this. Just another race, just another victory for Martin Durant. When his coach wasn't watching, he'd sneak a glass of champagne indoors. Sadly, young Martin had the misfortune of having an infuriated eighth-degree black belt greet him at the finish line. Perhaps some argument could be made Storm Shadow showed him mercy, only dislocating his shoulder as he flung the young athlete into the water.

The ninja was no stranger to a rowing boat, having spent years of his training along various coasts. And even in a fog of rage, he'd reasoned out a justification for such an unorthodox escape. No one was going to be looking for him out in the water, surely. He'd stashed his motorbike on the other side of the lake; in the confusion, this could be the best means of reaching it. And even if he were spotted, who would have the means of stopping him?

He couldn't question his thinking. Couldn't allow those invasive, foreign thoughts to retard his movement. Indecision, in his field, was deadly. He repeated this to himself, as another incursion entered his thoughts, summoning an image of a stranger who was no stranger at all.

A violent ballet ends with a form kicked into a bookcase. A woman's voice shrieks in horror. Hardcovers and leather-bound editions spill to the floor. _The Scarlet Pimpernel_. Her favorite story, even though she couldn't understand many of the words.

His voice, she just loved the sound of his voice. Last sound she'd hear every night, as he sat cross-legged on the edge of her bed, holding that book.

_She_?

Arms burning, Storm Shadow barely felt the bite of Irish winds, rowing deeper into the water. As he maneuvered past the competitors, observed the boathouse grow smaller and smaller, he was prepared to congratulate himself on his cleverness, his acuity in the midst of insanity. Was even close to releasing a cold, haughty laugh, mocking his opponents.

That's the precise moment a flash of light carved away the bottom of his rowing boat.

Rolling into the water, Storm Shadow escaped the searing beam of light by mere millimeters. Before ducking underwater, his view returned to that boathouse. Emerging from the opposite side of the roof was a figure, adorned in apparel that exceeded the event's already exorbitant dress code.

"Hullo there!" shouted Matthew Burke, feeling more comfortable now, after slipping into one of his beloved tuxedos (one of a few secrets inside Gordo's duffel bag). Silk shirt. Notched-lapel single-breasted jacket, midnight blue instead of stark black. Slight flair in the trouser leg. What the heck? He was feeling a mite festive this afternoon.

The cufflink laser-blast was a recent gift from his precious A.U.N.T.I.E. Regrettably, firing a second flash would require another fifteen-hour charge. He was certain of some chaos going on indoors, but cared little to address the tiny voice urging him to check in on the partygoers. His target was within reach, all that mattered now. And while his technologically advanced cufflinks might've been inoperable, that Walther PPK remained bloody reliable.

Under the frigid water, Storm Shadow observed two bullets whizz past. And, above, a chunk of his devastated getaway boat. Cognizant this must be timed perfectly, the ninja used the wooden remains as leverage, reached into his belt and released the throw of a lifetime.

Two shuriken flew towards the roof, their destination Matthew Burke's forehead and throat. He fired another round from his Walther before reacting. Stupid move. Diving for cover, the agent lost his footing, tumbled twenty feet or more into the water.

"Surprised to see me, ya bleedin' interloper?" asked Zanzibar, still clad in the boots he'd pulled on this morning. Flint could've stolen them when he took the rest of the faux-pirate's clothes. Didn't look like the right size; figured the Dreadnoks wouldn't be getting a good look at his footwear, anyway. That they wouldn't notice "Zanzibar" returning to their cabin clad in standard black leather combat boots.

He should have stolen the baldheaded buccaneer's high-heeled atrocities. Tossed them into the deepest pool of water on his path through the swamp. Got too confident, assumed the Joes would all be freed before anyone located the swamp rat.

These thoughts didn't hit simultaneously; they staggered in and out over the course of the next few minutes. No time to dwell on regrets, with both Zanzibar and Zarana taking shots. Flint withdrew his hand cannon, the lone remaining piece from the collection swiped from the Dreadnoks earlier. Chuckles was closer to the Sheriff, leapt on top when the blasts went in his direction. Sheriff Hardy screamed with terror as Chuckles took a hit in his left arm.

"Chuckles!" yelled Flint.

The Sheriff joined his deputy back at the car; assumed proper positions behind the patrol vehicle's doors. Chuckles stepped in the direction of the car's headlights, called out to his teammate: "It went straight through, Flint. Hurts like blazes, but I ain't giving up." Before Flint could even answer, Chuckles had disappeared into the night.

Flint stayed low, discharged a few shots in the direction of the Dreadnoks as he ran towards the vehicle. Knew he was lucky, reaching the patrol car without taking any hits. "These are known Cobra associates, gentlemen. Want to provide us some cover?"

He didn't wait for their reply; noticed the firing had momentarily stopped, as Zarana and Zanzibar split up. He caught Zarana's direction in the flash of red and blue, immediately raced after her.

Took a few seconds for Sheriff Hardy and Deputy R. L. to register Flint's words. It was R. L. who fired first, when he spotted Zarana moving to the east. Discharged three bullets; one connected with her upper calf. She hit the grass, dropping her gun on the way down.

Flint approached from behind, weapon drawn. "Where's Lady Jaye, Zarana?!"

Zarana turned, smiled through the pain. "She volunteered the use of her boots an' bike when I lifted this piece from her," she said gesturing towards the gun she'd dropped. "Silly girl; turnin' her back on me like that."

"You mean when she was trying to help your boyfriend?" Flint crouched down, used his flashlight to inspect the wound. The skank was lucky; she'd only been grazed. "What happened to that bandolier?"

"She refused to give it up. Told me that was her condition for patchin' up Monkeywrench—an' not fightin' for that piece back."

Zarana wasn't a bastion of honesty, but Flint could envision that scenario playing out. Jaye cornered, her gun stolen. Thinking of some excuse not to give up the explosives; some leverage that would keep those grenades out of Dreadnok hands.

Lady Jaye was too much of a lady. Should've tossed a pineapple at Zarana's feet as soon as she turned her back on her.

Even with her face buried in the grass, Zarana loved this. "Bet she's still out there now, nursin' that lout to health. Ha, I know I can always count on you Joes!"

"Yeah, appreciate you helpin' out back there, mate," came a voice from behind. Zanzibar, brandishing the other gun once possessed by Jaye. "I'm gonna have to ask for my ensemble back, though."

A blurred figure collided with the Dreadnok's body. "Just ask for the wig back, baldy."

Chuckles, his second save of the night, thought he'd nailed Zanzibar with a majestic tackle. Didn't expect the mutt to keep hold of his pistol, to get a round off in the midst of their struggle.

Flint was on him in a heartbeat, dropping an elbow on the barren mug, sending him back to unconsciousness. "Chuckles, are you hit?"

The light from the MagCharger confirmed the worst. Another hit in his left arm, this one not a clean exit. "You're going to need medical attention, soldier."

Chuckles was going to say something to downplay the injury, disguise just how badly his arm was killing him. Didn't have a chance. Sounds of the battle had awakened Road Pig—sent the maniac charging in the Joes' direction.

Burke had just returned to the deck, ears and nose still containing far too much water, when he caught the unique hum. Quirky drone like that could only belong to the twin vertical thrust turbofan engines of a Flight Omni-Pod. A mix of relief and disappointment swept over the Englishman. He'd welcome the aid—he'd surreptitiously called for it after all—but this mission had been personal all along. He'd promised Sarah's loved ones she would not go unavenged. That he would be the one to dispense justice to this brute. And, drowned suit or not, Burke prided himself as an English gentleman, a man of his word.

On his feet, a fish or two knocked from his ear, Burke was prepared to greet his fellow A.U.N.T.I.E. agent. Felt another blow to his ego when the small, experimental craft came in for a landing, granting him a view of its pilot.

"Countess Valeria Lefevre," Burke said with both arms open. "Fancy coming across you here."

"Oh, so surprised?" the Countess asked, not accepting the embrace. "After our favorite rogue agent called in our aid?"

Burke eyed his ally, every impressive curve hugged by a leather A.U.N.T.I.E. tactical one-piece. The Countess fit every dime novel definition of a mystery woman, with her oddly northwestern European accent, gently bronzed skin, violet eyes, and a faint strip of platinum streaking through her dark swept bangs. Her title, per rumor, wasn't a joke, but every word she spoke seemed drenched in irony. Age, national origin, and ethnicity of the beauty, all unknown. Well established, however, was her vigorous rejection of Burke's playful (he'd never say "amorous") advances.

"Thought you lot would arrive just in time for the clean-up, being honest," Burke answered, sure he resembled a drowned rat, sure she was enjoying this. "But if you'd like to join in this fun, I won't object."

The Countess, not hiding that patronizing grin, gestured towards the distance. "Buzzed the FOP over the water, couldn't catch sight of your ninja playmate. Maybe you'd fancy a go?" Her head bobbed in the direction of the pod (nominally a two-seater, but a tight fit for anyone wider than a professional jockey). "Tech boys did name this baby in your honor, after all..."

Burke, removing his waterlogged jacket, said with a sigh, "Still holding on to that joke, Countess? Perhaps one day it'll become clever."

He looked up to see her response. Lost the air in his lungs when he caught sight of Sarah's killer, posed behind the Countess, hand directed towards her throat.

# CHAPTER FIVE

"Don't want you feeling bad now, giving up your prize just to save this stranger's life."

He was materializing again, not just lingering in her thoughts. In the midst of the society elite crashing through the dining hall, knocking over drink trays and generous servings of scallops and black pudding, there he stood. Unequivocally the least Irish thing in this room, giving her that _look_. That "guess you done fouled up again this time, huh?" look.

Jinx broke away. Turned her attention back to the judge, her hands still pressed against his wounds, blood seeping into the creases of her knuckles. He was whispering now. She recognized the words as a final prayer.

"I'm doing what I have to do," Jinx spoke, dark eyes burning with fury. "What any Joe would do. And you're not going to provoke me into abandoning him just to—"

"You mistook my sass for sarcasm, girl," the ghost sensei interrupted, as a terrified banker and his third wife passed through the phantasmal body. "I admire you, choosing a stranger's life over your lifelong blood debt."

"Old man..."

"Denying your family that long-deprived justice, preventing that monster from claiming more victims—"

"Stop it! I don't need you—"

"Ma'am, I need you to step aside," interrupted a stern yet concerned voice. Jinx eyed the stranger. One heck of a strange outfit; a black one-piece, the fit impossibly tight, with white stripes on the side. Inside the white, the letters A.U.N.T.I.E. printed in a classic military stencil.

"I'll make sure he's taken care of," spoke the man; likely her age, traditional British features, ash brown hair cropped close to the scalp. "Thank you for what you've done, but I need to take over." Jinx noticed for the first time the medical case he carried in his right hand. Before she'd moved away from the body, the stranger had already crouched down, opened the case. She recognized the smell of medical disinfectant immediately.

He took his bandages, brushed Jinx aside with a militaristic indifference. As he began treating the judge's wounds, Jinx took in the rest of the room. Through glass windows in the front, she observed approximately a dozen similarly-dressed men threading throughout the panicked attendees. In the lawn were parked flight pods, their design peculiarly familiar.

Jinx stood, took another look at the monster's latest victim. "Is he...?"

The medic kept his eye on the patient, still spoke, "I think he's got a decent chance of making it. Still early, but we've got a shot."

"Must be some lucky day, huh?" spoke that low, croaky voice behind her.

Jinx eyed her ghost sensei. Said nothing as she turned, exited the back.

Flint didn't notice the beast in time, was plowed by Road Pig before he could even lift a hand in his defense. The Dreadnok's assault dragged Flint several yards away from his injured teammate. His pistol lost along the way, Flint resorted to a punch in the mouth.

"Like that, ugly?" Flint taunted, after the first connected, forced Road Pig's head back. He got greedy, tried for a second. Felt a force as strong as a drill press clutch his knuckles that time.

"I'd say, sir, I don't care for it one bit," came the unanticipated reply. The newly awakened Road Pig had shifted into his alternate persona, the more refined "Donald." As Flint was discovering, this well-spoken gent did not lack Road Pig's incredible strength or his thirst for blood.

The grip tightened. "Tell me, soldier, are you enjoying _this?_ " asked Road Pig's shadow twin, squeezing those knuckles. The bones could handle only so much; after thirteen seconds of unrelenting pressure, Flint's right thumb snapped.

Indescribable pain forced Flint to the grass. He took a breath, used his good hand to fish around his belt loops. Located the grenade, unhooked it. Felt like a Dutch V40—an offensive grenade, certainly not one intended for close quarters combat. Flint worked out the numbers, tried to figure some way he could maybe survive the blast.

Didn't like his odds. Wasn't going to let that Dreadnok walk away from this, though.

Standing above, Road Pig locked his fingers together, formed a monster fist. "If you'll forgive me for citing an overused line from the Bard—'Good night, good night! Parting is such—"'

The bullet struck his chest plate. He paused, looked towards the sheriff's car. Received two more rounds to his armored chest. Even with the protection, from both metal and muscle, the Dreadnok could only stand for so long.

Impact sent Road Pig to his knees. Flint, still suffering waves of pain, didn't miss his chance. He still had one good hand left. With the grenade (pin intact) balled inside, he drove a fist directly into the colossus' nose. Mercifully, it went down for good this time.

Urgency, fractured mental state, perhaps even capriciousness—but it sure as sin wasn't mercy—led the ninja to chop Contessa's neck. Knocked her out cold, left her with a throbbing soreness for hours. Left her alive, though.

He'd latched on to the back of her flight pod, this "FOP," during Contessa's search, found some way to channel the heat from the turbofan engines into a more useful energy. Possibly the hardest trick he ever pulled, slipping into a meditative state even as the foreign phantasmagorias continued their assault.

Ghastly thoughts, entering his mind, leaving images of a young mother. Lifeless, her body hanging over a console stereo. Corner of the family room, an earlier image of a little girl with bright yellow muffs hugging her ears invaded. Resting in mother's lap, experiencing the Beatles in hi-fi with daddy's Sennheiser earphones, the top band drooping over her forehead as she explored the vinyl sleeve.

Burke knew none of this. Only saw the return of the killer, another victim on the ground. Another opportunity for vengeance. Wet fingers fired another round from his Walther PPK. The ninja, that stupid song about the strawberry fields now in his head, snaked past the blast. Running kick had Burke's gun in the water before a second round could be fired.

The agent hardly registered its loss. Just kept moving, dodging Storm Shadow's follow-through and landing a solid punch against the ninja's upper abdomen. The ninja came down with his elbow, cut Burke's lip open. As he reeled to the left, Storm Shadow worked in a fast jab against his chin.

Burke lifted his arm in defense, danced back a few steps. "Last time you'll pull that stunt, you maggot." He removed from his breast pocket another gift from A.U.N.T.I.E., a silver box not bigger than a pack of ciggies. As the ninja advanced, Burke pressed the button at its center; watched with grim satisfaction as two electrified prongs ejected.

Wasn't Sarah's design, it went back several years to the days of Perceval, that delightful Chiswick chap who retired early to dedicate his life to his watercolors. But the nano-coating that shielded the toy from water damage? That innovation was pure Sarah.

The prongs gripped the ninja's chest like a tick, sent more than enough volts to keep an elephant acquiescent. On his knees, Storm Shadow released short guttural noises, did everything in his power to stifle a legitimate scream of agony.

Burke stepped closer, had no clue just how nasty that grin on his mug looked. "You feeling that, mate? You getting an idea of just how bitter revenge can taste?"

Enamel grinding, the ninja did the impossible. Actually found the temerity to lift his knees, make a respectable effort to stand.

"No!" Burke ejaculated. "You, stay down!" He ran the short distance, took an ungentlemanly shot with his custom-made Crockett & Jones. "Down!" he repeated, not entirely sure if his footwear would protect him from the electrical charge.

Burke was fine, until the ninja shrugged off the pressure, reached to his chest, then ripped away the prongs. "You...lowborn... _animal!_ " he growled, hand aimed at Burke's neck.

" _Gaak_ —" he choked, as the ninja lifted him from the ground with one hand. Storm Shadow locked eyes with the agent, wanted him to memorize his killer's features as he passed from this earth.

For the first time since the strange woman sliced the ninja with that blade, his mind had been released of all burden. No alien memories, no staggered consciousness, just a clear directive. Survival. And, something else. Something sweeter. Retaliation.

The pale man's eyes widened. Lost in ego, relishing his victory, Storm Shadow assumed this to be the final realization. That moment the narcissist recognized his own mortality.

Perhaps a full second passed before the ninja felt the blade enter his flesh. In disbelief, he broke eye contact with his victim. Saw the tantō jutting from his left hip, blood seeping into the already wet fabric of his _gei_.

"So I take it you believe us now?" Flint asked Sheriff Hardy, not taking his eyes off his broken thumb.

"Don't know what to believe," the Sheriff responded, "but fruity outfit or not, I wasn't about to let that maniac brain you with his knuckles."

"Thanks, Sheriff." Flint finally looked up, saw Deputy R. L. in the distance, placing Zarana in cuffs. He prayed the lowlife had been telling the truth; that Lady Jaye would soon be walking through those woods, no worse for wear.

"He can explain that outfit, by the way," Chuckles said as the sheriff applied a bandage to his wound. Flint caught the reference; swiped the wig from his scalp and tossed it atop Zanzibar's unconscious body.

Exhausted, Flint dropped to his knees, flopped over, laid in the grass. He wanted to wait there, personally observe Lady Jaye exit that same patch of wilderness. Red lights of the ambulance entered the sky. Paramedics soon rushed forward, refused his request to stay in the grass. Deputy R. L. approached, assured Flint they'd find Lady Jaye. Also said Flint needed to get himself checked out. Flint was ready to argue; passed out from exhaustion instead.

Fifteen minutes later, Flint and Chuckles were sharing that ambulance. Flint wasn't out for long; had woken up just as the ambulance pulled onto the road. From the adjacent stretcher, Chuckles was assuring Flint that Jaye was going to be okay.

Flint didn't respond. Chuckles accepted the silence for a moment before deciding to break the tension. "Twice in the same arm, man. You'd think I didn't bring my lucky rabbit's foot with me."

"That the kind of humor you think is gonna erode Lady Jaye's resolve?" asked Flint, glaring into space—more specifically, at the ambulance's ceiling.

"Hmm? What do you mean, Flint?"

"Oh, he doesn't know. Okay, sure. This poor ol' warrant officer is paranoid, is that it?" Flint couldn't explain why his inner monologue had gone public. Might've had something to do with those painkillers they'd pumped in his veins, even as he attempted to refuse the IV.

"Flint, you have to believe me. There's nothing between me and Jaye. _Nothing._ "

"Don't doubt that. But I'm not blind, Rawhide. I know the look of a man who's got ambitions."

Chuckles scoffed. With a slight stammer, he continued, "I can't believe you even think this. There's no way I'd try to...I mean the two of you...that is, everyone knows...ah..."

"If you're so innocent, what's with the buddy act? Why are you so desperate to impress her?"

Chuckles, his inhibitions also released by the painkillers, couldn't hold back the laughter. "Is being friendly a crime in this unit? You don't think I joke around with her any more than anyone else I'm hanging with, do you?" No answer. "And, c'mon, you haven't even considered this?"

"Considered what?"

"Of course I want to impress Lady Jaye. _And_ my commanding officer," Chuckles said, emoting as much as possible with his chest strapped to that gurney. " _Everybody_ hangin' around base. But especially those who've been around for a while. Every squid, ground pounder, and heartbreaker in this unit."

Flint snorted. "And I'm supposed to fall for this Eddie Haskell act?"

"I'm not feeding you a line, man! The Weather Dominator, that Gamesmaster incident, the friggin' _Cobrathon_ fiasco—Flint, you're a legend! If I've been a little overeager, I apologize, but please don't ever think—"

Flint raised a hand, indicated for Chuckles to shush. Before he spoke, a vision of Road Pig's Crayola tribute to Zarana suddenly flashed. He pushed it away, questioned why he'd suddenly be reminded of that poor sap. "Okay, that's enough out of you. Just, ah, dampen that enthusiasm a bit in the future, would you?"

"Understood," Chuckles nodded. A longer stretch of silence. Then, "Now, totally unrelated subject—but would you happen to know anything about Cover Girl's relationship status?"

# CHAPTER SIX

Due to the shock, the piercing pain, Storm Shadow couldn't maintain his grip for long. Burke fell to the concrete, inhaled the most anticipated breath of his life. Still panting, he looked up, and through the blur was given a glimpse of his savior. A small woman, perhaps of the same nationality of his adversary, dressed like a street beggar. She reached for the discreet blade, almost seemed to hesitate before making her second strike.

Girl shouldn't have dillydallied. By the time she slipped the knife out of his side, the ninja had already turned around. Grabbed her shoulders, pulled her close. He connected with her eyes as well, but that condescending glare was no longer present.

Instead, the ninja looked as if he were frightened senseless at the sight of the girl.

Burke couldn't have understood the red haze Storm Shadow was navigating. This woman, this stranger, was no stranger at all. Those brows, those eyes, the curve of her lips. She was _the girl_.

The one who couldn't sleep without her bedtime stories.

The one who wasted away lazy Saturday afternoons memorizing her mother's favorite songs.

The one who witnessed only a fraction of the carnage. Fled through a bedroom window, dropped two stories, and wouldn't stop running.

_Hey, you diseased, cold-blooded worm_ , a foreign, unknown, unwanted voice hissed in his ear. _Maybe you took the wrong job, chose the wrong blade, this time?_

Dizzy, the most sickening recognition of all was hitting. The monster of this child's nightmares was no monster at all. The beast existed in an all too human form, one the ninja caught a glimpse of every day in the mirror.

The girl, now the woman named Jinx, should've been able to execute the final maneuver. Even if her lungs were empty and her heart was going haywire and her feeble human mind couldn't begin to reconcile a lifetime's worth of anticipation versus the reality of the moment...she shouldn't have _frozen_ like that.

The tantō remained in her hand. The monster's blood traveled from the knife to her fingers, mingling with the crimson lifeblood left by his latest victim. His eyes were crazed, yet his grip was by no means strategic. A second strike to his chest would've been an effortless move. A facile victory for the skilled, younger ninja. Anticlimactic, perhaps, but an ending nonetheless.

So why wasn't she moving?

That thick voice returned, told her what a fool she was for choking like this. Wasn't any astral form, just a rebuke from her subconscious. Maybe some part of her saw the humor in this. That old fool didn't have to use his radical meditative tricks to speak to her from an ocean away—he'd already drilled his ugly self into her unconscious mind ages ago.

Would it have been easier, had she donned her blindfold?

Jinx forced her hand to move, tried to convince herself this fugue state was nothing compared to the bug-eyed monster's. Ha. That he _was_ no monster; just a bitter, deranged man. A sick unhinged maniac, who didn't deserve to be called human.

A dog, a rabid one, that needed to be put down.

The hand trembled, but it moved. Moved close enough to strike. Tip of her tantō sliced through the cloth of his _gei_ , made a shaky yet excruciatingly slow journey towards the monster-no-more's chest.

A human chest, connected to a primed central nervous system. Acutely aware of sensations like touch, pressure, temperature... _pain_. The prick of the blade didn't jolt Storm Shadow out of his catatonia, but it did stimulate an intuitive, reflexive response.

The ninja roared in pain and frustration. Jerked his head southward before crashing back. Connected his skull with the girl-no-more's.

Burke, still recovering on the pavement, was sickened by the sound of the _crack_.

The Englishman stood, just barely. Witnessed the disoriented young woman, face splattered with blood, stagger before falling lifelessly into the nearby lake. The ninja in white maintained his hellacious banshee wail as he sprinted towards the Flight Omni-Pod, stepping over the unconscious Countess and commandeering her vehicle.

Burke began his own dash towards his hated foe. Stopped himself a few steps in. Not bloody likely he'd reach that FOP in time. And this woman, this stranger who saved his life...yes, he'd show her he was still an English gentleman. Do what he could to rescue this wounded bird.

Jumping into the water, Burke congratulated himself for his magnanimity. Chose not to think about what he would've done if his target, Sarah's killer, had been within reach. Chose not to question if he would've traded the life of this young woman, if he would've allowed her to become a casualty of his vendetta.

No, as he pulled her body to safety, Burke instead mused on the future. Questioned if she'd be able to offer a full report, reveal just what she knew about the ninja. And later, maybe he could even take her out for an evening. Show his appreciation. Find a proper outfit for the dear.

"We can't fly off like this," proclaimed Gibbons, a second after petulantly flinging his mask onto the floor of the transport helicopter. "We can't abandon our men!"

His friend Anglo gestured for Gibbons to sit down. Fidgeting with his hands, Anglo broke the news. "Hate to break it to you, mate, but Ren's not walking away from this one."

Gibbons scoffed. "How can you—?"

"Gibbons, listen to me," Anglo spoke with both anger and pain. "He's not walking or _doing anything else_ ever again."

The defiant student only then noticed the tears forming in his friend's eyes. Gibbons turned to his sensei, spoke breathlessly, "No! Don't tell me—"

The sensei was more than ready to respond, to tell this punk how lucky he was not to share his buddy's fate. Stopped himself just in time, remembered not to break character. Drawing upon his own regrets, the despondency he felt when discovering Ren's body, the sensei addressed the students with a gradual cadence. "Regrettably, your fellow pupil speaks no untruths. Ren was felled by the... _hated_ imposter." Closing his eyes, he added, "May we all honor his memory, in our own way."

Gibbons, now red-faced, stood. "And that's it? We just fly off an' let that Joe scum get away with this? Just pretend our mate didn't lose his bloody life?" Addressing the sensei, his voice cracked as he asked with disbelief, "That we _failed_? And—and where's the new bloke, what's his face...?"

Anglo, recognizing the legitimate question, lifted his hand away from his eyes. "Yeah, he's missing too, isn't he? Gordo. Boss, where'd he run off to?"

"I fear our new companion had an agenda of his own," the sensei answered, with none of the sympathy offered in his previous address. "Let us never speak of him again."

Gibbons, face twisting more towards anger than grief, stepped closer to the sensei. "Now, wait a minute, that don't seem—"

The sensei drew his sword, aimed the tip of his katana a whisper away from Gibbons' aquiline nose. "We will not _speak_ of him _again_. Have I been unclear on this?"

Gibbons spoke with no hesitation. "N-no, sensei."

"Excellent," the sensei responded, sheathing his blade. "Now, we will spend the rest of our journey in quiet contemplation."

The sensei stepped away from his men, entered the cockpit and, with a heavy sigh, took his seat in the co-pilot's chair. To his right was his "prized pupil," guiding the bird to Cobra's secret landing spot in Anglesey.

"Please tell me this mission will be over soon," he said, southern Californian accent resurfacing.

"It's always hard, losing a squaddie," Scarlett spoke in a sober tone. "Even in...unusual circumstances like these."

Quick Kick exhaled for a second time. Adopted an exaggerated, non-rhotic accent and said, "'Things are never so bad they can't be made worse,' a wise man once told us. I just hope Jinx got out of there okay."

Almost on cue, the comm system lit up.

"Is that—?" asked Quick Kick, hope surfacing in his voice.

"Not a Joe frequency," Scarlett answered, disappointed. However, that disenchantment was soon doubled in her follow-up. "Oh... _wonderful_ ," she said, after recognizing the foreign frequency.

"What?"

"It seems our favorite agent from A.U.N.T.I.E. has acquired this number..."

"If you don't mind my asking, sir—what the heck are we doing here?"

This was Falcon's introductory question for General Hawk, on the tarmac of Miami International Airport. Low-Light and Tripwire had departed the Cessna and resumed civilian disguises inside the airport. Falcon's presence had been requested by the general.

"So you didn't want to come back home, soldier?" Hawk retorted. "I suppose the weather in Punto del Mucosa is quite enviable this time of year..."

"I mean _how_? That was as hairy a mess as I could imagine. How'd the higher-ups arrange our return so fast?"

"That's confidential information, Lieutenant. But, in the hypothetical, I suppose I could run a thought experiment by you."

"Okay. I'm listening," spoke Falcon, as he entered the general's jeep.

"Suppose your team had a secondary objective. One that might've...contributed to the Terrordrome's power outage. If, say, a skilled hacker like Mainframe was granted access to that Terrordrome's digital files, what do you think he would've discovered? Footage of Luisa Ortega Gómez stealing a blade from Jinx's bag? Of her handing it to known assassin/terrorist associate Storm Shadow?"

Falcon didn't hide his shock. "You're kidding me."

"I'm only speaking in hypotheticals."

The lieutenant considered his dropped jaw. Corrected himself. "Of course, yes."

"Suppose the United States government obtained footage of the assassin fleeing the scene, in addition to some private files on Gómez's hard drive implicating her in this murder. That could've served as a handy bargaining chip."

"Excellent. So, what's going to be done about this?"

Hawk's stern face somehow grew harder. "Realistically? It would seem the same higher-ups who pulled you boys out of that fryer quite enjoy their bargaining position. And—again, we're extrapolating from a hypothetical here—don't feel as if it's been properly exploited."

"I don't catch your meaning, sir."

"Falcon..." he spoke in a conciliatory, yet firm, tone. "The puzzle palace is practically giddy about this. Gómez, whatever schemes she might've held a day ago, is now deeper in their pocket than her uncle ever could've been. She knows who has the dirt on her, knows how to avoid aggravating them any further."

"Don't tell me..."

The general nodded, sadly. "The right people are convinced she isn't going to be associating with any snakes or reds. That's the highest priority."

"And, for that, Gómez gets away with murder?"

"Seems at least slightly unfair, doesn't it? This hypothetical scenario I've laid out. If we're ever authorized to bring Jinx home, any support from Punto del Mucosa will likely be on the QT."

Falcon had to restrain himself from kicking the dashboard. "So Jinx is going to take the fall for this?" His commanding officer answered with silence. "General, are you serious?"

"No one claimed this was a perfect situation, Lieutenant," Hawk answered, keeping his eyes northward. "But you haven't spent one day in a perfect world, have you?"

"But—"

The general cleared his throat. Indicated that avenue of discussion, any deviations into anger or indignation, closed. "Now, earlier, you implied agents of Punto del Mucosa could've nabbed Jinx. You still believe that?"

"I...I think that's the most likely possibility."

"Interesting." Hawk turned briefly to the lieutenant, his expression more indiscernible than usual. "Gómez is still denying this, but I guess certain figures will just have to keep working on her. I'd like to believe the truth will eventually win out." Hawk offered another awkward throat-clearing. Softened his tone and, with genuine concern, advised his companion, "In the meantime, Lieutenant, just try to keep your wits about you."

The lieutenant gave only silence as his response, perhaps taking his superior's words to heart. The quiet was interrupted thirty seconds later, as Dial-Tone's voice appeared over the jeep's radio speakers.

"General Hawk!" came the reedy voice, more anxious than normal.

"What is it, soldier?"

" _Please_ tell me Falcon's team hasn't left Florida..."

"It was nice of that boy, offering you this chance."

Jinx dodged one of the monsters' lunge punches, shifted his momentum and had him flipped over on the blacktop. "Oh, so you're still sticking around?" she asked the voice, stepping over her opponent.

"Not for long. But was this 'Fast Kick' fella right? Is this making you feel better?"

"It'll do," she replied, blocking another fast chop from the monster, turning her back to him, then retaliating with a brutal heel to his neck. "His name is 'Quick Kick,' by the way."

"Of course it is. And you'll bite my head off, I'm sure, if I point out you're still telegraphing your spinning back kicks?"

Two of the monsters approached. She went low, performed one leg sweep that had both on the ground. "Just...get out of my head, old man."

"Will do. Oh, and one more thing—there's no shame, you know."

"In what?"

"Failure."

She cried out a curse, punching through her sensei's astral projection, her fist connecting with the face of the youngest monster-in-training. He didn't even want to charge; looked around, saw everyone else had taken their turn for the thrashing. Thought he couldn't do any worse.

Knew on some level this would hurt. Wasn't expecting his nose to be fractured in two different places.

The sound of sarcastic clapping entered the training area. "Well, okay, folks," said Quick Kick, still clad in white. Jinx had to restrain her instinct to offer him the same beating enjoyed by his students. "Looks like this training sesh is all tapped out."

"You do know you're breaking cover bad, don't you?"

Quick Kick placed his hands on Jinx's shoulders, escorted her away from the trainees. "And _you_ know every understudy you faced is unconscious, don't you?"

When they'd reached a reasonable distance, Quick Kick removed his mask. Jinx nodded her thanks, then turned around and asked, "What's going to happen to these clowns?"

"Just talked to base. Mainframe's already hacked into the digital accounts used to pay their salaries. Thinks he has a decent line on tracking Cobra activity from there. SAS is going to be raiding the place in a few hours, providing our ninja wannabes with some comfortable cells."

"How disappointed their teacher must be," she said dismissively. The pounding had been therapeutic, even if the class of her opponent was largely inadequate. (By her criteria, if not local thug standards.) "And you ended up in this role... _how_ exactly?"

"Hawk's plan. I approached Cobra in some assumed identity, told them I knew their resident ninja had parted ways with 'em. Offered to pick up his mantle, exploit his rep, and train the next crew of elite Cobra bullet-stoppers. Brought Scarlett along as the 'top pupil.'"

"So you're not sticking with this role for long?" Jinx asked her teammate, unconsciously thinking back to his abandoned Hollywood career.

"Yeah. Learned something else, while on the line," Quick Kick hesitantly continued. "Seems as if your pal Luisa Gómez really is the new president of Punto del Mucosa."

"What?! After what that cow did?"

"Apparently it's a call being made far up the chain." Quick Kick lightened his tone, thought his addendum might ease Jinx's anger. "Rumor is, they're hopeful she'll drop any intimations that you were involved with that murder, and you'll be able to return to base without an issue."

Jinx pondered this before replying, "But she's still going to get away with this?"

Quick Kick nodded, looked back at his delinquent class of wannabe ninjas. "Seems like. What a world, huh?"

The paramedics said Monkeywrench should recover, with a little luck. That she'd done a respectable job, patching him up. She told herself she didn't care.

Lady Jaye had been waiting inside the Mangrove County Sheriff's Office for over four hours, awaiting backup on that original mission that had been derailed by the Dreadnoks. Backup that arrived in the form of Falcon and Low-Light, a perfect blend of uncouth and unhinged.

"Should I assume things in Punto del Mucosa didn't turn out so peachy?" she asked, returning the _People_ magazine to the coffee table. Slimeball of the Year Hector Ramirez had managed to land the cover once again. "Half your team's missing, Falcon."

Falcon's tone was more somber than usual. "Tripwire needs medical aid. He should be fine, though. Jinx...that's a thorny one, but she was hale an' hearty last time I saw her."

"Not so excited about your back-up crew, Jaye?" asked Low-Light, in his typical aloof whisper.

"Oh, I'm beyond thrilled," Jaye answered as they passed through the Sheriff's Office main exit. "I can see both of you guys performing a delicate interrogation...on a pair of civilians...regarding a sensitive topic we'd all rather ignore."

Falcon shook his head. "Sarcasm. Not very becoming of a lady."

"No, it's fine." Jaye softened her tone as they reached the car. "Just, uh, lean back and let me carry the conversation. And, Falcon, you're not going to have any issues with this, are you?"

Falcon took his position in the driver's seat. "I've been instructed to be a good boy and to let you lead the way. And I'm a stickler for orders, Lady Jaye. I'm famous for that."

# CHAPTER SEVEN

Ominous skies have foretold the ghastly reality—a flotilla of snakes are positioned outside Joe Headquarters. The team, returning from what they now know to be a decoy mission, is throttling their MOBATs and VAMPs over that rocky Utah terrain. Losing no time, racing to the defense of their home, fighting the latest battle against these vile serpents.

Even Destro and the head snake are there, flanked by H.I.S.S. tanks. A bomb is set with just seconds left on the timer. Falcon observes the nightmare from the distance. Has a gnawing feeling they might not pull off a victory this time.

Wind kicks up overhead. Smell of gasoline accompanies the arrival of Stalker, flying in that experimental JUMP gear. He lands, swipes that bomb away from two blueshirts, then blasts it in the air.

"So, you ready to talk about this Punto del Mucosa mess yet?" asks a paternal voice to Falcon's left.

He takes his eyes off Stalker, turns to his brother, who of course is carrying on a conversation mid-Cobra beatdown. "That's probably the best way to describe it," Falcon answers, clotheslining the Cobra officer approaching Duke from behind. "You don't want to know how twisted up I felt, leaving that country without Jinx."

"Couldn't find any trace of her?" Duke asks, flipping a blueshirt over his shoulder.

Falcon opens his lips to answer, but is disoriented by the new landscape. Looks down to see his feet planted in the middle of the Joes' obstacle course, safely inside the walls of their homebase. "Hey, cat nabbed your tongue?" his brother asks, breezing past him on the course.

"She's, um, a ninja, Duke. She don't want to be found, she won't be."

"And you think she's going to be causing even more of a class-A cluster foul-up down there?" Duke asks, now firing a hand cannon at a dummy target. In the lane to their right, Flash is roasting his mannequin foe. Stalker is overhead again, leaping through those training bars like he was in some videogame.

"Don't know what's going on in her head," Falcon spoke over a nearby explosion. Didn't know why, but he wasn't as startled this time, to see reality shift to a battleground in the midst of a populated city. "It's like the two of us barely know how to talk anymore, 'less it involves some life-or-death fracas."

Duke lands in his own JUMP gear. Blasts three snakes and doesn't miss a beat of the conversation. "You certainly had a smooth tongue, dealing with the general, though."

"Yeah," Falcon replies, dodging F.A.N.G. helicopter fire from above. "Been waiting for the lecture you've been planning for that one."

"Hm? What are you talking about, Falcon?" Duke questions as Clutch flies past in his VAMP.

A new burst of fire drives Falcon to take cover behind the remains of a smoky H.I.S.S. tank. "Maybe I wasn't outright lying, but I wasn't entirely forthcoming with my superior officer. Didn't think that'd be behavior you'd condone, big brother."

Falcon gains a better look at the F.A.N.G. pilot overhead. Has a grin on his mug as he listens to his brother, carrying on while gripping a Cobra officer in a chokehold. "Think you're the first to bend the truth a bit to a CO? Oh, I have some stories to share with you..."

"Really? Doesn't sound like the Duke I've always heard tales about," Falcon states as he lines up the shot, takes down the F.A.N.G. engine.

"C'mon, little brother. What is truth anyway? Just one interpretation of facts." Falcon's still listening, but can't turn to face his brother. It's so much fun, watching Cobra Commander crawl out of the wreckage of that F.A.N.G., ordering his flunkies to retreat. Duke, taking a final shot at Destro, finishes his thought. "And, hey, what are facts? I say they're snippets of reality. Bits of intel, to be used to our advantage, just like any other aspect of this work."

Holstering his sidearm, Falcon asks, "Are you honestly saying it's okay to lie to my superior?"

"It's more than 'okay' to shade some intel to your advantage," his brother says with confidence, pulling Falcon closer with his arm, recreating the noogie position of their youth. "You've got to look out for Number One, don't you? Who else will?"

Reality turned to smoke. Falcon's eyes opened, revealed the unpleasant visage of his teammate. "Hey, Falcon, naptime's over."

It was Low-Light, looking back from the front seat of the Joes' rented vehicle. Falcon's eyelids stayed heavy as his brain refused to accept the transition to the real world. Took nearly thirty seconds for him to piece together the facts: It was morning in Nassau County, New York. They'd taken a small flight the previous evening; he thought he'd gotten a decent rest on the plane. Perhaps not.

Falcon stepped out of the car, stretched. Took in the sights. Jaye directed them towards the proper address.

The home was rented, a modest, one-story residence in the midst of a quiet neighborhood. Lady Jaye, Low-Light, and Falcon were all dressed as civilians, all dreading the impending conversation. It was late morning. The sun had risen almost directly overhead, birds were still singing. Falcon gestured for the team to stop; pointed at the family mailbox.

"The O'Malleys?" Falcon asked, indignant. "Since when is Jinx an O'Malley?"

Low-Light gestured towards the home. "This is her aunt and uncle, right? Maybe her mom's sister married Irish?"

"Nope. Her uncle is the blood relative," answered Falcon with confidence. "It's Keiko who married in. And neither side ever experienced a potato famine, I can tell you that much."

Jaye continued down the brief walkway. "Let's face it; Jinx's backstory doesn't entirely add up. That's why we have to look into this."

"I don't think the ninja chick is my biggest fan," Low-Light said, with his face down low, "but even I admit I'd rather be doin' anything than this."

Lady Jaye knocked on the front door. "General's orders. So any squeamish feelings, keep 'em to yourself."

In under thirty seconds, a petite woman of Japanese descent opened the door. She was garbed in a carnation-colored chiffon blouse, complimented by high-waisted designer jeans. Lady Jaye recognized the style from a recent television ad campaign. She didn't appear to be any older than Jaye's teammates, yet the woman introduced herself as Jinx's aunt, Keiko.

"Falcon!" she exclaimed, arms open. "So good to see you again," Keiko said, arms wrapping around the lieutenant.

"Yeah. Good to see you, too, ma'am," he answered. Unfortunately, the statement was, more than anything, a lie. The thought of coming here, checking up on Jinx, investigating elements of her past that had someone somewhere nervous—it was sickening. He didn't sign up with the Joe team for this kind of business.

And yet, that mailbox ate at him. The O'Malleys. Yeah, sure. Very believable. What were Tommy and Keiko hiding?

As he followed Keiko past the threshold, studied her stride and gave the entranceway a fast once-over, emotions began to twist within. Jinx had been keeping secrets from everyone, including Falcon, ever since she joined. Some part of Falcon told him this was unacceptable. That there should be no mysteries amongst Joes. That whatever Jinx and her family were trying so hard to bury, maybe it should be brought into the light...

The Joes took their seat at the couch, all refusing any refreshments. Tommy entered from a back room, apologized for the mess of moving boxes currently littering the place. Stepped in with a burst of energy, dressed in an ivory-colored tracksuit. Hooded, but still friendly eyes, greeted the team. Shook every Joes' hand, introduced himself with a smile, before joining Keiko on the loveseat across from the couch. Every Joe present mentally noted he didn't look any older than his mysteriously youthful bride.

"So, do you guys move often?" asked Jaye, attempting to downplay any obvious skepticism. She had to keep this light; maintain the illusion that Tommy and Keiko were just answering routine questions about a new Joe recruit.

"We'd prefer not to be tied down to one location," Keiko answered after taking a sip of the tea the Joes had refused. "Such a lovely country. We try to see as much of it as possible."

"Would this involve adopting a new name in each town you move to?" came the unexpected voice of Falcon. Jaye had to brace herself; do everything in her power not to turn around and smack him.

Tommy only laughed. "Are you implying we don't resemble proud children of the emerald isles?"

Falcon leaned forward. "So that was Irish cookin' you guys were serving me a few weeks back?"

Jaye placed her hand on Falcon's knee. "Mr. ah, O'Malley, please understand, we're not looking to get anyone into trouble. We can offer you help, whatever aid you might need, if you've been threatened, or—"

"That's appreciated, dear, but not necessary," Tommy interrupted, his voice still amiable. "Us Irish look after our own, you know."

The joke didn't hide his intent. _Ask all the questions you want, but you're not getting anything out of me._

An awkward silence draped the room. Low-Light, of all people, stood, ended it. "Hate to interrupt the fun, but I was wondering if there's a john I might be able to use."

Keiko, smile still unbroken, pointed towards the back. "End of the hall, on the right."

Low-Light actually did answer nature's call, although his trip back to the living room was sidetracked by a healthy amount of snooping. The taciturn Joe figured his presence wouldn't be missed out there, granting him enough time to look around the place, gain some idea of what Jinx's people were up to.

Disappointing search, really. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a typical suburban home packed up for an impending move. The basement door was locked, however, an oddity that raised some hairs on Low-Light's neck.

Picking the lock was no issue. In under a minute, Low-Light was descending the stairs, stepping slowly into the darkness. Classic basement smells, at least—detergent and mothballs. His hand reached for the light switch at the bottom of the steps. Overhead lighting did a dance, decided to stop flickering after a series of convulsions, revealing a basement as typical as the rooms upstairs...with one exception.

Washer and dryer against one wooden wall, fuse box attached close by. To their right, a gas furnace, a hot water heater, and plenty of pipes connecting to the ceiling. The other wall housed more packed boxes, along with several crates of cleaning supplies and a steel shelving unit, three rows of paint cans awaiting packaging.

All unremarkable. Resting between the walls was the exception.

At the center of the basement, strapped to a wooden chair borrowed from the kitchen, was the international saboteur known as Firefly.

"I see those Irish hoard all kinda junk," Low-Light said flatly.

This Cobra agent, who'd been associated with the organization for as long as the Feds kept records on them, had a legendary rep for stealth and infiltration. His true name, real face, any info on his actual background, were all unknown. The guy was slippery, not to mention dangerous as all sin. Yet, here he was, tied up in Tommy and Keiko's basement.

"Should I even ask who you are?" Firefly said as Low-Light approached. "Whatever freaky stuff those weirdos have planned, you oughta know that—"

"Calm yourself, bud," answered Low-Light, inspecting the knots. "I'm not looking for any trouble."

"Yeah? Then who are you?"

"Me?" Low-Light tried his best to smile. "Just a local encyclopedia salesman, friend. Want me to untie you?"

Firefly nodded his agreement with such enthusiasm, the chair couldn't stay still. Low-Light paused before touching the ropes; debated calling in the others, then decided he could handle the serpent if things got messy. The thought of herding Firefly into the O'Malley living room, watching that expression on Tommy and Keiko's face was too irresistible, anyway.

The ropes dropped to the floor. Even as he maintained the friendly act, Low-Light placed his hand towards the holster hidden in his waistband. Discovered his instincts were a quarter of a second too slow. A consequence of preferring high-precision rifles and special reconnaissance to CQC battles, unfortunately.

Firefly successfully kneed Low-Light in the gut before he could reach the piece. "Whatever aftershave you Joes stock at your base, I could smell it a mile off." Before Low-Light could recover, he was gifted with a right cross against his jaw. "Thanks for the help, though."

Low-Light was on the basement's cork floor, an easy target for Firefly's finishing move. The infamous saboteur wasn't ready for Low-Light to grab his boot, then press his advantage with a fast hit below the belt. The pain had Firefly pirouetting backwards, granting Low-Light enough room to stand, reach for his gun.

"That's me—always helpful."

The Joe had withdrawn his piece, placed his finger on the trigger, the exact moment Firefly charged forward. The tackle sent Low-Light back to the floor, the handgun sliding eastward, landing underneath a steel shelving unit. Firefly couldn't hesitate, knew he had to render this Joe inert as soon as possible. Low-Light received two more direct hits to both cheeks.

An attempt was made to block the next incoming punch. Firefly quickly grew frustrated with the battle of strength; opted to go for a one-handed choke instead.

"Let's end this before either one of us grows bored, hmm?"

Lights were going out—not the cheap, recessed lighting overhead, but the kind Low-Light needed to stay conscious. Low-Light got desperate, reached for a mess of Firefly's uniform behind his back. Got a decent amount of excess fabric, used all of his strength and some judo techniques he'd learned from Quick Kick to fling Firefly overhead.

He crashed into the steel shelving unit. Half-empty buckets of paint weren't the only objects scattering across the floor. Firefly's body had knocked the shelves to the ground, exposing Low-Light's piece to the light. He reached for the weapon, hoped against hope he could have it in hand before the Joe arrived.

Firefly had steel in hand, an eye ready to put a Joe in its sights—and a golden oak kitchen chair sailing towards his head. The wood crashed against his skull, exploded into countless pieces.

Unconsciousness enveloped the saboteur. Low-Light stepped forward, still wary. After determining Firefly wasn't running a con, he lifted his opponent's left leg.

"Cute bit with the aftershave," he said, untying Firefly's boot. "You ain't the only observant one, creep. What say we find out why your left boot has this bulge on the side?"

Low-Light removed the boot, shook it out. A novelty-sized book hit the floor. He bent down, looked it over. "A pocketsize diary?" he asked, flipping through the pages. "You keeping track of your crushes?"

The pages were old, likely a good ten years. Low-Light skimmed through the handwritten words, immediately discerned they belonged to a young female. Read through the first page, saw names like "Tommy" and "Keiko" again and again. Read of a girl brought into their home through false pretenses, who had trouble sleeping at night. Issues with abandonment with a man she wasn't sure cared about her in the first place.

This strange woman who was teaching her how to cook, she tried to understand. Brought home this book one day. Told her to write it down. All of the thoughts keeping her up nights. Every memory she didn't have the capacity to reconcile.

Not hard to guess this Kimi's identity. Only question remaining in Low-Light's mind was what to do with the information.

He stuffed the book into his back pocket, picked his piece off the ground...accidentally kicked one of those errant paint cans while lifting Firefly's body off the floor.

The villain stirred. Was sneaky enough not to move his body; only allowed his eyes to open. Saw Low-Light had him in a fireman's carry, slung over his shoulder. Holding on to a breath, he moved nice and slow, reached for the gun when they'd made it halfway up the stairs.

Low-Light felt the movement, did his best to toss Firefly off the steps before he could nab the gun. Realized, as Firefly took that first shot during his trip down, that he'd screwed up.

"Thought this was over, chump?"

Evading the first blast, Low-Light leapt from the staircase, leading with his right boot. The kick landed; wasn't strong enough to separate Firefly from that hand cannon. Firefly fired two more rounds, put holes in the decorative paneling. Low-Light retaliated with a stiff uppercut. As Firefly (and his sore jaw) turned away, the soldier grabbed both of his arms. Was eventually able to wrestle the gun away...but not before Firefly got a final round off.

It sailed past Low-Light, whizzed into the westward section of the basement. It could've connected harmlessly with another segment of paneling. Could've hit the washer or dryer. Maybe one of those pipes. As long as this snake didn't accidentally shoot that hot water heater or the gas furnace, they'd be all right.

The deafening explosion that consumed his ears and rattled his teeth confirmed one of Low-Light's long-held beliefs. Optimism is for suckers.

# CHAPTER EIGHT

Paramedic wouldn't believe him when Low-Light said he was fine. The ringing in his ears was still clanging away, but he knew it'd fade soon enough. Explosions, be they from ignited gas or roadside IEDs, were a way of life for Joes.

The tiny flashlight clicked on and off in Low-Light's eyes. Whatever response the paramedic awaited, Low-Light must've given it to him. "Yeah, looks like you should be fine," the young man said, standing up and stepping back to the ambulance.

In the background was the O'Malleys' home, surrounded by police, EMTs, and firefighters. The stink of the explosion still lingered in the air. The local fire crew, to their credit, had the blaze out in only a few minutes. Most of it hadn't reached the rest of the house, so there was a chance the home was still salvageable.

Low-Light, seated on the curb, was flanked by Lady Jaye and Falcon. "Mighty high-minded of you, Low-Light, pulling Firefly out of that basement window with you," said Jaye.

"Don't confuse me with a true altruist," Low-Light grunted. "I smashed it open with his face."

Falcon's attention was directed elsewhere. Huddled in a tiny circle, an island in the sea of concerned and frightened neighbors, were Jinx's relatives. "Notice Tommy and Keiko over there, keepin' to themselves?"

"They're going to have to go down to the station with us," said Detective Clapp, arriving with folded clothes under his arm. "Give some kind of statement on all of this."

Clapp, a twenty year veteran of the force, was sliding into middle age without the grace enjoyed by his brother, the real estate agent. Nearly half of his copper-colored hair had disappeared in the past seven years, and more than a little of his gut had been inching farther and farther over his beltline. He still had dinner with his mother every Sunday night. She saw the changes, told him to stop worrying about work so much.

The unfortunate detective assigned to this case, Clapp did not anticipate a stress-free day. A few minutes after his arrival, he realized most of the civilians involved were anything but. Not every day you catch a case involving three members of a secretive military unit who'd rounded up a notorious saboteur while visiting a neighborhood home. Detective Clapp expected at least three levels of federal authority above him to wrest away every aspect of this case. Wouldn't have bothered some of his coworkers, but Clapp protected his cases the same way a mama bear looks after her cubs. Regular Feds had a way of screwing up a case, but to throw military intelligence into the mess?

The detective foresaw the looming fiasco. Was making sure to get as many statements as possible before calls started coming in to his lieutenant.

"I wouldn't expect them to be too chatty, Detective," Low-Light said, standing.

"We'll let you know what we find out," Clapp responded, perhaps telling a partial fib. "Meantime, one of the neighbors gave me this." Clapp revealed the neatly folded stack of clothes, New York Jets windbreaker wrapped around the bundle. "Saw how ragged you were looking, pal."

The soldier's eyes grew, just a bit. Just enough for the detective to take notice. "Appreciated, but I'll have to decline."

"Low-Light, you stink worse than burnt pork grease," Falcon butted in. "You'd best take a shower _and_ change clothes if you ever want to share a vehicle with me again."

"Real cute, Lieutenant," he answered, putting on what passed for a smile.

Detective Clapp offered the soldier a second chance. "A uniform will take you to the stationhouse. You can shower there. You are ripe, but that patrol car has suffered far worse odors, I can assure you."

Low-Light's hands entered his dingy jacket pockets. He nodded, took the clothes, then headed towards the sector car. "Yeah. Ah, okay."

The detective studied Low-Light as he walked away. Had to wonder just what the soldier was concealing in those pockets.

"Enjoy your shower?" asked Lady Jaye, the moment Low-Light joined them in the first floor of the local police precinct. Both Jaye and Falcon had been taking turns, traveling from the visitors' bench to the payphone, getting whatever updates they could from HQ.

Low-Light, hands now buried in his hand-me-down jacket, gave a blunt response. "Water pressure was a joke. Any word on whether or not Firefly's coming back with us?"

Falcon shook his head. "None so far. General Hawk is already making the calls, trying to work it out."

"You've really got to wonder just what he was doing there," said Lady Jaye, stretching, running fingers through her tousled auburn hair.

"Wouldn't seem he's on friendly terms with the O'Malleys, judging by those ropes."

"Maybe this chaos will finally loosen some lips," Falcon said, his irritation with the couple's deception growing by the minute.

Lady Jaye offered a slight rebuttal. "No offense, but their home _wasn't_ a flaming pile of debris before we arrived."

"Eh, they'll get over it," Low-Light answered, taking his seat in the middle of the bench. "They were moving, anyway."

"Well, maybe this change of scenery will inspire Tommy and Keiko to speak up," she said, after a moment's silence. "Every law enforcement agency imaginable is going to be asking about how the world's most dangerous saboteur ended up hogtied in their basement."

Coming down the steps was Detective Clapp, adjusting his tie, exhaling some frustration.

"Hey, you guys weren't kidding," he said as a greeting. "My fourteen-year-old at home opens up more than those two."

Falcon stood. "We free to have our own conversation, Detective?"

Clapp nodded, accepted the inevitable. "Follow me."

No one in the group had major expectations for the follow-up conversation. Best they were hoping for was some clue, some small slipup that could send them in a fruitful direction. Whatever reluctance to dig into the past of Jinx's family had since eroded. Secrets were being kept, and following the incident with Firefly, coming home with nothing was no option.

They arrived upstairs, clustered around the Interview Room's door. Detective Clapp took a breath before opening.

"Okay, guys," he said as the door's hinges squealed, "I'm sure you remember—"

He paused. Cursed just loud enough for the three soldiers to hear.

"What's wrong?" asked Jaye.

She followed Clapp into the room. Two tables, one pushed into the corner, consumed by stacks of papers and file folders. Main table in the middle. Three chairs. A vacant holding cell. One window.

She discovered the source of Clapp's frustration. Every Joe did.

Tommy and Keiko were gone.

# CHAPTER NINE

Low-Light, head on his pillow, was thinking of Detective Clapp. Nice enough guy, it seemed. Maybe wound a bit too tight, but who was he to judge?

The sniper had to give Clapp credit, pulling him aside at the police station. Enough time had passed for Clapp to get his blood pressure settled, for all of the appropriate parties to be called and report the disappearance of that nice Irish couple.

What Clapp wanted to know was if Low-Light perhaps had something else he wished to share. Some tidbit he didn't want aired out in front of his fellow soldiers. "I can't pretend to understand all of this," the detective told him in a sympathetic tone, "but I can promise you I'll do anything I can to look out for you, assuming there's some reason you need to stick your neck out."

Low-Light told him not to worry. Began to walk away. Clapp reached his arm across the sniper's chest. "Just humor me for a sec, okay?"

"Is there some problem here?" asked Falcon, stepping back into the hallway, searching for his teammate.

"None at all," answered Clapp, gesturing for Low-Light to go ahead.

Low-Light nodded. "Nice to meet you," he said as a goodbye, back turned to the detective.

"Oh, no, there is one thing," Clapp added. "I bought a new pack of gum this morning and, for the life of me, can't find it. Silly thing, I know. Just something that's been nagging at me."

Falcon's nose wrinkled. "This involves us how?"

Detective Clapp stepped to Low-Light, and with no permission asked or given, reached into the windbreaker's pockets. "No big deal, but I was wondering if I left them in this jacket."

The detective should've caught the smug expression on Low-Light's face. Wasted a good ten seconds fishing through those pockets.

"Huh. Well, guess it musta fell between the seats of the car," Clapp said, humbled.

Low-Light stayed cool through the ordeal. Was more nervous walking away, attempting to compensate for that extra lift, hidden in his right shoe. Turns out, he made it all the way back to Utah without anyone noticing.

Normal circumstances, he'd never touch that diary. Not only out of respect for Jinx as a fellow Joe (regardless of words they might've exchanged previously), but also the basic dignity he'd afford any human being not aligned with Cobra or some other sworn enemy of his country.

But when Firefly's sniffing around your "aunt" and "uncle's" home? When literally the entire mission is blown to hell, all over some old family secrets? That did more than pique curiosity, it demanded a serious investigation.

Maybe.

He decided he'd read the pages first. No need to spread this around unnecessarily. If the only thing in there involved crushes on boys and stories about trips to the mall, he'd never speak a word of it to anyone. Would even find some way to make sure the diary returned to Jinx—some _discreet_ way.

After finishing the book, he wasn't certain of that next move. These weren't harmless tales of suburbia, no. But they didn't amount to a treasonous betrayal of the team, either. It was a girl working through a childhood she didn't deserve, trying to make sense of why love had to be twisted up in a knot with violence and cold detachment.

At some point during the night, Low-Light made a decision to sleep on it. Ever since he'd outfoxed Cobra during their dream machine fiasco, the sniper had been enjoying an easy rest at his leisure. Not so in previous years, when memories of the past would flood his REM state, forcing Low-Light to maintain hours no doctor would recommend.

Those visions returned tonight. First time in over a year. A sickening collage of images from his past, representing a complex relationship with a man who should've been the soldier's hero.

A moonless night. Junked cars, some parked a mile into the sky. Red-eyed rats darting from the shadows. Pellet gun in hand, occasionally morphing into his government-issued high-precision rifle. A whiskey-stained voice ringing in his ears, informing him of the night's demands.

Don't you bring that bucket home half-empty. You've got to kill twenty of them, Cooper. Any less, and there ain't no supper tonight.

"This diary isn't gonna appear in Lady Jaye's official report," Low-Light said, bent forward, hands clasped, in the seat directly across from his commanding officer. "Wouldn't be fair to hold that against her, General."

"And I assume turning it over to me wasn't an easy call on your part, Low-Light?" asked General Hawk, the aforementioned diary resting in the center of his desk.

"Didn't feel right. But I figured we were assigned that mission for a reason."

General Hawk relaxed in his chair. Took in the unusual sight of a chastened, far less aloof Low-Light. "And did this little book offer you any worthwhile reading?"

"I think you can judge for yourself." Low-Light considered his response, decided to include an addendum. "And, hopefully, recognize the need for discretion."

"I never wanted Jinx's dirty laundry aired out, Low-Light. But certain questions were raised, and we needed answers." The General leaned forward, adopted a new tone. "Now...unrelated topic."

"Yes?"

"Word just came over the wire. Luisa Ortega Gómez was placed under arrest and charged with Hugo Pérez's murder an hour ago."

"Really? Imagine that."

"Yes," General Hawk continued, his tone indicating some degree of pleasure, but also a note of something that set Low-Light on edge. "It seems word leaked to the media overnight, implicating Gómez in her uncle's murder."

"So Jinx is in the clear?"

"Indeed. We expect her home soon."

"And who will be replacing Gómez?"

"Pérez's wife, apparently. And the puzzle palace boys aren't so upset about this," Hawk said, his tone still overtly genial, but sending subliminal vibes the sniper didn't like at all. "Seems Gabriela Pérez is the one who converted Hugo over to free market philosophy. She even studied under big brains like Murray Rothbard, as it turns out."

Low-Light waved a hand in defeat. "Just a dumb soldier, sir. You're going over my paygrade, here."

"She won't be going red, and intelligence reports indicate she isn't an easy mark for Cobra. That's what matters."

"So," answered Low-Light, more than ready to exit the room. "A happy ending."

Hawk drew a breath. "Now, there is the question of the _source_ of this information. Just how the press learned the government was in possession of surveillance footage of the murder. Of the quiet deal in place for Gómez to stay in power, provided she avoid certain associations."

"Sounds like politics to me, sir. Not my area of interest."

"And if I were to monitor your phone usage for the past twelve hours, Low-Light, I wouldn't find any calls to the media?"

Low-Light, feeling like a guilty soul stranded on the witness stand, could only say, "Can't imagine you would, sir."

Hawk paused. "And if I drove down to Rhonda's and put a tracer on that joint's payphone; would I get the same answer?"

The sniper hadn't experienced a sleepless night in so bloody long. Wasn't sure how to deal with the unrest. Decided to get out, try to find something that could take his mind off his problems. Was caught in a game of eightball with some loudmouth local. Thoughts turned back to their ride home to Utah, Falcon bemoaning how the Brass were treating Jinx, still exiled who-knows-where. Just how bad she didn't deserve it.

One thing led to another...

"Perhaps...you wouldn't, sir."

"So Storm Shadow also has A.U.N.T.I.E on his tail?" asked Quick Kick, relieved he wasn't expected to pilot the Joes on the final lap of their trip home. Wild Bill was assigned a training session at Francis S. Gabreski Air National Guard Base in New York. Was glad to hop into a Cessna 172 and escort Quick Kick, Scarlett, and Jinx back to Utah.

"He offed one of their agents," Jinx answered, face still glued to the window. "More blood on his hands. Burke was trying to pull off the charming act, but I could tell how much that loss hit him."

Scarlett, seated to the east of Jinx, nodded. "Sometimes this can all feel like fun and games, and then out of nowhere..."

The concept of "fun and games" caused Jinx's lip to curl. "I wouldn't advocate trusting happiness to anyone, let alone someone in this line of work."

Quick Kick tapped her shoulder from behind. "Hey now, sister. No need to go total cynic on us. We've got a line on Cobra's financial operations, and even if that doesn't sound particularly sexy—"

"He got away. Again."

"There'll be other opportunities," Scarlett offered. "Of course, if you have any intel you could share on Storm Shadow...some bit of info that might help us locate that snake..."

Jinx got quiet, pretended she didn't catch the hint.

Five minutes passed before another word was spoken. Wild Bill prepared for the planned landing at Hill Air Force Base in northern Utah.

"I'll be," said Quick Kick, nose pressed to the window. "Looks like that's General Hawk himself waiting on the tarmac."

Both Scarlett and Jinx expressed disbelief. In under ten minutes, the identity of the gentleman standing beside a VAMP jeep was confirmed.

"Greetings, Joes," he spoke in a fatherly tone, right hand extended. "And let me say well done on a particularly hairy mission."

After handshakes were exchanged, Scarlett asked the obvious question. "Any reason why we rate a personal greeting today, General?"

Hawk slapped the jeep's fiberglass hood canopy. "Thought it might be a nice day to take a VAMP out for a ride." He then reached into his coat pocket, extended a pair of keys to Quick Kick. "But I'm afraid I'm going to have to turn the keys over. Quick Kick, you and Scarlett can find your way back to base, I trust?"

"Sure can," he answered. "But, ah, what about—?"

Jinx spoke up. "What about me, General?"

Hawk placed his hand on her shoulder. "Come with me, Jinx." She said nothing as he guided her westward, towards the nearest parking structure. Eventually, in the distance, she spotted a second VAMP idling in Park.

"I hope you understand it's not my intention to single you out," Hawk said as they stepped closer to the vehicle. His tenor still carried some warmth, but his body language indicated a discomfort not present earlier.

"If I'm facing disciplinary action for that trip overseas, I'm willing to—"

The general shook his head. "I don't think that will be necessary, Jinx. But there is the issue of the biographical information you submitted, prior to joining the team."

Jinx's heart stopped. She steeled herself, did her best to cover. "Has there been some problem, General?"

Hawk's stride stopped. A degree of anger and frustration began to enter his voice. "Jinx, I suspect you know as well as I do that it's time to drop this pretense." He stopped himself, adjusted his tone. "It's time for an honest, frank conversation. And, to facilitate that, I've brought along the finest conversationalist on the team."

Hawk directed his pointer finger towards the VAMP. Inside sat the concerned individual who, reluctantly, requested the investigation into Jinx's past. The driver's side door _clunked_ open.

Before them stood Snake-Eyes.

A day earlier, the ninja had wiped tears from his eyes. Applied some improvised first aid, calmed himself enough to adopt a dependable meditation technique. And, as his chest stopped pounding and the haze began to fade, something quite unusual happened.

A smile formed on his lips.

This quirky flight pod, of course it was familiar. He stole its early design specs from an A.U.N.T.I.E. research station over five years prior. (And those Cobra R&D boys had a field day with them.) Some bean counter overseas must've determined a flying craft designed for only one agent was uneconomical. Expanded the seating to two, although that had to be a tight fit.

Storm Shadow relaxed his body, appreciated the expanded legroom. Considered himself fortunate, regardless of what the Brits were calling it, to once again soar above the earth within the glass dome of a Trubble Bubble.

The grin didn't last for too long. Now, anytime he attempted sleep, that's when a dose of karma kicked in. Found his dreams annexed by thoughts of a poor girl with no family. Traumatic memories of her parents' final moments. The songs she sang with her mother, the stories her father told her at night. The pain of their absence, the lifelong bitterness that consumed their lost child.

The seething hatred for the monster responsible.

Almost enough to make anyone see red.

# November 29, 1976

The silent man awakes fifteen minutes before daybreak. Sun streaks through the cabin windows, creeps over an empty bed. Already in the kitchen, finishing up his breakfast. Milk is running low; he makes a mental note of it. Next trip to town isn't for a week, although he could rearrange his schedule.

One benefit of a lonely life.

He tidies up the kitchen, takes the shovel off the front porch and creates a new path through the snow. Spends most of the morning chopping wood, refilling bird feeders, collecting soil from the woods...telling himself he doesn't recognize the date.

He doesn't mark the anniversaries anymore. Perhaps he views every day as a memorial, here in the High Sierras, separated from the world.

Or "The World" as they used to call it. The home they'd been promised they could return to one day, provided Charlie didn't catch them napping.

The silent man returns to the cabin, rests an unknown number of hours. Dreams of tattered photographs and car crashes. Leaves his bed, goes back to his chores.

Ignores the calendar on the wall.

Checks the freezer, notices there's barely enough squirrel meat for supper. Rectifies this by pulling the Ithaca Model 37 off the wall, donning his boots, and returning to the woods for a hunt.

An hour passes. Probably more. Dusk is approaching; should be perfect time to catch a few more critters as they forage for food. The silent man is questioning where his luck went after twenty minutes. Keeps his eyes sharp, though, and soon enough finds some gnawed nut hulls and piles of shavings in a portion of melted snow. One of his furry targets was enjoying a snack as it kept watch for predators.

The silent man finds a position, is prepared to wait until the sun gives way to its cousin. Doesn't expect a cry of pain to cleave through the silence. A memory from suburbia returns—the Bull Terrier he received as a joint birthday present with his twin sister. Silly, droopy face, pristine white fur. Best friend a kid could ask for.

Had an unfortunate run-in with a neighbor's Doberman. Came home crying out his pain, breaking the boy's heart.

He leaves his perch, walks carefully through the snow, hunting now for this noise. Isn't hard to find the pitiable soul, given the high-pitched whine he's emitting. California gray wolf, leg caught in some hunter's trap. Poacher, most likely. The silent man has a brief fantasy about what he'd do to the punk if their paths ever crossed.

The animal hasn't led a charmed existence. Scars on the right side of his face, consistent with the claws of a black bear. They're becoming more common in this area, thanks to a loss of suitable habitat in the lower elevations. Unavoidable tragedy, really. The silent man's sympathies often reside with the animals, but he can't blame anyone with two working eyes for choosing the local real estate. Not that he's eager for neighbors.

Wolves and bears tend to steer clear of each other; both must've come across the same potential supper. Some indolent hiker likely left a bag of trash lying about. The silent man is extraordinarily careful with his refuse; knows the consequences for both animal and man if food isn't properly discarded.

Approaching carefully, he lifts both hands to indicate he means no harm. The wolf, terrified, in unspeakable pain, only cries louder. He places his hand on the trap, opens its metal teeth.

The animal gives a final yelp. Moving as fast as three legs would allow, he bounds to the right. The silent man stands, whispering some soothing sounds. The wolf turns, eyes the human with suspicion. Crouching down, the silent man opens his sack, removes one of his recent kills. The wolf is adamant; refuses to move closer.

The silent man pulls his shades down, locks eyes with the animal. Respecting its misgivings, he ceases beckoning it forward. Instead, he lifts the squirrel corpse, gently tosses it in the gray wolf's direction.

The animal hobbles forward, sniffs the meat, takes it as a prize. The silent man observes the stunning creature make its exit down the hill. Makes plans to follow the blood trail later; see if he can do anything to help.

Then, he turns to see the figure of a dark, burly man positioned behind him.

He aims the Ithaca 37. Has his finger on the trigger. Doesn't have to spit out some tough guy threat.

"Woah, now!" exclaims the stranger. "You really wanna be pointing that at a blind man?"

Were the silent man anyone else, he'd ask how someone blind could know a gun was being pointed at him.

"Listen, buddy," speaks the stranger. "I'm not here to cause any trouble. Crazy as this might sound, we've got a mutual friend."

He knows, somehow, that this man is not the poacher. Lowers his rifle. The stranger steps closer, smiles. "Few months back, a certain chapter in my life closed. Been a mite dull since then, I'll confess. I've been looking for a change in scenery. Felt like the two of us might have some things to talk about."

The silent man returns the smile.

# ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gene Kendall taught himself how to program a VCR at the age of five, determined to never miss an episode of _G. I. Joe: A Real American Hero_. He's been writing about reputable and disreputable pop culture for over ten years at Not Blog X and CBR, and has finished five novels as of this writing. Fans of the 1990s alt-rock movement, washed up comic book professionals, and a divorced ghost-hunting couple might want to check him out on Twitter for some announcements.

# AUTHOR'S COMMENTARY

_This boy, Tadaaki, not more than eleven years old. Son of a diplomat from Chomo-Lungma, an impoverished mountain country in the midst of a border dispute with China_.

Chomo-Lungma, like all other fictional countries in these stories, comes from the comics canon. Joe fans have done incredible work cataloguing all of these places, and I sincerely thank each and every one of you.

_Aboard the Cobra Transport Helicopter (still in prototype, no fancy name assigned at the moment), Ren was fuming_.

The Cobra Transport Helicopter began appearing in the comics in the late 1980s. According to the fine folks at Joepedia, it's based on the Sikorsky CH-54 Tarhe. It would seem to be a natural for the toyline, but no vehicles were ever produced. I realize referencing comics material could distract from the aim of continuing the Sunbow canon, but these minor nods are (I hope) harmless. This seemed like the most plausible Cobra craft to use in this circumstance, anyway.

" _My copilot, I trust implicitly!" he spoke in his typical tone-deaf cadence, referring to the female student who rarely left his side._

Staying true to the Sunbow canon, that means Storm Shadow has to speak in the stereotypical stilted manner of a 1980s "neeenjaah." This also requires Quick Kick to do a bad impression of that bad accent while undercover.

The Countess fit every dime novel definition of a mystery woman, with her oddly northwestern European accent, gently bronzed skin, violet eyes, and a faint strip of platinum streaking through her dark swept bangs.

James Bond inspires _Man from U.N.C.L.E.,_ which inspires _Nick Fury, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.,_ which inspires an appearance by a lady who may or may not be inspired by an unnamed Jim Steranko creation. We never actually saw what A.U.N.T.I.E. agents look like, outside of Burke in his nice suits. I've also extrapolated a history between A.U.N.T.I.E. and Cobra, because it does make sense that Cobra's activities would extend past America. All of this from a 1986 throwaway joke, referencing an old TV show I've never seen.

Ominous skies have foretold the ghastly reality—a flotilla of snakes are positioned outside Joe Headquarters. The team, returning from what they now know to be a decoy mission, is throttling their MOBATs and VAMPs over that rocky Utah terrain. Losing no time, racing to the defense of their home, fighting the latest battle against these vile serpents.

Everyone recognizes the setup to the original miniseries' opening credits, don't they? And does anyone else think Cobra gear tends to keep the periods in its acronyms while the Joes just drop them?

Ever since he'd outfoxed Cobra during their dream machine fiasco, the sniper had been enjoying an easy rest at his leisure.

Another nod to the episode "Nightmare Assault." The episode established nightmares about his childhood prevented Low-Light from ever gaining more than a few hours' sleep. The climax had him conquering his demons and defeating a dream-related plot orchestrated by Cobra.

I selected Low-Light as a player in this portion of the story before I even made the connection between his past and Jinx's. And, admittedly, almost all of Jinx's backstory here is my invention. No offense to the established lore, but I thought having Jinx discover her ninja background while on vacation, after experiencing a quiet life in America, lacked some dramatic weight. (And how long did she spend training to become a ninja before joining the team, if she wasn't aware of her Arashikage heritage until after college?) I felt this new origin had a very 1980s feel to it; I realize now a subconscious Frank Miller influence.

There's more to the Arashikage in future installments, although I'm well aware of the letter column debates of old. A segment of fandom wants the ninja material kept at a minimum, and since I've leaned heavily in that direction, I'll be course correcting in the future.

Yet, there _is_ a new member of the Joe team coming in 1988, correct? One we've already met before...

