May 24, 2020

UNATCO Divisional Headquarters

Manhattan, New York

Amanda Hollins examined the contents of a Manila folder, each paper a small part of the puzzle, in which this case had to do with the death of Paul's brother. The case was particularly hard on her, for not only was there a suspicious amount of evidence, there was also the fact that her friend was deeply affected by this. It was strange, she knew the facts and the evidence, and the handwriting was on the wall, but it just didn't seem quite right, the way things had occurred. The soldiers didn't even attempt to pursue the assailant, hair and scraps of DNA evidence lay everywhere, and the execution of the crime was particularly suspicious. Three shots had taken James down, the standard kill number for a military operation. She had gotten it drilled into her head, three shots to kill, from her earliest training in England, and this case was no exception. Still, the shots were poorly placed, and eyewitness testimony stated that James had survived the attack long enough to utter a few last words. It could have just been a misfortune on the hitman's part.

Then again, there was the issue of thermoptic camouflage. The only organizations known to use it were military groups, federal and UN counterterrorist groups, and a select few mercenaries and soldiers of fortune. It piqued her curiosity, and as she flipped through the papers with a pen tip in her mouth, an old Frankie song popped into her head.

"Hmmm hmm hmmm hmmm… I've got youuuuu… Under my skin… I've got you deep in the heart of me… "

She continued with a gentle, enthusiastic hum. Why even think about it? The DNA evidence proved it three times: Agent Peter Kreiger was the only person who could have made the killing. Still, the question hovered in her mind. Why? What was his motive? He could have gone rogue, but why? She wasn't prepared to run off and kill a suspect without motive, but it looked as though there was going to be little choice in the matter. She tossed back her hair and looked at a picture showing a ten-millimeter bullet lodged into James' body.

"And in spite of the warning voice that comes in the night… and repeats, how it yells in my ear… don't you know, little fool… you never can win?"

She worried at the ease of the case, and that all that was holding back an arrest order were issues with Interpol. It seemed far too apparent, like the man had been set up. She didn't know who the agent was, apart from the fact that he was a cheetah cross, sniper, 29, and worked with Paul two years ago on the UN headquarters job, and she didn't enjoy the thought of having to kill this man. She grasped the sides of her head, frustrated at all the thinking and moral issues and taxing thoughts inside her head, and then realized that her humming and singing was no substitute for the real Sinatra. She opened up her computer's MP3 player and searched for the tune, finally resting on the correct song on the playlist: "I've Got You Under My Skin". Pressing play, the musical introduction piped through the auxiliary speakers and into her ears, which she was relieved to find enabled her to hear music even better. Resting her feet on the desk before her, she got so caught up in music that she didn't notice Paul's noisy musical intrusion.

"So deep in my heart that you're a part of me!"

"Jesus H Christ!" She pivoted her chair in a startled jolt. "Why do you insist on sneaking up on me like that? It can make a girl prematurely age!"

Paul laughed a bit. "Sorry, but you know the rules of the game, as a UNATCO agent, you've got to stay on your toes!" Sweeping her up from her chair and taking hold of her in a dance position, she looked down at two pairs of digitigrade feet.

"It's not like we have much choice, Paul. Well, you seem unusually happy today, what's the occasion?"

"Well, I've got some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?"

She turned a close lipped smile and looked sidelong at him with intrigue. "Good."

"Okay, turns out one of Dana's friends is the secretary of none other than Lillian Moore!"

"As in two-time Oscar winner Lillian Moore?"

"Yes! And she's coming to town and has agreed to have dinner with us on the evening of July 3^rd! I don't know how it all got pulled off, but we're actually going to meet her!"

"That's lovely! Congratulations! I wish I were lucky like you. Oh, hold on… what was the bad news?"

He sighed, but she knew that he wasn't really upset. She could smell a heated, ecstatic scent from him and spied a smirk on the edge of his lip. "Well, I've just met with the good Colonel, and he's given me the responsibility to tell you that you just earned a promotion, which means that I won't be your superior anymore. Congratulations, you're a Captain."

She smiled and crossed her arms. "Alright Paul, spit it out, you know this is bullshit. What did I do to deserve this 'promotion'?"

He laughed in stunned disbelief. "Wh… What did you do?? You only completed six urban operations with flying colors and a daring reconnaissance mission that ended up taking out a terrorist cell! I think that's more than reason enough! All I had to do was peg a couple of people to get my promotion."

"That means we're equal rank now?" He nodded, resulting in an exuberant reaction of happiness. "Thank you, Paul, you've almost made my day…"

Paul nodded, suddenly becoming more serious. "But there's one more thing I need for you to do, just one favor."

Hollins sighed and rolled her eyes. "Paul, I've already told you, I can't let you examine any more evidence." The center of his brow rose his lower lip began trembling as she waited for him to begin a pathetic whimper. "No! Don't give me that poor little puppy look, I'm not buying it! I won't!" She waited, looking at his sorrowful eyes. "Alright, damn it, I'll do it, but you're really pushing the act." She plunked down into her chair, which had no back due to her broad tail. "What do you need?"

"I'd like to take a look at the murder weapon, use it for a ballistics test."

"What for? I've already told you what the investigative team thinks."

Paul scowled mildly. "Well, as much as I didn't like Kreiger, I don't think the little guy did it. I doubt he had the motive, as I'm sure you do. Come on, do you really want to nail the SOB? Isn't there a little corner in your mind that thinks he's been set up?"

She leaned on the desk and rested her muzzle on her hands. "Not as little as you might think."

He smiled. "Once you doubt, you can't stop."

Continuing, she turned to him. "What exactly did you have in mind?"

"Lands and grooves. You know about that, right?"

She sighed, slightly irritated. "Every gun has different rifling and blemishes, this causes every bullet fired from a particular gun to carry a special set of notches and scrapes, called 'lands and grooves'. Paired with a weapon fired in ballistics tests, this can confirm the weapon used, and possibly the suspect by matching the bullet with the gun, and blah blah blah… I KNOW."

"Well what if, after I test out the gun, we see what's going on. DNA can be manipulated, you know, all you have to do is take someone else's and he's automatically a scapegoat. You ever think of that?"

"The thought had crossed my mind, but there isn't a scrap of evidence from another person, no skin cells, no loose hairs, no blood… your brother's bite didn't even break through the assailant's arm, so if this is a setup, who was the real killer?"

Paul coldly looked out of the window. "I don't know, but I'm going to find him, UNATCO or no, and I'm in no better place to find a man who has gone into hiding anywhere in the world."

She got up from her chair and aimed for the door. "Well, Mr. Vigilante, I don’t' know about you, but I have a meeting to make involving a certain… promotion? I'll get that pistol to you, but I'm warning you, if the ballistics department catches you with that gun, you're going to be swimming in shit."

"Don't worry, I've got that worked out."

"Good. Glad to see you haven't changed. Ciao." Her tail waved mildly as her smooth marsupial shape strode down the hall and disappeared past an intersection.

Suddenly, a voice sounded in his earpiece. "Heads up."

"'Morning, Hansen. How's the arm coming?"

"Never mind that now. Verkerke's made up his mind, and so has Interpol. We're going to find a way to detain and arrest Peter Kreiger. Here's the plan. The NSA has been keeping tabs on our man for some time now, and we have his patterns, his profile, and his tendencies all on file. With those in mind, we're planning on arresting him this evening under cover of darkness. You've been assigned to help out. If possible, we want him alive, understand?"

He snarled. "God dammit, Hansen, you're going to detain him? You guys know he's not the killer, the evidence just seems too outstanding. It's so obvious that it can't be true!"

"Outstanding as it is, we can't risk him leaving the country or committing another crime."

"That's not the point! The point is, I know that there has to be someone else involved in this! I HAVE to know who that killer is for sure before I do anything to him!"

"That's why I called. We've managed to obtain a piece of interesting information. Your brother, just before his death, was investigating Kreiger on counts of treason. He said he was close to something."

"How close?"

"Close enough to give us reasonable doubt. The UNATCO Security Council will work this out in today's meeting at 3:00. After that, we'll give you a heads-up."

"Roger that, Hansen. Out."

"Over and out."

The UNATCO Academy was a comfortable distance from the bustle of New York, a mere 20 minutes by Maglev transit, and as Paul signed in at the main gate, memories started rushing back into his head. The memories were fleeting, however, as he realized that he was only taking the trip for business purposes and that he couldn't afford to be off thinking about memories.

He had walked from the Maglev Terminus, fully remembering the directions and the seemingly unchanged town of Summitville. Nestled away from the Interstate on U.S. 209, it's two story buildings, glass-fronted stores, and pickup trucks were a far cry from the urban sprawl of Manhattan. It had a quaint, rural feel that invigorated him, and he wished that he had been lucky enough to work here, like Sergei did on occasion.

Today was one of those occasions. He had been requested for teaching in the Ballistics division, and Paul was ecstatic to have attained the murder weapon. Technically, each weapon to enter the test range for any purpose would be inspected, checked in, written up, and allowed to pass. If someone were to bring in an unregistered weapon or a piece of evidence without some sort of consent, however, they would be arrested. There were ways around this, however, and Sergei was one of them. He looked at his Palmtop, reading the address.

UNATCO Ballistics Research Academy, D-Wing, Classroom 224-A3 (right across from the Light Munitions Storage Facility).

Stepping along the grainy pavement surface, he passed a couple of young cadets in blue collar shirts and formal military caps. Looking for a thick, bunker like building, a semi-distant explosion drew his attention to the correct academy. As a mild rumbling shook the structure around him, a thought piqued his curiosity. What exactly is Sergei teaching, anyway?

Through a lead-enforced door with a meshed window, the absolute silence of the building's interior gave way to a lone conversation. The classroom was surprisingly small, but had the touchy atmosphere of a lab during an experiment. At the front, Sergei stood giving a lecture in little more than plain clothes, a tactical vest, and a pair of thick gloves. Upon entering the room, he was sweeping bits of broken glass off a crisped table with a neat star of soot in the center. After disposing of the glass, he began brushing off his gloves and checked his tail for any dirt or damage.

"Okay, now that I've effectively caught your attention, I'd like to point this out. Now, we all know what this is, right?" He held up a cylindrical can, a small paint canister with an old fashioned pop-top. Carefully easing it onto the table, he looked up to the class while turning its face toward the class and using a screwdriver to open it. The can read in large, easily visible letters "RS"

"To prospective demolitions specialists, you already know that this is Red Sodium, a pure red solution that looks and acts just like red paint. As a matter of fact, it was used often for that purpose until they found that another chemical…" He reached under the table and pulled out another can. Placing it on the table, a horrible rancor wafted through Paul's nose as Sergei opened it. He didn't look terribly pleased either. "Copper Sulfate creates a high-yield incendiary explosion if combined with Red Sodium. This is a classic example of a binary reaction. Both are common chemicals that can be found in nearly any shop or chemical plant. Red Sodium has this rusty red appearance while Copper Sulfate has this vile stewpot green color with a smell to match. Anyone want a whiff?" Sergei began walking around before the cadets, holding a can that might as well have been full of rotten eggs outward.

One of the braver cadets at the front of the class stood up and sniffed the vile concoction. He blanched slightly and immediately retreated into his chair. Sergei laughed a bit. "Trust me, this hurts me more than it does you." Returning to his desk, he proceeded to pull out a paintbrush with a fairly broad tip. "To make this sort of weapon, you have to know the characteristics of the surface between the two compounds. For instance, a sheet of Balsa wood lasts longer than Muslin. Muslin lasts longer than a sheet of paper. Using a paper towel would probably make the bomb blow up in your face, and using Reynolds Wrap will obviously not work at all." He dipped the paintbrush into the green can, beginning to paint W's onto an empty canvas that already lay on the table.

It was at this point that some of the cadets in the room began clamoring and shifting in their seats. Some of the more familiar pupils comforted their friends by telling them that in class experiments weren't uncommon and that Sergei was usually safe about it. Paul found it humorous, as he had gone through the same drill in his academy days. Sergei finished painting the surface and put it down, cleaning the green off the brush and laying it aside. Gently blowing on the surface, he showed it to the class.

"Voila. All I need is a signature and it'll be hanging in the Met." The class chuckled, familiar with the obscure, often silly concept of modern art. "Now, I don't want to waste the precious time that we are quickly running out of, so I'll just show you what I normally use as a separator." He reached behind the desk, which showed many signs of prior lessons, and brought out a flat brown sheet of paper that was slightly larger than the canvas. A substantial red square was painted in the middle, and it appeared to be dry. It also lacked the scent of the deep carmine solution in the paint can nearby. Taking four small strips of masking tape, he placed the brown paper, which looked similar to the material used in disposable lunch bags, and tightly secured it to the wet canvas. The dry paper immediately fastened to the wet surface, causing a commotion in the classroom. A cadet broke out nervously.

"Sir… Don't we have guys with body armor, big helmets, and really long paintbrushes to do this?"

"Yes, but I'm faster and better." He patted down the paper so that it was flat and almost blemishless. "This is normal, low grade brown paper like that used in supermarket paper bags. I've timed the reaction to about 40 to 50 seconds, so without further ado, I think it would be a good idea to take this elsewhere."

Immediately, a thick metal door opened behind him. He swiftly whisked the canvas off the table and headed into the room. As he did this, two large video screens turned on, revealing a twisted wreck of a car, the ancient car body of an Oldsmobile that still miraculously had some windows. Sergei briskly walked up to it, pushed the canvas through an opening intended for a window, and carefully rested it on the half eaten upholstery of the old mobile. Stepping back, he continued his lecture by speakerphone as he headed back to the classroom, not running or afraid.

"I've picked a car for this demonstration as this is probably the best way you could use this bomb, or any bomb for that matter. Chances are, terrorists know this technique as well, so don't be surprised if they also use this method. Modern cars made since the 1990's have used synthetics and plastics so much that a flaming car is now an almost inescapable deathtrap. Fuel is not, and has rarely been the issue so much as molten plastic from the car's interior, and a good incendiary device can liquefy a car in nearly 20 seconds." Briskly stepping through the hallway that linked the small lecture hall with the demonstration room, Paul heard the distinct hissing of two sets of doors. As Sergei walked through the last set, he turned to look at the screen and waited for a few moments. Suddenly, the screens lit up in a brilliant white flash.

The first thing Paul noticed was the muffled sound of a damp drum, followed by a hissing "thwoosh" and a shower of crystallized glass fragments. The rain of glass plinked against the camera's leadened glass, giving way to a better view of the car. The reinforced windshield, he noticed, seemed to fly from its moorings, barely anchored by a strip of flaming rubber. As the windshield fell away from view, a raging inferno belched out of the windows, then retreated into a sulking, yet lethal burn inside the car. He could almost see someone inside the car, glued to his seat by molten plastic as curls of burning upholstery, foam cushioning, and skin rose up around him. He wondered how anyone could ever escape a car fire. As the flames died down and no pockets of oil or fuel ignited, Sergei turned back to the class.

"There. Isn't chemistry fun?" This sparked some astonished laughs within the classroom as well as some light applause. "You'll notice that the car did most of the work. This is the beauty of a car bomb, because a brief and fleeting flame can be survived, but the rivers of molten upholstery and padding can take someone's life without a hitch. Often, the value of a car is inversely proportional to the amount of damage it does while on fire. Less cost means more plastic, which means a quicker and more lethal death. More cost means more metal and better material. Leather, I have found, can almost nullify a small incendiary device." A triple tone sounded, signaling the end of class. "Well, I see that 's all for today. I want a 4000 word paper on the ballistic and incendiary properties of a specific explosive, your choice, by Friday. Professor Wilson said I should give you some homework. Have a nice day."

As the class gathered their books, laptops, and accessories, they mumbled a bit at the long assignment and made their way to other engagements. Sergei, after seeing Paul, waved and took off the cumbersome vest and thick gloves before stepping toward his friend. He had little expression on his face, not an unusual state of appearance in Sergei. Slipping off his jacket, he clawed at his canines a bit and greeted Paul.

"Good afternoon. What did you think of the class?

Paul smiled. "You're a natural, Sergei. I think you've found your groove in this organization."

"Possibly. I realize that while I individually cannot have much of an impact, teaching students with good motivation will perhaps quell the threat of terrorism and destruction more."

The two began walking out of the classroom, striding down a dull cinder block and machine polished hallway. A professor heading toward Sergei had salt and pepper gray hair, a notable bulge in his abdomen, a chin that seemed to edgelessly mold into his neck, and the appearance of an old sage. The religious looking character spoke with a tongue slightly leadened by fat and fatigue.

"Ah, Mr. Villieu, how did the class go?"

"Quite well, Dr. Wilson. I taught them some rudimentary applications of binary explosives and incendiaries."

"Good, good." He extended a palm and showed some discomfort upon Sergei's powerful handshake. He also reared a bit at the hybrid's wolfish grin. He retracted his hand fairly quickly afterward. "You know, Sergei, you really strike a note with the students. Are you interested in full time?"

He shrugged. "Possibly. I'll know for sure when my service term is done."

"Alright. Nice seeing you."

With a false grin, he waved the professor off. "You too." He turned around, his face sinking into a scowl, and looked at Paul with a tight-lipped frown.

"Tell me you smelled that."

Paul did notice that the man emitted a somewhat fearful odor and spoke with insincerity. "Yes, I did."

He turned to watch the lecture hall's door close. "Good lord I hate that man."

"Who? Dr. Wilson? He didn't seem that bad."

"No, no, I know that some fear is completely normal for people unaccustomed to genetic hybrids, but this man belittles our kind behind our backs. He outwardly thinks me a good teacher, while the moment I turn around he insults us. You can smell the resentment and jealousy on him, can't you?"

"Actually, I was concentrating more on his large double chin."

He snorted with a bit of humor. "Well, you just hang around him long enough and you'll know. The worst part is, he doesn't think we know, but a scholar like him should realize that our supersensitive ears and senses of smell can analyze people far better than any human."

"Well, if you really hate this guy, are you going to do something about it?"

He grinned wryly. "I already have. You know that homework assignment?"

Paul nodded.

"It turns out, Dr. Mason didn't assign that essay, but when he gets 30 4000 word papers to grade, however he reacts, I'll be quite satisfied with his peril."

Thinking about the clever prank, Paul smirked and laughed. "That's pretty cold, Sergei. I didn't think you had it in you."

"Thanks."

The two paused for a moment as Sergei gestured for Paul to follow him. He was led to a discrete corner between two pillars at the end of a hallway. Despite the sound of distant conversations and machines, it was quiet. Sergei quietly gestured, patting the side of his right thigh as if requesting something. Paul, understanding the charade, reached behind his coat and removed a Beretta 1030 pistol that was stuffed in the back of his pants. He had chosen to wear pants and a sweatshirt to cover the body suit, making concealment easier. With silent actions, he safed the weapon, removed the magazine, and handed it to Sergei with the barrel aimed off to the side following one of the primary firearms handling rules: Never aim a gun at anything you don't intend to shoot.

Upon examination, Sergei looked at the pistol, smelled it deeply for the characteristic scent of spent primer, and stuffed it into his pants behind his back. He then pulled out a palmtop, removed the stylus, and wrote a quick note, handing it to Paul. The computer had translated Sergei's scribblings into neat text.

"This is the pistol used? Looks more like INTERPOL gear than UNATCO."

Paul took the stylus and palmtop in hand, cleared the message, and wrote his own note.

"I know. They're using it to prove Kreiger's guilt, but I have my doubts. There might be some "issues" regarding internal affairs."

After Sergei read the message, he looked at his friend with a half-frightened and half-surprised look. Paul noted that his ears had even perked. He cleared and wrote.

”Isn't Hollins part of the investigative team? How can you suspect her, you two seem very close."

They continued the chain, not speaking for fear of attracting UNATCO's attention. In the office, it was customary not to listen to operatives or invade privacy, but in the field, or even at home, one could never be sure whether the tracking and listening devices were on or off.

"I don't. She's the one who managed to get this piece of evidence. Still, it makes you wonder, doesn't it? If she can get evidence out and into my hands, who says that evidence can't be planted in the same way? I think someone's trying to frame Peter Kreiger."

"How so? DNA evidence can be manipulated, but there will always be traces of the real suspect's identity."

"Is that what you think? How 'bout I tell you a story? Last year, during an investigation on an alleged Soldier of Fortune, the entire crime scene pointed toward one man. They only found traces of the real suspect's identity after inspecting a trash dumpster nearby, in which they uncovered a hypodermic needle with combat steroid enhancements and a droplet of the suspect's blood. After finding the man, they realized that he had worn a cleansuit, like the people that make microchips. To frame another man, he had taken samples of the poor dupe's blood and hair to use on the scene."

"Paul, your reasoning is sound, but what about the witnesses? They didn't see anyone in a biosuit or a cleansuit."

"That's because they didn’t see anything. The suspect was wearing thermoptic camouflage as well. Do you know who has access to environmentally sealed suits with thermoptic camouflage?"

Sergei thought for a moment. "Only a few high profile agencies. USMMB agents, Delta Force, WHO Enforcers, Seals, the Mossad, GSG 9, and UNATCO. You know, it could just as easily have been a mercenary. They don't need motive, just money."

"Perhaps you're correct, but the only way we can know for sure is if we put a bullet fired from this gun next to the bullet recovered at the site."

"You mean they didn't do that already?"

"They claim to, but I want to see for myself. The Academy has a forensic database with Land and Groove profiles, right?"

"Yes, but I'll need clearance to the current cases."

"Sergei?"

"Okay, I can hack in, but NOT at my computer. I can do it in one of the faculty labs."

The ballistics research wing had a special pool designed specifically to analyze the lands and grooves of a weapon. Shooting a bullet into the water nullified any damage that could be made with the impact of a hard object, but still flawlessly recorded the notches generated by the rifling of any gun. One could also have shot into a special block of gelatin, but to use them was more expensive in the long run and better suited for analyzing the effects of a bullet in a body.

As Paul secured the pistol onto special adjustable rigging, he stepped back, put on a pair of safety goggles, and carefully held a set of safety earmuffs. He was disappointed, but not surprised, that nobody had designed some sort of sound suppressors for hybrids with ears on the tops of their heads. As the alarm sounded and a rotating warning light activated in the corner, the pistol was aimed toward a particularly long and narrow pool with a robotic apparatus. After aiming, a rubber rod pulled back the trigger, firing the gun. As a small cloud of gas and spent primer erupted from the gun's muzzle, a beautiful stream of air sliced into the water and curved down after about ten feet. As the tiny air bubbles rose frantically to the surface, a small submersible robot that looked like an electric generator with arms tracked the bullet, retrieved it, and returned to the surface to present it in a servile fashion.

Jiggling the bullet from the robot's grip, he looked at the rounded, shiny tip and the miniscule scratches on the side of the bullet as a bead of water trailed off. With a satisfied grin, he turned to Sergei.

"Looks like a winner."

The faculty computer lab had the feel of functionality most federal facilities had, cinderblock walls, the acoustic ceiling, the blue rubber trim, the plastic coated desks and form fitting ergoplastic chairs… Paul had been around the drab settings for so long that he wanted a chance to move around some more. Despite the fact that martial law had been repealed in New York, there were still many issues to work out within the city that involved violent tactics. He had grown up in Brooklyn, lived in Staten Island, worked in Manhattan, and killed and assaulted in nearly every part of town. He was fatigued and glad that his service with UNATCO's genetic hybrid program was almost over. Still, he had that one issue to work out, something that nibbled at his mind constantly: Finding the killer of his brother. If he'd gotten his own way, he would likely fill the murderer's cranium with a healthy load of flechettes. Nonetheless, he knew that if he were to kill the wrong guy, he would either pay the full penalty of the law or be forced to live with the nagging doubt for the rest of his life.

Sergei pressed a nanodisc with a blue luster gently into its designated spot into one of the machines, letting the automated gears inside finish pulling it in and positioning it over the laser eye. Within a second, the microscopic laser was analyzing lumps and grooves on the disc barely detectable by even an electron microscope.

The desktop icon changed from an empty symbol to an attractive spinning disc 3D animation, signifying that there was information in the drive. Opening the disc, he pulled up a file labeled "Exhibit 3A" and automatically opened "BallisticsWizard '19". It asked a simple, friendly question in a nearly human voice, but Sergei still deafened it with the fear of being caught with illegal evidence.

"Welcome to Ballistics Wizard 2019. This file is a 3D image. Would you like the program to…" It faded into nothingness as Sergei's clawed fingers nimbly turned the volume knob counterclockwise. Turning to Paul, he nodded and clicked a "yes" button. Soon, the holographic monitor seemed to grow hollow in the center with a black void as a backdrop. Seconds later, a flawless 3D image of a 10 millimeter bullet came on screen, grooves and all. Sergei immediately enlarged the picture and set a rotation to the object, which smoothly pivoted on an invisible axle upon his command.

Immediately after seeing Paul's satisfied nod, he began checking the bullet with UNATCO's index, a built-in feature to the program. As usual, it asked for clearance by authorized personnel, giving the same FBI/UNATCO security drawl about cyberhackers and such. Paul pondered on the statement as Sergei reached into his black gym bag. Hackers were indeed a serious threat; Paul had dealt with them several times. Nobody, however, had breached the UNATCO net without UNATCO equipment. He hoped that Sergei knew what he was doing.

He did, Paul soon found, as he removed another blue CD labeled "IceBreaker". Ice Breaker was a program CD issued to agents to hack computer systems in times of need. It was updated monthly for security and updates, but with a good CD one could rip ATM's without detection. Paul interlaced his fingers in a slight prayer as he hoped that the pros at UNATCO were able to hack their own security system.

His prayers were answered as a screen popped up, labeling two photos as an accurate match. Immediately afterward, a sister program rummaged through the UNATCO profiles to match a gun with the bullet, then a face with the gun, then a name with the face. A few moments later, a proud headshot of a black fox hybrid came into view, his beady eyes peering across a jet-black muzzle. Only the flare of white fur under his muzzle, the white fur in his large ears, and the whites of his eyes stood out in the picture, which had an electric blue background. As always, the background sat over the gold UNATCO star, which sat in a circular emblem encircled with miniature stars. It was an appropriate symbol for a law enforcement organization.

This man hadn't broken the law, though. He had broken it. Paul turned to Sergei with curiosity, looking at the name: Sean Weston. He had heard that name before, but never in a bad context as he did now. "Sergei, is that the man?"

He nodded with affirmation.

Staring at the picture, he noticed another note, one that flashed below the picture. Weston was deceased, and apparently it had happened two days after James' demise. He too died of a murder, but he was on assignment when it happened. A rage seared through Paul. The monster was dead. There was no room for vengeance, and instead of pleasure, he felt a black, empty void. Still, it seemed a terrible coincidence that, as James and Paul were brothers, Weston and Kreiger were partners. Partners… what was going on? He thought. Perhaps Weston and Kreiger were accomplices, pawns for a greater power… Still, they used equipment that had to be checked out of heavily guarded storage lockers. Could UNATCO have ordered the killing of James, killed Weston for his knowledge, then pinned the blame on Kreiger, who might have stumbled on the evidence? It was a possibility, though a terrible one. First, Paul thought about who the mastermind behind this was, but as soon as he looked at his Rolodex, he began to fear for his own life.

They were going to kill Peter Kreiger, and Paul was going to do the dirty work.