May 25, 2001

Chinatown, New York

The air was beginning to darken in the area, a favorable condition for infiltration. As the UNATCO armored car smoothly coasted into Chinatown on the interstate, it had to dodge closely knit traffic formations in a dangerous ballet accompanied by a symphony of honking horns. Aggressive driving was a necessity, though, in New York. It was the law of the land, and denser traffic patterns didn't make the situation easier. Bull bars surrounded the armored car in case it was to hit another vehicle. Paul laughed to himself. In order to ensure the safety and punctuality of the soldiers inside the van, the driver had to endanger them on the road, and, while the car was designed to take 50 caliber rounds without a scratch, they still placed protective bars around it to protect the armor. Still, it gave a sense of security, and as the trapezoidal shaped behemoth with six wheels dodged in and out of traffic, Paul looked out of a leadened portal to see enraged drivers. He felt no sympathy for them. Any true New Yorker didn't really need a car.

Paul only had one lent to him by the company, but he rarely ever used it. It was an Escapade, as was the standard, fitted with armor-fortified siding, pepper spray crowd control nozzles, and fingerprint ID door handles. Though protected, it far from provided the protection of a true military armored vehicle, so operatives were still advised to take cover between the two sweet points of a car: Behind the engine block, and just in front of the rear wheel. He wouldn't need that now, though. He looked around at the nearby soldiers.

He felt a bit out of place. They didn't really need a sniper on this mission, it would take place mainly indoors. Technically, they were supposed to detain Kreiger, but Paul knew through experience that rogue operatives always fought to the death, just as they did when they worked for the company. Perhaps it was blind bravery, or perhaps it was the fear of what they would face under custody.

Paul had never fully engaged in an interrogation. Normally, a suspect was questioned in a normal law enforcement fashion, put in a room with basic needs and basic comforts and provided a lawyer under American law, but if the suspect didn't comply, then the UN was authorized to use other means. First they would resort to nonphysical means of interrogation, which was actually a step up from simple negotiation and questioning. It normally involved a polygraph test paired with an expert psychological specialist called a "Psytech". He or she would use the most specific, biting, and mentally testing method of psychological warfare, a modern technique perfected since the mid 1980's when it officially became part of standard operations. If overly questioned, one could possibly be driven completely insane, in which case the suspect would be treated and either re-questioned or detained.

Physical torture was never seen before by Paul, left to more specialists referred to as Extraction Doctors. He had heard horror stories about them before, about how they aimed for the most specific areas of pain in the body. Chakra was popular, so was "electrotherapy", "hydrotherapy", and "Asiatic Interrogatory Technique". Paul had heard from a fellow operative about one man, a militant, who had all ten toes and one testicle shot off before he succumbed to shock and died. Poor bastard, he thought to himself, he must have deserved it, though. Suddenly, a thought popped into his head. Who was he to judge who deserved to die or not? The only case he had ever acted out of personal bias was this one, and even now he had many questions.

He wasn't about to let Kreiger get of easy, no chance in hell. If he really was the killer, Paul would have to return the favor, but if he wasn't, then there were going to have to be answers, detailed answers. He turned to the fellow operatives, all in full tactical gear. Paul once again reflected on how he felt out of place. He wasn't wearing tactical gear, as did the others, he wasn't nearly as well armed, and he was the only one thinking to himself about the mission's questionable nature. He didn't even know the operatives around him, as they were probably new transfers from Fort Bragg. The fact that there were 56 genetically augmented operatives rather than 24 warmed him from the inside, however. He looked around carefully. One was an attractive vixen with rusty fur and auburn eyes. Her hairstyle and figure were shrouded by her tac gear, which did her beauty no justice. The hybrid next to him was a black bear, and as he held a cigarette between his broad fingers, he coaxed a Diamond strike anywhere match from inside his coat, sneered his teeth, and abruptly swiped the filament of wood across the ridges of his teeth, lighting it.

Paul imagined that that would hurt, but was relieved to know that he wasn't alone in his protest to a single bear smoking in a stifled little room. The vixen shifted in her seat, resting the butt of her AR-22 on the padded seat. She spoke with a touch of an Israeli accent, giving the assumption that she was likely from their Mossad, one of the world's most notorious CT squads.

"Carlin, do you have to do that here? You know that stuff dulls your senses before combat." Paul pondered her words. She was expecting combat, as was Paul.

The bear spoke out with a deep, yet distinct voice. "Screw it. He's just a cheetah, and a sniper at that. Even if he's a fuckin' combat mastermind and our senses are dulled, there's no way he could go up against eight of us."

"I've had friends killed who underestimated PLA terrorists before, just like you. Have you ever seen what a Minigun does to a man? It's not pretty."

He scoffed in a belittling manner. "Yeah, like this guy has a six-barrel Gatling gun. He's a sniper, for God's sake."

"That's not my point. The fact is, this man could be a serious threat."

Paul spoke out. "She has a point. That's why I'm going in. I've got personal business with this guy and a few questions to ask. It's absolutely essential he doesn't see you guys."

The vixen spoke out. "That's not a problem for the team. Lord, I haven't even talked to you yet! Are you okay with the plan?"

Paul responded carefully. "Only if you follow my exact commands. You're the team leader, right?"

"That's correct. Lieutenant Rebecca Ayana, assault specialist."

"Nice name."

"Thank you. Anyway, Carlin, I'm serious, either put out that cigarette or walk to the insertion zone." She turned to Paul as the bear grudgingly snuffed out his cigarette in a final toxic purge of second hand smoke. "Looks like you're the real expert here. Is there anything you'd recommend?"

"You've got it pretty well figured out, as far as I can see. You'll want to be on the high ground, but not too conspicuous. Apartment windows are probably a better choice over rooftop positions. Also, since he knows me as a sniper, I want to make a convincing decoy in a fairly obvious place. Make sure you've still got some men to take him once I've lured the man into the courtyard."

"Does two sniping positions sound good to you, not counting the decoy?"

"That sounds about right. With six buildings in a pentagon and all sorts of exits, you'll need everyone we've got to keep perimeter. That is, of course, unless you've enlisted local law enforcement."

The center of her brow rose. "Law enforcement? I don't want to hand this case to the cops. Neither does Verkerke."

That was odd… Paul had always worked in conjunction with local authorities, like the FBI. It often saved a lot of trouble. Then again, in a clandestine operation where operatives hunted operatives, the idea of keeping it all under wraps seemed like a good idea. He went along with it.

"Sounds fine. Just keep in mind that if we can, we have to take this guy alive. I don't care if any of you have a beef, this operation's my baby. He gets hostile, exercise judgement and take him down. He comes clean, I want to be the one to put a cap in his ass back at HQ. You understand that?"

She smiled. "We'll take it under advisement."

Paul responded with a warning, but not unfriendly tone. "You'd better."

The radio beeped, followed by the young, vibrant voice of a UNATCO recruit. "Three minutes."

Paul put his eyeglasses on and flicked a switch just over the right lens. An HUD display activated, showing basic information about the scenery around him. Hundreds of miles away, a computer analyzing what the nanocamera implanted in his lenses saw told him about his surroundings, highlighting objects with and labeling them like "Metal Post", "AR-22 Assault Rifle- SOP Mod", and "First Aid Kit". Upon looking at a person deemed important, it gave a name. If the name of the person was unknown, but was said in a conversation, the blurb of information flew up into space, through a satellite, and down into a UNATCO data repository at a classified location. The station automatically cached the name and programmed the HUD to label that person by his or her title instead of "Civilian". All this took a tiny fraction of a second.

He looked at Rebecca, seeing her name, and, as she was a listed agent, her serial number. It was amazingly impersonal and cold, and when Paul considered how computers took up so much of everyone's lives, yet remained so methodical and inhuman, he was almost glad to have gotten genetically spliced. As everyone suited up inside the car, he felt a bit out of place. Layer after layer of armor and equipment went on top of the operatives, and as he looked at the methods of the black bear beside him, now labeled "Leonard 'Pooh' Carlin", he noticed a decidedly low-tech part of his equipment that he had forgotten: his towel.

The towel was an old innovation, used as long as he could remember in UNATCO and probably before then. It was every crack team's little known secret, the "supplemental pad" that saved important organs, and even lives. Yes, the towel was simply the big, versatile, ergonomically correct, and eternally adjustable pad that perfectly protected the groin and testicles in case of a gunshot in that particular area. KV-3 did a fine job of stopping bullets, but they didn't do much in the way of cushioning the blow, and to get hit in the groin was, in every way, like getting a swift kick in the balls.

"Hey Carlin." He turned to Paul, his big, dumb eyes wide with intrigue. "You forgot something." Paul indicated the towel.

The bear smiled, the best he could, but it ended up becoming a sort of snarl. The bear stopped smiling, or snarling, with a bit of embarrassment. Rookies, Paul thought to himself. "Oh, yeah." He swiped up the Terry cloth lifesaver. "Thanks."

"No problem."

The East-West Apartment complex had an odd sort of ethnic beauty to it, like that of an Asian metropolis early in the century. The five ruddy-brown buildings were geometrically fixated in a pentagon around a courtyard, which had five triangular little gardens. The gardens were in tall glass cases with robotic gardening implements and climatic controls that let things like orchids and tropical plants grow wild inside the cases. The buildings weren't particularly tall, standing below the massive commercial buildings nearby. Chinese graffiti, advertisements, and music filled the courtyard, as well as more subtle sounds that only Paul could tone out. There was the baby crying thirteen stories up, the domestic argument the next building over, the newly met couple just getting comfortable in one of the two's apartments, and, after straining his ears, the tiny movements of operatives five and eight stories up, their hearts thumping and their bodies moving. He hoped that cheetahs didn't hear as well as wolves, and that the target wasn't really looking for or expecting trouble.

He looked around some more, carefully padding through the yard. As he listened, he tried to tone out all but footsteps, for he knew that plantigrade and digitigrade feet had distinctively different sounds. A pair of loafers was disappearing in a tap-scratch, tap-scratch. Sneakers ran by, accompanied by youthful voices and the rhythm of a basketball on concrete. Swish- pop- swish- pup- pop… A pair of vain Asian girls strolled on an outside street in platforms or pumps or whatever noisemaking trendy shoes were in at the time. Ka-clomp, ka-clomp… He kept listening, hearing every shoe of every make and every kind of flat foot possible until his ears strained in on a subtle, quiet sound: Pat, pat, pat, pat…

It was coming up from behind at a stately walk. He tapped the membrane behind his ear and whispered the signal.

"Tsst-tsst."

He looked up. A metal rod stuck from an upper balcony, then pulled back into nothingness. Paul activated a heartbeat sensor on his HUD glasses, an inhuman beat was closing fast from behind the glass case, the one he was standing behind. He reached for his pistol.

The padding stopped.

Suddenly, a feline snapped around the corner of the case, held Paul's muzzle shut with a surprisingly strong grip, and reeled him around the corner to an inconspicuous corner shrouded in tropical broad leaves. Paul saw the arm, a thin, lithe arm with yellow fur and numerous black spots. Suddenly it dawned on him that he had forgotten one major aspect of dealing with animals: he had been upwind the entire time. He would have yelled profanities, but the firm clasp kept him from doing so. He couldn't breathe, and when he struggled to break free, he pulled the hand off. It slid off the fur on his muzzle with amazing ease.

Almost by reflex, he quickly restrained the left arm by intertwining it with his left, raised the pistol with his right, and put it against the knot of yellow and black fur at the top of the head, pulling back the hammer. He suddenly felt cold steel digging into his throat. The cheetah whispered out with a stinging, aggressive hiss.

"You! I knew it!"

Paul was confused, and in such a state, he accidentally let the cheetah place him in a half nelson, prop him up, and rush with amazing speed into a ground floor apartment, smashing right through the door. As the cheap reinforced plastic gave way, the entire door was ripped from its hinges. The combined mass of a large, muscular wolf and a surprisingly strong cheetah tumbled gracelessly onto a green carpet, right into the view of an oriental family at the dinner table. The cheetah stood up, pulled out his pistol, and kicked Paul mightily in the gut, causing him to curl up in a fetal position on the floor and to drop his pistol. Kreiger then picked up the two pistols and aimed them at the family.

"Don't move! None of you!"

They all responded with their best English, all conclusively saying that they didn't understand any. An oriental student with an attractive, rounded face then untimely walked into the room. The cheetah snarled out.

"You! You speak English?"

She spoke with amazing fluency. "Yeah."

"Tell them that if they don't move a muscle, they'll be safe."

"Y…Yes sir."

She spoke out in Mandarin to the family, who sat upright in their chairs like statues. Kreiger pulled Paul off the ground and pulled him into the living room of the apartment, a low-class little place bathed in orange light from the courtyard windows and 7-watt light bulbs, the kind used to save energy but illuminate just as well as a filament bulb.

He aimed a pistol at the lupine head, holding the attached body firmly. Paul began thinking about an offensive. "Okay… I'm not going to ask you why you came. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I killed your brother in cold blood."

"You've got that about right!" He summoned up the anger inside and raised his now boot covered foot, stomping it on the bare paw of the cheetah behind him. He then elbowed the cheetah in the side, then up at his nose, then turned around, pulling out the concealed sidearm he carried at times, an old Japanese Nanbu .38 airweight. The five-shot revolver pointed at the head of the cheetah, who was cupping his hands over a bleeding nose. Black tears of fur streamed down his face, and at the tops of the tears were strangely beautiful yellow eyes.

He spoke with a snarl. "My turn! Why, Kreiger, why did you do it?"

He spoke from under bloody paws. "Because I didn't! I did nothing! I'm being framed! Hell, you're as smart as your brother was, if not more! Didn't you look at the lands and grooves?"

"Yes. I did. The gun was listed under Weston, your partner. Your dead partner." He pulled up the cheetah, grasped his short muzzle shut, and mashed his thumb into the soft, bleeding nose. The cheetah wailed and growled in pain. "Now listen, I want answers, and I want them now. Did you, or did you not kill my brother?"

"Aaaugh! No… NO I didn't!!"

"Then explain to me why your partner's gun was used, and why he's turned up dead."

"Alright! ALRIGHT, JUST LET GO!"

Paul shoved the cheetah toward the wall. He hit the wall as he stepped back and cupped his hands over his nose, which was now bloodied and mashed. He tried to talk as shots of pain coursed through his nose. "He… he was assigned to kill your brother. I know it sounds crazy, but at the time he was only doing his job, like you are now."

Paul spoke with increased aggravation. "What do you mean?"

"You heard me. Your 'friend' and commander Mr. Verkerke sent him out on that mission. Verkerke had orders too, just another pawn in a chain of command that goes who knows how high."

"And what exactly was your partner's mission?"

"To kill your brother, remove some evidence, and make the entire scene look like a murder. He… he was supposed to mask his own DNA by spreading someone else's around. The clockwork of his mind got to work, thinking that I would be the perfect stool pigeon. It seems now that he did his job well. Right now you're probably thinking that I used his gun in order to cover up the fact that I did it, but you'd be thinking in the wrong direction. In reality, Weston used his own gun and my hair to make everyone think I did it and tried to frame someone else."

"Then why wasn't his DNA found?"

"Because he got this." Kreiger, Paul hadn't noticed before, was wearing a daypack. It looked like it was stuffed with files and clothing. He knelt down to open it, dripping blood all over the floor in the process. He sniffled.

"Hold it. What's in there?"

"Paul, I'm going to be completely honest with you. Once you see what's in this bag, there's no turning back. You've got a choice now. Either kill me now in self defense, or wait for me to show you just how deep the cesspool is."

Thoughts and fears swirled through Paul's mind. Could this be some kamikaze attempt to kill the both of them? Could this be confirmation of his worst fears? Is Kreiger telling the truth? He trained his gun carefully on the speckled feline.

Reaching into the bag, the feline slowly pulled out the large bundle that dominated the container. It looked like it was made of latex or rubber and was quite thick. Several tougher panels reinforced the seams, and as the lump of synthetic material was fully removed, Paul made out a transparent mask on the suit and small panels of body armor. Paul automatically knew what it was. It was a cleansuit, one used to assemble microchips and to prevent anything from getting inside or from anything inside getting outside. The entire suit was a jet black, and light seemed to fall into it with eerie malignity. The panels of body armor signaled one thing in his mind: This was the suit used by the assailant.

The cheetah tossed him the empty saclike suit. As Paul caught the suit, which was surprisingly light, it emitted a creaking, rubbery sound. He immediately looked at the sleeves, finding a single tear on the right upper arm. It was created by canine teeth, but hadn't ripped through the layer of padding that lay underneath. He smelled the rubber, ignoring the synthetic rain jacket smell to find other scents. A decidedly canine scent wafted from inside the suit.

Paul suddenly realized that the cheetah had been telling him the truth all the time, that Weston was assigned to kill his brother. All the things he had wanted to believe about UNATCO suddenly disintegrated, wisping away like sand in a sieve. His body, overwhelmed with thoughts of anger, confusion, and despair, relaxed and slid down into a seated position by the counter behind his body.

After a painfully long wait, he looked into the eerie, luminescent eyes of the cheetah. "All this time… All this time I've been after you and UNATCO was the real culprit?"

Kreiger nodded.

"But I still don't understand… Why would they want to kill my brother?"

The cheetah shifted in his seat. "Picture this. Two years ago, we both worked on the same job, the UN Building raid. The whole operation was, if you remember, an FAC distraction for the theft of Ambrosia that had occurred earlier. You do remember, right?"

Paul nodded.

"Good. Now I want you to forget that, forget all the bullshit UNATCO's ever told you. As a matter of fact, I want you forget everything you were even taught about terrorists and everything any government organization has told you."

"I'll try."

"Don't try, just do it! If you want to survive for more than five minutes out there, you have to be willing to go all the way. I'm going to let you in on a little secret. The feds hate UNATCO, despise them with every fiber of their bodies. Why? Because we're media hounds, no pun intended in your case. We take take take from the US government and dig into the pie that is the national budget. For years, people wanted to see what UNATCO would do in return. As the FBI, the NSA, the CIA, and congress began to doubt our necessity, we needed some way to prove our effectiveness. We needed to show people that we were doing our job: killing terrorists and saving people."

"Go on."

"So here's what happens. Two years ago, the FAC, the largest militia movement in the United States, bar none, steals what they think is Ambrosia to distribute to the people. What they find instead is this month's shipment of Spirovirus culture, bound for the East River. Spirovirus isn't a class based disease, it isn't hygiene… it's a carefully calculated weapon of biological warfare against everyone in the world. You see, Spirovirus isn't natural, it's man made. It can't survive for long in a natural environment, so every major city in the world is a distribution center for Spirovirus. Beijing, Paris, London, New York, Rome, Moscow, Berlin, everywhere in the world, the breakouts are centralized around major cities. The virus infects two to three people before becoming latent and dying off, so time and time again the people behind this have to plant the waterborne culture in rivers and treatment facilities."

"You're crazy! You're fucking crazy! Are you suggesting that the UN is involved in instigating this world pandemic? We proved that the FAC was distributing it in this very town, to make a profit off of stolen Ambrosia."

"It's the perfect motive, isn't it? The FAC is framed as the perpetrators, UNATCO looks like a gleaming organization of heroes, and everybody likes us. You see, nobody knows that Spirovirus isn't as contagious as people think. They think that if you touch someone with it, you'll catch it. It's a fear that runs back as long as mankind's history. They don't see or hear all the scientists out there that look into the issue and realize that Spirovirus is man made. The scientists are either paid or made to shut up, and if they persist in their studies, Big Brother comes and gets them."

"But you still haven't answered where my brother fits into this!"

"One of the scientists went to your brother. He was a scientist named Johan Durr, working with the Brooklyn Water authority. He studied patterns of infections and 'first string' cases, which are cases where people are the first to contract the disease, and realized that all the people drank water from the same treatment facility. He came to your brother with this, asking him to look into the situation."

"I'm beginning to understand now, as much as I don't like this."

"I don't like this either, but the truth is seldom pretty in this day and age."

"Why would Dr. Durr come to James with this? Why would James care?"

"Because Dr. Durr's only son, Joshua, had recently contracted the disease."

Paul's brow sunk. He had almost forgotten how many innocent children contracted the disease. He asked the hopeful question with the answer that was too often not positive. "Did he…?"

"No. He died after two weeks of battling the disease. He was a fighter, a persistent little boy. He could just as easily have been you."

Paul was hit with a wave of mixed anger, disappointment, and helplessness. "Jesus."

"James felt the same way when it happened. He took a day off to attend the funeral, this was during your honeymoon, I'm guessing."

"That recently?"

Kreiger nodded. "Your brother took Durr's lead, knowing that the man needed a professional to investigate the water treatment facility. He went in and found more than he bargained for. He took pictures, wrote a detailed account on what he saw, and when he returned to his home he knew that if word leaked out, he would likely die."

"How do you know so much about this?"

"Because I'm a nosy bastard, and I'm going to pay for it the rest of my life." He reached into the bag of terrible truths again, this time pulling out a large vanilla colored envelope with a red string tie. He handed it to Paul, smudging a bit of blood on it. As Paul opened it, he untied the red string around the two buttons. It had been well sealed. Inside the envelope was a stack of papers about an eighth of an inch thick, as well as a stack of computer printed digital photographs. He immediately looked at them.

Each was quickly taken, as if the photographer could have been spotted at any second. Most were at poor angles, others were blurred, and others were nearly ruined by light flares, but all told the same story: Men in biosuits were gingerly tainting the water with barrels marked with the telltale biohazard symbol. Notes were written on the back of each photo. He read each one.

"Had a hell of a time getting this one. I had to bypass the security systems, military grade, level 4. This shows the kind of discouragement against nosy people like me."

It was a photo of a security robot, its digitigrade metal legs clomping along a blacktop. It was armed with a 20mm gatling gun.

"Entire facility is covered. Last time I checked, water treatment plants weren't unpleasant to look at. The outside personnel remarked 'It follows the Urban Beautification Ordinance'. Last I checked, aluminum sided green buildings with airtight environments weren't beautiful or inviting."

It showed the outside of the building, a massive warehouse with large AC units. More security bots were patrolling the yard, but at a safe distance.

"Workers DELIBRATELY pouring barrels of biologically hazardous material into the water system. Nobody acted against this. I watched in horror as this continued for 30 minutes."

Paul flipped on.

"Unoccupied office, computer document labeled 'Shipment 11'. Outlines shipping manifest for freighter 'Rebecca's Smile' out of Cork. I've checked up on the boat. It is a container vessel used for transporting Ambrosia from Irish storage facilities. This, however, doesn't look like Ambrosia."

Paul shuddered and put the pictures away. This was like a cry from the grave.

"Kreiger… how did you get this?"

He spoke with some regret and disgust. "Weston was hired to kill your brother. He brought the materials back to our house. We shared rent and were roommates in a little house in Summitville. He dropped off the goods and got on the phone to report to base. They ambushed the house, killing him, but as I left I managed to grab the bag that he was so nervous about. I barely escaped with my life, went to a special doctor that a contact of mine told me about, and after a little surgery I moved here. Seems like they still found me."

"What did this doctor do?"

"He removed my… Jesus, I'm so sorry!"

"What?"

"He removed my listening and communications implants. I can't tell you anymore, but I can give you this."

As the Cheetah dig into the pockets of his slicker jacket, he pulled out a wallet, then a business card with a rather informal tone. Paul looked at it, but as he opened his mouth, the cheetah shut him up.

"Don't say it! All I can tell you is that he is your only hope. UNATCO's listening, the council's probably heard half our conversation!"

"What? How?"

"You know! The implants! They can see what you're seeing with those sunglasses, hear what you're hearing with your ear implants, and they can track you down."

"Jesus, my communicator augs! You stupid fuck! I'm a dead man!"

"You don't have to be, Paul. Don't be like me. You've got what it takes, I can smell it on you, but never doubt yourself, and remember, trust no one."

"Then why am I listening to you?"

"Because I took a vow that I would protect people. If you believe that, I'll tell you another. Now, who do you trust?"

"No one."

"Well then, how do I know where to get help…"

Suddenly, a megaphone sounded. "Peter Kreiger, this is UNATCO! Come out of the apartment, put down your weapons, lay down on the ground, and put your hands on top of your head! We know you have a friend in there. If he could do the same, you two might walk away alive. You've got one minute!"

Fear suddenly welled up inside Paul. He had never expected to end the day by being hunted by his own men. He picked up his 10-millimeter pistol from the floor, then his sunglasses, and put them on. The evening was quickly turning to dusk, perfect time for nocturnal animals such as himself. Kreiger stood up, picking up the cleansuit.

"You don't need this anymore. UNATCO should be satisfied with this bit of evidence for a while. You need to get your part of the package out of here."

"But where, how?"

"Don't bullshit me with this, Paul. I know you're smarter than this."

Paul gave him a conspicuous, hinting look, tugging at his right ear. The cheetah seemed to understand.

"Alright. You'll be safe with Dr. Blitzvane. He should get you contacts out of the country, but I can't tell you anymore." The cheetah winked, then whispered so softly that no microphone or listening device could pick it up. "I'm a dead man, Paul. The person you see before you is but a revenant, the guise of a man once living, a spirit bent on revenge. I was a cheetah that wanted to be a man, and a man that wanted to be a cheetah, nothing more. You are something else. You can do this. My sixth sense tells me so. Do you know what the sixth sense is, Paul?"

Paul stood silently, taking in the words, as a megaphone sounded.

"40 seconds!"

"It is intuition, the blind, instinctual force that humans lost long ago, but we possess. Use it, trust it, and get your vengeance. You can do this for me if you wish, or even your brother, but if anything, do it for Joshua Durr and every other child murdered by this system."

The cheetah turned for the door, speaking loudly and lucidly. "There's a fire escape In the back of this apartment. I know, I've studied the building. You should be able to slip out just fine."

"Kreiger… no! It doesn't have to end this way!"

"Ah, but doesn't it? What does your sixth sense tell you now."

The feelings that made Paul told him that Kreiger was going to die, and soon. He tried to put away the thought for a moment, then accepted it.

"I remember something Verkerke told me once. He said 'it isn't about how many people die, but who dies'. I'm beginning to see what he meant."

"Verkerke wasn't a bad man. I enjoyed his anecdotes. It may well be that he is just as trapped by the system as you, or anyone else. I'm going to miss him… miss all of this." He turned for the door, gave one last glance at Paul, and held his arms outward as if sprawled on a crucifix, the orange light bathing him.

Suddenly, without any sort of warning, a shot rang out, that of a sniper. In an explosion of blood, the cheetah's head flew off, the tremendous force of the bullet ripping it clean from the spine. The severed head bounced off the nearby wall and rolled onto the floor nearby as the children in the apartment screamed. Paul jumped back, leaping backward a few feet as the head seemed to follow him. As he landed on both feet, he breathed heavily and wiped spots of blood from his muzzle, looking down at the head. Rest in peace, Peter, he thought to himself, I will avenge you.

"Paul! We don't want to hurt you, at all costs! We know you're still connected to our communicators. Tell us you're coming out and we won't shoot. You've got 20 seconds to respond.

He considered the situation. He couldn't step out the back, he was sure of that. Kreiger had made it blatantly obvious. He didn't want to look out the front door in his current state, however, as there were as many as four snipers trained on the position, the very people he had assigned earlier. He buttoned shut his trenchcoat, flipping up the collar and pressing a small, concealed button. He raised his muzzle in the air as a tickling, electric sensation came over him. His thermoptic camouflage was activating. As the transparent blur whizzed through his trenchcoat, then slowly spread to cover his head, hands, and feet, he stood still as stone. As the field surrounded him and molded into the background, he heard an electric "tap" and the static that made his fur stand on end gave way. He was now invisible to the naked eye, but not to microwave sensors. He moved at the rate he had trained on thousands of time, one step per second, and prayed as he moved toward the door. He stopped praying and started concentrating as a small voice inside reassured him of his safety.

Lieutenant Ayana was looking over the courtyard with nervous anticipation. She hadn't left work this morning with the intent to kill a traitor and a rogue operative. She knew that she was trained not to ask too many questions, bot for God's sake, she had just spoken to the wolf ten minutes ago! UNATCO had put their trust in the man, and in ten minutes he had become a target? She trembled a bit as she trained her AR-22 on the disengaged door below, thinking about the matter. The cheetah had wasted his opportunity at freedom, the traitorous wretch deserved to get his head blown clean off, but she hoped she wouldn't have to kill the lupine gentleman. He hadn't done anything wrong.

The communicators were humming with dialogue. "Sir, do you want us to give him the gas?"

"Wait a few seconds. Sniper 1-B, what's your status?"

"All clear. He's out of sight."

Ayana begged to differ. "1-B, this is 2-A. I'm going infrared."

"Roger that."

The tapped a button on her scope, causing the view to momentarily black out. As it returned, all the objects in the area gave off varying levels of thermal radiation and infrared light in a grayscale spectrum. As she panned around, she searched for a thermal reading slightly subtler than that of a human, one insulated by fur. She aimed behind one of the self-sufficient garden tanks. Nothing. A pair of policemen with shotguns were carefully remaining hidden by a pillar close to the apartment. No activity there. As she looked out onto the main street, she practically gave up as about 30 flatfoots were clustered around that exit, the most conspicuous one. Nobody in their right mind would attempt escape through the morass of NYPD, but then again, you have to be a bit crazy to be a UNATCO agent. She scanned the crowd, and suddenly saw a canine head mixed among the ovular craniums of the human policemen. Shit, She thought to herself, the cops are just loitering around like he doesn't even exist!

"Contact! Exit 5!"

The deep-throated commander called out. "What? That's where we…"

A police lieutenant called out. "Jesus, he's standing right in the middle of us!"

Paul was out of the frying pan, which was good, but now he had to deal with the fire. Flatfoots were all around him, at least 30 through simple reckoning. They were practically stepping all over each other, but, amazingly, he had evaded their vision long enough so that he was just a few feet from freedom. As a policeman swept by his left, he looked in his direction, making sure they never touched and he never saw the almost invisible outline. That proved to be a near fatal mistake as another policeman collided with his right shoulder at full force. He stepped back, considering what the hell he had just ran into. The object he had just ran into was shrouded somehow, emitting only a faint outline. His eyes widened as he reached for the radio on his shirt collar.

"I've got a…"

A blurred outline came from before him, expanded like a balloon before his face, and swept him into a dark violet silence.

Paul knew that he might have a second, if he was lucky, before anyone noticed the newly unconscious policeman. He began jogging away, his outline becoming more pronounced.

He glanced back, seeing five cops surround the unconscious man and checking him to see what had happened. As he took cover behind a nearby parked car, he listened in.

"He's alright, but man, is that gonna leave a shiner."

"What did he see?"

"I don't know. He's out cold!"

Another man was on the radio. "Christ! You're only now telling me that the man has thermoptic camouflage??"

The flatfoots nearby clamored as the lieutenant continued, turning to his men. "Okay guys, change in plan. We're looking for a guy that looks like a wolf, but you can't see him unless you make him move fast, got that?"

"A real help there, boss."

"I try." He spoke into his radio. "Get K-9 over here, pronto!"

Paul began to think. A dog could sniff him out in no time, and if the cops began sweeping the area, they wouldn't have to look very far. He began moving down the street again, slowly, cautiously, one-for-one just like the Academy taught him.

It didn't work out as well as planned. The cops were actually looking for him now, and they had just found him. A black policewoman who saw his outline pulled out her pistol without warning.

"Freeze! NYPD!"

He broke into a run as the AI systems of his thermoptic camouflage became more and more confused, making a strong outline and a displaced picture in the shape of a trenchcoated wolfman.

A gun went off from somewhere behind him, he didn't care where. Not hearing a ricochet, he deduced that it was a warning shot. He knew the next one wouldn't be, and just as he glanced back to see five policemen aiming in his general direction, he dodged into a door just to his right.

The door took him into a restaurant, it was serving soups and Oriental food like every other restaurant did in this part of town. As he ran into the restaurant, he collided with a waiter that was carrying a tray of soups in plastic, mock porcelain bowls. Noodles, greens, pork, and hot yellow broth flew everywhere as he pushed the man aside, running through the restaurant. His thermoptic camouflage was beginning to fail now, whether it was from extended use or from water damage he didn't know. The patrons looked in semi-horror at the muscular wolf man standing before them. A child screamed.

As Paul tried to push toward the rear of the restaurant, a nervous looking Caucasian man with tawny brown hair stood up and pulled a .357 revolver out from his coat. He reeked of stress, tension, and fear, none of which Paul had ever smelled from anyone who had simply just seen him. Suddenly, cops piled up at the doorway. He hoped to God that this man wasn't an undercover cop. He jammed the pistol into Paul's head, the second time he had to feel the cold touch of gunmetal against his head.

Paul tried to calm the man down. "Sir, there's no need to…"

"Shut up! Shut the fuck up!" He then erratically aimed for the enforcers at the door, who abruptly took cover and stepped back. "And YOU! Stay the hell back, or I blow this guy's brains all over the wall!"

Paul began to smile. This man wasn't a cop at all, just some average Joe who did some obscure crime and didn't know any better. The lunatic began stepping back, taking Paul along.

"The wolf and I are gonna walk out of here, and there's not going to be any trouble about it, OKAY??"

A policeman spoke out. "Sir, please, it's not what it seems. We're not here for you…"

He fired two shots toward the floor, just by the policeman's feet. The ricocheted rounds strayed far and wide, not hitting anything alive or important. "I told you! Stay the fuck back!"

Paul was next to the doors of the kitchen now, the perfect place to strike. He immediately whipped around, knocking the pistol away just quickly enough to have it discharge into the ceiling. As fifteen cops aimed their weapons at the targets, not daring to fire for lack of hitting the wrong man, Paul sunk his teeth into the man's upper arm and began shaking his head. The man let out a blood-curdling howl of pain as he dropped his pistol to tend to the bleeding lacerations all over his upper arm. Before the first drops started to fall, Paul bolted through the kitchen doors, pursued by policemen. As Paul beat a hasty retreat, two burly policemen tackled down the unlikely lunatic and cuffed him, reading his Miranda rights.

Paul smashed through the myriad pots and pans of the restaurant, beelining for a large metal door labeled "Emergency Exit". As he pushed past a chef, a flaming wok was sent in flight, arcing flame over the kitchen and spattering its deep fried contents all over the floor. The same black policewoman who had originally spotted him saw the hovering, flaming hemisphere of debris and stepped back instinctually at Paul found the door.

He pushed the handle.

She stepped into the open.

The door opened in a creaking, rusty protest.

She raised her gun.

He bolted out the door.

She fired a shot.

Paul's left arm exploded in pain as his body flew into the alleyway. A bullet had round its way to his left arm and had made it almost completely useless with pain. He yelped, a wounded animal, but continued running until he reached another street. His wolfen eyes kicked in as he went from bright white phosphorescent lighting to the dark shadows of an evening alleyway. As he ran down the dirty brick corridor, he felt his left arm and looked at it, relieved to see that the round had only grazed it. As his padded feet made singular collisions with the cracked, dirty, paper littered blacktop, he spoke to his sunglasses.

He said a single word. "Taxi!"

A computerized female voice sounded in his right ear. "There are fifteen commercially operated taxis operating in your vicinity. Four are on duty. #6442-ECM-B09 is closest to your location, plates 'DRD-683'."

Cursing the meager attendance of actual working cabbies, he swore to nobody in particular. "Shit. Four. Isn't that just grand?" He shook his head in disgust. "Only in New York."

He ran onto the road, looking for yellow cars and license plates. As he stepped out of the alley, an ancient looking taxi lay idling on his left. It's plates read "DRD-683". He immediately got in, smelling the rancor of an old, foul car and resting on the surprisingly comfortable back seat.

"Brooklyn, please, and make it fast. Real fast." He pulled out a wrap on bandage from his field first aid satchel, carefully extending his wounded arm and slapping on the grayish strip. It curled around his arm and snugly held on. The driver turned around. He was a middle-aged man, Indian, and was wearing a traditional Sikh turban. He spoke out.

"Khi cobor?"

"Excuse me?"

"Khi cobor?"

Paul spoke slowly, as if to a child. "Brooo-klyn…"

He nodded with exaggeration, bolstering Paul's confidence in the man's linguistic capabilities. "Aaaah." He sat still in his seat, then turned around. Moments later, he did another about face and looked at Paul. "Khi cobor?"

Jesus H. Christ! He thought to himself. I know some Mandarin, but now I get this? Leave it to me to get the only Indian guy in fucking Chinatown!" He looked down the alley. Cops were spreading out, searching more slowly now, but it was only a matter of time before…

"Khi cobor?"

"Look, would you please stop saying that?! You're wearing on my patience." He scooted to the other side of the taxi and opened the door, seeing a public bus pull up. "Screw this. I'm in a hurry." As he spilled out the door, he carefully ducked and dodged across the busy street to catch the silvery gray blob of a bus. As he disappeared into traffic, a policeman looked into the car with a large flashlight.

"Excuse me, sir. Did you just see a half wolf hybrid come by?"

"Khi cobor?"

The two policemen looked at each other. "Thank you for your time."

Paul dug around in his trenchcoat for his wallet. As he felt the smooth leather surface, he reached in and flipped out a white farecard. He waited in line anxiously and stepped on the bus, looking awkward and highly visible with his bandaged wound and his lupine appearance. He turned to the bus driver after swiping his card. He was a meticulous looking character on sight, his neatly combed hair and his spotless bus gleaming with sterility and stinking with Lysol.

"Sir, could you please get moving? Quickly?"

"Now look here, son, or pup, or whatever you like. I don't like being pushed around, especially by 'big brother' policemen like you! I have a route to keep up, and a schedule to meet, and I'm not going to disrupt city traffic and such just for you, understand?"

He hated tough guys like this, especially old, crotchety ones. He knew that the man could have had a bad day, but Paul was sure he was having an even worse day. He kept in mind how he had asked nicely when he grabbed the man's collar with his clawed fist.

"Now look here, you. There are a lot of angry, trigger-happy people looking for me right now, and guess who's in the crossfire? Move this bus out or I move you out, kapish?"

The man nervously picked up his radio. "Next stop, Philip Morris Stadium, formerly Madison Square Garden."

As the doors hissed shut, Paul secretively located an ergoplastic chair, took a seat, and comfortably felt the soft surface of the chair mold, conform, and harden to the curvature of his back. A young boy in front of him turned around.

"Hey."

Paul looked up casually. "Hey."

"Are you one of those UNATCO agents?"

He sighed. "Used to be, kid. Used to be."

The kid marveled at the wolfman. "Wow, a real genetic cross! I want to be crossed someday, maybe even join UNATCO and become an agent. My parents told me not to, though. They don't really like big feds and the UN."

"They sound pretty smart. You should listen to them."

"Hey, I can take care of myself pretty good, awright?" He turned back around, fidgeting with his little backpack. "How'd you get out of UNATCO, anyway?"

He dodged the question. "You always ask questions to strangers, kid?"

"It's not like you'd care. You're the guys that are making UNATCO bad. When I join, I want to clean the place up."

Paul thought the next line, not saying it. You might not need to. The kid continued.

"I really like your splicing, it makes you look awesome, but why don't you guys ever help or save people? I thought that was your job."

Paul was beginning to get irritated with the line of questioning. He formulated a good, rude, child-friendly turnoff. "Beat cheeks, half-pint!" He bared his teeth, causing the kid to retreat reluctantly back into his chair. Paul fought sleep as the ride got quiet, thinking about Dana.