Broken Republic and all affiliated Chapters and characters are copyright Steven Swanson 2000-2001. The characters and events in this document are purely fictional, any resemblance between the characters and any person, living or dead, are purely coincidental. UNATCO, the FBI, the CIA, the NYPD, INTERPOL, the Spetznaz, the Mossad, and the NSA are all real organizations and should not be cited as the creation of any single person. Mason Industries is not affiliated with any existing corporations in the real world. Due to mature content, reader discretion is advised. No part of this document may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission of the author. Steven Swanson is not responsible for any difficult reading caused by the influence of drugs, alcohol, or just plain idiocy. If you are offended by some of the content in this script, that's your problem. Conspiracy theorists are warned not to take this seriously, and that this disclaimer is to simply cover my ass and make aware to plagiarists that ALL the aforementioned agencies feel that that practice could be bad for your health. Uh, well, that's pretty much it. Don\x92t say you haven\x92t been warned, and get reading!

September 30- October 1, 2018

Paul felt exhausted, a sensation he had been quite familiar with for the past two weeks. His undershirt was drenched with sweat and his black fatigue pants were beginning to feel like miniature ovens. He had thought initially that dogs and wolves didn\x92t sweat under their fur, but, as it turns out, he was still human enough to sweat through his skin. He thanked the lord for this, however, as sweat was the natural body coolant, and in 90-degree weather and 87 humidity with a full body fur coat, he needed all the cooling he could get. The finishing mark wasn\x92t far now. Soon the squad would pass through gate 13 and take a breather, only to continue on more exercises. He didn\x92t know what was in store today, but he hoped to God that it was a few shots on the training range. He was quite a skilled marksman with many firearms, but he knew that even four hours of straight pistol training was better than the gauntlet. He looked to his left, then his right. He was leading their training group in the run, leading the pack, if you will. He had originally expected more wolf types, but the group of six was actually quite diverse in their genetic crosses. There was Vaughn, a black panther, and probably the most tortured of the lot thanks to his black fur and the blazing sun. Dieter, a German, was a massive bear type. He lacked the ungainly, hobbling appearance of a normal bear, but was instead a mass of muscle at just over seven feet tall. Surprisingly for his size, he moved with swiftness and ease, something unexpected in most hulking, muscle bound monsters. Rosco was a recon specialist transferred from a Colombian CT squad, and he was a cheetah cross. He could have been way in front, but Captain Maitz would never allow anyone to advance too far in front. Besides, it was impractical to burn yourself out that quickly, and of all the team members including Rosco knew that.

Toward the rear was Amanda Hollins, an intelligence specialist. She was the most unusual cross he had seen. For her, they picked a kangaroo. At first, this seemed impractical, but weighed in, kangaroos had a lot of advantages. First off, they were strong, especially in the legs. Secondly, they could take the heat a lot better than most of the predators could. Also, kangaroos had the same sensory enhancements that most of the animals had: Increased hearing, smell, and agility. Unlike kangaroos, she could move her legs independently, but preferred to hop rather than run. She wasn\x92t unattractive either, for an animal. She had a lithe, deceptive figure that concealed strong muscles, especially in her legs. Her short fur assisted her smooth figure, no more than half an inch in length at most parts of her body, and its consistent, light color was almost a flesh tone. Her muzzle didn\x92t overly resemble a kangaroo\x92s, either. Rather, it curved out just beneath and between her eyes, held straight and curved downward at the end where two nose slits tilted upward inconspicuously. Her nose wasn\x92t black, and no irregularities in her fur existed anywhere, even on her face. The only difference, an unusual development, was that she had long, black, silky hair on her scalp, like his fiancée\x92s. Why she did, he didn\x92t know, but it all rounded out to make an attractive figure. For now her hair was bundled under a camouflage military cap to keep it from swishing everywhere. She wasn\x92t that bad, but after further consideration Paul realized that one of the team members looked hideous or terrifying. Maybe the scientists had wanted the most appealing figures possible so as not to scare the wrong people.

Paul looked at his feet, sticking out the bottoms of his pant legs strangely and scratching up against the packed dirt road. He preferred not to wear the special boots during their runs. They were ugly, awkward, and unnecesary when simply running. He considered again the near lack of wolf crosses in the group. Only Villieu, his close friend, was also a wolf hybrid. Like Paul, he had kept his natural hair color, a reddish-brown, and for some reason it covered his entire body. Paul had white fur running along his stomach and underside, and he wondered how Sergei had gotten a perfectly even coat. He shrugged and looked back at his captain. One might say Maitz fell into the same category as Villieu and Calabrese, but he was actually part fox, and a mean bastard of one at that. Then again, this was also the man who taught everyone how to walk again, how to use their new skills, and how to eat with some dignity.

They approached the Gate 13. Not needing credentials, the MP\x92s pushed a button opening one set of gates, then another. The team passed through, getting into two by two formation, with Maitz at the side. The group found a patch of open grass and slowed down, some slowly walking to cool down, others bending over and grabbing their knees to keep themselves from collapsing. A five-mile "warm up" could really take it out of you.

"Alright men, cool down, 25 push-ups. Move! Move! Move!" The team despised Maitz at times like this. He was really wound up for the final trials, but with good reasons. It would be a small-scale war game, with temporary coalitions, fortifications, and hostage situations, all bundled into one hell of a package. They even hired some of the world\x92s finest role-players to imitate terrorism at its worst. There would be two main scenarios: One was rural, in undeveloped forest, and the other was a mockup of a city, similar to the FBI\x92s Hogan\x92s alley. Paul hoped for the rural scenario, as that was his best territory. He hurriedly got on the ground and began his push-ups. After two weeks of retraining, he had gotten used to the nonstop workouts, but the pain hadn\x92t changed. His lungs burned, his muscles strained just to do simple exercises, his body screamed for him to stop. He looked at Maitz, who had already caught his breath. That was how he earned the team\x92s utmost respect. He never once flinched at discomfort or danger, and he always kept an extremely serious, unbreakable attitude on the job. Off the record, however, Maitz was a humorous character, though he wouldn\x92t openly admit it. Paul pondered the difficulties of being a tough, relentless bastard by day and a social butterfly at night. The captain did his job very well.

"Come on ladies, we haven\x92t got all day!"

He waited for the entire group to finish and form up at attention.

"Okay team, here\x92s today\x92s schedule." Distracted, he looked at Rosco, who was panting after the run. "We\x92re at attention, corporal Rosco!"

Immediately, Rosco stood back up at attention, pushing out his chest and straightening his arms at his side. "Sir yes SIR!"

"That\x92s better. Now, I\x92ve seen you through these past two weeks. I\x92ve taught you how to eat, how to walk, and how to live in a world that likely won\x92t understand your \x91impairments\x92, but don\x92t you EVER be mistaken that I\x92m pampering you babies. You six have made it through two weeks of living hell, but don\x92t let it get to your heads that you can give up now. If you sneeze, cough, shit, or even breathe without my permission, I will personally see to it that your ass is hauled out to the square, and I will BEAT the discipline into you until every last fiber of your body screams \x91I will not fail you again, captain Maitz\x92. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

In response, the team barked, "SIR YES SIR!"

"Good."

Paul thought the man might have had an inferiority complex. It could well have existed, especially considering that he was shorter than any man in the group. Nobody had ever thought about mutiny, though. He did what he had to do to train the best of the best, and nobody could deny that he did his job well. Paul had seen him enraged before. The team used to be seven. Rafael, An American half lion, of all crosses, got the idea into his head that he would sneak out of the base and raid the liquor store of the nearby town. He did this successfully, and drove his stupid ass all the way back to base, swigging a bottle of Jack Daniels all the way. At the main gate, the guards almost shot him, irate as he was, but the soldier wasn\x92t lucky enough for that. Maitz encountered him after extended negotiations, and despite his smaller size he was amazingly swift and brutal in the handling of the situation. After Rafael became enraged, he posed a security threat to everyone and was taken down by gunfire. They burned the body in a formal crematorial, but nobody felt much remorse, especially Maitz. It seemed so strange, though. Rafael was a very promising soldier and a smart one at that.

"Tonight\x92s a big night. I\x92ll be with your team, but I\x92m expecting nothing less than 100 percent from you. We\x92ll meet at the briefing hall at 13:30 hours. Form out and rest up. You\x92ll need it."

He was right. That evening, the potential UNATCO "graduates" were all assigned to different training exercises, each of which took up to 48 hours to complete. Maitz\x92s team was assigned to New Canton, the urban mockup, to investigate and disable a major arms smuggling ring in a military occupied zone with a minimal loss of civilian life. They would be working with the local "militia", military personnel on occupation, and would work in an investigative, Police manner rather than use excessive force. If necessary, they could requisition Specialists, played by the Delta Force, to deal with certain combat situations. Maitz had a promotion on the line for this one, and it was two more weeks of training for anyone who failed, so everyone on board was on full alert and jittery as hell. If just one screw up occurred, there would be hell to pay.

Paul woke up to the sound of music on the radio, and as he rolled out of bed, he rubbed his dry, newly reopened eyes. His unit had been temporarily based in the local "Mahogany Suites", a fictitious mockup of a hotel, and a damn good one. It was a change for the better from the barracks, that was certain. He looked toward the bathroom, seeing Captain Maitz brush his teeth. The only reason Paul was in the same room as Maitz was that he was the only other commissioned officer in the team. Looking around, he sluggishly slithered out of bed, rubbing his arms and hobbling around like a cripple. He never was good at getting up. He looked at the nearby table. He had never realized that Maitz was such a meticulously clean person in his free time, but the evidence had been apparent ever since he stepped into the hotel room two nights before. His half of the bed was made, he brushed and flossed whenever possible, not a strip of clothing nor a particle of trash lay on the floor, and all the equipment for both of them was laid out neatly on the nearby table. Each UNATCO agent received a set of standard equipment for everyday use. First off, there was the uniform, a form-fitting dark blue suit and a black trenchcoat, equipped with thermoptic camouflage, a built in tactical vest with ten layers of KV-3 body armor, and a myriad of internal pockets for equipment. Nearby were two spring loaded, telescoping riot batons, two pairs of stylish HUD sunglasses with a thermal sensor, Two data key nodules, which looked similar to computerized vice grips, two shock prods, each with six charges, and finally, the Glock Model 24 ten millimeter pistol with two extra clips. Ten-millimeter ammunition was the new standard after the U.S. military deemed the nine-millimeter round too small and of insufficient caliber. This, unfortunately, created a problem. A small change in diameter needed a large change in power, and therefore bigger bullets. Most ten-millimeter weapons had a low ammunition capacity, and even Glock, a company known for having high quality and high ammo capacity, could only give the new Glock 24 a 13 round magazine as opposed to 19, which was capable in nine-millimeter guns. Nonetheless, it was a nice pistol with excellent balance, and the added stopping power was always a plus.

Paul looked out of the nearby window. The hotel wasn\x92t particularly tall, but then again the tallest building in New Canton was only six stories tall. After all, the government couldn\x92t afford much more than that or they would have to open the lands to the public. The cityscape realistically resembled any small American or European city, though there weren\x92t many of those left, and from his third story he looked down on the people below. There were pedestrians, newspaper vendors, garbage men on their daily runs\x85 Paul was amazed that every single one of those people were role players, even though sometimes their work was real, like the garbage men. The city spanned five square miles, modest indeed for a city, but absolutely massive for a training scenario. There was more than enough room to hide facts, and Paul knew that as long as those role players were paid by the hour, they would try as hard as possible to keep those facts covered. They had done well. Over 24 hours of work produced nothing but trivial contacts, stale information, and complications. The occasional pair of soldiers also patrolled the street, something not known in his childhood. Apparently they acted as a sort of Police, while UNATCO operatives were more of an FBI parallel.

Today was the last day. At exactly 20:00 hours, the training exercise would end, and if the smuggling ring wasn\x92t found, then all the operatives would have to return to training. The Delta Force troops were uneasy as well. With the intense urban combat scenarios given them, they always had to look out for enemies as well as the civilians around them. For them and the agents equally, this was a hellish place to start a street war. Danger could come from anywhere at anytime, and all it took was one shot to neutralize you. Of course, they couldn\x92t actually kill their finest. Based on the FBI\x92s paintball gel system, all ammunition was replaced by a mild nerve incapacitating reagant that induced temporary paralysis, enough to declare a person DOA on a training mission. If even a particle of the gel touched your skin, you would be out in a matter of seconds.

Maitz gruffly called out to his compatriot. "Paul, you\x92d best be getting ready. We\x92ve got a long day ahead."

Paul, not needing to reply, walked to the dresser and pulled out a fresh set of underwear. That was all he needed under the body suit.

The day\x92s assignment was simple. Villieu, Hollins, and Calabrese were to investigate and question an informant for information regarding the whereabouts and actions of Nikolai Andreyevich Priboi, the suspected kingpin of the smuggling operation. The informant was uneasy, however, and wished to establish a contact point through a dead drop, or a carefully hidden piece of information. The dead drop was to take place at the truck loading dock behind The Phoenix, a local nightclub. The mission of the three was to obtain the information, establish a meeting, and get any sensitive information in time for Priboi\x92s capture or neutralization. Paul initially thought that this may be just another message run, but he reminded himself that danger tends to appear when you least expect it. He requested his Mauser rifle to cover the area while the other two would go in. Upon picking up the dead drop, they would have the disadvantage of being conspicuous, so every last measure had to be taken to insure safety.

Paul pondered the potential problems in the mission, as likely everyone else was. Villieu was at the wheel this time. He was quite a decent driver, likely something he was taught with Zil. No doubt he was assigned to steal confidential cars for Zil, enabling the company to mimic the designs and make massive profits, all while monopolizing the Russian auto industry. No, he was a demolitions nut. Maybe he was assigned to blow up confidential cars instead. Paul smiled. He had never mentioned these speculations to Villieu. Sergei was a decent person, a somewhat quiet man, or hybrid for that matter. He was normally laconic and droopy, rarely perking his ears at surrounding distractions. In combat, however, he was ruthless and bold, the kind to go berserk at inopportune times. Hollins was different. She favored stealth and disarmament over bloodshed. She was also a good thief, though her official specialty was reconnaissance and intelligence gathering.

Their vehicle, a navy blue Mercury Escapade, silently pulled up into a parking spot by a restaurant called "The Happy Ganesh". Paul deduced that it was Indian cuisine, and the scent of fried meats and curried foods wafted through the air, tingling their senses. The three got out, all in their matching trenchcoats. Paul looked at the group in their stylish sunglasses and slick trenchcoats. They reminded him of an old movie called "The Matrix", which had something to do about a massive supercomputer dominating the world and keeping humanity prisoner. It was a classic in its time, a happier time, the 90\x92s. His parents used to reminisce about how the 90\x92s were America\x92s "golden age" and how things were unlikely to be as wonderful and prosperous ever again. Maybe they had a point. Even New Canton reminded him of a different era. All the streets were clean, people didn\x92t walk around in constant fear, and no skyscrapers existed to dominate the sky and clutter the streets with their workers. Suddenly, gunfire rattled in the distance, punctuated by the scratch of old M-16\x92s, still quite popular with terrorists.

"Another DF training exercise?" Amanda inquired in a flowing English voice.

"Sounds like they\x92ve got quite a situation over there."

"Well it is the last day. We\x92ll just have to expect more of it. Right now, however, we\x92ve got our own problems." An explosion rattled the windows nearby, setting off distant car alarms.

"That can\x92t be good."

"It was just a paint grenade", Villieu entered, knowing the familiar sound. "That\x92s all they\x92re allowed to use here."

Paul strode to the back of the car and popped open the trunk, removing a narrow black case. The car itself was a sleek, shiny insect of a sedan with its grouped headlights forming the eyes and the sleek blue surface the shell. The windows were well tinted, and thanks to the group\x92s hazardous occupations they were also bullet resistant. The car had no boxy edges. Everything was smoothed out, low, and sleek. This was typical in modern cars. Thanks to the development of fuel cell engines and the improvement of hybrid motors, of which the Escapade was the latter, aerodynamics was extremely important for speed and efficiency. Despite its engine, the vehicle could reach 150 miles per hour and still get at least 70 miles to the gallon. Inside the boot, or trunk was his rifle, as well as three box clips of training ammo. After hanging around Hollins long enough, he was even beginning to think in British.

He pondered the situation. This was the sort of operation that could easily go either way. On the one hand, the most likely scenario, the drop would be pickup, retrieved, and evacuated without a single problem. On the other hand, it could be a trap. Paul\x92s instincts felt uneasy, and Hollins\x92 recon of the area didn\x92t help much. The nightclub was a known customer of Priboi\x92s operations. After all, someone had to keep the crowds in line.

"Amanda, when exactly did you say the drop took place?"

"Ten minutes ago, slightly less."

Paul spied a window looking directly toward the loading dock of the nightclub. "I\x92ll provide cover. Keep an open comlink and give me updates."

"I\x92ve got a better idea." She pointed towards a newspaper vendor opposite the nightclub. "If there ever was an eyewitness to the situation, it would be him. Villieu and I will see what he knows. You make sure he isn\x92t part of the trap as well."

"Trap?" Paul Inquired. He knew that the potential was there, but how did she know for certain that the scenario was hostile? "What do you mean?"

"Come on, Paul, think about it. There are plenty of ambush spots, we\x92re in Priboi\x92s "territory", and no single position of defense or offense would be better than inside the club."

Paul surveyed the area. Although danger wasn\x92t imminent, it was painfully obvious that this was a strategic disadvantage. "I see what you mean. Find out what you can and meet me at the corner of Main Street and West Pica Boulevard, okay?"

The two nodded silently, looking down the street to find the boulevard.

Villieu, not the talkative type, cut in. He had a smooth, soft voice different from most Russians. "We\x92ll remember that. Come on, Hollins, let\x92s see what we can find out."

Hollins walked across the street with Villieu. She knew that Paul was up above, spying the area with his rifle. She almost reviled him for his unwillingness to enter the fray of action. She was tired of being manipulated in such a way. Her superiors at MI-6 always used to send her out to do wet work while there was always some administrative snob telling her what to do from a comfortable chair in front of a warm fireplace. With all the problems of the modern world, many underestimated or downplayed the problem of gender in society, but it still existed. Muslim societies thought it part of their religion that women were inferior, almost all the CEO\x92s in the world were men, and only a handful of political leaders stood as prime ministers in their nations, abusing their statehood in petty political squabbles. It almost made the situation worse. Becoming a UNATCO operative was a big step for her, however, and even through her marsupial form she was still attractive, though too often misconstrued as an Australian. She had proven her worth among the men, and she had finally gotten to this point. All she needed was to find one man in a five square mile radius and the operation would be complete.

She continued walking, scanning the street for any threats, or more specifically the whereabouts of the tip. What the hell was the fool thinking? When you announce a dead drop, you tell the target where exactly to find it, not some vague hint. Paul didn\x92t know what was going on, but she did. There was a great possibility for danger. If they spent too much time trying to find the hint, if it existed at all, gangsters would swoop in and overpower the two. What was on their side, however, was an expert sniper. If violence erupted, Paul would be able to prevent too much overwhelming. She saw a newspaper vendor and walked up to him, Villieu silently following. It sort of bothered her that Villieu was so quiet, but she remembered how satisfying it was to have a partner that didn\x92t constantly talk to you.

"Excuse me, sir, My name\x92s Amanda Hollins, I\x92m investigating criminal activity in this neighborhood. I have a few questions for you. Would you mind\x85?"

The man sat in his booth and stared at the two, extremely uneasy, but not terrified. He was a good role player. "It\x92s alright. We\x92re augmented agents assigned here. Have you seen any suspicious activity in the vicinity?"

"Well, lady, we\x92re right next to a nightclub! They have rave parties, brawls, mosh pits, anything suspicious you need. All you have to do is walk in there after seven."

"Well, sounds like quite a place. Would you know how they happen to keep the place secure? I don\x92t suppose they use the local militia to help out."

"Yeah, those soldiers can be real tightasses. They\x92ve been ordered to keep the peace, not strip search suspects for possessing legal drugs. No, the Phoenix takes care of its own security."

This guy was good, and informative too. "I don\x92t suppose you\x92d happen to know how they secure the place."

"Hell, I can give you that one free. Every night they keep the crowd settled with these armed men. I swear I had never seen such large men in my life before I came here." He began exaggerating the sizes of the men, likening them to the dimensions of their friend, Dieter. Maybe he should have been assigned to this. She had to be careful. Too much heavy questioning might constipate the information.

Villieu broke in. "Well, that\x92s no surprise. Every club has that sort of protection. Did you happen to spot what kinds of weapons these were?"

Hollins hoped that his question wasn\x92t too brash. They could have had a gun trained on them at that very moment. "Well, I\x92m sorry, I can\x92t help you with that." Villieu slid three slips of money across the paper covered counter. Hollins caught the number on the corner: "20". "Well, uh, I might be able to help you after all. I\x92m not much of a guns buff, but I\x92d say if you go in the way you are now, you\x92d be in big trouble," He looked at Villieu\x92s face, "even you, big guy."

"What makes you say that?" Hollins queried.

"They say some guy called Tattoo comes here every other night. Sometimes he parties, other times he does \x91business\x92, but he always brings his lawyers."

Hollins remembered Priboi\x92s alias, Tattoo. His file mentioned that he had notable tattoos on his arms and back. She rose her eyebrow quizzically and leaned toward the vendor to speak.

"Lawyers? I don\x92t suppose you know their names."

"Smith and Wesson. Popular guys in these parts. You get the picture."

"Did you see anything else? Something recent, say, by the loading area?"

"Sorry. Can\x92t help you."

Villieu scowled mildly. "What do you mean?"

"I can\x92t on this. I gotta eat, you know." He gestured toward the folded bills, revealed again by his hand to point them out. Villieu scowled. He didn\x92t understand. In Russia and East Europe, 60 dollars could buy you food for a week. This man was obviously too greedy for his own good, and it was time to let him know that. Almost in a flash, he reached over the counter and grabbed the vendor by his collar. Pulling the man toward him, his feeble newsstand shook around, shedding some of its paper feathers. Hollins was terrified. This was the worst way to approach the situation.

"I don\x92t know exactly how things work in this country, but I do know that for your sake, you\x92d best tell us what\x92s going on or we\x92ll have to bring you in for further questioning. You don\x92t want that, do you?"

The man\x92s brief expression of terror turned to a scowl of defiance. He brushed Villieu\x92s hand away, forcing it aside. "Listen, pal, I don\x92t have to take this bullshit. I know my rights. Even you feds can\x92t lay a finger on me without getting buried in lawsuits. You can\x92t touch me without kicking your own ass."

Villieu began to smile and chuckle in an almost devious manner. His black lips curled back into a smile, revealing an array of pure white teeth, sharp ones. "Did you really think we were feds?" He laughed again, this time out loud. Letting go of the man\x92s collar, he then moved his hand over the man\x92s shoulder and patted it in a friendly manner. Now the vendor was even more nervous. The sudden change in attitude was bad\x85 a setup for something terrible. "My friend, I believe you\x92ve been mistaken. You see, we\x92re not cops, we\x92re not even FBI. We\x92re UNATCO agents. Our jurisdiction is international. You\x92ve heard of the UN, haven\x92t you?" Villieu watched the man, who was frightened at the lack of hostility. "Please, sir, we don\x92t want to instigate any violence. Right now, you\x92ve still got two good cops. Don\x92t make me have to become the bad one."

The vendor leaned forward, uneasy, but cooperative. "Alright, alright, just don\x92t create a scene. I\x92ve got a reputation to keep, you know. I didn\x92t see any one person hide anything, but I did see a guy try. A group of guys, one I made out from earlier, led the man into the club before anything could happen."

Hollins sighed in relief. Villieu almost screwed this one up, but he righted his wrong. Now she had to worry about the informant. She had already thought of a possibility. Perhaps the criminal network caught wind of the operation and decided to have the contact kidnapped\x85 or that was what they wanted the agents to think. Maybe the informant was a gangster himself. It was a distinct possibility. The man was led into the club. Damn, that could have meant anything.

"Are you sure he was led into the building?"

"Well, I\x92m sorry, but I don\x92t know. Honestly. All I know is that he didn\x92t put up much of a fight, if any at all."

The plan materialized. Either the informant was extremely calm about being taken hostage or it was a trap. She looked around the truck loading area. An alley led toward the next street, and several isolated windows overlooked the parking area. Perfect ambush positions. Their perpendicular positioning from available sniping locations also meant that any cover would be useless. Hell, it even smelled like a trap. Not a soul was in the area aside from the occasional pedestrian on the street. The scent of humans was unusually faint in the air. She tugged at the collar of her body suit and looked toward Villieu, barely whispering so that only the two could hear the conversation.

"Sergei, our fears are confirmed. This is a trap. The entire setup was to whet our appetites for information and draw us into the building, so that we could be ground to meat by gunfire."

"I understand. What should we do?"

Hollins turned back to the vendor. "When did you last see Tattoo?"

"Two nights ago. He should be back again tonight. Are you guys going to\x85"

"Perhaps, but perhaps not. Thank you for your information, sir, we really appreciate it. For your sake, I\x92d recommend signing off for the rest of the evening. I\x92d even invite you into our custody for your protection, but I see you're the resourceful type."

She left and returned toward the "Happy Ganesh". As far as she knew, the newspaper vendor could have given them the mushroom treatment: keeping them in the dark and feeding them on shit. Still, the man\x92s voice never wavered, his eyes didn\x92t constantly look left, and he sounded honest. Either way, they would have to return later with better arms and more men. Villieu, more conversational, gave in.

"How do we know that he isn\x92t one of them? He could be just trying to buy time."

"If he does, we\x92ll know. I slipped a tracking device on his shoulder."

He smiled a sidelong, canine grin. "Very clever of you, Amanda. I like your style."

She hoped that Priboi would keep his routine just this one time. Even in the field, that sort of thing didn\x92t generally work out. Still, there were just too many questions. Would Priboi come through? Was the vendor just a convincing liar? How well fortified were the suspects? She would have to go in alone to find out what exactly was going on.

"Come on, Sergei. Our work is done here." This she said while equipping a silencer on her pistol. It wasn\x92t a very good silencer, but it got the job done well enough. "Go back and tell Paul our new objectives. I\x92m going in\x85 alone."

Villieu perked his ears and raised his eyebrows in surprise. He knew just as well as she that this was a trap. "What do you mean? You\x92ll just be walking right into an ambush!"

"I have to find out what\x92s going on in there or else all this information is trivial. Relax, I\x92ve got thermoptic camo on."

"What if they have infrared?"

Having predicted this question, she replied with confidence. "I\x92ll have to chance it."

"One thing\x92s for sure, Hollins, you\x92re a very courageous woman."

After thoroughly investigating the building\x92s surroundings, it didn\x92t take long for Hollins to find an entrance. An old fire escape on a nearby apartment was accessible, and after a 20-foot leap she managed to jump to the platform. Removing her pistol, she used her free left hand to pull out a thin hood hidden underneath the collar of her trenchcoat. Upon doing this, her form became a blur, then a disfiguration in the air, then completely invisible to the naked eye. She would have to move slowly and carefully, surprising those inside the building from the roof. Too much action would confuse the camouflage, creating a visible outline and making it obsolete. Carefully moving up the stairs of the fire escape, she covered the area above and below, making sure that nobody had heard her. Upon reaching the highest platform, she set herself up for a jump and almost effortlessly leapt the 20-foot chasm between the buildings, landing in a crouch with her pistol raised. She carefully whispered, scanning the rooftop and sniffing the air.

"I\x92m in position, rooftop of the club. All clear up here."

A voice rang in her ear. It was Paul. "Affirmative. See what you can find out from there."

She carefully crept across the roof, nearing the top of the stairwell. The roof itself was covered in flakes of black paint and tar and several puddles of water lay stagnant on the cold cement surface. By now some overcast had formed, removing any shadows including her own. Who knows, perhaps she had a chance after all. Approaching the rooftop door, she carefully moved to the side, her pistol gripped with both hands. Slowly, she moved her hand over the door, which was a pale gray with vertical streaks of rust. Considering the situation, she decided that it was better to find out anything she could from outside. Finding a pair of deactivated ventilation units nearby, she carefully sandwiched herself in the small space between the unattractive metal boxes. The smooth surface cooled her skin and short fur as she crouched down. Perking her ears, she listened in closely on everything she could.

The results were predictable. Mostly useless information came through, like inane conversations, incomprehensible sound effects, HVAC units, and white noise. One of these was the din of cheering crowds through a tinny speaker, likely that of a sports broadcast on an old TV set. After two hours of waiting, she was ready to leave. This is useless, she thought to herself. What was I thinking? Who drops in vital facts during casual conversation? She couldn\x92t count on there being numerous idiots in the building. Suddenly, a Caucasian voice sounded in a whiny protest, followed by the creak of a light door on its hinges. She had kept tabs on the spectator for some time, but the man entering the room was new.

"Aw, shit! Come on, what the hell were you thinking, Williams?"

Another voice, a deeper one, likely a black male, replied in a satisfied, half-mocking tone. "Why don\x92t you just give me those 50 bucks now and save yourself some trouble?"

"Not a chance. Even though I was stupid enough to put 50 bucks on the Wizards, I\x92m not giving up on them yet. Hey, aren\x92t you supposed to be guarding the rear entrance?"

"Yeah, but aren\x92t you supposed to be watching the roof?"

"Mmm hmm. Problem is, it\x92s boring as hell." The sliding of fabric then sounded, followed by the clattering of a heavy metal object on the floor. It didn\x92t reverberate, as if it were a mechanical device, and its "cla-clack" sound suggested that it was elongated.

"Hey, man, watch the hardware."

"Alright, alright! Damn. Why you always got to get so worked up?"

"Listen, punk, that\x92s some expensive equipment. You break it, you buy it."

"Or else what?"

"Or else Tattoo comes and blows off one of your kneecaps\x85 or testicles."

"Gee, thanks, did you happen to notice that I\x92m eating?"

one, special order. That\x92s a lot of cash, T-bone, and if you haven\x92t noticed yet, money\x92s getting tight these days."

coming tonight?"

"twang". The black man replied in a tired, calm manner. "Yep."

much protection?"

Hollins\x92 ice green eyes widened. So Priboi was into drugs now. Chaff was a strong new narcotic, called so because in raw form it looked like tiny flecks of metal. It could be smoked, snorted, or distilled and injected and its effects were unmistakable: the chemicals triggered a massive adrenaline rush and a numb, pleasurable sensation that caused it to become addictive on the first dose. The adrenaline gave the addict a sensation of extreme power, activating all unused muscles in an operation and multiplying strength threefold. The side effects were quite familiar: the illusion of invincibility made many addicts insane, persuading them to do things no normal person could or would do: Crush glass in their hands, lift up extremely heavy objects, and pretend to fly. It also liquefied the brain if overdosed and replaced heroin as the most addictive and, consequently, the most fatal drug in existence. And Priboi was distributing it to the masses. A bust wouldn\x92t be easy, and she knew that entrance now would be suicide. Besides, they wanted to nab Priboi, and in order to do that they had to wait for him to arrive. She kept listening.

"When\x92s he coming?"

"About 6:00 tonight. Listen, I\x92m going to the roof. If the cops catch wind, we\x92re in deep shit. That\x92s why we take them down now."

"Haven\x92t they come yet?"

"You hear gunfire?"

"No."

"Then what do you think? Listen, I\x92ll be back in about an hour, and President Grant had better be ready when I return."

"Yeah, whatever."

The sounds of hard-soled shoes sounded, clopping across the floor and accelerating as they ascended the stairs. Hollins would have to beat a hasty retreat if the information she had learned were to become useful. The microphone near her mouth was sensitive, but not as sensitive as her ears. She quickly hopped out of view, leaping back toward the building she approached from. Just as she cleared the gap, her feet scratched against the concrete in a distinctive sound. She immediately took cover, praying that her thermoptic camouflage was good enough to conceal her location. A man appeared from the stairway. He looked around and tucked in his chin so that he could look into his coat, where Amanda spied the glint of a folded shotgun, likely a Benelli or a Browning. The man then turned toward her, briefly scanning the area. Satisfied with the view, he made an about face and proceeded to make his rounds. In a sigh of relief, Hollins slipped out of view, moving her agile body down the fire escape with amazing swiftness and silence.

Paul was getting nervous now. He and Villieu had lost visual contact with their spy for two agonizing hours. Amanda hadn\x92t called in, and he was beginning to worry that either her radio blanked out or that she had been caught. He began pacing, running the length of the car back and forth while Villieu sighed and uneasily looked around. The two then heard a not so distant "Swish- swish- swish" sound, like someone hopping around on both feet. They turned their ears, then their heads in the direction of the sound, but their eyes deceived the truth. As a six-wheeled freighter truck whined by, Paul smiled outwardly, realizing that it was likely Hollins returning from her reconnaissance run. He was right, and just as the truck passed, Hollins\x92 smooth outline was visible. It instantly gave way to her real form as she deactivated the camouflage.

"Did you find anything?"

She tossed a lock of her silky hair back, now unbound. "It was almost too easy with these new ears. I managed to gather some rather interesting information."

"So?"

She slipped past, removing her pistol and twisting off the silencer, which was now unnecessary. "We\x92ll return tonight, a little before six, set up a recon network, and assemble Militia teams to storm the building. Our team will spearhead the offensive in the rear with several assisting units while the men in front flush out suspects and civilians toward the rear cordon. It\x92s going to be quite a show, and if it works, we\x92re all going to New York."

"What about Priboi?"

She half grinned, walking up to the passenger side of the Escapade. "If this works, he\x92s in for the ride of his life."