Track 23:Is It Just Me?

I don’t really remember what I said about my time fighting the Dragon’s Teeth. I just remember that nobody’s expression changed. I’ll admit, I was just dryly presenting the facts of my visit to Korea and some of their attempts after, but still, the facts should have been pretty riveting. I didn’t know why they were staring at me until one of the mobsters, an elderly man in a suit that was probably expensive, raised his hand.

“So,” he asked in a Boston accent when I called him, “you just go on a stroll to North Korea?”

“As I said,” I mentioned, “I was paid.”

“But you didn’t say by who,” the mobster said. “I kinda wanna know.”

“Is it important?” I asked. “Because if you want to talk to him, he’s not available.” The mobster didn’t say anything in response, but he did tent his hands and stare at me suspiciously. I suddenly realized that he wasn’t the only one. “Look,” I said, in response to his unanswered question, “there’s just some things that are too big for you. Accept it and move on.”

People around the room murmured in a mixture of amusement and shock. Jen seemed to be trying to suppress a headache. Mai was writing in her notebook. Both their retinues seemed somewhat impressed. Valkyrie seemed… annoyed. “Kid,” the mobster said, “Do you, or your friends, know who the fuck I am?”

“I personally don’t,” I said. “But I can tell you right now, you’ll be a lot happier not asking questions about my life’s story.”

“Ok,” the mob boss said, standing up. “I guess I can deal without your guns.” He left. His retinue and several other representatives from other gangs followed.

Another man raised his hand. He was also dressed in a suit, but he seemed to be one of the guards. “So how do we know you ain’t a fed?” He asked. He also had a Boston accent.

“If I was a fed,” I said, “I’d be directing traffic.”

“Did Agent Barton tell you that, or did Agent Hicks?” the junior gangster asked. Instantly, a bunch of the assembled crooks began clamoring. Some walked out, some in more of a panic than others. Others began reaching for their waistbands. “Yeah, that’s right!” the junior gangster said. “Burnie McWheels over there’s been traveling cross-country with clean feds and is being sponsored by a clean cape!”

Valkyrie slammed her axe on the floor again, creating another gust of wind. Judging by the crack it made “Do you want to mouth off, or do you want to listen?” Valkyrie asked.

The room was silenced. The person the mouthy mobster was guarding, a positively ancient man, said, “I think what Junior is trying to say is that he’d like to leave before the cops come.”

“Then go,” Valkyrie said. “Unless things have radically changed, the cops aren’t coming, so you have all the time in the world.” The people who left, which was a good chunk, didn’t seem to believe her. Hell, even the few remaining didn’t seem that keen.

Once the people who were leaving were gone, one of the few remaining mobsters finally asked, “So, how do we know that you aren’t going to favor your two exes with the weapon distribution?”

I looked at Valkyrie for help. She rolled her eyes. “He’s the manufacturer. I’ll work out distribution with you at later.”

“Thank you,” I said. I did not want to know where these guns would end up. I definitely didn’t want to know what these people would do with them.

One of the only black people in the room raised his hands. When I nodded, he said, “So, y’all givin’ us guns, but those guys have fucking tanks and shit. I am not sending my boys into a meat grinder.”

I picked up the rifle Nari had made. “This,” I said, “is the Mjolnir. It fires a 10.4mm bullet. It’s a hybrid of long distance precision and anti-material rifle. It can probably penetrate five or six millimeters of seltsamemetall, which is probably what the Charon uses for armor.”

“And how many inches thick is their armor?” he asked.

“Well,” I said, “the doors seem to be about four or five millimeters and the windows are pretty big so you can probably shatter them easily.” The gang leader raised his eyebrows. “The average body seems to be ten millimeters.”

“Yeah, we dead,” he said, rolling his eyes. But he didn’t leave.

Mai then raised her hand. “Yes, Mai?” I asked, a sinking feeling in my stomach.

“Well,” Mai said, “there are some people who can’t be trusted to act in good faith. What’s to stop them from making a move?”

Someone from the Kagemoto camp must have muttered something because Lang turned towards them and angrily asked, “The fuck you say?”

“Hey!” Valkyrie said as Kaori and Hirosama stepped in front of Lang. I noticed that Jaime and Bao were also moving in. “Do I need to separate you?”

“No ma’am,” Mai said calmly. “My people will behave.”

“So will mine,” Jen said sweetly, “but I have to wonder what Miss Lau’s definition of behave is. After all, a few weeks ago, her people were killing my people unprovoked.”

“Shit, girl,” Jaime said, “We had no idea which people were yours and which people were your dad’s. Think we did you a favor.”

“Oh really?” Hirosama asked. “Why, then, were some of Mark Kagemoto’s people given World War Two surplus? Why did some take to dressing in green?”

“Enough!” Valkyrie shouted.

“Guess they know what a winner looks like,” Jaime said with a smirk.

“I said-”

“Hey, Jaime,” Kaori asked, flames dancing from her fingers. “How’s your mother?”

“You fucking bi-” Jaime said, reaching for his waistband. I could see the cylindrical grip of a Broomhandle Mauser. Meanwhile, Hirosama was going for his Glock, Lang had his hand on a green polymer grip for a pistol, and Bao was pulling a sawed-off from seemingly out of nowhere.

“OI!” Eliza yelled, bringing up her Ballpeen, flicking off the safety, and turning on the laser in one smooth motion. “You fuckin’ pull a piece in ‘ere an’ I’ll pop you in your ‘ead, swear on me mum!”

“Eliza…” Jen said holding her hands up. I noticed she’d opened her shirt to reveal her two chrome Berettas.

“You know what?” the gang leader who’d asked how to deal with tanks said angrily, “Y’all should kick those motherfuckers outta here. The got Uzis, they got AKs, they got ARs, they got belt-fed shit. Hell, they even got capes. Meanwhile, my boys can barely scrape together some pistols and shotties. They don’t need any more shit.” The rest of the remaining criminals murmured in agreement.

“Listen, you little shits,” Jen said, “I don’t remember you having trouble a few weeks ago. Stop playing the underdog, and pay attention to what’s coming.” She stood up. “I don’t have to deal with this bullshit. The Kagemotos will guard their territory.” Her glare travelled around the room. “From everyone. Even if we have to throw rocks.” Before anyone could comment, she stormed out, her two bodyguards following close behind.

There was a moment of awkward silence. Mai stood up. “Nate,” she said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t feel like we can make a deal in this environment. If you would like to make a deal with competent people, you know where to contact us.” She smiled and walked out, her entourage pausing for posturing.


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Know When To Fold ‘Em

“And you will give me a percentage of the proceeds if I lose?” The girl in the white Noh mask asked in a low, cold voice. The painted features and glowing blue eyes contrasted very well with her red and black samurai-inspired armor. The rest of her team, all wearing the same red and black colors and Japanese-inspired costumes, stood in a semi-circle formation around her.

Moe Green smiled at the girl on his computer screen. “Trust me, babe,” he said, “I do this all the time, plus I’ve worked with Minuteman before.” This girl, Hinomoto Oniko, was pretty good talent. Her body language was virtually unreadable through the grainy internet feed, which was quite a feat.

“And the security?” Hinomoto Oniko asked. “I’m not convinced that Skype is really the most secure method of communication.”

“So?” Moe asked. “Who’s gonna be watching, babe? The NSA and CIA don’t give a shit as long as we don’t consort with terrorists, and the FBI and local police need a fucking warrant. We’re good.” And even then, Moe was confident in his ability to bribe even the feds. After all, that’s how he made his living. And as much as they hated to admit it, prize fighters, superheroes, supervillains and cops were so easy to bribe.

The leader of the Boston-area superhuman team considered this for a minute. “You understand,” she said finally, “that if you stiff me, I will find you.”

“I understand,” Moe said, making sure to at least sound intimidated. In his head, he was laughing. He had been stiffing people much scarier than a jumped-up jumper almost three thousand miles away. Besides, the money they were getting would be more than enough for them to stop asking questions. The Minutemen and the Kagemotos had been fixing fights for years, but this would be the first time the Kagemotos would monetize it. “The bitcoins will be delivered to you by the first of July.”

“They better.” The girl, and from what Moe knew, she really was a girl, barely out of highschool, turned off the camera.

Moe shrugged off the rudeness. In a way, Hinomoto Oniko had done him a favor. With the last superhero/supervillain of the month fight fixed, Moe could now deal with the real moneymaker: milking his stupid investors. They were mostly mob bosses, and they were all so boring. Whether they were flashy like certain high-up Bloods and Crips, or no-nonsense West Coast guys like the MacGuyvers or the Castellans, they still were so boring. They had no panache, but they all seemed to be drawn to the glitz and glam of Hollywood showbusiness.

But his favorite was a young businesswoman named Mai Lau, the young chairwoman of Life, Liberty, Happiness and Prosperity Property Solutions. She had only recently begun investing, but it was already quite lucrative. The poor girl even believed him about opening a casino! She had even gone in and made plans, including altering it to have several stages for Broadway shows, Shakesperean plays, Chinese and European opera, Noh theater, and several types of traditional African theater. Her cute little plans made the scam even more satisfying. Originally, he’d made up a story about wanting to open a casino resort as a way to get out of some pretty serious debts after a bad month. He hadn’t expected anyone to fall for that, least of all a seventeen-year-old trust fund genius.

“Hello, Miss Lau,” Moe said as soon as he saw the Asian girl in the green blouse. She was based in the US, not too far away from Hinimoto Oniko, actually, but whenever she spoke, you could hear that she was from somewhere else. Still, she had been in the country for quite a while, as evidenced by the highschool diploma hanging above her head. “I see you’ve graduated. Class of 2016, very nice.”

“Mr. Green,” Mai said, smiling wryly, “You’ve said that every time you’ve seen me for the past two calls. I think you may have some memory problems.”

“I’m sorry, little lady,” Moe said. “I’ve just been a bit busy with organizing the boxing matches and the hero fights.” At the part about the hero fights, he noticed Mai frown. He knew she thought it was risky, and she was right. That was the reason he’d needed her cash in the first place. She just didn’t know that Moe was fixing all the fights.

“Mr. Green,” she said, “the thing is, you haven’t just forgotten my graduation. You’ve forgotten some of the terms of our agreement.”

Crap. The hotel. “Listen, sugar,” Moe said, “these things take time. It isn’t like some game where you choose a spot and…”

“Mr. Green,” Mai said, still the picture of naïve youth, yet now with a dangerous edge to her voice, “My business is property. I know the amount of time it takes to buy property on the Vegas strip when properly motivated and financed. Thanks to me, you have been more than properly financed. Your motivation should be…” Suddenly, there was a buzzing sound. “Oh, excuse me,” Mai said, picking up a phone.

Moe couldn’t believe it. The bitch had just interrupted him! And now she was laughing! Calm down, he told himself, You’re the one taking advantage of her in the end. Let her ignore you a few times. You’ve already had so much revenge.

“Sorry about that,” Mai said. “A certain problem of mine has been taken care of. I’ll tell you in a few weeks.” She beamed. “Mr. Green’s Gambling Team is going to have all its problems solved.”

Moe knew a payday when he saw one. “So, can I have a hint?” he asked.

Mai shook her head in girlish delight. “I’m sorry, Mr. Green,” she said, “but that would be telling. Is there anything else we need to talk about?”

Moe shrugged. “Not really.” With that, he cut the feed. Whatever this mysterious good fortune entailed, he could wait to find out what it was. Those strippers were coming in to entertain him. He swiveled around in his chair to the office building right next to his.

Life is pretty good, he thought to himself.




Life is pretty good, Agent George Hicks thought to himself. For once, he was in a relatively comfortable place for a stakeout. Normally, he’d be sitting in a car eating take-out food with his partner, Greg Barton and their junior partners. The only problem was how much trouble it took to hack a Skype chat (they were so secure even Microsoft had no idea what people were saying on them.) That left them with bugs, telescopes and various other bits of surveillance equipment.

“Wonder what’s so funny?” Barton asked, referring to the one seemingly legitimate investor Moe Green had talked to. Barton was looking at his computer monitor, which was currently viewing Green’s office.

Making sure not to look at the man currently staring at him from the other building and instead keep talking to his partner, Hicks said, “Dunno. But I think we should dig a bit deeper into Lau’s interest.”

“You thinking her investment was a little too lucky for Mr. Green?” Barton asked. “Yeah. Me too. Let’s just say some of my friends at the Treasury department have a few questions about her company. As far as we can tell, it just teleported into existence one day.”

“Plus, Massachusetts is due,” Hicks said. “Hasn’t had a big crime wave in years.”

“You know,” Barton said, “the bottom might be dropping out of the cape market, so to speak.” In response to Hick’s stare, Barton said, “Your guy might be wrong, you know. Data suggests that violent crime’s going down the drain. If we’re lucky, there might not be a need for us homicide guys.”

“That’s what they all say,” Hicks said, “until the artillery strike hits.”

“Your Marine experience is showing,” Barton joked. He looked back the monitor. “Oh great. More strippers.”

Hicks just laughed. Barton just sighed. “Look, I’m straight…”

“Oh, I know,” Hicks said in amusement. Barton, despite being in his early fifties, balding, extremely dorky, and a little chubby for someone who vaulted over fences and chasing perps for a living, was quite the ladies’ man.

“…but I’m tired of watching this guy solicit prostitutes.” Barton continued, suppressing a sigh. He then took a deep breath. “I want to take him down.”

“Yeah?” Hicks asked.

“We got everything on him,” Barton said. “If we got him up on the stand, we could put him away for fraud, bribing police officers, fixing superhero fights, and god knows what else. We can also get him to turn state’s evidence on over a dozen organized crime figures. What more could we ask for?”

“Jennifer Kagemoto, Mai Lau, and Robert Castellan are going to walk if we do it now,” Hicks said. It was stated like an observation, but Barton knew his partner well enough to know that Hicks was about to dig in.

“Those three are going to walk no matter what we do,” Barton said. “I want those guys behind bars as much as you, but we can’t get at them from this angle.”

“Ok, ok,” Hicks said, “I’ll stop wasting taxpayer dollars. How are we going to do this? Just walk right in?”

Barton, noting Hicks’ sudden interest, said, “No. No way. That building is full of guns, his house is full of guns, and he travels with three cars worth of bodyguards. If we just have a conversation, he’ll either run as soon as we let him go or decide to shoot his way out. The best, cheapest way of getting him and avoiding a firefight is to get Captain Vargas’ unit and hit the building during lunch hour.”

Hicks considered this. LV SWAT was probably the most trustworthy branches of Las Vegas Police. Besides, Hicks had heard about some of Vargas’ work and wanted to work with him. If all went as planned, no one would get hurt.




The very next day, a plan had been drawn up. Three of the junior agents on Hicks and Barton’s team would attempt to do it the easy way. Basically, they’d walk in, ask for Mr. Green, then head up to his office, and drive away with him. They wouldn’t announce he was under arrest until he was back at the station. That was plan A.

Plan B involved two FBI agents and two plainclothes SWAT officers waiting in the parking lot behind the building, arriving a few minutes before the first group. If Mr. Green went for his car, either through bad luck or because he was running, the four officers would intercept him.

If Plan A or Plan B triggered some sort of fight, then Plan C would commence. The three remaining FBI agents and sixteen SWAT officers would be able to get to the building and provide backup in thirty seconds. They would then storm the building, detain anyone sensible enough to surrender, and shoot anyone who resisted arrest. Hopefully, even if they went to Plan C, no one would die.

Sitting in the back seat of the black Dodge Charger, laptop propped open, Hicks watched the grainy footage from the hidden body cameras of four of the five Plan A and B FBI agents. The car was a little ways away from Green’s office: close enough to be the cavalry, but far enough not arouse suspicion. The Charger was sandwiched in between the two SUVs containing SWAT officers.

“Hey, Hicks, Pablo,” Barton said from the passenger seat, “How long has that girl been sitting there?” He was referring to a young blond woman waiting for the bus, wearing a green Boston Celtics jersey. Her face was creased with worry, compounded by slight burn scarring on one side of her mouth, and she nervously checked her phone.

Agent Pablo, a young immigrant from Brazil in her late twenties, looked at the bus stop they had parked next to. “She was arriving just as we were,” she said. “That would be about… two minutes, thirty-eight seconds. The bus gets here in two minutes, twenty-two.” Pablo turned to Barton. “Is there a problem?”

“No.” Barton said, though Hicks knew his partner of over a decade better than that. “She’s not doing anything we can arrest her for.”

Hicks made one of his noncommittal grunts of acknowledgement, but he suddenly developed a bad feeling about the whole situation. As analytical as Barton could be, Hicks relied on the man’s gut as much as his own. If Barton thought something was suspicious…

“Anyway,” Barton said, making an obvious effort to distract himself, “how’s Team A doing?”

Hicks looked back at the laptop screen. “They’re entering the building,” he said, putting his headphones on.  “Putting headphones on now.”

As he did so, he heard Agent Weatherly and Agent Britt talk to the receptionist while Agent Murray scanned the room. The plan was that they’d identify themselves, then lead Green to their car. The arrest wouldn’t be official until he was back at the station. That way, they could decrease the risk.

Suddenly, one of the elevators from the lobby dinged. Agent Murray’s camera showed a thin, athletic-looking man in a battered suit got out, his eyes suddenly widening. Based on the fact that his eyes were slightly downward, Hicks guessed this newcomer had seen Murray’s gun.

“Who are you?” the man asked suspiciously. Looking closer, Hicks could see that this newcomer was shaking and his eyes were bloodshot.

Hicks pulled out his radio. “Stand by,” he said, “we could have a problem.”

In the building, Agent Murray, now as suspicious of the man as the strange man was of him, said, “I’m Agent Murray. Me and my team are here to…”

The strange man’s face contorted in a mixture of terror and rage. “I KNEW IT!” he shouted. “YOU KNOW!” As he shouted, fire began to form around his hands. He then stepped forwards, and a fireball flew forwards. Agent Murray’s feed suddenly displayed an error.

“Teams A and B!” Hicks shouted, “We have a rogue Parahuman, Fire Elemental. Move in NOW!”

“Roger that,” Captain Vargas said. The lead SUV began burning rubber instantly.  As the cars lurched forwards, Hicks noticed that Team B didn’t respond.




Moe had finally finished soothing Tomas Montana about his paranoia. Tomas, or Captain Fuego as he was known in the town, was a beloved superhero. He was also Moe’s first big moneymaker and his local persuader.

Tomas, however, had never liked fixing the fights. His grandmother was also always getting sick. Annoyingly, the strain had made him turn to drugs. Now, he kept hitting Moe up for money and annoying him with drug-induced paranoia. Today, it was about out-of-town people.

“Listen,” Tomas said, “whoever these guys are, I know they’re in the parking lot right now! They even… they’re even set up in the office across the street!”

Moe gestured behind him. “That office?” He asked, somewhat dismissively. “Those are just two old geezers working nine to five. They never once looked in here.”

“Not even once, huh?” Tomas asked. “Not even while you were partying?”

“Maybe they weren’t interested,” Moe said. “Maybe they knew enough to mind their own business, unlike some other people.”

“Fine.” Tomas said, getting to his feet. “I can tell when I’m not wanted.”

“You sure?” Moe asked sarcastically as Tomas walked to the door. “‘Cause I never wanted you in my office in the first place.”

“You’ll see, asshole,” Tomas said as he opened the door. “They’re after us, man. They’re watching us all.”

As the door slammed shut, Moe thought, Fucking junkie. He was shaking the entire time. Pretty soon he won’t be able to win fights unless I fix ‘em. He mentally consulted his calendar. Finances were in order, his investors had had their monthly appeasement, and his minions were the ones who did his actual fixing. He guessed that he could either have some prostitutes come over or he could boss around his minions.

He had just settled on prostitutes when a Skype text message from an unknown caller popped up. “Look in your AC unit.” There was another pop. “Middle vent.” Another pop. “Use your flashlight.”

“Who are you?” Moe asked.

“Someone with your best interests at heart.”

Moe was startled by the reply. He hadn’t typed in anything. “Ok…” he said. “I’ll look, but I’m not sure what you want…” He turned around while grabbing his flashlight. Moving in his swivel chair, he shone the light into the vent.

He gasped in shock. Inside was a tiny black box. He had no idea how long it had been in there and would never have noticed it without the light, but it was obviously a camera. The pop of a Skype message brought him out of his panic. He turned back around. Not only was the new message there, but there was also a feed from a security camera in the building. It showed the main reception desk. Talking to the receptionist was a group of two men, both of them flashing FBI badges.

“That camera isn’t mine,” the message said, “and it isn’t the only one. It gives a feed directly to the FBI. They have everything on you. If you don’t want to go to jail, go to the rear parking lot. Look for the green Bentley limo and the man in green. Start walking now and do not stop for anything.”

Moe stared at the screen. There was another pop. “Or stay and watch the FBI expose you to your investors,” the new message said. Instantly, Moe was reminded of every sick, violent thing most of his investors did to people who crossed them. He got up and started walking.

When he was just about to leave his office, his phone got a text. “Dump this in the trash,” it said. Moe, in a state of shock, did as he was told. As he moved through the halls, he began to hear the sounds of explosions and gunfire, and the sprinklers began to activate.

When he reached the parking lot, he instantly saw the dark green Bentley. It had obviously been extended to have a second bench seat, probably facing the original and its windows were completely blacked out. One of the four rear doors was open. Sitting on the hood were two men, one a middle-aged man with a large forehead, intense eyes and a black business suit, the other a young, wiry Asian guy wearing a Celtics jersey and a gold chain with a wolf’s head attached.

“Hey, man,” the Asian man said with a trace of an accent. “You made it.” Moe’s eyes darted over to the car parked next to the Bentley. One of its windows was shattered, and its blue paint and brown leather interior were splattered with red paint.

The older man with the suit, noticing Moe’s gaze, said, “Don’t worry about that. My partner and a few SWAT officers weren’t looking to make any extra money. We had to part ways.” He ended this sentence with a smile that was as arrogant as it was creepy. “Now get in the fucking car.”

Moe moved into the car like a robot. He barely noticed that the interior was lined with trash bags, or the girl on the seat facing him, probably the younger man’s twin until she pulled the bolt of her SPAS-12 back to check the chamber. She was dressed in a black skirt, green blouse, aviator glasses, and spike-heeled ankle boots. Moe noted with some disappointment that her legs were crossed. When she saw that Moe was checking her out, she returned the stare. Due to the glasses, her expression was completely unreadable.

For once in his life, Moe found it safer to look away from the beautiful woman. Instead, he stared out the front window. There, the two men who had greeted him were in conversation. “Yo, this shit should be real good,” a male voice from the front said.

Paying attention, Moe began to listen. “…concerned about my payment,” the man in the suit said. “I mean, I’m an FBI agent who’s just killed a fellow agent and two local cops. I need a getaway.”

“Yeah,” the man in green said, an odd note in his voice. “I know.”

At first, Moe thought the man in green had just punched the bent FBI agent. But then why had he twisted his arm and brought it out? And why was their so much blood? “Oh shit!” the driver said, laughing a bit. The FBI agent collapsed. After seemingly kicking the FBI agent (Moe couldn’t tell, his view was obscured by the car he was in,) the man in green reached into his waistband and pulled out a pistol and fired five rounds. “Damn!” the guy in the driver’s seat said, still laughing like he had just seen an awesome scene in an action movie.

The man in green was already moving. Quickly, he moved his gun back into his waistband and got into the bench seat opposite Moe. As the man in green closed the door, Moe noticed that three bone claws covered in the FBI agent’s blood protruded from his other hand. He was also paler than he had been a few seconds ago and shaking. Fuck, Moe thought, I’m being abducted by fucking Ferals.

“Jaime,” the Feral said as soon as the door was closed, “get us out of here.”

“I gotcha, Lang,” the man in the driver’s seat said. Instantly, the car began moving forwards. There was a series of sickening thump as the Bentley ran over the FBI agent’s corpse, but aside from that, there was nothing stopping them.

When they were down the street, Lang turned to the woman. “Biao,” he said, his breathing still heavy, “do it.”

Biao pressed a button on her phone. In the distance, Moe heard a thump. With a sickening certainty, he knew his office had just been destroyed.




It was all going so well, Hicks thought as they got to the area of the building that had housed Moe Green’s office. The Parahuman just had to screw everything up. Luckily, standard LAPD SWAT uniforms were relatively fire-retardant. Still, the sight of the SWAT officer on point getting engulfed by fire would haunt Hicks for the rest of his life, especially how the fire licked around his ballistic shield like it was a sentient being trying to find a weakness.

In response, two SWAT officers returned fire with HK-416Cs. Someone inside also screamed. The four SWAT officers on point continued in. Inside, several people returned fire, one with an SMG of some sort, the other with a Kalashnikov. The SWAT officers quickly silenced them, eliciting more screams from the civilians. After a second’s pause, there came a chorus of SWAT officers calling out, “Clear!”

Hick’s team and the rest of the SWAT officers filed in. “Jesus…” Hicks said, instantly seeing what remained of Murray, Weatherly, and Britt. While the SWAT uniform was fireproof, the business casual suits Hick’s agents had been wearing weren’t. Weatherly was only slightly burned, but the explosion had knocked him out. Britt had been knocked through the secretary’s plate glass window. Murray, however, was completely charred. Hicks lowered his MP-5/10 in shock. For a second, he hoped Agent Murray was dead, or at least unconscious, it was that bad. His hopes were dashed when Murray moaned in feverish agony.

“I don’t suppose I can get you to stay here?” Captain Vargas asked as one of his men began to desperately radio a medevac.

“Yeah,” Barton said, also staring in shock, his shotgun gripped loosely. Agent Pablo was too busy checking on Agent Murray to respond.

“No.” Hicks said this at the same time Barton said yes.

Captain Vargas sighed. “Ok, Agent Hicks, you can come with us.” He turned to the rest of his men. “Zebras two, three, four, and five: you guys stay with the injured and secure the room and make sure the FBI guys don’t die. The rest of you, stick to the plan.”

The green-uniformed officers began to move. Hicks went with the main group up the stairs. Quickly, quietly, they approached the office suite that Green rented. Just as they were about to set up, a man with a TEC-9 pointing at the floor walked out the door. “Drop it!” the SWAT officer with the shield yelled.

The man froze. “Drop your weapon!” Captain Vargas called out as the SWAT team moved into the hallway. “You have three seconds to…”

He was interrupted when the man shot him with the TEC. Instantly, Vargas, Hicks, the shield and three other SWAT officers returned fire. The man slid slowly to the ground, staining the door behind him red with blood. More people screamed, but the SWAT officers ignored it. Instead, two officers moved the corpse away from the door while the others stacked up.

“Hey, Hicks,” Vargas asked as he slid a shell into his shotgun, “am I bleeding?”

“Nope,” Hicks said, checking his Glock, “the bullet bounced off your chest plate.”

“Clear!” an officer near the door yelled. There was a thump, and the door blew off its hinges. There was a burst of gunfire, then two more thumps. The gunfire from inside ceased temporarily and the SWAT officers began to storm the room.

What followed next were some of the most intense moments of Hicks’ life. Normally, no one had the presence of mind to shoot after flashbangs went off. Someone in that room did. Two SWAT officers went down. By that point, some of the others had recovered.

Still, by the time Hicks had actually entered the room it was mostly over. The SWAT officers had clear control of the room and were rounding up all the remaining goons and office workers. People who were completely healthy screamed and shouted, a few people who were dying moaned in pain. Hicks didn’t care. He was heading straight for Green’s office. That bastard’s coming home with me, Hicks thought. I am not going back to Quantico empty-handed. Not after that Para bastard.

He kicked open the door and crossed the threshold… and suddenly found himself outside Moe’s office, staring at the ceiling, Captain Vargas and several other SWAT officers staring down at him. Then he blacked out.




I can do this, Mai Lau thought to herself. I made a crime empire when I was in eighth grade. I escaped the Chinese government the year before. I can do this.

She continued to pace back and forth the office she had rented for LLHP Vegas. As she had specified, this main office was covered in tarps. No painting would ever commence. Before she left, Moe Green would suddenly sell her the property he had bought. LLHP would then build a hotel on that ideal chunk of land.

My hotel… Mai thought to herself. I honestly have no idea what to call it. Maybe I can still call it Green’s Casino. She laughed at the irony, then nearly vomited from how sick it was. That’s an incredibly strange sensation, she mused.

She was interrupted by a knock on the door. She quickly hurried over to the desk covered in tarp and made sure the two items were in their correct positions and the shades were drawn. Then she straightened her t-shirt and tried to do something about her frizzy hair. Then, she sat down in the executive chair. Across from her was a folding chair. She could have gotten something nicer, but the point was to make her guest feel powerless.

Satisfied, she pressed a button on a remote in one of the desk drawers. The button unlocked the door with a loud thunk. In walked Moe Green, flanked by Lang and Biao Xi. “Listen,” he said, “all I’m saying is this Jade Emperor is…” He suddenly turned to see Mai sitting behind the desk. “You…” he breathed. “But… but…”

Mai giggled girlishly. “I know, right?” She said. “I’m not even eighteen yet, but I’m already a real estate tycoon and a criminal mastermind. How cool is that?” Stop. She chided herself. Don’t start monologuing. She gestured to the cheap folding chair. “Please, sit down. We have things to discuss.”

“So,” Mr. Green said as he sat down, “is this where you ‘solve all my problems?’”

“No,” Mai said, making her voice change to be more threatening, “this is where I solve your company’s problems.” It was a very calculated act, drawing on all her acting experience.

“Are you seriously trying to intimidate me?” Mr. Green asked, a hint of a laugh in his voice. “Babe, I’ve seen fucking Chihuahuas with more juice than you.”

“I would recommend,” Biao Xi said, “that you show some respect.”

Mai regarded her two Lupine lieutenants. When she had escaped that reeducation camp, she had brought them with her. Now, for some reason she didn’t understand, the two were completely loyal to her.

She then turned her attention back to Mr. Green. He annoyed her. She could tolerate his sleazy philandering. After all, she tolerated Lang’s. She could also tolerate his constant condescension. That was something adults gave her all the time, and it had made her powerful. No, what she couldn’t tolerate was his sticky little fingers.

“Mr. Green,” she said, “your company’s only problem is its leadership. The fixing, in my opinion, was a necessary evil. When you claimed you were getting in on the casino business, I jumped at the chance because I thought you had been honest with your other investors.”

“Listen, babe,” Mr. Green said, slouching in his chair, “that’s life.”

“Hey, buddy,” Lang said, “show some respect.”

Mai, continuing like nothing was happening, said, “Instead, you were milking everyone. Cheating your customers, scamming your investors, underpaying your employees…” And then Mai actually got mad. “…and you delayed my hotel.”

“So?” Mr. Green asked, the cocky smile still on his face.

“After all this,” Mai said, “I’m still willing to let you leave. That is, if you are willing to sign this.” She reached into the desk and pulled out a piece of paper. “If you sign this, not only will you leave with your life and without any ill will from me, but I will personally escort you to Tiantang or Diyu, depending on circumstances. No one will ever find you in either place, I guarantee it.”

Mr. Green briefly scanned the paper. “Fuck you,” he said, throwing the paper back at Mai. “I ain’t signing my company to a bratty little whore and her mutie leg breakers. You don’t scare me, little girl, and you can’t make me sign this.”

Mai looked at her two bodyguards. They were literally shaking with rage. Lupines, like wolves, had a tendency to be very physically protective people they felt were in their “pack,” so to speak, and this man had just insulted their alpha. Mr. Green wasn’t used to taking beatings. Especially not beatings from enraged Lupines.

“Lang, Biao Xi,” Mai said calmly, “Mr. Green needs to sign this document. That means within the next…” she checked her watch for dramatic effect, “five minutes, he cannot lose consciousness or the use of his right hand. Apart from that, you may do with him what you wish.”

It was like she had fired a starting gun. One minute, Mr. Green was on the chair, the next he was on the floor, Lang and Biao delivering vicious, methodical blows at the speed of light. Mai had never seen a beating quite so bad. Even the guards at the camp had been gentler than this. Exactly one minute and fifty-eight seconds later, Mr. Green called out, “All right, all right… you win…”

Instantly, Lang and Biao hauled him back onto the chair. Lang wheeled a tub of water over, and the two began to wash and dry the fixer. When most of the blood had been cleared away, Mai carefully set the paper in front of Mr. Green and handed him a pen. Mr. Green wrote something down, then passed it back to Mai.

Instead of writing his name, Mr. Green had written Fuck you. “Real mature,” Mai said. In response, Mr. Green spit in her face. Mai felt some blood and a tooth hit her. “Lang,” she said, “towel, please.” Lang quickly came around and wiped her off. When he was done, Mai said, “Give him another round. Then waterboard him.”

If possible, this next beating was even worse. Again, forty-five seconds into his beating, Mr. Green said, “I’ll sign! I’ll sign!”

Mai shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Green,” she said. “I’ve been burned by you twice. You’ve literally spat in my face. You’ll take your five minutes, then you’ll go waterboarding.”

Thirteen minutes later, Mr. Green was toweled off and sitting in the folding chair. Mai took out a second copy of the contract and placed it in front of Mr. Green. Again, she held out a pen. This time when Mr. Green reached for it, Mai grabbed it away.

“Before you take this,” Mai said, “you should know that if you write anything other than your signature in your right hand, Lang and Biao Xi will do things to you that will make your sickest, most twisted investor sick to their stomach. It will be so gut-wrenching that when we parade you in front of every person you cheated, not even the most obsessive will want revenge on you. Do I make myself clear?”

Mr. Green nodded. “Good,” Mai said, letting go of the pen. Mr. Green, using his dominant hand, signed the document. After Mai checked the document, she said, “Congratulations, Mr. Green. You have finally made me happy.”

“Do… do I get to leave?” he asked, a note of hope seeping into his voice.

“Yes.” Mai said, the lie upsetting her stomach even more. “Please, leave the room for a bit while my people and I discuss your getaway.”

Miraculously, Mr. Green was able to get to his feet. Once his back was turned, Mai brought out her final prop. For a moment, she debated whether to use it. You’ve needed to do this ever since you got into this business, she told herself. Besides, he’s seen you. He can’t be allowed to live.

Without any more hesitation, Mai pulled the trigger of her “prop,” a .454 Raging Bull revolver. The bullet struck the base of Mr. Green’s spine, just as Mai had intended. He fell face first onto the floor, then began to struggle to get up.

Doing her best not to show how much she was shaking, Mai walked over to Mr. Green’s twitching form and crouched in front of it. “In case you didn’t know,” she said, looking into his desperate eyes, “Tiantang,” she waved her gun at the ceiling, “is heaven. Diyu,” she jabbed the barrel of the gun at the floor, “is hell.” She paused. Then, somehow managing to keep her voice casual, she asked, “Which one do you think you are going to?”

Mr. Green, ever since he had been shot through the spine, only seemed to be able to make these horrific wheezing noises. They became more and more shallow until he fell on his face. Eventually, he stopped making any sound.

Well, Mai thought to herself, that was particularly awful. Why, again, did you want to watch someone die? Before this moment, she had some notion of needing to know what it meant to take a life in order to run the less than legal areas of her business. Now, she couldn’t tell whether she should order a pizza, vomit, or blow her own brains out to balance out what had happened.

Eventually, she stood up and asked Lang and Biao Xi, “So, are any of you hungry? I’d like to order a pizza.”




It was two days before the doctors let Captain Vegas and Agent Barton in to see Hicks. However, those two days were enough for Hicks to get a decent amount of news from the TV. Apparently, the Para who had flipped out and burned most of his team was a cape named Captain Fuego. He had been a hero.

“Man,” Vargas said, walking into Hick’s room, “I can’t believe Fuego was on the fucking take. He was always good with kids, working in the soup kitchen… Hell, I stood face to face with him and didn’t know he was a fuckin’ junkie.”

“That’s what happens with vigilantes,” Hicks said. “Eventually, they realize there’s no rules for them. Anyway, how’s my team?”

Vargas and Barton looked at each other. “That,” Hicks said, “is just making me worry. The doctors say it’s bad for my health.”

Barton finally spoke up. “Britt and Weatherly are recovering. Murray’s still in the ICU, along with two SWAT officers… and Green escaped.”

“How did he get out?” Hicks asked. “Paxton…”

“Paxton,” Vargas said, frowning darkly, “according to ballistics, shot two of my men in the back with his service weapon while an accomplice blew your other agent’s face off with a shotgun.”

“Where’s Paxton now?” Hicks asked. He had always had a vibe about Paxton, but Barton had vouched for him.

“A Lupine,” Barton said, “ripped out his guts. Then someone, probably the Lupine, put five rounds in his face with nine millimeter semi-automatic pistol. Then someone ran over him with a car.”

“Three FBI agents injured, two dead, plus one SWAT officer in critical condition and two SWAT officers dead,” Vargas said, a note of helplessness in his voice. “That’s not including the number of perps shot, the explosion, the injured bystanders… That was the worst day in the history of the Vegas police.” He looked up, tears in his eyes. “I’m going to lose my job, man. And I think they’re right.”

Hicks glared at him. “They aren’t going to fire you.”

“They’re going to fire someone!” Vargas shouted and stood up. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it won’t be me. Maybe it’ll be the fuckers who vouched for the guy who shot two police officers.” With that, he stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

“Barton,” Hicks said. “What do we have?”

Barton shook his head. “We have nothing. A localized EMP in the security room after the bomb went off erased all the footage at the parking lot, and the body cameras of our agents in the back are missing.”

Hicks leaned back in the bed, considering this. “Listen,” Barton said, “I know I’ve stressed you out…”

“We do have one thing.”


Hicks, exasperated, said, “We know that a damn Lupine was on the scene, don’t we? How about we start looking for that bastard?”

Barton smiled. “You’re right. The Bureau started recording Lupine claw marks. They’re almost as good as fingerprints.”

“Look for any unsolved murders those claws were involved in,” Hicks said. “Especially if they were in states where Green had investors. No matter how legit they seem.”

“I hear you,” Barton said, smiling as he got up. “We’re going to get these guys.”

As Barton left, Hicks nodded. They would get them. What had happened in Vegas would not stay in Vegas. Hicks would see to that.


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Track 24: The End (Of the arc, not the serial)

Recovery was quicker than I expected. Within a few days all our external scars, scrapes and burns were fully healed, even John’s. The cracked ribs that Nari and I had suffered, however, would heal at the normal rate. “We could just seal it up with surgical glue,” a doctor explained, “but that would involve cutting you up. Unless you want to do the operation…”

“No need,” I said hurriedly. “It should be cleared up by the time I get back, right?”

At that point, my ribs had healed enough so that I could walk and talk. The problem, however, was standing up. Whenever I tried to use my core muscles, it felt like my chest was caught in a vice. In other words, it had improved a lot.

Eventually, everyone was out of the hospital and installed in the lodgings they would live at next semester. John and I got a double near the Sun Tzu campus center right across the hall from where Kyle was. Sunny and Nari, meanwhile, were staying at a small house near the docks. My parents weren’t expecting me back until three weeks after school ended, so that meant I had very little to do.

Meanwhile, the nightmares had come back and they were worse than ever. Every time I closed my eyes, I would see the people who had died around me from former teachers who had died of cancer to those I had killed.

Mostly, it was the ones I had killed. They chased me, hounded me, screamed and clawed at me, their bodies bearing the wounds that had ended their lives. The wounds I had inflicted.

They couldn’t end me the way I had ended them, and that enraged them. Instead, they surrounded me and listed off my crimes. I tried to ignore them and rationalize what I had done. Amir, the Al-Qaeda leader had tried to kill me. The people who had ambushed me at the Hell Semester final were sent by the school. Besides, I heard that they were rapists, weren’t they? And everything that happened in Korea, that was self-defense as well, wasn’t it?

Still, it rang hollow, especially considering the South Korean cops. I doubt it would be reasonable to place the blame entirely on the remnants of the recon team, but that had been a complete shit show. I didn’t go to North Korea to fight South Korean cops, but between mercs with itchy trigger fingers and overzealous cops, I had added another dozen people to my body count, none of whom deserved to die.

John got out of the hospital a week and a half before we were supposed to go home. To celebrate, Sunny had invited us over to her house. A former professor she had worked with had brought a kid over, so Nari was off having a sleepover while the adults, from what I understood, drank themselves silly.

“Welcome!” Sunny said as I wheeled John in. “I’m sorry if it’s a little bare-bones. I haven’t had much time to get it furnished.“ We were in a small living room with stairs leading upstairs, with the door directly in front of the staircase. The room itself had bare plaster walls, except for one section which Sunny and Nari apparently had started to paint. There were three couches, one of which was only half-assembled, and a box in a u-shape around a coffee table. They were facing a large TV and window. Apart from that, the only other decoration the room had was a locking bar.

“Not a problem,” I said, scanning the room for a place to put John. Eventually, I decided to just park him in front of the coffee table. That was, after all, where Sunny had put the food.

Apparently, apart from the main dining hall and the staff/faculty food co-op, the only food options you had were a pizza place or a Chinese place. Sunny had apparently gotten large orders from both.

In the grand tradition of take-out ordered by college students, it wasn’t great, but it was better than cafeteria food. Also, in accordance to collegiate tradition, was the monumental amount of alchohol available. After I, personally, had three slices of peperoni pizza, four skewers of beef teriyaki, several chicken wings and three shots of whiskey, Kyle made his announcement.

“Well,” he said, getting up, “I’d better be getting back to my room. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“You’re what?” I asked. “I thought that…”

“You two,” Kyle said, indicating John and me, “are the ones keeping things secret from your family. My grandpa knows what I’m doing. I was only staying long enough to make sure John got out.”

“Well… see you when school starts, I guess,” I said.

Kyle paused for a moment, staring past us. Finally he said, “I might not be coming back.” He looked at our stunned faces. “What, you’re surprised? You guys are all smart people, you’ve seen what this place is like. I thought you’d take your first chance to get out.”

“I understand,” I admitted, “but I think I can actually use this knowledge to change things. I mean, seriously, what the hell else am I going to do? Make videogames? Flip fucking burgers?” I took a sip of my fourth whiskey. “Listen, there’s a world out there that needs saving. And we have been put in the right place to save it.”

Kyle looked at me sadly. “Look at you,” he said, shaking his head. “They fucking got to you, you dumbass. You might not work for them, now or fucking ever, but you’re drunk off your ass and thinking you’re Darth fucking Vader.” He staggered over to the door, possibly more drunk than I was. When he was about to leave, he said, “I hope you wake up before you hit rock bottom, Killer.”

With that, he walked out into the night. After the door slammed shut, I stared at it for a little while. John and I left soon after. Despite the argument, I had a refreshing, dreamless sleep. It was almost worth the pounding headache.

The rest of the week was uneventful. We’d occasionally see the summer students, including our friends Eric, Ray-Gun, MC Disaster, The Monk, and Doc. It was reasonably fun, but soon it was time to make the journey home.

As we stepped out the plane, I asked John, “You ready for this?” Two men with dark hair, glasses and suits were waiting by an equally dark car. They were our UNIX handlers, Agents Brosnan and Takashi. Our job was to give them the intel we had collected… and that The President had approved.

“I’m not sure…” John said. “Shouldn’t we…”

“If you want to,” I said, “go ahead.” He didn’t. He just stood there as Brosnan and Takashi walked over to us.

“You’re late,” Takashi said in annoyance. His Japanese accent was even stronger than usual, too. He must have been even more agitated than usual. “Four weeks late, in fact. Where have you been? And don’t say an internship. We know…”

“I hate to interrupt,” Brosnan said, in his crisp British accent, “but now is neither the time nor the place.” He ushered us to the car. “We’ll drop you off first at your agreed location, Mr. Jacobs.”

The car ride was mostly done in silence. I noticed, however, that Brosnan was checking the mirrors quite a bit. Something about his attitude indicated that he was spooked. I was annoyed. The third party I had contacted knew where we’d meet. They shouldn’t have been watching.

Eventually, we stopped at a parking lot near the Main Street of my town. The smells of the various restaurants permeated the air, despite the fact that it was too early for most of them to be open.

As Agent Brosnan closed the car door, he said, “This car was quite nice. However, it is rather odd how every single rental service at Logan Airport insisted we upgrade to a black Chrysler 300. Shame our mysterious benefactor couldn’t give us a red one.” His attitude and voice was completely casual, but you could tell he smelled a rat. In fact, his “stretching” seemed to be just an excuse to see if he could spot anyone staking us out. Seeing as we had parked right next to a lime green Cadillac Escalade (or as my mom calls them, Excessalades) with spinning rims, we were reasonably shielded from prying eyes.

“So,” Agent Takashi asked, “what, if anything, did you bring us?”

I smiled. Finally, I’d either confirm some allegations The President had leveled or I’d finally fulfil the job I went to NIU to do. “You know that situation in North Korea?” I asked, bringing up a thumb drive. “I was there.”

Agent Takashi kicked the side of the car in frustration. Agent Brosnan just shrugged. “That could be valuable, but it wasn’t exactly what we asked you for. In fact, I fail to see what it has to do with NIU, even tangentially.”

“Did you know that the Dragon’s Teeth are a clone army?” I asked. “A legitimate army, with air and vehicle support, based on highly advanced technology?”

“The clone part, yes,” Brosnan said casually, “but what it has to do with…”

“Seriously?” I asked. Suddenly, the plan was changing. Instead of selling UNIX out, I’d work with them to find out who made the Deets. They just had to pass one test. “Ok, let me break it down for you guys: the Deets have cloaking technology, battery-powered APCs, genetic engineering and maybe even the same teleportation tech the Grenzefrontier have. Where the hell else could you get a team of people with that kind of knowledge?”

“There could be many ways,” Agent Brosnan said. “After all, in this state, you do have a supervillain who makes planes that can turn into bipedal walkers.”

Around the word “turn,” Agent Takashi butted in. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “The point is, if you actually want to get paid, you should look into some actual student projects. I hear you know the creator of surgical glue and Power Sludge. Getting those formulas would be helpful.”

So that was how it was going to be. Fine, I could deal. I was prepared. All that had happened was that I had confirmed what The President had said. We weren’t supposed to be looking for Force Three threats or whatever bullshit we had been sold. Instead, if we weren’t supposed to die during Hell Semester, we were supposed to be stealing tech secrets.

I could let that go. John apparently couldn’t. “So,” he said, his voice barely containing his rage, “we’re supposed to steal tech from people just trying to get through school so you don’t have to pay for it later?”

“It would be better than doing amateur missions to places that don’t concern you,” Agent Takashi said, snatching the flash drive out of my hand. “Honestly, I fail to see how your pathetic little field trip could have…”

That pissed me off. The cold rage that had been simmering inside me since I had seen the officious assholes broke. I slammed my fist as hard as I could into Takashi’s arrogant face.

The satisfaction of hurting the piece of shit was short-lived. In a blink, my head slammed back into the Escalade’s mid-side window, a hand grasped tight around my neck and the barrel of a pistol pushed right into my eye. From the other side of the car, John’s eyes widened.

“You just assaulted a UNIX officer,” Takashi almost whispered. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t pull the trigger.”

“Can I give a few reasons why you shouldn’t pop my boy?” We all turned to see the source of the voice. There, in the middle of a group of young people in green, was my old classmate from the Maynard Public School System, Jaime Washington. He looked the same as when I last saw him: slightly shorter than me, brown skin, brown eyes, and curly black hair.

Right behind him was another person I was familiar with. Lang was a lean, wolf-like man with a predatory gleam in his eye. I had met him at what essentially was a party for the Massachusetts underworld. Cross, who was the kind of person who knew these things, identified him as one of the top people in a brutal gang called The Jade Empire. On the other side of Jaime was a woman who looked like a gender-swapped version of Lang. These twins were taking everything in casually. They were professionals like me.

The others, including Jaime, were not. They were overconfident thugs who didn’t seem to know what they were facing. They just seemed to know they outnumbered the opposition. Oddly enough, except for the fact that they were all young men wearing green, they were very diverse. A few were Asian, a few were Latino, a few were black, and a few were white. All were dressed like wannabe gangsters or wannabe rappers.

“You… know him?” Agent Brosnan asked.

“I went to high school with him,” Jaime said. “I ain’t about to let him get shot by some flexing cops. Especially ones with no authority.”

At this point, Agent Brosnan realized how many of his impromptu audience was reaching at their waistbands. He reached into his waistband. Instantly there was the sound of guns being drawn and cocked. I couldn’t see most of them, due to Agent Brosnan’s back being in the way. However, I could see that most were cheap pistols… except for the one guy who had brought a TEC-9.

“Are those legal?” Agent Brosnan asked.

“More legal than a UNIX agent abducting a US citizen on US soil,” Lang said, his Chinese accent apparent. I noticed Lang, his sister, and Jaime hadn’t drawn any weapons. Takashi protested, but Lang cut him off. “I know my country’s laws. UNIX can’t make arrests. Even if you did, you just used excessive force. If you pay for damages to my… employee’s car, we can forget all about this.”

“Go to hell,” Agent Takashi snarled. “I’m taking this ungrateful little shit…”

“Agent Takashi,” Agent Brosnan said sharply, “you are a hairs breadth from causing an international incident in a sensitive country. Control yourself.” The grip around my throat released, and the pistol removed itself from my eye. Despite my burning chest and my throbbing head, I didn’t give Takashi the pleasure of watching me slump to the ground.

Agent Brosnan, meanwhile, offered something to Jaime. “I apologize for my partner. Mr. Jacobs just got… emotional about losing his scholarship. In turn, Agent Takashi got emotional about being assaulted. I hope this is enough.”

Jaime looked at Lang. Lang said, “It should be enough.” He waved them away. “You may leave.” Agent Takashi looked like he might pull his pistol again, but he walked around to the passenger side of the car. Before the car could start, Lang suddenly said, “Oh, just one more thing!”

Agent Brosnan looked up. “Yes?” he asked.

“UNIX can have the rest of the world, for now.” Lang said, his friendly tone masking a threat. “But Mass? Especially this little corner of it? This is ours. Consider yourself Persona Non-Grata in Maynard from now on.”

“Shame,” Agent Brosnan said conversationally. “I really liked the pubs here.” He closed the door of his rental car and drove off.

After they were gone, John and Jaime both hurried over to me. Lang and his sister hung back, watching us. The rest of the cavalry began celebrating and bragging. “You ok?” Jaime asked. “You fucking destroyed that shatterproof window, man.”

“His eyes don’t seem dilated,” John said.

“I’m going to kill that asshole,” I growled. “I fucking bled for him and calls me an amateur. Motherfucker.”

“Yep, he’s fine,” John said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll help him get home.”

“You sure?” Jaime asked. “I got a ride.” He patted the green monstrosity on its chrome piping. I like green, even lime green, but on an Escalade? Especially one with all that chrome? It was an automotive and aesthetic monstrosity.

I considered it, but John shook his head. “I’ll catch up with you later, man,” I said, picking up my backpack. Luckily, I had brought it and my suitcase out of the car with me. Otherwise, I doubted I’d have ever seen it again.

“Well,” Jaime said, “I’ll catch up with you. Facebook me or something, a’ight, Nate?”

When we had finally gotten away, John suddenly asked, “Hey, Nate,” he asked, “did you notice what kind of pistol Takashi was using?”

“Sorry,” I said, “it was kind of covering my eye. Why do you ask?”

“It was an M&P,” John said. “Know anyone else we’ve seen recently who’s used one?”

I was about to say no, then I remembered. The mystery people we had met and killed in North Korea. I considered this. “Well,” I said, “I guess we weren’t as amateur as they thought, were we?”

John sighed. “You’ve seriously ran out of fucks, haven’t you?”

I hadn’t. Time would prove that, but at that moment, I wasn’t exactly about to mourn the deaths of UNIX Agents who had fired on me. Mentally, I added the entire organization to my hit list and began to consider just what I was going to tell my parents.


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Volume 3 is dead. We killed it. Here is the Post Mortem.