Cool grayish-blue eyes narrowed on the pool of blood slick and staining the cold warehouse floor. Blood splatter dotted his expensive Alexander Amosu, and thunder threatened.

This was supposed to be a meeting between informants, a trusted member of the American CIA. Somehow the meeting was leaked and the casualties were people Mycroft had trusted.

It was a rare thing to trust, the British Government didn't have friends, only contacts and assets. His hands were sticky and stained red. A familiar blackberry laid near the crimson puddles.

Crouching down he picked it up, carefully wiping it clean with a blue silk handkerchief.

Mycroft tried to ignore the echo of the scene playing out in the secret places of his mind's fortress.

The tall man clutched his brolly straightening his shoulders. This wasn't the time for sentiment. "Sir, " an agent approached apprehensively. Scene is secure."

"Report."

"There is evidence a third part was sitting in the rafters. One of our own was shot with a silencer, and the unidentified assassin took his place and his weapon. We are sure he used the disguise of Agent F and his credentials to exit the scene during the initial chaos. The American is dead and Agent A is in critical condition."

"Find them." Aware of the rain, he readied his brolly.