Donald Burney scowled. He was not happy. Citizens throughout the United Kingdom were being murdered in vast numbers and he was sick of it. The Secretary of Defense had better be close to cracking this case, or he would quickly find himself out of a job.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. Burney." Alex Cheryl, Secretary of Defence shook hands with the Prime Minister firmly, "We've identified the location of the terrorists."

"It's about time, Cheryl. Why haven't you taken them out yet?" Donald Burney scowled. More of his people were being killed every day and every minute wasted was another minute for more people to die.

"We need approval for the squad we have going in. The terrorists have some sort of chemical around their base which temporarily induces severe Attention Deficit Disorder. In order to counteract the chemical, we have collected a group of top agents who already have ADD and will be relatively unaffected by the gas. In addition to them, several vital operatives will be participating with the use of Ritalin and Atomoxetine."

Burney nodded sharply. "Get it done," he said, "The sooner, the better."

ADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADD

Lieutenant Colonel James Linton moved silently, closing in on the terrorists' base. He'd never expected his severe ADD to be helpful, but he wasn't arguing. If he could help take down these bastards because of who he was, so be it.

These assholes would pay for what they'd done to his country. To his family. He would make them bleed, and he was able to because they hadn't thought through their defenses.

They underestimated the power of a man with ADD. They'd underestimated him.

Their single mistake would be their undoing.

ADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADD

Apparently, deadly as they were, these terrorists were idiots. They had no defenses, no electricity, and didn't even have a stupid house alarm. Well, they were about to find out just why people in the twentieth century used electronics and guns. As well as smoke bombs, flash grenades, hand grenades, and the occasional old fashioned method of a kick to the groin.

Second Lieutenant Nathaniel Flitch was about to have the time of his life. His orders were, in layman's terms, "Kick their asses."

He could handle that.

ADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADDADD

Voldemort seethed. His lair had been infiltrated by muggles. Filthy, disgusting muggles. Somehow, they had gotten into the estate where he and his Death Eaters had been stationed. Somehow, they had managed to knock out every single one of his followers, as well as Lord Voldemort himself.

He struggled against the bonds holding his arms in place. He would get out of here. And when he did, the muggle filth would be eradicated.

For now, though, he would plan his escape from this white prison and this damned coat.