Deus Ex Prequel

"Nihil aliud scit necessitas quam vincere."
-Syrus

Part I

In recent years the swelling tide of international terrorism coupled with enmity between states, wildly varying laws, and an anachronistic devotion to arbitrary borders has resulted in the decreasing effectiveness of local law enforcement. To resolve the problem, a neutral agency was required to enforce international law in an impartial manner around the world.The United Nations Anti-Terrorist Coalition-UNATCO was formed with just such a mission in mind, an organization that could transcend national boundaries and provide security for all nations that subscribe to its charter. Founded with the principles of the United Nations as its cornerstone, UNATCO is FAIR, JUST, and protects the individual liberties of all the citizens of the world.The criminal thrives on anonymity, but soon there will be no place for them to hide. Victory over terrorism is the prize for our VIGILANCE.

From the UNATCO HANDBOOK: Appendix A

2046 - Seattle

Shadows hide the secrets of the night. Shadows are the absence of light, and veils of shade. Darkness is a shadow in itself, the veil of all shadows.
The night is dark.

Paul Denton was acquainted with the night, a secret in the shadows. To the untrained eye he wasn't even there, only darkness, only shadow. The night kept him well, and he kept well in the night. It was his profession, his field of expertise. He was a secret in the shadow, and a deadly one at that.

Stealth was his art, and covert takedowns were his masterpieces. He was a dangerous combatant when faced openly, but if you didn't see him, you were already dead. Whether it was a pistol, snipe rifle, or combat knife, any weapon he wielded in the dark served as the tool of his work.
This time he had the pistol.

Leaning against the wall in the shadows of the alley he hung the gun by his side, waiting anxiously for his target.
He didn't wait for long. Shortly after he had arrived here they came; two rugged looking bums decked out in khakis and Kevlar vests. The dim light illuminating the entrance into the alley revealed their ruthless faces and tattooed arms. They each carried illegal military class assault rifles in their hands. And they were casually chatting.

"Frickin' police everywhere," one said. "and the thing is, they're not just police, they're like paramilitary! I mean, what law enforcement agency arms their officers with .22-cal rifles and gas grenades?"

"Fascist's finally took over the country." the other spat.

"They always had it, only now they're operating openly. Can't live down the war, they can't, lest democracy runs its course and we're liberated."

"The war's over - been over since Woods died last year. Everyone else is just the occupying force."

"Yeah, yeah. But I'm tellin' you, Uncle Sam hasn't seen the end of the Northwest Secessionist Forces yet. After we get our operation underway, the revolution will begin again. And either they'll separate the States or we'll overthrow the whole country!"

After that, a new voice spoke, from the darkness ahead of them. It was calm and stern, as if he was engaging in casual conversation with business peers.

"There never was a revolution. Leon Woods' grand army and patriotic war was only the desperate response of isolated fanatics in the northwest states who refused to give up their firearms. It's not the government who're fascists; it's the criminals who carry on that 'war' that are terrorists. And in this day, your 'war' is only a smokescreen for the illegal activities you perform, with the intent of wealth and territory on your minds. And occupying force? When crime develops to the standards of terrorism, law enforcement must also evolve to meet the demand to contain it. How would you feel if scum like yourselves were free to roam the streets to commit any kind of atrocity with military hardware and no resistance? Or am I asking the wrong part of the demographic?"

The thugs were startled. While the voice spoke and before they could respond a slug impacted into one of their open shoulders, drawing a cry of pain and causing the brute to drop his rifle as he lurched backward clutching at his wound. The other shouted out and aimed his gun into the shadows, but the red dot of a laser scope pinned his face, while he couldn't even see the assailant.

"It'd be wise to drop it." The casual voice said.

"If you're gonna shoot, then do you stinkin' bitch!" the targeted thug retorted, deciding not to comply. He was prepared to die a brave death, or so he told himself, trying to hide his sweat.

He was shot. The dot flashed aside and a bullet tore into the guys' hand. Another cry, another dropped rifle.

"Don't say you didn't ask for it. Be glad you're not dead yet. Now that that's over, I hope we could cooperate."

He sounded slightly amused with himself, not serious, strict, cold, or even threatening. This only agitated the thugs even more. They were crouching down and bleeding, and cursing. The first one shot had tried to turn to run away, but a bullet by his ear warned him not to. He stopped in his tracks and fell against the wall with a curse. The red dot resumed its position on the other.

"I don't want to see any unnecessary deaths tonight, but trust me, you're both expendable. Right now, I'll just be putting you under arrest. Don't ask for grounds; I don't need any, and brandishing guns is good enough anyway, not to mention we all know you two aren't just out on a beauty walk."

With that he emerged, a darker shadow from within the gloom. The shape of a tall man donned in a heavy black leather trench coat materialized before the thugs, a stealth pistol with scope in his hand aimed at them. It was still too dark to make out his face. With his other hand he reached into his coat and produced two sets of cuffs. "Up against the wall, hands behind." He ordered. They reluctantly obeyed, hesitantly turning their faces against the brick. But when he approached one flung around and swung at his face with his fist, using his knee to knock the gun aside.

Paul Denton, the trench-coated shadow, dodged the punch and countered the thugs' knee with his own. He jabbed the gun in his ribs and forcefully shoved him to the wall. The other had ducked down to retrieve his rifle but before he could pick it up the laser fixed on his nose. He swooped it up and twisted aside quickly, trying to let out a shot, but instead he was shot, twice in the arm and in his left thigh. Muffled cries and he dropped the gun again, falling to the wall behind. Paul cuffed the thug he had pinned against the wall and threw him to the side of the other, whom he bent down to, twisted round and locked on the cuffs. The Nanolock clicked and squeezed down on his hands.

"I didn't want to you rough you up – that was uncalled for!" Paul's voice was angered and annoyed.

"To hell with you too, bitch!" this was the one who attempted an attack with his fist.

"I'm authorized to kill who I choose. You're under arrest at the moment; don't cooperate and you'll be under six feet."

Groans.

"You police or something? You arresting us, what shit more do you want?" demanded the one who dived for his gun.

"Cooperation." They could feel him grinning.

Stifled curses.

"I'll put it straight – you work for the NSF, they're up to something. In this city, right now. Planning to move things out, contraband, weapons, you know what I'm getting at."

"So what? We don't know shit, you don't know shit."

"I'm sure you know enough."

"You can't make us talk, we know our rights!"

"Certain rights don't extend to terrorists. Where're you storing your hardware?"

"Fuck you!"

"I don't have time for this!" Paul shot, pulling the guy from his collar. "We know about your shipments, and the city's locked down, but rats always find a rat hole. So you two rats are going rat out, or the cat comes in for the kill. You can forget about your buddies in the flat, the police cleaned this place out.

You've walked into the trap, and you only have one chance to walk out."

"You'll let us go, man?"

"I mean you'll live. Either way, you're already under arrest. But I might forget about that."

"Up yours."

"It's me or the FBI's interrogation team."

"We don't know nothing!" the other insisted. Paul sighed. He knew he shouldn't have thought it would be easy. Everyone in the hideaway flat had been killed in the raid, and there wasn't any non-living information or leads. He was left behind to apprehend any NSF member who might happen by en route to their hideaway. The rest of the police and FBI, and few other UNATCO agents on the assignment, were chasing everyone else around the city and searching every block. He couldn't get anything from his catch, but at least he had a catch. They might prove more useful under more 'professional' conditions.

Paul reached up to the wire transmitter hanging behind his ear to contact the FBI unit nearby.

----

Three Hours Later

Paul Denton looked out from the helicopter window at the city down below, a dark maze of black dotted with specks of yellow, the space needle hovering in the distance. It was different from up here; serene, peaceful, beautiful in its own way, but down on the street...

"Your boys weren't too hard to crack, if this turns out right." The man sitting across from Paul said. He wore a black suit and sunglasses, even though it was night.

"Guess I'm not much of an interrogator." Paul replied.

"Hey, it takes more than a few words to crack a leak. Leave it to the specialists. At least you got us a lead."

The chopper touched down at another part of the city, in a wide and empty parking lot. Paul and the FBI agent climbed out, to be greeted by a handful of cops and two other FBI agents. Another agent didn't fit either description. She wore a black leather vest and had mechanical 'augmentations' or external prosthetics on multiple parts of her body. Her right arm was visibly modified as well as part of her face.
She was one of UNATCO's "Mech Aug" agents.

"Good work, Agent Denton. It is well you prove yourself." She said in an accented voice. It sounded Russian, but she was Israeli.

Paul nodded. "Agent Navarre." He said. "I hope we get them."
His face was young and firm, a sparkle was in his dark eyes, and a slight goatee traced around his mouth. He was the young former rookie just beginning to experience the uncertainties of the job, whereas Navarre was already weathered in combat, and had been on many missions with UNATCO. She had seen her share of victories, but even more failures. Optimism had long since left her, and this was heard in the bitterness of her voice.

"Let's hope this lead of yours is correct." She said sternly.

They hurried across the parking lot to a black military humvee waiting nearby. It was loaded with a few heavily equipped troops and a stack of weaponry. Paul and Navarre climbed in.

Six other black hummers trailed the lead one with Paul and Navarre as it passed down the city streets, which was uncommonly lightly populated. A helicopter whirred overhead behind them, and on surrounding roads the police force was setting up blockades. They came to an industrial area and pulled off on the side road, shutting their neon lights. The chopper circled overhead.
In the next moment several dozen troops decked out in black and brandishing assault rifles were scaling the grounds. They surrounded a certain large and dimly lit factory. The lights went out, the garages were opened, and the troops stormed in.

"Shit, we've been compromised!" a voice yelled out in the darkness of the factory.

Shots rang out as the troops moved in, splitting up and opening fire at the targets they picked up on their night-vision goggles.

Gunfire blazed everywhere. The sound of bullets ricocheted within the walls; people fell dying at both sides. More so for the terrorists. They wore light armor and had weaker guns, but it was a deadly firefight. They knew the law would come storming anytime, and they were prepared. Machine-gun turrets were hooked up to the walls and were spraying bullets everywhere. The troops responded with grenades and then unleashed these at their human targets. They were retreating into the factory, up stairways and through large doors.

The troops found loads of packed weaponry everywhere, waiting to be borne away.

They pressed into the loading bay with heavy exchange of gunfire. Here they found several white vans being loaded with metal containers, the same ones they found throughout the place storing armaments. Then they noticed - they were ambulance vans.

Everyone panicked as the troops came in, slamming doors shut and running for cover, or pulling out guns and attempting a fight. But they were mowed down relentlessly, rained upon by an endless stream of bullets.
Navarre led the onslaught, striding before the troops with twin rifles blazing, always hitting multiple targets. She seemed heedless to any fire that came her way, instead making sure that none did.

The NSF was frantic, shooting wildly and trying to escape. The troops closed in on the vans, firing into their windshields at the drivers to prevent them from leaving, but some got away, speeding off amid the chaos at chance moments.
Before long it was over, the raid was successful and the operation was shut down, though not all vans were accounted for. But the resistance was exterminated.

Paul flung open the back of one of the stopped vans and pulled out its contents, two containers hidden under patient beds. He shot their locks and opened them.

It wasn't guns inside; they were bombs. He pulled one out of its casing – a variant of C-4.

"We have enough shit here to launch a war!" a trooper exclaimed as they unloaded the containers.

"That might be what they had in mind." Said another.

"Round up the survivors, the prisoners. We'll see what they have to say." Paul said. "How much vans got away?"

"We stopped them all, sir."

"No, we did not." Navarre said, "Contact your police and FBI and tell them to shut down all roads within a hundred mile perimeter of this area."

"We have blockades set up already."

"For emergency vehicles?" it wasn't really a question.

"Oh, shit. Dalton, get on line one!"

----

FBI Headquarters – Eight Hours Later

Paul rushed down the white corridor to the office at the end, rubbing the fatigue out of his eyes. He hadn't slept at all after traveling across the country.
In Seattle they had caught one van making its way toward the highway, fully loaded with guns and bombs. But two ambulances were reported to have passed by the roadblocks, in full sirens. The other they managed to track to an airfield in the outskirts of the Washington state; it was already emptied. Three flights had taken off from there since. The department of Homeland Security had records on them all; all were in country flights, but at various destinations. They had checked them all out, and found their culprit. The FBI was dispatched to the scene and UNATCO was notified. Immediately they had dispatched Paul to Virginia to get a lead on things.

The glass door slid open before him and he walked into the director's office. He was standing behind his desk tapping away on a datacube - the latest incarnation of the old tablet pc and PDA - mumbling to himself. When Paul entered he looked up and nodded.

"Paul Denton, welcome." He said, placing down the datacube. "The Bureau appreciates UNATCO's involvement on this case. We're running a step behind our perpetrators, and that raid in Seattle was only a lucky break. Every agency should've known about its existence long before we did. Who knows what else our local terrorists are up to."

"It's a trying and difficult time, sir. This country is being torn apart for the first time in recent history and we haven't seen the likes of it before. We thought we were prepared for anything that might come, but hey, you never are until they come," Paul replied, "no one was prepared for this."

"Yeah, you can never condition everyone in a society to be right-minded conformists. There will always be free thinkers, no matter how messed up their thoughts are." said the director.

"Hey, in America we're based on free thought, it's what democracy is about."

"Free thought within the limits of conformity. You could think what you choose, but rules are rules, and you better not disregard rules founded within the means of democracy. It's a restriction of freedom, a needed one, yes, but a restriction nonetheless."

"The NSF wasn't founded on any respect for freedom of any kind, save the freedom to horde guns and armaments, the very weapons that leak into the wrong hands and lead to dire consequences."

"That's what you get when you try to take away something as much as tradition. Like it or not, this country, the West especially, was founded on guns in civilian hands, and in truth there's nothing wrong with that. How else is one to protect themselves?"

"I think you're sympathizing with terrorists." Paul grinned.

"Who me? Nah, I don't disagree with anything the Administration puts through. It's not my job, and there's good reason to it all. Sporting Weapons came about when violent crimes were escalating and a surge in internal terrorism was on the rise. Leaving all these 'collectibles' lying about around the country surely wasn't going to help. But even if the act was disputable, Leon Woods went too far with his loony intentions of 'liberating' Washington, Oregon, Montana and the North Cal. What I find unbelievable is that he actually had a strong following."

"There were many splinter militia groups that didn't support the act."

"Yeah, well. Anyway, we're not here to reminisce about the past. There's pressing matters linked with it right now in the present. These shipments from Seattle, well, we're not sure where they all were intended to, but the NSF was surely running a large ring, all across the country. The latest batch you all missed in Seattle ended up in New York."

"City?"

"State, not far from the coast. Homeland managed to pinpoint the landing, but when we got there the plane was already emptied. Some sources suggested its cargo had been taken to the coast and loaded in boats, en route to the City. The coast guard's been patrolling the waters since, but so far they've come up with nothing. But from what I've gathered, the cargo has already reached the island, even before we learnt this. We're investigating as much as we can, all over, from Seattle to New York to New York City, but, like I said, they're a step ahead of us."

"So you think New York is the target for their fireworks?"

"If UNATCO got it right and it's a bombing they're planning."

"More than just a bombing. From what we learnt from the crackdown in their Canadian hideouts, it's a whole new resistance they're planning – a series of small attacks, riots, bombings and such, until they get their "liberation". It's like we have our own IRA now. But anyway, there were hints that it would all start off with a loud bang; a surprise for the nation, either government or corporate level - something that would have an effect on the country, instead of being a simple act of terror. So they're in Manhattan, huh."

"I'm sure of it. The local authorities are keeping their guard up, but you know how this stuff always eludes them."

"That's why UNATCO's here."

"You'll be dispatching to New York right?"

"It's my job."

"So you better be off right away. Our agents found something on the plane, but I'll get that to you when you get over there."

"Yes sir."

With that he turned and headed out.

----

Hell's Kitchen, New York

The taxi pulled up to the Hilton Hotel and came to a stop. Paul stepped out after swiping his credit chit through the fee transfer. He closed the door and looked at the hotel where he had been staying for time out of mind, thanks to the manager who was a good friend of his. New York was his home, and although UNATCO's headquarters were situated outside the country, he worked at the branch in the UN itself.
When the cab left he walked up the steps to the hotel, his trench coat flowing behind, and opened the doors. As usual, it was dimly lit and gloomy inside. Behind the front counter a bald man in a tattered brown coat smiled and waved.

"Paul, you're finally back!"

"Good to see you too, Gilbert! Business treating you fine?"

"Ah, you know the hotel. Getting worse every day, but I get by. And little Sandra's growing up. It's hard trying to make a living in today's world and find time to be with her, you know. And having no mother doesn't help any either." He sighed and shook his head. "But that's me, nothing significant going on here. What's up with you these days?"

Paul sighed this time. "You know me, too. Just work with UNATCO. Actually, I'm operating here in the States right now – even though we're not a Charter member. But we had an investigation that led to Washington, state, and the FBI insisted to D.C that they could use our help. So they're secretly allowing a few of us to run around the country officially. I'm not supposed to be telling you this, you know."

Gilbert winked. "Won't pass from me. You've known me long enough to know that."

"Yeah, I am telling you, aren't I?"

"Well maybe we could use UNATCO's help these days, what with terrorists running around the nation and that Northwest war just recently fought."

"Ah, it's Washington. Our Bureaucrat's don't like the idea of the UN operating in this country, it's like having a higher power over them."

"No one ever did like the United Nations. Not here anyway. Even I'm unsure about them working in this country. They seem like a governing tool for the third world, and a profit seeker at that."

"No one likes them anywhere. But Uncle Sam isn't fit to police the world; they only police their interests."

"What can I say? Big stuff like that always seem to affect the likes of us low folk, but we can't do naught about it. Good luck on your work."

Paul nodded. "You too."

He climbed the stairway to the second floor, since it was always faster than the elevator, and made his way down the hall to his room. Paul pulled out his Nanokey 'ring', unlocked the door and went in.

The place was the same as he left it. There wasn't any sign that someone lived there; it was dull, dark, and empty. Except for in the closet, which was open and from which a faint purplish and green light emitted. This was from the holoscreen of his computer. Above the black splayed keyboard the screen was projected, a holographic transparent display, tilted slightly backwards, 17 inches in height and with angled wings off to both sides (being shaped like a stretched out stop sign), stretching the width to approximately 30 inches. The background display was transparent black, but windows and bars of blue and green crowded the projected desktop. Several files were open, as well as the inbox indicating it had mail.
Paul pulled out the swivel chair at the desk and seated himself before the computer. The holographic monitor was sensitive to touch-click, but that required raised arms and the mouse was easier. He closed the files and went to the inbox, finding two messages waiting:

From: JMulroneyFBIGOV.00011.00101
To: Paul DentonNYCNET.33.34.4346
Subject: Manhattan Project

Agent Denton,
Now that you're in Manhattan we expect something should come up. I know you went to check things out in Hells Kitchen, but you might have more luck at the harbor. They arrived by boat, so traces of their movements should be easy to find, the NYPD have closed off the area to the public and are already investigating, but UNATCO and the Bureau should have more luck in the area.
By the way, about that clue we turned up on the plane, Homeland doesn't think it's relevant enough to investigate, and we're busy enough to check it out. Might be nothing, but the owner of the jet is a company called Softeck. We figured they could be a front for the NSF, but that investigation is on hold. See what you could come up with if you have time and get back to me.
Funny we're working with you guys, you know, though I can assure you it may be the last time. This country is really adamant about keeping the UN and its offshoots from getting any more influence than what it already has. But we look forward to seeing how you operate, and for the sake of this country I hope we pull this one off. Don't forget to keep in touch with Agent Wallis and Terrence; they'll try their best to assist you.
Good luck over there.

From: SweetCharityGenericMail.34673.78541
To: Paul DentonNYCNET.33.34.4346
Subject: Hey!

Paul! It's me! Long time, agent! I know we just met last year and only saw each other for eight months, but we promised to keep in touch and you haven't written me since! UNATCO keeping you busy I guess. As for myself, I got hired with that agency I told you about, the one where I'd be going around the world as a sales agent for major corporations!!!!!
But I'm at home now, so if you get here on some time off we could get together again; it'd be so nice to see you. The world could be very lonely, but I'm sure you know that more than I do.
If you do come, look for me at the waterfront. Still my favorite place in the New York.
Luv, Chase



Now that was email he wasn't expecting. It wasn't that he had forgotten about her, but everything else just crowded his mind, he didn't have time to think about leisure. But he was happy for it; glad there was something in his life other than the job. If he had to go see her though. He wasn't here in New York on leave, after all. And time was precious.
But he made a note to himself to stroll the waterfront after all this was done.

Right now, it was business.

The lead; he typed Softeck into the search engine. Corporate Website; network specialization, interface design, business and networking software, etc. Everything else you'd find on such a site. He ran searches on the listed employees. Nothing of importance. His search was fruitless.
Then he remembered Charity.

----

Night loomed over New York City, but as always in the city, it was a bright night, and not thanks to moon or stars. The towering skyscrapers glistened in lights of yellow and white, endless light lined the streets and there was the endless stream of the red and white light from the cars on the road. Even the harbor was bright, and the docks were alit.

Paul made his way through all this as he walked along the waterfront that looked out at the docks that stretched into the sea. A cold chill was in the air, it being late in the fall, but he had his heavy coat, and one never felt cold in the city anyway. He strolled past the crowds of people with no direction in particular: she just said to look for her at the waterfront.

"UNATCO man!" a voice called, young and female. Paul stopped and turned around, finding a young woman standing behind him, smiling brightly. She wasn't much shorter than him, her hair was silk black and lay upon her shoulders, and a glint was in her hazel eyes. She had a slender frame around which was wrapped a black long coat, her hands tucked in its pockets.

"Charity!" Paul grinned and swooped her in his arms, bringing her towards him in embrace and lifting her off her feet as he swung her around. "Hello to you too!"

She flung her arms around his neck with a brightening smile. "So you got my message I see?"

"Eh what? Don't you always come to the waterfront?" he grinned.

"I do, but you don't."

"But I know that you'd be here."

"So you took some time off to come and look for me?"

Paul sighed. "Well, actually I'm still on duty, here in the city."

"I thought UNATCO wasn't allowed to..."

"We're not, but look at this as an international operation. They need us here right now."

"Need the UN?" Charity asked sarcastically.

"UNATCO's not the UN, completely. We're international police. But let's not talk politics – it's nice to see you again."
She smiled. They turned and started to walk down the waterfront, oblivious to the crowds of people around them.

"Since I was in town I thought I'd say hi. Congratulations by the way."

"For wha- I knew you got my email!" she playfully slapped him on the chest. Paul laughed.

"Let's talk over coffee, shall we?" he said.

The Blenz Coffee shop was a quiet little place with a dark atmosphere and dim lights. Only a few people were there, sipping at their latté's and browsing newspapers. In the background a light techno-pop song was beating, to a lesser degree than one would hear in a nightclub.
Paul and Charity sat in a corner of the shop across from each other, drinking mocha's and trading talk. They talked about Charity's corporate job and the traveling she'd be doing soon, almost as much as what Paul did now. She was fresh out of university and was also a computer expert, with networking and interfaces, and hacking. The first two helped her get her job; the last was a little secret of hers that Paul knew.
She asked about his assignment in New York, his own hometown, but he told her that was classified. Ok, so most of it was. He was tracking domestic terrorists who were smuggling bombs into the Manhattan, probably for a bombing. Even with the police, FBI and Homeland security working 24 hours on the case they were still a step behind. The rats knew the city, and who knew what support they had in the sprawling criminal underworld.
But they were in the city, and the authorities were doing their best to track them down or get a hold of their movements. After all, how easy would it be to travel around with a load of bombs?

Well, some of it was classified. The higher-level stuff.

So, anyway, they did have something else. A name, at the least. A software company called Softeck. It wasn't directly connected to the present case, but connected to the terrorists on whole.
But the Bureau has its hands tied and they can't check it out right away. But who knows what Softeck might have to do with these terrorists? If they were a front, or a financer, than their records might suggest something, lead to another lead. Oh yeah, that was another reason why Paul went out of his way to see Charity Chase.

"You want me to hack into their mainframe and illegally acquire financial statements?!"

"No one will know, not even UNATCO. It'll be like I did it myself." A smile widened on his lips. "It's for the good of the country. You might be saving lives here."

"But you don't even know if they're part of it, or even if, if we'll find out anything!" she exclaimed in a hushed voice.
"If they're financing the NSF, then we'll find out. That'll lead us to the heart of the organization, or at least to a credible source where we can find out what's going on – with New York and possibly everything else."

"That's a wild guess."

"Ever the pessimist, aren't you?"

"No, just being realist."

"Will you do it for me?"

She stared at him, wondering however she got involved with a UNATCO man. A blush came over her face and she hung her head, smiling and sighing. Paul

was intently watching her.

"So?" he asked softly.

She looked up, brushing back a strand of hair that had fallen in front of her face.

"So what?" she smiled. "I'm sure you knew the answer before you asked."

"Hey, I don't know you that well."

She bit her bottom lip. "When do I do it?"

"As soon as you could. I wish we could've spent the night at least, but I've got some running around to do. Send whatever you find to me, and page me. And Charity – thanks."

----

Darkness passed by outside the windows of the subway, and the gloomy brownish-yellow light inside. Paul stood in the half-empty car musing through many thoughts and the events of the day.
He had to leave Charity after Wallis, one of the FBI agents working with him in New York, contacted him. It turned out that the terrorists weren't too careful in covering their tracks, and the FBI and NYPD had traced them to the Upper West Side of Manhattan.
The NYPD had executed a full-scale crackdown in the region, blocking off the roads and arresting any suspects. By the time Wallis and Terrence arrived a small war had broken out from a shootout between the police and multiple gangs, most of whom were from other parts of the city.
The subway stopped and Paul rushed out as quickly as he could. Racing up the steps out of the station he found a police barricade in place and a stream of officers.

"What's going on, officer?" he asked the nearest one.

"You're not supposed to be here, sir, the areas' closed off."

Paul pulled out a badge. "I'm with Federal. What do you know?"

"We were just called in. From what I hear there's some kind of firefight going on, street gang bastards getting rowdy."

Paul heard too. A crack of gunfire erupted nearby, followed by shouts, the running of feet, and more gunfire.

The cop ducked down and pulled out his gun and radio. "It's been going on all night, whoever we're cracking down on isn't going out easily!" he exclaimed.

Paul brandished his gun and ran towards the shots down the street. Four cops were crouched behind a squad car, opening fire over the roof at split intervals. Down the road a group of thugs were advancing, firing buck shot rifles ruthlessly at the officers.
A crashing bang erupted as a shell went through the passenger window of the car, shattering glass all over the place. Another shot took out the sirens.

"Shit!" an officer cried.

Paul swung himself down beside them as shards of glass burst above.

"Give me your gun," he said to the officer.

"What the-"

"I'm with the Bureau, my shot is perfect. Give me your gun."

The cop handed over his pistol and clutched his lowered head. The other officers braced themselves for more fire.
Cracks blared and the car was hit multiple times. A deafening bang followed the rupture of a tire, and the car sank a few inches.
Paul threw himself up with both guns in hand, shielding his body behind the car and lurching over the rear trunk, firing multiple shots before dropping down again. Three of the thugs fell over, but two came running and shooting more aggressively. The cops attempted shots and downed one, but one was shot in the process. He fell to the pavement with a bleeding shoulder.
The remaining thug fired at the gas tank of the cruiser in attempt to blow it up, but before he could shoot again a bullet ripped into his chest and he fell lifeless to the ground. Paul tossed the other gun back to the cop.

He didn't like how they were being attacked; something was up. The NSF was stalling them. Amid all this ruckus they were making their getaway.
A black car pulled up and two FBI agents in their dark blue coats emerged. One was talking on a cellular and running his fingers through his hair. Paul approached the other.

"What's going on, Wallis?" he asked.

"Denton, good to see you here at last. Well, the NSF is here all right, but they used these street gangs to cause a distraction, as far as we can tell."

"Where have the bombs got too?"

"That's the interesting part, we have them pinned down at Central Park. Don't ask me what they're doing there, but they are, they're holding out in the Belvedere castle. We've assembled a task force to take them out, we were only waiting for you."

Paul raised an eyebrow.

"That's why UNATCO sent you, isn't it? Think they've got the better qualified operatives right?"

"Is that what you guys believe? Why, I'm flattered agent."

"Don't push it, let's get going, we're ready to move in. We'll leave the street situation to the locals, though they're doing a poor job of handling it. Come on"

All three agents climbed into the car and it took off, making its way to Eighth Avenue.
When they arrived they teamed up with five FBI special agents and headed up trail towards Vista Rock on foot. There were no sentries in the woods of the bush; a small contingent of NYPD officers had surrounded the castle. They were waiting for the specialists; the terrorists had fortified the castle and had armed guards at every entrance. And some snipers in the windows.
The task force proceeded with hasty tactics, first launching gas grenades at all target points and picking off the guards with the assistance of night vision goggles. Then they stormed the entrances with rifles blazing, the thunder of gunfire clapped relentlessly in the night, sending shards of rock and stone flying into the midst. Muffled cries followed death, and bodies of the unarmored terrorists piled the Victorian halls.
Paul led the advance, peering in all directions as they made up to the second level, encountering less resistance than expected. Instinctively Paul would pick up movement in the gloom, and in the split of a second the crosshairs of his gun swung across the expanse of space and a spit later a body tumbled in the distance. The green scope of the NVG's revealed the layout of the floor and detected no more signs of life. The FBI troops spread out and searched the area. The last pack of terrorists held out on the top floor, but they surrendered and the agents apprehended them without mercy.
But the only things they found were guns and ammunition for battle, no bombs.
Paul was as stymied as everyone else. They went through everything but found no traces of C-4. None was brought into the Belvedere Castle.

"How's the interrogation going?" Paul asked Wallis, the FBI agent.

"They don't seem to know anything, but they ain't cooperating either. But it seems to me that this was just another diversion."

"I was beginning to think that too, but then the question is, where are the bombs?"

"Assuming they brought any into the city in the first place. We confiscated a of charges, perhaps all of them."

"I don't know, its what they were planning to move, so I assume they were moving them first."

"We better move out, and get looking. Potential targets are being watched but so far everything seemed to have slipped by, we're moving one step behind. Come on, let's waste no time finding that shit."

As the officers moved in to detain the captives and seal the area Paul and Wallis joined Terrence and the other specialist FBI agents outside. Down below the lights of the theatre sparkled in the dark. Terrence had just gotten off his cell phone.

"NYPD made a break in the case. The Fairmount reported suspicious activity at its premises, and three men have been detained. Six charges of C-4 were found placed around the building, timed to go out at midnight," he looked at his watch, "36 minutes from now. S.W.A.T has been called in and the West Side is being swept like a desert, but I think we might be to late. The terrorists were clever with these throw-offs."

"And now they have charges placed throughout Manhattan's West Side with a midnight deadline? There's no way we're going to find them all!" Wallis said.

"And it's too late to give a warning." Paul added.

Half an hour later they were racing through the air in a sleek helicopter, circling over the structures that towered below. What good they were in the air was elusive, but SWAT and the NYPD were already on the ground, so they were providing as a look out with a spotlight scanning the streets for unusual activity or attempted escapes. But Paul knew it was fruitless.

Terrence looked at his watch. 11:58. Four more charges of C-4 were found set at a bank, in specific places that would've crumbled the entire place. But there were no suspects. More had been placed in another financial office tower, on six floors. Their own security systems saved them, and the bomb squad arrived just in time to deactivate the charges. But that was it. The city was wired and the hour of detonation approached.

12:00

Paul gazed out of the window at the intricate maze of towers below, glass and concrete, dark and lighted, silent and ominous.
A glare lit up in the distance, a bright ball of orange flame, an explosion from a blast. The ball of fire erupted and receded, to be followed by smoke and the tongues of flames.

"No shit..." Terrence said apprehensively as he watched the blast. They were to late.

A tremble shuddered outside, another blast erupted. Fireworks of destruction lit up the night. They had failed, failed to stop these domestic terror attacks that they should have long foreseen, and prevented before they happened, or were even close to happening. And it would have been worse, far worse, if it wasn't for the last minute crackdown thanks to the UNATCO Even the FBI had been blinded to the operation. But they still failed nonetheless, Paul realized as he looked out into at the scene of destruction far ahead. Planned, executed, and not a random act of terror, but – but a premeditated attack. On what? By who's orders? What were the NSF trying to achieve now?

And UNATCO even was helpless to it. They had always been one step behind.