G I Joe Season 3-2

by continuityerror

It's 1988 and the Joe team finds itself in a South American nation recently freed from Communism. But have its leaders fallen under a more...serpentine influence? Plus, a certain group of sugar-addicted bikers reappear in the most unexpected of locations, and someone's "auntie" might be causing trouble for both the Joes and Cobra alike.

SEASON 3.2

This is a work of parody. The author does not claim copyright ownership to any character featured in this work.

G. I. JOE and all related characters are © 2018 Hasbro, Inc.

All text is copyright © 2018 by Gene Kendall

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

CHAPTER ONE

Smell of ammonia and burnt ozone. Low-Light had a term for it, one typical of the scatological humor some of the less-refined Joes enjoyed. Used it once around General Hawk and was ordered, after removing the soap from his mouth, to never speak it again.

Just as a rose by another name smells as sweet, the detonation of a roadside explosive will always carry that acrid, crude smell, not unlike that of a urinal fallen into disuse. The stench once so accurately and eloquently christened by Low-Light.

He's not dead, is he? Lying east of the jeep's debris, rolled on his side and lifeless like that. That's the question Lt. Falcon had to ask, ears ringing, vision still impaired, peering through that dense smoke. The lieutenant staggered to his feet, lost his balance immediately, narrowly avoided landing on the fiery remains of the engine's cylinder head.

A portion of the fog lifted as he returned to his feet. While shambling towards Low-Light, he discovered another Joe was closer. E-4 Specialist Tripwire, the team's explosive ordnance disposal expert. If only he'd been able to see this one coming. A minute earlier the Joe vet, fresh-faced in spite of his years with the team, was riding shotgun in the front with Falcon. Looked as if the blast had scattered them only yards apart.

"Hey, Tripwire, bud," Falcon called out, no clue just how loud he might've been speaking. He nudged the body of his comrade. Tried to tell himself there wasn't too much blood. "You can hear me, can't you?"

Tripwire's eyes came back to life; he coughed, tried too soon to stand. "Fuuhlcon? Whud hid uzz?"

Circumventing Tripwire's messy landing, the lieutenant clamped down on the specialist's shoulders, delivered those orders with the conviction of a worried parent. Stay on the ground, don't strain yourself. Your lieutenant will ensure everyone receives medical aid after the entire team's accounted for.

Falcon could've used his own advice, falling over once more as he attempted to make contact with Low-Light. Wiping the soot and dirt from his face, the lieutenant pressed onward, pressed towards that hazy image he just knew had to be Low-Light, temporarily stunned and surely not requiring any emergency attention outside of a Band-Aid and hot shower.

Reaching the body, Falcon discovered his optimism didn't jibe with reality. The team's infamous sniper wasn't as easy to rouse as Tripwire; didn't depart slumberland with a nudge or two and some encouraging words. A battle-scarred Joe heart was whispering a beat, however, under the remains of Low-Light's uniform.

Couldn't remember the name of the saint he should've thanked for the miracle, but Falcon made a note to call his mother later and find out.

Seven chest compressions and the sniper's body began to move. His cough was deeper than Tripwire's; Low-Light could never escape that rasp, be it in his speaking voice or in the guttural noise he made while heaving up smoke and gasoline fumes.

"Dang. If you're what angels look like," he finally whispered to his lieutenant, "I should've just been bad anyway."

Low-Light had been riding in the back with another Joe. A female sergeant, not usually known for excessive chatter, although she made an impression anyway.

Jinx.

Lt. Falcon wasn't so foggy he'd forgotten this fact; it was just one his subconscious was refusing to allow to the fore. The lieutenant knew his responsibility was to aid the closest Joes, not to seek out the one he happened to have the deepest connection to.

Once upon a time, that is. Lately, things between him and Jinx had been heading in a bad direction. Perhaps fitting, given that codename of hers.

Not consciously thinking of her identity, or of whatever dramas might be brewing between them, Falcon continued his search. Grew increasingly exasperated by the second; thought the ringing and hazy eyes would've settled by now, that he'd have more of his senses about him, maybe enough strength to stand for more than twenty seconds at a time.

He breathed in too much of the ammonia stink. Had to relieve his stomach in the grass. Found the canteen attached to his belt; popped the lid, opened his mouth, and emptied its contents over his face.

On his knees, he slowed his breathing and attempted another inspection of the environment. They were three miles from their destination; turning to his west, he could see the shape (smoky as it was) of that Terrordrome in the distance. In the other direction was their former path, a dirt road that, miles earlier, branched off a barely-paved rural highway. The Joes passed more cows than people during their hour's drive from the capital's airport.

Punto del Mucosa. Tiny South American country Falcon wouldn't have been able to pick off the map thirty-six hours ago. Now, perhaps, the site of his squad's demise.

No. Morbid thinking. Can't give in to that.

Just think of the mission. Not even the mission. Just find your missing soldier. Find her, offer a sincere prayer to that saint you'll identify later, make sure she's okay. As good a plan as any, given the circumstance.

Over to his left, he heard her moan. Dread cast over his body when he recognized her location—the girl was buried under the chassis of that detonated jeep. He forced his mushy legs to move faster than they should, exerted more energy than he thought he possessed, getting to the jeep in time.

Pitiful mutterings escaped under the boiling hot chassis. She'd been trying to kick the thing off her body, probably from the moment the vehicle had flipped over. Falcon arrived, drew one breath as he attempted to store whatever strength remained, then gripped the tangled metal mess.

The visions he'd been trying to cast out, thoughts of her limp form buried under steel, her bones broken in horrific ways, all flooded in. He made a decision to stop fighting them, to draw from the nightmares whatever extra resolve he'd require, as the heated steel scalded his bare hands.

Underneath the mess, Jinx focused on nothing but the goal. This thing, off of me, now.

Their united determination dislodged the chassis, had Jinx out of the debris in less than thirty seconds. Falcon couldn't believe how her body had positioned itself during the explosion. Contorted just so to avoid any serious injury.

She brushed off her gei and chuckled. "I'd like to meet the dingus who says I have bad luck now."

Falcon didn't answer. As breathtaking as Jinx could be, his attention had been redirected northward. Redirected towards the battalion of high-speed ground vehicles approaching. The bisected pride of their enemy's patrol and pursuit unit.

Cobra Stuns.

Young punk Gordo arrived in the derelict station building, not so far from New Cross. Experimental tunneling method, designed to compensate for London's saturated soil, created this passageway over ten years prior. Engineers knew what they were doing, turns out, but men in suits altered the planned route. Effectively useless, this section of the Underground was left abandoned.

Once a home for vagrants, a cleaning crew commanded by a certain ninja in white took care of that. Declared the tunnel the secret home of his apprentices. Rumors had spread in recent years, giving hope to angry, young men looking for some direction in life.

Direction, and an excuse to kick some teeth in.

Gordo had his story straight. He'd tell them that he's seen those movies, rented every video in the store. Gets that it isn't a joke, isn't playacting, but figures the videos were a good place to start. He understands the ninja, respects the tradition, and is eager to humble himself before a wise sensei.

If they press, maybe he'd give the sob story. The one about the absent mom and the dad who likes the bottle too much. About a night some roughs ganged up on his sister outside Cannon Cinema. About how bad he still wishes he could've done something.

Gordo heard the footsteps land behind him. Recognized the stranger was attempting to mask his presence. Figured he had to be up to no good, maybe a leftover vagrant from the pre-gentrification days. Turning midway, Gordo unleashed a roundhouse kick.

"Think I didn't hear you back there?"

His (possible? likely?) assailant sprang towards the roof in a vertical leap. Gordo's foot merely brushed against the stranger's legs. Didn't slow his momentum, confirmed his foul intentions by landing a knee strike against Gordo's chest. The aspirant reeled, couldn't believe how the stranger was pressing forward with a palm heel strike.

Gordo successfully located his senses; blocked the next attack. Gained a decent view of his foe. Short, by European standards. Dark hair, and stern features that befitted the ninja. "Nah," Gordo teased. "Too slow for this round-eye, bub."

The stranger attempted two fast jabs, found both deflected. Gordo decided to take his chance, went with a diagonal knee strike. Knee was nabbed before it could connect, the stranger shoving him back a good three feet. Moved faster than Gordo realized, grabbed his left wrist. The hungry young man circled counterclockwise to block the approaching right wrist. Upward strike with his forearm crashed against the assailant's elbow. Gordo didn't relent, pulled that elbow towards him, bent it inward.

The stranger recognized this wasn't a game. Used his body weight to shove Gordo back, broke free and delivered a left hook before the fair-haired intruder gained clue one. Nasty blow to the jaw, sent Gordo to the pavement.

Hungry young man was ready to bounce up, just wanted the world to stop spinning. Tried to go vertical with an uppercut and missed pathetically. The stranger merely danced back; didn't take advantage of his opening.

Gordo, some sense returning, even thought he caught a smile on the stranger's face.

"Hey, 'round-eye.' You getting as bored as I am?"

"Huh?" Gordo mumbled as he found his footing.

The stranger extended his hand. "Name's Ren," spoke the baritone voice. "Shake my hand, give me a name, and we'll take a tour."

The footsteps of the S.N.A.K.E. grew closer, heavy metal boots clanging against the debris of battle. An errant blast thirty seconds earlier had collapsed a portion of the roof, one unfortunate Joe agent unable to escape the incoming detritus in time.

"Well, I suppose it's been a nice enough life," mused Lady Jaye, the tone conveying an inappropriate amount of irony. Shoulders pinned under the debris, Lady Jaye watched as the snow-colored metallic beast approached, juddering the ground with each imminent step. The monstrosity's remote flame thrower arm rose, servos whrrrling with each millimeter movement northward.

The cannon clicked into position. Took aim at the agent. Two gorgeous, mossy green eyes connected with the black of the barrel. "Ahem, I believe I said, I SUPPOSE IT'S BEEN A—"

Just then, a door flew off its hinges. A broad-shouldered young man who resembled a primetime television star entered the warehouse, revolver drawn.

"Hey, tin can! Let's see if your warrantee's up to date!" he shouted over the sound of the discharge.

The blasts bounced off the armor plating, only seemed to irritate the S.N.A.K.E.—assuming it possessed any recognizable human emotions. The metallic nightmare turned its attention towards this madman in the Hawaiian shirt, released a hellish stream of red and amber fire.

"Yikes!" the young man yelped, leaping out of the way, landing against a stack of wooden storage crates. While picking a splinter from his forearm, eyes turned to his ally, the knockout with the styled mahogany hair, still no strands out of place. He had to make a decision; face this robo-brute one-on-one, or free his teammate from that wreckage and pray neither got blasted in the process.

Shaking off the abrasions on his side, Chuckles tossed a grenade towards the S.N.A.K.E.'s feet as he rushed to the edge of the warehouse. He didn't look back to measure the damage inflicted, just concentrated on reaching Jaye, removing the heaviest pieces of debris off her body. The two of them working together, they had a shot of escaping this death trap and finding some safe place to call reinforcements.

"I don't think tin cans come with warrantees," she spoke, lifting a piece of the air conditioning duct from her chest.

"What was that?"

"You're entrance line from earlier," Jaye answered, as Chuckles elevated the largest piece of wreckage from her waist. "Doesn't really make sense."

"Guess that's why I'm still a Rawhide," he said with half of a smile. He flung the mangled piece of rubble overhead. Didn't hear it bounce off the bulletproof viewing shield of the S.N.A.K.E.

"Bzz…all further resistance is futile," the automaton spoke icily from behind, smoke still flowing from the canon, barely a scratch marking the grenade's detonation. "Surrender now, Joes."

Chuckles smacked his forehead. "Okay, if I'm getting called out for bad acting, what do you call that, Jaye?"

"The end of the drill, I suppose," she replied, wiping off the grime. "Big Lob, I'm tempted to deduct twenty demerits just for that Robby the Robot voice."

The S.N.A.K.E. began to ambulate even more robotically, each movement halting in a dimestop before picking up again, locking for just under a second, then shifting to its next movement, picking up a rhythm along the way.

"Big Lob, buddy, you feelin' all right?" asked Chuckles.

The S.N.A.K.E. answered, "Foolish humans….do you not recall…MJ getting down…like a fiend…to 'Dancing Machine'…? Those kids on the streets…they're in…the right scene…"

Lady Jaye approached the armor, tapped on its noggin. "You getting enough air in there, Rawhide? And what's the deal with blasting away with that flame thrower earlier?"

"Ah, yeah, sorry about that," spoke a more sincere, more human voice, from within the S.N.A.K.E. "Guess I flipped the wrong switch."

"I'll say," Chuckles said, removing more splinters from his exposed flesh. "You're only supposed to be firing blanks from the machine gun arm. Why the heck haven't they disarmed that flame thrower yet?"

"Tech boys still haven't figured this monster out," Lady Jaye answered. "Cobra initially used them as robots, most likely prototypes for the Battle Android Troopers. We discovered this hollow model gathering dust during a raid last year. Darned clunky body armor, but invulnerable as all heck. Thought we could get some use out of it…"

The S.N.A.K.E. lifted its arm, directed that cannon in Chuckles' direction once more. "Hey, on the subject of foul-ups, what's the deal with the live pineapple you lobbed in my direction, bud?"

The scent of phosphorus in the air was difficult to ignore. "Thought I pulled the flashbang, pal. Sorry about that." Chuckles stepped to the armor's boots, examined the laughable "damage." He might as well have thrown a lit match. "Not that it really made a difference, huh?"

Chuckles felt a gentle pressure on his back. In the midst of the phosphorus stink, he caught Lady Jaye's scent. "That was a brave move back there, Rawhide," she told him. "Not smart—rather stupid, actually—but as the recipient of your chivalry, I do appreciate it."

The young man turned, confidently acknowledged her with his eyes, and lifted a finger towards her face. "I live to serve, ma'am," he said while wiping away some of the grime at the tip of her nose.

Big Lob, elevated by the S.N.A.K.E. construct, looked down at the display. Made a note of everyone's body language, but chose to remain silent. His ears were still ringing from the grenade detonation, but he thought he heard a subtle titter escape under Lady Jaye's breath.

"Hate to interrupt everyone's fun," spoke the less than cordial voice of Flint, entering the training area (currently ornamented for the "Cobra Warehouse Run Amok" simulation). He remained stone-faced while adding, "But I just got off the horn with General Hawk."

Chuckles, exhibiting no embarrassment, but at least the common sense to move a step away from Jaye, responded, "Really? He call off our assignment?"

This mission back east, Chuckles had been dreading it for days. Seemed like the last thing the Brass would ever ask a Joe to do to a fellow teammate. Had the sense General Hawk didn't truly wish to assign it in the first place, but unknown circumstances must've compelled him.

"No such luck," answered Flint, stepping to the S.N.A.K.E., eyeing it like the oddity it was. "He did attach an addendum, though. Before we head off to New Jersey, we're going to be making a pit stop in ol' N-Y-C."

"Ah," Chuckles grunted, taking another step away from Jaye, "I suppose certain parties are asking for our 'guest' back?"

Flint, still keeping those lips pursed, nodded. "Indeed. Hawk's ordered a third for our journey, in case either of you are interested."

Big Lob's voice, transmitted through the S.N.A.K.E. speakers, replied, "No offense, Flint, but I've got an afternoon streetball match. Little ol' me versus the Sarge's Renegades crew." The servomotors whrrrled again, as three mechanical fingers clicked open. "Three-on-one! I'll try to go easy on 'em."

Chuckles kicked the armor's left boot. "What kinda vertical does that S.N.A.K.E. outfit get, Lob?"

"You think I'm gonna wear—I didn't even consider it!"

Lady Jaye stepped forward. "I wouldn't mind tagging along, Flint. Unless you've got a few other Joes you'd rather ask…"

"No, no," Flint answered, shaking his head. "Of course you can come along, Jaye. Chuckles and I would be glad to have you…" Flint's gaze—somehow fiery and cold at the same time—turned towards the Rawhide, "…wouldn't we?"

CHAPTER TWO

It was an instinctive reaction, tensing up like a mousetrap waiting to be sprung when he caught sight of those approaching vehicles. One of the snakes' stranger designs. Mono-wheel extended chassis, segmented battle shells in the front, driver's seat atop the oddity, rotating cannons and rocket launchers all around.

Had to remind himself of recent purchases made by the Punto del Mucosa government. Of why they were in the country to begin with.

Jinx, joining Falcon in delivering first aid to Tripwire's wounded shoulder, asked calmly, "Think they got a good price on those Stuns?"

Falcon gave a meager smile, responded, "Maybe they got thrown in as an incentive when the snakes sold 'em that Terrordrome." In the distance was, technically, not a Terrordrome but the official residence of the president. Punto del Mucosan flags, larger than the American flags adorning the Mall in Washington, draped over outdated Cobra sigils. The snakes apparently didn't have the time or budget to remove their tacky decorations before completing the sale.

"That still makes me giggle," she said, cutting the excessive medical tape and completing the cravat. "The thought of broke Cobra selling off its gear like some college kid who can't make rent."

Falcon and Jinx aided Tripwire, each taking one side, Jinx's drooping a noticeable amount, thanks to her lack of stature. "Thanks, guys. Hopefully I won't turn out to be totally useless on this mission," he said with clear embarrassment, joining the recuperating Low-Light on a tarp not far away.

Low-Light said nothing as his companion took a seat. His face said it all, though—sharing a mission with a hothead, a bad luck charm, and a notorious klutz. This had FUBAR written all over it.

Jinx wanted to remind everyone of how fortunate they'd been today; their medical kit and duffel bags having survived the blast, no serious injuries evident so far. Decided she'd rather not press the subject of "luck," however.

The engine of the lead Stun approached. Falcon turned, was greeted by the unusual sight of three soldiers garbed not in Cobra blue, but in olive drab uniforms and crimson berets. Piloting the right-side segment of the Stun was the chief incongruity—a five-two blonde, likely not even forty, sporting a tan blazer and pantsuit.

Still missing a faculty or two, Falcon had to struggle to place her name. As she unbuckled, stood, slid down the Stun's hood and approached, his brain cells got back to work. Identified her correctly as the nation's recently elected vice president, Luisa Ortega Gómez.

"Mrs. Vice President," he spoke with outstretched hand. "An honor to meet you, ma'am. I think all of us are due a once-over, but two of my men need immediate exams."

No part of this felt right, having to play nice with a government that, less than a year ago, was making deals with Cobra. Were Luisa's uncle not such a fierce anti-Commie, the first leader in a generation to overthrow the leftist extremists previously in power, he couldn't have conceived of the Brass ever placating the man. Politics was all about strange bedfellows, and the previous leaders were pure jackals who deserved what they got, he realized this, but he could already feel his skin crawling.

"Of course, Lieutenant," Luisa answered, offering a firm handshake. Her jewel eyes were complimented by the midday sun, overpowering the modest makeup she'd applied earlier. Falcon could recognize the air of a politician about her, trying so hard to look as if she wasn't trying hard. "You have my deepest apologies; please understand that the cowards responsible for this in no way represent the people of Punto del Mucosa."

Jinx interrupted, offered her own hand. "Would you have any idea who those cowards might be, Mrs. Gómez?"

Luisa offered another handshake, just as firm. "Student radicals, I would assume. They've been causing trouble out here, growing bolder by the day, sadly. And, please, it's Luisa." Turning to the injured Joes, the vice president added, "We'll make sure everyone on your team is taken care of, I promise you."

Another memory of the briefing jogged into place. The new leaders of Punto del Mucosa had gotten into some trouble a few weeks back, cracking down on these rowdy students with such force the international community felt compelled to weigh in. Put the Commander-in-Chief himself in a bind, when that newscaster with the exaggerated Texas drawl and "aw shucks" demeanor laid into him during a press conference. Wanted to know how the United States could support a country who treated dissidents in such a fashion. If he was okay with the equivalent of three Kent States a week occurring down here in this freedom-loving paradise.

Of course, if it turned out those snot-nosed punks were the ones responsible for this IED attack, Falcon reasoned they'd gotten what they deserved.

"We're not sensitive daisies," Falcon spoke with pride as Luisa's men carried Low-Light and Tripwire to the Stuns. "I'm sure we'll be up and about, getting in your uncle's hair in no time."

Luisa smiled. Falcon, irritated, had to acknowledge it seemed to be a genuine one. "Our home is an open one, Lieutenant. Whatever insight you and your men have to offer, we're eager to absorb."

She ordered her military guard to double-up in the other Stuns, offered their empty seats to Falcon and Jinx. Jinx, perhaps less a cynic than her partner, nodded towards their host. "Excellent. Let's just hope your recent real estate coup isn't set to go ka-boom in all of our faces."

That mess with the students had most likely been the impetus. Luisa's uncle, President Hugo Jiménez Pérez, was already facing heat for his acquisition of Cobra assets before the protests had turned violent. Announced he'd be willing to have representatives of the United States enter his home, this technological horror purchased from the snakes, and thoroughly vet the premises. Said he was eager to expose any secrets Cobra had left lying about, was more than willing to aid the international community in dealing with the threat of terrorism.

Oh, and of course a committee would be formed to address the concerns of free speech advocates. Sounded like a swell guy, right?

In under twenty minutes, inside Hugo's private quarters, Falcon and Jinx had a chance to judge for themselves. "Wasn't expecting to greet you under such circumstances," Falcon said to the president, in the midst of his early afternoon massage.

"Oh, think nothing of your appearance. I'm sure we'll find suitable clothing for your team," said Hugo, his Santa-shaped body clad only in a towel.

"I think he meant us, interrupting you, like this," corrected Jinx, offended, yet so fascinated by the president's pelt of back hair.

He grinned. "Ah, yes. For my migraines, you see. When my niece and I took office last year, I couldn't have foreseen the headaches, literal and figurative, that awaited us." Recognizing his unintentional breach of diplomacy, he apologized and asked his masseuse to fetch his robe.

Clad in the lavender-colored wool coat, hitting just above his knees, the president ushered the Joes into the next room, his study. The decorators did what they could, attempting to recreate the illusion of a cozy home office—wood paneling, oak bookshelves, fireplace with replica gas-powered logs—inside the heart of the unfeeling, futuristic chrome décor of a Terrordrome.

Hugo, dark hair shining under the lights, sat carefully in his leather recliner. Offered seats on his upholstered wood frame couch. The guests declined. "We can't afford to linger, sir," Falcon informed him. "We'd like to check on our friends. Maybe clean off ourselves. Then determine how to get started on the inspection."

The president's round cheeks curved wider. "Of course, understood. I merely wished to welcome you into our home," he spoke warmly. As a seeming afterthought, he continued, "And to assure that, regardless of recent issues, I possess nothing but the highest respect for your nation."

His jovial face, those perfect teeth, were he in possession of one of Hanoi Jane's workout vids, he would've been a perfect candidate to run for office back in the states. "Thank you for your time, sir," Falcon said as he approached the door.

They were on the other side of the doorway when Hugo called out, through the sliding electronic doors, "Oh! And those pigs who assaulted your vehicle? Lord willing, I'll have their wretched heads on a platter before your work is done!"

Jinx watched the door finish sliding. "So, he's a charmer," she said to her teammate.

"He should've opened with that one," Falcon answered, examining the halls. The metallic sheen might've looked cool as a movie set, but experiencing the ultramodern coldness in real life was more than unsettling. He'd snuck into one of these bases before, played his part in blowing the hideous thing up. Didn't think he'd be forced one day to spend the night inside of one, absorbing that artificial lighting, pulsating at some strange rate, playing games with his nerves, reminding him of too-long school days.

And the air conditioning. Yeah, they were in a tropical climate, but did it have to run all the blasted day? Had to be sixty degrees in there.

The smell was equally loathsome. Piped in, just like the light and air. Some fruity perfume scent; imperceptible at first, but soon worming its way into his nose and demanding residence.

"Falcon?" asked a voice. "You here with me, or back on Mars again?"

"Huh?" he asked back, pausing briefly to study his reflection in the chromed walls. Thought he saw another figure, a male one, to his right. Had to blink twice before he recognized who was truly there.

"Is that my answer? I play my cards right, will I get two syllables before the day's done?"

Falcon turned, drew a breath, and discreetly placed his hand on the small of Jinx's back. "Sorry. This place gives me the creeps, and I think my equilibrium's still screwy after that IED."

"Baloney," she snapped, removing his hand far less surreptitiously than it was placed. "You've been acting hinky for days now. If you think it's none of my business, just say so, but I don't like this half-in, half-out nonsense."

Falcon wanted to formulate a response, although he knew somehow it would be lacking. What was she talking about? Yeah, they'd been sniping at each other a decent amount lately, but he couldn't see how it was his fault. He'd been minding his own—getting some decent sleep at night for a change, keeping up with his workouts, discovering some cool new tunes thanks to that mail-order club…what was her issue?

As Jinx awaited an answer, he saw salvation, entering the latest bend in the hallway. "Vice President Gómez!" he called out. "Any word from the doctors?"

Luisa offered the same smile from before. Seemed even more candid this time. "It's Luisa," she pleaded. "And I think you'll be happy to know your friends will be fine."

"Really?" asked Jinx. "We were hoping for the best, but…"

"The doctors are suggesting Low-Light receive another day's rest," Luisa replied, stepping directly to Jinx, locking eyes. "Tripwire, however, should be ready to begin his inspection tomorrow. He'll need to wear the swing for a week or so, but the doctor was able to manipulate his shoulder back in place."

"Great news," Falcon stated, relief on his face. "Now, if you could just escort me to the men's quarters, I have a good six pounds of grime I'd like to shower off."

Luisa directed her delicate index finger to the east. "Round that corner, first door on the left. Can't miss it."

Falcon nodded his gratitude, gave Jinx a brief expression she couldn't begin to parse, then left without a word. "Follow me," Luisa said to Jinx. "Women's showers aren't too far from here. You have something to wear?"

Jinx patted the duffel bag bouncing against her waist. "My change of clothes made it through the IED just fine. Can you believe some people say I'm unlucky?"

Luisa crossed her arms, smiled knowingly. "Like what sailors used to say about women on ships? Why does this not surprise me?"

Jinx lightly chuckled, chose not to reveal the true origin of her nickname. "They're not all bad. Some are borderline chauvinists, okay, but it never gets in the way of the mission."

"I'm sure. The Joe team is well-regarded in the international community. Politics aside, my uncle and I are honored to have you here. You might assume this is all political theater, but we recognize the threat of Cobra—"

"Interesting," Jinx interjected, triggered by Luisa's use of the wrong word. "I would've assumed Punto del Mucosa was getting an edited version of world events, given your willingness to do business with the snakes."

Luisa, humbled, nodded her head. "That was my uncle's decision, and I promise he didn't come to it lightly. As you've learned firsthand, security in Punto del Mucosa is no joking matter." Stopping at an electronic door, intersected in the middle and indistinguishable from a thousand others in the base, Luisa waited for the center to slice open. She then gestured for Jinx to follow. "The previous official residence was in flames within a month of our inauguration, my friend. We barely escaped with our lives."

"And you feel more comfortable here inside the Death Star?"

"The accommodations take some getting used to, yes," Luisa said as Jinx stepped with her into the women's quarters. The sleek polish of the floors and walls, the platinum steam showers, and carbon fiber heated saunas boasted a luxury Jinx had to envy. (Sure, the Utah home of the Joes was cutting-edge by any standard, but personal extravagances simply weren't a priority for government contractors.)

"But this is the safest castle any leader could hope for. There are security systems on top of security systems surrounding this base." Luisa used her arm to nudge Jinx behind her. "Stay here," she warned as she clicked off the lights, then, in the darkness, flicked another switch. Red electromagnetic beams crisscrossed the floor.

Luisa reached into her blazer, removed a balled up chewing gum wrapper. Tossed it into one of the beams, smiled as the foil was evaporated instantly. "If those dissidents had moved even a hundred feet closer to us, I feel confident our men would've spotted them, prevented the dogs from causing any trouble for you."

"And you had no qualms making Cobra's pockets deeper?" Jinx asked as the lights returned.

"They had an offer few could resist, I have to say. And, as I understand it, officials who have rejected business dealings with that organization in the past have met with…unfortunate fates."

"Maybe," Jinx said, unzipping her duffel bag, thinking of the zeroes added to Cobra's bank account. The one that should've been starved out of existence by now. "But I still don't like this."

"I can respect that," Luisa replied, stepping towards the door. "But, perhaps, your visit here will enable our countries to look past this disagreement? To forge an alliance for the future?"

"I'm a grunt, not a diplomat, ma'am." Jinx caught the expression on her host's face. "Luisa. Sorry."

She could see the twin-turboprop aircraft growing closer from her backseat view. Tiny thing, probably seated around forty passengers. She'd be one of the very few commuters this day, a select guest of the Justice Prisoner and Alien Transportation System.

Her destination, her next court hearing in New York City, delayed due to recent events. Specifically, that detour she took, adopting the false face of another Cobra agent's false face, infiltrating the heart of the Joes' headquarters.

Had two mission objectives. One had been clearly bungled. The other, maybe not a total disaster. Yet, that was the one that gnawed at her the worst.

Zarana's impassive face wouldn't let you know she noticed, or cared, that their ride from the Joes' rural base was at its end. Seated to her left, a female Joe by the name of Lady Jaye. Up front, her rumored beau Flint, and in the shotgun seat, a new recruit named Chuckles.

New meat hadn't made much of an impression so far, outside of his dopey fashion sense. All she could say about the dag was he seemed far too enamored with the sound of that nasally drawl of his.

"You're awful quiet there, Lady Dreadnok," he said with fabricated amiability, arm resting out of the window. His garish Hawaiian shirt was vibrating in the wind, creating a kaleidoscope of obnoxious pastels, all an affront to the fashion-conscious anarchist.

"Lost in reflection," Flint asserted. "Thinking of that life sentence or two that awaits her in the Big Apple."

Zarana had been silent, thoughts dwelling on a kiss shared days earlier. She had no clue what came over her, pulling a Joe named Mainframe close like that, giving in to a desire she knew had to stay hidden.

All a part of the mission, one voice in her head stated. Disarming the chump, distracting him with your feminine wiles and taking him out ASAP. No violation of a relationship with the man, because none existed.

She wished she could believe this, tell herself she's that ruthless, that good, at the work.

"Who knows," spoke a voice just too feminine to qualify as a tomboy's, "you might get lucky. Might end up with the sweetheart deal they gave the woman you were impersonating."

"Not likely," Flint said with certainty. "She chose to turn herself in."

"Think punk rock princess over here has the good sense to turn state's evidence?" laughed the fashion victim.

Zarana lifted her head, resisted the urge to spit on the mane of sunkissed hair only inches away. "Think you have the manners not to talk about a person like she ain't sittin' right here?"

As the jeep approached the boarding stairs, Chuckles turned in his seat, directly faced their prisoner and said, "Just some friendly advice, doll. Ol' Uncle Sam is the best bet you got goin' for you. You got nabbed," he reminded her, finger aimed at her nose for emphasis, "and considering the way you botched that last assignment, I don't think your fellow snakes are inclined to offer any aid."

A reasonable assumption. Rendered invalid, perhaps, by the armed man who suddenly appeared in the aircraft's passenger door, opening fire on the Joes.

Her driver was bored senseless, adjusting the radio dial of his nondescript sedan. An equally nondescript suburban home was on the corner. Today's newspaper was in the backseat, but he couldn't be bothered to reach for the thing. Like most blueshirts, he viewed current events as something of a bore.

He twisted the dial impatiently, tried to find some solid jams. Kept getting commercials. Frustrated, he clicked it off. Adjusted the seat back, considered a nap.

The Baroness was a curious creature on the best of days, but her recent insistence on visiting this dull neighborhood, this random house on a random street, had to trump all other peculiarities. Why's this home so important? he often wondered. The blueshirt knew Cobra had secrets, rumors of all kinds of freaky things kept behind closed doors throughout the country. She experimenting on some Joes in there?

He closed his eyes, kept adjusting until he was comfortable, then decided to dream of something pleasant, some way to convince himself these afternoons weren't a waste of time. Dozing, his mind concocted detailed fantasies about the twisted evil no doubt residing behind this unassuming front door.

The reality would've disappointed anyone. Inside, a woman not much older than the blueshirt's mother was pouring hot tea into her friend's mug. She'd planned on baking caramel fudge balls earlier this morning, but realized too late she forgot to pick up flour last Thursday.

"I forget what they called that car," the older woman said, continuing their latest reminiscence, taking her seat at the kitchen table. "I get it mixed up with his cousin's. A Rambler, I think?"

The Baroness, clad not in her trademark leather bodysuit but in drab department store clothing, smiled. The ensemble was bland, formless. And, to her horror, feeling more right each time she slipped it on. "A Falcon, actually."

She'd never made that connection before; her youthful love's car and the Joe adversary she'd encountered weeks earlier, both sharing the same name. Funny that.

"'62 model, I'm pretty sure. He was so proud of it. Ran that thing through Scotty's Car Wash at least once a week. Of course, if you want to talk obsessed, that was nothing compared to his preoccupation with that silly motorbike he purchased."

Jocelyn laughed. "Oh, Ana, I well remember. He was so proud of that bike; saved up for nearly a year to buy it. Wouldn't tell a soul about it, said he didn't want to 'jinx the deal' before he'd saved enough."

"We were supposed to go on some romantic trip together," said the guest, gazing into a portrait on the wall. The decades-old image of her lost love, of Jocelyn's lost son. One of dozens scattered throughout the home. "He talked it up for almost a week; turns out, we were riding to New Castle County to get some torque wrench or the like from a bike shop. Said they didn't have the one he needed in Salem."

"Sounds like my boy." She took a sip of the tea, quietly reflected. "Don't know where he got the gearhead bug, given that his father passed so early, and I certainly don't deal with those affairs. Guess it explains some of those big toys he plays with today."

Her guest, mid-sip, had to hold the mug against her lips. Didn't wish to spill any tea on the table. "I'm…sorry, Mrs. Kristofer?"

Normally, she'd correct the younger woman. Tell her to stop with the "Miss" and "Mrs." nonsense. She was distracted, though, this proud mother reflecting on her son's latest accomplishments. "Oh, you know. The H.I.S.S.s, the Rattlers, that silly thing they're working on now, looks like a cross between a VW and a buzz-saw…"

The Baroness, searching for some response, faced another shock. It resided in the image projected on the television screen behind her host. Jocelyn kept the news on her tiny kitchen RCA, usually with the volume turned down so low it couldn't interfere with the conversations. Truthfully, she cared more for the weather than the crime stories, or overseas reports of some horrible conflict or the other.

Now, Jocelyn's guest had to question just how closely she followed the national reports. Behind the newscaster was a graphic consisting of two images. One, the emblem of Cobra, feared the world over. Next to it, the driver's license photo of a young woman with swollen cheeks and fresh from the bottle champagne locks.

Her image.

"Authorities have released an image of the woman they claim has been kidnapped by the Cobra organization. The statement reads, 'In spite of their recent attempts to rebrand themselves as a patriotic offshoot of the American dream, Cobra's terroristic activities continue. For unknown reasons, we have cause to believe Cobra agents have abducted Leigh Miller from her home in Glynn County, Wisconsin. Anyone with information on this kidnapping is advised to contact local authorities immediately.'"

An admirable play on her rivals' part. Countering Cobra's earlier propaganda win with a volley of their own, reminding the public of the organization's seedier activities. Never mind that the innocent missus presented to the public, as the authorities knew very well, was in fact a Cobra sleeper agent. One her adversaries would kill to once more have in their possession.

The image remained on the screen, the Baroness questioning if Jocelyn would ever turn around. What she'd say if she got a good look at this Leigh Miller.

As Jocelyn took another oblivious sip of her tea, her anxious guest broached the subject. "That's so sad, isn't it, Jocelyn? What do you think those horrible people want with her?"

She'd dropped the blonde hair weeks ago, after her deep cover assignment ended, when she was allowed to reclaim her true identity. (As awkward a transition as it'd turned out to be.) Visiting Jocelyn that first night, though, she'd yet to forsake "Leigh's" flaxen mane.

"Oh, who knows," Jocelyn answered as the guest studied her face. Examined every movement, every inflection, to determine if Mrs. Kristofer had made the connection. "I doubt half of what they say about that Cobra is true. Who even believes what they hear on the news these days? The woman probably just had a fight with her boyfriend or something and decided to take a trip somewhere."

Better answer than she could've hoped for. Too nice a response, really. "Yes, I suppose that could be true. Oh, about Colin…you were saying something about him earlier?"

Jocelyn released a wistful sigh, then smiled. "Just thinking about boys and their toys. He has so many tanks and jets in the works. I'm glad he's keeping himself busy."

The Baroness, maintaining expert control of her own facial tells, calmly asked her follow-up. "Jocelyn, if you don't mind me asking, how often do you hear from Colin?"

"Why, he calls me every night. Just like a good boy should."

March 11, 1970

She should be grateful. He never neglects to tell her that.

Life on the streets isn't easy; he never claimed it would be. Better than living alone out here, though. Better than those homes they'd put you into. What they do to pretty "exotic" girls like you, you'd never want to know.

Have to give thanks to the Blind Master. Saved you from this scary world; does everything he can to keep that monster in white from finishing the job he started with your parents.

Yes, girl, keep telling yourself that as you're digging through the garbage, holding back that bile churning in your gut, begging for an escape path. He's the one who told you just how black a banana can get before it's no longer salvageable. Told you the proper smells, which meats to stay away from, unless you wanted to rent out your empty belly to a family of tapeworms.

They're motivated tenants, by the way. Always eager to find a nice home.

Kimi didn't want a repeat of the previous evening. A pizza place out on Alameda Street had tossed out the entire contents of its salad bar. She returned to her master, so proud, with a box packed with celery and iceberg lettuce.

He sneered. Told her this rabbit food barely had nutritional value. And even if she'd brought some wholesome iron-rich spinach, if that entire joint's salad bar was resting in the dumpster, some real foul microbes had to be staking claim to those greens.

"Think, girl," he scolded. "You think I enjoy watchin' you do those one-handed push-ups?"

She was too nervous to catch the joke. He'd ordered fifty last night. Kimi collapsed at forty-two. Blind Master showed mercy; let her finish the rest, with only an additional ten tacked on as punishment, this morning.

Tonight would be different. New Korean place in town; she just knew her sensei would approve of the fried egg, nori slivers, and kimohi she'd discovered—still inside the takeout box. She'd also unearthed half of an Almond-Packed Fudgy Bar, somehow nestled within its original wrapper.

Charmed expedition, she had to say. Kimi keeps the Fudgy Bar hidden in her front pocket, though. Blind Master has a thing about sweets.

Shouldn't take so long to find him; he'd usually be loitering outside the Sunset clubs, soaking in the tunes until the cops did their nightly sweep and chased away the vagrants. Kimi catches him on a bus stop bench, bobbing his head to some amateur act butchering the Stones.

"Sensei!" she calls out.

He points with his cane, yet doesn't face her. Knows the gesture is enough of a warning to stay quiet, at least until he's heard the final notes of "Parachute Woman."

She waits until the band finishes the atrocity. Doesn't understand how he enjoys this racket; tries not to think about how much she once enjoyed harmonizing with The Shangri-Las in her mother's car.

"Okay, girl. My gut's talkin' to me. What you got?"

She presents the box. Tries to conceal a smile. He opens it, breathes in the aroma. Nods with approval.

"Excellent job. Take a seat and we'll divvy it up."

Blind Master reaches into his pocket, removes some plastic silverware. She takes her fork, dives in. Her sensei savors his first bite.

Normally, she'd never catch a smile this wide.

"Haven't had authentic Korean in a dog's age. Before you were even born."

She nods, moves closer to her sensei. Maybe some part of her expects a pat on the back. Her father, he wouldn't have hesitated to lift her high and provide a midair hug. Sometimes, kisses on the cheek.

Blind Master finishes the meal in silence; expresses his approval by cutting his chowtime short and handing her the rest of the box. As she finishes, he taps his cane to "Light My Fire." The lead singer botches at least half the lyrics; even Kimi knows that much.

She finishes up the box, hands back the utensil to her sensei. He accepts the fork while keeping his face turned towards traffic.

"Now, then. There's the matter of what you think you're keeping from me."

"Sensei, I…I don't know what you mean."

"Girl, you know lyin' only doubles the discipline. Take it outta your pocket. Don't ever think you can pull one over on the Blind Master."

Kimi feels her armpits moisten, notices she can't keep her lip from quivering. She sucks in some air, lifts her side, and removes the Fudgy Bar from her pocket.

"H-here, sensei."

He takes the candy, unwraps it, sticks it under his nose. "Pure trash, girl," he says after breathing in the aroma. "And not the kinda trash you're used to."

Sensei crosses his arms, keeps shaking his head with disappointment. "If you respect me? Listen to anything I say? Then you wouldn't ever consider putting rubbish in your body, girl. After everything I've taught you, you still think it's okay to pollute your body with this filth?"

The girl doesn't know if she can hold back the tears. She looks away, pinches her wrist, tries to think of some of the other tricks she's taught herself.

"We're gonna head to the park, and we're gonna find out if seventy one-handies is enough to teach you a lesson. And tonight, we'll see if you wimp out while alternating hands each time."

"But sensei—"

"Ut, ut. Any sass, an' you'll be doing those push-ups with my cane across your back. That what you want, girl?"

Kimi stops herself. Remembers to bow before her sensei. "Apologies, master."

"More like it. Now, go on. I want to hear the rest of this set."

"You're not going—?"

"Be there soon enough. Make sure you keep your cap on. Remember what I said about stayin' inconspicuous."

She lingers, has a brief temptation to warn him about the dangers facing a blind man wandering the streets at night. He waits for the sound of her ballet flats against the concrete.

When it doesn't come, he barks at her. Tells her to obey orders, to move her worthless butt before he kicks it where it needs to go.

She does obey this time; he listens to a few sniffles escape, converging with the sound of her shoes as they drag across the sidewalk.

"Weak thing…" he mumbles to no one. The Fudgy Bar still rests on his lap. He returns it to his nose, grins, and takes his time, breathing in the scent.

The sensei offers his gratitude to the Creator for the lass, he'd guess between eighteen and nineteen, who purchased the candy at the gas station. Thought she'd finish it later, but filled up on fries and shakes while out with her girlfriends. Found it in her purse the next day, tossed it in the trash at the end of her shift at the drugstore.

He takes his first bite. Had no idea they were putting almonds in these things now. Is so pleased with the surprise.

The sensei finishes his after-dinner treat on that bench. Overhears the sound of a junkie getting rolled for the five dollar bill hidden in his jacket pocket. Stays just long enough to experience a rendition of "96 Tears" so bad it'd peel paint off the walls.

CHAPTER THREE

Tires squealed indignantly under the quick cuts of Flint's steering wheel, his hawkeyed reflexes averting every round directed at the jeep. The warrant officer was too distracted to register the face of the gunman; that ID was left to the rookie.

"That's one'a them Dreadnok creeps!" Russet brown hair, reasonably trimmed beard, mirrored aviators, boss leather jacket. Chuckles was proud of himself, pulling the ID so quickly. "Monkeywrench, right?"

Zarana, hands mounted together with Model 100 series S & W handcuffs, tried her best to crane her neck towards the front. "Easy there, sister," chided Lady Jaye, using her arm to send Zarana back into place, even as the latest lurch of the vehicle nearly propelled Jaye out of her own seat.

Chuckles reached into his shoulder holster as he stood, took aim and tried his best to drop the Dreadnok. "Hey, Rawhide!" admonished Flint. "Siddown!" Chuckles thought he'd grazed the side of the punk's jacket but couldn't get a clear view, the jeep skidding violently in yet another new direction, avoiding a blast that would've blown out the front right tire.

The thrust was enough to rob Chuckles of his balance. He fell back into his seat, dropping his piece in the floorboard along the way. "Flint, I coulda—"

"Just stay down!" the warrant officer repeated.

Frustrated by the lack of progress, Monkeywrench surrendered to his base instincts. Reached for his bandolier, pulled the pin on a grenade, pitched the "baseball" where it needed to go.

Flint burned another skid mark into the tarmac, thrusting the vehicle away from Monkeywrench's incoming explosive. The Dreadnok's aim was admirable, however, missing the jeep's open top by less than two inches, the grenade making brief contact with the bumper before landing on the asphalt. The detonation drowned out the roar of the engine, thundering the ground as its flash consumed the vehicle.

None of the passengers had an opportunity to question why the discharge left them unscathed. The sudden appearance of a new combatant, brazenly standing in the path of the jeep, cinderblock hammer lifted overhead, was a more than suitable distraction.

Certain members of the team would've kept a steady pace, just hammered on that accelerator and let the mystery freak test his mettle against actual metal. Let him try to plow through the hood with that ridiculous cinderblock-on-a-stick. Prove he can devastate the engine in time to save his own worthless life.

Perhaps Flint was a kinder soul, surrendering to basic humanitarianism and veering the jeep, for the tenth time in under a minute, wildly in a new direction. His passengers, stomachs flipped upside down yet again, appeared unappreciative of this philanthropic spirit.

"Flint!" screeched Lady Jaye, eyes burning with shock and rage. "You should've just—"

She couldn't finish her sentence, but the woman had a point. Just a heartbeat after swerving to avoid plowing through the stranger, this lunatic with the red Anarchy tattoo plowed his hammer into the passenger side of the jeep. Chuckles emitted a low grunt as the weaponized cinderblock separated the door from its frame, hurled it directly into the Joe's body. Momentum carried Chuckles to the left, his unconscious form ramming against Flint's. In the backseat, even in the midst of this bedlam, Jaye could discern the distinct crack of two skulls colliding.

Instinct compelled her to grab the handle, push open the door and leap from the vehicle. Zarana watched with reserved admiration as the Joe tucked her body into a tight ball and leapt at the proper angle, ensuring the moving jeep wouldn't leave tire tracks all over her pretty face.

Ideally, she would've kept her attention on the asphalt, watched as the Joe trundled to a stop, dusted herself off, and realized just how many scrapes and bruises this stunt had given her. Would've been a nice laugh.

Zarana had to tear herself away from that lovely spectacle, however. Priority was to move to the front seat and gain control of this vehicle. Even if it meant maneuvering around two hundred-plus pounds of muscle, all while handcuffed and tolerating the meanest headache of her life.

Sitting in the bludger's lap (wouldn't his frog-voiced hussy like to see this?), Zarana secured the steering wheel, eventually kicked the Joe's foot off the accelerator. The only conscious Joe was yards away, brushing off the road rash, convincing herself adrenaline could keep her going, enable her to pull out this victory.

Lady Jaye caught just how gnarly that escape had left her elbow as she reached for her sidearm. Didn't dwell on the sight, just selected the best target. That maniac with the salt-and-pepper flattop and red punk stripes on the side deserved a gift between his eyes. Wasn't packing a barreled ranged weapon, though. Not the highest priority. The grungier George Michael with the firearm and bandolier of explosives—that's the guy.

Two shots were enough to send the coward away from the door. Out on the tarmac, Jaye recognized she had no cover to hide behind, no option but to end this as soon as it could be ended. As Monkeywrench peeked into the doorway and took another futile shot, Zarana called out to her mystery savior.

"Hey, Road Pig!" she shouted, steering the jeep with her knees. "Wanna take care'a this, eh?"

The jeep screeched just short of this Road Pig, with Zarana leaning on the brakes as she maneuvered to her right. Her fingers found their way into Flint's holster, removing his sidearm. She tossed the weapon to her new ally, best she could, had her arms lifted overhead before he could even comprehend her request.

"Makin' me nervous!" spoke the dense voice, after he picked the gun off the ground. "Wut if I miss?"

"Yeh won't miss!" Zarana answered, peering into his manic eyes. "I trust you," she added with a reassurance that couldn't be described as loving, but was good enough for Road Pig anyway.

The Dreadnok held his breath, took the shot, and released a sigh when the blast shattered the chain connecting Zarana's cuffs.

The relief was short-lived. A moment before Road Pig took his shot, Lady Jaye had successfully blasted the cannon from Monkeywrench's hand. Any pride evaporated when she remembered who she was dealing with. Without that gun, wouldn't Monkeywrench be even more inclined to let a few grenades fly?

Recognizing the disarmed Dreadnok was far less likely to lug an explosive charge her way if she were positioned next to his allies (although this was in no way guaranteed), she made a hurried dash westward. And Jaye wasn't heading that way quietly.

Road Pig felt the rounds breeze past both sides of his face. Had no opportunity to take aim in defense, as Zarana rumbled past him in the purloined jeep, blocking his shot. Indescribable grin on her face as she accelerated, convinced none of these bimbo's bullets would connect. Convinced she could turn this preppie female Joe into an adorable piece of roadkill.

Lady Jaye was willing to accept the Dreadnok's wager. Had her sidearm lined up, ready to stop the jeep with a well-placed discharge. Had the finger on the trigger when she spotted the two lifeless forms piled up next to Zarana. Forced herself to consider the possibility of that jeep flipping over once its driver had been kak-ed.

Darned likely. Much as she might wish to deny it, she knew the truth.

"Oh, bless me…" Jaye whispered as she lifted her hands.

"Thought I caught a bit of a street edge in your moves," Gordo said to Ren, his tour of the tunnel concluding.

Ren nodded. "Family immigrated here when I was young," spoke the man who could still pass for a teenager. "Started to get into trouble early. Learned as much in pub brawls as the dojo." He gestured towards their makeshift quarters, specifically what would've been the ticket office had the station ever opened. "Last stop, Gordy."

At the desk was the sensei, speaking to a female student seated in the chair directly across. Both were garbed in the white gei associated, in only the most select circles, with the Cobra Command terrorist organization. If the sight of the outfit caused Gordo's blood pressure to tic up, his new pal didn't notice.

"Go introduce yourself, tough guy," invited Ren.

Gordo nodded, advanced towards the office with caution. The female noticed his approach, bowed to her sensei, and exited the office. She eyed Gordo with suspicion as their paths crossed; seconds later, he could overhear the woman interrogating Ren about his presence.

He was inside the sensei's office by this point, though, unable to concentrate on the chatter. The man at the desk rose. Gordo greeted him with a bow.

"What do you seek here, boy?" the sensei asked, arms folded.

"I've heard the stories," Gordo answered, calculating the man didn't wish to hear involved narratives about a questionable past. "Wanted to know if they're true. I need to learn from the best, and word is, that's you."

The sensei cocked his head. "And you think puffing my ego is the way to earn favor?" His words were spoken so carefully, you'd think he rehearsed them.

"Just being honest. Listen, I ain't got a whole lot going on. And I study this stuff night and day. I know you've got a whole world to teach me, and I'm eager to learn."

Circling the aspirant, the sensei waited a full minute before speaking again. "Ren will escort you to your quarters. We'll train in the morning. My decision will be granted to you then."

In less than ten minutes, Gordo was unpacking his bags atop his bunk, one of five inside these barracks. Not far away, inside the main tunnel, the others had begun daily exercises. Ren had promised him a respectable sushi meal later that evening, maybe even a trip to the arcade assuming the sensei didn't set the curfew too early.

Gordo thanked his new friend, asked for a moment alone. Ren presumed the fanboy geek needed a few seconds to take it all in, revel in the knowledge that he'd possibly been given a ticket to the big leagues. A hidden compartment in one of Gordo's bags hinted at the actual truth.

The Walther PPK, tucked inconspicuously into the lining of his laundry sack, rarely appeared in any of those direct-to-video thrillers. But he'd make good use of it. Gordo would make the sensei understand firsthand just how deadly Western innovation, and a good old fashioned Tommy grudge, could be.

Zarana eyed the Joe, refused to accept the prospect of a surrender. Accelerated instead.

"I meant it!" Lady Jaye roared. "I give up; you've got me!" Proving the point, albeit reluctantly, Lady Jaye tossed her weapon to her right.

The jeep continued its approach. Lady Jaye couldn't think of any meaningful last words. Couldn't remember off the top of her head if she'd updated the beneficiaries on her life insurance policy. Only had one thought: Is it too much to ask one of those apes would've come to by now? Taken that wheel from this lunatic?

Zarana's thoughts were more varied. Some were thrilled at the prospect of finally snuffing out a Joe. Of the parade she'd likely receive one day, assuming Cobra could get its act together. Others were fascinated by the sights and sounds of the resulting crash. Yeah, this bimbo would probably dance out of the way in time, but eventually, she wouldn't be able to outrace an AMC straight-6 engine.

A quieter voice was also present. Warning Zarana that she was going too far this time. Not only had this woman already surrendered, but how could Zarana forget her affiliation? Did she truly believe a particular someone—a man she'd already hurt too much recently—would forgive her if she lived out this fantasy?

Cursing herself for going soft, Zarana grumbled out something indiscernible, applied the brakes. Stepping out of the vehicle, she emerged with Chuckles' piece, stolen from the floorboard. "Awright, Joe. Y'caught me in a good mood. Keep those hands high an' march towards that plane."

Checking behind, Zarana confirmed that Road Pig had retrieved the other two Joes. Had them slung over each shoulder, his cinderblock hammer now attached to his belt, dragging behind the beast. Good boy.

After their guests had been escorted inside, Monkeywrench had the temerity to show his face. "Nice work, Lady Z," he spoke while reaching for an embrace. "We got those Joes iced!"

"Y'bleedin' psychopath!" she shrieked in return, gripping both of his arms and kneeing him in the gut. "What's the idea, tossin' one'a your overgrown cherry bombs in my direction like that?"

"Y'got me all wrong!" Monkeywrench protested, after regaining his breath, gesturing towards the tarmac with his head. "Didn't you look behind you? Wasn't nothin' but a flash grenade, luv!" Zarana didn't release her grip. Kept piercing through her subordinate's aviators, fooling him into believing she could look past those shades and penetrate straight into his muddy brown eyes.

"It's true!" he said, panic rising. "I wouldn't do anything to hu—"

"Wut's this now?" spoke the thick voice of Road Pig, snatching Monkeywrench by his jacket and aiming him towards the aircraft's ceiling. "Y'did what to lovely Zarana?"

Voice rising, glasses tumbling to the carpet, Monkeywrench stammered out, "F-flash grenade! Just a lotta light and noise! I w-wouldn't have aimed the real thing at Zarana! P-please, you've gotta believe me!"

Road Pig pulled the veteran Dreadnok closer. Noses brushed together as he inspected the lout's sincerity. Road Pig took measure of those eyes, of the scents his prey was giving off. An endless wait later, he pitched Monkeywrench gently, relatively speaking, to the side.

"I believe 'im, dearest," Road Pig spoke courteously to Zarana.

"Wonderful," Zarana answered with little sincerity, brushing past the brute. "An' stop with that 'dearest' nonsense. We ain't goin' steady."

The president had invited the Joes to an unofficial state dinner; the offer politely declined by most, as the team had a busy day planned for tomorrow, and quite a few weary muscles to ease. Jinx stepped up, though, agreed to the meal. Her lieutenant considered admonishing her about being on her best behavior, but correctly predicted how the advice would be received.

As the rest of the team collapsed inside their barracks, Lt. Falcon had to pause after climbing the top bunk. Couldn't prevent himself from glaring at the bed, questioning if it came with the sale. If some viper scum had been sleeping under these sheets months earlier.

While cautiously sniffing his pillow, Falcon heard from the lower bunk a tentative cough. He looked down, realized Low-Light had something he wanted to say. With the reluctance of a schoolboy, the sandy-haired sniper began, "Lieutenant…I realize 'thanks' is supposed to be one of those unspoken words in this unit, but, earlier today…"

"Don't mention it," Falcon said, a sense of embarrassment entering his body, one rivaling Low-Light's. As he returned his attention to the bed, Falcon added, "Any one of us would've done it for the other."

From the adjoining bath, Tripwire entered, toothbrush in hand. "Yeah, but in this case it was you, and we appreciate it. When we're back home, I going to let you win two, heck, three games of one-pocket pool at Rhonda's."

Falcon, having turned the pillowcase inside out, laughed. "Not if Duke's there. He catches you going easy on my behalf, that's pure heck you're gonna have to pay."

Temperature of the room changed, Tripwire growing so awkward he could only respond by sucking on his toothbrush. Low-Light drew in a breath, hoping no one would say a thing. Chops busting was a prerequisite amongst the unit, yet no Joe truly wished to humiliate another. Verbal miscues were a typical source of jokes. Harmless laughs. Falcon slipping up, speaking of his deceased brother like he was still with the living, however…

Perhaps catching the sentiment of the room, Falcon flashed back to his last words. "Did I say…? Dusty, I mean." He continued, moving as far away from that name as humanly possible. "Don't want him singlin' me out for special attention during those desert training sessions."

Tripwire released the toothbrush, tried to aid his lieutenant out of this mess. "Darn straight. Dusty once thought I was showing pity on him during a game of solids and stripes. Two days later, during his desert class, I'm called up to the front. Had me demonstrate proper removal techniques of scorpion stingers before you chow down on the monsters. Had a terrarium full of 'em. Swore it wasn't anything personal, but he smiled too much when he said it."

The strange sound coming from the bottom bunk was one rarely heard within the unit. It was the sound of Low-Light's laughter.

President Hugo Jiménez Pérez retired for the evening, gave his niece a kiss goodnight, wished the lone Joe representative luck on their inspection in the morning. Waited until his personal aide had left his quarters before undoing that top button, watching as his gut oozed like molasses over his belt.

He'd eaten too much, a sin he'd indulged in more than once in recent weeks. Were his wife in town, she'd be certain to let him hear about it. Gabriela was no nag, just sensitive about the "optics" of politics, as she'd say. Educated in America, two degrees from Brown. She'd played no small role in his successful campaign last year, positioning Hugo as a free market reformer, as the only sensible alternative to the destructive policies of the past.

Reflecting, he thought Gabriela would be proud of his performance tonight, assuming she'd forgive him for that second dessert. Did a decent job, he told himself, of conveying to the American that his intentions were sincere. That he regretted the dealings with Cobra, how they in no way reflected his values, of how desperate he was in those early days in office.

The morning's attack had placed a pall over the entire day. Hugo hoped his American friends understood he shared their anger over the violence. That they wouldn't view it as some Machiavellian political stunt.

Hugo undid more buttons, climbed into his luxury canopy bed. Considered dialing Gabriela, but thought of the time difference in London. Best to wait until tomorrow. Same day he'd start the diet, that's what Hugo could tell her when he called.

Considered what his last meal should be before the fast. Had hazy thoughts of Arepas Rellenas de Queso, their chef's specialty. Or perhaps plantain and cheese empanadas, or puff pastry ham rolls, or some third alternative he'd never get to finish contemplating.

Never finish, because the blade reached his throat before the thought was fully formed.

A whispered conversation in the darkness…

"Enjoy your meal?"

"Low-Light? Sorry I woke you."

"Did no such thing."

"That's right. You have some thing about sleep, don't you?"

"Not how I'd put it. I know how much I need, what I have to do to get my mind in the right place."

"Must be nice. I just hope I can get forty winks in, considering the logs being sawed in here."

"Sorry us boorish Neanderthals are crampin' your style. Any reason you're so desperate for that beauty sleep?"

"Unclench, man. Sheesh. Apologies for crashing the he-man wimmin haters club for this one night."

"Gender isn't the issue. Attitude, however…"

"What's that supposed to mean? What's wrong with my attitude?"

"Gettin' upset, girl? Forget I said anything."

"No, I want to hear this. Explain what you meant. Are you still hung up on that one mistake—"

"Screw-ups happen. Part of the job. I've done several missions with Bazooka. Guy's a walking mistake factory. Got an IQ so low it's subterranean, but you know what else the Foolio has? Heart. Plenty of it."

"You saying I don't?"

"Can't judge for sure. Too green. What I do know is, you've got an abundance of pride under your cute karate outfit. And ego, in a job like this, can be a lethal thing."

CHAPTER FOUR

Barely 6:00 AM when the palace guards flooded the barracks, arms trained on the sleepy-headed Joe resting in the top bunk, western sector of the room.

"We don't want any trouble," the lead officer proclaimed, top of his lungs. "We only need the one you call Jinx. If she comes with us, no one has to get hurt."

Jinx might've had a million questions on her mind, but Arashikage training had a way of expunging any extraneous thoughts. Little more than instinct is what drove her from her bunk, into the air, and with her right foot leading, into the chest of the lead guard.

Lt. Falcon, having swept away his sheets, also ignored the angled ladder, making a more modest jump to the floor. "Jinx! Stand down!"

The ninja gave no indication she heard the command, battering the nearest guard with a roundhouse punch, then taking down his replacement with a vertical fist jab directly into the unfortunate soul's chest.

She heard the approaching sound of the next guard, turning in time to nab his assault rifle. Didn't expect him to be fast enough to land a solid punch against her shoulder as she performed the maneuver. Jinx blocked his next blow, aimed a chop against his abdomen. He recoiled, leaving enough space for two more of the guard to enter, to use their superior mass to force Jinx to the floor.

"Jinx! You were ordered to stand down!" Falcon bellowed, attempting to enter the throng surrounding his fellow soldier. Was able to get a glimpse below of Jinx elbowing the man on her right, as she reached for the throat of the one on her left.

Two sets of hands pulled the lieutenant away. More guards were entering, three of them diving towards Jinx's unruly legs, pinning her down. Amongst the multitude a petite figure, one so small she'd nearly been swallowed up by her cohorts.

Emerging from the crowd, Luisa stepped towards her friend from the previous day, bottle in hand, rag on top. "Please don't make me do this, Jinx," she said with passable sincerity.

Jinx realized eight more hands were on her body, finally stopped struggling long enough to speak. "What's going on here? Why are you doing this?"

Luisa dabbed the rag, placed it directly over the ninja's face. Falcon could detect the sweet smell from the distance.

Ether.

"What are you doing, Gómez?" he demanded.

Luisa didn't look up, made sure Jinx had returned to sleep before answering. "Apprehending the viper you've placed in our midst, Lieutenant." The vice president stood, turned, and stared down Falcon. "Ensuring my uncle's death is avenged," she said with anger, tears forming in her eyes.

Half an hour later, Falcon, Tripwire, and Low-Light gathered in the president's study. Armed guards were positioned across the room, all in stances that could only be interpreted as unfriendly.

"Mrs. Vice President," Tripwire spoke in a tone that he hoped counteracted Falcon's earlier growl, "could you please explain to us why you believe Jinx did this?"

Standing over the mahogany desk that, hours earlier, belonged to her uncle, Luisa opened a drawer. With disgust, she presented a re-sealable storage bag. "Discovered in a vent in my uncle's private room," Luisa stated after taking in a breath. Inside the plastic, transparent baggie, a small bloodstained blade was made visible to all.

"I believe this is what's known as a tantō blade, gentlemen," she spoke flatly, allowing the bag to dangle beneath her fingers.

"Why do you think it came from Jinx?" asked Low-Light, his calm rasp finding a middle ground between Falcon's fury and Tripwire's guileless tenor.

"Remember when Security inspected your bags? Your companion provided a register of each knife in her possession, allowed us to photograph every one." Pulling deeper into the drawer, Luisa removed the Polaroid taken less than twenty-four hours earlier. "This is Jinx's tantō blade," she said while lifting the bag so that the killer's knife could float beside the photo. "Notice the dragon design on the hilt?" They did; a sigil also found on Jinx's gei. "An obvious match. And it's not as if such weapons can be found with ease in Punto del Mucosa, gentlemen, so let's not continue with the theatrics."

Falcon, head shaking, didn't budge. "Doesn't mean anything. That could've been stolen from her."

"And shouldn't you have a witness before you accuse someone of murder?" asked Tripwire.

"A killer possessing Jinx's skill would be sure never to leave one," Luisa countered. "And what should I infer from your group not providing an alibi? Am I correct in assuming none of you can recall when exactly she slipped into your room last night?"

With no one willing to answer, Low-Light had to speak up. "Doesn't mean anything…" he said, just over a whisper.

"Of course it doesn't," Falcon agreed. "Gómez, this is about as clear a frame job as you could imagine. I demand you release this soldier immediately."

"Do you, Lieutenant?"

Falcon approached the vice president, drove his knuckles into the desk. "Yes, and in the spirit of international cooperation, our team would be willing to aid in the pursuit of the true killer."

Luisa opened the drawer and returned the evidence. "Not an option." Refusing to look Falcon in the eye, she took a seat at the desk, spoke in a tone indicating she didn't wish to increase hostilities, "You can return to your quarters— under the watch of our guard. We'll figure the rest of this out later."

The notes of Lady Jaye's laughter—not her full laugh, the light chuckle she'd often hand out as a courtesy to strangers—was the sound that awoke Flint. Even if this was the sanitized, quieter version of a tone he knew so well, Flint was overjoyed to hear it.

Yet, as the cobwebs wore off and his vision grew less hazy, that joy was immediately soured. That Rawhide was awake too, whispering something stupid in her ear, irritating little smirk on his mug.

Flint moved back by instinct, realized fast just how he'd been trussed up. Chuckles, Lady Jaye, and Flint, all seated in the last row of the aircraft, all bound by their hands to the armrests in front.

"We call it eau de Dreadnok," she was saying softly to the Rawhide. "One part diesel fumes, one part swamp water, one part melted crayon."

"Nice to see you two having fun without me," Flint whispered to the others, not turning their way.

"Flint!" Jaye responded, as loud as her whisper would allow. "Thank God. I was afraid you had a concussion."

Chuckles' grin widened. "Nah. Man's too tough for that. We just had a quick meetin' of the minds, didn't we, bud?"

Flint didn't answer at first. Kept facing forwards, studying the form of Zarana, reclining in the plane's first row. Reflecting on the failure of this mission so far, questioning just what they could've done differently. "I take it we're in the JPATS craft?"

"Right," answered Lady Jaye. "Haven't ascertained the condition of the pilot." Chuckles had been attempting to lighten her up, make her feel less bitter over the events, but this still nagged at Jaye. Not only had the prisoner taken them captive, but the fate of this innocent JPATS pilot remained unknown.

"Think any of these primates would know how to pilot a bird like this?" Chuckles butted in, sensing the mood. "Or even the U-Fly-It toy from those old commercials?"

Jaye offered another polite titter. Flint tried to lessen the wound, as he told himself this Rawhide would never get to take her out to the movies. Wouldn't know the deep throated sound of that girl's real guffaw whenever Chevy took a fall, or Eddie got just a little too lewd.

Casing out the rest of the plane, Flint spotted Monkeywrench on the other side of the aisles, sulking like a puppy after taking a newspaper to the snout. He noted at least one other Dreadnok was missing, just as the mastodon walked past.

In Road Pig's hands was a tray of roasted chicken, rice, iced tea, and pudding straight from the box. He stepped towards Zarana with a noticeable sense of trepidation, stooped low and asked, "Can't you at least try?"

Zarana removed her headphones, grabbed the glass of tea, and promptly splashed it in her admirer's face. "I told you I wasn't hungry! Don't be wastin' food like that!"

Properly reprimanded, Road Pig silently crept away, the icy, aromatic beverage dripping from his chin. "Just wanted to make sure you got your proper nutrition…" he murmured while passing the Joes, returning to the galley.

"Ain't love a beautiful thing?" asked Chuckles.

"If that's how she treats her sweetheart," Lady Jaye answered, "I hate to see what she's got in mind for us."

"Well, I ain't waiting. Those snakes got lazy; didn't check for my ankle holster," Chuckles whispered, as his bare foot massaged the mousegun strapped to the opposing ankle. "Once I dupe one of 'em into coming back here, I can rectify this imbalance of power."

Flint's head jerked suddenly. "Negative. Too dangerous, Rawhide," he said with authority.

"He's right. We'll figure this out; just be patient."

"Nah," Chuckles replied, his smile fading. "No offense, but I've worked out the angles. This is our best shot."

"Chuckles," hissed Flint, "don't you dare—"

"Hey, my Aussie amigos," announced the nasally drawl of Chuckles. "Turns out I indulged in one bowl of chili too many earlier. I need someone to untie me, escort me to that lovely lavatory over there."

"Keep quiet back there!" Zarana spat, not even turning back.

"Chuckles," Lady Jaye admonished, "you need to stop while you're still—"

"I ain't runnin' a con on you guys," Chuckles continued. "I got a potential mess in the making, just churnin' away in this tummy. You wanna spend the next—three, five, seven—hours sharing a flight with that stench?"

Zarana removed her headphones once more, turned back with a look of pure hate. "You bleedin' fool. Keep your mouth shut or—"

From his seat, Monkeywrench asked a sensible question. "Zarana, you consider maybe he ain't lying?"

"Fine. You escort 'im, then."

Chuckles watched as Monkeywrench approached. Curbed his smile. "The olfactory organs of all passengers aboard will be eternally grateful, I'm sure, bud."

Flint opened his mouth to release a final warning, but a solemn, resigned headshake from Jaye convinced him to remain silent.

"Okay, Joe," Monkeywrench said, untying the binds. "You make any sudden moves an' I—"

The Dreadnok had little time to react, as Chuckles clutched his mane, pulled his face down, then brought up his knee to meet Monkeywrench's nose. As the Dreadnok grunted out his shock, Chuckles shoved him away with one hand. The other reached for his ankle piece.

Zarana, standing now, saw the gun trained on her before she could finish her four-syllable profanity.

"Think I'm not crazy enough to fire in here?" Chuckles asked, adopting a tenor inspired by the lead in a buddy-cop movie the Rawhides had just watched on cable. "Then you reptiles don't know me so well."

Chuckles, like his new favorite actor Mel, was going for wide-eyed crazy. Suicidal, even.

Zarana studied those eyes. Composed herself, returned with an answer that seemed almost bored. "You watch too many movies. Cabin's pressurized. That peashooter won't do anything."

Flint and Lady Jaye shared a look. Dangerous insanity, perhaps feigned, was Tunnel Rat's gimmick. Chuckles, the laidback Florida boy, didn't seem equipped to pull it off.

"So? If I'm a good aim, that means you're toast," he responded, stepping into the aisle. He looked back, winked in his teammates' direction. Flint's teeth immediately began to grind. "If I ain't? If I hit a window, or a fuel tank?" Chuckles released a mischievous, wheezing laughter, swiped from that mutt in the old Hanna-Barbara cartoons. "No," he spoke while "composing" himself, "everyone's best interest is for that cockpit door to open, right the heck now."

Zarana's reaction to the threat didn't reveal any obvious panic. "It's unlocked, yank. Knock yourself out," she said while gesturing towards the door.

Chuckles, oblivious, walked past. He couldn't see Road Pig emerging from the galley behind him. Never caught that slight smile on Zarana's lips.

July 30, 1971

"What? You haven't noticed I'm blind yet?" he asks when she protests.

Kimi adjusts the blindfold. Doesn't hear her sensei's hand racing towards hers, smacking it in rebuke. "Did I tell you to touch the thing?"

"I just don't understand. Why do I have to wear this?" she asks, doing her best to avoid the "whining" tone. That's the one that earns you extra knuckle push-ups and bear crawls.

The sensei jabs, stops just short of her adorable nose. "You think the Blind Master asks you to do anything capriciously?"

"Ah, no, sir."

"All right, then. That means you need to keep an open mind. I learned this the hard way: sight is not our greatest ally. You don't need to be using any sense as a crutch, girl. We clear on that?"

He takes another jab, this one stopping a quarter-inch from her left ear. "Did you hear that? Feel it comin'?"

"I…think so?"

The sensei snorts. "Don't tell me what you think I wanna hear. Now, do this for me: I want you to click."

Kimi fights the urge to touch the blindfold again, to look at him funny and affirm he isn't running some game on her. "Ah, click? I don't—"

"With your tongue, girl. I want you to keep your teeth together, and hit your tongue against the roof of your mouth."

She wants to argue even harder now. Standing out here in an abandoned storefront, wearing a blindfold like some kind of idiot, making weird noises with her mouth…what kind of ninja training is that?

"This is punishment, isn't it?"

"Don't know what you're talkin' about."

The previous evening, worse nightmares than usual. A conviction the monster in white had returned; that the lifeless body of the sensei next to her truly was lifeless. She kept pushing against his body, begging him to awake.

His eyes finally did open. Breathed in her panicked, little kid face and didn't withhold his disgust.

Stupid girl. Broke one of the basic rules; no tears. No fear of loss.

"I don't hear no clickin', girl," sensei says as he swipes the air above her, the wind confiscating her Red Sox cap.

She complies, does one tentative click. He warns her it's not good enough. Louder, more clicks, closer together.

Kimi completes a set of twenty. "That enough? So, what's the point?"

The Blind Master lifts his cane from the floor, waves it directly in her face. "You ever hear of how bats keep from runnin' into buildings? It's called echolocation, girl."

"What does that have to do with me clicking my tongue like some kind of dope, sensei?"

He keeps waving the cane. "Sound, light, they're both waves of energy. Soundwaves bounce off objects in their environment. Click, girl."

She obeys. The cane is pressed closer, almost to her lips. "When the waves come back, they carry with 'em an imprint of what they've encountered."

Kimi stops clicking long enough to scoff. "Come on," she says with a pout.

He taps her nose with the cane. "You think I'd ever waste your time with foolishness? That echo is powerful, girl. It comes back with most everything you need to know—location, dimension, depth; you pay close enough attention, and you'll start to understand the ol' Ear That Sees."

The cane spins before her face. He invites her to keep clicking, to try and find it. She's tempted to scoff again, but stops herself.

She plays along. Comes close to catching it one time.

"Okay, assuming this isn't a prank, why don't I ever hear you clicking, sensei?"

Her mentor laughs. "Girl, I ain't some amateur." He tosses his cane in the air. She steps out of its path, reaches out her hand to nab it. Misses. "That's darn near insulting. You've earned yourself thirty extra minutes of suicide drills for that one."

CHAPTER FIVE

Some intel had been made available on Terrordrome holding cells. A few of the Joes who'd fouled up a mission and spent time in these chambers included details in their after action reports, as Jinx discovered when prepping for this assignment. Leatherneck and Wet-Suit sketched a diagram in their AARs; had a shouting match that lasted an hour, debating the exact dimensions of the cells.

Truth was, Jinx's prison wasn't much different from any other room inside the Terrordrome. A slick metallic finish to the walls, everything shiny and polished, no real character outside of the cold indifference found in most futurists' visions. Only features setting it apart would be the commode (polished steel, naturally), the cot, and the oppressive six by eight feet dimensions.

Her blurry eyes scanned the room, doing the math. She'd have to let Leatherneck know he was off by a few inches, that Wet-Suit deserved this victory.

"Must be nice, girl, loungin' about, all the day."

Jinx's body lurched away from her pillow, making a hard turn northward, as her mind attempted to place that voice. No, not place it. Rationalize it. Yes, she recognized those velvety yet savage tones, all right. Just couldn't believe she'd be hearing them in here of all places.

"Oh, lordie. This has to be the ether," she spoke, addressing the older African-American gentleman sitting at the foot of her cot. "Never been knocked out by that stuff before."

"Sure, you can tell yourself that," he said while gently laughing. "Overlook the more obvious answer, that your old sensei has reached a higher level of consciousness. That he sensed you were in trouble and wanted to help."

She studied his form, the way his back hunched over, how tight he gripped that cane in his left hand. "Yeah, that makes so much more sense. Does sound like you, though, looking for any excuse for a putdown."

"Just tryin' to keep you sharp, girl. You should know that."

Jinx, debating whether to move closer, couldn't resist snapping back. "That how you justify your nonsense? 'Oh, look at the way this girl's separating her forward step from her lead-hand strike. Guess someone doesn't want to eat dinner tonight!'"

"Not my fault you were sloppy about that." He turned towards her. Smiled. "But you learned, didn't you?"

"Yes, my wise and patient teacher. How lucky I was." Jinx inched closer. Could've reached out and touched his form, easy. Couldn't bring herself to do it. "I wonder how long this ether stuff lasts?" she whispered.

He turned back towards the wall. "Maybe you're wrong about that, too? Perhaps some confused old fool was looking through the astral realm. Seeking out a figure from our past, one with a knack for escaping justice."

"Can't believe this…"

"And, just maybe the tired fool sensed his presence nearby? And discovered he was committing another murder, one he happened to be pinning on my former ward?" He lifted his cane, gripped it tight against his chest. "Doesn't it sound just like this devil, this monster in white?"

Jinx, agog, couldn't even form the words. She took a breath, eventually tried to ask, "What did you…Blind Master, you're not serious."

"I wouldn't kid a kidder. Somehow he got ahold of your tantō, that's why they're convinced you did this."

"But why would he…?"

The Blind Master stood, positioned the cane between his Velcro-strap Filas. "Could be, he's just paying the bills. Even monsters have to eat."

"And how did he nab my blade?"

The sensei, all sarcasm, stretched his arms out. "I look like a man with answers?" he asked with a snort. "Haven't I told you enough, girl?"

Jinx was in for another shock, as the cloud of sleep enfolding her dissolved for a second time. She opened her eyes, thought for less than a second she'd caught an image of herself, sitting up in the bed. And, bizarrely, her crotchety old bum of a sensei had been standing next to her.

Pure nonsense. Ether was some powerful stuff; she'd have to make note of that when filling out her own AAR. To think she'd actually liked that Gómez chick. She couldn't fully trust her, given her government's actions, but on a personal level, Luisa had seemed okay.

Maybe Jinx was just a bad judge of character. Maybe, given how things were going with Falcon lately, fate was forcing her to recognize this particular character fault.

No time to ponder this. She had to free herself, to clear her name, perhaps avoid an international incident. Shouldn't be an impossible assignment, not for a Joe. One with her training, Jinx immodestly added.

"Hey, anybody out there?" she asked, knocking on the chrome door of her cell. "You planning on keeping me in here forever?"

She was greeted by silence for a good five minutes, repeating this question like clockwork every thirty seconds. The door finally slid open, made that sci-fi phsssh sound, revealing her host. Standing defiant, regardless of her stature, was Luisa. She'd changed clothes since this morning, donning a red powersuit. Shoulder pads granting her the stance of a linebacker, the vice president placed her hands on her hips and gave Jinx nothing but an icy glare.

"Luisa, any chance you could explain what in blazes this is about?"

The vice president, guards surrounding both sides, stepped closer, nearly touched noses with Jinx. "We're not on a first name basis, you foreign trash."

Jinx didn't budge. "Harsh, lady. Does Punto del Mucosa have crazy concepts like due process, or am I gonna grow old an' gray in here?"

Luisa grabbed Jinx's arm, pulled her into the hallway. Into Jinx's ear, she hissed, "You killed my uncle, perra, and I'll be certain you pay for it."

Early morning, that pratt thought he was clever. Was up before the others, sneaking into his office. Gordo knew this because he'd staked out his position, made sure the superior ninja master couldn't break wind without him noticing. Had no idea what the sensei was doing inside that closet in his office, however. He'd been in there a good fifteen minutes.

Gordo exhaled his disgust, decided now was as good a time as any. He thought of Sarah, only a few years out of university, such a bright light within an occasionally dreary organization. Only female employed in the research and development division, a true savant per her superiors.

Poor girl made the mistake of investigating a missing cache of missile guidance chips. Didn't think she'd stumble across an actual sale, performed by the lowlife cousin of a low-level guard within the organization. Couldn't have known a demon named Storm Shadow was accompanying this Scrap-Iron fellow, serving as his bodyguard. Sarah did her best to run, to sound the alarm. Didn't make it three meters before the shuriken punctured her lungs.

She'd find her justice tonight. The Walther PPK would make certain of that. Gordo crept towards the door, pressing his pistol against his chest, maintaining minimal breathing. Overheard the sound of a keyboard clacking, tap tap tap, like some lonely spinster still hacking away at that unpublished romance novel.

Gordo silently gripped the doorknob, used his body weight to gently crack the door open. No light in the tiny room, only illumination coming from the computer monitor. That monitor, its hard drive, keyboard, and accompanying desk were the only contents of this "closet." Gordo could've ordered the Cobra slime, still garbed in his white gei, to put his hands up. To explain what exactly he was up to, who he was communicating with. Decided instead to take the shot, then drag that computer into the office. Let them decipher whatever mystical Eastern nonsense he was up to.

Gordo pulled the trigger; suppressor did its job, silencing all but the sound of the velocity of the bullet. Couldn't do anything about the whack noise it made, connecting with the desk and not the ninja.

The sensei didn't seem to break a sweat, contorting his body like some circus acrobat, kicking the chair out from under him, twisting into the shape of an upside-down horseshoe. He'd performed a backflip and bounced off the wall a millisecond before Gordo fired the second round. Gordo didn't bother aiming for the third round; just hoped it would connect with some part of the killer's body.

The Walther flew from his hand, a victim of the pulverizing kick delivered by the sensei. Gordo's inner monologue was fuming—partially a result of his bruised ego, but predominately a sense of bitter guilt. As the ninja grasped Gordo's shirt, pulled him closer, Gordo thought of Sarah, of the promise he'd made her parents. Of the words he was now realizing were bitterly empty.

"So, you think you can—" The sensei's eyes grew wider. If Gordo were in full possession of his wits, perhaps he would've discerned the makings of a smirk under that mask. "What's this?" asked the ninja.

Gordo recoiled as his foe's fingers reached for his face. Rubbed in just the right spots, didn't hesitate to reach behind his ears. "I see you are practiced in the ways of deceit, oh fair-haired one."

In under fifteen seconds, the wig and prosthetics attached to "Gordo" had been removed. The office lights switched on, his bare face, not nearly as youthful and pristine as the one sported by Gordo, was exposed to the ninja. Still a handsome face, yes, but one that had enjoyed, or at least experienced, a life far beyond anything in the sheltered realm of this fabricated Gordo.

Reeling from the shock and humiliation, the deceiver didn't notice at first the change in his opponent's dialect. "I know that mug! You're that secret agent guy!" The ninja relaxed his grip, allowed his former target some slack. "Snitty attitude, bland name…James-something, I believe it was?"

A peeved expression crossed the intruder's face. "Matthew. Matthew Burke," answered the man, faint hints of glue still attached to his mustache. "And might I inquire as to your true identity? I notice you've dropped the oriental mystic façade."

The ninja leaned back, relaxed his stance. "I'd have to put in a request to give you that info, Mr. Burke. But you've gotta understand I know you by reputation—a decent amount of it bad."

Jinx protested, did everything imaginable to plead her case. Tried to make Luisa understand her disbelief that Hugo could be dead. It hadn't been so long since dinner; they'd laughed together, spoke of the dumb American TV shows getting exported into the country, of their mutual admiration for Diego Maradona. Hugo had attended the 1986 games; promised Jinx he'd show her his signed football before the squad returned home.

Nothing in this verbal avalanche could offer a credible defense of why her blade had been discovered at the murder scene. She knew it'd been a setup. Couldn't convince Luisa to look at her own men, to recognize the inside job.

Someone, surely Lt. Falcon, had been raising Cain, though. Made certain Jinx was granted a phone call to the American embassy.

"I guess I'm not in Utah anymore, huh?" Jinx spoke into the receiver, ignoring the fuming presence of Luisa, less than three inches away. Standing in the late president's office, Jinx attempted to avoid the gaze of not only her overseer, but the official portrait of poor Hugo, decorated with flowers and resting atop the desk. Luisa's signing in ceremony was mere hours away; presumably, the oil on canvas representation of her uncle would be joining her.

"No, I believe a mainframe might've been damaged in the blast, but most of our gear is fine. I'll keep plugging on, though. Just wish I wasn't still in the dark. Hm? Oh, I suppose that was about three hours ago."

Luisa reached for the phone's cradle. "That's enough."

Jinx resisted the urge. Just nodded, handed her the phone. "Girl at the embassy was a classmate of mine from Bryn Mawr. Small world."

The soon-to-be president got a handful of Jinx's clothes, shoved her in the direction of her guards. "Don't care. Keep moving."

"Luisa, please, you have to know that I'm innocent. Do you really think—"

Turning back, Luisa opened a desk drawer, returned with a transparent bag, the blood soaked murder weapon still inside. "What I know is that my uncle is dead…" Tears welling up, that perfect mascara job going to waste, Luisa's wobbly voice grew louder as she finished her indictment. "…and you brought the weapon into our home!"

Jinx studied the blade; couldn't deny this was her dagger. Some part of her wanted to apologize, to tell Luisa she'd do anything in her power to make this right. Yet she offered no rebuttal as Luisa ordered the guards to return her to the cell.

On her march back, Jinx had time to reflect. To think of the sheer insanity of that ether-induced hallucination. Of the improbability, one she was clinging to, of the dream-sensei accurately detailing the specifics of this frame job. Clearly her subconscious, so astute and whip-smart, was at play. (She ought to give it a kick in the kiester, though, for dredging up thoughts of that demon from her childhood.)

She thought of some of the off-the-record secondary objectives of the mission. Like that tiny device Tripwire had been instructed to plug into one of the Terrordrome's electrical outlets. And the code words she'd been told to use when contacting the embassy, were things to get hairy.

Replaying the conversation, Jinx felt confident she'd worked them all in. So, next step, she mused, let's hope Mainframe isn't napping back at base. And, that the airhead I talked to on the phone knows how to properly relay a message…

Inside the cockpit, a bearded man, sporting a topknot and eyepatch, was seated in the copilot's chair. In his grip, positioned carefully on his right thigh, rested his hand cannon. "I'm talkin' a 3000 PSI hydraulic duct rotation system, and a 800 BHP shaft turbine engine. No piece of strung together junk, my girl. Nossir, Dreadnoks ain't ever seen a ride like my air skiff."

The pilot, still attentive to duty, regardless of circumstance, offered his nervous response. The same he'd been offering ever since the Dreadnoks invaded his craft. "Uh-huh."

Zanzibar, the latest Dreadnok recruit, made sure to present his pistol as he gestured towards the instrument panel. "Not that this bird is…deficient, let's say. Just bland. Gets the job done, right?'

"Uh-huh."

"Yeah," Zanzibar continued, "that's the problem with you lot. Don't appreciate the importance of style." He spoke this while drabbed in a ripped shirt that didn't reach his navel, purple and silver shoulder pads, a purple do-rag tied around his left leg, gold wristbands, and an orange-brown codpiece.

His lecture was interrupted by the cockpit door. "I got a feeling your style will soon be limited to orange jumpsuits, Dreadnok."

"Hey!" Zanzibar exclaimed, turning in his seat. "How did you—"

Chuckles didn't hesitate, blasted the gun from Zanzibar's hands before he finished the question. As the smoke wafted from his mousegun, Chuckles finally registered the sight before him. "Holy frijoles! You for real with that get-up, bub?"

Zanzibar, responding to Chuckles' silent motion, lifted his hands, but did not shut his mouth. "This, coming from you?"

"Arr, me matey. You be a salty one, eh?" Chuckles shot back, in his best cartoon buccaneer voice. "Listen, pirate boy, you keep those hands high." His attention turned to the pilot, he softened his tone and said, "Okay, bud, the worst of this is over. I don't know where the nearest airfield is, but I need you to set a course for it ASAP. What's your name, bud?"

"R-Roger," the pilot stuttered out. "Roger Marshall, sir."

"No need for those formalities, ah, sir. I'm no better than anybody else. Just here to make sure you get home okay."

Zanzibar tittered. "How noble. What a shame it would be if Roger didn't make it back home? If he never saw lovely Jolene or little Arthur ever again?"

Chuckles stepped closer, positioning himself only an inch from the Dreadnok. "No more cracks outta you, Davey Jones." Looking back to the pilot, he said, "Don't listen to him, bud. All he's got is hot air."

"The name's Zanzibar, an' I think Roger has had more time than you to get to know me. Why, before we digressed onto the subject of single-person aircraft, we had quite the chat about Jolene and sweet Arthur." The taunting cadence of Zanzibar's voice was chilling. "Oh, and let's not forget his mother Rhonda, still spry and lively…up in Nantucket, yes?"

Chuckles pressed the barrel of his weapon against the tip of Zanzibar's nose. "Hey, scumwad! You're gonna stop that, now!"

"I'm sorry. I really am," spoke the terrified voice.

"No!" shouted Chuckles, less than a second before the aircraft took a dip. One that directed the plane hundreds of feet south. The motion forced Chuckles off his feet, sent him directly into the instruments. Amidst the roar of the engine, and the crash of the serving cart in the cabin, he heard the sound of his gun hitting the floor…just as his funny bone made a regrettable connection with the edge of the panel.

The pilot, sputtering out another apology, corrected course, directed the plane back up. Chuckles was attempting to reposition his body, searching for his gun when the cockpit door opened. Filling the open space, filling all of it, was the titan known as Road Pig. In his hands, that hideous cinderblock hammer he'd used earlier to demolish their jeep.

"Aw, that's just—"

Road Pig, perhaps as crazy as he was dumb, took a swing at Chuckles, still pinned against the instrument panel. Zanzibar ducked out of the way, had to press his entire body against the wall of the cabin, the enclosed space never designed to house four individuals simultaneously.

Chuckles dodged the attack, lurched towards Road Pig, did anything in his power to prevent the hammer from connecting with the instruments.

"You maniac!" Zanzibar shrieked from inches away, as Chuckles wrestled with Road Pig for the base of the hammer. "If you hit that control panel, we're all dead!"

Chuckles, as he struggled to prevent the hammer from connecting, added, "Listen to your pal, swamp breath!"

The pilot was stammering again, this time reciting a Hail Mary.

"You ain't telling me what to do!" Road Pig bellowed in reply, his frog eyes giving Chuckles a lesson in the art of crazy. The Joe might've developed something of a reputation for cockiness, but no part of him was arrogant enough to believe he could maintain this position for much longer. Road Pig could overpower a factory-new Komatsu bulldozer. One single Joe, especially one not named "Roadblock," didn't stand a chance.

This braindead child was really going to do it. He was going to plow through Chuckles and destroy that instrument panel. They were all going to die; Chuckles merely had the honor of going first.

"Just put that hammer away, idiot! We'll find some other way to gut this Joe!"

"N-nice to hear," Chuckles spoke underbreath. Sweat forming on his brow, Chuckles attempted to reason with the brute, not anticipating much success. "Hey, Piggy… what say I promise to…be a good boy, if you just…sheath that hammer, huh?"

"Zarana…ordered me…to deal with you!"

And, as if she were lured by the sound of her own name, Zarana appeared. "And you've done just that, luv," she said before giving Road Pig a peck behind his right ear. Bending down, retrieving Chuckles' fallen ankle piece, she continued her orders. "Now, let that hammer go and escort our guest back to his seat, a'right?"

Road Pig's body language unclenched. At least a hint of that crazy disappeared from his eyes. He turned to his dearest with a boyish smile on his face.

"For you, anything…luv."

CHAPTER SIX

A garbled announcement over the speakers. Didn't grasp enough Spanish to comprehend the words, but did recognize the number of his flight. Took him nearly fifteen minutes to find an employee who spoke English well enough to convey the message:

"Flight 7326 to Dublin has been delayed indefinitely due to high winds. General José Zuloaga International Airport apologizes for any inconvenience."

The ninja returned to his seat, the middle in a tandem sling of chairs. Tolerated a bleating baby on one side and an escapee from a corpulent circus act on the other. He'd already stolen a glance at the fat man's ticket. Fate had granted fortune; they weren't sharing a flight. The baby and his useless mother, however, were scheduled to be seated directly behind him.

Marvelous. Just the latest dishonor he'd been forced to endure since his departure from Cobra. For not the first time, he questioned his decision to leave. No commercial flights when that organization was paying the bills, only the finest in cutting edge aerospace technology. Even if some of R&D's designs were needlessly esoteric, their dedication to innovation and sense of panache brought some joy to the grizzlier aspects of the job. Were the ninja truly being honest with himself, he'd have to acknowledge those Trubble Bubbles, once you'd gotten the hang of the things, could be a thrill to pilot.

Yet, he felt justified in his departure. Witnessing that kangaroo court his Commander had been thrown into, a firsthand lesson in the treacherous, disloyal nature of his comrades, was a revelation. He refused to follow them to the Himalayas, slipped off Cobra Island without a word. Heard stories later about the suicide mission they'd embarked on. Assumed the worst about his Commander, until he'd received word weeks back.

"Be patient," read the telegram. "Plans are afoot…"

He'd obey orders; keep taking these merc jobs until the Commander revealed himself, made his latest master plan known. He'd accept the unfulfilling work in the meantime.

This latest assignment had been like a pebble in his shoe. Simple enough task, infiltrating the rebranded Terrordrome and taking care of that political hack. If only that woman hadn't inserted herself, tossing in those addendums, those "bright ideas" she thought would make the plan perfect.

An additional thousand dollars to make this a frame job. Fine. Her mulishness about using that particular blade still rankled, though. A ninja shouldn't be particular about the tools; they're only instruments, apparatuses that exist to commit the deed. Resenting the blade was illogical, yet his mind wouldn't release the memory. He could still feel the tantō in his hand, sense a fundamental wrongness about even touching it, let alone implementing it as a tool of murder.

He closed his eyes, attempted to push away the unwashed and their chatter, to mediate the anxiety away. Why would that memory linger? Why such burning resentment? Was it the ignominy of that woman, a common heimin, dictating the tools of his trade… or was it about more than ego?

Was it the tantō itself? Did the ninja possess the self-awareness? Could he rationalize to himself why he'd risked everything to return to that Terrordrome? Why he retrieved the weapon from that desk drawer?

Could he acknowledge the dragon sigil emblazoned on the tantō had also seared itself into his soul?

"And you're sure Storm Shadow was the culprit?" asked the former sensei, offering his guest a second cup of tea.

Burke, spots of glue still lingering on his roguishly attractive face, nodded. "Sarah might've been needlessly reckless—a sin neither of us has been guilty of, surely—but she wasn't stupid. Attached a mini-cam to her lapel. Every dismaying moment of their encounter is on film, my enigmatic friend."

The host paused, recognized Burke's poor attempt at hiding the grief. Still couldn't believe he'd stumbled across this bum when working this ridiculous mission, but that's life for you. And even if Burke was an agent of the clandestine British intelligence outfit A.U.N.T.I.E., one with a rancid reputation amongst his teammates, he knew his responsibility to recognize a life lost too soon.

"I understand," he said, sipping the dirt-cheap, generic brand coffee he'd smuggled into the country. "And I'm sorry for your loss. That's an aspect of our work I don't think I'll ever be able to accept."

Burke indulged in a lengthy sip before responding. "Oh, I've put on the show in the past." The words seemed directed more at himself than his host. "Took the crew out for drinks at the pub, poured out a glass in honor of a fallen friend. Kept that stiff upper lip pointed northward. We cope any way we can, and I've likely handled the hits as well as most. But the footage we retrieved from that girl…"

"That's the kind of thing that can haunt ya," replied the ninja, still partially in his disguise. "No doubt. But, considering what we've all learned tonight, how do you propose we go forward? I don't have to worry about you lingering over me with a knife while I sleep, do I?"

"Assuming your mystery employer has no objections, I'd prefer to maintain my mission."

"Uh, pal, I ain't Storm Shadow. Even though, divorced from all modesty, I'd say I've been doing a jake impression," spoke the American, affecting the Lower East Side drawl of Jimmy Durante.

Burke grinned. "I accept that, sir. But this is a Cobra installation you've infiltrated, is it not? And if I match my resources with yours, won't that bring me that much closer to my desired target?"

The host stood, stretched his arms. "Could be. I'll have to run this up the flagpole, but I reckon I can see fit keeping you around a few days… 'Gordo.' One thing, though." Curiosity glowed in Burke's eyes. "Your 'auntie' really needs to work on her prosthetics skills. Oughta consider yourself fortunate, pal, every other trainee here being too young an' dumb to recognize a bad polymer job."

They patched him in from Air Force One, after she threw her fit. Had to endure three separate senior staffers, all expressing their sympathy, all assuring her the United States would condemn the act of terrorism that robbed Luisa of her uncle.

She maintained her resolve. Wouldn't allow these drones to "handle" her, to use political double-speak at such a moment. She wanted to speak to their superior, not the latest Office of the Chief of Staff assistant or Oval Office Operations underling.

"Luisa, is that you?" If the old man was irritated taking her call, it didn't show in his voice. A better actor than he was ever given credit for? "I'm so sorry to hear of your loss. I spoke to your aunt as soon as I heard the news. You do understand you have our full support at this time, don't you?"

"And that is appreciated. But I'm afraid this situation is more delicate than you've been informed."

"That so, dear? In what way?"

"The killer, the fiend who took my uncle from me, who deprived Punto del Mucosa of its greatest hope…" Luisa had to turn away from her phone, blow her nose and find the strength to complete the thought, to say the words that must be spoken. "…this murderer was sent by you."

The voice on the other end couldn't answer at first. "Luisa, I'm not sure you understand what you're saying…"

"I understand it very well. I have the murder weapon in my possession, and I can prove one of your soldiers brought it into our home."

"Even…even if that were the case, it doesn't mean one of our men is guilty of what you're alleging."

"Your 'man' had the weapon, the opportunity, and the skill. Be clear on this," she spoke with a conviction rivaling that of the most fanatical of the protestors, "Punto del Mucosa will not tolerate such an attack on our land. We will not allow our leader to remain unavenged."

"Now, hold on," he answered, his tone hiding the irritation, the indignity of the falsely accused. "This is something we have to talk out. What motivation do you think we would have, sending an assassin on a friendly inspectorial mission?"

"A statement, perhaps? To any other nation willing to do business with your opponents? Never mind the position my nation was in; never mind how dearly we needed a base this secure."

He took a breath, considered his next words with care. And, just perhaps, took a moment to digest the advice being fed into his other ear. "Luisa, please understand, I'm not attempting to minimize your loss. I'm just sick over what happened to Hugo. But if you truly believe we're looking to start a war with your nation, I can't begin to tell you how wrong you are. Now, on the matter of the inspectorial team—"

"You mean the assassination squad you sent to my home?" she asked, the fire rising. "Consider yourself very lucky they still breathe. And if your preference is for them to stay in this condition, I think a serious discussion, regarding Punto del Mucosa and your federal aid program, should be on the table."

She could hear the gasp on the other end of the line. "That's… Luisa, are you serious? Are you using your uncle's death as blackmail? To hold our troops hostage?"

"Your words, my friend. Which betray your wicked way of thought. I seek only justice for my uncle, and the means for my nation to enter this brave, post-Communist future in partnership with the greatest democracy on Earth. Surely, the loudest advocate for free nations in the world won't object?"

She hung up the phone before he could answer. Classic negotiation ploy, taught to her at Wharton. Leaving her chair, she paused a moment before exiting the office. Made sure to give her uncle's portrait a kiss goodbye.

Dismissed the aides, walked to her quarters on her own. The ceremony was over an hour away, leaving Luisa with a moment to be alone. To escape the insanity of this day. She sat on the edge of her bed, removed her heels. Drew in several deep breaths. Wiped away the last of her black tears.

Her instructors at Juilliard would've been floored, had they witnessed the performance. To think she'd been dismissed as "wooden," "cold," and…what was the other critique? No, it didn't matter. One instructor had the temerity to suggest she pursue a more traditional career path, implying she was squandering her family's fortune.

No child of an oil magnate could be a connoisseur of the arts, that was the insinuation. Would never have the proper motivation to dive into a role, to look inward, reject her privilege, and expose a vulnerable part of herself. The word suddenly hit her, as she gazed upon her reflection in the metallic ceiling. Yes, Luisa was just "unpersuasive" in her roles.

She had to laugh. Minutes later, Luisa found herself unable to stop.

Two hours since they'd last seen Jinx. Nearly an hour for Tripwire, who'd been pulled away at the request of Luisa's chief of staff, asked to oversee some pressing business relating to the inspection. The lieutenant, checking that clock every thirteen seconds as he paced around the room, wished now he'd fought back harder, not given any benefit of the doubt when Tripwire was escorted away, not after what had happened to Jinx.

"This really is like something out of a nightmare," he said, turning to the door, fully aware two armed guards remained stationed outside.

"Nightmare, huh? Wouldn't know anything about those…" came a voice from the bunks. Low-Light, not even close to sleepy, but killing time by lying back, staring at the ceiling.

"I've actually been getting some decent nights lately," Falcon answered. "Those tricks you taught me, about taking control of my dreams, I think they helped."

Low-Light breathed through his nose; presumably, a sign of pleasure and gratitude. "Not rocket science. Just focus on something positive, some thought you think is strong enough to fight whatever it is that's invading your dreams."

Anyone in the unit long enough would hear the stories about Low-Light. His hard upbringing, the nightmares that pursued him, the peculiar method he'd developed for fighting them off. A few years ago, the taciturn grouch was actually the hero of the day, back when some freaky Cobra device weaponized the Joes' nightmares against them. No one could've fought off those debauched REM waves better than Low-Light.

"Seems like it works," Falcon spoke, abandoning his path and leaning against Low-Light's bunk. "I've, ah, I've been thinking of my brother. It seems to help, having him there, when the dreams get dark."

Low-Light, either too cool to be bothered by sentiment or in a perpetually adolescent flight away from such gooey emotions, merely nodded. Recognizing Falcon desired some affirmation, he did add, "Yeah? I think he'd like that."

Falcon looked away, made the swift decision to swap topics. "Hey, don't it seem like it's been a while since they asked to see Tripwire?"

"Could be. Might you inquire on his behalf, Lieutenant?"

He nodded, went to the door. Steeled himself before clicking the "Open" button. Bad feeling about how this would turn out.

"Back in your room!" roared the guard on his right. A good five inches taller than his companion, this sentry was rocking indoor sunglasses, a mustache reaching Dali proportions, and a tan most Hollywood superstars would have to envy.

"Whoa, there," Falcon responded, making a conscious effort to keep his tone friendly. "I'm just checking on my teammate."

The guard, caring little for civility, barked in return, "He'll be back when he's back, now you need to get back in that room."

When the guard put his hand on Falcon's shoulder, made his best effort to nudge him towards the room, that's when Falcon's temper kicked up. "Listen, bud, I realize we're in a delicate political situation here. And I think I've stayed fairly calm, considering you've pulled half my team away, and falsely accused one of 'em of murder. But if you think I've got an unlimited store of patience, amigo, then you'd better—"

He didn't finish the firm-yet-respectful threat, being shoved with open hand against his chest back to the steel door. "You were told to return to your room! If you continue to disobey, I'll be forced to take certain measures…amigo."

Falcon, now fuming, stepped to the guard. "Oh, please tell me what those would be. I'm just dying to hear—"

The guard, his friend now joining him in crowding Falcon's space, interrupted his guest a second time. This disruption was expressed as a side jab into his solar plexus. Falcon, breathless, nearly hit the floor. Second guard, seeing this as his chance, said not a thing as he connected the heel of his boot with the lieutenant's temple.

Falcon, lips tasting the metallic cold of that shiny floor, tried to maintain his own cool. Did his best, telling himself it was merely a harmless exercise of aggression. That the main guard was just a jerk, and his buddy only following his lead.

Yeah, Falcon was going to beat both of them so bad they'd have to change their undershorts, but it wasn't going to be anything personal. Wasn't going to spark some transnational chaos, or get him pulled in front of another court-martial. After the bandages were applied, it could still be written off as a few young soldiers just getting a mite overenthusiastic.

But then, as Falcon returned to his knees, he gained a clear view of his new buddy. Saw him reach for his sidearm holster, a look in his eye so mean it might even give crazy ol' Low-Light nightmares.

No choice. This had to be a fight; a real one. So, first move on the lieutenant's part? The cheapest shot, the lowest move, one man could inflict upon another. One that could limit this guard's ability to make his mama a proud grandmama.

Rising with that uppercut, Falcon turned to the quiet guard. Clean-shaven, innocent eyes, the baby looks hinting he didn't share his companion's bloodlust. Had Falcon not felt that boot against his face ten seconds earlier, he might've agreed.

As the guard reached for his piece, Falcon stretched his right arm, got the kid by the wrist. Pulling him closer, Falcon introduced that ribcage to his knee. Thought he had an opening for an easy second shot; wasn't expecting the tyke to twist his body away so fast.

Definitely wasn't expecting him to then turn, retaliate with a standing jump kick. Second time the kid had bruised his face. He have something against a classic Italian-American oblong jawline?

The smaller guard didn't give Falcon any breathing room, striking with open hands against shoulder and back. The aching lieutenant danced back, was able to reorient himself, get a better look at the odd stance of his attacker.

Vale tudo. Some South American form of martial arts; Jinx told him about this, forced him to watch a tape of some back alley underground tournament. (Didn't want to ask where she got the thing.) Rough English translation was "anything goes"—essentially, a blank check for unsportsmanlike conduct and cheap shots.

Babyface here was dangerous.

He charged for the lieutenant's gut, confident a second blow would put him down for good. Falcon parried, obtained a fistful of the back of his uniform, then slammed the snotnose into the floor. Didn't think twice about employing some vale tudo of his own, connecting his boot with the small of babyface's back.

Only got one stomp in, as the guard rolled, not away from Falcon but towards him, seizing his leg and lifting it off the ground. Falcon felt his ribcage crash against the metal flooring before he'd even grasped babyface's low move. Hope that maggot's ribs are painin' him just as bad as mine are now was Falcon's dominant thought, rolling against the ice floor to avoid any follow-up shots.

The brawlers rose simultaneously, the lieutenant pressing this time. Babyface blocked Falcon's right cross, then took a fast jab at his collar. Falcon couldn't avoid the hit, staggered as he grasped his collarbone. Heard the squeaky steps of the guard behind him, played dumb for just a second, then clutched babyface's right arm at the shoulder. Flipping him overhead, the guard collided against the door Falcon had been instructed to return to earlier.

Shaking off the aches, Falcon got a few quick hits in, finishing off babyface before pressing the exterior "Open" button. Entering the chamber, he announced, "Hey, Low-Light. I think I just committed a severe political faux pas out here." Grunting, the tender Falcon had to finish his line, "Reckon we oughta find our own and get outta here while we still can?"

Low-Light hopped off the top bunk. "Thought you'd never ask, Lieutenant."

To be continued…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gene Kendall taught himself how to program a VCR at the age of five, determined to never miss an episode of G. I. Joe: A Real American Hero. He's been writing about reputable and disreputable pop culture for over ten years at Not Blog X and CBR, and has finished five novels as of this writing. Fans of the 1990s alt-rock movement, washed up comic book professionals, and a divorced ghost-hunting couple might want to sign up for updates on his Amazon author page, or check him out on Twitter.

AUTHOR'S COMMENTARY

Like most of us, I waited too late to get started on my Kindle Worlds project. Yeah, I did finish my first G. I. Joe novel early in 2018, and had it up by Valentine's Day. But, as I discovered when writing the piece, this was easily a trilogy. I decided to challenge myself, see if I could finish two more novels in the same year.

I was 40,000 words into this volume when the email arrived. Dear valued Kindle Worlds contributor, this whole thing is dead. No submissions after tomorrow. Everything's scrubbed in July. Here's an extra line of bland corporate speak to close out the email. Yours truly, Amazon.

Ah, well. It was never about the money. I'll finish my story, even if the death of Kindle Worlds is altering the format.

You're reading now the opening segment of the intended second novel. The next two segments will be released very soon. Initially, this story would've been posted as a 60,000+ word novel; long enough to justify your payment to Amazon but not so long you'd never finish the thing. Now, the novel is being broken into chunks and released for free.

And the third novel is still in the works. Assuming this experiment pans out, expect another 60,000+ word adventure to be split three ways.

Now, on to the annotations…

The footsteps of the S.N.A.K.E. grew closer, heavy metal boots clanging against the debris of battle.

The S.N.A.K.E. armor is a memory from early childhood, a part of my brother's toy collection that predated my exposure to the cartoon. The animated series portrayed the armor as an actual robot, contradicting the intended play value of the accessory—you can open the thing up and place your action figures inside! I try to reconcile both interpretations here.

His face said it all, though—sharing a mission with a hothead, a bad luck charm, and a notorious klutz. This had FUBAR written all over it.

Some thoughts on the cast selected for this story…

Tripwire is another early Joe toy I can remember from before the cartoon. Specifically, a coloring book image of him tripping over his own feet while carrying no doubt precious materials. (It's likely I didn't see any of the miniseries until the show aired them as a part of its daily syndication package in 1985.) His figure was recolored and rereleased in 1988, so there's at least some excuse for his appearance here.

Tripwire rarely appeared in the cartoon, but he has the distinction of being voiced by VO great Rob Paulsen, perhaps best known for portraying Raphael in the original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles series. I'm following the same rules established in the 3.1 novel—everyone "speaks" in their Sunbow voices. I like the thought of Paulsen's voice interacting with the rest of the cast. Also, there's room in the story to address why Tripwire wasn't a klutz during his rare appearances, so I'm taking it.

Low-Light is a favorite from the 1986 wave of figures. The origin story Larry Hama intended for the character was vetoed by Hasbro. Tales of young boys ordered to hunt rats at the junkyard in exchange for their nightly supper apparently not the stuff of action figure cardbacks. The Sunbow producers did have access to Hama's earliest notes on the character, however. The episode "Nightmare Assault" was clearly inspired by Hama's initial conception of the brooding sniper.

Another voice acting legend, Charlie Adler, provided Low-Light's raspy vocals. The closest the Joe team has to a Clint Eastwood type, Low-Light is criminally underused in the canon. I will state, however, that I disagree with Sunbow producer Buzz Dixon's interpretation of Low-Light. Dixon views the sniper as utterly amoral, a killer who knows what he is and is only serving as a Joe for the legal cover the organization provides. Perhaps I'm a sap, but I just can't view Low-Light through such a cynical lens.

Have to give thanks to the Blind Master. Saved you from this scary world; does everything he can to keep that monster in white from finishing the job he started with your parents.

Jinx referenced her "blind ninja master" in the 1987 movie. The closest the cartoon ever came to acknowledging the comics' complex ninja canon, it's not unreasonable to think future episodes of the Sunbow series would've taken more inspiration from Hama's work. And, given the enrollment of a particular Joe in the 1988 line, I think there's more than enough justification to examine how all of these ninjas intersect with the Joes' world.

He refused to follow them to the Himalayas, slipped off Cobra Island without a word. Heard stories later about the suicide mission they'd embarked on. Assumed the worst about his Commander, until he'd received word weeks back.

Let the record state that Storm Shadow appears in the Terrordrome crowd scene during Cobra Commander's "trial" in the 1987 film. After that, he's gone for the rest of the movie. (And if there is some frame of him in the ice dome…that's just an animation mistake, of course.) The true story behind Storm Shadow's disappearance is unfolding right here, folks.

At the desk was the sensei, speaking to a female student seated in the chair directly across. Both were garbed in the white gei associated, in only the most select circles, with the Cobra Command terrorist organization.

Season One episode "Cobra Quake" established a Cobra training camp for ninjas…operated by none other than Storm Shadow himself, all garbed in his distinctive gei. The concept only appeared in this episode, and is often cited as an example of the quirky reality of the series.

A peeved expression crossed the intruder's face. "Matthew. Matthew Burke," answered the man, faint hints of glue still attached to his mustache.

Matthew Burke, agent of the mysterious A.U.N.T.I.E., debuted in the Season Two episode "The Spy Who Rooked Me." James Bond influenced several aspects of the series, so it was inevitable that a character like this would appear. A.U.N.T.I.E. is of course a nod to The Man from U.N.C.L.E., another parody/homage to 007. The joke of the episode is that Flint is unreasonably envious of Burke, who any rational person can see is only helping the Joes. Until he shows his true colors in the final scene, that is. I doubt anyone views that episode as a classic, but the twist at the end was a cute play on the audience's expectations.

That's all for this installment. If you have any thoughts, please don't hesitate to leave a comment or review. Next time: the origin of Jinx's codename…and a potentially lethal escape from Punto del Mucosa!