Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws


The Fire Triangle - A Zootopia Fanfiction

Prologue – Escape From Zoo York


Chapter 2

No sooner had Jimmy Jr. gone out the door, than a remarkable change came over his father. No longer petty and petulant, The Mister turned instantly cool and professional. As if to confirm this change of attitude, his two bear-bodyguards immediately assumed the 'at ease' position.

"Awrite, everything ready for Dylan's trip?" he asked.

It was as if the incident with his son had never happened…on his end, anyway. Not so for Kieran, who rubbed gingerly at his face while answering his uncle.

"It's all here." He answered, hoisting the Manila envelope, "Air tickets, maps, specially modified cell-phone, spending cash, prepaid debit card, mirrored sunglasses, and the placard of course."

"Good, good." His uncle nodded and then turned his attention to Danny, "An' what about youse? Got the stones all set to go?"

The swift fox answered him while holding up the backpack.

"Locked and loaded, Mister McCrodon."

The Mister rolled his wheelchair closer.

"I wanna see."

Danny zipped open the backpack, removing a bright yellow box, decorated with a multi-hued tartan and the outline of a castle on a high hill. A cellophane window on the left side revealed something that looked like 5 long pieces of sidewalk artists' chalk.

The label read, 'Rosseal's EDINBURGH CASTLE ROCK CANDY' and a small, oval sticker on the top right corner proclaimed, "To: Bobbi."

Danny passed the box to The Mister, who turned it over in his paws, studying it minutely.

"Nice work," he said, not looking up, "You can't tell it from the real thing."

Danny couldn't help chuckling in spite of himself. "That's coz it IS the real thing—original packaging." He allowed himself a wink, adding, "Slightly different contents of course."

"I especially like that little window on the side," The sea-mink nodded, passing it back to him, "If some MSA copper gets curious, he can see without opening the box that's it's only candy …but at the same time, he can't see everything that's in there."

Danny nodded back and Kieran decided to throw a couple of cents of his own; he pointed to the sticker in the corner of the box. "And because it's a kid's present, they'll be none too eager to open it anyways, eh? No one wants to look like a heartless yob.""

"Wanna see how it works?" Danny asked, anticipating the boss's next question.

"Yeah."

Danny drew out a small, twist-wrapped piece of the confection from his pocket, removing the cellophane and popping it into his mouth. He spent the next few seconds rolling it around his cheeks, and then spit a tiny object into his paw, offering it to The Mister.

The Mister leaned in closer, squinting. There, nestled in the swift fox's paw, was a brilliant, sparkling gem.

"That's only a zircoonia of course." Kieran told him, pointing at the stone, "But it gives ye the idea of how the set-up works. Our boys in the pharma labs did a cracker of a job."

"But will it get through an airport scanner okay?" The Mister asked, taking the gem between his thumb and forefinger and holding it up before his right eye. It was the proverbial $64 Thousand Dollar question, and Danny had a ready answer up his sleeve.

"Checked it out myself, Mister McCrodon; slipped a C-Note to an X-ray tech over at Bulleview. If HE couldn't spot the stone, then you better believe neither can some MSA hack."

"Excellent!" The Mister dropped the zircoonia back into the swift fox's pawlm, clapping his paws like a kit at a puppet show. It was truly an amazing transformation; a moment ago, The Company boss been halfway ready to ice Danny and Kieran; now, he was practically beaming.

But then he turned serious once again.

"Awrite, now listen up; change of plans. I want Dylan packed up and on his way to La Guanaco Airport within the hour."

"No problem Boss," Danny answered quickly, "only, mind if I ask why?"

He braced himself as soon as he said it, but this time, The Mister's mood remained at room temperature.

"Fair question," he answered, nodding over at the conference table, "It's coz I want him safely out of here by the time the sit-down starts…just in case our new 'friends' decide they wanna pull a fast one."

His response prompted Danny and Kieran to exchange another look…but this time one of relief.

…until their boss added, "When we give him up, it's gonna be on OUR terms, not theirs."

In reaction to this, a jolt of current seemed to flow through Danny and Kieran; both of them stiffened and the swift fox's tail became an instant frizz-brush.

It was something not lost on their boss and his irritation came back almost at once.

"You got a problem with that?" he asked coolly, leaning forward on the arms of his wheelchair.

Danny and Kieran didn't return his gaze, instead peering over and past their boss's shoulder. Both of his bodyguards were wearing hard faces and had their paws inside their jackets; what The Mister was REALLY saying was, 'You ain't got a problem with that!'

With a supreme effort, they forced themselves to meet his eyes.

"No, Boss."

"No, Mister McCrodon,"

"Glad to hear it." The Mister answered with half a sneer, and then beckoned with a pair of fingers to his bodyguards, signaling that the audience was over.

The moment his back was turned, Danny and Kieran exchanged another look, only now it was a look of near despair.

That expression was still on Kieran's face a few moments later, when he stood in the Males' washroom, splashing water onto his face from a basin. It was a large-rodent sink; a mite too small for a sea-mink, and he had to crouch down in front of it to reach the faucets. For some reason, the image reminded Danny of penitent kneeling before an altar, but he wisely chose to keep that observation to himself; his sometime-sidekick was agitated enough as it was.

"That punk, Junior," the sea-mink hissed, baring his teeth at the mirror above the sink to check for damage and patting gingerly at the spot where the blackthorn stick tagged him, "If he wasn't The Mister's only son…"

"Well, he IS the boss's only son." Danny Tipperin observed, tartly, from behind, "And he's the only son The Mister is ever gonna have; so like it or not, we're stuck with him." Older than the sea-mink by half a decade, he was also a few years more jaded.

Kieran sighed and watched the water drain away, head sagging between his shoulders. Danny knew what that meant, the sea-mink was about to go all philosophical on him.

"Ah, Danny boy…how'd we ever come to this, eh? You with your skills and me with mine…doin' work that we hate, and for a sod we like even less."

Danny folded his arms and leaned against the washroom wall, crossing one leg over the other.

"Well, the money for one thing." He said, and it was true. The Mister might be as mean as an acid-wash when it came to giving out orders, but when it came to giving out favors, he was one rung below Santa Claws…especially with his soldiers.

Kieran answered him by spitting noisily into the sink.

"Chicken scratch!" he chirred, turning around. "Oi could make ten times what me Uncle pays, if I was workin' fer Microsloth or Amooseon…D'yer know Oi still get offers every now and again?" He raised a finger at the swift-fox, "and don't tell me you couldn't do better, working as an honest mammal, boyo. Why, why do we stay here?"

Danny held back his answer until he was sure the sea mink had run out of steam. Then he shrugged.

"You know why Druid, you heard what your uncle said back there. He's the only thing keeping us from going to back prison."

The sea-mink looked like he wanted to bite somebody

"Aye, an' fer crimes we didn't commit!" He expelled the words like venom, "If you hadn't been a fox, and if MY species weren't part o' the weasel family..."

Danny pushed himself off the wall, one eyebrow higher than the other.

"All right Kieran…what's really bugging you?"

The sea-mink appeared to fold up halfway and deflate. It was as if he'd just taken another shot from his uncle's blackthorn stick…this time to the gut.

Then he looked up.

"You know what 'tis, Danny…an' ye can stop pretending you're not bothered by it as well. The Mister's goin' to do it; he's goin' sell out Dylan fer 'is thirty pieces of silver."

"For a lot more than that," the swift-fox observed, but even to him it sounded lame.

"Aye, an' you know what they'll do to him, boyo?" Kieran had straightened up again, and was holding up the laptop case, like Exhibit 'A', "Well I do, I never told yer half the stuff I found inside their database." He shook his head, "How can he do it, boyo? I always knew me uncle was heartless, but his is a new low even for him. After Dylan saved Junior from that pack of hooligans, THIS is how the sod pays him back?"

Danny nodded but said nothing. The Druid was back on his soap-box again and there was nothing to do but wait and ride it out.

"Oi always knew was that Dylan'd be clever on the computer," he went on, "an' he hasn't disappointed me. Sweet mum-o'-mercy, he's halfway ready to join The Circle right now. And you saw how he handled himself against those yobs what was beatin' on Junior, right? Well, that was before I started teaching him some o' mixed-martials. Right now, I think he could have taken one of those punks, not the one in charge of course, but one of his stooges at least." He hastily qualified his statement and then raised an eyebrow. "What about the weapons trainin', how's Dylan comin' with that, by the bye?

The sudden segue caught Danny by surprise, and for half a click, he didn't know how to answer.

Finally he told Kieran, "Pretty good actually; darn good shot for someone who's never handled a piece before and he picked up on how to do a field strip almost right away." He frowned inwardly. Yes, Dylan had some talent with weapons alright, but he absolutely hated them; more than once he'd tried to beg off a training session, and Danny would have allowed it—except they'd both had the Mister leaning over their shoulders.

However he wasn't about to say that here and now; the boss wouldn't like it if he heard the swift-fox had been talking behind his back—and Danny had been in Dutch with The Mister once already this morning.

Instead, he said, "Of course that's only with the small-caliber weapons. Once we move on to the heavier stuff, might be different story; you follow what I'm bringing out?"

Kieran just nodded as if he's expected no less.

"Right and that's not even mentionin' the way he plays the…"

It was as far as he got before Danny threw up a paw in a 'Stop' gesture.

"Yeah, yeah Druid, I know all that. What I don't know is what you think we oughta DO about it."

The sea-mink didn't answer immediately, instead looking around for a second, as if to make sure no one else was nearby…and then he pulled a thumb-drive from his pocket, holding it up for Danny's consideration.

At once the swift-fox felt his teeth setting on edge; he recognized the accessory and he knew where Kieran was headed with his argument.

"Not much WE can do, boyo." The sea-mink murred, lowering his voice," but there's something Dylan can do fer himself isn't there? He makes the swop and doesn't come back."

But Danny was already shaking his head.

"Never work, buddy. Even with a new identity; he'll be all by himself in a strange city…with no money."

Kieran looked away, embarrassed for a second…a guy who just met his high school crush after fifteen years and didn't recognize her. Danny Tipperin was not surprised by this; in fact, it was exactly what he'd expected.

He let out a groan that was nearly a scream.

"G'eeeh! You're not seriously gonna suggest that Dylan keep the cash for himself!" Kieran 'The Druid' McCrodon might have been a legend in the hacker community, but in the flesh and fur, he was sometimes about as difficult to read as the average billboard.

"Wellll not all of it, boyo," he started to say—before Danny slapped a paw against the tiles, making a flat, cracking noise.

"Aggggh, grrrr, I knew it. Don't even go in that general direction, Druid! If Dylan touches even so much as a penny of that money, The Mister won't just have him iced, he'll wanna make an EXAMPLE out of him." He poked himself in the chest with a thumb and in a quick, fluid motion, morphed the gesture into a pair of fingers aimed at Kieran. "And guess which guys are gonna get that job. No! Thanks!"

There were actually about a hundred other arguments against Kieran's suggestion, but Danny knew that this one was the trump card.

It wasn't; instead of being cowed, Kieran raised his fists on either side of his head.

"Sweet mother o' mercy, I can't believe I'm hearin' this! How can you just stand there, and…?"

"Coz I got bigger problems, Druid!" the swift fox snapped, deciding enough was enough, "We ALL do." He jabbed two fingers upwards at the ceiling, towards the dance floor where the other members of The Company would soon be gathering for the sit-down, along with their 'guests.'

"It ain't just Dylan who's being sold out," he said, too angry to give a darn WHO might overhear him now, "it's all of us…The Mister included, and he don't even realize it, that's the worst part."

That finally shut Kieran up…because now he got it.

The swift fox dropped his paw and rolled on. As usual when he was agitated, his good grammar had all but deserted him.

"What the heck is your uncle THINKING…that life is like some comic-book movie, where every time a business mammal is dumb enough to cross a gangster, he gets his head handed to him? Get real, already! You been inside this guy's data-base? Well, I've been in his PRESENCE. This ain't some lame, bowler-hat guy we're dealin' with over here, this is the LAST animal we should try to do a deal with," He stared into a corner, adding softly, under his breath, "much less try to plinkin' blackmail."

Kieran stared at him.

"Yer…scared Danny?" He phrased it not as question, but as a statement of disbelief; Danny 'The Danaconda' Tipperin—afraid? That wasn't possible...was it?

The swift fox sighed and seemed to deflate.

Then he looked at the sea mink with big, bleak eyes.

"Yeah Druid," he answers quietly. "We're in way over our head with this outfit—and did I ever mention who our new, little buddy's top enforcer is? That wolverine I told you about, the one I did time with."

The sea-mink took a quick step backwards, nearly tripping over his tail, the way Junior had earlier.

"That bloke?!"

"THAT bloke," Danny confirmed, nodding.

"Have yer told that to the Mister, then?" Kieran asked him, in a voice that said he already knew the answer.

The swift fox answered, in that same bitter, half-despairing groan, "Only about a hundred times, But every time I try, he just waves me off like it don't matter; he says this deal is too big an opportunity to let go, but he ain't foolin' me. This whole thing is really about payback for Crazy Wez, and you know what your uncle's like when things get fursonal."

"Aye, like a runaway freight train with no brakes," Kieran sighed and rubbed his face with both paws. "Oi but yer right though aren't yer? Dylan's problems aren't even close to the worst of it."

He took in a deep breath and punted the ball to the swift fox. "Just the same, what do we do?"

Danny managed a wan smile.

"Well, this sit-down may be a bad idea," he said, "but at least The Mister's handling it right; refusing to meet anywhere but on OUR turf and making sure we got all our guys here as back-up." He held up the backpack, "And especially wantin' to make sure Dylan's nowhere near this place when the meet goes down. So let's go get him ready and get him to the airport. Once he's safely outta here, maybe then we can figure out a way around this mess."

"Right then, let's go." Kieran nodded and followed the swift fox out of the washroom and in the direction of the basement stairs.


Just up the street from Finagle's, a mammal-hole cover stood open, surrounded by a barricade, of orange, plastic mesh with spaces that became progressively smaller the closer it came to the ground, (to keep any smaller species from slipping through.)

In the tunnel below, a mole in a hardhat, headset, and reflective vest was standing atop on a cherry-picker with his head-lamp aimed at an open junction box. He consulted a tablet fixed to the railing for a second, then traced among the wires and connections with his finger, finally letting it come to rest at red over a bright blue fiber-optic cable. With a quick nod, he reached over and picked up a pair of wire-cutters—which for him were the size of bolt cutters—and fitted them around the cable's width.

Two blocks distant, a pine marten in an identical hardhat was perched high atop a microwave relay tower. Briefly consulting a diagram, he unplugged one of the USB cables, and replaced it with a different one.

Then he spoke into a bluefang headset.

On a warehouse rooftop not far away, a bighorn sheep with no hardhat, (no need, given his species) was just finishing up a fine-tune adjustment on something resembling a satellite TV dish—except for it's odd shape, something like a stretched-out hexagon.

Satisfied with this bit of handiwork, the sheep carefully corrected the aim, focusing the dish on the roof of the pearly-white structure with the blue banner, directly across the parking lot from his position.

After consulting a tablet of his own, he made one more small adjustment, and then spoke into his own bluefang microphone, worn clipped to the end of his right-side horn.

In a park close by, a young jaguar of middle-school age was just then launching a six-prop drone into the air and watching it fly away. There was no one else nearby, which was a good thing; otherwise they might have wondered how a kid that age ever got his paws on such an esoteric-looking drone; it appeared to be almost mil-spec.

In fact, it was more than merely mil-spec, a favorite gadget of the ZSA—but also available commercially if you had the right connections; at a hundred yards distance, the tiny aircraft slowed and then stopped, hovering in midair, awaiting further instructions.

They would not be long in coming. Down below, the young jag had already seated himself at a picnic table before an open laptop and was plugging in a joystick-controller that would have done an attack helicopter proud. With that task completed, he donned a headset similar to the one worn by the others, but with a small, crystalline window-attachment, held directly in front of his right eye.

Then he reached for the joystick, at the same time typing commands with his other paw.

A second later, the drone moved off at high speed. When it came to a halt again, the laptop screen was showing an overhead view of Finagles' front entrance—where a gloss-black limo had just pulled up to the curb. At the rear of the vehicle, a pronghorn antelope could be seen opening the door for his passenger. After a short second, a sea mink in an elegantly tailored overcoat made a fast exit from the vehicle, pulling his collar about him as he scurried towards the door on all fours.

Quick, but not quick enough; at once, drone's the camera zoomed in on his face, and a lattice-work of lines imposed itself on his features. A tenth of a mouse's heartbeat later, a flashing name appeared on the laptop screen, with two lines of text etched underneath.

Gerard, 'Gerrymander' McCrodon

Head of Company bootleg pharmaceuticals operation

Target Priority: 1

The feline reached up and touched his left ear, speaking into a blufang headset…in a voice much too deep for an adolescent leopard, but just about right for an adult Margay with slightly altered facial markings.

"Red-Fire One, this is Drone Op 2. Sir, The Mister's youngest brother has arrived on target, face-rec confirms. Over."

On another nearby rooftop, two thick, heavy paws, with curved dagger-claws, were wrapped around a pair of hi-tech binoculars. They were an asymmetrical pair; while the left paw was a dark, midnight brown, the other was a chalky, burnt ivory white.

And now the binoculars lowered to reveal a wedge-shaped, black-furred muzzle and a pair of dark, penetrating eyes, ringed around by a thin line of fur, the color of tarnished brass. The fur above the fringe was a dark, dirty-brown fur, covering a skull shaped like an armored dome, topped by a pair of short, spoon-shaped ears. When the wolverine spoke into his own headset, his tone was deep, but also measured and slow; in fact, he sounded almost bored. Even so there was an unsettling quality to his voice, like the first, faint rumble of an approaching thunderstorm.

"Drone 2, acknowledged. Red-Fire 1, out."

The white-pawed wolverine ended the transmission and then spoke into the headset a second time. This time he did not bother with a call-sign.

"Phone access, speed dial…"

A moment later a smart-phone nestled in a charging cradle commenced to play the opening notes from the song, 'Kill The Beast'. (A very private joke.)

On the third note, a blunt-fingered paw reached for the cell and then a large, shadowy figure began to speak, dispensing with any greeting.

"Whitepaugh? Go."

Like his underling, the unseen figure spoke in a baritone profundo…but with a melodious, nearly operatic timbre. Had anyone been listening, they would have concluded at once that this individual, however he was, must be capable of delivering one stem-winder of a stump speech, (and they'd have been right.)

"Sir," the wolverine spoke in a crisp, even voice, "I'm pleased to report that the digital lockdown is in place and all fursonell are standing by. The first of The Company's inner circle arrived less than two minutes ago."

"Good," the figure sat back in his wing-back chair, idly drumming his fingers on the hardwood desktop in front of him. "I leave it in your capable paws, Whitepaugh. Just be certain that you keep in mind our top two priorities."

The wolverine stiffened, as if this was all news to him…and part of it was.

"Yes sir, I am aware of our first priority—rest assured, he won't escape—but what is the second priority, if may ask?"

Inside the dimly-lit office, the paw holding the cell-phone tightened its grip and a pair of long, sharp incisors became exposed; the voice took on a serrated edge.

"The Mister—I want an example made, a message sent: 'THIS is what happens to anyone foolish enough to run an extortion scheme on me.' See that it's done."

For the first time since his arrival on the rooftop, the wolverine smiled, lips pulling back to reveal an abattoir, a set of heavy, razor-sharp teeth that by rights should have belonged to an animal twice his size and half again his bulk.

"With pleasure, sir," He answered snarling hungrily.

"Very good, Whitepaugh." The unseen figure nodded, "and now I think of it, I want you to have my cell-phone patched into the helicopter's PA system. I believe I want to send that message FURSONALLY."

The order, which had started on an almost jolly note, concluded on a vicious one.

"Done and done sir," the wolverine nodded…and without another word the call was terminated and the figure in the office settled down in his chair again, becoming nearly invisible in the artificial twilight.


Down in the basement of Finagles the atmosphere was even darker than the office, everything black and still…but then the lyrics to a song could be heard, heard, echoing through the underground passageways.

"In the dark, who can see his face?

In the dark, who can reach him?

Several seconds later, a line of randomly spaced, bare bulbs, strung along the ceiling, flickered unsteadily to life, bathing the corridor in dull, yellow light and illuminating the figures of Danny Tipperin and Kieran McCrodon. Also visible was the flotsam and jetsam of the Company's various enterprises, piled against the wall, floor to ceiling in a random pattern; old and unused filing cabinets, open cartons of empty pill-bottles, half-destroyed practice targets, and weapons cases with broken latches.

As the corridor came fully alight, Danny could hear something—actually many somethings—skittering away underfoot. They were going to need to fumigate again.

"If someone else don't beat us to it," the swift thought with stifled shudder, and then beckoned for Kieran to follow him.

Three yards onward they passed the open door of a room stacked with small arms of nearly every type. Ten feet later, they moved past another room, this one fitted with a tight, glass door, behind which were ensconced a triple row of blade-server racks, all of them winking red and green.

The next door they came to was solid like the first and closed like the second; it was here that Kieran stopped and spoke up.

"If ye don't mind boyo, I need to make a quick check on somethin'…just in case."

"Go ahead," said the swift fox, who did mind but who also understood the necessity. Kieran couldn't be too careful, not today.

He watched as the sea-mink turned towards the entrance; a plain, sliding, black-painted fire-door with a counterweight. Beside it was plastic, flip-up hood, like the covering of a fire alarm button—which the sea-mink now raised to reveal a card-reader and a keypad. It was actually a mite too small for his species, and that was just how he wanted it. If that made access for him difficult, it would make it well-nigh impossible for any of the gang's larger mammals—say Zeke Zinneman or Benny Beerbohm. It was just one more of the little security touches for which Kieran McCrodon was well noted.

In keeping with that, he had Danny turn away before inserting his card and entering his access number. There were no corresponding beeps as he punched in the code; beeps could be recorded and memorized for later use.

He pressed the # button, and the counterweight dropped as the door slid silently open. At the same time, the interior of the room came alight in a soft, white, pastel glow.

Then the two of them stepped through the door and into the boiler room (Kieran's name for the place).

The chamber was about the size of railroad car and could almost have almost passed for a wine-cellar; LED-lighting was commonplace in such enclosures after all.

Almost! Since when did wine cellars have walls papered in copper netting, ditto for the ceiling? (It was also under the floorboards, although that wasn't visible.) Arrayed against the facing wall was a line of ten computer workstations—no, make that eleven; Kieran had added on another one since Danny's last visit here. The air inside the room was dry and pleasantly cool.

Whenever he came in here, the sheer magnitude of the set up never failed to take Danny Tipperin's breath away. Although not a computer wiz himself, he knew enough to recognize a cyber-masterpiece when he saw it.

To look at the room, one might think it was the domain of an entire crew of hackers; it wasn't; Kieran ran this shop alone, assisted occasionally assisted by Dylan, but otherwise, it was him, himself, and nobody else, Kieran McCrodon the Druid.

That did not necessarily mean the sea-mink worked alone however. Every single one of those workstations was hooked either to a separate DSL line, or to a Wi-Fi receiver, concealed on the roof of the club amongst a flower-bed of satellite dishes, every receiver fitted with a encryption device. (Some of the stations had both DSL and Wi-Fi.)

Add to that, every single one of the lines was routed through a different server, all of them located in foreign countries, mostly in Asia or Eastern and Central Ewerope, but all of them with one thing in common: these were nations that did NOT permit scrutiny of their internet resources by offshore entities.

This was how Kieran kept in touch with his crew of hackers, an assemblage known collectively as The Circle. Danny knew practically nothing about them individually, but a great deal about the group as a whole.

They were a motley crew to say the least, practically every single one of them was a different species and/or background, from the proverbial kit in his mother's basement to button-down employees of hi-tech corporations. Other than that, Danny knew precious little of their histories, which of them were natives, how many resided offshore; even the exact number of Circle members was a mystery to the swift fox.. (His best guess was seven, possibly eight.)

When it came to their fursonalities however, he was better informed on the subject. For instance, the members' motives for joining The Circle were as diverse as their lifestyles. Some of them were in it for the money, some of them were looking to pad their online resumes, ("Yeah, I worked with The Druid!") and one or two of their number were just plain anarchists, eager to cause mayhem whenever and wherever the opportunity arose..

But by far the biggest reason that most of them had pledged their fealty to The Circle was in response to the great siren song of all hackers, the thrill of the forbidden; the rush of getting inside a supposedly impenetrable database and then getting out again without being detected.

"That's somethin' the Coppers will never understand, Danny boy." Kieran had once explained over lunch at Lambardi's Pizza, "Fer every computer-breach that results in data bein' compromised, oi'd say there's at least five happening where nothin' gets touched."

When commiserating with the Circle members individually, the sea-mink always used one of the workstations along the wall, rotating from one to the next between contacts.

When a quorum of members was required, however, he always made used of Big Brenda, his own private workstation at the far end of the room.

She was formidable lady, Miss Brenda—three oversized, flat screen monitors arranged in a pyramid formation, backed up by a slew of state of the art processors and more memory than a dozen herds of elephant. In terms of computing power, she was Hoofer dam while the average home-comp desktop was a backyard wind-turbine by comparison. For sheer speed, she was a formula-one race-car to the average gamer's go-kart computer.

Big Brenda was also Kieran McCrodon's fursonal sanctuary and great keep. Per the Mister's explicit orders, no animal in the Company, other than himself had access to her—with one exception and since the sea-mink's uncle had no interest in tangling with any computer, she was basically all his.

Now Kieran seated himself in his task chair and spoke his name Brenda immediately sprang to life, asking for his password. Danny turned away again while the sea-mink entered it, and when he turned back, he saw lines of code on one of the screen that meant nothing to him but that he knew Kieran understood implicitly. He was on the computer for perhaps three or four minutes before shutting down again.

"Just makin' sure, if there's trouble, the boys'll all be safe," he said.

Kieran McCrodon always referred to the members of The Circle as 'his boys', even though Danny was certain that at least a third of them were female.

The sea-mink had come to his nickname The Druid by way of his phenomenal memory. A quick glance at page of code was all he needed to memorize it perfectly. (Danny had once heard him flawlessly recite back a magazine article he'd last read when he was six; a bet that won the sea-mink a cool grand.)

With that in mind, he kept any and all sensitive information about his crew inside his head. Even a hacker skilled enough to penetrate Brenda, (as IF!) would find no clue to their identities inside her database.

But that didn't mean The Circle members were equally careful of themselves, and that was what Kieran had been up to for the last few minutes, erasing any tracks they might have left. (The fact that he had finished so quickly indicated they hadn't.)

"Data dump's ready?" Danny asked him, nodding over the sea-mink's shoulder. It was most likely a silly question; Kieran, had probably made sure six times already, but being as the stolen data on that computer was the only thing standing between the Company and a cataclysm it was one he felt still needed an answer..

"Ready to drop." The sea mink told him with a solemn nod; he too understood the gravity of the situation.

"What about that?" Danny queried, pointing to the laptop.

"Checked it out before yer got here." Kieran patted the side of the bag.

Danny nodded again and aimed a thumb at the door. "Then let's go get Dylan ready."

When they entered the hallway again, the singing had stopped, but the music was carrying on as an instrumental, Karaoke piece, fronted by a live guitar solo…which Danny now recognized as the bridge from the old Richard Tomcat tune, 'Shoot Out the Lights.'

"He's been practicing." The swift fox observed, an odd note of pride in his voice

Kieran grinned and nudged him in the ribs.

"Kick-tail, boyo."

Danny almost grinned back…but then the sea-mink added, almost under his breath, "And we're goin' t' turn him over to THAT lot, aren't we?"

The swift-fox responded by shooting him a dirty look…and getting only halfway there before turning away, unable to meet his sidekick's eyes.

"Let's just get this done, okay?"

As they moved along the corridor, the music became progressively louder…only where the heck was it coming from? The nearest doorway was six yards behind them and there was nothing in front but bare, brick walls and a sharp, left turn.

Instead of making that turn, Danny and Kieran ceased walking and stepped closer to the wall, where the swift fox knocked with the flat of his paw. Even though it was supposedly solid brick, he was answered with a hollow, echoing sound.

"Dylan?" he called, cupping a paw to his muzzle, "Dylan, it's Danny. Time to get ready."

The solo just continued unabated.

"Must have the cones on." His companion observed, offering an idle shrug.

Danny nodded and began exploring the masonry with a fingertip. After several seconds of fumbling, he pulled back the front of a 'brick', revealing a tarnished brass handle.

Behind him Kieran's voice assumed a cheery air. "D'ye know I finally found out why they built this hidey-hole, boyo? S'where the good mammals of Zoo York hid their jewelry an' suchlike, durin' The Revolution."

"Yeah, yeah, that's really interesting, Druid." Danny answered…in a voice that said he couldn't care less. He pulled the handle and turned it, and a section of the wall swung outwards into the hallway.

The swift fox was able to negotiate the opening with ease, but Kieran was obliged to duck as he entered the room, the entrance having obviously been fashioned for a smaller species than a sea-mink. As they passed through the door, the music volume increased geometrically and Danny had to shout to be heard.

"Dylan! Hey, shut it down for a minute! "

The animal seated on the bed ceased playing at once and quickly pulled off a pair of triangular headphones, (cones.)

"Oops sorry, Danny." He answered, looking a little sheepish.

The swift fox smiled and flipped a pawlm back and forth.

"Don't worry about it kid," he said, and it was an apt form of address.

Because Dylan Yeats WAS a kid.