Well, this chapter has took long enough - actually, way longer than I have initially expected. Maybe not the best chapter out so far, but, you know: it happens every now and then. Anyway, since I am running out of ideas on what I should fill out these author's-notes bits out...

Might as well just go ahead with the chapter, I guess.

I do not own the Guardians of Ga'Hoole series.
I take all characters that do not belong to Kathryn Lasky as my own characters and creations.
The Federal Air Marshal Service and the Transportation Security Administration are not my creations.
Glock (Ges.m.b.H.) is merely just mentioned for the sake of the story, not advertised, nor promoted.

Good Ol' Agent Broyles

When he has first heard the news that Flight-BR82 has hopelessly plummeted into the Atlantic Ocean, Broyles did not do much more than sitting in the exact same spot for at least thirty minutes - motionless and silent; if it would all have depended on him, Samuel would not have ceased to do as the latter until a critical stage of hunger, or thirst (potentially the natural urge of metabolism) would have threw his thoughts back on life's track.

Not that anyone has actually cared to ask, but, if one would have questioned this type of random reaction and behaviour from him, the man would have threw in the bluff that he was just simply in this state of shock because the amount of civilian lives lost aboard that plane was... not that much negligible.

The final reports - the ones that were booked and archived yesterday - have indicated that a total of hundred and forty-one civilians have lost their life in the crash, along with the six terrorists (whom were left unidentified, as the UN's recovery teams could, officially, not find their bodies), eight on-board staff members (including the pilot and co-pilot), and a single TSA-agent - Chris Markson, whose deceased corpse was, as worded by the initial reports, so heavily damaged by the gunshots and the explosion the plane has suffered on impact that it was almost unrecognisable; therefore, after obtaining photographical evidence that the body has existed in the first place, the UN recovery team's leaders have decided that, without any consent, they will incinerate Markson's corpse - stating that it was probably for the best.

A hundred and sixty-five casualties was the total body count on this one, and no one was overly amused by this event - especially not the TSA and Interpol; the last thing they have wanted for themselves at the current times was another terrorist-group to emerge - whatever nationality they may have been from.

Nevertheless, although it should naturally not have, but Broyles had the feeling that this thing will blow over soon - maybe somewhat way too quickly, even.

And this... this was what was bothering him deep down - some specific things and public information about the crash just sounded... "off".

Samuel would not have known how to properly explain it; the best and closest word could have used to give a recognisable and comprehensible meaning to his thoughts would have been "faked".

In reality, the true and honest reason of why he could not force himself to produce a single physical movement for half-an-hour after the preliminary reports of the crash came in was due to a few... minor disbeliefs he had.

For the record, however, Broyles was never a man to doubt the words of his superiors - he would occasionally question them, especially when they sounded odd in the first place - but this time he had a hunch; a simple and single, natural feeling that what the public broadcast was showing (in combination with TSA's received and analysed intelligence) was not everything that has occurred aboard that plane that night.

Samuel has actually decided to move past the regular bullshit: the black-box (originally orange) was too damaged for any usable data to be recovered, and blaming the electronic-failure on some light breeze of a storm was outright ridiculous - but questioning these would have took him nowhere, other than a few dodgy and somewhat distressing conspiracy-sites.

When people in high places wanted others to believe something, they would always come up with newer and newer answers, and the public would take those for granted - no matter how brilliant or laughably pathetic they were; currently, there were no other answers than the above, and so, everyone has hurried to find refuge in the purple fog of those explanations.

Save that for Broyles.

His mind was more settled on such issues as the so-called "electrical-storm" - those things were not even supposed to even just scar an airplane, let alone damage it to the point where its entire system was fried to the point where it has ceased to function entirely!

Two words he has clearly remembered from his Physics-class: Faraday-cage - something which's entire purpose was to shield and protect any commercial flight from lightning and storms; and, since a plane's structure itself was essentially a Faraday-cage, such explanations as an "electrical-storm" would have automatically became invalid, what is more - physically impossible!

But, sadly and disappointingly enough, not everyone has paid attention to scientific evidence these days.

Alternative theorists (the ones that have actually realised that an "electrical-storm" would never have taken down that flight) suggested to the investigating agencies that the terrorists may have detonated an EMP while they were on-board; albeit this would have been somewhat of a more reasonable explanation, it was still bleeding from multiple wounds - most specifically from the one that was titled "reasons and logic".

After all, a hijacking is generally supposed to send a message; what would have been the point of disabling the plane with an electromagnetic pulse over the Atlantic?

Logically, nothing - and, repeated for another time, this was what was troubling Broyles at his mind's deepest point; the knowing that something was absolutely wrong here, that the entire world was lied to for reasons that may never be uncovered.

The understanding that he could have quit TSA and searched for answers to his questions on this topic for the rest of his life...

At the end of the day, he only would have found the perfect essence of nothing.

TSA Headquarters, Arlington, Washington, District of Columbia, United States of America

11:52, October 31, 2014.

Samuel Broyles, Federal Air Marshal Service, TSA

Agent Broyles has received the untitled E-Mail from some random guy named "Gregory Marsh" exactly four seconds before he was about to leave for his regular, everyday twelve o'clock coffee - he already had his car's keys in his left hands, and was ready to send the cautionary heads-up text message to his supervisor at the office with his right; just for the unlikely case of someone looking or searching for him (which, so far, has only happened twice - too much of a confusing shame that there were two people named "Broyles" at this office, and, twice out of twice, individuals have been actually looking for the other "Broyles").

Staring at the monitor with a mild surprise, Samuel has raised an eyebrow, and slowly reached for the mouse to click on the freshly-arrived virtual letter; as he was doing so, the man has took a light grip on his swivel-chair, pulled it backwards for the length of a meter or so, then sat down on the soft cushion - an unusual feature in office chairs nowadays.

Broyles never in his life has heard of the recipient, which was the primary reason of why he has felt reluctant to open the mail in the first place - however, he already has at this moment of time, therefore there was no logical excuse of why he should not have read it.

After all, at the first glance, the entire structure of this digital form of communication has looked official and serious enough; hence this, Samuel has gone ahead, and began to read through the letter:

Dear Mr. Broyles; I terribly hope that my message finds you in times not so dire, as the, shall we title it, "incident" that has occurred in the past days most likely has caused great distress among you and your fellow employees at the TSA - in case anyone's family at your office has been directly affected by the event, please; pass on my deepest condolences.

"Who the hell is this guy?", thought Broyles to himself at this section of the letter, truly hoping that this message has actually came from one of his more comedic acquaintances from this office; he was wishing this, mostly because of the fact that whoever this Mr. Marsh may have been, he definitely has knew that he was sending his words to a TSA-agent - that was evident from the details of the message itself. Albeit not a direct violation of any security-measure or protocol, Samuel still felt that this E-Mail may have been a bit too... deep-reaching and personal.

Nevertheless, if the above would not have been entirely enough to raise a red flag inside Broyles' head, the rest of the letter and its following lines have fully expanded on our man's concerns about "personal information" being contained in this electronic mail:

Nonetheless, I do not aim to waste your time with boring eulogies; I have mainly contacted you to discuss a few... options that I believe would be beneficial to both your and my concerns as well.

Without paltering for too long, I will immediately switch to the point: I am willing to offer you a job, Mr. Broyles - a position much more... worthwhile than your current work at the TSA.

I have took the liberty to... make some inquiries at your employer's office, and have been told that you have a "daily routine" of purchasing a cup of coffee in the Pentagon Centre; since the description of the job I would be willing to offer to you is rather... unusual - and, if I may personally add, rather unconventional - I would only agree to the sharing of additional information in person.

For the time being, I will not say anything else, as this is all you will need to know for now.

If you are, by any chance, interested in my offer, meet me today in the Pentagon Centre at midday - 12:00 - and we can discuss the matter in a more detailed manner.

Yours Sincerely,

Gregory Marsh, PSRI Executive

The fact that this individual - whom, for the clear record, Broyles has never in his life has heard of - knew his daily routine was troubling, to say at the very least; there and then, when he had the chance (at this exact moment), Samuel should have reported this to his director - mostly due to the fact that, at the end of the day, this electronic letter was somewhat disconcerting.

Not that Broyles was suspecting anyone to lure him into a lethal situation, or a deadly trap - no one would have had a reason to; it was just as if... ah, nevermind.

He was just growing paranoid now; something that he has shown in the past few days with an unsettling reoccurrence.

Since that plane went down - what is more, since Agent Higgins, Markson's late air-marshal partner, was officially ruled in as deceased.

Sometimes, Broyles would see a man, usually dressed in a suit, standing near corners of streets and houses, or sitting on park benches, constantly smoking, and sometimes talking on the phone or... or taking notes - but never diverting his gaze from Samuel. This was why the man was paranoid; something which he himself would have identified as a fair reason, if he would ever have been asked for one.

Nevertheless, he deleted the E-Mail, switched his office PC to "sleep mode", stood up - checked for his phone and keys - and began to head towards the elevator, which he was planning on taking to the ground floor.

He did not care: chances were that some random idiot got his hands on his mail-address, and was now sending "funny" (oh, absolutely hilarious) messages to him. Whoever this guy (or girl; people use all kinds of fake names nowadays) was, Broyles was not afraid of insignificant little pranksters, and was not going to take a longer drive to another coffee shop (in case his identity and privacy did required some protection) just because of one moron's stupid game they might have been planning on playing for a longer extent of time with Samuel.

With these thoughts on his mind, he stepped into the elevator (which has just happened to be on the same floor he was on), and hit the button which had a "downwards-arrow" symbol engraved onto it.

The man was so settled on his near-future actions that he has entirely forgot about the section of his paranoia which was about a "chain-smoker in a two-piece suit" following him around - spying on him.

Furthermore, by the time Broyles has left the building through the front door, no more thoughts of "men in suits" have succeeded in crossing his mind.

The journey to the coffee-shop - where Broyles, once he bought the drink, has also regularly liked to finish it as well, always sitting near the windows, enjoying that lonely twenty minutes he could acquire on a once-per-day basis - was literally a walk across the street from the TSA's headquarters: after he left the building's glass doors, he was to turn left, onto the pavement of the 12th Street, walk an approximate distance of twenty meters (or a rough estimate of sixty-five feet, in empirical-values) 'till he reached the intersection of the aforementioned road, and Hayes Street.

From here, it was only a walk across to the other side of the road, and another thirty meters (ninety-eight feet) down the latter lane, right until it would be mandatory for Broyles to take another left - given that he was wishing to pick up today's portion of coffee, of course.

All in all, this walk was almost exactly a minute, sometimes two - it all depended on the general density of the traffic at the time of the day.

As soon as he was done with his route, Samuel began to wonder if his E-Mail "admirer" will actually show up today, or the contrary - which would have ultimately proved that all this was just an un-funny joke by some bored kid.

Whichever the case be, the above considered outcome would not have mattered anyways; after all, the electronic message has not diverted Broyles from his daily routine in any shape or form, therefore, the sender of the mail could still be fully categorised as "meaningless".

Whatever way things were to happen today at his coffee-break, they were going to be meaningless anyway: just like any other day at the office.

Stepping inside, his ears caught the familiar sound of the doorbell above him, and the unmistakeable scent (or, to some, stench) of freshly-made coffee - all of the variations at that (albeit, admittedly, even those "variations" usually had the same aroma).

He nodded at the grey-haired man at the main counter, who returned the gesture - Broyles knew him for the past six or seven years; Bobby Ferguson, a lone and simple guy with an admirable passion for selling coffee - essentially just what Samuel had the most gigantic need for in this moment.

- Doin' okay, Sam? - asked the old man casually, leaning on the seller's counter with a welcoming smile on his wrinkled face - What can I do you for today? An Espresso, or perhaps a Cappucino? - he kept listing the two types of drinks which Broyles always chose between, depending on his mood and given level of exhaustion, or, rarely, on the length of time he was planning on staying away from the office.

This made his self-established options rather more simplistic (than complicated) for every kind of situation of a workday; if he felt himself to be awake and aware enough, he would only take a quick Espresso, and get back to his work and the office almost immediately; if he felt absolutely sleep-deprived, he would choose a stronger Cappucino, and spend roughly a total of fifteen minutes, slowly sipping the hot drink away - a habit he learned and picked up during his years in Paris, back in the days of his university-studies.

- A long Cappucino today, Bobby - he sighed as he weakly rested his left hand on the counter; in the meanwhile, with his right, he was dug around the inside of his coat's pockets for his leather purse, as he was aiming to pay for this coffee while he was here.

- Tired today, eh, son? - beamed Ferguson, but Broyles placed a relaxed and non-aggressive grin on his face, badly attempting to not allow the sea of uncertainties surface from the sub-conscious parts of his currently troubled mind; after all, the old man behind the counter has lived through the Cold War and Vietnam, without any permanent injuries (neither mental or physical). He has already fought through his fair-share of problems in life; Samuel did not wish to burden him down with his own concerns and problems.

Which was the primary reason of why responded - verbally - with a bluff.

- Only mentally, Bobby, not physically - Broyles glanced to his visual-cone's bottom left, changing his eyes' direction so that they were now focused on the bottom of the cash-register; an observant individual would have noticed the less-than-subtle signs and twitches that were involuntarily made by Samuel as he dropped his small-sized lie, but, fortunately to the latter, Ferguson was not that watchful when it came to his regular customers.

- Well, coffee ain't gonna' help that, son - replied Bobby with a light laugh, but still began to fulfil Broyles' request of one cup of caffeine-packed hot drink - But that does not mean that I am not going to give you one - he winked at his buyer with an even bigger and happier smile.

"Well, at least he is having a good time", thought Broyles to himself, but still faked a merry expression onto his face; Ferguson was, for this time, swift to notice the clearly pretended emotional feeling, and his own smile quickly faded away from his aged face.

- Listen kid, I kinda, uh... "overheard" a conversation between a couple of other guys from your office; they were talking about that transatlantic flight that went down the other day... - he grew awkwardly silent as Samuel glanced up at him, but after the TSA-agent has gestured with his head to the man to continue on, Bobby spoke the rest of what he wished to say - They mentioned how that other guy, that, uh... Markson, I think his name was, was aboard the plane, so... - he took a deep breath, then exhaled with an sorrowful sigh - Eh, look at me, rambling on again! Look, son; I know you two were close friends, and I sometimes saw him myself down here, buying a herbal tea now and then... Anyhow, I just wanted to give you my deepest condolences. On those rare occasions when I have seen him... yeah, I found him to be a good kind of a guy - Bobby stared off into the distance, following a blue car in the traffic with his eyes, right up until the point where the vehicle has disappeared in the intersection, and drove off to its destination (a place unknown to Ferguson) - By the way, I hope that I ain't breaking some type of a protocol of yours with this kinda talk - the old cashier raised both of his palms in front of himself, signalling Samuel that he did not wished to be too intrusive in the current topic.

This time, it was Broyles' turn to give off a light laugh:

- Oh, no, nothing like that, Bobby - he forced himself to beam a sad smile towards Ferguson, then realised that he was only seconds away from somewhat-involuntarily becoming awfully impolite - No, I... I, uh, appreciate your words, and, uh... - nothing has followed his fair share of uhs however, as Broyles has never actually finished his sentence; nonetheless, subsequently after he gave his own head a doleful and heavy shake, the agent has continued the conversation with a somewhat earlier note - Also, about protocol... we have nothing against being given a shoulder to cry on; I only mean the latter in a metaphorical way only, of course. Even then, I guess the story has already been broadcasted for days by now - he grinned, in a negative style, this time, referring to the official news, which he has personally believed to have been altered to some unknown level or degree; nevertheless, once again, he did not wanted to pass on any of his trouble-full thoughts to Bobby, and was therefore not planning on further expanding on the topic.

- Yeah, they had it all around the news-channels lately, but they refused to state any specific names; they said it was due to some legal crap, of course - then, as if the past conversation would never in their life has actually occurred, Ferguson, clapped his hands together, and declared triumphantly: - Still and all, son, here's your coffee now - the old man spoke as he handed over a steaming paper-cup with the shop's company's logo on its front and back; the drink was already perfectly ready at least two, maybe three minutes ago, but Samuel did not have the heart to interrupt Bobby in the middle of his eulogy.

- Thanks, and keep the change - Broyles took the hot drink with his left, and dropped a bank-note into Ferguson's held-out hand; following his payment, Sam proceeded to one of the unoccupied seats near the shop's windows. Behind his back, the agent could still hear Bobby's affable words.

- Hey, Sam, if you need anything else or more, you know where to find me - as a physical reply to this, Broyles has held out his right in an angle where he was sure the old man could visually see it, and held his thumb up; a non-verbal gesture of "thanks", and the agent was definite that his well-wisher has understood the words which Sam was hoping to communicate through movement.

Whilst walking over to his generally used - almost favourite - table, Broyles took a quick glance at his watch; the digital display showed the arranged numbers of "12:09".

"Seems like my unknown friend has decided to pull the plug on his interview with me!", he chuckled quietly to himself, and carefully placed his still steaming coffee down on the desk.

As he sat down, something has flashed - both physically and metaphorically - in the corner of his eyes; the rays of the shining sun, which were rather strong today, despite the generally cold near-winter time in DC, have been reflected rather harshly by the glass door of the coffee-shop: apparently, a new customer has decided to have themselves a cup of Bobby's coffee.

Still, be that as it may, Sam has failed to recognise any of the three men, all in suits, who have just entered the shop; Pentagon Centre or not, this specific shop only had regulars, and there was about a one to a million chance of a random, unknown person - let alone three people - entering the shop to have their hot drink.

After glancing around for a few seconds (and only attracting a minor glance from Broyles himself), two of the men have nodded, went ahead, and sat down to two seemingly random tables - no one has appeared to pay too much attention to them.

The third and last man has removed the brown fedora from his head, unbuttoned his long rain- and trench-coat, then began to walk in a direction that was reaching uncomfortably-close to the table where Broyles was sitting.

Originally Sam was not thinking as such, but he soon had to realise that it was this unknown man's intention to walk to the direct proximity of the table where Broyles was attempting to enjoy his coffee; unexpected by the latter TSA-employee, the individual with the brown fedora has reached out with an open hand towards him, and began to speak in the most extremely-polite way imaginable.

- Ah, Mr. Broyles, a pleasure this is, indeed! I must apologise for my lateness, I am afraid I have been... delayed by a minor issue at my company - the man has topped everything off with a television-announcer-type of a smile, and firmly kept his hand extended for a handshake; the limb was held out in such a stable way that it has appeared to have no intention to sway, even to just a minor degree.

Confused and not quite sure about what to say or do, Sam has not responded with anything overly specific, but, instead, asked a question.

- I am sorry, but... do I know you, sir? - as he stated this inquiry, the smile from the unknown man's face has appeared to fade away a bit, almost turning into an aggressive grin; nevertheless, the facial gesture of the standing individual has still seemed to have been "renewed" in the last moment.

- Oh, I am afraid I must apologise again, Mr. Broyles... Now, where have I placed my manners? - as the man spoke, Sam, in a way which was more indiscernible than not, lifted an eyebrow; there was something rather odd about this person in the TSA-agent's eyes, but the only problem was that he just... could not determine what this oddness was.

As he kept contemplating over this, the man has began to speak once again.

- My name is Gregory Marsh, I am the executive officer of the PSRI Pharmaceutical-Corporation; I personally believe you have heard of us beforehand, as we do uphold a somewhat respectable level of market-share amongst our competitors - he retracted his extended arm, gently positioned his coat on the back of the empty chair (which was directly facing the one Broyles was momentarily sitting in), carelessly threw his fedora on the table (that has, incidentally, landed right on the yet unconsumed coffee, preventing Sam from reaching it without manually removing the headwear), then pulled out the aforementioned chair, and took a seat on it - I am the one who has sent you a letter, where I have offered you a potential job; something that I know you have read - as he finished with the latter sentence, the man has clasped the two of his hands together, and began to stare directly at Broyles, and in a rather... intimidating manner at that, surprisingly enough.

For a minute or two of solid and tense silence, the two men kept staring at each other, none of them claiming defeat and submitting themselves by lowering their gaze towards the ground for the entire span of the above mentioned time-set.

In the very end, it was Marsh who glanced away, turning his head towards one of the buildings on the other side of the road, lightly smiling and almost unnoticeably shaking his head.

When his eyes have returned their focus-point of Broyles' face, the man has shrugged in a questioning way, as if he was awaiting something overly important to occur.

- So? - he asked, his shoulders raised a tiny bit higher, representing his main aim of inquiry - What is your response to my offer, Mr. Broyles? - the deceitful and misleading smile has reappeared on his face, Sam starting to think more cautiously about this person with each passing second.

- With all respect, Mr. Marsh... - spoke the TSA-agent for the first time after many minutes - I have no interest in any kind of job-offer you want to give me; furthermore, you tracking me down, potentially observing me to find out my daily-routines... Do you honestly expect me to trust you and accept your offer after this? Personally, I do not think so - Broyles has crossed his arms, and leaned back in his chair - I do not even know who you are, and have never actually heard of your company - he added as if he was dealing a final blow, absolutely assured about his assumption that he has tipped the metaphorical scale of the status quo in his own direction.

It was actually highly expected by Sam that this "PSRI-CEO" will not be too charmed by his words, and Marsh has lived up to these expectations: the treacherous smile has now entirely vanished, and was replaced with a grin of pure frustration and annoyance - for a moment, Broyles was expecting the man to burst out with some rather unacceptable words and insults, but, at the end, this was not what happened.

Instead of Sam's predictions, Marsh has removed all recognisable human emotions from his face (except the foreboding shadow that has now successfully conquered all regions from his forehead to his chin), and lowered his eyebrows.

- Mr. Broyles, I did not come here today all the way from Boston to receive a dismissive answer - Marsh has leant ahead as he spoke, his elbows tightly resting halfway-across the coffee-table.

- Then I believe that you must be rather disappointed, as I have clearly just stated "no" - spoke Broyles, and gazed around incredulously - I mean, hell; what are you going to do, force a Homeland Security-supervised agent to work for you, or what? - by saying this, Sam, although yet unbeknownst to him, has started a chain of predetermined events which had no way of stopping.

- As a matter of fact, I have planned for this scenario heading off in this direction, and, providently, I have prepared a... "fail-safe", just to assure that me paying a visit to you will be worthwhile, whatever the final outcome - as Marsh said these words, no further emotions that could have betrayed his honest feelings have showed up on his face; this has counted as a minor-to-major disadvantage to Broyles, as he was unable to read some of this man's true intentions.

- What "fail-safe" are you talking about? - asked Sam, barely being able to hold himself from laughing; not because he found the situation hilarious, but due to the fact that when he was unsure of what emotion to feel in a given situation, he would have reacted with nervous laughter instead.

- Mr. Broyles, can you see that building on the other side of the road? - Marsh questioned.

- Yeah, the Ritz-Carlton Hotel - shrugged the agent - What about it? - he also grinned.

- There is a sniper on the top floor of the building, who, even now, is having a crystal-clean view at your head while looking through his scope; additionally, the men who came in here with me were carrying duffel-bags - he gestured towards the two aforementioned individuals - Those duffel-bags are carrying military-grade M4A1 rifles; do you know what calibre those things use? - he aimed a direct question at Sam, who, albeit somewhat unwillingly, but still gave an accurate answer.

- 5.56 millimetres - although furious about what this man was daring to speak and suggest in public, Broyles still kept a cool head, and maintained constant eye-contact with Marsh; however, he was not exactly sure what he was wishing (or would have been able) to accomplish with this.

- Spot-on; 5.56 millimetres, you know, the "one shot, one kill" type rounds, especially if they are aimed at a target that has no body-protection. A civilian, on the worst days - the speaker casually glanced around, taking a good look at each person sitting in the coffee-shop (this excluding Marsh's two accomplices).

A young lady could be seen in the far left corner of the place, hastily typing something on her laptop; not too far away from her, a middle-aged man was reading today's newspaper; finally, a tired-looking mother, who occasionally came here with her daughter, mostly because Bobby and the woman's deceased husband have served together in the army. From what Broyles has seen in the past years, the young girl loved Ferguson.

- Hm - Marsh could be heard again - Well, I have to say, there are not too many civilians here; but they are still civilians, innocent lives that can be extinguished in the matter of only a few seconds - the man has lifted his fedora off the table, and began to mess around with its rim, as to give some form of a distraction to his hands.

- You are just bluffing; there are no guns in those bags - spoke Broyles suddenly, to which Marsh has only responded with another gesture; this time, however, it was done with his entire body.

As he stretched his arms, he nodded towards one of the men who entered with him; as Sam followed with his eyes, he spotted as one of the persons have unzipped their duffel-bag, and began to dig around inside, as if they were searching for something.

For a split second, the barrel of a rifle could be seen hanging out from the bag, albeit more discreetly than obviously; then, a quickly as it appeared, as swiftly it has disappeared back into the darkness of the bag as its bearer (and possible owner) has zipped it up again.

Marsh, who has observed everything with a disgusting calmness and nonchalance, has now turned towards Broyles again, who was now beginning to sweat on his brow, and was clenching his fists tighter with every passing minute.

- You would not dare to do it, and you know that! - hissed Sam challengingly, although his unstable and irregular breathing patterns did not assisted this kind of talk - You are not that stupid. There are too many cameras around here, you would be identified, tracked, and apprehended before you know it! - Broyles was now expecting a somewhat afraid or set-aback reaction from Marsh, but the man just sat there, rotating his fedora around and around, not appearing to have a care in the world; in truth, he did care, but he knew that all the cards were in his hands.

- Cameras; funny little equipment, they are - spoke the gentleman in a comedian's voice and tone, and with a sarcastic and pretended smile, paying an unrealistic amount of attention to the little and single pieces of fluff that were stuck to his over-observed hat - Give them an itsy bit of an electrical overload, and they are knocked out for good; the best thing is that you can even control this procedure - in that sudden moment, he slapped his fedora back on to the coffee-table, albeit not aggressively enough to attract unwanted attention; the fake smile has disappeared from his face, and the alarming shadow has returned to the expressive-sections of his head - What do you take me for, Broyles, an absolute moron? Our tech-team has disabled all public and private cameras in this shop, and the surrounding ten miles for the next four hours; nothing is being recorded or monitored, and nothing could be revealed later on, if you decide to choose the hard way - Marsh has leant back once again, a victorious expression settling onto his face - You either work for us, or you will never work for anyone, ever again - he spread his arms, held them in the air for a few seconds, then dropped them onto his laps.

Although Broyles felt that what was on his mind would have been the most stupidest and obvious thing to ask, he could not hold himself back from actually questioning so:

- Are you threatening me? - he stated his inquiry, his right hand already in his pocket, Sam himself being ready and steady with all his muscles to jump away from the visual-range of the claimed-to-be-there sniper; even though these men had guns, Broyles has thought himself to be a rather excellent runner (despite the office-work), and "no cameras" did not mean "no police". A single call could have got him off the hook in this situation; however, he had to wait for the right moment.

- Threatening you? Oh, no, I am quite far away from that; I am merely suggesting to you what you should mandatorily do - Marsh replaced the emotionless lips with his politician-smile again, reaching across the table, and lifting Broyles' untouched coffee away from him; after he took a sip from the drink, the man has continued on, his face now as equally as cold as the coffee he just tasted - However, if you do not want this shop gunned to oblivion by my men, and your brains blown across the floor by my sniper, I would suggest that you do exactly as I say - he then turned to scan around, making sure that no one else, only Broyles, has heard his previous words of dreadful content; facing back towards Sam, his expressions have loosened a bit again - See? Now I am threatening you - not leaving his pattern of leaning-back movements to go to waste, Marsh has returned to the more comfortable position in his chair, stared straight into the center of Broyles' eye, and was now awaiting a response from the TSA-employee.

At this point of the "conversation", Sam truly have had no idea on how to respond; from what he gathered from all of Marsh's previous words, he essentially had no way out - be that a neutral, defensive "run away and hide" strategy, or a more risky, "run for the gun and hope for the best" tactic.

He required time to think: there always was a way out where he could live, and this situation was no different; however, he could not do anything else now than play time.

Time was the key thing that Broyles has now needed the worst - he had to figure something out, but doing that while this man was listening to his every word and move... way too dangerous.

Responding, then letting the man speak has seemed like the most excellent and viable option for Sam to go ahead with now; with nothing else or specific coming to his mind, he decided that to acquire an emotional (and hopefully long-winded answer) from Marsh was to verbally challenge him.

And what better way was there for that, if not insulting him?

- Mr. Marsh, or... whatever your name is... - he began with an honest smile, shaking his head while he was almost practically laughing about his current situation - You are a piece of shit, you know that? - Broyles attacked with his words, maintaining a steady posture with his body, which, under its guise, was not too far away from quivering from fear; with his deliberately-offensive sentence, Sam, when he judged from Marsh's facial expressions, has came to the conclusion that he must have crossed an imaginary line that was set out by the latter, as the man on the other end of the coffee-table has raised an intimidating eyebrow; naturally, it is almost impossible to imagine an eyebrow appearing as "intimidating", however, in some indescribable way, Marsh has somehow managed to make such a simple facial-muscle movement... rather alarming.

- Me? - the gentleman asked back cryptically, and in a frightening style, cocking his head just a little bit to the right side - I am the piece of shit? No, you are the piece of shit here, Broyles, and only you! - he slowly rose from his chair, slowly-but-surely elevating the volume of his voice; due to this, Sam was now not the only one who could hear his... colourful vocabulary. Rather a colourful vocabulary that was, indeed; littered with a couple of insults here and there... almost poetic, really - I came here to offer you a job, which is way out of the league of your current, dastardly puppet-show with the TSA, and you turn me down like a common beggar! - at this point, the entire lowly-crowded coffee-shop was staring at Marsh in a mixture of what Broyles could only have described as sheer confusion, slight alarm, and honest concern; apparently having the only one to feel even just a minimal amount of conscience and a sense of duty about the situation, Ferguson glanced up from behind the counter, then started to head towards the shouting man with carefully measured, and slowly approaching, non-threatening speed of movement.

- Excuse me, sir, is there a problem here? - he questioned in a civilised manner, attempting to steer clear of any potential danger that might originate from Marsh's tightly clenched fists; unlike Sam's, the man's hands were influenced by frustration, and not by what essentially was the fear of likely-death.

- Stay out of this if you do not want to get hurt, grandpa! - spat Marsh towards Bobby, who has now staggered in his walking, pretty much being shocked from the sudden verbal violence that has emerged from this unknown, suited person; not that he should not have expected to be offended by an obviously infuriated individual, but still... Ferguson had a bad feeling about this.

- Sir, can you please restrict yourself from... - Bobby began to negotiate, to which the only response he has received was to be given the lifetime-opportunity of "staring down at the barrel of a gun"; the compact-sized pistol has appeared with such swiftness from the underside of Marsh's trench-coat, that it has almost seemed as if it had just materialised out of thin air. Broyles has also noted the refined and rather elegant movement with which the gun has been removed from its concealed holster; one thing was definite, and that was that this man knew perfectly well how to handle a firearm.

It was one of those things men like Broyles would have spotted in the very first moment of the weapon's initial appearance in its handler's hands.

- Another god-damn word out of your mouth and you are not going to have any brains left to think about those words with! - shouted the gentleman, his head appearing to change to a shade of red this time.

Realising that the only thing separating him from ballistic-trauma was the measure of how itchy Marsh's right index-finger was, Bobby has now started to back up, hands raised in front of himself, as if those would have served any protection.

The young woman with her laptop has opened her eyes wide, and her mouth was not far behind; however, when seeing the armed man pulling an open palm in front of his own neck, she has still managed to swallow her cry of distress, understanding that she was to do what the gunman was wanting her to do if she was aiming on staying alive.

The middle-aged man has jumped out of his seat, dropping his newspaper-bundle as if he has just suddenly experienced some form of paralysis; he held his hands up, his shaky and sweaty palms facing towards Marsh, his head bolting from left to right with a constant gesture of surrender and begging-for-mercy.

The woman in her thirties - the mother - has covered her child with the entirety of her body, albeit she was not as successful in holding back a frightened cry than the other woman; to every non-psychopath's misfortune in the establishment, no pedestrian has heard anything from the shop. Fearing for her own - but mostly for the daughter's - life, the mother has covered her mouth with one of her hands; after she has done as such, she began to tremble like a doe, almost accepting that she may have been about to become deceased in the worryingly-near future.

- Just so you know, people! - shouted Marsh, but, once again, not loud enough to be heard by the entire street (which, to Broyles' greatest surprise, was actually entirely empty, along with the main road as well); as he was completing his monologue, Marsh's two other men have uncovered their rifles from their duffel bags, and have began to force everyone to lie down on the cold, marble-floor - If any single one of you make the wrong kind of movement, we will not hesitate to take down all of you! - he pointed at each person with the barrel of his pistol, who, due to their absolutely-unshakeable states of shock, did not even had the bravery to breathe too loudly.

After he made sure that everyone has understood the rules of his game, Marsh has turned towards Broyles, but lowered his weapon; although, even if Sam would have been feeling lucky enough to take a lunge towards the gentleman and attempt to take his weapon, Marsh did not seemed to be an amateur here - he kept his distance, and was just far enough to kill with a quick-draw at any time, in the case where Broyles would have decided to throw his life away.

- Last chance, Broyles! - he reached under his shirt, and took out another pistol-like firearm, but this one being a bit more bulky and having an unusual appearance than the most definitely-lethal Glock Marsh was still tightly holding onto with his right hand - You either take my offer, and you will live, or, you do not, and you will die! The choice is only, and only yours - the man declared without any clear emotion on his face, raising the bulky-pistol with his left, the barrel now pointing right at Sam's heart.

His life was on the line here, and there has seemed to be no way out of this - if this would have been chess, he may as well should have just pushed his king's piece over, as there was no escape from this damn position!

Nevertheless, he was no coward, and would generally have not ran from a fight; however, this situation had no way out: even if Sam somehow would have subdued Marsh, took out the two other men with the acquired pistol, and made a run for it, there may or may not have been a sharpshooter on one of the buildings on the opposite side of the main road outside, and that was too much and high of a risk to take.

Even when there was no other way out, at least he was hoping that he will not have to suffer through multiple shots in his kneecaps, arms, and what-not - if this Marsh-psycho had any kind of essential and basic sense of mercy in his twisted head... he will take one shot to the head, and leave Broyles' to-be-corpse un-robbed, and not truncated.

He was not planning on working for a maniac, and has decided to take the choice he has deemed to be most appropriate for his own self-conscience; come what may come, he was prepared for it.

- My answer is still no, Mr. Marsh, and I am afraid that there is nothing you can change my mind with -Sam shook his head as he glanced up at the gun-wielding gentleman, even considering a nod, just to show that he has acknowledged that, in a few seconds, he was going to die.

And to consider that he only came down here for just a regular coffee today...

- Wrong answer - Marsh smiled with a minimal hint of disappointment, and shot the gun that was held in his left hand; the electric-dart fired by the CO2-cartridge of the tranquiliser-pistol has violently crashed against Broyles' chest, initiating its "shocking-effect" as soon as it has made contact with the TSA-employee's shirt.

Sam has began to twitch and shake in an uncontrollable manner, falling off of his chair and onto the floor, not getting a moment of rest from the almost unbearable feeling of a continuous electroshock-effect, pushing him until the point where he could not control his own salivation, and his vision has began to slowly fade into a mix of darkness and whiteness.

After being in this exposed and non-escapable position for about twenty seconds, his mind has went blank, along with everything else, and the world around him has swirled and was mixed into a mash of absolute white light, and occasional dark spots.

Another second later, he has lost consciousness.

Arlington, Washington, District of Columbia, United States of America

12:21, October 31, 2014.

Gregory Marsh, Director of the PSRI

He gave the still twitching body a light push with his shoe, then, as he nodded, satisfied with himself, Marsh has holstered PSRI-developed prototype electroshock-weapon, turning to his two other men, getting ready to talk.

- Seems like he chose the hard way; now I will have to explain the whole story to him once he wakes up in Boston - he glanced down at the civilians who were still lying on the ground, still as a grave in their shock and silent panic - I will move him to the car, you two finish up here - he nodded towards the rifles in his men's hands; the ones that were lethal, unlike the taser-variant he just used.

- Subdue them, sir? - one of the men requested the important piece of information, as this would make a minor difference in how well they were going to sleep tonight.

As an answer, Marsh just shook his head, having a fun time with his henchman's naive idea.

- No, they count as eye- and ear-witnesses. Put on your silencers and deal with them - he ordered during the somewhat physically-demanding process of lifting up Broyles, so that he could carry him to his car, which was parked in more concealed position, rather than being in the wide open of the main street; as he began to walk out the back-exit of the shop, he turned back to his men, and gave them a last, but still important note - And move them behind the damn counter before you shoot them in the skull! Last thing we want is some idiot from the pavement to become suspicious before we are out of DC! - and, with this, he pushed the door open with his elbow, carried the unconscious, but now not twitching Broyles to a grey SUV, where he pried the trunk open with his free hand, and dropped the breathing-body into a heap of blank papers - some paperwork one of the man have forgot to remove before they have set out on this little assignment.

Closing the trunk down again, Marsh let out a sigh of relief, got into the driver's seat, and keyed the ignition, bringing the car's motor to life; he was going to park in front of the coffee-shop now, so that his two subordinates could get in quickly, ultimately resulting in a swift and speedy drive-away.

The first phase of his plan was now complete; since Broyles did not chose the simple way, Marsh's hands were forced to intervene with some... drastic measures - but, then again, to the PSRI, a few human lives were not the end of the world. After all, this was for the sake of highly advanced field of science! Could there have been anything more important than that?

No major changes could be made by Broyles now in Boston, even if the man would have tried something stupid: in the best case, he would just accept the fact that he will now have no alternative, but to work for Marsh himself, and, in the worst case, he will just have to be terminated - or crossed-over, but that may have been too risky to do just yet.

Anyhow things may occur from this point on, Marsh took it for a fact that Broyles will work for him; the only choice the now ex-TSA-employee will have is how simple or hard he was going to make this entire scenario.

At the end of the day, it would always be Marsh calling the shots; after all, he was the head of the PSRI - a position which soon may be compared to that of a higher-deity.