Lightning closed the file in front of her on her makeshift desk. It was nearly sixteen hundred and Little Hope had been out for about three hours. After the doctor at the FBI Headquarters had bandaged his head, he had been transferred to the hospital a few blocks away. Lightning had showered and changed, expecting him to be awake by the time she got there. Instead she had found Hope still unconscious in a hospital bed and a female nurse carefully washing his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

Startled, the nurse squeaked and spun around. "Oh! I'm sorry. I was washing the blood off him when I noticed the cover up on his shoulder. The doctor told me to wash it off."

Lightning walked over to the small woman and snatched the wet cloth and makeup remover from her hands. "I'll do it. Go away."

The nurse scattered from the room.

Sitting down, Lightning resumed gently washing the cover up from Little Hope's arm. Slowly a beautiful tattoo came into view. It was an arctic fox with silky hair and sad eyes that reminded her of Hope. Centred on the bridge of the fox's nose was a lightning bolt shaped scar. She smiled sadly and ran her fingertips across the tattoo. He must have been keeping tabs on her to know her codename. She made a note to ask him when it got it.

If he woke up, that was.

Lightning sighed and pulled Little Hope's unused tray table over to her. She might as well study up on the new information gathered about the Cie'th Mafia whilst she waited for her partner to awaken.

The Arctic Fox crawled on his stomach through the muddy, swamp terrain, the rain beating against his body, and over to Wolfhound. The older officer was covered in dirt and natural foliage, hiding his broad shoulders and long body. Next to him was a Barret M82 sniper rifle. Arctic Fox positioned himself and checked the scope. He could see the terrace nearly fifteen hundred yards away perfectly.

"How long?" he asked.

Wolfhound wiped the mud from his watch. "Ten minutes, then we get this done and I get home in time for the birth of my daughter."

Arctic Fox smiled. "How many will this make?"

"Eight."

"Do you two do anything else besides fuck?"

"Hey, she's just happy to see me alive."

Arctic Fox shook his head and sighed. "Ever think of doing something else?"

"The wife wants me to take up the FBI's numerous offers."

"FBI, huh?"

"Yeah, comfy desk jockey job." Wolfhound rolled his eyes.

"Hey, I got a girl in the FBI and she's not a desk jockey by any means."

Wolfhound looked at him. "Got a picture?"

"Time?"

"Two minutes."

"After."

The two men went silent as the Arctic Fox looked through the scope again. He steadied his breathing, his hands still, his emotions locked away. A man came into view, blonde hair, expensive suit, and sapphire ring. A perfect match. He pulled the trigger.

Blood splattered across the side of the Arctic Fox's face. He grabbed the rifle and rolled away, sliding into a small dugout covered in foliage where they had been camping for the past two nights. Within a few short moments he had the rifle put away. He listened to the splatter of gunshots; they fell like the rain upon the foliage.

There was a pause.

The Arctic Fox shot out of the dugout, hauled Wolfhound's corpse over his shoulders, and ran further into the jungle. The meeting point wasn't far. The gunshots returned. He slid into a patch of thick foliage and tossed the body to the side. Wolfhound was three hundred pounds of dead weight. He wouldn't make it trying to carry him back that far, not with the amount of ammunition these guys were tossing out.

But his wife deserved a body.

He sighed. "Fuck."

Lightning awoke to the sight of the full moon shinning into the room. She was warm and completely content. As she started to drift back to sleep she snuggled further into the warmth and realized it was coming from a hard body behind her. She stilled and her eyes shot wide open. Where was she? Last thing she remembered was reading in Little Hope's hospital room.

Quickly, she took in her surroundings. She was in someone's apartment on a mattress on the floor in the corner of a room. Straight in front of her was a small kitchen, the counters empty except for an open box of cereal. Left of the kitchen was a door with a peephole and several locks—the way out. Further left, southwest of the mattress, was another door, this one open and beyond she could make out a toilet and sink, the bathroom. She looked around for some sign of personalization that could tell her whose apartment this was, but the only belongings she could see was the cereal box and a duffle bag on the floor.

Giving up on her surroundings telling her anything, Lightning decided to focus on the individual in bed with her. She reached down and felt the arm that was wrapped possessively around her waist. It was strong and lightly haired, probably male. She grabbed hold of the person's wrist and tried to pull the arm from her. A deep groan sounded behind her and the warm body pressed into hers. Lightning blushed as something large and hard pressed into her backside—definitely male.

Lightning yanked the arm from her, jammed her heel backwards and up, and then scampered to her feet.

"FUCKING SHIT BUCKETS, CLAIRE! WAIT!" the man shouted, his voice deep and husky.

She didn't stop. Lightning bolted to the door, threw off the locks, and ran out the door.