06:24, TUESDAY AUGUST 24, LIMA (14:24/24-08-99 ZULU)
SUNNYDALE POLICE STATION

Detective Janelle LaFollet took another swig from her coffee cup, absently noticing that it was barely warm, and turned her attention back to her computer screen. I wonder....

Her partner had gone straight home from the gallery, looking to get some sleep, and the coroner wouldn't get to work for hours yet, but LaFollet was far from deterred. There was something about this case that didn't feel right....

Ah, the hell with it, she decided, and did something that would have horrified her colleagues - much less her superiors - had they known. She knew full well that going outside 'The System' that was Sunnydale was career suicide if she was caught; what she hadn't been able to figure out, in three months of trying, was why. Maybe this'll help me find out.

Punching a key, she ran the finger-prints of the living bandit against not only the NCIC, per standard practice, but also master databases held by the FBI and Interpol... which was most definitely was not SOP in Sunnydale.

{Running....}

She leaned back in her chair and wiped her face, waiting.

LaFollet didn't know it, but despite the usual rookie hazing, she was well-regarded by her colleagues, even the partner she dismissed as 'a jingoistic, Neanderthal myrmidon'. They agreed that the hawkishly-attractive African-American woman with the piercing jade-green eyes would make a first-rate homicide detective, once she learned to look past her own ideology and see the world as it really was. Unfortunately, right now she was so far to the left politically that she considered Bill Clinton a blazing reactionary, and had absolutely no time for the military. Which, in Sunnydale, was a distinct liability.

{Match found.}

"What?" she blinked, calling up the hit. Already?

The Interpol mug-shot that appeared on her screen showed the lantern-jawed man the EMTs had carried off to hospital in handcuffs; the photo's captioning was in Cyrillic. LaFollet punched a couple of keys to pull up the appended file.

"Leonid Nikolai'ich Khokhriakov, 37," she murmured, skimming the records. "Russian citizen. Conscripted Soviet Army 1980; volunteered for Spetsnaz special forces 1982; service in Afghanistan 1983-86, awarded Order of the Red Banner for bravery under fire. Spetsnaz speciality: assassination. Pensioned off in 1994 as part of military restructuring. Last confirmed location: Cali, Colombia, March 1996."

So what the hell is a known mercenary/assassin who was earning six figures working for the Cartels doing trying to rip off an art gallery in small-town California? she wondered. Especially when the entire gallery wouldn't fence for even three hundred grand. Her innate thoroughness now married to outright curiosity as a driving force, she took the prints from the female subject and ran them. Less than three minutes later, another match came back.

What the hell? "Aleja Sampedro, 38. Spanish citizen. Degree from Madrid University, double major in psychology and computer science. Known member of Basque separatist group ETA: four known operations, three of them assassinations... carried out with a knife?" Almost despite herself, LaFollet pulled up one of the attached case-files - and immediately wished she hadn't. "Jesus wept...."

Sampedro, it seemed, had taken a very direct approach to the Guardia's encroachment on ETA. For instance, she'd found the captain in charge of computer operations in her area, who had access to a certain database of informers inside ETA cells. She'd seduced him to get the access-codes, then returned to his house a couple of days later, shot the man's wife dead on the doorstep, duct-taped the captain himself into a chair, then spent ninety minutes cutting pieces off his six-year-old son with a blunt steak knife before neutering the boy and putting out the captain's eyes so it would be the last thing he ever saw. The man had shot himself three weeks later. Simply reading about it was bad enough, but the file included crime-scene photographs. Those images would have turned the stomach of a veteran, and LaFollet was nowhere near that desensitised.

Hail Mary, full of grace, she thought weakly. Hearing footsteps outside her door, she quickly closed the Interpol window and sat back a little, putting the back of one hand to her mouth to control her nausea. What kind of human being can do that to a six year old child?

No - not a human being. A monster in human form. Some people are better off dead, she thought, distantly shocked that she could think such a thing. But why was she - it - here? With three other monsters and assault carbines, moreover? She never even remembered reaching for the 'phone.

{"Sunnydale County Hospital."}

"Yes, this is Detective LaFollet. I'm after the John Doe armed robber who was admitted last night."

{"One moment, please, I'll transfer you."} After a few moments, another voice came on the line, one with a Middle-Eastern accent. {"This is Doctor Hamshari. What can I do for you, Detective?"}

LaFollet was too tired - and motivated - to beat around the bush. "Has Mister Doe regained consciousness, Doctor?"

Pause. {"Uh, Detective, I don't know how quite to tell you this, but your John Doe died of a pulmonary embolism twenty minutes ago."}

"What?"

{"The fellow who hit him seems to have done a thorough job of it. I can't be sure without a full autopsy, but at this stage it appears that his injuries were severe enough to release particles of fat into his bloodstream, one of which caused a massive heart attack. I'm afraid he won't be telling you anything, Detective."}

"I see. Thank you for your time, Doctor." LaFollet rang off and slammed a fist down on her desk. "Shit!"

- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -

Detective Sergeant Robert Patterson - also Gunnery Sergeant Robert Patterson, USMC/Force Recon (ret.) - eyed his partner from just inside her office doorway. She was ashen-faced, obviously running on sheer willpower and bad coffee, but she was still working. Say what you like about her politics, but she's got what it takes... if she'll just lighten up on us jarheads a little.

As a town, Sunnydale had symbiotic relationships with two distinct communities: the Marines and dependants of the 29th and 33rd MEU(SOC)s based at Fort Quick (itself a quasi-suburb of the sprawling Camp Pendleton), and the faculty and students of UC Sunnydale. In fact, despite the area's previous settlement by the Spanish, Sunnydale itself had only become more than a backwater way-stop when senior California politicians of the time (with the... 'encouragement' of one Richard Wilkins 'the First') had secured the establishment of both facilities in 1899. Both were substantial employers of Sunnydale citizens, and though their actual non-native populations were a fraction too transient to feature in the offical census figures (which would have almost doubled otherwise), the members of each generally had more money than they knew what to do with and too little free time to spend it in. Thankfully, despite the naturally hawkish leanings of the Marines and the generally leftist sentiments of the UC Sunnydale student body (and faculty), the two groups interacted with each other without any real tension. However, even with the modern 'zero-tolerance' policy, Marines were Marines, which made for a lot of bar-fights and other assorted hell-raising. Hence the presence of (among others) one Robert Patterson on the Sunnydale police force, to counterbalance the civilian cops and keep them from railroading leathernecks who were just out for a little fun. When he'd returned to inactive reserve status after Desert Storm, he'd joined the S.P.D. for a new challenge.

Had he known what he was in for, he might've stayed in Recon. Getting shot at was one thing; this job was something else completely.

'Little Bob' - who stood six-foot-four in stocking feet and ate a barbell for breakfast every day as part of a balanced diet - stifled a sigh and crossed to his partner's side, offering her a Danish and a fresh cup of coffee. "And they say I'm a workaholic. You okay, Janelle?"

"Don't be a prick all your life, Bob," the African-American woman snarled absently, then pinched the bridge of her nose. "Sorry. I just... can't shake the feeling that we're missing something, y'know? And since our suspect just caught a fatal embolism, it's probably gonna stay missing."

"John Doe's dead, huh?" Patterson's tone made it clear he was anything but heartbroken.

"He was our only solid lead."

"Lead? There were only four bad guys in there, and they're all dead. We don't need leads; we need to celebrate - preferably with a lot of beer."

"Bob -"

"I know what you mean, Jan. We'll run down the weapons, the ammo, the armour, do all the usual sniffing, but I don't think it's gonna lead us anywhere but back to our four morts. I also know that John Doe machine-gunned an innocent man with a thirteen-year-old daughter without the slightest warning or provocation. I wanted answers too, but if it's a choice between answers and four bad guys getting away and no answers and four dead bad guys - hey, I'll settle for four dead bad guys."

"I won't."

A chill ran down Patterson's spine. "Jan... drop it, okay? This one's open and shut."

"Not to me. What about that kid you interviewed last night - Harris? I could see from the way you were talking you knew him. Where the hell did he learn to shoot like that?"

"He and the redhead were friends with my sister's kid. I used to take them all out to Quick now and then." Patterson didn't mention that the same question had occurred to him the night before; those visits (and lessons) had been a long time ago, and Xander had never been accused of having the world's best memory. Besides which, his manner during the interview last night had been....

Almost like a Recon Marine giving an after-action review right in the wake of a firefight. He was pumped, a little shakey, but he was keeping it all well together, he remembered; that was not the Xander he'd last seen two and half years ago. Jan was right about that much: something was going on here.

But pursuing it fell well inside the realm of Really Bad Ideas. Digging too deep in Sunnydale, even with Mayor Wilkins I/II/III dead, was exceedingly hazardous; too many things could (literally) jump out and bite you. Some things you just had to keep your hands off, and it felt like LaFollet was pushing awfully close to one of them. Another chill of fear ran down his spine. Fear not for himself, or what LaFollet's digging might bring down on him; he'd long since accepted that risks came with the job. He was afraid of what it would bring down on his partner. His voice was pitched at the edge of audibility. "Look, Jan, take some advice - if not as a friend, then as a concerned colleague? We've got an open-and-shut case: four shooters, three dead at the scene, the fourth on his way to the morgue now. No paperwork or lawyers, no appeals process, no parole. The good guys won this round. Let sleeping dogs lie, okay?"

LaFollet stared at him, amazed... then her eyes narrowed. "Suit yourself, Bob."

And as she turned back to her computer, Little Bob could only hope that, unlike most things in Sunnydale, he could actually take that statement at face value.

- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -

07:34, AUGUST 21, LIMA (15:34/21-08-99 ZULU)
GILES RESIDENCE

Giles looked up from his reading at the knock at his front door. At this hour, that could only be one of his 'Scooby Gang'. Marking his page, he crossed to the door and opened it. "What is it -?"

And his sentence died in an astonished blink. What the hell?

"Hullo, Rupert," Cerian McKellar smiled, offering him the 'Sunnydale Chronicle' that had been lying on his doormat. "I'm sorry I didn't call, but you can imagine that last night was rather busy."

"I'm sorry?" the younger ex-Watcher blinked again. "'I can imagine'? Why?"

"You haven't heard?" Cerian grinned crookedly. She unrolled the 'Chronicle' and turned it to his eyes.

"Good Lord," Giles gasped, taking the paper from her hand and absently stepping back to let her inside as he read quickly. Over yearbook-photos of Buffy, Oz, and Xander blazed the headline:

{TEENAGERS, ANTHROPOLOGIST FOIL ROBBERY
{ Daring intervention by two teenaged patrons and a professor prevented a massacre during an attempted armed robbery at the Sunnydale Art Gallery last night.
{ Four would-be bandits armed with assault weapons burst into the gallery during a showing that celebrated the opening of a new wing, killing security guard Jefferson Rance, 45, as they entered and beating a patron, Daniel Osbourne, 19, into unconsciousness. Witness reports say that further bloodshed was prevented only by the interference of Professor Cerian McKellar, 51, an anthropologist who habitually travels armed, and two bare-handed teenagers, Elizabeth Summers and Alexander Harris, both 18. Professor McKellar called on the robbers to surrender, then shot two of them dead in the ensuing exchange of gunfire; Summers, an accomplished hand-to-hand fighter, disabled a third man, and Mister Harris used that man's assault weapon to kill the remaining bandit.
{ Both Osbourne and the surviving, as yet unidentified robber were taken to Sunnydale County Hospital for treatment, the latter under guard by police; Professor McKellar's superficial wounds were treated at the scene. Osbourne's injuries have been described as 'extensive, but moderate'.
{ Professor McKellar, who had been offered a position at UC Sunnydale prior to the incident, holds in archaeology and cultural anthropology and is well-regarded in her field. Her carriage of a firearm is a habit she attributes to 'the volatile political situations around some of my past excavations'. Summers is the daughter of Mrs. Joyce Summers, the gallery's proprietor, and is enrolled to start at UC Sunnydale in the fall semester.
{ Editorial, p.2}

"Is everyone all right?" he asked of his colleague, his distaste for her falling by the wayside in his concern.

"Apart from the security guard and 'Oz'? Yes, quite," the Welshwoman smiled, flicking one fingernail against the three butterfly-strips that closed the slash across her cheek. "This is about all. Buffy's at home with her mother, undoubtedly preparing to visit Oz in hospital as we speak. Willow and Xander went straight to the hospital once the police were done with them, and I don't imagine they've shifted since. But I'm afraid that's not why I'm here." She took the paper from his hand and pointed out another article, this one below the fold and only marginally less lurid.

{BOY FOUND DEAD IN WEATHERLY PARK}

This, too, Giles read quickly, and as he read, he felt a sudden ball of heat within his chest, like smouldering coals flaring under a gust of wind. One encountered atrocities as a Watcher, but if you ever became inured to them, you were lost as a human being. "A matter for the police?" he suggested, mindful of the Hansel and Gretel incident.

"I don't think so, Rupert. If you read between the lines, this rings of blood magic."

Giles set the newspaper aside and took in his colleague's appearance. This morning, she was dressed in a royal-blue skirt-suit and a sky-blue blouse, but under the jacket, he could see the edge of a shoulder-holster. A full one. "I think we need to be sure before we do anything irreversible."

"Of course," she smiled.

He waved her inside. "My occult library - such as it is - lies just yonder."

"At least you have one, Rupert," Cerian observed sourly, crossing to his packed shelves and quickly perusing the titles. Seeing his baffled look, she explained over one shoulder, "The Council felt Tatyana Zyrianova was so ill-suited to her Calling that she'd fall within weeks and sending any resources our way was pointless. A good third of the trips I undertook during my assignment to her were in search of reference materials, and often fruitlessly at that."

"That, uh, sounds familiar," he noted, remembering some of the comments he'd heard from his colleagues about Buffy. This put a new light on things - not one that excused her behaviour completely, but - "How long was she the Slayer? Two years, wasn't it?"

Cerian cocked her head and worked it out, as much to herself as to Giles. "I Called her the night of Peter's fourteenth birthday, so, mid-March '93 to early December '95 - the better part of three years, actually."

"And they refused to support the Slayer for that long?" Especially a Slayer like her, he added privately. Tatyana Zyrianova and Peter McKellar had spent almost their entire tenure fighting a bitter, quarterless guerrilla war against the Ordo Astra warrior sept, among the élite of vampiredom, and it had made them legends in their own time. Many front-line Watchers used their performance as the yardstick of Slayer capabilities, though for some reason many of the Council's higher-ups cursed their names.

"I think it was rather more a case of their refusing to support me." She turned to face him and shrugged, opening Kane's Twilight Compendium. "I'd imagine you know how I kept tilting at the windmill of reviewing and revitalising the Council's training procedures and goals, for both Watchers and Slayers. However true and necessary, that little crusade of mine didn't win me many friends within the bureaucracy... or on the Central Quorum, for that matter."

"I can imagine." Council politics were not Giles' strong suit - he'd spent most of his time in the Council's more academic branches, and books generally didn't form power-blocs - but he'd felt enough fallout from this feud or that to believe her. A case in point was his recent skirmish over the necessity of the Cruciamentum test, and his ensuing relief as Buffy's Watcher in favour of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, an overbred buffoon whose only redeeming 'virtue', it seemed, had been unstinting loyalty to one Quentin Travers. "Would you like some tea?"

Cerian glanced up from her reading, and her smile was unexpectedly warm. "Cocoa, if you have it, please."

"Certainly. I'll be just a moment."

- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -

08:03, AUGUST 24, LIMA (16:03/24-08-99 ZULU)
SUNNYDALE HOSPITAL

Buffy took one step out of the elevator and stopped short in the waiting-room door. Awwwww....

Xander was sitting on the couch, legs stretched out before him, his chin on his chest and one arm about Willow's shoulders. For her part, Willow was half-lying against him, her legs curled up under her, her cheek resting on his shoulder, and what was obviously Xander's jacket draped over her shoulders. Both of them were very rumpled and soundly asleep - and shock of shocks, Xander wasn't even snoring!

If things were different, they'd be a perfect couple, the Slayer decided, setting her Oz-bound bouquet on a chair. I wonder -

"Hey, Buff."

JEEZ! The Slayer jumped and whirled.

Xander hadn't moved at all, but his eyes were open and on her. As she recovered from her heart attack, he shot her a wink and lifted his head to look at her properly. "Time to switch to decaf, Buff?" he suggested, his voice still low-pitched - he obviously didn't want to disturb Willow.

"I thought you were asleep!"

"That was the idea," he smiled. Despite what had to be a monumentally uncomfortable posture and 'bed', he showed no signs of cramps or pangs. More bafflingly, he usually spent an hour waking up, but he wasn't the least bleary-eyed or groggy. "You come bearing get-well presents?"

"Yeah. Have you guys been here all night?"

"Came here as soon as the cops finished taking our statements. Will was kinda... well... frantic, and I didn't want to leave her alone like that. I guess we conked out. How's your mom?"

"Contemplating suicide," the Slayer said dryly. "The cops are still working the place over with forensic stuff and they won't let her in, but it looks like a couple'a hundred grand in damage and unsaleable inventory, much less the PR thing."

"It'll be okay."

"Don't be so sure. Oz?"

"If they ever came in to tell us anything, we must'a been asleep."

Just then, Willow stirred and blinked her eyes open. "X-Xander? What -?"

"Hospital, Will. Oz was hurt, remember?"

The redhead's eyes shot wide open and alert at that, and she cast near-frantic looks around; when she saw Buffy, she blushed a little. "Uh, hi, Buffy."

"Hey, Will. Relax, it was a really long night, even for us." The blonde grinned crookedly.

"That said..." Xander carefully unentangled himself from the redhead and stood up. "I'm gonna go get some breakfast snacks, maybe coffee. Will, you want?"

"J-just some hot chocolate, thanks."

When he was gone, Buffy cast a long, speculative look at her closest friend. Willow blinked in puzzlement. "What?"

"Nothing that matters," the Slayer decided. Her two Slayerettes had always been really close anyway, and flukes aside, thinking it was any more than that would probably just be borrowing trouble. But on the subject of trouble.... "What d'you think that was about last night - y'know, him giving me all the credit for the big save?"

"I don't know," the Wiccan frowned, absently hugging Xander's jacket tighter around herself. "I-It's not like him. And the, the shooting that guy - okay, the cops said it was legit self-defence, but...."

"Maybe he had a Marine-guy flashback," Buffy suggested. That might explain the jacket, she noted privately: olive-drab Nomex in the classic aviator style, it bore parachute-qualification wings at the left shoulder-seam. "Besides, Will, d'you really think he'd let anybody hurt you? You saw how he reacted to that guy holding the gun on you!" There was something about that incident that bugged her somehow, but -

"Miss Rosenberg?" A tall, not-completely-unhandsome man in a doctor's coat - his nametag said {HAMSHARI}, which was a good match for his English-educated Middle-Eastern accent and swarthy complexion - was in the doorway.

Both young women stood up automatically. "Yes," Willow nodded. "How's Oz?"

"What internal bleeding there was we caught in plenty of time, and the repairs to his broken cheekbone were routine. We're going to keep him in for a while longer for observation - he had a mild concussion when he came in, and we want to be sure there isn't any other damage - but unless complications arise, which I sincerely doubt, he should be out of here by the end of the day. The rest of it's minor stuff, cracked ribs, a nice collection of bruises - all he really needs is bed-rest and some time to heal."

Willow let out a relieved sigh. "Can we see him?"

"Mister Osbourne's sleeping just now, and pretty drugged up to boot. You might have s better chance if you come back in a couple of hours. If he comes to in the mean-time, I'll tell him you were here."

"Thank you." The redhead almost sagged as she was finally, finally able to relax.

When the doctor was gone, Buffy blinked and looked at Willow sideways. "'Osbourne'?"

"Uh-huh," the witch nodded. "You didn't know?"

"I never got a chance to sign his yearbook, Will," the Slayer shrugged. "We were kind'a busy, remember? I guess it slipped his mind."

"I'll go get it for you!" she offered brightly. "I-I was gonna get some things for him anyway, so he didn't get too bored before they released him."

"Good idea. Der Kindestod aside, hospital: not Excitement Central. You want me to get Mom to give you a lift?"

"No, no, it's okay, I'll get Xander to drop me. Your mom'll need more support than I do right now."

"You sure?"

"Sure about what?" Xander asked, stepping out of the elevator with his hands full of chocolate bars and dispenser-cups.

"Travel plans," Buffy drawled. "You up to taking Will by Oz's place to get some stuff?"

"Ahhhhh...." He winced, setting his foodstuffs down and producing a hefty-looking keyring. "I can drop you, Will, but you'll need to catch a ride back with Buff. I went straight to the gallery last night; I still need to find a place to stay -"

"Your room's still free at our place," the redhead blurted.

"And how's Oz gonna react to that?" Xander countered promptly. "He's in hospital one night and you move me into the room next to yours? I don't think he's that understanding, Will, especially since - well, since," he pointed out, wincing at the memory. "Besides, I'm only gonna be here long enough to get some things taken care of, then I'm Not-Here guy again."

"You don't -" Willow began, hurt.

"It's not that I don't want to stay with you, Will; it's that I can't and shouldn't."

Buffy stifled a snort. Loaded statement much? And I wonder where I've heard that argument in the past few weeks? Just that fast, she came up short. Okay, when did I get so cynical?

About the same time you lost sight of Angel in the smoke? another part of her suggested, a little snidely.

Who asked you?

Unaware of Buffy's inner discussion, Xander went on, "Tell you what: Will, I'll drop you back at your place so you can change -"

"Huh? Oh," Willow realised, blushing a little as she looked down at her crumpled dress. Green silk, it was probably beyond saving by now. "Yeah, I guess."

"- Then I'll meet you guys back here about... eleven-ish?"

"Yeah, sure," Buffy nodded.

- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -

Willow gratefully drained the cup of hot chocolate Xander had fetched for her as the elevator headed for the ground floor. "Thanks."

"All part of the service," he shrugged, 'no big deal', but his eyes and voice were... tender.

"Like the, the save last night?"

"It's in the job description, Will: evil fought, dragons vanquished, vampires slain, fair ladies rescued...."

She gave him an indulgent look. "Where'd you learn to do all that stuff, anyway? You were always...."

"Zeppo-like?" he nodded as the elevator came to a halt; he waved an 'after you'. "I met some... interesting people while I was away," he grinned. If only I could tell you.... "They taught me some things."

"Oh." Willow suddenly remembered she was still wearing his jacket about her shoulders and slipped it off. "Here."

"It's okay, you hold onto it for a while." He plucked at his sweater. "I'm gonna cook as it is."

"Why the dark colours, anyway?" she frowned, as the automatic doors at the main entrance slid open for them.

"Haven't you heard? Blue is the new black."

Her half-hearted giggles lasted them the twenty yards to the parking lot. Xander produced his keys again and thumbed the attached remote, and the vehicle that chirped in response made Willow blink. She'd been too wigged to notice the previous night, but - "A Suburban? Where'd you -?"

"Vegas. Would you believe it turns out that not only do I rule at poker, but a single silver dollar dropped in the right slot machine will win you a brand-new SUV?"

She came to a sudden halt and gaped at him. "You won this?" she squeaked.

"Uh-huh. And some spare cash, too. I got you and Buffy some going-to-college presents."

"Really?" Her eyes brightened even as her heart melted. "Xander, you didn't have to -"

"No... but I wanted to," he smiled gently. "C'mon."

- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -

09:14, TUESDAY AUGUST 24, LIMA (17:14/24-08-99 ZULU)
SUNNYDALE ARMS APARTMENT COMPLEX

LaFollet looked about her living room, admiring what little she'd been able to do with it on her budget, and settled onto her couch. Little Bob had all but ordered her to get some sleep, and she intended to just that... once she put some of these pieces together.

Now clad far more comfortably in sweat-pants and her UC Sunnydale sweater, the youthful detective curled her legs under her and started sorting through the papers and files she'd brought home, trying to see the patterns.

As Little Bob had identified the previous night, the robbers' shoulder-arms had actually been Canadian-made C8 carbines, capable of full-automatic fire, as opposed to the burst-fire M4 used by American services. They'd also been reported destroyed in a fire at a Canadian Army depot five months ago, which made them black-market and thus virtually untraceable. The same went for their pistols, Italian-made Beretta Model-92s stolen in a massive robbery at an Illinois National Guard armoury more than two years before. (That set off a little bell in her head to go with the one started by finding out who Khokhriakov and Sampedro really were. Normally, hoods bought whatever weapons they could get, from all over, but these weapons all had uniform origins. Not something you found in two-bit art heists.)

The C-MAG double-drum magazines and the 5.56mm ammunition had also been stolen from the Illinois armoury (which would get her a pat on the head from the National Guard), but the 9mm ammo was a different story. 'Starfire' expanding bullets made by PMC/El Dorado, those rounds had been traced back to five boxes bought over the counter, perfectly legally, in Vermont three weeks before. (LaFollet winced in revulsion at that thought. To her mind, expanding bullets were a necessary evil... emphasis on evil.) She'd had a track on the credit card involved as a matter of routine, because that was what policework actually was: you followed every last detail, no matter how trivial, because cases could turn on the tiniest little thing, and so the only real way to solve crimes was dogged persistence and anal-retentive attention to detail.

All the weapons involved in this 'heist' were black-market and perfectly clean before now. Which means they were bought specifically for this stunt and were probably bound for a blast furnace immediately afterwards. During her time at UC Sunnydale, LaFollet had had a seven-month dalliance with a Marine who'd been desperate to get into 'special operations', and it was just amazing the things a man would say to get your interest. On LaFollet's part, it had been a case of 'know thine enemy', and she'd learned a great deal. And the sex wasn't all that bad either, she noted, with a fond smile. One of the subjects Sammy had held forth on was how one ran a 'deniable' operation, one that never officially happened and could never be linked back to its true perpetrators. Simply put, nothing - nothing - about it could ever be directly linked back to the operation's organiser. All the gear used had to be clean - or, more easily obtained (and useful), lead to someone else who had a grudge against your target. If you couldn't hide what you did, you made it look like somebody else did it.

This never felt right for criminals to start with, and the more I look, the more I like it as somebody trying to pull a covert paramilitary operation, she realised, her thought processes leaden with fatigue. But if that's true, who or what were they really after, and why?

Chapter End Notes:

NCIC: National Criminal Information Computer, a central archive of felonious-crime records held by the US Government for the use of Federal and local law-enforcement agencies.

Spetsnaz special forces fell/fall under the control of the GRU, Soviet/Russian Military Intelligence. Like the Red Army itself, they were drastically down-sized at the end of the Cold War, and many of those personnel found themselves working as mercenaries, either in Russia (mainly for the Russian Mafia) or abroad.

Guardia - Spanish national police.

Marine Force Recon are the USMC's in-house special operations troops, who perform short-range reconnaissance ahead of their parent units and longer-range independent missions. They are very tough hombres, and like normal US Marines (but unlike most other American 'special forces' units) they generally do not suffer from Not-Invented-Here syndrome.

MEU(SOC): Marine Expeditionary Unit (Special Operations Capable). Based around an infantry battalion with a number of attachments (including armoured-vehicle, aircraft, artillery, Force Recon and specialist intelligence units), a MEU(SOC) exceeds two thousand personnel in authorised strength and has the capabilities and personnel to perform almost any small-to-medium scale mission put in front of it. Sort of a 'fire-brigade' unit.

The fictitious 'Fort Quick' is named for Sergeant John Quick, who won the Congressional Medal of Honour at Cuzco in 1898 during the Spanish-American War. Camp Pendleton is the main training ground for the USMC in California, a fair bit south of Los Angeles. (And yes, I know later canon has Sunnydale north of LA. AU, remember? ;-D)
Incidentally, this is why Xander tried to enlist on the East Coast - he was worried that if he went through training in San Diego, the Great Demon Murphy was almost certain to bump him into the Scooby Gang, whereupon he'd get an earful of condescending talk about how the USMC is too dangerous for him and probably end up saying something to drive a permanent wedge between him and his friends.

Cerian tells a good story. Question is, how much of it is true? Remember, everyone speaks from a bias and agenda of some sort....

Back in 1999, the M16A2 was still the standard-issue rifle for US Forces; M4 carbines were rare and confined to special-forces formations. Moreover, they were usually the single/burst M4 version, not the single/full-auto M4A1 which has become so prominent in front-line forces - and the public consciousness - in recent years.