Legacy

4. Negotiation
(in which somebody dies! Gasp!)

Location: Bank of England
Camden Town... England
13:11 HRS

Inspector White turned out to be aptly named. His mane of white hair ended where his white beard and moustache began, giving him the appearance of a very pale lion. He towered over Talon's slender five-foot three-inch frame, and offered her a firm handshake.

"So, you're real," he said. She lifted one eyebrow questioningly. "Was beginning to think that madman in the Spidey costume had made you up. Mind if I ask; you ever been in a hostage situation before?"

"Once or twice," she said. "But I'd welcome any advice you care to give me."

He looked surprised by that, and ordered one of his men to fetch the smallest sized protective vest whilst he brought her up to speed.

"You'd expect most people who brandish a gun in a bank to be holding up the place, trying to get at the money. So far, this chap's shown no interest. Now, normal policy is to never give in to the demands of criminals; makes them think they can get away with their nefarious activities. But we gave in on the lunch situation so that your department could send someone to recon. You've seen the footage?" She nodded. "There's a fire escape at the rear of the building, but for security reasons it's tied into the fire system and won't disengage unless the alarm trips. We've got sharp-shooters in place, and a team of officers ready to storm the place if necessary, but your superiors seem to think you can handle this without backup."

"They're probably right," she agreed, as she was strapped into a vest. It was pulled tight, making breathing a chore. "But it doesn't hurt to have your people ready to swoop in, just in case."

"My thoughts exactly."

I know, she thought, but didn't say. Better that he believed they were on the same wavelength. He probably wouldn't be thrilled to discover she'd read his mind and determined the best way to handle him was accept his professional opinion and defer to his wealth of experience.

One of the officers gave a box to White, and he opened it to show Talon its contents.

"Wire. Similar to the one we used on the last bloke who went in, only this has an ear-piece so we can get audio feedback."

"Thank you, but that won't be necessary." She gestured to her handler. "Agent Knight here will convey all that I see and hear. Better than you don't ask how; MI6 secrets."

Inspector White shrugged. "Whatever you say, Agent. As far as I'm concerned, you're running the show now. Just let me know where you want my shooters to aim, and when you want them to fire. I'll leave the rest up to you."

"I'll keep you apprised," she assured him.

White wandered off to join a group of police officers beside one of the cars, and Talon glanced at the building under siege. The snipers had it surrounded, but everything seemed quiet so far. Closing her eyes, she allowed a tendril of consciousness to drift away from her mind, towards the bank, opening herself up to the emotions of those within. Fear and tension were most palpable, but there was some amount of confusion, and also embarrassment. The bank staff were responsible for the latter, she suspected, forced to stand as they were in a ridiculous pose.

"Hey," Jimmy said, touching her elbow. As she opened her eyes and pulled her mind back into her body, she caught a brief echo of emotions; he'd mistaken her mental probing for concern, or migraine. Talon gave him a tight smile.

"I'm fine," she assured him. "Are you ready for the link?"

"As I'll ever be."

She reached out and touched his left temple with her fingertips, establishing a mental link between their minds. For the briefest of seconds her vision blurred as she received two sets of visual input; hers, and Jimmy's. Then she focused on her own eyes, felt her senses settle back down.

"You okay?" she asked. It was always easier for her to adapt to the mental link, than the person she was linking with. Jimmy was a pro, her handler of six years, but it still took his brain a few minutes to adapt to seeing and hearing and smelling things that Jimmy himself wasn't seeing and hearing and smelling. The worst part, though, was the vertigo. Seeing the world through the eyes of someone so much shorter than himself always made him go dizzy.

"Yeah," he thought back, his mental voice clear across the link. "Just reminded once again how different everything looks from down there. Like my nose. So much bigger when you're looking up at it."

A smile tugged at her lips, and she turned to face the bank.

"Be careful in there," he cautioned.

"Don't worry. We'll be in the Seychelles before you know it."

o - o - o - o - o

Deadpool watched dispassionately as Tom the Manager writhed around on the floor, hands clutched to his throat, eyes wide as he gasped for breath.

"Hmm, I dunno," he said. "Is it that new Star Trek film? The Wrath of Khan? Because I haven't seen that one yet."

"The Wrath of Khan isn't the newest film," said Dave. "There's a newer one out, now. The Search for Spock. It's supposed to be pretty good."

"Then I have a lot of catching up to do."

Tom stood up, shook his head, and wiggled his ear lobe with his fingers.

"Sounds like," Deadpool said.

The manager held up all eight fingers, and then made a generic gesture for 'really big.' Then he pointed to his third finger, followed by miming digging with a spade.

Mandy, whose job it was to advise people on their mortgage repayments, said 'Ooh!' and shot her hand up into the air.

"Alright, Mandy," Deadpool said.

"The Great Escape!"

"That's right!" said Tom. "I'm glad somebody got it."

"That was the worst Great Escape charade ever," Deadpool complained. "What was with all the choking? I thought you were having an epileptic fit."

"That was Charles Bronson's character, Danny Velinski, suffering from claustrophobia."

"Coulda fooled me. Anyway, it's your turn, Mandy."

The start of Mandy's charade was interrupted by the ringing of the phone on Tom's desk. Deadpool reached over the empty box of pies and picked up the receiver.

"International House of Fun, this is Deadpool, how may I direct your call?"

"This is Inspector White," the voice returned. "I'm calling to let you know that Talon's here and she's ready to enter the bank."

"Took you long enough. I've been waiting nearly forty-five minutes, you know. If these hostages didn't have such a high entertainment value, two of them would be dead by now."

"Her car got stuck in traffic."

"Well, whatever. Just send her in. And no funny business. Owing to my leniency, I still have those ten or eleven bullets."

He hung up the receiver and waited. After a silence of a few seconds he heard the bank door open, and two of the teapots stepped aside. A woman walked forward, her face so familiar that his head spun as the half-remembered dream hit him like a sledge-hammer. She looked a little thinner than he remembered, all traces of youthful fleshiness burnt away, but he suspected that he would never forget those piercing green eyes for as long as he lived.

He pointed the gun at Tom.

"If you even think about reading my mind," he said to the woman, "I'll kill him."

Talon merely blinked slowly, as if waking from a trance. "Well. Then you don't have anything to worry about." Her voice was low, soft, cultured without being posh. "I already tried reading your mind, and can't." She held up both hands, showing she was unarmed. "Why don't you let some of these people go? As a show of good faith."

"I've already refrained from shooting them as a show of good faith." He kept the gun trained on Tom, but watched her closely as she took another step forward. Was she lying, about not being able to read his mind? But if she could read his mind, make him see things that weren't there, wouldn't she have done it already? Wouldn't he already be on the floor, bleeding profusely?

It didn't make much sense, but that seemed par for the course these days. Still, if she couldn't read his mind, he had an advantage. An unexpected but pleasant advantage. Already he'd decided to not tell her who he was, to trust to his costume to keep his identity secret. His reasoning was simple; whatever Talon had once been to him, she wasn't that any more. Regardless of what had happened with the champagne bath, she was not a part of his life, and probably hadn't been for some time. And, very likely, that was his fault. And if it was his fault, she would probably be pissed at him. He had a feeling that, prior to his incarceration, he spent a lot of time around people who were pissed at him for one reason or another.

"If you let some of them go, it would be even more of a show of good faith," she countered.

"Yeah, you're not really selling that idea well." He aimed a glare at the manager, then remembered that nobody could see his glares because of his mask. A shame, because he really liked glaring. "Tom, get the lady a seat."

Tom hurried to fetch his own chair, and placed it down behind Talon.

"I'd prefer to stand, actually," she said.

"And I'd prefer it if you sat." He transferred his gun aim, pointing it now at her head. "Please."

She sat, used the opportunity to look around, glancing at the customers, the staff, the ceiling… possibly looking for an alternative route in. Not that she'd find one; banks weren't well-known for having multiple routes of ingress. Security was one of their defining features.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked.

"Straight to the million-dollar question, huh? All right then. Why am I doing this? To get your attention, of course."

Talon laughed, but it was a cold sound, devoid of humour. "I'm flattered. But why me? I don't even know who you are."

"You might not know who I am, but I know who you are. And I also knew that I wouldn't be able to find you by conventional means. That your government would deny all knowledge of your existence. 'Cos that's what governments do."

She held out her hands. "Well, here I am. What now?"

"Now you come with me, and all these people go back to their homes, and possibly find new places of employment. I'd recommend Taco Bell, if you have those here. Less risky."

"And where might we be going?"

"Back to America."

"I see." She leant back in the chair and tapped her chin thoughtfully with one finger. Her eyes glazed over briefly, and when she looked up at him again he thought he saw the glint of the humour that had been absent from her laugh. "You do realise, yes, that the police aren't just going to allow you to walk out of here with a hostage? Not even if that hostage is me?"

"They would if you made them. Do your little parlour trick. Make them put their guns down."

"And why would I do that?"

"Uh, because I'll shoot you if you don't?"

"So, let me get this straight," she said, her voice taking on an air of patient superiority, "you've come here all the way from America—illegally, I have to assume, since you weren't clocked at any of the air and sea ports—to get to me. You've travelled thousands of miles to bring me back with you, but if I don't comply, you'll kill me? I find that hard to believe."

"I never said anything about killing you," he replied. This was not going well. Talon's stupid logic was busting up his hastily-laid escape plans. "If I shoot you in the arm, or the leg, you won't die."

"On the other hand," she said, "I have no idea why you want to take me to America. Given the nature of your actions here, I can only assume it's for something dangerous, violent or illegal, and I won't be party to anything like that. I'd rather order those snipers to shoot you, even at the risk of hitting me, than allow you to coerce me into criminal activities. You really haven't thought this through very well, have you?"

He had no response to that. This plan, like most of his plans, sounded good on paper, but in execution left something to be desired. Most of that 'something' was success. But the fortune teller lady had said Talon would help him! He'd hinged this madness on her prediction!

Though, now I come to think about it, Mrs Bao said I'd find somebody here who can help me. Not someone who will help me. Ohhh poop.

Talon leant forward in her chair, green eyes boring into his mask.

"Tell me why you want me to go to America with you," she said. Her voice was everywhere; it was echoing around the room, and caressing his spine in way that made chills run across his body. It was in his ears, and his head, and it was both a request and a command. "I'll consider your response."

And suddenly, he realised that he had to tell her. It was the only way to gain her trust and her help. Besides, she'd find out sooner or later why he needed a telepath. And yet… something in him rebelled against telling her. Wanted to keep something back.

"The American military is performing experiments on mutants," he said. "Killing them. Turning them into weapons. I need you to come back with me to… to find proof. To expose their lies and avenge those killed over the years."

"So in order to expose one crime, you would commit another?"

"It's not the same."

"Prove it. Let some of these hostages go. You don't need all these people. Like you said, you've only got ten or eleven bullets left."

"Yeah, but I never said the gun was my only weapon." His hand twitched, but he refrained from sliding out one of his blades. It would only cause a panic amongst the hostages. "Fine," he said. "You can have some of the hostages. The men can go free."

"It's usual custom to let the women go free."

"But I wanna see if the men will abandon the women. Call it a social experiment. Alright you men, you can stop being teapots and stop cowering on the floor, and leave if you want to. All except you, Dave. I like you. And you stay too, Tom, 'cos I don't like you."

The men looked rather sheepish. A few glanced to each other, trying to build a consensus, a feeling of camaraderie, a mental agreement of if we ALL abandon the women, then it's not as if we're being individual cowards. In the end, they didn't need a second invitation. En mass, they left. But because this was England, they left in a very orderly fashion, with no pushing or shoving, whilst the women shot death-glares at them.

"So," Deadpool continued, once the bank door was closed again, "I've scratched your back. Now you scratch mine."

"I'll have to consult with my superiors," Talon said. "The choice isn't mine to make."

"Your superiors have fifteen minutes to reach the right decision."

"Fifteen minutes is all I'll need," she assured him.

o - o - o - o - o

General Charles and his aides had arrived at the scene by the time Talon stepped out of the bank. The first thing she noticed was that the sun had come out whilst she'd been inside, and it now shone brightly, making its best attempt to blind her. She scowled at it, and mentally wished for clouds.

The second thing to draw her attention was the group of male former hostages, who'd been rounded up by the police and led off to one side of the road, where they would undoubtedly be offered therapy by trained officers.

"Agent Talon," the General called, beckoning her over to the small group which had gathered around him. Jimmy was there, looking very concerned, and Inspector White, looking rather pleased. The General's face was, as always, a practised mask of neutrality.

"Sir?" she queried.

"Care to tell me why you're playing along with this madman?"

"Because you told me to resolve the situation by any means necessary, sir."

"And by that I meant you should get inside his damn head and get him to put down the damn gun." He moustache was quivering. Not a good sign.

"I tried," she said, telling him the same thing she'd told Deadpool. "For one reason or another, I can't read his mind, much less create illusions to disarm him."

"Still, you managed to get half the hostages out," said Inspector White. "That's a step in the right direction."

The General grumbled something, then cleared his voice.

"Yes, yes, good work so far, Agent. The Chief has been observing the situation here. Since you've made contact with the criminal, he'd like your recommendation on how to proceed."

Talon felt both eyebrows rise up in surprise. The Chief had never asked for her opinion before. Usually he only took advice from senior staff. Of course, he probably already knew what her recommendation would be. The Chief never asked a question unless he already had the answer.

"If the American military is creating weapons out of mutants," she said, "then finding proof would give us a card to play against them in the future."

"Need I remind you, Agent, that the Americans are our allies?"

"Are they?" Jimmy asked, jumping on the bandwagon even if he couldn't see where it was going just yet. "Didn't they claim to have ceased their Super-Soldier program in the sixties? If what this 'Deadpool' says is true, then either the previous administration lied to us, or elements within the government have gone rogue."

"We still have contacts within Congress," Talon continued. "Agent Knight can pursue leads here, whilst I do footwork in the States. If we can find evidence of lies or corruption, or even raw data on the experiments the US military has been running—"

"Allegedly running," General Charles interrupted, ever the voice of skepticism.

"Then we'd have leverage, and information we might be able to use to our advantage."

"And you'd be at the mercy of a criminal," he pointed out. "Do you have any idea who this guy is, or how he knows who you are?"

"No. But that's something else I could try to find out. It could be that he's just some quack hacker who's read my name on some system he's cracked."

"Finding out who he is, and how he knows about you, should be your first priority," the General advised. "If, of course, the Chief moves on your suggestion."

"Of course."

He grunted. "I'll go and make the call now. He knows we're on a deadline."

"'Scuse me, but what should I do with the released hostages?" White asked.

"Keep them together for now," Jimmy told him. "We'll need to… question them… later."

White nodded, and went off to organise things. Jimmy waited until he was out of earshot before speaking to Talon. Sometimes he completely forgot about the mental link.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I wouldn't have suggested it if I wasn't sure," she replied. "I think that whatever this is, it's important enough to warrant our attention."

"What about the Seychelles?"

She smiled. "Last I checked, they weren't going anywhere. They'll still be there when this mission's over."

"Provided, of course, that the Chief goes for your recommendation."

"He will."

"I suspect you're right." He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I'm going to get us a coffee from that shop on the corner. Give the owner something to do other than rubber-necking. We're going to have to do a lot of damage control before this day's over, you know."

"I know," she sighed, already very familiar with what 'damage control' was code for.

She watched him cross the road and disappear into the coffee shop, then turned to look at the bank once more. Yes, the Seychelles could wait. Now that she'd finally remembered why that voice sounded so familiar, she had a new mission. A new mystery. She had to figure out why Wade Wilson was dressing up in a costume and calling himself Deadpool… and why the hell she couldn't read his mind anymore.

o - o - o - o - o

Deadpool glanced at the clock on the wall. 2.37pm. He'd had no sleep since arriving in England, no sleep on the flight over, and no sleep in the ten hours preceding his personal encounter with hypothermia. Which, by his amazing calculation of mathematical wizardry, meant he was missing SOME hours which he should have spent unconscious.

Not that he was tired. No, he was far too busy being freaked out by the fact that he'd lost some time. Or gained some time. He wasn't sure which. All he knew was that he wouldn't get his time fixed until he returned to America. Somehow, a small portion of his life had been sucked into a timezone black-hole, and the result was he didn't know whether he should be hungry or sleepy, wasn't sure if he was awake when he should have been asleep, and couldn't decide whether GMT was a cooler acronym than EST.

He drummed his fingers on the desk. His patience, not his strongest attribute in the first place, was wearing thin. Talon was five minutes overdue with a decision from her superiors. Everybody seemed to determined to push their luck; it was almost as if they didn't believe he'd shoot one of the hostages. Well, he'd just have to prove them wrong! It was long past time he showed them how serious he was.

Just as he was halfway through mentally counting Eeny Meeny Miny Moe to decide which of the remaining sixteen hostages would be shot first, the bank door opened to admit Talon.

"Okay," she said. "You have a deal. There are, however, conditions."

"I dislike conditions. They're too restrictive. But… in the interests of international co-operation, I'm willing to hear you out," he said, which he felt was very generous of him.

"First, I call the shots. I'm not risking the whole operation because you start getting ideas. You accept my help by deferring to my experience."

"Fair enough." A condition easily side-stepped, once they got back to America.

"Second, whatever evidence we find, I get a copy of it. All of it. Data, test results, communications, invoices and itineraries, bills for the government's lunch expenses… you don't get to hold anything back from me."

"Fine," he agreed. It wouldn't matter anyway. Talon could do whatever she liked with her evidence, as long as Deadpool got his revenge. As long as Connie's murder didn't go unpunished.

"Last but most important; we're done when I say we're done. If I feel we've gathered enough evidence, we stop."

"Wouldn't have it any other way." He was fairly certain he could talk her into seeing it through until he'd meted out slow, bloody vengeance. "Right then, let's go."

She held up her hand to stall him, and shook her head. "I can't go yet. There are things I need to do first."

His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What things?"

"Well, I have to pack a bag. You can't expect me to travel without a change of clothes and some personal items."

"Ah yes. A change of clothes. I'd forgotten how much women like having those." Talon arched one dark eyebrow up at that, and he quickly continued. "That's a ten minute job."

"I also need to arrange transport to the airport—"

"Airport of my choice," he interrupted. "I'm not giving you people chance to assemble a hit-squad to take me out as we get on a plane."

"And I need to arrange for someone to look after my cat."

"What's your cat's name?"

"Mr Kitty."

"That's a stupid name."

"Whatever you say, Deadpool," she sniped.

"Hey, don't diss the name."

"At any rate," she continued, tallying off one last point on her finger, "before I can leave, I need to clean up the mess you've made here."

"Sounds ominous."

"I'll need an hour," she said. "To put everything in order, get my bag, and prepare us transport."

"One hour," he agreed. "And this time, don't keep me waiting."

o - o - o - o - o

As the silver Aston pulled into the reserved bay beneath MI6 headquarters, Talon finished relaying instructions to Jimmy.

"…then there's that Nigerian postal scam I've been collating data on," she said. "You'll want to follow that up in about a week."

"Consider it done," he replied.

"And don't forget about the pick-up in Russia that needs to be arranged for next Friday."

"I was at the mission briefing, you know."

She offered a wan smile. "I know. But I feel like I'm dumping everything on you. I just don't want anything to be overlooked."

Jimmy stepped out of the car and held open the door for her. "If you ask me, these past ten months behind a desk have turned you into a worrier."

"I'm not worried," she assured him. "Just… professionally concerned. Oh, and will you take care of Mr Kitty for me?"

"I'll treat him as if he was my own," Jimmy promised. Together they entered the stairwell, and began to climb. "Do you have enough meds?"

"I still have a two week supply left."

"Good. Get in touch when you need more, and I'll arrange a drop-off. And please don't wait until you're down to your last two pills and in the middle of a mind-shattering migraine."

"Yes, mother." Outside the office they shared, she stopped with her hand resting on the door handle. "Would you mind giving me a few minutes?" She glanced at her watch, calculating what time it would be in the States. "I have to make a call."

"Sure," he shrugged. Then, his face darkened. "Wait a minute. You're not calling him, are you?"

"As a matter of fact, I am. Why? Is that a problem?"

"You haven't spoken to him in almost five years."

"So glad you keep tabs on my calls," she said dryly.

"I just don't think it's a good idea. I mean, you'll be in America within twenty-four hours. Why draw attention to that fact?"

"Because sooner or later, he'll discover that I'm in the country. Better that he hear about it from me."

"Alright, it's your call. But personally? I think you should try to fly under the radar."

"Thanks for the advice. I'll only be a few minutes. I've still gotta swing by my apartment and pack a bag before heading back to the bank to collect my new 'partner.'"

Jimmy shook his head and wandered off. She didn't need any mental link to know his thoughts at that moment. He'd despaired over her stubbornness more than once since she'd been taken off active duty and stuck behind a desk. It would be good to get back out in the field again, if only to get away from his hen-pecking.

In the office, she took a seat behind her desk, sinking into the comfortable chair, and switched on her computer terminal. It took only a few seconds to boot up, in which she forced her hands to stillness on the desk in front of her, preventing them from toying with her hair. Her hair was fine as it was. And if it was a little messy, because she hadn't combed it properly before being dragged out of her house by one of the department's drivers, so what? This wasn't a personal call, as such. It was strictly professional. And even if it had been a personal call, it wouldn't have mattered how her hair looked because she no longer had reason to want to look nice for him.

But that didn't stop her fingers from twitching impatiently.

When the dialling program activated, she tapped a series of numbers into the keypad. Numbers which had been seared into her memory. Numbers she hoped he hadn't changed since their rather tumultuous parting.

The speakers chimed out a ringing tone. Once. Twice. Thrice. Four times. Talon glanced again at her watch. It was mid-morning, in America. He wouldn't be in bed, asleep. Not at this hour.

On the seventh ring the line picked up, and the computer monitor sprang to life, receiving real-time video footage. The man behind the expansive desk looked exactly as Talon remembered him; brown hair bisected neatly by white wings the only real sign of his age. A black eyepatch covered his left eye, giving him an air of roguish venerability. As always, he looked like he was a day overdue for a shave, a shadow of facial hair clinging to the chiselled planes of his face. The dark blue uniform he wore was undecorated, save for the white stripe along the collar. He moved, bringing his broad shoulders back, steepling his fingers together as he observed his own video screen.

"Well," he said. "This is a surprise."

"Hello, Nicholas."

"Harriet," he returned. "I never thought I'd hear from you again."

"And yet you kept the back-door number you gave me," she pointed out.

"Just in case. So. Should we exchange pleasantries, or do you want to get right to the point and tell me why you've called after all this time?"

"You look well, Nicholas."

"Pleasantries it is, then," he grunted. "And how have you been, Harriet? Your new role as an administrator suits you well, I trust?"

"Well enough." She didn't bother asking how he'd heard about her removal from active duty. Nick Fury was the world's second best when it came to espionage.

"Would you like to reminisce about old times, as well?"

She fought back a grimace at his veiled hostility. Perhaps she should have listened to Jimmy after all. "I haven't called to reminisce," she said. "I called to tell you that I have business in America. I'll be arriving in a week or two."

"How high should I expect the body count to be this time?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You were here three years ago, weren't you?"

"Yes. On holiday."

"In D.C." It was not a question.

"That's right. I was sightseeing."

"Sightseeing in the same city where Senator Nielson was murdered."

Talon smiled. "Ah yes, I read something about that in the newspaper. Killed by a prostitute, I believe? Hell of a way to go."

"I suppose it's just a coincidence that Senator Nielson died the same week you were sightseeing in D.C."

"Yes. A strange and untimely coincidence."

"And it just happens to be a coincidence that when the dead Senator's affairs were investigated, it was discovered he'd been blackmailing a British ambassador."

"You don't say!"

"Indeed. And it was rather fortuitous, from the ambassador's point of view, that Senator Nielson's body was discovered in a brothel. It cast aspersions on the Senator's formerly good name, and meant that when the information about the ambassador was brought to the attention of the media by one of the Senator's lackeys, nobody gave it much credence."

"I agree, that was rather fortuitous."

He sighed, placed both hands on his desk and leant forwards. "Must we play this game, Harriet?"

"This game, Nicholas, is called politics. You know as well as I that the only way to stop playing the game is to leave it. Terminally. Now, I contacted you out of professional courtesy. And, out of professional courtesy, I'm advising you to stay out of my way. My business in America has nothing to do with you. I'm investigating something on behalf of a friend, and there's not going to be any body-count."

"I wish I could believe that." For a wonder, he sounded like he truly meant it.

"Believe it or not, it's the truth."

"My advice to you, Harriet, is whatever business you have in America, leave it to someone else. If you come here, I'll find you. I have a lot of questions that you will provide answers for."

"Then I guess I'll see you in a couple of weeks. Goodbye, Nicholas."

She disconnected the line, watched the ghostly after-image of the man and the desk fade from the monitor. That was a conversation which could have gone better. But it could have gone worse, too. At least she'd have a week or two to operate in the States, before SHIELD would start looking for her. She could do a lot, in a week or two.

With a deep sigh, she down-powered the computer once more, and hid her best pen under a pile of junk in her drawer so that Jimmy couldn't pilfer it whilst she was away. Then she left, to find her handler. She had just enough time to make a detour to her apartment to pack a few things before heading back to the bank. One more mess to clean up, then she'd be back in the game.

o - o - o - o - o

The scream of police sirens. The smell of petrol interlaced with strong coffee from the nearby café. The shocked stares of shoppers on the street. Inspector White clocked it all as he stepped out of his car and took refuge behind it. Armed officers were mere seconds behind him, each using their vehicles as cover, their rifles steady, aimed at the bank.

"Someone fetch me a damn phone!" he commanded.

"Sir! Look!"

He glanced in the direction PC Grant was pointing. Right at the front entrance, where a group of employees were coming out, their hands up in the air, poised to surrender.

"I am so so so so sorry," one of the bank workers said.

A man in a suit scowled at him and and approached White.

"It's David's fault," the man said. "He saw a bra…err, child, with his mother, carrying a toy gun. Playing at Axis and Allies or some nonsense like that. David thought the child was carrying a real gun, and triggered his panic alarm." David cringed, the recipient of another scowl. "Needless to say, he'll be undertaking further training in the proper activation of security alarms. Thomas Moor, Manager." He offered his hand.

White stood up, gestured at his men to stand down. The guns were withdrawn. The sirens silenced. Somebody went for coffee.

"It's no problem," the Inspector assured the manager. "Better to be safe than sorry. All I need to hear is that nobody's hurt and nobody's in danger."

"We're all fine," Mr Moor said. But it was odd… his face was rather sweaty.

"Good to hear. Of course, I'll have to send in a couple of the boys, to make sure everything's alright. You understand."

"Yes, I understand." A bead of sweat trickled down Moor's cheek. "I completely understand. You're just doing your job, sir."

"Yes. I'm just doing my job."

He gestured for two of his team to check the bank out. PC Grant turned up two minutes later with a cup of coffee, courtesy of the local café owner. White sipped it, and waited. When the two officers returned from their check of the bank, they reported all was well. The panic button had been reset, and there was no danger.

"Alright," said White. "We'll report back that we've attended a false alarm and made sure the premises is safe. PC Grant, will you write up the log?"

"Sir."

White ordered the escort vehicles to return to the station, or to resume their usual patrol. He waited at the scene until everybody was back in the bank. Then he turned to Grant.

"What time is it, Grant?"

PC Grant checked his watch.

"4.34pm, sir."

"Hmm. It feels like only two minutes ago we were sitting in the station, looking over last night's arrest reports."

"Yes, sir. The day has certainly gone quickly."

"Oh well, let's get back to the office. We're obviously not needed here."

"Yes, sir."

The last police car left, and business returned to normal. A few people who'd visited the bank earlier in the day shared Inspector White's feeling of lost time, of having been gone for longer than initially intended… but nobody thought too much on it. The mind tended to play tricks on a person, especially when it was overworked, as most minds in London were.

It was only the next day that Tom the Manager realised the camera in the bank was broken. Completely shattered, as if it had been destroyed by some force. But the camera was easily twelve feet up the wall, and therefore not reachable by anybody without ladders. Tom would certainly have noticed somebody climbing up there to destroy the bank's CCTV camera. He merely ordered a replacement.

Three days later, one of the cleaning staff pointed out something very strange. There was a small hole in the ceiling. When one of the building supervisors was sent up there, to assess what had caused the damage, the man returned with a bullet he'd pulled from the plaster.

Tom thought that very strange. Very strange indeed. So he had the hole re-plastered, flushed the bullet down the toilet, and never mentioned it to anybody for as long as he lived.

Ten days later he was hit by a bus, and interred in a Greenwich cemetery.

Deadpool's Note: If you want to read a brief tale about Talon's exploits in D.C., you should head over to The Author's blog (mrurbanspaceman dot wordpress dot com) and search for the flash-fiction story called "Talon". Or just click the June 2013 archive, where you'll find the piece. Yes, June 2013. That's how long ago The Author was plotting my sequel-sequel and providing a back-story for my new partner in crime. This was before the Great Hard-Drive Crash of 2014, of course. We're still trying to recover from that.

Also, any Samuel L. Fury fans will likely be disappointed, as we're using the REAL Fury in my story. Or one of the REAL Fury's super-authentic LMDs. Who knows? I certainly don't. Maybe we'll never find out. FURY: Accept no alternatives.

R.I.P. Tom.

P.S. You may have noticed that The Author—MY AUTHOR—is spending actual time which could be spent on ME, writing about OTHER PEOPLE who are ENTIRELY FICTITIOUS, unlike me who is TOTALLY REAL. If you want The Author to keep writing about yours truly, and not some other lame guy who was stupid enough to get himself captured and tortured and brain-washed into becoming a secret sneaky ninja assassin killing machine, then write some things in the box below to this effect. Alternatively, if you could convince The Author to horribly disfigure that other guy with terminal cancer-skin, I guess that would be a suitable compromise. Please start your comments with "OK to Maim"