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The black sedan looked decidedly out of place as it slowly carried Cole and Sarah into the long, grimy alley. While the car was far less conspicuous than the Aston Martin, it still didn't manage to fit its current surroundings.

In fairness, the sedan had fit in much better out on the street, where the lighting was decent and at least the most rudimentary of efforts to keep the office fronts clean had been made. However, Finchman-cum-Carver had slipped out of the appointed address and asked Sarah and Cole to head around to the back. Never knew who was watching, he had said with a friendly smile. Couldn't be too careful.

Of course not. It would be far easier for Idiom to collect two bodies in a back alley should things head south. That was the risk of playing the game on the opposition's home turf.

Vegas bookies said home turf was worth three points to a football team. Then again, this type of game was never decided on points, and Vegas bookies were smart enough not to try to cut twelve million dollar deals in empty alleyways. Agents didn't always have the luxury of being smart.

Sarah squinted, trying to coax her eyes into seeing even a little more clearly. A cloudy night sky reflected the city lights and painted the alleyway with dull smearings of charcoal and onyx and all shades of black in between. Even the metallic surfaces, downspouts and fire escapes and security doors, were coated with layers of rust and peeling paint that seemed eager to absorb what little light was to be found.

A pair of feeble security lights temporarily brightened their way. The reflection of the lights swam across the curves of the car's shiny finish like luminescent fish deep in the ocean, indistinct shapes that appeared and disappeared before the eye could truly fix on them, leaving one feeling unsure of whether he is truly alone.

The entire neighborhood was empty to the point of being disconcerting. The sight of some car passing in the distance or even the occasional pile of trash for pick-up would have provided some comfort that normal people conducted normal business here. Instead, nothing slowed their progress but the caution a good agent exercised when venturing into hostile territory.

"All clear so far," she said into her radio.

"Roger that," Casey replied.

Down the alley the car crept. Cole slipped her a comforting smile. Although Sarah Walker rarely needed comforting while on a mission, the confidence and competence of her partner still raised her spirits. She returned to her role as sentry.

The meeting location was a single-story office facility halfway down the block, a tomb for a computer parts supply company that hadn't survived the fallout when interest in custom built computers flagged in the wake of the dot com bust. Major industry players like Dell and HP figured out how to meet what demand for customization remained, effectively shuttering the smaller companies that couldn't land deals with the giants. Given the lack of interest in that space, or in much of the space on the block, it was hard to say whether Idiom had used the space before. Idiom could simply borrow the office whenever they wanted; nobody would ever have noticed.

Up ahead, the alley opened to the left, exposing the three-bay loading dock for the rundown office space. A trio of mercury lights made the dock area an oasis of light exposing the poorly maintained details of the area. The walls to the sides of the docks were dingy enough to obscure all but the faintest of maroon, brown, and deep blue colorings in the bricks, and the garage door on bay one clearly was in no condition to open.

Across from the bays was what looked to be another office building with a decidedly unsafe-looking fire escape providing faint hope to anyone unfortunate enough to be trapped on the second or third floors. The lack of lights in the windows suggested what their reconnaissance had already told them: the building was abandoned. The alley continued for another long block past the opening, bereft of anything other than a pair of lidded rectangular trash bins three buildings down.

"Lots of potential hiding places for snipers," she noted, scanning the many windows that would provide a decent angle on the loading area.

"Now that wouldn't exactly be fighting fair, would it?"

"What, did MI6 secure a copy of a rulebook that we Americans don't know about?"

"There's only one rule," he said, suddenly deadly serious. "Country first. Anything else is gravy."

That was certainly a rule Sarah could appreciate.

The car slid through the mouth of the loading bay area, coming to rest pointing inwards at a slight angle. A regular door between bays two and three opened. Four men, Carver and Bollea among them, came out of the door and descended the short set of concrete stairs.

As Sarah and Cole exited their car, she examined the three men crossing the cracked concrete. The two unknown men wore sports coats and slacks; they spread out to the sides to make the group more difficult to attack. Carver wore a tweed jacket over a white shirt and a pair of jeans. Bollea, on the other hand, wore yellow pants with flared cuffs and an atrocious white, maroon and yellow shirt unbuttoned to the sternum to expose a thin gold chain. He folded his arms, his pecs flexing, as if daring one of Cole and Sarah to make a comment. Frankly, his attire, while disturbing, was the least of Sarah's concerns.

The six stood silently, assessing each other carefully. The moment stretched a bit too long. The tension caused one of the nameless men to shift from one foot to the other.

She decided to break the stalemate. With her English accent in place, she asked, "Do you have the report?"

"Do you have the money?" Carver countered.

"'We' do not," Cole said. "However, a friend has the money nearby."

Carver shared a knowing glance and a chuckle with his men. "So, what, I'm supposed to just hand you the report and take your word that the money will appear?"

"And did you really think we would hand you the money without examining the report first? We see the report, verify that it's the real deal, and then you get your money."

"Or, you get to skim to the part you want to see and declare it to be a fake. You get the information you want for free."

Sarah shook her head impatiently. "You can stand behind us to verify that we're not doing that. But we're not putting any money in your hands until we see the report."

Carver thought it over, and then pursed his lips in grudging acceptance. "Fine. But we'll do that inside."

None of how the scene played out was unexpected. It was all part of the game, a way to give the other side the opportunity to make a mistake. Nobody did; everything worked the way it had to work when a trade was arranged and trust was in short supply. Still, by no means were they out of the woods. In fact, things were about to get more dangerous.

With a nod of acceptance from Sarah and Cole, the group headed back for the loading dock door. Bollea's wide back shielded a keypad where he punched in a six-number code. The locking mechanism in the door disengaged with a loud click and a buzz.

Bollea opened the door, inviting Cole and Sarah deeper into the spider's web with a nonchalant wave of the arm.

The group passed through what clearly once was a shipping area. A surprising amount of equipment had been left when the company folded: hand trucks, stacks of cardboard boxes, and work tables were just a few of the many things that now served no purpose but to capture dust. There was clearly plenty of dust to be caught.

As they ventured deeper into the building, the space transitioned largely into open rooms, many of which were still built out into cubes or at least still had the various pieces of the cube walls in them. Off to the sides were rooms with various uses: offices, conference rooms, work areas and kitchens among them.

The layout was a bit of a maze; it took several turns to wend their way towards the front of the space. Sarah tracked their progress on her memory of the layout as Carver led them into what probably had been the best office in the building. Time had not been kind; now the only things distinctive about the room were the large size, the lighter rectangles on the walls where pictures had once hung and a beaten-up folding table with a laptop computer.

Cole and Sarah walked over towards the computer, waiting patiently as Carver manipulated the keyboard and opened a file. A reader program appeared on the screen, displaying the cover page of the report.

Beckman had given Sarah a number of things to look for to verify the report's authenticity. There was the number of pages in the document, a code at the bottom of the second page, a revision marker in a grid in the preamble, and the first two lines of the seventh chapter. Everything checked out.

She gave Cole a nod. He picked up his phone and dialed a number. "Life is good," he said. "Use the back door."


The Crown Vic took its turn cruising down the alley. Casey didn't proceed as cautiously as Cole had; the money was coming into the building, so nobody had reason to slow him down.

The docking bay was empty except for the sedan. The Crown Vic slipped in at an opposite diagonal, nose pointed out in case a quick escape was needed. Casey slipped the gear shift into park and removed the single key from the ignition. He held the key in the air and stared at Chuck as if his life depended on it. "You're not going to do anything to my car, right?"

"Barring the need to immediately re-program GPS guided missiles, no, Casey, I'm not going to do anything to your car."

Casey grunted like he wasn't convinced, but he handed the key to Chuck anyway. He then pulled out a hand-held radio. "We have two radios to contact MI6; Walker has one, and this is the other. If things go south, call in the cavalry. No messing around."

"Got it," Chuck said, taking the radio. The team had discussed the protocol for contacting the MI6 team in the briefing. Twelve of MI6's best were less than three blocks away, eagerly awaiting the chance to take down Carver. They didn't take kindly to traitors; Chuck couldn't blame them. "Are you sure I can't do anything else?"

"Get low and stay there. This will either be easy or ugly; either way, you won't be able to help."

Chuck sighed. "Stay in the car, Chuck. Got it."

Casey didn't have time for hand-holding. He grabbed the metal briefcase from the back seat and exited the car. Chuck slumped down, partly to hide, partly to mope.

Casey crossed the pavement and pounded on the door. After ten seconds or so, the door swung open. Bollea appeared, wearing his flowing shirt and yellow pants.

"Wow. Does Barry Manilow know that you raid his wardrobe?" Casey said by way of greeting.

Bollea grunted, but otherwise let the comment roll off his back. He shifted to the side so Casey could enter.

Casey walked inside and stood in front of the huge man. He took a long deliberate look at the ridiculous outfit. "Seriously, you got a 70's throwback party to go to later?"

"Yeah," Bollea said, clearly insulted. He checked out Casey's conservative black suit. "Maybe you can give me a ride in your hearse."

"Only if you want to ride in the back," Casey said pleasantly.

The pair assessed each other for a moment. Both seemed to be deciding whether each could take the other in a fight. Each seemed to like his chances. Eventually, Bollea raised an arm and Casey started walking.

Bollea trailed Casey as they crossed the complex to the office. Two other henchmen lingered near the office door. Through the doorway, Casey could see Sarah and Cole leaning down, examining the document on the computer.

Too late, Sarah looked up at him from beyond Cole with the slightest hint of an apology in her face. He now recognized they were leaning on the table because somebody had told them to keep their hands there.

Things had gone the ugly route.

Casey grabbed the briefcase with both hands and tried to swing it back at Bollea's face, but the man caught his lead arm at the elbow, stunting the blow. The butt of his pistol caught Casey on the base of his skull, knocking the briefcase to the ground and the agent to a knee as Bollea flipped the gun around to trained it on the back of his head.

"Cheap shot," Casey muttered as he raised his hands, one running over the site of the wound.

"What do you call the crack about Barry Manilow's wardrobe?" Bollea asked.

"An honest question."

"Enough," Carver said, emerging from the back of the office, his gun drawn. The other two henchmen had moved into position behind Cole and Sarah, ensuring they couldn't try anything either.

"I thought we had a deal, Finchman," Cole said angrily.

"You must not have read the fine print. All deals are null and void when it turns out that the purchasers are CIA. Isn't that right, Agent Walker?"

He pointed the gun at her to emphasize his words. Sarah stiffened slightly.

"Agent Casey," Finchman continued, again pointing the gun. Casey snarled.

Finchman turned to Cole. "And that would make you Agent Carmichael."

The three agents exchanged subtle glances. They weren't entirely certain whether Carver's mistake could be used to their advantage, but the fact that somebody had tipped off Carver about the identities of the members of the team didn't bode well.

"Get out of here, Chuck," Casey muttered under his breath.


From his slumped position in the front seat of the Vic, Chuck strained to listen to the action inside. It suddenly occurred to him that his earpiece had been very quiet ever since Casey had gone inside and finished trading insults with Bollea, about a minute back. Why weren't Sarah, Cole and Carver talking?

Suddenly, Chuck heard sounds of scuffling and an angry grunt from Casey. Chuck let out a tension-filled exhalation when Carver started identifying the agents.

He fumbled for the radio. It was time to call in reinforcements.

As he lifted the radio to his mouth, he hesitated. If he called in MI6, he might be signing the death warrants for Casey, Cole and Sarah. The three would be caught in the crossfire. Casey's joke about the hearse suddenly seemed far less amusing than it had.

No, he admonished himself. You have to call in the MI6 team. It's their best chance. It's their only chance.

"Grey Goose, Grey Goose, this is Dark Canyon. Do you copy?" He heard the fear and desperation in his voice. He hoped that nobody noticed.


"Don't worry," Casey whispered to Walker as the three were led towards the front of the office space. "Bartowski should be calling in help right about now."

Walker looked up at him and again sadly shook her head.

"What?" he asked.

"Bollea rigged the radio. He duct-taped the transmit button down and took it somewhere. The radio's effectively been jammed."

"You're kidding," Casey said, a little too loudly.

Another rap to the head from Bollea was his reward. "No talking," he ordered.

Casey grimaced. It was all he could do to control himself from going after Bollea right then and there. He forced himself to stay calm, shaking off the blow. "Oh-oh-oh, this just keeps getting better and better."


"Grey Goose, Grey Goose, this is Dark Canyon. Do you copy?!" Chuck asked plaintively. It was the fifth time he'd tried to make contact.

There was no response.

He found himself taking back his earlier words. Right now, he would be excruciatingly happy for an MI6 agent to hear the fear and desperation in his voice.