A/N: Missing scene.

Booker turned in place, looking at the dead bodies littering the kill floor. He counted twelve. Put with the six they'd killed on the way in, that made eighteen dead men, families deprived of their father, son, brother, or husband. If he'd had much humanity left in him after the two and a half centuries of his life, he'd have felt more strongly about that than he did about the evidence that Copley's sample-collection plan had gone off the rails. Instead, he worried about how much it had gone off the rails.

Joe was searching one of the bodies for ID, as Nicky covered him. Booker hoped like hell Copley had had the sense to make sure his people came in clean, but if he'd expected the shooters to survive, then he might not have said anything. Why the hell had they gunned them down and then stood around like ignorant idiots? Either Copley hadn't told them about the healing or they hadn't believed it. Booker put odds on the first, which meant he might not have expected the shooters to make it, which meant … they would be clean. Joe wasn't finding anything.

Relieved, Booker swapped mags on his sub-machine gun. Andy knocked out the last of the cameras, teeth bared and still angry. He told her, "That's not going to do any good. They already have the footage."

"Then we destroy the footage."

He grimaced. She knew better than that – he'd patiently explained modern electronics to her enough times, demonstrated the use of the latest gadgets and walked her through how to operate them. It was her frustration talking. The best thing he could do to assuage it was look useful. "I'll see where the wires lead."

It was better than standing around waiting for someone to draw the right conclusion. It seemed unlikely, but he was still nervous. They weren't going to suspect him unless they found something that pointed at him. He supposed he was lucky they hadn't kept anyone alive for questioning.

He looked up at the cabling and went outside, hesitating at the entrance. Gun up, he quartered off the courtyard carefully. Their intel was that the day shift slept offsite and they'd already accounted for everyone who was supposed to be here. That didn't mean he should be sloppy. Or that he trusted the intel. If Copley was willing to set his own guys up, then it didn't say good things about his integrity.

Coast clear, Booker circled the building until he found a rickety set of wooden steps to the roof. The structure seemed firm enough to hold him, though it creaked. He made it to the top and paused to use the vantage point to review the camp. Still no movement. No outcry. Seemed safe.

The cables emerged directly above where he'd seen them downstairs. They led into a plastic-shrouded box and from there went to a battered-looking but serviceable dish. Booker pulled a face at the sky. A few decades earlier, one could take the general angle of a dish, the time of day and coordinates, and be able to determine which satellite the signal was routed through. From there, you could get a customer list and maybe even an activity log, and trace it back to the address of record of the user. These days? Nope. Too many satellites; customer lists were confidential.

He knelt to check the box, prying it open with a pocket tool. As he'd expected, there was no data storage here. There was a signal converter, a backup power source, and a processing unit – nothing of importance. Out in the darkness, a diesel engine rumbled to life. Had they missed someone? He got himself even lower, then crawled to the edge of the building, peeking over the elevated lip.

In the courtyard, Nicky stood in a relaxed pose, gesturing at the truck that was being backed up toward the entrance to the basement. It was a water truck. Booker had seen it earlier, noted even on Copley's report of the place as the primary water source. It was proof that no one planned to stay here long-term. But why move it?

Joe stopped it right next to the entrance, then jumped out. An idea about what they were doing ran through Booker's head – it wasn't good. Hurriedly, he got to his feet and went back to the stairs. He could have jumped over the edge, but the ground was hard and the chances of breaking an ankle seemed high. Plus, he'd need to explain his haste, which … he couldn't.

By the time he got back around the building, Andy had connected the hose and opened the valve. Water was pouring out. Joe was standing on the stairs, washing his hands. All around him, the water spattered to the floor and ran down the stairs.

Booker succeeded in not gaping, but he still stood there tensely as Andy moved to the stream of water and washed her face, hair, and hands. Booker edged over closer, looking at where the water was cascading down the steps. It would inevitably pool on the polished and sealed kill room floor, washing away their blood, making it impossible for Copley to get the samples this entire shoot-out had been staged to acquire.

Booker racked his brain for something to say, something that wouldn't incriminate himself but would stop them. He looked at the tank. "How full is that?"

"Full enough," Andy said. She stepped away and Nicky handed Booker the flashlight before taking her place. Booker shone it on Nicky as Joe held the hose. Nicky washed up, scrubbing blood from his face and hair, but like Andy he didn't bother much with his clothing. They'd bury that elsewhere, they'd have to, riddled with bullet holes as it was. Maybe he'd be able to direct Copley to the clothes? Would it be usable after the desert heat?

Nicky finished and switched with Joe. Booker shook his head. There was no help for it. He propped his gun against the wall and took his own turn at cleaning when Joe was done. When he was finished, he took the hose from Joe and looked over at Andy. "Just drop it," she said. "We'll flood the basement. Cover our tracks."

He nodded mutely, doing as she said. He pulled out his own light and splashed down the steps to see what there was to see. Maybe there was a drain. Maybe the floor was slanted and all the water would pool on one side. Who knew with whatever badly supervised contractors Copley was able to get out here?

He scanned around with the light, but it seemed the contractors had done an excellent job. The water was already half across the floor, washing away their blood and mixing it with that of the dozen men they'd killed. He scowled. More water was pouring down the steps every second and the water truck was less than a quarter empty. There was nothing for it; the samples were ruined. He fixed his face and trudged back up.

"What did you see?" Andy asked, gearing up to head out.

He shook his head. "Nothing. Just making sure there wasn't a drain down there making it pointless."

"No drain?"

He shook his head again, picking up his gun and glancing around to see if there was a way to linger at the rear and close the valve without being seen. The whole thing was an amateurish debacle. He'd just have to tell Copley it wouldn't work. He could always go in and let the guy's people draw his blood directly – Booker had even suggested it, but Copley had been determined to get samples from everyone, despite Booker telling him that wasn't going to happen. Maybe the guy would believe him now.

Nicky looked to him – an innocent look, but clearly waiting for Booker to come with them. Frustrated, Booker turned and kicked the pile of shoes, then headed out. No samples, the guilty risk that his friends would discover what he'd done, and eighteen pointlessly dead men lay behind them.