Kim Disclaimer: Kim Possible is property of Disney. I own nothing and don't claim to own anything.

Warning: Includes violence & gore, profanity, references to things like sex & drugs, and what some may consider intense scenes. Viewer discretion is advised.

XX

Chapter 1 – The Cruelest Month

San Francisco, April 2000

It had been two months since Ben Tetradze had been in San Francisco. Even though he formally belonged to the ATF's San Francisco field office (which covered all of California and Nevada except for the Los Angeles/SoCal area.) He was often called elsewhere, because his unique skills and intellect were often too valuable to serve only one division.

He'd operated in the territory of the Los Angeles, Phoenix, and Seattle field offices.

Back in March, he'd been on assignment in Los Angeles with Miss Kim Possible. An assignment that was successful, even though it had ended with him being stabbed.

He had a brief stay in the hospital, and then some more time on another assignment in Las Vegas. But now he was back in the Bay Area, back on San Francisco's streets, and as usual his music was playing.

He's got this dream about buying some land

He's gonna give up the booze and the one-night stands

And then he'll settle down

In some quiet little town

And forget about everything

He was on the job, sent to retrieve data that had been left for him. Beneath the southern end of the Golden Gate Bridge was Fort Point, an old coastal fortification that had been built 140 years ago. The fort was there before the famous bridge itself; the bridge had been built over it in the 1930s.

Ben left his Jaguar in the fort's parking and entered the fort, followed the instructions he had been given. He went up a set of stairs and to a porthole that gave a view of the Golden Gate Bridge's underside.

Ben reached around the left edge of the porthole, the edge that pointed towards the sea. His hand closed around an object that was stuck to the wall with some sort of adhesive.

It was a small nondescript box, similar to a box you would hide a house key in. He slipped the top of the box open, but instead of a key inside, there was a data stick.

He hid the data stick on his person and tossed the small box out the porthole. Instead of leaving then and there, he remained behind for a while longer. He stared at the Golden Gate Bridge and listened to the sound of the ocean.

He felt wistful, it was a wistfulness that turned to something else.

His advanced mind began to wander, and it went to some curious places.

All the things that made life worth living, the things that produced joy, they were hindered by the burden of existence. The continuousness of suffering, the longing for things that would never be achieved, the drudgeries of merely being.

Even for someone as high functioning as Ben, these torments were inescapable. If anything, he was more acutely aware of them.

Yet he kept going, having faith that the road ended somewhere worth ending, or at the least, that there was some purpose to the road that he couldn't perceive.

Ben looked around to make sure no one was around, then he spoke the words of T.S. Eliot "April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain."

Feeling satisfied, he took his leave.

As he returned to his Jaguar, he noticed Green Lincoln Town Car in the distance that had been there when he arrived. Fort Point, and now it was still there. Once he got on the road, he noticed the Lincoln following several cars behind…

Sometimes there were things he determined because he was a genius, sometimes there were things he determined because he merely wasn't an idiot. Determining that he was being followed was an instance of that latter.

There was a hideaway nearby he had access to; somewhere he could park his car, eat, shower and sleep. How he obtained access to it was a story for another time and place.

The hideaway was accessed through a side-alley, one that was more of a backlot or a narrow courtyard. It ended at two garage doors, each garage had "Reserved for Residents" plastered across it.

Ben smiled to himself as he turned his car engine off.

XX

The two men in the Lincoln Town Car were confused as they came upon the abandoned Jaguar in the alley, it's car door open.

"Where is he?" the older one asked, a stout dark-haired man with a goatee.

"Maybe this is where he was going?" the younger one suggested, an Abercrombie & Fitch type with blondish-brown hair. "Should we call it in?"

"No this isn't it. Why'd he leave his car door open?"

"Oh fuck, did he see us?"

"You stay here and keep watch."

"What are you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna scout ahead. Something's not right here."

The older one got out of the car. A little way away from the garage was a door. He went to check the door and found that it had been propped open with a rock.

He took out the handgun his client had given him and entered through the door.

He saw that he was inside a stairwell, there also was another door nearby.

He thought about going upstairs, or going through the other door…Fuck it, this wasn't what he'd been hired for.

When he went back outside, he was unprepared to see his partner with his hands behind his head. The Fed was behind him and held him at gunpoint.

"Are you going to try and shoot me with that?" the Fed asked.

"Hey, look-"

"The gun! Are you going to shoot me!?"

He shook his head, "No."

"Unload it."

He took the gun by its barrel and held the grip out in front of him "Here, take it."

"I don't want it and I didn't ask for it. Eject the magazine."

He complied immediately. "Do you at least want the magazine?"

"No, keep it or throw it away."

Not having anywhere to put it, the thug awkwardly put it in his pocket.

"What we're your orders?"

The younger one started to talk, "All they said was-"

"He was asking me," the older one interjected, hoping to hang onto whatever pride he could.

The fed shrugged, "If you insist."

"We we're supposed to wait for you at the fort, and then follow you to see where it was you went."

"And why would that be?"

"I don't know. It's what we we're told to do."

The fed lowered his gun and backed up several feet, the younger thug looked around in surprise.

"I propose you go and take your lunch. You can tell them this is the place I went to if you'd like."

The younger thug looked at the older one, using his expression to convey his puzzlement and to ask what to do.

The older one found his voice "You're gonna let us go?"

"Would you rather I kill you both?"

"…"

"…"

"If I catch the two of you again, I just might…There's a Vietnamese place nearby if you're interested."

The two thugs only needed to regard each other for a few moments, they then got back into their Lincoln and drove in reverse out of the alley. All the while, the strange, young man who was supposedly a federal agent watched them go.

Of course, at any point, the older thug could've made some effort to step on the gas and run the fed over…But they hadn't been ordered to kill him, and the impression that had been given made it abundantly clear that it wouldn't've worked and they'd both end up dead for it.

XX

Ben was irritable as he returned to his car and got back on track. He truly detested being followed, he'd been less gentle with other shitheads who thought they could invade his personal space.

He didn't ask who they were doing this for, because it would've been a unworthwhile question. There were only so many people it could've been. In all likelihood, Ben knew more about who it was that sent them then they did.

They were mooks, but of the more clean-cut variety. The kind that dressed like office workers and regularly attended the dentist.

They weren't killers though, the most they probably ever did was intimidation and beatings, and in this instance; they were sent to shadow someone. Once they had found out where Ben was going, they would've alerted whoever it was that pulled their stringers.

But to do what though? Make another attempt on his life? To get the data stick?

Whatever it was, they were going to have to do much better than that.

Ben's hand touched the spot on his chest where he had been stabbed last month.

He'd been shot before, but never stabbed. The bad guys usually didn't get the opportunity; he didn't let them. He often refused to give anyone the satisfaction of laid a finger on him.

There was too much of that already in the world. Villains and cretins who saw others as their playthings. Ben refused to be one of their playthings…

But he wouldn't settle for just that…

Ben would make them his playthings…

XX

Ben checked into the Four Seasons. He was booked there under a fake name, using fake credentials. He had created a system for becoming incognito, one that only him and Nelms knew about it

At any point, he could've dropped off the radar without alerting the ATF. If he passively stayed in one spot, it would've taken them at least a day or two to find him. If he so wanted, he could've dropped off the face of the earth, became someone else on the other side of the world.

He didn't though…He was pleased with where he was and what he was doing, and his obligations were important to him.

But it remained an option: An option no one knew he had, and which he didn't have to ever use. Those were the best kinds of options.

His initial plan had been to take the data stick to a federal safehouse. But after discovering his tail, he decided to use extra vigilance and check into the hotel.

The nice man brought him room service and he overtipped him.

He opened up his laptop and inserted the data stick. A new file appeared, and he clicked on it.

The new file read "Event Details: Redwood Cup."

XX

San Francisco, ATF Field Division

ASAC Vera Caputo took her familiar set at the conference room table, as usual Lippert was by her side.

For the past few weeks, the FBI and ATF had been cooperating on an operation that was designed to target the Con-Quest Motor Club.

Calvin Shepherd and his organization were in hot water over their role in a botched drug trafficking operation last month. A dozen bricks of cocaine were in the possession of the federal government.

Richard "Richie" Liu, who had been Shepherd's point-man in Los Angeles, was dead. Caputo wished that she could say his death had been the end of it, but no such luck…

Low-level criminals were still turning up dead in Los Angeles, criminals who had no knowledge or involvement with the cocaine. Their only reason for being killed was because they had even a tenuous connection to Richie Liu and/or Calvin Shepherd.

The murders were speculated to be the work of MS-13 or the 18th Street Gang, maybe some Aryan involvement. But the order for these hits could be traced to someone much worse. Someone who had supplied the drugs, or at least had played a significant role in the process. Someone who had a frightening talent for displaying their displeasure…

The name "Rebenga" still inspired dread in Nicaragua and Honduras.

Liu was dead, and Shepherd was too high-profile to lose his head (yet.) But the Rebengas and their affiliates would settle on whatever luckless asshole they could get their hands on, and for no other reason than to make a point to Shepherd…Pay your debts or eventually the blood trail will end with you.

The federal government intended to ensure he wouldn't be able to pay his debts. Officially, the purpose of this was to "flip him." Shepherd was the founder and leader of the Con-Quest Motor Club, the entire organization revolved around him and his ambitions. Him turning state's evidence would mean the end of the organization, and that would just be the start of what he could deliver.

However…If Shepherd were to die or disappear due to his inability to pay his debts…Then there would clearly be some "positive ramifications." This of course wasn't the "preferred outcome," and it would mean the operation to flip him would be "unsuccessful."

Still though, worse things had happened to nicer people.

Shepherd's plan to pay his debts was to do what he did best, which was to race. He, or one of his men, was going to win the Redwood Cup, an annual underground street racing tournament that's grand prize was upwards of $4 million.

That's where the federal government came in…

The operation was unconventional, but straightforward. They were going to send Special Agent Ben Tetradze in undercover and have him win the tournament. He himself was an accomplished street racer.

Shepherd would have expended all that effort and resources for no reward, and his hole would be deeper for it. He'd either wise up and accept federal protection or take his chances in No Man's Land.

One of the major reasons Ben had been recruited was to one day take down Shepherd. They hadn't told him, but he had certainly put the pieces together at some point.

Caputo had been preoccupied elsewhere, and thus hadn't been intimately involved in the organization of the operation.

Dennis Kirillov, who was Ben's handler and the only other person in the ATF who could rival the Georgian prodigy when it came to knowledge of the illegal street racing scene, took lead in setting it up.

To assist Kirillov and the ATF, Barnes had sent over Emanuel "Manny" Seligman. Like Barnes, Seligman was something of a major name in FBI lore. A hardcase who had spent his formative years on the streets of Brooklyn and Jerusalem. As a young adult, he worked in a Kibbutz and saw some action with the Israel Defense Forces. Since joining the FBI in 1976, he'd been to all fifty states and Puerto Rico and had participated in international operations on four continents.

Only the four of them were in the conference room: Caputo, Lippert, Seligman, and Kirillov. They only wanted a select, elite group of people working on this one.

"I trust we're not keeping you from something, Vera?" Seligman asked.

Caputo smirked "Only calling my mother, which I need to do at some point. Though I won't fault you for that."

"Where should we begin?" Seligman asked.

"First thing's first. Tell me the relevant details about the Redwood Cup."

"It's a street racing tournament," Kirillov said. "It's been held every April or May since 1994. It's the largest underground street racing tournament west of the Rocky Mountains."

Caputo was unfamiliar with any underground street racing tournaments on either side of the Rocky Mountains. "Are there many contenders for that superlative?" she asked dryly.

Kirillov chuckled "Actually no…The majority of street racing is low-level and only barely organized. A group of people agree to meet somewhere. Two racers encounter each other on the same street, they get into a dogfight. The Redwood Cup is irregular in how much planning and organization goes into it."

"Sixteen racers compete in a single-elimination tournament. The first round is eight races that eliminates half of the participants. The second round is quarterfinals, four races that eliminate another four. The semi-finals you have the final four, competing in two races. The final round is the remaining two, having a showdown."

"So it's like March Madness or the US Open?" Lippert remarked.

"No need for them to reinvent the wheel," Seligman said.

Kirillov continued "The courses they use are out in the boonies, away from high-traffic areas. The last few years they've been using computers to construct a nonpartial itinerary of the tournament."

Caputo had several questions. "Who organizes this?"

"There are…a collection of interests who finance and manage the tournament."

"What interests?"

"That's where it gets hazy. I could name some names, some you would be familiar with, others not so much. Known embezzlers, Silicon Valley types, some others who're familiar faces in North California and the Pacific Northwest."

Seligman jumped in "A lot of money goes through the tournament, a lot of palms get greased. My guess is there's dirty money getting laundered, on top of other things."

"So the purpose of this street racing tournament is to launder money?"

"The purpose of the tournament is to race cars and gamble," Kirillov stated. "It's just…not the only thing taking place."

"Sometimes a thing can't take place unless there's something else taking place as well," Seligman explained, his brand of wisdom was also well-known in FBI lore.

Caputo thought about all the laws that were being broken, the traffic laws being the least of them. "I don't…How does this go on?"

As was typical, Seligman had the necessary insight "We mention the palm-greasing, the high-stakes gambling, the likelihood of money laundering, the familiar faces. There's a lot of money changing hands here. Any investigation into this would risk implicating too many people. Even if it did somehow get off the ground, the only ones getting arrested are peons and middle-management, maybe a highly placed fall guy."

"And let's not kid ourselves here…It's illegal street racing and gambling. The federal government, and the state governments, have better things to worry about than this."

"They've created a criminal conspiracy; but centered around it something so relatively benign that it's simply not worth the resources for interdiction...It's actually kind of ingenious."

"The only people I can think of who'd want to shut it down are the highway patrols and state polices, or maybe some local sheriff or police chief, but obviously they're not about to swing that one."

Caputo thought about all the ATF and other agencies went up against, about all the terrible things that needed countering, about all the terrible things she herself had seen…You would indeed have a hard time convincing her to lift a finger to stop a bunch of idiots from racing sports cars down a hill.

"Fascinating..." Caputo said, a word she seldom used.

"We have Tetradze's cover nearly complete" Kirillov said. "He'll be Ruslan Lomovtsev, an R.O.C. affiliated smuggler and thief based out of Alaska. There's an asset in the Yakovich organization who's willing to sponsor."

"Does Tetradze speak Russian?" Caputo asked.

"He speaks more languages than everyone in this room combined."

"Right, stupid question."

"In order to open up a spot for Ben, we had to remove one of the tournament's participants."

"Who?"

"There's this ex-smuggler out of the Baja named Villarreal. One who collects, he's already told the event people he's withdrawn."

"How'd we pull that off?"

"Mexican National Police detained him. He was leaned on and offered things in exchange for his cooperation. Carrot and stick."

"That won't alert anyone in the tournament?"

Kirillov and Seligman looked at each other.

"Not really…" Seligman said, shaking his head.

"There can be a lot of competition for a place," Kirillov said. "A vacancy suddenly becoming available isn't unusual for them, it's probably how Shepherd was able to grab four places."

"Speaking of which, does Shepherd know we're onto him?" Lippert asked.

Kirillov sneered, which was a common visceral reaction when Calvin Shepherd was the topic of conversation "If he does, he doesn't care too much. He and his assholes have races to win, and he knows that no one ever gets pinched at the tournament."

The thought of Calvin Shepherd winning the Redwood Cup and receiving millions of dollars to pay his debts and continue his activities ignited a cold fury in Vera Caputo. How many times, over the past five years, should he have ended up dead or in an orange jumpsuit? How many times had he found a way out of whatever rattrap he'd been caught in?

"Agent Kirillov," she said solidly.

"Yes mam?"

"Do you have faith in Agent Tetradze's ability to win this tournament and put an end to Calvin Shepherd's fortunes?"

Kirillov broke into a grin "If there's any racer in the West Coast who can pull it off, it's probably Ben Tetradze."

"Kirillov spoke to him recently," Seligman said, looking more composed and unenthusiastic than the ATF agent sitting next looking next to him. "He got his event details and is eager to begin."

"Ben also told me that he wants back up for this thing," Kirillov added, saving this part for last.

"Lippert" Caputo said curtly.

Caputo's adjutant began to do his thing, "Some of the best people in the DOJ have are attached to this one. We will have time to-"

Kirillov cut him off "He actually made a specific request for who he wants backing him up."

"What specific-"

Caputo abruptly stopped talking as the answer struck her. The room was quiet for a few moments.

"Get me ahold of Harris Barnes."

Patriot44's Notes

Kim will be in the next chapter

Let the games begin

Tetradze's Playlist

"Baker Street" by Gerry Rafferty