Rhett Saxon was furious. His space black eyes stared ahead as he struggled against an urge to smash something. Preferably his boss. Or the miniature plastic Roman candle still stuck on the table a week after Independence Day was history. Saxon felt no Fourth of July spirit, belated or otherwise, and the pathetic Roman candle only added to his rotten mood. Despite being dressed up in summer shorts, and lightweight shirts, the two anthropomorphic animals seated at the table in front of him—one being a raccoon, and the other, a red herring—sweated in the heatwave of the summer season. And Saxon's angry mood surely didn't make things any better.

"What do you mean you have a job for me in Los Angeles?" He stormed.

Saxon knew he was on sinking sand with his boss. Cor Vaughn commanded fear and respect from all active members of the Black Sabre, and in his rage, Saxon was dangerously close to going too far in questioning Vaughn's orders.

"I refuse to go to that lousy city, especially all the way there just to keep an eye out for your next contact?" He thundered.

The red herring remained silent.

Saxon was still a follower of the ideas of the Black Sabre, which wanted nothing more than to do dark deeds from the black market on taking out reformed criminals. But he didn't like the assignment Vaughn was giving him, and he didn't much like his superior or taking orders from him, either.

Saxon and Vaughn had worked together on an assignment in the state of Kansas; it had not gone well. First, they failed to help break Professor Rupert Marmalade out of prison. Then they were arrested in Wichita while trying to purchase plane tickets to California. Then tensions only increased as Vaughn and Marmalade were transported to a different state by Federal mandate, while Saxon was locked away at a prison in northern Nebraska. But most of all, Saxon blamed two red fox cubs who had spotted him out—a well-trained professional bounty hunter. He was determined that the little foxes would pay for his year of misery in that stinking Nebraska prison. From the moment six months ago when he had been liberated by his Black Sabre mates while being transported to a maximum-security prison, Saxon had only one goal: to find and get rid of Ryan Parler, and his sister, Jen.

Saxon knew it had been dangerous even to go near the cubs, what with warrants for his arrest posted on every border crossing and police station in half a dozen different states. So he he had to be careful as he stalked his prey. Careful and successful. Getting the cubs' address, apartment 202A, in downtown St. Louis, had been the tricky part. But once he found the corrupt mayor ready to sell that information, it was settled—over a story about a band of misfits formerly known as the Bad Guys.

The rest had been easy. Saxon marveled at the fact that the cubs' father was going to be a part of a high security magnate for the newly elected Governor of California, Diane Foxington. Saxon then remembered somewhere in the corrupt St. Louis mayor's story about the Bad Guys, he had heard the Governor's name at least, a dozen times. Everyone had been hyped up by last year's events involving the Love Crater Meteorite, and the Bad Guys finally getting arrested by the LAPD for their past criminal activities, of which had led to Rupert Marmalade being arrested also. Then for the fox cubs to cross paths with him made Saxon crazy with rage to think about it.

And now—with his plan for revenge ready to be carried out—the Black Sabre was ordering Saxon to California, to some lousy stinky city on the other side of America.

"This is craziness," Saxon yelled, bringing his thoughts back to Vaughn.

"Los Angeles is nearly 1, 552 miles from here. It could take days just to get across New Mexico, and Arizona. If the Route 66 Festival begins, I could be stranded at an unknown location for weeks. No way. I'm not going. Not till I've taken care of those stinking fox cubs who put us both in prison."

Vaughn remained silent, and Saxon felt his temper build. A Ford Maverick zoomed by on nearby Interstate 49, going northbound towards Joplin, MO. The northwestern Arkansas city of Bella Vista—practically a city that touched the Missouri-Arkansas state line—was no better than Los Angeles, and Saxon was eager to return to St. Louis and exact his revenge.

When Vaughn finally spoke, it was in a gravelly voice filled with sarcasm and authority.

"Refuse? You refuse to carry out an order of the Black Sabre?" He drew out the single s, making it sound like a hiss.

"You dare to refuse an order from your superior when so recently your fellow teammates spent a vast amount of cash and risked their lives to get you out of prison? Remember that oath of loyalty you swore to the Black Sabre?"

Vaughn was standing now, his anger erupting in waves as he hammered away at Saxon.

"Refuse the Black Sabre? I don't think so."

Saxon held up his hands, as if to deflect the tirade, aware that he had gone too far.

"I didn't mean refuse… exactly," he tried to explain.

"I was upset. Of course I'm still one of the Sabres. It's… it's just the timing. Give me a week, just one week. Then I'll go to Los Angeles. I'll go anywhere you ask."

A Toyota Prius zoomed by. The red herring sat back down, his face a mask Saxon was unable to read. After a few tense moments of silence, he began to hope his superior had changed his mind. But when Vaughn spoke, his words dropped like little exploding bombs into the already disturbed brain of Rhett Saxon.

"You will go where I say… and you will go tonight. And try," he said sarcastically.

"Not to make any more mistakes like you did in Wichita. Kidnapping those"—Cor was enjoying mocking the angry raccoon—"fox cubs who managed to outsmart a trained hitman like you."

"Enough!" Saxon yelled.

"I will make up for any mistakes I might have made in the past. And let me remind you of all the successful jobs I did before that rotten cub and his sister spotted me. Let me take care of them, and I will be more than ready to serve the cause—"

"The job will not wait," Vaughn interrupted. "Your personal problem will have to!"

The discussion was over; an ultimatum had been given. Vaughn laid a thick manila envelope on the rickety table.

"Tonight you go to Los Angeles and do as you are told, or I will see to it that the CIA find you long before you find those Parler kits."

Saxon knew he was defeated. He picked up the bulging envelope marked with the head of a saber-toothed tiger in the upper left hand corner. His hands trembled, and the heat of that miserable restaurant began to make him sweat. He listened to his instructions without meeting the red herring's eyes.

"Inside you will find the name of your contact in Los Angeles, a false ID and birth certificate, and your first-class plane ticket on the Delta airlines, which which you will board onto at twelve-thirty midnight in Bentonville. Timmins here, who has contacts with both LAPD and FBI, will get you over the border and into Phoenix, across Arizona and California, and into San Bernardino. Thanks to the 'Bad Guys' helping the FBI three months ago, your face is all over the Internet and on posters all across states west of the Mississippi River from here to Seattle, so you will need Timmins' contacts just to board your flight, and get yourself to San Bernardino."

There was a long pause in Vaughn's instructions, then he continued on.

But the rest is up to you. And by the way, 'Ricky Raccoon,' " Vaughn sneered.

"Don't get distracted by some little kids and mess this one up too."

Loud guffaws broke out from both anthros at the reminder of what Saxon's young accusers had called him on the witness stand back in St. Louis.

The taunt worked; Saxon's fist flew. The cheap Roman candle smashed against the wall alongside a cheap glass, the cup shattering in a thousand pieces. He tucked the envelope under his arm and stormed out—heading for California in a very bad mood…