Sewellsville Maryland, 9:06 a.m.

The small town of Sewellsville Maryland had probably seen better days, but not recently. What once must have been a decent-sized industrial village had by now eroded into a tired, gritty little village, the likes of which littered the Maryland/DC area. The parking lot of the Dunken Doughnuts was remarkably empty considering the hour, and for that Coke felt a brief surge of gratitude. While the lot was not big and it was close to a main road, the store itself was nestled snugly off to the side, obscured by the shadow of a boarded-up industrial building. A few hundred paces behind the store lay a thin line of trees, which while not exactly a forest in and of itself, was sufficient to bar the casual observer from seeing beyond their piney curtain. The occasional car drove past, its wiper blades giving a desultory scrub every thirty or so seconds to ward off the slight drizzle which had picked up in the last hour, but other than that there were no signs of life. The store's sign was lit but it was hard to make out the inside between the curtains and the plastered advertisements pasted onto the windows. Just the same, the building reeked of tension and a sense of foreboding. This was certainly the right spot.

Coke parked his car discreetly a few blocks over on a street which might have at one point been the main thoroughfare through the town, but was now little more than a 25 mph speed trap in the back woods of the state. Coke killed the engine and cracked his knuckles. All appeared to be set. The one last thing he needed to do was to inform the chief of what was going down. After a short moment of hesitation, Coke hit the "recall" button on his phone and dialed the encrypted number to the chief.

The phone rang three times and was in the midst of its fourth ring when the line clicked on.

"Coke." The tone, while carefully even in tone and sound, betrayed the unmistakable crackle of power beneath its surface. "...What is the situation?" Coke wasted no time getting straight to the point.

"Sir, I'm in position. I have located the target and the alpha. I'm ready to move and just need the green light." There was silence on the other end of the line, and for a moment Coke thought the connection had been interrupted.

"I've been monitoring your progress closely Stephen," the voice resumed carefully, betraying nothing. "While you have done a remarkable job considering the constraints of the mission, I can't help but wonder if you're really up for this last segment." Coke felt, rather than saw, the smile at the other end of the line. Was the old bastard taunting him? Or did he really think Stephen had come all this way to go home empty-handed? His anger was piqued.

"Listen, sir," he resumed, hoping to make his disappointment known. He was damned if he was going to let the old man think he was just going to give up. "I have the target acquired. All I need to do now is to take it down."

"Don't be ridiculous, Stephen. You have no backup, no support. You're on your own and before anyone can get there, the scenario will be over."

"Sir are you seriously suggesting that I let this go, when the target is right in front of me? After all this work I've put in? I'm sorry sir, but I respectfully have to say-"

"Your thoughts on this are unnecessary and unimportant, Stephen," the voice on the other end of the line cut him off. "And," (this part sounded almost grudging) "we don't have a choice. The die is cast. Get the files, kill Kiviat, and return to the reservation. Those are your final orders."

Not for the first time in his life, Coke was exasperated. Here it was again: yet another conspiracy within a conspiracy. How many times had he had to put up with this kind of crap from his superiors? How many times had he been asked to kill "for the good of the country," without knowing who he was killing or why? How much had he been forced to sacrifice in order to get the job done? He had no personal life, no family, no children, no real friends. Hell, Coke wasn't even his real name. He was just 35 years old and already he job was starting to take its toll on him physically as well as emotionally. He was going gray and he wasn't sleeping well at nights.

And to make matters worse, the headaches were growing more frequent. While they had only been minor a few years ago and had come and gone fairly easily, more and more often Coke has beginning to feel that there was something more to his physical state than "just another headache." If he ever got around to it, he was going to talk to the doctor about it. Not the normal, friendly yet strange Doctor Ridolphi from the department of Energy. No, if he got out of this one alive, Coke promised he would go find a real doctor and get a second opinion. Would the chief find out? Well, almost certainly. But at least he would have peace of mind. But before all that, the job. He flashed back to the reality of him sitting in the car. He started to mumble a brief acknowledgement to the chief when the line went dead. So much for a little civility from the brass.

Stephen closed his phone and slide it back into his pocket. He popped the trunk from the inside of the car and got out, making a mental inventory of everything he would need for this last little part of the assignment. First and foremost his pistol. The silencer was still attached. Instinctively he popped the magazine out of his weapon and checked to make sure it was still loaded, but it was a move which was devoid of any real meaning: he knew it still had 8 rounds left over from earlier in the morning when he had killed Sweeny. He reholstered the weapon and pulled his gray suit coat over his waist to cover his best friend. Next he felt around the back of his waist and manually made sure he still had the two fresh clips in his belt pouch which he had put in there earlier in the morning. Finally, Coke stepped to the back of the car and opening up the trunk, pulled a small black plastic case towards him.

Coke was perfectly aware of the fact that it was well within the chief's power to make much of the evidence from the soon-to-be crime scene disappear or be altered in order to ensure that this senseless killing of a 20-something computer geek would never be solved, but it still didn't hurt to take chances. While he had been able to get away with wearing gloves inside Kiviat's apartment due to the fact that it was deserted, he was going to have a very hard time simply walking into a restaurant wearing white latex and not arouse suspicion. As such, it was time to whip out one of his least favorite and yet most useful tools: X-29 fingerprint jelly. While he hated the smell and the tingling sensation it left on his finger pads, Coke also understood how it was truly one of the miracles of science: a product which actually dissolved away fingerprints within seconds and was virtually undectible to all but the most sophisticated forensic tests. Once he had applied a thin film of the gel and his hands and given it a minute to sink in, Coke replaced the kit and slammed the trunk. He checked his watch. It was 9:12.

It only took Coke a few minutes to make his was across the street and into the coffee shop. The sign at the front of the building was on and as such the store was open, but even as he approached Coke discovered that he was still unable to see the inside of the store. The door chimes tinkled as he walked in, presumably signaling his presence to the people inside.

The interior of the restaurant was fairly dark, for although it was daylight outside and interior lights were unnecessary, the overcast sky cast a gray light over the scene. The smell of coffee was strong and rows upon rows of doughnuts sat behind the glass counter. No one was at the counter and the person tending it either did not hear or pretended not to hear Coke's entry. As far as he was concerned, that was just perfect. As Coke's eyes adjusted to the dim light he was able to discern that the dining area was deserted, except for a single, diminutive figure hunched at a table in the back of the room drinking coffee. At long last he finally set his eyes upon his target.

Coke briskly made his way up between the chairs and headed directly for Kiviat's booth in the back corner. She had evidently heard the sound of the door chime for she perked up and stared at Coke as he approached. Coke effectuated his best smile and looked her in the eye, all the while quickly summing up the physical dimensions of the scenario.

Kiviat was a petite, physically unassuming person. While she was pretty in an absentminded, nerdy sort of way, it was clear that the last 24 hours had been hard on her. Her complexion was pallid and there were large bags under her eyes. The torn bags of sugar on the table suggested that she had been there for at least an hour and that she was clearly anticipating her meeting with Mulder. He had trouble making out too much of what she had with her under the table, but it appeared that she had brought a laptop (or at least, her laptop case) with her. She looked at him tentatively, a mixture of suspicion and relief washing over her face.

"Hey, Christine?" Coke began, flashing her his 100 megawatt smile. "How're you doing? I'm agent Mulder." He stuck out his hand as soon as he was within range.

"Hi," replied Kiviat in a tired voice, tentatively reaching out to shake his hand. Coke took it and gave it a firm squeeze, noticing at the same time that it was ice cold.

"Do you mind if I have a seat?" Coke continued, while at the same time discreetly glancing about the store to ensure himself that there were no security cameras present.

"Please do," she replied, sounding more eager now than she had seemed a few moments earlier. Coke pulled out one of the chairs and slid quietly into the seat.

"So..." she began, evidently unsure of how to proceed. Coke immediately came forward and took control of the conversation.

"Look Christine, you're obviously had a pretty hard day. I am very sympathetic and totally understand. However, you're in luck. I spoke with the attorney general's office this morning right after I got off the phone with you. It turns out that he's willing to not file any charges at all against you, so long as we get the information back in one piece." It was a wildly implausible scenario of course, but Coke hoped that Kiviat would take the bait and simply hand over the package, eager to be rid of it. At first Kiviat showed no emotion and Coke thought that he had blown it, when suddenly her features softened.

"Thanks so much agent Mulder," she began in a heavy, tear-laden voice. "You don't know how much this means to me. I never meant to do anything wrong, it's just that...those things that I found. Those terrible things..." He eyes darted out the window and then went back to Coke's face. "I just want to make sure it gets taken care of."

Coke smiled and added what he hoped sounded like an extra comforting layer to his voice. "Don't worry Christine," he said, his soft eyes locked on hers. Slowly, his right hand crept its way down towards his waist and the gun he had secured there. Almost there... "Now, if you could just give me the package and I'll be on my way."

Kiviat nodded her head for a moment and then reached under the table. She started to pull out the black rectangular case and lifted it onto her knees. Perfect, it was almost there. Coke tightened his grip on his pistol and slowly eased it out of its holster.

"By the way, agent Mulder, I was just wondering..." Kiviat's sentence snapped Coke attention back to her face. "I'm sorry to hear about agent Slevin. Your partner? I hope she gets well soon." Kiviat flashed a timid smile at Coke and slid the case across the table ever so carefully. It was almost within his reach.

"Oh," he replied distractedly, hoping to get it over with as soon as possible. "Yeah, I'm sorry about agent Slevin too. But the doctors tell me she'll be back on the job in no time." As abruptly as it had started, Kiviat's motion abruptly came to a halt. Coke noticed how her grip had suddenly tightened around the case's handle and her pupils had dilated. It had just been there for the briefest flash, but he had caught it, and he knew she knew he had seen the look in her eyes: surprise, loathing, and most of all fear. He had blown his cover.

"That's funny..." began Kiviat, her words coming out slowly, as if she were trying to talk her way around a difficult bit of Shakespeare. "I though your partner's name was Scully, not Slevin. I also didn't know there was anything wrong with her." The game was up and they both knew it. It was only a matter of who made the first move. "I'm going to need to see some identification please, sir," Kiviat continued, her blue eyes fixed on his. Everything seemed to be going in slow motion. And then, suddenly, the world exploded.

Kiviat pulled the bag back towards her as fast as she could, while Coke spontaneously made a grab for it with his left hand, unholstering his pistol with his right as he did so. For a moment the bag stretched precariously between the two of them, Kiviat huddling on the corner as she pulled the bag desperately with both hands, Coke struggling to bring his pistol to bear on her.

At the first sight of the weapon Kiviat let out an ear-piercing shriek and loosened her grip on the bag. "OH MY GOD! PLEASE DON'T SHOOT" she yelled, bringing up one of her hands to shield her face while doggedly refusing to let go with the other. Coke leveled the pistol and was about to pull the trigger when his conscious thought was interrupted by another important sound: that of the shop door chime tingling and a loud, authoritarian voice (the kind which could only belong to a police officer or a military type).

"What the HELL is going on here?" boomed out the loud voice, sending alarm bells ringing through Coke's head. Coke looked over and fixed his eyes on the tall, beefy silhouette standing in the doorway. True to form, it wore a dark blue uniform and a gun on its hip. At this point Coke's training took over. He understood that often in situations such as these, it was imperative to stall and confuse the intruder as long as possible in order to gain time and gain a further advantage. His gun was already out, the cop's was not. He was in the midst of a coordinated and well-planned operation, the cop was probably just getting some doughnuts for his morning shift. He knew what was going on, the cop didn't. However, if he was going to make this work, the next few seconds were critical.

"Is George out in the car?" Coke asked, putting a look of faint surprise on his face as if he had just been interrupted in the middle of some slightly embarrassing activity such as sticking a wad of gum under a table. Who George was he didn't have a clue, but then again neither did the cop. With any luck this would cause the cop to second guess himself long enough for him to deliver the fatal shot. Kiviat has stopped struggling, clearly as surprised by this latest turn of events as the police officer.

"Is George still with the car, or did he go round back?" asked Coke again, his eyes trained on the officer for the slightest hint of movement while quietly bringing his gun up to his side along the center line of his body, invisible to the cop from that angle. The cop hesitated for the briefest moment, still unsure of the situation. If this had been a simple mugging he would undoubtedly expected Coke to simply open fire at the first sign of a uniform. Instead, here he was being confronted by a well-dressed, slightly graying man who was asking him where "George" was. Was this some sort of joke? Had he perhaps stumbled across a movie set and the actors had mistaken him for one of the extras?

"The reason I ask," began Coke again, almost in position, "is because I'm a federal agent. I'm in the middle of arresting this wanted felon here and I was wondering if George-" before he got another word out, Coke's muscle instincts took over. Almost without thinking he saw his right hand whip the pistol up into the air and heard the distant pffts as the first of three silenced rounds spat out of his weapon towards the hapless police officer. Perhaps the cop had caught the faintest pre-flicker of motion in Coke's arm for it appeared that he had begun the slow process of reaching for his pistol when the first of the rounds impacted into his chest cavity, tearing a neat little holes in the soft tissue of his flesh before exiting out the man's back. The cop lurched backwards, his hands flailing and gesticulating wildly as he backpedaled, tripping over his own feet and going down hard on the linoleum floor.

Before the last of the brass casings from Coke's weapon had hit the floor, the lower, instinctive portions of his brain were immediately shifting into re-acquire mode as his nervous system fired its feverish signals down the length of his arm. Coke spun on his right heel, his gun barrel midway up the length of his body and almost on target when the coffee hit his face. The world when a searing red and Coke screamed out in pain as the liquid heat crashed into his face with all the intensity of a lava tsunami. He could almost feel the nerve endings sizzle beneath his wet skin. Amongst the absurdity of it all, one of the signals his central cortex felt relevant and decided to forward to his higher processing capacities: mocha with a hint of chocolate.

Coke barely had the presence of mind to not drop his weapon in the confusion. The fact that this mousy, petite computer geek had gotten the drop on him and physically wounded him was almost beyond his comprehension. Through all the pain and rage which filled him, he couldn't help but feel a tiny bit of admiration for Kiviat. There was some steel deep down in this girl somewhere. Coke crushed the feeling and brought his left hand up, clutching at his face and trying to wipe the rapidly-cooling beverage off of his face. Instinctively he knew the damage was largely negligible. Hardly fatal, probably not even cosmetic. The pain though, the pain was crucial. It blinded him, enraged him, caused him to lose focus and momentarily disrupted his continuous cycle of observation and preparation. For the briefest glimmer of a moment, he felt that Kiviat might make good her escape. She almost did.

Kiviat was out of her chair in an instant and with an agility completely out of character with Coke's initial assessment, drew the laptop case instinctively closer to her before dropping low and snapping a kick into his right ankle, sweeping his feet off the ground. Coke, already half-blinded and reeling, went down hard. A primal warning screamed out at him. His sharp reflexes allowed him to draw his head in and roll away before he crushed his head on a nearby table, but it was a close thing. Coke had by now cleared most of the coffee off of his face and despite the smarting, boiling pain which sizzled at every nerve ending, he was rapidly getting a grip on himself and preparing to take the target down.

Stephen hit the ground and instantly rolled about ninety degrees. By this point Kiviat had cleared the table and, laptop in hand, was beginning her dash down the cluttered aisles of chairs, tables, and countertops. Brining his sleeve to his face, Coke made one final quick brushing gesture to clear his vision before sending his legs out in a wide arc, hoping to catch Kiviat's ankles and trip her up. He was quick but he had taken too long. Instead of landing a good, solid hit on her ankle, he was only able to graze her with the toe of his shoe, barely nicking her. For a brief moment Coke's hope surged as she seemed to stumble uncertainly forward, knocking into a table and sending a sugar jar careening, but it was only for an instant and she quickly regained her balance, continuing her headlong flight towards the door.

Having been denied once, Coke recovered from his sweep and rolled over onto his back, bringing his gun to bear between his splayed legs. Time had by now assumed the consistence of molasses, bringing every detail into focus: the sound of Christine's steps echoing off of the linoleum floor, the by now tepid wetness of the spilled coffee on the floor creeping up into his jacket, and tinkle of sugar as it fell to the ground grain by grain. This was his last chance to make things right.

Christine had by now gotten a few meters away from the door. She quickly sidestepped the fallen officer, just managing to avoid the slowly growing crimson puddle in her way. Six meters...five. Coke brought the weapon up, drawing a bead on the rapidly diminishing figure down the corridor. Coke was a good shot; he routinely put four out of five rounds through Washington's portrait on a one dollar bill at 50 feet. They were in relatively close quarters and as such Coke felt confident he could hit a target of Kiviat's size with his eyes closed. The pain in his face had now settled to a dull (if angry) whine and he was regaining his composure. He had been a surgeon with smaller calibers back at the academy and time had not deteriorated any of his skill.

Christine's reflection was now visible in the glass paneling of the doorway. Her hair tie had come off and her locks flowed gently behind her in the air-conditioned room, assisted by the forces of inertia as she sprinted the last few feet towards her freedom. Her right arms shot forwards, her palm out, anticipating contact with the door bar and the strong shove which would push her out into the gray, wet world and (presumably) safety. Coke paused for a moment, gazing down the length of the barrel. A more poetic man might have paused to appreciate the montage, for there was an undeniably savage beauty in the scene: the titanium silencer glinting in the low light, the jarring contrast of blood on white linoleum, the almost spiritual intersection of the forces of random and purpose in the layout of chairs and tables around the room. But Coke was not a particularly poetic man, nor a spiritual one. He was businesslike, driven, and efficient and acted as such. He squeezed the trigger with the pad of his right index finger, exhaled, paused, and depressed the trigger completely in a model display of military firearms training.

Orange light spat out of the end of the silencer, completely incongruous with the muffled whisper of sound accompanying it. Coke felt a slight pop of pressure against his extended arms and the gun pushed back against him for a fraction of a second. The round caught Kiviat in mid-stride between the shoulder blades. Her body, now no longer in control of itself, jolted forward under the impact of the bullet and sent her sprawling forward. She fell face down just shy of the door, close enough for a few droplets of her blood to splatter up against the dirty glass.

Coke remained motionless for a moment, before sitting fully upright. Keeping his pistol trained on Kiviat he stood up and glanced around. If there was an employee in the store, Coke had not seen him. He carefully, purposefully walked towards the counter and, assuring himself there was no one cowering behind it (he didn't have time to check the back room), he surveyed the scene. It was clean, or at least as clean as a double homicide could be. Coke mentally rechecked the sequence of events and carefully collected the four shell casings which had been ejected from his still-smoking pistol. Not that it mattered much anyway: the gun was already too hot and had the blood of too many people on it. Although he was 99% positive no one would ever be able to trace it back to him (no serial number, no fingerprints, no shell casings, not a standard-issue weapon), it never hurt to be 100%.

Just the same, Coke knew he had to move. It didn't make sense that there wasn't an employee at the store. Sure, he might be out back taking a cigarette break, but that seemed unlikely as he would have come running at the first sign of commotion. More likely, he might have run to call the cops. Hell, if he stuck around long enough Coke knew the cops would eventually send a cruiser to check on their unresponsive patrolman. One way or another, it was time to move.

Coke dropped the casings into his pocket, holstered his weapon, and made his way to the door. When he reached Kiviat's body, he bent over and picked up the laptop case. Her grip on it was firm, but Coke was able to wrench it free without too much difficulty. He tried not too look too closely at the body; enough to tell that she was dead. He took a few seconds to unzip the case. Inside was the glossy black case of her laptop. It crossed Coke's mind for a moment that perhaps the data was not in the laptop or that she had somehow been able to switch it out, but that seemed unlikely. Kiviat's eyes had been too genuine to have been lying to him as he had impersonated Mulder: they were too relieved, too eager to get rid of the case. And, one way or another, it was not his problem anymore. He had been told to get the data, if the data was not in the laptop, it would at least tell him where the data had gone to, and that would be a job for someone else. Coke checked one more item off of his mental list and, rezipping the bag, stepped out the door.

The cool outside air hit Coke like a spray of fine mist, clearing his lungs. The drizzle had stopped and a slight breeze had picked up, snapping at Coke's gray blazer. He maintained a brisk but steady pace, for he knew the first thing which would draw attention to him would be if he were to give in to panic and start to run. Not that there was much panic there to be had, Coke had already done this far too many times before. He passed the parked police car sitting in the lot, near the door. Its motor was off, which suggested that the cop had indeed only come in to get some food and as such was not responding to a call or any hint of trouble. Looking up and down the deserted street, Coke saw no one coming. He broke into a quick trot to get across the quiet road and once on the opposite sidewalk resumed his walk towards the car.

Stephen saw his car a few short minutes later. It was exactly as he had left it, no obvious signs of tampering. He hadn't expected any. He walked up to the vehicle and manually unlocked the door. In the distance he heard the sizzle of tires heralding the entry of another car into this rather secluded ally. He looked up. The vehicle in question was a dark blue Ford Crown Victoria, government issue (he could tell by the second antenna), DC plates, looked like an '88 or '89. There were two passengers but he had trouble making them out behind the windshield. One appeared to be a man, the other, on the passenger's side, a woman. Coke nonchalantly slid the case onto his car's passenger seat. They were obviously suits, probably feds, but only possibly cruising for him. He didn't hear any sirens in the background, which meant the local authorities probably hadn't been tagged yet. In any case, it was best to be wary, but not overtly hostile. If he made a wrong move now, he could either have his cover blown or more blood on his hands in one day. He preferred neither.

Coke bent down and pretended to have dropped his keys under the car seat. He checked the reflection of the approaching car in his watch. It seemed to be slowing down. Coke "retrieved" his keys and sat in the car, preparing to drive away (or evade if necessary). The car pulled to a stop next to him and the passenger side window rolled down. Upon closer examination, Coke saw that he had indeed been right about the passengers. Male driver, female passenger. The male was a ruggedly good-looking individual with a square jaw and brown hair. His suit matched the color of the car. His companion was a pretty redheaded woman in a burgundy suit with a white lacey shirt underneath. She had an atlas of Maryland open on her lap and was wearing a hint of lilac perfume. Coke could tell by the subtle bulges under their jackets that they were armed. Probably FBI. The woman looked at him and smiled. Coke smiled back.

"Excuse me," she began, her voice betraying a slight twinge of exasperation. "We seem to be a little lost. Do you happen to know if there's a Dunken Doughnuts around here?" A wave of different emotions washed over Coke. Anxiety, fear, curiosity, and perhaps most of all, relief. These had to be the esteemed agents Mulder and Scully. It was perfect. The final piece of the random equation had just introduced itself. Coke felt like laughing out loud, both from nervousness and genuine pleasure.

Coke kept his face friendly but his tone level. "Aw, I'm sorry, but no," he replied, his voice warm but his eyes cold. "I'm not from around here, I'm just visiting a friend." Mulder looked sheepish. If Scully was disappointed, she did a remarkable job of hiding it.

"Oh...that's ok," she answered. "I'm sure we'll find it. It's gotta be around here somewhere." She looked over at Mulder who nodded at her. She nodded back and then gave Coke a quick thank you as she rolled up her window. Mulder might have said thanks too, but if he did Coke didn't here him. The car slowly resumed its crawl down the alley. Five seconds later it reached the end and made a right turn onto the main road in the opposite direction of the store. As soon as they rounded the corner, Coke closed the door and started the car.

Although Mulder and Scully would be the first on the scene of the grisly double homicide at the Sewellsville Dunken Doughnuts by the time they had alerted the local authorities Coke was well on his way back to Washington.

The Tidal Basin, Washington, 11:02 p.m.

Although all of the parks in the District of Columbia were technically closed after dark, in practice this was rarely enforced. What with all of the nocturnal tours of the city, street festivals, tourists, monuments, gardens, parks, historical buildings and legions of homeless people (not to mention the fact that the city was in many ways the center of the world), the city never really slept, even by American standards. Tonight however, the Tidal Basin was largely deserted. Coke sat on a park bench underneath the branches of one of the many Cherry Blossom trees which dotted the area, a gift from the Empire of Japan to the people of the United States, donated June 12th, 1907. In the distance Coke could see the illuminated silhouette of the Washington Monument. The only sound disturbing him was the lap of water against the basin's walls.

Coke was sharp, yet he still failed to hear the man approach him. However, the click of a cigarette lighter quickly brought him back to his senses. The dark figure slid in next to him on the bench, exhaling as he did so. The warm smell of tobacco filled the air. By now Coke knew better than to expect civility from any conversation with the boss.

"Do you have it?" the boss asked, taking another puff on his cigarette, its lit end winking in the darkness like the eye of a slumbering dragon.

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

"No." The boss' eyebrows arched. "I retrieved the laptop from the subject's house. I

have every reason to believe the data is in there. If it isn't, it will at least tell the tech guys at the NSA where the data went. It was the best I could do under the circumstances."

The chief seemed to be sizing Coke up in the darkness, although Coke couldn't imagine what he thought he saw. After a few moments the chief snubbed the cigarette out on the bench. He reached into his shirt pocket and produced another from a crumpled pack of Marlboros.

"You did well Stephen," he said at last, fingering his lighter. "To be honest, many of us didn't think you could." A dozen questions sprang up in Coke's mind, but he shoved them back down. The man lit his cigarette and, replacing the pack and the lighter, resumed his smoking.

"Did you?"

The chief didn't even look at him. He seemed to be lost in the beauty of the Washington Monument. For a long time he said nothing. Finally, the chief stood up and took the laptop bag, not even bothering to check to see what was inside; he knew better than that.

"Good job Stephen, I'll be in touch."

As he walked away, Stephen was un able to resist the impulse any longer. "How much longer does this have to go on chief?" he asked the rapidly disappearing figure, his words drifting through the darkness. The chief's reply was simple.

"It goes on as long as it has too, Stephen. As long as it has to."

Stephen stood still, his unfocused eyes glancing over the surface of the water. he needed a drink. He needed a shower. Most of all, he needed a good night's sleep. His emotions were shot, but he was too tired to deal with it. Tomorrow would bring relief and somewhere, Coke knew that this was just one more crazy day in a life that was full of them. And as the silence of the night crept over the scene, the last sound to interrupt the lapping of the waves was that of shell casings and a single pistol splashing into the basin's murky depths, and of a single set of footsteps echoing off the pavement.

That's all folks! I hope you liked it. Please R&R and feel free to contact me personally at Thanks!