A doughnut-dust-covered finger hovered over an enlarged picture of "One."
"This guy here, the raccoon," Fleck spat out bits of doughnut as he spoke, "he was the team leader. He was in charge of making sure everything went right. Notice, here, that he makes no interaction with any of the civilians. It's the other guys who handle the crowd, you know, threatening, yelling, pushing people to the ground. Now, look there." Paul dusted his paw off on his white oxford-weave shirt. "This guy, who we figured out to be 'Three,' was their demolitions guy. He handled the explosives, of which, was very nice. If you watch, he puts these strange metal covers on the explosives after setting them. Now, this is critical, because of the type of explosives he used." Fleck took another bite of the doughnut, then looked over the short report he had formulated for the Robbery and Burglary unit of Paris's 14th Precinct, which was gathered in Detective Carmelita Fox's office, upon metal folding chairs. The woman herself was sitting back in her chair, feet upon her desk. Everyone was silent, watching the projection on the large white sheet hanging over a bookcase, projected from images on Carmelita's computer.
"We got a report back from CSI, and the explosives used were, well, rather unique. The explosives were actually a, uh, for lack of a better word, a melting agent. When they detonated, they became superheated gasses and liquids, specifically designed to melt the pins of the vault hinge, not the metal around it. The door simply slid off to one side, technically undamaged."
"Clever," Sly said from his inverted position just outside Carmelita's office window. He could hear the blood rushing into his head as he hung by his hands from a storm drain.
"Sly! Sly! Be quiet! Those windows aren't very thick! They'll discover you for sure!" Bentley barked over the radio. Sly winced at the noise in his ear.
"Yeah, okay, just- don't talk anymore," Sly said abruptly into his radio, tucked into his collar. A Labrador officer looked out the office window, casually investigating the noise from his chair. He thought he saw something shoot up just outside the glass. Deciding it to be insignificant, he turned back to Fleck.
"That was close, Sly! You have to be more careful about that!"
"Bentley, what did I say about talking?"
"Then, they fled the scene in a helicopter," Fleck continued, motioning to a newly projected picture of a white BellJet helicopter. His bushy tail blocked off part of the projection, and several officers leaned to one side to attempt to see the picture. "The thing was, they flew under two hundred feet. Typical radar stations around here only track objects flying over five hundred feet, save, of course, the airspace over an airport. So, basically, they got away. A few units attempted to follow them, but the helicopter disappeared into the hills. There's over ten thousand acres of land out there that are suitable for landing a helicopter this size. It could be anywhere."
"But, it's got to be somewhere," Sly commented to himself.
"Sly, just plant the microphone and get out!" Bentley ordered. Sly rolled his eyes.
"Fine." Sly reached into his ever-handy bag that was slung over his back, and procured a pen-sized device. He gently placed the thin object between two bricks, in a small slot created by crumbling mortar. "It's in place. Check the reception," Sly reported. There was a slight feedback, then a buzz, then nothing. Bentley came roaring back onto the radio.
"It works! Now, get out of there!"
"Not until I have a little fun."
"Fun?"
Sly took his trademark cane, and tapped it lightly against the window. Every set of eyes in the room snapped to the noise. Sly waved to the seven police officers. Expecting nightsticks and stun guns, Sly was greeted with two MP5A3's, three 9mm pistols, an American-made .45's and a .38 revolver.
"Oh crap!" Sly let go of the storm drain and dropped to the bottom of the window, where he grabbed the sill with his paws. He let his legs fall below him, then dropped to the next window. He landed his heels upon the stone, and leapt forward. His cane found a power line, allowing him to slide along it to the other side of the street. His feet landed on the asphalt rooftop of a school, and he ran like heck. The windows in Carmelita's office had been opened, and two of the officers had opened fire. Bullets streaked around Sly as he ducked behind a vent cover.
"Sly! What's happening?"
"Murray, I could use a lift! Meet me by the corner of thirty-sixth and Chicago!" Sly poked his head around the vent, and watched the policemen run out of the room and head for the stairs. Taking this chance, Sly ran at full speed, leaping the gaps between buildings, heading straight for a broad, four-lane street. Headlights shone through the inky night, illuminating the buildings across the gap, as a vehicle turned into the large street. Sly reached the corner, planted his feet on the edge of the roof and, using his momentum, vaulted himself into the air.
The cool night air flitted around his face, and time seemed to slow. A white van was slowing to a stop near the corner. A turtle poked his head out of the passenger-seat window and looked around nervously. He looked straight up, and his thick glasses brought to focus a shaded figure flying in the air. The gray raccoon began to drop straight down.
"Sllllyyy!" Bentley shouted. Sly came rocketing downward, onto the roof of the van. Murray made a shocked expression when the entire vehicle rocked under the weight of Sly. He could see the thief roll off the top of the van and land hard on the road. He stuck his head out the window.
"Hey! Get up, Sly!" The raccoon shook the stars out of his head and picked up his cane. He limped to the back of the van, and practically collapsed into it. Using his elongated foot, Sly shut the door and pounded the floor with his fist.
"Go!" Murray sent the van into a burnout, then sent it rocketing down the street. Using the back alleys and dark streets of Paris, the three lost the pursuing cops and were able to head home at a leisurely pace.
During the trip, Bentley came out of his shell and began talking to Sly.
"Now, why did you go and do such a stupid thing?" Sly just lay there, not moving. "Sly?"
"Yeah?"
"You alright, Sly?"
"I don't know."
"What do you mean, 'you don't know?' It's a simple question, and it only requires a-"
"Shutup, Ben, for a second, please!" Sly sat up, back facing Bentley. He reached to his side, and put his hands around something. He pulled out a large shard of glass from just below his ribs.
"Holy cow, Sly!"
"Just a little glass," Sly said, tossing the two-inch sliver aside. "I must've landed on some broken bottles or something when I landed."
"But, Sly, I don't have any broken bottles on the roof of the van!" Murray said. Holding two fingers over the cut to keep bleeding to a minimum, Sly just leered towards the driver's seat.
Carmelita holstered her Baretta 9mm and sighed. Cooper had eluded her again. What burned her was that he was right there- like right there. Fleck seemed to be taking it well. He hadn't been in Robbery and Burglary for very long, so this was his first time losing the infamous Cooper. Paul was leafing through pictures of Cooper, having a sudden interest caused by the recent event. Most of the pictures were grainy and far-off, making any identification by them useless. The only thing that they showed in relative clarity was the cane. That damned cane. Its characteristic scratches and dents could be found at any Cooper crime scene.
"He's one wily bastard, eh?"
"Very," Carmelita said coldly. Fleck immediately picked up the animosity.
"Hey, you okay?"
"No, Paul, I'm not. I want this guy." Fleck's ears perked.
"What?"
"I want him behind bars. I wanna see his face when I slap the cuffs on him."
"Oh," Paul said, going back to the files, no longer interested.
"Three years, almost four. I've chased this guy around the world ten times already, and still no success."
"Hm-hm…" Fleck said. There was a sudden silence. The turning of a page in Fox's Cooper file sounded like a thirty-gun salute. "I agree," Fleck said, totally out of place.
"Paul, you weren't listening, were you?"
"Perhaps." Carmelita looked at Fleck for a moment.
"You're attractive," Carmelita whispered. Fleck's ears perked, and Paul returned the stare.
"What?"
"I said, do you want to get something to eat?"
"Oh, uh, sure. What time is it?" Fleck checked his watch. "Ten-thirty? Okay."
The yellow coupe sat outside in the rain as Carmelita and Fleck sat at a booth in an all-night diner.
"Coffee, hun?" asked the feline waitress. Fleck nodded. As the hot black liquid was being poured into his mug, Fleck looked up at Fox. She was still looking out the window, obviously deep in thought. The waitress left, leaving Fleck practically alone. Resolving to remedy that, Fleck purposely reached for a creamer that would touch his sleeve to Carmelita's paw. It seemed to snap Carmelita out of it. She became aware of the world around her again.
"Hey, penny for your thoughts?"
"Paul, you really have no idea just how frustrating it is to watch three years of your life slip away along with some common thief." She leaned forward onto the table.
"I've been thinking about having myself transferred to another division. I don't know, narcotics or something. It's just that I can't take the feeling of uselessness that I have from watching Cooper get away again and again." Fleck sat in silence, slowly drinking his coffee.
"Well, why don't you try a different approach?" Paul asked innocently. Fox looked Fleck over.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you've been trying to find Cooper for so long without any luck, why not find the people he operates with?"
"Are you sure you want to do it this way?" Sean Moser, number "Two" asked. Next to him in the passenger seat sat John Elser, number "One."
"Yep," the raccoon said. "I love the look on their face right before I get 'em. Besides, this is kinda personal. 'Aim high'?" He pulled down a black Kevlar mask over his face and massaged a wound on his right hand before picking up a Glock .40 with the injured paw. Elser was wearing the same clothes he had on before, complete with bullet holes. He looked into the diner from his BMW, parked across the street. He watched the two officers talk over coffee. The squirrel picked up a doughnut. Cops and doughnuts. Now, was that cliché or what?
Elser pulled back the bolt on his sidearm, and opened the door. The sounds and smell of rain flooded the car, and Elser stepped out onto the street. As if walking into a convenience store, Elser opened the glass door to the diner, and stepped inside.
"Right, so then if can get him, then we can-" Fleck looked away from Fox, and focused on the door. Someone was walking up to the entrance that he couldn't see very well. The rain had pretty much made visibility nonexistent. The figure opened the door, and stepped inside.
"Get down!" Fleck shouted. He grabbed Fox by the collar and pulled her under the table. A bullet shattered Fleck's mug as he curled up under the table. He drew his .38 and fired at the door. The bullet punched through a window, but not much else. The attacker fired again, directly at the table. Fox had her sidearm out, and began firing at the attacker.
Else began advancing on the two policemen, firing rapidly at them. The detectives darted into the kitchen, and, somehow, survived. John ejected the empty magazine from his pistol and inserted a fresh one.
"Go around front, I'll stay and cover the kitchen! Go!" Fox shouted, pushing Fleck out the back door. Fleck staggered out into the damp alley, and started to run around to the front of the café. He slowed near the first of the large windows in the front of the bistro, and aimed his weapon inside as he moved towards the door. He could see the attacker moving about inside, but couldn't get a clear shot. He moved towards the door, which was between two sets of three large windows. In the driving rain, he did not hear the power windows being lowered. A single shot rang out, and Fleck convulsed. He dropped his revolver and clutched at his chest. His head had hit the glass, cracking it. Fleck slowly collapsed onto the ground, sliding along the cracked window, revealing a clean bullet hole in the clean glass. Fleck slid his legs out in front of him, and sat upright against the glass. He looked down at his hands, which were covered in his own blood.
Else looked behind him in time to see glass flying inwards. The squirrel detective had been shot, and was slowly collapsing. He looked across the street to the car. A FN-FAL assault rifle, one of the ones used in the bank earlier that day, was poking out of the driver-side window. The kitchen door was kicked open, and the vixen he was after leveled a gun at him. She fired a single round, which slammed into the ceramic armor, shattering it, sending a shard deep into Else's side. Else reeled from the impact, and, slipping on glass, fell hard on his injured side. The driver of the car opened up with his assault rifle, blasting most of the nearest window out, and forcing Fox to duck behind the counter.
"Goddamnit!" Else shouted from the ground. He rushed to his feet, then scrambled over a rain-slicked table and out a missing window. He passed the dying Fleck and rushed for the car. He hurried into the unlocked driver-side rear door, and sprawled out on the back seat.
"Go, go go! Damit, Sean, go!"
Fox chased after the attacker, firing wildly into the car as it skidded away. The car slid around a corner and disappeared. The rain was the only thing with her, other than- Paul! Carmelita looked around her, and saw the form of Fleck slumped against the window of the diner.
"Paul!" Carmelita exclaimed as she put a hand to Fleck's wound. She looked Fleck in the eye. Most of the life had already left Paul Fleck. He stared straight ahead, barely moving. She put her hands on Paul's face, and shook his head, attempting to wake him from the trance he was in. "Paul! Paul!" Fleck's eyes met Fox's then closed.