It begins with visionaries. They inspire others to follow. Soon, they're a few strange men smoking and drinking at the end of the bar. They talk about really weird things with global consequences. Before much time has passed, others begin listening in. They like what they hear. In a flash, the bar has an entire night devoted to speaking openly about their ideas. Then, after a brief span, they're gone. Their faces show, but they don't talk anymore. Soon, bad things happen. Those they don't like wake up with silencers to their hearts. Houses of the "enemy" begin to burn, and so does the fabric of a nation.
The groups work in teams, or "cells," as the government agents like to call them, of three or four men. Each cell used to answer to a higher-up, resulting in a hierarchy of operatives. That's how it used to be. For a while, all the cells operated independently. Cut off the head, two more grow.
It was a shame about O'Connely, but the dumb drunk had it coming. He always took his turns too wide. The news about Marvin was another disappointment. The team was beginning to fall apart. Oh, well, Jerry thought, sipping at imported Irish beer. Sloppy men meet sloppy ends.
Marvin could hear the heavy footsteps of the police officer on the second-story floor. He gripped his 9mm tightly and held the blue duffel bag tight against his side to prevent noise.
"I know you're here," Fedorov called into the dark hall. He stopped moving and perked his ear. He could hear someone breathing. Immediately, he began walking on the outside of his feet, cutting back dramatically on the noise his steps made. There was a doorway to the right. The sound was coming through there. Matkovich put his pistol to the thin plaster wall and fired once.
The bullet passed just under Marvin's left elbow. Spooked, he jumped forward, away from the wall.
Fedorov lunged forward, smashing his fist into the back of the suspect's head. Marvin saw an unbelievably bright flash, and a dull ringing filled his ears. He staggered across the room, stopping against the window. Fedorov came from behind and kneed Marvin in the side, sending the Lab to the floor. Matkovich kicked Marvin in the stomach, making his last drink come shooting up.
"Well, hello, you Irish bastard!" Fedorov said, bending over the cringing body. He picked Marvin up off the floor and slammed him against the window. The glass cracked under the weight.
"What the hell are you doing, you bloody maniac?" Marvin asked, his voice quavering.
"Doing something my nephew should have done a long time ago!"
"What?"
"Remember? That police officer who held a gun to your head and did not fire because you begged for your life?" Matkovich pressed his .54 to Marvin's chin.
Marvin grabbed Fedorov's arm with one hand, twisted the gun away from his chin, spun the Russian around and pressed his 9mm to the back of Fedorov's head.
"Yes, I remember," Marvin shouted back. He kicked Fedorov in the back of the knee, forcing him to kneel. "I remember it just fine!" Marvin pulled back the hammer on his pistol.
Fox leveled her sidearm at the suspect. He looked up from Fedorov and saw the unmistakable silhouette of a woman holding a gun. Without thinking, Marvin ducked to one side and rushed out a door, several bullets following him.
"Fedorov, are you alright?"
"No," Matkovich said, massaging his badly twisted arm.
"Good. Stay here!" Carmelita said, chasing after Marvin.
Marvin ran down a flight of shaky steps and out a metal door. Looking around quickly for an object to block the door after him, he spotted a dumpster nearby. He flipped the lid open, resting it on the doorknob and using the weight of the steel dumpster to stop the door from being opened.
Sly threw himself into the back of the van, closing the double doors behind him. He threw his hat to the side and sat upright on the metal floor.
"Did you get it?" Bentley asked, already knowing the answer. Sly shot the turtle an irritated glance. "I told you that was a bad idea!" Bentley said self-righteously. "And, if you don't mind me asking, where's your shirt?"
Marvin came huffing and wheezing to the parked Mercedes-Benz. Abercrombie was slowly smoking a cigar, arms folded, leaning against the car, thoroughly enjoying his wait.
"Did you lose them?" he asked, studying the smoke as it left the end of the tobacco.
"Yeah," the Lab said between pants.
"How did they know it was you?" the greyhound asked.
"They know what I look like! We gotta get out of here!"
"We?" Ethan asked. From the knot of his folded arms he produced a handgun, which he promptly used to shoot Marvin in the top of the skull. The lab dropped to the ground. What was it Jerry had said just now? "Sloppy men meet sloppy ends?" It seemed fitting. Abercrombie lifted the duffel bag off the body and drove away. He never liked that hitman, anyway. Too nervous and a poor soldier.