---
"You sure this is the place?" Murphy asked for the third time as he swung open the door proudly proclaiming that Fish & Game had offices on the second and fourth floors; while HUD Document Disposal Control was housed on the third and fifth. That might be the space those agencies officially claimed, but she knew who the real resident was and who was in charge of it.
"Aye," she answered with a grin. "Don't let the stunningly modern exterior fool ye," her voice dripped with sarcasm as they headed for the reception desk in the miniscule foyer. The interior décor, which was step below that of the exterior, caused Murphy to hiss through clenched teeth.
"Fallon, are you sure about this? We don't need 'em." Murphy's voice was barely above a whisper, but it was enough to make her grab him by the shoulder holster and drag him over to one side.
"Are ye questioning me judgment?"
"Aye. It's part of the job description, remember?"
"Ye chose that job, not me. Can't 'spect me to make it easy for ye," she shot back with a hint of a smile under the irritation. She just wished he had decided to voice his opinion before they'd arrived, 'cause now it was way too fecking late. "Murphy, I don' 'ave time to explain this to ye now, so you're jus' gonna 'ave to trust me on this one."
Murphy crossed his arms over his broad chest and stared down at her, like a parent who knows his five-year-old is hiding something. Only she wasn't five and they both knew it. "Is this about him?"
The emphasis on "him" let Fallon know Murphy was referring to her sgàil and not Darien Fawkes, though the latter had been the main topic of conversation all morning. She'd been too bleeding hung-over to get downstairs and remove the incriminating evidence from the security system before Nikki had shown up for work. Not that there was much to see; just Fawkes breaking in and her bolloxed ass inviting him upstairs. The cameras ended at the stairwell. If anyone made it that far into the building without setting off an alarm, they were welcome to anything they could lay their hands on. What had happened after she and Fawkes were out of the camera's view was no one's business but theirs, and her guys were very careful to not cross that line of gentle teasing to wild speculation.
She, much as Murphy had surmised at their last visit, had expected the agents to return to bargain, but not with the information they had ultimately offered in trade. When Fawkes had teased the file's contents - like a pro - she'd been caught between two conflicting emotions: kiss him or kill him. Neither of which would have been taken very well by Agent Hobbes. 'Bugger it.' She still wasn't sure what to do. When she'd said personal, she'd meant exactly that, even if he'd told her something that could have netted her a hefty paycheck, she'd've kept it to herself. Not that she could expect Fawkes to follow her honor code, right?
It was her own bleeding fault. She'd known Fawkes was a con-man, so it wasn't all that surprising that he'd learned about her annual piss up and used it to his... to the Agency's advantage. She hadn't been played that well since little John-boy in Montreal. On that occasion, she'd let the drama continue to unfold even after she'd learned his true interest in her. By the time she'd called him on it, he'd let out more than enough rope to hang himself. A'course it hadn't hurt that he was a damn fine looking man and heaven on earth between the sheets.
The fact that she'd let Fawkes' good looks and seeming naïveté sway her, gee-eyed, or not, just pissed her off even more. If it weren't for the fact that this might - might - get her one step closer to Tor, she'd have handed over the meet info and sent them on their merry way with a goodbye and good riddance. Instead, she was standing in this crappy lobby, hoping like hell she could hold her temper long enough to get through the meeting and not throttle Fawkes for doing his bloody job better than she had expected.
"And if it is?" she finally answered, her tone as neutral as she could manage.
He nodded slowly. "Then there's no point in questioning your judgment. You ain't got none where he's concerned."
"Hey," she poked him in the chest with one finger, "I know enough to not go chasing wild geese," she countered. Murphy had learned long ago that even he could only do so much to protect her, especially from herself. "Rule number 10."
"Listen to your gut, but think with your head," Murphy growled. "Awright, no more arguments from me."
"Why 'ow sweet of ye," she dimpled at him, "considering I'm your boss."
He snorted and stepped aside to allow her by, as they still needed to get this farce started. The reception area had acquired a pair of matching bookends during their little chat. Two agents were doing their best impression of dangerous and failing miserably in her opinion. It took a lot more than enigmatic looks and pointedly revealed weapons to get her all shivery inside. Now, an authentic eleventh century claymore had been known to make her go weak in the knees on occasion. Not many men could withstand the comparison to six feet of hand-forged steel.
She ignored the pair of plonkers and strode over to the reception desk with Murphy just a step behind, guarding her back like always.
"Can I help you?" the woman behind the curved desk asked primly, as if she wasn't the one to call down the reinforcements when she spotted Murphy's Glock.
"Me name's Fallon O'Neill. The Official is expecting me."
"I'm sorry, Miss..."
"O'Neill," Fallon supplied.
"Hmm, yes, but there's no one here by that name," the receptionist stated in snotty tone that Fallon didn't care for in the least. Luckily, she'd long ago schooled herself to not slap silly eejits who pushed her annoyance buttons.
"Really. So, these bully-boys 'ere work for Fish & Game? Or maybe HUD?" Fallon wasn't in the mood for the mandatory runaround.
"Ma'am, there's no one here..."
"By that name," Fallon finished, ignoring the rolled eyes aimed in her direction. "Well, then ye can be the one to explain to 'im jus' why 'is case is going nowhere fast. Murphy." She snapped about and headed straight to the door without a backwards glance, all the while counting slowly in her head.
At eight Miss Prim & Proper squawked, "Wait."
Fallon paused, the exit just an arms length away, and for a heartbeat she wanted nothing more than to walk through the door and never look back, never see anyone from this Agency ever again. Then the moment passed and she found herself asking, "Why?"
"I'll escort you up," the voice was male and inducement enough to urge Fallon to turn around and eye the pair of agents. "But he has to stay here." A slight nod in Murphy's direction was added for emphasis.
"Divide and conquer, is that it?" Murphy began, his temper flaring to life.
Fallon brought him up short with a word, "Agreed."
"Boss," Murphy growled, "I don't trust these blighters."
"An' ye think I do?" she sniped. "I simply trust the non-existent Official 'as more interest in solving 'is case than trying to outmaneuver me. My info, we do things my way. When the roles are reversed 'e can call the shots." As she watched the bookends, the one on the right tipped his head in acknowledgement of her statement. Looked like one a'em had some inkling of how the game was really played.
Murphy frowned, plainly not liking the set up, which was as it should be. "Awright, but if they try anything..."
"You'll come in, guns blazing?" she suggested sardonically. "They won't. Now behave." That earned her a dark look, but no commentary. He knew when it was time to back down and actually take orders. She joined the Agency's finest for her escort to the Official. The one who had spoken to her stepping aside, his partner plainly intended to stick around and keep an eye on Murphy. Her boy wouldn't cause a bit of trouble, but he'd be chafing at not being by her side. He took his job very seriously, that one did.
She was given a lovely tour of a dingy stairwell and dingier hallways that even the bright morning sunlight admitted through open windows could do nothing to improve. It was a sad state for an agency touted to be one of the better ones for spotting and preventing covert activities from every odd corner of the country. She might not be living as classy as she could be, but it was her choice. Baggage was never a good thing when you had to cut and run on short notice.
She could hear raised voices arguing, which got progressively louder as they neared the end of the hallway. Her escort stopped before a door with nothing more than the number 202 on the opaque glass and swung it open for her to enter.
She stepped into a minefield.
Agents Fawkes and Hobbes were having themselves a wee bit of a disagreement. They were on opposite sides of the conference table that filled the center of the room, Fawkes was glowering at his partner who slammed his palm onto the surface of the table and shouted, "Damn it, Fawkes, I want a straight answer."
The response was a snort of derision. "You ain't believed a word I've said so far, but to repeat: I slept, I did laundry, I went out and had a couple of drinks and that's it." The words were carefully bitten off and the tone oddly condescending.
Fallon also found the statement interesting, as it totally left out his visit to her place for that inside information he had wielded so very well. However, it wasn't Hobbes that she watched for a reaction, but the pair across the room from her. The Official sat behind his desk, his bulk surely testing the springs of the chair he was relaxed comfortably in. Behind and to his right stood the esteemed Eberts, former IRS, and as expert at manipulating numbers as the Official was people. Or, so her sources had informed her. Clearly, he'd arranged for her to walk in on this disagreement. Was it a test? To see what she'd put up with to fulfill her end of a deal? Weird, but possible.
"She's nothing but trouble, my friend, and you better stay away from her and her little den of thieves," Hobbes snapped, stabbing a finger in his partner's direction for emphasis.
'Den of thieves?' Fallon wasn't sure if she should be insulted, or what. Okay, so they might not always... make that rarely... use legal means to obtain the data they sold, but thieves? Not a chance in hell.
Fawkes went completely still. "You do not get to tell me what to do, my friend," his voice icy cold. "If I want to associate with mercenaries, that's my business."
Even Fallon, who wouldn't claim to know either man, could see that Hobbes had pushed it too far, and, though tempted to intercede, held her tongue. In truth, she wouldn't mind Fawkes showing up on her doorstep for something other than Agency business, and next time it wouldn't be a few shorts that she'd be offering him. Oh no, it'd be something far more lucrative for both of them.
Hobbes stood up to his full and not-so-lofty height, shaking his head. "You want it that way, fine. Just don't come crying to me when she finds out you can..."
"Boys, boys," the Official interrupted, cutting off Hobbes' words and leaving Fallon very curious as to what he'd been about to say. "We have a guest."
---
'A guest? Huh?' Darien followed the 'Fish's gaze to see Fallon standing at the far end of the room, impeccably dressed - she cleaned up damn nice - with a messenger bag resting against her left hip and an expression of total indifference on her features. 'Crap.' No wonder the Official had interrupted Bobby's snarky comeback, considering what he'd been about to blurt out. That would've been really ironic; Bobby giving away exactly what he was accusing Darien of risking. Though why the Official hadn't ended the shouting match long before she had arrived was a mystery to Darien. Maybe the Fatman behind the curtain wanted her to know she was causing divisiveness between the partners? It wasn't as if Darien understood how his boss' mind worked, but he was certain he didn't want to. There were always manipulations within manipulations within manipulations. It was amazing the man kept them all straight. That the Official would use Fallon to his own benefit, or at least try, was to be expected.
"Oh, hey Fallon," Darien greeted, which caused Bobby to fling his hands up dramatically and stalk towards the Official's desk, making it clear where his loyalties lay in this instance.
Much to Darien's surprise, she outright ignored him and focused her attention on the power crushing the throne at the Agency. "Do we 'ave a deal?"
Eberts piped up with, "The Official would like to clear up a few..."
"I wasn't speakin' to ye," Fallon stated, without so much as glancing in his direction, which caused Eberts' mouth to snap shut in shock. She plainly wasn't going to buy the mouthpiece impression Ebes was doing. Why talk to Muhammad when the mountain was right in front of you.
Darien gave a low whistle, impressed with her ability to hold her ground against the juggernaut. This might actually be interesting.
"Fawkes," Bobby growled in warning, which Darien ignored. He'd made his stance on the matter quite clear, and besides, the Official had already agreed to allow Fallon in on the mission, provided there was indeed a connection, of course.
The Official chuckled softly. "Deal."
With that word, Fallon went from statue still to full movement. She walked the length of the room, the messenger bag coming open, and revealing a slim laptop that was probably the same one as earlier. "If I may?"
The Official gave a grandiose wave of his hand, and she had the computer out and set up in seconds. She placed it on the table, then pulled a black ovoid out and connected it to the computer with a cable. The LCD monitor went from the standard Windows start-up screen to a hand drawn monkey with paws clasped before it.
Eberts made a tiny sound and Darien turned to look at him. "'Sup Ebes?" Darien asked, as it wasn't often Eberts' dour expression was exchanged for amusement, which made today a red letter day indeed.
"Sorry. Miss O'Neill's choice of computer doesn't give me much confidence in her information," Eberts answered, a smile very nearly cracking his features as he attempted to maintain a neutral demeanor.
Fallon, fingers flying over the keys as screen after screen flashed by on the desktop, responded in a bored tone, "It may say 'Dell' on the outside, but there's a sight more than 'Intel' on the inside."
Eberts gulped audibly. "You do your own mods?"
"Aye," she mumbled, clearly distracted as she poured over the data being sent to her machine.
"What's with the shiny black Easter egg?" Bobby asked in suspicion.
"It's a signal booster and," she smiled slightly, "scrambler."
That caused Eberts to squeak inarticulately and the Official to mutter, "Eberts," in an attempt to get his lackey back under control. "Miss O'Neill, can we get on with this?"
"A'course." She turned about to face the three men about the desk, leaving Darien with only her profile to observe. "One of the more recent entries in Aristid's PDA includes coordinates, date and time."
Hobbes', "Coordinates," was overrun by Eberts' highly suspicious, "How did you access his PDA?"
Fallon sighed, appearing rather put upon by this point. "Mr. Eberts, it's a wireless system and eminently hackable... if ye know how."
Eberts visibly twitched, and Darien had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. "You wrote a hack to break wireless encrypts?"
Fallon shook her head. "Me? Nay. That's what I 'ave employees for."
"But how do they account for the randomization of the encryption signal?" Eberts pressed, clearly not about to let this go until he received a satisfactory answer.
Fallon crossed her arms over her chest and gave Eberts a baleful stare. "Do ye want this info or not?"
Eberts opened his mouth to respond, but a hastily barked, "Shut up, Eberts," by both Hobbes and the Official forestalled the commentary.
She gave a sharp nod and shifted enough to tap a sequence of keys. The colors were washed out due to Darien's crappy angle, and he shifted along the wall so that he could actually see the image. It turned out to be to a high altitude shot of some generic chunk of desert. "The coordinates are for this location. An area approximately five miles southeast of Dulzura."
"Dulzura? That's about 20 miles from here. Not much out there but sand and scrub," Hobbes commented.
"And gold," Darien added, ignoring the evil eye his partner threw his way. Like Hobbes should be surprised. It was gold, after all. "Least there used to be."
Fallon nodded in agreement. "It's an old lode mine that dates back to the late 1800s. It is currently owned by Hammer Corp." She zoomed the image in closer, the entrance of the mine now easily visible. Though the angle wasn't all that great, it appeared that the 'door' was large enough for a fair-sized truck to drive through, with a smaller one set into it.
"And who owns the Hammer?" Hobbes asked in the conveniently placed pause.
"One Tormond Westgaard, though that bit of info was a right bugger to track down." Fallon looked right at the Official.
"You can document this?" he challenged.
"Aye. I'll burn ye a copy of the data once this meeting is concluded." That seemed to satisfy the Official
"When's the meet?" Darien asked, wondering how much time they had to pull off a miracle.
"Tomorrow at 1500," she answered. The image zoomed back out slightly, just enough to show that the only way in or out to the mine entrance was down long narrow canyon between what were either high hills or low mountains. The mine was at the apex, which made it simple to defend.
"That's real-time," Eberts suddenly squalled. "How did you...? But the access codes for the satellite..."
Darien paced over to Eberts, who looked ready to blow a gasket, and set a hand on his shoulder. "Down boy. Don't want to hurt yourself, now do ya?" Darien turned to Fallon. "I think he's impressed."
"I got that," was her sardonic reply. "Now, the mine is reportedly played out, gold-wise, but still has a large quantity of quartz that is being mined for commercial use. They've done some major reconstruction internally." She tapped a few keys, sitting on the edge of the table so that she could type, read, and yet still appear to include the rest of the people in the room in the conversation. The image switched from the live overhead shot of the mine and surrounding land, to 3-D schematics of the first few levels buried inside the mountain.
"The two upper levels were retrofitted to house the power-plant and ventilation system." She froze the image on the screen, giving them a profile view of four different levels. "The two main levels, 'ere and 'ere, house the storerooms, bunks, kitchens, offices, etc. The staging area is on the second level, and is where the main shaft and elevator is located." She ran a finger along the track pad to zoom in on the image.
It appeared to Darien that the first level actually overlooked the staging area, like a balcony section. "Where do you think the meet's gonna take place? There?"
Fallon shrugged. "Most likely. It's open and allows both to show their strength. 'Sides, the rest is all a labyrinth of rooms and corridors. The staging area is on a direct route from the main entrance down a long, wide slope, but the rest isn't what I would consider suitable for a face to face exchange." At the touch of a key, the pathway became highlighted, allowing them to clearly see it.
"How far in?" Hobbes asked.
"One 'undred and fifty feet 'orizontal and 20 vertical," was her quick reply.
"What's on the lower levels?" the Official asked.
"Now, that is a good question. Main shaft drops a good 'undred feet before there's any 'orizontal tunnels. That's according to public records. What's been done on the lower levels since Hammer purchased the mine we've yet to discover." She raised one hand as if in apology. "With more time I'd have more answers for ye," she explained, reminding them that this info had been gathered in just over an hour and giving them an impressive demonstration of how extensive her network was. Even Darien had figured out that she was accessing that database she mentioned back at her building, with employees still gathering more information as she spoke to them. He'd suspect she was in direct communication with someone, except for the fact that he could see no means for her to do so. No phone, no headset, not even a hearing aid like device being used on the sly. He knew, cause he'd checked. Of course, it could just be built into the computer, he supposed, but it wasn't like she'd been giving orders telling whoever was at the other end what to do. 'Damn, she's good.'
She continued speaking, unaware of Darien's regard. "'E's ostensibly mining the quartz and selling it. Based on purchasing records, that could very well be all 'e's doing."
Darien caught that one. "Could be doing? What else do you do in a mine, but mine?" he asked, almost afraid to hear her answer.
"Much of the gear is standard hardrock and gold mining equipment. Drill rigs, Knelson Concentrator, ConSep ACACIA Reactor, Knelson-Siztec Screen, loaders, graders, skips, all the usual suspects," she rattled off the list as if she had it memorized.
"Gold mining equip? Thought you said it was played-out?" Hobbes pointed out, his eyes narrowing.
"I said it was 'reportedly' played-out," Fallon reiterated. "The Knelson equipment can detect other metals as well, and this type of quartz often 'as metallic components. Copper and platinum 'ave also been found in the area." Her tone made it clear she was tired of Hobbes challenging her, but she apparently wasn't about to tell him so.
"Hobbes..." Darien grumbled, in an attempt to divert the tiger's attention for long enough to allow Fallon to finish. "'E's... He's covering his ass. The mining stuff might just be sitting there rusting for all anyone knows."
"What other equipment has he purchased?" Eberts queried.
She shrugged. "The usual. Micro and macroscopes, crucibles, centrifuges, spectrophotometers, Tekmar Autosampler and Concentrator, a GeneTAC Hybstation, Mitsubishi TOX-10 elemental analyzer, and other items just as obscure. All are legitimate items for mineral mining, but..." she let the sentence hang.
"Lemme guess, all of them can also be used for other things," Darien said as he picked up her line of reasoning, and she nodded. He'd been right, he didn't want to hear her answer. "Crap."
"Aye. There's no record of anything other than mining related chemicals being purchased, but that don' mean much," she confirmed.
"He could have had bought them under another name or company and simply carried them in the front door," the Official stated, sounding none too pleased himself. "He could have a full scale biotech lab running in there, and no one the wiser."
"How many people are we looking at?" Bobby asked, as it was always nice to know how bad of a no-win situation you were walking into.
She scrolled through pages before she answered, "Based on power usage... minimal. Last spike on the grid was 10 months ago. However, they could 'ave upgraded beyond what is in the public records and be running off internally generated power. Nikki'll keep digging, but 'e may not find anything afore the deadline." She keyed in something and then said, "I'd say no more than a score, and more likely 'alf that."
"Not the best odds, 'specially with them having home field advantage," Darien commented aloud, earning frowns from both Bobby and the 'Fish.
But Bobby was apparently thinking along the same lines. He stalked away from the desk, one hand rubbing the top of his head and causing the few remaining hairs to stand upright as if statically charged. "You'll give us a copy of the layout?"
"Aye," Fallon agreed.
"Then it's doable." Bobby spun about to face the Official. "Do you want us to just break up the party or make arrests?"
"Mr. Papadopoulos is not wanted for anything at this time," Eberts responded as if programmed, which, for all Darien knew, he was.
"So we have to catch him making the buy before we bag 'im and tag 'im," Darien observed; he'd been at this game more than long enough to know the rules - from both sides of the field. He received a nod of agreement from the bossman in response.
"However, Mr. Westgaard is wanted for any number of crimes, most relating to terrorism, in a dozen countries," Eberts concluded.
"Plus, there's a rather... large reward for his capture," the Official added, greed lighting up his watery blue eyes.
"Arrest it is, then." Hobbes nodded and began pacing the room and muttering to himself, "... to even up the odds... overwhelming force... surrender instead of a gun fight..." He made two full circuits of the room as Darien watched. He then glanced over at Fallon who was gazing at her monitor, which showed the schematics of the mine again. She zoomed in on sections every now and then, but Darien was too far away to make out any specifics.
"Bobby," the Official prompted, probably hoping to get a coherent response.
"We can do this," Hobbes asserted. "Need a strike team, like the one we put together to take out that Chrys... that winery a couple months back."
"And do what?" Darien asked, incredulous. "Charge in the front door like some reenactment of a light brigade and get slaughtered? We have no clue what the security is like, or if it's booby-trapped..."
"So we'll find out," Hobbes argued, cutting off Darien's rant. "There's only one way in, pal. What? You want to blast a hole in the roof and repel down?"
"No! No explosives. We don't have the budget for that," the Official barked.
"Makes more sense than the suicide run you have planned," Darien snapped as if he hadn't heard the Official.
"Actually, we should have the chemical components for plastique available in the lab," Eberts tossed into the mix. In mere seconds, the whole thing swiftly dissolved into a shouting match.
Darien wasn't sure how long it went on; his snarky comments were definitely verging on insulting when an ear-piercing whistle brought their words up short and four heads swiveled about to focus on the woman standing before the desk with an oddly amused look on her face.
"Gentlemen, if I may offer an alternative."