---
Bobby Hobbes was not a happy camper, and he was holding onto his temper, paranoia, outrage, et al, by a thin and swiftly fraying thread. No one, well 'cept for maybe Monroe what with all her vaunted relationships, should have the ability and equipment that O'Neill possessed. It was freakin' scary.
Not only had she presented a damn near perfect plan for a small strike infiltration, but all the gear to make it happen. For free. What kind of merc comps a client with manpower and gear worth thousands of dollars? It wasn't like he and Fawkes were a duo of whales heading out for their annual spending spree in Las Vegas.
Granted, it was the end of the month and The Agency didn't have the budget reserves to arrange something like this on short notice, but still... The Official woulda come up with something that'd let them get the job done. Maybe not as well or easily, but they'd've saved the day like always.
'Crap.' Why the hell was he trying to dismember the gift horse? Well, besides his usual inability to trust anyone outside of those who'd earned it. Did he have any specific reason to distrust Miss O'Neill? Not really. But that certainly didn't mean he automatically did the opposite. He was willing to give some leeway for the sake of the mission, but that was pretty much it.
He certainly couldn't fault her skills thus far. She'd personally given all three Agency men a refresher course in climbing gear when they'd shown up bright and early for the final planning meeting. The small semi-private airfield north of the city had been the first of many surprises Bobby'd had to endure. The Sikorsky S-76 he was currently riding in, which had been modified beyond military standard, would have been the biggest if it hadn't been for the private jet he knew was still parked in the hangar. Bobby just kinda went numb after that, wanting to get the mission over with and back to the underfunded normalcy of the Agency, where jets typically had the words "Hot Wheels" imprinted on their chassis.
In total, there were seven of them. Three were from the Agency - Fawkes, Hobbes, and Higgins - and four from O'Neill - Murphy, Stevie, O'Neill, and Juanita, the pilot. Stevie was doing double-duty as co-pilot for the first leg of the journey; he sat up front, looking like he belonged there.
Stevie and Higgins were kit out in desert cammies, in two different patterns, as they'd be staying topside to guard the exit should things go fubar and they needed a clear escape route. The rest of them, except the pilot, were dressed like thieves in black (mostly) from head to toe. Knit caps that converted to balaclavas for everyone but Fawkes, his hair vanity making him adamant on the point, black shirts, jackets with black zippers, black slacks, shoes - boots at O'Neill's insistence - padded gloves, and modified Kevlar vests worn under the jackets. Fawkes refused the latter, saying he preferred traveling light, and while Bobby had tried to argue with his partner, O'Neill just shrugged and set it aside. O'Neill's people wore Glocks in shoulder holsters over the jackets, Bobby had his usual Colt in his waist holster while Fawkes was unencumbered in the weaponry department as was the norm.
He and Fawkes had supplied their own clothes and you could see the difference immediately; aside from the obvious "Jerry" on the dark blue jacket, Fawkes was wearing, that is. Murphy and O'Neill's threads were not a flat black, but mottled, the color varying from shades of dark gray to true black. Bobby had heard of black camouflage during his time as a Marine, but had never seen a set until today. O'Neill's also differed in that her pants had about 1000 pockets for stashing bits of gear, but she hadn't disclosed to them what she had in her possession.
Fawkes had brought along his lockpicks and other small tools of his trade, while Bobby had his Leatherman, spare clips in easily accessible places, and his back-up gun in an ankle holster. They also had their Agency IDs and badges; just to make any arrests something close to resembling legit. Fawkes, for a change, hadn't whined about going unarmed and no one in O'Neill's sandbox had commented on it. And even if they had, they wouldn't be getting an answer. It was none of their frickin' business.
The last pieces of equipment were the headsets: tiny, compact, and self-contained. They clipped about the ear and were surprisingly comfortable to wear. With a press of a button, you could talk to everyone on the group frequency or to individuals on their own frequency. The combination was almost limitless, but did take some practice to master. Hobbes made sure to memorize the group and Fawkes' personal frequency, as those were the two he was most likely to use. This was the type of gear he dreamed of the Agency owning.
The helicopter made a banked turn; nothing but dark gray clouds could be seen out of the window, and Bobby watched as Fawkes glanced down at his watch, then back out the window on his side. The scrub and sand they were speeding past looked almost close enough to touch.
Bobby checked his own watch and grunted softly. 'Right on time.' The plan had been to circle high and wide well east of the mine and then come in low and hot to best disguise the copter's approach. The echoes through canyons between the mountains combined with the onshore breeze would do a fair job at reducing the amount of sound that would actually reach the entrance area.
O'Neill sat down across from Bobby and leaned forward. She only needed to raise her voice slightly to be heard over the thrumming of the rotor. "We got a GPS hit on Aristid."
"Where is he?" Fawkes asked, shifting so his head was closer to hers.
"On 'is way 'ere. About two miles out," she answered.
"Least he made it easy for us to keep tabs on him," Hobbes pointed out. They - Eberts - discovered Aristid had rented an H2 with GPS, turned that info over to O'Neill's people and within minutes they knew where the vehicle was to within six feet.
"Aye. Bleedin' fool clearly has no clue 'ow to run an op like this," O'Neill said snidely. "Sat imaging showed five vehicles parked at the entrance of the mine, with three men standing guard, afore the cloud layer became too thick. A group of five others went inside a little over an hour ago."
"So, eight in total," Bobby muttered aloud. "Odds could be worse."
Darien snorted. "That's how many showed today. We still ain't got no clue how big a party was already going on inside."
"Not big on looking at the positive, is he?" Murphy observed dryly.
"Not for a couple of years," was Fawkes' rejoinder. He frowned for a long moment then shook his head. "We ain't gonna get any more prepared than we are."
"Exactly, my friend. The element of surprise'll give us a big advantage," Hobbes looked over at O'Neill, "even if I still think this plan is nuts."
Fallon shrugged. "Complain to your boss."
Hobbes resisted the sudden urge to cuff her upside the head. He had complained, loudly and at great length, to no avail. The Fatman had been more than willing to let her foot the majority of the bill for the mission; he'd only have to cover the cost of the Agency personnel. At least, the Official had been smart enough to hand down a stern reminder to Fawkes about his tendency to let those who shouldn't know find out about the Quicksilver at the wrong time. On this occasion, it'd be Fawkes paying the price if that happened. A few phone calls had revealed exactly how important O'Neill and her information was to a variety of alphabet agencies. Should she learn of the Quicksilver they would be able to do nothing to stop her from selling said info to anyone willing to cough up the cash.
Stevie called back to them from his position up front. "Five minutes."
Murphy got up and moved to the rear cargo area, where the black packs holding the gear they were going to be using were stored, and handed them all out. One each for Hobbes, Murphy, and O'Neill, which contained all the equipment they'd need to pull this off. Or so she claimed. They looked too small to hold everything, but Hobbes had watched them being packed with his own eyes and knew nothing had been forgotten. They were already wearing the black nylon climbing harnesses; the attached carabiners specially made and coated with a matte black material that deadened the sound of metal clinking about as they moved. If nothing else, it was obvious O'Neill's people knew what they were doing.
The time flew by swiftly, and at the 30 second mark, Stevie joined them in the rear cabin, ready to open the door as soon as the chopper stilled.
O'Neill gave Fawkes the once-over; he was slouched in the seat, looking way too relaxed and bored. Perfectly normal Fawkes. Hobbes knew better though; like a cat, his partner was just conserving energy for the job to come.
"Ye best remember to duck when gettin' out or ye'll lose more than some hair," she reminded him, her tone serious, but with a twinkle in her eye that was all humor.
Fawkes gave her a precise, if mocking, salute. "Ma'am, yes, ma'am."
And in that instant the helicopter ceased its forward momentum, the door slid open and they all tumbled out onto the dusty wind-whipped ridge. The instant they were on the ground the pilot peeled away, executing an impressively tight turn to the leave in the direction from which they had arrived.
O'Neill was on her feet as soon as it was clear, pacing along the ridge as if she were searching for something. She stopped twice, did something with her hands that Hobbes couldn't see, walked forward another five steps, and then knelt on the ground. She brushed at the sand to reveal first desert camouflage netting, and then underneath that a steel door.
"Murphy."
He joined her, Hobbes and Fawkes following, and together they moved to swiftly uncover the door while Stevie and Higgins took up guard positions. It was their job to keep the area secure. If things went wrong, this route would the one they used to escape.
The door was revealed to be a three foot by three foot square, with hinges on the inside and a large lock securing it to the solid steel frame built into the rock of the ridge.
"Fawkes," Hobbes nodded towards the lock, "think you can handle it?"
"No prob," Fawkes said, already reaching for his lockpicks.
Murphy snorted. "Picks won't work on that one." He stood up, eyeing the pair of men. "Need a round key."
"Crap," Fawkes muttered.
Hobbes agreed with the sentiment, wondering how to distract O'Neill so's his partner could frost and shatter the thing. "Play it cool, Fawkes," he suggested and saw Darien's look brighten as he got the meaning.
"Fallon, lemme have a go at it." Darien offered, following the leader.
"Nay." She'd reached into one of her numerous pockets and came up with what Hobbes recognized as a hand-held mini-welder. She flicked it on, adjusted the flame to a brilliant and nearly invisible blue, and set it against the arms of the padlock. Within seconds, the metal glowed red, then orange, then white and melted away. She turned off the welder and kicked the lock away with a booted foot.
The door itself sat flush with its frame and it was built out of heavy gauge steel, so all of them worked together, fingertips aching as they dug them in to wiggle it up enough to achieve a better grip and lift it upright. The hinges were designed for full rotation, so the cover dropped to the ground with an impressive whoomp complete with a cloud of sand rising into the air. Fallon dropped to her belly, checking the dark space below for potential unpleasant surprises.
"Clear," she informed them, then scooted forward until she could fold her upper body at the waist. She grasped the edge of the frame in a firm grip and proceeded to do a controlled flip that ended with her hanging by her fingers into the dark space below.
'Damn she has some impressive upper body strength... for a chick.' Hobbes squatted next to the opening, a flashlight trained on the floor below, as the cloudy day was just not providing quite enough light in his opinion. She let go, landing in a crouch, her own light out and on mere seconds after landing.
"Drop's about two feet," she warned as Hobbes pocketed his light and slithered his way backwards over the edge. He was too damn old and not nearly limber enough to perform her little display of athletics.
Once down, he stepped to the side, checking things out as Fawkes entered the same way, followed shortly thereafter by Murphy. Hobbes looked up at the square of daylight; Stevie and Higgins standing on opposite sides and looking down.
"Keep yer heads down," Murphy admonished them, causing Stevie to laugh. Hobbes could only guess it was a reference to something that had occurred on some previous adventure.
"Higgins...," Hobbes said and got a quick nod of assurance. Higgins had been warned to watch for trouble from O'Neill's goon. She wasn't one of the 'good guys' by any stretch of the imagination, so Hobbes was taking no chances of a double-cross. She was after something and he didn't know what it was. That meant there was a high risk of this little mission coming back to bite them on the ass.
Fawkes had wandered a few feet down the hallway. It was pretty much as expected: rough hewn rock walls lined with steel supports and assorted conduits wherever it was convenient. The floor was hard-packed dirt that would mask sound and not raise any appreciable dust that might make their presence known. There were fluorescent lights strung overhead, but they weren't lit. In fact, the only light he could see, besides theirs, was the occasional LED on a control panel. The only noise was the soft susurration of air being moved about by the ventilation system.
O'Neill was staring at some softly glowing piece of gear in her hand; it looked like a small PDA, while Murphy paced slowly about, waiting patiently for their next move.
Hobbes wasn't so patient. "Well?"
"This way." She waved down the tunnel, taking them deeper into the mine.
Hobbes took point, using his flashlight to reveal their route. The place was obviously maintained, but currently empty of warm bodies. O'Neill followed directly behind him, calling out the turns as necessary. In less than five minutes, they arrived at the main ventilation room. The equipment made more than enough noise to keep them from speaking, but it didn't matter; they knew what to do.
They stripped of the packs and began to empty them, they'd be abandoned at this point, to leave them as unencumbered as possible. If things went well they would collect all the pieces parts later. Murphy located the vertical shaft they needed and removed the access panel while Fawkes went to work on securing the line they'd be climbing down to something solid. He chose one of the overhead cross beams, load bearing and more'n secure enough to handle their combined weight. O'Neill had put the toy away and was attaching the lightweight motorized ascenders to the line. Hobbes had questioned their use until she explained that they'd be for escape. Climbing up the equivalent of several stories on a thin nylon rope free hand in a completely smooth shaft was not a pleasant prospect and not something that could be done in a hurry. And while Hobbes hoped it would be unnecessary, a back-up plan was always a good idea.
"We're set," Murphy announced; even over the headset, they could barely hear him.
O'Neill went first, she hooked herself to the ascender, set it to neutral (they wouldn't need to be turned on for the drop), climbed over the edge and vanished from sight, dropping straight down into the black depths without any hesitation. Fawkes went next and, clearly not about to be upstaged by a mere girl, especially when he'd spent a fair part of his life climbing buildings for a living, proceeded to do exactly the same as if he'd been doing it daily for the last several months instead of having taken a refresher course just this morning. Then it was Murphy, who, being a large man in every sense of the word, moved with a cautious deliberation and slipped into the shaft in a far more controlled manner.
Hobbes had rearguard this time around. It had been a while since he'd done something like this (last time had been during Desert Storm), but the skill came back quickly. He could feel the air moving upwards past him, but it was little more than a gentle breeze and not the gale he'd half expected. He focused between his feet, looking for the light that would mean he was coming up on Murphy's position.
He applied the brake and came to a rest with his feet about a foot above Murphy's head. Below them, O'Neill was already hard at work on the wall of the shaft, the mini-welder out and aimed at the wall, slowing cutting an exit for them. Supposedly, there was an access hatch on the second level, but they had decided it would be better to come out on the first and make their way to the viewing area that overlooked the mine staging area. It was their hope that there would be fewer people between the shaft and the staging area, than down the additional level.
"We're almost through," Fawkes said in Hobbes' ear.
With a small whump, the wall came free and Fawkes and O'Neill moved with a surprising coordination for never having worked together before. He shifted the wall, held firmly in a pair of those suction climbers he favored, as she squeezed through the tiny space to check for unwanted attention.
Her accented, "Clear," came through seconds later. The wall was removed from Fawkes' hold, who then vanished from sight. Murphy slid down the line and made his own exit, followed by Hobbes. He unclipped his carabiner from the ascender, making sure it was locked in place. Not that it would have mattered much if he had failed to do so, the rope ended another five feet below the location at a series of solid knots, which would prevent any of them from sliding off the end should they fail to apply the brakes. None of them had any interest in a long drop onto the large sharp blades of the ventilation fan three levels down.
Now Murphy took point, alert for any possible problems, while O'Neill, once again, called out the directions. The tunnels were dark, only the pale glow of rope lighting along the edges of the floor keeping them on course. Every now and then O'Neill would shine one'a those small but startlingly bright LED flashlights about at an intersection to make certain they were indeed on the right track. O'Neill had openly admitted that the schematics she'd accessed could be off if changes had been made that weren't on record.
They kept to a swift pace, and within minutes, the tunnel before them began to lighten and they dimmed their flashlights. Together they approached with caution, O'Neill and Murphy exchanging hand signals that Hobbes understood, but would baffle Fawkes. It boiled down to two guards, armed, and which each of them would take out. So, when Fawkes moved to follow O'Neill, Hobbes grabbed him by the arm and warned him to silence with a look. Still, curiosity impelled both of them to peek around the bend in the tunnel to see what was happening.
Like a well-oiled machine, they each approached their targets, Murphy taking the one furthest away. With an unspoken command they moved, verifying to Hobbes they'd been working together for quite a while. With near identical moves, hands covered mouths, while the other jabbed something into the back of the guards, causing them to initially stiffen in reaction and then fold; either unconscious or dead. They dragged the bodies into a convenient alcove and waved for Hobbes and Fawkes to join them.
As Hobbes went past the alcove, he glanced at the men lying there and, with an odd mixture of relief and concern, realized they were still among the living, napping peacefully, if uncomfortably.
Murphy took note of Hobbes' observation. "We don't kill unless absolutely necessary," he stated sotto voce. "If a job's done right, no one should get hurt."
Fawkes grunted in reaction to that comment, and Hobbes was damn curious as to why, but the tunnel opened up just then, the wall to their left vanishing and giving them an unobstructed view of the staging area below... and their targets.
---
Darien lay flat on the ground and gave the place the once over. Their location was in shadow thanks to the lights being angled away from the walls and aimed like spotlights on the floor some 15 feet below them. Directly across from them was a solid wall instead of a matching opening, which meant no guards on a catwalk to spot them. The stairway down was just past the far side of the opening, out of sight from those below. If there were guards on the stairs, he couldn't see them.
Down below, however, there were plenty of guards. Papadopoulos was already there with two guys who were clearly on his payroll. They were flanked by three who just as clearly played for the other team. Their clothes matched the pair that had been put out of commission by Murphy and Fallon just a few minutes ago.
Papadopoulos had a classic metal briefcase, which in all probability held the cash to pay for the goods. He and his goons were standing under the bright lights, a table stood at the very edge of the well-defined circle with at least three figures in the inky darkness behind it. So, that meant at least nine bad guys versus the good guys' foursome. 'Well, it could be worse.'
Their position was relatively secure, as it would require someone looking almost directly up and through the glaring lights to spot them. Question was: how to break up the party without making big ol' targets of themselves?
Murphy and Fallon were whispering sweet nothings to each other in some language that was most certainly not English. 'No fair.' Eavesdropping shouldn't require a translator.
"Fawkes," Hobbes hissed.
"Yeah?" He shifted closer to Bobby, covering the mike like Hobbes was. 'Why'd we wear the things if we ain't gonna use 'em?'
"I'm thinking some reconnaissance might be a good idea." Bobby made it clear with a look that said recon should be done invisibly. But that meant splitting up, which was usually frowned upon.
"Aye, we should," Fallon suddenly said over the com., which proved they'd not done as good job hiding their discussion as she had. The glare Bobby shot her way pretty much covered it, but she only shrugged. "They 'ave an off switch."
Darien couldn't help himself and laughed softly. Hobbes grumbled something under his breath, but nodded. "We might need a distraction to make this go smoothly."
That got nods of agreement from both Fallon and Murphy.
Fallon followed up on that 'we should' and slithered off towards the stairs, staying low as a precaution. As Darien began to follow, Bobby pulled him close and hissed, "If things look to be going south, grab the goods, and get out. I've got your back."
'What about Fallon?' Darien wanted to ask, but knew if push came to shove that she and Murphy were expendable. He wasn't. Their job came first, and Fallon's reasons for being here were not necessary for that often difficult-to-believe-in greater good. He stuck to the deeper shadows and trailed after Fallon. He caught up with her in time to see her dispatch another one of Westgaard's men, and helped her drag him out of sight.
The stairs were off to one side of the tunnel, which continued on its winding way towards the entrance of the mine. They were metal and steep, practically a ladder, and were certainly going to be noisy no matter how carefully they went down them. Fallon lay flat, head hanging down the wrong side for a long moment, then popped back up with a frown.
She joined him at the head of the stairs. "Watch and learn," she said as she balanced the palms of both hands on the railings. With an agile movement, she pushed off, tucking her legs up as she slid silently down the rails.
He looked at the palms of the gloves he wore, he hadn't really taken notice of them before, figuring that Fallon wouldn't have provided gear that wasn't suitable, since she just didn't seem the type to screw up on something so basic. They were designed for climbing, providing better grip than potentially sweaty hands, but, as with most of her gear, had been modified beyond the standard. What he hadn't noticed was the strip across the middle that was lacking the padded leather overlay, making them perfect for slidin' down metal railings.
From below came the sounds of a struggle, which made him realize he better get off his ass and down the stairs. Because he was a good half a foot taller than Fallon, tucking his legs wouldn't work, so he instead kept them straight and canted slightly forward from the hips as he glided down the railings. He found it just as much fun as the frowned upon childhood banister sliding he'd never entirely given up.
He bent his knees to absorb the impact, coming to a stop in a crouch just in time to see Fallon get the upper hand with the guard she'd surprised. She jabbed him with something that looked like a stubby pen, like from one'a those bee sting kits that had a dose of epinephrine in 'em. Hers obviously contained something else since the guy folded, the impromptu nap assuring he'd be out of the picture until this was over.
She quickly dragged him out of sight and joined Darien who was peeking out past the end of the tunnel and at the group gathered about the table. Three more men had joined the party, sporting a selection of weaponry. "Crap," he muttered.
"You see the new arrivals, Fawkes?" Bobby asked in a soft voice.
"Aye," Fallon responded. "This t'ain't gonna be pretty."
"Just give me the signal when yer ready," Murphy said, completely unconcerned with the downward shift in odds for their team.
Hobbes began to say something, but was cut off. Sounded like he'd found that off switch, or Murphy had found it for him.
Fallon adjusted her cap, folding it down so that all that was visible was a strip about her eyes. She checked her gun and then said firmly, "Stay 'ere." She didn't even give him the chance to argue and melted into the shadows along the wall, heading in the direction they presumed Westgaard was.
Out on the floor, Aristid was following bad guy script number three: puffing up his chest, going on and on about how important he was and how Westgaard would be wise to bow down and kiss his feet. It was clear no one was impressed with his impassioned declarations.
Westgaard's top two goons, whom Darien had dubbed Abbot and Costello mostly 'cause he couldn't remember their real names, stepped into view. Abbot placed a small metal cylinder on the table and twisted it, the top half separating from the lower. He removed the interior compartment to reveal two test tubes, four vials, and a mini disc. The directions for use at a guess.
"Your turn," Costello said.
Aristid nodded and walked forward to set the case on the table. He unlocked it and swung it open, allowing Darien to catch a glimpse of a hell of a lot of money unless he was very mistaken.
Costello gave the money a cursory look, apparently approving of the amount. Aristid removed one of the test tubes from its padded resting place for a closer examination. "How much will I need to use?" he asked, his voice oozing with a joy that made Darien's skin crawl.
"It was designed to your specifications. What you see should more than adequately meet your needs."
That came from neither of the comedy team.
The hitherto unseen Tormond Westgaard stepped forward so Darien could see the barest outline of his body and the hint of light colored hair.
"Fawkes, it's time to break up the party," Hobbes ordered. "Can you get 'em riled up without making yourself a target?"
The test tube had been returned to its place and the container sealed while Hobbes spoke, and that fact gave Darien an idea on how to stir up some trouble. "Oh yeah," he responded as he let the Quicksilver flow about him. First thing he did was look about for Fallon, since he could now see into the shadows with frightening ease, but didn't spot her. Apparently, she was pretty damn good at making herself invisible as well. He could only hope she'd heard the exchange over the com and would take the appropriate action. Second, he eyeballed their mystery man - Tormond Westgaard. The guy gave off an air of cruelty even at a distance. He was handsome, in an over-muscled football quarterback kind of way, Darien supposed. Not huge, not even startling really, which was kinda a disappointment given the Nosferatu-like rep that he was credited with. Though, thanks to the likes of Arnaud and Stark, Darien had learned that evil, far more often than not, wore an angelic face. Why should this time be any different?
With his usual cat-like grace, he made his way over to the table, being careful not to pass too close to anyone and risk the chill coming off him warning them of his presence. With the carefully controlled air flow in here a sudden cold spot would be very noticeable. And would be sure to alert any of the high-strung guards that something hinky was going on.
He sidled right up next to the table just as the discussion wrapped up. Casually, he reached out and set a hand atop the canister, and directed the Quicksilver to envelope it. As soon as it vanished from sight, he snagged it and tucked it into his jacket. It was awkward, but left his hands free for his next move. He crouched down and slid under the table on his back. From his position on the floor, he repeated the process with the briefcase full of money. Since it was larger than the canister, someone actually noticed it disappearing and shouted a warning.
That's when all hell broke loose.