The Black Hats.

January of 1993.

Vancouver.

During the first world war, after Germany initiated unrestricted submarine warfare and tried to recruit Mexico as an ally against the United States, our involvement in the war was inevitable. We saw it as casus belli – a justification for war. President Woodrow Wilson, an advocate for staying out of the fighting, called for war, and by 1918, over 2.8 million men had been drafted to bolster the formerly small American army. Wilson was sending 10,000 fresh American troops to the front lines in France every day, leaving gaping holes in society – holes that were open to opportunistic criminals. It was a war on two fronts, domestic and foreign, a war within and a war without.

Wilson realized what was going to happen if this criminal radiation continued.

He enlisted an odd bunch of people – those who were too old, too crippled, or too female to be drafted – and gave them a name. The Black Hats. In some of the most populous cities in the United States, the Black Hats posed as cops, as agents of the blossoming FBI, as wealthy businessmen and foreign crooks. It was their job to lend some order to the chaos, to steer the destruction away from factories and harbors. Wilson created them to preserve the war effort back home.

His creation became more than that, though. Even after the war ended, the Black Hats continued their service as spies, negotiating with mobsters and gangsters, molding the criminal underground, sparing not just the lives of civilians and soldiers, but criminals.

Every spy learns about them and interprets their deeds differently. Sometimes their meddling led to more deaths, caused infamous slaughters, and sometimes they diffused dangerous situations with minimal casualties.

I took inspiration from them in my quest to avoid dismantling Chimaera by force.

It had been a week since Sam and I moved into a tiny apartment in Vancouver, a week since Dino had gone into the hospital with a complex break in his leg – and a week since I had started casing the bank and picking out members of the organization.

Jacob was an enforcer, like Amelia. He lingered around The Twisted Net, the bar Dino had shown me. It looked like the owner owed them money, because Jacob took him outside and had a few intense conversations with him, where only one of them was smiling. He seemed to like hanging around to intimidate his prey.

When the job was done, he came out front, smoothed his curly black hair down, and smoked a cigarette. He always looked very pleased with himself. Accomplished. Job well done. And then he went back inside to sit at the bar, casting smiles at the owner, reminding him that danger was imminent and cooperation was necessary.

I approached him inside. He was sitting alone, watching the pretty bartender prepare a martini. He was so focused on her that it took him a moment to realize he was not alone.

"Hey, pal, common courtesy. Move over."

I leaned on the bar, "Whoa, I'm just trying to be friendly. I'm trying to meet people."

Jacob glanced at him and grimaced, "I'm not interested."

"I meant more in a business capacity."

His eyes narrowed and his hand sunk downward. He must have had a gun somewhere in that thick jacket of his. "I said move along."

I lowered my voice, "Listen, I know you're probably busy with all the intimidating and teeth baring, but I only need a moment of your time. I just wanted to ask for a meeting with your boss. You know, she can be a hard lady to find." I leaned in, whispering, "Even for a cop."

His suspicion shifted to hostility, "I don't know who you think-"

"Easy. I have an idea that'll put you guys on the map. I just need a minute with her."

Jacob got up rather abruptly, turning a few eyes toward us. He poked me in the chest, his voice a growl, "If I see you again, I'll shoot you, cop or not. Understand?"

I backed off, "I get it. If you change your mind, I'll be around."

Jacob left the bar. I slid back onto the barstool, unable to help smiling to myself. It was a serious operation with lives on the line, but it felt good. It felt right. I was good at this, and there was no guilt in what I was doing. If it went well, no one had to die.

Sam could be right this time.

I could take a step toward him, away from Larry.