Chapter Sixteen: The North Wind
Morning had come. Julien and Maurice had stayed in Rico's room, who had instead slept with Kowalski (the scientist hadn't been particularly happy with the arrangement, but begrudgingly accepted when it occurred to him that he could monitor Rico's sleep patterns again). Their bags had been stored in the living room; surprisingly, Maurice brought more than Julien. Whereas Maurice brought a large duffel, Julien carried only a small bag. Skipper couldn't imagine what he'd even fit in there, but he also knew that perhaps Julien was just packing light. It was only bizarre because Julien struck him as the frivolous type.
It was around nine AM when Nigel's chosen operants showed up, just as the man had said. They pulled up in a subtle van which was clearly more intricate on the inside, something with more technology than the public would have been able to comprehend. They were clearly high level, an elite force. Skipper once prided himself in being the best of the best, but he grimly recognized that times had changed. When the van pulled up to their humble abode and four CIA agents stepped out, he quickly let them in, nodding to them in brief greeting. They and the rest of the inhabitants of the Penguin Eyes building gathered in the main room.
There were four of them altogether. The tallest was a man that overlooked everyone in a pretentious manner, with dark gray hair and sharp blue eyes. There was another man with a similar height, who was incredibly muscular, with perhaps a bit of fat thrown into the mix; his white hair was dyed to match his white outfit. With similar (also most-definitely dyed) hair was a woman, perhaps around Julien's age, who was a bit shorter and seemed incredibly bored. The shortest by far was a young man, no older than Private, with wild white hair and a black backpack that most definitely held varying weapons within. Skipper could tell by the way they clanked, and so could Rico, who grinned excitedly and twisted his fingers.
"Thank you for meeting with us on such short notice." Skipper calmly greeted them.
The tallest, who must have been their leader, nodded to him in a supercilious manner before speaking in an authentic british accent. "We are the North Wind, an elite special operations task force dedicated to helping those who can't help themselves. This will be a breeze."
Skipper wasn't entirely sure he agreed with that, sharing an off-put glance with Kowalski, but he let the man continue speaking without interruption. He already wasn't too terribly fond of the North Wind's designated speaker.
"I am the leader of this group. My name is classified." He nodded to the larger man. "This is Corporal. He's the muscle of our team. Highly capable of taking out any enemy in hand-to-hand combat and trained in various unique fighting styles."
Corporal waved to them enthusiastically. Private was the only one who waved back.
The man who Skipper internally dubbed as 'Classified' then gestured to the lady. "This is Eva, the intelligence of our operation. She's trained in every code imaginable and can hack into just about any database, in addition to extensive knowledge on psychological profiling."
Eva blinked slowly in response, as if she didn't particularly care about her rank, but someone else was already smitten. Skipper caught Kowalski practically drooling out of the corner of his eye and almost smacked the man. This was not a time or place for romantic feelings, as hypocritical as it was for him to think so. He avoided the urge to look at Julien.
"How do you do?" Kowalski held out his hand to her, smiling anxiously.
Eva shook his hand. "Fine, thank you."
"...And our youngest is Shortfuse. Previously a SEAL, now our demolitions expert. You can give him two scraps of metal and he can make a bomb, then defuse it within a matter of seconds." Classified sniffed indignantly, both proud and wary of his team member (it was evident that Shortfuse had done this before).
Shortfuse grinned, and Rico seemed to find this impressive enough to cackle out a response. Shortfuse glanced at him dubiously, and Rico only winked. Skipper wasn't sure what that meant and only hoped that Rico hadn't also developed a crush or some sort of interest. Classified seemed oblivious to this, or at least, he didn't care, and was satisfied enough to move on.
"...Nigel has explained the situation to us. Before we move on, I must ask - is there anything that we absolutely must know about Blowhole?" Classified paused, almost squinting at Skipper. "I've never personally met him."
"And you're lucky for it." Skipper huffed. "He's crafty, and he always has some dastardly no-good angle… He's insufferable, don't get caught in a conversation with him. Oh, and he hates Buck Rockgut, which just shows what a traitor he is."
"Oh, Buck Rockgut!" Private chimed in, beaming. "He was a wonderful fellow. I met him once! He came to my birthday party when I turned six."
"You met him?" Classified both sounded and looked astonished. And for good reason; in addition to being MIA, Rockgut was famed and well respected. Very few had encounters with him and were still alive to tell the tale.
"Yes, Private, thank you for rubbing that in my face again…" Skipper grumbled.
"Goodness, sorry Skipper! I always forget." Private blinked up at him with a sheepish smile. It was well known among the four brothers that Skipper had voraciously admired Rockgut since the time he was a mere rookie.
Skipper waved a hand to dismiss the derailed part of their conversation altogether, before returning his attention to Classified. "That's about it."
"Well, there is the location that the second email set was sent from," Kowalski cut in. His annoyance was palpable. "That might be helpful, since he's probably there."
"No need for that." Classified smirked pompously. "We have all his likely locations saved into our database, courtesy of Eva."
Eva blinked boredly at that, and Kowalski chewed his lip to hide the lovesick smile that was forming. Rico smacked him lightly, and Skipper coughed into his hand to make sure the North Wind wouldn't notice the fact that his brothers had a tendency to distract themselves. He mentally logged that he would have to slap Kowalski later.
"What do you plan to do?" He questioned seriously, lowering his brows.
"At Francis Blowhole's current, now latent status in the agency, we outrank him." Classified responded, and his lips spread into another grin. "We are at liberty to simply arrest him for his activities, but… We may ad-lib a bit."
Private was giggling at Blowhole's first name, oblivious to Corporal cracking his knuckles as Shortfuse tinkered with a very dangerous device. Skipper was well assured that they were eligible to handle the situation.
Downtown, a well dressed man was just entering Park Zoo. He had suited up for the occasion, wearing his finer silk tie in hopes it might distract from his missing eye or mechanical legs. No one seemed too perturbed, which was relieving. Many of the patrons were used to seeing crippling injuries or disabilities, especially since some of them were criminal enough to be the cause.
As he entered, he was swept back by the familiar grandeur tunes, lights, and dancing. On stage, an almost-nude woman was belly dancing, using large feathers like decorative fans to enhance her routine. On each side of her were four men, swaying their hips to the beat and getting ready for a tightrope performance. Just as the beat picked up, two men leapt into the air and performed double backflips. They ended this brief sequence as the other two caught them mid-air.
In the center of the crowd, three showgirls were surrounding a particularly wealthy politician and showering him in champagne, giggling and squealing as he groped at them. Not uncommon. To the edges, many dancers were giving patrons lapdances. In the very left corner, one dancer (that he recognized as Marlene) was chugging pure vodka with the surrounding crowd cheering her on.
One could always count on Park Zoo for a show.
"Hi there!" A perky, excited voice with a distinct malagasian accent caught his attention. A young man who he'd always made a point to avoid in the past came skipping up to him. "I'm Mort, I can be your server today! Want me to get you a table?"
"Actually," he responded quickly, openly cringing. "I would like to be served by someone in particular. Can you get me Doris?"
"Doris?" Mort repeated dumbly, blinking as if straining to recall. He jumped in recognition and nodded wildly. "Okay! I'll get her right now!"
He skipped away just as enthusiastically as he'd come, and the patron sighed in hopes that Mort wouldn't get sidetracked. The only reason the young man worked there was because he was Clemson's nephew. The man ran a hand over his forehead, stressfully, slicking back his pale gray locks. He only managed to calm himself at the mental reminder that his plan, no matter how bumpy it had been, would soon be wrapping up rather nicely.
He grinned softly at his soon-to-be triumph. Soon, his life would be far more simple, far easier to live in luxury and contentment once his long-term reminder of his past was eradicated. There was only one more thing to wrap up, of course.
"Hello sir," a sweet voice pulled him from his voice. He looked up to see Doris, smiling thinly down at him. "How may I help you today?"
"I'd like a glass of wine." He responded, and contemplated pulling out a cigar. "What do you have?"
She took a step closer, her expression darkening slightly in solemnity. "The only wine we have available is botrytized."
He was internally thankful for not having taken out a cigarette; if he had, he would have snapped it in half out of anger. Grinding his teeth, he glared up at her. "Noble rot?"
"It would seem that way… Sir." She stiffened.
"How did this happen?" He grumbled angrily.
"Well," her voice was quiet. "All the birds must have eaten the other kinds of grapes."
"That makes sense, doesn't it?" He snapped dryly. "I'll be on my way then. Thank you."
"Of course." Doris looked down at her feet. "...If you… If you see Parker-"
"Thank you." He repeated, this time with stern malice as he gathered his jacket and stood.
Doris nodded quickly, grimly looking away and sniffling softly. The man regarded her with one last, brief salute before he was on his way. She didn't look back at him, only staring into the distance with a gaze of weary sadness. He departed from the Zoo rather quickly, glancing this way and that to make sure no one had caught on to him.
He went a roundabout way, ducking through alleys to make sure he wasn't being followed. When he felt assured in his solitude, he turned another corner. At the end of the backwater alley was a phone, hooked up directly to the otherwise barren brick walls. He approached speedily, the only sounds being his flashy oxfords clicking over the damp gravel and his metal joints whirring. He examined the vicinity one more time, just to make sure he was truly alone. He didn't want to risk being ambushed - even though he'd brought his gun, staying away from any sort of scandal was his main priority.
When he felt comfortable enough, he picked up the phone. Sure enough, it still worked. He punched in a long string of numbers, and waited through the humming rings. Fortunately, he didn't have to wait long. There was a response within seconds.
"Yello! Is that you, Doc? It's great to hear from you again so soon. How's New York? Is the weather holdin' up?" Clemson Gidro immediately flew into conversation. "Gotta say, I already miss the smell of smoke and cheap hot dogs."
He didn't respond, his scowl only thickening as if his impenetrable glare were about to tear apart the brick wall before him.
"Uh, Blowhole?" Clemson prodded anxiously. "You there?"
"...Julien's outed us."
