Chapter 2: Tension

With a relieved sigh agent Grizzlikov closed his pen and pushed himself out of his chair. Time to call it a day – about time, he noticed, when he glanced out of the window. It was pitch-black outside. After tidying his desk he closed up his office and went to the chief agent's bureau where the light that fell into the corridor through the gap under the door told him that James was still working as well. The bear wasn't surprised – with their efforts to identify the homecoming F.O.W.L.-agents, combined with the paperwork that went with the heightened security protocols, the workload had almost tripled. Announcing his presence with a soft knock against the door-frame he entered the room.

"You still at work?" he asked, and the avian looked up at him out of bloodshot eyes.

"I swear, this red tape will be the death of me," the other sighed. "And not enough that we have to assess the home comers and set up a higher security detail for all our agents and their families, now the old guard is causing trouble as well."

"Stavro again?" Grizzlikov asked. He had been away from the news-feeds for the evening, following up on a lead that suggested F.O.W.L. had smuggled in one or more of their operatives into St Canard via a certain airfreight.

The drake nodded. "It's madness. I mean the guy hasn't been all that stable for months, but-" He gestured at the papers on his desk. "-this is something else. It's the third informant who disappeared this week – and this one informed on pretty much everybody. Minor stuff. Usually they wouldn't even bother to rough him up for that."

"Seems Stavro has something to prove," the ursine suggested. "Maybe he feels threatened by newcomers."

"If he keeps going like this he'll pretty much prove that he's gone bananas," James sighed and returned his attention to his desk – only to look up again when a furry hand snatched his pen away with surprising deftness. "Hey!"

"You are calling it night," Grizzlikov stated and used the pen to tap against his wrist-watch. "You been here since 7:30 am, and S.H.U.S.H. regulation states that unless there is emergency, no agent is allowed to work more than twelve hours straight."

"Vlad, come on, that's more a guideline than an actual rule. I can still get some work done."

"Really." The bear leaned forward and covered the documents with a flat hand. "Then what is name of disappeared informant?"

"Uh..." For a few seconds James stared ahead, his face blank. Then he shook his head with an acquiescent sigh. "All right, I see your point. Just give me five minutes to tidy up."

"Sure." Grizzlikov's eyes wandered to the in-tray on the mallard's desk. "You're not behind with paperwork," he stated with mild surprise – that was a feat almost unheard of at S.H.U.S.H..

"Actually I'm trying to get ahead," James murmured, his voice slightly muffled since the upper half of his body was crammed into the safe he kept the most secret documents in. When he came out and turned to his friend again he smiled like a love-struck schoolboy. "I've got a date tomorrow. With Emily. We'll have dinner at her place." His mirth somewhat faltering he added, "Although I guess my little revelation will cramp the mood a bit."

The bear sighed. He hoped for his friend's sake that the young lady wouldn't be too upset when she learned of her boyfriend's true profession. "You will be fine," he assured the drake.

"Yes, I guess you're right." His face brightened. "And once she gets used to the idea of dating a spy you have to meet her – I'm sure you two will get along splendidly."

The ursine returned the smile. "I'd like that."

"Of course, if it doesn't go well, it is your solemn duty to take me out on a bender to bemoan the fickleness of fate and females," he added with exaggerated gravity and gave his friend a wink that belied his words. "And to carry me home once I'm plastered."

"That would be after the second pint," Grizzlikov replied in much the same tone. "But I'll make sure you won't sleep in puddle." He grinned. "Though I won't promise to keep Emily from smacking you when you come home like that."

"Spoken like a true friend," James laughed and clapped the ursine on the back – he had to reach up for that – and together they made for the stairs.

.* * *.

As he stepped out of his car into the chilly morning air, Steelbeak stifled a yawn. He had never been much of a morning person and working overtime didn't help.

Upon his return to St Canard High Command had set him to work immediately. Apart from catching up on what files they had about the local S.H.U.S.H. agents and the big players among the independent criminals he was also taking over some projects from Stavro – to distribute the workload, as they said. The bulldog had grudgingly accepted that – of course he had no more choice in the matter than Steelbeak himself – but made sure that all the promising ventures remained firmly under his control, leaving his colleague with the small potatoes. That wasn't to be helped, though, and the rooster didn't think it wise to protest too loudly – Stavro was in a frighteningly bad mood as it was.

For the moment he was busy enough, anyway. Right now he was to meet a mid-level operative, one Jack Reynards, who was currently working undercover in the administrative department of the state pen. Unfortunately it wasn't feasible to meet him in the underground complex downtown. That place wasn't a regular operational base as much as a giant archive and High Command wanted to keep the number of comings and goings at the facility as low as possible to avoid detection. If S.H.U.S.H. ever got wind of the place and sent a task force, removing all the files in time would be impossible. Of course the whole complex was booby-trapped for such a case, to keep the information from falling into enemy hands, but Steelbeak fully agreed that resorting to that was best to be avoided – especially since he had his doubts about the self-destruction sequence including a time-window for evacuation.

Since they didn't want any witnesses to this meeting Steelbeak had told Reynards to meet him at the junkyard. As far as secluded places went it was as good as any, and it couldn't hurt to at least pretend that he wasn't intimidated by Stavro's unspoken and less unspoken threats.

This shabby little company in the southern outskirts of St Canard was owned and managed by F.O.W.L. as a convenient way to get rid of incriminating evidence. Unlike other facilities the organization ran this one didn't use elaborate disguises but simply hid in plain sight. The city didn't care about this place as long as the taxes were paid on time and since the abysmal customer service was usually enough to discourage visitors the perimeter wasn't even guarded – unless the evidence was still kicking, of course.

When he entered the junkyard proper, the space filled with huge walls and hills of derelict cars, dredgers and other machines which surrounded the infamous scrap press like a moat, the short vulpine clad in business casual was already waiting for him. Walking up to him Steelbeak cast a dismal glance into the pit, where a scrawny weasel in a dirty grey overall was busy hosing the latest testimony of Stavro's foul mood off the walls. "Morning," he said curtly and nodded towards the stain. "Any idea what that was about?"

The fox gave him a look. "You want to know the cause or the reason?"

"Ah. Point taken."

"Seriously, I have to admire your pluck," Reynards observed dryly. "I had someone like Stavro gunning for me, I'd be running for the hills."

Steelbeak didn't dignify that with an answer. Instead he continued to look into the pit with sick fascination. "How long does it take?"

"Depends," the other said with a shrug. "If he's impatient you get the quick treatment, maximum force – wham." He smashed his flat hands together for emphasis. "Worse ways to go, I suppose. But if he decides that he really doesn't like you, well..." He had the grace to feign sympathy when he said it. "See, he has this party trick. Puts a car down there with you. The cylinders can't go all the way, not with that huge mass of steel plate, so they smash it down just enough for the second set of hammers to get a proper grip – and so on. Basically you run through six trash compactors – although opinions differ on how many you're actually conscious for."

"Right. Color me disgusted," the rooster muttered.

"So if it was me, I wouldn't leave my bedroom without some heavy painkillers on my person – if you know what I mean," Reynards said and wiggled his eyebrows.

Of course Steelbeak knew. Those little capsules that didn't stop at killing the pain were a depressingly common part of a F.O.W.L. agent's equipment. "You know, you seem awfully certain that I'm gonna need them," he replied sourly.

"Sorry, Steels, but the smart money says you'll be down there screaming like a little girl before the next pay check," the fox stated with more mirth than strictly necessary. "Nothing personal, you see – that's just how it works around here."

"Sure," the rooster crooned with a sweet smile, deciding that he would see this little slime grovel at his feet before long. "But while I'm still up and about, why don't we get some work done, eh? Because if I do end up down there I'll want to go solo, not get mixed up with your sorry leftovers."

That wiped the smirk off his face with satisfying speed. "Right. You wanted access to the state pen," he muttered. "How urgent?"

"Depends. How's tricks inside?"

"Not good," the vulpine said flatly. "By now it's all but certain that he'll do his time there, and our boys inside are getting nervous. With good reason."

Steelbeak scowled. The guy wasn't even officially sentenced yet and already the threat of his shadow was felt in the state pen. That place, for obvious reasons, had been one of the most reliable sources of new recruits in St Canard. Promising candidates were assessed by inside agents, both in regards to their skills and their willingness to work under the powerful syndicate and, if they met the criteria, approached. Many inmates, upon their release, simply exchanged prison orange with eggman yellow and were shipped off to their basic training, while those with marketable skills beyond brute force received a more specialized schooling. A few key officials received hush money to see to it that any attempts from S.H.U.S.H. to interfere with the arrangement got tangled up in the red tape and aside from the odd unfortunate incident – some people just couldn't see reason – everything had been dandy.

However with the criminal mastermind Taurus Bulba about to set up shop in the place the recruiters found their position to become perilous. The huge bull was notoriously prickly when it came to others cutting in on what he perceived to be his territory – it was only a matter of time until the F.O.W.L. agents inside would suffer from fatal accidents, either on orders from Bulba himself or as a display of loyalty from inmates who saw the way the wind was blowing.

The bull's own criminal network had nothing on F.O.W.L. in terms of size, of course, but it was tightly knit and highly effective, its members kept in line by the sheer force of Bulba's personality. Breaking it up would require more effort than could be spared at the moment, so the order from up high was to evacuate their operatives as soon as possible – and for the mean time prepare a back-up plan in case they cracked under the pressure and went running to S.H.U.S.H. for protection.

"I don't suppose the old washerwoman-routine would work?" Steelbeak quipped sardonically.

"You'd be surprised," Reynards sighed. "The warden there got the job for being some governor's nephew, not for competence. You could probably hide a weapon of mass destruction in the laundry and he wouldn't notice."

"You're kidding."

"Not at all. He's about the only one at top level we're not bribing – everything aside from annoying the inmates goes straight over his head, anyway." The fox shrugged. "That's why it's such a shame to give the place up."

"Probably why Bulba's pulling all the strings to get there in the first place," Steelbeak mused. He gave a short, hard laugh as something occurred to him. "Boy, he's gonna love it in there – we're leaving him with the whole infrastructure for hushing things up already in place."

"The good news is that we can probably enlist a few guards to help us – they know what will happen if we don't get our agents out, and they have no more interest in blood on the walls than we do."

The rooster narrowed his eyes at this choice of words, the sloshing sounds from under his feet suddenly unnaturally loud to his ears, but he dismissed it. It wouldn't do to jump at every shadow. Without sparing the compactor another glance Steelbeak listened thoughtfully as Reynards related the details of the comings and goings at the prison to him, every now and then absent-mindedly touching the tiny hinge on his left cuff link.

.* * *.

The heavy workload at S.H.U.S.H. central didn't leave much time for coffee breaks, so when the afternoon sun was slowly turning red, the corridor of the topmost floor was empty and nobody heard the raised voices that came through the wooden door of the chief agent's office. It didn't happen very often that Vladimir Grizzlikov and James Pochard had a serious disagreement, so naturally if it did happen it had to be about something important. Which made backing down much harder for either of them.

"Look, you knew that I'm visiting Emily tonight," James snapped. "I told you so yesterday. You wished me luck."

"For telling your girl the truth about your work," Grizzlikov snarled through bared teeth. "Not for slipping out of safety protocol."

"Right, I'm just going to turn up there with three vans full of armed agents in tow. That will look really harmless."

"Is not supposed to look harmless," the bear retorted. "Is supposed to keep you safe. You know F.O.W.L. is out for blood-"

James bared his teeth as well, although the look was far less impressive on him. "No, I suspect that one of them might be out for blood. And that one has been notoriously unstable for more than a year-"

"-and might now be pushed over the edge by sudden competition," Grizzlikov exclaimed. Why couldn't this love-sick duck see reason? "If Stavro wants to secure his position, you can think of a better way than taking you out?"

"Yes. Taking out Director Hooter," James replied automatically. When he realized his tactical mistake he winced, but it was too late.

Grizzlikov crossed his arms. "That is why he follows regulations."

"There are more important things than following regulations, you stubborn big bear! Like me missing out on the best thing that ever happened to me! I'm doing this, and you can't stop me."

His arms still crossed in front of his massive chest the ursine calmly stepped in front of the door, not bothering to point out that, why yes, he certainly could.

The drake rubbed his forehead. "Come on, Vlad. You've bent the rules before-"

"No, I haven't."

"Fine, but I have," James sighed. "And it always worked out, didn't it?"

Grizzlikov hesitated. It was hard to argue with success. Still, he tried. "You were objective then – mostly. Now you are in love. Being in love is not objective."

"You're acting like Emily's an agent of F.O.W.L.." The avian was getting seriously annoyed. "I know that being paranoid is part of the job description, but this-"

"I know she's no enemy agent," the ursine sighed. He knew because he had run a very discreet background check on the girl as soon as he had coaxed her full name out of his friend. Usually that was standard S.H.U.S.H. procedure but so far James had refused to notify the agency of his relationship. That infringement could easily cost him his job but the mallard wanted to explain everything to his lady friend, give her the opportunity to walk away before letting the government poke around in her past. Grizzlikov could respect that but while he wouldn't dream of ratting out his friend he still wasn't willing to let him risk his life out of gallantry. Of course he would rather bite off his tongue than admit all that to James, the drake was angry enough as it was.

"Look, if you don't want any agent, at least let me come along," the bear suggested. "I'll wait in car-"

Despite his frustration James had to smile at that. "Vlad, you know you are my best friend, so please don't take this personally – but having you sit on Emily's porch will seriously kill the mood."

"Better the mood than you," the ursine muttered.

Seeing his friend's honest concern, the avian's expression softened. "Look, let's be reasonable. I didn't tell anybody about me meeting her tonight – aside from you, that is, and I think we can agree that you're not working for F.O.W.L.."

Grizzlikov growled at that, but nodded reluctantly.

"Emily didn't tell anyone because she hates to listen to her friends giving well-meant advice before a date. In fact she told me that she was looking forward to her roommate's face when I came by." He crossed his arms as well and stared up into the bear's face. "So I'm probably safer at her place than I would be taking a stroll in the park. Nobody knows."

"Still," the ursine murmured, feeling his resolve dwindle. "S.H.U.S.H. regulations..."

"Vlad, please," James pleaded. "I really... I have to make her understand that I..." He couldn't bring himself to say the word. Instead he just shrugged, almost helplessly. "This is important to me, Vlad."

After a long pause, Grizzlikov sighed, defeated. "Fine. Go meet your girl. I won't tell."

A relieved smile appeared on the avian's beak. "Thank you," he exclaimed. Judging by the look on his face he could barely keep himself from hugging the huge ursine. "I'll never forget this – you'll be my best bear at the wedding."

"At the least," Grizzlikov jested, but he couldn't quite shake the uneasy feeling in his gut.

.* * *.

When he left the florist two blocks from S.H.U.S.H. central later that evening James Pochard was a very happy avian. He hummed an old love song and although he didn't remember more than the first two lines of the lyrics he couldn't help but feel that it had been written for her. For them. In his hands he carried a huge bouquet of red roses he had ordered earlier this day – you just couldn't go wrong with a classic.

He stopped dead when he heard the florist close up the shop as soon as the door fell shut behind him. It was far too early for that. Frowning he turned around and saw the shop girl, a petite ursine – he had thought about introducing her to Vlad, he thought absurdly – stare at him out of wide and frightened eyes, an armed eggman holding her by the elbow.

"See, that's the trouble with florists," said a taunting voice – close, far too close to his ear. "They just can't keep a secret." James' eyes widened in sudden terror. He knew that voice.

Throwing the roses at Stavro's face he danced away from him and reached into his jacket, for his gun. He felt his fingertips brush the cold steel, like a cruel jape, when he bumped into the massive chest of a huge eggman who stared at him impassively – or pitifully? Impossible to tell with those black visors – and sent a fist the size of a melon flying at his face. The asphalt came up to him like a wall and knocked the air out of him. Something metallic clattered on the street next to him – he had no idea whether it was his gun or his keys or maybe an old can but he reached for it with the desperation of a drowning man. But before he could even touch whatever it was, a heavy boot came down on his outstretched hand like a hammer, and he could feel his bones break.

"Well well well. James Pochard," the huge bulldog sneered. "You know, I've looked forward to meeting you."

James tried to keep his beak closed, not wanting to show weakness, or fear. But when Stavro twisted his boot the pain in his hand exploded and he couldn't stop himself from screaming.

"You won't pass out on me, will you?" F.O.W.L.'s chief agent asked with mock concern. "Because we have lots to discuss, you and I. Lots. We'll make a night of it." Finally he lifted his foot and the drake pulled his broken hand to his chest, cradling it protectively. Before he could form a coherent thought again he was pulled bodily off the ground, hanging helplessly between two eggmen, and a furry paw grabbed his beak and forced him to look at the huge canine. "In fact," his tormentor said, his smile widening even more, "how about we make a nice little trip to the junkyard?"