Chapter 3: Escalation

Considering that F.O.W.L. was a secret organization that hid its very existence from the eyes of the public and in theory operated on a strict need-to-know basis, the news of agent Pochard's demise spread alarmingly fast. It all came down to the eggmen, really. Be it out of boredom or a desire to show off, the boys loved their gossip. And given that they were all but indistinguishable with their concealed faces and whole-body jumpsuits it was usually impossible to pinpoint the one who had started the scuttlebutt of the hour. Since it had proved impractical to make an example out of entire brigade groups the higher-ups gritted their teeth and accepted the rumor mill as one of those annoying facts of life. And of course, every so often, having an ear to the grapevine could come in handy.

Sporting a suitably straight face Steelbeak leaned against the coffee maker in the corridor of the underground compound and listened to one of the newer recruits, a lanky mallard in his early twenties, running his beak. The kid – his name escaped him at the moment – had been hired about half a year ago and was supposedly a crack shot. It seemed that he was also a blabbermouth who took great pleasure in relating the ugly details of the killing, as told to him by one of the eggmen involved, to a gaunt she-duck with short brown headfeathers whose empty right eye socket was covered by a black patch. Her the rooster had met before; she was part of F.O.W.L.'s military branch, an expert on explosives and only in town for a short stopover. When she met his glance she rolled her remaining eye, obviously bored by the mallard's antics, but she too saw the merit of being informed and humored him with the odd encouraging nod.

Steelbeak doubted that the boy was trying to score, the other duck was easily ten years his senior. More likely he wanted to present himself as a tough bird – but the effort was thoroughly ruined by frequent nervous giggles.

Tuning out the idiot as best as he could the rooster finished his coffee and wondered how High Command would react to this.

Like most of his coworkers he had long since given up on trying to predict their mysterious bosses, but there was the worrying possibility that taking out S.H.U.S.H.'s chief agent would leave Stavro with enough brownie points to get rid of him again. Probably not in the permanent sense – after his recent surgery he represented an investment and High Command always got their money's worth – but he didn't think that a transfer to Greenland was out of the question. And to think of all the tragic accidents that could happen, so far away from home...

While the mallard kept blabbering Steelbeak crushed the empty paper cup in his fist and was just about to excuse himself, when his eyes widened at one particular bit of information.

"He did what?"

.* * *.

In his office in the topmost floor of S.H.U.S.H. central J. Gander Hooter tried to concentrate on his work but his mind kept wandering to his two best agents, Pochard and Grizzlikov. Neither of them had reported in for work today, which was worrying in itself as both were highly dependable. But with F.O.W.L. stirring in its enforced hibernation it was almost enough to send the old avian into a fit of panic.

Neither of them had answered the phone or the doorbell either, despite repeated attempts, and at two in the afternoon the Director of S.H.U.S.H. had finally sent two pairs of agents out to break into their colleagues' homes to look for clues as to their whereabouts, hoping that they wouldn't turn up in the emergency ward of some hospital – or worse.

Lost in this unpleasant train of thought, Hooter jerked when the phone rang. Composing himself he picked up the receiver. "Yes?"

"This is agent Fangwell, sir. We found Grizzlikov, he's in his apartment."

His tone of voice told Hooter enough to know that something was very wrong. "Bring him in, then."

The agent hesitated for a second. "I don't think we can, sir," he answered. "Not without using force. He won't even let us into the room."

Hooter frowned, the uneasy feeling that had troubled him all day growing rapidly. "What is the meaning of this, agent Fangwell?"

"Maybe you should come in, Director Hooter," the agent suggested in an unhappy voice. "He's... not well."

It was a most irregular request – the Director of S.H.U.S.H. didn't make house calls – but J. Gander decided to trust his guts and Fangwell's judgment on this one. "I'll be there in ten minutes," he told the canine. He put the receiver back in the cradle, not quite able to keep his hands from shaking.

When Hooter arrived at Grizzlikov's humble apartment he was ushered in by a miserable looking agent Fangwell. His partner, a slim young rat girl by the name of Eva Cottontail, gave him a weak nod, all the while fighting back tears. With a grave sigh the old gander motioned for them to wait outside. There was no need for explanations – he had realized what was happening the moment Fangwell had opened that door. It was impossible to ignore – the screaming.

The voice was almost impossible to recognize, it was hard to believe that it even belonged to a sentient being. Yet beneath the pain, the fear, the pain, J. Gander thought he could make out traces of the poised, confident drake who'd been standing in his office only yesterday, smiling. There was laughter, too, cruel, mocking laughter. And over everything, merciless like clockwork, the hissing of hydraulic engines, the scraping of metal on metal. The sound of a trash compactor.

"I think it came with today's mail," Fangwell told Hooter in a low voice while the poor girl was all but running out of the flat. "He had that damned record on repeat ever since we got here – probably all day long."

The old gander nodded numbly and the canine hurried after his partner. Bracing himself he knocked on the bedroom door.

"Go away!"

"This is J. Gander Hooter," he said softly. "I'm coming in now."

"Don't," came the answer, half a sob. "Stay out..."

Ignoring the last plea the avian carefully opened the door. Bits of a shattered bedside lamp crunched beneath his webbed feet – it seemed Grizzlikov had been very adamant in not letting anybody in. It took Hooter a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room, since the drapes were still closed. The huge bear was sitting on the edge of his bed, in his gray pants and a rumpled white shirt, cradling a cassette recorder in his lap like a broken doll.

"They got him," he whispered in a hollow voice. "While I was home, asleep, they got him. They did this to him." His body was shaken by a ragged sob. "I wasn't there to help. I let them do this to him!"

When Hooter gently pried the recorder out of he bear's fingers he met with no resistance, but when he turned it off some dam inside Grizzlikov broke. Burying his head in his hands he started to cry.

Helplessly the old gander gently laid a small hand on the shivering bear's huge back. "It's not your fault," he murmured. "There was nothing you could do."

He doubted that that was true. Probably there had been a mistake, an oversight. If he knew his chief agent – had known him, he corrected himself mentally – he had likely talked Grizzlikov into going easy on some safety precaution or other. Whatever it was, it would probably haunt the agent for the rest of his life. That wasn't what he needed to hear right now, though. "It's not your fault," he repeated softly. "This is... what we do. It happens. Sometimes it just happens. It's not your fault."

For hours the frail old gander sat next to the huge bear, trying to comfort him as he wept like a child.

.* * *.

Irritably tapping a pen against the wooden surface of his desk Steelbeak brooded over the news of the chief agent's recent endeavors in his temporary office, several feet under the streets of St Canard.

That bit with the record was sick even by his standards but if he'd let that bother him he'd be in the wrong line of work. Still, he couldn't help but wonder if Stavro had overshot his mark with this last display of casual cruelty.

He vaguely remembered Grizzlikov – a surly bear with a thick Russian accent, built like a refrigerator. Before his time abroad he'd had a run-in with him and his partner, the recently deceased James Pochard. If memory served the ursine had been the more reserved of the duo, content to leave the talking to his avian friend. But Steelbeak couldn't for the life of his remember him backing down or even flinching in the face of danger – or, more specifically, in the face of a dozen heavily armed eggmen.

On a hunch he rose and walked over to archive two, where they stored the files F.O.W.L. had on the S.H.U.S.H. agents who were based in the city. Grizzlikov's folder wasn't as voluminous as he would have liked – what little information there was mostly came from the debriefing of agents who had encountered the bear in the field. The notes depicted him as exceptionally competent, if somewhat highly strung. Somebody had noticed a tendency to take out frustrations on nearby objects and suspected anger management issues. The rooster shook his head. Stavro might have gravely miscalculated on this one – if he had calculated at all. Instead of reducing Grizzlikov to an emotional wreck he could well have unleashed three-hundred pounds of ursine fury, out for revenge.

Steelbeak narrowed his eyes. Now here was a thought...

After jotting down a few notes he carefully put the folder back on the shelf and left the archive to make for the elevator.

.* * *.

The sun had set by the time he had gotten a grip on himself again. Director Hooter had gently suggested a soporific but Grizzlikov wouldn't hear of it. It wasn't the dreams he feared, it was the grim realization upon waking up, the second he remembered that everything hadn't just been a horrible dream.

As it was he had accompanied the old avian back to S.H.U.S.H. central – his superior had flat out refused to leave him in his home on his own, and since he had no family in town there wasn't really anywhere else to go for him. The agency kept a grief counselor for such cases, since it was by no means uncommon for agents to suffer from traumatic experiences in the line of duty, but Grizzlikov didn't think he could talk about James without breaking down again. Since just sitting around made him go crazy he tried to calm himself by walking around in the vast park that surrounded the government building. By day there were always families there, old people taking a walk and the odd couple of teenagers, but right now it was dark and the area as good as empty. The only other person around was a fellow S.H.U.S.H. agent, a young donkey straight out of training, who had been assigned to keep an eye on him, 'just in case', as the Director had put it. Grizzlikov wasn't happy about that but there was no point in taking it out on the youngster. At least the boy had the good sense to keep his distance so it was easy to ignore him – the bear had enough on his mind anyway.

He found himself thinking of Emily, the girl James had gone to see last night – he suddenly realized that he would have to tell her about her boyfriend's death. He had never even met her. She would open the door to a total stranger who would tell her that the drake who had loved her was dead, killed while doing a duty he had never told her about. He thought of James' parents who lived up north and who the avian had never been able to visit as often as he would have liked. He wondered what Director Hooter would tell them about the manner of their son's death and why they would have to bury an empty coffin.

Most of all Grizzlikov thought of Stavro, the huge bulldog who had murdered his best friend. He would recognize that laughter anywhere and he had spent hours listening to it, to F.O.W.L.'s chief agent reveling in his triumph and his power. He felt his hands open and close involuntarily and wished that he could wrap them around the canine's throat. With a growl he stuffed his fists into his pockets and ground his teeth. He would never let him get away with this, he would hunt that animal down even if it took the rest of his life. And when he had him...

Lost in dark thoughts he was barely aware of his surroundings so he only noticed the other pedestrian when he almost bumped into him. "'scuse me," the stranger muttered without slowing down. Grizzlikov felt feathered fingers brush against his furry wrist and suddenly his pocket contained a slip of paper.

Years of training took over – despite the bear's troubled emotional state he kept walking at the same pace and spared the other only the shortest of glances over his shoulder. Male, and tall for an avian. A beige hat and a matching long coat hid most of his form; the only distinguishing feature he could make out was a tuft of long blue tailfeathers.

The agent who walked a few steps behind him gave the avian a suspicious look as well but seemed to shrug it off – from experience Grizzlikov knew that such an exchange was almost impossible to detect for an onlooker, especially if said onlooker was still wet behind the ears and had no reason to suspect that his colleague would want to hide something from him. It was the easiest thing in the world to calmly walk around a little lake overgrown with high reeds and, during the few seconds he was out of his minder's line of sight, quickly take out the paper to look at the writing. When he realized what he was holding he felt the turmoil of feelings inside him subside, leaving him with a dark sense of purpose, as if he had just entered the eye of the storm.

Later people would ask him what on earth he had been thinking and he would respond that this approach had been simply too unsubtle to be a trap, that the information might have been time-sensitive and any delay to be avoided. He would argue that the message had clearly been meant for him and him alone and any attempt to bring other agents would have driven whoever was trying to contact him into hiding.

In truth none of that even crossed his mind as he crushed the paper in his fist and kept walking towards a small gathering of fir trees. The flood of wrath, pain and guilt that seemed to suffocate his soul had been unleashed, had been given a target, and he had to follow or go mad.

The paper had only one word scribbled on it. Payback. Along with an address.

When the young donkey who was following him walked out of the tiny makeshift wood again, Grizzlikov was nowhere to be seen.

.* * *.

The moon was breaking through the clouds, a pale silvery sickle, but its light was drowned out by the street lamps. This part of the suburbs was mainly inhabited by the well-to-do – families of doctors and successful lawyers and retired managers. Despite the wealth to be found here there were never many reported crimes to speak of, although that might have something to do with the fact that most mansions were surrounded by six foot high metal fences and the curtains were very closed indeed – both in the literal and the figurative sense.

Steelbeak had arrived here only minutes before Grizzlikov and taken cover behind an electrical cabinet made of gray steel plate. When the bear arrived he almost didn't notice him at first. The ursine kept to the shadows, in turns standing motionless and sauntering along the sidewalk like he didn't have a care in the world. He was good, the rooster had to admit. But no matter how good he was, alone and unequipped he couldn't hope to overcome Stavro's security.

The main entrance was safeguarded by the latest electromagnetic locks and flanked by two surveillance cameras, but that wasn't uncommon in this area. Being a trained agent Grizzlikov was probably more worried about the cameras he couldn't see and the motion detectors he couldn't possibly evade. He had to realize that with such defenses he had no chance of entering unnoticed. Luckily there was a remedy for that

The lock that closed the outdoor cabinet yielded to a skeleton key almost instantly. After donning a pair of thick gloves Steelbeak went to work with a pair of insulated pliers and within seconds the entire street was shrouded in darkness. It took his eyes a few seconds to get used to the faint moonlight. When he could make out Grizzlikov again he saw that the ursine had bared his teeth in a grim smile, his white fangs eerily bright in the murk. The S.H.U.S.H. agent stared at the mansion for some time, but just when Steelbeak thought he would back down after all the bear made for the house, his every movement that of a born predator.

"Open Sesame," the rooster murmured, his prosthetic beak turned into a wry smirk. "Have fun, Grizzy..."

.* * *.

Had he been in a clearer state of mind, Grizzlikov never would have considered entering the mansion after the suspiciously convenient power cut. Someone was obviously directing his steps, probably trying to use him for his own ends. On some level the bear knew that – only he didn't care as long as it led to Stavro's end as well. Even if it would turn out to be a trap, there was no question of walking away. If there was the tiniest chance of avenging James he had to take it or he would never be able to look in a mirror again.

With a litheness that few would have suspected in someone his size he sneaked over the lawn, along a glowing pool that steamed in the cold night air, and to the back door. It wasn't locked; he was already inside the secured parameter and nobody liked to fiddle with a combination lock whenever he went to have a swim.

The moment he opened the door he could hear Stavro gingerly walk around the house, maybe searching for the fuse box, maybe for a weapon. Whatever he was looking for, Grizzlikov had no intention of letting him find it. Without making a sound he followed the canine, navigating by touch and hearing. Then suddenly Stavro stopped moving and everything went quiet. With a dry swallow the bear strained his ears but the only sound was the wind coming in through the open backdoor. His eyes widened. The open backdoor...

There was nothing to do but charge. He stalked through the room and into the corridor – and suddenly he was face to face with Stavro.

On his way here he had envisioned this moment maybe a hundred times, the moment he confronted James' murderer and told him what he would do to him, and why, but when he saw the bulldog all the words disappeared from his mind, swallowed by a red cloud of fury. Stavro stared at him in utter surprise when Grizzlikov's hands reached for his throat, found it, and closed like a bench vise. The surprise on the canine's face was replaced by sudden fury as he swatted at the bear's face. Taking the blows without flinching the ursine held on to Stavro's throat, pressing the life out of him and finally the ursine saw fear welling up in the bulldog's eyes.

With a throttled growl the canine grabbed Grizzlikov's head with both hands and pressed his thumbs into the bear's eyes, anything to make him let go. Howling in pain the ursine tackled his opponent – they were about the same size, but the panic that came with suffocation weakened Stavro's stance and he fell over, taking his attacker with him. There was a second of vertigo and the back of the canine's head connected with the tiled floor with an unnaturally loud crunch. The hands that had threatened to blind Grizzlikov became limp and the dog's eyes lost focus and rolled back in his head. Gasping, the ursine rubbed at his forehead, trying to chase away the bright lights that danced in his vision, painfully aware of the sound of Stavro's ragged breath.

Disgusted he stared at the murderer. The canine's head was craned back, his throat bared, like an invitation. It would be easy to kill him, to end it all, right here, right now. It would be just. Grizzlikov had read the reports, seen the pictures, heard the rumors. He knew what this one had done, not only to James but to countless others.

His hands moved almost on their own volition, once more firmly closing around the canine's neck.

Killing his friend probably hadn't even mattered to him, not any more than crushing a bug. This brutal, cruel murder that had ripped a glaring wound into the life of Grizzlikov and everybody else who had known James had been nothing more to him than a means to secure his own position. It hadn't meant anything to him and now he would die for it without really understanding the reason.

Suddenly Grizzlikov's eyes swam in tears, and it had nothing to do with Stavro's earlier attack. He wouldn't even know...

A hoarse sound escaped the bear's throat, barely understandable, uttered in a voice that cracked with a myriad of conflicting emotions. A whispered "No."

For a moment the world seemed to hold its breath.

"No," he growled again. It took every ounce of self-control to let go, to not smash Stavro's head against the floor over and over and over, but he managed. Breathing heavily he rose and very slowly backed away from the canine, his hands still trembling. "You not – get off – that – easy!"

.* * *.

In the Director's office at S.H.U.S.H. central J. Gander Hooter was rubbing his temples as he stared at the documents on his desk without really seeing them. It had been quite a night.

When agent Mules had stormed into his office three hours ago and almost tearfully admitted to having lost sight of Grizzlikov, the old avian had feared the worst. He had called the St Canard police department so the patrols would look for him and sent every available agent out to search for the bear, all the while knowing that it was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. After all they were in the business of doing things away from prying eyes, and they would need nothing short of a miracle to find their missing agent again.

The miracle had come almost an hour later, in the form of a phone call. Afraid of what he might hear it had taken him a few seconds to work up the courage to pick up the receiver. When it had been the voice of a very tense but apparently unharmed Grizzlikov, informing him that he was in chief agent Stavro's private home and had the canine neutralized – his exact choice of words – he almost hadn't dared to trust his ears. After another half hour the agent in charge of the team he had sent to collect the bear and whatever might be left of Stavro had called him. He had confirmed that Grizzlikov was alive and well – and to Hooter's vast relief requested an ambulance, since the F.O.W.L. agent appeared concussed and they wanted to exclude any further damage to his person.

For Grizzlikov's sake Hooter was glad that the ursine had restrained himself – not only because killing Stavro without any warrant and while officially off duty would have resulted in the bear being removed from S.H.U.S.H. and quite possibly being charged with manslaughter, but also because the idea of one of his agents being used as a pawn in what was probably an internal power struggle at F.O.W.L. disgusted him.

That somebody had tried to take advantage of Grizzlikov's troubled emotional state was obvious to the avian – the tip-off and the well-timed power outage didn't leave much room for doubt. It would have been obvious to his agent as well, had he not been half-mad with grief and beyond caring. Somebody wanted the canine dead – a rival maybe, or some lackey who had been kicked one time too many; someone like Stavro generally had no shortage of enemies. And since High Command didn't take kindly to people wantonly damaging their assets he or she had tried to manipulate somebody else into doing the deed.

Hooter briefly wondered what they would do to someone who delivered said asset right into the hands of S.H.U.S.H. but found that he didn't care all that much. He had other things on his mind, like notifying James Pochard's family – a duty he didn't cherish but it had to be done. And he would have to find the right words to say to agent Grizzlikov. Nothing he could tell him would make the pain over his friend's death go away, but that was a pain that many agents had suffered from before, that he himself had suffered numerous times. Hooter sighed. At least the ursine didn't have to live with the knowledge that the one who was responsible for his friend's death was still out there. Grizzlikov hadn't been able to save his friend, but he had arrested his murderer. Hopefully that would give him the closure he needed to heal.

Suddenly the phone rang and interrupted his musings. Trying to shake the feeling of deja-vu he picked up the receiver. "Yes?"

As the old gander listened to the voice on the other end of the line he closed his eyes and leaned back in despair. "Oh, please, no."

.* * *.

Agent Grizzlikov was in his office, collapsed in his chair with his eyes closed. He felt numb all over. Stavro was on his way to prison; the canine would never harm another living creature ever again. It didn't stop the pain he felt over his friend's death, but killing his murderer probably wouldn't have done that, either.

There would be an investigation, of course, for injuring the F.O.W.L. agent and generally ignoring orders, but the Director had quietly informed him that he had nothing to worry about, that he would personally see to it that his record remained free from all rebuke. Like it mattered.

The old avian had also advised him to get some sleep, but the mere thought of going home, of going back to that room where he had spent hours listening to James' death over and over again, filled him with dread. Maybe he should go find himself a hotel but he was too wary, too tired to even contemplate standing up. Maybe he would simply stay here in this office, in this chair, until his body gave out with fatigue.

Suddenly there was a quiet knock and J. Gander Hooter entered the room. Without saying a word he closed the door behind himself, then he turned to face Grizzlikov.

One look at the old gander told him that something was not right at all. "Director Hooter?" he asked in a small voice.

"There was a call from the escort we sent to guard the transport," Director Hooter sighed. There was no need to say which transport he was talking about. "They were intercepted by F.O.W.L. eggmen. Luckily none of our agents was killed but-" He gave the bear a look of deep, heartfelt sympathy. "I'm very sorry, agent Grizzlikov. They freed Stavro."

.* * *.

Clicking his beak in agitation Steelbeak paced back and forth in his fancy room in the Billton Hotel. He still hadn't gotten around to finding himself a proper apartment, and from the way it looked he might as well save himself the trouble of looking for one. In fact, depending on how bad things were, he might just save himself the trouble of ordering breakfast, too.

"Damn him," he muttered, without really knowing whether he meant Stavro or that half-baked S.H.U.S.H. agent. Grizzlikov had seemed ready to tear off the bulldog's head – literally. Who could have foreseen that the guy would actually show restraint?

Now the chief agent was in custody of the authorities, with nothing but a mild concussion – if he still was in custody and not already out and about, howling for blood. And Steelbeak had a pretty solid idea whose blood he would be howling for – the only question was whether he could prove enough to kill him off with the blessing of High Command.

He jerked when his videophone gave a buzz. Speak of the devil. For a moment he was tempted to just ignore the damned thing and make a run for it, but the madness passed within heartbeats. He had seen firsthand how well that had worked out for Feathers Galore.

When the three silhouettes appeared on the little screen he did his best to look – well, not guilty. "He-hey, High Command. What's up?"

"Agent Steelbeak," the tall shadow in the middle said curtly. "You are of course aware that chief agent Stavro has been arrested."

It wasn't a question and he didn't dare to feign ignorance. "Yeah... I heard," he said vaguely. "Very, uh, sad." They wouldn't believe that last part for a second but it couldn't hurt to observe the decencies.

"In light of recent events we decided to make a few changes concerning certain employment contracts. You are to meet us at the junkyard in one hour, to finalize those changes."

"Junkyard?" the rooster squawked, feeling faint all of a sudden. "Now, look, let's not-" He interrupted himself when he realized what the avian had just said. "Wait a minute – meet you?"

"Yes, agent Steelbeak. We would like to discuss your promotion."