This chapter was very hurriedly spell checked (sorry), so hopefully it won't be too full of errors.

September 8th 1975

The man allowed himself a half smile as he entered the bank. He looked up at the ceiling. Yes, he could see the fresh coat of paint that crudely disguised where he'd blasted the part of the ceiling away with an automatic back in '49. This was the scene of the infamous Penguin's first crime.

"Good afternoon," he walked up to one of the tellers, "I'd like to open an account." He was promptly instructed to take a seat, where he waited for about ten minutes. At the end of this space of time, which he could think of no better way to log as other than completely wasted, he was approached by a young lady in a formal suit who led him to a desk near the back of the bank.

"Just a few questions before we can open your account," the employee, whose badge said her name was Lara, opened a new form in front of her, "What is your full name?"

"Peter Kowalski." The man across the desk from her answered.

"Have you ever held an account with us before?"

"No."

"What is your occupation?"

"Retired. I ran the Penguins for twenty years…"

"The band?"

"No, the gang," the woman across from him looked at him as if he was crazy. Maybe he was. Brain damage due to blood loss could do that to a guy, "Oh yes, and I dabbled in bank robbery, ironically." Kowalski looked on at the woman, who seemed to be frozen in shock, "It would seem you've forgotten your lines," he picked up the phone from the desk, and placed it in the catatonic woman's hand, "Here, doll. What you do is you call the police," when the woman still refused to move, he dialled the number himself, "They will then put you on hold after assuring you their best men will be over there immediately and call Department D, where the ex-Private will just about have a heart attack…" Kowalski paused, "It would seem I've given you a whole lot of extremely classified information," finally the unfortunate woman got up from the desk, making a run for the door, screaming, "can't have that getting out to the press," he sighed, "Well, now I've told you, I'll have to kill you." he drew his gun, and, in a single fluid and practiced motion, shot the woman in the back.

"Oh my god he's got a gun!" the room erupted into screams.

"Feels good to be back," Kowalski announced as he marched into the main lobby, removing two grenades from his pockets, which he casually tossed at the area of ceiling above both doors. Rubble crashed down, blocking the exits, "Now, who wants to give me the combination to the safe, or do I have to give out more classified information?" he received no reply. He lifted the phone, which he'd carried with him, the cable dragging down the aisle, "You hearing all that Timmy?"

September 9th 1975

"When I arrived every person in that bank was shot dead," Tim Jones explained, "He even left the gun on the floor with a note saying it was the murder weapon, and that we shouldn't waist time on ballistics. We still ran the tests. It matched."

"Are you sure?" Skipper asked, stunned. It just didn't seem like something Kowalski would do. He was never theatrical, and often criticised Skipper for adding a hint of showmanship during training sessions.

"He sounded different, but it was him alright."

"Could it have been someone…?"

"I worked with him, and then hounded him for twenty six years," Jones replied, "I know his voice, and the camera footage shows him, until they went haywire" the ex-private replaced the forensic reports on the table in his bag, "Maybe I shot a little close to the head."

"Well, insane geniuses are our specialty, right?" Kowalski commented optimistically.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Jones replied darkly, "Forewarned is forearmed, Skipper."

"What are we going to do, Skippah?!" Private panicked.

"You guys are going to stay out of it," Skipper answered firmly, "This is my mistake to fix."

"But…" Kowalski began to protest.

"Make one more insubordinate move and you're off the team Kowalski."

"If it saves your life…"

"I can put the whole building in lockdown and hope none of you starve," Skipper snapped, "I won't have any of you getting involved." The team looked to Jones to strengthen their cause, but received no cooperation.

"He's obviously going after Skipper and me," the superior replied, "we can't do anything about that, but you're still some of the best men I've ever worked with. I don't want any of you ending up as collateral damage if it can be helped."

September 10th 1975

"Skippah said he'd be back by now," Private fretted.

"I wouldn't worry," Kowalski lied, "he hasn't exactly been particularly punctual lately."

Once again the room lapsed into silence, save for the almost inaudible tick made by the clock in the mess.

"Did he mean what he said about us starving?" Private asked, "You know, if we were to go out and look for him…"

"There' food 'n fri'ge," Rico answered. This had been the pattern conversation had followed for the past hour, which was an improvement on the constant worrying of the previous day, and the uninterrupted silence of the morning.

Kowalski leapt to his feet at the sound of the door opening, and was already standing by the door when Skipper stumbled in, the sleeve of his shirt crimson, where it was present at all.

"Stich me up, Kowalski," Skipper ordered, "Doesn't have to be pretty, just make it fast."

"Skipper," Private gasped, "what happened to…!?"

"A f…" Kowalski shot him a warning look, "A timed explosive is what happened," Skipper replied bitterly, wincing as Kowalski cut away what was left of his sleeve to reveal painful, though not life threatening, burns. On top of this, making Private look quite green at the gills, were shards of glass of all shapes and sizes, embedded about the arm "I followed just about every scrap of evidence they picked up at the scene, went over it myself with a fine tooth comb – it wasn't pretty – and finally got in the right place only to just about get blasted to pieces by one of the intruder alarms. I didn't even find out if he was in there, but it looked like his work."

"So…" Kowalski prompted.

"I've got some more leads to chase, hurry up."

"And…" Kowalski continued to hint, waiting for Skipper to complete the sentence.

"What?" Skipper asked, clearly not taking the hint.

"Well, um," Kowalski began to ask, looking about more uncomfortable than ever, and that was saying a lot since the week had been record for this, "Do you think you might do better with some assistance?"

Skipper's look told him all he needed to know, but he still waited for the inevitable answer: "No."

Marlene sat in the cell she'd inhabited the last few days, wearing a fresh set of cloths a few sizes too small, and the remains of the evening gown she'd arrived in rolled up and tucked under her arm. She listened to the tapping sounds of feet on concrete as they approach until finally the guard opened the door.

"Can I go now?" She asked. Earlier that day, a rather pleasant man who introduced himself as Special Agent Jones – though she doubted it was his real name – had told her that they would be releasing her that day, though she would be assigned a guard to 'protect her'. Well, it was better than a cell.

"Sorry, your departure's been delayed," he replied gruffly, "They want to talk to you again."

"Then you can tell them they're wasting their time," Marlene snapped defiantly, "I'm not saying a word." She didn't care what they threw at her, but she did know this: if she said a word, and she had no doubt he would know if she talked, Skipper wouldn't last five minutes. She'd seen Kowalski in action. She'd seen Skipper too, but she knew the young agent, or whatever he did, didn't stand a chance against him.

"Well they can go ahead and waste their time," the guard answered indifferently, "someone wants to talk to you."

Marlene gave the guard a sarcastic look before following him out into the plain concrete tunnel, turning off onto another tunnel, and finally entering the familiar plain whitewashed room with the two way mirror.

"I'm dreadfully sorry to bother you," Jones apologised, standing up and offering her a chair, "Do take a seat."

"I'm not saying anything." She answered bluntly.

"You are putting scores of lives at risk," Jones reminded.

"I know." She knew all right, and it ate her up from the inside more than Jones would ever know.

"Very well then," Jones walked towards the door, inciting a curious look from Marlene. This wasn't the pattern. He opened the door, "She's all yours, Skipper."

"Skipper?!" Marlene all but cried with joy as he walked into the room, but quickly restrained herself. Skipper shut the door behind him.

"I'm…" the two began in unison.

"You have my sincerest…" Skipper started, pausing at what might be his least favourite word in any language, "…apologies, ma'am. I hope nothing…"

"This is all my fault," Marlene raised a hand over her eye as if there was something stuck in it. She wasn't going to cry, "I wish I could…"

"Marlene," Skipper's adorably awkward smile forced one onto her own lips, "Just tell me why you… how you…"

"I can't," Marlene sat down on the chair dejectedly, "I just can't. I know I owe you an explanation…"

"You certainly do," Skipper replied, slightly more harshly. He looked at his watch, "Marlene, I don't have much time. Jones has told you what's going on. I need you to tell me where you two would meet, what information was passed, and what was said."

"I can't." Marlene couldn't look at him as she said this. She could guess he was disappointed, maybe even angry, but she couldn't break now.

"Marlene," Skipper took the chair from across the desk and put it down beside her, taking a seat. At this point, he had no idea what he was doing; this certainly wasn't what he was taught to do in these situations, "What's he got on you? Family secrets? Money? Does he have someone close to you? Please look at me, Marlene," he watched as her tear streaked eyes slowly raised from the table, "Whatever it is…"

"He said he'd kill you," Marlene interrupted sharply. Another tear rolled down her cheek, despite her best efforts to prevent it, "I won't say any more."

"I…" Skipper really didn't know what to say to this. Well, he had to get her to talk, somehow, "Marlene, you aren't protecting me by staying quiet. He's going to try and kill me no matter what you say. It's my job to catch him, literally, that's what pays the rent, and not giving me the information means I just go charging in blind."

"I won't take that chance." Marlene replied shortly. There was a pause as Skipper tried to think of something else to say.

"Marlene, did he ever tell you my real name?"

"It's Skipper."

"No, that's my code name." he could almost see Jones shaking his head frantically behind the glass. He leant back in the chair, tipping his head back with a weary sigh. He didn't like the position she'd put him in, "Marlene, my name's William Grant. Kowalski raised me since I was four," Skipper stood up, walking across the room so he was facing the plain white wall, his back to her, "that's how I know it's only threats." He hated to lie to her, especially if she only uncovered the lie when they tipped whatever was left of him into the sea, along with a few words about him being bumped off by you know who, but that day would almost be scheduled in fate's calendar if she didn't talk.

"Are you sure?" she asked tentatively.

"Completely. He won't hurt me."

"You wouldn't lie to me?" Skipper shook his head reassuringly, walking back across the room towards her, though his conscience was screaming at him louder than the silence between answers, "There… there was one place he mentioned, if the letter with the report wasn't picked up from under the loose brick, to send it to…"