Ladies and germs, I am back! I took a two-week-long sabbatical to a resort in a mountain in Colombia, and have had no internet access for a while. But now, I'm here! I really hope you enjoy this chapter!

Chapter Five

Jackson Marx was dog-tired, and was therefore allowed to be angry at his boss. Having just gotten back from a red-eye straight from Baghdad, the twenty-seven-year-old was massively jet-lagged, and thus the only thing he wanted to do was sleep. Unfortunately for him, his company had other ideas.

Working the CI (Clandestine Investigation) division at the Central Intelligence Agency meant that he got paid well, and got to travel. He had just completed an essentially boring mission in Iraq, where Marx and his partner were sent to investigate an organized crime syndicate with ties to the Taliban. Unfortunately, when they found the suspected Taliban operatives hanging from various trees in the backyard of the syndicate's base of operations, he decided that two lightly-armed CIA operatives had no business messing around with that particular criminal organization.

Two days later found Marx in a nondescript taxi along with his partner, Jenny Knox, being driven out of Dulles International Airport in Virginia. All he wanted to do at the moment was allow-himself to close his eyes and do something about the horrible sunburn he had acquired in the Middle East. Unfortunately, he had to present himself at Langley to debrief his handler. Jenny broke his train of thoughts when she spoke for the first time since they had gone through passport control.

"I cannot wait to go home," she yawned. "I swear…my feet are so swollen that I'm going to have to stick them in Epsom salt water for the whole damn night. And I want to watch my soap."

"Jenny," Marx sighed. "You have a soap problem."

"It's not my fault! It fills the void!" she huffed. "Besides…I've missed six episodes already!" Her partner shook his head, and stepped out of the taxi. Jenny followed suit, and soon they were in the heart of CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

"Marx, Knox," muttered a tired voice, as they stepped into the director's office. "Welcome back. Please, make this brief."

"Right," began Marx awkwardly. "The day of our arrival presented no challenges or negative occurrences on the agreed game plan, so we slept off the jetlag and took the day to acclimatize ourselves to the culture. Again."

"The next morning," continued Jenny, giving her partner a break. "We met our contact right after the first call to prayer. She gave us an address, and told us to follow it. At that address, we snooped on a couple of thugs who were a little too drunk and stupid to realize that they spilled the beans about the Taliban agents."

"So that night," said Marx, "I paid a visit to the local men-only pub, and was able to record and photograph all four Taliban operatives. On my way to the bathroom, I managed to 'accidentally' trip and slip a tracking flea on one of the operatives. While I was on the throne, I clicked on the transmitter on my allergy-awareness bracelet, and waited for the men to leave."

"After they left," began Jenny, "we gave them a couple of minute's heads-start before hotwiring a couple of motorcycles to follow them. We found their signal at an average-sized house with a big backyard. We vaulted over the back fence, saw the bodies of all four men, and then we left before the shit hit the fan. So…that was our trip in a nutshell."

Director Morrel nodded approvingly, and clapped the agents on the back. "Good job guys. You can save the paperwork for tomorrow afternoon. Take the morning off, get rid of that jetlag."

"Thank you sir," both agents chorused.

"Yeah well," yawned Morrel, as he packed up his briefcase. "I'll need you both fully rested. Tomorrow you will be briefed by Alan Blunt, the director of MI6."

Both agents glanced at each other in confusion, but could not say anything more as Morrel quickly left them alone.

"What do you think that was about?" questioned Jenny as they showed themselves back out of the office. They began to walk to the parking lot, to their respective vehicles.

"I have no idea. Must be pretty big though, if the Brits are in on it too. It better be more interesting than Iraq." Jenny nodded fervently, clearly showing her approval. Marx said goodbye to his partner, and drove off in a discrete, armored 2011 Dodge Charger. He was immediately followed by Jenny in her modified 2011 Mazda Miata, as she left to rest for the night. They would both need it.

Hundreds of miles and an ocean away, Ben Daniels was picking his way through his own flat's locked door. Grumbling oaths about his stupidity to leave his key in the car which he had used as a battering ram, he finally burst through his door.

"Fucking Japanese mobsters…" he mumbled as the young agent stumbled through the foyer and into the sitting room. He plopped himself down on the couch, and tended to a bleeding, pulsating gash on his abdomen. From that moment on, he decided to never again underestimate the damage a pair of nunchuks* could cause.

After disinfecting and cleaning his only wound, he boiled himself some water for a quick cup of tea before bed. As the water boiled, he stepped into the shower. The hot water loosened his tense muscles, and seemed to seep away all of his problems. Ten minutes later, he ran out of the shower to shush his wailing kettle, and drank his tea in bed. Just as he was finishing the drink, his mobile rang.

"Daniels," he sighed, knowing exactly who would be calling at 0345 in the morning.

"Daniels, this is Blunt. Debrief tomorrow at 1600, my office. Goodbye." The discombobulated voice of his oh-so charismatic director rang in his ears, as he lay back in bed. Perhaps he would sleep in tomorrow, and just go in for the debrief. Yes – that's what he would do. He would need the extra energy.

Ben Daniels did not know it, but miles and miles away, two men were cutting their way through the jungle, on their way to a meeting so secret, even they didn't know where it was. That is, until they fell through the jungle floor and onto the conference room. In that room sat the Al Capone of the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia – or the FARC, for short. Next to him sat the vice president of Colombia. And on his other side, the speaker of the house. These men had become disenchanted about their governments, and they turned to one of the most notorious paramilitary groups known to man.

This alliance could result in the end of the world.

Hey, you're done! I know it's short, but it's almost 0100, and I'm really tired. By the way, I don't know how to spell nunchucks. So…yeah. I'll try to write again tomorrow, but no promises. I'm getting trucked from one family member to another, and I usually have no keyboard and internet connection to maintain a constant stream of updates. Bear with me ladies and gents, and drop me a line!