SIX DEGREES
A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida.
Fausto Martinello belongs to Officer_Charon.
Chapter 05|Be A Star
Heat and thick humidity, oppressive harbingers of an oncoming storm.
Ushering Monty before him, Jethro slipped between two haggling shoppers, letting a grin pass fleetingly across his face.
"And just what are you so happy about?"
Leaning down to bring lips closer his girl's ear, he let the grin reappear, slouching along for a moment beside her. "Not much, just contemplating how difficult this crowd must me making a particular someone's life."
"No sympathy."
The tone was dry and, giving her a peck on the cheek for good measure, the handler stood back up, breathing deep as he sunk once more into the sights and sounds of Mong Kok. He liked it here on the Kowloon side, somehow more real and visceral than the island's restricted, slightly sterile, streets. If Wan Chai were bustling and over-run by signs, then Mong Kok was it tenfold, footpath life spilling onto busy tarmac even now under the afternoon's muggy, repressive, torpidity and, glancing in the rear window of a passing van, he scanned faces behind. Of course, the massed populace worked both ways, and it took another attempt before he picked their tail out of the crowd, John's features bobbing through seething bodies astern.
A wry chuckle split his lips at that: these days, each tail was perhaps more familiar than his ostensible work colleagues in Rome. They were getting bolder to, this one had accompanied them for most of the day, traipsing Kowloon streets, which was good: a little boldness mixed with a day's fatigue would make his next move slightly less risky.
Moscow Rules: lull them into a sense of complacency.
That being said of course, being issued John was not completely ideal. Monty's house call may have been days previous, and Zhang may have also taken their seeming obliviousness as an opportunity to better rest his operatives, but if any of those latter were going to be suffering a bout of paranoia, it was probably John.
Not that their failing to lose him would be the end of the world, this time around - point of fact, letting on they were trying to lose him may almost be worse – but trading away any more of that carefully cultivated complacency than necessary would be daft when it could be better spent at some later date.
For all he knew there could be a second tail out there as well, it certainly would not be the first time. No, if he was going to be suspected of something, let him still be suspected of being complacent himself, rather than looking too carefully over his shoulder.
That didn't mean getting some breathing space would not be worth an attempt however.
Meandering along a few more paces, the spy spotted his opportunity and, using another milling group, stopped in the middle of the footpath, to force him closer a shopping arcade frontage, he leant down again, head ducking below the height of those around.
"Alright luv, in here."
Accompanying the words with a gentle nudge in the small of her back, he directed his charge inside, standing once more as they disappeared behind solid walls. John had not been far off however, giving them maybe ten seconds to find somewhere to go and, as the taller fratello member, finding that somewhere would likely fall to...
The thought never finished as he felt Monty extricate herself from his grasp, slender fingers instead wrapping around his, pulling him toward a tight shop entrance. "Come take a look at these."
Letting her haul him behind a wall of handbags, Jethro leaned down once more, ducking out of sight as she glanced up to peruse the offerings, eyes however peering through gaps in their cover to the arcade floor beyond.
"I didn't think these would be up your alley."
"They're not..." taking one down, she opened it to evaluate inside, before turning it out to show a run of stitching, "...and even if they were I wouldn't be tempted, this is not well put together."
"So 'no' then?"
"No."
"My wallet lives to fight another day."
That earned him an unimpressed expression, but no words further of the subject. Instead, hanging the bag back in place, his girl eyed the rack up and down again. "Besides, this is all just so... plain, and not in a good way either: the designs are dull and they've just enough shiny metal on to make middle-class suburbia think it's glamorous, without seeming threatening... he's gone past."
Waving at the rack dismissively, his girl headed back for the door, lifting a bag nearer the storefront on her way then letting it drop with an unimpressed expression as Jethro stepped quickly behind, using the pause generated to ensure John was faced away. Letting his hand drift down to the small of her back once more, he ushered her out into the maelstrom of bodies... things to do and, best guess, they had ten, maybe fifteen minutes before the Chinese would return to their pursuit.
If nothing else, how quickly they were reacquired would serve as measure of how keenly their watchers were following.
It was only a short walk to Zhang's white goods store and, rounding a corner into its slightly quieter back alley, the handler slowed, glancing in the mirror of a gradually rusting truck, scanning faces behind.
So far, still clean.
That he could live with, and his attention instead turned to the street ahead, spider web wires still forming their constraining net between him and a darkening sky above, harsh shouts bouncing along crumbling concrete walls. In their shadow a familiar, random, selection of appliances dribbled out across cracked pavements and, gaze running over it as they approached, Jethro's eyes narrowed. Something was different, missing from the scene. The white goods were there, and the beckoning cat... but no door guard. The wizened man who had greeted their and, from John's pictures, Mary's arrival also, was not in evidence, and he leant down to Monty.
She, however, beat him to the punch. "I see it."
Giving her shoulder a squeeze the handler stood once more, leisurely saunter continuing around parked trucks as looming clouds began to dispense their first fat droplets on the steaming city. Picking up the pace, Jethro pulled his girl in under the storefront just as that stuttering flurry gave way to a fully fledged downpour, thundering against asphalt and shattering into a fine, damp, mist.
Aside from the lack of guard, the store inside looked little different from what he remembered: dingy, lit by low-strung incandescent bulbs, a glow from its rear hanging above the rudimentary barrier of fridges and stacked dryers. Behind, a shadow was moving, making for the barricade's edge, and he felt Monty tense almost imperceptibly under his grasp.
Who rounded the corner however was not Zhang, but instead a small, balding man, looking at his visitors in surprise, and Jethro waved a hand.
"Chéngmahn!"
Not many expats visiting here then... or he had not been expecting any of Zhang's previous guests to return.
Or he was a good actor.
"Fùnyìhng. Welcome." Seeming to gather himself with that, the presumed proprietor threaded through stacked boxes to stand before the fratello. "What can I help?"
"Uhh... ńgh ōn." Letting the blank expression of someone thinking, and giving up, wash across his face, Jethro continued. "We were here two...yee... or three, uhh... sarm... I think, weeks ago and..."
"No." The word was adamant. "You maybe have wrong store. I not here at that time. On... holiday. No open."
Well, that was interesting.
"You sure?"
"Yes."
"Huh." Nudging his partner before himself, arms crossing over skinny shoulders, the spy let a wry grin spread across his face. "Well, we're on holiday too at the moment... you start to lose track after a week or so, don't you?"
Smile and the world smiles back, a saying which seemingly held true across most cultures, and once again Jethro found his expression reciprocated.
"Yes."
"How long were you closed for? I say two or three weeks ago, but it could have been longer."
Another shake of the head, this time accompanied by a less happy expression.
"No. I away for month, only re-open last week."
"Sounds like it was not a holiday."
"Nephew, wedding..." he rubbed a finger and thumb together, "...expensive, help pay bride-price, and no income."
Jethro gave his partner a squeeze. "Well, I don't know which end of that I'll be on just yet, if at all."
Now the shop keeper's eyes flicked down to Monty, then back to the man behind her. "Take advice: no have boy."
"At the moment I'm probably unlikely to have anything."
"No. Have child. Have girl. No carry on name, but no cost on marry."
"You hear that luv?"
The reply from lower down was dry. "Yes, and for your sake I'm going to pretend I didn't."
Giving his partner another squeeze, Jethro returned the wry grin to the shop owner. "What do you do huh?"
The other man shrugged, wearing a similar expression, before gesturing around his shop. "That I no able help with. Help here though. What you want other store for?"
Pausing long enough to give the impression of changing tack, the handler followed that gesture. "That? We were considering buying an apartment here and were weighing costs. The other shop was giving us a quote for appliances."
"I help with that. What you need?"
Now Monty glanced upward. "A second quote certainly wouldn't hurt."
"Look, just the basics for now: fridge, washing machine, dryer, microwave... television if you have it... mid-range to good brands."
"I make list. You wait."
"That would be fantastic, m̀hgòi."
While the owner bustled back toward the store's rear, Jethro released his charge, ushering her nearer pouring rain as it drummed against pavement, white noise enveloping any sound uttered at its edges, and he held out a hand to let droplets batter across his palm.
"I don't think this will last too long, the heavy bit at least." Settling to lean back against a handy washing machine, he gave his partner a querying look. "So I suspect it's probably not worth seeing if he recognises Mary."
The return was quiet and dry. "I suspect not. Even if he's actually a housekeeper or similar, there's no certainty he would know what his property was used for, and I doubt he would fess up if he did."
"Highly improbable, true. We did get one thing out of this though: we now have a rough idea of the window in which Mary visited... those were not the tones of a man who holidays regularly."
"If she visited in that period, there's a fair chance she's still here too... unless of course she was being thrown out, or he is a housekeeper and spinning some untruth: which would explain how the Orchid moved in without anyone asking questions."
"I suspect Zhang could come up with a suitable cover story if need be..." tapping a finger against white painted steel, Jethro looked down toward his boots, noting the speckled pattern where water had splashed onto suede uppers from now easing rain, "...and I don't think he's a housekeeper."
"What makes you so sure?"
Another pause.
"I don't know just... something."
That earned him a cocked eyebrow. "And you've plenty of recent experience reading people on this side of the planet have you?"
Not replying, the handler instead flashed another grin, before drawing her into his side as the subject of conversation reappeared, a sheet of lined paper in hand.
"Here, I give quote."
Taking the proffered document, he held it low enough that Monty also could read carefully, albeit still jagged, English lettering, followed by much neater Chinese script.
"I try use good brand."
"Thank you for that, we will take it onboard."
Shaking hands, Jethro waited for his partner to complete the same ritual, before edging into drizzle now descending outside as the storm moved on, slipping the paper into a pocket as he went. While the downpour may have abated its lingering dregs still fed downpipes and gutters, keeping them flush with raging torrents and, stepping over that temporary obstacle into the road to walk side by side, he leant down to talk.
"Did you get a good look around?"
The reply was quick coming. "Yes. I suspect those photos were not taken from any of the nearer buildings, though whether as a result of not wanting to be seen, or lack of access, who knows. That said, the photographer would have needed a fairly substantial camera setup to pick us from any reasonable farther vantage point."
Pavements were beginning to fill again in the storm's wake, crowds splitting and reforming as schools of fish to avoid dribbling water from the forest of signs above, running in rivulets across slick footpaths and asphalt. Falling into that throng, the pair began to thread once more through Mong Kok back streets, headed slowly south, pausing to inspect a shop here or interesting window there, before finally turning onto the wider expanse of Nathan Road, joining its arrow straight course toward Victoria Harbour.
Matching his pace to the flow of foot traffic, Jethro felt a slight touch on his hand and, looking down, he saw Monty gesture subtly to the reflective side of a bus stop, still peppered with sparkling droplets. Following, he found the outline of familiar features trailing behind once more.
"Well they wouldn't have wanted to take too long about it, we're about the only gweilos in sight."
"Just the one tail."
"That I can see at least..." he paused in consideration, "...being said, that it has taken this long for them to reacquire us suggests there probably is not a second tail."
"Probably not, no."
Leaning down again, Jethro waited for his partner to continue. The constant ducking below head height must have had their follower verging on an aneurysm, which he, personally, would be fine with.
Monty, however, was talking again. "The other thing going for that theory is Zhang seemingly chasing both us and Mary. Presuming she's still here, he will need to be spreading resources quite thin."
"Unless he's kept more in reserve than we've presently seen."
"Which would not, however, fit with the operational picture we've been drawn of his controllers... though that information could of course be deficit." She paused again. "I would perhaps be more curious to know what his interest in her is... and just what it means for his interest and knowledge of us."
Now that was a disquieting thought.
Stepping closer the kerb to avoid bamboo scaffold, supporting another sign being erected into the multitude above, the handler brought his charge around to travel in file, leaning down again to continue their conversation.
"I can think of a few commonalities, for me at least, between us and Mary which may spark some interest, but..."
"...but there's really only one obvious choice."
Reaching the scaffold end, Jethro pulled back in beside her, checking as he did their tail's location, before speaking again. "There is, and it's amazing how oft the most obvious and inconvenient choice is also want to be the correct one. Could you imagine what the Chinese would do being able to print US money for themselves?"
"I imagine they would not precisely be making pocket change." Another few steps passed, Monty's eyes constantly scanning the surrounding area, before their gaze swung back toward him. "What I am finding particularly disquieting though is, should that indeed be the common interest he's tracing, then he would have to know we're here on business, no matter how earnestly we pretend otherwise. Without that assumption, without knowing what was here and who was in pursuit, there's no real link to make tracking both parties worthwhile."
Another pause, then the handler gave his partner's shoulder a squeeze. "Be that as it may, we've yet to give any specific proof of being less than what we say we are."
"That we know of."
"That we know of. However, no matter how certain he is, he still has to be guessing to some extent, so for now I suggest we carry on as is."
"We're hobbling ourselves too remember."
"I think we're still just as badly constrained by lack of information until Tiger or Rome get back to us anyway and, so long as we're careful, what we can chase independently is relatively easily pursued in plain sight. Once they do though..."
"Keep in mind we don't have forever to spend here."
Another squeeze. "I know."
"How potentially exposed we are also depends on how Zhang got the information in the first place."
He took a moment to process that.
"Insinuating?"
"That if whosoever leaked details of our trip also handed on the 'why', he would have known our intentions from the off."
"It's one possibility, but then why haul us in? To scare us away and eliminate one fragment of the searching competition?"
"Or possibly the press is already in Chinese hands which, to play Devil's Advocate, is a perfectly acceptable outcome for us, in the short term at least."
"So long as they're not in cahoots with any of the competition." Jethro tapped a finger against his girl's shoulder, thinking. "I don't believe so though, if he didn't want us here, snooping around, he could more simply have just denied us entry."
"Not without leaving a trail."
"I'm sure that is less of a concern for him than it is for us on this particular turf."
"Presuming his government and superiors know what game he's playing." That comment came across darkly, and she let it hang briefly, before shrugging. "For all we know he could simply have wished an opportunity to evaluate us face to face too."
"Which returns us to the original 'how' of discovering what we are here in pursuit of."
Ahead, their current route terminated, opening onto wide, public, harbour-front spaces, a far cry from frenetic and claustrophobic streets left behind. Turning west along the shore's paralleling street, the pair headed toward a vintage clock tower, jutting skyward as a marker for the cross-harbour ferry terminal, juxtaposed beside modern, swooping shapes of the Hong Kong Space Museum.
"If we discount any mole activity for a moment, well, it's not difficult to get a boat crew drunk..." Jethro shot his partner a sly grin, "...and even if the press were brought ashore quickly they may still have some idea what was being handed on from their care."
"But if Anagnos Dragon has been specifically dealing with the Padania's dirty work, you'd suspect her crew to not be so easily turned."
"Maybe so, but a night out is a night out, and a pretty girl is a pretty girl, especially if the only motivator to stay quiet is money."
That earned him an unimpressed look, and he pulled Monty in tighter.
Seemingly satiated by that, she sighed. "Perhaps they managed to trace us back to Alexandria, or Monaco?"
"I doubt it. The Chinese prefer mosaics: long, singularly in depth investigations are not their style."
"Neither, apparently, is splitting out individual cells from a central control, and that's happening."
"Touché."
"Which gives us the time between the press hitting port, and its leaving the docks, as the most likely point for Zhang's becoming aware of it, and I don't doubt the Orchid has at least a few watchers buried amongst the stevedores."
"Them, and everyone else."
Another pause, but this time his partner's expression was pensive.
"Hold that thought." Taking a breath, she appeared to change tack, though the expression remained. "Of course, the Circus's hacking team may also have left a trail... presuming they even existed in first place."
Now Jethro did look down at his partner, cocking a querying brow. That however elicited no response and, turning eyes back forward, he dropped the subject as they arrived under the Star Ferry, Tsim Sha Tsui terminal, clock tower.
Merging into a crowd flowing toward the pier's Central-bound berth, buying pass tokens as they went, the pair headed for the company's cheaper, less tourist-friendly, lower-deck. Pushing through its turnstile into dimly lit corridors, Jethro ushered his girl forward, pulling up at the back of a group waiting patiently by low gates, surrounding walls painted in chipped green and white, mirroring the double-prowed vessels plying waves beyond. The air was warm down here, tinged with scents of salt, fuel, and mildew, and it was with a certain degree of relief that the throb of a marine diesel and bump of their transport against the pier were greeted.
At this time of day, the bulk of commuters were headed away from Hong Kong Island, but eventually a blue-uniformed guard pulled the gates back, directing new passengers down the wide gangway and between barnacle encrusted piles to the waiting ferry's second class deck. Boarding via the boat's own lowered ramp, the former British agent moved his partner to a place by its prow as she took position farthest from the crowd. That was unusual and, following the cue, he turned to stand over her, looking out across the harbour and blocking any sightline from behind as she produced her phone.
From amidships came the rattle of block and tackle as the vessel's ramps were manually hauled up, a low-frequency pulse overlaying the shouts of sailor-suited deck hands as they cast off, taking heavy lines from their opposites on the pier.
Not wanting to appear too interested as his girl flicked through photos, Jethro settled in to watch passing harbour life, one arm leaned against steel railing, the other draped around her side, letting fingers brush lightly up and down her belly's firm curve as the boat throbbed its way toward Central on the far shore.
Skirting behind a cruise liner being guided into its berth by fussing tugs, the ancient ferry continued to thread between bay traffic, hydrofoil water taxis and red-rigged junks carrying their human cargo through throngs of more utilitarian craft. Amongst them, the first gin-palace cruisers made their way out with revellers for the evening and, watching another white hull turn slightly to pass astern, he found slender fingers intertwining with the languidly brushing hand, drawing his attention. Leaning down slightly, the handler felt them release once more as Monty started to talk, chatter of voices and rumbling engine masking her quiet words.
"You know, I think Mary has been here for awhile."
Halting, she lifted her phone up slightly so he could see the screen. On it was displayed one of Algy's photographs, zoomed in on the blurred identification code of one container. Not waiting for him to reply, the girl continued.
"I said before Zhang's people would have needed a not insubstantial camera setup to get the photos they did in Mong Kok, well it's highly doubtful these came off CCTV stills either. Someone has done a careful job of roughening them up, but no-one has been pulling ISO codes off this rubbish."
"Zoom and enhance?"
That earned him an unimpressed look.
"You know as well as I that's a crutch dreamed up by Hollywood." She paused. "Feasibly there could have been another camera closer to the truck, but I doubt it. The most likely place to find that would be the gates, but the wharves are run by separate companies..."
"...which would mean a separate camera system, and separate server, for the shared infrastructure."
"Exactly."
The pause was filled once more by surrounding noise, and Jethro mulled those words over, free hand moving up to hold his partner tighter, thumb now absently massaging at flesh between her collar bone and shoulder. It was certainly a compelling theory, and he could see where it was going, however...
Time to play Devil's Advocate again.
"Anyone could have acquired those shots though. None of that proves Mary was the image source."
"No, it doesn't, but it's not just anyone we've been running into over and over again following the same trail, and it's not just anyone Zhang has been taking a parallel interest in either."
"Could have been the photos brought her here though." The massaging stopped. "Okay, so let's work on the assumption these are, in fact, Mary's doing, where does that leave us?"
Turning the phone off, Monty slipped it away in a pocket, hand moving instead to lay atop his.
"Well, if we believe Algy's timeframe, and who knows what lines he's been feeding us, she would have been here at least two months. Even if the deed was not directly hers, but it drew her here instead, there has still been at least a month by the store owner's reckoning for her to work."
"Question is, where does her arrival actually fall in with all that? If her travelling east happened substantially prior to being contacted by Zhang, it might point to his having undertaken independent investigations, rather than being tipped off by some third party."
"Which would explain any time deficit on her side, but not how he was then so quickly on to us."
"A month is plenty of time to put feelers out. Don't forget, this is his backyard we're playing in."
"Intercepting us would have required knowing our cover, which was a very last-minute and tightly controlled arrangement..." the girl turned her head slightly to cock a wry eyebrow at him, "...and best I can tell, Vauxhall is somewhat better informed than Rome regards our present whereabouts. Feasibly he could have activated a sleeper here after finding Mary..."
"...but I doubt he has the rank yet to make that call direct or, as one of the new boys, the local clout to do so without expending time on going up through official channels," finished the handler for her.
A nod.
"Which returns us to the possibility he was tipped off she was coming, and why, but still leaves a potential time gap to fill."
Now Monty shrugged. "Possibly he could not organise a meeting that quickly, or maybe he wanted to see what she would do."
"But not what we would do? I'm almost insulted."
"We already suspect his resources are stretched thin. With two parties to follow he may not have had enough suitably skilled bodies to do any more than sit on us."
Letting her words hang, Jethro looked forward to where Star Ferry's well lit, more modern, Central facility was swimming into focus out of still drizzling rain.
A sigh.
"Which is all very useful information to have, but doesn't get us any closer to completing what we originally came here for..."
"...or even figuring out if Mary is still present."
At that however, the former SIS man leaned forward, just far enough to give his partner a thin smile.
"Oh, I think she will be. Even if she finished up between our seeing Algy and arrival, the last thing her superiors want is someone else causing a ruckus in their wake."
"So then where to now?"
With a bump the ferry pulled up against its moorings, engine's throb slowing to be replaced by the crew's shouts again as they passed heavy lines up to those on the pier, loops being collected on long billhooks and hauled over stout bollards.
Glancing around, Jethro waited for the seats nearby to empty before he replied. "For now, I think we might go with your earlier suggestion: find out who handles Hermes' traffic through Hong Kong, and see if they've had any interesting visitors recently."
Looking down the boat, Monty nodded to where their tail was just getting up from his seat, dawdling as he went.
"And that? Visiting a freight office is not exactly something to do on holidays."
"That? If they really are spread thin, we may just be able to start playing dirty a little earlier."
Cited on Italy's far northwest Adriatic coast, the port city of Trieste caught its fair share of summer's wrath, sun beating down on idyllic, carefully maintained, classical architecture from clear blue skies.
It was certainly no place to find oneself cooped up in a stationary vehicle with three other bodies.
Despite its occupants' best efforts, Hilshire's car remained sweltering, afternoon heat penetrating deep into this narrow side street, melting inexorably into the big Mercedes' dark paintwork, lowered windows doing little to help in still, dead, air. Stripped of her trademark trench coat, reduced to simple blouse and skirt, Triela picked up a piece of paper, fanning herself with it. Sharing the rear bench, Odile was probably faring slightly better though, by the look of it, not by much, the sound of skin unpeeling from sweaty leather accompanying every movement. Even their handlers had been reduced to rolled shirt sleeves, jackets and shoulder holsters swapped for something lighter and less constricting in the torrid atmosphere.
Two fratelli, that was more than the SWA seemed prepared to spare for most things these days, at least until they figured out whose identities had been compromised. The senior cyborg allowed herself a wry chuckle at that: once upon a time no-one would have batted an eyelid at two fratelli deploying together... not that there was anywhere to hide another pair on this narrow street, no matter how carefully selected.
So they sat, and sweltered.
From the seat's far end, Odile's eyes swung toward her.
"Triela, what are you laughing at?"
The younger blonde shook her head. "Nothing. Just remembering a less complicated life... not that I realised it at the time."
"Are you sure this was the place?"
Ceasing their conversation, Triela's gaze swung toward where Mr. Vitale was sitting in the front passenger seat, staring down the road, hands cradling a heavy DSLR camera and telephoto lens in his lap. It was Hilshire, however, who replied.
"This is where we tracked Vito's bike to... or, at least, one of those places he has been visiting most regularly."
The younger man's eyes narrowed slightly at that. "Yes, so you said. I would quite like to know how you suddenly started making progress down that track."
No response.
Scowling, he turned his attention elsewhere. "What can you see, Odile?"
The elder girl fidgeted, leaning over to peer past her handler's shoulder.
"Umm, see what, Florentino?"
"Pick something, tell me what you think looks important."
"Umm."
A sigh. "Try describing the target building to me."
"Umm, well... it's the offices of a small financial firm, four storeys tall, stone facing... it has an Italian flag out the front."
"And why do you think a probable Northern Separatist organisation is flying il Tricolore?"
Another pause while the girl thought.
"I would say it's camouflage," only once the words were out of her mouth did Triela realise she had possibly just put her foot in it, but she was started now, "they probably want to appear patriotic."
Looking around, Mr. Vitale's expression was sour, but he nodded. "Yes, that is a reasonable assumption... perhaps not particularly good camouflage since the only other establishments flying flags are the hotels, but camouflage none the less." Now his gaze swung back to Odile. "What about the surrounding buildings, have you been keeping an eye on those?"
"Yes, Florentino."
"And?"
Glancing sideways, Triela could see her fellow cyborg's eyes flicker across the street outside again, though whether to remind herself what was there, or to cover a mistake, she could not tell.
"Umm... most of the buildings seem pretty empty, I think this area is residential... there is a couple walking away," she squinted, "and someone in the window across from our target building... I think they're reading... and..."
"That's enough, I don't need to hear every last detail. Use your head, tell me: does anything look suspicious to you?"
"Umm."
"The couple?"
"They're walking away from us, and they have a stroller."
"The person in the window?"
"He's just reading, and two doors down there is someone watering a window box."
"So make a note of each, no matter how innocent they may seem, commit them to memory, and watch for them again."
Lifting his camera anyway, the younger handler aimed it along the street, presumably at his cyborg's window sitter. Triela's attention however had already snapped elsewhere.
"Mr. Vitale? At the target's door."
Getting only a grunt in reply, she watched as he brought the lens down to line up with two figures, standing about fifteen metres away on the building's low front steps. Neither she recognised, but they paused for a moment, apparently finishing a discussion, before descending to get into the back of a large saloon car parked kerbside.
Ensuring he caught the car's number plate as it turned away, Mr. Vitale lowered his DSLR back below the window line.
"I'll send those on to Priscilla tonight and see if she can match them up to anyone." Getting a nod of agreement from Hilshire, he twisted around again to the two cyborgs in the rear seat. "That, Odile, is the sort of thing you need to be looking for. I hope you're learning from this, you can't wait for me to prompt you every time."
"Yes, Florentino."
The words were mumbled, and Triela lowered her own voice, far enough that neither handler would hear.
"Don't worry, it's just like shoot house, you'll learn with time."
"Mmm..."
Silence descended again, and she turned her attention back to the street, watching its comings and goings as shadows continued to lengthen, sweeping across the tarmac. There had been other days like this: Naples, Montalcino... the sniper hunt in Rome, and many more beyond that. So peaceful on the surface, but tumultuous beneath, no sign of the war being fought in Italy's dark places, a war no-one saw until it spilled from beyond the curtain.
Somewhere in the city, the sound of an engine, drawing nearer, overlayed by the closer tapping of Mr. Vitale's fingernail atop his camera. Across the way, a door creaked open, letting a small group wearing football jerseys and carrying kit bags out, turning up the street toward them; probably headed to training.
The tapping stopped.
"That reader has been sat in their window all afternoon... it's an awfully long time to stay at the same book."
"He was there yesterday too."
The handler's head snapped around at Odile's words, apparently to blast a rebuke, but he clamped his jaw shut, instead turning to Hilshire in the driver's seat, expression hardening into concern.
"Two can still be a coincidence, but I suddenly don't like this Victor. It might be time to move on."
That engine was closer now.
Hesitating a moment, Hilshire nodded, reaching back for a seatbelt as Mr. Vitale turned to face the two cyborgs.
"Odile, why didn't you..." his eyes went wide, "...brace!"
With a sudden crescendo roar and shattering crash the world heaved, hurling Triela forward as white curtains exploded into existence around her, only to be torn apart as gunfire raked the car, sending her ducking for cover. Whoever was shooting had not brought children's toys either and, as their volley finally petered out, the cyborg lifted her head, SIG pistol already in hand. Their car's front had been thoroughly smashed into the bodywork of that ahead, while behind could be seen the culprit through tinkling shards of falling glass: the bluff front of a Mitsubishi four wheel drive, steam rising from its radiator, pinning them in place. Already its doors were open, disgorging armed fighters onto the pavement, unmistakable silhouettes of Bizon submachine guns in their hands. Shredded window airbags revealed the 'footballers' also, five of them, similarly equipped and advancing across the street.
A shout went up, she had been spotted.
Closest threats first.
Turning, she raised her pistol, drawing a bead on the Mitsubishi's driver, loosing two shots as her target dove for cover, half-loaded magazine clattering to the ground as he crumpled unmoving after it. Two more reports from behind let her know Odile was still in the fight as well, catching another enemy, but the man's compatriots were following suit now, scrambling to put something solid between themselves and the defending cyborgs.
The respite wouldn't last for long, probably until someone managed to reload, and they weren't going to match another salvo like that with pistols.
"Odile, cover me."
"Yes, Triela."
Diving over the seat back, the younger girl grabbed the nearest case she could find, wrenching it into the footwell as automatic fire raked the car again, and she stifled a grunt, heat blooming in her arm. Odile was quick to respond however and, letting her deal with the threats for a moment, she tore the case open, pulling out an MP9 submachine gun. Slamming a thirty round magazine into place she wrenched the charging handle back, before passing it upward to its owner, two fifteen shot mags following in its wake.
"It's loaded."
Feeling the plastic weight lifted away, she popped up for another look through torn and dangling airbags. Odile had apparently killed another at the four wheel drive, but the five across the street had dug in. That was going to be a problem.
Either way, they couldn't stay here.
A moan from the front seat snapped her attention that way. Hilshire was already hunkered down below window height as best he could manage, pistol in hand, but Mr. Vitale looked in much worse shape, blood already beginning to soak through the shoulder of his shirt in at least two places.
"Odile, get around the rear and keep their attention."
Two more shots sent the final man behind ducking away again and, from the corner of her eye she saw the older cyborg try her door handle, then swing around, bracing against the seats to kick at it once, twice, three times.
The door slammed open with a bang of failing metal, bouncing back against its hinges, and she rolled out after it. Space cleared behind, Triela scrambled back also, slithering onto the pavement as another volley rocked the Mercedes from across the street.
From this low position she could just see the last of their closer assailants. Smart, he had put the 4x4's wheel between himself and the fratelli, but that was Odile's problem.
Hopefully she could handle it.
Shoving the door's deformed slab back into place the senior cyborg crawled forward, grabbing at the front passenger handle to pull hard, as her less experienced sibling sent another burst across narrow tarmac.
Nothing, also stuck. Not what she needed: it would only be a matter of time before those over the street decided to rush them.
Popping up to send two more shots their direction by way of dissuasion, the girl holstered her SIG before getting one hand on the door release, fingers of the other snaking in behind its panel line and, bracing feet against the car, she pulled hard.
Its catch gave way with a jolt, sending her tumbling backwards, just in time to clear Mr. Vitale falling out behind, a grunt of pain issuing forth as he hit the ground.
"Florentino!"
"Eyes forward Odile! Give Victor some cover!"
Taking up position at the bonnet, Triela emptied the remainder of her magazine toward the footballers, replacing it with her spare as Hilshire scrambled clear as well, blood dribbling from a cut across his cheek as he wedged the door in place again.
"We can't stay here."
That was Mr. Vitale, gun drawn in his off-hand.
"No, we can't." Now her handler looked at her. "Triela, I need you to secure the doorway of the target building. If we get there, we will at least put the enemy all on one side. Do you have your Winchester?"
"It's still in the boot."
"Get ready to retrieve it. Odile, Florentino, we need to give her some cover."
Trading places with him at bonnet, Triela crawled back until she was level with the car's rear wheel.
"On three. One. Two. Three!"
With that her companions popped out, loosing a hail of bullets across the road and back toward the written off Mitsubishi, and she leapt up, reaching in through their estate's shattered window to tug her shotgun case clear, drawing it down as she ducked from the path of withering return fire.
Stock still welded to her shoulder, Odile's spent magazine clattered to the pavement, bouncing across concrete as the senior girl tore her bag open, extracting the trench gun inside, magazine tube already full. Pumping one of the shells out, she replaced it with a slug, cycling the action again to charge the weapon.
"I'll let you know when it's clear."
That got a nod and, leaping up once more she swung the Winchester around, stroking the trigger to send it slamming into her shoulder, slug sailing across the street to crash through the windows of their enemy's cover, and she was rewarded with a scream of pain. No time to celebrate however and, chambering a new shell she was up and running, charging toward their target's doorway.
Fifteen metres.
Ten.
Incoming fire kicked up shards of concrete from the pavement around her.
Five.
Shadows appeared ahead, stepping out, weapons levelling and the shotgun boomed. One went down and she ducked under the second's muzzle, gun's rising butt meeting his nose hard enough to drive it back and up into the brain. Not stopping she continued up the short set of stairs, pumping in another round to crash through heavy wooden doors and sweep the lobby area beyond, her Winchester making its report again to drop the last visible human form, landing face down on carefully polished marble.
Empty.
Replenishing the expended shells, she chambered another slug, before stepping outside to shout down the street.
"Clear!"
The reply was indistinct but, holding the next slug in her mouth, she aimed up across narrow tarmac. By the Mercedes she saw Hilshire haul Mr. Vitale to his feet, half carrying him her way as Odile brought up the rear.
It didn't take long for their attackers to cotton on and, as the farther group popped out from cover again, both cyborgs sent fire streaking their direction. Suddenly though, the puncture noise of submachine gun fire was interrupted by the sharp crack of a rifle, and blood spurted from Florentino's hip, accompanied by a shout of pain.
"Sniper!"
Damn.
Ramming her second and final slug home, Triela scanned windows opposite, retreating into the doorway as those at ground level moved their offensive to her.
The reader's window was empty now, a shadowy form inside...
A flash of flame, followed by another cracking report, and the cyborg sent her shot sailing through open panes toward it, target inside crumpling.
Her companions had made it now, Hilshire bodily hauling Mr. Vitale up the stairs to set him down inside, back to solid stone, Odile still bringing up the rear, blood staining her abdomen as another spent magazine fell clear of the MP9's grip. Safely into the lobby however she dove for her handler.
"Florentino!"
The man let out another grunt of pain as she landed near him.
At the doorway however, Triela could see their assailants moving up, three from across the road joining their formerly isolated compatriot in the advance and, drawing her pistol she sent two rounds their direction.
"Mr. Hilshire?"
"I see them." Now his eyes flicked to the other cyborg. "Odile, I need you on the door."
"But."
Mr. Vitale coughed. "Do as he says, Odile."
"But."
"I'm fine, I don't think they hit anything vital... yet. Make sure they don't get another chance at it."
Hesitating half a second, the elder girl nodded, moving to take up position as instructed, sub-compact Beretta drawn... seemingly that was it for the machine pistol.
Hilshire was talking again. "Triela, we'll hold here. I want you to clear the building then try and put some fire down on top."
"Yes sir."
Racking her shotgun again, the cyborg set off, pausing at the base of wide stairs to relieve her most recent victim of his Bizon. It wasn't much, but it would be better ranged than anything else she had. Slinging it over a shoulder she moved on, Winchester leading once more.
First floor, clear.
Second floor, clear.
Third floor...
Reaching the stair's top, something moved in the corner of her eye, and Triela threw herself flat as rounds zinged off stone balustrade. This uppermost storey was different to the others: a narrow landing and single large room on one end, the latter apparently occupied. Popping up she returned fire, sending her enemy ducking for cover as she charged forward, another spread of shot keeping him pinned, empty shell skittering along at her feet as she dropped, sliding low through the doorway.
Good choice.
Fire raked past where her head would have been and she swung around to trace its source, answering report accompanied by a fine red mist.
What remained of her target collapsed to the floor, blood already pooling around it. Getting up, she swept the space, sudden silence interrupted only by the cracks and pops of the ongoing street battle below, backed by sirens in the distance.
A desk, computer... large meeting table down the far end.
Clear.
Pushing past that latter, the cyborg shoved open a front window. Placing her shotgun down, she unshouldered the Bizon submachine gun, checking it was loaded – a bit under half a magazine by the feel of things - and trained it outward, finding the four remaining Padans hunkered down a car or two from the building entrance.
They had not seen her.
Her first burst caught the closest one, dropping him, and the man beside rolled away, out of the line of fire, shouting a warning and spraying rounds back, forcing her to duck as shattering glass crashed down under the hail of returning bullets. Its fury was however short lived, joined by reports from directly under her feet and, as she popped up again, the enemy were retreating, one with a phone to his ear.
Her next burst caught his leg, causing him to stagger as, engine roaring, a white van careened into view, screeching to a halt in the street, side doors slamming open. Levelling her subgun she jammed down the trigger again, peppering its big shell with pockmarks, but then it was gone, taking the remaining Padans with it.
Damn.
Someone had seen them and got away. That was going to cause problems further down the track.
Sighing, Triela dropped the expended magazine from her recently acquired weapon, its clatter breaking the sudden silence which came crashing in upon her. Moving quickly back toward the door she swapped it for the still part-full one from her most recent victim's firearm, before shouldering her shotgun again. Time to give the building a second clearing, but a quick one: she had to ensure Hilshire and the others were safe...
...Or at least, no worse off than they currently were.
That brought a grim expression, one which remained affixed as she double checked each level on her descent, and was made no better by the scene which greeted her in the lobby.
Someone on the Padania side had apparently scored a lucky hit, smashing its large overhead light fitting, leaving the space illuminated only by what sun remained out on the street. Beside the door, Hilshire had a phone to his ear, while Odile attended to, or at least fussed over, the wounded Mr. Vitale, seemingly oblivious to blood spread across her own stomach and blossoming from a shoulder.
Receiving a querying look from her handler, the senior cyborg gave a small nod, and he said something else down the mobile line, before dropping it and ending the call.
"Triela?"
"Three got away sir, but the building is clear."
A sigh. "Well that could have gone better, however we are at least still here and breathing. Ferro has a cleanup crew on their way by air, but they will take two hours minimum to arrive. Until then, I will distract the local law enforcement and find Florentino an ambulance."
"I'm going with him!"
The anguished shout came from Odile, still knelt on the ground, eyes wide.
Hilshire paused at that for a moment, but then his face hardened. "No, you're not. Once the cleanup crew gets here, someone can take you to the hospital as a relative, but for now you and Triela need to remain out of sight."
"But."
"No. You stay here Odile." The girl's eyes swung toward her own handler, lips opening, but Mr. Vitale cut across the top of her. "The worst thing that could happen right now would be for me to be wheeled out with a bloodied cyborg in tow."
"But, if I don't go, who's going to protect you?"
"Use your head: I'll be fine, at least for the next few hours, but right now it's far more important you protect my cover rather than my body. You heard, three got away, and they'll be searching for anything which looks even remotely like a fratello, so stay put."
The girl appeared like she wanted to say more but, whether by choice or conditioning, stepped on the words. "Yes, Florentino."
Sirens were closer now, first flashes of emergency vehicle lights beginning to paint the street fleeting blue, and Hilshire ran an eye over his small party again. "There's a first aid kit in the car, I'll get it once I stall the locals, unless you girls can find one closer to hand." Odile was already moving, but the senior handler continued, "Triela, stay here a moment."
Pausing, she turned to the elder girl. "I'll be along soon. There's a break room on the first floor, so try there."
Watching her run off, she faced her own handler who crouched down, bringing them face to face. Reaching out, he touched the wound in her arm. "Let me see that."
Triela shook her head. "I'll be fine."
"Is it painful?"
Suppressing a wince as probing fingers found the bullet entry, she pulled her face instead into a dry grimace.
"It will be if you keep doing that." Now she reached out in turn, touching the cut on his cheek. "You're hurt too you know."
"It's just a cut, I was lucky." Sighing, he stood up, glancing out toward where police now piled from their vehicles and, fishing in a pocket, retrieved a leather wallet she knew to contain his Europol credentials. "Go look after Odile, get Florentino patched up, and make sure she doesn't do anything stupid."
"Yes sir."
"And leave your shotgun with me."
Unshouldering the Winchester, and her recently acquired submachine gun, Triela turned away, just catching Hilshire say something to Mr. Vitale before he was lost to the clamour outside.
"Inspector Hilshire of Europol!"
It was going to be a long wait for the cleanup team.
"They didn't precisely bring children's toys, did they?"
Crouched by one of the Padania bodies, Hilshire pushed its spent Bizon out of the way, glancing up at Ferro before beginning to rifle though the dead man's pockets with gloved hands.
"Not exactly, no. These must have come from somewhere other than the conduit Blacker shut down though: that was a bulk military dumping ground, and the Bizon is not used by any of the Russians' regular branches."
"Cut off one head, another two grow in its place."
"Perhaps, but it was assault rifles in Venice, so if they've brought submachine guns to fight cyborgs this time we must have caused at least some inconvenience."
The sun had set by now, street around lit by the strobing blue lights of parked police cars, flashing across softly glowing apartment windows. The police weren't the only ones present either, a white rental van also positioned to barricade one end of the battleground having brought Ferro's point team from the airport, while the cleanup crew's remainder travelled in from Rome by road.
Finding what he was looking for, the former detective stood, glancing toward the SWA's personnel manager.
"Well, that answers the question of how they identified us."
Handing over a bloodstained photo print, he waited for the suited woman to inspect it, and her expression hardened. "This is you and Triela."
"Yes, in Piazza della Cinque Lune, while we were hunting Anasetti," he grimaced, "so we know at least one fratello whom have been compromised."
"How about the phone?"
Looking at the other item he had retrieved, Hilshire shook his head. "Locked, unsurprisingly."
"Gather up what you can then, I'll have the tech and intelligence departments stand by to start sifting through." Now she held up the photo. "This, on the other hand, is enough to let me shut down the locals. We'll police the bodies and they can have those, but until we can ensure nothing likely to threaten Op-Sec is at stake, The Agency will seize everything else."
The handler nodded. "Did you need me out here anymore?"
Looking back, phone already halfway to her ear, Ferro shook her head. "No, from this point on in I can pull rank myself, thank you. Once this is sorted, I'll send someone up to collect Odile."
Nodding his acquiescence, Hilshire turned away, catching sight of the crumpled shape of his car, that was probably going to be a write-off and, sighing, he headed back inside. Fact of the matter was, compromised or no, it was unlikely anyone else would be able to continue the Vito investigation... such was the issue of being the only person present with your particular skill set. Of course, it was entirely probable that Florentino and Odile were about to suffer the same blown cover, so he would at least be sharing that particular boat with the Blackers for a bit longer yet...
Though, having spent the recent weeks with Florentino, he was seriously starting to doubt the man's ability to fill those particular shoes anyway.
Pulling the deceased Padan's phone from his pocket, he tapped it against an open palm thoughtfully. The best they could do now would be to try and figure out as quickly as possible who had been compromised and who had not and, if the Padania were set on finding fratelli quickly, the little device would hopefully hold the key to that. That was not all either: one of the Agency's resident hackers he knew to already be set up in the top floor office, collating what could be hauled back to Rome and what would be better taken care of here on site. With a bit of luck, that would produce an entirely different variety of useable information.
Pausing in his ascent, the handler looked into the small break room where Triela and Odile were sat at a bare table, cannibalised first aid kit between them. Beckoning his own charge over, Hilshire kept his voice low.
"Has someone taken a look at your injuries?"
"Yes, we've been patched up, though..." she grimaced, "...there will still be work to do once we're back at the compound."
Hilshire nodded, matching her expression: there always was in situations like these.
"And how is Odile?"
"Still down, this was her first actual engagement. It's hard enough for us to accept our handlers getting hurt, let alone on the first contact. She'll be fine, probably, once she has a chance to see Florentino will be okay, but until then I think she would be best back in the dorm, at least there she can talk to others for reassurance."
Another nod.
"Ferro says someone should be along to collect her and take her to the hospital shortly."
"Good. I'll stay here until they arrive."
Watching her handler head for the stairs again, Triela turned away, moving back to the dejected looking Odile. Slumped in her seat, the elder girl stared at her hands, thumbs fiddling nervously as her senior sat down opposite once more.
"Mr. Hilshire says someone should be along shortly to take you to Mr. Vitale."
That garnered a small smile. "Thank you, Triela... but I still don't know why I couldn't go with him in the ambulance."
"You need to maintain secrecy, both yours and the SWA."
"But I'm supposed to protect him!" The voice was a wail, and Triela signalled her to lower the volume, for what little good it did. "I was supposed to protect him in the fight, and I didn't, and now I can't make sure he's safe at the hospital either! If I had been paying more attention..."
"Yes, that happens." Feeling her voice change to something more matter of fact, the senior girl continued. "No matter how hard we try, no matter what we do, our handlers are still sometimes going to get hurt. It's difficult to accept, but it's also the nature of their work."
"But..."
"I'm not going to say 'give up trying', because as cyborgs we can't, we don't get a choice, but it is going to happen, and you'll need to learn to cope with it. I won't say it's easy, but you will have to learn."
"No, I won't let it happen again!"
That induced a grimace, of course she wouldn't, but...
"You're meant to be taking on the same role as Monty right?"
"Yes."
"I read she once let Mr. Blacker be beaten into a pulp rather than break cover."
"That's terrible! Why would she let that happen? How did she let that happen?"
"I doubt she found it a pleasant experience..." a momentary pause, "...but I guess her perspective is a little different to ours." Querying eyebrows prompted her to continue. "Look at it this way: Monty could have saved Mr. Blacker, as a cyborg, and he would have been spared the immediate pain, but in revealing herself, she may have put him in greater future danger. In a way, she was protecting him, but that protection was for a month, two, six... ten years or more down the track, rather than immediately. It's not the way we are conditioned to think but, like it or not, we may have to start taking a leaf or two from her book. If you had walked out the front door with Mr. Vitale yes, you could have protected him now, but you also would have been marked as a target for whenever the Padania next saw you, another broken cover."
More broken than it is now at least.
"But it still feels... wrong."
"And it always will, but we can learn to manage it, and will have to manage it... you more than anyone."
At tap at the doorframe, and the SRT's Fausto Martinello poked his massive form through.
"Miss. Triela? I'm here to take Odile to the hospital."
The other girl's face brightened at that, and Triela hid a smile.
"Go on then, shoo."