6

In the basement of his house, in his man cave. With an empty, canvas satchel hanging from his shoulder, Ianto leans heavy against the pinball machine...before -with shoulders slumped- he opens the front register, reaches in and with a great deal of effort, removes a long, slender, burnished-aluminum case... which he places upon his coffee table.

Ianto snaps up the latches and opens it...to reveal a KING'S BOUNTY: countless, tightly-bound stacks of various, international currencies, dozens of passports from dozens of countries, old fashioned bank books, credit/debit cards, and bricks of gold and palladium bullion.

.

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Ianto empties the gold bricks from the canvas satchel down upon the desk of his father-in-law as Gray and Franklin look on, incredulous. "Come again?"

"This is my offer."

"For... what?" Gray squeaks.

"The company. And if you know anything about the commodities market, it's not a good offer; it's … it's a great one."

"Now, wait a minute" Gray splutters.

Ianto is interrupting, to Franklin "and seeing as how I know you've been skimming... (to Gray) ...that's meanin' both of you... (to Franklin) ...I recommend you take it. Lest the IRS catch wind of what I know."

Gray snarls "Are you threatening us?"

Ianto smirks, eyes glinting "Do you really gotta' ask?"

A beat... and a frustrated Gray suddenly rears back to punch Ianto-who lands a lightning-quick palm to the center of Gray's thoracic diaphragm. Gray goes limp, gasping for breath, as Ianto catches him "Breathe. Just breathe" -to lower him into a chair.

Ianto continues to talk to Franklin "So, we gotta' deal?"

"Y'know, I ain't gonna' ask how you came by this, Ianto, but..." Franklin smiles with a nod "...it's a great offer, I'll give you that. (a beat, then) Fuck it."

A beat... and Franklin extends his hand.

.

.

Carrying the canvas bag, Franklin exits slowly -as if in a daze- followed closely behind by Gray who looks about the same. Gray tries to say something, managing little more than a gurgled snarl.

"What say we ice that down with some beers?"

Gray nods with a sigh and as the two men walk off, we pull back... to find Pavel and Albert watching from a distance.

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Dozens upon dozens of "illicitly-acquired" paintings adorn the walls... ...as Saxon -with a cigarette smoldering from between his lips- somberly -and a bit too slowly- sings the Russian love song KATYUSHA to himself as he basks in his collection.

He answers his vibrating cell phone with an irritated sigh. "What?"

"We've followed this Ianto Harkness-Jones to what looks to be his place of employment. Should we engage?"

"Engage?" Saxon repeats while turning to leave, he kisses his fingers before slapping a hand to the surface of a Monet "what are we, the fucking Allies in some goddamned WW2 movie that no one fucking saw?"

Exiting through a pair of large, reinforced, steel doors, Saxon enters a warehouse where a pair of old men in simple suits with thick glasses use high-end bill counters to count out a hundred, hundred dollar bills to be bound, stacked, and eventually sealed into bales. The amounts look to be astounding.

"Do I need remind you that this one man readily handed the shattered asses back to men far more accomplished than the two of you white-collared motherfuckers." Saxon passes through into an area where dozens of lackeys open crates to destroy cheap sculptures -but no less well made- filled with bags upon bags of crystal meth.

"So -with that in mind- why don't we wait until we've learned just about all there is to know about this piece of work, shall we?" Saxon ends the call and tucks his cell phone back into his jacket pocket.

Amounts are weighed, repackaged, and shipped out for distribution at an alarming rate.

"What have you got for me?" Saxon glances over at Beta -twenties, attractive young woman, glasses- sits at a desk with her feet up, seemingly bored out of her mind. "Found his dad. He's got him holed up at a nursing home downtown."

"That ain't much."

"Hey, it's something." She snaps back, then adds "Mr. Saxon, your man here looks to be as vanilla as they come."

"Yeah, well, I don't like it." He snarls "Feels like a wolf in sheep's clothing."

"Sir?"

Saxon mutters "Just... keep looking."

Saxon takes one final toke off of his cigarette, drops it, and he crushes it beneath the toe of his shoe.

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Franklin and Gray sit at the bar in silence, each nursing a beer. A beat, and Gray abruptly stands "I'm gonna' go take a load off fanny".-to amble off to the bathroom.

Franklin glances over at the duffel bag as he finishes his beer. Lowering the bottle, he motions to the Bartender for another as he produces his cell phone. As he speed dials a number.

Located in the middle of a vast cubicle farm, the workspace is impressively cluttered and exhaustingly claustrophobic. Loosening the cheap tie around the neck of his even cheaper suit, Darren -a lifelong, government employee- answers his phone. "Records."

"Hey, Darren."

"What's up, Franklin?"

"You mind doin' a little diggin' for me?"

"Sure. Looks to be a slow day anyways." Daren agrees.

"Aren't they all?"

Daren mutters "..truer words..."

Franklin shifts in his seat. "See what you can find me on Ianto Jones."

"Your son-in-law?"

"Yeah"

"Why do you ask now?" Darren snorts "bit late isn't it?"

"I'd -uh- just like to know a bit more about him, is all."

"All right. I'll see what I can find." Darren leans forward in his seat, grabbing a pen and paper. "Know where he was stationed?"

"No."

"His rank?"

"No."

"Hell, his position?"

"Oh -uh- he was an auditor."

"Don't you mean accountant?" Darren corrects with confusion.

"Well... no. Not exactly. He always just said he was an auditor."

"That -uh- isn't exactly a title I'm familiar with."

Franklin sighs "I don't know what else to tell you."

"I'll see what I can find."

"Thanks."

Darren hangs up the phone. Slipping on a pair of reading glasses, he brings up a program on his computer and types in IANTO JONES. Upon pressing the return button, the pinwheel spins... ...and his computer suddenly shuts down.

Forced to restart it, he again types in IANTO JONES... ...only for the pinwheel to again spin before the machine shuts down.

"What the... fuck?" Darren tries to restart it, but the computer has now been completely bricked.

Darren stands and walks out to where dozens upon dozens of employees are complaining about their computers having "gone down". Thinking little of it, Darren takes the elevator down to DEPOSITORY - -where he searches the countless rows of shelves lined with physical personnel files. The space is comically massive with no end in sight.

Darren searches... and searches... and searches until in a far off corner, partially-hidden behind a stack of boxes, he finds a shelf. Every file before him is about a half-an-inch thick. Searching, Darren frowns, removes a pair of inch-thick files, and finds a yellow folder -which looks to be empty- with the name IANTO JONES hastily scrawled upon it in pencil.

Opening it, all Darren finds inside is a yellow post-it note which reads: Refer to SUB-ARC-109-831.

Darren sighs, replaces the file, and continues down through numerous stairwells... ...narrow corridors... and long overlooked nooks and crannies before finally coming into a fully-brick enclosed facility with low lights and poor air flow.

The files here look to be of no importance at all, haphazardly stacked upon one another, albeit in an order all its own. Searching, Darren eventually finds a stack of ledgers, files, and the like tied tight with twine, a yellow post-it note slapped onto the top binding which reads: 109-831(?)

We can tell that the question mark kind of throws him, but Darren shrugs it off. Using a pocket knife, Darren cuts the twine and opens the first ledger... ...to find every line blacked out save a single word - NOBODY.

As he flips through page after page, ledger after ledger, and file after file... we can see that everything has been fully redacted save the word: NOBODY.

A beat... and Darren slams a ledger shut.

Lost in thought, Darren exits the elevator, walks with a furrowed brow, and is seemingly unaware that the floor is now completely empty. Flipping through pages of the file, each page as redacted as the last, Darren turns to enter to find Special Agent Hart –thin and taut, a red brocade jacket over what seems to be tight white jeans and thigh high boots like he stepped from some bloody painting, unblinking, and arguably the most intimidating man we have ever seen- sitting before his desk with Four Agents -eyes hidden behind dark glasses, each broad shouldered and well over six feet tall- standing at attention behind him.

Darren asks, intimidated "Can I... help you?"

"Yes." Hart motions "By sitting."

Darren does as he is asked.

"Thank you. Now... Do you know who I am?"

Trembling Darren admits "No. (on his look) I mean... No, sir?"

Hart nods "And did you find what you were looking for?"

"Yes, sir. Well. No, sir. I mean... kind of?"

Hart is glowering "Care... to elaborate?"

"I mean to say, sir... I found nothing." Darren swallows hard "Sir."

Hart takes a beat, and then grins "That... pleases me."

Hart turns with a motion. "To the chopper, boys."

Upon leaving Darren in his office, the door is closed behind them.

And Darren's computer reboots with a DING.