Mystique lay full-length along the roof of Dallas city hall, scanning the crowded street below nervously. Erik, looking every inch an assassin in his black polo neck sweater and cargo pants, lay alongside her, cursing gently and fiddling with his earpiece. He had complained when they first bought them that the metal components actually inside his ear played merry hell with his balance; but it couldn't be helped. They needed to be able to communicate with Azazel at distance. They were waiting even now for his report. His job was to identify the enemy's location, a simple task for a man of his talents, and then take up his observation post on higher ground. After that, it was all up to Erik, who did not seem unduly perturbed by his own part in the mission, being currently more concerned with impending tinnitus. As usual, Mystique seemed to be the only one daunted by the momentous nature of the challenges they faced. Indeed, everything had happened so fast that she felt like she was still catching up with events. How could there only be three days between this Dallas rooftop stakeout, and the clandestine meeting back in Florida when Erik had dropped his bombshell?
Erik had hustled her into the room which served as his study, meeting room and bedroom, shut the windows, and locked the door. Mystique had raised her eyebrows at Azazel, amused by these cloak-and-dagger antics - only to observe with surprise that the red man was also looking more keyed-up than she had ever seen him before. Mystique felt a chill of excitement. Erik's dramatic statement had left her cold - the German took everything much too seriously in her opinion. But Azazel was normally so laid back that any agitation from him probably meant the world must ending – or beginning again. His pale eyes were shining, and his English, usually flawed but fluent, was almost incomprehensible in his excitement as he began to tell his story.
"I am looking in files at State Department for plans of facility at Roswell, yes? I do not find; but I find instead this." He held out a buff-coloured file with TOP SECRET - RESTRICTED stamped on it to Mystique. She took it warily.
"What is it?"
"Is file from KGB," Azazel explained.
"The CIA," Erik corrected him. Azazel shrugged impatiently.
"CIA, KGB, is same thing." Mystique shot him a look. Azazel always took corrections of his spotty English in good part, conscientiously repeating the correct word or phrase until he had it right. Now he rushed on eagerly.
"Is file on your predsedatel, Kennedy."
While he spoke, Mystique had been leafing through the file. It contained some short telexes in such allusive, coded officialese she couldn't make them out at all, and a series of grainy black and white photographs of a hotel window. She held them to the light, made out the boyish, good-looking features of the young president, so familiar from the TV and the papers. With him were three nubile female silhouettes, in varying states of undress. So far, so unsurprising. Mystique flipped through the pictures impatiently.
"So the president likes to get around? Big deal. I don't see what this has to do with u-" Mystique stopped suddenly, staring hard at the next photograph. She turned it round, squinted, and her jaw dropped open.
"Wow. That's some mutation, huh." She squared the photographs off and pushed them back into the file. The significance of what she had seen fell on her like a thunderbolt. "Holy shit."
Erik smiled drily. "That more or less sums it up. With your usual economy, my dear." She flipped him off absently, still absorbing the shock.
"This is huge, Erik. The leader of the country is one of us. If you could talk to him – persuade him to help us-"
"Then we could win this war without having to fire another shot," Erik finished quietly. Mystique shot him a speculative look. The soft, almost wistful tone of his voice was one she hadn't heard for a long time, not since the old days at the mansion, not since Charles. Mystique felt an unwanted pang, imagining how her brother might have reacted to this revelation, imagining his delight at the possibilities for peace it opened up. If they had only known this sooner… who knows where they would all be now? She shook herself, dismissed the thought. If only was a game for fools, like what if and not fair.
Azazel's initial excitement had now waned; his brow was furrowed in thought. He turned at last to Erik, speaking carefully, obviously reluctant to sound a dissenting note but compelled by his second thoughts.
"Tovarisch, this is good news of course. But it makes no sense. If head of government is one us, why is government killing us? These facility – almost all are military, yes?"
Erik shook his head.
"I can't be sure, of course, but I'd be prepared to bet he has no idea. The leader of the country is very rarely the one making the decisions. Even within the CIA, only a select few knew anything about mutants before Moira chanced upon Shaw and the Hellfire Club. I don't suppose, given how spectacularly they failed to contain that situation, that they've been advertising our existence more widely since then – and certainly not our resistance. No, I'm pretty sure the good president is not aware there is an us to be one of."
He and Azazel shared a loaded look, one that spoke of deep understanding. Mystique felt an unworthy stab of jealousy. Erik's tragic childhood was common knowledge; and while Azazel never spoke about his past, she could only imagine what it must have been like, growing up with his conspicuous mutation, thinking himself completely alone in the world until the Hellfire Club had come along. Mystique could sympathise, but not really empathise. After all, from a very young age, she'd had Charles.
"So," said Erik, business-like, "I think we should make it a priority to enlighten him on that score. The leader of the free world would certainly make a valuable recruit to the Brotherhood of Mutants."
The eyes of the three had met, and a charge of excitement crackled in the air. This was a game-changer. Whatever happened, after this, nothing would ever be the same.
And thus they had ended up in Fort Worth, Texas, where the President was passing through on a tour of the state. Erik's plan was simple: find the hotel where the President was staying, get him alone, and them reveal to him that his secret was one they shared. From there, Erik was relying on his own eloquence and the manifest justice of their cause to carry the day. After that? None of them really knew. Not even Erik. It was a leap of faith, but it was one they knew they had to take.
However, in Fort Worth, their simple, idealistic plan had grown about six heads and started breathing fire. Hence Mystique was now lying on a gravelly rooftop next to a bitching metal bender, waiting to try and stop a murder from happening.
Mystique had been charged with snooping around hotel to get an idea of the president's itinerary, so they could identify the best moment to catch him alone. What she overheard, however, had changed everything.
Breaking in unnoticed had been no mean feat. The whole hotel had been turned over to the presidential retinue, and the place was crawling with security. Mystique was clinging to the ceiling of a state room, ears flapping, when two harassed-looking men in black suits walked rapidly in, shut the door and locked it behind them. She silently moulded herself to the ceiling, coloured herself to match the paintwork. If she had learned anything from her months with the Brotherhood, it was that anything people didn't want others overhearing was exactly the thing you most needed to know.
"You took your time getting here," one of the men said to the other testily, pouring himself a thick measure from a crystal decanter of liquor. He had a perfectly round bald spot on the top of his salt-and-pepper head. The other sank into a richly upholstered pink and gold chair; he was rumpled and unshaven and smelt like long-haul flight. He clearly wasn't in the mood for Baldie's attitude.
"I busted my ass getting here, OK? It's confirmed – the file has disappeared from headquarters, and nobody can account for it. Someone, somewhere, knows the President's little secret. Someone aside from Agency and a bunch of dead hookers, that is."
Raven drew in a sharp breath. She remembered the blurry images of lissome, laughing women in the grainy pictures in the President's file. Of course she should have realised that whoever took the photos and marked their content top secret wasn't going to just let them wander off into the night with that knowledge. But she still wasn't as hardened as she should be, could still be shocked by the callousness with which some people discarded lives as required. Those poor girls.
Baldie swore, necked his drink, and then swore again in disgust.
"Fucking bourbon – fucking Texas. If ever I needed a proper Goddamn drink."
He threw the glass at the marble fireplace, where it shattered into shining filaments. Unrepentant, Long-haul Flight Guy settled back in his seat and fixed Baldie with a hard stare.
"You know what your orders are. While the secret was safe, while it could be turned to our advantage, we could afford to maintain the status quo. But now? Anyone might know. It might be front page news tomorrow. He's a liability the Agency can't afford. You've got to take him out."
Baldie scowled.
"You think I don't know that? It's what they placed me in his entourage for – to be ready. But you know what? I like the guy. He's OK. I don't like to do it."
Long-Haul rolled his eyes.
"No-one's asking you to like it. Just get it done. And nice guy? He's a fucking freak, Macintyre, a mutant. You've seen the pictures yourself."
Baldie rounded on him tetchily.
"Hell yes I have, and I think that's a mutation none of us would complain about if we had it. Jealous?"
Long-Haul scoffed.
"Well, the guy'll be iced tomorrow, so I guess not."
Baldie double-took.
"Tomorrow? You want me to arrange this for tomorrow? Are you crazy? In the middle of the tour?"
Long-Haul nodded. Baldie whistled, long and low.
"Man, McCone doesn't fuck about, does he? Alright. I'll have to change the schedule; but I know a sniper. We'll get it done in Dallas."
"Yippie ki-yay," said Long-Haul, sarcastically. The he labored too his feet. "Right, well that's my job done. I'm going to get a bath and a good night's sleep then get the fuck out of this hell-hole of a state." He nodded at Baldie. "You'll get a good roasting after the fact of course – chief of security and all – but don't worry – there's a comfy desk back at the Agency with your name on it. You'll be taken care of."
Hah, thought Mystique darkly. And I'm the queen of Spain. Baldie was looking at a short walk down a dark alley sometime soon after he served his purpose, if she was any judge.
The same thought may have occurred to him as well. He picked up another heavy glass and poured it full of the maligned bourbon, drank deeply while staring into the fire. Mystique's fingertips, clinging to the cornicing, were in real danger of going to sleep by the time he gave a deep sigh, set the glass down with a clonk on the hearth, and made for the door with a determined tread. As he stepped into the hall, he was already bawling for the tour administrator, barking instructions in the manner of a man used to being obeyed.
"We're going to do a drive from the airport – open car, bit of circus. Let's give these fucking cowboy shits a show, huh?"
Raven dropped lightly onto the carpet, her mind spinning. What should she do? She wanted to ask Erik, she needed to, but Erik wasn't here and she was. Kennedy was in danger – and it was, she belatedly realised, the Brotherhood's fault. They had taken the file, broken the status quo that had kept him alive. They had to warn him. She had to warn him.
With a ripple, she dressed herself in the regalia of the hotel maid she had seen passing in the hall earlier, with a few minor adjustments in the way of hemline and bust. She chose the old Raven-face, peaches and cream and long blonde hair – men were surprisingly predictable in terms of what was most likely to distract them from their responsibilities. So disguised, she made her way through the hotel, following the trail of ever-increasing numbers of security staff until she came to the grand carved door of the suite the president was lodged in. Jackie O and the children were in a different wing of the hotel – from her eavesdropping, Mystique had understood that the First Lady and her husband were not strictly on speaking terms just now. Not so surprising, given his proclivities.
Mystique wiggled up to the door, where two huge, beefy men, bursting out of their black suits, were stood guard. The lumbered to attention as she approached, blocking the door. She twinkled and dimpled for all she was worth.
"Room service?"
The taller (and dumber, she surmised) of the two goons smirked and eyed her up and down. The other was impassive.
"The room's just fine. You'll be told if it wants cleaning." Raven discretely tugged her blouse down, exposing a little more ripe cleavage.
'That wasn't really the service that I had in mind," she purred. "Doesn't the president like to party? I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you let me in…" Goon One chuckled lecherously; but Goon Two was unmoved. He was staring, but not in the slack-jawed way of his partner – he narrowed his eyes, lifted her chin between thumb and forefinger.
"Don't I know you from somewhere?" he asked, turning her face from side to side. Mystique stepped back out of his grip. This was not the way this was supposed to go. She tried the twinkling smile again, but it rang false.
"I don't think so, baby… but you can get to know me – after I get to know the President."
His partner, apparently miffed not to have been made the same offer, folded his arms across his chest with an air of finality.
"Not going to happen. Get out of here, go on."
Mystique didn't need telling twice. The other guard was looking at her in a way she really didn't like – speculative and suspicious. She backed away, disappeared round a corner, and went to reconvene with Erik and Azazel.
Erik's reaction, once he'd stopped cursing, reminded her why he was the leader. He instantly started working on the angles, started finding a way to turn this setback to their advantage.
"Well, it's not how I would have chosen to do it – but I suppose there are worse calling cards than saving someone's life."
Raven frowned quizzically.
"What do you mean?"
"We'll have to stop them. We'll have to be with him every step of the way from here to Dallas, and when they make their move, we'll save him. I'll save him."
And that was that. Erik was supremely confident that he would triumph, and that having saved Kennedy's life, convincing him to side with them would only be easier. Azazel agreed, and was delighted that what had been shaping up to be a relatively dull negotiation now had some element of derring-do in it. Only Raven had doubts, doubts which persisted even now as they lay together on the edge of the roof, waiting for the motorcade to pass by. Something she couldn't put her finger on niggled at the back of her mind, left her tense and twitchy.
Her earpiece crackled suddenly, jerking her out of her introspection.
"I have them. Two gunmen, south of city hall, in long grass behind hill."
Erik and Mystique snatched up the binoculars around their necks and looked.
"There!" Mystique cried, swiveling the focus of her sights.
"Where?" Erik snapped, just as the first car in the motorcade rounded onto Main Street. The crowd below roared.
Mystique shuffled on her belly over to Erik, seized him by the shoulders and turned him around.
"There!"
Erik's head twitched from side to side, looking, and then froze. His voice was predatory, focused.
"A-ha. There you are." He lifted a hand-
"Wait. Something is not right-"
Azazel's voice sounded strange – almost panicked, and then cut off abruptly. The car containing the President hove into view. There he sat, a tiny figure waving in shirtsleeves.
"What is it, Azazel? What's wrong? Azazel!"
The earpieces fizzed and popped, but no words came out. Erik ripped his from his ear with a groan of frustration.
"There's no time! I have to take them out now!"
Mystique screamed into the earpiece.
"Azazel!"
A gun fired. The crowd screamed. Erik waved a hand, and the bullet streaking across the sky toward the president curved-
And then, on the rooftop, all hell broke loose.
They came out of nowhere – five of them, masked and armed, dropping out of the sky on ziplines. There was pandemonium in the street below, so no one even noticed the chopper that had appeared suddenly overhead. Two of them fell immediately on Erik where he lay on the rooftop, and started battering him around the head with wooden batons. She saw the blood fly out of his mouth, heard bones breaking.
"Erik!"
Mystique leapt at them, but was immediately seized by the other three. She fought them with everything she had, but they were all wiry muscle and well trained. She managed to get one with a well-aimed kick to the chin, threw another over her head off the rooftop. As she watched him fall, she saw the chaos surrounding the president's car, the blood all over his wife's dress, the gaping hole where half his head should be. She whirled round to deal with the remaining enemy, who had taken the opportunity of her distraction to pull a gun, which he was pointing straight at her. Her eyes cut frantically to Erik, who was hanging limply between the two black-clad assailants. They were gesturing to the waiting helicopter, and a stretcher was being lowered down; Erik was strapped to it and hoisted up towards the chopper's belly.
"NO!" Mystique screamed, starting forward. The gunman aiming at her pulled the trigger.
There was a loud cracking sound, she was seized from behind, and then everything went black.