It has been a minute, we've slept at least once between this chapter and the last. Let's not drag this out a second longer and skip an intro to get right into it.

. . .

The moment we all knew was coming but had put off as long as possible had arrived: the After-Action Reports. Legend status was growing around the engagements that generated these reports as word wound through various camps. The night we had activated the I.P.A., my home and the shop attacked, and all the skirmishes that morning were referred collectively as "The Raids". Our repulse of the first massed police attack was "The Battle of 1st Philipsburg" or alternatively "Fight of Bigler Highway" depending on who you ask. Last week's festivities were split into smaller components with the "Battle of Osceola Mills", "Skirmish of Munson and Hawk Run", "The Stand at Cold Stream Dam" (That's me, and NO I did not come up with it!) "The Battle of 2nd Philipsburg", "Defense of Carson Field" (The I.I.B.'s holding of the hill to our south) and finally "Shigekuni's Wrath"; where an octogenarian saved the day single-handedly and gave himself for the cause. Also swirling was how Shifty had again gone one-on-one with a Man in Black and delivered a crippling wound, while receiving serious ones himself. Shifty would make a full recovery, eventually, taking weeks to be back on his feet. But all these glorious sounding titles and smaller tales too numerous to be named and properly detailed, did not come without cost. Now was time to tally and make ready for what to do next.

. . .

"Dad, you comin' or what?!" Kamon heard Naota calling from the bottom of the stairs.

"Yes! Just a moment!" Kamon searched his closet and the row of his prized jackets; red being the predominant color. He and Naota had lain Shigekuni to rest with all of G&R, Commander Amarao, Lieutenant Kitsurubami and the I.I.B., the Bosses and I.P.A. that could make it, and scores of others who had come to know the man, in attendance of a full military honors funeral. Meanwhile the events of the past months, and now the death of his father, started something stirring in the depths of Kamon's mind. It set his brain's clockwork spinning feverishly in the background, in his waking hours and in his dreams. Upon realizing consciously, the idea germinating within him, Kamon wondered if he had gone insane. Several hours quietly puffing on Gitanes later and he talked himself into it. All that remained was which color coat to wear? Red, the Highest Standard? Blue, new and sophisticated? Or perhaps Green, The Classic? The Castle of Cagliostro certainly was fitting. What he planned on doing was akin to breaking into a fortress after all.

"Green it is." Kamon threw on the Green Coat and headed downstairs. "All set!"

"Green? That's the… Cagliostro one; isn't it?" Naota spotted the wardrobe change.

"It is indeed." Kamon adjusted the matching yellow tie as they headed for G&R.

"Any reason why?" Naota received a sly look and a vague answer.

"I think it's time I… shook things up a little."

. . .

I think Mr. Solomon was the only one of us that could announce he had lost 96 men killed and 168 in various states of wounded, and not dissolve into the depths of horrified despair. To their credit his men had extracted a terrible toll on the police and mercenary force, with our estimate of 150 dead and 200-plus wounded, and a confirmed 24 catastrophic vehicle kills. These vehicles were considered completely totaled and good for nothing but scrap. There were estimates of two dozen more in questionable shape. But this did nothing to disguise that Mr. Solomon's posture spoke of an utterly crushed soul.

"They fought as bravely as the best Marines I've ever known." Mr. Pike broke the silence after Solomon's conclusion. "Some even more so."

"Warriors of The Heart, all of them…" Solomon nodded and clutched tight his notes. Even Agent Griggs, in attendance and the most detached from everyone, looked hollowed by the numbers. "My second set of sons… and now nearly a fifth taken from me. Thomas?"

"Yes?" Tommy looked how we felt.

"If you wish to see me at this table ever again, you must promise me something."

"Which is?"

"You ensure that my men did not sacrifice themselves and their cities so horrifically in vain. That not only will they be avenged, but the balance returned in full."

"And if not?"

"I and all I serve as their Taskmaster will name you personally responsible and will have you held to account accordingly as we deem most fitting." The room became 'breathe and you'll break it' delicate as Solomon recovered the bass in his voice and sat upright in his chair. No doubt he felt the souls of his dead men weighing on him. Everyone turned to Tommy and wondered, some probably expected, if he would crack. I had expected him to at least blink.

"So it shall be." Tommy declared, chaining himself further to the outcome of our struggle. "As witnessed by all officers, personnel and gentlemen present. Are all in agreement, upon their Honors?"

"Aye."

"Very well." Tommy grinned at Solomon. "You have my word. Now!" He clanged Attitude Adjuster on the table. "Let's make it happen. Rig, the map if you would."

. . .

In Philipsburg City Hall the Mayors, their Deputies and entourage of City Clerks strutted proudly about while the Chiefs and Captains set about proper business. The meeting held the usual quantity of people, but some faces had changed. Chiefs Strong and Warburg, Sheriff Wilson, and Captain Chojnacki were present, as well as Caleb Kauffman. But in place of The Man in Black, and somehow even more extravagantly dressed, was another Kauffman. Carl.

"Messrs. Kauffman." Captain Chojnacki was ready to begin. "Where is our esteemed colleague? I had gone to speak with him at Roman's several days ago but was sent away. Is he still too unwell to join us?"

"He is temporarily indisposed." Carl coolly explained. "I assure you he will be in fit and proper form in no time. Meanwhile, anything you might wish to be addressed to him can be said to myself and my…" Carl looked to Caleb. He'd caught Caleb leaning on the windowsill, staring outside half-awake, daydreaming. A sharp backhanded rap of Carl's knuckles on Caleb's temple snapped him to attention. "…AHEM. Myself and my brother… as if we were The Man himself."

"Then I have several choice words for the two of you but shall save them for later." The meeting commenced and the numbers began to weave their side of this story. As the tale was told everyone felt themselves secretly gracious The Man was not present:

The State Police had gone in with 300, came out with 227 able to fight.

The Centre-Clearfield County Sheriff's Office had set off with 250, returning with 205 still standing.

The Philipsburg P.D. had retaken their town with 100 and were down to only 68 unscathed.

The Osceola Mills P.D. had squared off against a defended city and the I.I.B. with 100 and were left with 61 able-bodied.

The D.R.S. sent in all they had with 1,000 veterans and had been humbled to 918 combat effective.

Further was the vehicular damage. Written off were 8 MRAP's, 6 Bearcats, 4 SUV's, 4 squad cars, 3 ACV-15's, 3 Ratel-60's, an Eland Mk. 7 too badly damaged with its turret and gun destroyed by a cannon shell, 7 RG-31's, and 9 M939's all totally gone; some still stranded in the field. Left unresolved was how the implements of this equipment's slaughter, the field guns and tank, had come to be. After all, these men knew nothing ever just drops out of the ether.

"That is what I find most disturbing." Sheriff Wilson concluded his report. "That these weapon systems were brought to bear without any of us knowing. The cannons, perhaps can be explained away, but the tank is one foolery too far."

"S-surely you aren't insinuating one of us here had something to do with it?" Chief Warburg rounded on Wilson. "Or perhaps you're trying to take attention away from yourself, eh?!"

"Warburg, stop your foolishness right now or you'll sit at the children's table with the Mayor." Chojnacki cut Warburg off. "Now, obviously, yes. There is a lapse or gap in our eyes and ears somewhere. It must be addressed. But our main concern must be securing and clearing the areas we have liberated. There is no telling what nasty surprises our enemies left behind for us. Failures to observe or report activities leading to the cannons and tank will be dealt with at the appropriate time. Yes, Carl?"

"Who runs all the red light and speed trap cameras?" Carl pointed a well-tailored arm toward the window. "I can see one from here, but is it switched off? They might've sabotaged your camera network. I'd start by looking there, and that advice is free!"

"We'll make a note of it, thank you." Chojnacki scratched down to meet with Didion. Next up. "What is to be done about the County Emergency Airstrip on the Carson family property and all those camped on it?"

"I can tell you right now. Not a damn thing." Chief Strong paled at the thought of assaulting that imposing hill a second time. Well, not he, himself personally, but his department. "I ain't going up there. They've had weeks of time and every excavation tool known to man to turn that entire hill into one huge bunker."

"Oh, please! Chief please, hear yourself!" Carl was aghast at Strong's lack of enthusiasm. "We've already come this far and done so much! But you're choosing now, when our enemy is kettled with nowhere to run, to waver? Am I mistaken that you have been sworn as members of The Red Star? This is hardly conduct becoming such a prestigious honor. Have you always been this timid, Strong? Or is it because The Man isn't here, you feel you can let your guard down? Perhaps further still you're counting on my volunteering to do the heavy lifting instead? Which is it, so-named and so-called Strong?!"

"None! I am saying that charging up that hill is tantamount to suicide." Strong hotly defended himself.

"You don't say…" Carl's tongue licked his chops while trying to suppress a snarling smile. "Suicide. Tell me more, why? It's been several years since seeing the terrain, refresh my memory."

"The west side is mostly open and rolling hills with nothing for cover; they'd see us miles off. The south overlooks Osceola Mills with terraced cliffs that steepen as you climb, and the road from that way is a twisting, curving ribbon. The north road is fairly straight, but wide open for nearly four hundred yards and you must climb a thirty percent grade. The woods to either side are too thick to make easy passage for even dirt bikes, save for a handful of deer trails and footpaths. Which, I promise will be mined, guarded and pre-sighted for ambush. Finally, the east is a valley where the Red Moshannon flows, and on either side of it the valley is a great waist deep swamp that swallows vehicles whole. There is one…one… two-track dirt road through the swamp called The Yamaha Trail. It is overlooked by sheer cliffs several hundred feet high, upon which they have an unobstructed view of the entire valley. They could not have picked a better spot. There are only two ways to take that airfield."

"Which are?" Carl prompted.

"Either accepting massive casualties trying to scale the hill or… bombing and shelling the entire hill enough to take off the top ten feet of rock. And then we would still take heavy losses." Strong flatly concluded.

"Sounds like a great way to spend an afternoon! What're we waiting for?! Captain." Carl focused on Chojnacki. "My men are ready and willing to hand out some well-deserved payback. You give me the word and we'll be on the march within the hour."

"Mister Kauffman, there is no need to continue auditioning for your position with such reckless commitments." Chojnacki wondered how many polite versions of 'No' this would take. "Dark River Security has proven beyond all shadows of doubt they are worthy exemplars of Red Star service. But there is a time to be bold and a time for patience. As you said, our enemy is surrounded. They aren't going anywhere. I can promise you a position right up front in the attack, first to scale the cliff if you desire, when the time comes. But now we need rest, refitting and repair, and resupply. An established contractor as yourself ought to know these things. After all, aren't your Ratels and Elands nearly exhausted of their ammunition?"

"It's just such a tempting target." Carl calmed himself and admitted to Chojnacki's reason. "This slower pace doesn't suit me is all. It's partly why I left here to begin with and only returned now. Too cautious, too slow, too safe. I was promised a proper war with no R.O.E. holding me back for a change; not more police actions."

"I do not think that our wisest…"

"'Fore we go 'round in circles again…" Caleb snapped to animation after appearing to have turned into a statue whose purpose was to hold slow burning cigarettes. He dragged heavily, knocked ash onto the hardwood floor and scraped it under the table with his boot. "How 'bout... 'stead of a suicide run, or waiting for winter to starve them out… what if there was a third way?"

"Can't believe I'm saying this…" Sheriff Wilson tapped his temple to ensure his brain was still there. "But at least I am listening."

"I'll have to work out the finer details, which'll take some time." Caleb searched his pockets for paper and pen. "And I'll also need appropriately sized live test subjects… but here is what I'm thinking…"

. . .

"Alright, final review before we move on." Tommy tapped the whiteboard with Attitude Adjuster. "Current goals are to first isolate the four main pockets of enemy: Philipsburg, Osceola Mills, Port Matilda, and Roman's Mine. Cut them off from each other so they can't reinforce each other. Second is to cut all of them off from the outside world. Every exit in and out needs to be taken, then guarded or rendered impassable. Agent Griggs on his end will disrupt incoming enemy resupply efforts. Third is for us to use this time to rearm, refit, resupply, get Dahl's vehicles running and crews for these trained. All the while, A: harassing and annoying our enemy's every waking hour and B: beseeching them to see sense and surrender. I just vomited up a wall of words, everyone clear?"

The discussion had lasted all morning, broke for lunch, then resumed well into the afternoon. Talking over sandwiches, Naota and Jeff both found both wanted a more aggressive approach before the police and mercenaries had time to dig in; never mind the ticking time bomb of The Iron's activation. After considering how banged up everyone was, not wanting to have to assault their own towns, the promise of their enemy's surrender meaning less bloodshed for all involved, they agreed this longer approach to be wiser. But for his part Naota was not content to sit behind the barbed wire garden cultivated around the Carson's property. His brief Overwatch career thus far had provided excitement for a hundred lifetimes and the sooner this war ended was all the better as far as he was concerned. To that end he worked up his courage to raise his hand in interruption as Tommy began their next item: harassing and annoying the enemy.

"Private Nandaba." Tommy, mid-point with Attitude Adjuster, saw Naota's hand and swung the crowbar's hooked business end towards him. "You've got that look. What's on your mind Hoss?"

"I'll go." He volunteered, so excited and nervous he forgot to elucidate. "That is, I'll do it."

"Go where, do what? A little finer on the details, if yah would."

"The 'harassing and annoying' and as Mister King said, 'being all around nuisance and a terrific pain in the ass.' I can be very good at that."

"Can confirm." Rig added.

"You're volunteering for saboteur duty?" Pike held his surprise well. "That's quite bold, young man; especially for you."

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Voyze leaned a weathered and craggy face forward. "And do you know what'll happen to you if you're caught?"

"How'd that one go Rig? 'In the basement of the State Police Station with'… was it… 'half a box of roofing'… I got it… 'In the State Patrol's basement, missing some fingers, toes, and teeth, half a box of nails hammered into my prick's pisshole, and my nuts hooked to a field generator; telling anything and everything the cops would like to know, and then some.' Yes, I am aware."

"As long as you're aware." Mr. Voyze sat back, seeming amused with the gruesome answer.

"I am also aware that anything that can end this fight faster needs doing, and Rig spent half of summer teaching me how to do that. It would be a shame if his lessons were wasted."

"And you did quite well on the night of The Raids…" Tommy mulled it over. "Navigated in the dark, got shot, stole a Sheriff's car from under their noses…" Tommy slid his eyes sideways to the Green-Jacketed Kamon. "And with Shifty down you're without your commander or an assignment… Kamon, what say you?"

"Naota's in Overwatch now, it's hardly my place to be giving permission for anything he is assigned to do. Imagine a commander phoning a mother to ask permission to order her son to charge a pillbox. However." Kamon nodded proudly at Naota. "I am confident he will exceed any task you set for him. Also, I'd like to ask one small thing. Just a quiet moment of your time after this meeting. Nothing serious or worth the table's discussion, just an inquiry." Tommy indicated that was acceptable.

"Then it shall be so." Tommy rapped Attitude Adjuster on the table. "Private Nandaba, report this evening to Staff Sergeant Carson for tasking. And to confirm, you're looking into enemy payroll and supply chain, yes; Agent Griggs?"

"I have insiders that are deeply embedded in the government working on it now. As a matter of fact…" Agent Griggs checked his watch. "I'll be getting an update from them in… twenty minutes. They're frightfully punctual."

"Good to hear, keep doing what you do best." This little beam of good news lifted everyone, even if just by a hair. "Monsieur Chartier, as you're up for mobilization and deployment you and I will review details later to ensure there's no confusion. Otherwise, I have nothing else to cover. If that is similar for everyone else… going once… going twice… DONE."

. . .

"Chief Warburg, Captain Chojnacki, and Messrs. Aldritch and Vanderlip." As the meeting ended, Carl Kauffman called for the two officers to remain and summoned from the waiting crowd the two civil servants. An agreement of rest and securing their captured territory had been agreed on and a further strategy to put the County Emergency Airstrip to siege along with 24/7 surveillance. Caleb's plan had been approved, but everyone aside from the Kauffman's felt disgusted with it. They now occupied their minds by trying to convince themselves it was the only way. Or at least the way where the enemy did all the suffering. "A word with you, alone. You can decide among yourselves who goes first."

"You go first." Chief Warburg blurted before realizing he would have to agonize in the hallway waiting. "Actually, no, I'll go first!" He marched into the meeting room and closed the door without waiting for any responses.

"…Very well, if you insist." Captain Chojnacki said to the door. "Age before beauty, after all…" He tucked his hat under his arm and sat with dignity on a hall bench awaiting his turn. The Mayor and Deputy meanwhile schemed in the corner.

. . .

"Ah, Chief Warburg! Master Warburg, do sit down, please; make yourself comfortable." Carl pointed Chief Warburg to one of the grander chairs at the table. This position however gave him no window views and forced him to look at Carl. While sitting down, Warburg saw Carl pull a briefcase from one of the bookcases and laid it upon the table. "Are you nervous? You appear to be on edge. Is it me? I'm not going to eat you or anything like that."

"N-No! Why would I be?!" Hearing this Carl popped the briefcase latches, ran his tongue over a set of sharp teeth and softly said, almost to himself:

"Why, indeed?" Carl's demeanor had shifted. Instead of the bombastic salesman hyping an IFV and its cannon's rate of fire, he seemed patient and calm. The key change didn't play well with Warburg, and the hairs on his neck rose. His instincts insisted something was wrong but gave no idea to what. He would have to be patient and do his best to survive.

Carl withdrew several papers and closed the briefcase. "Chief Warburg, do you know why I am meeting with you today?"

"Not at all."

"You at least have a guess, surely?" Chief Warburg tried to look those ice-blue eyes dead on. He couldn't. Looking at anything else was better. The custom four-piece suit colored like the northern ocean in the grips of wintertime fury. The brilliant diving watch. Unnoticed before, the previously fired bullet of a rifle cartridge turned into a lapel pin.

"I… would imagine at the least it's important." Chief Warburg had never hoped to be more wrong. "You are a busy man after all; with that company you're running."

"You're correct, on both counts." Carl's eyes seemed to radiate as he fixated on Warburg. "It is important and concerns my company. As their employer and commander, I am responsible for ensuring they are deployed in ways that maximize their talents. Part of which requires me to be as informed as possible about any, and all, threats they might encounter."

"The same as I!" Warburg recalled the best charisma he used on the Mayors and City Clerks, channeling all those afternoons spent on the golf course. "Both you and I, getting the best field intelli…"

"Chief." Carl held up his hand. "I must rebuke you. We both know that is a lie. We are not the same. In fact, quite opposite. Your record shows you to be rather careless when getting information to your men about what they'll face. Especially concerning such things as… M4 Sherman tanks."

Chief Warburg could not stop the blood draining from his face. He could attempt control of his verbal response. "If you're going to start throwing around baseless allegations and vague hints, we are both wasting our time. What's this?" Carl slid the papers over.

"They're phone records. From August thirtieth; Tuesday morning." As Warburg puzzled at these, Carl opened a pen and made test marks on a note pad.

"Well, yes. Of course, they are; obviously."

"Do you recognize the numbers? I'll answer 'yes' for you, as they are Judge Ryan's office, the Mayor's office upstairs, and yours. Also, the gentleman who cares for the World War Two memorial on the west side of town."

"So?"

"The morning all the field guns, artillery and cannon in these two counties, and a Sherman tank went missing, Judge Ryan called the Mayor's desk. Across from Ryan's courthouse is a Legion Post and it has had its field gun stolen. Just after that, the Mayor is called again five minutes later by the memorial caretaker. A mere fifteen seconds after that call ends, the Mayor's phone calls yours. At this point it would have become obvious to anyone with functioning eyes and a view from the Mayor's window that the Revolutionary War park, just outside, has also been stripped of its cannons."

"This is all very wonderful but other than confirmation that someone used the Judge's phone to call here, and someone in this building used that phone to call my office phone, which could have been picked up by any number of people besides me… there's nothing here. Is, is this your strange audition to be one of my detectives, Mister Kauffman?"

"You are correct that I do not have the evidence I truly need, voice recordings of the calls. But what I do have, and what I do know, is plenty. And I know, that because of those cannons, those field guns, and that tank, that dozens of my vehicles are wrecked and destroyed, and that scores of my men are wounded, irreparably crippled and dead." The ice in Carl's eyes was filling Chief Warburg's veins and freezing him in place. "And I know… that it is your fault."

The last words fell on Warburg like sledgehammers, but he resolved to break free of Carl's grip. Summoning his flagging spirits, he rallied. "What're you gonna do? Sue me for wrongful death? Take me to court?"

The softness of Carl's reply was far more terrifying than if he had raged in response. "Oh, no. Goodness no. And even if I did, Judge Ryan's a useless and decrepit old pervert. No, no, no. There is no lawsuit. There will be no court. No judges, no juries, no lawyers. Just you. Me. And the Truth. That's all there is and that's all I want. Just the Truth."

Having suffered plenty and desiring nothing more than to leave, Chief Warburg stood. He shunted the call records back to Carl. "We're done."

"If you insist. Oh, Chief. One last thing."

"I said we're done. I am no longer entertaining you." Chief Warburg looked longingly to the door. Carl gave his parting words.

"You may be done with me. But I am far from done with you." Carl let the words hang in brittle silence. "For now, you're dismissed. Send in the Mayor and his Deputy if you would be so kind."

Chief Warburg fled the building, grunting and nodding at Aldritch and Vanderlip while ignoring Captain Chojnacki on his way out. He elbowed his driver out of the way, took the wheel himself and almost left his driver behind while laying rubber to get far and away; much to the Mayor's and Deputy Mayor's amusement.

"Look at him go!" Vanderlip exclaimed as the engine roared out of earshot.

"Like his hair was on fire and his ass was catchin'!" Aldritch threw himself into a chair. "Why's he in such a hurry?"

"Why, indeed?" Carl wondered aloud.

"So, what've you got us in here for, young man?" Aldritch wanted to get to the meat of the matter. "It's sure an odd thing, man of your age and demographic, wanting to meet with his elected officials. But hardly an unwelcome thing, 'specially someone's accomplished as yourself: the penultimate entrepreneur."

"Quite a thing indeed." Vanderlip concurred while glossing over his superior's grammatical errors. "One of our native sons, gone off to see the world and make his mark on it, now back in our beloved Philipsburg."

"I suppose in a way…" Carl allowed, smoothing out the wrinkled papers. "It is good to be back. However, there are some circumstances of my return that have left me rather displeased."

The politician's faces fell. "Do tell."

"As you said, I am a business owner, with employees to whom I am responsible. And because of information that was kept from me, either deliberately or otherwise, there are far too many of them today returning to their towns not in welcome, but in coffins. As my elected officials and civil servants…" Carl again put forth the phone records. "I know you'll do everything in your vested powers to assist me in understanding this series of wrongs."

Mayor Aldritch composed himself well enough to have fooled many veteran poker players. But Carl did not miss the sudden dilation of Aldritch's pupils upon recognizing the times, dates, and phone numbers. Passing the papers to his subordinate, Aldritch replied in well-practiced calm. "I am afraid I will be of no service."

"Not at all?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Gentlemen, let's not make this any harder than necessary. I know the two of you know. Your faces do you no favors. I have the proof you all talked to each other. Warburg was incredibly helpful. He just told me everything from his side of the story, but he was unable to provide all the finer details. Now it's your turn to fill in the gaps. How about you Vanderlip? Does anything on this spark any memories, any recollections of cannons, guns, tanks? Conversations with Judge Ryan and Chief Strong?"

Vanderlip dug his position on the same established line. "I cannot recall any such thing."

"Nothing at all? Not even for me, our dearest native son?"

"I am so sorry. Not a thing."

Aldritch echoed. "So sorry."

"You guys are good." Carl looked between the two. "You practice this in the mirror every morning? That 'so sorry' thing? Is that taught in on how to be a politician or...? Very well. You're dismissed… for now."

"What's that supposed to mean 'for now'? You really think you're hot shit, huh? Just because you hang around with that Man you run the place now?" Aldritch balked as someone under half his age ordered him so casually.

In a pair instead of alone, Vanderlip felt confident to add on. "You'd best remember to respect your elders if you're staying in Philipsburg more'n five minutes."

"Respect is earned, not aged, Deputy Mayor." Carl scarcely held himself in his chair and barely kept his voice restrained. "I have not fought two major wars and several smaller ones, so I could come back to this pissant dying coal town and be talked down to by two inbred dog-fuckers who think they're big swinging dicks because they can afford cheap suits I don't deem fit to wipe my ass with. Now get out of my sight before I throw you out."

. . .

The door flew open, and Captain Chojnacki was nearly trampled by Aldritch and Vanderlip as they strived to be the farthest away from the room. Watching them take the corner, Chojnacki then peered inside the room. A smiling Carl beckoned. No briefcase waited for him.

"Captain, you said you had some choice words for me?"

"Indeed. Straight to the point. Your brother Caleb's manufacture and our consumption of combat enhancing drugs is to cease immediately. The morning after the drug's deployment my men were staggering around camp like meth-heads after a week-long binge. I shudder to think of the long-term health effects. To say nothing of the reckless attitude its confidence boosting side-effect gives them. Several Troopers are dead or laid up because they took risks or made decisions they never would have when sober."

"Allow me to make sure I understand." Carl pondered. "You made two attempts to pacify this area. The first came to a draw and the second a stinging retreat under fire. But with one deployment of Caleb's pills, we were able to accomplish all but one objective, complete annihilation of the enemy, in under a day. And now you believe our best course is to stop… issuing these pills. Is that what you propose?"

"Yes. The issuance and manufacture are to cease immediately. It's too risky."

"No."

Captain Chojnacki was more incensed by the lack of explanation than the refusal itself. "No?! What do you mean, no?! Explain yourself."

"No. And the 'no' means no. It means not your decision to make. It means this…" Carl raised his arms to point around the room. "Isn't Pennsylvania, isn't the United States anymore. This is sovereign ground of The Red Star of The Solar Federation. And you are an officer of the First Red Terran Police. Which means that when your superiors give you an order, it is not your place to question it, nor the decided manner of how that order to be carried out. If The Red Star has determined your path to success lies with a combat enhancer, then combat enhancers you and your men shall take. Discussion, end of."

"Do you not care about them? Their health, physically or whatever mental effects this drug might have?"

"I do, but my mercenaries are just that: mercenaries. They understand they are paid to do exactly as ordered. None of them are under any delusions about their roles and have knowingly consented to the risks that come at them. I don't know what you told your troopers, but I hope for their sake it wasn't that this would all be sunshine and rainbows."

"Of course not, they know the risks of combat just as well as your mercenaries. But there is a difference between a calculated risk and playing fast and loose with the unknown! Aren't our lives, our health, our sanity and well-being worthy of preservation; within the reason of the nature of our chosen occupations?"

"I will say this once. Then I will move on." Carl could see the conversation's wheels were spinning. "You need to, you must understand that our lives do not belong to us anymore. We are but implements of The Red Star, of The Priest's Guidance, and Syrinx's Will. By the new oaths we have taken we have given ourselves over to a cause a million years in the making: the unification of all Man under one banner. To be of one way. To be of one thought. To be of one cohesive and peaceful mind. And our role is to be as useful as possible to these goals, no matter any petty personal costs. If you will no longer be useful, then you are useless, and The Red Star suffers no dead weight. Is there any part of this you do not understand?"

Furious at his case being so casually swept aside, Captain Chojnacki replied sharply. "No."

"Excellent. Now, my turn." Carl opened his notepad and referenced his marks. "I have been informed of my, now late, eldest brother's mutiny and how it was handled. I agree with your resolution to the situation and find your conduct to be admirable. Especially considering your eye had been shot out a few hours previously. Despite this you insisted on resuming your command. I am very impressed."

"You are? No animosity over the familial tie?"

"Cole was an overly ambitious idiot who never knew when to quit. The only reason he got as far in life as he did was because I was the 'or else' backing up every threat he made. I made sure the checks his ego wrote went through." Carl explained matter-of-factly. "But let's finish up here; much to do. It is evident that somewhere, somehow, our camera, email, and office networks, and possibly radio communications have been compromised; or are at risk. I have not been given a satisfactory answer as to why. This is unacceptable. Your task, along with regular duties, is to find this leak, source, exploitation, whatever it is. And before…"

"It will be done; worry not."

"…And before I find it. I will not be so lenient, nor caring as you are. I will also be most displeased if I find that I have done your job for you. Do not be dead weight, Captain. That is all. You're dismissed." Both stood to leave. Captain Chojnacki spotted Carl's bullet lapel pin and asked of its significance.

"A talisman from when I came closest to death." Carl removed the pin and held up the bullet, light shining on the rifling grooves. "I was personally overseeing a security contract in Pakistan and a sniper hit me from eight hundred and forty-one yards away. Quite an impressive shot I must admit. Especially with a PU three-point-five by twenty-one. With the combination of the distance and the vest I was wearing this bullet stopped shy of my heart. The surgery was horrific, options being few and far-between. But I recovered enough that a month later I checked myself out of the hospital and we began tracking the sniper."

"How did you find him?"

"We found his family first through the man who had sold him the rifle. Then we put out the word we were hunting for them, so the sniper ran straight home. Following him while he was being so reckless was embarrassingly easy."

"Was there a fight, did he die quickly fighting? Or…?"

"He died quickly, yes." Carl's face lit up and eyes flashed as he recalled the memory. He reattached the pin, then walked to and opened the door for Chojnacki. "But only after watching his family die slowly."

"His family? Why?"

"What was I to do? Kill only him and risk his children be raised with vengeance in their hearts, to hunt me down as I had him? Live the rest of my life constantly looking over my shoulder for a trio of assassins? I think not. Again, I am not sure what you expected or were told. This is how personal, intimate wars like the ones I have seen and the one we are in right now are fought. To the knife, to the last, until only one side is left alive. The only rule now is to win, no matter how. This is how I have always fought, and I have yet to be challenged to a rematch. If you are taking your obligations to The Red Star remotely seriously, you'd be wise to do the same. If you can't, or won't, then you'll be replaced by someone who will. Good day, Captain."

. . .

After the planning meeting Agent Griggs sequestered himself in G&R's office to take a call. He was anxious to hear the report from D.C. After the eternity of a minute, his phone rang exactly on time.

"How did it go?"

"Better than expected."

"Tell me about it."

. . .

Days before, the Inside Man that Griggs had placed his hopes in finally called back.

"To confirm, all I am doing is getting into the ATF, installing this software, and then leaving. Yes?"

"Yes, that's the task. And you said you have an assistant in mind?"

"Two, actually. The best at this kind of work."

"Are they trustworthy?"

"We have saved each other's lives many times over; and we watch each other's kids."

"If you vouch for them, okay. Now, meet me at…"

"Ah-ah. I have not agreed to do anything."

"Oh." Griggs ran back over his mental transcript. "I suppose you're right. Very well. Will you do this, yes or no?"

"Mister Griggs, I don't know you, and I don't trust you."

"You know me, what do you mean?"

"I know about you, Special Agent in Charge Yannis Griggs. Second Lieutenant of the Eighty-Second Airborne, veteran of Desert Storm, Joint Endeavor in Bosnia, Allied Force in Kosovo, and now a career in the Terran Division of Overwatch. Twice divorced, wives Nicole and Aminah. Four children. With Nicole there are…"

"Yes, yes, you are very, very good at getting information, I will grant you that. Where are you going with this?"

"The only reason I'm alive today is because I'm very, very good. And because I surround myself with very, very good people."

"Any of them know me?"

"They do. Prone to occasional bouts of foolishness that he is, Country is by no means stupid and has deemed you fit to work with. And Dutch, who has never made an incorrect character judgement in his life, deems you an 'exceptional, resourceful agent who loves his people and his planet.' All things in your favor."

"I've heard whispers of him but have never met Dutch… I appreciate the praise. So… is that enough for you? I need a yes or no."

"On one condition. This one job, this one mission, and you forget I exist. I am not making a hobby out of this; and am only considering because Dutch and Country asked for my help."

"Out of curiosity…" Griggs felt like indulging in the morbid. "What happens if I do try to rope you in, keep you working for me?"

"Simple. You spend your remaining days a marked man, wondering if you'll be fortunate enough for me to find you first, or unlucky enough that my wife does."

"That sounds correct if half of what I've heard about you is even a quarter true. I intend to die of old age; not revenge."

"Do well to remember that." There was a pause and the sound of the caller typing at a computer. "Alright, my assistants have signed on. We'll meet at that place at that time, yes?"

"Yes. See you then and there. Many thanks again. You're doing your planet a great service; in more ways than you can imagine."

. . .

The next morning dawned as usual in downtown Washington D.C. Amid the bustle of government workers a trio approached the headquarters of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. A short, blonde, and tanned woman with oval glasses, laptop case and tapping away on her phone. A tall blonde man with his hair pulled into a ponytail, square glasses, carrying his own laptop case and leaning on an ornate cane so he favored his right leg. And in the lead a Japanese man with grey beginning to seep into his hair, sharp and all-seeing eyes, his briefcase in one hand and a smoldering morning cigarette in the other. All were professionally dressed and strode with deliberate purpose, marching to the front door as if they owned the place.

"Good morning, lady and gentlemen." A desk officer directed them towards the metal scanners. "Empty your pockets, cases and bags on the conveyor please." The trio obliged and nothing warranting investigation was found. "Identification, name, and state your business."

"Hikaru Kageyama of the Government Accountability Office, here to conduct an audit of the bureau's financial records; and my assistants." The Japanese man handed over an ID card and gestured to the two behind him.

"Tacitus Kilgore, at your service." The blonde man introduced himself with a light bow.

"Roberta Cisneros, a pleasure." The blonde woman extended a handshake that was not reciprocated. Each was swept with a skeptical gaze by the desk officer. His backup, a young rookie shadowing his elder, stared at the floor to avoid ogling the woman's alluring and ample chest. The desk officer mentioned to his assistant, then kicked his boot when he saw the younger man was distracted.

"Pay attention! Now, I don't know you three, and you're not on our list for today. Are you expected?"

"Of course not!" Kageyama suppressed a laugh. "What good is a surprise audit if they knows it is coming?"

"I suppose you have a point." The desk officer reached for the phone. "I'll give the director a call and…"

"We'd rather you didn't." Kilgore insisted. "Our investigations depend on discretion."

"Point us towards your accounting department." Roberta adjusted her spectacles. "We can take it from there. Unless you want to be in our report for obstructing our investigation?" Her eyes shone and teeth flashed in a macabre smile. "That's a hefty prison sentence if you decide to make our day difficult."

"Uh-huh…sure." The desk officer dialed. "We'll see what your office has to say."

"No worries. Whatever you need to do." Kilgore acquiesced to the officer's insistence and waited patiently. The call went out to the junction box down the street, a rat's nest of wires protected by a ten-dollar combo lock last updated in the Reagan administration. The lock had been picked and the box accessed the night before. Inside the box a 2-door entry call controller (Kilgore had bought it for five dollars at the going out of business sale of an electronic supply store) picked up the outgoing call. Programmed to look for the number of the G.O.A., it forwarded the call instead to an unlisted cell phone. A young, smooth, svelte voice answered the desk officer with hints of some strange and pleasant east European accent.

"Government Accountability Office. Accountability, Integrity, Reliability. My name is Yolanda, how can I assist you?"

"Hello Yolanda, I'm Louis Clark, desk officer for the ATF. I have…"

"Three of our auditors, yes?"

"Correct. Can you confirm their credentials?"

"One moment." Keyboard tapping could be heard. "Here they are, Officer Clark. My records show a Miss Cisneros, Mister Kilgore, and a Mister Kageyama. Is there a problem, Officer Clark?"

"It seems not. Thank you for your time." Clark hung up and begrudgingly returned the trio's ID cards. "Alright, you're cleared. Accounting is on the third floor, a left, then the fourth door."

"Thank you for the directions, Officer Clark!" Kageyama waved over his shoulder as the trio ascended the stairs.

"Keep an eye on them." Officer Clark whispered to his junior. "Regular updates. Something's off here."

Accounting put up less resistance, seeming anxious to prove their records were on the up-and-up. They did subject the strangers to a battery of trade specific questions, trying to determine if these persons were really who they claimed or a group of talented and bold deceivers. All questions were answered with the swiftness and certainty of seasoned professionals. Records for the requested years were provided along with a private conference room, internet and network access, and even a coffee bar cart. Asking for nothing more but privacy and quiet the three auditors were left alone. Having been given the keys to this virtual kingdom, the ones calling themselves Tacitus Kilgore and Roberta Cisneros strolled into the ATF's computer network and began ransacking all that wasn't nailed down. A flash drive containing an amazing little number named "Ice Pick" had been issued to them during their earlier meetup. This weapon was loosed and immediately began funneling data from every active computer on the network once Tacitus had given himself Administrator Access. Roberta focused on the machines better protected, those of the top-level directors and the vast backup servers; containing all and sundry of every file, photo, document, and email of the agency in the unfortunate event a hard drive failed, or main server crashed.

Finally, Kageyama conducted a proper audit. Pouring over reams of transactions and records he found routine information. All the usual signs of embezzlement, siphoning of funds and hidden private hoards were there in typical, lumbering bureaucratic fashion. Weekly entries of $50,000 for "Office Supplies" in Mexico. There was $500,000 for "Hammers" and not a penny more for any other related equipment; not even one nail. Someone had spent $10,000,000 for "A Study in Effects of Asian Media ("Manga", "Anime") on Rural American Males aged 12-18 and their Views on Firearm Ownership; Results Inconclusive" which screamed bogus funding for some other nefarious project. After several refills of the coffee cart, all the provided Danishes devoured, and further hours of cataloging, the work was done.

The accounting department, when having their records returned, asked how the audit went and if there were any discrepancies. Kageyama announced he was please to find everything in good, proper order. He and his team left business cards and instructions for a follow-up. As they departed the accounting manager watched them leave through the slits in his window blinds.

His assistant joined in and wrinkled his brow. "What do you think?"

The manager shook his head and picked up his phone. "I think something's wrong. They may have perfect ID's and encyclopedic industry knowledge, but they're not legit."

"How do you know?" The manager sat down as the secretary on the other end of the call asked how to direct it.

"Get me Director Ruby, please." Told that Director Ruby was sitting in a session of Congress, the manager insisted they be pulled out immediately. "How do I know? Our records are like every other agency's in this town: terrible. And if they're from the GOA they know how things here work. We all have our little secrets and pet projects. They give us a pass stamp to keep those running and we give them a little palm grease to keep them off our backs. And these 'Kageyama, Cisneros, and Kilgore' if that's their real names, didn't ask us for a single red cent. Hello, Ruby? Yeah, it's Georgio. You need to come back to the office right now. I…I know…I, yes… no, listen to me: I do not care that you're in a meeting with Congress. Yes, it is that important. No, not an hour. NOW. Five minutes ago. Okay, see you."

"I'll get our schedules cleared." The assistant manager left to find their secretary. Meanwhile, Georgio dialed direct to the Government Accountability Office. His fears were confirmed. No audit was scheduled, no audit was forthcoming, and no persons named Kageyama, Cisneros, or Kilgore were in their employ. Although, there were several auditors who recently reported their identification badges either missing or possibly stolen. Unease rising, Georgio began penning an email that instructed the assistant director, currently visiting a field office, to return at once. There was a matter concerning him and the director that needed addressed in person. As the email began winding its way through cyberspace, Ice Pick sent its own copy to a field office of a different nature; the first drop in a torrent of information.

. . .

"And so, it went perfectly." The Inside Man who had called himself Kageyama concluded for Agent Griggs. "Which was a nice turn of events for a change, compared to how projects in my previous line of work dealing with… matters such as these, usually panned out. Did our efforts pay off?"

"With interest." Agent Griggs confirmed as he borrowed the G&R office computer. While listening he read a live update of what his agents were finding. "You and your team kicked up an utter shit-storm. They've been nonstop sending emails to each other, each more frantic than the last. They can't figure out your angle, what you were doing there. An auditing team was a brilliant choice on your part. They're having ulcers trying to wrap their heads around it and haven't figured it was just a ruse to get inside the building!"

"I've worked with the people in D.C. and government long enough that any amount of distress I can bring them is a bright spot to my week."

"You and me both. Dirty City stains all who tread there. Well, I'm sure you're eager to be rid of me. Unless there is anything you'd like to add, you and I are done here."

"For now, and forever; don't forget."

"I am already forgetting your number as we speak. Thank you again, so very much, for all your help."

"Not a problem. And, for the record, I must say thank you for the opportunity to be of service. I would be lying if I said I didn't enjoy myself. It was exciting to be in this kind of thing again, to feel… dangerous …again. Anyway, I'm at risk of waxing nostalgic. Best of luck to you and your team."

"Appreciated. Goodbye and farewell."

. . .

Naota was loading spare AK magazines when his father tapped on his shoulder. "Hmm? Hey, what's up?"

"Do you have any of those rifles you and Haruko built that can be spared? And in spared, I mean you won't be getting them back."

As strange of a thing this was for Kamon to ask, Naota's desire to know where this conversation was going could not be suppressed. "I'd have to check for sure, but I'd say anywhere between… ten and twenty that can be sacrificed. Why?"

"Like you and everyone else I have projects and agendas of my own." Kamon non-answered. "Let me know as soon as you can." Kamon left Naota to his loading and ambled off to gather the other materials for his scheme:

• A rattling bag of empty soup cans from the recycling bins

• A five-hundred-foot spool of parachute cord

• Several gallons of water

• One gallon of linseed oil

• A sack of old rags and ripped t-shirts yet to become rags

• Ammunition and magazines for the rifles

• A hunting knife and a Leatherman multi-tool

• His second-best camera with battery charged and film loaded

• Some USB flash drives and two external hard drives

• A cavernous drawstring canvas sack

• Several smoke grenades in assorted colors

• Training EG-67 and Thunder-B distraction grenades

• Very real Mk. II fragmentation grenades

• A crowbar; a more modest version of Tommy's Attitude Adjuster

• A bundle of road flares

• Several steel wedges cut from scrap

• An M40 gas mask with two filters

All these items were packed into the bread truck ambulance, also stolen… ahem. (Author's note: Excuse me, it has been brought to my attention that the correct term is 'Acquired'. So, I'll run that again.) All these items were packed into the bread truck ambulance, also acquired, for this misadventure. Finally, Naota produced a pair of crates packed with NH-47C (Naota-Haruko-47-Carson) rifles; twenty in total.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you've finally lost it." Naota watched Kamon inspect one of the rifles. "But that implies you had 'it' to begin with. What's all this for? Why are you doing, whatever this is?"

"I'm doing this because I am through being patient." Kamon began dry firing and cycling the rifle, getting a feel for the trigger and the sear's release point. "When the Medical Mechanica Iron touched down in Mabase, I was told by the mayor and everyone in charge to 'be patient'. When Haruko arrived, I thought our best course was to wait and see how things shook out; to be patient. Before we were relocated here, I was told that 'top men' were handling things and if we could 'be patient' then all would be well; despite our lives being upturned. And finally, I thought if I were patient enough, I could ride out this little war unscathed. But then… Then your grandfather was killed. And with him went the last of my patience."

Naota helped close the crate. They then hefted it into the waiting bread truck. "Alright, I understand all that you just said. But whatever it is you're doing; don't you think it's a bit much? I mean, I know you can be, no, you are eccentric, but you don't go around asking for rifles and collecting up gear for… what'd you say you're doing again?"

"Extraordinary times call for ordinary people to do extraordinary things." Kamon edged microscopically closer to a vague explanation.

Naota resigned himself to his father refusing a proper answer. "I don't suppose there's anything I can do to stop you; is there?"

"Not a thing!" Kamon put his hands on Naota's shoulders. "Now, I must find Canti, and I see Jeff is headed your way. He looks cross about something, must have a job for you."

"Private Nandaba." Jeff sank a claw-like grip into Naota's uniform and dragged him away. "You're with me."

"Uh… Good luck, I guess?"

"We'll see each other sooner than you think!" Kamon waved then scanned the dim insides of the G&R shop. "Ohhhhh…. T.V. Boy! Canti, where are you?!"

. . .

Didion sat at his desk, blankly zoned out in front of his offline triple monitors. His heart raced and life flashed before his eyes; the most worrying part was that he wasn't too impressed with what he saw. Rumors around the State Police station was that his days, hours, were numbered and Carl Kauffman was out for his blood. This was confirmed with the whiplash of a meeting he had just been through with Captain Chojnacki. He had been summoned to Chojnacki's office and once seated heard the door lock behind him.

"I think this is only the third time I've ever been in here." Didion scanned the room, pockmarks, and bullet holes from Cole's Coup still visible. "First when I was hired on, second when your hard drive took a crap and I had to replace it."

"My memory agrees." Chojnacki sat at his desk and rubbed the scar around his right eye socket. The patch covering it shifted slightly to reveal the sunken hole. Didion forced himself to look away lest morbid curiosity get the better of him. "But I have yet to get a new phone, after Sergeant Kauffman destroyed the last one. Well, I suppose he should be Trooper…no. The Man in Black was so quick in his execution we didn't have the chance to bust Kauffman in rank. So, he died a Sergeant…hmm..."

"Sir? Is there something…?"

"Oh, yes. My apologies." Chojnacki focused. "Didion, you're solely responsible for our internal communications, record keeping, and backing up our files. Correct?"

"Well, it's…yeah. Yes."

"You also maintain our traffic camera system. Yes?"

"I…I do." Didion's chest tightened.

"Then why have you shut down the camera system?" Chojnacki turned his monitor around and showed several camera feeds, all blank.

"It had been sending in corrupted footage so I shut it down until I could fix it." Didion had practiced this conversation and made up the necessary paperwork to document his "fix attempts" should he ever be questioned.

"And you never thought this might be something that I should know about? Records show these were last online in August and it is now nearly October. What all have you been doing this whole time?"

"I mean, with all that's been going on and everything…"

"And what part of fixing the camera systems involves deleting the footage for the month of August?

"Oh that! Those were corrupted and unusable, and since I couldn't get them recovered I…"

"And why are the Dark River Security technicians telling me that there had been an unauthorized user in our camera network during that time?" Chojnacki's remaining eye burned into Didion with such intensity it wouldn't have surprised him if it burst into flame. "After the phishing attack that saw a significant amount of our data stolen, you were given explicit instruction to make sure no more intrusions occurred. I brought in the Dark River techs to get a new set of eyes on the issue, and it appears someone else besides us had free reign. How did this user get in?"

Didion had not accounted for Dark River Security. This he had not practiced for, and he froze. Time stood still. What to do, what to say, how to get out of this? Already he felt the noose slipping around his neck.

"T-there was no new user!"

"There wasn't? Then I suppose the D.R.S. techs are lying to me?"

"No, that's not what I meant."

"Then perhaps you think they're stupid? Or do you think I'm stupid? Of all people you should know…" Chojnacki lifted a stack of papers from a drawer and dropped them on the desk. "That nothing is ever truly deleted or unrecoverable given enough time and talent. Unless you put the server's storage devices in a crusher, whatever was on them can be found again."

"No, no, no, this is, this can't…" Didion examined the papers, printouts of the access and activity records. Highlighted in bright yellow were the unauthorized user and their activities. A sliver of a chance of saving himself hung in the air. "This isn't right, there wasn't another break-in or anything… it, it was…"

"What was it then? Someone internal? Why is the August data gone?"

"Why're you going on about the August data?"

"Because that's when all the cannons, field guns, and the tank war memorials were stolen, and now we have no idea who did it or how they did it because the data is gone."

"I had nothing to do with it!"

"You were the only one in the building. Did you forget the ID badge reader keeps a record as well?"

Didion had forgotten. In his time that system performed flawlessly, no one ever asked for the records, so it became part of the background. He knew he was cornered with no way out. This was the result of trying to lie his way out of, what he only realized now, a police interrogation. His only hope had been to keep his mouth shut and say nothing, and he had fouled that up. "I... I... uhh..."

"Didion…Didion, look at me." Chojnacki's disappointment loomed over the office. "Just tell me what happened. That's all I want. Tell me the truth and maybe we can work something out. I'm not The Man, you know that. I can be reasonable, but you must help me understand what happened."

Seeing no other option, Didion gave up and cast himself at Chojnacki's mercy. "There was no new user because it was the same user who did the phishing attack. They had their own access, remotely. I didn't see them until they erased the files for August. They must have been using the camera's remote access feature as their way in. Essentially what I did was, when our proverbial store was robbed, I slammed the doors shut and locked the thief inside. When those guns, cannon were stolen they must have erased the footage to cover it up. I panicked, and rather than present the files as erased I made them appear corrupted, so it would look like a backup error instead. I then shut off the camera system, which locked whoever had gotten in, out. You'll notice in the records, I'm sure, that there were no further intrusions after that."

"We did notice. That was another suspicious factor we found. Alright…" Chojnacki rubbed his right eye's scar again. "Let me see if I have this straight. We were phished and some, not all, of our data was stolen. You said you had secured our network, and no one would get back in. The original intruder in fact never left and was watching our own traffic cameras in real time. Someone, possibly connected to the intruder, deleted the August camera records. You, having failed in your orders, decide to not only fail to report this, but covered it up by corrupting the files and shutting down our cameras. Yes?"

"…Yes."

"Okay, thank you. Thank you Didion. You've been very, very helpful."

"Is that all?" Didion felt deflated, his soul already leaving his body a withered husk as he felt impending doom drop on him.

"For now. I am still deciding what is to be done with you." Chojnacki stood and headed to the door. "You put me in a frustrating position. I have been ordered to investigate this matter and have. I am also supposed to turn whomever I catch in this over to Carl Kauffman."

"Where does the frustration come in?"

"While I absolutely cannot let you off the hook and walk unpunished, as you have utterly failed me and this department, and gotten dozens killed because of your incompetence…" Chojnacki knocked on the door and unlocked it. Four armed troopers entered. "I am hesitant to simply hand you over to Kauffman."

"Why's that?" The troopers seized Didion by his wrists and elbows and readied to march him out. "Not, not that I'm complaining..."

"Because I think he's a raving psychopath and I don't want to give him the satisfaction. And you could have the capacity to still be useful; I'm just unsure yet as to how. So, for now your office will be the best place for you to be until I decide what is to be done with you. Gentlemen, please escort Mister Didion to his workstation and ensure he stays there until called for."

"Aye, Captain. Move!" Didion was frog-marched to his office, deposited at his desk, and locked in. His door opened inward, so a security bar that latched around the doorknob and braced against the wall was installed. Try as he might no amount of pulling would move the door. The only window was at the top of the wall, several feet wide but just a foot tall and didn't open. Defeated and disoriented from the whirlwind of events, he sat in shock; unable to process what had transpired. It was here his life flashed before his eyes as he realized this was most likely his twilight moments. He had seen Cole's execution and that scene played in his mind on loop. He began slipping into silent despair, imagining impossible scenarios where he had a ghost of a chance. Eventually, drained from the experience and nothing else to do, he fell asleep at his desk and drifted into troubled sleep...

A spate of automatic gunfire snapped him from slumber. Out in the darkness someone had opened fire on the state police post and mercenary camp surrounding it. Another burst of gunfire let loose, and alarms began ringing. Police and mercenaries were shouting and as another salvo struck the building, an edge of panic was in their voices. Gunshots rang out frantically and an explosion punctuated them. With this chaos and confusion there might be a chance for escape. All was not lost and Didion mustered himself to seize this opportunity. But first: how to get out of his office?

. . .