Short Notice

by ElectricGlock

My name is Michael Westen. A week ago, the CIA fired and dumped me in my old hometown Miami. No cash, no credit score, no job history, no clue how to fix it. Not fun, but not lethal. It beat getting eaten alive by giant cannibals, or being hunted down and tortured by secret police. At least there was plumbing. Bottom line:Until I figure out who sent me, I'm not going anywhere.

3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Doesn't matter if you're a spy, a smuggler, or a teenager looking to snag a cheap beer, odds are good you're going to find yourself sneaking across a border. Between friendly countries this is easy. Just drive up in a car, flash a smile and a fake ID, then drive on through. Other times though, things get a little complicated. Whether you're paragliding under the radar, swimming to shore, or hopping a border fence, there's a lot of things that you leave up to chance.

Michael Westen steadied himself, wrapping his fingers around an exposed timber and resting his shoes on top of another one. The architectural style around here was pretty standardized, everything was either a sixteenth-century half-timber building or some sort of masonry. This gave potential thieves-or suicidal spies- no shortage of hand and footholds to climb up and out of sight.

Whenever you're breaking and entering, verticality is your best friend. It's a common saying that New Yorkers never look up, but the same goes for security guards. That's not even the best part, not many people lock their second-story windows, and nobody locks up their third story. The folding ladder is a beginner thief's best friend. Once you've been at it for awhile though, I'd recommend learning to climb. It's harder, but you don't have to explain why you're carrying a ladder everywhere.

Michael had narrowed down his infiltration point a few hours ago, a pair of covered passages that connected a pair of buildings on either side of the road. These skyways had each probably started life as housings for a pair of gates, at least if the overbuilt arches beneath them were any clue. Time and economics had taken their toll though, and now they were bare save for the brick doorways that had been chiseled into rough arches.

That wasn't what made this position interesting though.

Its position did, barely fifty yards from the edge of the second skyway stood the entrance to Ehrmich District. The glare of the guardhouse's limelights cast shadows on rooftops halfway across town, and lit up a circle of wall around it like a flashlight shining through a giant sheet.

It's important to realize that no matter how strict your security, a checkpoint has to be manned twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. No matter how dedicated your guard staff is, that endless, grinding routine wears away at discipline. It breeds complacency. It opens up cracks.

Michael felt a bead of sweat drop off of his forehead, falling two stories and vanishing into the center of the street. It was mostly empty this time of night, on this side of town at least. The only things that could catch him now would be the animal droppings that littered the cobblestones. Not exactly the best way to break a fall.

Michael tightened his grip on the timber and pulled himself closer to the skyway wall. The clattering of wagon wheels -usually a distant echo from the other side of town- grew louder and more distinct. He forced himself to breathe. In two three four… out two three four… each breath the same as the last. Managing stress was the same as managing anything else, experience and good habits.

Michael snuck a glance behind him. The other skyway was still shielding him from view, its windows dark and vacant, roof tiles spotted by thick patches of moss and bird droppings. Signs of neglect, signs of apathy.

The more traffic any given station receives, the bigger the cracks spread. Ever wonder why supervisors have such an easy time sneaking bombs past TSA? Wonder no longer.

It had been a hard trip from the outside edge of Wall Rose-where the refugees had been concentrated, to the inside edge at the border of Wall Sina. Well-the border of one of the bubble-cities at least. Grisha hadn't been hyper-specific when he'd explained the layout of this place, and Michael would admit his mental map had a lot of blank spaces. The fact he could now write off two-thirds of that area as 'Here There be Titans' helped only slightly, the fact he hadn't stopped for a proper meal or drink since he'd made for the Interior last night didn't help at all. With the sound of wagon-wheels bearing down on him, Michael distracted himself by drawing a mental map.

'The Walls' were a trio of massive, fifty-meter tall barriers made of solid stone. Not concrete, stone. The people here knew about concrete, but Grisha had been very clear that it was stone. These walls weren't just massive vertically, but they encompassed an area larger than most small countries. Wall Maria-the one he'd woken up in-was supposed to be precisely a thousand kilometers wide. A perfect circle of natural material without a scratch or seam to be found, save the holes for the gates. Pretty good evidence that they weren't, right there. As if he needed it. Small wonder the local religion worshiped the Walls as gods.

Michael shook his head. Most of that area was still wrapped up by the other two walls, Rose and Sina, but the whole thing was still a lot to swallow. Michael hadn't felt this small since he'd first flown over Russia.

The clattering grew louder. Michael checked his pockets, then his Beretta. He then adjusted his grip, flipping himself around so that his back was pressed into the wall and he was staring out over a darkened street.

Not comfortable, but as the first oxen nosed their way out from under the overpass, Michael took comfort in knowing he wouldn't have long to wait. He saw the oxen, then their driver's cigarette poking out from under a hat, then… bingo.

A covered wagon, at least twelve feet tall with a flat top. Michael had been forced to let the first couple wagons pass, they were either too small or just uncovered. This one would do nicely though.

Michael pushed off his perch and belly-flopped ten feet onto the moving canvas.

The impact was… not pleasant. One of the ribs that supported the canvas hit him right in the abdomen, he might as well have gotten smacked by a baseball bat. As a rule though his belly-flop strategy kept him from tearing through the canvas.

It did not, however, stop the driver from feeling the jolt of a grown man dropping on top of a wood and canvas wagon. Michael forced himself flat, then went limp, well, as limp as he could get without getting bucked off.

"Hey! What's the big idea?"

Michael channeled his inner artist and tried to become one with the canvas.

"Are you two trying to knock me off? I know they don't fix these roads worth a damn, but that doesn't mean you oafs need to step in every little pothole from here to Trost! Damn beasts!"

The oxen didn't say anything back. Good thing too, Michael had been through enough these past few days. With his landing unnoticed, he felt some of the tension in his gut ease. Step one done, Step two was where this risk turned into an actual gamble.

The wagon clattered over worn cobblestones and towards the Ehrmich District gate. Michael could feel the glare of the limelights as they grew closer, the jets of hot gas superheating the hunks of limestone into incandescence.

Each of the three walls had four 'Districts' in their own walls on the outside, sticking out like stubby points on a compass. Shiganshina was-had been- one of these Districts, the Southern District of Wall Maria. Trost was the Southern District of Wall Rose, that was the one the refugees had been ushered through so quickly in order to bring them into Wall Rose proper. Rose was far more metropolitan than Shiganshina, in a Ren-Fair kind of way.

A voice belted out from the front.

"That's far enough pal! Set brakes and pull papers!"

The wagon ground to a stop. The driver set the brakes then stepped off. Michael heard the distinctive squeak of leather boots swagger their way over to the side of the cart. They probably still had their new-shoe-shine, and Michael could think of one kind of low level public servant with that kind of money. At least the sort who would be pulling graveyard shift at a checkpoint.

The driver's boots did not squeak, but they plodded with a vengeance "Come on Heinrich, it's just me."

'Heinrich' squeaked his way along the side of the wagon, towards the back. Michael heard another pair of boots behind him, quieter, less weight behind them. Either a woman or a small, skinny man.

Michael felt a disturbance in the tarp somewhere near his midsection. A bolt of panic rushed through him and he almost leapt off, but some otherworldly force told him to stay still and the tarp dropped back into shape with a snap. Micheal hadn't even met this Heinrich prick, but he already didn't like him.

"Come on now Butch, you know the drill… 'It is the Duty of Military Police to ensure the integrity of Inter-Walls Commerce'-" Michael heard the woman snicker at that as the man continued "-I mean we wouldn't want anything illicit crossing into the Interior, would we?"

There was a slurred curse, then the sound of rustling cloth, a string being tugged, and then fingers jingling coins. Michael heard one coin after another being placed into an outstretched hand. Each coin followed by a pause as the purse-bearer waited to see if it would suffice. Each pause was followed by the sound of snickering.

Any self-respecting Authoritarian State has an internal security force. Their job descriptions tend to get covered in all sorts of flowery language, but as a rule it comes down to 'Keep the Peasants Away From the Palace,' and their benefits package includes little things like 'Bullying' and 'Extortion.'

The final coin dropped, the final laugh belted, and a defeated driver trunched his way back over to a waiting wagon. His grumblings were difficult to make out, but their tone wasn't.

It's… not a job that's big on customer service.

Bribes may be a cost of doing business in some parts of the world, but not everybody could shake-off a shakedown, even a routine one.

The wagon started moving again, the driver's curses had never stopped, and they pulled through the gate without much difficulty.

When Micheal first arrived at Karmich-the city that had sprouted up outside Ehrmich's wall, a part of him expected to see a massive military response forming, columns of wagons burdened with barrels of food and supplies for the army of homeless refugees that just flooded into Wall Rose. He'd certainly seen a military column. He'd checked out the insignia on their uniforms as they passed, ignoring his vacant grin and friendly wave.

Unicorns, the heraldry of Military Police. Carrying muskets, pistols, and swords. Not much use against Titans, but plenty for crowds of unarmed refugees.

One of them leaned down from her horse, a thin blonde woman whose nose could double as a tree-tap "Hey, you! What are you doing?"

Michael shrugged, "Heading home, what about you guys? Going to deal with that Titan problem down south?"

The woman blanched, looking away for a second-a precious second. Guilt, anger, frustration all played across her face. Then the mask returned, but the suspicion had vanished.

"That's none of your concern. Mind your business and stay out of our way."

It told Michael everything he needed to know, even if he didn't get a peak of grapeshot in the cart of provisions being pulled behind her. Vintage crowd control. Effective, so long as you didn't mind picking up severed limbs afterward.

He did not pass any relief columns.

Michael did, however, notice wagons were still taking food into the Interior. From there it had only been a little reconnaissance, a hop, a skip, and one very literal jump to where he was now.

The cart struck a pothole, sending a canvas-covered rib slamming into Michael's bruised chest. They were past the gate now, the darkness even blacker after leaving the glow of the limelights. The streets of Ehrmich were just as dark as the town that surrounded it. Every now and then Michael caught the orange glow of a candle or lantern through the glass of a window.

If the gates of Maria had been a reminder of Italy, then Ehrmich was a tacky tourist trinket. Gone were the half-timber homes from a European tourist's pamphlet-replaced with endless rows of palazzos, each stacked with rows of ornamental white columns. Gone were the dirt alleyways and worn cobbles, replaced by an endless stream of even square paving stones.

And gone was the odor of fear that had been hanging in the air since he'd been ushered through the gates of Trost. People still felt safe here. Funny.

The cart's rocking settled down into even clicks. The pavers were far easier on the suspension than the cobbles- easier on his ribs too. The bumps settled into a steady rhythm, the cart clicking away like a shed-sized metronome. It almost reminded Michael of riding in a sleeper car on a train, and he had to fight sleep for every inch of consciousness up until he felt the wagon slow to a halt and begin to back up. It struck him as kind of odd that a wagon could do that, but in hindsight it seemed obvious.

Michael waited for the driver to disembark and disconnect the oxen, leading them into the stalls with a lot more cooing and petting than Michael expected. Then he rolled over and lowered himself onto the ground. His toes hit the ground first, and Michael was reminded that his shoes were not padded for running or walking, and that two solid days' trekking on foot had left his toes feeling like something out of Hellraiser.

Michael cursed himself for not stealing a horse on the way up, but the only options had been Military horses with Military riders or stealing a small family's most valuable possession. Compassion was a curse alright. In any case, he'd lived through worse.

Michael bit back a scream as his feet hit the ground, getting away with a growl and digging his fingers into the coarse wood of the wagon's frame.

Michael heard the driver's boots plod back towards him. He stood up and started his well-practiced limp towards the noise. Michael waited until the noise neared the corner of the wagon to step into view. His silence was well rewarded.

"WHA!"

The driver jolted back, boots slipping and back landing on the-thankfully clean- straw near the stables.

Michael poured out a bottled laugh, hopefully not as bottled as he was pretending to be.

"Sorry-sorry…" Michael stumbled forward to pick him up, offering a hand. The man stared at him a moment, eyes scanning with uncanny focus. Michael made sure to keep his eyes unfocused. Lucky for him the darkness of the trip had left his pupils expanded to better cope with the lack of light. Even the stables were lit only by a single lantern, hanging from a column by a long nail. If this conversation didn't go well, that darkness could come in handy.

The driver nodded to himself and took Michael's hand. "The hell you even doin' out this time of night?"

Michael pulled him up, making a show of using the wagon for support as he did "Bah- yuh know… was at the bah, minding my own bizz-nus -just lost this sweet chef's gig up north- then alla sudden these fukkin Unicorns came by n' said I wuz in their seat." The man's eye's quirked at the mention of the Military Police. With the bait taken, Michael made to reel him in. "I tried to tell 'em it was my seat an' I've been sittin' there for years, then they, well..." Michael propped his back against the wagon and gestured to the current state of his suit. The trip here hadn't been as hard on his clothes as his feet, but that wasn't saying much.

The driver nodded, grumbling. "Yeah, they're all like that. The King's Finest my aching ass."

Michael shrugged. "Well, wuddya gonna do? Say… you know a place 'round here a fella could getta drink?"

"You buyin?"

Michael smiled. "Of course."

o…o

The Traitor's Head was far from the worst bar Michael had ever set foot in. In fairness though, it was up against some pretty stiff competition. It would be pretty hard to beat that underground club in Tehran, though in fairness he'd gotten there just after a Revolutionary Guard raid. The Traitor's Head was also packed solid, men in rough worker's jackets and scraggly beards stumbled around in groups, crowded the bar, and played cards for stacks of matchbooks. Men in bloody butcher's jackets clustered themselves into a corner, dancing, singing, and spilling steins of beers onto what had probably started life as a nice hardwood floor.

A wealthy neighborhood is like an aircraft carrier. They rely on a network of outlying areas. The difference is that where a carrier needs food, fuel, and protection, a rich neighborhood mostly needs labor. It's a symbiotic relationship, the poor get a little less poor- and the rich don't have to clean their own toilets.

He slipped onto a bench and slumped over the bar. The barkeep tapped him on the shoulder. "WHAT YOU HAVING?"

Micheal raised his head just far enough off the bartop to make sure he was heard, while the driver, Butch- he'd learned on the walk up- encouraged the man next to Micheal to leave his seat. "WHAT YOU GOT?"

"BEER, BRANDY, 'N CIDER." Michael saw Butch's eyes quirk at the last one.

"BEER FOR ME, CIDER FOR MY NEW PAL BUTCH OVER HERE."

The barkeep snatched a pair of metal cups from a shelf behind him, a long finger slipping inside both of them. He set them under a pair of taps and clapped them onto the counter. He made to turn around, Michael waved to him.

"HEY!"

The barkeep ignored him and moved onto the next patron.

Butch clapped Michael on the arm. "DON'T WORRY, HE'S NOT GOOD TALKIN' ANYWAY."

Michael gave a nod. "PICKED THAT UP, YEAH."

They sat there for awhile without talking, not in silence though. If anything the bar was only growing rowdier.

Michael found out how rowdy when he felt a meaty hand clapping onto his shoulder, dangerously close to his neck. He'd been nursing his beer, another sex-on-canoe brew that was actually kind of refreshing after so many days drinking out of animal troughs and a pilfered water skin. He painted on a smile that he knew didn't reach his eyes and turned in his stool. He came eye-to-eye with a face just as meaty as the hand, and flushing so red he might as well have been a stop sign. Michael took the time to note the pair of equally sloshed men behind him before giving a nod.

"CAN I HELP YOU?"

The drunk laughed, as did his friends. "YEAH. YOU'RE IN OUR SEATS."

Michael nodded, and made to get up. A barstool wasn't worth a fight, and he wasn't well established enough to deal with the MPs if they appeared to break up a fight.

A small part of him died when he heard Butch's voice call out from behind him. "LAST I CHECKED HE ONLY HAD THE ONE SEAT. YOU THREE GONNA SHARE OR SUMTHIN?!"

The bar went silent. Michael sighed.

Nothing could ever be easy.

The man took a second to process the insult, eyes losing focus in contemplation. Michael used the time to plan.

It wasn't a great plan, but he finished it just as the man's eyes regained their focus.

Micheal set down his mug and held up his hands.

He stepped towards the drunk, just within arm's reach.

"Hey, no need to do anything ugly. He's just had a bad day."

The man's hands each grabbed a lapel on Michael's coat.

"You should mind your own business pa-" Michael didn't let him finish, bringing his hands down in a flash and wrapping his fingers around each of the man's thumbs. He tore them forwards, breaking the man's grip and throwing him off balance.

He also felt each of the man's thumbs pop, but Michael couldn't tell if the man's scream was from that, or the kick he aimed into his groin. In any case, the man doubled over in pain. Michael made use of one of his thumb-grips to steer him headfirst into the hardwood. He'd wake up tomorrow morning with a headache worse than any hangover, assuming he woke at all.

Micheal was just turning to face the man to his right when he was shoved from behind into a crowd of cheering spectators, who whooped and shoved him back into the clearing the mob had cut around the tussle.

Michael heard a man in the background start taking bets, and a few cries of "GET THE TWERP" from the crowd. He sized up his opposition. Two men, each as well-built and drunk as the last had been, and each hopped-up enough on anger to turn every bit of exposed skin red.

Michael dropped into a stance, a subtle one, in hopes that he could lure them into another ambush. They didn't take the bait though, giving each other a nod before putting their heads down to rush him.

Butch came in with the barstool before that, swinging it down like an executioner's axe onto the closest thug's bald head. Michael half-expected the stool to shatter, but the old growth wood was made out of sterner stuff, and the thug was hammered into the floor with a crunch of what was probably his nose. If the man wasn't dead, he was going to wish he was later.

That still left Michael staring down the barrel of a sweaty battering ram, stomping across the floor towards him with a yell the pitch of a Spanish bull, and the length of a steam whistle. His feet shook the floor every time he drove them into the hardwood. Michael took a long step backwards to adjust his stance. He saw a string of spittle fly out of the man's mouth and onto his shoes.

Michael braced for impact. Reaching his hands out in front of him like he was trying to catch a football.

Impact came. Michael felt his hands touch the man's shoulders. He felt the thug start to leap on top of him. Between their differences in height, weight, and muscle, Michael knew that could be the end of him.

Michael flipped his hips, using his arms to lever the man's own momentum into something either too big or too hard to get out of the way. He found both, and the man's midsection made contact with the bartop with a thump.

Just under the ribs, near the liver.

There's a myth that gets a lot of mileage on the playground, that a punch to the nose can send the bone into the brain. Nobody ever seems to mention that the nose doesn't have any bones, but that's kids for you.

Michael saw the man push himself up from the bar, stumbling backwards and swaying with every step.

On the other hand, just about any boxer can tell you a solid blow to the liver can send the body into shock. Organs, as a rule, don't like getting punched. The liver is just big and sticks out under the ribcage. A good liver shot can send a shock into the parts of the nervous system that control blood vessel expansion, normally not a problem, except that the heart rate doesn't increase to compensate.

Michael watched the man's head swivel from side to side, mouth opening and closing like a fish.

The body reels, the blood pressure drops, and eventually…

The man collapsed onto all fours and retched.

So do they.

BOOOM

A blast from behind the counter, softer than most gunshots. Black powder. The cloud of thick, white smoke that wafted out to cover the ceiling confirmed it. Michael followed the smoke to the source, where an angry barman was preparing to out-shout a dozen fresh cases of tinnitus. Michael watched the smoke drift out of the barman's double barrels, and saw his eyes flit from face to face in the crowd. The bartender had panicked and fired both shots at once. Michael snapped another glance at each of the downed thugs, only the one who'd been chucked into the counter was still moving. If you counted curling into the fetal position and weeping as movement.

Michael heard a clatter and saw Butch dropping the stool like a child caught with a cigarette. The roaring of the crowd had been replaced by dull whispers, a silence enforced by shock and general ignorance of firearms. Michael waved over to the bartender, who pointed a shaking finger at him.

"Y-y-y-you get out of here, you hear me!?"

Michael smiled and nodded. "I was just leaving, sorry about the mess."

Butch harumphed "Now wait just one Maria damned minute…"

Michael forced out a laugh and turned to him. "It's no big deal, 'sides- " he gestured to the men on the floor "-you wanna carry them out?"

Butch looked down at the man he'd hammered into the ground, then back at Michael. "I guess between the poleheads an' these fuckheads, 'night's just not our night."

Michael nodded, then followed Butch out the door, trailing him as he stomped onto the street.

"It's not right, I tell yah. Shit like that's why the whole world's going upside down. That 'n the Titans o' course. You heard 'bout that, right?"

Ah. So word was spreading. It was entirely possible that Butch was the only person in Ehrmich -outside the Government-who knew what had happened to Wall Maria and her people. As bearers of bad news went, Butch was not Michael's first choice.

Micheal decided to let up on the accent, his reasoning being that enough time had passed for him to 'sober up,' and that Butch was a little too into his own cups to notice.

"Nah, was a little focused on losing my job to pay attention to the news. Somebody finally see one?"

Butch half laughed, half wheezed. "See one? Oh they saw 'em alright… "

They kept walking as Butch relayed his version of the Fall of Maria, giving the right shape of the facts and adding a whole bunch of details that were more cider than fact. Michael made sure to make the right noises, pretending to listen as Butch spun enough yarn to make a sweater.

"An that's the long and short of it, near I can tell anyway. Say, you mentioned you were outta work?"

Michael perked up. "Yeah, why? You got a lead?"

"Yeah. This lady I gotta get a delivery to. Works in the 'hospitality' business, ya know?"

"Not exactly my kind of fun, but yeah, I know 'hospitality.'"

"Anyway, she just let go of her chef few years ago. Was getting a little handsy with the girls, way she told it. Ain't none of my business how it shook out, all I know is she wasn't happy with 'em."

"Makes sense. What makes you think she's in the hiring mood?"

"She's been looking for years, been making due with her hostess and one of the girls who got knocked up a few years back. She says she's looking for something unique, 'zodic' or somthin' like that."

"Exotic?"

"Sounds right."

Michael let out his first real chuckle of the night. "Good to know, 'exotic' is my specialty."

.o.o.o.

The Durne House was a peculiar place. The property was cloistered against the interior edge of Wall Sina, the House itself a manor that poked its way out of the hilly forest that accounted for most of the area. The brick walls that marked out the edge of the estate were kept meticulously clean.

Except for the dense morning fog and the return of cobblestone roads, Michael and Butch's trip up here had been pretty smooth sailing. The gate guard even let Michael skate by with only a small bribe. A good thing too, his coins were dwindling. If nothing else it was nice to be riding for a change, even if Butch's wagon didn't have much in the way of cushions.

Speaking of Butch, Michael got a tap on the arm as they rolled up to the gate.

"Let me do the talkin', eh?"

Michael smiled and nodded, though the thought of letting 'Share the Stool' Butch do the talking filled him with the exact opposite of confidence.

"Sure. You know, she is going to want to talk to me though."

The oxen trotted to a halt as a pair of men paced up alongside them.

"What's the matter here Butch?"

"There's no matter. I've got your product."

"Yeah, your friend can leave. He ain't the kind of ass we sell here."

Micheal stood up, but felt Butch's hand press into his shoulder. "Don't worry Kurtz, he's not here to take your job."

Micheal rolled his eyes. Between his Beretta and Butch's mouth, he'd bet both the semiautomatic things on this planet were within an arms' reach.

'Kurtz' laughed. "That mouth of yours man…" His eyes focused on Michael. "And you're here for…"

"Heard you've got a chef problem?"

Kurtz gave Michael a pensive stare, eyeing him up and down. "Yeah? Look a little muscle-y for a chef."

Michael smiled and nodded. "It's all the whisking, I've been saying it for years."

"Ma always told me to never trust a skinny cook, you vouch this guy Butch?"

Butch nodded "Just met 'im the other night, solid fella. Knows his way around a kitchen."

Micheal smiled and feigned a shrug, Kurtz elbowed his buddy. "Pass it on up, I'll escort'em in."

o.o.o

Sam

Sam Axe had not had a beer in several days, he'd not had anything harder either. Just water, and enough coffee to slow cook a dolphin. Times like this could make a man feel every bit his age, and a life of hard living and harder drinking meant Sam felt it a little harder than most.

Sam took a final sip from his current coffee cup, the cheap gas-station cardboard flexing under his fingers. He growled and threw it into the pile in the back seat, a pile that was turning more into a hill as the days went by.

He pulled out his phone to check for messages, finding it just as empty as he'd found it five minutes ago. The police scanner on the dash poured more static into the air, where it mixed with the Floridian humidity to turn the car's interior into a microwave oven, complete with electronic noise.

Fi popped the passenger door and slipped inside. "Any luck?"

Sam shook his head. "Nothin'. FBI's still sealed tighter than a snake's colon, ATF, DEA, Miami PD… not a word. He's gone, and the only thing the Feds know is that they know nothing."

"Anything on the scanner?"

"Just your typical Miami stuff; junkies, vandals, a couple domestics. Nothin' that sounds like Mike."

Just then, there was a pause in the static. "Break! Break! Break! Attention all units! Multiple explosions at Miami Dade Airport. Automatic gunfire has also been reported."

Fiona raised an eyebrow, Sam nodded. "Yeah, that's more his speed." He put the car into drive and sped off towards the highway. He didn't bother following the speed limits. The cops had bigger things to worry about.

o.o.o

"Why good morning young man, Michael-wasn't it?"

Madame Durne was a squat, toad faced old woman. She sat reclined on a bench, her long, flowing dress flooding off all sides and covering the floor around her in a broad circle of transparent fabric. She lounged with the confidence of a woman twenty years-and fifty pounds-lighter. She smiled at Michael in a way that made him feel that in his earlier 'toad' analogy, he was a crippled fly.

Prostitution is the world's oldest profession, pretty much as soon as people figured out you could trade money for things, the first thing people started trading it for was sex.

A woman in a red dress emerged from a set of curtains behind Durne. A small part of Michael had to avoid making allusions to Jaba the Hutt and his dancers. Madame Durne sent her back behind the curtain with a sharp wave.

The business models are… diverse- but the better ones form a pyramid similar to any other small office. You need workers to handle the clients…

Michael shot a look over towards a mousy woman hovering by Madame Durne's shoulder, pencil and pad in hand.

…a secretary to handle the schedule…

His eyes came back to Madame Durne. She gave him a small tilt of the head.

...and a boss to write the paychecks and schmooze the VIPs.

Michael heard Kurtz clear his throat behind him. "The lady asked you a question."

Security is also important.

Michael took a moment to consider his approach. This was going to be a long term cover, and truth be told, this place was the easiest way to blow his cover outside of a counterintelligence office. It was rural enough that he'd have a hard time playing country bumpkin-not that his suit would help him there- but well connected enough that any falsified connections to blood or money could be checked. Lucky for him, Butch had been loose-lipped enough that Michael had found at least one plausible cover story related to the area's local politics.

Of course, none of those covers would be too keen to give information freely.

"Sorry, I'll admit I'm a little overwhelmed. Nice place you've got here."

Madame Durne sat up on her sofa. "Thank you Dear, it's a labor of love. As is everything we do here."

"I can appreciate that, I like to keep a professional distance personally. Things get complicated when you put too much of yourself into your work."

Madame Durne giggled, Michael heard Kurtz stifle a laugh. The mousey woman scowled. "Mr Westen, did Butch mention what happened to the last man to have this position?"

Michael nodded his head from side to side. "I think he said he had some problems keeping his hands to himself. Is that right?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Yes, I suppose so."

Madame Durne reached up and laid a hand on her shoulder, Michael felt Kurtz shift behind him. Durne laughed, "Re-lax Elsie, he just got here." She turned to him. "My sincerest apologies, Elsie here is very economical with her trust. It's an asset in our line of work."

Michael held up his hands. "That's fine, that's fine." He turned to Elsie. "Butch said he knew somebody who was looking for a chef-" he pointed at himself "-who didn't mind keeping his mouth shut-" he tapped himself again "-and could cook things nobody else knew how." Michael tapped himself one last time. Butch had in fact told him almost every facet of the operation, down to the plot of forest where Kurtz left unruly customers to the wolves, but a white lie to show loyalty was a good foot to put forward in an interview like this.

Elsie's scowl deepened, as did Madame Durne's grin. Madame Durne snapped her fingers, and the servant girl reemerged from the curtains behind her with a wine-filled decanter. She licked her lips as she watched her glass fill. A glass was also set out and filled for Michael, she gestured to it. Michael picked it up.

The final approach Michael had decided on was… less than ideal. It was also his best option. Places like the Durne House were an intelligence goldmine. Rich and influential men came from all over to wet their beaks here. Blackmail, eavesdropping, even just collecting gossip, all from one centralized location. It wasn't the internet, but it was a distant second. About the best he was going to do without sitting on the rafters over the throne room.

Madame Durne cleared her throat. "I admit, Michael, you are an odd build for a Chef. Of course, I myself am in no position to cast aspersions…"

Elsie leaned forward. "I haven't heard of you before."

Michael tilted his glass towards her like he was offering a toast. "You in the business?"

Elsie scowled and looked away. "No, but I do-"

"Then that's why."

Elsie huffed out a laugh. "Not likely. There are only so many places that employ professional chefs on a regular basis. Noblemen, government officials… for obvious reasons we keep in touch with all of these people."

Micheal smiled. "Really? You spend who knows how many hours of your life keeping the books of a place like this, but you think the only people with coin are the ones with fancy job titles? I mean come on."

"Then who was it? Who trained you? Who was your last employer?"

Well, here went nothing. Butch had told him that the MPs had organized a major crackdown on several criminal families in the city about two months prior. With the higher ups either killed or sent into hiding.

Michael shook his head. "I'm not telling you that, and even if I did, you couldn't talk to them. There was a change in the market, and they had to go find greener pastures."

Elsie tsked. "Really? That's the best you can do? Kurtz toss him-"

Madame Durne cleared her throat, and Elsie's words died in hers. "Now now Elsie, it would be rather odd for us to demand discretion and then throw up our hands when it's provided."

"Madame, you can't seriously expect-"

Madame Durne held up her hand, and Elsie fell silent. Small wonder she was so frustrated, Michael couldn't think of a time she'd gotten to speak a whole sentence this meeting.

Durne lowered her hand. "Elsie, if we want to verify this man's qualification, there's a much easier method."

She turned to Kurtz "Show him to the kitchen. If he's not done by lunchtime, take him for a walk in the woods."

He saw an evil grin curl its way across Elsie's face.

Kurtz reached down and grasped Michael by the shoulder. Michael held up a finger to stop him, downed the last of his drink, then stood up to go. He saw Elsie's grin curdle, and even Madame Durne raised an eyebrow.

"You have anything specific in mind, or…"

Madame Durne waved him away with a smile, and a wave that looked a great deal more flirtatious than comfortable. "Surprise me."

Michael heard her chuckle to herself as he was led away.

o.o.o

Sam

The highway on the trip over to the airport was quiet. It was past the morning rush-hour, but not yet at the lunch-rush. That gave Sam plenty of room to maneuver Fiona's little sports car between lanes and cars as they burned rubber towards the airport.

Twenty minutes later they pulled to a stop on a service road by the far side of the airport. Across the runway, a private jet was burning freely, its flames pouring a column of pitch black smoke into the sky. Fiona took out her binoculars and scanned the site.

Sam found out what was bothering him about the scene. "That's funny, you'd think the place would be covered in fire engines by now."

Fi tapped him on the shoulder with her binos. Sam, never one to miss a hint from a lady, took it and got his answer. Those oddly colored lumps on the tarmac were more than just clothes, they had people in them. Well, bodies at least.

Sam whistled. "Looks like they had one hell of a party, glad we weren't here when it started."

"Speak for yourself. I've been dying to shoot somebody."

"Yeah, I hear ya sister, and from what I see dying is exactly what you would have got."

"Are any of them moving?"

Sam scanned the field again, the police scanner's gurgling letting them know that the cops were having trouble with all of the scared and angry people in the terminal who'd just been told their flights were canceled.

"I don't see any twitching, or any white suits."

Fiona reached down and checked a 9mm she'd tucked into her waistband. "We need to get closer, pull us around."

Sam sighed and started looping his way towards that side of the airport.

They pulled into the parking lot of the USDA building less than three minutes later. Sam scanned the streets and sidewalks for movement. He found none, not a single curious office worker, not a single moving car, not even a seagull scrounging for fries.

"Great… that's always a good sign."

He could feel Fiona roll her eyes from the passenger seat behind him. Sam hit the brakes next to a small copse of trees hemming in a parking lot. He heard a door open behind him.

It was not Fiona's door.

He turned around to find a mop of messy blond hair crawling into the back of Fiona's car, the woman clambered onto the floor, hauling herself up by the seat cushions to close the door behind her.

"Woah! Lady! I'm not sure where you get the impression we're running a cab service here but you gotta go call one like everybody-" his words petered out as soon as he saw the blood and soot coating her face, and leaving stains on Fiona's leather seats.

She looked up at him, then down the barrel of Fiona's handgun, then back to him. "You need to start driving."

Fiona didn't cock her weapon-she always kept the hammer back, but she did cock an eyebrow. "I hope you have a very good reason for that. I already have to clean your blood out of my seats, The bill won't change if I have a little more."

The woman rolled her eyes, leaning her head against the seat behind her like she was trying to squash a headache.

Fiona put her hand on the trigger.

"I'm one of the people who burned your boyfriend."

Fiona glanced at Sam, then back to her. "Then where is he?"

The woman shook her head. "I don't know. Whole operation's gone pear shaped, I can't contact my bosses, all of my operatives are either dead or missing and if we don't leave right now we are going to join them."

Sam heard the sound of sirens getting louder, he turned to Fi. "Well, I think this is as close as we're gonna get."

Fiona nodded, then turned to the woman in the back. "Stay down, and try not to bleed on anything expensive."

"Like what? A fast food bag? Old coffee cups?"

Sam started slow-rolling the car out of the lot and into the street. He saw three sets of sirens speeding towards him in the distance. He kept his speed steady, nothing to hide, nothing to fear. Just your average forty year old man driving a fancy car with a beautiful woman in the passenger seat.

Driving out of a government parking lot. Sam sighed. "Hold on you two, I think I'm gonna have to do some driving."

He hit the gas, tires kicking out a rubbery cloud as the car accelerated down the straightaway. The lights followed him in the mirror. Sam heard the cops rattle off a loose description and direction through the scanner, but they'd started too distant for a good view.

This is gonna be all day, I can already tell.

He looked at the woman in his rear view mirror, who was busy tightening an improvised tourniquet on her right arm.

"Hey, lady. Seeing that we're gonna be spending so much time together, mind giving us a name?"

Sam saw her fight herself over it for a moment while he signaled he was going to take an exit. He then sped right through the light and skipped the exit altogether. It turned the intersection into quite the little roadblock of stopped cars.

"The name's Carla."

o.o.o

Michael

Kurtz took a rather direct route to the kitchen, though the mazelike layout of the Durne house would have allowed a way less direct-and far less memorable to a potential escapee- path. This either meant Michael had been good enough in his act to convince at least Kurtz, or Kurtz was confident he could restrain Micheal quickly if he needed to be thrown out.

They came to a wide set of double doors. Much like the rest of the manor, they were made of dark, polished wood and were intricately carved. Only the well-worn rectangular strike marks that cut across both doors at waist level gave any indication the door saw regular use.

Well, that and the smell of searing meat. Kind of hard to miss that one.

Kurtz stepped next to Michael and pulled him in by the shoulder. His grip was crushing.

"Now listen here Michael…"

Michael put a little tremor in his voice. "L-listening."

"Good. Now I want you to understand that I want no funny business going on in there, okay? The whole house loves the both of 'em to death, and if you mess with 'em, it's your ass." Kurtz emphasized this by giving Michael's shoulder a sharp squeeze.

"Gah! Okay, who are they, exactly?"

Kurtz led Michael towards the door and pushed it open.

"Cielia! We got a new victim!"

Michael saw a feminine hand wave back at them from behind a doorway at the far side of the kitchen. "One moment!"

He spared a moment to look over the kitchen, it was a curious place. The kitchen itself was centered around a pair of wooden tables, surrounded on all sides by thick brick walls, with chimneys sprouting out over each stove and oven, all illuminated with the greatest power oil lanterns could provide. Not much, in other words.

Kurtz let go of his shoulders and paced off to stand watch by the door. "Good luck pal."

Michael felt a presence behind him, and turned around to find himself staring at a head of mussed brown hair imprisoned in a gray kerchief. He moved his eyes downwards to find a woman staring at him with a violently smug expression. Early thirties, but a stressful early thirties. If Elsie had been mousey, then Cielia would give the Cheshire Cat himself a run for his money.

She was also less than a foot and a half away. Michael took a measured step backwards before extending his hand. "You must be Cielia." Stupid question, but manners were useful when the person you were introducing yourself to had a twitchy guard detail.

She took it with both hands, hard enough he could count the burn scars on her fingers. "Sure am, and you?"

"Michael, I think Kurtz mentioned why I was here?"

Cielia put a hand up to the corner of her mouth, her head taking a sly tilt. "Perhaps, I could have sworn I heard him mention my name though…" Her hand did a poor job covering her smile, which was exactly the point.

Michael plowed on. "He did, I thought you guys didn't have a chef?"

Cielia's smile faltered, before she continued. "Oh, I'm not a chef. I can cook, but that's not the same thing, at least according to the prissy assholes who come down to inspect their liege's meals."

"Really? And how long have you been the Durne House's 'Cook?'"

"Oh, ever since I had Hitch. Speaking of-" Then she turned to the side "HITCH! WE HAVE A GUEST! COME OUT AND INTRODUCE YOURSELF!"

They stood and waited while Cielia's voice faded into brick.

Cielia hmphed. "Lazy girl. I just hope she isn't off on one of her pranks again. I'll never figure out where she got that glue…"

Michael held up a hand. "So Cielia, I've got a bit of an issue."

"You and everybody else, go on"

"Madame Durne wasn't exactly happy with my references. Now I've got to make her something interesting for lunch, or she has Kurtz take me to the woods and stake me for the wolves."

Cielia took a moment to let that sink in. Then she laughed. "Hah! She must like you, normally Elsie gets guys chucked out on their butts first thing."

"I get the feeling it wasn't a spate of conscience."

Cielia raised an eyebrow. "Well, you must have said something that made you stick out. What were your references royal or something?"

"More like… decomposing."

Her smile faltered, then she pulled herself onto the wooden table at the center of the room. "Yeah, that could be a problem. What does she want?"

"'Something interesting,' were her words. What do you have to work with?"

She nodded and waved him over to the pantry. "Come and see."

When selecting a professional cover-ID I prefer to get a job that's big on soft skills. Marketing, human resources, professional consulting… their biggest skillset is being able to lie with a straight face.

Michael followed Cielia into the storeroom. She led him around, showing him garlic strings, tubs of butter, and jars of fresh cream with the same enthusiasm that she'd show off a prodigy child.

That being said, people are pretty reluctant to let door-to-door salesmen into high-security areas. For that, you're either going to have to cozy up to somebody important, or learn some actual skills.

Ceila pulled back a sliding door to reveal a teenage girl, maybe on the edge of fourteen, sprawled napping over a pile of flour bags.

If you're a plumber, you'd better know how to solder some pipes, a gardener, then you'd better know how to mulch, and if you're a chef…

Michael nodded towards the girl. "Can she help?"

You'd better know how to run a kitchen.

Cielia smiled. "'Can she help?' tch-I've never had better."

"Then get her up. We've got a lot of work to do."

"Hitch?" She singsonged, before leaning over and giving her daughter a poke in the arm.

Hitch smiled and mumbled. "I don't have a handkerchief for you Mister Knight… and why would I wanna give you a favor anyway? Why don't you pull up a chair and…"

Cielia rolled her eyes, then switched to shaking her by the shoulders. Hitch's eyes snapped open.

She looked between her mother and Michael, before settling on her mother. "Really, Mom? I thought Auntie Eileen said no more leading on the customers?"

A wooden spoon materialized in her mother's hand so fast it could have been a jump cut. Cielia dropped it into her palm, Hitch jumped up like a shot. "Alright, alright, I'm up. I swear I take one little nap and you break that thing out like I'm ten."

"You're twelve, and sneaking off to hide in corners like you're eight. At this rate I'll be using this until they bury me."

Hitch stuck out her tongue. Michael cleared his throat.

… and if you're pretending to be a chef, you'd better know your way around a kitchen.

"Since you've got that out already Cielia, would you mind handing it over?"

Michael reached out to grab the offered spoon. He turned to Hitch and stuck out his hand. She waited for her mother to nod before she curtsied with the enthusiasm of a girl two years her senior-that was to say equally sarcastic and annoyed. She even threw in a little eye roll, though abandoned it when she saw her mother twitch.

Not even a teenager yet and already dealing with teen angst. Cielia had her work cut out for her. "The name's Michael. Do you know where you keep your bowls?"

Hitch smiled, like her mother in miniature. "Bowls? Why didn't you say so? Right over here." She scampered back off into the kitchen, leaving Michael alone with Cielia and a blank look on his face as he checked and double checked his mental list of ingredients.

Cielia leaned over to peak around the corner and monitor her daughter's progress, she shot him a knowing grin over her shoulder. "I take it you have something in mind?"

Micheal gave a non-committal nod. "Depends, how are you guys doing on dairy?"

Two minutes later she was leading him to another, far cooler room filled with clay flasks. For the first time all day, Michael's smile was real.

"Yeah, this will do. Tell me, Cielia, have you ever heard of Syrniki?"

.o.o.o.

One Hour Later

"Well?"

Michael Westen and Madame Durne stared at each other over the same low table they'd had their earlier meeting at. Michael saw the decanter of wine in the servant woman's hand had barely been drained. Durne wanted to stay sharp. Durne lifted herself off her bench, her pair of servants following behind and lifting the tail of her flowing dress.

"Ahh… Mr. Westen… I'm excited to see what you have in store for us. Ellise here was just getting hungry." Her smile had been sitting comfortably on her face ever since he'd marched in with a covered tray, but it did seem to tilt upwards as she plucked at her secretary. For her part, Elsie's scowl was as practiced as an Eastern European secret policeman's.

Michael grinned. "Well, I do aim to please. I'm sure she'll appreciate this." He gave a glance to Elsie.

Nope, still wanted to kill him. Micheal didn't take it personally, he knew a lot of people who wanted to do that.

Elsie pocketed a notebook and huffed. "Can we get on with it please? Today's first clients are scheduled in an hour and a half and I'd rather they not hear any screaming."

"Why not? It's what they pay you for, isn't it?"

Kurtz laughed, Durne laughed, Elsie stomped forward and pulled the cover off the tray.

They all stood and stared.

Micheal raised his head. "Well? What do you think?"

Whenever you're in a foreign country, it's always useful to take note of the local food. This isn't just so you can impress dates, you're going to look pretty out of place grilling a hamburger in Tehran.

Elsie looked up first. "What the hell are you playing at?"

Michael raised an eyebrow. "I don't follow." He could certainly follow, but playing a little dumb was part of the con. Durne reached for the platter while Elsie picked up steam.

"I mean those look like basic meal cakes! Who the hell do you think you are acting like-" She was cut off by a hand wave from Durne.

She held one up in her hand. "What did you bring me, Michael?"

"Ever had syrniki?"

She raised one small, pancake looking disk up to her eye. "I can't say I have."

That wasn't surprising, seeing that Russia was… probably well out of reach.

Syrniki were small pan-fried cakes made with all of your typical pancake ingredients mixed with a fair helping of cheese. This not only changed up their taste and texture, but gave them a soft, moist center. They were generally considered Russian, but were decently popular up and down the Slavic states. In America, however, the easiest place to find them was as a caviar substrate in fancy restaurants.

Not that they had caviar here. Michael had made due with some far more traditional sour cream and melted butter. Some smoked fish would have made for a good addition too, in his experience, but he hadn't wanted to expose himself by asking for a fish that nobody had ever heard of.

From the look that came across Madame Durne's face as she popped one into her mouth, she didn't mind the difference. She took a small bite, nodded to herself, and then folded the rest into her face with the level of experience more typical a person her size. She chewed thoughtfully, every passing second causing Elsie to deflate. She swallowed, then washed it down with a sip of wine.

"Kurtz."

Every spine in the room stiffened.

"You may leave now." She looked to Michael. "Mr. Westen, what did Cielia tell you about how we do things around here?"

Elsie sputtered, the Madame placed a syrniki in her hand. She took a bite, pouted, then nodded. Muttering under her breath. "Cielia could have done this…"

Michael smiled. "Sure, she's very talented. I look forward to working with her."

Elsie's stare went from piercing to cautious in an instant. "Yes, I'm certain you'll find her experience vital."

Madame Durne smacked her arm. "Oh hush, is that what this whole pissing contest was about? Those two aren't going anywhere, so you can stop biting the head off of anybody who walks in with a resume and a penis. Now, Mr. Weston, I suppose we should start with the issue of compensation."

Michael sat down and let one of the servants pour him a glass of wine from their decanter. Cielia had been willing to talk about what her old boss had made.

"Let's start with cutting down on the whole 'Give me dinner or give you death,' thing. I work better when I don't have a gun to the back of my head."

Madame Durne smiled. " I suppose we can go that far."

They touched glasses, and after a moment's hesitation, so did Elsie.

o.o.o

=Meeting Start=

D: I heard you finally finished cleaning up that Kinder-luminatti?

L: Yeah, some of them tried to make a run for it, but our source was good. His only real condition was he got to do the major players himself.

D: He sounds like quite a handful.

L: He is. I'm bringing him in.

D: Wow, it normally takes a lot more to impress you. Getting sentimental in our old age?

L: Experienced wetwork guys don't just drop into your lap every day. Especially ones with leadership experience.

D: Do you have a handle for him yet?

L: Was thinking "Alcibiades."

D: When can I meet him?

L: He should be joining us any minute.

"A" joined the meeting.

A: Well, this bodes well. I just walked in and you guys are already talking about me behind my back? I thought the gossip was bad in the private sector.

L: How are things on your end?

A: Pretty well all told, I just got to shove 'Management' out of a plane without a chute. You'll find the video in your inbox. We had one or two squirt away last I heard but all in all this has been the cleanest hostile takeover I've ever been a part of.

D: Who got away?

L: That's an ops question.

A: No big deal, a couple of middle managers. The top levels are all pushing up daisies, and the people on the ground have new bosses. Some of them don't even know it.

L: I thought one of the ones who got away was on your personal list?

A: She is, but she's cut off and wounded. If she's smart she'll vanish. If she's not… well that just makes my job easier. As it stands I just got to roll up her life's work in front of her and smoke it. I can let her stew on that for a few months.

D: That sounds rather personal.

A: It is. Don't worry about it. Now what's this I hear about you people running some kind of Star Gate?

L: Please don't call it that.

D: It is the joke about the office. The best we understand is that the language transfer process works that way too.

L: D, we already have a hard enough time getting this program taken seriously without the constant sci-fi references. I don't want to get SDI'd here.

D: How about Narnia?

A: I dunno, the pictures in the briefing had a lot of naked people walking around eating folks. I don't think Ol' C.S. Lewis would approve.

L: In desperate hope of getting back on track, do you have an update on the situation.

D: The portal's throughput still puts a pretty firm cap on the biggest drone we can send through. Our only advantage is that Titan activity has eased to a crawl from the breech. Whatever phenomenon pulled them here seems to have a limited range. Once they taper off completely we can begin construction on a semi-permanent facility. That, is an Ops question.

When will you be ready?

L: We're up against your throughput issue again. Any timeline there?

D: Depending on how this next test goes, we should be able to manage a twenty percent increase in volume across. How do your people feel about building at night? The Titan's seem to freeze up at sundown.

L: I'd have to ask them, and adding floodlights to the packing list is going to complicate things.

D: Not floodlights, only googles. We don't know if it's only sunlight that activates them.

A: Wow, building a whole base in the middle of nowhere with a set of bug-eyes strapped to your face. Sounds like a fun time for somebody else, you have a victim in mind?

L: I've got my best man on it. You're on site security. Make sure we don't have anybody poking in.

A: Aww, you do care. Don't worry, I'll keep away any peeping toms.

A: Excuse me, I just got a ping off one of our squirters. Not Carla. I've got to make a flight to Budapest.

L: Let us know when you get back.

D: We start in three days.

A: It's a date then.

=Meeting Ended=