(S:ARG) 007: Night Lance [IC]

[AmongHeroes]

---

The Night Lance Theme

Callum King, otherwise known as 009, sat with his back resting against the worn planks of the farmer’s hut, watching the sun rise with steady brilliance over the Philippine Sea. Set high above the Pacific on one of the Cagayan Valley’s many volcanic mountains, the view was pristine, and King could not recall a plush villa or resort that had a more private and awe inspiring view. His mind drawing in the morning like a life giving breath of air, King brought a steaming cup of black coffee to his lips and sipped at it lightly. As he swallowed the bold liquid he reminded himself that he must ask the farmer what brand the coffee was, as it too was among the finest quality he had ever tasted. In King’s mind his experience over these past four mornings just proved that no matter where he was, nothing was as it seemed.


From within the hut Ulanday, the farmer, called to King in crude but passible English that his watch was chirping. He took a final sip of the coffee and stood, stretching and curling his bare toes as he did.


Time to go to the office, King thought.


He pulled aside the heavy sheet that separated the one room hut from the ‘porch,’ and he made his way inside towards his sleeping bag and hiking pack where his Timex Chronometer sat buzzing. Silencing the time piece, he clasped it around his wrist. It was 6:30 AM local time. Ulanday watched him with kind curiosity, as he had done for the past four mornings, and King gave the small old Filipino an amused smile. The men had not spoken much since King had begun staying with him, but the two had connected over Ulanday’s hand carved chess board, and each night the farmer would pull out the small board and set it upon the floor, sitting cross legged behind it with a look of a hardened Field Marshal surveying the battlefield. King had only beaten Ulanday once.


King pulled on his socks and broken-in jungle boots, tucking his Multi-Cam rip stop pants into the tops of the lace ups. Next he buttoned up an olive-drab Patagonia shirt and buckled a stiff webbing belt around his waist. In the belt he clipped the holster for a silenced Walther P99, four spare magazines, and a combat knife slung horizontally in the small of his back. From a small aluminum canister he began to smear black and brown face paint across the exposed skin of his hands, arms, neck, and face.


He turned to Ulanday, “How do I look?”


The farmer appraised him with a squinted gaze before holding up his hand with his thumb extended, “Very flash, very flash.”


King smirked as he made his way to the door, shouldering a small coyote colored pack. He stepped out into the morning sun and surveyed the landscape around him. Ulanday’s terrace farm was situated on a mountain on the eastern rim of the Cagayan Valley, overlooking Tuguegaro City far below in the center of the valley’s bowl. Almost every mountain side that made up the bowl was covered from root to tip with the terraced fields, giving the valley a look of some lush organic quarry. The eastern edge of the mountains that faced the ocean however was not farmed, instead being covered with light jungle. It was for this eastern face that King made out for, setting off southeast towards the depression of Ulanday’s mountain and its southern neighbor. King made his way rapidly, but carefully, pausing frequently to study his surroundings for signs that someone was taking an interest in his intentions. He made it to the base of Ulanday’s mountain without incident almost two hours from his starting time, and he began his ascent of the next mountain without delay.


As he climbed he slowed, becoming more cautious as his altitude increased. His stops became more frequent and of longer duration, and several times he even doubled back down the mountain for a short distance to assure that he was not being followed. Another three hours passed before King found himself approaching the summit, and his pace became little more than a crawl. Upon the western crest of the mountain’s peak stood a house that was as extravagant as Ulanday’s was humble. A two story villa constructed of coral stone, and adorned with massive picture windows, the house was situated in such a way that it afforded an excellent view of both the valley and the Pacific. It was for this reason that King had slowed, picking his way carefully through the jungle, attempting to remain hidden beneath the broken shadows of the tree canopies as much as possible. It was another half an hour before he reached a spot that gave a somewhat clear view of the rear veranda of the villa, and King set himself in a clump of ferns about seventy-five yards beneath the houses eastern edge.


From his pack he withdrew a pair of high powered binoculars fitted with a thin matte black cylinder on top, with a tightly coiled cord coming off it that terminated in a small set of ear buds. King laid himself on his stomach amongst the ferns with painstaking slowness, and placed the ear buds within his ears. He then took up the binoculars and pointed them up the mountain towards the house, flicking a toggle switch on the cylinder as he did. Instantly his ears were filled with a cacophony of noises from within the jungle, and he quickly used the crosshairs projected within the binoculars to focus upon the rear facing windows of the villa. King smiled as the sound dissipated to a light hum of electronic background noise. Q had explained that the device on top of the binoculars was a laser microphone, capable of picking up sounds by the micro vibrations of solid substances as sound waves displaced the air around them. For the past few days it had been working like a charm, and King had been able to clearly listen to several conversations from within the house.


Unfortunately, none of these conversations had been the one he was listening for. MI6 had been monitoring a terrorist cell with ties to Al Qaeda, operating out of Malaysia known as Balaraw. Initially this organization was believed to pose little real threat to England and her allies, being small and unorganized. This belief had changed three weeks ago when Q Branch deciphered several emails that showed evidence that the Balaraw were setting up a meeting with a high level officer in the Filipino Navy to purchase surplus ground radars capable of tracking and targeting military aircraft. For reasons that mattered not at all to King, MI6 had decided that the best course of action was for the meeting to be confirmed, and if necessary the participants being eliminated without the involvement of the Filipino authorities. So as it was 009 found himself sitting on the edge of a mountain beneath the villa of Commander Cojuangco Mapua, listening for just such a meeting.


King had arrived in the Philippines a week ago, and had met with several members of MI6’s Pacific Station, gathering background information of Mapua and the Balaraw before the meeting of the two parties was believed to be taking place. The original plan was for King to camp out in the jungle bordering Mapua’s property, and survey the Commander and his appointments from there. Though King was more than willing to carry out the mission in that manner, being that exposed did not sit well with him. He had begun to investigate other options for his base of operations, and that is when he found the ancient file on Ulanday. It turned out that during the Cold War Ulanday had worked as an informant for NATO, functioning with both MI6 and the CIA against possible Communist insurgents that snuck into the Philippines via the ports along the coast of the Cagayan Valley. Seeing that the long in the tooth farmer was still listed as a ‘green’ asset, a new plan had formed in King’s mind, and through a vast stroke of luck, not only was Ulanday willing to help King, but his home was as close to Mapua’s as could be possibly hoped for. Despite the relative ease in which he was able to infiltrate Mapua’s property, King had struck out for the past four days, and the window provided by Q Branch’s intelligence was shrinking rapidly. If the meeting did not occur either today or tomorrow, King would have to leave to investigate other options.


The sun was just settling beneath the western rim of the valley when a silver Range Rover began to wind its way up Mapua’s long drive. King knew that Mapua didn’t own a silver Range Rover, and this piqued his interest. From his position he couldn’t get a clear enough sighting of the vehicles occupants. He debated whether to shift his position to the front of the house, but he ultimately decided to trust in his initial instincts; he had focused his microphone on the window of the great room, and he hoped that if an important meeting was to take place, it would be done there. King listened intently, and he could hear Mapua moving within his home, the sound growing louder and softer as the man traversed closer or farther away from the microphone’s focal point. As the Range Rover came to a stop in front of the villa’s main entrance, King could hear the squeak of the front door as Mapua opened it. From his vantage point, King could just make out two men getting out of the Range Rover, and they soon disappeared from view behind the corner of the house. Immediately he could make out three distinct voices within the villa, though he could not clearly discern their language, or what exactly was being said.


With a flick of his finger, King engaged a switch on the top of the binoculars that activated the devices satellite link. Almost instantaneously he heard the voice of an Intel Officer in London coming through his ear buds.


“009 we have your signal, stand by.”


King said nothing in return. The dim light in the great room window flared and he could see shadows cast by the artificial light dancing against the walls, however as of yet he could not see any person directly. The clarity of the voices also increased, and King could tell that the men were speaking Cebuano, a language that he could recognize, though unfortunately knew none of.


“They are speaking Cebuano,” said the Intel Officer, “we are analyzing their conversation now.”


Once again King said nothing, focusing on keeping the laser microphone placed upon the window. Mapua and the two others conversed for close to a quarter of an hour, night falling completely, before his ears were again filled with the voice of the man from Q Branch.


“009 our intelligence has been confirmed. You are instructed to terminate Mapua and the two Balaraw operatives.”


“Understood,” was King’s quiet reply.


King came up to a kneeling position and stowed the binoculars within the pack, returning it to his back before he rose into a low crouch, slowly drawing his Walther as he did. He could still easily see the shadows of the three men inside the great room, and he set out up the short distance towards the villa’s rear veranda, and the multiple entrances it afforded him. The chirp of tree frogs and insects helped to hide the soft sound of his movement up the mountain as he approached the short wall that separated the house from the jungle beyond. He came to the wall and crouched behind it, his pistol gripped in a low carry out in front of him. From this distance he could hear muffled voices and he paused a moment to listen for anyone else inside. King had heard none through the laser microphone, but caution was usually a spy’s most reliable gadget. Again he heard none, and with quiet swiftness he vaulted the wall and landed softly on the flag stone veranda.


The villa was shaped like an ‘H,’ with the great room and foyer connecting the two wings of the house that contained the bedrooms on one side, and the kitchen and other living rooms on the other. King was currently positioned next to the rear wall of the master bedroom, his view of the great room blocked. Crouching low beneath the bedroom windows, King made his way along the wall, approaching the corner that would give him a view inside of the great room via its large picture windows. His heart was beating within his ears, and King forced himself to breath slowly and deliberately before he inched his face past the stone corner of the bedroom wall. As his eyes cleared the corner, he could easily see into the great room. Mapua was seated on a leather couch in a pair of chinos and a loose knit shirt, a tumbler of liquor in his left hand. The two Balaraw operatives were sitting in separate small leather chairs, their backs to King as they faced Mapua, deep in conversation.


The situation presented unique challenges for King. With the picture window making up the vast majority of the great room’s exterior wall, any approach would surely allow Mapua to see him. Also, though King was confident he could kill the three men in a combined engagement, he acknowledged that such an encounter could easily turn favor against him. He had no idea as to the three men’s armament, though he could venture a guess that Mapua at the very least, being a military officer, was well armed.


Well damn my eyes.


King made up his mind, a plan coalescing like gold in a panner’s bowl. Leaving the corner, he made his way in the opposite direction along the wall, and picked his way to the front of the villa. The Range Rover was parked beneath a large awning that protruded from the front of the house, and thus the vehicle was well illuminated. Despite the illumination, because of where the Range Rover was parked, if King hid directly beside it he would be blocked from the view of the front door. He made his way to the SUV, moving around the cone of light projected by the awning until he could no longer see the front door. Crouching next to the vehicle’s rear driver side tire, he worked to quickly remove the small cap that protected the air fill plug on the tire. With it removed, King picked up a small pebble and placed it carefully inside of the cap. He then returned the cap onto the valve stem, twisting it into place until he could hear the slow and quiet hiss of air escaping the tire through the valve that the pebble was now depressing. Satisfied, King moved off into the shadows and again found his way to the veranda and his previously occupied corner.


An eternity seemed to pass as he waited, watching the three men still deep in conversation. King checked his watch several times, concern creeping into his thoughts. If the meeting lasted much longer, his plan could be ruined. He began to form a contingency course of action, when mercifully the three men stood and began to shake hands. Once again King’s heart pounded within his chest and his senses sharpened. The pistol in his hands seemed to tingle with anticipation, and his muscles began to course with electric poise. Mapua and the two Balaraw men at last made their way towards the foyer, and King took the opportunity to sprint over to a set of French doors on the opposite side of the ‘H.’ Starkly exposed, King waited at the doors, his eyes boring holes into the backs of his targets as they exchanged their goodbyes. Finally Mapua reached forward and swung the front door inward. At the same instant King silently, but swiftly, turned the door knob and pushed. He was rewarded by the door swinging inward, the slight whir of its hinges covered by the opening of the front entrance. King sprinted inside in what turned out to be the kitchen, bringing the door closed once again before hiding behind an island counter in the center of the room.


King waited, crouched uncomfortably behind the island, the Walther positioned for its dire purpose. The sound of the front door closing was like the fall of a judge’s gavel, sentencing Mapua to a most certain death. Mapua’s footfalls were clear upon the wooden floors as the naval officer made his way back into the great room, and from the sound of the groan of the leather couch he had retaken his previous seat. Opportunity spurred King up from his position, and the double-o agent glided like a jungle cat from behind the island, bringing the silenced pistol to bear on the rear of Mapua’s head. King was still easily twenty-five feet or more from his target, and so he moved with urgent deliberateness, closing the gap towards Mapua. Time seemed to take on a universal quality, eons seeming to pass with every methodical step until just six feet separated the two men. It was at that moment that both Mapua and King experienced a grand phenomenon of nature, and Mapua sensing some inkling of impending doom began to slowly swing his head towards King, an expression of bewildered confusion stitched across his face.


King pulled the trigger.


Mapua died as the subsonic pistol round entered into his cranial cavity, instantly transferring the whole of its kinetic energy into his brain. The Commander slumped forward, the only evidence of the trauma within his skull showing as a single trickle of crimson blood from behind his right ear. The bewildered expression was still plastered upon his face.


King had no time to admire his handy work, and after retrieving the single spent shell casing he sprinted out the front door and down the long winding drive leading away from the villa, and down the mountain. The road was steep, and it doubled back several times as it rapidly dropped in elevation. King ran as best he could in the dark, stumbling and sliding along the now all dirt road. It occurred to him that it would be a wholly unceremonious way for a double-o to die should he slip and fall off the road, and down the side of the mountain. Smiling at the grim notion, King ran faster.


The next bend in the road swung to the right, and King had to slide to a stop before clearing it, as the mountain wall itself had blocked the illuminated tail lights of the parked Range Rover. King moved off the roadway and into the foliage that grew alongside it. In front of him the two Balaraw men were just putting the final lug nut on the spare tire, the deflated original lying beside them. King again wasted no time, drawing the Walther and aiming it between the shoulder blades of the closest man. In quick succession he pulled the trigger, firing a total of four rounds; two into the back of each man. He knelt with the pistol still trained towards the still bodies as he policed up the spent casings, pocketing them. He then moved forward and checked the pulses of both, and with expected finality he found no life within them.


King holstered his weapon and set to work hiding the bodies in the vegetation along the road. The hiding spots would only pass a cursory inspection, but King only needed the assurance of a few hours to make his escape. Climbing into the Range Rover, he released the parking brake and placed the vehicle into drive. As he made his way down he removed the bandana from his head and wiped the make-up from his face as best he could before throwing the rag aside. He then withdrew a satellite phone from within his backpack and dialed a number from memory. The call was answered on the third ring.


“It’s done sir.”


The voice on the other end of the line was proper, and held a rich tone of inherent confidence, though King could sense a tinge of concern, “Very well 009. Return home at once, a situation of some gravity has arisen.”


“Understood M. Right away.” King ended the call and made his way down the mountain side, wondering about M’s statement as he disappeared like a ghost in the night.

[Dark Project]

O'Reilly's eyes were soar and bloodshot. He could feel them sting as he tried to blink though the smoke emanating from his cigarette. He gripped a pint of beer and took a quick sip. He could feel the cold brew flow down inside his throat and chest.

He'd been up for the past few days preparing for a bombing. Gathering materials, making arrangements, and ensuring the timing would be just right. His target was a private dining room at the Italian restaurant 'Salvatore's'. MI6 had assigned him to arrange for a bomb to go off during an annual meeting of known leaders of the Chicago criminal underworld.

Leo chose to wait for the detonation time at a neighboring bar. It was loud, smokey, and full of rowdy patrons. He'd arranged for an employee of the restaurant to notify him when the bosses had taken their seats for dinner. Earlier, O'Reilly had placed small bombs under the seats of all the chairs in the private room.

He had been lucky on this assignment. His inside man was more than happy to cooperate, and help in any way he could to see the men dead.They'd brought him nothing but trouble, demanding free food upon their visits and protection money each month. O'Reilly had a free pass to take him time planting the bombs for the guests of honor.

Deploying multiple bomb was always dangerous. He needed all of them to detonate at the same time and not short out. With 12 expected guests, that was 12 chances for the blasting caps to fail. Also, he had to put some special thought into the construction of the explosives. They had to be small enough not to cause too much collateral damage to the restaurant, but large enough to kill his targets. Leo hoped to remedy this by reinforcing one side of the explosive's casing. Angling the blast upwards and into the rear end of the gangsters. If all went well, their deaths should be painless. A bit undignified, but painless.

Leo looked at his watch and took another sip of beer. "Any minute now." He always hated the waiting. All he could do was keep going over the steps he took to make the explosives. Trying to ensure himself that he did everything to the letter and hadn't forgotten something during their construction. He pulled out his detonator, flicking on for a moment to ensure there were good batteries in it. His leg began to bounce quickly off the floor in anticipation.

After a few more minutes he phone finally rang. It was a text from his inside man. The dinner party had began, and for the next few minutes, no waitresses or other civilians would be in the room. Leo assumed that they must have be discussing 'business'. He took out his detonator once more and discreetly turned it on. With one final deep breath, Leo pressed the button. He tried to listen carefully. He could make out the small rumbling sound of his bombs detonating across the street over the deafening chatter of the bar patrons. None of them even noticed. After what felt like an eternity he received another text from his inside man. He confirmed all the explosives went off, and that all the men were dead. No civilian injures.

O'Reilly drank to that, letting out a small grin upon finishing the message. He relaxed and had a few more beers before leaving. The police had barred the street as a crime scene by the time he left. Luckily for him he wasn't questioned. Though he did assume the police wouldn't be very motivated to look very zealously into the murder of such men. On his walk back to his hotel he received a call, he assumed the agency had seen a news report on his latest work.

"Hello?"

"0013, I take it you are finished with your business in Chicago."

"Yea M. The dinner was blast."

Leo could hear a faint groan on the other end of the line.

"Good. Return home immediately. We have a situation here that requires your attention."

[Terminal]

Corpses did not have names - they were, after all, just corpses. People had names, and it was understood in most places that a person's corpse and the person themselves were different things entirely. Euripides, otherwise known as 004, knew this well as a corpse himself. His noms de plume was just a callsign for an inert military asset, and his designation merely an identification number. But right now, this inert corpse had an aching back and a left foot that had fallen asleep; consequences of standing still for longer than he was used to in conjunction with his precarious position. More to the point, Euripides was currently perched like some kind of lanky gargoyle amidst the rafters of a warehouse in Esbjerg, Denmark, eavesdropping on a conversation between the civilian harbormaster and two particularly agitated German men - they were smugglers of one of the most boring commodities on the planet: crude oil.

The North Sea is divided into five sectors as part of an agreement made in the Continental Shelf Convention over fifty years prior, and that patch of water contains over 50% of all the world's ocean-based oil reserves within the Norwegian sector alone. Hundreds of thousands, if not millions of barrels of crude oil are produce within the boundaries of the Exclusive Economic Zone, with several million tonnes of petroleum being acquired annually. So when nearly nine million of those tonnes had vanished over the past four years from ports and harbors in every sector, people began to notice. Great Britain in particular - its own sector was the second-richest in oil reserves right behind Norway. Formal investigations had yielded little. Shipments of petroleum would arrive in cargo ships and be stored in warehouses, and meticulously counted and kept track of. And then, when it came time for the barrels to be shipped off again, they would always come up short in number. Nothing that would be missed, and easily seen as a filing error, except that the same accident was happening in hundreds of ports simultaneously. Worse, it had been happening for years. It was not an issue that could be resolved simply by implementing additional security measures or protocols - it was simply too massive in scale. Negotiations between each of the EEC members broke down, none of the countries willing to trust the other. The most likely suspect was, after all, one of the other four nations - they stood to profit the most, and they were the only ones who had the resources to pull off such a massive scheme.

Right?

MI6 had sent several taskforces and 00 agents to investigate the shipping logistics of the four other EEC nations, and Euripides had been assigned to Denmark. Digging revealed that a large number of port authorities and harbormasters had either moved, been fired, or suffered long term injuries and had all ultimately been replaced. Digging through their accounts and backgrounds revealed nothing too incriminating (there were a few reformed felons), and so at first it had all been dismissed as coincidental.

Until a 00 agent in the Netherlands caught smugglers in the act - they weren't able to prevent them from fleeing with their stolen portion of the petroleum, but interrogation of their accomplice, the local harbormaster, revealed a trail that allowed MI6 to track the smugglers back to China, specifically the Huaneng Power International Group. They were an energy conglomerate that specialized in the construction, maintenance and staffing of power facilities in addition to various energy distribution logistics. Thankfully, they were receptive to requests to examine their records, and it was determined they were not actually aware of the conspiracy. Funds were being taken from their budget and used to arrange the smuggling operation in Europe, with the crude oil being sent to a refinery where it was processed and then redistributed to various Eastern corporations. Unfortunately, the source of embezzlement within the group could not be found and the location of the refinery remained unknown. The entire operation hit a dead end. The 00 agent in the Netherlands had stumbled across the smugglers by pure luck, and since then they had tightened whatever precautions they were taking, there had been no sightings since.

MI6 had remained determined to break the smuggling ring down - one thing that was clear from their modus operandi was that, whatever they were doing, they were not doing for it for profit. The cost of bribing or coercering so many individuals, plus paying off the middlemen, and then taking the steps necessary to hide everything, they couldn't have been making much if any net profit off of the operation. Unless they were complete idiots, they were after something else, and so every 00 agent assigned to the job had been given several supply drops and instructions to plant surveillance equipment inside the residences of any port authorities or harbormasters who had come into the job less than five years previously. From there, it had been a waiting game - eventually, Euripides had been contacted and was told that a 'meeting' had been scheduled after-hours at a nearby storage warehouse. He had broken in early in the morning and planted additional surveillance equipment in several of the offices, had waited out the rest of the day, and then watched for the harbormaster and his partners to arrive.

It had been a rather straightforward affair - a large, unmarked truck had pulled up to one of the docking bays and two surly looking German men had entered the building. Euripides had taken a few minutes to slash all of the vehicle's tires using a throwing knife, and then to check the glove box on the passenger's side and had found what appeared to be a homemade Lucas Cell, which he stashed in a nearby bush for retrieval later. He had then entered the warehouse while listening to the men hold a conversation in Danish. He had received instructions to try and get a view of the men, and so he had entered the main room and managed to climb his way up into the rafters. He had casually walked, crawled and leapt between them as necessary until he reached a rafter that had a view of the management window on the second floor for the office overlooking the warehouse interior, where the men were conversing.

And then his little circus act had backfired - the men had all left the office and descended into the main room, and were now standing directly below him. He couldn't get down without them seeing him, and he was willing to bet the two smugglers were armed. He had his P99, of course, but he had been instructed to incapacitate all of them - his aim wasn't so good that he could have shot them all in the foot, and of course he risked getting into a firefight - a bad proposition given his vantage point. Normally, he could have just dropped down and incapacitated all three of them in an instant, but the drop was too high in this instance; even if he made a perfect landing or landed on one of the men below, he would probably sprain or even break his legs in the process.

'Tricky.' Euripides thought, licking his lips lightly as his brow furrowed. He glanced around, looking for any other possible ways down other than traversing the rafters, but alas he was near the center of the room and there were no conveniently stacked storage shelves or crates nearby. He stared placidly at a nearby florescent light fixture, contemplating what to do. He could wait for them to wrap up their conversation and leave, and then get down and pursue - but once the smugglers figured out their tires had been slashed they would probably be out for blood. Euripides had no intention of exchanging fire with either of them.

What he needed was a way to briefly divert their attention, but he didn't have any particularly nifty gadgets this time around. He could throw one of his spare clips, but that would distract them for all of a second before they then looked for the thrower and inevitably found him. He continued to stare at the light fixture, thinking...and then something clicked.

He pulled out out one of his free magazines and tossed it over several sets of rafters, towards the entrance. Before it could even hit the ground, he leapt from his perch and skimmed just underneath the light fixture, grabbing ahold of it with his fingers and sweeping his body upwards. He settled his feet on the edge of the fixture, and felt his balance immediately starting to give - so he leaned even further back and sprung from the fixture with his feet, landing on the rafter directly behind it hands-first, his momentum carrying the rest of his body over the beam. He folded his body as he began to fall, and caught onto the ledge of the rafter as he fell, quickly recovering and clambering fully onto it. At some point during his set of aerial acrobatics, his magazine had hit the floor and drawn the attention of the three men below, distracting them.

Euripides quickly scanned his surroundings from his new point - it was much better than the last one, and he could make a quick dash for the nearest wall, using the rafter junctions where they were suspended from the ceiling for cover. He could get back down to the floor, and then he just needed to wait for them to come looking for him...

The light fixture fell from the ceiling and smashed into the ground directly behind the three men. Euripides winced and muttered a curse under his breath, and quickly ducked behind the nearest rafter junction just as one of the men looked up. He could hear one of them shouting in an angry voice while another tried to placate him, and a few moments later their voices had dropped down to normal levels. They hadn't moved, so Euripides assumed they thought the fixture falling had been an accident (not that it hadn't been; but not that sort of accident). He still didn't waste any time, hurrying along the rafters from his crouched position until he reached the far wall and began to climb down. There were a number of large crates blocking him from view now, and so he immediately felt much safer and sped up. He listened carefully, hearing the men begin to move towards the front of the warehouse where he had thrown his spare magazine. Once they were close enough they would immediately become suspicious, but peaking out from behind the crates he saw that all three had their backs turned to him. Good.

He walked out into the open and began to quickly and silently approach them as he drew his P99 from his coat, with his footfalls falling silently on the warehouse floors. Less than six feet away from them, one decided to turn his head slightly and apparently caught Euripides in his peripheral vision - he immediately barked a warning and reached into his jacket, and Euripides almost froze - he had almost pulled the trigger of his own weapon, forgetting that he was supposed to incapacitate them for questioning. He wasted a precious second processing the situation before moving into action. First, he dropped his gun - not the smartest of moves, but he needed his hands free, and what good would it have done if he wasn't allowed to kill them?

Then, as the smuggler began to draw something from an inner pocket of his coat, Euripides jumped at him, pulling his legs forward and diving headlong into the man, pushing him directly into the startled harbormaster. Both tumbled to the ground, and Euripides sprung up from a neat roll just in time to grab the arm of the second smuggler as he drew a revolver from his pocket. He pulled the man's limb straight out, grabbed the his wrist with his free hand, twisted, and then brought his knee up to strike the man in the groin, followed by his gut, and finally in the wrist, sending his weapon clattering to the ground. Euripides finished by gracefully catching the man as he fell, gasping startled breaths of pain and surprise, before throwing him into his recovering partner with a powerful thrust of his arms. The 00 agent rushed the Harbormaster, who was stumbling to his feet and looking towards the exit - and then was suddenly looking towards the hard, unforgiving floor as Euripides slammed his head against it. Euripides grabbed the downed man's arm and then pulled it back. A sickening snap was heard and the harbormaster shouted in pain, wildly flailing his feet as Euripides kicked him away with a strike to the ribs and turned to the smugglers, one still trying to inhale properly. His partner was slightly smarter than he, not even trying to get up but instead attempting to level his revolver at Euripides. Unfortunately, the 00 agent was simply too fast - he swept across the short distance and kicked the weapon out of the smuggler's hands, followed by another kick to the face. With the two smugglers disarmed and all three men writhing on the floor in various states of agony, it would be a simple matter to take their weapons and then lock them into the back of their own truck at gunpoint...

"Frys, placere dine hænder over hovedet og lå på jorden!" Shouted an angry voice. Euripides glanced up to see an angry security guard with a Koch USP 9mm pistol aimed at him.

"You have got to be kidding." Euripides said in a disbelieving voice, slightly amazed that, of all the possible things that could have happened, he was being held at gunpoint by a rent-a-cop. He briefly glanced to the three men on the floor around him - he figured he had about thirty seconds of them writhing in pain before they got up and made a mess of everything. He didn't speak a word of Danish, but he had gotten the guard's gist well enough. He slowly raised his hands and went down onto his knees, placing his hands behind his head in the process. The guard began to approach, drawing a pair of handcuffs from his belt while keeping his gun firmly trained on Euripides with his other hand.

The guard maneuvered around Euripides, and reached out to cuff one of Euripide's hands, making sure to keep his pistol out of easy reach of the man he had just seen pulverize three other people. He wasn't going to let the 00 agent pull any fancy stun-

Euripides rolled onto his back and placed his hands on the floor, levering himself up and springing his legs up into the guard's face, kicking off of his face and sending the man sprawling while his feet landed back on the ground. He pushed off from the floor with his hands and then jumped directly on top of the downed security guard, bringing his fist down on the man's throat and jabbing an elbow into his wrist, the pistol falling from his hands. Euripides calmly chopped the man in the throat again for good measure, picked up the fallen pistol, and shot the guard twice in the head.

He got up, pointing the pistol at the second smuggler who had begun to get back up. "Bleiben Sie dort unten." He said firmly in German. The smuggler complied. Euripides carefully picked up the two revolvers the smugglers had been carrying and pocketed them before retreiving his P99. He then motioned both the smugglers to their feet with the point of his gun.

"Helfen Sie ihm, aufzustehen, und dann gehe langsam zum Ausgang." He said, nodding at the Harbormaster, who was clutching at his broken arm and wheezing in pain.

888888888888

Three minutes later, Euripides breathed a heavy sigh of relief as he locked the back hatch of the truck, his three targets very harmed but alive and safe inside. He walked back over to the bush where he had hidden the Lucas Cell and retrieved it, pulling a satellite phone out from his jacket and taking several pictures of the cell on the ground. He then dialed a number from memory and waited, his call being answered on the third ring. Nobody answered on the other side.

"Apprehended and secured three targets, they'll need extraction. Send somebody good at patching broken bones and egos." He said in a tired voice. "Our smugglers were also carrying some kind of detector equipment, I suspect Q-Branch will be wanting to have a look at it."

"Very good, 004." A strong voice with a fine English accent spoke. "You are to return home now - Your current assignment is being handed over to someone else for the time being. Something has come up." The line went dead, and Euripides rubbed his forehead with an exhausted sigh as he pocketed the phone. He knew he was on rocky ground, but he hadn't expected that M would decide the best time to place him on probation would be while he was in the middle of an investigation. The license to kill had been neat while it lasted...

Euripides glanced back at the warehouse, remembering the security guard. He let loose a another sigh, and headed back in to hide the body and wipe down the area. He would return to MI6 in due time, but if workers came in tomorrow morning and found the body before the extraction team arrived, the Politiet would probably take the smugglers and the Harbormaster into protective custody once they were discovered. Even if he was about to be hung out to dry, there was no sense in not wrapping this mess up as gracefully as he could, given the circumstances.

[Celestial]

Life it’s such a peculiar thing. A path could be chosen prematurely, but change through adolescents. That’s what happened to Olivia. She had many dreams of what she wanted to be when she grew up, but none of them were evident now. Instead of enjoying the civilian life in London, she was an Operative working under the jurisdiction of MI6 as a 00 agent, a prestigious honor that she never dreamed of ever receiving.

It had been almost a month since 008 had arrived in Moscow. It was in the middle of Winter as the temperature dipped into the low tens, Fahrenheit scale. The winds gusted viciously as she wrapped her woolen grey scarf tighter around her neck. The thick tan overcoat that she wore did little to keep the cold out. However, the hat she wore did wonders. At least her head was nice and warm she thought as the snow crunched under her black winter boats.

MI6 had tasked her to go undercover in the Russian Federations capitol. Before she left, M had specifically told her to keep a zero presence. Though the Federation no longer held a Communist government, nothing could erase the influence that the Communist regime had on the massive country. Palmer understood the need for ‘leave no trace behind’ notion. If an agent of Her Majesty’s was captured or exposed, there would be huge political blow back. M had already warned her that if she was captured, she would have no receive acknowledgement from the British government. In short, her country would disown her and pretend they knew nothing about it. Though it was bitter to think about, it was practical. An international conflict, be it political or retaliatory, was absolutely not allowed. 008 would make sure of it.

As she kept walking under the street lights as fresh snow glided to rest on the ground, she thought about her progress thus far. Reports had come in, from various anonymous informants, that a prominent Military personnel was in league with smuggling ring that was responsible for supplying local gangs across the world - most notably the United States, United Kingdom, and other locations. With the sudden influx of weapons, the crime rates in each respective nation had jumped up. Murder had always been present, that was unavoidable, but the need to keep it out of he hands of dangerous people was what necessitated this assignment.

Her main objective was not to kill the individual but to secure the plans for future shipments, so the U.S and U.K could quickly bust and apprehend the smugglers. It was perfect, for it wouldn’t compromise MI6 involvement and would put more pressure on the smuggler, which, in hopes would lower the exportation of black listed weaponry.

Palmer soon arrived back at a small hotel where she stayed. It was a shoddy white building that definitely could have used a new layer of paint. The overweight inn keep waved at her as he smiled. “Rusokova, добро пожаловать обратно.”

“спасибо,” she said with a smile. “Это становится все холоднее. Я возможно потребуется еще один слой!”

The innkeeper laughed as he waved dismissively. “Вы привыкнете к нему.”

The two shared another brief laugh as she waved goodbye and walked down towards her room. She quickly crossed the narrow corridor as she finally stopped at her door that held a ‘do not disturb’ placard. The door opened and closed in quick succession as she quickly inspected her room. Everything looked exactly how she had left it. She nodded to herself and quickly crossed the small wooden table where a laptop rested. Instead of opening it, she turned towards her suitcase that she had brought along. Lying next to the small grey pack was another black case. She opened it, which revealed a female military uniform and a new ID. She inspected the contents and began to change. No way civilian clothing would make it pass the checkpoints.

As she finished changing, she took up a grey parka that most females wore during the Winter months. Inspecting herself in the mirror once, she stowed everything away, grabbed the fake credentials and left without another word.

----

It took less than half an hour before Palmer arrived at the Kremlin where the target was stationed. She couldn’t help but notice the immense presence of Military personnel - especially the Kremlin Guard. She felt excitement electrify her nerves as she walked up calm and collect though she was anxious as sin on the inside.

Nearing the first checkpoint, a cohort of guards stopped her as they barred her way. She looked further ahead. A checkpoint here and another inside. Good god they’re protective.

She looked at the guards and nodded to them. “Лейтенант лавский.” She said in a blunt tone as she procured her credentials.

The guard snapped a salute as he took a look at the card then back to her. “Спасибо, лейтенант.”

She nodded to them and walked into the great courtyard that was littered with snow. She looked around and noted the great red walls of the Kremlin then onto the structure itself. It was quite the sight. If she were here as a tourist, she’d have love to take a picture of it all. However and needless to say, now was not the best of times.

A warm wave of heated air rushed against her face as she entered the structure and approached the check in desk. A pair of guards - along with many others standing at attention to the sides - sat behind a computer monitor as they caught sight of her.

She approached them in a similar fashion.

“Идентификация и имя.” The guards behind the monitor quickly noticed the insignia on her shoulder an sat up straighter.

Palmer scoffed as she looked around at the guards. “Является ли это необходимым, сержант? мои опоздания не будет допускаться.”

“Процедуры лейтенант. Идентификация мэм.” She presented the card as the guard took it and scanned it via computer.

Seconds went by as Palmer began to feel a little anxious. An annoyed scowl crossed her face as she waited impatiently. “Ну, сержант?”

The guard took a look at her and reached for a button until the computer pinged. She saw him relax visibly as he handed back the card. “Простите за медлительность, лейтенант.Сервер должен быть сглаженным.”

She took her card. Without another word she was on her way as she walked past the personnel that littered the inner chambers. She had spent the previous night remembering the layout of the place. If the schematics she had received were accurate, she’d have to ascend to the second floor. This infiltration was planned for this very day, for the higher ups were meeting with the President Putin ... according to her intel anyways.

Passing more doors, she finally came upon her location. The targets quarters had split off from the main hall as it give way towards a shallower hallway. The file she held, blank sheets of paper contained within a manila folder stamped top secret, was in her hands as she saw a guard standing outside the door. “У меня есть документы для полковника.”

The guard looked at her and nodded. “Полковник находится на совещании. Оставьте документов со мной, и я лично доставить его.”

Palmer shook her head. “Я должен видеть, что она получает там. Мои заказы поступают от начальства.”

“Я не могу допустить, что лейтенант.”

She sighed. “Очень хорошо. Убедитесь, что он доберется до него.”

The guard took it dutifully as he snapped salute. Her facade was of higher status than his. As he turned and walked into the Colonel’s chambers, she turned back and followed him silently. When he was further in, her training sprung into action as she put the soldier into a sleeper hold.

She squeezed her with tremendous pressure as he struggled until his flailing grew less and less. She dragged him towards a corner and placed him there and quickly shut the door. She spotted the computer, her target, and quickly sprung into action. She pulled out a USB as she put on her head set and pressed the default key on her communications unit.

A few seconds later a voice broke in. “We read you 008. Go ahead.”

“Establishing connection to target computer,” she said hurriedly. “Confirm uplink.”

She heard keyboard tapping from the other end until the male tech’s voice broke in again. “Initiating data mining now. Standby.”

“Twenty Percent.”

She looked around. Everything was quiet so far.

“Forty Percent.”

She looked at the guard who was still fast asleep.

“Sixty Percent.”

“Eighty Percent.”

Then she heard it. She could hear approaching voices as it neared the door. “Hurry up,” she hissed into her headset as she was beginning to cover her presence. As long as the guard didn’t wake up, he’d be out of sight long enough for her to slip out.

“Done.”

She yanked the USB and put the computer to sleep as she quickly retrieved the manila folder and placed it on the Colonel’s desk. She walked towards the door and opened it as she was met by the Colonel.

“Что вы делаете?”

She stood to the side as she gestured to the room. “Я поместил документы, которые мне было приказано доставить, сэр”

The man eyed her suspiciously. “Вы должны были отдать его охранник.”

“Существовал никто здесь, полковник.”

His eyebrow rose sharply. Palmer bit down on her tongue to silence her desire to laugh. It was like the cartoon characters she watched when she was still a child.

“... То есть нерегулярно. Хорошо, я буду заниматься этим ... документов. Если вы меня извините лейтенант.” The Colonel dismissed he disappeared inside.

Palmer exhaled with relief as she walked away quickly. It didn’t take her long before she was once again at the checkpoint. Slowing her walk speed, she left the interior before she could be questioned again.

The frigid cold slapped against her face as she once again had to adapt to the cold climate. It was reassuring though, for she had completed her task. There was one casualty, but they’d suspect a female Officer instead. That was still acceptable.

When she was a ways away and relatively alone, she put on her headset again and dialed a number. As the call was answered, instead of her handler, she heard a voice, which made her snap to attention as she kept walking. “008, we’ve received the files. Nicely done.”

“Thank you ma’am.”

“Information for your return has been sent. Leave no trace and return home immediately. Matters will be discussed on your arrival.”

“Understood M. See you soon.”

She hung up then felt her handheld buzz. She opened an email. She smirked as she read it. She had a plane to catch within the hour.

[AmongHeroes]

King had slept a large majority of the flight from Manila’s Ninoy Aquino International Airport to Hong Kong. It was to be his only stop on the way to Heathrow, and home. The Virgin Atlantic Airbus A340 was spacious—at least the first class cabin—and King had downed two fingers of Macallan 15 whiskey shortly after takeoff, and before the Captain called that they had reached cruising altitude he was soundly asleep. He had been awakened by the slight change in cabin pressure as the aircraft had begun its final descent into Hong Kong International. As he roused from his sleep he found himself thinking of the sunrises he had seen with Ulanday in the Philippines, and he smiled at the memory of the eccentric old Filipino. The last assignment had been more of a holiday than a mission to King, and he hoped that his next one was as uniquely fortuitous, though he expected it would not be the case.

Lightning rarely strikes in the same place twice.

His attention was diverted to a flashy red pencil skirt as a leggy brunette, adorned in the scarlet uniform of a Virgin Atlantic stewardess glided past him, and the Philippines were instantly shoved from his mind. The girl stopped to speak with another passenger, and King found himself relishing the divine way the tight skirt and jacket hugged her athletic frame, and how the red accented her dark olive skin. With a slight grin he vowed that if he were to ever have the pleasure of meeting Sir Richard Branson he would shake his hand and thank him for his fine choice of employee attire. As the whirring sound of the flaps extending echoed through the cabin the stewardess turned towards King, and affixed him with a beautiful smile. He could see that her eyes were a deep ocean blue, and her dark auburn hair was pinned up neatly so no stray locks dangled across her exotic face. King was transfixed, and his heart leapt in silent victory as she stopped at his side. She bent her knees in a polite and practiced manner in order to stoop towards him.

“Excuse me sir, would you please return your seat to its upright position? We are on our final approach into Hong Kong,” she said with a quiet, cordial English accent King could not immediately place.

He looked up at her with his most charming of smiles before pressing the button that released the couch’s locking mechanism, and he instantly rose up towards her. As King came upright, his face came perilously close to the stewardess’, and yet she did not retreat from the proximity. For a time their eyes searched one another’s; both exhilarated with the intimate excitement of the moment. It was King who broke the tension.

“Will this do Miss…?”

“Oh!” The stewardess shook her head as if expelling herself from a trance, “but of course Sir, and please,” she paused to stand slightly, “call me Afina.”

King again gave her a smile, “I most certainly will.”

Afina colored slightly as she nodded her head in farewell. She walked towards the rear of the cabin, the fingers of her right hand brushing across King’s shoulder with taunting brevity. At that moment he decided that the second half of the voyage to London would be best spent awake.

The jarring of the Airbus’ massive landing gear finding the tarmac of Hong Kong International brought King back into the moment, and he watched out his window as the aircraft slowed rapidly before taxiing towards one of the airport’s massive terminals. Several of the passengers around him prepared to exit the aircraft, grabbing carry-ons and other belongings. King merely stood and stretched his benumbed legs; he still had almost twenty hours of flight time left before he touched down in Heathrow. With feeling slowly returning to his legs and feet, King withdrew his smartphone from his hip pocket and pressed a button to remove the device from airplane mode. Being a brainchild of Q Branch, the phone immediately acquired a strong data signal, allowing King to bring up MI6’s ‘bulletin board’ data cache. The bulletin board was used by the Ministry of Defense to post information relevant to all branches of the service, and as such the posts contained only unclassified material that was intended to be free of political and social spin. Due to King’s rapid departure from the Philippines he had had little time to check up on the newly posted intelligence threads, and as he opened the application he was assaulted by headlines pertaining to a terrorist assault on the Defense Science and Technology Lab in Porton Down, England.

Such a brazen attack within his homeland got King’s heart to racing, and he quickly scanned through the posts. The information lacked specifics, but it quickly became clear that along with the deaths of nearly two dozen civilians, something extremely dangerous had been taken from the facility. It wasn’t hard to surmise that the terrorists had stolen a pathogen, possibly weaponized given the DSTL facilities tasking. King shivered at the thought; a dirty bomb—or similar device—filled with invisible harbingers of Armageddon was no trifling threat. This had to be what M had called him back for.

By the time King had read through all of the information posted on the bulletin board, the Airbus was taxiing towards its assigned runway. He glanced up to see Afina walking through the first class cabin checking up on the disposition of the passengers, and he once again set the phone to airplane mode and slipped the device into his pocket. As she walked by she gave him a radiant smile, but he only gave her a half-hearted nod in return; his mind was now dwelling elsewhere following the news of the attack. She seemed to sense the import of his preoccupation, and following takeoff Afina returned with a tumbler of ice and the bottle of Macallan 15.

King accepted the hospitality graciously, but the stewardess was soon forgotten as he sipped at the whiskey, his mind drifting amongst the cool and dark waters of fate.

* * *

It was nearly three in the morning when King made it to his Jaguar in the long term parking of Heathrow Airport. He was jet lagged and exhausted, but he knew that duty was knocking its steady drum, and so as he put the key into the car’s ignition he dialed up MI6’s handling office.

“009 reporting in,” said King to the monotone handler on the other end of the line.

“One moment,” came the reply, and King knew that at that moment the handling office was tracking his phone signature to determine exactly where he was reporting in to. Several clicks followed, and he was surprised to hear M’s voice.

“009 there will be a briefing in my office at 0800, get some sleep and be ready to hit the ground running in the morning.”

King hoped that the sound of relief was not overly evident in his voice, “Very good sir.”

M disconnected and King tossed his phone into the passenger seat. It took all the concentration he could muster to find his way to his flat in one piece; such was the level of his exhaustion. He had not slept for any substantial amount of time during the remainder of the flight from Hong Kong, and his mind screamed at him for sleep. The lights of London blurred as he drove, and when he finally parked the car in front of his apartment building, King’s eyes were heavy and swollen. He made his way up the stairs to his third story property and managed to work the deadbolt with surprising swiftness. The sparsely furnished apartment was dark, only lit sporadically by the blotchy glow of street lamps coming through the half drawn shades. King threw his small carry-on onto the couch on his way towards the single bedroom. In one continuous motion the 00 agent removed his shoes, set the alarm on his phone for 6:30 AM, and slid beneath the covers of his bed. The soft fabric enveloped him, and before his third breath sleep had cradled him in its loving and soothing arms.

* * *

Morning came quickly, but King had managed to preempt his alarm by four minutes, and following a swift shower and shave he was spurring the Jaguar down Grossvenor Rd., along the Thames towards Vauxhall Bridge by 7 AM. The roads were filled with commuters at this hour, but with some liberal interpretations of traffic law, King arrived to the main gate of Vauxhall Cross at 7:19. He was cleared through security and he parked his car deep within the bowels of MI6’s bunker-like underground garage. As he made his way to the high speed elevator bank, he adjusted his gray sport coat and tailored chinos, along with the Walther holstered beneath his left armpit.

The elevator ride was barely fifteen seconds before it chimed upon the floor containing the Foreign Intelligence Director’s Office. He made his way down the spartan, but warm, hallways until he found himself standing in front of the lovely Ms. Moneypenny. M’s secretary looked up at him from her computer screen and gave him a welcoming smile. King smiled back as he appraised her in her modern—and flattering—black pants suit and cream blouse. Her red hair was held simply in a high ponytail that accentuated the height of her cheekbones, and her intelligent hazel eyes shone even in the relatively low light. He had always found Moneypenny curiously attractive, but he knew that nothing would come from a pass at the flirtatious assistant.

This Queen of Hearts only wants the Seven of Spades.

“Good morning 009, you look particularly cheery this morning,” said Moneypenny, arching an eyebrow as she noticed his examination.

King chuckled lightly, “When you’re involved Moneypenny, cheery is always in my repertoire.”

She rolled her eyes and waved towards the rich leather paneled door behind her. “He’s expecting you 009. See yourself in.”

“Thank you,” he said, leaving her with a predatory grin in his wake. He knocked twice before immediately turning the brass knob and entering the office. Behind a well-worn walnut desk sat the Director of the Foreign Intelligence Service, a manila folder spread across his lap, a steaming cup of black coffee in his hand, and a scowl across his handsome but aged face. Before King could extend a greeting, M motioned towards four leather chairs in front of his desk.

“Take a seat 009, the others are on their way.” Almost as a pained afterthought M nodded towards a sideboard next to the large picture window that overlooked the Thames. “Coffee’s over there. Help yourself.”

“Thank you sir.” King poured himself a generous helping of the jet black liquid before finding a seat. He crossed his legs and sipped at the coffee, his eyes browsing across the office and its fine accoutrements. M ignored him, continuing to read from the folder splayed across his lap. Several quiet minutes passed, and King began to wonder what sort of briefing this was going to develop into. At long last a knock came at the door, and King turned in his chair to see who was about to join them.

[Terminal]

Two hours of disposal, mopping and spraying had led to two hours of getting in touch with the rest of the investigation team, which had led Euripides to discover the eighteen hour flight schedule laid before him. Thankfully, he had come prepared - he had brought his sudoku book. He could have made first class for each flight, but he was perfectly fine traveling coach - he found the ambient noise from being closer to the engines and being surrounded by more people helped him concentrate. The first two airports were nothing but blurs of white light, a variety of furniture (Euripides had determined through years of personal experience that all airport furniture eventually boiled down to be either some neutral bluish color or some sickly pukish color, shade dependent on the regional cuisine). The only moments that stood out in the entire trip were the rare occasions he had window seats, when he would pause from his mental exercises to watch as the plane took off. He was familiar with the first part - the speed, the surge, the dive, even the rise...

But he had never flown. Even since he had been a child, he had looked up at the clouds in the sky and wondered whether one might run along them and jump between each in long and mighty bounds, or perhaps in great and tall leaps...He supposed, in a way, that was one of the things that had led to his "accident."

During the third flight, he had burnt through his Sudoku book - almost entirely by accident, as it had already been mostly finished when he had first arrived in Denmark. Thankfully, he had many habits he could resort to in order to pass the time, one in particular only requiring a pen and paper. He had only been writing for twenty five minutes when a tentative voice addressed him.

"Mi scusi, che cosa c'è che si sta scrivendo?"

Euripides raised his eyes. His inquisitor was a young, comely woman with blond hair and wearing a snug green shirt - her tanned coat lay across her lap. Euripides hesitated, as Italian was not a language he was terribly good at - he could stutter it passably enough though, so he decided to give it a shot.

"E 'un non, ehm, scusa, parole senza alcune lettere?" He tried.

"Senza alcune lettere?" She asked, seeming faintly amused by his struggling with the language.

"Er, senza l'utilizzo di componenti di alfabeto. C, L, V, X, Y e Z." He said, growing frustrated at the obvious mistakes he was making. He began to blush furiously, which was only made worse when the woman had to stifle a laugh.

"Oh, un epigramma? Questa è un'abitudine insolita." Eurpides merely shrugged in response and tried to focus on his writing again - but he was so flustered he couldn't think of how to finish his next sentence. He kept thinking about the words 'never' and 'rarely.'

'Come on, you're better than this...focus...' He thought, drumming his pen against his armrest. The woman spoke to him again before he could get any further, and his eyes practically rolled up into his skull in irritation as he turned to face her again.

"Hai qualcosa di un accento inglese. La mia successiva connessione mi porta a Londra, e tu?" THAT made Euripides eyes widen slightly. He had a bit of an english accent? When had that happened? He had only been living there on and off for the past four years since joining the SIS ('Oh, wait, right, MI6.' he sarcastically reminded himself), he hadn't had the TIME to develop one! Then again, just listening to M's voice counted as a full decade's worth of the english accent being tossed into your face. He looked back up at the woman, his face now a deep scarlet, with her giving him a faint and inviting smile.

"Parigi." He said firmly. The woman pouted slightly before turning away. Euripides spent the rest of the flight furiously beating at his mind to overcome the embarrassment. The airport, like the others, remained a blur - but he was careful to ensure the same woman didn't see him in the same boarding group as herself. That flight had thankfully been uneventful (except for the seventh sentence of the first paragraph, he needed a synonym for stir that wasn't blend, mix or shake - he'd been reminded about that last one too many damn times by a coworker). When the airbus touched down in London and the captain made an announcement regarding the use of cell phones, Euripides very briefly considered checking MI6's bulletin postings through his smartphone, but figured that even if something terrible was happening it probably wouldn't keep him from being put on probation. Still, he was a professional...He glanced outside. He had left Esbjerg last night, and it was early afternoon now. Despite the eighteen hour travel time there was only an hour of time difference between the two regions. All and all, Euripides didn't feel too bad considering he had spent most of his days in Denmark fast asleep. He supposed it would be a good excuse to reorient to a more regular cycle. He shrugged and merely got up from his seat and stretched, waiting for the line of passengers to begin shuffling forward. He'd check it later that night.

A little under thirty minutes later Euripides had made his way to Heathrow's long term parking section. He took his usual moment to glare eerily at his Bently before deigning to try and open it - Q-Branch had designed the locks so that if they were tampered with, they released pressurized chlorine gas. And 'tampering' covered everything from drills to lockpicks to jiggling the keys too hard. Euripides wasn't sure which genius had come up with that splendid idea, but quite clearly they weren't getting paid enough. Thankfully the sleek Bently decided not to fill his lungs with hydrochloric acid, and he stepped into its interior with a relaxed ease before closing the door and flipping on the dashboard's built-in video monitor and dialing in to the handling office.

"This is 004, reporting." He said into the pitch black darkness of the monitor. The handling offices were touchy about appearing on video.

"Please wait." Came the reply. Eurpides waited patiently while the offices tracked the positioning of his call, quickly determining that it was coming right from his car at Heathrow. When M's voice sprung up, Euripides was not terribly surprised but still managed a wince.

"004, please report to my office by 0800 tomorrow morning. Be ready."

"Yes, M." Euripides said, trying to mask his anxiety. He switched off the monitor and started up the car. Most people were still at work, though traffic would pick up considerably soon and so Euripides hastened to his flat in order to avoid the jam. The apartment he owned was an airy place - he kept the temperature low and usually had a fan running just to provide ambient noise. It was sparsely furnished, but had a few oddities about it - against one wall was a thick flatboard target with several knives embedded in it, and a nearby cabinet proudly displayed several sets of antique throwing knives - all balanced, of course. Euripides had seen more of the unbalanced variety than he had ever cared to previously in his life, and he doubted he could even hold most of the spragly things properly without cutting himself. There were also several photos of him with friends (friends who were also "friends") in Carthage and Rome on a desk near the window, and the coffee table in front of the couch had several sheets of paper with epigrams taped to the underside of its glass top. Finally, there was a string of four tiny, jade effigies hanging by their necks from the ceiling fan's cord. They had been a gift from another friend (and and another "friend" as well). They swung ever-so-slightly like gallow hangers as he closed the door behind him.

First, he went to the breakfast nook and made himself some tea (it had grown on him), futilely searching for any gourmet candy corn in the cabinets that was not stale before submitting and meekly chewing on hard death. Once the tea had finished, he retreated back to the couch and pulled out his smartphone - he didn't have any immediate plans, so now was as good a time as any to check the bulletin. He sipped his tea as he pulled up the feed.

He nearly choked on the drink when he read the headline news.

'There aren't any real terrorist organizations I can think of that have anywhere near the power necessary to do this. Ugh. This reeks of one of those silly secret organizations, it will be right up his alley, I'm sure.' He thought, scowling as he heading back to the breakfast nook and fetched a napkin. Either way, it wasn't the sort of case that they would have pulled Euripides out of Denmark for - he was good, sure, but that fiasco probably wasn't something he could handle alone.

888888888888

Euripides scowled and adjusted the neck of his suit as he rode the elevator down to the offices below. He didn't like wearing fancy suits, but impressions were everything and he was a reformed human trafficker. Not wearing the suit would hurt worse than putting up with it. The elevator arrived, and he took perhaps a bit longer than he should have finding his way down the brightly lit subterranean corridors on the way to M's office.

"Good morning 004. You look..." Moneypenny gave Euripides a look of consideration - he was a trained professional so the suit and the anxiety didn't show entirely, but he still looked uncomfortable. "...well rested." she decided diplomatically.

"...You too?" Euripides tried with an awkward expression. More than half of his conversations with her had been somewhat hindered as he struggled to not snidely insult her flirtatiousness or feel flattered. "I don't suppose you know what I should expect?" Moneypenny smiled sweetly.

"Oh no, that's for him to say." She said. "He's waiting for you. Go on in."

Euripides approached the door to M's door, pausing in front of it for a brief moment. He reached for the knob, hesitated, and then reached up to knock on the door first before opening it. He rapped on the wood solidly four times before opening the door and letting himself in, wiping away his sullen expression as he stepped over the threshold.

"Good morning M...009." He said with an easy smile as he entered the room and casually ran his right index finger along his upper left arm as a meaningless gesture. He gave his fellow 00 agent a nod as he headed for one of the four chairs before M's deck, although he pointedly looked to M for a sign to sit before actually doing so.

[Celestial]

Palmer leaned back in her seat within the First Class section as she busied her hands with a magazine. Her boarding had been relatively uneventful. Before she had arrived at the airport, she had returned back to her hotel room to change back into her civilian guise and put the military suit back within the briefcase where it had resided before her infiltration. The rest of the clean up followed in similar fashion as she commenced her process of leaving no trace.

Back in the days when she was still a Detective with the London Police, she had always had the knack for finding things that a normal person would have glanced over. Even the tiniest of particles stuck out to her, for such pieces provided adequate samples to track down the owner of the DNA strand. So during her sweep, she went over everything until there was nothing left to pick out. Quite comprehensive if she thoughts so herself.

She flipped through the magazine within her hands as she scanned its contents. Her plane had already touched down, and the sky mall magazine was there to quickly pass the time. It was great to be back in her home country.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we’ve just touched down at Heathrow Airport. We’ll be docking shortly,” said the low voice of the Captain. Palmer sighed in relief. She hated the traveling time. “If this is your final destination, thank you for flying with us today. If you’re transferring, we, the air crew, wish you safe travel. Please sit back and relax until we’ve docked. Thank again ladies and gentlemen.”

A few more minutes passed until a thunk reverberated on the planes left side. Shortly after, an air hostess stood up as she and the crew outside unlocked the door. Palmer looked up as she had already gathered her things - a single shoulder bag - and quickly stood up. She wanted nothing more but to leave this steel prison.

“Thank you for flying with us and have a great day,” said the blonde hostess as she smiled at Palmer. “Hope to have you again.”

“Good day,” she replied curtly as she strolled down the vast connector that fed from the hatch to the terminal. She walked into the terminal as she saw the rows of seats that filled the waiting room. A majority of the seats were vacant, which surprised her some. The international terminal, in her experience, had always been packed. Slow season she supposed.

She kept walking until she reached the exit of the airport. The route to the spot where her transport resided was lightly traversed. In her past experience, this was usually the case, for MI6 had specifically requested space for their agents to have easy access to cars whenever the need may arise. She shuffled within the breast pocket of her black jacket for the small manila envelope that had been given to her.

As she walked within the lot, she took the key from within and read the description and spot number. It didn’t take her long to find what she sought. A sleek black Maserati GranCabrio. Her eyebrow shot up as she examined the beautiful beast. “I suppose this is their definition of a subtle ride. Charming.” She quickly unlocked the vehicle, placed her shoulder bag in the passengers seat, and then climbed in. The seats were surprisingly stiff for such an expensive car. The engine roared to life as it slowly died down to a low hum. She toggled the screen as she pulled out and drove into the night. As she left the airport behind, she flipped open her cell and speed dialed a number. “... 008 reporting.”

“Stand by 008,” came an immediate reply. No doubt that MI6 was tracking her position or had some sort of other identifying device within the car itself. “Identification confirmed.”

A new voice quickly came in as she turned onto the highway. “008,” came the authoritative voice of M. This caught her mildly off guard as she passed a car. “Tomorrow 0800 you are to report to my office for a briefing. Get some sleep and come prepared.”

“Understood. 0800 tomorrow.”

Palmer terminated the call. Soon enough she pulled off the highway and into urban residential area where traffic was sparse and the bright city lights blurred past her. It wasn’t the speed that was the problem, it was her jet lack from the four hour difference between Russia’s timezone with respect to the UK’s. It wasn’t the worst time difference to make up, but it still left its mark. She smirked when she recalled an earlier memory when she was still a kid. She could stay up all night and it wouldn’t have fazed her. Same thing with traveling. She would laugh at her parents whenever they came back from a trip. Karma really paid her back for that one when she hit her twenties.

Soon enough, she slowly pulled into an apartment complex’s parking lot. She swiped her residence card as the gate rolled open and she drove in. She drove towards her spot as she pulled with ease and killed the engine. Taking her bag, she stepped out, anxious to feel the warm embrace of her bed. With a beep from a car, she heard the door mechanism lock as she ascended the stairs to her level, four flights up.

A nice sandy walled hallway greeted her as she quickly found her room number, 404. She swiped her residence card again then stepped in. She felt a huge weight fall off her shoulders as she stepped into her modest sanctuary from the world. A window overlooked the great city of London as the lights below made the scene look beautiful.

She walked straight into her bedroom as she took her laptop from her bag and placed it on the wooden desk that held several piles of novels that she had yet to finish and those that she had finished. The latter was on the right.

The sands of slumber were already dragging her down centimeter by centimeter. She dragged herself to the restroom and turned the shower knobs, warm water of course. Within moments, she stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror then stepped into the welcoming arms of the water as she sighed with relief. She felt her body relax as she brushed her fingers through her soaked hair. It had been a month since she had showered without worry. She was going to enjoy this, for she didn’t know where she would be sent next. She sighed. It comes with the job girl. It comes with the job...

---

Palmer stood within the elevator that went all the way to M’s office. It was 0750, more than enough time to be on time. She adjusted her black suit jacket and pants as she straightened out the collar of her white button up that she wore underneath. Her normal field attire was much more casual than this; however, if it was a important meeting, she would always put in the extra effort.

The elevator ringed as she stepped out to see Ms. Pennymoney, M’s secretary. Palmer looked at her attire and nodded. As she came nearer, she saw the secretary look up at her. “Morning 008, fashionable as always.”

“You’re too kind,” she replied as she motioned to the office beyond. “Is he expecting?”

The secretary nodded. “Two arrived before you. Go on in.”

Palmer strode up the door and knocked to announce her presence before stepping in. She noticed that four chairs were settled before M’s desk. “Morning M,” she said as she observed the two agents. She was familiar with the two, for they too were 00s. “Good morning to you two gentlemen as well, 009, 004.”

She walked towards the empty chair to the right of 004 as she took a seat. She crossed her legs as she looked attentively to M. She’d be lying if she wasn’t interested in the briefing. It was rare to get a briefing in person - especially in the company of other 00 agents.

[AmongHeroes]

King had acknowledged his fellow 00’s as each had entered, and he watched as M directed both 004 and 008 to take the two remaining seats facing the desk. M did not immediately begin the briefing. Instead he sat as he had when King had first entered; the open folder upon his lap, the small cup of black coffee perched between his fingers, and the expression of silent frustration etched upon his face. The pause continued to drag on, and King caught the eyes of his compatriots several times out of the corner of his vision. Though no one spoke, the slight movements of the three conveyed the uncommon nature of the meeting.

At long last, M closed the folder and tossed it upon the leather covered surface of his desk before setting down his coffee cup on top of it. He sat up in his chair and clasped his hands across his stomach, his fingers intertwined, and he looked at each of the seated 00’s in turn.

“As I am sure you have all surmised you are here because of the attack in Porton Down.” M cleared his throat before continuing. “What have not been able to fathom however is the consequences that this attack entails; this was not an act of terrorism as the news services have been led to believe. The coordination, efficiency, and deadly efficacy of the attack have left only one option; this was a planned assault by a state sponsored force.” M let the last sentence settle upon the shoulders of the gathered 00’s as he lapsed into silence once again.

Though he did not show it, King’s mind was racing. An attack on sovereign British soil was an act of war, and given the nature of Britain’s diplomatic ties, it would not be the only nation forced to call up arms in retaliation. In the modern era such an attack was brazen, even for the most radical of states. King began to sift through the short list of immediate suspects when M continued.

“The attack itself, while deadly in its own right, is not the crux of the matter. The facility that was hit contained several level four pathogens, and it is obvious that one in particular was the target of the raid.” M stood and pressed a button on a small console imbedded within his desk top. A section of the wood paneling behind him slid away to reveal a large flat screen HD television. The screen came to life as M continued to manipulate the console, and an image of a human body appeared, or what had once been a human. The body pictured was covered in enormous raised sores, all of them oozing dark crimson blood. The mouth was agape, and the teeth were stained with the same crimson gore. Blood was streaming from the corners of the swollen eyes, and rivulets of it led from the nostrils. King could not tell if the person had been male or female, nor could he tell the hue of the skin; the sores obscured all of the body’s distinguishing features to the point that the flesh seemed to be melting away. The image was horrific, but King forced himself not to turn away. The 00 agent merely narrowed his eyes, his jaw setting itself tightly.

M continued. “This is the work of the Ebola virus, a deadly form of hemorrhagic fever first discovered in the jungles of Africa. This ladies and gentlemen, was the only pathogen stolen from the Defense Science and Technology Lab.”

King’s brow furrowed. “Sir, correct me if I’m wrong, but why would the DSTL facility be targeted for an attack? It’s practically a military facility, heavily guarded and fortified. Certainly there must be more accessible places that this same pathogen could be stolen from?”

“Ah yes, well 009 I was just about to come to that.” M resumed his seat and leaned back slightly in his chair, regarding the three agents. “I had the very same question when I was preparing to brief the PM on the attack. I made some high level inquiries within the Ministry of Defense, the organization that runs the DSTL facility, and it turns out that this was no ordinary strain of Ebola. The strain that was taken was a genetically modified version, manipulated to spread faster and survive longer outside of a host.” M closed his eyes for a moment, and King could see a hint of anger pass across his boss’ face.

“It pains me to admit, but the MOD was tasked with creating a weaponised version of the Ebola virus. The project was as black as black could get, as even I had no prior knowledge of its existence. It was named Project Night Lance, and the DSTL scientists had completed their mission only four months past.”

At this revelation King could not sit still, he leaned forward in his chair and he brought his right hand slowly to his jaw.

England has violated both its own laws, and several international treaties. If a foreign power learned of the project and saw it as a threat, any number of nations could have fronted this attack. Hell even the United States would have an interest in seeing that this monstrosity never saw the light of day. God help us…

M seemed to sense King’s thoughts, “The PM has issued a secret executive order that Project Night Lance be terminated, and all record of its existence be destroyed and disavowed.” M sighed heavily, “Still that does not bring us back the stolen virus. The damnable nature of this matter falls upon our government’s own short-sightedness: we cannot allow those who stole the virus to use it because of the obvious cataclysmic human effect, nor can we bring the whole weight of England’s resources to bear in finding Night Lance. If we did, the truth about what we were looking could not possibly be contained, and our nation’s folly would soon be on display for the whole world to see. We have been trapped by our own hubris.”

“So we’re all you have? Is that what you’re saying Sir?” Asked 008, her voice hard.

M nodded gravely. “To put it bluntly 008, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

[AmongHeroes]

004 voiced what the other 00’s were both thinking. “If we’re the only front line assets available sir, do we have any actionable intelligence as of yet? Or do we have to do that leg work as well?”

M shook his head, “No 004, much of the physical evidence from the attack is already being processed by I Branch. The problem does not lie in the analysis of the intelligence, it is unlikely that our analysts could discover Night Lance in the course of their investigations.”

Though M didn’t say it, King knew that if M thought that he and his two colleagues could’ve completed their mission while being in the dark about their countries idiocy, they would’ve never heard the code name Night Lance. While this knowledge didn’t bother King--he was a professional, and knew that deniability was part and parcel to his job description--the fact that this mission was so delicate sent a shiver up his spine.

“So what do we have so far?” Said King.

M cleared his throat. “The raw intelligence has been uploaded to each of your personal file caches, but at this moment we have several leads, though at this time they are tenuous at best. First and foremost, we believe the group that attacked DSTL were special operators backed by a state actor. We know from surveillance footage that the facility was assaulted by seven men, all of whom worked with the deadly efficiency only born of rigorous training. These were most assuredly not tribal terrorists trained in the wastes of Afghanistan. Also, we know from ballistic testing that they all used the same weapons; H&K MP7's and Caracal 9mm pistols.” M watched with a glimmer in his eye for the reaction from his 00’s.

King was the first to speak, “Caracal? Those pistols are manufactured in the UAE, and if memory serves only a handful of nations use them as standard issue sidearms.”

M smiled, “Indeed, only the Saudi and UAE military in point of fact.”

“Certainly that’s not the strongest lead we have? The pistol they used?” Said 008, a frown stitching her brow.

Sighing, M said, “Well unfortunately that is one of our strongest leads. We’re hoping that if indeed this team was a military unit that they followed the mantra of using the tools you train with. I did say that these were tenuous, but thus far the other physical evidence has yielded little. We also have next to nothing in the way of intelligence regarding how they entered the country, how they had such intricate knowledge of the DSTL facility, and how they left the country, if in fact they have left. Our only other thread is evidence that the DSTL computer network was hacked several weeks ago. Q Branch is analyzing the system code line by line as we speak, and thus far the only thing they’ve discovered is a portion of a node fingerprint left from somewhere in the South China Sea, possibly Hong Kong.”

King groaned involuntarily; computers were not his forte.

M shot him a stern glance before continuing. “The reality is that thus far this is all we have to go on. We’re probably going to be chasing bloody ghosts, but we have no other options.” M stood and moved towards the sideboard with the coffee, speaking as he walked. “The three of you are going to be traveling to Dubai. How you carry out your investigation is up to you, you have carte blanche to carry out whatever means necessary to get us back Night Lance.” M stopped and faced the three 00’s. “Make no mistake, this is the most important mission of you careers, and I expect only the very best from you. Stop by Q Branch for your effects. You leave in four hours.”