Author's Notes, Chapter 8:

First off, I'd like to apologize for this having taken so long following the other chapters. Sadly, my senior year and my subsequent search for a job has left me with little time for this kind of thing. But I don't intend to abandon this.

Dark Jackal: Thank you, thank you, and again thank you. I greatly appreciate it to see people review and enjoy the story so much. Little else could motivate me in quite the same way, and I shall do my best to see that what has started will continue to live up to the opening.

Once again, I'd like to thank everyone for reading and reviewing.

Note: while Jay Leno is a comedian, I'm not. So please forgive me if the scene with him isn't all that funny. I was trying my best to emulate that style he uses in humor, including a few jokes that might be offensive to some people.

Chapter 8

From: Bentley Turtle
To: Robert Grey (rgreyfrinterpol.int)
Subject: -none-
Attach: BTErase.exe (721b)

I presume you know who this is. Carmelita is currently in our protection. The files are safe, and we can make arrangements to have them sent wherever you need them. Don't reply to this address in case someone is watching your outbound traffic. Activate attached program to erase this message permanently. We have uncovered the meaning of files, and they are inestimably dangerous. Contact us after hours tonight at (37) 3 52 44 XX XX. We will be waiting for call, do not attempt to trace and do not call from somewhere you may be overheard.

"Yeah, I think that ought to do it." Carmelita said, nodding in approval after reading over the message for the third time. "Are you sure you can get that to him without it being seen? I mean, what if the guy watching is in the computer room?"

"Let me handle the email security." Bentley replied confidently, queuing the message to be sent in the morning. He didn't want to send the message tonight, because the longer it sat in the chief's inbox, the greater the chances of someone finding it. The chief wouldn't see it until the following morning anyway.

"Great job, Bentz. I knew you'd think of something." Sly said, grinning broadly.

"Yes, well that's just the start." replied the turtle. "Once we actually hear from him, we need to actually arrange these documents being sent off. And unless the chief can find somewhere else for you to be, Inspector, then I think you had best remain here with us for a while."

Carmelita closed her eyes and massaged her temple, trying to stave off the building headache. "But if I don't have the files anymore, then I'm not the target." She interjected.

"Yes, but if this plan goes off well, then they specifically will not know that you don't have the files. As far as they're concerned you'll still be target numero uno. Even if they somehow did find out, you're still at risk as they might, correctly, deduce that you know too much. Either way, until this is over, you need to lay low."

"I can't believe I'm hiding from a bunch of thugs in cammo..." she groaned.

"Well-organized, resourceful, well-connected, armed thugs in cammo." Sly added.

"But still thugs!" Carmelita said, exasperated. Sly had no real response for that.

Murray walked over and sat down on the couch, reaching for the remote. Night-time television was in full swing, and he flipped through his favorite channels. There were still many news specials about the continuing Chernobyl disaster, and the wide nets being cast for terrorist activities, but he finally settled on a comedy show. Canned laughter mixed with the real audience and rang hollowly from the speaker into the room as the host tossed out a one-liner, mirrored by the laughs in the hippo's booming voice.

"Yeah, did you hear about the Russians today? I'm sure most of you saw this in the papers..." On the screen, Jay Leno strutted around in that way only wolves can muster. "It seems they lost a submarine the other day. It's rather something of an embarrassment." He paced back and forth, speaking rather quietly, building up to the punchline. "But then, after they tore down the wall, how can you expect them to keep up with their own navels?"

It was not one of his wittier jokes, and the crowd offered only token applause. Murray only chuckled lightly. Leno raised a paw and waved the audience's less-than-enthusiastic applause off. "I know, I know. I shouldn't make fun of that. I just thought that by now they'd have figured out where Sean Connery was going, y'know?" The cymbal crashed, and this time more laughter erupted from the audience. But then, it always did for him, even with a mediocre joke.

"Well, it's not like Bush could find it any better. According to the USA Today polls, 68 of Americans don't think he's doing his job." He let that sink in a moment. "Sixty-eight percent. Of course, sixty-seven percent of those polled are ex-KGB, so..." Cymbal crash. Laughter.

Sly plopped down next to Murray, unintimidated by his bulk. They often watched a late-night show of some kind together before starting a job. Bentley rarely joined in, but Carmelita followed suit, unsure of finding anything else better.

"Y'know, I don't think the Russians ever really forgave America for that?" Leno plowed on with that mock-serious air, as if he had some confidential musings to share in private with the audience of millions, "I mean, how often do you see the Russian president making a visit to America? But then, maybe it's just to avoid presidential hugs..." A picture flashed on the screen of President Clinton hugging an official and laughter roared through the crowds. "Maybe we should tell 'em Bush doesn't do that, huh?" he flung out as an afterthought as the picture faded back to the camera.

Carmelita snickered. It was hard not to, even though it was so irreverent and typically arrogant. It was still just funny in that way that only gifted comedians can make things seem.

"I still don't see what you like so much about these shows, Murray." Sly chimed in. "I like a good comedy as much as the next guy, but this is all politics. Leaves me a bit... like a bad aftertaste in my mouth, I guess."

"It's the truth in them that makes it funny, though." Carmelita added quietly. Sly suddenly looked at her, noticing her presence for the first time since she had sat down. "Yeah!" Murray chimed in, "It's funny 'cuz it's real! I mean, who'd think that was funny if it didn't happen?" Outnumbered, Sly held up his hands in a gesture of defeat, but with a smirk. Who could argue with logic like that? "Alright, alright. I give." he said, his eyes not quite returning to the television screen from Carmelita's face.

"I give the Russians too hard a time, I know." Leno continued, "But there was some good news today, too. A plant up near Moscow just rolled out their first Model-T." Before the laughs could die down, he kept the ball rolling expertly. "Maybe in a decade they'll be ready for rock 'n roll? I can see it now, Leninstock!"

Carmelita put a paw over her muzzle, trying to suppress giggles. It wasn't funny... it shouldn't have been funny... but it was! Sly's smile grew a bit warmer as he watched her. Now why couldn't I see this every once in a while? he thought. She turned and looked at him, and he forced himself to look at his watch rather than let her catch him staring.

"Well, It's eleven-thirty. I think we'd better cut that off and get moving." Murray groaned loudly in protest.

"Why don't I ever get to finish the show?"

"You do, most of the time." Sly countered. "Just not tonight. We need to get go-"

Overhead, a very faint sound of breaking glass reached the master thief's ears. He stiffened, tensing all up and down. Another round of laughter erupted from the tinny speaker, and Murray was glued to the set. Glancing over, neither the Interpol inspector nor the computer genius seemed to have heard it either. "-ing." he finished softly. Slowly, he stood up.

"I've gotta go get something from my room." He said, trying to remain casual. Perhaps it was nothing, after all, and there was no need to alarm everyone for nothing. "When I get back, we need to head out, so finish up there Murray." The hippo nodded dumbly, not really paying attention. Carmelita gave him a questioning look, having noticed his mid-sentence change of demeanor, quickly concealed. His eyes met hers, then flicked upward to indicate the second floor. Slowly, the vixen nodded, taking the meaning. She, too, tensed, and quietly rested her hand on the shock pistol at her side. Rising slowly, she adopted a relaxed air and slowly meandered over toward Bentley.

Bentley was looking over news feeds, trying to connect the pieces of the very strange, very frightening puzzle that was slowly falling into place. He typed up a few more notes to himself and hit save on the text file, as was his habit. It served him in good stead as Carmelita quietly reached down and pressed 'esc', closing all of his open documents. The turtle's face took on a look of shock, followed instantly by rage. How dare she? He opened his mouth to yell at her, but she was too quick, smacking a hand over it to muffle him. Carmelita bent down and whispered into his ear:

"Get anything you can't leave behind into the van. I've got a really bad feeling about this."

I've got a really bad feeling about this... Sly thought as he crept down the upper floor's hall. It was maddening, even to a thief, to have to be totally silent in one's own home. Worse, his keen, finely honed senses detected nothing, making him feel ever the greater fool. But something on the edge of his consciousness told him that something was amiss, like a sixth sense. He paused, pressed against the wall, and strained for several heartbeats, listening for anything. Nothing. Nothing at all. So why does that feel so wrong? A few more painfully slow steps down the corridor, and again he listened. An insect crawled out from under a floorboard halfway down the hall. The beetle's black shell glistened in a beam of moonlight cast from the hallway window. It paused in the middle of the floor, perched on an oaken board, watching him.

Suddenly, the realization hit him. No crickets. He looked up from the floor just in time to see a black shadow slip out the end door and step into the hall. In it's arm was an upraised black metal object...

"RUN!" Sly yelled, hitting the floor and rolling away from them just as the first shots tore out the sheetrock at his end of the hall. From two more rooms, identically black-clad figures pounded into the hallway, all armed. Sly dove for top of the stairs to dodge the obvious following fullisade, only narrowly escaping at the price of a painful staircase dismount.

Murray grabbed him and tossed him toward the sofa, barreling up the staircase with a roar. Whatever the first one thundering down the stairs had been expecting, Murray clearly wasn't it. He brought up his Uzi to fire, but the hippo slammed into the stairwell wall, knocking it out of his grip as it squeezed off a few rounds. Bentley's computer screens shattered, the plasma LCD monitors never having been designed to stop bullets. Bentley swore under his breath and yanked one of the towers free of it's cables, running with it toward the garage. Carmelita, hearing the shots, came racing in, pistol leveled, but Murray was now wedged in front of the assailants, holding back the tide. He slammed his fists mercilessly into the fore-most one, causing sounds that couldn't be mistaken as anything but bone shattering. The black-clad man, a leopard, made a noise like a deflating tire and crumpled to the side, rolling past Murray with widened eyes and clutching his stomach. A thin trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth.

It wasn't much of a spatial reprieve, but the next man made do. Shoving back against the ones pushing him further forward, he leveled his weapon at Murray. Murray jumped backward landing on his posterior as the man fired at what would have been waist-high. But rather than simply fall and land, Murray kept going. The floorboards, already pressed to the limit with so much weight on them, failed under the sudden impact. The floor collapsed next to him, along with part of the wall, and he fell into the basement. Carmelita, crouching behind the couch, raised up and fired off three shots, trying to drive them back. The entire stairwell had been exposed when the section of wall fell, revealing four additional attackers perched and scrambling for their weapons. They must have succeeded, because several rounds now peppered the opposite end of the couch, the floorboards around her, and the ceiling. Leno was in the middle of some French joke when the TV spat fire and died, the cathode ray tube exploding in a shower of glass as gunfire ripped the set to pieces.

Carmelita rolled to the side, exposing just enough of herself to line up two more shots at the staircase. The first one was a dead-on hit, nailing the man at the top of the steps. The second went wide, splintering the central support post around which the staircase was built. The entire building groaned and the whole staircase plunged into the basement. Carmelita blinked in surprise, but quickly rolled back into cover as another black-clad figure leaned upside down from the second floor and opened fire. The window that faced the street shattered as another man leapt in and crouched, trying to get his bearings. That hesitation was all the Inspector needed to draw a crosshair on his forehead and fire. He fell backwards into spastic convulsions, rivulets of electrical energy making his body writhe on the broken glass, adding numerous cuts. A second man leapt into the breech and opened fire, determined not to repeat his predecessor's mistake by bothering to look for a target first. Seizing the opportunity before he realized what exactly he was looking at, the vixen dove for the door connecting to the garage.

She needn't have bothered. A spray of bullets tore open the wall dividing the kitchen and the living room, coming straight from the garage. Carmelita looked up and saw Sly hammering the garage wall with the van's chaingun. The man who had just jumped in never knew what hit him. The stream of bullets angled up, bisecting the floor above. The man at the top of the stairs had a fairly good idea of what hit him, not that it made a difference as the light left his eyes. In the hallway on the second floor, the flooring exploded with a line of bullets that seemed to chase the fleeing attackers down the hall. They dove for rooms left and right and the stream passed by. Sly moved the chaingun in one full arc until it was pointing straight up.

"Well, I suppose that does it for this safehouse." he said dryly, his voice barely above a whisper.

"STOP THERE!" said a voice in a thick middle-eastern accent. Looking forward, Sly, Bentley, and Carmelita saw Murray standing in the door that lead to the basement, fear etched on his face. A cold black silencer was pressed next to his head, and an arm was around his neck. A man was behind him, with cold fury in his eyes, holding him hostage. Murray was visibly shaking, mouthing "...sorry..." over and over again. He had at least two gunshot wounds in his arm, bleeding unattended. Sly raised his hands where he stood, letting go of the chaingun grips. Bentley and Carmelita followed suit.

"Get out door!" the pistol-wielder yelled, gesturing vehemently toward the garage door. Bentley very slowly and cautiously reached out and touched the door control, causing it to reel upward. Like a curtain lifting to reveal the actors, the door slowly disclosed two black vans and four armed men, weapons leveled. The vans were both parked outside the fence, engines still running. Two of the men rushed in and grabbed Carmelita, relieving her of her weapon and leading her to one of the vans, while the other two took up positions at either side of the garage door opening and guarded all movements. The hostage-taker maneuvered Murray out beside the Cooper van, and under the door, toward the same van that now held Carmelita. They pushed him in and shut the rear doors, then came back for Sly and Bentley.

Bentley suddenly smacked the garage door opener again, and the door began descending. In Europe, as in America, safeguards are required so that if the door shuts on a person, it will immediately stop and reopen before the person can be injured. Neither of the men standing in it's way knew this, however, and both dove out of the way: one in, one out. There was shouting outside and more bullet-holes appeared in the metal door, but the raccoon and turtle had already taken cover. Sly jumped on top of the van and then landed on the one who had fallen to the inside. He screamed as Sly wrenched his neck pitilessly. There was an audible snap, and the thief hopped on top again, this time wiggling into the gunner's nest and swinging the gun to point toward the door.

"Floor it!" he yelled to Bentley, who was already shifting into reverse. The van's engine roared to life like an angry, wounded beast and the van tore through the garage door. Sly's finger hit the trigger and once more the chaingun spat death into the night. Two of the men were felled instantly, and Sly swept the gun over the second van. It didn't explode like some corny movie, but the sounds it made sent a clear message that it would never again move without the assistance of a tow-truck. Sly swung around to deal with the last two men, but they were already leveling to fire at the now-retreating van. Sly ducked, but not in time. He felt a sharp pain in his side as a metal slug buried itself in a rib. But rather than keep backing up, Bentley threw the van into forward, the glass fragments from the windshield bouncing harmlessly off his shell. He smashed the pedal to the floor and the van surged forward with a righteous fury, crushing the one who had grabbed Murray and knocking the other aside. Sly swung the chaingun around and finished off the other before he could reach for his gun again, then sank painfully against the small chair.

The rear doors on the first van exploded outward, unable to hold the brute strength of Murray. Carmelita grabbed her pistol from the front seat and surveyed the scene. It was like a war zone in miniature. There were dead and dying bodies clad in the color of mourning lying all over the place. In the distance, Interpol sirens could be heard. She knew it would not take them long to reach this place.

"C'mon, let's go." She said in her clipped spanish accent, gently steering Murray toward the Cooper van. He nodded and took over for Bentley, who was sweeping glass out of the front seat. The chaingun had already retracted, and Sly was huddled against the wall on the inside, clutching his side. A dark crimson stain was slowly spreading through his shirt, and he gritted his teeth even as he started to shiver. Bentley somberly pulled a remote control out of his pocket and pressed the only button. The old building suddenly burst into flames that raced all through it. Carmelita shook her head and shut the doors. Murray choked back a sob as he watched the flames lick the rooftop and pressed the pedal. The Cooper van trundled into the night, looking for refuge so Cooper and company could lick their wounds.