Disclaimer: I do not own any of the copyrighted materials contained herein. They are the rightful property of their respective creators and/or associated companies. I make no profit from this whatsoever and I have no intention of changing this at any point in the future. I write because it's fun and because there are those who enjoy reading my stories. Therefore I would appreciate it if no legal action were taken against me because I can promise you that even if you financially drain me dry it won't cover even half your legal fees.

Undisclosed Location

"We have a location. Los Angeles," W-Woman said from her chair.

"Order all the Treadstone agents there," S-Man demanded, sounding like he didn't want any more mistakes or failures. "He can't defeat all of them."

"He doesn't need to. He's beaten two of them already," W-Woman said, revealing the details of her report. "We learned where he was because he successfully killed two of the Treadstone agents when they tried to apprehend them. The Detail Division has already recovered both while inserting false data into the police mainframe."

"I thought these Treadstone agents were supposed to be professionals!" S-Man exclaimed in anger at this news. "AND where was the oversight agent!? She was supposed to be recording everything and follow him in the supposedly unlikely event that he got away!"

"Calm yourself, my friend," N-Man said, still being in possession of his composure. "All this means is that Agent Grimm truly is what we wanted him to be. Besides, Treadstone agents were originally indoctrinated to be killers rather than abductors. A drop in efficacy is to be expected from such a deviation from their designed purpose. As for the oversight agent, they're meant to observe and not get noticed by the one they are observing. Most likely in her effort not to get noticed Agent Grimm slipped past her and now she's terrified that certain easily upset individuals will terminate her employment."

S-Man still looked angry but the facts as they were laid out weren't ignored like some might expect. He wouldn't have earned his chair if he did ignore accurate facts.

"I am not ignorant of the… discrepancies between what Treadstone's original purpose was and what we have asked them to do. I think we are all beginning to appreciate just how skilled Agent Grimm truly is," S-Man said, sounding calmer but no less serious. "As for the agent, I reluctantly concede that termination is an extreme response. Perhaps a refresher course in her job by someone suitably strict would be in order to ensure that the lessons are learned… WELL."

"Agreed," N-Man said with a nod of approval. "Now, sending the remaining Treadstone agents after Agent Grimm is the prudent course of action and it must be done soon. My own resources inform me that I.M.F. is proving more resourceful in tracing him than the conventional federal agents."

"I.M.F! Don't tell me they sent-" E-lady said, voicing what the rest of them were likely thinking.

"Hunt. Ethan Hunt and three others," N-Man declared, sounding almost amused. "One of them has already run a DNA sample acquired from the construction site and made the genetic connection to Hunt. It is unlikely that they believe what the results stated but it will provide them incentive to be extra vigorous with their pursuit."

"Do they know he's in Los Angeles?" S-Man asked with some concern.

"No. Merely that he is in California, but Hunt has a sharp mind and his team is capable," N-Man replied, showing where his opinion rested. "It will not take them long especially with the police investigation surrounding the two dead Treadstone agents."

"Then it happens tonight. Send word to the remaining Treadstone agents," E-lady said, making the call. "A joint effort between the four of them. Upgrade their parameters to light damage permitted. If Agent Grimm is performing beyond our expectations, then we must adjust his apprehension parameters accordingly."

"Such an adjustment will draw more attention from the 'unenlightened'," W-Woman stated but with no additional concern. "We should also alert our assets in the media and Los Angeles law enforcement to prepare the 'truth' for public consumption. Properly delivered, no one should give what happens more than a single glance."

"They will not have time to make the 'truth' seamless if the Treadstone agents attack tonight," N-Man pointed out as the group settled on its present course of action.

"We can discredit any oddities the conspiracy nuts point out afterwards and the masses will care little," S-Man said dismissively at the point made. "So long as it is 'trusted sources' whom do the discrediting, of course."

"True enough. Let us hope that all goes smoothly," E-Lady said, keeping her voice neutral.

While some might end such a discussion with a statement of unwavering confidence, that was not the case this time because of one very important variable.

Chance.

It was the one thing that had proven to be on Agent Grimm's side from the moment he rejected the order to proceed to the Nevada facility.

Would it stay with him still?

Los Angeles, That Night

Top of Mulholland Drive

Dominic Toretto's POV

"Are you sure about this, Dom?" Letty asked as they continued to watch the usual crowd of racer arrive. "This isn't going to be like the others. The cops are going to be all over us the second we start."

"That's the point," he replied, never taking his eyes off the growing crowd. "The more eyes on us, the better the odds of Xan getting away clean."

"Ya didn't answer my question. Are you sure?" she asked, not letting him slip free so easily.

He knew what she was getting at.

Normally when they had a street race, they made sure there was something happening on the opposite side of the city that'd keep as many cops busy as possible. They'd also have someone who could tune into the police dispatch to let them know the second their race had been discovered so they could bail before they got surrounded. The roads they chose to race on usually were also ones that were only lightly patrolled by the police, with all stores and shops being ones that closed early.

Basically they valued their privacy and anonymity.

Mulholland Drive was one of the longest streets in Los Angeles and, while not one of the busiest streets at night, it was one of the most dangerous to race on. Curvy as all get out, a driver going down it at a normal rate of speed had to keep their eyes on the road and be careful, otherwise they'd either go off the side or slam into someone. When added to the presence of several homes belonging to the rich and powerful, the recipe practically screamed that it'd grab attention.

But like he'd said that was the point of this race.

While Xander might not have been all that forthcoming with the details, he'd said enough for him to gain a basic grasp of the situation. Mia's employee had crossed someone and they wanted him caught but they, whoever THEY were, didn't want to attract attention to their actions. Without knowing who THEY were, predicting what they'd do or what they COULD do was impossible, but if they were a step above the gangs and the police, he'd have to play this safe. Finding someplace for Xander to hold up in until the heat died down wasn't an option since there was a chance that a connection had already been made between the teen and Mia. Fighting them off also wasn't an option since he didn't know what kind of firepower they'd be bringing or how many were after Xander.

That left just one option: a big race where there'd be too much action to follow one specific person.

A six car race to be precise, running the entire length of Mulholland Drive.

They'd mix Xander's car into the six and make sure the fight for the lead position was fierce. The noise of the engines along with the screech of the tires would wake up the top ten percenters who lived along the street, causing them to call in the police. He figured that at best they'd have four minutes after the race began before the cops would begin showing up, and the longer it went after that the more police cars they'd have after them. With so much action in one place no one looking to do something without being noticed would be able to make a move. Sure, the chaos would make keeping track of everything hard but with the cops present the moment someone succeeded in bringing Xander's car to a halt, the patrol cars would swarm him to arrest him.

Of course that wasn't what they wanted but so long as the people after Xander were aware of that possibility they wouldn't act rashly.

There was also the secondary advantage of having a large number of cop cars involved: traffic congestion.

The people after Xander wouldn't be able to follow his car on foot and that left either a car or perhaps the police chopper. The former would be easier to acquire than the latter, especially since the odds were low that the unknowns would have more than an hour or two to become aware of the race. However with so many cars on the road, from civilians to racers to police, getting close to Xander's vehicle would not be easy assuming it was possible at all. The best they'd be able to manage would be to go down parallel roads and wait for a moment to cut their target off or anticipate where the race would come to an end and lay in wait there.

Not that they were going to let that work out either.

Another reason why he'd chosen Mulholland Drive as the race route was that along the way there was a garage just off to the side owned by a racing regular. Timed right, Xander should be able to slip off to the side and into the garage without being seen. At the same time Xander pulled into his hiding place, another car of the same type will emerge just a little further down the road.

Easy enough to do when dealing with Steve-O.

Kid went nuts to hear that he was getting a request from him to pull a fast one on the cops. So crazy that somehow he'd managed to get a copy of the car that now belonged to Xander in time for the race, though it was missing some of the modifications.

Didn't matter. All that mattered was that it looked identical on the outside.

Assuming the switch went off without a hitch the race would continue until the concentration of cops made racing impossible, at which point he'd give the scatter signal to the other racers. It'd be tight but, with the exception of Steve-O, who had a rich dad to get him out of trouble, the others were either solid racers or people he wouldn't particularly care if they got arrested.

For the thirty thousand dollars, though, everyone would follow the plan, though.

That's what you got with a five thousand dollar buy in to the race and greed would be enough to keep the assholes on track.

But that wasn't really what Letty was asking about.

She wanted to know if he was sure about bringing so much heat down on him for someone who they were only just getting to know in a deeper way than a regular around the neighborhood. Given how much they'd be in the spotlight of the cops, it'd be harder to deny having been involved even if none of their cars would be sporting license plates. A lot of street racers put their own signature touches on their rides, making it easy for those who knew them to pick them out of a crowd. The cops probably had that kind of info, too, and that meant probably that once this was all over with he'd probably have to find a completely new ride while sending the one he had to the local chop shop. It'd be hard but it wasn't like he hadn't done it before.

Still, normally he only went this far for one of his crew, his family, and in terms of time, Xander hadn't been around long enough for that.

So why was he doing it?

Because the kid had done Letty a solid by helping her mom out with Johnny.

Because he didn't try to deal with the tails he'd picked up yesterday while Mia was still around.

Because he believed Xander when he said that the last thing he wanted was to get any of them mixed up in his mess.

The kid had built up some good karma with him, so he felt this was the way to pay it back in full. With this race Xander would be able to slip past the eyes looking for him and probably skip town without anyone being the wiser. So long as he didn't draw attention to himself, he could very well make it to the other side of the world before anyone realized the truth.

"Yeah, I'm sure about this," he replied with no wavering in his voice. "Xander's done right by us. The least we can do is help him lose the bloodhounds tracking him."

"And if any of us gets arrested by the cops?" Letty asked, pointing out a very real possibility.

"I'm the only one racing," he said, making it clear he didn't want any other member of the crew involved in the race. "Have to if I want the other drivers I called in to race."

He could immediately tell that Letty didn't like him being the only one to put his neck on the chopping block but in his mind it had to be this way. This stunt was going to bring down way more heat than any of the other street races he'd ever been in and it'd take some seriously skilled driving to get away from the police after Xander's disappearing act. Plus, if he actually did get nabbed by the police, he was sure the crew could get him out before the patrol car reached the police station. Done right, no one had to get hurt and they'd just have to get rid of cars they were going to have to ditch anyways.

Letty looked to have worked all this out in her head already and, as a familiar devil may care grin appeared on her face, he knew he could count on her.

He'd always been able to count on her.

On every member of his crew.

"Looks like Leo's finally here," he said pushing off the side of his car. "Time we got this race started."

For all the trouble that they'd have to deal with, a part of him couldn't help but be psyched by what was about to happen.

It was going to be intense!

The Streets of Lost Angeles

Jason Bourne's POV

"All units! All units! Illegal street race reported on Mulholland Drive. All nearby units move to respond," the police dispatcher announced over the radio.

Looking at the car parked four blocks away, he knew the moment it started its engine and turned on its lights that his suspicions were correct, thus he moved to follow it.

Pulling into traffic but making sure to stay as far back from the vehicle he was following as he could without losing it entirely, he thought on his arrival earlier in the day. It'd been his initial intent to track down Harris, confirm the current situation and then offer his aid in dealing with the Treadstone agents sent to capture him. However, in a moment of clarity, he'd realized that if he'd done so he would have lost a crucial advantage: surprise. By now he was certain that the Treadstone agents had managed to locate their target and were only waiting for the optimum moment to strike. That being said they likely had Harris' location under some sort of surveillance so they'd know when and where to strike, so if he showed up there he'd lose his element of surprise.

That was why he'd instead chosen to track down at least one of the Treadstone agents.

He might remember very little of what came before waking up on that fishing boat but the skills he'd gained as a Treadstone agent were accessible to him. By acting as they would, by walking in their footsteps, he'd managed to find one and after that it'd just been a matter of waiting for that one to act.

That moment was now.

Evidently Harris was involved in the street race in some way, likely as one of the drivers, but this struck him as somewhat illogical. On the flight to America he'd taken some time to put himself in Harris' place and the one dominant theme was that the young man would hide until he could take action on HIS terms rather than react to his pursuers. By taking part in the race, he was telling his pursuers where he was while also providing cover for his own abduction since it was unlikely that anyone would notice a few more faces in the crowd at the finish line.

There was also the possibility that they'd strike during the race if they could figure out a way to hit the car their target was driving in such a way that Harris would be dazed but not seriously hurt but that felt too risky. To his knowledge, taking out a vehicle while it was in motion was volatile work even if effort was taken to be precise and measured. Shooting out the tires or the engine held the possibility of the vehicle going out of control and slamming into something. Sometimes the car would even wind up rolling end over end. With no way to be absolutely certain of the car's reaction, it was more likely that they'd wait until Harris had come to a complete stop or became separated from the other racers.

That was when they'd act and, coincidentally, that would also be when he would act as well.

What I've managed to scrounge up should be enough to vanish with Harris, he thought, looking at the bag that rested in the passenger side seat. After that I can find out more about the program that made him what he is. Once I have that information, I can advise him on what course of action to take.

He had no intention of staying in the States any longer than he had to. As much as he might want to help another person looking to break free of a terrible organization, he was certain that every American alphabet agencies would find out he was there sooner or later. Once they did they'd only bring more heat down on California and make getting back to Marie all the harder.

Seeing the Treadstone agent's car turn to the left, he did his best to maintain a safe tailing distance, though he didn't want to lose his target. He might know where the man was going in general but it'd be more advantageous to his goals to know precisely where the agent was at all times. That way he could both confirm Harris' location AND take out the agent before the man could act. There were likely other agents but, without any way to know where they were, he would have to hope that they'd either be close by or in a long shot working together.

If not then he'd have to hope that Harris was as good as he was at sensing when he was in danger.

It was about ten minutes later that the Treadstone agent's car pulled over to the side of the road and, judging by their position relative to Mulholland Drive, it was obvious that the car would not be employed as a method of immobilizing Harris. He pulled his car over to the side three blocks further down to keep the agent from realizing that he'd been tailed. Grabbing his bag, he entered a nearby alley and began to navigate the connecting ones to bring him onto a path parallel to where he'd seen the agent go.

He had to be swift but he also had to be silent.

As soon as he laid eyes on the agent he immediately took cover, pressing himself against the side of a dumpster, before peeking around it to watch the man proceed.

Following closely, he was always on edge and on the lookout for signs that he'd been detected but then he heard the sounds of the man climbing up a building's fire escape. Deciding that his chance to get into position had come he moved to the building behind the one that the agent had climbed up and ascended as quietly as he could. It wasn't easy since external maintenance wasn't a priority in this neighborhood but when he reached the rooftop he crouched down as low as he could manage to keep from being seen. Once he reached the edge he was fortunate to find a short wall around the periphery of the roof that was just tall enough that getting down onto his knees was enough to conceal his presence. Peeking over his shoulder, he could see the man was taking something out of a carry bag but it wasn't until he saw the long barrel that he realized what it was: a rifle. More than that he could tell from the barrel that it was a tranquilizer rifle rather than the one meant to fire bullets.

Feasible. California weather often means that drivers need to move about with their windows down, he thought as he watched the assembly of the tranquilizer rifle. Timed right, a dart could make it through to Harris.

Depending on how fast acting it turned out to be, the agent's target might still have time bring the car to a stop safely. This would be the preferable course of action because, if Harris was indeed racing, injecting him with something that would take effect quickly, the odds of a massive as well as fatal accident went up.

"—in—ition. Status?" the agent whispered quietly enough that he was only able to catch bits and pieces.

It was enough though.

It confirmed that the agent wasn't working alone and that he was just one part of a multi-pronged operation to capture Harris. Still, this could be used to his advantage since, if defeated, the agent in front of him just as the race reached their position, then it'd throw off the actions of the others. It might even cause them to pull back rather than proceed with an unknown element in play. Their reaction would depend on just how crucial each member was to the success of the overall plan but, if their instincts were anything like his own, it would take some urgency to make them continue. Without knowing their specific orders, he wouldn't know just how far they would be willing to go to get Harris or whether they'd have the operational flexibility to pull back and try again later.

Still, he'd dealt with situations where he had little intel on the enemy before, so he could adapt.

Hearing the sound of roaring car engines and the honking horns of angry civilians, he could tell that the racers were getting closer. Looking over his shoulder, he could also see the flashing lights of the police moving in to arrest the racers. The window of opportunity for saving Harris or capturing him was closing quickly, so if anything was going to happen it was going to be soon.

Better get ready, he thought as he opened his own bag in order to get the first part of his plan.

Xander's POV

Almost time for phase two, he thought with a mind as strong as the inner workings of a large clock.

It'd been a tense race, especially since, unlike the normal street races, they weren't doing it on a remote road that was clear of all traffic. Not only did each of the drivers have to jockey for position in order to win the prize money, but they also had to make sure not to hit any civilian vehicles. Doing so would only bring more heat down on them later and could possibly cost them the race, so that was indeed an extra bit of challenge for the six of them. It'd been tough for him to stay in the thick of the pack in those kinds of conditions but fortunately his time on the back roads with Dom had given him a good understanding of what his car was capable of. From there it was just a matter of evaluating every opening that appeared and determining if the GT 390 had what it would take to make it through in time.

However there'd been times in which he'd passed up openings since it was not his purpose to win the race, but rather to make it harder for the forces pursuing him to take action.

Now, though, they were less than ten blocks from the garage that from the outside looked like it was closed for business, however inside there were people just waiting for him to get close enough to slip inside and would be signaled, by Dom, who was in the lead, on when to open the doors. With that in mind he flipped a switch that Jesse had installed a few hours before the race. Immediately thereafter the car engine began to make odd sounds and his speed began to fluctuate in a way that couldn't be seen as controlled. He dealt with the fluctuating as he'd been trained to and, just like Dom had told him, the other racers were quick to take advantage of his problem to their benefit. He managed to keep up with the pack until just before his drop off point but, when his turn came up, he broke off and the garage door opened up. With the car safely inside and concealed from observing eyes he used the switch again to restore his car to normal function.

"And we're clear!" declared the guy crouched by the garage's only window.

"Thanks for the help, Hector," he said as he got out of his car.

"Don't mention it," Hector said, brushing off the gratitude. "Dom and his crew've done right by me. He asks for help and it's not a problem. 'Sides, if lettin' you in and giving your ride a new paint job is all this is gonna cost me then it's a job not even worth mentionin'."

True enough.

Even as the other people who'd been in the building worked like a well-oiled machine to prep his car for painting and then get to work on the actual painting, he realized how much Dom was respected by the racing community. He didn't know precisely how it'd come to be but he imagined it was from numerous won races against difficulty opponents, treating others with the respect they deserved and not selling anyone out to the police. In the end it mattered little so long as they were able to complete the paint job on time.

Hearing the roar of a familiar engine, he took that to mean that the person driving an identical 1968 Mustang GT 390 had 'rejoined' the race, hopefully without anyone being the wiser. It was his judgment that his pursuers would wait until a chance presented itself to take him without unnecessary damage and that wouldn't happen for at least another thirty minutes. That was when the racers were likely to getting bogged down by the police, making it easy to apprehend their target since the police would focus on the larger group of vehicles and drivers. At best one cop car would stop to nab the driver of the copy car and that's when the agent loyal to his former 'superiors' would move in. They'd neutralize the officers involved by whatever method seemed most efficient and then move on the driver's side door.

It would be at this point that they'd learn of the deception but by then he'd be long gone.

Despite his best wishes, the car couldn't be repainted and dried in less than an hour. In fact, according to Dom, it'd likely be around the early afternoon before it'd be dry enough to drive like normal. He'd need to slip out of the garage then come back for it the moment he got the call but fortunately Hector had a way to make that happen. Walking over to a carpet on the floor, he kicked it aside to reveal a hatch that he'd been told would lead to the means by which he'd get out of the area unseen. It wouldn't be pleasant and he'd definitely need a shower later but he didn't sweat the details. It wouldn't be any different than coming home from a night of slayage covered in demon goo.

BANG!

SSCCRREEECCHH!

CRASH!

"What the hell!?" Hector exclaimed as he went to the upper level walkway where the windows were.

They're acting now? This was unexpected.

"What do you see?" he asked, after letting Dom's friend get the lay of the land.

"Shit! Looks like your double got tagged," Hector replied, turning away from the window to look at him. "Got one wheel blown off and it slammed into a telephone pole."

Definitely unexpected.

So far his pursuers had made it clear that they wanted him back in as good a condition as they could manage, hence the non-lethal weapons and tactics. However shooting out a tire to bring the decoy car to a stop was risky since it could very easily lead to a fatal accident, even if a skilled driver was at the wheel. Clearly the rules had changed.

"Then we've all got to bail. Leave the car behind," he said deciding on the best course of action. "As soon as they realize it's not me in the car they'll know there's a switch. They'll try to figure out when it happened and that'll likely lead them to looking around here. Trust me when I say that you don't want to be here when they come knocking."

"I don't know what 'hood you came from, white boy, but we ain't afraid of a couple of suits with pieces," one of the painters said, sounding like he was confident that they could handle themselves. "You get your ass outta here like Dom planned. They come looking, we'll lay on the bullshit until they leave. They try to get hardcore? We can do that, too!"

"These guys are several levels above your local gangstas, Hector," he said, looking at the leader right in the eyes. "This is stone cold killer spec ops shit! You really want to roll with that?"

He could tell from looking at the guy that he was torn between saving face with his crew and keeping them alive so he could earn back their respect later. In the end he could tell that the man Dom called friend wasn't stupid enough to throw his life away for pride alone.

"Everyone drop everything! We're bailing," Hector ordered, causing those who'd begun working on the car to stop. "I ain't letting any of you get your asses capped biting off more than any of y'all can chew. We'll come back and finish the job once the heat's off."

The member of the painting crew that'd spoken up earlier looked like he might make more of a fuss but a glare from Hector killed that thought. Then as one they began to file down through the hatch while he stayed at the top just in case their escape got interrupted before it was finished. Pulling out his Desert Eagle, he watched as each member of Hector's crew went down the hatch until it was just him and Hector.

"Down you go, Xan. Ain't no way I'm gonna fail Dom by letting you get stuck here," Hector said, gesturing at the hatch.

He was about to take the offer when two gunshots that were way too close cut through the air and with them two holes appeared around the handle of a door leading outside. Without thinking he grabbed Hector and threw him down the hole to where his fellows would be waiting for him before closing the hatch and throwing the rug back over it. With luck the agents that were coming for him wouldn't care about pursuing anyone who'd helped him but that'd still leave him by himself. The layout of the garage didn't provide a lot of room for maneuvering but it did provide various forms of cover that hopefully would make shooting him with anything difficult.

When a final shot tore off the doorknob itself, he knew he was out of time.

As soon as the door opened wide enough for him to confirm that it wasn't Dom or any member of his crew he opened fire, aiming for disabling shots rather than lethal ones. He was tired of being on the low side when it came to information on who he was facing so once the threat was eliminated he'd take his time pulling out every useful fact that could be found in the pursuer's head. Once he had a clearer picture of the opposition, he'd be able to plan his moves more efficiently increasing the odds of successfully escaping their gaze.

One shot successfully grazed the left leg while another hit the arm holding what looked to be a Berretta handgun fitted with a suppressor, causing the weapon to hit the ground. To the man's credit he didn't waste any time trying to pick up the weapon with his good arm but a quick shot pretty much mangled the hand reaching for it. Burdened by wounds and the accompanying pain, the man fell to the floor, no doubt trying to fight his way through both to accomplish his mission.

He didn't pay the man any further mind since his threat level had been reduced and instead focused on what could be behind the man.

So he was taken off guard when something smashed through the window Hector had been looking out of, hitting the ground and bouncing once before coming to a stop. His eyes identified it immediately as a canister that could be fired from a weapon similar to a multi-chambered grenade launcher. Gas began to pour out of it and he recognized it as the threat. Whether the gas was supposed to knock him out or just force him out of the building he didn't know but that didn't stop him from acting. With a single glance at the room he found what he needed and, moving quickly, scooped up one of the masks that would've been used in the painting of his car along with a pair of goggles. They weren't military grade and wouldn't be perfect protection against the gas but it'd take longer for the canister's contents to affect him.

Moving to a location that'd give him a good vantage spot but not be readily visible, he waited and a minute later a woman with a proper gas mask entered the building, her Glock ready to fire.

Not that it helped her much.

Just as she spotted him he finished lining up his shot and, with a gentle squeeze of the trigger, his Desert Eagle spat another round that buried itself in her head. She dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut, staring vacantly ahead even as a pool of her blood grew beneath her now-hollowed head. Before he could take much satisfaction in the kill his vision began to blur a bit, letting him know that what protection the goggles and mask provided was wearing thin. Moving over to the dead woman he picked up her weapon before stuffing it beneath his belt, then did a quick search that scored him two more magazines of bullets. Going over to the man he'd disabled he found the guy to be unconscious, though whether that was due to blood loss or the effects of the gas he didn't know. Keeping his weapon hand up he wrapped his other arm around the injured man's neck before hoisting him up in a position that would make for a convenient meat shield.

He might want the guy alive for questioning but he wouldn't be able to interrogate anything if he got himself caught beforehand.

Exiting out into the open air, he immediately looked about for any sign of additional hostiles either at street level or on one of the nearby rooftops.

Too bad he wasn't fast enough to spot something two blocks away.

His meat shield shuddered with the impact and likely only through a grazing of the guy's bones did the bullet graze the upper arm of the hand that had the Desert Eagle. It was a flesh wound that he could still fight through but without a bandage would cause the usual blood loss problems to crop up eventually. Taking careful aim he fired two shots in the direction he figured the hostile was located, hoping to take the person by surprise with the lack of hindrance the flesh wound had caused. Unfortunately when retaliatory fire came back his way after he'd fired, he knew he'd missed or at least he didn't hit anything vital.

Steadily moving backwards he knew roughly where he was in reference to the garage so, if he could just keep the unknown hostile occupied a few more seconds, he could get around the corner, breaking the line of sight. From there he'd make a break for it doing his best to make his escape route as random as possible while also keeping anyone who followed from getting a clear look at him. After that he'd have to spend at least a few days constantly on the move and hope that Hector and his crew finished the paint job by then.

Assuming they did finish, he'd leave Los Angeles.

If one group could find him then the others wouldn't be too far behind, especially once the police finished their investigation into this firefight.

BANG!

Shit! They've figure out my plan, he thought as a bullet from the hostile struck the sidewalk in the direction he'd been going in. I'm going to need some kind of distraction.

CH-CH-CH-CHKA!

Hearing the sound of an H&K MP5 and seeing every burst impact the area where he believed the hostile was located, he was surprised that his request for a distraction had been answered. Still, he didn't just stand there and gape. He took full advantage of the opportunity, dropping his shield, who was now quite dead, and sprinted around the corner he'd originally planned on backing around. He needed to put as much distance between the garage and himself as possible in the next few minutes since it'd only be a matter of time before the hostile tried circling around whoever was shooting at them.

Just buy me a couple of minutes, whoever you are! he thought, sprinting all out and choosing new directions on a whim.

Jason Bourne's POV

She's down, he thought as he looked at the still form of the Treadstone agent that'd attacked Harris outside of the garage. Time to find Harris.

He hadn't been sure that he'd be able to do it with an MP5 at its maximum effective range but he had. Counting the one that'd disabled the decoy car that Harris had somehow come up with, he'd eliminated two agents, with Harris' actions taking care of a third. While this was good it was not necessarily great since he didn't know how many agents the CIA had sent after him. Indeed, he didn't know in total how many people had been turned into agents of Treadstone. Ten? Twenty? A hundred? He didn't know. As such there could be a great many more agents in Los Angeles so, until he found some sort of evidence that conclusively told him how many enemies there were, he'd assume there were more.

With the loss of three it'd be a big enough setback to force any who remained to withdraw and rethink their strategy.

Their training didn't include recklessly throwing their lives into the grinder.

Collapsing the stock and tucking the MP5 beneath his jacket, he began moving in the direction he'd seen Harris run.

Some might think that finding someone so long after losing sight of them was impossible but for him this would merely be very hard. To survive and do as well as he had, Harris would need to have been given similar instruction to himself. With that in mind he could see the surrounding area with similar eyes and hopefully anticipate which streets or alleys the young man had chosen to go down. Of course how accurate his guesses were would depend on what Harris' current objective was. Was he going to try to leave the city? Was he going to find someplace to hide? Was he going to arm up somewhere and go on the offensive?

Thinking on what he'd been told about Harris and the theories he'd come up with by himself, he believed that the most likely possibility was hiding.

While fleeing the city was not entirely out of the question, he didn't think that the teenager would leave behind what assets he had with his car or wherever the college kid had been sleeping. With the alphabet agencies involved his bank assets were likely frozen, so all Harris had was what he physically had on him. Walking around with nothing but the clothes on your back limited your operational options and gave your enemy a large tactical advantage. Only when those tangible assets were destroyed or eternally out of reach was abandoning them warranted.

Taking the fight to the Treadstone agents was plausible since it wouldn't be hard to acquire weapons or steal police grade bullet resistant vests, since most patrol vehicles stored one in the trunk. Two factors, however, made him believe that Harris wouldn't choose to take this course of action. First, thefts done in a hurry tended to be sloppy and attract attention, since there was no time to plan them with subtlety in mind. Plus the original owners of the items might come looking to reclaim them, adding more foes for Harris to fight and that would not improve the situation. Also the number of foes Harris would need to fight would only go up as time went on, so anything more than a short, decisive fight would cause the young man's odds of success to drop with every hour that passed. Before long the young man would be backed into a corner with far too many enemies to fight and far too little in the resources with which to fight them.

That only left hiding until the presence of the enemy decreased to the point where it was safe to come out into the open.

With that in mind he viewed everything around him from the point of view of someone looking to hide and on the spot went with whatever direction seemed most likely. As minutes passed he thought that perhaps he'd chosen wrong until quick movement from his right caused his training to spring into action. The first half dozen moves were done before his eyes full registered who he was fighting, however once his eyes along with his brain had the time to sync up properly he found out.

Alexander Harris.

Apparently in his haste to catch up with the young man he'd tipped the teenager off and made himself look to be another enemy.

"Stop! I'm…ungh…I'm not…your enemy!" he grunted out in between blows.

Looking at the expression on Harris' face, though, he could tell that the young man didn't believe a word of it but that wasn't surprising considering what'd happened a short time ago. Believing that he needed to first end the fight before the person he'd come to help would give his words a chance, he brought to the forefront all the techniques he consciously knew. Focusing on the ones that used your opponents own moves against them as well as those that allowed the user to restrain their opponents he worked to end the match. It wasn't easy since Harris wasn't being so kind as to pull his blows, but rather was coming at him strong with the intent of decisively winning the fight. With every exchange, though, it became clear he had the one advantage that'd see him through the fight that Harris didn't have.

Experience.

Harris might very well have superior physical abilities to him and whoever was responsible for his training had done a good job, but it was increasingly clear that the teenager lacked real world experience. Anyone trained in combat could tell you that fights in a training setting were nothing like those against real opponents intent on doing you harm. As you survived more fights, won or lost, you began to learn the things that couldn't be learned in the classroom, both subtle in nature as well as things that should've been abundantly obvious. As those things built up, you were able to refine how you fought, becoming more capable as well as more efficient. With the gap in experience between the two of them he began to gain ground little by little until Harris chose to pull a Bowie knife in order to tip things in his favor.

As a result of this the teenager overplayed his first thrust and so he pounced on the opening that'd been presented to him. Grabbing hold of the weapon hand by the wrist, he pulled Harris into a punch aimed at the jaw but, intriguingly enough, this didn't render the young man unconscious, rather it dazed him. Quickly shifting himself so that he maintained a grip on the wrist of the weapon hand, he hooked his other arm beneath it before executing a throw. With the impact of hitting the ground knocking the air out of Harris' lungs, the teenager was momentarily incapable of moving, so he quickly twisted the knife arm while pressing down hard on the nerve bundle located in the wrist. Between the pain from the joint lock and the pressure on the nerve bundle he managed to cause the knife to be dropped to the ground. However he could not let down his guard just yet because he could think of at least three ways to break free of the hold he was using at the moment.

"Calm down! I'm not here to hurt you!" he said even as he countered the counters Harris was trying to use in order to break free. "I was sent here to help you!"

"By who? The tooth fairy?" Harris asked sarcastically, not pausing in his efforts.

"No. Some guy who called himself Janus," he replied, remembering the man that'd set him on his current path.

Oddly enough this got the teenager below him to stop struggling for a moment but, from the tenseness of the muscles, that could end depending on what he said next.

"What did he tell you?" Harris asked in a tone that betrayed nothing.

"He told me that another government project had been carried out similar to the one that I was put through called Project Golem. That you were sent to a dangerous place and given instructors to bring out your full potential," he replied, keeping to the most important facts. "He told me how you'd managed to slip free of their control and that they were on your trail to put it back in place. He asked me to come help make sure that didn't happen."

An inscrutable look came over Harris' face and for a full minute the young man said nothing. It was only when the tenseness left Harris' body that he thought that he'd finally gotten through to the young man.

"So the two faced bastard decided to do me a favor," Harris said, sounding as though he didn't particularly like the man. "Probably just doesn't want to lose his favorite source of entertainment. You can let me up now."

Deciding to trust Harris he let go of the wrist and quickly took a couple of steps back, just in case this was a ruse to restart their exchange of blows. With a couple of shakes to get feeling back in the arm that'd been restrained Harris got to his feet and showed no signs of wanting to resume fighting, but still he kept his guard up.

"Looks like we've got some stuff to talk about," Harris said, picking his Bowie knife off the ground before sheathing it behind his back, "but let's find someplace a little more private. Any ideas?"

"A few," he replied before turning in the direction of his car. "Follow me."

With that they were on the move but this time it was as allies rather than strangers.

Sole Surviving Treadstone Agent's POV

Jason Bourne.

This was an unforeseen variable and, given what had happened, continuing the operation was not advisable.

It'd been shortly after one of the others had disabled the target's car with a precise sniper shot that he'd sensed someone approaching from behind him. Before he'd been able to fully turn around, though, something had been pressed against his back and then pain consumed his existence until unconsciousness replaced it. He'd only regained consciousness a few minutes ago but as soon as he had he'd tried to get a status report from the others, receiving only silence in return. He'd made two more attempts before coming to the conclusion that they'd somehow been eliminated and so he'd quickly broken down his tranquilizer rifle, stuffed it into its bag before leaving to find the target.

It had been a stroke of luck that, after confirming that the target had not been in the car that'd been disabled, that he'd heard a noise behind him causing him to turn. It had been brief but he'd seen the target run around the corner behind him and so he'd taken off in pursuit. He'd chosen to be cautious, though, since the team of four was down to just him and therefore the burden of victory now solely rested on his shoulders. It'd taken a while but eventually he felt safe that he'd managed to catch up with the target but when he'd heard sounds of fighting he'd slowed to a crawl.

Pressing himself up against a wall he'd inched ever closer to the edge until he could successfully peek around it.

What he'd found had him freeze.

The target was fighting someone hand-to-hand but only once a pause in the combat had allowed him to see the unknown's face did he recognize the man. It was a man that every Treadstone agent knew because he was the only one of them to go rogue and standing orders were to report in the moment identification was conclusive. It was also strongly implied in those standing orders that, depending on the situation, the agent would be reassigned to terminate Jason Bourne.

Carefully observing the situation, he watched as a loose non-aggression agreement was reached between the target and Jason Bourne, causing him to withdraw.

The target was already classified as extremely dangerous and Bourne's actions since his desertion indicated no drop in skill or efficacy. Individually there was a chance that he could successfully kill one of them, but if he attempted to defeat them both at the same time he would fail. With this outcome conclusively reached he turned away to put some distance between himself and the duo so that he could code in with his superiors and inform them of this development—

-Only to find out that sometime between his initial inching towards the edge of the wall and his turning away from the two hostiles someone had snuck up behind him. However before he could begin evaluating this unexpected person a stabbing pain erupted from his abdomen, causing him to freeze in shock. Gasping he looked down towards the source only to find a long metal blade buried in his stomach, his own blood quickly staining his clothes before dripping to the ground below.

Without even thinking he knew it was a fatal wound and, looking at the face of his killer, he knew that she was a professional. Not a drop of emotion was expressed on her face. All he could see was the stone cold face and those dead green eyes. As his strength began to fade away his murderer efficiently yanked the metal blade from his body, causing him to fall to the ground given that he'd long since ceased to have the strength to stand under his own power. He barely felt it when he hit the ground but, even with coherent thought leaving him, he could still perceive his vision dimming and losing color.

Only when the last of the light left him did the person he'd been before Treadstone regain his freedom fleeting though it was.

Nevertheless his last thought was of wishing Jason Bourne and Alexander Grimm all the luck in the world.

The Alley, Same Time

Looking around the alleyway she determined that her approach to a position behind the Treadstone agent and his subsequent sanctioning had not been noticed by anyone.

Withdrawing her blade she began a process of stripping the man of any useful resources and his identification papers. The longer it took the local authorities to positively identify the man, the longer it would be before the Treadstone commander back in Langley would be unaware of his team's complete failure. To further that objective she lifted the corpse off the ground and carried it over to a nearby dumpster, tossing it inside. With some careful manipulation of the trash bags to ensure the body would not be discovered by the depositing of subsequent bags of trash, she closed the lid of the dumpster.

In her estimation, unless an unlikely sequence of events took place, the dumpster would successfully have its contents dumped into the next garbage truck before finding its way to the landfill. Buried amidst the tons of trash, the probability of it being discovered was minimal but that simply meant that an elapsed amount of time would be what tipped off the person waiting for a call at the CIA. She did not know when the agent was expected to report back in, since it could be anywhere from an hour to twenty-four hours. Nevertheless, even if they suspected something was amiss, they would almost certainly investigate first before deciding on their next course of action and that would take time.

Time both Alexander Grimm and Jason Bourne could use to disappear into the crowd before leaving Los Angeles entirely.

Taking out a bottle she'd brought with her, she liberally poured its contents over the blood of the agent that was on the ground. She would not be able to completely eradicate the blood without making her intent clear to any who examined the alley. Therefore she'd chosen to simply contaminate the blood to the point where even the cutting edge forensic technology of the day would not be able to identify who it belonged to. Given the murder statistics of Los Angeles, it would likely lead to a cursory investigation before being put on the shelf until some new piece of evidence came along.

As for the other Treadstone agents killed by Alexander Grimm and Jason Bourne, she believed that there was an acceptable chance that she could recover at least one of the bodies before the police discovered them. Once that was done she would take the necessary steps to ensure it vanished while also tampering with any organic material that could lead to conclusive identification.

While she would prefer to do more and take direct action against those threatening the one she had been ordered to protect, her current mission parameters did not permit this. Until certain criteria were met, her primary objective remained covertly supporting Alexander Grimm and protecting him from the forces determined to force his compliance by any means necessary. While the criteria held a low probability of occurring any time soon, there was a respectable chance of it occurring eventually if she was patient.

Patience thankfully was one of the things she had more of than anyone else on the planet.

Just Outside the Los Angeles City Limits

Four Days Later

Xander's POV

"It might not've gone according to plan but we gave'em the slip anyways," he said as Dom walked away from his repainted 1968 Mustang GT 390. "Thanks, Dom."

"You're welcome, Xan. Though I gotta warn you that Hector's pretty pissed at you right now," Dom said with a smile that implied that he wasn't worried. "Both for the door and for throwing him into the hatch. He has a nasty shiner because of that."

"As soon as I get enough money, I'll mail it to him for the door along with something to make up for the black eye," he said, feeling a little bad about the trouble he'd brought Hector.

"Just send him a keg of expensive beer and everything'll be cool," Dom said, smile still on his face.

"Got it," he said, nodding at the idea. "See you around."

"Don't be a stranger," Dom said before tossing the keys to the GT 390 to him. "Mia might need some new sandwich ideas."

They both chuckled at that since they knew that the recipes he'd provided Mia had caused an upswing in customers. Nothing dramatic or anything but it was unmistakable that the new sandwiches had improved business. He even remembered how Letty had joked that now thanks to the new sandwiches they could finally toss the shitty tuna fish sandwiches into the garbage where they belonged. There was still a selection of prepackaged sandwiches available but it was only natural that any customer would prefer something freshly made.

He didn't know where his path was going to take him, not yet, but he'd do what he could to keep an eye out for any other meals that'd help Mia out.

Watching Dom head towards where Letty was waiting next to her car, he had to say that his trip to Los Angeles hadn't turned out to be anything like what he'd been expecting it to be. He hadn't expected to make friends or get a new car out of the deal. He certainly hadn't expected to run into another 'super soldier' like Jason. Nevertheless, the benefits from these surprises far outweighed the trouble he'd run into.

Especially since, through Jason, he now had a better idea of who his enemy was.

According to Jason, ever since World War Two, the governments of the world have been experimenting to see if they could produce a super soldier. One of the first experiments was called the Agent Program but that has been put on hold due to the absence of several of its key scientists. The program Jason was once a part of, 'Treadstone', was meant to use drugs as well as mental conditioning to create an operative who'd always obey orders without question.

The project that gave rise to him was codenamed 'Golem'.

It took genetic material of two promising individuals and used it to create a child that genetically was comprised of the best of both. After that they gathered the best in the fields that matched what they'd want their operative to excel in, drew blood from each of them before instituting a process to graft the desired traits onto the child.

That wasn't all, though.

They also wanted an operative that could blend in with the civilian population but be ready to act as their agent in a second. To make this happen the egghead in charge decided that an artificial case split of personality was the way to go. One personality would be Alexander Harris, teenager and middle class guy, while the other would be a machine named Agent Grimm, ready to take orders and fulfill them. From there he'd been relocated to Sunnydale with his 'parents', more likely his handlers, to be trained up until he was ready for his big debut.

But now he'd slipped their leash and, given the amount of time, money and resources that'd likely been involved, they wouldn't just let him go. They'd continue to pursue him until it was made clear that they did not possess the ability to beat him or that the cost of bringing him in would be downright irrational to accept.

That'd take time and require that he beat whatever they sent at him each and every time in ways that didn't give them even the slightest bit of hope.

For now he had to take advantage of the fact that they'd lost track of him to relocate someplace where he could plan out his next step.

Getting into his Mustang, he brought the engine to life before pulling out onto the highway and putting some distance between himself and L.A.

He still thought that losing himself in a large city was the best course of action since it'd making things harder for his 'creators' to find him. However in the interests of not putting innocent people in harm's way he'd set himself up in some abandoned building far enough from the flow of civilian traffic that a fight wouldn't risk killing non-combatants. While he knew that in a busy city abandoned buildings were often torn down soon after their owners had given up on them, he was confident that some would hang around a while longer. After all, it cost money to demolish a building and time to get the necessary permits to bring it down in the first place.

He'd just have to be careful and stay out of sight as much as possible.

Here's hoping I do a better job of it wherever I wind up than I did in Los Angeles, he thought, remembering how long it took for trouble to find him there.

LAX Airport, The Next Day

Angela Holtzmann's POV

"Agent Hunt. Agent Hunt!" she said, walking quickly to keep up the C.O. of this I.M.F. operation. "ETHAN! Slow down!"

"We can't slow down! We're too far behind as it is!" Ethan said aggressively, moving towards the baggage claim area. "I can't believe it took the L.A.P.D. this long to put the information on that body into the system!"

True.

Given the murder rate for Los Angeles in the last fifteen years, it'd come as no surprise when a policy was put into effect to conduct a search of the local landfills for corpses or human body parts. It was, after all, a rather obvious means by which a criminal could both get their victim out of sight and dispose of the body in one fell swoop. Add to that the sheer number of dumpsters in the city and the likelihood of any garbage man looking into one before using his truck to dump it into the back and the odds of discovery without the policy were low. For a year after the policy went into effect there'd been a decided spike in corpses found that gradually died off since criminals got scared off due to the increased chance of discovery.

Another part of the policy was that the moment the corpse was found it was to be taken to the local coroner for autopsy and, should it be labeled as having died by unnatural means, it would be entered into the criminal database. Given the fact that the I.M.F. had access to every criminal database in America, they should've received a notification of the bodies bearing a strong similarity to the ones from the Las Vegas construction site within forty-eight hours of their discovery. Instead it'd taken over a week and, with the trail so cold, it meant that they'd come no closer to catching up with their suspect and might very well have fallen a step or more further behind.

So it was understandable that Ethan wanted to make up for lost time and negate the gap between them and their suspect.

"It was probably some sort of jurisdictional pride crap," Luthor said from a short distance behind her. "You know: city cops not wanting to give up a case to the feds. Probably only bothered to call us in when they realized how out of their league this was."

"I don't care why they didn't follow the rules! Right now all that matters is getting the evidence, getting the facts and using them to tell us where to go next," Ethan declared as they arrived at the baggage claim area. "Angie, when we get to the L.A.C.S.I. labs I want you to go over every scrap of evidence they have connected to the body. Look for anything that could help us."

"You got it," she said, mentally going over the most efficient methods of digesting that information in the shortest amount of time.

"Luthor, the Los Angeles CCTV system should still have the past week's recordings in the system. Using a facial recognition program run a search for Harris. I don't care if it's only a sixty percent match," Ethan said as they grabbed their bags off of the carousel. "We'll chase down each of them until we find something."

"Gotcha," Luthor said, sounding displeased by the amount of work ahead of him.

"Zhen, you'll talk with the local police captains. Ask if anything strange or out of the ordinary has happened since Harris' departure from Las Vegas," Ethan ordered the last member of their team.

"'Out of the ordinary' is a pretty broad definition," Zhen said, pointing out the difficulty in making such an inquiry.

"Cops that've worked in Los Angeles for that long have a pretty good grasp of how things work and what to expect over time," Ethan pointed out as he picked up his bag. "Any unusual activity will stick out in their minds."

It was a bit of an optimistic outlook but not an entirely unrealistic viewpoint.

Just like anyone else, if you lived in one place long enough you grew accustomed to what went on there, what was considered 'normal' for that place, and therefore were able to pick out anomalies quickly. Apply that to police officers and you got people who became familiar with the various criminal factions in your jurisdiction as well as the individual scumbag of note. Not enough to get more than a gut feeling or produce rough theories about what their plans were but enough to know when something was off regarding their behavior.

If asked if anything out of the ordinary had happened in the last few weeks, they'd be sure to gain at least a few leads worth following.

"What'll you be doing?" she asked, figuring that Ethan wouldn't just be sitting around idle while the rest of them went about gathering then analyzing data.

"I'll be checking out the area the dumpster the body was tossed in likely came from," Ethan replied as he turned towards the closest airport exit. "With a little luck Harris got sloppy and left us a clue."

"And if he didn't?" she asked before she could stop yourself.

"Then we keep looking!" Ethan snapped as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Until we find him or until Brassel pulls us off this assignment."

She had a feeling that even if Brassel ordered them off the assignment Hunt would still pursue Harris, if for no other reason than to find out why DNA evidence had been left behind implying that Harris was his son. Family was important to Ethan, as evidenced by his wife and his dedication to her. So if this was one sick joke then Hunt had a very personal reason to find the suspect and make clear his displeasure. If it was the real deal somehow then Ethan would want to get his surprise son out of whatever fix the teenager was in and learn how the whole mess came about.

Considering the suspect's age, he would have to have been conceived about twenty years ago, give or take a year. That would've put Ethan pretty early in his I.M.F. career, so in her opinion it wasn't impossible that the man had just gotten sloshed one night, had a roll in the hay with some woman, knocked her up and then forgot about the whole thing. After all, there was no law of nature that said the woman needed to contact Ethan when she found out she was pregnant. Indeed there was every possibility that she'd had a very good reason not to let the news go any further than herself.

It almost made her think that maybe they should find Harris' home address and talk to his folks to find out what sort of trouble the kid had gotten into.

The only problem with that was that Ethan was the Agent in Charge and he hadn't given the order yet to do so. The experienced I.M.F. agent seemed determined to track down Harris and didn't want any distractions like going through a Q&A with the teenager's folks. She could see his point since if they knew anything they would've reported it to the police since it was only natural to do so if your son had guns and was kicking multiple butts at the same time. Since they hadn't, they were either completely unobservant concerning their 'son' or knew what Alexander was up to and didn't care enough to inform the police.

Either way, inquiring probably wouldn't be all that fruitful.

When they got to the car rental shop they rented three cars to keep themselves as mobile as possible. She'd take one to head to the Los Angeles C.S.I. labs to go over what the local boys in blue had picked up so far before grabbing a crime scene examination kit and heading out herself. Zhen would get a ride with her so she could take the car once they got to the labs and swing back later to take her wherever she needed to go. Luther would take the last one and head to the hotel so he could get them all checked in, get his gear set up and then begin going through camera footage. It was still relatively early in the morning, so odds were they'd be able to get quite a bit of work done before regrouping at their hotel rooms for the daily debrief.

"You all know your jobs people. Let's make up for lost time and close the gap!" Ethan said from the driver side of his rental car.

With that the leader of the I.M.F. got into his vehicle and drove off leaving the rest of them watching his departure.

"This assignment's messing with his head," Luther said with concern.

"No big surprise there," she said, looking at the man. "He found out he might just have a kid. That'd be enough to mess with anyone's head."

"Then why didn't Brassel pull him off the case after the results of the DNA got filed in the report?" Luther asked, sounding a little confused. "It's standard with just about every government organization that if evidence was discovered that implied an agent is emotionally compromised then they're removed from the case. I'd say finding out the suspect could be your kid is some pretty solid evidence."

Time to go.

"Well, whatever's going on, I'm sure Brassel has his reasons," she said as she got into the car next to her. "Let's get going, Zhen."

It wasn't until they were five minutes underway that the silence broke.

"You didn't file the DNA test results, did you?" Zhen asked from behind the wheel.

…Crap. Busted.

"No. I just didn't think Hunt should be pulled off the case because of some evidence that coulda been planted," she replied, looking out the window. "We find this guy, we find out for sure if he's really Ethan's son. If he is then we can tell Brassel. If not, then no harm done."

"Just try not to go too far out on a limb, Angie," Zhen said as they came to a stop light. "Sometimes if you wait too long to stop a roller coaster, you lose the option to do it at all and have to ride it through to the end."

"Don't worry. I know when to say when," she said, recalling her own teenage years when she and a group of friends went bar hopping.

After three massive hangovers and one morning waking up naked next to some guy she could only vaguely recall meeting the night before, she learned the value of sticking to a cutoff point.

In the end she wound up applying the same concept to everything she did.

I just hope I don't get into too much shit over this when it's all over with, she thought as the light turned green. Brassel might not be a complete dictator when it comes to the rules but that doesn't mean you can go all Wild West on assignment.

Suspected Crime Scene Number Three

Mid-Day

Ethan Hunt's POV

Don't think I'll find much here, he thought with frustration as he looked at the latest possible origin point for the corpse. Trail's barely above room temperature.

Though if he was being completely honest with himself, he hadn't come out there on his own just to look for evidence to help the team track down Harris. He also needed some alone time so that he could think about the whole mess and sort out where he stood on the whole thing.

Up until now they'd been completely focused on following leads and trying to find Harris' trail so there hadn't been a lot of time for him to think things through on a more personal level. However, if his dreams were anything to go by, it was something that he needed to deal with sooner rather than later or he'd never be able to focus when it mattered.

So what did he think about Alexander Harris if that was who the suspect really was?

As far as the things that had nothing to do with the biological were concerned, it was his opinion that the kid had skill on a level that usually took people years to acquire. Unless Harris was a lot older than he looked it implied training going back to the boy's preteen years. While it was not his area of expertise, he had some experience with parts of the world where militias and guerilla groups had no age restriction when it came to their members. For the most part, those sorts of groups angered him because they were stealing away the innocence of children for a few extra bodies on the battlefield and there'd be repercussions off the battlefield that no one would like. Many child soldiers couldn't function off the battlefield and so, even if their original group was destroyed, they wound up gravitating towards the next closest replacement out of a desire for familiar sights and sounds.

Was Harris a child soldier? Possibly.

One of the things he'd done after being assigned this case was to go over the video footage from beginning to an end to look for any identifying clues about the source of Harris' training. He'd managed to pick out a few styles and techniques that gave him a rough idea of the shape of the training regime but it was definitely a mixed bag of lessons. This implied several teachers but that was a little hard to swallow since trying to learn multiple disciplines at the same time made for a fractured lesson plan. Most instructors didn't bother with such difficult methods and generally preferred a map of lessons that could be taught to large groups. If Harris got taught an assortment of skills and styles, it was more likely that he was personally taught on a one-on-one basis with the intent of producing something special rather than just another member of the rank and file.

A customized training regime conducted by specialists was his best guess.

If that was indeed the case then whoever was behind it all had something big planned and that'd explain the men that'd been sent after Harris. No one wanted to see years of hard work and support go down the drain.

The next question was whether or not Harris had broken from his creators because he still had some humanity left in him or because the teenager was so lacking in humanity he couldn't be controlled.

If it was the former then they needed to catch up with the young man sooner rather than later and place him in protective custody while also getting as many facts about the group that made him what he was so they could turn the tide. Any organization willing to commit resources to producing a special operative was dangerous and even more so if the organization wasn't tied to any government. At least with government involvement there were usually checks and balances of all sorts to keep things from getting too far out of hand. They were also easier to pin down since the one thing that was universal to every government in the world was paperwork. How far such trails branched out varied but, with every major country having undercover spies in every other major country, keeping something secret was difficult especially if it was large scale in nature.

Such projects conducted by non-government organizations, though, were harder to pick up on because, unless they drew attention to themselves it had the potential to go completely unnoticed. Such groups weren't required by law to be completely transparent with their activities unless they needed to request something involving forms as well as meetings. Whether it was a profit, power or fame, there was no end of motivations for creating an operative that was a cut above the rest.

Hopefully when he questioned Harris they'd learn enough to keep the list of possibilities small.

Professionally this is easy to handle, he thought as he continued to gaze about the alleyway. It's the personal side of things that's a complete mess.

Biologically Harris could be his son but, even after thinking about it until he fell asleep that first night, he couldn't think of who he might've impregnated eighteen or so years ago. He hadn't been a player like some of the other agents in the I.M.F. and, while some of the relationships he'd had endured long enough for a roll in the sack, he'd been careful enough to pull out. Had he perhaps been drunk one time and forgotten to do so? There'd certainly been a handful of times that he'd completed a mission that'd been emotionally trying enough that temporary amnesia via intoxication had sounded pretty good.

The possibility was there even if he didn't like the circumstances that likely surrounded the conception.

What sort of life had Alexander Harris lived up until now?

Had there been any semblance of a normal life or had his son been treated more like a weapon in the making?

The fact that there were local, state and federal records of an Alexander Harris implied that the young man hadn't been kept isolated during his instruction, so that was one good thing. Even if he'd been ordered not to form connections, to treat every experience as training, it would've been impossible to keep certain things from happening. Humans were social, emotional and often irrational beings right down to their very souls. Adhering to a mindset meant to turn a human into something other than human went against the natural order of things and almost never worked out perfectly.

Could their mental conditioning failing be what led to the fight in Las Vegas?

Possibly.

However until he could look at the young man in person, the only thing he had to go on as far as the kid's personality and mindset were his actions.

So far all the fight locations have been relatively isolated, he thought as he approached the end of his area examination. Alleys and construction sites that should've been empty of people. Did he choose based on a desire to keep non-combatants from getting involved or simply part of an overall strategy?

He tried to form a map in his mind connecting Harris' actions and create an overall picture of how the young man's mind worked but there was too little information to work with. Just video feeds and the scattered bits of physical evidence that could've come from anywhere.

They needed more!

It was just as he was about to head back to the rental car and go to the next possible point of origin that he spotted a reflection of light where there shouldn't have been any. Carefully approaching, he crouched low to get a better look at the object only to find out that it was a dart commonly used in tranquilizer rifles. Considering the lack of things to use such an item on, he immediately knew that this had to be the location from which the corpse had been deposited into a dumpster before being transported to the landfill.

It's not much but it's a start, he thought as he took out the tools needed for collecting evidence.