Chapter 1 – Cat Latin

"Sir, we've got something."

Contradicting her eager tone, the woman frowned, hunched forward. Her pencil was frozen above the paper, poised but trembling softly. Shadows appeared on her brow, tracing the furrowed skin. The red light waned, flickering on the brink of death before it returned with vigor. The noise of her commanding officer's steps were lost as she dropped the pencil to press the headset more firmly against her ears. Gold buttons caught stray light as the colonel came to a stop beside her. He rested his hand on the table, leaning over in hopes of catching any stray sound.

"It's recording," she informed, voice hushed. He nodded, eyes planted firmly on the mercurial red light. The room was Spartan, adorned only with its skeleton crew for the early morning shift. Stabbing at the 'stop' button with her finger, she removed her headset. A muted released breath rushed from her lungs as she delicately placed the headset on the worn oak tabletop. Dark stains showed where the varnish had been rubbed away. They watched the red light die in silence.

"Chatter?" the man asked after a thick pause. She shook her head; dark hair fell into her eyes. There was a spark of anxiety in her expression when she finally looked up. Painted red lips were drawn in a thin line.

"Only one of them spoke, sir, but there were two on the line."

"Positive?" He pressed. They weren't allowed doubt, both of them knew that. It was their sin. She nodded firmly. "Then get it sent to translation now. Tell them it gets top priority."

The woman watched the floor as his shadow stretched and engulfed the remaining light. There was a moment of hesitation on her part, as her finger toyed with her skirt, before she turned in her chair and lifted her chin to watch him leave. All timorous signs left her when she spoke, "It wasn't our mark."

He paused in the doorway, a sharp silhouette against the broken light. The featureless shadow considered her a moment, then strode off with only the sharp heel-toe of his walk sounding in reply.

"Translation," echoed from the halls. It faded to nothing and settled heavily in the room around her. Another sigh emerged as she slumped in her seat, nails picking at the chair's arm.

"Yes, colonel."

The morning was a picture of desolation. Dusty light was smudged along the horizon, blurred around buildings and lost betwixt shadows. Stubborn leaves clung to treetop skeletons, rotting on the bone.

The roads were sparely occupied by early risers in search of worms, and night owls in search of sanctuary from the sun. Adam found himself traveling ill maintained roads. His car rattled with age as it cruised along, the trees bordering on either side growing more abundant.

Langley was still fresh in his rearview mirror when Adam spotted a splash of sharp blue amidst the forest. Lee was seated on the hood of her car, watching impassively as Adam pulled down the gravel drive.

"I've been waiting," she informed swiftly. The gravel crunched under her feet as she pushed off her hood.

Adam plucked red leather gloves from his pocket and tugged them on. Lee raised a brow, an amused lilt curving one corner of her mouth. "Cold?" she asked flatly.

"I'll manage."

Nodding, Lee turned to face the drop point. It had been private property once, sold to the railroads then abandoned and left to rot. There were visible scars from tracks long since removed. A bridge still remained, towering over the dry stream bed, guiding vestigial rails over a river of dust.

Lee drew her sidearm, not sparing the younger agent a glance as she approached the structure. Frowning, Adam followed at a distance. Her figure disappeared under the structure. Adam gave it a dubious look, reaching out to pluck away some of the moss blanketing the wood. Blackened wood fell away like dust and was carried off by the breeze.

"Adam." The curt command was unmistakable. Heel. Brushing his gloves off, Adam turned to obey. Lee's gun was safely holstered, indicating that whatever had annoyed her wasn't an imminent threat. However, upon spotting the cause of her agitation, Adam swore.

Crumpled at her feet, lay their target, Avdyl Sedeljšak. Gritting his teeth, Adam knelt at the corpse's side. A cursory glance couldn't determine where the bullet had entered, or even if it was a bullet. All he could determine beyond a shadow of a doubt was Sedeljšak's black wool jacket was soaked through with blood, and he wasn't breathing.

Removing one glove, Adam searched out a pulse. The moribund appearance crushed no expectations. He was dead, but faintly warm. Adam informed his colleague of such as he tugged his glove back on. Without a word, Lee moved to begin inspecting the ground around them.

"Whoever killed him is close by."

He snorted, ruffling through the pockets of the dead man's jacket. "How do you know?"

There was loose change and keys, but nothing overly suspicious. There was a metallic clink as a spent bullet casing was dropped on the pilfered objects in Adam's hand. He frowned.

"Nine millimeter. Whoever got him had to be close."

"You think he's still here?"

Lee quirked a predatory grin in response, nodding once. Pressing the casing back into Lee's hand, Adam slid the keys into his jacket. The change was dropped to the dirt. Kicking the dead man's leg once, Adam moved to follow Lee's shadow.

Not far out from under the bridge, Lee threw an arm out to stop him. Before Adam could question her, a burst of sound erupted from under the rotted structure. Both turned to see the figure of a man sprinting away, staggering in his frenzy to escape. A grin formed on Adam's lips as he bolted after the man. He loved the chase. Heavy footfalls fell in time with the heartbeat thick in his ears. The distance shrank, though Adam paid no heed to the blur of their surroundings or the distance covered, only the sharper lines of his prey. Wheezing breath rang in the air, contrasting Adam's rhythmic panting. Victory met pride in equal parts as it flooded his chest. Adam leaped forward, tackling the man to the ground.

They skid on the gravel, toppling over one another before they stilled. For a brief moment, Adam thought the man had been knocked unconscious. Just as he began to tug his leg free from the weight that pinned it, his head was thrown back. The shock stalled the pain that would manifest later. Dazed, Adam struck out blindly. Glanced blows and square hits coupled with torn clothing and grappling. Adam found himself outclassed when he grabbed his opponent's arm and attempted to twist it behind the man's back. His hold slipped, leaving Adam in the precarious position of an elbow colliding with his eye. Lights flashed before his eyes, swallowed swiftly by darkness. Aside from feeling himself move, Adam didn't register much.

The overlapping sounds of a scuffle chorused in the background.

Despite the sharp waves of pain emanating from the back of his skull, Adam cracked his eyes open and squinted against the sky. The sun had risen further in the sky, glowing far too brightly with spite. His eyes burned. Chaos died off, leaving a silence that settled itself comfortably where it didn't belong. He propped himself up on an arm and looked around. Focus slowly returned to his vision as the pain ebbed away, but didn't disappear fully. Lee was giving him a bland look from where she stood. One foot was firmly planted between her captive's shoulders, his face pressed into the gravel. Hands were cuffed behind his back, a low rumble of a language Adam didn't recognize filtered through the air. It sounded more like growling, but he couldn't quite concentrate enough to identify any of the words. Russian, he suspected out of habit.

"Adam?"

Ignoring Lee, Adam rolled to his feet. His vision spun, but a few deep breaths helped his regain equilibrium. An irrational flash of anger shot through him. That had been his fight; he hadn't needed or wanted help. Adam stilled his tongue, making no effort to mask his discontent.

"I'm taking him in," informed Lee. Not willing to argue, Adam nodded. Lee grabbed her prisoner's arm, hauling the man to his shaky feet. Dragging the still shouting man toward the car, Lee didn't let him regain balance for more than a second before throwing him off kilter again. A cruel puppeteer.

Silently, Adam watched her load the man into the car, then get in herself. The hum of the engine droned on, dying with image of the blue car being swallowed by distance.

His brows furrowed, anger quickly changed to curiosity as he stalked back to the corpse. Dropping to one knee, Adam carefully lifted the leg he'd kicked earlier. A crinkled scrap of paper lay on the ground, dirt sprinkled across the surface. A quarter lay on the edge of it. He didn't know quite what to make of it. Frowning, Adam picked the scrap up. The dirt fell away like faded memories, leaving behind a dirtied mark.

It wasn't complete, the writing unfamiliar. A third of an unfamiliar crest rested by charred edges. Smoothing the paper carefully, Adam carried it back to his car. It was promptly shoved into the glove box before Adam radioed for a clean up crew.

There were few things cooler in a ten-year-old boy's mind than having a spy for a father. Maybe a superhero or a ninja could come close. Unfortunately for David, he knew his father was none of those. He remembered being younger and seeing his father go off to work, waving goodbye with his mother, imagining that the man was saving the world.

Of course, that was back when he was just a baby, and not more adult like he was now. Now he certainly knew better. Despite the mystery and allure of the CIA, David knew it to be a very boring place.

"Dad, can I go spar with Uncle Roy?" It was still early, only ten yet, but it was the fourth time the question had been posed. Jack looked up from his paperwork, the handwriting almost illegible.

"No," he stated firmly. With a sigh, Jack gave his desk a short-lived glare, and attempted to rearrange some of the stacks of paper. David already knew it wouldn't end well. The child gathered up the paper he'd been drawing on and moved off his father's desk. The floor was good enough to draw on; he didn't need a stupid desk anyway.

Jack spared the boy a glance, before returning to his task.

David paused, looking up to ask his father if Frank could teach him to fight, when he spotted Adam stalking toward his desk, which sat beside Jack's, only an aisle separating them. Blinking at the other's state, David poorly stifled his laughter.

"Dad?" Jack grunted. "Dad," David persisted. When Jack finally turned to look, David merely pointed at Adam.

"What happened?"

There was an angry muttering of words, as Adam sat down. David giggled again, earning a glare from both older men. He quieted, but still looked entirely too amused. A dark ring circled Adam's right eye, merging with a bruise that darkened the bridge of his nose. His bottom lip appeared to be split badly as well.

Jack made a quiet "hm" as he rose from his seat. Adam didn't bat away Jack's hands as the man inspected his wounds. One raised brow reaffirmed the earlier question of "what happened?"

"Stakeout. Sedeljšak."

"By yourself?" asked Jack incredulously. The mole had hardly been a dangerous man, but they never sent people in alone. Not unless they hoped they'd return in a body bag. He grit his teeth, frowning at the thought. Adam merely rolled his eyes.

"Camp was there." David watched curiously as his father's shoulders sagged a little. Scoffing, Adam pushed himself up from his chair and headed to Jack's desk. The only time Jack's workspace was manageable was when Adam organized it for him. Still, something bothered David about the scene. Jealousy gnawed at the edge of his conscience when he saw his father smile at Adam's back.

"Who's Camp?"

"Lee," Adam snapped. David scrunched up his nose, still confused who they were discussing.

"How'd you get beat up if there was someone else there?"

There was no response from the subject of his teasing, so David dropped the matter, returning to his drawings. Adam scowled at the papers in his hand, shuffling them around until they were in the right order before separating them into stacks. He was fairly certain that Jack finding anything on his desk was nothing short of an act of God. The sorting slowed, knowing as soon as order was restored Jack would ask again. Details, Adam supposed grudgingly, should be shared.

Slowing did not stall the inevitable for long, however, and Adam stood unmoving as he stared down at Jack's desk. His back was stiff, eyes boring holes into the wood. There was no silence to be had in the crowded building, but the stretch where neither spoke was more painful with the hum of living behind them. "You're not going to ask about why we were waiting for Sedeljšak?"

With a shrug, Jack blandly informed, "If I thought I could pronounce his name, I would have."

A chuckle was pulled from Adam despite himself, stilted and not quite believable. He turned to face Jack, trying to gauge how serious the man was about that claim. Jack stared back coolly, one brow cocked.

"We caught someone poking around on Russian frequencies."

Jack frowned. "When?"

Adam shrugged, hackles rising as memories of defeat rushed through his mind. His wounded eye throbbed as the anger resurfaced. "Ask Zero," he offered at last. A grin broke out on Jack's features. The man nodded before walking off to do as suggested.

Snorting, Adam returned to his own chair. David moved to sit in his father's chair, glaring across the aisle at Adam. The hard stare pricked at his nerves, fraying what patience remained. Swiveling on his chair, Adam turned to meet the child's gaze.

"What?"

David tilted his head to the side. "You lived in Russia once, right?"

"No," Adam growled out. Derailing the train of discussion would be best, but David took after his father in the worst ways.

The child grinned. "Dad said you were in Russia."

"John lied."

"My dad doesn't lie!" David defended staunchly. It simply wasn't a possibility the child was willing to accept. Somewhere in his mind, Adam didn't want to accept it either. But he frowned, regardless, determined to argue simply because there was another side. It was foolish to squabble with a child, but Adam wasn't above lashing out verbally in his already foul mood.

"There's no Santa Claus," said Adam. One could see the gears turning in the child's head, eyes flashing in anger before his brow furrowed. The anger grew tangible in the air.

"There is so!"

"He was shot down last year. He's dead." The level tone made David pause. It couldn't be the truth though, Adam said it. Something like that would be on the news.

"Well…how do you know? You're a Ruskie!"

The insult was more caustic than the child knew, hitting misplaced pride. Adam bristled. "I'm--"

"Adam." A firm hand rested on his shoulder, keeping him from rising to smack the brat around. Something cold was pressed against his injured eye, startling Adam from his anger. "Hold this." Grumbling unhappily, Adam held the ice pack firmly. Orders complied with, Jack moved into Adam's line of vision.

Something wasn't right about the set of his jaw. Unease quickly replaced Adam's irritation as he sat up a bit straighter.

Jack leveled his gaze, eyes sharp as he spoke. "It's not Russian."

"What's not--"

He shook his head, cutting off Adam's question. "We don't know what the transmission is yet."

"Damn it," Adam swore sharply, striking the surface of his desk with an open palm. Any ground he thought they'd gained had been snatched away. He hunched over the desk, hand braced against his forehead.

"Did Campbell get that guy to talk?"

Bemusement colored Jack's expression, curiosity bright in his eyes. "What man?"

Hopping to his feet, David took advantage of the pause to go to his father's side. The child tugged insistently on his sleeve. He whined, "Daaad," softly. Still focused on Adam, Jack held up a hand, signaling for the boy to be quiet.

"The one we apprehended this morning. He was near Sedeljšak's body when we found him."

"Did you bring him in?" Jack queried over the continued low plea for attention that his son gave. Adam answered that he had not, his visage growing more troubled by the moment. He dropped the icepack to the desk.

"Lee took him. She left before I did."

"Daaad."

Jack rounded on his son, giving the child a stern look. "Stop it, David." The boy stilled, glowering in embarrassment. Soundly chastised, he released his hold on Jack's sleeve. Appeased, Jack turned back to Adam.

"She never came in," he informed. Urgency began to tinge the edges of Jack's voice. "How much sooner did she leave?"

There was a pause. "Ten minutes."

"Damn it."

There was no response from Adam before he jumped up from his seat and jogged off in the direction of Roy Campbell's office. Snatching up David's hand, Jack tugged his son in the opposite direction. The sea of desks passed slowly, consistent as the tides. David looked up at his father sheepishly every few steps.

With a sigh, Jack finally asked, "Yes, David?"

"Santa wasn't shot down right?" the boy asked, once satisfied that his father no longer sounded impatient. The question made Jack miss a beat, unsure how the question had come up.

"No." The answer sounded hesitant, but David decided to take it at face value.

"Good. Not that I care about stupid baby stuff like that, but…Hal would be sad." David nodded. Hal would be sad if David had to tell him Santa Claus was dead, thankfully he didn't have to. Jack made a noise of comprehension, releasing his son's hand to open the door to the security room.

"Hey, Jack!" The chipper demeanor of Johnny Sasaki soured upon seeing Jack's face. "Babysitting?" he asked immediately. David didn't need to see his father nod to know that he did. Slightly irritated that he couldn't go, David crossed his arms as he stomped over to take a seat by the security guard.

"Ah, buck up, Davy, we can play spy!" David tried to fight the smile that overtook his features, but it appeared futile. Even if he was being passed off, he liked the security control room. Johnny - the older man said to call him that, even if his father said he should say Mr. Sasaki - was fun. For an old man, anyway.

Adam was waiting by the door to the car port when Jack arrived.

"Campbell couldn't catch her on radio. Local police are on lookout, Frank's helping look. We'll split up." The younger man turned to leave, pausing when Jack grabbed his shoulder.

"Keep your channel open," Jack ordered. Adam nodded, heading toward his own car. Something restless stirred in his gut, slithering over his chest. Once assured that Adam was safely on his way, Jack pulled his own keys from his pocket.

The plates matched. The blue Ford sat contently near the curb, suspicious in the normalcy it radiated. He'd almost gone right by, but he turned in time. There was blood on the driver's side window. Closer inspection revealed to Jack that the interior was a scene from a horror film.

The seats were splashed with blood. Hand prints, smears, footprints, a struggle that he saw painted before him with the bumbling care of a toddler. Artistic blurs marred the edges leaving no discernible prints. Outside the car, there was no blood on the sidewalk.

Jack sat in his car, radio loosely held in his hand. The indistinct clamor of children wafted over from the park, the juxtaposition to the macabre scene was jarring. A short lived burst of static erupted from the speakers, lingering. It was followed shortly after by Campbell's voice.

"Snake?"

Brows knitted together. Call signs were never good omens. Baneful as a storm on the horizon, he remained stoic to the implications. Jack pressed the radio button down to respond.

"No sign of Wolf. Found the car. There's…blood on the inside."

"No trail."

"Affirmative." Minutes were stretched beyond use. Jack counted them, quietly in his head, missing the rhythm Adam would have tapped with his fingertips.

"Snake, Fox is on his way."

"And Ocelot?"

"Your tom went struttin'."

"What?"

There was a sigh over the signal. "Cat class involves not answering your radio. We have maintained silence."

Adam was fine, Jack assured himself. The man could charm the devil out of more lives if he ever ran out. The conversation was curt, leaving Jack little to do but wait. He sat stock still in his car, watching the children play. Their shadows stretched toward him, trying in vain to reach him through the glass.

The back door was never locked. Adam opened said door quietly, wondering idly why Jack never bothered to lock up. The doorway led straight to the kitchen. Dinner appeared half eaten on the dishes, left to cool and rot. The food itself appeared inedible, Jack's cooking proving once more to be as much of an anomaly as the man himself. Adam wrinkled his nose in disdain. How either stomached his cooking was a mystery of modern medicine.

The lock clicked shut, the sound resonating eerily. An unnatural stillness engulfed the Milles' household. The hair on the back of Adam's neck stood on end as he crept forward into the quiet. A low creak pierced the silence, the floorboards protested the weight.

The living room was dipped in a murky blue, lighted only by scattered rays from other rooms. Now familiar figures of piled boxes and stacked books broke the monotony of the Spartan décor. Adam stepped toward the couch, satisfied to continue routine without interference.

Movement allowed itself to be shown a moment too late. Sudden weight threw itself against the back of Adam's knees. The ground rose to greet him, pressing a metal toy car into his ribs. Any air in his lungs abruptly showed its contempt by exiting.

Reactions, practiced until they were as innate as breathing, kicked in. Adam shoved at the ground, twisting so that he lay sprawled on his back. The effort to free his legs from whatever vice they were caught in was aborted the moment Adam caught sight of his captor.

A cardboard box sat innocently on his legs. The warmth permeating his pants indicated that it was anything but angelic.

Propped up on his elbows, Adam sent the box a scalding look. Words that would have matched perched on tip of his tongue, silenced when another of the boxes seemed to spring to life. Quite literally, Adam realized, as it landed squarely on his stomach with a small roar. Air really couldn't stand the company of his lungs, it seemed.

The box shed its skin to reveal the laughing menace known as David. This left the box still holding his legs to be Jack. Adam somehow managed to grab the wriggling child and toss him off his ribs. Though the toss was feeble, and ended with the child rolling away from Adam. The box suggested David head towards his room. Despite the child's attempt at negotiations, he found himself treading up the stairs moments later.

Adam watched as the box was cast off in favor of shadows. They caressed the other man's face. Smudged along the skin, the darkness was marred only by two glints of blue. His features seemed carefully passive.

"The cat came back."

Displeased, Adam tried once more to pull his legs free. They didn't budge. "Kept my collar on and everything."

"But not your radio."

"The birds pick up on bells," Adam drawled. Jack studied him a moment in the dark before slowly releasing his legs. A lofty grin formed on Adam's lips as he sat up fully. All sharp lines and arrogance. The quiet simmered.

"What the hell was that?" asked Adam, his chin jerked toward the box now crouched in the shadows.

"A box."

The heel of Adam's boot connected with Jack's shin. "Who hides in a box?"

Jack shrugged. "You didn't look there. It's nice."

"Not being looked for?"

"The box," Jack insisted. "It's comforting."

"You're insane," the younger man informed.

The glint in Jack's eyes changed, a flicker of light igniting them. A glimmer of a memory caught Adam, blurring reality for a precious moment. His mind captivated by decrepit memories of thunder and lighting, ozone as sharp to his young senses as the electricity. He cowered before the storm, seeking refuge from what he couldn't control in his mother's arms. He never remembered her face, just the feel of her hands running through his hair.

The stubborn set of Adam's shoulders deflated. Acutely aware of his sudden exhaustion, he sighed. Jack, more shadow than man, gave him an odd look, head tilted to study Adam.

The words were soft. "You could get in, then you'd understand."

"I'm not hiding in a box."

"You seemed to enjoy hiding elsewhere today."

"That's different!"

The shadows grew more prominent on one side. Adam suspected a raised brow. "It's not a box," he continued sourly.

"Where were you?"

"You found Lee's car."

Frustration began to lace Jack's tone. "Frank and I looked for four hours."

"I heard they found the man's body."

"Answer the radio."

Adam perked. "I kept it open."

The phantasm rose to his feet with a sigh. Pinpricks of blue shot guilt through Adam's heart, but his lips remained still. The wraith's hand reached out to him, catching light as it did so. Adam reached forward unthinkingly, the hobble on his heart falling away when callused flesh met his own.

"Sleep." The apparition spoke with Jack's voice. Adam grinned against the dark.

"That's not what I came here for."

Adam moved to block the other's path to the stairs, one hand spread upon his chest. Vibrations betrayed laconic laughter, silent as his eyes. The steel drained away from his voice, leaving a kindness that made Adam's skin itch.

"I know." A hand rested atop his own, before both were promptly removed. "Now sleep."

Jack turned, not looking back at Adam as he mounted the stairs. Light slowly burned away the shadows, until few dared to cling to Jack's frame. Then he disappeared and the light clicked off. Adam found his way to the couch, suffering a stubbed toe in the process. He stared at the walls, willing himself to sleep.

Only the feeling of trepidation solidified in the night.

"Are you leaving?"

Sunlight hadn't yet spotted the living room. The rising cacophony of twittering birds had begun, however, announcing the dawn's approach. Dave watched Adam pull on his shoes from the safe perch of the stairs. The child pressed his face between the rails, immune to the venomous look Adam shot him.

"Not in the way you'd like," he muttered. It was more to himself, but the kid had asked.

There had never been peace betwixt them, but this level of malice was abnormal. David frowned, unsure what to make of Adam's agitation. "What's that mean?"

"Shouldn't you be asleep?"

David shook his head. Even from the stairs, he could hear Adam curse.

"What do you want?"

"Are you sick?"

Caught off guard, Adam turned, countenance reading bemusement. "What?"

The boy tapped his head twice. "Up here. Are you crazy?"

"Why?"

Shifting nervously, David looked away. "Uncle Roy said you had a crush on my dad."

The words impacted with violence, Adam paused, shoelaces in hand. Breathing seemed too daring a task at the moment. The petrification of his muscles abated long enough for Adam to finish tying his shoes, the motion mechanical and clumsy. Then he sat, slumped, on the couch. David watched the lines across the other's back shift from the corner of his eye. Adam's hands, hidden from the child's view, trembled.

"I don't," he sneered at the floor. David nodded, fidgeting where he sat.

"I went to church with mom once, and the preacher was told us how boys were only supposed to kiss girls." Adam made a soft noise, to show he was listening if nothing else. David took it as affirmation. "Kissing's gross though. I wouldn't want to kiss a girl."

"Go get some breakfast."

The words sounded off key to David. He couldn't place what was wrong with them exactly, but Adam sounded tired. Quietly, he agreed, sneaking down the stairs. The child was behind the couch when a thought struck him. Too young for real restraint yet, David followed it. Leaping over the back of the couch, he jumped onto Adam, arms wrapping around the other's neck.

"To the kitchen!" he declared, unhooking one arm long enough to point in the direction of the kitchen. It was alarming when Adam complied. Once through the doorway, Adam removed the arms from his neck. The boy landed on his feet with a thump behind Adam.

"Eat," the man ordered, making a beeline for the door. The soft rustle of cereal and clatter of plate ware was enough of an answer.

"Bye."

Frozen, Adam's brow furrowed. The farewell was unusual by itself, but coupled with the gentle tone, it was downright puzzling. "Choke on your cereal, brat."

The door clicked shut behind him. David smiled.

Disarray was the nicest way to describe the chaos. Papers were scattered along filing cabinets, carpeting the floor. Drawers were stacked haphazardly, some toppled over. Dents were battle scars of broken locks and secrets told. The walls remained in pristine condition, and the floors stable, but they were all that testified that a siege had not been. Another burst of fury gave papers flight, performing short lived acrobatics before returning to the floor. Not satisfied, Adam kicked another stack.

"It's not here," he muttered. The low hum of anger buzzed through his mind. The calm drowned in the storm. A swear was punctuated by the sharp din of metal buckling under his fist.

He made a hasty retreat. Dodging the unblinking stares of cameras, Adam walked swiftly from the archives. The lobby was crowded enough that a man in a hurry didn't stand out. A halcyon chuckle escaped his lips when the CIA's crest fell beneath his harried steps. Integrity. Ironic.

The calls were made from the same place every time. It was a homely deli, only a few blocks from headquarters, and swathed in baseball memorabilia in the front. The back held echoes of Marx. The man at the counter nodded as Adam walked right by. Bypassing pleasantries, Adam headed straight for the phone. The number was dialed without thinking, despite its length. It was picked up immediately.

In crisp Russian, Adam informed, "They're onto us."