Chapter 4: Conclusion

The junkyard looked almost otherworldly in the pale moonlight. By some optical illusion the walls of wrecked cars and construction machines that surrounded the center of the yard seemed somehow higher and more menacing than they did during the day. Every now and then the metal would groan in a gust of wind, but other than that the junkyard was eerily quiet. The silence wouldn't last, however, for tonight this was to be the site of an execution.

In respectful distance from the huge cavity that was the scrap-press Steelbeak stood with his hands buried in his pockets, his right fist clutched around a gun. If this turned out to be a trap he would go down fighting. Of course, if it was, he wouldn't die alone tonight. Upon coming here he had risked a peek into the pit and Stavro was already down there, unconscious, unceremoniously dumped on the bed of a white pickup truck. His right hand sported a bandage with tell-tale red stains where his thumb should be.

Steelbeak wouldn't be at all surprised if the grisly token ended up on J. Gander Hooter's desk, first thing in the morning. This was more than making sure a captured agent didn't reveal any secrets to the enemy. This was a message, a casual demonstration of F.O.W.L.'s power. High Command might see fit to replace their chief agent but it would be on their terms, by their choice. Not out of any necessity generated by S.H.U.S.H..

The sound of a smooth-running engine interrupted his musings and he felt his whole body tense. They were coming. He had expected one of those oversized black limousines but the vehicle that crept into the secluded yard with dark headlights was almost offensively inconspicuous. Clenching his beak the rooster straightened up while the three avians he so far had only seen on video-screens got out of the car and walked up to the pit. Even their clothing was understated, if highly expensive. Were it not for their familiar silhouettes, he never would have suspected them to be the leading heads of the most powerful crime syndicate on the northern hemisphere. Which, of course, was the point.

"Don't look too closely, then you won't be tempted to search for our faces on surveillance shots or the like," the tallest of the trio, a gaunt, gray-feathered hawk, advised him dryly. He walked up to the pit, leaning on an unadorned wooden cane for support. "We value our privacy." When he stopped to face Steelbeak over the scrap-press, flanked by the other two avians, his beak quirked into what definitely wasn't a smile. "One of your predecessors once made the mistake of not respecting that boundary."

"Really," Steelbeak said neutrally. "What'd he die of?"

The hawk raised an eyebrow. "Oh, he's still alive," he replied in a soft voice. "It's most remarkable."

"Right." He gave a nervous cough. "Uh, I gotta say, I was surprised you actually wanted to do this in person."

"Understandable," the female High Commander, a slender duck who appeared to be in her thirties, allowed. "But we like to establish a personal connection with our chief executives." With her hands clasped behind her back she took another step towards the compacter and leaned forward to get a good look at Stavro. "And we like to maintain it."

Very conscious of the weapon he still held tightly in his right hand Steelbeak slowly shifted his weight. "So we wait until he wakes up, huh?" he guessed with a nod towards the pit.

"All in good time," the duck told him with a brittle smile. "First we should go over the formalities." She turned her head to expectantly look at her companions, and the old hawk spoke.

"You are hereby promoted to the rank of chief agent, effective with your predecessor's passing," he stated in a solemn tone. "As of that moment you are in charge of F.O.W.L.'s department for intelligence, counter-intelligence and immediate action."

Steelbeak nodded, very slowly. It was by no means an administrative position. The innocent phrase 'immediate action' referred to handling the most secret matters, and the most urgent ones. Tasks assigned to this department frequently included acquiring valuable or dangerous objects, infiltration and sabotage of facilities run by competing organizations, and of course kidnappings and assassinations.

"In addition to that you will also receive the highest level of security clearance granted to members of the organization outside of High Command. You will be able to access certain files and data usually restricted to the other main departments: Finances, Military Forces and Research," the hawk continued. "We have high hopes for you, chief agent Steelbeak." He cocked his head and gave a smile that would have looked more natural on a snake. "So stop fingering that gun in your pocket."

With a nervous laugh the rooster took his empty hands out of his pockets and clasped them behind his back. "Hey, you can't fault a guy for being cautious, ah ah" he said with a smile he hoped looked innocent.

"No," the third Commander agreed, inclining his head. He was a sinewy falcon, slightly shorter and maybe twenty years younger than the other bird of prey. "As a matter of fact, we value your caution as much as we value your competitive nature."

Steelbeak made a choking sound. "My... Uh..."

"Of course we generally don't approve of agents putting their personal ambitions before the interests of F.O.W.L.," the falcon continued, ignoring the rooster's sudden discomfort. "But then, if an asset becomes too sure of himself, too reckless... If he becomes unstable-" he glanced at the compactor with distaste, "-it speaks in an agent's favor if he sees the writing on the wall."

Suppressing a shiver Steelbeak could only nod as the chilling realization hit him. They knew. They had probably wanted to get rid of Stavro for a while now. The canine wouldn't die because of this or last night's events, not specifically, but because High Command had finally found themselves a worthy successor. One with a nice competitive nature, who saw the writing on the wall.

"Yeah, I understand" he replied, and only years of practice enabled him to keep his voice level. "And you can be sure I'll remember."

The three avians looked at him out of cold eyes. "Don't make us ever think otherwise, chief agent," the hawk advised him calmly. Then he turned towards the duck who was still watching the inside of the pit with great interest. "How much longer until he wakes up?"

"Oh, he's awake," she answered with a certain amused tint to her voice. "Has been awake for a while now. I imagine he hopes we'll just go away if he plays dead long enough."

The hawk made a disapproving, tsking sound while the falcon edged forward to see for himself. Steelbeak finally stepped closer to the pit and took a look as well.

Stavro was indeed awake, and by now shaking violently. Seeing that his silence would buy him no more time he scrambled to his knees and started to plead. "Look," he stammered, his voice cracking with fear. "I get it, I screwed up. Got too reckless, yes, just like you said. But please don't do this. Please. Please, please, not like this!"

The members of High Command exchanged glances, as if to determine who would deliver the final verdict, then the duck spoke up. "So you want a clean death," she said in a voice that contained no emotion whatsoever. "Of course you do. You, better than anyone here, know how long it would take you to die in there. And you should have a vague idea how much pain you would have to suffer." She paused a few seconds before she continued, "It would be very easy to spare you that. Of course your body will be disposed of in any case, along with the vehicle that was used for retrieving you from the custody of the authorities. Certain appearances must be kept up. But there is no reason for you to be alive for that." With a glance at Steelbeak that made the rooster cringe she went on, "We could simply order your successor to shoot you – he came equipped. Two little words, that's all it would take to save you from so much pain." Her expression softened and Steelbeak could see the spark of hope in the canine's eyes. She saw it too, and she watched it grow to a bright flame before she crushed it. "We won't do that," she said flatly. "Not because we will take any pleasure from your inevitable screams, or out of the ridiculous notion that this is a more fitting end for you. We simply don't care enough to extend the effort."

Despite the darkness Steelbeak could see the look on Stavro's face with painful clarity. For a few seconds he just stared at the duck, as if trying to comprehend what she had said. Then he started to scream. No cries for help that wouldn't come, no begging for mercy he wouldn't receive. Just gut-wrenching, unadulterated, primal horror given a voice.

Forcing himself to keep a straight face Steelbeak watched High Command while the powerful engines came to life. They would take no pleasure in the canine's suffering, he knew that. There would be no chuckling, no gleeful rubbing of hands. And they certainly didn't do this out of some sense for karmic justice, either. But there was a reason High Command wanted Stavro to be alive for this – to impress upon their new chief agent the price of failure. This was what expected him in case he didn't live up to their expectations. This was what would happen to him if he failed them one time too many. This was what he would beg for if he betrayed them.

Suddenly the old hawk met his eyes. For a few seconds the freshly promoted chief agent held his gaze, his prosthetic beak turned into a mirthless smirk. Then he looked down into the pit again. And watched.

.* * *.

A glorious sunrise turned the eastern sky into a sea of amber and flooded the corridor with golden light, but agent Grizzlikov was of no mind to appreciate the beauty. He had spent the night going through lists of airline passengers, police reports, speeding tickets, anything that might give him a clue as to where Stavro was hiding. By now the lack of sleep was taking its toll and more than once he had caught himself reading the same paragraph over and over again, without really understanding the words. He was way past the point of total exhaustion, kept awake only by gallons of vile black coffee and the cold fury over Stavro's escape. By now the former seemed to burn a hole into his stomach and the latter did the same for his heart.

Upon hearing about Stavro's escape Grizzlikov had vehemently refused to go home, to go anywhere for that matter. He could help, he had insisted, and when Hooter remained skeptical he had all but begged that letting him investigate could do no harm, either. Reluctantly enough the old gander had complied – and he had probably quietly informed security that Grizzlikov was not to leave the building without his permission. J. Gander Hooter was not a bird to repeat mistakes. The ursine didn't care, he just wanted to find Stavro and see him locked up again.

The summons from Director Hooter had been a mixed blessing. There was the hope, however slim, that there were new clues as to the murderer's whereabouts. But leaving this room, walking down that corridor to the old gander's office, meant facing the others.

They all knew, that was plain from the way they fell silent, the way they looked at him. Nobody tried to approach him, for which he was grateful, but the deep compassion in their eyes was almost more than he could bear. When he reached the plain door at the end of the corridor it was all he could do not to breathe a sigh of relief as he entered.

Director Hooter was sitting at his desk, his hands folded on the wooden surface. "Ah, agent Grizzlikov. Please sit down."

"I prefer to stand, Sir," the bear replied stiffly, feeling his spirits sink even more. Nobody was ever told to sit down for good news.

"Sit down, agent," Hooter repeated sternly. "You look about ready to collapse. When was the last time you slept?"

Sitting down Grizzlikov frowned, then glanced at his watch, trying to remember. He honestly couldn't tell.

"Yes, that's what I thought. Once we conduct this business you will go to the infirmary and get a decent night's sleep. Or day, as the case may be." Before he could even think about protesting, Hooter added, "That is an order and not up for discussion, agent Grizzlikov."

"Sir," he murmured sullenly. "And what about Stavro? Who will look for him?"

"Nobody, as that will no longer be necessary," the Director told him in a grave voice. "Stavro is dead."

Grizzlikov blinked. "What? How?"

"He was murdered by F.O.W.L.," the avian replied flatly and shoved two photos towards him. The topmost one showed the bulldog, unconscious or dead, lying in the bed of a pickup truck down in a pit that could only be a scrap press. The second picture seemed to have been taken at a later time – red being the predominant color.

Grizzlikov only spared it the shortest of glances before putting it back on the desk, face-down. "You are certain this is no trick?" he asked, stone-faced.

"They sent us his right thumb as well," Hooter sighed. "I am as certain as I can be, without an actual body."

"Why would they kill him?"

"It has happened before." The gander reached over to retrieve the photos. With a look of distaste he put them in a brown envelope. "Stavro has acted rather volatile for some time now, and with the recent influx of agents from Europe... Maybe High Command thought it was time to replace him." He gave Grizzlikov an evaluative look as he continued, "You arresting him may well have been the last straw."

For a long while the bear didn't answer. He stared ahead without really seeing anything, wondering whether he should be pleased about this and found that he wasn't. He felt cheated.

"Your thoughts on this, agent Grizzlikov?" the Director inquired softly.

"I did not want this," the bear said, his voice thick with disgust. "I wanted him to be put away, forever. I wanted to look into his eyes when he understood that he would never be free again, and that it would be for what he did to James and all the others. I didn't want him disposed of by F.O.W.L. because he was no longer valuable."

"I see," the avian murmured, and for a minute or two both of them were silent.

Grizzlikov didn't have to ask why High Command would notify Director Hooter of their staffing policy. He wasn't so vain as to assume they would want to get him off their backs, toss him a bone to stop him from digging deeper. More likely they had indeed found a more suitable candidate for the position of chief agent and like children who would spit on their ice-cream before letting somebody else have it they had killed Stavro themselves before giving him, before giving S.H.U.S.H. the satisfaction of bringing him down.

"Thank you for telling me, Director Hooter," the bear muttered somewhat stiffly, and made to rise.

"There is one more thing," the gander said. "I realize it is in poor taste to bring it up now, but I doubt anyone will feel better about it anytime soon." He hesitated, as if trying to find the right words. "I would offer you the position of chief agent."

It took Grizzlikov a few seconds to digest that. Suddenly he was glad he was seated. "What is this?" he asked, maybe too sharply. "Consolation prize?"

"Hardly." The short gander leaned back in his chair, his hands on the armrests. "You simply are the one best suited for the job. In terms of skill, certainly, but more importantly in terms of character."

"The second best," the bear whispered hoarsely.

Hooter averted his eyes. "You don't have to decide right now. At this point I wouldn't accept a decision either way. Sleep it over, think about it... But please know that I can't think think of anyone more suited to carry on James' work."

"Why?" the bear asked. "Why the one who had to earn it over his best friend's dead body?"

"Because I can trust you to do the right thing," the other sighed. "You proved that. Even though I wish you could have proven it under different circumstances."

"So I get promotion for not smashing Stavro's skull."

The gander pretended not to notice the sarcasm. "That too... But more importantly you took no pleasure in his death – which, I don't doubt, was anything but merciful," Hooter added darkly. Then, raising his head again, he met the bear's eyes. "In the face of a tragedy like James' death it is very hard not to lose sight of what's important. You didn't, agent Grizzlikov. I'm not sure I could say the same of many others in this building." There was a sad and incredibly tired look on his face when he said the words.

Slowly, very slowly, the bear nodded. "If you excuse me now, Director."

"Of course. Get some rest."

When he rose from the chair he felt as if his limbs were filled with lead. After closing the door to Hooter's office behind him he turned towards the staircase that led to the infirmary. As he thought about the avian's offer he felt bile rise in his throat. The position of chief agent was something he had once hoped for, of course. But just like with Stavro's downfall, getting his wish felt like a stab in the stomach now.

When he passed a window he paused and closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the warmth of the early sun rays on his fur. Mercifully the corridor was empty at the moment, the only sound being the occasional hiss from the coffee maker. For a second Grizzlikov felt almost at peace. Then it hit him that he would never again stand next to that machine with James, to bicker over a paper cup of that vile black coffee, and he had to blink away tears.

He would accept that promotion, he knew. To do the work that had always meant so much to the two of them, and to do everything in his power to show that he was worthy of the duty he had been entrusted with. Vladimir Grizzlikov would use his new authority to make a difference, for the better. He had to.

After all, he had earned it over his best friend's dead body.