Chapter 60: Fine and Dandy (Interlogue III) [Part II]

Margaret eyed the woman's corpse. It was clearly Magdala Delatorre, the Agency liaison for Striker Industries. Dylan had nestled her corpse in the corner of the elevator, underneath the buttons- concealed from passersby. There, she laid, pale and graceful, against the walnut panelling of Elevator 3. She had not been dead long enough for rigor mortis to contort her slender limbs; the sweet odors of perfume masked the scents of sweat, struggle, and death.

Margaret had spent the last week in Magdala's shadow, figuring out her habits and mannerisms and speech patterns. She sussed out the length of her stride, the shade of her skin, the style of the clothes she wore, even her bust size. On the seventh day, Margaret snuck into her safehouse. Ten hours later, when she emerged, she had become Magdala Delatorre.

Except for the eye color, Margaret now realized. The contacts she had chosen were a shade too dark.

"Hey, Darnell. Did you notice?" Margaret asked.

Darnell stood, stock still, in the opposite corner of the elevator. It took him a second to realize Margaret was addressing him.

"Oh, sorry. Notice what?"

"The eyes."

"Er… Yeah," Darnell conceded. "Didn't wanna say anything. Seemed like you were having a bad day."

Margaret laughed a mirthless laugh.

"You're not wrong. But you should tell me next time."

Darnell shrugged. "I didn't wanna bust your cover… at least, not more than it already is."

"How bad is it going to go?" Margaret wondered aloud, abruptly changing the topic. "Do you think we'll have to go for plan B?"

"We didn't make a plan B."

"We'll have to think of one, then."

"Wager it's a bit too late for that, lass."

"You always say that."

Ding!

"I mean it this time."

Darnell stepped in front of the door as it slid open.

"Here we are, Miss Delatorre," Darnell spoke. "Mr. Striker's office is just down the hall."

Margaret nodded. "Thank you, Dylan."

The elevator shut with a mechanical clunk. Magdala eyed the door at the end of the hall. Foreboding sensations grappled with her thoughts. She was glad for them, in a way; they confirmed that her sixth sense remained sharp. She had, long ago, learned to use her trepidations, rather than letting them use her. Margaret let the panic flare, just long enough to keep her alert, then beat it down before it consumed her mind entirely.

Dylan swiped his keycard across the scanner. He pushed the door open and gave Magdala a somber glance. Surely, he felt it too. She doubted Mr. Striker would remain oblivious to her true identity, after so many mistakes had been made. Someone was going to die. Someone was going to get hurt.

Northern Strike Industries had shed enough blood to fill Hell twice over. Totalitarian regimes and resistance cells alike armed themselves with the weapons it produced. By establishing SIN as his headquarters, Mr. Striker had transformed a backwater city into a modern metropolis. But despite his infamy, Mr. Striker wore an inscrutable shroud of anonymity, few had ever seen his face.

An ordinary-looking man sat before her, surrounded by opulence. Magdala looked past the exotic armaments that decked the office walls and the solid mahogany desk, meeting Mr. Striker's eyes with her own. From his mundane appearance, she could tell that Mr. Striker was no stranger to conflict. She knew better than anyone that standing out from the crowd was more often than not a death sentence.

"There you are," he spoke, with a plain voice to match his plain face and plain clothes. "Take a seat. We got a lot to talk about, I'm sure."

She strode to her seat, subtly swaying her hips. She teased at her coat's topmost button with a single, cautious finger. Her lips curled into a coy smile.

"Of course," Magdala cooed.

Magdala's sixth sense warned her that he was watching, that he was sizing up every aspect of her body. As his eyes rested on Magdala's face, he offered her a wan smile.

"It's been a while, Mag. How've you been?"

Magdala met his smile with one of her own - one just wide enough to show a sliver of her ivory-white dentures.

"I would like to say things have been going fine and dandy, but… that's seldom the case nowadays, is it?"

"Certainly not 'dandy'." Mr. Striker remarked, gathering the few papers on his desktop.

He dipped his head, as if to ask permission to break eye contact. Before Magdala could respond with a nod of her own, he turned away from his desk, slipping the pages between the weighty record tomes which populated his lacquered bookshelf.

In her peripheral vision, she caught the briefest glimpse of an infamous name: Novikov.

Like all bloated organizations, the greatest threat to Striker Industries came from within. In this case, the threat was named Nicholas Novikov Sr. The man was equal parts useful and ambitious; he was undoubtedly the conniving advisor-reagent of the Striker Industry empire.

"Forgive my curiosity," Magdala probed, "but do the shareholders still agree with the acquisitions we had laid out last time?"

Mr. Striker eyed the dusty volumes populating the shelves. He ran a finger along one of their spines.

"I never took you as someone interested in the idle chatter of old men, Mag," he finally answered.

She intimated naivete with a bashful giggle. "It's only my job," she added, maintaining as inviting a smile as possible.

Mr. Striker returned to his seat. His hand reached towards the cigar tin on his desk. "So what do you have for me today? Surely, you didn't come around because you missed me."

Thus far, Mr. Striker had hardly fallen for any of her ploys. She felt dirty, maintaining this flirtatious facade, but she had committed to this personality. Magadala's personality. Perhaps a change of pace was in order.

"That, and..." Magdala let a frown darken her expression. "The administration have decided that..."

She knit her eyebrows, further building on her falsified indecision. She concluded her purported inner turmoil with a defeated sigh, letting her eyes fall to the floor before bringing them back up to look at her target.

"Let's say I didn't entirely agree with their decisions."

Mr. Striker twirled the unlit cigar between his fingers.

"Is that so? Is this about the joint enterprise idea?"

"In official terms, the Agency appreciates your company's expertise and capital. We are always seeking ways to deepen our— the relationship between your company and our organization."

In the world of cutthroat negotiation, few things were more reliable than noncommittal legalese.

"That's a relief to hear," he said, without a hint of relief in his voice. "But you wouldn't have told me this if you agreed with the official terms."

Magdala nodded.

"You know me too well. The documents I have here— the ones that need your signature— make that statement seem somewhat hypocritical."

Magdala produced a sheaf of papers from her bag and placed them on the table, splaying them across the desk. She leaned over the desktop, making little effort to hide her 'assets', as she pointed towards each sheet.

"Double the production, half the bulk purchase price. Removal of certain disagreeable officials from chair positions, including one… Nicholas Novikov Sr. All these demands seem very contradictory to me."

Mr. Striker gave the woman— and the documents— a single, languid glance.

"Magdala, dear, you've grown quite assertive since we've last talked. When did you suddenly develop an opinion on the matter?"

Mr. Striker wore the focused gaze of a hawk, closing for a vicious killing blow. Such acumen, she reasoned, was undoubtedly a necessary trait for a man of Mr. Striker's stature; if he couldn't talk his way out of such intellectually compromising situations, he was a dead man walking.

An adrenaline-fueled chill streaked down Margaret's spine. She had seldom been forced into the defensive during a duel of wits. She knew all too well that defending from his probing attacks led to a losing exchange. Without missing a stride, she gathered her wits and sent forth a risky riposte.

"I've always had opinions," she retaliated, brushing a curl of hair out of her eyes. "I just never really had the confidence to say it to anyone. I don't know… today, I just felt like doing something different."

"Speaking of different, I can see that you changed your eyes. The color of your eyes, that is."

His verbiage had struck deep. Margaret bit her tongue before it could lash out in retaliation. This late in the game, she could not allow herself to waste a single move.

"I quite liked them before. Are you wearing contact lenses?"

Mr. Striker continued his devastating advance. Her hesitation had cost her.

Margaret shifted herself off of the table and back into her seat, conceding her high ground with a single, respectful nod. Mr. Striker had attacked quickly and decisively. He fought well, but if he thought that the battle was over, he was sadly mistaken.

"And what else do you see?" Margaret asked.

"I see enough. Now I'm wondering why you're here."

"You're a sharp one. I'm sure you've figured out why."

Mr. Striker set his palms on the table: it was an assertive move, intended to seize the ground that Margaret had lost.

"I have two ideas. The first is that you are trying to worsen my relations with the Agency. If your disguise had held up, I would have been angered by the bogus proposal. That anger, however, would not translate into the end of our cooperation."

He did not disappoint. The goal was, indeed, to worsen relations between Mr. Striker and the Agency. This meeting, combined with bribes and bullets in the right places, would impel the top shareholders of Striker Industries to terminate their partnerships with the Agency. The Agency would be severely crippled by the resulting embargo. Hanne had optimistically predicted that the Agency would collapse within the decade.

Mr. Striker tilted his head and levelled his gaze into hers. Seldom had she seen brown eyes so piercing and inquisitive; yet, despite his best efforts, Margaret presented an infallibly impassive mien, refusing to be unhorsed by this impromptu joust of intent.

As they tilted lances, his gaze splintered against her indifference. His palms left the desktop as he leaned back his seat, unhorsed, a wince rippling across his previously placid mien.

"The other idea is that you are here to kill me. If that is the case, I beg of you not to do this. Those who would replace me are far more strict when regulating sales to specific organizations."

His eyes roved from the desktop, to the documents, to the bobbing tip of his unlit cigar.

"Free ownership of weaponry is a right. It allows those who don't have a voice to speak freely. I am certain that the people who sent you use my firearms, just as much as the Agency does. With my passing, the guns will flow towards the highest bidders. I'm certain you are aware, the Agency has deep pockets. Your actions here, then, would be counterintuitive."

Mr. Striker sighed; it was the most emotion he had shown that day.

"So, leave now, and I'll have security escort you from the building. I'll request a new liason from the Agency. Nobody will be the wiser. Take Mag's body with you too. We both knew it wouldn't last... I had just hoped it wouldn't end this way."

Having received his brash ultimatum, Margaret felt it only prudent to present her own.

"You have one of your men standing outside right now, armed with point forty-five calibers of your oh-so-precious 'free speech.' Go ahead and press the button under your desk. Bring him in and have him 'escort me from the building'."

"I don't value your life, ma'am. I only value the opinion of your employers- my customers. Send them my regards."

He clung to his decision, the same way drowning men clung to flotsam. Margaret knew she had won. It was presumptuous of Mr. Striker to resist the way he did. She frowned, squeezing the last drops of hope from the defeated man. She wanted him to believe that, perhaps, she was considering his proposal.

Ten wordless seconds passed, and the schadenfreude started to wear thin. Margaret decided that Mr. Striker had marinated long enough in false hope. She smiled and shrugged, loosening another button on her coat. He, too, loosened his shoulders, witholding a smile of his own.

With a single, fluid motion, Margaret reached in her coat, drew Emma, and shot Mr. Striker in the forehead.

"Uh, she shot him."

"I can see that, Dutch."

"Hanne. Marg just shot the HVT in the forehead."

"Yes. She did."

"You know, the guy we were supposed to make a deal with? Mr. Striker? That guy? Was this-"

"Shut up. No, this wasn't part of the plan. In fact, nothing has been."

Dutch raised his hands in surrender.

"Just wanted to make sure you knew, is all."

The grainy CCTV feed danced in Dutch's glasses. Dutch took full advantage of the bleeding-edge technologies made available to him: he hand-etched a custom, silicon-based circuit board as an interface between the building's security system and a miniaturized dial-up modem. It should've been a simple matter to solder the board to the access panel in Elevator 3 to execute a man-in-the-middle attack on the building's entire security network.

Dutch had realized too late that Darnell had soldered two of the wires incorrectly. As a result, the connection was shoddy, at best.

"Darnell, when I get my hands on you, I'll… I don't know, I'll teach you how to properly solder things, I guess."

"No more wisecracks," Hanne grumbled. "What the hell are they doing now?"

"Darnell just kicked down the door. Guns are drawn. I think Marg's saying something but packet loss is too high and resolution is too low... I can't really read her lips."

To Hanne, this entire ordeal was torture. It began when the barkeeper ratted Margaret out to the two Agents. The loose ends only accumulated from there. At first, there were only slight palpitations. They soon rattled his rib cage with each tremor. A demon had seized his heart, and its corruption diffused across his body. It sank into the pit of his stomach, and he felt nauseous. It rose to the base of his skull, and he felt light-headed. His fingernails dug into his palm, drawing blood: a tiny crimson flower blossomed on his sleeve cuff.

Hanne cursed his weak will and weaker body. He had endured a lifetime of training, and it still took all he had to keep himself from a complete mental meltdown whenever a mission would deviate from his meticulous plans.

An uneasy Hanne stood at ease, hiding his bleeding hand behind his back.

"It's all in their hands now."

It was a mess. He hadn't expected the door to Mr. Striker's office to break down so easily. It only took a single, solid kick to topple the lacquered wooden door; the brass hinges still clung to jagged scraps of wood. Dust motes swum about in haphazard trajectories, immersed in still, iron-scented air.

Mr. Striker's blood had started to drip off of the edge of his desk. The droplets plinked onto the polished floor with disturbing regularity. Magdala sat on the desktop, legs crossed, gun drawn.

Dylan stepped across the threshold, acutely aware of the M1911 levelled at his chest.

Magdala cleared her throat. "You can stop right there."

Dylan halted his advance. He aimed his own sidearm at Magdala- just for show.

He didn't plan on pulling the trigger, and she would have done so long ago if she had any reason to do so. The motions were just another deception, crafted for any prying eyes: the media, the witnesses. He hated this charade, but it was a necessary one.

"Unless you got one helluvan escape plan, you're not getting out of here alive."

She raised an eyebrow.

"I was just going to improvise. I assume you'll try and stop me?"

"I was thinking about it, but it'd be a waste to bloody such a pretty face," Dylan quipped. "Why don't you just drop the gun?"

Magdala ran a finger across Mr. Striker's neatly-arrayed cigars. She plucked a Corona Gorda from the tin and slipped it into her pocket.

Margaret was fond of double meanings. Dylan was not. He was certain that her petty larceny was rife with subtle implications, but he didn't particularly feel like trying to decipher her arcane actions.

"You'll have to excuse me," she started, as she pilfered another cigar. "I'm thinking that the officer waiting outside would appreciate a smoke."

"You should be more concerned, ma'am. Last warning. Drop the gun, or I'll take you down."

"Oh, please. Who do you think the courts will believe? Some newly-hired rookie, or the official Agency liaison? I assure you, one tearful testimony and you're done for."

Dylan had a sneaking suspicion that she was trying to insinuate something.

"What do you mean by that?" Dylan asked, trying to tint his voice with apprehension and fear.

"There's a police officer outside? He's in the Agency's pocket. Just like how these cigars are in mine."

She patted the stolen goods in her pocket and flashed a wide grin.

"If you step into that lobby with my body draped over your shoulder, he'll arrest you on the spot. The corpse of an Agency employee will be all the evidence the courts need."

"I'm going to take you out," he stated, unsure if his statement was a confirmation or a question.

"Why don't you do it before the other guards arrive and steal your glory, then? Come at me."

Dylan frowned, then attempted a tentative step forwards. Then another. His advance was halted by the blaring of the building-wide intercom.

"Attention employees. There has been an accidental discharge of a firearm on the thirtieth floor. Stay calm and do not attempt leave the building. Security forces are performing a sweep of the area to find the perpetrator and offending weapon. Thank you for your ti-"

Magdala raised Emma and pulled the trigger. A point forty-five ACP round skimmed past his deltoid, ripping a gash into his suit, slamming into the speaker in the corner of the room. It burst in a shower of sparks and shattered plastic. She fired another two rounds into the destroyed device, putting a percussive end to the fizzling transmission. Dylan could hear a startled scream, three rooms away.

She did not mean to shoot him. She meant to make him move.

Her grin seemed forced.

"Now or never."

She was right. Time was bleeding away.

Dylan cleared the remaining distance in a single, mighty lunge. Magdala fired another round- for good measure- before Dylan's club-like fist slammed into her forehead. Her eyes rolled in their sockets as she sprawled, almost gracefully, across the desk.

Dylan could feel his abdominal muscles clenching— it seemed that Magdala's last shot had made contact. Though his kevlar vest prevented the bullet from piercing his skin, a dull ache still reverberated in his rib cage. Dylan swatted the pain aside and took another lumbering step forwards, one hand clasped across his stomach. He pressed two gentle fingers against Magdala's neck.

Her pulse was strong. Dylan knew that she could survive one of his punches, but it never hurt to make sure.

With a grunt of exertion, he hoisted Magdala's unconscious body over his shoulder. A dozen inquiring eyes tracked him. None dared to stand in his way.

The interminable elevator ride left Darnell alone with his unwelcome thoughts once again. Normally, he would not typically fireman carry anyone for more than fifteen minutes. Any longer, and he might start bruising the carried. If the victim were any heavier, his shoulders would become fatigued, adversely affecting his aim. A missed shot could lead to an enemy surviving just long enough to pull the trigger, which would lead to more injuries, more bodies to be carried.

It didn't matter so much in this situation. A couple bruises wouldn't inconvenience a corpse, and Magdala seemed to weigh less than a lunchbox. Dutch had called him a worrywart, and it was at moments like these when Darnell was worried that Dutch was right. Though, excessive caution hadn't stopped Darnell from charging into firing lines to rescue wounded comrades.

The bright ding of the elevator interrupted Darnell's ruminations. He steeled his face and steadied his thoughts. He was Dylan Trenton, Customer Experiences Liaison. He was a fresh-faced rookie who had taken down a big target in the first week on the job. He was naive and anxious, but proud.

The elevators whispered open. Dylan found himself face-to-face with a portly man, almost as broad as he was tall. A name had been etched into his burnished, scratched badge: J. Baker, Chief of Security.

Realization crossed Baker's face as he eyed Dylan, then the body draped over his shoulders.

"That's the AAHW liaison," the chief remarked.

"Aye, Chief. But she's nothing more than a murderer," Dylan responded. "The Agency... they assassinated Mr. Striker. We need to enact the contingency."

Baker raised a weighty eyebrow. "I'm the one who's giving orders around here, rookie. But you're right. Richards, summon the board. I'll be briefing them within the hour."

A uniformed guard saluted. "On it, sir!"

Chief Baker stepped aside, inviting Dylan out of the elevator.

"She dead?"

"I… I think so," Dylan stuttered, following the chief. "Once the contingency goes through, what else is supposed to happen? What'll happen to me?"

Baker sighed. "I'm not sure, rookie. You're not supposed to kill the Agency bastards. Didn't read through the contract?"

"With all due respect, I just took down an armed assassin without firing a shot," Dylan protested.

"I'm not worried about the paperwork," The chief rebuked. "Overwatch didn't see anything on the cameras, so the building must have been compromised. This must've been a planned hit. You're in for a rough time once the Agency finds out you've offed one of their assassins-"

The main lobby entrance burst ajar. A policeman advanced through the ruined door, shotgun at low ready. The security guards standing post stiffened, unsure as to how to respond to the authorized intruder.

The policeman had no such hesitation. He aimed his weapon at Dylan.

"This is SINPD. You there, put your hands up."

Dylan raised a single hand. "Do you want me to drop the body, or…?"

The policeman scowled.

"Yes, drop the goddamn body. Hands where I can see them, and stand back from her."

The cop nodded to chief Baker. "You, there, order your men to vacate the premises. This is a police investigation now."

The chief sighed, unclipped his radio, and pressed the transmit button.

"All units, vacate the lobby floor and await further instructions."

Baker eyed Dylan briefly, then turned away, shaking his head.

"Sorry rook. You're on your own. Good luck."

Dylan shrugged off Magdala's corpse and raised his hands. He spotted the letters printed onto the ID card dangling on his belt: Lieutenant Quincy.

'So his name is Quincy this time,' Dylan thought.

Dylan offered his wrists. "I know what I've done."

"You have the right to remain silent," Quincy started. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in court-"

" Just arrest me and get it over with, officer."

Quincy took a cautious approach, slowly approaching Dylan, gun levelled. Dylan remained motionless as the policeman reached forth, unholstering Dylan's sidearm and throwing it aside.

In seconds, Dylan was cuffed, disarmed, and seemingly helpless.

Quincy held the shotgun in one hand and hoisted Magdala's body over his shoulder with the other. He gave Dylan a less-than-gentle prod with the gun barrel.

"Exit the building. She's coming with us."

Dylan obliged, smirking as he walked towards the exit.

"What happened to protecting the crime scene?"

Quincy gently laid Magdala down in the back seat of his patrol car.

"I don't need to explain anything to you. Get in."

Quentin chosen a serpentine route to the outskirts of the city, meandering among the innumerable asphalt tributaries of SIN. Far removed from the city's beating heart, the torrential, pulsing traffic had subsided to a meager trickle.

Quentin hadn't spoken a word for the better part of an hour. Darnell rubbed at his chafing wrists. It was unlikely that Quentin had forgotten about him, but it couldn't hurt to give him a reminder.

"Quentin, these cuffs aren't exactly comfortable."

Quentin kept his eyes on the road.

"Mind passing me a key?" Darnell continued.

"They weren't designed to be comfortable," Quentin finally spoke. "You don't need my help to escape those, anyway."

"He speaks!" Darnell chuckled.

He wondered why the SIN police still insisted on using aluminum to make their handcuffs. The material was neither cheap nor effective. Dylan clenched his hands into fists, tightening his forearms, as he near-effortlessly transformed the handcuffs into useless metal bracelets.

"Why the cold shoulder?" Darnell asked.

No response.

"You're thinking about something," Darnell surmised. "What about?"

"Where's Margaret?"

"I had to knock her out. She's still in the Striker HQ building. I hid her somewhere they wouldn't check."

The faintest flicker of a smile crossed Quentin's face. "I'll take your word for it."

Darnell stroked his chin as he thought- a nervous habit which resurfaced when he wasn't undercover. "We can't let the police find out too much about this body. Once they do, we're both busted."

Quentin nodded. Wiping the smile from his face, he flicked a switch on the dashboard. The patrol car's siren wailed as Quentin floored the gas pedal. The cars in front of him scurried to the sides of the street.

Quentin switched the gear and threw the wheel to the left, sending Magdala's body crashing into Darnell's shoulder. For a moment, the patrol car lost control, skidding through the intersection. Utterly unfazed, Quentin shifted gear once again, pumping the brake as the car aligned itself with the road. The wheels soon found purchase on the asphalt; the patrol car lurched forth once again. Magdala's body flew out of her seat, crashing into the windshield; her back sent spindly cracks across the reinforced glass.

Darnell gripped at the handle above the window, hoping that it wouldn't break off from his weight.

"What's the plan?!"

"We're gonna make a scene for the media. We'll make it look like the woman just came to after being knocked unconscious. She's resisting arrest. Now she's wrestling with me for the wheel."

Quentin reached into the glove compartment tossed Darnell his confiscated handgun.

"Shoot out a window."

Quentin spun the wheel left, then right. Darnell felt his stomach lurch in protest. He clenched his jaw as he braced his ears for the handgun's deafening discharge.

BANG! BANG!

"Fancy a swim?" Quentin yelled.

Darnell shook his head, hoping it would clear the incessant ringing of the gunshot. Did Quentin say something?

"Couldja repeat that?"

Quentin stepped between the detritus littering the floor. Delta Squad had "borrowed" the apartment for the better part of a month. Hardly a week had passed before the carpeted floor hosted a myriad of tripping hazards: wires, soiled clothes, and assorted weaponry all posed unique threats to his footing. Truth be told, Quentin hated the mess- but hatred alone was not enough to spur him to attempt the impossible task of cleaning the apartment.

Five days had passed since the Striker incident. Five days had passed since he had twisted the wheel, sending the police car careening into the murky green waters of the SIN river.

Quentin leaned against the doorframe. Dutch sprawled across the sofa, glasses askew. The monitor glowed in the corner of the room, filled with arcane phrases and cryptic variables. Hanne sat at a flimsy folding table, rubbing his temples, trying to shut out the Dutch's rhythmic, rumbling snores. Darnell sat opposite him; Darnell's massive hands dwarfed the graphic novel he was poring over.

"You're late," Darnell said, predictably.

"How's the comic?" Quentin asked.

"It's an excellent read," Darnell said. "I'm glad you recommended it. It's… better than most your other suggestions."

"Are you two finished discussing 'fine literature?'" Hanne snapped, his eyes boring holes into the pockmarked table surface.

"Yeah," Quentin said. "You called?"

"I just finished speaking to Darnell. He told me that you both took a swim."

Quentin nodded. "By driving off of the bridge."

"That much was implied."

Quentin pushed off of the wall, meandering his way towards an unoccupied spot on the armchair.

"It ticks all your boxes," Quentin explained, nudging aside Dutch's leg. "Body's taken care of. Evidence is wiped. Car's wrecked. We're mostly alive."

"Mostly," Darnell muttered.

Hanne drummed his fingers on the table. "Fine. I suppose it did work out in the end. What about Margaret?"

Quentin pointed towards the entrance he had arrived through. "She'll be coming in any second now."

Hanne shook his head. "Need I remind you that it's been five days since you've taken your swim?"

The door slammed open, and the scent of alcohol pervaded the room. Dutch woke, with a start.

"Snrk... huh?"

Margaret stomped her way to the table, her coat stained and damp, a bag slung over her shoulder, a half-empty bottle in her left hand. She had removed her wig, and the evening sun glinted off of her bald scalp. A purple welt festooned her left cheekbone.

"It was five and a half days, technically," she half-spoke, half-yelled.

Hanne could barely conceal his relieved smile. Darnell chuckled.

"Impressive. You almost made ol' stoneface crack a grin."

"You were worried about me?" Margaret crookedly grinned. "I'm touched, truly."

"What took you so long?" Hanne said, shooting Darnell a murderous glare.

"This."

Margaret hauled the soaking wet bag onto the table. Quentin raised his eyebrows.

"And these."

Margaret slapped a set of folders on the rapidly-shrinking dry spot of the tabletop.

Dutch stood from the couch, eyeing the two items.

"I'm a bit out of the loop. Mind elaborating?"

Margaret pointed to the folders.

"So, I woke up on top of Elevator 3 in the elevator shaft of Striker HQ. Building was pretty much closed down, so I decided to pick up whatever juicy tidbits I could find."

Margaret pointed to the bag and glared at Quentin. "This is Sylvie Deen. She was locked in the trunk of somebody's car when it dove off the side of the bridge. She almost drowned. I don't know if she'll ever recover from the experience."

Quentin shrugged. "Oops."

Margaret took another swig from the bottle.

"Bastard. Anyway, there's some good intel in those folders. Maybe something about the mysterious leader of the Agency."

Hanne was already flipping through the files, devouring the information. Dutch picked up the papers as Hanne dropped them, scrutinizing them with similar intensity.

Margaret pointed towards one of the document. "This guy signs his comminqués with a single letter… A. I'm guessing this is the Auditor that the 'Higher Powers' have been talking about."

"We should find him and kill him." Quentin shrugged. "End the war, simple as that."

"The Auditor..." Hanne stated. "This must be a joke."

"A joke is right," Dutch continued. "Did you read through these files? Closely, I mean?"

Margaret shook her head, the action causing her to rock from one foot to the other.

"Reading those would give me a headache, even if I were sober. Just looked for whatever was they were protecting the most. I did catch a few lines about… magic?"

Dutch nodded. "Yeah, the 'Improbable Energy' crap. What the hell were they taking when they were writing about this? This must be some serious substance-based creativity."

Quentin sighed. "Do you think that the Higher Powers indulge in 'substance-based creativity' as well?"

Hanne looked at Quentin, incredulous. "You really believe the bullshit contained in these files? You haven't even read them."

"You know what's bullshit?" Quentin retaliated. "A group of ghosts who assassinate political and corporate figures, then disappear without a trace. Ghosts who can nail people in the head without even looking while backflipping over bullets. You know who's bullshit? The five huge, glowing shadows we call the Higher Powers. Honestly, if these files didn't contain bullshit, I wouldn't believe them."

Hanne looked away. "When you put it that way… you're right. And I hate the fact that you're right."

"So," Dutch clapped his hands, "how do we kill a magician? Anyone know what to do if he saws one of us in half or something?"

"We pull ourselves back together, Sonny," Darnell said, flipping another page on his graphic novel.

"We have just enough intel here to organize an operation," Hanne concluded, passing the last of the papers to Dutch. "The question is whether or not the Higher Powers would authorize it."

"I'd rather have more than 'just enough intel,'" Margaret protested. "If this op's an undercooked steak, we're all getting indigestion. Quite frankly, I've had enough of that."

"Whether or not the Higher Powers authorize it, it's our best chance to take down the Agency," Quentin stated. "If Margaret had come across this much information so easily, it should be easy for me to get some more."

"This isn't a competition, Quentin," Margaret said. "Maybe the Powers will give us some information on how to beat the Auditor. We should wait for them to authorize it."

"No, we can't," Hanne countered. "The longer the wait, the more stale that data gets. Once the Agency finds out that you cracked their safe, it may as well be useless."

"We wait now, this shadow war can go on for another decade," Quentin added. "Who knows how bad it'll get?"

Darnell looked up from his comic. "I'm with Margaret on this one. It seems too risky. Maybe they wanted us to find the data."

Dutch looked around at the expectant faces of his comrades.

"Damn, I hate breaking ties. Uh, I'm not a tactician or anything, but we're a pretty kickass team. If we can do it, why don't we give it a shot?"

Margaret stepped towards Dutch. "Dutch, you gotta-"

Quentin stood. "It's settled, Margaret. I'll go and gather some more data. Maybe it'll help cook your steak a bit better."

Margaret seized Quentin's wrist as he passed by. Her grey eyes shone with startling lucidity.

"Don't go. Something bad's gonna happen. Don't do this, Quentin." Margaret turned to Hanne. "Hanne, you're the smart one. I have a bad feeling. The intel, it doesn't make sense. It was too easy to come across. Don't let him go."

Hanne turned away. "I'm sorry, Margaret. But this time, I disagree with you."

Quentin yanked his wrist out of Margaret's grasp.

"See you when you're sober, Sis."

[END OF INTERLOGUE III: FINE AND DANDY]

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