Thursday, December 20, 2007

Two Guns 15 - Hungry Like The Wolf

Christmas Eve in Sharon's apartment didn't look very Christmas-y at all; in fact, it looked rather like the rest of the year, a kind of cold disregard for holiday spirit that would make Baby Jesus cry. Well, at least that's what Mark made of it when he stepped inside; there was a pile of guns on her table in various states of cleaning, and Sharon looking stressed out while talking on the phone. Mark set down the large shopping bag, closed the door behind him and leaned against the wall, hands deep in his pockets.

"...I understand, but you're not...I'm not putting you down, I'm just saying...Look, if you'll listen to me for a second. Nobody's there now...yes, yes, emergency response. Okay. Nobody you want to talk to is there. It's Christmas. You do know what Christmas is, right?...Yeah, you too, bitch."

Mark raised an eyebrow, Sharon raised her arms and nobody raised their voice. Sharon just ran her fingers through her hair, eyes closed and head tilted back, as if the annoyance could be massaged out of her skull. Mark stepped forward, a fresh suit under a slightly classier trench coat. He walked behind her, clasped his hands in front of her belly and bowed his head to whisper into her ear.

"Is this a bad time?"
"No worse than any other," she replied. "Aftershave?"
"Some people indulge their inner slob, I indulge my inner snob."
"Occasionally?" she asked playfully.
"Very occasionally. Now, I know just the naughty thing to do..."
"Go on."
"I say you don't pick up that phone tonight..."
"Kinky."
"...and let the machine get your calls."
"I'm shivering from excitement, but I don't really believe in delegating. Now suppose I give in to this delightful madness, what would you have us do with the evening?"
"I have a reservation at Elio's," he said, his gaze shifting about as if he was John Wilkes Booth on the way to the gun shop.
"That's great. I could go for something to eat."
"...and a new dress."
"That's great, too, but what do I wear?"

Sharon realized about two seconds too late that the placement of Mark's hands was no accident; she doubled over and cringed from the revenge tickling, then burst out laughing before she could free herself. He pulled her back in, lifted her off the ground and turned on the spot, carrying her to the door.

"How did you - wooaah! - how did you know my size?" she giggled, finally getting a grip on Mark's hands and forcing them apart. To his credit, he let her down before she had to continue to the painful stage of that move.
"I can read clothes tags, too," he said with a knowing smile. He grabbed the shopping bag and held it open; Sharon drew a long evening dress from it, made of black velvet with a greenish tinge. Wordlessly but with a smile on her face, she held it up to her body for a size sanity check. "Think I know every saleswoman down Fifth Avenue now," he continued.
"It's lovely. And my color, too."
"The photos helped."
"Huh?"

Mark silently pointed to a cupboard. Sharon gave him a glance.

"It occurs to me now," he said by way of apology, "that I could have just asked to look at some pictures of you."
"Oh, you want to get to know me better, then?" she said with a devilish smile. "I have a slideshow, family history...just the thing after lunch tomorrow. And then you'll tell me about your family, okay?" Without waiting for a reply, she snuck away into the bathroom to prepare. That was a prudent measure, as no reply was forthcoming - Mark just stood there, wordlessly. Slowly, a small smile snuck onto his lips.

Well played, milady. Well played.

---

What makes a gentleman, then? Mark looked the part, but Sharon found the little touches lacking. She topped up her glass with more Pergole Torte '79, and wistfully remembered a time where she thought any man who could date her would do this for her, no questions asked. But she could tell Mark wasn't being a jerk about this - he just didn't know, and she didn't want to lecture him. The wine was excellent, no doubt, but that wasn't on her mind - the more time she spent with Mark, the more he managed to convince her that his omnicompetent act was just that. Lots of trivia, but raw, unfocussed. And that's how he worked, basically: he would land his first strike around a nugget of insight, then switch topics before a true master could tell he was faking it. That didn't make him incompetent, far from it, but it did make him seem more...human. And in turn, she felt better about herself, once she stopped assuming things and realized that she knew a lot of things he'd never heard of. There was something like parity in that.

"Thank you for the dinner. For the dress," she said, some small blush escaping from beneath the makeup. "And for everything else."
"It's been a pleasure," he replied, raising his glass. "To chance."
"To chance," she repeated and took another sip of wine.
"Did you enjoy the ride?" he asked, setting down his glass. His eyes twinkled with the steel of business, if only for a moment.
"A lot. And I don't want to stop here."

This is the moment it all goes to shit, she thought.

"All I can promise you is terror for breakfast, pressure for lunch, and aggravation for sleep," he said. He tried to look serious, but she couldn't hold back her grin.
"That was a terrible movie," she said, laughing softly.
"I watched it five times. I'm one of those men who dig terrible movies." She laughed some more. "I also never share my popcorn. You'll always have to buy your own bag. And I sing in the shower."

He waited for her to quiet down, then leaned forward.

"Could you..." he whispered, "could you love a guy like that?"
"I already do," she answered, then leaned in and kissed him.

No room for thought, just candlelight in his eyes and hellfire in her blood.

---

"Evenin', Captain," came the words from the medical examiner's mouth; Paul Whitton hardly registered them anymore. It was like listening to a record of Bing Crosby's White Christmas - eventually, you don't need to listen anymore, you already hear every word in your head. To the morgue staff's credit, the place actually looked slightly festive, with evergreen twigs on the walls, a diorama of Santa Claus on his sleigh and even mistletoe over the door to the supply closet. Whitton couldn't imagine much romance going on here, but he knew that people down here could get very bored and very lonely. All bets are off when you work shifts in a basement.

"Dental work checks out, then?" he asked; the ME merely nodded.

The corpse wasn't pretty, even for a corpse. Just a bloated, middle-aged guy, his face blown off by a rendezvous with firepower. The kind of Kodak moment that made Whitton thankful for his insomnia.

"Any foul play?" he asked.
"Nothing fancy, no. Just got a bullet through the back of his skull, it bounced around a bit inside, then tore out through the front."
"Caliber?"
"Something small and subsonic. Like I said, it went back out, so I can't get any more precise than that. Only thing I can say for sure is that this was an execution, well-aimed shot. Not point blank, though, there's no powder burns on the skin."
"Restraints?"
"No, and that's the strangest thing. It's like he just stood there while somebody shot him in the head."
"But the shot came from behind. Somebody could've snuck up on him."
"Possible, but this was pretty close. We're talking about a pretty sneaky bastard here, Captain."
"I know a couple of those. Well, that's it, then. Thanks for your time, Josh."
"Merry Christmas, Captain."
"Yeah, merry Christmas."

He waited until the medical examiner was out of earshot, then stepped over to the corpse and bowed down.

"And merry fucking Christmas to you, too. For all it's worth."

Leaving the corpse behind, Whitton wasted little time on his way to the elevator. He stepped inside and felt the doors close like the embrace of a lover long gone, the cab shaking as it brought him back to the city of the living.

Goddammit. What happened to you, Berkovitz?

Wednesday, December 05, 2007

Life - Chapter 1

Check the suit. Iris hated checking the suit.

The suit, as the engineers kept reminding her, was her only shot at surviving the many ugly things that could befall an exoatmospheric vehicle. They also reminded her not to call it a "spaceship" at every turn. These are the kind of things her Master's in Exogeology degree had glossed over. They make you study alien rocks for a year, a whole year of your life spent on nothing but looking at alien rocks, talking about alien rocks and thinking about alien rocks - and all of that on top of her Bachelor's, with a Geology major. It had gotten so bad that Iris couldn't even go for a walk anymore without pondering what had shaped the ground beneath her feet, the hills on the horizon or even Earth itself. Of course, after that this particular level of indoctrination had been achieved, the first thing they'd done to poor Iris - she of 16 years and still in possession of her bleach-blonde hair - was sign her up for an environment that was so rockless as to be a mockery of her profession.

They reminded her of the suit again. Pay attention to the drill, Iris. It's about the suit.

For all intents and purposes, Iris was as much wearer as inhabitant of the suit, and had been for the last 3 months. That was a strange thing, because those 16 years of living on Mother Earth had taught her to change her clothes every day, lest they get dirty and sticky, and who would want to wear the same thing every day? Oh, they did build clothing like the suit, which didn't get dirty or sticky, but what was the point? Most people changed their clothes every day, no matter what, so why make things complicated? Worse, it made her feel like one of the socials. Government-issued smartclothes and no money to spare for the real thing, not to mention that jumpsuits don't really look all that good. In theory, the suit - her suit - might've sounded like a more attractive thing, a unitard of sorts, given that it was supposed to mold itself to the wearer, but that was mostly on the inside layer. Watching Iris in her suit suggested that she had curves, but didn't really show them off. Like a quantum theory of fashion, wearing the suit was neither modest (because there was the next big disconnect: no underwear!) nor particularly flattering. The great egalitarian ideal of Government Issue: makes everyone look equally stupid. In this case, the torso armor (no, wait: protective plating!) and life support backpack obscured anything remotely interesting.

There was no excuse to take off the suit, even. It wasn't uncomfortable, because it fit you perfectly, it carried its own weight - in fact, it made Iris's exposed skin (her head) feel that much worse in comparison, given that it wasn't enjoying the suit's regulation of skin temperature and humidity. You didn't even have to take it off for bodily needs, and so it wasn't designed to be taken off easily, period. It was locked onto you and there it stayed. Instead of dealing with the inefficiencies of the human digestive system (and the engineers wouldn't shut up about that, either: ew! gross!), nutrients and hydration level were regulated by the suit. Direct bloodstream injection. The result was a constant sort of low-level churning in her guts as carefully-dosed drugs told her colon to keep working, lest it shut down. Clearly, dignity wasn't in the budget. The chewing gum in her mouth was losing its flavor, and even worse she couldn't indulge in her childhood habit of swallowing it, either - this was just for flavor, for keeping her jaw muscles working. They showed her the payload calculations for old-school consumables - they made her eyes water. The ship - she persisted in calling it that - would've been four times bigger, with real food and showers and more than the emergency toilet. Clearly the engineers were furious: stupid humans! They need to use their muscles to keep them in working shape, dumbest thing anybody could ever come up with! They were working on this, she felt. Whipping up a strain of humans who don't break down their muscles and bones when they're not used. The greatest problem with human spaceflight was including humans, but sometimes you didn't have that choice, and Iris imagined that this is what inevitably snapped the mind of every engineer in exoplanetary R&D. It made them crazy, and then they twisted that into some sort of punishment for what they couldn't keep away from their beautiful mechanical spaceship. Whip the apes to remind them that they're not welcome. Like with the helmets.

They were getting to the helmet part. God, how she hated the helmet part.

It wasn't enough that she'd left her hair on the floor of the spaceport ("Do you know how much it costs to boost your ponytail into orbit, Miss?") and arrived with a close shave; at least that was convenient when she couldn't really wash her hair, and reducing the number of things that could get stuck between your helmet and the suit collar when you're depending on the two forming a vacuum-proof seal, that was a good thing. (Engineers say that the seal isn't vacuum-proof, it's atmosphere-proof since it keeps the air in. Iris nods. She doesn't feel like fighting over this.)

The helmet. Iris slipped it over her head and felt the helmet come alive around her - the flickering lights of the display built into the faceplate, the clicking interlocks at the collar, the soft test tones of the loudspeakers.

WELCOME

Yeah, you too, helmet. Missed you really bad.

The helmet was a particularly strange piece of, if not technology, then doctrine. One size fits all, exchangeable, with a good deal of helmets to spare for emergency use. Iris considered the payload penalty of that and shivered. She found that she could think of fifty things, little comfort items, that they could've brought for the same weight and volume as a single spare helmet, but apparently this was the right amount of redundancy from a safety engineering perspective. Worse, they smelled. Not overtly, but subtly, because Iris's nose wasn't getting much of a workout and frantically latched onto any recognizable smell. No body odor on the suits, obviously, no other discarded clothing, but the helmets were regularly brought out for drills, at complete random, and then put away and forgotten. They didn't get dirty as such, but they did get used. Iris had heard that cleaning out helmets after drills was actually a job, a viable job, on the big deep exploration vessels, but on a small scoutship like this, mission duration didn't make it necessary. Or maybe the cleaning gear weighed too much. Either way, helmets smelled. Iris could smell the Chief in this one, and worse, she was desperate enough to think this was a good thing.

Boring piece of shit, this expedition. The helmet didn't come off. The engineers laughed.

"That's how we should all walk around," one of them said. "Massive weight savings if you don't keep the vehicle pressurized..."
"Not funny," Iris managed to say; the helmet microphone caught this, the AI determined that the lack of code words precluded it being intended as radio traffic, and instead routed it out of a small, pipsqueaky speaker built into the helmet. The engineers laughed their asses off. It was like talking to someone over a can & string "telephone".

Then there was a horrible tearing noise, and it was all the worse because Iris didn't hear it so much as feel it. The deck under her feet groaned. The engineers had good reflexes, pushing themselves towards the next equipment locker for their helmets, but it simply happened too quickly. In a flash, half the metal around them was gone, and everything was hot and bright. Iris couldn't see much of the brightness, because the helmet darkened the visor at once, shielding her eyes from the intense light and shifting the cooling into overdrive to keep her cool inside while the outer layers of the suit slowly radiated the heat it had absorbed. The gloves of the suit bombarded Iris's fingers with little pricks - radar information, converted into tactile input. She could feel/see something slip past her rapidly and grabbed it, still blind; with the help of the suit's abrasion-resistant material and strength augmentation, she managed to hold on to what had to be a rogue safety rope. The zero-G drills finally paid off; she managed to hold on and clip the rope into the utility harness she wore over the suit. All the while, the suit increased its pressure on her, keeping her blood going to the important parts of her body against the acceleration she was under. Something smashed against her leg, and even the suit couldn't protect her from that one - suddenly, she only felt pain from her right side, but a few seconds of that seemed to confirm that her leg was still attached. She screamed even as the helmet calmly told her that it was activating the distress beacon, and eventually she stopped, not because she wasn't in pain or not afraid, but because she knew that she was wasting air.

You never know how deep the drills stick until you use them.

It felt like minutes until the visor cleared again. Iris barely recognized the ship she was still tethered to; it drifted in the distance, torn asunder into multiple sections that were already spreading away further than she could see them. A look down at her leg showed it sitting at an angle a leg should never sit at, but again the suit did what it could and fortified her blood with a generous dose of painkillers. The material of the suit seemed worn, but not breached, and despite everything else, it looked like she'd gotten off easy.

The helmet should've told her that it was picking up other distress signals. That's what they told her in the drills. Find other survivors, huddle together, share resources.

"Suit..." she managed to say, "I need you to tell me where the other signals are."
NOT RECEIVING OTHER SIGNALS. DAMAGE TO RADIO ASSEMBLY.

One thing the piece of scrap had hit on her torso armor, the one thing, and it had to be the radio assembly. Iris felt like screaming again, just to make a point.

Why did she have to pick exogeology?

Memetastic!

Going through this for Mark.

Boy or girl?

Man. I like to think that that much is obvious...

How old are you?

Ugh, don't remind me. Too old. Younger than Algernon, but the guy gets a pass for being dead a lot of the time. Me, I'm close to retirement.

What's your height?

Six feet and a couple inches. Been that way for as long as I care to remember, actually.

Are you a virgin?

Nope.

Do you have any kids?

Nope, and frankly I don't see how anyone who can't hold a gun could be safe around me. I guess I gotta adopt a teenager or something if I ever want to get that fatherly pride.

What's your favorite food?

Italian-style thin-crust pizza with a pound or two of toppings. No such thing as too much extra cheese.

What's your favorite ice-cream flavor?

Vanilla, actually. I don't like how chocolate tastes. As far as I'm concerned, anything else ain't ice-cream. Keep your cappucino-flavored abominations away from me.

Have you killed anyone?

Yeah, that's pretty much my "thing". Stopped counting.

Do you hate anyone?

I used to get an itch in my trigger finger for a lot of guys, but I guess I'm mellowing out a bit now. I can even think kinda clearly about Dennis Gray, but I owe the guy a few dozen bullets. He's going down. But hate? Nah, that's too strong a word. Just gotta do what I gotta do.

Have any secrets?

I'm just a private guy. There's a lot of things I keep to myself, so if you want to call that having secrets, then yes.

Do you love anyone?

Used to. Didn't work out.

What is your job?

I go places and do things. Usually bad places and very bad things.

Any powers or weapons?

Powers? I've got skills. I guess I'm lucky, generally, but that doesn't seem like much of a power when my co-workers read minds or wield mjolnir. I've got plenty of weapons, though. Pistols up my sleeves, a few knives and whatever else I need, and that's just what I'm carrying. You catch me in my armory, I could outfit a platoon of rambos with bullets to spare.

What do you do to relax?

I train in my off-time, but when I need to get away from the job completely, I usually go to the cinema and read a good book. People should read more books, in general. I don't know how often remembering some piece of trivia has saved my ass, and it makes for good conversation.

What do you think your life expectancy is?

All bets have been off for the last thirty years or so. Why paralyze yourself with the thought? All I know is that it's gonna be violent, and that's fine by me.

What is your opinion of the opposite sex?

I'm kinda in the modern boat, I've seen plenty of women that can keep up with me, so I try not to judge too quickly. But sometimes I can't help but get into "protect the women and children" mode, you know? I guess I can come off as patronizing. Oh, and I have no patience for the whole emancipation thing. You wanna be treated equally? Act that way. You can't just grab all the perks and still expect me to give you the special treatment. And for God's sake, don't preach. Pisses me off something fierce, that.

Now what are you going to do?

Waiting for the next call. Hoping it won't come, 'cause when I get called, things are fucked up already. I guess that's my fate, though.

Sunday, December 02, 2007

Two Guns - Chapter 14 - Losing My Religion

Like every waiting room ever conceived by mankind, Dollar's place didn't have comfortable seats. Sharon was slumped over a worn-out leather couch, holding a cup of hot chocolate in one hand and rubbing the tiredness from her eyes with the other. Her clothes were sticky, the tanned animal skin beneath her was hot and cold in all the wrong places, and for some reason she just wanted to walk outside and scream herself hoarse. It was mostly a matter of trying to find a solution to this whole mess that didn't include killing a hell of a lot of people. Everything she'd ignored about Mark that last week was now hitting her, in the manner of being tied to a wall in a game of dodge ball against a particularly vicious pack of 6th grade bullies. She slurped on her not-so-hot chocolate. All the cigarettes in New York City wouldn't have relaxed her.

It was time to stop pretending. Sharon Collins, your boyfriend kills people for a living. How do you feel about that?

Shuffling combat boots were barely audible through the closed door; finally, the wood groaned, the handle turned and the door opened. Mark was awake, steadying himself on a heavy cane; with careful, deliberate steps, he walked through the frame, his mouth forming the beginning of a painful grimace with every movement. All told, he looked more like a man who was acting out a few gunshot wounds rather than a guy with actual lead poisoning, but considering what Sharon knew about Mark, the man had to be tough.

"Mind giving me a shoulder?" he said, and if nothing else, his voice sounded like that of a guy with a couple too many holes in him. Sharon rushed over, ducked under his outstretched arm and helped to steady him, all without thinking about it. "Any news from Whitton?"
"I wouldn't know. I haven't checked in yet."
"We need to find Ded," Mark said. "If we're lucky, Nicky hasn't killed him yet."
"How did Nicolai make it past you?"
"That's what I called Ded for. He endorsed Nicky. The little shit must've snatched him up and forced him."
"Assuming, of course, that Ded didn't sell you guys out. He might be working with Nicolai. We don't know what the Russians are up to, and we haven't exactly tried to find out. Hands-off policy, I'm sure you're familiar with that."
"Listen, I've known Ded for years. He wouldn't do that. That's not how things work here."
"That brings me to another point. Nicolai had a gun. Didn't you frisk him?"
"You come in there, you hand over your guns, that's how the fucking meeting works. I can't just go feeling up the bosses. That's basic etiquette."
"No, it's basic stupidity," Sharon said. "At the checkpoint, the guard is God. That's how the Army does it, that's how we do it, and that's how it makes sense. But I guess that would be too much of a personal slight for your bosses, so instead you do the stupid variant, which only works as long as everyone plays fair. Nicolai knew that when he went in, and as we can see - that man doesn't play fair."

Mark stopped and looked at her. She shrugged.

"I'm a cop. I figure things out."

And thus they walked to the car in silence.

---


The Ingues manor loomed large against the first slice of the new moon; Mark left his Oldsmobile standing in the driveway and hobbled over to the house's side entrance. The inside was comfortably warm, but Mark didn't recognize the new guards. They were crawling all over the area, and Mark couldn't help but wonder who would pay for all those mercenaries. The hallways were echoing a lively discussion; he walked towards the lounge, following the voices to their origin. Aside from five more guys with guns standing guard, the large dinner table played host to Alexandra, Vincent and a large man he didn't recognize. Just then, one of those pieces of sentimental flotsam floated to the top of his consciousness - he remembered his first family dinner with Alfredo Ingues. Mark had to smile at that. It was another winter like that one now, and the first good piece he'd tasted of the Big Apple. The first night in his new home, still scared and with only Alfredo's assurances to keep him company.

Things had worked out so well for so long, Mark found it hard to get his head around the fact that the Boss was dead and buried now.

He closed in, and for the first time it seemed like Alex had really noticed him coming in; she forced a smile onto her face, got up from the table and walked over to Mark, still relying on a cane of her own.

"Looks like we can make a race down the hallway now, Mark," she said and gave him an affectionate hug. Mark winced from the discomfort, but returned it.
"Maybe later, boss. I've got some catching up to do. What's going on?"
"Well, as you can see," Alex said while helping Mark walk to the table, "we've called in a few favors. This" - she indicated the large man - "is John Done. He's new in the mercenary business, but he comes highly recommended."

Mark shook hands with John Done and inspected the man more closely. Underneath the practical clothes, Done was sporting a serious physique. Despite being a good deal younger than Mark, life hadn't done him any favors - several heavy scars marked his weathered face. Mark felt like he'd finally found a man for whom "ugly son of a bitch" would be a compliment.

"Mr. Done will be here to help us organize a response to the recent attacks," Alex continued. "He's also an experienced operator in urban combat, and I can only hope he'll be able to lift some of the 'heavy hitter' burden from you, Mark. Let's face it, you're wearing the results of our previous policies."
"I'm fine with that," Mark said. "There's a lot that needs killin' and my trigger fingers are only so quick."

Done cracked a smile at that; Mark gave him an eyebrow.

"So, what's the plan?" Mark asked Done.
"First, we scout ahead," Alex said; Done kept his lips sealed. "Find out how many men the Russians have and where they hang out. Then we look at who supports them. We take out their support, cut them off from outside help, and then we whittle them down nice and slow. Sooner or later, they're going to go all out and try their home invasion again. And that's when we suck them into a serious ambush. That done, we send in a second team to mop up before they have time to regroup."
"Why are you telling me this?" Mark said.
"Already said it once," Done said. "And she has a pretty voice."

Alex blushed a bit, but Mark frantically hoped that Done would talk again, because that couldn't be his actual voice. It couldn't be the voice of a human being. He must've misheard that, because that wasn't speaking, that was coughing up gravel and tar. Smoking all the tobacco in the world wouldn't give you a voice like that.

"That answer your question?" Done said, and Mark leaned back and nodded. That was Done's voice, and Mark understood why the man didn't talk a lot. He didn't have to.

"Where's your girlfriend?" Alex asked; Mark ripped his gaze off Done and turned to look at her.
"Let her out at the precinct. She has to report in, too."
"Yes, that's what we were worried about," she said. "We have to consider the possibility that she's a plant."

Mark had a strong answer for that, but his better judgment made him keep his voice down and lean back.

"...how?" he asked.
"She's in Whitton's unit, for example. She was where you were when Silvestro's coke deal went down..."
"I was on assignment, she was following a lead. Doesn't strike me as unusual at all."
"Okay, but remember how you had to hold her hand when you faked the evidence? She's more competent than that, we know that now."
"Sure, but we got her on the wrong foot. Everybody has an off day."
"The way I see it, it's more like she was trying to look vulnerable so Daddy would assign you as protection," Alex said, quickly raising her voice and emotional involvement. "That way, she could get close, distract you and Vincent with an attack on the hotel. She knew Silvestro would send his assassins after Daddy then. So she faked the attack..."
"That attack wasn't faked!" Mark protested. "People died that day!"
"Really? I don't see you or her buried next to my father!" Alex cried, rising from her chair. "How did she make it without a scratch while they killed my family?!"

Mark banged his fist on the table; he held back too much anger of his own. Alex froze in full swing and slowly settled back down. The silence was deafening. Mark thought about a funeral he hadn't even known about, a last goodbye forsaken for...what, exactly? His heart pumped raw guilt through his hands and head.

"This is paranoia," he said, recomposing himself.
"What about Whitton, though?" Alex threw in, eerily calm yet sullen. "He knew Nicolai, he could've arranged for all this!" she said, picking up steam again.
"Nice meeting you, Done," Mark said. Without further words, he rose from the chair, grabbed his cane and headed for the stairs.

"Come back here, Mark!" Alex said sharply, producing no result; after a second, she shouted "Simmons!" at him. He froze in place, just for a second. Then he continued on, ignoring her. As he started to climb down the stairs to the basement armory, Alex almost pursued him, but a strong hand on her shoulder held her back.

"I'll handle this," Vince said, then followed Mark.

In the eye of the storm, Done sat back and enjoyed the show. Amateurs...

---

"If you would close the door, Detective..." Whitton began, hunched on his leather-clad office chair and rubbing his temples. Sharon - badge prominently dangling from a chain around her neck - closed the door behind her, closed the blinds and grabbed the rather more spartan chair in front of Whitton's desk. She found Whitton's office comfortingly familiar - the bulletin board with nice, orderly notes about current cases, the file drawers in the back, the hotplate with the customary jug of coffee, even the rather tacky brass-plated cuckoo clock.

She sat down. Whitton opened his eyes and slowly leaned forward.

"Do you know where Simmons is?"
"Right now? He said he was headed for the Ingues family mansion."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
"Good." Whitton leaned back, and his face relaxed a little. "Do you think he'll do something stupid against the Russians?"

A little voice in Sharon's head screamed "Of course he'll do something stupid! He's Mark Simmons!", but she ignored it.

"Well, he's got a major hate-on for Nicolai" - Whitton frowned - "but he's not in fighting shape. He could barely walk when I saw him off."
"Good. We need time to sort through this mess and come to a reasonable conclusion."
"Captain, if I may..."
"Yes?"
"What do you think is a 'reasonable conclusion'?"

Whitton cracked a small grin, as if he was congratulating himself for anticipating that question.

"The one that gets the least people killed. If I can find a way to keep them from shooting up the whole city, that's what I'll go for. Protect and serve, Detective."
"I'm just asking because...back at the restaurant..." Sharon said, then trailed off for a second. "Nicolai. It looked like we were going to back Nicolai."
"I'm not friendly with him, if that's what you're going for. Dolvich called me last week, wanted to introduce me to a new business associate. He's very old-fashioned, the whole 'announce yourself in the lord's domain' thing. He wanted to make it official. So I talked to the guy, figured I'd give it some time before I pass my judgment. When we met at the restaurant, I was just trying to keep Simmons from shooting him right there. What a great idea that turned out to be..."
"Okay, but...Dolvich? The name doesn't ring a bell..."
"Boris Dolvich."
"...oh! Oh, you mean Ded."
"Yes..."
"Sorry, Captain, didn't click for a second. It's just that Mark...that Simmons keeps calling Dolvich 'Ded'. From Dedushka, which means..."
"Grandpa. Yes, I know."

Sharon suddenly felt like she'd been sent to the headmaster's office for a school prank. Get your mind on the job, girl.

"What's eating you, Sharon?" Whitton said, effortlessly slipping from boss to friend in the blink of an eye.
"I'm fine, I just...it feels like I need a vacation from the vacation."
Whitton smiled warmly. "I can see where you're coming from. You've seen a lot of things those last weeks, sights a cop could do without. I understand. You ever consider talking to a counselor about it?"
"No, I haven't actually thought about the whole situation that much. I'm just trying to keep my head above the surface, you know?"
"I back my Detectives 100%, Sharon. I've been there. Up is down and black is white, suddenly, and before you know it you're knee-deep in it."
"It sounds like a cliché when you say it that way."
"Everything's a fucking cliché until it happens to you. Look at yourself, Sharon. You're head over heels for a hitman, torn between law and justice, all the jazz."

Sharon lowered her head a bit. She was actually blushing - still in that headmaster's office.

"All I'm saying is that there's always gonna be rain, Sharon. I'm here with an umbrella, if you need me," he said, with a small paternal grin. "Get some sleep. Put your head straight, and talk to Monica if you want to. You'll see, we'll get all this behind us and then things will get better."

With a sigh, he snapped back to Captain Mode.

"That's all for now, Detective. You can leave now."
"Thank you, Captain. I'll...I'll give you a call if there are any new developments. I don't know where I'll stay..."
"Technically, you're on vacation. I don't think I have to bother you with the dreck that requires reaching you on the phone. You've got enough on your plate already. Just keep swimming, Detective."
"Thank you, Captain."
"You already said that."
"It bears repeating," she replied, with a small smile.

She turned to leave, but Whitton raised his voice again. Sharon braced herself for a parting shot.

"One last thing, though: How is Simmons?"
"I'm...not sure how to interpret that question."
"Is he a decent guy? Does he treat you right?"
"In between the bullets and the terror? Yes, actually, he's a nice guy."
"Good."
"Why did you ask?"
"If you two are going to be together, I'll have to stick my neck out for him, too. I wanted to know if he's worth it."
"Definitely," Sharon said without hesitation.
"Well, don't let me keep you any further, then. Good night."
"Night, Captain."

And so Sharon walked out, feeling curiously...unburdened. As she closed the door behind her, Whitton sat and pondered the events of the last few days. With a heavy sigh, he reached for a file folder on the edge of his desk and opened it. He wasn't going to get any sleep that night.