Broken English

CHAPTER 14: SUNDAY, ACT III

9:33 AM, Monterey

         She had seen him come in, outlined against the brighter light of the hallway. He was alone, which was good, but he had a gun. That would have to be dealt with first.
         Her hatred almost overwhelmed her. Here was the dirty redskin who wanted to open the floodgates and let the stinking yellow hordes from Asia take over America. They'd come in here and work for fish heads. They'd take over the banks. Soon, no decent American would be able to support his family, and the teeming mass of gooks would spit on them as they stepped over their starving bodies.
         Not on my watch, you son of a bitch!
         Kathy Benson placed one hand on the catwalk railing and launched herself over the side. Her timing was flawless, and she literally scraped her hard shoes down the front of his body as she dropped, knocking the gun from his hand. She dropped naturally into a crouch, delivered a punch to his groin, and kicked the gun off somewhere behind her as she rose.
         He had twisted to the side to avoid her groin strike, and as he turned back, she snapped a sharp kick at the side of his head, adding his momentum to the force of the blow. He spun around and crashed into one of the huge air pumps, and she was on him like a panther, giving him no chance to recover.
         She kicked his calf just below the knee, buckling the leg, and reached around to rake her fingernails across his eyes. He covered his face with one hand and drove his elbow into her midsection, the sudden pain forcing her back. As she leaned forward, he backfisted her in the face, then he was up and facing her.
         The duel began in earnest, she using her legs to keep the larger man at bay while he tried to close and overpower her. Strike and parry, counterstrike and parry went on for what seemed hours as they moved back and forth between the roaring machinery. She kept her kicks low, attacking his knees, forcing him to guard against a hyperextension, then she suddenly brought one higher, making contact with his lower ribs even as his block simultaneously hammered her kneecap.
         That suited her; that sinewy joint could take a lot more punishment than his floating ribs, and she drove in again, going knee-knee-knee-ribs, knee-knee-knee-ribs as he gave ground before her rapid onslaught. This was the time. When she came up for the high kick of the current sequence, she drove it in with the opposite leg.
         Disaster! He had caught her rhythm, and even as her foot made contact, he wrapped his arm over her calf, pinning her leg well off the ground. Before she could begin a counter, he stepped into her, lifted her by the throat with his other hand, and drove her to the floor, all his weight coming down on top of her. She felt the back of her head hit the concrete, and she was suddenly swimming in dark cotton, fighting to make her body work even as the darkness deepened and sound retreated to someplace far, far away...

9:35 AM, Monterey

         Kitfox raised his weight only partially from the dazed woman, even though her eyes were unfocused, and her body was reduced to a weak side-to-side rolling motion. Favoring his ribs, he removed his handcuffs from the back of his belt, attached them to one of her wrists, then rolling her onto her stomach, locked her hands behind her. Only then did he go to the end of the room to recover his gun.
         Returning to the woman, he knelt beside her, rolled her to her side, and gently patted her cheeks as he softly but insistently called her name.
         "Ohhhhhhhh," she moaned. Her eyes opened and she took in her surroundings. "How did I get here?"
         "This is where you ran to after you attacked us."
         "Agent Kitfox? Who did I attack?" She tried, but failed, to sit up. "Why do I have handcuffs on?"
         "For both of our safety. What's the last thing you remember?"
         "I was... let's see. You and that policewoman were asking me about my vacation."
         "And do you remember anything out of the ordinary now?"
         "I don't know. Sort of. It's like a bunch of moving pictures. Moving around, you know? Like that game show where you try to grab money in a wind chamber."
         "Can you remember anything at all?"
         "A voice. A quiet, deep voice telling me how it's normal to do the most violent things to other people. It's because we're hunters and warriors, that makes it all right. I think I was asleep. I said no, it wasn't all right, but then there was the most terrible pain. In my head. It felt like it would explode, but the voice said I could stop it if I stopped fighting my normal, violent nature. It was… it was horrible!" She pulled her legs up to her chest and started to cry.          "It was horrible! Who was that man? What did he do that for?"
         "We're trying to find that out right now. Maybe you can help us, but right now, we're going to get you some help. You've hit your head on the floor, so just lie still."
         He stepped to the door into the service corridor, and was fortunate to find two policemen talking at the far end.
         "Officers," he shouted, "Leon Kitfox, FBI. One of you get me some paramedics. The other find Lieutenant Zamora, and bring them all to this room."
         Fishing for his handcuff key, he stepped back into the room.

9:50 AM, Monterey

         Inez Zamora watched the floor indicator click into place, then waited impatiently for the elevator doors to open. They finally did, revealing the familiar chaos of the crime scene that was the main lobby. It had been starting to wind down when Benson had unloaded on them; now they were certain to be here quite a while longer.
         She stepped out last and, hidden behind a wall of uniformed shoulders, she rubbed her eyes, squeezing out a pitiful trace of tear fluid and raising them before anyone could see her. She was exhausted, running on empty as the saying went, but she wasn't about to give an outward sign. Her father had made captain, and her uncle assistant chief, and both agreed the secret was to always look like you'd just come on duty. The strategy would work for Inez Zamora, too, at least until it killed her.
         "Lieutenant," one of her sergeants greeted her, "what's the news?"
         "No news ain't good news," she replied. "Where's Kitfox?"
         "I don't know, but he's looking for you, too. One of the rookies was just by here asking for you."
         "I don't suppose he told you where he was?"
         "No such luck. You weren't here, so he split."
         "Split?"
         "Moved on. Kitfox was with Matthews and Rye earlier, but I just saw them, and they were alone."
         "Don't worry about it. I'm going to have him paged." She headed toward the front desk to do just that.
         Three young women were there fielding questions from a double rank of disgruntled conventioneers. Two uniformed officers and one of her detectives stood to the side, eyes peeled for trouble, though what form it might come in no one could say. Holding her badge aloft, she edged her way to the front.
         "Excuse me! Excuse me! Police business. Coming through!"
         "Can I help you?" one of the women asked as she reached the desk.
         "Please. I need you to page Special Agent Leon Kitfox to the lobby."
         "Special Agent Leon Kitfox," the girl repeated slowly as she wrote it down. "What kind of name is Kitfox?"
         "Shoshone. Oh, never mind, there he is. Leon!"
         She had seen him emerge from a service corridor leading a paramedic team with a covered patient on a gurney.
         "Inez," he called back. "Call off the dragnet. I've got Benson."
         She nodded and gave a thumbs-up sign.
         "Frank," she called to the detective. "Kitfox got Benson. Recall the search teams to the lobby."
         "Right away, ma'am."
         Instantly, the questions flying around her changed from demands for information and discounts to when the conference would get back on schedule. She wormed her way out of the crowd and joined Kitfox. It was indeed Kathy Benson on the gurney sporting a neck collar.
         "Is she sedated?" Zamora asked.
         "Just a painkiller. She put up a hell of a fight, but once I got a good haymaker in, it seemed to shock her out of whatever kind of trance she was in. The best part is that she seems to be remembering pieces of her indoctrination."
         "Is that right?" Zamora asked her.
         "Sort of," the girl said. "It's still like watching a movie too fast and backward."
         "How is she otherwise?" Zamora asked one of the medics.
         "Seems all right. Took a blow to the head, so we put the collar on her just in case. The docs will know better when they do their tests, but her eyes look good, and she has full movement."
         "That's good. Did you read her her rights?"
         "No," Kitfox replied.
         "Well, we hope she'll be cooperative, but we want to protect our right to prosecute later if things take a turn in that direction."
         "Of course," Kitfox said. "Lost in the moment."
         "Kathy Benson," Zamora began the ritual, "you're under arrest for assault and battery against two law enforcement officers. You have the right to remain silent."
         "What?" Benson said, struggling against the safety straps to sit up. Kitfox and the medics pressed her back to her reclining position.
         "If you give up the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."
         "This isn't right!"
         "You have the right to an attorney and to have the attorney present during questioning. If you so desire or cannot afford one, an attorney will be appointed for you before any questioning. Do you understand each of these rights as I've explained them to you?"
         "Yes, but I'm not a criminal."
         "I sincerely hope you're right. Foster!"
         "Yes, Lieutenant?" A small, clean-cut young man hurried to Zamora's call.
         "Ride with her to the hospital. Don't ask her any questions but record any statement she may make." She drew him aside as the medics gathered their gear. "She's under arrest right now, but don't be too heavy-handed about it. She's been Mirandized, so just listen and write."
         "Yes, ma'am."
         "Son of a bitch," Zamora fumed as the gurney moved off, "that was so not satisfying. Just once, I'd like to turn up a God damned criminal behind one of these people."
         "Lieutenant," a uniform called from the elevators bank, "there's been another attack! Sixth floor."

9:51 AM, Monterey

         "Hello?"
         "Harvey, Krieger here. Were you able to get hold of Forbes and Radicek?"
         "No, sir."
         "What's the matter, they weren't home?"
         "No, sir." Dixon took a deep breath, then added, "I haven't tried, sir."
         "You haven't tried? Who the hell do you think you are, mister?"
         "I think I'm Leon Kitfox's case officer, unless you intend to relieve me, and he's convinced me that he's onto something."
         "Oh, he has, has he?"
         "Yes, sir, he and that cop lady he's working with. A woman doesn't make lieutenant of detectives by being stupid."
         "Maybe she makes it on her back if she's got the look."
         "You're out of line, sir. You don't know anything about this woman."
         "I know Kitfox, God damn it, and he's going to get us all— Do you realize what you're doing?"
         "Yes, sir, I do. Agent Kitfox made an honest mistake, and a young woman lost her life because of it. I don't think he's the kind of man who wouldn't learn something from that."
         "He's an idiot!"
         "Then fire him."
         "If he fucks this up, Harvey, I'll fire both of you. I'd strongly advise you to keep in close contact with the situation."
         "Don't worry," Dixon said, but he was already hearing the disconnect signal.

9:52 AM, Monterey

         Uschi Ikhilevich loitered on the ground floor of the big hotel, unwilling to go out and risk the checkpoint. There was no reason to, anyway. The knots of aggravated attendees from three conventions clogged the lobby, and indeed, every public area of the hotel. All he had to do was hang around, read the paper, and look bored, and eventually the cops would clear him to be on his way. Hell, he had been in direct view of at least ten of them when his latest manufactured assassin had struck. The lobby group would probably be the next one cleared. Time to continue with business.
         Slipping the folded newspaper under his arm, he walked unhurriedly around the corner, intending to return to the pool area, and walked right into the detective accompanying Benson's gurney toward the doors. The man seized his shoulders to steady him.
         "Easy," the cop said. "You okay?"
         "Ya, ya, fine. So sorry," Ikhilevich said, stooping to retrieve the newspaper he had dropped in the collision. When he stood up, Benson's eyes were wide, and locked on his.
         "Sorry, sorry," he said. "I go now."
         He moved briskly down the hall, not liking what he had seen in the sharp focus of those eyes. His fears were not unfounded. As he turned the first corner he came to, he heard her begin to speak in a loud and agitated voice.
         "That's him!" she cried out. "That's the voice! Get agent Kitfox. That's the man who was in Cabo!"

9:53 AM, Monterey

         "Agent Kitfox!"
         He turned to look at the source of the shout in time to see a man in a suit slip furtively into a stairwell. Odd, he thought.
         "Yeah." It was the detective Zamora had detailed to ride with Benson.
         "This girl says she just saw the guy from Cabo."
         "Jesus!" And Kitfox was running down the hall to reach her. "What did he look like?"
         "He was thin, taller than you, he had white hair and a goatee, and he was wearing a dark blue suit. His tie was red, I think. No, purple."
         "How old? Detective, get the Lieutenant back here."
         "Sixty, maybe a little older."
         "The lieutenant's not in charge anymore."
         "How's that?"
         "Captain Bradford's here. He's taking over the scene."
         "That's all right. Zamora can brief him." He turned his attention back to Benson. "Any other identifying features?"
         "Brief me on what?"
         Opposite the gurney stood a huge black man in a fitted suit who looked like an NFL lineman, or perhaps a Coke machine with a head.
         "Captain Bradford?"
         "That's right."
         "I'm Leon Kitfox, the FBI agent who's been working with your Lieutenant. We have a fugitive at large in the hotel, so if you please."
         "Oh, do carry on, Special Agent."
         "Was there anything else that would help us recognize this man?"
         "He was thin for a man," Benson said. "He has a little paunch hanging out. Looks funny, like a goofy drawing."
         "That's good. Anything else we could recognize him by?"
         "His accent. Russian, or something close to it. And he had a nametag on. It was Mickey, or Mikey, something like that. There was an L in it, though. Mickel? It was weird, and I can't get it."
         "It's all right. You're sure it was him?"
         "Yes. it was his voice. The second I heard it, it just cut through the fog like a knife. That was the voice in my nightmares."
         "Well, your nightmares are about over. Did you see which way he went?"
         "Yes. He went into that stairway."
         "Damn! He could be halfway to Salinas by now."
         "No, the janitors and maintenance men use that to stay unobtrusive. It only goes up."
         "Beautiful! Captain, the building's already cordoned off because of this morning's murder. I recommend you don't let anyone in or out until we get this guy. Can I borrow a few of these officers?"
         "If you don't get them dirty."
         "Thanks. Detective, brief your captain, and the lieutenant, when she gets here. You have the description. We'll need a room-by-room again as soon as she can organize it. We don't know if this guy's armed, but I can guaran-God damned-tee you he's dangerous." The Glock came out of its holster as Kitfox turned toward the stairs.
         "What are you going to do?" Bradford asked.
         "Try to get him in sight and keep surveillance until your men arrive."
         "All right. I guess I don't need to tell you not to pull any John Wayne shit before we have control of the situation."
         "It's my intention to die of old age in a comfortable bed." He brandished his pistol. "This is just in case we surprise each other. You men have radios, right?"
         The five uniforms he was borrowing all answered in the affirmative.
         "All right. We find him, we'll call for the cavalry. Gentlemen, the fugitive is an older male, white hair and goatee, dark blue suit with a nametag reading Mickey, Mickel, or something close to that. He's wanted for questioning only at this time, and is not known to be armed, but if he points anything at you, protect yourselves in any way necessary. Questions?"
         There were none.
         "Okay, let's go."

9:57 AM, Monterey

         Five cops had followed him all the way to the top. At every floor, they had stopped and fanned out into the hall, covering every angle in a mutually supporting defensive formation. Kitfox was impressed; for small market cops, these guys were well-trained.
         But no one was in sight, no suspect, at least. Each time the door opened, Kitfox looked for astonished maids, overturned service carts, something to indicate wild flight. There was nothing. A few times they encountered hotel staff and asked about the man in the blue suit, but no one had seen anything. The cops at the sixth-floor crime scene had posted guards at stairs and elevators, but they had seen nothing, either. Now they stood on the rooftop landing.
         "Last door," Kitfox said.
         "What would anybody run up here for?" asked one of the cops, a fresh-faced rookie whose shirt still had the factory creases.
         Everyone turned to glare at him.
         "The only thing on this guy's mind should be finding a way down," he said plaintively. "Nobody'd let themselves get trapped on the roof, would they?"
         "Not if he's thinking straight," Kitfox allowed, "but he might be panicked, or he might assume we're too 'smart' to look up here. Never assume a criminal will do what you would."
         "Yes, sir."
         "On three, ready? One... two... three!"
         Kitfox shouldered the door open and followed it all the way to the right, feeling the rest of the bodies swarm out behind him, taking up firing positions to cover the half-circle they could see.
         "Well, Special Agent Kitfox," a voice came from a jumble of pipes and ducts to their left somewhere, "we meet at last. You certainly took your time getting here, but no matter, you're here now, so feel free to be joining party. Without gun, of course."
         Kitfox stepped out into the open space and turned to his left. There, standing back among a woven tapestry of pipes, ducts, conduits, and valves was the man in the blue suit. He held a gun in his left hand, and as Kitfox moved into his field of view, he lifted his bulky satellite phone and started to dial.
         "Call the cavalry," Kitfox said to the lead officer.
         "Badger base on Tac Two," the man said into his collar mike, "this is Edward Six."
         "Oh, that is not so good," bluesuit said. "Conrad, shoot him."
         There instantly came a gunshot, the officer went down, and the rest of the cops opened fire on bluesuit and another man, heavily concealed in the rooftop clutter.
         "Hold your fire!" Kitfox shouted. "Cease fire!"
         The shots petered out, leaving only a speaker saying, "Go ahead, Edward Six."
         "Does anyone wish to answer that? No? Good. You may attend to your comrade. You will note that he was shot in the body where his vest protects him, if he is wearink a vest."
         Kitfox and another cop moved into the open and quickly checked him out.
         "Edward Six, go ahead."
         "Ignore that."
         The officer was starting to moan and hold his lower right ribcage where a heavy bullet had impacted. There was now no sign of bluesuit or the shooter, both having disappeared into the clutter. They dragged the officer back into their own cover near the door.
         "Call for the SWAT Team," Kitfox ordered.
         "Before you do that, I suggest you direct your gaze to your immediate right."
         They all did so, and there in a small open space stood two clean cut young men, big and burly. Both wore off-the-rack suits that seemed too small for them. They might have been linebackers for the 49ers. One held Zamora's hands behind her with one of his own while his other covered her mouth. The second man held a large pistol aimed at the side of her head.

9:59 AM. Monterey

         Their eyes locked as the seconds ticked by. She gave a tiny shake of her head, side-to-side, the largest range of motion the gorilla behind her would allow. Did she mean, don't listen to them? Don't get me killed? Don't let them get away?
         "So, Special Agent Kitfox, now you see I am meaning the business. Do be so kind as to disarm yourself and your men."
         "How do you expect to get out of here?" Kitfox asked, holding onto his gun. "Unless you can fly, you're a dozen stories up at the top of a building surrounded by police. What's your plan?"
         "You think you have caught me? You are stupid bastard cop! Not even that, you are FBI pencil pusher. Pah! I have been in nooses tightened by better than you! Now, you lay down gun before I am causing your pretty friend to have a bad day."
         The man's steely eyes bored into Kitfox's, and there was no mercy in them. He was still back among the metal tubes, and there was no shot to take, even were Kitfox willing to risk Zamora's life. He could feel the frustration of the four officers behind him as they looked in vain for clear targets, and any sort of cover remotely approaching that enjoyed by their adversaries. A bad hand, but he had to play it.
         "All right, in the first place, she's your only hostage, so you aren't about to shoot her."
         "I am sorry, did I say shoot? Jeremy, do somethink painful to your date."
         The man holding Zamora released his hold on her mouth, reached up to her ear, and yanked her pierced earring through the meat of her earlobe.
         "Ah, God!"
         "You see? Now, please, your weapon."
         "Shoot them!" Zamora shouted. Her cops strained forward, raising weapons, aiming, but not beginning the action that might cause her demise. "What are you waiting for?"
         The man put his hand over her mouth again.
         "That is better. Now, Special Agent Kitfox, your gun, yes or no?"
         Kitfox laid the Glock on top of a ventilating fan.
         "Good. Excuse me." bluesuit once more dialed his satellite phone, waited for an answer, then said, "Fish ride bicycles in long lines of curvature... Go to room four twenty two... Take action to prevent the occupant from harmink your beloved America... Do you understand? Good."
         He broke the connection.
         "You see now how I do it? You had almost figured it out yourself, hadn't you? You are a very intelligent man, Special Agent Kitfox. You have been a worthy adversary. I will wager that you are not appreciated by your organization, am I right?"
         Kitfox said nothing.
         "I think I am. We would have taken your talents as far as they could have reached. Such a waste."
         "You're still here, and we still hold the door. It's just a matter of time until somebody looks for us up here."
         "I don't think so. I am going to activate an army of assassins. They will begin the process of destroying the conference, and in the excitement, I will disappear, as I have a thousand times before."
         "Your face is known."
         "Yes, to you, and to these few policemen with you. You will not be a factor when I walk down those stairs with casual clothes and no beard."
         "We're not going to let you do that."
         "I think you will. You are forgetting your friend, the lieutenant."
         "The lieutenant is a professional. She knew she could find herself in this situation when she joined the force. She wouldn't want us to save her by letting you go."
         "No? People always speak of ideals and principles until the gun is at their own head."
         "You heard her. Did she beg for her life, or order her men to open fire?"
         "But they didn't."
         "Not this time, but you're still on the roof, aren't you? What are you doing this for?"
         "To escape, of course."
         "Not that. The conference. What's in it for you?"
         "Money. You understand that, don't you, mister capitalist?"
         "No. How does breaking up this conference make you money?"
         "It is a job I have been paid to do. It is nothing personal. There is nothing personal with you and police lady, either. Had you not been so clever, you would not be in big fix right now."
         "I'm not the one in the fix, you are. I don't care how many people you kill, you aren't getting off of this roof. What's your name?"
         "You think I be tellink you that?"
         "Up to you. I just thought you'd want to have a marked headstone. Who hired you? Who gains from this?"
         "Now, that I really not be telling you! Well, as enjoyable as this is, is time for me to be going." He dialed the phone again. "Fish ride bicycles in long lines of curvature."

10:03 AM, Monterey

         He was going to make it! He was going to cause a three-ring circus of death and chaos, and while everyone was chasing their tails, he was going to walk out of here and go do this again somewhere else. Well, not, by God, today!
         The two beefy men were dividing their attention between watching the police for signs of resistance and watching their controller for instructions. Zamora's sharp front teeth sank into the hand clapped over her mouth. As the man yelped and yanked his hand away, she kicked at the gun hand of his cohort, landing a glancing blow on his forearm, then leaned as far forward as she could, twisting away, trying to use her captor's body as a shield. She failed.
         The second man fired at her at point blank range. His bullet hit the side of her right thigh, knocking her legs out from under her, and as she fell, all hell broke loose. All four of her officers opened a withering fire on her tormentors, and both went down, hit by a dozen or more bullets.
         Shaking off the shock of impact, she picked up the dead man's gun and dragged herself into the sparse cover of a ventilator grill. The ninety-decibel ringing in her ears was challenged by the steady fire of an ongoing gun battle and chatter on the suddenly active radio as one of the uniforms called for the SWAT Team to come to the roof, adding, "Officer down, repeat, officer down!"
         As she pulled herself together, she saw that bluesuit was suddenly not interested in the phone anymore, as Kitfox and the officers were closing in on him and his one remaining henchman. With the SWAT Team on the way, this was just mop-up, and she held her position, covering them with the Smith & Wesson she had salvaged.
         "Inez, are you all right?" Kitfox called to her.
         "I will be. Keep your mind on what you're doing!"
         "Okay. Help's on the way. Stay put."
         "What do think I'm going to do," she muttered, "run a marathon?"
         As she turned onto her left side, taking weight off her wound, a flicker of motion to the right caught her eye, and a shot rang out. The bullet barely missed Kitfox, striking the officer next to him in the upper arm. Bluesuit's hole card!
         The only one who had actually seen the shooter move, she aimed and fired eight shots in rapid succession at her target, joined by the other police as a matter of reflex. A man rose from behind a bin of some sort and fell with multiple wounds. Just in time, as the slide of Zamora's borrowed gun locked back, empty. Bluesuit chose this moment of confusion to make his move.
He dashed around the piping, getting between the cops and the door, shooting another one as he broke into the clear.
         "Leon, he's running!" Zamora shouted.
         Bluesuit turned, saw her, raised his gun to aim at her face. She tripped the lock, letting the pistol's slide run forward, and aimed the gun at him. Her bluff wasn't going to work. He had seen it, knew she was out of bullets, and smiled as his finger tightened on the trigger.
         She steeled herself to take the bullet. Time hung suspended as their eyes held a silent dialogue. She jerked violently at the first thunderous boom!, but the only thing that hit her was a few specks of blood as a red hole exploded in the middle of bluesuit's chest. He staggered back, beginning to fall, and was hit twice more. Snapping her eyes back to the right she found Kitfox looking over the sights of his Glock.
         Shooter down, he immediately turned to her.
         "Inez?"
         "I'm okay. Check him."
         The door opened, admitting two heavily armored SWAT troopers.
         "We've got one to get in custody," Kitfox told them. "Get somebody to room four twenty-two. You might be able to prevent another killing."
         One of them leveled his MP5 in the direction of the last shooter while the other turned and sprinted down the stairs. With bluesuit's commanding presence gone, the henchman stood and raised his hands, and was quickly disarmed and put into cuffs.
         "Special Agent Kitfox," bluesuit croaked, "I think you have killed me."
         "I'm afraid you may be right," Kitfox replied, eyeing the three hits in his upper torso. "That's unfortunate, but you put yourself in this position. Care to tell me who you are now? For the headstone?"
         "I care to tell you to go to hell."
         "Well, at least it's over."
         "You think is over?" The man coughed, red foam springing to his lips. "At least these policemen labor in honest ignorance, but a fellow professional like yourself should know better. Just try and stop..."
         The air rushed out of him, and he was gone.

10:16 AM, Monterey

         Kitfox sat on the fan motor housing, watching as the medics began immobilizing Zamora's leg. They had cut the leg off her jeans, and he was relieved to see that the wound was clean and had to all appearances missed the bone.
         "Leon, if you hadn't—"
         "Hush," he said. "You'd have done the same for me, or anyone else."
         "Yes, but I—"
         "Quiet! I know what you want to say, and it isn't necessary. Not between friends."
         That had the desired effect, and she sat still and looked at him with a surprised expression until one of the medics made her wince.
         "Let's see who our mystery man is," Kitfox said, and kneeling beside bluesuit's body, began to rifle through his pockets.
         "Passport," he said. "Hans Stuben, Germany."
         He continued to search.
         "Another one. Vladimir Borichescu, Bulgaria."
         A little more digging brought out a large wallet and the infamous satellite phone. He opened the wallet and pulled out cards. Lots of cards.
         "At least six different identities here, and not one of them named Mikhail," he said, pointing at the nametag.
         The thing Kitfox found odd, though, was that the FBI used satellite phones of this exact make and model, produced exclusively, so he had been told, for a government contract. He switched it on and brought up the speed dial menu.
         "That's odd."
         "What's that?"
         "Instead of names, his contacts are organized by function. Here's safehouse, papers, weapons, and look at this. Client. I wonder..."
         He hit the green Activate button, got a signal, and scrolling Client to the top of the queue, pressed Dial. One ring, two rings, three.
         "Central Intelligence, Watley."
         "Central... You mean the CIA?"
         "Who is this?"
         "My name's Leon. I've been working with Mikhail. I just thought you should know—"
         There was a click as the man hung up, followed by the hiss of dead air.