《Urban Nirvana》


 Chapter 1 - Sunglasses at Night

    ¡°Thus the terms of this amicable divorce are settled.¡± The judge boomed, firmly smacking his gavel into the firm wooden grain of the bench. In front of him, a man and a woman were each flanked by their lawyer. The woman had shoulder-length blond hair, tied together in a casual ponytail.


    At first glance, it would seem like a choice of style, but the man knew that it was actually because the ponytail kept her hair safely out of the way for just about anything, whether that be yardwork or office work. Her dress was one he never remembered her wearing when they were together. It looked rather nice. A calm, mellow blue. Like a bluebird flying through a clear blue sky in the middle of Spring.


    In a way, it mirrored his thoughts. Calm. Mellow. Blue.


    The man, however, wore his usual charcoal-black two-piece business suit, something that the woman had once joked that he never took off, not even when he slept. Considering that he oftentimes slept at his place of employment, that joke was almost a reality. His blond hair was kept close-cropped to help with his own work, and a simple Timex watch tick, tick, ticked away at his wrist.


    The man took in a slight breath as he turned away from the judge, his hands adjusting his striped, blue tie completely out of habit at this point while at his side, his lawyer droned on with the woman¡¯s lawyer about matters he cared not a whit about anymore. What was done, was done. The man stepped towards the door. Behind him, the woman began to open her mouth with an expression of slight pity, but she could only watch as the man¡¯s long legs took him out of the small family courtroom with only a few strides.


    The man¡¯s face was expressionless as he fished the brown, fluffy keys of his beater Chevrolet pickup truck out of the pockets of his black suit pants. His bland face, one unremarkable enough to have potentially earned him many years of ridicule at school (if his classmates would have bothered to in the first place), glanced across the cars. Twenty cars. Exactly the same number that was there before he had entered the courtroom.


    He nodded to himself. The number hardly mattered, but the count was instinctual at this point. After all, who could tell when knowing the exact number of cars in the parking lot could be handy. That, and the make and model of each car. Which ones he could expect to find the keys above the sun visor, which ones would be more likely to have a full tank of gas, and which ones he could potentially find a gun in the glove compartment or behind the seat. The little things counted most when the chips were down. That¡¯s what Mr. Moon had learned over the years.


    Mr. Moon, of course, was not his real name. Yet, it was close enough at this point. Lisa was really the only person in his life that still used his birth name.


    Originally it was nothing but an odd nickname that spawned out of the still-settling dust of an incident all those years ago. Nothing but some weird oddity, a nickname thought up by a group of men who were either superstitious, drunk, or high. Probably all three. He couldn¡¯t blame them. Hard times had a habit of leading men toward the watering hole of terrible coping mechanisms.


    Once Mr. Moon had finished his work in the Vietnam, he hadn¡¯t expected to ever hear it again. Then, just five years ago in ¡®75, department policies were adjusted by his boss to better protect the personal lives of field agents. That meant code names. That meant permanent code names. Ones chosen by his boss, who had a rather idiotic sense of humor and had been in Saigon that day as well.


    So, he became Mr. Moon. A name that was quite obviously not a real one, but if a random person would be introduced to the man right off the sidewalk and told his name, all they could do would be to nod and think, ''Wow, that is an odd name''. Then that unremarkable observation, combined with Mr. Moon¡¯s bland, forgettable face, would cause them to forget about the meeting not even minutes later.


    Soon enough, the rusted Chevrolet pickup truck rumbled to life. Similar to his charcoal-black business suit, his watch, and his haircut, the truck was chosen in part because if anyone saw it on the road, their eyes would glaze over it without a second thought, perhaps only pausing for an additional second to be mildly surprised that a truck like that could still run.


    Mr. Moon, on the other hand, would be more surprised if it didn¡¯t run. Sure, the body was rusted all over the place, the aqua-blue paint job was more of a paint suggestion, and the rumble of the truck was more like a whimper. But underneath it all, Mr. Moon had used his decent enough mechanical skills to keep his truck a finely tuned machine. He had to, of course. Who knew when his life could depend on its ability to go from zero to sixty miles per hour as fast as possible?


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Mr. Moon''s truck rumbled to an unsteady stop outside his apartment. It was a far cry from his previous home, but, well, that old place was better off with Lisa anyway. She would take greater care of it than he ever could. With how many hours the latest project demanded of him, and his frequent visits to Henry in his off time, Mr. Moon hardly ever darkened the doorstep of the old house when he had still lived there. Mr. Moon sighed as his empty expression took in the weeds, the cracked sidewalk, and the heroin junky leaning against the door to the apartment complex. He closed his eyes, and for the briefest moment, the smell of sewage was replaced by the faint smell of freshly cut grass. Of neighborhood barbeques. Of a-


    Mr. Moon opened his eyes, lifted the junky by the shirt, threw him a few feet over to the side like a bag of discarded trash, and opened the faded green door. As the door to the complex opened, a few eyes peered through nearby cracks, widening as they took in the sight of the man in the suit. The eyes shook and then disappeared to the sound of frantic, running footsteps. The footsteps soon disappeared, and the complex was enveloped by a cloak of silence disturbed only by the soft ¡®click clack¡¯ sounds of Mr. Moon¡¯s dull black dress shoes going up the stairs one by one. No one bothered him.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    The TV in his apartment lit the dark walls with its peeling wallpaper in a soft blue glow. His apartment was rather spartan, with only a battered table he found on the curb, an old La-Z-Boy recliner gifted by his rotund friend from the office, and a mattress that drooped despairingly on the floor.


    That same friend had questioned Mr. Moon¡¯s choices in keeping the place so sparsely furnished, but he was quite certain about the decision. No sense in adding pointless junk when he was hardly there. Besides, Lisa was never coming back. That was certain. So, no sense in making it look nice for her. As for dating, he lacked the time. And the will. Mr. Moon knew that if he tried, he would only end up comparing anyone he met with Lisa. That wouldn¡¯t be fair to them nor to him.


    So, he sat by himself. His suit jacket was tossed haphazardly onto the battered wooden table, and Mr. Moon leaned back with a sig-


    ¡®RRRRRRIRIGININNNNNINGGNGHGHINNNGGGG!¡¯


    The corded phone on his wall nearly shook itself off its hook with the force of its ringing, causing Mr. Moon to jump to readiness with a curse halfway formed in his mouth. His eyes snapped towards the source of the noise, noting that it was indeed an odd time of the night to get a call. Mr. Moon picked it up, hanging it loosely against his ear and not even bothering to say anything into it. If it was anybody he was willing to talk to, they would know to quickly make their case.


    ¡°It¡¯s Sun. I need you at the office ASAP for briefing. Shit¡¯s hit the fan with Nirvana.¡± A familiar voice with an underlying tone of panic spoke quickly from the other side of the line. Mr. Moon¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°Will do.¡± He replied in his usual monotone voice, before gently setting the phone back on the receiver.


    As soon as the piece of plastic rested on the hook, Mr. Moon became a flurry of action. He grabbed his suit jacket from the table, nabbing a pair of sleek bronze keys from the kitchen counter with one hand while the other hand brushed over the standard-issue Sig Sauer P226 handgun that was still holstered at his side.


    Less than a minute later Mr. Moon was back down on the ground floor of the apartment complex, where one of the bronze keys opened his assigned garage to reveal the sleek, unmarked form of his black Buick Regal T-Type car. Simple, powerful, and most importantly, provided by his department. No strange markings, no flashy modifications, nothing out of the ordinary besides the detachable siren on the roof of the car and the partially concealed shotgun rack that took up half the back seat.


    Mr. Moon gave the vehicle a quick glance, noting with a sense of approval that barely appeared on his face that it all seemed in order. Seconds later, and that feeling was validated as the well-oiled machine roared out of the garage with sirens blaring, speeding far past the limits usually afforded in residential areas on the outskirts of Washington D.C.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    The sun shone brightly through the window, posing it in the perfect position to distract Cass from the dreary lecture the teacher had been subjecting the class to for the past half hour. In the back of her mind, a small voice reminded Cass that her inattention was unfair to Mr. Bueller. He was a nice enough man (at least until you said the wrong thing and triggered one of his ''educational lectures'' - then he was just boring. She could appreciate the enthusiasm though!) and he really didn''t deserve the utter lack of attention his classes gave his teachings.


    Still, being a decent guy who knows his stuff could never fully make up for being unable to make that subject into something interesting for a classroom full of kids just a few weeks away from graduation.


    Cass suppressed a small sigh as she shifted positions to cup her chin in a hand. Only two weeks left, and it would all be over. This chapter would end in the metaphorical book of her life. In a way, Cass was dreading the end. What would be next? Around twelve years of doing pretty alright in school, and soon she would be ejected into the real world of small-time Carlston. A tiny town in the middle of nowhere, in a state no one cared about. Good ol'' Kansas. The question of ''what next'' felt like a heavy smog that covered her every waking thought, ever since the end of the first semester of classes had made Cass realize that the end was almost here.


    She hardly meant to look down on Carlston in calling it small-time. It was just a fact. Still, it was all Cass really knew, and it was a nice old town once you gave it a chance. The dusty gravel roads that lead out to the farms. The literal bean field the high school sat in the middle of (sometimes it was a cornfield! Exciting!). The drugstore on the corner sold delicious scoops of ice cream. The small football field she had spent so much time around last year. Tractor pulls in the baseball diamond near the elementary school, car shows on the main street, a singular old-timey diner near the old highway, a cheerful bar down the road, the town had things going on if you knew where to look. They just weren''t very big things, and Cass hadn''t any certain ideas of just what to do once she walked out of Carlston High School for the final time. Not for lack of trying, of course. Just that none of the uncertain ideas were particularly appealing.


    College... well, her dad had told her there was enough money set aside if she wanted to go. No worries about needing to take out loans, and she could probably grab one or two smallish scholarships to help out. But while Cass had thought about the possibility, she couldn''t for the life of her think of something she actually wanted to study. And she wasn''t like some of her classmates, going to college just to play one sport or another, or to party for four years straight. The one time she had gotten to kick a football to start off the homecoming game, she had almost knocked the assistant principal clean out. Poor Mr. Harman. Even baking multiple plates of apology cookies for him failed to make her feel better about that, despite his reassurances of the contrary. But anyway, she didn''t see any point in going to college without a good reason.


    If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    There was always the option of moving away... but Cass just couldn''t do that to her dad. She would miss the guy too much. Plus, where would she even go? The big city? Wayyy too many people. Another small town? What would be the point? She already lived in one!


    So that left her with getting a job and staying in Carlston. Yay. One application was filled out and sent to Dino''s Diner for the waitress spot that opened after Mrs. Helen retired (after being there for what seemed like hundreds of years). She already had a time slot booked for an interview.


    Another application was sent to the high school for the assistant librarian job they hadn''t bothered to fill since before Cass was born. One final application still sitting inside her desk for that open secretary job in the police department. None of the options were thrilling. Either work in a diner, be in a musty library all day, or weather the personal whispering thoughts that she got a job because of nepotism, instead of her own ability.


    Cass suppressed a sigh at the thought and moved her pencil half-heartedly across a page as Mr. Bueller gestured enthusiastically to the world map pinned to the chalkboard with masking tape. Two weeks. Just two weeks.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    "One strawberry banana milkshake right for you, sweetie!" Cass smiled brightly in thanks to Daly as the waitress expertly slid the ice-cold glass of sweet ice cream deliciousness over to her. It was the perfect counter to the overly warm springtime air outside. Right beside Cass, her friends smiled in turn as their own cool desserts were sent over by the woman.


    "Ah, nothing like a shake after school," Jen exclaimed through satisfied gulps of her peach milkshake. "Seriously, whoever managed to convince the teachers that homework would only distract us before the finals, I could just kiss them!"


    "Hear hear!" Ashley shouted and slammed her Coke on the countertop in hearty agreement. The sound of the impact immediately brought the cook''s disapproving glare over like eyes drawn to a lit beacon. "Sorry, Marty..." Ashley bashfully said. Marty glared at her, but eventually turned his attention back to the grill once it became clear that Ashley was being more careful with the glass.


    Jen giggled and looked at Cass with a look of interest. "So anyway, I heard from Sandy that her mom saw Mark roll back in town last night."


    "What?" Cass blinked in surprise.


    Jen nodded. "Yeah. Sandy''s mom was working her usual night shift at the Gas N'' Shop and ol'' Mark stumbled in around midnight. Truth be told, apparently he didn''t look too hot. He had dark circles around his eyes, and Mark wasn''t even wearing that ratty baseball cap that was practically glued to his head back in school. All he got was a twelve-pack and some potato chips before he scooted."


    "I thought college still had about a week left?" Ashley idly wondered. "Maybe Mark went through all his tests in a flash and all those fuddy-duddies wearing tweed and slacks were impressed enough to let him go early. I don''t know. What do you think, Cass?"


    Cass threw her hands up with a sigh. "Dunno. It''s not like I''m his mom. I haven''t even talked to the guy for a year."


    "When he graduated." A misty look filled Jen''s eyes as she reminisced. "What a year it was. Breaking football records, that crazy homecoming party... prom¡­ the senior prank! I still can¡¯t believe the football team paid a mariachi band to follow old Mr. Hair around for the day. Oh, and the cows on the roof. Talk about redefining a classic.¡±


    "And when I broke up with the jerk." Cass finished. "Look, forget him."


    "We will~ but you won''t~" Ashley sang through the smuggest face Cass had ever seen her wear. "Marky-Mark and Cassy-Wass, living the dream. Feel free to indulge in your delusions, Cass. I bet Mark''s back in town to hook back up with you. That twelve-pack he bought? Liquid. Courage. That¡¯s all I can say. Give the guy a day and he¡¯ll be knocking on your front door. Better hope your dad doesn¡¯t answer with that revolver of his!"


    Cass sunk back into her seat with suppressed grumbles. She knew that her friends meant well. They never fully understood why she had broken up with Mark right before he graduated. All they saw were two high-school sweethearts hitting a rocky patch in their relationship. In a way, they were right. Except for the fact that Mark let his skills at football inflate his ego larger than the Goodyear blimp. And that he was kind of a jerk anyway even before that. When he had entered some big-name college to play football, Cass had just seen it as a sign. Mark moving away meant that maybe it was time to stop trying to fix their relationship.


    The two of them had argued enough. Still, there was a nagging feeling at the back of her head, a stray thought that wondered why exactly did Mark leave college early? Her dad followed the college football season, or at least the big games. Cass couldn¡¯t find much interest in it, but she didn¡¯t mind hearing her old man talk about the game. It was something that made him happy. So that led the stray thought to bump around in the back of her head. Why was Mark coming back when there was a game this weekend that she was pretty sure Ohio State University was playing in?


    ¡°Oh come on, Cass.¡± Ashley¡¯s teasing voice shook Cass out of her thoughts. ¡°Don¡¯t fall back into your soulless ginger routine. If you really don¡¯t want to get back together with Mark, that¡¯s a-okay. Heck, if I see him around and he asks me, I¡¯ll tell him to buzz off if you want me to.¡±


    Cass, aka the ginger in question, let out an unladylike snort of laughter at the thought of her tiny, four-foot-tall friend telling Mark, a hulking football player with over two feet of height on the girl, to buzz off. Probably with lots of threatening gestures mixed right in. She would find some way to make it work. Ashley always did.


    ¡°You know he could fold you in half with one hand, right?¡± Jen said with equal parts caution and amusement. ¡°I think we can all remember that one home game. Three whole years ago, like a few hours into the game, and Mark gets so fed up with one of the opposing linebackers that he hoists the poor guy up above his head, spins him like he¡¯s making a freaking pizza, and chucks him into the stands!" Jen''s voice became louder with hilarity after each word. "Man, what a cool cat he was sometimes. Even after that, I think he ended up talking his way back onto the team."


    ¡°No kidding¡­¡± Cass agreed with a smile. ¡°Anywho girls, forget about Mark. Jen, how¡¯s it going with Dan? I saw you two at the prom back in April.¡±


    Jen¡¯s face immediately fell like a bottomless pit had opened right under her chin.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    An hour later saw many decisions being made. Dan, as it turned out, was a jerk who hooked up with another one of their classmates, which led to Jen having to walk home.


    Cass right then and there decided to give Dan a solid sock to the face the next time she saw him.


    Josh, however, was doing a fine job as Ashley¡¯s boyfriend as always. In a way, Cass was jealous. Sure, she was happy for her friend, but sometimes it seemed like the steady relationship between Ashley and Josh was one of the constants of the world. Like the Earth being round. Or the sun rising in the East. A rule of nature that could never be broken. They just had to be together until the end of time itself. So far, that was looking to be the case.


    But all of that talk about boyfriends, classes, and events to look out for paled in comparison to the raw nervousness that had begun to fill Cass''s belly as the hour hand on the clock ticked closer and closer to the all-important time: interview time for the open spot in Dino¡¯s Diner. Despite it being a popular hangout spot for the local kids after school got out each day, the three girls weren¡¯t sitting around in the diner enjoying milkshakes just to chill. Cass had the first interview in her life coming up, and her best friends for as long as she could remember were there to back her up.


    It hadn¡¯t seemed real back in class when Cass had been idly wondering about the different choices she had. The waitress position was just another job opportunity, a chance to not starve or have to rely on the charity of her dad. A chance to earn something because of her own abilities, not because of who she knew. Of course, she did have a slight advantage since the staff and Dino, the owner, were all locals. They all were around for her entire life, watched her grow up, and supported her efforts. But that was an advantage that all the local kids had, though, and Cass was under the assumption that at least a few other people were competing against her. So that one advantage wasn¡¯t much, and it really only mattered if she was up against an out-of-towner.


    "Cass?" Marty the cook poked his head out the door separating the plebians from the mighty kitchen kingdom. "It''s time. Go get ''em, girl."


    Cass took a deep breath to fortify herself. No matter what, she had to remember that this wasn¡¯t just Dino interviewing her, but that she was also interviewing Dino. Making sure that this job for the diner would work out. If it didn¡¯t, there were still options. Like the library. Or being a homeless bum. Or sucking it up and taking the guaranteed job working for her dad.


    ¡°Yeah! Whoop whoop!¡± Ashley cheerfully shouted in her usual infectious way towards Cass¡¯s retreating back.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Pick it up. Put it down. Pick it up, then put it down. The marching song for his brain. Jack Stockworth had a job. He had to be ready. If he wasn¡¯t ready, who knew what would happen.


    So, he picked up the scrap wood discarded on curbs and in empty creeks. He put it down in his trailer. His kingdom. His fortress. Best way to keep it growing. Up and down the streets, walking through the rancid filth of Miami. Disgusting but necessary. There was a time when he hated it. Now? He saw it as a challenge. A way to hone his instincts. To increase his strength. His willpower. His drive to conquer all.


    Picking it up, putting it down.


    Another full load of wood in the back of his beater pickup truck. Fallen trees. Discarded 2x4s. Part of a porch taken from someone who was too weak to defend it properly. It was all for the greater good. If his kingdom was not properly fortified, if his strength was not increased, who else could save the weeping masses when the end of times came? The strong took, and the weak dealt with that fact. If the weak did not want their possessions taken, well, they should become strong. Only then could they escape the weakling tax.


    Jack let out a mighty breath of satisfaction as his fortress grew taller. Floor by floor, gaining height like a living, growing creature. Each thump of his steel-toed work boots against the ground saw it gaining height and mass. His creature. His bastion of security. Once upon a time it was nothing but a simple RV. Now it was his castle.


    ¡°Woah there Jack! Looking good partner!¡± A smiling man with perfectly white teeth, flawless blond hair, and a peach-colored cowboy hat cheerfully patted him on the back in admiration. ¡°Absolutely stunning. Good work!¡±


    Jack nodded and smiled. As always, his friend was nice and supportive. A blessing in these troubling times. Some philosophers said that a man was a lone fortress, but he was of the view that faithful friendship with the right people could make the walls of that fortress far stronger than it could ever be alone.


    Another man, identical to the first, walked around the corner and shot Jack a cheery double thumbs up. ¡°Niiiccceee!¡±


    A third man, again identical in appearance to the first and the second, crawled out of a nearby storm drain. The man¡¯s stylish suit was soggy wet, but he didn¡¯t seem to mind, other than to joke about the rainy weather to Jack like any true Florida native.


    ¡°It¡¯s a wet one out, isn¡¯t it buddy?¡±


    Jack smiled in exasperation and tugged at his own shirt. A stained white wifebeater undershirt. Faded blue jeans. All of it soaked with moisture from swimming through the floodwaters of last week''s hurricane. It was good for exercise, though, so he couldn''t complain.


    ¡°I know what you mean brother.¡± A fourth identical man walked through a solid glass window while sipping a cool glass of whiskey. A Macallan 12 single malt. Jack could smell it from where he stood. ¡°Ah. Hits the spot. You know, Jack? That¡¯s a sturdy fortress you¡¯re building there. But you can do that later. There¡¯s work to do.¡±


    All four of the men smiled and spoke at once. ¡°Yes. Work for you to do. Godless heathens are in America.¡±


    ¡°Where?¡± Jack spoke for the first time with a rusty, disused voice.


    The men shrugged simultaneously. ¡°The heart of America. Where better to drive the poison deeper?¡±


    The heart. The heart. Where would the heart be?


    Jack rubbed his shaved head in thought.


    ¡°Kansas. That''s where I would go for an extract if the scene got too hot to handle. A town, one so small hardly anyone''s ever heard of it. Easy to get spotted by the locals, but by the time any man worth his salt gets notified, you could already be gone. Better get looking. There¡¯s a lot of those kinds of towns in Kansas." The men elaborated in unison. They gave him one last hard look in the eyes, and once Jack blinked they were gone.


    Kansas¡­ Jack had never been there. His truck rumbled to a start as he popped another Benzedrine tablet down his gullet, taking it dry like the Lord intended. He needed all the energy he could get if there was a cross-country drive coming up. The faint ringing of the telephone coming from his castle was ignored. Wellness checks could wait. In the passenger¡¯s seat, his trusty friends nodded resolutely to him, showing their absolute approval for his decisive actions.


    Good ol¡¯ Winchester, Colt, and Fairbairn. Always ready to back him in a fight.

 Chapter 2 - Girl on the Moon

    ¡°Alright people, listen up because I hate repeating myself.¡± Mr. Sun spat out the words in gravely tones. The man himself was of a body type most people would never consider intimidating. Rotund to the point that his doctors were beginning to raise concerns, a face that normally had a cheerful smile pasted across it, and a sharp wit that was often more preoccupied with revealing the terrible pun of the day than actually doing work. A man like that would be more likely to be seen working in a mall as Santa Claus.


    In fact, early in Mr. Sun¡¯s career, he had done just that. No one ever suspected the mall Santa was actually on a stakeout mission to observe the shoe store a few feet away for cartel activity. If Santa pulled out an Uzi, a badge, and a wicked smile upon seeing his target? Completely unexpected.


    Today there was not a single glimpse of the usual Mr. Sun in that man¡¯s face and body language.


    ¡°At 0200 this morning, a whole heap of manure officially hit the fan. One of our black sites was raided by a strike team of those godless Russkies. KGB, obviously. A mole on the inside let them in through the back while the guards were on shift rotation. Moon, before you ask, yes. It was that black site. They did steal what you think. Without it, the Nirvana Project is dead in the water. Fortunately, due to a small twist of fate that Lady Luck sent us, there is still a chance to fix this screwup of colossal size before I have to tell the director he needs to send the DEFCON 1 notice to the president.¡±


    Mr. Moon raised an eyebrow. ¡°There¡¯s a chance to fix this? If they wanted it badly enough to raid a black site, then the Reds should already know what it can do for the project, even if it¡¯s only in the broadest terms. And if they know what it can do¡­¡±


    ¡°Then the third World War immediately starting would be the least terrible outcome of the bunch.¡± Mr. Sun finished. The mood of the room instantly dropped to freezing temperatures. He cleared his throat and gestured to the large map of America pinned to the wall of the conference room. ¡°We managed to take one of their men alive in the raid. ¡®Duke¡¯ Statnik lasted until 0800 this morning before he got sick of waterboarding and squealed. As it turns out, it was a local team the Russkies had embedded just outside D.C., just past the city limits. Long term, deep undercover, near-zero contact with Moscow.¡±


    Mr. Sun paused and pointed out a few locations on the map. ¡°The mole got wind of the team¡¯s existence and connected with them to sell the info for cash. Now, the Russkies got what they came for, but they know we have ears listening in on nearly every phone in the U.S.A.


    They know that this is too important for them to lose, so that means those guys won¡¯t risk mail either. Ships are out since the Russkies know I have eyes on the docks. The mob hates them just as much as we do. A plane would be suicidal considering the vigilance of the Federal Air Marshals. That leaves what ¡®Duke¡¯ said was their extract point in case things ever got too heated to stay. Couldn¡¯t get any specific names, but he said it was out West. In Kansas. Once the extract is successful, Moscow will likely know the whole story within a day.¡±


    ¡°Are we getting boots on the ground for this one?¡± Mr. Moon asked in mild tones. ¡°Casing a whole state would be tricky, but if we get army and police presence up it would be harder for them to move around. If my memory is correct, Fort Riley and Fort Leavenworth are well-stocked and in the area.¡±


    Mr. Sun shook his head. ¡°No can do. As of now, the fact that the Nirvana Project exists is only known to the people in this room, the men living at the black site, the director, and that team of Russians. The more people that know, the higher the chance that the existence of this project gets leaked to the world. By accident or on purpose, at that point it would hardly matter.¡±


    Mr. Moon fell silent and nodded his head in understanding. If that happened, then the entire world would likely be their enemy. That would make the ¡®going to DEFCON 1 if the chance to fix things fails¡¯ be sensible.


    ¡°Anyways, time is ticking. Moon, I¡¯m giving your contingency plan ¡®E¡¯ a go. I¡¯ve already gathered a team to fit your specifications. You¡¯re on point and I¡¯ve got ears working overtime trying to narrow down the search radius.¡± Mr. Sun announced. He swept his hands to gesture to the other people in the conference room and motioned for Mr. Moon to take the floor.


    Mr. Moon looked around at the different faces. He hadn¡¯t paid much attention to the other people in the conference room before, simply understanding that Mr. Sun had, for one reason or another, decided they were necessary personnel. Any information past that hardly mattered until the man saw fit to bring the topic up. Two were somewhat familiar faces while the third was new to his eyes.


    ¡°Very well.¡± Mr. Moon drily said and stepped to the center of the room. ¡°Introductions first. I¡¯m called Mr. Moon. I was brought in as one of the lead security assets for the Nirvana Project three years ago.¡±


    A woman with brown, curly hair stood up as Mr. Moon¡¯s brief introduction ended. She adjusted her glasses and nodded to him. ¡°Cathy Miller. Intelligence Branch, Communications Division.¡±


    After Cathy sat down upon completing her even briefer introduction, a large, bald man with several brutal scars on his face stood up. His bulk dwarfed the seat he had just vacated, and his every action was like a veritable mountain moving. ¡°Dag Sterner. Counterterrorism.¡± Dag rumbled in a deep voice that fit perfectly with his appearance.


    Finally, the last person in the room stood. He was nearly the complete opposite of Dag. Where the previous man was a hulking mound of solid muscle, this man looked more like an everyday salaryman. Like someone who would sell paper to other companies. He even wore a clean pair of brown slacks, a pure white dress shirt, and a pair of suspenders with little mouse pictures decorating them. The only feature on his body that betrayed his true occupation was the man''s eyes. Sharp and calculating, as if he was mentally cataloging the details of every person in the room one by one to commit to memory.


    ¡°Mornin¡¯.¡± The man said in an easygoing tone. ¡°Steve Jones, it¡¯s a pleasure to meet you fine people. Mr. Moon, it¡¯s a pleasure to work with you again. Oh, and I guess I¡¯m on loan from the Criminal Investigation division.¡±


    Mr. Moon¡¯s eyes drank in the details of the two men and the woman who were to be on his team. Small, yet balanced. Not bad for a search and destroy mission. ¡°We¡¯ll meet in the garage in two hours. Cathy, go downstairs and get a surveillance van from the Service Center. Make sure it has standard gear for a long-term stakeout, and tell them to keep it light in case we need to move it out of the vehicle. Any extras you think we¡¯ll need, make sure to ask for them. If anyone has problems, tell them it¡¯s on Sun¡¯s orders.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s Ms. Miller, please.¡± She gently mentioned before walking out of the door at a speed that wasn¡¯t quite running, but wasn¡¯t quite walking.


    Mr. Moon nodded and made a mental note of the correction. ¡°Dag. Go to the locker, get standard kits for four.¡±


    Dag nodded. ¡°Can never be too careful.¡± He rumbled.


    ¡°Just in case.¡± Mr. Moon confirmed. ¡°Steve, get a list of available assets in Kansas. Prioritize equipment acquisition. We may need to improvise on gear, and those will be our best avenues to get what we need quickly.¡±


    Mr. Sun stayed silent until everyone had cleared out of the room, aside from himself and Mr. Moon. ¡°This is all I can give you, but each and every one of them has skin in the game, just like you. Motivation won''t be a problem. The team knows they lose the reward if this ends in failure or the details of the project get leaked.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± Was Mr. Moon¡¯s only answer before he too headed for the door.


    ¡°Moon!¡± Mr. Sun¡¯s raised voice stopped him in his tracks, though Mr. Moon didn¡¯t bother to turn around. ¡°Get it done. No matter the cost. With stakes this big, I can justify just about anything I need to the director as long as the project gets back on track and no one else finds out about it. A phone call warning in advance before you do anything too big would be nice, though. Oh, and if you pull from local assets¡­ you know what to do afterward.¡±


    Mr. Moon curtly nodded. ¡°I¡¯ll do what needs to be done.¡±


    ¡°Good man.¡±


    Those words rang in Mr. Moon¡¯s ears as he departed the conference room. When was the last time he¡¯d heard Mr. Sun say that?


    ¡®Get it done, no matter the cost.¡¯


    Not since Saigon.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    The beer can was half empty.


    Or was it half full?


    Mark wasn¡¯t sure if that mattered, other than he was getting closer to emptying out his twelve-pack with each gulp that slid down the back of his throat.


    An ugly frown contorted his face into a nearly unrecognizable scowl, and he suddenly threw the half-empty can out the open car window. He couldn¡¯t even see where it landed, but Mark hardly cared. The press of the accelerator and his Corvette continued to roar down the empty stretches of the highway like a blue streak in the night.


    ¡°Damn it all!¡± Mark''s slurred voice suddenly began to shout and rave into the thin air as the car began to weave across the road in his anger.


    ¡°All my fault, every damn time! And now look at me. Back to this pointless town of failure. Ooohhh Marky Mark, you¡¯re sooooo cool! Sooo special!¡±


    Mark spat a thick wad of saliva out of the window as if to accentuate his disgust at those words. ¡°Absolutely worthless.¡±


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Another can of beer was drained in seconds and haphazardly tossed out of the car. ¡°And of course, it¡¯s all my fault.¡± He chuckled humorlessly. ¡°I should have seen it coming. I really should have. I had eyes but could not see the mountain in front of my feet. Who can blame a guy! I was good! I thought I was good! And now look where I am.¡±


    A moment of near silence, only broken by the roar of the engine, followed.


    ¡°As usual.¡± Mark somberly remarked. For a moment he actually sounded partially sober. ¡°Cass was right.¡±


    Green signs poking out from the night along the roadside informed Mark that he was only a few miles away from the next town. The next town would have a refill of alcohol. Maybe a strip club too, with some good-lookin¡¯ gals. Best of all, it would be a town where nobody knew him.


    That part was the absolute worst. Not the part where nobody knew him in the town Mark was driving to, but the fact that everybody knew him in Carlston. In every direction Mark turned, he could see somebody in Carlston looking at him with expectation in their eyes. It was something that he took for granted in the past. The warm glow of their attention. Now? It was a feeling that brought waves of acidic bile rushing up his throat in a heartbeat.


    The final can of beer from his twelve-pack crumpled into an unrecognizable shape in Mark¡¯s meaty fist once he finished draining it in a single go. The green signs denoting miles and town locations and other crap he hardly cared to pay attention to rushed past his car faster and faster as Mark brought the speed of his vehicle to the limit. Wind burst through the open windows to batter the sides of his neck and cool the inside of the car. The air conditioning had broken many years ago, and Mark had long since given up keeping it fixed. Not much of a point, if each fix would only last maybe a month at the most.


    Not much of a point. Mark bitterly shook his head. These days, it felt like a lot of things in his life hardly had much of a point. Picking up a twelve-pack at the Gas N¡¯ Shop? Pointless. The beer tasted like crap, and the small talk from Sandy¡¯s mom felt like it was driving him insane with every word. Who the hell even bothers with small talk in the middle of the freaking night? Sandy¡¯s mom, apparently. Stopping by Dino¡¯s Diner to grab a bite after running out of microwave dinners at home? A waste of time. He¡¯d spent the entire meal being bombarded by questions from Marty and Dino. Just one chicken fried steak sandwich, a Cola to drink, and some hot fries on the side. Preferably the curly ones. That¡¯s all he wanted. Well, that and to tell Marty and Dino to bugger off, but despite his yearning to do so, Mark couldn¡¯t bring himself to utter the words that were so easy to say back in Ohio.


    The main difference, Mark figured, is that Marty and Dino were at least sincere in wanting to catch up with him. A large change from the assholes of Ohio State University. So, Mark ended up giving the pair of guys at least a few answers. Mainly one-word answers in between hurried bites so he could get out of there as soon as possible, but answers all the same.


    The only question he¡¯d left well alone was why Mark was back this early, a week before college finished for the summer.


    Any further contemplation on the subject was brought to an immediate halt as a black van suddenly appeared out of the night¡­ and on Mark¡¯s side of the road. As the two high-speed masses of metal closed in on each other, it felt like time itself had ground to a near-halt. In those few seconds, Mark¡¯s alcohol-muddled mind was able to realize two things:


    One, he was driving on the wrong side of the road.


    Two, the black van was driving without its headlights turned on, and it was around midnight.


    Any other thoughts that would have normally gone through his brain were intercepted by the airbag breaking his nose as the front of his car began its solemn journey to meld with the front of the black van.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Mark gingerly opened his eyes to explore the world of pain it felt like his body had been teleported into. Unlike what he expected to see after reviewing his most recent memories (as in, recalling the car accident), Mark was neither in his car being crushed by the airbag, nor was he lying on the side of the road.


    He was in his bed, probing an alarmingly loose tooth with a tongue that tasted like warm iron.


    Mark¡¯s eyes narrowed. Did someone come across the wreck before he regained consciousness? If that was the case, then why drop him off at home in his bed? It wasn¡¯t like Carlston or the other town Mark was driving to lacked a doctor¡¯s office or a hospital. Huh. Maybe he¡¯d stumbled home drunk? It wasn¡¯t impossible.


    Mark stumbled out of his bed with a pained grunt. Now¡­ how had get gotten here? All he remembered was that black van rushing through the veil of darkness out of nowhere before he could properly react. The impact of the airbag breaking his nose¡­


    Crapola. He had a broken nose.


    After that¡­ Mark shook his head helplessly and began to search the room for something to cover up the mask of dried blood that made up half of his face. After that, his memories were nonexistent. He must have blacked out from the booze and dragged himself home out of instinct. Mark had seen it before, back at college. Heck, one of the more memorable instances was still fresh in his head. It was a football player that Mark had seen that night. Completely blackout drunk, and the angriest Mark had ever seen a man. That same football player proceeded to viciously assault a stop sign, denting it into a nearly unrecognizable shape and completely destroying his own hands in the process, and then the guy just walked right back to his dorm room on the other side of town!


    If that guy could get back to his place safely in that state, then Mark had no doubts about his own ability to do so as well.


    "Okay, Mark." He said with an unsteady voice. ¡°Broken nose, loose teeth, maybe a concussion, but nothing too dangerous so far. Now time for the bad part.¡± Mark gave his shoulders a rub and proceeded out the door to the garage.


    ¡°Come ¡®on Mark, you can do this. You can do this.¡± Mark psyched himself up with each and every step.


    Mark opened the door to the garage. His mind took one second to process the information contained within before he let out a bloodcurdling scream.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    ¡®RRRRRIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!!!¡¯


    Cass mussed up her hair in despair as the agonizing sound of the phone by her bedside ringing dragged her away from sweet, sweet dreamland.


    "¡¯Yello?" She groggily muttered into the receiver. Mentally, Cass repeated the words ''This person better have a good reason for waking me up in the middle of the freaking night'', but she was nice enough to keep those thoughts to herself.


    However, once she processed the panicked voice that came from the receiver, Cass sat on her bed in stunned silence.


    ¡°Mark? Um¡­ yeah. Yeah. Just gimme a minute and I¡¯ll be over.¡±


    Cass swept the sheets off her legs. Part of her, the cynical part, had shouted in her mind to hang the darn phone up as soon as Mark¡¯s voice revealed itself. His panic was bogus, the cynical voice claimed. An excuse to get Cass over to his house in the middle of the night. Well, more like two in the morning, but close enough.


    That cynical part, however, was quickly drowned out by the other part in her head. The part gently mentioned the fact that she had never, ever heard Mark that scared or freaked out before.


    One single sentence by that part of Cass¡¯s head was enough for her to instantly make up her mind without any further contemplation on Cass¡¯s part. A stretchy hair tie was snapped around her hair to keep it in check. The fuzzy bear attached to the keys belonging to her car was snatched up from where it sat beside her lamp. Jeans and a light cyan jacket were pulled over her Superman pajamas in preparation for stepping out into the lukewarm May air.


    ¡°Gosh darn it Mark.¡± Cass grumbled sleepily. She rubbed the weird sleep gunk out of the corners of her eyes and opened the door into the two-car garage. As expected, her Rambler was still sitting ready in the garage, so she wouldn''t have to worry about accidentally waking her neighbors up with the noise of the car starting outside. Cars could only be so quiet, something she took for granted most days. Nice and blue, old yet reliable. That was one thing American Motors managed to get right.


    Without further ado she hopped into the pale-blue car and gave the keys a twist. The ticking of the engine, as quiet as it was, still reverberated around the otherwise empty garage.


    ¡°Ugh. Gosh darn it Mark.¡± Cass repeated. ¡°This better not be bogus.¡±


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    A pair of rough, scarred fingers adjusted a battered suit and tie as the man waited. If it weren¡¯t for the circumstances, he would have appreciated a night like this. A full moon overhead, a quiet night with no sounds of traffic in the distance, and the always-lovely sight of fireflies dancing through the distant blades of grass. A good night for drinking.


    But the circumstances were what made the night what it was, Vladischov reckoned. He took another swig of the potent brew contained in the glass bottle in his other hand as he waited. Waited for news. For information.


    Honestly, it was a crying shame that the wreck had been so sudden and so tremendous. One moment the road was clear, the next there was nothing but a mighty impact and then darkness. Vladischov knew that kind of darkness well. The darkness of sudden unconsciousness. He usually only arrived at that after multiple nights of copious drinking, but at the end of the day it was one and the same, apart from how his body felt afterward.


    Vladischov paused. His tongue probed around his mouth. Something was off. He had felt it after his most recent swig. A quick flashing pain when the vodka and rum mixture had entered his mouth.


    Ah. There it was. Vladischov¡¯s face tightened slightly as he discovered the broken tooth with his tongue and spat it out on the ground.


    ¡°Oi!¡± He suddenly shouted in a fit of sudden anger. ¡°Found it yet?¡±


    The bushes near the roadside rustled as a thin man appeared from behind them. The man licked his lips and used a four-fingered hand to sweep his platinum blond hair back out of nervousness.


    ¡°Nothing. I think we¡¯re chasing after the wind here, boss.¡± Zotov Yakovich grumbled. ¡°That thing never bothered moving before. I can¡¯t imagine it would start now, but I also can¡¯t imagine why else it would be missing from the van.¡±


    Vladischov¡¯s fingers absentmindedly played with his tie once more as he thought. The back doors of the van had been hanging loose when he and his team woke. Further inspection of the doors told Vladischov that they must have flown open during the crash. That made sense. He distinctly remembered making sure they were locked when they were speeding out of the FBI black site. A high-speed impact was the only logical explanation as to why they would be open.


    "The other car, then," Vladischov¡¯s cunning thoughts naturally concluded and he spoke the words aloud. ¡°The car that hit us is not here. That means it was still in good enough condition to drive, and the driver was not hurt to the point they could not move. Perhaps that driver took it, either by accident or on purpose. Or that thing decided to unexpectedly move, and it slipped into the other car as the driver made their escape. Either way, if we find out who crashed into us, we may find a lead on the target.¡±


    Vladischov rolled his shoulders and stood up straight. Even though the search had not fully concluded yet, there was little point in continuing it past what his men had already combed through. He took a deep breath and held it until his aching lungs yearned for release. A movement in the corner of his eyes as Zotov Yakovich covered his ears was ignored, and Vladischov let out a mighty bellow that echoed across the asphalt and through the trees.


    One by one his countrymen stepped through the brush to stand at his side next to the wreckage of their black, unmarked van. Four in total in the aftermath of the black site raid. Five, with Vladischov included.


    Each one of them, men and women sworn to serve the motherland until death. Agents who had honed their patience, their skills, and their willingness to serve through years spent undercover in America. He took a lengthy gulp from his glass bottle and dashed the empty container against the asphalt, where it shattered into a million brittle pieces. At his side, Vladischov¡¯s callused hand patted at his hunting knife for further emphasis to his words.


    ¡°The objective has changed. Forget the woods and the bushes. Comb the wreckage. Find out what crashed into us. Once we have a lead, the hunt begins.¡±


    Each of his operatives nodded in unison and split up to swarm across the boundaries of the site. Metal sang its unique crashing song as pieces of the van and the unknown vehicle were thrown into different piles to be sorted through with the delicacy of a fine-toothed comb afterward. Somewhere within those piles would be the answer.


    Vladischov nodded and smiled in satisfaction. Few emotions surpassed the joy of finding a proper lead in a righteous hunt.

 Chapter 3 - Stunning

    Cass sighed. Her hand paused mid-knock outside of Mark¡¯s house. She glanced up at the night sky above. Nothing but stars and a stunningly beautiful moon. This was it, her last chance to simply go home. To go back to sleep and wake up like normal the next morning. Oh, and to maybe get the results from her interview. How exciting.


    Well, better to get it over with and figure out what had Mark freaked out so badly. Her hand completed its arc in the air to strike against the solid oak wood door in front of her. Once, twice, thrice, until finally the handle to the door turned on knock number four.


    Instantly Cass¡¯s heart leapt into her throat. Mark was¡­ not looking good. That was the nicest way she could think of to phrase it. The man¡¯s squarish face was covered in a mask of congealed blood. His nose was scrunched up, but not like how it would be if he was irritated. No, it was scrunched up at an angle that would be physically impossible to reach if his nose wasn''t broken. Which it was. Obviously so.


    Not only that, but his eyes were blurry. Unfocused, vague, and visibly showing signs of some sort of a concussion. His brown hair was wet. Potentially with blood, unless Mark had recently shoved his head in a lake. Rather unlikely, considering the rest of his head didn¡¯t look particularly wet. The palms of his hands were skinned badly, like they had been scraped against a rough surface at high speed.


    ¡°Holy moly Mark, did you lose a fight with a troll?¡± Were the first unfortunate, reflexive words out of Cass¡¯s mouth. The moment the last word left her mouth, she immediately felt a pang of regret. They sounded a bit harsher than she intended.


    Mark¡¯s eyes wandered halfheartedly around the porch before focusing on her. His face radically changed, switching from the morose expression of someone who¡¯d potentially just lost a fight with a troll, to the overpowering relief akin to what a parched man in a desert would have upon encountering the local watering hole.


    ¡°Cass!¡± Mark croaked out. She winced. Even his voice sounded raw and unfocused. Like he wasn¡¯t even sure what was going on. The concussion probably wasn¡¯t helping much with that.


    ¡°Cass you¡¯ve gotta help me! This is majorly messed up. Majorly!¡±


    Cass held out her hands in a placating manner. First things first, find out what the heck he was talking about.


    ¡°Easy there big guy. What happened to you? What¡¯s going on? You need a doctor or a hospital or something!¡±


    Mark frantically shook his head, causing tiny little splatters of blood to fly from his ruined nose to speckle the doorframe and unfortunately, part of Cass¡¯s jacket with miniscule red particles. ¡°No no no no no! I messed up! I¡¯m so sorry Cass I messed up bad please just come in I need your help! This is crazy. Freaking crazy and I don¡¯t know what to do!¡±


    Each word of the frantic, run-on sentence that fell stammering out of Mark¡¯s mouth was enough to convince Cass that while he seemed like a total loon right now, it would be better off if she just followed him to see what the big deal was. Otherwise, Mark was liable to accidentally hurt himself even more with how distressed he seemed. After that she could focus on convincing him to follow a sane train of thought.


    ¡°Alright.¡± Cass sighed. ¡°Lead me to your problem. Then you¡¯re going with me to the hospital, and no amount of arguing with me will change my mind!¡±


    Mark nodded and jogged back into the house, with Cass speedwalking in an exasperated pursuit. He seemed to be heading straight for the garage. Making a complete beeline for it, in fact¡­


    Cass''s mind suddenly began to whir with suspicion as she slowly began to put together the puzzle pieces in front of her. The big piece was Mark''s injuries. She was by no means a detective or even the brain of her class. But that didn''t mean she was stupid. Nor had Cass ignored her dad whenever he tried to show her a few tricks. Forget losing a fight against a troll. Mark''s injuries only made sense in two different scenarios Cass could conjure up.


    Scenario number one was he pissed someone off mightily bad here in town. That scenario was also impossible. Everyone loved Mark, and the guy was built like a brick outhouse. Even if no one in the town cared about him, not a single soul would be plain old stupid enough to fight a guy like Mark. A guy like that could take the expression ¡®fold you in two¡¯ and physically do just that if he wanted to. And Mark would have had to be in that fight in Carlston.


    She vaguely remembered hearing talk about Sandy¡¯s mom seeing him just the other day. Or was it the other night? Not like it mattered. The point was that if Sandy¡¯s mom had seen an injured Mark, everyone in town would have known by now. Sandy¡¯s mom was a habitual gossip. It was her thing. It was what she did. Mark getting beat in another town didn¡¯t fit. Carlston was just that far enough away from the other towns. Not too far, but far enough. If there had been another full day inserted into the mix? Well, then Cass could see that happening. But not in this timeframe.


    That left scenario number two. A car accident. Given that Mark was definitely leading her to the garage, it was also the scenario Cass was leaning towards. That meant she had to start thinking. She knew Mark was a decent driver. A car accident would either be the other people¡¯s fault, or he was an idiot and got drunk. It couldn¡¯t have been too terrible of an accident, because even though Cass wasn¡¯t his biggest fan, she knew Mark well enough to know for sure that he would have stuck around to help. To try and make things right. At the very least he would have called the cops to assist, which would also be another factor that would force him to stay on the scene.


    What was he so freaked out about then? A car accident would be scary. No doubt about that. Given how messed up Mark looked, he was probably in shock. Combined with the concussion, that could lead to him being a bit freaked out. Not as much as he was at the moment, though. This was¡­ worse. Like he¡¯d seen something either life-shattering or so crazy he was doubting his sanity.


    ¡°Here here here.¡± Mark muttered frantically and opened the door leading out into the garage. It hardly seemed different from the multitude of other times Cass had walked inside of it, but she humored the man and followed him in. Mark groped around the wall for the light switch. It took a few seconds, but eventually he found it.


    Cass gasped and her hands flew up to her mouth in shock. She¡¯d thought earlier that Mark looked like he had lost a fight with a troll. His car, a beautiful old Corvette his dad had lovingly restored and gifted him a few years ago, looked like it had lost a fight with a giant the size of a building. The hood was crumpled like an empty bag of chips thrown to the side after a satisfying spot of lunch. Every speck of glass in the vehicle was shattered into a thousand pieces. The beautiful baby blue paint was scratched so thoroughly it was like some energetic little kid had taken razor blades to it. Cass began to open her mouth to voice the jumble of thoughts racing through her head, but Mark rapidly shook his head like a dog shaking a beloved chew toy and motioned for her to look behind the car.


    She shot him a weird look but ultimately humored the man so they could get to the ''hospital'' part of her plan sooner rather than later.


    ¡°I can¡¯t see what you¡¯d think is more important than a car wreck this bad¡­¡± Cass¡¯s voice trailed off into nothing. Her eyes widened to be roughly the size of dinner plates. ¡°Oh. Is that real?¡±


    Mark nodded sadly. ¡°Yeah.¡±


    Tucked away neatly in the corner of the garage and standing completely stock still like a stuffed mannequin was a short, humanoid figure with a set of eyes that seemed to pierce down into Cass¡¯s very soul with a dispassionate uncanny valley stare. However, the eyes and its vaguely humanoid appearance were where comparisons to a normal person pretty much ended. The rest of the¡­ creature, yes, the word ''creature'' would be a more apt description, was impossibly stick-thin to the point that it looked more like a rough children''s doodle on the side of a school binder. A doodle with skin greyer than any human could achieve without serious amounts of paint and a ¡®can-do¡¯ attitude.


    Yet, Cass couldn¡¯t simply say the creature was a mannequin. It was breathing. Definitely breathing. She could see the slight rise and fall of its chest. The way its eyes blinked about once a minute. Nor could she say it was a human, for it would be impossible for even a person starved for years on end to have such thin limbs. Even if a person was nothing but skin and bones, a human''s bones would still be larger than what the creature possessed.


    ¡°Mark?¡±


    ¡°Yeah?¡±


    ¡°Is this an alien?¡±


    ¡°I think so.¡±


    ¡°Oh fiddlesticks.¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Cass and Mark spent a total of twenty minutes in a shared state of hyperventilation before they retreated from the garage.


    ¡°Oh fiddlesticks.¡± Cass repeated. Footsteps rang out against the wooden floor of Mark¡¯s house as she paced back and forth, her hands mussing through her hair in shock, trying to find some way to explain it all. ¡°And it just showed up in your garage after you woke up?¡± She double-checked.


    Mark nodded his head dejectedly. ¡°Yeah. Hasn¡¯t moved a single inch this entire time. Or even spoken. It just watches me. Menacingly!¡± He buried his blood-soaked head in his hands and began to weep. ¡°It¡¯s all my fault I¡¯m so sorry Cass pleas-¡°


    Finger snapped repeatedly right in front of Mark¡¯s face, and he looked up to see Cass looming over him.


    ¡°Can it!¡± She firmly stated, like it was an order and not a request. ¡°Let¡¯s go over everything one last time. I can think of a plan, but I need to make sure all the details are taken care of.¡±


    Mark let out a miserable little shrug and cast his mind back to the blurred series of events he would rather forget.


    ¡°I was¡­ I was driving on the highway. Headed straight out of town.¡±


    ¡°And drinking.¡± Cass butted in angrily. ¡°Heaven¡¯s above, if there wasn¡¯t a freaking alien in your garage, I¡¯d beat the tar out of you just for that!¡±


    ¡°And drinking.¡± Mark numbly acknowledged. ¡°Then out of nowhere this black van shot right out of the darkness. No lights on or anything. After that¡­ just a bunch of pain. I think I blacked out. The next thing I know, I woke up in my bed. My car must''ve worked just enough to limp home. I walked into the garage, saw that¡­ thing, and called you right after.¡±


    The sound of footsteps halted as soon as Mark finished recalling the events from earlier that night. He looked up to see that Cass had set aside her pacing to stare right at him with considering eyes.


    She took a few more moments to gather her thoughts, moments in which Mark sat in silence to let Cass do her thing. It almost felt like the old days. Back when they were together, Mark and Cass united. Back in those times, it sometimes felt like they could do anything. Go anywhere. Cass the planner and Mark the muscles. Nice and uncomplicated.


    Another string of rapid snapping noises broke Mark out of his haze of fond memories. Cass stared pointedly at him and snapped her fingers one last time for good measure, to make sure his attention was focused on her next words.


    ¡°Okay. Here¡¯s the deal.¡± Cass began, crossing her arms and shooting a glance toward the closed garage door. ¡°It isn¡¯t unheard of for drunk drivers to limp back home right after an accident. Drink can make a body really durable sometimes. You were probably too out of it to do much else other than follow an instinct like that. I bet the black van was carrying that freako alien for some reason. Some bad or secret reason since the headlights were off. No sane person would ever do that normally, driving with no headlights at night. In fact, I¡¯ll add an extra bet that says this is some weirdo government project. You¡¯ve seen the movies. FBI G-Men would totally be interested in capturing an alien. The van was probably heading straight toward Area 51!¡±


    Mark closed his eyes and winced. The way Cass''s voice had slightly risen in volume near the end of her explanation kind of felt like someone was digging knives deep into his skull to the fleshy grey matter inside.


    ¡°Oh. Sorry.¡± Cass mumbled, instantly noticing Mark¡¯s visible discomfort from his hangover. ¡°Anyways, the government probably will want this thing back. The real question is if they¡¯ll try and silence us. That always seems to happen in the movies. We need to get ourselves separated from this alien as fast as possible. Preferably in a way that no one knows we were ever with it.¡±


    Mark hoarsely chuckled. ¡°Should we abandon it on the side of the road then? Toss it out the window? I could see about sending it off with a nice spin like it¡¯s a football.¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Cass shook her head. ¡°This is a small town, the people around here love gossip, and you coming back from college is the new hot topic. That means all eyes are on you all the time. Then add in that we used to be together, so people are going to be curious to know if I have any info on you. I¡¯ve already had a few questions like that pop up. All eyes are on you, on me, on both of us until the town gets bored in two weeks. We could dump it in the woods, sure.¡±


    Cass took a deep breath before continuing to think aloud. Mark was following along, though barely.


    ¡°The problem is with so many people paying attention to what we do so the gossip machine can be fueled, is that someone¡¯s likely to see us either in the act or leaving the area. That thing would get found in the woods given enough time no matter what. Rumors would abound about how weird it is and when the government comes in to take that creature, all they have to do is track the rumors to the source, make us disappear, make the one or two people who saw us with their own eyes disappear, and claim the rumors are nothing but a rumor to everyone else. They would only have to get rid of three, maybe four people tops.¡±


    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°What is it, three in the morning? Or close to, at least.¡± Mark countered. ¡°Which town gossips would bother sticking their heads through the blinds in their windows at this hour?¡±


    Cass shrugged. ¡°You¡¯d be surprised. Juicy gossip like this is rare and in a town like this, people get bored. Plus the bar on Main Street is still open.¡±


    Mark made a sound of understanding. ¡°The bar. Eh, yeah. The regulars would still be out and about.¡±


    ¡°Plus, there¡¯s whoever was driving the van.¡± Cass wrinkled her nose in distaste. Scary black vans were never good news, not in the movies, not in real life. Not ever. ¡°They might have seen your face. Even the make and model of your car would work. Not many people around here have a car as nice or flashy as yours. They track the car, they find you.¡±


    Cass glanced at her keys. Mark¡¯s car was no good, so they would need to take hers.


    ¡°No, we need to get this to officials we can trust, and make enough of those officials know about us so that if we disappeared, people would ask questions. That would get the alien away, keep most the people in town unaware, and give us a safety net when something inevitably goes wrong because this is life and everything goes wrong.¡±


    ¡°Your dad?¡± Mark instantly guessed.


    Cass nodded in confirmation. ¡°Yup. I think he¡¯s still at the station doing some late-night work. His car wasn¡¯t in the garage when I left. We need to get this alien to the precinct and tell my dad everything. A group of hard-working G-Men might be able to make the two of us disappear without a sweat, but an entire police station? We live in the boonies, but that¡¯s a good number of officers since our station is the hub point for the surrounding towns. Ten armed men who saw it with their own eyes are a lot harder to simply vanish into thin air. Something like that would make even more people start asking questions, and that''s if Dad''s guys don¡¯t resist. And they would. It would probably be easier to force us all into an NDA.¡±


    ¡°NDA?¡±


    Cass chuckled. The sound was out of place in the bleak confines of Mark¡¯s house. It bounced across the walls like the very building itself was trying to pretend that this wasn''t a completely freaky and potentially deadly situation. The two of them began to walk back to the garage door. Slowly, but surely. As if any minute they could put off the inevitable was a minute well-spent.


    ¡°Non-disclosure agreement. Basically, if we talk about the alien after we sign, they can throw us in the slammer for life. I¡¯m talking about the full might of the U.S. law crashing onto our heads. They can just claim we fell into something freaky like an official secrets act and even if someone investigates, all they¡¯ll find is that we violated the NDA. Heck, they might just file it under espionage. No one would ask questions about that. Anyway, having to stay quiet is way better than getting thrown in some hole, or worse, killed.¡±


    Cass, of course, left her other thoughts unsaid ¨C that she was hoping her dad would figure out a better plan than her slapdash decision, and that hope was the main force between her desire to get the two of them, along with the alien that served as physical proof, to him safely with as little left to the fickle winds of chance as possible. Simple plans were the best. There were fewer moving parts that could go wrong. Get it to the station without it being seen and tell her dad. That¡¯s all there was to it.


    However, Mark didn¡¯t need to hear anything about her concerns. The guy was about a half-second away from fainting via hyperventilation. The fear was clear in his eyes, fear mixed with the haze of whatever alcohol was still in his system and the pain of his hangover. At this point, it was clear that Mark wanted to think Cass, still clad in her Superman pajamas and windbreaker, was swooping in to save the day from his goof-up, so that¡¯s what he would get. Any overestimation of her abilities was a-okay at this point as long as it kept the big guy calm. Scared people messed up and got kidnapped by some creepy FBI agent, never to be seen again.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    ¡°ACHOO!¡± The sound of Mr. Moon sneezing echoed around his car, causing Dag to start slightly in surprise, his closed eyes shooing open in less than a second. The miles had all begun to mesh together in a hazy blur. A hazy blur which was all too good of a reminder that in times like these, if you weren¡¯t driving, you should be snoozing. Sleep would allow for strength to be saved for the future. If that future had the possibility of extreme violence, well, then sleep would prove to be even more important. A well-rested mind was a powerful mind. Dag had more than a few weird sayings like that from his days in Quantico, the FBI training facility. His old instructors always liked to parrot them out. Over and over and over again until they stuck to your skull like they were superglued to it.


    Dag blinked sleepily once he verified that the gunshot-like sound was simply a sneeze and nothing to be worried about. A flick of his eyes confirmed that the surveillance van with Ms. Miller and Steve was still rumbling steadily along in the rearview mirror, with the only difference being that it appeared Ms. Miller had traded out as driver with Steve at some point during Dag¡¯s nap. A normal action that even he would have preferred to do in their car if Mr. Moon wasn¡¯t insane enough to prefer doing all the driving himself. Well, what could you do? He was the boss, after all.


    Satisfied, Dag stealthily patted the right side of his suit to feel the reassuring black metal lump of his Sig Sauer, and the left pocket of his suit to brush his hands over his pair of brass knuckles. A shifting at his waist allowed him to confirm the location of his hunting knife, along with the extra mags for his handgun. None of the weapons were particularly needed at the moment, but by now his movements were nothing more than pure habit developed by his many years working the counterterrorism beat day in, and day out. An ill-prepared man was a man reduced to several fleshy chunks on the pavement, as his old instructor at Quantico would always scream (usually from about one inch away from his ear).


    Finally, content that all was currently right in the world, he closed his eyes once more and fell straight back into Snoozeville ¨C population, Dag.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Bright sky, day sky. The sun was in the air, that oh-so-burning, hot sun. It pounded down on Jack''s forehead like a judgment from the gods of the sky. All the way through the windshield of his truck, of which he sat in the cab. Not driving, not at the moment.


    Stationary. Frustratingly stationary. It was not his choice. Jack had been moving. He was moving right along, humming to the beats that screamed at him from the truck¡¯s radio. The trees along the interstate highway had rushed past, nothing more than green blurs. No mere car dared to stay in his path.


    At least, until those irritating blue and red lights flashed in his rearview mirror. Jack had been irritated. A stop, this early in his journey? He¡¯d only passed through one or two states by now. Maybe three? He wasn¡¯t paying much attention. The journey was long, that was all he knew for certain.


    Still, Jack had stopped. He didn''t know for sure why. The person in the police car behind him was unlikely to be interesting, or particularly strong. No point in fighting him if that person did not possess either of those two qualities.


    He saw the drivers-side door to the cop car open in his rearview mirror to allow a man to step out. It was a man dressed in the tan uniform of the highway patrol. Black leather boots, a belt around his waist containing many different items, and a star on his chest. Oh, and a hat, too. A rather nice-looking hat, now that Jack thought about it.


    Now that he was thinking about it¡­ what would he look like with a hat that spiffy around his head?


    The cop came closer and motioned for Jack to roll down his window. Jack wordlessly obliged. His arm sank to the halfway point between the top of the door and the floor to grasp the crank that controlled the window. A few pumps and the window creakily slid down.


    ¡°Do you know how fast you were going?¡± The patrolman spoke the usual tired words. Jack had heard them time and time again. Enough that he could quote them in his sleep. Those, and the words that would follow.


    The cop huffed in annoyance at Jack¡¯s non-answer. ¡°One hundred and fifty miles per hour is what I clocked ya¡¯ at. Interstate speed is eighty.¡±


    Jack smiled and held up his driver¡¯s license to allow the man to take it. Not those words. The next words. The words that would follow in five¡­ four¡­


    The cop turned back to his car to mark down Jack¡¯s information.


    Three¡­ two¡­ one¡­


    Once the cop made it precisely four paces away from the truck, Jack threw open the door and launched himself at the cop. The cop tried to turn, but in a flash, Jack was upon him.


    ¡°Son of a-!¡± The cop shouted. Jack matched that shout with a scream that was part rage, part fearless joy. Two bodies collided. For a precious moment, they both teetered where they stood, a tangled mess of limbs. The cop''s hand flew toward his gun at the same time as his hat flew off his head.


    It was funny. At least to Jack, that was. The funny thing was that on a standard cop¡¯s duty belt, there were many useful items. The most useful being the gun. However, the fact was that there was also a leather strap on that specific part meant to keep the gun in place if the owner was in a tumble or something similar. Usually, it took the form of a piece of leather that looped over the grip of the gun. That piece of leather, while not difficult at all to brush aside with a thumb in a normal situation, became a lot trickier to cleanly and quickly remove when a screaming madman was grappling with you on the side of the road.


    The cop¡¯s hand scrabbled closer to his gun and the first mistake was made ¨C in the heat of the moment, he appeared to have forgotten about the strap. That mistake was one that Jack instantly capitalized on, raising his meaty fists to slam once, twice, and thrice onto the cop¡¯s chest to knock the wind out of his body. A nasty gasp of air was spat out onto Jack¡¯s face as his ploy succeeded.


    The cop¡¯s hand moved again, this time brushing the leather strap off the grip of the gun. The hot sun beat into Jack¡¯s back just like how his fists beat into the cop¡¯s body. Two brutal strikes were enough to break his enemy¡¯s right arm. Another strike dislocated the man¡¯s jaw. By now all resistance from the cop was like a weakening bit of prey in the jaws of a savage wolf. A hand beat against Jack¡¯s face but he pushed through the distraction. The fingers of that hand weren¡¯t aimed at his eyes, so there was no point wasting the time or energy blocking the blows.


    With the cop¡¯s dominant arm broken, unable to remove the handgun from its holster, Jack moved his efforts to other places.


    Namely, the throat. His two hands, almost large enough to completely obscure the man¡¯s face, moved around the cop¡¯s throat. Tight. Tighter. The cop, of whom Jack didn¡¯t even know the name of, weakly and ineffectually beat his face in an attempt to loosen Jack¡¯s vice grip. The sun bore down on his back. Sweat dripped off Jack¡¯s skin onto the uniform below him. The cop weakened. Hands beat at his face. The cop weakened more. Hoarse breaths tore out of the cop¡¯s ruined windpipe.


    Tighter. The cop¡¯s eyes began to bug out. Jack could hear the radio in his truck screaming out for blood. ¡°Do it Jack! Do it!¡± The radio¡¯s contorted voice howled with joy. ¡°Destroy the weak, one so arrogant as to turn his back to a true champion! Tear out his eyes and spread his profane viscera across the stinking asphalt!¡±


    Tighter. A feral grimace of pure elation slid across Jack¡¯s face. This was it. This was the moment. Life simplified into one simple concept of deciding an order ¨C who was strong, and who was weak.


    Tighter. The cop¡¯s hands finally began to move toward Jack¡¯s eyes. He was beginning to fight as a strong man should, but it was far too late by now.


    The man fell silent. His hands slipped away from Jack¡¯s face. His eyes became glassy. Lifeless.


    Jack smiled. He stood up and stepped away from the cop¡¯s body, stooping soon after to grab the fallen hat and the handgun from his belt. Another movement saw his fallen driver''s license flicked back into his pocket from the ground where it had fallen. The hat flipped on top of his head as he took a measure of the new weapon. It was a standard-issue Smith & Wesson M&P revolver that the majority of the police forces around the country preferred. Slick silvery steel metal, six shots, four-inch-long barrel, and it took .38 special cartridges.


    Very standard, but quite useful. The cartridges themselves were hollow points, meaning the bullet literally had a hollowed-out cavity at the tip. This cavity meant the bullet would rapidly expand on impact with the target for quicker impact and more stopping power. Easy to fire, easy to draw. His other hand cased the rest of the service belt, grabbing the spare .38 special cartridges, a bottle of pepper spray¡­ and a walkie-talkie.


    Interesting.


    Jack¡¯s eyes flicked over to glance at the now-unoccupied squad car parked a few feet behind his pickup truck. A walkie-talkie alone wasn¡¯t particularly useful. However, if his instincts were correct, a standard cop car would possess a radio setup in the dash near the driver¡¯s side.


    He stood up and began walking over to the car. A working radio setup would be quite handy. Not only would he be able to listen in to police communications, but he could also potentially use it to narrow down the location of his mission. As his friend told him at the beginning, Kansas was a big state. Kansas had a lot of small towns. With a police radio to scan the airwaves, he could listen in and wait for something interesting to be reported that could potentially point him in the right direction.


    Yeah. That could work. Jack smiled and uncapped the bottle of pepper spray, downing it in one satisfied gulp that saw his eyes water momentarily as soon as the kick from the delicious drink hit him. The empty bottle was tossed aside and Jack tore open the door to the police car.


    "Don''t mind if I do¡­" Jack hummed to himself. There it was. A police radio set into the dash just like he thought there would be. It was a squarish black device, a strange gizmo bolted to the dash with a corded doodad attached to the side. Doubtlessly that was the end you could speak into.


    Two bolts fixed the radio to the dash. Jack looked at them both and shrugged. He had no tools. No wrenches, no hammers. Nothing that would be particularly great for getting that radio out. So, he did what he could. His fists hammered into the dash, denting it with the first blow. Another blow sent plastic splinters flying, and then his hands closed around the radio. He pulled with all his might, grunting and groaning until finally the radio came free of its plastic and metal prison.


    The radio was carelessly tossed into the passenger seat of Jack''s truck. It wasn''t in a usable state right now. He would need to figure out how to hook it up to his own vehicle, how to get it power, and all that. But that could wait. Now he needed to take care of his other business.


    His hand darted into the passenger¡¯s seat. Not to grab the radio, but to grab ol¡¯ Fairbairn. Good ol¡¯ Fairbairn-Sykes. The double-edged fighting knife that had been with him since ¡®Nam. It was a special knife. A seven-inch blade, four-and-a-half-inch grip, and a smile only Jack could see.


    Per usual, Jack smiled back at his friend. He could hear its sweet voice. Oh, how it sung to him. It sang its sweet siren song, telling him of all the adventures ahead. It greeted the new friend in Jack''s pocket, Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith, of course, was a polite lad who chirped a greeting back at the friendly knife.


    Jack¡¯s smile widened. It was always nice seeing his friends get along. Then he walked over to the fallen officer and dropped to his knees. The man had fought well. It wasn''t a difficult fight, per se, but the guy had at least tried. He tried and almost got there in the end. That was all that mattered. Fairbairn sang in agreement and Jack nodded. It was unanimous, no contest.


    Winchester cheered from the cab as Fairbairn descended into the cop¡¯s unmoving chest, cutting through his ribs and to the still heart below with only some amount of effort on Jack¡¯s part. Then Fairburn pulled away. The next bit would be up to Jack. He slipped his hands into the large gash in the cop¡¯s chest, wiggling his hands to fully grasp his heart. It pulled out nicely. No complications, no veins trying to drag the organ away from Jack¡¯s gentle grip. It simply slid out.


    The heart was simultaneously ugly and beautiful. Of course, it was nowhere near that of the common depiction of a heart, like what one would see on a mushy Valentine''s Day card. No, this was a proper working man''s organ. A lump of flesh and muscle that pumped hot blood through the chest on a hot day for hard work. It was a powerhouse. Fiery. Fierce. The key to a man¡¯s purpose in life. The key to a man¡¯s strength.


    Without a heart, a man was not a man.


    Jack took a moment to stare at the red piece of muscle resting in his hands. At the slight marbling of fat on the sides. The thick blood vessels near the top of it, cut oh so neatly by reliable Fairbairn. He smiled. This stop truly was a fortuitous piece of luck.


    Then Jack raised the heart to his mouth and took a large bite. Still-warm blood trickled down his chin. Another bite saw half the heart disappear. Another. And another. The heart was gone. His hands were empty. Yet, in his belly, he could feel the cop¡¯s strength being added to his own. It was like warm fire kindled his abdomen. Meager strength, but strength nonetheless. He had a hard road ahead of him. Any amount of extra strength could be useful for future trials.


    Jack looked up and down the road. For an interstate highway, there hadn¡¯t been a speck of traffic since the cop first pulled him over. However, that could change in a heartbeat. He had to clear up the scene before anyone could see and report him.


    The cop car was still running, so all Jack had to do was yank the wheel to the right and place a stone from the side of the road onto the accelerator. The engine did the rest, rocketing the car into the side of the ditch where it would hopefully go unnoticed for at least a few hours. The cop¡¯s body was similarly easy to dispose of. Jack simply heaved it over his shoulder, tossed it in the back of his truck, and slipped inside the cab. A rustle of movement came from the back and the cop¡¯s body twitched in the rearview mirror. A flash of scaled dark grey flesh poked out from under the various stuff he had in the back of his truck.


    Jack simply smiled and nodded.


    ¡°Enjoy the meal buddy.¡± He laughed and floored the gas pedal on his truck. ¡°Enjoy the meal.¡±

 Chapter 4 - Searching For You

    Three O''Clock in the morning. The coast looked clear enough, but in a small gossipy town like Carlston, Cass could never be too sure. Still, there was a point where they would just have to go for it. Otherwise, she and Mark would be waiting with that dang alien all night instead of trying to get all this figured out.


    Her car was parked on the curb, as still and silent as she had left it mere minutes ago. She would drive, of course. Mark was both physically injured and probably still a bit drunk. Neither of those were qualities she particularly wanted with a driver. They could shove the alien in the back sea- no, best to shove it in the trunk. No need for someone to get a lucky glimpse at it in the back seat, or for the alien to suddenly start moving.


    Traffic wouldn''t be an issue. There would still be people at the bar on Main Street, only a few blocks from the police station. Other than that, the roads would probably be clear. All they would need to do was drive right by. If someone tried to talk to them or flag them down, Cass and Mark would simply smile, wave, and drive right by.


    Cass nodded to herself and gestured for Mark to follow her. The big guy had the alien tucked under his arm, grimacing like he was about to take a football through a full line of roid-raging defensive guards. Every so often his eyes flicked down to glance at the creature. Then they would shake, his breath would quicken, and Mark¡¯s head would whip away to stare at something, anything in the distance that could distract him from the insanity of the past few hours.


    Silently she walked across the lawn to her car, slipping into the driver''s seat and putting the key in the ignition. The trunk clattered as Mark wrenched it open and stuffed the creature in, before dashing around to the passenger¡¯s side and sliding in next to her. Once he sat down, Mark¡¯s expression firmed up a little.


    ¡°Right. Here goes.¡± Cass flashed a brave smile, one which Mark was unable to mimic. The Rambler rumbled to a start. In the silence of the night, the sound of that rumbling felt deafening. A part of Cass was sure that would be it. Lights would pop on in the windows of the nearby houses, people would come streaming out of the doors, and some unlucky fella would pop open the trunk to forever have their worldview changed.


    But none of that happened. At most, a window blind twitched in the nearest house, but no one walked out. It was probably just someone curious as to why the noise of a car was interrupting a late-night TV session.


    Carlston was not a big town. From one end to the other, it could take no more than ten minutes to drive across the full length of it. The distance between Mark¡¯s house and Main Street, which was right next to the police station, would take less than half that time to travel. Five minutes, in and out. That knowledge meant little to Cass, gripping the steering wheel of her car with sweaty hands.


    ¡°You still have those tapes.¡± Mark muttered. Cass glanced over at him, and then over to her car¡¯s radio. It was true. Still loaded and automatically playing whenever the engine was on.


    ¡°So? It¡¯s Led. I think their songs are good.¡±


    Mark shrugged. There it was, an unmistakable sense of wistfulness contained in his movements and words. ¡°I don¡¯t know. I just thought you would have moved on by now.¡±


    Cass fell silent for a moment, content to sink back into old, happy memories for the briefest period of time, insulated from the unnerving discoveries of the night. However, soon enough that moment passed, sent on its way with a wry smile and a comment from Cass.


    ¡°Yeah, and if you have a problem with it, remember my car¡¯s rules. Driver picks the tunes, shotgun shuts his cakehole.¡±


    Mark remained silent and stared out the window with an unreadable expression on his face.


    The Rambler inched out onto the street. Down the road. A full stop at the sign, leaving nothing to chance. A street passed by. A full block. Houses upon houses. Cass saw her own house pass by in the rearview mirror.


    Main Street came into view. Still in the distance, but close enough to see. No one had bothered them yet. Hell, they hadn¡¯t even seen anyone yet. It was like Cass and Mark were the last two people on Earth and everyone else had disappeared.


    Main Street though, that was a bit busier than most. A bit busier, as in there were actually a few people out and about in this extremely AM time of the night. The busyness was mostly in terms of present vehicles, parked outside of the bar a few blocks away. One or two drunks leaned against old, battered pickups, the men looking in no better shape than their barely functioning beater trucks.


    A crash of glass split the night air and Cass flinched. Mark did a bit more than that, jumping in his seat and letting out a coarse swear of surprise, quickly followed by a groan of pain as the top of his head smashed into the roof of her car.


    ¡°Christ.¡± Cass placed a hand over her heart. It felt like a jackhammer had slipped into her chest with the trigger duct taped down to keep it endlessly hammering away. Another sound of smashing glass dragged Cass¡¯s attention away from the road to the gas station nearby. For a moment, she had been filled with worry that the crashing of glass had come from the trunk of her car, and the alien was waking up to kill them all, but fate had proved her worries unfounded.


    "What a bunch of hooligans," Cass muttered in disgust. It was a small group of teens loitering outside of the gas station. A good mix of high-schoolers and middle-schoolers, some of which she even recognized.


    One of them, his head covered in thick locks of matted curly hair, picked up another rock and chucked it at the closest working streetlight. Within seconds that streetlight was reduced to the closest non-working streetlight, the rock striking true and busting out the lightbulb within. ¡°I can¡¯t believe they¡¯re still doing stuff like that. I ought t-¡°


    Mark let out a snort of amusement, the first truly positive emotion Cass had seen him express all night.


    ¡°Cass, I get it, but um¡­ we should probably deal with the alien stuffed in your trunk first.¡±


    Cass let her eyes linger on the group of rowdy youths for a moment longer before she turned her attention back to the road. She sighed bitterly. ¡°Yeah. We¡¯d better. And may the Lord help those kids if they¡¯re still busting out streetlights next time I see them.¡±


    ¡°Mhm¡±. Mark agreed. His eyes flinched from Cass¡¯s tone, the strength of her voice clearly making his headache flare up again. ¡°Remind me to ask your dad if I can borrow the video recorder at the station before we head back. I need some comedy gold in my life right now.¡±


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Smoke swirled around Zotov Yakovich¡¯s head as he exhaled a large cloud of cigarette smoke. The cigarette was held perfectly between his pointer finger and middle finger, the American way. That was one of the ways he was required to learn before leaving the motherland for this stinking dumpster of a country. It was not only that. How to lean against a building, how to sit, the list went on and on. There were so many ways to accidentally reveal one''s nationality by body language alone.


    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    Thus, Zotov Yakovich leaned against the outside wall of the dinky little bar in the dinky little town holding his cigarette in a dinky little way while he watched the pale-blue car creep down Main Street.


    Carlston. What a ridiculous town. A ridiculous stakeout in a ridiculous town. Well, perhaps less of a stakeout and more of an infiltration. His boss, Vladischov, was convinced this town was one of the two possible points of origin for the car that had come hurtling out of the night air on the wrong side of the road to directly collide with their van. Fair enough. After half an hour of searching, the team had finally found an identifiable piece of the car, torn off by the collision to land in an unassuming clump of bushes.


    It was a Corvette. Practically a symbol of American capitalism and not entirely common in these parts, given how damned expensive one would be. Soon after the piece was found, fresh tire tracks were identified. Fresh enough to have been left up to an hour or two ago, with a size that was consistent with the standard size of tires a Corvette would have right out of the factory. It wasn¡¯t a perfect deduction, the tire size especially was a bit of a reach, but a lead was a lead. Now they had something where once they had nothing.


    The tire tracks went for a way, only becoming too faint to see at the final crossroad, one that split between this town, Carlston, and another small town, Johnson. Frankly, Zotov Yakovich was desperately hoping the creature had been taken to Carlston. It would be convenient, extremely so, considering that the same town was their pre-planned extract point. That, and he had a nice pile of rubles bet on the outcome.


    Nevertheless, his hope could never be confused for certainty. Nor could Vladischov''s hope, who tossed it away instantly in favor of the sheer practicality of splitting the team. Mrs. Orlova and Markov would check out Johnson. Meanwhile, Zotov Yakovich and Komarov would investigate Carlston. Then, Vladischov would be right in the middle, ready to manage the comms and coordination between the two teams.


    The question was, what mission did the boy and the girl in the blue car have? It was creeping down Main Street, far under the speed limit. By his estimations¡­ ten miles per hour, most likely. The limit was twenty.


    Zotov Yakovich took another drag of his cigarette and thought to himself. That car was no Corvette. It was blue, sure, just like the bits of blue paint that had been scraped off onto the front of the van from the collision, but a simple paint job wasn''t enough to connect the dots. If they were in the motherland, he would have definitely still shaken up the tree to see what fruit would fall to the ground.


    Not here, though. Secrecy was all too important, especially after losing ''Duke'' in the raid and letting the mole disappear. Frankly, he was of the opinion that putting a bullet in the head of the mole after the operation was complete would have been the best idea, but unfortunately, the situation had become far too complicated in the aftermath to take the time to track the squirrely man down.


    Then again, the driver looked awfully nervous. Even from here, leaning against the side of the building as he was, Zotov Yakovich could see how tight her hands were against the steering while the car passed by.


    The faces of both the girl and the boy looked white, as pale as ghosts. Then Zotov Yakovich¡¯s eyes narrowed. The boy in the passenger¡¯s side seat¡­


    He threw his cigarette to the ground. The motion was made casually, but with great purpose at the same time. In his peripheral vision, he saw Komarov inside the bar see the signal through the window and excuse himself from the small tangle of drunks still out and clawing their way to sweet oblivion at this time of night.


    Komarov sidled his way across the bar. He opened the door. The little bell attached to the top of it let out a little ¡®ring¡¯ noise that cut shrilly through the night air.


    ¡°A lead?¡± Komarov asked. The tall, heavyset man casually lit up a cigarette of his own and stood next to Zotov Yakovich, as if the only reason he¡¯d left the bar was because he was craving a smoke. Zotov Yakovich lit up another cigarette of his own and discreetly nodded in the direction of the car. Now that it had passed by the bar, he could see the model of the car stamped on the back side of it, the metal shimmering under the streetlights.


    ¡°The Rambler. Blue color. The drivers are suspicious.¡±


    Komarov narrowed his eyes, all the better to focus his vision on the pair.


    ¡°Aye.¡± He nodded, but still voiced his concerns just in case. No need to do anything drastic until they were completely sure. ¡°Two lovebirds maybe? Sneaking out without their father¡¯s permission? Or perhaps they are drinking. Remember, the legal age is eighteen here. They look young enough to still be in school.¡±


    Zotov Yakovich nodded in understanding. His comrade had good points. However¡­


    ¡°The boy in the passenger seat. His nose is freshly broken. I could see the blood in the streetlight. The rest of his face is damaged as well.¡±


    ¡°Ahhh¡­¡± Komarov voiced his understanding. ¡°It could be damage from the wreck. No one could walk away from that unharmed.¡±


    ¡°It is to be expected for an airbag to break one¡¯s nose when it activates.¡±


    ¡°Should we radio Vladischov?¡±


    Zotov Yakovich threw his cigarette to the ground again. It was nowhere near finished, but there would be time for a nice long smoke later. His boot crushed the smoldering end against the cement, but his eyes still followed the Rambler. Followed it down the rest of Main Street. Followed it as it slowed even more after a few blocks.


    Followed it as it came to a stop right outside of the police station.


    He nodded. ¡°Call it in. Ninety percent certainty. We cannot afford to lose even a potential trail.¡±


    Komarov nodded. ¡°Aye.¡±


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Finally, the station was in view. Close enough for Cass to let out a slight sigh of relief, though the harsh voice in the back of her head continued to scream, ¡®Eyes up, Cass! Constant vigilance! You¡¯re so close to the end, something is bound to happen!¡¯.


    Cass shook her head and the harsh voice faded to be nothing but background noise. The windows of the police station were still glowing with warm light. Just past the glass doors up front, she could see Carlos at the desk, working the night shift like usual. She turned to Mark, using the motion to also glance around the immediate surroundings. The bar was still in view and still somewhat busy, but other than two men smoking outside, the streets themselves were pretty quiet.


    The voice in the back of her head got louder all of a sudden, and as Cass began to speak with Mark, she threw her car into reverse and swerved so that the back of the car was facing the doors of the station.


    ¡°Alright. Once I finish backing up I¡¯ll pop the truck. Once I turn my car off I¡¯ll give you my windbreaker to wear.¡±


    ¡°It won¡¯t fit.¡± Mark replied. The brief moment where he had cracked a few jokes and let the tension bleed out a bit was gone, replaced by the same jumpy, jackrabbity Mark who¡¯d answered the door to his house just a little bit ago. Fear flowed through his eyes as easily as a rain-soaked river.


    Cass held back an exasperated sigh and elaborated with a few quick words. ¡°Just drape it over your back. That way when you tuck the alien under your arm, my windbreaker will cover it.¡±


    Mark made a noise of understanding. "Those smokers. So they don''t accidentally see."


    ¡°Or anyone else who stumbles out of the bar.¡± Cass continued.


    The Rambler shuddered to a start. Cass leaned down and pulled the lever on the floor near the driver¡¯s side door that would pop the truck open, and then wrenched off her windbreaker to hand to Mark without any further words. Mark threw it over his broad shoulders, the nylon creaking as it struggled to fit. Then Mark tore open the car door, jogged around to the partially open trunk, and tucked the creature under his right arm.


    Cass, meanwhile, moved at a more sedate pace ¨C the more natural she looked, the better, or at least she assumed that would be the case. She took another glance around the area. There was still no one other than the two smokers. Cass shivered. One of the smokers had happened to glance up. Even as far away as they were, a couple blocks away at least, she could still faintly see the eyes of the thin man. He had uncomfortable, piercing eyes, eyes that bored into her very mind like all the secrets in Cass¡¯s head were being wiggled out for examination one by one.


    She shivered again, and like that the smoker turned to his companion and laughed, clearly sharing a joke as they whiled the night away.


    ¡°Come on.¡± Cass muttered. Creepy man notwithstanding, they couldn¡¯t afford to just stand around. Mark was still practically quaking in his shoes, so Cass took the lead and walked up to the glass doors, pushing them aside to let her friend with the ill-fitting windbreaker inside the building.


    Carlos looked up and smiled a gentle greeting.


    ¡°Cass! A bit late, don¡¯t you think? You here for your old man? Oh, and with Mark! Hi Mark!¡±


    Cass nodded briskly while Mark wordlessly nodded his greetings to the familiar officer. ¡°Yeah. Is he up in his office?¡±


    ¡°Like usual. Nothing crazy, if that¡¯s what you were wondering. Just an overflow case from nearby that piqued his interest. Want me to call up?¡±


    ¡°Ah, this won¡¯t take much time.¡± Cass was already halfway to the stairs that led up to the second floor, and thus to her dad¡¯s office. ¡°Thanks, Carlos!¡±


    ¡°Always a pleasure.¡± The kindly man nodded back to her before pulling his sports magazine back out to peruse.

 Chapter 5 - Bad Dream Baby

    Carlos hadn¡¯t even glanced at the cargo tucked under Mark¡¯s arm. Either he hadn¡¯t noticed it, or he simply trusted Cass enough to assume whatever it was posed no danger. Frankly, Cass wasn''t quite sure herself if the creature was harmless. Part of her expected the night to swiftly morph into something straight out of a horror movie ¨C perhaps the alien would come alive in Mark''s arms to take a chunk out of his side or trap Cass in a tangle of mind-bending nightmares created by her own brain.


    That hadn''t happened, though. The alien had yet to make a single move, even one isolated movement. It hadn''t done anything other than blink once every couple of minutes. It made no sounds. Nor did it squirm, flinch, or even adjust its body to a more comfortable position.


    Frankly, if Cass had to guess, it almost seemed brain-dead. Either that or completely checked out of the situation. Or perhaps it wasn¡¯t capable of thought? That almost stick-thin body, akin to a child¡¯s scribbles, seemed too impossibly thin for life to fill its frame. On the other hand, there were the eyes. Incredibly detailed, like a professional artist had spent months drawing that singular feature (then of course, letting a small child with a pen and a dream finish out the rest of the body).


    The wooden stairs leading up to the second floor creaked, shaking Cass out of her musings as Mark continued on his way to her dad¡¯s office. She hurried to join him. The police station wasn¡¯t large. A wooden building put together at some point in time during the thirties, that due to budget concerns and the fact that it had held up pretty well to the sands of time, almost everything was still original. Wooden walls, cast-iron heaters, no air-conditioning, but rather a rather nice marble tiling on the first floor that ran all the way from the receptionist¡¯s desk right past the entrance, to the open-concept lobby that doubled as an office space, to the few holding cells in the back with their cold bars of iron.


    Only the main floor had changed much, with two of the four holding cells being removed about ten years ago to allow more space to accommodate the additional officers added when Carlston was designated a hub town. That year, the police station had gone from holding two officers and the chief, to a total of ten men that could be sent out to handle all the small and medium-sized towns within a thirty-mile radius.


    The second floor, however, was completely unchanged from its original function. The police chief¡¯s office, an unused secretary¡¯s desk, and the break room were the main focus of the much smaller floor.


    As Cass predicted, a warm light was shining through the crack under the door to her dad¡¯s office. He was still there, burning the midnight oil as Carlos had said. For a moment she hesitated, fist raised mid-knock. This was it. Her last chance to change her mind, to keep her dad safely out of whatever the hell this crazy night was. He was busy. His mind was occupied with important work solving a case a few towns over. Doubtlessly an important one, to have the chief himself working on it as opposed to assigning it to the guys downstairs. Well, they were probably working on it as well, but still. Cass''s dad didn''t work on every case. His time was limited, with all the administrative junk he had to deal with.


    It was Mark¡¯s fidgeting that made up Cass¡¯s mind in the end. She didn¡¯t even need to look Mark in the eyes to know he was still scared out of his mind. The stalwart, tough Mark she¡¯d known when he was still in high school was nowhere to be found. It was just scared, meek Mark now, out of his depth and praying that Cass could get him out of whatever he¡¯d stumbled upon.


    Only Cass¡¯s best idea was to ask her dad. Her hand descended on the wooden door emblazoned with her dad¡¯s last name and title ¨C Chief Thomson, Carlston PD.


    ¡°Come in.¡±


    Cass closed her eyes once her dad spoke the words. It was done. Her hand found the doorknob and twisted it to allow warm light to spill out into the hallway.


    ¡°Cass? Awful late to drop by. Is everything alright?¡±


    A man with blazing red hair looked up from a stack of papers on his desk, his sharp brown eyes peering over the obstacles to look at Cass and Mark with a mix of curiosity and mild concern, though the bags under his eyes betrayed a certain level of exhaustion. He was still dressed in his black police chief¡¯s uniform, his badge pinned in place over his heart and his cowboy hat hanging loosely on the coat rack next to his giant wooden desk. Noticing Cass¡¯s hesitation, he stroked his ginger mustache, neatly groomed and presentable at all times, and stood from his desk.


    ¡°It¡¯s three in the morning, you¡¯re still in your pajamas, and Mark has something bulky under his arm. Something¡¯s wrong.¡± He summarized, his sharp eyes noting every detail in an instant.


    ¡°Chief Thomson¡­¡± Mark began to speak, but Cass quickly cut him off with a pointed look.


    ¡°Dad. It¡¯s better if we just show you. Mark, can I have my windbreaker back?¡±


    Her dad¡¯s eyes, once filled with curiosity and concern, widened imperceptively in a matter of seconds as Mark swept off the windbreaker from around his broad shoulders and handed it back to Cass, who shrugged it back on wordlessly.


    For a moment everyone was silent. Cass, Mark, her dad, everyone.


    ¡°A movie prop ¨C no, it¡¯s breathing. ¡®He¡¯s¡¯ breathing? Or is this an ¡®it¡¯?¡± Chief Thomson¡¯s narrowed eyes dissected the situation as methodically as he would a crime scene, taking in all the little details one by one. Instantly Cass felt a flood of relief. Her dad wasn¡¯t wasting a second. She wasn¡¯t wrong to believe in him. ¡°Explain.¡± He looked at Cass, eyes boring into her own.


    Cass gulped. Her dad was in detective mode. Already he''d glanced over Mark''s poor condition. Likely he was mentally connecting the dots by the second.


    ¡°Mark got in a wreck with a van a few hours ago. Black in color, headlights turned off. He blacked out and woke up in his bed. His car was in his garage, this creature was standing next to it.¡±


    ¡°So, this isn¡¯t an extremely anorexic child.¡± Chief Thomson concluded.


    ¡°Hasn¡¯t made a peep and its body is too thin. Even if someone was starved for months.¡± Cass confirmed. ¡°Plus it barely blinks. Like once a minute?¡±


    Chief Thomson circled around his desk, navigating through the staggered chairs and stacks of papers littered around his office. His boots were muffled against the carpet. A small flashlight, more akin to a penlight, slipped out of his back pocket to shine in the creature¡¯s eyes. It did not blink. Not even when the light focused on its pupils no more than a centimeter away.


    ¡°But alive.¡± He muttered, patiently waiting a full minute to watch it blink in Mark¡¯s arms. Then he turned to look straight into Mark¡¯s eyes. ¡°Son, can you give me any more details on that van?¡±


    Mark began to shake his head, but Chief Thomson patted him on the shoulder and leaned in close with a wink. ¡°Think about it for a bit, and I¡¯ll pretend to ignore the alcohol on your breath for a bit longer.¡±


    Cass, meanwhile, moved a stack of papers from the closest chair and sat down, her windbreaker wrapped snugly around her upper body. Her dad was obviously concerned about the people with the van. Just like she was. The question remained, could he figure out any more than she could think of?¡±


    "The body of the van was painted jet black," Mark said haltingly. He set the alien down on the floor and ambled over to the smaller window adjacent to the large wooden desk that dominated the majority of the room. ¡°No headlights. Not even fog lights. Nothing. It was on the highway¡­ I don¡¯t rem¡­ no, it was on the highway a good five or so miles out from Johnson. I couldn¡¯t get a look at who was driving. It shot out of the darkness before I could react.¡±


    Chief Thomson kneeled to look at the alien again. He grabbed one of its stick-thin arms, holding it up in the air and letting go, watching as the limb dropped down like a limp noodle.


    ¡°Then you blacked out.¡±


    ¡°Then I blacked out.¡± Mark confirmed, and then added on with a miserable tone, ¡°I woke up in bed after, blood all over my sheets from my broken nose. I staunched the bleeding, went out to my garage, saw my totaled car, and saw this¡­ thing.¡±


    ¡°Not totaled.¡± Chief Thomson corrected Mark. ¡°You got back in it. Unless this thing can teleport. It¡¯s already in the realm of some weird sci-fi Twilight Zone madness.¡±


    Mark took a long look out of the window. Cass glanced over at him, turning her attention away again once it became apparent that he hadn¡¯t seen anything interesting, but was instead using it as a way to try and focus his thoughts. ¡°I think I got back in it. The hood was damaged enough to see the engine. It looked¡­ mostly usable.¡±


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    ¡°If you were drunk, I could believe that.¡± Chief Thomson stood up from looking at the alien and walked over to the window next to Mark. ¡°I¡¯ve seen half-dead drunks stumble home from two towns over out of pure instinct. My bet is the crash itself didn¡¯t black you out. How much were you drinking, son?¡±


    Mark''s face blanched and he shot a pleading look over to Cass. Cass replied with a look of her own that communicated the unspoken words, ''You got yourself into this, now deal with the consequences.''


    ¡°A lot.¡± Mark reluctantly admitted. ¡°A twelve-pack and change. Lots of change.¡±


    "Blackout drunk." Her dad concluded. A shout of pain rang out, and before Cass could even react, Mark was reeling back clutching the side of his face while Chief Thomson lowered his fist.


    ¡°Dad! Y-¡°


    "Son, that was for driving drunk. If it was any other night I''d toss you in the drunk tank for a few days so you could think about your actions. What would you have done if you''d killed someone?"


    ¡°I¡¯m¡­ sorry.¡±


    Mark, formidable, bulky, powerful Mark, meekly apologized. It was something that the Mark she used to know would have never done. The Mark she knew would have clenched his jaw, looked her dad defiantly in the eyes, and said nothing. He would''ve held off his reaction to the strike on purpose, to show how tough he was. Frankly speaking, it wouldn''t have been an act. Mark was tough enough to shrug off a punch from a full-grown man.


    ¡°The next time you do something as unbelievably stupid and unintentionally malicious as that, I will charge you to the full extent of the law. Right now¡­¡± Chief Thomson shot a look at the alien on the floor, ¡°We have bigger problems. If I were a betting man, which I am not because gambling is a sin, I would wager that this thing slipped out the back of that black van in the chaos and into your car. It hitched a ride like a tick falling from a tree to burrow into the back of a hiker¡¯s neck. Given that this is either some strange experiment or an honest-to-God alien, if I were a betting man I would also wager whoever wanted to be unnoticeable enough to willingly turn off their headlights in the middle of the night likely would want this thing back.¡±


    Chief Thomson turned away from the two and picked the phone on his desk off the receiver. One by one he moved the rotary dial to each number with a sense of solid purpose that sent a warm blossom of hope blooming in Cass¡¯s chest. This was it. Her dad knew what to do. He would make things right. Just like he always did.


    As the chief methodically dialed the numbers, he continued to speak. ¡°Mark, you¡¯re still driving that flashy Corvette of yours, right? The one your pa gave you?¡±


    Mark wordlessly nodded.


    ¡°Providing the driver or drivers of that van were awake, they will have likely seen your car. Even if not, there is a non-zero chance with a collision of that magnitude that an identifiable piece of your car was left on the scene. Assuming they find out a Corvette hit them, all they need to do is head here or to Johnson looking for the sparse handful of people in the entire state who have that kind of car instead of something actually practical. One driver, probably a man riding shotgun, then adding on two more men for caution¡¯s sake. Splitting up into two teams means they can case both towns for a totaled Corvette or someone who looks like they¡¯ve been in a nasty wreck.¡±


    His fingers paused on the last number before moving the rotary dial one last time. A man¡¯s voice, mostly imperceptible to Cass¡¯s ears, answered on the second ring.


    ¡°Sorry to disturb you. Yes, yes of course. Would you mind prepping a holding cell? Oh, and send Paul up to my office, please. Thanks, Carlos.¡±


    Chief Thomson patted Mark on the back again and spun him around to face the rest of the office, gesturing toward the alien while he did.


    ¡°Son, go ahead and tuck it under your arm again. We¡¯ll throw it in the holding cell with Paul as a guard over it. I¡¯ll reach out to the Feds and negotiate with them to send a team over for retrieval. Then while we wait for them to turn up, Carlos will call all the officers in to take a good long look.¡±


    ¡°So we don¡¯t get disappeared.¡± Cass¡¯s eyes widened. She truly was right to worry about that.


    Her dad¡¯s eyes twinkled. ¡°Sure thing kiddo. Right now, the only officers in the building are me, Carlos, and Paul. Bill¡¯s on patrol and the rest are off duty. Once all the men have seen it, the Feds will likely prefer to make us sign some papers instead of taking us out back. That is, of course, only a concern if this is as crazy as I, and it seems you as well, think it might be. The end thing is, we don¡¯t want to die and they won¡¯t want this getting out. Since we know that, I can take steps to make sure everyone is happy. Compromise. Such a magical word.¡±


    The clumping of boots heading up the creaky wooden stairs heralded Paul¡¯s arrival.


    ¡°Chief, Cass, oh hey Mark!¡± A bearded man burst through the doors like an avalanche swarming over a mountainside. Like Carlos at the desk downstairs, he was dressed in his standard policeman blues, though the badge at his chest was partially obscured by the length of his thick and bushy beard.


    "Paul." Chief Thomson let out a short greeting before pointing at the lump under Mark¡¯s arm. ¡°We¡¯ve got an alien on our hands. Put it in the holding cell Carlos is prepping until I get some suits from the government down this way to take it off our hands.¡±


    Paul¡¯s stark grey eyes swept over the creature in question. ¡°Well, this¡¯ll be a night for the books. Come with me young Mark.¡±


    As Cass made to leave following Mark and Paul, her dad¡¯s heavy hand fell onto her shoulder to stop her.


    "Cass." He said once the door closed behind the two, "You did well bringing this to me. It would have been reckless to try hiding it away. Now we can take the steps to get this off our hands as cleanly as possible.¡± Then he swept her up in a hug, one that Cass leaned into, though she was careful to twist her torso slightly so that the sharp edges of his duty belt didn¡¯t dig into her skin.


    "Thanks, Dad."


    All the while, Cass kept one eye trained on the window Mark had been looking out of earlier. The window, while small, afforded a decent view of Main Street, which included the front side of the bar by default. Neither of the two smokers were still standing outside.


    The building itself had mostly cleared out by the look of it, with most of the patrons finally starting to stumble home. Aside from a beat-up Chevie pickup truck parked near the door, which belonged to the bar¡¯s owner, and a beige Ford Sierra car that had just been turned off, the lot was practically empty.


    Cass cocked her head as her dad stepped away and said something about going downstairs to check on the situation. The smokers had unnerved her earlier, but the man who heaved himself out of the Ford Sierra looked¡­ well, she hated to profile, but he looked like some terrifying cold-blooded man in a suit, the kind of man that her social studies teacher would also put a picture up of when he would talk about the Soviet Union¡¯s KGB agency.


    He wore a battered suit and tie, filled with rips and tears that spoke of either callous neglect or an extreme amount of physical action. The suit was pure black, like a void in the night air. Then in an instant, the man disappeared through the open door of the bar. Cass shivered. A strange character for a strange night, but hopefully it was just some out-of-towner stopping by for a drink. It happened all the time.


    Maybe he was a warm man underneath that petrifying visage. He could have a family. Sons and daughters who had spelling bees and school plays for him to tearfully watch. That dent on the hood of his car, it was probably made by a baseball hitting it! His son must have been learning how to play and been careless with his swings.


    Still, as Cass made her way out of the office and toward the stairs, she couldn¡¯t quite shake the feeling of dread that there were far too many parts to this night that were left unknown, taunting her in the shadows with what could go wrong.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Metal clattered against wood as Cathy set the keys to the van on the nightstand. On the floor in front of the bed, between her and the door, Steve fluffed a pillow he¡¯d stolen from her and took off his jacket with a sigh of contentment. Clearly, he was perfectly happy with whatever sparse comfort the floor could provide. Either that or the man was insane. Cathy wasn''t quite sure of the answer herself yet.


    The unblemished white fabric of his dress shirt was provided a stark contrast by the solid black leather of the holster strapped under his left shoulder, one that saw the utilitarian grey gunmetal color of the man¡¯s Sig Sauer P226 poke out ready to be drawn and used at any given moment. A speck of black poked out from under the collar, the only indication of the bulletproof Kevlar vest concealed under Steve¡¯s clothing.


    Her colleague was quite talkative, the drive from D.C. had proved that much. But if Cathy hadn¡¯t been paying close attention those details would have escaped her.


    She could live with that, though. Talkative people weren¡¯t the end of the world, even if she had to share a motel room with one. Mr. Moon and Dag were two doors down, though likely their room was quite a lot more stoic. The two pairs had kept away from each other on Mr. Moon¡¯s orders, citing that it was imperative that the groups could not be connected by an outside party. They had even staggered their arrival times to the motel by half an hour. Regardless, Cathy had seen enough of the two to know that they were quite stoic individuals indeed.


    ¡°Quite a peashooter you¡¯ve got there.¡± Steve abruptly spoke up once he¡¯d finished spreading his jacket in an impromptu blanket over his chest. Cathy blinked in surprise, but before she could ask him to elaborate, Steve continued to speak.


    ¡°The six-shooter tucked away in your purse. I can see it from here.¡±


    It seemed like each hour that passed, Cathy continued to be surprised by the man¡¯s attention to detail. It was clearly a skill well-honed, though it was hard to say if that skill was acquired through work in his division, or through the experience of life. Perhaps it was both. Nevertheless, Cathy reached over to the nightstand and dragged the topic of discussion out into plain sight. It was an ugly weapon, made of black steel with a polished wooden grip. A six-inch-long barrel, six shots, and a sturdy hammer that needed to be manually cocked back to ready each shot.


    ¡°Smith and Wesson, Model 29.¡± She briskly introduced, holding the gun out so Steve could see it from where he was resting on the floor. The sooner his curiosity was sated, the sooner she could get some shuteye.


    Steve let out a low sliding whistle of appreciation. ¡°One hell of a piece. The most powerful handgun in the world, ay?¡±


    Cathy nodded, wordlessly confirming his suspicions on why she chose that particular weapon.


    ¡°Good ol¡¯ Dirty Harry. Hell of a movie. Those .44 magnum rounds¡¯ll put a good hole in anyone for sure. You got a specific reason for packing that piece, or was that movie enough of one?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll never be mugged again.¡± Cathy shortly replied, sliding the handgun back into her purse, slipping her glasses off to set on the nightstand next to it, and turning off the lamp to signal that the discussion was over.


    ¡°Yeah. No kidding.¡± She could hear Steve mutter to himself. ¡°Whip that guy out and you don¡¯t even need to shoot. Anyone who isn¡¯t a flat-out tweaker high off their rocker will be running in the opposite direction in seconds.¡±

 Chapter 6 - Jailhouse Rock

    ¡°Report.¡±


    The bar was empty. Empty of drunks, of lowlifes, empty even of the townsfolk. They¡¯d all gone home for the night. Why wouldn¡¯t they? It was late, nearly half past three in the morning. Anyone with any sense about them would be home in bed by now. Yes. The bar was empty - aside from Vladischov, Zotov Yakovich, and Komarov. They stood as a trio, their arms leaning casually on the bar counter. Drinks aplenty were sat before them. Vodka. Rum. Whiskey. Beer. Multiple bottles all stuck out on the counter just for them.


    Zotov Yakovich took a long, satisfied draft of his beer. It was a lighter style of beer, made to be cool and pleasant on the tongue. Nothing you could easily get drunk on. Not unless you had a few cases lying around. He looked over to the brutally scarred face of his boss. It hadn¡¯t taken even a full ten minutes for the man to make his way over to Carlston. According to the man, it had been rather cut and dry. Pretend to be someone caught in a wreck on the side of the road, wait for someone to stop, kill them, and take their car. Then all that was needed was to break every speed limit in the books.


    ¡°As I said, ninety percent. A boy and a girl. The boy possesses injuries similar to what a car crash victim would have. Both looked extremely nervous. The girl was in her pajamas, so they weren¡¯t out for a planned errand. They made a beeline for the police station, stopped right outside the doors, pulled something out of the trunk, and all but ran through the doors.¡±


    Vladischov drained the bottle of whiskey before him, throwing it aside with a dissatisfied snort once it fell empty. A flex of his powerful arms sent the man sailing over the counter, feet touching down in a pool of blood next to the lifeless body of the bartender. He sent a quick glance up and down the rows of alcohol before selecting yet another bottle of whiskey.


    ¡°Numbers?¡±


    Komarov spoke up this time, the heavyset man kneading his thick fingers against each other. It was a nervous habit even a decade in service to the KGB hadn¡¯t been able to fully stop.


    ¡°No more than four cops. Of those four are the police chief, the desk sergeant, and one regular uniform that I¡¯ve seen. The fourth guy I don¡¯t know for sure. There¡¯s a fourth cruiser in the parking lot, other than that I haven¡¯t seen hide nor hair of number four. The desk sergeant¡¯s a normal sight for the night shift. The others¡­ they¡¯re most likely working late on a case.¡±


    Vladischov drained the bottle of whiskey in one mighty swig, throwing the empty glass container away in favor of a mostly full bottle of vodka sitting in front of Zotov Yakovich. He pulled the cork off with his teeth, the jagged incisors flashing under the warm bar lighting, and sucked down half the liquid inside before answering.


    ¡°Three on four at the most. Ain¡¯t nothing we can do about it. Orlova and Markov are too far away to assist tonight. We can¡¯t wait for them to arrive. It¡¯ll be a bit flashy¡­ but so was the raid.¡±


    Zotov Yakovich raised an eyebrow. Unconsciously, so habitual he didn¡¯t even notice he was doing it, his four-fingered left hand reached up to his head to sweep his hair back.


    ¡°We¡¯re outnumbered.¡± He pointed out, though before even finishing those words, he already knew how futile the protest was.


    As it turned out, Zotov Yakovich was instantly proved right. Vladischov drained the vodka bottle down to the last drops and crushed the glass container in his meaty, almost trash-can-sized hands.


    ¡°If this were another round with those dogs in the FBI, I would agree. But these are country cops. Soft. Weak. Spineless. They aren¡¯t expecting trouble. We hit them hard, we hit them fast, secure the package, and fly to the wind. Once the chopper arrives it will be near impossible to track us.¡±


    Vladischov leaped right back over the counter to land next to Zotov Yakovich and Komarov. He grinned, tapping them each square on the chest. Though the action was meant to be light, almost a gesture of comradery, the two men stumbled back a step from the force of the gesture.


    ¡°Come. Let us see if these ¡®country cops¡¯ measure to even half the ability of those back in the motherland.¡±


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    The only indication Cass had of the night going even more sideways than it already had was a sudden, loud noise that split into her ears from where she was in her dad¡¯s office, rooting through the drawers in his desk for snacks to help calm Mark¡¯s nerves. The rest of the office was empty of people, save for Mark. Everyone else had moved away to take care of various tasks once the alien was safely in one of the holding cells near the back of the first floor. Carlos had remained on duty at the front desk, Paul was sitting outside the cell just in case, Chief Thomson was making some calls, and Bill was on his way back from patrol as fast as his car could get him here.


    As soon as the loud noise finished echoing around the building, Cass¡¯s head snapped past Mark, who was standing bolt upright, to the half-open office door.


    ¡°Hey Cass¡­¡± Mark suddenly spoke up, wide eyes also glued to the door.


    ¡°Yeah?¡±


    ¡°Do you hear that?¡±


    Cass nodded. Who hadn¡¯t? She would have to be deaf to miss that. ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°You thinking a car backfiring or fireworks?¡±


    ¡°Outside a police station?¡± Cass snorted. ¡°No one would be that stupid to set off fireworks. Plus it¡¯s a.m., very a.m.¡±


    ¡°The Monty brothers would.¡± Mark countered.


    Cass shrugged her shoulders. Her head was tilted, right ear in the air in a vain attempt to hear better. It was only one loud noise. Nothing had followed it yet.


    ¡°They moved East, out to the big city. About half a year ago I think?¡±


    ¡°Really?¡±


    Cass looked back to Mark, who caught her glance. ¡°Yeah.¡±


    For a moment, Mark paused. He looked¡­ almost lost. Confused, even. ¡°Topeka?¡±


    Cass shook her head. ¡°A bit more East.¡±


    ¡°Lawrence?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡± Cass swung her head back to look at the door. ¡°I think they sell dirt bikes now.¡±


    Mark¡¯s reply was dispirited. Now he didn¡¯t just look lost. He sounded lost, too. Like he''d returned home after years of travel to find that his family and all his neighbors had moved away without telling him.


    ¡°Huh.¡±


    Another loud noise split the air. Cass sat bolt upright and then launched herself out of her chair. "I think those are gunshots."


    Mark gulped. ¡°Crap.¡±


    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Cass wasn¡¯t sure of the precise line of thought that propelled her to open the gun safe behind her dad¡¯s desk, only that if it was gunshots, then she couldn¡¯t bear waiting around. Opening the safe wasn¡¯t particularly difficult. The code was her birthday. It always was. Inside the safe was nothing unexpected. Her dad¡¯s old service revolver, a black-colored Colt Trooper .357 six-shooter. A wooden handle worn from years of use, a scratched-up black barrel that shone under the light of the office with a gleam that told her how well-maintained the weapon still was. Two speedloaders sat innocently next to the butt of the gun, along with a jet-black police baton. All of it was old kit from the days her dad used to be just another pair of boots on the ground.


    Cass¡¯s shoulders flinched as a flurry of gunshots rang out from downstairs. There was no doubt about it now ¨C someone had walked into the station and started a fight. The question remained, was this some truly unruly drunk, determined to commit suicide via cop, or was this something else?


    Regardless, the fact that the gunshots were still going off sent a pang of worry through her heart. Her dad was down there with two good men. She didn¡¯t think anyone would get past them, but damn it all if Cass was going to sit helplessly up here doing nothing. She grabbed the service revolver, stuffing it and the two speedloaders into the pockets of her pajama pants.


    The speedloaders were already set up for action, the small cylindrical devices allowing for a revolver to quickly be loaded instead of having to insert ammunition into the six-shooter one by one.


    A hand reached into the gun safe, momentarily surprising Cass until she recognized the bulky limb was just Mark leaning in to grab the baton, holding it to his chest with a face as pale as the moonlight leaking into the windows.


    ¡°Come on.¡± Cass muttered, surprising herself that the shakiness she felt in her chest wasn¡¯t reflected in her voice.


    Mark nodded. ¡°I hope you¡¯re still a decent shot with that kind of thing.¡±


    And then they exited the office to descend the steps one at a time to what sounded like a warzone below.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    The first thing Cass saw was enough to bring disgusting, acidic bile to her mouth. Blood was splattered all across the receptionist''s desk. Carlos was nowhere to be found, but there was a still, human-like lump lying on the ground behind the desk. She couldn''t recognize for sure who it was. She didn¡¯t want to. A small part of her brain insisted it was just some prop dummy. Maybe Carlos found a crash test dummy to play a prank with!


    Or maybe the man was dead.


    Cass wasn¡¯t given more than a second to process the horrific sight. Glass from a window no more than ten feet away from the bottom of the stairs shattered in a cacophony of noise as a small, spherical object was tossed through from the other side. Her dad¡¯s voice roared out a panicked command and her body automatically complied.


    ¡°CASS! RUN!¡±


    She took off like an arrow loosed from a bowstring alongside the wall, keeping low and running toward her dad¡¯s voice. Heavy footsteps behind Cass told her Mark was no more than a step away. Three seconds later a deafening explosion shook the room as the grenade exploded. A sharp flare of pain ripped through the back of her left leg, but Cass stumbled and kept running. Mark let out a hoarse shout, but the ringing in her ears from the gunfire and the explosion drowned the words out.


    Something slammed into a wooden desk right next to Cass, but she kept running. Mark¡¯s bulky figure entered the side of her vision as the man sped up to draw even with her, his hands now completely empty. The baton had been lost somewhere in the chaos.


    Then Cass saw her dad. Crouching behind an upturned desk, a pump-action shotgun in his hands and a thin stream of blood coming from the top of his forehead to drip down his right cheek. He gestured something with his hands. The meaning wasn¡¯t immediately apparent, but Cass got the message when the back of a nearby swivel chair was hit by something moving quite fast and began to rapidly spin around in a tight circle. He wanted her to take cover, the sooner the better.


    Cass immediately obliged. Another wooden desk was adjacent to her, so she darted around it while Mark heaved the piece of furniture on its side. The movement barely seemed to cause him any effort to make, despite the desk being fairly sizable.


    ¡°What the hell. What the hell!¡± Mark¡¯s panicked gasps finally registered in her ears. They still rang from booming gunshots echoing around the building, but it was better than before.


    ¡°Dad! What¡¯s going on!¡± Cass ignored Mark¡¯s panic in favor of shooting a question over to Chief Thomson.


    The man in question shook his head angrily. Then he peered over the edge of the upturned table in front of him and let out another thundering blast from his shotgun. Cass risked a glance over the side of their own slice of safety to try and get an idea of what was going on.


    It was chaos. That was all she could see. Chaos. Shouting men near the entrance. One¡­ no, there was a second on the other side of the now-broken window. The other man was crouched behind the receptionist¡¯s desk, occasionally popping out to send a few shots from his rifle down the hall. How did she not see him? Cass¡¯s mad dash alongside the wall would have taken her right by the man. Maybe he hadn¡¯t been there before.


    Broken glass, shattered wood, thunderous explosions of sound, and dark spots of blood sprayed liberally around the marble floor. Paul¡¯s head poked out from a half-open side door, his revolver steady in his hands as he sent several carefully measured shots toward the broken window and the man behind it.


    ¡°Cass. CASS!¡±


    The shouts of Chief Thomson once more dragged Cass¡¯s mind away from trying to understand the brutality unfolding before her. Her dad¡¯s face looked frazzled, his eyes far away. Like half of him was here in the present, and half of him was back in the jungle, stuck in the stories he would occasionally ramble about when drunk late at night. Both sides, however, were still in a firefight.


    ¡°Cass.¡± Chief Thomson said her name again. His voice rang with authority, the kind that no one can refuse. No one. ¡°Get out the back and don¡¯t stop running.¡±


    ¡°But I can hel-¡°


    A glare dripping with molten-hot rage stopped Cass mid-sentence.


    ¡°Run out the back. Do it.¡±


    ¡°But!¡±


    Something in Chief Thomson¡¯s gaze snapped. He wasn¡¯t here anymore. Not mentally. He was back in the jungle with bullets whizzing around, bombs falling from the sky, and napalm lighting up the horizon.


    ¡°DAMN KID! GET OUT OF HERE! NOW!¡±


    Cass bit her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, but the fierceness of her dad¡¯s gaze was enough to propel her to action. Mark moved first as Chief Thomson leaned over the barricade to unload every shell in his shotgun toward the attacking madmen in a volley of blistering cover fire, with Paul swiftly understanding the situation and doing the same with his revolver.


    Warm liquid dripped down Cass''s lip. The shots were deafening in her ears. It was like the whole world had been stolen away and replaced with an endless barrage of sounds, something so loud that she couldn''t even string together a complete thought. She followed Mark, doubling over and keeping low to present the smallest possible target for any return fire.


    Chief Thomson¡¯s shotgun fell silent, but the noise from the instrument of death was quickly replaced by the lighter ¡®cracking¡¯ sounds from his sidearm, hastily drawn to keep up the rain of covering fire. The back door loomed tall in her vision. Had it always been this big? Made out of such cold, unfeeling iron? It was locked like it always was. One deadbolt in the handle set to discourage any rowdy kids from breaking into the station from the back to do some cheeky acts of vandalism to liven up a boring night.


    The lock moved right before Mark was within five feet of the door. A lightning bolt of dread pulsed through Cass¡¯s body to settle in her stomach like a bad meal eaten to the last spoonful. Though it was happening in the span of only a few seconds, seeing that lock move felt like years were passing by, like she was watching the world in slow motion.


    The lock ¡®clicked¡¯ as it completed the motion of moving to the side. The door shuddered. Then it moved. Moving inwards in an arc, the door swung open to reveal a strange heavyset man. Dimly, in the back of her mind (the detached part not absolutely freaking out over the situation), she recognized the man. It was one of the two smokers from outside of the bar.


    A surprised curse fell out of Mark¡¯s lips. He leaped to the side, just in time for Cass to see the heavyset man glance over to the jail cell next to her, and then flick his eyes back over to Mark. He¡¯d completely disregarded her.


    Cass could see in the corner of her eyes that the man had looked over to the very same cell the creature was being held in. Had he looked over there out of surprise, or was this the reason behind the attack?


    That question was thrown aside instantly once Cass¡¯s brain registered that the heavyset man¡¯s thick fingers were moving toward the holster of a gun she could see poking out from under his jacket. Likely it had been stowed away so the man could use both hands to jimmy the lock of the door open.


    The next moment saw something take place that Cass never thought she would ever do in her life. The man¡¯s hand brushed aside the corner of his jacket. Meanwhile, Cass reached into her pocket. There was no doubt about it ¨C the smoker was reaching for his gun and his eyes were locked dead-on with Mark¡¯s pale face. The clip of the holster was brushed aside. Cass grabbed the worn wooden handle of the revolver in her pajama pocket. She was pulling it out as fast as she could, but somehow it felt like the smoker was moving at a normal pace while she was stuck in slow motion.


    The smoker¡¯s hand pulled his gun halfway out of the holster. The man was still about five feet away. Despite that, Cass could smell the faint scent of onions and tobacco smoke in his breath.


    The handle of Cass¡¯s revolver cleared the top of her pocket.


    And one more gunshot split the air, adding to the whirlwind of smoke, noise, and death behind them.

 Chapter 7 - Sand Dream

    The smoker fell backward in slow motion. His body was still whole ¨C the only difference from before was the lack of light in his eyes and¡­


    Cass could feel a surge of horrible acidic bile surge from the depths of her stomach, up her throat, and into her mouth. The smoker¡¯s face was mostly intact. Mostly. Just to the left of his right eye, in the space between that eye and his ear, there was nothing but shattered bone and clumps of gore from what used to be there. Her aim was true. There was no doubt about it. She¡¯d hit him in the head well enough for it to be a kill shot ¨C the faint sight of brain matter leaking from the side of the man¡¯s head told her that.


    The more collected part of her mind, the one that usually chimed in with a nasty voice telling her to do the mean thing instead of the nice thing, snapped out that no kidding, of course a .357 slug would do something like that. Sure the diameter of the bullet wouldn¡¯t even be half an inch around, but a bullet was a bullet. If you shoot a guy in the face, the face isn''t exactly going to explode, but it wouldn''t exactly be left fully intact either. That was just the way it worked.


    The distance had barely been five feet. At that range, it was hard to miss, even something as small of a target as the human head. She¡¯d killed a man. Blown a chunk off the side of his head.


    Cass had really just killed another human being.


    Acid stung her throat. The bile from her stomach surged, and then with gritted teeth, Cass forced it back down.


    Mark shouted something, but all words were lost in Cass¡¯s ears. It was like they were both muffled and blurring together at the same time. The words, that is. It created a sort of effect where Cass could hear him, but her mind couldn¡¯t quite piece together what he meant. In fact it all blurred together. The rapid ''cracking'' of gunfire behind Cass''s back. The click of¡­ metal? Yes. It had to be metal. The clink of metal coming from her right, before Mark¡¯s bulky form filled her vision, frantically shaking her with one arm while the other carefully held a thin, almost humanoid package underneath itself.


    ¡°Ca-¡°


    Cass blinked, her mind stumbling around in confusion trying to piece together Mark¡¯s words.


    ¡°Cass! We gotta go!¡±


    One more rough shake more akin to a dog tossing around a chew toy was enough to snap Cass out of the metal fuzz she¡¯d found herself in. With great effort she tore her eyes away from the dead man on the floor, away from the blood splattered across the walls of the station, all to focus as much as she could on Mark and the partially open door in front of them. She could think about what she¡¯d done later. The consequences. How it stuck in her mind. How the scene looked like a mad impressionist painter was given a gallon tub of red paint and told to go wild. How-


    Cass¡¯s head shook hard enough to hurt. It wasn¡¯t her own doing, but Mark¡¯s. Only when her eyes re-focused on his face did he stop, apparently satisfied that Cass¡¯s mind was back in the present.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go!¡±


    Cass bolted out the door, sparing only a glance back to her dad and Paul, still locked in a vicious firefight against the two men near the front of the building. Then Mark¡¯s frame filled the doorway.


    ¡°My car-¡°


    ¡°Do you want to go over there?" Mark interrupted Cass''s spoken thoughts with an incredulous tone. His eyes were wild. Unfocused. Like the only thing keeping him going was fear and adrenaline.


    Funnily enough, they had that in common right now.


    No, it would be a terrible idea to go up front. She didn¡¯t know if the grenade-chucking madman was still outside the building behind that window, or if he had moved inside. Furthermore, if there were more than three men total assaulting the station, then going that way would likely be deadly. What if there was a fourth guy sitting in the parking lot? Even if he was a getaway driver he could still be packing heat.


    On the other hand, their pickings were sparse back here. It was nothing but a small back lawn, the grass freshly mowed. Then there were a few buildings, some spacious back alleys, and houses further on. Main street itself wasn¡¯t huge. It was a few blocks long, nothing more. After that it would be good ol¡¯ suburbia. Running for it could maybe work if Paul and her dad kept stalling those guys in the station.


    Then Cass¡¯s eyes lit up. For the briefest moments she could even understand the exact feelings a dehydrated man crawling along the desert sands would feel upon seeing an oasis. A squad car was parked in the back. The engine wasn¡¯t running or anything. From the looks of it the vehicle was just one of the extra cars in the fleet, most likely used by one of the men off-duty for the night.


    It was a bit unexpected to see it back here, but not completely out of the question ¨C there was enough space for a car to park in the alley right past the tiny back lawn, and if an officer only needed to swing by the station to grab something from the back, this would be the most convenient place to stash their squad car real quick.


    Mark¡¯s eyes met her own. They nodded in unison, thinking the same thoughts.


    ¡°You really think so?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡± Cass shakily snorted. Her vague attempt at humor did not help in the slightest in banishing the glassy stare of the smoker in her mind¡¯s eye. He was staring at her, almost accusingly. It was her fault. Her fault another living human being with hopes and dreams was dead. But what choice did Cass have? The man had a gun. He was in the process of pointing it at Mark. If she had been a second late, Mark might have been dead. ¡°No one around town would steal a squad car. Why wouldn¡¯t they leave the keys?¡±


    It was exactly as predicted. As soon as Cass wrapped a hand around the handle of the driver''s side door, the car popped open. Unlocked, just as she thought. The keys weren''t in the ignition or even on the seat, no officer would be that lazy. But, Cass could see that the sun visor above the driver¡¯s seat was a little bit crooked. It could mean nothing, or it could mean¡­


    Cass carefully thumbed the hammer to her dad¡¯s revolver out of the ready position before stowing it back away in the pocket of her pajama pants. Her other hand flipped down the sun visor. The spare keys flopped from where they were stashed on top of the visor onto the cool leather of the seat. Jackpot.


    Without further ado, Cass slid into the vehicle and fired it up. The handgun was a chilly, uncomfortable lump in the pocket of her PJs. Part of the wooden handle peeked out ¨C a simple tragedy formed by the fact that the pockets of pants made for women were always criminally small.


    Meanwhile, Mark shoved something in the back seat before sliding into the passenger seat next to her. The engine of the car purred to start. Strangely, though Cass had never particularly been a car girl, that sound was one of the most beautiful things she¡¯d ever heard. No hiccups, no coughs, it simply started like a dream. A single flex of her foot on the accelerator pedal and the squad car, its paint scratched, a bit tarnished in places, but still overall proud, roared out of the alley. Its tires squealed against the pavement as Cass yanked the wheel to the right as soon as the alleyway ended, and the street began.


    In the rearview mirror she could see the police station. The solemn stone building still stood strong. If she didn¡¯t know any better, Cass could have sworn that it was just an ordinary night. Just her and Mark, heading out late to give her dad some cheer while he burned the midnight oil on a tough case.


    Then another volley of gunshots split the air and the illusion was shattered. Cass cursed under her breath and pressed the car for all the speed it had. Another shot rang out and she flinched. Looking in the rearview mirror she couldn¡¯t see anyone following them, though¡­ Cass squinted her eyes. There was something in the back seat. She hadn¡¯t paid any attention at all when Mark had shoved something back there. Her mind simply couldn¡¯t spare the effort. But now that they were well away, with the station rapidly retreating in the rearview mirror, that was no longer the case.


    ¡°Mark?¡±


    Mark¡¯s reply was distant, obviously still in shock over the sudden violence that had filled the night.


    ¡°Yeah?¡±


    ¡°Why is that in the back seat?¡±


    He squirmed uncomfortably. ¡°Well¡­¡±


    The alien was sitting motionlessly in the back seat of the squad car, instead of being back in the holding cell like it should have been.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    The white yarn of the baseball was a polished sheen under the gentle rays of the sun, basking everyone in the park under their warm radiance. The ball soared through the air. Not particularly fast. It wasn¡¯t like this was a competition. It was just a nice game of catch after work.


    Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    Soon enough the ball landed with a satisfying thud in Henry¡¯s outstretched glove, causing Lisa to let out a shout of praise. Again, it wasn¡¯t a competition, but the boy was doing good. It must have been two months ago that he couldn''t catch it half the time? Or was it more like five months? Some days it felt like time was flying by, like a clock strapped to the wings of an airplane.


    Henry threw the ball back. Mr. Moon casually caught it in a baseball glove of his own before sending it sailing back through the lazy summer air.


    Henry caught it once more, perfectly snatching the ball out of the air with the center of his glove. Mr. Moon smiled at the sight.


    They were happy.


    The motel phone rang. Like all motel phones, or even hotel phones, the ringtone was both shrill and immensely irritating. That was good, though. Mr. Moon¡¯s eyes shot open in an instant to reveal a room obscured by shadows. It hadn¡¯t even taken a full ring to wake him up, both due to the loudness of the noise and the fact that he was by training an extremely light sleeper. Nearby, the armchair rustled as Dag''s attention flipped from watching the windows and door to looking at the telephone. Though several hours had passed since Mr. Moon had handed over the watch shift to Dag, the man was still as alert as ever.


    Mr. Moon¡¯s eyes slid over to look at the phone, and then to his watch. From the faint light coming in through the window courtesy of the streetlight outside, he could see it was quite early in the morning. Four in the morning, to be precise. Another ring bored into his ears with all the force of a bullet tearing through a man¡¯s head. Then, there was silence. Mr. Moon¡¯s right hand held the phone off the receiver and put it to his ear.


    ¡°Moon.¡± Mr. Sun¡¯s voice floated out of the phone. Light flooded the tiny motel room as Dag leaned over to flick the power to the nightstand lamp. Mr. Moon made a discreet hand signal to the man, causing him to imperceptively straighten in his seat, paying rapt attention. This was it. The only reason Mr. Sun would call is if he had a lead for them.


    ¡°Present.¡± Mr. Moon answered back.


    Mr. Sun coughed, the sound exploding out of the cheap telephone before being replaced by the faint buzz of static that was customary for this kind of device.


    ¡°Carlston, Kansas. Small town. The police station there got hit not even an hour ago. Three men armed to the teeth and looking for blood. Cop killers at that. Station¡¯s blasting the police scanners asking for backup. Communications took the liberty of responding before the message was spread too far. If there are any good Samaritans from nearby towns that come in after hearing it, tell them the Bureau has it covered. As for the Russians, don¡¯t expect them to be in the same AMC Hornet they used in the raid. We found it two hundred miles outside D.C., abandoned in a ditch. Highway patrol called it in a few hours ago.¡±


    Mr. Moon¡¯s eyes narrowed. There was no mention of their target in Mr. Sun¡¯s report. By all accounts one could assume the incident, while tragic, was unrelated. On the other hand¡­ well-prepared men assaulting a police station? At this time of night? On this particular day?


    Mr. Moon couldn¡¯t call it a one-hundred percent shot, but the timing of such an extraordinary event was far too suspicious. If this truly was the break they needed, they needed to capitalize on it ASAP. Even if it was a bust, it wasn''t like any other leads were presenting themselves. Even with the further complication of a swapped vehicle, it was what it was.


    ¡°Understood.¡±


    As soon as Mr. Moon voiced the affirmative, the line went dead. He tossed the handset onto the nightstand.


    ¡°Carlston, Kansas.¡±


    Dag had already risen from the armchair during Mr. Moon¡¯s brief conversation with Mr. Sun, throwing his jacket on and stretching his arms. Once Mr. Moon said those two words, Dag reached over to the tiny end table situated near the door. On top of the table was a map of Kansas, freshly procured from a gas station stopped at during the long drive. Completely unfolded, the map stretched to be even wider than Dag¡¯s massive torso, obscuring both that, the man¡¯s head, and even part of his waist.


    ¡°Carlston¡­ Carlston¡­ can¡¯t say I¡¯ve heard of it.¡± Dag muttered, his fingers tracing up and down the map while he searched for the town.


    Mr. Moon left Dag to his search and slid his black dress shoes on. Mentally he catalogued everything they¡¯d need. It wasn¡¯t much. Once they knew where the town was and what highway to take, everything else was already in his car. The only thing left was to inform Steve and Ms. Miller so they could follow up according to the plan.


    He unlatched the door, sliding back the chain, the bolt, and popping up the lock in the handle with his thumb. Mr. Moon slid out of the room, moving as silently as a ghost. There were a few cars still in the motel parking lot. Five in total, which was three less than he¡¯d initially counted when they had initially stopped for the night. Two Buicks, paint worn and chipped from years of use. A Chevie pickup truck sat in the far corner of the parking lot, adjacent to a smaller Toyota car. About fifty feet down and to the left was the inconspicuous shape of the white surveillance van. Mr. Moon picked up his pace, though his steps were still almost imperceptible under the cover of the noises of the night. His back was straight, filled with purpose. If he had still been the same man as he had at the very start of his career, perhaps Mr. Moon¡¯s hands would have even been vibrating with the adrenaline that came with extreme excitement.


    He drifted past room after room, carefully eyeing the few that still had lights on. He didn¡¯t expect anything to happen, but habit was just that ¨C habit. Motions that had been drilled into him and Quantico and kept in place through years of experience in the field.


    Eventually, he reached the dark window of the room he knew to be the one Steve and Ms. Miller were sharing. The van was parked right outside it, sitting silently in the night air. Mr. Moon shot one last glance up and down the parking lot. At four in the morning, it was devoid of life, just as it should be.


    His hand rapped quietly on the window. One second passed. Two seconds passed.


    ¡°It¡¯s Moon.¡± He whispered.


    The window cracked open. Behind it was a slim yet athletic form, one he recognized as belonging to Steve.


    ¡°Carlston, Kansas.¡±


    ¡°Roger that.¡± Steve¡¯s voice whispered back. Satisfied the message had been passed on, Mr. Moon ghosted away from the window. He could hear it slide shut behind him. The sound was quiet, but there was no way to completely muffle it.


    Mr. Moon shot another glance up and down the parking lot, then slid his vision over the silent rooms and the glowing light of the main office. There was still a man stationed at the front desk just out of sight from the window, that he knew. But the man wasn¡¯t paying attention. This was just another long and unfathomably boring night shift for him. Most likely he was smoking cigarette after cigarette while watching whatever station he could get on the ancient television sitting on his desk. That kind of behavior was precisely what Mr. Moon had judged him of the second he met the man.


    The room where Mr. Moon had been staying cracked open. No light shone from behind the door, nor was there any noise at all made by Dag as he too slipped out into the cloak of night. There was a partially folded map clutched in the man''s left hand, while the other hand was left empty, ready for action.


    Mr. Moon shot a swift nod toward Dag, who casually returned it. A hint of excitement shone on Dag¡¯s face. In all reality, Mr. Moon¡¯s face likely bore that same emotion, at least to the extent that was professional to do so. It was understandable. After walking away from Mr. Sun¡¯s briefing, the unsaid question had hung in the air - would they be able to find the needle that was the Russians in the haystack that was Kansas? They had their answer now.


    Both men both turned in unison and walked toward Mr. Moon¡¯s car. The hunt was on.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    ¡°-repeat, officer down. Multiple assailants considered armed and extremely dangerous. Requesting immediate assistance. Repeat, this is the Carlston precinct requesting immediate assistance!¡±


    Jack closed his eyes as he drove along the interstate, the voices speaking from the metal box he stole from the cop car sounding like music to his ears. Carlston. Carlston. The name sounded rather mediocre. How interesting that a mediocre name had such excitement behind it. His foot flexed on the accelerator pedal. On the dashboard, though the glass was so cracked it could barely be seen through, the needle on the speedometer pushed close to two hundred miles per hour.


    ¡°What do ya¡¯ think, Jackie boy?¡± A familiar man smiled at him from where he lounged in the passenger seat. The man had teeth that resembled pearls of pure white, flawless blond hair that looked like he''d just walked out of the shower, and a peach-colored cowboy hat placed at a jaunty angle on top of it all. The man had no seat belt around his waist, and his legs were placed up on the dash in a show of perfect relaxed contentment.


    ¡°Remember lad, you came out here for a bit of fun, a bit of sun, and to increase your strength.¡± The man reminded Jack, knocking his fist into Jack¡¯s muscled shoulder for extra effect. ¡°Even if this isn¡¯t caused by those godless heathens, maybe you can squeeze a lead out of them. Carlston! I bet you and I could get up to some real good trouble there!¡±


    Jack nodded along, smiling with glee. The dried blood coating his face like a thick layer of paint would to a wall cracked with the motion, causing several large flakes to fall onto his lap. His eyes flashed open. The scenes of the interstate filled his vision. Handfuls of cars swerving to avoid his righteous path. Good. As they should. Those too weak to contend with the might of his mechanical stallion should be pushed aside to the shoulders. Trees were like green blurs in his side windows. No sirens followed him. Not anymore.


    ¡°Trouble¡­¡± Jack¡¯s rusty voice muttered excitedly, and then he repeated the word with such volume that the lining in the back of his throat cracked badly enough to draw blood. ¡°TROUBLE! Heh, what fun.¡±


    The blond man grinned, but as soon as Jack blinked, he was gone. Only one word was left hanging in the tearing wind that buffeted the sides of his truck.


    ¡°Carlston.¡±


    On the dashboard the metal box continued to crackle with life, repeating the message over and over again. Carlston. Cop killers. A police station brazenly raided. No suspects were apprehended.


    A ragged ¡®thump¡¯ of an impact made the frame of his pickup truck shudder, but Jack¡¯s speed was not affected. Gore rapidly painted his windshield with hues of vibrant crimson, but Jack¡¯s vision was not affected. The windshield wipers struggled to clear the mess, so Jack simply rolled down the window and stuck his head out like an excitable dog so he could see where he was going.


    As he did so, part of the deer that had tried its luck in crossing the road at the wrong time flew by his ear. An organ of some sort, most likely part of a stomach or the small intestine, landed with a splat on Jack¡¯s face. A flick of his hand was enough to send the piece of meat soaring on its merry way to hit a car behind him.


    The head of the animal poked out from the front of his truck. Its eyes were glassy, and the sheer number of organs that had flown by told Jack that the deer was definitely dead. The head had to be stuck somewhere in the metal grill guard situated at the front end of his truck. Jack cocked an ear into the air. His truck didn¡¯t sound too much different than it usually did, so it was probably fine for now. Likely the sturdy piece of metal did its job exactly as intended ¨C keep the grille, the radiator, and the rest of the engine safe when something hits it.


    And as the gore-covered pickup truck zoomed down the interstate highway at utterly ludicrous speeds, a green sign on the wayside was left ignored: Kansas, three hundred miles.

 Chapter 8 - Weight of the World

    "Well?" Cass sharply demanded, flicking her eyes between Mark and the road. It was quite dark, having left the town''s streetlights behind only a few minutes ago. A part of Cass wondered if she was being too harsh on the man. Mark probably had his reasons, and she was still absolutely freaking out over the whole ¡®getting shot at¡¯ thing they¡¯d experienced. All of that was causing emotions to run higher than normal.


    Still¡­ Mark wasted time grabbing the creature when they were fleeing the station. If anything more had gone wrong than there already had, that extra couple of seconds used to take the alien could have been deadly.


    "I was¡­ thinking," Mark hesitantly began. His eyes were still wide, the pupils within still enlarged from the stressful situation at the police station. ¡°When those crazy guys first appeared, I thought they were just that ¨C crazy. But then that third fella popped out through the back door. Now, first I wondered if he was trying to sneak up on your dad from behind. And, and maybe he was. Then I saw his eyes. When he burst through the door, he hardly spared a glance at anyone other than that alien back there. That was the first thing he zoned in on. Then I got to thinking. What if they weren¡¯t some random crazy guys?¡±


    Cass''s heart leaped up into her throat. When that man had first burst through the back door, she had briefly wondered the same thing. If Mark was on the same train of thought¡­


    Mark nodded. ¡°I think they were after that thing. I noticed the cell door didn¡¯t seem completely shut. Paul must¡¯ve forgotten to lock it. I threw it open, grabbed the alien, and the rest is history.¡±


    ¡°So, you¡¯re thinking if they see the alien is gone, those lunatics will run away instead of staying to fight in the station.¡± Cass summarized. Mark nodded again, and she closed her eyes, feeling the tsunami of stress wash through her pitiful little brain.


    ¡°Mark.¡±


    ¡°Yeah?¡±


    ¡°If they saw you take it¡­¡±


    Mark¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Oh crap.¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡± Cass refocused her eyes on the road. ¡°They¡¯ll come after us next. And we don¡¯t have a building full of cops standing between us and them anymore. Though¡­ thank you, Mark. I think you might be right. Once they see the alien isn¡¯t at the station anymore, they might just get up and leave. If my dad¡¯s still kicking as strong as he usually is, he can use that break to plan a counterattack.¡±


    The situation was simple, the way Cass saw it. Assuming they were correct in thinking those lunatics were after the alien, Mark and Cass needed to hide until her dad could get a bunch of guys with guns together to deal with the problem. Only then could they switch back to the original plan to hand off the alien to the government without being made to disappear forever.


    The key was, where to stow away in this deadly game of hide and go seek? The opponents were out-of-towners. She didn''t recognize a single one of them. That meant Cass held the home-field advantage. They knew the town. All the best hiding spots where nobody would even think to look for months.


    Of course, they didn¡¯t need to hide for that long. A day, maybe two. Only until she was certain her dad could get enough men to outnumber and overpower those psychos. Her hands tightened around the steering wheel at the thought. The smart thing would be to hide away for a few weeks, but¡­


    The memories of the smoker crumpling to the ground, of the body on the floor behind the front desk. They popped up like visions between the gaps of the shadowy trees. The scared part of Cass screamed at her to check up on her dad to see if he was alright. The last time she¡¯d seen him, he was desperately emptying his shotgun to give Cass a chance to escape. It was enough to make a bubbling current of worry simmer away at the bottom of her stomach. She wanted her town back. The old Carlston, the one that felt so cozy and safe. It didn¡¯t feel like that now. It felt like a thousand more men like that smoker were hiding behind every tree, waiting to ambush them as soon as Cass dropped her guard.


    ¡°The old Henryks farm.¡±


    Mark looked over at Cass, his eyes searching through her own for the reason for her sudden mentioning of the place.


    ¡°We can hide there, I think.¡± Cass elaborated. ¡°It¡¯s outside the city limits, isn¡¯t connected to any main roads, and it¡¯s quiet.¡±


    ¡°Except for old Henryks. He might have questions.¡± Mark said.


    Cass spared a glance out of the window. The road had just turned from asphalt to gravel, a sign that they were finally off the beaten path.


    ¡°He passed away while you were at college. He didn¡¯t have any relatives, so the property is in limbo right now as far as I know. We can hide the cruiser in the barn and sneak into the back of the house. Worst case, if someone finds us, we can run into the forest.¡±


    Mark fell silent to digest the information. He worked his jaw up and down, almost like he was chewing on a string of words he didn¡¯t want to let out.


    ¡°How did it happen?¡±


    Ah. That¡¯s right. Mark would have known old Henryks. They probably weren¡¯t super close, but Henryks used to volunteer as an extra bit of adult supervision whenever the football team went on a trip.


    ¡°Heart attack.¡± Cass reached over with her right arm and patted Mark consolingly on the shoulder. ¡°He was out checking on his cows. Bill found him on the ground next to his pickup truck the morning after, on his way into town. The doc says it would have been over before Henryks even noticed there was a problem.¡±


    Cass shot another glance over to Mark. He had a lost look on his face, similar to how he¡¯d appeared when Cass told him the Monty brothers had moved out to the big city. She patted him again on the shoulder, and the two drove along in silence as the winding gravel roads of the country opened up in front of them under the yellow headlights of the police cruiser.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    The farmhouse was abandoned, just like Cass thought it would be. Henryks didn¡¯t have any family, and his dogs were taken to the shelter by Bill, so the place was as silent as a grave. Considering Henryks was buried on the property, it literally was a grave.


    Still, it was something. The property was quite a way out of town, nearly ten minutes of driving over winding gravel roads. The farmhouse itself was still in good condition, owing to the recency of Henryks death. The only difference was that no lights were shining in the windows, nor the cheerful bark of dogs welcoming the cruiser as it rolled along the driveway. The house was painted a stark white, which gleamed under the headlights of the car. The barn, clad in a shell of bright red, was a little beat up, but that was normal considering how much use it saw when Henryks was alive.


    Mark hopped out of the car with that same lost, almost tired expression on his face. He quickly walked up to the barn door and heaved at it, his muscles bulging under his shirt as the massive door moved inch by inch.


    As soon as it was open wide enough for the police cruiser to fit, Cass nudged the nose of it through the door, parking it right next to a rusty old tractor and killing the engine. Mark began closing the barn door behind her, causing Cass to jog around the car and squeeze through the opening before it was completely shut. The alien was left alone in the backseat of the car. Neither of them wanted to think about it right now.


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    ¡°His dogs?¡± Mark began, but Cass interrupted him.


    ¡°At the shelter. I think Ashley¡¯s dad was planning on taking them home. They have room at their place.¡±


    Mark absentmindedly nodded, walking up to the back door of the farmhouse and jiggling the handle. It was locked, but not for long. Mark lined up in front of the door, about three feet away from it, bracing his shoulder and charging into it like a linebacker plunging through the opposing team. The wood didn¡¯t stand a chance. There was a mighty crash as the door splintered, tearing from its hinges and falling to the floor.


    "Oops." Mark guiltily muttered.


    Cass raised an eyebrow. Even though the guy was down in the dumps and having a rough time, physically he was the same as ever ¨C an utter beast. Still, the door was down. She stepped over it with Mark to survey the inside of the farmhouse. It hadn¡¯t been abandoned long enough for cobwebs to form, nor were there any animals around making their home in the building yet. All the food had been cleared away by a posse of volunteers, but otherwise it was just as Henryks had left it before he went out on that fateful evening.


    Cass clicked her tongue. Food would be a problem. They might have to go hungry for a bit before they went back into town. Water¡­ Cass glanced out the window. Outside was a well, dug by the old man himself before she was even born. The well probably still worked just fine, knowing Henryks.


    ¡°No food, huh?¡± Mark¡¯s words mirrored her thoughts. However, the big guy was one step ahead of her. He walked over to a door right next to the entrance to the kitchen and pulled to reveal a staircase descending downwards.


    Cass¡¯s eyes widened. The cellar. Was it missed by the volunteers? She hadn¡¯t been directly involved, but her dad was. According to him it had been a hurried affair. No one wanted to loot the house of a dead man, merely wishing to prevent any perishable foodstuffs from attracting animals that could destroy Henryks¡¯s beloved home before it could be taken care of by a new owner. They might''ve completely missed the cellar then since nothing down there was perishable.


    Mark was already halfway down the stairs once Cass¡¯s train of thought finished speeding through her mind. She bounded down the stairs after him, arriving just in time for Mark to pull the chain attached to the single bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling to illuminate the sparse room.


    It was mostly dirt, packed tight to stay together and shored up by some sturdy beams. Wooden shelves littered the walls, some as bare as Cass expected, but others were full of sealed mason jars containing a large variety of pickled foodstuffs and jams. Bright red radishes, corn still on the cob, dull green dill pickles, warm orange peaches, bright white eggs floating with chunks of garlic and bay leaves, and a variety of cured salted meats hanging from hooks embedded in the ceiling.


    ¡°Well, we won¡¯t starve to death.¡± Mark offhandedly remarked, looking around the room in wonder. ¡°Henryks was always good at this stuff. I remember he always used to bring those pickled eggs of his to the football team cookouts. They were¡­ they were really good.¡±


    Cass wordlessly nodded. Now all they had to do was lay low for a bit. Two days, maybe three at the most would be all it would take for her dad to round up enough help, enough to where it would be safe for her and Mark to return.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    The highway was bathed under the light of the red and blue light bar mounted to the roof of his car, the engine of the vehicle straining as Mr. Moon pushed it for all it had. His foot was pressing the gas pedal to the floor while the speedometer ticked past one-twenty. At this rate, they would reach Carlston by dawn if Dag''s navigation proved to be correct. Thanks to the emergency lights, no cars stood in their way, nor did any police cruisers bother them.


    Assuming Mr. Moon¡¯s hunch was right and Mr. Sun¡¯s information truly did lead to the same group of Russians that assaulted the compound in Washington D.C., the fact that an incident of some sort had happened was quite interesting.


    Likely the original plan the Russkies had was to disappear into the countryside, laying low until a chopper could get in for an extract. It wouldn''t be a bad plan at all. As he''d thought before, searching for a small group of people lying low in the middle of nowhere was like looking for a needle in a haystack. It flat-out wasn''t going to happen without some serious luck.


    However, if his hunch was right, Lady Luck was well and present. Moreover, to consider assaulting a police station¡­ the only reason Mr. Moon could think of for them even slightly considering that was they lost control of the creature. They lost control of it and it was picked up by someone from the local PD.


    The Russkies would have no choice but to assault the station to take the alien back, but the downside is that a move as big as the one they made hours ago would be near impossible to cover up. Even if all the men in the building fell, someone would hear the shots or see the bodies. Once that happened it would only be a matter of time before a report was made and Mr. Sun¡¯s wiretappers heard about it.


    ¡°Turn right on Highway 99.¡± Dag suddenly spoke up. He folded the map back up in a series of expert movements and placed it in the glove compartment, where it rested against an extra Sig Sauer handgun, a roll of bandages, and a glass bottle of whiskey.


    Mr. Moon nodded. The absence of further driving directions meant this was likely their last turn. Doubtlessly a sign for the town would show up soon, if not to at least tell him how many miles they were from the city limits. Dag was already checking his gear; his hands following habitual paths to ghost over the shape and feel of the miniature armory of weapons Dag kept on his person at all times. It was something the man had done multiple times already on the drive from D.C.


    Mr. Moon didn¡¯t blame the man. It was hard to say for sure the situation that they were about to go in, and for the plan to work they needed to handle as much of the direct confrontation between the two of them. Steve and Ms. Miller had their own part to play, a much more subtle one than they did. That meant unless the situation got out of hand, it would be him, Dag, and whatever was left of the local PD against the remains of a team of Russians gutsy enough to raid an FBI black site.


    He pressed the gas pedal down to grind it into the carpeted floor of the car. Trees and hills flashed by, obscured by the shadows of the night. Lights from cars, pulled over to the side as required by law once they saw the emergency lights, gleamed in his rearview mirror. It all blurred together. Kansas wasn¡¯t the most interesting state to drive through, and the shadows almost seemed to have visions of their own to share. Mr. Moon¡¯s eyes remained fixed on the road, but as the soft music from the radio floated into his ears, his mind was sent back to that fateful day.


    ¡°That¡¯s the deal?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the deal.¡± Mr. Sun confirmed. The man¡¯s face was grave. Uncharacteristically serious. Mr. Moon, meanwhile, looked as he ever did ¨C a coal black two-piece business suit, a deep blue tie, freshly polished Oxford dress shoes, and an unyielding poker face that saw not even a whit of information leak from his innermost thoughts.


    Mr. Moon looked over the single sheet of paper in his hands once. Twice. Three times. Each time it said the same thing. He glanced up at Mr. Sun, the portly man still staring at him with that same stone-cold seriousness. If the report had been placed in his hands by anyone else, he wouldn¡¯t have believed it. The claims it made¡­ they were straight out of a science fiction novel, the kind Lisa would might have picked up to read on a lazy summer day.


    ¡°The Nirvana Project.¡± Even saying the name of the project hardly helped in making it feel real.


    Mr. Sun nodded. ¡°Yes. I want you brought in as an asset. I need someone I can trust running security. I also figured you would be interested in the benefits of the project if it truly reaches completion. I¡¯ve already cleared it with the powers that be for personnel working on the project to be given priority access to the results.¡±


    Mr. Moon¡¯s hand twitched, the only emotion that slipped past his carefully managed expression. Mr. Sun either didn''t notice it or ignored the motion in favor of continuing to speak.


    ¡°Just remember,¡± The man cautioned. For the next few sentences, Mr. Sun held Mr. Moon¡¯s eyes right in his own, as if to fully hammer down the importance of his words. ¡°You cannot speak of this to anyone. Not even your wife. In fact,¡± Mr. Sun turned and riffled through his desk to produce a second piece of paper, ¡°Memorize the names on this list. If anyone not on this list even mentions the name of the project in passing, deal with them. Changes to the list will be given in person, face-to-face, and by only me. No one else is authorized. If anyone else tries to add or remove a name, deal with them. We cannot afford even a single leak."


    Mr. Moon took a few moments to memorize both the names and the important details on the briefing paper, and then he pulled a lighter from his pocket. He flicked the wheel to ignite the flame. The two men stood in silence as they watched both of the papers burn to featureless ashes.


    ¡°I accept.¡±


    Those words were Mr. Moon¡¯s only answer.


    Such was fate. Mr. Moon blinked. His mind shot out from where it had wandered between the shadowy trees, forcing his ironclad focus to stay with the highway. Such was fate.

 Chapter 9 - Somewhere Else

    It was finally dawn. As predicted Mr. Moon and Dag had arrived at the city limits of Carlston right at dawn. The sun shone splendidly in the rearview mirror, enough so that if Mr. Moon had looked at the mirror, he would have been blinded. The town itself was minuscule. Nothing more than a blip in the featureless expanse of prairies and rocky hills that was the Midwestern United States. If it hadn''t been for the map Dag had folded away into the glove compartment, perhaps they would have never known about this place.


    Carlston, as small as it was, failed to be in the usual depilated state that most tiny Midwestern towns often found themselves in. There was a quiet Main Street, a gas station, and even a bar ¨C a rarity in a town as small as this. Most similar towns would only have a freezer or two of different beers in the gas station for residents to enjoy.


    Then there was the police station. At once Mr. Moon fully understood why the town seemed rather quiet even for a small settlement such as itself. He¡¯d heard about the incident from Mr. Sun, of course, and it was the main reason as to why they had stopped by this place, but the sight of yellow police tape, the flashing lights atop a handful of cruisers, and two officers standing near the front door were quite out of the ordinary. It was the most obvious sign that something terrible had happened during the night, something that this small town had never expected to see right on their doorstep.


    As Mr. Moon pulled his car against the curb directly opposite the station, his eyes began to automatically rove around to tally up the situation. Two police cruisers were parked out front, their lights flashing wildly to add to the brightness of the dawn. There was a third cruiser parked near the doors. Its lights were off and its front driver''s door was hanging open. It appeared as if the owner had left the vehicle in great haste. A local cop called in as backup during the raid? Or perhaps the owner had arrived in the middle of it by chance.


    A pale blue Rambler was next. Backed up so that the trunk faced the doors, it looked completely out of place among the cop cars in the parking lot. It was either a civilian car or a secondary vehicle of an off-duty cop. He could also see that one of the windows right next to the door leading into the station was broken, and there was a faint chalk outline of a person drawn out on the ground near the cruiser with the extinguished lights.


    Moreover, a glance down Main Street revealed that the door to the bar was cracked open, with no life showing from the other side. There was a car parked in front of it. No one sat in the driver¡¯s seat to gape at the police presence at the station. An arms-length of bright yellow police tape was stuck in front of the door, its forlorn appearance looking utterly out of place next to the well-worn wooden walls of the bar.


    ¡°That might be the chief.¡± Dag¡¯s muttered comment dragged Mr. Moon¡¯s attention back over to the police station, where he could see a man with fiery red hair decked out in a crumpled black police uniform speaking to the other man on duty. The chief looked utterly exhausted, though perhaps saying that would be a bit of a disservice ¨C he was still clearly doing his duty, even after weathering a full-on assault by the Russians. Judging from the uniform, which was quite different than the other officers, it was a fair assumption.


    ¡°Must be.¡± Mr. Moon replied. He¡¯d seen everything he needed to. Now it was time to get a full report so that the entire situation could be understood. Hopefully the chief would be of at least some help. At the very least he was likely a man to be reckoned with. Otherwise the chief would have perished the night before.


    Mr. Moon stepped away from the car, followed by the formidable bulk of Dag. Together they made their way across the street to the police station.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    A feeling of unease settled to the bottom of Chief Thomson''s stomach. It was a feeling he''d learned to pay attention to. He wasn''t sure what caused it, either simple unconscious thoughts, or the remains of some animalistic instinct that the ancient man had once used to stay alive in the days when everything was out to kill you. Nevertheless, that feeling had saved his life many times in the past.


    He turned, just in time to see two men in pressed black business suits making their way across the street to the station. The man in the back was utterly massive. Clocking out at¡­ it must have been over six feet in height and built like a linebacker on steroids. There were lumps under the man''s suit jacket that spoke of multiple concealed weapons, stowed away but not discreet enough to the point that they were completely unnoticeable to the casual viewer. Clearly that man wanted anyone with watchful eyes to know that he was not a person to be treated lightly.


    The second man, the man in front of the big guy, was almost unnoticeable in contrast. Tall, but not too tall. Perhaps a few inches under six feet? 5¡¯10¡±, that was Chief Thomson¡¯s best guess. An athletic figure but not to the point of extremity like his companion. Almost a scarecrow next to the giant, so great was their difference in size.


    His face was stoney. Not in an angry way, but in an unreadable way that left the chief completely unable to find even a scrap of emotion, which in of itself was unusual. Often times the eyes, the mouth, and even the wrinkles on a face could tell a story or betray a slight amount of emotion.


    There was none of that on the man¡¯s face. It was as if he was empty. The realization alone was enough to set Chief Thomson on edge far more than the intimidating mass of the first man.


    Nor did he have any obvious signs that he was packing heat. No lumps near the chest area or the waist. Was he confident in his larger friend picking up the slack? Or were his weapons concealed to the point that they escaped Chief Thomson¡¯s experienced gaze?


    In fact, that second man¡¯s entire being was¡­ forgettable. Especially standing next to the big guy. Chief Thomson could feel his own eyes sliding away in disinterest like the man''s bland face didn''t even exist.


    That fact alone set Chief Thomson even more on edge. Almost unconsciously his right hand drifted downward to gently rest on the grip of the revolver holstered at his side. Paul, standing at the ready next to the door, caught the Chief''s movement in the corner of his eye, discreetly clicking off the safety of his rifle just in case before moving to stand next to Chief Thomson.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Mr. Moon stepped over the police tape and walked until he stood about ten feet away from the man with the fiery hair. The fact that the chief¡¯s hand was casually resting on the butt of his revolver, or that a second officer stood near the door with a lever-action rifle settled in his arms did not escape the notice of Mr. Moon.


    It was another sign pointing toward a certain amount of competence. In the corner of his eye, Mr. Moon could see the chalk outline on the ground more clearly. Dried blood darkened the asphalt, but the body had been taken away. A dead man in the parking lot. Was it a Russian, or an officer?


    Mr. Moon¡¯s eyes then flicked over to the broken window. There was no glass on his side of the frame. All of it had landed inside of the building, which meant it was broken from the outside. He could see a few shards still littering the ground just inside the window, which almost meant that the break was very recent, to not have been cleaned up yet.


    ¡°Ah.¡± Mr. Moon blinked. He¡¯d been taken up by his observations again. He turned back to the chief and nodded his head in a greeting. ¡°Allow us to introduce ourselves. I am called Mr. Moon. My associate here,¡± Mr. Moon gestured with his palm toward Dag, ¡°Is Dag Sterner. We represent the Federal Bureau of Investigation and have reason to believe the men who attacked your station are the same group that we have been tracking."


    The red-haired man regarded them cautiously and then took his right hand off the butt of his handgun to offer Mr. Moon a handshake.


    ¡°Chief Thomson. You must¡¯ve caught the broadcast when we radioed for backup. Is it just you two?¡±


    Mr. Moon caught Chief Thomson¡¯s hand in his and briskly shook it.


    ¡°Yes. Sitrep?¡±


    Chief Thomson cleared his throat and turned to the other man near the door.


    ¡°Hold things down here a bit, Paul. I¡¯ll show these boys around.¡±


    Then he turned back to Mr. Moon and beckoned them to follow him.


    ¡°Fair warning - it¡¯s a bit difficult to believe.¡± Chief Thomson began, leading Mr. Moon and Dag through the front doors to the inside of the building. The receptionist¡¯s desk was right past the doors, the wooden object littered with bullet holes. Another chalk outline of a humanoid form was sketched onto the marble floor. ¡°It all started when this strange creature showed up on our doorstep. Stick-thin, definitely not a human. It hardly breathed more than once a minute and didn¡¯t respond to us.¡±


    Mr. Moon¡¯s eyes imperceptively widened. They¡¯d found it. The creature was in this town. He could see Dag¡¯s body straighten slightly as the man became even more alert. This meant Mr. Sun¡¯s information was correct.


    ¡°Do you still have it?¡± Mr. Moon voiced the question, but Chief Thomson regretfully shook his head.


    ¡°It disappeared in the confusion. About a half-hour, maybe an hour after we found it, three men charged in here with guns. Poor Carlos didn¡¯t even have time to react. They were well-armed, organized, and prepared. Two came in front, one through the back. He picked the lock.¡±


    Mr. Moon stopped and stood still. Blood stained the wooden receptionist''s desk. Judging from the proximity of the chalk outline, Carlos had been sitting at the desk when he died. Then his body fell to the floor. He moved over to the desk and leaned down slightly to observe the bullet holes.


    ¡°Shotgun.¡± Mr. Moon observed. ¡°Close-ranged. Pellet shots, not slugs. The force of the shot blew him off his chair and to the floor.¡±


    ¡°So one man with a shotgun¡­¡± Dag muttered, then pointed at a stretch of the marble floor further on. ¡°Grenades, too? Or was that marble shattered before.¡±


    Chief Thomson nodded. ¡°Yes. One man came through the front door with a shotgun. An Ithica 37 is my guess, but I didn¡¯t get a good look at it. The second man took cover behind that window. Threw at least two explosives. Hard to tell if they were actual grenades or simple pipe bombs.¡±


    Mr. Moon stood back up and began walking across the marble-floored room to the back, where the holding cells were.


    ¡°Likely grenades. Assuming this is the same group as we were tracking, those men are well-armed and extremely dangerous. You said there were three?¡±


    ¡°Aye.¡±


    Mr. Moon stopped once he reached a chalk outline situated just passed the open back door.


    ¡°Then the location of the final two men in that group is still unknown. Is this where the third man appeared?¡±


    ¡°Yes. I¡­ shot him as soon as I heard the door open.¡±


    Chief Thomson¡¯s voice was behind Mr. Moon, who was standing over the chalk outline. That was why the chief failed to see Mr. Moon¡¯s eyes tighten as he noticed the faint hesitation in Thomson¡¯s voice. It was barely there. Like a faint blip in a radio.


    That faint blip was like klaxon alarms going off in front of Mr. Moon telling him that there was more to the story that Chief Thomson was unwilling to share.


    Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°I see.¡± Was Mr. Moon¡¯s only response. His eyes flicked around. Blood coated part of the door around head height. Other than that the scene was clean. Except¡­ in the corner, hidden partially by the shadows, was a shell casing. It was hard to say what caliber, though the rough size of it that Mr. Moon could see from where he stood appeared to be about the size of what a pistol would fire.


    That meant either the dead man had fired his weapon at least one time before going down¡­


    Or.


    It was a headshot. Definitely. The placement of the blood spatter said no less than that. Right through the head, probably into the door. A headshot with a handgun was a bit tricky, even if one was close to the target.


    ¡°Where were you and your men situated during the firefight?¡± Mr. Moon abruptly asked, turning back to face Chief Thomson.


    The chief pointed toward two desks, overturned to their sides, and a hallway.


    ¡°I flipped those desks for some cover, Paul was in the hall when it happened.¡±


    Mr. Moon¡¯s expression didn¡¯t give a single thought away. The distance from the table to the back door was considerable in the context of a shot from a handgun during a high-stress situation. Mr. Moon considered himself a rather competent marksman. He consistently took first place in the yearly department shooting competitions that Mr. Sun found amusing to organize.


    He was unsure if he could make that shot from that distance with the same weapon without serious luck.


    ¡°I see. Where are the bodies?¡± Mr. Moon changed track. No matter his suspicions, nothing could be confirmed until more evidence was available. Perhaps Chief Thomson was exceedingly lucky.


    Or perhaps there was a third party present during the attack, one that the chief was unwilling to speak about for some reason.


    ¡°We have them on ice in the break room. Some boys from the next town over are scheduled to pick them up later today since we don¡¯t have a morgue here.¡±


    Dag appeared to note Mr. Moon¡¯s curiosity and took over the conversation, gesturing with a hand for the chief to lead them on, while also using his much larger body to obscure Mr. Moon¡¯s thinner figure from the chief¡¯s eyesight.


    As Chief Thomson began to lead Dag to the bodies, Mr. Moon hung back slightly, discreetly stooping downward to discreetly pick up the bullet casing and sliding it into his pocket before rejoining the other two men. This was only one clue, nothing more than a faint curiosity until more oddities presented themselves. However, the fact that there was already one oddity was enough to send Mr. Moon¡¯s brain into high gear.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Chief Thomson pushed open the door to the break room, holding in a weary sigh as the dismal sight unfolded before them. Three bodies were lying on the floor, packed with as many bags of ice as Paul could buy from the gas station down the street. Anything to help slow the process of the bodies falling into disrepair, at least until the men from the morgue could arrive. The person he¡¯d spoken to on the phone was unsure of the arrival time himself, so Chief Thomson figured they would be better off preparing for the worst.


    That¡¯s all he felt like he was doing lately. Sending Cass away so she wasn¡¯t caught in the firefight, even though it pained him to not be able to ensure her safety himself. Bracing himself to call the families of Carlos and Bill, who were cruelly cut down long before they should have been. Dealing with the quite frankly unnerving presence of the FBI agents who had landed on his doorstep.


    Oh, what he would have given to receive a crack SWAT team from the big city. Instead, all they had were the giant and the scarecrow. Dispatch refused to send anyone else, citing that all the other officers were too pressed with keeping order in their own jurisdiction. Bull crap. A police precinct gets attacked, and the other chiefs can''t be bothered to help their comrades out.


    "The man that came in the back is on the far left. A real John Doe. No identification. Then it¡¯s Carlos and Bill, in that same order.¡± Chief Thomson pointed out. The bodies of his officers had been set away from the other man¡¯s corpse. It would have left a bad taste in his mouth to let good men lay next to a murdering scumbag.


    The massive mountain of a man, Dag, settled into the room like an avalanche ending its path at the bottom of a mountain. With his presence alone, the room felt unbearably small ¨C and it was built to comfortably sit up to ten cops, with a fold-out cot to boot!


    Mr. Moon, if that was even his real name, slid into the room next. Compared to the mountainous shape of Dag, that man was more like a faint cloud sliding across a night sky, almost unnoticeable. He was sharp, though. Already Chief Thomson had been forced into one lie in order to obscure Cass¡¯s involvement. She didn¡¯t need any of this. Not when two of his men were already dead. Not to mention Jackie over at the bar was dead, likely murdered by the same scum that attacked the station.


    No, best for her name to remain unmentioned until all of this was cleared away. The very thought of her being involved made his gut twist in pure terror. It was something that had gripped him as soon as she brought that¡­ thing into his office. He could only hope that wherever Cass had decided to hide, she would stay there. Carlos and Bill had already proved how dangerous this situation was.


    ¡°Poor Bill was on his way back from patrol.¡± Chief Thomson began to explain as Mr. Moon made his way over to Bill¡¯s body. ¡°We radioed him to be careful, but that just made him come back faster. One of those bastards got him in the parking lot. The shot cut clean through the door of his squad car.¡±


    Mr. Moon made a noncommittal hum, moving on to Carlos¡¯s body. He leaned down to observe the ruined remains of Carlos¡¯s chest. There was nothing but sticky gore in the place of where there was once flesh and bone.


    ¡°Close range. I¡¯m betting with that hypothetical Ithica.¡± Mr. Moon commented. ¡°Likely stowed away under a coat until the assailant got¡­ perhaps ten? Five feet away? Close enough to be lethal with buckshot.¡±


    That sounded about right. Chief Thomson could still hear the shotgun blast in his mind. One moment it had been quiet. The next, he could hear Carlos greet someone coming in through the front door, and then the world went mad. It was nothing but a blur of motion after that.


    Mr. Moon stood up, glancing between Carlos and Bill.


    ¡°Where are their service weapons?¡± He abruptly asked. Chief Thomson frowned. Now that he mentioned it¡­


    His eyes shot wide open.


    ¡°They must have stolen them. Carlos had a revolver. It would have been holstered at his waist. Bill¡­ I think he usually carried the same, and also a lever-action rifle in his patrol car. Probably a couple extra mags each added on top. The John Doe has a Colt. Snub-nosed, by the look of it.¡±


    Mr. Moon kneeled right next to the unknown man. The space between his right eye and his ear was blown apart as if it had been shot at an incredibly short range. In addition, there were faint powder burns on his face. That was another point toward the short-range theory. There could be more, but he wasn''t exactly a forensic scientist.


    Once his initial examination was finished, Mr. Moon slipped on a pair of black gloves before lifting the revolver out of the holster attached to the man¡¯s belt.


    ¡°A Colt Detective Special. Snub-nosed for easier concealment. Fires a .38 special cartridge, I believe.¡± Dag muttered, giving the pitch-black weapon in Mr. Moon¡¯s hands a once-over. Mr. Moon, meanwhile, flicked the cylinder of the gun open to glance inside. Six bullets sat in the chamber, ready to fire. He flicked it closed and placed it back in the dead man¡¯s holster.


    ¡°They took the chance to resupply. Not completely unexpected.¡± Mr. Moon concluded. Then he turned and headed out of the room. Dag followed him with Chief Thomson trailing behind.


    ¡°Gentlemen,¡± Mr. Moon began, ¡°it appears there are two heavily armed men hiding somewhere in this town. Two more are in an unknown location, assuming this is the same group we have been tracking. I imagine they will join our first two as soon as possible. Furthermore, it appears the creature is missing. Either the attackers now possess it or the creature walked off on its own.¡±


    ¡°I have a few more men in the department coming in. Should be here in an hour.¡± Chief Thomson added on.


    Mr. Moon nodded, taking in those words and adding them to whatever plan was brewing behind his expressionless face.


    ¡°Very well. Once they arrive we will decide upon a search pattern. In a small town like this, there are only so many places for an unfamiliar face to hide.¡±


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    ¡°So, do you think it walked off on its own?¡± Dag whispered into Mr. Moon¡¯s ear from where they stood near the back of the hall, watching Chief Thomson pace back and forth from the door to the receptionist¡¯s desk. It was the only outward sign that the chief was barely hanging on to his own composure.


    Mr. Moon shook his head with the smallest of movements possible. ¡°No. Not once has it moved on its own before. Why start now? The question remains, who moved it?¡±


    ¡°The Russians? Chief Thomson?¡± Dag said.


    ¡°Or our mystery third party.¡± Mr. Moon replied. He fished out the bullet casing from his pocket just far enough so that Dag could get a glimpse of it, but that it also didn¡¯t clear very far past the edges of his pocket. If Chief Thomson truly did have something to hide, then it would be best for his suspicions to remain obscured for the time being. ¡°The John Doe¡¯s Colt still had six shots left in it.¡±


    Dag¡¯s eyes narrowed. His hands curled slightly into meaty, almost boulder-like fists, and then relaxed. ¡°Then there is a third party.¡±


    Mr. Moon nodded in agreement. Chief Thomson claimed that he had shot the John Doe who picked the lock to the back door to try and flank the officers. Normally that would have been fine, if not for the bullet casing on the floor.


    Seeing as the John Doe never fired his gun, and both Chief Thomson and Paul were near the middle of the main hall, it was impossible for that casing to have come from either of their guns. Moreover, a headshot such as that would be nigh-impossible to reliably make from that distance. It would have to be closer. Close enough to leave faint powder burns on the dead man¡¯s skin.


    Several questions remained unanswered. Alone they would be less of a priority than everything else, but together they clumped into one piece to form a gigantic monolith. Who shot the Russian? Why was Chief Thomson unwilling to share that there was a third party in the station? Where was the alien ¨C did the Russians have it, did the police hide it away, or did the third party make off with it instead?


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Tiny yet energetic hands shook her side, waking Cathy from her blessed sleep far earlier in the morning than any sane person would wish. She blearily cracked open an eye. It was little Ted. He must have been more eager than she thought to start opening presents.


    Cathy glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand next to her head. Five in the morning. Well, she would have done the same when she was his age.


    ¡°Come on, Aunt Cathy! Grandma says we can¡¯t start opening presents until all the adults are up! Tim got mom and dad, and Mary bounced on Uncle Mike¡¯s bed until he threw her out! It¡¯s just you! Come one come on come on! Christmas presents!¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes.¡± Cathy groaned. Her grasping hand searched around her nightstand until finally the switch to turn on the lamp was found. It clicked on, bathing the room in warm yellow light.


    "Okay, Aunt Cathy!" Ted shouted, his voice feeling like it was blasting apart her ear drums this early in the morning. "Hurry and get ready! I''ll race you to the living room!"


    Before Cathy could even say another word, Ted was gone in the wind. She could almost swear he left afterimages in his wake¡­ though perhaps that was her tired mind playing tricks on her.


    Still, now that her nephew was gone, the guest room was quiet. It was just her in that room near the back of her parent''s house. She''d never gotten around to finding a husband or having kids. With how wild her nieces and nephews ran, often times she didn''t feel the need. They knew Aunt Cathy''s house was a swift bike ride away, so they were around often enough for her to practically call them children of her own.


    ¡®Christmas morning¡­¡± Cathy breathed out the words as she stood and stretched. A glance outside the window showed another snowless holiday. What a shame. The kids would have loved to play in it, but you couldn¡¯t have everything in life. There would always be another year, another chance for a white Christmas.


    She was just glad the family could come together to celebrate the holidays. And as the dawn light filled her vision, she let out a wide, cheerful smile.


    Cathy¡¯s eyes fluttered open. The light of dawn was tearing through the gaps in the curtains with all the grace of a drunk stumbling home after a night of debauchery.


    ¡°Morning, Ms. Miller.¡± Steve greeted her, glancing up from his newspaper from where he sat on a chair next to the door. The man seemed as unflappable and easygoing as ever, even considering the earliness of the day. ¡°Coffee?¡±


    Cathy nodded her thanks, swiveling her body out of the bed and calmly walking over to accept the offered mug in Steve''s hands. She took a big gulp, swirling the piping-hot liquid around her mouth before swallowing. It was motel coffee. As expected, the quality left much to be desired. Still, coffee was coffee at the end of the day.


    "Ol'' Moonie came by a couple of hours ago. We got a name."


    Cathy imperceptively raised an eyebrow. ¡°You waited until dawn to say?¡±


    ¡°Well, our part in the play begins now.¡± Steve shrugged, draining the last of his coffee, throwing the newspaper in the trash can, and standing up. "No ordinary couple moving out to the Midwest for new opportunities would even think of leaving the motel in the middle of the night. At dawn, though, that''s much more reasonable."


    Cathy¡¯s eyes grew cold. Steve¡¯s words were expected, but the knowledge that the fieldwork was about to begin still struck a chord. She wasn¡¯t in the office anymore, managing communications for agents halfway across the country. She was here, expected to run a mobile communications rig while also shoring up Steve¡¯s cover as an ordinary man that simple townsfolk would be willing to speak with.


    Only in the worst of circumstances, in which the situation became far too much for even Mr. Moon and Dag to handle would there be even the slightest chance for her to be in the line of fire. Until that happened, all Cathy needed to do was play the part of a dutiful housewife and make sure the men could keep in regular, secure radio contact with each other and Washington.


    ¡°Of course, husband dearest.¡± Cathy said, ¡°What is the name of this charming new town you have found?¡±


    Steve grinned. The action was sharklike, as if he was a sly predator spotting a target to sink his teeth in. Considering what she knew of his specialization, that thought likely was not far off from reality. Now all that would remain to be seen was if Mr. Moon¡¯s paranoia was correct and an infiltration team, along with on-site communications, was actually needed.


    ¡°That¡¯s the spirit.¡± Steve chuckled, ¡°The name is Carlston, oh beloved of mine. Now, shall we depart in our completely ordinary rented van full of normal family possessions, like clocks, chests of drawers, and boxes of clothes?¡±


    ¡°Our van that is definitely not full of expensive communications equipment and auxiliary field gear?¡± Cathy replied with a rare smile, spending a brief glance at the bedside mirror to make sure her curly brown hair was still in order. Then she grabbed the keys to the van and lifted the familiar weight of her purse to settle it over her shoulder. ¡°Let¡¯s.¡±

 Chapter 10 - Event Horizon

    Nothing. Every scrap of evidence they had at hand was spread out on the coffee table and it all amounted to nothing.


    Well, perhaps saying ''nothing'' was a tad bit harsh, but the investigation so far had done nothing but turn up more questions. Where were the Russians? No one knew. A town as small as this one and no one had seen anything out of the ordinary. Where was the alien? It was as if the creature had disappeared into the wind during the raid on the station. More privately ¨C a consequence of Mr. Moon being unable to fully trust Chief Thomson, the identity of the third party at the station was still highly suspect.


    ¡°Look. They have two men left out of the three that were at the station,¡± Chief Thomson began, pinching his glabella with two fingers in an attempt to relieve the obvious stress built up on his face.


    ¡°Four men left.¡± Mr. Moon corrected him. ¡°They started with six. We captured one in our first engagement with them. That makes five. Then one died in the station. Four.¡±


    Chief Thomson paced back and forth through the living room, his shoes trampling the short carpet of his home. It was no police station, but Chief Thomson¡¯s home was smaller, more defensible, and lacked the bloodstains on the marble that brought forth bitter memories.


    The living room was a bit crowded with not only the Chief being present, but Officer Paul and Mr. Moon were standing with considering gazes next to the coffee table, and Dag sat like an unmoving, giant monolith on an armchair near a window, his eyes constantly flicking between the discussion and his view of the driveway outside.


    ¡°Four then.¡± Chief Thomson agreed. ¡°Four murdering communists. Armed to the teeth and cop-killers to boot. Meanwhile we have myself, Paul, Rob, and Joseph from the department. Then you two. Beyond that there¡¯s nothing. Every station I¡¯ve radioed has all said the same thing. We¡¯re too swamped. We can¡¯t send backup. Sorry.¡±


    Of course they couldn¡¯t. Mr. Moon knew full well that Mr. Sun had his men working day and night to prevent news of this situation from being spread. Each man answering Chief Thomson¡¯s requests wasn¡¯t from a neighboring precinct, but from the department back in Washington.


    Chief Thomson continued to pace his well-worn path. ¡°No break-ins. No attacks or sudden deaths. We don¡¯t know what vehicle they are driving. They have balls enough to attack the precinct and your FBI site, but enough smarts to lay low at this time.¡±


    ¡°The woods?¡± Paul questioned, ¡°They could hide deep in the forest and we probably couldn¡¯t find them for months, maybe years.¡±


    ¡°Unless we put together a posse.¡± Rob walked through the kitchen door with a steaming cup of tea in his hand to stand next to Paul. The man had a gentle face with a youthful tint to it, though a small part of the hair on his head was beginning to gradually turn from black to grey. He was still dressed in his sharp policeman blues, having been called right off of patrol to help manage the situation.


    Mr. Moon shook his head. ¡°No, we can¡¯t risk drawing civilians into this.¡± The true, unspoken reason known to only him and Dag was quite a bit more dire than that. The men of the station were already aware of the alien. It was what it was. That knowledge could not be walked back.


    However. The fewer people involved. The fewer people who knew the truth. That would mean a lesser chance of the information being spread¡­ and a smaller number of people needing ''silenced'' once the creature was back under FBI control.


    ¡°I agree.¡± Chief Thomson sighed. ¡°As helpful as it would be to get some boys together that know the woods like the back of their hands, we¡¯re already two officers down. We can¡¯t draw civilians into this.¡±


    ¡°So we sit here like ducks in a row waiting for something to happen?¡± Paul said. Frustration filled his voice and his right hand stroked the grip of his holstered pistol.


    ¡°Look.¡± Chief Thomson stopped pacing, pointing at the scant pile of evidence lumped together on the coffee table. ¡°We have part of the picture already. A small group with enough balls to make big moves like raiding a station and an FBI site. A preference for concealed weapons and bombs, but they¡¯re running low. No other reason for them to take the service weapons from Carlos and Bill. They¡¯re crazy and have balls, but each engagement sees them lose a man. The Feds nabbed one. I shot another. Mr. Moon,¡± Chief Thomson nodded toward the man, ¡°thinks they¡¯re after that weird creature. I agree. Once it disappeared, they melted away like snow in a heatwave.¡±


    Mr. Moon nodded along, beginning to speak once the chief fell silent.


    "They either already have it or they don''t. If they do, there''s no sense in sticking around. Those men will already be gone. If they don''t, doubtlessly they''ll eventually launch a search of their own across the town. They won¡¯t lick their wounds. Not for long.¡±


    Chief Thomson turned to the wall, where a map of the town had been pinned. Below it sat several framed pictures that had been hastily removed to make room.


    ¡°We¡¯ve searched every street by now. Every man, woman, and child in the town had been instructed to take care and report anything out of the ordinary.¡±


    The map was quite large, large enough to take up the majority of the wall. Freshly taken from the city hall, right from the planning office, it showcased every street, every block, the zoning details, even the park and the undeveloped areas. The only parts it failed to show were most of the rural areas since they stretched far past what would be reasonable for any city planning map to ordinarily show.


    ¡°Right.¡± Chief Thomson snapped his fingers decisively. ¡°Let¡¯s do another full patrol of the town. Even if we don¡¯t see anything, folks will be happy to see us out and about. Paul, you and I will take our squad cars out in the country. Let''s say¡­ how about a drive-by of all the farms and ranches within thirty miles of the city limits? Those folk out there know each other well and keep a good eye on their land. If anything strange happens, they''ll know. Rob, get Joseph on the radio. Let him know you two will be covering the suburbs and the Main Street area. Mr. Moon¡­¡± The Chief¡¯s voice trailed off questioningly.


    ¡°I¡¯ll go with you. We don¡¯t know the town as well.¡± Mr. Moon replied. ¡°Dag, stick with Rob. Anything happens, radio it in.¡±


    Mr. Moon¡¯s eyes did not fail to notice the flash of irritation on Chief Thomson¡¯s face, an emotion that flitted across it as fast as lightning striking the ground.


    ¡°Roger that.¡± Chief Thomson replied as if nothing had happened, being the first to turn and walk out to his squad car. Mr. Moon did the same. If Chief Thomson truly wished to hide something¡­ then he would oblige.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    ¡°Alright! You two should be all about set!¡± The woman cheerfully smiled at Steve. She was quite thin, with a mousey face and blue jeans that were already stained by grass. Steve smiled back, the gentle motion causing the woman to unconsciously smile even wider. He accepted the offered keys and took another look around while Cathy shook her hand. The rental wasn¡¯t bad at all. Truthfully, he hadn¡¯t even been sure if they would have been able to find somewhere to stay in the first place.


    Renting was always a tricky problem in a town as small as Carlston, and at such short notice too. They couldn¡¯t be picky. How could they, considering this was literally the only option? Located deep in the town¡¯s suburbs, the rental house was painted bright blue, almost like a robin''s egg in house form. The one-car garage just barely fit the van, the basement was full of spiders and cobwebs, but there were two bedrooms and the price didn¡¯t matter. Not when Mr. Sun was taking care of the budget back in Washington.


    Truly, they were lucky this woman was hoping to get some extra income by renting a house her husband had fixed up as a hobby. The man hadn''t done a bad job on it at all and her price was a little bit above reasonable. Again, that last bit hardly mattered since Mr. Sun was approving all the checks.


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Cathy finally managed to shake off the woman who owned the apartment, giving her one last wave as her old pickup truck rumbled its way out of the driveway. As soon as the woman was out of sight they walked into the garage. Dark, cool from being out of sight from the afternoon sun, and quite cramped from the bulk of the van, the garage wasn¡¯t much.


    Still, it was time to get to work. Steve pulled down the garage door to shield their activities while Cathy opened the van¡¯s back doors. Inside of the vehicle were mounds of communications equipment. Radios, jammers, signal boosters, extra cables, replacement parts, mics, headsets, it all jumbled together in Steve¡¯s eyes.


    How Cathy made sense of it all, he would never know. All he could do was help unload and carry the equipment into the master bedroom. It was the only room with enough electrical sockets to handle the mass of equipment. Even then, Steve had a feeling the owner of the rental house wouldn¡¯t be happy about the electrical bill at the end of the month. Hopefully it wouldn¡¯t take them that long to get everything sorted, but he¡¯d been undercover for longer missions in the past. If push came to shove, he could deal with it.


    ¡°A standard two-two.¡± Mr. Moon had said. The man¡¯s voice somehow always seemed a bit¡­ empty. Dead, even. A perfect picture of an emotionless federal agent. Like a bad guy in one of those movies about fighting the power and pulling one over on those nasty Feds. From what he''d seen of Mr. Moon''s demeanor, the reason likely wasn''t because he didn''t care, or lacked emotions. The man certainly had emotions, he was no robot. His only purpose right now was to complete the mission. Nothing more.


    On that, Steve could find common ground. Likely they all could. He didn¡¯t know for sure, but his instincts told Steve all four of the agents in this room were the same. That Mr. Sun had made the same promise to Cathy. To Dag. Even to Mr. Moon. The same promise that would be carried out if they succeeded in their mission.


    ¡°Two men out and about, openly working with known assets. Two men deep undercover, waiting in the wings for the enemy to slip up. With both sides covered, intel can be gathered in a far wider range than normal. Some people are willing to speak with officials when they see something, but some are not. Some are more willing to speak with a man at a bar who they see as a fellow ordinary man.¡±


    Mr. Moon ignored the obvious elephant in the room, that the job would be all the more dangerous for the two men outnumbered in the open. It was the trade-off for the infiltration plan if things truly did come to that. The man seemed to think so. And if someone as experienced as Mr. Moon expected it to be this way, Steve only had to agree.


    ¡°Moreover,¡± Mr. Moon continued, ¡°the Russians will see only the two of us. They¡¯ll wonder ¨C do the Americans think only two men are needed, or is there a whole team waiting in the shadows? They¡¯ll be jumpy. Paranoid. Imagining agents in every shadow behind every door. An invisible army lurking right out of sight. Meanwhile it will just be the four of us. Two in the open kicking down doors. Two undercover running local communications and gathering intel.¡±


    The words echoed around the room. Mr. Sun sat silently to the side, content with not interfering in the discussion. If men with the reputation of Mr. Moon and Mr. Sun were confident in this strategy, then Steve was happy to go with the flow.


    Besides, the team composition fully supported the plan. Mr. Moon and Dag Sterner were obviously quite used to a good fight. Cathy was pulled straight from communications, and Steve himself was an old hand at stakeouts and infiltration. Meanwhile, he was still pretty decent with a gun, so he could cover Miss Communications if push came to shove.


    ¡°Groovy.¡± Steve clapped his hands together. ¡°When do we start?¡±


    Steve brushed his palms together as if he was shaking off dust that wasn¡¯t there.


    ¡°Phew. I think that¡¯s all.¡±


    Cathy looked around the place with a professional eye, eventually nodding. Each metal box, each crackling radio, each headset, microphone, and electrical doodad was plugged in and ready to go.


    ¡°Perfect.¡± Steve shot a thumbs up toward her and made to leave. ¡°I¡¯ll secure the rest of the house. Best of luck, ay?¡±


    Cathy waved him away, already intently focused on the communications equipment before her, and Steve closed the door behind him so that her focus wouldn¡¯t be interrupted.


    ¡°The husband has already been banished to the couch," Steve said softly to himself and then laughed at his own jest. ¡°What next, is she going to pull the power to the TV? Steal my Sunday night football? Terrible woman. Enough to make a guy frequent the bar and get drunk with strangers-soon-to-be-friends.¡±


    ¡°You know they say,¡± Steve shrugged lightly, opening the door to the basement and banishing the pitch-black scene with a single flick of a light switch, ¡°A lady in the house means a man at the bar. And a man at the bar leads to a lot of talking being done~. A man doesn¡¯t have secrets when ol¡¯ Mr. Whiskey and Sir Beer are friends of his.¡±


    The basement was dirty, spider-filled, and neglected. A single door at the back led out to a small flight of steps that spilled out to the backyard. A single light bulb valiantly battled against the encroaching shadows, revealing all sorts of random junk that tended to accumulate in the dank corners of a basement. Hedge trimmers, laundry baskets, random piles of bricks, a small tool bench (score!), and even a chainsaw.


    Otherwise, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Steve shrugged and headed back up the stairs to the main part of the house. "House secure." Steve muttered. "Now let''s meet the neighbors to let them know a charming and loving young couple has moved into their sleepy town to start a happy life. Get them comfortable enough to do the neighborly thing and warn us when something odd is happening on the block."


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Cass peered out from behind the window blinds. It was the perfect spot, located to provide a good view of the winding gravel road that would take a car onto the Henryk¡¯s property.


    It wasn¡¯t like she expected trouble. Sure, it was good to be prepared, but they were in the middle of nowhere. But keeping watch, it helped Cass focus. Helped stave away the images that her mind constantly ran through, over and over like her brain was trying to find some way that night could have been different.


    Those nutjobs were after that alien. How did they know Cass and Mark brought it to the station? The smokers from the bar were with those people. Did they spot the creature when Cass¡¯s car passed by the bar? Or when Mark was unloading it?


    Carlos. Cass¡¯s mind kept replaying that sight in her head. His unmoving body splayed out on the marble floor like a puppet with its strings cut. He had a family. Now he was gone, leaving his kids without a father.


    Was there any way she could have stopped that?


    The first, most obvious way was not going to the station. But she¡¯d already been over this with Mark. Odds were if they dumped the alien in the woods, someone would see them. Cass just should have realized that if someone could see them heading out to the woods, someone could just have well seen them heading to the station.


    She hadn¡¯t realized that. Cass¡¯s tunnel vision on getting her dad¡¯s help made sure of that. What could she have done, though? Her dad always knew what to do. Even when they¡¯d dropped an alien on his doorstep, he knew what to do.


    Not only that, but even at the start of the attack she¡¯d made mistake after mistake. Running foolishly to help her dad, even though it took her into the middle of a firefight. Heavens above, she probably distracted him more than helped him back then. Mark had wanted to stay upstairs.


    Cass should have listened. They could have been shot as soon as they went downstairs, or when they ran along the side of the main hall. Sure it worked out in the end. Cass was able to stop that man from ambushing her dad from behind. That was the end, though. Taking into consideration what she¡¯d known at the start of the fight when she was in the office, there was no good reason to go downstairs. No reason other than the arrogance and foolishness that made Cass believe she could help out.


    Cass blinked and her mind shifted away from agonizing over that endless trailing loop of thoughts. Her concentration went back to watching the driveway. Her hands absentmindedly clutched at the grip of the handgun she took from her dad¡¯s gun safe. Unbidden, the slow-motion replay of the man she killed spun through her mind.


    One bullet. That was all it took at that range. But she had to do it. Mark would have died otherwise. Then she would be next. After that, her dad and Paul.


    That didn¡¯t make her feel any better. It didn¡¯t soothe the scene that played over and over again in her head.


    ¡°Hey.¡±


    Cass jumped, whirling around to face Mark.


    ¡°Christ.¡± Cass muttered. She placed a hand on her chest. It felt like her heart was beating at a trillion miles per second from the unintentional jump scare. Then her eyes widened in surprise.


    ¡°Mark¡­¡± Cass cut the man off from what he was about to say, ¡°Your nose.¡±


    ¡°Yeah?¡± Mark¡¯s head tilted in confusion. ¡°It¡¯s broken. I know. My fault.¡±


    Cass shook her head, both to deny Mark¡¯s reply and to clear her thoughts. Maybe she was seeing things that weren¡¯t there. She forced her eyes closed and wrenched them open.


    It was the same sight.


    "No," Cass said, part in wonder, part in confusion. "It''s not. Not anymore. It¡¯s not broken.¡±


    Mark¡¯s hand shot up to touch his face. At first gingerly, as if he was worried Cass was lying and he was about to feel a world of pain, but then with a much rougher approach. He slapped his nose. Twisted it. Bopped it.


    There were no cries of pain. Dried blood still decorated the bottom part of his nostrils, but his nose was no longer crooked. It no longer made Cass shudder at a glance.


    ¡°Holy moly¡­¡± Mark muttered.


    Cass leaned forward and tweaked Mark¡¯s nose with her own hands. It was solid, at least as much as a nose tended to be. The cartilage felt intact. The skin, unbroken.


    Mark¡¯s broken nose was healed. The skin was unblemished apart from the dried blood. Even if it had healed naturally, something that would ordinarily take several weeks, it would have likely turned out to be a bit crooked. Especially since it was never set in a splint.


    But in under two days it had completely healed.

 Chapter 11 - Tomorrow Is Another Day

    Cass patted Mark down while he stood stock still, poking his nose in wonder. The bruises on his face were gone. The back of his hands were no longer scraped up. When she felt the top of Mark¡¯s head, all she could feel was dried blood mixed in with his hair. No cuts.


    ¡°This is insane¡­¡± Cass whispered the words almost entirely to herself. ¡°How¡­ this is physically impossible.¡±


    Everything about what Cass was seeing boggled the mind. How did this happen? Why did this happen? She began to pace, fingers tugging away at her chin as she thought. The process was quick. All Cass had to do was look for the oddities of this week. It had to be caused by something odd, of course, considering Mark¡¯s sudden healing was physically impossible.


    ¡°The alien.¡± Cass¡¯s eyes flashed decisively. It was the only answer that made sense, the only other impossibility in her life right now. No matter that they¡¯d left it in the barn. Who was to say it needed to be close by to do something to Mark? Besides, it could have done something delayed to him. The three of them had been in the police cruiser together for some amount of time yesterday. Cass didn¡¯t understand how the creature did it, but the fact was the creature remained the only suspect in her mind that could have done something like this.


    The worst part was if she was right¡­ something with weird abilities like that? Well, Cass could understand why those crazy guys at the station were willing to kill over it.


    "So, what? That freak-o thing in the barn fixed me up?" Mark asked, confusion written all over his face. "Why? It hasn''t spoken a word or moved at all. It just sits there.¡±


    Cass threw her hands up in defeat. ¡°I don¡¯t know! Why would some creature from beyond the stars do anything? Maybe it was on accident. Maybe it¡¯s crazy. Maybe it wants to pay you back for taking it home. Or maybe it can''t even think and this is an automatic reaction. You know, like a robot programmed to fix up anyone it sees hurt. Heck, with that logic we might be nothing but puppets walking around a stage for some strange creature¡¯s amusement. You know, real Twilight Zone material. Any moment Rod Serling¡¯s gonna walk out from behind that curtain over there saying some real freaky stuff. Then some music sounds and we¡¯ll be in for a ride neither of us want!¡±


    Mark stared at Cass with wide eyes, like she was some strange creature leaping out at him all of a sudden.


    ¡°Yeah¡­¡±


    Cass shook her head. She¡¯d gotten away from herself for a bit there. Part of it was this situation for sure, but the other part was this farmhouse. It was dark, old, and creaky. She kept seeing things in the shadows. Not like monsters or anything, but images of the man she shot, or flashes of what could have happened to her dad after they escaped.


    "Sorry," Cass admitted, holding up her hands in regret. "I just¡­ I just need to get out of here.¡±


    ¡°Door¡¯s right over there,¡± Mark helpfully pointed to the kitchen door behind Cass.


    Cass chuckled at his bad joke. "No, no I need to get back to town. I need to make sure Dad''s alright. This whole ''not knowing'' thing is driving me bonkers."


    She could see it instantly. Mark froze like a deer caught in the headlights; fear was written all over his face.


    ¡°Those men¡­¡±


    ¡°I know.¡± Cass sighed. She stopped pacing and sat down on one of the chairs around the kitchen table. ¡°I know. It¡¯s stupid. With our luck, the second we go into town those murderous lunatics find us. They see us, recognize us from the station, and bang bang. I¡¯m sorry Mark. I know. I¡¯ll go alone. You stay here and keep safe. I can''t¡­ I''m so worried about my dad that I think I¡¯m gonna puke.¡±


    Mark fell silent. Several emotions warred on his face. Fear was the most obvious. It was an expression she wasn¡¯t used to seeing him wear. Lately, it felt like that was all he had. Fear. But there was something else, something that made itself evident soon enough.


    ¡°Yeah. I get it. When do we go?¡±


    Cass¡¯s eyes widened. Just like that? Going from scaredy-cat Mark to the old solid Mark? The old Mark that wasn¡¯t scared of anything?


    Okay. He was okay with her stupid plan. Even after she¡¯d already messed up at the station.


    She shook her head. Now wasn¡¯t the time for that. She¡¯d already been agonizing over that junk all night.


    "Now," Cass replied. "We hide the alien under that haystack in the back of the barn and take the cruiser into town. We make sure my dad¡¯s okay and split. Um, I guess if he wants us to do something else, we¡¯ll do that instead of splitting. If those crazy guys come after us we run for the hills.¡±


    Mark silently nodded, walking over to the living room and returning with a metal baseball bat loosely held in his hands.


    ¡°Found it in the shed out back.¡± He explained when Cass¡¯s questioning gaze fell onto the bat. ¡°Just in case.¡±


    Her right hand drifted down to the pocket of her pajama pants, which still held the revolver from her dad¡¯s gun safe. It was back to holding a full six shots, with Cass having taken one of the bullets from the two speedloaders to replace the bullet she used in the station. With the hammer lowered it sat mostly concealed. Only part of the wooden handle poked out, enough that a sharp eye could spot it but few would bother to notice.


    She could still see him in her mind¡¯s eye. The smoker falling backward in slow motion to settle on the ground, dead. Murderer.


    ¡°Probably for the best.¡± Cass sighed, mentally shoving the thoughts away from her head before grabbing the keys to the cop car out of the pocket of her windbreaker.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    ¡°Check one. Check two. Check three.¡±


    The radio in Mr. Moon¡¯s car crackled life with Cathy¡¯s deadpan voice. Mr. Moon glanced down at the device. It was just him in the car, Dag having stepped out for a smoke just a minute ago. He¡¯d spent almost the entire day driving around the town with the chief while Dag was doing the same with Officer Rob to get the lay of the area. Now that they''d seen all there was to see and learned how the town was laid out, he was back in his vehicle such as to cover more ground. With the town cops running four squad cars, adding a fifth with Mr. Moon¡¯s car provided invaluable coverage.


    ¡°This is Moon.¡± Mr. Moon picked up the radio and brusquely replied. It fell silent for a moment, with only brief bursts of static coming from the radio, until once more Cathy¡¯s voice filtered through.


    ¡°Communications are scrambled and online. Stick to this channel unless otherwise instructed.¡±


    Mr. Moon nodded. Standard operating procedure it was.


    ¡°Well done Ms. Miller. Sitrep?¡±


    ¡°Renting a house on the corner of 29th and State Street. Blue paint, white awning. Comms are fully set up in the spare room, van¡¯s in the garage. Steve is outside smoking with the neighbors. He expects to be fully blended in within two days.¡±


    ¡°Understood.¡± Mr. Moon replied. The car shook slightly as Dag opened the passenger door and heaved his bulk into the seat, staying silent while Mr. Moon spoke. ¡°Be advised that we are working closely with Chief Thomson and may have company in the future.¡±


    ¡°Yes sir. Standard operating procedures will be modified to reflect that. Good hunting.¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡± Mr. Moon muttered once Cathy fell silent, clipping the handheld radio back to the car¡¯s dashboard.


    Now that communications were live, he could focus on other concerns. Chiefly, the fact that Chief Thomson was still pushing for a posse to be formed. On one hand, the chief''s suggestion had some merit. There simply weren''t enough officers to cover the town when the Russians could be hiding anywhere. On the other hand¡­


    It was impossible for Mr. Moon to allow a posse to form. Doing so would be just as dangerous in the long term as calling in the army would be. As of now, only Mr. Moon¡¯s team, the chief¡¯s remaining men, the Russians, and the mysterious third party knew of the alien. They were all elements that could be kept track of (or in the case of the third party, hunted down). A posse, while likely being helpful in finding the Russians, would soon learn of the alien in turn. That would lead to the information being spread by more people than his team could take care of. Considering that the information would be deadly if it got out¡­


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Well, the goal was to avoid glassing the town in the first place.


    The chief didn¡¯t know that, however. He couldn¡¯t know that. Because if he learned that, then his mind would naturally turn to what Mr. Moon might be willing to do to keep the secret safe once the alien was secured.


    No, a curfew would be better. It would keep folks out of the way while making anyone working under the cover of night inherently suspicious. Meanwhile, it would also encourage the people of the town to report and flee if any shady individuals showed up, instead of sticking around and running the risk of seeing the creature.


    The problem was convincing the chief.


    Mr. Moon drove his car at an ambling pace along the street while he thought. Four men were left in the town¡¯s police department, including the chief. Two of the Russians were known to still be alive. One died at the station. Two more were missing. The third party. The alien was still missing.


    The town was small, but somehow the Russians still evaded them. Irritating, but not impossible. Even a small town would have hidey holes if one wasn¡¯t picky about accommodations.


    They continued to drive for hours. Until the sun began to set. Another day passed. Another day with no progress.


    Mr. Moon took a left and began the drive back to Chief Thomson¡¯s house.


    Another day.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    The sound was pleasing to the ear. The gurgle of fuel slipping into the tank of his pickup truck. That thirsty girl was getting all she deserved, premium fuel spiced with his own special seasoning to make her purr and roar, maybe rumble a little bit too.


    Glass shattered in the background. Jack paid no mind. He was finally here. Carlston.


    Ohhh, the smell was astounding too. Not the smell of the town, as it smelled like any ordinary small town. No, the smell of gas. That sweet fragrance of gasoline fumes wafting past his nose. The woody hints, light and aromatic ¨C almost sweet in smell. Jack smiled as he took a deep whiff. Euphoria.


    Another sound of shattering glass rang out. The light above him went dark, but Jack ignored it. The ol'' girl was almost full and his night vision was doing just fine. It would take mere moments for it to kick in. Seconds ticked by. The gas pump finally clicked to a stop. Jack pulled it out of the gas tank and screwed the cap on. Nice and tight, screwed until three clicks were heard.


    A rock hit the side mirror of his pickup truck. It was only a glancing blow, but enough to shatter the glass.


    Jack turned. His eyes narrowed.


    They were humanoids. Arms, legs, and a head each, along with a torso and a standard number of fingers. No skin. No faces. Not even eyes, or a normal mouth. But, no muscle, blood, or ligaments were visible. It was as if their bodies were made of purely inky jet-blackness.


    Five in total.


    One of them opened what Jack assumed was its head, or perhaps its version of a mouth. It was filled with straight teeth, unnervingly so. Straight and long teeth. Pure white teeth contrasted sharply against a body that looked like it was made from whatever material the void in the night sky was.


    ¡°Shadow demons¡­¡± Jack breathed out the words. Then a vicious grin warped his face, and he let out a full-bellied gale of laughter. They were back. The shadow demons hadn¡¯t learned from the last time he¡¯d fought them in Florida!


    One of the demons raised its arm, a rock clutched in its evil palm. Jack let the grin on his face continue to widen before opening the driver¡¯s side door to his truck and grabbing an axe. It was sharp. Wicked sharp. Kept just for situations like these. No sense wasting bullets on a demon, obviously.


    The rock smashed through his windshield and at the same time, Jack was on the demons in a blur of action.


    ¡°DEATH IS HERE!¡± Jack screamed out as he hacked into the shoulder of the closest shadow demon with his axe. It howled in pain and jumped backward, but Jack was faster. That was their playbook. Cowards, the lot of them. Throw things and run. He wouldn¡¯t let them. He darted forward, each one of his strides equaling three of theirs. He winded back and caught the same demon square in the chest with his axe.


    The other four began to scream, the unholy screeching noises sounding like fingers on a chalkboard in his ears.


    ¡°Hah, wow!¡± Jack stepped back, neatly dodging a steel pipe clutched in the shaking hands of the second demon, stepping on the body of the first demon while he dodged and sending his foot crushing through the ruined ribcage of the dead abomination. The sensation felt pleasing ¨C no, it felt downright euphoric! The sensation of warm demon blood coating the leg of his jeans, the viscera slopping over the side of his steel-toed boots to soak his socks.


    The second demon tripped over the cooling arm of the dead one, landing with a hard ''thump'' to the ground. In the corner of his eye, he could see the third demon fleeing. No matter. His truck was faster. All Jack had to do was memorize the direction it went in and change to pursuit mode after.


    Hands gripped his torso. Jack glanced down, seeing the arms of the fourth demon wrapped around his barrel chest in a feeble attempt to grapple him. To restrain him! Jack was not a man who could be restrained! Not by a demon, nor by life! He was far more powerful than it could ever imagine! Immediately he grabbed at the fingers on the edges of the demon¡¯s hands, prying them away and breaking them one by one while the second demon recovered its footing.


    Movement fluttered away behind the window leading into the store part of the gas station. Jack spared a glance. A store clerk was gaping like a fool out the window. No matter. He didn''t need help. He spared a wave toward the ordinary man, the type of wave that said ''Don''t worry, I''ve got this handled, citizen'', without actually saying it verbally.


    Three fingers sounded like carrots snapping between teeth before the fourth shadow demon¡¯s grip fell away like clay crumbling at his fingers. Jack didn¡¯t even spare a glance; he knew by the sound of it that the creature was still recovering. The second shadow demon was back at its feet, moving faster than expected. The steel pipe was discarded for some reason. Jack attributed that to stupidity ¨C shadow demons were never really smart in his experience.


    The action that proved his point was the sight of the demon¡¯s fist hurtling toward his balls.


    Jack snarled in rage. That. That was cheap. In one quick movement his hand darted forward to catch the demon¡¯s fist before it connected, latching onto the inky-black surface with an iron grip. He pulled the arm closer, close enough he could use his other hand to grip the demon by its waist. Jack lifted the demon high into the air. Torso height. Chest height. Head height.


    Then he brought his left knee up while bringing the shadow demon down, back-first.


    A bone-shaking ¡®crunch¡¯ filled the air as the filthy demon¡¯s weak spine snapped in two against Jack¡¯s unbreakable kneecap. He tossed the worthless sack of shit away and turned toward the fourth opponent, while also keeping an eye on the fifth demon, the one who hadn¡¯t moved during the entire brawl.


    It was struck with fear. Jack grinned even wider. Good. It deserved to know fear. He turned his attention back to the demon whose fingers he broke. It was sitting on the ground numbly clutching its fingers. It didn¡¯t even have the brains to run. Shame. It would¡¯ve been more fun to chase two targets instead of one.


    Ah well. Jack grabbed the rubber hose off the gas pump. He wrapped it around the neck of the broken-fingered demon. He pulled. And pulled. The demon began to gasp, almost appearing to realize the situation.


    Almost beginning to realize that its foul existence was in danger. At first it wrapped its fingers against the rubber hose, trying to create a gap to breathe. Jack responded by pulling tighter. He could see the thing¡¯s windpipe began to deform from the pressure. He could hear its ragged gasps as it tried to draw breath, finding the action harder to do each time. He pulled and he pulled and he pulled. The broken fingers, torn into angles that would normally be impossible, battered away at Jack¡¯s chest.


    He pulled tighter.


    A soft ¡®crunch¡¯ could be heard as the vile monster¡¯s windpipe finally collapsed, and Jack withdrew his hands. The demon fell to the ground, gasping. Gasping for seconds.


    Then it fell silent.


    Jack switched his attention to the final shadow demon remaining, other than the one that ran away. It was sitting on the ground, appearing numb with shock.


    Huh. He didn¡¯t know they could be shocked. He¡¯d seen scared before, but not shocked. A flash of movement drew his attention, just in time to see the gas station clerk going for the phone behind the counter. Jack rolled his eyes. Really? He didn¡¯t need help.


    He didn¡¯t want help.


    Jack grabbed the discarded iron pipe, holding it over his head, taking aim, and throwing it like a javelin. It soared through the air, like a majestic eagle in flight. It soared and within seconds shattered the window, piercing right through the clerk¡¯s chest. The clerk fell out of sight. Jack grabbed his axe, wrenching it out of the chest of the first dead demon. It fell out with a satisfying squishing noise¡­ no, it was more of a squelch. A squish and a squelch Jack attributed to the metal moving past a few different vital organs. They seemed to have internals similar to humans, from the various times he¡¯d fought them before.


    The shadow demon¡¯s mouth opened, almost as if to speak, but all that came out was garbled static. Per usual, of course. They couldn¡¯t speak any known language. They were animals. All they knew was malice. All they could do was pick on the weak. And when someone strong came around¡­ they folded like a piece of origami.


    He slammed the axe into the demon¡¯s shoulder, withdrawing it and burying the blade of the weapon into its skull in one swift movement.


    Ecstasy.


    Now that the demon¡¯s body had fallen still, Jack leaned down. He leaned down and bathed his hands in the remains of its shoulder, pulling his dripping palms up and covering his face in its black, blasphemous blood. He dragged his palms across his face. This was the only thing shadow demons were good for, a nice coating of war paint.


    The gas station was silent. No busybody clerk calling the cops anymore. No shadow demons screeching near the gas pumps. All was silent, even the stars overhead.


    Jack smiled, palming his axe in his hand and returned to his truck. On the way over he stepped on the head of the demon with the broken back. The demon groaned, perhaps either in fear, or in pain. He couldn¡¯t tell. He wasn¡¯t a demonologist. Who knew what went on in their weirdo brains? It was probably nothing but thoughts about inconveniencing real humans. Like the IRS!


    In terms of this demon, there weren¡¯t many thoughts once Jack stepped as hard as he could on its head. A moment of resistance from the skull, and then the bone collapsed like a rotting pumpkin crushed underfoot. Jack shook the shiny bright white demon brains off his boots and hopped in his truck. It started with a rumble, a little extra kick stumbling out of the exhaust pipe courtesy of the meth he threw into the gas tank. His ol'' girl liked it that way. Nice and clean gas with a little bit of dirty mixed in.

 Chapter 12 - When the Fairy Tale Ends

    It felt like madmen were lurking behind every tree, in every bush. The feeling made Cass jumpy, causing her to flinch at every shadow that wavered under the headlights of the police cruiser. The situation was hardly helped by the fact that Mark had remained dead silent ever since leaving the old farmhouse, uttering not a word when Cass had removed the alien and shoved it in a haystack, or when she¡¯d almost shut her foot in the car door. He didn¡¯t seem angry¡­ just tired. Cass couldn¡¯t blame him


    She was tired too. She kept seeing the dead man in the corner of her eyes. Not only that, but Cass had noticed a faint ringing in her ears. It was nothing major, and for the longest time she thought it was just a figment of her own imagination. But when their surroundings were this silent, the sound could no longer be ignored. Cass, unfortunately, knew precisely what had caused it. She was lucky to get away with only a little bit of ear-ringing after being in a gunfight in such an enclosed space like the police station.


    Those thoughts and the ringing in her ears consumed Cass¡¯s mind. It was like her head was a ship caught in an inescapable whirlpool in the middle of the ocean. Swirling over and over again in the same waters. The dead man in the station. The ringing in her ears. Worry over her dad.


    ¡°Hey Mark,¡± Cass suddenly spoke, her voice breaking through the almost claustrophobic silence of the police car and causing Mark to give a startled jump in his seat. ¡°Why did you come back from college early?¡±


    Mark stared at her like a deer caught in the headlights.


    ¡°¡­ What?¡±


    ¡°You came back early from college. Why? Did you really ace school like everyone is saying, or did you just get bored and skip?¡± Cass idly repeated her question. It wasn¡¯t anything urgent, nothing but a topic to lift her mind out of the whirlpool for a few minutes.


    No one answered her. Cass diverted her eyes from the road to glance at Mark for a few seconds before turning her attention back to the gravel road. The early evening sun drew the shadows from the trees across the road, but there was still just enough light to see by.


    He looked empty now. Silent and empty. From the brief glance Cass took, a feeling had even welled up that if she took her finger to poke him in the side, it would just go right through him like she was prodding a ghost.


    ¡°Oh, Ted¡¯s out grilling.¡± Mark suddenly spoke, pointing toward a jolly-looking man standing in front of a run-down house. His cheeks were ruddy, sunburned, and wind-beaten, and the smell of whatever he was grilling made her stomach cry out piteously. Cass blinked in surprise. Even though she was the one driving, their arrival in the city limits was a surprise. Perhaps¡­ her mind was a bit more distracted than was healthy.


    ¡°Smells good.¡± Cass smiled. She waved at the man, who shouted a ¡®Heya!¡¯ back that was only partially understandable through the closed car windows. Mark closed his eyes, appearing to drink in the scents of burgers and bratwurst sizzling on the smokey grill. Not only was the smell delicious, but the fact that they¡¯d just passed Ted¡¯s house was a sign her house was about a block or two away.


    The neighborhood was seemingly unchanged. That realization sank into her stomach as an utter oddity. The world felt so different now, but the place Cass grew up in remained the same. Ted still grilled in his front yard after work. Norry, the widow down the street, still looked to keep to her same routine of weeding her garden around the same time every evening. She was out there now, working away at keeping her pet project looking as immaculate as always. Joe from next door walked past the slowed police car, his attempts to prevent his dog from eating a pile of cat poop on the side of the road keeping him from noticing Cass¡¯s borrowed vehicle rumbling by.


    Then they reached the end. Cass¡¯s house, the back of her dad¡¯s car poking out from the open garage, left haphazardly in place.


    She parked the cruiser and glanced at Mark, who looked at her in turn.


    ¡°Well.¡±


    ¡°Well.¡± Mark replied, looking unsure.


    ¡°I¡¯m going inside. You should come, too.¡±


    Mark nodded. He silently opened the car door while Cass did the same, stepping out into the driveway. Outside of the car, the evening air was cool, a slight breeze that ran against Cass''s face like a cool hand caressing her brow. Even from here she could still smell the burgers from Ted¡¯s grill. She could hear the exasperated shouting from Joe¡¯s direction. Cass smiled slightly. It seemed his dog managed to eat that poop after all.


    ¡°Cass.¡± A strained voice greeted them. Cass turned her head to look at the door, seeing her dad standing in it with the screen door popped open. ¡°Why don¡¯t you two come in?¡±


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Cass sat on the couch in the living room, with Mark next to her like some silent guardian statue. Her dad sat opposite on a chair with his feet resting against the coffee table in the middle. His ginger hair was ragged, and bags hung low under his eyes. A clear indication of a lack of sleep.


    ¡°I¡¯m glad you two are safe.¡± Chief Thomson eventually said, shooting them both a tired smile. ¡°Mark¡­ you¡¯re looking better.¡±


    But before Cass could launch into what they thought the alien had done, Chief Thomson held up his hand to stop them.


    ¡°I¡¯m certain the story is strange, but another time. Cass, I¡¯m happy to see you, but it was plain stupid to come here. The situation is bad. I want you and Mark to go back out to wherever you were hiding. Don''t!" Her dad raised his voice to stop Cass from interrupting and then continued. "Don''t tell me where you''re going. Just go, hide there for at least two ¨C no, three weeks. I have some sandwiches in the fridge, but take my hunting rifle just in case you have to catch some food. Leave. Now. I can¡¯t have you involved. Dangerous men are walking about.¡±


    Cass stood up to protest, but once more before she could get a word out edgewise, Chief Thomson shot to his feet. His eyes weren¡¯t on her, but instead on the window. The blinds were closed. There was no way to see out, or in. Yet, as she took a step back in alarm of her dad¡¯s behavior, Cass¡¯s ears picked up the crunch of gravel. A car was being parked in the driveway.


    ¡°Rifle, sandwiches, go out the back!¡± Chief Thomson barked out the orders, leaving absolutely no room for an argument.


    This time Cass didn¡¯t try to speak. Whoever was coming, her dad was worried, maybe even scared. She didn¡¯t know if he was scared of whoever was in the car, or what would happen if they were seen together.


    She didn¡¯t want to find out. If her dad wanted them gone, they would go.


    Beside her, Mark tugged her arm.


    ¡°Come on.¡± He whispered. ¡°Your dad¡¯s fine. Mostly. You get the rifle; I¡¯ll get the food. We take the back door and hide ¡®till the coast is clear.¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡± Cass shook her head and ran for her dad¡¯s office while Mark legged it for the kitchen.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Mr. Moon parked his car right behind the police cruiser in Chief Thomson¡¯s driveway. There wasn¡¯t much room to work around. Not with the Chief¡¯s car in the garage and the police cruiser haphazardly parked in the driveway.


    Dag stretched, heaving himself out of the car and walking over to the curb for a quick smoke. Meanwhile, Mr. Moon headed for the house. The door opened, Chief Thomson standing in the center of the doorway with a questioning look on his face.


    Mr. Moon shook his head.


    ¡°Still nothing. Have any of your men radioed in?¡±


    Chief Thomson continued to stand in the doorway, his eyes roving around the surroundings. First they rested on Mr. Moon, then watched Dag light up his cigarette, onto a bird flying overhead, before finally falling back on Mr. Moon. He almost looked like he was silently considering something. But what?


    ¡°Nothing.¡± The chief eventually replied. ¡°Quiet as a grave.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    The two men continued to stand where they were. Mr. Moon on the porch, Chief Thomson in the doorway. Mr. Moon tilted his head.


    ¡°Should we begin discussing patrol routes for tomorrow?¡±


    Another moment passed, and then as if nothing had happened, the chief stepped aside to let him in.


    ¡°Yeah. My officers should be filtering back in soon, but we don¡¯t need to wait for them.¡±


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Cass¡¯s blood felt like ice in her veins. She was in her dad¡¯s office, just having removed his hunting rifle from where it was hanging on the wall, when the man came to the door. She could clearly tell her dad was stalling him.


    Any moment he could walk in.


    Cass¡¯s hands scrabbled through the drawers in the desk in the middle of the room, searching for the boxes of ammo she knew were around somewhere. Anything .30-06 would work for the old Winchester rifle. Soon enough they brushed against a cardboard box, which Cass pulled out and dumped in the pockets of her windbreaker. Mission accomplished; she scooted out the door to the kitchen just in time to encounter Mark with a bunch of sandwiches in his hands¡­


    And for her dad to let the man in.


    Cass and Mark froze. They were out of sight of anyone from the living room for now, but if the man went further in, he might see them. The back door was still a hallway away. If they went for it they would be seen. Normally Cass wouldn¡¯t care. This was her house. She lived here with her dad.


    However, there was something about her dad¡¯s tone that made her disregard that option. He was worried, utterly unwilling to have her even tangentially involved in this mess. Furthermore, he¡¯d stalled the man from immediately entering the house. He wanted to give time for Cass and Mark to escape. He didn¡¯t want them to be seen.


    Right. Pantry it was. If her dad didn¡¯t want them seen, they could hide until the man left, or make a break for it if they went into the office to talk.


    Cass shooed Mark into the small walk-in pantry near the back of the kitchen. It was no larger than a small hall closet, enough for some shelves and a little room to walk in. With two people inside it, the pantry was quite cozy. Cass inched the door closed so it wouldn¡¯t creak, and left it cracked open less than an inch since it would make some sound when fully closing shut. That action was just in time, as when Cass peeked through the crack, a man in a suit walked into the part of the living room that was visible from the kitchen.


    He was tall, slim but not skinny. The man almost resembled a lithe feline predator given human form and shoved in a business suit. He was no muscleman, but there was clear energy packed in his frame. Truly, the blond-haired man oozed the vibes of some no-nonsense government agent. The only part of his ensemble defying that aura of grim authority was a striped blue tie hanging around his neck, like a bluebird settled on top of a pile of charcoal.


    Another man soon followed, somehow even more of a giant than Mark was. He had to be¡­ at least a good six, maybe six and a half feet tall? The second man was built like a tank, but also wore a charcoal black business suit like his companion. His fists were like meaty boulders, his arms like telephone poles, his muscles poking out from under his suit like thick cables running down his arms. Several brutal scars ran up and down his face, hinting at untold stories of battles fought and won.


    ¡°Starsky and Hutch, if Starsky was on steroids and Hutch was dead inside.¡± Mark whispered. Cass punched him in the shoulder so he would shut up. Even at first glance, she was beginning to understand fully why her dad didn¡¯t want them involved. The first man¡­ her mind raced, and without the benefit of knowing his real name, she mentally tagged the title ¡®Blue Tie¡¯ to his face. The other man earned the nickname ¡®Steroids¡¯.


    Blue Tie, though he was dwarfed in size by Steroids, there was something about the way he carried himself. It didn¡¯t just unnerve her, it downright freaked Cass out. It was as if his eyes were empty, hinting at a man who cared little about anything other than completing whatever task he was on at the moment.


    She inched her face closer to the crack in the door.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Mr. Moon¡¯s eyes ran over the living room, glanced into the kitchen, and then settled on a window that looked out into the front yard. The house was empty aside from the three men in the living room. He brushed aside the curtains to study the yard. The sun, hanging low in the sky, covered the world in its soft warm hues.


    There was nothing abnormal outside. It was a perfect picture of small-town life in the suburbs. Mr. Moon turned away, glancing at one of the pictures hanging on the wall. Unlike the other bare handful of pictures on display, this one showed a girl in her late teens, with bright ginger hair swept up behind her head in a simple ponytail. Her smile was full of kindness and warmth, the sort that felt like it was radiating out from even the picture itself. Her hands displayed a double thumbs up from where the girl leaned against a pale blue car. It was Rambler, from the look of it. Similar to the one left outside the station. Well, Ramblers were somewhat popular.


    ¡°Your daughter?¡± Dag offhandedly guessed, his eyes tracing Mr. Moon¡¯s sight and landing on the picture.


    ¡°Yes. My daughter Cass. Mr. Moon, you were saying something about patrol routes?¡± Chief Thomson said.


    Mr. Moon turned his attention back to the matter at hand.


    ¡°Patrol routes.¡± He began, moving over to sit on a chair adjacent to the coffee table. ¡°What we have now should be changed up. Different times for different streets. It may provide nothing of substance, or it may keep the Russians on their toes. Additionally, I would like you to announce a curfew, while prioritizing all citizens to follow a ¡®flee and report¡¯ approach to any suspicious individuals.¡±


    Chief Thomson¡¯s mustache twitched.


    ¡°What we need is a posse. The longer those animals stay in my town, the more people are bound to get hurt. I don¡¯t have enough officers to fully flush them out. We need numbers. We need more men with guns.¡±


    "What we don''t need is untrained civilians coming in the line of fire." Mr. Moon countered, his tone soft and smooth, but with steel underlying it.


    ¡°That¡¯s why we ask for volunteers. The department has a list of men in the town who know how to use a gun and are willing to help if push comes to shove. We temporarily deputize them, which gives us more guns and people that know the lay of the town.¡±


    ¡°Still civilians.¡± Dag grunted.


    ¡°What?¡± Chief Thomson stood and began to pace, his arms held wide in exasperation. ¡°I understand what you gentlemen are concerned about, but those men are already cop killers. It¡¯s only a matter of time before civilians get caught up! I keep expecting someone to radio in with that exact message! I wish there was any other way, but we simply don¡¯t have the manpower to do this. With a posse of volunteers we can try and clear this up before the inevitable happens. Or maybe you can use those Federal badges of yours to commandeer men from nearby jurisdictions. Maybe where they ignore me, they¡¯d listen to you. Either one works for me.¡±


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Cass pressed herself as close to the door as she could without running the risk of moving it. Her dad and Blue Tie were arguing over something. It was bad enough that her dad''s voice was even starting to rise in volume. Meanwhile, Blue Tie remained as cool as a cucumber. Steroids hardly moved during it all. Not even to talk, though when he did, rumbling tones like rocks sliding down a mountain spilled out of his mouth.


    Just what was¡­.


    Cass¡¯s eyes widened. Her dad¡¯s face came into view. He was still in the living room, but was walking over to the phone near the entrance to the kitchen.


    ¡°No. Enough is enough.¡± She heard her dad say as he walked. ¡°If they weren¡¯t proven murderers, I would be willing to play the long game on this. But they are, so my responsibility is to take them out before another killing spree happens. We don¡¯t have time for a search and stakeout job. With my authority as the Chief of Police, I am calling together a posse. Drag me through the courts after. I don¡¯t care.¡±


    Blue Tie followed her dad up to the phone. His body was partially masked from Cass¡¯s sight by her dad¡¯s form.


    ¡°Is there no way I can convince you otherwise?¡±


    Her dad paused, half-turning to look back at Blue Tie.


    ¡°No.¡± Chief Thomson said, his voice firm and unyielding. ¡°The posse must be called. I wish there was another way, but I just don¡¯t see one.¡±


    Cass¡¯s dad focused on the phone. He picked up the receiver and began to dial. His shoulder moved slightly, enough so that Cass could see more of Blue Tie than she could before. Blue Tie¡¯s face was cold, his eyes empty.


    ¡°So be it.¡±


    Blue Tie''s right hand rose, dipping out of sight under his suit jacket. Cloth rustled. Chief Thomson dialed another number.


    The next moment was over in a flash before Cass could even scream. Her dad¡¯s body, Chief Thomson¡¯s body, fell to the floor in a spray of blood that coated the surroundings. Blue Tie stood over him, a gun in his hand.


    ¡°Ah¡­¡± Cass¡¯s mouth opened, but before she could make any more noise, Mark¡¯s hand clamped tightly over her mouth.


    ¡°Dag. Search upstairs. I¡¯ll take the main floor.¡± Blue Tie spoke to Steroids in quiet tones Cass could barely understand over the incessant ringing in her ears. It was far worse than it had been before.


    Even though he¡¯d just murdered a man, Blue Tie¡¯s voice was rock-steady, calm to the point that a very distant part of Cass¡¯s head, the part floating around in her mind that hadn¡¯t quite processed the situation yet, wondered if this was a daily occurrence to him. Like buying milk at the store.


    Then it hit her. Why would those two men, Blue Tie and¡­ Dag, if that was Steroid¡¯s real name, bother searching the house?


    Why indeed.


    Well, it was obvious. Cass had left the ¡®borrowed¡¯ police car out on the driveway. They thought there might be another officer in the house. A cowardly murderer like Blue Tie wouldn¡¯t want witnesses.


    Any further pondering on that subject was immediately drowned out by an unending wellspring of pure rage and grief that roared through Cass¡¯s body. She began to struggle against Mark¡¯s grip as Blue Tie¡¯s form disappeared back into the main part of the living room, out of sight once more.


    ¡°Hey. Hey!¡± Mark furiously whispered in her ear. Mark¡¯s words were so quiet that even though his mouth was right next to her ear, Cass could barely understand him.


    "Cass." Mark whispered one last time, hands still securely wrapped around her arms and mouth. ¡°I know. But they have guns. We have one hunting rifle. If we go out there we die.¡±


    Cass threw every last drop of strength her body possessed to fight like a demon in an attempt to get free from his grasp, but it was useless no matter how she raged or squirmed. Mark was a football player twice her size. She¡¯d seen him drunkenly dent metal with his fists and pick up grown men to toss like a pizza over his head as a prank. Her body sagged, the worst of the rage draining away to a low simmer consumed by a larger ocean of sorrow. Her dad was dead. Murdered right in front of her. His blood was covering the wall like a new coat of paint. And Cass couldn¡¯t do a damn thing to stop it.


    ¡°Fine.¡± Cass hoarsely whispered once Mark removed his hand. ¡°We can sneak out the back. But if that bastard sees us, I¡¯m going to damn well kill him.¡±


    Mark flinched and moved away, at least as much away as he could in the close confines of the pantry. On some level, Cass was able to recognize how scared and subdued the man was. How unnatural it was for Mark to constantly act like that. On some level that still caused a sense of pity for him. A sense that told her to get the poor guy out of here. But that was almost completely drowned out by the rest of her brain shouting to decorate the walls with Blue Tie¡¯s brains.


    Cass positioned her body in a better position to see out the crack in the door. The hallway leading to the back door was out of sight from the pantry. There was no one in the kitchen. Nor were there any visible people in the part of the living room she could see. Not other than¡­


    Cass¡¯s eyes hardened. She thumbed the bolt of the hunting rifle, easing it open to deposit a cartridge in the opening, and then easing it back. The metal rod shut with a ¡®snick¡¯ that sent a shiver of angry satisfaction down her spine. The rifle was a Winchester Model 70. Mainly used for hunting, but what the bolt-action rifle could do to a deer¡­ it could also do to a person. At the range she would be at inside the house, Cass wouldn¡¯t even need to use the scope. More than that, the revolver still sat heavy in the pocket of her pajama pants. While one hand held the rifle steady, her other hand dipped into her pocket, raising the handgun carefully and silently into the air.


    She almost hoped Blue Tie would find them.

 Chapter 13 - I Talk to the Rain

    ¡°Second floor¡¯s clear!¡± Dag¡¯s voice thundered from above. Mr. Moon did not reply, only filing Dag¡¯s report away in his head while he continued to methodically search through the main floor. The living room was empty. So was the entrance, the hall, and the hall closet. Part of him wondered if this was nothing but an example of his paranoia. An extra squad car parked out front hardly meant for sure that there was another officer in the house. Considering no one came running after hearing a gunshot, odds were he truly was being paranoid for no reason.


    On the other hand, Mr. Moon had just shot the chief of police in the back of the head. In an operation as delicate as this one was turning out to be, he couldn¡¯t risk news of the murder being revealed in the wrong way. No, better for no witnesses to be around other than himself and Dag. Then he could claim it was done by a Russian sniper with none the wiser.


    Mr. Moon walked down the hallway, glancing at the back door and noting that it still appeared locked before moving into the chief¡¯s office. Compared to the spartan look of the hallway, the office was practically a full-on lounge. A fireplace, empty at the moment, but with large splashes of soot on the brick that spoke of heavy use. A thick wooden desk faced the door, one utilitarian wooden chair behind it while two more comfortable lounge chairs were placed in front.


    On the walls were several more pictures, some featuring the chief posing with a grin next to his daughter, others showing various scenes of a hunt. Trophies of those hunts were littered around the wall ¨C deer, elk, turkey, and even one bear head stared lifelessly down at Mr. Moon from where they were mounted. Above the fireplace were two hooks, clearly meant to hang some sort of firearm that was at the moment, missing. Most likely a hunting rifle. Perhaps it was at some hunting lodge or taken down for cleaning. Mr. Moon couldn¡¯t claim to know much about hunting seasons and whatnot.


    He completed his quick sweep around the room. Few objects could realistically hide the body of a grown man, other than perhaps the large desk, which he checked behind to reveal nothing but air. The fireplace, meanwhile, would be much too small for anyone but a child to scoot up, and none of the chairs were positioned in a way to block an observer¡¯s line of sight.


    Mr. Moon turned, heading back into the hallway¡­ just in time to hear the crackling of a radio coming from the living room.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Cass¡¯s breath caught in her mouth. Blue Tie had disappeared, his footsteps fading toward where she thought the office was. That was their moment. If they moved fast and silently enough, they could squeeze out the back door with none the wiser.


    And then the walkie-talkie still strapped to her¡­ dad¡¯s belt. It crackled to life. A voice came out of it, garbled to the point that Cass couldn¡¯t fully understand it without an extreme amount of focus. In an instant she could hear Blue Tie¡¯s footsteps returning, the man dashing down the hall, through the living room, and arriving to crouch at the side of the man he¡¯d murdered in cold blood. Her eyes narrowed in pure, undiluted hatred, fingers creeping along the stock of her hunting rifle. The pantry was cramped, almost unbearably so with both her and Mark standing in it. At most the walk-in space was meant for one person to quickly dip in, grab an item, and leave. But¡­ if she¡­


    Cass squeezed her back as tightly into Mark¡¯s body as possible, causing the bulky football player to take half a step back ¨C the only amount he could retreat by without bowling over the shelves behind him. That movement left just enough room for her to bring the muzzle of the rifle up around waist level, with the stock of the gun poking into Mark¡¯s stomach even as he sucked in his chest. It was incredibly close. Each centimeter higher she nosed the weapon up was a centimeter closer to the tiny gap in the mostly closed door.


    Mark''s hand frantically patted at her shoulder. Undoubtedly he was freaking out over what he could see her doing under the dim light streaming in from the crack in the door. Cass ignored him. The shot was iffy. On one hand, the scum was five, maybe six feet away from where Cass stood. On the other hand, she would have to hip-fire the rifle. The crack in the door was too small for her to use the scope on the weapon to any noticeable effect, and it was already a difficult enough task to bring the rifle up to a firing position at her waist in the cramped confines of the pantry.


    Nor could Cass open the door any wider, or even step out. She was angry, not stupid. She¡¯d seen how quickly Blue Tie drew his weapon and fired. The man was a professional killer while she¡¯d gone hunting only a handful of times with her dad. The difference would be enough to mean her death. And as much as Cass wanted to spray Blue Tie¡¯s brains across the living room as soon and accurately as possible, she also owed it to her dad to survive. Throwing away her life only for the barest chance of a better shot would just make him sad when they met again in the next world.


    The revolver in her other hand trembled, though if it was from fear, rage, or simple adrenaline, Cass did not know. Two guns could even things out. The distance would mean the lesser accuracy of the pistol wouldn¡¯t matter much, though Cass would have to use her thumb to pull back the hammer each time before she fired. A downside of the single-action nature of the weapon.


    She could shoot through the door, no need to open it wider. Unlike in the movies, her dad had always told her to never rely on any door, whether car or house, to keep her safe from bullets. Not unless it was several arms-widths of steel thick.


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    Cass¡¯s index fingers curled around the triggers of both weapons while her thumbs flicked each of the safeties off. She took a deep breath, releasing it then drawing in another. This second breath she held in her lungs, keeping her body as steady as possible so as to not mess up the shots. Her finger began to tighten.


    Then the second man, the one Blue Tie called Dag, walked into view to stand next to her father¡¯s killer. Cass closed her eyes and regretfully let out her held breath. The rifle was a single-shot bolt-action weapon. The revolver was single-action. Even if she managed to kill Blue Tie quickly, her slow rate of fire would leave Dag time to kill both her and Mark for sure. Nor would her accuracy be all that great, with the hip-firing and the closed confines of the pantry preventing any real usage of the sights. She would be trading Blue Tie¡¯s life for her¡¯s and Mark¡¯s. Dad wouldn¡¯t like that. Not even a bit.


    Damn it all.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    The radio clipped to Chief Thomson¡¯s waist buzzed again, this time with Paul¡¯s voice.


    ¡°-Repeat, requesting immediate backup at the corner of State and Fairlawn! Shots fired, unknown number of assailants! Repeat! Requesting immediate backup!¡±


    Mr. Moon unclipped the radio from the chief¡¯s duty belt.


    ¡°Copy that. This is Mr. Moon. Dag and I are en route.¡±


    He threw the radio into Dag¡¯s hands without waiting for a response. The two men ran outside to the car.


    ¡°Russians probably. No one else is insane enough. What about the possible witness?¡± Dag rumbled, glancing at the cop car parked on the driveway. Mr. Moon paused next to it, shooting Dag a meaningful look before pulling a knife out from his belt.


    Dag''s face lit up in understanding and he pulled out his hunting knife. Mr. Moon''s knife slashed through the rubber tires of the patrol car while Dag ran for the open garage, slashing open the tires of the chief''s car one by one. The entire action took no more than ten seconds. Now if anyone wanted to use either vehicle, they would need to track down three more tires or accept they would have little-to-no control over the steering, along with a vastly decreased speed and being quite conspicuous.


    At this moment that was all they could do. If the Russians were on the move again, neither Mr. Moon nor Dag could waste time at the house. The Russians, and the alien, were simply a higher priority than a witness that might not even exist.


    ¡°If our witness truly does exist, this should cut his options down by quite a lot. He¡¯ll need to take it slowly, jack a car, or move on foot. All are conspicuous options.¡±


    Once the tires of both cars were sitting flat on the ground, Mr. Moon and Dag piled into his car. Mr. Moon threw the vehicle into gear and screeched out of the driveway with only the barest glance spent at the house in the rearview mirror.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Cass waited five minutes in silence before easing herself out of the pantry, rifle held at a readied position in one hand while her other hand still clutched her dad¡¯s Colt revolver.


    The house was silent. Empty, aside from her and Mark. Even past the dreadful ringing in her ears, Cass had been able to hear the screeching of tires as the two murderers raced out of the driveway toward whatever Paul had radioed in for. Hopefully Paul would be okay. Blue Tie ¨C no, Mr. Moon, that was his name according to Paul. Mr. Moon seemingly wanted to keep the murder quiet, so she couldn¡¯t quite see him attacking Paul for no reason. Mr. Moon. What a stupid name. Probably a fake one, knowing how that cowardly bastard liked to act. Couldn¡¯t even be brave enough to hand out his real name.


    Cass shifted her eyes down to her dad. Her heart leaped up into her throat, while Mark loudly lost his lunch in the background once his vision followed hers. No glassy eyes were staring at her, nor was he barely breathing or trying to give last words. It wasn¡¯t like any movie she¡¯d seen.


    Her dad was just dead. He was lying on his stomach, the back of his head coated with blood amid pieces of shattered bone.


    Cass joined Mark in emptying the contents of her stomach. The motion made it even worse, as when she doubled over, her eyes flicked over the splatters of blood on the wall. Acidic bile mixed with hot tears that stung her eyes.


    Soon her stomach was empty. Cass spat out the last strings of stomach acid, walking over to the sink to run her mouth under the faucet. Once they were both as recovered as they were going to be, Cass tossed the rifle to Mark, who jumped in surprise before catching it. They really were alone in the house, so no sense in clogging up both her hands.


    Just Cass, Mark¡­


    And her dad. Dead on the floor.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    ¡°-Taking heavy fire from the South side! South side! We-¡°


    The radio crackled as Cathy switched frequencies.


    ¡°-Hey, I¡¯m going over to the gas station for some munchies, wanna come, Billy? I-"


    The frequency switched again.


    Again.


    Again.


    And again.


    Over and over Cathy flicked through the different channels and frequencies. Some were inputted into the notebook in her lap for future reference. The standard police frequencies, the HAM radio frequencies preferred by the locals (or at least the few locals who bothered to use something like that), and a few more were marked down in her usual chicken scratch handwriting.


    It wasn''t the only radio in the room. The entire bedroom was filled with equipment ¨C some silent, some buzzing with nothing but static, others lively with the sound of people speaking. The bed was shoved off to the side in the corner, sheets undisturbed as Cathy worked tirelessly to not only gather information but to also keep the team''s comms running smoothly and securely. Department radios, secure phone lines, and even a connection to the office back in Washington. All of those required a communications specialist to manage them.


    Her purse sat empty on the nightstand, part of it hanging off the end to make room for a pitch-black rotary phone. The weapon that had once been kept concealed inside of the purse, an S&W Model 29, was placed well within arm¡¯s reach of Cathy on the desk she worked at next to a glass of ice water. She didn¡¯t expect any problems. The house was nondescript, none of the neighbors suspected them, and Steve was not only busy infiltrating the community, but also serving as the first line of defense for the team¡¯s communications hub. Still, better to be safe than sorry. It always was, especially when she could hear men dying over the radio waves.

 Chapter 14 - Zero Eclipse

    Houses whizzed by like blurred afterimages in the distance under the rapidly darkening evening sky. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, marking the transition from early evening to twilight.


    ¡°Less than a minute out.¡± Dag rumbled into the handheld radio, more for the benefit of the cops on the other side than for his or Mr. Moon¡¯s.


    Mr. Moon glanced at his watch. One minute. According to what little they¡¯d heard over the radio of the situation, the Russians were holed up in an unused house. When a squad car had passed by, the ambush was triggered.


    ¡°Dag.¡± Mr. Moon said the man¡¯s name, getting his attention before nodding his head toward a briefcase nestled on the floor in the back seat. Dag quickly got his meaning and grabbed the briefcase. He tossed it in Mr. Moon¡¯s lap, where it landed with a solid ¡®thump¡¯. Wordlessly, Mr. Moon momentarily slowed the car to pop open the driver¡¯s side door and tossed out the briefcase. He slid out onto the ground, with Dag swiftly hopping up over to the now empty driver''s seat, his foot pressing the gas pedal all the way down to the floor to continue speeding toward the ambush. The entire transition hadn¡¯t even taken more than five seconds.


    Mr. Moon picked up the briefcase. It had a pleasing weight in his hand. A type of weight only solid, reliable gunmetal could bring. He paused to adjust his tie, and then he was off. Being under a minute out from the fight meant it was only a block or two out. In fact¡­ Mr. Moon cocked his head to the side to raise one of his ears higher in the air. Yes. He could hear gunshots in the distance. Coming from the North, if he had to guess.


    Without waiting a second longer Mr. Moon glanced around the neighborhood. Most of the houses in the area were single-story homes. Likely a basement below, but most of them lacked the sole feature he was looking for. House by house was mentally cataloged and discarded until finally he turned and started running toward a house near the end of the block. His shiny black oxford shoes click-clacked against the asphalt, but his face was completely unperturbed, as if this was an ordinary day-to-day occurrence for the man.


    The house at the end of the block was the very picture of ordinary suburban life. Bright lights shined merrily around the windows. A family could be seen through the windows enjoying dinner, and a car, its body shining and well-loved by its driver, was resting in the open garage.


    Mr. Moon knocked on the door. The sound shattered that sense of peace, just like the gunshots in the distance. After a few seconds the door opened. A man looked at Mr. Moon with a quizzical smile, though quickly that smile morphed into confusion once the man recognized the gunshots echoing through the air.


    ¡°How can I help you?¡±


    Mr. Moon skipped the pleasantries in favor of pulling his badge out of the breast pocket situated in the underside of his suit jacket.


    ¡°FBI. I need access to your attic. Hide your family in a basement or safe room.¡±


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Dag power-slid Mr. Moon¡¯s car into position right next to the police car sitting on the edge of the road, right in front of the ditch. Crouched behind the car was a blue-uniformed officer with a service revolver clutched in his hand, while another officer huddled at the bottom of the ditch frantically putting pressure on his bleeding stomach. Dag immediately dived out of the car to land with a roll next to the officer behind the squad car.


    ¡°Sitrep.¡± Dag grunted. While the officer, who he vaguely remembered as Paul, explained the situation, his eyes ceaselessly roamed around the area drinking in every detail he could see.


    ¡°Damn bastards sniped Joseph. Sniper is on the second floor. At least one other guy near the door keeps shooting at us too.¡±


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Mr. Moon climbed the ladder into the attic, grabbing at the railing with one hand while the other one held secure the briefcase tucked under his arm. Quickly the rest of the attic revealed itself. It was a shadowy room, a sort of darkness influenced by the twilight of the world around the house, but there was just enough light to see what he needed to see.


    Mr. Moon crouched next to one of the three circular windows in the attic and popped open the lock on the suitcase. Inside the suitcase were several parts of a gun, all nestled comfortably between layers of padding and cloth. He glanced up once, listening to the distant gunshots, and then began to assemble the sniper rifle piece by piece, with quick motions honed by years of experience.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Dag lowered his body to the ground to see under the car. From where he was lying, he could just barely see the house in question. One of the front windows was shattered, and if he squinted, he could make out the barrel of a gun poking out. His eyes flicked up, but the body of the car blocked him from seeing any part of the second floor.


    Two known Russians in the house. Out of the original squad that hit the black site, one had been captured there and another died in the police station shootout. That meant two more were unaccounted for, assuming they hadn¡¯t added to their numbers since the station. If he was a Russian, Dag would have one man waiting by the back door to combat any sort of attempted flanking action. The final man would need to be stationed next to the front door in case the police tried to breach.


    In short, assuming they followed Dag¡¯s line of thought (which was likely, as the Russians were professionals), there were two men at the front door, one at the back, and a sniper on the second floor.


    After mentally cataloging possibilities, Dag held out his hand to the unwounded officer, motioning for him to stay down. Then, he crawled back over to Mr. Moon''s car, popping open the backseat door and grabbing the other case that was resting in the footwell. Like the sniper rifle Mr. Moon liked to keep around, this suitcase was Dag''s own preparation, requisitioned from the armory back in Washington D.C. for this very purpose.


    He snapped open the lock of the suitcase. Paul¡¯s breath hitched, the man instantly recognizing the contents for what it was ¨C an M79 grenade launcher. A single-shot weapon that broke open near the stock to load, the stubby weapon was a relic of the Vietnam War used for the simple purpose of erasing any room-size enemy position currently being an eyesore. It was similar in looks to a sawed-off shotgun, but the tubular barrel, meant of course for firing grenades, was a much larger one than any shotgun would ever have.


    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    Dag pushed away the latch that locked the barrel with one finger, causing the barrel to pop open while his other hand casually grabbed one of the stubby 40mm grenades nestled in the lining of the suitcase. He carefully slid the grenade inside the weapon.


    However, he didn¡¯t fire it immediately. Dag closed his eyes, listening to the occasional pop of gunfire from the house. There was little use moving now. The signal would be obvious. Counter-sniping always was.


    Beside him, Paul took advantage of the short break to push open the cylinder of his revolver and reload his weapon. Each click the revolver''s cylinder made when it moved was like sweet music in the air. It was a nice distraction from the chaos of the house.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Mr. Moon stood behind the circular window, both feet placed solidly on the floor. The surface creaked, the wood protesting against the man¡¯s weight. From the attic he could see his car in the distance, parked right next to a police cruiser. Dag¡¯s massive figure crouched behind it, along with one of the town¡¯s officers. The Russians were most likely in the house on the other side of the road. The question remained, what would his target be? Mr. Moon¡¯s perch wasn¡¯t fully facing the house. Instead, he was situated at an angle that obscured the entire front side of the Russian¡¯s house from his view. There were windows on the sides, of course, but those had curtains. The curtains were neither thin nor particularly thick, but their mere presence was enough to make it extremely difficult to see the people behind them.


    However, extremely difficult was a different word than impossible. Mr. Moon breathed in. He held the air tightly in his stomach and then released it. Over and over again until his body was utterly calm and still, the adrenaline in his veins almost feeling submerged under the current of an icy river that swept through his body to numb it.


    He breathed in one last time, but this breath was one he held. His heart rate slowed. His body stilled.


    And in that moment, a faint shadow moved on the other side of the curtains.


    Mr. Moon¡¯s finger tugged at the trigger.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    A splintering ¡®crack¡¯ tore through the air. Dag¡¯s head jerked up and he burst out from behind the car, aiming and firing in one smooth, practice motion to send the explosive ordinance thudding through the broken window, the same one he¡¯d seen a gun barrel poking through a moment before. As soon as the grenade cleared the barrel, Dag flung himself back to the ground as a hail of bullets answered, hugging the asphalt until a bone-shaking explosion rocked the surroundings and set off the car alarms of every vehicle on the block.


    ¡°Now! Breach!¡± Dag roared. The grenade launcher would take too long to reload. By the time he could slam another round in, the Russians would be able to recover from whatever disorienting effect the explosion would have on them. So, he threw it away and drew his Sig Sauer. The handgun looked tiny in his massive hands, but that had no effect on the weapon¡¯s lethality.


    Paul added a roar of his own, his fury over the ambush and the wounding of his comrade adding a raw, almost primal rage to his voice. Dag grasped the side of the car so hard the metal creaked, and launched himself over the top while Paul slid over the hood.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Mr. Moon let out the breath from his aching lungs. Immediately he moved away from the window and toward the second of the three glass portals in the attic. The sniper was likely dead, but still, Mr. Moon''s body continued to move according to his training and habits. After the first shot was taken, a sniper that stayed at rest was a dead man.


    His right hand abandoned the trigger to slide back the bolt of the rifle, ejecting the empty metal cartridge to knock against the wooden floor while his left hand took a fresh bullet from his pocket to replace the used one. In less than two seconds the cartridge was in, and Mr. Moon slammed the bolt home. He set his eye back to the scope, this time eyeing the back door instead of the second floor. He breathed in. He breathed out.


    And then his lungs were filled once more, holding the breath and stilling his body to the utmost.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Dag didn¡¯t bother going through the window. He braced his shoulder like a football linebacker hunting for the blood of a quarterback and the wooden door, already weakened by the grenade, folded before his might. A man was lying in a pool of blood on the floor, his scarlet hands scrabbling around the carpet for his gun. Shrapnel littered the walls, the floor, the ceiling, and the man on the ground.


    Dag swiveled mid-run and shot the Russian three times in the chest. The man fell still.


    Paul hopped through the broken window right next to him, his revolver held at the ready. Another ''crack'' of a sniper rifle split the air, and in an instant, the Russian on the floor surged upward to tackle Dag, the gun on the floor lying forgotten.


    Dag mentally cursed. Body armor. The bullets had only stunned the man, instead of being the kill shots Dag intended them to be. Any more thoughts matter were swept to the side once the Russian collided with him. Dag stumbled back, but there was one key factor.


    Namely, the man was big, but Dag was bigger. Bigger and less shellshocked than someone who¡¯d recently experienced a grenade detonate in the same room as them. The Russian yanked a knife out of a sheath at his side and plunged it into Dag¡¯s waist. Dag grunted in pain and grabbed the man¡¯s head in one hand. He lifted the Russian bodily into the air, tensed his arms, and then slammed the man¡¯s skull into the nearest wall to stun him.


    Then over and over again, even as the Russian flailed away frantically with his knife, Dag smashed his boulder-like fist into the man¡¯s throat until something broke. One moment the bone that formed the Russian¡¯s windpipe resisted his strikes. The next moment, the Russian¡¯s throat was deformed like a punctured hose. The man gasped and choked for air. Any amount of concern for his fight with Dag was abandoned in favor of clawing at his own neck. Tiny splashes of blood jetted out of his mouth, with every strangled gasp.


    Until the Russian fell limp. This time for good.


    Dag tossed the Russian¡¯s body away like a piece of trash, ignoring Paul¡¯s wide eyes in favor of turning to face the rest of the room. It was empty. Shattered, cracked, and broken, but empty. No scrap of furniture had escaped fully unscathed, and as he glanced again at the dead man on the floor, he could even see several large splinters of wood sticking out of his back. The lights throughout the house were dark. No movements could be heard.


    Dag nodded to Paul and the two men began to sweep the house room by room.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Mr. Moon slid the bolt back to pop the used round out of his rifle. A large man, almost as large as Dag was, had run out the back door after Mr. Moon''s partner breached through the front. Mr. Moon naturally took a shot at him, but in all fairness, moving targets were much more difficult to hit. The bullet hadn¡¯t done much more than graze his target. Then, when he was reloading, a woman had dashed out the back to follow the man.


    After that there was nothing.


    Mr. Moon moved to the third and final window, patiently peering down the scope toward the back door for five minutes before dropping to a knee and beginning the process the disassemble his sniper rifle. Each piece was silently placed back into the suitcase one by one. Then, by habit instead of necessity, he picked up the two empty rifle cartridges on the ground. It wasn¡¯t a necessity in this case, as it hardly mattered if anyone knew he had been in the attic, but habit was habit. He slipped the used cartridges into his pocket, picked up the suitcase in one hand, and climbed down the ladder to the main floor.


    In less than ten minutes, the gunfight was over.

 Chapter 15 - The Dogs

    Cass¡¯s breath hissed through her teeth as she surveyed the damage. All four tires on their ¡®borrowed¡¯ patrol car were slashed. It was the same with her dad¡¯s car. Every tire was damaged past the point of usefulness, with deep and long slashes that would prevent them from holding air for even a few seconds. It looked like a knife had done it, a rather sharp one to cut right through the rubber. Tires could be surprisingly sturdy at times.


    ¡°Those scum¡­¡± She harshly muttered. It was obvious the suit-wearing murderers still suspected there was another person in the house, even though they had been forced to rush off and assist Paul. Cass shivered at the thought. Those two men would be heralded as rescuing heroes. Not one of the policemen of the town knew Mr. Moon shot their Chief.


    Still. As much as she yearned to climb on the roof and shout the truth to the sky for all to know, Cass knew how vital it was to safely get free of the house before Mr. Moon returned. Only then could she plot a path to a vengeance that wouldn¡¯t only be her word against theirs. Cass knew all the men in the precinct. They¡¯d worked for her father for years. But in their eyes, she was just the Chief¡¯s kid. Even if they were fond of her, the word of Mr. Moon would probably be rated higher.


    Mark¡¯s heavy footsteps jolted Cass out of her spiraling thoughts, and she looked up at the man, who was walking around the cars to observe the damage. The hunting rifle dangled casually in one of his meaty hands. Clearly he didn¡¯t plan to use it if things went south. That fit. He was never a good shot. At least Mark could carry the weapon for her.


    The footsteps stopped and Mark looked at Cass. His eyes looked tired, much like how hers felt.


    "Cars are toast," Mark announced. Cass started to open her mouth and unleash a biting response to his obvious declaration, but Mark continued to speak before she could get any words out. ¡°What about your car? Think it¡¯s still parked out front at the station?¡±


    That¡­


    Cass tilted her head in thought. It would have to be. There were only two places her car would¡¯ve ended up after that night. Either her dad would¡¯ve taken it back to the house, or he left it at the station to deal with later. It obviously wasn¡¯t in the garage right now. That meant it had to be at the station.


    It would be a bit of a walk. But¡­ Paul was shouting something about the corner of State and Fairlawn Street over the radio. If they stuck to backyards and stayed far away from that area, along with the route one would take from her house to that corner, the two of them could probably get there just fine. Then they could get her car and drive off. All that would be left after that would be for Cass to do a bit of stakeout work, figure out where Mr. Moon was staying, hide in a nearby bush, and dome him in the head from 300 feet with the hunting rifle. It had a decent enough scope for the job. It would almost be like one of her dad¡¯s old war stories about men with guns hiding away in trees to ambush unwary G.I.¡¯s.


    Then all that would leave¡­ Cass unconsciously bit her lip in thought. The big guy would be a problem. He would likely take issue with Cass killing his partner. Plus those maniacs from the station. Maybe with luck, the two opposing teams could kill each other off. It would save her some work. They could be shooting each other to pieces right now while she pondered.


    She shook her head. Bad Cass. A shootout in the town meant people she knew all her life could get hurt. Not only that, but her thoughts were spiraling again, and they didn¡¯t have time for that.


    ¡°Come on. Let¡¯s get my car.¡± Cass gestured to Mark, walking back into the house toward the back door. Mark silently followed her. The house was quiet, unnaturally so. At this time of the evening, her dad should have been bustling around the kitchen. Cass would¡¯ve been waiting by the phone for her interview results. Dino was supposed to get back to her any day now. She was sure she aced it.


    Maybe tonight would have been a grill night. The weather was nice enough to make the thought tempting. Hamburgers, hot dogs, green peppers, onions, melted cheese, all the works sizzling away on the portable grill under her father¡¯s watchful eye. The timer would be ticking away on top of the oven, counting down the minutes until Cass could pull the fries out to reveal their golden sizzling shapes. Making oven-baked fries with freshly harvested potatoes, that was the way to do it for sure.


    Cass passed the kitchen. In the corner of her eye, she could see her dad¡¯s body limply strewn about on the floor. Her vision blurred worse and worse each second her eyes lingered. Cass roughly dragged the back of her hand against her face, but the hot tears streaming down her cheeks were cleared only for the briefest of moments. Mark said something, but his voice was muffled, almost drowned out by that infernal ringing noise in her ears. Cripes. The ear-shattering gunshots Cass had experienced in close quarters had affected her hearing worse than she originally thought.


    Cass shuddered and continued walking, unknowingly biting at her lip hard enough to draw a thin stream of blood. She couldn¡¯t even give him a proper burial right now. Not with the combined threats of Mr. Moon and the guys who attacked the station hanging over her shoulders. She had to get moving and keep moving.


    Behind her, Mark flinched as he too reached the point where the Chief¡¯s body was visible. She could hear him retching again, but this time nothing splattered onto the floor. His stomach was as empty as hers.


    The back door clicked open. Cass sent one last mournful gaze around the inside of the house, and then she stepped out onto the patio. Before her, an entire line of backyards was laid out. White picket lines mingled with tall wooden fences and sturdy chain link barriers. Most of the yards were deserted by now, and almost none of them could be fully seen from the street.


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    Cass glanced at Mark.


    ¡°Alright. It¡¯s time to go.¡± Cass sighed and took the first step onto the grass.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Dag was leaning back taking a breather on one of the few chairs that had remained intact from the grenade blast by the time Mr. Moon arrived at the broken front door of the house. The slab of wood was hanging loosely off its hinges, crooked and askew from the forces it had endured.


    Mr. Moon rested his briefcase on the floor and observed the room. Shattered furniture, cracked walls, and a dead man on the ground. Nothing unusual, considering a grenade had gone off in the space.


    ¡°Report?¡±


    Dag smushed the butt of his cigarette into the ceramic ashtray by his side to put it out.


    ¡°One dead Russkie down here, plus the one you sniped up on the second floor. Officer Joseph got hit. He is in critical condition, Officer Paul¡¯s providing first aid. An ambulance is on its way from a town over. ETA is twenty minutes at minimum.¡±


    Mr. Moon nodded along. Two dead John Does on the Russian side, one officer out of action on their side. Adding the Chief to the body count meant his list of available assets was down by two in full. Not completely ideal, but he couldn¡¯t realistically expect much better. The Russians were formidable, after all.


    ¡°Then there¡¯s two left we know about.¡± Mr. Moon concluded. ¡°A grey-haired woman and a large, scarred man ran out the back door right before you breached. I was unable to hit them. The man wore a suit. Close-cropped hair. Heavily scarred face. The woman was in a dress, with glasses and shoulder-length hair.¡±


    Dag nodded, wordlessly committing the sparse descriptions to memory.


    It was a shame the entire group couldn¡¯t have been wrapped up here. The chance had been almost perfect, with the Russians making such a desperate play out of the blue. However, just this happening in the first place was able to confirm a few facts, at least. Number one - the Russkies didn¡¯t have the alien. Otherwise they would have faded away into the night instead of picking a fight when they had a gradually decreasing supply of manpower.


    That meant fact number two, his theory of a third party being at the station, was also essentially confirmed. Unless of course, the police of this town were being unusually adept at secrecy, to the point where they could hide the creature from himself and Dag. That was unlikely, though. This was a small-town precinct. They wouldn¡¯t have any reason to hide the alien away. So considering the fact that the alien would never move by itself, there simply had to be a third party.


    ¡°What about the homeowners?¡±


    Mr. Moon¡¯s abrupt question caused Dag to fall into a thoughtful silence before answering.


    ¡°I asked the neighbors. Apparently it¡¯s a middle-aged couple. They¡¯re on a vacation to the West Coast for a week to see their son. The Russians must have slipped in the back so no one noticed the house was occupied.¡±


    Mr. Moon curtly nodded, picking up his briefcase and walking out of the house. Heavy footsteps behind him indicated Dag was following. The dust had settled from the ambush. There was little they could do here. By now the rest of the officers had arrived, and they had already begun to get the statements of everyone who lived on the block. Mr. Moon ignored them all. That information would be most useful when it was fully gathered and turned into a report.


    Until then, they had a cleanup of their own to perform. The blame for the Chief''s death being pinned on anyone other than a Russian sniper would be extremely inconvenient if Mr. Moon wanted to freely pursue his goals.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    The ¡®crack-pop¡¯ of a beer can being opened was one of the most beautiful sounds in the world. That was something Steve had known for quite some time. It had to be a cold beer, though. Only heretics could settle for a warm beer. It had to be cold. If there was condensation or even a bit of frost buildup on the outside, even better.


    ¡°Ah¡­ that¡¯s the stuff.¡± The man next to him sighed contentedly and leaned back in his lawn chair as much as a man realistically could in a cheap lawn chair (in effect, not very much). A second man gave a grunt of agreement, and Steve added an approving hum of his own.


    These two men were his neighbors. Well, some of his neighbors at least. The block was quite a bit larger than that. They were just his immediate next-door neighbors. Maybe in a few days he would expand his circle of acquaintances to those who were non-immediate neighbors. No need to rush it, though. Steve and Ms. Miller needed to blend in. That meant doing things in the unhurried manner of a man and his wife enjoying the small-town life. You don¡¯t move fast in the small-town life.


    Not everyone seemed to get that.


    For starters, a muffled ¡®bang¡¯ had come from the Chief¡¯s house about ten minutes ago. Soon after that, screeching tires had heralded Mr. Moon¡¯s car flying out onto the street.


    Steve didn¡¯t say anything then. The two men with him were drunk enough to not recognize the gunshot. Or perhaps they did, and thought it was just a rowdy kid or a hunter hanging around a bit too close to the city limits? Eh. It hardly mattered.


    About a minute ago, two people had slipped out the back door of the Chief¡¯s house. The evening was late enough that shadows obscured their features, though of course the distance didn¡¯t help either. He could see that backyard from his backyard, but the houses weren¡¯t exactly close. The best he could tell was that they were a rather bulky, solid man, and a much slimmer figure. He could barely make out a ponytail on the latter. A woman? Or a slim man with a strange choice of hairstyles. Probably a woman.


    Steve took another sip of his ice-cold beer. Ah. How refreshing. The cool liquid splashed down his throat to settle joyfully in his stomach.


    On the patio table next to a pile of empty beer cans, a folded piece of paper innocently waited like a scrap of discarded trash. Soon it would disappear. Ms. Miller had already peeked in on the trio from the upstairs window, a movement Steve had noticed and given the appropriate gesture for in response. A simple hand sign that indicated he¡¯d seen something important. She would find a good excuse to pop out and grab his note soon enough, whatever it would take to make the action natural. Steve¡¯s best guess is that she would use the pretext of grabbing their cans for recycling. That was all the rage now, saving the planet one aluminum can at a time. Then all she would have to do is radio Mr. Moon with his observations and the ball would be in that man¡¯s court.


    Steve crushed the now-empty can in his hand and stacked it on top of the pile of empty cans. The structure almost looked like an alcoholic leaning tower of Pisa. He was pretty proud of that. One of the men with him reached into the cooler, grabbed a fresh beverage, and tossed it to Steve, who casually caught it with a muttered thanks. He popped the tab, sipping at the ice-cold liquid inside.


    This was the way to do it. No running around waving a gun like Mr. Moon and Dag were doing. Just a bit of guard duty, a bit of stakeout, and a nice bit of bonding over beer with the neighbors. This was the reason he stuck with the Criminal Investigation division. While the others were busting their asses, all Steve had to do was play a part and pay attention.


    Yeppers. What a life to live.

 Chapter 16 - Nightcall

    Mr. Moon unconsciously tapped out a drumbeat on the steering wheel with his fingers. There was little sense rushing even after hearing what Ms. Miller had to say over the radio. Whoever it was that Steve saw, they were likely gone in the wind now. On foot, but with the sense to keep away from the roads. A man and a woman. The man, tall and solid. The woman, slim with a ponytail. Having just slipped out of the Chief¡¯s house, they would have doubtlessly been witnesses to the murder. That would fit the timeline. The question was, who were they?


    A police officer was out of the question. Mr. Moon had been introduced to every surviving member of the Carlston PD by now. There were no women on the force and as for the men, while none could be described as completely out of shape, neither could they be pinned as the ¡®tall and solid¡¯ type. Perhaps another observer could have mistaken them for that, but a man of Steve¡¯s abilities would not have mentioned those physical traits if they didn¡¯t glaringly stick out.


    Who else would have a reason to be in the house? A friendly neighbor? Possible but unlikely. No reason for them to hide from himself or Dag before the murder occurred. A family member? The Chief lacked a wife, as far as Mr. Moon could tell. His daughter, perhaps?


    Then it hit him. The thought spiked through his mind like a bolt of lightning tearing through the sky.


    The picture. The one hanging on the wall, featuring the Chief¡¯s daughter¡­ Cass? Yes. That was her name. Cass. If he recalled correctly, she had a ponytail in the picture. That detail hardly said anything at all on its own. Nothing but pure coincidence.


    However, the pale blue Rambler Cass was leaning against in the photo told another story altogether. The car parked outside the station was the same model and color. It was as close to the front door as could be. What if the Rambler was hers?


    The Chief¡¯s house was barely visible now in the gaps between houses. From what he could see, both squad cars were where they had been left earlier, untouched. The cars were still sitting low to the ground, indicating the tires hadn¡¯t been changed out. Mr. Moon wrenched the steering wheel sideways, drawing out a shrill screech from the tires as his car hopped a curb and trampled some petunias in his haste to get on the next street. His foot pressed the gas pedal all the way to the floor and the engine grinded away in protest of the sudden move.


    Dag let out a grunt of surprise, one hand palming the grip of his Sig Sauer while his eyes darted sharply around the area looking for threats Mr. Moon might¡¯ve seen that he¡¯d missed.


    ¡°The car, the one at the station.¡± Mr. Moon said, a slight bit of irritation breaking up his usual steady voice. ¡°If it¡¯s gone when we get there, our third party is the Chief¡¯s daughter.¡±


    Dag¡¯s eyes sharpened.


    ¡°She has the creature?¡±


    ¡°Or knows where it is.¡± Mr. Moon confirmed. ¡°And is likely a witness to the Chief¡¯s death.¡±


    Dag clicked his tongue. The fact of that possibility being inconvenient if true was something they both could understand without putting it into words. In the very best-case scenario, that would mean the girl would follow them hellbent on revenge.


    Worse case? She would be sly enough to get proof and expose them to the police, forcing the two of them to cause a bloodbath neither man wanted to happen. Such a thing would be messy, needlessly dangerous, and the very definition of unsubtle. Not to mention they would still have to deal with whatever Russians remained at that point. All in all, a mess only marginally better than ordering the Air Force to glass the town and pick the alien from the smoking rubble.


    Within minutes the police station appeared in the distance. Dag and Mr. Moon both leaned forward in their seats, eyes straining to rake across the front of the building. Then they saw it.


    Or rather, they saw what was not there. The blue car was gone. There were no other vehicles in the parking lot.


    Separate, the pieces were nothing but a simple coincidence. Joined together, they were everything. It all fit together like a giant jigsaw puzzle. An unlikely puzzle, but a puzzle all the same. The picture. The car. The hairstyle. Ready access to the Chief¡¯s house. A person important enough to the Chief that he would be willing to tell a baldfaced lie to a federal agent to keep her out of harm¡¯s way. The blue car, abandoned around the time of the attack and now missing.


    ¡°Cass Thomson¡­ and her mystery friend.¡± Mr. Moon muttered, temporarily pulling the car to the side of the road. ¡°Where in the world are you?¡±


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Cass threw her car into park, turned off the engine, and hopped out into the darkness of old Henryk¡¯s barn. In the span of seconds, the creaky wooden building went from being filled with the rumbling of her car''s engine, to the silence of an ordinary country evening. No sounds of cars driving around, or neighbors caught in cheerful conversation. Just crickets and frogs droning their songs with the night sky as their audience.


    There was barely any light to speak of in the barn. Just enough that Cass could be sure she wouldn¡¯t trip over a loose board, but still not enough to see even halfway across the building. The haystack where they¡¯d stuffed the alien still loomed like a dark blob, sitting forgotten in a dusty corner like they¡¯d never left it in the first place.


    Cass turned away from the pile of hay. The creature within was important enough to kill over, but right now it felt like her shoulders were already being crushed under the weight of the day¡¯s events. Mark¡¯s heavy hand fell on her shoulder, but Cass ignored it, numbly walking out of the barn to the house. She wasn¡¯t bothered after that, though past the infernal ringing in her ears, Cass could still hear Mark¡¯s heavy footsteps behind her as the man slowed his ordinarily quicker pace to doggedly follow her into the house.


    Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    The door creaked open, a lonely sound nearly drowned out by the croaking of bullfrogs. In the back of her head, a numb thought floated by that there had to be a creek or pond nearby, for the bullfrogs to sound this close. She flitted past the kitchen, pausing only to tug the pistol out of her pocket to lay on the table.


    At this point, Mark finally split away, leaving only a few words hanging in the air.


    ¡°Hey. If you want to talk, I¡¯m here.¡±


    Cass absentmindedly nodded. Her heart still felt like it was being crushed, but she still couldn¡¯t bring herself to snap at the man to leave her alone. Not when he was just trying to help. Heading up the stairs, Cass pushed the bathroom door open and paused, staring blanking at the mirror in front of her.


    There was a girl in the mirror. Cass didn¡¯t recognize her at first. The girl¡¯s eyes were tear-stained. Her face was lined with weariness, with disheveled hair formed into a ponytail barely kept in line by a ragged hair tie. A second passed. Dirty superhero pajamas, windbreaker, and ginger hair. Then the realization struck ¨C it was her. It was just Cass¡¯s reflection.


    Cass let out a tired sigh. She shed her clothes and stepped into the shower. Anything to try and feel human again. The weight of the nearly scalding water was like a waterfall beating down on her head, but Cass didn''t feel it. She closed her eyes, moving her head out from under the water to rest against the cool tile that made up the shower wall.


    Then Cass let out a series of choked sobs that were barely masked by the sound of water crashing around her. She fell to the floor, hugging her knees close to her chest. She was never, ever going to see her father alive again. She was alone, now.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    The next morning, the sun rose in the same spot in the sky it rose every morning. The same parts of town were dyed in the same warm hues. The same people woke at the same time to do the same chores, see the same people, and speak the same words they spoke every day.


    Carlston was a small town. A lot of days were much the same. That was one thing Ralph liked about the small-town life. He didn¡¯t need an alarm when he had chickens in his backyard. The rooster made sure to wake him up at the crack of dawn each day. Ralph didn''t mind. Them eggs were good eatin''. What was that saying? A dozen eggs a day would make a man strong? He could only do half that much, but half was still some.


    So, he would wake up every morning at the crack of dawn. Drink some coffee, then go out to grab whatever eggs were waiting for him in the coop. Usually there were far more than he could eat by himself, so a few would get turned into an omelet while the rest got carefully placed into a cardboard carton to be sent away to friends and neighbors as gifts given freely. After breakfast was taken care of, Ralph would always head over to the gas station. Usually not to get gas, surprisingly enough, but to see the lads.


    Well, maybe the word ¡®lads¡¯ was a bit too young of a word to describe him and the rest of the old codgers that liked to meet up there and swap stories, but sometimes he liked to feel young. That was the privilege of the old, knowing the words to make themselves feel young again. Even if it was but for a few minutes before aching bones reminded a fella how many years his body had been chugging along.


    By his count, about seventy. Good ol¡¯ seventy-some years. Each and every one of them had been spent in Carlston. Well, maybe a few days in total were used up in some of the nearby towns. Variety being the spice of life and all that (not too much variety, just a wee bit).


    Anyway, that was beside the point. Meeting up with the other old codgers each morning was a time-honored ritual for longer than he could remember. Usually the conversation would be light. Something like how the crops were going for those of them who were farmers, how Ralph''s chickens were faring, or what their kids or grandkids were up to, etc. This morning, he was hoping to figure out what all those loud noises were last night. It was something odd, but the noises were coming from across town ¨C too far for him to tell for sure what they were. Maybe some of the other old coots had a better idea.


    All of that would be solemnly discussed over clutched cups of coffee, questionable gas station burritos, and the halfhearted glare of the cashier burdened with the knowledge that no, they would not be buying anything else, and yes, they would be puttering around all morning. Shucks, that lad behind the cash register would be happy enough later when Ralph lent him an old tux (worn by a much younger Ralph back in the day) next time the lad went on a date with his gem of a girlfriend.


    The thing about Ralph, and where he lived, was that the gas station wasn¡¯t within walking distance. Good thing he had a tractor. It would rumble along the streets, chugging and huffing loud enough to remind Ralph he was still alive, but quiet enough that ol¡¯ Thomson wouldn¡¯t have to pull Ralph aside for a boring conversation about noise ordinances and how most people don¡¯t like to be woken up at the crack of dawn.


    Ralph politely disagreed with that sentiment. Sure a guy would be a bit tired at first, but the chance to see the world in all its beauty, being graced with the morning sunlight, was a sight few things in the world could top. He was personally of the opinion that the sight was enough to give a man a different view of life itself. Still, the Chief was a good man. There was merit in heeding his words.


    Not only that, but there was something about riding a tractor down the street that made it better. Maybe it was the gleam of the paint under the sunrise, shining so much that it almost covered up the rust spots he kept forgetting to fix up. Or could it be the sheer simplicity of the machine, compared to those fancy sports cars the youth liked to rip around the back country roads in? The slow speed of his vehicle sure was nice. Left plenty of time for a man to enjoy the morning air being mixed with the smell of diesel fuel.


    His tractor turned the corner with all the grace of a bull in a china shop. The gas station bloomed into view¡­ and Ralph¡¯s eyes widened.


    ¡°What in tarnation¡­¡± He whispered to himself, the words nearly drowned out under the ¡®put-put¡¯ sound of the tractor¡¯s engine.


    It was a bloodbath. His body tilted, unable to keep his balance on the simple iron tractor seat out of shock and horror. He threw the gears of the tractor into neutral and stumbled off the machine, his old heart thundering at what felt like a thousand beats a second. Body parts were scattered across the concrete. A boy lay still, a rubber gas hose still wrapped around his crushed neck.


    Another kid was motionless on the ground. His body was deformed in the middle, like someone had tried to physically snap him in half ¨C and nearly succeeded before they got bored of the job.


    Any further observations were lost to Ralph as he deposited the half-digested remains of his omelet onto the street, with some of it splashing onto his work boots.


    There was not a single living soul in or around the gas station other than Ralph.

 Chapter 17 - Snow in Summer

    Five in the morning. That was when Mr. Moon got the call. It wasn¡¯t a notice from Ms. Miller, but rather a panicked radio message from Paul, the temporary chief of police. The man had hardly been thrilled about the sudden promotion ¨C a feeling that Mr. Moon could understand. In the frantic hours after the Russian ambush had been foiled, the two FBI agents revealed the grizzly assassination in the Chief¡¯s own house, a terrible event that had happened mere minutes before Paul called for backup.


    A Russian sniper, taking advantage of the chaos on the other side of town to eliminate the Chief and therefore throwing the department into a worse state of chaos than it already was. It was fortunate that Mr. Moon and Dag had been on the scene to provide stability, chase off the sniper, and back up the rest of the precinct.


    Or at least, that was the official story. Other than Mr. Moon¡¯s team, Cass Thomson, and her mystery friend, none knew the truth. Paul believed the story. Why wouldn¡¯t he? It fit. The Russkies already had a sniper present at the ambush. If they had one, they very well could have two.


    In addition, Mr. Moon had also prepared the scene before the murder was revealed. The bullet from his Sig Sauer, the very same one that passed through the back of the Chief''s head, torn through his brains, passed through the front, and drilled into a kitchen cabinet, was found and meticulously pried from the wood to be dropped into a pocket and forgotten. In its place was a used rifle round from a previous battlefield. However, perhaps replacing the round was unnecessary. Paul hadn''t thought of checking it.


    Thus, Paul, as the most senior officer left on the force, was inducted as the temporary Chief. A temporary Chief with drastically limited resources and a promise of backup that would never come, courtesy of Ms. Miller¡¯s hard work intercepting and directing the local radio traffic. Mr. Moon¡¯s investigation concluded swiftly. The Russians were the only people who were suspected in the matter of the old Chief''s death, with the proper time and motive being quite blatantly obvious. Paul went home, Mr. Moon and Dag settled in for a long overnight stakeout of the Thomson residence from their car, parked a block away, and the night slipped on by.


    Until five in the morning.


    Mr. Moon sat bolt upright, the handheld radio placed on the car¡¯s dashboard between him and Dag so that both men could hear it. Five dead at the gas station. A store clerk and a group of young teenagers, all of them brutalized in a display of animalistic savagery that left Paul¡¯s voice shaking over the radio just describing it. The estimated time of death was somewhere between ten and midnight of last night. Meaning it happened after the assassination of the Chief and the conclusion of the Russian ambush.


    Mr. Moon caught Dag¡¯s eyes. His too were narrowed in slight confusion. Not for the description of the carnage, of course. They¡¯d both seen far worse. No, their mild confusion was over both the timeline and the act itself. It was certainly not above the Russians to kill a group of kids. However, those men also wouldn¡¯t bother to do such a thing unless it benefited them in some way. Otherwise, it would be a waste of bullets and time. Causing a massacre when they should have been licking their wounds after a failed ambush? Preposterous.


    Moreover, the description of the murders¡­ it was all wrong. Strangulation with a gas hose. Gaping wounds and crushed chests, topped with a kid nearly snapped in half and an iron pipe sticking out of a clerk¡¯s chest like a thrown spear.


    It was unprofessional, truly. Something a mindless savage, or a soldier drunk on slaughter would do in the heat of battle. The Russkies, however, were professionals. Bloodthirsty? Sure. They had zero issues raiding an FBI black site. Nor did they hesitate to strike at a police station full of armed officers. But each move they made was still professional and calculated to the end like a surgeon''s knife expertly cutting through a patient. If men like the Russians really had attacked the gas station, those teens would have been filled with handgun ammo and the clerk would''ve been sniped in the head from three hundred feet. Not whatever¡­ this was.


    The black site raid was to acquire the alien. The station attack was to retake the creature. The ambush last night was a bit sloppier, but likely a play to gain information and hostages ¨C which would have worked, if not for Mr. Moon and Dag, who were up that point completely unknown to the Russians. It was all brutal yet professional and each action they took had a clear goal attached.


    Mr. Moon eased his car down the road while he thought. It was still a few minutes until the gas station. Perhaps more would be revealed when they had their own eyes on the situation. Hopefully. Worst case, this meant there was another variable loose in this delicate situation, one that was brutal and unpredictable.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Dino¡¯s Diner was buzzing with life. Late in the night, the lights shone a warm glow over the building that made everyone inside feel cut off from the world, but in a good way. Like the diner was a refuge from the hardships of life. A place that people could escape to, even if for but a few hours, to enjoy good food and good company.


    It was like an island of calm in the center of the storm of life, with Cass weaving in between tables as if she was a bird elegantly flying through the harsh winds, making them seem like nothing but a calm ocean breeze. She¡¯d gotten the job and taken to it like a fish in water. The diner, once a hangout spot for her and her friends, was now a part of her life that she continued to enjoy, albeit in a different way than before. It gave her the fulfillment of a job well done alongside people she knew and trusted.


    From a table a few feet away, her dad waved a greeting. Cass smiled back, the expression as warm and gentle as a morning sun peeking over the horizon. Balanced over her shoulder was a heaping platter of plates stuffed to the brim with food still sizzling with the residual heat from the grill.


    To an outside observer, the pile would appear precarious, as if a gentle gust of wind would be enough to make Cass drop it all over the floor. That was not the truth, however. There was a method to the madness. Daly, one of the long-time waitresses who¡¯d worked there even when Cass was still in elementary school, showed her the trick. It was all about balance. Dino would stack the plates just right in the kitchen, and as long as Cass kept the proper balance, it would all hold true.


    Cass reached over the platter balanced on her shoulder to grab it with both hands to set it on the table that her dad and a bunch of guys from the station were sitting at. It was quite a large order of food, but she was used to it. They stopped by for dinner at Dino¡¯s almost every day! A few of them were packing on some extra pounds because of that, but her father¡¯s only response was to schedule more department-wide fitness mornings to stay in fighting shape.


    ¡°Alright! I¡¯ve got a number ten, two number three¡¯s, a four right off the grill, a number nine with no pickles, a Dino¡¯s special, five milkshakes tall and frosty, a bottomless basket of chili-cheese fries, and a small apple pie. Pie¡¯s on the house tonight!¡±


    Hands raised one by one as Cass went through the orders, expertly sliding them across the table to each man.


    ¡°Enjoy!¡± Cass waved at the group. They all shouted various affirmatives back at her in response. Their voices bounced around the busy diner, adding their cheerful tones to the hustle and bustle of the place. Cass took a moment to breathe it all in. The smell of delicious food being cooked by Dino in the kitchen. The occasional drafts of night air mixed with the faint hints of cigarette smoke filtering in each time the door opened. How did the cheer in the air even have a smell? It was an emotion, a concept, but she could feel it deep in her lungs!


    Cass let the happy breath out and moved over to the table that Ashley and Jen were at, sliding another round of milkshakes toward her girls. The three of them were still as close as ever, even after graduating high school. Ashley had found work at the police station as the secretary. Jen was going to a community college a few towns over but often found excuses to visit Carlston. Cass was pretty sure the girl would come back to the place after her degree was done. She loved the town too much to leave for good, and a nursing degree could be used practically anywhere.


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    That was the same wavelength Cass was on. This town¡­ it was home. It was a warm, cheerful home, just like the diner was. Who cared that it was small? That it hardly had any stores, that the population had hardly changed since Cass was born? It was their slice of simple paradise. It was a town where everyone knew your name.


    Another burst of raucous laughter erupted from the table where all the policemen were, Paul having apparently told one whopper of a joke. All bets were off whether it was a particularly rude one or some strange inside joke only men would understand. A group of smokers were happily chatting out in the parking lot while their food was being prepared. The picnic tables in the grass off to the side of the lot were filled with teens horsing around and ignoring their studies. Once upon a time Cass would have been among their number. Now she watched, content to see them enjoying the freedom of youth.


    Cass was happy.


    The dream broke and Cass opened her eyes. Daylight was streaming through the curtains of her acquired room to land directly on her face. She rubbed her face, the action doing little to soothe the itchiness brought by the tears that accompanied her to dreamland. It was a place she wished to still be in. The fragmented memories of her dreams, nothing but a half-remembered dream of a dream, still swirled away in her head. Fantasies of what could have been.


    The nasty, terrible voice in the back of her head told her in cold words to ¡®Wake up sweetie and smell the crappy roses, that dream is never going to happen. Dad¡¯s dead and his killer is walking around like nothing happened.¡¯


    She shrugged the sheets off her body. The bed had been left there in the wake of old Henryk¡¯s death. It was large enough to be determined as not worth the effort to lug down the stairs. The sheets had been found in a forgotten closet near the pantry. No longer did her chest feel the raging heat of grief. It was all cold now, like icy shackles were restraining her heart and snow was covering her frozen shoulders. Cass didn¡¯t know if that would ever change.


    Unsteady steps took her out of the bedroom. The stairs outside the room led downwards to the living room where she could see Mark sitting. The man looked to have hardly slept a wink. His face looked terrible. Just as bad as hers probably still looked. The shower hadn¡¯t done much to fix that.


    ¡°Morning.¡± Cass¡¯s rusty voice caused him to jump, breaking the man out of whatever thoughts he was trapped in. He tossed her an apple, which Cass clumsily caught and bit down on. It seemed neither of them had the energy to make breakfast.


    With slow steps, Cass finished descending the stairs to join Mark in the living room, crunching away at her apple as she walked. She sat on a wooden rocking chair next to the unlit fireplace, her eyes flicking across the room while she thought. The hunting rifle was resting against the brick fireplace. Her pistol was probably still on the kitchen table, which was out of sight from the living room.


    Half of the apple disappeared in chunks down her throat before Cass finally spoke.


    ¡°I¡¯m going back. Taking the rifle and my car.¡±


    Mark flinched in his seat. It seemed he could guess what she planned to do.


    Cass didn¡¯t care. He could come or he could stay. It mattered not to her.


    ¡°What about the thing in the barn?¡± Mark abruptly switched topics. Maybe he was still trying to think of a way to persuade her to stay safe. Or maybe he wouldn¡¯t try at all.


    Cass shrugged.


    ¡°What about it?¡±


    ¡°If it really is the reason all this started, shouldn¡¯t we do something about it?¡±


    If he had been speaking to a Cass that was a day younger, she might have agreed. However.


    Cass shook her head. ¡°Later.¡± She replied after taking another large bite of the apple. Each piece felt like it was hurtling to the end of an empty stomach, echoing away as it hit the bottom. ¡°First the scum in the suit dies. After that I¡¯ll figure something out.¡±


    Cass didn¡¯t wait for him to respond. She finished the apple, tossed the core out of an open window for the animals to have, and then grabbed the rifle and her keys. She still wore her grubby superhero pajamas. Her windbreaker was still wrapped around her shoulders. It would have been sensible to change clothes. If she looked hard enough there were probably a few old sets of clothing in some forgotten closet around the property.


    Maybe it was another sign of how the world was turned upside down, for her to decline to do so. But in the back of her head, spoken by that nasty, terrible voice, she really, truly could not bear to give up the last things linking her to her old life. Not even if they were just a pair of grubby pajamas and a windbreaker.


    Striding out of the house with the pistol in her pocket and the hunting rifle resting casually on her shoulder, she walked up to the barn and yanked open the doors. The haystack was still undisturbed. Cass shot a disgusted glance at it, a glance that held the unspoken words, ''If you''d never come to my town, my dad would still be alive.''


    It was nothing more than a look, though. Dealing with that ¡®Mr. Moon¡¯ fellow was a more pressing matter.


    She popped open the car door, setting the rifle in the passenger seat before she slid into the driver¡¯s seat. Then the passenger door opened. The rifle was lifted into the air by a massive hand. Cass looked up, catching Mark¡¯s eyes. He studied her, his face formed into an unreadable expression before he slid into the seat with the rifle set on his lap.


    Mark didn¡¯t say a word. Neither did Cass. She started up the car, filling the barn with a gentle rumbling that was once music to her ears. Now it was just the sound of a car starting. She placed her hand on the shift to put her car into drive. Warmth infused the top of her hand, causing Cass to glance over. Mark¡¯s hand was placed over hers. He caught her gaze and nodded before his hand fell away and his gaze slid over to look out the window.


    Cass put her eyes back on the open door and the car ambled out onto the road to the unsteady melody of gravel crunching under the tires.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    ¡®Scrape¡¯


    ¡®Scrape¡¯


    The sound of an axe rubbing against a whetstone filled the air. It was music to his ears. The whetstone was a nice one. A bit talkative, but nice.


    ¡°Hey.¡±


    ¡°Hey!¡±


    "Hey, Jack!"


    Jack paused, looking at the whetstone trying to speak to him. It had lips but no eyes. Not like it needed eyes to talk. No one needed eyes to talk. Unless there was some strange language out there that used eyes to talk? That would be kind of cool actually.


    ¡°Good work on fighting your demons, Jack! Me and the boys were wondering when you¡¯d hash it out with them. You¡¯ll have to get that one that got away, though. No sense in leaving a job unfinished.¡±


    Jack curtly nodded. Then he smiled as the sensation of flesh crumbling underneath his fists came back as a fond memory. It was beautiful. Top ten memory, for sure. Ranking right above that one time he took out the lizardman with a metal tent stake, and right below his yearly summer Olympics preparations of going to the city at night and practicing his javelin-throwing skills on any skin stealers or muggers he could find.


    As the warm memories flooded through him, Jack realized it was time for a break. He sat aside the whetstone, which groaned in pleasure as its back hit the cool surface of the metal table, and reached over to his snacks. He wasn''t usually a snack person. It was kind of a money drain, and too many sweets tended to give a guy a gut that could interfere with a quick murdering, if that was needed at the moment.


    But, when snacks presented themselves for free, well, he would oblige. To do so would be an utter waste of a perfect (and free) opportunity. Jack strained his arm to reach over to his most flavorful snack, hanging from the side of the shed he was sitting next to. It was buzzing gently, but that would soon change.


    He grabbed the wasp nest in his hand and plucked it off the shed like one might pluck a juicy apple from a tree. The insects kicked up a fuss, but before they could explode from their nest, he shoved the buzzing delicacy into his mouth and chewed. It was a bit stingy, as wasp nests tended to be, but Jack was too strong for their poison to have an effect. Frankly, he was too strong for just about any poison to have an effect. It was a nice result of all his hard work microdosing poisons for breakfast each day. One by one, switching poisons each time his body got used to them enough that he didn¡¯t feel numb from it anymore.


    He could feel the wasps stinging the inside of his mouth (or trying to, most of them were too weak to break through the lining), but he continued to chew with crunchy relish. The wasp larva popped in between his molars like tiny little grapes, with a bit of a sour tinge to them. The nest was a bit dry, but the juices of the adult wasps did wonders in helping it go down to settle happily at the bottom of his stomach.


    Jack let out a loud burp of satisfaction once the nest was all the way down.


    ¡°Juicy.¡± He grinned. The whetstone chittered in agreement, while his axe hummed in satisfaction over being wicked sharp again. It was almost always sharp, but cutting through bone was sadly a great way to quickly dull a blade. Now, though, now the edge would be back to cutting through bone like a knife through butter or smashing through it like a hammer on rocks. It all depended on the angle and force used in the strike.


    ¡°-All units be advised, multiple homicides reported at Skinny¡¯s Gas Station. Suspect unknown.¡±


    Jack cast a glance at the police radio as it buzzed to life with a woman¡¯s voice made faint through the crackling of radio waves. He flicked the volume a notch louder and opened a bag of gummy fruit snacks acquired from that same gas station. He ate the strawberry ones first, following them with a few of the orange ones and a strong chaser of rubbing alcohol right out of the bottle.


    ¡°Is it the Russians?¡± A man¡¯s voice answered, tight with exhaustion and fear. Jack¡¯s eyebrows raised. Russians? In this particular town? At this particular time of day? How odd. He''d known from the start there were interesting times in Carlston. A chance to prove, perhaps even increase his might. Who could''ve guessed this town also contained scum-sucking communist heathens?


    The man¡¯s voice was never answered, though the woman continued to repeat her advisory every five or so minutes, until an hour had passed by and Jack¡¯s gummy fruit snacks were exhausted.


    The woman¡¯s voice was cold. Uncaring. Obviously a radio operator working from some office to manage communications, but even an operator¡¯s tone would normally have more life to it.


    Maybe she was a demon, too?

 Chapter 18 - Dispossession

    Mr. Moon slipped the gloves off his hands, pulling himself from a crouch to his full height to observe the new arrivals on the scene. His gloves, still dyed rust-red with dried blood from his investigation, were placed on top of the nearby gas pump for later use. People were still swarming the station. The remains of the town¡¯s police force, a handful of firefighters called in to assist until paramedics from the next town over could arrive¡­ and the parents of the slain teenagers.


    Dag was with them now, prying all the information he could from them while Mr. Moon conducted ad-hoc examinations of the corpses. He was unsure if any useful information could be gathered from either source, but they had to try. The bodies told some sort of a story, and the parents might know a scarce handful of details that could be teased from their mouths in between their understandable grief. Anything could help. Times, habits, acquaintances, etc.


    It was nasty business all around. As described by the first men on the scene, each body was utterly brutalized in an unsettling display of animalistic savagery. Yet, in Mr. Moon¡¯s eyes, there was a method to the assailant¡¯s madness. The blows appeared savage, yes, but they all told a story. One blow to mangle the body, while all subsequent wounds were lethal ¨C a killer that enjoyed hurting at first before finishing the target off.


    The most mangled of the corpses sported an axe wound in the shoulder, another in the chest, and some kind of heavy blunt strike to the ribs ¨C strong enough to crush straight through the bone to flatten the organs within.


    Judging from the blood liberally splattered close to the gas pump, Mr. Moon had to assume this teen was close to the attacker. The axe struck, but caught the shoulder instead of somewhere that would be an immediate killing blow. Both wounds after that were kill-shots. Frankly, if he had to guess, the teen was likely dead after the second strike. The rib strike was done after death.


    The second subject sported a handful of broken fingers. This teen was the one strangled with the rubber gas hose. His windpipe was crushed flat, and there was bruising on the few unbroken fingers that spoke of an attempt to pull the hose away for one last gasping breath. Clearly the assailant had the advantage in physical strength to prevent that.


    Next was the teen with the broken spine. The boy¡¯s body was shaped in a nearly perfect right angle. Through tears in the back of his shirt, Mr. Moon could see flecks of white bone sticking out through torn skin. It was vertebrae, broken and mangled from the force that had broken the boy¡¯s back. His head was crushed, deformed in the shape of a shoe. The attacker had stomped on his head hard enough to crush the bone itself. That wasn''t an easy feat to do. Skulls were built to be naturally strong to best protect the brain.


    The final corpse on the asphalt was similar to the first. One axe wound to the shoulder, proving not immediately lethal, yet highly damaging. Then followed by a kill-strike to the skull. After that was the clerk inside of the gas station. Judging from the broken window next to the cash register that looked to the outside of the station, the clerk had spotted the altercation, attempted to phone the police, and received a metal pipe thrown like a javelin through his chest for his troubles. In contrast to the dead teens outside, his death was instant. No sadistic first strike that served only to wound for this man, just one shot that got right down to business.


    However, there was one final observation left, one that interested Mr. Moon the most: the hearts of two out of the four dead teens were missing. In their place were gaping chest wounds and ribs that appeared to be cut through by a particularly sharp knife or saw. The teen with the broken fingers and the one with the broken back both had chests hewed through like that. Judging from how clean the wounds were, they were likely made after the time of death. There were no jagged edges or other marks around the wounds that could have told the story of one last desperate struggle.


    Why were the hearts missing? There was no point. The boys were already dead. Could it be the mark of a serial killer? It was right out of a serial killer¡¯s playbook to take trophies. But if that was the case, why not take the hearts of all four, or five if the clerk was included? Had the attacker been disturbed after taking the first two? It couldn¡¯t be one of the townsfolk. If it had, the report would have come sooner or there would have been an additional corpse at the gas station. Nor did he believe the Russians could have stumbled upon the scene. At the time of the murders, they would have likely still been licking their wounds. Could he be wrong about that? Could the Russians still be on the move, been spotted by the killer, and interrupted the process?


    Unless¡­ Mr. Moon¡¯s eyes narrowed, flicking between the two missing their hearts. The bruises on the strangled one¡¯s fingers told a story of resisting death. But the broken back? Hard to say, other than it was different in the aspect that the body possessed no axe wounds. The head was likely crushed to provide a killing blow after the spine was broken. Not like it changed much. The shock from a broken back likely would have killed the boy in the end. The only difference would be the time it would take.


    Mr. Moon began to pace, going from one body to the next. The grief-soaked conversations between Dag and the parents faded to a dull hum in the back of his mind. As did the voices of the officers keeping the townsfolk from crossing the police tape. Such was the strength of Mr. Moon¡¯s focus.


    It was a stretch. But, other than the clerk (who had been swiftly killed to stop him from calling the police), the two missing their hearts had comparatively different deaths than the others. Broken fingers and then strangulation for the first. Snapped spine into death via crushed head for the second. Compare that to the other two ¨C axe to the shoulder, axe to the chest for the first, axe to the shoulder, axe to the skull for the second.


    Neither of the two missing their hearts had axe wounds on any part of their body. Were they considered more ¡®worthy¡¯ than the others? If so, how was ¡®worth¡¯ determined? Fighting back? Running? He had too few clues and no witnesses. If it were any other time, it would have been fine, but this was happening in the middle of his mission to get the Nirvana Project back on track. As if his job couldn¡¯t get any more complicated.


    Mr. Moon shook his head, clamping his eyes shut before yanking them open again. He was reading too much into this. The missing hearts told the same story as all the other wounds ¨C the story of a sadistic lunatic who killed for pleasure. There could be a story there that offered a window into the killer¡¯s mind. Or there could not.


    The steady footsteps of Dag approaching told Mr. Moon that they¡¯d gathered all the information they could here.


    ¡°Anything?¡± Mr. Moon asked. Dag held up a small notebook, the item dwarfed in his massive hands.


    ¡°Local school kids. They liked to hang out here. Bust some streetlights, stay up late, usual hooligan stuff.¡± Dag replied. ¡°Wrong place, wrong time is my guess for all this. You?¡±


    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Mr. Moon looked at the cluster of hysterical parents on the other side of the police tape.


    ¡°Hard to say. Meet you at the car?¡±


    Dag nodded and the men parted ways, Dag heading for the card while Mr. Moon grabbed his gloves and walked over to the parents. He could tell just by a glance that they were seconds away from swarming over the tape to be at the sides of their children.


    He could understand that. The heart-wrenching feeling of being a parent unable to do anything to save their child from harm. The hysterical fear one felt when looking at the unmoving body of a son or daughter, wondering if something, anything could have been done to stop this. What felt like a blanket of grief smothering all other feelings until nothing but a dull, empty ache remained.


    ¡°Let them in, help them take the bodies to the funeral home. I¡¯ve seen all I need to see. Debrief at the Thomson house after this." Mr. Moon leaned over and muttered to Paul, who nodded and lifted the police tape for the parents to duck under. It was like a dam being broken in the middle of the rainy season. A flood of parents, more than just the ones with fallen children, rushed into the area toward the bodies.


    Mr. Moon looked at the sight one last time before he turned to head back to the car. A bloody night made real by the sun¡¯s rays. Another killer set loose in a town already balanced on a precipice around a war hardly anyone could fully see.


    As he walked, Mr. Moon¡¯s hand absentmindedly slipped into his pocket and pulled out his wallet to unfold. His eyes glanced down, but just for the barest of moments. Then the wallet was folded up and slid back away, concealed once more.


    A few feet away his car had rumbled to a start. The noise was loud, but not loud enough to fully drown out the cries belonging to the parents of the four fallen teens behind him.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    It was still her house. The place Cass grew up at. Her dad had bought it nigh on twenty years ago before she was born. It had the same corners. She could see the same cracks in the driveway that the same weeds grew through. Her father always meant to seal those up. Never got around to it, though. Life always found ways to interrupt.


    Why did the house look so alien to her eyes now, when it was only a block away? Was it still even her house anymore? Or was it now a clump of wood, cement, and nails with some paint slapped on the outside, ready for another family to move in?


    ¡°-bloodthirsty murderers, the lot of them. If it weren¡¯t for those boys from the FBI and our own lawmen riskin¡¯ life and limb to drive them away, I reckon this town would be facin¡¯ dire straits. Well, more dire than it is already, I reckon.¡±


    Cass turned her attention back to Bill, who was stroking his neat silver beard with hands dotted with liver spots, hands made tanned and strong by hard work under the hot sun. A neighbor of hers who had lived in the town for his whole life, the elderly man was always more than happy to stop in his yard for a chat.


    Normally it would be a quick exchange of words before Cass went to school, but this time she had a purpose of far greater importance ¨C information gathering. The fact was that she truly had no idea where those two murdering scumbags were staying. Cass had seen them at her house plenty of times, and Bill mentioned they were constantly on the move doing stakeout duty with the rest of the officers.


    Her first thought was they were sleeping at the station. There were cots in the breakroom and guns in the armory. Of course it was only a thought. She¡¯d need to ask around or do some stakeout to confirm it. Thus, good ol'' Bill. If they were staying somewhere, gossipy Bill would probably know. Not like she blamed him. The small-town life was nice, but sometimes there wasn''t much to do other than gossip away.


    The other reason to stop and chat with Bill was to gauge the perception the town had of Mr. Moon and Dag. Could she tell everyone she met the truth?


    With how Bill talked about those men, evidently not. Certainly, there would be some who might believe her. But for the most part it would be the words of a high school girl against those of two government agents. More than that, Mr. Moon and Dag had already killed two of the maniacs who attacked the station, earning them respect and trust in the eyes of the town. They were seen as men who could get the job done and avenge the Chief. Even if most knew Cass, that was a tough gap to bridge.


    Even if she screamed the truth from the rooftops, all it would probably do was spread confusion, confusion that would turn Mr. Moon''s eyes on her and make it easier for those men from the station to murder more people before they were stopped.


    "Yeah I tell ya," Bill continued to chatter on, oblivious to how Cass carefully steeled her face to obscure her obvious hatred for the agents, "That tall and thin feller has a strange name, but he sure is handy with a rifle. Went right up in Ted''s attic, as cool as a cucumber, and dropped one of them Russkies that was taking potshots at our boys in blue. Then the big guy, that Dag feller, busted right through that front door like it was at a football game! Then bam bam, another Russkie dead on the ground! I tell ya. Two lawmen with steady hands taking down the bad guys guns a ¡®blazing. If it weren''t for all the good men that''ve died lately, I''d call this something straight out of the movies. Now it¡¯s just a bloody mess that we all hope gets finished soon.¡±


    ¡°And¡­ the gas station?¡± Mark prodded, the only indicator of his nervousness being how his shoes scraped at the grass. Bill fell silent for a moment, his head slightly bowed.


    ¡°Aye.¡± He said in a disheartened voice. ¡°Those poor kids. I tell ya, I ain¡¯t letting my boys go out after dark until this is all over. My heart goes out to Cindy and the rest, having to bury their sons. No parent should have to do that. They can¡¯t even do an open-casket funeral. It ain¡¯t right.¡±


    Then Bill¡¯s eyes came up to meet Cass¡¯s, blazing with righteous indignation. ¡°Cass, don¡¯t make no mistake! Your da, them kids, the fallen officers, they¡¯re all gonna get justice! The feds are hot on the trail of those Russkies. Soon they¡¯ll be in jail or dead. Of course, if I sees them¡­¡± The man¡¯s words were cut off by an angry growl as he clenched and unclenched his hands, ¡°Ohhh, I oiled up ol¡¯ Bessie last night just in case. She still shoots straight and true. If I sees them, Bessie¡¯s gonna roar louder than she ever roared at Charlie back in ¡®Nam.¡±


    Cass nodded solemnly. In that, she and Bill were of the same opinion. She placed a hand on the old man¡¯s shoulder. Here was the kicker. Straight face, steady tone, don¡¯t give Bill a reason to be suspicious. This is nothing but a simple question from a well-meaning gal hoping to help out.


    ¡°And if I see anything important, where can I find this ¡®Mr. Moon¡¯?¡±


    Bill softly grinned.


    ¡°Even after what you¡¯ve gone through, you still have the fire in you to do good. Your da really did raise a fine daughter. No one¡¯s in the precinct right now. It¡¯s a building full of ghosts. Heard Paul saying it¡¯s not defensible enough, with half the doors and windows still broken. I think that Mr. Moon''s been using your da''s office as a home base since there are a lot of files on the town in there. He can get his thumb on the pulse of the town while sticking in a place that two armed men can reasonably defend."


    Cass¡¯s hands nearly tightened into clenched fists before she got ahold of herself, reducing the movement to a mere tremor of her hands. Bill''s and Mark''s voices both faded to a dull hum only present in the very back of her mind.


    Those bastards. Those unforgivable worthless sewer rats. First they shoot her dad in the back, and now they steal his house. No, actually, that was okay. She knew that house, backyard, front yard, side yards, and inside like the back of her own hand. It was going to be okay. Those rats would defile the house a bit, but the advantage gained by knowing the layout would help her run a rather lethal version of pest control.


    She took a few imperceptible breaths in and out to steady herself before thanking Bill for his time and turning away to go back to her car. She had a bush to find. Something big enough to hide her body while being in the view of the house. Preferably where she could see a window. Or the front door. Then it would be like she was hunting with Dad again. Stare down the scope. Still your breath. Wait. Wait. Wait for the perfect moment. Wait for the deer to stop. Then BAM!


    Already, in her mind¡¯s eye, she could see it. The bullet from her dad¡¯s hunting rifle piercing right through the suited scumbag¡¯s brain as he steps outside for a breath of fresh air.


    Perfect. Karma.

 Chapter 19 - Never Meant to Belong

    Life Celebration for Those Threads Cut Short


    7:00 p.m., Tuesday


    Sothermen Funeral Home


    All Are Welcome


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Steve finished wrapping the coal-black tie around his neck, absentmindedly watching Ms. Miller pull a tray of gooey chocolate chip cookies out from the oven. The motions his hands went through were automatic at this point. It was a benefit brought forth by years of office work and supervisors who expected to see a suit and tie every day. Unfold the shirt collar. Drape the tie around the neck. Place the wide end of the tie over the narrow end. Cross the wide end under the narrow end. Repeat, keeping the loop loose, then push the wide end through the loop and tighten. Finally, fold the shirt collar down and shrug on the suit jacket.


    Did Cathy follow the same mechanical motions in baking those cookies? She seemed rather used to it. Was it the barest glimpse of a different life? Steve looked down, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. Everyone on the team had a different life somewhere. Steve was no different. Hell, it was why they were all here. Even Mr. Moon, with how calm and almost empty the man appeared, had a reason other than ¡®Mr. Sun told him to do it¡¯. Well, to be fair, Mr. Sun¡¯s orders were a pretty damn good reason to do something, but this mission was different.


    It was risky. It was one of those tasks you needed extra motivation for. It was why Mr. Sun came to him. He assumed it was the same for Ms. Miller, Dag, and even Mr. Moon. They all had something ¨C no, someone in their lives that required the Nirvana Project to get back on track.


    Steve¡¯s fingers unconsciously tightened around his cuffs, but within half a second his appearance was mastered, slipping from serious back to his usual easygoing self.


    It was why he hadn¡¯t spared a second thought about that policeman Mr. Moon had to pop. Or those kids at the gas station that got wrapped up in their little shadow war. Or any of it at all. Not a single thought, aside from what those factors could mean to the mission. None of it mattered as long as the Nirvana Project could continue. It was why they were all there. It was why Steve was putting on his black tie best, Cathy was baking cookies, and the van was warming up in the garage.


    Everything had a purpose. This ¡®life celebration¡¯, or whatever the townsfolk wanted to call it, was just the same. It was a perfect way for them to sink deeper into the fold, to increase their acceptance in the town, thus also increasing their ability to discreetly gather information from those who would think speaking to an FBI agent was too intimidating, but would have few qualms in spilling the beans to a fellow neighbor after a long night of copious drinking.


    It would help hide their communication center and ensure there were no questions asked if Steve had to suddenly dip out of town to discreetly pick up a shiny new gun for Mr. Moon. Why would they ask questions, of course? Steve and Cathy were one of them. They were folk of the town.


    Steve''s hand darted forward, catching one of the still-cooling cookies off the tray Mr. Miller had just placed on the counter. Her hand slapped him away, but it was too late. The cookie was in his grasp and then sliding down his gullet.


    ¡°Dang.¡± Steve roguishly grinned, ¡°Them¡¯s some fine cookies.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re for the wake.¡± Ms. Miller replied in irritation. ¡°Don¡¯t take any more. I don¡¯t have time to bake extras and buying some from the store would be an insult. These are the kind of people to notice that detail.¡±


    The woman held Steve¡¯s sheepish eyes for a moment longer before turning away toward her bedroom, muttering something about getting changed. Steve took a step toward the tray of cookies, but regretfully sighed, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.


    ¡°They taste just like Janna¡¯s. Coincidence, or is this the same recipe?¡± Steve muttered to himself. His voice was low, low enough that it couldn¡¯t be heard more than a few feet away.


    Steve sighed. Gooey, super chocolatey, and with enough butter added that he could practically taste it in the final product.  It was nostalgic. For the briefest moment, he could almost see a different kitchen in front of his eyes. Copious bright baby blues dotted the walls, breaking up the rest of the paint colors so that no part of the kitchen wall could ever even be slightly considered dull or boring. A beautiful and familiar woman, the apple of his eye, spinning around the kitchen in a cheerful bustle, slid a tray of cookies onto the counter to cool before offering her hand to him for a dance. Jazz music played on the radio and rays of sunlight streamed through the windows. It was¡­ wonderful. Truly.


    ¡°Come on, dahling! Let¡¯s dance the day away!¡±


    A grin spread across Steve¡¯s face. And then he blinked, and the illusion was shattered. The kitchen returned to its regular dull white. Janna was gone. There was no music playing. The grin settled from an honest one into more of a mocking expression. Steve let out a chuckle and moved over to the cabinet, grabbing one of the empty plastic containers inside to put the cookies in once they were done cooling.


    He glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes until the wake, or the life celebration, or whatever they wanted to call it. They would probably make it in time.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    The first car passing by gave her a nugget of hope. Was it him? It rolled on past the driveway. No. It wasn¡¯t Mr. Moon. Nor was the second or the third. The fourth car passed the bush Cass was crouching behind. It wasn''t his car either. The white-picket fence behind her dug into her back, and the branches of the bush dug into her sides. The bushes were thick, a whole row of them resting against the fence that separated her yard from the neighbor¡¯s yard. Enough to easily obscure Cass¡¯s slim form. They were originally meant as another way to increase privacy, with the denseness of the bushes and the fence itself combining to make it rather difficult to see through.


    Cass waited for hours. Hours that bled into the entire freaking day. There wasn''t much room behind the bush. When the time came, she would need to settle into an awkward angle lying down on her side to be able to see down the scope of her hunting rifle. It was¡­ extremely inconvenient and may even have an effect on her accuracy, but given the distance between the bush and the front door was around fifty feet, hopefully that wouldn¡¯t matter. Her options were slim otherwise. Maybe she could try and rest the barrel a bit higher, on one of the thicker branches of the bushes? That way she could shoot while crouching.


    Her car was safely tucked out of sight in Bill¡¯s garage. It hadn¡¯t taken her much to convince him ¨C simply stating bluntly that she intended to seek revenge for her father¡¯s death, and needed her car out of sight for a bit did the trick. The old man seemed almost¡­ impressed, perhaps respecting that she was following this path, instead of trying to talk her out of it like most of the other adults in the town probably would have.


    Mark¡¯s bulky frame made the next bush over shudder lightly as he shifted his position yet again. Cass shot an annoyed glare over to him. Words weren¡¯t needed to communicate that he really needed to stop doing that. A glare did just fine.


    ¡°I¡¯m¡­ I think they¡¯re gonna be a while. Probably out on patrol with the rest of the cops.¡± Mark eventually said in hushed tones. ¡°Bill mentioned a wake today, why don¡¯t we go and get some more info there? Plus, one of them at the gas station was the kid brother of an old friend of mine. I should¡­ go. Make sure he has a friend to talk to.¡±


    Her hands tightened around the stock of her rifle. They tightened to the point that the smoothly polished wood creaked in protest. Bill had mentioned the massacre earlier, but she hadn¡¯t paid much attention. Her focus had been on Mr. Moon. It still was. But then Mark found the flier for the wake stapled to a telephone pole down the street. He didn¡¯t need long to bring Cass up to speed on the whole event.


    Cass didn¡¯t intend to go. She had work to do and if it wasn¡¯t done, she wasn¡¯t sure if she could keep going.


    That didn¡¯t change how she felt when she saw the developed photos that went along with the flier. Some of them were kids she¡¯d known. Kids she¡¯d babysat for in the past when they were much younger. Now they were dead, the same as her father. The only difference was her father was shot in the back by a man he trusted, while those kids were butchered by some mad assailant when they were fooling around late at night, just like kids their age usually did. Kids she knew. People she knew. She¡¯d watched them grow up.


    Now they were gone. Just like that. It was nice to have company, but Mark had a point. At this rate she was looking at spending the full night in the bush. Cass wasn¡¯t even sure if the night would be enough. It could be days before the scumbags came back.


    ¡°Yeah.¡± Cass sighed. ¡°I¡¯ll stay here. Give their parents my love and tell them I¡¯m sorry I can¡¯t make it. Brian¡¯s that friend of yours, right? His little brother was a good kid.¡±


    Mark stood, his body creaking in protest over the movement after crouching behind a bush for so long. ¡°He was.¡± He looked around and sighed, just as Cass had earlier. ¡°He was.¡±


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    The flier for the ¡®Life Celebration¡¯ was gripped in meaty hands almost the size of trash can lids. Hands that flexed in, and out, and in again. Crinkle the paper. Smooth it out. Crinkle it. Smooth it.


    Jack smoothed it out one last time and placed it flat on the roof. His bloodstained hands dipped into his pockets, pulling out a plastic bag full of white powder. He opened it and shook a liberal amount out onto the smoothed-out flier, before pressing his nose against the small mound and inhaling it all. The rest of the powder in the bag went into his mouth, as did the plastic bag itself as a nice little chaser. With a few crunches, his teeth shredded through it all and it disappeared down his throat. Jack let out a satisfied sigh. Somehow, he felt even sharper than before.


    Lying flat, he inched his body out to the very edge of the roof of the Sothermen Funeral Home. Below him the open windows let rays of warm light and heavy conversation escape from the building. He hung his head off the side of the roof to get his ears closer to the open windows while still keeping his head out of sight. He wasn¡¯t sure why he¡¯d decided to attend (if hanging out on top of the roof equaled attending, of course. Who could say? That was in the realm of the Greek philosophers of old.), but it had seemed like a good idea when the flier had first been blown into his legs by the fickle winds of the world.


    Jack could remember it as if it were yesterday. Mainly, because it was yesterday when he¡¯d seen the flier. A life celebration thrown like a party to celebrate his achievements in ridding this tiny-ass town of its population of shadow demons. And also that one clerk who tried to interfere in honorable mutual combat. Shame on him.


    ¡°-thanks, I¡¯m glad you like the cookies, Sherry!¡±


    Jack blinked.


    What?


    He scooted closer to the edge, lowering his head to nearly be flush with the top of the window. What? That woman¡¯s voice¡­ it was familiar.


    ¡°Yes, they were delicious. Tom¡­ would have loved them. He would have stayed right next to the whole batch and snuck bites all night. No leftovers with a boy like that! But¡­ now¡­¡±


    No, not that voice. Not the weepy weepy super sad voice that wouldn''t shut up to let him listen. Jack made a mental note to track down that¡­ Sherry? Yeah. He was pretty sure the weepy lady''s name was Sherry. To track down that Sherry later and tear her jaw off so she would shut up and stop being a weepy-weepy stupid face.


    But the other voice. Jack waited patiently like a hunter in a bush watching for prey. Except Jack was on a roof and he was listening instead of watching.


    ¡°How about this, I¡¯ll make some more when we get home. Then when we¡¯re done, Steve and I can bring them over and we can talk all about Tom. It¡¯s okay. Lean into my shoulder and let it all out. Tears aren¡¯t something to be ashamed of. There you go, Sherry.¡±


    There. The crying reached a fever pitch but the woman¡¯s voice (not the weepy lady, the other one) was still understandable enough.


    A grin spread across Jack¡¯s face. A feral one stained red with the blood of worthy demons whose strength was added to his own. That woman¡¯s voice was familiar.


    The last time he¡¯d heard it was over the radio.


    ¡°Wattson¡­ the game is afoot,¡± He muttered. For Jack was a good boy and had been rewarded with the sight of the police¡¯s radio operator. Kill her and the hunt in this town would become far more interesting, filled with prey scattered and disorganized after their communication lines were cut.

 Chapter 20 - Dont Fear the Reaper

    Compared to the steadily darkening sky, the warm light leaking out from the windows and the open door of the Sothermen Funeral Home felt like there was a completely different world contained inside the building. Or was it just him?


    Mark couldn¡¯t tell anymore. It felt like everything in his world was turned upside down that night he decided to go driving. It felt like the worst mistake in his life, a feeling more bitter than even his short time in college. Both were his fault, but crashing and somehow picking up that alien in a drunken blackout haze of a state was proving to ruin not only his life, but the lives of the people he cared about far more than him getting kicked out of school.


    It felt like each day was bad and then the next day would find a way to be worse. Worse and worse and worse. And now this. His old buddy Tom was putting his kid brother six feet under in a closed-casket funeral. A bright kid whose future was cut short. Was it Mark''s fault? He picked up the creature. Accidentally of course, but it still happened. The alien, as Cass deduced, was probably what brought all those crazies to town.


    If he had just stayed home or found another road to drive on. Maybe crashed into a tree and died for good. Sort of a ¡®Boom! Lights out!¡¯ situation. Then none of this crap would be happening. The Chief and the rest of the good men at the station would still be alive. Cass would still be happy. Tom would still have a brother.


    A sharp pain on the back of his hand broke Mark out of the spiraling dark thoughts. He looked down in numb curiosity. His nails had dug deep into his own flesh, enough to draw a thin stream of blood from the broken skin. He glanced around, but no one was near enough to see. It was just him outside, other than a man and a woman smoking under a streetlight a good twenty feet away. They were busy sharing a bottle of what looked like vodka, smoking, and talking without care for whatever Mark was doing.


    He looked down again. His flesh was moving. It was just a small amount of broken skin. Nothing more than a scrape, really. His nails hadn¡¯t dug very deep. Yet his flesh was moving. The thin stream of blood halted. The pale skin knitted back together before Mark¡¯s eyes to leave the back of his hand clear, without even the faintest of scars. There was even hair, thin to the point of nearly translucent, regrowing over it to match the hairiness of the rest of his hand.


    It was impossible. Truly impossible. Even a guy as worthless and dumb as Mark knew that. The broken skin was surface level, but it would have needed a while to heal to where there would be no signs of the damage left. His broken nose took about a day to heal (which also was much faster than would be natural). Though, he supposed it would make sense for smaller wounds to heal faster. Huh. Smaller wounds heal faster. He was already getting used to treating whatever that creature did to him as normal.


    What would happen if he chopped off his own arm? Would it grow back? How fast? If his nose took days, would a limb take weeks? His hands were shaking just thinking about it, but not from excitement. From fear. What did that thing do to him? Would he eventually become as catatonic as the alien seemed to be? Would he get used to the healing and then have it stop someday, maybe at the worst possible time? He survived a car crash. Could he survive a bullet?


    If he climbed to the top of the tallest building in Carlston and jumped, would he die?


    Mark licked his lips. They felt parched and cracked as if the burning sun was beating down on them all day without rest. He was thirsty. So, terribly thirsty. Like a man crawling through an endless scorching desert. Not for water, but for alcohol. For liquor. The nectar of life, the only thing good that had come out of his time in college. Anything to put him in a drunken haze, a state where he wouldn¡¯t care about the past, the present, or the future. He wouldn¡¯t care about anything. Not all the death. Not Cass, left alone in that bush while Mark the pigheaded fool went off on his own to do something pointless. Nothing. At least until the booze wore off and reality sunk back in. He should have stayed. Tom was truly glad for his company, but he should have stayed with Cass. Stupid, stupid Mark.


    Part of his mind whispered to walk over to the smokers and ask for a cig. Join their conversation, feel the rush of nicotine, and put off the exhaustion weighing him down for a few more minutes. The smokers looked like a tough crowd, world-weary and experienced. A man with scarred cheeks and a woman with dull grey hair, both with grim faces drawn tight to guard against the world. Expressions like that were mimicked in the faces of all the men and women in town who were in fear for their families and in mourning for those lost to madmen.


    Except for whatever grief or exhaustion he felt right now, Mark knew Cass felt worse. Same with poor Tom, or anyone else who¡¯d lost a loved one recently. In the face of what they¡¯d been through, he had no right to sink away into vices. He knew that. Why was it so hard to resist, then, when he knew that for sure? It felt like there was a tug-of-war game going on in his mind. He could imagine it now. The side backing his vices was roided up beyond belief, and the side backing common sense was built like stick figures.


    Gravel crunched next to him and Mark cast a glance to the side, grunting an acknowledgement toward the newcomer. The tug of war in his mind stopped.


    ¡°Hey Mark. Guess you really are back in town." Ashley''s tired voice greeted him. The short girl, someone he was only an acquaintance with because of her close friendship with Cass, dropped to a crouch next to him, hugging her knees to her chest.


    ¡°Ashley.¡± Mark replied. Offhandedly he wondered if his voice sounded as tired as hers did.


    ¡°Have you uh¡­ seen Cass around?¡± Ashley¡¯s voice faltered for a second. ¡°She hasn¡¯t been in school since¡­ you know¡­ and no one answers at her house or when I give her a ring. She wasn¡¯t even around for her dad¡¯s funeral. I¡­ don¡¯t blame her. No one does. But we¡¯re all worried.¡±


    Mark stared straight ahead, as if his vision could pierce through the coming twilight to gaze far into outer space. Was that where the creature had come from? Outer space? In a flying saucer, zooming to Earth to get good men killed? Did it know it drew all these crazies into a peaceful town? Or was the alien incapable of complex thought? It never seemed to move or make noises, so maybe it was? If it was¡­ what a mockery. So much fear and death for something that can¡¯t even think.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡°Sorry. I haven¡¯t.¡± Mark kept his face straight while he lied. ¡°Our breakup was a while ago. She moved on. I did too. With her dad being¡­ gone, she¡¯s probably on her own trying to figure something out. Cass is good at that.¡±


    Ashley bitterly sighed. ¡°You still know how her brain works that well, huh? I bet she¡¯s on her own too. Wouldn¡¯t be surprised if she¡¯s trying to go after whoever took the shot. I wish she''d come back. Times like this it''s best to have a hug. To have friends around. Have a shoulder to cry into.¡± She stood, drawing to her full height. It was barely up to the midpoint of Mark¡¯s chest. ¡°I think my folks are about to head out. You take care, Mark, and if you see Cass, tell her Ashley¡¯s super worried. Same with Jen. We all are. I don¡¯t know if we can help, but if she asks, we¡¯ll try our darned best.¡±


    Mark silently nodded and Ashley stepped away to join her parents in their car on the other side of the street. It was getting dark. Things were winding down in the funeral home. Tom had already gone home. There was no point in lingering. He stepped back inside, grabbing a few sandwiches from a table inside. Cass would be hungry, even if she tried to deny it.


    By the time he dipped back out into the evening air, the two smokers were gone, same with Ashley¡¯s family and most everyone else. It was just him now, alone outside in another world with a handful of cold sandwiches and the sound of crickets chirping.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Cass¡¯s breathing was regular. In, out. In, out. Rhythmic. The whining in her ears drowned out the quieter noises, like the buzzing of grasshoppers, or the crickets that would normally be acting up by now as the evening came. Even days later she was still surprised at how much damage was done to her hearing just by having guns fired in the same room without ear protection. She supposed her dad¡¯s insistence on headgear while hunting made sense now. Would it ever go back to normal?


    In, out. She could hear her breathing better than the other noises. Was it because it was happening inside her chest? Or was she just imagining the noises? In, out. Small breaths. Not large ones, nothing like the deep ones she would use to calm down in a freaky situation. Small breaths to keep her body going.


    Her mind felt somehow detached from the situation. Was it boredom? She¡¯d been sitting in the bush all day. No movement other than cars passing by. No suited scum walking up the driveway. Nothing but her breathing and a few bugs in the bush to keep her and her rifle company. In, out. It was as if she was meditating, but unwillingly. Cass¡¯s mind screamed at her enemies to hurry up. To come back to the house they stole for a rest. Everyone had to rest eventually.


    She¡¯d taken the scope off the rifle. The bush was close enough that it would be a hindrance. Iron sights would do just fine. All Cass needed was for them to show up, get out of the car, walk up to the door, and then BANG!


    It would be just like going deer hunting with her dad, but at closer quarters. The bush she was in was much closer than any deer stand her dad liked to frequent, both in distance and elevation. Deer in a suit. Deer in a suit with a gun.


    It was strange, though. Beyond the infernal ringing in her eardrums, Cass could almost swear she could hear gravel crunching. But when she looked for cars or people, there were none. Was it happening in her head? Was she going crazy? Sometimes she felt crazy. Sometimes it felt like the parts of her head were swapped. It used to be the nasty part of her head, the part that told her to do mean things, was kept safely in the back, ignored. That the nicer part of her head, the same part that spurred her to help Mark when he called her scared and desperate, was at the forefront of driving her decisions.


    But now it was swapped, and she barely even cared. The nasty part of her head was screaming incoherently for Mr. Moon to die and bugger the consequences. Was that crazy? Was she crazy? Maybe the gravel noises were because she was so desperate for something to happen that Cass¡¯s mind was making stuff up. By all rights she shouldn¡¯t have sent Mark away. It would be easier with two people, both in keeping watch and taking action.


    But it was on purpose, obviously. Cass was hoping the men in black would come back before he did so when she took the shot, Mark wouldn''t be caught in the crossfire. Her rifle was bolt-action, single-fire. She had a pistol, but the accuracy would be worse. Chances were once she popped Tall and Thin, Mr. Big and Bulky would fill her full of holes before her six-shooter could step in. Mark didn¡¯t need to die too, and she knew the big lug would try to help. He would try to help and die. It could give her the window she needed to kill the second man at the cost of Mark¡¯s death.


    Cass felt callous. More so than she ever had in her life before. But she wasn''t callous enough to do that. Mark had his own problems, even she could see that, but those problems were fixable. Hers, though, no one could bring her dad back. Mark would be better off at the wake helping old friends grieve. And who knows? Maybe he could get some useful info. Unlikely. Then again, aliens existing was also unlikely, yet here she was.


    She looked around again. No one was here. The streets were empty. The neighbors were all inside or at the wake. The sound of crunching gravel was in her head. It wasn¡¯t real. Cass breathed in and breathed out, massaging her forehead with her hands. She sat her cheek against the rifle, giving into the buzzing in her ears and her rhythmic breathing.


    In.


    Out.


    Cass¡¯s eyes shot wide open. The gravel may have been a nothingburger, but the sound of a car engine shutting off wasn¡¯t. A glance at the driveway showed that hateful man¡¯s car ¨C a Buick Regal T-Type car. Boring and painted an unremarkable black, quite unlike the beautiful blue of her own Rambler. There. The car doors creaked open and the gravel crunched for real now. The barrel of her rifle was still trained on the door to her house, no sense in swinging it around hastily. She could wait.


    Mr. Moon stepped out of the vehicle first, followed by the big guy, Dag, heaving himself out of the passenger¡¯s seat on the other side. Even from her bush, Cass could sense their exhaustion. It was an emotion hiding under a more professional mask, but such obstacles couldn¡¯t hide their true faces from her for long. She could see it in the form of their shoulders slumping ever-so-slightly, how Dag''s tie hung crookedly from his shirt collar, and in the way Mr. Moon used a hand to massage the back of his neck for a few sparce moments.


    The black-suited pair stepped away from the car. Cass rested her cheek back on the stock of her rifle so that her eye could stare down the iron sights to point right toward the door. As soon as Mr. Moon touched the handle, she could shoot. The conditions would be perfect for that. Then the trick would be dealing with the big guy.


    Cass smirked, but the motion was filled with a simple sense of helplessness instead of any sort of malice. The trick, huh? It wouldn¡¯t matter. After her first shot landed, she¡¯d probably be dead so long as the big guy stood and fought instead of running for the hills. Her only advantage was surprise. Once that was gone, she was gone.


    Mr. Moon crossed the driveway, with Dag dogging his footsteps. Cass¡¯s index finger inched toward the trigger. Her thumb flicked the safety off. It wouldn¡¯t take much at all. Just a simple squeeze of a trigger. Five pounds, maybe six pounds of force. That would be all the pressure she needed to put on the trigger to fire the weapon. The man stepped on the porch. Cass took a breath and held it deep in her chest to steady her body.


    Seconds that felt like hours passed. A breeze slipped through the branches of the bush to pound on her skin. A tiny bit of hair escaped from her tight ponytail to dance across her vision. A bead of sweat fell down the bridge of her nose. Her held breath felt like a heavy, aching ball in the bottommost depths of her stomach.


    Mr. Moon neared the door and Cass¡¯s finger began to put pressure on the trigger.


    After this, none of it would matter.

 Chapter 21 - Divine Madness

    It felt like a mirror of her desperate escape from the police station. Everything traveled in slow motion. Moving the tiny muscles in her fingers to begin squeezing the trigger felt like she was trying to push a mountain across a football field instead.


    And then it all shifted. Dag stepped forward right as Mr. Moon placed his hand on the doorknob, obscuring the smaller man from her view. Cass almost let a muffled curse fall from her lips, but she held it deep within her chest next to the breath that was keeping her body steady. She could still take the shot. The clear line of sight was gone, but she could still try. The problem was ¨C she couldn¡¯t see Mr. Moon anymore. Where was his head? If Cass directed her aim at the upper part of Dag¡¯s chest, would that be around the same height?


    It should be. She hadn¡¯t moved the rifle after setting the rifle sights on Mr. Moon¡¯s head. Unless¡­ he was indeed in the middle of pulling the door open. There was a step up to the door ¨C no more than an inch in height, but if his foot was on it, the height of his head would change. Moreover, Dag¡¯s chest was broad. As broad as Mark¡¯s, perhaps even more. She¡¯d heard the term ¡®barrel-chested¡¯ in books before, but until now Cass hadn¡¯t truly understood what it would be like until she saw Dag. She would have to shoot through the chest and hope Mr. Moon¡¯s position hadn¡¯t changed much.


    A rifle bullet through the chest might not kill, but it would definitely put a guy down for a while. It would take care of Dag for sure.


    But she didn¡¯t give a hoot about the big man. This stakeout, sending Mark away, all her frustration and boiling rage was centered around one man. Mr. Moon. The man with the stupid fake name who shot her dad in the back of the head like a filthy coward. Who cared if Dag died? She wanted the thin man¡¯s lifeblood spilling down the steps and his brains splattered across the siding of the house. Shooting Dag through the chest and hoping it hit Mr. Moon when it came out the other side, hoping that its direction and force wasn¡¯t blunted by bone, fat, and muscle, felt foolish. Utterly foolish. Her weapon was a hunting rifle. The chance of those odds working in her favor was unlikely.


    Cass¡¯s teeth bit deep into her bottom lip to draw a steady stream of blood. It didn¡¯t matter. She had exactly one shot before her position was revealed, so that one shot needed to be a sure chance at killing that man. It wouldn¡¯t matter otherwise. Her finger fell away from the trigger, the digit only a few pounds of force away from launching a round of hot spitting metal at lethal speed at the agents. Eventually the men would come back out. She would wait and take her chance when that happened. Until then, she would lay in the thick and scratchy bush without moving a muscle.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Mr. Moon tossed his suit jacket onto the couch in the living room. That, and the slight drooping of his shoulders were the only signs of his exhaustion. Patrolling the town for a pair of Russians and a raving lunatic with only two federal agents plus a sparse handful of police officers sometimes felt like a Sisyphean task - futile and unending. The Russkies were laying low ever since their failed ambush. It was as expected, considering they lost two men from their already extremely limited pool of manpower.


    The lunatic, whoever he was, also hadn¡¯t shown himself since the gas station massacre. Ms. Miller hadn¡¯t picked up any useful traffic on the radio. Likewise, her regular reports to Mr. Sun were just as dry.


    Was this it? Part of him wondered if this Mexican standoff of theirs would last months. No faction knew where the alien was for sure. The Russkies lacked the manpower to deal with Mr. Moon and the police, and he couldn''t find hide nor hair of them. The lunatic was a wildcard but seemingly uninterested in the prize Mr. Moon was fighting over with the Russians. Hypothetically, Cass was the key to it all. Hypothetically she either had the alien or at least knew where it was. But like the Russians, she was nowhere to be found either. She hadn¡¯t shown up to school, none of her acquaintances knew where she was, nor had she come back to her house.


    Mr. Moon rolled his shoulders, bringing up a hand to massage his muscles to relieve some of the weight of the Kevlar vest concealed under his white dress shirt. Long days and long nights with minimal personnel to work with. It was nothing new to him, as much as Mr. Moon would have preferred otherwise.


    ¡°Moon.¡± Dag¡¯s sharp, yet quiet voice rumbled out behind him. Mr. Moon¡¯s hand shot toward the holster strapped under his arm, his thumb already halfway through flicking off the strap holding his Sig Sauer in place before he finished turning to face his partner.


    Dag was standing next to one of the windows in the living room that looked out to the driveway. One of his fingers was holding the curtain barely a centimeter or two away from the window, providing just enough space for an eye to peek through.


    ¡°There¡¯s someone in the bush. Side yard, close to the front. Tip of a gun barrel. It¡¯s not poking through. My guess is it¡¯s aimed at the door.¡±


    ¡°A small person or a small gun.¡± Mr. Moon mused. While he spoke, his feet took him to the back door. ¡°Keep watch.¡±


    This was¡­ unforeseen. A Russian? If they were going for an assassination, they were better off taking one of the houses down the street and sniping from the attic or an upper floor. Hiding in the bushes would do fine in killing him or Dag, but the survivor would have plenty of time to return fire. A sign of desperation, perhaps? The ambush at the house was already risky. Perhaps the Russians were gambling everything on taking him and Dag out. It had to be desperation. It reeked of such desperation that it bordered on amateur! It defied every move the Russians had made so far. Before this, sure they¡¯d taken risk after risk, but nothing they¡¯d done could be called amateur, merely bold moves within their ability to pull off. Until now.


    Mr. Moon¡¯s left hand eased the back door open as carefully as possible to reduce all noise the door could potentially make while his right hand palmed his handgun. The door silently swung open. His thumb flicked off the safety while his other hand racked back the slide to finish readying the weapon, and he began to ghost across the back lawn. His feet traveled with all the speed he could muster while the faint bits of unavoidable noise were drowned out by the warm summer breeze that whispered overhead.


    Dag had said the side yard, close to the front and probably aimed at the door. That would mean the assassin was waiting for one of them to step out of the house. For a brief moment, a stray thought crossed Mr. Moon¡¯s mind, one which wondered why a shot wasn¡¯t taken when they¡¯d entered the house, but it was brushed aside to be examined later.


    Right now, in this very moment, there was a chance. Mr. Moon moved as silently and quickly as possible, taking care to avoid even crunching the grass with his shoes. There was a chance that he could avoid killing whoever was in the bush. It wasn¡¯t because of mercy. The thought hadn¡¯t even crossed his mind.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    No, in this case his goal was information. A lone assassin lying in wait in the bush. A target who had a chance of knowing where the other Russians were. Capture the target, squeeze them dry, organize a strike against the rest of the Russians, and then Mr. Moon¡¯s search would have a far more forgiving time limit. Though, on the flip side, dropping the Russian in the bush from thirty feet with his Sig would be a whole lot less complicated.


    Huh. In a way, he was like the Russians ¨C chancing a risk instead of following the safest path.


    Mr. Moon drew close to the house. He pressed his shoulder up to the siding and slid another inch forward to risk a quick peek around the corner of the building. From this distance he could see the area Dag pointed out, but the angle made it impossible to see which overgrown bush held the assassin. No matter.


    From what he could tell, the bushes were extremely thick all around. They pressed up against each other and the white-picket wooden fence behind them.


    If he tried to slide behind the bushes, the ruckus would alert his target. It would be beyond any amount of noise that could be excused by the wind. Hopping over the fence would be quiet, but he would have to hop back over when he got close. Possible, but once he hopped back over there would be an immediate scuffle. However, sneaking up next to the bushes and walking down would be much too risky. The moment the assassin turned their attention away from the sights of their gun would be the exact moment Mr. Moon would be spotted.


    Hop the fence it was. If the intent was to capture, a scuffle would happen regardless. Close quarters could help him avoid a gun battle, which would have naturally come with the risk of lethally shooting his capture target.


    The fence was well-maintained, reaching just above the height of the lower part of Mr. Moon¡¯s chest. He quickly crossed the rest of the backyard to slide up to it, his offhand grabbing the wood experimentally once he was close enough to the bushes for his body to be mostly obscured by them. It hardly flexed at all. Once he put his full weight on it, that would change, but it seemed sturdy enough that hopping over it wouldn¡¯t cause too much in the way of wobbling. The other side of the fence was clear as day. It was only grass, no bushes to be seen. As long as he stuck the landing, it should be quiet.


    Mr. Moon sent one last glance toward the sideyard. There was no movement coming from that area. No rustling of bushes, no sounds of gunfire, no shouts from Dag. His free hand clutched the top of the fence, and in one smooth movement he vaulted over the top to land in the grass on the other side. The grass rubbed against his shoes as he expertly landed, stooping low to keep his profile under the edge of the fence.


    All the while, there was still no movement on the other side.


    Mr. Moon silently crept toward the bushes in question. Closer. And closer. And closer. The wooden slats making up the fence were placed close enough to each other to fully obscure Mr. Moon¡¯s view of the other side, so the second floor of the Chief¡¯s house was his only indicator of how close he was to his target.


    Twenty feet away.


    Mr. Moon continued to creep closer. His gun was still held in one hand, his other hand kept free in anticipation of leaping back over the fence.


    Ten feet.


    The summer evening breeze brushed his neck and pushed against his dress shirt, the suit jacket having been left lying on the couch. His Kevlar vest rested heavily on his shoulders and chest. Somehow the weight felt more suffocating than it normally did, even though he usually wore it every day, even at the office. It was his ever-present shield, sufficient enough to stop most low-caliber bullets.


    Five feet.


    The fence still obscured his view. Mr. Moon was sure he was close, but how close? Should he risk it now or move a few more feet? He straightened up to peek over the top of the fence. The bushes were still thick enough to make it impossible for him to see the assassin, but Mr. Moon could see the windows on the first floor of the house. Behind one of the windows, a curtain quivered, signaling Dag¡¯s watchfulness. If anything at all were to go wrong, his partner could immediately lay down covering fire.


    A bird chirped overhead. Mr. Moon made up his mind. Even if he was still a few feet away from where he assumed the target was, the assassin¡¯s gun was likely still trained on the door. It would take time for them to swing around to aim at Mr. Moon, or to drop the weapon and grab their sidearm.


    In a split second, Mr. Moon grabbed the fence and leaped back over it, sacrificing every bit of stealth in favor of speed and power. The bushes loudly protested as his body crashed through them, eliciting a woman¡¯s voice to gasp in shock. Mr. Moon¡¯s hand yanked his Sig Sauer up to point at his target¡­


    And for the first time since he came to this town, Mr. Moon experienced a feeling of genuine surprise. The bushes parted, revealing the form not of a Russian agent, but that of Cass Thomson.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    The garage door rumbled to a shut. Seconds later, the first few lights inside of the house flicked on.


    This, and more, was what Jack could see from his super stealthy lookout on the other side of the street. He¡¯d claimed it mere moments after the man and the women he¡¯d tracked from the funeral home returned to their abode. It was nothing but a normal house. Basement, garage, main floor, etc.


    Jack was given a brief glimpse into the garage when the couple¡¯s van rolled inside. That too seemed ordinary. Boring, ordinary, humdrum, and mundane. Jack was sick to the stomach thinking about it. How could those people be so boring? Well, he supposed they must not be entirely boring. The woman¡¯s voice was all over the radio directing police patrols in the area. She had to be interesting.


    Jack gave a satisfied nod to no one in particular. His mind was made up. The demons at the gas station were a good warmup, so now he¡¯d test the might of the ordinary townsfolk. The best approach would be in this case also the fun approach.


    As soon as what looked to be the bedroom lights flicked on, Jack made a mad dash toward the side yard, looping around to the back yard to reveal a closed basement door. Score. A very fun approach.


    A one, and a two, and Jack¡¯s axe slammed through the puny wooden door trying to prevent his great self from entering the pitch-black confines of the basement. The noise was deafening in the twilight, but that was on purpose. The splintering of wood, the crunching of glass, it was all music to his ears. The door didn''t last long ¨C falling off its hinges backward with all the force of Jack''s final titanic swing to reveal a yawning portal of inky black soup that reached into the unknown.


    Movement faintly responded from the floor above. Jack grinned. That was fast. He would need to be faster. Quickly and loudly, Jack whipped out a rock from his pocket and threw it at the shadowy outline of the bare lightbulb that, when turned on, would doubtlessly illuminate the confines of his new arena. Light would be boring. It would be cheating. It would be too easy.


    Jack stepped forward into the basement and stooped down to grab the fallen door. He heaved it up, muscles barely even straining until it was leaned back into place to block the exit. Now he had a chokepoint. The stairs, oh so hard to see, were about ten feet in front of him. His opponents would have to travel down them to meet him in battle.


    Jack grinned and licked the edge of his axe, delighting in the taste of the blood and cold meat scraps congealed on the wicked-sharp edge of the weapon. He could faintly hear a man¡¯s voice on the main floor. Would he come down? Or would he make Jackie-boy come to him?


    The door at the top of the stairs rattled. Jack clenched his hands. His trusty yet cheerful axe lounged in his left hand. In his right, there was clutched a mighty javelin (of sharpened rebar). Whoever peered through that door would find their leg pierced with cold, true iron that would cripple them, making his target unable to run from his challenge of mortal combat. One that Jackie-boy would win, for his hearts were greater than any normal man could possess.


    He was the reaper. The exterminator. The death-dealer. The harbinger of the afterlife with fangs honed through countless battles in the parking lots, swamps, and storms of Florida. Only the strong would survive, for only the strong would be worthy of facing greater trials in the future. Strength. Cunning. Rage, and joy. Those were all that mattered now.


    Jack¡¯s grin widened. This basement would be a grave which he would gleefully dance atop. It would be party time, starting in t-minus 10 seconds. And his dance partner was approaching with a loaded gun, if that faint ¡®snick¡¯ of a safety being flicked off wasn¡¯t but a figment of his imagination.


    Groovy.

 Chapter 22 - Midnight Danger

    Cass flung herself to the side as Mr. Moon came crashing over the fence, a coarse string of swears flying from her lips as her hands scrabbled for her pistol. In the innermost parts of her mind, the sight of the agent¡¯s gun pointing right at her face registered, but it was drowned out by the screaming wall of pure rage that occupied the rest of her head. The feeling was still as scorching hot as it had been seconds after seeing her dad¡¯s lifeless body fall to the ground. If she was fast enough, lucky enough, angry enough, then she might still manage to unload a few rounds into his chest with the Colt.


    Cass¡¯s fingers brushed against the grip of her handgun. However, before she could even wrap the rest of her fingers around the weapon, the world exploded in a blinding flash of light and pain. Her vision went black, and then gradually returned complete with what looked like handfuls of stars floating over her eyes. Something made of cold metal was cinched tightly around her wrists, but Cass could only lay there, lungs heaving as her mind tried to process what had just happened. Her forehead felt strangely warm and wet. Something was dripping down it, but slowly.


    The world moved all of a sudden ¨C but then Cass realized it wasn¡¯t the world moving. She was being dragged to her feet, her wobbly feet that were busy competing with her head and her hearing in the ¡®Betraying Cass Olympics¡¯. She wasn¡¯t quite sure which one was winning, but there was certainly hot competition for the gold medal in that category.


    Before her legs could finish steadying up, Cass was flung from the bushes to land with an ungainly squawk on the ground. Her head felt strained as she moved it around to look back, catching a glimpse of the thin FBI agent pushing through bushes that clawed away at his white collared shirt like they were trying to cage him up forever. Frankly, Cass¡¯s foggy mind decided, the bushes could have the monster. They could have him until she got her head screwed back on right and found her gun.


    Cass¡¯s hands strained to rise, to grab something, anything to beat at him with, but for some reason they wouldn¡¯t come up from behind her back. Something ice-cold was preventing them from exercising their normal range of movement. Soon enough, Cass realized why. There were handcuffs cinched tight around her wrists.


    Cass began to struggle more violently than ever, cursing and shouting as her head began to pull itself out of the sticky molasses it had been in after that flash of light and pain. Her legs lashed out, catching Mr. Moon in the shin, but the man didn¡¯t even react to the strike. He leaned down to grasp her arms where they were cuffed behind her back, and Cass fought ever harder. She could hear the door to the house being slammed open, meaning that his moving mountain of a partner was seconds away. Cass got another good kick in, this time eliciting a ¡®tch¡¯ from the otherwise expressionless Mr. Moon. It wasn¡¯t much, but the kick created an inch or two of distance, an amount Cass immediately used to surge to her feet. If she could just get to the street-


    And her vision morphed back into a flurry of stars and dark spots as something quite solid and metallic was smashed against her head for the second time in less than half a minute. Her legs went limp, like cooked spaghetti noodles being cast onto the grass, and for a few moments, she laid there on the ground, gasping to reclaim the breath that was driven from her lungs.


    The world felt out of focus, almost like fragments of a dream she was observing from a safe distance instead of the reality it was. This time Cass realized the cause. She¡¯d been struck in the head by the pistol clutched tightly in Mr. Moon¡¯s right hand. The bottom edge of the grip still had traces of her blood dripping off it.


    A muffled voice said something, but it felt like her hearing was worse than ever. Then she was hoisted to her feet, and the voice repeated itself.


    ¡°If you try to run again, I will put a bullet in one of your kneecaps.¡±


    Those words, spoken in a purely uncaring tone as if Mr. Moon was idly commenting about the weather instead of hurting someone, were like a bucket of ice water being poured on Cass¡¯s head. Her vision, still beset with flashing stars as it was, sharpened intensely, and the ringing in her ears subsided slightly so that the man¡¯s voice could be heard.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Cass flicked her eyes around to get a better idea of the rapidly developing situation. She was in the sideyard, meaning she, Mr. Moon, and the steadily approaching Dag were in clear view of the street. If anyone were to drive by, they would see one of their neighbors being brutally assaulted by two out-of-town FBI agents. The sight might be enough for them to intervene, especially if she started screaming.


    But then Cass¡¯s brain registered that the streetlights were on. The world was getting darker. It was evening. Everyone would be at home by now, especially because of the recent murders. No one wanted to be out past dark with that sort of nasty business happening around town. She could scream, but that would probably be filed by Mr. Moon under the ¡®running¡¯ clause and she would eat a bullet to the kneecap.


    Frankly, that was something Cass could live with if she knew the results would end in a swift death for Mr. Moon, but that was the problem ¨C it was much too uncertain. If she actually managed to get help, what then? Mr. Moon would shoot her neighbors just like he did Cass''s dad. Those kindly people she grew up around would be gone. There would be who knows how many new dead bodies littering the streets for their families to find and mourn.


    And similar to how she had sent Mark away to the wake, Cass couldn¡¯t bear that to happen. Even considering how dearly she wished for Mr. Moon¡¯s death.


    Any further thoughts were swept away as Dag¡¯s massive hands closed around the handcuffs to lead Cass stumbling inside her house. A thin stream of blood dribbled down the side of her face to drip off the tip of her chin, but Cass ignored it.


    Now, now. How the heck was she going to get out of this bind?


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Once the angry ginger in grubby superhero pajamas was transferred to his partner¡¯s careful watch, Mr. Moon pushed his way back into the bushes to grab the hunting rifle and the handgun Cass Thomson had been in possession of a few moments before. The bolt-action rifle was a bit of an older piece, though clearly it was well cared for. The size of it matched up with the empty weapon display in Chief Thomson¡¯s study. The gun must¡¯ve been borrowed from there. The pistol, a Colt Trooper .357, was a service revolver commonly used by policemen all across the nation. It too was likely once her father¡¯s, and the piece was just as well cared for as the rifle.


    However, now that the action was over for the time being, several questions were gnawing away at Mr. Moon¡¯s mind. Why was Cass Thomson here? Why was she in the bush with a rifle? The weapon was knocked away in the brief scuffle before Mr. Moon pistol-whipped her, so he couldn''t be for sure what precisely it was aimed at, but the general direction was at the front porch. From that information he could assume the sights were aimed at the door.


    Meaning Cass was most likely trying to assassinate either him or Dag. The motive appeared simple ¨C Steve reported a man and a woman leaving the house the night Chief Thomson died. He could only assume the woman was Cass Thomson, and she was a witness to the Chief¡¯s murder. Despite the overall lack of a detailed physical description, Steve did say she had a ponytail, and the woman would have needed ready access to the house. Cass Thomson fit both of those qualities. Who the man was, though, remained a mystery.


    He wouldn¡¯t know if she was that woman for certain until the interrogation was completed, but it made sense. The question was answered through basic deduction. The next question, though, and one he was far more interested in, was a bit less simple.


    Did Cass Thomson take the alien from the police station on the night of the raid? Did she know where it was at this moment?


    It was, in its essence, the most important question of all. If the alien could be secured, the only tasks left would be erasing the remaining witnesses and returning the creature to a secure facility in Washington.


    Mr. Moon shook open the cylinder of the revolver, emptying all six cartridges into his hand to be shoved in his breast pocket, while the gun itself was temporarily tucked into his waistband. The safety on his own weapon was flicked back on, and then the Sig Sauer was securely slid back into the holster hanging under his shoulder, where it sat snugly with its grip facing outwards ready for action. Next was the hunting rifle. Mr. Moon¡¯s hands expertly slid back the bolt to eject the unused rifle cartridge, sending it clattering away onto the driveway. Then once the bolt finished sliding back into place, Mr. Moon slid open the garage door, the rifle dangling nonchalantly in his offhand, and began to rummage around for a bucket and a rag.

 Chapter 23 - Counting Bodies Like Sheep

    Steve held out a cautioning hand to Ms. Miller, beckoning her to stand away from the door to the basement. It could be nothing. It could be hooligans breaking into the house for fun thinking the occupants were still at the wake. Hell, it could be a raccoon. A big raccoon.


    Steve eased the safety off his Sig Sauer and racked back the slide, readying the deadly weapon for immediate use. The gunmetal was a cold lump in his right hand, cold and formed into an ugly shape that could spit out chunks of lead to decide particularly deadly arguments once and for all.


    His left hand ghosted forward to grasp the handle of the basement door. It opened slowly, but silently. Once that had not been the case, but mere hours after moving into this house Steve had made himself busy giving every hinge a good greasing. He¡¯d seen men killed before over a creaky door. He was determined not to add his name to the list. Once the door was a quarter open, his hand abandoned the doorknob to flick on the light switch. It clicked, but nothing came on.


    Definitely not a raccoon. The bulb was busted. No raccoon would do that. Steve moved slightly to the side so the doorframe would cover more of his body and held his Sig at the ready.


    Steve shot a look toward Ms. Miller. An unspoken conversation passed between them, quickly and concisely. Someone was down there with malicious intent. His every instinct screamed for him to retreat. To make tracks for the street as fast as possible. To hell with their cover. To hell with information gathering. Their line of communication with Mr. Sun in Washington was too important to risk. Losing the equipment was unfortunate, but Ms. Miller¡¯s life ranked higher on the priority list Mr. Moon gave him after the briefing. A fight would be too disadvantageous.


    Behind him he could hear Ms. Miller darting toward her bedroom to grab what equipment she could carry. Steve¡¯s own body turned to help, to lock the basement door shut, to give them a few precious seconds to turn tail and run. But then, what felt like a bolt of pure roaring fire pierced through his right leg. The world tilted backward. Only, after a second, Steve realized it wasn¡¯t the world tilting, but him. His back brushed against the half-open door, pushing it fully open and then meeting air past that.


    Steve¡¯s hands windmilled as he fought to stay upright. Every second he was exposed was another second his attacker could strike again. The fire in his leg intensified. His balance failed. Steve tumbled down the stairs, his leg howling out in pain as it bounced off every step. He fought to tuck his body in, to keep his Sig Sauer clutched securely in his hands so it would not be lost or accidentally discharged. He was falling into the darkness to join whoever the hell was down there. Unless Lady Luck smiled, Steve was already a dead man walking. But a dead man could still buy enough time for Ms. Miller to warn Mr. Moon.


    Then his body came to a halt at the end of the rickety wooden stairs, in the murky-black depths of the basement.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Jack¡¯s javelin struck true, piercing the leg of the half-turned man at the top of the stairs. The man fell backward, perhaps surprised by the sudden strike taken the moment his back was turned. Jack moved in a flash. He surged to the bottom of the stairs right as the man, wearing a now-blood-flecked white collared shirt and a pair of slacks with a hole in them, tumbled to a halt.


    The man reacted quickly, wrenching his gun up to point toward Jack, but by then it was too late. Jack¡¯s foot lashed forward to knock the weapon out of the man¡¯s hand, followed by a steady right hook to the chin. The man was flung to the side, disappearing behind the pitch-black curtains of darkness. Wherever the gun landed was unknown. The black gunmetal of the weapon blended in perfectly with the darkness of the basement.


    An animalistic snarl of rage tore through the basement, but not from Jack¡¯s lips. It was the man in the collared shirt, lunging out of the darkness with a combat knife in his hand. The man lunged, movements jerky from his wounded leg, but by now Jack had his axe ready and parried the knife to draw forth a shower of sparks. One of them landed on Jack¡¯s face, causing a maddened smile to split across his features amid the stinging pain. Jack¡¯s opponent had correctly judged running for the stairs was futile with that leg of his.


    ¡°Ha. Haha! AHAHA! I SHALL KILL AND EAT! AHAHAHAHA! DEATH IS HERE!¡±


    The collared-shirt man matched Jack''s bellows of joy with a wordless roar of his own. He swept his knife out, causing Jack to jerk back, then answered with an axe swing of his own. The swing bit lightly into the man¡¯s shoulder, drawing out a thin line of blood. That was good. Good! A fine match! A fine opponent! Two men, honest men doing their utmost best to kill each other! This was what made life worth it!


    Then the man¡¯s knife darted forward. This strike sliced into Jack¡¯s own forearm, but he hardly felt it past the adrenaline that raced through his veins like premium gas through a race car. He tightened his muscles, relishing the feeling of his own meat twisting around the smooth steel blade, trapping it beneath his skin for a split second ¨C long enough for Jack¡¯s steel-toed boot to lash out like a battering ram against the white-shirted man¡¯s wounded leg. The man howled out in agony, his body shuddering violently, but he did not run from the source of his pain.


    That truly was a genuine surprise to Jack. The man retreated not an inch, instead focusing every drop of his strength into wrenching the blade of his combat knife, all seven inches of wicked-sharp steel, out of Jack¡¯s arm. Jack¡¯s muscles trembled and then failed as the steel withdrew with a ''shlicking¡¯ sound of blood-wetted steel drawing against living flesh. The blade could no longer be trapped in the cage of Jack¡¯s formidable body.


    Jack¡¯s axe squealed in delight, joyfully biting into the man¡¯s shoulder again and again and again, just as the man¡¯s knife slid in and out of Jack¡¯s chest, scratching against ribs and bones and tendons, beating and biting and mangling. Jack¡¯s laughter rose to fever pitch with each strike from the axe and dagger until his mouth was flecked with bloodied foam and the man¡¯s strikes grew ever weaker.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    Finally, after the weakest stab of them all, Jack flung the man away, delighting in the crunch of bone as the collared man¡¯s body struck a wooden support beam.


    But still, the man drew himself to his feet. Whether it was through adrenaline, training, or sheer willpower, the man stood. Thus, Jack was genuinely surprised for a second time by his opponent. The combat knife shook in the man¡¯s hand, but otherwise held firm. Jack¡¯s teeth, bloodied and foul from his wounds, flashed in the darkness.


    ¡°AHAHA! DEATH IS HERE!¡± Jack screamed.


    Then the man in the collared shirt let loose one last howl of fury in defiance against his death and charged. Jack sidestepped the stabbing knife, raking the blade of his axe against the man¡¯s back as the charge went past. The man swiveled, still moving quickly despite the blood spurting from his ruined leg. The knife caught Jack in his side, but the wound was shallow. His opponent was already too weak to manage a killing blow. This effort was naught but a firework shot into the night sky. Bright, beautiful, but doomed to quickly fade away into nothingness.


    Jack tossed away his axe like a bag of trash being thrown to the curb. To keep it would be to hold too great of an advantage over the enemy. This fight was far too fun for that. His fists, as sturdy and unyielding as chunks of concrete, hammered against the man¡¯s chest, cracking ribs, bruising organs, and splitting flesh. The man struggled to withdraw his knife from Jack¡¯s side, but Jack twisted his torso to remove it from the man¡¯s grasp.


    His hands beat at Jack¡¯s face, at first with calculated strikes toward Jack¡¯s eyes, but those strikes soon morphed into frantic, unfocused blows as Jack fit his hands around the man¡¯s face and began to squeeze his thumbs into eye sockets that were the perfect shape to fit them.


    The man¡¯s eyes soon failed, popping like grapes against Jack¡¯s power. The man screamed out again, this time not in rage, but in agony. In fear.


    But for a third time, Jack was pleasantly surprised. The man¡¯s hands had stopped beating at his face, whipping around to pluck the dagger from Jack¡¯s side to slam into Jack¡¯s chest, the blade of cold steel only stopping when it ran into Jack¡¯s fifth rib.


    ¡°HA! GLORIOUS! GLORIOUS!¡± Jack screamed in exaltation. Truly he was blessed to find an opponent such as this! Still screaming and panting, Jack continued to grasp the sides of the man¡¯s head, slamming it into the concrete floor again, and again, and again, until bloodied skin gave way to white bone and grey brain matter, the skull splitting like a rotten pumpkin dashed against the ground.


    Jack leaned back, smiling while his barrel-like chest heaved for air and his wounds sang stinging hymns in protest of being exposed to the cool night air filtering past the broken door. A glorious battle against a nameless foe. It was a shame Jack had failed to get the man¡¯s name. He might have remembered it for a few years.


    Now, the question remained ¨C was there another in this house, and would they provide such a battle to equal or even exceed his fallen foe? Jack hauled himself to his feet. He grabbed his discarded axe, bringing it up to his mouth and darting out his tongue to slurp up the sticky residue on the blade.


    Time to continue the hunt.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Cathy could hear Steve dying in the basement. And from the sounds of it, he was putting up one hell of a fight.


    Steve was as good as dead, as soon as that length of rebar pierced his leg to send him falling down below. There was nothing she could do to help. Judging by the lack of gunfire, her colleague had lost his weapon on the way down. She doubted a gun would be useful down there, anyway, considering the lights were disabled. That wouldn¡¯t change even if she went to help. All her help would do would be to add another lifeless cadaver for Mr. Moon to discover.


    The door to her room was flung wide open in reckless abandon, with Cathy rushing inside to grab whatever she could carry. She had to travel light. Doubtlessly Steve was trying to buy her as much time as possible. They both knew how important her task was. Only the heavens knew if Steve could buy enough time to make it to the house Mr. Moon had commandeered.


    Cathy¡¯s teeth clenched so hard that a molar cracked. Other than that one reaction, she moved in a businesslike fashion ¨C calm, efficient, and brisk. Her face was set in its usual calm, almost stoic mask. Steve was doing his job. She needed to do hers. The secure line of communication between Carlston and Washington could not be interrupted.


    Nor could her control over the local radio waves be contested. Without Cathy¡¯s ability to manage that traffic, redirecting support from the outside to essentially cut off the town from all extra variables, the job Mr. Moon and Dag had would be made extraordinarily harder. Without her working to keep information on the alien under wraps, the whole town, perhaps even the surrounding towns, would be forced into a sea of flames, for dead men could tell no tales.


    First was her purse, snatched up in her hands and slung around her shoulder. Judging from the shouting coming from the basement, the revolver concealed within could be useful. Next was a portable radio set with a signal jammer, three walkie-talkies, and a notebook with various ciphers and key phrases to set up secure comms once she was safe once more.


    Cathy rushed back into the hallway. By now the basement was quiet. There were no more shouts, no more maddened bouts of maniacal laughter.


    Steve was most likely dead.


    Heavy boots stomped up the stairs, slow and steady. Rough breathing followed, loud enough that Cathy could hear it in the hallway. She risked a glance, her body already halfway to the front door. There was no one to be seen in the doorway leading to the basement.


    But whoever was climbing the stairs, it was not Steve. He would have made his presence known to her. A keyword, a specific whistle, just about anything from a short list of possibilities she had memorized off a note card on the drive to Kansas. It was a protocol that had been drilled into the bones of every field agent so as to prevent friendly fire.


    Another booted footstep stomped against the wood, and Cathy made a split-second decision. While her left hand gripped the handle of the front door, already in the process of opening it, her right hand dipped into her purse, drawing her Smith & Wesson out into the air. Another footstep.


    Cathy¡¯s gun roared out in response, sending six .44 magnum slugs hurtling down the hallway toward the open basement door in a matter of seconds. Cathy hardly trusted her luck would be enough to avenge Steve. All the bullets could do was buy her more precious seconds. Her back brushed against the front door, pushing it open a few more inches and freeing up her left hand to fish around her purse for her speedloaders.


    Her right hand flicked the revolver sideways to pop open the cylinder and shake out the empty cartridges to clatter against the wood floor. The sound was deafening in the silence left in the wake of her last shot.


    There was a pause, and then another heavy footstep. Cathy slammed the speedloader into the revolver¡¯s cylinder and flicked it shut, before letting her weapon roar once more. The sound was deafening in the enclosed space. Her hearing felt like it was physically twisting and muffling at the same time, a pressure building in her ears to squeeze at the fragile insides of her head.


    The front door was most of the way open, her body halfway out into the night sky.


    Cathy flicked open the revolver once again and slammed in her final speedloader. After the next six shots, she would have to reload the old-fashioned way, shoving the magnum cartridges in one by one in that painfully slow manner. Yet, without even waiting for another footstep, Cathy expressionlessly emptied all six shots into the general direction of the basement.


    And then, she turned and fled.

 Chapter 24 - In Hell We Live

    For once in Cass¡¯s life, being in her father¡¯s office at home was not a comforting feeling. The fireplace, once so warm and cozy, felt otherworldly now. Like it served another master, one more uncaring and malicious than her dad could ever be. The display on the wall above the fireplace was still empty, the hunting rifle nowhere to be seen. Her captor had made sure of that.


    At her wrists, the cold metal of those damnable handcuffs bit into her skin. They were cinched just a notch too tight. Not enough to cut off circulation, but too much for Cass to try any of the tricks her dad taught her to get out of cuffs. Even if she dislocated her thumbs, there still wouldn¡¯t be enough room for her hands to wiggle out.


    That was a pity. She had the time ¨C after being unceremoniously thrown into her dad¡¯s office and zip-tied to a chair, the big guy had stepped back out without another word. She¡¯d heard something being pressed against the door. Wherever Mr. Moon was, she did not know. It was just Cass, tied to the chair behind her father¡¯s desk, hands bound behind her back. If she could get free before the agents returned¡­


    Cass shook her head bitterly, ending that train of thought before it even got started. The handcuffs were too tight. Nor did she have the strength to break them apart. That was something Mark might barely be able to do on his best day. Not little ol¡¯ Cass. Her legs were tightly bound to the chair as well. To get free of the zip ties she would need a free hand and a knife or scissors.


    A spark flitted through her mind to restart the train of thought. Maybe if she wiggled. The handcuffs were too tight, but the zip ties? Cass could feel they had a bit of give from them. If she rubbed her skin hard enough to break it a little bit and use the blood as a lubricant, she might be able to slip through. It was worth a try. She began to struggle, straining against her plastic bonds as hard as she could.


    ¡°Cass Thomson.¡±


    Cass¡¯s eyes closed in response to the monotone voice coming from the door. It had been opened at some point while she was still thinking of ways to escape. A deep well of frustration bubbled up in her stomach, but Cass forced herself to keep her face calm. The man in the suit was back, a bucket and a rag in his hands.


    ¡°Let me remind you. If you try to run again, I will put a bullet in one of your kneecaps.¡±


    Cass¡¯s body stilled. It was over. The man walked further into the room and set the bucket on the floor. Now that it was closer, Cass could see that it was full of water, almost to the brim. Almost as if he hardly cared about her attempts despite his own words on the matter, Mr. Moon pulled a folding chair inside of the room and nodded to her politely.


    ¡°You have information that I want,¡± Mr. Moon began as Cass settled into her father¡¯s chair as best as she could.


    Cass continued to force her face to keep a state of blankness, much like how the man in front of her appeared.


    ¡°I¡¯m just a nobody. I don¡¯t matter. I don¡¯t know anything.¡± Cass replied.


    Mr. Moon¡¯s hands fiddled with the rag. It was dark blue. She didn¡¯t know why the color struck her all of a sudden. Perhaps it was because the man holding it was so utterly ordinary. The rag in his hands was at least a slight contrast to his dull black business suit. If he hadn¡¯t killed her dad, Cass wouldn¡¯t have given him a second look if they¡¯d passed each other by on the street.


    ¡°You were present when the Russians raided the police station several nights ago,¡± Mr. Moon¡¯s hands stilled. His eyes pierced right into hers. It was like he could see into her very soul, tearing through it in a ruthless and focused search for the truth. ¡°That night, at that location, was also the last verified sighting of a peculiar creature. Sticklike, to the point it would be impossible for a normal human to survive. Yet the eyes are detailed, again far more than a normal human¡¯s eyes would be. It breaths, but does not move or speak. It can be wounded, but those wounds heal soon after. Like magic.¡±


    If this had been before her dad¡¯s death, Mr. Moon¡¯s words may have very well hit Cass like a sack of bricks to the stomach. However, now all she felt was a mild feeling akin to, ¡®Ah, I was right. The government really is looking for that thing¡¯.


    Cass shrugged noncommittedly. The bastard wanted it? Sucks for him. That automatically meant she would be happier with the creature forever out of the man¡¯s reach.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about. Say, how about this? You uncuff me and give me my gun. Then we see how tough you are in a straight fight. I¡¯ll give you ten paces. Or, we can play Russian roulette! I''ll slip all six rounds into my revolver. You can go first.¡±


    Mr. Moon¡¯s empty eyes stared back at her, causing Cass to shudder. They weren¡¯t quite to the point that she felt she was staring at a corpse, but it was close. The man, as far as she could tell, truly did not care about her, other than perhaps for the information Cass had. If she had to put it into words, it was like she barely existed in his eyes. She wasn¡¯t even an ant. Ants existed. You saw them on the sidewalk, gazed at them for a second, and moved on with your life. She didn¡¯t even merit that effort in Mr. Moon¡¯s eyes. There was no argument in Cass¡¯s mind. If she didn¡¯t know where the alien was, she would be a lifeless corpse in that bush by now and he wouldn¡¯t lose a second of sleep about it.


    ¡°The hard way it is.¡± Mr. Moon said, standing up from his folding chair. He picked up the bucket of water and walked over to her, even as Cass frantically struggled to break her bonds. Her legs moved a fraction of an inch, but she didn¡¯t have enough space to kick the man. Then the massive bulk of Dag was there in a flash, holding her head back and steady. The rag was pressed hard against her face. The cloth was thin, with the faint yet pungent scent of oil transfused into it. The back of her mind, the part detached from it all, noted that it was probably one of the oil rags from the garage. It was something her dad would have wiped his hands on while working on his car. Sure smelled like it.


    Then water poured over her face, and as it soaked through the rag, all Cass felt was a tsunami of panic and fear. She was drowning. Drowning on dry land. Ironic. Her arms fought to rise, to clear off her face, but the handcuffs kept them pinned behind her back, even as her skin was torn to ribbons from her struggles. She couldn¡¯t breathe. Water filled her nose, her mouth, everywhere. Her lungs heaved in panic and desperation, but that only served to make it worse. Cass had no air in her body. It was all water now. Her head began to thrash around, but one massive palm was still enveloping her skull to hold it rock steady. She was going to die. Not in that bush, but here. A crushing sense of fear the likes Cass had never felt before rushed through her body with all the force of a wild freight train.


    Cass was going to die in her father¡¯s office alone drowning on dry land she couldn¡¯t breathe she couldn¡¯t clear her face she-


    The rag was lifted away. Cass¡¯s lungs heaved in great mouthfuls of sweet fresh air like bellows stoking the furnace of life. Tears stung her eyes as she choked and gasped.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    "The alien. Where is it." Mr. Moon''s voice, muffled through her sense of smothering panic, filtered into her ears like a viper''s venom. Cass heaved in another breath of beautiful life-giving oxygen. She couldn¡¯t do it again. Whatever hate she had, whatever resistance, it was smothered and drowned under the water. If she didn¡¯t tell Mr. Moon all she knew about the alien, that rag was going back over her face. She was going to drown again.


    Something inside of Cass shattered.


    But then, just as she shakily began to open her mouth to give up the farm, the doorbell rang. Once, twice, then thrice in quick succession. Mr. Moon and Dag both shared a look, nodding and then running toward the door. Cass was tossed to the side, laying sideways on the ground tied to the chair like an abandoned rag as the two men rushed out of the room. Both men had their guns drawn. Vaguely, her mind noted that this was it. She could try to run again. Her wrists and legs were bleeding now. She might be able to slip out from the zip ties. If Cass was lucky, she could unlatch the window and slide out before they returned, even if she couldn¡¯t shake off the handcuffs.


    But her limbs felt heavy, like sandbags. Her lungs still burned, heaving for air and the desperation to purge the water still inside. Her breathing was rapid. Her vision flickered. Black spots coated her eyes, and the only emotion she could feel was pure panic. Cass could still feel the rag pressed against her face, even as it lay on the floor a few feet away from her, abandoned just like she was. She could still feel the water pouring over her face. It too pressed against her, filtering through the imaginary cloth with little resistance. The faint smell of oil was no longer faint. It was overpowering. It choked her. It filled her lungs, her heart, and her bones.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Cathy rang the doorbell again. And again. And again. Three rings, a few seconds of silence, then three more. Repeated. That was the signal. Three, stop, repeat. During each moment of silence, Cathy shot a look over her shoulder, searching for anyone following her. No one had left the safe house yet that she could see. Though, it really wasn¡¯t a safe house anymore. Nothing safe about it. Just a house. The house was as quiet as a grave from where she looked.


    The door opened after the second trio of rings. Mr. Moon stuck his head out, gun drawn and eyes darting around for threats before he ushered Cathy in, closing and locking the door after her.


    ¡°Report.¡± Mr. Moon curtly said. Dag paced around the living room. His Sig was out as well, and a shotgun was in his left hand, the butt nestled in the crook of the large man¡¯s elbow.


    Cathy flicked open the cylinder of her revolver, loading in the .44 Magnum rounds one by one while she spoke.


    ¡°The basement of the safe house was breached by an unknown intruder several minutes ago. Steve made the judgment to retreat but was attacked by the intruder and fell down the stairs. I removed what equipment I could and ran here while he bought time. Steve was most likely killed in action."


    Mr. Moon took in her report without a word, only sharing a look with Dag. Then he motioned with his head toward a room further down the hallway.


    ¡°We have a prisoner with possible intel on the alien. Use your radio to call for reinforcements from the precinct. Prevent the surrounding towns from hearing it. Then give Mr. Sun a status update. We hold here until they arrive.¡±


    Cathy snapped her revolver shut, the increased weight of the weapon settling reassuringly into her palm. She quickly walked into the kitchen, putting her purse on the table, along with the sparse radio equipment she''d salvaged from the house. The radio receiver rested in her palm, with Cathy speaking into it in a calm, unhurried tone.


    ¡°All units be advised; backup is requested at the Thomson residence. A suspect is at large, considered armed and extremely dangerous. Proceed with caution.¡±


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    In one hand, Mark held a sandwich. In his other hand, there was a second sandwich. One for him, one for Cass. If she was super hungry, then it would be two for Cass instead. He¡¯d gotten a few bites in during the wake. It wouldn¡¯t be the end of the world if his sandwich had to be sacrificed.


    ¡°Cass.¡± Mark whispered, drawing near to the bush he remembered his friend being nestled in. He was on the other side of the fence, keeping the white picketed barrier between him and Cass¡¯s house.


    There was no answer. Mark repeated himself, whispering as loud as he could while still keeping it a whisper. ¡°Cass! You there? I have food.¡±


    Still, there was no answer. Mark risked straightening up slightly, enough to get a peek over the side of the fence. As he did, his eyes widened to roughly the size of dinner plates. The bushes, were, well, mangled. Nearly destroyed. Something human-sized had crashed through, heedless of broken branches. Mark¡¯s breath caught in his throat, and he hopped over the side of the fence. His legs landed with a muted thud on the ground. His hands shot to the dirt to steady his balance, and Mark¡¯s eyes widened further as a strange sticky substance met his fingers.


    He pulled his hands up. It was hard to see, but he was close enough to the street that the streetlights were able to provide a little bit of light. The substance was sticky. Slightly warm, and looked dark red in the dim light.


    It was blood. Mark¡¯s eyes darted around, frantically searching for Cass, for anything. But there was nothing. He was the only person, living or dead, in the bushes. He nervously wetted his lips with his tongue. The bushes were destroyed. There was blood on the ground, but no bodies or discarded weapons. Was Cass dead? Did she shoot that guy? Was her body inside the house? Or was she captured?


    Mark¡¯s heart rate quickened to a frantic pace. He shot up, vaulting back over the fence and dashing across the neighbor¡¯s lawn. He had to get away. He had to get help. If Cass was dead, he could be next. If she was alive, he could still be next.


    If Cass was dead.


    A lance of despair shot through his chest at the thought. Mark halted in the middle of the neighbor¡¯s driveway. There were no lights to be seen in the windows of the neighbor¡¯s house. No movement. In Cass¡¯s house, he could see some life in the windows. No people, just lights with curtains drawn. His hands were empty, the sandwiches long abandoned in the bushes out of haste and fear.


    What if Cass was alive? What if she got caught?


    Mark collapsed to his knees. Salty tears dripped down his cheeks, but what came from his mouth was laughter. Not joyful nor happy laughter, but more of a grim, self-pitying mirth bordering on flat-out despair.


    ¡°Look at that,¡± Mark cruelly sniggered, ¡°Cass is in trouble, and I ran. What a joke.¡±


    His sobbing laughter rose into a crescendo, uncaring for the noise he made. Then as suddenly as it started, it stopped. Mark was silent, staring at the concrete driveway. His hands pressed against the cool yet rough surface.


    ¡°I ran.¡± Mark¡¯s voice was utterly devoid of emotion now. ¡°I ran. When I called Cass after the wreck, she hopped right over to help. Even with how much crap I gave her over the breakup back in school. Because she is a good person, and I¡¯m worthless trash.¡±


    He sighed. Then what felt like a switch flipped in his head. Mark gritted his teeth so hard it felt like they would shatter, and then his fists rained down on the concrete, punching and battering at it until his skin split and his bones creaked. Over and over again. Specks of blood splashed against his cheeks, his knuckles popped out of place, and his skin gave way to stark white bone.


    Mark''s strikes slowed and then stopped. He held up his hands, watching as his flesh ever so slowly knit back together. Was it faster this time? It felt like it was healing faster. His skin itched like a thousand mosquitos were hard at work at the same time as the flesh was repairing itself.


    Who cared.


    "I guess this is what I always do," Mark muttered helplessly. "I run away."


    ¡°I run away.¡± Mark repeated.


    That phrase. He repeated it for a third time. But this time, he rose to his unsteady feet. What if he didn¡¯t this time?


    Could he?


    Or was he just a yellow-bellied coward to the core?


    He ran from his relationship with Cass in school. He ran from college when he proved to be a failure. He ran. Like a witless, gutless coward. Like a worthless dog crawling on the ground for scraps of attention garnered from being a big fish in a tiny, miniscule pond. A frog in a well.


    Cass was in trouble. She might even be dead.


    Mark¡¯s head turned to look at the Thomson residence. For once, once in what felt like a very long time, his mind was made up. He was stupid. But Mark¡¯s fists were big, and his back was strong. If Cass was alive, he would bust down the door and get her out of there for round three with the feds. He could put his healing to the real test. Maybe he could actually be useful for once in his life.


    And if Cass was dead, then it wasn¡¯t like he had much else to live for at this point.


    Mark hunched over, quieting his breathing to the utmost, and rushed toward the fence, leaping over it effortlessly to run toward the back door of the house. Quickly, quietly, and as calmly as he could considering there were professional killers with guns inside.

 Chapter 25 - Fight Your Demons

    Once more it felt as if the world was holding its breath. That was what it appeared to be in Cass¡¯s eyes. The door separating the office from the hallway and the living room was cast wide open. Even as she violently shivered, fighting the rising bile in her throat amid attempts to keep her eyes off the discarded rag and bucket on the floor, the situation looked strange. It had all started when the agents answered the door to let a strict-looking woman inside. Whatever she¡¯d said had set Mr. Moon and Dag on high alert.


    Both men had taken up watchful positions around the house. Mr. Moon crouched beside her dad¡¯s recliner, gun at the ready, while Dag stood in the office doorway holding a shotgun in one hand while the other clutched a pistol. The woman¡¯s voice was coming from the kitchen, along with occasional bursts of radio static. Cass strained her ears to listen. It almost sounded like¡­ police communications. The woman was coordinating with the police for backup.


    Something had gone wrong. Cass knew it for sure. But what? Was it those crazies from the police station? Whatever it was, they¡¯d stopped interrogating¡­ no. That was the wrong word. Torturing. They¡¯d stopped torturing her. The thin man seemed desperate to get the location of the alien out of her mere moments before, but they¡¯d switched gears just like that.


    Scratch that. Something hadn¡¯t just gone wrong. Something had gone horribly wrong.


    Mr. Moon¡¯s head was constantly moving to look at the front and back doors. Dag was equally as watchful. Careful tension appeared to fill both of their bodies like springs being held back to the utmost in preparation for one crucial moment. The men¡¯s faces were grim. She could almost smell the blood, at this point still imaginary, gathering around the bodies of the murderers.


    A second later, Cass¡¯s questions were answered by the sound of shattering glass.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Mark slowed to a halt as soon as he reached the back door. For the briefest of moments, he¡¯d entertained the thought of bursting right through the door for a sort of shock and awe type of approach. But then, right as he approached ramming speed, something stopped him. It was Cass. Not in the flesh or anything, but her voice. Specifically, her voice in his head. A memory of her voice from the good old days. Back when they were in high school together. Back when they were dating. Back when he was happy.


    Cass smiled at him. It was right after a game. Football, Carlston High School versus one of their rivals in Manhattan. They¡¯d won. Mark played well but¡­ well, he was a bit of a blockhead. Mark knew that, everyone knew that. He made a few mistakes in the heat of the moment, during the game.


    ¡®Think, Mark. Think. It¡¯s a big world. I can¡¯t be around you 24/7. Heck, I can¡¯t be on the field next to you. I¡¯ve gotta stay in the stands. Think before you act. You¡¯re strong. Fast. If you would use your brain, nothing can stop you.¡¯


    That¡¯s what Cass had said, smiling at Mark and giving him a playful punch in the shoulder.


    A sharp stabbing pain lanced through Mark¡¯s heart. The good old days. There were so many smart people in the world. Scientists and inventors and whatnot. Why hadn¡¯t any of them made some sort of device that could tell a guy when the good old days were there before they slipped away? Those were the happiest days of his life. He should have savored them more.


    Mark viciously shook his head. Memory lane could wait until this was over, he was alone in his parents¡¯ house again, and there was some booze to help him forget about the present and future. He leaned down, grabbed the doormat with one hand, and casually tossed it aside to reveal a small key nestled underneath. It fit the lock in the door perfectly, and it slid open with a soft ''snick''. Mark peered through the gap in the door, reflexively holding his breath to keep as quiet as possible. He could see the big guy right off the bat. His head was turned toward Mark, but there was a shotgun held at the ready in his hands.


    But before Mark¡¯s brain (tiny as it was) could start working on a new plan, the sound of glass shattering echoed like an explosion throughout the house.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    One moment, Mr. Moon¡¯s eyes were flitting across what he could see in the living room, the hallway, the office, and the kitchen. It was quiet. If Ms. Miller hadn¡¯t arrived, the night would have been an ordinary one. It was too quiet. Did the attacker truly lose the trail back at the other house?


    As it turned out, Mr. Moon¡¯s question was answered as soon as it popped into his head.


    Steve¡¯s corpse flew through the closed living room window, accompanied by the sound of shattering glass. Mr. Moon yelled for Cathy to get down, the rare use of her first name sending the woman instantly diving for the floor, and then the room erupted into a flurry of action as a screaming bald man covered in blood launched himself through the broken window.


    An axe in one hand and a shotgun in another, the madman moved at the same time Mr. Moon and Dag did. The madman¡¯s shotgun roared out, catching Dag clean in the stomach and sending the man reeling to the floor from the force of the shot. Mr. Moon, still taking cover behind the recliner, emptied five rounds from his Sig Sauer into the man¡¯s chest. The madman stumbled heavily backward, but otherwise, he did not slow or show visible signs of pain.


    ¡°BODY ARMOR!¡± Mr. Moon shouted a warning to the other agents in the room. His arms rose to switch aim from the larger target of the chest to the smaller target of the head, but the man was on him before he could let loose another barrage. The recliner was tossed aside like it was made of paper. The man¡¯s axe sliced through the air, but Mr. Moon rolled aside just in time so that it only nicked his suit jacket. For some reason, the shotgun had been tossed aside after its first shot. Did it only hold one shell at a time?


    Now that the madman was closer, Mr. Moon was able to make out more details. Several wounds littered his body, but the man moved with speed defying any sort of weakness. Either he was inhumanly tough or was on serious amounts of drugs. Both?


    The madman wore a ragged sleeveless white undershirt, and underneath that poked out the telltale black cloth of Kevlar body armor. From what he could tell, the body armor itself was tattered as well, as if someone had sliced through parts of it with a sharp object. Perhaps an axe.


    It would weaken the material, but body armor was still body armor. It would still prove quite effective against his Sig Sauer. Still, the slices were important knowledge. It showed the material wasn¡¯t rated as a stab vest. Useful to know if his weapon was lost and he had to resort to the knife kept in his belt.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    Before the axe could tear through the air once more, the massive bulk of Dag, both his weapons abandoned, crashed into the madman¡¯s back while Mr. Moon scrambled away to create some space. For once, Dag Sterner was matched in size and strength by an opponent. His partner¡¯s arms wrapped around the madman¡¯s neck to establish a chokehold, but the man simply let out a crazed laugh, almost as if he was reveling in the combat.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Arms as thick as tree trunks wrapped around his neck, but Jack felt only joy. This was it. Tracking the woman from that house was the best decision he¡¯d ever made. His chest stung from where the thin man shot him. The bullets were strong, filled with purpose and the desire to kill. If not for the Kevlar looted from his slain opponent earlier, perhaps his blitzkrieg would have turned out differently. But here he was.


    Jack truly was a champion blessed by the gods themselves.


    The thin man was scrabbling backward. Creating distance while his friend tried to restrain Jack. That same friend¡¯s weapons were discarded. Maybe from Jack¡¯s shot loosening his grip. Maybe because the thin man would have been in the line of fire.


    Smart. Counterpoint: Jack tensed his neck muscles to invalidate the chokehold, making it unable to fully cut off his precious air supply. Next were his back and waist muscles. They too tensed as Jack pushed himself forward, hauling the big man over his back to slam into the floor with enough brutality to crack whatever was beneath the carpet.


    ¡°AHAHAHA! DEATH IS HERE!¡± Jack leaned back up and screamed the words out, his very being drenched in pure ecstasy. His wounds, particularly the ones received from his most recent battle, stung in protest from his every move. But at this moment, Jack was euphoric. Adrenaline, both natural and drug-induced, raced through his veins. White powder speckled his nose, and his brain thundered at Mach 10 from the methamphetamine in his system.


    Jack was invincible. Immortal. Unstoppable. He was a god. A blood god of flesh and bone.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    The screaming, bloodied madman shrugged off three more shots from Mr. Moon¡¯s handgun like they were nothing but an irritation. One to the side of the neck, one to the right shoulder, and one scraping the throat. That was the problem with body armor and also the very reason why standard firearms training emphasized a focus on chest shots. Successfully hitting the much smaller target of the head in the heat of a high-stress situation like a firefight was an extraordinarily difficult feat, even for a marksman of Mr. Moon¡¯s level. But, with body armor in play, the ammunition in Mr. Moon¡¯s Sig Sauer couldn¡¯t fully penetrate past that protection. It was a lose-lose situation unless some amount of luck came into play. Gamble for the headshot or waste bullets on the Kevlar.


    The madman continued to move quickly, bloodied but very much alive. Mr. Moon¡¯s gun was noticeably light in his hand now, a telltale sign that the magazine was empty, or nearly so. One more shot, a missed one this time, and it truly was empty. Dag was moving as well, but sluggishly after being slammed headfirst into the ground. His partner¡¯s eyes were unfocused. The fact Dag still moved at all was a testament to his partner¡¯s strength.


    The roaring sound of gunshots echoed out from the kitchen as Mr. Moon was forced backward to avoid the slicing edges of the axe, the steel edge whistling by with millimeters to spare. However, what followed the blade was an explosion of pain. Mr. Moon¡¯s vision went black and filled with stars as he vaguely felt himself being launched backward to collide with the wall. His lungs heaved, desperate to regather the air knocked out of them. He¡¯d been punched. Punched hard enough to be thrown back several feet and, by the feel of it, crack several ribs. It was like the madman was wielding a sledgehammer instead of bare fists. Moreover, Mr. Moon¡¯s hands were now empty. The Sig Sauer had been lost, flung from his grip when he was struck.


    Mr. Moon surged to his feet, using the adrenaline rushing through his body to power through the weakness in his legs. Dag was back up too, his empty hands curled into boulder-like fists as he dueled with the madman, both men trading concrete-shattering blows heedless of injury or pain. At some point after punching Mr. Moon, the madman lost his axe. A second glance revealed its blade buried in the floor.


    Mr. Moon¡¯s palm rested on the butt of his knife, but then his eyes turned to the kitchen. Ms. Miller was crouched behind the table, her revolver pointing at the grappling duo as she tried to line up a shot.


    His weapon was missing, but Ms. Miller¡¯s remained. If his Sig had little effect¡­ Mr. Moon sprinted into the kitchen. Ms. Miller tossed over her revolver without a word, instantly understanding his goal. She knew the play. Mr. Moon was a field agent and a well-known marksman in the department. She was a communications specialist, more used to sitting behind a desk than being in the middle of a life-and-death struggle.


    Mr. Moon spared a glance down at it, taking a second to observe the weapon. It fit in his palm well enough. From what he could see, three of the original six shots were already spent. Nothing appeared wrong with the sights. Iron sights, as basic as they came.


    Mr. Moon¡¯s head snapped back up to focus on the brawl in the living room. He could make that work. Dag was sent stumbling back after a mighty punch to his chest. The madman stooped down to scoop his axe off the floor, and Mr. Moon took that chance to strike. One round screamed out of the barrel of the Smith and Wesson revolver, catching the madman neatly in his torso. The madman stumbled to the side several steps, half-turning to face Mr. Moon with a bloodied, yet excited grin.


    Mr. Moon¡¯s finger squeezed the trigger again. He did not aim for the head, nor did he need to. His Sig Sauer did not possess the power to penetrate Kevlar. Nor, in all honesty, did the Smith and Wesson revolver in his hands.


    However, the .44 Magnum rounds chambered in the revolver did not need to penetrate to have a worthwhile effect. Each one of the high-powered rounds that struck true would have felt like a deranged horse kicking the madman square in the chest with all its strength. They would crack bones. They would drive the breath from his body. They would rupture organs. No man, no matter how crazed or drug-addled, could fully shake that off. That was the key difference between Mr. Moon¡¯s Sig Sauer and Ms. Miller¡¯s Smith and Wesson Model 29.


    The second shot sent the madman reeling backward ¨C still very much alive, but unbalanced and gasping in pain. Dag capitalized on that, driving his shoulder into the madman¡¯s body in a football-esque tackle that drove the madman into the wall with enough force to crack it. Two bone-crunching punches followed as Dag¡¯s fists slammed into the madman¡¯s body over and over, his opponent reciprocating each one with a blow of his own.


    By now, Dag was roaring as fiercely as the madman was, though without the cackling laughter the mysterious attacker possessed. The madman¡¯s head rushed forward to crack against Dag¡¯s skull, sending the agent stumbling backward. Mr. Moon lined up his last shot. His eye peered down the iron sights. Nice and steady. Breath in. Hold the breath.


    A marksman of lesser experience would have been tempted to switch targets to the head now that Dag was out of the way and the madman was unsteady. The head was a sure kill, something that a torso wrapped in body armor was not.


    Mr. Moon was no such amateur. The sights lined up with the madman¡¯s chest, the largest target on his body, and Mr. Moon¡¯s index finger provided the few pounds of force needed to discharge the weapon. The madman was driven stumbling back into the wall. A half-second later Mr. Moon''s view was once more obscured by the bulk of Dag, the man having drawn his knife and moved in to slash away at the madman¡¯s stomach. The madman stopped the blade with his palm, letting the blade bite through flesh to be halted by tendons, but his smile was laced with fresh blood.


    The madman was enjoying this. Every punch and every wound. Both ones received and given.


    Dag abandoned the knife, clearly judging that the precious seconds it would take to free the blade would be better used to grab the madman¡¯s head, slamming it against the wall not once, nor twice, but three times in succession to crack the wood itself. The madman grabbed Dag¡¯s waist with both hands, heedless of the knife still stuck in one of them. He first pushed Dag away, letting loose a barrage of bone-crunching punches.


    And then, with a wink, a grin, and an unspoken promise to see them again, the bald madman used the space created to rush over to the broken window and dive back out into the night, disappearing as quickly as he¡¯d arrived.

 Chapter 26 - She Swallowed Burning Coals

    Mr. Moon lowered the revolver in his hands once it became clear the madman was not returning. In a flash it had started, in a flash it had ended. Dag let out a pained grunt as he stepped away from the broken window. The man had taken a serious beating. Mr. Moon had as well ¨C a fact that his ribs made sure to remind him of. They were cracked at the very least. All that one punch.


    The sound of a match being struck came from the kitchen, and Mr. Moon glanced over in time to see Ms. Miller lighting a cigarette. Outwardly the woman appeared calm, but with a closer look, there was a slight trembling of her fingers that betrayed her inward feelings. Shock, adrenaline, and a bit of distress in the wake of Steve''s death. He could understand. Mr. Moon stooped down low to gather his Sig Sauer from the ground, using his other hand to ease the hammer on the revolver back to a resting position before tossing it back to Ms. Miller.


    Once that was done, Mr. Moon turned his eyes to the body the madman had thrown through the window. It was headless, but the torso was wrapped in a bloodied dress shirt of which an empty pistol holster poked out from under. It was most likely Steve, or what was left of him. The Kevlar the man liked to wear under his dress shirt was missing. The fallen agent¡¯s chest was caved in. The ribs were broken to pieces, and even from where he stood, Mr. Moon could see the man¡¯s heart was missing. That detail alone confirmed the madman was the same assailant behind the gas station murders.


    Still, it was obvious Steve hadn¡¯t died without a fight. The madman was wounded, though not heavily enough to impact his movements. But the blood loss would still matter in the long run, forcing the madman to seek treatment or patch up his own wounds. That would come with obvious risks that could benefit Mr. Moon and what was left of his team. Seeking treatment would force the madman to travel a town over to a hospital or doctor''s office that would ask questions.


    Even though Ms. Miller had been working hard to keep the outside world in the dark, it would still be a large man walking in with a bunch of stab and bullet wounds. It would be immediate grounds for a report to law enforcement. If the madman patched up his own wounds, however, that would come with the risk of the treatment not fully working when being done by an amateur, and this town (plus the surrounding towns) were far too small to have any back-alley doctors strolling around.


    Mr. Moon continued to mull the options around his head, going back and forth between possibilities until his train of thought was abruptly interrupted by Dag¡¯s shout.


    ¡°GUN!¡±


    Mr. Moon whipped around, running over to Dag with his gun drawn. The man was standing in front of the office, his fearsome bulk filling most of the doorway. Dag''s shoulder moved to the side slightly as soon as he sensed Mr. Moon draw close to him, revealing another large man pointing Dag''s Sig Sauer at them both. Mr. Moon''s face remained blank as he studied the situation. Other than the stolen gun the man was not particularly well-armed. In one hand rested the Sig, the other hand held a folding pocketknife. Several of the zip ties restraining Cass Thomson to the chair were already cut through.


    In the tension-filled silence that followed, Mr. Moon came to one conclusion: this man, who was nearly as large as Dag, must have been Cass Thomson¡¯s mystery companion, the same man Steve spotted leaving with the girl after the Chief¡¯s murder.


    "Back. Off." The man''s voice eventually rang out in the office. It was shaky. Scared. But also determined.


    Mr. Moon tilted his head slightly to the side.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid we can¡¯t do that.¡±


    The man blinked. A bead of sweat ran down his brow.


    ¡°I¡¯ll shoot you.¡± The man said.


    ¡°Then we all die.¡± Mr. Moon replied.


    The man held Mr. Moon¡¯s gaze, staring deep into the agent¡¯s eyes. Cass Thomson stayed silent, though her face was a whirlwind mixture of fear and hatred.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Mark¡¯s tongue darted across his dry lips. This was bad. Mega bad. The gun was a horrible deathly weight in his hand. If only that crazy fight had lasted a few more seconds. Two zip ties were left. Once those two were cut, he and Cass could have broken a window and fled. But no. The classic Mark luck kicked in to send the big guy back inside the office looking for his scattered weapons. Then again, the classic Mark luck threw a gun into his own hands. Without that to start a good ol¡¯ Mexican standoff, Cass would probably be dead, and Mark would be figuring out the maximum limits of his healing ability.


    Think, Mark. Think! The silence was deafening. Both of the creepy agents were staring him dead in the eye with their weapons drawn, almost like vipers waiting to see an ounce of weakness in their prey before they struck. One had a shotgun, one had a pistol. What could he do? If Cass had been dead when he walked in, Mark would have been willing to die too. But she was alive. That meant he could die, but Cass needed to live. Just because his life was worthless didn¡¯t mean Cass¡¯s was.


    The pocketknife was cold in his hands, the same feeling as the gun but nowhere near the weight.


    And that was it. For once in his life, Mark could feel a worthwhile idea forming in his head.


    "You two. Starsky and Hutch. I am going to raise my pocket knife. Don''t shoot."


    The thin man, whose body was partially obscured by the larger man¡¯s bulk, cautiously nodded his head. There was a faint gleam of curiosity in his eyes. Frankly, it was the first emotion Mark had seen in the man¡¯s face ever since the standoff began.


    Mark ever so slowly raised his pocketknife in the air, going from waist height to level with his face. It was a gamble. However, this gamble had originated with something Cass had said earlier. It wasn¡¯t completely born out of Mark¡¯s mind. That meant it actually had a chance of working, which wouldn¡¯t have been the case for a ¡®Mark original trademarked plan¡¯.


    Once the pocketknife drew even with his face, Mark halted. This was it. The blade drifted near his left cheek. Then the cold metal bit into his skin. A quick slice ¨C quick to avoid pain, but deep enough to draw plenty of blood for the agents to see. Cass squirmed in her seat as she saw the cut, but Mark flashed a smile to her to say this was all according to his plan. Who knew for sure if this would mean anything to the men opposite of him. But in the movies, when something freaky like that alien happened, the guys in suits were always on the lookout for test subjects.


    The thin agent stared at him for only a moment. Then, his eyes imperceptively widened. The cut on Mark¡¯s face was healing. Mark could feel it healing. The itchy skin knitting back together in seconds.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Mark grinned a sharklike grin, using the motion to hide his sheer pants-crapping terror.


    ¡°This means something to you. This isn¡¯t normal.¡± Mark¡¯s question hung in the air like a guillotine poised to fall over someone¡¯s neck. Whose it was, Mark had no idea yet.


    The agent eventually nodded.


    ¡°Here¡¯s the deal,¡± Mark cautiously ventured once the agent appeared determined to remain silent, ¡°Whatever that alien did to me, I bet that¡¯s what you¡¯re after. I get hurt, my body heals real fast. That ain¡¯t normal. So here¡¯s the deal. I¡¯ll be your test subject or whatever. That¡¯s what you lot usually want, right? You can figure out what that alien can do to normal guys like me. And Cass tells you where the creature is.¡±


    ¡°And in return?¡± The thin man questioned in a lifeless monotone.


    ¡°In return,¡± Mark replied, ¡°You let me and Cass live. You don¡¯t touch Cass no more. Once you get the alien, you leave the town and don¡¯t come back.¡±


    The thin man¡¯s eyes bored into Mark¡¯s own, as if they were tearing through his mind searching for any signs of a lie. Meanwhile, Cass began to struggle against the remaining zip ties, fighting to catch Mark¡¯s eyes. She was angry. He knew why. The thin man killed her dad and now Mark was trying to strike a deal.


    Well, it was either this or have both of them die like dogs bleeding out on the floor of the office. Again, if it was just Mark alone, he would be fine with that. But Cass¡­ she was better than him. She deserved to live, even if Mark didn¡¯t.


    ¡°Very well.¡±


    Mark blinked in surprise. Even though he¡¯d offered the deal, part of him hadn¡¯t expected the man to accept it that readily.


    ¡°But,¡± The man went on, ¡°If Cass Thomson lies about the location of the alien, I hope I do not need to spell out what will happen.¡±


    Mark hesitantly lowered his gun. The two agents did the same, though without any form of hesitation. Then he stepped forward and shook the thin man¡¯s hand. Mark hadn¡¯t the heart to turn around and face Cass. Forcing her to work with her father¡¯s murderer¡­ not only that, but there was a line of blood on her forehead near her hairline, and a lingering sense of fear even Mark could pick up about her. Cass was still wearing her pajamas and windbreaker, for heaven''s sake! His gut raged for him to pulverize the two agents. That was one of the few good things his father had taught him. Never put your hands on a woman. It was a good thing his head was leading the scene for now.


    She would despise him for this. But conversely, Mark also knew she would keep the deal. Not for herself, but for him. That was the thing about Cass. Her rage toward the thin man would never be able to overcome her kindness, even toward a man like Mark, who was only an ex-boyfriend. That was just how Cass was. Her kindness was like a warm, ever-present sun shining down on this cold world.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    The final two zip ties fell off her wrists, but Cass barely felt them in the face of the pure nausea that filled her stomach. Mark was¡­


    She didn¡¯t even know what to think now. The rational part of her brain, the same part that felt like it had taken a backseat these past few days, shouted that Mark was right. Not only would this save the poor guy¡¯s life, but whatever could get those lunatics out of her town the fastest was best. With each day that passed, more people died.


    She didn¡¯t want that. Cass knew almost everyone in the town. To bury more of her neighbors, more of the people she grew up around, it would be agonizing. For her, for their families, for everyone.


    However, the irrational part of her brain still filled with murderous rage and primal fear screamed and raged for her to grab Mark¡¯s gun before he gave it back to the big guy and shoot Mr. Moon in the head, consequences be damned. Only a few minutes ago that monster in the shape of a man was torturing her. How did that lead to cooperation? At any moment he could go right back to doing that. Cass could still feel it. The water seeping through the cloth on her face drowning her on dry land. The rushing tide of panic overwhelmed all other feelings, stripping them away to uncover that primal, base emotion of pure terror. Those men couldn¡¯t be trusted.


    Those two parts of her brain relentlessly brawled for dominance. Hatred of Mr. Moon. Dread at the possibility of more torture. Fear for her friends and neighbors. Desire to save Mark¡¯s life.


    But then Cass caught Mark¡¯s eye, and the irrational part of her brain was finally suppressed for just the briefest of moments. He was so scared, and so worried about her. Something in Cass¡¯s chest broke like glass. Somehow, she would still try to get revenge after this was all over if she could. But Mark¡­ she couldn¡¯t do this to him. Whatever resolve she¡¯d had in that bush was gone now, swept away by her concern for Mark. Those men couldn''t be trusted¡­ but they were laser-focused on the alien. Maybe if they got it back, combined with whatever they could learn from Mark, maybe that would be enough for them. Hah. A pipe dream, really. A pipe dream built on fragile hope. If it worked, it worked. If not, Cass could get a little bit more time alive to think of a new plan, at least.


    ¡°Fine.¡± Cass hoarsely muttered. Just saying that word alone felt like she was swallowing burning coals. ¡°Moon or whatever your name is, you are a son of a bitch coward that shot my dad in the back for nothing. But for Mark, I¡¯ll do it. That alien you were asking about; we hid it in the old Henryks farm in the barn. A few miles away from here. You grab it and get out of my town. I hope you rot in the depths of Hell for eternity.¡±


    She hated those words, even the insulting ones. Merely speaking with the coward, much less agreeing to work with him, it felt like she was betraying her dad. Was this it? Giving up on avenging his death just like this? After all Mr. Moon had done? It was disgusting. It felt like her entire body was being bathed in sewer slime that would never come off no matter how many showers Cass took. But she just couldn¡¯t. She couldn¡¯t. It wasn¡¯t just her alone. If it was, this would have ended in a hail of gunfire like she originally intended. But she wasn¡¯t alone in this right now. Mark needed help to get out of this alive, just as he was oh so transparently trying to help her.


    She couldn¡¯t do this to him. Not anymore. Her resolve was gone, and Cass hated herself for it. Her resolve had been drowned under that rag; the corpse of that resolve being tossed aside by what she saw in Mark¡¯s eyes.


    Oblivious to her internal struggle, or perhaps just utterly apathetic to it, Mr. Moon nodded his head, already appearing to be quite comfortable with the deal Mark made.


    ¡°Very well. We will go there immediately. You will join us.¡±


    It was pretty obvious his words were not an invitation, but a requirement.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    His body stung. It was like a thousand bees were pushing the stingers on their butts right into Jack¡¯s flesh. But that was the price of a really good fight like he¡¯d just had. Jack smiled and squeezed the tube of superglue over yet another one of the myriad of wounds that littered his body. Being forced to retreat from a fight. He could count the number of times that had happened on the fingers of one hand. There was that one time he fought his demons in the police station¡­ then there was that other time with the cartel after he ate that leader guy. Tasty, but a bit stringy in parts while other parts had a bit too much fat. The cocaine in the guy''s system added a bit of spice to the cuisine. Five stars out of ten, wouldn''t eat again.


    ¡°I dunno, what do you two think?" Jack abruptly asked the other two. No response. Jack looked over to the couch. He could see them lying there. Lazy bones, the both of them.


    There was something about that house. The two lizardmen that the woman had fled to were strong. The man Jack fought in the basement was strong. Jack appreciated that, but the presence of so many strong men was an anomaly in a town like this. Then there was the girl. The one he¡¯d glimpsed tied to a chair in the side room. She was not there of her own will. Jack could smell it ¨C a mixed stench of fear and murderous rage, though the former overpowered the latter almost entirely. Information was being dragged out of her. How interesting.


    His opponents were professionals. Professional killer lizardmen stuffed in suits. They were used to blood and death. Back in Miami, that would be expected. The filthy streets of the city swarmed with gangbangers, cartel members, shadow demons, lizardmen, and spiderwomen. But in a small town? An anomaly. This was the reason his friends from the news sent him here. Those lizards were up to something. It would take patience, but Jack knew if he watched carefully, he could find out precisely what that something was.


    So, Jack continued to apply superglue to his wounds, staring out the window to the lizard house in the distance, watching and waiting for something to happen. The two rotting corpses on the couch, a man and a woman, said nothing throughout all of this. The house was as quiet as a grave.

 Chapter 27 - Bad Company

    The Henryks farm. Mr. Moon didn¡¯t recognize the name at all, but that did not mean much. The country was filled with old farmsteads, both ones still being actively worked and ones rotting away to nothing in both the physical sense and in the sense of memory. Frankly, the hiding spot was not bad at all. Out of the way, unknown to most, and assuming by the word ¡®old¡¯ that preceded the name of the farm, it was also unused. If the girl and the boy had been killed before the information got out, then the alien very might have well been hidden away forever.


    That was another welcome boon gained from his decision to accept Mark¡¯s deal. Boon it was, but the newfound cooperation was still covered in a veil of awkward air from the boy, combined with the piercing glare of Cass Thomson. She seemed on the verge of snapping at any moment, a feeling Mr. Moon truly did understand. He murdered her father. Revenge would be natural. He had a feeling her revenge would happen eventually, but not in the near future. The girl¡¯s concern for Mark and the rest of the town outweighed her desire for revenge. Once that was taken care of¡­ the ¡®eventually¡¯ part would probably come up soon after that. But by then his job would be over and it wouldn¡¯t matter which one of them died. It wouldn¡¯t matter at all.


    A grunt of pain came from the kitchen. Dag was sitting on the edge of the table while Ms. Miller affixed a makeshift splint to his left arm. Nothing was broken to speak of, but the agent¡¯s hand-to-hand brawl with the madman was rough enough to fracture the bone in several places. Medical attention would have been better, but it would have to do. Now that the location of the alien was known, no time could be wasted. Not even if Mr. Moon was fairly certain the people in this house were the only ones with knowledge of the location. Who could tell if Lady Luck would smile at the Russians all of a sudden? They couldn¡¯t even afford to wait for the police Ms. Miller had called in before the fight to arrive.


    ¡°So¡­¡± Mark¡¯s awkward voice interrupted Mr. Moon¡¯s musing. He turned to face the boy, wordlessly prompting him to finish voicing the question.


    Mark glanced down at his own body, visibly hesitating before continuing to speak.


    ¡°What did it do to me? Is this supposed to happen? Am I still human?¡±


    Mr. Moon stared at him for a moment longer, choosing his words carefully before he answered. Mark was now a viable test subject and would naturally find out parts of the project in the future. The question remained, how much to voice aloud, for walls could have ears when least expected.


    ¡°The Nirvana Project,¡± Mr. Moon cautiously began, ¡°Is a government initiative centered around the abilities that alien possesses. It cannot be killed by any method we have tried so far. Any wound it experiences heals in seconds, minutes, or even hours depending on the severity. Our goal is to understand that ability and find a way to transfer it to a human subject. You appear to be a successful case. Your remaining humanity is a question for the scientists to debate.¡±


    The house was silent. Dag was busy unrolling his shirt sleeve to cover the makeshift splint as best as he could, while Ms. Miller had put out her cigarette in a nearby ashtray and was busy reloading her revolver. Meanwhile, Mark and Cass were staring at Mr. Moon with eyes wide open.


    ¡°A successful case¡­¡± Cass eventually muttered. Her wonder had swiftly faded into distrust, which she openly cast onto Mr. Moon. ¡°Is Mark the first? Is something going to happen to him?¡±


    ¡°I wonder.¡± Mr. Moon said noncommittedly. ¡°No other test subject has survived this long.¡±


    The silence following those words would have been suffocating for an ordinary person, but Mr. Moon simply brushed it aside and turned toward the kitchen. Now that the location was known, they had to act fast. Speed was their greatest ally considering his team was weakened and the cooperation with Mark and Cass was tenuous at best. The girl was resourceful, but only the barest of threads prevented her from acting out on a desire for revenge.


    If the situation changed to make them enemies again, things would become¡­ complicated. Even Mr. Moon was not entirely sure how to permanently stop Mark. No. This needed to be done and dusted before those two could get ideas or either of the two other enemy groups could complicate things further. Keeping ahold of this newfound advantage, as faint as it may be, was everything now.


    ¡°Ms. Miller,¡± Mr. Moon said, ¡°Ready your equipment. Direct police reinforcements to the Henryks farm. Tell them to proceed with all speed but with due caution. As soon as the alien is secured, work with Mr. Sun to set up a handoff point. Once the alien is placed in a black site, we¡¯ll call in backup and do a full sweep of the town. The lunatic has been reckless and making enough big moves that we can use dealing with him as our official reason to get involved. It¡¯s already far beyond what any local police force could realistically handle, so calling in the FBI to take over is only natural. Then we can flush out the Russians with a full team. With the alien out of the way, there shouldn''t be any risk of leaks by then.¡±


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    That cold man talked about it all so easily. Mark¡¯s survival being a miracle. Some sort of lunatic government project. Bringing in another team of men with guns to kill all the Russians. Death. Murder. Cover. Black sites. It was a whole ¡®nother world and Cass was knee-deep in the thick of it all. Even though the thought of putting a bullet in the head of Mr. Moon had been dominating Cass¡¯s mind for days now, it still was hard to believe the FBI agent could speak of all that like a neighbor idly discussing the weather.


    There was no more discussion after that. Mark was clearly unsettled after hearing about the ''Nirvana Project''. He kept staring at his hands as if he expected his own body to start falling apart any second. It was more information than Cass expected to get. This was¡­ Mark truly was important if he was the only person to live this long.


    The woman, who''d briskly introduced herself as Ms. Miller, finished loading her revolver and turned toward gathering up a portable radio set. The larger man, Dag, had mostly covered the splint on his arm with the sleeve of his suit jacket. He¡¯d retrieved his handgun from Mark, and it was nestled in the holster strapped to the underside of his shoulder. Both her and Mark¡¯s hands were empty of weapons. If the agents wanted to kill them¡­ this would be the time.


    Yet, they didn¡¯t. As casually as Mr. Moon, Dag, and Ms. Miller seemed around the idea of murder, Cass and Mark still drew breath. It was¡­ It made Cass¡¯s head hurt. They seemed genuinely willing to hold up their end of the deal. Was Mark worth that much as a test subject? He had to be. Otherwise, once the location of the farm was out, they would have been killed just like her dad.


    As Cass¡¯s thoughts continued to rise into a rolling boil inside her head, Mr. Moon launched into another set of orders. They were to drive to the farm. Two cars, with Mark and Cass kept separate. An obvious safety measure just in case they were lying about the location. She would be in the car with Mr. Moon, while Ms. Miller, Dag, and Mark were in her dad¡¯s squad car. The successful retrieval of the alien was paramount. All other objectives were secondary. She could understand that now. Though Mr. Moon was still tight-lipped about the precise details of the Nirvana Project, it was still obvious to her that what happened to Mark was far more serious than Cass ever could have imagined before.


    If, and that was a bit ¡®if¡¯, that ability could be freely transferred? Well, on the bright side, it could eradicate disease, wounds, and maybe even death. On the other side¡­ Cass could already imagine soldiers being doped up on that stuff and being sent to fight in the front lines, undying warriors that any nation would eventually fold against. In retrospect, her dad¡¯s death made sense. The implications of the project succeeding were huge. The implications of the news spreading prematurely were even bigger than that.


    The nation possessing that power would become the only superpower in the world, a hegemon above all others. If news got out before it was ready, well, the world had already been on the brink of nuclear holocaust with the Cuban Missile Crisis in the 60s. This would be worse. No other nation would allow America to complete the project, and for good reason.


    That, however, did nothing to soothe Cass''s feelings. It only put what she knew into a fresh context. Her desire for revenge still burned bright, even as she slid into the passenger seat of Mr. Moon''s car. It was just¡­Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    Her mind was at war. The rational and the irrational sides of it locked in deadly combat. There was a shotgun rack in the backseat of the car. She could see it in the rearview mirror. Cass could almost hear the guns calling out to her, whispering in alluring tones for her to wait for Mr. Moon to be distracted, sneak back, somehow get the rack open, and see what a shotgun could do to a human skull. Would it be like blowing up a rotten pumpkin? Or would the bone still be intact after?


    Would she feel better?


    Then reason took over. She couldn¡¯t try anything. Mark seemed valuable as a test subject but who knew how far that protection would stretch? If Cass tried to kill Mr. Moon, Mark would doubtlessly help her. Would that overshadow his usefulness? No. No way. She¡¯d been over this over and over in her head. Cass couldn¡¯t do anything at all. Her hands were figuratively tied.


    The car lurched into motion as she thought. Cass wasn¡¯t in the mood for conversation, and Mr. Moon was naturally taciturn, so the vehicle was silent other than the quiet rumble of the engine.


    She hated this. Every second she sat in the car next to that monster trying to play nice, she hated it.


    The town faded away, soon replaced by suburbs. That too quickly fell away in the rearview mirror as the city limits were reached, then replaced by trees and the country roads Cass knew so well. Every so often Cass would break the silence to give a brief set of directions, which Mr. Moon would wordlessly obey. The man was watchful, eyes darting around the road searching for movement. Heck, he wasn¡¯t just watchful, he looked downright paranoid. Glancing at shadows moving under the headlights, keeping the radio off to listen for noises, and staring into the darkness between the shadowy trees.


    The butt of his gun poked out from under his suit jacket. It was within easy reach of the man. All he had to do was move his right hand away from the steering wheel, dip it under the jacket, pull it out, and shoot her. If she was a betting girl, Cass would bet cash money that Mr. Moon could do all of that before she could react. On the other hand, she could try and grab it for herself. Lunge over, take the gun, shoot the bastard. The range would be a negligible factor in the accuracy of the shot. The main concern would be if he had time to put up a fight. Could she do it? Was Cass fast enough? The stupid, hotheaded, irrational part of Cass¡¯s brain urged her to do it. Steal his gun. Do it. The gun. Steal. Now.


    Cass blinked. Just like that, in the blink of an eye, reason grabbed the talking stick and took the stage center in the theater of her mind. Forget putting her brain into two different rational or irrational parts, this was more like putting the really bad decision on one side of her palm, the really good decision on the other, and rapidly flipping her palm back and forth. Which side would it land on? Cass didn¡¯t know. Back of her palm. Front of her palm.


    Flip it. Flip it again. Be stupid, take the gun. Be smart, leave it be, and cooperate. It was crazy. Cass had been over this a number of times of which the total sum she wasn''t even sure of anymore. Ten times? Three times? A hundred? Back at the house when the deal was offered. During the explanation of the project. In the bush. Why was she still going over this? It felt like each time a decision started to feel firm in Cass¡¯s head, an hour, a half hour, or even ten minutes would pass, and the question would come right back with a different answer to boot. The nasty voice in the depths of her head, slithering right back inside her ears whispering to let it all go to Hell.


    She stared out of the window as hard as she could, without heeding how the straining of her eyes began to summon slight stabbing pains near the front of her brain. So what? It could join the party, seated to the right of the ringing in her ears and to the left of the spot of honor, the painful throbbing sensation near the top of her forehead where Mr. Moon¡¯s pistol connected with her skull. It hurt then. It still hurt now.


    Trees whipped past. How fast were they going? Cass wanted to look over to the speedometer, but that would put the handgun back in plain sight. Could she even trust herself with that view anymore? Soon the darkness between the trees started to blend into one. Blurring the trees together, it practically made the wooden trunks fade away into a state of perfect invisibility. All that stretched past that window was a land of ink far removed from the world where Cass existed inside the confines of the quiet car.


    There were no bushes, branches, side roads, gravel, animals, nothing. It was all one, an entirely separate world she could see from the other side of a window. If she rolled it down, would it enter the car? It was already silent inside the vehicle. The night outside felt silent to her as well, though Cass couldn''t be certain until the window was rolled down. Perhaps there could be birds singing, ones that would break the spell of the night.


    But what if it entered the car? The trees were already blurred together into nothing. Would she join them? Forever part of that charcoal fabric stretching out further into reality than she could ever comprehend? That would be nice, sinking right into it like a cushy couch after a long day at school with a soft blanket wrapped snugly around her shoulders. Or would it? The worst part was Cass didn¡¯t know for sure anymore.


    The harder Cass¡¯s eyes strained to distract from her grasping thoughts about the gun, the more it seemed like the ink outside was slipping right through the window. Yet, she hadn¡¯t opened it. Neither of her hands were touching the handle near the bottom third of the car door that would roll down the window. The window was up. How did it get through?


    Cass blinked once, then twice, but on the third she kept her eyes closed. She could feel it now. Similar to how her stray thoughts grasped to redirect her brain toward taking the gun, the inky darkness grasped at her body to pull her into some kind of dream. She didn''t know for sure if it truly was a dream, but it felt like it would be. A dream where her dad was still alive, Mark was still at college, and Cass got a job at the diner.


    It wasn¡¯t the first time she¡¯d had that dream. This was, however, the first time it arrived while she was awake.


    Or was Cass awake right now? The entire ordeal was surreal. One day she was on the brink of finishing her last year at high school, the next she was questioning her own sanity in the car of a remorseless killer driving to a farmhouse with an alien tucked in the barn. Some sort of Russian kill squad was roaming around town, and a heart-eating mass-murderer was doing mass-murdery things all about the place. Wasn¡¯t that crazy? That was a chain of events only movies would bother to put forward. Aliens, a revenge subplot, drama, whatever. It was li-


    A pair of familiar eyes emerged from the world on the other side of the window. Chief Thomson. Cass Thomson¡¯s father. Her dad. He looked at her from the other side of the window. No words, just staring. His stare was the only thing different ¨C a small blip of a face in a sea of darkness. Dad stared right at her. His blazing ginger hair felt like it lit up a small part of that world, from the top of his head right on down to his funny little mustache. His eyes, they said something, but for the life of her, Cass was not sure what that was. Condemnation? Reassurance? Driving her to revenge? Beseeching her to let it go? Grab the gun? Get justice through the law?


    Cass stared back at him like a deer caught in the headlights. Her dad did not blink. Yet his eyes ¨C his eyes were so expressive. They spoke of a world of conversation if she could only just understand. If she could hear what his eyes were saying, if not for the pane of glass separating them both! Cass waved. Her arms felt like limp pasta noodles, but what strength she could summon into her muscles was barely enough to move them into action.


    Nothing was different. Her dad¡¯s face poked out of the world on the other side of the window. Was he actually there? He was not waving back. Why couldn¡¯t she understand what his face was saying? Then there was movement. Her dad¡¯s arms reached up to reveal his favorite cowboy hat held in a palm. The hat moved up and was casually deposited on top of his head. It looked like any moment he¡¯d speak to crack some dumb pun, tip his hat, and head on back to work. But there was no sound. Chief Thomson turned around, hat still perched snugly on his head, and walked off, fading away into the darkness.


    Cass forced her eyes open, and ¡®bam¡¯, just like that, the trees snapped back into view. The world of ink was gone, replaced by a twilight that was swiftly fading into the darkness of the night. The dream, as short as it was, it too disappeared like water spilling out of her cupped palm. Before long it was nothing but faint snippets in the deepest corners of her mind. Yet, those snippets lingered, like the tinnitus picked up from the gunfire and the probable concussion picked up from Mr. Moon.


    The silence was more than suffocating now. If something more than suffocating was possible, that is. Smothering? Choking? Similar words but they felt different. She was less than a foot or two away from the person she hated most in the world. Cass wished that Mark was in the car with them, if only to slightly ease the tension, but she knew they were split up for a reason. Keeping the eggs from being in a single basket while preventing the two from plotting. Simple, yet clever. The question of Cass¡¯s safety would keep Mark in line. The question of Mark¡¯s safety (even though he had that alien weirdness about him) would keep Cass in line.


    Almost as if to break the silence on cue, Mr. Moon let out a shout of alarm, spinning the steering wheel in his hands to evade something Cass couldn¡¯t quite make out in the darkness. She could only tell it was moving fast. A fraction of a second later a terrible impact tore into the car, driving the breath clean from Cass''s lungs. The silence was gone, replaced by the screaming of car engines, the crunching of metal bending, and the brittle sounds of glass breaking. Dimly, in the back of her mind that was separated from all the sudden chaos, Cass could hear the crunch of metal and glass that spoke of another car colliding with the one Mark was in.


    Cass had no time to ponder over that information. The world turned topsy-turvy, the car skidding back from whatever force struck it until Cass¡¯s side of the vehicle smashed against a tree bringing the vehicle to an abrupt stop, and sending shards of broken glass from the car window slicing into her cheek.

 Chapter 28 - Crucifix Of Light

    The stolen two-seater Chevrolet pickup truck slammed into the side of the FBI agent¡¯s Buick to a shrieking chorus of broken glass and crumpled metal. Vladischov was out of the vehicle¡¯s cab in a flash ¨C while the impact had been brutal, unlike his prey he was ready for it. What pain he felt kept him sharp through the mild concussion he could feel in his brain. Not optimal, but the pain from the seat belt-induced friction burn on his shoulder counteracted it for now.


    Still, no time to waste. In the corner of his eye, Vladischov could see the remains of his team dragging themselves out of the second stolen pickup truck they¡¯d used to ram the other car. Speed, power, and surprise. That was the best way Vladischov could think of to counter the FBI team after the thrashing they¡¯d received in the most recent skirmish.


    A sense of disgust bordering on disappointment swirled in his gut, threatening to mix with and ruin the half-bottle of vodka he''d downed prior to the operation''s start. Two strong men lost in a flash ¨C one of them being the team¡¯s sniper to boot. It was bad enough that Vladischov had been forced to add their helicopter pilot to their ground forces team to make up for the differences in numbers. There was no choice in the matter. Ms. Orlova was a fine agent, but two people were not enough to do what needed to be done.


    Bah.


    Vladischov stalked over to the wrecked car, nose wrinkling in disgust from the harsh stench of spilled gasoline. Was it from the car or his truck? He couldn''t say for sure. Movement came from the driver''s seat of the car and Vladischov''s pump-action shotgun was ready in a flash. The weapon, a Mossberg 500 pump-action shotgun, was perfect for such close quarters. After a hacksaw did its work to shorten the barrel and cut off the stock, the shotgun would not only still pack a lethal punch, but it was also incredibly easy to conceal under a coat.


    Shouts came from the other car, swiftly followed by the sound of a different Mossberg discharging once, then more shouts. Vladischov risked a glance over at the commotion, if only for a second.


    Fortune was with him. At the very moment Vladischov glanced over, he saw the thin agent¡¯s partner tearing his way out of the front seat of the car, heavily bloodied yet alive. The mountain of a man¡¯s hands closed around Mrs. Orlova¡¯s throat in a heartbeat, even as she struggled to bring her arms up to stop him. The shotgun in her hands had been lost at some point in the chaos. The helicopter pilot, a mercenary named Danten, hastily spun to face them both while firing wildly with his pistol.


    Something stirred once more from the cab, and for the second time in the span of half a minute, fortune was with Vladischov. The driver of the black-painted Buick was halfway through drawing his gun by the time Vladischov¡¯s attention snapped back, allowing the bulky Russian just enough time to surge forward and knock the weapon out of the man¡¯s hand in a disarming strike.


    Then in a split second, the thin FBI agent changed tactics, lunging out of the broken car window to catch Vladischov in a tackle made feeble by shock and injuries sustained in the wreck. The thin man¡¯s hands frantically wrestled with Vladischov¡¯s grip in a desperate last-ditch attempt to gain the advantage by taking the shotgun. It was a decent strategy. Without his handgun, the agent would have been at the mercy of Vladischov¡¯s Mossberg if he didn¡¯t immediately close the distance. Not that he wanted to use it in the first place.


    Danten¡¯s weapon discharged five times while Vladischov threw away the shotgun in favor of landing several punches on the thin man¡¯s face, followed by a bone-crunching smack of his forehead slamming into the FBI agent¡¯s nose. The agent¡¯s grip weakened. Vladischov¡¯s face morphed into a sadistic grin. Several more punches were enough to make his opponent¡¯s hands fall away completely. Another two strikes saw the man¡¯s eyes lose focus. Vladischov rose, watching for a heartbeat to enjoy the sight of his enemy lying in a puddle of his own blood. It truly was enjoyable. Vladischov stooped once more to retrieve his Mossberg, pointing it right at the torso of the FBI agent as he feebly attempted to rise.


    That small movement stilled soon enough once the agent came face to face with the barrels of the shotgun, and he raised his hands in surrender.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    Mr. Moon stared at the cold barrel of the shotgun in the Russian¡¯s grip. A small part of his brain, perhaps the part affected most by the shock of the crash and the following brawl, idly pondered how fickle fortune could be sometimes. What was that saying¡­ Murphy¡¯s law, was it? Anything that can go wrong will go wrong. It was an adage Mr. Moon tried to always keep in mind, but one could not plan for every eventuality. He¡¯d taken into consideration the possibility of a Russian ambush, but with all the other constraints piled onto his shoulders, there had only been so much he could have done to prevent one.


    At a second look, this was a good enough spot for an ambush. Darkness, plentiful tree cover, and a side road not clearly visible from the main road Mr. Moon had been on. All one had to do was simply wait on the side road with the headlights turned off and keep a careful watch. There would be few cars on the road at this time, if any at all, so hearing the rumble of an engine in the distance would be easy. Doubtlessly there was some network of side roads that allowed the Russians to get ahead of Mr. Moon and his team from wherever they had been spying from.


    Moreover, it seemed they¡¯d filled one of the gaps in their ranks. Mr. Moon could see the new man in the corner of his eye. The man appeared rather ordinary, wearing a dark blue button-up polo and a pair of tan khakis. It wasn¡¯t an assembly of clothing one normally would expect to see in the present company, but looks could be deceiving. And judging by the fact that the new man had shot Dag five times in the head without blinking, they were quite deceiving.


    Losing Dag was a problem. The man was a powerful ally capable of going toe-to-toe with just about any man in a straight-out brawl or shootout. Though, by the looks of it, Dag had managed to take one of the Russians with him. Her neck still clutched in Dag¡¯s massive bear-like hands, the Russian woman Mr. Moon had spotted fleeing from the ambush a few days ago was deathly still. In his last act, Dag had succeeded in crushing her throat before the man in the polo could finish the job.


    Unless the Russians had any more assets in play, the scarred man and the man in the polo were the final two. Unfortunately, with the loss of Dag and, assumably, Ms. Miller as well, Mr. Moon also had no other assets in play than himself, Cass, and Mark ¨C if the two teens could even be called assets. In one day, his team of FBI agents was annihilated. Fickle fortune indeed.


    ¡°Put these on.¡± The shotgun-wielding Russian spoke in a gravelly voice, tossing a pair of handcuffs onto Mr. Moon¡¯s lap.


    Mr. Moon remained silent but slowly acquiesced. While he did so, a few more pieces of the puzzle fit into his head.


    Namely, the Russians did not seem to know Mr. Moon was on his way right at that moment to retrieve the alien. If they did, he would be dead by now. So would Cass Thomson, who by the muffled groaning sounds coming from the cab of his car, was still alive as well. Was this what his ex-wife would call irony? The farm was about five minutes from their current location, but the Russians didn¡¯t know it at all.


    So that meant¡­ yes. The next stop was probably a safe house, where he and Cass Thomson would be tortured for what they knew. The Russians had to have been following them, watching and waiting for any one of Mr. Moon¡¯s team to leave the city limits for the relative isolation of the country roads. They couldn¡¯t have known for sure that it would actually happen, but after their latest ambush failed it was likely the only option left for the Russians.


    The handcuffs cinched tight around his wrists. Mr. Moon was roughly hauled up, while the man in the polo joined them.


    ¡°It¡¯s done.¡± The man spoke with quiet tones. He had an American accent, but that hardly spoke of much. Any accent could be changed with enough time and effort.


    Mr. Moon kept his expression in a tight poker face. So, killing everyone in the second car was their plan from the start. It made sense. With only three Russians in total, trying to capture Dag, Ms. Miller, and Mark along with Mr. Moon and Cass Thomson would have been much too risky. One agent and one civilian would be a much more manageable number. Their plan was a mixture of risk and extreme daring, two things that had suffused every one of the Russian''s plans from the start.


    Something more interesting than that was that the Russians did not appear to know about Mark¡¯s¡­ situation.


    Interesting indeed. Mr. Moon kept his poker face up in an unwavering front to prevent any information from leaking out. The girl understandably had no resistance to torture. Thus the Russians would inevitably find the farm. Once they took control of the alien, both he and Cass Thomson would be dead. But they did not know the boy had the ability to survive what would normally not be possible.


    Not only that, but when, not if, the location of the alien was divulged, the Russians would face a choice. Mr. Moon and Cass Thomson could not be disposed of until the alien was safely in their hands. Until that happened, there would be a possibility of the location being a lie. The Russians could not let their only leads on the alien die before they found it. Meaning, that either the Russians would have to take one or both of them to the farm, or they would have to split their forces so that one man guarded their prisoners in a safe house while the other retrieved the creature.


    Of course, there was a third possibility, in which both men went to the farm after leaving their prisoners in a secured room, but that would be a slight bit too foolish for the Russians to do. They would never consider leaving a captured FBI agent unguarded.


    The chances of survival were slim, but if Mr. Moon was correct in his assumptions, there was still a chance. A slim chance of escape, and a much larger chance that Mark would revive at some point later on, whether that be a minute from now or in a few hours. Moreover, there were also the police. Before leaving the former Chief¡¯s house, Ms. Miller had directed them to the farm. The Russians would win in a straight gunfight, but theirs was a presence potentially uncounted for, another domino in the lineup waiting to fall.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    Cass¡¯s head pounded worse than ever before. After the impact, it felt like she was floating free in outer space, at least until a rough set of hands grabbed her, cuffed her (again), and flung her into the back seat of Mr. Moon¡¯s car. Soon after that, the chief scumbag himself, Mr. Moon, was flung in right beside her, his bruised and bloodied body slamming to a halt against the now-empty shotgun rack that took up a third of the back seat.


    Any hopes of being able to heartily congratulate whoever had given Mr. Moon such a beating shriveled up and died with the entrance of a scarred man, brutal but with a calculating look in his eyes, sliding into the driver¡¯s seat of Mr. Moon¡¯s car. The passenger door opened, revealing another man who, wearing a button-up polo shirt, looked extremely out of place amongst the suits the other men wore.


    Cass whipped her head over to look at Mr. Moon in alarm. Around the mask of blood covering his face, the man¡¯s expression was as empty and composed as usual. That expression on his face did more to fill Cass with a feeling of unrelenting fear than anything else that had happened in the past few days. After the recent chaos, blood, and death, that man still looked composed.


    ¡°Ooohh, nice toys,¡± The man in the polo murmured, a note of surprise creeping into his voice as he admired the brutalist pump-action shotguns liberated from the rack, ¡°A pair of Franchi SPAS-12 shotguns. They really do give you feds the good stuff. This car¡¯s great too. Can¡¯t believe it¡¯s in better shape than our trucks even after all that. Crazy, huh? The wonders of taxpayer dollars. Not that I pay taxes, of course.¡±


    The man in the polo playfully held out his hand to shake, grinning as both Cass and Mr. Moon simply stared at him in response. On Cass¡¯s much more readable face, the unspoken words of ¡®I¡¯m in handcuffs and you¡¯re a lunatic, how the heck do you expect me to shake your hand¡¯ were plain for all to see.


    ¡°Hiya. The name¡¯s Danten. I¡¯m a ¡®copter pilot by trade, but very soon I¡¯ll be your own very special interrogator for the day. You two and me, we¡¯re gonna get real acquainted then. I can¡¯t wait for you to meet Besty. Best pair of pliers I¡¯ve ever owned!¡±


    Oh cripes. It took all of Cass¡¯s remaining strength to avoid saying that out loud. No doubt her face betrayed all the fear she felt, but Cass still didn¡¯t want to give that freak the satisfaction of hearing her voice that fear as well.


    Once the two men in front turned their attention back to the road, and to extracting the car out of the mess the wreck had left it in, Cass sneaked another glance at Mr. Moon. At first glance, his eyes still appeared calm. But that wasn¡¯t all. The more she looked at him, the more Cass became certain. There was a calculating look hidden deep in his eyes. Mr. Moon still had a plan even after how wrong it had all gone.


    And as much as she hated relying on the scumbag, Cass couldn¡¯t see any other option.


    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


    As it turned out, Mr. Moon was right. After a few turns to switch from the country road to a barely maintained dirt road in the middle of nowhere, the next stop was indeed something that could be called a ¡®safe house¡¯. In this case, it was more of a depilated structure masquerading as a sort of house instead of an actual house, but at the end of the day it was a roof with four walls that no one else knew about. In essence, a safe house. No matter how run-down it was. Several more vehicles, all with broken windows, sat outside the house.


    There were enough stolen cars to last the Russian¡¯s reckless tactics for a while. They had to be from homes in the country or from the surrounding towns. Otherwise, reports would have made their way to the Carlson PD by now.


    He and the girl were callously hauled out of the backseat of his damaged, yet still-running car. Department-provided vehicles were always much sturdier than one would initially assume, which was one of the perks of the job. In this case, his Buick had merely limped out of the crash, while the two pickup trucks the Russians brought were reduced to non-functional wrecks on the side of the road.


    The Russians kept them both stumbling forward across the weed-covered gravel driveway as quickly as their legs would work. The outside walls of the house soon faded away to reveal the inside, covered with peeling cigarette-stained wallpaper, vines curling through broken windows, and chipped wooden floors. It was a classic two-room house in the country. By his guess, it was built sometime in the 40s, considering it actually had wallpaper. Any older and the great depression wouldn¡¯t have allowed money to purchase luxuries like wallpaper, any newer and the wallpaper would be in better shape.


    The main room, which would be best classified as a combination of a living room and kitchen, was derelict. Two chairs and no other furniture to speak of. In the corner was an oven with its door ripped clean off. Some sort of bird nest was inside the oven, empty for now. Near the back of the room was the only new thing in the house ¨C what looked to be a solid wooden door, untouched by nature and connected to the wall by a set of brand-new hinges.


    That room, Mr. Moon assumed, was where he and the girl would be held. Within seconds, his assumption was found correct. The helicopter pilot, Danten, put his palm on the doorknob to ease it open without a sound, with not even a single squeak of protest coming from the hinges. Either they were freshly greased, or the hinges were even newer than brand-new.


    Past the wooden door was a second room, one that was as bare as the first aside from a steel table and chair, and an iron support beam stretching from the floor (concrete, instead of wooden like the rest of the house) to the ceiling. There were no windows, and contrary to the appearance of the rest of the house, the walls looked well-maintained. Perhaps Dag could have broken through them, but that feat was beyond Mr. Moon¡¯s abilities.


    Mr. Moon and Cass were shoved into the room, the girl landing with a sickening ¡®thump¡¯ and a yelp on the concrete floor, while Mr. Moon stumbled to keep upright. Keeping one¡¯s balance when the hands were cuffed behind the back required a good deal of dexterity to be applied. He¡¯d learned that at Quantico, the FBI training facility, many years ago.


    The sound of metal settling against wood was next, the bulky Russian having set aside his sawed-off Mossberg against the doorframe in favor of pulling out a Sig Sauer from his waistband. Mr. Moon recognized the familiar black metal pistol instantly. It was his, stolen after the wreck. He knew the magazine held 17 rounds. It would be more than enough to kill them both several times over.


    ¡°Listen closely and carefully.¡± The man spoke with a thick Russian accent. ¡°Danten is going to temporarily remove your handcuffs. Then you are to shuffle toward the support beam, very slowly, and then you will put your wrists next to it. After that, he will cuff you to the pole. If you try to escape, I will shoot you. If you try to hold Danten hostage, I will shoot you. If you use him as a shield, I will shoot through him to shoot you. I would rather not do that as he is a better pilot than I.¡±


    Danten sheepishly shrugged. ¡°Vladischov will do it. Please don¡¯t make him. I kinda like living.¡±


    Mr. Moon carefully nodded. His mind tucked away that name. Vladischov. It was good to link a name to a face. He didn¡¯t recognize the name, but maybe he would in the future. As slow as could be, Mr. Moon shuffled toward the beam. After a brief second, Cass¡¯s footsteps followed him. Good. The girl did not seem willing to do anything stupid. Her life was still important for keeping Mark in line and as insurance in the instance they lied when telling him of the farm.


    Rough hands made the handcuffs fall off his left wrist, before his hands were dragged closer to the pole and the cuffs were fastened back around his wrist. Mr. Moon glanced back as the same was done for Cass Thomson. The cuffs were around the pole, putting the length of metal between his back and his hands. Without removing the cuffs, the pole, or somehow sneaking the key, he was going nowhere anytime soon.


    Then a hand dipped into Mr. Moon¡¯s pocket, pulling out his wallet, two paper clips, and a handful of spare bullets for his Sig Sauer. The wallet and the bullets were tossed to Vladischov, while the paper clips fell into Danten¡¯s pocket after the man gave Mr. Moon a cheeky grin.


    ¡°Sneaky man.¡± Danten chuckled, ¡°Think about picking the lock after we left? Sneaky.¡±


    Mr. Moon made a slight shrugging motion with his shoulders but otherwise did not respond. Anything he voiced aloud, any emotions he let flicker across his face, those would be puzzle pieces the Russians could use to gain more of an advantage than they already did.


    Next, Danten searched Cass Thomson¡¯s pockets, revealing nothing aside from a small penknife. The man tucked it into his pocket and turned to Vladischov.


    ¡°All clean big man.¡±


    Vladischov looked up from where he had been studying the contents of Mr. Moon¡¯s wallet.


    ¡°Now that you aren¡¯t sniping at us from a block away, I see you are a rather bland man.¡± Vladischov grinned, withdrawing several things from the wallet. ¡°Cash, that goes without saying. A driver¡¯s license. It says your real name is Mr. Moon. No date of birth.¡± The Russian grinned again, clearly enjoying the moment. ¡°A lie, I presume. Cash and a driver¡¯s license. Then there¡¯s a picture.¡±


    Vladischov unfolded the photo in his hands to take a look at it. It was quite wrinkled. Soon enough, Mr. Moon would have to replace it with a newer copy. That was the price he paid for keeping it in his wallet.


    ¡°Touching.¡± Vladischov nodded. His grin had disappeared, replaced with the stone-cold face of a professional. ¡°You have a boy? And a wife. Lucky man.¡±


    The man held the photo out for all to see. As Vladischov described, it showed a woman, her blonde hair kept in a neat ponytail, cheerfully smiling under the noon sun. At her side was a young boy, face smudged with dirt and as happy as could be. Mr. Moon kept his face empty. The less Vladischov knew for sure, the better. Even if it was about something as ordinary as his family life.


    Once it became clear Mr. Moon had no response, Vladischov crumpled the photo in his hand and threw it into the corner of the room. Then the man switched topics, as abruptly as could be.


    ¡°The alien. Where is it.¡±


    Mr. Moon could feel Cass Thomson stiffen up. With them both cuffed to the pole, her arm was brushed up against his. And like a shark smelling blood, Vladischov instantly noticed that reaction. The scarred Russian stalked closer to the girl, leering into her face as she tried to wiggle away.


    "My offer. Location or Danten tortures you until you break. From the looks of it, you''re soft enough that it''ll happen quick."


    To Mr. Moon¡¯s mild surprise, the girl did not immediately give up the location. Instead, she stared at the man without speaking a word. Admirable, but pointless. Mr. Moon needed either the Russians to split up, or for all four of them to go to the farm together. Only then, when the pieces were moving once more, would he have a chance to turn things around. Wasting time here was pointless. Acquiring avoidable wounds would only put them deeper in the hole.


    ¡°Tell them.¡± Mr. Moon¡¯s voice broke the tension in the air. Cass turned toward him in surprise, while Vladischov appeared more curious. Danten, meanwhile, muffled a bout of chuckles. They truly had not expected to hear him say those words. Yet in their faces, Mr. Moon could see they mistook his order as resignation in the face of the inevitable, instead of a faucet of the plan coming together in his mind.


    Mr. Moon kept his face deadpan. ¡°I have business to attend to. Tell them the location and be done with it.¡±


    "Business to attend to?" Danten''s laughter was no longer muffled. "What a guy, cool as a cucumber when we have you dead to rights. Perfect. Saves us the minute it would have taken to squeeze the info out of the girl."


    But still, Cass Thomson hesitated. Mr. Moon twisted his head to the side, temporarily breaking his deadpan gaze to fix a look of mild exasperation on his face. Only then did the girl finally say the location. He could have said it as well, but the Russians likely wouldn¡¯t believe him. Training agents to resist torture was a common practice in all intelligence agencies.


    ¡°The Henryks Farm. Due East ten, maybe twenty miles from here.¡±


    "Where on the farm." Vladischov retorted.


    ¡°Barn. Under a haystack.¡±


    After those directions were given, the silence returned. Vladischov carefully studied Cass Thomson¡¯s face, before ultimately deciding that whatever he saw in her unguarded expression, he believed.


    ¡°Stay here.¡± Vladischov¡¯s voice rumbled as he swept toward the door, only pausing to grab his Mossberg, ¡°If I do not radio back in half an hour, kill them painfully.¡±


    Danten nodded, flashing a carefree grin. "You got it, boss."


    The door closed behind Vladischov with a solid sound. Mr. Moon resumed holding his poker face and studied the situation. Only one guard, a maximum time of half an hour, and they were both cuffed to a sturdy pole. Mark¡¯s condition was unknown, and Mr. Moon knew not if the tattered remains of the Carlston PD would arrive at the farm in time to run into Vladischov.


    There still was a chance, but Mr. Moon had to admit the situation could have been better. Making this work would be like threading a needle with a gun pointed at his head.