《The Organization - Part 1: The Extraction》 Chapter 1 "The first mission is an extraction - with a twist. We''re picking up an assassin in town known as Duran. He''s a dangerous guy, very expensive, and very, very good at what he does. He was hired by Smith''s group to take out a Congressman speaking at a hotel here in LA five days from now. Smith''s sending a message to everyone that he''s a real player now, that he''s a better alternative to how we do things. A louder alternative. That message is bad for business, so we''re nipping it in the bud right now. We set up at the hotel, we grab this guy when he shows up, we take him somewhere secure, and we find out everything he knows about Smith. Then we start taking it to him for a change.¡± - Big Man, 5 days ago He could smell the blood in the water. Alone in his police cruiser, Officer Mike Miller sped down East 4th Street in Los Angeles with his lights flashing and his siren wailing. He swerved into the right lane, figuring out in his head the best route to get in front of the speeding white van running parallel about a half mile north of him on 2nd St. When the original call went out, he''d been on patrol in East Los Angeles, which meant he had zero chance of getting to the Concord hotel before all the action was over. But those snipers, the ones who allowed the vans to escape, had unknowingly given him an opportunity to get in on the bust. He was on the Santa Monica Freeway when he heard over the radio that the eastbound van was moving past Westlake, and his gut told him he could cut north on Main and intercept it. He''d been right about the direction, but a few seconds late on catching up. The van passed Main just before he could reach it, so Miller turned right on 4th and tried to keep pace, praying the van turned south. His radio squawked on. ¡°Eastbound target just turned right on San Pedro. Repeat, he¡¯s headed south on San Pedro.¡± Perfect. The van was coming toward him now. Miller slowed down, realizing that he was only a block or two away from where San Pedro hit 4th St. If he timed it right the van would end up right in front of him and he¡¯d have a golden opportunity to get close and make himself part of the bust. Nearby pedestrians stopped and turned their heads, hearing Miller¡¯s siren as well as the dozen or so others coming from the north. Miller turned his off and rolled down the window, listening for the approaching cruisers so he could gauge when to roll in after them. Surprisingly, he heard gunshots ring out instead, and the pedestrians, who¡¯d been standing around curiously, scattered from the street, running to the safety of nearby buildings. He saw the van only seconds later. Instead of speeding by him at the San Pedro intersection, it swung left onto 4th, and he was just close enough to catch a glimpse of the driver and the passenger, both wearing tan jumpsuits, black ski-masks, and tinted, bubble-shaped goggles. The van itself was solid white, with no side or back windows, and the words LINENS BY LOPEZ painted in big, blocky blue letters on the side. The van floated to the far side of the street, running up onto the curb and smashing through a stack of newspaper dispensers before swerving back onto the road and straightening out. The engine roared as the van lurched down 4th street followed by at least five police cruisers, along with three black sedans and a black SUV, all with tinted windows. These were the property of Scimitar, the federal task force no one in the LAPD had heard of before today. When the tip was phoned in this morning about American-born terrorists trying to kidnap Congressman Albert Ross at the Concord Hotel, these Scimitar feds in their black suits had swarmed the city like flies on shit. They''d almost caught the terrorists at the hotel, pinning them down in two identical vans at the hotel''s loading docks, before sniper fire gave the bad guys a chance to escape. So in Miller¡¯s mind, Scimitar blew their chance, and now, through the grace of God, he had one of his own. Miller floored it, hoping to catch up and pull into the front of the chase, but he never had a chance. The van''s driver swerved smartly around a white Volvo that had stopped in the middle of the road, but he wasn¡¯t prepared for the silver Audi coming right at them. The van pulled hard to the left, hopped the curb and crashed right through the glass doors of the 4-story office building at the next intersection. The pursuing vehicles screeched to a stop in front of the building, and all of the officers and agents in front of him hopped out with their guns drawn, urgently waving people away from the scene. Glass littered the sidewalk, and concerned shouts filled the air as policemen and feds both tried to make sense of the situation. Miller stayed in his car and drove past slowly. He got a good look at the van, which had punched itself halfway through the wall of one of the ground floor office suites. Miller parked his car at the far end of the other vehicles and got out, realizing almost immediately that no one had thought to cover the back. One of the Scimitar agents seemed to be trying to take charge, ordering men around and setting up a perimeter, but they were all staying in the front, where they could keep the van in sight. Miller recognized an opportunity when he saw one. He needed a big break right about now, and if he could play a prominent role here, he could save his career. So he drew his gun, made sure no one else was watching him, and darted around to the back of the building, hoping that today would finally be his day. * Flex slowly lifted himself off the deflating driver¡¯s side airbag and leaned back in his seat, groaning from the impact and resisting the urge to shake his head clear in case he had a concussion. He thought he¡¯d banged it against the window during the crash but everything happened so fast that he wasn¡¯t sure. Squealing brakes and shrill sirens filled his ears, reminding him not to dawdle. He blinked until he could focus again and took inventory of his situation before the authorities could get to him. His chest hurt, but most of his pain came from the gunshot wound in his left forearm, which burned like hell. That was good news; that meant he probably didn¡¯t have any broken bones. He gripped his forearm tightly to control the bleeding. He was wearing a tan jumpsuit with the Lopez logo on the front, which covered the black suit he wore underneath, and the Smart Shield body armor under that. But no armor on his arms meant he''d start bleeding through in moments, and he needed to be extremely careful not to leave any DNA around. His face was itchy and he knew he might start breaking out in a cold sweat from shock, but he resisted the urge to take off his mask. The plan had completely gone to hell, but he still had a slim chance to get out of this mess, and letting someone see his face as he ran from the van was a sure way to make things even worse. He looked over at Tox, slumped to the side in the passenger¡¯s seat, her head resting against the window. He couldn¡¯t see her eyes through the tinted goggles but he was pretty sure she was out cold. Her chest rose and fell, so she was breathing at least, but she needed to get conscious in about three seconds. ¡°Tox?¡± he said, grimacing. No answer. The interior of the van smelled like gasoline, and he cursed at his luck today. The van had a leak somewhere, which meant he couldn¡¯t risk gunfire, but it did give him an idea on how to get out of here. He gingerly reached into the center console, trying not to leave any blood smears, and grabbed the remote trigger, putting it in one of his pockets. There were small explosives lining the interior of the van, with double-plated armor protecting those locations on the outside, just in case a stray bullet actually managed to pierce the bullet-proof walls. The inside had no protection, though, so once he activated the detonator and pulled the trigger, all evidence of them ever being in that van would be destroyed in a controlled blast. The gas leak, however, would turn that small blast into a giant fireball, which could be the diversionary tactic he needed right now. But not if Tox was still inside. He reached over and shook her. ¡°Tox? You hear me? Wake up!¡±A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. He heard voices yelling from the street, and he knew Scimitar agents and police would be on top of them in seconds. If Tox didn¡¯t wake up right now, she¡¯d have to be left behind because he couldn¡¯t stay in this van any longer. ¡°Tox!¡± he yelled. Nothing. Flex grunted in frustration. The van had no windows except the front ones, so he couldn¡¯t see anything behind him. He had to assume the worst, though, and there was no need for two team members to take the hit when one could do it. It sucked for Tox, but Flex had to be pragmatic. He reached over and grabbed Tox¡¯s gun off the floorboard, then unbuckled her seatbelt. He opened the driver side door, which creaked loudly and wrapped an arm around Tox¡¯s chest, under her arms. He gingerly climbed out, pulling her with him, and trying not to breathe in the thick cloud of dust and drywall. Pain from the gunshot wound shot up his arm, but he ignored it. His adrenaline was still high, and it would stay that way for a few more minutes. But he had to get moving. The walls of the inner suite blocked the view to the lobby on his side of the van, which meant no one could see him getting out. Fortunate, but he would need a lot more than just one lucky break if he was going to escape from an army of police, Scimitar Task Force agents and who knows what else. Sweat poured out of every gland on his body, but he ignored it and moved as fast as he could through the rubble. Except for an L-shaped wood desk in the corner, the reception area was empty, vacant probably. The only hallway led away to the right, then curved left, out of sight. He dragged Tox over to the first hallway he found. He left her on the floor, just around the corner, then checked her gun, making sure it was loaded before jogging down the hallway to find an exit. He¡¯d have used his own gun, but he dropped it on the street after getting shot while returning fire. Stupid mistake, he knew, and he was damn lucky he¡¯d been wearing gloves. He finally found a door marked Stairwell ¨C Roof/Basement access and he kicked it open and then ran past, leaving it as a diversion. He didn''t want stairs, he wanted a back door. He needed to get outside the building before anyone thought to cover the back. ¡°Out of the van! Now!¡± He heard shouting from the lobby area. Tox was gone, surrounded by LAPD and Scimitar agents. Big Man wouldn¡¯t be happy to hear about that, and he might even blame Flex, but that wasn¡¯t his main worry. All he cared about right now was getting out of this building in anything except handcuffs or a body bag. That meant taking some risks. He fished the trigger back out of his pocket and held it, hoping for one last lucky break. He armed it by turning the key at the top of the trigger handle, and saw the green LED turn off and the red one turn on. I really hope you¡¯re out of the blast radius, Tox. He rested his finger on the trigger. And if you¡¯re not, I hope God forgives me. God, and Big Man. He squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head, bracing himself for what he was about to do. Before he could pull the trigger, though, he heard footsteps running up the hallway in the other direction. He spun around, his gun ready, and he knew immediately that as bad as things had been, they were about to get worse. 10 days ago¡­ Bobby ¡°Flex¡± Young sat outside the Federal Correctional Institution of Tucson in a rented blue sedan, impatiently tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. He¡¯d been sitting in the parking lot for over an hour now, and he was starting to get more than just a little anxious. He didn¡¯t know if this was a regular thing here, releasing prisoners well after their scheduled release time, and he wondered if something had gone wrong. Maybe the paperwork was screwed up, or someone higher up had changed their minds about letting this particular prisoner go free. He¡¯d reminded himself at least a dozen times already that walking up to the prison to see what the hold-up was would be incredibly stupid. Avoiding public contact with other members of his team was part of his job, and knocking on a prison door to ask where his boss was, the man who¡¯d just spent nine months behind bars for aggravated assault, seemed like a bad idea. It had been a long nine months for Flex, and he didn¡¯t handle long waits very well. He was unfulfilled ¨C or maybe uninspired was the better word ¨C and tired of sitting on the sidelines for almost a year, so he found other uses for his time. He gambled, a lot, but he¡¯d hit a patch of bad luck lately that left him with some fairly large debts. He had no intention of paying them, but he considered it embarrassing to owe money to small time sharks, so he had to stop. The rest of his time was filled by his ¡®day job¡¯ as a part-time construction worker. But even though some machinery would act up on occasion and threaten to take someone¡¯s arm off, there was no excitement, and building office complexes wasn¡¯t enough to give him a real sense of accomplishment. Not like his work with the team. His team did important things, for important people, and he felt proud to be part of something bigger than himself. But all the inactivity had taken its toll. He was out of shape, his wits had dulled, and he even missed some of his more obnoxious teammates. Plus, he was ready to get back to the business of saving the world from itself, since no one else was gonna do it. Flex was his nickname on the team because he got into bodybuilding late in his teens. He¡¯d always been a large kid, and his uncle, who worked out at an exclusive gym in Ohio and knew a few people in that line of work, had gotten him involved in it. His potential bodybuilding career didn¡¯t last long ¨C he had an undiagnosed heart condition that didn¡¯t mix well with steroids - but his bulk stayed, and he found other uses for it as a bouncer and then as a professional bodyguard. That career also ended abruptly, however, when one of his charges, a wealthy Mexican businessman, was assassinated in Mexico City. He¡¯d been imprisoned afterwards for selling information about his boss¡¯ schedule, even though he had bullets in his leg and abdomen from the encounter. None of the allegations were true, but that didn¡¯t matter down there, and he honestly thought he¡¯d spend the rest of his life falsely imprisoned in a Mexican jail. That is, until someone showed up at the jailhouse with a big wad of cash and a proposition. He straightened up in his seat when he finally saw Big Man walk out the side door of the prison. He was dressed in the same clothes he¡¯d gone to jail in nine months ago - black slacks, black leather shoes, a white dress shirt unbuttoned at the top and a black sport coat. He looked the same physically, tall, thickly built with broad shoulders, short dark hair and a thin beard covering a square jaw. At first glance, you¡¯d think Big Man was the enforcer for some high-rolling Italian mob family by the way he carried himself. And you¡¯d almost be right. He got his start as a bruiser, one of the reasons Flex admired him, and felt a kinship with him. But Big Man was much more than that now. Flex stepped out of the car and nodded as Big Man approached. ¡°Hey boss.¡± Big Man smiled, which for him was just a twitch of the lips. ¡°Flex.¡± No one on the team called each other by their real name. They weren¡¯t even supposed to know anyone¡¯s real name, but that was hard to do when you worked with the same people for a while. ¡°What¡¯s shakin¡¯?¡± ¡°Everything okay in there? I was thinking they weren¡¯t gonna let you out.¡± ¡°Everything¡¯s good. Just had to say goodbye to the homies.¡± Flex nodded, not totally buying it. He noticed a small scar on the side of Big Man¡¯s face. That was new. ¡°You got yourself some battle wounds in there?¡± ¡°What, this?¡± Big Man motioned to the scar. ¡°It¡¯s nothing. Boys being boys. I¡¯m fine. I feel good.¡± Big Man reached for the passenger door. Both men got inside. ¡°I feel ready for something big.¡± ¡°What¡¯s the job?¡± Flex started the car up and immediately turned down the blaring car radio. ¡°Let¡¯s get the boys together, first. Then we¡¯ll talk about it. Are they all here?¡± ¡°Almost. Deadeye¡¯s here. Crash is on a plane, Bubs just left Phoenix, and Sweets is waiting at his place. We¡¯re set to meet at five-thirty, at the Convention Center.¡± ¡°Good. We got one more coming, too.¡± ¡°Who?¡± ¡°An old friend. You¡¯ll see when we get there. Now find me something to eat while we¡¯re waiting. A pizza place. A good one, if there is such a thing around here.¡± Flex nodded as he put the car in reverse and pulled out of the parking lot. Big Man had something brewing, something from the guys up top. Even in prison Big Man was one of the Organization¡¯s most valuable men, and they¡¯d no doubt done something to get him out of jail early. That meant important happenings were about to go down, something they needed Big Man and his team to oversee. It would finally be a chance for Flex to put his real talents to use, after sitting on the shelf for nine months. Flex smiled as the car swung onto the highway. Things were finally starting to look up for him. Chapter 2 Crash lived for moments like this. ¡°Stop fucking yelling at me while I¡¯m fucking driving the fucking van!¡± he shouted over a steady stream of Chinese obscenities as he swung the van hard to the right, sending his two passengers in the back sprawling across the floorboards. He was careening through the streets of Los Angeles in a souped-up delivery van, hitting speeds up to ninety miles per hour on straight-aways, with both federal and local authorities chasing after him in a dangerous, high-stakes pursuit. Bullets bounced off the armored walls with a muffled thud, while the unsynchronized wailing of police sirens and the squeal of high-performance, synthetic rubber on asphalt filled the street behind him. A violent death waited around every corner, but he couldn¡¯t be happier because he was putting on a show for the masses. ¡°How am I supposed to enjoy this with all your yappin¡¯ and shit?¡± This van was identical to the one Tox and Flex took off in, a trick designed to split any pursuers who wouldn¡¯t know which one to follow. Crash didn¡¯t know how many were after Flex right now, but he definitely had more than his share of cops and Scimitar chasing after him. They even pulled up alongside his van a couple minutes ago and fired at his wheels, trying to cripple him, but he¡¯d been too smart for those assholes. He had run-flat tires on these babies, which meant they could shoot all day and he''d still keep going for another fifty miles. The only problem for Crash was that he had the important cargo in his van. They couldn¡¯t shoot him down, but he¡¯d still have to lose them somehow if he didn¡¯t want to completely blow the plan. That meant he needed to start improvising on the route to help thin out the herd behind him. But first he had to swing around an old lady driving a Buick. Bubs cursed at him from the back ¨C at least he was pretty sure it was cursing. Mostly it just sounded like a lot of really belligerent Chinese. The back of the van was entirely cleared out, leaving plenty of room for cargo, though right now it was almost empty. The only things back there were a couple of duffel bags, a bound, gagged and unconscious assassin, and Bubs, the team¡¯s interrogator, who had one hand on the prisoner¡¯s arm and the other on a metal railing that lined the ceiling. He tried to keep himself steady but Crash¡¯s high-speed driving kept him off-balance and irritable, hence the streams of cursing in foreign languages. Crash didn¡¯t care, though. He was in the zone. They¡¯d left the hotel only five minutes ago, but he figured the TV stations knew something was up by now and helicopters should already be out looking for them. Any minute now they''d be breaking in on news channels, and the whole world would see him tearing through downtown LA like he owned this bitch. Silence was golden in his line of work and the bosses wouldn¡¯t be pleased with how things had gone down, but right now he was living the dream. And he planned to soak it all in while he could. Right after leaving the hotel, he''d felt that little ball of anxious energy forming at the pit of his stomach, where it waited, lurking. Ever since then, he¡¯d craved that climax, the moment where it flooded his body, leaving him flush with adrenaline and excitement, making him feel invincible. But he wasn''t there yet. He needed more to get that rush. A lot more. After all, he hadn''t even broken 100mph yet. ¡°Whoooo!¡± He yelled with a giant smile on his face. He looked back at a scowling Bubs. They were both wearing their masks and goggles, but Crash could still tell. ¡°Don¡¯t you fucking love this?¡± ¡°You¡¯re insane!¡± Bubs yelled back in English. ¡°Stop driving like a maniac, or you¡¯ll get us killed before they do.¡± ¡°Do you not know me? I fucking got this, man. Relax." Crash swerved back to the middle of the road, after letting the van drift too close to the side. "You know if you need a girl or pills or something after this-¡± ¡°I don''t need a girl! I need you to start worrying about all those police after us!¡± ¡°Not just police, vato.¡± Crash checked his side mirrors. ¡°We got Scimitar all up our ass, too.¡± ¡°Then lose them!¡± ¡°Right. I¡¯ll tell ¡®em not to follow so close. How about that? Maybe they¡¯ll hear me over their fucking machine guns.¡± A dip in the road sent Bubs and the prisoner flying for a moment, then crashing back down into the padded floorboard. The padding was actually a bomb-suppressor blanket, in case anyone following got smart and decided to roll an explosive underneath the van. Can¡¯t be too careful, Crash thought wryly as he slammed his foot on the gas pedal. Bubs scrambled back to a kneeling position and yelled again, first in Chinese, then in English. ¡°When this is over, I''m killing you myself! Slowly!¡± ¡°Hey, I¡¯m the driver. You¡¯re the support. So support me already! I¡¯m not feeling the love from back there.¡± ¡°I am not playing around with you!¡± ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll slow down if you can get them,¡± he hooked his thumb toward the back, ¡°off my ass.¡± Bubs pulled out his pistol and waved it in the air so Crash could see it in the rearview mirror. ¡°You think this is slowing them down?¡± ¡°No, not really.¡± Crash beamed back at him. ¡°But that¡¯s why I come prepared, amigo. Get the grenade launcher. It¡¯s in that big-ass green duffel bag.¡± Silence filled the van and Crash looked in his mirror to make sure he still had passengers. He saw Bubs looking at him with a confused tilt to his head. ¡°What?¡± he asked. ¡°You brought a grenade launcher?¡± ¡°Yeah. And right now I¡¯m kinda glad I did. Now grab it and kill some of those cocksuckers.¡± ¡°You want me to fire grenades, downtown, from the back of a speeding van?¡± Bubs asked. ¡°With you driving?¡± ¡°Why the fuck do you think I packed a fucking grenade launcher?¡± Crash pounded the steering wheel, then quickly pulled it left and zoomed around a black convertible. Bubs grabbed the rail to steady himself, then looked back up at him with a snarl on his face - Crash could tell. ¡°Dude, if you don¡¯t do something, like right now, they¡¯re gonna fucking win. And I know how much you hate losing, so if you don¡¯t want me fucking calling you my Chinese loser-boy in prison, you need to fucking man up and launch some fucking grenades at those sonsabitches! Go smack ¡®em like they just stole your fucking rice!¡±Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. Bubs stared at him for a long moment, probably seething under his mask, before finally relenting and reaching for the bag. ¡°Dumb ass,¡± Crash muttered under his breath. ¡°When I tell you to use the fucking grenade launcher, you use the fucking grenade launcher.¡± Bubs was an interrogator and torturer, so this wasn¡¯t really his thing, but that was no excuse for letting a perfectly good grenade launcher go to waste. ¡°Like there¡¯s any other option.¡± Crash shook his head. By now the roads ahead had cleared out a bit and more pedestrians lined the streets. The police must have radioed ahead and blocked off traffic downtown. Word was getting out and now people were coming to watch in person. Crash wished he¡¯d had this kind of treatment during his street racing days. Punching it in a tricked out hoopty while cruising through downtown LA with a crowd of spectators on each side was like a dream come true for him. He laughed and shook his head at the irony. He was all about the spectacle, and right now he was getting that in spades. The only problem was that he had to disappear to win this race. That wouldn''t be too difficult. He had faith in himself, no matter how screwed up everything else got. Crash heard Bubs unzip the bag and grunt as he pulled out the grenade launcher, and he squeezed the steering wheel in giddy anticipation. It had taken a while, but now the whole world would see him and his team in all its glory. This was gonna be fucking awesome. 10 days ago¡­ Javier ¡°Crash¡± Moreno parked his truck on Nevada Street, right in the heart of a small, mostly abandoned warehouse district just north of Long Beach. The only other car in sight was a silver Chrysler coupe, parked on the other side of the street in front of an old warehouse with faded, stained gray brick walls and a giant FOR LEASE sign in the window. Crash''s cell phone rang as he turned off the engine, his everyday phone, not his work phone, and he pulled it out of his pocket to see the number he hoped not to see today. Fuckin'' junkies. He tossed the phone on the seat as he stepped out of the truck. Let it keep ringing, because he had real work to do today, and he didn''t need those fidgety assholes distracting him right now. Crash strolled across Nevada toward the grungy old warehouse wearing his usual outfit, jeans and a tank top. Crash was a short guy, wiry and lean, with spiky black hair and a neatly trimmed beard. A large, heavyset, middle-aged man named Harvey waited near the front door, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, even though it was a cool, overcast day in Southern California. Harvey was the leasing agent for the warehouse¡¯s owner, who wanted to make some money off this property any way he could. It was empty, and had been for several years now, along with everything else on the street, and Crash suspected he was the only interested party this place had seen since the 90s. This part of town was older, and out of the way, which meant he didn¡¯t have to worry about too much foot traffic outside. Plus, it was just down the street from Long Beach Airport, which made for easy travel. It was just what Crash needed, and he found himself wishing the other warehouse he¡¯d leased today had been as perfect. ¡°Harvey, my man.¡± Crash held his hand out and smiled big. ¡°We meet again.¡± ¡°Mr. Lopez. Good to see you.¡± Harvey smiled back at him and they shook hands. Harvey had puffy cheeks, and when he smiled Crash couldn¡¯t help but think of the fat guy from Laurel and Hardy. He also thought it was strange that the guy always smelled like salami, even at ten o¡¯clock in the morning. ¡°I think you¡¯re going to like what you see here.¡± ¡°Oh, I don¡¯t know, Harvey. I¡¯m not easy to please.¡± Crash walked through the open door and glanced around at the empty warehouse. ¡°You should ask my old lady about that when she gets out of the clink.¡± Harvey chuckled, not entirely sure if that was a joke. It was, but Crash liked keeping people off balance. ¡°I¡¯d love to meet her.¡± ¡°Not a good idea. She fucking hates white people. That¡¯s why she¡¯s in jail.¡± Crash smiled. ¡°Oh.¡± Harvey didn¡¯t. Crash walked slowly through the building, examining each cobweb-filled nook and cranny, and imagining what kind of equipment could fit there. This warehouse was to be the team¡¯s workspace for a while, where they¡¯d engineer whatever they needed for whatever jobs were coming up. He had a specific list of equipment, much of it large, as well as weapons, building materials, and vehicles, and he needed room for all of them. But he also needed to keep the size of their space small enough that it didn¡¯t attract too much attention. A nice, run-down, out of the way place like this was good, even though it might be a tight squeeze to get everything he needed inside. Crash was a mechanic during the day, and a good one, too, but that was boring for him. He was an action junkie, and his work for the team let him explore his constant need for adrenaline. Building armored cars. Miniaturized surveillance equipment. And his favorite - explosives. He wasn¡¯t an expert with them, yet, but he learned fast when properly motivated. And who didn¡¯t like making things blow up? He respected that there were more subtle ways of doing things, but that wasn¡¯t his style. He wanted a grand entrance, and a big finish, and every once in a while, Big Man would let him do just that. Nine months out of commission had made him antsy for something to do, though, and his idle hands had been the devil¡¯s instrument quite a bit over the long summer. He needed something he could throw himself into, and this looked like a good place to wind himself up for a few weeks. ¡°Do you think this will be big enough for you? This is one of our smaller locations, but if you need more space, we can look at a bigger one. I have a unit in Lomita that¡¯s about 22,000 square feet, almost double the size of this one.¡± Harvey idled about near the door, dabbing the sweat on his forehead, while Crash paid particularly close attention to a large metal grate in the floor used as a drain. ¡°Nah, man. I think this will suffice,¡± he said, trying to gauge if the drain connected to the sewers. He''d have to come back and check on that later. ¡°You mentioned storing some machinery here on the phone. Is that still the case?¡± ¡°Nah. We ain¡¯t puttin¡¯ machinery here.¡± ¡°You aren¡¯t?¡± Crash smiled at Harvey as he walked toward the door. ¡°C¡¯mon. I¡¯m a young Latino man, flashing money, buying big warehouses.¡± He put his arm around Harvey¡¯s shoulders and pulled him close. ¡°What do you think I¡¯m really putting in here?¡± ¡°I, uh,¡° Harvey stammered, his face turning white. He swallowed hard and started to back away. ¡°I¡¯m not sure what you mean, but I¡¯ll have to call¨C¡° Crash laughed. ¡°I¡¯m just playing around, man! I ain¡¯t puttin¡¯ no fucking drugs in here. That¡¯s for my other warehouses.¡± He winked at Harvey and then reached into his back pocket, and he snickered when Harvey flinched, probably thinking he was going for a gun. Instead, he pulled out a folded piece of paper. ¡°I run a linen company. It¡¯s called Linens By Lopez. Maybe you¡¯ve heard of us. I need a new place to put all my fancy new washing machines and my extra inventory. Here¡¯s what I need. You tell me if the wiring in here can support it.¡± He grabbed Harvey¡¯s other hand, which was clammy and limp, and slapped the paper into it. He stopped to take one last look around, and then walked past Harvey and out the door. ¡°I gotta catch a plane, man. You give me a call once you look through that list.¡± ¡°Right,¡± Harvey replied weakly, a forced smile on his face. ¡°I¡¯ll do that.¡± He wiped his brow with his handkerchief as Crash stepped back outside. Except for his truck across the street and Harvey¡¯s coupe in front of him, the road was empty and clear for as far as he could see in either direction. With all that open space, he almost felt like racing again. Almost. He had places to go and he needed to stay out of trouble for now. There would be time for that kind of excitement later. Chapter 3 Bubs pulled the grenade launcher out of the duffel bag, reluctantly pushing away all of the intricate plans he''d devised to murder his asinine teammate. He hefted it up with both hands, grunting from the weight. He''d forgotten how awkward it would be, having only used one once, during Army training back in China, and he struggled to hold it and keep his balance in the speeding van without gripping the rail. He preferred smaller, more intimate weapons usually. But if he needed to kill someone today, this thing would work just as well as a knife. He moved to the back and leaned against the left rear door, crouching so he could brace the launcher on his knee. The van had no back windows, so he''d have to open the door to see what he was dealing with, which would expose him to gunfire. The whole idea was dangerous, but he had to grudgingly admit that Crash was right. If they couldn''t lose their pursuers, they''d be captured or killed, and - worst of all - end up as failures. He wasn''t going to let that happen, no matter how much he wanted to finish this mission by launching one of these grenades at the driver''s seat. "Drive straight!" he yelled angrily. "I''m not falling out because of you." "You got it!" Crash sounded excited, which annoyed Bubs even further. How that idiot could be so exuberant right now was beyond Bubs¡¯ comprehension, but he chalked it up to morons being morons. The team had been betrayed, but all this simpleton cared about was getting his thrills. "I''ll even slow down so more catch up and get caught in the blast," Crash said and Bubs frowned. A better man wouldn¡¯t even be in this position in the first place, he thought, and that irked him even more than Crash¡¯s drug-hazed wit. The van slowed noticeably, and Bubs felt confident enough to pull the latch on the right door. It flew open, and he leaned over to see a black SUV close on their tail, a black sedan following the SUV, and a small army of police cars trailing behind, veering left and right around stopped cars. Bubs sneered through his mask at the SUV''s driver, a man wearing a dark suit and black sunglasses, and hoisted the launcher up, aiming at the front window. He could see the agents in the front seat reacting in surprise, and the driver slammed on the brakes but it was too late. Bubs fired a round and ducked back behind the door. A second later he heard the explosion and felt a small tremor shake the back of the van. "Fuck yeah!" Crash yelled from up front. Bubs ignored him and glanced back outside where he saw the SUV, partially obscured by a cloud of smoke, a high-pitched grinding noise emanating from under the hood. The windshield was cracked, and the front of the vehicle was badly mangled, but apparently still drivable, because it veered left and right as the driver tried to regain control and get out of the way. The police cars in the back started falling behind now, not willing to risk getting blown to pieces, but the black sedan zipped around the flagging SUV and stayed close. One of the agents in the back seat leaned out of his window and aimed his M16 at them. Bubs ducked out of the way and flinched at the sound of bullets bouncing off the armor plating. Several found their way through the open door, however, and stuck in the interior of the left wall. "Shit!" Crash yelled, hunching over in his chair as loud popping echoed throughout the van. "Man, say something when that''s gonna happen!" Bubs waited for his moment, then leaned back out and fired another round. He ducked back again, waited for the explosion, and then peeked out to see the sedan swerving out of the way of a smoking hole in the road. He''d missed, but the Scimitar agents were finally getting dodgy about sticking so close, and they backed away too, giving the van plenty of space. Bubs used the reprieve to stick his head out and check the sky, and that''s when he saw the black helicopter directly above them. "The cars are backing off, and now the helicopter is here." For the first time since Crash tore out of the hotel loading bay, barreling a path through a parking lot of police and Scimitar vehicles, Bubs felt a sense of normalcy return. They''d planned for a potential police response to their actions, but not an army of Scimitar agents catching them on their way out of the hotel, so much of what happened after that moment had been improvised. Bubs didn''t handle improvisation well, but now things were getting back on track and their plan was once again viable. As long as the vehicles chasing gave them some space, they could get away from this. Even the helicopter wasn''t a problem. In fact, it was a boon. With the helicopter above, Scimitar and the police would be content to stay back and track them from the sky, expecting them to make a run for it. But the helicopter was useless when its target was obscured by downtown buildings. "We should have a clear path to the parking garage now." ¡°Roger that, mi compadre." Crash floored it, and Bubs fell back against the door, groaning. He set the grenade launcher down and reached over to the open door, closing it as fast as he could. Just as he did, he fell against the side wall as Crash took a hard turn, then another, and another. Bubs wanted to shout at him for that, but he knew what Crash was doing. He was trying to limit visibility between the van and the pursuing cars, giving them more room - and more time, once they reached the parking garage, where the next step of their plan would take place. And once they escaped with their prisoner, he would be free to take his revenge on the so-called teammate who had sold them out in the first place. The only question was how painful that revenge would be. 10 days ago¡­ Yuling ¡°Bubs¡± Gao scowled at the desolate Arizona countryside as it rolled by outside the window of his car. He sat stiffly in the back seat of the black Town Car he¡¯d rented to get from Phoenix to Tucson, wearing a tailored dark blue suit and small sunglasses. He had short, straight black hair and as always, he was immaculately groomed. He rarely smiled. It just wasn''t in his personality. But he''d had a perpetual frown on his face for days now, ever since getting kicked out of his homeland and being forced to come back here. He hated this country. He hated the terrain; he hated the people; he even hated their movies. Not for ideological reasons, although that played a small part. No, he hated plenty of things in this world. Most people were wired to be helpful, or trusting or even friendly. But not Bubs. He was wired to despise anything that wasn''t actively helping him achieve his goals or making him look good in the eyes of his peers.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. Driving, for example. He hated driving because he wasn¡¯t very good at it, and he didn¡¯t do anything that could cause him to embarrass himself. Having grown up in rural China, he¡¯d never had the opportunity to learn how to drive, and when he got older and moved up in the local Party structure, he¡¯d always had people to do it for him. Everyone drove in the US, though, so he had to rely on rented drivers or cabs anytime he needed to get anywhere. That part wasn¡¯t so bad. Having someone else drive made him feel important again, like his days back in the Fujian province. The main difference, though, was that in China he could order the drivers not to speak. ¡°So what kind of business are you in?¡± his driver asked. Bubs gave him an annoyed look. He didn¡¯t want to spend the next two hours chatting with some half-educated American who could barely afford his nightly six-pack of beer. ¡°Imports.¡± ¡°Oh yeah? What do you import? Stuff from China? Or Japan?¡± ¡°China,¡± Bubs replied, curtly. He hated being mistaken as Japanese. ¡°Like what?¡± Bubs gritted his teeth. He wanted to jab a pen into this man¡¯s neck and watch the blood spray all over the dashboard, but that would be impractical. In fact, any kind of hostile response would cause problems. His job was to avoid being noticed. That meant playing nice with people he despised, and most of the time that included more than just the person driving this car. For the hundredth time, he wished he could meet someone and just pretend not to know English very well. But he was too proud of himself to do that. He could speak Mandarin, English, Russian, German and French, almost all impeccably, and he liked people to know that. Except during occasions like this. ¡°I import rice.¡± That should be boring enough to stop this conversation dead in its tracks. ¡°Rice, huh?¡± He chuckled. ¡°Who knew they imported something like rice?¡± The driver was an older black man with a short scruffy beard that he scratched absentmindedly as he talked. He kept looking at Bubs through the rear-view mirror and smiling, which made Bubs uncomfortable. He didn¡¯t like menial workers looking at him as an equal. ¡°I thought they just grew it here.¡± ¡°Mine grows in China,¡± Bubs replied slowly. ¡°Is there something special about it? It''s gotta be good stuff if you''re going to all that trouble to import it.¡± Bubs arched an eyebrow. ¡°Obviously.¡± ¡°What¡¯s the brand name?¡± Bubs resisted grabbing the pen in his jacket. Instead, he secretly reached into his pants pocket, trying to find his cell phone. ¡°It¡¯s called Siwei. It¡¯s only available in specialty shops.¡± "Specialty rice¡­¡± The driver shook his head like he didn¡¯t believe it. ¡°People spend money on that stuff?" "Yes." The driver nodded. ¡°So that¡¯s why you¡¯re going down to Tucson then? Selling rice?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± He thumbed the volume control on the side of his phone and made it ring. Just the distraction he needed. ¡°Excuse me,¡± he said, as he pulled it out. He pretended to push a button and started speaking in Mandarin. He didn''t say anything in particular; only enough to make it look like someone was on the other end doing most of the talking. Every so often, however, he mixed in a few random threats for his driver ¨C in Mandarin of course ¨C just to make himself feel better. Things like ¡°When we reach our destination, I will tie you down to the table and run a band saw through your genitals,¡± or ¡°I will rip off your fingernails and make you bleed from every orifice of your body¡­ and then I¡¯ll do it again tomorrow.¡± All said with a personable, though fake, smile. He leaned back in his chair and settled in for the long drive, even more annoyed now than when he first got in the car. He was on his way to meet with his insufferable ¡®team¡¯ now that his insufferable team leader was out of prison. He hated being subservient to these people and pretending that he valued their opinions. He wasn¡¯t a team player, he was a leader, and he was tired of pretending otherwise to keep suspicions about his ambition to a minimum. He¡¯d been an important man once, with money, power, and respect. He¡¯d had people jailed, tortured and killed on nothing more than whims, and a small army of people at his beck and call. But those days were gone. He was persona-non-grata in China, but at least over there they knew his name. Here in the U.S., he''d been relegated to working his way anonymously through this so-called Organization to regain respect, and even worse, he had to start over all the way at the bottom. He¡¯d been doing this for well over three years now, and he still didn¡¯t even have his own team. But he knew what to do about that. The only way up was either around or through Big Man; it was just a matter of figuring out which was easier. He¡¯d spent the last nine months trying to go around, but that had been futile. With Big Man in jail, the rest of the team had been cut off from any communication with the Organization, or with the team¡¯s handler, a British man known only as Gentry. Typically, all meetings with him were handled by Big Man, alone, but Bubs had been sure he could get a meeting with him while Big Man was locked up. The Organization still needed to get things done, didn''t they? But every time he¡¯d tried to get access to Gentry, he¡¯d ended up stonewalled, and after a while, he just had to assume that no one spoke with him. That left him stuck in a holding pattern until Big Man got out of jail. So much for going around. His other option was to go through, and that meant finding a way to make Big Man look incapable of leading, which he¡¯d almost succeeded at once before. He could do it again, too, but he¡¯d need to be more careful this time, not to mention more successful. The easy way would be to fail their missions, but the Organization leaders could just as easily blame that on him, or other members of the team, like Crash. No, the only way to do this was to make Big Man look like the problem. Place the blame squarely on his shoulders, so they have no choice but to remove him. Then, simple seniority would put either himself, Crash or Sweets at the top. Crash was a lunatic, and Sweets was a fat little troll who still had the stink of his failed former team all over him. That left Bubs in a prime position to take over, which would be just another step in his long road back to respectability. All he had to do was wait for the right opportunity to present itself, all the while kissing the ass of Big Man and his cohorts to keep them from guessing his true motives. He saw his driver glancing back at him through the rearview mirror, obviously waiting for him to finish his call so he could start up some more inane conversation. There would be no more of that. Bubs wasn''t happy, but he was content to stay on the phone for another hour or two. Just like he was content to be patient for a little while longer, before taking what was rightfully his. Respect. Chapter 4 Well this is inconvenient. Sweets slowly leaned forward in his chair, watching the bank of eight flat-screen computer monitors in front of him with no emotion visible on his pudgy, bearded face. He was shocked, which no one would know just from watching him, but that''s because the whole situation was absurd and he hadn''t had enough time to process it all. What had been a smoothly running extraction had suddenly gone off the rails and he had no good explanation for it. Not that he expected one, but still, it was unnerving, and he didn''t enjoy getting blindsided. Not at all. A few minutes ago he''d been daydreaming about going home early, relaxing in his recliner and playing Call of Duty all weekend long. He''d pre-ordered the new one last week, which meant it should be waiting for him when he got back, but thanks to this mess he would have to postpone all of that. Because of someone''s stupid mistake, he would have to stick around here a while longer and waste his time worrying about damage control. Which meant he needed to focus. Two of the monitors were connected to a laptop sitting on the desk in front of him, the other six were plugged in to a closed circuit TV system, each with four black and white camera views visible on the screens. Five of the monitors showed views from the interior and exterior of the Concord Hotel across the street, the site of the extraction. The sixth showed a few selected spots here in the Mormont Hotel, where his command center was situated in a small room on the 12th floor. Outside the Concord he could see about a dozen cars speeding away in pursuit of two white vans while two SUVs sat in the alley leading to the loading dock with flat tires and broken windows. At the Mormont, he noticed four more vehicles with heavily tinted windows pulling up outside the lobby entrance. A few seconds ago, erratic movement on one of the monitors to his right had attracted his attention, but he couldn¡¯t look at it yet. Things had to be done in a certain order, but he already knew that was the roof camera for the Concord, a location where Deadeye should no longer be. Yes, this was not going well. Not at all. "Sweets." Big Man''s voice came through the headset he was wearing. "You there?" "Here," he replied. "What do you see?" Sweets scanned the monitors methodically, cataloging everything, starting at the top left camera view. Top left, the entrance to the Concord, where police cars blocked the road. Top right, the Concord''s lobby, facing the door. Bottom left, same lobby, facing the elevators. Bottom right, the hallway leading from the lobby to the banquet rooms. He had to follow the pattern for each monitor from left to right along the top row first, then the bottom. If he didn¡¯t, he couldn¡¯t think straight. If he noticed something happening on the bottom row of monitors and he looked there out of order then he would have to start all over. "At least a dozen police cars, LAPD, and unmarked federal vehicles, Scimitar I''m sure. They were blocking the escape route from the hotel''s loading bay. Deadeye shot at some of the vehicles, taking out their tires, and our boys got free, although scanner activity says they''re under hot pursuit. Deadeye¡¯s taken cover on the roof for some reason, he may have been shot, I¡¯m not sure. He¡¯s out of camera view now." "What''s my route look like?" "The lobby is clear but I can see a group of dark suits approaching the front doors so I''d take an alternate route to your vehicle. In fact," Sweets glanced back through the monitors, stopping at the sixth one for a moment before finishing, "they seem to be headed for my location as well. I''m going to have to break all radio contact and clean house immediately." "Do it. Assume the drop location is compromised, no matter what. We rally at safe house three. Repeat, safe house three." "Safe house three, roger. Killing all radio contact now." Sweets pulled his headset off and rolled his chair over to the locked metal case sitting on the table behind him, fishing the key out of his pocket. He unlocked the case, opened it, and pulled out several items one at a time and carefully set them in a line on the table - a small spray can, a handgun, a remote trigger, several small metal canisters, a stun baton, and two Tasers. He grabbed a small knapsack sitting on the floor and took out a pair of rubber gardening gloves and a gas mask. He put the gas mask on first, then quickly pulled the gloves on and grabbed the spray can, popping the top off as he rolled back over to the monitors. He scanned through the views one more time, left to right, top to bottom, and the last thing he noticed on them - that he cared about - was a small crowd of Scimitar agents entering the lobby, with six of them heading directly to the elevator. He frowned, then began spraying a thin greenish foam all over the monitors, the laptop, the wires, the connectors and the mouse. Everything he touched, used or stored data on was sprayed down thoroughly from left to right ¨C including his small Styrofoam bowl of Skittles. Within seconds the equipment started to smoke as the foam ate through the metal, plastic and glass while the candy turned into a waxy brown stain on the table. The resultant gas from the foam was toxic, which was one of two reasons he''d put on the gas mask. After he finished spraying he put the can into a side pocket on his knapsack, then took off his rubber gloves and tossed them into the foamy mess on the table. He reached into the knapsack and pulled out some thinner, surgical-style plastic gloves and quickly yanked those on. He gathered the items on the table together, putting the gun in his waistband, the remote trigger in one pocket and one of the Tasers in another. He put the second Taser back in the pack, zipped it up and threw it over his shoulder, keeping the stun baton in one hand and one of the metal canisters in the other. He stood and used his knee to roll the chair over by the front door, then flipped it over onto its side with his foot, situating it as an obstacle for anyone trying to burst in. He stood quietly next to the door and listened to the sounds of the hallway outside, waiting. After a moment, he heard the elevator ding, followed two seconds later by a herd of footsteps approaching. He guessed they would be in the room in about seven seconds. He pulled the pin out of the top of the metal canister and dropped it on the ground in front of him, then retreated to the bedroom. White smoke poured out, filling the room behind him, and as he closed the door he frowned at the thought that he was about to live out a video game moment. That may be an exciting prospect for some people, but not for him. He''d much rather be at home, sitting in his recliner, eating some ice cream and experiencing it all through an HDMI cable. Video games were clean. Real life was messy. And messy just frayed his nerves. He flipped the light switch in the bedroom on and off three times, which settled him down, and then waited for Scimitar to burst through the front door so he could get this over with. This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. 10 days ago¡­ ¡°Vacation¡¯s over, fellas. We got some serious work to get to.¡± Paul ¡°Sweets¡± Ronson gently rocked in his oversized, extra-cushioned office chair, watching two of his four computer monitors, tapping his keyboard and drinking a 20oz Code Red Mountain Dew. He was at his loft in downtown Chicago, looking through fourteen different internet tabs spread out over two monitors, trying to find the best deal he could to pre-order the new Call of Duty, which was coming out in a week. His third monitor was displaying a secure video stream of the team''s meeting in Tucson, courtesy of the laptop Crash brought with him, although he barely paid attention to anything they said. He already knew the plan inside and out. The fourth monitor had World of Warcraft up, which Sweets kept running in case anything interesting happened in his guild chat. ¡°We¡¯re meeting again in five days," Big Man''s voice boomed through his surround sound PC speakers. "That¡¯s how much time you have to get your shit together. Literally and figuratively. Deal with your personal issues, get everyone off your back and get everything off your plate. You¡¯re gonna be busy in LA, and I don¡¯t want any distractions. And I also want you guys in shape.¡± That wasn¡¯t going to happen for Sweets and everyone knew it. He was forty-nine, and overweight, and he liked it that way. He made his living in an office chair, and he wasn¡¯t about to ruin his doughy physique unless he had to. Sweets didn''t even like leaving his loft, so he regularly attended meetings in this fashion. He had his groceries delivered, he ordered games and toys online, and got his movies through Netflix. He even had Tiffani, his regular girl from the service, come over here every few nights instead of going out. It''s not that he hated being outside, or getting fresh air, or traveling, he just didn''t like being around other people if he could help it. They bored him. Most people he encountered on a regular basis were mundane and unimpressive. They had nothing to say that interested him, and there was nothing in the world more asinine to Sweets than making small talk, especially about weather. Didn''t these idiots know how cold it would be before they moved to Chicago? Sweets was an electronics and software expert. He used to be a hacker, but those days were temporarily on hold. Lately, his job consisted of sitting at a computer and handling logistics and communications for Big Man¡¯s team, while the higher ups in the Organization took care of the more interesting parts of his job. If he needed access to a foreign bank account, he made a call and it was done. If he wanted files pulled from a secure government server in Washington, D.C., another call to the O-techs ¨C as everyone called them ¨C and he¡¯d have the information within the hour. The Organization didn¡¯t like employing hackers for individual teams, so they¡¯d taken the best ones for themselves, created a central hacking group based in some secret location ¨C a criminal Help Desk - and told all the rest to never get caught doing anything more than checking their bank statements online. It infuriated him that he¡¯d been left out of that group, and was stuck on a fringe team with no way to show off his talents in what he did best. But what could he do about it? A system tray notification alerted him to a new email, from Oldham-Haynes Defense Industries in Fort Worth, reconfirming his start date in two weeks. He''d applied for a job there and unsurprisingly got it after a technical interview from a programmer who was barely mediocre. He casually skimmed through the email before filing it into his Pending folder while also reaching into the large glass bowl of Skittles sitting on the side table next to him. He deliberately pulled out a green one and set it on the desk in front of him. Then red. Then orange, purple and yellow. He set them out in a straight line, their edges touching and the ¡®S¡¯ logo standing straight up. Then he picked up the green and red ones and squeezed them together. He added the orange one to the mash up, followed by purple and yellow. He admired the mega Skittle, and then tossed it in his mouth like a piece of popcorn. ¡°One last thing. Has anyone had any issues with Scimitar? Or the cops?¡± Silence. ¡°Anyone tailing you, or asking you questions?¡± ¡°I had one tailing me a couple hours ago.¡± Deadeye¡¯s voice. ¡°But I lost him.¡± ¡°You sure about that?¡± ¡°Yeah. Completely.¡± "How do you know he was Scimitar?" A pause, then, "He wasn''t a cop." ¡°Okay then. We can use that. They haven¡¯t made any other contact with anyone else?¡± More silence. ¡°All right. They¡¯re on a few of us, which I expected, but I don¡¯t know if they have the whole team pegged. So keep an eye out, and keep a low profile. I didn¡¯t give you guys all that paperwork for my own health. Know your enemy. You got me?¡± "Always good advice." A female voice, Tox, cut in. Tox was an interesting surprise. She hadn¡¯t worked with the team in over two years, and nobody had mentioned her name once that entire time. Now she was back, and acting as if she¡¯d never been gone. He wondered if she was tight with Big Man again, and if he was gonna work his prison solitude off with her later. She was a stunningly beautiful woman ¨C tall, with long blond hair and calculating brown eyes that made him feel small and uncomfortable when she looked at him. She had a confidence and an aura that made her seem more important than she really was. Not that he cared. Her past was well known to everyone on the team. She was Lanie Wilson, the spoiled, fame-hungry, socialite daughter of pharmaceutical billionaire Hugh Wilson. Lanie and her older sister, Lisa, had been tabloid queens for several years in their late teens and early twenties, and Lisa even had a sex tape floating around on the internet that Sweets had seen probably a thousand times. But after a few stints in rehab for cocaine and prescription pill abuse they¡¯d both disappeared from public view. Lisa eventually got married to a hockey player and had kids, but Lanie had somehow parlayed her short stint with anonymity into a position in the Organization. No one knew how, although her knowledge of drugs, her incredibly persuasive demeanor and her contact list of public figures probably played a big part. Of course, in the grand tradition of Big Man¡¯s teams, her nickname didn¡¯t come from the toxic drug cocktails she could put together. No, Tox was just a shortened form of Botox, a jab at her need for minor plastic surgery over the years. Just like his nickname Sweets didn¡¯t entirely come from his love for candy. "You got that right, babe. So, we meet again in five days. Crash, you got our shops ready?" "One of em. Workin'' on the other. I''ll know by tomorrow." "Good. Meeting adjourned. I don''t wanna see you guys for another five days unless I need to. Sweets, we''ll chat later." "Roger that." The video feed went dead from the other end, and Sweets ignored the static. He''d finally found the deal he wanted on Call of Duty, and he was working his way through the Shopping Cart on this particular website. It wouldn''t be released for another seven days, and it wouldn''t be overnighted to him until a day after that. He scratched his scruffy, graying beard and frowned. He''d be in LA then, so he''d have to wait to play it until he got back. That was annoying, but he at least had enough patience to hold out until then. He may live his life like a teenager who was used to getting what he wanted, but he was also a forty-nine year old man with a job that required some real responsibility. So he could wait until he got back to have some real fun. It¡¯s not like this L.A. job would be complicated or anything.