"Pardon My Whistling"

[dochermes]

"Pardon My Whistling"

1/23-1/24/2007

I.

Ten to five on a boring January day. Jeremy Bane had cleaned his office, even straightening the scrapbooks and box of newspaper clippings. He had written out every check due and put them in envelopes, he had gone through all his messages. He had called Bleak and a few other sources to see if anything was up in the Midnight War. Nothing. The supernatural seemed to be taking a week off. He had even phoned Lt Montez down on 20th Street and asked if there were any weird and puzzling crimes that needed a hand. Montez had said no and wondered if Bane was going to go out and start trouble just for something to do. The Dire Wolf denied that he would do that, but actually he was considering it. He had been known to prowl the city at night hoping for trouble. Maybe as soon as it got dark.

Bane was standing by the couch, holding the heavy curtains aside to gaze out at Third Avenue. It sure seemed cold, judging by the way the few people on the sidewalks hurried past with their shoulders up and their heads down. Not much snow this year. As Bane watched, a black SUV with tinted windows pulled up at the corner. The passenger got out, a big man in a dark suit and white topcoat and the SUV pulled away. The man headed for the front door of the yellow-brick building where Bane's office was located. The Dire Wolf perked up. A few seconds later, his doorbell rang. Finally! He went through the tiny reception room just big enough for two chairs and a coffee table with old magazines, and checked out the image on the monitor.

>He had mixed reactions to what he saw. White male maybe thirty-five, thirty-six. Two inches over six feet tall, trim and fit-looking. Short dark brown hair, brown eyes, nothing really to aid identifying him by a description. It was the body language that made Bane frown. The man had some signs of hostilty but his face was placid. Not that there was any doubt that Bane was going to let the man in. On a day like this, he would have opened his door to a starving tiger.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Mr Bane?" said the man in a neutral accent.

"I'm Bane, can I help you?"

"I hope so. I'm from an organization known as INTERCEPT. You met our chief, Mr Davenport, last year."

"Sure. Come on in." Bane stepped aside and followed the man to the inner office, the door being left open. He motioned for the man to take a seat in front of the desk and went around to sit down in his own chair. "Naturally, I'd like to see some ID. Your gold badge?"

"Sorry? We don't carry badges." He held out his wallet. "Here's my ID card, complete with photo and Mr Davenport's signature. Field Agent 0706. Karl Vogel."

Bane studied it. "That's an old trick asking for the wrong ID, but it's always worth trying. Okay, Karl Vogel. What brings you to the Dire Wolf Agency today?"

"Last August, you worked with our Nicholas Pryshepa. He and Mr Davenport were extremely pleased with the results you obtained. Currently, there is a situation in Manhattan we feel you might be interested in resolving. INTERCEPT is overextended at the moment dealing with a new criminal network code-named MARABUNTA. Anarchists, difficult to predict what they'll do."


The Dire Wolf nodded politely. "And what is going on that I might able to help with?"



"You remember STIGMA, of course. A loose alliance of several criminal empires. They are more like an association than a conspiracy. The John Grim branch is active in Manhattan right now."

"Really. Grim has been dead for fifteen years. I examined his corpse myself."

"His organization kept the name for its recognition value. They concern themselves with industrial espionage, computer hacking, financial frauds, white collar crimes. But we believe they have a new leader, the son of John Grim himself, Alexander Grim. Quite young and ambitious. They seemed to be acting more violently and ruthless than before and the body count in their crimes has increased dramatically."

Bane was frowning. "I haven't heard any of this in the area."

"Oh, they have been operating mostly in Eastern Europe. Former Soviet countries. It is just within the past few days that we have reports of known STIGMA agents sighted within Manhattan. A robbery at a pharmaceutical lab on Staten Island, Progressive Medical Products of America. Some new compounds were taken, two security guards shot dead and a lab technician wounded. We believe they plan to combine the compounds to synthesize a new poison, Isopromine-9. Its creation was proposed but declined because of expense and the dangers of working with it."

The grey eyes were gleaming now as Bane leaned forward. "I'm interested."



"Here," Vogel said as he reached inside his jacket and took some a few 4x5 glossy photos. "They missed destroying one security camera."



Bane looked at images of three men in dark clothing, holding assault rifles and running down a corridor. They wore bright yellow vests, open in the front, and each had a full-face yellow cloth mask with a black skull over the face. One photo showed that the back of the vests also had a large black skull design.

"What's with the Halloween outfits?" Bane said.



"Oh, that's a new STIGMA trademark. Supposed to terrify victims and make witnesses reluctant to talk. Like the old pirate flag, the Jolly Roger. Mr Bane, do you think you want to help us?"



The Dire Wolf allowed the faintest predatory smile. "I'm on the case, Mr Vogel."



"There's not much more information to give you, I'm afraid. Our agent Winchester will brief you as much as possible."



Bane sighed almost inaudibly. "I worked with Pryshepa last time but frankly, I'm best on my own. I suppose if I say I don't want a partner, this Winchester will just shadow me any way?"



"I wouldn't be surprised. Perhaps that would hamper your style more. In any case, at 7:15 Winchester will be standing in Bryant Park with a folded magazine."



"Spies. Do I have a phrase I have to say?"



Vogel stood up. "Oh no. You're distinctive, Winchester will approach you. Thank you, Mr Bane. I do want to say that Mr Davenport has expressed regrets you wouldn't want to be a regular associate of INTERCEPT, perhaps an agent yourself."


"It's nice to be appreciated," Bane said and escorted the man to the hall.

II.

Once alone again, the Dire Wolf got behind his desk and pulled up his laptop from where it hung in a satchel on the side of his desk. It was slower than ever since Trom Girl had made her improvements, but it could get through almost any security without being detected. Megan had tried to explain that Trom technology allowed the computer to slid between layers of security and function between pulses, but he had no idea what that meant. He started searches in a few windows and put the laptop to one side.



Bane was wearing his usual outfit of all black- slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. Going into the tiny bathroom, which had a sink and toilet but no shower, he stripped down and did a quick sponge bath with hot water, then toweled dry. Bane had almost zero body fat, and the long runner's muscles stood out dramatically as he moved. Critically, he examined himself in the mirror over the sink. Four days earlier, he had taken a lot of damage in a fight with a Melgar but there wasn't a trace now. The bruises had faded the next day and the nick across the side of his jaw had also closed up and vanished. He was used to this. For thirty years, he had been drinking the tagra tea available only to knights of Tel Shai and it had boosted his healing powers beyond what medical science could explain. Bane could still be wounded and killed, of course, but given a chance his body bounced back from apalling trauma that would have ICU doctors shaking their heads sadly.



He put the silk-thin Trom armor back on, leaving only his hands and head unprotected. This wasn't perfect either, but it did give more protection than heavy ceramic plate armor and had saved him from bullets many times. Bane pulled on the slacks again, but got a fresh turtleneck and socks from the closet before getting into the boots and sport jacket. Throughout, he had kept the matched silver daggers strapped to his forearms and now he adjusted the hilts to make sure he could reach them quickly.



The Dire Wolf was thinking that he might as well work with the INTERCEPT agent rather than try to function while being trailed by someone who could be a help rather than a nuisance. It wasn't like he hadn't teamed up a dozen colleagues over the years, not to mention the two KDF teams he had formed. And he was desperate for action. He should be grateful that INTERCEPT had turned up today.



Going back to his laptop, he found that "Karl Vogel" checked out. He was a former German civil service officer who had joined INTERCEPT four years earlier. Alexander Grim also was what Vogel had said, the son of John Grim but without his father's telepathy. The computer could not find a listing for an INTERCEPT agent code named "Winchester," though. It was still searching. Bane cancelled the search, erased everything he had just read and started a deep scan of the computer before closing the lid. He had decided to go anyway. From the closet he took his long black coat and a pair of leather gloves, inevitably black. Turning off the lights, he left his office and went out into the cold.



Standing on Third Avenue, he considered getting his Subaru from the garage on 40th Street but decided against it until he knew more about the situation. It would be a nuisance to try to park it anywhere near Bryant Park. He started walking, the cold didn't bother him because the tagra let his body adjust to extremes. He had gotten so used to this that he was a little surprised when cold or heat made him uncomfortable. At 42nd, he crossed over past the New York Public Library with the stone lions and went around to Bryant Park. A few skaters were on the rink, there were booths open selling food and souvenirs but the usual crowds were not in evidence.



Watching the skaters was a young woman with long glossy black hair, wearing a leather coat and knitted cap, with a red scarf around her neck. She was holding a folded magazine and tapping it against her side. As Bane approached, she turned her head and recognition flashed in her eyes. She was a very pretty black woman with medium skin, a pointed chin and large watchful eyes. Bane judged she was five feet three, only a hundred and ten pounds. He immediately caught the way she sized him up, and then she pulled back her sleeve to glance at her watch.



"Seven fifteen on the dot," she said in a refined voice trained to have no accent other than American collegiate. "Thanks for not keeping me waiting in this weather."



"We need to talk, of course. Maybe we should step into the library?"



"Sounds good," she said and walked briskly alongside him. "I've heard so much about you. Shall I call you Jeremy? It's funny to address someone whose real name is publicly known."



"Jeremy is fine. I'm not really in your trade. Our fields overlap, but that's all." He held the door for her and they walked up wide marble stairs to the second floor landing. The corridor was nearly deserted and they found a niche with a bench to sit.



"This is better," she said. "My poor nose." She tugged off her cap and brushed her straight hair with slim fingers. "So. What have they told you?"



"Not much. The robbery at the pharmaceutical lab. Alexander Grim and his branch of STIGMA. That's it." Bane felt a strongly conflicting response to this woman. Maybe it was just that he found her attractive but that usually never entered his head when dealing with female partners. He didn't trust her yet, of course. Spies, private investigators and crimefighters all had to be treated with suspicion.



Winchester smiled. "That's about it. We had a man question everyone at the lab and he turned up nothing useful. Grim is another matter. We have had a mole in Grim's organization for a year now. I'm supposed to meet him tonight but he is afraid his cover has been blown. I was hoping having you in the area would provide some protection."



"Fine with me. I don't see how this Grim can be anywhere near the threat his father was. John Grim was a genius to begin with and his low-level telepathy let him steal ideas from everyone without their knowing it. His Solar Knights were better than anything before or since. What do you know about his son?"



"Alexander Grim. No, he's not a mind-reading super-genius. Just ambitious and amoral. He has no sense of right or wrong. In the past two years, he has rebuilt his father's organization until it is the dominant partner in STIGMA."



Bane was watching a young couple walk by with a toddler so heavily bundled up nothing could be seen of the child. After they passed, he asked, "When are you supposed to meet your undercover agent?"



"Ten minutes to nine. You know, you are being trusted with Top Secret information most of my colleagues aren't cleared for. I'm not entirely comfortable sharing all this."



Bane glanced down at her, still uncomfortable himself. He was not sure why he felt that way. Maybe it was just having a stranger forced upon. "Lionel Davenport vouches for me, I understand."



"Yes. In INTERCEPT, that counts for everything. He had a very high accuracy rate in judging people. Do you have a car nearby?"



"No."



"We'll use mine. I found a spot two blocks over. We might as well get going, the location is down where the World Trade Center used to be."



They walked up to 44th and Park and she chirped open a shiny new silver Chevy Malibu. Bane thought sourly that it looked nothing at all like the big solid Chevy Malibu he had owned, but then that was a long time ago. They got in and Winchester shifted something behind her before sitting back. That must be where she keeps her gun, he thought and figured she knew he had noticed. She eased out into traffic and made two turns to head south. At just before nine, she drove past a restaurant called Torches because it had a row of flaming torches set along the water's edge.



Bane remembered this place well, and it made him wonder whatever happened to Dandelion. Where was she tonight? No time for that now, he told himself. "Here?"



"Yes," she answered. "I'm supposed to park in the corner of the lot nearest the water. Where those trees are. Our agent will arrive and get in my car, then I will take him to a secure location for debriefing."



"But. He's concerned that STIGMA killers will turn up. That's where I can be useful. Keep going. Stop on the other side of that area with the trees and bushes."



"You're going to watch from concealment? I suppose. After I pick up our boy, I will come get you."

"Assuming everything goes well. Otherwise, you'll see me sooner than that and so will any STIGMA agents. I'll get out here," he said and jumped out, closing the door behind him. He took three steps into the winter gloom and vanished like a magic trick. How did he do that? She could not see a trace of him but he could not have gone far in two seconds. The black outfit would help, but still.... Vexed, she put the car in gear and went back toward the parking lot and rolled into the corner nearest the water. The flickering light from the torches was restful.



Winchester did not know about Tel Shai and the secrets it had guarded for thousands of years. Kumundu Masters like Bane learned arts of stealth and concealment, timing and misdirection, that later developments like Ninjutsu drew upon. Bane was watching her, not from the trees but from lying behind the low retaining wall where the torches were set. She had not seen him dart across the parking lot because he had done it in the second she was stopping her car. Now only the side of his head was raised over the wall, just enough for one eye to be visible.

III.

At five minutes to nine, a huge gold Jeep Wrangler pulled in next to her, on the side nearer the water. Winchester had her doors locked and her hand behind her holding her Glock. That was definitely the agent she knew as Wrench getting out, but why was he so unsteady? Why so slow? The man opened the door and slid down to lie with his face on the ground. Winchester was over by him in a flash, thumbing his neck to get a pulse, her other hand on his wrist. Suddenly she was aware of the guns aimed at her at pointblank range. A A Smith & Wesson .38 with a short barrel and a Colt 45. They were in the hands of men opening the Wrangler doors and coming at her. Each wore a yellow open vest and a yellow cloth mask with a black skull design over the face.



"Now is the time to be smart," the one with the Colt said quietly. "Your friend is not dying. He has been sedated. You don't need to die either."



"Good to know."



"Eleven, take her gun from its holster, I've got her covered. And the knife in her boot. Now, Miss Winchester, get in the back seat with me. Eleven will put your colleague in the passenger seat." She followed instructions and a minute later saw Wrench being flung into the rear passenger seat. The yellow-masked man had left the Wrangler running and now he back out and tore out of the parking lot.



Winchester stole a glance at the wooded area. Where was the famous Dire Wolf when he was needed? She had wondered if his reputation was overblown and now she had proof. Maybe he was just big talk but he sure hadn't come through this time. She sat back and endured the ride. Neither of the masked men talked. After ten minutes, Wrench mumbled and groaned but did not regain consciousness.



Down near the southern tip of Manhattan, a rundown warehouse district has stood for generations. After business hours, only one or two windows show light and a car goes by maybe once an hour. It's hard to guess which warehouses are in use and which have been shut down for years. An occasional drunk or homeless person camps out in a doorway. The STIGMA agents pulled up in front of a wide galvanized steel panel with a sign over it that read WORLDWIDE FURNITURE EXCHANGE. A single yellow light bulb glowed over a regular to one side. Winchester seemed resigned to her captivity.



The masked man in the driver's seat got out first and both covered her as she stepped out onto stained concrete, but they did it carelessly, without conviction. Then the STIGMA killer in the back got out on his side and closed the door. There was a strange noise like a man snapping his fingers. Then nothing.



"Fourteen? Hey, Fourteen?" He gestured with the gun at Winchester. "Come on, step around the back. They went to the other side and saw the masked man lying face down on the ground. The STIGMA agent whirled about, saw no one and turned to Winchester. "Don't. You. Move." Still covering her, he backed up to the door and took a card from his vest to slid through an electronic lock. Then he had to punch in a code and his eyes went to the keypad for three seconds.



In those seconds, a dark form blurred out from under the Jeep and was on top of him too quickly to be seen. There was another of those snapping noises, the man dropped back straight down. Jeremy Bane was lowering his fist.



"WHAT?!" shouted Winchester, losing all composure. "How did you- I mean..."



Bane stepped over. His hands and face had grease on them. Turning around, she showed her the shredded condition of the back of his coat. "These Wranglers ride high. I'd hate to try to hitch a ride under your car."



"It's not possible. You couldn't have hung upside down under that vehicle."



"I'm kind of tough," he said. "When they were loading you in, I ran across and got ahold of the undercarriage. It's no fun but I've done it before." He pointed at the door where the body was lying. "And I waited until he unlocked the door. His code was 33479. We'll take his card for convenience." Bane went over and dragged the STIGMA agent to the Wrangler and threw him in, then got the other one and tossed him on top of the first.



"They look dead," she said.



"Good reason for that. Is this your double agent? He's drugged to the gills. Hmm, look at that eye. He won't be waking up any time soon. I'd say we should hide him somewhere but he'd freeze tonight." Bane yanked off his ruined topcoat and draped it over Wrench. "We'll come get you as soon as we can, buddy."



Winchester had retrieved her gun and knife, and was staring at Bane. "Aren't you all bruised and ripped up?"



"I'm fine," he said casually. "The door's open, you know." He headed toward that door and Winchester followed with a strangely pleasant sensation that maybe this Dire Wolf was the real thing. She went behind him into a narrow hall that had a time clock one wall and a door marked MEN on the other. The Glock was in her hand.



Bane glanced over his shoulder at her. "You smell chemicals?"



"Absolutely. Smells like ammonia, maybe."



"Or the poison they're trying to brew." He reached the end of the hall where it branched out in either direction. "Smell is stronger this way." He headed along the dimly lit corridor and she could not hear the slightest footsteps. He was boots with hard soles, how did he do that? Was it the way he put his feet down? Winchester was getting more curious about this strange man.



Ahead was a big double door with oval windows that were dark. Bane reached behind him to stop her and the back of his hand touched a soft breast. "Sorry."



"It's okay," she whispered.



The Dire Wolf listened for a second, then he said, "I love traps. They cut right to the important stuff. Wait." He pushed the doors inward and walked through as brilliant fluorescent lights snapped on overhead. In a huge open room littered with stray scraps of paper and empty styrofoam cups, a few folding chairs. Over a dozen men wearing the yellow vests and skull masks stood there holding guns at him.



"Great. This means we're getting closer to wrapping things up," Bane said.



"Trying to be brave?" asked a masked man with a shotgun. "You're whistling in the dark, mister."



"Pardon my whistling. Any of you guys the leader?"



"No," said Winchester from behind him. "I am." Something touched the back of his head.



"Aw, I thought you were going to play this out a little longer. Where's the real Winchester?"



"Dead. What do you expect? We resemble each other enough, although to be honest she's a bit ghetto and has bad hair. Still, I would match a description that fool Vogel might give you." She prodded the back of his head. "Time to get the questioning started."



Bane had not moved. "Honestly," he said. "They just don't train secret criminal conspiracies the way they used to. You never get that close with a gun." With the last word, his body swayed to one side and his elbow slammed back with murderous force to crack her sternum. Winchester gasped and fell to her knees and before she touched the floor, the Dire Wolf was plunging into the masked killers.



Guns were blasting instantly but Bane was moving so fast that the STIGMA killers seemed to be trying to miss him. One silver dagger was in his left hand, he slid it across an agent's throat and seized the man's AR-15 to swing a spray of bullets from right to left. Three men convulsed and fell. One on the far end snapped off a shot that caught Bane in the chest but he was moving forward and the impact didn't stop him. The dagger plunged into a man's heart, was tugged out and glittered through the air to slide to its hilt in the left of his chest. Two more masked men fired at him, Bane dropped almost to the floor and sprang to his feet within inches of them. An uppercut that started down by the knees lifted one agent off his feet and made him bite through his own tongue. The other STIGMA killer raised the shotgun and fired at close range.



Bane had crossed his arms in front of his face and took the pellets full on. The front of his shirt was shredded away, revealing the grey gleam of the Trom armor, and he was driven back a few steps, almost falling. He had always thought shotguns were harder to face than rifles. Bane got his footing, sensed something behind him and almost turned when he got smacked in the back of the head by someone seriously trying to kill him.



IV.



Coming back to consciousness was always confusing. Even with the tagra healing, getting knocked out was no joke. He felt he was going to vomit and his eyes refused to open. Bane gradually examined his position. He was lying on his back. Wrists had handcuffs on them. Ankles were tied with rope, no.. wire. But he wasn't strapped down or anything. Soon his eyes opened and blinked up at bright lights.



"Well, well," said Winchester, looming up over him. "That was quick. Eight minutes. I expected you to be out for maybe an hour if you didn't die outright. I gave that blow everything I had." She was wearing the yellow open vest over her clothes but not the mask.



Bane looked down at himself. He was still dressed but all his pockets had been torn open. The daggers were gone and this was the first thing that upset him.



"Oh, you were carrying some interesting tricks in your clothing. Who makes a lockpick set that small? Or a flash-bang grenade the size of a marble? What was that clear mask with the ear loops? Who makes your gadgets, Dire Wolf?"



Bane kept his voice level. "Winchester, I want you to be careful with those daggers. They are valuable. Keep them safe."



"And if we don't?"



"Everything I did to your men? That was without anger. You still haven't seen Dire Wolf."



Winchester blinked but tried not to react. "We can't get that armor off you. It's amazing. Not a single shotgun pellet made a mark on it. Where did you get it. But I guess we can simply cut you out of it when we're done."



"And now I get to be interviewed by Grim, right?"



"What? No. Of course not. I'm in charge of this STIGMA unit. Grim is busy."



"Another time, then."



The pretty young black woman bared perfect, gleaming teeth in her anger. "Trying to be brave in your final hour doesn't help. What did that man say you were doing... whistling in the dark. Forget it. I'm bringing in someone who knows how to get answers." She spun and strode angrily from the room.



Alone for the moment, Bane muttered again, "Pardon my whistling." Gritting his teeth, he broke his own right thumb, slipped that hand out of the handcuffs and reset it. It would heal in an hour or so. He left the cuffs dangling from his left hand for now. The wire around his ankles was going to be harder to deal with. His tools were gone, those little pliers would be a big help but he managed to get the wire loosened an inch or two before the doorknob turned. Still sitting up, Bane kept his hands together as if still cuffed.



This masked man seemed older, stout and bent just a little. He wore the yellow vest and yellow mask with black skull but he also wore thick rubber gloves and carried a tool box.



"Great, the torture expert," said Bane. "Haven't you guys heard of softening the victim up with isolation and darkness first?"



"Against you? Like that would give you anything but rest." She tied the yellow mask on. Bane noticed every skull design differed slightly. Hers had long canine teeth. Winchester rubbed her chest gingerly.



"A little harder and your sternum would have opened. I wanted to talk to you when this over." Bane sat up and swung his bound legs over the side of the table to address the torturer. "Okay, you sicko, you wanna have some fun?"



"Why isn't he tied down? Before we start, have two agents strap him securely? Ah.I thought first some psychological incentive might help," said the man in a Central European accent. He set the tool box on a stand and opened its lid. From within he took the two silver daggers with their slim black handles but no hilts. "I was told you valued these," he said, holding them out of reach.



"Did you notice the hilts unscrew? And something valuable could be in there?"



For an instant, the torturer leaned closer as he peered at the knives. Bane's left hand flashed up faster than a rattlesnake striking, yanked the dagger away and slashed open the man's windpipe. In the same motion, he reversed the weapon and flung it so hard it made a thumping noise as it punched under Winchester's left breast. Both people died within seconds. The torturer fell, clutching at his ruined throat but could not breathe. Bane waited until he was sure they were gone.



"Sorry, Winchester. I let you live the first time and you get me an appointment with the people skinner." He started on his ankles again, had some trouble but managed to unwind the wire. By now his thumb had healed and he could use it with some pain. Bane got down off the table and replaced his daggers to their sheaths under his sleeves. They had been a gift from the one man he had respected back as a young punk, and he would give up everything else he owned before letting them get away.



The Dire Wolf took Winchester's Glock, examined it and tucked it in his belt. Was there anything in the torturer's tool box that could be useful? He found scalpels, clamps, tweezers, a soldering iron... No, nothing he needed. He searched Wincvhester and found his wallet and a few of the Trom gadgets but not his keys or his gun. Damn. No sign of the key for the handcuffs either. On a second thought, he tugged the yellow vest off the woman's corpse and put it on. It had the black skull emblem across the back and no buttons, it was meant to be worn open. The yellow mask was of thin cotton, drew down over the entire head and tied in the back. There were eyeholes and a slit for the mouth. The interior smelled like stale sweat but that was no surprise. As he left the room, Bane turned off the lights and closed the door.

V.

Heading out in the corridor, Bane grudgingly decided he needed to get out and come back fully armed in the field suit. He had a good sense of direction and went around a few corners before finding himself in the open area where he had been taken prisoner. The bodies were gone but the blood had not been scrubbed. He imagined the STIGMA crew had their hands full disposing of twelve or thirteen corpses but that was their own fault. He swiped the ID card across the slit and opened the door without setting off an alarm. He had expected to have to shoot his way out. Outside, it was around eleven or so, and the wind was bitter. The black Jeep Wrangler was still there. Evidently having so many of their men killed within a few minutes had rattled STIGMA, this vehicle should have been concealed. He tossed the dead agents on the ground with a complete lack of courtesy and found the keys on one of them. Bane got in the driver's seat. The INTERCEPT agent was still dazed but showing signs of life. "Hang in there," he said, starting the engine and making a U-Turn to head back uptown. He tossed the vest and mask out the window; they might be useful at some point, but he didn't want them on him.



A lot had happened in the last hour and a half, but Bane was used to it. He functioned best in high-stress situations. Getting to 40th Street, he drove past the four-story yellow brick building where his office was and left the STIGMA vehicle in a No Parking zone. Let them pay the ticket, he thought, they're going to have worse problems than that. Now he had to move quickly. He flung the drugged agent over a shoulder and ran with the burden to the alley between his office building and the Thai restaurant next door. A car drove by, quickly enough that he doubted the driver had spotted him. Without his key fob, he couldn't unlock the exit door from outside without setting off the alarm.



Everything is a big hassle anymore, he grumbled as he went to double glass doors in front and rang for security. A retired cop named Beisel showed up a minute later and let Bane in. This sort of thing had happened a few times in the middle of the night. Beisel didn't mind. He liked the air of dark violence and mysterious comings and goings that surrounded Bane.



"Thanks, Doug," Bane said. "I'll be staying in my office tonight."

"Just buzz if you need to get out, no problem." He added with a chuckle, "You've looked better."

Bane headed past the up staircase to the short hallway where his office stood, plain wood with a brass plaque that read DIRE WOLF agency. Another problem. He lifted his left leg and examined his boot. They had found the razor hidden in the top slit, but not the lockpick tool between the toe and sole. Great. He sometimes went years without needing these tricks, but when he did need them, they paid for carrying them around. He got inside his inner office and picked the lock holding his medicine cabinet to the wall. I need better locks, he thought, these aren't even taking a minute to open. A false bottom in the medicine cabinet revealed his spare keys with the transmitter in the fob. Bane closed everything up and went back out to the hall.



Trom Girl had rebuilt the door lock one night so it could be opened a signal from the key fob without the alarm going off. Bane heard two clicks, shoved the door outward and tugged the limp form of Wrench aside. He had to get the door closed quickly, the alarm was only deactivated for thirty seconds. The Dire Wolf dragged Wrench into his office and closed the door. Shouldn't this guy be waking up by now? He hadn't turned the office lights on yet, when he saw two headlights stop in front of the long window over the couch on the Third Avenue side. Bane pulled out Winchester's Glock and thumbed the safey off. This was starting to get on his nerves.



As the storm of gunfire exploded outside, the Dire Wolf already out of his office, disarming the alarm and jumping through the exit door into the alley, then raced to the Third Avenue side. The dark SUV had its windows down and two guys in yellow masks were raising their AR-15s as the vehicle started rolling again. Bane snapped off two shots and got both of them. He tried for the driver but no luck. The license plate he automatically memorized through habit, but he doubted it would be useful. Lowering the Glock, he tucked it in his belt and examined the window to his office. Not bad. A few tiny dents in the superglass, one star-shaped fracture but he was sure nothing had gotten through. He could have bought the building with what he had paid to have that window fabricated and replacing was going to take a week or so.

The security guard unlocked the front doors and lumbered out, hand on his pistol. "What in the name of God is going on out here?"

Bane turned slowly. He was a mess, with his clothes shredded, his hands and face streaked with oil and grease, and blood splatters drying from the fights. "Just the life of a private detective," he said. "These things happen. You should call the police while I clean up and change. I'll be in my office." He turned and went in the building, dreading the coming hours of answering questions and signing statements. He wanted to get back to work.

VI.

Back in his office, Bane scrubbed his hands and face furiously, ditched his tattered bloodstained shirt and jacket and yanked on the last set which were in good condition. Then he managed to revive the mumbling Wrench before the police arrived. The man seemed a little unsteady but was clear and coherent. "Look, NYPD will be here with a million questions you don't have answers to. I want you to vanish, here's $20. Hail a taxi, get back to INTERCEPT and tell them STIGMA is in a warehouse on Hoffstater Street down by the Battery. Tell them Bane said so. Got it?"

"Wait, what's this about a stigma? What do I have to intercept?"


"Oh, play innocent later." Bane hustled the man out through the front doors, still unlocked, and saw Wrench cross the street at a good trot. Just as he passed out of sight, the first police car pulled up and shut off its siren. The Dire Wolf hated this part more than being captured by the enemy.

In the end, he was not taken down to 20th Street but he was cross-examined backwards and forwards and every answer was taken apart and analyzed. Bane had a thirty year history of helping the force catch serial killers and maniacs, all unofficially and off the record. But not everyone in the NYPD liked the arrangement and they said so. When the last photo had been taken and the last statement signed and notarized, it was seven in the morning and people were pausing on their way to work. The last thing the police had to say was an unsympathetic reminder he had thirty days to replace that window or pay a fine.

Bane trudged back into the lobby, and the guard said, "I have to lock the doors, even if they open again in half an hour. Management wants it, and I bet your rent is going to go up if you don't mind me saying so."

"Not my worst worry," the Dire Wolf and went back to his office. The window didn't look bad from the inside. He checked the couch for any broken glass, found none and stretched out for a few hours sleep. Everything hurt, but he knew that while he slept his body would repair itself more quickly.


He had some funny dreams about pushing a shopping cart around town and peeling windows off walls, then climbing stairs on the outside of a building. None of it made any sense but then his dream were always random. At just before noon, he snapped back awake and sat up. He felt fine, just a little soreness in the chest. While he was asleep, his mind had sorted out the hectic events of the previous night and organized them. No wonder he had been uneasy about Winchester, despite his attraction to her. He had been spotting tiny clues in her reactions and body language that were giving her away. Bane swore he would pay more attention to misgivings in the future.

Bane got up, checked his messages and just found two of interest, both Lt Montez and Lionel Davenport would like to see him. He left his office building and went down the block to a deli where he got a pastrami on rye, potato salad, apple chips and iced tea and devoured it all at a round table of wrought iron. Before he left, he bought a second sandwich and ate it as he walked. At 46th Street, he went into his apartment building and was relieved to see no one had taken any shots at it. This address was not as well known as his office location. Maybe he should find another apartment just in case, but being so close to his office was why he had taken this in the first place.

After a hot shower and shave, with some food in his stomach, Bane felt back to normal. There were a dozen red bruises across his front where the shotgun had hit him the night before but no real pain. He turned the Trom armor inside out, rinsed it with hot soapy water and hung it to dry in the shower. Putting on fresh socks and underwear and a plain white T-shirt, he went out to the living room to make phone calls. Montez wasn't in. Bane left a message he would be down to 20th Street as soon as he could. Bleak hadn't heard anything about STIGMATA being in down, but there was some unsavory activity near Central Park involving guys in yellow masks being spotted late at night. Other reporters in his debt were not any more informative.

Going to the refrigerator, he found a package of ham, three slices of Swiss cheese and a buttered hard roll. He toasted it in the iron frying pan and chewed it as he cleaned up. There were a half dozen bananas in a bowl and he ate one of them, as well. Next item would have to be a visit to INTERCEPT headquarters. He found the armor had dried, turned it rightside out and tugged it on. Even if the STIGMA spies had taken it, they would never be able to duplicate its construction. Trom Girl said Human knowledge had another hundred years to go to catch up. Bane put on a pair of black slacks, another of the dozen black turtlenecks and the third of his black sportjackets. He loaded up with the usual gadgets and threaded a detachable holster through his belt to carry a long-barreled .38 Colt revolver. His topcoat had been ruined being dragged under that Jeep last night, he would have to go without unless he ran into a store during the day.


Walking back to 40th Street and Lexington, he fetched his Subaru Outback from the IMPERIAL GARAGE. More cautious than ever considering the circumstances, he asked the attendant Jorge if any one seemed suspicious and he was told, no. The green and blue lights on the driver's sunvisor blinked reassuringly but Bane still took time to examine the car as if he were positive it had been booby-trapped. Finally, he headed out into traffic. It wasn't as cold today but it did look like snow might be coming. He went east, almost to the river and bought a spot for the day in a municipal lot. Across the street was that row of drab buildings with stores on the ground floor and apartments above. The used furniture store TWICE IS BETTER still sat next to a dead end alley. Bane turned into that alley, walking toward the face-high wooden fence at its far end. To his right, an unmarked wooden door opened as he approached and he stepped through it without breaking stride.



Inside a dingy tiled lobby stood a small Indian man in a neat brown suit and tie. His hair was a bit long, curling over his collar and over his ears. He held an assault rifle, muzzle down but ready to go. "Good afternoon, sir."



"You may have been expecting me, wait- what the hell was the password again? 'I'm here to see a man who doesn't light his pipe.'"

"Close enough. Please close that door. My name is Charles Avratnapurhi. Follow me, Mr Bane." He walked toward the wall of the foyer, which sled aside to reveal a gleaming expanse of stainless steel, chrome and glass. Behind a metal desk sat a gorgeous young woman with auburn hair and a friendly smile. She rose and handed Bane a triangular badge to clip over his breast pocket. It said INTERCEPT GUEST 066. Avratnapurhi secured his weapon in a rack behind a sliding panel and signed on a clipboard the woman handed him.


The elevator opened for them, everything here seemed to operate by itself. There must a room full of people watching hundreds of cameras. At the fifth floor, the door opened and Avratnapurhi said, "I will be going about my business, sir." Bane stepped into a 19th Century college professor's study, with books lining the walls, a big globe by the curtained window, framed portraits, and a huge oak desk piled with loose papers. From behind that desk, Lionel Davenport rose stiffly and offered a withered hand. He was at least seventy and looked it. The spiky eyebrows and hairs in his ears didn't help but a shrewd intelligence peered out through those blue eyes.

"Good of you to help out, Mr Bane, we are rather over-extended at the moment. That new anarchist group MARABUNTA is very active and we are also handling some trouble from INTERCRIME. Our budget is strained. Since the Grim organization is in New York at the moment, your area of operations, I thought you might be willing to pitch in."

"Sure," said Bane. He took a stack of books off a leatherbound chair and placed them next to it before he could sit down. "Did your people raid that warehouse?"



"We did indeed. As soon as Wrench reported and mentioned your name, an INTERCEPT team went directly there. It had been hastily evacuated but some evidence was left behind in the hurry. Quite a bit of blood. You seem to have made a considerable dent in the New York chapter of STIGMA. Good show."



Bane tried to make his voice gentle. "You know about the Winchester imposter?"



"Yes. Sad to say. Winchester was a fine young woman, she was heading for rapid promotion. Her body was found in the closet of her apartment. Whoever was posing as her seems to have known quite a bit Top Secret information." He fiddled with an ancient cherrywood pipe but didn't attempt to light it. "Moles and sleepers and double agents are a big part of espionage. It's done all the time by them...and by us."

"Sir, I'm going after STIGMA by myself from now on. I was responsible for John Grim's demise and it looks I'm going to have take care of the son now as well. Give me something to work with."

Davenport considered the request and finally said, "You know about the robbery at the lab. Our experts feel that STIGMA is going to try to make a new quick-acting nerve gas that dissipates within seconds. A group of people can be killed and almost at once, unprotected STIGMA personnel can moved in. Fiendish, if you ask me."

"Go on."

"This is just conjecture, but Alexander Grim has a personal grudge against the Charles and Marie Passante Foundation. They have gone against his instructions several times and have not delivered what he expected. He had in fact threatened the head of the foundation with a grisly demise if he doesn't get full cooperation. We suspect that is why the Grim branch of STIGMA have turned up here."

"And this foundation is where?"



"54th and 1st Avenue. Right up the road from here, so to speak. Huge pair of buildings, with a helipad and everything. Can't miss it. We have two agents watching but we can't provide any more. Shorthanded, you know."

"Any other possible targets for STIGMA with this nerve gas?"


"Oh, certainly. It could be used to rob banks or military installations or anything really. My second guess would be a computer research center. Young Grim is not the mastermind his father was."

"So I hear." Bane stood up and replaced the books where they had been. "Mr Davenport, I'll let you know how things go."

"You've already been a considerable help. Confidentially, how many STIGMA agents lost their lives last night?"

Bane counted in his head. "Fourteen. No. Fifteen."

"There you go. I daresay that's half their numbers in this city. They're not a large operation. This is why I feel their next attack is imminent. Today, almost certainly. They will want to strike as ordered but then they will want to get away from you."


"Glad to help," Bane said with slight discomfort at being thanked for the slaughter. He turned and the door opened by itself, showing the elevator in brightly lit hall with its white tile and steel walls. He entered and went down to street level in more ways than one.

VII.

Back in his car, the Dire Wolf sat and thought things over, then headed back to 44th and his office. For once he took a spot in the small parking lot rather than go back to IMPERIAL, since he was only going to be here a few minutes. A doctor stepped through the EMERGENCY ONE door and asked how he was. Bane said he was fine, just part of the detective life. Going into his office, though, he gave in to anger. If Davenport was right, Alexander Grim planned to massacre people any minute. Had the FBI or Homeland Security been notified of a possible terrorist attack? No. INTERCEPT would rather handle things their own way and they had no conclusive proof, just a hunch. Personally, he thought agencies just disliked workingt together.Bane went over to the waist-high bookcase and swung it around on its hidden casters to reveal a pit he had chiseled in the concrete himself. Sometimes he wondered what sort of fines he would face when he left this office for all the unauthorized changes he had made. He yanked up an old fashioned black trunk with brass corners and opened the hidden lock.



Stripping off his outer clothing, Bane folded them on one of the chairs and got into his field suit. This included heavier boots with steel toes and heels, pants of a tough leatherlike material, a cotten crewneck shirt and a waistlength jacket of the leather. All black. The jacket had its own inner layer of Trom armor, so he now had double protection. Bane checked all the pockets and slits and transferred a few gimmicks from his civilian sport jacket. He holstered the .38 to the small of his back, where the field jacket concealed and placed the helmet to one side before replacing the trunk into the pit and wheeling the bookcase back over it.



In the field suit, he also felt more able to handle any situation. Straightening up, he placed the helmet over his head and touched the right ear pod. The visor lit up with the light enhancers, which he turned off. He ran through the helmet functions, including the diffusion membrane and audio amplifiers and radio receiver. Everything was nominal. Bane tucked the helmet under one arm, glanced around the office to make sure all was in order and headed out.



In the Subaru once again, Bane drove toward 54th and 1st Avenue. Some impressive buildings here. The Charles and Marie Passante Foundation consisted of two ten-story story office buildings, almost on the river. Bane pulled in the parking lot and had to stop to get a slip from a guard in a booth. He pulled into the first available spot and started circling the center. It certainly was busy, lots of people going in and out. There was the helipad, a cleared area between the two buildings, marked by a circle with a big H in the middle. The Dire Wolf saw nothing obviously wrong so far.



He walked directly into the lobby of the nearer of the two buildings. No one stopped him to inquire what he wanted. There was a semi-circular counter as you entered, behind which two men in white shirts and black slacks were adorned with badges, shoulder radios and sidearms. They watched Bane but he ignored them and headed for the big directory on the wall. His confidence and self-assurance usually worked when getting him into restricted areas. There was the listing he wanted. TOMORROW'S MEDICINE TODAY LABS, on the tenth floor. The Dire Wolf did not glance around or seem uncertain, he headed toward the bank of four elevators as if he owned the building. Without breaking stride, Bane opened the door to the stairs and headed up. He was going by instinct now, but he wanted to get a feel for the situation without people around. On the fifth floor, he heard a door close but he saw no one.



By the time he reached the eighth floor landing and paused to listen, all his senses were alert. The feeling of danger was very strong and he could not say what was getting him on edge. By each door he had heard either footsteps clicking down hallways or people talking in normal tones. Then he heard the helicopter, directly overhead. For some reason, this triggered all his instincts. Bane lowered his helmet over his head, leaving the visor up, and trotted up the stairs. The sound of the chopper was loud enough he wondered if they were going to land on the roof instead of the helipad.



Then came the screams from above him. Drawing his gun, he went up the stairs two at a time, rounded the ninth floor landing and was at the bottom of the flight that ended at the tenth and top floor. The door to the roof was propped open, showing the steps and a glimpse of cold blue sky. Had someone disembarked from a helicopter onto the roof...? Holding his gun in both hands, barrel pointed at that landing, Bane stepped up more cautiously.



The metal door at the landing slammed open and three men wearing those yellow vests and yellow masks with skull emblems charged out. The one in the lead held an assault rifle, the one behind him an automatic pistol and the third was carrying some sort of pressurized tank. As soon as they came into view, Bane snapped off two shots that caught the lead STIGMA killer in the face. Red spurted over the yellow cloth and he fell face down to slide down the steps. Before that one hit the floor, the Dire Wolf had fired again but the second man was moving and the bullet barely nicked his arm. The STIGMA agent threw a green metal egg down at Bane with a grunt of effort.



Bane had seldom moved more quickly. He batted the grenade back upward with a swat from his free hand and it actually smacked the thrower in the head before exploding. As soon as he had slapped the grenade back toward the agents, the Dire Wolf spun and started to leap down the stairs but the concussion from the blast caught him like a battering ram. He was slammed down hard to the landing and a piece of shrapnel dug in between his shoulder blades.



Only a few seconds passed before Bane was getting up, but his ears were ringing so he couldn't hear anything else. His face felt warm and wet, and he touched his nose to see blood on his glove. Someday his healing factor would fail and he would just fall apart completely. Where was his gun? He had dropped it. It must have fallen over the steps and was probably a few floors below by now. Damn it. The Dire Wolf stood up, almost fell, and forced himself up the steps. He went past the dead agent still sprawled on the steps and saw there was nothing recognizable of the two men who had been hit by the grenade. Bane hurt all over, it took effort to step over the mangled bodies to the open door they had emerged from.



Twelve dead men and women, some still in their cubicles, a few lying where they had tried to run. The air smelled of sour milk, and Bane managed to snap down his visor and close the vents. There would be a minute or two of air left in his helmet. He closed the door with some difficulty. Maybe that nerve gas was harmless by now but he didn't feel like finding out. He swayed unsteadily and leaned up against the door. Twisting the left ear pod on his helmet three clicks, he cut into the Verizon phone signals. "911," he said loudly. "Yes. Hello? There has been a terrorist attack at 54th and 1st Avenue. Top floor of the building. I see twelve victims. No, I can't hold." He rotated the ear pod back and opened the vents in his mandible to take a breath. Then he realized the whining of the helicopter outside was getting louder.



The rest of the STIGMA agents! Bane sprinted up the steps to the roof and emerged into the daylight and a strong wind blowing cold air at him. There was a black helicopter, with landing struts and two open doorways, however just below roof level so the killers could have climbed aboard. On the body of the chopper was printed MEDICAL TRANSPORT COMPANY OF NEW JERSEY in white script but as he watched, a heavy cloth with a weighted bottom dropped over those letters. It was a yellow banner with a black skull emblem.

IX.

Bane cursed under his breath. The helicopter was ascending as the pilot saw him. The Dire Wolf raced across the roof of the Passante Building, its top floor filled with corpses now, and hurtled straight for the edge. The rotors of the black helicopter, with the yellow banner bearing a black skull on its side, rose up almost touching the edge. He could see the STIGMA gunmen spot him and one laughed at the situation of an unarmed man chasing a helicopter with three killers in it. As Bane neared the edge of the roof, the copter rose up further and started to tilt away. Not really knowing he was going to do it, the Dire Wolf jumped up onto the two-foot retaining ledge off the roof and vaulted up eight feet into the air to grab the landing struts of the helicopter. His sudden weight swung the craft down on one side and the pilot struggled to stabilize.

For one horrifying moment as the copter evened out, Bane stared down at the street twenty stories down. If he had missed the struts...! Well, he would only have had a few seconds to regret it. Swinging his legs up onto the struts, the Dire Wolf rolled a little under the fuselage as a STIGMA gunman leaned far out of the open cabin and fired a burst from his AK-47 at him. The gunfire was deafening at close range. Bane seized the hot barrel, not even noticing how it burned his hand, and yanked hard. The STIGMA thug was not expecting that, he was pulled entirely out of the helicopter and spun end over end into the air. A yellow and black pinwheel rushing toward death.



Trying to get more secure on the struts, Bane got sight of the gunman thumping down on the roof of an SUV, crushing it beneath him. He saw the windshield blow out. But there was no time. The helicopter was rising rapidly. From the back doorway, the other STIGMA gunman was leaning far out, trying to spot him. This one held a Glock in his right hand, clinging to a strap with the other. He was within inches of where Bane was hanging on. The ugly yellow and black mask bent further and the eyes behind the lenses widened as the Dire Wolf seized the man's hand and bent it backward. The Glock fired at pointblank range into the face of the gunman. Blood spurted in all directions, and the gun dropped. Bane tried to catch it but missed. The STIGMA thug was hanging half out of the copter, held on by his restraining straps, arms dangling and not much left of his head.



Now there was only the pilot of the pirate craft, and he was desperately trying to maintain control after all the weight shifting on the copter. Not looking down, working on instinct, Bane crawled over the struts to get as close to the open passenger doorway as he could. The air tore at him, making it almost impossible to hang on, but he made it and pulled himself up with a sudden lunge to grab a metal bar inside the cabin and pull himself in. His heart was pounding but his head was clear.

The pilot turned to see him, but was too busy at the controls. A bright red stain was spreading over the yellow shoulder where a bullet from the Glock must have hit. Every STIGMA mask was slightly different. This one had a black skull over the face but there was no lower jaw, and Bane recognized it. Getting into the co-pilot seat, he screamed, "You told me I was whistling in the dark! Remember?" He grabbed the disengage buckle on the man's chest and clicked it open, then shoved the wounded pilot out through the open doorway. The STIGMA killer screamed as he fell into space.

"Well, pardon my whistling," Bane said. Struggling into the pilot's seat, he realized the helicopter was spinning. He seized the collective stick and pulled back, but the craft bucked like a rodeo horse. This was not one of his CORBYs with their advanced design. The Dire Wolf tried to gain control but couldn't. He spotted the East River just a block away and at least managed to get wildly twisting helicopter headed for it. The river came up faster as if it were rushing up to meet the craft. Bane leaped far out as late as he could, still fell thirty feet and hit the water as hard as landing on concrete. The breath was knocked out of him.

The next few minutes were a daze. He didn't even see the copter floating on the freezing surface, but knew through the pain that he had to get away before it sank and its undertow dragged him with it. He began swimming. Was he heading in the right direction? Yes, there was a pier. The Dire Wolf made it to grab one of wooden pillars supporting the pier and held on with both hands until he caught his breath and his adrenalin level came down to normal. The helicopter was below the surface now. Good. Let the supply of the nerve gas sink to the bottom with it. Exposure to that dirty water would ruin the formula and all they would have would be a mass of harmless goo.

Bane felt strong enough to start to climb up. A rope wrapped around the pillar helped. It seemed to take forever, but the tagra-tea diet prevented him from going into shock or suffering too much from exposure. With icy water pouring off him, the Wolf got up on the pier to see a crowd gathering not far away. Two crowds. One was focussed on where the helicopter had crashed and the other crowd stood around a smashed body lying in the street. The corpse had on a yellow vest with a black skull on the back and a full-face yellow mask with the same marking. No one noticed Bane emerge. It was not until he stepped closer to the crowd that a middle-aged man in a down-filled jacket turned to say, "Can you beat this? Three guys fall out of a helicopter right over the city. And the chopper itself sinks in the East River. It's just crazy, I missed the whole thing."

"It'll be on the news," Bane managed to say.

"Yeah, I guess. Hey, you're soaking wet. What happened, buddy?"

"I fell in the river," the Dire Wolf answered honestly.

"Cripes, you better get out of those clothes. It's only 25 or so today. Want an ambulance?"

"Oh, no thanks. I live right across the street. I'll change and sit by the electric heater and be fine. Thanks for the offer." Bane turned and hurried across the street where traffic had slowed to a crawl. He was on 39th and he swung west until he reached Third Avenue. The walking helped warm him. Sure took a lot of damage on this case, he thought sourly. Without the healing from the tagra and the Kumundu training, he'd be sitting in a nursing home asking for more oatmeal in the morning. As it was, he starting to feel back to normal except for the shivering.

At 44th Street, he hurried through the lobby and unlocked his office door, a little surprised he still had his keys on him. He cranked the thermostat up to seventy-five and stripped off all his clothes to just leave them in a sodden pile. Getting two towels from the tiny bathroom, he dried himself off. Actually, he felt fine by now, just tired. The bruises and the burned hand and the gouge on his neck looked awful but they didn't do more than sting at this point. Some beating he had taken on this case. He still had the silver daggers strapped to his forearms and he unfastened the leather to hang it on the door to dry. The daggers he dried carefully and carried with him.

In the closet on the other side of the door was the last spare set of the black outfit, a very nice blue suit with several ties, a formal evening jacket with accessories and a windbreaker. No bathrobe, he could have sworn he had a bathrobe in there. Oh well. He picked up a thick flannel blanket where it was folded on the floor and crossed over to the leather couch. The office was nice and warm by now. Pausing to turn off the office phone, he put both pillows on one end of the couch, stretched out under the blanket and was asleep as soon as he closed his eyes.

[2/9/2014]