by Captain Sammitch and Chewy Walrus
New Orleans, Louisiana:
It wasn't New York, but an American metropolis was still an American metropolis. After only two hours of roaming the Big Easy, Phil Smith had managed to rent an SUV, locate the storefront that was his objective, get ammunition for his .44, take a break at Starbucks, and even buy a new suit. He was currently driving around downtown, waiting for Grissom Montag to contact him.
"Come on, Griss," the telepath breathed, "where are you?" He switched on his earpiece. "Griss, you there?"
"'Bout bloody time," the mercenary replied. "Didn't see you get off the plane."
"Hopefully no one else did either," Phil said. "I was waiting for you to call."
"I was supposed to call you?" Grissom thought a moment. "Slipped my mind, I suppose. But you're here now, so let's think this over."
"Have you located your target site?" Phil asked.
"I'm sitting on a park bench across the street from it," Grissom replied. "Meatheaded buggers don't give too much thought to establishing a perimeter, do they?"
"I didn't notice much of one around my site, either," Phil confirmed. "Which means they're probably all inside."
"Taking shifts on guard duty," Grissom added. "They'll probably switch 'em every few hours."
"I think I want to do a little more recon before we go in," Phil said. "'Every few hours' isn't quite precise enough for what we want to do."
"I'm getting my recon in now," Grissom said. "Get to your site and call me when you figure things out."
"All right," Phil agreed. "On my way."
"And be careful out there, mate," Grissom added.
"You too," Phil replied as he switched off his earpiece and turned left toward the storefront.
Midway Airport, Chicago:
"Ms. Kline, I presume?"
Leslie Kline slid her sunglasses down on her nose and eyed the man who stood before her. He was dressed in a deep crimson-colored crushed velvet suit and wore a fedora on his head. His black goatee offset well his dark eyes. He was a large man, about six-two, six-three, with a large scar down his cheek. He offered his hand to the woman, who accepted it warily.
"Mr. Turner, I presume?" Kline said, looking at her contact.
"Agent Turner, actually," the large man said, motioning for the woman to lead the way to her luggage.
"Agent?" Leslie asked, taking the hint and leading the way. "What exactly are you an agent of?"
"The organization I represent does not refer to its operatives as agents. I, however, choose to keep the title I once held as a member of the MCCA. I believe you've heard of it?"
"Oh, my God," Leslie said monotonously and looking up at Turner. "You're the Agent Turner?"
"The same," he answered, nodding. As the two walked, Turner pulled a pair of sunglasses from his pocket and put them on.
"I thought the MCCA went belly-up," Leslie asked, reaching down and picking up her luggage. She held it out for Turner to take, but the man made no motion to do so. As much as she figured she probably could get him to carry them for her, Leslie decided not to press her luck with this one. "I'm not being hired on to an underground elitist, survivalist group from the MCCA to help slaughter metas, am I?" she asked, chuckling at how ludicrous it all sounded to her.
Turner merely raised an eyebrow. "No," he said solemnly, killing her laughter. "Not... quite."
It was at this moment that Leslie knew she wasn't going to get any more information out of Turner than she already had. The pair continued in silence until they reached a darkened, uninhabited area of the airport. Leslie looked up at Turner as he tapped his earpiece.
"I.G.O.R., initiate portal," he said.
Just as Leslie was about to ask what he was talking about, a circular mass of swirling blue energy opened up before them. Turner looked down at Leslie imposingly.
"Ladies first," he said, gesturing for Leslie to enter.
And Leslie Kline, anxious to get started on her new job, closed her eyes, held her breath, and walked through into the headquarters of the Enhanced Procurement Sanction, also known as the EPS.
New Orleans:
The diner was wrapping up dinner hour, and a few patrons -- short-haul truckers, construction workers, and the odd business commuter -- still lingered. Some swapped small talk over a beer while others skimmed through the daily paper hoping to find something positive for once. A few people were feeding the jukebox a steady diet of quarters and singing and dancing to whatever tune floated out.
Phil walked in and had a seat by a plate-glass window, through which he could see his objective across the street. The storefront was a bit older than the buildings around it, and a few of the shops were closed and boarded up. There was a row of apartments above the shops, and Phil figured that Mrs. Piper and Latisha, Kit's youngest daughter, were probably in one of those apartments. The trouble was that even though it was a bit run down, the storefront was still in a visible area relatively close to downtown. That would make it difficult to do anything without either someone seeing him from inside the building or a bystander noticing that something was up. What to do?
"Griss, you there?"
The earpiece crackled. "Yeah, mate. What's goin' on?"
"I'm across the street from it," Phil said, "but I'm not sure how I'm gonna get in without anyone noticing." He looked around. "It's right near the downtown area, with streets on three sides, plenty of windows, and a fair amount of traffic around the place." He paused. "We're gonna have to wait until it starts to get dark."
"You sure?" Grissom sounded a bit impatient. "I can be in and out without too much trouble."
"But what if they have communication between the two sites?" Phil argued. "If you go in right away, they could sound the alarm, and there'd be no way for me to get in. Hell, they might just start shooting the hostages." Phil looked around again to make sure nobody was listening. "We gotta synchronize this down to the second."
"I have been doing this for a while, you know."
Phil sighed. "Griss, neither of us is much of a team player when we're in our element. But this is different. We're gonna have to trust each other on this one, man." He paused. "What do you think?"
"I think we should do what we can to keep them from talking to each other," Grissom said. "If one of us cuts a phone line at just one of the places, then the other can jam the cell phones at the other place, and... no communication."
"You did give me a static box," Phil recalled, referring to the multi-frequency white-noise generator Grissom had brought along just in case.
"Then I guess I'm the lucky one who gets to cut the phone line," Grissom said.
"We'll still have to time it pretty well," Phil said. "Once they realize that they've lost their avenues of communication, they'll know something's up. We've got to work fast." Phil looked out the window. "What the hell...?"
Four police cars were pulling up around the storefront across the street.
"What?" Grissom asked. "What's going on?"
Phil got up and headed for the door. "I'll get back to you."