"I'm sorry, Director Moreau, for coming here so late and unannounced," Alex said from the doorway, dressed in civilian clothes.

"How did you find me? This is my private residence and it's supposed to be unlisted."

"Emergency contact list for Carnivora; I found your address, sir. I hope you don't mind."

Moreau nodded, seeing the logic while suppressing his annoyance of being disturbed. "It's late. What can I do for you, Chief?"

"A minute of your time, it's about Cerberus."

"Of course," Moreau said, stepping aside to let her in. Alex removed her knit cap and stepped through, her blond crew cut still an eighth inch from her scalp. "Care for anything to drink?"

"No, thank you, sir."

Moreau motioned her to the living room. She accepted, taking the long couch, he on the adjacent love seat.

"I'll get to the point -- my men and I were let go."

"So I heard," Moreau said, jumping ahead of her. "Team Cerberus isn't alone. The entire Carnivora Program was shut down too."

"You're out of a job like we are?" She suppressed a chuckle.

Moreau nodded. "It is the work I care about."

"Damn them," Alex blurted. "The leak made a lot of pricks nervous so they're covering their butts. Sorry, I meant jerks."

"No Chief, pricks is a better choice. I want you to know I'm trying to do everything I can to change that."

"I know you're behind us, sir. You've always been fair and supportive."

"What will you do now?"

She paused, seeming to search for words. "I think many of us could move on okay. Some might even stay in the service and transfer to other units."

"That's like throwing a tiger in with a bunch of house cats."

Alex managed a weak smile.

"Set your priorities in order, Chief, and ride this out."

"I need income before I figure things out."

"Private security work is a good fit, I imagine."

"I applied. But seeing your face everywhere you go isn't easy."

"Yes, that would be a problem, I imagine. You need a job, I can make a few calls. Nothing much but it will get you by."

"Thank you, sir, anything would help . . . But that's not why I'm here."

"Oh?" Moreau rested his hands over one knee.

"When the service released us, there was no mention of renewing the scripts -- the two prescriptions I mean. It's been weeks and there's been no word. When I reached out to Joint Service Commissary, they said the supply's been cut from the source. Nothing they could do. And the stuff isn't the normal meds they carry in inventory. I'm down to my last stash."

"Even the VA?" Moreau said, flabbergasted.

Alex shook her head. "I have two weeks of T-Stoff left. And even less for C-Stoff." She paused. "I'm worried, not only for me but for the people around me. You know what happens when we run out of T-Stoff."

"I will get you the scripts from my personal authority. I promise you."

"I imagine the rest of Cerberus isn't calm about this either."

"I'm so sorry this happened, but the good news is there's a reserve stash I know of. You'll get yours, Chief. Trust me."

"Who is doing this to us?" She growled suddenly which startled Moreau; he knew what was lurking underneath.

"Best leave those stones unturned. Now if you don't mind, it's late."

Alex nodded, prepared to get up and leave.

"Wait," Moreau said, and hesitated with sympathy, after all, he was responsible for their being. "I'll be frank. What they did to all of us is criminal. And they won't get away with it. Between you and me, I'm putting together plans. And it might be a good fit for you -- I'm telling you this so you keep your hopes up and your ears open. It won't be long."

"What is this plan?" Alex raised her eyebrows.

"I can't go into it, but we'll have the last laugh on those pricks."

* * *

Porsche snapped off a series of thermal pictures of him and the big woman in conversation, her name loud and clear on the audio graph -- Marlboro. And judging from the burly silhouette that dwarfed Moreau, she was the same woman on the news of late.

The conversation didn't take too long, after which Marlboro got up and left his apartment. It was close to midnight now.

Porsche yawned and shook off the encroaching fatigue. Think of the bling, girl. Tomorrow, she'll make contact with Moreau -- to help convince him with his defection. No rough stuff. Her aim was specific -- touch and go, then she was done. Whether he agreed to Uncle's wishes was a different matter outside her obligation.

Boredom was the worst part now. Her dry eyes became heavy as a chill wind blew over her. She wrapped herself tighter in her Obscura cloak which invited the creeping of sleep. The cold always made her lethargic. It didn't help she could hear the modulations of sound coming from the bedroom. Moreau was snoring. Shit, she could have kept a better eye on him after screwing his brains out in a warm bed. But that would have been too fast, too soon. The hunt rewarded the patient.

She nodded and drifted off in the sitting position, her cheek mushing against the Penetrator.

Noise picked up by the laser amplified in her earbud and jolted her awake. You fell asleep, dumb-shit. Nothing inside the apartment had changed since she last looked. Except now, the buzzer chimed, accompanied by hard banging on the door.

Porsche watched as Moreau rose from his bed, put on his robe and answered the bell. Could it be Marlboro again?

Porsche maxed out the intensity of the Penetrator to punch past the last wall, hoping to see what was beyond the door. The laser protested with a pitched hum, getting hotter. As the beam bore deeper, the silhouettes she saw were large, Marlboro's size. Men -- four of them, hunched like linebackers getting ready to charge in.

Moreau peeked through the peephole first.

Porsche could overhear Moreau demanding, "Who the hell's knocking at this hour? What do you want?" She couldn't make out the muffled reply. The double click of the lock was like the sound Pandora heard before freeing the furies. She wanted to scream No, but she was on a roof outside his window a hundred yards away. What transpired next was beyond her reach.

The door flew in with tremendous force as four men tackled Moreau to the ground and gagged him with duct tape.

Three dragged him into the living room while the fourth went to the kitchen. Moreau was thrashing about, struggling against the intruders.

She heard the one in the kitchen bark, "Quiet his ass down."

There was a high voltage buzzing sound as a Taser zapped Moreau. He thrashed and kicked, the convulsion violent but brief. Then Moreau lay still on the floor of his apartment.

Porsche's mind raced. House raiders? Should she call the police? Would Uncle be angry? Even if she called the cops, by the time they got to Moreau's apartment, it would be all over. You're paid to watch, so watch.

She listened as the leader said, "Seal the windows, airtight."

The sound of metal creaking -- she imagined he'd broken the gas line behind the stove. They knew the building used natural gas -- because they canvassed the place beforehand. Just like she had.

Porsche concentrated on the leader who circled over the unconscious Moreau. The silhouette squatted and turned Moreau on his stomach, then moved toward his head. Strange behavior, as if he was figuring out how best to handle the body. What are you doing?

Moreau was beginning to wake, mouth slobbering. The man lifted Moreau's head by the chin and from his wrist, extracted a laser filament. In one motion, the glowing line wrapped around his neck and seared into the flesh, cutting through bone. The head came clean off with no bloodletting; the arteries were instantly cauterized.

Porsche gasped as she witnessed the killing. But this was no execution by a kill team. It was a retrieval -- Moreau's head. She spied as they secured the skull in a dry-ice pliable sac. Why would anyone take . . . then preserve a head? Think . . . It's what's in the head -- a cranial storage chip implanted in the hippocampus. But what kind of data, she asked with futility. One man would know -- Uncle -- the bastard was up to his games again. Did he put together the hit, she wondered? It wasn't out of the realm of possibilities. In fact, it made damn sense.

Something else bothered her about the headhunter. His vocal tone was distinct, low and crackling -- and eerily familiar. "Pack it up. We're out."

The voice rang deep in her, producing a menacing wariness. A chill ran up her spine as if she saw the devil. She did. The low guttural voice was buried in her memory, a man she'd known only too well when she was DeWitt's teenage recruit. An older student at the Farm then. Goddamn Lockheart . . . the Sandman. A killer, famous for his psychotic brutality. And there he was, centered in her camera ocular. Too bad it wasn't a high-powered rifle scope.

She was too close to the action, playing opposite the Sandman. Rattled, a part of her wanted to eighty-six this gig, and renege on the contract; another voice compelled her to shadow the hit team who was set to leave.

She disassembled the gear, packed up the duffel bag and slid down the ladder. At 0344, she stowed the gear, donned a visored helmet and hopped on her motorcycle toward Moreau's building. She parked yards away with care in an unlit trash-filled alley, watching the building's rear delivery dock.

Above, a loud boom reverberated cracking many nearby windows as Moreau's apartment suddenly flash-burned. An explosion blew out his floor, raining debris onto the streets below. At this hour, the walkways were empty of pedestrians.

Right on time, a black SUV rolled out from the rear service area. Luckily, they hadn't used an aerodyne vehicle. She figured they didn't need the high profile of a flyer. She allowed them the lead time and hung back. As the vehicle shrunk to a dot, she gunned her accelerator in pursuit.

Ten minutes later, an anonymous tip appeared on the switchboard of Metro Police alerting them to a murder in a high-rise. But it was old news. The fire department had been dispatched already in response to a raging gas explosion.