[b]Tianjin, China[/b]

“Chairman.” an imposing military man said, bowing as he stepped into the room. Old leathery hands held to his breast a green cap as he bowed to Hou Sai Tang.

“Commander Shai Dek.” Hou said with a gentle, weak wave of his hand. He leaned back in his armchair as the commander stood up, placing his cap back on his balding crown.

Lou Shai Dek was a towering man, by Chinese standards. Once he would have been a strong man, and not just tall. Now all that remained of his youthful composure had simply melted from his body, as age does. He was senior to Hou in age, and it was dramatic in his face. Deep frowning lines ran deep around his eyes and mouth giving him a perpetual disapproving expression. Olive-tanned flabs of skin hung from his weary, long face.

The commander took a seat across from his chairman, and his own commander for well over twenty years now. Rain water dripped down from the shoulders of his ankle-long coat as he seated himself.

The two sat in long unresponsive silence for a time. Hardly the type of silence that was bitter, or regretful. Merely the kind that two old men shared to be in a single moment together. The sound of rain was light on the ceiling. And gentle on the windows.

A light spattering of spring rain pattered on the window. The droplets beaded against the glass, rolling into their tiny diamond balls to slink down to the sill. Beyond, the Bohai rolled gently in the spring storm. Its gray waters dipping and swelling.

“Have you heard the news.” Lou Shai Dek started, breaking the gentle cordial silence between them. His voice was hushed and careful.

“Africa?” Hou grunted. He rose his hand to his chin, stroking the long pointed beard that grew there. He had lost weight, Shai Dek could tell. His fingers were bonier, knuckles thicker. His face sagged tired. Was this what happens as great men grow older?

“Spanish naval forces are reported having crossed the Suez Canal.” the commander said, “There's an invasion of Ethiopia under way.”

“That's easy to figure out,” Hou laughed dryly, “you don't deploy a naval force for a date to tea. If you're not trying to impress someone, it's to cripple them. Next I imagine you'll suggest our strategic interests are at danger.”

“They are, but I also think the Spanish are over-estimating themselves.” Lou Shai Dek said confidently, he leaned himself back as he looked out the window to the storm outside, “They could rip up the coast, and threaten what economic relationship we have with Africa. But in the long term Sotelo's sending his men out to be stretched too thin.

“I doubt the Ethiopian army. A lot. But I don't doubt its jungle. Malaria and fever will be the one to defeat the Spanish. Not the Ethiopians.”

“We know they have chemical weapons though.” Hou replied bitterly, “If he wants it, he could have it.”

“We realize that, and it's certainly a factor. But I don't feel the Spanish have nearly enough VX to abort a third of Africa of all life. They won't be able to sufficiently sterilize Africa to make their job any easier.”

“So what are you asking we do?” Hou asked.

“Simply put, comrade, and friend.” Lou sighed, “We don't get involved. Not yet anyways.” The war may have just been declared but there's been not enough gains by either side to predict with absolute certainty the outcome of the war.

“And we're involved with Russia now. This couldn't have happened at a worse time.

“As it stands, if we do mobilize a naval contingent it may get there late. The Spanish will control enough of the coast to make a landing difficult.”

“We have to get involved though!” Hou pleaded. It was faint, almost well hidden. But the desperation in his voice was evident. It was one of the few doubts Lou Shai Dek had in his superior, his policy in regards to Africa. It was a violation of the Free Asia policy they had established over twenty years back.

“To what effect?” countered Lou, “I don't feel we have enough troops at this time to make a significant impact.

“If we must, I ask it's at a time that's when the Spanish are potentially at their weakest. Let time kill them now, we'll kill them later. This far away, there's only so little we can do. It'll take the better part of up to two weeks at best to successfully assemble a naval force and stock it with men for deployment.”

“What about Pemba though?” Hou asked, “How can we use the Pemba detachment.”

Lou had nearly forgot about Pemba. The reports from there had become few and far between. The latest dispatches from their shàojiàng Dezhi Cao that had made it as far as him were in regards to the Turks in their last breath. Otherwise, it was only safe to assume they went to his direct commander. “We don't have many men there.” Lou said, hesitantly, “Not nearly enough for a fighting force in the fields. In all respects, they're there to assist in training Ethiopian units. Pemba is hardly at a spot ideal for intercepting the Spanish armada. India maybe, but we both know how unlikely that is.”

“I realize that.” Hou rebuked, “But if we can fly in one extra supplies we can get them. Some support, munitions, men. Surely we can get them to a point they can have a proactive ground role. Not full combat by any means, but run support.”

“What sort were you thinking? Aerial recon?”

“Probably. Get something down to them to assist in directing the Ethiopian army. If we can kill them with time, as you hope, then maybe we can give Ethiopia a few more hours.”

“I'll get in touch with Commander Jang and Sing, see if they have resources that can be committed. We'll need to discuss our strategy though.”

“Which means a trip to Beijing, I understand.” nodded Hou, “I'll be kept up to date then with the rest of central command, until we meet?”

“If you have preference, then say. We'll work it out.” Lou Shai Dek invited.

“Sooner the better.” Hou sighed.

“Understood, comrade.” said Shai Dek.

“Then we've settled this?”

“I believe we have.” the commander said smiling. He leaned forward to pull himself out of his chair. Then the chairman rose a hand to beckon him to stay for a while longer.

“If I might ask you one more thing.” Hou started, “I have heard rumors of Zhang Auyi seeking my secretariat position when I retire. What are your thoughts on him?”

“Auyi?” Shai Dek said with a chuckle, “I certainly feel his heart bleeds, and he's damn young. Was when he was a provincial governor, still will be.” he laughed, “Why do you ask?”

“Oh... oh, no reason.” Hou Sai Tang mumbled quietly to himself.

The commander paused to consider. A dim shine of thought came on him and he nodded slightly to himself. “Though I must say, I am not an eager man to commit military assets to another war with the Japanese. As I hear in some rumors on some contestants.”

“And neither am I.” Hou said quietly, distantly. And he had the doubts in the proposition. He had settled peace with the Japanese on one formal occasion. There wasn't anything appealing in disregarding their agreement.

[b]Northern Russia[/b]

Throwing himself down, the scout hit the ground with a hard thump. The ground was still cold with spring frost, and a crystal glaze painted the premature grass and twigs with a light white sheen. The entire air hung still. His breath the only disturbance in the cold morning air.

Wrapped around his neck, a heavy scarf shielded his neck and chin from the pervasive Russian cold. From below his helmet ran a wire as thick as his pinkie, hanging down before his mouth. A microphone half the size of his fist lingered at the end of the artificial antenna. And running down from under his helmet ran a light coiled cable that disappeared under his thick coat, only to appear again to connect to a box at his hip.

From under his helmet the light crackling of radio static helped to disband the pervasive cold silence of morning. The push of a pistol prodded into his leg from under his coat. He felt the hard metal press against his leg as he rolled onto his side, pulling from his coat a pair of binoculars.

“Field mouse calling to sparrow.” the soldier said, raising a hand to under his helmet and pressing the lens to his eyes. “I've reached the objective.”

There was a tense pause from the other end, static embedded itself in his ear as he waited. The anxious silence that churned in frothy auditory ambiance only reminded him just how uneasy he was with new things. And this was just another new thing.

“This is sparrow, copy.” the headset buried under his helmet chirped with electrical interference, “You may begin.”

The scout sighed under his breath. Adjusting the focus on his binoculars he looked into the near distance, where stood in cold defiance of nature the coldest stack of blocks he could claim to see. All around it for yards the trees were felled by the hundreds, creating an all-to-open field of view. Both for him, and to the multitude of watch towers that lined the distant buildings outer parameter.

“Objective is a large structure, surrounded on all sides by dense forest. Trees has been clear cut to approximately five-hundred meters from the base of the objective's outer barrier.”

He paused for a moment as he looked over the parameter wall. It really wasn't much. In places sheets of metal at best. In others frost-covered chain link fencing. Barbed wire covered the tops of the fencing. “Shit's defended by fencing, Sparrow.” the scout said disappointed, “It's patched in places with sheets of metal. Doesn't look like they were put up to keep people out, maybe animals more than man. Fence is maybe twenty meters tall, lined with barbed wire. Watch tower parameter. Spacing every thirty meters, maybe. I see guards.”

“Condition?”

“Poor, maybe.” the scout hesitantly reported. The men on the other side of his lenses moved about stiffly and tired. But there was a lot of them. Did they expect them at all?

“The men look beaten. Coats a little worn. Can't speak for their guns at their range. They walk with a slump, slowly. Plenty of them as far as I can see. Upwards of five in the towers. Teams of team patrolling the outside.

“No visible sniper positions or mortar nests on roof of their home, sir. But plenty of windows looking out over their fence.”

“Internal compound?”

“Open. Plenty of bunkers though. I see vehicles.” said the scout. Battered armored cars sat parked in still-melting piles of snow. They could be easily broken, though signs that they may still be in operation lingered. Teams dressed for mechanical work poked through the engine, like surgeons as they operated on a tender patient.

“Points of entry?” the radio asked.

“Sure, plenty if you ram a fucking buggy through.” the scout spat, half laughing.

“Fair enough, Field Mouse. Find somewhere else to sit. Continue to report in.”

“I'm frankly cold out here, could I come back after a hot meal?” the scout pleaded. There was long silence from the other end.

“Absolutely negative, private.” the radio responded, “Make Yun-qi happy and you'll get your meal.”

[b]Yekaterinburg[/b]

There was not a light to see as Jun slid down the embankment to the factory. Under the darkened cover of the stormy night, the building stood in complete shadow. Even as the rain lifted providing a respite from the cold the clouds remained, blotting out the stars and the moon. There weren't even enough cars to illuminate the old highway that ran out past the factory. In the darkness he only knew he was on something when his feet hit the pavement of its broken parking lot.

It was like walking the edge of nothing and something. The asphalt had cracked and risen in over a dozen places as far as the agent could feel as he walked along its broken uneven. Glass crackled under foot as his boots crunched down on broken glass scattered in the cratered asphalt. And he found cracks and slabs of displaced paving so uneven that as he stepped down in the dark he feared for a brief moment he'd spill down a sharp cliff.

As with the bank, the thought was an all-to-numb reminder of his old missions in Tibet in its restoration to the Chinese state. The jagged rocks and the numb, wet break of his ankle. It wasn't the first time the Bureau learned he was numb. But it was the time that really reinforced that he needed to keep attention. All the same, with or without partner, he still needed to complete his task.

The parking lot, like all things, came to an eventual close. Like a silhouette against a greater darkness of the night he had walked to the front of a large trashcan. Water shimmered on its surface from the rain, and the faint highlights of the dim stormy sky suggested its lid was closed. Grumbling, he felt around the edge as he patted the cold iron shape before him, working along half-blind till his hands felt down the cold wet surface of chipped and broken concrete. A raised platform almost waist high stood infront of him.

Grunting, he hoisted himself over, reaching into his coat for a light; feeling safe he wasn't in the open anymore.

Tucked in one of a number of pockets on the inside of his heavy wool shin-length great coat he produced his light. A solid metal-cased flashlight, with a ninety-degree head. A flip of a switch later, and a spot of soft yellow-orange light highlighted the wet concrete of the loading dock he sat on. In front of him rusted gates hung with barely enough clearance for a man laying on his chest.

He squinted against the light as he looked closer at the narrow clearance. The rough cement and even the metal looked worn. It had been used, ever since the factory abandoned itself and the doors were left to this frozen state. He looked inside, there was dim lighting. Fire light perhaps. He felt satisfied that maybe things would continue on. But he'd need to set aside his pack.

He'd come back to get it later for the long hike. Radio back to Ulanhu his next lead. He'll get it to Beijing, somehow. The agent was confident in that much.

From his back the pack dropped as he gave a hearty relieved sigh. At his belt the bedding-wrapped scabbard of the Mao Dao he wore was readjusted, hanging at his side as opposed to hanging under his bags. And with a clatter, the rest was deposited into the nearby garbage cans, shut away from the cold wet air with the closing of the lid. Resting in the corner on a matte of gathering and compacting debris and detritus.

With the pack gone, Jun had little issue in passing under the gate and sliding into the dim room beyond.

His shoulders brushed the ground, pushing aside a collection of cast aside litter left on the floor. Cast away cigarette butts, packs, and the empty wrappings of broken bottles littered the cold wet floor of the factory. And among them, collecting in the corners were bundles and piles of rags and blankets slowly being eaten away by mold. Pornography had found its way inside, and faded once-glossy photos of women with large slavic breasts often decorated the cast away heaps of blankets and bags that lined up alongside the rusty frame-work shelves of more industrious days. Sagging concrete boxes stood in a sad decayed state alongside breaking and chaffing wooden crates, stripped clean of their contents.

And as the Intelligence Bureau agent walked into the light of low-burning barrels he noticed the soft glimmer of cast-away, rusting needles.

Burning barrels.

Jun looked up at the rusting steel barrels. They had become a common facet throughout Russia. In the cold of winter they were a communal object to warm near. In other ways they were lighting, now the street lights had gone dead in large swathes and ill-funded support no doubt rendered fire codes obsolete. And to see one burning was indication there was life.

The thought again that he was stepping closer to his goal came upon him. And it warmed inside as under his cold demeanor he smiled. Rather hopefully he thought to himself that it would only be a few names before he cut off the head of the organization. Hopefully made a power vacuum that his people could use to pacify the region. Many small fighting enemies was better than the two fighting ones that existed now.

But another part of himself advised cynically that it was never the easy. It wasn't ever. He'd break his leg again if he did it wrong. That's what it told him.

Drips of water fell from the ceiling and the light pattering of fallen drops echoed over the empty factory floor. From around the abandoned husks of machines long abandoned; too big to scavenge and scrap wholesale so they remained like fossils of a more industrious era. Forklifts with their tires stripped of their rubber sat rusting in the middle of the room. Obscene slogans scrawled over every surface in massive, drunken Russian scrawl.

No one would come in here. No one but him. No one but the men he wanted. It was surreal. It was haunting. It was a testament to failure. And failure could not be had.

As he made it deeper in, he kept closer to the walls. Soon folding up into the shadows. In the echoing cavern of the abandoned plant, lit by the weak fires sound could be heard. Above the idle dripping of a leaking roof, laden with rain water. But voices, faint and distant.

Keeping low, he went deeper in. Tucking his hand into his coat to where his handgun was holstered. Hunched near the cold walls, stepping to the side as he closed in on the source.

The deeper Jun got into the factory, the clearer the spectral voices got. The more distinct the notes and the more defined the levels. A softened echo sharpened to clarity as between the pipes and the cables he wound. Over discarded roles of heavy chain and heavy equipment left to lie on the floor. And pressing against the edge of the wall the agent produced his pistol. The sound of the music that had summoned him into the factory's depth reached the full clarity of its siren's song.

A deep Russian chorus, flecked with the distinct grainy quality reserved for vinyl. The haunting voices sung across the empty floor as he hung back and listened. And he wondered. He wondered if this was some trick, casting him off the trail. How stupid it would be, how stupid it'd be.

Slowly he turned the corner, holding his breath as the handgun hung at his side. He peeked around the corner. Looking out onto the floor.

There stood a man.

His back was turned, head dropped over a vinyl player that had clearly seen better days. The needle rose and fell over an uneven vinyl disc. As it followed the wavy features of the player so did the tone and the notes, warbling so very softly in time with the song. And wavering to the swaying notes the man danced as he swayed against the rickety table the player was mounted on.

“So you haven't left.” the man at the player said suddenly, freezing Jun at the corner. Silence fell on the room with a sudden clap as the man pulled the needle from the record.

“I had half hoped you would be back in Beijing when you two disappeared.” he added, “But I suppose that explains why some of our men kept being found dead.”

Slowly the man rose his head, turning. But as he came to the light, his face was not that of a man, but a horse. Rising from behind his shoulders the mangled head of a horse rose, mouth hanging agape and mangled. Lifeless and stunned with glassy eyes. The deathly sagging face turned with lively speed as he turned towards Jun.

“So why are you here, [i]Kosoglazye[/i]?” he growled. The mouth of the horse never moving, just hanging agape. Inside dark shadows loomed on the dead tongue of the stunned, beheaded horse.

Jun breathed heavily as his hand tightened around his gun. His finger wrapped around the trigger as he readied to raise the hand gun.

“Do not move that arm.” the man barked loudly, “There are five men above you now who'll shoot you down if you so much as move. And I want answers, chink. Before I kill you as you killed Alexios.”

“How the fuck did you know?” Jun grumbled.

The man with the mangled horse head laughed bitterly as he walked along the side of the record player. He dragged a black gloved hand along the wood of the table. “Because I just do.” the man asked. His other hand rose to the buttons of his black-stripped suit as he leaned against the player.

“And you are Loshad Isetov?”

“Fuck, are you really this stupid!?” the man cackled, “I shouldn't pass it on an oriental though. Smaller than us, smaller brains!

“No. I saw you at Dimitri's.”

“Wraith?”

“Don't forget.” the enforcer crooned unhappily, “Want to talk?”

“Where's Loshad?”

“And get shot? No. I don't think I'll say.” the ghostly man replied, “But I got questions for you, who are [i]you[/i]?” he asked. His hand dipped into his coat. “I know you're Chinese. No doubt Bureau!” he shouted, pulling out a stunted and blackened pistol, “And you're somebody if you're not crawling back to Beijing already!”

“I'm not you.” Jun shouted back.

“And neither am I you.” replied Wraith, “Now come out here into the light, Kosoglazye.”

Jun was apprehensive. His palms sweated around his gun as he hung back. The Wraith stood in the open, his arms held up invitingly. His pistol, some semi-automatic clearly brandished in the fire light that lit the room.

Jun knew he shouldn't. The floor was far too open. If the man was right, he'd be in a cross fire. But the man was quiet, and patient. Somehow he felt he wasn't going to kill him. Not here or right now. Something was going on.

Hesitantly he stepped out onto the floor, walking over the worn and stripped tracks that would have been used to move the factory's tanks from one stage to another. “So where is Loshad Isetov?” Jun growled.

“By now he would be half way to Perm.” laughed the Wraith. His laugh was cold, as dead as the head he wore over his head.

“Where at?” Jun asked.

“Do you know who you're fighting?” asked the Wraith with the aggressive bite of a snake, “We aren't your untamed Red Guard. We're not street thugs. My betters would rather want one of you fuckers to go home alive with the message first before we mail you back in pieces!

“China can't make us weaker. To the contrary they've mode us stronger. You really rose the bar on criminal quality in Asia, Kosoglazye. You raise to your challenge, or we rot like the Yakuza.”

“What exactly do you want?” asked Jun.

“We want you gone.” the Wraith replied, “We want the Chinese presence in Russia gone. And I got my orders. What about you?”

“I got mine as well.”

“Then we're both honor bound.” he laughed. “Do you have family?”

“No.” replied Jun.

“Then no one will miss you when we take you apart, piece by piece.” the Wraith cackled, his gun rose.

Jun's grip on his handgun remained firm. He looked about, looking for an escape. There was only the door he had come through, and the continuing system of workstations to his left. His heart beat in his chest. Steadying his breath he studied the rest of the room. It couldn't be this open.

The ceiling was a dark mask of shadows cast back against the wall and the ceiling by the faint fires the dotted the open room. A slick black slather of inky shadow obscured the high steel-rung ceiling above, from which chains and heavy equipment hung, waiting to be disassembled.

“So if you're going to kill me, when are you going to start?” demanded Jun. His revolver rose in equal to his rivals. The two squared off across the concrete like cowboys in the old west.

“We don't make the first shot count.” Wraith said, “It's not an inability on our part, it's a preference. So no, here you're not going to die. I can't say where you will die, but it won't be here.”

“I don't think you'll be too happy with me.” countered Jun. He looked above the well dressed figure of his horse-headed adversary. Scanning up to the lingering equipment on the ceiling above. In the faint light, just before the chains ran out of the sight. That's where he made his mark. The Wraith was taking his time. Was he waiting for Jun's first move.

Water dripped. Ticking away like in an hour class. The wet splashes echoed back through the building and its rusting shell. Jun's revolver went up, catching the light. Both he and the Russian stepped aside. But Jun's barrel went higher, faster.

With a crash the muzzle of his gun flashed, exploding in fire and sound as with a crack it fired its bullet. Sparks and a hearty metallic snap sprang in the air followed by a heavy groaning tumbling.

In his evident hesitation the Wraith recoiled as it jumped out of the way of the chain tumbling down by the yard from the ceiling. The watery crash of chain against the ground nearly muted the pop fro him side-arm and the shrill whisk of the bullet as it raced passed Jun's face. Dusty concrete, dirt, mildew, and rust bloomed in the air as the magnetic fist of a ceiling-mounted crane swung to the ground, pulling with it a chain reaction of crumbling industry that rained down. The factory was filled with the roar of steel and iron as the roof dropped its load, cables tugged at the supports, pulling from the ceiling the gear they operated or held. Imperial code came raining in a crash as the cat walks on the side of the room lit up in shrill flashes of muzzle fire. In the storm some cried angrily to kill Jun as he ducked into a sprint and ran through the weapon's fire. The hot trails after the bullets raced passed his face and tore into his coat. He felt the wet, warm spattering of something in his shoulder, recoiling him against the far side of a thick iron support column.

Bullets rang off the thick metal. Clumps of cement fanned out as stray rounds flew passed. As the steel settled and no longer muted out the gun fire the sounds of shouting echoed out over the cacophony. Jun looked down, the way he came looked so close by. The pile of debris had partially filled the gargantuan entrance way, allowing considerable cover should he reach there. But as the bullets whistled and whipped past, cracking the air and splitting the cement the distance seemed so far. Yet there was hardly a choice to make.

He peeked out around the girder. Muzzle flash lit the the wall on the far side. The golden blooms of spirited fire illuminating the men there. They had to know he was coming. There wasn't any other way. Even the Wraith knew. They were ready.

([url=http://youtu.be/oti2lKLFyxs]Action Tiem[/url])

Acting on the sheer urgency demanded he swung from cover, raising the gun and firing back. Running to the side as he did. He didn't place his shots, he didn't aim. He merely needed the cover demanded of him to get across to the next pylon. The ambushers recoiled back against his volley. And if hidden in the night one may have dropped before he fell in before the heavy beam.

The Changu revolver smoked hot in his hand as he opened the chamber, dispensing the six spent casings onto the ground. Sickly and silken streams of cordite smoke lingered up from the brass as they clattered against the floor and he reloaded the pistol with another set of fresh rounds. Sliding each bullet into the chamber with a skilled finesse and cold familiarity with the hot metal.

With a soft click the cylinder was back in and the gun loaded. Above him on the catwalk footsteps shuddered along. The metal clanked and clashed against itself as boots moved along above. It sounded like they were moving to cut him off. Weapons fire continued in a bid to keep him suppressed.

Leaning to the side he fired a couple quick rounds. Taking control of his shaking breath he twisted back to cover and ran at a full tilt for the next support. Diving into a tumbling slide. The concrete brushed hard against him, and the landing shook through to his bones as he threw himself up and rolled in.

Jun pulled himself in behind the column, pulling in his legs as a line of bullets traced themselves across the concrete to where he was. Panting he pulled himself up. His heart was racing. Galloping in his chest as he looked down the last stretch. If they were looking to cut him off there wasn't any time to loose.

“He's moving fast!” one of his assailants shouted in thick Russian.

He looked out to the larger floor. Dark shapes moved along the cat walk above fixing for a different angle. He had to keep his momentum up.

Pushing away from the pillar the gun rose. He fired a pair of shots before dashing the last few minutes. Turning on his heels as bullets danced by. Rising on his toes as he fired a few last shots before bounding over a jutting slab of metal and turning into cover.

He turned just in time to see a man with a wooden horse mask descend on him with an assault rifle raised over his head like a club. Jun had split seconds to act as the stock of the weapon arced through the air. Jun threw himself at him, pushing into his body with his shoulder, butting through the swing of his arm with a shudder and throwing the gun loose from his hands.

As he staggered back Jun reached for his sword, unsheathing it before the Mafiya could recover and cutting it through his belly. He let out a desperate scream as the silvery, polished metal stained itself with his blood as he tore open by its long curved blade.

The ambusher recoiled back as he held back his stomach, giving Jun time to turn to make his escape, cutting back through the way he had come. The sounds of foot steps rose to accommodate the cavernous factory as he ran, his assailants giving chase.

A bullet clattered off a shelving unit as he ran by. Turning on his heels Jun fired back. Putting two rounds into the chest of a horse-masked pursuer. He fell to the ground in a defeated slump as he continued. The pursuit continued, and the shouts echoed through.

An arm swung out from behind a stack of crates, clothes lining the agent as he ran passed. His breath escaped in one wet gasp. His eyes widened as he was torn off of his feet, falling to the ground on his back. As his ass hit the cold wet cement reflex fired a round, which ricocheted blindly off the ground.

He was staring at the ceiling now, his throat clenched shut as he gasped for air. A large brute of a man hung over him in a long coat, raising what looked to be a harpoon to finish him off. But before he could drop the spear on him the roar of his pistol cleaved his head in two. Gore and gray matter spattered out the back of his head. Blood poured from the cavernous hole and out his nose and mouth as he fell back with a wet splat.

Strained for breath Jun staggered to his feet, turning to another attacker charging at him. Rifle raised over his shoulder. Jun staggered on his feet, throwing the gun to the ground as he took his sword in both hands. With a yell the Russian lunged at him, the rifle beginning an arc through the air for Jun's head. What it met instead was the cold flash of steel as it swept the air, catching the man's arms mid-swing, cutting them free from his body at the elbows.

He screamed in shock and pain as they fell free. Jun twisted the sword and made an efforted thrust. The tip of the blade pierced his chest, skewering him like a roasted pig. He choked, and spat blood as he rolled back off the sword to the ground.

He turned to run, only to see another charge from the side, through the aisle. A hatchet flew through the air, missing Jun's head by inches. He pulled out a pistol, but the IB agent was on him before he could pull back the safety. His head left his shoulders.

Jun pulled back, running over the body whose head he had turned into a gourd. Bending down to pick up his gun from the pool of blood which spread from his limp body. Shaking it off he slipped it into his coat and kept moving.

He found the loading gate he had come to earlier and slide underneath. He felt the metal tickle the tip of his nose as he passed, rolling to his chest and throwing himself up. His feet found the edge of the loading dock before he could and he stumbled to the rough ground below. Outside the voices of angered enforcers bellowed in the darkness as he scrambled for his feet. Tearing to the dumpster he hid his stuff in.

He threw back the lid and blindly grabbed inside. He found nothing. His heart stopped and his breath heaved as it had when it was tripped at the neck. He felt around the padded musty garbage that lined the bin, but could not for his own life find it. The harsh ring of a bullet on the side of the trash bin reminded him that he had better things to worry about, and with what little he had he pulled himself out and ran.