>DAYS INN
>CLARKSBURG, WV
>24JUL2019
>1800...///

“Y’all got any smokes?”

Jay’s voice broke the silence of the card game, the only sound was the soft rhythms of the music being played at an almost imperceptible volume. Sounded like Motley Crüe, maybe, shit his dad listened to. His two roommates, or captors, had been in concentration over their hands. They took their gambling seriously, it seemed. Over the past day or so… had it been that long? He couldn’t remember. This room at this hotel had been his new reality for he didn’t know how long. At least they’d stopped beating him, as he’d learned being forward with information helped the punching stop. At least they’d taken off the cuffs since he’d learned not to try anything with Ghost’s watchful eye on him.

“Guys?” He tried again to get their attention.

Queen looked from his cards and thumbed over them, glancing over at Jay, "Whatcha do for one?"

A lazy feline grin crossed his face as he reached up to snatch the cigarette behind his ear and twirl it in his fingers. He put it between his own lips before reaching to snag the pack Kools from his vest pocket.

Jay sighed long and hard, breath moaning in his throat as he hid his face behind his hands. He muttered a swear and let his hands fall to the table, defeated. “I’ll tell you ‘bout them Rangers in the Forest.” He paused and after not receiving any reward he continued, “And that other Ranger, Billy, got killed in Charleston.”

Ghost perked up, pulling his eyes away from a decidedly mediocre hand and fixing that crocodile stare on Jay. The card game wasn't going in his favor, and it had been his idea in the first place; boredom was a virus. He had to keep his mind occupied, and even he could only work out so much before he got antsy.

"Keep talking," he said, his tone lazy. "Earn that smoke." 

“Jesus,” Jay protested, sagging back in his chair and scowling, “Y’all wanna know my fuckin’ blood type and shit too? Favorite animal?”

Their eyes were still on him as they waited. After not getting any response, he shook his head, “Fine.” He whined, “Billy got killed after he made a call to somebody. You folks, maybe, I dunno. Next thing anyone knew, he’s dead. Wasn’t my people, Russians.”

“Nikolai’s guys. You know the ones, Bratva. They caught some other dude in Boston, don’t know how, but I heard the rumors.” He sniffled, rubbing at his nose, "Billy got killed because he talked too much. We tried to get Frank because he wanted to talk too much.”

“Your guy got killed in Boston because he knew too much.” Jay frowned, “You know, bein’ honest, I never wanted this. Momma said I should be a chemist.”

Ghost grunted. Bratva bored him. Back in the '90s they'd been bad motherfuckers, all former Spetznaz with nothing to do but kill for mob bosses if they wanted a real paycheck. Now all the Spetznaz had jumped on the contractor train, making their rubles in Syria and Chechnya, and the Bratva were left with untrained thugs with gold plated AK's and heroin addictions. 

"Tell me about the forest," he said, looking back down at his cards. "What happened there?" 

“What, with the girl? Fuck if I know, man.” Jay shrugged, “She was inherited by me and mine from the Sinaloa when they got kicked into the ditches. We handed her to Nikolai and she ain’t been seen since. ‘Cept for, you know. [i]That[/i] time.”

“But yeah, man, Bratva been doin’ some weird shit. Talkin’ ‘bout London and Afghanistan. Callin’ each other comrade. It’s like, who the fuck you foolin’ with that commie shit?” Jay chuckled, “They say Nikolai is way older than he looks. Fought in Afghanistan for the Soviets, but he looks like he could be my older brother. Probably too much of that crocodile they’re smokin’ or whatever over there.”

Jay got a curious look on his face at that, tapping his finger on the table and staring hard at nothing in particular, “I think one’s got a tattoo- I mean they all do- but one’s got some kinda army tattoo. My buddy, Sly, he’s into that history and stuff and he pointed it out after we heard the rumors about Nikolai.” Jay sucked his teeth, “Buncha grown ass men playin’ pretend.”

He perked up, “I get a cigarette or what?”

Queen tapped out a cigarette and held out the green package for him to take. After he did, Queen flicked his bright colored Bic and lit his own cigarette before leaning over to offer the flame to Jay. 

"Good boy," Queen cooed in an overly sweet tone. "You get a cookie. By the way, what's that tattoo look like before we get back to this hand?"

He sank back into the chair, dragging on the menthol and watching Jay from the smoke he blew out his nose.

“Got that, uh,” Jay took a long drag and savored it with closed eyes, and spoke while letting go of the smoke, “Got that hammer and sickle, the star, you know? And a parachute. VDV? Don’t know what it stands for, Sly might. You could talk to one of those dudes like you talked to me.”

Jay chuckled, but it pattered out as his humor hadn’t struck with the others, “Uh, yeah. You know, some got Marx, some got Stalin. Like I said, playin’ pretend. From what I seen, they’re trained. Better shooters than I got, and half of us got outta the Marines or the Army and came back here to shoot better.” He chuckled, “I mean, shit, Sly’s a Ranger.”

The mention of Soviet Airborne tattoos and trained shooters drew Ghost's attention, and he felt a flutter of excitement. Still, that would come. This was intel time.

"Tell me about Sly," Ghost said evenly. "Maybe you'll get another treat." 

“Oh, fuck, man. He’s a friend, though…” Jay winced, then spoke again after a moment, “What do I get?”

Ghost gave him a level stare. "Queen. Is the pharmacy open?" 

Queen stretched luxuriously, popping his spine and exposing the flat inked panes of his stomach as he reached his arms up. "You know I'm 24/7," he said around his cigarette, then dropped his arms turning his pale gaze to Jay. "What's your poison, honey?"

He dug into his pocket, dropping a plastic bag with other small Ziploc bags inside. He picked up one with a thick little chunk of meth and another with powder. "Or maybe you got script taste," he said, dropping those and picking up a bag of colorful pills and tabs. He rummaged through and took a couple of distinct orange Percocet and tossed them in his mouth, chasing them with a swallow of Cherry Coke.

“I like the real shit- er, no offense.” Jay smiled sheepishly at Queen, “China White?”

Queen's eyebrows arched and he leaned back, "Well, sheee-it. We got us Iggy fucking Pop right here."

He sniffed then a playful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, "I might have something. Whatcha got for me?'

Jay puffed his cheeks out as he reached into his pocket and produced his phone. He set it on the table, slid it towards Queen and tapped the screen to life, the phone lighting up with a picture of Jay holding a little girl, both beaming at the camera, “Sly’s address is in there. His brother’s address, anyways. Dude’s homeless, floats from the clubhouse to his brother’s couch and anybody who’ll take his ass for a night or two.” Jay said, “He’s our muscle. Top gun, cool head in a shootout. Mean left.”

Queen glanced at the phone, then grinned, "Cute kid. I wonder if Maria's dad still has a picture like this on his phone or maybe whoever the fuck is looking for that girl we found at your place."

He looked at the phone and scrolled through it, clicking his teeth when he found the information. "Shame those girls got caught up with the likes of the Russians, yeah?"

Queen copied the information down and slid the phone back to Jay, meeting his gaze. Without looking over, he passed the paper they had been writing debts on to Ghost, Sly's information scrawled across the page. 

Some of the life drained out of Jay’s face at that. He tried not to think about things like that, don’t bring the stress from work home, don’t be an absent father, don’t tell his little girl that he was a piece of shit. “Yeah.” He nodded, his eyes so heavy of a sudden, filled with shame, “Damn shame. You know, and I know this don’t mean shit, but I’m glad I’m helpin’ y’all.”

He looked at the two of them, letting his eyes fall back to the table, “But I know it don’t mean nothin’.”

Ghost looked over the paper, then stood.

"Wait on that treat," he said, looking at Queen, then at Jay. "I'm going to make a call. This checks out, you get your biscuit."

He left the room without another word, stepping into the hallway. A moment later he was on his pre-pay, the most recent number he'd memorized for Tex keyed in and ringing. 

The other line picked up, Donnelley clearing his throat, “Jeff?”

Ghost grunted. "About that friend of ours. He gave me the contact info for his coworker. Says he can help us out. Guy's a little higher up the chain with their company."

“Oh, supervisor’s gonna be happy about that,” Donnelley’s telltale Texan was absent, and his voice was pitched down a tad, “I think it’s best we cut out the middle man and go straight for this higher-up. Let him off easy. Pressure’s on back at the Office, we’re under a crunch now. Do what you have to ASAP, the company wants you back soon.”

"Sounds good. I'll book a flight as soon as I wrap up this meeting." Ghost killed the call and pulled out an all-weather pen, scribbling a quick note across the top of the paper with Sly's info on it. Then he walked back into the room.

"It checks out," he said as he slipped back into his chair. He passed the note to Queen, the word [i]HOTSHOT[/i] penciled neatly at the top. "Give him his cookie, we've got our new muster orders."  

Queen glanced at it and then folded it, tucking it into his back pocket. He beckoned Jay with a tilt of his head, "That shit I don't carry in my pocket. I got some gear in my overnight bag."

He walked to the bed, rummaging in it and brought out a folded canvas pouch, the kind that used to hold wrenches and screwdrivers. Inside there was a tight wrapped bag of capped hypodermic needles and a scorch marked spoon. 

Queen looked over at Ghost then at Jay. 

"Let's get some privacy, I might wanna taste, too," he said, flashing a mischievous grin before opening the bathroom door. 

He finished his cigarette, tossing it into the toilet before taking out the kit, laying it on the sink and removed a baggie of white powder, there was another of brown resinous looking material. 

"When's the last time you got fixed up?" Queen asked, flicking the small bag of heroin with his fingers.

Jay’s eyes gleamed like a magpie’s at every movement of Queen’s, his eyes locked on the baggies he was working with. It couldn’t have been more pitiful if he was licking his lips and sweating, “I used to do it all the time when I was a small-timer. B-and-E’s, drug deals, whatever.” Jay said, an almost feverish tone in his voice, “You gonna help me? Been a bit.”

Queen nodded, casting a sidelong look at Jay, "Yeah, no problem. I'll let you go first, I'm a gentleman."

He set to work, heroin wasn't something he liked to fuck with but he'd tried it once or twice when undercover when it would have drawn suspicion not to. Queen took a strip of rubber tubing and snapped it tight before leaning in to help tie off Jay's arm above his elbow.

Queen stepped back and started up the cooking process. He added a little water from the tap to the spoon and mixed in a healthy dose of powder. Striking the high flame on his lighter, he put it under the small bowl and watched intently as it began to bubble. 

His gaze cut over to Jay, watching the expression on the man's face. It never really left a person, that craving, that need for the warm embrace that the opiate would give. That rush that felt like the best orgasm of his life times a hundred. 

Jay’s eyes kept an intent watch on Queen, almost hypnotized by the ritual of heroin. If Queen looked close enough, he could see the reflection of the tiny flame in Jay’s eyes. Any closer and he might see into his soul. A thousand little needles of doubt and regret stung at him, but it only made him hungrier for the embrace of the drug’s high. “I don’t want her to find out.” Jay said, face slack as he watched Queen, “Amber. That’s her name. The girl with me on my phone.”

“My sister would never let me see her again.” Jay mumbled the words, and his brows moving to come together was the only sign of his regret. “I don’t care what happens to me, but she’s the best thing in the world.”

As Queen drew out the plunger, filling the syringe with the China White that he had failed to mention was cut heavily with fentanyl. The dose was larger than even a seasoned junkie would dare shoot up, taken from a seizure near Tallahassee that had been responsible for a number of deaths. 

"Well," Queen said, flicking the syringe and turning towards Jay. "We always hope kids will be better than us, right?"

He leaned over where Jay sat on the toilet lid and looked him over. Redneck trash. Not unlike himself in the eyes of most of this world. He made a quick gesture and waited for the man to hold out his arm. 

The vein was there, popped bluish against Jay's pale skin unmarked by tattoos. Jay held his arm out, looking away from Queen and waiting for the sharpness of the needle. He felt the sting, and after a moment the rubber strap was snapped off his arm. He felt the tingle in his head and the droop in his eyes. He didn’t even realize he’d slumped down the toilet as he sighed.

Before long, he was starting to nod, a satisfied smile on his face as he’d lazily raise his bobbing head periodically. His breathing came slow, and slower, as time went on. Soon enough, his head stopped bobbing until all of him sagged. The last thing he had the energy to do was softly wretch before a thin stream of acidic vomit dribbled down his chin. Another wretch rolled his body off the side of the toilet and onto his back, his chest fighting for air as vomit pooled in his gurgling mouth for several minutes. His heel uselessly scraped against the floor, dreaming maybe, or futile animal throes. And then it stopped.

Queen watched him, reaching for another cigarette and lit up as Jay faded. When it was done, Queen checked for a pulse and found none. He sniffed and took a long drag, speaking to the dead man. 

"So worried she'll find out you're a piece of shit, huh? Better worry little Amber doesn't pay for the sins of the uncle," he muttered, wiping down the sink and other places he had touched. He thought about the girl they found, malnourished and traumatized then glanced at Jay's still form. "Sleep well, asshole. They always figure it out anyway."

Queen stepped out of the bathroom and looked at Ghost and nodded, the loose end had been tied.

Ghost gave him his typical grunt, showing no more concern than if Queen had told him the weather forecast. 

"Get packed," he said. He was already putting neat grunt-rolls into his bag. "Tex wants us. Clean up the cards, leave the gear. With his record they won't dig any deeper. Another scumbag who had an OD coming for years." 

[hr]

>CIA HEADQUARTERS
>SHOOTHOUSES, THE FARM
>LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
>14AUG2019
>1000...///

The weapons handling was tight, entries were getting quicker and more crisp. Target acquisition was better than a couple days ago. Spending time at the range and putting in work at the shoothouses had done Dave some good, it seemed. Likewise, the years hadn’t slowed Maui and Poker down a bit. They were every bit the operators they were when he’d first got to THUNDER. He wanted to join Dave this run, but he instead opted to join Ghost up in the catwalks, watching how the stress shoots and dry runs had benefited the mountain man.

Donnelley had his arms crossed as he watched Dave take point on a door. He’d look down at the thickness of his arms and broadness of his shoulders every once in a while. A couple weeks wasn’t much in terms of training, but two-a-days and supplements had helped along and gotten those hard-earned inches on his arms. The steadily growing operator beard made him look almost too different now. Maybe Ghost was rubbing off on him. He spoke to Ghost but kept watching, “How do you think he’s doin’ now?”

"Better," Ghost growled. He was back in Instructor Mode, his Oakleys glued to his face and his usual Gray Man attire supplemented by a blaze-orange plate carrier and whistle. "Smoother. Like he might actually get something done before he catches a sucking chest wound. You said he's stacked bodies with an injury? One to the shoulder?" 

Donnelley nodded, watching intently as they entered the room and Maui put a quick triplet into a target, “Right through. Didn’t even notice until after it was over. Plate caught the other one.” Donnelley scratched at his chin, “Think we got three or four dudes before they decided we were too much trouble.”

Donnelley didn’t let how proud he was that UMBRA was making a better impression this time around now. It still had to be said that a shoothouse and a firefight were two very different things. All the same, train and train again made for a more successful fight. “Foster’s going to want to brief us soon. We should wrap it up.”

The big Operator nodded thoughtfully. Confirmation that Dave had fought on through an injury moved him up another couple of respect points. Ghost had seen men cave because of wounds; supposed hard-dick Delta killers who'd gone their whole career without a scratch could turn into crybabies the minute a round clipped their forearm and made shit too real for them. 

Ghost himself had caught two in the guts on his first op, fought through the pain, and finished the mission providing overwatch. He'd died once in the bird and twice on the table, and still gotten his dick slapped for trying to train with a shit-bag strapped to his thigh. 

He raised his whistle, blew three sharp blasts. "END-EX, END-EX, END-EX! CEASE FIRE, UNLOAD, SHOW CLEAR!" His gravelly roar cut the air as cleanly as the whistle had.

"I'll clear them out," he said, heading for the catwalk stairs.

[hr]

>BRIEFING ROOM
>1100...///

Donnelley sat in his chair, UMBRA sitting across from THUNDER. Anyone who knew what was what knew that UMBRA was taking the lead, and THUNDER would do what they did best, hit pipes and squeeze triggers. Even sharing a room with them made Donnelley wistful for the days when life was so simple. No mysteries to solve, just heads to pop open with .300 Blackout, but as he looked to his people in UMBRA there was no doubt that he was in another stage of his life. Perhaps sorely needed.

The door opened and Foster entered with another face that would be familiar to Ghost and Queen as well. The Gray Man hung back behind Foster, not giving the rest in the room the time of day to even share glances as Foster set up the projector and his laptop. Donnelley felt his muscles tense as his killer’s eyes bore into the Gray Man. The knowledge he had, Donnelley had never understood. And what Donnelley didn’t understand never sat well with him. 

“Nice to see you again.” Donnelley’s voice was hard and loud in the silence.

The Gray Man finally acknowledged Donnelley’s existence with a bored gaze and pursed lips. “Likewise.”

And that was all before he went back to pretending he and Foster were the only ones here. Finally, Foster stepped back as the projector splashed an aerial image of Blackriver County. 

“Familiar place.” Foster said, folding his arms and nodding at the screen, “We’re taking Dulane back to the mines that he collapsed. I have a feeling those mines are where everything originated from here in Blackriver, long before Maria Vasquez and Gorochev.”

“Make no mistake, Maria Vasquez was a tragedy like every other girl lost there. But we’re the Program. We don’t deal with the symptoms, we deal with the cancer itself.” Foster leaned on his knuckles on the table, “And when we go in there, there’s going to be a lot of people who want to stop us from doing just that. We have NPS, Sheriff Department, Bratva, Aryan Brotherhood all gunning for us.”

“When we get out from Beckley and hit the border into Blackriver, expect every eye to be on us. We’re going to be making a lot of noise with this Dulane deal, somebody wanted him locked up forever and we’re dramatically fucking up everything they wanted.” Foster pointed to THUNDER, “THUNDER is going to be posing as US Marshal Service SOG charged with protecting Dulane in transit. The rest of us are FBI, same as always. State Police is kind enough to offer an escort up to, but not past, the border.”

“We’ll be on our own in Blackriver. UMBRA’s dress code for the day will be casual, pack armor and weapons. Two days’ rations, just in case.” Foster folded his arms, “No air support, no QRF. We pack light, probe deep, strike hard. Same shit, different day, ladies and gentlemen. Any questions?”

"Rules of engagement?" 

It was Ghost, just like always. The big man liked parameters, especially when it came to who he was allowed to shoot. It helped prevent misunderstandings that might end with him having to endure an ass-chewing. 

“Only fire unless fired upon. We don’t need to end up on the news.” Foster responded. “That said, high probability that we will face trained and experienced opposition from Gorochev. Any shooters not wearing a badge are to be neutralized with extreme prejudice.”

Ava watched the proceedings with bright eyes, her glasses gone from her face as shortly after they were released from custody; she had switched to contacts. It was strange to not feel the slight weight on her nose and tucked behind her ears. It took getting used to putting the contact lenses in, but once she did she found them surprisingly comfortable to wear.

The past few weeks also saw her getting some better sleep, some solid practice down at the shooting range with Dave or Donnelley when they could spare the time. It also saw the interesting development of Dave crashing on her couch, at her own suggestion. After her sleepwalking episode she was afraid to sleep alone and having Dave in the front room was a reassuring safety net that likely helped her sleep a little sounder. Though unexpectedly, it had led to a change in their relationship...

She tried not to stare too much at the new faces at the table, she had heard a little about them but hadn’t been formally introduced yet; the familiar anxiety of meeting new people making her hesitate to introduce herself.

She raised her hand slightly. “I have my drones, aerial and terran,” She said, lowering her hand back down to her lap. “Should I bring them?”

“High likelihood that we’ll need both. Go ahead.” Foster nodded.

Dave sat beside Ava, as dressed up as he ever got with his flannel tucked in and the sleeves neatly rolled. When Queen had entered he’d pulled his eyes away from the young redhead and given the man a cautious nod, working to keep his distaste from his face. His feelings about the man hadn’t changed, but he understood the basic concepts of professionalism, and now wasn’t the time to start talking shit. Instead he raised his hand. 

“What about...That [i]Hound[/i] or whatever? Do we have…” He trailed off, searching for the words, trying to find a way to say it without sounding foolish. Finally he sighed. “We got any magic, or voodoo, or whatever that fuckin’ Russian guy was doin’? Or a missile launcher, maybe? I know bullets just piss it off.”

At the question, Foster only quirked a brow and pushed off the table. He folded his arms and looked to the Gray Man, leaning against the wall in much the same posture. As he always did, he took his moment as if he enjoyed being the center of attention, and then spoke simply, “Me.” He left the single word out for everyone to understand or puzzle over, and then spoke again in case anyone took too long, “I specialize in… these types of things. Magic, or voodoo, or as you put it [i]whatever that fucking Russian guy was doing.[/i]”

“My name is Doctor Overman. I’m an adviser on matters such as this.” He finished, looking back at Foster.

Foster looked back to UMBRA and THUNDER in turn, “Anything else?”

Ava had several after a statement like that, but she didn’t get the sense they would be readily answered so she remained quiet to get on with the meeting. However, she eyed Overman with a mixture of shock, suspicion and a little curiosity. He didn’t look like much, like he would just blend into a crowd and vanish into the sea of obscurity, but given what he just said about his specialty...It leant an unsettling air to his demeanor.

Laine studied Overman but he was a picture of banality, his expression revealed little other than a certain smugness when he spoke, subtle but there. She raised her hand slightly, tugging back the sleeve of her fine black sweater. Laine peered at him over the black frame glasses, the ones she wore when she wanted to be taken more seriously. “Dr Laine, FBI. I do have a couple questions. Just what is the Hound and how do the Russians control it?”

“It’s something, ah, from the other side.” Overman piped up. “Not heaven, or hell. Inventions to keep primitive man in line and away from each other’s throats.”

Overman’s gaze didn’t falter from Laine’s, “It isn’t any more evil than a lion is to the zebra.” He shrugged, “And just like a lion, you can’t truly control it. Just lift the gate and let it run loose at the first scent you give to it. The Sinaloa, Renko. Tom.”

“But to lift that gate… to turn it back and make it retreat into that cage,” Overman’s brows rose, “You need someone like me. We’ll need to find who sent it and kill him.”

It was somehow reassuring that the Hound was not evil in the classical sense but a predator, something the Russians could not exactly control despite their knowledge on how to open it's cage and set it on prey. The way Overman had said it, an invention to control humans made her more curious. 

"The other side, an invention to keep us in place," Laine repeated, making mental notes. She kept her gaze on the Gray Man, taking this rare chance to ask the questions that gnawed at her, "Just what or who invented it, this predator outside our reality? And how did you learn to open the cage?"

Overman had a look that wasn’t condescension or blank for the first time, a little smirk for someone to be asking the real questions, and eyes that told her that he didn’t have the answers for her, “No one knows.” He admitted, “No one knows anything about this world. Not really.”

Laine stayed quiet a moment, thinking over the admission. They were groping in the dark with a small tool kit, not unlike psychology sometimes but this wasn't just the mind it was a physical creation. But how it was manifested, how it became, troubled her. "It's real though, an actual creature, has anyone ever been able to take a sample? How was the ceremony to banish learned?"

She paused, there was a thought she wanted to express but it was something she thought rediculous and yet it seemed to fit the situation. "Dr Overman, have you considered this thing a creation of man, a [I]tulpa[/I]? I know that sounds silly but what I read about them, I could see similarities."

Her fair skin blushed slightly and she could not look at anyone else, her green eyes now showing hesitation after saying it out loud.

Overman’s frown only deepened, “We, ah, humanity and the fair few of us graced with the knowledge of it… we know nothing of its nature. No one has seen its DNA, pinned some evolutionary standpoint.” He said, “A long time ago, the Al-Azif was written. And suppressed. Magic, some call it. Like the curious monkeys we are, we toy with it. And as Foster and Donnelley, and everyone in the Program can attest, you are the consequences for when that happens.”

“Humanity has barely mapped its own oceans. We can barely slip our bonds from earth to set foot on our own moon, and you’re asking me to teach a class on what lay beyond it, and even further beyond that.” Overman shook his head, “No one should have to know that, Miss Laine.”

Laine leaned back, partially relieved that her brief foray into paranormal mental powers was fruitless. The human mind was powerful in itself and to think it might be able to have actual physical power had led to a few sleepless nights after reading certain books. "Doctor," she said, whether correcting him or addressing him, it was unclear. 

"The Al-Azif, this is where Renko and you got those magic words? The scarf found on Maria was said to have 'squiggly' writing on it, perhaps it was Arabic script. What if it was one of those things called to her?" Laine said, then closed her eyes briefly. It had been a work of man, to blame it on something else was reckless and yet, that black shard had been buried deep inside her. 

“It wasn’t. She wouldn’t have been so… clean.” Overman said, having seen the damage the thing could do once. And once was enough. “Consolation, maybe.”

Laine nodded, then glanced down at her hands. For a moment she had hoped it was still people, even people with supernatural abilities that would be frightening if true. People she could figure out but this [I]otherness[/I] bothered her. They were flying blind against a deadly intelligence with only a sort of expert with knowledge equivalent to flashing a light off and on in a deep cavern and catching glimpses of what lurked in the shadows. She took a deep breath, done with her questions and settled back to allow anyone else a crack at it.

“What’s our rides?” Donnelley asked after a moment of silence.

“The usual Not-a-Fed chariots,” Foster nodded, “GMC Yukons, black. Tinted. Armored.”

He pursed his lips and looked around once more, not hearing anything else from the crowd. “We’ll depart here at Zero Hour for Beckley. Make sure everything’s squared away before then, you’ve got plenty of time. I’m not grounding the mission because somebody forgot their phone.” Foster said, “Until then, consider this mission started as soon as you leave this room. Anyone outside of it is a potential leak. Working Group UMBRA and THUNDER answer only to me, we’re going dark. Don’t talk to anyone but the people in this room, that means even making calls to the misses and mom and dad.”

Foster tightened his folded arms and nodded at them all, “Good luck. Dismissed.”

[hr]

>PROGRAM SAFEHOUSE
>UNDISCLOSED, VIRGINIA
>14AUG2019
>2300...///

Green Boxes. The secret safehouses and storage areas used by the Program to store anything a Working Group might need, often hidden in plain sight. It ranged from anything the size of a lockbox in a bank to a house in the middle of the woods. This one was more the latter, a tiny office in a warehouse rented out permanently by the black budget of the Program. It was around sundown that they’d set off from their respective places to converge when they got the text.

The night was black when the last of them arrived, and wordlessly they set to work prepping themselves in whatever way they felt was right. As usual, Donnelley was in a corner of the room that was designed as a meeting hall, the open space housing only white walls, grey carpet, and a long table on which plate carriers, duffel bags, rucksacks, magazines, and guns were splayed out like the world’s most armed board of directors were holding a meeting. He brass checked his Badger and FN handgun to the beat of Sodom’s Napalm in the Morning blaring in his headset, hardly paying attention to the others in the room.

Once he holstered his handgun in the thigh holster, he slipped the headphones off his ears and the sound of brass checks and buckles graced his ear. Music just as good. He hooked his thumbs into his plate carrier, Badger dangling from its single-point sling, “Everyone got everythin’ on the packin’ list? NODs, provisions, ammo, badges, smiles, good attitudes?”

There was the soft sound of a small whirring motor as a boxy drone, painted with a geometric camo pattern and sitting on four comically large heavily treaded tires, crawled around the room. Ava had taken the prep time to check the cameras and systems for both of her drones, more out of having something to do than out of actual necessity. 

Returning to Blackriver was becoming all too familiar, including the feelings of constant dread, anxiety and cold sweat inducing terror. Maybe someday she would get used to it all. 

For now, she destracted herself by driving her drone, affectionately named WALL-E, around the room like an RC car. She was also checking the tires through the sensors built in to them and playing around with the camera on her tablet, but mostly she was just amusing herself while still looking productive.

She grinned slightly as she drove the drone up to Donnelley, bumping his boot and looking up at him with the drone’s built in camera. “Smile, you’re on candid camera.” She joked.

Dave watched Ava with a grin as he went over his gear. In addition to his usual weapons, the table before him also contained a pack with several lumps of C-4 and the required accoutrements. A venture like this required more than Tannerite, diesel fuel, and fertilizer. He had swapped his flannel and jeans for something a little more official, drab clothing from the 5.11 Tactical line, but his “hat hat” was still firmly planted on his head, and the ring of a Copenhagen can was visible in his back pocket. 

On the other side of the room, Ghost was meticulously checking his own gear. He’d joined up with the other members of THUNDER the moment they’d arrived, eagerly separating himself from the new meat of UMBRA. He was glad to be back among his own, with hardened killers he knew he could count on in a pinch, even if he had to play dress-up. His [i]Here For The Violence[/i] patch had been replaced with a US MARSHALS tab, his usual hoodie and tactical pants traded in for a suit of Multicam. He’d drawn the line at standardizing his weapons, though; his .300BLK sat on the table in front of him, and he’d rather give up his left hand than the customized Glock 19 that had seen him through shit-holes on six of the world’s seven continents. 

“Hey, Ma.” Donnelley waved at the camera and smiled before turning away from it, “Alright, we got an hour ‘fore we move out from here. Everyone check and re-check everythin’, anythin’ you’re fuzzy on, ask it now.”

“Jesus Christ,” Poker spat, “Gotta piss. I’ll be back.”

Maui chuckled that deep thunder from his chest he had and went back to loading his magazines. THUNDER had long ago caved to the pressure and decided it was too much trouble arguing with Ghost over cartridges. Queen still kept his uzi, but Poker and Maui had switched to .300BLK when they’d ran into an issue in Bangladesh concerning ammunition and an exceptionally exciting firefight. Tex and Ghost were the only ones who could keep firing at the thing.

“Still doin’ that?” Donnelley muttered to the gigantic Hawaiian that was Maui.

“Uh Huh. Hasn’t gotten worse, but it’s never been good, you know?” Maui smiled, before speaking more low, “Your guys. They ain’t shooters.”

“That’s not what we do, Maui. Got some solid dudes, though.” Donnelley patted Maui’s slab-like shoulder. “Contrary to popular belief, not everythin’ can be solved with a bullet.”

Donnelley stepped up to Dave, watching him work for a second before he spoke, “Locked n’ loaded, partner?”

"All ready, man." Dave gave him a smile that didn't quite hide his nerves. His gaze darted to the death-dealers in the corner, where Ghost was growling something about never having met a problem he couldn't shoot to death.

"I uh… I got them explosives," he gestured to his pack. "An' all my other shit. Guns and...stuff…" He trailed off, looking down at his gear again. 

Donnelley laid a hand on Dave’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze when he noticed the mountain man was quieter than usual. “We’ll be out there together. We watched each other’s backs back at the cabin, we’ll do it again.” Donnelley inclined his head and rose his brows at Dave, a consoling little smile on his lips, “So. You got mine?”

“Always, man,” Dave nodded. “I’m with ya.” 

Laine dressed in snug black tactical slacks and a dark blue Bureau polo over which she wore her vest and the FBI windbreaker laid beside her. Her fingers still ached from the times she fired her service weapon while using the Program’s facilities, trying to sharpen her skill. Twice she had to fire in a combat situation and was not as effective as she had liked to have been. The truth was Laine never enjoyed the tactical courses and her job rarely put her into a position to use her weapon now that she was an analyst. But she wasn’t just a profiler now and skill was needed, despite all the swinging dicks with guns around them, the enemy did not wait until they were well guarded. Renko proved that well enough. She still was not sure what to think of the mysterious Russian but trust was dear in this game.

Her thoughts turned to Dulane and the prickle on the back of her neck made her shiver. When they had interviewed him he was trying to tell them something but the man must live in constant fear, not just of the demons he saw but of those real men that would kill him to silence him. Let the world think he was a loon, she thought, but there was something other than madness there.  

Laine glanced up at the others getting ready and asked, “So who is going to be my partner this time?”

“I’ll be your Mulder.” Donnelley smiled at Laine.

She smiled slightly back at him, "Alright, Spooky."

Laine laced up her boots and stood, feeling the tightness in her thighs and rear end, those squats had almost crippled her for a week. Her gun was in a holster at her waist now, the training at the courses with Donnelley and his old team had honed her small arm skills. She felt more confident drawing and firing, her target papers now shot through the center mass rather than scattered.

With the absence of questions, Donnelley placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the room. The last one he needed to check in on was Queen, his old friend. He sided up with him and  watched him go over his uzi and his other gear. 

“You up for this shit, mi cumpa?” He said with a smile that betrayed that younger man Tex was, in it for the adrenaline and nothing else.

Queen watched the UMBRA members with an expression of interest, moreso in how certain pants fit than their state of readiness. He dragged his gaze away from Laine's backside when he caught Tex approaching. Queen fiddled with the strap on his Uzi, returning the smile he recognized.

"When am I not up for action with you?" Queen grinned, resting his hand against the compact weapon. "You playing a Feeb should be fun to watch."

“Any last-minute tips, amigo?” Donnelley quirked a brow.

Queen sniffed and shrugged, then met Tex's gaze, "Keep it professional, polite, and above the locals. They expect it, big bad FBI comes swaggering in and they might resent it but they'd be disappointed if you were just another good ole boy. The prison boys got their expectations. As for Dulane, follow your gut with him. I don't know but what I've read in the files but he's a wild card and possibly a very useful one. Don't fake it with him."

“When have I not been professional and polite?” Donnelley smirked and turned to address the rest of the teams, Poker having gotten back from the bathroom.

Donnelley nodded at him, “Yall ready?”

“Roger.” Poker nodded back. “We’ll follow your lead, This is your guys’ show. We’ll be here if you need us.”

“Alright, let’s mount up now, ladies and gentlemen. The custody transfer is goin’ to take a bit and I want to get into Blackriver by early mornin’.” Donnelley rose his voice above the hubbub, “Let’s get to it.”

[hr]

>BECKWITH PRISON, WV
>15AUG2019
>0100...///

The prison hadn’t changed since last time they’d been here. Still an old rundown piece of shit chock full of repeat offenders and potheads that got caught with one gram too many. They’d almost charged through the halls getting everything set to take Dulane out of the prison for his little field trip.

Laine waited with Donnelley, their FBI credentials clipped to their jackets. Despite the summer, it would not do for agents to arrive in just short sleeved polos. They were dressed for field work and the other members of their team had US Marshals badges visible. An impressive layout for the small town guards, a few who kept making eyes at the alphabet windbreakers and baseball caps. Dulane was suddenly an important commodity.

Donnelley looked around the Warden’s Office as they sat at his desk. He scanned the sparse walls and got the sense that the Warden wanted to be here as much as the inmates. Last time he was here the Warden seemed the type to relish the job like a tyrant over his little slice of the country. The pictures of the Warden with his family and shaking hands with the Mayor were all taken off the walls. No knickknacks on the desk. They were all piled into a cardboard box that had once been used to transport a mass amount of potato buds.

Donnelley slyly looked at it and he couldn’t resist. He pulled one picture out to look at, then another, and another. The last picture stopped him in his tracks. The Warden was shaking hands with an old Blackriver Sheriff while two others stood next to the two, dressed in a fitted suit and a State Police uniform. They all looked well-to-do, and it didn’t look like any type of photo op he’d heard of. Usually it was palm trees and Hawaiian shirts, but behind them, heavy machinery could be seen, mud beneath their fine leather dress shoes. Donnelley took his phone out of his pocket and snapped a quick picture before replacing the photo.

He showed his phone’s screen to Laine, “Where you think that is?” He asked, “You recognize those two uniforms?”

Laine watched Donnelley snoop, glancing now and then at the door. When he offered his phone she examined the image. "A state police officer, interesting. This is the first time I've seen evidence of them being cozy with Blackriver but I guess we shouldn't be surprised. I wonder if they're at a mine, with that heavy machinery. The old sheriff, a state officer, the warden and this mystery man."

She glanced at Donnelley, "We could ask Detective Roy, maybe she'll know the state officer and maybe even the suit if we're lucky."

“Maybe Joe Dawant has some answers about that. Haven’t heard from him in a bit, startin’ to get worried.” Donnelley said, replacing his phone in his pocket.

"We should contact them," Laine said, following his train of thought. "We owe them some sort of safety. If that's possible."

She glanced at Donnelley, her deep green eyes on his scarred face. "I'm ready to face those mines, whatever we find."

Her heart jumped at the thought but after the conversation with her father she had renewed faith in this war against the dangerous unknown. Laine reached up absently and touched the fine silver chain that disappeared under her polo.

Donnelley looked to her and nodded, “Me too.”

Laine looked back around the office, "I wonder if the Warden is retiring?"

The door opened and cut any conversation off. Donnelley stood and offered his hand out to the first person he saw, which were two. The Warden and the State Trooper in the picture. Donnelley hoped his eyes hadn’t lingered too long on the other man as he felt the recognition set in, and only smiled at the Warden, “Mister McKenna, how’ve you been?”

“Well, as ever, Davidson. I’m sure you noticed the change in decor.” Warden McKenna smiled and nodded to the walls around them, “I’m leavin’ this ol’ office soon. Retirement, gonna kick my feet up and sip mojitos by the water in Florida. Not before I hand your man off to you, though.”

“Well, I appreciate that.” Donnelley smiled, gesturing to Laine, “This is my partner, Doctor Laine, BAU. She’s had an interest in Dulane.”

“How do you do, Doctor?” McKenna stuck his hand out.

Laine stood as well, recognizing the older man as the warden. She smiled politely and congratulated him on his retirement. She shook his hand, her gaze never leaving his face until he pulled away. She looked aside at the West Virginia state cop and noted his badge and name tag, "McCune". He was the same uniform from the picture and she made a quick once over for rank insignia. Sergeant. Not too high but not a scrub. Interesting that a sergeant was rubbing elbows with the Warden and the mystery suit in the photo. 

"We appreciate your help. Dulane is an interesting case study of the psychology of a mass murderer and valuable to my research," Laine said, the professional courtesy in her voice. "The cooperation you've shown us will be noted, Warden McKenna...Sergeant."

Her gaze flicked to the sergeant once more but held off on introduction, leaving it as unimportant as long as the Warden did not bother. She rubbed her hands together once then looked at Donnelley.

“Of course, of course.” McKenna smiled at the both of them, “Anyway, this is Sergeant McCune, State PD. He and Roy have been active on this case since Davidson and Forrest came over here. How is Forrest?”

“He’s good. Waitin’ for this case to get closed like the rest of us.” Davidson nodded. “Mind if we kick it into gear, Mister McKenna, we’re on a crunch.”

“Certainly not, let me find that folder.” The Warden opened a drawer on his desk and set down a Manila folder and a hefty external hard drive, “Like you asked. Phone calls, visitations, security footage. Everything we got on Dulane.”

“Appreciate that.” Donnelley smirked.

The Warden opened the Manila folder and scribbled his signature on the document that signified Dulane’s formal transfer into UMBRA’s custody. Once he was finished, McKenna spun the paper around to face Donnelley and Laine. Donnelley penned down the name John Davidson like he’d been signing with it for years, then slid it to Laine.

“After we get that stamped, y’all are free to take Dulane.” McKenna nodded.

“Detective Roy should be meeting your men outside.” McCune spoke up for the first time, “State PD is retrieving Dulane right about now. We’ll give you a full escort to Blackriver, but for the safety of my officers, we won’t be crossing that line with all y’all.”

Laine signed the paper, the flourish in the L distinctive of her signature. She turned to McCune, studying him a moment. She took the file and flipped through it, then tucked it against her chest. It would be interesting reading on the ride out to the mines. 

"We appreciate what you're able to do for us," Laine said, "It's unfortunate that you can't make it into Blackriver."

“Really is.” McCune nodded.

Donnelley clucked his tongue and didn’t bother with that. He didn’t expect the PD to deviate on the plan heard in the briefing as laid out by Foster. It was UMBRA and THUNDER on their lonesome out in the hills, but that wasn’t anything new for Donnelley and the Program as a whole. “Well, McKenna, good luck with your retirement and all that.”

“Good luck, ladies and gentlemen.” McKenna smiled as he set himself down in his seat.

[hr]

Donnelley and Laine had met back with the others, the convoy of Yukons making quite the impression on the guards. Even moreso was the MRAP complete with mounted M2 painted black and emblazoned with ‘WV State Police’ and ‘SWAT’ in block lettering. Roy was bedecked in her typical business attire and a black plate carrier, UMBRA, THUNDER, and the PD SWAT all looked ready for war. All for one man. Roy waved at them and stepped up to the both of them, “Howdy, hope y’all find it a successful jaunt into Blackriver. Whatever the hell it is you’re doing.”

Donnelley’s hand slapped into Roy’s, “By the looks of it, we’ll be startin’ a war in them hills.” Donnelley chuckled, “Thanks, Roy.”

“My pleasure, only regret is not going up there with you. Chief doesn’t like the idea and Chief gets what Chief wants, huh?”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Donnelley nodded.

The klaxon bell of the prison gate sounded out the warning of its opening. Flanked by SWAT officers with masks and the boys of THUNDER, Dulane walked of his own volition, chained by the ankles and wrists like an animal. His face was that of a man who just got everything he wanted, like this all was a great triumph for him. All according to plan. Dulane looked to Laine with a sickening baring of teeth as a smile, and mouthed the words, ‘I made a promise.’

Laine watched Dulane approach, gone was the hunted, haunted look of the man she remembered from the previous interview. When he smiled she felt a clutching in her stomach and for a moment there was a writhing of his shadow that stretched on the ground. The elongated man shape transformed into a mass of tentacles slithering across the asphalt. 

She gasped a breath and blinked, and it was gone. Laine stared at the shadow but it bobbed along the ground just like the ones cast by the guards. A prickle ran across her scalp and down her neck as she gazed at Dulane and dread knotted in her stomach.

Laine turned to seek Donnelley but he was with Roy and she didn't want to make a scene. It could have just been a trick of the shadows and pavement but the primal warning in her gut spoke otherwise. Her face was paler than usual as she approached the truck Dulane would ride in with the disguised THUNDER and UMBRA members.

Donnelley watched Laine walk past him, some kind of trouble hanging around her, shoulders pinned back and head down. He quirked a brow at that and flicked his eyes toward Dulane before he spoke to Roy, “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Go ‘head.”

“What’s McCune’s relationship with the Warden, McKenna?” Donnelley asked, “Seemed like they were familiar back in the office.”

Roy shrugged, “His family and the Warden’s been around here for awhile, far as I know. Went to school together, but so did mostly everyone our age around here wearin’ a badge.”

“Okay. Makes sense.” Donnelley accepted the answer, not completely trusting anything around here ever since the stories about old-blood families and the clannishness of the hills. “You trust him?”

“As much as I trust any of my people. What’s up?” Roy frowned, the seasoned detective catching on something Donnelley was working too hard to keep under wraps.

“You know how I might feel about families that’ve been ‘round here for a while. MacOnies and O’Dhoules, everythin’ like that.” Donnelley pursed his lips.

“Relax, we ain’t all hillbillies just like you ain’t all cowboys and outlaws.” Roy winked.

“You don’t know what I get up to.” Donnelley chuckled as he stepped away from her, “Thank you for the escort, Detective.”

“Our pleasure.” She tapped her brow in a salute as Donnelley rejoined his compatriots in UMBRA and THUNDER.

He caught back up with Laine in short order, “Everythin’ okay?”

Laine jerked her head up when Donnelley spoke and she turned to meet his eyes. Before she could change her mind she whispered in a rush, "Dulane isn't alone. There's something..."

She took a sharp breath, darting her gaze aside then back at him, "I thought I saw something...in his shadow."

Laine blushed slightly at the words but she still felt the primal fear that had shot through her at the glimpse of the writhing mass. She laid her hand against the door of the truck and forced herself to meet Donnelley's eyes.

He nodded slow, looking to Dulane just before he disappeared behind the SWAT MRAP and saw Overman staring at Dulane too. “Well, we’ve got that fuckin’ sorceror with us.” He looked back to Laine, hopefully easing her as much as he could, “We’ll be alright. We got a magician and a lot of bullets.”

Laine swallowed hard then nodded, they were as prepared as they could be. Yet that inhuman smile, the changing shadow, it all made her shiver despite the August heat.  

"You're right, of course," she said, licking her lips slightly. "It's just... unnerving. I'll be alright, though."

She took a deep breath and centered her thoughts, Dulane or whatever was in him, would not throw her off her game. It was a scare tactic, Laine told herself and she would not be so easily frightened off. 

Reaching out she gave Donnelley's wrist a brief squeeze before letting go. "I'm fine," she said, her voice more normal. "Let's get this show on the road."

Ava watched Dulane carefully as he was escorted out, the hair on the back of her neck prickling to attention as her eyes fell on him. Her palms started to sweat and as her heart began to beat a little faster. She leaned back against the car they would be taking, crossing her arms over her chest and trying to hide the quiet panic attack building inside of her chest the longer she watched Dulane from behind her sunglasses.

She dusted lightly at her arms as it felt like wisps of spider webbing drifted over her skin. “He’s creepy.” She whispered over to Dave, finally tearing her eyes away from Dulane to look up at him.

Dave’s eyes were locked on Dulane, on the sick, squirming thing he could’ve sworn he saw in the man’s shadow. He took a breath, steadied himself, his hand resting on the butt of his Sig. He tried to make the motion look casual, but the touch of the gun made him feel a little better, reminded him he was still in whatever fight might pop off. A quick glance at the heavily-armed men surrounding Dulane also helped put him a little at ease; Ghost was a spooky son of a bitch, and his “friends” from THUNDER weren’t much better, but knowing they were on his side helped. 

“Yeah,” he said, swallowing hard and moving a little closer to Ava. “He’s creepy, alright.”