***
0330 hours
04.28.2009
Unknown Location
A single lamp illuminated Erik Profenski’s desk. In his dark world, a single lamp was all he desired. A huge banner hung behind his desk with the DarkHorse emblem sewn on it. A silenced Beretta 92 pistol lay on Profenski’s desk. But Profenski was not at his desk, or next to the banner, or playing with his pistol. He was pacing the room, waiting anxiously for something. He was sweating profusely and his eyes were bloodshot. He couldn’t stop wringing his hands and looking suspiciously around the room. It was as if he was waiting for someone to come in and assassinate him.
A knock sounded at his door. He quickly ran to his desk, grabbed the Beretta, pointed it at the door, and yelled, “come in!”
The doors opened, and three men walked inside: Markin, Dermitelli, and Nitro. The men simply ignored Profenski and his weapon, and they proceeded to sit down in the chairs surrounding his desk. Markin stared at Profenski.
“Put the ******’ gun down, will ya? You’re freakin’ me out.”
“Hey. You take orders from me, not the other way around,” Erik shakily stuttered.
“In your condition, you shouldn’t be giving orders at all, but taking them from a doctor. You take your meds lately?”
“No.”
“Dumb question,” snorted Nitro. “He never does.”
“Enough, gentlemen,” Dermitelli snapped. He slowly turned his head to face Profenski. “The ceremony has been moved up. It’s now the fifth of May, not the fifteenth.”
“****,” snarled Profenski. “And everything was planned, too.”
“We can change things, sir,” Markin replied. “The teams are ready, right?”
“Yeah.”
“They know what to do, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then we’ll just change the operation date.”
Profenski began pacing the room again.
“For the love of ***, stop MOVING!”, Nitro yelled.
“Dude, shut up,” Dermitelli bellowed. “He’s under a lot of stress.”
“No, I’m fine,” Profenski slowly replied. “Thank you, gentlemen. You are dismissed.”
“Thank ***,” Nitro spat.
The three men got up, saluted Profenski, and exited his office. As they were walking out, Erik’s desk phone rang. The men froze. Erik trembled as he walked over to the desk and picked it up. He did not speak, but listened. “Thank you,” he said, and he slowly replaced the receiver. He looked at the three men.
“She’s gone. They found her.”
***
0700 hours
04.28.2009
Regional Office, Federal Bureau of Investigation
Las Vegas, Nevada, United States of America
“I can’t believe they slipped out under our fingers like that!”, Omar exclaimed.
“I can. They worked for CIA, remember? They know everything we know, and then some. We can’t expect them to suck at their former job,” Hutson replied.
The two special agents were standing in front of a large wall map of the United States with hundreds of arrows, pushpins, and pictures plastered all over it. Operation BLOODHORSE was not going well; the FBI needed everything they could get out of Markin and Dermitelli to stop the DarkHorse operation to assassinate the DCI and his wife at their wedding. Both men knew it was a sick plot, but they knew they couldn’t put anything past Erik Profenski, and this just made it even more clear to Hutson and Omar that people like Profenski will do anything to get what they want.
Izon strolled into the room. “OK, guys, good news and bad news. You know how the DCI’s wife was kidnapped, cloned, and then stowed away in Russia? Heard about this morning, I suspect?”
“Yeah,” Omar replied.
“Well, the good news is, she’s no longer there. She was rescued. The bad news is, we don’t know who got her out, and we don’t know where she is now.”
“So she’s out of DarkHorse hands,” Hutson reasoned. That’s a good thing.
“Maybe they just moved her,” Omar noted.
“Possible, but not probable. Way too early to move her again. They just had her in Moscow 6 hours ago. Not likely they’d move her again.”
“I agree,” Izon stated. “Somebody went in there and got her out. She’s safe now. But with who, we don’t know. We’re working on it, though. I’ll let you know when we find anything.”
“You won’t find her.”
The agents turned and saw the Director of the FBI, Cray Jantil, standing in the doorway to Hutson’s office.
“Sorry, sir,” Hutson stammered. “We didn’t know you were there.”
“I know,” Jantil replied. “You three, come with me.”
The men looked at each other inquisitively, and resigned to their order. They trailed after the Director as he strode into an empty side office. Jantil shut the door after the three agents and locked it.
Jantil faced the men. “I’m sorry, guys, but we’re going to have to transfer you.”
“What!?”, Omar exclaimed. “No! I refuse. This is stupid. We‘ve been in Vegas for years. This is our home; we‘re not leaving. We‘re working on a case here, damnit!”
“Now hold on a minute,” Jantil replied. “You will like where you’re being transferred. I guarantee it.”
“Las Vegas is fine with me, thank you very much,” Hutson retorted.
“Why would we want to move?”, Izon questioned.
“What, you guys can’t tolerate cold weather?”
The three men stared at each other incredulously. Omar looked slowly at Jantil.
“What the **** are you saying?”
“You’ve dug too far into the BLOODHORSE case, and I can’t let you go any further unless I transfer you.”
“To where?”
“Antarctica.”
Omar looked at Hutson. Hutson looked at Izon. Izon looked at Omar. The three men then stared at Jantil.
“****,” Hutson whispered.
“So it does exist,” Izon stuttered.
“We’re being transferred to FIREPAWN, aren’t we?”, Omar asked with a smile.
Jantil simply smiled back. “Head to the front doors. There’s an escort service waiting to take you to the airport. Leave your things here, I’ll have some people pack it all up for you.”
“What about our work on BLOODHORSE?”
“You won’t need it. Where you’re going, they already have all that documentation and then some.”
