FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

FOX** Academy ***:*

Book I - The New Breed

Book II - The Werewolf of Odessa

Book II.5 - The Love Who Spied Me

Book III - The Curse of the Yellow Monkey

Book IV - Wait For No One

Book V - Dawn of Vengeance

Chapter 1 - If You But Knew What You Are

Marcel made his way slowly through the souk. The souk was a collection of earthen buildings and tin huts arranged haphazardly and separated by narrow winding alleys. If it was day it would have been crowded with merchants, beggars and thieves. But it was night and the alleys were deserted. The creatures he did see were foreign in appearance, and more likely than not to be hostile. Marcel stood out like a sore thumb in his skater boy attire.

Not only did he look out of place, he felt out of place. The smell of open sewage offended his snout. What light there was came from flickering from windows and doorways at street level. It was distracting, and Marcel had to concentrate because he was being stalked. And his stalker was not the only enemy in the area.

He worked his way down the twisting alleys, moving cautiously toward his objective on the far side of this group of buildings. It was slow work.

He stepped out of the shadow he was hiding in and almost stepped right into a hostile that appeared in the next doorway. The hostile held a machete. A long double-edged knife appeared in Marcel's paw and he continued his step to come inside the swing radius of the longer blade. His arm came up and he buried the dagger to the hilt just below the ribcage. As he stepped back to inspect his work another figure appeared in a doorway across the alley. Marcel's arm came up, the dagger now held by the tip as he flexed his arm for the throw, but it was an old lady. She had a dazed look on her face and a baby in her arms. After a few seconds she was gone back inside.

Marcel continued through the souk. The sound of a rifle being cocked behind him alerted him soon enough for him to turn and throw his first dagger with deadly accuracy. Another hostile followed that one. It was a female this time, and she received the second dagger in the eye because she was wearing an explosive vest. Marcel wasn't worried about setting it off but thick blocks of explosive could easily block a dagger, so he had been forced to take the difficult head shot. Before he could go back to recover his knives there was another sound from further up the alley. He spun, an automatic with a long black sound suppressor appeared in his paw.

It was a youngster. No more than eight years old. Marcel's trigger digit stopped tightening, but he did not change his aim. Something behind the child was blocking the light that had previously fallen from the doorway. An instant later a taller figure appeared behind the boy, and that figure held an AK-47 assault rifle. Marcel adjusted his aim and completed squeezing the trigger, once, twice, three times.

The boy retreated. The hostile did not. Marcel glanced at it as he went by. Two in the upper chest and one between the eyes. Even Silver would be proud of that shooting.

He was nearing his objective now. The buildings were farther apart, and beyond the next one there was nothing but blackness. The last pool of light was provided by a dim hooded bulb mounted high on the wall of the last building. There was a cloaked figure sitting on the ground directly below it with its back to the wall. This could be my contact, Marcel thought.

Or maybe not. Marcel's stalker had yet to appear. The stalker could have gotten ahead of him and be waiting in ambush. Marcel studied the figure from the relative safety of the shadows, his pistol up to his eye and the barrel centred on the lump that would be the hidden creature's head. There were no visible signs of life, but that was an unreliable indicator. He examined the edges of the cloak, looking for a sign, but knowing that time was running out to make contact. He would have to act soon, one way or another.

There, down by the wall. A tuft of orange fur sticking out from under the edge of the cloak. According to the mission brief Marcel's contact had a pure white coat.

Marcel fired and leapt at the same time. The cloak fluttered and red stains appeared, but the figure beneath did not move. Marcel went into a roll that brought him up against the wall right beside the cloaked figure. He pulled the material away with his free paw while scanning the surroundings for activity. He risked a quick glance at the creature beside him.

It was a decoy. A lifeless mannequin covered in a cast off piece of canvass. The tuft of orange fur was just that, a lone tuft of fur pulled out of someone's hide and left to fool him. And if the stalker was not here, and not in the alley behind him, that meant ...

Marcel looked up a second too late. A figure clad in black emerged from the deep shadows above him and blotted out the light as it struck him full force, knocking the gun from his grip and the wind from his lungs. Marcel gasped for air and struggled to free his arms but he was being pinned. Before he could begin to fight back the attacker's paws roved over him, removing his knives from their hidden sheaths; even the tiny one tucked up under his tail. The speed and accuracy of the search was unnatural.

Marcel found his breath and sucked in as much air as he could. He pretended to go slack, as if he had lost the struggle to breathe. The stalker took the opportunity to adjust their grip, and that is when Marcel threw them off with a mighty heave. Ignoring the scattered knives, he grabbed the pistol where it lay nearby and turned it on the spot where his assailant had been; but not quickly enough. His arm was forces aside as he squeezed the trigger, splattering projectiles in a diagonal line up the wall. A foot hooked behind his calf and a ropy orange tail wrapped itself around the same leg. Marcel went down with the assassin on top of him again, his arms pinned to his sides by the larger attacker's knees.

Two green eyes glowed through a slit in the black burkha the attacker wore. A gloved paw produced a small pistol and pressed it to Marcel's forehead. The other paw came up and pulled the burkha off so that he could see his executioner better. Blond hair cascaded down around an orange and white feline face.

"Bang, you're dead." Geno informed him playfully. She didn't actually pull the trigger though; even paint projectiles could kill at point blank range. Behind her, the dye from Marcel's last three shots had left long red streaks on the wall of the range's North Africa setup. The artificial breeze carried the scent of garbage mixed with foreign cooking and he almost puked. From somewhere downrange came the sound of target figures moving in and out of their hiding places.

"How the hell did you get up there?" Marcel asked angrily, mad at himself for being fooled. "These things are just painted plywood with a frame of two-by-fours to hold them up."

"I'm a cat, Marcel, remember? Pwwrrrr." She cooed, leaning down on his chest so her face was just two centimetres above his.

"Sable. You promised to call me by my senior agent codename, Sable, when we are working. Remember?" Marcel complained. "What is the use of having a code name if you keep using my real name all of the time?" He tried to free his arms as he spoke, but Geno still had him pinned. "Let me up will ya? My arms are starting to go numb from lack of circulation."

"Oh? Where is all that blood going to then? Not to your head I hope." Geno teased, leaning even closer. She rocked her hips suggestively, rubbing her crotch on his. "Not you big head at least." Marcel could feel her breath, hot and sweet, on his face as her lips closed in on his. He twisted his head away.

"Come on. Let me up." He tried to sit up but Geno, who was taller and heavier than him, held him down easily. "Dammit Geno, I'm a senior agent and I'm ordering you to let me up." Marcel's temper was starting to rise.

"Ooh! Is Mister Sable gonna get all medieval on my ass?" She taunted him.

Marcel realized what she was trying to do. The two of them had a volatile relationship marked by frequent arguments. When their blood started to boil their lust for each other became too much to control. They were sex and stress addicts he supposed, and the secret agent lifestyle fed both habits. They had pledged to be faithful to each other, and now went on missions together as much as possible, where the sense of danger fuelled their libidos. But they could not be in the field all of the time, and they found any excuse to start a fight that would inevitably end in a coupling. Arguments over the credit card bill, whose turn it was to take out the garbage, what show to watch on television, they all ended in loud, frantic, gushing, satisfying sex acts. Unfortunately so did disagreements over where to park at the mall, whether a certain colour of shoe she was trying made her look fat and what went best with fries. They were now banned from three malls, two shoe stores and the entire fast food industry had their descriptions posted by the order desk.

While he struggled to keep his anger in check and to get free Geno continued to rub herself against him. The silk that her Arabian ninja costume was made from made it easy to slide on him, and felt good where his fur was exposed. His temper was not the only thing that was rising, and as his erection grew the sensation became more intense. Marcel tried one last time to free his arms. He could vaguely remember that there was some rationale not to do this on the range, but the exact reason had escaped him. His struggles grew weaker as his cock grew bigger. Geno, with her paws on his arms and her own sensitive spot grinding against him could feel both.

This time when she pressed her lips to his he did not turn away. His maw opened willingly to her and his long canine tongue wrapped itself around her rough feline one. His paws, still restrained, found the waistband of her silken trousers, and pulled them down so he could trail the tips of his claws through her soft orange and brown fur.

Geno released his arms and buried her own paws in the thick fur behind his ears. She tickled the insides with her thumbs, knowing that would drive him wild. He moaned in appreciation, and his paws slid under her blouse and found her nipples. Usually she wore a tight top with straps that separated and accentuated her large round breasts, but the range could get hot, and the loose silk had felt good on her bare fur, so she had gone braless. When one of his paws strayed down to the firm buttocks that he had recently exposed he discovered that she had opted to leave her panties behind also. He slid a digit into the cleft under her tail and down. It came back moist.

Reversing his paw he forced it between their grinding groins, inside her pants, until he felt the wiggly wet knob of flesh he sought. The pad on his second digit made a good protrusion for her to rub herself on, and he helped by flicking it up and in where it could reach all parts of her love button. Geno purred harder and nipped his ears, sticking her tongue in where she had tickled him earlier. Marcel closed his eyes and sighed, he loved it when she did that.

Geno broke away from licking his ears long enough to pull the black silk blouse off. Marcel caught one nipple in his mouth as it swung free and kept his paw on the other. He buried his snout between her warm welcoming tits and kissed her there before going back to suck at her teat. Geno held his head against her, cradling like a child, and felt a warm sensation flow through her.

A portion of that warm feeling traveled down to the cleft where his paw was working its magic. The flow of juices increased, allowing him to slide two digits inside her. She squeezed them with the walls of her twat, trapping them there. He responded by drumming them against the pad of spongy flesh that had grown inside her. Each contact sent tiny bolts of lightning flashing through her. She sat up so that he could get more of his paw up there.

His upper body freed, Marcel raised his shoulders and pulled his hoodie off as much as he could. Then he switched paws inside her and removed it all together. She was up off her knees now, leaving him enough room to unzip his jeans and free his cock; he had taken to wearing baggy boxer shorts with oversized flies just for such emergencies. Reaching under, he slipped the button that held his jeans on around his tail and then he was able to inch them down enough for his prick to spring up out of his shorts.

There was still the matter of the silk trousers she had on to deal with, but fortunately they were loose enough to pull down over her thighs and still allow her to spread her legs enough to let him in. Once they were out of the way Marcel pulled his other paw out and put both under her ass to spread and support her. Urging her up and back, he guided her down to where the tip of his cock quivered. Aiming by instinct, he slid into her like a key in a well oiled lock.

Geno let her legs relax until her clit came up against his hard pelvis. Then, flexing her strong thighs, she rose back up until the tip of his rod was about to slip out before reversing her direction again. She pawed at her own breasts balancing herself with feline grace over his cock. Marcel hardly had to help at all, so he shifted one paw so that he could tease her hardened clit with one digit.

Up and down she went, tightening her cunt around his cock as she rose and relaxing when it engulfed him again. Marcel clamped down on the muscles at the base of his cock to keep the semen from trying for an early escape. His digit worked furiously at her as he snarled with the effort to concentrate.

Geno's paws were under her breasts, holding them up as she pinched her own nipples with the tips of two digits. Her mouth was half open and little cries escaped between gasps for breath. Her eyes were unfocused as all of her senses were focused on the hot rod of steel moving in and out of her.

Gasps, moans and the slap of wet pussy on damp fur were the only sounds in the cavernous simulation range. They echoed off the stage-set walls and disappeared into the darkness above. The dim bulb under the arched reflector cast a cone of illumination on their straining bodies. Shadows danced on the dusty floor where beads of sweat, cast off by their exertions, exploded to form star shaped stains.

Geno dropped her paws to his chest and pumped her ass faster. Her pussy flew up and down on him as she pressed her clit back against his hard shaft. Marcel put his paws on the floor to steady himself as his hips bucked back against her. The flow of juices increased, and still the heat of their friction grew unbearable. With a double cry that could have been from intense pleasure or pain they came together, his hips frozen four inches above the floor, her twat clamped around the base of his cock.

The sudden heat of his cum splashing inside her was matched by the spray that came from nowhere, bursting out of her to soak his crotch and balls. Geno twisted left and right on him, her muscles spasming uncontrollably, but each jerk sent a new shock from her clit up her spine. They were too intense, too pleasurable to bear. Each one made her insides clench so much that she had to stop for fear of coming to death. She eased herself up an inch to break the contact between clitoris and groin, and felt herself relax.

With his cock still filling her, Geno lowered her knees to the ground as Marcel's ass settled back down. She slumped on top of him, wrapping her arms around his head and cradling it between her breasts as his tongue idly lapped at one nipple.

"Next time, you stalk me." She said absently, still adrift on the waves of orgasms that had swept through her. "When you lose I'm gonna make you eat me until my toes pop off."

Marcel mumbled something that could have been assent or argument. It was hard to tell, what with him having a mouth full of breast at the time. But Geno knew that he would go along, and if he didn't, the argument over it would end the same satisfying way, so it really didn't matter. She toyed with his ears, wondering which of them would be the first to suggest getting up.

* * * * * * * *

In the range control room the reason that Marcel was trying to remember for not yiffing there was watching their performance on the closed circuit digital monitor that they used to evaluate the range exercises. Rusty, the huge muscle-bound doberman pinscher who served as the Academy weapons expert and combat instructor had put one of his big paws to his face initially, but he was currently without a Misses Rusty, and they were such a hot couple, so his paw had drifted south. As a token of privacy he would erase the digital recording before Joel could copy it.

Rusty shut off the video feed but left the audio on so he would know when they were clear of the area. He would have to go down there and clean up after they left, just in case the new Chief of Staff came in to use the range after his meetings, as he was likely to do. Silver would spot the tell-tale stain and sniff out the truth sure enough, and he did not want his old friend to think that he was allowing his range to be used as some sort of date night fantasy land.

Heaving a sigh Rusty pushed his chair back and got up. He wiped his brow with one paw. How had it gotten so hot in here? He went to get the mop and bucket, wondering where Silver was now, and how long he would have to wait before he could start cleaning up.

* * * * * * * *

While Rusty was peeking between his digits worrying about what the Chief of Staff would think, the Chief of Staff was stuck in traffic, thinking about nothing.

It was a luxury, not the traffic jam, but the opportunity to switch off and not worry about one problem or another that the Foreign Operations eXecutive faced. It was not too often that Silver had the opportunity to do so since being promoted to Chief of Staff. FOX's former senior agent had no idea back then how many plans, budgets and committees around Ottawa the Chief had a paw in. Dwelling on whether to send your lover on a life and death mission was the least of his problems. There were personnel issues to settle, training standards to set. There were facilities to manage, union complaints to hear, maternity leave to approve and snow removal contracts to sign. But budgets, budgets were the worst.

When you ran a clandestine espionage agency you didn't just ask parliament for a few billion up front. You had to bury your weapons purchases in military appropriations and your personal expenses in the Public Works budget. Facilities and maintenance were covered by the Central Experimental Farm, the Agriculture Canada facility in the middle of Ottawa where the Academy hid in plain sight. But that anonymity came at a price, he had discovered. Someone had to go to all of those departments' management committee meetings, and that someone was the Chief of Staff.

Today's meeting had not been too bad. It was early in the fiscal year and most departments were spending freely. Foreign Affairs had graciously agreed not to charge FOX any more this year for housing agents in the various embassies than they had last year. But at the same time they reminded him that the five-year agreement was expiring soon, and they would be looking for substantially more the next time they negotiated. Then they told him that despite his seniority he would no longer be able to park for free at their headquarters overlooking the river on Sussex Drive. He would either have to take a taxi or pay to park in the public lot several blocks away.

That had been a let down. They knew full well that none of the FOX agents could take taxis to and from the Academy. Taxi drivers would be able to tell that they were not Agriculture Canada crop doctors, or whatever it was the rest of folks at the experimental farm were, and their cover would be blown. That was one of the reasons that the Director and the Chief of Staff were each entitled to their own staff car.

Tancred Williams, the massive golden fox that had been named Director the year before, had kept his golden Mercedes convertible. The ancient armoured Rolls-Royce that had been the personal property of the former Director, the walrus Sir Wilbur Wadsworth Withersby, had been donated to the FOX espionage museum. The museum would not be open to the public until fifty years after FOX was closed down but Gus, the elderly racoon who acted as volunteer curator, kept the Rolls polished and in good working order just the same.

Silver had picked a Mitsubishi Eclipse convertible because he loved the way the roof went up and down. It was a mechanical ballet. It was also the only silver convertible available in the city at the time of choosing.

It was a beautiful day in early summer, still early enough to be comfortable while stuck in traffic on scenic Sussex Drive anyway. Silver was wearing wrap-around sunglasses so that he could look around without moving his head. They were not the prescription lenses that he was forced to wear for close up work these days, but they were good enough for driving and didn't block his peripheral vision like the other glasses did. Silver had left the roof down and rested his arm on the edge of the driver's door. Soft jazz was playing on a French radio station and he drummed on the metal in time with the music. Other than the tiny portion of his brain required to shift into first and ease out the clutch whenever the traffic allowed him to roll forward a foot or two, his mind was completely, blissfully, blank.

With his snout pointed straight ahead, Silver swivelled his eyes behind the dark glasses to watch the crowd out enjoying the day. Silver gazed at the folks crossing the National Art Gallery patio. As usual there was a fair contingent of matrons pushing strollers and businessmales heading for the pubs after work. Some elderly patrons were leaving the gallery, and a few university arts students hurried in with their sketch pads tucked under their arms. All in all, he thought, a perfect end to the day.

But his day wasn't over yet.

The traffic opened up and Silver was able to get into second gear for short bursts as he drove past the American Embassy and the Chateau Laurier Hotel. He cut across Wellington to follow the canal and circle back to Vikki's apartment. With only a couple of traffic lights it was faster than going through downtown Ottawa, and all the young female university students sunbathing along it made it a lot easier on the eyes.

He crossed the river at the Hog's Back Bridge and drove toward the apartment he shared with the tall red vixen Vikki Beausoleil and their son. A beeping sound announced that a text message had been received on his Academy Blackberry. He touched a button that Gus had installed on the dash board and the message was sent to a voice articulator. "Get milk and bread" the mechanical voice said. It was from Vikki.

There was a small grocery store near the apartment that they frequented. It had only three aisles but the family of pandas that ran it stocked their brand of milk and bread at their request. There was also a liquor store next door where Silver could pick up a bottle of wine for after supper if they need it. Maybe he would pick up some ice cream for Leslie at the store too.

Silver parked the convertible in front of the store. He left the roof down. The car was very secure, thanks to the Academy's alterations, and he never left anything valuable out in the open. There were a few teenagers hanging about, trying to look tough, but this was not really a bad neighbourhood, and Silver ignored them. He adjusted his jacket so that the Glock 17 he wore on his hip would not show before remembering that he was not carrying it. He had left his gun back at the office. As Chief of Staff it was not required and it was easier to get past security at the other departments without it. There was another in a hidden compartment in the car but he did not bother going back for it. This was Ottawa after all, not Detroit.

Inside the store the matron of the panda family was working the cash by herself. She was serving a customer but she still smiled and nodded at Silver as he entered the store. He made his way to the back. The bread and dairy products were kept in opposite corners, forcing one to pass by all the snacks, specials and sodas. On the way back he would have to pass the candy, the magazines, and the gadgets. Once he was at the cash he would be staring directly at the subdued cigarette display. Unable by law to show brand names or logos, they attracted attention to it by posting large signs declaring that proof of age was required to purchase tobacco products and that they would not be sold to minors.

Silver heard the bell above the door tingle as he reached the dairy fridge. Glancing up to the security mirrors he saw that a couple of the kids that had been hanging around outside had come in and were at the cash. Silver selected a small tub of Leslie's favourite ice cream, chocolate. He checked the expiry date on the milk and selected the freshest before heading to the bread counter. There he did the same, having deciphered the code on the little plastic clips some months ago. With milk in one paw and bread and ice cream in the other, Silver moved to the cash.

The teens, a pair of aardvarks not long from the old country, were still at the checkout counter. I t seemed that they were giving the elderly female panda a hard time. They wanted cigarettes but had no ID to show that they were old enough to buy them. The owner's wife was backed up against the plain white cover of the cigarette counter, obviously frustrated. The males were insistent, she was adamant. Selling tobacco to minors could lose them their license. Even selling to young adults without proof of age could bring crippling fines. Silver studied the two parties out of habit while he waited for the situation to resolve itself.

The panda, who he had seen but not examined before, was a middle-aged female. She was short and pudgy, but her limbs were slim and her back was straight. She probably did Tai Chi, he supposed, which was fine for maintaining agility, but would not help against two males that outweighed her by a hundred pounds each. The aardvarks, on the other paw, were not as young as he had first supposed. There was a tall slim one and a shorter, stouter one with a defensive scar on his forearm. They were well developed, fully muscled, and showed signs of fighting experience. They were not idle teens Silver realized, but hard customers. But their type should be out dealing drugs or running low priced hookers. They would not want to attract attention to themselves by harassing helpless store owners. Silver put the milk carton down on the chip rack and placed the bread and ice cream on a stack of male magazines that advertised tips for sexual health and featured scantily clad female models.

The two males were becoming angrier. The panda was becoming more frustrated. She started yelling back at the males and waving her arms aggressively, or at least argumentively. Their response was out of proportion to the situation. The taller of the males pulled a heavy automatic from his waistband and levelled it at the head of the panda. Her expression froze, her eyes locked on the hole in the muzzle of the gun. His partner exposed another pistol and kept his paw near, if not quite touching it. His head whipped back and forth as he assessed the situation around them, but his eyes always came back to Silver, a fact that the experienced agent did not overlook.

The owner's wife began to sob and collapse as her legs gave way under her. The lead aardvark tried to keep her up by threatening her with the pistol but she was too far gone. The lead male was now holding his pistol sideways and pointing it down behind the counter as he shouted orders to someone who had ceased to hear. But Silver was listening.

Silver removed his sunglasses and tucked them inside his jacket. He rolled his shoulders to loosen them and rotated his head and neck. He wove his digits together and cracked his knuckles.

"Show time." He mumbled to himself and stepped forward.

The shorter of the pair grunted something in a language Silver did not understand and the one with his gun out spun around to face the older fox. He still held his gun turned on its side with his arm straight out. He gazed angrily over the pistol at Silver, his digit tight on the trigger.

"I've heard that you street thugs hold your guns that way to shoot over countertops at clerks that are hiding." Silver said nonchalantly. "But you shouldn't hold it that way all the time. It's not proper."

The response contained a lot of unfamiliar words that Silver assumed were searing in whatever language it was they spoke. However the aardvark ended in English. "Why the yiff not?"

"Because with a gun that powerful the recoil will make your aim drift left and up, away from your target. You will also have more jamming because it's harder to keep a proper grip with your arm turned that way. Most importantly, it's much easier for a well trained assailant to take it off you from that position."

"What's the chance of bullshit like dat happ'n?" The stout one said with an evil grin.

"Normally it would be a long shot." Silver admitted with an exaggerated shrug that allowed him to step in a little closer. "But today ..."

Silver's paws moved faster than the eye could follow. He hit the wrist of the arm with the gun hard with his left paw as his right came up underneath to twist the aardvark's paw back. At the same time he leaned to his left, and the single shot that the aardvark got off went over his right shoulder. Continuing his forward movement he drove the taller one into the shorter, using him as a shield at the same time. As the pistol came free Silver's digits wrapped instinctively around it and found the trigger unerringly. He spied the shorter one trying to get his gun over the other's shoulder, using that same silly sideways grip. Silver poked gun he held under the arm of his living shield and pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession. Bags of chips in the display behind exploded as red gore sprayed from the shorter aardvark's back. Before he hit the ground Silver had the muzzle pressed to the snout of the one he had taken the gun from.

"... but today," Silver concluded, "the odds are pretty damn good."

Silver heard the triple tone of mama panda dialling 911 somewhere under the counter. She must have a cellular phone with her, he thought. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out his own Blackberry. Holding the call button down connected him directly to the FOX Operations Centre.

"This is Silver." He spoke quietly into the secure phone. "The Ottawa police are about to dispatch on a shooting at a Meadowlands Drive convenience store. Call the liaison desk and advise them that I am at the scene and that the officers are to wait for the special unit after securing the scene ... That's right ... No not my gun, one of theirs ... And call Ruby, tell her I got held up at the office. Thanks." Silver closed the phone and looked into the confused face of the tall aardvark. The creature's eyes kept flicking from Silver to the gun and to the corpse of his partner on the floor.

"Why do you look so shocked?" Silver inquired. "They never tell you that smoking could kill you?"

* * * * * * * *

There was a black van with mirrored windows parked in a raised lot across the street from the store. Inside a camera with a very big lens whirred and clicked as the operator filled the memory card with high resolution telescopic photos. The racoon had a clear view over the traffic and through the front window of the store. Behind him, another racoon watched the monitors that were linked to the store's security cameras and periodically checked the quality of the recordings they were making from them. He turned to the creature that was sitting passively in the passenger seat, staring unblinkingly at the store.

"You were right. It took less than a week before he showed up." Their employer did not move a muscle, did not even bat an eye. "Too bad about the aardvark." The racoon continued. "But not a big waste, eh?" Still no response. The racoon gave up.

They saw the first police cars arrive and cordon off the area. A news van showed up next, but by then the silver fox had turned the prisoner over to the police and was no longer visible through the window. The security monitors had stopped working at about the same time. The fox had probably disconnected them. The first racoon pointed out the unmarked car that would be the special liaison squad as it disappeared behind the line of stores.

"They have a rear door." He noted. "They'll probably bring him out there. You need anything more from us?"

Cold yellow eyes swivelled to regard him. "No. Put the images on the thumb drive I provided and take me back."

The first racoon handed his camera back to his partner and started the engine. Leaving the parking lot from the entrance furthest from the crime scene to avoid being stopped for questioning he turned south on Prince of Wales Avenue. A few minutes drive brought them to the industrial park on Colonnade Drive. The racoon drove to their unmarked unit in the back of one of the rows of properties and opened the garage door with a remote control. By the time he had parked the van and closed the garage door his partner had transferred all of the files to the memory stick and was handing it to the client.

A furry paw took the device and slipped it into an inside pocket. The paw remained inside the coat.

"I believe that we are ready to settle the accounts." Now the cold yellow eyes that were their client's most notable feature were locked on those of the racoon.

"Yeah, I've been thinking about that." The driver replied. "You said that the punks should wave their guns around and threaten the subject. You never said anything about him taking one of them out. We hired those thugs with a story that we were just trying to throw a scare into the pandas." He indicated himself and his partner. "What's to stop the survivor from giving our description to the cops?"

"Do not worry. No one is going to be giving any descriptions to any one." The paw reappeared, holding a small but powerful pistol. Fired at point blank range the first bullet took the driver high in the chest. It was not an instant kill, but it was fatal none the less. While the first racoon spat blood and tried to staunch the bleeding his partner swore and scrambled for the rear door. The second bulled took him between the shoulders. He slammed against the back with enough force to knock the doors open and he tumbled to the floor.

Their customer checked the driver for signs of life. There were none. Opening the door the client cautiously circled around to where the second body lay. It was still moving, crawling slowly away. The bullet had gone clean through without hitting anything vital. Chances were that he would bleed to death, but why take chances.

The third bullet traveled two centimetres from the muzzle of the gun to the skull of the racoon in a millisecond.

Before leaving, the client erased the memory on the camera, removed the files from the recorder, locked the doors, and set the alarm. Having told the racoons that they would be needed for a full month, it was quite possible that their deaths would not be discovered for at least three more weeks. Plenty of time to see this through.

* * * * * * * *

FOX was a small agency, and so it relied more on individual talent than it did on the number of people it could throw at a problem. A lot of their personnel were unique, and one of the more unique was the Academy forger, the lemur Joel Grigori. As the sole source of doctored documentation Joel was constantly on call, and had to keep the Duty Officer apprised of his whereabouts at all times. When he checked out at the end of this particular day he had left his cell phone number and a note that he would be at a friend's, playing Dungeons and Dragons.

He did not feel the need to mention that the friend was a komodo dragon named Barney or that his dungeon was equipped for physical games. He did not want to bog them down with details.

Before leaving the Academy completely Joel stopped by the big red barn that housed the simulation range. There was a utility cabinet mounted on the back wall. Joel selected key on his ring and opened it. Inside was a digital recorder that he had spliced into the range's network of monitors. It was motion activated, so it only recorded when someone was using the range. Joel noted that it had recorded just over an hour's worth of action today.

The recorder had a small screen on it. Joel ran the counter back half an hour to see who had been on the range. He smiled when he saw the image of Marcel down at floor level being shadowed by Geno on the scaffolding that held the fake walls up. There was no need to check further, Marcel and Geno's range practices always ended the same way. He ejected the disk and loaded a new one. He would edit out the boring parts later at home and add the rest to his growing collection of Marcel and Geno porn. So far he had twelve of Marcel and Geno doing it on the range, seven in the gym, two in the rappelling tower and one in the FOX operations centre when they were working night shift. Only the fear of Silver's retribution kept the tapes from being shared on pornhub.com or some similar site.

While Joel worked he wondered how long it would be before Rusty found out that he had tapped into the system. One day he would come and find this cabinet empty. No matter, he had another unit hidden in the attic. He would have to climb a tree to get to it, but hey ... lemur.

He slipped the disk into an inside pocket and returned wearily to his car. He was looking forward to his disciplinary session. It would relieve some of the tension that had been building up in him, and lord knew he had a lot of that lately. It wasn't just the workload, although there was more demand than ever before. And it wasn't the pressure of keeping his hobbies secret, the Academy could tolerate a few idiosyncrasies. No, it was the lack of sleep that was getting to him, that and the felling that he was being watched.

The lack of sleep came from the dreams. Vivid, intense dreams. Dreams of a time and place that was foreign to him. Visions of a cistern with a silver coin seen through shimmering water, a hooded monkey, his paws buried in Joel's chest, making his heart stop, a red-eyed demon eating his soul while fires burned all around. Disturbing dreams that he woke from soaked in sweat, unable to get back to sleep again.

The sense of being watched was easier to explain, he even knew who was watching him. It was a middle-aged badger, a rough looking customer. Not that rough characters were anything new to the little lemur. Growing up around the agents and contacts at FOX he had gotten used to them, so he was not intimidated, but he was intrigued. Was the Badger a counter-intelligence officer checking him out, or just some pervert with a thing for lemurs?

As was his habit, Joel stopped off at the local coffee shop for an ice cappuccino before going over to Barney's dungeon. He liked to sit in the corner by the window and at this time of day that table was usually free. But turning to it with the icy drink in his paw today he froze. Sitting at his favourite table, staring straight at him, was the rugged badger.

Joel approached the badger cautiously. He was wearing a worn brown leather jacket, canvas cargo pants and battered hiking boots. An equally battered wide-brimmed hat rested on the table. All the dude needed was a bull whip to have that 'Indiana Jones' look down pat, Joel thought. The guy was smiling at him. Joel noticed the silver cross pinned to the badger's lapel and the bible under his paw. So, a perv with a thing for lemurs it was, and the religious types seeking a little sinful action were the worst.

Joel sat down across the table from the smiling badger. The fellow was older than Joel had first thought. The black fur on his head had turned almost as white as his stripes. He must be older than Silver, Joel supposed, but he looked to be in as good shape. His chest was wide, his stomach was flat, his arms were thick and his paws were calloused and hard. That didn't fit the profile of the pudgy pleasure seekers that wanted to spank a little lemur butt. But he didn't look like one of the counter-intelligence squad either. The badger just sat there smiling at Joel.

"What do you want from me?" Joel asked, wondering if he should call the operations centre and report this stranger's undue interest in a FOX employee.

"I don't want anything from you Joel Grigori." The badger's brows shot up as he continued to smile quizzically. Then he continued in perfect Russian, a language Joel had learned from his adoptive parents, the Academy linguists. "Or should I say, Martin Grigorovich Mishin."

Now Joel was more confused than ever. A Russian speaking badger, calling him by a Russian name that he had never heard before. And how did he know my name was Joel for that matter? Had Barney or one of his other play dates been gossiping? Was this all some elaborate costumed roll playing thing? He checked again to see if there was a bull whip, but couldn't locate one on the badger. Joel stood up, almost knocking his seat over.

"I have to go." He clutched his ice cappuccino to his chest.

"Before you do," the badger looked up at him, "did you ever wonder what happened to your real parents?" Joel sank back into the chair, his green eyes had gone wide and were fixed on those of the badger.

"Your real parents were Russian missile scientists. They were kidnapped by a Canadian espionage agent and smuggled from the country in order to get the Soviet ballistic submarine secrets that would tip the balance of power in the West's favour. My organization was involved. I know what really happened."

The badger sipped at his black coffee before continuing. He had Joel's full attention. "The Female was pregnant, too pregnant to make the trip the arrogant fox had planned across the wastelands of Finland. But it was the secrets he wanted, not the lemurs themselves. Who knows what he did to them in that lonely hunting lodge near the border with Norway? The fire wiped out most of the evidence, and destroyed the bodies, but they tell me that there was a lot of blood on the snow surrounding the scene. He got a bad burn on the back of his left paw there, setting the fire I guess. When it was all over the agent came out of the wilderness alone, except for a newborn baby lemur."

If Joel's eyes had gotten any wider the rest of his face would have disappeared. "Wh ... who was ... the agent, and why ... why did he bring out the baby?" He stammered.

"Why bring the baby? Maybe out of pity. Maybe as a living souvenir. Who can tell with these cold hearted bastards? And I don't know what name he's using now, as he gave a false one to the lemurs. But he should be easy to recognize. He was a big silver fox, with a scar above his left eye." The badger drew a line on his brow to indicate a short vertical cut.

"No!" This time Joel's chair did go over when he shot upright. "No! You're lying. It's not true."

"If it's not true, lad, then why didn't they ever tell you what really happened?" The Badger smiled indulgently. "Why not show you the record of the operation if they have nothing to hide? You tell me."

Joel did not argue further. He dropped his drink and ran from the café.

* * * * * * * *

The smile faded from the badger's face as Joel fled the coffee shop. Lying was a sin and he would certainly suffer in hell for an eon or two for telling that tale. He did not even know why he was supposed to upset the lemur, it was not his place to know. But he had no choice, did he? Souls were at stake here.

Sometimes, he told himself, you had to choose the greater good. Sometimes you had to compromise a little to accomplish great things. But he had a very bad feeling about what he had just done.

He rubbed the cross on his lapel and wondered if Judas had felt the same way, at the end.

* * * * * * * *

The Duty Officers at FOX worked twelve hour shifts, but got extra time off for it. Normally the DO would be a senior analyst or a senior agent on medical restriction, but a shortage of personnel had forced the agency to compromise and allow junior agents and analysts to do the duty. For two years the young arctic fox Kain Algorath had filled that role when not required in the field, and he was now one of the most experienced DOs in the Ops Centre. Others might resent the duty, might feel that it was a step down from the exciting life of a field agent, but Kain preferred it. He knew that his paws were more useful on a keyboard than on a trigger. The arrangement also allowed him more time for his long-distance love affair with his dead girlfriend, the cloud leopard Ophelia Cassidy Sommer.

She was only legally dead, however, having supposedly been assassinated by Silver after she attempted to do the same to him. It was a misunderstanding, but she had unfortunately murdered a fellow Academy member along the way. Silver had offered her an alternative to the death sentence, to go deep under cover taking the place of a famous assassin for hire who had recently been forcibly retired. The one caveat on the deal was that the monthly dose of antidote she required for the poison that Silver administered to her would be withheld if she ever contacted any of her former friends or classmates, like Kain. But with her natural talent for scheming in and his computer hacking expertise they were soon getting together in remote locations every few months.

In fact, he had just recently returned form just such a rendezvous. A week spent in an exclusive resort in Cuba. It had not gone exactly as planned, thanks to an attentive security officer, but they had made it out in one piece each. Now Kain had another three months of shift work to look forward to before they could get together again.

The off-going DO, an aging analyst that was nearing retirement, went through the turnover briefing by rote. Not much was going on in the world of espionage today it seemed. Kain dutifully noted the whereabouts of all the key personnel. The new Director, Tancred Williams, codenamed Gold, was at a conference. Joel, the forger, was available by cell phone, and the Chief of Staff, Silver, had gotten involved in some incident at a convenience store. Typical, trouble seemed to follow that fox around, and anyone that stood too close to him. Kain absently fingered the scars on his chest, a souvenir of Silver's exploding Firebird.

After the previous DO had departed Kain started going through the stack of messages and reports that had come in while he was away. He skimmed some, read others several times, but he initialled each one to show that he had seen it.

One in particular caught his eye. It was a complaint from the Information Technology section that named him specifically. It was not the first one to do so. Kain used his own hardware and software occasionally to enhance the FOX electronic search and exploitation capability. Now and then he also tested FOX cyber defences or tried a new technique against them. While it was not strictly authorized, his behaviour was tolerated when the operational tempo was too fast to go through normal approval channels, which could take months. Kain had made a habit of always informing the Chief of Staff of his transgressions as soon as possible after the act.

But it had been months since he had done anything like IT was accusing him of. Either they had only picked up on it now or they had gotten into the habit of blaming every technical glitch on his hacking. Either way, he decided, it was not important enough to get worked up over. He initialled the sheet and set it back down in the pile. He would only look into it further if Silver called him up on it.

Kain came to the end of the pile without reading anything more interesting. He settled down at the DO's workstation, faced with the prospect of a long night of nothing but routine status reports to read and pass on he opened his personal laptop, allowed in by special permission of the Director. He opened the file for the new encrypted communications system he was working on and soon forgot all about reports, returns, and complaints.

* * * * * * * *

Vikki Beausoleil knew that it was Silver when she heard the fort door of the apartment open later that evening. Not because the bobby traps were not tripped but because she had learned to recognize the sound of his step in the hallway and the way he turned the key in the lock. It was a level of familiarity that she had only felt before with one of her long-term police partners. It was a shame that they did not go on missions together anymore, she thought, they would work well together.

Now that he was Chief of Staff his hours were very irregular, and she had gotten used to him coming in at odd hours. On the plus side, he spent more time in Ottawa and less time recovering from bullet wounds, knife wounds, and near-fatal garrottings, so he was a lot more fun when he was around.

"I'm in the kitchen." She called to him. He mumbled an acknowledgement and she heard him go to their three-year old son's room to get in a little quality time before the kit's bedtime.

Vikki was a senior agent now, called Ruby in the colour code that the academy preferred. Silver, who had gone grey at a young age and earned his codename for the silvery tint produced by the white hairs amongst the black of his natural coat, claimed that the name Ruby was given to her due to her vibrant fur. Vikki suspected that it was one of his obscure jokes, but he wasn't telling. It was true that she had long, luxurious, ruby red fur, and at almost two meters tall the slim, elegant vixen with the piercing emerald green eyes was stunning, like a finely cut gem. If it wasn't for the fact that her left forearm ended halfway to where the paw should be she would be perfect. But she hardly noticed that it was gone these days, the robotic replacements were so versatile.

She was wearing one of the less lifelike ones at the moment while she did the dishes, but it was waterproof and easy to clean. Once she had finished racking the dishes she changed it for the bionic one that was a perfect match to her real right paw. She poured two glasses of cold, dry white wine and sat down at the kitchen table to wait for Silver. Once he had settled Leslie in for the night he would join her for a drink and a bite of the leftovers keeping warm in the oven.

Silver joined her within half an hour. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone and his tie was stuffed in the pocket. There were tiny paw prints in yellow chalk on his dark blue blazer, smudges on his glasses and green play-dough in his whiskers. Vikki also detected the faint odour of cordite on his paw as he leaned over to give her a tender kiss on the lips and caress her cheek. Had he been scheduled on the range today?

"Your meeting run late Silver?" She asked as he straightened up. Although he used her real name at home and she knew his he would always be Silver to her, and anyone else who did not wish to die prematurely.

"Got held up. How was your day?" He enquired as he opened the over to retrieve his supper.

"Not bad. Dongo and I were running through a few drills." Dongo Fett was the junior agent assigned to Vikki. Technically a heavy weapons specialist, he was being cross trained as an agent and had been assigned to Vikki/Ruby because they both had robotic parts. They shared similar problems getting through airport security so travel solutions worked for them both, and logistically, they could share a single arm maintenance kit. Even their batteries were interchangeable. "He's coming along well."

Her tone of voice didn't match her words. Silver stared silently at her as he chewed, forcing her to fill the void in the conversation.

"Well, he's doing okay." More chewing. "He is having a few problems concentrating actually." Silver's expression did not change. "I referred him to Doctor Gordon."

Doctor Gordon was a tall white rat that ran the psychology labs at FOX. He had designed the elaborate tests they used for selecting potential agents and was an expert in post-traumatic stress. With all the damage done by and inflicted on the FOX agents he was a busy rodent. Being sent to see him was not the end of one's career, necessarily. But some agents that went into his care never returned to the field again.

"Saskatchewan?" Silver asked between mouthfuls.

"Yeah." Vikki shrugged. "I think that he blames himself for the death of that MINC agent. And it didn't help when that tailhole from her agency that came down to interview him about it started yelling at him and calling him an inexperienced amateur. It was totally unfair." But true, she added to herself. Dongo had not been trained at the time, and Vikki had still been a junior agent. It wasn't supposed to be a real mission, and Dongo was just supposed to be there as backup for Vikki, but he had been drawn into the plot to flood the mid-west. It did not matter that the mink posing as a prostitute was already under suspicion. She had interpreted something Dongo had said as instructions to dig deeper, and had been brutally murdered because of it, her body left for Dongo to find.

"He's been drinking a lot." Vikki continued. "And he doesn't have any real friends here." She looked down and toyed with the place mat while Silver waited for her to continue, not eating anymore. "Could you talk to him?" She asked hesitatingly. "Not as the Chief of Staff, but as someone who has been through the same experience?"

She knew that Silver would know what she meant. He had told her about his near breakdown after the death of his supervising agent, the gregarious Irish fox Green, and the tragic mission in Finland. But Silver had survived that and other setbacks that had left him scarred in body and mind, without quite slipping over the edge. Thanks mostly to the friendship of the big golden fox, Tancred Williams.

"I'll talk to him." Silver replied after a moment. "What's new in the world?" He asked to change the subject, indicating the daily newspaper Vikki had left on the counter.

It was the Ottawa edition of a national chain that tended toward the sensational and controversial, with lots of photos of accidents and cute children that did not relate to the stories on the same page. Silver distained it as an example of low journalism, but Vikki noted that he never failed to check out the scantily clad females in the 'Girl of the day' section. Vikki read it for the local news and community announcements. There were a lot of free family events they could take Leslie to in Ottawa if you knew where to look, and a secret agent's salary was not exactly overly generous. Sure, the guns were free, as were all the bullets you could shoot, but that was little help in bring up a kit? A bundle of the papers were dropped off in the lobby early every morning and the superintendant dutifully distributed them before dawn each day.

"This serial rapist has me worried for Leslie." Vikki admitted, pointing to the headline 'CHILD STALKER KILLS AGAIN!'. "What if he gets into the day care centre?"

Silver picked up the paper and flipped to the main story inside. He wiped his glasses and scanned the text for a few minutes. He put the paper down and looked Vikki in the eyes.

"You shouldn't worry. These types usually stick to their own species and don't change their sexual orientation." He lectured. "Although he has attacked several breeds of canine the bulk of his victims have been underage vixens, young teens and pre-teens, not toddlers and not males. And nobody can get past Brown." Mrs. Brown was a former senior agent that now ran the Academy's day care centre. Although she was twenty years older and twenty kilos heavier than she had been when she was active she could still beat most of the active agents three falls out of four. Even Silver was hesitant about getting into the ring with her.

Vikki was not totally mollified. "He could branch out."

"Not typically. It says he went from simple sexual touching a few months ago to rape and now two murders in the last week. I'd say he's cycling out of control quickly and will soon be caught, but you'd have to ask Doc Gordon to confirm that."

"Has he been consulted on the case?"

"No." As Chief of Staff Silver would have had to approve the request. "Profiling is not his area of expertise. Once they have a profile though they may consult him on which tactics to use to trip him up. He understands the pressures killers are under very well." As he should, Vikki thought, seeing as he has to keep so many of them under control. A rouge agent was a terrible thing.

"Well," she shrugged, "I'm going to keep him close by me when we're out in public. This perv better not try anything." She stood up and took Silver's empty plate over to the sink.

Silver had seen Vikki fight when she was mad, and he pitied anyone who she might mistake for a pervert going after their kit. While she finished scrubbing and drying the plate he snuck a peek at the girl of the day.

* * * * * * * *

The next morning Vikki was already up and showered by the time she head the footfall of the superintendant in the hall and the thump of the paper at her door. She was typically an early riser and liked to take her time getting ready, while Silver and Leslie were still asleep. Part of her daily routine was to read the morning journal over her first cup of coffee. The automatic timer had started the coffee perking while she was in the shower and it was ready to go. She slipped her robe on, poured a large cup, added sugar and milk, and headed for the door to retrieve the paper.

Mrs. Suzuki, a widowed akita that lived across the hall, was standing by her open door, newspaper in paw when Vikki opened the door. Vikki nodded hello as she bent to pick up her copy. They often saw each other like this, and occasionally exchanged a few words.

"How are you today Mrs. Suzuki?" Vikki asked the older canine as she straightened up and tucked the folded paper under her arm.

"I'm fine, Ms. Beausoleil." Her neighbour answered absently. "But isn't this your male friend, Mr. Sterling?" The elderly Japanese akita still referred to Silver as Vikki's 'male friend', a hold over from the time when they still lived separately. She only knew him by the cover name he used around town, James Sterling, and always called him Mister Sterling. Vikki suspected that she did not approve of their unmarried status. Vikki looked quizzically to where Mrs. Suzuki was pointing at on the front page of the newspaper.

What she saw made her spew coffee all over Mrs. Suzuki's copy of the newspaper. Vikki dropped her cup to the floor and grabbed her own paper to confirm what her eyes had seen but her brain told her could not be true. Mrs. Suzuki screamed as hot coffee exploded into the hallway and ran back into her apartment.

There it was again, a large colour photo of Silver in a convenience store. There was a bloody aardvark on the floor at his feet and another with a pistol halfway up its snout in front of him. The picture was fuzzy, a blow up from a security camera image perhaps, but you could still make out the intensity in Silver's cold grey-blue eyes. The two-inch headline read 'SECRET AGENT TAKES JUSTICE TO THE STREETS - WHO, OR WHAT, IS FOX?'

Behind her she heard the apartment phone, Silver's blackberry, and both of their pagers beeping all together. Someone at FOX Headquarters had just read the morning paper.