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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 2 - You Had Better Be Running

There are several places you can be when something goes terribly wrong at work.

You could be at home, as Silver was when the papers hit the stands, in which case you can either opt to stay there until you figure out how to save your ass, or go in and face the music. Silver was out the door exactly ten minutes and fifteen seconds after Vikki dropped her coffee in the hallway, leaping the slippery puddle and rushing down the stairs to the parking garage bent on getting to the FOX Ops Centre as quickly as possible. By the time he leapt into the waiting Eclipse he was already on the paws-free phone firing directions to the Duty Officer.

You could be in the office, like Kain Algorath was, just coming to the end of his twelve hour shift. He had already briefed his replacement and could easily have slipped out to avoid being caught up in the panic and the subsequent blame-casting exercise. But Kain saw the security guard waving the newspaper at the camera in the lobby and halted the turnover process to check it out, so he was still officially the DO when the shit hit this particular fan and was responsible for sending out the recall notice.

Of course, the absolute worst place one could be would be in the boss's office, in front of all your fellow executives, and unfortunately for Tancred Williams the new Deputy Clerk of the Privy Council responsible for all the security and intelligence agencies liked to hold breakfast meetings. The Deputy, a middle-aged skunkette with a doctorate in Political Science, was a recent political appointment, and a favourite of the Prime Minister. Williams and the heads of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, the Canadian Security Intelligence Service, Communications Security and Military Intelligence had all just sat down with the Deputy around a tray of fruit and pastries when her assistant entered and whispered in her ear. He handed her a folded newspaper and everyone strained to see as she disappeared behind it.

When she emerged she put the paper face down in front of her and frowned at the apprehensive group. Scanning their anxious faces, looking for signs of guilt or weakness perhaps, she finally locked eyes on the big golden-toned fox. She slid the paper across the table and it came to rest in front of Williams. The other agency chiefs leaned back with a collective sigh of relief. He turned it over and stared at the front cover. There was Silver with a gun in his paw. There was the dead aardvark in a pile of bloody potato chips. And there was the name of his super-secret espionage agency displayed in stark black two-inch tall type. There was not much else on the front page that did not spell trouble for FOX. The Deputy pursed her lips and spoke.

"It looks like you have a spot of trouble, Mister Williams."

* * * * * * * *

Marcel, on the other paw, was neither at home nor at work early that fateful morning.

His cover identity of Anthony Foxx, professional skateboarder, required a certain amount of public exposure, and practice. There was a public skate park near to the Experimental Farm that Marcel liked to practice in with some of his former street buddies. He had taken to showing up earlier and earlier however, to avoid the growing number of fans that gathered to watch for the sub-culture celebrity. Since most of them spent most of the night at the clubs if they were old enough, or on the internet if they weren't, his dawn sessions were attended only by hard-core boarders and die-hard fans.

The park had a fence with a gate separating the skating area from an observation area. Only four or five boarders at a time could fit in the small area at the top of the half pipe. The rule was that you could only go in if you had a board and were as good, or better, as the guys already inside. Challenges were common, but when Anthony Foxx showed up the weakest boarder would usually exit and go watch without a fuss.

On this morning there were only four kids there when Marcel showed up. Only one was a friend from his street days, there were getting to be less of them around as they got older. He recognized a couple of other regulars. All three were decent boarders. The fourth was a stranger, a female red squirrel in black short-shorts and a bright yellow halter top.

Marcel gave her a quick once over, as Silver had taught him to do with every stranger he met. She was on the short side, as was common with red squirrels, but she had a generous bust and a firm, round butt. Her hair was short, naturally red, her eyes were light brown, and her nose was small, and cute he thought. She was leaning on a well worn board with a popular brand's logo and custom wheels. Her knees and elbows showed signs of experience too. She stared boldly back at him.

"You got room for five?" She asked sassily, whipping her bright red tail behind her.

"Depends." Marcel answered. "Lets see you shred." As he spoke he dropped his custom board, a Kevlar and composite creation of Joel's, down into the half pipe and leapt in after it, daring her to follow. He landed lightly on the board just as the wheels touched down and rode it back up and high into the air for a combination flip and toe grab. As his head came around he was pleased to see that the squirrel had accepted the challenge, and was right beside him trying the same trick.

The other three backed off to give them more room. Marcel kept it easy at first while he warmed up, pulling standard tricks and tracing a route that was easy to follow. The squirrel was having no trouble keeping up. He motioned for her to take the lead and slipped behind. Her butt was moving in some interesting ways and he had to concentrate on what she was doing. This was one thing that he and Geno did not share. He could never convince her to try out a board. She preferred moving her ass to a different sport, endurance yiffing.

Now that the morning kinks had been worked out, Marcel began to speed up. His baggy jeans and black hoodie rippled in the breeze of his passage and he pulled his red ball cap down tighter on the back of his head as he leaned into it. He was no longer following the cute squirrel, but right beside her, reading her tricks as she launched into them and matching her move for move. He searched for an opportunity to take the lead, but she was riding close to the edge and was not about to give him enough room to pass.

She went up to grab some air, did a paw stand on the top of the pipe, and Marcel made his move. Instead of stopping beside her he kept going up, a good metre and a half higher than she had, and pulled his legs up so that his board was resting across hers for a brief instant. He pushed off against hers, did a quick ollie and dropped past her to land halfway down the wall in a move that would have cracked most other boards, but not Joel's creation. By the time she was twisting to follow he was already screaming up the other side and going into his next trick.

But his move had startled her, and she mobbed her drop out of the paw stand. Her board skittered out from under her feet and she hit the wall of the half pipe hard. She tumbled to the bottom, where she lay curled up in ball, wary of her opponent's descent. However, Marcel saw her fall and stopped at the edge of the pipe, dropping back down the side without his board in a short run. By the time she was at her side she was trying to stand, but without much success.

"Are you okay?" Marcel asked anxiously as he dropped to his knees beside her. Up above the rest of the gang was rushing to help too.

"My leg." The little red squirrel moaned. "I think I twisted it when I hit the side."

Marcel put his shoulder under her arm and stood up, supporting her. His arm slid naturally around her slim waist. She placed her right paw on top of his where it rested on her waist, and put her left arm across his back, resting her left paw on his left shoulder. He reached up with his left and gripped hers.

"Can you walk if I help you?" Marcel asked with concern.

"If you hold on tight." She smiled over at him, but he was looking down to see if there was any swelling or bleeding. He took charge without thinking. Marcel had always had a soft spot for the vulnerable, and FOX made all of its agents learn emergency first aid.

The others skidded to a stop, regarding their local hero with the lovely squirrel in his arms. They knew of his reputation as a guardian of the weak, that's why a pack had grown around him when he lived on the street. There were even rumours that he had knifed a bison or some such beast to protect one of the underage members. They didn't know about Geno, or Marcel's new life, they just thought that he looked good with the cute little squirrel in his arms. They backed off, clearing a path for him to escort her off the half pipe. One of them recovered their boards and slid both of them into Marcel's backpack before handing it to him.

"You come by bus or car?" Marcel asked her.

"I walked. I just rented a place a couple of blocks from here." She winced as she tried to put more weight on her injured leg. "I'm sure I'll bee okay in a few minutes. You go back to the park, the others want to see you shred."

"Naw, I'll help you home. Unless you want to go to the emergency room at the Ottawa General? It's just down the street a bit." He looked into her light brown eyes, checking for dilation, and was startled to find her smiling back at him.

"I'm sure I'll be fine if I can get home and get some ice or heat or whatever on it." She grinned. "Lead on Sir Galahad." The reference was lost on Marcel, whose reading was restricted to Academy tactical manuals and a series of novels about a teenaged wizard he was addicted to that he kept hidden under the couch. "I'm Monique, by the way."

"Uh, Anthony. Anthony Foxx." Marcel replied, almost forgetting his cover name as he gazed into her deep brown eyes.

"I know, silly." She giggled. "Everyone who boards in Ottawa knows who you are."

Marcel blushed under his jet-black fur. Monique giggled again and pointed the way toward her apartment. He cradled her soft body against his, not noticing that the further away from the skate park they got, the more weight she put on her injured leg.

* * * * * * * *

Silver entered the FOX Ops Centre like an elemental force of nature. As Chief of Staff his proximity card unlocked all of the electronic doors just before he got to them, and he straight-armed the Ops Centre doors open as he strode in at full steam; head high, shoulders back, silver fur flying around him and with icy grey-blue eyes ablaze with cold fire. Two technicians who had been talking just inside the doors went flying in opposite directions. It was their own fault for loitering in the red zone around the doors.

"What do we know?" He demanded as he came up behind the Duty Officer's station.

"It's only in the one paper so far," Kain Algorath answered, "but the local news is starting to pick it up. It identifies you as an agent in a secret Canadian espionage agency called 'FOX', based here in Ottawa. It likens us to the CIA and MI-6, Matt Helm and James Bond types."

Silver shook his head. Sure, he owned a tuxedo, but he couldn't imagine going out on a mission in it. The cleaning bills alone would be prohibitive. Kain continued.

"So far there is no mention of your code name, what FOX stands for or that you are the Chief of Staff. There is no mention of the Experimental Farm either."

"Have any reporters been calling or sniffing around?"

"No."

"What do we know about the reporter who wrote this article?"

"She's a local staffer." Kain told him. An image of a frumpy looking female black bear filled the monitor. "Her name is Shelly Schultz. The normal routine is that she gets assignments from the local editor or submits stories she's been working on. Normally she gets assigned to cover city hall and the social circuit, nothing heavy. It would appear that this story is her scoop."

Silver studied the image, searching his memory for any possible encounter with her, but he came up blank. "I don't suppose we can get into their system and find out where she got the information from?" He asked the room in general.

"Uh, no." The respondent was a middle-aged hare in a suit. Silver recognized the Academy legal counsel. "If the Deputy ever found out that you went after the media without a warrant she would have puppies."

"Do skunks have puppies?" Silver enquired.

"No, so you can imagine how pissed off she would be if she had some." The hare answered. "Especially at her age."

Silver turned back to Kain. "Is there any chatter on the Internet about this?" As an open source with no expectation of privacy the Academy could monitor the web for possible threats to their security. Algorath was an expert on finding the obscure sites where anarchists, extremists and teenage role players hide and plot.

"The conspiracy theory sites are lit up, but they have nothing new to add, nothing factual anyway. A number of her fellow reporters have been commenting on her Facebook page, asking if she plans a follow-up article."

"Does she?"

"Wait." The lawyer held up a paw. "How did you get that information?"

"She has no filters on her account." Kain answered. "Anyone who visits her page can see it." The hare waved his consent for Kain to continue.

"So," Silver asked, with just a hint of impatience in his voice, "does she?"

"She says that it depends. I've got the forensic linguists studying her responses. They say that she refers to it as 'the' story, rather than 'my' story, so they believe she has a source that handed it to her complete."

"Could we have a mole in the Academy?" Silver speculated. "An internal security problem?"

"It would provide a convenient nexus for you to investigate internally." The lawyer interrupted. "But you can't use that as excuse to go after the reporter. You'll still have to get a warrant and turn the investigation over to the RCMP." The look on Silver's face told everyone what he thought of that idea.

"We'll stick to monitoring open sources for now." He declared. Privately he was wondering if the leak was not from a rival agency, like CSIS or the RCMP. They both felt that they should have control over the foreign espionage activities of FOX, and the RCMP had been trying to shut them down for years. Who else could have gotten the information out so fast?

"Silver?"

The tall fox looked around, and down. Joel, the Academy forger was tugging on his sleeve. The ring-tailed lemur looked apprehensive about something. But Silver needed to concentrate on this particular problem right now.

"Sorry Joel, I'll be with you in a minute." He turned back to the crowd of analysts and technicians that had gathered in the Ops Centre.

"We have cover stories and disinformation packages ready to release through friendly sources." One of the planners informed him. "If they can't build on the story it will probably be forgotten in a week."

"You think that I just need to lay low until this blows over?" Silver asked. He went to step over to the planner's workstation and bumped into Joel. "Joel, would mind waiting by the door? It's getting too crowded in here." Silver side stepped the lemur and posed his question again.

"It's going to be difficult." The planner answered. "The quality of that security cam photo is really good. You can see your eyes and the scar on your brow and all the white in your fur." Silver stared hard at the fellow, leaning over him dauntingly. "You, uhm, aren't exactly, ah, subtle ... I mean average ... in appearance that is."

"You'd be easy to recognize is what the poor chap is trying to say." The less easily intimidated lawyer clarified. "You may have to consider changing your appearance. At least get a closed sedan with shaded glass for coming and going."

"He's right." Kain put in. "Hackers have already tried cracking the traffic camera archives to backtrack your movements from the store."

"Did they find anything?" Silver frowned worriedly.

"No. I beat them to it. All images of you have been wiped as far back as they kept them, and those of the Director too, just in case." The lawyer frowned at that but wisely choose to refrain from asking how Kain had managed that.

"Okay." Silver sighed, the tension drained for now. "Algorath, turn things over to the day shift and write up a report on what we know, what we don't know and what the probable damage will be. Plans, start coming up with theories as to who could have leaked this and why. Don't exclude anyone or any group, including so-called friendlies. Day shift, keep monitoring the media and the internet sites Algorath indicted. Notify me immediately if anything new shows up. Let's go people."

The group dispersed to their various tasks. Silver stood in the middle of the hubbub for a minute, staring at the situation board. Finally he turned and strode to the exit that would take him to the executive wing and his office. Just before he reached it he stopped and turned to the main doors where Joel stood wringing his paws anxiously.

"Did you want to talk to me, Joel?"

Although Silver was facing him, Joel could tell from the worry line on his forehead that the fox was still worried with the current situation. "It's nothing important." The lemur shrugged. "You're busy." Joel turned to the main exit doors and hesitated, expecting Silver to call him back, as he had always done before.

But because Silver really was busy, and preoccupied with the exposure problem, so he did not call Joel back, and the moment slipped by. Joel left the Ops Centre with the hurt look on his face hidden from Silver's view.

* * * * * * * *

Marcel helped Monique to her apartment in a red brick block of buildings built during the last world war. Urban renewal had yet to hit this neighbourhood and most of the buildings looked like welfare housing, but hers was a little cleaner than the rest. It had recently been bought and renovated she explained, and she had only moved in a week before. The hallways were freshly painted in stark white, and Marcel noted that there were security camera bubbles in the foyer and on each landing.

The apartment itself was small, a one bedroom with a combined kitchen-living room at the entrance, a bedroom beyond it and a bathroom at the end of a short hall. It still had the old wooden cupboards and shelves but it too was freshly painted and the countertops and linoleum were new. The furniture was from a national discount store, bought by Monique obviously, and the appliances were used, probably provided by the landlord, he supposed.

"You want a drink?" Monique enquired as she limped into the kitchen. Her leg had seemed to be getting better but now it was suddenly worse again.

"Isn't it a little early to be drinking?" Marcel asked, puzzled.

"Not a 'drink' drink, silly." She chided him, holding up two glasses and a jug of clear liquid. "Filtered tap water, cold from the fridge."

"Uh, no, thanks. I have to get going." Marcel began to back out of the door.

"Oh, come on. I saw that you left your water bottle back in the park and you must be hot and thirsty after carrying me all the way over here." The squirrel smiled, making her cheeks dimple. "Besides, I'm not done with you yet. You're the first strong guy I've had up here and if you don't mind I'd like to get you to lift some boxes up onto the top shelf of the storage closet for me before you go. I was going to get one of my girl friends to help me lift them, but," she indicated her sore leg, "I don't think that will work now." She filled a glass and passed it to him.

"Okay." Marcel conceded, unable to turn down someone in need, especially someone smaller and weaker than him, and drop dead cute to boot. She sat on the small two-cushion couch, the only seat in the living room, and patted the vacant cushion.

"Relax and quench your thirst first. You're also my first celebrity visitor. I've got a million questions."

Marcel sat and Monique plied him with questions about how long he had been boarding and where he had learned to shred the way he did. He answered reluctantly at first, even though he had all the details of his cover's background story memorized. But as she refilled his glass he began talking more freely about his street boarding experiences, even throwing in a couple of true anecdotes, however not the one about how Silver had trapped him in an alley.

After finishing his third glass of water there was a pause in the conversation. Monique had slid back on the couch, half laying on the arm, and had put her injured leg up on Marcel's lap for him to massage while he talked. He suddenly realized what he was doing and stopped, looking down at her with embarrassment. But the sexy little squirrel was smiling back at him in that cheek-dimpling way she had, and she reached down to guide his paw further up her leg, as far as the edge of her short shorts.

Marcel knew that he should get up and leave. She was a stranger and his training had taught him to be suspicious of strangers coming on to him for no reason. But you are Anthony Foxx, another part of his mind told him, the celebrity skateboarder and idol of young girls. Nonsense, the other part put in, you are an espionage agent and she has drugged you. Marcel shook his head to clear it. While he was debating with himself his paws had started squeezing her plump thigh, and he had slipped a digit under the seam of her shorts. Stop now, the rational part of him demanded. Take her, the other part whispered.

"Take me." Monique said, as if on cue. Marcel tried to stand, but his head swam as soon as he leaned forward. She put a paw behind his neck and pulled him down to her open lips. Mumbling a word that sounded like 'eeno', Marcel moulded his mouth to hers.

Everything seemed to be moving slowly, like they were underwater, but happening quickly at the same time. His paw was up inside her shorts and panties, feeling for the slick slit between her legs. She slid hers under her halter top and pulled it off, revealing two pert, perfect breasts covered with red fuzz and tipped with brown nipples. His lips found one, then the other. They grew hard against the tip of his tongue. Her small claws combed the fur on his cheek.

The next thing he knew she was naked on the couch and so was he. He did not remember taking off his clothes or her removing them, but there he was kneeling between her legs with a bright red erection sticking out from his jet black fur. Her vagina was open and wet, shiny pink in the early morning light coming in the window. The reddish fur around it was damp and flat, like it had been licked. She had one leg up on the back of the couch, the other hanging down off the edge. He smile was no longer cute, it was eager, anticipatory, and seductive.

Marcel guided the tip of his cock to her waiting slit. Just before it made contact he wondered what Geno would think when she found out, and he hesitated. She whimpered at having him so close but not there, and she reached for his hips impatiently. She pulled them down just as his resistance dissolved, and all seven inches of him slid in, bringing his balls slamming up against her tailhole. Monique sighed and threw her head back. Marcel's head dropped and he pulled back out. When he drove it home again it was with more force, and at an angle that would run it along her clit the whole way.

He lost track of time and space again as he drilled in and out of her. When he felt the pressure building in his balls and looked down he was behind her. Her bushy tail was up against his chest and her lovely ass was moving back and forth on his swollen cock. His paws were gripping her hips and helping to steady her. She sped up, crying out his cover name and rubbing her clit with one paw. He came with a groan that would not end as she continued to gyrate on his cock.

Another blackout. Now he was on his back. Her head was at his crotch, moving up and down. He could not see because her auburn hair had fallen between them. He could not feel anything either. He drifted off again.

One last grasp at consciousness. He was still on his back, but he was in a bed. She rose above him, paws on her breasts, legs straddling his hips. Her eyes were closed. Marcel looked down to where they were joined, and saw his cock disappear into her as she slowly lowered herself. A moment later it began to reappear. He could see the lips on her vagina sucking at his prick as she rose, and her clit shone out from the folds of flesh like Rudolf's nose.

He watched as she moved in slow motion, aware yet detached. He saw her come, spraying hot waters, bathing the base of his cock as she ground herself against him. He was vaguely aware that he was coming also, his stomach clenching with effort as his already empty balls tried to drain themselves again.

As the room faded to black, she opened her eyes, and the glint in her light brown orbs was the last thing he saw.

* * * * * * * *

Ten Thousand kilometres away, someone with a vested interest in the future of FOX lay in wait. Someone else was about to die, and she wanted to see it all.

Her name was Ophelia Cassidy Sommer, Cass to her lover, and the Perfect Stalker to everybody else. She was currently the world's most successful and sought after assassin. It was not a title she had craved, or tried out for, but one she had inherited after the gruesome death of the original Stalker at the paws of Silver. Silver had then offered her the position and she had accepted. It was either that or a bullet in the head for trying to kill the FOX agent, and a couple of more successful murders. The clever fox had also poisoned her and now she relied on FOX to send her a monthly antidote, which ensured her loyalty. Only the Director and the Chief of Staff could authorize it, and so she kept tabs on them out of self interest.

It was already late afternoon where she was when her personal data assistant started vibrating silently. It was an extremely tiny device, and the vibration was very subtle. She felt it because she had it tucked into the waistband of her panties just by her tail, but she did not move. The target had just entered the killing zone.

This hit was a special case, as were all of the Perfect Stalker's contracts. Today's target was one Luciani Carozzi, a Corsican mouflon who specialized in extortion. He was special for two reasons. First of all, he was a midget. Most mouflon stand as tall as any other species, and their spiral horns are very large, making almost a full revolution on the sides of their heads. Carozzi however, stood only a metre tall, just over three feet, and had tiny, withered horns. Secondly, he was extremely cruel for a blackmailer. Most would be satisfied with merely ruining the lives or reputations of those who refused to pay up, but not Carozzi. He ruined them, and then he killed them, as a lesson to future victims.

He was well protected by the corrupt local police force and the mob that he was a part of. Still, a hit by a hired assassin was always a possibility so he also surrounded himself with a group of very large, very tall, and very professional body guards, a group of great Danes from a canine security firm. They towered over him and encircled him completely when he moved, leaving no room for a sure shot from any safe distance. They always traveled with two decoy cars, to reduce the risk from a bombing or rocket attack. Conventional assault was impossible, only a suicide attack had any hope of success. Unless of course, one hired the world's best assassin, the one that specialized in impossible situations, the Perfect Stalker.

Some of the friends and relatives of his past victims had done just that. They had scraped together enough money to hire the killer, and approached the assassin's go-between in the virtual world of Tilia life. The Perfect Stalker was known to be selective. People thought that it was because the Stalker was semi-retired and only took contracts that intrigued him or her. Unbeknownst to them the real reason was that all of the contracts had to be approved by FOX HQ. Using the identity of the infamous murderer for a deep cover agent was one thing, killing innocents to maintain it was another. But when the target was as someone like Luciani Carozzi, she usually got the go ahead.

Consent came with a caveat this time, no collateral damage, not even to the body guards. That made the problem more difficult, but not impossible. Ophelia had considered the situation. He had no personal habits that could be exploited. His home was a fortress on a hill and there was always at least one guard with him, even when he was making love to one of the few pre-screened prostitutes he allowed near him. The hit would have to come in a public place, but how do you remove someone so short form the middle of a protective pack without hurting anyone else?

Anything that shot or sliced at the required height would cut the Danes in two. They moved in such a tight pack that anything that blew upward would also take out a couple of guards at least. She considered luring him into quicksand deep enough to drown him but leave the guard's heads sticking out, but they would just buoy him up until they walked out again. Besides, the only public place he could be predicted to be at was the offices of his bankers, a modern glass building with a concrete plaza between it and the parking area.

It was while watching his progress across the plaza that she got the idea of how to do it. The plaza was shaped like a bowl, with the centre about five feet deeper than the rim. There were a number of decorative light fixtures scattered around the bowl, and dead centre there was a pit that channelled coloured spotlights upward at night. She was watching the group for signs of gaps in their coverage, but there was none. Then, off to one side, a worker changing light fixtures had dropped a bulb. It exploded with a loud 'pop' as it struck the concrete. The Danes had immediately pushed the mouflon to the ground, tightened their cordon and drew their sidearms. When they were satisfied that there was no danger they continued, but kept their boss bent over as they moved at a faster pace across the plaza, standard bodyguard tactics, she realized.

Ophelia looked up the company on the Internet. They not only provided guards, they provided training also. Posing as a security chief looking to upgrade her staff's skills, she got them to send her a copy of the training syllabus. The tactics they used were straightforward. Keep the client low, moving, and covered. If you have to stand and fight, pick out protected areas along your route and deposit the client there until danger has passed. Attackers favour the high ground, so make sure you stay close and above the client to cut down on the angle. Perfect.

She had studied his movements for another few weeks before putting her plan into action. He always visited the bank in the hottest part of the afternoon, when the air was still and plaza was deserted. They always parked directly across from the main entrance and moved across the bowl-shaped plaza, passing close to the pit in its centre. At his normal walking speed, which was fairly slow because of his short legs, it took them two minutes to reach the pit, and another two to reach the entrance from there.

Ophelia had confirmed the properties of certain gasses, done some calculations, and prepared the site for today's visit. She set up barriers at the entrance warning of wet concrete due to resurfacing. That kept the plaza empty while she worked. First she changed all of the bulbs in all of the light fixtures. Then she poured liquid from a portable cement mixer into the central pit after plugging the drain. It covered the bottom of the pit an inch deep and looked like plain water. Finally, she opened the valve on a large gas canister disguised as a cement truck parked to one side of the bowl. Just before the mouflon's convoy appeared she collected the barriers and drove off in the truck, to a nearby over pass where she could park and observe.

They parked the decoy cars together and surrounded the mouflon as he exited the first of the three. Ophelia observed as they started across the plaza, her PDA vibrating softly at the base of her tail. They moved at their normal, slow, steady pace, the guards looking all around, paws hovering near sidearms, ready for action at all times. Ophelia wondered if Carozzi could detect the slight acidic smell of the carbon dioxide that filled the bowl four feet deep? The guard's heads were a good two feet above the layer of heavy gas and they gave no indication that they were aware of it. The gas would not kill the extortionist if he was removed from it within a few minutes, but the two minutes it would take to reach the halfway mark would make him woozy and unable to speak. It should be enough to render him helpless for the next stage.

She saw one of the guards look and reach down just as they passed the central pit. The client must have stumbled. Ophelia took the cue and pressed a button on the remote she had glued to the binoculars she was observing with. Down in the plaza the bulbs in the light fixtures began to explode in bursts of three and four at a time. The bodyguards immediately shoved Carozzi down until he was bent double and stood in a tight circle around him with their guns out. With the sporadic explosions still coming, but no sign of an attacker they hustled him over to the pit without ever letting him straighten up. They popped him in and stood around it, looking around frantically to identify the threat.

In the pit Carozzi would have hit the water Ophelia had poured with a splash, disturbing the surface. As he flailed around in the CO2 soup trying to breathe he would disturb it even more, enough to release the hydrogen sulphide that the liquid had absorbed in her lab. The resulting gas was heavier than both the air and the CO2, and should just about fill the pit. Even if the mouflon managed to stand, his head would still be in the transparent cloud of poisonous gas, and less than a minute at that concentration was enough to do irreversible damage.

The explosions came slower, and more spread out, as the last bulbs went off. As yet none of the guards had thought to look into the pit to see how the client was doing. When one did he saw the mouflon lying unconscious at the bottom and leapt in to check him out. He immediately jumped out again, clutching at his throat and ripping his sunglasses from his watery eyes. He would have gotten a snout full of the sulphurous smell and may even suspect that they had been had. He took a deep breath, jumped in again and came back up with the limp sheep in his arms. The group surrounded him and jogged for the main entrance.

Ophelia climbed down off the roof of the truck and into the cab. She drove away satisfied that the gases would be dissipated by the police response team running about as they usually did. She had timed the target's stay in the pit and was equally satisfied that the contract had been fulfilled. The lone brave guard should have no adverse side effects from his short exposure, so FOX would be satisfied too. Speaking of FOX, she dug her PDA out from behind her and scrolled through the article that had been directed to it based on her key words.

Ophelia read the story about the assault and subsequent killing in the Ottawa convenience store with interest. She noted the time that the story was filed and compared it with the alleged time of the incident. The interval was very short, suspiciously short. Could this be the first move in a coordinated attack on the source of her antidote?

Ophelia decided to keep her calendar clear for the next few weeks, just in case.

* * * * * * * *

The Deputy Clerk was looking at Williams with an expression of disgust on her face. Tancred had gotten used to seeing one like it on the faces of many of the political appointees around town. The party currently in power had significant support from the religious right wing, and while they had not attempted to roll back the calendar and rescind equal rights legislation for persons of alternate lifestyles they did have a definitely anti-gay philosophy. Their appointees tended to reflect this attitude, and obviously the Deputy did not approve of Williams' overt homosexuality.

"Public exposure was inevitable." He explained patiently. "We have contingency plans for this sort of thing. This will all blow over in a few days." Privately he was not so sure of that. He had been briefed on the incident by Silver himself the night before, but he never expected it to get more than a paragraph in the papers. The police were supposed to tell the local crime reporters that it was on off-duty undercover cop that had shot the robber. The high-quality security camera stills were completely unexpected, as was the publication of the agency acronym.

The Commissionaire of the RCMP interrupted. "It's not the first time this fox has been in trouble in Canada." He told the Deputy, reaching over to tap the image of Silver on the front page of the paper. "He was involved in the death of an RCMP officer two years ago and a public shoot-out by the canal later that night. A few days later his car exploded, injuring a student and bringing the press down on their little hide out. We have also been investigating a former student of his who is suspected of two murders, but she has disappeared. We have indications that this fox may have conducted an unauthorized execution."

Williams was surprised. The Commissionaire was also a recent political appointee, an unusual move since the head of the RCMP was traditionally chosen from the ranks of the serving officers. As such he would not be expected to be privy to details such as he had just revealed, not unless he was briefed in advance. This was beginning to look like a set up to Williams. Had the RCMP been waiting for an opportunity to bring their rival agency down? They had done the same to CSIS in the early days, releasing embarrassing facts about their agents' mistakes in an effort to convince the Prime Minister of the day to return the domestic intelligence function to RCMP control. But it had not worked then, and Williams was certain that it would not work now.

It would be difficult to counter the accusation of an unauthorized execution though. Williams knew about the scheme to replace the Perfect Stalker with the delinquent cloud leopard and the cover story that she had been executed for murdering a fellow student while attempting to kill Silver. Since they had not really sanctioned her they had not bothered to get the appropriate paperwork signed by the minister responsible for authorizing such orders. He could not reveal the truth to the Deputy Clerk, or his fellow agency chiefs, they did not have a need to know. He would have to stall until he could brief the Prime Minister, but even if he was able to have the line of inquiry stopped there would always be suspicions around this table now.

"Hypothetically speaking," Williams began, certain that everyone would assume he was relating actual facts, "if she was guilty of an offence under the secret legislation that governs our agency it would be within the guidelines to have her sanctioned without referral to the police or the courts. The approval process for that, and the documentation related to it, rests outside the purview of this committee."

"That legislation should have been reviewed when capital punishment was rescinded." The Commissionaire shot back.

Williams knew that the legislation had been reviewed in nineteen seventy six, and again in nineteen ninety, but the people involved, the Director, the Ministers and the Deputies of the day, had all died since then. The official records could not be opened by anyone except the Prime Minister for another thirty years. Again, he would have to get the PM to intervene, and the PM didn't like gays any better than the current company. He remained silent.

The Deputy was probably aware of the nuances in the legislation; despite being new to government she was no dummy. She finally spoke, putting an end to the matter for now. "You had best get a grip on this situation, Mister Williams. Nothing else better go wrong."

Williams rubbed his chin and pondered, what else could go wrong?

* * * * * * * *

Blinding light pierced Marcel's brain. He moaned and tried to fling an arm across his eyes, but for some reason his arm was reluctant to move. Maybe Geno was sleeping on it again and it had gone numb. He was forced to open his eyes and see what was giving him so much pain.

It was a glint of sunlight being reflected off a glass bird hung in a window. He remembered that he was in the bedroom of a red squirrel. What was her name, he struggled to remember, Monique was it? Marcel squinted to cut down on the amount of light getting through and with his field of vision reduced to a narrow band stumbled in the direction of the bathroom.

He was still having problems thinking straight, but a few memories, drilled into him by a tall silver fox he could vaguely recall, came through. For some reason he felt that he had to make himself throw up, so he did, in the sink. Then he got the impression that it would be a good thing to stick his head in the toilet and immerse it. He remembered at the last second to flush it first. Finally, head dripping chilly water, he rinsed the sink and drank deeply straight from the tap. By the time he was done the cooling effect that his wet hair had on his brain was making it easier to think. The removal of any residual drug from his stomach plus the internal flushing effect the water he ingested would help to bring back his motor skills.

Eyes fully open now, but still unsteady on his feet, Marcel staggered back to the bedroom. He took in the scene there, his brain refusing to process faster than at a snail's pace. Monique was lying naked and spread out on one side of her double bed. Marcel had an idea that the sticky white fluid drying high on her inner thigh was his, but he was fairly certain that the sticky red fluid dripping from the gash in her neck was all hers. There was quite a large pool of it soaked into the sheets below her head. Her lifeless eyes were staring up at the ceiling.

There was a siren on the street outside, getting louder as it got closer. The sound reminded Marcel of the rape-murders that he had read about in the newspaper. Monique was in the same condition as the other young girls that they had found. But she was much older than the other victims, wasn't she? Marcel blinked and looked at her again. She did not look like a cute young adult anymore. Now deflated by death and without makeup or grown-up clothes she looked like a young teenager, or a well developed pre-teen. A shiver went up his spine as the sound of the siren ceased right outside, replaced by the squeal of rubber on asphalt.

There was shouting out in the parking lot and pounding on the lobby door. Marcel risked a look outside, knowing that the glare of the morning sun on the window would make it almost impossible for anyone on the street to see in. Out in the parking lot the first police car was joined by a second. The officers piled out and pointed up to the floor he was looking down from. It was time to leave.

Marcel looked around for his clothes and spotting them, pulled them on hastily. When he was done he was still missing the one knife he always wore strapped to his leg and his red ball cap. Neither was anywhere to be seen and he could only suppose that whoever had killed the squirrel had taken them. He did not have time to search further in any event. As he staggered into the hallway the sound of the lobby door buzzer cane up the central stairwell, followed by the pounding of feet in heavy boots, the kind the police wear. Marcel ducked through the exit door at the end of the hall and climbed the ladder he found there.

The ladder ended in a trap door that opened upward on rusty hinges. Marcel pushed it open as far as it would go and crawled through it. Rolling onto the gravel roof of the apartment building, he remembered to stomp on the hatch to close it after him.

Shouted orders came from the parking lot as more police cars arrived. Marcel ran as fast as he could away from the sound. There was a three metre gap between this building and the next one. He put the last of his strength into his leap and threw himself into space. One toe caught the edge and with arms flailing wildly he pushed himself over the balance point with it to collapse on the other roof. But he could not rest there. The roofs were flat, with no cover whatsoever. Soon the police SWAT team would arrive and secure them. He had to keep moving.

Marcel dragged himself to his feet and stumbled forward. The buildings were closer together now, built in an age before the fire codes existed. He was three rooftops away when he came to two buildings that had been built against each other in such a way as to create a hollow square between them. Over the years the shaft had filled with dead leaves and garbage. Marcel threw himself down and into the pile. He dug furiously as the sound of the hatch banging open echoed across the rooftops.

The smell, the lack of air and the residual amount of the drugs still in his system were too much for him. In the blackness of his self-dug grave, Marcel passed out again.