Some days after the disastrous raid on Daniel Gonzales’ apartment, Jerry, Braxton, and Mallory were sent to his hospital room to interrogate him. As expected, Daniel didn't look so good for somebody who jumped off a third storey fire escape and landed into an empty trash can. His face was puffy, bruised, and blackened from the ground rapidly introducing itself to his jaw. His shattered ankles were raised high above the bed and entombed in casts. Though his hands were fine, they were shackled to the bed as if he was able to be a flight risk.

  Gonzales stared at the trio entering his room. The once calm hospital monitor by the side of his bed started to go crazy with his increased pulse. Jerry had a feeling this was the second or third scariest moment of poor Gonzales’ life.

  “I would relax if I were you.” Jerry produced his PTALP while Braxton and Mallory did the same. “We’re not here to finish the job or anything horrible like that. We just want to talk about a few things concerning Charles Adnot if that’s fine with you.”

  “Please don’t kill me,” Gonzales slurred through his wired jaw. “I will tell you anything you people want to know.”

  “Such as?” Braxton asked.

  “You want to know where that piece of shit Charles Adnot is, right?” Gonzales asked. “I can tell you where that piece of shit Charles Adnot is. But I want something in exchange.”

  “That mostly would depend on what you want,” Jerry said. “Tell us and we’re more than likely to work out a very nice deal for you. As Triple I Division special agents, we have our mouths close to a lot of powerful ears.”

  “I want to stay out of prison. I want house arrest instead,” Gonzales said. “I refuse to be put in a box full of real criminals while shockles are put around my wrists and ankles.”

  “I’m surprised you’re sensitive about people putting things on your ankles considering what you’re willing to do to them.”

  “Jerry,” Braxton grumbled.

  “I couldn’t resist,” he said, “much like the busted-up fellow before us couldn’t resist doing things the dumb way when we gave him the perfectly fine option of doing things the smart way.”

  “Come on now,” Gonzales said. “Don’t kick me while I’m down.”

  “Is this how you’re usually with suspects?” Mallory asked Jerry. “Bullying them into submission whenever possible?”

  “Yeah, what about it?” Jerry asked, blowing her concerns off. He quickly returned his attention to Gonzales. “Are you of sober mind?”

  “What?”

  “Are you fucked up on painkillers or anything else that is mind-altering right now?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Alright.” Jerry used the PTALP’s lancet pen to get a drop of his blood. Mallory and Braxton did the same. “Let’s have a little chat, Gonzales.”

  Over the next two hours, Daniel Gonzales divulged the details of his many financial crimes that brought him into contact with Rentoir Augsaux, their one-sided relationship, and most importantly, the location of Charles Adnot and his mother. According to Daniel, Charles was hiding in a rural North Chemeketa farmhouse alongside three other Grey Men known as Oscar Boherty, Silver Reingler, and Norman Haas.

  Daniel said the reason they were able to hide so well despite the constant strigikings presence was because Charles and his fellow Grey Men cloaked the inside of the farmhouse with plenty of pilfered anti-thermal imaging cloth. In addition to this, Daniel said Charles and his Grey Men were making bombs and possessed a lot of heavy firepower they were more than willing to use.

  Satisfied, Jerry, Mallory, and Braxton closed their PTLAPs. They left Daniel to stew alone in his hospital room with nothing but his traitorous nature, wired jaw, and shattered ankles to keep him company.

  Three days after the farmhouse’s location was confirmed with bird eye bots and gendarmerie scouts, an operation was drawn up by a powerful coalition consisting of the National Gendarmerie officers, high-ranking Triple I Division agents, and several Exorcist Division operators. Since Jerry and Braxton were combat-certified and two of the leading figures in obtaining the intelligence that made the operation possible in the first place, they were invited to take part. They accepted the offer without hesitation.

  Though the violent endgame of the Adnot-Sandaux case was scheduled to occur tomorrow night, Braxton, Jerry, and Anthony had more important matters to fixate on—this being who was going to make the sauce for tonight’s pasta dinner.

  Braxton had no horse in the race considering his subpar culinary skills, so all he did was watch Jerry and Anthony in the kitchen bicker while his stomach grumbled. Jerry just didn’t get what Anthony was babbling about. Obviously, the method to a good sauce was adding freshly ground peppercorns, just the right amount of red pepper flakes, and his secret ingredients of soy sauce and brown sugar.

  Anthony, in a rare display of borderline racism, said that “Salty Endarrian nonsense” had no place in “proper” Nuragian cuisine. Jerry and Anthony went back and forth until Braxton threatened to leave the apartment. Rather than come to an amicable conclusion, Anthony and Jerry decided to make their separate sauces and let Braxton be the judge. Braxton agreed because he said he was more interested in eating just about anything than watching two grown men argue about tomato sauce.

  When the cooking was finished, they all sat down and started to eat together, creating a scene that was familial in nature. Jerry and Anthony asked Braxton who had better sauce, but he introduced a curveball to the impromptu competition by taking one strand of pasta from each of his two plates, then offering them to Anthony’s two cats, Asiago and Gorgonzola. The felines went for the pasta from Jerry’s plate, going as far to playfully fight over it. Asiago was the winner. He grabbed the pasta with his mouth and ran away with it while Gorgonzola wasn’t far behind him, getting pasta sauce all over the apartment floor.

  “I expect you to clean that,” Anthony said to Braxton.

  “Either way, I guess that settles it,” he said. “Now you two can finally cut the bickering bullshit and eat.”

  “I told y'all my sauce is the boss,” Jerry said. “No man or beast can resist it.”

  “Whatever,” Anthony said, childishly huffing. “My cats are spiteful beasts who seek to undermine my authority and self-esteem whenever possible.”

  “Actually, that reminds me of something I’ve been thinking about for a real long time,” Jerry said.

  “What now?” Anthony asked.

  “Do you own these two cats because unlike Mr. Moon, you can express all the frustrations you have with him in place of them? Are they the surrogates of your workplace rage?”

  Anthony jerked his head back like Jerry had just poked him in the cheek with his fork. “What an insane thing to not just think, but actually say out loud.”

  “That is Jerry in a nutshell,” Braxton said. “Always cooking up something bizarre in that long-haired head of his.”

  “Hey, it’s something a lot of the other Rangers have asked me, but were too afraid to ask you, Anthony,” said Jerry.

  “That’s a blatant lie to make his question seem less insane,” Braxton said to Anthony.

  “Since you’re asking me a dumbass question, I’ll give you a smartass answer in reply,” he said. “Did you know that a lot of people such as myself like cats so much, we let them do crazy things like live in our homes without paying rent, eat for free, and even clean their litter boxes for them?”

  “I know that,” Jerry said, smirking at Anthony. “I thought ailurophiles let cats live in their homes because they were great at doing your taxes and even better conversationalists.”

  “Better than you at this rate,” Anthony said. “Do you have something against my cats?”

  “I have nothing against your cats,” Jerry said, “just how they act. There’s also the fact I am more of a dog person.”

  “Even though everybody at this table is aware of that fact,” Braxton said, “I fail to see how liking dogs has to come with the territory of disliking cats.”

  “Cats are intrinsically deceptive, sneaky, and mischievous animals,” Jerry said. “Dogs are intrinsically honest to a fault, faithful, and straightforward creatures. In my honest, unvarnished opinion, I think a person’s preference for cats over dogs reveals a lot about their true nature.”

  Anthony guffawed. “So let me get this straight, Jerry. I invite you into my home, give you a place to lay your head, and give my food to you, but you’re insinuating I’m a massive piece of shit via nonsense dichotomies?”

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  “Okay, maybe I’m talking out of my ass a little here…”

  “Maybe talking out of your ass a little?” Braxton echoed. “Darling, you’re spreading your cheeks wide open and hitting all of us with something worse that came out of Gonzales a few days ago.”

  “I’m going to lose my fucking appetite,” Anthony said. “You two really know how to make memorable dinner conversations, huh?”

  “I apologize," Braxton said.

  “Me as well,” Jerry said. He licked his lips and felt thirsty for something water couldn’t quite satisfy. “Anyway, what kind of wine do you got in this joint, Anthony? You can’t have pasta without wine.”

  Jerry and Braxton sat in the back of one of the New Chemeketa Exorcist Division’s armored trucks that were en-route to the rural farmhouse where Charles Adnot had taken his mother to. The six large tires beneath them rumbled while the other four Exorcist Division operators chattered away with the help of the speakers built into their full-faced helmets that made them look as inhuman as they acted.

  One of the Exorcist Division operators brought a speakerbox to blare a song called “Red in, Red Out” by some ridiculously named wutmusik artist who went by the stagename Crying Machetes. All of the Exorcist Division operators appeared to know the lyrics to the violent, incomprehensible song, singing together with brotherly passion. Their performance was cacophonous.

  As specified by orders from folks much higher up the federal food chain, Jerry and Braxton were given ballistic helmets, vests, and radio-quipped gas masks while the four Exorcists Division operators within the armored truck were given access to mechanized Panthera combat suits. Such sophisticated suits required months of training to use without turning their users’ joints and ligaments into string cheese, so even somebody as resilient as Jerry couldn’t use them.

  Panthera combat suits were a hybrid creation of sleek Hissian design and brutal human ingenuity, designed to resist most small arms fire, counter advanced thermal detection, and sealed against environmental threats that ranged from the biological to the radiological. In addition to their menacing, all black fabric and thick armor plating on critical areas, the most infamous feature of Panthera combat suits were the prominent fangs of silver on their faceplates that erased all traces of individuality in favor of faceless aggression. The yellow, pinpoint “eyes” of Panthera combat suit helmets were in actuality a suite of motion detectors, thermal imagers, and chemical sensors that performed the phenomenal job of making them look downright terrifying.

  Despite the technological impressiveness of Panthera combat suits, there still existed two major issues concerning them. The first major issue was their immense weight while the second issue was how much they augmented human reflexes. Both issues necessitated large doses of stimulants and steroids to avoid. Even then, only the most physically fit individuals were capable of using Panthera combat suits for no longer than three hours on normal terrain.

  Jerry sat quietly to himself while the miniature pregame party of sorts raged around him and Braxton. He contemplated the uncomfortable idea that he was like a dog forced into a race, running in circles, doing the same things until something killed him. Twenty or so odd years ago, he had been seated in an armored truck full of violent, drug-infused men with more testosterone than common sense on their way to kill people and break things in the middle of the woods. Tonight? A continuation of the play but with different actors reading the same lines, he supposed.

  When the armored truck came to a stop, Jerry needed no reminder to refocus on the situation at hand. He possessed the vague, half-truth that he wasn't as addicted to the violence and confrontation as the men near him, but was still itching to do some real damage. Watching Charles not only abandon one of his allies to save his own useless, terroristic ass, but harm his sweet, lemonade and cooking supplying mother made what should’ve been an professional, impersonal raid into something very personal. The Exorcist Division operator who was playing the wutmusik killed the speakerbox.

  Two of the operators worked together to open the truck doors. Jerry, Braxton, and the four operators jumped out onto cold, hard ground that crunched beneath their feet.

  Everybody hustled behind the left sides of their respective armored trucks to avoid a potential ambush, leaving the right side of the vehicles exposed towards the farmhouse. Here, they divided themselves into six separate six man teams granted a letter from the Eurisian League of Nations military alphabet.

  Team Alzar was to act as the assault team. They were tasked with the bloodiest work of breaching the farmhouse, capturing or killing anybody who resisted, and securing the hostage, Madeline Adnot. This team was commanded by Absolon “The Fleshy Freak” Fosse, a deeply disfigured Exorcist Division operator. He was also the Touched responsible for the trick of creating a flesh golem of Rentoir Augsaux’s body to scout Daniel Gonzales’ apartment. Jerry found him to be a deeply unsettling individual, externally and internally, but said nothing about this.

  Since Jerry was a part of Team Alzar, he looked forward to taking Charles in, alive or dead, preferably the latter of those two options.

  Team Bruba was to act as the sniper team. They were split into three smaller teams consisting of one spotter and one sniper, tasked with providing overwatch and maintaining the perimeter of the farmhouse in the event anybody tried to escape or enter the battlefield. Braxton was a part of this team, covering the north face of the farmhouse with an Exorcist Division operator spotter. Jerry felt very secure knowing that when he went into the farmhouse, he would have his beloved husband watching him instead of one of the many bizarre, bloodthirsty operators.

  Team Cattor was the last and final team. They were to be responsible for securing the armored trucks. Out of all of the teams, they were the least likely to see any direct action. But in the event they did, any disruption of their guard duty would be a great warning of very bad things to come.

  Everybody went over an abridged version of the plan and what they needed to do, then dispersed to their respective locations. The leaders of each team confirmed they were in position after a few moments, their voices crisp and clear through Jerry’s gas mask radio. A heavy, freezing rain began to descend from the dark skies. It was as if the Twelve or whatever known or unknown gods above were weeping over their blessed creations preparing to senselessly brutalize one another below. Jerry felt a chill of anticipation run up his spine. As always, it was a strange, contradictory feeling to crave violence while also knowing it helped to make his life more difficult with each act.

  The field leader of the operation, a broad, grim-faced Affrodian man named Lieutenant Victor Plamondon used one of the armored truck’s PA systems to begin negotiations. “This is Lieutenant Plamondon of New Chemeketa’s Exorcist Division speaking,” he said across the dead space between the armored trucks and the farmhouse. “To anybody who can hear this message, this is your first, last, and only chance to surrender peacefully. If you do so by exiting the farmhouse in a single file line with your hands raised in the air within the next thirty minutes, you will be arrested without further incident. Any attempts of resistance or escape will be met with lethal force.”

  There was no response for five minutes that felt like five thousand years. Jerry’s radio crackled to life. It was Braxton.

  “What’s going on?” Jerry whispered despite not needing to do so. It just felt right to do so.

  “My guy and I are seeing movement on the farmhouse’s second floor, right window,” Braxton said. “Somebody is peeking out of the thermal draping Gonzales told us about earlier.”

  “You’re using your power, right?”

  “Of course, but even the x-ray vision aspect of my powers can’t get a good visual of what’s going on in there,” Braxton said. “I can tell there is at least one person fiddling with something. I know I tell you this a lot, but I’m really telling you right now to proceed with caution.”

  “You got it.”

  Ten more minutes passed. There continued to be no response from anybody inside the farmhouse. Jerry lost his patience and asked Lieutenant Plamondon if he could use the armored truck’s PA system.

  “What for?” Plamondon asked. “I’m the one doing the talking right now, agent Genovesi.”

  “I'm a Triple I Division special agent who has been working on his case for weeks,” Jerry said. “I know some things that might get one of the people in there to come out.”

  “Is that really so?”

  “It really is so. Trust me.”

  “Trusting a Triple I Division agent is generally an unwise choice,” Plamondon said. “But to Vullen with it. Take a crack at it.”

  Jerry took the microphone with a grin on his face. “Hello, you Grey Men assholes! I know it seems like a good idea to hold up in that abandoned, busted-down shithole of a farmhouse while a dozen or so professional enactors of violence stand around, waiting for a good reason to kill you, but trust me, it’s obviously not. If everybody in that farmhouse doesn’t immediately surrender or makes the even more dumbass choice of fighting back, the people out here will not only kill you, but enjoy doing it, including myself. Is this understood?”

  Jerry allowed his threatening words to linger in the cold air. When there was yet again no response, he resumed speaking with even more vigor.

  “If that’s not convincing enough, what I’m about to say next should be. Do you know that man, that man named Charles Adnot you’re hiding like scared rats with? He is not only a vile piece of shit capable of punching his mother in the face, but a vile piece of shit who is capable and willing to abandon his allies. I wonder what was the bullshit he told y'all when he returned with his kidnapped mother, but not with Lee Wortles? Sacrificed himself like a big damn hero? Simply got unlucky? Come on and tell me, any of you. I love fiction! I love made-up stories!”

  Plamondon snatched the microphone from Jerry’s hand.

  “Hey, I was negotiating with them!” Jerry shouted.

  “If that’s what you consider negotiating, I would hate to see what your antagonizing looks like,” Plamondon said. “I understand the spirit, but enough of that. They still have eight more minutes to surrender peacefully before we can go in, and do what my boys and I do best.”

  “Heard that,” one of the operators on the assault team said. “Standing still with all of these combat stims blasting through my veins is putting some seriously evil thoughts in my head.”

  “You’re an Exorcist Division operator,” Jerry said. “Aren’t evil thoughts a constant in your head?”

  The operator chuckled. “Don’t stereotype me, agent. Though my work is violent, my hobbies are actually quite peaceful. For example, I enjoy bug-collecting.”

  “You say your violent work isn’t what defines you, but your primary hobby is putting big metal pins through small, defenseless insects?” Jerry asked. “Interesting.”

  “Don’t slip on all that blood from your bleeding heart.”

  Jerry snickered. “To Vullen with you, and more importantly, to Vullen with all this useless standing around. I have a better idea on how to sort this situation out.”

  “Keep those ‘better ideas’ to yourself,” Plamondon warned him. “If it wasn’t approved of in the plan or by me, it’s not happening.”

  “Oh, but it’s certainly happening, and I’m certainly going to save Madeline Adnot, with or without your help.”

  Before Plamondon or any of his subordinates had a chance to react, Jerry took two of the flares attached to his vest and activated them. The twin red glares briefly blinded him until his supernaturally enhanced eyes adjusted seconds later, allowing him to see once again.

  Jerry broke rank and stalked towards the farmhouse, holding the burning flares aloft. To draw even more attention to himself, Jerry screamed as loud as he could.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Plamondon yelled with the help of his Panthera suit’s built-in speakers. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Get back here, immediately!”

  “Not exactly,” Jerry said, undeterred and still walking forward. “I’m trying to put some pressure on these bastards by doing what they least expect.”

  “And what I least expect, too,” Braxton said to him through Jerry’s gas mask radio. “Plamondon is right, get back there immediately before—shit! Jerry, hit the ground! They have a—”

  Machine gun fire erupted from the farmhouse window Braxton had warned him about.