Mirrors: An NCIS-1 story

The first part of chapter 6 is below.

I revised and fleshed out the previous post. Any thoughts so far?

Appreciate it lordroel. Hope to post more this weekend.

Nice to see a update Brky2020,

Chapter 7 (in full)

Chapter 7

3:56 p.m.
Washington
Navy Yard, Multiple Threat Assessment Centre

Carl Long quietly entered the large theater-like room that made up MTAC and found his way to the front row of the theater-style seats in the back of the room.

“How’s the movie?”, he quipped as he sat down next to his teammates, Special Agents Brooke Conners and Ned Dorneget.

“Show’s getting started. Would’ve brought popcorn, but the muckety-mucks on the screen frown on that,” replied Conners. Athletic and smart, Conners turned down several opportunities to leave the Washington team. She had a snarky sense of humor and used it on occasion to lighten the mood or throw off an opponent, and sometimes Long couldn’t tell if she was serious or a smartaleck.

“The ‘muckety-mucks’ hate popcorn,” said Dorneget. “I’m pretty sure they don’t like anything.”

“They like peace and quiet from the audience when they’re performing,” Long replied. “Either of you hear anything new about what’s going on?”

“They’re figuring it out as they go,” Conners said. “Scuttlebutt is Luthor knew all along.”

“How weird is it that a reformed supervillain turned President would be the only one who would know?”, Dorneget asked.

“He is the President and the guy who helped get a lot of the super bad guys off the street,” Long said. “Including the Joker.”

“I don’t care if he pulled the trigger himself,” Conners replied. “We all should’ve known about this weeks ago. The level of planning I heard about…you can’t do that on the fly. That takes weeks, months of advance notice to have a chance of getting things right.”

Long was about to answer when he saw Maurice Drake, the Director of NCIS, turn around and put his forefinger to his lips, signaling the three agents to stop talking. Long nodded, while Conners gave the director a big thumbs-up with a smile.

Drake chuckled, then turned to face the large theater-sized screen in the large room that made up MTAC and was spacious enough to serve as a small movie theater in its own right. The 30-foot, 8K screen that dominated the front wall was large and clear enough for those sitting in the back theater-style seats – including the three agents on the front row – a superb view by most standards. It wasn’t as fancy as the 16K, holographic screens installed in the White House, the Capital building and the Pentagon, but it met Drake’s standards well enough. The side walls featured several computer terminal stations manned by technicians, and a dozen 55-inch 8K video screens above the terminals. Some screens showed civilian news coverage, others showed drone footage or a Mercator-style map showing the position of US Navy ships around the world.

The director stood by as a map of Washington appeared on the main screen, followed by four smaller screens in each corner showing, clockwise from the upper left, NCIS Assistant Deputy Director Michael Larkin from the NCIS office in Quantico, Virginia; Louis Ochoa, the Assistant Director for Atlantic Operations from the Office of Special Projects in Miami, Florida; Shay Mosley, the OSP Assistant Director for Pacific Operations from her new office in Los Angeles; and the Department of Extranormal Operations’ director known only as Mr. Bones, who literally looked like a skeleton wearing a suit.

“Where’s Hetty?”, Conners whispered.

“I called L.A. after we got the news about Granger,” Dorneget whispered back. “Nobody’s talking.”

“Callen’s always run a tight ship, just like Torres,” Long whispered. “I don’t know Mosley or Ochoa. Larkin we know.”

“We know Bones, too,” Conners said. “God, what a creep.”

“I didn’t know a skull could smile,” Dorneget replied. “Or that a skeleton could smoke.”

“That makes the creepiness worse,” Conners said. “I’m glad we don’t have to deal with him.”

“Chase likes him well enough,” Dorneget said.

“Her and her team’s job is dealing with weird shit,” Conners said. “I’m glad we—”

She shut up when Drake turned and gave her a ‘simmer down’ look. “Show’s starting,” Long commented.

Drake turned to the screen. “I take it you’ve all read the notes?”, he said. All four nodded or spoke their assent.
“This line is as secure as it gets, folks. Our intel confirms they are at the stadium.”

They? Long thought. Who are they? He glanced at Conners and Dorneget, both of whom shrugged.

“My previous decision stands, regardless of what SecDef or SecNav say,” Drake said. “Opinions?”

“You’re taking a big risk, sir,” Mosley said. “Crawford will not be happy, and I would be remiss in my duties if I didn’t speak for the record and state that the director of a federal agency going against his superiors is highly irregular, to say the least.”

“Your objection is noted,” Drake said. “The fact is, our people are—”

“Are they your people, Director?” Mosley asked. “They’re another director’s people—”

“Call it intra-agency cooperation, then,” Drake replied. “I’m sure Mr. McCallister – wherever he is – would appreciate the gesture and would do the same for us. Just like we did for Director Vance from Earth-Prime and Director McGee from Earth-2. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I might take a different approach, sir,” Mosley replied. “That is why you assigned me to oversee Office of Special Projects West and run Pacific Operations. To bring a certain team in line.”

“You are assigned to run the L.A. office and to make sure the agents there had the necessary resources to do their jobs, Ms. Mosley,” Drake said. “Including any and all issues related to this event that Agent Callen’s team may run into. Mr. Ochoa?”

“Without specific orders to stay out, sir, I’d have to agree with your tactics,” Ochoa said. “I only wish I could bring my team up there to assist.”

“They have their hands full getting Agents Torres and Tuturro out of Corto Maltese. Walker from the Agency will help. I’ve got that REACT team you asked for heading that way from Puerto Rico.”

“I appreciate it,” Ochoa said. His Office of Special Projects team was in the small island nation to eliminate a drug ring that used US Navy ships in the Caribbean to run Thanagarian stimulants into the United States. Two of the team’s members – Special Agent in Charge Nick Torres and Special Agent Johnny Tuturro – were captured by the military officers running the ring. The rest of the team, led by Senior Field Agent Paul Briggs, were trying to get their teammates out alive. “Any chance of getting Charlie back?”

“No chance,” Drake said of ‘Charlie’, a.k.a. NCIS Special Agent Tammy Gregorio, currently assigned to the New Orleans field office. “They’re busy on an op.”

“Worth asking,” Ochoa said. “With your permission, I’ll log off now and contact you the moment there’s movement in Corto Maltese.”

“Hopefully that won’t be too much longer,” Drake said as Ochoa’s inset screen disappeared from the main screen. “Mr. Larkin, you have a REACT team ready for me if it comes to it?”

“If it comes to it, Director, though I’m confident your people can handle whatever they face there – if it’s just FEMA security there,” replied Larkin, a former New York City assistant police chief who was Assistant Director in charge of NCIS’s REACT – Regional Enforcement Action and Capabilities Training – special forces teams. “If security is what I think it is, Director, I honestly don’t think a REACT team would be enough.”

“Speak up,” Drake replied. He used that term whenever he wanted someone to get to the point.

“If POTUS is overseeing these camps, and wanted to keep anyone who came through in those camps, he has to have some form of heightened security in place. Security against supervillains, criminal gangs--”

“Wayward federal agencies?” Drake replied.

“I didn’t say that, sir,” Larkin replied, with a curt smile. “I’m thinking more to keep a stadium of people in – and that’s going to take some heavy-duty, military-grade security. If that’s the case – and you have to assume POTUS has something in place – you might need to call in more firepower.”

“You’re not talking about the Marines, either, are you Michael?”, Mosley asked.

“I’m thinking of a certain man with a red cape who is, ah, more likely to believe Director Drake over the Commander in Chief,” Larkin said.

“I know and assume the risks,” Drake said. “Remember, no one – Luthor, Crawford, Sarah Porter – has told us not to undertake this operation.”

“And what if they do?” Mosley said.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Drake said. “I want to review the non-NCIS part of our joint operation while Mr. Bones is here with us. Bones, any word from your people in RFK over the last 30 minutes?”

“I think Mr. Larkin is onto something, Maurice. They’re probably dressed in FEMA garb. And I concur with his assessment of the security forces on the ground. That’s consistent with what my agent there has to say.”

“You have someone there, Bones?”, Drake said.

“So do you. He got ‘drafted’, just like your person there did.”

Drake winced. He had wanted to keep Katie Yates’ involvement within the agency. But if someone from the DEO’s Major Case Response Team was at RFK, it made sense he or she would’ve tried to find friendlies.

“I know. Got the same advance notice you did. Just enough time to have a bug hidden on her person that bogeys and hostiles can’t easily uncover. That’s how I found out about them.”

“That’s one hell of a mission you’re sending your team on,” Bones said.

“They’re trained for it,” he replied, glancing back at the three agents who were trying to figure out who it was they’d be sent to recover. “It’d be great if your people would come along.”

“I agree, but they’re on a case I can’t talk about for reasons of national security,” Bones replied. Drake knew that could indeed be the case, or just as easily be the DEO director’s way of saying what we’re doing is none of your business. “As I said, though, I do have an agent there and he’s at your service.”

“Thank you for that, Director. You mind telling me who it is?”

“Can’t divulge that, Director. You’ll find out soon enough.”

Drake sighed. He can be the most irritating bastard sometimes to work with. “I appreciate any help I can get, and I’ll be in touch. Once again, thanks for the help.”

“You’re welcome, and I know when we need help you’ll do the same.” Bones disconnected, and the square showing his image switched to a shot of the NCIS seal.

“Mr. Larkin, Ms. Mosley, I appreciate your time today. Got some business here to take care of, but I’ll be in touch soon.” He turned to one of the technicians and gave the ‘cut’ sign with his hand, signaling the tech to cut Mosley and Larkin’s feed.

Drake turned to the back as the large screen showed the Mercator map, and walked back to the three agents. “We need to meet and going to my office would waste time, so we’re doing this here,” Drake said. “Questions?”

“One,” Conners said. “Who are ‘they’?”

Drake explained who ‘they’ were and gave his agents a moment to digest the news. But only a moment.

“Marcus and Julie are on their way to the stadium. You three go meet them, and bring our people back here,” Drake said, in the no-nonsense tone he used when he wanted something done.

Chapter 8

3:57 p.m. EDT
Washington
11th Street SE

Carl Long drove his Corvette north just a tad above the speed limit, with Conners riding shotgun and Dorneget, and was surprised at how light traffic was at this time of day.

They had no escort from DC Police nor from the military; Drake didn’t want to draw any undue attention to his agents’s mission. Long hadn’t had time yet to check on local traffic conditions, so he could only guess at the reason there weren’t quite as many vehicles on area roads and highways.

Long saw a phone call coming in on his car’s audio system and noticed the caller was ID’d as Stewart. He hit the green button to take the secure call.

“Marcus, we’re making really good time, better than I thought,” Long said.

“I bet people went home early or are staying late,” said Julie, whom Long realized would have been patched into the phone call by Marcus. “Any signs of roadblocks ahead?”

“I’m looking at the maps app on my phone and it’s all clear headed to the stadium,” Conners interjected. “We’ve seen a few cop cars but that’s it.”

“We’re hearing the real gridlock’s gonna come later,” Stewart said. “They’ll wait till people go home from work. Then the feds are going to shut down the streets to make room for the buses, to take those people to the camps.”

“All the more reason for us to get there quick,” Long replied.

“For now, keep it cool, keep the guns in the holster Brooke,” Stewart said, “and just get eyes on our objective.”

“You guys always think I’m going in with ‘guns blazing’, Julie,” Conners said. “I can play nice.”

“You do have a trigger finger, Brooke,” Julie replied. “We know you can and usually do ‘play nice’. We’re just emphasizing how important this is.”

“We understand loud and clear,” Long interjected. “If we get there ahead of you, previous orders still stand?”

“Roger,” Stewart said. “Wait for us. If anyone gives you trouble, call us and the Director right then and there. See you there.”

“Copy that,” Long said as the screen showed the call disconnecting. He pulled up to a red light and tapped a few buttons to get to its Music app. “Player, play Playlist #7.”

“Playing Playlist #7,” the female AI voice replied, and in moments the sounds of John Coltrane’s Alabama piece filled the car. Long was a jazz aficionado who often referred to the legendary musician as ‘the Master’.

“You’re playing jazz, Carl?”, Conners asked.

“What’s wrong with jazz?” Long said. “It’s Coltrane.”

“Nothing. I like Coltrane. But Coltrane on the way to a case? Dwayne Pride doesn’t even do that.” The Washington team had worked a few cases with the New Orleans field office, led by Special Agent Dwayne Pride, who was a good musician outside of work and all business when on the job. She rode shotgun with him a couple of times and remembered him talking about the case or asking about her team – with the audio player off.

“Coltrane calms me down, helps me focus. It’s something I started doing after I finished Agent Afloat duty and started working in Silverdale.” Long’s NCIS career trajectory took him from Jacksonville to Singapore; the USS Independence; Silverdale, Washington; and, nine years ago, to Washington. “You play music on the way to a case or a crime scene?”

Long had joined the team the same time as Conners, both replacing two agents who were murdered during a case in Miami just two weeks before former director Jenny Shepard’s death. He knew her as well as anyone on the team and could almost name the rock artist that would be playing in her car.

“Not that.”

“You still into Limp Bizkit?”

“Screw you,” Conners cracked, and all three laughed. “Dorny. You got a request?”

“Now you’re putting out requests. You’re getting a little too comfortable over there,” Long joked. “Dorney, you good with the Master?”

“Fine with me.”

“What is on your playlist, Dorney?”, Long said. “I don’t think we’ve ever gotten the answer to that.”

Dorneget ran the tip of his thumb and forefinger across his closed lips. “Silence,” he said. “I’m so used to it riding in the truck on the way to a crime scene.”

Conners gave Long a ‘I told you so’ look. “You should’ve known Dorney liked peace and quiet,” she said. “I’ve known that.”

“She blasts every rock act from Led Zeppelin to Disturbed to and from the crime scene,” Dorneget added. “Loudly.”

“Oh, I know,” Long said. “Found that out from Day One. Car windows down, wind blowing fast food wrappers out the cab, ‘Leadfoot’ speeding faster than light. It’s bad enough going to Rock Creek Park. Imagine going to West Virginia.”

“I know what that’s like, too,” Dorneget added, with a smile.

“I think you both ought to be real nice to me,” Conners said, dryly. “Or I’ll play you Commander Coburn’s playlist next time I drive.”

“If you do that when you get behind the wheel“, Long said, “then I have a request.”

“Oh do you, now?” Conners replied.

“Yeah. Don’t,” Long said, adding a chuckle a moment later.

Traffic to the stadium was better than expected, and the three expected to arrive at RFK on time.

“You think we’ll have to park far away?”, Dorneget asked. He joined the team in 2011 and
quickly overcame his ‘nerdy first impression’ (as Julie put it) and proved himself as the team’s cyber and computer specialist. He also had proven to be a good hand in the field, and found a kindred spirit in Katie Yates (who, like Dorneget, is gay), Conners (who took him in like a younger brother) and Long (his complete opposite in many ways, and a buddy regardless).

“Nope,” Conners said. “We’re NCIS. We’ll get in, one way or the other.”

Conners was a free spirit, assigned to the MCRT in June 2008 after two team members were murdered in Miami on a joint operation with the Miami-Dade Police Department’s Crime Scene Investigations unit. Conners had since proven to be a solid field agent and loyal to her new team – so loyal she turned down two offers to lead teams of her own. She was also outspoken, and her opinions had gotten her in hot water more than once with those way above her pay grade – like Clayton Jarvis, the former Secretary of the Navy.

The Corvette sped down Independence, past the old National Guard Armory. Long saw the first roadblocks well before he hit the brakes to avoid hitting the National Guard vehicles in the road.

“You NCIS?” the National Guard officer asked after Long rolled down his window. All three agents showed the woman their badges. “Nobody told us not to let you in so…park in the Blue Lot.”

As Long drove into the Blue Lot and began looking for the closest spot to the stadium, he noticed eight security cameras and 21 security officers, uniformed or in plain clothes, around him. Conners and Dorneget noticed the same.

“I’m not taking back what I said about getting in,” Conners said. “I do wonder if we’ll be able to get there without being seen.”

“If this level of security’s any indication,” Dorneget replied, “I don’t think a cockroach could sneak in without being seen.”

“Then there’s no way in hell we sneak in there,” Long said. “We go in bold.”


Chapter 9
4:06 p.m. EDT
RFK Stadium

Gibbs walked with Katie through the concourse, both silent, both examining their surroundings with a close eye for anything and everything – including unwanted interlopers.

Gibbs, of course, was a trained investigator who knew he was in an environment that was both familiar and alien, and he had chosen to put his natural skepticism aside to trust the girl he was walking besides. All he knew of her was she was the chief forensic scientist of this world’s NCIS, and all he had was his wits, training – and his gut.

His gut told him she was trustworthy, and probably the one stranger in this environment that he needed to know.
Katie’s investigative training wasn’t nearly as extensive as Gibbs’s was, although the agents of this world’s version of the NCIS Major Case Response Team had taught her quite a bit about being an investigator. Despite being a ‘lab rat’ – she spent all her time in the lab and rarely went out in the field – Katie was an extrovert and had an underrated ability to read people. She could tell if someone was honest or if they weren’t, and she just knew Gibbs was definitely the former.

Katie was also surprised about how nice and warm the man walking alongside her was.

On this world, Leroy Jethro Gibbs, even now, lingered as a larger-than-life figure with a reputation as a no-nonsense investigator who scared just about everyone to death who wasn’t military. Only Marcus had known him, and Julie and Director Drake had met him a couple of times each, and their personal accounts backed up the legend of the hardass Marine.

Books had been written about his life, documentaries made about him and dozens of stories had been compiled on him by reporters; much about his life had long since been made a matter of public record, but there were so many mysteries that opened up whenever a story was told. Some of those mysteries were caused by unsubstantiated rumors on social media — why let the truth get in the way of a great story? — and some of them were true, their truths hidden from the public.

A few of the stories about that Gibbs told of his warmness, kindness and sense of humor – the very qualities which this man had shown to her so far.

She decided she liked this Gibbs, hoping the hardass wouldn’t show his face (not to her, anyway), and spending time with him was good intel for the inevitable debriefing at the Navy Yard.

“Weather’s real nice for this time of year,” Gibbs said. They had stopped talking about football – she knew very little about football in general, and neither did he.

“It is,” she replied. “I hope the heat and humidity stay away for awhile. Untll July, anyway.” She was about to ask him about woodworking – she heard the stories about the boat in Gibbs’s basement, and was curious about how much this version of Gibbs could corroborate them.

But she had to pee first, and quickly.

Katie saw a long line of women near a women’s restroom, and groaned.

“Looks like you’re gonna be tied up for a bit,” Gibbs said. “I’ll head on, but before I do, I want to level with you.”

“Okay,” Katie said, as it dawned on her what this man probably wanted from her. “My people and I need to get outta here.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Katie replied. She understood his wanting to get out of there – she felt the same way, and she hoped her team would come through.




The line to the women’s room hadn’t moved and she really had to use the restroom. If she left now, she’d have enough time to flash her badge past the guards and try to get into the FEMA-controlled luxury suite section. Gibbs wouldn’t follow her inside, but he wasn’t going to go away either and Katie didn’t want whomever was pulling the strings on this operation to know about Gibbs, or his team, or her association with him and the fact she was going to do what she could to take them with her back to NCIS.

“Come with me,” she said to Gibbs, and they made their way up the stairs 50 feet away to one of the entrances to the suites. The guard started to say something to them, but Katie flashed her NCIS badge and said ‘get out of my way, I gotta pee!”

“You’ll have to wait here,” Katie told Gibbs. “Give me ten minutes.”

Inside the ladies’ room, she took the nearest stall, and did her business.

While washing her hands, she heard someone from the other stall.

“So what’s he like?”, asked the very male voice.

Katie’s head whipped around and she reached for the palm-sized stunner hidden under her shirt. When the occupant opened the stall door, she had the weapon pointed right at him; her eyebrows shot up once she recognized him, and she bit her tongue to keep from yelling at the man.

“LARRY! What in the world are you doing!?!?!”

A short, slender, thirty-something man of Indian descent stepped out, hands held up. His name was Kartik Viswanathan and he was a special agent with the Department of Extranormal Operations who had worked with the MCRT on several occasions. Katie — and the rest of her team — called the usually well-dressed, cocky, mischievous agent by his preferred nickname Larry, and he often socialized with them off-hours. Larry sometimes got on Katie’s nerves, but they were good friends — although not good enough for her to overlook his being in the ladies’ room.

“Sorry, babe,” Larry said with a smile and a wink. “I’m on the job—“

“That’s not part of your job!”, she said, thrusting her forefinger at the stall he had stepped out from. “What on Earth are you doing in there?”

“Watching your back,” he said, and she then noticed he was dressed in the same FEMA collared shirt and khakis she and the other ‘volunteers’ were dressed in. “There’s some crazy shit going down—“

Katie stormed over to Larry, grabbed him by his collar and — over his protests — pushed him back into the stall, then locked the door behind her.

“Whoa now, Kates,” he said, using a portmanteau of her first and last names. “I swear I’m on the job—“

“You better be, buddy,” she shot back, although she figured by then he was telling the truth. “You couldn’t talk to me outside? And watch your mouth.”

“Sorry,” he said, and she let go of his collar. “They’ve got eyes all over this place,” he said.

“‘They’?”

“Yup.”

Katie rolled her eyes; she made sure he would never live this incident down in either of their lifetimes. “And who are ‘they’?”

“Uh…”

“Uh what?”

“Uh, as in, we, as in the DEO, don’t know who they are. Yet.”

Katie glared at him for several moments, then thought of Gibbs and the possibility the old man might be outside right then or sending for someone like Kate Todd — or maybe Ziva David — to make sure she didn’t get lost. “So they, whoever they are, are watching us—“

“You, the people. Gibbs. Look, Kates, we heard chatter about something like today going down, and some group trying to round up people without anyone hearing about it. The media, the feds like us, the military, the Justice League, we weren’t sure who or what. That got blown all to hell today, so now we think they’re working on their Plan B.”

“Any idea what that might be?”

“No, not yet, but Mr. B said if we have anyone of interest cross over, get to them before ‘they’ do.” Katie knew ‘Mr. B’ as the DEO Director, Mr. Bones, whom she once called a ‘living, icky skeleton’ due to the man’s skeleton being the only visible thing about him besides the suits he wore (along with the cigarettes he always smoked). “Mr. B knows Gibbs are here, and said to assume other people do, too.”

“You think ‘they’ are super villains? Russians? Chinese? Khunds? Terrorists?” Larry shrugged his shoulders. “Government?”

Larry didn’t shrug his shoulders. “Maybe. The bugs I found are ones that used to be used by the CIA back in the day. Got one in an evidence bag in my pocket. We’re gonna look at it when I get back.”

“Okay, I believe you. But why on Earth couldn’t you talk to me outside,” she sighed.

“One, if that guy is like the Gibbs I read about, he’d be worse to get through than Batman. Two, whoever ‘they’ are, they didn’t have time to put bugs everywhere. They didn’t bug the restrooms — we don’t think they did anyway. This is the safest place to talk to you.”

“You think this was a rush job?”, she asked. “That entire operation outside had to take months to organize—“

“Yeah, but the bugs are scattered, like someone had hours notice and put them wherever.”

“Definitely a rush job…darn it!” She remembered who was waiting on her, and really hoped he had actually stayed put. “I gotta get back out there. You-know-who’s waiting – and his ‘Buggy-sense’ probably is on override.”

“It’s his gut, Katie. Same thing Julie talks about all the time. I’d thought you had known that—“

“I know what a gut is, Larry,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Mine is telling me he’s losing his mind by now. Just get behind me, I’ll tell him you’re with me, and we’ll work on the plan I’m about to propose to him.”

“Which is?”

“Wait for Marcus and Julie.”

“Just tell me where the explosion is so I can hide behind the furthest wall.”

“Oh my gosh! It was the freakin’ Clock King, Larry.”

Elsewhere in the stands, a man in FEMA clothing watched the crowd with a pair of binoculars; two minutes later, he saw Katie, Larry and Gibbs step back outside and make their way down towards the field.

He pulled out a smartphone and dialed a number; “Targets are on the move,” he said.

“The window of opportunity is closing fast,” said a woman on the other line. “Whatever you’re going to do, get it done. The NCIS people are on the premises.”

“Copy that,” the man said.



Chapter 10

Tuesday, June 5

London, United Kingdom

Heathrow Airport

8:30 p.m. Greenwich Mean Time/4:30 p.m. EDT



“I’m taking off early. Emergency in the family. My aunt.”



With that brief remark to the assistant manager running the Sundollar kiosk, Sophie the barista took her knapsack from the too-tiny manager’s office that made up the back portion of the kiosk. Without another word, she walked out of the kiosk and down the hall, way down the hall, and well out of the line of sight of the kiosk.



Sophie kept walking until she came upon a women’s toilet. The petite brunette with a ponytail walked past, to a unisex toilet 12 meters away. She went in, locked the door, and began to remake her appearance.



Twenty minutes later, a young woman with shoulder-length hair walked out. Her short heels went well with her brown business suit and her reddish shoulder bag. She pulled a hand mirror from the bag, marveled at how well she had done her makeup, and walked back in the direction she came from.



Sophie soon arrived at the first place she wanted to stop at, a 19th-century-style English tavern named The Sophie. She smirked at the irony, then glanced at the Sundollar kiosk across the way. Satisfied that none of the workers had noticed her, she walked into the tavern.



Within moments she knew he was there, somewhere close by. That he would be close was obvious by the size of the tavern – the lighted ‘WOMEN’ sign over the women’s washroom in the back was easily seen from the entrance – but seeing him in the darkened atmosphere would be more difficult.



Why couldn’t he have picked a café, Sophie thought as she sat down at an open table. She briefly pondered the irony of this tavern bearing the first name she long used for her legend, then raised her hand to get a waitresses’ attention.



“Hello there,” said the waitress, with a decidedly un-British, very southern U.S. accent, as she handed Sophie a menu. “Would you like to start out with an appetizer?”



“Just a light cola, please,” Sophie replied. “I’m not very hungry.”



“One light cola comin’ right up,” said the waitress before she turned around to get Sophie’s order.



Sophie took the time to look around the establishment. Her first impression was how dimly lit the pub was; the bar went the length of the left wall, tables and chairs lined the right wall, with video monitors scattered around the pub showing football, news and airport information. The washrooms were in the very back, with the lighted MEN, WOMEN and NON-BINARY signs over each door. And somewhere in here was Haswari.



The waitress returned with Sophie’s order. Sophie pulled out her phone and opened her Ca$hFlow app; the waitress held her WayneTech Merchant Device up, and Sophie transferred five pounds from the app to the device. “That includes the tip,” she said.



“Thank you. Thank you so much,” the waitress said. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your light cola, now.”



Sophie nodded. She was curious about the young woman, and found her to be very, very attractive. Had I not been on the job, Sophie thought, I might have flirted with the waitress, even asked for her number.



Over the next five minutes, she scanned the pub, looking for Haswari. Five minutes wasted. He must be in the washroom, she thought. Or he’s not here. Maybe he left through the service entrance—



Then she saw him.



Haswari was in the very back, at a table with someone with long brown hair.



Sophie only had to wait another 20 minutes or so before Haswari got up, kissed the person on the cheek, and headed for the front door – and right by her. She looked at her phone as he walked by, gave herself another minute, then got up and left.



Sophie walked out of the pub and found him several meters away, headed for the transporter pad. She gave herself another few seconds before walking to the pad, at a steady pace.



The pad Haswari was heading to was designated for travelers to North America, and she picked up her pace to get there at the same time he did; the pad operated every 30 minutes, which was all the time he needed to disappear. She needed to keep pace with him to verify where he was headed.



She caught up to him as he was showing the clerk his ticket. She pulled her own ticket out of her bag, and ended up getting the last spot on the pad, standing 12 meters behind Haswari. She handed her bag to another clerk – it was considered carry-on luggage and therefore would be transported separately, with the other users’ luggage on a separate pad – and waited to be beamed up.



Unlike Haswari, Sophie kept her eyes shut; she was more prone to believe the urban legends than most people. She felt a light tingling, wondered if she was going to die, and was relieved when the tingling stopped and she heard people moving off the transporter. She had no time to waste: Haswari was on the move.



After getting her bag from the luggage pad, Sophie looked to her left, down the corridor in the direction she saw Haswari going, then picked up her pace to keep him in her sights.



Despite herself, she couldn’t help but stop when she passed the first set of windows past the pad and saw Earth. She stared for a few seconds, remembered why she was here, and looked down the corridor. Sophie could still see him; in fact, it was if he had slowed down.



Knowing why she was here, Sophie pulled out her phone, pulled up the Maps app, and touched the information icon on the screen.



The North Atlantic Orbital Transporter Hub is located 22,500 miles over the northern tip of the Atlantean island of Poseidonis and is located at 40°49'53.9"N 41°20'32.3"W. The Hub was built jointly by the United States and European Union at its present position, opening in 2016. Its position over the northerly of the twin surface islands of Poseidonis and Atlantis was agreed upon by Atlantis, the U.S. and the European Union—



Good to know where I’m at in space, she thought. Now to find Waldo.



Haswari stopped to use a men’s washroom, and Sophie caught up to it a minute later. There were Sundollar and Starbucks kiosks across from the washrooms, and Sophie waited at the Starbucks, ordering a tall latte, and calling up a map of the North Atlantic Hub on her phone.



A few minutes later, Haswari left the washroom, and headed down the corridor, towards the facility’s promenade; she stayed right on him, keeping a discrete distance but always keeping him in her sights. Going through the promenade, Haswari went in the direction Sophie expected him to go: towards the transporter pad for Washington.



Sophie caught up as Haswari showed his ticket to the clerk and got on the pad. There weren’t as many passengers on the pad, so Sophie knew she would get a spot. She reached in her bag to pull out her ticket, and time seemed to stop.



Hello.



Oh God, she thought. Who was that?



“It is I.” She looked over the clerk’s shoulder and saw Haswari walking towards her.



“Look around,” he said, politely but firmly; despite the still small voice in her spirit telling her not to obey him, she did as he ordered. No one was moving, no one was even breathing. It was as if time had frozen.



“What the—what did you do?”, she said. “Have you hurt these people?”



“I’ve done no such thing,” Haswari said. “I have merely frozen time.”



Pull it together, girl, she thought. “You froze time.”



“I have many talents,” he said, charmingly. “I am impressed with your skills. You are well trained, and you have performed your duties very well. That is a compliment both to you and to the woman who trained you.”



“You—you—” Sophie was speechless. Is this me, or him doing something?



“I would enjoy the pleasure of your company for dinner and a drink,” he said with a smile. “Not at that boring place we were just at. I have more romantic places in mind: Paris, or Madrid, or Rome—I beg your pardon, did I offend you?”



How did he know?, she thought. She thought she had a perfect poker face.



You do have an excellent poker face, she heard him say in her mind. I have many unique…talents and capabilities. I am also a man, with feelings. I sensed you were offended – disgusted – by my generous offer. It was not my intention.



“Why are you speaking in my head,” Sophie said.



“Please pardon me,” Haswari replied. “I am accustomed to using more discretionary means when having conversations I don’t wish strangers to overhear. Of course…” He stretched out his arms wide, palms up. “No one can hear us because of the temporal distortion I have enabled.”



“Let these people go,” Sophie said, wondering if she could do anything to make him do that.



“In due time,” he said. “I am not offended. I understand why you did what you did. I respect a lovely woman like yourself who’s focused on her…career.”



“Then you know who is interested in your whereabouts.”



“I do, and I have a simple message for you to give your handler,” he said, with a smile that was both charming and creepy. “’This is personal. Do not test me on this’. That is how you know I would not do any harm to you. Not even wipe your memory.”



Sophie almost wet herself. She was aware of the stories about Haswari erasing people’s memories, or minds, sometimes permanently.



“And now I leave you with a blessing,” he said as she felt him enter her mind. Satanas expetivit vos ut benedicat tibi et crescere te faciam vultum suum gloriam.



Is that Latin?, she thought.



It is. Here is the blessing in English.



When Sophie heard the ‘blessing’, she felt her blood turn cold.



Haswari smiled, then snapped his fingers, and the people around them began to move about, as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened. Sophie tried to move, but felt frozen in place, and when she tried to yell, she felt her vocal cords and her closed mouth just as frozen. She could only watch as Haswari showed the clerk his ticket, walk up to the platform, and beam down to Earth.



“Miss? Miss? Are you alright?”



Sophie heard an older lady tapping her right arm and turned to face her. “I’m…I’m sorry,” Sophie said. “Yes, I’m alright.”



“You were just standing there, not moving,” the lady replied. “That old thing” – she pointed to the transporter pad – “is plain ol’ weird.”



“Yeah, I suppose it can be that,” Sophie replied. “I apologize for bothering you. I do hope I didn’t impede you—”



“What does ‘impede’ mean?”



“Oh. It means…stand in your way. I hope I didn’t stand in your way very long.”



“Oh okay…and you didn’t stand there for very long. In fact, I was making my way up there to show them my ticket, and you just appeared, out of nowhere.”



Sophie felt another chill go up her spine, and decided she needed to place a very important call right then, and somewhere more private. “I won’t bother you, any more than I already have.”



Before the lady could ask another question, Sophie was on her way to find a more private and secure area. She settled for a luxury class lounge that she got into by spoofing a Pan Am luxury account pass on her phone. Once she was satisfied no one was around to eavesdrop, she placed her call. “Zero-eight-Alpha-four-seven-Delta-Blue-nine.”



Two beeps and several seconds later, Sophie was speaking to her handler. “He’s gone. Transported down to Dulles about five minutes ago.”



“Anything unusual?”



Sophie thought unusual was a severe understatement. “He froze time.”



“Explain.”



“He froze everyone and everything. I have to assume for now he froze the entire station. No one else has commented on it. I was completely aware of what was going on, as was he, but I was unable to speak or move.”



“He’s done that before,” the handler said a few moments later. “Another one of his talents he’s picked up.”



“Should I follow?” What Sophie wanted to do then didn’t matter; there were unpleasantries that came with her job, and she endured them without question or complaint. “The next transport is about 25 minutes from now—”



“No. We have people here tracking him. I need you back at home base for a debrief. Check your phone.”



God what a relief, Sophie thought as she opened an app that showed a transporter pass for New Troy International Airport. “Confirm receipt.”



“Get something to drink, if you wish. Otherwise, we’ll have something for you here. Then we’ll debrief, and put you in a safe place.”



Metropolis, New Troy



The handler disconnected the call, and paused for a few moments, pondering her next move.



The skyline of downtown Metropolis filled the spacious window that took up one side of her executive office, and neither it, nor the blue-and-red streak high in the sky, caught her attention.



The bastard is in the States, she thought, and we’re all in danger.



She quickly reviewed her options as far as assistance, starting with NCIS, then the FBI, CIA, Homeland, then her contacts in the military, then the Justice League and, finally, the President himself.



No, she thought. This is my bloody responsibility. She hit a button on the phone sitting on the left side of her mahogany executive desk. “Antoine. Hold all calls for the remainder of the day, tell them I’m busy…no, for the next few days, at least until Friday.”



Talia Head, the Chief Executive Office of LexCorp, tapped a spot on her desk that caused any observers from the outside of the building to see her sitting at her desk, working – which was what she wanted any observer to see. Then, she walked to a bookshelf on the far wall and gave a series of taps; the bookshelf opened, and she walked into a small elevator made to her predecessor’s specifications.



The elevator was taking her to a restricted area at the top of the 88-story LexCorp Tower, where a transporter pad awaited. Talia had no love for the Beast – a nickname given to Haswari by the media during The Siege of 2005 – and had long assumed that, one day, she would have to put him down.



The Beast has to be dealt with, she thought, as the elevator opened to the rooftop area where the transporter pad was installed. Not even my father can – will – stop me.