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Chapter Text

The hunter watched as the water drained out into the yellowed off-white basin with signs of brown metallic residue, and all he could think to himself was that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever been in a bathroom so filthy.

It always seemed like these city bar public restrooms never had anyone around to bother cleaning them. Every inch of the walls was marked with graffiti left behind by the various strangers who had been passing through. Some were expletive-riddled rants against the cops or the homeless of St. Louis, others were simple dirty jokes, some were doodles or drawings left by some wannabe comic strip artist or a poem by a pretentious college student thinking he was the next Charles Bukowski.

One of the stalls had a toilet filled to the brim with excrement and soiled toilet paper, spread onto the stall walls in some kind of haphazard primitive design. It left a horrid stench, acting as a forbidding wall talisman warding away all but the bravest of janitors with the biohazard exclusion zone it created.

There were only two sinks, and one of them had a broken faucet, and the mirrors were smudged and cracked with age, the walls surrounding them caked with mud or dirt or mold—in the dim flourescent lighting, it was anyone’s guess.

The hunter reached to splash water onto his face, then thought better of it when he noticed a translucent condom sticking to the basin’s surface that he hadn’t seen when he first came in. Who would want to get busy in a place like this, he couldn’t even imagine. Chances were, even the water in the pipes was unsanitary here.

He carefully grabbed a wafer-thin paper towel and turned the faucet off.

He stared at his image in the mirror. The camouflage was immaculate. In this urban jungle, he was at no risk of being spotted. The scars hidden; the hair bleached. He tugged at a loose strand of hair and brushed it back over his head. The hair and the roots showed no trace of their natural color. He nodded to himself in satisfaction.

“You look great, Brother,” said a voice into his ear.

The hunter’s hand began to shake. His breathing quickened. His head felt a little fuzzy. The stench of the bathroom wasn’t helping.

It always gets like this when he goes too long without his pills. The pills that keep his hands steady. The pills that made him a better hunter. Ever since the voice showed up, he noticed that the pills kept the voice away, too. Or, at least, he thought they did—sometimes, the voice would get louder, so it was kind of hard to tell. But overall, the pills did their job reliably.

Which was good. He didn’t need the distraction. Especially not tonight.

He fished a small gray bottle out of his pocket, popped open the lid, and dumped two little white ovals into his palm. He considered dumping out a third but decided against it. Best not to overdo it, the hunter thought to himself. The pills had a tendency to make him a little tired after a few hours.

He knocked them back into his throat and swallowed, pinching his nose so that the smell of the bathroom wouldn’t trigger his gag reflex.

It was his third dose of the day. The doctors recommended only four doses a day at most. The hunter had exceeded that a few times over the past few weeks. But it was necessary. He needed his hands steady. He needed his aim to strike true, and his previous prey hadn’t made it easy for him.

But he had won in the end, as he always did. And so, the extra dosages were worth it, even if they sometimes made him sick.

The hunter leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose and then massaging his temples with his eyes shut.

“Okay, I see that it is time for you to go to work. I understand. We’ll talk later, Brother. Yes?”

The hunter sighed in relief as he opened his eyes, looking around. He was alone. His breathing slowed. He held his hand to keep it still and to massage away the small muscle cramp it had developed.

The hunter walked out of the restroom and moved back to his corner booth in the bar. He’d already ordered a beer some time earlier. This time, he ordered a Coke and some food as he watched the bar from his position in the corner.

His prey—one of them, anyway—was there at the watering hole, taking a drink of their own. The prey looked to their side and saw another member of their old herd.

The eyes light up in recognition. They greet each other. The hunter eats and drinks in silence while the two talk.

It was this second prey animal that the hunter had been waiting for all night to arrive. It had been some time since this creature was last seen before it had gone to ground, but the hunter had been making himself busy in the meantime, knowing it was just a matter of waiting.

Always, there was the waiting.

The prey animals conferred with each other, in tongues of growling and yips between drinks. The hunter ate his fill quietly, so as not to draw attention. The first rested a comforting limb on the target, suggesting that the target join him in retreating to a cave where a third friendly creature waits. The target agreed, and together they pay their tab and amble over to the door.

The hunter quickly settles his bill and leaves the bar to enter the jungle of concrete and glass, staying in the shadows and out of sight as he stalks his quarry. Their fog of inebriation and general ease masks his following of their trail.

The streets are dark, with nary a person in sight. The city had not been welcome to outsiders for some time, and the great flood two years ago only made things worse. In the darkening hours of the night, you’d be hard-pressed to find many people staying out except for hunters and prey. The hunter, knowing this, kept far out of sight, letting any attention from prying eyes be focused solely on the two prey animals stumbling under the light of streetlamps.

The target and his fellow prey moved along the north side of Lafayette Park before reaching their destination of a small two-story residential property. The hunter broke off, moving to the corner of Park and Missouri Ave, ducking beneath dimly lit windows to find the side of a brick two-story with a front-facing white façade. Stepping onto the windowsill, the hunter climbed hand over hand until he reached the sloped side of a flat roof, scrambling over the angled shingles until he reached the flat top where he’d left his hidden stash in preparation for this moment.

At the corner near a chimney, the hunter had left behind various tools: a scoped rifle, a Motorola brick of a cellular phone, and a small device with a squeezable switch. Leveling his rifle, the hunter pulls back the bolt to hand-load a single round. He double checks the dials on his scope, which he’d adjusted earlier that day. From his position, he stared down at the lens to the house down the street where his prey holds up.

The lights in the windows turn on. The target and his friend meet the house’s owner—this new third prey animal is wounded, rendered lame. The target and his friend obtain more alcohol, and together the small herd commiserates over old times.

The hunter’s hands are perfectly still. His breathing is loud, excited, heavy to his own ears. It was almost time, he knew. A shadow falls over him, and he could almost feel the familiar embrace of an arm around his shoulders.

“It’s almost time to work, Brother,” the voice said. “Shall we extend to them our salutations?”

The hunter nodded, smiling slightly. His brother was right. It was time.

With one hand, he grabs the cellular phone from the lip of the roof where he crouched and absent-mindedly dialed the number he had recognized. Through the scope, he saw the wounded prey animal with the missing legs reach to grab the nearby house phone.

“Hello?”

The hunter’s lips pull back into a predatory smile. He licks his teeth in anticipation. He adjusts his aim to the injured prey sitting across from his real target and rests his finger on the trigger.

“Hello,” he spoke in a low voice which creaked from lack of use. “I would like to speak to Solid Snake, please.”

“What? Who is this?”

“Please hand the phone to Snake. I know he is there with you.”

The prey hands the phone to the target, exchanges a few words. The hunter sees the target bringing the phone to his ear.

“This is Solid Snake. Am I to report in?”

“Tell us again what happened, Mr. Teegan. In your own words.”

Robert Teegan’s hands shook as he squirmed uncomfortably in the interview room. The lukewarm tea that they’d given him hadn’t done anything to calm his nerves. The police officer leaned forward with a kind smile.

“You can take your time,” she said. “I know how much of an ordeal you’ve been through. I promise you, it’s almost over. Just take a deep breath.”

Bob’s head nodded shakily as he lifted the mug to his mouth to take a sip and winced. The tea at the police station was awful, but the warmth was at least a little soothing. He took the policewoman’s advice and took a deep breath, letting it out.

“I, uh, was on my way back from the pharmacy. I work nights, so I’m pretty much completely nocturnal. It’s usually pretty quiet and it was a beautiful night out, so I thought maybe I’d walk, y’know? Since it wasn’t too far away.”

The policewoman scratched some notes onto her pad.

“Go on,” she urged.

“Well, I was walking up Park Avenue, a-and I could see my house from where I was walking. It was, uh, maybe just a few houses down, when I hear something like thunder only louder, like it was nearby. A loud crack and boom, like a car backfiring or something, followed by the sound of broken glass. The second-floor window of the house in front of me had a new hole in it.”

“A gunshot?”

Bob nodded. “I didn’t realize what it was that I had heard at first, but then came the shouts and screaming, and it became obvious. I knew that trouble like this could happen in this city, but I always thought it was never as common as they say in the news. Never thought it would happen around me.”

“You’re not alone in that. A lot of people tend to think that, until it does happen to them,” the cop said sympathetically. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Bob went on, “T-there were more gunshots, this time coming from inside the house, I guess in the direction of wherever the first shot came from. I could hear a lot of yelling coming from inside the house. It was frantic, I-I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I, uh, I ran into the alleyway between the houses for cover behind a low wall, tried to make myself as small as possible.”

Bob put down the mug and started rubbing his hands together.

“I squeezed my eyes shut; I couldn’t see anything. I must’ve been shaking like a leaf, heh. When there was a minute of silence, I heard the front door thrown open, and I peeked around the wall to see two men huddled together. It looked like the younger guy was supporting the older one, they were kind of hobbling out onto the porch and moving toward the street. Then came the explosion.”

“Explosion?”

Bob nodded. “The whole house went up in flames. Glass, brick, and wood splinters flying everywhere, I had to cover my head. The two men were sent flying over the small front yard and into the asphalt. I was so scared, I couldn’t move. I…I didn’t know what to do.”

The policewoman took some more notes. “And what happened next?” she asked.

“At first, nothing. I thought maybe it was over. There weren’t anymore gunshots. Just the sound of the fires. Then the younger of the two guys pushed himself off the ground and sort of crawled to his friend, I think to check his pulse. He hunched over him; I think to do CPR. And then he…he called out for help. Yelled for someone to call 911.”

Bob suddenly became really interested in his fingernails, not quite able to meet the police officer’s eyes.

“I didn’t move at first…I was too scared. Eventually I ran over, keeping my head down. But by the time I got to them, the man was already dead. I don’t know, maybe if I was a little faster…”

“I’m sure you did all you could,” the cop assured him.

Bob didn’t look convinced. He shook his head. “Yeah…,” he muttered. “I guess.”

He took another breath before he finished his story.

“I helped the young man out of the street and back into the alley behind the wall. I practically had to drag him—he didn’t want to leave his friend behind; he was…hysterical. He was thrashing around, too weak to actually fight back, but enough to make it hard to move him. Then I looked over, saw one of the neighbors out on their patio, and I yelled for them to call the cops. I waited with the young man until the ambulances and firefighters came.”

Bob shrugged nervously. “And here we are.”

“The man you saved—did he tell you his name?”

“I wouldn’t really say that I ‘saved’ him,” Bob protested weakly, shaking his head. “But no, I didn’t get a name from him. I think I heard him call the man that died ‘Captain,’ though. Maybe they were sailors? Or cops?”

“Or military,” the policewoman said. “Anything’s possible. Did he say anything else?”

“It was pretty incoherent. Mostly just him asking, ‘why?’ and saying, ‘It should have been me.’” Bob looked despondent.

“He couldn’t have been much older than twenty, the poor kid,” he said. “…I hope he’ll be okay.”

Officer Jeni McClaren stepped out of the interview room just in time to see three men dressed smartly in black suits, leading a disheveled man with singed and smudged clothes that clearly hadn’t been cleaned since he had been checked into the hospital two nights ago, still bearing numerous stains of blood and sweat.

The men in suits had badges hanging from the front pockets of their jackets, showing them as being from the FBI. The man in front had brown hair and a small claw-shaped scar around the edge of his mouth, and a no-nonsense stare. He nodded to McClaren.

“Good evening, officer. My name is Special Agent Thomas Blackthorne, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is Agent Steele and Agent Thompson. We’re with the OKBOMB task force.”

McClaren’s eyebrows raised, her eyes widened. OKBOMB was the task force charged with investigating the bombing in Oklahoma City a few months back. Last she’d heard in the news, they’d already arrested and detained the culprits, but their trial dates were still pending, and the investigation was still ongoing.

She looked over at the fourth man, whose eyes were downcast and glazed over, his face looking lost. Besides the bruises on his arms, some small cuts on his face and the state of his clothes, he didn’t look any worse for wear otherwise.

Her voice was a little shaky as she spoke her thoughts aloud: “Do you think he was in on it? That the bombing had to do with that thing in Oklahoma?”

Steele shrugged, but it was Blackthorne who answered, “That’s what we’ve been sent in to find out.”

He gestured to the interview room McClaren had occupied. “Who’ve you got holed up in there?”

McClaren cleared her throat, straightening up. “Robert Teegan. He happened to be walking the neighborhood when the bombing occurred.”

“A civilian?”

McClaren nodded. “Uh-huh. Guess he lives in the area. Wrong place, wrong time. Or right place, depending on how you look at it. He’s the one who pulled your suspect to safety. If not for him, you might not have a guy to question.”

They all looked to the silent man, who gave no comment. The agents looked to each other.

Blackthorne addressed the policewoman. “As of now, this investigation is under federal jurisdiction. Your superiors have already been informed, but you can check with them if you want. After you turn in your interview notes, please pass them along to Agent Thompson.”

“Sure,” she said. “Did you want to ask Mr. Teegan any other questions, or…?”

Blackthorne shook his head. “No, you can let him go for now. Just make sure to let him know not to leave town for at least a few days. In the meantime, mind if we make use of your interview room?”

McClaren nodded. “Not a problem. I’ll go see the Chief about the notes.”

“Mind if I go with her, boss?” Agent Thompson asked. “Save her a bit of the walk back. ‘Sides, I want to grab some coffee.”

Blackthorne nodded his assent. McClaren poked her head in the room to let Bob Teegan know that he was free to leave.

“Hey, get us some too, while you’re at it, huh?” Agent Steele called out after them as they walked away down the hall. Thompson simply waved without looking back.

Blackthorne motioned for Steele and their new suspect to walk inside and sit down at the table. Steele and the man sat down on opposite sides, while Blackthorne remained standing. They simply let the suspect sit and stew in silence while they waited for Thompson to come back with their coffee.

After a while, Thompson returned with the promised coffee cups for his fellow agents and then leaned against the wall in the corner closest to the room’s door. The man looked over to the two-way mirror hiding the observation room, then to each agent.

After a few minutes of nothing, it was Special Agent Blackthorne who spoke first.

“So,” Blackthorne said, taking a sip of his coffee.

“So,” the man said. His voice was monotone.

“You know who we are, yes?”

“Yes,” the man said. “FBI agents of the OKBOMB task force.”

“Do you know what that is?”

“I do. You want to know whether the incident on Park Avenue had anything to do with the bombing in Oklahoma City. Probably because the two people who died were former Army servicemembers, just like that McVeigh guy and the people who supplied him.”

“You seem to know a bit about the case.”

The man shrugged. “I watch the news. Heard about the guy the cops picked up. Routine car stop for speeding, something about an unregistered firearm crossing state lines, something like that?”

Blackthorne nodded, smiling a little. “Something like that.”

Steele spoke up, “So, you know about us, but you haven’t even introduced yourself to us yet. Pretty rude, I’ve gotta say, man.”

The man didn’t say anything.

Steele tapped the table. “You had a wallet with cash in your back pocket when we picked you up, but no IDs. Nothing was found in the burnt-up house that belonged to you, except some DNA matches on the beer bottles and the phone. It’s curious.”

“I’m from out of town,” the man said. “Just…visiting. The house belonged to an old friend.”

“That old friend would be 1^st Lieutenant Maxwell Reeves, I take it?”

The man nodded. “That’s right, though he was a 2^nd Lieutenant when I last saw him. And the other man, Captain Shawn Willard.”

“We pulled up their service records when we were called in,” Blackthorne said. “Green Berets, both of them. Is that how you knew them? Did you serve together?”

“Hm,” the man grunted. “Long time ago.”

“Sooo…,” Steele said, drawing out the syllable. “What do we call you?”

The man raised his head, his eyes cleared up a little. He sighed, “I’m nobody.”

The agents looked at each other briefly, none of them looking too amused by the man’s evasiveness.

“Look, let me save you some time,” the man said.

“Well, we’d sure appreciate it, mister,” Steele replied sarcastically.

“You wanted to know whether the explosion had anything to do with Oklahoma. I can tell you right now that it doesn’t.”

Steele scoffed. “What, and we’re just supposed to take your word on that?”

“Think about the target,” the man stated, leaning forward. “It’s a regular suburban house in the middle of some random block of the city. Oklahoma was a directed attack on a federal building. Doesn’t make sense.”

“Ah, that doesn’t prove anything,” Steele protested. “Maybe you were holding onto homemade explosives and fucked up the recipe. Blown up by accident or incompetence.”

The suspect ignored Steele and continued, “And then there’s the gunshots.”

“Gunshots?” asked Blackthorne with interest.

“Before the explosion,” the man said, “someone had fired on the building with a rifle from the opposite corner. I think he was firing from the roof of one of the other houses, but I didn’t get a good look at him.”

The man shook his head sadly. “Doesn’t matter, though.”

“Why not?” Blackthorne asked.

“Because I know exactly who did this, and by the time the building exploded and I pulled Cap’n Willard out of the fire, the attacker would’ve been long gone—no way would he have stuck around after the message was delivered.”

“Message? What do you mean?” Blackthorne asked.

“Wait, wait—you said you know the guy who did this?” Steele cut in.

The man locked eyes with Blackthorne and nodded.

“Yes,” he replied.

“So, who was it?” Blackthorne asked.

“Someone way, way above all of your pay grades,” the man responded.

“Oh, don’t give us that shit,” Steele hissed.

Blackthorne shook his head. “You understand that obstructing a federal investigation is a felony, Mr…?”

The man didn’t take the bait, instead only nodding. He shrugged and sighed. “Look, fellas, I would love to help you, but unfortunately, it’s not up to me.”

“Like hell it’s not!”

“Steele,” Blackthorne warned.

Agent Steele shut his mouth. Blackthorne stepped forward and took a seat beside his subordinate, matching the man’s Kubrickian stare.

“What do you mean, that ‘it’s not up to you?’”

“You already know that the two men that died are Army Special Forces. Like you said, you’ve checked their records yourselves. The man who did this—his identity is classified under TS/SCI, on a need-to-know basis. If I tell you his name, I’d have much bigger problems than just you.”

“Bullshit,” Steele scoffed under his breath.

Blackthorne ignored him. “Say that I believe you, and I’m not saying that I do. What would you suggest?”

The man matched his stare. “All parties involved are United States Army, which makes this case their jurisdiction. I know you have members of the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division on your OKBOMB task force. Reach out to them, bring them in on the case.”

“You’re not seriously buying this shit?” Steele asked. Blackthorne waved him off with a glare.

“Is that it?” Blackthorne asked. “You want me to talk to CID and tell them that some random stranger asked for them because of some super-secret wet work assassin that shot up and bombed a city tenement?”

Blackthorne’s voice was incredulous, like he himself was ready to laugh at the ridiculousness of the notion, but the suspect wasn’t laughing or smiling.

“No,” the man responded, his voice quiet but even. “I want you to talk to the CID and tell them that Solid Snake asked for them. I promise, you won’t have any trouble getting assistance.”

Chapter Text

James Mallory was not having a good night.

A sudden and ear-splitting ringing had disturbed the silence of his house, stirring both him and his wife from a relatively peaceful slumber. Mallory recoiled from the piercing shriek, pulling his pillow over his head. He could feel the sound bouncing around his skull, and the beginnings of a migraine started to build up behind his eyes.

His wife Sarah wasn’t particularly fond of the disturbance, either. She shifted, peeking over the wall of pillows that had been carefully erected between them on their shared King-sized bed.

“Are you going to get that, or not?” she uttered with the annoyance of an interrupted rest and the slurred speech of someone who wasn’t quite awake.

Mallory groaned. He wanted to tell her to just let it ring. To just go back to bed.

But he couldn’t—it might be important, after all.

So, he hauled up his sorry carcass into a sitting position, rubbed his temples to try and combat the worst of the headache, and said to Sarah in a low voice, “I’ll get it. Go back to sleep.”

Mallory dragged himself to his feet, awkwardly shuffling across the carpet as he left the master bedroom and moved on yawning down the hall to the turnoff out into the kitchen, where the house phone hung on the wall, the phone ringing the whole time. He yanked off the receiver in the middle of the phone’s last ring and cleared his throat to try and tamp down the drowsiness in his voice.

“Hello?”

“Special Agent Mallory?”

It was Mallory’s superior, Special Agent in Charge (SAC) Jim Mead.

“Yeah,” he said, before coughing and correcting himself with “Yes, sir.”

This had better be important if they’re calling me in the middle of the night, he thought to himself.

“We need you to come into the office with Agent Juarez. There’s been a development that requires your attention.”

Agent Emilio Juarez was Mallory’s partner and junior who had just been assigned to him earlier that month.

“What happened? Did we pick up another suspect or something?”

“There’s been another bombing, this one’s in St. Louis.”

That got Mallory’s attention. He sobered up instantly as he asked with concern, “Another federal building?”

“No. It was a residency. Much smaller, more localized. The boys from the Bureau are already on the scene, and they’re saying that it might be unrelated.”

Mallory sighed, both out of relief and out of annoyance. “So, why are you calling me, then? It’s the middle of the night. We’ve got other guys on OKBOMB besides me, right?”

“The call’s from up top. They want you specifically on the scene.”

“Why me?”

“Can’t discuss it over the phone. It’s why I need you to come in. How quickly can you get here?”

Mallory turned his head to look at the small, carved wooden clock that hung on the far wall next to the cabinets. It was a Cuckoo clock painted a light baby-blue that Mallory had bought his wife as a gift a few years ago, during better times. He blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted.

“I can be there in…I think, thirty minutes? Maybe closer to forty-five.”

“Well, make it quick,” Mead replied. “From what I’ve been made to understand, this lead is time sensitive.”

Mallory nodded, more to himself than to Mead. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I’ll be on my way, shortly.”

“Very good. That’ll be all. Goodbye.”

After giving his farewell, Mallory hung up the phone and looked again at the clock while absent-mindedly tugging on the phone’s cord—it was still only about two o’clock in the morning. He groaned. Ever since this OKBOMB business had started, he hadn’t been able to get more than maybe a few hours’ worth of sleep at a time. Tonight had been the longest he’d been able to rest without much in the way of interruption.

He lumbered over to the sink and turned it on to splash some water into his face, the made his way back through the hall, stopping on his journey to the bedroom to briefly regard a door that had stayed closed for over a year and a half.

Mallory pressed a hand against the wood of the door, brushing his thumb against the grain. He thought about opening it, knowing that he wouldn’t—even after over a year, he still hadn’t had the courage to walk inside. He pulled his hand away, then walked into the bedroom.

His eyes having adjusted to the darkness, he pulled open the closet as quietly as possible to pull on a pair of slacks and a pressed collared shirt. No need for a jacket—at this time of year, the air and humidity would be sweltering by the time the daylight had come out in earnest. After pulling on his long black socks and tying his shoes, he heard Sarah stir.

“Who was it?” she muttered sleepily, still out of it.

Mallory turned from his sitting position on the bed to face her. Her back was still to him, pressed against that awful wall of pillows—that infernal Wall of Jericho. He reached out—maybe to put a hand on her arm, or maybe to tear the wall down—but he thought better of it and pulled his arm back.

Coward, he thought.

“It’s work. They’re calling me in—don’t know why yet,” Mallory answered softly, “but they said it had to be me.”

Sarah didn’t say anything, her shoulder and chest just rising and falling in time with her breaths. Mallory thought maybe that she had fallen back asleep before she spoke again.

“When will you be back?” she whispered.

“I don’t know,” Mallory said. “Maybe later in the morning, maybe this afternoon. It’s hard to say. I’ll know more when I get there.”

Sarah didn’t say anything else, only nodded. Mallory was caught up with the sudden impulse to reach across and grab her shoulder and turn her around to make her face him, but instead he simply leaned forward and planted a soft kiss above her ear.

“I’ll see you later,” he said.

“Okay,” came the soft reply.

It was a little after 3 AM when Mallory got to the main building for the local Missouri branch of the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division (CID) at Fort Leonard Wood. It was quiet as he approached, the only inhabitants moving inside the building’s light being the poor suckers pulled in for night shift or on call work. And himself, he supposed.

After scanning in his badge and moving through the lobby, he quickly found Agent Juarez, who was waiting for him.

“Hey,” Juarez said, yawning. “I got the call.”

“Yeah,” Mallory said. “They tell you anything?”

“Nah,” Juarez replied. “They said it had to wait until we were here to get briefed personally. It’s weird, right?”

“It is,” Mallory agreed. “The feds must have stumbled on some pretty big intel.”

Jim Mead came around the corner, not wasting time with niceties. “Jim, Emilio. Good, you’re here. Come on, let’s get to the conference room and get this briefing over with quickly. We don’t want to waste time here.”

Mallory and Juarez followed him in silence without argument. After a five-minute walk, Mead closed the door behind them and turned on a projector at the front of the room while the two junior agents sat down at the table.

“Alright, sir,” Mallory said. “We’re here. What’s this about? OKBOMB get a new lead?”

“Not exactly,” Mead said, flipping a switch for the projector.

The screen showed two pictures side-by-side—a before and after comparison. On the left was a small two-story residential house, and on the right was an empty charred husk of brick and wooden beams, clawing upwards against the daylight sky.

“About fifty hours ago, a residence on the corner of Park Avenue and Missouri was destroyed in an explosion,” Mead explained. “There were four people recovered from the scene, two deceased victims, one witness, and a person of interest who may or may not have been involved in the bombing—as he is our only lead at the moment, we have yet to determine whether this suspect is perpetrator or victim.”

Mead pressed a button on the remote he carried, cycling through the projector screens. The next photos shown was a charred corpse whose legs ended at the knees and two holes in either side of his head—one smaller entry wound and a large exit wound.  The second photo was of a man covered in burns and what appeared to be shrapnel wounds. Mead pressed the button a second time and the projector switched to close-up headshots of two driver’s license photos, presumably of the victims.

“The deceased victims have been identified as Captain Shawn Willard and First Lieutenant Maxwell Reeves. Both men are Green Berets who served in the Gulf. Lt. Reeves was medically discharged due to a career-ending injury, and Cpt. Willard retired from service a little over a year ago. Both discharges were honorable, and they have no known links to any criminal or terrorist organizations.”

“Did either of them know McVeigh and his posse?” asked Agent Mallory.

SAC Mead shook his head. “We haven’t had a lot of time to check, but from what we and the FBI have been able to ascertain, there is no evidence linking them to Oklahoma whatsoever. Still, the feds wanted to be thorough, so they sent in a few agents to question the locals and look over the crime scene and any evidence that local law enforcement may have uncovered.”

Mead pressed another button. A nervous-looking and mousy man with a moustache, a pair of thick Coke bottle glasses and a slightly receding hairline showed up on the next slide.

“This is Robert Teegan, a witness. He was out for a walk on the night of the event, happened to be nearby.”

“Randomly out for a stroll in the late evening? In St. Louis?” Juarez balked.

Mead shrugged. “Apparently. He’s got no link to anyone or anything exciting, either. Just a local neighbor who was in the wrong place in the wrong time. When the cops questioned him, he reported that leading up to the explosion there was an exchange of gunfire across the street.

“The house that was blown up got shot first, but from the sound of things, our victims were also armed, and they returned fire. The explosives that destroyed the house were detonated shortly afterward. Reeves didn’t make it, and even though our Person of Interest tried to drag him out of the wreckage, Willard wasn’t much longer for this world, either.

“Our witness dragged the POI off the street to relative safety, and when there was no more gunfire, emergency services were called. The POI was checked into a hospital to get looked over, and was checked back out to be remanded into the FBI’s custody shortly after. He’s currently stewing in the Metro PD building on Olive Street as we speak.”

“So who is this mystery man they’ve got holed up?” Juarez asked.

Mead’s brow furrowed. “That’s the thing. We just don’t know. His prints don’t match up with the federal database, and when the feds tried to match up his mugshot with local records, they couldn’t find any driver’s licenses to track down a name. They’re trying to comb through national records for all the other forty-nine states, but it’s a slow process. The only thing we know for sure is that he’s not a resident of Missouri, and based on his accent, he’s probably American.”

“He didn’t identify himself in any way?” asked Mallory.

“Not at all. At least, not at first. The only thing he had on his person when he was picked up was a wallet full of cash—no credit cards, no driver’s license, no insurance cards, not even a video store membership card. Nothing. When asked for his name, he offered only an alias, and even then it was under duress.”

“Duress?”

Mead looked uncomfortable. “The POI’s the one who insisted that the feds call us in. Said that everyone involved, including himself and the person he stated was the perpetrator was connected to the United States Army, and so it’s our jurisdiction.”

Mead frowned, casting a serious look to the two agents. “But the fact that he admitted to knowing the identity of the perpetrator and refused to name him suggests that this individual was likely involved somehow.”

“Wait, so the guy’s Army? And we don’t have any record of him?” Juarez scoffed.

“Nope. None that I’ve been able to access, anyway. All I had was the alias. When the OKBOMB team reached out, I made some phone calls to try and figure out what was going on. Someone from the Pentagon called back, and they had me bring you in.”

Juarez looked over to Mallory in disbelief, chuckling with confusion, only to have the smirk wiped off his face when he saw Mallory’s expression. Special Agent Mallory had gone very still, his lips tightened into a thin line, and Juarez could see that his direct superior was holding his breath.

“This alias the suspect used to identify himself,” Mallory said tersely. “What was it?”

Mead pressed the button on his remote one final time, switching the projector over to a mugshot of a man in his early-to-mid twenties with a shaggy brown mullet and a chiseled jaw, whose stony downcast expression was marred slightly by the widened, wild eyes of a predatory animal.

“The man called himself ‘Solid Snake,’” Mead replied. “He instructed the Bureau to use the name when contacting the CID for help.”

Mallory’s fingers curled into fists. Juarez looked at his partner quizzically.

Mead went on, “Judging by your reaction and by the fact that the Pentagon specifically recommended you for this investigation, I’m going to guess that the name means something to you, then?”

Mallory nodded stiffly. “Yes, sir. I am not at liberty to discuss the details due to the classification of the subject, but I can confirm that I know who this man is.”

Agent Mallory stood up abruptly, looking over to Juarez. “What security clearances do you have, Juarez?”

Juarez shifted his eyes from Mallory to Mead and back to Mallory. “Top Secret…why?”

Mallory ignored him, looking to Mead. “We need to get Juarez TS/SCI clearance if he’s going to be on this case, sir. Do you think you might be able to arrange that?”

SAC Mead nodded. “I think I can pull some strings. It’s going to be hard for me to establish need-to-know if I don’t know the necessary details, though.”

“You can let me worry about that, sir,” Mallory assured him. “If you can get him the clearance, I’ll start making some calls of my own, make sure the right people can give him what he needs.”

“Good,” Mead said. “In the meantime, I need you two to head down to the police station in St. Louis. It’s about a two and a half-hour drive, and I don’t want to waste any time.”

“Right. Okay. We’ll start heading there right away.” Mallory looked to Juarez, who stood up. “Ready to go?”

Juarez nodded and followed him out of the building to Mallory’s sedan.

“You want to explain what that was about?” Juarez asked. “You sounded like you knew this guy we’re about to talk to.”

“What, weren’t you listening in there? I can’t talk details. Not until you have clearance,” Mallory said curtly as they climbed into the car.

“Not even to tell me if you know the guy?”

Mallory took a second to think on it as he turned the key in the ignition, tossing about the idea in his head.

“We’ve met. Briefly. It’s not really accurate to say that I know him, not personally anyway. More like, I know him by reputation. That’s all I can say, so don’t ask me anything else.”

Juarez sighed. “Alright.”

With that, the car pulled out onto Iowa Ave going north, and they drove in silence all the way to St. Louis.

As they entered the police station, Mallory stepped up to the front desk. Sitting there was a beleaguered policewoman, who looked like she hadn’t gotten a single wink of sleep in days. Agent Juarez looked at her with sympathy.

She took notice of the two men, and cleared her throat to speak up a little. “Yes, can I help you?”

Mallory smiled kindly. “Hi there, Officer, uh…” He tilted his head to get a look at her nametape.

“McClaren,” she helpfully supplied for him with a small smile. “But, you can call me Jeni.”

Mallory’s smile widened slightly as he raised his left hand to point to himself and Juarez—while also showing off his wedding ring.

“Well, Jeni, my name is Special Agent Mallory, this is Agent Juarez, we’re with the US Army’s Criminal Investigation Division. I understand that you have a survivor from a recent tenement bombing in your interview rooms and that the FBI has already sent some agents of their own to interview him?”

Officer McClaren did her best to hide her disappointment from seeing Mallory’s wedding band, and nodded with a tired smile. “Yes sir, that’s right. They’ve been expecting you. Would you like me to take you to them?”

“That would be great, Jeni, thank you.”

The two CID agents were handed temporary security badges and then led further into the station past a series of cubicles and down a couple of hallways, until they found the three FBI agents waiting patiently for them in the hall outside of the interview room in question. The elder man with the claw-shaped scar at the edge of his mouth stood up first to greet them, his subordinates quickly following his example.

Special Agent Mallory reached out to shake the FBI agent’s hand, and the scarred agent took it.

“Good morning. I’m Special Agent Mallory,” Mallory said politely, gesturing to his partner. “That’s Agent Juarez.”

“Special Agent Blackthorne,” said the scarred man, pointing to each of his subordinates in turn. “Agents Steele and Thompson. How much do you know?”

Mallory breathed in. “Not much. Bombing two nights ago of a tenement, shots fired. Two dead soldiers, one survivor, and a civilian witness. The survivor refused to identify himself with anything other than an alias. That about right so far?”

Blackthorne nodded. “That’s right.”

“I was also told that it was by his request that we’re here today.”

“Right, told us to tell the CID that ‘Solid Snake’ was requesting CID involvement.”

Mallory went still for a short second, then sighed. “That’s what he told you, huh?”

Blackthorne’s eyes narrowed, eyebrow raised. “That name mean something to you, Mallory?”

Mallory was quiet for a moment, then looked at the door to the observation room next to the interview room door.

“I assume there’s cameras and microphones in there observing.”

Blackthorne nodded. “Most likely.”

“I’m going to need any recording equipment in there turned off and the observation room cleared out. No local cops, no federal agents.” Mallory emphasized the last two words, arching his voice slightly in the direction of the other FBI agents in tow behind Blackthorne.

“Wait, what? Why?” asked Agent Steele.

Mallory ignored him. “I also assume there are security cameras in the interview room itself. I need you to inform whoever’s in charge of the police station security that they’re to be disabled for the duration of my interview with the individual in custody.”

“You can’t be serious,” Steele protested.

“I’m afraid I am,” Mallory responded.

Juarez looked over at his partner with surprise and curiosity, but opted not to say anything, so as not to undermine his superior’s authority in this situation.

“Last I checked, I don’t report to you,” Special Agent Blackthorne replied. “If you’re wanting me to prevent the collection of potential evidence, Special Agent Mallory, I’m going to need some explanation.”

“There will be subjects under discussion that are classified Top Secret/Sensitive Compartmented Information that I will not be at liberty to share, sir,” Mallory said. “I assure you, if I glean any information from the interview that is pertinent to the investigation and not above your pay grade, I will happily share it.”

Blackthorne said nothing at first, staring down S.A. Mallory. After an intense few seconds, he nodded. “I see,” he said, waving over Thompson. “Thompson, could you please get the station’s head of security over here and get the equipment disabled?”

“Sure thing, boss,” Agent Thompson replied as he walked out, side-eyeing Mallory as he left.

“This is such bullshit,” Agent Steele whispered undered his breath.

Blackthorne’s head whipped around to regard his junior agent. “You’ve got a problem, agent?”

Agent Steele shook his head. “No sir,” he said, walking away. “I’m gonna get more coffee.”

Juarez thumbed over in Steele’s wake. “What’s his problem?”

“Sorry about that,” replied Blackthorne, shaking his head. “Steele’s not a fan of the whole ‘jurisdiction friction’ thing. Frankly, neither am I, but I’m used to avoiding the headache by keeping my head down. Steele’s relatively green, he’s still got a lot to learn.”

“Fair enough,” Mallory said. He turned over to Juarez and asked, “Hey, Emilio, you mind clearing out the observation room and keeping guard to make sure it stays empty?”

Juarez nodded and said, “Sure, no problem,” before entering the observation room to inform the people inside to head out.

Mallory leaned against the wall. “While we wait for Thompson to get back with the head of security,” he said, “what else can you tell me about the crime scene? Have they already gone over it?”

“House is burnt to a crisp,” Blackthorne replied, standing next to Mallory with his own back against the wall. “Residue collected from the pipes indicates the presence of plastic explosive. Whether it’s homemade or C-4, we haven’t determined yet. There’s a bullet that was found lodged in the floor; a 7.62x51mm NATO round, so likely some kind of rifle. We’re still waiting for ballistics analysis to come back, but at the angle it was at, it was most likely shot from a rooftop. It’s weird, though. All the houses are so close together and none of them are very tall. It’d be a pretty close range for sniping. ”

Mallory nodded to himself, making a mental note. “I’d like to take a look at the crime scene myself, if that’s alright,” he said.

“Me, too,” Blackthorne agreed. “I already got the address for the house from the local cops here. I’d be more than happy to drive you and Juarez there later today, if you have time.”

Mallory considered telling him that they had their own car, before deciding that it would be better to save on gas since Blackthorne was offering. “Sure, let’s carpool,” he agreed.

A few minutes later, Thompson arrived with a not-too-happy police technician, who followed him inside the interview room to disconnect the cameras and then into the observation room to shut off all the microphones and screens and recorders.

Once finished, the two men exited the room and the technician informed that Mallory that the room was ready whenever they were.

Mallory leaned over to Juarez. “Wait outside the door, and make sure nobody pops into either room,” he muttered conspiratorially. Juarez gave him a thumb’s up, though Mallory could tell that Juarez wasn’t too happy at the exclusion, but refused to say so in front of Blackthorne.

It was important that Juarez not wait inside the observation room, so that he couldn’t overhear his conversation with the suspect. Mallory rested his hand on the interview room’s doorknob, took a breath, and let himself in.

The suspect was there at the opposite side of a table, sullenly leaning back into a hard stainless steel chair. His clothes were smudged and blackened where they had been burned. His light brown locks hung over his face like a curtain, through which his eyes glinted as he observed the newcomer.

Mallory surreptitiously kept his hands in his pockets as he approached, pulling out his right hand only to pull out a chair and brace himself against the table as he sat down.

There were a few moments of silence as the two men stared each other down, broken only by the hum of the fluorescent lights and the air conditioning.

Eventually, it was Mallory who spoke first.

“Hello, Snake,” he said. “I’m here, just like you asked.”

The suspect didn’t respond.

Mallory smirked. “You don’t remember me, do you? I guess, in fairness, it has been a while.”

The suspect’s head tilted, a quizzical raised eyebrow.

“We’ve only met a couple of times,” Mallory said. “It was when you were still in training. Once was for interrogation, and the other time was during your final exam, if I'm remembering correctly.”

A small glint in the eyes—a hint of recognition.

“Choir Boy…,” came the strained whisper.

Mallory’s head cocked. “What was that?”

Snake shook his head slightly, then nodded. “I said, I remember you. ‘Mouse,’ right?”

“Seeker Mouse, yeah. Although, I guess, not anymore. I retired, you see. Moved on.”

“I see,” Snake said, brushing the hair out of his face and sitting up. “So then, what do I call you now?”

“Special Agent Mallory,” Mallory said. “With the CID.”

Snake chuckled. “A rodent taking residence in the CID…”

Mallory joined in with laughing. “I guess it is kind of funny, isn’t it?”

There was another awkward moment of silence.

“So,” Mallory said.

“So,” Snake replied.

“I hadn’t heard much from you since you passed your exam,” Mallory said. “Congrats on that, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“When I retired you were still on ice, waiting for your first mission. They had you waiting for a while, as I recall.”

“Sure did. It was a long wait.”

“Did they eventually give you one? A mission, I mean.”

Snake nodded. “Back in March.”

Mallory thought back to the various events that took place earlier that year to see if he could make any guesses as to what mission it could’ve been. “Yugoslavia?”

Snake shook his head. “South Africa.”

Mallory’s mouth hung open. “That was you?” he asked incredulously.

“You know about it?”

“Only the stuff that ended up on the news,” Mallory said, his gaze shifting into a meaningful glower. “…and the rumors.”

“Whatever you heard, it’s probably worse,” Snake told him.

“I bet. You know, they brought us in after you came back? Investigating some kind of corruption scandal. They said we had bad actors in the unit. Some kind of mass embezzlement scheme. You know anything about that?”

“I know some things,” Snake replied.

“What about the Boss? He disappeared right around then, too.”

“Let’s not talk about the Boss,” Snake said, his face darkening.

Mallory was slightly taken aback, but recovered quickly. “Okay, then. Let’s talk about current events, then. You asked for CID’s involvement. Why?”

“Because every person involved in the event is or was, Army.”

“You also told the feds that you know who was responsible for the bombing. And you dropped your code name.”

“I did.”

“Which I’m going to guess means that the person who did this…”

“…is from FOXHOUND,” Snake said, confirming Mallory’s silent concern.

Mallory leaned forward. “Who?” he demanded.

“Sniper Rat,” Snake said.

“How do you know?”

“I heard his voice.”

“How? When?”

“He spoke to me over the phone, before…”

Snake went quiet.

“Before the shooting started,” Mallory finished for him. Snake nodded.

Mallory pulled a folder out of his bag and placed it on the table, opening it up to pull out the photographs of the two victims. Snake flinched when confronted with them. Mallory pointed at each one with his index finger.

“The victims, Cpt. Willard and Lt. Reeves. You knew them?”

“…Yes.”

“How?”

“I served with them. Before FOXHOUND, I mean,” Snake explained. “I was in the Berets alongside them.”

“Why was Rat trying to kill them? Were they targets in some kind of op? Traitors, maybe?”

“No!” Snake said firmly, raising his voice slightly. He shook his head. “No…I don’t think so. I think…they were killed because I was there. My presence put them in danger. Rat killed them to get to me.”

“So, you’re saying that Sniper Rat wasn’t acting on behalf of FOXHOUND?” Mallory asked.

“I don’t think so,” Snake answered.

Mallory pulled out a pen and notepad from his pocket and started taking notes.

“Maybe it would help if we started at the beginning,” Mallory suggested. “You said you knew Willard and Reeves. Why were you there that night in the first place?”

Snake took a deep breath and sighed loudly. “After the South Africa job, I was pretty messed up. I was put on leave to try and get my head on straight. I needed someone to talk to, someone that wasn’t a shrink, and someone that wasn’t FOXHOUND. Unfortunately, that narrows down my options to a small handful of people. I heard through the grapevine while traveling through the States that some of my old war buddies from Lima were in St. Louis.”

“Lima?” Mallory interjected.

“Lima Company,” Snake explained. “My old unit before FOXHOUND.”

Mallory nodded, indicating for Snake to continue.

“Anyway, so I did some digging, and found out that Cpt. Willard attended these Veteran’s support group meetings after which he would sometimes hit up the bar. So, I went to try and meet him.”

Snake leaned back as he sadly reminisced.

“I think he was pretty surprised to see me…”

Chapter Text

“…in other news, justice has been served this week as a federal grand jury in Oklahoma City has indicted Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols for the bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building that killed 168 people four months ago. In addition, Michael Fortier has pleaded guilty and been indicted as an accomplice. This comes in the wake of what some have called the most horrific and shocking attack to take place on American soil since Pearl Harbor.”

The TV in the corner of the bar cast a light blue glow over the bar counter as the talking heads solemnly recount the recent history of the past few months. Shawn Willard sighs to himself as he listens to the newscasters’ discussion, looking forlornly into his glass of whiskey.

It wasn’t that Willard couldn’t imagine such anger and disillusionment with the government-–that was simply rational, as far as he was concerned. But to use that as justification to end so many innocent lives and to ruin many more by proxy with regard to the victims’ families, rather than direct that anger at the actual source of the systemic evil…

Willard shook his head. It all felt so rotten.

“What a world,” he muttered to himself, taking a sip.

“What a world, indeed,” a familiar voice to his left agreed.

Willard looked over at the speaker sitting at the stool next to him. The man was hunched over, nursing a bottle of beer just served to him, the glass wet with perspiration in the man’s rough-hewn hands. A shaggy light brown mullet hung from his head like a mop, slightly obscuring a face that looked as if it was carved from stone by the very same rough hands that clutched his drink.

The man wasn’t looking directly at him, rather at the top of the bar counter, as if inspecting the grain of the polished wood. His posture was awful, his back hunched forward while his legs curled up with his feet perched on the bar stool’s legs, almost resembling a fetal position or that of an ape resting on a tree branch. Though he wore his clothes loose, Willard could see from the man’s forearms and the quiet strength that the stranger exuded that he was likely well put-together, physically speaking.

Willard hummed to himself quietly, discarding the notion. The voice had sounded familiar, but it couldn’t have been the same man as the one he was thinking; that voice belonged to someone he recognized as someone who couldn’t be older than twenty-two, maybe twenty-three, but the features of the stranger’s face belonged to a man much older and more reserved than the nineteen-year-old kid he’d served with.

And then the stranger opened his mouth to confirm his thought-to-be impossible suspicions.

“It’s good to see you, Captain.”

Willard squinted at him.

“…Lieutenant Williams? David Williams? Is that you? ”

The man smirked a little and chuckled quietly.

“Now, there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while,” he said. “Haven’t gone by ‘David Williams’ in a long time.” He took a swig of his beer before continuing, “And yet, it sounds kind of nice to hear it, coming from you.”

Willard let go of his glass of whiskey and turned his torso to face his former subordinate properly.

“I haven’t seen or heard from you since Desert Storm. It’s good to see you, kid!”

He grabbed his shoulder, smiling for a second, only for the smile to quickly turn to a frown, his forehead creased in worry as he got a better look at Williams’s hardened face.

“Where’ve you been all this time? What’s…what have you been up to?”

What’s happened to you? Willard wanted to ask, though he kept the question to himself. One look at Williams’s face and he could just tell–whatever it was, it was the sort of thing one just didn’t talk about just because somebody asked.

Williams shrugged. “After they shipped me back to the ‘States, I was transferred to a new unit. Did some special training for a few years, then got shipped back out for a new mission. Even got me a new nickname out the whole deal. I’ve been going by ‘Snake’ these days.”

Willard laughed a little at the callsign. “‘Snake,’ huh? What, that supposed to be intimidating or something?”

Snake laughed in return. “Hey, I didn’t pick the name.” His smile became more solemn as he said, “But I admit, it feels weird to go by any other name now at this point.”

Snake took a swig from his bottle before speaking again.

“Seems I’ve gotten used to it.”

“Well, what brings you out here? Don’t tell me you tracked me down just to say hello,” Willard joked.

Snake took another sip of his beer. “Or maybe I did? Maybe I’m the sentimental type,” he said. He put the bottle back down. “I actually saw you over at the veterans’ support group therapy meeting.”

“I didn’t see you there,” Willard said.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want to interrupt. I was just kind of off in the corner with the coffee and doughnuts, listening,” Snake said.

“You could have joined us if you wanted, you know.”

“I know. I guess, uh, I just wasn’t ready for that kind of thing.”

Snake turned his head to the TV as the newscaster changed subjects.

“At the same time while McVeigh and Nichols were indicted, another criminal prosecution has been underway in Johannesburg, South Africa, as Outer Heaven’s Chief Operating Officer and Vice President, Karl Ulbrecht, and the Chief Financial Officer Roman Sikorski have been indicted along with over seven hundred other personnel by the International Criminal Court today for war crimes perpetrated against South Africa during the Outer Heaven insurrection attempt earlier this year. This marks the first time that an internationally recognized private military force has been charged with criminal conspiracy and war crimes since PFs first made their debut in the 1970s–-”

Willard cocked his head as he observed his former subordinate. Snake’s eyes had widened slightly. Where before, they had seemed somewhat unfocused, he now appeared to be drinking in every word as he gave the TV his full rapt attention.

The newscaster went on to talk about the South African government keeping the United Nations at arm’s length even while the UN brought in a private contract company to help spearhead the environmental cleanup efforts at the Outer Heaven headquarters. “When asked about their reticence, an anonymous member of President Nelson Mandela’s staff said, ‘It was foreign business interests that brought about this tragedy in the first place. You cannot blame South Africans for being reluctant to trust these newcomers.’”

At these words, Snake’s eyes finally tore away from the screen while they continued to discuss the environmental activities of the European NGO Fjorgyn International acting in concert with its child company, Ratatoskr Express, for the shipping of materials in and out of the country.

Snake’s hands opened and closed as he stared at them. Willard put a hand on Snake’s shoulder.

“Are you good?” he asked.

Snake was quiet for long moment. His face and eyes kept twitching. After a few seconds, he asked, “How did you do it, sir?”

“Do what?” Willard asked.

“Taking command of our unit. Leading us into battle. How were you able to handle taking responsibility for our lives?”

Willard shrugged slightly. “It’s what I signed up for. Part of the job–-the order was given, and I followed it.”

“Simple as that?”

Snake looked Willard in the face. Willard could see just how lost Snake looked. When Willard spoke, his voice was quiet.

“Why are you asking me this, Williams?”

Snake looked back to his hands. “Last mission I went on…I was put in an acting leadership position, for a lot of people. They were all relying on me to see them through to the end of the operation.”

Willard leaned forward, trying to catch Snake’s eye and refocus his attention.

“And what happened?”

A deep intake of breath, followed by a long, low sigh. Snake closed his eyes. “We were…betrayed,” he explained. “By someone I trusted to have our backs. The people who trusted me with their lives…a lot of them didn’t make it, as a result of that betrayal. Because I trusted someone I shouldn’t have. Their blood is on the traitor’s hands…but it’s on my hands, too. Because I failed them. Because I wasn’t trustworthy.”

Willard looked down into his own glass, despondent. Idly, he could hear the door at the end of the bar that led to the bathrooms swing open. He nodded to himself, then looked back over to his old subordinate.

“You remember Sergeants Quinn and Wilcombe?”

Snake’s attention refocused itself on Willard’s face, his brown down turned and solemn. Willard’s thumb brushing up and down against the side of his whiskey glass, and his lips pursed in thought as his voice grew hushed.

Snake nodded slightly.

“From Operation Desert Snake,” he replied.

Willard took another sip. “They used to joke about me being the old guy of the group,” he said with rueful grin.

“‘Old…’ None of us had even reached our thirties yet. Twenty-nine years old, and you guys were calling me ‘old.’ Ha!”

Willard chuckled slightly, before returning to solemnity.

“They were good guys.”

“Yeah,” Snake agreed. “If it wasn’t for them, the rest of us might not have made it out. Real heroes.”

“It wasn’t a choice that they should’ve had to make,” Willard said. “But the mission had to come first, so I gave the order to have them cover our escape, and they followed it. They did their duty, but it was my choices that led them there, just like it was the choices of Rumsfeld, Cheney, and Bush that brought us out into that sandbox in the first place. We like to think we only bear the responsibility of our own individual choices, but the truth is, everything affects everything else, and our decisions have ripples.”

Willard turned to Snake and pulled out a small medal.

“I got this commendation for my command after that op. It was supposed to recognize me for leading us to victory on that day, crediting me with our success. But when I look at it, I also see a reminder of my failures. If I had made different choices, better choices, then maybe Quinn and Wilcombe would still be alive. But I’ll never know what those choices could have been, because they’re not here now.”

Willard returned the medal to his pocket. “The point I’m trying to make is this: we bear the responsibility for every choice we make, and its consequences. It’s important to remember this, and to carry the memory of those we’ve lost with us as we move forward into the future–not for the sake of dwelling on it, but to take it as a lesson and learn from it. They’re not here anymore, but we are–-and it’s important that we make sure that their sacrifices are worth something.”

Willard pointed at Snake. “You didn’t betray your people. You don’t carry the responsibility for that. But you are responsible for making sure that their sacrifices aren’t in vain. So, don’t wallow in their deaths, but continue to remember them for who they were. And then, focus on living, on moving forward. You understand?”

Snake didn’t look convinced, but he nodded a little. “I guess.”

Snake drank some more from the bottle, finishing his drink. Willard patted him on the shoulder, nodding towards the exit.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea. There’s someone I think you should see.”

“What do you mean?”

“You remember Lt. Reeves? He lives around here. I like to sometimes meet up with him for drinks after my evenings at the vet’s group. You should come with. We’ll catch up on old times.”

Snake’s eyes lit up a little. “Reeves is here?”

Willard smirked and nodded. “Yeah. So, come with me. Consider it an order. I can tell you’re in need of good people.”

Snake chuckled, turning to stand from the bar. “Maybe you’re right.”

Together, the two men paid their tabs and stood up from the bar and made their way into the humid St. Louis night. They stumbled through the dark, stopping only once at a corner convenience store to pick up a case of beer while they reminisced about old times under the dim streetlamps that stood vigil over the windswept pavement.

After a few blocks, Willard led Snake to a park and gestured ahead down a street alongside it.

“Almost there. It’s just a few houses down to the next corner.”

It’s a nice house, Snake thought to himself when they reached their destination. It was brick, built longways so that it extended inward away from the street. The front facade was a wooden patio with an overhead balcony for the second floor, both painted white against a pale pastel blue for the stairs and inner walls. On the front patio, sitting unused was a small table and a rocking chair.

The second-floor balcony door had an exterior screen door, while the main entrance had a much stronger-looking metal storm door. Snake also noticed that the front-facing windows by the first-floor entrance also had bars bolted over them on the outside. A chill went up his spine as he considered the implications, and he found himself looking over his shoulder out into the darkened streets.

Willard, for his part, looked unbothered as he strode up the stairs to the door, confidently banging on the storm door and pressing the doorbell a couple of times.

“Goddammit, I heard you! Gimme a minute, ya old prick,” yelled a voice from inside.

Willard turned to look at Snake with a mischievous smirk on his lips, jerking a thumb at the door as if to say, ‘will you get a load of this guy?’

After several minutes of waiting, there was the noise of a chain unlatching and the door unbolting. The door swung open inward, and through the metal screen of the storm door, Snake could just make out a short figure shadowed by the light inside.

“Well, if it isn’t Captain Willard,” came a gravelly voice.

“Evenin’, Lieutenant,” Willard greeted him.

“To what do I owe tonight’s visit this time, eh, sir?”

Willard flashed the case of beverages into view.

“Beer!” came the excited response, with a small clap of the hands and a barking laugh. The storm door was unlocked.

“And one other surprise,” Willard said as he opened the metal door.

“Oh?”

Willard stood aside to give Snake and Lt. Reeves a better look at each other.

Maxwell Reeves was much the worse for wear compared to when Snake had seen him last: when Snake had served in Lima Company, Reeves was a big, stocky fellow with a proud jawline and a gleam in his eye. Now, Reeves was confined to a wheelchair, his pant legs folded and pinned shut. His arms and shoulders were still muscled, but overall, he looked considerably thinner and reduced. He’d also ditched the regulation crew cut for a shaggier long-haired look, which combined with his stubble made him seem a little less put together. But the raucous laughing smile and gleaming stare never left his face–-it was the one thing about him that looked familiar.

Reeves squinted a little as he took in the extra guest that Willard had brought, before shining in recognition. His mouth dropped open slightly, his eyebrows raised.

“No…is that–-?”

Reeves rolled forward to get a closer look. Snake smiled a little.

“Long time no see, El-tee.”

Reeves grabbed Snake’s hand in both of his, shaking vigorously as he beamed. “Williams, it really is you! It’s good to see you, kid! I’d wondered what happened to you after you left us! What have you been up to?”

“Uh…it’s a long story,” Snake said. “A lot of which I can’t really tell.”

“Oh, so it’s like that, huh?” Reeves said, winking. “Alright, well come in, come in! Don’t just stand out there in the night, you’re both letting the A/C out!”

Together, Snake and Willard were admitted into the house. Reeves wheeled himself over to the stairs, where he connected the chair to a lift installed into the wall, lifted up the wheels and slowly rode up the stairs while his guests slowly followed behind. Once at the top of the stairs, Reeves led them down the hall towards the front of the house, where he turned off through a door to a study.

“Can I get you guys anything? My wife’s out of town visiting her parents, but I could heat something up for you if you like.”

Snake shook his head.

Willard patted the case. “We’ve got all we’ll need here for now, thanks.”

“Well, don’t let’s stand on ceremony! Pass ‘em around,” exclaimed Reeves.

“‘Stand on ceremony?’” Snake asked, amused.

Reeves rolled his eyes with a smirk. “You know what I mean, smartass. Here, hand it over.”

Willard tore open the case, passed out two bottles, and grabbed one for himself. Reeves rolled over by the window while Snake and Willard got comfortable in two leather armchairs that sat opposite against the wall.

Reeves grabbed a bottle opener off the shelf and cracked open his beer with a hiss before handing it out to the others.

“So, where’d you find the little pip-squeak?” Reeves asked Willard, gesturing to Snake.

Willard gratefully accepted the opener, then handed it off to Snake, thumbing in his direction. “Found him at the watering hole, by chance. Though the way he tells it, it was more like he found me.”

“Turned into a little stalker, did you?” Reeves asked Snake, chuckling. “And here I’d begun to think maybe you’d have forgotten about us.”

“Never,” Snake said with a grin, a little too earnestly.

“And where, pray tell, have you been hiding and sneaking around all this time? I haven’t seen hide nor hair from you since you left the unit back at the end of the war.”

Snake chuckled a little, taking a sip of his beverage. “Got picked up by a new outfit,” he said. “They gave me some kind of special training, kept me busy.”

“This new outfit got a name?” Reeves asked curiously.

Snake shrugged. “Not one I can really discuss amongst polite company. They’re very, uh... shy . Hush-hush, ‘need-to-know’ type deal.”

“Ooh, mysterious!” Reeves said. “Sounds exciting.”

“It was,” Snake admitted. “Maybe a little too much excitement, if you ask me.”

Snake’s smile faded, his gaze drifting away from his friend and comrade.

Reeves sighed, giving a sympathetic nod. He gestured to his chair with a somber smile. “Yeah, I’m no stranger to ‘too much excitement,’ as I’m sure you can tell.”

Snake smiled back, nodding a little. He looked briefly at the wheels. “Mind if I ask what happened?”

“Only if you tell me why you’re so sad and skinny now.”

“I can try, but I can’t talk a lot about it.”

“That’s okay,” Reeves said with a sad grin. “Neither can I. It ain’t exactly a happy memory. It is one I’m proud of, though.”

“Proud of? You mean, the reason you lost your-–?” Snake cut himself off.

Reeves rolled his eyes. “The reason I lost my legs, yes. Barbed wire and shrapnel from a landmine ruined ‘em. Had to move quickly–any slower and Fitzpatrick might have bought it.”

“Fitzpatrick?”

Willard cut in. “Staff Sergeant Clarence Fitzpatrick. He was brought in to replace you after you were transferred.”

“Less of a wet-behind-the-ears rookie than you, but still just a kid,” Reeves said. “He was a good one, though. That’s why I had to step in. Landmine would’ve taken him out if I hadn’t.”

Reeves looked down at his lap, suddenly somber. “Too bad it didn’t end up making much of a difference.”

Snake tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“We heard news a little while ago that Fitzpatrick had shot himself in his Chicago apartment,” Willard cut in. “Just…up and cracked.”

Willard’s eyes turned a little glassy and unfocused.

“He didn’t have anyone around to help him…and for whatever reason, he couldn’t get the benefits from the V.A. that he was entitled to. He was…alone. We didn’t know about it till after.” Willard’s hands clutched into fists.

“He’s not the only one who never really made it back,” Reeves said. “You remember Sgt. Greene?”

Snake nodded. “Yeah. I liked listening to his jokes. He was always talking about opening up a music shop when he got back home to Oregon.”

“He did, for a while,” Reeves replied. “Had it open for a few years. By all accounts, he and his wife were doing pretty well.”

“So, what happened?”

“A few weeks back, we got news that he’d been shot. Right out in the middle of the street in broad daylight.” Reeves went quiet for a moment, before finishing: “They still haven’t found the shooter.”

“This was why I started the vet’s group here in St. Louis,” Willard said. “To let the others in this city know that they’re not alone. They’ve still got their brothers looking out for them. At the end of the day, we’ve still got each other’s backs.”

“Just wish it could’ve made a difference for Greene and Fitzpatrick,” Reeves muttered.

Snake nodded, closing his eyes. “I know what you mean.”

“Yeah? This have to do with why the Captain brought you in looking like a sad sack?”

Snake smirked a little, breathing out a short laugh. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“Well, spill the beans, kid. We’re here for you.”

Snake nodded. “When I left Lima, I was asked to join another unit. Can’t say the specifics, but they were involved in the kind of stuff you’d usually only hear stories about.”

Reeves whistled. “Sounds like you hit the lottery, kid. Assuming you ain’t telling us some tall fisherman’s tale.”

Snake lifted his hands. “I swear, it’s true. And yeah, I thought it was pretty cool too when I got in. The training was a lot harder than anything I could have expected. Took me three years before they finally let me join in as a member.”

“Three years? What, are they trying to make some kind of movie commando?” Willard chuckled.

Snake grinned. “Something like that. Anyway, they sent me on a mission a few months back. Again, can’t give details.”

“Right, right. You said that.”

“Well, in this mission, I was helping out some local forces. Arming them, prepping them, some rescue, that kind of thing. And in turn, they helped me out of a couple of jams themselves. These were really good people-–and in a short amount of time, they started taking cues from me. I was in a sort of…informal leadership position. Things were going well. But then…something happened.”

Snake examined the opening of his beer bottle, trying to think of the words.

“We were…betrayed. By someone in command over me. Somebody I trusted. And because of that, because I was fooled, because I trusted someone that I shouldn’t have, a lot of good people died–-people who had put their trust in me. To know and do what was best for them.”

Snake looked up at the other two men. “These people were my responsibility. And I failed them.”

“You said you were betrayed by someone in command?” Reeves asked.

Snake nodded.

“Where is he now? Court martial?”

“Dead.”

“Good.”

Reeves put a hand on Snake’s shoulder and squeezed, his face scrunched up into stone, a sympathetic combination of anger and compassionate sadness.

“That’s good,” he repeated in a whisper.

“I’d ask if you were the guy who got his ass, but I’m guessing you probably wouldn’t be able to tell us if you were, huh?”

Snake smirked slightly again, then shook his head.

“After that, I was pretty shaken up, as you might imagine,” Snake continued. “Got put on R&R for a while. Tried putting myself out there, finding someone. Therapy didn’t work. There was a lady in Wisconsin–-didn’t work out for very long. A few one-night stands.”

Snake shook his head again. “There was no one out there who I could really confide in. Nobody who could really understand what I’d gone through. Then I heard about Willard here, heard he’d been running Veteran’s group therapy sessions. Figured maybe I oughtta come see him. And then he brought me here to you.” Snake smiled at Reeves.

“Well, I’m glad he did,” Reeves said gruffly. “It’s good to see your face again, kid. Hopefully this means we might get to see more of you soon?”

“I don’t know,” Snake said honestly. “I’m still in the service, and my unit could call me back at any time. I’d like to keep seeing you guys between missions though…if that’s alright.”

Willard patted Snake on the back.

“Look, Williams,” Willard said. “You might think you carry the whole world on your shoulders, but don’t forget you still got friends–you got people looking out for you. You still got your brothers, no matter what. Alright?”

Snake smiled, then looked away from his former commanding officer to wipe away tears that were forming before they could become noticeable.

They continued like that for a while, laughing and trading stories while drinking in the warm lamplight of the study. When the time hit about midnight, the phone on the desk next to the window started ringing. Reeves looked at it, annoyed.

“Who the hell is calling at this time of night?” he said, speech slightly slurred. “I’m-a give them a piece of my mind.”

He grabbed the receiver and held it to his ear. “Hello?” he asked roughly.

Snake and Willard looked at each other and chuckled before grabbing another couple of beers.

“What? Who is this?”

He lowered the receiver, covering the mouthpiece with a hand to regard the other two guys. “Get a load of this fucking guy,” he said, “asking about a snake. Must be some kinda crank caller.”

Snake went still, his face instantly sobering up into a stony mask. He looked to Willard, who cocked an eyebrow.

“This them you were talking about? How’d they get this place’s phone number?”

“They’ve got their ways,” Snake said.

“Excuse me, what are we talking about?” Reeves asked impatiently.

Snake reached out, gesturing with a wave of his hand. “They’re asking for me, Reeves. I’m ‘Snake.’ They’re probably wanting to call me in.”

“Creepy…,” Reeves muttered, pulling the receiver’s cord and handing it to Snake.

Snake held the phone to his ear. “This is Solid Snake,” he said. “Am I to report in?”

“Hallo, Schlange.”

Snake’s eyes widened in recognition, his breathing stopped. “Rat?”

Reeves looked over at Snake, then over to Willard pointing. “Did the kid just say ‘Rat?’”

Willard shushed him while Snake kept listening.

“I’ve come to collect on that debt you owe me.”

“This is about your brother?”

“Ja, in a matter of speaking. Mein Bruder ist jetzt bei mir, weißt du…ah, if only you could hear his voice as I could.”

“What do you mean, by that? Rat, where are you?”

“Very, very close by.”

Snake stood up, leaning forward to peer out at the night through one of the windows.

“Rat, whatever it is you’re planning on doing, let’s do it some other time when we don’t have bystanders. We can talk about this later, yeah? Let’s you and I meet. What do you say?”

“You know, it’s funny…you used to tell us in training that because you bounced around in the foster care system, that you had no real family. Just you. But now, I see that is not so true, is it?”

Snake’s blood ran cold. Willard and Reeves both tensed when they saw the fear in his face.

“...What are you getting at?” Snake demanded.

“We’re going to play a little game, Schlange. For taking mein Bruder away from me, I will take your brothers away from you. One by one by one. Then, you shall know how it truly feels to be left alone in this world. Once I am finished, I will come for you, and may the best soldier win. Sounds fun, ja?”

“Rat, no, you don’t have to do this. I’m the one you have a score to settle with, remember? There’s no need to rope in more people.”

“Oh, but I’ve already started, Schlange. In Oregon.”

Snake’s stomach felt like it fallen into a pit. Waves of nausea him all at once. His voice hissed out in a hushed whisper. “That was you? ”

“If you want to stop me, you’ll have to come find me. I’ll be waiting, Schlange. Let the games begin.”

The phone cut out suddenly. The line was dead. No dial tone.

Snake dropped the receiver, looking helpless at Willard and Reeves in turn.

“Williams…kid, you okay?” Reeves asked in concern.

Snake saw the open window next to Reeves, curtains pulled back. He shouted, “Get away from the window!”

Reeves’s head exploded, blood splattering against the wall behind him. Snake and Willard dove to the ground out of the window’s view.

“What the fuck!? ” Willard shouted out. “What the fuck just happened!? Reeves! REEVES!”

Snake grabbed Willard’s collar. “Captain! Focus! We’ve got a sniper! We need to move! We can’t stay here!”

Willard looked up into Snake’s face. “Williams…?”

“Does Reeves keep any firearms in his house? Do you know?”

Willard nodded. “He’s got a rifle around somewhere-–he used to go hunting before he lost his legs; I don’t think he’s likely to have gotten rid of it. He also told me he keeps his service pistol in this study. He’s shown it to me a few times.”

“Where?”

Willard pointed, and Snake quickly crawled, careful to keep his head out of the window’s view as he got to the desk, pulling out drawers onto the floor. He looked up briefly to see Reeves’s wheelchair toppled, his body slumped onto the floor, eyes wide open in a shocked stare locked onto Snake.

Snake tore his gaze away from what he perceived as a silent accusation, whispering under his breath, “Sorry about this, Reeves....”

Looking through the desk’s contents scattered on the floor, Snake quickly found Reeves’s Beretta M9 and a spare magazine. He pulled back the slide and quickly ejected the mag to check it.

Full ammunition. Good.

He looked across the room at Willard, who was against the opposite wall, just out of the view of the second window. He looked carefully through the glass, then jumped back as another two shots fired through, shattering it and sending shards of broken glass all over the carpet.

“Did you see where the shots are coming from, Captain?”

Willard blinked, shaking his head. “South…maybe a little southwest. Up the street. I didn’t see the flash, so I didn’t see the roof.”

They began to hear screaming–the neighbors in all the houses had heard the gunshots. Snake leaned out slightly, saw a flash, then jumped back as more glass was shattered next to him. Snake pulled down the curtains over the window, then tipped over a bookshelf in the corner to fall onto the desk, covering the window.

Snake sidled up to the other window opposite from Willard. He quickly leaned out and fired two shots in the direction of where he saw the flash before ducking back into the room.

Snake pointed to the door. “We need to get out of this room!”

Snake dove forward and crawled, Willard close behind. Bullets tore through the walls into the floor behind them. They pulled themselves back to their feet and sprinted down the stairs. Willard looked down the hall and spotted the kitchen.

Willard pointed. “Back door’s this way! Come on!”

Willard rushed forth through the doorway, hearing a click from the stove next to him as he put his hand on the back door’s handle. He spun around, running back toward Snake.

“Wait! Stay back–-”

Willard got as far as the doorway back into the hall before the stove exploded, the force of which sent Willard tumbling over the hard wooden floor back to Snake. Snake fell to the ground to get to Willard, coughing.

They could feel an intense heat; smoke was rising up into the ceilings. Snake looked into the kitchen to see that everything had been set ablaze.

“Come on, Captain, get up! We’ve gotta go!”

Captain Willard was clutching his side-–his shirt and pant leg were turning a deep burgundy color in places. Snake grabbed Willard’s arm and put it around his shoulder, painfully pushing Willard up to his feet.

“Come on, sir, get moving!”

Together they limped back down the hall to the front door as the ceiling beams began to catch fire and burning wood started falling down around them. Snake yanked open the front door and pushed open the storm door with his back as he led his friend through onto the porch, where they both collapsed.

Snake pushed himself up, then grabbed Willard to sling him over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. He stepped down two steps of the porch before another explosion went off, lifting him off of his feet. Together, they tumbled head over heels onto the hard asphalt.

Snake coughed, pushing himself up onto his elbows, and scrambling over to Willard, who was lying lifelessly. He flipped Willard over onto his back to get a better look at him. He opened Willard’s eyelids a little wider and slapped his face.

“Sir? Sir!? Captain Willard!? Can you hear me!?”

He put his hands over Willard’s face, didn’t feel breathing. He checked his pulse but couldn’t feel anything. Thinking it was because of the slick blood on Willard’s neck, Snake put his ear to Willard’s chest.

Nothing.

“No, no, no, no…” Snake whispered desperately to himself.

He got up onto his knees, hand over hand and positioned his palm over Willard’s heart.

“One…two…three…one…two…three,” Snake counted the compressions, then leaned over to hold onto Willard’s head as he breathed into his old CO’s windpipe.

Two breaths, six compressions. Two breaths, six compressions.

Nothing seemed to be working. Snake looked around wildly. He didn’t see Rat on any of the roofs, but he did see plenty of onlookers watching from their lit windows.

Snake kept doing compressions, but screamed out, “SOMEBODY CALL NINE-ONE-ONE, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!!!”

Snake did two more compressions, looking into Willard’s glassy stare.

“No, no, no,” he muttered. “Wake the fuck up, damn you! Get up, Captain! GET UP! ”

Next thing he knew, Snake felt light-headed, beginning to slump over, only to feel arms hook up under his armpits, dragging him away. Snake thrashed, trying helplessly to get out of the grip of whoever was dragging him.

“No-–let me go! Let me get to the captain! Please…!” Snake’s voice felt weak, his vision clouding.

“Why, Rat…?” he asked, as he started losing consciousness. “Why…it should have been me. It should have been me…”

“…And that’s it.”

There wasn’t much in the way of response, just the quiet scratchings of pen on paper as Mallory continued to take notes. When he spoke up again, it was in a quiet, detached voice.

“You said that FOXHOUND agent Sniper Rat killed these two men because of their connection to you.”

“And apparently, Sgt. Thomas Greene, too. I didn’t know about his death until that night, though.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll follow up on that. I’m more interested in Sniper Rat’s motives right now. You said this was in retaliation for something? He thinks you killed his brother?”

Snake nodded, not looking Mallory in the eye, his gaze kept fixed on his shackled hands.

“…That’s right.”

“Why does he believe you killed his brother?”

“Because I did.”

“When?”

“Earlier this year. During my mission in South Africa. I encountered him as an enemy combatant.”

The pen scratchings stopped. Mallory leaned forward. “And Sniper Rat knew this…how?”

Snake looked up slightly. The defeated look in Snake’s eyes told Mallory everything he needed to know.

“You told him, didn’t you...?”

Snake nodded pitifully.

“Un-fucking-believable…” Mallory muttered under his breath.

“He deserved to know,” Snake interjected.

“He would’ve been informed of his brother’s death by FOXHOUND once they had processed the information.”

“He deserved to hear it from a friend. I didn’t know it would send him off the deep end. I-I didn’t think–”

Mallory slammed his fist onto the table, making Snake jump.

“Yeah, bet you didn’t think, you stupid son of a bitch!” Mallory jabbed a finger into the younger FOXHOUNDer’s face.

“You revealed confidential information from a FOXHOUND operation to someone outside the need-to-know, outside of a SCIF! Does the phrase ‘Top Secret/Secure Compartmentalized Information’ not have any fucking meaning to you!?”

Snake flinched but said nothing in defense of himself.

“You’re likely going to end up discharged and sent to Leavenworth for this. If it were up to me, you’d be buried in the deepest, darkest hole I can find! Far as I’m concerned, rookie, you killed those men from Lima! Because you couldn’t keep your fucking mouth shut!”

At the shock of his words, Snake looked up into Mallory’s face, meeting his eyes properly for the first time since he started his story. He stood up quickly, wanting to say something in his defense, but as soon as he met the wrath of Mallory’s stare, all trace of indignation left Snake’s body, and he crumpled back down into his seat, retreating into his Thousand-Yard Stare.

There was a moment of silence. Mallory started gathering up his things and putting his materials back into his bag. He stood up and moved toward the door.

“What are you doing?” Snake asked.

“I’ve got enough to get my investigation started.”

Snake sat up in his chair, pleading with Mallory. “Let me help. Please, I want to set this right.”

Mallory shook his head and extended his hand in a ‘stop’ gesture, shutting him down.

“You’ve done enough,” he said.

“Only reason you haven’t been sent to the UCMJ for a court-martial yet is because you don’t publicly exist, and I doubt FOXHOUND knows just what you’ve done. So you can stay here until I finish cleaning up your mess. By the time I come back here, I’ll have figured out what to do with you.”

“…Have I been charged with a crime?”

“Not yet. But don’t worry. There’s still time. Whether the locals keep you here or release you on bail, you’re not to leave town. Standing orders are to stay put in St. Louis, and under absolutely zero circumstances are you to interfere with my investigation or get in our way. Is that understood?”

“But–-”

Mallory strode over and leaned in, his face inches from Snake’s, full of loathing and menace.

“Is. That. Understood. Rookie?”

“S-sir. Yes, sir.”

With that, Mallory turned on his heels and exited the interrogation room, slamming the door behind him.

Chapter Text

Mallory pinched the bridge of his nose as he exited out into the hallway. All of the other government agents were facing him. Agent Steele was checking his watch next to Thompson, who leaned against the wall, arms folded. Juarez looked mildly concerned, while Blackthorne’s brow remained furrowed and taciturn.

There was a moment of silence as Mallory massaged his forehead, gritting his teeth. He sighed.

“What’d you learn?” Blackthorne asked, getting right to the point.

Mallory breathed in, then jabbed a thumb in the direction of the interrogation room’s closed door.

“Our man Snake here isn’t the one who set up the bombs. Rather, he was the target. Another vic, just like Cpt. Willard and Lt. Reeves.”

“So his name’s cleared? He’s not involved with the perpetrator?”

Mallory nodded. “Insofar as this investigation is concerned, yes.”

“So then why do you look so pissed?” Juarez asked.

Mallory growled, looking back at the interrogation room’s window. Snake sat there, staring at his shackled hands, looking lost and staring into space. For a moment, Mallory almost felt pity for him, but he squashed that thought just as quickly as he recalled what Snake’s blunder had led to. He turned back to the group.

“Let’s just say I caught our friend here spreading info to someone who wasn’t in the need to know. It’s the reason why he’s a target. I can’t explain any further than that.”

“Not in the ‘need-to-know’ list, huh?” Steele commented. Mallory didn’t respond.

Blackthorne shrugged. “Fine. Then let’s move on to what you can tell us.”

Mallory nodded. “Right. Well, to begin with, the man who perpetrated this crime isn’t a terrorist–by which I mean, this bombing and murder wasn’t politically or ideologically motivated. Not like Oklahoma. It wasn’t done at the hands of a rival government agency or hostile military either. It was personal. This entire setup was all for the sake of getting to our witness in there. And it’s not just them. As long as our perp remains at large, there’ll be other lives at stake.”

“What do you mean?” Blackthorne demanded.

“Our bad guy’s got a hit list. You might already know that our two dead vics were in the same Army company together?”

“Right, it was, uh, Lima Company, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right–specifically, anyone who served with Lima Company during the Gulf War prior to 1991.”

Mallory looked at Snake again, remembering the service record he’d pulled on the rookie from their training days. Snake wouldn’t have been older than nineteen, maybe twenty when they’d first met. Mallory did some quick math in his head.

“It’d be Berets serving in Lima between the years of 1989 and 1991, most likely from 1990 to 1991, if my guess is right.”

“Why such a specific time frame?” Thompson asked.

“Because I know that Snake knows these men personally. And I know how old Snake is. It narrows down the list of potential targets for our perp to go after.”

“So, we’re on a clock,” Blackthorne said grimly.

Mallory nodded. “I can get you the full list before the day’s out.”

“Why not just ask Snake?”

Malory shook his head vehemently. “I don’t want him anywhere near this investigation–can’t risk him trying to get involved. It isn’t safe: not for us, not for rest of the Lima men we need to save; it’s not even safe for him. Better we just keep him out of it for the time being.”

“What about our perp? Were you able to find out who he is?”

Mallory nodded. “Yes…that’s another complication. I don’t know his real name, and his service record is going to be classified in the same way that Snake’s identity is.”

Blackthorne balked. The other two feds were similarly unhappy. Agent Juarez looked to his partner and opened his mouth to say something, but Mallory raised a hand and shook his head.

“I don’t think it’ll be a problem,” Mallory said. “It just means I have to make a few phone calls. I have enough to argue that you all should have a clear need-to-know, I just need to make sure I know what information I can share and what I’ll need to leave out. Our perp’s identity and skillset should be an easy enough ask, given what he’s been up to.”

Blackthorne looked irritated by the secrecy, but nodded begrudgingly. “I understand. How soon can you get us the information?”

“I’ll need to use a phone and a fax machine with a secure line–either at our offices or at yours,” Mallory explained. “The conversation itself should take no more than a few minutes, then add the time it’ll take for the records to be sent to me.”

“You can make the call from our St. Louis office,” Blackthorne said. “We’ll stop by there on the way to the Reeves residence.”

“Alright, that sounds good. One more thing.”

“What is it?”

“There’s no crime to charge Snake with, so sooner or later they’re going to have to let him go. I want him and all the Lima men, once we find them, placed under 24-hour surveillance.”

“Why?”

“He said he wouldn’t interfere, but I’m not willing to take Snake at his word. Like I said before, this was a personal vendetta. It’s vital that we keep an eye on him so that we can be sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Snake bounced his knee idly as he folded his hands and leaned forward. He thought about standing up to pace around the room to dispense the nervous energy, then thought better of it. He was frustrated–every second spent in this room was a second he could be spending warning his other brothers in Lima Company.

A clock loudly ticked on the wall above and behind him. He looked over his shoulder. It had been over forty-five minutes since Mallory had left him alone in the room, probably to go begin his investigation in earnest with the FBI spooks that dropped Snake off in here. Snake took a breath and coughed.

After a little while longer, a municipal police officer made her way inside, carrying two cups of coffee, one of which she handed to him. Snake silently accepted the Styrofoam with a polite and grateful smile.

“So have they made the call?” Snake asked. “Am I being charged with anything?”

The lady cop didn’t answer, instead wobbling her hand with a non-committal gesture.

Snake pushed on. “Then am I free to go, or am I to continue being detained?”

“You’re not yet free to go at this time,” she said diplomatically.

“In that case,” Snake sighed as he relaxed his shoulders and leaned back into his chair, “do you have a phone you can bring me? I’d like to make a call.”

“To your lawyer?” she asked.

This time it was Snake’s turn to remain silent, choosing instead to shrug his shoulders lightly while sipping his frankly terrible coffee. He grimaced.

The cop chuckled. “Yeah, sorry, the coffee here sucks.”

Snake grunted, taking another sip. “It’s fine,” he said. He gestured with the cup and repeated his request. “Phone?”

The officer side-eyed him, then shrugged with a mild roll of the eyes. “Give me a few minutes. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks,” Snake said. But the cop was already out the door.

Back to the silence. Snake recalled the last time he was detained against his will with nowhere to go. He shuddered involuntarily at the thought. That was a dark few days. The cops and feds might be unsympathetic, but at least they weren’t like the last jailor he had.

Compared to that, this is like staying at a resort, he mused to himself.

He kept drinking the shitty coffee.

When the cop returned, she motioned for Snake to follow and together they left the room down the hall to walk to a desk with a rotary phone. “You’ve got ten minutes. Use ‘em wisely,” she said.

Snake looked at the phone, hesitating at first. The line most likely wasn’t clean. He shook his head. It wouldn’t matter–he had a phone number to use for this exact situation. He picked up the receiver and dialed.

It took only one ring before the other line picked up.

“This is Cadet Ringworm speaking for code Foxtrot Hotel, manning the front desk. Is this a clean, secure line?”

The voice was young. A newbie. If he was leading his name with ‘cadet’ he must be the freshest of recruits. Snake softly chortled to himself at the poor bastard’s codename. Someone at the kid’s orientation must have been having a laugh, he thought.

“No,” Snake replied, trying his best to keep the laugh out of his voice and remain professional. “I’m calling from a municipal police station in St. Louis, Missouri.”

“Acknowledged. Please wait one moment while I make the necessary adjustments.”

Snake glanced at the cop who was absent-mindedly checking her watch. Snake cleared his throat nervously. Hopefully this wouldn’t take long.

“Ready to receive,” Ringworm’s voice said. “Please state your name and the reason for your call so that I may direct you accordingly.”

“Code is ‘Solid Snake,’” Snake replied. “I am requesting immediate assistance with a matter off-base. Is Master Miller in his office?”

There was a brief pause.

“He is. Would you like me to connect you to him?”

“Please.”

Only seconds passed while Snake waited, but it felt agonizingly slow to his mind. The lady cop was looking as impatient as he felt. She caught him looking, and raised seven fingers. Snake nodded.

He heard the phone pick up. A gruff and tired male voice spoke into his ear. “This is Kazuhira Miller. Snake, is that you?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry to bother you,” Snake said.

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all. If anything, I could use the distraction. The kid at the desk said you needed help with something?”

“In a manner of speaking, sir. I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a mess that needs cleaning up. It’s my fault–it happened because I was careless.”

”…What kind of mess?”

“The kind that’s putting some people I care about in danger.”

“Is this about the explosion in St. Louis the other night?”

Snake held the phone away from his face, shutting his eyes as he grimaced. He cursed under his breath. Of course, Miller already knew about it. Chances were good that he already knew everything from Mallory, the CID, and the FBI. He braced himself, putting the phone back to his ear.

“Yes, sir. I’m guessing you already know everything?”

“I know enough. Mouse called earlier asking for records on Sniper Rat. I’m guessing he’s the culprit.”

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

A moment of silence passed.

“Okay, Snake. Listen to me very carefully. Understand?”

Miller’s voice dropped an octave, the growl almost a whisper. Snake recognized the shift in tone from his training days back when Miller was a drill instructor. It was the voice he’d use to let a cadet know that they’d severely fucked up right before he’d start barking for intense PT drills for the whole class as collective punishment until they all got sick.

Snake swallowed, once again bracing himself. “Yes, sir.”

“You might remember the deal I offered you before releasing you for R&R.”

Snake remembered. He was supposed to use his time off to get his head on straight and decide whether he wanted to stay with FOXHOUND or leave on an honorable discharge. Master Miller had told him that he deserved better following the shit-show in South Africa back in March, and so Miller was offering Snake something that, in his words, he had never himself received: a choice.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you won’t be able to make use of that choice if you get court martialed and sent to Leavenworth. So, if you want to still have a home here to come back to, I suggest cleaning up this mess before Mouse can. Preferably quietly, if at all possible. But either way, quiet or not, you must take care of it yourself. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Snake nodded, then remembered he was on the phone and replied, “Yes, sir. Loud and clear.”

“Good. Now, tell me what you need.”

“I only need two things, sir.”

“Name them.”

“First, I need a list of every member of Lima Company I’ve served with, including their current status and home addresses.”

“Mouse asked for something similar.”

Snake nodded to himself. No surprises there.

“And the second thing?”

“I’m currently being held at the St. Louis Police Department headquarters for questioning.”

“Have you been charged with any crimes?”

“Not at this time. But they’re not letting me go, either. I suspect that’s Mouse’s doing.”

“You’re probably right.”

Snake looked at the lady cop, who was impatiently tapping her watch. Time was almost up.

“I could use a little help on that front, sir.”

“Consider it done. Sit tight. I’ll fax the list over and have you out of there in twenty.”

“Thank you, sir.” Snake moved to hang up the receiver before hearing Miller’s voice chime in.

“And, Snake?”

“Sir?”

“Remember. Get it done.”

“Yes, sir.”

Snake hung up and followed the cop back to the interrogation room. As promised, twenty minutes later two more cops came in to hand him the papers Miller had faxed and to unlock Snake’s handcuffs, neither of them looking too happy about having to release him.

When Snake walked out into the lobby on his way outside, he found himself stopped by one of the FBI agents who’d had him apprehended earlier that day. Agent Steele, his name was, Snake thought.

“Can I help you?” Snake asked.

“Where are you headed?” Steele asked, his lazy smile not quite reaching his eyes.

Snake plucked at his burned clothes. “I was thinking I’d head back to my hotel. Get a shower, change of clothes. You didn’t exactly drag me here looking presentable.”

“Uh-huh. Well, tell you what, why don’t you come with me, I’ll give you a ride so you don’t have to waste money on a cab.” Steele fished a ring of keys out of his pocket, jingling them slightly.

“Uh, thank you, but I don’t mind heading back myself.”

Steele leaned his head forward, his smile oddly fixed and artificial while his eyes conveyed menace. “Please,” he said with a faux affable tone. “I insist.”

Snake shrugged, doing his best to hide his annoyance. While it was convenient to have a chauffeur, the last thing he needed was a Fed playing babysitter. He needed to lose Steele as soon as possible. But, first things first: he wasn’t lying about needing a shower and a change of clothes.

Snake gestured toward the large doors of the police station’s main entryway. “Lead the way,” he said, fighting to stifle the sarcasm creeping into his throat.

Together, the two men made their way to the police station parking area. Steele glanced at the papers in Snake’s hand.

“What’s with the papers?” he asked.

“Oh, these?” Snake said. “Technically I’m supposed to be on vacation, but I’m on call. My employer had some forms to fax over to me. I suspect I’ll be spending my whole afternoon working on it when I get back to my room.”

“Uh-huh,” Steele replied skeptically. “Mind if I take a look?”

“I do mind, actually,” Snake replied with an apologetic and slightly offended smile. “It’s confidential, you see.”

Snake folded the papers in half, careful not to flash the text at the fed, and slipped it into his shirt. He motioned toward an unassuming black sedan with government plates.

“That you?” he asked.

“Yep,” Steele said, unlocking the doors so they both could get inside.

Snake climbed into the backseat while Steele locked eyes with him in the rearview mirror.

“You know, you can ride shotgun if you want,” Steele said.

Snake shrugged, looking away. “I’m okay.”

“Suit yourself.”

It was a forbidding landmark. A skeletal husk of charred wood and blackened rebar clawed up at the overcast sky, wrapped in the cracked and crumbling foundations of brick and concrete. Half the house had sunken inward on one side from where the weight had been too much for what was left of the foundations to carry. The open entryway where the front door had once stood was blocked by a flimsy barricade of yellow police tape, the porch taped over with signs warning of danger and telling visitors to stay away.

The front lawn was scarred and ruined. Though the debris and detritus from the explosions had since been cleared away for roadside safety, it was impossible to hide the evidence of what had taken place just a few nights ago. Mallory looked around at the other nearby houses, and found the faces of scared and curious neighbors peeking out between blinds and curtains, only to quickly disappear back into their homes when they locked eyes with him.

Agent Blackthorne sighed. “It sure is something, isn’t it?”

Juarez nodded. “Yeah…”

“You said local authorities had already combed this place?” Mallory asked.

Blackthorne replied, “Yep, that’s right.”

“Okay. Just to make sure we make good use of our time, run me through what they’ve found already one more time.”

“Bullets lodged in the foundations under the second floor, there was one in the wall with signs of organic matter–I’m thinking that’s the one that killed Lt. Reeves.”

“Any indication where they were fired from, other than general direction?”

Blackthorne shook his head. “Ballistics hasn’t gotten to that yet.”

Mallory nodded, motioning to Juarez to take notes. “Well, maybe I can help us narrow it down when I get inside to see the bullet holes. What else?”

“Residue from the pipes, like I said before. We think at least one of the explosive devices used was planted behind the oven in the kitchen, or maybe under where the sink was. The only thing we’ve been able to figure out was that our bomber didn’t use fertilizer, so if it was improvised, it’s unlikely that he used the same method as our man in Oklahoma.”

“Which further proves that that this bombing was completely unrelated, matching up with the witness’s version of events,” Juarez pointed out.

Mallory nodded. “Good, good. What about any other witnesses? You or the cops canvass the neighborhood?”

Blackthorne sighed. “The locals are all ‘see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.’ It’s hard to tell who’s just oblivious and obstinate, and who might have been intimidated or paid off into silence by the sniper. Speaking of, you haven’t said yet what you got from those docs your people faxed to you. Any reason you haven’t shared yet?”

Mallory shook his head, pulling two manila folders from his bag and handing each one to Blackthorne and Juarez. “I just needed time to look it over on the car ride here to make sure I could make any necessary redactions before I handed it off. Our perp’s name is Johann Müller. He’s a former counter-terrorist for the German GSG9. Sniper, and an expert with traps and explosives.”

“German? I thought you said that other governments weren’t involved in this?”

“They’re not. Our boy Johann left the GSG9 back in ’91. He’s been in America ever since. He and Snake met shortly after Johann came stateside.”

Blackthorne raised his eyebrow. “Where’d they meet?”

“Training for a special project I’m not at liberty to share. I assume that’s where they became associates.”

Blackthorne closed the folder and turned to him. “You know, before you got these documents, you said you already knew Snake. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s why the CID brought you in on this. You also already knew that he and the perp came from the same place. I take it you used to be part of this ‘project’ you’re speaking of?”

“No comment.”

The FBI Special Agent nodded skeptically. “Uh-huh.”

Agent Juarez looked over to his senior partner. Mallory, a former secret G-Man…guess that would explain a lot, Juarez thought. He made a mental note to ask Mallory about it later when they weren’t in mixed company.

Together the trio carefully climbed up the splintered porch stairs and through the threshold of the ruined house, where they found the main staircase off to the side, surprisingly mostly intact.

A forensic crime scene investigator from the local police department led the way up the stairs, warning as they gingerly ascended, “Careful where you step and with how you distribute your weight, unless you wanna find yourself falling down a hole.”

The CSI gestured to an open doorway when they reached the top of the stairs. “This is where the bullets were found. Pretty sure this is where everything went down before the big boom,” he explained.

They all filed in, seeing the crumbled remains of a bookcase and desk sitting in a pile of their own ashes next to a couple of crusty and blackened fake leather armchairs, which looked torn to hell. The floor was littered with ash, wood splinters, and broken glass and other debris. The walls inside, adjacent to the door opposite of the window openings where glass used to be, were marked by the CSI group to clearly denote the holes where bullets were found.

Mallory stepped forward, bending over to examine the bullet holes carefully. “You said one of the bullets you picked up had organic matter on it?”

“That’s right.”

“Show me where you found it.”

The CSI strode forward confidently and pointed to a deep hole a little less big around than Mallory’s finger. Mallory came up close to examine it, shining a pen light into it.

“7.62x51 millimeter, just like you said,” Mallory said in a low voice.

“When we pulled out the expended round, there some bits of brain and skull fragments on it,” the CSI said. “Guessing it went clean through and punched straight to the other side. A nice, clean hit.”

Mallory crouched slightly to put himself at eye level with the hole, then did an about-face to see the window out into the neighborhood beyond. “So, a roughly straight line,” he muttered.

“We know it came from up the street, we just don’t know which house. And we haven’t gotten the warrants we need yet to conduct a more thorough search,” Blackthorne folded his arms, looking at the two CID agents accusatorily. “When we heard the CID was getting jurisdiction on this, it was decided to just wait on you.”

Mallory squinted slightly, before jutting out his arm. The motion was so sudden that both Blackthorne and Juarez jumped slightly.

“It’s that one,” Mallory declared. “That’s the house.”

Juarez looked at where Mallory was pointing to. “That blue house up the street?”

Mallory shook his head. “No, the white brick one right next to it. Two-story, got kind of a flat roof on one side. You see it?”

“Yeah,” Juarez said. “What makes you so sure it’s that one, though?”

“The angle, mostly. If I were to take up a sniper position on this house, it’s the spot I would pick. Which means our bomber most likely conducted his op from there.”

“You wanna walk over there, check it out?”

Mallory stood up. “In a minute. I want to check out the kitchen first. Come on.”

The group slowly and carefully descended the stairs one at a time, then headed to the remains of the kitchen in the back, which was little more than an open aperture now, with only the twisted remains of cooking appliances and a dishwasher on the floor and in the backyard to indicate that there was ever a kitchen here. It was around here where the house had started to sink in on itself, and the back exterior wall where the back door was now nothing more than gravel on the tiled floor and back porch.

Mallory looked at the bits and pieces of metal splayed out on the back lawn and on the floor like the drawn-out organs of a gutted game hunter’s trophy. As they navigated the architectural corpse on which they trespassed, they made note of the scorch marks which appeared to be the initial explosion’s origin point.

Mallory, Blackthorne, and Juarez crouched low while the CSI tech hovered over their shoulders. “We’d found chemical residue in the area, but it’s still being analyzed back at the lab. All we know for sure is that it’s not a fertilizer bomb.”

“Rules out ammonium nitrate, but you know, there’s other ways to improvise an explosive,” Blackthorne said.

“Hm…,” Mallory said, not really responding. He held a pensive look on his face.

“What are you thinking?” Juarez asked curiously.

“You remember that thing back in March? Up at Lake Superior?”

“You think it might be related?”

“Maybe. At the very least, it’ll help me narrow down whether or not Müller picked up his supplies there.”

Blackthorne butted in impatiently. “Don’t leave me in suspense here, fellas. What’s Lake Superior got to do with this?”

“There was an investigation earlier this year about some weapons and materials that had gone missing from a military installation up north. There were rumors of embezzlement,” Juarez explained.

“Except what most people don’t know, including most of the CID, is that the embezzlements were more than just a rumor,” Mallory said. “A high-ranking figure was caught stealing American munitions to supply a rival faction. This figure happened to be an important member of the group that Johann and Snake are a part of. They wanted it kept hush-hush, so the only way one would know about it is if you were part of the CID task force investigating at the time, or if you were a member of the clandestine group itself.”

“So, which reason got you in the loop?” Blackthorne asked.

“I was working for the CID at the time.”

“Were you on the task force that investigated the embezzlement claims?” Juarez asked.

Mallory didn’t answer.

He stood back up, wiping his hands on his pants as he rose. “I’ll need to make some phone calls when we’re finished here, so I can rule out at least one possible source for our perp’s munition. I’m hoping I’m wrong, but if I’m not, it’s possible our bomb wasn’t improvised at all, and this guy’s just carrying around a case of stolen military hardware, which means we’ve also got a leak to plug, in addition to our already existing problems.”

Mallory led through the side gate back around to the front of the house, then kept walking up the street at a brisk pace, forcing Blackthorne and Juarez to jog to keep up. He brought them to a halt in front of the white house he’d pointed out earlier.

“This is it,” he said.

Blackthorne took out a notepad and made a note of the address. “We’ll need to get a warrant to inspect the property.”

The front door opened, revealing a small old man with a plaid shirt tucked into his jeans and thick glasses.

“Can I help you?”

Agent Juarez nodded over to Mallory, and took a step forward up the small path to the door. “Uh, yeah, hi there! How’re you doing today, sir?”

The old man looks from one man to the other. “Fine, thanks for asking.”

Juarez smiled, pointing to his cohorts. “That’s good. Uh, my name’s Agent Juarez, this is my friend, Agent Mallory. We’re with the United States Army’s Criminal Investigation Division. And this is Special Agent Blackthorne, of the FBI.”

The two men waved as Juarez introduced them. The old man’s eyes widened slightly.

“Criminal? FBI? W-why’d you come to my place? I haven’t done anything.”

“I’m sure you haven’t, sir,” Juarez said reassuringly. “We’re currently canvassing the whole neighborhood for information regarding a bombing that took place a few days ago.”

“Oh, that.” The old man shook his head. “Such a terrible thing. Maxie was such a good neighbor. Everyone on the street liked him.”

“You knew him well?” Blackthorne asked.

“Oh, sure. He was especially active in the veterans’ community. He and I would sometimes attend group sessions at the gym on Thursdays.”

“You served?”

The old man nodded, a hint of pride in his eyes. “Korea, nineteen fifty-one,” he confirmed.

“What branch?”

“Oh, I was a Navy man. Served with the Seventh Fleet on the USS Pickaway.”

“Oh, that’s a hell of a coincidence,” Juarez said. “My granddad was Navy back then, too; USS Comstock.”

“Was he, now?”

Juarez laughed. “Yeah, he definitely had a lot to say about me going into the Army instead.”

“Ha, I bet he did,” the old man chuckled. “I’m sure he’s proud of you, though.”

Juarez’s smile widened. “He is.” He blinked in realization. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir, I never asked your name.”

“I’m Daniel Clooney,” the old man said, stepping out off the porch to shake Juarez’s hand. “So, you fellas say you’re investigating Maxie’s death? Well, I’d sure love to help you, if I can. What can I do for you?”

Mallory looked over at Blackthorne’s impressed expression, and smiled to himself with pride. This was why he and Juarez worked so well together–Mallory was good at finding evidence, but Juarez was good with people.

“Well, you see, Mr. Clooney–”

“Call me Danny.”

Juarez chuckled a little. “Well, Danny, we’ve found evidence onsite that the bombing was conducted remotely. There have been witnesses telling us that gunshots were fired at Lt. Reeves’s house from this direction. Did you hear anything like that before the explosion?”

Danny’s face clouded over as he nodded. “I heard some loud bangs. I’m a bit hard of hearing these days so it didn’t trouble me too much, but it upset my dog Daisy something fierce. I thought maybe it was some punk kids playing with firecrackers left over from Fourth of July. It’s happened a lot over the years and it sounds so similar, I’ve had to tell myself that there was no way it could be gunfire. But that was before the explosion.”

Danny shook his head sadly. “It figures that the one time it’s the real thing, I brush it off like it’s nothing.”

Juarez comfortingly puts a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You couldn’t have known, sir.”

Danny nodded, stone-faced. “You said it came from around here? What are you thinking? A rifle?”

Juarez nodded. “We think the shooter was using the roofs of one of the houses in the neighborhood. We’re hoping maybe he got sloppy, left some evidence behind. Maybe a bullet casing or something.”

Juarez pointed to his men. “With your permission, sir, we were hoping to ask if maybe we could have a look around your property.”

“Don’t you normally need a warrant for that?”

“We would. We’d have to leave and find a judge, and come back to serve the warrant. But it would take time, and every second we wait is more time for the killer to get away. If you want to help us, we would really appreciate it.”

The old man looked Juarez up and down, appraising him. “You said you’re CID?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was the killer one of our own?” he said in a hushed whisper.

Juarez’s eyebrows raised. “You’re pretty sharp.”

Danny grunted. “I’m not senile yet.” He tilts his head in thought. “I’ll let you look over the property, on one condition.”

“Name it, sir.”

“You boys join me for lunch.”

Juarez smiled, then flashed a thumb’s up over to Mallory.

“We can do that.”

As Snake entered his hotel room, he leaned and pressed his back against the door, sighing. It had been a hell of a few days. He grabbed the padded armchair from the corner, pulled it from its spot, and pushed up against the door. He didn’t know if the FBI agent was going to try to get inside at any point, but he wanted to narrow down the possibilities for interruptions.

He strode over to the bed and opened up the bag he’d left lying next to the nightstand and fished out a fresh change of clothes, peeling off the grimy ones he’d been wearing for the past couple of days and practically running into the shower.

Once clean, he looked over to the chair once again. Satisfied that it hadn’t moved, he sat down at the desk and opened up the manila folder to look at the names of all of the Lima Company soldiers he’d served with over four years ago. In addition to names and addresses, there was also a list with three columns of each Beret’s name, rank, and their current status:

He looked down the top, and immediately had to swallow as he saw familiar names at the top:

Willard, Shawn                            Captain                            Status: RETIRED

                                                                                          (Honorable Discharge)

Reeves, Maxwell K.                     First Lieutenant                Status: RETIRED

                                                                                          (Medical Discharge)

Greene, Thomas                         Sergeant                          Status: DECEASED

Snake closed his eyes shut, and shook his head, feeling the well of regret rise up in his gut, the stomach acid threatening to rise and burn his throat. With a slow stroke of a red felt-tip Sharpie, he crossed out the ‘Retired’ under Cpt. Willard’s and Lt. Reeves’ name s and wrote “DECEASED” in big red letters.

He moved on down the list.

Chrichton, Lawrence                            Staff Sergeant                            Status: RETIRED

                                                                                                            (Honorable Discharge)

Morris, Timothy                                   First Lieutenant                         Status: HELD IN LEAVENWORTH

                                                                                                            (Dishonorable Discharge)

Snake’s eyes widened, brows raised. He never would have expected one of their own to be up to anything shady. He flipped through the pages, and found an addendum containing details of Morris’s conviction.

FIRST LT. TIMOTHY MORRIS FOUND CRIMINALLY LIABLE FOR EMBEZZLEMENT OF UNITED STATES ARMY MEDICAL RESOURCES.

LIEUTENANT MORRIS HAS BEEN STRIPPED OF HIS RANK AND HAS BEEN SENTENCED TO A FINE OF $250,000, AND TEN YEARS'

IMPRISONMENT AT THE UNITED STATES DISCIPLINARY BARRACKS IN FORT LEAVENWORTH, KANSAS.

“Embezzlement of medical resources?” Snake muttered to himself. “What the hell could he have stolen?”

Well, if he’s in Leavenworth, then he was probably the safest out of anyone in Lima, given its status as a Level III Maximum Security prison. Still, it was a shame to see one of his old friends had apparently let greed get the better of him. Snake made a small note next to Morris’s name saying ‘Leavenworth,’ and continued.

Quinn, Michael C.              Sergeant              Status: KILLED IN ACTION

                                                                    (SEPT. 12, 1990)

Snake sighed. He remembered Quinn. Good guy. Died with Sergeant Wilcombe back during Operation Desert Snake. He wrote a checkmark next to the name. Accounted for.

Jackson, Terrence K.              Special Forces Warrant Officer                            Status: HELD IN LEAVENWORTH

                                                                                                                       (Dishonorable Discharge)

Again? Snake checked for Jackson’s rap sheet. It was the same crime as Lt. Morris. Same sentence, too. Were the two working together? It said they were embezzling medical supplies. Were they running a drug ring? Snake felt his lip curl in disgust, then shook his head. No. That didn’t sound like them. There had to be some other explanation. He made a mental note to make time to investigate their situation once this business with Sniper Rat was all over. He continued down the list.

O’Brien, James R.                 Master Sergeant              Status: RETIRED

                                                                                  (Honorable Discharge)

Wilcombe, Lyle D.                Sergeant                         Status: KILLED IN ACTION

                                                                                  (SEPT. 12, 1990)

Perez, Carlos                       First Lieutenant              Status: HELD IN LEAVENWORTH

                                                                                 (Dishonorable Discharge)

Snake checked the rap sheet, confirming his suspicions. Yup, same crime and sentence. Seems all three of them were likely involved together in whatever scheme they were running. He made another note.

Torres, Matthew H.              Special Forces Warrant Officer                            Status: RETIRED

                                                                                                                     (Medical Discharge)

Williams, David R.                Second Lieutenant                                             Status: MISSING IN ACTION

                                                                                                                    (Details Classified Top Secret/

                                                                                                                    Secure Compartmentalized information)

Snake was surprised to see his own name on the list. He hadn’t expected for there to be any acknowledgement of his pre-FOXHOUND existence in any military records. Interesting. He looked at the bottom of the list. There was an addendum noting his replacement at Lima, Staff Sgt. Fitzpatrick, status listed as deceased. That accounted for everyone, then.

Snake pulled out a notebook and quickly jotted down his own list of names and addresses, along with accompanying notes, writing through several layers of coded cipher. He then grabbed the FOXHOUND document, held it over the sink in the bathroom, and flicked open his lighter, setting the papers aflame. Once they seemed sufficiently burned, he turned on the faucet to douse the flames before the smoke detectors could be set off, then carefully wiped the ashes into the trash with a paper towel.

Snake shoved his notebook into his backpack, then dug through his meager belongings.

Good. His envelope with the cash stipend and documents for his false civilian identity were still there. He wasn’t sure if the FBI had come into the hotel room after they’d apprehended him, but he wanted to be sure. He felt around the back to check for any indications of electronic bugging, and once he was satisfied, he walked over to the room’s landline phone and picked up the receiver to call the lobby.

He hesitated before dialing, and put the receiver back down. Just because they hadn’t taken his things doesn’t mean that the FBI couldn’t be monitoring the hotel room. He walked over to the windows, hiding just out of view and parted the blinds with his fingers.

Plenty of people walking the streets at this time of day. It didn’t take him long before he found what he was looking for: a black sedan with government plates idled just up the street, angled just so, giving the driver a clear view of Snake’s hotel room window.

Figures.

Snake dug into his bag, then pulled the chair away from the door.

It creaked a little as he opened it slightly–the hinges could really use some oiling, he mused to himself. He peeked out into the hall, looking both directions. Totally empty. He tossed his damaged and grimy clothes into the trash can (he wasn’t going to need them anymore, anyway), then walked confidently down the hall away from the elevator and toward the stairwell.

He passed through the door and descended two flights of stairs to the third floor, peeking through the door–still another empty hallway. He then descended to the second floor, and found what he was looking for: a hotel room door held open by a cart full of cleaning supplies–housekeeping. The door was even on the side of the building opposite from where his hotel room was.

Perfect.

Moving quickly and quietly, Snake trotted up to the open room, doing his best to look nonchalant as he turned his head to look inside.

The hotel staff were hard at work cleaning the surfaces of the room and turning over the bedsheets. One of the two cleaners had gathered up the sheet to take to the laundry room and passed by Snake, who was leaning against the wall whistling to himself. The employee passed right by him and continued down the hall without a second glance.

Snake looked inside just in time to see the other hotel employee enter the bathroom. They were wearing headphones, listening to music on their Walkman, not paying attention to what was going on behind them. Snake smirked, then darted past the bathroom to the window, which the cleaners had open to let the room air out.

He climbed out onto the fire escape, and quickly descended the ladder, then peeked out the alleyway to check for any agents. He calmly walked down two blocks to the nearest clothing store, purchased a ball cap, sunglasses, and a jean jacket, and after donning the new clothes, made his way back to the hotel lobby.

He flashed a winning smile to the hotel manager and checked out, paying in cash. He then walked calmly out the front doors to follow closely behind a group of hotel guests towards a line of taxi cabs.

Just another tourist.

As he climbed into the back seat of the cab and asked the driver to take him to the airport, Snake dug up his notebook. It was time to go down the list. He prioritized those who were retired with honorable discharges: the closest was Master Sergeant O’Brien, whose address had him living in Springfield, Illinois. Next would be Chricton in North Dakota, then finally Torres in San Francisco.

Snake took a deep breath, feeling antsy. Rat was already a few steps ahead of him. He just had to hope that he would be able to get to each of them in time. He made a mental note to get to a pay phone after landing in Springfield. Maybe he could warn each of them ahead of his arrival.

He looked out the window as the city of St. Louis passed him by.

“You find anything yet?”

Mallory growled to himself, before calling down in annoyance. “You know, Agent Blackthorne, you’re more than welcome to come up here and see for yourself instead of pestering me.”

Blackthorne’s grip on the step ladder that Danny had loaned them was tight. “No thanks, I’m good down here. Just let me know if you see anything.”

“What’s the matter, Blackthorne? You don’t like heights?”

Blackthorne grunted in frustration as he held the ladder steady and waited for the CID agent to come back down. “Had a nasty fall off a roof as a kid. Can’t say I’m a fan.”

“My condolences,” Mallory replied absent-mindedly.

Mallory scanned the surface of the house’s roof. There was a flat section behind a swamp cooler air conditioning unit that was at the perfect orientation for a sniper’s position if they wanted a good view of Lt. Reeves’s house. He crouched low and lay flat on his belly, trying to recreate Sniper Rat’s position.

Given the type of rifle used, the casing would have been ejected from the rifle from here. Mallory held the invisible rifle in his hands, and looked over his right shoulder. It would have bounced onto the roof somewhere around there…then…

Mallory didn’t see the telltale glint of shined brass anywhere on the roof. Rat was a FOXHOUNDer. If he was any good–which he would have to be–chances were he probably cleaned up after himself once the mission was over. The chances of there being any traces left behind were slim–it would mean sloppy work on Rat’s part.

Mallory wasn’t expecting to find anything, but he had to cover all his bases. After all, sometimes you can get lucky, and it pays to account for everything wherever possible. He thought of all the ways the bullet casing could have rolled around and maybe off of the roof.

He looked over and called down to Blackthorne, “You mind checking the ground and the bushes near the northeast walls?”

“Sure,” came the response. “What am I looking for?”

“At the moment, brass casings from a fired bullet. But really, anything out of the ordinary will do.”

“Got it.”

A few moments passed.

“Find anything?” Mallory called out.

“No, sorry. Actually, wait–”

Mallory pushed himself up into a crouch. “What is it?”

“There’s an empty white bottle–looks like a medicine bottle. No label. And a couple of pills set into the dirt from where it looks like they got stepped on.”

White pills? It probably belonged to Danny. “No brass?” he asked.

“Nope.”

Damn it. Mallory shook his head, before quickly spotting something else to get his attention. Two little white pills rested near where he had lain. He pulled out a pair of tweezers and a small plastic bag to gingerly collect them. He stared into the bag, then looked in the direction of where Blackthorne’s voice had come from on the ground. In his mind’s eye, he could see the bottom tumbling over and falling over the edge.

He climbed down the ladder and walked up to Blackthorne, who was holding the bottle. “Where’d you find it?” he demanded. Blackthorne pointed to a spot underneath the hedges around the side of the house. Mallory stepped over, and found three more white pills pressed into the dirt near where the backyard fence began.

Well, well, well…looks like Rat got sloppy after all.

Mallory turned to Blackthorne. “You said the bottle had no label?”

Blackthorne shook his head.

Mallory nodded. “Okay,” he said.

They walked into the house, where Agent Juarez was chatting up Danny in the living room while absent-minded scratching the head of an aging golden retreiver, who laid at his feet.

“Hey Danny, sorry to ask, but do you take any medications?” Mallory asked.

Danny nodded with a slight chuckle. “Doc’s got me on a regular routine diet of pills to keep my blood pressure down, among other things. I’ve a got a little box to keep them separated by days of the week.”

“Do you mind if we see them?”

Danny and Juarez exchanged confused looks. Danny shrugged, then pushed himself up out of his chair to putter to the bathroom, returning with the promised box. “This one I haven’t opened yet, so you can see the ones for all the days. Just be careful not to dump them everywhere.”

“Of course, sir.”

Mallory carefully opened each day’s worth of meds, one by one, examining their contents. There were red pills and blue pills and yellow pills, but no white ovals like the ones he’d seen. He closed the box, then retrieved the baggie from his pocket.

“Mr. Clooney, do you recognize these pills? We found them outside your house in the yard.”

Mallory didn’t mention the ones he’d pulled from the roof.

Danny leaned closer, squinting at the bag. “They’re not mine,” he said. “What is it, valium?”

Mallory shot Danny a sharp look. “Why do you say that?”

Danny shook his head. “I have a cousin who used to take it to help her sleep. Looks kind of like those pills.”

“Could these be your cousin’s?” Blackthorne asked.

Danny snorted. “Doubt it. She died over fifteen years ago.”

Mallory shared a significant look with Blackthorne, then stood up. “Well, I think we’ve found everything we’re going to find. We won’t take up any more of your time, Mr. Clooney. Thank you so much for accommodating us.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” Danny insisted with a wave of his head. “I just hope it was helpful to you. I hope you get the bastard who got poor Maxie.”

“We will,” Mallory promised. “I guarantee it.”

“Good.”

Together, they all said their goodbyes, with Danny handing his phone number off to Juarez. “In case you ever want to talk again,” he said.

Juarez looked curiously at Mallory as they exited onto the street. “Why’d you get all interested when he said, ‘valium?’”

“Valium is the trade name for diazepam,” Mallory explained. “Muscle relaxant and anti-anxiety medication. I’ve seen snipers use it for keeping their hands steady in the field. We’ll have a toxicology test to confirm it, but if I’m right, then Müller was definitely here.”

He looked over his shoulder back at the yard where they’d found the pills.

Juarez noted with some amusement, “Funny how the sniper on a muscle relaxant would have such a bad case of butter fingers.”

“Yeah…funny,” Mallory muttered.

Blackthorne’s pager beeped. He fished it out of his pocket, and noted the scrolling digital message before cursing under his breath.

“It’s Steele. Looks like your friend Snake has flown the coop, and he’s left no trace of where he’s gone.”

Mallory and Juarez look to each other.

“We need to get moving on that list of names.”