People go about their lives in their own way. Some believe the world is against them. Some believe the world is their's. But when your world has been destroyed, what would you do? What would you pay, to get some part of it back. What would you pay, to balance those scales? At what price; love? Safety? Sanity? Justice? At what price; Revenge? *Warning- Does contain hyper-violence*

Matt Kimbleson looked up with fear in his eyes. "Please! I didn't do anything! I have a family!"

"You saw us." A cold voice answered

Another voice agreed. "Yeah. Whatever you told the cops won't do any good, they won't come near us. Somebody else though, might. So we just take you out; problem solved."

Matt shook his head. "I didn't go to the police, I don't want to be involved!"

"And you won't be." The first voice said.

A muffled report was heard then a thump as Matt's lifeless body slumped to the floor followed by a second.

"One for you, one for me. That'll show our new boss we handle business." One of the voices said.

The cold voice replied. "Yeah, pro-style. We even got proof. Let's bail."

Hours later screams were heard and soon after, sirens.

Brett Kimbleson stood over his father's grave then turned to leave as he said quietly. "I'll get them, Dad. I swear it!"

Brett liked gadgets. Especially drones. That little bit of irony had come in handy, in a way. His newest one had saat on a shelf in the living room. The drone had been left switched on, including the camera. That camera streamed all it saw to his tablet which was saved. Brett had their faces, he had their voices. Unfortunately, that was all he had. Suspecting the statement about the police not investigating to be true, he needed other means. The problem was, he had no idea who. Sure, there was a guy that would beat somebody up for you if you paid him, but he couldn't handle guys that kill. Brett walked idly, with no direction, lost in thoughts until he finally looked up. He was in front of the Hobby shop he went to for drone components.

"Brett?" A girl called out as he walked in.

Brett looked over. "Hey Sally. 'S up?"

"Kind of what I was going to ask. You're in a suit. Your Dad's funeral?" Sally asked.

Brett nodded. "Yeah."

Sally came from around the counter and hugged him. "Sorry Brett. I would've come, but I can't close the shop and the owner is out of town."

Brett nodded in understanding. He was fifteen and Sally was nineteen, but that didn't stop him from having a bit of a crush on her. She was smart, pretty and liked drones and other radio controlled toys as much as he did. She even built some and competed. In his eyes, she was the perfect girl.

"It's ok. Somebody has to be here for all us gadget-rats." Brett commented.

Sally pointed at him. "Hey now! I'm just as much a gadget-rat as the rest of you so don't give me that. Tell you what, Fly-buy."

"Yeah, ok." Brett replied.

She went back around to her purse and pulled a couple of dollars and handed them to him. Fly-buy; he'd 'fly', as in go get, and she'd 'buy'. In this case, something to drink. He went two doors down and came back with a bottled green tea for her and a soda for himself. After a few minutes the store was empty. Sally made the most of it.

"So how are you?" Sally asked. "I mean really."

Brett let his real anger show. "I want those two guys so bad Sally. In a way; I want to go to the cops, but in another way I don't. They'd just sit in jail picking up street-cred, you know?"

Sally nodded. "Yeah. Criminals respect being criminal. The more street credit they have, the better off they are. Look, I know you want these guys to pay, but don't go to Joey. He can handle school-stuff, but this is out of his league. He's only seventeen, he can't go up against guys with guns."

"I know. I wish I knew somebody hardcore." Brett admitted.

Sally sat thinking. "Mister Tam might. He had a problem with a gang once."

Brett shrugged. "Maybe. It wouldn't hurt to ask."

With that Brett left. He walked down the sidewalk several blocks to an asian restaraunt and went inside. He went to the noodle shop often, it was quick and cheap to eat there. Money saved to buy more components. Keiko Tam smiled at him.

"Brett-kun! How you?" She asked in a heavy accent.

Brett had to smile back, she was a nice lady all the time. "Hi Mrs. Tam, Konichiwa."

"Konichiwa! Soba?" Keiko asked.

Brett nodded, he was suddenly hungry. "Hai."

The order was called out and a few minutes later Hiro Tam brought it out and set it down in front of him.

"Brett-kun. Daijobu?" Hiro asked.

Brett shook his head. "Not really Mister Tam. My Dad's funeral was today."

Hiro nodded sadly. "Hai. Kimbleson-san good man. You like him. Be good man Brett-kun."

"Not so easy with the guys that killed him getting away with it." Brett replied quietly. "Cops can't do anything."

Hiro patted his shoulder. "You good son Brett-kun. Kimbleson-san proud. I saw."

Brett leaned closer. "They just killed him Mister Tam. Nobody would do anything to them, but they killed him anyway. He didn't even go to the cops and they still killed him. It was fun for them! How am I supposed to let that go?"

Hiro picked up his meal and nodded. "Come."

Brett followed him to the back and sat down at the table in the kitchen with him. Hiro went into a room and came back with something his hand.

"Take Brett-kun." Hiro said offering a small card.

Brett looked at the card and looked up. "How is an advertising service going to help me?"

Hiro took the candle-lighter off the table and held the flame below the card, waving it back and forth. Brett watched in growing shock as the card changed in front of him. The blue card and gold letting changed to a black card with red lettering. A simple email address was all.

"Help, Brett-kun." Hiro said then pointed to the food and said something in Japanese then bowed and went back to cooking.

Brett had heard of business cards that were disguised. Dangerous people used them to hide who they are and what they do. At least, that's what he'd heard. Quickly he ate, bowed to Mister Tam and left. Down the street he stopped and used his phone to send an email. Maybe this person could help. Three hours later, a message was in his inbox. An hour later, he stood over his father's grave again.

"Buon pomeriggio giovanotto." A smooth voice said from behind.

Brett turned around and saw a well dressed man standing there. "Hello."

The man nodded to the grave. "Your Papa?"

"Yeah." Brett answered.

"Scusa, signore." The man said to the grave then kissed his fingers and touched his forehead, chest and both shoulders before turning to Brett and gestured him to step away. "Let us talk."

Brett walked away and joined him. "Are you Italian?"

"Si. You are Brett, no?" The man asked.

Brett nodded. "Brett Kimbleson. I asked for help. Can you help me?"

"Such is possible Brett. You may call me Marco. Marco Venier." Marco replied.

Brett wasted no time. "My Dad was murdered. By these two guys."

Marco looked to tablet and saw the two images. "I see. Why did this happen?"

"Dad accidentally saw them kill somebody. He ran. He was scared, so he didn't go to the cops or anybody. He thought if he did, they'd know who he was and come after him. They found him anyway. Mister, he was scared and I don't blame him. He didn't want anything to do with it. They killed him for the fun of it." Brett explained.

Marco nodded. "Si. Tragic, but things like this; they do happen. Mie simpatie."

"Guys like that, even if they do get caught and go to jail, all it does is make them more important. Makes them look cool. I hate that. I hate them." Brett said. "They shouldn't get away with it."

Marco looked at him. "And you? What is it you want? Giustizia? O vendetta?"

Brett shook his head. "I don't know what you said."

"You want justice, or revenge?" Marco asked then said flatly. "Neither come cheaply. Capire? You understand this?"

Brett nodded. "Yes sir. I'm starting to think I don't have the kind of money you want now."

Marco said nothing which made Brett believe that it was more than obvious that he knew that already.

"We're screwed." Brett surmised.

Marco was looking in the distance. "Perhaps no. It is possible that an agreement can be met."

"Would it be legal?" Brett asked.

Marco nodded. "Si. You like the remote control, si? You can build them?"

Brett blinked. "Yeah. I build and race them. Why?"

"Sometimes, I need them. For work. Not all of them do so well. I lose them, they break. Something you would know." Marco said.

Brett nodded. "Yeah. It happens a lot. The more durable they are, the heavier they are and that's not a good thing for drones that fly."

"We make an agreement. Man to Man. On honor and your father's soul. I provide the parts, you make them for me. You do this, say until you go to college and that will be my payment. You will take this oath, over your father?" Marco asked.

Brett agreed quickly. "Yeah! I can do that!"

Marco held up his hand. "Not so fast. I mean all of it. This is very serious. Il Patriarca. You are the man of the home now, no? Signor Kimbleson? Such oath is not light."

Brett followed back over to his father's grave.

"You must swear, on your honor and your father's soul; you will help me with my work as I have said, You must care for your family as Il Patriarca and you must make the future by going to college. This is your oath as a man. Do you swear to this for the revenge of your father?" Marco asked.

Brett nodded with all the conviction he had and said the words that couldn't be taken back. "I swear it. On honor and my Dad's soul, I'll do it. All of it, for revenge!"

Once again Marco kissed his fingertips and crossed himself. "Then, by God, we have this agreement."

Brett wasn't Catholic, but did the same. "Yes. By God, we do. Can you do it Mister Marco?"

Marco nodded as he transferred the pictures to his phone. "Si. I am Italian, who knows vendetta better than we Signor Kimbelson?"

As Brett watched him go, he said to his father's grave. "I'm sorry Dad. It's gotta be this way."

Daryl sighed as he climbed onto the tram and thought to himself. 'Good thing that kid wasn't paying attention earlier. He'd have seen both those idiots at the burial.'

Daryl had hacked the cemetery's camera system before going. When Brett showed him the images on the tablet, he remembered seeing the two men entering casually and watching from a distance. It was a stupid thing to do, going to the funeral of a victim. Stupid for them, helpful to him. He could get into the cameras surrounding and track them. He did feel for the kid. After all, in a way, he could relate. However, revenge came with a price. Someone always paid. The kid needed to learn that too. Nothing ever came free.

Now wearing shorts and a tank, Dara brought up her computer and loaded the two pictures. In a matter of minutes she had them. Both were over legal age and had rap sheets dating back to when they were teens. Some of it was sealed, but the rest wasn't. Mostly misdemeanors: disturbing the peace, vandalism, minor assaults, muggings, some controlled substances, breaking and entering, trespassing. Basically they were street-soldiers in the making. Working their way up to joining a syndicate. The fact that they had now killed meant a major move. Possible an entrance display, a test to see if they could serve a syndicate without reservation.

Dara got up. Some information could only be gathered on the streets themselves. She changed into her pink riding gear and brought out a pink and white hybrid racer. Hybrid racers had the same frame style and gears as road racers. The differences were alloy frames instead of carbon fiber, the wheels were slightly wider and the handlebars were flat like mountain bikes. Hybrid racers were mostly used by couriers in the city as they could handle more abuse than a road racer yet were lighter and faster than mountain bikes.

"Hey Shiftie!" A guy on a blue and gold Hybrid racer greeted the pink clad girl that swooped in behind him.

Dara shifted gears and 'danced' to power around him, picking up speed. "You gonna move that slow jumble of parts, Rumble?"

Rumble shifted gears and stood to 'dance' as well. "OH, don't go bad mouthing my ride Shiftie! It's ON! Hilda's house!"

The two began racing in earnest then. They weaved in and out through the car traffic. Onto sidewalks, down alleys and sliding rails to go down steps. Rumble laughed to see Shiftie do that by simply sitting the rail, side-saddle style, to slide down. One of the best racers he'd ever met, but never let you forget she was a girl doing it. It was like watching parkour performed on bikes. The independent street couriers were the best at it.

Rumble gawked as she managed to slip around him at the last second, kiss her fingers and lightly brush the statue Saint Hildegard in front of Our Lady of Truth cathedral, locally referred to as Saint Hilda's. The statue of the Benedictine Abbess was a frequently used finish line for the couriers and parkour runners. Because of that, the couriers began the habit of whomever lost, had to use the water from their bottle to 'wash her feet'. At first the clerics there were appalled, then saw it as something done as reverence and penance, also prayer. Parkour runners would buy a bottle of water from a nearby vending machine to use.

Rumble slowed down and circled around the statue then stopped to dismount. He took his bottle and stood in front of the statue, crossed himself then knelt to gently wash the statue's feet by hand with the water from his bottle. Dara had circled around as well and waited for him to finish then walked over, bowed her head then kissed her fingers and touched the statue's hands again.

"What do you want to know Shiftie?" Rumble asked as he picked up his bike.

Dara took a drink from her bottle then offered it to him. "Two guys. Desmond Johnson and Michael Rocheter."

"Not the brightest crayons in the box. What they don't have in smarts, they make up for being hard-headed. Word is, they made audition." Rumble answered after drinking and passed the bottle back.

Dara sipped then asked. "Who and what?"

Rumble leaned back. "Street says they took out an Avenger. Story goes, this kid kicks a cat. Cat dies, little girl cries. Avenger hears little girl and kicks kid a field goal. Kid runs and bawls to Daddy. Daddy's a mid-level. Dee-jo and Rocket've been asking for a slot. Mid-level gives them the nod. So they give a stomp-down, no more Avenger."

"More?" Dara asked.

Rumble shrugged. "So said; some Brady saw the stomp and bolted. They found and took him out too. Dunno about that."

Avengers were street-level revenge-brokers. Mostly tit-for-tat and small-scale. A Brady was just some regular person. However, now a syndicate was involved. The targets were now inducted. Killing the Avenger had been their ticket in, audition. Kimbleson was an add-on. They had killed him to go that extra-mile to show how serious they were to the syndicate.

Dara asked. "So who'd they audition for?"

"Leo Turney, with the Scaniatta bunch." Rumble replied. "You working Shiftie?"

Dara nodded. "Yeah. Account."

"Oh." Rumble replied.

Dara stood up. Rumble believed she was merely an info-broker and was gathering information for an anonymous client that she only knew by an account number that she was paid through. An illusion she wanted to maintain and dropped a small packet of money into his lap.

"Need to do something about that bike, that was embarrassing." Dara smirked and went over to her bike.

"If somebody's lookin' for those two; they can be found at Skinny's." Rumble stated then added. "Don't bad-mouth my ride."

Dara laughed and rode away. It was an old joke. Rumble's bike only looked bad. In truth, it was one of the most expensive bikes ridden by street couriers. He just had no talent when it came to painting. In fact, some of the parts had been bought from Daryl's shop. Rumble had commented there was a resemblance between Daryl and Shiftie, but accepted the dismissive story of there being doubles. Even laughing when Daryl complained, that in all the world his double turned out to be female, citing chronic bad luck.

The last bit was helpful. Skinny's was a back alley bar. The clientele was criminals and wannabe criminals. All low-end. The kind of place that swept out teeth once per week, because doing it every night was too much like actual work. You had to watch the drinks being poured, or risk being drugged then robbed and beaten. Once a year some street girl would come in desperate for money and waitress for a night or two. She would usually end up being gang-raped and never go back. The owner had been in with neo-nazis at one time and therefore kept his head shaved clean. The common assumption was that it was why he and the bar was called Skinny. Actually, his last name was Skinnard and that was why. Nobody remembered his first name, nor cared. To the world, he was Skinny and his favorite thing to do was beating down anyone not Caucasian, hetero and stronger than himself.

Back in front off her computer system, Dara brought up the two's files.

"So. You want to be big time? Ok. You're big time now." Dara mused aloud. "That's where you went wrong. You two are going to have to go down, but it won't be enough. You belong to a syndicate now, so going alone isn't an option for you anymore."

Dara now knew exactly what she had to do for Brett's revenge. Some drones would be needed, he could start earning immediately. A box of components and instructions was made up. It would be sent out the next morning. Tonight, Daryl would track the targets. He changed into long pants and jersey of a black and grey pattern and rode out. It was after midnight when they finally came into sight, heading for Skinny's. Daryl used a blowgun to stick a pin to the jacket of one. The pin was a tracker. It would only last for six hours, sending out a signal every twenty minutes. At Four in the morning, the signal came from the same location for a second time. They were stationary.

Daryl followed and stopped two blocks away. The two were in an older building on the Eastern side of town. Daryl managed to get on top of building a block away and sent up a micro-drone that would home in on the signal due in five minutes. Hovering around the top of the building, the small drone was silent and unnoticeable. When the signal came in, the drone went for it. Daryl looked at the screen in confusion. The drone hovered above the mechanical room on the roof. It was where ventilation works were. No windows, only one door. Finally Daryl rolled his eyes and recalled the drone.

"Those two are squatting in the mechanical room. They probably broke in and nobody knows about them. They use the damned fire escape to come and go." Daryl realized.

This was not good. Such a place was unsecure and very noisy. Daryl needed them in a reliable place so he could work more effectively. They needed to be somewhere quieter he could hear them talk. He sent a second drone over that had a better battery and cellular transmitter. The drone landed in a spot it wouldn't be noticed and focused its camera on the door. It also had a motion sensor as well. It would transmit a stream, but also send a signal for any motion detected. That being done, Daryl left. He would have to rig something together to 'smoke them out' and deny further access.

Rocket and DeeJo left the mechanical room just after Two in the afternoon. As usual, they were looking for easy prey to target for money for at least a meal. A sneaky punch at a young man coming out of a coffee shop yielded a wallet holding almost a hundred dollars in cash and some cards. The cards were useless to them, but the cash was kept. They had a meal from a take-away stand then shook-down the counter-worker. Another hundred and fifty to their pool. The two would have done the same to a dealer for some of their preferred recreational powder, but he was armed and jumpy.

As they turned into the alley beside the building they were squatting, they noticed something wrong. The fire escape ladder was up. In fact, it was now out of reach unless they had a ladder to get them high enough to grab the bottom rung to pull it down. The ratcheting noise of a shotgun chambering a shell got their attention and they looked behind them.

"So, YOU TWO are the punks that have been hiding up on the roof!" A middle-aged man with a shotgun snarled then whistled loudly.

Three more men joined him, all armed in some fashion. He went over and butt-stroked the two. While they were down, he searched their pockets and came up with only sixty dollars.

"This goes to RENT." He said and pocketed the money then waved the barrel of the gun. "Best not come back, unless you have money and ready to sign papers."

DeeJo spit to the side and made to move against the building supervisor. "YEAH? SEE 'BOUT THAT!"

The shotgun went off a few inches from his ear, deafening and disorienting him. A punch followed and DeeJo went down.

The Super jacked in a new shell and growled at Rocket. "You?"

Rocket grabbed DeeJo's jacket collar and pulled him away. "Watch your back, Darkie."

Unknown to any of them, Daryl used the blowgun again, lodging the tracker on DeeJo this time. He was unaware of the impact of a dart hitting his leather jacket. Two hours later, they mugged some patrons coming out of a sports bar then shook down another food take-out stand for a meal and cash. They now made their way to the waterfront. There they entered one of the 'hotels' that hadn't been part of the gentrification movement. Basically, a flophouse for seedy-types such as themselves. Daryl smirked in satisfaction. This was exactly what he had hoped for. From the roof of a warehouse three blocks away he controlled four drones to search the windows of the upper floors of the derelict hotel and found them on the third floor, back side.

The drones were recalled and new one sent out to land on the windowsill. It had a hyper-mic that could listen in through the window. Meanwhile, he used his laptop to search for the building's blueprints. He needed the schematics for the ventilation ducts. Once those were found and saved, he transferred to the roof of the neighboring building and crossed over via a rope. A smaller drone fed a cable with camera and mic down to the vent he wanted. Daryl hard-connected the transmitter to the electrical for the HVAC system. Daryl was finished and out of the area by Four in the morning.

Brett finished assembling the last of the drones, wrapped in bubble-wrap and packed it into the box then took off the latex gloves. "Last one! Now for homework."

Everyone had been surprised with Brett's new attitude. He had thrown himself into his studies. He asked more questions in class, making sure that he was understanding the material without doubt. Homework was being turned in, completed. Tests were ranking scores to rival the students who favored the subjects. Brett almost ran to each class. The care-free attitude had been replaced, now it was like he was possessed. Or more accurately, obsessed. The teen seemed to be in pursuit of high grades more than any of his previous interests. In fact, he completely cut off from friends. Turning curt, and almost rude towards anything not related to academics. Neither Brett, nor his teachers, knew that there was someone else monitoring his performance results.

Over at D's Wheels; Daryl listened to the conversation at the flophouse while he adjusted the spokes of a rim.

"Man! My dick is throbbin'. Let's hit the Poker Run." DeeJo suggested.

Rocket replied. "No way. The good ones are still down. They won't come out until tonight. The only ones there are the skags that flush their pussies with Drain-Free 'cause they don't care if you don't wear a rubber. Nothin' but skanks right now and we need cash. Used all we had to get this place for a week. I'm gonna hit the shower then we need to go out and hit up some cash for grub. You need to clean up too. Leo said we could help his guys tonight and he'd pay us. Remember?"

"He gonna make us start wearing suits and shit like his other guys?" DeeJo asked.

"If we keep proving we can handle shit. Having a real place, slick gear and a clean bitch that looks good; that's livin' man. No more grubbin' and putting on two rubbers to nail some skank that smells like a boot in July against a wall? Hell yeah. We gotta handle shit, pro-style." Rocket stated.

"Yeah. Guess we should clean up some. What time we gotta be there?" DeeJo asked.

Rocket was opening the door. "Leo said the truck rolls in at 9 sharp. We should get there half hour before, to look good. I'm gonna try to find a razor and some soap. This is the real deal. Back in a minute."

Daryl had stopped while listening and now resumed adjusting the spokes. "Truck, huh? Wonder what's coming in or going out."

Twenty minutes later; Dara rode away on a night-bike. She hid in an alley after sticking a small camera at the end to watch the front of the flophouse. When Rocket and DeeJo came out she watched them turn to head down the street, away from her position. Dara rode out of the alley, snatching the camera off the wall and tucking it away. Two blocks later she was ahead of them and tagged with another tracker as they passed. Now she could stay on them from a distance again. When the tracker remained stationary for five minutes, she moved in.

Rocket and DeeJo stood in front of a building, casually smoking. Dara was able to get up on a roof at the end of the block and scout. She saw two men settling into a position of observation on the building at the street corner just down from the one her targets were at.

"Lookouts. Not bad. How smart are they though?" Dara muttered to herself.

Cameras to watch both ends of the street were set up then Dara sent up a small drone. It was almost silent and had a nightvision camera. She hovered a distance away from the lookouts and used the camera. They were fairly smart, using nightvision goggles to search for opposing observation. However, without thermal capability, they could not see her through the wall she was hiding behind. The drone was recalled and second sent over that dropped off a wheeled version that had a camera and microphone on the occupied roof. The drone landed in the alley beside the target building and another wheeled spy was deployed.

Dara focused on moving her wheeled drone along the edge of the building to stop at the bottom of the steps in a shadow. Now she waited and watched the split screen as she listened to the two channels of audio. Ten minutes later she heard the lookouts announce that the area was clear. It was obvious they were using Bluetooth connections to their cellphones on a conference call. Two cars pulled up to park across the street from the building and seven men joined the two thugs. One of them men gave them the classic street-handshake then shoulder bump with back-pat. Dara smirked. She knew it wasn't a real greeting, much less friendly. He was checking the two for electronics and weapons. The ironic part, the back-pat actually dislodged the tracking dart.

Over the microphone she heard a truck was expected to arrive any moment. The truck was to be unloaded and the boxes stored in the building. No pilfering would be tolerated and the two would be checked when done to ensure of that. Another car pulled in to park and a man got out of the front passenger seat, looking up and down the street then nodded to the lead man across the street. A box-truck drove up and stopped. Two men got out and went to the back. The door was opened and the leadman climbed inside. A box was pulled at random and he climbed out then cut the tape on the box. Packages of powder were inside. He nodded to the car-man who knocked on the back window then opened the door.

Dara recognized Leo from his mugshots. He carried a briefcase and went over to the truck. The case was opened and he showed it to the two truck drivers. He pulled a small kit from the case and sampled some of the powder while the money was verified. All was in order and both parties said so. The local crew began unloading the boxes and taking them inside the building after it was unlocked.

For several minutes the truck was unloaded then Dara heard the leadman give the two a warning that got her undivided attention.

"Don't get any funny ideas later. The whole place is wired. Every window and door has a shotgun and a pipe-bomb on it. Open it and you're a stain. Cameras too. So we'll know it was you." The leadman warned Rocket and DeeJo.

Rocket nodded. "We're cool."

The unloading continued until the truck was empty and drove away. Leo turned to Rocket and Deejo and pulled a considerable packet of bills from his pocket.

"Fast and quiet, I like that." Leo pulled off a some of the notes and handed them to each.

Rocket shoved the money in his pocket fast. "No problem Mister Turney, we'll work."

"You name it, we're all over it." DeeJo seconded.

Leo looked them over. "That's good. The only problem is; standards. Guys working for me are sharp and look it."

Rocket replied quick. "Yes Sir. We got it. New gear. We'll do that."

"Look pro, be pro." DeeJo added his understanding.

Leo gave them a shark-like grin. "Catch on quick. Tomorrow night, at Ten, be here."

Dara watched them disperse and ten minutes after the observation team departed, moved all her remotes to a location to be retrieved. She wanted to go in and determine exactly Leo was moving, but the counter-measures were deterring that. An idea occurred though. A cruel and very appealing idea. She was going to be very busy for a while.

During the day, Hobo Joe checked into the flophouse. He was able to sneak into Rocket and DeeJo's room while they were in the shower and implant microtransmitter with camera and microphone sets into the used suit jackets they bought first thing that morning. The hard part had been making them waterproof yet still undetectable to a physical search. Electronic search was easy to defeat, they could be turned off and on remotely. The battery pack would last thirty hours. A remote controlled sprayer of anesthetic gas was hidden in the ceiling to spray into the room. Timing had been critical. Hobo Joe was able to get back into his room and close the door, just as Rocket and DeeJo could be heard in the hallway, coming back from the communal bathroom.

Inside their room, Rocket chuckled. "We're scrubbed up, puttin' on some gear, got a week paid on this place. Hell, we can even go to a place and sit down to eat for the rest of the week!"

"Yeah. And we got more work for tonight!" DeeJo reminded.

Rocket punched him in the shoulder. "Was I RIGHT?"

Deejo swung back. "Yeah, yeah. You was right. Icing the Brady made the big difference."

"We wanna be big-time; we gotta show we can be pro. Make sure no probs. Handle our business. Look pro, act pro; get pro money." Rocket insisted. "Finish getting that on, we'll get somethin' to eat."

"Yeah." DeeJo agreed.

On the way out the door Rocket stated. "We pay to eat now. The Boss won't like us gettin' attention for knockin' over stands anymore."

Daryl waited five minutes, then snuck out. He put away Hobo Joe and tracked the pair. Hardly anyone paid attention to the obviously freelance courier sporting black and grey colors. A location was transmitted every one hundred seconds and audio/video came in a burst every ten minutes. Daryl made sure he used very strange frequency settings, that way no one would stumble across them except by the most extreme chance. It would take the latest government grade scanners to find his bugs. Anything less, was too great of a risk.

While the targets ate in a restaurant, Daryl used his small laptop to search for information in the stash building. The records of ownership traced back to a holding company that had gone bankrupt two years prior and the utilities were under a false identity; a retiree in another state. City Planning had a blueprint dated twenty years prior. Essentially, to find out more about the building, he would have to scan it remotely then digitally recreate it. It would take time.

That night Daryl waited until an hour after the crew left to begin. A heavier drone was needed and would be spotted by observers. Slowly he moved it up the front of the building ten feet per scan. Like taking an x-ray or MRI(Magnetic Resonance Imaging) scan. Five times he had to recall the drone to change batteries then withdraw. For three more nights he did this.

"Well. One thing is for sure. These guys aren't playing around." Dara said aloud looking at the digital wire frame of the building.

The scans revealed the henchman's warning to be true. Each window and door had been booby-trapped with a shotgun and a pipe-bomb. They were all tied to a central alarm style system. If the connection was broken; instead of loudspeakers blaring and lights flashing, the shotgun would be triggered. Should intruders not be deterred by that, a pressure-mat would detonate the pipe-bomb. Two feet long, ten inches of PVC pipe filled with a charge of some kind and packed with metallic debris. There was one concealed beneath the sill of each window and one on the ceiling just inside every external door. Every floor had seven cameras as well. Four facing out through windows, two in the hallway and one at the landing in the stairwell. A camera looked out the peep-hole of the external doors and four cameras looked down from each corner of the roof with overlapping views.

Dara looked at the image and didn't like it. The building was secure, but something else was bothering her. It could be penetrated. They had to know that. If someone wanted in bad enough, a way would be found and exploited.

"Those guys were entirely too confident they'd always know who would hit them. No matter what, they'd know. How? By the time the cameras saw anybody, they'd have already concealed their identity. All the cameras look out." Dara mused to herself then stopped. It hit right after the words were said. "The cameras look OUT! They have cameras looking AT the building too!"

The following night Daryl used a drone with high resolution camera and a signal scanner to check adjacent buildings. None set off the scanner, and he saw nothing out of the ordinary on the structures or looking out the windows. As he flew to another building, the scanner spiked. The drone had overflown a streetlight. The drone was made to orbit above the light and arm. The signal was there. A wireless camera was mounted on top of the light itself and looked to be hardwired to it for power. Quickly the drone checked each streetlight and found three more cameras, all using bluetooth transmitters.

Daryl smiled. "Gotcha!"

After acquiring the signal he recorded ten minutes of feed then sent out drones with signal jammers to land on the lights. Once the feed was jammed he began transmitting his loop from a distance. On top of the neighboring building Daryl used a rope and grapple to cross over on to the roof. He checked for laser tripwires before crossing over and had seen none. Now he began the search for an entry point. There was a door, but it was the same as all other exterior doors; camera, shotgun and pipe-bomb.

Using a fiber-optic camera in the vent of the mechanical room revealed the same on both the door and the vent. There was a ray of hope though. The roof of the mechanical room was clear. He climbed on top and used a drill with a long Titanium split-tip Twist bit to test the thickness. Daryl was surprised. The roof was merely corrugated metal coated with asphalt and gravel. He would be able to cut through with only a reciprocating saw. That was the upside. The downside was that he had neither the tool nor time. Also he would need asphalt patch compound. He did have time to use the fiber optic camera to really inspect the interior of the room.

The next night Daryl was back. Once he was safely on the roof off the mechanical room, he ceased jamming the street cameras. Five minutes with the saw and he had removed a square of the roof on the high corner large enough to fit through. A rope was dropped down through the hole for getting back up. First a backpack was lowered down then he slid down inside. There were no motion detectors inside, just the booby-traps and camera on the door. Daryl checked the vent and after finding no counter-measures, opened it. Goggles with special lenses did not reveal any lasers inside so he dropped another rope down the main shaft and began to slowly rappel down. His light weight was held easily by the metal duct-work and he crawled through the ducts of the first floor.

Success came from what looked like an office in a room at the back of the building. It was small and had no windows, only a door leading into the hall. Inside though were several boxes mounted on the wall. Boxes that had key locks. The kind used by freelance security system installers and do-it-yourselfers. Best of all; no cameras monitoring the room, just access through the door.

Daryl picked the locks and began inspecting. He was impressed.

"Nasty. Anytime the building is accessed, three phones get an alert along with picture of the person opening the door. RFID keyfob to initiate a thirty second delay to get to the code panel inside the front door. Laser tripwires at the stairwell doorways and elevator shaft. Surprised they didn't cover the duct-work too." Daryl remarked.

He was about to switch the system off and noticed something. An orange wire leading away at the bottom of the switch. He traced it and glared at its connection.

"You guys are starting to irritate me." Daryl said coldly.

The wire was a counter-measure. Turn off the system and it activated a second system that sent out an alert and a sixty second timer to all the explosives. He disconnected the wire at the switch itself then turned off the system. Now he owned the building. Floor by floor, room by room, he searched. All outer rooms had a picture of an empty room spanning the width. Inside the rooms it looked like a police evidence warehouse. Drugs on the top two floors, guns and ammunition on the Third floor, money and drug processing rooms on the Second floor. The First floor was the fortress. Behind the murals were metal and concrete barricades with firing ports. The barricades went from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. They seemed to be sealed air-tight. In the basement was the biggest surprise. An escape hatch.

Inspection of the escape passage revealed it had been made exclusive for the building. No connections at all to any utility services at all. It was also wired with a charge that would collapse the tunnel ten feet from the building hatch to prevent pursuit.

"This is way too elaborate for mid-level. Somebody gave this guy an education in hardcore paranoia." Daryl commented. "You can't buy this working know-how. He knows somebody that isn't supposed to be running around on their own."

Daryl began placing his own cameras and mics then went back to the central system. Slowly and methodically he manipulated countermeasures onto it for his own use. Finally came the last part, the RFID. He found the precise codes and made note. One could clone them if they could get close enough to a chip, however it was far better to get the whole series from the system. Multiple chips could be made then. Especially the Master chip. Some systems were vulnerable and new codes could be added. This wasn't the case. Daryl would have to work with the codes in it. The sun finally began to peek over the horizon as Daryl returned home.

For a week and a half Daryl worked his systems, sneaking in and replacing the transmitter packs' batteries for the two thugs. In the background, two latex masks were being made and suits hung on hangers. The most dangerous parts were soon to come. Daryl perused his special list, people that could and would do things for him. Mostly for a price. One name topped the criteria's list. Daryl put on a dark suit and wig after sending a message.

Cam Dalten looked around when he felt the hairs on the back of neck stand up. Something dangerous was now close. A soft footfall caught his attention and he looked to the source. A man in a dark suit edged around a pillar.

"Sergei?" Cam asked.

The Russian nodded and replied. "Glad you make time."

Slowly Sergei reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope then held it out. He made a point to keep both hands visible and movements were slow.

"You on the job Sergei?" Cam asked cautiously taking the envelope then stepped back.

Sergei nodded. "Da. You?"

"Nothing time critical." Cam replied then quickly checked the envelope and counted out five-thousand dollars in cash. "Five K. Just to meet and talk?"

"Call, consult fee. You have time?" Sergei asked.

Cam put the envelope in his pocket. "Ok. Consulting fee. Proceed."

"One man. Ten hour. Must imitate. Imitation is American. Appearance I provide. We make deal?" Sergei asked.

Cam mulled that over. "Just impersonate? Hot or cold target?"

"Hot. Live target. I have sample." The Russian replied.

"Do I have a connection and will they need to be neutralized?" Cam asked.

"Street-soldiers for Leo Turney. I need them alive." Sergei stated.

That caught Cam's attention. "Them? I do one or both?"

"One. I will be other." Sergei grinned then spoke in an American accent. "No sweat. Deal?"

"Ten hours?" Cam mused then said. "One hundred thousand. If I end up having to neutralize, for any reason, it goes to five hundred thousand. Deal?"

Sergei nodded. "Da."

Cam stepped forward for the handshake. "Deal then."

Sergei shook hands. "Good, Chameleon."

"This should be interesting; working on the Puppeteer crew." The assassin commented then left.

Sergei felt inside his jacket cuff and pulled the microbug out.

He smirked and dropped it on the ground. "Quite so, Herr Dalten. Gute nacht, kamerad."

Daryl left with smile, knowing that his voice had been heard clearly by the transmitter. More confusion to sow. The meeting had went just as he wanted. The Chameleon was an expert at imitation and impersonation, but only of males. He could manage to sound like any male for limited time, if he had a good voice sample. With the voice sample, mask and clothes, he could convince anyone he was actually that person for a short time. The nail in the coffin would be that it was going to be on camera. Surveillance cameras.

Argument could always be made over manipulated video recordings. However those arguments would never come up if the manipulation came from the actual events being recorded instead of recorded events. Raw video would always reign supreme. It could take up to a year to create minutes of video digitally. However, creating an event or manipulating an actual event could be done in short time and yielded far superior results. This was now the plan.

Cam was given the sample recordings and within two days he had the speech and body patterns down. He could perfectly impersonate DeeJo for up to two hours of speech and 6 hours of non-verbal interaction. Daryl compiled all the video and audio from Rocket and Deejo then added a video of himself as Rocket and Cam as Deejo implanting the surveillance equipment into their suit jackets. Pay dirt came two days later. A delivery was coming in again. The two were going to be unloading.

The Detective from the State Police Narcotics division wanted to shake his head as he turned on the room's camera and mics then went in. Two obvious punks, in cheap suits, noted him with contempt sneers.

Detective Dave Glaass sat down. "Give me a good reason why I should bother with you two wannabes?"

Rocket snarled. "Leo Turney."

"Untouchable." Glaass remarked.

"We can give 'im to ya." Deejo laughed.

Rocket nodded. "Yeah. But we ain't doin' it f' free. It's gonna cost."

Glaass rolled his eyes. "Right."

"We want his territory and action. We got the word on you. You know how to make our kinda deal." Rocket said smugly.

Glaass was puzzled for a moment then it hit. They thought he was dirty. He had pulled a case for Internal Affairs a few years back, pretending to be on the take to infiltrate a corrupt vice squad in a different county. This now made things different. He could play dirty cop and end up taking down all sides at once. The punk was right, it would take a certain kind of deal. The kind Dave Glaass knew how to work.

"Yeah. I can make a special kind of deal. Let's talk." Dave Glaass leaned forward.

An hour and half later the two walked out, Dave looked to the cameras a minute later and said. "Apparently my time working undercover for Internal Affairs still has a use. I am going to convince those two that I am corrupt and exploit that mindset of being able to help them secure criminal activity currently underway. I am not going to extend any kind of offer of immunity to them. They have made it undeniably clear that they have committed capital crimes and have every intention of continuing and even escalating. I will hearby contact the State Attorney General with this case."

With that he dialed on his cellphone, putting it on speaker and informing that the call was being recorded and official.

Rocket felt groggy and heard a grunt. He looked over to see Deejo slowly stirring then realized he was sitting in the driver's seat of a vehicle.

"Wha' happumed?" Deejo groaned.

Rocket rubbed his face to try clearing the fog in his head and wake up. "Dunno. We're in a truck."

On the seat next to him was a piece of note paper and a flashdrive.

Glaass
parking lot; Poplar and Donoterase
don't forget drive for deal

It was his writing, but he didn't remember writing it. He did know where the location was. He shook his head one last time, lit up a cigarette and started the truck. Twenty minutes of driving later he pulled into a parking lot. A single car was there so he parked next to it.

"You're late. I've been here for an hour." The man said when they got out.

Rocket assumed the man was Glaass and replied. "Sorry Glaass. Here."

Detective Glaass took the offered flashdrive then said. "Ok. Open the truck."

Rocket and Deejo went to the back and opened it. It was packed floor to ceiling with boxes that looked very familiar. Like the ones they had unloaded last night into the stash building for Leo Turney.

Glaass pulled a box, opened it and pulled out a wrapped packet. He used his pocket knife to poke into it and withdraw a white powder. Rocket and Deejo watched him tap the powder into a test kit and react to the chemicals. It turned a very dark blue. From what they had seen before, it meant the powder was the highest quality, practically pure.

"You two sure this hasn't been stepped on?" Glaass asked suspiciously.

Deejo went full gangster. "WHAT? You think we'd have anything less than top-grade? Who do you think we are? We dealin' or not?"

Glaass smirked when Deejo held out his hand for a shake.

The Detective shook hands then snapped a set of cuffs on his wrist. "Oh we're dealin' alright!"

Suddenly it seemed like over fifty cops were all over them. They were read their Miranda Rights and shoved into separate cars. Rocket looked out the window and to his horror saw a car stop half a block away and Leo Turney get out. He looked beyond furious. Rocket now realized that whatever was going on, wasn't good for him and Deejo.

Two of the cops were talking outside the car Deejo was in. He could hear them talking and thought his brain was going to melt.

"These guys are seriously stupid." Cop One remarked and lit a cigarette then held out his lighter for the other.

Cop Two took a couple of puffs then blew out a stream of smoke. "They helped unload the shit ito Turney's stash house, then go back to steal enough to fill the truck and call in a tip on the stash house."

"Yeah, but they 'conveniently forget' to warn about the booby-traps. Lost four good cops. One to the shotgun blast and three more from the explosion." A third cop said, walking up.

"Johnson didn't make it?" Cop One asked sadly.

Cop Three shook his head and spit to the side. "Just came in. They lost him on the way to surgery. Him and Carol just had their first kid a week ago. He wasn't supposed to roll, but he said he wouldn't leave the team hangin and went anyway."

Deejo saw them turn to glare at him. He was so confused, nothing was making any sense to him. He hoped somehow Mister Turney could bail him and Rocket out. Even if they had to go on the run afterward.

It was odd to have two suspects in the same Interrogation room, but this was one of those times it was a good idea. The Attorney General walked in.

"I demand my clients be released, immediately." The attorney snarled.

Arnold Hastings glared back. "Not happening. Your clients are fried. The deal they thought was going to happen; won't."

"What deal? We didn't make no deals with no cops!" Deejo spat.

Arnold gave a feral smile then turned on a monitor. For over an hour the two and their attorney sat dumbstruck as a video played. Rocket and Deejo sat there listing all of their crimes and that they had been wired to record it after their second task for Leo Turney. The only two things not admitted to were the two murders. they then went into detail as what they intended to do, why and what their offer to the detective was in exchange for being released as informers. Then they went further to explain their plans for afterward and what they would do for the Detective for making sure they stayed out of any further investigations.

A.G. Hastings turned it off. "All that. That's enough to slam the cell shut. BUT WAIT! There's MORE!"

Rocket and Deejo saw the flashdrive he held up then plugged into the monitor. "It was nice of you to inventory your crimes, but you left some out. Capital crimes. Murder in the First."

A file was selected. A video began to play. It was the murder of Kimbleson. It even had Rocket 'pick up the camera' with a grin. Two shots to the head in his own home, pleading for his life. If the previous video nailed the coffin shut, this one buried it in cement under a toxic waste dump. Even if they wanted to, they had nothing to deal with now. What was worse, they knew it.

"See you at the trial." Hastings smirked and walked out, he had a bigger fish to gut and fry down the hall.

Leo Turney sat seething as the Attorney General walked.

"Leo! Sorry it took SO LONG to get to you." Hastings said dramatically.

Leo's attorney didn't waste a moment. "You have nothing."

Arnold held up a flashdrive, different from the one he had in the other room. "On the contrary, I have PLENTY! Going away for a LONG time Leo."

"Not falling for that." Leo said.

Arnold plugged the drive in and brought up a file on the monitor. It was a feed from the cameras in the building.

"Those cameras were always watching Leo. There you are walking in, then DIRECTLY supervising the processing of narcotics. This is just one of such videos. You really messed up and now I get to finally hang your ass!" Arnold Hastings gloated.

Christmas had truly come early again for Arnold Hastings.

A subtle signal was exchanged between client and attorney, who then spoke up. "My client may be inclined to negotiate."

"There is no way in Hell he's getting off. Best offer; protected custody in a facility out of state. For Life. Otherwise, right here and he gets the needle." Hastings snarled.

All three in room knew that wasn't the best deal, it would be the only deal ever offered. The gangster would have to give up everything he had to get it too. It now came down to two choices; did Leo Turney want to live for a while longer or die immediately?

Slowly Leo spoke. "I'll take a deal."

Rocket and Deejo entered separate cells nervously. They were hoping word hadn't hit yet of what they had done. Hope for naught. All eyes glared at them. However no one made a move toward them. They went untouched, but were fully aware that they had been labeled as rats. What didn't make sense was that it seemed that somebody had given an order that all obeyed. Finally one whisper was overheard by Rocket, an order from Leo Turney. The two were to be untouched until they went to the Federal Prison. The word had come down; they were to serve their full sentences without death or permanent harm. Until the final day. During their final night, they were to be murdered. Until then, they were to be used by any and all for whatever suited the strong.

In the chow hall Deejo asked. "Really? That's gonna happen?"

Rocket just nodded silently. He still didn't understand where everything went all wrong for them. From what he could understand, he and Deejo tried to make a deal with who they thought was a dirty cop to set up Leo and take over his territory and action. All that had happened was, they had hung themselves instead. That night he tried to do just that, but the other prisoners refused to let him finish. they let him strangle long enough to think he would succeed, then saved him from it. They laughed cruelly and reminded him he wasn't getting out things so easily or gently. After that was cellblock suicide watch,only instead of guards, it was the inmates. They weren't kind about it either. The two were looking at a very long and harsh Twenty-Five to Thirty. Even though the Judge stated 'Without Parole', it went without reaction. Many already knew they wouldn't survive Final Night.

Brett stood over his father's grave again and turned to see the Italian walking up.

"Buongiorno signore Venier." Brett greeted.

Marco nodded back. "Ea voi signore. You are learning Italiano?"

"Si Signore Venier. I have a new respect for culture. The language, the food, the people." Brett hedged then added. "One day I would like to visit there."

Marco nodded. "Perhaps after the college you might visit Roma. You would be able to stand in Saint Peter's and declare you have fulfilled you honor, no?"

"By God; I will, Signore. I will do exactly that. A man of word. A man of deed. A man of honor." Brett stated then crossed himself in the catholic fashion.

Marco asked. "Has the Kimbleson family revenge come to pass Il Patriarca?"

Brett had read enough Italian literature by now to know this was as official as it ever would be. Had Marco upheld the terms of the deal to Brett's satisfaction?

"Si. Yes. We are avenged and satisfied. Our lives can go forward now. Thank you Sir. Grazie di cuore, Signore Venier. I will continue to redeem my debt without reminder." Brett stated as he crossed himself again.

The Italian nodded then cross himself as well. "Sotto gli occhi di Dio per tutti e due. Both of us, under God's eyes, Signore Brett Kimbleson."

Brett nodded back. "Si, Signore Marco. I do have one question."

"Prego." Marco replied.

"I was offered a settlement through the Attorney General. I accepted. May I offer you some of it?" Brett asked.

Marco sighed. "Under other circumstances I would accept. However this time I cannot. Such money is watched signore and you would have to explain a large amount. That would put us both in a bad position and worse, undo all that has been done. I do strongly advise that you should entrust that to a reputable manager, use it to pay for your college. Your sister's as well. What is left; to your mother's comfort, as a good son should. Più piacevole? More agreeable?"

"Yes. Thank you for that advice. I'll do that. Ciao Signore." Brett said.

Marco placed his hand over his heart and bowed slightly. "Ciao, Don Kimbleson. Be sure to study for Signorina Westin's Biology quiz, on Friday."

Brett stood in shock as the Italian left. Apparently God wasn't the only eyes watching him. After a moment of thought, he decided he could be comfortable with that. Knowing the man was watching would remind him not to slack off.

"No. I'll stay on it. I made a deal. I have a debt. Not just him." Brett said then looked to the headstone of his father's grave. "I owe you too, Dad. A good man pays his debts, you were a good man. I will be too."

Brett kissed his fingertips and pressed them to the top of the stone then left. He had studying to do.

Dara had shed the disguise of Marco Venier and was now clad in purple and white riding gear, astride a road racer of similar color-scheme. Casually she rode the Green-way and pulled off at wide spot to drink from her bottle. Several couriers passing in both directions nodded to the blonde. An obvious sport rider looked over as he passed and gave a grin.

"Oh? Challenge; accepted." Dara said sweetly and kicked off to begin racing with a smile. "I'll take the right challenge. Everybody knows."

tbc...