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Detective Brian Kramer ran a hand over the eight millimeter stubble that used to be his thick curly hair. Wearing a sleeveless shirt and torn jeans added to the rebel image, and a dragon tattoo on his left arm completed the look. The green tail of the beast started just above Kramer's elbow and wrapped around his thick bicep on the journey up his arm. Hind legs were visible at the shoulder but the body and the pair of wings that stretched down his chest and back were obscured by the white shirt. The head of the dragon peeked from under the collar on the detective's neck. He got the tattoo on a whim during a tour of duty with the UNSC Marine Corps and it had served him well working undercover to break up drug trafficking rings.

All rebel spooks had a network of grunts in the cities they infiltrated, and Hawking was no different. Some rebel tongues could be loosed with a bribe, while the more loyal ones would only start talking after being threatened with violence. The former lived in large houses and expensive apartments; they knew the value of secrets and were paid well to keep them. The latter were usually underpaid but loyal to a cause, they normally hung out in bars, bars like the one Kramer eyed with feigned disinterest from across the street.

Chuck's Tavern had long been rumored to be a gathering place for rebels. The police wouldn't look into it outright though, not in this part of town. The exterior of the establishment was an eyesore, even managing to eclipse the homeliness of the vacant and neglected buildings adjacent to it. White paint that once blanketed the bricks had been turned into a canvas for gang-related graffiti. The formerly proud roof now sagged in a depressing curve towards its foundation from years of harsh winters and untended summers. Moss-covered shingles secured to the roof by rusting nails reinforced the fact that when it came to the aesthetics of the building, the owner was apathetic.

Kramer glanced both ways before crossing the narrow street and almost smiled at the uselessness of the action. Not even so much as a bicycle ventured into this part of town with power-hungry gangs willing to execute the operators of any vehicle and salvage every last part to fund their terrorism. Had he not been involved in undercover narcotics operations, the detective would have driven his car right up to the tavern out of ignorance and been gunned down immediately upon setting feet to pavement, if not sooner.

Brian grabbed the rusted handle of the tavern's front door, twisted clockwise, and entered. There was no turning back now; this wasn't the type of bar complete strangers stumbled into for a quick drink and pleasant conversation. Everyone under the sagging roof knew he was there for information and if he just turned around and left he wouldn't make it three blocks without being confronted by a rebel. Four pairs of eyes looked up from their drinks to appraise the detective as he crossed the wood floor and sat at the bar on a hard stool.

Chuck, the curly-haired proprietor and bartender of the establishment, never looked up from the thick mug he was cleaning. Rebels may have turned his tavern into an unofficial hang-out, but that didn't mean he knew, or even wanted to know, about their operations. Fights had broken out in the past when strangers walked in and started asking about the wrong people. When the brawls were over and Chuck had told the police everything he knew, he wouldn't be bothered by his conscience at night because he didn't have to lie to the authorities in order to stay out of prison. On more than one occasion as he hid with casual ease behind the bar to wait out yet another fight, he hoped a rebel would torch the building. With the insurance money he could start a respectable diner in a more reputable part of town, something he had always dreamed of doing. From the looks of the man sitting at his bar there would be a brawl today, the second of the week, and this time it might turn out in the stranger's favor. He looked formidable enough and the four rebels seated throughout the open room were regulars and not known for their fighting skills.

"I'm looking for Ivan Kazlov."

Four chairs scraped on the wooden floor as the rebels stood. Kazlov had given them specific instructions: anyone not already a rebel that came looking for him was to be executed immediately. They also had to respect the rules of the bar, which meant luring the stranger outside. A dark-haired rebel sidled up on Kramer's left and slipped onto a stool, another sat to his right while the remaining two stood behind. Chuck disappeared through a swinging door behind the bar to busy himself with the inventory of alcohol.

"What's yer business with Mr. Kazlov?" The rebel to the left asked.

"I'm looking to join your cause," Kramer replied without turning to face the rebel, "I heard he was the guy to talk to."

"Is that right?" He shot a look to his three comrades. "I'll tell you what, why don't you take a walk with us outside, we'll show you where Kazlov is."

"Or," The detective replied, "You could just tell me where I might find him and let me go about my business. I've lived here my entire life, I know my way around Hawking."

Another glance, this one accompanied by a slight nod to one of the standing rebels.

"I'm afraid that ain't gonna happen—"

A hand grabbed Kramer's shoulder—it was time to act. With the reflexes of a frightened cat the detective planted his feet, toppling the bar stool, and delivered a crippling open-handed strike to the left rebel's kidney. He pivoted with lightning quickness on the balls of his feet and delivered the same blow to the rebel on the right. Spinning free of the grip on his shoulder, Brian crouched slightly and extended his hand, palm outward, into the gut of a third rebel. The strike caused the traitor to double over then collapse as he gasped for the breath that was forcibly removed from his lungs. Kramer stepped away from the writhing bodies, waiting for the last rebel to make a move.

The change in the rebel's situation happened so fast that for a few moments all he could do was stand dumbfounded and gawk at his fallen comrades. After gathering his wits he did the only thing he knew how to do when outmatched.

"North," the rebel began, "Kazlov is north of the city awaiting further orders in a safe-house just outside the village of Mesar. He is staying in a villa called Pacifico."

Brian nodded and exited the bar. He had a long drive ahead of him and he needed a smoke.

The security guard peering through the window into the hall backed away from the door as the Spartans charged with no intent of stopping. His hand went to the gun holstered at his side but it was a wasted effort, Wolveryne slammed his bulk into the door, releasing it from the hinges and sending it hurtling through the small room. Jason Matthews dove from his chair to the floor behind the waist-high marble wall. The room buzzed with confusion as three super-soldiers entered, confusion turned to horrifying understanding as the Spartans shouldered their battle rifles and began executing scientists and security guards without remorse.

Screams filled the room as 9.5mm rounds exited rifle barrels with a metallic staccato and ripped through the heads of the frenzied masses. A pair of security guards attempted to hide behind Jason's marble wall but a trio of bullets found them before they had a chance to duck. Seeing an opportunity to escape the slaughter, Matthews pulled the fresh corpses closer, laid down parallel to the wall, and partially covered himself with the bodies. Three seconds later the last rounds found their targets and the room fell silent.

A moment later Jason heard the sound of Spartan boots circling the perimeter of the room. As they drew near, the mercenary held his breath and hoped the modified soldiers couldn't hear the rhythmic thump of his pounding heart. A soldier stopped at the pile of bodies covering Matthews, an eternity passed as Jason waited with eyes closed for the Spartan to put a three round burst through his skull. Instead, the super-soldier nudged the pile with a boot, grunted, and continued his sweep of the area. Satisfied everything was clear, the Spartans filed out in search of more targets, leaving the room bathed in eerie silence.

Matthews pushed the bodies off after five minutes of waiting to be sure the butchers had left. He stood and surveyed the carnage, grabbing the marble wall to steady himself. It was not the sight of blood and brain matter that caused him to nearly vomit, it was the smell. During his stint with the UNSC Marines he had seen similar massacres when the Covenant swept through an area, but it was always outside. Cramming a hundred dead bodies with exposed organs into an enclosed space would make anyone sick.

The mercenary began checking for survivors but after seeing the first five victims he knew there would be none. Every body he checked had a tight grouping of bullet holes either in the chest or the head, not one of them needed a second burst of rifle fire to seal their gruesome fate. Jason moved to the center of the room and came to the same conclusion: the Spartan's aim was impeccable. He swore at himself for overlooking the fact that a mutated Spartan might recover quicker from being knocked out by his darts. He had laced the sharp projectiles with enough serum to put one of the soldiers down for half a day, but failed to consider what effects the biological agent would have on that time frame.

Shaking his head to clear the thoughts, he turned to leave but stopped short, near the door was the body of a woman with the unmistakable bulge of pregnancy swelling her abdomen. Matthews moved closer and inspected the body, a three round burst to the chest was the only flaw he could see. It started in his right hand, a tremble that worked its way up his arm and was soon assaulting his legs.

The mercenary's knees buckled next, but when he hit the floor it was solid wood instead of soft carpet. He was a child again, maybe eight years old, kneeling next to his pregnant mother on the wooden floor of their home. A gaping hole exposed bone and sinew in her shoulder as fresh blood darkened a rapidly widening area of her white blouse. The assailant and his gun were lying not ten feet away in the kitchen. His father still held the smoking shotgun that had ended the murderers life but not before the criminal had gotten off a shot of his own. Matthews wanted to help, he wanted to ease the suffering of his mother but he was only a helpless child. Instead, he took her hand and wept.

Jason shook the memory from his mind and he was back on the carpeted floor of the fallout shelter. How many times had this happened? How many times did his actions result in the killing of a mother or a father or a son or a daughter? It was easy to be detached when he didn't witness the actual results of his operations, but sitting below ground with the serene face of a beautiful scientist staring at him with empty eyes forced the walls to come crashing down. He was just as guilty as the ones who pulled the trigger on innocent civilians; he was responsible for every last body in this room.

A muffled voice from the center of the shelter caught Jason's attention. He turned in time to see a pile of bodies moving as if something were burrowing under them. A hand came up from the pile and grouped wildly; Matthews strode over, grabbed the hand, and pulled. From the pile came a scientist gasping for breath, eyes wide behind thick rimmed glasses as he took in the scene about him. Jason's redemption would start here. If he could get this scared scientist off the planet safely then it would be the first step in a new life. He would do it, he had to do it, if only to prove to himself that it was possible to change.

Matthews crossed his arms on his chest and waited patiently for the scientist to catch his breath. The black-haired survivor turned in a slow circle with mouth hanging open and jumped at the sight of Jason as if he had materialized out of nowhere.

"You— you're—," Chris Fisher looked past Matthews and spotted the lifeless body of Melissa Sanchez. "Oh no. No no no no no no no," he said as he ran past the mercenary and knelt beside the corpse.

"Was she your wife?" Jason asked with as much sympathy as he could muster. It was a foreign emotion to him and he feared the words would come off as being cold and uncaring.

"No," the scientist said barely above a whisper. "She was a good friend, one of the few I had here. Now she's dead. Everyone is dead." With head and shoulders slumped he turned and sat with a heavy sigh. "We're next aren't we?"

"No, we are not next," Jason began with a contagious calm, "We are going to walk right out that door, get to the surface, and find a way to call for help."

"Who are you?" Chris asked, still sitting with his head in his hands.

"I'm no scientist," Matthews said, discarding the long white lab coat. "Get up and help me collect some weapons."

The black-haired scientist didn't move. Jason knelt so he was eye-level with the survivor.

"Look, you have two choices, either get up and help me find some weapons so we can get to the surface, or sit here and sulk while I go to the surface myself. Granted, both choices have risk, but which one do you think she," he nodded to the body of Melissa Sanchez, "would want you to do?"

The scientist submitted and the pair searched the room, recovering the four pistols carried by ONI security guards. Jason checked the two he found, the chambers were clean and the barrels free of any foreign objects. The guards hadn't had a chance, or the wits, to get a single shot off. Fisher procured the final two pistols, holding them with fingers off the triggers awaiting a command from the stranger across the room.

Any other day Jason would have laughed at the awkward scientist who had obviously never held a pistol before, let alone shot one. But it wasn't any other day, and the man in the lab coat wasn't just a scientist, he was Jason's redemption. Matthews took two holsters from the corpses of the guards and positioned them so the extra pistols would be stored behind him instead of on his hips. He walked over to where the scientist was standing and stripped the holsters from the remaining guards.

"Put these on," he commanded. "I don't want to carry five pistols around by myself."

Fisher raised his eyebrows, "Five? There were only four security guards."

Jason pulled the silenced pistol from the small of his back and unscrewed the silencer.

"Five."

Chris eyed the stranger curiously as he strapped the holsters around his waist and tightened them. After glancing at Matthews' setup, the scientist loosened the belts and adjusted the holsters to rest on his back. He attempted to slide a pistol into the first holster but missed, tried again, and finally slid it home on the third attempt. The second pistol managed to find the leather holster after only two attempts. Fisher was glad to get the weapons out of his hands, he had never been comfortable around firearms.

After grabbing a flashlight from the corpse of a security guard, Matthews was ready to leave. He took a few steps toward the door but stopped and turned to face Fisher.

"Why aren't we dead?"

The scientist's dark eyebrows came together in confusion. "Because we weren't shot?"

Jason shook his head then elaborated, "A biological agent was released during the attack, which is why the Spartans are killing everyone—the agent altered their amygdale. As soon as that door," Jason pointed to the opening of the room, "was destroyed, why didn't the agent get in here?"

"It is a problem we are working on." Fisher explained, "The agent has an extremely small half-life but it spreads quickly. Five minutes after it mixes with oxygen it's gone without a trace. That is enough time to spread throughout the base, but we were in here for more than four hours so the chemical is long gone by now."

Satisfied, Matthews started toward the opening again but stopped one last time. "What's your name?"

"Fisher. Chris Fisher."

"My name is Jas—," the mercenary stopped, a slight smile curved his lips upward, "Stephen Marioli."

The assassin moved into the darkened hallway with the scientist following close behind.

Detective Kramer rolled into Mesar just as the sun was setting behind the tree line for the night. The town, if it could be called that, was little more than a pit stop for travelers going north and south between Hawking and New Falls, or east and west between Franklin and Halldin. The roads intersected dead-center of the settlement and neatly split the town into four quadrants. To the northwest was a gas station and small motel, to the south stood a proud church, and the remaining two quadrants contained a smattering of small log houses. The city was surrounded by a thick forest with tall menacing trees that made the town seem even smaller than it already was.

As Brian came to a squeaky stop in front of the town's only motel he made a mental note to replace the brake pads on his aging car again. It was just more money he would have to sink into a vehicle that was becoming more trouble than it was worth. He didn't mind the labor part, in fact, he rather enjoyed working on cars, but when it started having a significant impact on his detective-salaried budget it was time to go looking for a new one. New to him at any rate, Kramer refused to buy brand new vehicles straight off the lot. He preferred to let them simmer and depreciate for a few years before even considering a purchase. They ran like new anyway after a few weekends of work, he would rather let the more wealthy citizens pay top dollar for their vehicles and maintenance. Brian had often considered leaving the force and working at a garage somewhere, but he feared he might grow to despise working on cars if he was forced to do it day-in and day-out. Few things are more depressing than a passion that has transformed into a burden.

On entering the motel, it seemed to be more akin to a hunting lodge as opposed to a place where weary travelers could stop for a night. It made sense, Kramer thought, the city, with its forested surroundings, was a prime location for a lodge. Stuffed heads of wild game hung on the walls of the foyer and chairs made from logs decorated the lounge where a fire cracked and danced to its own rhythm. The owner of the lodge waited patiently behind a wooden check-in counter. Short, gray hair rested atop his tanned head and he wore a black and red flannel shirt paired with worn blue jeans. 'Lumberjack' came to Kramer's mind as he walked up to the counter. Behind the proud man was a case mounted on the wall displaying an assortment of medals and commendations earned on the battlefield. The shiny badges put the detective at ease knowing he would be talking to a fellow veteran.

"Are all of these yours?" He asked, gesturing to the animal heads mounted on the walls.

"A few are," the man said as a proud smile split his face. "I added to the collection started by my father and grandfather. The bearskin rug by the fireplace is the result of my son's first hunting experience not two miles from here. This lodge has been family owned for three generations now."

"No kidding?" Kramer looked around the room, genuinely impressed.

"I 'spose I'll be passing the baton to the fourth generation soon," he said with only a hint of sadness. "My son is more'n capable to run the place now and it's about time I thought about retiring."

Must be nice, Kramer thought, maybe fifty years old and ready to retire.

"At any rate," then man continued, "I'm sure you didn't come up here to chat, what can I do for you?"

"I need a room for a few days, and some directions."

"The room I can help you with and I'll try my best with the directions."

"Can you tell me where I might find a villa called Pacifico?"

The owner crossed his arms, "Pacifico, huh? They don't take too kindly to police officers poking around up there."

Brian raised an eyebrow, "How did you know?" Is it that obvious?

The older man chuckled, "The only people that ever ask how to get there are cops. What you want to do," he said as he leaned an elbow on the counter and pointed, "is go to the center of town and take the northern road out. A little over a mile down that road you'll see a gated driveway and a large house, that's your villa. Course, I wouldn't go knocking on that door 'til mornin' if I was you." The owner turned and procured a key attached to a steel ring from a slot on the wall.

Brian handed over a few bills, "Actually," he said as he took the key, "I was hoping I wouldn't be spotted at all." Kramer winked.

"Ah, well in that case the darkness suits you. Good hunting."

Brian nodded his thanks, picked up his bag, and headed down a short hallway to room five. It was a small room with a single bed but it would serve his purpose admirably. All the furniture, including the bed, looked like it was hand made from logs gathered in the surrounding forest. It was apparent that the owner, and the generations of his family that preceded him, took pride in the establishment they had crafted. The room had a 'lived-in' feel to it without seeming worn out and unkempt. It was a feat only achieved in small businesses owned by generations of the same family; though, large hotel chains had often attempted, and failed, to replicate it. Brian had to admire a place like this. As a sixth generation police officer, he bemoaned the lack of knowledge being passed down from parents to children.

Kramer quickly changed into dark green camouflage and secured a silenced pistol to his thigh. Next, he took three small tracking bugs and slipped them into a chest pocket on his black Kevlar vest. After donning a pair of night vision goggles and resting them on his forehead, Kramer opened his door and glanced into the hallway. All clear. From the corridor he slipped out the back door, crossed a small yard lit by electric lamps, and disappeared into the forest.

Once under cover of the foliage he pulled the NVGs over his eyes and headed east towards the northbound road. Kramer spotted the pavement after one-hundred-and-fifty meters and turned, still under the cover of the trees, to follow the road north. It was slow-going, the detective darted from tree to tree keeping an eye out for any sentries that might be patrolling the woods. Half an hour later Kramer arrived at the vine-covered outer wall of the villa without incident. The forest truncated five meters from the wall making it easy to approach undetected, but at the same time disrupting any long-range surveillance that could be conducted on the ground from just inside the tree line. Brian crossed the small opening and scaled the wall using the vines, poking his head over just enough to scan the yard for threats. The expanse of grass was empty and the only lights came from the front of the three-story building.

After crawling over the barrier Kramer dashed through the darkness and pressed his back to the wall. To his left was the front of the house and the quickest way into the garage. It also had lights illuminating the front courtyard, which wasn't a big problem due to the lack of patrols on the outside. The biggest problem was locked doors, Brian didn't know the first thing about picking them and he certainly didn't have a key. His only hope was that a back door had been left unlocked by a careless guard. Kramer crept towards the rear of the house.

Upon rounding the corner the first thing to snare his attention was a balcony jutting from the house with a railing made from blackened twisted steel running along the perimeter. The room beyond the vacant balcony was dark and the glass door had been left open to let in a breeze. Beneath the balcony was a non-descript wooden door; Brian tried the handle—locked. He backed away and looked again to the balcony and open door then eyed the wall, measured a rough angle in his head, and sprinted towards the villa. Detective Kramer planted a foot on the wall and launched himself toward the balcony, managing to snag the bottom and swing like a pendulum until gravity caught up with his act of defiance. From there he grasped the twisted steel bars of the railing and shimmied up until he could clamber over the edge.

Brian moved in a crouch into what turned out to be a large unoccupied bedroom. After skirting the edge of the bed and creeping up to the door he lifted the night vision goggles to his forehead—there was light spilling under the door. Kramer cracked the door open and peered out into a well-lit hallway with a door flanking each side. The operative eased open the barrier and stepped onto the plush carpet, relieved that he had something silent to walk on. The hallway ended in stairs, which he descended into a large foyer. To the left was a broad opening to a spotless kitchen, from the right, behind a closed door, came the sounds of a television broadcasting some sort of sporting event. The floor was crafted from hardwood and polished to a glistening sheen.

Across the foyer was another door, Brian snuck up, cracked it open, and peeked through. Beyond was the garage, which housed two vehicles: a black SUV and a small sports car. Kramer crept through the door and shut it; he approached the sports car first, crawling under the red vehicle to plant a tracking bug. After affixing the device into a hard-to-see crevice of the engine, Brian slid from underneath the car. As he was rounding the front to bug the SUV the garage door swung open. The detective ducked as a rebel guard entered and walked behind the vehicles to access a large steel toolbox.

Kramer slipped around the edge of the car and started to creep up behind the rebel as he rummaged through the toolbox. Don't turn around, all I ask is you don't turn around, just keep looking for your tool. The detective eased his silenced pistol from the holster and pointed it at the rebel's back. The door swung open again and a second rebel entered.

"Hey, Craig, Ivan wants—,"

The rebel stopped mid-sentence when he saw what looked like a special operations soldier pointing a silenced pistol at a fellow rebel. Brian pivoted and aimed at the new threat, the rebel dove behind the sports car, a wrench came crashing down on the detective's pistol. The rebel swung again, this time Kramer sidestepped, pushing his back against the door of the SUV as the steel wrench zipped past, coming within an inch of his skull. He knelt to scoop up the pistol but the rebel kicked it under the car and swung a third time. Brian ducked. Fine, I'll play it your way. With mounting frustration the Shotokan blackbelt delivered two lightening quick strikes to the rebel's face. The attack happened so quickly and with so little warning the rebel felt the blows all the way down his spine as he stumbled backwards and smacked his head on the toolbox. That should put him out long enough to—. Kramer turned and was greeted by the butt of a pistol slamming into the side of his head. The detective spun, staggered, and collapsed to the cold concrete. His surroundings faded into darkness as the image of approaching boots echoed through his mind.

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