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Firestorm

Prelude to an Inferno

Kyroo was screwed, and he knew it. He had been following a narrow lane that ran parallel to the street where the safe house he was headed for was located when he had been ambushed. He had taken out the two figures in robes that had appeared out of nowhere behind him but in the confusion of the firefight he must have gotten his bearings reversed, because instead of running between the high mud walls in this Afghan village along the lane that connected to the main road he had somehow gone down a dead end. Before him was a steel door secured with heavy locks on this side and a number of deadbolts on the other. Behind him the jabber of Pashto or Dari or whatever it was they spoke in southern Afghanistan was getting louder.

The young arctic fox looked around desperately. Even if he could afford to waste ammunition on the door it probably would not budge, plus the sound would draw hostiles to him. The walls were too high and smooth to scale, and no one with twelve-foot high walls reacts kindly to someone with a gun dropping into their yard. His only choice was to go back up the alley and deal with whoever he found there, then find a landmark and carry on.

He moved quickly but silently back the way he had come. A turn in the alley hid him from the first intersection. Voices were calling back and forth not too far away, but the walls echoed so much he could not tell exactly how far away they were or in which direction. There was only one thing he could think of that might work. Hunching his shoulders he ran around the corner, judged the distance to the intersection and dove forward. He rolled into the middle of the junction, concentrating all of his senses on his ears, and picked up a cry of surprise to his right. Uncoiling in a prone position with his gun pointed in that direction he spotted one figure in the middle of the lane and a second partially hidden in a doorway. Both held assault rifles.

Kyroo's pistol spoke twice and the exposed figure dropped like a rock. The other leaned out to get a better angle and Kyroo fired up at its face. Its head exploded on the third shot and the grenade it had been holding out of sight rolled into the lane, hissing smoke and sparks from the hole where the handle had recently been. Kyroo rolled sideways into the mouth of the opposite alley just as the grenade blew. Shrapnel went whizzing past, ricocheting off the far wall, but not a bit touched him.

He picked himself up and peeked around the corner. The two figures were still, their guns well away from their paws. Kyroo stepped out into the laneway and took a step toward them, his gun aimed halfway between the two just in case.

That is when he heard the single word spoken from behind him. He did not know much of the local lingo but he had picked up enough languages doing security work in the Middle East to recognize the tone of the word whoever it was back there had spat out. And it was most likely not a nice word.

Kyroo spun and aimed but the third hostile had the drop on him and its gun boomed before Kyroo could fire his own. Kyroo felt the projectile hit him hard in the centre of the chest and he went down heavily. The pain was incredible, but he still struggled to raise his gun, refusing to give up even in the face of certain defeat. The attacker that had shot him just stood there, staring blankly back at his feeble attempts.

The harsh glow of the Afghani noonday sun was growing dim. All sound from the surrounding town had ceased. A stillness, almost peaceful in its completeness, filled the air.

What little light there was from above was suddenly blocked out as a furry head leaned down over him. It was silhouetted, and he could not focus on it through the tears of pain that filled his eyes, but he knew who it was. It was the agent of death, come to pronounce his fate. He waited, knowing but still fearing the words he was bound to hear.

"You are dead, Echos." the gruff voice pronounced. "You are dead and your mission is a failure. Now get up off your ass and give me your analysis of what went wrong."

"Jesus, Silver." He addressed the Chief of Staff by the only name that the older fox would tolerate. "Can't I have a minute to catch my breath? That last ambush almost took me out for real. What did that mannequin fire at me anyway?"

"A non-lethal projectile aimed at what the mannequin's sensors figured was the centre of mass." The older fox bent over and picked up something that looked like a champagne cork from the dust and tossed it to Kyroo. "But its reaction to evasive moves is no better than that of the average soldier, so they can strike sensitive spots. That's why you have to wear shatter-proof goggles and a jock on the combat range. I've tested them on myself to see that it is as close to the real thing as we can get without doing any significant damage."

Kyroo shuddered. He had seen Silver in the gym shower and noted the great variety and number of his scars. He wondered what the supposedly indestructible fox would consider insignificant damage. The old bastard would probably not have fallen over when the projectile hit but returned fire instead. Correction, Kyroo thought, _he would not have been shot at all, because he would have looked both ways before coming out from under cover and accounted for the third threat behind him._Kyroo summarized his failure to do so as the reason for is failure, adding the bit about his initial disorientation that caused him to be in the area too long in the first place. Silver squatted down beside him and asked Kyroo how he might have done things differently and listened to the young arctic fox's response before making suggestions of his own.

While they talked the glow from the arc light that doubled as the sun during daytime scenarios faded and whoever it was running the control room brought up the ceiling fluorescents. With their even, artificial light it was easy to see the rafters and beams of the enormous barn that housed the combat range. Dust settled as the wind generators died and he air cooled as the heaters ceased to pump hot dry air around the building. It was one of the most elaborate simulation ranges in the world. Today it was an Afghan village; tomorrow it might be the backstreets of Hong Kong or the Columbian jungle. The robotic inhabitants ranged from infants to the elderly, and could be programmed to react to a stranger in any number of ways, shooting back at the agents, ignoring them or raising the alarm as the scenario demanded. They could be equipped with a variety of weapons and be set to fire live ammunition for the graduate exercises.

"You need to trust your inner compass." Silver told him as he helped the younger fox up. "Dust yourself off. We'll set it back up, move a few things around, and run you through it again."

Kyroo traced his route back to the entrance, put his gun on the rack and hung his goggles beside them. He decided to step outside and get a breath of fresh air before having another go at it. He stepped out into the early morning Ottawa sunshine and looked back at the range.

From the inside it was a most impressive combat range, yet from the outside it looked like an antique barn. That was because it was, or rather, had once been. Only the exterior of the original structure remained. The quaint red, louvered cupola roof vents now housed powerful but silent blowers and scrubbers to remove the smell of gunpowder. The discharged air was then scented with chemicals that simulated the smell of fresh hay and manure. The elaborate ruse was necessary because the barn-range sat on land that appeared to be part of the Central Experimental Farm, Agriculture Canada's central Ottawa research facility that housed the Agricultural Museum, the National Botanical Gardens and an arboretum.

It was also the home of F.O.X., the Foreign Operations eXecutive, Canada's secret spy agency.

Other departments owned buildings adjacent to the CEF, as it was called by the hordes of joggers and walkers that visited its paths and trails each day year round. But F.O.X. was the only one that did not mark its buildings with their true purpose. In fact, they went to great lengths to keep them as unobtrusive as possible, labeling them as housing the "Pork Disease Research Facility" and other outlandish purposes. Most were kept locked, accessible only to those with the appropriate pass code loaded into their ID card. Tourists would occasionally wander into the lobby of the headquarters building but they would be sent back to the museum by friendly smiling guards who were younger and fitter than most government service guards and who kept some very heavy weapons out of sight behind the high counter of the guard station.

Along with the range and the headquarters building F.O.X. had labs, a small hospital, an interrogation centre and a school for secret agents. The latter was why the complex was known as "the Academy" to members of F.O.X. They had been using the site since the Second World War, and, as far as anyone connected to the Academy suspected, would continue to use it for the foreseeable future.

But the analysts they employed at F.O.X., as good as they were, could not predict every possible future.

* * * * * * * *

Tancred Williams was a very tall, very muscular golden fox who looked much younger than his sixty plus years. Some said it was because he spent so much time sunbathing nude at his chalet in the Gatineau Hills, a practice that had lightened his fur and earned him the nickname "Tanner". Others said that it was because he bought beauty by the bottle and frequented spas and salons that treated the skin and tinted the fur. In any event, he was immediately recognizable around the Academy as someone of importance. Today, however, he was not at the Academy. He was attending the monthly breakfast held by the Clerk of the Privy Council.

In Canada only elected officials from the party in power are made Ministers and serve in the Cabinet. They are naturally biased toward the policies of their political party, and they have as many political duties as they do Ministerial ones. The day-to-day business of the government is therefore left to the civil servants of whom the Clerk, as he or she is known, is the most senior. The current Clerk happened to be a grey wolf from North-east Quebec. Deputy Ministers, the de facto heads of the various Departments and agencies, were next in seniority. Some were more senior than others. However they all answered to the Clerk and all of the Deputy Ministers that were in town were obliged to attend his monthly breakfasts.

With a few exceptions most Canadians would not recognize any of these senior civil servants. The commissionaire of the RCMP and the Chief of Defence Staff were both on the news fairly regularly, especially when a big bust went down or a military unit was deployed on a new mission. The heads of the two better known espionage agencies, CSIS and CSEC, were also familiar from the recent inquiries into the activities that were exposed in the Wikileaks and defector scandals. The existence of F.O.X. was, however, still a secret, and its Director guarded his anonymity jealously. At these breakfasts he posed as a junior executive, there to assist the Deputy Minister from the Justice Department. It was partially true; his agency fell under the Minister of Justice even if he did not have to report to that department's Deputy Minister. Many of the Deputies knew who he was, but they honoured his wish to maintain a low profile by ignoring him during these functions.

The monthly breakfasts served as a venue for the Clerk to pass on information about upcoming government initiatives and for the Department heads to discuss policy in an open forum. Most of the discussions did not apply to F.O.X. but some did, like what word processor would be used for government correspondence and whether all civil servant salaries should be set on a uniform scale like their American counterparts; the kind of things that could easily be send by email. But the Clerk controlled the careers of most of the creatures in the room, and this was their chance to hobnob with the boss. Like his police and military counterparts Williams knew that he would never be invited to take a Deputy Minister's position in any of the other Departments. As a spymaster he had come to the apex of his career. He only attended the monthly breakfasts because he had too.

Dressed as always in a very fashionable and well-cut suit Williams sat in the chairs against the wall with the assistants, away from the large oval table where the Deputies sat. Many of their assistants, up-and-coming executives always on the lookout for a rival or someone they could use as a stepping stone, wondered who he was and if he might be a threat to their advancement. One or two wondered if they had not seen him in one of the gay bars up on Somerset Street, not that being gay was a career limiting move in the Canadian government these days. But since he seemed to be ignored by everyone important they dismissed him.

All was proceeding as normal, except that the Clerk gave Williams a sign when their eyes happened to meet, a sign that meant he wanted Williams to stay behind after the others had left. Fortunately none of the junior Deputies or their assistants seemed to have picked it up.

When the breakfast was over and the last item of business discussed the Deputies stood to leave. Their assistants scrambled to collect their papers and carry their briefcases. Williams busied himself rearranging some papers destined for the shredder while he waited for the room to clear. One of the assistants, an otter, approached him holding out a sealed package.

"Williams, right?" The otter who looked to be in his late thirties addressed him. "Cartwright, from Natural Resources. One of my colleagues over at Foreign Affairs said that your division is running a courier over to Brussels this week. I have a package that needs to get to our team over there pronto but we missed the regular diplomatic bag. You think that your guy can take one more?"

F.O.X. ran a courier service to carry codes and other sensitive information that could not be transmitted to its agents around the world. It did not run on a schedule but on an 'as required' basis. As a favour, they offered to carry highly classified documents for the other departments engaged in intelligence work. Williams could guess which colleague from Foreign Affairs had passed on the info; you could count the number of folk who knew about F.O.X.'s business on one paw. He also knew that the package must be very important for them to have sent the otter to him. He let a friendly smile spread across his face as he reached for the parcel.

"Be glad to take it." He told the otter, holding out his paw.

Cartwright passed it over, along with a receipt for Williams to sign taking responsibility for the parcel. It was already sealed and marked for delivery through the Canadian Embassy. "Strange that Justice would be running a courier over there though." He said with curiosity as Williams took the package and slipped it into his secure briefcase.

"Evidence for the World Court." Williams lied. "War crimes we uncovered during the Bosnian campaign."

"Oh, yeah. I've heard of that". The otter said as he turned away, no longer interested. Williams had heard of it to, just last night on the news. It had been buried among the dozens of reports they squeeze in before the human interest story that ends the newscast. Williams had a good memory for such things, and was skilled at improvising and deflecting interest away from his agency. It was one of the reasons that the existence of F.O.X. was still a secret.

By now most of the other creatures had cleared the room. Williams busied himself with shuffling papers again until he heard the heavy oak doors close with a solid thud. When he looked up he was alone with the Clerk. The Clerk waved him to a seat and poured coffee left over from breakfast for them both before speaking.

"Sorry to hold you back Tancred but something rather important has come up."

"A job for F.O.X.?"

"Oh, no. Nothing as exciting as that. No, it's much more mundane I'm afraid. It's about space allocation."

Williams recalled that one of the topics at recent breakfasts had been the implementation of the Treasury Board's new directive on office space. Ordinary workers' cubicles had been cut down from four by four metres to three by three, leaving not much more space than was necessary for a desk, a computer terminal and a small filing cabinet. Every department was expected to squeeze their existing employees into this footprint and dispose of the empty buildings that resulted. Special purpose facilities were exempted, however, and most of the space occupied by The Academy fell into that category. Not many other departments needed interrogation centres and safe houses and forgery labs after all, but something in the Clerk's expression worried Williams just the same. He nodded for the Clerk to continue.

"As you know, most of the other departments have had to reduce the number of buildings they manage and fit the rest of the employees into existing facilities. This has been exacerbated by the number of government buildings that have reached the end of their lifecycle. Why, just last year we had to implode the John Carling building near you."

Williams knew it well. The multi-storied office building in one corner of the experimental farm had been condemned and had to come down. He had used the opportunity to train some of his newer agents in the art of demolition under the guise of a fake commercial enterprise. It had come down like a house of cards and crews were still cleaning up the site, which was on the same side of the CEF that F.O.X. was on.

"Agriculture was counting on moving into that building, or building a new one on the site, but popular opinion, and an approaching election, has swayed the Prime Minister's Office to declare that the land will be set aside for a park. Their next best option was to build in the old hay fields across from the Civic Hospital."

"But that land was just given to the hospital for them to build a new cancer facility." Williams finished for him. "Leaving Agriculture nowhere to go."

"Exactly." The Clerk said without a smile. "Except for the land within their boundaries that F.O.X. currently occupies.

"You mean ..... ?"

"Yes. You're moving."

* * * * * * * *

"What does a dog say?"

"Heouff"

"No, not quite." A leather covered paddle smacked a furry ass.

"Ha-ruff?"

"Nope." Smack "Try again."

"Ouif"

"You're not even trying." Gray Muzzle, the Academy bartender and occasional agent said as he put the paddle down.

"And you are not heeting hard enough." Miss CC, the buxom party poodle who served as the secretary and bodyguard to the Director complained as she rolled over on the older fox's lap. She was naked, as was he. They were sitting in Tancred William's big antique leather office chair, and the door to the office was securely locked.

"I can't help it." Gray said as he stroked her thigh with his paw. "I don't like hitting females. It goes against my nature." Up until today he had always been on the receiving end of their BDSM play, but lately it wasn't doing it for him anymore. She had suggested reversing their roles to see if that help bring back the sense of excitement they used to know. So far it wasn't working.

"Maybe eef you tie me up first?" She suggested in her seductive French accent.

Unconsciously his left paw moved across her chest, across her very full, soft, round breasts, while his left moved farther up her leg. He looked up as he tried to imagine her trussed up and helpless. In his mind's eye he saw her burst her bonds and grab the first heavy object to brain him with it. He shuddered.

"No."

"Then what can I do for you?" She said sadly, reaching up with one paw to caress his cheek.

Gray looked down at her as she lay across his lap. Her head was thrown back over one of the padded arms of the red leather chair, exposing her perfect throat. Her black ears hung down and her mouth was slightly parted, exposing sharp white teeth in that typically snarky poodle smile. Her back was arched, pushing her breasts up and keeping her stomach taut. Her legs were parted enough for his paw to move freely on her inner thigh and to show the pink slit at their apex. Black silk stockings covered her from knee to toe. The black patches of fur on her ass were hidden, but he could feel those twin globes of muscle warming his thighs and pressing down on his crotch.

Something twitched down there.

"I think that you are doing everything you need to do, Marie." Gray said, smiling, and his right paw moved farther in, far enough to brush the tips of the delicate hairs that covered her mons without touching the tender flesh beneath. Meanwhile his left circled one of her breasts in ever-smaller spirals that homed in on her stiffening nipple. Beneath her a small burrowing creature fought to reach the open air. "Yes, I do believe that you are doing just fine right where you are."

She rolled her shoulders, her hips and everything in-between as his digits teased her. Her tongue, long and pink, came out and traced her lips, making them glisten. Down below the sensations transmitted through the fine hairs made another set of lips appear, and they too glistened. Gray rolled his wrist with the digits extended so that the tips of his well groomed claws split those lips. As a reward they protruded farther, giving off a scent that made the bulge pressing on her ass even bigger.

She was groaning and writhing now as his digits probed and played and plucked at her most sensitive flesh. The sight of her moving under the command of his talented paws, the smell that confirmed her excitement was real, and the friction of her round ass on his groin served to drive up his level of desire. After a few more moments she had to shift her bottom to give his engorged penis more room.

"Oh, mon petit. You are not so petit anymore, heh?"

"Shush." He commanded as he slid two digits inside her. He might not be spanking her or restraining her but he was in charge, and the feeling swelled his already full erection. He had to concentrate now as his digits sought out the pad of spongy flesh inside her and stroked it. His thumb did the same the hard button of flesh it found at the top of her slit. Together they ground the two receptive areas between them. He put his left paw under her head and lifted it as he bent down to her. Mouths locked and tongues battled as his right paw moved faster on her.

Coming up for air he let her head fall back as his lips sought out her nipples in turn. He tickled and teased them with his tongue as his is digits changed their rhythm. Instead of rubbing her insides they were tapping, but the thumb was still making tight circles on her clit outside. It was a task as tricky as rubbing you tummy with one paw while tapping your head with the other, complicated by the urge to throw her on the floor and drive his cock deep inside her. But Gray resisted, maintained control, and kept the pace even as his prick began to leak the thin, slick fluid meant to ease its passage into the waiting vagina.

Miss CC began to swear in French as her head whipped back and forth, occasionally darting forward to nip at him. He had to keep his face and other paw clear, but he pressed his head to her chest as he redoubled his efforts down below.

"What does a dog say?" He hissed between clenched teeth.

"Woof! You bastard! Woof! Calvaire crisse de tabernak I'm ... I'm ... arggghhhh!"

Miss CC ground her teeth together as hot fluid sprayed out of her cunt, soaking Gray's paw and filling the room with a tinny scent. Her ass lifted off his groin as her back arched, leaving just her shoulders and the backs of her knees in contact with the leather. Gray's wrist almost broke as her twat clamped down on his digits and her contortions pulled his arm up into a unnatural position.

Suddenly he felt very tired. It had taken a lot out of him and his wrist was sore, like playing a guitar after years without practice. But while his arm was weak and his breath was ragged, a hard pole of flesh continued to ache in a different sort of way, and when Miss CC began to relax it kept her from lowering back down to where she was before. A few more strokes with his digits inside her made her rise up again, gasping in delight, but he could not keep his paw moving.

"Mais, non!" She exclaimed angrily. "Thees ees not how she ends." She knocked his paw away and twisted suddenly, bringing one leg over his head so that she sat facing him with her thighs on the arms of the big chair while her paws gripped his shoulders. "Marie, she gives as good as she gets." She grunted as she lifted her ass and brought her twat down unerringly onto his aching cock. She paused just a second as she wiggled the tip inside her and then she let herself drop down on it until his balls smacked up against her taut ass. "And she needs something hot and hard to give 'er that final 'woof'. So sit back Monsieur, eet ees my turn to drive."

And drive she did. Hips grinding, ass pumping, legs straining, she slid on and off his cock at angles that his geometry professor never knew existed. One moment her twat was sucking at the base of his cock, the next it was sealed around the knob at the other end. Sweet flesh slid down the bugle that ran the length of its underside, greedy lips sucked the side as they withdrew. And all the while the heat grew, the moisture increased, until the swelling in his balls reached critical mass. And, as if she sensed it, she moved faster still.

"Oui, oui. That ees what Marie needs." She grunted as the flesh inside her swelled to grip him like a warm fleshy glove. "And now ees time for you to join me." She said as she reached below her with one paw and gripped his balls. They vibrated in her paw as she paused with just the tip of his cock inside her. Then she squeezed them, slowly but firmly as she made her last descent.

"Woof!" She exclaimed as her clit dragged down the length of his shaft. When it ground against his pelvis she came again, and so did he. He came in globs s his hips shook in involuntary spasms that lifted them both off the chair. He came in shudders and shakes. He came as he had not come in a long, long time.

Gray melted into the leather of the old chair as the strength flowed out of his body via his cock. Miss CC melted onto him as she was finally satisfied. They stayed like that for what seemed like an eternity, until Gray saw something out of the corner his eye.

"Marie, what's that red flashing light over the door mean?"

"Mon Dieu! Le Directeur!" She launched herself off of him so violently that the chair was driven back against the wall. Gray's head bounced off the wood panelling, dazing him. Through the haze of blurry eyes he saw the naked white poodle speed about the room, straightening a lamp here, grabbing her dress off the floor there, and moving at an incredible pace. By the time she stopped she was fully dressed and had his clothes in a neat pile in her arms.

"The Director will be here any minute. Get in the washroom and get dressed. You can sneak out through Silver's office." As usual, all trace of her French accent had disappeared with the crisis.

She pulled him bodily out of the chair and shoved him toward the washroom Williams shared with his Chief of Staff. As he disappeared inside she wiped their mixed fluids off the leather of the Director's chair and tossed the wad of sodden paper towels unerringly through the gap of the closing door and into the open toilet.

"Flush!" she ordered as the door clicked shut. Gray did so, and heard the cheery greeting of the Director to his secretary as the sound died down.

"How are you today, Marie?" The big fox asked as he sat down on a chair that was strangely warm. He wrinkled his nose. "What's that smell?"

"Smell?" Miss CC asked innocently.

"Yes, that tinny, fishy smell. I often smell it when I come into the office." Having rarely engaged in sexual intercourse with members of the opposite sex, the Director was not familiar as familiar with the odour of feminine fulfillment as some. He sniffed around the room and stopped when his muzzle was pointed down at Miss CC. "Is it some kind of perfume?"

"Eet ees thees old furniture of yours." The poodle replied, her accent back at full force. "Zee leather, she sweats when it ees hot een zee office. Eet gets on the fur, n'est pas?"

"Hmmm. It doesn't feel hot in here today."

"Oh, eet was hot earlier. Very hot, monsieur."

"We'd better have the air conditioner checked then." He paused, frowned. "No, cancel that. It won't be necessary. Call Silver in will you."

"I do not theek that he ees here yet."

"Oh, no, he's here. I saw him sitting at his desk as I came in."

Gray, who had pulled his bar-tending uniform on and was just about to open the connecting door to the silver fox's office, froze. He could not go out there while Silver was there. And what if the Chief of Staff decided to take a shortcut through the connecting washroom when he was called? Gray looked around desperately. There was a silver tray with soap and towels on the counter beside the sink, and a couple of heavy glass tumblers for tap water on the other side. The towels were white, just like the ones they used in the bar. Gray had an idea.

Miss CC, a grin frozen on her face, was just about to step outside and drag Silver into the Director's office through her station when Gray appeared at the washroom door with a silver tray balanced on his digits and a white towel over his arm. There were two glasses on the tray.

"Sorry, I had to rinse the glasses." The greying fox said as he put the tray down beside the minibar that was one of the Director's perks. "The usual for you, Gold?" He said, using the Director's codename. "Will Silver be joining us too?"

The Director looked puzzled.

"Miss Chiene-Caniche paged me when your car came onto the grounds." Gray ad-libbed. "She thought that you could use a drink after another dreary breakfast with the Clerk." Miss CC had told him about how much Williams hated the monthly ritual.

The golden fox's face broke into a smile. "Ah, how thoughtful. Glad you could come this early in the day."

"Me too ... I mean, yes, it's fortunate that I was available." Gray was starting to sweat. "Ah, here's Silver. Can I get you a drink, Sir? A spritzer maybe?"

Silver paused in the doorway and sniffed the air. He had been the cause of similar odours back when he was an agent and the great walrus known as 'W' was the director. His brow furrowed as he regarded Miss CC and Gray Muzzle. "No, thank you. There's been enough spritzing here for one day. Just give me a scotch. What did you want to see me about Tanner?"

Siler was the only one that ever called the Director by his nickname, except for Williams' lover, the Academy forger, Joel Grigori. But Joel kept it to more intimate circumstances.

"The Clerk kept me back after the breakfast today." Williams began. "He had some news for us."

"Good or bad?"

"Depends how you look at it." Williams repeated the details of the allotment problems that the Clerk had used earlier.

"So we're moving." Silver concluded. His brow was wrinkled in concern. The Central Experimental Farm and its embedded Academy held a lot of fond memories for him, mostly of the erotic variety.

"Yes, but it's not all bad. The funds set aside for Agriculture's new building are being re-allocated to us. We can build to suit ourselves, and there is some land available at the Shirley's Bay complex, close to the ranges at Connaught.

Silver considered that as Gray Muzzle passed him a single malt scotch and water. It was true that they were doing more and more of their training at the National Defence faculty at Connaught. And the RCMP had a combat range there that was almost as good as the one here at the farm. Plus the grounds at Shirley's Bay were controlled by Defence Research and Development Canada, a classified research agency that was nearly as secretive as F.O.X. and one of the few that they worked with regularly. It was, he had to admit, a good fit. And as an additional bonus, it would cut a good thirty minutes off his commute, now that he and Vikki had relocated to a secluded property in farmland and forests west of Ottawa. Still, it would be hard to leave the farm behind, where the ghosts of so many of his friends and colleagues still lingered.

"When do we have to be out by?" He asked.

"That depends on how long it will take us to build a new facility and what temporary accommodations may be available." Williams advised. "But the Clerk will not let us linger here forever. Plan on a year at most to clear out the perimeter buildings, the range, the safe houses, and the hospital. The Academy itself next. Longer for the labs and the headquarters, but only if we can show cause."

Silver had been going over the plans for renovating the aging facility. The expense of patching an increasingly complex system within an inadequate infrastructure was crippling their budget. They could continue to adapt the aging buildings to their needs or relocate some facilities off site, which would increase the communication and coordination problem. Either way they went would be prohibitively expensive and neither option offered a good long-term solution. The unexpected money that came with this move, however, offered the opportunity of a fresh start, a clean break from the past, but a break all the same.

One of the lessons he had learned, the hard way, is that you can't shape the future if you are fixated on the past. Moving would not diminish the memories, and he could always join the throngs of tourists to visit the old buildings if he felt nostalgic.

"I know a few guys who have submitted plans for similar facilities recently." He told Williams. "Building on the lessons they learned we should be able to move into the new Academy in two years, max."

"That's good. You'll take care of notifying the staff and support workers?"

Silver let his eyes dart over to meet those of Gray Muzzle. No matter how compartmentalized an agency was gossip moved faster than any form of official communication. "They will be aware of it shortly." Silver conceded. "And I'll discuss it with the managers at length soon enough."

"Excellent." Williams opened his briefcase, which held the papers detailing the funding model for the move and saw the parcel he had taken from the otter from Natural Resources. "Who is doing the courier run to Brussels this week?"

"I haven't decided." Silver admitted. The courier run was a perk, and each division in F.O.X. had an equal share in the opportunity, seeing as everyone had the same level of clearance anyway. "It's the support section's turn, but they owe administration one position since admin gave them one last time it was their turn." He turned to their secretary, who kept the roster or the duty. "Marie, who is up next from Admin for the courier?"

"C'est moi, monsieur. Me. Just me, so far." Gray's eyebrows went up at that news. "Support has not submitted any names since the Support Manager retired. As you recall, monsieur, you were to compile the list for them yourself until you filled the vacancy." She reminded him.

Silvers brow furrowed as he recalled making that decision. Being Chief of Staff was fulfilling when there was an operation going down but he detested the mass of administrivia that went along with the job. "I'll have to call around and see who's available ..." He began.

"I'm with Support Group." Gray interrupted. "I've never been on a courier run, but all the other bartenders have. And I'd dearly love to go to Belgium and have some real Belgian waffles."

Silver's frown deepened. "The courier run is serious business, not an international culinary event. Besides, you got to go to Argentina last year." Silver reminded him. "As an agent."

"Technically I was only on temporary assignment, sir. My main duties are still with the support section."

Williams' brows went up inquisitively.

"We don't have any agent positions left to move him into." Silver explained. "The request for more is held up at the Treasury Board. They haven't approved any requests for new positions m any of the departments since the cut backs were announced." The party currently in power had pledged to reduce the size of the civil service and starting in 2012 they fulfilled that promise by ordering each department to reduce their staff by a certain percentage. By now most of the departments had reached their reduction quotas.

"I thought that we reduced our workforce below the quota through attrition?" Williams asked. Many of the departments had done the same, leaving positions empty when folk retired or, on the rare occasion, died. Of course, death on the job was less rare in F.O.X. and they were able to meet their reduction target in a single year.

"We did, and more have retired and such since, but there is an unannounced hiring freeze on until after the elections.

"Ah." The golden fox waved a paw in dismissal. "Carry on then." The three left the Director's office and gathered in Silver's.

"Okay." Silver declared, glaring back and forth between the two. "You can go on the courier run, but only because you seem to work so well together. Remember, this is not a vacation. Despite the end of the cold war it's still a dangerous duty. Don't let anything distract you from it."

"You can depend on us, Chief." Gray said, smiling. "I've got her back."

Silver scowled. "It's her other parts I'm worried about. Now put that stuff back in the washroom before Gold misses it and get out."

* * * * * * *

"I would like to call this meeting to order." The voice that emanated from the head of the long oval table where twenty one other creatures had gathered was like silk, smooth but strong. Those arrayed around the table immediately ceased their chatter and turned to face their leader in silence.

The creature at the head of the table was a long-haired Persian cat with snow-white fur and bright blue eyes. His name was Azim Crocifissio Bloedrye, although no one called him that, not anymore. His father had been a security official in pre-revolutionary Iran, from an old Persian family, and as corrupt as he was mean. His mother had been head-strong Italian feline related to the Sicilian Mafia families. Alternating between winters in Iran and summers in Sicily Bloedrye had been raised in a world of decadence and excess tempered with no sense of ethics whatsoever. He liked it, but they had first been forced to flee Iran with the Shah and then his mother's relatives had been rounded up by the Carabinieri, leaving him with no income, no qualifications or degrees and no employment prospects.

But one could not say that Bloedrye was not educated, it was just that his education was less traditional than the average creature's. He was an autodidact and had studied the great dictators, conquerors and criminals of history, learning their methods and identifying their mistakes. When faced with the prospect of earning his own living he had stolen the last of his parent's fortune and set up an organization known as GHOST - Gangsters, Hooligans and Other Sordid Terrorists. It wasn't the best name in the world, he had to admit. Bloedrye had wanted an acronym that spoke to the mysterious and invisible nature of his criminal organization, and would have preferred SPECTRE or SPIRIT, but both were already under copyright protection and even international master criminal organizations did not mess with that. He had briefly flirted with calling it the WRAITH - the World Revenge And Intimidation Terror Hoard but thoughts of his operatives shouting "For the Hoard" at the end of each meeting made his fur stand up. So GHOST would have to do until he thought of something better.

Bloedrye had modelled GHOST on the communist insurgent groups that operated in cells of three for security in order to carry out grand schemes of robbery, extortion and espionage. The groups were drawn from seven species, from seven organizations and from seven regions. Each triumvirate had been recruited from a criminal, terrorist or national security organization famed for their cleverness, brutality or ruthlessness. Each trio specialized in a different form of criminal activity while Bloedrye was in charge of conceiving and coordinating each conspiracy. They each received an equal share of all profits, including the leader, but Bloedrye alone decided how much of the organization's income would be dispersed and how much reinvested in future operations. Still, he maintained a veneer of democracy among the groups by allowing each to elect a spokesperson and put their views forward during the rare occurrences where they got together.

Bloedrye was also the sole arbitrator of disputes among the groups, and the lone dispenser of discipline. Aside from the occasional rebuke or fine there was really only one punishment - death - and it was dealt immediately and suddenly. Members with guilty consciences had taken to checking their seats for wires, trapdoors, bombs and flammable liquids before sitting down.

Other than keeping the groups together, the seating arrangement around the table varied from meeting to meeting, as did their cover names. Each member was given a number by which they would be referred to during that meeting and thereafter until the next time they got together again. Bloedrye felt that the randomly generated cover names provided added security in case their correspondence was intercepted or if a member was captured and tortured. Most of the members thought that it was a stupid affectation, since they all knew each other's names anyway. But they stuck to the system to appease the leader, who was currently petting his own fluffy tail while they waited patiently for him to speak.

The first group, going clockwise from the leader, consisted of three female French poodles, Madams of some repute from the French Milieu, the French criminal underground. One had to be both smart and pitiless to succeed in the male dominated world of French criminal gangs. Their eyes shone out intelligently through layers of heavy makeup as they waited for the leader to continue.

The next group were brown bears, Russian bears; two males and a female. They were the only mixed group in the organization. Their parents had been KGB compatriots of Putin and they themselves had excelled in the Action Directorate of the FSB before internal politics had forced them out. But they had found a new home with the international criminal organization that the leader had put together and, as far as Russians could, had given their loyalty to the feline that sat at the head of the table.

The third group were three males, jackals formerly associated with Somali pirate gangs, and they were the youngest of all the members by a generation. But creatures grow up fast in that region and they die young unless they have superior survival skills and more talent for the violent activities that generate most of the income for the locals. It was their ability to plan and execute big operations using minimal resources that attracted the blue-eyed cat to recruit them for his organization.

The next group of three had been terrorists. They were Nubian ibex, all males with great knobbed horns curling back over their heads. Their horns and faces showed the kind of damage one gets taking on the Mossad, the CIA and the Saudi security forces. They wore loose robes that covered the rest of their bodies. They glared at the females in the room because they believed that females should be involved with the grand work of the organization. The leader noted their discontent. His paw briefly hovered over a set of buttons marked one through twenty-one but he withdrew it. They could not help feeling that way, given their upbringing. They were useful members of the organization and they had shown restraint so far. He decided to stay his paw as long as their attitude did not affect the organization's unity.

The fifth trio were Sumerian tigers, former members of the Indonesian Special Forces who specialized in setting up radical groups to counter opposition political parties. They also did a healthy business in drugs, prostitutes and gambling on the side. They had just concluded an operation for GHOST and were interested in seeing how the leader would critique it. The senior of the three, going by the cover of number seventeen for this meeting, was nervous about the outcome, although it would take an expert to tell so.

The leader was such an expert, and he knew why the tiger was anxious. The organization that Bloedrye had formed relied on strict discipline and adherence to the leader's orders to extract the maximum profit from each enterprise they took on. Deviations, free-lancing and skimming off the top were not allowed. Nor was any activity that may put the success of an operation in jeopardy, whether it actually had an effect on the bottom line or not.

The sixth group were coati, raccoon-like creatures from the jungles of Columbia were they had grown up in a revolutionary group that financed its military and political campaigns through drugs and kidnapping. They had planned the abduction that the three Sumerians had recently executed, and managed all the communication with the rich oil family whose son they had snatched. They had recently deposited one-hundred million dollars worth of gold in the organization's Swiss bank, all of the ransom that had been negotiated and paid for the safe return for a Sultan's only son. They had never laid eyes let alone a paw on the boy.

No, only the tigers had physical contact with the boy, but Bloedrye would address that under old business. For now he turned to the seventh group. They were the hardest to read. Consisting of three grey wolves, the trio had been recruited from the one American government agency that was singly more responsible for more misery, anger and angst amongst the terrorized and cowed civilian population than all the others put together - the US Postal Service. Whether crushing hopes by misdirecting job offers, shattering dreams by losing love letters, or destroying childhoods by mangling Christmas parcels, they always acted with a detached professionalism that impressed even the meticulous Persian. The three wolves stared back at the cat with neutral expressions.

Leaning back in an oversized leather swivel chair Bloedrye continued absently running his claws through the pure-white fur of his tail as he contemplated the agenda. It followed the standard format for secret meetings of criminal organizations:

1) Financial Report

2) Old Business:

a) Current and Concluded Operations;

b) Disciplinary Actions (if required);

3) New Business:

a) Future Operations - Operation Firestorm (Annex A)

4) Next Meeting - Place (?) and Time (?);

5) Adjournment

6) Refreshments

Bloedrye look at the group from France. "The Financial report, if you please Number Eight."

One of the poodles stood up and adjusted her pince-nez glasses. "Zee gambling and brothels een Europe have brought een six million Euros. Zat ees down seven percent because of zee increased operating costs due to zee dispute between zee EU and Russia, zee sanctions and counter-sanctions, n'est pas? Drugs from Asia and South America brought een eighty-three million American dollars after bribes, salaries for zee couriers and legal fees, up two percent. Gold and diamond smuggling was flat at three-hundred and five million rupees. Zee biggest earner has been zee kidnapping of zee Sultan of Brunei's son. After expenses and exchange rate fees we netted a profit of roughly ninety-seven and a half million American dollars. As for expenses, we have ..."

"Let's stop there for now, shall we?" Bloedrye purred, always a bad sign. "Number Twenty-One, how did the operation go?"

The oldest coati stood up, slightly wary. "It come off fine, Senor ... Senor ...," he checked his cheat sheet "... Senor Two. The Crown Prince was taken cleanly without fuss and held without incident while we negotiated the release fee. The sum of one hundred million dollars we settle for was within the range you stipulate and, I thinks, a reasonable amount or such a speedy conclusion to the enterprise."

"Indeed, a most rapid and satisfactory affair from your point of view." The leader's voice was almost fawning it grew colder as his head swivelled toward the group of tigers. "But did we not stipulate that the Prince would be returned unharmed and intact if the full amount was paid on schedule?"

The coati sat down in relief as Number Seventeen jumped to his feet. "The Prince has not been harmed, and has lost nothing ... nothing physical."

"I have it on good authority that he lost his virginity to one of your associates. That's about as physical as one can get, don't you think?" Bloedrye purred as he stroked his tail harder. One of the seated tigers looked surprised, and then fearful. "You know our rules about needlessly molesting our, uhm, guests."

The senior tiger opened his mouth to answer but before he could speak the tiger that had been looking at Bloedrye fearfully jumped to its feet. There was a family resemblance between him and Number Seventeen. "No one forced themselves on the Prince, Number Two." He blurted. "Anything that occurred was consensual."

The leader's voice cracked like lightning. "Sit down, Number Five. Number Seventeen is in charge of your group and he will answer for its actions." Bloedrye turned his head slightly to focus on Number Seventeen and his voice grew silkier. "Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Molestation. You know, kidnapping only works in the long term if the clients feel that it is easier and safer to pay up quickly without going to the police. Even if they do go to the police the law enforcement agencies would rather deliver the ransom and try to track us down later than endanger the children of their leading citizens. We are all aware of the Stockholm Syndrome and how susceptible the sheltered offspring of our clientele can be after a long internment, but the whole object of the transaction is that the goods get back to the client without any physical or emotional defects, other than those used to expedite late payment of course. If we started delivering damaged goods they would make a dedicated effort to put us out of business. It is for that reason that we have rules about interacting with those in our charge. Our reputation s an organization relies on maintaining a certain standard of service. You understand, Number Seventeen?"

"I understand sir."

"And you understand that discipline must be maintained?" Bloedrye's paw left his tail and reached under the edge of the table for the control panel. The tiger that had interrupted started to rise and protest but Seventeen waved him back down into his seat.

"Yes sir."

"Then you'll know why I have to do this." The creatures on each side of the standing tiger pulled their seats back away, in case they were in the line of fire or too close to the edge of a trapdoor. The cat's arm flexed as he pressed down on one of the buttons. Number Seventeen flinched, but nothing happened. He looked around confused.

"Wait for it." Bloedrye advised.

As one the group gathered at the table heard a soft sound, a kind of hiss, as if something was moving very fast and getting faster but hardly disturbing the air around it. They looked all around. One looked up and gasped. Directly above the table, opposite Bloedrye, a slit had opened up in the high ceilinged room. The slit ran back toward the door and was as long as the room was tall.

Before anyone could move a sharpened pendulum swooshed down though the slit and across the room, getting nearer to the floor as it sped along in its deadly arc. It passed to one side of Number Seventeen, directly over the head of the seated Number Five. It swung up over the head of Bloedrye and continued up, slowing as it went, until it almost touched the ceiling.

"You missed him." One of the postal wolves commented as the pendulum's blade reached the ceiling and hung in the air for an instant.

"No." Bloedrye commented as the blade gained speed on its return journey. "This is part two." His arm flexed again and the chair that Number Five was in suddenly rose four feet into the air, putting the seated tiger directly in the pendulum's path. At the speed it was moving the hapless tiger had no chance. He was sliced neatly in two with a gush of blood and entrails that splattered over his fellow tigers and several of the others seated close by.

Bloedrye pressed another button and the pendulum slowed to a stop, dripping gore on the table as it rose up through the ceiling.

"Sorry to hear about your brother, Number Seventeen." He said. "Please find a replacement immediately as we are about to embark on a scheme that will make us the richest creatures on the planet."

The head tiger nodded and sat after scooping some of his brother off his leather chair. Several attendants appeared from the darkened corners of the room with towels and disinfectants to clean up the mess while the meeting continued.

"Moving on to New Business." Bloedrye intoned. "Have you all read the Annex concerning Operation Firestorm?" Twenty heads nodded affirmative. "Are there any objections to proceeding with the plan as outlined?" Several creatures glanced up at the ceiling to see if the slit for the pendulum had rotated to be in line with their seat. The ceiling had closed seamlessly and there was no way to tell. No one objected.

"Good." Bloedrye said after several seconds of silence. "It will be recorded that we have unanimous agreement to proceed, except for one abstention." He gestured to the seat with the split back that the attendants were still picking bits of tiger out of. "Many of the elements are already in place so we will go ahead with Phase I - Information Gathering, immediately."

The icy blue eyes scanned the room. "Are there any other items of new business?" No one moved. Bloedrye was known to have several deadly surprises ready for each meeting and he was always in a testy mood after disciplining someone. "Alright then. I declare this meeting adjourned. Now, I believe that it is Number Eight's group's turn to provide the refreshments? What do you have for us today ladies?"

The oldest of the three poodles pulled a canvas bag full of bottles out from under the table and passed one of them to their leader. It was a dry sherry from France. An aperitif, the type of drink served before a meal or before embarking on an adventurous endeavour. Bloedrye looked at the label.

"Ah, L_e Renard Court_! How appropriate."

The FOX Academy series:

Book I - The New Breed

Book II - The Werewolf of Odessa

Book II.5 - The Love who Spied Me

Book III - The Curse of the Yellow Monkey

Book IV - Wait for No One

Book V - Dawn of Vengeance

Book VI - Unnatural Selection

Book VII - Rogue Sword

Kain Algorath © Marcus X Light

Ophelia Cassidy Sommer © Devil Kitty

Joel Grigori © Joel the Lemur

Geno © Coyotek

Dongo Fett © Dongo Fett

Zachary Ember © EmberWolf

Gray Muzzle © Gray Muzzle