{"sf1_id":4289,"sf2_id":"dmWJARye","title":"Maranatha - Chapter IX, as told by Reiner Kierkegaard","author":"khakidoggy","words":9667,"posted_at":"2004-12-15T21:42:00.000Z","tags":["Action","Adventure","Angst","Hare","Highschool","Jackal","M/M","Plot Development"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/4289-maranatha-chapter-ix-as-told-by-reiner-kierkegaard","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/dmWJARye","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/fc/f6/fcf6d7be-9266-4bbd-aa2a-82fc4b2d5c54","description":"#9 of Maranatha","content":"  \n  \n\n  \n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\nM A R A N A T H A  \n  \n  \n  \n© Osfer, December 2004  \n  \n  \n_All rights reserved.  \n  \n  \nMay only be distributed for free.  \n  \n  \nMay not be altered in any way.  \n  \n  \nContains material of an erotic and homosexual nature which may be illegal to  \nread in your country, state, province or region.  \n  \n  \nThe author takes no responsibility for transgressions on the part of the reader  \n  \n  \nComments welcome at  \n[[email\u0026nbsp;protected]](%5C)._\n\n  \n\n**Available on paperback in 2005**\n\n  \n\n[  \nMail the author](%5C) for information  \nor [  \njoin the mailing list](%5C)!\n\n  \n\nCheck out [Maranatha on WikiFur.](%5C)\n\n  \n\n~ Enjoy. ~\n\n  \n\n  \n\n* * *\n\n  \n  \n\n  \n\nChapter IX - As Told By Reiner Kierkegaard\n\n  \n  \n\nGetting head while driving's one of my favourite things. Being clear-headed is  \nanother, and as luck would have it, I get both tonight. The hare's lips are warm  \nand well-cared for, probably for this exact purpose. The ease, patience and  \neffortlessness with which he goes down on me shows that he's had hours and hours  \nof practice, probably on a daily basis.   \n  \nI look around at the other traffic, and they seem to be just cars and buses. No  \nmore military vehicles, no more psychotic flashbacks, just the dying trickle of  \nnight-time traffic, the throaty cough of the engine and the soft wet noises from  \nCannit's busy mouth. I could drive like this for hours.\n\n\u0026nbsp; Of course, I can't actually drive for hours. Malloy said that if I didn't get an  \nantidote for what he injected into my neck within the hour I'd die, and that  \nleaves fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes to take on an ambitious minor crime boss  \nwith a substantial amount of muscle behind him - some of which, it's true,  \nMalloy managed to take out, but... There were many more men at the warehouse than  \nat the club. And something tells me that many of those are now with the tied-up,  \ndrugged-out-of-his-mind wolf I saw in the cellar. My quarry.  \n  \nCannit, despite my warning that he should take it slow, starts deepthroating me.  \nIt feels kind of nice - real nice, in fact, so I can't bring myself to complain.  \nMy foot leans a little harder on the gas pedal, and I pass a black van, then a  \nyellow Volkswagen which just looks ridiculous.   \n  \nAt this point something occurs to me that I hadn't realised before. At first I  \nwas distracted with panic, then desperation to find Owen and save my own life.  \nThen there was the hallucinatory episode, which I'd like not to remember, then  \nthe quick hump under Cannit's pretty tail, the stroke of luck with Cannit  \ngetting called up by Sharpish, telling him to go to St. Claudia's hospital...  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; What occurs to me is this: why the fuck does Malloy want me to get Owen back?  \n  \nIt makes no sense! That dog's too pro-active to just sit back and hope that I'm  \ncompetent enough to pull it off. Maybe he wants me dead? No, then he'd have  \nkilled me, he had the chance. Or maybe he realized that Mister Ferrum had  \ndouble-crossed him, so he wants me to go after Owen so I'll have to go up  \nagainst Sharpish and Sharpish will think I was sent by Ferrum and will take  \naction against him and... Hold on. Where was I?  \n  \nNo, no, this is no good. I don't have the brain for this. If the plan's  \ncomplicated I don't stand a chance of figuring it out. Maybe it's something  \nsimple, then?  \n  \nI had a sergeant once, who said there were two types of strategists. Both of  \nthem make detailed plans for all possibilities beforehand. However, one kind is  \ndedicated to seeing their plan through to the end, while the other plans on  \nplanning some more once they get to the problem point. I'm the first kind, it's  \nall I'm good at. Malloy, clearly, is the second.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; There was more, though, more that the sarge had to say. Not every problem has a  \nsolution, after all, sometimes there's just no way out of a situation. In that  \ncase, all you can do is try to change the problem, alter the situation. Sprinkle  \naround some chaos, go nuts, see what happens, since it's unlikely it'll be any  \nworse than the current state of affairs.   \n  \nThat must be what Malloy's doing. He's trying to start a shower of chaos so  \nnobody'll know what's going on any more than he does. That makes sense. When  \nyou're stuck in close quarters, outnumbered three to one, just toss a smoke  \ngrenade. Evens the playing field.   \n  \nBut where does that leave me? Malloy can't possibly expect me to succeed. If he  \nwants that wolf so badly, he's have insisted that I go with him as backup,  \nbecause if he died, there'd be no antidote for me. Yeah, that'd make more sense.  \nWait, maybe he did want to kill me, but he didn't want a body lying around,  \ntraceable to him, so he sent me off on some idiot quest so I'd die far away from  \nhim...  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Stop it, Reiner. You're thinking 'maybe' too much. Think about what's certain.  \nMalloy injected you with something and it made you flip out, but it seems to be  \nover. You're in a stolen police car, which by all accounts should have been  \nnoticed by now and you're a fool not to have thought of that before. And you're  \ngetting a truly excellent blowjob. So first things first.  \n  \nI throw my head back and groan nice and deep, over the rumble of the engine as I  \nstart ejaculating in the hare's mouth. He's ready for me, eagerly slurping it  \nall up, diving down to bury his pink nose in my crotchfur, locking lips behind  \nmy knot and letting it all just flow down his gullet. God damn fuckadoodle, he  \nis good.   \n  \nMy foot sort of slips off the gas pedal and my hands sort of let go of the  \nwheel. Not a whole lot, mind, but enough for me to veer a little over the line  \nof my lane and my happy daze Is rudely interrupussed by the sound of a car horn  \nblaring and brakes screeching a little, it's all really dramatic for what only  \namounts to a minor traffic infraction. And what the fuck, I'm driving a  \ngoddamned police car so whoever's in that van had better fucking watch it,  \nhadn't they.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"More?\" asks Cannit softly. He's pulled off me, licking his lips, but keeps his  \nhead resting on my thigh in case I want to spend more time in his mouth.  \n  \nI shake my head, which is technically wrong since I do want to spend more time  \nbetween those skilled lips, but I have other things to think about. I smile, and  \nCannit probably thinks I'm smiling because I'm post-orgastically happy and  \nsmiles back as he starts tucking me away and zipping me up again, but I'm  \nactually smiling at a thought I had.   \n  \nWhen things get complicated, look for the simplest answer. It's a gamble, but if  \nyou stick to it, it'll give you more confidence than guessing, and being  \nconfident may sometimes be more useful than being right. And you know what the  \nsimplest reason is why Malloy did what he did to me? I do.   \n  \nI take Cannit's cellphone out of my jacket pocket. Dial a number. It rings  \ntwice, then I hang up, and redial. It's picked up immediately and a groggy,  \ntrembling voice answers.  \n  \n\"What the hell're you doing with Cannit's phone? You didn't hurt the boy, did  \nyou?\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; It's Malloy, and he doesn't sound well at all. He's got that sort of  \nstomach-clenching croaking sound to his voice that people get when they really  \nneed to throw up, but can't. I look to my side and see the hare looking into the  \npassenger sunshield mirror, stroking his ears back. I wonder how Malloy  \nrecognized the number - or rather, how often he uses this boy. He's got good  \ntaste. \"Cannit's fine,\" I say with a smirk. \"Malloy, am I really-\"  \n  \nI hear laughter, and not just from Malloy. There's other men's' voices, and a  \nwoman's too. \"No, no, sweetheart,\" Malloy says, still chuckling and I feel rage  \npumping through my veins. \"You're not gonna die. Probably not, anyway. You've  \njust had a seriously bad trip, but it should be starting to wear off by now.  \nSorry I had to put you through that - well, not really sorry, you're still a  \ntwo-faced cunt - but I just wanted to borrow your.\"  \n  \n\"My phone,\" I reply, grinning. It didn't do me a whole lot of good, I didn't  \nthink of it in time, but I still figured it out before I was told what the score  \nwas. All Malloy had wanted all along was to get my phone, without leaving a  \nbody, dead or unconscious or otherwise. \"Yeah, I figured that. Good luck finding  \nyour friend,\" I say and I hang up. The north-south off-ramp's just now coming up  \nso I give the wheel a hard yank and swerve off the ringroad and toward the inner  \ncity, a car horn blaring again, but I ignore it. I've got to report this  \nnonsense to Mister Ferrum, get the other Shadows and go out and kill somebody.  \nMalloy, probably. The motherfucker humiliated me more than anyone n recent  \nmemory...  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Weird thing is, though, I'm not really that mad at him. He wanted to save his  \nfriend and did whatever he needed to help him, he thought on his feet... He'd have  \nmade a good Shadow himself, but for a few minor details. Especially considering  \nthat he went from beaten-up and handcuffed to a raging goddamn killing machine  \nin thirty seconds flat. That's a good thing to remember, that is... if Ferrum does  \nsend us out to take him down, I'll have to insist on some more manpower than  \nhe'd usually deploy.  \n  \nCannit's phone rings again. He's opened his window, letting one arm dangle out.  \nHis right ear flops in the wind, and it looks kind of funny. I'm really going to  \nhave to find a place to dump him. And the car, too. Maybe both together. Two  \nbirds, one stone, sort of thing. On the other hand, I might just take him back  \nwith me. The boys'll have fun with a kid like him.   \n  \nMy mind's so taken by the sight of the hare next to me that I totally  \nunconsciously pick up the phone and put it to my ear. \"Kierkegaard.\" Then I  \nrealize what I did. On the other end of the line, there appears to be laughter,  \nsame mixture of genders and species as before. \"What the fuck?\"   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"We're not laughing at your last name, Reiner,\" Malloy says, sounding a little  \nbetter now that he's in good spirits. \"It's just... Are you, by any chance,  \ndriving a stolen police vehicle?\"  \n  \nI check my rear-view mirror and there's nothing on the road behind me but that  \ndamned black van. And somebody in the passenger seat, waving a phone at me.   \n  \n\"The Maranatha ring road's fucking cursed,\" I say out loud, my jaw hanging slack  \nas I gaze into the rear-view.  \n  \n\"Okay!\"  \n  \n\"Shut up, Cannit.\"  \n  \n\"Okay!\"  \n  \n\"Where are you going, Reiner?\" Malloy's voice still shows signs of the trembling  \nI heard there earlier, though that does nothing to mitigate the unmasked  \ncontempt there, too. \"It's a miracle that you haven't been spotted by actual  \ncops, yet. Every police unit's been alerted. How long d'you reckon your luck's  \ngoing to hold out?\"  \n  \n  \nFourteen years ago. The day I first got laid. Birgit was the girl's name and she  \ncould have been my sister, we looked so alike. That was pretty goddamn profound,  \nthat experience, though it amounted to little more than an awkward standing-up  \nfuck in the janitor's closet in high school after classes. I was there for chess  \nclub and she'd just finished cheerleading practice.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; She'd seen me try out for the basketball team the week before - try and fail,  \npretty humiliatingly. She had come to me afterward and asked why I'd tried when  \nI obviously wasn't tall enough, and I said I did it to impress her. Then came a  \nweek of kisses and glances and smiles, casual brushes of hands on knees, then  \nhigher, then higher still, until our daily make-out session escalated, zippers  \nwent down and our bodies did something we'd only vaguely heard about.  \n  \nThe truth was, of course, that I'd tried out for the team to impress not Birgit  \nbut Anne-Marie, another cheerleader, but that demon-bitch laughed at my failure  \nwith the rest of her group and when Birgit came to me, I didn't look a gift  \nhorse in the mouth, and told her what she wanted to hear so I could at least get  \nsome pussy out of the debacle. It's funny how fickle a fifteen-year-old's  \nemotions can be when mixed with good old-fashioned testosterone.  \n  \nSo that was profound. But what was more profound, was something I heard as I was  \nwalking through the school's empty, echoing corridors on my way to chess club. I  \nfelt ten feet tall and my usual hunched lope was replaced by a strut as  \nconfident as ever you saw. But I passed an open door on my way, it was open just  \na crack. Bible study, I suppose it must have been. An older man's voice was  \nspeaking, and what he said I remember literally.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"There is no such thing as luck. There is coincidence, and there is God's will.  \nThey're pretty hard to tell apart,\" he said and the kids in class laughed. I  \nstopped walking, to listen some more. \"There is no such thing as bad luck,  \neither. But when you're convinced that it can't be coincidence, then you have to  \nask yourself the question: is God setting his will against me to test my  \nresolve, or does he want me to stop what I'm doing?\"  \n  \n  \nFive minutes later we've taken a detour into the industrial zone of the city.  \nAfter some gasoline siphoning, sprinkling, and igniting with matches the cop-car  \nis now a burning wreck, the flames helpfully removing such pesky things as  \nfingerprints. A keen forensics team that feels the need to compete with those  \nCSI guys on that TV show might, I don't know, find some generic evidence or  \nwhatever, but it's doubtful they'd go to that much trouble. If they do, hell,  \nthis'll just be a fall job and I'll be out in a year or two, if I even go down  \nthat long.  \n  \nThe black van's pretty spacious on the inside, one of those SUV affairs, but  \nit's more than a little cramped at the moment. There's Malloy in the passenger  \nseat, with a bull behind the wheel, who's wearing a black bomber jacket like the  \none Sharpish' guys wore. I didn't catch his name, since he was introduced to me  \nby a really, really pretty young lioness as her new boyfriend.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; She cuts quite the stunning figure, that lioness does. She's wearing almost the  \nsame outfit as her sister, who's a little flatter in the chest, but equally as  \nfine. Both are smooth-curved, golden-furred, with melt-your-heart eyes and those  \nthin black feline lips that God destined for cocksucking. Cannit was pretty good  \nat it, but something tells me that these two girls could keep me hard for hours  \nwith merely the odd kiss on my balls.   \n  \nAlthough they'd have to look at me nicer. Particular the one called Alice, she's  \nlooking at me with some fire in her eyes. She may be dressed as a raver-grrrl  \nlooking to get her bar bills paid and the ever living light fucked out of her,  \nbut she's looking at me like I stole her wedding ring or killed Santa Clause.  \nThe other one, with the bull for a boyfriend, looks like she wants to eat my  \nbrain, using my dick as a spoon.  \n  \nThe atmosphere of aggression aimed at me, I'll have to admit, is kind of a  \nturnon.  \n  \nThere's two others in the van, a raccoon and a tigress. The 'coon looks the most  \nnormal of the bunch, dressed in jeans and a hoody. He's the only person in the  \nvan with more than one percent body fat, an average he beats by a fair margin,  \ntoo, and second to Malloy he looks to be in the worst shape of the bunch. His  \ncheekfur's matted and he's obviously been crying, and the tigress next to him  \nseems to have as well. At this point, I don't really care what their problem is.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp;  \nMalloy, as expected, takes charge and alters the seating arrangements. The coon  \ngoes in the passenger seat, what with him being one of the bigger people in the  \nbus, while the lion sisters and the tigress sit in the middle seats. I could  \nseriously go for a pile-up with those chicks, good Lord but I do, but Malloy  \nputs me on the back seat, sitting down beside me. He tells Cannit to get in the  \ntrunk-space behind the back seats, which the stupid hare does without complaint.  \nReally, I gotta get me one of him.  \n  \n\"So, Reiner,\" says Malloy, patting my knee like he's my teacher or something  \nand, try as I might, I can't keep my lip from curling. He's not even worried I  \nmight attack him, even though his eyes are showing more white than they should  \nand his shoulders twitch randomly. \"You stole a car, you picked up some tail...  \nYou've been an industrious little sod, ain't you? I wonder, though, how  \ncarefully you spent the hour you were allotted. Did you find out where Owen was  \ntaken?\"  \n  \nI sit up straight, crick my neck and spread my arms across the backrest of the  \nchair, one of them behind him, lazily draping it over his shoulder like we're on  \na date. \"Might have done, might have done. What's it to you?\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Malloy nods to the front of the van and I'm momentarily worried they've got some  \nfucked-up plan, but it's just a signal to the bull to start driving and as we  \npull out, there's a police car coming in the opposite direction, heading toward  \nthe burning wreck of a cop-car.   \n  \n\"Have you heard the name Lombardi?\" he asks. I don't twitch, but he doesn't look  \nto see if I do either. Detective Lombardi I know only too well. \"Lombardi of the  \nMaranatha police department will shortly be in possession of a cellular  \ntelephone which, though it lacks a SIM chip and a P-K descrambler, still carries  \nenough fingerprints and interesting internal features to warrant some intense  \ninvestigation as to its origins.\"  \n  \n\"Hell, your fingerprints are all over it, too,\" I snap back at him, but even as  \nthe words leave my lips I think he's probably already thought of that. God damn,  \nI wish Mister Ferrum had given me Malloy's file to look at before sending me out  \nwith him. I'd be damn interested to know where a small-time dealer like him got  \nthe balls, not to mention the skills, to do the things he's done. Hey, that  \nreminds me. \"By the way, Malloy?\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"Fake tooth with a PCP-laced cocktail inside,\" he replies before I can even  \nfinish asking him how he managed to get out of his restraints and blast his way  \nout of that nightclub. I don't know whether I just don't believe him, or  \ndisappointed ­- I'd hoped for something dramatic like divine intervention, or  \nthat he secretly picked the locks and that he had special forces training... But  \nno. Just a tooth, probably the one knocked out of his mouth, with a hollow space  \ninside and enough narcotics to give his muscles a little boost and his  \npain-nerves a little downer. I should recommend that to Mister Ferrum; I'm sure  \nit'd come in handy some time. \"Any other questions?\" I shake my head.   \n  \nChrist, what is it about Malloy that makes me feel like I'm in the principal's  \noffice? He looks like shit. His lip's split and his eye's swollen, he's got a  \nsweater wrapped around his houlders, shivering with cold despite the humid,  \nlingering warmth of Maranatha's autumn. His eyes are showing almost as much  \nwhite as Sharpish' and can't seem to focus on any one thing in particular. I run  \na quick tactical.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I swing my arm ad punch Maloy in the throat. He gurgles and clutches for his  \ncollapsed adam's apple, doubling over in time for me to grab him by the ears and  \nbang his head, hard against the side door. I move forward and to the right,  \naround the side of the middle cluster of passenger seats in the SUB. On my left  \nis the tigress, who poses no challenge. A punch to her face elicits a startled  \nscream from the 'coon in the passenger seat, but he's too big to retaliate in  \nany kind of speedy fashion.   \n  \nOne of the lionesses slashes through her safety belt and springs over the other  \ntwo females. There's a lot of fight in this one, the round-breasted one and her  \nfeline claws are razor-sharp. I could dodge her pretty easily in the open, but  \nin the cramped confines of the SUV my efforts only serve to knock the back of my  \nhead against the ceiling and as black spots sparkle in front of me I feel the  \nicy stab of five sharp claws digging into my forearm.   \n  \nI twist at the hip, grabbing her by the elbow. Blindly, I grab for the  \nside-door's latch and gamble that it's still unlocked and with that twisting  \nmotion I pull the door open and the lioness toward me, tossing her over my hip  \nand out the door, where she disappears onto the dark pavement that rushes by  \nwith a thump, a crunch and half a scream.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Turning back I swing my arms to catch the tigress across the face and knock her  \nback against the second lioness, who is by now mightily distressed. My other  \nhand connects with Malloy, on his face, maybe. His battered body is pushed back,  \nbut the seat bounces him forward and as he does so, doubling over as if going  \nfor my groin, I catch sight of the gleaming metal of a gun stuffed down the back  \nof his pants.   \n  \nAn instant and it's in my hand. It's heavy, for so sleek a gun, well-balanced  \nand solid and cold despite being to close to Malloy's fever-hot back. It's up  \nand around just in time to pistol-whip the other lioness, who lets out a  \nsurprisingly feral yowl when she dives at me across the now-unconscious  \nleopardess, but before I have a chance to remember whether it really is only the  \nmales of the species who yowl, the gun's butt connects superbly with her temple  \nand she's sent sprawling onto the back seat next to Malloy.   \n  \n\"You motherfucker!\" yells.... I don't know, somebody, I wasn't really paying  \nattention. The raccoon! That's who's yelling. He's turned around in his seat,  \nbut he's got himself all tangled up in his safety belt.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I lay the gun's muzzle to the back of the leopardess' neck and he freezes. \"Cool  \nit, tubby.\" At this point I see no reason to say that I'm going to shoot her  \nunless he co-operates. It's pretty obvious, I think. \"We're going to the  \nSargasso building, got it?\" He nods and sits back in his chair, though he glares  \nat me as if he could burn me with his eyes, the bull turns the wheel gently and  \nturns down a side road-  \n  \nWhoops, no, that went wrong. I completely forgot about the bull. He could have  \nturned the wheel at any second - he'd probably have done so about the time I  \nwould have thrown that busy lion chick, his girlfriend no less, out the door. I  \ngive it a moment's though, but I seriously doubt I can think of a tactical which  \nincludes the bull where I make it out of the car alive, let alone get to the  \nSargasso building.   \n  \nMalloy gives me a light slap on the cheek and I have to blink in surprise. \"Hey,  \nsunshine,\" he says to me. \"You sort of zoned out there, for a bit. You were  \nabout to tell me where Sharpish took Owen.\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I pull my head out of the simulations I was trying to run and turn to face the  \ndobermann beside me, giving him my looking-down-my-snoutest stare. This guy's  \ngot nothing. He may have had the stones to take out some of Sharpish' muscle  \nwhen he was off his knocker on PCP, but he's too smart to kill one of Ferrum's  \nmen, I know that now. I'll just tell him to turn himself in and odds are he'll  \ndo it. He'll gamble on Ferrum's admiration for his cojones to survive  \n  \nBut before I can even formulate a snide, in-your-face \"fuck off\" comment, a  \ncute, lapine face pops up from behind the seat's backrest, smiling right between  \nmy face and Malloy's. \"Sharpish? Oh, he's at St. Claudia's. Can you guys give me  \na lift there? Oh, and anybody want a blowjob?\"  \n  \nThe bull behind the wheel, of all people, is the first to start snickering. The  \nlow sound thrums through the van's interior, quickly joined by a musical giggle  \nfrom one of the lion sisters. I can't fucking believe this and my first reaction  \nis to fucking give that fucking buck-toothed cocksucking motherfucker an elbow  \nin the face, but Malloy, against all odds, grabs me by the wrist and stops me  \njust shy of bopping Cannit on the nose. The stupid slut never even blinks!  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; They're all fucking laughing at me, it's like I'm back in fucking high school or  \nsomething. I'm so angry my muscles won't co-operate and when Malloy pushes,  \nweakened though he is, I slide backward. I half-fall off the chair and notice a  \nwhooshing, rumbling sound to go along with the goddamn laughter and a hand wraps  \naround my other arm, pulling me backward and the next thing I know is I'm flying  \nbackward, arms wide as wings and legs apart like a whore's.   \n  \nI don't even feel it when I hit the wet ditch on the side of the road, just  \ntumbling, spinning three time around and then a hard thud as I smack against a  \ntree. There's a sharp pain in my - well, no, there's pain all over the place and  \nthe taste of mud in my mouth and slime on my face when I land, and land hard.  \n  \n  \nAnd with that, ol' Reiner leaves the story...  \n  \n  \nNo, fuck that. I'm not done.  \n  \nI roll over on my side and reach out to the tree to help pull myself up,, but my  \narm won't move. I turn my head to look at it and my neck aches something fierce,  \nand as I peel back my jacket I notice a bulge in my shoulder that really doesn't  \nhave any place there. Dislocated. Well, at least now I know the source of one  \nnote in this symphony of pains.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; My other arm's fine, or at least in much better shape. I grab a gnarled branch  \nand haul myself up, spitting out some of the filthy muck from my mouth. Well,  \nthere's one advantage to having a jackal's dark fur: dirt don't show as clearly.  \nSo I probably still look half-decent in the face department.  \n  \nI grab my busted arm below the elbow and tri to tug my shoulder back in its  \nsocket. I bite my teeth together to keep myself from biting off my tongue or the  \ninsides of my cheeks. It's been out of its socket before, which is no doubt why  \nit popped out again so easily this time.   \n  \nThose of you who've had it happen likely know that while the dislocation hurts a  \nfair bit, putting it back in place hurts more. The only thing that hurts yet  \nmore than that is a slow and botched attempt to fix it. I don't think there's  \nwords I know that can describe quite what it feels like, so I'll just skip that.  \nDuring the second attempt the pain is of such a caliber that I actually see  \nvisions.  \n  \nNot like the others, not long ones. They're just jumbled up images that move a  \nlittle, but they're interesting nonetheless. There's Birgit's happy groans in  \nthat janitor's closet in high school, the warmth inside her and that feeling,  \nthat unbelievable feeling of holding someone by the hips, kissing soft,  \nsweet-flavoured lips and sharing your first real sex-orgasm together. It's gone  \nin a flash, that feeling, and then there's cold and dark. I recognise it, but it  \ncould be anywhere. The solitary cell where Mister Ferrum first came to talk to  \nme, or the barn where I hid out after killing a rube in my first honest-to-god  \nbar brawl, or any other cold and dark place I've ever been. After that...  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; The last image lasts a while, and I'm glad of it. Cannit's on his back, in a  \nwarm bed. There's light coming in through the window and the mattress is so soft  \nit doesn't even creak under us. The only sounds are my groaning and the hare's  \nincessant babbling. He's talking about hiking or something ridiculous like that,  \nbut I'm actually enjoying the sound of his voice now, strange as that may seem.  \nHis long, lanky legs wrap around my waist and he smiles at me, pleased that I'm  \nhaving a good time.   \n  \nI've been doing this all night, just fucking him. It's not my usual style, I'm  \nnot doing it just for the relief I need. I'm fucking him for the fun of it. I  \nstroke his blunt snout, stroke his lips, run my claws lightly through the  \ndowny-soft fur over his supple abdomen. I take pleasure simply in having a  \nbeautiful, naked body beneath me and fucking him is... soothing. My arm can move  \nagain and while the pain returns, in shoulder, knee and stomach, the memory  \nlingers.   \n  \nI look to either side of the road, but obviously it's empty. It's the brink  \nwhere the suburbs meet the commerce district. Lots of empty space with fake  \nwilderness in the form of regularly planted trees. It's dark, night-time, but  \nthe sky's overcast and the glow of the city's streetlights is reflected back  \ndown and everything's that useless kind of orange only economically-minded city  \nplanners can think of.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Taking off my jacket's a chore, what with the sore shoulder and all, but it's so  \nmuddied I can't be seen in it. I have work to do, after all. A quick check of my  \nback pocket shows, aside from a firm, bounce-a-quarter-off-it jackal-butt, the  \nfragments of Cannit's cell-phone.   \n  \n  \nIn the service I hated marching, but I loved double-pace. Nothing like a good  \njog to make you forget all about your aches and pains. By the time I arrive at  \nthe Sargasso building's gate I'm actually hard again - the thought of fucking  \nCannit in a bed, sappy though it may be, played in my mind a bit, with this  \nobvious result. I wish they'd tossed Cannit out of the car as well, thn I'd have  \nsomething - somebody to do on my way to Sargasso.  \n  \nThis is the only building in the district that actually has a gate around it.  \nMost others have a plaza, or simply fill up the entirety of their allotted  \nlandspace and have their front door on the street. Not Sargasso. Sure, the outer  \nwall runs to the side of the street, but the first two floors are sheer, blank  \nmasonry, the windows don't start until about twenty feet up. In the middle front  \nof the building is an empty space , hollowed out in the solid base of the  \nSargasso tower. It's about a quarter of the building's width and four floors  \nhigh, and even though the architect made an attempt at 'opening up the space',  \nas I once heard someone put it, by including windows on the courtyard's side  \nwalls and adding some stairs at the end of it, leading to the building's  \nentrance, it emanates a silent threat no matter what the light's like.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; It's unpleasant. It's like a mouth, an unpleasant-looking one, or a gate to  \nsomewhere unpleasant. I shiver at the mild cold, and wish that I'd kept my  \njacket just as surely as I know that the sodden garment would only have chilled  \nme more. By the side of the gate there's a massive panel with nameplates and  \nbuzzers, and four screens in a row, all now black. I press the buttons for  \nThomson \u0026 Harcourt, Accidyne and Sargasso Holdings Accounting Department at once  \nand instead of the buzzer that would have been heard, had I pressed any one  \nbutton - followed, no doubt, by the polite admonition that the office I buzzed  \nis, at present, closed and would I like to come back on the next business day -  \nall four screens flash dark blue for a split-second. I count to ten, then speak.  \n  \n\"Kierkegaard here. I have an appointment with Mister Ferrum.\"  \n  \nIt's a pretty simple, straightforward code. We're the Shadow detachment, me and  \nmy buddies. We don't make appointments, we get summoned and we show up. So we  \ngot together, some of us, and decided to plan for some eventualities. Like in  \nthis case. I have a problem, one that's harmful to myself and Mister Ferrum,  \nwhich I want to fix before he finds out. It's slightly dishonest, I know,  \nespecially since he's such a good employer, but I think everybody's gonna be  \nhappiest if this problem goes away without it ever reaching his ears. Knowing  \nhim he probably knows we do this now and again and since he's never berated us,  \nI can only assume he approves.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; The leftmost screen flickers on with some buzzing and crackling noises and some  \nvery un-digital bursts of noise as the Shadow signal splices into the building's  \ncentral feed and I trot over to it, casting a few quick glances over my shoulder  \nto make sure I'm not being casually spied on. I lean my forearm against the  \npanel, covering the screen with my body. It's Cole, a black lab, who's on  \nscreen. There's sweat on his face and he's breathing through his mouth, showing  \na little blood on his fangs. \"Reiner! Jesus,\" he says and closes his mouth the  \nsecond he sees who he's talking to. I must be quite the sight. \"Guys, quiet  \ndown! It's Reiner!\" he yells over his shoulder and the clamour of voices that  \nhad distantly underscored Cole's voice vanishes.  \n  \nThere had been grunts and yells, groans, snarls. Looks like Tiber gave them a  \nboy to play with while I was out doing the really hard work, the lucky  \nsons-of-bitches. Actually, considering all the guys that clamber around Cole,  \njostling for a place at the security monitor to greet me on the screen, that's a  \npretty accurate term: by some fluke all the Shadows on duty tonight are canids.  \nAll of them are sweating, too, and more than a few of them carry bruises that  \ncould be a match for the ones on me. Nobody's got his pants off, though a few  \nhave shucked their shirts. \"Mister Ferrum lent you his Suffer, did he?\" I ask,  \nbu I don't need an answer. \"There's a problem needs fixing,\" I say and I don't  \neven need to gell the guys what exactly's up. Cole nods and turns off the  \nscreen, and then I sit down on the curb, trying to rest to let my muscles work  \nthrough their aches, and I wait.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp;  \nMaybe it's a little stupid, but I actually jump up when the black van  \napproaches. I honestly think it's Malloy, coming back from his mission to St.  \nClaudia's hospital, to take revenge for bad information or just to tie up loose  \nends, or maybe even to kill me for laughs. I feel as scared as I did in those  \nalleys and unconsciously I keep my hands pressed together at the wrists as if  \nthey were still cuffed.  \n  \nBut then I recognize the van and I realize how stupid I am. It looks just like  \nthe one that Hector drove when Malloy had us go to that warehouse. It looks just  \nlike the one that would have no doubt been waiting to pick me and Hector up at  \nthat nightclub, and if we'd been just twenty seconds quicker, we'd have been  \ninside it and driving back to the Sargasso building to have some fun beating the  \nshit out of that fierce tiger that Mister Ferrum keeps as his Suffer. Don't ask  \nme what the word means. And don't ask Mister Ferrum either, because he's likely  \nto subject you to one of those speeches that just makes your head spin. It's  \nhalf-mystic, half-sexual, but all I know is that every now and again he sends  \nthat big feline down with orders to be a good kitty and let us take turns on  \nhim, or to put up a fight so we really have to hold him down, or he calls one of  \nus up to take the tiger on in a fair hand-to-hand.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; When the van's side door slides open and two of my buddies help me in with a  \nstrong grip on my arms, I can see he was sent down to put up something of a  \nfight. Everybody's got scratches and bruises, wiped clean and hastily bandaged  \nbefore they pulled their uniforms on, but visible nonetheless. \"Detective  \nLombardi may be in possession of my cell-phone. The guy responsible for giving  \nit to him was heading to St. Claudia's hospital, half an hour ago.\"  \n  \nThere's no point beating about the bush, when it comes to admitting you've been  \nfucking, fucking, fucking stupid. I plonk my ass down on the bench lined along  \nthe van's left wall and wait for the barrage of insults and growls as I pull my  \nshirt off to start wiping my face with it... But it doesn't happen. The driver, a  \ndobermann twice Malloy's size named Malcolm, simply pulls out onto the road and  \nthe rest of the guys start doing weapons checks. And I get it.  \n  \nAn hour ago, they heard that Hector was killed. I saw it happen, myself, right  \nin front of me. Between Malloy's threats and the dope he spiked me with I had  \nplenty of distractions, but these guys must have been climbing the walls with  \nfrustration ­- no wonder Mister Ferrum sent them his Suffer to keep them busy.  \nAs I pull my pants down, crouching awkwardly in the low-ceilinged van, there's  \nno jokes about whether maybe I should be the 'boy' sometime, with an ass as fine  \nas mine. Nobody even asks why I've got a boner.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Naked, I accept my uniform, a plain black jumpsuit, and toss it over my lap as I  \nstart pulling on the protective undergarments. Padded jockstrap, wristguards,  \nelbow-pads and knee-pads. Hector's gone. I haven't lost a comrade since I joined  \nup with the Shadows, I realise as I pull my jumpsuit on, thoroughly grateful for  \nthe others' silence. Hector's gone.   \n  \nMalloy would be dead in ten minutes if I told the guys he was responsible for  \nour team-mate's death. They might even leave him alive and take him back to the  \nSargasso basement where we spend most of our on-duty time when we're in  \nMaranatha. Put him in one of the Clean Rooms and spend a couple of hours working  \nhim over...   \n  \nThere's this lynx that Mister Ferrum sometimes employs, the scariest  \nmotherfucker I've ever met. Scarier than Malloy was in my moment of panic in the  \nalleys. I've seen the bodies of peple he 'worked on', and they made even my  \nstomach turn. That is what we'd do to Malloy, if we got hold of him.  \n  \nFirst things first, though. We have to get that phone out of the detective's  \nhands. He's hounded Mister Ferrum for years, since before even the Shadow  \ndetachment was formed. Mister Ferrum gave us explicit orders never to attack  \nhim, never o 'accidentally' let him become collateral damage. He seems to like  \nLombardi. He says people like him are valuable, because they keep you on your  \ntoes. If I had Mister Ferrum's brain, weird as it is, I might think the same way  \nabout Malloy. Having a good adversary reminds you where you stand, as Mister  \nFerrum told us.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I check my pockets and start loading up. Flasbang, extra mini Mag-lite, couple  \nof smoke canisters and flares. Lock-pick, acid spray, autohacker with the five  \nstandard data cables. Underarm holster, another at the hip, both containing  \nstandard nine-millimeters.   \n  \nCole's sitting beside me, helps me check my gear. He looks as depressed as all  \nthe rest, trying to keep his mind on the job to keep it off thoughts of Hector.  \nHell, chances are I did more good for these guys by bringing them this job than  \nany number of headshrinks could have done. \"We'll approach it like last year's  \nop in Munich. Everyone but me and Reiner will make a quick charge through the  \napartment to the left of the 15th precinct station, gather as much attention as  \npossible and egress at the back. In and out in forty seconds, max. If Lombardi's  \non duty, he'll come out with the officers that rush to the scene. He likes  \nplaying hero, so he'll drop whatever he's doing and come out to help. If he's  \nnot on duy, that makes it easier for Reiner and me when we break into the  \nprecinct. Lombardi's office is on the second floor, facing the rear of the  \nbuilding.\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Diego, the rotweiler onmy left, scrratches the scar over his eye like he walways  \ndoes when he's trying to ponder something with that slow-ass brain of his. \"So  \nhow're you going to get out?\"  \n  \n\"Just like in Munich,\" I inform him, sharing a glance with Cole the causes us  \nboth, shallowly, to smile. \"Out the front door.\"  \n  \n  \nThe van makes a circle around the block surrounding the 15th precinct station.  \nIt's a small police station by all accouns, housing maybe twenty officers and  \nsome miscellaneous staff. Only the ground floor and second floor are actually  \nused for police 'work', the basement houses some holding cells and the two upper  \nfloors are used for weapons practice and hand-to-hand training. They've got a  \npretty nice dojo set up there, a good deal bigger than the ones Mister Ferrum  \nhas us train him, and unlike ours there's hardly any blood-stains on the mats.  \n  \n  \nCole and I are sitting at the side door, his hand on thel atch, looking at the  \nlaptop Diego's holding up for us. It shows a rough schematic of the street, with  \nour position highlighted as a red dot and the field of view of the station's  \nthree rear perimiter cameras highlighted in blue. As we pass through the blind  \nspot Cole yanks on the latch, rips the door open and I dive past him, with the  \nLab following me right on my tail.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I can still see the schematic in my head, the building's green outline against  \nthe black background and the sweeping cones of the cameras. It's like a computer  \ngame, really, which is probably why Mister Ferrum encourages us to play them  \nwhen off duty. Never played a game that really got my blood pumping, though,  \nalways ended up crushing the controller when I got frustrated.  \n  \nFour seconds, that's how much time we've got to get from the street to station's  \nback courtyard. There's no more people on the streets here than there were in  \nthe commerce district, which isn't unexpected at this time of night. There's a  \nfew lights on in the apartments across the street and some cars in the sitance,  \nbut nothing worth worrying about.   \n  \nI run up to the gate arund the rear courtyard, turn, kneel and slam my back  \nagainst the gate's bars just to the left of the main entrance. I brace my foot  \nagainst the cement block behind me, link my gloved fingers and cup my hands in  \nfront of me. Cole, always the slower sprinter, comes running up to me like a  \nghost, all black, already trailing the lifeline behind him, planting his boot in  \nmy hands and leaps as I boost him up.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; The fence isn't that high, and it's an easy jump, yet he still does a  \nsomersault, as if to show off once again that he makes up for his slow running  \nwith his agility. He clears the fence and lets the lifeline slide between the  \npointed tips at the top. I catch the end of the line and leap, letting his  \nweight help carry me upwards so that when he lands in the courtyard I can put my  \nboot against the fence's upper edge and hop over.  \n  \nWe rush across the courtyard, the gravel by the fence soon giving way to the  \nsmooth, sticky silence of asphalt and we crouch at the side of the cop-car by  \nthe building's rear entrance just as the beeping, flashing, conspicuous camera  \nsweeps in our direction. Cole and I press close together so as not to make any  \nshadows on the ground, just in case there's a really alert cop at his station.  \nYou never know, after all!  \n  \n\"You're hard, you horny devil,\" says Cole in a low whisper after a five-count,  \nthen hops over the car's hood with an unnecessary backflip. We're in plain view  \nof anyone sitting at the desks on the other side of the building's windows, a  \nmere four or five officers in a space with desks for a dozen, but the odds of  \nany one of them seeing us are pretty slim, for all the time we spend in view.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp;  \nCole's in front as we race toward the building's entrance and I know I won't  \novertake him before we get there, so I unclip one end of my lifeline from my  \nbelt. Cole repeats my maneuver, turning and lettinghis back slam against the  \nwall next to the entrance door, where I can clearly see the shadows of two  \npeople through the doors' frosted glass windows. Just a few more seconds...  \n  \nI step in Cole's cupped hands and find myself flying. It feels just like it did  \nwhen I was tossed out of Malloy's van, the freedom of it, excpt I'm flying up  \nthis time, and not sideways and when I land, I land softly and not hard. I grab  \nthe drainpipe on the wall with my left hand and pull myself upward, putting my  \nfoot against the pipe as wel and pushing sideways so I can brace my other foot  \nagainst the frame that carries the center camera, while my right hand goes down  \nto grip the lifeline.   \n  \nI grab the cable just as I feel the tug of Cole's weight and hoist him upward,  \nignoring the creak of the camera's frame and the drainpipe. The doors are  \nopening and light streams into the courtyard. For a second, I worry that Cole  \nmight not clear it in time, but he pulls his legs up in a splits and rests the  \ntoes of his boots on the top of the exit's doorframe. Both of us look down at  \nthe two cops that walk out. One of them hands his polystyrene cup of coffee to  \nthe other and gets in the driver's seat of the car we'd used as cover, while the  \nother gets in te passenger seat. They take for-fucking-ever strapping on their  \nseatbelts and bullshitting and sipping their coffee, but aater a while they  \nstart their engine ­- this car sounds every bit as shitty as the one I stole -  \nand drive out the gates, which open for them.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Waiting a few seconds to make sure we're in the clear, I haul Cole up ashe  \nclimbs up the lifeline, grabbing the bottom of the camera's frame with one hand  \nand my hip with the other. I reaffirm my grip and stance, since I'll be carrying  \nmost of Cole's weight as well as my own, while he unzips my thigh pocket and  \npulls out the small periscope. With a flick of the wrist he extends it, unfolds  \nthe mirror and holds it up to peer over the edge of the window-sill we're under.  \n  \n  \n\"So why are you hard?\" he asks me as he peers through the periscope's eyepiece.  \nIt's amazing, but he's right, I'm still fucking hard. All my muscles burn with  \nache and bruise and overuse, yet the ol' pole's rigid as can be.   \n  \n\"Met this really sexy hare,\" I reply.  \n  \nCole gets the joke. The idea that, while Hector's heart was spray-painted on the  \npavement, being scooped up by a forensics team, I was out getting laid, is sick  \nand ridiculous, when you think about it logically. But for guys like us... Some of  \nus are confirmed nutballs, snapped under torture in some foreign prison or just  \nmentally unstable from birth; hell, Diego's got two Y-chromosomes according to  \nhis file, so that can't be all good. For guys like us, these things do happen.  \nWe do them. I feel no guilt over having put Hector out of my mind so soon after  \nhis death, and Cole knows it. He'd have fucked Cannit, too.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"Lombardi's in his office. Let's wait for the distraction. Hey, we should go  \npick him up when we're done here. I'm in the mood for bunny tonight,\" says Cole.  \nHe hands me the periscope and steps on my knee to push himself upward and grab  \non to the window-sill above us, just so he's in place when Lombardi leaves. I  \nlet go of the camera's frame, hearing the drainpipe creak, and put the eyepiece  \nto my eye.   \n  \nThe picture's remarkably sharp. Most of these things are cheap but rugged,  \ndecent but ultimately pretty crap in terms of optics. I've got our dear Lombardi  \nin view, a panther who seems to think that all detectives in the world should  \nwear raincoats like Columbo's and does his part to keep up that tradition. He's  \nhunched over his desk. So many trinkets and lights cover it that it might better  \nbe called a workbench, and he's peering at something with a magnifying glass and  \nsome sort of electronic probe, occasionally checking green-on-black text that  \nappears on his old-fashioned monochrome computer monitor. Fuck, that thing  \nprobably dates from times when it was still called a VDU and I don't even know  \nwhat that stands for.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Then there's a scream. Lombardi looks up from what he's doing, knocking a torn  \nyellow envelope from his desk, but isn't alarmed enough to move yet. The scream  \nwas distant, muffled, but is soon followed by another, and then more shouting..  \nThat's the Shadows at work, and Cole and I share a grin of pride.  \n  \nI wish I was in there with the other guys, and so does Cole, I'm sure. feels  \nmuch the same way. The urge is strong to jump up and burst through the window  \nlike the other guys are doing, kicking in doors, tossing smoke grenades,  \nshouting \"Police!\" to keep anybody from shooting when the see our guys' guns.  \nBut as frustrating as it is for me and Cole, it's got to be worse for the other  \nguys, swingin' their iron without letting it pop. When you bash the doorknob off  \na door with the butt of your shotgun you've always got the urge to flip it  \nforward and pump some pellets in whoever's on the other side, but when it's a  \nsleeping family or just some kids having a go at each other in the girl's  \nparents' bed, that ain't such a good idea.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; They gotta be having fun, bursting through the building to the side of the  \nstation. There's a lot of movement on the inside now, cops rushing from their  \ndesk out the front door, or back to the armory to pick up a piece, or down to  \nthe cells to make sure everything's in order there.   \n  \nI groan, which is something I don't often do, but the beating my body's taken  \ntoday has worn out my stamina and my muscles are already at their wits' end. I  \nneed to move, soon, and Cole needs to stop fucking leaning on me. I push the  \nperiscope into Cole's hand, leaving mine free to grab the camera's frame again  \nand to give me just a little bit of relief from the strain, maybe buy myself a  \nfew more seconds. Speaking of seconds, I can already hear the van coming down  \nthe road, getting ready to pick up the four or five guys that are about to  \nshoulder their way out the building's back door.  \n  \n\"We have to move,\" I whisper and I don't need to tell Cole why; he knows me well  \nenough to know I wouldn't ask for something I didn't need, so he takes the  \nperiscope between his teeth and grabs the ledge of the window-sill, lifting his  \nweight off me.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I take the lead this time, as I hear the next door building's back door crash  \nopen, grab the window-sill and pull myself up for a second, just a second, to  \nsee if Lombardi's leaving.  \n  \nAnd then I see it. And I understand. And through the din of it all, I can hear  \nMalloy's trembling laughter.  \n  \nDo you know what I see?  \n  \nI see Lombardi, still sitting hunched over his desk, looking at the window, at  \nme... and looking away when he sees me.   \n  \n\"It's a set-up,\" I whisper and before I have a chance to do anything more I hear  \nwheels screeching, and in that second my muscles finally give out, I close my  \neyes and I'm flying for the third time today. Down, this time. With my eyes  \nclosed, in that half-second that it takes for my body to drop a floor and a half  \nonto the stairs below, I see everything that's happening.  \n  \nA police van with a battering ram comes speeding out of the alley across the  \nbuilding the Shadows are just exiting, ramming into the side of our van, pinning  \nit against the building's gate and cutting off the Shadows' exit to the street.  \nI see cops very purposefully marching through the apartment, pushing people back  \ninto their homes, rushing to prevent the Shadows from doubling back, stepping  \nout into the rear courtyard in a firing formation. The smoke pouring out of the  \nbuilding shows the laser sights from surrounding rooftops pinning them like the  \nspokes of a bicycle wheel.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I see the window above opening, the panther in his Columbo jacket leaning out  \nlightning-quick to slap a handcuff around Cole's wrist before firing a tazer's  \ndarts into his neck at point blank range, Cole going limp and dangling off the  \ncuff on his wrist.  \n  \nI see two images superimposed over one another, one of the Shadows dropping  \ntheir weapons and raising their hands, another of them roaring and opening fire,  \nonly to be mowed down by police weapons.  \n  \nI see myself flying, sideways out of Malloy's van, up over the police fence in  \nthat wonderful moment where I felt competent again, down toward the ground now...  \nNot flying. Lying in a prison bed, listening to a fight. Lying in that  \nking-sized bed, with Cannit straddling my hips, idly stroking his chest as he  \nraises his hips up and down over me. Lying in a cheap-ass coffin and being slid  \ninto the crematorium furnace with no-one in attendance but the janitor.  \n  \nI see Lombardi, finding an envelope on his desk with a cellular telephone inside  \nand a hastily scrawled note in the handwriting of some bum Malloy paid to take  \nhis dictation. I see him scanning the words, reading that this anonymous  \nbenefactor has procured this phone from one of Ferrum's employees, that it  \nshould be studied quickly, lest it be disabled remotely, that the employee has  \nbeen alerted to the phone's location and to expect the employee to return to  \nretrieve it, possibly in force.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I see Lombardi arguing with his chief, demanding a massive expenditure of  \nmanpower in what may well be the quickest ever sting-operation in police  \nhistory. I see snipers being woken from sleep or sex, astily pulling their pants  \nup as they take position on the rooftops assigned to them.  \n  \nI see Mister Ferrum's face and the calm murder in his eyes. I see Milos for a  \nsecond, then Hector with the hole in hs chest, and finally Malloy, but when I  \nlook at him I feel like I feel when I look at Mister Ferrum. He isn't just a  \nworthy adversary. He's my better, and I know it. I'd flatter myself by thinking  \nof revenge, thinking I was somehow his nemesis, but if Malloy has one, It isn't  \nme. I wonder what sort of man that would have to be.  \n  \n  \nI see the stairs rushing up to me. I must have my eyes open. Well, no point in  \nwasting my last moment. I close my eyes again and try to think of the most  \npleasant thing in the world. I want to think about what it would have been like,  \nfucking Ann-Marie doggystyle, her in her cheerleading outfit, skirt tossed over  \nher back, me in my basketball gear. The image doesn't come. I want to think  \nabout my first time with Birgit, how deeply in love with me she was and how good  \nit made me feel to be wanted so badly. That image doesn't come either. I want to  \nsee myself in the bed, enjoying the comfort of soft sheets while Cannit rides my  \npole but instead I see myself humping him from behind, half-crazed, by the  \nroadside, with him on the phone.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; It's okay, though. I'm used to making do with second-best choices. I'm out.  \n  \n  \n\n_To be continued._\n\n  \n\n**Available on paperback in 2005**\n\n  \n\n[  \nMail the author](%5C) for information  \nor [  \njoin the mailing list](%5C)!\n\n  \n  \n\n  \n  \n  \n  \n\n","series":{"name":"Maranatha","previous":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/4186-maranatha-chapter-viii-as-told-by-reiner-kierkegaard.json","next":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/4437-maranatha-chapter-x-as-told-by-owen-zelazny.json"}}