The 'safe house' that John had mentioned turned out to be more like a 'safe villa'. It was a roomy two-story house which looked out over the Mediterranean, and it was also situated at the far end of a quiet street. More importantly it had plenty of bathrooms, which meant no one had to wait to get a good hot shower.

Although, now that he thought about it, Mackie would not have minded sharing a shower with Nathan. Ah well, it was something to consider for the future. Who he really wanted to thank right now was whomever had stocked the house. They had supplied plenty of luxuriously soft bathrobes. It was almost worth having to participate in a running gun battle through a sewer.

After showering and patching up their various cuts and scrapes, they met in the villa's spacious kitchen. Camicia was not there; she was out in the courtyard washing out her car and no doubt muttering unprintable turian curses about filthy-smelling humans. She'd almost been ready to leave after dropping them off, but John had slipped her a credit chit and hired her for another week. The turian had agreed, but she'd also made it clear that she wanted no part in any skullduggery. "I'm a pilot," she'd told John. "You need me to get you someplace, tell me where to go and that's it. I do not want to know anything further."

There was an espresso machine in the kitchen - it was Italy, after all - and John was just finishing making a third espresso as Mackie walked in. The rising sun came in through the windows of the kitchen and fell gently across the table in the kitchen's center. Prasad sat there already, and Mackie followed suit. The fixer supposed that this was what would be called a 'council of war', but that was a little too grandiose of a term for three guys sitting around in bathrobes.

"All right," said John. He set an espresso in front of each of them, then took a seat opposite. He was still moving a little stiffly, but his limp looked to be going away. "This is your one chance to explain yourself, Mr. Prasad. If you're half the analyst I think you are, then you know who I work for."

"I have a very good idea, sir," replied Prasad. He looked at the small cup in front of him but didn't drink. "The Organization's standard protocol is to not divulge an account holder's identity. Is that true in my case?"

"It is."

"Very well. I assume you can't simply ask for that identity?"

"I could," replied John. "But that would be a breach of the rules. And my people are very fond of rules." He glanced over at a clock on the far wall. It was the one piece of kitsch in the place, in the form of a black-and-white cat whose eyes went back and forth to count out the seconds. "I've put them off, but I have to get back to them soon. You have one hour to convince me to break those rules."

Prasad finally took a sip of espresso, and the action seemed to galvanize him. "I understand. Then let me begin." He pushed his chair back from the table and stood. He grasped the lapels of his bathrobe and his manner suddenly became professorial, as if he was lecturing a class. "As I said earlier, I am in significant trouble with Alliance Intelligence for certain actions. Rest assured, I had good reasons for performing those actions. My...adventures in Barcelona have uncovered information that must get to the Alliance. Everything else is of secondary importance, even my own life. If I could be certain that the Alliance receives this information, then I don't care about where I wind up."

Mackie leaned back. "I'm guessing that you can't just tell us your big scary secret. Then we'd be targets as well."

Prasad nodded. "Yes. Trust me when I say this is something you don't want to get involved with. I suppose I could record a message and have you deliver it. But there's only a few people within the Alliance in whom I would trust with this information. And two crooks - forgive me, but it's the truth - aren't going to be able to get an audience with them."

John smiled without humor. "I'm not a crook, I'm a killer."

The analyst gave a little bow of the head. "So I saw in Barcelona. But my point still stands." He paused for a moment. "I may be overthinking this. Perhaps the Alliance are the ones who opened the account. That would make things simpler."

"I can tell you that it's not them," replied John. "Remember the rules? One of our oldest is that the Organization does not do business with governments. No politics."

"Which also excludes the batarians. That's a relief. What about Cerberus? Would your Organization let them open an account?"

Mackie's brow wrinkled. "That makes no sense. Cerberus was already there to bid on you, dude."

"Auctions are uncertain things, Mr. Smith. Especially if nation-states are involved. Cerberus might be hedging its bets."

John finished his espresso. "From what I know about Cerberus, they would be considered too political. But, that's only my opinion after all."

Prasad stared off into space. "Hmm. It could be Synthetic Insights, trying to get back their wayward employee. Or another rival firm, perhaps. A large corporation should be able to afford a account of about...ten million, I should think." He glanced at John. "The account is for more than ten million, which excludes them."

John laughed in disbelief. "I didn't say anything!"

"You didn't have to. I can read the micro-expressions in your face. Slight rise of the lips, twitch of one eyebrow. You may as well have told me outright."

Mackie sat back. He wasn't sure if he was scared by this newly confident version of Prasad, or really turned on. "So who is it, then?"

"The size of the account may tell us. Was it for more than twenty million?" Prasad glanced again at John, and Mackie could tell the assassin was trying to keep his face still. "More. Fifty million? Yes, around fifty million."

John's face relaxed into a half-smile. "Maybe I should have left you in the sewer. I can see why there are a lot of people after you."

Prasad shrugged. "Only at the moment. This is an unusual situation for me. Ordinarily, I keep a much lower profile. But I was stupid, I was so, so stupid..." He looked stricken for a moment, then straightened again. "I fear I am going to have to do something I absolutely, positively, hate to do."

"What's that?" asked John.

"I have to trust somebody. More specifically, I have to trust you two." Prasad looked up at John. "Please call your people. I only ask that you two be there when I am handed off to the account holder. If it looks...wrong, I hope that you will intercede on my behalf."

John thought for a moment, then nodded.

"Hey, now." Mackie put his hands up, palms out. "I am a hired hand in this, just like Cammy out there. I'm not getting involved any further. As soon as I get my money and some proper clothes, I am out of here."

"Please, Mr Sm...Mackie. You trusted me enough to give me a gun during our escape. I am placing my trust in you now. I would feel more secure if you were there as well."

Mackie blew out an exasperated breath. "Fine. It's lucky for you that you're cute."

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Mrs. Carmichael had readily agreed to having John and Mackie present for the hand-off...a little too readily for John's comfort. She was probably expecting the request. Actually, she was probably five steps ahead of the request. Even so, John wanted to have his options open. He walked into the courtyard and cleared his throat as he approached the aircar. The driver was bent over and fiddling with something under the dashboard. "Hello, Miss Mellus."

The turian straightened up and faced him. John was tall, but even so he had to crane his neck up to meet her eyes. She gave John a level look. "Well, aren't we formal," She performed a little mock bow. "Hello, Mr. Winston. I sense that I'm about to be asked to earn my retainer."

"Maybe. We're going to have some visitors in the next couple of hours. I don't think there's going to be a problem, but just in case..."

"Just in case, you want me ready. Don't worry, give me the word and we can be out of here like...what was that charming human expression...like crap through a goose."

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Being a proper villa, the house had a lushly decorated reception room next to the foyer. The reception room had pale green-gold wallpaper covered with ornate designs. The furniture matched the walls and was similarly ornate. It was a little too much for John's tastes; he preferred a more clean and modern style. Well, at least what he considered 'modern'. The house he'd shared with Helen would probably look ridiculously outdated now.

Mackie had volunteered to meet their visitors at the door. He led the three newcomers into the room. John stood with folded hands at the back of the room, and Prasad sat on a couch which faced the door. After Mackie, the first through the door was the huge bulk of Jackson trailed by the doddering form of Mrs. Carmichael. There was another person behind her, a taller man than Mrs. Carmichael. At first, John thought that he was wearing a Picasso-like mask, but then saw that the man's features constantly shifted and smeared. John figured that this must be some sort of holographic face scrambler. Mackie stepped to one side as his entourage entered the room; he waited there with one nervous hand tapping on his thigh.

John glanced over at Prasad, who returned his glance and shrugged slightly. The analyst didn't seem to recognize the third man, at least by build.

"Mr. Prasad!" said Mrs. Carmichael. She sounded cheerful. "I am very glad to see you alive and well. And so is this gentleman."

"And who is he?" asked John. "If he's the one who gave you your intel, then he's an idiot."

The man didn't seem to react to that. In fact, he didn't say anything. The man with the Picasso-face just sat in a chair facing Prasad and stared at him. His disguised features pulsed and blurred in the afternoon light coming through the windows.

Jackson frowned a little, but Mrs. Carmichael patted one of his huge shoulders. "It's all right, dear, allow me." She limped around Jackson's side and smiled at the three of them. "We're not all here. Where is your fourth team member?"

"Unavailable," replied John.

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Camicia leaned against her car and checked her watch. In addition to the time, it also had a little scanner which showed any nearby mass effect fields. There was a big one out in front of the villa, which was probably the vehicle for her employer's visitors. She pictured in her mind the four fastest flight paths out of here, just in case things went south.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the gentle crunch of feet on the gravel path that led into the courtyard from the sea side. "Excuse me, ma'am?" The speaker was an asari, shorter and more petite than most asari that Camicia had met. She wore a slinky red dress that looked more suited for evening wear. The newcomer held both hands behind her back and had an uncertain look on her face, as if worried about being rude. She stopped about ten feet from the car.

Camicia crossed her arms casually. "It seems I've fallen in with a very polite crowd. What do you want?"

The asari smiled in what was obviously supposed to be a disarming fashion. Camicia was not fooled for a moment. "My employer would like you to join us in the front parlor."

"That's nice."

They stood like that for a long moment, and then the asari gave a little shrug as if she was going to bring her hands from behind her back. "I'm afraid my employer-"

Camicia uncrossed her arms, and now there was a pistol in one of her taloned hands, pointed right at the asari's forehead. "Don't move, sister. I'm not going anywhere."

The asari stared for a moment. Faster than Camicia could blink, there was a blue glow around her pistol which tore it from her hand. The asari reached up and casually caught the turian's weapon with one hand. Her other hand now had a gun of her own, pointed back at Camicia.

The asari gave a small apologetic smile. "I'm afraid I will have to insist."

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Mackie didn't like the way this was going.

John glowered at the three visitors. "Your dossier said that Prasad was a traitor. He wasn't, he was a prisoner. What else haven't you told me?"

The disguised man on the couch didn't say anything.

The old woman shrugged. "John, I haven't told you a great many things. Management has to keep certain secrets, even from those who risk their lives for us."

"But is Management really involved in this?" John crossed his arms. "Because this whole thing smells to me like spy shit. It smells political. Maybe this is a little job you have going on the side."

Mrs. Carmichael held out one hand. "I understand your concerns, but my dear-"

"Don't 'dear' me. Am I being set up?" John nodded at Mackie. "Are we being set up? It makes sense. You go and line your pockets without Management knowing, and get rid of us after it's all done. I'm not on the books, after all."

"I wouldn't do that. I am responsible for you. Just like my predecessor, and just like Winston-"

"Don't use his name. I knew Winston. I don't know you."

Mackie was taken a little aback. He had always figured that 'Winston' was just an alias for John, but it sounded like it also referred to a real person. His confusion was cut short by a soft knock at the other door into the room. It opened to reveal Camicia, who walked slowly into the room with her hands held up. Mackie saw a small asari standing behind her. From the both aliens' posture, the asari clearly had a gun in Camicia's back.

"Sorry boss," said Camicia. "She got the drop on me. Careful, she's a biotic."

John looked over at the pair. "Hello, Persephone." His voice had become surprisingly mild.

"Mr. Winston," replied the asari. Her angry violet eyes stared back at him.

There was a very long, still moment. Mackie thought furiously about how to not die when this whole mess inevitably went south. He shifted his feet carefully, not wanting to appear like he was getting ready to dive for cover.

"Persephone," said John. "Will you please not point a gun at my pilot?"

The asari gave him a level look. Mackie could tell she was really pissed at him for some reason. And then the bright red dot of a laser sight appeared on her chest. She glanced down and muttered a curse, then glared back up at John.

"I'm asking nicely," added John.

Mackie realized that John had drawn a gun when he'd crossed his arms earlier. He had the weapon tucked out of sight under his armpit, and was aiming it at the asari using his whole body.

Persephone's face relaxed. She held up both of her hands. A short, elegant-looking pistol dangled from one of her index fingers. "Anything you say...Baba Yaga."

A flicker passed over John's face at the name. Mackie made a mental note to look that up later.

Camicia took advantage of the lack of gun-in-back to dance off to the side. From the angry set of the turian's mandibles, it looked like she was getting ready to dispense some payback to the asari. Mackie saw Jackson tensing and also getting ready to do something foolish...

"Enough!"

The voice was rasping but somehow pleasant. It cut through the tension in the room like a sword, and everybody stopped. The disguised man touched a control on his sleeve, and the face scrambler shut off. His features resolved into a man with a craggy face and a white goatee. He stood with the air of someone who was so used to command that he automatically expected obedience. His eyes were pale gray and piercing, and he glared at everybody in turn as if daring them to move. Even Mrs. Carmichael seemed to shrink a little from his gaze. Mackie saw he had a meandering scar running up one side of his face.

The man turned back to John. "I opened the account. Just me, no government involved. Now, can we dispense with all of this fucking dramatic bullshit? Because I still need to debrief this stupid sonofabitch." He pointed at Prasad.

Prasad, for his part, looked as if he was hoping the couch would simply swallow him up. "Hello, sir," he squeaked.

"Oh, it's 'sir' now is it? NOW you decide to be obedient? You jackass. Do you have ANY idea of the shitstorm that I'm in for if anybody finds out I'm working with these people?"

Prasad tried to sit up a little higher. "I can explain, sir-"

"You do so. And I want every detail. Shithead."

John slowly uncrossed his arms and gently and very visibly holstered his gun. "Well, this is clearly something between the two of you. We'll just leave you to it-"

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

The craggy-faced man pointed at John. "No. You all stay. There's no such thing as OPSEC anymore for this particular goat-fuck. Besides," he glanced at Mrs. Carmichael, "I have a sneaking suspicion that I'll need to hire the lot of you after I talk to this dumbass."

Prasad stood with a little wobble in his knees. "Everyone, may I introduce Admiral Steven Hackett of the Alliance."

There was another long moment while the tension in the room dissipated a little. Mackie decided that now would be a good time to be busy and get everybody's minds off of the whole pointing-guns-at-each-other thing that had just happened.

"Coffee!" he said brightly. "I think we could all use some coffee. Hey, Miss...ah, Persephone, was it? You wanna help me get some coffee set up?"

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John had to admit, Mackie was doing his best to defuse the situation. After another angry look at John, Persephone agreed to help the fixer get everybody some coffee. While the two of them bustled around and got everyone a cup, John wondered what exactly he'd done to piss off Persephone. It wasn't due to pointing a gun at her; she'd been mad the moment she had walked in. He thought that he had left her on good terms, but maybe there was some nuanced bit of alien manners which he'd missed. For now, all he could do was hope to hash it out with her later.

And then, of course, there was Camicia. As angry as Persephone looked to be with him, the turian looked positively raring to go for Round Two with the asari. She stood on the opposite side of the room from Persephone and glared daggers at her.

"Okay, Mr. Prasad. Begin." Hackett's face was still stony, but he did look a little less furious.

The analyst set his cup aside. "To start with, I found some more information on Abraham Rumoi."

"You were told to let Rumoi go. By somebody pretty senior, as I recall. Oh that's right, that someone was me."

"I know, sir, it's just that...he shouldn't have gotten away."

Mackie cleared his throat. "Since we're apparently getting involved in all of this drama, can you tell us who this Rumoi guy is?"

Prasad began to speak but then looked at Hackett, who wearily nodded.

The analyst continued. "Abraham Rumoi was an officer with Alliance Intelligence, the same as myself. He was suspected of selling some of his knowledge and was court-martialed for it. Unfortunately, Mr. Rumoi was very good at hiding his tracks. The only direct evidence we had of his crimes was in his head." Prasad tapped his own temple. "He had a graybox like mine, which held the detailed memories of his crimes. But intruding into that would involve self-incrimination, so the charges had to be dropped."

Prasad looked down and clenched his fists. It was the angriest that John had ever seen him. "He got away from us. Laughing all the while, I bet. But I knew I could track him down. I was able to find out his true name; Keiji Okuda. And he's still a thief, although it seems he now sticks to artwork and priceless artifacts."

"The damage that Okuda did to the Alliance is over and done with," said Hackett. "Your time is too valuable to waste tracking down a petty art thief."

Prasad unclenched his hands. "He's still in the intelligence game. Not as much as before, but he did have a couple of contacts who were still feeding him information now and then. One of those contacts got ahold of something very bad. And I found that he and Okuda met in Barcelona."

"And you decided to play at being a spy," said John.

The analyst looked up at John with a little bit of a manic expression. "I didn't have hard proof! Just some suggestive data. Nothing that I could go to my superiors with." He flicked a guilty glance at Hackett. "So I thought, well, how hard could field work be? I could take a vacation, do a little digging..."

"...get your ass captured by gangsters..." added Mackie. He gave Prasad a charming little smile to take the sting out of his words.

Prasad slumped a little. "Yes. I was less cautious than I should have been. But I did find out what I was looking for." He looked up at Hackett. "Admiral, Keiji Okuda has received detailed information about the Vana raid."

For the first time, John saw Hackett look scared. "Oh, fuck." The admiral stood and paced to the window. He stared out at the peaceful sea and took a deep breath. "What about Okuda's contact in Barcelona? Do they know about it?"

"No. He just passed encrypted files to Okdua without knowing their contents."

"Good. that's one less person we'll have to kill."

John made sure his hand was near his holster. "And what about us? Are we also loose ends?"

The admiral shook his head. "There is no Alliance here. Right now it's just one old man in a room full of very dangerous people. I need your help. I can't get official involvement in this. Not anymore. I used certain...discretionary funds to open the account with the Organization."

"Admiral Hackett wanted to keep things quiet," added Mrs. Carmichael. She shrugged apologetically at Prasad. "He thought you were a traitor, dear, and didn't want any word hitting official channels."

Hackett turned back to survey the room. "I want you all to understand the stakes. If it gets out, the information that Mr. Prasad just mentioned will trigger a war between the Alliance and the Batarian Hegemony. That's not in anybody's best interests, not now. Not when we have to prepare for...certain future events."

Persephone tilted her head. "Vana is a batarian colony. I'm assuming the raiders were disguised to hide Alliance involvement."

Hackett nodded. "It was the blackest of black ops, against a batarian research facility on Vana. We had a human strike team set up to look like a bunch of pirates. From fake identities all the way down to their equipment. The raid failed, mostly. But we did get a little bit of valuable intelligence."

"And what would that be?" asked Persephone. "What could possibly be worth the risk of war? Humans are reckless, but not stupid."

Hackett looked at her, then at John. "Mr. Wi..Winston. There is a term you may have come across in your historical research. It's been treated as a spook story, but I assure you that it is very real. What the batarians were working on in the Vana facility can be described with one word. Reaper."

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Mackie squatted on his heels and glared angrily at the Mediterranean. He hugged his knees to his chest and felt a squirming fear in the pit of his stomach. "The whole Reaper thing is bullshit, you know." He stood and kicked at a nearby pebble. The little bit of violence didn't make the fear go away.

"That is the official story," replied Prasad. The man stood with his hands clasped behind his back. He looked for all the world like a professor taking an afternoon constitutional on the beach. The Admiral and Mrs. Carmichael had gently shooed the rest of them out of the villa so that they could discuss business in peace. Persephone stood behind Mackie and glowered at John, who was walking further along the beach and skipping the occasional stone into the water. Camicia sat on the other side of Prasad, whittling a piece of driftwood with a very big knife and casting meaningful glances at Persephone as she carved that wood. It was clear that the turian would rather be using her knife on somebody else.

"Just drop it," Persephone finally said to the turian. "I was asked to get you, I got you. It was a job, it was nothing personal."

"I take guns in my back very personally, sister."

"Oh, you mean this gun?" The elegant little pistol was suddenly back in Persephone's hand, and before either Camicia or Mackie could react she pulled back its slide. No heat sink popped out. "You mean this completely unloaded gun? You were never in any danger. Mrs. Carmichael wouldn't allow it."

Camicia stared at the gun, then up at Persephone. "Oh. Your boss must not like you very much."

The asari rolled her eyes. "How I wish it was just that. No, Mrs. Carmichael now has an inflated sense of my abilities. No thanks to him." She pointed a thumb at John's strolling back.

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John decided he'd had enough solo walking. He turned around and came ambling back to their little group on the beach. He threw away one final stone and looked at Persephone. Her violet eyes glared back at him. She actually looked intimidating, which he thought was a pretty good trick for somebody who looked like a blue-tinted version of Audrey Hepburn.

"Miss Persephone, I sense you're angry at me. Why is that?"

"You just had to go and be interesting, didn't you?"

John raised one eyebrow in amusement.

"It's not funny, Winston. After you left for Barcelona, I couldn't get your mysterious behavior out of my head. So I went digging in the Organization archives. The old archives."

"Oh."

"Damn straight, 'oh'. And I was careful to cover my tracks. Goddess, was I careful. But of course, I'm dealing with Mrs. Carmichael so 'careful' wasn't enough. I swear, that woman could give a Matriarch a run for her money."

"She found out about your digging."

"Yes, Winston, she did. I get called into a meeting with her, and suddenly Jackson is standing behind me and I think I'm about to get revoked. But no, I went and got promoted. She actually praised my initiative."

Mackie gave her a wary look. "And you're angry about that?"

"I liked Prague!" yelled Persephone. "It was a nice city, exotic but not too dangerous. There were lots of cute humans running around to play with. I had a steady job with just enough spice to keep it from getting boring. Now I'm running around trying to wrangle dangerous turians with a goddamn unloaded gun."

Camicia looked smug when she heard the 'dangerous turians' part.

Mackie spread his hands out. "Well, lady? Don't keep us in suspense. What did you find out? Hell, we're learning all sorts of Alliance secrets today. We may as well add some Organization ones to the mix."

Persephone nodded towards John. "I think he should be the one to tell you. That's only fair."

They all looked at him. John actually felt a little bit of weight drop from his shoulders. It would be nice to give up the pretense, at least with some people. He looked down and picked up another flat stone. "My last name isn't Winston. Big surprise, I know. My last name's Wick. John Wick." He turned and skimmed the stone. Seven skips, a new record for him. "I was born September the second in the year 1964, to American parents living in Beirut. But I grew up in New York City."

There followed a little silence.

"Bullshit!" said Mackie. "You ain't that old."

"He is," said Persephone. "At least chronologically. The Organization had access to cryogenic suspension that far back in your history."

"Fascinating," said Prasad. "There were hints that the technology was developed earlier than commonly thought. But to get frozen in the early twenty-first century?" He shuddered a little. "It would have been a primitive procedure. I'm amazed you took the risk."

John stuck his hands in his pockets and looked out to sea. "Well, the risk paid off. I'm here, after all."

"But why?" asked Mackie. "What was the plan?"

"There was no plan," replied John. "I was just a contingency."

"John was one of the Org's top operatives," added Persephone. "Perhaps the top operative. Management decided that it would be wise to keep him available, should something really big arise in the future."

Mackie hugged himself. "Okay, but it still stinks that they made somebody give up their life like that."

"I didn't mind," said John. "I didn't have a life any more."

There followed another, longer silence.

John bent down and retrieved another stone. "So. Now that everyone knows how long I've been out of the loop, maybe one of you can tell me something." He only got three skips out of this one. "Are there or are there not giant robot squids coming to destroy us all?"

Mackie held up his hands as if to push something away. "I still say it's all bullshit, it's a rumor that got out of hand. There are these robot guys called geth. They got kind of uppity-"

"Uppity?" interjected Persephone in disbelief.

"-and they launched an attack on the Citadel. That's the big-ass space station that holds the galactic government-"

"I know, Mackie." John smiled over his shoulder at the young man. "I have been doing some reading after I stopped being a popsicle."

"Right. So anyway, the main ship the geth used in the attack was big. Really big, a couple of kilometers long. The rumor got started that it wasn't geth, but something else. Originally they were saying it was a Prothean relic, some were saying it was older than that. Then they were saying that it was actually a member of this race of machines that supposedly wiped out the Protheans."

"The Reapers," said John. He looked down for another stone.

"Yeah, them. It was just a rumor, though. The Council said so."

"Some didn't think it a rumor," said Prasad. "Shepard believed that the Reaper threat was real."

John Wick had definitely read about a certain John Shepard, the first human Spectre and "The Hero of the Citadel". The man seemed tailor-made to be an icon of humanity's heroic future. He'd even been born in space, as if to show that mankind was truly worthy of joining the galactic brotherhood. The Alliance had used his image and his voice shamelessly after the geth defeat.

And then, eighteen months ago, Shepard died in a surprise attack during a routine patrol. The Alliance didn't use his face anymore.

"Shepard was a bad-ass, yeah," said Mackie. "But you know, there were rumors he'd had his mind messed with by old Prothean technology." He narrowed his eyes at Prasad. "So, Mister All-Knowing Super Analyst, what do you think?"

"The information I have is inconclusive," replied Prasad. "But Admiral Hackett has access to knowledge that I do not. And he is convinced that the Reaper threat is real. The Council and the Alliance high command, however, do not agree. Part of the reason for the Vana raid was to try to get hard evidence that would convince them all."

Persephone snorted. She somehow made it sound ladylike. "And now the humans are facing war with the Batarian Hegemony over it."

"I make no judgement as to the raid's correctness," replied Prasad. "I am only stating the reason for it."

They all stared out to sea. The sun sparkled on the waves as a seagull called in the distance. It really was a beautiful day, thought John. He should try to remember this moment going forward.

"We're going to get sent after Okuda, aren't we?" he said aloud.

"What's this 'we' shit, old timer?" replied Mackie.

Camicia stood and sheathed her knife with finality. "You think Hackett is going to let any of us slip away? He was seriously thinking about killing that contact in Barcelona." She folded her gauntleted arms and breathed out with a fatalistic air. "Mrs. Carmichael seems to be in agreement with him as well. No, we're all in this to the end."

"Fuck." Mackie thought about it a bit, then brightened a little. "Well, at least it should be an adventure, right?"

Persephone shook her head. "I've got dresses older than you, kid. I've been in my fair share of adventures, so trust me when I say that they are over-rated." She rubbed her crest tiredly. "And now I'm getting thrown right back into one. Like you said...fuck."

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Benton was strapped to a chair, that much he knew for certain. The rest he knew was...vague. He remembered heading out of The Pantheon Lounge and remembered some shouted warning from his bodyguard. After that, it was all a blur. His head hurt, but it was a vague and diffuse pain. That probably meant he'd been hit with a sedative, not just smacked in the head.

The room he sat in was big and mostly dark. There weren't any walls that he could see. Apart from his chair, the only other furniture was a table and chair set directly in front of him. He could see a pair of empty manacles set into the table, similar to those holding him in the chair. His head was bound tightly enough that he could only swivel his eyes.

The only source of light in the room's black expanse was a dull red glow that seemed to come from somewhere behind his chair.

"Hey!" he yelled. "I don't know who you guys think you are, but you're in big trouble. I got people looking for me right now. You can't just grab a guy like me off the street."

"Oh, but we can, Benton," said a voice from off to his right. A man walked into his view. It was Leng, one of the Cerberus people who'd been at the auction. He lounged into the chair at the other side of the table and gave Benton a shark-eyed smile.

Benton felt a tickle of cold in his guts. He was being held by Cerberus. "Now, look," he said. "I know you're pissed about the auction. Trust me, I'm even more pissed. I lost a lotta guys, and had to pay off a lotta cops to keep it all quiet."

Leng took out a knife and began to clean his nails with it. Benton recognized the weapon. It was his, after all. "You, ah, like the knife?" he asked Leng.

The Cerberus operative nodded and gave another smile. "You have a good eye for steel." He stood again. "But in other areas, your judgement is fucking awful." Leng walked around the table and unlatched the manacle holding Benton's right arm to the chair. He dragged the man's arm forward with unexpected strength and pushed Benton's wrist into one of the manacles on the table. He snapped it shut. Benton was now stretched awkwardly forward with his right wrist shackled to the table and his right hand held flat against the tabletop.

Leng gently placed the tip of the knife on the table next to Benton's hand. "Did you ever play Five Finger Fillet?"

Benton could feel the cold sweat behind the band that clamped his head. "Ah, no, can't say I have."

"That's a shame. It's dead simple, and yet quite challenging. I'm very good at it, if I do say so myself. Here, let me show you. Oh, one bit of warning...don't move your fingers." The knife suddenly came alive and tapped out a complicated rhythm on the tabletop, its tip slamming back and forth between Benton's splayed fingers. Leng gave him just enough time to see the pattern, and then he started going faster. Benton's entire worldview narrowed down to the flashing blade and his hand, his pink and oh so vulnerable hand...

He felt a sudden pain. The tip of the knife was a little too close to his pinky finger, and the edge had just grazed his flesh. Benton could see a little trickle of red on the knife blade as Leng picked it up.

"Damn," said Leng. "I don't miss like that. Unless I'm distracted, of course. Would you like to know what distracts me, Benton?"

"Guys fucking up your shit?"

"What a charmingly direct way to put it. Yes, Benton, I get distracted by idiots fucking up what should be a very straightforward transaction."

"It wasn't my fault!" yelled Benton in desperation. "The guys had a coin from them. What was I supposed to do? I couldn't take the chance of pissing off the Organization. But I did it right, I double-checked. The coin was a fake, and those guys were never with the Org. I gave the order to get 'em taken care of, and next thing I know I've got a slaughterhouse on my hands. The Organization told me they're looking for them as well." He began to feel tears in his eyes. "You gotta believe me, man!"

Leng said nothing. He set the knife on the table and looked behind Benton. There was the sound of soft footsteps approaching.

"So, Mr. Benton," said a new voice. "You are claiming that we've all been taken advantage of." It was a hoarse, almost grandfatherly voice that had clearly seen the other side of a lot of fine scotch.

Benton thought he had been scared before, but now he knew what true mortal terror felt like. He could feel a warm dampness beginning to spread from his crotch. "Oh, shit. Is that him?" He squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm not looking, okay? You don't have to kill me for seeing your face."

He heard that whiskey-polished voice give a little chuckle. "Mr. Benton, I assure you that the authorities are well aware of what I look like." Benton heard the soft footsteps approach and then circle the table. "Open your eyes," said the voice.

Benton shook his head as much as he could.

"Open your eyes," commanded that kindly voice again, "or I'll cut your eyelids off with your own knife."

Benton's eyes snapped open. The Illusive Man stood on the other side of the table. He was clad in a plain dinner jacket and trousers. The man's eyes were startlingly blue and much older than his face. His skin was unnaturally smooth and clearly synthetic. He gave Benton a warm smile and spread his arms. "There, that's better. After all, I'm not really that scary, am I?"

"...no..." whimpered Benton.

The Illusive Man clasped his hands behind his back. "Mr. Benton, I hope you can appreciate our dilemma. I want to believe you. But Mr. Kelso is dead, and he was one of our best people. We are also receiving a great deal of scrutiny from the authorities due to the body count of this debacle. If there a new player out there, we need to know about them. We need to know who these men are." He took two photos out of his jacket pocket and placed them on the table in front of Benton.

"The blond guy is Mackenzie Smith," replied Benton. Now that he could actually tell them something, he started to feel a little better. The Illusive Man actually seemed like an reasonable guy, somebody one could do business with, not this maniac Leng. "He's an info broker and general fixer-type. Not really in the big leagues. I figure he was the one behind the whole scam."

"Perhaps he was. And this one?" The Illusive Man tapped the other photo.

"I don't know. He called himself Winston. I couldn't find a match anywhere. I asked Organization management directly after that whole mess. They denied that he was with them."

"And you believed them?" sneered Leng. He reached forward and adjusted the knife's position on the table.

"I didn't just take their word for it!" Benton could feel that he was very close to simply babbling. "I also know a couple of guys who work with the Org at the lower levels, and they looked into it on their own. I also had a couple of my guys in the police looking into it. There's nothing, it's like this Winston fucker is a ghost. It's like...like he just showed up out of nowhere."

The Illusive Man pinched the bridge of his nose as if to forestall a headache. "Mr. Benton, I'll be as forthcoming with you as I can. We also have our sources. In our case, they are within Alliance Intelligence. They have also come up empty. I was hoping you could help shed some light on this."

"Hey, I want to help you guys." Benton's right shoulder was beginning to ache from being in such a stretched position. "Like I said, I wanna get those bastards too."

He saw The Illusive Man frown a bit. He motioned with one hand, and Leng obediently stood, letting the Illusive Man now take the seat opposite him. "So you understand that we must be as thorough as possible. We'll need to know the identities of your contacts, both with the Organization and inside the police."

In spite of his predicament, Benton felt a little bit of anger at the man's presumption. "Why?"

"Because we need to make our own inquiries."

"You can't do that!" Benton now felt a little bit of panic. "Those are my people. If a bunch of Cerberus spooks show up and start askin' a bunch of questions then they'll know I gave you their names. It'll be bad for my business! C'mon, you seem like a reasonable guy. Tell you what, I can talk to 'em again while one of your guys tags along." Benton jerked his head up towards Leng. "Hell, I'll even let him tag along. That way everybody's happy. What do you say?"

The Illusive Man nodded to Leng, who walked away from the table and out of sight. Benton sagged in relief. The man across the table gave another raspy chuckle. "'Reasonable guy'. Mr. Benton, have you ever heard of the interrogation technique known as 'Good Cop, Bad Cop?"

"Yeah, sure."

The man smiled. "Of course. An experienced man like you, I'm sure you've been through that routine many times." He leaned forward. "Unfortunately for you, in this particular case Mr. Leng is the one playing Good Cop."

Fast as a striking snake, The Illusive Man whipped the knife off of the table and pinned Benton's hand to the table with the blade. He smiled gently into Benton's face as the gangster began to scream in pain.