The Jigsaw

Hello!
Here we go again...

I see, by the number of hits, that lately some of you were checking on the story :) I hope you'll find a new chapter as a nice surprise :D

Enjoy and tell me what you think :)

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It Never Rains But It Pours

Casey hadn't had a chance to talk to Monroe again. The first thing in the morning Ramson had called him back for not keeping his part of the deal. No Sam, no holidays, he said, and Casey was hardly in a position to negotiate.

The informal truce with Sam had miraculously worked since they got back to the base. Casey didn't know why or how, but it worked. The devil incarnate was finally leaving him alone. Well, actually he had started to ignore Casey.

It was like a breath of fresh air for the young engineer, who had almost forgot how it felt to relax and stop watching his back every moment. There was also a gentle squeeze around his heart, as this situation meant the end of everything, but it was a good, healing pain, that brought hope and release.

The leash had finally been cut.

Casey had immersed himself in all sorts of activities he could think of, to occupy his body and unburden his mind. It was part of his private therapy and recovery process. Tried and tested.

The last month had been a difficult but healing time for the whole team. The critical moment of breakdown had come upon them, and now many wounds of both flesh and soul must be taken care of. The crisis had slowly led to the painful rebirth of the group—stronger, matured, and drilled. Personal matters had been taken out of the loop; business was the main bond that kept them together. As much as this circumstance had seemed unbearable before for the new members, as they tried hard to negotiate comfortable and fulfilling lives in their jobs, now it had become natural. Business was enough. They were working together; they didn't have to like each other.

Casey and Ryan finally understood that it was the only way to stay more or less sane, and they had given up all unnecessary attempts to accommodate any high-level needs related to social life, and all their, somehow funny, former illusions about being able to mesh their beliefs with the reality they had been thrown into. Each of them closed himself inside his business profile, and only that plane of contact was left open and accessible. Priorities shifted—longevity taking the place of achievement, endurance taking the place of fulfillment, indifference taking the place of affection. Frozen existence instead of living.

What had been a surprising discovery for both men was that that this strategy had turned out to be quite easy and convenient. The path of least resistance had passed muster again, like it always did.

Ramson was satisfied. He had built his team and it was finally acceptably reliable and ready to work. And the work was already waiting for them.

For the last two weeks Casey, shut off and obsessed with the need to keep himself occupied, had been carrying out an extensive investigation of the blown-up bank mailing system and, being granted access to some restricted reports and statistics, he managed to partially analyze the money transfers and discover some interesting irregularities.

"It's a factory, George." Casey tapped his finger on the map. "A factory."

"So?" Ramson knitted his brows in attentive anticipation. "What's your point?"
They sat in his "office", trying to plan the next step, and Casey, with his analytic brain and fresh discoveries, was a pretty good assistant.

"I compared statistics from six factories. None of the other ones send out so many e-mails in bunches."

"What does it mean? Talk to me, so I don't have to pry every word out of you, will you?" Ramson gave Casey a warning look.

The young man sighed and explained. "Usually the net load—I mean, the traffic; you know, e-mails—is more or less constant in time. Every day they send a similar number of messages. Well, apart from the days they close settlements, finalize big deals, and so on. But this exchange is usually regular and easy to check. You see?"

"Yes, I get it." Ramson nodded. "Keep talking."

"This one, Marconell, doesn't fit the pattern. The first thing I noticed was their bank accounts. In the data you provided there were strange peaks. Once in a while some crazily huge amounts were transferred into their accounts, and most of them were immediately passed on, usually to a number of foreign accounts, like in the Cayman Islands, Switzerland, and so on. I checked out this factory. You know what it manufactures?"

"What?"

"Boxes. Cartons." Casey stopped and looked questioningly at his boss.

"So?" Ramson's thoughtful expression indicated that the fact didn’t hold any special significance for him.

"C'mon, how large can the sums of money be that such a company deals in?" Casey found the right paper in his pile and shoved it over to Ramson. "Look, this is the list. See? A Volkswagen factory—"he directed his finger to the right table— "and its transfers."

"Holy shit!" Ramson raised the paper to his eyes. "For a box factory they sure have a damn good turnover!"

"Exactly. Dirty money. Or interesting transactions. Your choice."

"You're good, boy. You're really good." Ramson smirked, giving Casey a brief look that was full of thinly veiled admiration.

"I'm being paid for it." The young analyst shrugged and leaned back, his face indifferent. Thinking and connecting the dots weren't that much of a miracle, were they?

"Okay. What about these e-mails?" The colonel put down the sheet and waited for Casey to continue.

"Right. I followed this track and checked the network. They’re cabled like a fucking software centre! They have a huge bandwidth, and they make use of it. For what, I have no idea yet. One thing is money transfers. They’re ordered from there. The traffic reaches an exceptional intensity sometimes. And somehow—and this is interesting—it happens also, but not only, around the times when big amounts of money are moved."

"That’s obvious, isn't it? Big money, lots of communications going out. Am I right?" Ramson raised his brows.

"Yes. However, I checked the logs from the time when Milano Bank was blown up. Well, to put it bluntly—big money, lots of communications. And guess what? Tracking different paths, I found one of the smaller accounts money had been transferred to." Casey paused.

Although the anonymous note had threatened numerous explosions, the unlucky and in fact accidental fate that had met Karnov had, paradoxically, given the law enforcement bodies some time. The criminals had apparently decided to put their activity on hold, fearing exposure, and since then no other bank had been attacked.

"Whose account is it?" Ramson had tension written all over his face.

"Karnov's."

"Karnov's?" The agent's eyes opened wider in surprise. "Holy shit!" He shook his head, overwhelmed by the weight of the revelation. "You've sure done your homework, Casey!" He smiled.

Casey couldn’t remember Ramson ever smiling. Maybe some time back at the beginning...? Hell, whatever.

"That's a big step forward," the colonel continued. "We need to check out this factory. I'll get updates from the FBI and we'll organize a little trip." He stood up and gathered up the scattered documents. "May I keep these?"

"Sure. They're all yours." Casey shrugged and also stood up to leave the office.

"Anything else I should know?" Ramson asked, putting his hands into his pockets.

The younger man shook his head and answered, "That's all I know so far." He turned and directed his steps to the door.

"Casey." The colonel's soft voice stopped him. "Thank you."

Casey couldn't stop himself from looking at Ramson with distrust. "This is what I do. Just coincidentally, this task doesn't differ that much from what I used to do for a living."

"You did good. Really good. And...I'm sorry, Casey." The colonel sighed heavily, his whole figure expressing tiredness and sadness.

Casey squinted his eyes but didn't comment. Yes, Ramson should be sorry. Sorry as hell. For every damn thing that had brought them to where they now stood. But Casey wasn't going to talk about it. He had nothing to say, and even if he did, a mere "sorry", however well intended, couldn't fix anything.

The older man must have guessed Casey's bitter feelings. Well, of course he would have. "You have no idea—" Ramson clenched his teeth. "Eh...." He sighed again after a moment of silence. "Well, I don't really have a choice, boy." He shrugged, resigned.

"Oh, really?" Casey sneered contemptuously. "I feel so sorry for you," he jibed. He had a whole range of choices, after all, didn't he?

Ramson's inscrutable eyes, which appeared much older than the face in which they resided, rested on Casey and their look was almost physically heavy, which made Casey uneasy. The colonel just shook his head, wondering to himself what the hell he was trying to do, and smiled slightly. They won't understand. And it's okay. I can't blame them. "Well, thanks anyway. Talk to you later, Casey."

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The night was still and silent, as if it was frozen. Not even the smallest leaf twitched, nor the slightest breath of wind disturb the absolute immobility of the air. The world, trapped by the moon and frozen in a brittle silver spell, came to a standstill, awaiting the morning sun to bring it freedom.

Three pairs of boots crunched on the sparkling frost, marching in silence along the border of the silver meadow, hidden in a deep shadow of a birch grove. All three figures were dressed in black, with short automatic guns slung from their hips.
Additionally, Thera and Sam had long guns hanging down their backs, while Casey was equipped with a backpack and his usual weapon —a notebook, some cables, a wireless modem, and a few other magical toys.

For the first time since the long-forgotten mishap in Karnov's house, Casey was officially included in the first-line team. Their task was to sweep the Marconell area, localize their computer section, and examine it if possible. The last part would be Casey's five minutes, of course.

The factory wasn't big: three flat, two-storied buildings snuggled next to each other. The one in the center was the mission target; Ramson had confirmed this by checking the cabling plans he got from no one knew where.

The whole area was encircled by a high electrical fence and brightly floodlit. Over three days of surveillance the agents had managed to determine that security was fair, but not excessive. Eight armed guards with dogs outside, two dozen in charge of the buildings, about six people per building. They were very discreet when it came to guns; only the skilled eyes of the agents could tell they were armed—and what was more, quite impressively armed. It was interesting, indeed: such high security in a small carton factory.

The fence and the yard were a piece of cake for intruders. As much as Marconell's guards could be dangerous, they didn't really expect any guests or surprises, so their attention wasn't exactly razor-sharp. But inside, things were much more complicated. Passing the guardroom occupied only by a fat, bored man wasn't really a challenge, it was true, but the other five men were somewhere around, in the long corridors and production rooms, and the three agents had to be very careful to avoid meeting them.

Tap, tap, tap...slow steps echoed far down the corridor. Casey squatted down behind the pillar.

He waited.

Blood pulsed in his skull, pumped by his racing heart, yet his body and mind were calm and ready. He had been slowly but successfully learning how to detach his emotions from his body and mind. It felt as if everything but his heart was working in slow motion. The dampness of sweat along his spine and in his armpits was being sucked up by his thermal underwear so that it stuck to his skin. Salty drops tickled as they crawled slowly down his temples, and fine droplets gathered in the dimple above his upper lip.

It was hot and calm, like before a storm. There were only steps in the corridor, getting closer and closer....

He waited.

His hands firmly clutched the short automatic shooter that had been given to him “just in case”. The order was to not kill unless absolutely necessary—not that Casey would be able to kill anyway; no one was supposed to know they'd been there. Huddled in the shadows, the agents counted the footsteps in silence.

After a couple of long minutes the steps started to recede. Casey's muscles relaxed, trembling a little from the effort of remaining still and tense, and he took a deep breath. Sam indicated to them with hand gestures and they followed him, quickly and quietly, like ghosts.

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"Watch where you're going!" someone snapped at him, jostling his arm and pushing him into the arms of the rushing crowd.

"Yes, yes, I'm sorry," Harry answered absent-mindedly, not even looking at the person. He had too many other things on his mind. He struggled through the mass of people to platform seven, where the first train after eight o’clock was leaving. How he would find the man he wanted to reach, he didn't know, but being there and hoping to get lucky seemed a better idea than not trying at all. His head nearly revolved on the axis of his spine, like radar. And finally luck smiled on Harry, so widely that he never would have expected it. He saw the suitcase. His suitcase.

"Um, excuse me, sir." He pulled on the man's sleeve and quickly withdrew his hand when hostile eyes, looking from under a hat's brim, rested on him. The man didn't say anything, just turned back to run away from this pest, but Harry rushed after him, saying loudly, "That’s my suitcase!"

The man in the hat stopped, thunderstruck, and his hand caught Harry's throat in an iron grip faster than Harry could react. "Take my advice and don't piss me off!" he hissed.

Harry Moore cringed in fear but repeated in a quiet, trembling voice, "It's mine. I bought it. I passed it to Leon Castello. With money." His wide, pleading eyes were full of desperation.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" the man snapped and tightened his grip. "Stop following me or you'll regret it."

"I know about your meeting!" Harry gave it a shot. "I'm a friend! Don't hurt me, please!"

Dark eyes narrowed and stared at him with such an expression that if looks could kill, Harry would have already been dead.

"I'm a friend," Harry repeated, whispering. "I need to talk to you. Five minutes. Please."

The hand let go of his throat. "I don't have five minutes."

"I know, you have to catch a train. But it doesn’t leave for fifteen minutes."

The man knitted his brows warningly. "You eavesdropped?"

"Yes," Harry admitted honestly, feeling deep relief that the man was really the one he’d overheard. He had nothing to lose. "The suitcase—there’s a bug."

"Who else...?"

"No one. It's mine. Private."

"Why?"

"My son. I do it for my son."

"What about your son?"

Harry looked at the man's face hesitantly. He was revealing a lot of information to this stranger, and he didn’t even know who he was. When it came to Casey, how much could he tell?

"Listen." His interlocutor got impatient. "This is none of my business, so if you want something with me, be brief."

The man was right. If he was an enemy, Harry was finished anyway, and getting to Casey wasn't a big deal, after all. But there was a chance that the stranger was decent, and Harry decided to act on this hope. "They’re threatening me. And my son. I can't go to the police."

"And what would you tell the police?" The man smirked, but the hostility disappeared from his eyes.

"Names. Deeds. Locations. Whatever would guarantee my son's safety." Now Harry was praying, harder than ever before in his life, that the man would turn out to be an ally.

"How much do you know?"

"Not much." Harry shook his head. The question scared him, as how much he knew might decide his life or death. But he really didn’t know anything much. "I just know you'll meet someone at the train after eight and pass the suitcase to them."

"That's quite a lot, because nobody else knows that." The man's voice was cold.

Harry shuddered involuntarily and buried his head in his arms. "If something happens to me—" he started.

"Yeah, yeah," the stranger broke in impatiently, "you left a record of what you know together with instructions, and so on. Clever of you and, ultimately, boring. You think we can't take care of that?" He leaned forward to look Harry in the eyes.

"I—" Harry stumbled. Now he was scared in earnest. "Please, I just want to end it. I want to live normally."

"Huh, and you think you can really live normally after something like this? Snitching?" the man smirked.

Harry clenched his teeth and after a minute's thought he answered, "I don't care. I want safety for my family. I need help. Can you help me?"

"Maybe...." The man's lips curved slightly in the shadow of a smile.

"Who are you? The Police? FBI?"

"You don't need to know. It doesn't change anything, anyway. You want help? Then take it." The stranger handed the suitcase to Harry. "Quickly." He hastened the frightened man, pushing the suitcase into his hands.

"Wait! What—I don't want it!" Harry resisted.

"Take it or leave it!" the man warned and took off his hat and long grey coat. "Put this on."

"What?" Harry was confused now as well as scared.

"You have fucking five minutes to catch this train. My contact recognizes only the hat and the coat. He doesn't know my face. Sit in the least crowded place and put the suitcase near the window, under the seat. He'll take it. Nothing complicated, right? And for me it's quite convenient. Safe. Well, the rest is up to you. You can talk to him if you want. He might help you." The man shrugged and smoothed his hair.

"But—" Harry was obediently putting on the coat, too disoriented to find his own pace.

"Just give me the receiver." The man didn't let him get a word in. "So I can hear the bug. Hurry!" He held out his hand for the small device Harry nervously dug out of his pocket. "And remember: if you screw it up, I'll kill you. I'll stay close, so...." He didn't finish. He didn't have to.

As the figure in the grey coat started off to the right platform, Luke LaVay followed him, the small receiver in his ear. Who the hell was this man? Well, whoever he was, he was stupid, desperate, and completely harmless. And even convenient right now. Things had been tense for Luke lately and he needed to have eyes in the back of his head if he wanted to stay on top. He wanted to get rid of the money bag as soon as possible, and it was almost a blessing that someone else would take on the risk of being exposed and targeted. Now, from his safe perspective, Luke could control the course of the meeting. Wasn't life wonderfully merciful sometimes?

They managed to get on the train one minute before departure. It was almost empty, so Harry easily found a convenient place in the corner of a car, where he sat down, tossing a panicked look around.

Calm down, you fool, thought LaVay, who stood close to the door and pretended to read a newspaper. You’re behaving like a fucking shooting target! It crossed his mind that sending this man with the suitcase wasn't the best idea. His FBI contact would definitely see the difference. God, even a blind man would have seen it! Shit, I’m getting stupid with age. It was true what his old teacher had once said: "When you start making simple, stupid mistakes, it's time for you to leave." Well, it was high time for Luke to leave. He felt he couldn't handle it all much longer. The stress and traps of a double life were seriously getting to him, and he felt that sooner or later he'd slip. He just prayed it would be later.

Just as Luke LaVay was trying to solve the tragicomic situation, not really knowing whose stupidity was greater—his or the strange man's—considering taking the suitcase back instead of his chance contact, something hit the window with a loud bang. He knew that sound by heart. He knew what it was before he could see it. A woman next to the opposite door dropped her bag and started screaming hysterically when Harry Moore jerked violently to the side and numbly fell onto the nearest seat. Scarlet redness marked the left side of his head—the entrance wound of a bullet that had left a radial pattern on the window, with a hole in the center. His dead eyes stared blankly at the screaming woman, her wrinkled face the last sight he kept under his eyelids before thick darkness claimed him.

His hat rolled across the floor and stopped by the wall, falling slowly onto its crown.

In the blink of an eye Luke threw himself forward to catch the suitcase and vanished as if into thin air, leaving the dead man to the growing crowd of gawking passers-by and, soon enough, to the police and coroner. His stupidity had saved his life. If he hadn't believed in God, Providence, or whatnot before, now was a good time to start.

He shot straight to the place he thought the sniper could have been hiding. Of course, now the place must be empty, but if he was lucky—and today he definitely was—maybe he could still bump into that person somewhere in the area. Years of experience made him sensitive to people’s behavior, so there was a chance he'd recognize the shooter.

As soon as LaVay rushed into the terminal hall, his eyes found the emergency staircase. He had one shot and had to take a chance on it.

He closed the heavy metal door behind him, shutting off the hubbub of the station where uniform services, already informed about the accident, had started to organize a search. When he reached the first floor, he heard quick footsteps approaching from above. He quickly hid outside, behind the doors leading to the waiting rooms, and blocked them from the outside, aptly guessing aptly that the executioner would try to run away via the first floor, which was not yet covered by the police.

When the doorknob jerked furiously a couple of times, Luke gathered all his strength and, prepared with a knife that he had the fortunate habit of carrying in his boot, he threw himself inside, counting on the element of surprise to aid him. With the weight of his body he hurled his opponent against the banister, coming close to falling over it. Luckily, Luke had the advantage. He was stronger and bigger than the man he was attacking, and the powerful toss had crushed the killer's lungs and ribs. Quickly, to make the most of the short time the man was disoriented, LaVay put the knife to his neck and pressed slightly.

"Don't move!" he hissed, still pressing his body against the man. It took him a couple of seconds to realize that the body he held was surprisingly slender and small. Pretty blue eyes, looking straight at him, burned with hatred and fear. He knew that face. He pulled the black cap off the woman’s head and a shock of red hair spilled onto her shoulders.

For what seemed a long time they stood still in this clutch, before Luke shook her off and asked angrily, "Who the hell are you? And don't lie to me." He increased the pressure of his knife.

Panic gripped Sarah's throat. What had happened? What was this man doing in front of her? She’d just killed him on the train! "How—" she started, hysterically afraid of hearing the answer to the question she was going to ask.

"Oh, you know how." Luke guessed her question before it came. "You've just made a mistake, you bitch. I'm alive and kicking, as you can see. But someone’s not."

"Who?" she whispered, her eyes wide with terror. "Who was he?"

"I have no fucking idea." He searched the woman, but found nothing on her. She had only a black sport bag with a dismantled sniper’s gun. "Go!" He pushed her violently to the door. They couldn't stay here. Police would come any second now and they would ask many uncomfortable questions. "If you try to run, I'll expose you."

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The server room was exactly were it was supposed to be. They had got there without any trouble. The security guards were fond of routine, as they apparently had never been forced to do the job they’d been hired for.

Casey pulled out his equipment and started ferreting about in the local network. He had to admit that the system was professional. It wasn't easy to break in, and if not for the special software he’d got from the CIA, he'd never have been able to do it in a reasonable amount of time. Some data was relatively easily accessible, some he had to download for later deciphering. One by one he sucked information out of the machines while his partners searched the room, taking it in turns to keep guard by the door.

"Shh!" The sudden whisper made Casey flinch. He stopped typing and grabbed his computer, ready to disconnect it. "Hide!" Thera waved his gun to emphasize his words. In a split second Sam was at the door, his gun pointed at the approaching guard.

Casey crouched behind the rack, squeezing his gun tensely. He nodded reassuringly at Sam's questioning look. Yes, everything was all right. He was all right. So far.

He didn't see Sam's eyes widen in shock, maybe because Sam's eyes never widened in shock. What he did see was Sam's barrel suddenly pointing directly at him. And it was Casey’s eyes that widened in shock and terror. The last time he’d seen Sam shooting at him he’d escaped with a wound on his cheek that had left a shallow scar.

Before the situation managed to get through to Casey, Sam pulled the trigger. And this time he wasn't just aiming close to Casey. The missile, of the same type that had wreaked havoc across Simon's intestines once, sank into Casey’s bulletproof jacket, throwing him back with frightful force, and scattered into hundreds of lethal pieces, raking his skin and everything that lay beneath. The snapshot of Sam's stony face and the black hole of the gun’s muzzle was immediately swept away by a short explosion of unimaginable pain, and nothingness sucked Casey in.

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I hope you liked a small(?) "storm"... Action was needed, wasn't it?
Thank you for reading and reviewing :)
Don't stop. I need you! :)

Anonymous Sister of the Author - well, as you can see, they (Casey and Monroe) didn't have time for face-to-face talk ;) Maybe in future... Who knows? :D

dbz-fan-jess - I'm happy you like the story :) I'm not sure myself where we'll end up :D I change my mind every month ;) But it makes writing exciting.

julianYES - woohoo! :) I like it when somebody likes what I create :] The plot is thickening now! Tell me when it gets better or when it gets worse :)

MC - I hope you got beyond chapter 7 :D Things get more interesting there ;) And I can do even better! Well, I hope so, at least. Do I? You tell me :)

Obnoxious.Awkward - you know it very well probably, as you're also a writer, that even a simple "hi, I read it" means a lot :) So, constructive or not, every word is a miracle that makes my motivation bloom :]
I promise to get back to you with my review, once I've read your stories. It can take some time, though, as I have a "simplex mode" syndrom: when I write, it's very difficult for me to read :D

Berlin - your review was soooo sweet! :D Congratulations on having a baby! I hope he/she is healthy and happy :) I promise to do my best to make your sleepless nights a little shorter ;)
And Monroe... well, it can turn out that she's actually quite lucky to be out of everything that is going to happen ;)

See you next time!